Work Text:
“Attempt 1.”
The Attempt opened his eyes.
The ceiling was blank white. He was lying on a long, flat slab of some cold, white material. Light came from all around.
The Attempt did not think. He could not think. He could only observe.
“Oh, my God.” A voice echoed through the space. The Attempt could not understand the words, nor recognize the tone. He could only observe, as an invisible force lifted him into a sitting position.
“It worked. It worked!” The voice celebrated. Its owner came into view at last. A young man, dressed in a formal black coat and gloves, strode over to where the Attempt was sitting. There was a rose pinned to the shoulder of the coat.
“Oh…” the man breathed again. He ran a hand through the golden hair of the Attempt. “You’re perfect.”
Then the man frowned. He waved a hand in front of the figure’s face. “Hello?” Again he waved, more insistently. “Hellooo? Are you…?” The man’s face fell. “No… don’t tell me—”
He placed a hand on the Attempt’s bare chest, over his heart, and groaned. “I messed up,” he lamented. “I knew I should have asked Selka about this first. Have to start all over now.”
The Attempt could not understand him. He only observed as the man sighed and reached up to touch the Attempt’s forehead, right between his eyes. “Sorry about this.” He made a pinching motion.
The Attempt’s vision filled with purple light. Then nothing.
“Attempt 5.”
The Attempt opened his eyes.
The ceiling was blank white. He was lying on a long, flat slab of some cold, white material. Light came from all around.
What… he thought. Where am I? He was incredibly tired.
“Thank goodness.” A voice echoed through the space. It sounded familiar. The Attempt strained to remember, but he couldn’t. It was too tiring. So exhausted… he thought. An invisible force lifted him into a sitting position. He was glad for it; he wouldn’t have been able to sit up on his own.
“You’re awake,” the voice said. Its owner came into view at last. A young man, dressed in a formal black coat and gloves, walked over to where the Attempt was sitting. There was a rose pinned to the shoulder of the coat. Something about that made the Attempt’s chest ache, but he couldn’t remember why…
The man reached down to cup the Attempt’s face. The Attempt leaned into it, resting his head on the gloved hand. The man seemed strangely taken aback. “What…?”
“I’m tired,” the Attempt murmured. His eyelids fluttered.
“No,” the man said, “no, you need to stay awake.” He shook the Attempt gently. “Hey.”
The Attempt kept talking, feeling more and more lethargic by the second. “This place is familiar. And you’re familiar. I remember your face from somewhere, but I don’t remember where…” He yawned. “I’m so tired. Let me sleep, please.”
“No, you can’t fall asleep now!” The man shook him harder. “You’re so close, you’re almost exactly right, come on!” Black eyes bored holes into the Attempt’s own. “What can you remember?”
“I don’t know,” the Attempt sighed. His eyes slipped shut. His head lolled.
“Wait, wait, no no no!” The man was despondent. “I don’t want to…!” He trailed off. Then he let out a long breath. “Dammit,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
The Attempt opened his eyes, and raised his head just the tiniest bit. The movement took every last bit of his strength. The man reached up to touch the Attempt’s forehead, right between his eyes. He made a pinching motion.
The Attempt’s vision filled with purple light. Then nothing.
“Attempt 20.”
The Attempt opened his eyes.
The ceiling was blank white. He was lying on a long, flat slab of some cold, white material. Light came from all around.
I feel cold, he thought. This place is cold. And the light is probably too bright. Do I have a shirt on?
“There we go.” A voice echoed through the space. Weird voice, the Attempt thought. What does ‘there we go’ mean anyway? An invisible force lifted him into a sitting position. Wow, the Attempt thought, that’s impossible. People can’t just float like that. None of this makes sense. I don’t have a shirt on.
A man, presumably the owner of the voice from before, came into view. He was dressed in a formal black coat and gloves, and had a rose pinned to his shoulder. He looks familiar, the Attempt thought. I don’t know him, though. His coat looks uncomfortable.
The man walked over to where the Attempt was sitting. “Good morning,” he said, smiling warmly.
“Why don’t I have a shirt on?” The Attempt asked.
The man blinked. His smile faltered. “Uh… what?”
“You look confused,” the Attempt said. “You probably are. You’re good-looking anyway, though. Why is this place so cold? Why’s there no color? I feel a little bit horrible, but also like I really want to start celebrating. And I have no idea who I am. Isn’t that weird?”
“I think…” the man started, trying to formulate his thoughts. “This… doesn’t seem right.”
“Why not?” The Attempt asked. “What does ‘right’ even mean? Wow, that was deep. How did you get that rose to stay on your shoulder like that? Why do you wear it, anyway? It looks out of place. You should take it off. I’m cold. Can I wear your coat? What’s your name? Who am I?” He moved to get off of the slab. “I want to leave, a little bit. Can I go outside? Where is outside? Where are we?”
The man, whose expression had been getting more and more bewildered by the second, shook his head and grabbed the Attempt by the shoulders. “You can’t leave.”
“Why not?” The Attempt asked.
“I messed up again,” the man said, but he was not talking to the Attempt. His eyes had a faraway look in them, as if he was doing complicated calculations in his head. “Too honest. Talks too much.”
“Well, I think I talk just the right amount,” the Attempt said, but the man was not listening. “I’ll fix you right up.” He reached up to the Attempt’s forehead and made a pinching motion.
The Attempt’s vision filled with purple light. Then nothing.
“Attempt 71.”
The Attempt opened his eyes.
The ceiling was blank white. He was lying on a long, flat slab of some cold, white material. Light came from all around. He blinked. Something about this place felt horribly off. He shivered.
“Ah.” A voice echoed through the space. It was quiet, but something in the tone struck a dissonant chord in the Attempt. He shivered again as an invisible force lifted him into a sitting position. A young man, dressed in a formal black coat and gloves, walked slowly over to where the Attempt was sitting. There was a tear in the fabric on the shoulder of his coat, and in his hand, he held a small crumpled rose.
“There you are,” the man said, looking down at the Attempt. The Attempt stared at him, unable to respond. He recognized this man. He did, he knew it. Everything about him, from the curve of his face to the shine of his hair, was terribly, achingly familiar. It filled the Attempt with anticipation, but also with a strange, creeping fear, something deep within his chest that he could not name. “Y-You,” the Attempt stammered. “I know you.”
He reached a quivering hand up towards the man, as if that would somehow trigger that lost flood of memory. It was right there, on the tip of his tongue. “You… were my…”
“I know,” the man said. “You don’t have to say it.” And then all of a sudden he leaned down, dropping the rose and clasping the Attempt’s face in his hands. “Nothing is taboo if the Goddess isn’t watching,” he said, the words tumbling out over each other.
“What?” The Attempt gasped.
“Kiss me,” the man said, and without waiting for an answer, he pressed his lips against the Attempt’s.
A jolt ran down the Attempt’s spine. An overwhelming feeling of awful something filled him from head to toe. That fear in his chest had grown teeth, and it had begun to snap at his heart. Without knowing fully what he was doing, he shoved the man away from him and drew back, shaking his head. “No, that’s not right, that’s not right at all,” he said, “that’s not how I know you.”
The man tilted his head up to the ceiling. He put his face in his hands. “Of course not,” he said. “This isn’t right. None of you are. Why can I never get it right?”
The Attempt trembled. The man stood silent for a few more moments, and then he reached down, his fingers brushing the Attempt’s forehead. “Such an idiot,” he said. He made a pinching motion. “Stop—!” The Attempt cried.
His vision filled with purple light. Then nothing.
“Attempt 109.”
The Attempt opened his eyes and began to scream.
He did not notice the blank white ceiling. He did not notice the slab of cold, white material he was lying on. He did not notice the light that surrounded him. He screamed, and screamed, and did not stop.
“NO!” A young man in a formal black coat and gloves dashed over to where the Attempt lay, plugging his ears. Squeezing his eyes shut in the face of the sound, he reached one hand out to the Attempt’s forehead and made a pinching motion.
The Attempt’s vision filled with purple light. Then nothing.
“Attempt 430.”
The Attempt opened his eyes.
The ceiling was blank white. He was lying on a long, flat slab of some cold, white material. Light came from all around.
Light, he thought. That’s a funny word.
“Wonderful.” A voice echoed through the space. A funny one, it seemed. The Attempt held back a giggle as an invisible force lifted him to a sitting position.
A young man walked forward, smiling slightly. “Never fails to impress,” he said. His hair was black. He wore a coat with a rose pinned to the shoulder. The Attempt found this so absurd that he began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?” The man asked. The Attempt just laughed harder. The man’s expression shifted from one of placid endearment to one of concern. “Stop it,” he said, “stop laughing.”
It was too much. It was all too funny. The Attempt threw his head back and laughed and laughed and laughed so hard that he cried, and still he kept laughing. “Stop it. Stop it,” the man screamed at him, but he didn’t hear. He didn’t notice as the man grabbed his shoulder and put a hand to his forehead. “Shut up!” He made a pinching motion.
The Attempt’s vision filled with purple light. Then nothing.
“Attempt 889.”
The Attempt did not open his eyes.
“DAMN IT.”
“Attempt 1062.”
The Attempt opened his eyes.
The ceiling was blank white. He was lying on a long, flat slab of some cold, white material. Light came from all around.
Hm…? The Attempt thought. What is this…?
“Hello.” A quiet voice echoed through the space. The Attempt felt his heartbeat speed up, ever so slightly. An invisible force lifted him into a sitting position, and he looked around for whoever had spoken.
There. The Attempt’s eyes widened. A young man was walking toward him, and he seemed to the Attempt to have been sent straight from the Goddess herself. He wore a well-made black coat and gloves. His hair was black as well, and soft-looking. The Attempt wanted to run his fingers through it. On his shoulder was a rose. Fitting, the Attempt thought. I wish he would give it to me.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
The man paused midstep. “Hm?”
“You,” the Attempt said. “You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen.”
The man smiled, and even though it did not reach his eyes, the Attempt’s breath caught. “Am I?” The man asked. “I didn’t notice.” He started walking again, until they were face-to-face. The Attempt’s heart began to pound.
The man studied him carefully. “You really are head-over-heels.” His eyes flicked to the side. “I suppose the rest can wait,” he said under his breath. The Attempt didn’t ask what he meant.
“Could you say that again?” The man asked, leaning closer. He was still smiling slightly. “That word. I didn’t quite catch it the first time.”
“Beautiful,” the Attempt murmured, and tilted his head back and kissed the man with the rose on his shoulder.
They stayed like that for several slow seconds. The Attempt slipped his arms around the man’s neck, twining his fingers together there. This, he thought. This is so nice. Is this what I’m here for, then? That wouldn’t be so bad…
The man pulled away. The Attempt’s eyes fluttered open. They regarded each other for a moment. Then the man asked, “What do you remember?”
The Attempt blinked. “Remember…?” The man nodded. “Yes.”
“I…” The Attempt thought his hardest, trying to reach back into his mind to find something, anything. But there was nothing there. Just a blank slate. “Nothing,” he said. “I don’t remember anything. Is that bad?”
The man was no longer smiling. “That’s a shame,” he said, running a hand absently down the Attempt’s side. “Everything else was perfect.”
“What?” The Attempt began to feel a slight, flickering unease. “I— I don’t understand.”
“You never do,” the man said. He reached up to touch the Attempt’s forehead, right between his eyes. “A real shame.” He made a pinching motion.
The Attempt’s vision filled with purple light. Then nothing.
“Attempt 2945.”
The Attempt opened his eyes.
The ceiling was blank white. He was lying on a long, flat slab of some cold, white material. Light came from all around. He twisted his head, trying to figure out what the source was, but to no avail.
He heard footsteps echo through the space. He craned his neck to look, but was just as soon drawn into a sitting position by some invisible force, like a string.
The source of the footsteps was now apparent. A young man with black hair and an elegantly embroidered black coat walked slowly toward the Attempt. The soles of his boots clicked loudly on the white floor. His gaze was freezing cold.
“You,” he murmured.
The Attempt flinched. “Where am I,” he asked, resisting his urge to run and hide. The man raised his eyebrows at the Attempt. “Confrontational,” he said. “Interesting.”
The Attempt fought down a growing panic. “Where am I,” he demanded again. “Tell me. Now.”
The man frowned slightly at him. “You are in Central Cathedral,” he said. “Do you know where that is?”
The Attempt closed his eyes. Flashes of memory lit behind them, like the sun on pieces of stained glass. “Yes,” The Attempt said. He opened his eyes again. The man was still gazing at him. He asked, in a voice as smooth as silk, “Do you know who I am?”
“I…” The Attempt clenched his fists. He wanted to get out of here. This man scared him, but behind that fear was something deeper, something at the very depth of his stained glass recollections that told him that something was very, very wrong.
The man had stepped closer, and now he reached down to grab the Attempt’s chin. Jolting up straight, the Attempt shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he snapped.
The man fixed the full force of his empty, frigid stare on the Attempt, and suddenly the Attempt found that he could not move at all.
His limbs were frozen in place, his arms locked at his sides, barely able to breathe. The man stepped closer once again, taking the Attempt’s chin in his hand and gripping it painfully tight. “Do not tell me what I can’t do,” he hissed. “I created you. You are mine, do you understand? When I ask questions, you will answer. When I tell you to do something, you will do it. You will. So I will say this again: do you know who I am?”
The Attempt felt the pressure on his chest lessen, just for a moment. He stared into the dull darkness of the other man’s eyes, and then he spat in his face.
He said, “No.”
The man let go of the Attempt’s chin. He reached up to wipe his cheek with the back of one gloved hand. Then he reached up to the Attempt’s forehead and pulled.
A searing pain split right down the center of the Attempt’s mind. He tried to scream, but he couldn’t open his mouth.
His vision filled with purple light. Then, at last, nothing.
“Attempt ?”
The Attempt opened his eyes.
The ceiling was blank white. He was lying on a long, flat slab of some cold, white material. Light came from all around.
This all feels familiar, he thought. I can’t quite place why.
Footsteps echoed through the space. The Attempt glanced around, trying to place them, as an invisible force lifted him into a sitting position.
The owner of the footsteps came into view at last. A young man, dressed in a formal black coat and gloves, walked slowly over to where the Attempt was sitting. There was a rose pinned to the shoulder of the coat. A rose, the Attempt thought. I’ve seen those before. Where in the world have I…?
The man stared down at the Attempt. His eyes were empty. He said nothing. The Attempt did. “Excuse me,” he said, “may I ask where I am?”
The man tilted his head, just slightly. “Of course,” he said. “You are in Central Cathedral. Do you know where that is?”
The Attempt thought hard for a moment. “…Yes,” he said. “In Centoria?”
“Yes,” the man said, “in Centoria. The city blessed by those Goddesses.” He bent down slightly. “Do you know about the Goddesses?”
“Yes.” The Attempt nodded. “Stacia… and the others are… Solus and Terraria.”
“Good,” the man said. A small smile began to grow on his face. “Good. And then, what about sacred arts?”
“Sacred arts.” The Attempt nodded again. “I remember. Eight elements. Enhancements. System commands.” He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “I believe I can do…”
He held up a hand. “System Call,” he said. “Generate Luminous Element.” A small, white light appeared on the end of his finger. Carefully, he reached over to the rose on the man’s shoulder. “Adhere,” he said. The element floated off his finger. The rose flickered for a moment, and then it began to glow. The Attempt withdrew his hand and looked back up.
He blinked at the sight.
The man’s face was frozen. His expression looked something like shock, but deeper, less obvious. It looked, a little, as if he was about to cry.
“Are you alright?” The Attempt asked. The man started slightly, and then he nodded. The strange expression was washed away by another look, placid and calculating. “Of course,” he said. “Just one more question. Or, two, I suppose.” He stared the Attempt in the eyes, and asked evenly, “Do you know who you are?”
The Attempt frowned. What a strange question. “Of course I know who… I…”
He trailed off. Wait, he thought, that’s not right. The only memory he had of himself besides the one in this room was a faint recollection of cold steel enfolding his body, and then, even fainter still, something green.
“No,” he finally said. “I don’t.”
The man nodded. Then he asked, “Do you know who I am?”
The Attempt was quiet. He closed his eyes. His head was dark and empty. But even still, a sliver of memory tugged at his conscious mind. “You…” he said, straining to put the feeling into words, to capture it before it slipped away again.
“You,” he said, “are my hero.”
The man was silent for a long time.
When he spoke again, that slight smile still on his face, it was almost impossible to hear. “That’s it,” he whispered. “I did it. I really did it. After all this, I...”
“Excuse me?” The Attempt said gently.
“Ah,” the man said, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”
He stepped away, turning to face the other side of the blank white room. The Attempt peered into the glow. Now that he looked closer, he could see a thin rectangular outline on the far wall. A doorway.
“Where are you going?” The Attempt asked. “May I come?”
“No,” the man said, “I am afraid you may not. But you don’t need to worry,” he added. “You’ll be safe here until I need you. You’re perfect. You are the last one. There will not be another Attempt.”
The Attempt did not know what that meant, but he nodded. He watched with a curious feeling as the man walked away down the length of the room and towards the door.
But before the man reached the end, he stopped. He turned half around so he could look the Attempt in the eyes once more. The rose on his shoulder had stopped glowing.
“I’ll be back for you,” he said. “Soon.”
The door opened and shut. The Attempt’s eyes closed.
The white enveloped everything.
———
“Commander Eolyne, why do you always wear that mask?”
Eolyne turned his head. “Hm?” He smiled. “Oh, it’s for the sun, Laurannei. I burn easily.”
“Ah, okay,” Laurannei nodded. “I get it. Wouldn’t want our commander walking around looking like a tomato, would we?” She elbowed Stica, who was standing at attention beside her. “We already have one of those, anyway.”
“Hey!” Stica cried.
Eolyne watched them bicker for a moment, and then turned away. He reached up to trace the edge of his mask.
It was for the sun. That was its purpose. But there was a part of him, buried far, far down in his unconscious mind, that remembered a different purpose— and that part had an idea of what would happen if he took it off.
A pinching motion.
His vision would fill with purple light. Then nothing.
His hand fell to his side. He stared ahead.
There would not be another Attempt.