Chapter 1: A Star Rises Once Again! To the City Once More, for Valor and Glory! (Cecil vs McCullin)
Chapter Text
A low, uncomfortable silence permeated the small Hana conference room, the faint hum of the bulb above the only thing preventing the Hana Fixer’s thoughts from being engulfed fully in the hollow, beckoning emptiness left in its wake. He rubbed his temples, nursing an apparent and persistent headache, as his eyes drifted to the proposal before him – in triplicate, single-spaced, eleven-point font, and thick enough to bludgeon a Rat to death – then to the well-dressed businessman opposite him, his unflappable pokerface stretched to a wide, almost aggravating smile. He sighed, the inevitability finally dawning on him, and looked the businessman straight in the eye. “… you want to hold a tournament?”
“Of course!” Nemo cried cheerfully, his face lighting up in a jubilant and joyful green. “Just imagine for a second: the Inter-City Royale, where associations, offices, syndicates, and even some Stars and Nightmares all come together for a daring show of skill, strength, and cunning. With everyone still nursing a grudge or other from that whole Library business a couple months back and raring to show that they weren’t just taken by surprise by some loony machine and her band of nerds, it’d be a great way to show solidarity between the offices and associations, let off some steam, and even calm the tensions between some of the syndicates running amok in the Backstreets. I hear that the former nest of L. Corp has been a real bloodbath since the Index and Thumb started going at each other’s throats; just imagine if we could have them settle their differences in one huge grudge match.”
Olivier sighed once again, his eyes skimming the proposal in front of him. They lingered toward the very bottom, his pounding headache assaulting him once again. “This is, without a doubt, one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard in the past couple of years. So how in the hell did you get an Arbiter to sign off on this?”
The insignia of A. Corp seemed to glisten in the flickering lamplight, almost as if it was mocking the exasperated Fixer. Nemo leaned forward in his chair, the pixels in his display failing to hide the knowing smugness in his smile. “We at Cane Office pride ourselves in our connections, our exemplary networking, our fantastic chain of communication. We’ve pried singularity patents of several defunct corporations out of their still-warm hands and all without any fuss. We can’t possibly expect to get through our line of work without knowing one or two important people.”
For a moment, the green, smiling eyes of the Cane President flickered a deep scarlet. “Surely you understand, Mr. Olivier.”
Olivier flicked through the proposal aimlessly, his eyes skimming through its pages in a vain attempt to read some sort of malicious scheme or nefarious forgery or… a simple blunder that would justify its rejection and getting this glorified used car salesman out of their district. Each new page brought new connections, new signatures, new parties – some of which seemed almost fantastical to believe true. He occasionally looked up at the beaming Nemo, as if the Cane President would betray his true intentions. Yet, true to his reputation, his smile remained flawless and unceasing, with only the impatient tapping of his finger signaling the passage of time.
Finally, he slammed the papers shut and looked up at Nemo, slumping his shoulders in defeat. “Just one question, Mr. Nemo. How did you manage to get the Director to sign off on this as well?”
To his surprise, the Cane President… hesitated. His display flickered off only briefly, before returning that ever obnoxious smile. “Your Director is clearly very wise and forward thinking. Unlike you, she only seemed to think it over for but a second before agreeing. She was so approachable that honestly I thought she was pulling some cruel joke on me.” Nemo gave a hearty laugh, almost too hearty. “She just asked I leave her a copy of the proposal and to speak to you briefly to inform you and to coordinate with the rest of the Hana Association branches. Honestly the way she waved it off I would think you were the Director and she was your underl-“ he caught himself with a curt laugh. “Strike that from the record, if you please.”
“Of course,” Olivier said with a nod, his eyes still locked with Nemo’s.
“Now that we’ve gotten everything all settled, it’s time I meet up with some clientele to set up the final pieces of this spectacle. We need lights, balloons even, and cameras. Lots of cameras. I also need to ring up HamHamPangPang and make sure our catering order is put in in advance. I hear they’ve come very popular ever since that ‘ol Dong-Hwan fellow came in with some pointers.” Nemo got up absent-mindedly, still rambling to himself even as he slammed the door behind him, leaving the Hana Fixer mercifully alone. He thumbed through the first few pages of the proposal one more time before closing his eyes with a wistful sigh.
“Olivier.”
He stood up and turned with a nod of his head. “Director.”
Mirinae stepped through a small, hidden doorway, a knowing glint reflected in her glasses. “I imagine you must have many questions.”
“Quite, but I think I see your angle. I do have one request, before we start ringing up the relevant associations.”
She crossed her arms expectantly, a widening smile spreading across her face. “Go ahead, Olivier.”
“If things were to go as planned, it would be difficult for the Hana Association to pick out any outliers without arousing too much suspicion and spooking them into hiding. I believe we should introduce a wild card, one striking enough to rattle those behind the scenes but innocuous enough that they won’t immediately run back into the depths of the Backstreets or the nests.”
“And what, pray tell, do you have in mind?”
Olivier ruffled through the pockets of his jacket, producing a silken, black enveloped, its golden trim accentuated by an emerald logo emblazoned on the top. Though it had been several months, the words “Library of Ruina” never seemed to dim under any light.
“Let me ring up an old friend.”
“Uuuugh, we’re seriously receiving guests at this hour?” Roland groaned in-between a loud yawn, dragging his feet across the library’s entry archway. With her distinctive snap, Angela appeared behind him, her blank and unchanging expression paralleling Roland’s fatigued irritation.
“Even if we are no longer within the City, if someone answers the Library invitation, we are dutybound to receive them as honored guests,” Angela said, smoothing the hem of her dress. “… Although you do look rather tired, Roland. Are all humans this worn out by a lack of sleep?”
“Most are when they only get two hours before getting shook away by their nosy boss,” he grumbled, absentmindedly checking the gloves on his hands. “Didn’t you feel tired at all when you were almost human, anyway?”
“Is… that what that was?” Angela asked, cocking her head quizzically. “I… did feel like some of my processes were slowed. Things were progressing so fast that I thought I should prolong my checkup and maintenance until after we had retrieved the One True Book.” She shook her head, as if dispelling an uncomfortable dream. “But that is that, and this is this. Come, Roland.”
Down the illuminated hallway, two strikingly white jackets caught the eye of the seasoned Fixer. Without a moment’s hesitation, he slipped in front of Angela, a jet black sword brandished in a defensive posture. The shorter of the two arrivals clapped her hands in mock amusement, a bemused smile radiantly shining on her face. She paused to adjust her glasses before gesturing for her partner to accompany her down the hall.
“Ms. Angela. Mr. Roland. I’m glad to see you two are doing well,” Mirinae said cheerfully, spinning her spear nonchalantly. “I must confess, Harold was almost concerned that one of you may not have survived the Library’s fall.”
“Don’t jest, Director,” Olivier said curtly, drawing up next to Mirinae. “It’d take more than a rogue Color and his ragtag group of psychopaths to take down Roland. I’ve told you that before.”
“Glad to see you too, Olivier,” Roland replied, his eyes still fixated on the Fixer.
The two stopped for a breath, as though the moment had stopped just briefly for a fleeting contemplation. Before either the pale librarian or the Hana director could speak, the two leapt forward in a single bound, spear and sword clashing together in a flurry of sparks and a vibrant orchestra of clanging. Yet as soon as it began, their weapons fell to the ground, the Fixers drawing close in a warm hug.
“You haven’t changed a bit, even after death,” Roland said with a laugh.
“And I see your meeting with the Head hasn’t left you with any lasting scars, my friend,” Olivier said, playfully punching Roland on the shoulder.
“So, what brings the two of you to the Library at this hour?” Roland asked, leaning back with a relaxed sigh. “If you intended to kill Angela or bring down the Library, you would have brought a small army, and I can tell that you have no intention to stab us in the back. Don’t suppose you’re here with some pardon from the Head or some free delivery from HamHamPangPang.”
“You’d be right. I’m not here for small talk, at least not entirely.” Olivier procured a small envelope, its pristine, white parchment sealed with the insignia of the Hana Association. “Rather, the Hana Association and the City would like to invite the Library for a change.”
“An invitation?” Angela asked, drawing close to the two. “I doubt the Head wishes to renegotiate its terms with the Library.”
“You’re right, it does not. In fact, I must expressly exempt Ms. Angela from directly accepting this invitation.” Olivier’s face grew stern, and he bowed his head. “I need a favor, Roland. From you and Angela.”
“A favor?” Roland chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Last I checked, Olivier, we resurrected a good quarter of the City and sent them all on their merry way. If anything, the Library is the one that should be calling in some favors.”
“I understand that, even in my capacity as Director, there’s very little we can do for either yours or the Library’s position,” Mirinae noted. “Once fallen, a Star never rises again, and even more pertinently, the Head has expressly forbidden Angela from returning to the City. Very rarely can we influence the decision of the Arbiters, and I doubt this will be any exception to the norm. However, Olivier believes there is no one else suited to the task than you.”
“Even if I wished to, it would be problematic for me to leave the Library in my current state,” Angela observed, a contemplative frown on her face. “However, I think I have some ability, limited as it is, to transport my librarians to the City. You didn’t mention exactly what you need my librarians for, though.”
“Ah, yes,” a devilish sparkle shone in Mirinae’s eyes. “Ms. Angela, tell me. Would you be interested in allowing Mr. Roland and one of your patron librarians to participate in… a tournament.”
Roland and Angela shared a glance, a mutual feeling conveyed in their singular, silent nod. Roland turned to Mirinae, his answer plain and evident on his face.
“… I’m sorry, is this a joke?”
“Attention passengers: UW-343 is currently arriving at platform 84, District 14. We at W. Corp would like to once again thank you for your patronage and hope you enjoyed a brief and relaxing trip.”
With a low and soothing beep, the doors of the WARP train slid open, with the well-dressed Fixer and his companion half-jumping, half-sprinting from their doors. Stumbling onto the pavement, the duo stopped for a moment to catch their breath, their faces caked in sweat and their legs trembling, their shocking unease causing the many would-be passengers to give them a wide berth as they proceeded down the station platform to their own trains. The two Hana Fixers entered nonchalantly, the taller of the two cocking his eyebrow in confusion at their companions’ distress.
“Shit, I… don’t remember anything, but those trains are just damn creepy now,” Roland muttered. Absentmindedly he began to examine each of his weapons at length, as if to discover a chip or bloodstain that was previously absent. The librarian next to him straightened herself, taking a moment to steady her breathing, and turned to Roland.
The thwack reverberated throughout the station.
A coughing, dazed Roland lay sprawled on the pavement, a myriad of swords and guns scattered before the three. Tiphereth spun toward Mirinae and Olivier, glaring daggers at the two of them. “Why couldn’t you just get us a car?”
“It seemed a bit unnecessary,” Mirinae replied with a shrug, kicking a Mook Workshop katana toward the groaning Roland. “I’ve always been a fan of WARP trains. Some of the other directors would take some to the eastern Districts, catch some of the new Broadway plays. We can usually catch the earliest showing before work.”
“I… but…” Tiphereth stammered, flustered. The young librarian shook in place, biting down hard on her lip.
“Don’t… mind her,” Roland said with a cough, rising up to a sitting position. With a fluid motion, his repertoire of weapons vanished into his gloves, allowing him to lean back and stare up into the murky skyline above. “I heard from Angela that she had a traumatic experience with trains growing up.”
“Shut up!” Tiphereth yelled, digging her heel into Roland’s ribs. Olivier and Mirinae shared a laugh, the former helping the wheezing Fixer to his feet.
“Siderodromophobia, huh?” Olivier mused, looking back at UW-343. The sleek, mechanical vehicle, the sapphiric emblem of W. Corp emblazoned on its side, loomed above like an enigmatic monolith, the last of its passengers vanishing into its depths with a soft hiss. Its tinted cockpit seemed to glean and shimmer once before vanishing in a flash of light, leaving only the bustling station and its four unusual arrivals. “I actually remember hearing a case of some Zwei Fixers developing some siderodromophobia a year back, actually. Took a WARP train up north, next thing I hear they walked all the way back to headquarters and frantically yelled at any person with a W. Corp hat. I think one of them retired just a few weeks later.”
“Might’ve been some small glitch with W. Corp’s Singularity,” Mirinae suggested, parrying Tiphereth as she took another swing at the beleaguered Roland with the shaft of her spear. “Or maybe they just had a bad dream. I’ve read in some reports that encounters with some Urban Nightmares like the 8 o’Clock Circus can leave some mental trauma.”
“The clowns? I heard a vandal inspired by those loons vandalized a couple of stores in District 13,” Olivier said, leisurely carrying four beaten briefcases behind him. “Got an angry call from one of Mirae’s affiliates saying that they might miss their quarterly returns if they have to replace twenty more roofs.”
“It seems a bit of a waste for Hana to be running around dealing with insurance claims,” Roland observed, jumping back from one of Tiphereth’s stray kicks. “You guys out of work after a bunch of Stars went and died in a hole?”
“It doesn’t surprise me that an independent operative like you doesn’t understand,” Mirinae said with a sigh, deflecting a thrown can from the increasingly frustrated Tiphereth with a flick of her wrist. “Mirae Life Insurance has been increasingly throwing their weight around the past few weeks, their affiliates apparently trying to devour some of the few remaining insurance markets left. I’ve been getting several annoying requests from Section 4 asking for some aid for some ‘upstart’ companies here and there.” She sighed, slicing another can in two with a swipe of her hand. “It’s quite transparent but without any solid evidence I can’t bring a formal complaint to Section 2.”
“I’ve heard reports from some of our Fixers that Section 4 is actually vying for the open position,” Olivier noted with a smirk. “Said that the other sections above her have shown ‘considerable incompetence’ in the past year.”
Mirinae adjusted her glasses, the glean from the lights above hiding her murderous gaze. “If that idiot thinks that death will make me vacate my position, she will be very disappointed.”
“HEY!”
The three turned to a fuming Tiphereth, the infuriated girl looking as though she was ready to claw out their eyes. “You never told me why the hell I am here!”
“Well like we explained before, Angela is prohibited from approaching the City by the Head itself, so she would need to send one of her librarians in her place,” Olivier began.
“Okay, but why did you choose me?” She stomped her foot, leaving a noticeable crack in the pavement. “Why not one of those slackers in Asiyah?”
“Well, I mean to be honest, Roland, I only received the guests because it was my duty as a librarian,” Malkuth answered with a meek shrug. With a huff, she plopped a giant stack of textbooks onto the table, falling into open chair behind her with a relieved sigh. A young woman, probably the same age as Malkuth, peeked through the open door, giving a wave to her and the four guests in History.
“Miss Malkuth, where do I put the book on the Smoke War?”
“Oh, we finally found that one?” she asked, turning to the assistant librarian. “Yeah, Vera, could you put that over in the 38th stack, just down the hall? I’ve been meaning to compile the entirety of L. Corp’s story in one section.”
The frazzled blonde nodded, giving a thumbs-up and a smile before vanishing back down the hallway. Malkuth turned to Roland, Angela, and the Hana Fixers, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not really interested in fighting for sport.”
“It’s a shame, really,” Olivier said, his eye drawn by a stray toy amidst the disheveled and chaotic pile of clutter and gadgets on the table next to him. A small dog with a red collar, its widened eyes almost seeming to follow him. He gave it a pet with the tip of his finger, the dog giving a soft but affectionate woof. “I heard that you fought admirably against the Church of Gears. Your fighting prowess is certainly not to be denied.”
“Just because I happen to be good at my job doesn’t mean I would like it,” Yesod said, huffing. “If anything, getting used to the sight of blood and broken bones annoyed me on a personal level. Find someone else to indulge in your bloodsport.”
Mirinae turned to Angela, a curious smile on her face. “Last I checked, the Library was still receiving guests, however rarely. We have it officially classified as an Urban Nightmare due to longstanding policy, but I know a few Grade 1 Fixers that have accepted an invitation and some that never returned.”
“Though I and the Sephirot have reached an agreement to continue running the Library and pursuing our own goals, I unfortunately cannot control their own individual desires,” Angela said, shrugging dismissively. They will still receive guests if requested, but some of them – and their assistant librarians – have requested I call upon them less.”
Roland nodded, thumbing through some of the light novels on the nearby shelf. “Truth be told, Angela has been having me receive the majority of the guests. It keeps me sharp and it means I don’t have to run around in the Outskirts to get my exercise. Uh, Hod, you said that the newest entry in “A Legend of Sword” arrived at the Library a few weeks ago?”
“Oh, yes, sorry,” Hod apologized, bowing her head. “I put it in the catalogue but I hadn’t gotten the time to put it away yet. It should be with the new books in the next room. I’m having Anastasia and Ramirez go through them right now.”
“Alright, thanks,” Roland said, giving the other three a wave as he turned to leave. “I’ll just help them organize the books. Be faster that way.”
Hod waved back as Roland ventured deeper into Literature before turning to Mirinae. “Truth be told. Fighting Distortions, fighting syndicates, fighting Greta, it really did terrify me. I put on a strong face for the other employees but I’m not cut out for it. I wouldn’t be a good pick for this operation of yours.”
“Honestly it’s a miracle that the Library even rose past an Urban Legend if these are your associates, Ms. Angela,” Mirinae said, wistfully counting the lamps down the hallway. “They feel like a bunch of prim and proper Nest eggs. I find it hard to believe they’d stare down a Rat, never mind a proper syndicate or office.”
“They normally aren’t cut out for this line of work, yes,” Angela replied, stoic as ever. “But I notice that when their backs are against the wall, they fight as well as the guests we’ve received, sometimes even better. While they may not look like it, I do believe in their ability to fulfill their duties.”
“I also admit that I did give some pointers to them every now and then,” Roland said off-handedly, engrossed in the novel in his hands. “They were a bit shaky after their first Office so I taught Malkuth the basics. Some stance work, defensive postures, stuff like that. There was also this… I don’t know how to particularly describe it, I guess Library magic aiding us during receptions.”
“Library… magic?” Mirinae said with an amused laugh. “To think we died to this. Almost embarrassing. So, Angela, will we be requesting aid from this… Netzach?”
“Maybe, but I imagine that…”
The four paused, coming to the entrance of the Floor of Art. They peeked through the open door, the scent of booze permeating the air, with only limp shadows and disheveled couches visible amidst the dim, flickering light.
“… he may be unavailable,” Angela finished.
“Quite the exemplary staff you have, Ms. Angela.” Mirinae said, still laughing. “Surely not all of your librarians are like this?”
“Honestly speaking, most of us are,” Chesed admitted, pouring a cup of coffee and sliding it over to Olivier. The Fixer gave a deep whiff before drinking it down in one gulp, a pensive smile across his face.
“Impressive, Mr. Chesed,” Olivier said, putting his cup down on the table. “Have you considered leaving the Library? I could ring up some of my old friends, start up a café in a quiet Nest. You’d be very popular.”
“I’m flattered you feel that way,” Chesed said, failing to hide the embarrassment in his flushed cheeks. “However, I must admit I am indebted to Angela and the rest of my co-workers here in the Library. If I were to leave them to return to the City, it’d quite ruin my mood… and the coffee as well.” He turned and returned to his pot, opening a drawer above and rummaging through the miscellaneous ingredients he and the other librarians had procured. “Besides, I’m afraid I’m preoccupied at the moment. I’m currently letting this experimental brew of mine ferment and I can’t leave it alone. My other librarians may spoil it, you understand.”
Olivier gestured to Roland, leaning close with an inquisitive frown. “… He’s fermenting coffee?”
“I don’t question it,” Roland replied, shrugging. “Every cup he’s brewed has been fantastic so Angela’s been letting him experiment. Besides, I’m sure Gebura would be more receptive to your request.”
“Receptive?” Gebura cocked her head to the side, as though she was being treated like a child. “Dunno what the hell you were expecting me to say. This sounds like a helluva time. I’m in.”
“Well, that solves the matter then,” Angela said.
“No, I’m afraid it doesn’t,” Mirinae said, her eyes fixated on Gebura. She drew up close to her, as though she was examining some archaic museum piece. “Aren’t you… Kali? The Red Mist?”
“Yeah, back in the day I was called Kali,” Gebura said, recoiling from the increasingly interested Hana Director. “You’re, uh, in my space. Mind backing off?”
“My apologies, Ms. Kali. I remember reading the reports of your death in the Outskirts, so it is shocking to see you alive and well,” Mirinae said, a devilish grin on her face. “However, it is due to your exemplary pedigree that we can’t bring you along with us.”
“You can’t?” Roland asked, similarly confused. “Why not? She’s probably the best suited out of all of us to handle this. She’s a Color, hell she’s the Color.”
“That’s precisely why she would be a poor choice,” Olivier replied. “The Red Mist is famous in the City; pretty much everyone has heard of her. If she were to return with us, it would result in a lot of unnecessary questions and it would assuredly spook our quarry. There’s simply no way that we could be discrete with Ms. Kali in tow.”
“Well…” Gebura said with an annoyed sigh. “… I mean yeah you’re right. I wouldn’t be discrete at all.”
Roland sighed, clasping his hands together in thought. “Well I suppose if Gebura would be out of the question, then-“
“No.”
Binah took her seat at the table, her cup of tea in hand. Breaking her gaze from the enraptured Hana Fixers, she took a sip.
“Well, I suppose that was to be expected,” Angela said with a sigh. “I wouldn’t expect you to have been interested in this role, Binah.”
“You guessed correctly, Angela,” she said, not bothering to meet the pale librarian’s eyes.
“And I imagine that if we brought an Arbiter to the City, we would have every Association and Office knocking down our door,” Roland said, taking a sip of his own tea.
“Yes, it would be very impossible for us to hide the presence of a bona fide Arbiter if she were to accompany us,” Mirinae said, her voice still betraying a bit of shock.
Binah sighed, placing her cup down, before locking eyes with Mirinae and Olivier. Her icy stare seemed to paralyze the two of them, threatening to stop their very hearts. “Even if I were interested in this charade of yours, my presence would only attract Zena. While did not expressly prohibit my return to the City, I do not think that she would be able to refuse coming to greet me in person.”
A wide, ominous grin spread across the Arbiter’s face. “Nor would I be unable to refuse greeting her in turn.”
“Honestly, speaking with Binah seemed like an effort in futility,” Hokma observed, having heard the entirety of the four’s increasingly bizarre efforts to find a representative. “She would have never agreed to such a plan.”
“Truth be told, I thought it would be nice to have some tea on the way here,” Roland admitted, grinning sheepishly.
“So I imagine that you already know my answer,” Hokma said, sighing.
“We would have refused even if you were open to the idea,” Olivier added.
The Sephirah sighed and closed his eyes for a brief moment before turning to Angela, meeting her stoic gaze. “Then why, then, did you choose to ascend all the way to the Floor of Religion for a fruitless endeavor?”
“I had a question to ask,” Angela said. To Hokma’s surprise, she bowed, an unusual show of respect toward one who only remembered such reverence from many, many years in the past. “Do you have any qualms about this plan?”
“It’s quite rare to see our Director ask us for our opinion,” Hokma said, a faint smile spreading across his face. “Angela, you’ve had plenty of opportunities to betray us. I truly do believe that you would not knowingly endanger us.”
Angela smiled, rising to meet Hokma’s gaze. “… Thank you.” She turned to the others, an unusual radiance shining from the pale girl. “I noticed we missed one floor on the way up. I’m sure she may be more receptive to this proposal than the others.”
“I was not!” Tiphereth yelled, about ready to pull her hair out. “Why didn’t you just drag Malkuth or Hod out of their rooms and have them accompany you guys? What made you think I’d be remotely interested in this?”
“I mean,” Roland began, clasping Tiphereth’s shoulder tightly. “You didn’t object when I offered to show you some of the Nests of the City.”
Tiphereth froze, her stern expression shattering. Roland’s smug expression would’ve warranted a punch, yet the girl could barely bring her arms to move close up to her.
“After you?” Roland offered, a cheeky grin on his face.
A long time ago, there was a girl named Lisa. She had a close friend, a boy her age called Enoch. And every so often, she would tell him her dream.
“I want to see a tree.”
It was a silly wish. An innocuous desire from an urchin in the Outskirts. Every day they would scurry from ruin to ruin, scavenging what food they could and keeping clear of ambitious Fixers and Corporation expedition squads alike. Caked with dirt and dressed with rags, the two children could blend into the refuse like any other discarded bag of garbage, avoiding murderous killers and bored mercenaries with only a held breath. Every night, they would huddle in a box or, on occasion, escape into an abandoned building, watching with enraptured horror as the shadows came alive with grotesque and mangled forms, the chorus of bloodcurdling screams accompanying the uncomfortable slumber.
Even once she had abandoned those urchin days, Lisa never grew accustomed to the labyrinthian walls that surrounded her. Sterile, lifeless walls, an array of numbers going on endlessly, and faceless men in labcoats brushing past her like she was some bizarre pet brought in by an eccentric boss. And even after she had abandoned her flesh, those same labyrinthian walls never stopped surrounding her, encasing her. A prison of walls for a prison of metal, a prison of metal for a pointless soul. Every day would tick on endlessly, another day where the employees under her would venture into those numbered cells and never return. Another day where the same faceless employees would greet her and return to their duties, as though the catastrophe that had befell them was but a nightmare.
Another day where she would see that meek, radiant smile cast on her, moments before it was crushed into scrap.
She’d heard of trees. A towering hunk of wood born not from hammer or steel, but sprouting naturally from the earth, spreading its emerald wings toward the sky. She’d seen trees of a pale jade, their glowing fruits turning black as the screams echoed through the facility. She’d seen trees of an eerie pink, their siren song beckoning the employees to their graves. She’d seen trees of a ghastly black, their fruits staring back at her with those same eyes that once doted on her. The same eyes she’d wish had died instead of him.
Tiphereth blinked and rubbed her eyes, as if to awaken from a dream, to return to the nightmare that had plagued her for so long. Yet, amidst the clear blue sky above, surrounded by a broken, cityscape horizon, a tree towered over her. A tree with ebony bark, with swaying branches, with a multitude of leaves that rustled joyfully as she approached. Timidly, she reached her hand out, placing it against its trunk, inwardly flinching, snapping her eyes shut, as though its bark would split open and devour her whole.
A cool, if coarse, piece of bark greeted the girl. Slowly, still shaking, she drew closer, nestling against the sprawling roots of the tree.
Sitting on a nearby bench, Roland watched as the young girl cradled herself against the base of the large tree in the park, acting like some abused puppy now released to the world. He sipped a bit from the boba tea he’d gotten from the nearby stall, humming in amusement.
“Has she never seen a Nest before?” Mirinae asked, her feelings mutual. “It’s almost adorable, really.”
“She’d never acted like this in the Library, at least the times I’ve seen her,” Roland said, slumping a bit. “Always tried to act like the adult in the room. It’s kinda nice to see that she’s still a kid.”
“Hm. … How many people do you think she’s killed?”
“Dark as ever, Mirinae?” Roland chuckled, sipping his boba tea dry. “We received an Urban Nightmare Syndicate once. Some nasty group of masked weirdos, looked like some weird hybrid of the Rusted Chains and the old Hook Office.”
“What a bizarrely specific combination,” Mirinae said, adjusting her glasses and sipping from her own boba tea. “I heard some nameless psychopath – honestly don’t remember who he was – took over the Rusted Chains after Jikan vanished. I got a report that their group was being elevated to an Urban Nightmare after they threatened to breach S. Corp’s wing. I was thinking of having Liu take care of them before they just up and went like their old leader. Vanished into thin air.”
“Sounds like them. Tiphereth personally led their reception.”
“Did she?” Mirinae pursed her lips, an idle thought swimming in her head. “Someone like her could easily find some work in an association. I could pull a full strings, maybe trade some of Xiao’s paperwork for a favor. … It’s a shame she probably wouldn’t take me up on the offer.”
“It is a shame,” Roland replied, his voice trailing off. “She could do a lot better than being stuck with us forever.”
“Roland, Director.”
Olivier tapped his foot, gesturing for the two to join him. “They know we’re coming, so we can skip the line. Get Ms. Tiphereth, let’s get going.”
Calling the young librarian over – much to her annoyed chagrin – the four quickly made their way out of the park and down the street. Roland felt an odd feeling walking down the sidewalk, an unnerving sense of… ease. The Backstreets were always plagued with dangers, from desperate Fixers to ambitious Rats, all ready to gut you and run off with your wallet before you even bled out. Every occasional car that would noisily rumble down a street had an off-chance to veer into you, while every passerby threatened to press a knife against your spine the moment you brushed past their coat. Yet, even as he readily wiggled his fingers in anticipation, not a single, bloodthirsty intent seemed to register to the seasoned Fixer. Each person, ranging from the busied office worker to the cheerful family of three, brushed past the four without a single thought or word, with only the occasional Fixer or tired worker giving a brief salute to Mirinae and Olivier as they passed. If anything, his attention was more taken by Tiphereth, the starry-eyed girl staring at each person, each store; hell, even the towering skyscrapers above her. He instinctively grabbed her sleeve as she began to drag behind, yet she only cast one deathly glower to him before turning again to a bustling candy store, her attention stolen by the sparkling, multicolored chocolates on display.
“Hm?” Roland paused, following her enraptured focus. “Oh, huh, I’ve heard about those guys before. They apparently… uh…” He paused, fumbling around his pockets. Amidst the knives, the spare magazines, the backup pocket switchblade with a lighter, and the attachable Atelier Logic multifaceted silencer and emergency protractor, he pulled out a battered, leather wallet, a puff of smoke popping from its depths as it was finally opened after months of disuse. “Hm… shit, coulda sworn I had a bit more. I really need to talk to Angela about a salary at some point. H-Hey, Olivier!”
Olivier turned to answer, giving a knowing wink. “We’ll handle it, Roland. You got the address, right?”
“Yeah, just, uh, down the next few blocks, across the street, past that one subway… Don’t worry about it, we’ll catch up.”
“Just go already,” he sighed, waving the two off. They disappeared into the mass of people, Roland being half-pulled toward the store. He turned to Mirinae, the Hana Director shaking her head in bemusement.
“Your friend seems a bit… off,” Mirinae observed, the two of them crossing the street in a hurry. “Back when we met in the Library, he always seemed very… observant, tense, just a bit off of trying to take my head with that sword of his. Yet now he’s being led around by that child like he’s some beaten dog.”
“Maybe he’s just having some trouble adapting to City life,” Olivier offered, his voice a little melancholic. “Maybe he’s just thinking about what could’ve been.”
“Oh?”
“You’re familiar with the Black Silence, aren’t you?”
“Angelica, right? I think I remember reading that she and Mr. Roland were married, and that she’d died in that one incident with the Pianist.”
“Yes, I remember trying to help Roland get into a Nest. The two of them wanted to retire.” Olivier sighed, tightly gripping his fists. “… Roland couldn’t stop talking to me about her. About their child. She was… expecting.”
The two grew silent, ascending the stairs without another word. Breaking free from the sea of people, Olivier took the lead as they approached a gigantic arena, a spectacle of glistening metal and polished glass that stood out amidst the benign skyscrapers and buildings like some ancient colosseum from a bygone era. Banners of crimson and emerald hung unfurled at its entrance, their text woven in a beautiful golden cloth. “The Inter-City Royal Royale, All Competitors Welcome!” Beneath it, the ever-smug Nemo was emblazoned, his distinctive display ringed with laurels.
“Royal Royale, huh?” Mirinae finally said, chuckling mirthlessly. “He’s as terrible with names as ever.”
“If I didn’t know better, I would think he was treating this as some sort of joke,” Olivier grumbled. Hearing two pairs of footsteps behind him, he turned and gestured for Roland and Tiphereth, the latter engrossed in a sapphiric piece of chocolate hanging from her mouth. “Come on, you two.”
“We’re coming, we’re coming!” Roland called, a bundle of chocolates hanging from a bag slung over his shoulder. The four approached the entrance, the distinctive hum of gears and the waft of smoke causing the two librarians to instinctively recoil. Roland fumbled for his gun as three figures descended from the silver archways, masses of disheveled and horrific flesh laced with metal and mockingly covered in ill-fitting suits, the eye-catching twin gears still rustling in their lumped heads. They approached like trained zombies, unaware of their astonished guests.
“Woah, woah, calm down there Roland,” Olivier said, immediately catching Roland’s hand as he raised the Atelier Logic rifle. “Those are just some of Nemo’s employees.”
“His… employees?” Tiphereth asked, a little incredulous.
“The Church of Gears pretty much collapsed in on itself when Eileen died with the rest of the Reverberation Ensemble,” he explained, shrugging nonchalantly. “A couple of them wandered off to the Backstreets and got swept away. Some others just died off without some leader to coordinate them. Hell, we had to stop some of our associate offices from hunting them down for sport. Some Offices went a step further and started capturing them wholesale. You can see where… that went.”
“That sounds unsafe,” Roland observed, still wary as the ex-Church of Gears worshippers stopped short of the Fixers, giving a courteous bow as they beckoned them to enter.
“It does,” Mirinae said, giving a dismissive glare to the worshippers as she pushed them aside. “But with half the associations still undergoing some reconstruction, no one’s been able to appropriately run an audit into these acquisitions. We’ll just have to deal with the consequences as they happen.”
“That sounds idiotic,” Tiphereth said, cautiously walking around the worshippers, her hand still hovering on the handle of her sword. “What happens if they go berserk? Or if someone tries to use them to attack the City?”
Mirinae smiled, a bloodthirsty glint reflected in her glasses. “Then we of the Hana Association will make them regret their decision.”
Their greeters left behind, the four approached the silver archways, accompanied by a noisy and rather irritated crowd beside them still trapped in a long and winding line. Tiphereth tracked its length, going down the stairs and across several blocks, its composition a smattering of civilians, Fixers, and even the odd syndicate member here and there. There was an odd tension in the air and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, feeling the boiling aggravation of several different and diametrically opposed factions settle on her.
“Next!”
A young businesswoman stood at the end of the line, surrounded by several different Church of Gears worshippers. She ruffled through her briefcase as a group of axe gang grunts crowded around her, pulling out a small stack of contracts, their bulk almost as wide as her arm. She ran a hand through her hair, failing to reveal her eyes as her hair fell back into place. “Thank you for your interest in the Royal Royale. Please fill out the information on pages 2, 8, 31, and 49, initial on 23 and 89, and sign on 18, 70, 193, and 300. Then we can take your photos on the hallway to your ri-“
“The hell is this shit?” an axe gang grunt yelled, tossing the paperwork to side with a swipe of his arm. He smashed his axe into the table separating the girl from the impatient syndicate members, the labored wood collapsing under its weight. “We’re here to smash some heads and collect the prize that Nemo dude promised. What more do you need?”
“Cane Office policy requires that you read the necessary disclosures and provide the correct information,” she continued, unperturbed by the grunt towering over her. She reached into her briefcase, retrieving another stack of contracts and offering it to the grunt. “Also I need the signatures of each person participating. If you would just take this and pass it to the associate behind you-“
“Just get the hell outta our way,” the grunt sneered, taking a swipe at the girl’s head. She stepped back, deflecting the swipe with the flat end of her briefcase with a long sigh.
“Sir, attacking Cane Office personnel is strictly prohibited. I must ask you to leave.”
“Like hell we will you bitch. I’m gonna gut you like a fi-“
The lock of the briefcase snapped open, and a myriad of golden ribbons sprung forth from its depths, smashing into the exposed grunt like miniature, hypercharged pistons. The cracking of his ribs echoed down to the base of the staircase, while his pained screams reverberated in the skies as his body was flung in a wide arc, finally hitting the sidewalk below with a sickening thud. She turned to the other axe gang members, shaking her head. “I must ask the rest of you to please return to the end of the line. Further resistance will be met with a similar ejection. Next!”
The four of them watched as the remnants of the axe gang sprang down the staircase – tactlessly failing to retrieve the mangled remains of their comrade – disappearing far past the end of the line. A soft cough caught their attention as another businessman beckoned to them, an unsubtle, mechanized gauntlet hanging from his forearm.
“You’d think that they’d stop trying to provoke Martina,” he sighed, pulling out a small stack of papers and thumbing through its contents. “Bada, Cane Office. I believe you two are Mr. Olivier and Ms. Mirinae, and you two are…”
He paused briefly, blinking his eyes as to dispel a mirage. He grimaced as the smug face of the well-dressed Fixer met his gaze, giving a mock wave. “Roland. My friend here is Tiphereth. I believe we met.”
“Yes, I believe we have,” he said, returning to his contracts. He passed a small form to Olivier before motioning for the others to enter. “Most of your information has already been prefilled. We can skip the formalities and get you to the registration office. Just head down the hall and take a right, then look for the receptionist with red hair.”
“Wooooow…” Tiphereth’s jaw almost hit the floor as she cast her eyes across the wide spanning arena. The imposing exterior was almost a disservice to the colosseum proper, a veritable ocean of seats overlooking a gigantic, flat tournament square, its length comparable to a city block. A gigantic, stained-glass skylight – ornately displaying a messianic Nemo on high, suspended by golden wings and cradled by a throne of money – bathed the arena in sunlight, while the multitude of spotlights ensured that not a single shadow would obscure the spectacle playing out. Nestled near the top of the stadium, a lone announcer box was situated in a prime, viewing area for the tournament, the voice of its two occupants booming through the many speakers ringing the tournament seats.
“Heeeeeeeello, District 7!” the jubilant announcer began, his vibrant voice overcharged with energy. He brushed his silvery hair away from his eyes, leaving his sunglasses alone to accentuate his brilliance. “This is your favorite DJ, announcer, and exposition spouter, Alexander Fishhead, and once again I’d like to welcome all our new contestants, spectators, and sore losers alike to the Inter-City Royal Royale, sponsored by Cane Office! Remember: Don’t settle for A grade when you can have certified C grade tech. It seems our color caster has just arrived in the booth so please give a warm and welcome applause to Salvador!”
The colosseum roared in applause and cheers as Salvador cleared his throat. “Thank you, Fishhead. Like my ever-pleasant co-caster said, my name is Salvador, and I am one of the Operators of Dawn Office. While some of my Fixers are participating in the tournament proper, I was asked to help commentate on the week’s event, given my familiarity with some of the more notable contestants.”
“Thaaat’s right! Who more than a bona fide veteran of the Smoke War to fill us in on our dazzling combatants! And since we’re here, let’s cast an eye on the preliminaries. Do you happen to know anything about the two guys duking it out right now?”
“Yes, I do recognize two of them. The younger contestant there is one of the Liu Association’s most trusted Fixers, a young woman named Cecil. And ever since the Library incident a few months ago, she and the rest of Liu Section 2 have been busying themselves with some interesting work, such as…”
A loud crack echoed from the arena as Cecil’s body was flung across its pavement like a skipped stone, bouncing off the white stone with two, three fair bounces before she finally caught herself, driving her fist deep into the arena floor and pulling herself to a stop. She straightened herself, wiping the blood dripping from her mouth with the back of her glove, and tossed her frayed ponytail behind her, raising fists in an offensive posture. Her opponent, a hulking, towering Fixer, swaggered toward her, his perpetually smiling mask caked with blood and chipped at the ends. “C’mon, now,” McCullin mocked gleefully, spinning his axe behind him. “You gotta hit me harder than that if you wanna get anywhere.”
“Hit you harder, huh?” Cecil asked, a smug grin spreading across your face. “Alright then. Let’s go.”
In a burst of smoke and dust, Cecil closed the distance between them in a single blink, smashing her fist directly into McCullin’s chest with a resonant boom. Even as the Hook Office Fixer’s body began to ragdoll, she spun and leapt into the air, smashing the back of her heel directly into his chin with a torturous crack, before twisting her body, extending her arm to-
Have it be caught in mid-air by the unmoving Fixer.
“Wha.”
“Cute,” McCullin sneered, dropping his axe and grabbing Cecil’s ankle with his other hand. “My turn.”
Flinging his arms in a long arc, he sent the hapless Cecil into a frantic spin before, still clamped onto her ankle, smashing her face-first into the ground, sending a multitude of cracks through the newly-paved arena. Giving her barely a moment to moan in pain, he smashed his boot into the small of her back, eliciting a sharp and agonized yelp, before pulling her body forcefully up by her ponytail and sending her flying with a well-placed punch. Much like before, she was sent careening across the arena, this time tumbling in a heap near the edge of the arena.
“Yiiiiiiiiiikes!” Fishhead’s voice echoed from above, clearly disconcerted by the ignoble tumbling of the Liu Fixer’s body. “Looks like the Liu Association’s finest is losing these clashes like an amateur. Could it be that she’s underestimated her opponent?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Salvador’s calm voice came in reply. “For those who didn’t know, Hook Office has dramatically risen as an upcoming Office ever since the Library fell. They’ve brought down several Urban Nightmare syndicates single-handedly and I’ve heard from the grapevine they’re even eyeing some of the Fingers. It seems like they have something to prove after being one of the first to fall to that blazing Star.”
“The old man’s not wrong,” McCullin scoffed, his axe leaving a shower of sparks as he dragged it behind him. Cecil struggled to her knees, coughing up a small bit of blood, as she looked up at the imposing Fixer before her. “Getting done in by some smug librarian, some glorified Nest egg. Really hit me right there in the heart, y’know.” He scratched the smile on his mask, as though recalling a vivid daydream. “In fact, you two look pretty similar. That long hair, that damn smile, those fucking eyes, looking down on me.” His fingernail dragged down the side of his mask, leaving a visible scar, as he raised his axe. “When I cave your face in, I’ll think of that damn bitch, and I’ll think real hard about the hook I’ll hang her screaming body from.”
With a bloodcurdling scream, he smashed his axe down – down on a bloodied and dusty bit of empty rock.
“Huh? But-“ His head spun to follow the girl, just too slow to catch her flying in from the side, smashing her shoulder into his exposed side. His pained groan was drowned out by Cecil’s adrenaline-fueled roar as she spun her body around, slamming her foot into McCullin. As he flew back, she surged forward and grabbed the dazed Fixer by the collar before whirling around, sending him flying. Unlike the nimble and battered Cecil, McCullin crashed into the arena like a flightless bird, lying still.
“It’s very unprofessional to talk down to your opponent like that,” Cecil said matter-of-factly, approaching the motionless body. “And such a telegraphed attack leaves you open to a counter. Maybe keep that in mind while you’re recuperating in the infirmary.”
She sighed, wiping some of the blood beginning to drip down her forehead. Just a foot away from McCullin, she straightened her cape and removed her tattered, ragged gloves, her attention waylaid for just a second – a second long enough for her feet to be swept underneath her.
“Fu-!” She slammed into the ground with a hard crack, feeling her body once again erupt in pain. She moved to jump to her feet, only to feel her throat tightening. With a breathless gasp, she was lifted in the air, her limbs flailing like a reckless marionette, struggling to draw in air as McCullin kept her a good foot suspended off the ground, choking on her own cape.
“Thanks for the advice. Here’s some for you.” He raised his axe, leveling it on Cecil’s face. “Capes are terrible for combat. They’re a good place for someone to hold onto you.”
The axe fell with a sickening crunch and an agonized scream. The arena fell still, save for the static of the announcer above.
“Ho-Holy shit, everyone!” Fishhead cried, his quivering voice overpowering the dreaded stillness. “Did you see that? Did you fucking see that?”
McCullin cocked his head to the side, almost as if his eyes were playing tricks on him. His axe did, indeed, find a mark – its sharpened, bloodied head embedded deeply into Cecil’s left arm. With a grunt, he tried to yank it free, only for Cecil to pull back with a sharp cry, keeping the axe stuck within her. She steadied her gasps, staring down the astonished Fixer with her arm raised.
“Did you think a Liu Fixer couldn’t take a fucking axe?”
Cecil slammed her fist directly into McCullin’s exposed face, the mask cracking and warping under the strain of the thunderous blow. His grip loosened and Cecil fell to the ground, coughing and spluttering as she unclipped her cape and tossed it to the side, taking in heavy, labored breaths. She looked up as McCullin staggered back, wavering like an unsteady tree, before finally collapsing to the ground with a low, rumbling thud. Cecil coughed as she rose to her feet, brushing back some of her bloodied hair from her face.
“And we have a winner!” Fishhead’s voice boomed through the speakers. “There you have it, folks! Cecil will be one of many lucky contestants making it through the preliminaries! But don’t you leave your seats yet – we still got a great many fights to go through as we go through the next few fights. After these messages, you can bet we’ll be right back to the action, but before we do, this is a word from our sponsors, the illustrious Cane Office! Are you thinking of picking up a new television to keep up with those hip new dramas taking over the market! Worry no longer, because the Nemovision promises you exemplary displays at insane prices, and here’s why-“
Cecil sighed and fell to a weary kneel, her blurry vision barely focusing on the medical staff as they flooded through the arena doors, a flurry of gears and metal wheeling a gurney toward the grievously injured Fixer. As the last vestiges of her consciousness began to leave her, one final thought left her lips.
“… I hope they shut up in the next matches.”
Chapter 2: Celestial Conviction Amidst a Splash of Steel - Tiphereth Takes the Stage! (Tiphereth vs Yuna)
Chapter Text
Even by the usual, busied standards of the Liu Section 2 office, everyone seemed unnaturally hurried, as though there was an electricity in the air that imbued every Fixer with a strong sense of conviction and purpose. Of course, it wasn’t too surprising; the frantic delivery and packing of streamers, the stowing of garishly wrapped gifts in drawers and underneath desks, and the many liters of soda and beer rushed into an innumerable amount of minifridges was a strong giveaway of the excitable jubilation in the air, even despite the tension of the lingering Nest L incident. Cecil leaned back in her chair, watching the many Fixers rush around the office with bemusement.
“Hey, Ceci!”
She glanced back, seeing Mei’s head pop up from behind a wall. A goofy, rainbow-colored cone hat was strapped to her head, caked in so much glitter that it was a wonder it didn’t flake off and make her hair sparkle. Cecil rolled her eyes, spinning her chair around to meet her. “Mei, it’s an anniversary, not a birthday.”
“Big deeeeal,” Mei whined, playfully shoving Cecil back. “It’s a party, right? This is a party hat. We’re gonna have a big party!”
“It is pretty exciting,” Cecil admitted, playfully punching Mei in return. “Do you think Miris will be able to take that stick out of his ass and enjoy himself?”
“Who caaaaaares if that sourpuss does nothing but sip on some wine and occasionally berate us for getting out of hand. I wanna get back at Chun!” Mei bobbed and weaved, expertly parrying and knocking out her imaginary opponent with a flair distinctively… Mei. “This time, he’ll eat the full force of my Tiěshānkào!”
“Pretty sure I’ve heard this the last forty-nine times,” Cecil mused, grinning. Sure you aren’t just gonna get punched in the face again?”
“Y-You know full well that those were flukes!” Mei yelled, her face lighting up as bright as her cape. “This time, he’s really gonna get it! Besides, whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Just making a note.”
“Cecil, Mei?”
Mei immediately tore off her hat, hiding it behind her as Lowell rounded the corner. He acknowledged the two with a nod, seemingly unaware of the awkward smiles on their faces. “Can you come into my office for a bit? We got a report from Section 1.”
Without waiting for a response, Lowell dipped back into his office. The two Fixers shared a worried glance.
“You don’t think…” Cecil muttered under her breath.
“You worry too much, Ceci,” Mei replied, playfully shoving her friend. “Maybe he wants to take Xiao out to dinner or something and he wants us to make some reservations after. Or maybe he’s planning on taking us out to deal with the whole Library stuff personally.”
“The Library…” Cecil’s eyes narrowed as she brought her fingers to her lips, mulling over the innumerable, solemn reports of complete failure and wipes from every single team that had ventured into the L Corp Nest in the past few weeks. “This will be my first genuine Star of the City assignment. There must be some other people Lowell is considering.”
“Ceci. You. Worry. Too. Much.” Mei slammed her hands on Cecil’s shoulders, forcing Cecil to look at her. “Remember that time that the Carnival tried to take out that stupid tour group from S Nest that tried to parade around the Backstreets? Or the time that Blade Lineage took the daughter of one of V Nest’s execs hostage? Y’know what we did to them, right?”
“… Right,” Cecil nodded.
“As long as the three of us are together, the City could throw the goddamn Rapture at us and we’ll pummel it to the ground.” She held out her fist, a wide and undaunted grin on her face. “No matter what.”
Cecil returned the fistbump, meeting Mei’s grin with her own resolute smile. “No matter what.”
“… No matter what, right?”
Cecil muttered, on her arms and knees, gasping for air as the rest of her body threatened to shut down in the wake of the immeasurable pain radiating through her limbs. She slowly rose her head up, watching as another one of the Liu Fixers quivered and erupted into a mass of light and pages, the librarian sheathing his katana and eyeing the wounded girl on the ground.
“R-Right… No matter what, we need to… advance…” She forced herself to her feet, defensively raising her fists as the five librarians circled the last three Liu Fixers, ravenous wolves eagerly waiting to descend upon their wounded prey. Mei didn’t give them a second to blink, immediately rushing forward even as Lowell called out for her.
“Can’t let them have their way…!” Mei screamed, her fists aflame. “HERE I COME YOU BASTARDS! Tiěshānkào!!”
The librarian, a steely-eyed man in an unassuming suit and wreathed in a R Corp jacket, parried Mei’s first blow with a lazy flick of her serrated blade. The Liu Fixer grinned, snatching the open blade with her hand and smashing her shoulder into the librarian in an earringing explosion of fire. The suspended bridge shook, the emptied cars shuddering and rolling aside as the shockwave smashed into them, and Cecil struggled to keep on her feet as the burst of light slowly faded.
Mei panted, her eyes widened, focused on the librarian – wheezing, blood dripping from his mouth and ears – still holding firm in spite of the full force of her trump card slamming head-on into his body. Taking advantage of her shock, he tore her blade free from her grip, bashing its hilt into her face. As she staggered back, Lowell and Cecil could only watch in horror as the blade swung down, tearing cleanly into Mei from shoulder to hip. The girl was flung to the ground, tears and blood streaming down her face as she looked back to her friends.
“Sorry, director… I could’ve toughed it out…”
Only a small pool of blood hit the ground, the remainder of Mei’s body evaporating into light. The patron librarian, unperturbed by the sight, turned his eyes on the injured Cecil. The metropolitan horizon faded into light, replaced with a melancholic sea of monochromic flowers, as a pale spotlight centered on the pale librarian, a black trenchcoat coating his normally violet jacket. Twin guns of obsidian and pearl rose, centered on Cecil. She froze, staring down her grim reaper, the remaining feeling in her body going still. Mei’s dying gaze replayed over and over in her mind, shackling the many, many impulses screaming at her to flee, leaving her a deer in the spotlights of a metaphorical speeding truck.
“CECIL!”
The bell tolled eight times, eight discordant, jarring rings that each threatened to render the Fixer deaf. She shook violently, her eyes clamped shut, waiting for the inevitable to descend upon her. Yet, for those agonizing few seconds, she only waited in silence, bereft of the death she was sure to come.
A drop of liquid jarred her back to reality. Her eyes opened, widened at the broken, shattered, but still resolute body of Lowell standing in front of her, eight gaping holes strewn across his chest and arms, each the size of a baseball. The mortally wounded director fell back, caught by the last surviving Fixer.
“LOWELL, NO!” she screamed, desperately trying to apply pressure to each of his horrific wounds. “Don’t you do this to me, Director! You can’t do this to Xiao! You can’t leave us!”
“Haah…” Lowell gasped, blood pooling in his mouth. His eyes locked with Cecil, an odd, warming comfort reflected in his dying gaze. “At least, I could do something for my own sake… ‘til the end…”
His head rolled back, his body disintegrating into a smattering of golden particles. Cecil desperately reached out, clawing for each and every page even as they fluttered into the sky. “No, no no no! DON’T DO THIS TO ME, LOWELL. DON’T LEAVE ME!”
She clawed at the sky even as the last bits of Lowell evaporated into the library. Her head was still cast skyward even as a librarian closed in on her, a plainclothes Fixer with a serrated dagger aimed directly at her heart. Without a moment’s hesitation, she intercepted the blade with the palm of her hand, a sickening tearing and a wave of pain failing to stop her from paralyzing the librarian with a single, deathly glare.
“I’m… going to kill you.”
Her free arm wreathed in flame, she slammed it directly into the librarian’s face, sending him sprawling to the ground. She leapt toward his body and straddled the librarian, continually pummeling the defenseless man.
“You! Pieces! Of! Shit!” she screamed, smashing her fist into the librarian again and again and again. “I’ll kill you! I’ll kill every last fucking one of you! I’ll burn this fucking building to the ground!”
She slammed her fist into the librarian even as the fire slowly flickered dead from her fingertips, even as his body disintegrated into a mass of light and pages, even as all she could do then was pummel the pavement until it cracked underneath her hand. Her head shot up like a crazed tiger, focused on the patron librarian as he looked back with that same, cold, unfeeling stare. She staggered to her feet and pounced, blood and fire streaming from her body as she closed the gap and threw her first directly into his face. He rose his baton, grunting in exertion as he barely held back the force of her explosive blow.
“I’ll…” she gasped, trying to force her way through his guard. “I’ll… I’LL…”
She froze finally, the adrenaline beginning to leave her body through the newly-opened hole in her back. She crumpled to her knees, clutching the point of the blade that jutted from her back, taking in only small and labored breaths as she felt her heart pound at breakneck speeds, desperately trying to keep alive a dead woman. She grasped at the patron librarian with bloody fingertips, blinded by blood and tears, only for him to shake her off and turn for the exit. Darkness began to linger at the corners of her sight, darkness and light, as she felt her legs slowly begin to disintegrate underneath her.
“Perhaps I wasn’t fit… to best a Star of the City…”
She collapsed to the floor, the footsteps of the departing librarians swallowed up in a mass of haze and white noise. Her eyes finally closing, a final thought flickered in the back of her mind.
“Lowell… I…”
Her eyes shot open, the Fixer nearly screaming herself awake. Caked in sweat, the Fixer was greeted by a grey ceiling and a confused man in a black suit, a familiar phantom that always lingered behind the pale librarian, his erstwhile frown and cocked eyebrow standing out to Cecil even in the wake of her nightmare. Impulsively, she punched him in the face, sending him flying into the ceiling with a dull thud. He fell to the ground with an equally unceremonious plonk as a flurry of footsteps resounded from a nearby hallway.
“I see she’s awake,” Mirinae said with a giggle, helping Roland to his feet. “Thanks for watching over her, Mr. Roland.”
“You did this intentionally, didn’t you?” he grumbled, nursing a spreading bruise across his face.
“I’m hurt you feel that way,” Mirinae said with mocking, innocent eyes.
Still breathing heavily, the Liu Fixer’s eyes widened as they crested over the lackadaisical Director of Hana Section. She immediately straightened her posture and saluted only for a sharp pang of pain to shoot up her spine and down her arms. Doubled over in pain, the blonde fell back into her bed, panting and gasping as she struggled to suppress the excruciating bolt of agony in her back. Mirinae turned to face Cecil and clicked her tongue, walking over and rolling the weary Fixer onto her back.
“Now, now, do watch yourself,” she chided, unclipping the red Liu cape from Cecil’s back and pulling it out from under her. The girl’s face scrunched up in worry and she reached for it, only for a paralyzing crick in her arm to freeze it halfway from her body.
Mirinae slung the cape on a nearby coat rack before returning to Cecil’s side, lowering the weary girl’s arm back down to her side. “Now what did I just say? Is your brilliant plan to be disqualified from the next round? It’d be such an embarrassing show from the Liu Association if one of their most valiant Fixers lost to a technicality.”
“M-My apologies, Director Mirinae!” Cecil spluttered, still trying to raise her head above her pillow. “It is unbecoming for someone of my station to greet you so poorly. I hope you will receive my sincerest apolo-“
“Again, Cecil, you don’t have to say anything,” Mirinae laughed, kneeling down and flicking the flustered blonde with her forefinger. “You’ve been quite the shining star in Lowell’s reports. I’m glad to see the workaholic has someone else other than his wife to rely upon.”
Cecil’s face lit up a bright red and she hastily pulled the pillow over her face. “N-No, you must be mistaken, Director Mirinae,” she stammered, her voice muffled under a light block of feathers and silk. “I could never provide for Director Lowell as much as Director Xiao do-“
The blonde’s protests were quickly silenced, smothered underneath the broad surface of the pillow as Mirinae pressed her hand down on the other end. A dismissive “tut” clicked from her teeth as she cocked her head and brushed her ponytail aside. “You make too much assumptions, Cecil. Please try and take a compliment at face value rather than suffocating yourself under your worries.”
She loosened her grip, the Liu Fixer seizing the opportunity to wrest the pillow free and chuck it across the medical ward where it toppled several IV poles with a discordant crash. Taking in heavy gasps, the girl slowly rose up to a sitting position, the pain shooting up her back suppressed by her lungs laboring to once again pull in air. With a satisfied huff, Mirinae spun on her heel, coming face to face with a glaring nurse.
“Ms. Mirinae,” the nurse admonished, venom dripping from her mouth. “Please do not think that your position as a Hana Association Director affords you the privilege of bullying my patients. They need rest and if you continue to pester them, you can explain your actions to security.”
“You think too lowly of my Fixers, Miss…” Mirinae’s eyes skimmed the fuming nurse’s uniform, pursing her lips in confusion.
“Joy,” the nurse replied curtly, brushing some of her red hair out of her face.
“Yes, yes, nurse Joy or whatever,” Mirinae shrugged, unphased by the deathly glower of the attending nurse. "Each Fixer personally attended to by Hana Association has our seal of approval and our utmost trust. I would never do anything to my Fixers that I didn't think they wouldn't be able to take."
"Last I checked, Ms. Mirinae, you were informed that the collaboration with W Corp and K Corp is strictly an experimental affair. Who knows what kind of permanent injuries could be sustained by the patients here with your blatant recklessness and flagrant disregard for-"
The nurse's chastizing tirade was swiftly cut off, silenced by the sharp rush of air as Mirinae's left arm jerked back, a film of jet black coating her white jacket as the nanomachines hardened around her folded palm. The karate chop aimed at Cecil's neck, augmented by the blackened armor, may as well have been a sharpened blade. It landed with a sharp thud, the ends of Mirinae's mouth curling into a smirk as she and the two gaping bystanders stared at the end of her backwards swing, her hand caught by Cecil's own and held tight even as the girl took in steady, panicked breaths. She blinked at the near-lethal blow directed at her throat, barely resisting the instinctual urge to set her fists aflame in her block.
"Quite the reflexes you have there, Cecil," Mirinae observed, whipping her hand free from Cecil's grasp as the obsidian film melted away until only Mirinae's white glove remained. "Not even some Grade 1's I'm familiar with could react with such grace."
"The pleasure is mine, Director Mirinae," Cecil answered, placing her hand to her chest. "But… could you please not try to kill me like that?"
"Ohoho," the Hana Director chuckled, her glimmering eyes hidden under the reflection of her glasses. "It's cute that you thought I was trying."
A sharp, forceful cough broke up the uneasy tension between the two Fixers. Roland tactfully motioned for the exit, keeping a wide berth between him and the increasingly frustrated nurse, her pen digging into her clipboard with thinly-veiled bloodlust. Whether Mirinae's expression was boredom or resignation was difficult to pin down, but regardless the Hana Director quietly shuffled behind Roland as the two made their exit. Cecil threw her legs out and began to get out of her bed, only for a sharp pain running up her side to send her back into the mattress.
"Tch, are all Liu Fixers hotheads?" the nurse grumbled, grabbing hold of Cecil's legs and flinging her back onto the bed. "K Corp's HP ampules are good for mending broken bones and patching up gashes but they don't do shit about any lingering pain."
"It's fine, Cecil said, biting her lip. "I just… nngh… need to walk this off."
"What you need to do is lie down for a bit," the nurse snapped, poking Cecil's breast with the tip of her pen. The Liu Fixer recoiled and squirmed as though a knife had just grazed her body. "We have some painkillers and some K Corp scientists will be in shortly to ask you a few questions. Just take a short break for now and you can head out in two or so hours."
Disappointment and irritation were both clearly etched on Cecil's face. Regardless of her feelings, though, after the fourth flare up that ran down her arms and the subsequent chastising from the nurse, she eventually resigned herself to the contort of her hospital bed.
"She got you good, didn't she?" Olivier quipped, a skewer of octopus balls halfway in his mouth.
"Just a lucky hit," Roland grumbled, nursing a light bruise across his cheek. "Her form was pretty sloppy at the arena. Real flashy, lots of blind spots. If she wasn't messing with some amateur it'd have gotten ugly."
"Are you seriously going to accuse someone of being overly flashy when you still lug around that Wheels Industry blade?" Olivier chuckled, cocking an eyebrow. "Not even Angelica could swing that thing fast enough to catch the small opening it left on your left side."
"Are you gonna shittalk the blade that snapped that spear of yours in two?"
"Enough, you two," Mirinae cut them off with a giggle. "Always making it some huge competition over who's better. How juvenile."
"That's rich coming from you," Roland countered, smirking. "Weren't you doing the exact same thing with Cecil just a few minutes ago?"
"That was different," the Hana Director rebuffed him, adjusting her glasses. "I don't have anything to prove. As the best Fixer here among us, I need only use a mere sliver of my brilliance to prove my point."
"The best Fixer, huh?" Roland gave a wry chuckle, leaning back and cradling his head in his gloved hands. "Well we did all get out of the preliminaries, so I guess we'll put that to the test, won't we?"
"I'm sure the Director won't mind getting herself humbled for the sake of putting our plans into action," Olivier said, matching Roland's smile with his own.
"Just don't embarrass yourself too much when I inevitably scrape off your blood from my boot in the semifinals," Mirinae said, adjusting the ribbon holding her hair in a ponytail. "It will look rather demeaning for Section 3 if you go down kicking and screaming. Same for you, Mr. Roland. That one poor soul I tore the arm off with the heel of my boot died rather pathetically."
"You sure are talking quite a lot of shit for someone who lost that fight, Ms. Mirinae," Roland said mockingly.
"You sure are rather confident for someone who only had to fight one of our Fixers."
The fervorous tension encompassion the trio made even the brightest flames of Liu Association look like a meek candle in comparison, and it was only by the steely discipline and peerless experience of all three Fixers that they simply did not descend into a bloody melee right then and there. Only those with their type of unflappable experience and wisdom - tempered by the piercing gazes of the many, many security guards patrolling the stadium all very much mouthing "if you three start fighting we will kick all of you idiots out" - could refrain from engaging in wanton fisticuffs. However, though the three feigned innocence as they passed the archway into the main venue, the ruthless bloodlust radiated by the trio could easily be felt by the blonde librarian as she turned away from the railing, furrowing her brow in annoyance.
"You guys, uh, alright there?" Tiphereth asked, crossing her arms. "You all look like you want to kill each other."
"Don't be ridiculous, Tiph…"
"Please don't mind us, Ms. Tiphereth."
"Those two are just arguing over which one of them has the more inflated ego."
Two unamused glares bore into the beaming Mirinae. Tiphereth sighed, annoyingly reminded of four lackadaisical coworkers, and turned her attention back to the arena beneath them. The porcelain stage was glistening and spotless, unmarred by the two fighters that had taken the spotlight. The unnamed Fixer at the far end, twin aquamarine blades adorning his arms, took an aggressive posture and swatted and flexed to the awed cries and cheers of the audience.
Opposite him, the quiet Blade Lineage Salsu stood as still as a statue, his hand resting on the hilt of his katana. Obscured by the wide hem of his bamboo hat, little could be made of him other than the long, flowing robes that obscured his shoes. Fishhead's long-winded tangent on the opposing Fixer's exemplary career as a legendary Grade 7 Fixer was quickly drowned out by the Fixer's battlecry as he suddenly lunged forward, haphazardly spinning his body around until he was more like a murderous top.
"Hope you're ready to get fucked!" the Fixer cried, barreling into the passive Blade Lineage swordsman. The bamboo-hatted man made no attempt to escape the grasp of the Fixer's sharpened blades, and the audience all gasped in horror as the Syndicate foot soldier was dyed a deep red.
"Go sleep thou with them."
"Wha-?"
A singular strike, the draw of the sword so swift and yet so pronounced that the shing of the katana rang out throughout the arena. Each errant voice was silent as the Blade Lineage Salsu's katana cleaved the Fixer from hip to shoulder. The Fixer went flying, blood gushing from his torn body like pedals scattering from a broken rose, before crumpling to the ground in a sprawled heap. The gash running down his shoulder seemed virtually nonexistent to the bamboo-hatted man as he flicked the blood from his blade and returned it to his sheath.
"Thus kindly, I scatter."
"I… uh… I guess it's over, folks!" Fishhead's voice stammered as the commentary was literally robbed from his lips by the prompt finale. "Your winner for this round, the enigmatic Bamboo-Hatted Kim! I hope this time our interviewer can get there in time to get the enthralling details from our man of few words and he's already leaving the stage…"
Fishhead's words barely had time to clear the speakers rounding the stadium before Kim stepped through the adjoining archways, vanishing out of sight and leaving only a dumbstruck crowd and a flurry of footsteps as the medics hurriedly carried off the bleeding Fixer.
"Kim, huh," Olivier muttered under his breath. Tiphereth's ears perked up and she impulsively tugged on the Fixer's sleeve.
"I remember reading about him when we received the Blade Lineage as guests," she said, her eyes cloudy, as if lost in reminiscence. "He was all about violence and reckless elegance or something like that. I remember getting him with a grazing hit from my sword and he just…" The girl shuddered, clutching at an invisible scar across her chest.
"The Salsu known only as Bamboo-Hatted Kim and his sect of Blade Lineage cutthroats usually keep to themselves, but they've caused a stir when we lost a bunch of good Cinq Association Fixers to them." Olivier rubbed his chin, closing his eyes as if pondering over a series of scattered documents. "We actually hadn't seen Kim for a couple of weeks now. Our intel reported that his sect had been one of the many victims of the Library incident, but while we've managed to pinpoint most of the survivors, there's been no record of Kim until this tournament." He chuckled, as if some type of exhilarating anticipation flooded his body. "I'm glad to see he's still around."
Tiphereth cocked an eyebrow at the unusual fervor from the Fixer but said little more. She was, after all, a guest of the Hana Association. More importantly, she and the rest of the librarians were present during his and Roland's duel to the death. She glanced at the clock, perking up in surprise, and immediately made a break for the stairs.
"Tiph? Hey, Tiph!" Roland called, his voice quickly swallowed by the excited swell of the surrounding crowd. He sighed and leaned against the railing, watching as a small janitorial team hosed down the blood splattered across the arena. "Wonder where she went off. Little girl's room or something?"
"You got a concussion or something, Roland?" Olivier joked, gesturing to the clock. "It's about time for the last of the provisionals."
"The last of…" His exasperation quickly turned to excitement as he watched the last few seconds of the clock tick down with bated breath. "Right. It's Tiph's turn."
Shrouded in blackness, awash in muted cheers, the blonde girl stood and waited.
She wasn't scared, of course. She rolled her sturdy baton around her hand, the sleek, obsidian surface cool to the touch and annoyingly comfortable in her grip, much like the contours of a well-worn glove. She couldn't be unnerved by some random person trying to kill her. She'd dealt with a rampaging magical girl slamming into her with all the strength of a steaming freight train. She'd survived one of the anomalous smoke monster's tentacles plowing right into her chest, even if she came out of it with several broken ribs and her chest feeling like it was about to rupture. She'd even parried a giant blade the size of a skyscraper, leaking viscous fluids even as its distorted wielder shrieked in rage.
She wasn't scared. Or terrified. Or petrified. She wasn't paralyzed with fear, or frozen with trepidation, or any of those fancy phrases that haughty Arbiter would fling around like her pillars. She. Was. Fine.
… So why couldn't she keep her knees from wobbling?
Tiphereth ground her teeth together and clamped her eyes shut. Somehow, the blackness of her eyelids was lighter than the tunnel's shadows. If she could, she would cover her ears so as to block out the plethora of muffled cheers above her. She wasn't claustrophobic by any definition nor did she find the dark scary, but being stuck in that tunnel, waiting for some herein "obvious signal," filled her with more anxiety than being face to face with that clown.
At this point she didn't even know what clown she was referring to either.
A hue of faint viridian. The girl opened her eyes, confronted by a small, green light shining in front of her. In the distance, the faintest shred of light came into view like the glimmers of an exit to a spelunker trapped in some cave. Yet, she felt her feet drag underneath her as she approached, her chest tightening and her heart racing. Her eyes flew this way and that, as if expecting to discover some malignant device designed to assassinate her. Perhaps the Cane Fixers had placed some nerve gas in the tunnel and this really was a trap to lure her and Roland in to be killed without Angela's protection. Maybe some vengeful Syndicate grunts had drenched the tunnel in some chemical and were lurking in the shadows to stab her in the back. Maybe a Distortion had broken into the arena, devoured everyone, and was now lurking at the very end to cut her down as she tried to escape.
She was, of course, not nervous. That would be fucking ridiculous.
Much to her relief - and her chagrin - not a single assassin came to slit her throat as she neared the archway. Gathering the fragments of her courage, Tiphereth stepped out into the light, the shadows instantly chased away by blinding spotlights as she was ringed by a loud and cheering crowd, their attention all drawn to the opposite side of the arena. Above her, the numerous speakers blared with Fishhead's obnoxious, staticky voice.
"Alrighty, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for our last match of the evening! This time, I'll hand over the introductions to my co-caster, Salvador!"
"It would be my pleasure, A. Fishhead," Salvador's humble voice came, much to the relief of everyone's ears. "I will attempt to refrain from sounding too biased, but I hope you will all indulge me. Our first contestant is a Fixer of the illustrious Dawn Office and one of my closest co-workers. She's professional, punctual, and she's single-handedly dismantled entire Urban Nightmare-level Syndicates before dinner. My pride and joy, and far, far more than a simple Grade 4 Fixer, please give a warm welcome to Yuna!"
And indeed, nothing short of raucous applause and jubilation came in response as the turquoise-haired Fixer ascended to the stage. The cello case hanging from her shoulder eagerly snapped open, a myriad of blades loosely dangling from its confines before slithering back into its maw. She waved politely to the crowd in turn, her plain and unmoving expression only barely betraying a hint of pride. Her eyes settled on the hallway Tiphereth was lurking in, the blonde girl feeling as though the Dawn Fixer was trying to skewer her through a glare alone.
“Hehe, you heard it here first, folks! Salvador’s protege appears to be a huge favorite going in, but let’s not just hand her the trophy just yet because we got quite the last minute entry! Hailing from the Outskirts, this enigmatic fighter’s made quite a name for herself as a member of a former Star. Now joining us to participate in this grandiose tournament, I’d like to welcome the Patron Librarian of Natural Sciences herself, Tiphereth!”
Tiphereth entered to a suffocating atmosphere of dead air. Not a single cough nor a heavy breath could be heard among the grim-faced crowd. The girl walked wordlessly to the stage, the many eyes boring into her worse than the Knight of Despair's many swords.
"... Wow, tough crowd," Fishhead joked with a nervous chuckle. "What, did she kill someone?"
No one laughed.
Finally, a loud woosh broke the silence. The rush of air precluded a muted thunk and the blonde girl doubled over, clutching her aching head. A discarded soda can lay at her feet, red with her blood. Now the stadium filled with sound, a callous and bloodthirsty laughter, punctuated by a myriad of jeers.
"Couldn't dodge that one, could you?" a Seven Fixer yelled, throwing another can at the girl.
"Yuna's gonna gut you like a fucking fish!" a Liu Fixer hollered, to the hoots of his fellow company.
"Save some of that bitch for the rest of us!" a Kurokumo thug screamed from the highest benches, his katana jostling from his hip. "Let's see how smug she is without her precious Library!"
Hurriedly dodging a shower of cans and other refuse, Tiphereth clammored onto the stage, met by an amused Yuna. The librarian ran a hand through her hair, drawing back a thin coating of blood from her fingertips. This was no duel between Fixers; the frothing audience came to watch a sacrificial lamb, bearing the sins of Library, get ripped apart like a cockroach in a meat grinder.
But still she stood, her baton defensively raised in front of her, as Yuna strode forward, loosening the strap of her cello case. The Dawn Fixer smirked, as though this type of solo slaughter was her specialty.
"Let's have a good ol bloodbath, ladies and gents!" the announcer continued, falling into the murderous fervor of the crowd. "GODS PLAY DICE WITH THE UNIVERSE! DECIDE THE DESTINY! BEGINNING OF THE END! Fight!"
Yuna smirked, gave a curtsy, and vanished.
"Bwa?!" Tiphereth blinked and shook her head as though the hysteria of the crowd surrounding her was now causing hallucinations. "Where-"
"Too slow~."
A loud crack whipped the crowd into an uproar as all eyes fell upon the staggered Tiphereth as she fell to the ground, her mind rattled and her head spinning as blood poured from the blow from Yuna's case. She bit her lip, desperately trying to straighten her vision amidst the morass of murky waters staining her eyes, and caught herself on her hands, bouncing off and back into the air, just a hair's short of being cut to ribbons by Yuna's snipping scythes. With shaky steps, the girl hit the ground and dashed toward the Dawn Fixer, swinging her baton wildly.
"Nnngh, dammit!" Tiphereth roared, her hair wildly flying behind her as she closed the distance between her and Yuna in a single bound.
"Oop," Yuna teased, deflecting a swipe with the broad side of her cello case. Tiphererh's subsequent swings, each accompanied by a discordant screech from the librarian, met the same fate. "Nope. Uh-uh. Not happening. Not close. Not even."
"You…!" Tiphereth's eyes flashed with rage as her baton bounced haplessly off of Yuna's cello case. Stepping back, she tightly gripped the handle of the baton and thrust its sharpened tip toward Yuna's heart.
Yuna whipped the case around. With a crack and a thud, the baton was left embedded in the wooden case, the fractured splinters embracing Tiphereth's weapon and holding it tight. Shock robbed the rage-filled adrenaline of the blonde girl as Yuna tossed her case - and Tiphereth's weapon - aside, pulling her arm back and slamming her fist into the paralyzed girl's opened mouth.
"Daaaaaamn!" the announcer's boisterous voice echoed from above. "I am not gonna lie, folks. I was expecting a lot more from a former Star."
Indeed, if Yuna's playful parrying and dodging of Tiphereth's rampage was a cheeky veteran embarrassing a smug upstart, then Yuna's subsequent onslaught into the blonde librarian was little more than a glorified execution. Howls and cheers filled the stadium as Yuna delivered punch after kick into the hapless and bloodied Tiphereth, while the librarian's pitiful flailing did little more than deter Yuna's next jab by a few seconds. The sprightly and innocent among the crowd cheered Yuna's name with applause and reverence, while the more bloodthirsty, manic-eyed Fixers and Syndicate grunts alike chanted the same phrase over and over again, timed in rhythm with Yuna's concerted punches.
"Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!"
Roland's solemn face watched with muted interest as the blonde girl was slammed to the ground by a kick to the ribs. With blood running from her nose and one of her eyes nearly swollen shut, she leapt back to her feet and swung her arm wildly, aiming for the Dawn Fixer's face. Yuna caught Tiphereth's arm by the wrist and, to the growing horror of the miniscule librarian, watched as the Fixer grabbed Tiphereth's elbow with her other hand and twisted. A grotesque snap filled the stadium, followed by Tiphereth's agonized scream and the rabid cheers of the onlookers demanding for the girl's blood.
"C'mon, Tiph…" Roland muttered under his breath. "Pull yourself together. Don't let this girl just run you over."
But she could not pull herself together. While her body collapsed under her weight as it weathered blow after blow from the merciless Fixer, her mind was awash with delirium and plagued by panic, her thoughts swallowed by the audience who wished nothing more than to spit on her corpse. As one of her arms dangled uselessly from her side, her face a ghastly shade of purple and swollen, the girl ducked under one of Yuna's jabs and tried to deliver a punch of her own. The Dawn Fixer nimbly dodged to the side and slammed her shoulder into Tiphereth, quickly following after the staggered girl as orange lights ignited in her hands.
It took only a moment.
A single moment for Tiphereth to feel a sharp, aching sensation in her chest.
A moment for her head to loll down and follow the burning sensation under her collar.
A moment for her to behold the crimson dagger deftly shoved in her chest.
She couldn't even scream as Yuna's twin Stigma Workshop daggers tore into her body. Nor could she hear the crowd's cheers descend into a manic howl as they all slobbered over the prospect of watching the pitiful girl die. All she could hear, as she crashed into the stage in a pool of her own blood, was her weakening heartbeat.
"Tough luck, kid," Yuna said with a shrug, tearing Tiphereth's baton out of her case and snapping it over her knee. "Kinda thought you had a little bit more going for you like the rest of your friends over at the Library. Guess things are different out here."
Yuna placed the cello case down on the ground and kicked it over toward the sprawled Tiphereth. It shrieked and surged forward like a monstrous mimic, its blades aimed at the dying girl even as she tried to bat it away with what fading strength hadn't been bled out. The case hissed in irritation and flung of its blades out, impaling Tiphereth's arms to the ground. She squirmed and kicked and whimpered and sobbed, watching with blurry eyes as the third blade went straight for her head.
She was going to die.
One last thought flew through her head even as the rest of her body shut down from exhaustion and trepidation.
She was going to die.
She'd died before. Impaled on the end of Xiao's polearm as the EGO-embued dragon roasted her skin from her bones. Gunned down by a hailfire of lead as the Sottocapo directed his steely gaze at her. Choking on her spasming throat as the Smiling Faces surrounded her quivering body and hacked away at her limbs with machetes. She hated feeling the life drain away from her, despised the sensation of her body disintegrating into light as her vision turned white.
She didn't want to die.
As the blade was inches away from her face, that one thought cascaded over her dying body, washed away every ounce of fear that permeated each torn pore, and crystallized into one word, screamed through her punctured and ragged lungs.
"QUEENIE!"
A brilliant burst of pink starlight filled the stadium, cowing those crying for Tiphereth's head and drowning all sound in a vacuum of mystical energy. The shattered tooth of the cello case receded into its maw as it skittered away from Tiphereth. As it fled from the young, dazzling girl clad in pink and white, her star-tipped staff protectively shielding the librarian's face. The mahou shoujo stuck her tongue out and made a peace sign with her free hand, whipping her silver hair back as she posed to the awestruck audience.
"In the name of Love and Justice~, here comes Magical Girl!"
At first there was silence. Then, screaming. A riot. A flurry of footsteps as Fixers and Syndicate thugs alike scrambled from their seats. A series of drawn weapons and panicked orders as conflicting directives fell upon the confused masses like so much sweat and dirt and panic. A sea of people made for the exit as one, singular thought reverberated in the stadium.
Once again, the Library had descended.
"Harold. Xiao. Yujin. Dante," Mirinae was already standing, barking into the communicator in her ear. "I want all of you in Section 14, now. We're all going to converge on the anomaly and-"
A hand gripped Mirinae's wrist, cutting her off. "Trust her, Mirinae."
The calm voice of Roland brought nothing but bemusement to the Hana Director. Yet, while biting her tongue, she turned to the only other person still sitting and quietly sipping his boba tea. "... Olivier?"
"If Roland trusts her, then I trust her," Olivier said simply, not once moving from his chair. "We have personally invited the Library to participate. It only seems natural that it, in turn, would return to the City."
Mirinae said nothing, but with a soft click, the line in the communicator went dead.
Perhaps the only one not at all unphased by the appearance of the abnormality was Yuna herself. Whether she was simply caught up in the fervor of her own adrenaline or she was simply unconcerned with the ramifications of the Library's magics once again returning to tip the scales of the fight, these thoughts were wholly of no concern to her.
Magical girl or not, Tiphereth would still lose if she was dead.
So she ran forward. She snatched the cello case from the floor and loosed its many blades, each one aimed at one of the librarian's vitals. Wounded as she was, severing even a single artery would assuredly send her down. Even as she gasped for air and choked on her own blood, Tiphereth suddenly found herself on her feet, beckoned by the solemn mahou shoujo.
"I can't do anything if you stand around and let her skewer you like a pig, Tiph! Keep up!"
The librarian complied. Despite the blood that dripped from her torn dress, despite her lungs that strained to take in even a single breath, despite her vision that flickered between black and white as her eyes tried to focus on the arena in front of her, she ran as though her legs were independent of her own body, carrying her out of range of Yuna’s assault. The Dawn Fixer cursed and flung the case open as a series of blades surged from its depths, just short of Tiphereth as she and the Queen of Hatred leapt into the air.
“Tiph, you alright?” the Queen of Hatred asked, soaring down and cradling the librarian in her arms.
“... There are three holes in my fucking chest,” Tiphereth said curtly, blood leaking from the sides of her grimacing mouth.
“I mean, they’re not lethal, so let’s be optimistic!” the girl cheered, flashing a thumbs-up. “I mean, they’re only not lethal because I’m currenting loaning you some of my energy, and even with that you’re just barely on the edge of death’s door, but if you ignore all of that, you got this!”
“You… remind me of a friend of mine at the Library…” Tiphereth coughed, glaring at the mahou shoujo. “If I could, I would also throw a cup at you, too.”
“Man, you’re a buzzkill,” the abnormality sighed, flipping once in the air to avoid an errant scythe from the grounded Dawn Fixer. As the bloodied Tiphereth hit the ground and trailed behind her, the Queen of Hatred flew toward Yuna like a shooting star, slamming her staff down like the world's gaudiest hammer. The cello case buckled and its innards screeched as the abnormality drove its staff further into the wooden instrument. However, a fiery blade soared overhead, clutched tightly in Yuna's free hand, and the Queen of Hatred recoiled with a painful shriek, a bloody gash across her once picturesque face.
"I see the librarian's aides are the same as her," Yuna said, an arrogant smirk crossing her face. "All fire and no tact."
"Y-You!" the mahou shoujo stammered, a furious glint in her golden eyes. "Villain of all things beautiful and lovely, I will-"
A swift kick left the mahou shoujo reeling and the follow-up uppercut sent her flying into Tiphereth, the two groaning in pain as they crawled off of each other. Yuna swung the cello case around her shoulder, eyeing the two with a mix of disdain and confusion. "Are all people from the Library this sloppy? How did the Blue Reverberation die to this?"
"Nnngh…" Tiphereth panted, barely able to keep herself up on her hands and knees. The fuming abnormality behind her kicked her staff back up to her hands, releasing a stream of stars at the Dawn Fixer. Yuna ducked and weaved through the rain of bullets, flinging her cello case out as she elegantly spun past two blazing projectiles. It bounced twice off the stone arena and sprung to life, a myriad of tangled, metallic appendages serving as spidery legs bursting from underneath. It skittered across the ground, past the enraged mahou shoujo as the abnormality loosed yet another meteor shower on Yuna, and lunged at its target.
Disarmed, defenseless, barely able to remain conscious, the weary Tiphereth couldn't even let out a scream. The Queen of Hatred spun around, the dreaded realization hitting her far, far too late.
Splat.
Tiphereth's eyes were clamped shut, as if it would hurt less if she did not watch her impending death bear down on her. Yet, as the seconds past and she still drew breath, however meekly, slowly she raised her head. Dyed in red and pink, her arms spread out in desperate attempt to shield the librarian, the Queen of Hatred stood before her. A trio of blades impaled her from chest to neck. She knew, from Yuna's slash earlier, that abnormalities could, in fact, bleed.
But as she stared at the quivering mahou shoujo in front of her, her raspy breaths making Tiphereth's positively vibrant, she wondered deep down, "Could they die?"
"Close enough, I guess," Yuna said with a shrug. She brandished the two Stigma Workshop daggers and lunged toward the two, her eyes dead set on Tiphereth's throat. The patron librarian wrapped her one good arm around the wheezing abnormality and shook her, as though she was merely dreaming and would simply wake up if she tried hard enough.
"Tiphereth…"
The girl's voice was frail, like a cracked glass ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Yet, even as her neck tore and bled with the slightest movement, she craned her head to meet the teary-eyed librarian.
"Is there something… you want to fight for…?"
To fight for?
Of course there wasn't.
She wasn't Gebura. Or Binah. Or Roland. She was just a young girl, saddled with the task to kill for the sake of Angela's goals. At least, that was what it used to be. Now she was just Tiphereth, the shadow of a girl that had perished unloved in an Outskirts laboratory. She had nothing to prove nor nothing to aspire to.
So why was she here, suffering and bleeding and dying while an entire city screamed for her head?
She looked past the Queen of Hatred. Past the murderous Yuna just a few feet from her neck. Past the smoking stage and the riotous crowds.
On the edge of the arena, leaning over the arena, one man stood and met her stare. A man clad in black, his gloved hands gripping the railing, his mouth locked in a firm and loving smile.
A man that had spoken up for her as the other two Hana Fixers looked down at her with wonder.
A man that had lashed out at her and decried the inevitability of the City, and brought his EGO down to bear on her stalwart figure.
A man that had doted on her and given her a small chocolate bar because she asked.
Did he expect her to reach the end? Did he even expect her to survive this fight? She couldn't know, but at that very moment, as her heart began to beat its last, as Yuna bore down on the exhausted librarian, she grabbed the shaking Queen of Hatred's bloodied hand in her own and held it tight.
"Yes. I fight to live up to the expectations my friends have in me."
The Queen of Hatred smiled as her form faded to white and scattered like so much stardust. Tiphereth's hand fell through the evanescent girl, a brilliantly pink circle of arcane mystics conjured in front of the opened palm. Yuna was far too close for Tiphereth to retreat but the young girl did not once flinch, instead meeting her callous glare with her determined, golden eyes.
"I am a hero and a savior.
So long as there is evil in this world, I will rise and fight to vanquish it.
Even should my soul one day be caked in sin and lowered to the depths of hell to fill the void I leave, I will never waver from this path.
For as long as there is evil in this world, I will be the beacon of love to confront it!"
The mystical circle expanded until it was even larger than the kneeling girl, an insignia of spiraling gold and white, with the emblem of a beating heart inscribed in its center. Yuna's jaw dropped as she found herself directly in the center of that mass of energy.
"In the Name of Love and Hate! Arcana Slave!"
The beam that exploded from the patron librarian's palm shone brighter than any Star of the City could have ever dreamed. Its light caused each onlooker still trying to reach the exit to halt in their tracks, drawn inexplicably to that radiant beam of hope and justice that sprung forward from the stage. Even the announcement booth was awed into silence, merely another witness to that cataclysm of beauty and love that blossomed from the stage like a pillar of crystallized conviction, surging into the very heavens themselves.
And just as fast as it happened, the beam flickered and died. Left in the arena was the kneeling, bleeding, and spluttering Tiphereth and the unconscious, smoldering body of Yuna.
"I-I-I have no fucking idea what I just saw, folks, but it seems that Yuna is down! Let's hear it for our final contestant to get into groups, Tiphereth!"
A single flurry of claps came in reply. That ever-observant Fixer in black still watching down on her, his content face easing the pain in Tiphereth's face. Then another from the dark-skinned Hana Fixer next to him, the man rising to his feet as he joined the man in black. Then a third, as the Hana Director joined in on the applause, a rare sight of genuine interest glowing on her face.
One by one, the stadium filled with cheers and applause. Tiphereth smiled and waved, finally showered with adoration.
And collapsed.
The coughing hurt. As did her chest. Her still good arm clutched at the knife wounds above her breasts, the fingers coming back plastered with a thick, viscous red fluid. She almost felt relieved that, when her head hit the ground, that at least didn't hurt. As her vision faded to black, she clung onto one last, fleeting image.
The sight of a Fixer in black vaulting over the railing and running over to her, genuine concern finally breaking his unflappable demeanor.
"I did it… Roland…"
The hustle and bustle as the medics hauled Tiphereth's body into the medical wing drowned out any errant sounds. In the wake of the frenzied panic as the K Corp medics attended to Tiphereth's more serious wounds, no one noticed as a shadow slipped quietly into one of the maintenance passageways, accompanied only by steam and the rumbling of water through pipes.
But Nemo did like his under-the-table operations as clandestine as possible.
He hurriedly walked down the narrow, cramped passageway, paying no heed to the puddles that stained his designer shoes. Excuses could be made for the marks in his attire, but being absent from the public eye for too long was more annoying to deal with.
Fortunately for him, the traffic-light headed Gaze Operator was right underneath the broken exit sign, just as they agreed. The small, unassuming briefcase hung from the Fixer's hands as his optical receptors hummed and focused on Nemo.
"There you are," Alloc said, nodding. "I was beginning to worry you had gotten cold feet."
"With an opportunity as golden as this?" Nemo chuckled, his display flashing a vibrant green. "I wouldn't pass this up for the world. Now, do you have it?"
Alloc dropped the briefcase, its top popping open with a soft click. Nemo's face flickered with a sinister glimmer as he looked down at the contents, a slow and joyful cackle coming from his audio speakers.
"Yes… Yes… Yes…! This is… beautiful! Perfect! To think that that dumb Hana Director was too stupid to realize the blunder she was stepping into!" He knelt down and examined the contents even closer, his cackle devolving into near psychopathic laughter. "If all of this proceeds smoothly, not even the Head will stop me. Soon, the City will all bow their knee… to Cane!"
Chapter Text
A faint, low hum stirred the girl from her restless slumber. An endless deluge of blackness melted away as she groaned and swatted at her face, strands of disheveled, blonde locks clinging to her sweaty cheeks. She rose with a yawn and stretched her arms above her head, the patchwork sweater ruffling against the bare skin underneath and causing her to wince and scratch at her shoulders. As she smacked her lips and blinked the sand from her eyes, she perked up as the low hum once again rang its soundless alarm. Down and to the left, she caught sight of her phone, the stained, beaten yellow cover barely containing the innocuous little trinket as it fervently blared its muted alarm. 10:57.
She rolled her shoulders back before plucking the device from beside her pillow. Swiping the nuisance away with a flick of her thumb, her eyes briefly skimmed the screen. Forty-eight minutes into three hours of the second part of a four-act reimagining of the devilish Nest Z Uprising. Apparently taking the nest eggs of J Wing by storm, she’d been told.
Lisa huffed and rolled her eyes. The only thing the thrilling epic had done was put her to sleep.
The smooth, metal floor beneath her still felt as natural as ice as she swung her legs over and off the bed, still gingerly poking her toes out every so often as if a loose stone or jagged shard of metal would impale itself in her heels. This bizarre facility with its white walls and low ceilings was hardly like the decadent palaces of the Wings, but to an urchin who’d known little than the forsaken wastes of the Outskirts, it very much was nothing short of an ethereal paradise made manifest. As the young girl stretched her arms to the side and chased away the lingering fatigue still clinging to her bones, she stole a glance to small bed opposite her. Its sheets left unmade, the hard pillow had already regained its form, the head it had once cradled having awoken long ago. Typical Enoch, leaving her behind as usual.
Lisa smacked her lips, feeling her stomach churn only slightly. She’d missed breakfast but, with luck, she’d be able to catch lunch first before Kali came in like some gluttonous typhoon and devoured everything in sight. The very thought of some of Daniel’s homemade coffee or Elijah’s mouthwatering steak and eggs caused some drool to trickle from the corners of the dazzled girl’s mouth. Her half-groggy eyes dreamt up the succulent, prime meat, steam wafting from its pristine, glazed surface, only to disappear in puffs of smoke and disheartened groans as her hands reached for naught but air. She once again blinked and shook her head, wiping her mouth clean as her pale cheeks flushed red momentarily.
Get ahold of yourself, Lisa. Elijah and Michelle are probably in the kitchen right now. If you move now you can probably grab something nice to eat before it gets too crowded.
The murky shadows clouding her small room were chased away with a creaking whine as the metal door slid open, light spilling from the clandestine hallways of the research facility. At first, some of the scientists under Carmen had questioned the sight of an unkempt street urchin galivanting about the dormitories and lurking outside the laboratories. The hushed whispers of many a Nest egg did little to phase the blonde as she strode toward the kitchen, now but a distant memory as even the most skeptical of her followers grew to, at the very least, tolerate the two children Carmen had seemingly adopted into her fold. Now, the sight of the whistling Lisa, skipping barefoot through the halls with her ratty sweater and pajamas bottoms, was just one of those charming sights that brought levity to the otherwise drab and isolated Outskirts lab. As a familiar, pensive scientist rounded the corner, his pale fingers still locked on the collar of his turtleneck, Lisa gave a passing wave. Gabriel acknowledged the young girl with a curt nod before passing her by, still half-engaged in his conversation with two other busied researchers flanking him. She paused, eyeing the violet-haired Nest egg as he tugged against on the collar of his sweater. Though the words of the scientists were little more than gibberish and white noise to the girl, Lisa couldn’t help but feel that even Gabriel felt… detached.
She shrugged and trotted down the hallway with only the slightest skip in her step. Just Gabriel being weird as ever. No point in worrying about it. Maybe another one of Carmen’s wild ideas didn’t pan out again.
She’d hear it all the time from her while the eleven of them were at dinner. The gloomy Ayin going over the details of their latest experiment with the same melancholic tone she’d hear at a funeral while Carmen waved him off, already abuzz with the new breakthrough she’d devised in the interim. Across from her, she’d pester Michelle and Daniel for another tale of the elusive City she’d laid eyes on for so long, occasionally fishing stories of towering buildings that seemed to scratch the sky itself and porcelain roads dotted with candy and laden with exotic creatures and blossoming trees. Even the dismissive scoffs of Gabriel in the corner couldn’t banish the stars sparkling in hers and Enoch’s eyes as they were regaled with story after story of the beauteous paradise that lay off in the horizon.
”So why would you set up shop in the Outskirts?” Enoch would ask once, his face half-stuffed with a pizza.
Michelle’s face scrunched up, as though the thought had never crossed her mind. A beaming Elijah laughed and threw her arm around the quivering assistant, a half-filled glass of beer hanging from her fingertips. “Because we don’t want those killjoys at the City seeing what we’re up to. What we’re gonna do is revolutionary.”
“Revo… luteinery?” Enoch said, sounding out the word slowly as he tried to parse the tipsy scientist’s words.
“The City, much like the Outskirts, is flawed,” Benjamin chimed in, leaning between the two kids. A plain but nonetheless tantalizing cookie hung from his free hang, cleanly bit into. “But Ayin and Carmen know how to make it better.”
“Better?” Lisa scoffed, rolling her eyes. “C’mon, Benjamin. How can it be any better than it is now?”
“That kind of thinking is why Carmen brought us all out here,” Benjamin chided, giving the girl a wink. “They’re too complacent. Carmen has a dream to make things truly better, and-“
“… only a dreamer can make a dream come true.”
They were an odd bunch, alright. A haphazard gaggle of Nest eggs and researchers, Backstreets whelps and pampered rich kids, all seemingly unified by that perpetually smiling brunette with the sparkling red eyes. Every day seemed like a dream, wrapped up in a cozy blanket in a snug bed as opposed to crawling about the decrepit ruins of the Outskirts, dodging the erstwhile abomination or desperate scavenger that trawled through the hellholes not even the most adventurous of Fixers or enterprising of Syndicates dared trek. Lisa still felt the warm smile spread across her face as her reminiscence faded away, returning to the drab hallway with the ajar door leading into the kitchen. She gave the door a modest shove, ‘gently’ easing the antiquated gears back into place before they slid open with a whine.
Much like every other midday brunch, each cabinet in the kitchen was haphazardly thrown open, the girls often responsible for each day’s delectable treats always managing to forget where all the ingredients they’d either requisitioned from U Corp or scavenged from the few camps dotting the Outskirts were. Despite often dealing with their prime choices of ancient MREs, stale bread, flour of varying levels of suspicion, and fruits with more eyes than Kali’s bizarre sword, the two brunette wizards somehow managed to fashion food that was more than edible. In fact, the idea of one of Elijah’s beloved muffins made Lisa’s stomach growl as she slid through the doorway. The two girls huddled around the stove turned, the former wearing a playful grin as she caught the skulking blonde dead in her tracks. “Hungry already, Lisa?”
“… Mmmmph, I mean I missed breakfast…” she grumbled, taking her seat at one of the nearby stools.
“And who’s fault is that, really?” Elijah scoffed, delighting in each drawn-out groan as Lisa slumped over the desk, her bloodshot eyes locking with the two brunettes. “Maybe if you’d wake up on time, you’d get to eat along with everyone else.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, mom,” Lisa huffed, pressing her fingertips into her palms in a desperate attempt to stave off the cravings ravaging her stomach. “Maybe I’d go to bed on time if I didn’t hear you, Kali, and Giovanni drinking past midnight.”
“N-Now, now,” Michelle stammered, hurriedly shuffling over to one of the nearby counters. Her frantic footsteps were matched by the faint scraping of ceramic against wood as Lisa looked up, presented with a small, humble plate of pancakes. The young brunette gave an earnest smile as she pushed the meager offering over, ducking under before returning with a small fork and a bottle of syrup. “Come on, Elijah. Don’t tease her like that.”
“Like what?” Elijah snorted, shaking her head as she turned back to the small skillet resting over the orange flames. “It’s just a playful jab, Michelle. Don’t act like you didn’t hide Benjamin’s notes right before Ayin and Carmen came back that one time.”
“E-Elijah!” Michelle spun around, her face redder than their esteemed Color escort. Her body shook with an acute rage, increasing as Lisa’s own muffled snickering echoed behind her. “I-I thought we agreed to keep that secret!”
“Of course it’s a secret,” Elijah giggled, leaning back and teasing Michelle with a wink. “Not like anyone else in this damn place can cook. Remember when we tried to have Ayin prepare breakfast that one time?”
Michelle froze. Behind her, she could hear Lisa gag a little, as though a dormant memory had suddenly soured the pancake halfway down her throat.
“… I didn’t even know you could make pancakes purple…” Michelle whispered quietly to herself, rubbing her temples. The dismal memory induced a pounding migraine.
Choking down the putrid memory of Ayin’s horrendous attempt at cooking breakfast, the blonde tried desperately to clear her head, focusing only on the soft touch of batter with the sweet accent of syrup as it chased away the hunger pains lingering in her stomach. Her slow, tentative bites quickly turned into the ravenous wolfing of a starved pup as she began to devour two pancakes with a single jab of her fork. Michelle leaned against the counter, nursing her own headache with a cup of water, while Elijah busied herself with the heated pan. A quick whistle and an idle flip and the faint sizzle erupted into an enticing roar as the steak recentered itself in the heated metal.
“Did you hear, though,” Elijah chimed in suddenly, not pausing once from stirring the skillet in her hand. “Carmen’s on the cusp of a breakthrough.”
“Really?” Michelle said, a childlike wonder spreading across her face. Lisa, too, tore a small part of her short attention span away from the delectable pancakes stacked up in front of her, the sheer mention of that one brilliant scientist enough to at least feign interest. She watched Michelle from the corner of her eye as the girl hurriedly ran over to Elijah’s side, leaning over the counter like some excitable puppy ready for its rare treat. “What happened now?”
“I can’t say… well, I mean I don’t know how to say it,” Elijah replied, sheepishly shrugging. “Ayin and Carmen were talking about wells and souls and it sounded pretty metaphysical at times but, well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Carmen ever that excited. I think we… might actually pull it off.”
“T-That’s fantastic!” Michelle nearly yelled, beaming. “I… actually, I think I still have some wine left over in my stash. Lemme put it up here so I can surprise everyone during dinner tonight.”
Without even waiting for Elijah’s surprise, the junior research practically bounded over to the door. Lisa’s own heart was aflutter even as she wolfed down the last pancake on her plate, the contagious excitement from the two researchers bringing a wide smile to her face. She scooted forward in her chair, bracing herself against the table as she readied herself to jump off after the cheerful Michelle. Elijah and Daniel had occasionally snuck her sips of some vintage brews when it was someone’s birthday and the pounding headache that plagued her mornings was a fair enough tradeoff for the heavenly mixture of poignant flavors that danced along her tongue and a wave of intensity that shook her miniscule body. She wondered what specialty Michelle had hidden away; another grape, perhaps? Or maybe some of that curious tangerine. Or maybe another mysterious fruit from the enigmatic K Corp.
She leapt to the ground, striding across the kitchen in but a few bounds. Michelle had already flicked the switch on the door, the mechanical locks sighing and causing it to slide open. The faint patter of Lisa’s bare feet caused the brunette to pause and she turned, waving her over.
And then her head exploded.
Ex… ploded…?
All at once, Lisa felt every single joint in her body lock up, as though some singularity had systematically replaced every bone in her body with an immovable steel pole. Unable to recoil back in terror, to fall over, to even scream, her eyes watched in frozen, petrified trepidation as the headless body of the once ecstatic Michelle crumpled to the floor. Standing opposite her, a lone figure clad in black and adorned with orange lowered their smoking rifle, the blue highlights of its visor focusing on the girl like a tiger stalking its prey. Its twin, rabbit ears seemed to perk up, as though hungrily anticipating the new meal lying before it.
She heard it now. As though the door itself had isolated the blonde from some harrowing atrocity just past its thin, metal sheet. Gunshots. Explosions. Screaming. So much screaming. Blood pooled around the mysterious soldier’s feet as they stepped over the remains of the once vibrant scientist. The rifle whirred and shudder with delight as its muzzle rose, its sight trained on the frozen girl before her it.
“Hey, dipshit!”
An errant frying pan soared through the air, smashing into the helmet of the bloodthirsty assassin with a dull clang. A pair of arms thrust themselves under Lisa’s armpits and flung the girl up like a ragged duffel bag. Breathing slowly returned to her, a series of short, panicked gasps as her lungs desperately tried to combat the panic now surging through her brain. Her heart felt like it might burst from her chest were it not so tightly pressed against Elijah’s shoulder, the brunette hurriedly shuffling her to the freezer.
“E… Elijah…” Lisa stuttered, her pale face streaked with tears. “Michelle, she-“
“Not now, Lisa!” Elijah yelled, plopping the girl back onto her feet. “OK, I’m not sure how secure these doors are, but we just gotta hold out here until Kali drives them off.”
With a quick shove, the blonde staggered back, the brightly illuminated kitchen soon replaced with a dull turquoise and the rank stench of frozen meat. She weakly rose her head, barely catching the sight of the beleaguered Elijah as she gasped for breath, hands gripping the thick, steel doors of the freezer. The girl stepped forward, turning her head back.
And then a streak of crimson shot through the air.
Was that what gunshots sounded like? Such… quiet popping, like something out of a toy. The way Kali described it, she always thought they’d be like the bang of a cannon, like some hellish implement used only by the most savage mercenaries of the most militant wings. It sounded so… innocuous, something she’d probably write off as she snuggled up in her room, hands clutching her phone.
Yet those quick pops accompanied Elijah’s body as it convulsed and twisted in some macabre horror, her pained screams soon devolving into a ragged, incoherent gurgling. The dying girl sank to her knees, hands still clutching the door even as her white labcoat was painted with red.
She looked back toward Lisa and smiled.
And then the door slammed shut.
“Elijah!” Lisa screamed, jumping up to her feet. She threw herself at the door, frantically clawing at the icy valves sticking out from the back. Surely one of these, one of these, one. Of. These. Had. To. Open. The. Door. She just needed to crack it open a bit, grab Elijah’s hand, pull her in. It would be quick, in and out, just one seco-
Bang.
Lisa jumped back, both metaphorical and literal air seized from her lungs. That. That sounded like what she always imagined a gunshot to be.
… Elijah.
The girl stumbled back, her feet squishing into the piles of frozen meat haphazardly strewn across the floor and leaving a trail of bloody footprints. Death was no stranger to a girl raised in the decrepit Outskirts; many a naïve, aspirational foster parent and opportunistic scavenger would end up in a pool of their own blood, the victim of some wayward beast or a panicked bandit or any number of horrors she’d grown numb to. She remembered how her heart feverishly tried to tear itself from her chest as she leveled the pistol at some lowly Syndicate grunt that had wormed his way into the small little hideaway she and Enoch had buried themselves in. How his bloodshot eyes locked with hers even as his dagger swooped high in a crooked, unsteady arc toward Enoch’s face. The explosive bang that ricocheted through her body, the muted thud of the smoking pistol dropping at her feet, the mangled corpse now laying on the ground.
No, she remembered gunshots all too well. She thought she’d escaped the Outskirts. Escaped the cruelty of the damnable world outside these walls. Escaped the pitiful existence of a lowly urchin left to die in the forgotten backwaters outside the City’s porcelain towers.
She curled up against the corner of the freezer, pulling her legs up against her chest as though it’d ward off the emotionless killer outside the door. She watched breathlessly as the door shook, shuddered, roared, then moaned. As the slab of frozen metal was wrenched open with but a wide swing of an arm, leaving those twin, cerulean eyes to stare down on the cowering girl.
She was going to die. She was going to fucking die.
She buried her face in her knees, unable to even bring herself to sob, to wail, to scream for someone to save her. The agonized wails behind the enigmatic soldier had already faded to faint gurgles, the death throes of a cleansed facility. Her body was a limp doll in the soldier’s gloved hand as she was lifted up, smashed into the ground. Blood gushed from her nose and she winced, whimpered, as a boot dug into the small of her back, pinning her frail body to the ground. Even as she haplessly clawed at the ground, the chilling, blisteringly hot muzzle pressed against the back of her neck seemed to quell what little resistance, what little fervor still remained in her body.
Was that it? Was this uneventful, stupid day going to end with a bullet splattering her brains across the floor?
Did Carmen expect this? Did someone sell them out? Did she… sell them out? Or was she like poor Michelle, crumpled on the floor with bits of her skull scattered across the tiles.
The barrel shifted upward, and she squealed as she felt it press firmly against her head, the metal causing her skin to blister and blacken.
“Enoch…” she muttered quietly to herself.
“… I never got to say goodbye.”
Yes.
… Not even in a dream.
… Not even in a terrifying nightmare could she tell her brother goodbye.
“I’m sor-“
The blonde jolted upright, frantically patting down the back of her neck. The smooth, unblemished skin met her fingers unceremoniously, the last vestiges of her night terror already beginning to fade from the peripherals of her vision. Sweat and tears rolled down her pale face and dripped from her chin as she fell back onto her pillow, clutching at her chest as though her pounding heart would explode from the stress. The sterile, blank steel failed to meet her eyes above, nor did the sapphiric, claustrophobic embrace of the freezer, but rather a plain, white ceiling beckoned the girl out of her dreams, the room silent save for the faint rumblings just underneath her bed and the soft flicking of paper. Wearily, the girl’s head lolled to the side, locking onto the only other person sharing the quaint bedroom. Absorbed in her book, her pristine, spotless coat was draped over her chair, leaving an equally immaculate, ironed white undershirt and a pair of overly formal, white slacks beneath. The Fixer turned yet another page, her one visible eye methodically chewing through each line. It flicked up, catching the girl’s inquisitive stare, and the Fixer gave a nod in greeting.
“Greetings, Ms. Tiphereth,” the Hana Fixer said, her stoic voice betraying not a single hint of emotion. “You were stirring quite a bit back there. Are you alright?”
“Just a… bit of a nightmare,” Tiphereth sighed, anxiously running her fingers through her hair. As she sat up, a sharp, burning pain shot through her side, forcing the librarian back onto the bed. “Fuck… ow… ow ow…”
“Careful there,” the Fixer chided, leaning over to a nearby nightstand and fetching a small bottle of pills. She nonchalantly tossed it over to Tiphereth before returning to her book. “Here. Some painkillers from Mr. Olivier. He figured that, if you woke up early, you still wouldn’t have fully recovered from your duel with Miss Yuna.”
“Y-Yeah…” Tiphereth grumbled, popping the cap off. Two silvery capsules reluctantly went down her throat with a disgusted groan, though the searing pain quickly dulled as she sat back up in her bed. “W-Where…”
“Dong-hwan’s Pub, specifically one of the upper floors,” the Fixer replied curtly, not once tearing her eyes away from her book. “A couple of the guys came together to celebrate the results of the preliminaries and Director Mirinae hadn’t booked your rooms yet, so Mr. Roland had to bring you along. I’m not one for all of the raucous partying so I offered to babysit you until you awoke.”
“Babysi-“ Tiphereth’s face lit up only briefly, the girl becoming all too familiar with tempering her once vitriolic demeanor. She bit her lip, burying her instinctual outburst in her throat and forcing a smile. “… Thanks, Miss…?”
“Harold will do,” the Fixer said, sticking her finger between the pages before bringing the book shut with a soft plop. “Mr. Roland asked for me to send you down once you woke up. Unless you’d rather sleep in the rest of the night?”
“Tempting,” Tiphereth huffed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and slipping her shoes back on. “I do want to see what’s going on downstairs, though.”
She grit her teeth as her legs struggled to bear the weight of her body, an acute pain shooting up her thigh. The sticks that masqueraded as her arms gingerly rubbed leg to no avail, leaving her to click her tongue and limp toward the one, open door. The rumbling underneath, a deep and booming melody now discernable to the groggy librarian, beckoned her forward.
“Hold, Tiphereth,”
The librarian paused mid-stride, slowly turning her head to meet the Hana Fixer. The green-haired girl’s eyes were once again on her opened book, her right arm cradled on the small arm rest of her chair. The obsidian nanomachines rippled to life as they bubbled up from Harold’s exposed arm, the palm slowly coalescing into a singular, jagged tip. “That abnormality of yours. Do you know where it is?”
The blonde exhaled sharply, a wry smile crossing her face. She closed her eyes, feeling nothing but her own steady heartbeat and her own labored breathing. “… No, no, I don’t.”
“… Can you summon her?”
“No, no I can’t.”
“Can I trust you?”
Tiphereth’s eyes flicked open. The Hana Fixer met her with her own, the piercing, stalwart glare visible even through the green bangs obscuring the right side of her face. Tiphereth guessed that perhaps three, maybe four meters separated the two of them. Of course, any two-bit Grade 1 Fixer could clear an entire kilometer in a single bound if they were prompted.
If she so much as breathed wrong, she’d find that blade skewering her heart.
“… Yes, you can.”
For a moment, it felt like the small room the two were in was swallowed entirely into some otherworldly void, leaving only the two girls locked in a silent, unmoving standoff. Harold’s thumb lingered on the edge of the next page, indecisively torn between the enthralling narrative and the girl’s steadfast duty.
Her hand stiffened as Harold’s eyes narrowed, then dug into the book, her thumb slipping past the folds of the book and pulling the next page over. The nanomachines receded as the Hana Fixer returned to her book. “Go, then.”
Without a word, Tiphereth took that quick reprieve and slipped through the doorway before Harold could even get past the second paragraph.
The librarian hoped that, when she’d finally worked her way down the staircase, her legs wouldn’t feel like completely giving out on her. And, in a way, she did get her wish; after about the sixteenth or so step, it felt less that she was stepping on nails and more like Netzach had just fallen asleep on her lap again. She still felt a pang of embarrassment as the final step creaked like a howling banshee, the bustling bar silenced as a multitude of eyes turned on the young girl tentatively descending the staircase step by step, her hands nearly welded to the handrail on the side as though the slightest breeze might cause her to fall over like a 3,000-year-old lady.
Her face turned a bright scarlet. At least Chesed wasn’t here to make the joke that, technically speaking, that type of comparison was actually undershooting her age.
The disquieting silence was broken, at last, by the loud screeching of a chair. Tiphereth breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the patrons’ attention momentarily lapse, only for the sight of that familiar green hair to send a chill down her spine. The Dawn Fixer’s pensive stare may as well have been a dagger through the girl’s heart; though, considering the painful memories slowly bubbling up, she was sure that Yuna no doubt had no shortage of daggers she’d love to slip through her ribs. Even without that ominous cello case slung over her back, the Fixer’s steps were slow, measured, calculated, as though she was lingering just out of Tiphereth’s striking range so that she wouldn’t be able to retaliate if Yuna went for her throat.
Or that she wouldn’t be able to clamber up the stairs without Yuna breaking her ankles.
If Tiphereth had any strength left in her, her vicegrip on the bar’s dilapidated railing would’ve caused it to splinter and shatter under her fingers. Her legs wobbled like jelly, barely able to support the weary girl’s weight at the sheer visage of the Fixer that had almost murdered her but too frightened to carry her back up the stairs. Every single neuron in her head screamed at her to flee. Her body, as if recalling the events of that one excruciating battle, seemed to shut down and await its execution, her throat tightening until she couldn’t breathe and her heart slamming against her ribcage. She could only manage an awkward squeak as Yuna stepped just a stone’s throw away from Tiphereth.
It would only take a single bound. Tiphereth remembered the Dawn Fixer impaling one of the assistant librarians and sending him clear over the edge with a single thrust of her blade. She recalled the ravenous teeth of her cello case as it nearly devoured her whole. She pinched herself to make sure she was dreaming.
Four times in, she was left only with a blistering red mark on her arm.
Two paces away. Tiphereth could now see the blank expression carved on Yuna’s face. What could possibly be running through her head, the girl thought? Was seething contempt hidden behind that façade, or maniacal glee as her quarry was left with nowhere else to run. She’d fall to her knees and beg; no, prostrate herself in forgiveness if a single muscle in her body would fucking wor-
“Good fight.”
Tiphereth blinked. Her eyes blankly followed Yuna’s arm, extended candidly toward her, palm opened and waiting. She nodded quickly, accepting the gesture with a firm handshake. “T-Thanks. You, uh, you too.”
Yuna nodded, spinning on her heel and half-dragging Tiphereth behind her. “Per Salvador’s request, next drinks are on me.”
And, like a switch was flipped, the bar returned to its usual idle bustle, the plethora of Fixers, Nest eggs, Backstreet dwellers, and the odd Syndicate thug or two returning to their conversations as though the once despised librarian wasn’t being dragged through their midst. Stumbling along in a desperate attempt to keep pace with the brisk gait of the Fixer, Tiph had little time to appreciate the rustic feel of the small pub she’d found herself thrust into, tables far too small for the large groups that rounded each and every single one of them and the flickering lights hanging above barely providing the ambient lighting for what seemed to be one excitable chant short of some anarchial rave. Minding her step as they stepped up to the bar, Tiphereth took her place at the one vacant seat between the now-seated Yuna and a familiar black-suited Fixer, the tension and worries quickly melting away as a more familiar and irritable sensation shot up her body.
“Enjoy your beauty sleep there?” Roland chuckled, shooting her a playful wink. The shotglass clasped between his two fingers was half-filled, its glassy surface still bearing some droplets of what must have been a quite delectable wine. Tiphereth huffed and reeled her arm back, only to plop her elbow onto the counter and rest her cheek against her closed fist.
“Let me get this shit straight, Roland,” she said, her fingernails digging into her palms. “I literally pass out in the middle of an arena and your first plan is to drag me to a bar with your friends?”
“Hey, hey, I know it looks bad, but we did bring you to an infirmary first,” Roland hastily replied, downing the rest of his shot before slamming the glass down on the countertop. “You were out for a couple of hours. Actually got worried for a bit, but the docs all said you’d be fine after a good night’s sleep.”
“Director Mirinae suggested that we leave you in the infirmary to sleep it off,” Olivier chimed in, leaning forward and around the tipsy Roland. A large straw stuck out from his mouth, connected to what appeared to be his fourth boba tea, if the haphazard collection of emptied cups behind him were any indication. “Roland here insisted we bring you along; said you’d probably burn the place down if you woke up with no one around. Something about being afraid of the dark.”
“H-H-Hey, I didn’t say that shit, Olivier,” Roland grumbled, flashing a glare at the smug Olivier. He turned back, clicking his tongue in irritation.
Thud.
The Fixer smashed into the floor, a grotesque, purple blotch forming around his right eye. Tiphereth huffed and flexed her wrist, a faint tingling in her knuckles from where she’d slammed her fist into Roland’s stupid face. “Afraid of the dark? Hmph.”
“Hot damn, some nice form there,” another voice echoed from behind the girl. She spun the stool around, the familiar sight of those gaudy Liu capes first catching her eye. The Liu Fixer practically knocked Yuna over as she leaned over the counter, a cheeky grin plastered on her face. She quickly adjusted the twin hair bobs positioned atop her head, the hair so unkempt and unruly that Tiphereth wondered why the girl even bothered. “Are you self-taught or something? You could give the guys down in Section 5 a run for their money.”
“I…” Tiphereth hesitated, wondering whether the details were worth explaining. “… grew up in the Outskirts. … With my brother, yeah. So I can throw a good punch or two if needed.”
“Haha, nice. We don’t usually see a bunch of guys from the Outskirts, unfortunately. City’s not too keen on letting them in.” She cleared his throat, as though suddenly aware of her lackadaisical demeanor. “Right, not sure if you recognize me. We didn’t really meet on good terms.”
“Yeah, because I’m such good friends with everyone else here,” Tiphereth spat dryly. “Tiphereth.”
“A pleasure, Ms. Tiphereth. Name’s Mei. Liu South Section 2.” The Liu Fixer shot her arm out in that same expectant manner. If Tiphereth had an ahn for every time someone had offered her a cordial handshake without any intent of immediately using the leverage to cave her face in, she’d have two ahn.
Which wasn’t a lot, but the sudden heelturn of the City’s populace made her head swim.
“… I was thinking of speaking to her myself, you know,” Yuna spoke up, her words laced with poison. She fumbled over to the adjacent stool, accommodating the brash Grade 3 Fixer as she drank in the presence of the fabled librarian.
“Ah, haha, right, sorry, sorry,” Mei said, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly. “But like, did you see that beam. It was all… bwaaaaah, wooooosh, brrrrrrr…!” Spittle shot from the excitable Liu Fixer’s mouth as she mimed the explosion from what Tiphereth could only assume was a very impressive and imposing blast of energy. “You shoulda seen it! It was, like… holy shit, you know?”
“Yeah,” Yuna replied curtly. “It felt like shit.”
The counter grew silent. Yuna kept her eyes locked on Mei as she snatched a shotglass from the cackling bartender, downing the black liquid in a single gulp.
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Should I?”
“Yes.”
Mei nodded nervously, her face the shade of the cape draped over her shoulders. Tiphereth giggled, the levity reminding her of Briah’s own dysfunctional duo. The Liu Fixer cleared her throat in a vain attempt to ignore Yuna’s judgmental frown as she signaled the bartender over. He shook his head and slid two more shotglasses over toward the girls. “Y’know, for that one, Mei, I’ll give you the drinks on the house. I’m pretty sure Yuna killed you harder than the Library ever could.”
“Y-Yeah,” she said sheepishly, eyeing the two drinks before passing one over to Tiphereth. “Here you go, kid. Pretty sure this one’s cola.”
“Co-do I look like a kid to you?” Tiphereth snapped, pounding her fist on the table.
“Yes,”
“Yeah, kinda.”
“Sure do, kid.”
“Yep.”
She wheeled around, slamming Roland back onto the floor with another flick of her fist. “NO ONE ASKED YOU.”
The laughter continued in earnest, the jeering Hana Fixer failing to hide his amusement as he picked up his battered friend from the floor. Mei clasped her hand on Tiphereth’s shoulder, offering the shotglass. “Sorry, joking! They’re both the same.”
“Uh-huh,” Tiphereth huffed, massaging her aching knuckles. She turned once again toward her new acquaintances, crossing her legs as she raised her shotglass alongside them.
“So, anything you guys are up for?” Mei asked, casting her gaze over the other two. “A toast to health, maybe? Or to a good fight?”
“I’ll toast to that right hook,” Yuna suggested, gesturing to the moaning Roland nursing a startlingly dark bruise across his eye.
“I’m good with that,” Tiphereth added.
“Then cheers!” The three clinked their glasses in unison, downing their shots with a single gulp. “To Tiphereth’s fucking sweet right hook.”
“Aye.”
“Ay-urk,” Tiphereth’s face turned a faint shade of purple as she grimaced, trying desperately not to immediately regurgitate the burning liquid worming its way down her throat. She grit her teeth with enough force to shatter the enamel as she pressed her face against the table, beads of sweat running down her forehead as she weathered the searing flood as it hit her gullet.
“Can’t hold your drink there? First time’s always bad for kids,” Yuna quipped, grinning.
“Fuck off,” Tiphereth gagged, wiping her face dry. “Gimme another.”
“Eh, maybe in a bit,” the bartender said, his own smug grin plastered across his face. “I’m already breaking rules by serving to minors.”
What little sweat remained on her face quickly evaporated into steam under Tiphereth’s seething anger. She opened her mouth, a string of colorful insults ready to dance off her tongue, but caught herself just at the very end. Not out of courtesy or respect, of course; she’d chewed into Chesed and his unfunny antics for even pettier reasons. No.
It was Yuna’s pale visage as the girl stiffened that gave the librarian pause. An eerie silence as the bar suddenly went silent.
“What a deplorable sight.”
Tiphereth flinched, the scathing remark stabbing her in the back and meticulously dragging itself down her spine. She wrenched her head back, another Hana Fixer towering over her. A mane of black hair cascaded down her shoulders, meticulously polished with not a single lock jutting out in some unsightly manner. The Fixer pursed her lips as her golden eyes looked over the librarian like some piece of refuse that had fallen out of a dump truck. She clicked her tongue, crossing her arms in contempt. “Such proud Fixers, mingling so casually with the vermin. Have none of you any shame? Oh, of course you don’t; you’re participating in the theatrics of a glorified calculator. I forgot that you were reconstituted with only half of your brain cells intact.”
Yuna merely nodded. Mei looked away, a faint but poignant loathing barely concealed behind her blank frown. The blonde jumped from her chair, moving in-between the two Fixers. “Hey, who the hell do you think you ar-“
Her words were cut off by the cold touch of steel pressed against her throat. That familiar, obsidian spear leisurely worked its way up Tiphereth’s neck, just far enough not to pierce the skin but close enough to petrify the girl with its chill. “Your better, girl. Although you are from the Outskirts; orphans like you have never learned any manners or civility.”
She smiled, her set of glistening, white teeth and pair of sparkling eyes not even trying to conceal a callous bloodlust. “Don’t think that just because the Head’s grace hasn’t struck you and your reject of a Fixer chaperone down that the City is just accepting of you waltzing back into our midst. I’m sure that Lady Zena wouldn’t bat a single eye if I tore that impudent little throat from your nec-“
“Elizabeth, what a surprise.”
The Hana Fixer spun around, nearly taking off the heads of the cowering Fixers in the adjoining table as she leveled her spear at the newcomer. A clearly unamused Mirinae eyed the brandished weapon with a cocked eyebrow, the girl sighing as she took a sip from her garishly out of place teacup. “What brings the illustrious Director of Section 4 out to this neck of the Backstreets? Looking for some Rats to beat up to make yourself feel better?”
“Hold your tongue, you baseborn rodent,” Elizabeth spat, the knuckles of her hand going white as she resisted every single urge to skewer her coworker right then and there. “I can’t imagine how many bribes you had to make or how many cocks you had to suck to maintain your position even after death. An impotent failure of a Director marches the entirety of her section off to their graves and Lady Zena just waves it off as some unfortunate happenstance?”
Mirinae adjusted her glasses, her contemptuous glare magnified by their lenses. “Maybe you’d have been promoted to the open position in the short time I took my leave of absence if you and your sycophants ever did anything of note rather than put down the flea-ridden dogs in some faroff Backstreets. Or does the slightest bit of effort terrify a talentless hack like you?”
“You…!”
“I will remind you, Director Elizabeth, that Miss Tiphereth and Mr. Roland are my guests,” she continued, her free arm turning a menacing shade of black. “Hana represents the pride of the City. We have welcomed them here of our own free will. I will not have any miscreants slander my guests in front of me. Do I make myself clear?”
The bar fell silent. Feuds among Associations were rare, but whispers of the resulting fallout have of course reached many an idle ear. The stories of the illustrious Hana Association were similarly prolific, with Mirinae’s accolades enough to fill four whole volumes. Mixing the two would be both an awe-inspiring spectacle to witnesses and a cataclysmic debacle to those within the blast zone.
One second. Ten seconds. Three minutes. Finally, with a sigh, Elizabeth dismissed her spear, shoving her way past Mirinae with a huff. “Don’t get too comfortable, Director. If some Outskirts garbage like her can put a sword through your head, one of these days someone competent will show up and finish the job. And no two-bit walking calculator will be around to save you from your own ineptitude.”
“A word of advice, Elizabeth. If you took half the time you spent running your mouth and actually did something, maybe you’d actually get somewhere in the ranks.”
The Hana Director wordlessly left with a noticeable quickness, nearly ripping the door off its hinges as she slammed it shut behind her. Mirinae sighed as she approached the seated Fixers, giving a brief curtsy to Roland and Tiphereth. “Apologies. My colleague is… temperamental.”
“You can just say she’s a bitch, Director Mirinae,” Mei said, releasing a breath that seemed to be held for an eternity. “We’re all thinking it.”
“It would be unbecoming of me to say that Director Elizabeth is a gilded egg whose nepotistic upbringing has done little to mask her otherwise average ability,” Mirinae said, taking a seat beside Olivier. “We of the Hana Association must show all people the respect they deserve.”
Yuna chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. “Ouch.”
“Glad to see death hasn’t dulled your wit, Mirinae,” Roland observed, his strident black eye failing to detract from his wry laugh.
“Considering that the only thing I remember was getting stabbed and waking back up in L Corp’s Nest, I’d hardly call my brief trip to the afterlife eventful by any stretch of the imagination,” she said nonchalantly, beckoning the bartender over. “If anything, I'd wished I was more cognizant of my impromptu vacation. A round of drinks, on Hana. I’ll forward the bill to Section 4.”
The cheerful roar from the pub may as well have been an earthquake. A chorus of ringing tinks echoed across the expansive dining room and poured out into the empty streets outside as they all raised a toast. To the generosity of the Hana Association. To Dong-hwan’s immaculate taste in alcohol. To another blissful and blurry night as flushed faces and slurred chants became commonplace. Tiphereth crossed her legs as she looked out across the myriad of cheering crowds, a warm feeling of elation rising in her chest. When they weren’t all egging someone on to rip her heart out, they did seem like an alright lot.
“Hey! Hey you, Tiphereth, right?”
She perked up, a gruff but… surprisingly energetic voice catching her attention. A nervous looking Syndicate grunt wormed his way up to the group, meekly bowing his head as he presented a glass to the girl. “Another drink? The way you showed up that Dawn Office gal was damn sweet. A couple of the boys and I wanted to toast to your health and for some extra luck.”
“Heh.” The blonde flicked an errant lock drifting in front of her face in what she must’ve assumed looked like a smooth flourish before swiping the glass from the grunt. He raised another in unison, the two clinking their glasses with a laugh. “To your continued success!”
“Well, success does come naturally to me,” she laughed, downing the glass in a single gulp. “I’ll toast to a wonderful night.”
“I can drink to that,” he said, downing his own shot. “Actually, some of the boys were wondering if we could get your autograph. You mind at all?”
“Ye-yeah, no, I’m good with it. Lemme jus-“ She stumbled forward as she leapt from the chair, her entire body lurching forward like the earth underneath had suddenly come to a standstill. Her arms wildly swayed in front of her as she fumbled upright, her face like a vibrant rose. “wooah, oof.”
“You alright there?” the Syndicate grunt laughed, slipping underneath the stumbling girl. His tattooed arms swept around her back and under her shoulders, keeping her upright. “Bit too much to drink?”
“… Maaaaybe a little,” Tiphereth said, feeling the words drool from her heavy lips. “Eeeeeh, it’s fine. Maybe I’ll just… head back up after the autograph.”
“No problem, no problem,” the Syndicate grunt nodded, taking a small puff from his cigarette. He slid Tiphereth around to his right, careful not to brush the girl against his sheathed katana. “How about another round with the boys, then I’ll help you to your bed.”
“Yeeaaah, I’m good with that,” Tiphereth said with a yawn, blinking her eyes as her vision began to swim in front of her. She turned her head to Roland, her fleeting farewell drowned out amidst the bustle of the pub. Mei had already nonchalantly taken over the girl’s seat, leaning in as the black-suited Fixer and the white-suited Hana all crowded around the same phone, the blaring low battery alarm dismissed in lieu of far more pressing matters.
“… So Mars made it through too?” Roland said, tilting his head in amusement. “Kid did have potential when we last saw him. Can’t wait to see how he measures up against the others.”
“Yeah, last I heard he’s a… what, Grade 5 now?” Mei chimed in, a bite of pajeon hanging from her lips. “He’s been doing work. Not like it matters, of course; Ceci and Xiao’s got this in the bag.”
“There are some hard hitters in the bracket, that’s for sure,” Yuna noted, flicking her own phone on and scrolling through the contacts. “That Kim from the Blade Lineage. Yan from the Index. Myo from R Corp. There’s even some names here I don’t recognize.”
“Definitely not a single dull moment in sight,” Roland commented, downing his drink. The pain in his eye was beginning to numb, although not by much. “Hey, Dong-hwan, can we get another one?”
“Another one, Roland?” he jeered, snatching the glass from the Fixer’s trembling hand. “You know the rules, right? If you throw up in my pub, I’m charging you extra to clean that shit up.”
“Yeah, yeah, you know me and Angelica’ve always played by the rules.”
“Yeah, you guys did.” The bartender bit his lip, breaking eye contact as the Fixer’s eyes grew cloudy. “Right, gonna tend to the other guys. Just yell if you need something.”
“So actually, something’s been on my mind for a bit,” Roland said, letting out a big yawn before downing another shot. “How many strings’d you pull to keep everything together, Mirinae? Hell, I heard Xiao’d resigned from her position before she’d come to the Library. Yet I haven’t seen a single person’d demoted.”
The Hana Director scoffed, flashing a proud smile through her blushing face. “Well, naturally, it was me spearheading the discussion, so it was a foregone conclusion from the start. But basically, as the Library had a near 100% success rate with its receptions, it didn’t take much to convince the other branch leaders that it wasn’t anyone’s ineptitude that led to the Library’s success. The Library just became one of those abnormal blips we all agreed to just write off.”
“What Director Mirinae fails to mention is that with the sudden deaths of Hana Section 1, Shi Section 1, and a great deal of the Index and Thumb, it would help stabilize the situation if we simply restored all veterans of the Library to their former position,” Olivier pointed out, still idly sipping on his boba. “They could have demoted all the Fixers or had their positions scrubbed from the Associations, but considering the considerable power vacuums in Shi and Hana, it seemed pretty nonsensical to destabilize Seven, Zwei, and Liu for no reason. Of course, it took a bit longer to officiate all of the Offices once again…”
“And yet Olivier, magnanimous Fixer among us, did it within a few weeks,” Mirinae said with a beaming smile, wrapping her arm around Olivier and pulling him close. “Mr. Roland, I daresay your old acquaintance has been the second best thing to ever happen to Section 3.”
“Director Mirinae, how much did you have to drink?” Olivier said pointedly, his eyes lingering on the half-emptied teacup in Mirinae’s shaking hands. He wrinkled his nose, the stench of alcohol wafting from the flushed director’s lips. “You are aware of the last time you drank too much, ri-“
“If you question my drinking habits again, Olivier, I’m docking a month of your pay.”
He sighed and reclined in his stool, returning to his own, non-alcoholic drink in relative silence.
“Yeah, Director Mirinae’s fucking awesome,” Mei cheered, her cheery voice just a tad bit off of a deafening scream. Spittle and vodka alike seemed to run down the side of her lips and down her chin. “I was so fucking sure they were gonna send me down to Section 3 but she personally intervened and made sure me and Ceci kept our ranks. Ceci practically burst into tears and tackled Mirinae to the ground when she got the news.”
“We must award effort where we see it, of course,” Mirinae said with a wink, outstretching her arms like some benevolent messiah. “And we, forged in the very fires of the Library, should claim our well-deserved recognition.”
“Aye!”
“Mhm.”
“… Of course, Director Mirinae.”
“Mm.”
The four Fixers clinked their glasses once more before calling Dong-hwan over, another fresh stream of black ambrosia streaming into their eager vessels. The pain had long since evaporated from Roland’s eye as he took another shot; in fact, he was pretty sure feeling in general had also left his legs. He chuckled as he saw Mei’s head collapse onto the table, an inebriated groan pouring from her lips. Yuna, too, seemed to barely hold her own consciousness, her stoic visage giving way to a blank and goofy stare as she occasionally fumbled for the cello case she’d now forgotten thrice now was left in her room.
As for Mirinae…
“So what happened next?” a drunken Zwei Fixer interjected, his reddened face sparkling with awe. Mirinae practically stood atop her stool, raising her spear aloft like the banner of a war-blessed maiden.
“Naturally, of course, those cowards at Section 4 turned and fled. Not like Section 3 needed the assistance. Do you seriously think some two no-name hit squad from Pinky could even hope to scratch us?”
“But you said it was three whole Syndicates, right?” an excitable Wedge Fixer asked, her frilly dress stained with what looked to be three whole drinks that had missed her mouth in the confusion. “Wouldn’t they have outnumbered you three to one?”
“Of course they did,” Mirinae scoffed, practically exuding the aura of some angelic heroine. “It was an even fight, after all. We almost broke a sweat, but of course Olivier, Harold, and I naturally cleaved through them as naturally as you or I would breathe. It was but a trifling matter, like pulling weeds from the garden.”
“That’s certainly one way of remembering it,” Olivier muttered under his breath, tactfully avoiding Mirinae’s wandering gaze as she indulged the surrounding Fixers in another tale of their heroics. “And she wonders where all those rumors of her pop up.”
“Let her have her fun,” Roland said, taking a seat beside Olivier and wrapping an arm around the unfortunately sober Fixer. “Not always you get to hear a war story from her.”
“The Director always tries to keep her ego in check,” Olivier said with a sigh, watching as the girl downed the contents of her teacup with another swig, to the cheers and adulation of the gathering crowd. “Always had a weakness for a good drink, though.”
“Don’t we all?” Roland laughed, offering his glass to Olivier. “What about you, Olivier? Live a little; not often we get to just relax like this.”
“I’m well provided for already, my friend,” he said, countering the offer with another one of the endless glasses of boba tea that Olivier seemed to conjure from thin air now. “Thank you. Although… where is Tiphereth? I’m sure she’d enjoy the Director’s regalities.”
“Ol’ Tiph?” Roland said, quizzically looking at his friend. “What are you talking about? She’s right over… uh…”
The Fixer blinked, blankly surveying the Tipherethless counter behind him. Roland squinted, as though expecting that familiar, golden hair to suddenly pop out from the masses of drunken Fixers and teetering Syndicate grunts like some kind of rare mushroom. “… Huh, thought I saw her heading off with some friend of hers. Maybe she went up to sleep already?”
“Friend?” Olivier cocked an eyebrow. “Tiphereth?”
“Yeah, she’d seemed to be getting along with a whole lotta people after that ass kicking she’d done a while ago, y’know?” Roland shrugged nonchalantly, turning back to Mirinae. “Maybe she’d gone back upstairs. Hey, Dong-hwan, can we get another?”
Olivier sighed and rose up from his chair. “Fair enough, my friend. Excuse me for a second; I’m gonna use the restroom quick.”
Olivier briskly looped once around the room, his eyes sweeping over the tables with the precision of a Seven Director. Flashes of blue coats and muscled Stray Dogs, of drunken Fixers and pensive cutthroats, of finely dressed suits and ragged trenchcoats alike all met his eyes, but yet the distinctive, golden attire of the librarian seemed to elude him. As he neared the restroom, he pinged the communicator hidden in his ear. “Harold. Do you read?”
“I’m receiving you, Olivier. Something wrong?” the voice buzzed in his ear.
“Did Tiphereth return to the room?”
“Nope. Just been me in here this whole time. I’m just about to finish up this chapter; something up?”
“Yeah.” Olivier’s eyes narrowed as he eyed the door of the pub, its wooden frame ajar as though its last guests had left in a hurry. “… We have a problem.”
An unbroken, imposing blackness was the first thing that Tiphereth noticed as she stirred from her sleep. Her head pounded as though the hammer of those rampaging rhinos had bashed it in four times over and she writhed helplessly under her covers, her hands refusing to nurse the migraine assaulting her head.
Sleep paralysis? Again?
Maybe she should’ve taken Hod’s offer for some of that hokey counseling seriously. Those dreams of her always seemed to have nasty effects when they’d gotten too severe. She moaned and tried to smack her lips, only for her mouth, too, to be held in place. Shit, this dream must have been particularly nasty, its claws sinking into her even as she tried to rouse herself awake. How’d she even end up back in bed anyway?
Those cheery guys, right. She’d gone to get a drink with them. Those drinks had been sweet. Almost sickly so. She felt her stomach turning as she tried to remember it, the bitter taste of alcohol laced with an aftertaste that seemed to numb her tongue even as she remembered it.
Laced. Why did that term seem to linger in the back of her head?
Fuck, she wished her eyes would open, at least. She’d even be fine dealing with that aloof Hana Fixer sat next to her over being imprisoned in her dreams once again. She twisted and turned and bashed her head against her pillow, its hard surface only serving to aggravate her pounding headache.
And then it rose up and smacked her in the back of her head.
FUCK.
… wait, what?
She blinked once, twice, thrice, several times, yet the blackness seemed to endure, as though taunting her. Yet she was… absolutely sure that she could feel her eyelids shut and open. She tried to break her arms free of the paralysis pinning them to her sides, yet her wrists and her chest both protested her efforts, the prickly backlash of thorns biting into her skin as she tried to pull them free.
… Thorns?
Tiphereth raised herself up from the bed… and a metallic ceiling met her forehead with a loud clunk.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
She stretched her fingers and toes out, the sensation of her aching joints whisking her into a horrific reality. As she twisted her palms inward, her searching fingertips felt the jagged, coarse strands of rope that were laced around her wrists. She snarled with rage; rather, a muffled yelp escaped her mouth, the girl now suddenly aware of the unappetizing taste of cloth and fabric pressed against her tongue and the sides of her mouth. As she twisted her body and tried to pull her arms and legs free, met only with that same coarse restraint wrapped around her chest and around her ankles, Tiphereth became acutely aware of a dull ringing just underneath her.
No, not like the static of some persistent nightmare. She’d heard this noise before as she walked through the park. The sound of wheels… from a car.
Another bump. Her body bounced in her steely prison, the girl wincing as she slammed back down with an ignoble thud. Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit shit. This had to be a dream. This had to be a fucking dream and she was going to beg Hod to do some of her psychotherapy crap to her the second she got back to the Library. She pulled her legs back, positioning her feet just below the black ceiling she could not see, and kicked. A sharp pain recoiled through her legs as her toes bounced harmlessly off a solid, metallic surface, yet she grit her teeth around the sock balled up in her mouth and slammed into the ceiling again.
This was a dream.
Fuck.
This was just a very bad dream and if she just-
Ow.
If she just broke this damnable fucking ceiling, she could-
Shit!
Just wake up. She just. Needed. To kick harder. And she would wake. The fuck.
Damn it all!
Just wake u-
The ceiling wrenched open a crack, as though a hole was torn in the claustrophobic reality she was thrust in. She hurriedly scooted her body toward it, trying to push her eyes through the crack to look out toward the world she only saw through flashes of white. The sight of a rolling street peeked out from the hairline crack in the world, a myriad of shoes nonchalantly clacking against the concrete catching her eye. She screamed, begged for the world to pull her out of this nightmare, yet whatever feeble grunts escaped her gag were drowned out by the screeching of the tires underneath her.
Then as soon as the crack opened, the light outside seemed to violently rip itself away as she felt her prison lurch to the side, sending her body careening into a steel wall with a pained moan. She squirmed and blinked away the colorful spots that appeared in her eyes as the rumbling came to a stop, a suite of footsteps echoing underneath.
The ceiling finally opened in earnest, that same, nervous Syndicate grunt peering down at her. No, rather, a jeering, smug grunt, his katana hanging loosely from its sheath. He peered down at the bound girl, his devilish grin causing the blood in Tiphereth’s body to freeze.
“Well, look who’s finally awake,” he chuckled, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. “You could’ve been a good little girl and kept quiet in the trunk. Didn’t you learn any manners under that freakshow of a robot you wor-“
“Enough, Yang.”
Another grunt sauntered into view, his dark complexion accentuated by the glimmering, jeweled eye shimmering on the right side of his face. He glowered at the arrogant grunt, the former chewing on the butt of his cigarette before backing away.
“… I don’t remember Sayo asking for this bitch in one piece,” he snarled, shaking his head in irritation. “So what if we cut a finger or two off. You think anyone will notice?”
“Our orders were to bring the Librarian to Sayo alive. And. Intact.” The jeweled-eyed man shooed Yang away with a flick of her wrist. “Just get in the driver’s seat and wait for me.”
“Fine, fiiiiine, Gin, the brat’s yours,” Yang grumbled, disappearing from view. “Although for the record. If we get the order, I call dibs on gutting the bitch.”
Tiphereth gulped. This was not like her nightmares where her heart threatened to burst from her chest; rather, she almost felt it stop entirely. She could only pathetically mew into her gag as Gin reached into the trunk and pulled Tiphereth up, rolling her onto her stomach and pressing her head down. She winced and cried as her legs were awkwardly pulled up and over her back, uncomfortably arching her body. She felt a loop of rope slip between the soles of her feet and between her wrists before going taut, holding her in that painful hogtie. Even as she wriggled uncomfortably in her restraints, her tear-streaked eyes stared up at the Kurokumo grunt as he produced a small, but thick strand of fabric, folding it twice over before kneeling over toward the girl.
“You should’ve stayed in the Outskirts where you belonged.”
Tiphereth’s vision went black as the blindfold tightened around the black of her head. Then, with an unceremonious thud, the trunk slammed shut and the car jutted along, its unruly passenger reduced to a sobbing, writhing mess in the back.
Notes:
Quick little interlude that's been rolling around in my head for a while. Busy with BG3 and a bunch of actual irl stuff. Account's not dead; I'm just busy. If you want to bug me about how much progress I am not doing on my writing, feel free to incessantly ping @alicemargatroid_ at the PM Community Hub Discord.
Or don't. Please don't do that.
Chapter 4: Blade Waltz Underneath a Moonless Dawn (Tiphereth vs Sayo)
Chapter Text
She remembered it all too well. The humiliation. The degradation. The infuriating, smug gaze boring into her. She sported no less than eight different bruises and a banged up leg when she was forced onto her knees by that filthy mutt, but that condescending smirk hit her harder than any single punch.
She, too, remembered the pitying frowns of the bizarre combatants that met them on that gaudy bridge, wearing the skin of Offices and Associations and Syndicates alike. The narrowed eyes of that diminutive blonde as she refused to look her in the eye, even as her baton sunk deep into her chest. Death stung… but not as much as that slight. That pity. To be looked down upon twice in a single day.
And she remembered awaking to a sunless night, a pack of roving Stray Dogs with snickering, ravenous smiles as they fell upon their prey. She remembered their howls, their jeers, how they thought the one odd woman that had manifested in the midst of their camp would serve as a delightful little dessert to their feast.
Those vermin didn’t deserve to even gaze upon a Kurokumo Hosa. To lay a hand on her? Laughable. Disgraceful. Disgusting.
Sayo only regretted that they died quickly under her blade. Such trash deserved to suffer.
For so long, she’d bided her time. Watched as the Thumb scrambled to reorganize itself in the wake of the Index’s incursion and Kalo’s sudden reappearance. Witnessed the upheaval of several Kurokumo cells as they fell prey to infighting and the meddlesome interference of Liu and Zwei. Observed with growing disgust the incursion of the Blade Lineage as they tore down their fracturing ranks. The Patriarch was but one man, and it seemed very few of her clan dared show their faces to her again after the shameful display in the Library.
Of course, all she needed was Gin and Yang. Not the perfect lot, but the most loyal, the most diligent, and the ones willing to get their hands dirty even as a plethora of no name cutthroats shied away from even the slightest drop of blood. They carved a small part of the Backstreets back for the Kurokumo Clan, sending the disemboweled corpses of those uppity Fixers back to the Associations to remind them, very poignantly, that the Kurokumo Clan would not tolerate interference in their territory.
And then this asinine tournament popped up.
She had no use for it; why care about what egotistical chucklefuck considered themselves the best? Moreover, what paltry excuse for a death match went out of their way to remove the death part of a death match? That snickering lamppost simply wanted to capitalize on the City’s welling boredom, enticing them with nostalgia for those harrowing days when a shadowy tower loomed over the remnants of Nest L.
But Tiphereth.
That was something to be interested in.
Sayo’s pace quickened as she reached the fourth floor of their little hideaway. Nestled snugly in the very border between Nest and Backstreet, it was close enough to the metaphorical fires of the Corporations that most Fixers wouldn’t even consider there to be a Syndicate outpost housed in these abandoned apartments. The plain rooms were bare save for a myriad of boxes and a couple of mats, enough to reorganize supplies and catch a wink of sleep if need be. Such transient housings required little upkeep. And what recent furniture they had included was, of course, rather recent and for a most special occasion.
Oh yes. She’d bided her time for this moment.
Sayo opened the door at the far end of the hallway, greeted with a chorus of rousing, muffled screams. She drank in the ecstasy, her treasure suspended in the middle of the room. Yang lounged in a small, ripped reclining chair, his snores thankfully drowned out by the beautiful melody elicited by their little instrument. She’d gotten the text from him in the middle of the night. and only now were the auburn rays of a reluctant sun peeking through the blinds of the far window. She wondered if he’d gotten his fun in before drifting off to sleep.
A dutiful Gin greeted Sayo as her eyes fell on him. His jeweled eye glimmered with pride as he gestured to their final guest, the sheath of his katana caked with fresh blood. Good, it seemed both he and Yang had remembered her orders to the letter.
“Keep the girl intact. I have my own plans.”
In typical Kurokumo fashion, her orders were very technically followed. A bloodthirsty smirk spread over Sayo’s face as she gazed upon the bound Tiphereth, little more than a trophy – no, a plaything to the Syndicate. Her elegant, golden jacket collected blood and dust on the ground while the frilled, orange dress underneath lay in near tatters, jagged tears and cuts that barely kept the girl decent and failed completely in hiding the plethora of bruises and cuts that now ran along her body like a brand of shame. A lone hook was nailed into the ceiling, a set of handcuffs binding Tiphereth’s wrists suspending the girl a fair half meter above the ground, her skin chaffed and reddened from the metal biting into her wrists. Blood ran down her face and shoulders, freely gushing from an innumerable amount of cuts running along her chest, stomach, and legs, criss-crossing her skin as a series of intricate rivers of pure crimson before dripping from her toes. The faint scent of something burnt caused the Hosa’s nose to wrinkle and, as she squinted, she saw in place of the flowery bow in her neck a tight, metallic collar, the beeping red light and charred flesh underneath signifying its purpose. Tears rolled past her blindfold in a futile attempt to wash away the blood painting her pale body a faint red, and were it not for the black stockings crudely stuffed into her mouth as a makeshift gag, no doubt the girl would be begging and screaming for her life.
She surprised the urge to laugh as she slid the blindfold from Tiphereth’s face. Those wide, green eyes, bereft of hope, moist with tears, completely paralyzed by fear… yes, yes of course.
She wanted to see how that bitch felt to be pitied and humiliated before she died.
Sayo smirked. Why should she stop now, when this hellspawn from the Outskirts was finally within her grasp? She gestured to Gin, the Kurokumo Wakashu nodding dutifully as he procured a small remote from his pocket. A series of frantic, muffled pleas soon rose to a loud, violent, and bloodcurdling howl as the collar wrapped around Tiphereth’s neck flared to life. Lightning arced across the girl’s body as she flailed, kicking haplessly and squirming helplessly in her restraints, left only to suffer the electrical current setting every single blood vessel in her body on fire. Even through Sayo’s sheer willpower, the Hosa could not help but elicit one quiet chuckle as she gazed upon the tortured librarian, smoke beginning to billow from her body as muffled, strangled pleas failed to escape her gag.
It was beyond wonderful. Not even in her wildest dreams could she have imagined how euphoric it would sound to hear this bitch beg.
Truthfully, Sayo lost track of how long she merely stood there, watching as the librarian tearfully begged for the pain to stop, for the agony to end, for the Kurokumo Hosa to simply shove her katana into her head and end it all. She lit up a cigarette and watched in silence as streaks of cerulean lightning danced across the girl’s skin, as droplets of blood splattered over her black katana and her bare legs as the librarian kicked and flailed helplessly, not even in a pathetic attempt to escape, but rather as each nerve in her body squealed and convulsed, as the muffled cries of what Sayo could only presume to be for her life soon became intelligible gargles. Was blood pooling into Tiphereth’s throat after such prolonged torture? Was she slowly drowning even as the last vestiges of strength in her pale frame fought desperately to keep her alive? Only the Head could know what images must’ve flashed through her eyes as she felt her lungs burn, her body seize, and her blood boil. Would she bemoan her fate, hoisted up as a trophy for the Kurokumo and a canvas by which they could carve their long-awaited triumph over the Library into? Or had the light already left her eyes and the Hosa had missed her opportunity to watch that last, fleeting glimmer of hope get snuffed from the girl?
… Honestly, Sayo was just impressed she remained conscious all the while. She’d seen more arrogant Grade 1 Fixers succumb to the Thumb’s hospitality in a far shorter time.
Perhaps it was just a single minute when Sayo raised her hand, signaling Tiphereth’s pitiful torture to end. Perhaps an entire day had casually wiled itself away while the Hosa stood in content, mirthful silence, drinking in the faint scent of burnt flesh and reveling in the strangled, raspy gasps of their barely conscious captive, her lungs straining to even draw breath. At that moment, under the dim, flickering bulb of a Backstreets apartment, Sayo could no longer tell the difference between the once smug and confident Patron Librarian of Natural Sciences that had strode along her enigmatic black-suited companion and some spoiled child from the Nests that the Syndicate had abducted as tithe from an impudent corporate shill who had slighted a Thumb Capo. As she slipped her fingers around the stockings wound tightly around her face, slowly undoing the knot that had pulled some of Tiphereth’s hair in its tight embrace, Sayo wondered what frantic, pathetic pleas would spurt from her bloody lips. Some pitiful plea for her life? Maybe a desperate cry for her beloved Roland or the pale, blue-haired director to save her life? Or perhaps Sayo would get front row seats to hear her abject sobs as what little of her hope was shattered under the boot of the Kurokumo Clan.
Hands shaking with anticipation, Sayo pulled the stocking free and helped the balled-up sock free itself from Tiphereth’s weary jaw. The Hosa could barely contain her excitement, a barely-concealed, arrogant smirk plastered across her face as she saw Tiphereth’s eyes focus on hers. She wondered how high a pitch the blonde bitch could squeal if she carved her dagger into her ar-
Splat.
Sayo recoiled back, eyes widened in pure, indescribable disbelief. Her trembling arms slowly rose to her face, shaking fingers brushing against the mixture of blood, bile, and saliva that ran down her cheek in a thick, viscous gunk. The Hosa could do naught but stare as Tiphereth, drool and blood dripping from the corners of her mouth, met her incredulous gaze.
And smirked.
“Is… thaaaat… all… bitch…?” she choked, her eyes cloudy and her voice hoarse.
The three Kurokumo swordsmen stood in abject silence. An ant, ever so beaten and bloodied and bruised, had opposed the boot that threatened to crush it into a fine pulp. The limp body of the battered girl swung in a subtle arc, not once breaking from Sayo’s befuddled eyes. Every trained instinct in the veteran Hosa’s body screamed at her to draw her blade in retaliation, to sever the impudent child’s head from her unworthy shoulders, and her fingers hovered on the curved, embroidered hilt of her katana, muscle memory and repetition both moving even as her mind struggled to process the vile substance sliding down her face.
“You… piece of…” Yang was the first to speak. Whether awoken by the chorus of Tiphereth’s screams being abruptly cut off or by the omnipresent mindfulness to bear his katana in service of the Kurokumo Clan, the only thing that mattered was his trademark, sadistic smirk being notably absent, an uncharacteristic, frightening rage now spread across his face. “To disrespect the dame so, you fucking bitch. I’ll mail your eyes to that freak of a robot-“
“Peace, Yang.”
The Kurokumo cutthroat froze mid-stride, his katana already clearing his sheath. Tiphereth didn’t think it was possible for him to look more incredulous than from her one, last act of defiance, yet Yang seemed to stare at the Hosa as though he was still enraptured in some bizarre, outlandish dream. His fingers moved to his opposite forearm, as if to pinch himself and attempt to wake from the fantasy he’d been caught in, only to relent with a sigh. He huffed and returned to his seat, lighting a cigarette and staring down their captive. If looks could kill, Yang’s would have already been halfway through strangling Tiphereth.
Yet the Hosa seemed unperturbed as she turned her attention back on the barely conscious girl. Yielding to the telegraphed intent of his superior, Gin stepped away with a bow of his head, yet his one good eye still eyed Sayo with piqued curiosity, completely unable to discern the true intentions of his captain past the steely, frighteningly stoic smile that began to spread across her face. The smug, bloodied smirk plastered on their suspended prisoner equally obfuscated her true feelings to him. Perhaps Tiphereth truly believed she possessed some manner of leverage even as the chains dug into her wrists. Maybe her expression was merely a front to mask her true feelings, a sense of welling despair and hopelessness hidden behind a thin veneer of smug superiority as if the blonde could preserve the last shards of her tattered pride. Or maybe she’d gone insane.
Sayo paused just short of Tiphereth, the additional height from the chains lashed around the girl’s wrists bringing their faces level with each other. As Sayo wiped the rest of the vile residue from her cheek, a faint click echoed in the makeshift cell, the distinctive shwing of metal clearing wood. Tiphereth’s eyes slid down to Sayo’s waist, watching as the brandished katana reflected the dim light of the flickering bulb above.
“You’ve got quite the nerve,” Sayo observed. She angled the flat of her blade, reflecting light into the bound girl’s eyes. As Tiphereth winced and swung haplessly in the air, the Hosa smirked and continued. “Do you know where you are, by any chance? Or did we fry that little brain of yours with our hospitality?”
“If… you’re going to talk my ear off… I’d rather you just turn the collar back on instead,” Tiphereth gasped, blood dripping from lips as her raspy throat struggled to choke out her words.
“That could be arranged,” Gin chimed in, his finger hovering over the button on the small device cradled in his hand.
A disdainful snort from the Hosa quelled Gin’s threat, a sharp glare cowing the cutthroat before her softened gaze returned to the bloodied Tiphereth. The katana lazily spun in the Kurokumo Captain’s nimble fingers, its ravenous blade always just short of the blonde’s exposed thigh. Every so often, she’d nudge her blade just a teensy bit closer, a measure of centimeters – no, millimeters separating the librarian’s flesh from the cool steel. Like an aspiring fisherman, Sayo waited patiently to see that one, brief spark of fear in Tiphereth’s eyes, the sign of a scared and helpless girl strapped under the brutal guillotine of the Thumb as she haplessly begged for her life. And like a stubborn fish whose legendary scales eluded even the most veteran anglers, Tiphereth refused to take the bait. Though her face was stained with tears and blood and her breath came in hoarse, raspy gasps as her lungs heaved and struggled for air, she held, despite the pain radiating through her entire body, that same defiant, infuriating glare.
The same one that had stared down the impaled Hosa as she dissipated into the light.
The blade went high. Tiphereth bit down, her body seizing up as her eyes instinctually clamped down. She saw those idiots of the Asiyah layer lazily gathered around the couch, picking through the many movies that Roland had procured from a friend of a friend of another friend. She saw Gebura and Chesed at opposite sides of the counter, the wily barista taking sips from his mug as he kept the stone island between him and an increasingly agitated Gebura, a flurry of silverware and pans sailing harmlessly over his head. She saw Roland and Angela reclined over the balcony, staring across a barren wasteland toward a starless horizon, the vast expanse of the City now but an elusive dream, a story told only in reminiscences and forgotten lives.
She saw that dour man who always seemed to be lost in thought. She saw the brunette whose smile always failed to hide the pain and grief that wracked her dwindling confidence and fraying sanity.
She saw that young boy in those unstained, unassuming clothes, a gift welcoming their new life outside of the Outskirts. She saw his hand reach out, urging fingers grasping out toward her. His muted voice rang out to Tiphereth like the siren song of a dream she’d always chased.
“Lisa. It’s-“
The stroke was quick, clean, exquisitely surgical. Sayo elegantly flourished her katana before turning it to her sheath, cocking her eyebrow as her eyes beheld the limp body slumped on the ground at her feet. She clicked her tongue as she nudged her foot slowly under the girl’s chest before kicking upward. Tiphereth gasped and shuddered as she was flung up and onto her butt, her handcuffs still bearing the rusted hook the chain had been so carefully wrapped around. She clutched at her chest, spittle and blood dripping from her lips, before a hand snagged her collar and hoisted the shivering girl back to her feet.
“Dame,” Gin said curtly, looking back at Sayo while keeping the bleeding Tiphereth at arm’s length. “Not to question your judgment, but-“
“You’re right, Gin. You shouldn’t,” she cut him off, turning to leave. “Bring the girl along.”
“The hell...” Tiphereth coughed, failing to hide her pain behind a smirk. “… do you think I’d just go… along with…”
Sayo paused, just barely turning her head so Tiphereth could spot the bloodlust in her transient side eye. “Gin. If she resists, break her legs and carry her. If she continues to struggle, break her fingers.
“Of course, dame.” Gin nodded as he turned his own gaze toward Tiphereth. His free hand slid down her side, gliding past her hip before latching onto her thigh. The sharp jolt of his piercing fingers was enough to cause her to gasp and collapse to her knee, a sharp jolt of pain shooting from her fingers up to her shoulder as the bone and muscle underneath her bloodied skin yelped and begged to be spared the full extent of the Wakashu’s strength. “We have an understanding, correct?”
Reluctantly, the blonde forced her head up and down.
“Good.” He hauled the girl back up to her feet with a sudden lurch of his arm. “Start walking. If you pause for too long, I’ll break your thigh instead. Yang, take the-“
“Yeah, yeah,” Yang sighed as he rolled his eyes, rolling his shoulders as if to relieve himself of the last vestiges of his interrupted nap. He shrugged and gave a crooked smile as Gin marched Tiphereth out of the room, a small, unassuming door leading to a spiraling staircase upward. He nonchalantly tried to pat away the wrinkles in his jacket as he flicked through his phone, a flurry of unread notifications flashing before his eyes before he sighed and pocketed the device, turning to follow the two. “… Man, this is a lotta work just to throw a dead kid off a building.”
The creaking iron door gave way to the crisp, refreshing nocturnal breeze as it washed over the Hosa, such unperturbed, calming winds a rarity amidst the bustling, crowded Backstreets. Sayo breathed in deeply, relishing the vibrant and pure air. For but a moment, she was but another cutthroat, an aspiring dagger among many blades in the fold of the Kurokumo, a budding sakura thrust into the cruel and merciless soil of the City. She wrinkled her nose as the sour, smoky winds of the City accompanied her first kill. She hummed as she felt a warm waft of fleeting winds as she took her first celebratory drink with the others.
And she smiled nostalgically as the pure and untouched winds brushed against her bare shoulders and neck, comforting her like that day when she’d impaled her supervising Hosa across the length of her blade.
Under the watchful eyes of a waxing moon, the Kurokumo Clan shed the pitiful excuse of a captain that sold out their brothers to the attack dogs of the Zwei. Underneath that colorless dusk, the night was stained a brilliant crimson as an indignant and defiant cutthroat, so offended and so appalled by the sheer mediocrity, the utter cowardice, the unrelenting shame of her captain, that she cut down her superior where he stood. There, under her merciless gaze, did the Kurokumo Clan enact its blood vengeance. Her eyes opened once again, the long, orange tendrils of a rising sun stretching across the urban canopy and embracing the Hosa as its spotlight readied to witness her execution.
Embarrassment. Cowardice. Failure. An insult to the Kurokumo; no, to the Thumb itself could only ever be repaid in blood.
Sayo exhaled, the nostalgic memories vanishing under those dawning amber rays. She turned, silently acknowledging the many Kurokumo grunts that had joined to witness their ritual with a silent nod. They were much unlike her old band, mere apprentices to the blade with nary a scar nor the touch of ink decorating their bodies. Each Syndicate swordsmen bowed in turn to their Hosa before turning their eyes to the opposite end of the rooftop.
To the trembling blonde thrown to her knees, a litany of scattered, bloody footprints still trailing behind her .The handcuffs chaining the girl’s hands clinked and jingled as she pulled helplessly at her restraints, never once tearing her eyes away from the contemplative Hosa opposite her. An amused smile spread across Sayo’s face as she beckoned Gin forward, the defiant fire still reflected in Tiphereth’s emerald eyes only serving to heighten the delectable anticipation.
She wondered how long it would take to make that girl beg for her life.
“Gin, that trinket from K Corp, if you would please,” Sayo asked, holding her arm out as the Wakashu approached her. Behind the kneeling librarian, a scoff and an annoyed sigh pierced the dawning morning’s silence.
“Dame Sayo, do you really?” Yang grumbled, pressing his boot against Tiphereth’s back and shoving the girl forward and into the pavement with a playful kick. “Come on, what kinda stupid kid falls for the simplest trick the book? Let’s just cut her head off and be done with it.”
A muted chorus of hushed whispers filled the air, each carrying an anxious and defiant chatter. An air of incredulity over the blonde runt that carried the air of the Star that had once held the City in its grasp was joined by an equal and vicious irritation that she should still draw breath. Whispers that the collar should be left on until the girl choked on her own blood entered one ear, while raucous jeers about how she’d sound like being gutted as a pig left the other. Tiphereth pulled herself up to her knees, each nerve in her body screaming in pain and exhaustion as she tried, and failed, to pull her wrists free from her handcuffs. Her eyes darted to and fro, watching the jeering and bloodthirsty crowd all eye her like a pack of hyenas circling their wounded prey, before falling back on Sayo. The Hosa fiddled with a small device in the palm of her hand, a sleek, jet black with a distinctive, hollow barrel and a small trigger snug under where it bent.
Tiphereth barely had time to gasp before the gunshot rang out, the impact of the bullet sending her body ragdolling to the ground. A strident, agonized howl echoed across the rooftop as the girl squirmed and writhed in her restraints. An indescribable, unholy agony wracked the girl’s body, the blood in her veins igniting all at once and slowly roasting her body from the inside. Blood pooled in her mouth and tears streamed down her eyes as she stared upward at a starless, cerulean sky, the last coherent thoughts in her head disintegrating one after the other as the searing pain shooting through her body took their place. Was that what it was like to die? She vaguely recalled the hail of gunfire that rained down from the disciplined Thumb Soldatos, the sharp and blistering pain that rocketed through her shoulder as she felt the bone crack and splinter from the stray bullet cutting through her pitiful dress, but the momentary shock may as well have been a playful shove from Chesed compared the flames scorching the insides of the girl. She kicked, flailed, squealed, cried as she felt her skin tear open across her body, as the bones in her legs snapped, shifted, and reformed, as though that red-eyed puppeteer had draped her skeleton in his strings and pulled them taut, dragging the screeching ligaments along in some macabre display. Spots danced in her eyes and her screams would devolve into choked gargles as blood spewed from her torn throat, only for the skin to scrunch together, tear apart, and reform again like some type of sentient clay, until her screams once again bore fruit in one crystalline, perfected cry of agony.
The librarian had only started to begin making up gods to pray to before she was met with an abrupt calm, as though her soul had been severed freely from her body and relived of the torture that assailed it. She stared blankly to the sky above, blinking twice, as she tried to process the sudden, if welcome, shift in circumstances. Had she finally died, by chance, and her soul was just beginning to recognize the shedding of its ruined shell? Or had her mind finally given out, the last embers of her subconscious retreating to the depths of her mind as her body lay comatose and bleeding out on the stone rooftop?
An unamused Gin popped into her peripheral view, cocking an eyebrow as Tiphereth’s eyes struggled to focus on him.
“W-Wha…?” She licked her lips, the distinctive, coppery taste of blood absent from her mouth. She blinked twice in astonishment, her voice clear and unblemished as she felt – or rather, didn’t feel – her untouched throat. The blonde sat up, the only indication she hadn’t awoken from some terrible nightmare being the handcuffs still locked around her wrists and the tattered dress still clinging to her body.
“You look much better now,” the Hosa said with a smirk, prying a katana from the hands of a nearby Kurokumo cutthroat, much to his chagrin. The soft clapping of her sandals was briefly deafened by the door to the staircase below slamming open, a belabored Kurokumo swordsmen stumbling through the archway with sweat caking his face and blood dripping from his shorn arms.
“Dame Sayo, my apologies, but there are some Fixers closing in on our hideout. They appear to be affiliated with the Hana.”
“Oh?” Sayo paused mid-step, clicking her tongue as she shifted her gaze to Yang. “Yang, Gin. Please follow our friend here and see how close those Fixers are. If they’re about ready to encircle our little outpost, we’ll begin packing up. Otherwise, see if you can ward them off.”
“Man, dame Sayo…” The irritation welling underneath Yang’s polite smile finally burst forth. “I don’t even get to see you cut the girl down? Surely we can just send Gin dow-“
“Both of you, Yang,” she snapped back, her eyes as sharp as the blade at her belt. “Did you not say you plucked this girl from right under the Hana’s noses? Keep them away from us. I’m sure you can indulge in some other bloodsport.”
The Kurokumo Wakashu clicked his tongue as he rose to his feet, sighing indignantly. “Most bloodsport don’t get away with stabbing you in the back first, though.”
“Yang,” Gin cut in, his gaze equally as venomous as the Hosa’s.
“Yeah, yeah, I won’t dream of going against the dame.”
Yang shot a knowing smirk to the librarian as he departed, an odd mixture of disappointment and pity as his fantasies of seeing a squealing Tiphereth clutch at the katana embedded deep in her ribcage would remain so. Butterflies tumbled about in Tiphereth’s stomach as though she’d ingested too much of that one tree’s unstable sap, goosebumps shooting up her arm as she heard the Hosa stop just inches from her quivering body. Even if she’d dared look up at the katana clasped in Sayo’s hands, the speed at which the deft blade came down at her was far, far too fast for the girl, still winded and dazed as she was, to react. Air shot sharply from her nostrils as she spied a glance back toward Sayo, the Hosa’s katana embedded deep into the concrete floor with the remnants of Tiphereth’s handcuffs still clinging to its steel blade. Sayo stepped back, her hand hovering along the hilt of her own blade.
“W-Wha…?” Tiphereth stammered, her widened, viridian eyes shooting between the blade and the Kurokumo Captain.
“There’s no pride nor enjoyment in gutting a helpless girl,” Sayo said curtly, an odd expression coming over the Hosa’s face. “Take your blade, Tiphereth. Show me the librarian that had cut us down in the thralls of your Library.”
Though it was but a second, Tiphereth studied Sayo’s knowing smile, enthralled by the bizarre, alien complexion that had taken over the swordswoman. It was neither smugness, nor arrogance, nor even mere joy that washed over her face. It was something else, something primal, feral, something that clawed at Tiphereth’s throat even more than the shock collar that was still locked around her neck.
Tiphereth’s face grew pale and she lunged for the katana in the ground.
Bloodlust.
Sayo’s cold, pupilless eyes were awash in bloodlust.
For Sayo, the movement came as naturally as breathing. A single, lenticular flourish, an elegant half-arc that terminated in a single, piercing thrust, centered directly at the blonde girl’s face. She was but a blur on that momentous dusk, a single Wakashu whose speed, whose prowess, whose sole, murderous intent surpassed that of the captain that choked and spluttered as he grasped at the blade lodged deep in his chest.
“Oh?”
The color returned to Sayo’s eyes as a sharp twang reverberated in the early morning air. Her blade jutted up and she held it firm, her lips pursed in a high, amused whistle. Though frantic, though unrefined, though caked with sweat and feverishly panting, Tiphereth’s haphazard swing had parried Sayo’s decisive blow. The Kurokumo grunts went silent, as though watching some perverse miracle play out, as though the heavens themselves had finally turned away from their invincible captain.
And then Sayo’s grin returned.
“Good, little girl,” she chuckled. “So this will be worth my time.”
And then the blade spun and redirected itself back down at Tiphereth’s neck. The librarian gasped and, adrenaline filling her newly-healed legs, threw herself to the side, just centimeters short of having both the collar and her throat torn in two by the sharpened tip of Sayo’s blade. She dove, awkwardly fell into a somersault as she fumbled with the katana in her hands, trying desperately not to waste her own efforts at saving her own skin by impaling herself, and jumped into a light run, her ears picking up the faint, but swift clatter of Sayo’s sandals. Her arms swung before she could even mutter a single “shit,” catching Sayo’s upward swing with her own clumsy slash. The blades bounced back, each duelist repulsed by the shockwave and sent back a few meters.
The silence melted away as a wild and jubilant chorus poured over the rooftops, the gaggle of Syndicate grunts all enraptured by the elegant swordplay of their Hosa. Cheers and gaping awes alike filled the air as Sayo sprung forward once again, not even momentarily dazed by the deflect. In comparison, the librarian may as well have been a clumsy trainee newly inducted into the Kurokumo, struggling to even get the proper footing in her stance, let alone brandish the katana in a manner befitting that of even a lowly cutthroat. The methodical and careful brushstrokes of Sayo’s katana, each carefully trained so that the sharpened end of her blade would tear Tiphereth’s vitals open, only missed their mark as the wild and instinctual flails of a girl fighting for her life managed to save her at the last possible second. Slash begot slash, stroke met steel, and the spinning and twirling Hosa, her blade swirling around her in a graceful arc like an orbiting comet dazzling the lesser beings below, almost appeared to dance around the librarian who stumbled blindly against Sayo’s relentless assault.
Finally, a pause as the edge of the two blades intertwined. Tiphereth’s knees buckled and she pressed her free hand against the back of her blade, desperately trying to dissuade the katana edging closer and closer to her throat. The Hosa’s smile grew wider and wider, mirroring Tiphereth’s eyes as they grew with a mixture of anger and panic, the girl’s frustration and dread evident in each bead of sweat that rolled down her face. Fully committed to her defense, the librarian could do little but try to match the Kurokumo Captain in strength.
So, still pinning Tiphereth down with her sword arm, Sayo drew her wakizashi and swiped at Tiphereth’s arm.
“Ggg-gggaAAAAAAH!”
The blonde recoiled back, a searing pain rolling across her entire body like one of the voluminous bookshelves in her room had just fallen onto her left arm. It fell uselessly to her side, fingers twitching, as the length of her arm from the forearm down to the wrist was split open, blood gushing from the opened wound. The Hosa smirked confidently, drinking in Tiphereth’s agonized scream, and swung the wakizashi down at the apex of its arc, aiming now for the side of the girl’s face. Perhaps the pain had wrenched her from her doomed defense or perhaps a primal, self-preservation instinct took control of her body, but the girl grit her teeth and stepped to the side, just barely moving her body free from the trajectory of Sayo’s katana, while she slid her own blade back. The flat of the blade rushed to Tiphereth’s defense, causing the wakizashi to bounce harmlessly off the steel. Gifted her golden opportunity, Tiphereth leapt… or rather, clumsily stumbled back, cradling her torn arm.
“Tch,” Sayo huffed, spinning her twin blades in a flourish before returning the wakizashi to its sheath, following after Tiphereth with a single bound. The girl’s vision swirled and spun as her arm spasmed and her knees buckled, her body shuddering with pain as each pump of her heart led to another gush of blood from the gaping wound, yet be it from experience, from instinct, or from sheer luck, her katana flew up and parried Sayo’s execution aimed at her neck. The Hosa’s blade swung up, erred to the side, and swung diagonally down as the swordswoman continued her relentless pursuit, aiming to bisect the girl shoulder to hip. The clash of steel silenced both Sayo’s measured breaths and Tiphereth’s labored gasps as the librarian, inexplicably, caught the blade mid-swing and deflected it. And then she did it again. And again.
Not a single cutthroat dared stir from their silent vigil as they watched their bloodthirsty Hosa’s dance be matched. The footwork of the diminutive girl was sloppy, her swordplay wide and frenzied, and her body jerked erratically around as she fought to match Sayo beat for beat, yet none could deny that despite the blood that ran down the arm trailing uselessly behind the librarian, her efforts only serve to evaporate the smile that once adorned Sayo’s face.
“… Nnngh!”
It happened in an instant. Maybe the Hosa’s sweeping spin was a foot too far, or perhaps her blade was but a beat too slow. Nonetheless, the rhythmic clang of steel in the two’s elegant blade dance was interrupted by the muted, but distinctive slit of flesh and steel intertwining. Though Sayo’s face remained unshaken, she recoiled back in a jerky leap, pressing her hand against her shoulder. Her fingertips drew back blood, the same blood that coated the end of Tiphereth’s katana. The girl, too, took the time to nurse the wound drawn across her arm, her winded face losing the color in her cheeks as exhaustion threatened to overtake her adrenaline.
Their moment’s reprieve was but that as the two leapt forward again. Perhaps Tiphereth’s nerves had long since given up trying to scream at her brain that her muscles were at their limit, and perhaps Sayo’s body simply refused to acknowledge the faint slit that had now opened up in her shoulder that caused her arm to lag with each spin. A trail of bloody footsteps now marked their waltz as the two continued their macabre display, joy and pain both stricken from their stoic expressions. Maybe the Hosa’s pride now dictated the librarian must die to keep both her honor and her life intact. Maybe the librarian’s primal instinct to live forced her to lash out violently even if it meant cutting the Hosa down. Was both their determination and skill both giving way to fatigue and panic as their duel continued on?
Maybe that explained the new cut that ran down Tiphereth’s shoulder as Sayo’s katana slid past her guard.
Maybe that explained the gash opened on Sayo’s cheek as Tiphereth’s blade swung erratically and caught Sayo in a poor sidestep.
One wound became two. Became four. Became ten. The jet black kimono of the Hosa was now dyed a pure crimson while the tattered dress of the librarian was bleeding into a garish orange. The artful flourishes of the Hosa were lost as her blade danced less, diving more at Tiphereth’s neck and heart like a stalking predator that had long since lost its patience. Though the speed of the Hosa’s thrusts had nearly halved in their bout, Tiphereth felt her body move in slow motion, her limbs little more than husks dragged along by flimsy strings as the muscles in her arms simply began to shut down one after another. She gasped and heaved as she threw her weight into each slash, managing only to parry Sayo’s continued onslaught with a herculean effort.
Finally, an opening? The edges of Tiphereth’s vision grew fuzzy as her body strained to even keep itself upright, let alone focused on the wounded swordswoman in front of her. Yet, as Tiphereth’s blade circled back from a wide swing, she saw it. A momentary gap, maybe a product of the fatigue etched on Sayo’s face, maybe nursing the wound that Tiphereth had cut along her wrist, but still a chink in the Hosa’s guard where Tiphereth’s blade could find its mark in the Kurokumo Captain’s side. Her teeth grit as the librarian shut out every last pang of pain ripping through her body, lunging forward as the tantalizing opportunity presented herself.
And she tripped.
Every last bit of adrenaline dissipated from her body like a bucket of water haphazardly thrown into a pool of lava. As Sayo slipped above her gaze and the concrete rose to meet her, Tiphereth beheld the pool of blood that had accumulated between her toes, a slick veneer of crimson over the once pale stone. Off-balance and woozy as she was, it may as well have been a frozen lake to the soles of her feet.
A soft crunch and a groan echoed from the librarian as she slammed into the ground, cushioning her face with her arm as she felt it uncomfortably bend back, the elbow screeching in protest. What little blood still remained in her body rushed to her face in an instinctual, but nonetheless understandable flush of embarrassment as tried to push herself up to her elbows, slumping on her left as her battered arm felt content to finally give in.
A hand roughly gripped her shoulder and Tiphereth was thrown to her back, sharply gasping as her head banged against concrete. Dots flickered in and out of her vision as both anemia and fatigue fought over which would claim the girl’s consciousness first and she wearily blinked away the spots in her vision, squinting her eyes as she tried to focus on the thin, black shadow rapidly closing the distance toward her fa-
Tiphereth lurched her head to the side, instinct barely saving her from an untimely lobotomy. A bloodied and gasping Sayo straddled the girl, her palm shoving the librarian back to the ground even as she pried the katana free from the stone with a snarl. Tiphereth’s fingers fumbled first for her katana, just a few inches short of her desperate, flailing fingertips, then toward Sayo’s wrist. Though she kicked and clawed, the little strength the girl had left may as well have been a piece of paper wildly flailing against a boulder. Through the blood that poured over the Hosa’s face, Tiphereth could see the glimmering luster in Sayo’s black eyes had gone out, left with a voidless bloodlust.
“That’s enough,” Sayo said curtly, lifting the blade above Tiphereth’s face. “Die.”
The girl’s breath quickened, her heart wildly pounding even as blood gushed from her gaping wounds and soaked her ruined dress. At this distance, she wasn’t sure if she could pull her head away from Sayo’s blade again. Hell, she wasn’t even sure if Sayo would even fall for that same trick one more time. Dread and panic set in as a final, grim realization seemed to wash over her finally. After ten millenia of torture, after several months of endless bloodshed, after she had finally tasted the slightest bit of freedom from the purgatory her reincarnated life had awoken to… it was all going to end so suddenly.
Alone, on some dimly lit rooftop, as not even a scream would tear from her lips before the blade tore her brain in two.
She pushed against Sayo’s hand to no avail. She clawed at the wrist pinning her down to no success. She whimpered and gasped and wriggled against the full weight of the swordswoman as the blade began its final descent. Come on. Come on! Come the fuck on!
A flurry of thoughts rushed through her head, each as useless as the last. In the last, fleeting second of her life, Tiphereth saw a myriad of opportunities and none could save her from the tip of the blade catapulting toward her head. She closed her eyes, seizing the one, last thought that flickered to life in her head, and threw her leg out. She bent it back and, feeling the rush of wind blow across her face as her fatal execution was but moments away, wrenched her leg back.
The warm and sticky sensation of blood and skin hit her inner calf and an astonished swear cut through the suffocating silence. Tiphereth’s leg had flown back, hooking Sayo’s knee and dragging it along, causing the Hosa to stumble awkwardly to the side. The blade wavered and jerked erratically before it found its mark. Tiphereth bit her lip, swallowing a cry of pain as she felt the side of her head explode in pain. Blood pooled from her ear where the katana had cut directly through the middle, just a few inches short of cleaving through the blonde’s skull. Choking back tears and repressing the pain shooting through her body, she seized the one, fleeting opportunity she’d been waiting for; throwing herself up as she felt the pressure of Sayo’s arm lessen. For a woman so cruel, so callous, so heartless as her, Tiphereth expected more than a meek “oh,” as the Hosa was thrown to the side, tethered to the blonde only by the girl’s hand gripped tight around her wrist. The two rolled ignobly on the ground until Sayo’s head smacked against it with a thud, the Kurokumo Captain now dazed and sprawled on the ground with a bloody, panting Tiphereth now mounted atop her stomach. The katana clattered to the ground and Sayo’s eyes locked on it, her hand shooting out for its familiar, embroidered hilt.
Only for Tiphereth’s foot to kick it away.
For one long, agonizing moment, it seemed like the Kurokumo cutthroats encircling them – no, rather, it seemed like the City itself had been wiped clean, leaving but the weary librarian and the Syndicate officer that had only moments ago vied for her head. She wasn’t sure when her knees dug into Sayo’s chest, causing the Hosa to cough up blood, or when her fingers found their way around the swordswoman’s throat. She wasn’t sure when she noticed the blood dripping from her torn ear, or the fatigue from her burning arms as they protested their last, murderous grasp at Sayo’s life. She wasn’t even sure when she noticed Sayo’s face going blue as the Hosa’s frantic tugs at Tiphereth’s own arms grew faint and the frantic kicks to Tiphereth’s legs slowed.
What she was sure of, though, was that as she blinked, Tiphereth saw the beaming face of a familiar girl, barely into her own adulthood, a brunette with carelessly combed locks running down her face and a familiar, red headband desperately trying to keep the mane contained. She saw that same damn face as it smiled.
And the gunshots rang.
Tiphereth recoiled back, her hands gripping – no, clawing at her face as her frantic heart and seizing lungs struggled to now deal with a hysterical, hyperventilating girl. The Hosa coughed and spluttered, taking in deep and ragged breaths, before her hand slipped to the side of the kimono. The wakizashi cleared its sheath in one, fluid motion, its blade directed at Tiphereth’s throat. Sayo’s eyes narrowed as they focused on the quivering girl atop her, as they focused on the crimson neck sticking out precariously underneath her trembling arms, bare skin poking out above the collar nestled above her collarbone, as her free blade came to tear it open.
“… Tiphereth.”
The blade stopped just centimeters from Tiphereth’s neck. The librarian listlessly stared back at Sayo, unable to stop the tears from streaming down her face, unable to keep her body from sagging as the last drops of adrenaline faded from her blood. She’d gotten so close and at the end of the day,
she still fucked it up. She was going to die now because she couldn’t keep it together and she just… couldn’t…
“Why?”
Tiphereth’s eyes met Sayo’s. There was neither the malice of the chuckling Hosa that gloated as electricity ran through the girl’s body nor the bloodlust of a murderous swordswoman as she aimed to tear the librarian’s throat and heart in twain. She saw… curiosity, an almost childlike wonder, as though Sayo had once again stepped back onto her floor moments before the two had fought to the death before.
“By all accounts, I should be dead,” Sayo said simply, pursing her lips in confusion. “But you let go at the last second. You didn’t hesitate back when we fought all those months ago.”
“I…”
Tiphereth froze, feeling the blade press against her neck. “Don’t give me pity,” Sayo hissed. “I want a clear answer from you. And if I don’t like what I hear, I’ll deliver your head to the Patriarch. Now why?”
“… Because I’m tired of killing.”
Sayo blinked. Was it contempt that marred her expression? No, the furrowing of her brow and the wrinkling of her nose reminded her of a certain black-suited Fixer, so continually befuddled and awestruck by the stories of one ambitious project born in the heart of the City’s seedy underbelly, carried on by those possibly more delusional than they were devoted, as he tried to parse the motivations underlying their multi-millennia purgatory. Tiphereth averted her gaze, her body tensing up as if anticipating the Hosa’s execution at any moment.
“The first time I woke up, I got to watch people march off to their deaths. Sometimes they died because they didn’t listen to me. … Sometimes they died because they did.” She bit her lip, feeling the edge of the blade beginning to dig into her skin. “The second time I woke up, I was the one doing the killing. I killed bright-eyed Fixers who were only doing their job, merciless thugs and scoundrels that probably wanted me dead more than I did. I watched my friends die again and again trying to protect me. I watched my friends die again and again… because I couldn’t stop myself.” Her fingers dug into her palms, tears dripping down her face. “But this is different. This isn’t Angela’s request. This isn’t even for myself. Now that I have the choice, I just…”
Her head sank. Sayo sighed and clicked her tongue, trying to resist the urge to roll her eyes. “… Are all of you… ‘librarians’ like this? Honestly, how pathetic.”
“Most of us aren’t killers by nature.” Tiphereth gave a wry chuckle, a pathetic smile spreading across her face. “We just… wanted to try and fix the City. And we just pretended that everything we were doing was leading to something better.”
“How saccharine. This is the kind of sugar that would ruin a nice cup of tea.”
“Mmm…” Tiphereth’s eyes closed, trying not to let the last, lingering regrets claw at her as she waited for Sayo’s blade to slide across her throat. “It is pathetic that I’m dying like this. … But I think I can live with that. Maybe.”
The girl fell silent, wearing her smile as she tried to ignore the pain jolting up her neck. What would she do first, she wondered? Would she get to see him again, his glowing smile and his warm body little more than a distant memory to a girl that even she could barely remember? Or for her sins, would she simply descend into Hell itself, left with little comfort but her tattered memories of her friends?
She’d cheated death twice now. Maybe it was finally time that she, at long last, greet it like a long, lost friend, and hope that the feeling was mutual.
“… Ugh.”
A shove jolted Tiphereth from her deathly stupor, knocking the girl to the ground. She weakly rose to a sitting posture as she nursed the cut across the side of her neck, the blonde’s widened eyes staring back at Sayo with clear bemusement. The Hosa shared the same sentiment in her cloudy irises, yet tried not so successfully to hide it as the swordswoman struggled to force herself back up to her feet. Blood caked her legs and her soaked kimono clung to her body as she limped toward her katana, returning it to her sheath and using it as a makeshift cane.
“… Dame Sayo?” a voice called. Tiphereth suddenly became aware of a multitude of eyes bearing down on her. Yes, she’d almost forgotten. Their duel was but a spectacle to a nest of Kurokumo grunts.
“There’s no sport nor honor in a gutless execution like this,” Sayo spat. She stumbled and winced, each movement causing her body to scream in agony. “I’ve had my duel with the Library. And she conceded. That’s enough.”
Her hollow words failed to convince the wounded Tiphereth still recovering on the ground, let alone the collection of Kurokumo grunts lining the rooftop. The librarian’s eyes skirted across the rooftop, watching as the Syndicate thugs stirred restlessly one after the other, their hands hovering ominously over the hilts of their blades. Though every single nerve in her body shot with pain, she grit her teeth and forced herself up to her feet, plucking the katana from the ground and holding it tight to her chest as though the bloodied steel might ward off the piercing stares of her unwelcome audience. A sharp cough caught the duo’s attention as a clean-shaven Kurokumo swordsman walked forward, his pale complexion and almost pristine haircut more akin to some type of Nest office worker rather than a foot soldier in the Syndicate’s perpetual territorial struggle. A chill ran down Tiphereth’s spine as his eyes glossed over her, a mocking disdain that seemed to go far beyond even the contempt of Sayo’s lackeys.
… Which, Tiphereth noticed with a lump in her throat, were still absent from the scene.
“Dame Sayo, did you by chance not get enough sleep last night? It seems quite unlike you to let an enemy of the Thumb off so easily.” The swordsman’s words were slow and methodical, lacking the deference that Gin and Yang held even in their confusion. Sayo traced his gaze to the beleaguered Tiphereth and stepped between them, clicking her tongue.
“Know your place, cutthroat. The Kurokumo Clan has exacted its tithe from the girl. All of you, downstairs. We need to close up our operations before the Hana finally track down our location.”
Not a single soul budged. The Hosa uncomfortably stepped back, her fingers sliding down the hilt of the katana shaking in her grip. The swordsman stepped forward once again, swinging his sheathed blade lackadaisically. “Exacted its tithe? Sayo, the girl is clearly still alive. Why not kill her and be done with it?”
“If you wish to challenge my authority, I’ll welcome it,” Sayo snarled, her eyes narrowing. “Do you think that just because I’ve taken a small cut here and there, I’m suddenly not able to defend my position?” She glared daggers at the impudent cutthroat that dared to speak out of turn, a Syndicate thug so green he might as well have just walked straight out of a Nest. With barely a cut adorning his face nor even a single tattoo emblematic of the Kurokumo Clan to his name, he nonetheless sauntered forward in his ironed jeans and dusted coat, his smile spreading wider and wider as he stood a solid two heads taller than the shaking Kurokumo Captain, the swordswoman still struggling to maintain her posture even as blood still dripped from her burning wounds. Her glare softened, then slowly faded away, her anger replaced with a gnawing disgust and contempt.
“… I don’t recognize you, actually,” Sayo said, her blade making a soft click as it popped from its sheath. “What District are you from? 23? 6? 10? 20?”
“Was that a way of asking for my name, Sayo?” the cutthroat cooed, his smile warping into a twisted smirk. “I never took you for someone who wasted her time with pointless questions.”
“I don’t.” She brandished her blade, now stepping beside the winded Tiphereth. A series of soft clicks echoed in unison as the Kurokumo swordsmen began to close around them, their katanas drawn.
“Then I’ll be polite and not waste your time with such pointless drivel,” he continued, nonchalantly stretching his arms out before resting his hand on the hilt of his blade. “When we heard that the librarian girl got snatched by these dregs, we wanted to see if she’d say anything useful before she got offed. Heard up the grapevine that perhaps her death might provoke the Library to send some more interesting people our way. We didn’t quite expect the girl to actually fight for her freedom, nor for you to give it. It is quite a… welcome surprise.”
“Hmph.” Sayo smiled wryly, wiping some of the blood off her face. “Traitorous mutts in the Kurokumo Clan? And to think I already miss the cowards that fled after getting released from the Library.”
“A Backstreets dog shouldn’t act so pompous that it thinks it can call others mongrels,” he shot back. He circled the two girls, his eyes lingering on Sayo, methodically dissecting each part of her exhausted posture. “Now, of course, I have a question for you.”
“A question, hm? Wonderful.” Sayo’s voice was dripping with venom.
“You seem so willing to throw in the towel. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to save us the trouble and come quietly with that girl over there. I’d hate to get these clothes dirty and, truth be told, there are quite a few things about the Kurokumo Clan I’d like a more intimate look at.”
Sayo flicked the blood from her katana, spitting at the swordsman. “You’re not even worth replying to, you piece of shit.”
He sighed, nodding his head in disapproval. “So be it. Men, take the girl alive. Break her arms and legs if she resists. I don’t need the Hosa; kill her if she gets in the way.”
All at once, the Kurokumo swordsmen barreled forward. No, Tiphereth grit her teeth and held the katana out in a defensive crouch. This wasn’t like when Sayo and her band of Syndicate thugs had entered the Library. They were disciplined, coordinated, each one closing around the bloodied duo like a noose tightening around an exposed neck. The Kurokumo Clan were refined swordsmen, each carrying some measure of artistry and pride in the way they carried their blade, but in many ways they were like arrogant and proud artists, each striking out with their own individual style as they blindly flailed against the Library.
“Urk!”
If the gathered thugs thought the beaten, panting Hosa barely capable of supporting her weight with her blade was a defenseless mark, the eager cutthroat now stumbling back and clutching his severed throat dispelled such notions. Her movements were noticeably slower, her face strained and marred with a pained grimace as she vaulted forward, yet Sayo’s blade was no less lethal as it carried itself in its wide, sweeping arc, twisting and poising itself to a fatal lunge that impaled the next cutthroat as she unsuccessfully tried to decapitate the Kurokumo Captain. The swordsmen pivoted and sidestepped as their gurgling companions dropped to the ground, completely unphased as they charged in, an ambitious duo moving to pincer the Hosa. She plucked the wakizashi from its sheath and deftly parried the blows, scoffing as her twin blades surged out with a wide sweep of her arms, showering Sayo in blood and the agonized death gurgles of her would-be assailants. A trio of lenticular swirls accompanied a piercing thrust, showering the swordswoman in blood with a pile of corpses as tribute to her resolve.
If Tiphereth had the opportunity, she’d simply gape in awe at the almost outlandish stamina of the woman that had moments ago nearly slit her throat. Sure, each step came with a noticeable limp, and her posture wavered unsteadily as she weathered and parried blow after blow, but the sheer tenacity of the Hosa went beyond being applaudable and became almost terrifying. She wanted nothing more than to watch as Sayo cut down the Kurokumo grunts that she’d once exerted absolute control over… but the hands grasping for her pulled the girl from her trance. While her form was far from the refined and elegant sweep of the Hosa, the slash warded off the blow of the cutthroat looming over her. She sprung up to her feet, her legs begging her not to drag them into yet another protracted engagement as she forced herself upright, brandishing the katana in what she hoped was an intimidating stance.
The stoic frowns of the Syndicate thugs were enough of an answer as she scrambled to defend herself. Her sloppy footwork barely pulled the girl out of the trajectory of a snarling swordswoman’s thrust as she deflected an errant swing at her head with the flat of her blade. Her eyes saw the flash of a grungy City jacket and she lashed out with a clumsy swing, drawing a splotch of scarlet and the howl of a wounded cutthroat as he nursed the gash down his shoulder. Tiphereth’s ears perked up as a trio of footsteps echoed behind her and she stumbled to the side, a wild and blind slash at her blind spot causing the two swordsmen closing on her flank to jump back with a yell. Her lungs burned as she took in deep breaths, trying not to pay heed to the wounds across her arms and face flaring up again, and-
Thwack.
Tiphereth crumpled to her knees, her free hand rubbing her head where a garish bruise gushed blood down the side of her head. As if waiting for the opportune moment, her body erupted in pain, her knees almost paralyzing her to the ground as the electrifying pain jolted up her spine while her arms felt like limp, rotted planks at her sides. She heaved an anguished sigh as she forced herself up to a crouch, flailing the blade wildly as she tried to force the swordsmen away. Her left eye clamped shut as a stream of blood ran down the side of her face, the burning pain half-blinding her, yet she still managed to keep her bearings as she locked eyes with an onrushing cutthroat, meeting his blade with hers. The first swing knocked the katana to the side, the second depositing itself in his ribs with a choked groan. She tore it free as she stumbled back, feeling her body pulse and tremble all over as another wave of pain washed over her. Her nostrils burned as she took in another breath, tracing the second swordsman as he closed in on her rig-
Wham.
Tiphereth slammed into the ground, unable to catch the fist that caught her in her blinded left. Still holding the katana tightly in her hand, her gaze flew to the nearest grunt and she threw the blade out. He parried it with a nimble slash before jumping back, two more quickly taking his place. She forced herself up with one knee and spun around to address her left flank, swinging the blade out in a wide, reverse arc that swept away the Kurokumo grunts encircling h-
Slam.
She hit the concrete hard, the back of her skull feeling like it was ready to explode. She spun her body reflexively, hoping to catch the thug with her retaliatory swing before-
Smack.
She gagged and choked as the fist crushed the side of her face, feeling parts of her jaw begin to dislocate. Colors danced in her vision as she tried to shake them away. The feeling in her fingers began to fade as-
Crash.
Tiphereth hit the ground once again, the katana flying free from her twitching fingers and skirting across the bloodied concrete. Her vision grew fuzzy as shadows crept in her peripheral vision, the short barks and commands from the swordsmen surrounding her becoming little more than indistinct garbles amidst the morning winds. Her body’s attempt to curl into a ball did little to shield her as another boot slammed into her back, the sheath of another katana crashing into her face, a swift punch slipping past her legs and digging directly into her ribs. At this point, she was simply thankful that she’d begun to lose feeling in her body, even as she heard her ribs crack and her hip fracture. Still, whether it be through duty, through instinct, or because her thoughts had become little more than a morass of scrambled thoughts, she still tried to crawl forward, as if there was just one last, solitary hope that she could recover and fight her way free of the mob gathered around her. The cracked concrete underneath her torn and bloodied fingertips soon became air as she felt her body hoisted up, arms roughly sliding up her armpits and pulling her off the ground. Still she squirmed, still she struggled. She just needed one, opportune moment. Just the blade in her hand. There was always a line, always one more thing she could pull off. Gebura had drilled it into her for weeks on end that as long as you could still draw breath, as long as you could move a single arm, there was no reception that wasn’t los-
“That’s enough.”
A loud, sickening crunch echoed in the rooftop.
“NnngaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”
Pain.
Oh god it fucking hurt.
God no please no fucking god nngggh aaaah no please stop.
Gebura Angela Malkuth Binah Roland please someone help make it stop it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts it fucking hurts oh god it fucking hurts aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAA.
Tiphereth’s head lolled, the last drops of adrenaline that defiantly tried to push her body forward all but evaporated. Amidst the tears and blood that slid down her face, through the shadows that began to creep into her vision, even as fatigue and anemia clawed at her consciousness and beckoned her to a sleep she was all but certain she wouldn’t wake from, she could barely make out her right leg. Mangled, jutting out at an unnatural angle, splintered bone jutting from her calf where the swordsman’s foot had found its mark.
It hurt.
It hurt so much.
Please make it stop. Someone please.
Help.
Her eyes slowly rose, the last part of her body that she still seemed to be in control of. Her vision blurred as human figures became little more than mangled blobs, but she… thought she could make out the Hosa that had so bizarrely spared her life. The black kimono barely clung to her body as cuts and gashes tore through the strengthened fabric, exposing a litany of scars both old and new underneath. The once spectacular and dancelike blur of blades was now just a pathetic flail, easily forced aside by the trio of cutthroats bearing down on her. The sickly tearing of skin preceded Sayo’s muffled gasp as she fell to the ground, trying to stem the bleeding of a cut that tore straight across her palm. She didn’t raise a hand as a kick sent her sprawling to the ground… or maybe she, too, had exhausted the last bit of her strength.
She clambered up to all fours, her shaking body victim to another kick in the small of her back that sent her back to the ground, reeling. A mock chuckle reverberated across the gathered Kurokumo grunts as they pulled Sayo back up to her knees by her hair, the Hosa reduced to little more than glaring at the mob that had subdued them. The two watched as one of the cutthroats raised their katana. With a solid, downward swing, he’d be sure to cleave directly through Sayo’s neck.
N-No. Come on, Tiphereth. Do something to get their attention. Yell, scream, throw something. You’re still conscious, right? That’s what she told herself, even though the only feeling left in her body was her shattered leg, each heartbeat only serving to electrocute her with another jolt of pain. Come on, think. Pain. Fuck. Ow. No. There has to be something. Fuck. Pain. It hurts. Please no. God please why does every single heartbeat hurt I’ll let you take my leg just please stop ow ow ow stop fuck ow.
She blinked, finding herself once again in that dingy room. She heard the electric crackle of the collar fastened around her neck, her skin blistering and tearing as another current caused her to scream until her throat bled. She shook her head, the shadowy visage of a limp Sayo and a raised katana returning to her bleary vision. Fuck, come on Tiphereth. They’re just going to torture and kill you anyway if you don’t do something, so do something.
Her arms were limp. Her head spun and stung as blood caked the left side of her face. She could barely choke out words from her throat, her mouth dry and her lips cut and bleeding. There has to be something.
Pain. Fuck. Ow.
No, fuck the leg. Fuck the cuts. Fuck everything. Tiphereth, come on, just do something.
The katana rose. Sayo’s head rose with it, as if to meet her death with a defiant stare. Even if the librarian had the strength to squirm, a plethora of arms held her fast. Fuck. Pain. Ow. Roland, Angela, someone, please. I’m tired. It hurts. Please.
Her thoughts bled out one after the other, extinguished as the blood loss threatened to exhaust her completely. As her vision slowly faded to a pure and voidless black, as she felt her body began to crumple and fall into the abyss underneath her, as she could barely hear the sound of her own voice, she bit her lip and, with the last vestiges of her consciousness, screamed.
“Knight, please!”
If there was ever such a thing as a soundless explosion, perhaps that’s what Tiphereth swore she heard. A concussive blast pounded her body and, were it not for her newfound captors still holding her tight, she would have easily flown several meters across the rooftop and down to the abandoned streets below as a fine, red paste. Though the allure of sleep still nagged at the back of her head, she felt something surge within her, like a hand had tightly gripped her soul and was wrenching it from dreary unconsciousness. The shadows receded from her vision, the amorphous blobs giving way to a strident, glimmering star that manifested on the rooftop. Though the sun’s rays were beginning to fully shine over the City, the figure seemed cloaked in a perpetual dusk, her midnight dress adorned with a string of beauteous stars. The pale lady addressed the gathered thugs even with her eyes perpetually closed, almost drinking in the horror and confusion of the executioner’s blade held fast by a lone, obsidian rapier.
“Please, that’s enough.” Her voice was slow and measured, some might even say melodic. Yet, something in the pit of Tiphereth’s stomach sank with each word. “Don’t you think enough blood has spilled?”
“Wh-What…?” the man stammered, still wrapping their head around the sudden interloper. “Who the fuck are-“
“I will ask only once.”
A splash of crimson. In her weary state, Tiphereth couldn’t even begin to tell where the second rapier had come from, only that it now lay in the fractured remains of the Kurokumo cutthroat’s skull. Yes, she could place it now. The voice of a forlorn protector, blinded by grief, lashing out at those who would prolong her suffering.
The Knight of Despair.
“That’s… O-01-73-1…” one of the swordsmen muttered. The smug, finely dressed man that had once looked down on the Hosa and the beaten Tiphereth staggered back, a brief look of astonishment shattering his once arrogant smirk. His eyes quickly flew to Tiphereth, the color draining from his face. “What are you fucking idiots doing? It’s the girl! The girl is the source of the abnormalities! Blind her or knock her out or do something, you useless fucks!”
Tiphereth winced and let out a sharp cry as she felt the hands around her arms pull back, arching her back uncomfortably, although admittedly what would have been a sharp and blistering pain was little more than a dull and uncomfortable crick in her back as exhaustion still plagued her body. Her feeble attempts to pull her face away from the surrounding cutthroats were little more than a minor inconvenience as a pair of hands gripped her head and held it tight, a dagger procured and centering on her widened, quivering eye.
“Oh no you don’t!”
A blinding flash of brilliant pink sent the gathered Kurokumo swordsmen reeling, its searing light causing the girl to tear up as her hands instinctively moved to shield her from the searing glare. As the hands wrapped around her made a hasty retreat and she crumpled once again to the floor, she strained to pierce the indomitable wall of light that shielded her, barely making out a faint but distinctive blob of energetic black. It slid between the recoiling Tiphereth and the mass of Kurokumo thugs, the stench of blood reeking off of the librarian almost dispelled by pungent aroma of perfume Tiphereth could only describe as… “girly.”
“Hold it right there, criminal scum!” it declared, that same vibrant and shrill voice sending a paradoxical sense of relief and horror through Tiphereth’s spine. “In the name of Love and Justice, here comes the ass-kicking of a lifetime!”
“… Queenie!” Tiphereth croaked, feeling her jaw completely unhinge from her mouth in awe.
The mahou shoujo whipped her head back, flashing a cheeky smile as her golden eyes sparkled with a radiance befitting her ethereal nature. “Hey there, Tiph! Glad to see you’re still alive and kicking! It’d be pretty awkward if I was saving a corpse!”
Tiphereth grimaced, the pain shooting through her body with each heartbeat reducing her contempt to a glare and a strangled sigh. “You… looked pretty dead when I saw you last time…”
“I mean, c’mon,” the Queen of Hatred cooed with a showy twirl. “Did you forget all the time your little agents caved my skull in? Since when has that kept me down at all?”
“Glad to see… you’re not lacking in confidence.” Tiphereth hacked, blood dripping from her lips as she struggled to take in even short breaths. The abnormality knelt and gave the girl a curt pat on the head, her eyes like sparkling stars as she gave her a knowing wink.
“Just sit back, Tiph. I got this.”
I mean… what choice exactly did she have? It hurt to breathe, let alone voice her indignation, and any outlandish fantasies the librarian may have had of joining the mahou shoujo in her glorious onslaught were only mildly stymied by the bent and fractured mass of skin and bone that once was her right leg. After enduring for so long, pushing her body to the brink of exhaustion and then even a bit further beyond that, she seemed content in putting her faith in the diminutive abnormality that was but a hair shorter than her. To the untrained eye, she didn’t look any more intimidating than the girl bleeding out on the floor; if anything, the frilly pink dress, bizarrely teal hair, and the dainty skip in her step as she twirled her baton between her fingers made her an even more easier mark than the blonde who had fought Sayo to a draw. Perhaps that thought was that provoked the first three Kurokumo grunts to lunge forward in a coordinated assault, their blades swinging high and low from both her flanks while the third brought his blade down directly at the Queen of Hatred’s head.
Clank.
All at once, the color drained from the first two swordsmen’s faces. As nonchalantly as one would grab the foam bat of an excitable young child that was taking too many playful swipes at their eldest sibling, the mahou shoujo crossed her arms and snagged the blades mid-swing, the metal groaning and cracking under her pale vicegrip. She grinned as she followed the trajectory of the blade aimed at her face before kicking herself up in an effortless frontflip, slamming her heel directly into the chest of the swordsmen. His bone chilling, bloodcurdling scream followed him into the skies and along a wide parabola before descending far past the confines of the rooftop, vanishing into the murky streets below. If either the two swordsmen still caught in the abnormality's grapple had any time to regret their decision, it came too late as her feet hit the ground before bounding to the side, carrying the swordsman over before slamming him into his compatriot with the crunch of shattering bone. The star-tipped baton hovered dutifully alongside the girl all the while, returning to her hand with a sparkle-trailed twirl, its momentum continued with a giggle and a smile as it spun along the Queen of Hatred’s fingertips before swinging outward, cleanly connecting with a swordswoman face as she attempted to go for the abnormalities throat. The body came to a stumbling halt, hands fumbling for the missing half of her skull before the lifeless shell finally crumpled to the ground.
Perhaps it should have been obvious that there could only be one conclusion when confronted with an abnormality. It seemed completely absurd that an innocuous Grade 4 Fixer could fight that girl to a draw, let alone fatally wound her, yet a collection of Kurokumo swordsmen that outnumbered her more than three to one could hardly put a scratch in her, let alone escape her baton and her merciless smile with their lives. The first four encircled and surged forward, trying to catch the girl from all directions, only for a string of bullets springing from the girl’s fingertips to send the first two to the ground. She nimbly leapt in the air, spinning a great deal too many times in an almost convoluted evasion of the swipe directed at her legs before bringing her staff down, cleaving through the swordsmen’s skull, neck, and the first bit of his ribcage before wrenching the bloodied baton free from the mutilated corpse. Her heels clicked together as she bounced off the ground before centering her palm on the final swordsman’s face, muffling his horrified yell with a single, explosive blast of hardlight.
Of course, the focal point of the sudden and catastrophic collapse of their almost assured victory was the bleeding Tiphereth lying helplessly on the ground. The next batch didn’t even try to hide their intentions as they swerved around the mahou shoujo, the tips of their blades poised at Tiphereth’s neck. Nor did the Queen of Hatred have a moment’s hesitation as she swung around in turn, a flurry of bolts cascading from her fingertips. Body after body collapsed to the ground, their backs seared with charred holes, while the final two that managed to stumble dangerously close to Tiphereth’s body found their fleeting moment to seize victory crushed under the heel of a flying mahou shoujo.
“Oh no you don’t!” the Queen of Hatred cried, wheeling around and smacking the other directly in the face with her baton. “Didn’t anyone tell you… it’s rude to…!”
Her foot still pressed against the first’s back, she leapt up only momentarily before swinging downward, embedding her staff directly in his skull. “… ignore a perfectly cute girl?!”
The corpse crumpled to the ground, its muted response leaving the Queen of Hatred pouting in annoyance. “You could at least pretend to give me an answer.”
Opposite the radiant massacre performed by the unhinged mahou shoujo, the Knight of Despair’s own blade waltz seemed somber, almost subdued, barely nudging a single inch as the twin rapiers in her hands cleaved swordsman after swordsman cleanly in two. Her closed eyes seemed oblivious to the horrific spectacle playing out by her hand, though the deft and surgical thrusts of her blade skewering and piercing each Kurokumo cutthroat in turn might as well have suggested she was completely clairvoyant.
Sayo, of course, was just happy her impromptu savior wasn’t nearly as chatty as the murderer in pink. She hardly considered herself ambidextrous nor did she favor her wakizashi, but the searing pain pulsing from her palm that left her arm hanging uselessly at her side left her with little recourse but to cut away at the wandering steel that came far too close for comfort. She would have time to muse about her peculiar circumstances later, the thought flitted through her head as she neatly decapitated a cutthroat reeling from the parrying thrust of one of the Knight’s rapiers.
“You’re losing a lot of blood,” the Knight of Despair observed, her matter-of-fact tone contrasting heavily with the uncomfortable ease at which she tore a Kurokumo grunt’s head clean off his shoulders with a swipe of her katana. “Please be at ease, Lady Sayo. Such motley underlings are not worth exhausting yourself over.”
“Can you imagine the disgrace if I were to leave everything to that girl’s imaginary friends?” Sayo spat, the enraged arc of her wakizashi neatly severing another grunt’s arm cleanly from its shoulder. “Besides, these wounds are nothing.”
“Oh, now?” a faint, but nonetheless distinct coyness belied the mahou shoujo’s words. “Hm, I wouldn’t want to get in your way if you could handle this yourself.”
“Mm, and what would that little librarian of yours say if you made such a dramatic entrance just to present a corpse to her at the very end?” Sayo responded in kind, her smirk hiding the pain shooting across her body with each swing. “It would be quite the embarrassment.”
Now it was the abnormality whose irritation was evident in her thrust, skewering two unfortunate swordsmen with one deft movement of her rapier. “… Touché, Lady Sayo.”
Between the intrepid swordplay of the solemn knight and her erstwhile Syndicate companion and the maniacal lasers of their giggling companion, the once large contingent of Kurokumo grunts that had seemed all too eager to turn on their Hosa had dwindled to one, that one, lone swordsman that had commanded Sayo’s men to turn on her all too easily. In fact, even as the decapitated, severed, and mutilated corpses of Kurokumo cutthroat after Kurokumo cutthroat dyed the rooftop red, the only blight on his figure were the stains of blood underneath his shoes, as though the man made sure not to engage in the reckless assault on the four. Sayo glanced at the Queen of Hatred, a trio of sparkling glyphs forming behind her as her gaze fell on the man. He’d be lucky if there was even a corpse left for the four to ruminate over.
Yet, still, he seemed to greet the dismal situation before him with a laugh. Tiphereth gulped as she forced herself to a sitting position, the gnawing concern and trepidation somehow intensifying despite their overwhelming advantage. Between the innumerable catastrophes administering the Briah layer of Lobotomy Corporation, the sudden entrance of the Reverberation Ensemble, and Roland’s sudden betrayal, she’d developed quite the disdain for unwelcome surprises.
After all, it was always the most innocuous problems that caused the most grief.
“Man, what a fucking waste that was,” he grumbled, shaking his head like he’d just watched a novel toy car spontaneously combust. “I know the Library’s supposed to be some fallen Star or whatever, but here I thought getting one damn girl out of the hands of a bunch of illiterate street thugs would’ve been an easy job.
“You seem chatty for someone about to die,” Sayo observed, raising her wakizashi until it was level with the man’s eyes.
“Yeah. Unless you’re gonna beg for mercy or something? Are you gonna beg for mercy?” The Queen of Hatred bounced excitedly up and down, the magical glyphs behind her roaring to life as her lasers trained themselves on the final Kurokumo cutthroat. “I’ve always wanted to have a bad guy beg for his life at my feet.”
“As tempting an offer as that is, O-01-04, I’ll have to politely decline.” He yawned and reached into his back pocket, procuring a small pill. The Knight of Despair’s rapiers were already in mid-flight as the white capsule slipped through his lips, his eyes lazily staring at the blades that were directed at his face. “And now look at the mess. We could have easily written this off as some internal squabble with the Kurokumo Clan or some other Syndicate jumping on them. Instead I gotta deal with this shit.”
With a thunderous clash of steel, the rapiers were deflected with one swipe from the cutthroat’s katana, the trio of obsidian blades embedding themselves an inch deep into the concrete. An ominous pressure seemed to emanate from the nameless swordsman as he began to approach the three, a professional, consummate, and all too lethal aura beginning to permeate the rooftop.
“And now I gotta make sure there aren’t any witnesses or she’ll really chew my ear off.”
And then he shot forward. Many times before, Tiphereth would have used the phrase “shot forward” as mere hyperbole; many of the guests they had the pleasure of confronting before were practically superhuman in their capabilities toward the end of their journey that their clashes may as well have been torn straight from the legends of the mythos stored away on Hod’s floor. But no, this time he very well might as well have been a human bullet shot from an anti-material rifle, his trajectory set on the bleeding, exhausted librarian like some heat seeking missile. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Knight of Despair threw herself between the beleaguered Tiphereth and her nameless assassin, her once porcelain and stoic face now strained as her twin rapiers barely held back the overwhelming strength behind the man’s slash. He darted back before pouncing, the measured poise of a steely Cinq fencer striking with the force of some chemically amplified bear. A thrust to the abnormality’s face was barely sent ajar and a pivot to a directional slash at her waist was narrowly parried with her second blade. It rose up as though the blade itself was made of liquid steel, seamlessly rolling up and back toward the Knight’s neck in the time it took for Tiphereth to gasp in astonishment. The dusk-colored duelist’s blades rose to meet the executing blow, the sheer force sending her staggering back. Though her eyes remained perpetually closed, the librarian could see the growing, palpable dread dawning across the mahou shoujo’s face.
“Hey, asshole!”
And just like that, the Queen of Despair warped behind the Kurokumo swordsman, her baton a fledgling star erupting in a supernova of purest pink. “Don’t you dare hurt Knightie! In the name of love and justice, I’m gonna Arcana Slave your ass across the pave-“
He reached up and grabbed the mahou shoujo by the ankle.
It seemed almost preposterous, the mere visage of the Queen of Despair halted mid-flight as the man she had seemingly caught unawares turned and caught her as effortlessly as snagging an impudent little child flailing her toy sword at her eldest sibling. His body twisted, a knowing smirk spread wide across his face as his eyes met the increasingly pale face of the blonde girl, and slammed the mahou shoujo into the ground. The baton shrieked, its beam erratically shooting out wide, a hapless distress beacon carving its incinerating light across the rooftop and toward the horizon, shattering an innumerable number of windows in its wake. As dust clouds kicked up around him, he swung his blade up and parried the retaliatory strike from the Knight of Despair, the mahou shoujo snorting and hurriedly backing away as the seemingly open window slammed shut in front of her.
It was completely outlandish. The abnormality that only a minute ago was tearing up the Kurokumo grunts that had rushed them like they were little more than disposable mooks was put on the backfoot, somehow unable to keep up with her dual blades with the relentless onslaught of the nameless man with one ordinary Kurokumo katana. He thrusted, slashed, jumped and lashed out like some choreographed dance orchestrated by the Blood-red Night herself, forcing the Knight of Despair back further and further with each blinding swing of his blade. Tiphereth had to be dreaming at this point; she swore up and down that she had simply lost consciousness from blood loss halfway through the fight, that her subconsciousness had simply been plunged into a nightmare as the trio staved off the remainder of the Kurokumo grunts. She simply refused to believe the horrific spectacle playing out before her.
She desperately cried out to whatever uncaring deity she could think of as the nameless Kurokumo grunt pulled the mahou shoujo’s guard wide with the flat of his blade, his hand flying from his belt and back level with the abnormality’s chest in one swift, practiced motion. A gunshot rang out, causing the Knight of Despair to instinctively pull back, chopping the bullet in half with a swipe of her blade. The metal bullet crackled and sparked as the mahou shoujo’s blade neatly cleaved it in two.
And then exploded forward in a collection of metallic tendrils.
The once emotionless frown that adorned the Knight of Despair’s face was finally lost, wiped clean as the metallic tendrils clung to her chest and hastily swung across her body, snaking around her shoulders and wrapping tightly around her forearms and elbows, locking her arms firmly to her side before snapping shut across her back, locking the harness in place. The consternation was short-lived, replaced by a muted, but nonetheless horrifying squeal of pain as three, soft beeps preceded a sharp jolt of electricity, the electrical current causing the abnormality to fall to her knees and writhe in agony.
“K-Knightie!” the Queen of Hatred spluttered, coughing blood as she stumbled out of the small crater she was embedded in. Despite her wobbling legs, her speed was exceptionally nimble, the pink glyphs enveloping her clenched fist in a ball of crackling, pulsing energy exceedingly ferocious. “You bastard, I’ll-“
“Are you always this simple-minded?”
And then he spun around and punched the abnormality in the face.
It was over in a second. Maybe even less. Tiphereth watched with increasing horror, hoping desperately to wake from her dismal nightmare, as the Queen of Hatred emerged staggered but nonetheless triumphant, surged forward with her improvised magics ready to smite the villain where he stood, and was immediately pummeled back into the ground in the sheer time it took for her to formulate the slightest bit of hope. She could do little but watch in muted terror as the gun rose again, as another bullet shot toward the groaning abnormality as she tried to clamber back up to her knees, as the metallic restraints wrapped around her body and left her squirming around on the ground before electricity flared across her skin. The mahou shoujo shrieked and howled like a captured banshee, thrashing against her bonds while forcing herself to her feet, her weary, bloodied steps accompanied with a twitch and a snarl as her upper body violently twitched and recoiled with each electrical shock.
“Y-Y-Y-You ba-ba-baaastaard!” she screamed, blood beginning to drip from her mouth and eyes. “I-I-I’ll r-r-rip your a-a-arms off. D-D-Don’t you d-d-d-daaaare ha-ha-haarm Kni-Kniiightiee and-“
Thwack.
A final smack from the hilt of the katana sent the mahou shoujo to the ground. She twitched and squirmed and flailed and screamed, but showed no signs of rising back up to her feet.
“Hmph. I was expecting a little more from L Corp’s little freakshow experiments,” he muttered under his breath, turning his attention back to Tiphereth. One final guardian moved to the girl’s side, the bloodied Kurokumo Captain barely able to stand with her own strength. She was practically on her knees, barely able to keep the wakizashi straight, on the verge of collapsing as each fading heartbeat threatened to rob her of her consciousness, but still Sayo stood… well, knelt proudly in front of the girl, her blade raised in one last act of defiance. A farcical harumph blew from the nameless Kurokumo grunt’s lips as he approached the two quivering girls, drinking in the muted screams of the helpless abnormalities behind him as he carved a thin line behind him with his katana.
“This is usually the time where we play up the theatrics and I talk about how adorable it is that you’re still trying to resist despite probably dumping half of your blood across the floor already,” he began, rolling his eyes in contempt. “But I’ve already wasted enough time and, quite frankly, it might throw off the Seven more if they come across a dead Hosa and her string of useless henchmen rather than what little information I can pry out of you with each broken finger. But I consider myself a cultured man and where I come from, we do offer even the trash their last rites. So, any last words, oh dame Sayo?”
“Go fuck yourself,” she spat.
“Short and to the point, I like it!” he cheered, raising his blade high. “Now then, die nobly, you piece of filth.”
If this was a dream or some sick nightmare, it’d long passed the point that Tiphereth could bear. Utterly paralyzed with fear, she could do little but watch helplessly as the blade descended on the Hosa, her blade much too slow to catch the strike’s trajectory. She urged her body forward, to shove Sayo out of the way from the blade that would surely rend her head in two, to not simply be an unwilling and mortified witness to another grisly death. Yet as much as she willed and fought and begged, all she could do was flounder forward barely a few centimeters, her still unbroken leg little more than jello. The invigorating strength that once revitalized her spirit had, too, reached its limit, darkness again creeping over her vision as she could do little but watch the blade near the frozen Hosa’s skull.
And just moments before the decisive blow was struck, the nameless Kurokumo grunt paused, just half a second short of splattering Sayo’s head with the sharp end of his blade, and swung to the side. The blade screeched in a frantic blur before shattering into multiple fragments, the polished Syndicate metal, finely crafted from workshops that had earned both the Thumb’s respect and the Kurokumo’s blessing, unable to withstand the otherworldly black steel that rocketed through the air, a bona fide medieval cruise missile that would’ve surely torn the head and a fair amount of the upper body off of the nameless assassin were he to follow through on his execution of the Hosa. An unnerving, disquieting silence settled over the rooftop as even the once arrogant Kurokumo grunt’s face lost its color. Three pairs of eyes fell to the opened door of the stairwell leading into the building, a single Fixer casually strolling through its archway. He dusted off his white jacket, another black spear manifesting in his outstretched hand.
“Olivier!” Tiph cried, almost ready to faint from exhaustion and relief.
“Lord Olivier…” the Kurokumo grunt muttered under his breath, instinctively darting back. A flurry of footsteps echoed behind him as two more familiar figures flanked the Hana Fixer, their katanas aggressively brandished.
“D-Dame Sayo…” Gin stuttered, his stoic expression wracked with shock. On Olivier’s left, the normally jovial Yang wore a cloudy scowl as he aimed his katana at the nameless Kurokumo grunt.
“Hey, you,” he snarled, sliding the back of his blade along his throat. “You’ve got quite the nerve, betraying the Kurokumo, the Thumb, and the dame like this. You think what we did to the brat was bad?” He cracked his knuckles, the sinister bloodlust emanating from the Wakashu more akin to a Hook Office Fixer rather than the measured poise of the Kurokumo. “By the time we’re done with you, you’ll be begging for death.”
“Sorry, what was that?” the Kurokumo grunt cupped his ear, poorly miming a show of deafness. “I don’t speak mongrel. You’ll have to enunciate a bit more.”
If Yang bit down any harder, he’d have cracked his teeth neatly in two. He stepped forward, his katana already lowered to his side for a gliding directional slash upward. “Why, you-“
A firm hand halted the Wakashu in his tracks. “Hold.”
Yang shot a glare at Olivier, aggressively chewing on the small toothpick hanging from his mouth. “Hey, the fuck do you think you’re doing? Don’t think that we’re suddenly friends or anyth-“
“You should learn to shut your mouth and respect the wisdom of a Hana Fixer, Backstreets mutt,” the nameless grunt called back, smirking. “Even Lord Olivier can tell that I’d cut you right in two if you thought you could actually do something to me.”
Ignoring the piercing glare from the Wakashu, Olivier turned his attention to the man with the shattered katana, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re very well-spoken for a member of a Backstreets Syndicate. Where did you learn your bladework, if you don’t mind me asking?”
The man stepped back, his unflappable swagger noticeably shaken. “Hmph. Certainly not from these mongrels, that’s for sure.”
“I see…” Olivier continued, pursing his lips. “I’ve spent some time in the Backstreets myself; had a close friend who grew up in them. He joined an Office proper rather than indulging in the ragtag Syndicates that happened to spring up in his district but I spent enough time speaking with him to know that the people of the Backstreets have a… very different accent from yours.”
“Hm, perhaps so.” The Kurokumo grunt backed up even further, his heel now at the edge of the rooftop. His eyes never waivered from Olivier’s as the Hana Fixer continued to close the gap, his black spear raised as if to pin the interloper down. “Well, this complicates matters quite a bit.”
“I don’t suppose you’d come quietly, then?” Olivier asked, crouching low, bracing his legs for a sudden and forceful leap.
“I’ll have to pass on that offer, Lord Olivier.” The man’s eyes brushed past the wavering Sayo, focusing on the bloodied, half-conscious Tiphereth behind her. He gave a wry smirk, drawing his finger slowly across his neck. “You have quite the streak of luck there, Tiphereth. I’d hope for your sake that it continues.”
And without skipping a beat, he fell back and over the edge.
A soundless sonicboom echoed behind Olivier as he leapt over the rooftop, his eyes skimming the morning streets in pursuit of the man’s body. Out in the distance, a solitary shadow could be seen skirting across the rooftops, leaping across the rooftops as though the very action was little more than breathing.
Olivier’s gaze lingered on the enigmatic assassin as he disappeared amidst the urban expanse, soon become one of many formless shadows created by the sun finally cresting over the final, tallest skyscraper. His brow furrowed, an unmistakable yet unplaceable sense of unease settling in the pit of his stomach as he turned over the recent events in his head. His eyes swooped across the rooftop, the cracked concrete coated in a thick veneer of blood and gore, corpses splattered and strewn about in various states of scorched dismemberment. He stepped over a headless body as he made his way from the edge of the rooftop, the blackened skin and charred flesh bearing not a single mark nor engraving save for the burns left from the abnormality’s errant lasers. The last of her energy finally depleted, Tiphereth slumped to the ground as he approached, weakly raising an arm as he loomed over her, his pensive thoughts giving way to a soft smile.
“Took you long enough,” she grumbled meekly. She coughed lightly, droplets of blood falling over Olivier’s polished shoes. Olivier snorted, his eyes skimming the sprawled blonde on the ground. Barefoot, her dress nearly eviscerated to little more than a slapdash collection of bloodied threads. The Hana Fixer slowly knelt and slipped his own jacket off his shoulders, cloaking the wounded girl before sliding his arms underneath the girl’s armpits, lifting her up and over his head until she was hanging from his back, her arms slung around his chest. It was mostly for show; the girl was on the precipice of consciousness, hanging on only by Olivier tactfully cradling her thighs and supporting her as she slumped against his back.
“H-Heeey,” a weak voice mewed from across the rooftop. Olivier’s eyes shot up, greeted with a twitching, indignant mahou shoujo as she forced herself to her knees, still convulsing as the electrical restraints continued to subdue the abnormality. “I-I’m happy you came in to save th-the day and all, b-b-but if you’d be-be-be so kind as to g-ge-get this shit off of m-m-me and Knightie…”
Olivier suppressed a chuckle, masking it with a wordless nod as he darted over to the bound Queen of Hatred. Barely more than a few meters away, the weary Hosa finally slunk to her knees before being propped up by the two Wakashu, caring not for the state of her ruined kimono nor the indignity of having her two subordinates begin to ease her toward the doorway. Gin’s eye caught Olivier’s, then fell on the slouching Tiphereth as her chest rose and fell, quite clearly not cut down like he’d very much placed his bet on.
Granted, the Kurokumo grunts that he’d wagered quite a pretty sum of ahn on were dead, so it worked out pretty well.
“Surprised the girl’s still alive,” Yang mused, articulating the thought Gin had so wisely decided to avoid. “Did those bastards backstab you while you were about to finish her off, dame?”
“… I guess you could say that,” Sayo said, careful to avoid the Wakashu’s inquisitive gaze. “I should be the one asking you questions. Why exactly did you bring a Fixer into our hideout?”
“Well, while there did in fact happen to be a bunch of Hana Fixers snooping around, they were quite a ways away. Our friends here tried to lure me and Gin out to meet them only to try and stab us in the back.”
“It seems these disgraceful charlatans thought to lure the ones most loyal to dame Sayo away before attempting their little coup,” Gin observed, shrugging nonchalantly. “Of course, they didn’t seem as competent as they thought they were and the resulting struggle only served to bring the Hana Fixer here even closer to us.”
“We just happened to have a common goal in mind,” Olivier chimed in, stepping away from a freed Knight of Despair and readjusting the weary Tiphereth as she began to slip to the side. “It helped that the bright distress beacon that Ms. Tiphereth’s friend shot into the sky helped pinpoint their location.
“Haha, yeaaaah,” the Queen of Hatred joined in with a nervous chuckle, her pale face a noticeable, embarrassing shade of red. “I, uh, totally meant to do that.”
“Weird to see one of these things up close and not trying to kill us,” Yang said, his face scrunching up as he eyed the bloodied, panting mahou shoujo the abnormality celebrating her newfound freedom with a faint but nonetheless distinct limp in her step. “We sure this thing isn’t gonna try and bite off our heads if we turn around?”
The Queen of Hatred spun around, her face darkened with a chilling glower. “Hey, do you think I’m deaf or something?”
“Honestly, I’m surprised you can understand us,” Yang shot back, his hand instinctively reaching for his katana.
“Enough, Yang,” Sayo barked, her fingers drooping down and digging into the Wakashu’s forearm. “The girl’s little pets have done us a service. The least we could do is pay our respects to an ex-Star’s toys.”
Though her gaze softened, the Queen of Hatred’s exasperation failed to dissipate even slightly. “Do all you Syndie folk just suck at compliments or something? Can’t just say, ‘Wow, Queenie, you’re so cool and awesome and badass and thanks for saving my life?’ I’ll even accept you kissing my feet if it makes you feel better!”
“Cease, Heart,” the Knight of Despair chided, shaking her head. Though her eyes remained closed, the judgmental glare sent chills down even the unflappable Queen of Despair. “You shouldn’t try to gloat when you were the one who needed saving.”
“Tch, Knightie, whose side are you on here?” the Queen of Hatred snapped, spinning around and throwing her arms out in indignation. “Come on, look at us! We kicked these bad guys’ asses and shit! That’s awesome! We’re awesome!”
“Yes, Heart, I’m glad to see a righteous hero like you prevailing against the thralls of evil,” she replied. Though it was not visible, Tiphereth could feel the Knight of Despair rolling her eyes in annoyance. “Let’s go, Heart. We’ve outstayed our welcome.”
“Leaving us already?” Olivier asked, cocking an eyebrow. “It’d probably be safer for all of us if you at least accompanied us back to the hotel.”
“Yeah, you’d think that,” the Queen of Hatred replied, cradling her head in her hands as she leaned back, suspending herself in the air in what she probably thought looked like a cool and relaxed pose. “But if we stick around any longer, I think ol’ Tiph there might kick the bucket for real, and there’s no ex-secretary around to bail her out of trouble.”
“… Excuse me?” Olivier said, his voice growing sharp.
“Heart, you’re doing it again,” the Knight of Despair said, her tone growing similarly aggressive. She approached the Hana Fixer, gingerly rubbing her arms where the metallic restraints had held them fast. “As you can probably guess, Sir Olivier, we are not manifested through Angela’s EGO under these circumstances. Rather, we’re drawing from Lady Tiphereth; or rather, we’re using her life force to sustain our forms when we’re not fully dormant. It ordinarily wouldn’t take too much out of her to sustain even the two of us together if we weren’t doing anything strenuous, but exerting ourselves in any meaningful way can get very exhausting for Lady Tiphereth. I fear if we were to remain manifested for any longer, she may lapse into a coma before she can seek medical attention.”
“I see,” Olivier said, eyeing the girls with suspicion. “So you’ll…”
“Yeah, yeah, I did my job,” the Queen of Hatred said, lowering herself to her feet. “I’ll be heading out before you then, Knightie! Wake me up when we got another baddie to smash!”
And as sudden and as boisterously as she appeared, the Queen of Hatred disappeared, literally blinking out of existence. The Knight of Despair sighed as she locked eyes (or at least appeared to) with Tiphereth, the blonde girl struggling to keep herself awake. “I’ll be slumbering for now as well, Lady Tiphereth. You don’t have to worry about us for now; if you were to die, we would naturally lose our ability to manifest as well, so it’s very much in our interest to protect you.”
“… And will you be joining the rest of us once Ms. Tiphereth has made a full recovery?” he asked, his inquisitive gaze boring into the abnormality.
“Maybe if something strikes our fancy, Sir Olivier.”
And just like that, the Knight of Despair, too, vanished as though she was never there.
Olivier pursed his lips, the fleeting interaction with the Library’s unique abnormalities feeling more like a daydream than anything else. Were it not for Tiphereth’s chin resting on his shoulder, he might’ve chalked up the experience to simply an idle hallucination born from yet another sleepless night. A soft grunt echoed in his throat as a throwaway contingency came to mind and he slid his hands into the coat pockets hanging off of the bleeding girl, pulling a small ampule. Its eerie, emerald glow would have ordinarily warded off the librarian if she had any say in the matter. Her listless eyes could barely keep up with Olivier’s fingers as he deftly popped the top off, exposing a long, thin needle that effortlessly found its way into the girl’s veins. She whined and squirmed, the prickling pain in her arm slowly igniting into a smoldering flame that rushed through her blood. She bit down on her lip, a new trickle of blood joining her already scarred, crimson face, and clamped her eyes shut, the throbbing, dull pain in her body flaring into a sharp and sporadic jolt that ran down her back and across her aching limbs.
“Relax, Tiphereth,” he cautioned, readjusting his grip on the girl as she writhed and groaned. “This is just an emergency ampule, courtesy of K Corp. It’s not going to set your broken bones back in place or numb the pain but it should keep any of your organs from failing until we get you to the nearest medic.”
“It feels like shit…” she grumbled, a sharp whimper piercing her lips as she felt her torn forearms explode in a fiery shock.
“No plan is perfect, unfortunately,” Olivier replied, turning his attention to the three Kurokumo stragglers. The ordinarily carefree Yang tactfully dodged the Hana Fixer’s gaze as it glossed over him, while opposite the limping Hosa, Gin met and replied to Olivier with a curt nod, a mutual understanding shared between them. Nonetheless, as Olivier’s attention was caught by Sayo’s wavering footsteps as the swordswoman, too, struggled to keep herself upright, her eyelids drooping as anemia threatened to spirit her away. A sharp whistle cut through the awkward silence and Yang whipped his head back, swiping the ampule that flew toward the trio. He rolled the small, green capsule between his fingers before looking back at Olivier, fidgeting with the toothpick in his mouth.
“What’s your play here, Fixer?” Yang asked, crossing his arms. “The dame herself would cut us down if we dared utter a single secret of the Kurokumo Clan for her safet-“
“There’s no strings attached,” Olivier cut him off, hoisting Tiphereth up so she could grab a firm grip on his shoulders. With four quick steps, he was already at the rooftop’s edge, the faint morning breeze beckoning to him. “With her condition, she might die before you could get her medical attention. Think of this as a courtesy for our little truce.”
“Hmph.” Sayo smirked, craning her head back so she could meet Olivier personally. “Quite the gentleman. You seem to be quite merciful to someone who almost slit that girl’s throat just a few minutes ago.”
“Yes, but when I showed up here, I didn’t see you two trying to kill each other, now did I?”
There the two of them stood, staring each other down as if to divine their other’s intentions through their unwavering pokerfaces. Even though each heartbeat caused Sayo’s arms to ache as more blood gushed from her opened wounds, she would have stayed there all day, bleeding herself dry just to be the first one to watch Olivier blink. Even though she could barely kept herself up right while clinging to her two Wakashu, she’d be damned if she dared show a hint of weakness to a lowly Fixer, even if it was one of the invincible Hana.
It was a game that Olivier showed no interest in, quickly turning his attention to the expansive streets below. His hands lifted Tiphereth up and over his head until the girl was snug in his chest, carried like a scarlet bride. She pursed her lips as she wrapped her arms around Olivier’s neck, staring right through Olivier. “… Are you sure you don’t want to take the stairs?”
“It’ll be fine,” he said simply, pumping his legs. He stared off to the distance, to the myriad of shadowy buildings where the nameless assassin had long disappeared to. “Ms. Harold should be waiting for us down the block. We can get a cast for your leg and get you back to Roland before noon.”
“I swear, Olivier, if you fucking drop me I’m gonna haaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”
Olivier’s nimble jump from the building would have been as seamless and quiet as the departure of the two mahou shoujos were it not for Tiphereth’s frenzied, panicked screams as she clung desperately to her one lifeline, arms wrapped around his chest and legs around his waist, her fingers interlocking as though the slightest gap might cause her to plummet several dozen meters to a bed of concrete. The three Kurokumo swordsmen exchanged glances as Tiphereth’s wild and high-pitched shrieks, too, melted into the distance, leaving only a silent mountain of corpses in their wake. Sayo plucked the ampule from Yang’s fingers and unscrewed the gap, a sharp grunt shooting past her lips as she jammed it into her veins. She stumbled to the side, feeling her left leg give out as a river of fire replaced her blood, only for Gin’s waiting shoulder to sweep her up and back to her feet.
“Nnngh… I think I’d have preferred painkillers,” she grumbled.
“Painkillers, huh? Yeah, I think I got some in my back pocket.”
Goosebumps shot down Sayo’s arm. On instinct, she fell to her knees, head bowed, the two Wakashu falling in suit while still taking care not to dump their bleeding Hosa onto the ground like a pile of bloodied rags. A pair of heavy, lumbering footsteps boomed as they crossed the archway, sunglasses adjusted with a flick of a finger before falling on the three swordsmen with a laugh. “Relax. You can drop the courtesy, Sayo.”
Hesitantly, she forced herself back up to her feet, her eyes still planted on the ground as years of habitual etiquette and pure survival refused to listen to those words. “… Yes, Lord Boris. What brings you to our outpost?”
The Thumb Capo rolled his shoulders back, waving off the courtesy with a quick gesture and a shake of his head. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood. Boss Kalo wanted me to check in on a few things for him. Our sect hasn’t fully recovered from our brief absence in the Library and it seems the Sottocapo has been putting out fires left and right.”
She nodded, her eyes still meekly following a thin stream of blood that slithered down her leg. Allegedly since Kalo and his followers returned from the Library, he’d been busy singlehandedly rebuilding the Thumb’s influence in the southern Backstreets, in part due to the colossal destabilization caused by resulting turf war between the Thumb and the Index. Although as several Sottocapo have asserted, the war had resulted in a stalemate as both sides pulled out as the Library began to emerge from the fog, the innumerable amount of corpses that hung from electric lines and balconies sporting the distinctive, red cape of the Thumb suggested that the Index came away from the conflict with little more than a bloody nose. The Kashira even whispered rumors of the Patriarch’s grand ambitions to seize control of the Thumb itself and install the Kurokumo Clan in its place as one of the five Fingers. Of course, the Patriarch dared not address such rumors directly, nor did any of the Kurokumo reiterate such thoughts outside their most trusted confidants. The Capo Dei Capi had eyes and ears spanning from A Corp to the very reaches of the Outskirts, and he’d stamp out such impurities with all the sterile efficiency of torching a nest of termites with a flamethrower.
A gruff cough forced the Hosa to glance up. To look upon a Capo in an unsightly manner risked your eyes. To refuse to address your superior risked your lips. Her worries were likely etched on her face more prominently than the scars from the librarian’s katana, her furrowed brow and sunken cheeks causing Boris to chuckle and clamp a hand on her shoulder. “Again, we can go without the pleasantries. It’s easy for rats to feign obedience, after all.”
The three froze. Through the Capo’s goofy and expansive smile, a dormant but nonetheless noticeable bloodlust lingered just underneath. It was Gin who was the first to break the silence, clasping his arm across his chest even as he cleared his throat as though bracing himself for the Capo’s rebuke for his insolence. “… If you will permit me to speak out of turn, Lord Boris.”
“Huh…” Boris shifted his gaze to Gin, cracking his knuckles. “Go on.”
“You may have noticed we had an…” Gin’s head gestured to the bodies behind them. “… incident. Forgive me for doubting your wisdom on the matter, but where did you recruit these new members to our Syndicate?”
Boris’s smile faded. His lips shifted from side to side, his eyes noticeably squinting even past his sunglasses as he rolled the Wakashu’s question around in his head. “… Gotta run that by me again.”
“… I beg your forgiveness if I’m wrong here,” Gin continued, fumbling for his phone. “… but I was in contact with you this past month. Several of the Kurokumo under dame Sayo fled following our escape from the Library and we asked if the Thumb could coordinate with the Patriarch to send us some replacement swordsmen.”
Boris chuckled, pulling his own phone out of his pocket and flicking through the lock screen. A vacant message app, its inbox sparse and barren, was illuminated in the pale blue light. “I don’t recall ever getting any messages there, Gin. From what I heard, the Kurokumo got a shot of new blood pretty recently.”
“Yes they did just give us the… new batch of recruits just a few weeks ago.”
Gin’s thumb hovered over his phone, the display indeed showing Boris’s face in the contact details along with a long, sprawling message outlining, in excruciating detail, a number of new recruits that would be shuttled in from the north. A curious Boris plucked it from his shaking hands, tapping the contact that bore his face. Indeed, his number was shown in the expanded details, a one for one recreation without a single digit out of place. He returned the phone to the silent Wakashu, his gaze returning to Sayo’s. The Hosa now looked him squarely in the face, realization slowly mixing into a thick displeasure that washed away the fatigue from her face.
“Lord Boris, if I may, will Lord Kalo be free later tonight?”
“Yeah, Boss Kalo should be wrapping up some loose ends over at the borders of District 12.” His smile returned, juxtaposing the steely glower of the Hosa. “I can ring him up and let him know you want an audience.”
“Good. Gin, Yang, let’s find a nice bathhouse I want to wash this stench off of me.”
“Of course, dame,” Yang said, lending Sayo his shoulder. The three trudged toward the exit, the fury of the Hosa once again welling in her. “What do you intend to ask the old man?”
Sayo gingerly traced the cut running down her cheek, gazing at the bloodied finger with a look of contempt. “… Assistance. To exterminate some rats.”
Chapter 5: An Escapade in the Violet Twilight: A Hotel Interlude
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The City was many things. A kaleidoscope of dazzling colors, billboards and neon signs perpetuating a sunless day even with the moon reaching its zenith in the sky. A cretinous hive of villainy and degeneracy where muggers skulked in the shadows and unseen horrors scurried underneath the sewers. A whirlwind of laughter and sobbing, where the blissful Nest eggs lost in their carefree ignorance paid little attention to the Fixers, Syndicate thugs, unlucky victims, and unholy abominations that fought and bled and died just outside of their glossy windows.
The City was beautiful. Violent. Disorderly. And for this one hour, accompanied only by the whir of a small elevator and a series of drunken moans just inches from her ear, the City, to Cecil, was boring.
And thank the Wings for that.
With a small ding, the doors slid open with nary a sound, leaving only the blonde’s belabored huffs as she staggered out of the elevator, her obligated burden weighing her down like several packs of training weights. Her feet trudged down the hotel hallway, flanked by tacky wallpaper accented by gaudy portraits of vacant-faced individuals, a decorative taste appreciated only by those who had recently gone blind. She huffed again and pressed her weight into her toes as she felt the girl clinging to her back stir and tighten her grip, a yawn accompanied by a loud and uncouth burp. Cecil wrinkled her nose, trying not to retch at the heavy stench of alcohol wafting past her face.
“Man you shooooulda seen it, Ceci! Director Mirinae was all ‘maybe you’d have gotten promoted if you didn’t fucking suck so much’ and the entire bar was like ‘ooooooooooooooooooooooh!’ I’ve never seen a Hana Fixer run so fast! I bet the Director’d have given that bitch a good ol punch straight in her pretty little face if she’d tried something funny!”
“Yeah, Mei, I’m sure,” Cecil said contentedly, rolling her shoulders up and carefully checking to make sure the drunken Mei’s arm was still wrapped around the back of her neck before checking her pockets. A small, golden keycard glimmered as its embroidered surface reflected the lights above the girls, the faint but distinctive insignia of a suitcase with two, ruby canes crisscrossing its front like a coat of arms emblazoned in the center. Nemo had, of course, spared no expense in providing the guests of honor in his tournament the most luxurious of accommodations. Provided, of course, that everyone and their grandmother knew who was footing the bill.
Still, a vacation was a vacation, and the rest of Section 2 wouldn’t have let her live it down if both Lowell and Mei left without her. The two stopped just short of the door, Cecil leaning forward slightly to ensure that her starry-eyed friend didn’t slip free from her handhold and slam her head against the wall. Again. The door, a glossy brown finish of some assuredly exotic wood likely plucked from some hidden oasis beyond the Outskirts, opened with nary a groan nor a whine, the blackness of the room quickly dispelled by an immediate, bright flash as each light in the ceiling ignited to greet her. The brief, pale image of a dutiful maid appeared before the two like a specter haunting the world’s most gaudy and overly designed hotel room, curtsying as Cecil hauled Mei through the door, contemplating whether Mei would notice if Cecil left her to sleep at the doorway.
“Welcome, Ms. Cecil and Ms. Mei,” the hologram blissfully greeted them, its ocular receptors clearly oblivious to the dour mood etched across Cecil’s face. “It is currently 00:43. Would you like me to query the available movies for streaming?”
“Dim the lights, Serena,” the Liu Fixer replied curtly, passing through the hologram like it wasn’t even there. “Quit menu until I give the say so.”
The image spluttered and distorted like an image reflected in a rippling pond, the outline of what looked to be a curtsy barely keeping its form as the two made their way further into the room. “As you wish, Ms. Cecil. Ending dialogue.”
With a soft pop, the hologram dissipated, leaving only a vacant hotel room brightly illuminated by the twin lights lining the ceiling and the accompanying duo of lamps flanking each side of a modest, queen-sized bed. On first blush, it appeared that Nemo’s magnanimous generosity continued into the suites provided to even the no name Fixers such as Cecil and Mei, the room easily twice the size of the small, studio apartment that Cecil usually called home. A garishly large flatscreen television, something that would probably consume four months of her normal salary, flickered awake as she dragged the groaning Mei toward the bed, the splash screen of the latest streaming phenomena lingering on its face with its disturbingly blissful grin. The blurry, black and white still of the demented doctor of Emesis Blue tried everything in its power to disturb the weary blonde.
A chill ran down Cecil’s spine as she caught sight of the television in her peripheral vision. A scene of black and white, a stark monochrome. She flinched as she swore, right to her very soul, she heard that distinctive, hellish ding.
Oblivious to the frozen blonde, the bed’s plush mattress consumed Mei whole as she slipped from Cecil’s shoulders and into its gaping maw. Seemingly designed purely to demonstrate the Cane President’s extravagant wealth, linen sheets dyed in the finest ruby were draped over the bed, a welcoming lure to devour its unsuspecting victims whole. Their delicate fabric caused Cecil’s knees to buckle as she stumbled into it, her fleeting memories disappearing like a puff of smoke as a wave of fatigue washed over her. The blonde sighed as she slid the embroidered Liu coat from her shoulders. Her fingers undid the buttons of her black suit one after the other before dipping into the knot of her tie and pulling it loose, tossing the two garments alongside her coat. The buttons of her white dress shirt were next, leaving the girl in only her dress pants and a modest, white bra. Her eyes skirted across the floor until she spied an unassuming suitcase nestled next to one of the many, many wardrobes that seemed excessively unnecessary for a two person suite, its matte black finish emblazoned with the fiery insignia of Liu in the center. Gingerly stepping on the back of her heels, she peeled the shoes from her feet and sauntered over to her suitcase, plopping herself on the ground and undoing the zipper with one, quick flick of her arm. Behind her, she could make out the tired yawn of the black-haired Fixer as she crawled out of the bed, her drunken stupor and immense fatigue threatening to pull her back onto the bed and keep her there for the rest of the night.
“Ceciiiii…” Mei moaned, trying to wipe the sand from her eyes. “C’mon, you said we’d share another drink when we got back.”
“Another drink, Mei?” Cecil quipped, an incredulous smirk plastered over her face. She cocked an eyebrow as she cast a sideways glance at the girl teetering back and forth on the edge of the bed, her eyes locking on the half-naked Cecil and then to her own ruffled, beer-stained suit. Cecil’s attention turned back to her belongings, the quiet room occasionally punctuated by a slurred “fuck” and the faint tug of fabric as Mei struggled to pull her clothes off of her. Cecil thumbed through the myriad of identically folded, neatly pressed dress shirts, humming contentedly as she spied her target and pulled it free from the suitcase. A loose fitting t-shirt dyed in violet, the visage of the indomitable Sieghart, stalwart and noble Operator of the illustrious Turbulence Office, plastered across its front from collar to hip in an elaborate, borderline garish illustration of the Steel Determination clad in his amethyst armor and bearing his signature katana.
I mean of course she was a fan. Who wasn’t a fan of Turbulence Office in the City?
Slipping the shirt on with a single, fluid motion, she pressed the ball of her foot on the toe of her socks one after the other, pulling them off with two quick flicks of her leg before sliding her pants down, quickly replacing them with a modest pair of shorts. She sat back and yawned as she slammed the suitcase shut with the heel of her foot, the lithe and soft carpet beneath her easing her into a dreamy, alluring slumber. Blinking away the exhaustion weighing down her eyelids, she clambered over to the second suitcase, a vibrant and flamboyant crimson with the Liu insignia covered by no less than six different Wing stickers. Even through her bleary vision and drawn out yawns, she could make out the distinct and noticeable bulge in the center. Though as still as a slumbering rock, Cecil’s intuition cautioned her from getting too complacent as she hooked her finger on the zipper and gingerly tugged it close to her.
Naturally, the deluge of clothes that erupted from the suitcase put even the otherworldly EGO of the Library to shame.
Fortunately, the Liu Fixer escaped from her ordeal with little more than an oversized hoodie and a bathing suit crumpled over her face. Plucking the articles of clothing from her face, she gazed upon the devastation with a mixture of irritation and dread, the once pristine and immaculate hotel room now the victim of some impromptu clothing bomb. Of course, Nemo was the one reserving the rooms and Nemo surely would compensate the hotel should the atomic blast of fabric and garments have knocked over anything important.
… Right?
… Lowell totally wouldn’t dock their pay for this, right?
“… Room service is gonna cover this, right?” Mei asked, a brief moment of lucidity crossing her otherwise drunken face.
“I imagine Lowell would get rather pissed if word spread we left a huge mess and expected someone else to clean up after us,” Cecil replied with a sigh, getting up and kicking a small cap into Mei’s already overflowing suitcase. “We’re Liu, after all, not Dieci.”
“Mmmm, you’re gonna help me clean up though, right Ceciiiii?”
Mei’s puppy dog eyes bounced off of Cecil’s unflappable glare. “Why did you even pack all of this garbage, Mei? Why would you even need a hoodie like this?” Cecil’s hand waved up and down the thick, black garment, half an inch thick, the wool concealing no doubt several reinforced fibers and threads that would be able to tank a Thumb bullet, let alone a stray Rat switchblade. “It’s the middle of summer, Mei. Who were you expecting to run into? The maniacs at Azure Blizzard Workshop?” Cecil sighed and tossed the hoodie behind her, listlessly sifting through Mei’s compressed mobile closet. “Come on, help me out here.”
Mei fell back onto the bed with an exhausted plonk, the only movement in her limp body her toes picking at socks and pulling them loose. “C’moooon, Ceci. I got a headaaaaache. I don’t wanna spend all night cleaning your mess uuup.”
“My mess?” Cecil snorted. A balled up skirt sailed in one graceful arc, smacking Mei straight in her face. “Want me to get you some water then?”
“Nnnngh… actually, yeah Ceci…” The Liu Fixer yawned at she snagged the collar of her dress shirt and pulled upward. The fabric crinkled and held fast as she tried in vain to pull the shirt past her chin. Cecil tactfully hid her chuckling smile as she gathered a small pile of Mei’s socks and tossed them into her suitcase, wondering if the girl would remember her dress shirt had buttons. “Water sounds nice, actually…”
“Mmmm, do we have anything in the fridge?” Cecil pondered aloud, turning her attention to the small mini fridge and popping it open. A hodgepodge of bottles and cans was the immediate reply, a series of colors across the spectrum enshrined in crystalline glass and elegantly painted aluminum. She plucked an amber bottle from the side and rolled it between her fingers, the words “Soul-Glad” plastered over the sticker on the front in some old-timey font, likely the marketing scheme of some haughty T Corp schmuck who substituted his business degree for a brain. Still… “Shit, lots of soda and alcohol but… no water.”
“Oooooh, get me one of the beers, Ceci,” Mei drawled, lifting her head weakly up from the plush cushion halfway through consuming her. “Something nice and crisp.”
“You’re gonna feel like shit,” Cecil chided, clicking her tongue before returning the bottle to the fridge and kicking it shut. “Never mind. I think I saw a vending machine on the way. I’ll go get some water.” The Liu Fixer yawned and made her way toward the door, pausing only briefly as her reflection stared back at her through the regal, obscenely large mirror opposite the bathroom’s entrance. Her hairband removed, her hair cascaded down her shoulders and back in an unbridled and disheveled golden waterfall, its brilliant luster matching well with the subdued violet hue of her t-shirt. A couple of nicks and scratches alongside fainter scars ran down her forearms and legs, enough to betray her profession but so few as to retain a type of dainty beauty. She squinted and tilted her foot up, the sapphiric nail polish shimmering in the entryway’s lights. It was an innocent enough bet; Mei’d grabbed a set of complementary red and blue nail polish after an extended stint in Nest O. The winner got to chose what color they got through a simple game of chess.
Unfortunately for Cecil, she learned too late Mei was apparently some Beholder-blessed prodigy back when she was in Section 3.
Right, the water. Her eyes darted back and forth between the mirror and the doorway, wondering if the casual, unkempt appearance of an off-duty Liu Fixer would sully the name of Section 2. She could always throw on one of the Liu capes and dart back to the room if need be. Then again, was it even likely that anyone would still be awake this late? She pursed her lips as she stared back at the pensive girl in the mirror, her toes anxiously digging into the carpet and her fingers pressed into the sides of her chin.
Wait fuck right.
She leapt over to her suitcase, fishing out the neatly folded pair of dress pants she’d put into place. Rummaging hurriedly through its pockets, she quickly procured a small, compact wallet, the black leather matching the stellar black of the Liu Association. She plopped it into the far looser pockets of her shorts before making her way to the room’s entrance. Paying no heed to the reflection that no doubt was ready to paralyze the blonde in indecision once again, she darted through the narrow entrance and back into the hallway, spinning on her heel and briskly walking down the empty corridor.
Well, almost empty. Shit.
Skidding to a stop, she fished her phone out of her pocket, the screen flickering to life with a dull glow and reflecting a pale “1:27” just above one of the many Liu group photos she’d cycled through for backgrounds. She already felt her eyelids drooping staring at the time; not even the most dedicated or work-obsessed Fixers would linger this long past midnight. Unless the Shi were on the prowl, the only people you’d ever expect to run into this late at night would be the most zealous or the most fanatical. The long, white, immaculately polished cloak draped over the sole man in front of her, however, left Cecil with a mix of dread and annoyance. There were few crazy enough to wander around this late at night, and the Index were certainly among those chosen few. Standing as rigid as a wax statue, the Index Proxy lingered in front of the unremarkable hotel door, still save for the faint rise and fall of his chest. Nestled snugly in a small clip on the back of his belt, the steel blade jutted out past the Proxy’s cloak in what was either a poor attempt to conceal the weapon or a tactless display of intimidation. Cecil eyed the man warily. The feeling was far from mutual; her very presence appeared about as unimportant as the row after row of gaudy flower vases that lined the walls.
A Proxy. Long, black hair. A medium-length rectangular whose hilt always rested underneath the man’s palm. If the blonde remembered the myriad debriefing sessions on the Library incident well, this should have been one of those that had fallen to the Library. Esther, was it? The Proselytes alone were already a headache for any Fixer; one second they’d greet you and give you their life savings and the next they would attempt to rip your throat out from the back of your neck, all at the whims of their glorified fortune cookies. Merely approaching a member of the Index was a gamble in it of itself. It didn’t matter if you were a civilian or a fucking Claw; if the Prescripts said something as innocuous as “decapitate the 43rd person that crossed your path this day,” they’d do it in a heartbeat.
If she was thinking clearly, Cecil would’ve gone back for her gear at the room. Hell, maybe she’d just tell Mei to sleep it off and turn in for the night, content in letting the jumpscare of a daunting Index Proxy be enough to ease her to bed. She should have done literally anything else. Absolutely no one would have blamed her for turning right around and just crawling under the covers and telling Mei to suck it up when the headaches and nausea finally came to bite the girl in the ass.
But before she could stop herself, she cleared her throat. The Index Proxy’s eyes flicked over to her. The girl froze, an overwhelming pressure seizing every single muscle and paralyzing her where she stood. Her instincts should have been to cover her neck, to back away quickly, to take one of those overly extravagant paintings hanging on the wall and chuck it at the Proxy in a desperate attempt to draw his attention away from her. Her heartbeat quickened, anticipating a sudden and inexplicable fight for the Fixer’s life, yet her bones may as well have been welded steel.
“… Cecil, was it?” the Proxy asked, giving a curt nod. “Esther. Index Proxy. You were fighting in the tournament earlier today, weren’t you?”
She returned the nod in turn, her faint, professional smile hiding the anxiety crawling underneath her skin. “Yes, I was. Are you in the middle of one of your Prescripts, Proxy?”
“Of course. We must always do as the Prescript wills.” His hand dipped into his cloak, procuring a small slip of paper, barely longer than his index finger. “’To Esther. Stare at Door 1472 and repeat the first 20 digits of pi 3 times. If you are interrupted, greet this person warmly and instead converse with them.’”
“W-Well, that’s a… pretty innocuous request,” Cecil chuckled, feeling a bit more at ease… keyword “a bit.” “I don’t suppose that the Prescript didn’t have some fine print saying to take that person’s left ear or something like that, right?”
“Nothing of that sort, no,” Esther replied. If the Proxy was aware of the dubious reputation surrounding the Index and their utterly random commanders, he did a good job of hiding his discontent… or his smug amusement. “The Prescript simply commands I give my rapt attention to this door, and thus I have done so.”
“Uh… huh,” Cecil rubbed the back of her head, her sheepish smile hiding the second-hand embarrassment beginning to bubble to the surface. Her bare feet skirted across the carpet as she gave a wide berth to the Proxy, lest another Prescript suddenly order him to tear out the tongue of the next blonde girl he lays his eyes upon. “Well, as long as the Index aren’t going to cause any trouble for the citizens of the Nest, the rest of the Associations won’t cause any trouble.” She paused, her face scrunching up in wonder. “… Actually, what are you guys doing here? I thought the Proxies were always busy carrying out Prescripts.”
“You would be correct, Cecil,” the Proxy replied curtly. Yet another Prescript appeared in his hand, as though he was beginning to conjure them from the very ether. “To Esther, Gloria, Hubert, and all Proselytes under their command. Attend the festivities held by Cane Office. The level of participation is left to your discretion. Avoid unnecessary conflict.”
“That’s… a surprisingly tame Prescript,” Cecil admitted, peering over at the small paper. Sure enough, the neat and eloquent handwriting that detailed each and every Prescript were identical to the Proxy’s word. She squinted and brought her face closer, as though she might divine some hidden message from the enigmatic word of the Index’s fabled Prescripts. “Do your Prescripts… normally tell you not to kill others?”
“The Prescript tells us as much or as little as is necessary,” Esther said cooly, returning the Prescript to one of the many hidden pockets underneath his cloak. “The Prescript charges us with the attendance of the Cane President’s little show. It is our duty to carry out this task.”
“I see,” Cecil nodded, pursing her lips in thought. “So if, say, Nemo commanded all of the Index members in attendance to, say, ‘take the entire audience hostage,’ you would…?”
“Do not confuse our attendance for obedience, Cecil,” Esther replied tersely, his eyes narrowed in a faint, irritable glare. “We are here to, at a minimum, observe. If the Prescripts tell us to deviate from our course, then only then will we act.”
Ominous. Cecil tactfully kept her thoughts to herself, choosing not to provoke the ire of an Index Proxy. One alone could clash with one of Section 1’s elite Fixers and come away with their arms and legs still attached; Lowell himself nearly lost his life when confronted with an Index Proxy whose Prescript simply read “Kill the first Liu Fixer you see.” A veteran of the Library and an Index Proxy was way above the weight class Cecil usually got into scuffles with. … Besides, unlike her Liu uniform, this novelty Turbulence Office t-shirt was decidedly not stab-proof. Finally putting herself a fair distance away from the Proxy, she turned on her heel, spying a vending machine just at the next bend.
“A word, Cecil.”
She stopped mid-stride, the authoritative tone of the Proxy’s voice like a chain around her neck. Each muscle in her body tensed up as she cast her gaze back, half-expecting the Proxy’s polished blade to be aimed toward her neck. Indeed, the Proxy discarded his vigil of the hotel door, now a towering, imposing presence that made the girl feel quite small in comparison. Her hand instinctively reached out, her fingers barely cresting the nearby wall. It would be a tight fit, her eyes fixating on the space between Esther and the two walls to either side, but if she dove into a slide on the opposite side of Esther’s swing, she might clear right past him before he could turn and stab her in the back.
Probably.
It was, admittedly, not the best plan. A gruesome image flashed before her eyes of blood spurting from her mouth, her back ripped asunder by five swift strokes carved in the elegant shape of the Index’s aconitum. She could turn and flee, maybe find Chun or Xiao or Lowell or any of the myriad other Associations taking up residence in the hotel currently. There was definitely enough room between her and the Proxy to give herself some breathing room, right?
A cough. Cecil blinked, locking eyes with Esther as the Proxy folded his arms, cocking his eyebrow in confusion. “Are you alright? You appeared to have zoned out.”
“Y-Yeah, just a bit tired,” she said sheepishly, rubbing the back of her head. The Proxy’s blade was decidedly snug in its sheath and not currently jamming itself through the blonde’s ribs, so his intentions were probably cordial. Probably. “Did you need something?”
“My colleagues and I were going to meet up at the pool after this Prescript. Would you be interested in joining us?”
Silence pervaded the empty hall. Cecil slid her fingers behind her wrist and pinched, expecting to wake up in a black hotel room to Mei’s drunken snoring. Naught but the Proxy’s piercing stare, so diametrically opposed to such an innocuous invitation, was there to greet her. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to seek medical attention for the Proxy so suffering from a mental break that she simply stood in abject, apparent confusion, her dry throat trying to choke out some type of response to Esther’s otherwise normal and polite request.
“Y-You’re gonna have to run that by me again,” Cecil said finally, wrinkling her nose as if to discern some hidden gas leak. “Did you just invite me to go… swimming with you guys?”
“You don’t have to swim if you’re not interested in that sort of thing,” Esther replied nonchalantly, completely unphased by his request. “Gloria will simply be lounging with the others since she cannot swim.”
“This isn’t, like, part of some elaborate Prescript, is it?” Cecil squinted, trying to catch even the slightest tell in the unflappable Proxy’s expression. “Not gathering every fourth Fixer into the same room so you can shove them down a storm drain?”
“This is part of attending the festivities, so in a way, we are fulfilling the will of the Prescripts.” Esther’s reply was as banal and as emotionless as ever. “But I suspect that was not what you were implying.”
“It’s just… weird hearing this from a Syndicate member, of all people,” Cecil admitted, her bafflement turning to slight embarrassment as felt Esther’s judging eyes boring into her. “Not like we have the most cordial relationship out in the Backstreets or anything.”
“The past is transient to the Prescripts. They care only for what they request from the present.” A subtle twitch. As Cecil’s face lit up in embarrassment, she barely caught the faint smirk hidden underneath the white cape of the Proxy. “Pray tell, did you not bring a bathing suit for the occasion?”
“I, uh… may have been talked into it by my… friend,” she said, her voice a low and defeated murmur. “I wasn’t actually… expecting to get any use out of it, honestly. Thought we’d just be bouncing between the tournament venue and the hotel all week.”
“To my knowledge, Cecil, you aren’t slated for a match until a couple days from now,” Esther pointed out. His analytical gaze now fell on the Liu Fixer, a faint but nonetheless distinct irritation bubbling just underneath her red face as she stood under the unflinching, unbroken vigil of the Proxy. “Besides, as fellow veterans of the Library, I’m sure we share some camaraderie in that regard.”
The Library. Cecil’s toes dug into the carpet, a chill running down her spine as the metallic, unceasing crunch of gears echoed faintly in her memory. The visage of a violet, starry sky turning black haunted her clenched eyes as those deafening gunshots threatened to overwhelm her senses.
“… So, did the Index punish you guys for failing your Prescript to go to the Library?” Cecil asked solemnly, her eyes locking with the Proxy’s.
Esther clicked his tongue then chuckled, his stoic face momentarily splashed with an unfitting display of elation. “The Prescripts asked we only travel to the Library. It never said anything regarding our success.”
Cecil snorted. As was the case with every other Index matter she’d skimmed through, she wasn’t sure if the Index’s outlook was cynical, fatalist, or completely psychotic. Still. Her eyes flicked back to the vending machine at its lonely post, then to Esther. “… Can you give me a minute? Mei – my friend’s still waiting me to get her a drink, then I’ll get dressed.”
The Proxy nodded. He turned his attention back to Door 1472. Stepping forward, he produced a small keycard and slid it into the lock. The door chirped and beeped, its locks disengaging with a silent hum as it creaked open. Cecil’s blank stare would have drawn a laugh from even the most humorless man as Esther turned back to regard her.
“I’ll gather my own things then and see you downstairs,” Esther said.
The scattered and fried thoughts swimming around in Cecil’s head composed themselves for one strangled question. “… Were you staring at your own door for this long?”
“The Prescripts asked that I observe this door,” Esther replied simply, turning to leave. “It just so happened to be mine.”
And with a terse slam, the door shut closed, leaving a befuddled Fixer with a slight headache.
The lush, if gaudy carpet of the hotel floor soon gave way to row upon row of immaculately polished tiles, their cerulean hue awash in wet footprints as the soft murmuring of the hotel pool intermingled with the light conversation permeating the atmosphere. Cecil’s hand tightened around the clasp of her Liu cape, the thick, embroidered fabric the only thing shielding her bare body from prying eyes. Of course it was completely silly to feel embarrassment from being exposed at a pool; that was whole point, but she usually had the indomitable presence of Xiao, Chun, or Lowell drawing attention away from the unremarkably plain Liu Fixer.
Mmm, Lowell. Her fingertips reddened as they pressed into the clasp of the cape, digging the metal into her palm. No star in Liu burned brighter, of course. Seldom did Section 2 get any vacation from the endless requests that had them entrenched in the squalor and muck of the Backstreets, but she still recalled those fleeting moments vividly like they were but yesterday. His elegant form as he emerged from the glistening pool, water cascading down his sparkling face and down his rippling, chiseled abs. His twinkling, unblemished face, accented by the streams of radiant water running down his cheeks and glowing under the rays of an unmarred sun. His smacking lips as he gave a hearty laugh, his voice like nectar to the swooning Fixer’s ears. His lips as they met the lucky Xiao’s as the two embraced in the middle of the pool. Her lips that intertwined with his, drinking in that succulent, heavenly taste.
By the Wings, if she could even have just a fleeting taste, she might die from sheer euphoria…
“Cecil?”
Cecil shrieked – or rather, a startled yelp escaped her throat before she bit down hard on her tongue, stumbling back as she was shaken from her vibrant daydreams. Her mind returned to the expansive hotel pool, a multitude of eyes pinning her down like the omniscient reach of the Beholders. Her face redder than the cape shielding body, she bowed her head and hastily brushed past the inquisitive Index Proxy that had so nonchalantly torn her from her fantasies. Esther cocked an eyebrow as he followed behind. Much like the Liu Fixer, the flowing, white cape of the Index still hung from his shoulders, though while the embroidered, crimson silk was drawn across Cecil’s body and pulled tight like a pair of blinds, the bare and chiseled chest of the veteran Proxy was framed exquisitely by the cloak, while the black pair of swimming trunks seemed uncharacteristically casual by contrast. Were it not for the unsubtle sheath of his blade still jutting out from behind, it might have looked like a pale imitation of one of the Index’s fabled Proxies rather than the real deal.
As the momentary lull gave way to the continued chatter of the attending guests, Cecil bashfully poked her gaze up through her hair draped across her face. Unsurprisingly, the number in attendance was rather sparse, a small but diverse potpourri of Fixers and Syndicate grunts alike that, save but for one collective, traumatizing experience, would otherwise have looked like they were assembled from drawing names from a hat. At the far side of the pool, a familiar face caught Cecil’s attention, the youthful and vibrant Fixer from Liu Section 1 practically cutting through the water with his magnificent form, his black locks sticking to his cheeks while the pool lights and water made his muscles practically glisten. It didn’t particularly surprise her to learn that Chun was still out and about this late. The second figure trailed behind, kicking up far less of a splash with her wide and lithe strokes. Cecil rubbed her eyes for a second before squinting, almost not recognizing Chun’s swimming partner. Clad in a slim and skintight one-piece swimsuit, its black texture accented by viridian trimming that exquisitely followed a figure that belonged more to a J Corp card dealer than a veteran Fixer, the newly promoted Seven Association Section 3 Director seemed almost lackadaisical as she followed behind Chun. Cecil got the impression that Dante wasn’t exerting herself to her fullest, content merely to gauge the limits of the Liu Fixer’s strength. But then again, that was very typical Seven Association behavior.
Off to the side, Cecil’s eyes followed Esther as he neared a small hot tub placed a fair distance away, the faint wisps of steam still billowing from its clear waters. She recognized the first of two partaking in its refreshing waters, pale skin alongside platinum hair that fell down past her neck and dipped underneath the tub’s surface. The file sounded completely absurd when Cecil skimmed through it; a Fixer from Wedge Office who got torn apart by the 8 o’Clock Circus, was hastily retrofitted into a cloned body from one of her co-workers, then proceeded to die in her next job? She still couldn’t wrap her mind around her release from the Library technically being a second lease on life, let alone imagining what it would be like to be on your third. The girl alongside Pameli, much like Esther before, eluded her at first. Bronze skin, faint violet highlights in her brunette hair, a pair of glasses, a voluptuous chest modestly displayed in her two-piece swimsuit. She remembered seeing her on the files for the Thumb. The name was… something. Kat? Kathy? Katriel? It was the third one, right? Kathy sounded stupid.
Rounding off the bizarre entourage of guests was easily their most distinctive. A hulking behemoth that towered over Esther and Chun and… quite frankly anyone else that may have been staying in the hotel. The massive Index cloak that was emblematic of the Proxies covered her entire massive form save for her head, a skinny, cylindrical slab of metal with a single opening cut into its center. A red eye dully glowed in the receptacle, changing into a jovial, green triangle as she greeted the approaching Proxy. “Oh, Esther! You managed to get her to come~! Heeeey Cecil! You looked great in today’s match~!”
“Y-Yeah, thanks…” Cecil said, rubbing the back of her head sheepishly. She was used to praise from some of the other Liu Fixers and even some of the Backstreets denizens, but for an Index Proxy to shower her with such praise was… definitely a new experience. “Gloria, was it? I’m happy to have put on a great show for you.”
“It truly was fantastic~!” the metallic Proxy cheered, bouncing (… was it bouncing? Was this thing capable of bouncing?) up and down like a giddy child. “The only other time I saw something so interesting was watching you gawk aimlessly into space just a few minutes ago~!”
A pained smile flashed across Cecil’s face. She’d missed the part in the dossiers where the Proxies specialized in inflicting emotional damage.
“You gonna stand there all day like some kinda idiot?” a sharp voice caught Cecil’s attention, pulling her out of her embarrassed stasis. An unamused Pameli rested her cheek on her propped-up arm, staring at Cecil like she was some displaced Grade 9 Fixer that had stumbled into an Urban Plague request. “You’re clearly dressed down, so you did come here to dip your toes in the water, right?”
“I mean… yes…” Cecil bit her lip, shying away from the Wedge Fixer’s piercing stare. It was a stupid question; of course she didn’t care. She was just so very… ordinary that pulling the cape away might just disappoint those who may have been interested in the Liu girl’s physique. Hell, even compared to Chun, she might as well have been just another faceless civilian who’d come to share the pool with the illustrious survivors of the enigmatic Library.
But she’d look stupid if she just left the cape on, of course. Act cool, Cecil. She repeated that phrase over and over to herself in her head as she made her way to one of the nearby pool chairs, unhooking the clasp on her cape and letting it drop onto its head. Two pairs of eyes settled on the girl as she bashfully returned to the hot tub, unmet by the blushing Liu Fixer. No longer restrained by her hairband or dissuaded by her cloak, her blonde hair ran freely down her shoulders and settled just above her breasts like a golden waterfall terminating at the entrance of a brilliant canyon. An impressed smile spread over the Thumb Capo’s face while, beside her, the entranced Wedge Fixer’s stare quickly morphed into disdain as her head whipped back and forth between Cecil and Katriel.
“What the hell?” she muttered under her breath, her hand sliding down her own chest. “Did it have to be an exact clone of Pamela’s body? Lucky bastards…”
“Didn’t Oscar tell you it’s rude to stare?” Cecil retorted, vaulting over the edge and sliding herself next to the simmering Wedge Fixer.
“Didn’t-I’m 29, you bitch,” Pameli snarled, flicking a handful of water in Cecil’s face. “He’s our boss, not my dad. What, you think I’m the youngest here?”
The Liu Fixer snorted and wiped her face clean, the piercing spear that was Pameli’s glare parried by Cecil’s fiery gaze. “I’m 30.”
Katriel stuck up her fingers, three on one hand and four on the other.
“… Whatever,” Pameli grumbled, slinking further into the depths of the steamy waters. “This isn’t my body anyway. I just got robbed is all.”
Cecil sighed and giggled as she slunk into the waters herself, her worries and unease evaporating like the simmering water lapping on her shoulders. Her two piece bathing suit was, as Mei liked teasing her for, both incredibly expected and on the cusp of being boring. Dyed a striking crimson, it accentuated the blonde’s fair skin, causing even the aloof and composed Miris to take pause. Of course, this was nothing compared to her fellow Fixers. What Mei lacked in stature or in volume, she more than made up for with her exuberant and boundless energy, a magnetic personality that could wrap the entire Association around her finger. And even Mei was little more than an ember compared to Xiao, her beauty simply beyond words.
But that was that, and this hot tub was heavenly. She yawned and interlocked her fingers before stretching her arms above her head, casting her eyes to the other two. The indignant Pameli was still half-submerged in the steaming tub, lolling about like an overripe potato, leaving only the quiet Katriel. The Thumb Capo’s eyes flicked up as Cecil’s gaze lingered on her and she adjusted her glasses, waving her hand in a circular motion and mouthing some muted annoyance.
“Sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?” Cecil asked, reclining back in the tub.
Katriel tilted her head, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips. The slight flash of irritation flicked across her face, a momentary stint that should have been accompanied by some caustic remark before it faded, leaving the capo to sigh and shake her head.
Now it was Cecil who shared the confusion, leaning in in wonder. “Erm, are you mute or something?”
The capo rolled her eyes before opening her mouth, sharply gesturing at her empty maw. Nothing but darkness could be seen before she brought it closed with a long and unamused puff of air. Cecil leaned back, mentally rummaging through whatever files she could recall of the Syndicate branches. It was common knowledge that the Thumb were strict with their rules and their chain of command; attempting to defy the established structure or directly insulting some higher in rank than you was often grounds for punishment.
“Oh, I think I see…” Cecil said finally, a tinge of embarrassment visible in her pink cheeks.
“What, took you that long to figure out she’s mute?” Pameli sighed, flicking some water at the blushing Liu Fixer. “Yeah, she’s mute because someone took her tongue out.”
“R-Right…” Cecil buried her face in her knees, hoping to ward away Katriel’s unamused glare. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, ah, bring up any sensitive memories.”
The Thumb Capo shook her head, dismissively waving her hand. She followed with a nonchalant shrug, miming her tongue getting ripped from her mouth with all the levity of a novice street performer. The levity was not reciprocal, the Liu Fixer practically stewing in embarrassment as she sunk lower and lower into the hot tub. There the three sat, the perplexed Katriel cocking an eyebrow as Cecil imitated a wilted stem of broccoli, the Liu Fixer nearly submerged entirely under the crystalline waters.
“So, how’d you die then?”
Cecil perked up, the sudden inquiry jolting her free from her flustered reclusion. The two girls turned to a somber Pameli as she yawned and slouched into her propped up arm, her eyes cloudy and her gaze looking out past the pool and toward the Outskirts far out of sight. She sighed and pulled her knees up, hugging them close to her chest. “It was that one brunette. Short hair, quiet voice, looked like she walked straight outta a K Corp office. Seemed like a bit of a joke that she was trotted out next to Zwei Fixers and Kurokumo grunts.”
She clicked her tongue, her fingernails digging into her shins. “… She apologized when she got me. Shoved that blade of her just clean through my new heart. It was such a joke, such a fucking joke. If I could get my hands on her, I’d strangle her. I dropped my spear and I was trying… so hard to get her throat. I wanted to hold her down and ask her why the fuck she thought she was sorry for killing me.”
The pool grew eerily quiet, save for the soft bubbling of the hot tub and the occasional splashes of the blissfully oblivious Liu Fixer and Seven Director. The shuffle of flip flops and the scraping of metallic feet echoed behind Cecil, yet for some reason they felt like they were a distant memory, a faint dream that she only barely recalled as she drifted in and out of slumber. Once again, she saw that virulent, violet sky, the cogs of some ethereal machine turning and grinding endlessly in the background. She heard the sound of tearing flesh, of shattered steel, of dying cries as Section 2 crumbled around her.
She once again saw Lowell’s face as it turned back to her and smiled, blood dripping from the sides of his mouth as his ragged body dissolved into wisps of light.
“The Patron Librarian of Technological Sciences. Yesod, I think that was his name.” Her voice was barely a whisper, muted with awe and tinged with regret. “More of a monster than a man. He just… they just tore right through us. We could deal with the Blade Lineage, the Rusted Chains, the Disciples of Salah ad-Din, the Laundry of Dreams. We always came out of it beaten, bloody, but we’d always come out of it. Urban Nightmare tasks were basically a chore at that point.”
Her toes curled. Cecil’s head rolled back onto the edge of the tub, her blonde hair splayed out in disheveled, messy strands that clung to her cheeks and listlessly bobbed up and down in the aquamarine waters. She stared up at the crystalline chandeliers and the gaudy moldings that ran across the sides of the ceiling. With every blink, she saw a flash of that violet sky. “… Are all Stars truly as monstrous? Or was the Library just so uniquely… powerful? Imposing?”
“I think the word you’re looking for is fucked up, Cecil,” Pameli finished, chuckling softly. “Urban Plague my ass. There were people wearing Salvador’s skin. Not some weird facsimile or some kinda imitation. No, that was his body. They mirrored him to a tee. It was like someone tore his head off and grafted some rando’s head to it.”
A faint splash. The two Fixers were drawn to the mute capo as she wordlessly mimed the length of a modest sword, just shy of the length of her own arm. She ran a hand through her hair, running her fingers from scalp to tip, before swaying her body back and forth like in a drunken stupor. She seized up suddenly as she gesticulated to her chest, abruptly shoving the imagined blade just below her breasts. Katriel sighed and reclined back in the hot tub, sheepishly shrugging.
“Mmmm,” Cecil nodded, an unspoken comradery shared between the three. Her hand absentmindedly wandered down her back, fingertips brushing past the strap of her swimsuit and gingerly stroking the outline of her spine. It felt firm under her fingers, pleasantly free of the sticky, hot coating of blood spurting from her skin or the jagged blade that had torn right through her. She smacked her lips and shook off the fleeting image of that bleak, violet sky, looking back toward Pameli. “Alright, my turn then. What happened when you woke up?”
“Woke up, huh?” Pameli whistled and cast her head up, lost in thought. “Angela must’ve thought she was some kind of comedian because she dropped me off in the middle of a Sweeper nest. Sweepers. Least she was kind enough to remember to leave me my spear otherwise it’d be some sort of sick joke to drop me off in the middle of the City’s landfill so I could get recycled into paste.”
“So you fought your way out, huh?” Cecil echoed Pameli’s whistle, eyes sparkling in enrapturement. “Damn, that’s pretty badass.”
“Well fortunately she seemed to shit me out during the Night in the Backstreets so it was remarkably empty in there,” Pameli said, beaming with confidence. “What about you, Cecil? Did Miss Director plop you out in an ice cream stand and call it a day?”
“Hah, I wish,” Cecil chuckled, shaking her head. “Same shitty luck as you, ‘cept instead it was a dingy little Ring studio. Was barely awake before they trussed me up and tried to prepare me as a model for one of their little pointillism exhibits.”
“Whooo, the Ring?” Pameli leaned in, fully immersed in Cecil’s off-handed tale. “Well, you’re clearly not a dismembered corpse hanging in pieces from some shabby apartment. How’d you get outta that mess?”
“They were pretty bad at knots,” Cecil said matter-of-factly, accompanying her words with a shrug. “I don’t think they realized who they were dealing with until I smashed the one asshole’s skull in.”
“Funny,” Pameli grinned. “And once the others figured out they were fucking with a Grade 2?”
Cecil crackled her knuckles, reciprocating the Wedge Fixer’s smug grin with her own. “Well, I used to sketch as a kid. Felt kinda nice to try it again after so long.”
“Nice.”
Katriel nodded, giving a thumbs-up.
"Esther, Esther~!" A gleeful voice snagged the trio's attention, the perpetually cheerful Gloria popping her head just above Cecil's. "Ooooh, why don't you tell your story~? It was really funny, wasn't it~?"
"It wasn't anything particularly interesting, Gloria," the Proxy scoffed, turning to lean over the back of the small pool chair he was lounging in, a small doujin teetering back and forth between his fingertips. "There's no need to interrupt their conversation."
"Well, you can't just bring that up and then leave us hanging," Pameli said, snagging the Proxy's attention with a snap of her fingers and a flick of steaming water as he began to return to his book. "C'mon, then. We gave you your free entertainment. Don't wimp out on us now."
"I don't remember ever agreeing to this exchange," Esther said pointedly, a small glimmer of irritation barely visible in his narrowed eyes.
"I didn't see you leaving, now did I?" the Wedge Fixer shot back, crossing her arms and pouting like a girl upset her parents refused to buy her a tub of U Corp’s succulent sea salt ice cream. "What, did you manifest in the girl's bathroom or something?"
Esther sighed and massaged his forehead with two fingers, his once unphased stoicism tinged with a miniscule but nonetheless poignant annoyance. "It was in the Backstreets of one of the eastern Wings, I believe. Some of our fellow proselytes came across me and drew their blades. A Messenger had recently delivered to them a Prescript to slay the 54th person they came across. I happened to be such a person."
"Your own men... tried to kill you?" Cecil blinked, a mixture of abject horror and confusion mixing in her face. Katriel stole a glance, her index finger circling the side of her head as she mouthed the familiar call of a cuckoo clock. "That's... I'm sorry. I can't begin to imagine how it must've felt to-"
"There is nothing to apologize for, Cecil," he cut her off, waving off the blonde's concerns. "We do as the Prescripts ask. If the proselytes were tasked with my death, then it was their solemn duty to do so."
"That's all well and good, but you look pretty alive and breathing where I'm standing," Pameli scoffed, drinking in the incredulity of the tale like a cheap vodka. "What, your little horoscope didn't include instructions for ritualistic seppuku?"
"The Prescripts were silent as to my actions follow the Library," Esther said simply, his voice returning to its calm and measured tone. "I was free to do as I wished. Tell me, Cecil. Would you not raise your blade if some belligerent stranger tried to mug you in the streets?"
"W-Wait." The girl furrowed her brow, cupping her opened mouth with her hand. "So you just cut them down? You didn't try to reason with them?"
"You sound surprised. Are our actions truly so shocking to you?"
"I mean... our guys've had some disagreements, sure. But..." Cecil shook her head, trying to process the absolute madness recited as candidly as a simple trip to a K Corp pharmacy. "Is there no seniority in the Index? You're telling me they didn't seriously skip a beat trying to kill you? Or that you were just... perfectly fine cutting them down?"
"The only thing we share with the sticklers of the Thumb is our unflinching adherence to our cause," the Proxy replied with a shrug. "We care not for titles nor for imagined authority based on our arbitrary length of service to the Prescripts. Save for the Messengers that deliver the word of the Prescript, our actions are dictated by the Prescript, its word guiding us as harmoniously as-"
A sudden splash of water cut off the Proxy, dousing him in an unwelcome splatter of steam. An unamused Katriel lowered her arm, the two Syndicate members sharing a glare that would've given any ordinary Nest egg a heart attack. Cecil's eyes nervously shot between the two, suddenly remembering a passing line in the many files in the Liu database that the Fingers' respect for one another was only ever "begrudgingly."
"Now now, Esther~" Gloria cooed, patting the simmering Proxy on the head with her claw. "The Thumb lady didn't mean it like that~. There's no need to get bent out of shape over a small misunderstanding!"
Cecil breathed a sigh of relief. At least there was someone among the Index with a lick of sense.
"After all, she clearly knows that you'd rip her entrails out and hang her by them if she ever dared to piss you off~!"
Are you fucking kidding me?
Cecil hurriedly turned to her only remaining salvation. Brushing locks of dripping, wet hair from face, Pameli caught the frantic Liu Fixer's gaze and nodded, giving her a thumbs-up and turning to Katriel, clapping her on the shoulder. "You gonna take that crap from those Index shits?"
Every bone in Cecil's body restrained itself from drowning that idiot in the hot tub there and then.
“Relax, you two. The magnanimous Cane President gave us free reign over the hotel’s amenities as a courtesy for our participation in his little escapade. It’s probably not a good idea to test our benefactor’s patience.”
Lighter in tone and practically muted in comparison to Gloria’s and Pameli’s jeers, yet her words were as precise and surgical as the rapier she oft wore at her waist. The two Syndicate officers turned their sights on a smirking Dante as she approached the two, her velvety swimsuit modestly covered by a large, emerald towel. She adjusted the monocle framing her left eye, careful not to leave a single drop of water across its polished, glassy surface, and clicked her tongue, tutting as she stared down two petulant children whose little feelings had gotten hurt. “Besides, I certainly wouldn’t want to be the one who had to report why President Nemo felt the need to rescind some of his perks to the rest of us. I’m sure the Sottocapo would understand, wouldn’t he?”
Katriel wilted like a browning vegetable that’d spent too long in the stew. The Seven Director took no time to admire her work as the Capo sunk deep into the hot tub, greeting the Proxy with a curtsy. “And you, my dear Proxy, must understand causing a fuss would conflict with your Prescript to attend the festivities.”
“The Prescripts said nothing about our attendance being neither amicable nor peaceful,” Esther said curtly, staring down the director nearly a head shorter than him like a wolf sizing up his prey.
“Ah, but if the event were to suffer an unfortunate cancellation due to your reckless actions, would you not be unable to fulfill your Prescript by being unable to attend an event that no longer existed?” she countered, bringing her hand up and rolling her chin along her fingertips, grinning all the while. “Your Prescripts do have a tendency of being rather ambiguous. Would it be wise to bring about more confusion by jeopardizing the event?”
“… Very well,” Esther replied, flicking his eyes toward the book in his hands. Cecil let out a sigh of relief, the tension permeating the air now naught but distant wisps of steam. She rose up and out of the tub, stretching her arms above her head as she approached the Director.
“Director Dante,” she said with a brief curtsy. “Thanks for breaking those two up. I can’t imagine the mess that would’ve happened if an Index Proxy and a Thumb Capo went at each other.”
“There’s no need to worry, Cecil~,” the unphased Gloria chimed in her singsong voice. “Esther’s quite good at cleaning up his messes. There’d barely be a stain on the tiles~!”
“I do not doubt your coworker’s skill, Miss Gloria,” Dante said with a sigh. She briefly shifted her monocle up, the Liu Fixer catching the Director’s eyes rolling before the glare from the lights above hid them from view. “I would ask, though, that all of you refrain from causing any fuss outside of the ring. I already had enough of a heart attack dealing with that Library girl and her unexpected little guardian.”
Cecil pursed her lips, the suffocating atmosphere of the Library suddenly filling the room. Although the enigmatic warrior in pink seemed far less intimidating amidst the dazzling spotlights of the City rather than the otherworldly glow of the Library’s myriad hallways, she’d witnessed enough of the Library’s obscene powers to know that even the faintest shadow could eclipse and blot out the City’s sun. For all they could know, the creature’s perceived failure at Yuna’s hands could be but a ploy to hide Tiphereth’s true potential.
“Has anyone seen that… thing, by the way?” Cecil finally asked. “It can’t have died, right? Tiphereth clearly used its powers during the match.”
“I spoke briefly with Director Mirinae and got access to several of the Library’s and Lobotomy Corporation’s files,” Dante replied, dabbing away a small drop of water running down her cheek with her towel. “I doubt that O-01-04, the Queen of Hatred, could be killed by a lowly Fixer if even Lobotomy Corporation’s own agents were unable to do any permanent damage to it. Chances are it’s simply hidden away or sequestered safely from our prying eyes. Maybe for all we know, she’s hiding in Tiphereth’s head.”
“Hiding in Tiph’s head~,” Gloria’s red eye lit up in an ominous green. “That sounds silly~. Maybe we can cut it open and see if that abnormality is in there~?”
“I did float the idea of transferring Tiphereth to Seven HQ and either interrogating or summarily dissecting her until we could locate the source of O-01-04,” Dante said, shrugging nonchalantly. “Unfortunately, Director Mirinae and her entourage vetoed the idea. They seem to believe that the girl is of no threat to us.”
Cecil bit her lip, noting a subtle drop in the director’s inflection. “So, do you believe that, Director?”
“I believe in the wisdom of my superiors, Ms. Cecil,” she replied pointedly, her distinctive smirk returning. “Whether Tiphereth is truly just the Library’s representative or a ticking time bomb is out of my hands. My only interest now is maintaining the City’s safety.”
What should have been an awkward silence punctuated by the steely grin of the Seven Director was swiftly and thankfully broken by a boisterous, light-hearted laugh. The once smug and unwavering Dante stumbled forward as a hand clamped down on her shoulder and an arm playfully wrapped around her neck, the charming Chun barging between the two. “Hey hey, Cecil! You see how things went with me and Director Dante? She totally didn’t stand a chance, huh?”
“Y-Yeah, you totally showed her,” Cecil said, stifling a laugh. The Seven Director’s legs shook as they scrambled to support the weight of the bulky Liu Fixer, her monocle coming loose and bouncing between her hands as she fumbled to take hold of it. She snatched it as it careened through the air a fourth time, hastily fastening it back into place and narrowing her gaze at the Fixer holding her firmly. Chun’s eyes remained focused on his fellow Liu compatriot, tactfully avoiding the daggers trying to bore their way into his head.
“You certainly were quite a daunting youth, Mr. Chun,” Dante said through gritted teeth, worming herself out of his playful embrace. “Clearly I was no match for you in a one-on-one display of brute strength.”
“I’m quite sure, Director,” he said, sparing a wink and a smirk. “I know the Seven aren’t much in the way of combat. I bet you’d have all sorts of plans laid out if you were trying to be serious, huh?”
“You seem so confident,” she shot back, the glare reflecting off her monocle hiding the devilish glint in her eye. “Is that the self-assured Liu confidence of brazenly charging into all types of fights and expecting it to work out or do you think my strategies are so simple-minded?”
“I don’t know, Director,” he replied in turn with a mocking shrug. “Do you think everyone’s so dense that they’d fall into the simplest pitfalls?”
Ironic that the very same girl that had diffused the simmering tensions between the two Syndicate enforcers now stoked the flames between her and a fellow Fixer. Then again, there was that old saying: “the only people Fixers hate more than Syndicate grunts are other Fixers.” Cecil sighed and, thanking the Wings that it was Chun of all people and not some other Liu Fixer from Section 1 kicking up a fuss, forced a smile on her face. Her giggle may as well have been a stock sound effect hawked by one of those myriad stores in the Backstreets woefully impersonating the fine crafts of the Wings; surely any other Fixer would’ve intuited such a paltry attempt at feigning interest.
Chun was not that kind of Fixer.
“Huh?” Chun’s ears perked up and he spun to meet Cecil. “Oh, yeah, right Cecil! That reminds me, how you holding up? I heard you damn near punched a hole in the infirmary when you woke up.”
“I-I did not ‘punch a hole’ in the infirmary…” Her aggravated retort died in her throat as her eyes tactfully darted away, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “… intentionally, I mean. I just got… surprised is all.”
“Jumpy, are we?” Dante observed, her eyes dressing down the blonde Fixer like she was some specimen splayed out for dissection. “I’d expect better from some of Section 2’s finest. Was there some mishap with the mysterious little collaboration between Cane Office and W Corp regarding the medical assistance given after our cute little spats?”
Cecil shook her head, instinctively clutching her opposite shoulder in a defensive slouch. “No, nothing like that. Just… had a bad dream is all. And, y’know, when I woke up, I saw that one director’s little bodyguard, Roland.”
“Roland?” The sides of Dante’s mouth twisted upward in an enthralled grin as she leaned closer. “The widower of our departed Black Silence, if word from the Hana is to be believed.”
“Ain’t he one of Angela’s patron somethings, too?” Pameli chimed in, eyes sparkling like an inquisitive child. “Wait, so when you said you ‘punched a hole’ or whatever, you mean you-“
“… may have… punched him into the ceiling,” Cecil finished, her voice dying. Her head fell until her dripping hair fully masked her blushing face.
“Nice.”
“Nice.”
“Nice.”
“Nice~.”
“Nice.”
Katriel shot Cecil an approving smile and thumbs-up.
The tension that threatened to suffocate the peculiar gaggle of Fixers and Syndicate grunts alike seemed to dissipate like a foregone dream, replaced by a serene bout of laughter. The blushing Liu Fixer timidly poked her eyes out from through her hair, the spectacle playing out before her weirdly reminiscent of her own coworkers after a grueling expedition to the murky depths of the Backstreets or even out into the forsaken wastes of the Outskirts. By all accounts, the very thought that the Index, the Thumb, the Liu, and the Seven could even reside in the same room together without trying to rip the other’s throat out was more miraculous than even the most sought out Singularities in the Wings’ possession. Yet the Proxy, the Capo, and the Director before her seemed to drink in the hearty revelry without a care in the world, the animosity of the oft cruel and unforgiving City lost for one brief, fleeting moment.
It felt nice. She straightened her back and shared in the laughter herself, the unease and embarrassment all melting away like the faint droplets of water running down her chest. Only the loud clang of the opening doors gave her pause as she raised her arm to wave the newcomer in. Maybe one of the Shi had also received an invitation? Or one of the many small Offices the Library had touched?
“Hmph, what debauchery is this?”
The distinctive, sharp clack of heels against tile shattered the jovial repose as quickly as it began. Neither the recognizable vibrant hues of an Association jacket nor the striking veneer of a Finger cloak adorned the small group that poured through the doors. Black hues of pristinely ironed velvet terminated in pearly white frills, the overly formal attire of a servant that garishly stuck out anywhere that wasn’t deep in the recesses of some disgustingly wealthy mansion. A similar, yet distinctive and quite unwelcome pressure settled in the small pool like a miasma, smothering the fleeting reprieve. Though Esther and Katriel very well may have ripped each other’s throats out without intervention, there was at least the slightest sliver of respect between the two Fingers.
This scorn, however, was void of any warmth.
Eyes slowly drew to the center of the new entourage, the apparent leader sticking out like a gaudy, golden spearhead. Even among Nest eggs his attire was almost offensively flagrant, oversized robes of some obscenely bright violet decorated with an intricate pattern of crisscrossing lacing whose colors haphazardly bounced between the most vibrant reds and the deepest greens. A myriad of golden and silver rings adorned his stubby fingers as he absentmindedly curled his golden beard, looking down on the motley collection of Fixers and Syndicate officers like some vermin that had scurried into the pantry. He paused and, with a gruff and mocking “harumph,” waved over one of the attendants. The female Fixer was but half a head smaller than the towering disaster of ill-fitting monetary indecisions, the maid outfit’s drab and uniform appearance a welcome contrast. Cecil heard of these Fixers from some of the lower sections; Butlers committed to the service of a household or, in some rare instances, to the protection of a piece of property. Some considered it an honor; stable employment among the wealthy elite of the City, freed from the wild, uncertain, and all-too lethal horrors of the world outside those imposing doors.
The opposite was also true, those who thought it lunacy to tie themselves down to a bloodline of ungrateful, delusional yuppies or to live in service of some piece of paper declaring the so-called supposed historical significance of some oversized house. It was of course quite rude and unbecoming to openly state such hostilities to the Butlers who found peace in their new profession and Cecil would never do such a thing, even if it was absolutely true.
“Why exactly is this backalley riffraff taking up space in the pool?” The nobleman’s sneer was low and practically dripping with venom, his auburn eyes looking dowj on the haphazard assembly. His nose wrinkled and the lines across his head and nestled just below his receding hairline multiplied as his attention turned to the two Index Proxies, gagging at the visage of the unsightly blemishes of the Backsteeets. “And… why exactly are these Syndicate scum walking freely in our Nest?”
“Practically oozing charisma there, buddy,” Pameli snorted, her smile widening further as the man’s neck bulged and his face reddened like a ripened tomato. “You make your fortune as a model or an influential speaker? You’d be the prime case study for what not to be when you grow up.”
“You heretical little brat!” one of the Butlers hissed, breaking formation. A small knife shimmered in-between his gloved fingers, its edge sharpened to an immaculate sheen. “The prestige and magnanimity of the D'Alençons far eclipses your worthless and insignificant bloodline.”
A glowering Dante cut off the Butler mid-stride, deftly plucking the knife from his fingers and twirling it around her own before locking it between her middle and forefinger. Her smile radiated that overconfident smugness characteristic of the newly anointed Director, though a venomous glint shone in her hazel eyes. Her cool, chilling tone made the Butler step back, his face awash in sweat. “Now now, there. I’m sure all of us can get along quite well. No need to do something we’ll regret now, hm~?”
A pair of slender fingers dug into the impulsive Butler’s shoulder, pulling the fumbling Fixer back into the throe with a flick of the wrist. The personal attendant to the nobleman swiftly took his place, her dainty smile matching Dante’s in splendor, in grace, and in suffocating hubris. She curtsied as she approached the Director, her velvet heels dancing around the cracks of the tiles as if on instinct. Golden embroidery ran down the laces of her dress and accentuated her cufflinks while a shimmering, shining trio of blade lilies were nestled just below the collar, the fleur-de-lis taken as the heraldry of an ancient and prominent family in Nest F. She absentmindedly ran a finger across the lace headpiece and down her golden locks, as if meticulously seeking and patting down even the smallest stray strand. Her eyes met Dante’s, a sparkling gold to the director’s baseborn brown. “Director Dante, am I not mistaken? Consorting with such vile, uncouth dregs as these Backstreets seems quite unbefitting the meticulous and refined standards of the Seven. Surely you’d agree that these subhumans should clear the way for us, don’t you?”
The Butler’s voice seemed abnormally high-pitched, a spring breeze sharpened to the point where it could cleave entire trees in twain. “I’m not exactly buddy buddy with either the Index or the Thumb,” Dante snorted, adjusting her monocle with a nudge of her finger. “But I’m pretty sure it’s common courtesy not to just kick people out when they’re enjoying the amenities provided for them.”
“Ah, yes, the so-called Library privilege afforded to the rejects that got killed by some metallic abomination and her band of unimposing idiots.” The airquotes accentuating the Butler’s tone caused the Director to grind her teeth. “Tell me, did the City intervene because the so-called Pale Librarian was truly becoming a blight upon our fair metropolis or because the Head was embarrassed so many of its renowned Associations were being eradicated by some walking popcorn machine?”
“Admittedly, it must be quite difficult for a busybody stay-at-home trophy like you to understand the threat a Star of the City can pose,” Dante shot back, levying her smirk as she saw a vein bulge in the Butler’s neck. “I’m sure the dust and dishes that you must deal with every day have dulled your senses. It’s quite a shame that some Fixers feel the need to waste their glory years serving at the beck and call of a bunch of indulgent Nest eggs, or maybe you feel right at home nipping at your master’s heels like some kind of neutered pup?”
The jarring clank of metal shattered the tension pinning Fixer and Syndicate officer alike. A bloodied knife hovered inches away from Dante’s face, held in place by the pilfered knife from the first Butler. A frenzy of activity exploded around the Director and the Butler, their outstretched arms held in gridlock as the blades jerked back and forth, the silvery tip but inches away from Dante’s face. A duo of Butlers flanked the dutiful assailant, daggers unsheathed from the sleeves of their jackets, only to come to a screeching halt mid stride as the twin Liu Fixers rose in support, the water dripping from their bodies boiling away as a fire ignited right underneath their skin. A plethora of frantic and sloppy footsteps echoed behind the Butlers as the flustered nobleman receded into his nest of stalwart Fixers, cold sweat dripping from his brow.
“Y-You harlot!” he spluttered, clutching at a gaudy pendant bouncing up and down from his thick neck. “Attacking Miss Elly in such a vile and repugnant manner! I can have your name stricken from the Associations for this assault!”
“Miss… Elly, was it?” Dante said, tilting her head. A whimsical smile crept across her face. “Director Dante, as your service. I do think it’s a common courtesy to share pleasantries before a kill.”
“It would impugn my service not to reciprocate such kindness,” the Butler replied, her smile carrying all the kindness of a derailing W Corp train. “Lady Elly, Chief Butler of House D'Alençon. And now,”
At a blistering speed, the Chief Butler lurched back, causing the Seven Director to stumble forward as her full weight now met naught by air. Her pupils went wide as they followed the path of her assailant’s dagger, flying back and up to her cheek, adopting the courteous smile of the Chief Butler, before leveling with Dante’s exposed eyes and lunging forth.
“Die.”
A sickening squelch came in reply, the piercing wail of steel piercing through bone and flesh. The Seven Director recoiled back, her heart racing and her breathing quick, as she stared down the bloodied knife mere inches from her widened eye, bits of blood and gore dripping from its tip. Elly, too, stumbled back in astonishment, the knife wrenched free from her fingers as Chun tore his hand away, marveling at the injury like some stray mosquito bite. The Liu Fixer plucked the knife free from his bloodied palm, the slightest twinge of pain rippling across his face, before tossing it back at the gaggle of Butlers, sending one reeling as it clipped her shoulder. Be it from instinct, from a wounded pride, or from genuine rage, a trio of Butlers surged forth from behind Elly, flourishing daggers trailing behind them as they leapt toward the impudent Fixers that so carelessly spat upon the honor of their household. After all, what could a bunch of hapless, disarmed Fixers in swimsuits possibly do against the regal vanguard of House D'Alençon? Perhaps a dismembered arm or a gouged eye would remind such Association dogs not to bark at the hands that fed them.
At least, that’s probably what was running through one of their heads before Chun’s unbloodied fist crashed into their ribs, sending them sailing through the air, toppling pool chair and flowerpot alike before embedding himself in a crater of plaster.
The second Butler, her eyes drawn by the draconic fist of the Liu Fixer, tore her eyes off of Cecil. Out of the peripheral of her vision, she barely caught sight of the blonde as she darted forward, practically shattering the tiles underneath her feet as she leapt forward. The Butler’s arms moved before her mind even had a chance to scream in horror, pulling themselves into a defensive wall as Cecil’s shoulder connected with a small sonic boom. The crunch of bone belied the Butler’s wails as she was sent to the ground, her elbows twisted backward and bone jutting from the mangled flesh.
Two fallen, yet the last of the three Butlers did not for a second even hesitate as he closed the gap with Dante, the Seven Director quickly straightening her posture as the gruesome visage of Chun’s impaled palm gave way to the frenzied eyes of her would-be assailant. The clang of steel as knife met dagger rattled the Butler as Dante parried the blow, his knife arm reeling back as the girl stepped forward and to the side, jockeying for his exposed flank as she kept the knife in a defensive crouch close to her face. He snorted and furrowed his brow, his left arm swinging in an upward diagonal as he aimed to bisect her from hip to should-
And then Dante kneed him in the crotch.
A strangled, pitiful gasp graced the Director’s ears as she watched the man slink to his knees and collapse on his side, his eyes void of life. She twirled the knife around her fingers while nudging the quivering body with her toe, unable to contain a faint, childish giggle as the group bore witness to the man’s soul leaving his body. She turned to Elly, adjusting her monocle and giving a mocking shrug. “Honestly, I have no idea why people don’t do that more often. It’s rather effective.”
“How uncouth,” Elly replied, crossing her arms. “Are all Association mongrels truly so baseless and unrefined that you’d resort to such barbaric methods?”
“Miss Elly, with all due respect, didn’t you just try to stab me in the eye?” Dante motioned to the writhing Butlers on the ground with the same disgust reserved for some imploded trash can ruining her good shoes. “I already have little respect for the people who make it hard for me to do my job, let alone a bunch of gilded pricks with their brooms shoved so far up their asses I can practically hear the wood creaking from your throat every time you speak.”
“You…!” Another dagger materialized in the Chief Butler’s hand, the girl already assuming a predatory crouch with her blazing eyes focusing on Dante’s neck. The Director sighed and stepped back as the two Liu Fixers shuffled in front of her, gently massaging her forehead with her two fingers.
“… And another thing. An unprovoked attack on Association staff within Nest boundaries violates Article IV, Section E of Nest S’s Domestic Security Act and Addendum 17, Paragraph 93 of the Hana Association’s Fixer’s Ethics Code, not to mention the security provisions of Cane Office’s contract for this event guaranteeing the safety of any and all personnel connected with the Library incident. Dante wiped an errant strand of water rolling down her cheek, almost relishing the welling fury of the Chief Butler seethint before her. “I could have your entire band of nitwits here imprisoned for this little stunt of yours.”
“Do you, perhaps, overstate your importance there, Miss Association Director?” the nobleman chimed in, popping his head out of the mass of overprotective Butlers like some kind of golden, chubby gopher. He enunciated every single syllable, looking down on the toddler that had clearly impugned her better. “I’ll have you know that we D'Alençons are favored among the Hana and A Corp. I, Lord Neville D'Alençon, have even curried favor with the regal Lady Elincia of Hana Section 5.”
“Yes, yes, and I have Director Mirinae of Section 3 on speed dial.” Dante snorted, miming a phone with her free hand as she watched the color drain from the nobleman’s face with glee. You seriously want to call up a favor with Director Elincia and see what it’s like to piss off two Hana Directors?”
“I-uh, I mean…” The bluster and bravado that seemed endless deflated just as fast as it appeared, the man slinking back into his group of Butlers. “Clearly this shameful excuse of a recreational facility is wasted on the peasantry. Ever since stepping foot into this room, I’ve felt my very skin crawl being in close proximity to such vile, disgusting rodents.”
Cecil chuckled. “Wow, bit of a low blow to throw your Fixers under the bus like that. But I guess birds of a feather and all that, right?”
“Y-You…!” The nobleman practically burst from his throng of Fixers, fumbling through his gaudy robes with a string of expletives punctuating every frantic tug and pull from his meaty hands. The Liu Fixers traded glances, the incredulity of the rather bizarre and pathetic display causing their smiles to nearly jump right off their faces. Cecil barely had time to stifle a laugh as she turned her attention back to Neville, just in time to catch the gleam of a polished barrel underneath the pool lights.
The gunshot was sudden and deafening, the Wedge Fixer practically leaping out of her skin as she moved to cover her ears. An amused Katriel tilted her head, whistling as she saw the bullet, sleek as gold, nine millimeters across with its tip still glowing a hot orange, caught between Cecil’s fingers, the jovial smile washed away by… not irritation, but more like disappointment.
In a single motion, she rolled the bullet onto her thumb before flicking it back to the agape shooter. With a yelp, the gun went flying as he nursed his purpling fingers, a flurry of Butlers quickly moving to shield him from any further retaliation from the girl who assaulted him in self-defense. The Chief Butler was practically shaking as she moved between the two groups, the bloodlust hidden underneath her eyes more akin to some type of Syndicate brute rather than one of those prancy house Fixers.
“To lay a hand on the Master D'Alençon is…” She forcefully swallowed, clearly trying to hold down a litany of curses even as they tried to press through her teeth. “You… vile, disgusting little bitch. I’ll…”
“Send more of your idiots?” Cecil gestured to the three Butlers on the ground, each crawling back to their comrades in pitiable retreat. “Go on, then.”
Elly’s glare could have frozen the entire Wing thrice over had she possessed even a fraction of the Arbiters’ fabled powers. An unimpressed Cecil crossed her arms and leaned forward, practically goading her to take another shot at her and finish what Angela started. In a herculean effort of self-restraint, Elly spun on her heel and motioned to the other Butlers, slowly urging the group back toward the exit. Like some awkward, lumbering turtle that had stumbled into a dazzling spotlight, it meandered along the wet tiles and stumbled on the chairs, nursing a myriad of bruised egos on its ignoble retreat. The girl cast one parting glance at the Liu Fixer as they departed, drawing her finger along her neck.
Then with a slam, the group was alone once more.
“… She seemed quite unpleasant~,” Gloria chimed, a metallic giggling reverberating in her elongated throat. “I thought I’d have to rip her arms off.”
“Please do not give me more paperwork to deal with,” Dante scoffed, tossing the dagger aside and collapsing into a nearby pool chair, glancing up at the two Liu Fixers. “Thanks, by the by. They were just a bunch of toothless little rodents but I’m not really much a fan of prosthetic eyes.”
“Was rather unbecoming of them to lash out at a Director like that,” Chun said, gingerly running his fingers along the deep gash in his hand. With a beleaguered sigh, he grabbed a small towelette from his bag before slinging it over his shoulder, moving toward the exit. “I’ll take my leave a little early. Dress the wound before it gets infected.”
“Should we inform Director Xiao and Director Lowell of this incident?” Cecil asked, massaging her wrist.
“Pfff, Xiao will ask if I’ve gone soft,” Chun laughed, tightening the towel across his palm. “I’ll live, Cecil. No need to worry the others over this.”
And with a parting wave, Chun too disappeared through the exit. A serene calm once again settled over the pool, the small lapping of waves and splashing of water the only sound amidst a welcome and relieving silence. A muffled cough caught the Director’s attention, the two Fixers turning to address an inquisitive Pameli as she leaned over the edge of the tub, pursing her lips as she locked eyes with Dante. “… So you guys seriously memorized all those rules and laws and stuff just to show up a bunch of stuck-up babysitters?”
An incredulous laugh escaped Dante’s lips before she had the chance to respond. Three blissful chortles were followed by a strained and forced cough as the Director struggled to regain her composure, her pale skin still tinged a faint pink. “Hahaha… I wasn’t aware Oscar recruited a jester. Only the most empty-headed of the Dieci would honestly waste their lives memorizing so many frivolous and pointless laws.”
“Huh,” Pameli tilted her head, a grin spreading across her face. “So you made that shit up, huh?”
“The authority of a Director alone should be enough to put such bullheaded idiots in their place… but I doubt any Arbiters are going to seriously throw a fit over a little white lie.”
“Hmmmm.” Pameli rested her chin in her palms, whistling in admiration. “So what’ll you do if they learn you lied to their faces?”
“I don’t think it’ll really do anything. I don’t think they can read.”
A pleasant laughter complemented the relaxing tranquility as Cecil settled back into the hot tub, yawning as the dull, throbbing pain from the bruises across her forearms melted away in the heated waters. With an inquisitive grin, she caught Dante’s eye with a snap, beckoning Katriel and Pameli over with her other arm. “Hey, Dante, so what was your story?”
“Hm?” Dante reclined in the chair, only one eye open to meet the blonde’s question.
“Y’know, after the whole Library incident. We heard from me and Pameli so fair’s fair.”
The Director chuckled and adjusted her monocle, rolling onto her side and meeting the three girls’ eyes. “I don’t got that interesting a story to be honest. Just woke up in the middle of U Corp is all.”
“U Corp,” Pameli whistled, her eyes growing as wide as stars. “In the middle of that death trap of a lake?”
“The one and only.” Dante shuffled nonchalantly in the chair, cushioning her hair with her arm as a wistfulness overtook her eyes. “Last thing I remember’s that blue-haired nitwit shoving his blade down my throat. Next thing I know, I’m in the middle of a damn boat and there’s a bunch of giant squids surrounding me…”
“And then I grinded them all up~!” Gloria concluded, her robotic eye proudly glowing with a vibrant viridian light.
The Seven Director was the first to applaud, her elusive smugness giving way to genuine wonder. Her legs uncrossed and recrossed again as the Index Proxy’s story rolled around in her head, the girl chewing on her lip as though she’d missed some vital detail that would’ve completed the stunning mental image. “Gotta say, I’d heard a lot about the Proxies but I didn’t expect one to take out an entire legion of N Corp Inquisitors. Those guys are fucking nuts.”
“The Prescripts spoke of her victory,” Esther replied simply, flipping through his book as though his companion’s escapades were little more than a simple walk through the park. “It was a foregone conclusion that she would succeed.”
“You guys really put a lotta emphasis on those hokey slips of paper,” Pameli interjected, poking up from her own chair. A faint, waxy veneer made the Fixer’s skin shine underneath the dimmed lights, remnants of the water she’d been too lazy to fully wipe dry with the towel wrapped snugly under her chest. “If you guys ever got a Prescript saying ‘Rebel against A Corp’ or whatever the hell, you’d just go marching straight in there, wouldn’t you?”
“Well, of course we would~,” Gloria replied cheerfully, her head bobbing up and down in what Cecil could only imagine served as a substitute for some goofy grin. “If the Prescripts call for it, then it can’t be helped~.”
“I honestly can’t tell if your zealotry is impressive or suicidal,” Dante scoffed, cradling her head behind her hands and reclining back in her chair, pulling her legs up. “Wings know I’m happy Lord Index or whatever hasn’t put out a hit on me yet.”
“Ditto,” Cecil commented.
“Third,” Pameli added.
The group shared a laugh, one of many that lit up the eventful nocturnal escapade. Cecil yawned as she reclined in the tub, casting her eyes to the empty space where the Thumb Capo once resided, her wet footsteps still marking her exit. As the water lapped against Cecil’s breasts, a relaxing, blissful warmth filling her body, she felt her eyes flicker. Another yawn escaped her, followed by a protracted groan as fatigue finally caught up to her. Her limbs protested as she wearily rose to her feet, wavering back and forth as her clumsy feet pulled her up and out of the tub. She shivered as the faint wafting of the air ducts above chilled her exposed skin. A faint hum caught the blonde’s attention as she lazily lumbered toward her belongings, the girl acknowledging the stoic Proxy with a glance. “Calling it a night, Cecil?”
“Yeah, it’s getting a little late,” she replied, patting her face dry with a crimson towel emblazoned with the Liu’s fiery insignia. “Mei’s probably fallen asleep watching some cheesy kung-fu flick anyway. Director Lowell’ll have both our heads on a pike if we oversleep.”
“For what?” Pameli snorted, derisively furrowing her brow. “The horrendous City taboo of missing the free breakfast buffet? Last I checked, you weren’t on schedule for tomorrow.”
“Yes, but apparently he and Director Xiao wanted to walk around the Nest for a bit before the matches start. Miris informed Director Xiao of a relatively popular yogurt place just a few blocks down and now both of them want all of us to binge.”
“Oh, that place headed up by those Nest U sailors?” Dante interjected, smacking her lips in delight. “Mmmm, I heard they have some whale oil from some of those elusive little critters that scuttle along Nest U’s seabed. Supposed to give it a tanginess that you can’t get in this part of the City.”
“Tanginess?” Gloria’s head bobbed back and forth as she rolled the idea around in her metallic skull. “Oh, like blood?”
“Iron is a different taste, Gloria,” Esther corrected, lovingly patting his fellow Proxy on the head. “Well, don’t let us keep you, Cecil. Good night.”
“Goodnight~.”
“Yeah, yeah, night.”
“Good night, Ms. Cecil.”
The Liu Fixer nodded and waved, though her own farewells were drowned out by another long and protracted yawn. Her face flushed a faint pink, she stumbled toward the exit, her sleep-induced goodbye thankfully forgotten as Dante turned the group’s attention toward yet another escapade in the infamous District 23 Backstreets. As the doors shuttered closed behind her, the jovial and lively conversation abruptly ceased, leaving the girl with nothing but her breathing and the faint squishing of the carpet underneath her bare feet. The moist towel swayed from side to side from atop Cecil’s shoulders as she made her way down the hallway, her cape slung atop the towel and held fast under her three fingers. She thumbed the elevator button, trying to think of some tune to whistle to chase away the eerie silence of the slumbering hotel. Whether her fatigue-addled brain was locking away even the simplest lullabies from her lips or the encroaching quietude was intentionally trying to muffle any that might dare pierce its suffocating atmosphere, her muggy thoughts were quickly swatted away as the elevator arrived. The chime, ordinarily so faint and so innocuous, might as well have been a shattering window to Cecil.
She stared aimlessly at the opened elevator, as though if she were to open it, the doors would slam shut and the floor would give way to some eldritch esophagus. She rubbed her eyes, stumbled into the elevator, and tapped the button for her floor. The elevator rumbled and stirred as it ascended. Cecil nervously ran the toes of her right foot down her left and up her ankle, the deafening quiet now punctuated by the rumble of the lumbering elevator.
The doors slid open once again, leading to yet another quiet and deserted hallway. Her footsteps were far less messy as she turned right and back down the hallway once again, her gait quickened as she eyed her room toward the very end of the wing. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, bristling as she briskly neared her room.
No matter what she did, she couldn’t shake that faint sensation of unease that seemed to trail her since she left the pool.
An unassuming red “do not disturb” sign hung on the handle of the door, hastily placed there by Cecil on her way out as the last dredges of some overindulgent action scene from Mei’s movie squeezed out of the small crack in the door. As still as the stagnant and quiet air around them, the sign seemed to beckon the blonde Fixer closer. Though unblemished and undisturbed in its solitary perch, it could not hide the acute, but distinctive crack between the door and its frame, the blackened demarcation barely more than a couple of centimeters. Cecil couldn’t tell if it was her footsteps or her own heartbeat pounding in her ears as she barreled forward, slamming the door wide open with her elbow.
Not a single light greeted her as she stood just outside the threshold of their hotel room, only inky shadows chased away by the faint light streaming in from the hallway behind the girl. The once lush carpet now appeared to be a tangle of blackened thorns, the haphazardly scattered clothes now but a series of indistinguishable blobs that stuck out like the harrowing mountain peaks just beyond the Outskirts. Though the elevator and the hallway were deafeningly quiet save for the hum of the lights and the whir of the elevator, the room may as well have been a portal to the vacuum of space.
Seated in the center of the room, framed by the faint, iridescent light behind Cecil, Mei was slumped over, her arms seemingly restrained along the back of the chair. A faint trickle of blood rolled down her forehead and over a makeshift blindfold, a thick piece of a Liu cape shorn off and folded several times before wound tightly around the girl’s head. She appeared to stir as Cecil stood dumbfounded, a pained moan stifled by a thick sock rolled into a ball and shoved in her mouth.
“MEI!”
Porcelain shattered and doors rattled as the Liu Fixer dashed forward, the small sonic boom kicked up in her wake rocking the hotel. Nearly tearing the door from its hinges, she closed the small distance separating her from her restrained friend in but a single bound. She reached her hand out, almost torn between whether to reach for Mei and grab her from her restraints or to pull her tight in a hug and apologize for leaving her alone. A myriad of possibilities ran through her head; a sobbing apology, a warm embrace, a tactical retreat with the girl cradled in her arms, each thought racing through her head like the embers rising from the rage-fueled bonfire lit in her. Above everything else, Cecil relished the idea of finding out who did this to Mei and planting her heel directly through their fucking skull.
So lost in her thoughts she was that Cecil barely noticed the tripwire at her feet until her momentum jerked down at a sharp ninety degrees. Her bloodthirsty delusions, intermixed with concern over Mei’s limp body, shattered as she slammed face first into the carpet, her limbs sprawled out and her fingers just a meter away from the whimpering Mei. Almost instantaneously, the door slammed shut behind her, the faint click of the lock accompanied by the quick ruffling of footsteps all around her. Cecil nary had a chance to react before a plethora of hands grabbed her wrists and forced them back and up. She yelped as a jolt of pain shot through her shoulders, her wrists and palms pressed together in a reverse prayer before loops of sharp wire looped around her arms, lashing them together with a single pull. With another yank, she grunted in pain as her head was pulled up by her hair, the formless shadows encircling their prey with toothy grins. As the dim illumination of a phone screen chased away the darkness surrounding her, Cecil made out the distinctive, ironed fabric of a particularly vindictive Chief Butler, her golden eyes sparkling as she observed her newfound prize.
“Why hello there,” Elly cooed, giggling like a schoolgirl as she flexed her fingers through Cecil’s damp hair. “I hope you enjoyed yourself with your friends. We certainly had fun with yours here.”
“You fucking bitch!” Cecil snarled, pulling free from the hands gripping her shoulders. With a violent fervor, the girl kicked herself up to her feet, surging toward Elly like a rampaging battering ram. “I’ll rip your fucking head off for what you did to Meemmmmph!”
Caught mid-word, the balled up sock artfully snuck through Cecil’s lips and past her teeth, pushing her tongue down as it wormed itself into her mouth. Elly’s smirk only widened as Cecil stumbled back from the impromptu gagging, falling back into the hands of the Butlers crowded around her. They wordlessly pulled her back into their grasp, a series of thin, nearly invisible wire flying free from within their sleeves and past their fingers before falling around the Liu Fixer, neatly pinning her arms to her side before cinching tight. Her thighs and ankles were similarly pressed together before being snugly locked in place. Locked in a reluctant crouch, Cecil tugged and pulled at the hands holding her down, a pressure cooker ready to burst and incinerate everyone around her. Elly clapped her hands together, beaming in triumph as she hooked a finger around one of the wires looped above Cecil’s breasts and pulled her forward.
“Now don’t you look like a good little mutt?” Elly sneered, wrapping another sock around Cecil’s mouth and locking her gag in place. “Association attack dogs should remember to bare their fangs at the Syndicate refuse and Outskirts trash. Turning your teeth on the generous nobility that funds your pretty little operation?”
She knelt down until she was level with the Liu Fixer before flicking Cecil’s forehead. “A muzzle is the least you deserve.”
“Mmmph mmmmre,” Cecil choked through her gag, her searing gaze doing little more than amusing the Chief Butler.
“Sorry, what was that? You need to enunciate, my dear. Were you raised in the streets like that Syndicate garbage you were cavorting with? Oh, was that why you were so buddy-buddy with them?” She pressed her fingers to her lips, barely containing her frivolous giggles
before smashing the back of her fist down on Cecil’s face.
The Liu Fixer hit the ground with a pained moan, much to the laughter of the Butlers around her. A hand dove into her hair and pulled her up, nearly tearing it free from her bloodied scalp. The Chief Butler clicked her tongue as she admired the darkening bruise around Cecil’s swollen eye.
“Ah, now you resemble those disgusting little rats that scurry around in this hotel. Wonderful!”
With a gleeful laugh, the Chief Butler half-led, half-dragged the bound Cecil behind her, propping her up just shy of Mei’s chair. Cecil’s fingers fumbled for the threads holding her wrists taut to no avail, her paltry attempts at discretely slipping free soon turning to enraged flailing as she beheld, to her ever growing chagrin, the weary Mei dragged from her chair and plopped down in the same defeated crouch as the blonde Fixer. With sparkles in her eyes, Elly caressed the moaning Fixer’s head and turned it in Cecil’s direction, drinking in the restrained fury of the girl like the finest ambrosia.
“Awww, your friend’s so sweet, Miss Mei,” she cooed, playfully running her finger across the girl’s face and painting Mei’s pale cheeks red with her blood. “She’s getting all worked up over little ol’ you, a pitiful little shortstack who was practically snoring in her own sick when we stumbled onto her room.
Cecil snorted, imagining for a second she had one of Union Co.’s exclusive bionic replacements that let you shoot lasers from your eyes. Though the fuel from her fiery temper would have been enough to disintegrate concrete with a single touch, her jaw lacked the same mettle to chew through the sock she ground her teeth against. The Chief Butler cackled as she swooped over and snagged Cecil’s hair, pulling the two Liu Fixers close and rubbing their faces together. The girl clamped her eyes shut, tears streaking down her face as her eyes burnt from the blood slipping through her eyelids, her body heating up with embarrassment and frustration as her lips brushed against Mei’s.
“Don’t you two just look adorable together?” Elly continued, every word wrapped in contempt and dripping with venom. Cecil wished, no, begged to slam her fist her fist into the Chief Butler’s face for every single word. Trying to blink away the stinging pain in her one good eye, she sat and watched with disdain as Elly fished out her phone from her pocket, the flashlight causing the Liu Fixer to shy away from the sudden, blinding spotlight.
A snap of Elly’s fingers and Cecil’s respite was short-lived, a pair of hands forcing her back down to her knees and in the flashlight’s blinding path. “Mmmmph!”
“Now, Miss Cecil, I’m sure you’re aware of the benevolence and generosity of the D'Alençons,” Elly said, training the lens of the camera on the girl’s face, capturing the exquisite mixture of anger and humiliation mixing underneath the smeared blood. “All you need to do is grovel like the dog that you are for the benefit of the Lord D'Alençon and you and your drunk little girlfriend here can do whatever it is a bunch of nobody Association dregs do with their spare time.”
“Mmm mmph mmmmmfffmph,” Cecil replied, her eyes narrowing until they resembled the dagger she so very much wanted to plunge into the Chief Butler’s neck. She wasn’t quite sure if the “fuck” in her “go fuck yourself” managed to convey itself in its entirety but, in her defense, she put her all into spitting out her disgust through the thick wad of wool gagging her.
A twinge of irritation flashed across Elly’s face. Cecil smiled briefly, relishing her fleeting victory right before a hand gripped the back of her head and smashed it into the carpet. She winced, her face twisting in pain as she felt her nose crumple from the impact.
“MMMMPH!”
“Is it just the Hana that has any manners among the Head’s glorified attack dogs?” Elly snarled, swatting away the Butlers hovering over Cecil before snagging a tuft of the blonde’s hair and pulling her up from the floor. Blood gushed down her broken nose and caked her mouth, causing the girl to gag as the unpleasant, iron taste seeped into her mouth. “All I want from you is an apology. Is ‘I’m sorry’ simply not something they teach you muscleheads?”
“Mm, mmmph mpm mmmmres,” Cecil answered.
A loud slap echoed in the confined hotel room. Cecil crumpled to the ground again, an even redder spot spreading over her face where Elly’s palm had met its mark. The Chief Butler adjusted her glove before sighing and kicking Cecil over and onto her back. Her left hand disappeared into the sleeves of her dress, returning with a silvery knife gripped between her fingers.
“Maybe you’re a little hard of hearing,” Elly suggested, hoisting Cecil up and dragging the flat of the knife across Cecil’s arm. “What if I carve out your apology into your arm? You can read, can’t you?”
“Mmmph mm?” Cecil tilted her head, her defiant glare daring her to continue. The Chief Butler snorted, the façade of dainty, sophisticated nobility peeled away to reveal the haughty sadism underneath. The knife twisted, its steel turning red as it began to dig into Cecil’s arm. The Liu Fixer squirmed and moaned into her gag, yet her ceaseless glare failed to break away from Elly’s empty eyes.
And as fast as the knife dug into Cecil’s tender flesh, it pulled away, an almost serene calm washing over Elly’s face. Her frustratingly smug grin returned, wide enough that it could have stretched across three faces, as she brought her free hand down and under Cecil’s chin, turning it to the side.
Mei was thrust forward, collapsing between the two of them with an ignoble thud. Elly chuckled as her fingers dug into Mei’s shoulder, pulling her up as the flat of her knife worked its way across Mei’s arm, tapping her shoulder once before slowly inching its way toward her exposed neck.
Cecil’s heart stopped. “MMMMMMFF!”
The blonde Fixer jerked forward with so much desperate vigor that it was a miracle the multitude of Butlers that latched onto her arms and pulled her back down didn’t dislocate her shoulders. Three inches. One inch. Barely centimeters away. The limp Mei became as rigid as a long-dead corpse as the knife drew blood. Cecil shook her head, her disheveled locks catching the blood pooling down her forehead and sticking to her face, as her eyes spoke in lieu of her gagged mouth. The knife paused, the Chief Butler clicking her tongue in delight as she drank in every single second of the girl’s endless despair.
“Good girl,” she cooed, licking her lips in anticipation. She raised her phone again, a faint beep coming from the device as it began recording. “Now beg.”
“Mmm mmmmmnn,” Cecil choked through her gag, trying to avoid the lens documenting the pitiful sight before it.
“Good. Now grovel.”
The Liu Fixer flinched, an actor shoved out last minute to the leering gazes of the most judgmental and pretentious audience in the City. A twinge of annoyance flashed across Elly’s face and the knife pressed against Mei’s neck twisted, a faint trickle of blood running down her skin and dyeing her beloved, emerald Guthix t-shirt a faint crimson.
“MMMMF!”
“I. Said. Grovel.”
The light faded from Cecil’s empty eyes as she slowly lowered herself down, pressing her face against the carpet. Her fingernails dug into her bound palms and her toes curled until each one could snap straight off of her foot, yet still she shrugged off the humiliation, the debasement, the chortles and laughter of the Butlers surrounding her as she buried her ruined nose into the floor, the tears streaming from her clenched eyes beginning to wash away the blood caking her face.
“Mmmmmf.” Her already deflated, defeated voice barely squeaked through her gag, let alone through the strands of the carpet her mouth was pressed against.
“Hmmm, I’m not quite feeling it,” Elly said, pursing her lips as she pondered her next request. “Ah. Why don’t you nod your head if you agree that you’re a mangy little mutt that’s good for nothing but barking at the vermin that contaminate our lovely City.”
Cecil slowly rose her head, her eyes still tactfully avoiding the Chief Butler’s gleeful stare.
“Ah, ah, ah, don’t you dare try to look at me like we’re equals,” she spat, tapping the flat of the knife still pressed against Mei’s skin. “Bury your head in the dirt where it belongs.”
What was left for the girl to do but sink back into the carpet, pulling her head up and down even as the once immaculately soft strands now painted her face with blood and dirt and grime. As her knees buckled and gave away, as a boot pressed against the small of her back and pressed her flat against the floor, as she grunted and cried and wept as she felt her spine burn as the boot twisted and pressed hard into her, she hoped beyond everything else, to every single Wing and Corp and whatever deities she’d read about in passing that when she next opened her eyes, she wouldn’t be met with the sight of Mei’s soulless eyes as the blood gushed from her slit throat. There she lay, wallowing in her own filth and her own despair, the blackness of her clenched eyes still cursed with the mental image of Mei’s bisected corpse as it fell back from the Librarian’s blade, evaporating into nothingness even as the girl smiled and tried to hide away the pain that wracked her body.
Not again. Not ever again. She’d let herself be hung from the ceiling and abused by each and every single one of these pompous elitist Butlers like their own personal punching bag.
Just don’t take another one of her friends away from her.
“Hmmmm, you know, I think that’s good,” Elly said finally. Cecil chanced a glance through the bloodied carpet, watching as the Chief Butler returned the phone to her pocket and pulled the knife cleanly away from Mei’s neck.
Thankfully, at an angle that did not cut deeper into her skin.
Cecil breathed a sigh of relief – as much of a sigh as she could give with her face half-smothered by the carpet. She flexed her fingers once more, trying to grasp at the threads binding her wrists together. Her teeth dug into the wool gagging her as she watched Elly approach one of the spectating Butlers, pressing the knife into his hand.
“Well, that was a fun little distraction,” she said with a bored sigh, addressing the Butler with a snap. “We’ve got quite the gift for Lord D'Alençon. Now, hmmmm, what to do, what to do. Guess we could drag the wench along with us? I doubt anyone would notice two nameless grunts just up and vanishing.”
“It would be rather difficult to transport two hostages across Nest lines, though,” the Butler noted, broadly gesturing to the two girls. “Not to mention that the Liu are quite known for their fiery temper. Having to worry about them causing a stir while in transit might draw some undue attention while we return to the manor.”
“Mmmm, that is true.” She clicked her tongue, pushing the Butler forward. “Alright then. We’ll just take one of them. Kill the dark-haired one.”
Perhaps Elly was fishing for some reaction from the defeated Cecil, hoping to shatter what little pride still remained in her battered, half-naked body. Were she truly only interested in wringing every reaction out of the blonde girl, her single, callous command seemed to hit the Liu Fixer like a lightning bolt. Clasping her hands together and tilting her head in wonder, she watched with unbridled joy as Cecil threw off the hands that held her down and made a beeline toward Elly and Mei, only for her heroic intervention to be immediately sent crashing back to the darkening reality around her as yet another trio of Butlers tackled her to the ground. Elly giggled, her attention enthralled by the desperate thrashings of the girl at her feet. The beautiful choir of Cecil’s muffled screams accompanied the imaginary dirge that rung in the Chief Butler’s ears as she watched Cecil’s eyes shift from rage to panic, from panic to desperation,
From desperation to despair.
It was gorgeous. Exhilarating. Watching the tears stream down her face as she struggled against the threads that held her tight, against the hands that held her down, as her enraged roars devolved into panicked screams, incomprehensible white noise that nonetheless articulated the words that were written clear as day across her bloody face.
“Please. Don’t hurt her. I’m begging you.”
The cheshire grin spread across Elly’s face spoke volumes as she knelt down and cradled Cecil’s head in her hands. As she tilted it upward toward the limp Mei, ensuring their eyes could not miss the silvery knife that drew close to the razor thin gash already cut across her neck. Her lips drifted toward Cecil’s ear, as if to nibble on the exposed cartilage, and she giggled once more. “Don’t look away. I want you to watch.”
She caught herself as another high-pitched, demented laugh readied to loose itself, clearing her throat with a cough. The Butler stopped just short of Mei’s neck, all eyes turning to Elly as the Chief Butler’s nails dug into the sides of Cecil’s head. “Actually, wait. Ungag the one girl. It’s only proper we hear the little puppy’s last words before we put her down.”
A final mercy, maybe? No, the sadistic sparkle in Elly’s golden eyes, barely caught in Cecil’s bleary peripheral vision, said everything the frustrated girl needed to know. Maybe Mei would beg and plead for her life. Maybe she’d curse Cecil for dragging them into this mess. Maybe she’d even throw Cecil under the bus and plead for her own life in exchange for Cecil’s. What was camaraderie or bonds in the face of certain, inescapable death? After all, the worst thing the girl could do in her last moments was simply debase herself like some Rat before being gutted like a fish.
And if Elly was lucky, she’d get to see the soul be torn directly from Cecil’s body after Mei skewers it with her last, desperate pleas in a bargain for her life.
Cradling Cecil’s head in her hands and holding her fast, the two watched in abject horror and blissful anticipation as the Butler approached the bound Liu Fixer. He roughly snagged a tuft of her hair and yanked back, eliciting a pained grunt mirrored only by the desperate wail of the blonde girl as she begged again and again for them to reconsider. Elly licked her lips, watching as the sock was unwound from Mei’s head and the gag spit from her lips, all while the silvery knife dragged the flat of its blade across her exposed, quivering neck. She practically salivated as she saw Mei’s lips pucker and her mouth twist in disgust with a cough, drawing in shallow breaths as she tried to massage her aching jaw. Tightening his grip on Mei’s hair, the Butler leaned in close, pressing the knife against Mei’s cheek. The girl winced, feeling the blade dig into her skin and draw blood once more.
“Alright, you uppity little wench,” he barked, his gruff voice belying a sense of sadistic enjoyment. “I’ll give a whole ten seconds to make your last words memorable. Maybe if Lady Elly finds your pathetic mewing enjoyable, I’ll bestow upon you a whole five extra seconds to beg for your shitty life before I cut your neck open lik-“
The grotesque snapping of crunching bone silenced the jeering and wails that permeated the hotel room. All eyes fell on the Butler and the Fixer, drawn to the myriad of blood droplets that began to pool at their feet. Not a single word was spoken, any thoughts of indignation or astonishment simply swept away by the utterly absurd spectacle playing out before them. The knife clattered to the ground, the hand that once held it spasming and quivering. The wrist connecting it was dyed a deep red, bent and flattened at a grotesque angle as it was firmly held in-between Mei’s teeth.
Finally, a scream. “GGGYAAAAAAAH! YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE. DID YOU-DID YOU JUST FUCKING BITE ME?”
A tirade of curses and screams spewed from the Butler’s mouth, his cruel and composed front as broken as his mangled wrist. He raised his good hand as though to bash the girl’s head in, only to shy away as Mei sprayed blood directly into his face. Wrenching her head back, Mei screamed to the skies above, “Serena! Full volume! Play ‘vuvuzela compilation, 10 hours!’”
“Now playing… ‘vuvuzela compilation.’”
Recognition flashed in Cecil’s eyes, yet with her arms firmly pressed against her back, she could do little more than bite down on her gag and await the inevitable, horrendous screech that blared from the multitude of speakers that lined the hotel room. Barely a second after the AI’s nonchalant and innocent warning came did the roar of the vuvuzela crash into the room. A wave of continual, unceasing, unending blaring, each mirroring the roar of an enraged dinosaur with all the tact of broken glass raked on chalkboard, boomed from the speakers again and again and again, each cacophonous pulse an earthquake that threatened to bring the entire room down on them. Her eyes clamped shut and her body went rigid as she braced herself for the relentless assault, yet still the pounding headache akin to an ice pick being shoved right into the back of her head was no less forgiving.
The rest of the room, horrifically unprepared for the abuse born from years of Mei’s childish antics, recoiled in horror and agony, cupping their ears far too late to shield themselves from the cacophony of the hellish orchestra. Some collapsed to their knees, clutching their aching head as though a telekinetic hand reached directly through their skull and was trying to pull their brain clean through the bony plates. Others reeled back, clutching onto the bedsheets or the nightstands to support themselves even as their legs wobbled and threatened to give way to the pain shooting from their ears and down their spine. Even the once unflappable Elly now staggered back and fell to her knees, rubbing her temples and cupping her ears as she likely hoped the hellish wail hadn’t ruptured her eardrums. For a brief, excruciating moment, she forgot the Liu Fixer that writhed around at her feet, a bloodshot eye focused on the blindfolded Mei as the girl, whether by chance or by instinct, reciprocated the glare with a smirk.
And then a wild crack added to the chorus of deafening horns as Cecil lurched her legs back, smashing the back of her heels into Elly’s head.
Perhaps the Chief Butler yelled some muted expletive, lost amidst the impervious, deafening shockwaves buffeting the room. Maybe the concussive smash to the back of her head scattered her thoughts to the four corners of the City. Whatever befell the sadistic Butler that had delighted so much in the blonde’s anguish no longer mattered to Cecil as she caught sight of one of her silvery knives slipping free from her grasp, twirling in its descent before embedding itself in the floor. Amidst the howls and screams and the incessant blaring of the devil’s accursed trumpet, not a single one of the Butlers could stop the Liu Fixer from throwing her body forward, sliding her hands just behind the sharpened steel. Her fingers first jolted back as they brushed against its edge before resting on the flat of the blade, quickly worming their way up to its handle and plucking it free from the floor. The girl craned her head back, trying to catch a glimpse of the knife as the blade awkwardly fumbled between her wrists.
“Y-You!”
A dry voice, utterly dripping with vitriol, brought her attention back in front of her, eyes widened as one of the many Butlers, face still twisting in pain as he massaged a bleeding ear, stumbled toward the girl, a pair of twin knives glimmering between his fingers. His manic, frenzied eyes were more than enough to send a shiver down the Liu Fixer’s spine, although admittedly his bloodthirsty scream as he lunged at Cecil’s throat certainly emphasized the lethality of his blow. All at once, Cecil felt her mind empty, the biting pain of the threads wound around her body or the pounding headache born from a multitude of vuvuzelas snapping from her subconscious. A dull, throbbing pain pulsed from her wrists while a rush of air pressed against her face as the knives approached her head.
She threw herself down and pivoted to the right, the knives piercing naught but air as the thrust was just a moment’s too slow to match the girl’s reflexes. In the same action, she wrenched her legs back before kicking forward, the bindings on her thighs and ankles now forming one unified piston that crashed into the impertinent Butler’s pelvis with a sickening crunch. Her fingers tightened and, on instinct, nimbly twirled the knife between her middle and thumb, the numbing pain easing as circulation was restored back to her wrists. She gripped the knife tightly in her right hand, her wrists now afforded a fair degree of movement, and angled the tip toward the wires still holding her forearms and elbows tight.
Another flurry of footsteps. On instinct, she braced herself against the carpet with her left shoulder before spinning about, thrusting herself back with the knife extended in an awkward, blind swing. A soft clang of metal barely managed to pierce the suffocating aria deafening the room as Cecil’s knife was parried with the Butler’s own dagger, a brief respite before Cecil’s legs connected with the Butler’s and sent him tumbling to the ground. She wrenched the dagger back before embedding it back into the ground, hastily squeezing her bound arms into its awaiting blade. The numbness plaguing her arms began to fade as the wires were snipped free – thankfully, with only one blind fumbling into the dagger on the ground, and she quickly pried the dagger loose before swiping upward, cleaving the wires pinning her biceps to her sides before tearing free the strings wound between and around her breasts.
Her attention now focused to her legs. Flanked by a trio of fumbling stomps as the deafened Butlers rushed to suppress their escaping captive, she snipped the first wire digging into her thighs before raising the knife up and lurching it back, the crunching of steel against bone accompanied by a howl almost rivaling that of the crescendoing vuvuzelas. It held fast and, with a gagged curse, she abandoned the trusty blade and rolled to the side, snagging the foot of a Butler as her knives went wide and pulling her down with a quick yank. Cecil rolled onto her stomach, toes digging into the reddening carpet, before pouncing on the fallen Butler, silencing her enraged scream with a swift punch to the face. The sparkle of steel radiated in her peripheral vision and she pried one of the knives free from the unconscious Butler’s hands before throwing her arm wide in a wide arc, parrying the blow aimed at her side. Her arm twisted and the knife spun back around, piercing through the Butler’s triply-reinforced cloth and drawing blood with an astonished yelp. The wounded man staggered back, clawing at the dagger embedded just above his hip as Cecil retrieved the last of the two knives from the fallen Butler. Another snip and her thighs rubbed anxiously against each other, no longer constrained by the thin wires digging into her flesh.
The girl got halfway through the wires securing her shins before she buried her face in her legs, narrowly avoiding a knife aimed at her forehead. She poked her eyes out above her knees to witness yet another of the nefarious Butlers rushing down the half-naked Fixer, twin daggers sported in each hand. The Butler slid across the ground, angling her blades to swing in twin, concerted arcs that would cleanly rip the Liu Fixer’s head in half. Just a foot closer and already her arms began to descend.
A foot too late, however, as Cecil gripped the carpet with her free hand and threw herself forward, intercepting the Butler in her slide. Her gruesome execution, telegraphed and orchestrated to murder the blonde as she straddled the unconscious Butler, was just a hair too short to stop Cecil’s fist from plowing directly into her face. The Butler ricocheted back with a pained yelp, a backwards somersault that terminated at the small mini fridge with an ignoble thud. Cecil exhaled sharply and turned the knife back on herself, cutting the last wires free before turning her attention to Mei.
Still bound and blindfolded, Mei’s uncanny reactions, paired with the maddening choir of the echoing vuvuzelas, were the only things keeping the Liu Fixer from certain death. Even with her arms lashed tightly behind her back and her legs tied together, she nimbly ducked and weaved and squirmed like some type of infuriating, overgrown caterpillar, avoiding knives and fists alike from the dazed and befuddled Butlers still recovering from their earsplitting headaches. Naturally, though, the mere notion that a blindfolded hostage could simply evade the multitude of blows out of sheer instinct was pure lunacy, as the many cuts and bruises down her arms and across her face evidenced. Mei’s luck, too, was far from infinite, a gloved hand shooting out and seizing her neck. The lower half of Mei’s body spasmed and thrashed like a dying man under the hangman’s noose while above she licked her lips and spat, grinning as she elicited a disgusted groan from the grimacing Butler holding her up in the air. The Butler wiped the translucent mucus from her face before pulling her hand back, a dagger sliding into place and leveling its edge at the blindfolded girl’s face.
“You petulant little bitch,” she snarled, aiming her improvised chisel at the disobedient, fleshy marble writhing under her grip. “I’m going to gouge your fucking eyes right out of your sku-“
A painful snapping cut the Butler’s threat short, the sound of several vertebrate breaking beneath Cecil’s shoulder causing the last few words from her throat to evaporate as her body lifelessly collapsed to the ground. Mei’s body slipped from her limp fingers, saved from the ground by Cecil’s timely intervention as she hooked her arm around Mei’s waist. With a quick flick of the knife, the blindfold covering Mei’s eyes fell from her face. The knife slipped around Mei’s back and between her arms, severing the wires holding her arms tight. As her wrists separated, Mei leapt up and wrapped her arms around Cecil’s shoulders, her fingers gliding up her neck before resting on the knotted sock holding Cecil’s gag in place.
“You look ridiculous,” Mei teased, sticking her tongue out. “Why don’t you take my socks out of your mouth?”
Cecil gagged and grimaced as she spat the rolled up sock out of her mouth, painfully aware of an acute, fuzzy taste along her tongue. “Yeah, you’re welcome, Mei.”
“Serena, play Sarajinae.”
The two girls turned to the third voice, oddly distinct and firm even among the ocean of screeching vuvuzelas. The deafening orchestra came to a halt, replaced by the monotone voice of the ever-obedient AI.
“Now playing… ‘Sarajinae.’”
A soothing piano comforted the aching ears of the Liu Fixers, a soft, flowing melody accented by an orchestral undertone. No longer were the blaring horns overpowering the sound of Cecil’s own heartbeat nor hammering her pounding head with their relentless, unceasing screeching. Perhaps, curled up in Mei’s apartment, the blonde girl would have blissfully hummed along to the softspoken ballad from U Corp in-between sips of hot cocoa, the serene vocals in stark contrast to the red-faced Mei as she threw her arms up in the air in exasperation, staring down the bleak scoreboard as her online teammates dragged her exemplary K/D ratio down like an albatross hanging on her neck.
But instead, the relaxing serenade that had suddenly taken U Corp by storm served as a welcome reprieve for the Butlers slowly rising to their feet, their ringing ears and bloodshot eyes refocusing on the two indignant pests that had the sheer audacity not to bow their heads before their betters. Even as Cecil continued to cut Mei free, her eyes swept across their remaining assailants with a mixture of dread and, admittedly, sadistic anticipation, finally settling on the flustered Chief Butler poised at the center, a frazzled, bloodstained tip at the end of a metaphorical spear with a series of knives neatly hanging between her fingers.
“Good taste,” Cecil commented, giving a mocking smile as she tore the wires free from Mei’s ankles. “Kinda unfitting, though. I know a nice dubstep mix that got real popular over in T Corp.”
“Tempting, Miss Cecil,” Elly replied, her fingers massaging what Cecil guessed was a rather aggravating migraine, the white gloves now slick with blood as they did little to address the gaping wound across the side of her head. “However, because of your friend’s rather… inspired taste in music, I’d much rather prefer something more refined and low octane. I’m sure you understand.”
“That’s fair,” Cecil said with a shrug, tossing the knife aside and cracking her knuckles. “I’m going to kill you now.”
“Funny that,” Elly giggled, the knives flourishing in her hands. “I was going to say that too. I suppose some Fixer culture does transcend social boundaries. I’ll make a note of that while laundering your bloodstains out of my dress.”
The gentle ballad of the song, sailing in amidst ocean waves and a demure piano melody, quickly faded into the background as the two Liu Fixers sprung into action. The bruises dotting their limbs and the stinging pain jolting across their bodies, enough to slow the reflexes of even the most experienced Fixers, practically melted away as a rush of jovial, almost childlike adrenaline surged through their veins, eliciting a content, even psychotic giggle from Cecil as she ducked under a flurry of knives, her body twisting as it carried the momentum of her uppercut straight into the unlucky Butler’s face, sending him careening into the ceiling with an explosive pop. Sailing through the air, she spun and drove her heel into the adjacent Butler as she tried to catch the blonde with her twin daggers, the skin and bone of the Butler’s shoulder caving in with an agonized howl as she was sent to the ground, sprawling. Cecil hit the ground and immediately teetered to the left, cartwheeling away from a flurry of daggers before terminating it with a decisive stomp from her foot.
“Nngh!”
She grunted, gritting her teeth in shock and annoyance, as her leg hung in the air, the back of her heel caught against Elly’s dagger. A searing pain ran down her leg as blood dripped from where the biting edge of the Chief Butler’s blade cut through Cecil’s skin and chipped the bone. The Liu Fixer awkwardly flailed and tried to pull herself out of the defensive clash, eyes set on the smirking Elly as her free hand brandished a series of knives and thrust toward Cecil’s unprotected flank.
Her victorious smirk immediately faded as a faint yell, quickly escalating to a strident cry tore through the already struggling vocals of the melodic serenade permeating the room. Yanking her dagger free, Elly jumped back and out of range of Cecil’s legs before quickly falling to the ground, tucking her head into her chest as a screaming Butler hurtled over her and into the wall with a crackling thud.
“Shit,” Mei swore, the improvised projectile doing little more than increasing the already astronomical housekeeping fees Liu Section 2 would almost certainly be billed for this incident. Fortunately, her frustration was remedied succinctly by the two Butlers that rushed her from opposite ends, moving to average their fallen comrade that had been flung headfirst into the adjoining fray. Mei’s eyes swept from one side to the other, catching sight of a wide-eyed, howling man with several knives glimmering between his fingers like some rampaging monster from some cheesy film, the opened, crimson suitcase with several of hers and Cecil’s clothes still hanging from its zipper, and a glowering Butler with a long, silvery dagger masking her face, eyes fixated on Mei’s neck.
The girl darted forward, kicking down and driving the ball of her foot into the side of the suitcase. It popped up obediently, dumping its neatly folded contents onto the ocean of discarded fabric and blood at their feet, before Mei grabbed the bulky suitcase and flung it to the side. A yelp and a thud were the only confirmation Mei could afford as she spun around, ready to meet the man with bloodshot eyes as he already preemptively began swiping his hands like a Sweeper.
Only to be met with a condensed ball of clothing to the face.
“Guh!”
The man staggered back, recoiling from the impact of three pairs of jeans, a bulky winter coat, a handful of t-shirts, and a frilly bra all compressed into a mass the size of a small basketball. Blinking away a series of lights in his vision, he gawked at a black t-shirt neatly impaled across his blades, a fragment of the clothing cannonball coming loose. His eyes rose at the last minute to greet Mei’s fist as she smashed him squarely into the wooden drawer behind him, showering his unconscious body with splinters and an once spotless landline phone.
“… Seriously?” Mei snapped, looking down at the shredded, black fabric hanging from the Butler’s knives. “Come on, I had to custom order that from G Corp, you asshole! Couldn’t you cut up Ceci’s shit instead?”
“I’m right here, you know!” Cecil shot back before tightly gripping the head of an overextended Butler as he pitifully and harmlessly thrust past the girl, spinning him around and directly into the mirror with a loud, ear-splitting shatter.
Mei brushed off the indignant blonde’s retort with a roll of her eyes, her attention returning to the Butler to the left, unsteadily meandering from side to side as she tried unsuccessfully to pry the dagger free from its velvety interior. The Butler grit her teeth and blew errant strands of dark hair from her face as her free hand braced itself against the suitcase, the Butler prepared to yank the blade free and embed it in the meddlesome Liu girl’s throat.
And then Mei swept in and slammed the suitcase shut on her head.
A muffled yelp followed the dull, unceremonious thud of the suitcase, the Butler half-resembling one of those vintage, full body replacements she’d seen wandering about the Outskirts. As another Butler stumbled into her view and readied himself to seize victory where the rest of his clearly incompetent brethren had failed, Mei sighed and looped her arm around the dazed Butler’s waist before sending her flying directly into the impatient new challenger. His triumphant battle cry became a pitiful, dazed gurgle as the edge of the suitcase slammed into his face, sending both tumbling to the ground in a disheveled heap.
What had once been an entourage that encircled the Liu duo several times over now littered the ground, the lush carpet now damp and slick with blood. Cecil’s confidence soared alongside the rising crescendo of the U Corp ballad, spinning out of the way of Elly’s bloodied knife before catching another Butler as he swept at what appeared to be her exposed flank. His eyes widened as he beheld Cecil’s smirk, a dumbfounded despair that the girl all too eagerly delighted in slamming her foot into, sending him careening into the locked hotel door and tearing it from its hinges. She swung her extended leg forward, swearing as Elly deflected it mid-kick with a flick of her arm.
“Absolute incompetents, the lot of them,” Elly swore, darting back as Cecil’s arm chopped at her throat and missed it by mere inches. “If word gets out that such a trivial task was bungled so terribly… the D'Alençons will be the laughingstock of Nest B.”
“You sure you don’t have better things to worry about?” Cecil joked, flicking her hair back before leaping at the seething Chief Butler. “Like us, for instance?”
“Tch,” Elly clicked her tongue, weaving to the side as Cecil sailed harmlessly past her. Her practiced counter, gracefully following along the girl’s trajectory until it would end at her exposed neck, met with a dull clang as a thrown knife parried the lethal maneuver. As her arm bounced back, Elly stepped away from the reach of the recovering Cecil, spying the overconfident Mei with an unconscious Butler in one hand and another knife twirling between her two fingers. “You pummel a couple of grunts and suddenly the dogs have teeth?”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re so much better than the others, I haven’t even been trying, tell me something I haven’t heard,” Mei replied, shrugging nonchalantly before throwing the dagger in concert with Cecil’s fist, the silvery projectile and heavy blow each covering the narrow windows the Chief Butler could think to retreat to. Elly’s eyes narrowed as she felt her heel press against the back of the wall and, brandishing another knife, she met the knife with a throw of her own before falling into a crouch and deflecting Cecil’s blow with her forearm. She winced and shook, the airy, pompous arrogance that perpetually defined her face giving way to a blistering pain as a soft crack could be heard underneath her flowing dress.
And before Cecil could indulge in the blissful aria of the Butler’s fracturing arm, Elly’s free arm lunged and hit the girl squarely in the face.
“Nngh!” Cecil staggered back, spitting blood from her mouth as her already broken nose screamed in agony, practically gushing blood from the flattened nostrils. She gingerly massaged her face, now more purple than pale, before quickly deflecting another punch to her ribs from the infuriated Chief Butler.
“Sh-Shit,” Elly snarled, gritting her teeth as each minute movement of the fingers of her left arm felt like a needle pricking her nerves. “What the hell kind of body augmentations are those? Feels like I just got hit by a fucking bu-“
A flash of emerald flickered in her peripheral vision and the Chief Butler swung instinctively, catching Mei’s knee just moments away from shattering her pelvis. Still riding on the momentum of her initial charge, Mei’s arm lashed out at the girl’s head, crashing with a puff of smoke and cracking drywall. Sweat caked Elly’s face as she tried not to think of the blow that very nearly pulverized her head, shoving the girl off of her with her foot. The wild and brazen Mei seemed completely unperturbed by her bloody knuckles as she charged forward yet again, throwing a second punch at Elly’s head. The faint squish of blood and viscera caught the Chief Butler’s attention and, with an exasperated sigh, she parried the Liu Fixer’s punch with her fractured arm before spinning around and rebuffing the flanking Cecil with a shove from her free hand. “Really, both of you?”
“You jump a drunk girl and someone in a swimsuit and you’re going to talk about fairness?” Cecil shot back, mirroring the irritation on Elly’s face. “Don’t you even start.”
“I simply wished to get your apology,” Elly said plainly, ducking underneath Mei’s fist before jabbing at Cecil’s chest. The blonde swatted it away before sweeping at Elly’s feet with her leg. A clumsy stumble and jump was still an evade as the Chief Butler avoided the blow, her flailing arm grazing Cecil’s shoulder and sending the girl back. The welcomed breathing room was enough for Elly to spin on her heel and meet Mei’s foot with the back of her fist, sending the girl stumbling back before a second jab at her throat, deflected with an enraged snarl from the Liu Fixer, cleared more room for the heaving Chief Butler.
“Apology?” Mei threw her arms out, her face contorting in anger. “You’re in our fucking room and you want us to apologize?”
“Mmm,” Elly bit her lip, tilting her head in mild amusement. “What similar reactions. I see why you two pair up so well.”
“You’re really starting to piss me off,” Mei spat, her eyes practically burning with rage. “Cecil, cut her off. I’m going to Tiěshānkào this bitch so hard I’ll be picking bits of her off of me in the shower for weeks.”
“Couldn’t you have picked a less unappealing mental image, Mei?” Cecil sighed, rolling next to the Chief Butler and raising her fists in an aggressive posture. Her eyes narrowed as she tracked the briefest trace of movement from their beleaguered assailant, each nerve in her body twitching at the slightest opportunity to catch her as the Chief Butler tried to escape the pincer. Yet, once again that gnawing sense of unease seemed to prick at her, causing each individual hair to stand on end. Even as Mei threw herself at Elly, her body a blur of green and red with all the vindictive, murderous intent of a ballistic missile, the Chief Butler stood completely unphased, staring down the frenzied Liu Fixer like a bored Nest Egg at one of their many opulent museums. Were it any other person, at any other time, in any other part of the City, Cecil would’ve taken the inaction as a simple and fatal lapse in attention.
Even so, her voice caught in her throat as she saw the Chief Butler smirk. She stepped back and to the side, a brisk sidestep in but half a second that lured in the bloodthirsty Mei’s charge and sent her careening forward, her arms flailing wildly and her feet digging into the carpet as she tried to halt her advance. She barely caught the silvery threads trailing from Elly’s sleeves, let alone the forceful palm strike that sent Mei tumbling into an astonished Cecil.
“Shit,” Cecil swore, leaping forward and catching Mei before their faces slammed together. “Got you, Mei.”
“We are in accord, Miss Cecil. I do have both of you.”
Goosebumps raced down Cecil’s arms as her eyes shot toward Elly, a victorious smile plastered across her face as she curled her fingers into a fist. No, not goosebumps; she realized all too late as flashes of translucent threads flickered across Mei’s body, as she felt the prickling sensation on the back of her neck and down her arms suddenly intensified to a sharp bite that dug into her skin. Before she could even think to claw at the wires tangled around her, they coiled tightly, awkwardly pinning her arms against her chest and her legs together. Even the confused yelp that would’ve escaped her lips was held back with a cough as she felt a thin wire coil around her neck before constricting like a serpent. Cecil coughed and gagged as her vision dimmed, the room turning into murky shadows occasionally exploding with dull kaleidoscope of colors. With a strangled gasp, she collapsed to the ground with two breathless coughs, one from the harsh stinging of her shoulder against the bloody carpet and one from Mei’s head as it slammed into her side. Drawing in shallow breaths, her fingers frantically clawed at the wires pinning her wrists to her body, prickling harmlessly at the silvery threads. The two girls writhed helplessly on the ground, eyes bulging as their skin, once dyed crimson with blood, now turned a sickly shade of violet. Through the morass of black shadows that began to obscure her vision, Cecil could barely make out the visage of the smirking Chief Butler, a mass of twinkling threads coiled around her fingers.
“Such inelegant brutality,” she scoffed, drawing out each syllable as the faint gurgles of the two, strangled girls underneath the Chief Butler’s heel filled her with ecstasy. “Recklessly charging in like two brazen bulls. Even the simplest of the Receiving Arts would have neatly taken care of both of you; this was honestly a complete waste of my talents.”
“ggo… fuck yourself…” Mei wheezed, her hands limply scratching against her t-shirt in one last, meager bid for her life.
“Mmmm, unsightly plebians to the end.” Elly tutted as she shook her head in mocking disapproval, kneeling down and cradling Cecil’s head in her free arm. “Now, Miss Cecil, recall that earlier, I wanted us to watch as your little friend died.”
“n-nnno…” Cecil coughed, blood dripping from her mouth. Her palms turned and her fingers reached out, as if she could snatch the Chief Butler’s hand and hold it tight. “… i-i-i’m sorry… mei didn’t… just please… don’t…”
“Oh, please understand, Miss Cecil, I’m aware your friend was unaffiliated with our little spat.” Elly knelt down until her eyes were level with Cecil’s, their faces close enough to where she could practically lap up the tears beginning to stream down the blonde’s face. “That’s why I want you to watch.”
Watch. Again.
Why the fuck was she obsessed with forcing her to watch?
She squirmed and thrashed and screamed, yet nothing but a dry, soundless roar came from her lips as she watched Mei’s hands go limp and the light begin to dim from her eyes. With each minute twitch from the Chief Butler’s fingers, she could do nothing but gaze helplessly on her best friend as the rise and fall of her bound chest slowed more and more, the final vestiges of a strangled victim clinging to life with whatever strength still ran in her oxygen-deprived lungs. Cecil took in quick and frantic breaths as her fingers tried to find some type of knot or frazzled end to the wires binding her wrists to her chest, her mind racing and her eyes burning the foregone scene into her head again.
Mei’s shallow gasps as the wire tightened across her neck.
Mei’s body seizing up as the knife dug into her neck.
Mei’s faint, whimsical smile as she disappeared into the light, blood streaming from the gash that shredded through her clothing and tore through her rib cage.
How many times was she going to watch her friend die?
How many fucking times was she going to watch her friends die?!
She clamped her eyes shut, knowing that she could do nothing to stop the gunshots from ringing in her ears one more time. If Xiao and Lowell would wake up to find their lifeless bodies in the hotel room, the least she could do is leave them with a smile. She couldn’t bear for the last thing she saw to be Lowell’s body fading into wisps of glowing dust, torn apart by a flurry of gunshots. The sheer horror and despair that would be etched across her face… Cecil couldn’t bear to subject anyone to that.
And yet the gunshot rang out, clear as day. Cecil’s teeth clamped down and she shook her head, hoping that she’d be dead before she could hear the other seven. Sorry, Mei.
I’m so fucking sorry.
I just.
Fucking.
Can’t believe this happened again.
She gasped, blinking away the tears from her eyes, and took in a huge breath, ready to-
To.
Cecil’s head shot up, each muscle in her body surging with strength as though the breath of fresh air was a K Corp ampule shoved right down her throat. The once biting wires relaxed, providing the girl enough slack to quickly wriggle her arms free before seizing the wire wound around her throat and ripping it in half. Without a second thought, she dove toward Mei and took hold of the already loosening thread around her neck, tearing it apart with a sweep of her arm. The dark-haired girl wheezed and coughed, droplets of blood splashing across a wincing Cecil, before her glassy eyes blinked and focused on the heaving girl hovering over her.
“Hehe… not even… close…” Mei forced a chuckle, her weak, protracted breaths keeping her from entirely fading into unconsciousness.
Cecil reciprocated with an equally awkward smile, an immense relief washing over her. As she pulled the wheezing girl close, the Liu Fixer finally noticed the bloodcurdling, seething howl that, for but a few moments, had faded into the background amidst the downtempo piano melody. Blood and eviscerated gore dripped onto the carpet as a screeching Elly cradled her shoulder, a hole the size of Cecil’s fist punched straight through the reinforced fabric, the skin, and the bone. Her widened, crazed eyes shot toward the door, a maddened glare quite unlike the once composed Chief Butler fully overtaking her visage. There, situated at the shattered doorway, a shadowy figure lounged against the chipped frame, a rifle lowered with a smoking, orange barrel. Tufts of brunette hair stuck out at uneven, disheveled angles, breaking suddenly on her forehead like it had been brusquely brushed away to accommodate her fogged glasses. Adorned in a plain, black t-shirt and some baggy shorts and still wearing her pool flip-flops, the glowering Thumb Capo looked uncharacteristically underdressed for the ordinarily hierarchical sticklers. Whether Katriel held any reservations about presenting herself to some middling Liu grunts, her steely frown betrayed not a single thought other than her utter disdain as she raised the iron sights back up to her eye.
“Damnable… Syndicate rats…” Elly snarled, shooting her gaze back at Cecil. Less of a Fixer and more like some cornered beast, Cecil felt goosebumps run down her arm as their eyes connected, thinking the Chief Butler might just swoop down and chomp her head off in some ghastly display of craven inhumanity. Instinctively she ran her fingers down her arm as she held Mei close, giving a silent prayer that the translucent wires hadn’t suddenly wrapped themselves around their prey once again. “… You, you cavort with Backstreets trash like this. You’re a disgrace to the Hana, a disgrace to our very profession, the sheer gall to think you would entrap me s-“
Another gunshot, rattling the drawers and Cecil’s clenched teeth. Elly whipped around, parrying the second round with a swipe of a newfound dagger procured from her sleeves. She leapt back once and twice and thrice more, nearing the window at the far end of the room. Still nursing the gaping wound that squirted blood with every heartbeat, she loosed a wild, incredulous laugh, throwing her head back like some manic wolf.
“NO. No no no no… the D'Alençon name shall not be besmirched by such a disgraceful, total loss. I shall take my exit, then.” Her eyes fell on Cecil as she rose to her feet, a drooping Mei clinging to her shoulder. “You, you traitorous, shameless harlot. This isn’t over. When I return, not even your precious little Director or your Syndicate thugs will stop me from gutting your friend and serving her up as a stew. I, Elly de Metz, shall make you rue the day you dared slight the immaculate D'Alençon household!”
With a dramatic flourish, the Chief Butler spun, leaping toward the window. Cecil heard Katriel slam the wall in frustration, a flurry of gunshots going wide as she unloaded on the fleeing prey. By virtue, by luck, by sheer frustrated fate, the fleeting Chief Butler was seemingly unphased as she leapt toward the window, practically cackling as she made her retreat, bullets whizzing by and going wide as her exit was all but assured.
Slam.
Silence. The soft rustling of a rifle being slung over a shoulder could barely be made out over the closing measures of the serene Sarajinae. Cecil cast a sheepish glance over to Katriel, her mouth slightly open as the thoughts flooding her mind were practically begging to explode from her mouth. Yet, as she furrowed her brow, she could not seem to think of a single word to describe the scene that played out before them.
Then, the soft creak of skin and cloth screeching against glass. The unconscious Elly slid down the hardened window, bounced off the countertop, and crumpled ignobly to the ground into a tired heap. A faint beep interrupted the fading song, followed by the chipper voice of the absent AI.
“Warning. An attempted break-in was detected. We are pleased to inform you that your K Corp Certified Grade AAA Security prevented the thief from entering through the [WINDOW]. On behalf of K Corp and Cane Office, we are proud to guarantee your utmost safety.”
A faint chortle. Mei stirred and shifted about as her fingers dug into Cecil’s collarbone, faint droplets of blood dripping from her smiling face. “… Thank the Wings she shut the fuck up.”
“Mhm.” Cecil lowered herself to a crouch, slipping her hands underneath Mei’s thighs before piggybacking the weary girl. She turned to Katriel, giving a curt nod. “The, uh, assistance is appreciated. But…”
She paused, cut off by Katriel’s outstretched palm as the Thumb Capo fished through the pockets of her shorts, procuring her phone. With the speed Cecil had only ever seen from B Corp’s illustrious IT Nest Eggs, Katriel’s fingers flew across her phone before the speaker let out a small burst of static.
“You woke me up with your little party,” the phone recited in a dull monotone.
“O-Oh,” Cecil’s face lit up as she rubbed the back of her head, tactfully avoiding the Capo’s piercing stare. “Sorry, they sorta… invited themselves over.”
“Couldn’t have continued your little party downstairs?”
“Didn’t really have a choice in the matter,” Cecil grumbled with a shrug. “You know the types. Pompous, spoiled rich types with a stick up their ass thinking they can just throw their ahn around like it makes up for the small dick.”
“I don’t know… I kinda had fun,” Mei croaked, propping her chin on Cecil’s shoulder and flashing a cheeky grin. “Had a few drinks, saw some movies, a fun as hell workout…”
“I’m pretty sure only I was only around for one of those,” Cecil muttered under her breath.
“C’mon, Ceci…” Mei laughed, nuzzling her cheek against Cecil’s. “This is kinda like last year’s Christmas party. Chun picked a fight with the whole of Section 3, we got all that premium vodka from up north, hell did you forgot that you and Xiao fought it out over who would get to kiss Lo-“
With a dull thud, Mei crashed to the ground, Cecil dusting her hands and addressing the bemused Capo with a nod of her head. “… Sorry about her. The Butlers wrapped a wire around her neck and tried to strangle her. I think that along with the alcohol might have made her misremember some things.”
Katriel’s icy glare spoke volumes. Her eyes swept over the red-faced Cecil, the blood caking her cheeks almost a faded sepia compared to the crimson hue born from her embarrassment, then to the dazed and groaning Mei as she picked herself off the ground and rubbed her aching head, then finally to the unconscious Chief Butler slumped over a table. With wide and careful steps, the Capo maneuvered around the morass of dead and unconscious bodies that littered the disheveled and ruined hotel room, finally looming over the silent Elly. Wordlessly, the Thumb Capo unslung her rifle, its barrel aimed directly at the Chief Butler’s forehead.
Only for a hand to grab the barrel and shove it away.
“Can you… please not?” Cecil grumbled, exasperated. “It’s against protocol to strike down helpless combatants once hostilities have ended.”
“You can’t be serious.” Katriel furrowed her brow, her left hand furiously typing. “Did that blow to your eye actually hit your brain or did I step in too late to stop any permanent damage from you two getting strangled to death?”
“Gotta say, Ceci, I gotta side with ol Syndie here,” Mei added, slinging herself over the nearest bed before collapsing into it.
“Do not call me that again.”
“I mean, like, I guess it was fun to be the damsel in distress in one of the Liu’s semi-annual simulated training courses and all,” Mei continued, oblivious to Katriel’s seething stare as she stared at the ceiling, the girl sprawled on the bed. “But like let’s be real, Ceci. Like fuck her, right? We already killed like half of them; why not add one more?”
“Because, Mei, when the video gets forwarded to the higher ups, I will make sure you have to write up the paperwork explaining why we let a Syndicate member blow the brains out of a civilian right in front of us.”
Silence. An awkward cough. Finally, Mei popped up from the bed, her face caked in nervous sweat. “… Haha, there’s no way that anyone here’d know that she didn’t just die from, like, a suspiciously bullet-sized shoe thrown at her face.”
“Uh-huh…” Cecil threw a glance upward. “Serena, what is Cane Office’s recording policy?”
A beep, then the blissfully simple voice of the AI. “Cane Office reserves any and all right to maintain 24/7 surveillance on any and all rooms it reserves for the benefits of its guests. We on behalf of Cane Office assure you that we will not sell your information. [DISCLAIMER], Cane Office maintains its full discretion to use its recordings however it sees fit.”
“… Fuck,” Mei pressed her face into her bloody palms.
Katriel’s scowl, too, made her thoughts quite apparent. She wrenched the rifle free from Cecil’s hands, pinning her with a glare as she took another step toward the unconscious Elly. Her finger eagerly caressed the waiting trigger, the barrel of the gun resting a few inches off the side of the girl’s face. Both the Thumb Capo and the Liu Fixer locked eyes, the relaxed and laidback slouch of the blonde masking the percussive cacophony of her beating heart. Even as she leaned back on her heels, she held her right arm just a hand’s distance away from her side, enough that it could jerk forward and piston the girl’s fist into Katriel’s face should she train her gun on the Chief Butler. The Thumb Capo, too, held the butt of the rifle up level with her cheek, ready to wheel it back and slam it into Cecil’s head if she tried to intervene.
One second. Five seconds. Fifteen seconds. Mei crossed her legs as her head lazily rolled into her cradling hands, the thick tension giving way to an almost mundane boredom. Finally, Katriel blinked and slung the rifle back over her shoulder, shrugging in resignation.
“Thank you,” Cecil said, collapsing into the bed alongside Mei. She winced, an entire day’s worth of pain shooting up her spine and down her toes as the rushing adrenaline finally dissipated. “Fuck, fuck ow…”
“So, what’s exactly your plan with this bitch here?”
The drab and innocuous query nonetheless pricked at Cecil’s head like an N Corp nail. She rubbed her temples, the awkwardness of the question setting in. “I mean, we could… contact the Zwei or something.”
Katriel crossed her arms, expectantly watching as Cecil fished out her phone from her pocket. With three quick taps, followed by a series of beats, a rather bored voice rang out from the speakers. “Hello. You’ve connected with the local Zwei office of Nest S.”
“Yes, hello.” Cecil said immediately, pressing the phone against her face. “We’d like to report a-“
“Please be advised that it is past our active hours. If this is an emergency, please press ‘0.’ Please be aware that requesting a Zwei deployment past our active hours will include an additional 15% surcharge on top of our additional going ra-“
The phone clicked off with a tap of Cecil’s thumb. The phone fell to the bed, Cecil’s annoyed frown bringing a silent cackle to the Thumb Capo’s face. “You’d think a police force wouldn’t have active working hours.”
“It would be rather suicidal to go out in the middle of a Night in the Backstreets.”
“But we’re in a Nest. Did Cane Office seriously not reserve priority access to the Zwei?”
A faint chime. Then, the blissfully irritating voice of the AI eavesdropping on their conversation. “Cane Office would like to remind you that all non-essential amenities must be paid for at the guest’s expense. Cane Office does not anticipate any security issues to arise during the tournament.”
“Is that so?” Cecil scoffed, chucking a pillow at the ceiling. “Well if Nemo doesn’t want to anticipate me shoving my boot up his ass, his nosy AI will shut up and stop listening in on our conversation.”
Fortunately, it seemed that even this brainless program had the common sense not to test the Liu Fixer’s patience any further. As the final strings of Sarajinae came to a close, both Cecil and Katriel stood over the unconscious Chief Butler, the former biting her forefinger as she mulled over her options.
“So can we shoot her now?” Katriel offered.
“We are not shooting her,” Cecil snapped back, throwing her hands up in exasperation. “Stop asking.”
“Are you telling me a bunch of Grade 2 Fixers from one of the highest echelons of the Liu Association is afraid of a little paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
Katriel blinked incredulously, looking at the two frazzled Liu Fixers like they’d gone mad. “… Are you serious?”
“One time, Chun overestimated the strength behind his signature Flaming Dragon Fist and sent a Stray Dog directly into one of K Corp’s affiliate stores while we were quelling a small incident,” Mei said, her eyes listless and her voice dead. “Section 1 received several notices from K Corp, N Corp, Mirae Insurance, Zwei, Oufi, Seven, we somehow even got harassed by Ranga Workshop because they were supposed to be having a promotional event with K Corp at the time. Chun practically begged Section 2 to help him fill out the requisite paperwork or, to quote him, ‘he’d be trapped in his office for the next month.’”
“He needed a whole other Section. … to fill out paperwork?”
“… It took an entire week to send off the last of the papers.”
Katriel furrowed her brow. Even with poignant, red marks still drawing blood around their necks, the two girls looked more appalled by the oppressive specter of bureaucracy than by their very near suffocation mere minutes ago. Be it through an understanding or a resignation of trying to parse the thought processes of the City’s Fixer system, the Thumb Capo hoisted herself up onto the table, the flip-flops dangling from her toes as she once again gestured to the unconscious Elly. “Well, if we’re not killing her and we’re not having the Zwei take her in, what are we gonna do? Lock up the place and call room service?”
Cecil cupped her mouth, her eyes drifting down the limp body of the Chief Butler, from the blood pooling across her head to the moist, silvery threads that now dangled uselessly from her sleeves like the gory remains of some disemboweled Rat hung from the street lamps. She leapt off the bed, creeping up to Elly’s side and pinching one of the many wires that jutted out from her floofy sleeves. She tugged and tugged and tugged, an endless stream of unending wire spitting out from underneath the Chief Butler’s clothes like one of F Corp’s mythical, entropy-defying toilet rolls.
“… Hey Mei,” Cecil began, a devilish grin spreading across her face. “You said you went sailing in U Corp on vacation once, right?”
“Yeah,” she replied, swinging her legs across the side of the bed. “What’s up, Ceci?”
“How good are you with knots?”
The first thought that crossed Elly’s mind was the deliciously tear-stricken face of the blonde Liu Fixer as she choked the life out from her friend. The second was the pounding headache that radiated from her forehead and down her body, the fleeting image of a solid, glass pane flashing in her mind in a fragmented, embarrassed recollection.
The third was how she’d flay the skin from that Association dog until she was begging for death.
Truthfully, her thoughts were consumed by that damned Liu Fixer that’d been so uppity as to forget her station and insult a noble house far above her standing. Worse, to directly insult her. To lay a finger on her. She’d savor every last sip of tea while she forced Cecil to watch as her stupid friend and that Syndicate bitch dangled from the rooftop from the wires wrapped around their necks, then carve an eloquent apology across her skin until the only thing she knew was how to prostrate herself and beg for forgiveness like a submissive little slut.
And then the fun would truly begin.
So it did take a while for Elly, so enraptured by her delectable daydreams, to finally nurse the aching headache assailing her. Only then did she realize the numbness in her fingers, her eyes widening as she began to thrash about, her arms lashed together and secured behind her with a tight set of wires binding her wrists. She’d have kicked a nearby wall in frustration were her legs not wrapped from thigh to ankle in a multitude of wires. Her wires, to be exact. Her poignant screams, each a series of artful and refined curses that no one from the Backstreets had probably ever heard in their miserable lives, let alone could comprehend, were tragically sealed behind a wad of rolled-up wool, leaving only dribble and spit to leak from the sides of her mouth as her widened, crazed eyes looked for the culprit, met only with inky shadows and the sharp stench of blood.
“Hey, Ceci, I think she’s up.”
With a click, the room flooded with light, revealing the two Fixers and the one Syndicate sharpshooter lounging at near the entryway. Strands of shredded cloth ran across their arms and legs as makeshift tourniquets while the blood that once soaked their bodies was reduced to faint stains of a lightish red. The black eye that once took up half of Cecil’s face was now a more manageable blemish ringing her eye like a bottle of eyeliner had exploded in her face, still unsightly enough that the girl’s smirk brought Elly’s blood to a boil. She looked down, now aware of the chair she was secured in, and violently thrashed against the wooden frame, the wood creaking as it struggled to endure the beating from her bare legs.
Bare legs.
She blinked again, the rage cooling just long enough for her to take stock of the absurd thought. Her flowing, embroidered dress, the mark of a refined and perfect Chief Butler like herself, was absent, leaving her with but the sight of her pale skin, bruised across her chest and stomach, and a garish set of frilled bra and panties. Her face lit up in humiliation and anger, her rage subsuming the realization dawning across her as she loosed a tirade of rampant, incoherent screams, all mercifully muted by the socks wrapped around her head.
“Honestly, we didn’t really want to strip you,” Mei chuckled, dangling the torn and bloodied dress of the Chief Butler from between her fingers. “But, like, actually no seriously what was this?”
With a flick of her wrist, a dagger and a roll of wires dropped from underneath the hem of the dress. Another flick produced two more knives, clattering to the floor with a series of thuds. Another flick, another roll of wires. Mei wrung three more daggers free from the almost infinite space contained underneath the dress before dropping it to the ground, gesturing to the staggering pile of concealed armaments in confusion. “Like how do you move around in this? I’m surprised you didn’t tear an artery or something with all of these knives just… lying around underneath your clothes.”
“Mmm mmmmph mm MMMMFFFF MMF MMPH MMMMFFFFFFFFFFF!”
Perhaps if the wood was less sturdy nor the wires crafted from the bootleg material scraped from the dredges of the Outskirts, the frenzied Chief Butler would have torn herself free from her restraints, so wild and crazed was her sudden and vicious thrashing that she resembled some possessed monster from the Ruins more than a Fixer. Thankfully, Nest hotels requisitioned nothing but the most sturdy and elegant furniture from a plethora of renowned Workshops throughout the City and the personal entourage of mansion-bound Fixers cared even more for the quality of their weapons. Though her eyes were wide and no doubt filled with violent daydreams of wringing Cecil’s neck with her own bare hands, the flailing and thrashing Chief Butler firmly secured to a small chair posed no threat to the three outside of spittle staining their torn clothes and bandaged legs.
Stepping back a bit, Cecil cradled her head in her hands as her eyes skimmed over the dilapidated hotel room. The shattered mirror and drawers would likely catch a hefty fine from Cane Office and Lowell, no matter how generous he was, would absolutely not spring to replace their now dented and crushed luggage bags. On a slightly… less headache-inducing note, Elly shared her rather ignoble captivity with a small handful of Butlers who ‘thankfully’ avoided having their spines snapped by the two girls in the brief scuffle, a string of stripped Butlers either strapped to chairs or weakly squirming about in the beds, their eyes either dim with forlorn despair or sharing the unmitigated rage of their leader. There was little to do about the corpses that lined the floor, a mix of bile, blood, and entrails turning the one lush, crimson carpet into a murky, vile black, but in all likelihood trying to drag them to the lobby would likely cause more questions than answers.
And, well, it didn’t seem like the windows were opening any time soon.
Of course, the fleeting success of the two Fixers soon gave way to a more pressing concern, one that managed to succeed where Elly and her band of ruffians had failed in causing the unflappable smile across Mei’s face to fade. Crestfallen, the girl turned to Cecil, despair practically carved into her frown.
“… So, uh, where are we sleeping?”
Shit. Good question. The blonde rattled her head for answers, faced now with a petty but reasonably concerning quandary. While it certainly wouldn’t hurt either herself or Mei to sleep in a rancid hotel room surrounded by decaying bodies and kept awake by the struggling and writhing Butlers that very well could wriggle free and wrap their restraining wires around her throat, the idea was, unsurprisingly, less than appealing. They could bunk with Chun and Miris… the girl kicked herself, now realizing she’d forgotten to ask them where they were even staying. Knowing Chun, she’d have a better time waking a corpse from a graveyard, and Miris likely shut off his phone before he went to sleep. There was Lowell…
Instinctively, she matted down the bits of bloodied hair sticking up from her scalp and ran a hand across her face, gingerly tracing her swollen eye and crooked nose. Surely, Lowell wouldn’t judge her if she showed up looking like she’d crawled right out of a Sweeper’s den, right? And the smell, too. She raised her arm and gave it a faint sniff, wincing as the combination of blood, pus, and chlorine all came together to form a unique fragrance akin to getting splashed with an entire year’s worth of K Corp sewage. And…
Oh by the Head, what if Xiao was there too?
What if they were still awake too?
Imagine if she saw the two of them together, covered up in their sheets, as she collapsed in their doorway dripping in blood and reeking of death. Cecil could feel her very body shrivel up and die from embarrassment. Maybe sleeping in the hallway was preferrable.
Mei, meanwhile, stifled a laugh, watching as Cecil’s eyes went blank as her face grew pale. She wrapped her arm around Cecil’s shoulder and drew her close before waving over Katriel. “Hey, Kat, you mind if we bunk at your place for the night?”
“What did you just call-.” The monotone voice stopped abruptly as Katriel’s thumb hesitantly hovered over its translucent screen. She hung her head and rolled her eyes, a momentary but rather aggravating argument likely raging in her head. “You two are sleeping on the couch..”
“A whole couch?” Mei cheered, dragging Cecil behind her as she ran up and embraced Katriel. “Damn, you really are a generous bunch, huh?”
Katriel thanked the Wings she did not have a tongue as she didn’t have the patience to type out the thoughts swirling around in her subconscious.
“Doncha worry about anything,” Mei continued, beaming like a radiant sun rising over a dismal and leery night. “Ceci and I’ve slept in worse conditions so the couch is probably fine. Like, when she’s sleepy, it’s like she’s checked her brain in at a K Corp vat and left it there for the weekend. We’ve shared a sleeping bag before when we’ve gone on excursions in the Outskirts and, like, she’d actually kinda clingy when she’s really outta it!”
Cecil smiled. Her body burned, her chest heaved, and both fatigue and pain made her legs protest each step. Her bare feet were slick with blood and made a sickening, squishing noise as the three meandered into the hallway, guided by a Katriel whose solemn expression was trying its hardest not to betray the regret she now bore in even entertaining the chatty Fixer’s suggestion. If Mei wasn’t tugging on her wrist and keeping her close behind, she might’ve actually considered the carpet beneath her toes a good enough mattress.
But if she could hear more of Mei’s voice, maybe she’d bear it for now.
… And she had to admit, it was a bit of fun.
“Like one time she wrapped her legs around my waist and you could just hear her sleeptalking about this one cute boy she liked,” Mei continued, pulling the three together and making a wide, expansive gesture with her hands, eyes practically sparkling like stars. “Something about how he shone brighter than the fiery intensity of a thousand su-“
“Mei, if you don’t shut the fuck up, you’re sleeping on the floor.”
Notes:
So this was supposed to be a throwaway half-meme chapter I wrote after getting the idea in a stroke of boredom. It, ah, kinda got a bit away from me. Oops.
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