Chapter Text
❅Shatter Me❅
Part 1
˚‧º·Song Inspiration for Part 1‧º·˚
In the frozen heart of Belobog, a city that once stood defiantly against the threat of the Eternal Freeze, Gepard Landau’s life unfolded with the mundane precision of a worn-out clock. Week after week, day after day, the light of dawn would pull him from the clutches of dread-inducing nightmares, their claws tightening around his throat and heart, leaving him breathless and drenched in a cold sweat.
Battle scenes from days long gone replayed in his mind, a spectral echo that reverberated with the same gut-wrenching intensity each dawn. The pristine, snowy canvas of recollection bore witness to blackened crimson hues, vivid strokes of a brutal past. The battlefield, now a frozen graveyard, cradled the scattered remnants of men and women, their voices forever silenced, suffocated by the static hum of stillness. No one remained but him. Wretched; worthless; weak. He’d panic and beg; plead and beseech to whomever may be listening, quiet requests becoming roars of demand – please, let my men come home.
But every morning he’d awaken, unconscious thoughts bleeding into consciousness, the knowledge that those men never made it home haunting his waking thoughts. He was supposed to be the impenetrable shield that protected the people; the sentinel that was as unyielding as the frozen wastelands surrounding his precious city. It was his duty to protect them, but every night he failed them all over again. Years came and went, and Gepard often wondered if the city would’ve fared better if it had been him to perish in those battles. Sometimes, he wished it had been so.
Yet, the cold embrace of reality awaited, and Gepard rose with a solemn defiance to meet it head-on.
Sacrificing breakfast had become a daily ritual, replaced by the mundane cycle of daily responsibilities. Taking charge of the Silvermane Guard, Gepard committed himself to training the never-ending flow of new recruits, sculpting them into the next generation of defenders against the hulking crystalline beasts lurking in and around the city’s Restricted Zone. Patrols, both routine and perilous, carved jagged lines across the canvas of his days, as he ventured into the icy abyss to safeguard the fragile peace of Belobog.
Despite the Stellaron having been contained a little over five years ago by the Nameless, the land of Jarilo-VI would take decades—possibly beyond his own lifetime—to reclaim even a piece of what it once lost. Gepard held no illusions about ever seeing the snow melt or the storms calm long enough for plants to thrive on their own. Yet, he found comfort in the idea that, one day, his descendants might witness a fragment of the world they’d all but lost. He hoped—so desperately—for it to be true; it’s all he had left.
Gepard’s daily patrols had a reliable rhythm, mirroring the consistent unfolding of Pela’s daily reports, both as dependable as clockwork. The disturbances, anomalies, and ongoing disruptions; a trifecta that held the city in an unending dance with uncertainty. The paperwork, a labyrinth of reports and requisitions, stretched before him like an endless expanse of frost-covered plains. Delicate and intricate like snowflakes in a bureaucratic blizzard, each sheet held the responsibility of ensuring Belobog’s security.
Lunch—if it managed to find a moment to exist—would frequently be a rushed affair, a mere formality involving a hasty interaction with the limited options of a vending machine, serving as a meagre means of nourishment for a man who was constantly bound by the hounding obligations of his role. Try as he may, he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d cooked himself a meal, food now nought but fuel to keep him going. Maybe, one day, he’d indulge again in the savoury satisfaction of a perfectly cooked steak, or savour the rich aroma of a good, high-quality wine. It was a faint hope, one he doubted—but maybe.
Drills with officers, extended hours, and more paperwork that piled like a snowstorm in his office, all conspired to shackle him within the fortress of bureaucracy. Not that he minded; not that he ever complained. At least when buried under it all—words melting from the pages to his mind, or running endless laps with the new recruits to help build up their endurance—the shadows of his ever-present nightmares were kept at bay.
While he was dedicated to maintaining a strict routine, there were rare occasions when he allowed himself to briefly deviate from it. There were days when the Supreme Guardian—Bronya Rand, one of the few people he considered a friend—would request his presence to engage in discussions regarding the security and safety of the city. On other days, he dedicated his time to assisting Captain Dunn in the Restricted Zone, where they bravely fought against the onslaught of crystalline Fragmentum monsters. And in moments of exhaustion and mental fatigue, when his thoughts were scattered and incoherent, he sought refuge in Serval’s workshop. Her presence brought him solace and her gentle reassurance eased his weary mind.
Sadly, he never received that level of warmth from his parents. Whenever he deigned to visit them—or whenever he was summoned by his father, Lord Lowe Landau—they would not-so-subtly push their agenda of marrying him off to the daughter of some business partner, their voices dripping with calculated persuasion and intentions masked by false smiles. More often than not, the meal ended with a date in the diary with a woman he’d never met nor had any intention of ever seeing again.
But aside from those few deviations, the unending days seamlessly melted into nights for Gepard, an unrelenting blend of duty and paperwork that anchored him within the confines of his office or post. Home was no escape—it offered little solace, and the nightmares lingered there just as they did in his waking hours. More often than not, his office became an impromptu refuge, with a worn-out couch and a desk cluttered with reports as his bed. The flickering lamplight cast shadows on his tired face, highlighting the weariness of a man who craved rest but couldn’t find it. Sleep remained as elusive as peace, leaving Gepard to drift, trapped in the memories of battles that refused to fade.
And so the cycle continued. Days rolling into weeks, falling into months, crashing into years. Nightmares. Broken sleep. Skipped meals. Patrols and drills. Aching joints. Blood. Endless meetings. Paperwork, documents, reports. Fighting the Fragmentum. Stacks of unsolved cases. Blood. Phantom aches in his missing arm. Chasing criminals. Wearied nods. Training sessions. Blood. Fitful sleep. Flickering lamplight. Coerced family meals. Clenched fists. Dates with nameless women. Blood. Fading sunlight. Regimen of medications. Stale coffee. Crumpled uniform. Blood. Night terrors. Stifled screams. Death. Blood. Corpses strewn across blackened crimson fields. Blood. Empty white eyes. Blood. Broken bones. Blood. Shredded flesh. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood……
So… much… blood.
It covers me.
I clean and clean, but the blood never goes away... why doesn’t it go? Please… make it go away…
❅❅❅
“Captain Landau? Hello?” The private waved a hand in front of Gepard’s face. “D-did you hear me, Captain?”
Gepard blinked, eyes dry from staring too intently at the incoming blizzard. He knew this would bring more Fragmentum beasts closer to the city, the shambling horrors plucked straight from the nightmares of some deranged psychopath. They always ambled closer when the temperatures dropped.
Looking at the private, Gepard raised a brow. “Apologies, private, I was—” definitely not zoning out “—focusing on shadows in the blizzard,” he said, gesturing with his head to the vast white expanse before them. “It’s better to be safe than to be caught unawares; you never know when a Fragmentum beast will come hurtling out of there.”
The private gulped, his eyes widening almost to the brink of popping out from the slits in his helmet. Whether it was fear or the biting cold, the young soldier trembled, his halberd quivering in his grip.
“Of course, sir. I-I–I just thought you’d like to know that, eh… Koski just… slipped… past us…” his voice trailed off.
Gepard’s gaze lost its intensity and his lips, once slightly lifted, now drooped even more. Koski; that incorrigible bastard! The man was a walking advertisement for birth control and wasted potential, always finding new and inventive ways to cheat, swindle, con, or outright steal right from under someone’s nose. Had he ever applied himself to being anything other than an irritating pest and unflappable source of Gepard’s exasperation, he might have become one of the best intelligence officers Belobog had ever seen. Unfortunately, he decided to stay true to his nature as an excessive flirt and troublemaker, equipped with an attractive face, a tendency for theft, and a gift for using words that were both drenched in honey and laced with a touch of arsenic.
Gepard pinched the bridge of his nose. “By Qlipoth’s arsecrack… what could he possibly want from the Restricted Zone now?” he said. “Which way?”
The private extended an arm eastwards, indicating the slope that, after winding inwards, led to the dilapidated gates of the old repository. This neglected area was seldom frequented nowadays, with the bulk of supplies relocated to a more secure location over a year ago when they reclaimed the central quadrant.
“Stay here, private. I’ll go and see to Koski,” Gepard said, now trudging through the shin-high snow and up the slope.
The private tried to hide his grin, giddy from having heard Gepard curse. Rumour had it that only Sampo Koski had the means to elicit such a reaction from the Captain, and it would seem that the hearsay held true.
In the midst of a worsening snowstorm, Gepard braved the biting wind as he quickly reached the repository. There, he was met with the lower half of Sampo, his legs high in the air as he delved into a battered crate. The thief, seemingly oblivious to Gepard’s arrival, hummed a tune whilst casually tossing empty medicine bottles over his shoulder. Even if these containers had held any substance, the majority were well beyond their sell-by date. Not that such details would dissuade Sampo from attempting to peddle whatever he could grasp with his grubby little hands.
Gepard slammed his shield—Earthwork—into the snow. The dull thud barely registered with Sampo, which caused Gepard to scrunch up his nose.
“Koski,” Gepard coughed, clearing his throat.
A small squeak came from the thief, and suddenly he careened headlong into the crate. The container jostled from side to side as he desperately attempted to regain his balance, legs flailing in all directions. The sides groaned under the strain until the aged wood finally succumbed, splintering and giving way. With a yelp, Sampo found himself sprawled on his back, surrounded by scattered medical equipment. A bottle of pills rolled to Gepard, the Captain stopping it with his foot.
Gepard approached the man on the floor, leaning over him with a scowl on his face.
“Well hello there, Geppie,” Sampo said with a crooked half-smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your beautiful face today?”
Gepard sighed. “One, don’t call me Geppie. Two, what are you trying to steal this time?” The exasperation in his voice was evident.
With a pout, Sampo fluttered his long black lashes, drawing attention to his striking emerald green eyes. A rumble of amusement slipped from his lips, transforming a mere smile into a wide, mischievous grin. “Me? Steal? How absurd!” With a sudden burst of energy, the thief leapt to his feet, briskly dusting himself off. “I’m repurposing.”
Gepard’s gaze flicked over to the thief. Standing at 6’2", the Captain rarely found himself having to look up at anyone, but Sampo had a way of creating the illusion of towering over him. A self-assured stance and those long, lean legs gave him an air of height that wasn’t entirely honest; Gepard knew that, without the lifts sneakily tucked into his boots, Sampo would only just meet his eye.
And yet, there was something about the thief’s presence—something more than the height; more than his broad shoulders or the easy confidence in his stride—that commanded attention. With a lithe but muscular frame, Sampo had a build that defied easy classification; too agile to be brutish, yet too sturdy to be delicate. It made him an enigma, and Gepard suspected he liked it that way. Most people, caught off guard by his appearance, had no idea how to categorise him.
He was both charismatic and unpredictable—a contradiction that kept everyone guessing. Sampo, with that faintly dangerous smile and wild glint in his eye, was a mystery Gepard had spent far too much time puzzling over. He knew better than most that, beneath the charm and casual air, there lurked chaos, carefully restrained.
“Repurposing?” Gepard scoffed as he folded his arms. With a questioning expression, he raised one eyebrow. “You have until the count of five to explain yourself, otherwise I’m throwing you in jail and giving Serval the key. One—”
With a squeal, Sampo's hands shot up in a defensive reflex. “—I’m not lying! I’m looking for extra resources—”
“—Two—”
“—for Natasha! Do you know how many supplies we—”
“—Three—”
“—go through in a month? If it’s not Luka breaking some bone or another in the fighting ring—”
“—Four—”
“—or Seele getting hurt from beating the crap out of the out-of-whack robots in The Great Mine—”
“—Four-and-a-half—”
Sampo squeaked. “—then it’s the Underworlders getting themselves hurt trying to retake Rivet Town!” he flinched and looked away, arms flung over his head.
Gepard had stopped counting.
Sampo blinked, peeking from behind fanned fingers; the Captain was still there, both brows raised and arms at his side.
“Uh… Geppie?”
The Captain let out a weary breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of mounting concerns. “Why hasn’t there been a request for extra resources?”
“We did,” Sampo said, lowering his arms. “Well, Nat did; I just stood there looking pretty,” he chuckled. “I guess it just got lost in all the paperwork. We can only hold out for so long before people start getting seriously hurt.” He paused, sweeping his arm to encompass the old, dusty repository and the abandoned medical equipment that lay unused. “So lil' ol’ me thought I’d take a jaunt up to the Overworld and see what I could steal—err, repurpose. ”
Rows upon rows of crates adorned the walls and cabinets, most likely containing items far too damaged or outdated to be of any practical use. Yet, if there was anyone with the knack for salvaging something valuable from the wreckage, it was Sampo.
Gepard inhaled sharply, eyes flickering over the wasted resources. “I thought this repository was empty.” It should’ve been empty.
Sampo, proving once again to be as elusive as his reputation suggested, had smoothly manoeuvred around Gepard, no longer tethered by the Captain’s imposing figure blocking his way. A few more strides, each as stealthy as a cat’s, and he would be on the verge of freedom, inching closer with itty-bitty-slinky-binky-kitty steps—
“—Fine. See to it that whatever you manage to salvage is put to good use,” Gepard conceded, a reluctant acquiescence evident in his voice.
“Eh?”
Realising he had snuck round him, Gepard turned to the thief, exhaling in irritation. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I said you can take what you need. I’ll fill out the paperwork tonight. Just… just make sure the Underworlders are taken care of, yeah?”
It took a moment for Sampo to fully comprehend, but when he did, an exuberant grin instantly lit up his face. Without warning, he launched himself at Gepard, enveloping the Captain in a bear hug and showering him with a relentless storm of kisses.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you—”
“—Get off, Koski!”
Try as he may to pull Sampo off him, the man was like velcro, stuck to Gepard and unwilling to let go until he had finished his embarrassing display of affection. Luckily, no one could see them. Gepard had gone very red, which only spurred the thief on to continue his relentless attack.
“Leave before I change my mind!” Gepard bellowed, finally succeeding in extricating himself from Sampo’s vice-like embrace.
Sampo laughed as he leant forward and winked. “I’ll make it up to you, Geppie.”
“You can start by not calling me Geppie.”
“Gepar-dough better?”
“No!”
“How about The Gepster?”
“Sampo—”
“—Oh, actually, Geppintio has an exotic sound to it. I like that one," he emphasised, deliberately popping the P in the same way he pronounced his own name.
Gepard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose again. The man was an idiot. And yet, a smile appeared on the Captain’s lips. He lightly shook his head and looked back up to Sampo, who was now busy filling a rucksack with supplies.
“If you get caught—”
“—I know, I know; I don’t know you.”
Gepard frowned. “No, tell them I gave you permission.”
Sampo stood upright and snorted. “Aww, Captain, you’ll come to my rescue like a knight in shining armour? Or maybe my prince charming?”
“I swear to Qlipoth, Sampo, I will kick your arse…”
“Ohhh, cursing now, are we?”
The thief slipped closer, moving with a feline ease that seemed to defy all logic. The cold leather of his gloved fingers traced along the line of Gepard’s jaw, leaving a faint chill in their wake. His grin was impish, a playful declaration of mischief, with a darker edge lurking behind those hooded green eyes. In the dim light, Sampo’s gaze shimmered like emeralds, casting a spell that made Gepard’s pulse quicken.
The room smelled of fresh snow and Sampo’s rose aftershave—an oddly comforting scent that grounded him, even as it stirred up an ache he didn’t fully understand. Gepard’s stomach twisted in a mix of nerves and thrill, and for once, he felt like he was the prey, hunted by a beast that prowled with laughter in his eyes and shadows in his smile. Every deliberate movement—each teasing touch; each fleeting glance—was a whisper of danger laced with warmth, drawing him in deeper. It was a game of closeness and distance; of promises that danced on the edge of silence, daring him to reach out—or run.
“Sa-Sampo,” Gepard cautioned, his attempt at a commanding tone faltering as uncertainty wove its way into his voice.
Sampo responded with a satisfied noise, his gaze locking onto Gepard’s. The turbulent sea of blue in the Captain’s eyes clashed with the endless green and golden wilderness within Sampo’s, creating a visual battleground where the boundaries of trust and tension blurred.
“First cursing, next you’ll be staying out all night partying. My, my, is my little Geppie becoming a bad boy?” Sampo teased, stroking under Gepard’s chin, willing him to come even closer than he already was.
The Captain remained resolute, anchoring himself to the ground as though his boots were firmly rooted in the very bedrock of Belobog itself. Sampo, mischievous as ever, traced the contours of his cheek, a hand sliding upward, weaving through dishevelled golden locks adorned with a flutter of snowfall. It was a dangerous dance, a game of chicken that Sampo revelled in, testing the boundaries, pushing the limits until the Captain was compelled to retreat—typically a rosy-cheeked, stumbling mess, much to Sampo’s delight.
Those vivid green eyes held steady, peculiar diamond pupils expanding and contracting as shadows draped their faces. Unfairly long black lashes framed eyes that dipped downward, and expressive lips adopted a playful pout, tinged with a hint of… an apology?
A hiss punctured the spell, and Gepard diverted his gaze leftward—there, in Sampo’s outstretched hand (the one not tangled in his hair), a bomb had materialised, its stupid little love heart eyes fixated on him.
Gepard scoffed, “Oh, come on! I was about to let you off—!”
The bomb detonated, shrouding the room in smoke. Gepard’s lungs ignited, his eyes stinging with tears. Coughing and gasping for breath, he struggled against the dry air that clawed at the back of his throat. Fortunately, it was merely a smoke bomb; a small mercy that Sampo hadn’t infused it with knockout gas.
“Sorry, Geppie! Force of habit!” cackled the thief, his voice already dissipating in the wind.
With his hands outstretched to guide him, the Captain navigated his way out of the repository and back into the open air, grey plumes of smoke weaving through the splintered roof.
Gepard sank to his knees, inhaling a deep breath of the biting cold air. He scooped up a handful of snow and shoved it into his mouth, its chill providing relief to his burned throat, every inhalation feeling like swallowing shards of glass.
Peering into the vast distance, Gepard discerned the blurred silhouette of Sampo effortlessly vaulting over a stone barricade. The maroon jacket he wore provided a vivid contrast against the backdrop of the city’s white and grey structures. Frozen tears adorned Gepard's cheeks, more falling with every blink. The smoke had irritated his eyes, the sclera red and raw.
“Idiot…” Gepard grumbled as he pulled himself to his feet. “Next time, I’ll just hand him straight to Serval.”
With every attempt to alleviate the discomfort, the incessant rubbing of his eyes only exacerbated the issue, causing more tears to fall and freeze upon his cheeks. The sensation persisted, akin to the presence of grit lodged beneath his eyelids, the scraping feeling intensifying and leaving a trail of burning discomfort.
“Fraud,” a voice suddenly hissed in Gepard’s ear.
Startled, the Captain spun around, panic gripping him as his eyes flew open in a desperate search for the source of the voice. Even though his vision remained blurred, it became evident that there was no tangible figure standing before him. It was as if the words had been born on the very winds that swept through the desolate space around him. His eyes darted frantically from side to side, his own rapid movements creating patterns in the snow beneath his feet, adrenaline coursing through his veins.
“Feeble.”
Once more, he pivoted on his heel, the mechanical gauntlet at his side slicing through the air in a determined arc, ready to seize whoever dared taunt him. However, in a frustrating repetition of the first instance, the eerie emptiness prevailed—only the falling snow and whistling wind met his mechanical appendage. Frustration etched across his features as he rubbed his eyes, banishing the last vestiges of tears that clung stubbornly, clearing his vision but not the lingering sense of unease.
“Who’s there?” he shouted. “Show yourself!”
A hush enveloped the landscape, broken only by the soft pad of snowflakes and the howling wail of the wind. Gepard stood amidst the quiet, his jaw locked in a vice, his heart pounding against the confines of his chest.
Then, a single word shattered the stillness: “Failure.” It crashed over him like a deluge of icy rain, each syllable permeating his being, burrowing into his bones. The word echoed through the caverns of his mind, an unwelcome intrusion that etched its cruel message into the frayed walls of his consciousness. It wasn’t just heard; it was felt, each letter of inadequacy and helplessness carved into the fabric of his thoughts.
Gepard’s world seemed to warp and contract, his chest tightening with an invisible vice as if the air itself had turned heavy and suffocating. His breaths came in short gasps, a desperate attempt to fill his lungs with the oxygen that seemed to teeter just out of reach. His vision blurred at the edges, the surroundings distorted by a surreal haze. His heart pounded relentlessly, the rhythmic thud echoing in his ears, drowning out the ambient sounds around him.
Every step felt like navigating through thick snow, limbs heavy and uncooperative. The normally solid ground beneath him seemed to give, and the air shimmered with a strange intensity. His muscles tensed involuntarily, a sharp ache spreading through his chest. The world, once familiar, now felt alien and hostile. It was as if an unseen force was closing in, pressing on him from all sides.
Gepard’s gaze lost its focus, pupils constricting to pinpricks, the brilliant blue of his eyes reflecting a turbulent storm within. A disorienting high-pitched whistle pierced through the fog of his thoughts, drowning out rationality. His throat tightened further, constricting his breath like a vice. With legs threatening to betray him, he stumbled and leant against Earthwork, a desperate anchor in a tumultuous sea.
Only at the realisation of what was unfolding did he name the chaos— a panic attack.
❅❅❅