Mhaieiyu

  Arc 3, Chapter 11

  Onera Nostra

  Emris stared expectantly at his communicator, awaiting some kind of answer from his comrade. Once all of a minute passed, Emris grunted, pressing a leathery palm to his face. Corvus wasn’t the kind to drink without him. Was he asleep? It wouldn’t fit his routine. That angel was especially systematic. A fleeting worry came and went, overshadowed by his current predicament. He may as well begin his travels now, if only to get his mind off of things. A drink might do him a favour as well, if only the lockdown had been fully lifted. Only essentials were open during times like these.

  So be it.

  Emris entered the dark dinge that were his quarters and dropped his ass on the seat of the motorbike he had stationed within. The rest of his living space was a mess of old or postponed projects — mechanical parts strewn across his unswept floor, a half bottle of miscellaneous motor oil kept on a dirty rug as well as a cabinet with an assortment of trophies he had collected overtime. Hanging off of hooks drilled into the wall were a small assortment of old leather jackets, most of which had been patched half a dozen times. One in particular had sunbleached from dark to a light grey, and bore a giant tear that nearly halved it. The lot were practically just filthy rags he kept earnestly. Leaning on the wall next to his bike were two rifles, one of which was worn out and the other distinctly clean, new and completely out of place. His sleeping station was a couch with numerous black stains on it. The whole thing had depressed overtime, appearing slumped and somewhat crushed. His living quarters were a perfect depiction of entropy.

  Emris kept no mirrors. Looking at his withering state, each day ever-sicker, only soured his every mood.

  The motorbike was kept near a large metal door that rolled to the ceiling, just beyond which lay a dirt path that weaved toward the road. His room had been specifically arranged there where he could expedite travel; a necessity for a Guardian. Emris reached for the handlebars and gripped them firmly; their grips soiled with an old sticky residue that couldn’t be washed off. He glanced at his silent, dim living space for a moment as he checked his pocket for a bulge. Confirming his locket remained with him, he sucked in air and commanded the door screech open. Slowly, the orange sunrays welcomed the light, and with a satisfying hum, he sped off toward civilization, heading south toward Caesea Island — homestead of the Urchinfolk.

  As the wind deafened him, Emris’ mind wandered toward the empty feeling in his head and stomach. It only hit him now. His subordinate, Colonel Elena, had died in No Man’s Land. A snake-like appendage slithered out from his lower back, resisting those winds and winding around his abdomen, becoming taut and squeezing his stomach. Emris spat at the road, hands fiercely on those bars. His thoughts were far from numb; a scary thought, as it had been a while. He cracked his neck to the side, feeling the leathery rope constrict with considerable strength.

  The city’s borders were not far ahead when his communicator crackled awake. The robotic voice said, “Third Brigadier, respond.”

  Emris grumbled something under his breath, lifting his wrist to his lips. “Aye.”

  “Status?”

  “En route to Caesea.”

  A few seconds passed. “Mission statement.”

  “Call it a rescue. Platoon member’s gone on a bender down there, could leak intel or some shite.”

  The wind began to die down as the city began to overwhelm his surroundings, replacing a dying field with a colossal garden of concrete. Emris put his hand back on the steer, already anticipating the result and picking up speed.

  “Chief Command has issued emergency reorientation. Cleanup operation is awry, provide aid. Priority elevated to Epsilon; failure is unacceptable.”

  Emris rocked his head to the side, already discontent. His silence drew pressure from the Strategics office.

  “Cleanup operation is closely tied to Elior’s plans for unity between the Syndicate and Yanksee. Failure is not an option. Withdrawal is not an option. Noncompliance will be a punishable offence.”

  “This is what you call Epsilon? Vicks, shite…” Emris said, reaching for the device again. “Report location.”

  “Aubrey Plaza is the nucleus. Stretching Uvie 12 to Plomo Ave.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Best of luck, 57th.”

  Emris rammed his boot up the shift lever, bounding off toward the centre east of the city while phoning in his two remaining Platoon members. Only Markus could afford to come.

  ? ? ? ?

  There isn’t a word accurate enough to describe the plummet of one’s sense of security from mind to gut. That immediate sinking feeling when demise is suddenly all too near, like when a car speeds your way too close or too fast to deviate its course. Suddenly, that blink-or-you’ll-miss-it moment becomes an instant to someone else, and a slow-motion nightmare to the victim of its course. Despair isn’t enough. It’s so much rawer than that.

  There are few times when one can be absolutely assured of death. This was one of them. The descent was guaranteed to continue, and so it did. Gravity would be Eleven’s undoing. Ironic that a boy whose entire life had been pulled by a leash would be killed by the very pull of nature — so it was okay, Eleven reasoned. The same old, same old. A shame the sight wouldn’t be pretty. White hair stained red by the blown up melon of his own.

  A common phrase that’s backed by the closely dead is that one’s life flashes before one’s eyes moments before it ends. Eleven saw none of that. He saw the fall, and he thought of the people he had left behind in his odd time of self-discovery. He hadn’t asked for any of this, of course. It wasn’t right to strip a bird from its nest too early for it to fly. But he was old enough. He simply chose not to fly. Such Sloth not to explore beyond. Such Melancholy not to feel worthy. Such Apathy not to care. Such Greed to live. Such Vainglory to assume he should live. Such insatiable Lust for one’s own security. Such Gluttony to waste one’s life indulging alone. Such Envy to feel as though he should have been more. Such Wrath to lash out at those that tried to take him away. But had he felt Pride at all?

  Had he felt Pride at all? Eleven never valued himself as a man of competence, nor would anyone else. Say, hasn’t he been falling for some time now? Eleven’s vocal cords didn’t hurt quite so much anymore. He looked at the ground ahead, at the fate that rested before him. He looked to his left, at the falling body of the soldier that had lead him to his death. Her scream never ended. She never quietened. She’d screamed for what must have been half an hour now. What was happening? The scene unfolded before him. He will die. Is this how slow death feels to others?

  Had he felt Pride at all? Eleven’s worth was next to none. He’d spent his life hidden away in the land of books too fantastical to be helpful, or too specific to be applicable. How could he feel Pride? To feel Pride is to value one’s abilities above the abilities of anyone else. How could he possibly do that?

  But isn’t it his right?

  Eleven was useless, but he was a Tsuki. His blood was a treasure people actively hunted for. They hunted his family. They spilled the blood of both his parents all in the same day. They wished for his blood. This blood of his, it was special. It was worth something. Eleven, he was worthless; a mere container for this very special thing within him. This very special blood, which would soon find itself scattered and dried, painted upon a very un-special surface, made from very un-special concrete, a rubble made from a very un-special building for very un-special people to toil in.

  What audacity. The blood of the Tsukis was worth gold; just watch this river course unfold. Such power. What a ridiculous notion that it might be wasted, or could be wasted. The very first coils of Pride were passed on from the mighty Leonidas, whose blood was so flawless, none could ever spill it, no matter the plan at hand. All other Sins suffered eventually. They were slain. Butchered, burned, ripped through, punished. But not Pride. Because to kill Pride, one must have the sheer audacity to surpass the power of Pride.

  That audacity didn’t exist.

  The very fabric of space wouldn’t allow it.

  Eleven had fallen for fifty whole minutes when something finally changed. A leathery snake flew out from a lower floor in the building, its sharp anchors digging into his thigh and yanking him into the window it came from. His leg was pulled from its socket, for which he cried out, but he hit a smooth surface very unlike rubble smelling of vinegar and bleach. Peeling his face off the fine masonry, the bruise-headed Tsuki returned a teary-eyed look to one of an older gentleman that was mid sob. His unfamiliar crimson gown hung down the whole of his body like a great curtain flung onto his back, covering the top of his head.

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  The very first thing he said was, “I don’t know… I don’t know how I just did that.”

  Drags of breath sucked in and blew out the Cadet’s lips. He reached around, confirming his rifle still clung to his chest, but in feeling the metallic instrument the cultist had also stiffened, putting his hands clumsily in front of him as that same coal snake slithered and whipped menacingly against the floor. Eleven’s heartbeat threatened the integrity of his ribs. Leg damage be damned, he picked himself up and stood, making a point not to put all his weight on the wrong foot.

  In that endless scene he had been a subject to a feeling all but new to him. A rush of gloat, as if he had any right to feel that way. It felt out of place — unbelonging to him. Nevertheless there was no mistake to be made. That feeling, that self-righteousness, that demand for his being greater had stood up for him and spared him from certain death. A single whisper from an ancestor of a thousand greats saved his life.

  With this newly found courage, he turned to face the Crimsoneer. A Lesser Ordained, no doubt this time. Judging by his silver beard, he must’ve been at least middle aged.

  “You saved me. Thank you,” Eleven offered his graces, a meek smile on his face.

  The cultist couldn’t respond. It didn’t seem like what he had done was entirely of his own free will. To take another’s hands to muddy with soil and then thank them for it felt patronising.

  “What’s your name?”

  That hooked tendril slithered into his lower back some, disappearing a part of its length. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Still hurt, Eleven sat down by him, under the window he’d flown into. He exhaled a sharp grunt. “Ironic that you’re submissive to this crazy world’s influence, huh?”

  No reply.

  “It’s a lot like me, really…” Eleven pulled up his knee, testing the bounds of his pulled muscle. It hurt just to inch it. “What’s it like, your faith?”

  The Crimson turned to him suddenly, clearly uneased by the question. “My faith…?”

  Eleven wouldn’t relent his honest smile, however. “Yes. You do all of this for the sake of… Mortos, correct?”

  “That is correct.”

  “What’s it like? Is he a figure who commands affection, or respect?”

  “Why are you at all concerned, Syndie?”

  The teen rustled his white hair. It had dirtied a good bit by now. He remembered the sudden silence of Iye when she hit the ground like a bag of rocks. “I suppose I’ve been curious,” Eleven said. “There must be a good enough reason to oppose the common majority, right…? It’s too conceited to just assume you’re all brainwashed.” Eleven gave the fidgety cultist’s shoulder a hard pat. Of course the lack of a response soon after left his lips feeling dry. He licked them. “It’s not that simple, is it?”

  “The faith of us up north makes sense, really,” the cultist began to explain, never facing the soldier out of fear or shame. “Victus’ worst mistakes are discarded up there. Each day we’re forced to bear the cold, and ward from those… things.”

  Eleven pressed his back firmly against the wall. He did have a fair bit of knowledge regarding the icy edges of the world. Like the claw of a Wyvern clutching its demonic grip against the sunny world in the South, infested with creatures that would annihilate any thawed nature.

  “It's Mortos who seeks to cull the imperfection.” He reached for his pockets to produce a small wooden piece of indiscernible figure. With his other hand, he revealed a knife, with which he carved small strips of the wood. Emphatically he presented the two items, carving away as he did, to the teen. “This meaningless bit of kindling, it is chaotic and without shape. It hasn’t got a purpose nor place befitting of the rest of the world’s beauty. Such is the nature of careless creation. It is made, but should it have been? If this is ugly, how is it that nature is still so beautiful as it is?”

  Eleven’s lips were sealed and curled down a tad. He didn’t have an answer. If he had done anything in life, it had been learning useless trinkets and observing the nature outside his windows, or the nature he visited on his medicine hunts. He’d placed a keen eye on the flying little insects, and the springs, and the lively treetops. Birds were of a precious colour, and patterned, too.

  “Mortos’ deed, for all of eternity, has been to trim away the weeds from Victus’ garden. She plants her seeds, gives life to the flowers that are us, and Mortos slaves behind her to keep only the colour and not the vines.”

  A horrifying scream echoed into the chamber of this common office room from outside. “And by stripping the weeds, you get a more pure product, is that right? It makes sense from the offset, but who gets to decide what should and shouldn’t exist?” Eleven pried, starting to see some level of reason from this cult’s ideals.

  “God does.”

  “God does…” the cadet repeated.

  “Yes. I believed and still do in the imperfections of our Dear Mother. I feel no spite, but heavens be damned, what is this muck?” the Crimsoneer shunned, grasping his head and scratching at his scalp. “And God, where have we gone astray? His common gospel was so passive, I joined the Crimsoneers in a sworn effort to pursue Divine Judgement, but what is this hell we’ve subjected ourselves to? Why do we succumb to so much bloodshed? I don’t hate anyone. For faith, such a tender thing, the amount of violence…!”

  The waves of pain coursing through Eleven’s leg started to overpower his slowing adrenaline. He breathed sharp and deep, the hairs of his arms standing at attention as another gruesome noise filled his ears. The smell of dust was sharp in his nose. Perhaps the whole building would fall.

  “I wonder the same thing,” the quartz-hair said, “but in all forms of life. People are cruel to their own kind for the pettiest reasons. I remember watching this boy, perhaps half my age, from my high balcony many years ago. I’d have all the spare time in the world, but I wasn’t allowed out for safety concerns, so I watched from above.”

  The cultist finally peaked at the lad, even if Eleven was too engrossed in the cracks of the walls to notice.

  “Anyway, this little kid would help his crippled brother walk to the academy. You don’t understand the number of times I watched him be tripped or spat upon, just for lending a hand. They were too ashamed to harass the helpee, so they picked on him. I’ve never seen someone trip on a rock so consistently. The divines must have hated his entire existence.”

  “These were children?”

  “No. Adults weren’t so engaged, but the few were horrible men and women. At one point, a drunk threatened to kill him and his brother if they ‘belittled the view’ ever again. I haven't seen them since.” Eleven clasped his hand back on the cultist’s shoulder. “For being different. They were cruel to them, for being different. For not fitting in. We’re animals, all of us, deep in our core. We just dress nicely.”

  “I suppose we are,” the Crimson acquiesced, standing on his own two feet. He was wobbly, distressed by it all. His hoodie almost fell off his head, but he caught it in time. “The Disciple of Capricorn will burn me to ash if I don’t kill you.”

  “The Disciple of…?”

  Turning around, the cultist finally showed Eleven his full attention. His eyes were still bloodshot from grieving his predicament. From his back, a timid, slender black snake slipped out and slid behind him; the disturbing appendage indicative of one’s closeness to God. The excuse of a soldier, code named Eleven, understood this gesture as acceptance. There was no evil before him — he didn’t have a choice, is all.

  The boy grabbed a desk and forced himself to stand, electricity coursing down the nerves in his thigh. A unique kind of pain. He kept his arm draped loosely on his hanging rifle. “We could still talk.”

  “It’s a matter of time before he checks into my consciousness.”

  Eleven took note. He must be referring to another power of that unknowable kind of magic: Obscure. Perhaps that explains how he failed to see the window he leapt out of. A string-puller of senses, maybe? Inspecting the tendril, he noticed the slim edges that protruded near the tip, and the sharp dagger at the end. It couldn’t be pleasant to get whipped by one of these.

  “And if he does?” Eleven asked, still unaware of whom he referred to.

  “My family won’t think of me anymore.”

  “Does this have to be violent?”

  “Had I been put under a more thoughtful man, perhaps not.”

  With no more words left to speak, the two fell under a portmanteau of silence. A bizarre blend of empathy and an impulse toward violence. Either man had a reason to kill, both caught in a similarly awkward corner. On one end, Eleven couldn’t run fast enough even uninjured. The Shepherd wouldn’t be spared by his own for trying mercy. Neither party wanted to fight, but a feeling of urgency crept onto their backs. Like two gunslingers on a fated afternoon, it was a race to see who’s nerve would falter first.

  Unbeknownst to the cultist, Eleven would have to reload to fire even once. His only ace was a theory. His eyes sharpened onto that snake that slid dangerously by the cultist’s side. It was without will, but its poison coursed with a vigour belonging to a foul form of life. A mere root of the colossal tree belonging to the King’s self. Flicking backward for a moment, the tendril finally shot forth. Eleven couldn’t help but flinch as the thing swept toward his skull. He closed his eyes, anticipating the impact, not even trying to avoid it. And then he waited.

  Ten seconds passed, perhaps. The leathery cracking sound not too unlike a whip caught his ears thrice now. Eleven’s eyes opened. He was right. The tendril snagged on its fourth leap forward. An instant after the boy would be struck, the exact same scene would unfold again, mere seconds earlier. He looked at the blood that trickled from a knee injury from earlier, and understood. No wonder his family suffered such a fate. This blood, this golden blood of his, carried a value and challenge to it that millions had contested before. Oh, to have a power like this.

  “Stop,” Eleven commanded, moments before that fifth lash.

  The Lesser Ordained did stop, if only for the certainty in the lad’s voice. It wasn’t a plea, but an order. Suffice to say he was surprised. “Stop?”

  “You can stop. Your superior would understand, trust me,” the Cadet insisted.

  The cultist wet his lips. “I can assure you——”

  “You don’t have the right to kill me. Try as you might, you’ll never succeed.”

  An angry step forward, he balled his fists at the teen. “And what, pray tell——?!”

  “The blood of Leonidas courses through me,” Eleven quickly explained, showing him his scuffed hands.

  The Crimsoneer stopped, paralysed at the sight; his tendril slowed.

  The outside lights shone perfectly around the boy’s back. That total arrogance that dripped off his aura — it didn’t fit him at all, but it was there. A disgusting confidence cloaking an otherwise humble existence. With a renewed smile, Eleven haunted the older man with his absolute calm. “It explains how I’ve lived in this awful world for so long. I struggle to believe it, but it’s true.” A long gasp escaped his lips as he grasped his chest, feeling the beat of his unstoppable heart. “I am the Manifestation of Pride, Tokken Tsuki.”