Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5435480.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Original_Work
  Additional Tags:
      Dystopia, Mechas, Fantasy, science_vs_magic, Original_work_-_Freeform
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-01 Chapters: 14/45 Words: 133736
****** Pillar of Despair ******
by athina39_(setosdarkness)
Summary
     The Pillar towers over the expanse of barren land, like a lance
     thrown from a vengeful heaven. Earth might be nothing but a forsaken
     wasteland, but humanity has always found a way to rise up from
     despair. And now, the world is ruled by underground cities hidden
     from the acid rains, poisonous air, huge machines devised to be
     piloted by only teenagers deciding results on squabbles over
     territories and technologies.
     The Pillar remains standing - a reminder that this world is living on
     borrowed time.
Notes
     I've been very busy this past year, but I'm trying my best to get
     back into writing for my fandoms, old and new, finish my WIPs and
     stuff...
     But instead what comes out is this very elaborate dystopia setting :/
     • some chapters are still WIP
     • chapter 14 starts the 5-chapter interlude between "Book 1 - Turns"
     & "Book 2 - Stations" for this long-ass work.
***** turn 01: first fall *****
•••
Pillar of Despair
turn 01: first fall
•••

pilot. Iris Malach
sphere. ANGEL
rank. Central Tower - 09

•••

Jerk to the right in time to avoid a barrage of the enemy's ammunition—that's
close, too close—and she dimly hears the digital voice calmly informing her of
the damage she suffered from the attack just now. She struggles to keep her
eyes open—it's tough, especially since the left lens of her eyeglasses is
cracked in the middle, but she manages somehow—and swallows her sigh of relief
at the visual confirmation of the unmoving enemy.

The wires and connecting cables hiss in protest, but her machine nevertheless
cooperates to take uneven steps away from the enemy robot. There's a sick,
gurgling sound that accompanies each backward movement; it takes nearly her
entire concentration to keep her eyes focused on the displays in front of her
instead of allowing her gaze to stray downward. She isn't looking forward to
finding out how bloodied and damaged her legs are at the moment—performing
unbalanced pirouettes and jumps to land blows is surprisingly difficult even
with the assistance of the latest technology, apparently.

Once she's one hundred meters away from the isolated, incapacitated target, she
receives the authorization to fire the Zwei Cannon from the Central Tower. She
makes sure to avoid fumbling with the control sequence—it's her third time
operating this machine, so any mistakes will surely be subject to reprimand—and
only once she hears her machine's digital voice confirmation of the weapon
change does she allow herself to let her relieved sigh escape from her lips.

With the machine already automatically locking on the target, the only thing
she needs to do next is to press the final button to completely obliterate the
enemy.

[MISSION COMPLETE] flashes in the display screens, her superiors at the Central
Tower are giving her the instructions to return to the base, but all she can
think of is that she's still, still, alive.

Iris Malach hates this world.

•

"How is ANGEL?"

Iris almost rolls her eyes at the question. They're not even pretending to care
about the pilots, are they? But Iris controls herself—doesn't roll her eyes
derisively, doesn't swat the hands securing the bandages on her left thigh,
doesn't spit in the face of the doctor who doesn't even ask about the patient's
condition.

"It's the same as last month," Iris drawls after a drawn-out minute, and
doesn't say anything more. There's no point to elaborate: on how difficult it
was to quickly backpedal on rough terrain, on how painful it was for the cables
to push and pull at her limbs with each sudden movement, on how frightening it
was to hold a weapon of mass destruction in her hands that could accidentally
eradicate an entire country if she wasn't careful with the controls.

The doctor hums at her disinterested answer and Iris wants to shake her by the
shoulders. She is sedated though, the painkillers pulling the curtains of her
consciousness down. She doesn't have the energy to lift her arms, to wrap her
fingers around the doctor's neck, to make another person understand a fraction
of the ache running up and down her spine.

Iris hates her.

She hates a lot of things here, and it's not entirely inaccurate for her to say
that she hates the world.

This incredibly broken world where blueprints for SPHERES were discovered. This
incredibly greedy world where countries raced to build the fascinating machines
even though nobody has any fucking clue what the SPHERES are actually for. This
incredibly fucked-up world where the built SPHERES can only move when piloted
by teenagers like her.

Iris hates this world.

•

At seventeen, Iris is approaching the precipice of the transition in-between
her teenage years and adulthood. The knowledge is enough to keep her boiling
emotions at bay. It's only a few more months until she turns eighteen. Just a
little more.

Unlike the teenagers that have walked and hated this world centuries before,
Iris longs for adulthood for an entirely different reason. She isn't interested
in alcohol or cars—aside from a couple of instances of the so-called 'social
drinking', aside from when she spots a gallant-looking limousine pulling up the
Central Tower's arrival area. She isn't even interested in the so-called
independence from one's family that comes along with the coming of age.

But then again, unlike centuries before, this world has grown incredibly cruel
to teenagers.

It's just a few more months until her body stops expressing the Sphere gene.
She isn't particularly sure with the specific details, but from what she
understands, piloting the SPHERE is because of that troublesome Sphere gene
that is only expressed during one's teenage years.

Iris clenches her hands into fists, or at least, tries to. She is still
confined to her treatment room and they apparently thought it was fine to
paralyze certain parts of her body to make sure she doesn't make any
'unnecessary' movements.

...It's not like she's that excited to heal and return to the battlefield.

It's been two weeks since her barely-passed mission and the visitor's chair
hasn't been pulled out even once.

Iris hates this world.

•

Instead of spending hours reading the mission mechanics over and over—a
practice adopted by all of the other pilots, she's been told countless times
before—Iris opts to spend the night before her mission with her bed pulled up
next to the largest glass window in her government-issued room. She's almost
tempted to break the windows, just so she can see how the outside air actually
feels against her skin. It's nighttime so there's only an eerie darkness
stretching out in front of her; she can't see it, but she knows that there are
only a handful of buildings between the Central Tower and the distant horizon.

There are differences, depending on the country and its technological
advancements, but most of the remaining countries in the world have already
completed underground cities. Living above ground is treated as something
special, like a privilege. She doesn't understand what's so special about being
able to live in the few existing buildings above-ground. It's not like there
are any breathtaking sights to behold—unless she counts the times when she
choked on her own breath at the sight of huge machines fighting each other to
death.

Iris constantly tells her family left behind in the underground city that
there's nothing that can be considered as a blessing in living above the
ground, tells her jealous ex-classmates that there's nothing fabulous about
living in spaciously empty quarters provided by the government, tells her
impressed childhood friends that there's nothing to be proud of being a teenage
hero who defeats other teenage heroes from other countries.

They never listen to her though. They always remind her—excited voices crystal
clear, thanks to the advanced fiber network connecting the phones even across
hundreds of kilometers below—that she's incredibly lucky for a chance to live a
life with both purpose and generous sponsorship.

It's only four months until her birthday and then she'll be back to them.
Participating in the SPHERE program guarantees the pilot and its family
lifetime support from the government, so Iris needs to make sure to enjoy the
rest of her life underground.

She shifts a bit, bumping her forehead against the reinforced glass, her new
eyeglasses clanking lightly with the motion. She looks down at her healed,
bandage-free thighs and resists the urge to poke and squeeze the excess fat.
She gained weight from spending too much time recovering, and she just hopes
that her uniform won't feel too tight tomorrow.

...Tomorrow.

Iris shifts again. Her hands reach back to comb her hair, brown eyes looking at
anything but the mission mechanics in one thick pile at the foot of her bed.

She isn't worried at all. The enemies for tomorrow will come from Grand
Romania—a country that she managed to defeat on her first mission when she was
still a bumbling beginner. Grand Romania's SPHERES are somehow lacking
firepower and flexibility... or so Iris heard. In any case, Central Tower's
decision to send her, the lowest-ranked pilot, to the mission tomorrow is a
sign that they agree with her assessment of the enemy.

Being classified as the 'lowest-ranked pilot' doesn't irritate her—in fact,
she's grateful for it. All pilots receive similar government-support packages,
but she gets to avoid being assigned to the more dangerous missions. Well, the
higher-ranked pilots probably get fancier rooms and larger salaries, but it's
not like Iris doesn't understand what it means to be contented. There are only
so many things one can buy without getting bored, after all.

Iris sighs and gives up trying to ignore the mission specs. She carefully
avoids reading the parts describing Grand Romania's principles and Central's
so-called justified reasoning for annihilating every Grand Romania robot that
approaches the peripheral territories. She's only seventeen, but she knows how
to read between the lines, knows how differentiate self-serving bullshit from
facts. Central wants to conquer Grand Romania: that's all there is to it.

Tomorrow, Iris will fight using the newly-repaired ANGEL and will bring Central
one step closer to their goal of conquering the enemy lands.

Iris hates this world.

•

Somehow, in-between the time of her falling asleep while surrounded by her
mission specs and now, Iris finds herself losing control of the situation.

Iris is already pushing the button on the top corner of the control panel
insistently, but ANGEL is still caught within the grips of the enemy's many
hands. Iris can't even remember how many arms she managed to sever from Grand
Romania's creepy-looking new unit. The digital voice informs her that the
temperature of ANGEL's outer armor has already reached 3200°C, but the enemy
hands wrapped around ANGEL remain intact and show no signs of yielding.

The communication line between her and Central Tower remains open, but she
nevertheless understands virtually nothing from their frantic instructions.
Part of the difficulty can be blamed on the fact that the super-high
temperatures outside seem to be damaging her own unit more than the enemy. But
for the most part, Iris blames the Central Tower for not having any solution to
her dilemma. The Zwei Cannon is broken into unusable pieces a few meters away
and Iris has already exhausted every possible attack method.

Iris tries to break free anyway, ignoring the exploding pain on her knees as
she pressures her SPHERE to move according to her own movements. Thick linking
cables gnash against her skin, but she doesn't care. She can heal, she can
spend months without any visitors, she can recover.

She's only seventeen, but she knows how to read intent—there's no doubt about
it, the enemy robot is intent on killing her.

Iris doesn't understand how can Grand Romania use a SPHERE that is completely
different from the one they used less than six months before. Does technology
really advance that quickly?

She hastily raises her left arm to block an incoming blow clearly meant to
decapitate ANGEL. Iris nearly screams from the immense pressure against her arm
and she can't hear anything aside from the distant computerized voice telling
her how her fuel is running out and how 70% of her SPHERE is in double-critical
condition.

The communication line between her and her country's headquarters remains open,
and that's why she can hear the resignation in their unintelligible noises,
that's why she can see the defeat in their eyes. They know that she can't win
and they're not doing anything to save her. Iris dimly hears the emergency
message from Pilot 03—he has just finished his mission from the nearby country,
so he will quickly make his way to back her up, just ten more minutes—but then
her hearing gets worse because the enemy knocks ANGEL down to the ground and
her head gets shoved unceremoniously forward against the control panel.

Iris tries to move ANGEL's legs but there's zero resistance coming from the
cables connected to her own leg. Iris wonders if it's either because the
linking cables have all been cut, or it's because ANGEL's legs have been
separated from the main body, or it's because her own legs have been destroyed.
A cursory glance at the status display monitor tells her that ANGEL's right leg
is crushed while the left leg is completely stripped of its protective armor,
leaving only a skeleton-like frame surrounded by cables. The fact that her own
legs are safe is only a small blessing considering the shit she's in now.

Iris attempts to roll away, maybe buy some more time before 03 arrives.

Her attempt is supremely unsuccessful and only manages to get ANGEL to an
unprecedented damage level of 95%. Iris wants to close her eyes, but she
doesn't. She's only seventeen, but she knows that being a pilot is just no
good, deadly even. She knows that there are risks, but it's only right now,
right now when the government that has promised her a remarkable life of fame
and wealth is more busy blatantly gathering data about the enemy's movements
for next time rather than spending extra resources to try and extract their
pilot from death—it's only right now that she truly understands.

She is going to die.

Only seconds after her realization, ANGEL's screens go completely black.

100% double-critical level, huh?

Black screens then explode into numerous crystal fragments, as one of the
enemy's hands entertains the idea of completely destroying ANGEL's cockpit.

Iris doesn't know whether to consider it a blessing that she manages to survive
that attack. Her chest feels tight and she's starting to have trouble
breathing. She regrets not requesting for a larger uniform to be tailored for
today. It's getting harder and harder to breathe, though that's probably
because she finally knows how the outside air really feels against one's skin.
There's a scorching sensation on her cheeks, on her nose, on her forehead.

"Haa, haa, hahaha," her laughter is broken as her throat burns raw, "I
should... tell them. The outside air... is really... bad."

From her underground home, everybody longs for a time when they can finally
live above-ground like their predecessors did. Iris doesn't understand what is
so special about a mostly-barren earth, chemical-infested air and cloud-covered
skies.

Her eyeglasses are still intact; that's why she manages to notice that the
enemy's cockpit is cracked. Iris smiles—or at least, tries to; it's hard to
tell since numbness is quickly taking over her entire body—at the fact that she
managed to injure the opponent, at the fact that she wasn't a complete failure.
Her vision starts to blur, but she thinks she can see the pilot's face. Or
maybe she's just hallucinating, since she thinks she can see unruly silver
hair. An unusual hair color and Iris remembers the anime that her friends
watch. She thinks she can see owl-like eyes, but then again, she's already...

She thinks she can hear the sound of 03's OPHAN landing maybe a few kilometers
behind her. She thinks she can hear the sound of headquarters issuing commands
for 03 to standby until 04 and 06 arrive. She thinks she can hear the sound of
her own sobs as she continues to remain broken along with her SPHERE.

She thinks she can hear the sounds, but that can't be true because her ears are
already cut off.

Iris is seventeen, just four months away from freedom.

"Haa—I... I... really hate—"

•

END of first rotation;
the beginning of the end of the middle.
***** turn 02: second slayer *****

•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 02: second slayer

•••

pilot. Crew Charroue
sphere. OPHAN
rank. Central Tower - 03

•

"Crew, you still here?"

"Yeah, come in!" Crew Charroue calls out in a voice loud enough to cross the
distance between him—currently holed up in front of the bathroom sink—and his
visitor standing in front of his room's entrance. "Grab some extra towels too,
will you?"

It takes a couple more seconds before Crew's visitor blocks the doorway leading
to the bathroom. "…I'm not gonna shower with you."

"I'm not asking you to," Crew says with a small laugh and holds out his left
hand. He pulls back his arm when the requested towel is deposited in his hold.
Crew lets out a hiss when his right hand over-applies the hair dye and ends up
putting some of the chemical on the tip of his ear. Crew frowns as he makes
another mistake in the dye application. "Hey, help me out? This is kinda hard."

"...you owe me dinner."

Crew snorts and it's a mistake because he ends up adding some of the dye to the
back of his neck. Granted, nobody will actually look at his nape, but there's
still an uncomfortable knowledge that there's an unnatural black swipe on his
pale skin. Not to mention that the dye he's using is particularly strong.

"You owe me new gloves too," and Crew smiles gratefully even at those words,
since gloved hands take the dye applicator from his grip and start applying the
dye mechanically, without the mistakes that Crew is prone to make on a daily
basis. Crew obediently remains still as the burning swipes continue on his
scalp.

It only takes an additional ten minutes before Crew is shirtless in front of
his shower stall, his head bowed down as excess dye is washed out from his
shoulder-length hair. It takes five more minutes before Crew steps out of his
bathroom and gets a shirt thrown at his face.

Crew briefly debates whether or not to just let his hair drip water all over
the carpet, but having another towel thrown to his face seals his decision.

"Thanks, Matt," Crew tells his visitor who is now raiding Crew's cabinet for
spare gloves, "you're a lifesaver!"

"Yeah." Matt Mutsuruku—known as 06 by most of the Central Tower
inhabitants—rolls his eyes as he finally manages to find his trademark black
gloves amidst the whirlwind chaos that is Crew's cabinet. "You didn't have to
dye your hair, you know."

"I didn't have to," Crew agrees with an amiable smile that is foreign to most
of the Central Tower inhabitants who have seen him, "but I wanted to."

"...is it getting worse?"

Crew is about to chirp some perky nonsensical reply, but stops. Matt's serious
expression deserves something more than flimsy lies. "...but, silver hair
doesn't look good on me."

"...are you going to start with colored contact lenses too?"

Crew is somehow thankful that the Central Tower hasn't learned to bug the rooms
of its SPHERE pilots. After all, there's supposedly no way lower-ranked pilots
like Matt should know about the silver hair and the blood-red dilated eyes the
higher-ranked pilots start to develop after prolonged use of SPHERES. But to
answer Matt's concern-laden question (even though Matt would probably never
admit it out loud)... "No, my eyes are still fine."

Matt doesn't look convinced: there's that tell-tale furrow of eyebrows, the
slight twitch of the upper-lip's left corner, the controlled trembling of the
right fist slightly hidden from view. Matt doesn't say anything, but Crew
doesn't need him to. And while it isn't in Crew's repertoire, he wants to
alleviate that concern (that is starting to turn into frustration).

"...tell you what, I'll make sure to invite you when I go shopping for colored
lenses."

—'when', not 'if'.

"Let's go grab dinner," Matt tells him, offering him an escape route plainly,
but Crew knows that the subject isn't over yet. It's inevitable, like the way
the taboo side-effects start manifesting on pilots who have been working with
SPHERES longer, like the way the Crew will become a liability to the Central
Tower after all of the side-effects take root, like the way the world continues
to die no matter what its inhabitants do.

"Yes, yes."

Even though he is ranked 03, Crew is more than willing to remain irresponsible
and act ignorant of all the inevitable things.

...even for just a little while longer.

•

"—Grand Romania isn't a threat, but we should constantly monitor their
technological expansion. They are sitting on a mountain of important resources
and if they start getting wiser about how to use them..."

"The new 09 pilot has been chosen, but she needs to attend preparatory classes
first. Iris Malach's particulars are entered to the database—"

"Pilots 07 and 08 have returned from their reconnaissance mission. RULER and
ARCH have finished the docking phases and are now undergoing maintenance at
Port 04—"

Crew doesn't really like seeing the control bridge and hearing the hundreds of
voices—both human and digital—reporting about a million other things.
Unfortunately, Central Tower's layout forces Crew to pass by the control bridge
though, on his way to the special-clearance meeting rooms. He catches little
bits of information here and there—like a new recruit joining the pilots
(hopefully she lasts longer than her previous counterpart...) and 07 being back
in the headquarters (hopefully they don't run into each other...).

All of the sound—constant whirr of machines, rapid click of keyboards, firm
boom of instructions—that fill the heart of Central Tower's headquarters
disappear as soon as Crew reaches his destination, leaving an oppressive
silence instead. Crew dislikes the control bridge's noise, but he isn't
particularly pleased with the void-like environment he's in either.

[Take a seat, 03] flashes as black text against the blue background of the
floor-to-ceiling communication screen. Crew slowly sinks to the lone seat in
the room; his hands don't waste a moment in retrieving the thick file laid atop
the long table in front of his seat.

[Briefing for Mission VEGA, START] replaces the previous display, before the
wall-to-wall screens start filling up with tables and graphs that are
undoubtedly replicated in the file in Crew's hands.

There's the usual stuff about Central Tower's vision of the future and its wish
for its inhabitants; Crew's been at the headquarters for practically the
entirety of his life, so he has already memorized all those passages about how
Central Tower aims to bring peace and brilliance to its' inhabitants' lives.

Crew flips through his mission specifics, though his eyes dart all over the
briefing room reserved for the higher-ranked pilots. He supposes it has
something to do with upholding a certain image of nobility, but he doesn't
really understand the appeal of having an absurdly spacious briefing room when
there's only one person allowed inside at any given time.

…Not that Central Tower, the sole organization that exists in the world's
largest continent, has any concerns regarding space-conservation or
overpopulation above-ground. Of course, it's an entirely different matter for
the citizens dwelling underground, but Crew can't really sympathize with their
plight. After all, the complex layers and living conditions of the underground
cities are something that Crew has never witnessed with his own eyes.

Mission VEGA is a targeted attack on ARCHADIA's third-ranked pilot, even though
the mission briefing is quite clear about the reasons behind the attack.
Something about guarding the resources that lie beyond Central Tower's
perimeter—it's a flimsy excuse and Crew doesn't understand why the higher-ups
even bother. It's not like the world is unaware of the fact that Central Tower
is at war with ARCHADIA. Crew infers that it's because Central Tower is careful
about declaring war on ARCHADIA's major ally. Crew rolls his eyes and is
thankful that his vision remains clear even after that.

Crew pays more attention to the display when it reaches the part about the
enemy machine's specs and battle records. The amount of data available to him
is astounding; not for the first time, Crew feels a spark of admiration (and
something else entirely) for the Research Department's hard (cunning) work.
Information—whether they are useful or not—are in front of him, everything
there is to know about VEGA and its pilot.

In a way, Crew finds it almost unfair. VEGA's pilot's future has been decided
on a room thousands of kilometers away from her, and there's nothing she can do
to stop her impending death. It's almost unfair, but Crew doesn't feel anything
beyond that. He's been inside Central Tower's walls for his entire life and the
only way of living he knows is through following orders and disposing of the
enemies. Crew supposes that his life is also almost unfair.

But he doesn't really mind.

•

"You're here," Matt's voice greets him as soon as he steps inside the room.
Crew smiles—a thin curve of his lips—at the nearly imperceptible note of
surprise present in Matt's tone.

"You invited me," Crew points out as he makes himself comfortable, taking the
empty seat beside his friend's. The Observation Room's capacity is up to a
thousand people, but it already feels stuffy with the eight pilots inside. It's
a rare occurrence for all of Central Tower's pilots to be present in one
location—well, all but one. But the one not inside Asia's main tower is the
reason why the pilots are gathered inside the Observation Room.

"I did." Matt leans back against his chair, shoulders brushing against Crew's.
"I didn't think you'd be interested."

Interest has nothing to do with it, Crew wants to say, but doesn't. Unlike
their own government-issued quarters, the Observation Room is bugged and any
misgivings Crew might blurt out well definitely make its way to the higher-ups.
Crew isn't exactly afraid of them, but he's also not exactly keen on being on
the receiving end of their reprimands.

"…It's the newbie's first battle." Crew leans back against his chair as well,
letting their shoulders bump once more. Matt doesn't comment on his
uncharacteristic closeness and Crew almost laughs at the displeased hiss he
hears from fifty meters away. "It's a great chance to know what she's like."

"You don't care what she's like," Matt points out, zero hostility in his voice.
Matt is just stating a fact, a fact that Crew acknowledges with another one of
his smiles. "You only want to see ANGEL's condition."

"That's true." As the third-ranked pilot for Central Tower, Crew is expected to
help out in the lower-ranked pilots' training and adjustment. It's not a
pleasant job, primarily because all the lower-ranked pilots (except Matt) seem
to think that they're much better than they really are. Matt is the only one
that Crew is helping, but that's plenty enough for the higher-ups since the top
two pilots don't even bother interacting with the others unless required.

"Grand Romania is weak. Iris Malach will win this."

Crew agrees, gaze tracing the joint structure of the enemy SPHERE, zeroing in
on the bulky connectors that hinder the machine's movement. Grand Romania is
small and has too few allies to account for its number of enemies. The only
technology they have is the one they scavenged from the leftovers of the Herzog
Kingdom's collapse and that's not enough if they want to compete with other
countries that have stronger SPHERES.

Iris Malach's inexperience is painfully obvious: there are uncertain pauses
before and after each movement, there are amateurish misfires that do nothing
but disturb the barren terrain, there are insecure fumbles as ANGEL goes
through weapon after weapon. Crew doubts there are things he can learn from
this live video feed—his level has long surpassed the beginner's.

The sound of Zwei Cannon's blast masks the sound of the Observation Room's door
opening then banging shut. Rei has probably reached his maximum level of
boredom. Crew feels the room breathe a little easier now that pilot 01 has
left.

Matt turns to him, their faces close enough to warrant hushed whispers. "You
want to leave."

Crew shrugs. "I do."

"Let's have lunch." Matt doesn't wait for his (affirmative) answer.

Crew stands up as well and moves to follow his friend. He's tempted to smirk at
the pilots watching them from the opposite end of the room, but he controls his
childish urge. There's no point in provoking an irritable person. He exits the
Observation Room without any troubles and thinks, offhand, that the new pilot
probably won't last long.

•

"How are your preparations?"

Crew almost trips on his feet at the sudden question. Nobody ever enters his
assigned quarters (that happen to span an entire floor) aside from Matt; nobody
else has been granted security clearance to enter 03's domain. The only other
people who could override the security settings are the higher-ups, and the
only higher-up who bothers to visit the pilots is…

"All finished, thanks to your impeccable information," Crew manages to say
after composing himself.

Nise Hojo, Head of Research, laughs lightly, a sound that is deceptively smooth
and harmless at the surface. With his plain black hair and plain white
laboratory clothes, there's almost no difference between the so-called 'Doctor'
and commonplace people.  Almost. The Doctor doesn't wear any insignia or crest
or anything fancy that will distinguish him from his subordinates, but Crew
knows better than to mistake 'Doctor' for an ordinary man.

"Oh my, it's good that someone appreciates our department's work."

Crew smiles tightly in response to the false humility. Yes, the information has
been gathered by the entire Research Department, but it's a department that
would have no useful output if not for Doctor's management. Even more than the
top officer of Central Tower, it's Doctor that Crew is wary of the most.

"…Well then, if you'd excuse me—" Crew takes a step closer to his doorway,
eager to end this confrontation.

Doctor bridges the distance between them with a long stride, uncommon crimson
eyes twinkling with mirth. "If you do well on your mission, we'd probably
consider promoting you to 02… again."

Crew rarely is certain on how to answer Doctor's winding words and sly
questions, but he is very sure of his answer to that last statement.

"I will crush the opponent tomorrow," Crew doesn't think this confidence is
undeserved, even if his opponent is ranked third in her country, just like him,
"but I will reject your offer, once again."

Crew is certain of his answer, even if Doctor's answering grin makes him want
to doubt everything.

•

"…It's really here."

The Pillar of Despair—a black tower that connects the barren earth to the
brittle sky—looms overhead like a heaven-sent spear sent to break the earth
into thousand pieces. Or maybe it's the other way around: maybe it's a spear
that seeks to punish the heavens for hindering light from reaching earth. In
any case, it remains a mystery, even after six hundred eighty-five years have
passed since it first started to rise from the remnants of the Old Earth's
Turkey.

But Crew's mission isn't to investigate the Pillar that has claimed the lives
of everyone who dared approach it. "This is Crew Charroue. I've reached Mission
VEGA Checkpoint T-06. Commencing OPHAN transformation sequence to Stealth
Chariot Mode in sixty seconds."

His SPHERE hums with energy as it transforms from a humanoid form into its
specialty Chariot Mode, wires twisting and curling in a manner all too familiar
to Crew. The cables linked to his legs disconnect, freeing his limbs for a few
seconds, before new cables attach themselves. The renewed connections bring
fresh pain to his nerves, but Crew is already used to the unpleasant sensation
of wires constricting his body. The screens change to the 360-degree view and
Crew can see nothing but a vast, dark sky. Weather conditions throughout the
globe are steadily spiraling out of control; Crew makes sure to recalculate and
revise the settings for the stealth-cloak in order to account for the higher-
than-average amounts of acid in the atmosphere.

The communication line with the headquarters remains open (and has remained
open for the past twenty-two hours) and Crew is somewhat glad that Matt is off
to a training exercise with the Military Department. None of the higher-ups are
supervising him and it's troubling, the amount of trust they have on him. Of
course, there's no doubt that Doctor is watching this mission from his office
deep inside Central Tower, but there's nobody in the control bridge who can
directly interfere with his actions. It's troubling, the amount of leeway they
are granting him. It's like an invitation, beckoning for him to disregard the
usual rules and suggestions on how to go about attacking the enemy, challenging
him to show how different 'rank 3' means in Central Tower, daring him to
demonstrate just how fearsome he really is.

[OPHAN – Stealth Chariot Mode COMPLETE]

He is still an hour's worth of travel away from the final checkpoint, where he
has an allotted time of six hours to finish transforming the area from a
harmless desert to a hellish deathtrap. Any twinge of unfairness or pity he
might have felt beforehand is completely gone now. Crew has no qualms with
using his full artillery in order to show ARCHADIA just how weak their so-
called noble and aristocratic kingdom is. But the mission calls for stealth and
smoothness that can only be expected from a snake—Crew feels an inexplicable
urge to bang his fists against the control panel and that just won't do. He
wants to finish the mission as soon as possible. He wants to return to Central
Tower as soon as possible.

—he wants to see Matt as soon as possible.

That thought is enough to snap him back into action. Crew reroutes the controls
of the twin 'horses' in front of the chariot to his hands; with a sharp pull,
Crew sets the chariot into motion.

As he lessens the distance between him and the Pillar of Despair, Crew takes a
moment to readjust the magnetic field settings and the stealth-cloak
configuration. The people observing him from the control bridge remind him—in
bland voices that are aware they're just repeating what Crew already knows—that
the Pillar's unidentified field interferes with SPHERES' circuitry. He doesn't
request for the Research Department's help in the circuit recalibration, and he
remembers the Doctor's crimson eyes. Crew shakes his head briefly, disgusted at
the memory. He supposes that it's an honor to pique Doctor's interest and to
gain Doctor's praise, but Crew would rather hear Matt's deadpan comments about
his unassisted calculations.

—Matt will probably scold him and remind him that overconfidence can lead to
errors, but at least he will be honest.

Crew speeds up and doesn't stop accelerating until he finally reaches the last
checkpoint. VEGA and its pilot are due to arrive for their perimeter check in
eight hours. Everything is going along the mission's proposed timeline, just
like always. "This is Crew Charroue. I've reached Mission VEGA Checkpoint T-07.
Commencing landmine perimeter overlay in sixty seconds. Mission VEGA
Operational Phase START."

If he listens closely, he can hear the vibration of OPHAN's various parts as
the chariot goes around the mission's designated area, dropping and burying
landmines on its wake. Crew doesn't think that VEGA can withstand the explosion
of one hundred landmines, but he decides to follow the mission recommendation
of adding another layer of interference nets to enclose the area. Interference
nets are only useful when only the enemy party is affected, but as expected of
the Research Department, they managed to discover the specific wavelength that
ARCHADIA SPHERES operate on. Knowledge of the specific wavelength ensures that
Crew and OPHAN won't be crippled once the nets are activated.

—Central Tower is really frightening. Crew thinks that it's a blessing that the
normal citizens aren't aware of the specifics surrounding the SPHERES and what
the government is doing to crush the others. Knowing the truth will only lead
to chaos and worse, despair will seep through every corner of the world. It's
bad enough that despair has already clouded the skies, poisoned the waters and
claimed the earth. There's no point allowing it to pour into the complex
network underneath.

There's no point in prolonging this war.

•

"Are you begging for forgiveness?" Crew tilts his head in bemusement; the
cables and headset connected to his neck and skull make sure that OPHAN
outwardly displays the motion as well. "Or are you perhaps begging for your
life?"

There's a huge chance that his questions fall upon deaf ears—VEGA's cockpit is
thoroughly crushed from underneath OPHAN's many energy wheels. Crew tries to
scavenge the enemy pilot—Lyra, according to the data displayed on his left-hand
screen—from the pathetic remains of her SPHERE. The communication line between
him and the headquarters is quiet, but there's no doubt that they're going to
report whatever he's doing to the higher-ups, to Doctor. There's no doubt that
they're going to compile information from this mission, and use those data in
order to analyze whatever they want to think about him and his performance.

—Crew isn't worried about that, not really. Truthfully, there's no chance that
he will be replaced from his rank, since the ones below him still can't catch
up to his level. It's not overconfidence or any vulgar emotion like pride. It's
the fact, backed by the mission statistics and the weekly pilot assessment.
Crew isn't worried about getting bumped down in the rankings, but he is a
little (just a little bit) concerned that the higher-ups will find any reason
to reassign him to a new mission partner or to a new SPHERE. He doesn't mind
working alone, but if he must work with another person, he'd rather that his
partner is (Matt) someone he trusts. And OPHAN is the only SPHERE he has known
ever since his birth—he even changed his name from the standard DX0015 to
something based on OPHAN's majestic Chariot Mode—there's no way he'd be
satisfied with any change.

"P-P-P—" Crew leans in closer to hear the dying words of his opponent. This
isn't the first time he's assigned to an assassination mission—he worked hard
during Central Tower's expansion in the past couple of years, an expansion that
is always preluded by deaths of the other countries' pilots—but this is
probably the first time he's actually paying attention to what his opponent is
mumbling during the final moments of her life. It's somewhat interesting. "P-P-
Paul, I, I—"

He almost laughs at the simplicity of it all. It figures that on her dying
moment, an esteemed pilot like her only has her loved one's name on her lips.
If all pilots are like her, then Crew will make sure not to bother listening
next time.

Crew is about to return her to her damaged cockpit and leave her out to die
while breathing in the corrupted air, when she manages to gasp out another
sentence.

"P-P-Paul, you bastard, I'll, I'll kill you—"

Crew feels a smile playing on his lips. He still leaves ARCHADIA's number 3 out
in the desert—an effort by Central Tower to play this incident up as a gruesome
'natural death'—but he revises his opinion about his opponent.

After all, to think of nothing but hatred on one's dying moments is very
interesting.

•

"She was very interesting, Matt."

Crew leans his back against his friend's, breathing in the smell of Matt's
newly-bought soap, letting his body rest after the two-day mission. Their
combined weight makes a small dent on Matt's bed. Crew's uniform is still a
little wet with sweat and ozone-derivative disinfectant sprayed on pilots after
each mission, but Matt doesn't make a comment about the bed getting dirty.

"You should shower first," Matt tells him, putting force on his back to push
Crew forward against the bed—the action only bumps their heads and shoulders
more forcefully, "then we can grab dinner."

"You just don't want me messing up your bed," Crew replies good-naturedly,
willing his limbs to move without swaying. His vision feels a little blurred
and he curses the long-distance trip for wearing him out so easily. He's only
seventeen but he's apparently getting too old for his SPHERE. His eyes itch but
he doesn't scratch them to relieve the feeling. He knows the cause of the itch,
after all, and it has nothing to do with stray pollen or dust, and has
everything to do with the side-effects catching up to him after eleven years of
consecutively fighting inside OPHAN. And because he can't resist commenting
about it: "…I see that you're not so enthusiastic to listen to my mission."

Crew feels Matt move, hears the soft rustling of clothes against the sheets,
and is only a little bit surprised to see Matt holding out a gloved hand to
him. Crew sighs and thinks that there's really no point trying to hide it. He
tries to stand up and fails spectacularly, falling into Matt's prepared arms.

"You should have rested after your mission instead of coming here."

"I am resting now." Crew doesn't bother pointing out that if he went straight
back to his room, there's a huge probability that either Doctor is waiting
there with his twinkling crimson eyes or 07 is there to annoy him.

For a fleeting instant, a vaguely troubled expression crosses Matt's face. Crew
opens his mouth to comment on it, maybe to offer some words of reassurance, but
the expression disappears just as quickly as it appeared.

"I'll listen to your story while you shower."

"That's… very generous of you," Crew manages to say after he spends a few
seconds blinking stupidly at his friend.

Matt just smiles—a small, secretive smile—and for a moment, just a brief
moment, Crew has a foreboding feeling that Matt isn't being generous at all.

•

"Haaaa, look who's here!"

A familiar, but completely unwelcome, voice pierces through the silence of the
nearly empty training room, prompting Crew to sit up from his sprawl on the
floor. Sweat glues his hair to his nape and to his cheeks. It's a rather
uncomfortable feeling, but it's hardly something worth getting bothered over.
He convinces himself that the reason why he was sprawled on the floor isn't a
cause for the sullen feeling boiling low in his gut.

"Siobhan," Crew acknowledges 07 with a voice that he hopes is free of any
curling disdain, along with a nod that he hopes is devoid of lingering fatigue.

Siobhan clicks her high heels against the floor, places her hands on her hips,
and dons on her signature sneer. "It's Miss Rex to you, 03."

Crew doesn't really care for politics in Central Tower—it's already enough that
he has a strange connection with Doctor and that he is partnered with Matt—but
it's hard not to find Siobhan's arrogance to be funny. Siobhan is ranked 07,
yes, but Crew doesn't ever want to think of the possibility that Siobhan isn't
aware that she only got that position because her brother is the so-called
'Commander', the head of the Military Department. Nepotism at its finest form.

…In any case, Crew would have been fine if Siobhan's snippiness is only due to
some screwed-up rivalry and politics. But it isn't—Crew is all too aware of the
real reason why Siobhan hates his guts. Or rather, every single person in this
tower is privy to the reasoning behind Siobhan's hatred.

"What brings Miss Rex to this training room for lowly commoners like me?" Crew
drawls out sarcastically, adjusting the loosened sleeves of his training
attire. "Perhaps you need a guide, seeing that you've never used this room?"

Siobhan bristles at the insult, but she doesn't attempt to deny the fact that
she has never used the training room ever since she stepped inside Central
Tower. As though to compensate for her bruised ego, Siobhan's lips twist into
something malevolent, disgust dripping on her words. "Che, at least I'm not the
one who got my ass kicked by 01."

Crew's fingers twitch at the reminder of his defeat at the hands of Rei, the
highest-ranked pilot in Central Tower. Weekly assessments and mission
statistics declare Crew to be the weaker one, but it doesn't dampen his desire
to challenge Rei at every opportunity he can get. …Not that Crew has plenty of
chances to have practice matches with the antisocial Rei. …Not that Crew is
particularly competitive.

"If I can defeat Rei in a fight, I'd have been 01 a long time ago."

"Oh? Does this mean you're challenging the first throne?" Siobhan looks
absolutely thrilled with the prospect of Crew getting involved in trouble.

He is usually more patient than this, but apparently the loss to Rei isn't
without consequences, so Crew springs to his feet, arms rising to a stance,
lips parting to issue a scathing challenge to 07—

"Crew, you're still here?"

A very familiar, and much more welcome, voice breaks the tense atmosphere
between Crew and Siobhan. The presence of another person prompts Crew to slowly
let his arms sink to his sides.

"It's… it's nice to see you here, Matt!" And just like that, the haughty sneers
and fiery glares are swallowed back inside the layers of Siobhan's make-up.
Siobhan's hands leave their place by her hips and are instead fidgeting with
the frills of her customized pilot jacket, fingering the tips of her brown
curls. Narrowed brown eyes widen to an almost innocent look. The snooty teenage
brat disappears and is replaced by a soft-spoken princess wielding a gentle
smile as her weapon.

Matt steps inside the training room and makes a beeline for Crew, bypassing
Siobhan quite obviously. It's admirable how Siobhan's self-control persists;
even with Matt ignoring her blatantly, she doesn't resort into throwing a
tantrum. Crew sighs and thinks that it would make for a more peaceful life if
she is always this disciplined.

"You're finished with your paperwork?" Crew doesn't pull away when Matt starts
dragging him by the wrist without letting him finish his questions. "Let me
guess, you're hungry already?"

"I am," Matt admits with his usual stoic voice and his usual intense stare.
Others would probably read something else from that—and as if to confirm his
hypothesis, Crew hears Siobhan gasp in response to Matt's expression.

"Let's go then," and when Matt doesn't release his wrist, the two of them
leaving behind a dumbstruck Siobhan, Crew feels his heart skip two beats.

•

There is no sadness at all, and there isn't even a flare of self-preservation,
when he sees Iris Malach's dead body being extracted from the wrecked remains
of her ANGEL. The mechanics and engineers milling around the launch hangar are
all muttering about how long it will take for a replacement ANGEL to be
constructed, all mourning several all-nighters that will be spent building a
fortified Zwei Cannon, all calculating how many hours will be spent tuning up
and fixing the scratches on OPHAN.

Crew isn't too certain on who would have won if he had continued exchanging
blows with the new GRAND ROMANIA unit. The new unit is definitely top-class,
but the pilot controlling the SPHERE did really well in coordinating his
attacks. Crew understands that he is strong—he wouldn't be piloting for years
if he isn't—but he also understands that the opponent is strong too.

"It's a shame we didn't get him instead," Doctor murmurs from behind him and
Crew doesn't quite manage to control his reflexive response to someone's breath
tickling his ear. Crew's body is automatically whirling around, arms raised in
a defensive stance, eyes dilating in order to assess the situation more
efficiently. A flood of shame overtakes him when he realizes that Doctor is
smirking at him in amusement, no doubt finding his reaction funny. "We got the
other brother instead."

…Huh?

"The pilot of the GRAND ROMANIA unit," Doctor supplies helpfully, smirk
widening at Crew's (uncharacteristic) dumbfounded expression, "is 04's younger
brother."

"Frederick Vlastvier has a brother?" Crew doesn't allow himself to be
surprised, since it's not like he actually bothered to learn about the other
pilots' personal information. Still, 04's disposition doesn't really seem like
someone who has other siblings; he doesn't appear like someone who shares the
spotlight with others.

"Ash Vlastvier, 17 years old, currently GRAND ROMANIA's ace pilot," Doctor
takes a step closer to him, tips of their shoes touching, knees knocking
lightly together, leans in to whisper directly to his right ear, "…it's such a
shame that we didn't get the more talented brother."

There's no impulse or obligation to defend Frederick. Crew lets the malicious
words slide as he hums thoughtfully in agreement. It is indeed a shame to be
less one talented pilot. Doctor is part of Central Tower's top brass, after
all. It's only natural for him to prioritize thinking about making Central
Tower stronger.

"Well then," Doctor takes two steps backwards to place a socially-acceptable
distance between an older superior and a younger subordinate, "I'll see you
around, Crew."

A couple of engineers walk by the observation bridge they're currently at; said
engineers all make deep bows to the Doctor, as a sign of terror or deference,
Crew isn't sure. It's most probably out of respect and awe, since the Doctor
isn't the type to make his fearsome qualities that obvious to everyone. And
since it will look strange if he doesn't do anything, Crew bows his head
courteously as well. Doctor then walks away with the engineers, energetically
talking about the timeline for fixing OPHAN and the personnel involved in
assembling materials for the new ANGEL, enthusiastically speaking as though
there isn't a mangled corpse being transported just a few meters away from
where he's standing.

Crew doesn't know anything from 09's file—whether she had a family, a long-
distance lover, dreams—and he doesn't feel guilt or responsibility either
regarding her death. There's nothing much that he could have done to alter her
fate. He was returning from a week-long diplomatic mission to their secret
ally, ALLEMAGNE. He couldn't have arrived a day or an hour earlier to assist
her on her mission. He couldn't have helped her as soon as he arrived in
Central Tower because his fuel and artillery needed restocking. He couldn't
have saved her. That's why he doesn't feel any guilt or sorrow when 09's corpse
is transferred into a government-issued coffin right in front of his eyes.

Some of the other pilots are present too: 04 is up there in the observation
box, though it's obvious that he is more concerned about the news that his
younger brother is now GRAND ROMANIA's ace; 01 and 02 watch the spectacle from
their respective SPHERE's docking areas; others who aren't currently deployed
on missions are discreetly observing their fellow pilot's final moments from
their own spots.

Crew idly wonders what was 09's final word—whether it reached someone, whether
it moved someone's heart, whether it changed someone's viewpoint of her.

There's no doubt that Doctor doesn't mind—no, maybe he even welcomes it—the
fact that Iris Malach died in the hands of a refurnished enemy.

Crew closes his eyes for a brief moment.

He opens them almost instantly after, hands going inside his suit's pockets,
back perfectly straight. He walks away from the launch hangar, fully intent on
finishing the obligatory paperwork and mission report, before maybe dropping by
Matt's room if he's already back from his own mission.

Crew distantly wonders whether he'll also die this way—torn and broken, under
the scrutiny of hundreds of apathetic eyes, without anyone important by his
side.

•

Crew's eighteenth birthday is in a few hours—the fact that Central Tower knows
even the exact minute of his birth is somewhat both paranoia-inducing and
amazing at once. Even though he's an abandoned orphan, the Research
Department's technology is able to pinpoint his exact age by calculating
backwards via his telomere length, muscle composition, bone rigidity and other
biochemical factors.

His records remain perfect until now, even after nearly twelve years of
piloting OPHAN and undergoing nearly a hundred different missions.

His scalp still stings a little from the newly-applied hair dye. He focuses on
drying each shoulder-length strand on the towel around his neck, marveling at
the contrast of his artificially-black hair against the clean white of the
towel. Without help from the hair dye, his hair would have been nearly as pale
as the cloth. The use of contact lenses isn't warranted yet, but Crew is
starting to dread the moment when he would open his eyes as wide as they could
and he'd still see nothing but a black mass.

The pilot agreement states that once a pilot is eighteen years old, an
assessment will be done whether they can still pilot SPHERES. Current
understanding of the SPHERE technology tells them that pilots can't synchronize
with SPHERES once they exceed eighteen years of age, though there are
apparently some unique cases where the upper limit is nineteen. In any case,
once the pilot is deemed unable to continue providing their services to the
country, they'll be sent back to their underground city residence, where
they'll live a luxurious, government-subsidized life spent with their family.

Crew isn't sure how much of that is applicable to him, seeing that he's an
orphan and has nobody waiting for him underground.

"You're sure you don't want to celebrate your birthday?"

Intense eyes and deep voice, along with the left hand pushing him down the bed
by his shoulder and the right hand inching closer to his shirt buttons—there's
no way that Crew isn't reading the situation right.

Contrary to the confidence that others claim to be oozing out from him with
each step, Crew's face has a hesitant smile spread on it. His hands are mildly
trembling, but they are holding Matt's hands in place. There's absolutely no
way that he's misinterpreting Matt right now, just as there's absolutely no way
that he doesn't trust Matt the most. But Crew still stops Matt from advancing
on him.

"You don't want to?"

It's not because they haven't actually confessed any special feelings or
anything. It's not because they haven't actually done so much as hug or hold
hands. It's not because Crew doesn't think he likes Matt.

It's because—

"You're thirteen," Crew reminds Matt who is strangely (unfairly) taller and
bulkier than him, reminds him because it's a fact that the entire Central Tower
seems to constantly overlook or forget, "…I can't."

"I'll be fourteen soon, though."

"That's not the point," Crew interrupts wryly, letting go of Matt's hands.
Instead, he uses those hands to push Matt lightly backwards, to bring more
space between them.

"Is it because of…" Matt gently tugs at the edges of Crew's wet hair, softly
traces the bags under his slowly-turning-red-against-his-will eyes, "…this?"

"Yes." Against his better judgment, he leans in against the touch. "I can't
endanger you. If the side-effects can somehow be passed on, I can't—"

"I understand," Matt tells him, voice muffled because he speaks those words
while his lips are pressing partly against the towel and partly against Crew's
neck.

And because it's Matt who tells him that, Crew believes him.

•

"This is Crew Charroue. I've reached Mission PILLAR Checkpoint P-09. Commencing
OPHAN reverse transformation sequence from Stealth Chariot Mode in sixty
seconds. Deploying defensive shield markers fifty seconds after transformation
cooldown."

Crew is just a couple of kilometers away from the Pillar of Despair and the
black tower appears even more formidable up-close. Something akin to storm
clouds is brewing near the ground. Crew has to constantly monitor the
atmospheric measurements tabulated on the right-hand screen, making subtle
changes in his machine's shield settings and outer armor composition to match
the constantly changing environmental conditions. Nobody who has ventured close
to the Pillar ever returned—that's why Crew will not be foolish in this
mission. He's being very careful with each step he and OPHAN take, because
there's something for him to return to after this mission.

This may be his final mission as a pilot, as 03—because even though the pilot
assessments showed that he hasn't reached his limit yet when he turned eighteen
last month, Central Tower refused to let him strain himself by working until
his last possible moment. Crew is actually a little reluctant to leave his
place as 03, but his meeting with Doctor, Commander and the rest of the top
brass has assured him that since his circumstances are rather… special, he
could opt to stay at Central Tower. Not as a pilot, but he was told that he's
welcome to work as part of the Research Department. Doctor has whispered to him
after the meeting is over that working in Central Tower after his retirement is
a surefire way of making sure that he doesn't lose the connection between him
and Matt. Crew isn't even surprised that Doctor is up-to-date with the latest
gossip, even if it's a really trivial one. Whatever's between him and Matt
doesn't affect or concern Central Tower's steady conquest of the rest of the
world territories, but Doctor is really whimsical and inquisitive after all.

This is his final mission. He just needs to get samples of the soil and air
surrounding the Pillar. That's all he needs to do.

That's all that's left for him to do.

Approaching the ten-kilometer mark away from the Pillar brings OPHAN to its
knees, with Crew hastily making drastic changes to his machine's configuration
in order to keep up with the sudden heavy pressure and the static that the
electromagnetic flares are causing. True to his duty, Crew makes sure that all
the readings and proceedings are being recorded and transported via a live
video feed and data transfer. The data link is uncorrupted, so it should
suffice. The communication line between him and the headquarters is open but
all he can hear is a cacophony of 'zzt-zzt-bzzt' and fragments of panicky
words.

Collecting soil samples is going to be a challenge if OPHAN isn't cooperating
with the movement that Crew wants it to execute. For an instant, Crew gets the
idea of venturing out of OPHAN and collecting the samples himself. It's
suicidal to even think about it, since even the most advanced pilot suits can
only withstand up to three minutes of exposure to the corrupted air.

But he just needs the soil samples.

That's all he needs to do.

Protocol dictates that a pilot must remain inside his SPHERE for the entire
duration of the mission. Crew feels his crazy idea gnaw at his insides, making
his fingers tremble at the possibility of what might happen to him if he goes
along with it. He thinks about opening a communication line between him and
Matt, but it's yet another insane idea, seeing that Matt is on a combat mission
at Grand Romania's borders. Pilot communication getting intercepted is part of
their everyday life and Crew doesn't want to endanger his friend's mission,
even if he sorely wants to talk to the other.

This is his final mission.

Crew takes a deep breath before opening the more advanced section of his
control panel. He thinks he can hear the officers watching his mission from the
control bridge give a collective gasp at his actions. The normal control panel
is already complicated enough; the advanced panel is something that only 01 and
the engineers touch. Crew never had a reason to use the advanced controls
because his attacks are usually very straightforward, but this mission is
different. He needs to alter his machine's circuitry and magnetic fields more
drastically, at their base level, if he wants to be able to let OPHAN stand up
and move according to his instructions.

He reroutes the energy circuits, reassigning the priority levels of the
machine's parts. He focuses much of the electrical cell energies to powering
OPHAN's legs, while unlocking the limiter on the backup energy source. The
mineral orb energy is usually reserved for emergency situations where the pilot
and the SPHERE needs to flee immediately via a supersonic transfer, but Crew
taps on that energy supply too, and links it to his outer shields. He detaches
the energy wings and the rocket cannons attached to OPHAN's back in order to
cut down on the weapons' energy demand and free more energy for movement and
defense.

Crew ignores the blinking alerts on the screen that continuously warn him that
his offensive power is becoming too low. He is very aware that if some enemy
robot were to attack him at this very moment, he will not be able to put up
much resistance. He is very aware of the risks.

But this is his final mission and he will see this through. Not because he
wants to retire with a perfect mission record, but because he wants to finish
this flawlessly so he can return to Central Tower without any shame or regrets.

Crew enters the three-kilometer mark with much effort. His chest heaves
painfully with each step, as the oxygen levels inside the cockpit is starting
to dwindle. His legs ache with each inch forward, as the cables become rougher
and thicker in order to force the machine onward. The barren land swallows
every imprint OPHAN leaves behind, much like the ancient sand dunes that he has
read about. His fingers feel sore from the constant typing and calculating. His
neck feels stiff from keeping his head bowed down in order to minimize the air
resistance as the winds from within the Pillar grow stronger. He is tired, more
fatigued than he can remember.

But this is his final mission.

After this, he can return to Central Tower. He can work with Doctor as a
researcher, to help the Research Department develop technologies that can help
make life more bearable for Central Tower's citizens underground, to develop
weapons that can make sure Central Tower's pilots are the best in the
battlefield, to develop shields that can ensure that Matt doesn't even get a
scratch while he's out fighting for Central Tower.

This is his final mission, Doctor told him.

And as Crew reaches down to take the final soil sample one kilometer away from
the Pillar's base, OPHAN copies his movement and bends down as well, hands
reaching out to grab a fistful of soil before placing it inside the containment
cylinders provided by the Research Department. And as Crew starts to report
that he has finished his final mission and is starting to transform his OPHAN
to its Chariot Mode for faster travelling, Crew realizes with a slow, sinking
dread that there's a reason why the Doctor told him it's his final mission.

The Pillar of Despair's electromagnetic field sends out an unidentified flare
that utterly destroys his communication devices. The line between him and the
headquarters disappears with a screech. Crew clears his mind and detaches
himself from his pilot's seat so he can reach out for the emergency
transportation device. He doesn't quite manage to free himself completely from
all the cables attached—some more securely and persistently to his skin
underneath his pilot suit—but he still reaches out anyway, his fingers fumbling
a bit as he opens another set of controls. It's the first time that his heart
beats this furiously and he feels dizzy. He enters a couple of commands that
brings the collected samples inside OPHAN, before transferring said samples
inside the emergency transporter. It's also the first time that he's even
considering to use the emergency transporter, but he supposes that there's
always the first time for everything.

—"I understand", Matt told him. He needs to return to Central Tower. He needs
to tell Matt, with actual words instead of easily-misinterpreted actions, that
he believes him, that he wants to stay in Central Tower so they can go to the
underground cities together. He needs to tell Matt that he needs to be careful
of getting tricked into Doctor's plans and experiments. He needs to return.

The dark clouds from the Pillar seem to be descending, spreading, reaching out
to grab OPHAN. Crew probably breaks a finger or two in his haste to input the
necessary codes and calculations, but he doesn't feel the pain. Not even when
the coarse earth gives way underneath and pulls harshly at OPHAN's legs, not
even when the clouds flood his entire surroundings and his screen displays
nothing but darkness, not even when the Pillar's much-stronger magnetic fields
damages his unit's defenses, leaving only a humanoid machine with over fifty
percent damage and the sound of dying screeches in Crew's ears.

OPHAN is damaged so thoroughly, so quickly, that not even his machine has the
time to tell him how much damage he got. Crew is still alive though, and he
grabs the sword and the gun that he always brings along with him on his
missions, stashed underneath his pilot's seat. His body is ravaged by pain all
over, the cables biting and scraping against his skin without warning. It's the
first time that he has ever been injured so completely, and now he can hear the
sounds of the liquid fuel and the chemical buffer gurgling and squishing as
OPHAN breaks down into pieces.

He should have known—with all the years he spent working for Central Tower, he
has never heard of a pilot actually managing to return to the underground
cities to live out their life in luxury. Of course, the families left behind
are always compensated anyway, so it's not like the monetary promise is a lie,
but not one of the pilots who have retired managed to enjoy their retirement.
He should have known, but that 'should haves' don't have a place in his mind
now. The only thing left for him now is to finish his mission and make it back
to Central Tower, never mind eyepatches, wounds, casts, scars, as long as he
manages to return to Matt, alive.

The Pillar of Despair seems to be actively dragging him and OPHAN into its dark
abyss, and Crew remembers that ever since Mission VEGA, he's been intrigued by
a person's final words.

And as Crew starts to part his lips to gasp out a curse as OPHAN refuses to
budge, as OPHAN's cracked screens manage to flash a 100% triple-critical
warning as an incoming energy wave makes a beeline for OPHAN, Crew doesn't even
get a few seconds to think, much less say, the words that can be considered his
last.

•

END of second rotation;
the end brings the beginning.

•••
***** turn 03: third traitor *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 03: third traitor

•••

pilot. Matt Mutsuruku
sphere. POWER
rank. Central Tower - 06

•

Matt Mutsuruku doesn't quite understand the tear-filled eyes of the
researchers, engineers, pilots who are there in the hangar with him as the
sound system plays a solemn funeral song instead of the usual drones about the
order of launching and docking.

He even feels a little queasy when he spots Rei—ranked 01—with a face void of
his usual teasing, carefree smirk. 02's eyes are closed behind his clear
glasses, whole body trembling slightly, which frankly makes him look
uncharacteristically weak. Dyna—ranked 05—is openly crying, her long hair doing
nothing to hide the tears streaming down her cheeks. Cecile—ranked 08—has her
hands clasped out in front of her, as though in a frantic prayer.

Siobhan, unexpectedly, takes part in the reserved, gloomy atmosphere, though
that's only probably because she's standing next to her older brother, the
Commander. Frederick looks like he isn't taking the news well either, but as
usual with him, his reactions are always a little extreme. Frederick struggles
against the men holding him back, all the while shouting that this is all a
lie. Matt is surprised to see Frederick this displeased with the news. He
guesses it's probably because Frederick has always deluded himself to be Crew's
rival. Matt wonders if the responsibility of clearing up 04's gross
misunderstanding is going to fall to him.

Matt doesn't quite understand what is so special about this death. He wasn't
present for Iris Malach's coffin-transfer, but he didn't think that event had
much of an impact. There were other deaths before Iris', but the level of grief
and disbelief doesn't quite reach this.

People are also regarding him strangely, a weird mix of people silently inching
close to him and looking at him as though he's going to break down
spontaneously, and people granting him a too-wide space. Matt isn't quite sure
why people are expecting him to act as though this death is important.

Frederick has apparently calmed down enough to fool his retainers into letting
him go. Frederick then stalks towards him in uneven steps, angry tears in his
eyes. Matt tries to look around him for a reasonable authority figure, so he
can ask whether it's fine if he strikes Frederick down if he starts a hostile
action. But his superiors are all on the other side of the hangar, beside the
Doctor and the Commander who are reciting some useless words about how they
shouldn't lose hope, and about how Central Tower would make sure nobody will
fall to the same trap again.

"Why aren't you crying?! Even that bitch Siobhan is crying for her rival, even
that asshole Kaoru is showing some goddamn sadness even though he fucking hates
him, even the mechanics are gloomy for fuck's sake! Why aren't you crying?!
Aren't you guys the Team Demon Slayer?! Aren't you—aren't you his—"

Matt blinks at the outburst, taking a small step back because Frederick looks
like he's ready to claw someone's eyes out. The researchers and engineers in
the area all make an effort to restrain Frederick from throwing a punch towards
Matt.

Frederick sobers up a bit when the Doctor starts to make his way towards them.
The sound of tears—some loud and pathetic, some restrained and pitiful, some
silent and dignified—continue to fill the launch hangar area. The Doctor looks
almost interchangeable with the other researchers he passed by, especially now
that his crimson eyes are lacking their usual bright shine. Nevertheless, his
presence is enough to command 04 to lose his rabid snarl and feral glare, and
is enough to disperse the people distantly surrounding Matt.

"Crew Charroue doesn't have any relatives," and here, the sound of the
uncontrolled sobs intensify, nearly drowning the Doctor's words, "so I would
like to transfer his possessions to you, Mr. Mutsuruku."

Matt blinks again, this time in an effort to remember whether he had previous
knowledge about Crew's lack of relatives. The Doctor looks like he's expecting
an answer so Matt disregards his previous thought.

"Will I get OPHAN too?" Matt asks, and doesn't quite understand why that
obvious question is enough to warrant Frederick yelling more profanities at
him—with a few harshly-spoken, unfamiliar words that probably came from the
language back at the Herzog Kingdom—doesn't quite fathom why that simple
question is enough to grab the unnecessary attention of everyone at the hangar.
"It's his possession, after all."

"Don't you feel sad?! Don't you care at all?!" Frederick shouts at him and Matt
isn't so certain why Frederick deems this death important enough to flagrantly
expose his ugly side in front of everyone. "Don't you care for him at all, you
demon?!"

Matt blinks, this time in incomprehension.

"Why should I feel sad taking OPHAN, about anything?"

And as though to horrify the Central Tower citizens in the vicinity, as though
to rightfully claim the half of the name of his partnership team, Demon Slayer,
Matt adds: "Isn't Crew Charroue dead anyway?"

•
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 03: third traitor

•••
•

Matt Mutsuruku is hardly the only one who has barely passed the ten-year mark
amongst the prospective pilots gathered in the Main Underground Hall, but he is
definitely the only one who comes from a well-respected family and is also the
only one who doesn't look any bit near his age.

Central Tower holds this mass-screening annually for all children born from its
underground cities; each year, ten or so preteens are chosen from a thousand
hopefuls. Despite the occupational hazard that goes hand-in-hand with piloting
giant robots meant to destroy other equally-large robots, most families
actually encourage their kids to do well in the selection process. Something
about glory and pride in taking the much-coveted position of being a teenage
pilot—something that Matt doesn't really understand. Matt thinks that 'glory
and pride' are really just fancy (lies) words for 'wealth and more wealth'.

Matt knows that he will pass the screening without a shred of difficulty.
Hailing from a noble lineage that prides itself on their skills as martial
artists during the Old Earth Era made sure that Matt is an unrivalled genius
when it comes to power and fighting. He has already made a name for
himself—Demon—during the preliminary selection for youngsters that have strong
Sphere gene expression.

And as a genius, a demon, or whatever people are calling him, Matt has no
interest in hearing The Tower, the Head of Central Tower, tell the prospective
pilots about Central Tower's goals and beliefs via a holographic transfer. It
takes all his concentration not to yawn widely as The Tower drones on and on
about things that don't matter to him at all. The singular vapid expression
present on all the other examinees' faces is enough to tick him off. So, in
order to avoid another unpleasant (reprimand) meeting with the soldiers
guarding the hall's perimeter, Matt just does his best to keep his gaze forward
and focused on nothing in particular.

And it's on that moment that one of the doors by the west exit slides open
soundlessly. It's on that moment that Matt Mutsuruku sees three faces that all
aspiring pilots know. It's on that moment that Matt Mutsuruku is the first to
witness the arrival of the three legends, because he isn't paying attention to
the speech as thoroughly as the other loyal and earnest candidates.

01—whose name Rei may or may not be a mere codename—comes in first, his
trademark happy-go-lucky smile plastered on his face. It's an expression that
has stayed with the pilot on all the pictures and videos that Matt has seen:
whether 01 is giving a brief speech to Central Tower's major financial backers,
whether 01 is simply walking along the VIP-only hallways on the upper floors of
the Central Tower HQ, whether 01 is busy slaughtering the enemy units in front
of him.

02—who apparently prefers to be addressed by his real name, Mark Xing—is the
next one to enter the hall. Mark is popular amongst the recruits for two very
different reasons. The girls all express their admiration rather vocally—with
high-pitched squeals and high-speed claps—admiration for Mark's looks and
supposed charismatic personality. The boys express their admiration too, just
in a quieter manner, admiration for Mark's skills both while inside his SPHERE
and on hand-to-hand combat.

03 follows after the two—

—and then Matt just knows.

It's a little weird, since this isn't the first time that Matt has seen 03's
face. But no matter the reason, this moment, on this very moment, Matt sees
Crew Charroue, with just a few meters separating them, and he just knows.

Matt just knows that it's Crew who holds his destiny.

—just knows that he would have to kill him to attain it.

•

Expectedly, Matt makes it to the final round of selection. The testing has been
moved to the TOKYO upper plate, directly below Central Tower's second
headquarters, the home to the Military Department. Passing the final selection
means moving upwards and training in the Military Department, while failing in
this final round means a second chance to join the workforce above-ground once
they pass the tests administered for back-up pilots in the third (and final)
headquarters located in NEO-BEIJING.

Matt knows that he will become a pilot.

"You don't look terribly strong," murmurs a voice from his upper left. Matt
looks up from his brooding pose inside one of the many waiting rooms, glare
already prepared for whoever wants to start trash-talking him. His loner
personality is apparently a blinking neon sign inviting busybodies to, well,
busy themselves with getting their asses kicked. It's definitely not his height
or build that's attracting wannabe-bullies—his physique is meant for someone
maybe two to three years older.

The glare doesn't fade away even when he realizes who is the one bothering him.

"Has the test started?"

Because there's no reason for the astoundingly popular 03 to loiter around
waiting halls for people who are not even pilots yet, other than if he's there
to issue the final selection test.

"No." Crew Charroue is an idol, an ideal, for possibly the entire underground
population; said idol is speaking to him in words that are even and
emotionless, speaking to him with such an impassive face that it's nearly
impossible to tell that he's even breathing. "I'm here to tell you that you
passed."

"…So there's no 'final test'."

"There is." Crew's legs are shorter than his, but Crew's pace is brisk enough
for Matt to actually make an effort to keep up. "You passed under special
qualifications."

"I see." Matt knows that he will become a pilot, because he has complete
confidence in his abilities, not because he has confidence that his name and
family lineage are prestigious enough to bring him closer to piloting a SPHERE.

Crew is watching him. Crew is walking slightly ahead of him, but Matt knows
that Crew is watching him.

"Pilot briefing will be at the TOKYO Headquarters, Floor 48. Tomorrow, you will
go to the NEO-BEIJING Headquarters to get your medical clearance and some other
things that Doctor needs you to do. After your medical exam, I will bring you
to the CENTRAL Headquarters where you will receive further instructions.
Understood?"

Matt stops walking.

Crew stops as well, but only after taking a few steps forward to widen the gap
between them.

"…What are the special qualifications, Mr. Charroue?"

The shoulders in front of him—smaller than his—stiffen for a split-second. But
it's only a split-second, and the man—not a mere teenager, not a preteen like
him—who looks back at him is not just Crew or Crew Charroue or 03. It's the man
who is so popular for reasons different from Mark Xing. It's the man who is so
popular for being a hero. It's the man who is the ideal killing machine who
annihilated battalions following the unrest after Herzog Kingdom's collapse.

It's the Slayer.

Crew then turns around completely to face him. The bright overhead lights and
the distance separating them are enough to trick Matt's eyes into thinking that
Crew's eyes are tinted scarlet.

"You passed by recommendation." Crew's expression betrays nothing. There's no
warmth whatsoever in the Slayer's face. Crew then turns around again, a smooth
movement, before Crew starts walking again as though the conversation never
happened.

By recommendation.

Crew's recommendation, that much is certain.

Matt suppresses a chuckle at the thought that his destiny is certainly handing
itself to his hands.

•

It's supposed to be only a congratulatory match, a friendly spar, a non-serious
competition. It's supposed to ease Matt to the everyday training schedule that
all pilots must undergo to keep their bodies in the best possible condition for
piloting. It's supposed to be Mark Xing's final exercise before he returns
underground to where his family is waiting for the return of their brave,
heroic, famous son. It's supposed to be nothing but a simple one-on-one between
two pilots who are from families that practice martial arts.

It's not supposed to be life-threatening.

Matt hastily taps-touches-traces the flat walls of the training room, the pads
of his fingers trying to feel the fake wall where the emergency buttons are.
The one-on-one match has long devolved into a one-sided beatdown, with Mark
Xing abandoning all semblance of humanity, all the while attacking Matt with
deadly intent powering each blow. Matt looks at the situation and decides that
the person in front of him, panting heavily like a wild beast, isn't Mark Xing.
Can't be Mark Xing.

Mark has light brown hair, for starters, and the beast in front of him has
silvery hair. The color change doesn't even involve a dye job and Matt tries to
clear his thoughts so he can find the emergency buttons faster. He's still new
to the CENTRAL Headquarters and he knows that the longer he remains locked
inside the training room, the less his chances of survival becomes. He needs to
get away from Mark Xing—the beast. He needs to get out and get some help, maybe
an armful of tranquilizer darts and maybe some special restraints.

Mark growls, an inhuman sound tearing from his throat until the growl turns
into a bloodthirsty roar and Matt jumps away from the wall he's fondling with
his hands, just seconds before Mark decides to attack that very same wall. The
attack looks like a simple punch, but it can't have been anywhere near a normal
simple punch, because Matt still remembers the briefing and the subtle boasts
about how the entire headquarters are lined with special cement and metal
alloys that will make sure not even a sledgehammer can scratch the walls. Matt
still remembers how the training room's walls withstood an explosion during the
demonstration. Matt still remembers, and he gapes in shock at the sight of the
used-to-be-invincible wall cracking under Mark's punch.

This isn't Mark Xing at all.

This is just a monster.

A monster with silver hair and blood-red eyes.

A monster that is now realizing that its impressive punch damaged nothing but
the wall.

A monster that is now taking uneven steps towards him.

It's only supposed to be the final match before Mark retires from his duties as
the 02 pilot.

It's not supposed to go horribly wrong.

Matt wonders if this is his destiny—to go so far only to die as soon as he
starts moving closer to his goal to become the best pilot.

This is a training room near the top of the headquarters—top floors have very
strict security clearance and there's absolutely no chance that someone is
going to pass by and hear his screams. Matt is deeply regretting agreeing to
spar with Mark on his floor, because this means that nobody below 02's
clearance can go here and save him.

Matt slumps against the locked door, sweat and goosebumps decorating his arms.
His knees are trembling, threatening to give out from under him. The children
who weren't chosen to become pilots call him 'the demon', but even that name
cannot help him survive against a real demon.

The monster grins at him, a bloodstained grin worthy of fear, as though
understanding his thoughts. The monster reaches out towards him, fingers curled
into something that resembles claws, and Matt can't think of anything but his
failed destiny.

—"Duck down," says destiny from the other side of the reinforced door.

On any other circumstance, Matt would have outright ignored the authoritative
voice meddling with his affairs. But in his situation—faced with an ally turned
into a beast, with no escape in sight, cornered like a helpless, normal human
being—Matt ducks according to the instruction, knees folding and hitting the
ground. On any other circumstance, Matt would have fought against being in a
submissive position. But in his situation—well, Matt is just relieved that he
didn't defy the order to duck down.

The reinforced door behind him is a structure that can supposedly withstand a
missile barrage. The reinforced door behind him is then sliced neatly—pure
steel whistles against the strengthened alloy and there is suddenly an escape
route made available for him.

The monster leaps away from the destroyed doorway and Matt wonders if someone
more fearsome than a monster is behind him. Matt turns his neck to take a
glimpse of his savior and simultaneously feels irritation, surprise, relief and
anticipation. It's an odd mixture of emotions, but it's justified in Matt's
mind, seeing that it's Crew Charroue who is holding a sword in his hand from
the other side of the door.

Matt starts to speak, a stream of words and explanations bubbling in his
throat, but Crew kicks the remainder of the door open and enters the room that
was impossible to escape from just two minutes ago. Crew then shrugs off his
jacket—the 03 insignia on the chest pocket reminding Matt that Crew has no
reason, no security clearance to be here—and drapes it around Matt's shoulders.
Crew is shorter and slimmer than him, but Crew manages to look regal and
intimidating despite their difference in size.

"You can close your eyes," Crew says, his words having a tint of something that
sounds like kindness, and Matt almost closes his eyes in response to the
uncharacteristic non-emotionless voice. Almost. Just almost, because there's no
way that Matt is going to close his eyes when Crew seems intent on fighting the
beast.

"Mark Xing," Crew's voice is back to its usual emotionless drone, his stance
devoid of any hesitation, his sword drawn out and ready to attack, "…I guess
this isn't really a 'Happy Birthday', is it?"

The beast simply roars again, the veins in its throat bulging an unsightly
purple. Mark's clothes have the number 02 emblazoned all over them, as though
to make sure that nobody will ever forget that he's the second-ranked pilot.
Crew is ranked third, while Matt doesn't even have an assigned number and
SPHERE yet, seeing that he only joined last month. And 02 isn't even human now.

"Don't worry," Crew tells him in what probably is the best soothing tone 03 can
manage, as though sensing his apprehension, "I will get you out here soon."

Matt doesn't have any intention of closing his eyes as Crew so kindly
instructed him beforehand. But Matt does end up squeezing his eyes shut—as
high-pressure blood geysers out from the spot where Crew swiftly severs the
beast's left arm. Some of the blood sprays on his temples and his eyebrows, and
Matt's knee-jerk response is to automatically close his eyes while both his
hands scramble to wipe away the blood.

And Matt regrets succumbing to his automated instinct, because the moment he
reopens his eyes, Crew's sword is already lodged securely on the beast's heart,
piercing the 02 insignia as though to render the difference in their rank
useless. There is blood everywhere and the stench of the inhuman death is
enough to clog his throat and nostrils. Matt doesn't faint or vomit, but he
doesn't attempt to stand up either. Strength doesn't come to his legs
immediately and he doesn't really look forward to dragging his feet across a
floor carpeted with sticky blood and some violently smashed tissue.

"What happened to him?" Matt asks, his voice barely above a whisper. He must
look pathetic then, covered in a jacket a size too small, clueless with what's
going on.

Before Crew can answer his question, a man appears by the destroyed doorway—and
it's not just any ordinary man. Matt drags his body upwards with sheer
willpower, because there's no way he will allow himself to look like a damsel
in distress in front of the Research Department's head.

"Ah, so Crew made it on time, huh?" The Doctor looks like an ordinary person,
with black hair that fits well with the majority of the population, with white
clothes that is the standard uniform of the Central Tower employees. The
Doctor's voice is a mixture of cheerfulness and expectation. The Doctor even
smiles like a perfectly ordinary person and ordinary people don't belong in
blood-splattered rooms.

"I disposed of the target." Crew pulls out the sword from the gaping hole on
the beast's chest.

"I guess it isn't really much of a choice, then?"

…Choice?

Matt's confusion must have shown perfectly on his face, since The Doctor lets
out a mirthful chuckle. Crew's face is carefully blank, but is also bowed down
slightly, unnecessarily focused on the act of sheathing his sword.

"Mark Xing was found to have been infected by a mutated virus," Crew recites
the explanation rather monotonously, but he doesn't look too happy as he passes
by The Doctor, "and there's only currently one developed antidote available. As
the person dispatched for this mission, I simply made a decision that using the
only antidote on someone with a full progression of the disease isn't the best
course of action."

The Doctor snickers at the long explanation, but doesn't comment further, and
instead busies himself with giving orders via his phone for people to preserve
the scene and to gather samples as soon as humanly possible.

"You chose to save me." Matt blinks, realization dawning on him. "You wanted to
save me."

Crew tosses a sealed syringe towards Matt's direction. Matt catches the
antidote deftly, aware that The Doctor is watching their interaction closely.
Crew doesn't look back to make sure that Matt managed to catch the syringe,
doesn't look back to make sure that Matt actually uses the syringe to give
himself a shot to avoid ending up like Mark.

"…Yes." Crew doesn't retrieve his 03 jacket either. Crew hesitates slightly as
he steps outside the blood-drenched training room. The hesitation disappears
just as quickly as it appeared. "I just wanted to save you."

There's that feeling again, that burning, all-consuming feeling.

Matt forces his facial muscles to relax, to stay still, to not make any
deranged grins.

…It seems that it's really Crew who holds his destiny.

•

Starting today, Matt Mutsuruku is officially a pilot for Central Tower. At the
age of 10, he is already ranked 06 and is already in possession of the POWER
SPHERE.

With Mark Xing's 'retirement' from his 02 position, the current pilots were
reshuffled, reassessed and promoted accordingly. Frankly, Matt feels a tad
disappointed that he only managed to place sixth in the rankings, but he
figures that his age and inexperience are the contributing factors to his rank.
Matt conveniently ignores the fact that Crew was only six when he participated
in his legendary string of Herzog Kingdom missions.

…Crew.

Judging from the whispered gossips that seep through the miniscule spaces
between walls, the 02 spot was offered to Crew. And judging from the fact that
it's Kaoru—previously 04—who is bowing down respectfully towards the top brass,
it seems that Crew rejected the offer. Matt doesn't really understand the logic
behind that rejection. If Matt didn't see the efficient and emotionless way
that Crew regarded Mark and his corpse, Matt would have explained the rejection
as something due to Crew's guilt. But Matt did witness the way Crew didn't seem
the slightest bit affected by the kill.

Matt doesn't really understand the way Crew thinks.

Matt's gaze travels to Frederick Vlastvier, the previous pilot of POWER, now
promoted to Kaoru's previous spot. The new 04 is glaring daggers at him; Matt
wonders if it's because 04 is unhealthily attached to his SPHERE, or if it's
for some other barbaric reason that he can't ever hope (or want) to fathom.
Matt then decides that there's nothing to gain from trying to speculate on what
the uncultured troublemaker is thinking, so he lets his gaze shift towards the
door. He's eager to start the synchronization tests with POWER, because while
he's definitely good with the hand-to-hand combat and the basics of fighting,
he still has zero experience when it comes to piloting a SPHERE. He hopes to
remedy that inexperience as soon as possible.

Matt is the last one to leave the briefing room after receiving POWER's manual
and the timetable for the tests and simulations. When he steps out of the
briefing room, he stands very still, in an effort to not draw any attention to
himself. Three pilots are assembled just a few meters away from the doorway—and
Matt instinctively understands that there's trouble brewing between the three.

Kaoru and Frederick are there, still with their respective SPHERE manuals and
timetables in their arms. The two newly-promoted pilots are surrounding
Crew—Crew who is wearing a 03 jacket that's different from the one still in
Matt's laundry pile.

Matt takes a few cautious steps closer to place himself just within earshot.
The three pilots seem too preoccupied in their glaring match to notice the
eavesdropper.

"—if you think I'm going to thank you for this—"

"I have no need for your thanks, Kaoru," Crew deadpans, shifts his grip on the
thick files on his hands.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Crew?" Frederick simply lets his papers drop
before lunging at Crew. "You think it's cute, making useless Kaoru the 02?"

Crew doesn't even blink when Frederick's hands clutch and crumple his jacket's
collar.

Kaoru adjusts his glasses with his free hand, venom dripping liberally from his
words. "I'd watch your words if I were you, fourth-rank."

"If you are finished, then can you please let me go?" Crew then forcefully
snatches the hands away from his collar when Frederick doesn't let him go. "I
am a busy person."

"So the rumors are true?"

"HA! The almighty Kaoru is a gossipmonger now?"

Kaoru makes a show of pointedly ignoring Frederick, snobbishly turning his nose
up at the Herzog Kingdom-refugee. "You've accomplish legendary feats and
perfect mission records," Kaoru doesn't look too pleased with his indirect
praise, "and now, you want a mission partner?"

"Holy shit, is that for real?!" Frederick yells his words for everyone in the
vicinity to hear. Thankfully, the hallways are rather empty. "What the fuck is
wrong with you?!"

"I simply made a decision that my future missions will go smoother if I have a
partner, as the top brass has been suggesting for quite some time." Crew
doesn't roll his eyes at Frederick's flabbergasted expression or at Kaoru's
displeased frown. "This is a decision based on facts and sound judgment."

"You're in love with him." Kaoru's lips twist into something poisonous.

Frederick is less displeased and more… noisy. "You're in love with a kid—!"

"I'm not in love with anyone," Crew still doesn't roll his eyes and Matt has an
inkling that Crew has long been aware that he's eavesdropping on their not-so-
quiet conversation.

"You reject the 02 position again, you rescue him from Mark Xing—what next,
Crew?"

Frederick immediately latches onto the least important part of Kaoru's
statement, latches onto it with enough enthusiasm to erode anyone's sanity.
"Rescue? Wait what rescue are you talking about, four-eyes? Crew rescued that
kid? When?! Details, four-eyes, details!"

Kaoru continues ignoring Frederick's outbursts.

"I've wasted enough time," Crew doesn't answer any of their questions and
instead starts walking away from the two. "…Congratulations on your promotions,
Kaoru, Frederick. I'll see you around."

Frederick howls at his departing back. "Damn it, you're really in love with
that brat!"

Matt remains in his position, back plastered against a wall. Crew passes by him
without giving him a second glance. Matt thinks about the conversation and
arrives at the same conclusion that Frederick (and Kaoru) does.

"…he's in love with me."

•

Being mission partners means getting deployed to two-person missions together,
means cooperating with each other in the battlefield, means spending more time
together than with the other pilots. In light of his new realization, Matt
doesn't think Crew's idea of 'mission partners' end at that.

Matt has already long decided that he's going to be fine with seducing Crew,
especially if it means getting inside details on the higher-tiered missions, if
it means getting to enter places with much higher security clearances, if it
means getting closer to the top. Matt has already long decided that he's going
to use Crew. Matt has already long decided that he's going to be fine with it.

But he isn't.

That's why he prepares a dozen black gloves in front of his dresser. That's why
he puts on at least three layers of clothes. That's why he stealthily places a
switchblade inside his boots.

He isn't fine with actually touching another person. He doesn't like Crew.
There are so many things about the 03 pilot that he doesn't understand, and not
understanding him makes it impossible for Matt to regard the other with
anything other than cold indifference. But he needs to seduce Crew, because
Crew is practically an idol underground, because Crew is apparently important
enough to be kept as a Central Tower pilot despite rejecting various promotions
regularly, because Crew is his destiny.

Matt doesn't really remember what other precautions he took before knocking on
Crew's door.

The door swings open and Crew is there, wearing his 03 jacket still.

Matt isn't ready for this—

But Crew apparently isn't thinking of anything that Matt is dreading.

"…how about we have dinner first before discussing the mission details?"

Matt feels an urge to remove his gloves slowly, finger by finger, before using
said gloves to hit Crew, before using said fingers to press against Crew's neck
and threaten to cut circulation if Crew doesn't start sharing his innermost
thoughts right now. Matt buries down the unexplainable urge, and instead cocks
his head to the direction of the elevator.

"…Yeah. Let's grab dinner first."

•

—Isn't he in love with me?

Matt is there, seated securely inside POWER, the freshly-attached cables
bringing pain all throughout his system. Matt is there, already awaiting launch
orders, while his mission partner is still on the launch hangar. Matt is there,
unable to move much as his body adjusts to the nerve connections and the oxygen
levels inside the cockpit, while Crew is there on the hangar with The Doctor.

—Isn't he in love with me?!

Matt watches from inside POWER: the tips of their shoes touching, their faces a
few centimeters apart, The Doctor's hands firmly on Crew's shoulders. Matt
watches from his display screen: the way The Doctor takes another half-step
forward so that even their knees would knock together, the way Crew doesn't
turn his head to the side when even their noses bump, the way they don't end
the very intimate contact that's not supposed to happen between a much-older
superior and a younger subordinate. Matt watches from the zoomed-in close-up:
The Doctor's lips brushing against Crew's left ear as he speaks long words that
Matt can't even hope to decipher now, Crew's back arching forward as though to
eliminate all space between them, their expressions relaxing as the two of them
slowly separate from each other.

—Isn't he in love with me?!!

Matt feels his stomach boil with acid at the sight in front of him. His temples
hurt and his throat itches and there are suddenly so many things that are wrong
with his body all at once. Matt tries to take a deep breath to calm himself
down, but it doesn't help. The constant beeping on his leftmost screen about
his blood pressure and heartbeat breaching the acceptable values doesn't help
either.

Matt feels another urge: to remove the cables tying him down to his seat, to
jump out from POWER's cockpit and into the launch hangar, to ask Crew point-
blank if it's really true that he's in love with him. There's another, more
powerful urge that washes over him: to ask instead about the relationship
between Crew and The Doctor, because there's just no way that that's how Crew
or The Doctor interacts with others. No, that relationship is definitely more
special. And since Crew doesn't even attempt to remove Matt's gloves, Crew's
relationship with The Doctor is probably more special than his relationship
with Matt.

With that thought, Matt then starts to think about wanting to demand that Crew
should never speak to The Doctor ever again—a demand that's impossible to
fulfill.

It's strange, certainly strange.

Matt seethes as he waits for Crew to finish the launching preparations.

This is probably jealousy. Maybe he's dissatisfied that Crew didn't tell him of
his relationship with one of the highest-ranked officials in the entire
country. Maybe he's just cranky because Crew's rendezvous is making him wait
before their mission officially starts. Maybe he's just annoyed that his
realization about Crew being in love with him isn't so true after all.

And that last thought is enough for Matt to justify the way he completely
obliterates his enemy in their mission.

Yeah, this is probably just annoyance.

•

"This is Matt Mutsuruku," Matt recites his name and identification number to
the Mutsuruku Clan's server, and patiently waits for his call to connect to the
main house. Matt taps his gloved fingers against the unfinished mission report
on his tabletop, subtly checking the date on his phone. Just as scheduled,
today is the designated day for the monthly phone conversation to his family.
But the one-minute wait turns to five and suddenly Matt realizes that no matter
how prestigious his family is, no matter how big their underground estate is,
no matter how much his name is dropped at private gatherings, no matter what
happens, Matt has ceased to be a part of his family the moment he began living
above-ground.

A computerized, recorded voice chirpily informs him that all the main house
lines are busy at the moment, a cheerful apology about the absurd waiting time
and an offer for him to leave a message for his parents who won't even bother
to pick up the phone to wish him a happy birthday.

…Not that Matt is someone who gives weight to sentimentality or useless
anniversaries that do nothing but state the obvious.

It's just that… he feels a little lightheaded, a little cheated even, that
there are three gifts on his table beside his unfinished mission report, three
gifts from three people who are not related to him by blood. There are three
people who remembered his birthday and bothered to buy something for him, while
his own family won't even pick up the phone.

The newly-recruited 05's gift is practical: a box of soothing cream that's
perfect for aching muscles. The new 07's… pile of gifts remain untouched; Matt
is a little wary of getting close to the pile of clothes, toiletries and some
other things he can't recognize. He understands that 07 is The Commander's
younger sister and she has a lot of cash to splurge, but the amount of the
gifts he received is nothing short of absurd.

Crew's gift, on the other hand, is just a bunch of paper: free meal tickets
that can probably last him for an entire year. He almost rolls his eyes at the
gift, just as he almost rolled his eyes when Crew passed the gift to him two
days in advance because Crew has a mission today.

Matt tries calling the main house again, but after receiving the same dull
rings and the same perky computerized voice, he puts down the phone and resigns
himself to a day of brooding.

But then his phone rings—

—The "Hey, want to grab lunch together?" comes out a little choppy, with a bit
of static as Crew apparently makes the call while OPHAN hasn't completed its
docking procedure yet. Crew looks a little frazzled, sweat making his hair
clump together, breaths coming out a tad erratic. To everyone else, Crew sounds
as emotionless as ever, but Matt hears the hurried breathlessness that clings
to each syllable that Crew says. To everyone else, Crew is still the perfect
emotionless killing machine, but the Crew that Matt sees is a pilot who hastily
finished his mission just so he can return to the headquarters as soon as
possible.

Matt lets his hand grasp the phone tenderly, lets his lips touch the receiver,
lets his voice come out soft and gentle.

"Yeah," Matt sighs into the phone and it doesn't even matter that Crew will be
extra attentive to him later because of his uncharacteristic gentleness, "see
you soon."

•

Matt leans against his bedroom door, knocks the back of his head lightly
against the deceptively wood-like metal alloy, drums the pads of his fingers
against the smooth carvings that will activate an auto-lock mechanism once
traced properly. His stomach bubbles even though he just had dinner—and the
thought of dinner reminds him of who he had dinner with, bringing another wave
of nausea and dizziness.

Just before Matt's thirteenth birthday, he discovers that his destiny is within
reach. Of course, for quite some time, he already has plans on how to attain
his next step—and the next, and the next—to his goal, but the realization still
comes as something akin to a blow to his gut, coupled with an uppercut to his
chin. Matt bangs his head against his door once again, grateful for the fact
that he doesn't have any neighbors that can complain about any sort of noise.

—Crew Charroue is weakening.

Matt isn't sure how he maintained his face neutral and calm despite the
hysteria hissing underneath, but he apparently managed somehow, because Crew
didn't look at him oddly during their conversation and dinner.

—Crew Charroue is weakening!

With physical changes too similar to Mark Xing's beast transformation disease
years ago, Matt is understandably anxious. He's still the youngest Central
Tower pilot and he's still stuck at rank 06, but he has a plan to overtake
Crew's 03 spot. He has a plan and that plan's timeline is shot with the
knowledge that Crew is growing weak, every moment, every day. He was originally
going to wait until Crew's retirement, and he was originally going to challenge
Crew to a friendly match that will end with Matt showing all the spectators
that he's much better than their revered 03. He was going to do a lot of
things, but all his plans are back to nothing now that he knows that Crew is
weak.

He curses himself for not noticing earlier. He goes with Crew on team missions
almost monthly, but he apparently isn't observant enough to catch the little
details like Crew taking a few seconds longer to extract himself from OPHAN,
like Crew walking a few paces slower than usual, like Crew failing to properly
shoot his targets. Matt reassures himself that there's no way he missed details
like those, not when his original plan required him to observe any and all of
Crew's movements. Additional reassurance comes in the form of Crew's perfect-
as-usual mission reports and superior assessment scores—Crew is as perfect as
he always is, so there's no discrepancy for Matt to fail to notice.

Nevertheless, perfect or not, Crew is weakening.

Crew is starting to suffer from the side-effects of prolonged SPHERE use,
something that will inevitably dawn on Matt too, once he takes over Crew's 03
spot and starts going for hundreds of missions instead of his current tens.
Graying hair and reddening eyes are two of the major physical signs and Matt
wonders if he will start to see Mark Xing's mangled corpse in Crew's place once
the changes become more permanent.

Matt feels a spark of annoyance when he recalls that Crew's knowledge about the
prolonged SPHERE use all came from The Doctor, even if it's the natural order
of things. The Head of Research is the one who should know about changes in the
pilots' bodies, but it irks Matt somehow, to know that The Doctor most probably
didn't share that important knowledge with anybody else, to know that Crew
probably received that knowledge while pressed close against the pristine white
laboratory coat.

He lets his head bang against the door to dislodge his annoyance and irritation
towards The Doctor. The Doctor doesn't matter, doesn't have a place, doesn't
belong in his plan. His plan—that will have to change—only has room for him and
Crew and nobody else.

•

Crew's eighteenth birthday is in a few hours.

The lights in Crew's room are dimmed. The stretch of the darkness outside seems
to cross the boundary set by the reinforced glass windows, darkening the edges
of the room further. The smell of shampoo and freshly-washed hair doesn't
completely mask the pungent smell of black hair dye.

Matt stands by the foot of Crew's very spacious bed, slowly removing his black
gloves, finger by finger. Crew doesn't seem to be paying attention to him;
Crew's eyes—it's still his eyes, because he's still not getting support from
artificial contact lenses in order to see—are downcast, focused on the ends of
his shoulder-length hair as he dries it against his towel.

"You're sure you don't want to celebrate your birthday?" Matt starts crawling
towards where Crew is. Matt deliberately lowers his voice, purposely lets his
right hand drift to where Crew's shirt buttons are, intentionally pushes Crew
down by his shoulder to demonstrate the strange difference in their builds.
Matt steels himself and attempts to push Crew down to lie on his back, but Crew
with his weak smile and weak hands are stopping him.

Matt isn't oblivious to the gossip surrounding him and Crew. There's absolutely
no truth in them—about them being soulmates, about them being lovers, about
them being friends—but he just doesn't care enough to rebuke the gossipmongers.
Matt isn't clueless about the special treatment courtesy of being Crew's
partner. Matt isn't ignorant—that's why it comes as a mixture of shock and
annoyance that Crew is stopping him from advancing even closer.

—Isn't he in love with me?

"You don't want to?"

There's annoyance, because Matt is sure that The Doctor has invaded Crew's
public space more persistently than this. There's irritation, because what if
Crew somehow learns of his plan because of this failure? There's shock, because
Matt knows that Crew is in love with him. There's no other explanation for
Crew's wealth of smiles and touches towards him that just isn't being doled out
to anybody else (…anybody else but The Doctor).

There's no other—there shouldn't be any other—explanation aside from love.

…Just as there's no other—there should definitely be no other—explanation for
Matt's closeness with Crew aside from wanting to be the best.

Crew's eighteenth birthday is in a few hours and if Crew doesn't pass the
assessment for prolonged piloting, then Crew will leave Central Tower and go
underground to spend the rest of his days away, alone, away from him. Crew will
leave Central Tower after enduring months of functioning with a less-than-
perfect body, Crew will leave Matt without giving him a chance to prove that
he's stronger, Crew will leave.

"You're thirteen." Crew replies with a voice that sounds as though it's ripped
out of his throat. Matt wants to roll his eyes, because there's no way he will
forget his younger-than-everyone-else's age, a major source of his pride. "…I
can't."

Maybe during the Old Earth's era, relationships between two males or between
young teenagers are frowned upon, but in this bleak world that is being
swallowed from inside-out, people have more pressing concerns than to
disapprove of others' activities. Matt doesn't understand how Crew can look
intimidating and regal despite being smaller than him, despite being the one
under his weight, despite being the one in love with someone who doesn't love
him back.

"I'll be fourteen soon, though." Matt states a fact. His birthday is roughly
two months after Crew's. Two months is but a blink in the grand scheme of
things. Matt doesn't understand the expression on Crew's face. Matt doesn't
want to suspect that Crew is suspecting him. It is a possibility though—but who
would warn Crew of his plans? Matt doesn't talk to anybody else.

"That's not the point." Crew has surprisingly plenty of strength left, and Matt
can't even attempt to reassert his dominance before Crew starts gently pushing
him backwards.

Matt frowns. He tugs the tips of freshly-dyed shoulder-length hair. He traces
the faint lines underneath eyes that will soon morph to bloodthirsty spheres.
Matt's frown deepens. "Is it because of this?"

"Yes."

Matt is overwhelmed by the different emotions coursing throughout his body.
There's relief that he didn't assume incorrectly—with the way Crew is leaning
against his touch, Crew is definitely in love with him. There's incomprehension
regarding Crew's thought-process, as usual. There's worry that there's
something else about the side-effects that Crew isn't telling him, some new
information that came directly from The Doctor's grabby hands and inappropriate
smiles. There's confusion on what to do next, since he wants to go through with
his plan, yet he also wants to make sure that Crew stays in Central Tower to
witness his rise to the top. There's an unwelcome urge to try to ask Crew to
stay in Central Tower.

"I can't endanger you. If the side-effects can somehow be passed on, I can't—"

Matt isn't listening.

All Matt can think at the moment is how Crew's eighteenth birthday is going to
come in a few hours. The number eighteen has never been so easy to hate.
Eighteen isn't even a pretty number, but it's a number that will open and close
different futures and possibilities and Matt doesn't like change unless it's
change that will benefit him. Crew is still leaning against his touch,
practically nuzzling his hand. And all Matt can think is how Crew probably
knows everything there is to his plan and Crew is just waiting for him to drop
his guard down—no.

Crew loves him.

"I understand," Matt's voice is muffled, and he is disoriented for a second,
before he realizes that he's already burying his face against Crew's neck,
against a damp towel, against black hair that isn't black really. "I
understand."

Crew loves him.

Hands loosely settle around his back and Matt squeezes his eyes and makes a
decision.

•

Matt finishes POWER's landing sequence without really paying attention to his
surroundings. He finishes his mission on Grand Romania's borders, but it's
certainly going to be a challenge to write a mission report, since he went
through the motions while in a daze. But those things don't matter for now,
because a more pressing matter is on his mind.

Today is Crew's final mission.

Matt is supposed to arrive three hours after Crew's predicted arrival—a detail
that Matt arranged. Today is Crew's final mission and Matt isn't really sure if
he should trust Crew's words. Of course, Crew didn't exactly give Matt any
reason to doubt his words. But Matt thinks that his distrustful personality
aside, Crew's words are too… devoted to be true. Matt isn't sure if he should
rely on Crew's promise to wait for him. Matt still wants to be the best, to be
better than Crew, to be good enough to be acknowledged—but lately, he's
starting to think that maybe there's no need to target Crew especially.

Rei isn't exactly high on his favorite people list and Kaoru isn't better than
Crew despite being ranked 02. Matt is starting to think that maybe there's no
harm in changing his goals a little. Matt is starting to forget the strange
ache that accompanies each call that fails to connect to his underground
estate. Matt is starting to understand Crew.

Today is Crew's final mission and if Crew's there, waiting for him, as he
lands, then. Then. Then Matt is going to tell him to give him more time, to
give him a chance to learn what it means to actually be friends with someone,
to give him an opportunity to observe Crew's actions for a reason other than
sabotage. Matt is going to tell him about his earlier plans, about his previous
goals, about his childish grudge and Crew is going to forgive him with that
half-smile of his, because Crew loves him, even if he doesn't quite love Crew
yet.

Today is Crew's final mission.

He scheduled his mission to finish later than Crew's so he can try that
jumping-from-the-cockpit-to-another-person's-arms thing. It sounds interesting.
He wants to try it immediately. He wants to talk to Crew about things, instead
of failing to listen when he doesn't want to understand the other's words,
wants to do a lot of things now that he sees things under a much better
perspective.

…And instead of Crew, it's The Doctor who is waiting for him at the hangar. And
instead of a grand romantic gesture, it's cold indifference towards the
authority figure. And instead of talks about future visits to the Mutsuruku
Clan's estate, it's a somber one line.

"Crew Charroue is dead."

—and Matt Mutsuruku's destiny disappears, just like that.

•

"Why should I feel sad taking OPHAN, about anything?"

The medicine settles uncomfortably on his stomach. There's a bitter taste on
his lips, on his tongue, on his gums. He wants to throw up. He wants to scream
until his voice box gives out. He wants to punch the steel floors until his
knuckles become unusable. He wants to take POWER to the Pillar of Despair and
see for himself if these clowns are really saying the truth. He wants to do a
lot of things. But the medicine is already on his stomach, on his system, on
his mind.

And he ends up not doing, not feeling, not thinking anything at all.

"Isn't Crew Charroue dead anyway?"

And if Crew is dead, if 03 is dead, if OPHAN is dead—then for what purpose did
he change?

No, no matter.

Matt then shakes his head, before the motion starts to make him dizzier and
happier and it's not long until he's chuckling—laughing—guffawing. The person
in front of him takes a cautious step back and there's the weight of hundreds
of eyes on his back. Matt feels his stomach hurt from the laughter and he
doesn't stop until his throat starts to feel funny and a metallic tang is
starting to overwhelm his sense of taste.

"I'll get the new OPHAN, right?" He gives The Doctor a friendly, bloodstained
smile. He doesn't wait for The Doctor's reply before he addresses the person in
front of him, the people watching him, the cameras recording him.

"There's no reason to be sad!" There's no reason to feel anything, not when
there's no purpose left in his life, not when he apparently wasted years trying
to reach something that isn't there. But no matter. He is quite good at
changing targets, changing goals, changing. "Crew Charroue isn't dead—no."

He doesn't give the others a chance to sputter or to process that very special
piece of news, because stupid people tend to interrupt and ruin things. The
medicine continues to boil low in his gut. Everything makes perfect sense to
his mind. If his destiny is dead, then he just has to revive that destiny, yes?

The past doesn't matter—not one bit—not anymore.

He smiles, a wide, pleasant, demonic smile.

"After all, I am Crew Charroue."

•

END of third rotation;
the end to a beginning.

•••
***** turn 04: fourth fallacy *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 04: fourth fallacy

•••

pilot. Cecile Tachter
sphere. ARCH
rank. Central Tower - 08

•

    "—my name is Cecile Tachter and this is my report—"

•

The End of the World: a worldwide catastrophe that culminates on a single day
in December 2676 AD. Environmental changes brought upon by centuries of global
warming, heavy erosion and deforestation, coupled with tectonic shifts,
earthquakes and volcano eruptions—all serve the purpose of bringing the entire
world to its end. Atmospheric collapse soon followed, along with the
unpredictable weather patterns, and the human beings that populated earth all
spiral down into panic. The economic unrest and mass hysteria bring about the
downfall of countries and rise of new organizations.

2677 AD marks the start of the Apocalyptic Calendar (AC), a change welcomed by
a world that has no idea of what to do next. World leaders declare the events
up until the End of the World to be part of Ancient History, to be conveniently
called Old Earth. With new landmasses and new countries, the New Earth is a far
cry from what once was the Old Earth. World leaders are all too eager to usher
the start of the Apocalyptic Calendar, and the frightened citizens are all too
happy to use the term 'Heavenly Era' for the earth that seems to have been
forsaken by the heavens. But even with the optimistic naming scheme, the
Heavenly Era continues to showcase a deteriorating earth. And as though mocking
the hopes of humanity, the so-called Pillar of Despair rises from Turkey's
eastern border, gathering black clouds around it and spreading terror amongst
all who lay eyes upon it.

ARCHADIA forms from the Mediterranean Sea. United Nations of NOBLE AFRICA
unites the entire African continent. ALLEMAGNE starts a military-focused
country from the remnants of South America. GRAND ROMANIA aims to bring about a
new age of glory for Rome. FREEDOM UNION rises from the borders of Canada and
USA. HERZOG Kingdom conquers the Middle East and West Russia. A little while
later, CENTRAL TOWER forms from the newly-united landmasses of South East Asia.
Kingdom of THRONES takes its seat on United Kingdom, the only remaining island
country in the world.

Under the Alliance of World Nations, these eight major countries swear to
maintain world peace by maintaining neutrality towards all other countries.

Of course, with much land unclaimed and much room for expansion remaining,
along with the discovery of machines that draw the entire world's attention,
awe and apprehension, the peace only lasts until AC 676 when the HERZOG Kingdom
sees an untimely collapse.

•
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 04: fourth fallacy

•••
•

    "—I've come a long way from my birthplace—"

•

"From today onwards, you will go under the name 'Cecile Tachter'."

Cecile salutes her commanding officer, and then respectfully bows her head as
heavy files are deposited on her waiting hands. At that moment, Cecile Tachter
ceases to be anyone else but Cecile Tachter, forgets all her old habits because
she has no habits yet as she's just born today, remembers none of her previous
acquaintances because Cecile Tachter hasn't existed yet yesterday, last week or
last year. It's the most difficult part of their job, according to her seniors.
Nobody wants, nobody can, forget everything before their life as a spy starts.

Nobody, but Cecile Tachter is special.

"The management has reviewed your qualifications and assessments." Cecile's
heart doesn't beat faster in anticipation of the next words. She wills the
organ not to. It's impossible, her seniors said. It's impossible to control
one's body, to control everything. But Cecile is special. Her heartbeat still
remains the same even as she hears her assignment. "We are assigning you to
infiltrate Central Tower."

The long-term mission timeline is already inside her files. She has two years
to establish her presence in the underground cities. After that, she has to get
through the recruitment tests. And then after that, she needs to be able to
become a ranked pilot. Cecile knows she can do this. Central Tower is currently
the number one world superpower, according to the intelligence reports. It's a
mission that will end in her pointless, fruitless death if she isn't careful.

But she won't fail.

Cecile Tachter is special, after all.

•

    "—Herzog Kingdom's remnants are infiltrating countries as well—"

•

On February AC 681, two months after Cecile finishes installing the fourth
layer of security system to her dilapidated door, she picks up chatter from the
listening device she attached to the Tower Elevator. Frederick Vlastvier, a
refugee from Herzog Kingdom, is apparently moving up the ranks and joining the
ranked pilots as 06. Cecile duly makes note of that information, jots it down
on her very inconspicuous laptop camouflaged as a yellowed paper scrap,
encrypts the data thrice for the sake of her paranoia.

Herzog Kingdom was the third strongest country before its collapse—a
commendable feat for such a small country. Central Tower and Freedom UNION both
have enormous underground spaces and huge land territories to support their
expansion, making it easy for them to outrank the other countries. Herzog
Kingdom, on the other hand, barely has enough underground space to build two or
three cities underneath its plate. Its proximity to the Pillar of Despair also
made things difficult for the small country, but Herzog Kingdom managed to
remain strong—remain strong until its untimely and unexpected collapse.

Cecile's organization has predicted that Herzog Kingdom's old projects—there
are speculations about the fallen kingdom's underworld researches, wild gossip
about human genetic testing and manipulation, bits and pieces of talks about
inhumane tests—both successful experiments and discarded test subjects, are all
making their way up the remaining countries. Whether they would do it for the
sake of their loyalty to their country or for the sake of their loyalty to
their own pride… Cecile and her organization aren't sure. But they are
expecting them to stage a revolution, to upturn the other countries' standing
and to show the other countries that Herzog Kingdom may have collapsed, but the
Herzog citizens are not weaklings.

Frederick Vlastvier's name sounds vaguely familiar. Cecile wonders if she's
lucky enough to find the supposedly missing Herzog Kingdom prince just two
months after she started infiltrating Central Tower. Aside from speculations on
Herzog citizens' collective movement in the future, her organization is also
interested in confirming the rumor that Herzog Kingdom's first prince has
apparently escaped safely from the kingdom's metaphorical and physical
collapse. Her organization isn't keen on paying respects to some lost royalty,
but they are keen on possibly using the prince as a flag-bearer of their cause.

Cecile and her information gathering are going to advance her organization's
goals. For now, they are only compiling and trading information, but once the
major players in the world's politics—both above and under-ground—are exposed,
it will be easier for her organization to negotiate with them in order to bring
about a world unity that is sorely needed in times like this.

Cecile decides that she needs to collect more information about the Vlastvier
boy before she reports her suspicions that he is the Herzog prince they're
looking for. Cecile is confident that she is going to be the key player in her
organizations' rise to the playing field.

She is special, after all.

•

    "—plan to use the Bloody Beast disease in bioterrorism—"

•

The month is November, AC 682.

Cecile Tachter is on her way back to her single-spacer apartment from the
city's advanced training school when she hears the news. Her apartment is
actually just a fifteen-minute trainride away from her training center, but the
phrase 'on her way back home' includes the winding detours she takes regularly
to shake off potential followers. Today's route is specially long, since she
needs to stealthily sneak inside the Tower Elevator's premises so she can
observe, maybe even attach a communication device if the situation is
favorable, the arrival of Mark Xing to his refurnished underground residence.

Instead of the popular idol though, the Tower Elevator is filled to the brim
with officials wearing somber all-black attire. Cecile activates the data
transfer of her listening device's records to her headset cleverly disguised as
a gaudy earring. She goes through the different frequencies and listens to the
recording patch that comes directly from the other end of the Tower Elevator,
above-ground. Cecile's eyes fail to widen in disbelief as she listens to the
snatches of conversation thousands of kilometers away.

Mark Xing isn't coming back.

Central Tower is disposing of his body. The tone of the elevator officials is
filled with disbelief and anxiety, as though they're talking about something
that can get them killed instantly. There's some whispered words that Cecile
can't pick up clearly—though she definitely recognizes the words 'corpse',
'blood' and 'monster'. Cecile almost gasps out loud when she hears two
sickening thuds—a sound so heavy and ominous that it can only belong to two
bodies hitting the ground lifelessly. Cecile does gasp in surprise though, when
the sound of the two elevator officials dying is followed by an earsplitting
noise that can only be explained by her listening device getting discovered and
crushed.

The listening device is supposedly invisible to the naked eye; Cecile even had
to employ some specialized nanomachines and artificial magnifiers in order to
install the device correctly. It's either there's someone inside her
organization's technology development team that compromised the specs of the
listening device—or there's someone in Central Tower who can make her entire
mission go down the drain effortlessly. The two possibilities are both too
dangerous.

Cecile hastily records her data and leaves the scene, intent on bringing the
matter to her superiors' attention.

•

    "—Central Tower's pilot retirement program—"

•

Cecile continues chatting with one of the pilot hopefuls waiting for the
results with her, in order to mask her sharp interest in the talks of the
higher-ups from the other side of the door. There are too many suspicious
things happening inside Central Tower—actually, the same can be said for all
the world governments now, if the information from her fellow spies in the
organization is true—and Cecile almost reports that she needs back-up, just in
case she can't gather all the information her organization needs.

After Mark Xing's demise—a fact that is covered up so thoroughly that nobody
underground even suspects that Mark Xing is already long dead—the pilot rank
reassignment shows a lot of fishy ongoings. The obvious choice to take over the
02 spot clearly belongs to Crew Charroue, another very popular pilot who is
just one rank below Mark Xing. But the 02 doesn't go to Crew. Cecile suspects
foul play; maybe Kaoru has connections to the top brass, that's why he managed
to steal the 02 spot right in front of Crew's eyes. Frederick Vlastvier moves
up the ranks again and Cecile urges her organization to finish compiling the
Herzog Kingdom information pile she requested last year.

Mutsuruku Clan's first heir also manages to get a numbered rank and there's no
doubt that that's also as a result of family connections and financial backing.
Central Tower is becoming too fraudulent, too focused on keeping up
appearances, too complacent with currently being the number one country. Cecile
allows herself to include her thoughts about the situation in her report. Just
as agreed on her original timeline, she is going to be a pilot so she can
observe Central Tower from inside its headquarters.

Cecile thinks that the time to bring the corrupt Central Tower down is soon.

•

    "—recruitment based on connections and money, instead of getting those who
can defend the country—"

•

Cecile is starting to regret letting Central Tower assess her abilities as 08.
The actual rank doesn't bother Cecile—getting a too-high rank is bound to
garner unwanted attention, which will restrict her actions unnecessarily.
Cecile is displeased with getting assigned with 07—a partner assignment that
goes hand-in-hand with her rank, she's been told.

Truth be told, there's nothing wrong with Siobhan Rex. It's just that… Siobhan
is weak. There's no doubt in anyone's mind that the only reason Siobhan managed
to attain her 07 rank is because she's the younger sister of The Commander, who
controls the Military Department. It's only because Siobhan shares her surname
with one of the top five officials in the entire country. Siobhan is stronger
than some of the other pilot hopefuls, true, but she isn't the strongest among
the new recruits. Cecile is stronger than her and the only reason for the one-
rank difference between them is because Cecile let that difference appear.

Siobhan is an okay partner. Not particularly easy to get along with, but once
Cecile learns of Siobhan's peculiarities and interests, she's a lot easier to
handle. Just as Siobhan's weak piloting skills are obvious to everyone who has
seen her battle, Siobhan's particular obsession is also well-known to everyone
in the Central Tower HQ. Cecile almost pities Siobhan; being a Rex like The
Commander isn't helping her out in her romantic pursuit of Matt. Cecile almost
pities Siobhan for falling for someone who isn't awestruck by top social
standing.

"Are you getting along with Siobhan?" Dyna—ranked 05—asks her with a gentle
smile, long legs taking shorter strides to match Cecile's pace.

Cecile smiles back at her. Cecile has been friends with Dyna ever since their
pilot recruitment, where both of them managed to clear all the tests and land
positions as ranked pilots. Cecile and Dyna are both fourteen years-old, but
there's something about Dyna that makes it feel like she's older, wiser,
kinder. Cecile decides that Dyna is the perfect older sister.

"She's too distracted by Matt," Cecile shares, smile twitching at the memory of
Siobhan needing assistance in the previous mission just because Matt passed by
in the background of her video feed of the control bridge, "but otherwise,
we're doing fine."

Dyna laughs. Cecile muses that even Dyna's laughter sounds refined and elegant.
"Well, she is a lady in love."

Cecile almost retorts that Siobhan is nowhere near ladylike, but she doesn't
want to spoil the warm atmosphere. Dyna isn't the type who retorts to replies.
Dyna is the type of person who can see the good sides to a person or to a
situation, no matter how bleak things initially appear. Cecile faintly wonders
if Dyna can find good things to say about her once she learns that she isn't
really a Central Tower citizen, that she isn't really thinking of Central
Tower's best interests at heart, that she isn't really Cecile Tachter.

Cecile frowns at the thought.

Dyna immediately notices the shift in the mood. Dyna peers at her, long black
hair gleaming under the hallway's bright lights. Cecile bites her lip and
manages to say something about having a lot on her mind lately. Cecile is
thankful that Dyna noticed, that Dyna doesn't push her for an explanation for
her sudden gloom.

"I'll see you later," Cecile excuses herself, feeling a little guilty that
she's hiding more and more things from her friend, "I need to be there for
ARCH's performance review."

Dyna doesn't comment on how pilots, especially the lower-ranked ones, aren't
really required to attend their respective SPHERE's performance review. Dyna
lets it go with another smile and waves at her simply.

Cecile tries to keep an amiable expression on her face, even though all she
wants to do is to tell Dyna everything. In the end, Cecile's self-control wins
over instinct and Cecile makes her way towards the briefing rooms—Dyna's
worried stare not leaving her back.

•

    "—superiors taking advantage of the pilots—"

•

Cecile tries to flatten herself as much as possible against the wall that's
separating her from the… scene in the hallway. She is honestly more than just a
little confused. Of course, her organization already informed her of Central
Tower's depravity, but the scene in front of her is just too ridiculous.

She tries to peek again—sneakily, stealthily, silently—just so she is sure that
she isn't just imagining it.

The second peek is more than enough to confirm that it's really the straight-
laced Kaoru and The Doctor locked in a passionate kiss.

Cecile is already aware of The Doctor being too flirtatious and touchy when it
comes to Crew, but she disregarded that, because she's also aware that Crew and
Matt are together. Cecile doesn't really have any opinion regarding those two's
relationship—it's a bit difficult to imagine the Slayer being capable of
genuine warmth, but from the few times that Cecile has stumbled upon them in
their quiet conversations, even she can see that they're very comfortable with
each other. It's Siobhan's loss, and Cecile can only hope that Siobhan can
realize that futility of her own emotions soon.

…In any case, aside from the sight just a few meters away from her hiding
place, there's absolutely nothing that alerted Cecile of anything going on
between Kaoru and their superior. Cecile has always pegged Kaoru as someone who
is too… stuck-up and too serious to even acknowledge the possibility of forming
an actual relationship with another human being. But then again, thanks to her
organization's advanced information network, Cecile also knows that Kaoru has a
very female fiancée. Cecile doesn't have anything to say about the differences
between homosexual and heterosexual couples—maybe the ancient world and their
ancient way of thinking and their ancient problems view things differently, but
Cecile belongs to the Heavenly Era and such trivial matters have no place in
their society. Cecile does have strong feelings against superiors taking
advantage of their underlings; Cecile doesn't approve of people cheating on
their fiancées, no matter how many thousands of kilometers may separate them.

The Doctor is a very suspicious character though. Cecile frowns as she thinks
about the notes she wrote down regarding The Doctor's activities. She resolves
to devote a portion of her time to follow The Doctor more closely. She tries to
justify her new resolve with thoughts about The Doctor's shady characteristics,
but deep down, she knows that she just wants to make sure that The Doctor isn't
completely manipulating the young, affection-starved teenagers around him.

With that thought in mind, Cecile walks away from the scene, completely
disregarding the duo still locked in a fervent embrace in the middle of the
hallway—an action that is almost inviting the entire world to witness what's
happening.

•

    "—sacrifice pilots in the war with Grand Romania's new prototypes—"

•

Cecile watches the extraction with hardened eyes, thankful that her ARCH's
docking plate is located above the others. Her elevated position allows her to
see nearly the entire launch hangar, shields her from the sound of dozens of
mechanics and engineers cold-heartedly fussing about the repair schedules
instead of properly mourning the dead. Her position also lets her catch The
Doctor touching Crew, rather inappropriately in her opinion.

Cecile didn't have much opportunity to talk to Iris Malach, despite spending a
year living in close quarters, despite being pilots together for all those
months. Cecile is very preoccupied with her duties to both Central Tower and to
her organization; she is somewhat regretful that all the data she has on Iris
are courtesy of her organization's information database. It's a solid reminder,
Cecile supposes, that their job as pilots is extremely dangerous. Cecile's
sense of danger is somewhat skewed, since living as a spy is already inherently
dangerous on its own.

Her organization mostly ignores Grand Romania—a small country without much
technology to compete with others—but things change. Cecile's gaze is filled
with bitterness, as she witnesses Iris Malach's body, limp and damaged, be
transferred to her final resting place. A somber funeral song is playing all
throughout the headquarters, but each one of Central Tower's employees are
thinking of a million other things aside from the suffering they put Iris
through.

Cecile is painfully aware of the decision from the higher-ups. They sacrificed
Iris Malach's life and her ANGEL in order to get a better glimpse at Grand
Romania's new unit and its capabilities. Information gathering and data
analysis were their top priority—Iris Malach's life meant nothing but an
information source and a SPHERE that needs to be rebuilt.

Iris Malach has family and friends left behind underground. There's no doubt
that Central Tower will not disclose the entire mission report nor the real
reason why Iris' body is mangled beyond repair, why Iris' coffin can't be
opened again in fear of contamination. Cecile balls her fists, feeling
distinctly angry at the way the world works. Central Tower is the number one
country and they do whatever they please and they don't give much regard for
human lives and Cecile just wants her job to be over so she can be free of this
wretched place.

This world is filled with injustice even though it's supposedly titled a
Heavenly Era.

Cecile vows to find out the reason behind Grand Romania's sudden technological
advancement, to find the reason why Central Tower remains so strong when its
values and its morality are all so frail. Her organization aims to bring
Central Tower down and for possibly the first time ever, Cecile feels that she
completely resonates with her organization's goals.

•

    "—suicide missions to the Pillar of Despair—"

•

September AC 686—merely two months after Iris Malach's death and burial—brings
about another fresh grief to the entire Central Tower. The difference between
the two deaths is astounding, though Cecile completely understands. Iris and
Crew may be similar in regards to their preference for solitude, but Crew is
Central Tower's most recent hero.

Cecile is somehow loathe to use the term 'hero' to describe someone who is
well-regarded by everyone because of his impeccable work in slaughtering other
people. The Slayer is dead, his remains swallowed by the Pillar of Despair.

Rei's cheerful smirk is absent from his face, an odd solemnity settling upon
his features. As ranked 01, Rei doesn't really interact much with his fellow
pilots, but there's definitely a connection between him and Crew—a connection
forged by years of fighting together, strengthened by their bond of power.
Kaoru is uncharacteristically trembling, nearly swaying on his feet. His
glasses can't mask his squeezed eyes that are only barely successful in
stopping a tear from escaping.

Dyna looks devastated—she regards everyone highly and she's really nice, a
quality that Cecile can't even hope to achieve. Cecile wants to brush away the
black hair falling in front of Dyna's face, wants to rub the shivering back in
a comforting gesture, wants to hug the person who feels like an older sister to
her. Dyna doesn't really have a strong bond with Crew, but Dyna still feels
immense sadness nevertheless. Siobhan manages to control her thoughts and
impulses quite well; looking at her now, standing beside her older brother
decked in full regalia, Cecile can see bits and pieces of family resemblance
between the two.

Cecile's hands are clasped together in front of her, in an effort to control
herself. In her mind, there's no doubt that Crew's death is due to his suicide
mission, a 'final mission' approved and solicited by The Doctor and the rest of
Central Tower's top brass. She takes deep breaths to calm herself down; she is
pissed, but she isn't going to singlehandedly destroy all her progress in
infiltrating Central Tower just because of one tragedy.

Frederick Vlastvier is more honest though, frustration clearly written on his
snarling face and his trembling fists. Cecile's information on 04 is filled
with notes on the other's hotheadedness and one-sided rivalry towards Crew.
Despite the supposed hatred that Frederick feels towards the now-dead Crew,
Frederick looks like he's devastated by the news as well. It's remarkable, how
Crew can affect Central Tower so much despite being a mere pawn in the
country's scheme.

It is strange sort of charisma—a type of respect that a person's presence
demands unconditionally. It's a dangerous sort of charisma—a type of influence
that can affect the minds of unsuspecting people. For a moment, Cecile indulges
herself with the thought that a dangerous element like Crew needed to be
eliminated from the playing field as soon as possible. Cecile clasps her hands
tighter, making her trembling hands paler from the cut-off circulation. It's a
horrible thought, but Cecile is a spy first and foremost and she needs to
prioritize her mission above all things.

Frederick is causing a scene, which takes the attention away from the one that
needs watching. Cecile observes Matt Mutsuruku from the corner of her eye,
noting the lack of outward despair. Crew is the one infamous for his stoicism,
but Matt is rather reserved too; it's just heartbreaking to witness Matt show
his apathetic side now. Cecile's attention then shifts again to Frederick, who
managed to fool the people restraining him into letting him go and stalk
towards Matt.

The higher-ups are taking turns in delivering speeches that comfort no one;
Cecile instead fixes her gaze on the more interesting scenario of Frederick
snarling at Matt.

"Why aren't you crying?! Even that bitch Siobhan is crying for her rival, even
that asshole Kaoru is showing some goddamn sadness even though he fucking hates
him, even the mechanics are gloomy for fuck's sake! Why aren't you crying?!
Aren't you guys the Team Demon Slayer?! Aren't you—aren't you his—"

Cecile is a spy and she's just here to gather information from Central
Tower—and even she is interested in knowing Matt's answer. In her mind, there's
no doubt that Matt and Crew are—were a couple. At least, there hasn't been any
shred of doubt, even if The Doctor flirts rather audaciously with Crew, even if
both Matt and Crew appear incapable of anything resembling gentle
affection—there hasn't been a shred of doubt, until now.

Matt's face is eerily devoid of any emotion aside from blank boredom.

Frederick looks quite ready to forcefully gouge Matt's eyes out from their
sockets. Cecile almost reacts to the killing intent, an instilled, automatic
response to a potentially life-threatening situation. Almost, but she manages
to catch herself before she inevitably gives away her intensive training not
meant for Central Tower teenagers. Cecile sighs in relief when she sees the
surrounding researchers and engineers make an effort to restrain Frederick from
doing anything that can land him in serious trouble.

Her relief is short-lived though, as she notices The Doctor making his way from
the other side of the launch hangar. Cecile tries her best to remove any
disapproval in her expression; The Doctor is observant, despite appearances,
and Cecile doesn't want to give The Doctor anything that can be used against
her. Frederick ceases struggling once The Doctor enters his field of vision.
Cecile is once again reminded of the dangerous type of charisma—a magnetism
that tugs and yanks at a person's psyche, commanding absolute obedience and
deference from everyone around him.

Belatedly, Cecile realizes that tears are running down her cheeks. She supposes
that it's because nearly the entire launch hangar is crying, that it's because
it will look suspicious if she doesn't take part in showing her sorrow for the
loss of a comrade. Her tears continue to fall when she hears The Doctor offer
the orphan Crew's possessions to Matt. Crew is hardly the only orphan in
Cecile's life, but the thought that Crew started piloting a SPHERE ever since
his early youth instead of spending time with a family is just too upsetting.

Matt's face is devoid of any sorrow as he coldly asks for OPHAN and a promotion
to 03.

"Don't you feel sad?! Don't you care at all?!" Frederick's hysterical shouts
drown out the sound of collective sobbing. "Don't you care for him at all, you
demon?!"

"Why should I feel sad taking OPHAN, about anything?" Cecile is horrified to
see nothing but bewilderment in Matt's face. The realization that Matt is
completely serious, that a monster who doesn't understand the concept of
humanity, is one of Central Tower's major pilots, is somewhat the most
frightening thing Cecile has ever witnessed in her life.  "Isn't Crew Charroue
dead anyway?"

The chilling laughter that bubbles out of Matt's lips prompts Cecile to take an
alarmed step backwards, hands flying to her pockets to retrieve a switchblade
for defense. She curses herself after a moment, but she isn't too focused on
the fact that she nearly attacked Matt in a knee-jerk response to danger.
Matt's lips are becoming red from the blood trickling out of his mouth; Matt's
laughter is starting to sound deranged and coarse.

"There's no reason to be sad!" Matt suddenly declares, throwing his hands up in
the air, whirling around as though in celebration, addressing the entire launch
hangar and possibly the entire Central Tower with a bloodstained grin. "Crew
Charroue isn't dead—no."

Cecile's blood runs cold, as she grasps where Matt is going with his little
declaration. At the same time, Cecile understands that she has no choice but to
eliminate another dangerous element before he screws up her organization's
foreseen scenarios. Cecile's insight is proven true when Matt continues on to
say a few more words, a few more words that is the difference between someone
who is mourning a comrade's death and someone who is completely destroyed over
Crew's demise.

"…After all, I am Crew Charroue."


•

    "—betray allies for an all-out war—"

•

Cecile Tachter is a person of many secrets.

Of course, it's all part of being a spy. But lately, Cecile's starting to
harbor a secret that is potentially more harmful than the truth of her
identity.

…Cecile Tachter is in love.

She's been in love ever since she started her pilot training in the Military
Department, but it's only lately that her feelings are interfering with her
duties. It's only recently that she's realizing how dangerous affection is, no
matter how small and trivial.

Cecile frowns as she recalls Matt Mutsuruku—who insists on taking over the
identity of the recently-deceased Crew Charroue—beating Dyna so thoroughly in a
practice match. Matt fights as though he's possessed by a rampaging demon;
there's an almost-unholy gleam on his eyes as he takes on the assessment tests
and the practice matches with an unabashed eagerness to assert his capabilities
as the successor of 03. Matt maintains that he has –had– no special feelings
for Crew Charroue during his psychological evaluation and that only makes him
more dangerous in Cecile's eyes.

She needs to be careful not to end up like Matt, who is so consumed by his
feelings that he doesn't even know himself anymore. She reminds herself of her
mission, of her identity, of her organization at an hourly basis. She tells
herself that there's absolutely no point in hanging on to her affection because
the person she likes is Tyler Rex, Siobhan's older brother and The Commander.

It's an unreasonable and illogical love.

It's not like The Commander is a particularly helpful and kind person. It's not
like The Commander is the type of person who spends time with pilots and ask
how they're doing, how they're coping with the fact that young teenagers like
them are the ones shouldering the responsibility of fighting for the sake of an
entire country. It's not like The Commander is that good-looking.

It's ridiculous.

It's all very ridiculous.

That's why Cecile resolves that she isn't going to think about her bizarre
feelings anymore.

It's the proper mindset, especially since Cecile is slinking along air vaults,
crawling inch by inch to get closer to the ventilation shaft above the
conference room exclusive for the top brass' meetings.

When Cecile reaches her destination, the meeting is already in-progress, with
The Master (the Head of Government) finishing up his proposal of the revised
fund allocations. The Undertaker then pointedly inquires if said fund
allocation revision is going to obstruct the money inflow to the underground
cities.

"You still have a huge money allocation approved to construct another
underground city, yes?" The Master taps his fingers against the stack of papers
in front of him, all detailing the cash flow inside Central Tower. "You
shouldn't be too greedy, Miss Undertaker."

The Undertaker—titled because of her position as the Head of Underground
Cities—bristles at the address, slamming her hands on the round table. Cecile
notes the gleam of her wedding ring under the fluorescent lights.

Cecile wiggles her toes to keep the circulation going; the ventilation shaft is
too cramped, as though the person who supervised the construction is well-aware
of the fact that spies will mostly, well, spy on the top brass like this.

"You should already be thankful that you get extra funds to extend your
underground empire," The Doctor adds, smiling cheerfully even though his words
have a razor-sharp edge to them, "…even though I personally think that the
extra funds should go to my department."

"Ni—um, Doctor, how is your research going? Are you close to discovering the
reason for Grand Romania's strong new units?" The highest-ranked man in the
entire country, known to everyone else as 'The Tower', looks weak like this,
surrounded by the assertive and confident department heads serving directly
under him. Cecile is immediately suspicious of how flustered The Tower looks.
Cecile also notes that The Tower doesn't defend The Undertaker at all, even
though the two of them have matching wedding rings on their left ring fingers.

"Regarding Grand Romania's trick, I'm still in the middle of completing my
investigation." The Doctor's voice is flippant, as though the fact that Grand
Romania is growing stronger every minute isn't worth stressing over. "I've made
considerable progress with fortifying SPHERES with my secret weapon though."

The Commander cuts in to the conversation, "…Considerable progress?"

"Oh, let's just say that I'm already in the finishing rounds of testing?"

The Tower's admiring "That's great to hear!" is supplanted by The Master
forcibly standing up, knocking his chair down in anger. "And you didn't care to
inform us about your huge research project?!"

"Hmm, well, I was busy and excited to work on my new project?"

"Fucking bullshit—!"

The Commander stands up as well, walking up to where The Master is, intent on
calming the other down. Cecile immediately squashes the surge of something that
feels suspiciously like jealousy.

"But isn't it fine?" The Tower tries to diffuse the situation before it spirals
out of control. "I mean, it's good news, right? G-Good work, N—um, Doctor."

"You're too lax with him!" The Undertaker's chair bangs against the carpeted
floors forcefully as well. She is glaring spitefully at her husband, her finger
pointed accusingly at The Doctor, who remains calm and unaffected on his seat.
"Who knows what experiment that guy is doing…"

"You can always just ask me about my experiments, you know?" The Doctor then
chuckles at the three sets of glares that pin him down. "Okay, you all look
interested! Let's see, I'm constructing a six-layer hexagon-overlay shield with
pico-diamond crystals as the base compound—"

"Pico-diamonds? Where the hell did you get diamonds?!"

Cecile strains her neck to hear the answer more clearly. She's also intensely
curious—there's nobody in the world that wouldn't be. After all, gemstones, and
diamonds in particular, have long disappeared from the planet.

"From hell," The Doctor grins at his fellow department heads' flabbergasted
expressions, "…or rather, from the Pillar of Despair."

"How did you—"

"Ah, ah, let's just say that Crew Charroue is such an amazing pilot that he
made sure to complete his mission even as he's dying?"

"He completed his mission? He actually got samples from the Pillar of Despair?"

"Crew was such a gem, wasn't he?" The Doctor's smile turns a tad wistful. "You
did a great job training him, Sir Commander~"

"Don't mock me, Doctor." The Commander's steely voice is enough to weaken
Cecile's knees and she's thankful that she's already pressed flat against the
ground so she wouldn't have to suffer from the disgrace of falling down on her
knees. "You were the one who trained him."

"Oh! Well, I suppose this means that I did a great job then!" The Doctor
gestures at the three department heads still standing, with the tension in the
air not dissipating in the slightest. "And I guess this means I don't
understand why you guys are mad at me if I did such a great job?"

"Ni—Doctor is right," The Tower flinches when three pairs of eyes transfer
their glares to him, "we should just leave this matter to him…"

Cecile feels vindicated in suggesting that her organization attack immediately.
With The Tower—weak, pathetic, cowardly—occupying the highest position in this
country's hierarchy, there's no doubt that Central Tower will crumble down
without much effort.

"Oh, for fuck's sake…"

The Commander's right hand moves from holding The Master's shoulders to
gripping The Master's elbow. "Then when can we strike back at Grand Romania?"

"I've already scheduled Rei for the mission in three weeks' time~"

"And when were you planning on informing the rest of us of this plan?"

"How mean~" The Doctor slides a folder with mission specifics to the opposite
side of the table, where The Tower is seated. "I'm informing you right now,
aren't I?"

"Mission proposals first need approval from The Commander before presentation
to The Tower." The Master scowls and folds his hands across his chest,
blatantly displaying his displeasure at his colleague's disregard of the rules.
"You haven't submitted your mission proposal to The Commander, yet, doctor."

The Doctor cheekily grins, baring his teeth. "And you, The Master, would know
this, hmm?"

"…I'm approving The Doctor's proposed mission for November 5, AC 686." The
Tower places his stamp and seal on the mission proposal that he barely looked
at, ending the arguments for now. "…Let's just move on to the next agenda,
shall we?"

There is much grumbling, but the irate department heads grudgingly make their
way back to their designated seats. The Master's scowl doesn't leave his face;
The Undertaker's annoyed glare doesn't simmer down; The Commander's
dissatisfaction doesn't hide behind his tight smile. Nevertheless, they return
to discussing other regular reports and approving routine policies.

With a light tap of her fingers against her recording device, Cecile stops
listening to the next topic of their conversation.

Cecile Tachter is a person of many secrets.

Lately, there's been a secret that's starting to affect her judgment when it
comes to executing her mission perfectly.

…Cecile is in love.

Cecile lets her eyes linger on The Commander's angry face, before she starts to
crawl backwards in brisk motions. In fifteen minutes, she needs to leave the
ventilation shaft completely and establish her alibi of being in the security
camera-infested library the entire time the top brass' meeting is happening.

…Cecile is in love with The Commander.

Cecile struggles to keep his expression carefully neutral, as she regulates her
breathing, as she flips the page of the novel she's reading in plain view from
the security cameras, as she feels the ground shake as the bombs she implanted
on the ventilation shafts around the conference room she was spying on finally
explodes.

Just recently, another secret has been added to her list of treachery.

…Cecile just killed the man she loves.

•

    "—grave robbers—"

•

Right after ALLEMAGNE's collapse on the January 1 AC 687, Cecile Tachter
receives an emergency message from her organization. It's a message that she's
been waiting for ever since her attempt to take out the top five Central Tower
officers failed. It's a message that tells her, quite simply, to cut her
mission short and flee back to her organization's headquarters. It's a message
that sets her free.

To say that the world is in a perilous situation is a gross understatement.
ALLEMAGNE is rivaling FREEDOM UNION in terms of domination of the western
hemisphere and before they can even make a move to further their advantage,
they are suddenly crushed so thoroughly. To make matters worse, nobody has any
idea who the culprit is. There's no country or organization claiming any glory
in collapsing the military superpower.

It's as if ALLEMAGNE just vanished in a blink.

Her organization suspects that Freedom Union hired some rogue mercenaries to do
a stealth sweep of Allemagne and its neighboring territories. Cecile doubts
that there's such an efficient mercenary group out there, but the only other
option is that Freedom Union made a deal with another country to finish off
Allemagne. And Central Tower is that country, most likely.

Cecile bites her lip as she stealthily surveys her surroundings. Her pre-
planned escape route utilizes the many blind spots of the NEO-Beijing
Headquarters' imperfect security layout and it's almost too easy for her to
slip into the restricted hallways. From the data she gathered, there are plans
to build a new state-of-the-art tower and for this research-focused
headquarters to be transformed to a refugees' facility. It's no wonder that the
security is so abysmal—Central Tower is already abandoning this place.

With that thought in mind, Cecile makes a last-minute decision.

She still has plenty of time before her scheduled extraction. She can still
inspect this place and gather more information. She can still do a lot of
things.

She knows that she's just trying to redeem herself to her organization's eyes.
The responsibility to kill the top brass was placed on her and she failed to
answer to her organization's expectations. They didn't reprimand her but she
undoubtedly lost their trust.

She can still do a lot of things.

One floor is dedicated for the identification and tagging of refugees from the
fallen Allemagne. It takes a few moments of blinking before she ends up
comprehending the sight before her. The tagging is taking place because the
refugees are now prisoners of war—prisoners that are then chained right after
getting tagged. The chained prisoners all have lifeless eyes and Cecile is
unable to stop her curiosity from controlling her body. She takes another look
at where the chained prisoners are being led to—and she regrets it almost
immediately afterwards.

On the end of the long hallway is an interrogation room—though to call it
anything aside from 'torture chamber' is an outright lie. The prisoner
currently being 'interrogated' by men in white lab coats is no other than
Allemagne's number one pilot, the only surviving Allemagne pilot left.

Cecile makes a run for it, clumsily tripping over the smooth floors twice, but
none of the unresponsive prisoners and the busy researchers notice her.

Two floors down and Cecile stumbles upon a roomful of young teenagers: all arms
hooked on a medicine drip, all heads bowed down forward, all backs tattooed
with serial numbers, all strapped down to their chairs.

Cecile feels bile rising from her gut. She slows down, unconsciously, and
witnesses one of the teenagers struggle against the straps holding him down.
The serial number DA0065 stands out easily against the teen's pale back. Cecile
swallows hard and makes a beeline for the headquarters' elevator reserved for
transporting food supplies and other bulk containers. She is going to be
extracted soon, so she can't exactly help break the prisoners out from their
holding rooms—the least she can do is to communicate what she just witnessed to
her organization so they can make appropriate actions to help out those
entrapped by Central Tower.

She overrides the security codes for the supply elevator with the all-purpose
skeleton card her organization's technology department devised for her. She
feels a little nauseated, but that's a normal reaction to seeing an atrocity.
It's a normal reaction, she reassures herself.

The low ding of the elevator jolts her out of her thoughts. Her extraction
point is just a few meters away. She patiently waits for the elevator's heavy
doors to slide open.

There should be nobody around to watch her make an unauthorized trip to the
junction between the headquarters and the underground city of NEO-Beijing.

There should be nobody around.

The elevator's heavy doors slide open, but before Cecile can even take a step
forward, before Cecile can even react to the presence of a factor that can
endanger her mission, before Cecile can even utter a word—

Two pairs of red eyes—two unfeeling grins—two assassins greet her from the
other side of the elevator doors.

Cecile Tachter can only gasp out words that won't be picked up by her
communication device, words that won't make their way back to her organization,
words that won't save her.

"It's you—!"

•

    "—if you receive this, I'm probably already—"

•

Green, fertile grass. Sweet, vibrant blossoms of spring. High, fluffy clouds.
Bright, warm sun. Clear, blue sky.

A world that is alive.

That's the goal of her organization, OLYMPIA. Her organization aims to unite
the world so that every single person can live their lives in safety, in hope,
in peace.

Her back stings, burns, hurts. She is inside a pristine, white holding room,
with others seated beside her, around her, everywhere. It's very quiet here,
serene even, and there's no other sound aside from the heartbeat echoing in her
ears.

Her head feels light. Her hairpin that doubles as her recording and
communication device is gone. Her shoulders should hurt even more than her
back, but they probably injected some local anesthesia to dull her sense of
pain.

She doesn't have shackles on her wrists like the other occupants of the room,
though that's not because of her captors' consideration of her work as Central
Tower pilot. She isn't shackled down by her wrists because she doesn't have her
wrists anymore. Both her arms are probably already inside some sample
collection cylinders. Or maybe her captors left it on the supply elevator. The
sword that sliced her arms off in a neat arc feels familiar, though that's
probably because Cecile's memories are already shattered and scrambled around.
She finds that she doesn't really have any special attachment to her arms,
though that's probably because of the drugs they are administering directly to
her brain stem.

The green grasslands, the springtime flowerbeds, the scorching summers: these
things are only known to her because of her studies and training, because
OLYMPIA believes that they can retrieve that world.

It's funny, now that she spends time thinking about it.

Isn't Central Tower's speeches filled with stuff about uniting people too?
Isn't Olympia willing to sacrifice people so they can achieve their goals too?
Aren't both of them aiming to be the only organization left standing?

Isn't it funny then?

She laughs—or at least, tries to—but she isn't entirely sure if she's really
laughing, seeing that she can't even breathe properly, that she can't even
shake her shoulders properly, that she can't even pinpoint the reason why two
pairs of red eyes disturb her so.

Her back hurts, continues to hurt, and if she looks down on her feet, she can
barely see a serial number tagged on her toenails as well.

Her serial number is DB0092.

She isn't even Cecile Tachter anymore.

She isn't even anyone anymore.

She isn't even—

•

    "—all I ask of you… please find out the truth—"

•

END of fourth rotation;
the end is beginning.

•••
***** turn 05: fifth fairytale *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 05: fifth fairytale

•••

pilot. ???
sphere. ???
rank. ???

•••

Miracles.

All throughout history, mankind has labeled and hailed each unexplainable,
beneficial phenomenon with the word 'miracle'. It's a powerful word that is
associated with people of prestigious good values, with people possessing
admirable willpower, with people who are unanimously considered to deserve
great things.

It's a very powerful word, but he doesn't think of that word to describe his
position. While it's true that he doesn't have any other explanation for his
current situation, he isn't too keen on the idea of breathing a sigh of relief
and praising unknown forces when this situation is just, quite simply,
currently lacking a logical explanation. Once he acquires said explanation,
then this situation is no longer in a position of being called a miracle.

That's all there is to it.

But he's still human, in the end, and he still can't completely shake off the
strange feeling of wonder that latches onto his heart. He can't move much—his
legs have deep gashes on them and his left ankle is twisted—so he can't explore
the area, but he's somehow unable to feel affected by the insistent pain
throbbing on his limbs. His hair sticks uncomfortably against his nape and he
gets the urge to take a bath to scrub off the grime, sweat and dried blood on
his scalp and face. His bleeding has stopped, thanks to his hastily-made
bandages from his tattered uniform, but he still feels a little lightheaded
from the blood loss and from the impact of him crashing into the tower.

He isn't sure how many days has it been since he crashed into this place, but
time feels like an alien concept now.

Miracles.

He isn't suffering from any concussion and his wounds are still free from any
signs of gangrene. He can still remember his name and his memories. He can
still feel his limbs and he can still move his fingers. He can still recall how
to actually move, so his muscle memory is still working fine. He can still
protect himself with his sword and gun if it comes down to it.

He is still alive.

Maybe it's really a miracle.

After all, surviving getting sucked inside the gravitational force of the
Pillar of Despair deserves an honor of being called a 'miracle'.

•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 05: fifth fairytale

•••

pilot. DX0015 [code name: Crew Charroue]
sphere. OPHAN [present condition: 100% triple-critical]
rank. Central Tower [pilot status: operation license revoked, forced
retirement]

•

If his survival against the unknown but decidedly inhospitable conditions of
the Pillar of Despair can be considered a miracle, then meeting another person
inside the pillar's cave-like walls is pushing the limits of impossibility.

Crew's initial reaction is to pinch his arms to the point that his skin breaks,
in order to ascertain that the person in front of him isn't a byproduct of his
exhausted mind.

But the teenager in front of him smiles brightly and introduces himself with a
voice that doesn't sound burdened by his situation in the slightest, even
including details that Crew isn't interested in knowing. He is Narcissus Duke,
the last-ranked pilot from the Freedom Union, piloting the SPHERE called Onyx.
He has a younger sister named Pearl, who is incidentally a higher-ranked pilot
than him. He is always bullied by his fellow pilots and by practically everyone
who knows him. He likes cooking and cats, even though he doesn't even know how
to boil an egg and he's allergic to cat fur. His favorite color is yellow, but
everyone else thinks his favorite is black, because of his assigned uniform and
his SPHERE's paint. He enjoys singing in the bathroom and he likes surrounding
himself with pillows and stuffed animals when he sleeps. His birthday is on
April 1, which makes him roughly four months older than Crew.

Narcissus is about to launch into another breathless exposition about himself
when Crew manages to cut into the overly long and overly familiar introduction.

"Oh, sorry, sorry!" Narcissus bows down repeatedly in apology, his braided
silver hair waving about with the motion. "I always get carried away! I'm so
sorry, please don't hate me!"

Crew wonders how this person managed to survive in the world—but then he
remembers the bit about being bullied constantly, and then Crew thinks that
it's no wonder the bullies can't resist antagonizing him.

"It's fine," and it really is. Crew is only too thankful that there's another
person here with him, even if said person appears to be a child despite being
older.

"It's just that," Narcissus rubs the back of his neck bashfully, "well, I've
been alone here since April and, well—"

"I left for my mission on September 18." Crew stares at the person in front of
him. The lighting here is quite dim—Crew isn't even sure where is the light
coming from—so he can't quite notice the dirt sticking on the other's clothes,
can't quite see the scrapes on the other's face, can't quite perceive
desperation on the other's cheery expression. Normal people would go crazy from
being alone, for five months, in a place where there's nobody around, in a
place where there's nothing resembling hope, in a place that leads to nowhere.
Crew now regards Narcissus in a different light; Narcissus is most definitely
not a normal person. "You've been here for five months, then."

"I don't really understand time anymore," Narcissus confesses with an
apologetic half-shrug and Crew understands it completely. Even though he thinks
it's been five months since April, he can't be completely sure that it's only
been a few days ever since his mission went haywire. In a place where there's
no known escape, time loses its meaning quickly. "All I know is… I'm happy."

…Happy?

"Happy?" Crew echoes the word, bewildered beyond belief. He watches Narcissus
reach out to grab him by his shoulder, presumably so they can both go to where
Narcissus has set up camp for himself. His feet are numb—he hasn't moved from
his seating position for quite some time, slowing his legs' blood circulation;
his left ankle is still twisted in an unnatural direction—but he should be able
to manage walking, albeit really sluggishly, as long as he can lean against
someone.

"Yeah, I'm happy," Narcissus has a very boyish smile, "I'm finally not alone."

Crew supposes that he should feel a pang of anger at that—after all, Narcissus
might not be alone anymore, but his companionship comes at the price of Crew
not being able to return to where he belongs. But Crew doesn't feel anger,
doesn't even feel irritation.

…Crew just feels that he finds Narcissus interesting and worth knowing more
about.

•

The city of Ankara is beneath his feet.

…The city of Ankara, the capital city of the Turkey from the Old Earth, is
quite literally, beneath his feet.

Crew isn't sure what to think about the sight surrounding him, so he just
stands there, a little apprehensive about being too close against the shifting
walls that have names and buildings painted on them, slightly leaning against
Narcissus in order to avoid straining his still-unhealed foot. Narcissus' pale
face almost glows under the mysterious, hazy lighting of the cave's insides and
Crew instead focuses his eyes on the swirling cities on the walls, on the
ceiling, on the floors.

If his hunch is correct, then it means that the Pillar of Despair has been
sucking cities-countries-territories inside its walls through some unexplained
mechanism. It also means that the Pillar's magnetic field or force field or
whatever is definitely strong enough to eventually eat up all the world's
landmasses. Crew wants his hunch to be proven wrong—because where will that
leave this world? Crew doesn't really have any attachment towards the brittle
air and the arid earth, but he is, quite regretfully, attached to his life in
this world. To his life as a pilot, to his life as a pilot alongside Matt.

…Matt.

It's been quite some time since Crew allowed his thoughts to stray to his
partner pilot, not because he has somehow grown to dislike Matt, but because it
will only make his exile-of-sorts more unbearable. Crew grits his teeth as he
thinks of how dire his situation is, beneath the civility he shares with
Narcissus, beneath the controlled composure he clings to. There's no way
Central Tower will risk another destroyed SPHERE just to come for him and they
probably already assumed that he's dead. He has no means of communicating his
status back to the headquarters and he has no method of leaving the tower that
seems intent to trap him inside.

"Um, Crew?" Narcissus speaks up with his pathetically weak voice and Crew snaps
out of his thoughts. He looks down to where his right hand is clutching
Narcissus' left elbow with bruising force. "Uh, well, you see, you're kinda
hurting me?"

There's definitely a fault in Freedom Union's system of selecting pilots if
someone like Narcissus is a pilot, no matter how low his rank is. Crew
understands that there's no point dumping his frustrations on the older teen
though, so he slowly releases his grip on the reddening elbow. "Sorry," he
mumbles, a bit uncomfortable with saying an apology, but also aware that he's
the one in the wrong in this situation.

"It's okay," Narcissus softly replies, and Crew knows he's forgiven, because
Narcissus doesn't stand farther away from him and doesn't pull back his elbow
either.

With that matter settled, Crew shifts his thoughts to his little theory. After
further contemplation, there's a huge setback to Crew's idea about the Pillar
functioning as a very powerful magnet: he and Narcissus are alive, inside the
dismal tower, and they're not being forcibly pulled towards the center. If the
tower really can suck in countries, it should have no problem sucking in two
pilots. But Crew is still alive, which means that there's something else,
something more to the fluctuating images on the walls.

Crew looks down and is only mildly surprised to see that instead of Ankara,
Istanbul is now dancing underneath his messily-bandaged feet. For an ephemeral,
traitorous moment—Crew imagines The Doctor standing beside him, a bag of sample
collection cylinders on one hand, a magnifier lens on another. Not entirely
unlike the ache he felt when he thought of Matt, Crew feels an odd twinge when
he thinks about how The Doctor will most probably smile like a little kid when
he sees how the ancient world is practically revolving around the Pillar of
Despair. For someone as inquisitive and information-hungry as The Doctor, this
is quite possibly his opportunity of a lifetime.

…It's a bit of a waste that he, someone who isn't so keen about observing
samples taken from the crumbling environment, is the one here instead.
***** turn 06: sixth stardust *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 06: sixth stardust

(— submergence—)

•••

pilot. Lyra
sphere. VEGA
rank. Archadia – 03

•

pilot. Stella
sphere. RIGEL
rank. Archadia – 02

•

She is always in the middle.

•

She, Stella, is always second.

•

Being in the middle means not being the best in anything, just as it means not
being the worst in anything either. She hates it—she thinks she'd rather that
she's the worst-ranked pilot rather than stagnate in the exact median of the
rankings.

Being in the middle means not getting the most dangerous missions, means not
getting the easiest missions either. She hates it—she thinks she'd rather get
the laughably easy tasks rather than perform well in a mission that is so
painfully average.

Being in the middle means being presented with two options that Lyra both can't
take without destroying something that Lyra cares about.

…Being in the middle hurts.

•

Being second in the pilot rankings didn't bother her before.

It's only when the previous ranked 01 retired and was replaced by Leo that
Stella started to feel dissatisfaction with being ranked second in the overall
pilot assessment. It's only when Leo—who entered ARCHADIA's pilot program a
year later than her, despite the two of them being of the same age—takes the
top spot that Stella begins to doubt herself and her position. It's only when
Leo—with his freckled face, wild hair and brash laughter—becomes popular
amongst everyone in Archadia that Stella begins to look at herself differently.

Being second in the pilot rankings really, really, didn't bother her before.

Remaining second in other things, in other situations, in other rankings, on
the other hand...

...Remaining second-fiddle hurts.

•

Leo joining the line-up of ARCHADIA's pilots is possibly the worst thing to
happen in recent memory. Not that many others would agree to that
sentiment—those who didn't manage to completely escape from the reach of the
effects of Herzog Kingdom's collapse will most probably disagree that such a
small thing is enough to be called 'the worst'; those who lost loved ones and
dreams and futures to the hands of teenage children aboard too-powerful SPHERES
will most likely beg to differ on the qualifications of an event being dubbed
'the worst'—but Lyra stands by her sentiment with all her heart.

Lyra resents being in the middle, but she resents it no matter who are the ones
taking the pilot ranks around her.

…Lyra resents Leo for an entirely different reason.

It's not that there's actually something wrong with Leo. With light freckles on
his face, flame-red hair that appears to defy the concepts of physics and
combs, rambunctious laughter that seems so out-of-place in this world that is
mostly gloomy clouds and arid soil, Leo seems like a person who should easily
find his way to a person's good graces. Leo's skill with handling his
temperamental machine, SIRIUS, is something that undoubtedly deserves praise
and awe. Lyra actually used to see Leo as someone who is a welcome presence
inside the statues-filled hallways of ARCHADIA's headquarters.

…Lyra used to find Leo okay.

But finding Leo okay is apparently not the right way to approach things and
Lyra hates the way she finds out about that in the worst way possible.

Lyra considers Stella to be her most valuable friend. Despite the slight
difference in their ages, both of them were born to the exact same kingdom,
from the exact same city, in the exact same hospital. Their families even came
from the same neighborhood, and it followed that the two of them then attended
the exact same preparatory pilot training for children aged eight and below.
During the chaos that instantly flooded the entirety of Herzog Kingdom's
territories upon its above-ground government's collapse, both their families
used the exact same evacuation measures and took refuge in the exact same
allied country.

The two of them possess a connection that goes deep, too deep for any stranger
with wild hair-wild laughter-wild personality to mess with. The two of them
possess a bond and Lyra will never allow anything to get in the way of that.
Even when both their families were charged with the high treason for selling
information to the black market outside the country, Stella was the one who
held her hand and guided her to a place where nobody can prosecute them as
accomplices to their families' actions.

Without her birth country and without her birth family, Stella is the only one
left for her.

And since Stella is the only left for her, there's no room for Leo's furtive
glances and flirtatious smiles. There's absolutely no room for Lyra to even
think of Leo as remotely close to okay, not when Lyra knows that Stella is very
taken with Leo.

Lyra resents Leo because his very obvious attraction is placing her in the
middle of Stella's love for him.

Lyra resents it, because she knows that it will be too noticeable if she
suddenly starts giving Leo the cold shoulder, after months of being okay with
him. From her experience, discouraging one's advances most frequently results
in the pursuer doubling his efforts. Leo does seem like the type to be
impassioned by rejection. Lyra resents it, because she knows Stella well and
Stella will only tell her that she shouldn't immediately judge Leo as worthless
and to give him a chance.

Lyra resents being in the middle, especially of messy one-sided affections.

•

Stella can feel the electronic hum of RIGEL's machineries beneath her
fingertips and she wishes it can lull her to a peaceful state of mind, for the
sake of her mission. It's a good thing that today's work is a team mission; she
can afford to make a tiny mistake because Paul and his BETELGEUSE are there to
cover for her.

…Well, that's not a promising train of thought to have while one is waiting for
the inspections to finish so she can proceed to launching. Perimeter checks are
becoming more dangerous lately; the West Asia-Europe plate is becoming quite
crowded, with countries' borders pressing up against each other uncomfortably.
Despite the relative safety that comes with routine checks, Stella supposes
that she can't really afford to not bring her A-game whenever she ventures out
of the headquarters.

It's sadistic almost, how fate is towards the so-called 'chosen children'. It's
true that there's a blossom of pride somewhere, when she thinks about how she
has the power to make an awe-inspiring machine move according to her whim, when
she thinks about how there are thousands counting on her strength to bring them
peace and security. At its best condition, RIGEL has an estimated destructive
power equal to one hundred Meteor Missiles. It's a terrifying power entrusted
upon the hands of an otherwise-normal fifteen-year-old.

In exchange for pride, power and prestige, Stella needs to destroy a lot of
other peoples' dreams.

She has no use for the promised lifetime luxury package awaiting her
retirement. When she left for the headquarters above-ground, her parents
started to associate with rebel groups willing to buy information regarding
ARCHADIA's infrastructure and security details. That's why, she has no family
to return to once she retires, she has no family to share her lifetime of
government subsidies. But Stella continues to pilot RIGEL, in exchange for a
place to belong to, in exchange for a life that has a shred of meaning, in
exchange for a few moments of not being like everybody else.

Stella isn't like everybody else, that's why her crush remains just that: a
mere crush. Lyra is resisting Leo with all her might and she shouldn't. Stella
doesn't mind it, even if it will mean she will be second to Lyra when it comes
to matters of romance; that's more than fine with her. That's something that
Stella doesn't mind being second-place to, because it will bring her childhood
friend happiness. Maybe not the supreme type of happiness that goes hand-in-
hand with true love and utter contentment, but it's a simple type of happiness
that Leo's brash attitude can bring.

The screen in front of her starts flashing the launch sequence, jolting her out
of her musings that somehow spiraled down to thoughts of Leo. She shouldn't
think about him any longer. She should, on the other hand, talk to Lyra and
tell her that she thinks that it will do Lyra well if she starts giving Leo a
chance. Since both of them don't have to worry about family opinion regarding
their choice of romantic pursuits, Stella can be the one to give the blessing
instead.

"Hey, Stella-star, you okay?" Paul's singsong voice spills out from the voice-
only communication initiated by BETELGEUSE. "You've been spacing out for quite
some timeeee~♪"

Stella blinks—blinks the wetness away from her eyes.

Eh?

…How strange.

Her hands fly to her face, roughly patting the area around her eyes. She's
quite certain that she isn't allergic to her contact lenses and she's also sure
that she used an adequate amount of eye moisture solution earlier.

How very strange.

…She's crying?

Stella bites her lip, fingers numbly entering the code to override all
communication link requests and divert them to voice-only transmissions. She
can't let anybody see her in tears, minutes before the official start of a
mission. She can't let anybody see her tears in response to her thoughts of
giving blessing for Lyra to accept Leo's affections. She just can't.

She didn't even weep when she learned that her family has been prosecuted as
traitors to the state, didn't even sob when she was desperate for life as she
fled from the collapsing Herzog Kingdom, didn't even cry when she was told that
she would remain as second-rank instead of getting promoted. She didn't even
cry during all those times—and now this. There are plenty of other atrocities
happening all over the world. There are plenty other injustices occurring to
the people imprisoned underground. There are plenty other unfortunate events
befalling the countries above-ground. That's why her situation—her petty,
teenage, shallow situation—doesn't deserve tears.

"S'rry," she manages after spending a few moments to regain her composure, her
hands now finished with wiping away her tears, "I've been thinking 'bout our
mission."

"…About a totally normal, completely routine perimeter check?"

"Yeah," Stella breathes out, ignoring the disbelief coloring her mission
partner's words. She refocuses her concentration on getting through the now-
approved launch sequence without any beginner-grade blunders.

RIGEL and all other Archadia SPHEREs are designed based on the original
blueprint that Archadia discovered on its founding years. The first, the
original, SPHERE blueprint that the world has ever seen came from Archadia's
excavation sites. Archadia built all its SPHEREs based on the original
blueprint's concept of focusing on flight and long-range attacks. It may not be
too creative, but Archadia's SPHEREs all take forms of stars.

Stella unfolds the ten-pointed star flight form of RIGEL as soon as she exits
the launch pad and enters the outside atmosphere. Paul's four-pointed star form
of BETELGEUSE is already finished with its unfolding.

Seeing BETELGEUSE quickly finishing its launching sequence intensifies her bad
feeling about Paul's not-that-easily-apparent excitement in performing this
mission. Paul is usually a very enthusiastic person, but Stella feels that his
eagerness manifests in rather dangerous forms, most of the time. When it comes
to missions, to say that Paul is… trigger-happy is an understatement. Stella
actually doesn't mind Paul taking missions very seriously, but perimeter checks
are supposed to be routine missions that do not require violence.

She briefly entertains the idea of gently telling Paul to tone down his missile
overuse, but before she can even voice out her thoughts, Paul and BETELGEUSE
are already moving towards the first mission checkpoint at an accelerated
speed. The mission timeline's blinking cursor changes from the safe-zone green
to a warning-orange. Stella worries her lower lip between her teeth, changing
RIGEL's speed to match BETELGEUSE's. She speeds up as well, not only to satisfy
her mission timeline, but also because there's still a chance to stop Paul from
finding suspicious activity on very still areas and bombing the hell out of
said 'suspicious areas'.

Thoughts about Lyra and Leo and other stuff that she shouldn't think about are
then buried underneath thoughts of limiting Paul's destructive method of doing
things, of fulfilling the expectations placed on her shoulders.

And that's the way it should be.

•

Lyra has no delusions about it being an entirely rational decision.

Or rather, her decision makes perfect, logical sense in her mind, but she isn't
banking on the others following her reasoning.

And that's fine—more than fine, really.

Part of the appeal of her decision is that everybody else surely won't read too
deeply into this.

In all honesty, she's really just doing nothing short of running away from her
problems.

And that's fine with her.

Lyra is willing to do anything just so she can stop being squished in the
middle.

Leo's affections don't seem to be dying out soon—especially if she considers
the rather extravagant lunch Leo has oh-so-generously offered to her yesterday.
The staff gossip and giggle whenever she and Leo somehow coincidentally appear
in the same room, never mind the fact that both of them are pilots and are thus
expected to attend a huge number of similar meetings. It sometimes feels that
she is the only one inside the ARCHADIA Headquarters who disagrees with the
fact that she and Leo make a good couple.

Stella is doing her best at being supportive of Leo's attempts at wooing Lyra,
but Lyra isn't blind to the pain clouding Stella's eyes. Stella's affections
for Leo, too, don't seem to be dying out—especially if she considers the way
that Stella is starting to be more bipolar in her treatment of the 01. Leo is
unfortunately blind to all the blinking signs signifying Stella's affections
for him—and the entire ARCHADIA Headquarters too, is oblivious to the
explanation behind Stella frequently flipping between praise and criticism
towards Leo.

The two factors trapping Lyra in the middle aren't budging at all—that's why
it's up to her to break free.

—Paul is okay.

Now though, Lyra is starting to think that she's still trapped in the middle.

Paul presses open-mouthed kisses against her left shoulder.

(And Lyra looks at the birthmark on Paul's left shoulder with half-lidded eyes
and thinks that she's in the middle between Paul and his twin, Castor.)

Paul then moves his kisses back to her cheeks, to her forehead, to her hair.
Lyra feels her fingers tremble as she commands them return the gentle touches.
She is a little guilty, because despite Paul's infamous violence when it comes
to inflicting BETELGEUSE on his targets, Paul is a kind, friendly person. Paul
is kind, unlike her, who only knows how to use people as shields as she runs
away from her problems.

Lyra wiggles her toes against Paul's socks-covered calves.

(And Lyra feels the texture of the bright red socks that are a gift from Leo
and thinks that she's in the middle between Paul and his best friend, Leo.)

Paul then drums his fingers against the curve of her hip, touch steadily
venturing lower. Lyra feels her thigh muscles tense, half in anticipation and
half in danger-wary instinct. She thinks she is more than a little lucky to
have someone like Paul as someone like her fuck-buddy. A shallow relationship
isn't anything ground-breaking or original in this world of ashen skies and
charcoal grounds, but Lyra still feels a twinge of uneasiness with succumbing
to a meaningless experience like this. She convinces herself that it isn't so
bad: living the life of a SPHERE pilot means facing danger every single second,
so what's the harm in trying to enjoy it a little more?

Paul murmurs a question, the question, breathes the words against her ear, and
Lyra nods and lifts her hips a little upwards as an encouragement.

(And Lyra watches Paul reach out to his bedside drawer, bypassing the thick
stack of mission files in order to reach for the lubricant and the
contraceptive, and thinks that she's in the middle between Paul and his mission
partner, Stella.)

Lyra traces the beads of sweat forming at Paul's temples, welcoming the warmth
that envelopes their bodies. It's nothing but meaningless sex that happens in-
between mission briefings, but it's something to preoccupy herself with,
something to firmly reject Leo with, something to indulge herself with.

It's nothing.

And from the disinterested glimmer that settles in Paul's eyes a few moments
after they have both reached orgasm, Lyra is certain that this is nothing to
Paul as well.

And that's the way it should be.

•

The New Year celebrations are on full swing: with artificial fireworks lighting
up the hologram panels enclosing the headquarters, with underground plazas
filling up with people from different districts, with buffet food and drinks
disappearing into empty stomachs. The year 685 is welcomed by good cheer, even
though Stella knows that there's nothing to be enthusiastic about the
quickening passage of time. Humanity, as a whole, clings to tradition—that's
the only reason January 1 remains an important date to the rest of the world.

Bearing the name 'Ancient Wonder' with pride, ARCHADIA follows and reveres
tradition above all else. And as the 02 pilot of Archadia, Stella is expected
to follow tradition. That's the only reason why she's here, in a hall filled
with people out of their dreary uniforms for once, chattering and laughing
about things that don't have anything to do with the government's plans to
build a new SPHERE, grinning and joking about issues that are far-flung from
the talks of limiting the underground city populations through whatever means
necessary.

As a pilot whose job is to, well, pilot RIGEL, Stella doesn't have much
interest in discussing the dreadful reality. But seeing her fellow pilots and
engineers and the higher-ups smiling and laughing as though there's nothing
wrong with Archadia's foundations, as though tomorrow and its realities won't
arrive no matter how much they are ignored… Stella doesn't want them to ignore
the issues blatantly in front of their eyes.

But she is a pilot, a mere second-rank even, and as a pilot whose job is to
make RIGEL move, Stella can't do anything about it.

Just like she can't do anything but sulk in her vibrant red dress, as she eyes
the way Lyra allows Paul to invade her personal space so thoroughly. It's been
what three(?)—four(?) months since Lyra and Paul started their no-strings-
attached relationship that is apparently only driven by teenage hormones that
have nothing to do with piloting SPHEREs. It's been that long and Lyra still
hasn't admitted anything to her, hasn't even attempted to tell her of her new
relationship.

Stella understands that Lyra doesn't have any obligation to report to her about
her personal life.

Stella understands.

She really, really does.

But she keeps on sulking anyway, because it hurts to be second when it comes to
her childhood friend, her very best friend, her only friend.

Stella glares at the gloved hand that plays with the ends of Lyra's chocolate
braid. Stella scowls at the sight of Lyra's fingers disappearing inside the
ruffles of Paul's cravat. Stella hates it.

"Let's drink." Leo offers her a glass of some unknown solution that smells
vaguely alcoholic. "Happy New Year, Stella."

Stella attempts to fix her expression into something that can pass for
congenial. "Yeah, thanks. Happy New Year."

"You don't look too lively," Leo observes as he settles on the seat beside
hers. Their table's other occupants are all milling around the space that has
been designated as the dance floor, drunkenly swaying to the upbeat music
blaring out of the speakers that broadcasts mission controls for the most part
of the year. Stella quells her urge to snap at Leo, to ask him to leave her
alone in her sulking, but Leo is staring at her, actually paying attention to
her instead of just asking her about Lyra's whereabouts. It's surreal and
admittedly kind of nice—Leo is a nice person and it doesn't hurt to be friendly
to her fellow pilots.

Still, Leo hanging out in empty tables—instead of stuffing his face with food
and stuffing other people's lives with laughter from his too-entertaining-to-
be-true anecdotes—is bewildering.

"Why are you here, anyway?" Stella takes a sip—then one more, then another—of
the strangely bittersweet beverage that Leo offered. She wills her gaze to stop
straying to the other corner of the room where Lyra and Paul are starting to
make themselves comfortable, seemingly uncaring if the higher-ups or if their
fellow pilots see them. "You're not gonna dance or break-dance or something?"

The holographic images change into a beautiful fireworks display arranged into
a rose in full bloom. Stella finds it curious that the red from the lighting
lends itself so easily on Leo's cheeks.

"W-Well, I just finished finishing off three plates, so dancing immediately
after is a bit…"

"Ah," Stella smiles a little easier now, twirling a lock of her red hair
between her unoccupied fingers. Her right hand nurses her drink, swirls the
unknown liquid gently. She tries to relax her stance, tries to feel the
cheeriness practically soaking the entire headquarters, but her eyes keep on
wandering and settling upon the too-close figures of Lyra and her fuck-buddy.

"…you okay?" Leo ventures again, the red on his cheeks still present despite
the change on the holographic displays. "I-If you don't mind, because I don't
mind, I swear, then, maybe if you want, if you don't mind that is, we can talk?
Or we can dance! Or maybe not. We can drink and talk, and, well, if you want.
We. Uh."

Stella laughs a little, amused that even the number one pilot can be incoherent
under the influence of alcohol. Leo is probably looking for someone to
commiserate with; he's probably shocked to witness his best friend being
touchy-feely with Lyra. Leo is probably the same as her, more than a little
lonely at being ignored in favor of a lust-driven relationship.

"…Let's drink," Stella clinks her glasses against Leo's, her drink sloshing
against the glass, the sound tinkling in her ears.

Leo looks like he wants to say something else, like he wants to add some words
to the empty cheer Stella offers, but he decides not to, opting instead to
flash his trademark cheerful grin.

Stella tries to follow the shadows of Lyra and Paul disappearing into the maze-
like corridors outside the party hall, but the alcohol is blurring her eyesight
and Leo's smile is ruining her concentration. Stella smiles bitterly, bites the
inside of her cheeks hard enough to draw blood, but she settles on her seat
more comfortably, resigning to her fate of being merely second to her friend.

•

While there's no upheld rule regarding the number of participants involved in
clashes between countries-at-war, the entire world has been pitting SPHERE
pilots one against one. Lyra doesn't know when and where that tradition-of-
sorts can be traced back, but it's something that's been followed for ten years
since the beginning of the most recent war that has engulfed the world. She's
only too happy to follow that unspoken code between teenage warriors, because
having too many participants involved in a certain event just calls for
extremely messy mission reports.

That's why Lyra is on standby at the moment, fingers motionless atop her
control keyboard, eyes wide as she takes in the sight of two other SPHEREs
performing their mission of patrolling the unclaimed aerial territory of the
NEO-Atlantic Ocean. The flag emblazoned on the bright red SPHERE's arms and
chest tells Lyra that one of the pilots is from Freedom Union; the sword crest
painted on the black SPHERE's upper left chest shows Lyra that the other pilot
hails from Allemagne.

Two countries from the other side of the NEO-Atlantic Ocean—and Lyra is ill-
equipped to fight them.

Perimeter checks aren't supposed to be dangerous, that's why Lyra is on this
mission alone, without back-up from her mission partner. Castor is busy doing
his own perimeter check on the lower seas, while her other fellow pilots have
their hands full with their respective missions. There's nobody out there who
can back Lyra up in case she ends up attracting unwanted attention from any of
the two other SPHEREs floating in front of her. Her communication line with the
headquarters has been cut-off by the severe winds and it's not showing any
signs of returning soon. Even if there were people available to help her out
from her bind, she has absolutely no way of relaying her situation to them.

She's screwed.

Lyra contemplates using a flash bomb to momentarily cripple the two SPHEREs,
but there's no way the flash bombs in her arsenal are strong enough to defeat
the vision radar of Allemagne's 01 SPHERE. She also considers simply
inelegantly running away from the tense situation, but Freedom Union's 05
SPHERE is rather well-known for its speed.

Escape isn't an option.

Lyra hates being in the middle—especially of brewing international fights like
the one she stumbled upon.

It's not even a month after the start of the new year and people are already
eager to spill the blood of others. It's a dismaying thought, but Lyra
nevertheless prepares to unload her stash of flash bombs unto the triangular
space connecting her VEGA to the two other SPHEREs. Her VEGA has the second-
best defense mechanism in the entire ARCHADIA, so she's counting on that
ability help protect her in case she needs to focus her energy into fleeing
once Freedom Union and Allemagne start exchanging blows.

Lyra feels VEGA whining, hissing, as the cables slither around to bring the
SPHERE's formation into its optimal defense formation, the octahedral star. The
calculations flash in front of her eyes, but she is content with allowing her
SPHERE to take over the specific calculations since she isn't that technically-
inclined anyway. Her fingers are now poised to start entering the keyword
values required for VEGA to release the flash bombs, but before she can even
start typing the correct sequence, something unexpected happens.

Suddenly, the black SPHERE's humanoid hands rise up to make a placating
gesture, to perform an action that's universally understood as a sign of
surrender; Allemagne's 01 requests a three-way public communication
transmission.

Dumbfounded by the strange turn of events, Lyra accepts the communication
request, only to be shocked even more. Allemagne's 01 freely broadcasts its
pilot's face, unhindered by any scrambling signal, unhidden by any ceremonial
mask. Allemagne's number one pilot, Gloria Shkval, is smiling gently at the
other end of the line, no trace of condescension or treachery visible on her
expression. Lyra opens her mouth to start demanding what the hell is this
about, but the other pilot connected in the three-way line beats her to the
punch.

"What the hell?" Freedom Union's fifth-ranked pilot—Esmeralda Cordovan Cornell,
according to the quick search on the international pilots database—cuts into
the tense silence. Esmeralda must have neglected to switch off the connection
between her motor actions and her SPHERE, since the bright red TOPAZ is
emulating her every frustrated huff and every uncoordinated flailing. "What's
the big idea, Ms. Number One?"

Lyra worries her lower lip between her teeth. She's ranked higher than
Esmeralda, but there's not much point comparing rankings between different
nations. Lyra doesn't have the confidence and the stupidity to try to take on
someone from the second-strongest country, just like she doesn't have a death
wish to try to fight the ranked-one pilot of the military-focused Allemagne.
Sweet diplomacy is possibly the only thing that can let her escape this
situation with minimal damage, so Lyra sets out to stop Esmeralda from spouting
more brash words.

But yet again, Gloria Shkval exceeds her expectations.

"I'd like to propose that we just continue with our missions without any fights
or bloodshed." Gloria's gentle smile doesn't fade from her face, her blue eyes
clear and untarnished by the unstable transmission signal. "There's no point
having any scuffle for just a normal perimeter check, is there?"

Lyra sinks to her not-very-comfortable seat, relief flooding her veins. It's
true that one of Allemagne's distinguishing traits is their willingness to use
violent force at every possible situation, but this generation of Allemagne
pilots is apparently more sensible. Lyra isn't foolish enough to mistake the
levelheaded decision to avoid a fight for weakness. Only the truly strong have
the right and the confidence to propose something as ridiculous as a temporary
ceasefire when the each country is at war with practically everyone else. Lyra
has a feeling that Gloria is just as willing to fight the one who rejects her
proposal. It's not a feeling backed by any logical explanations, but instinct
is very important when it comes to matters involving life and death.

Unafraid and uncaring whether she's seen as a coward who turns tail from
danger, Lyra replies before Esmeralda can even think of souring the proposal,
"You're right. Let's just go on our respective missions, okay?"

The breathing from another end of the line is far from what one would consider
to be calm and pacified, so Lyra quickly mutters her excuse and a brief
goodbye, before shifting VEGA's focus on propelling itself backwards, far away
from the other two SPHEREs. Lyra supposes that it's a good opportunity to get
data on how Allemagne's 01 fights against Freedom Union's 05, but it's a better
opportunity at staying alive and uninjured.

Lyra hates being in the middle of life and death, so she's only too happy to
take her chance at fleeing from danger.

And it doesn't matter if anyone and everyone thinks she's a coward.

•

Normally, she doesn't make it a habit to hang around the launch hangar unless
it's necessary. But right now, Stella feels that this is the only safe place
for her. She settles on RIGEL's pilot seat, bringing her feet up and hugging
her knees close to her chest. RIGEL's pilot area is usually cramped with cables
and wires, but said wirings are not lowered to the pilot seat when RIGEL is not
activated for battle. With or without much breathing space, Stella still would
prefer to be locked inside her SPHERE.

Lyra is probably off to some mission briefing or maybe she's locked inside some
storage room with Paul or maybe she's doing something else entirely. Lyra is
off gallivanting around while she is here, unbelievably furious with the way
things are going. Stella takes great care to control her impulse to bring her
knuckles down on the deactivated control panels; a reprimand from the higher-
ups at this time is the last thing she needs.

Once again, Stella is second.

The higher-ups tell her bullshit about how they want the security of a hundred-
percent percent certainty of winning.

The opponent is just that exceptionally weak country, Grand Romania. The
opponent is a country that Stella has succeeded against countless times. The
opponent is starting to recruit some new pilots but the top two pilots haven't
really changed much. The opponent still has that asshole Ash Vlastvier, a
person that Stella is unfortunately familiar with because of their common roots
in Herzog Kingdom.

The opponent is someone Stella is a thousand percent sure she can defeat.

Stella grits her teeth at the thought of the simple battle mission going to
Leo's hands. With the way things are going, Leo is going to keep on getting
more and more missions, making it impossible for Stella to get missions that
can elevate her ratings and propel her up in the rankings. And as long as
Stella is second, the best missions are going to bypass her continuously and
Leo will continually become number one, far away from Stella's reach. It's a
vicious cycle and Stella is helpless to stop it, not as long as the higher-ups
think that Leo is the only one capable of attaining a hundred-percent certainty
of finishing a mission favorably for ARCHADIA's sake.

It's frustrating, because it's not even Grand Romania's 01 they're targeting.
The target for the mission is the ranked-second, Davy Black. Sure, he's an heir
to Grand Romania's royal family and that makes him quite an important figure,
but he's still ranked second. He's just the same rank as her, and because Grand
Romania's SPHEREs are shitty and ill-equipped with the proper machineries for
fighting, that same number rank means nothing.

Stella is still much stronger.

It's just Grand Romania's 02. Stella would understand the higher-ups' choice if
the mission is against Grand Romania's 01, she really would.

Grand Romania is weak, but Ash Vlastvier is a monster.

Stella had the displeasure of working with Ash before, when they were still
pre-school children who were just following whatever the government assigned
them to do, whether it was attempting to make sense of quantum physics, or
whether it was understanding the mechanics of killing another person.

Pre-school children doing things that not even most adults can manage isn't
anything new, especially so during the time when Herzog Kingdom still existed.
But amongst all the fighting elites and geniuses that Herzog Kingdom produced
from its early-onset training programs, Ash Vlastvier remains the worst monster
of them all.

Ash has a certain beast-like quality in him. Stella has never seen anyone else
harbor such an intense need for destruction, just like she has never seen
someone that at ease amidst chaos and pain. That's why Stella would understand
it if the higher-ups deem her chances of winning against Ash to be less than
perfect. She thinks she can win against Ash, but she has some doubts about it.
Even though ARCHADIA's SPHEREs are better than Grand Romania's, the result of a
battle isn't determined solely by the SPHERE's capabilities. Knowing Ash, he
probably won't hesitate crawling out of his own SPHERE just so he can drag his
opponent out into a place where Ash can make him bleed with his own hands.

That's why, that's why, that's why—that's why Stella doesn't understand why she
isn't enough to fight against some second-rate pilot who probably just got his
rank because of his standing in the Grand Romanian society. The opponent is
just Grand Romania and the opponent isn't even Ash.

"Stella—? You thereeee? Stellaaaaa—?"

The voice is familiar, painfully so, but Stella doesn't lift her head from its
place atop her knees. She doesn't acknowledge the person who probably came
looking for her after his mission briefing has ended. She doesn't reply to the
drawn-out calls of her name, even if the noise is starting to grate on her
eardrums. She doesn't want to talk to Leo who will probably just spout off some
nonsense about how everything is going to be just fine.

"Hey—! Stellaaaaaaaa—"

The idiot's presence just reminds her that her birthday party is in a couple of
hours and she's currently having the shittiest day of her life.

Stella hates it.

Stella hates being second.

And most of all, Stella hates—

•

In retrospect, it's something that Lyra has already expected. The reality
unfolding in front of her eyes is just something that meets the boundaries of
her expectations, something that bridges the gap between the opposite ends of
probability. She thinks that she doesn't have any emotion, positive or
negative, attached to the realization that dawns on her.

The frequency of it happening has been increasing at a steady pace ever since
the beginning; that's why there's no hint of surprise that crosses her mind or
her facial expression.

—"Hey, I'll need to go help Castor," Paul once said with startling urgency, his
twin brother's distress apparently communicable via psychic brain waves since
Lyra could feel Paul's entire body on top of her and there had been absolutely
no vibrations from the alarm system they each have installed. Heavy make-out
session number six hundred and four ended with Paul's hurried dash out of the
empty store room they had commandeered for themselves.

Admittedly, Lyra is in the relationship-of-sorts with Paul because of the
appeal of releasing stress through pleasurable channels, but she honestly isn't
addicted or dependent to the sex. It's pleasurable, yes, endorphins and
hormones going on overdrive in order to create one of the headiest feelings
known to mankind. It's not something that Lyra absolutely needs, and it's
something that Lyra doesn't mind getting interrupted.

Honestly.

Lyra understands the concept of placing someone high above in one's priorities,
too high up for anybody else to even hope to compete with. That top spot is
usually reserved for one's most important person, oftentimes one's family. It's
not an unfamiliar concept to Lyra, since she herself has someone she considers
her family—her only family left—to be the most important person in her life.

Being in the middle of the twins' priorities is exhausting though. Lyra has
long tired of trying to count the number of times that Paul asking her to take
time out of her schedule, only for him to back out at the last possible minute
just so he can be with his brother. It's even worse when it comes to her
mission partner, Castor, who had declined particular missions that he felt
would interfere with the quality time he could spend with his twin. Aside from
the bewilderment that comes with the knowledge that the higher-ups tolerate
Castor's pickiness with his missions for the shallowest reasons, Lyra is tired
of being in the middle of the two.

Almost amazingly, Lyra hasn't filed for her mission partner to be reconsidered
yet. Almost mysteriously, Lyra hasn't mentioned any complaints or hints about
wanting to end her relationship with Paul. Almost miraculously, Lyra continues
to keep up being in the middle of two twins that both have connections to her.

Lyra tells herself that it isn't because she has started to grow attached to
the idea of having someone constant in her life, or more crudely, in her bed.
She convinces herself that it isn't because she has started to witness the
value of having someone who she has known for quite some time as her partner
for dangerous missions. She assures herself that it isn't because she has gone
soft or anything.

It's just that, as irritating as being in the middle proves to be, Lyra still
can't see anything incredibly detrimental in her situation.

The moment that Lyra finds a huge, gaping fault in the current arrangement
between her and the twins' priorities, Lyra will take action.

She's going to make sure of that.

•

The news is primarily received with astonished stares.

Stella feels somehow cheated, because in her opinion, Lyra's purely physical
relationship with Paul is even more out-of-the-blue, even more surprising. It's
not like there's been zero lead-up to the news, or maybe the people working in
ARCHADIA are all blindly ensconced in their ancient traditions, that's why they
didn't pay any attention to the developments that don't follow their ancient
guidebooks, or something. It's also somewhat irritating, because it appears
that everybody finds the thought of her getting into a relationship with
someone is so surprising, like she doesn't seem to have the capability of
attracting another person.

There have been plenty of hints all over the place. The past couple of months
have been rife with instances of eyes meeting, stares catching, gazes
lingering. The recent weeks have been filled with innocuous brushes of
shoulders-wrists-fingers that come with walking too-close in a too-wide
hallway.

It's laughably pitiful that nobody has even suspected.

Everybody must have been too wrapped up with noticing Lyra and her beau. It's
almost frustrating, because Stella knows that she's ranked higher than Lyra,
knows that she's stronger than Lyra, knows that she's better than Lyra.

And it's not just with her comparison to Lyra that she is superior—even when it
comes to their boyfriends, Stella's is still much better than Lyra's.

Her noble paramour, Castor, is ranked fourth, while Lyra's boytoy is only
fifth, a clear-cut answer to the measurement of strength.

…

…Stella sighs, squeezing her eyes shut as she leans against a metal wall, alone
in a long hallway that is hidden away from anyone else's view. It's nothing
short of ridiculous, she's keenly aware, to play around with matters of the
heart just because she doesn't know what else to do with her thoughts that rise
and fall alongside the different instances of seeing Lyra in Paul's arms. Leo
has been spending more and more time with her, possibly because of an order
from the top to stop her from doing things that can bring her mission success
rate down. There's this much trouble—gossip travels lightning-fast,
opportunistically feeding on the boredom that tick-tocks atop the employees'
heads—and yet Lyra isn't even reacting to her announcement.

It's a far cry from their interactions before. Lyra used to sense Stella's
feelings before she herself could even recognize their presence.

Used to.

Used to.

Used to.

It's all in the past now, quickly being buried by the filed-away recollections
of a human brain, rapidly being forgotten by the mechanical recordings of the
security cameras.

Stella agrees that the news of her relationship with Castor is something that
deserves astonishment. She considers herself to have enough self-consciousness
to detect any cow-eyes being directed at her person, considers herself to have
enough self-awareness to distinguish an interaction that feels gentler and more
precious than the rest. But she has failed to perceive any affection from
Castor, until the moment when Castor cornered her between the e-library
sections of 'Shadows' and 'Schadenfreude'.

Her acceptance surprised herself—continues to surprise her even now. She
considers Castor to be intelligent enough to notice that her feelings are
mostly jumbled-up but are unfailingly directed towards one person who is not
him. But Castor appears fine with the way her heart is dead-set on remaining
devoted to a childhood friend who doesn't even trust her enough to keep the
secret regarding her newfound lust. Castor even seems welcoming to the idea
that he isn't the number one in his girlfriend's heart.

Stella is fairly confident that she isn't blind to the real reason why Castor
is so accommodating regarding her circumstances.

She opens her eyes, gazes at the well-hidden eye of the security team's camera
installed 60° from a normal person's eye-level. The machine returns her glare
steadily, cold and unfeeling like the rest of the walls enclosing ARCHADIA from
the rest of the world.

…It's just her luck.

Even here, even in something so completely unrelated with pilot rankings, even
here, she remains second.

The only thing that changed is that her partner is also second.

•

It happens quickly.

Without leaving her a chance to gather her bearings, without granting her a
pause to process her next course of action, without letting her gasp out a
curse-laden complaint to her mission partners who are nowhere within range.

She doesn't see it coming.

…Even though in retrospect, she doesn't see a lot of things coming.

In just a span of ten seconds, Lyra's world tumbles down from the wearied
boredom that accompanies each routine perimeter check mission, tumbles down
like a crown dislodged from a happy-go-lucky emperor, rolls down like
tumbleweed falling from a slippery slope, sinks down into the reality of a
dirty ambush launched by the strongest country in the world.

She doesn't see it coming: the way the sand-and-coarse-soil explode into
geysers of broken land, thanks to landmines that must have been painstakingly
planted hours beforehand; the way her SPHERE refuses to budge even though she's
placing her entire being into just pushing the controls, thanks to the
interference nets that in theory shouldn't just affect her machine; the way her
communication lines are filled with nothing but mass panic from the
headquarters and chilling silence from her mission partners.

Everything happens so quickly, mere seconds that are no doubt within the
calculations of her opponent.

The shattered visuals of her SPHERE's monitor explode into hundreds of glass
fragments when the opposing SPHERE's many wheels easily shred the defensive
points of her star. VEGA, despite being the third-strongest SPHERE produced out
of ARCHADIA's factories, is no match against the fearsome chariot of Central
Tower. It's a cruel match-up, but Lyra doesn't even have time to snarl a
complaint about her horrible situation.

She's almost thankful, in some corner of her mind, that the recording apparatus
installed on RIGEL is most possibly destroyed. There's no need for others to
see the way she shamefully lost without even launching any counterattack.
There's no need for anyone else to hear the way Central Tower's 03 speaks out
in a machine-translated voice that reeks of apathy.

"Are you begging for forgiveness?" OPHAN, one of the most dangerous SPHEREs
around, a distinction that it received mostly due to its pilot, tilts its head
at her, gazing down at her injured form with nothing remotely passable for an
empathic human emotion. "Or are you perhaps begging for your own life?"

She can barely see the way OPHAN's arm reaches out to recover her from the
ruins of RIGEL's cockpit. She can barely feel the way every movement from OPHAN
crushes her legs even more, as the many wheels continue to grind down on the
cable connections to VEGA's star-points.

Lyra can barely even hear her own words amidst the persistent pounding of
precious blood inside her temples, inside her eardrums, inside her mind.

"P-P-P—" she can barely move her lips, but it's her final thoughts, the finale
to the life of a teenage pilot in a world run by sly adults, "P-P-Paul, I, I—"

OPHAN trembles so-very-slightly, the growl and hum of cables are the final
sound she hears.

Her communication lines remain open and free from any contact.

Her mission partners, Paul and his twin, clearly abandoned her.

Her final thought is nothing so grandiose and nothing so complicated.

It's just that.

Just that.

Lyra thinks of Stella, alone in a country, without a family, without anyone to
protect, without anyone to protect her from two monsters who think of nobody
but their own circumstances.

In the end, her downfall is because she is in the middle of two people she
never should have gotten involved with beyond simple words.

In the end, she can't even think of the words 'I'm sorry'.

In the end, she is still in the middle.

"P-P-Paul, you bastard, I'll, I'll kill you—"

•

Stella tries to think about her last conversation with her close friend, her
best friend, her only friend. Her mind fails to supply her desperate inquiry
with an answer different from a disappointing blank. There's a slight shuffling
movement that she picks up with her peripheral vision, but she doesn't pay it
any extra attention. She needs to concentrate, because it's the only thing
that's left for her to accomplish. Their friendship might have cooled down
during the past couple of months, though they remained in talking terms. That's
why there has to be something that can qualify as a 'final conversation',
something that can serve as Lyra's final words to her.

Her stressed-out mind is constantly answering her with silence.

Stella bites her lip, not minding the way her skin yields to her teeth after
suffering from the same treatment for the past few hours, not concerned with
the sudden burst of metallic flavor that invades her taste buds. The shuffling
movement to her distant left restarts, but she continues to ignore the
annoyance in favor of letting her mind run around in dizzying circles.

She looks down on her black gloves that help mask the way her fingertips are
completely chewed on, fingernails chipped and broken. The compressed air is
cold but the atmosphere is made even colder with the thought that Lyra isn't
alive anymore. Stella can't even pretend otherwise, because the reminder of
Lyra's fate is everywhere: from the somber expressions of the people milling
around, from the all-black ensemble that the employees wear to this funeral,
from the non-stop announcements regarding the re-assessments of the pilots and
the higher-ranked trainees so that the number 03 spot can be filled
immediately.

The year is 685. The month is October. The winds outside are as unforgiving as
always, the enemies beyond their border are as bloodthirsty as usual, the
sadness that suffocates her is as strong as it was yesterday when she first
heard the terrible news.

There really are monsters in this world. There are enemies, fellow teenage
pilots that become her opponents because the entire world is at war. And then,
there are monsters so bloodthirsty and so inhuman that calling them anything
but 'monsters' is unacceptable.

Stella has seen the amount of damage dealt to Lyra's body, barely held together
by connective tissues and some remaining unbroken bones. VEGA is wrecked beyond
repair as well, but given enough time, it can shine once more. The same thing
isn't applicable to Lyra, because she's human, because she isn't a machine,
because she isn't a monster.

Unlike the legendary pilot of OPHAN, who is a demon personified. As if it isn't
enough for Central Tower's 03 to be known as the Slayer that mercilessly
slaughtered those who stood in his affiliation's way during the Herzog
Kingdom's collapse, now it seems that OPHAN's pilot is aiming to imprint his
name on the pages of history as the monster that damaged all its opponents
beyond recognition.

It's a match-up that wouldn't have ended in any result aside from Lyra's utter
defeat, because Lyra is human, unlike her opponent.

Stella stands up, her sudden movement drawing the attention of some of the
people milling around with bowed-down heads. She declines the honor of being
seated in front during the funeral, not only because she isn't quite sure she
can stop at mere nail-biting and lip-chewing when she's forced to sit in such
close proximity of her friend's broken body. Sitting way back grants her the
advantage of being able to see everyone present, making it far easier to spot
the ones disrespectful enough to skip on a fellow pilot's funeral rites.

As expected, those two are not here.

She balls her fists, not caring about the throb of pain that radiates from her
bleeding fingers.

"You should rest, Stella," Leo tells her sadly, along with other sets of
movement from her distant left, but she takes two steps back before he can even
think about reaching out to her with his hands that are devoid of blood and
arms that are devoid of any goose bumps. "You should—"

Stella swallows down the urge to scream, the need to retort about how Leo's
number one rank doesn't give him the ability to know what one pilot should or
shouldn't do. There's no point throwing her words to a person who wouldn't
understand how she feels, so she turns on her heel, showing her disinterested
back to Leo's irritating face.

It doesn't take her more than a couple of minutes to reach her destination,
just as it doesn't take her mind too long to process the scene displayed in
front of her eyes. It's slightly regrettable, but she's long suspected that
there's something off about Paul, and she's long understood that Castor's
devotion to his brother is something too far-off from normal.

…There are monsters like The Slayer who are just too overwhelmingly powerful to
be anything remotely human. There are also monsters like that person from her
Herzog Kingdom childhood, Ash Vlastvier, who is too synchronized with bloodlust
to be considered anything aside from monstrous.

And then there are monsters like the twins in front of her.

Twins who whisper to each other's lips, whisper words that Stella can hear
clearly from her hiding spot behind a not-entirely-closed door, whisper words
that are soft and callous.

"We should at least pay our respects," one of them says, their voices blending
into a mess of ugliness and filth, finally shedding their masks that restrained
their true natures from being exposed to the humans that believed them.

"She might roll around her grave if she sees us there, don't you think?" The
other twin replies with a hint of humor that Stella fails to see, because
there's nothing funny about the fact that her only friend is dead.

There's another reply and Stella almost tears off her entire lower lip with the
snarl that she hopelessly suppresses. "She's too fucking damaged to move, much
less roll around."

"She's too fucking dead, you mean."

Twins who apparently switch and mix personalities, melting off the friendly and
playful mask of Paul, taking off the stoic but gentle mask of Castor, twins who
apparently don't have any mercy, pity or respect for the dead.

"Lucky her recording apparatus exploded to smithereens," one of the twins
remark with a sigh, opening his legs a little wider so that his brother can
settle on his lap more comfortably.

Stella's bloodied fingers tremble, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she
imagines different ways of extracting a full confession from these two pilots
who allowed a fellow pilot's death and laughed about it afterwards. She refuses
to lose sight of her priority, which is to punish them, but she must first
establish the fact that they're the villains, the enemies, the monsters.

"Well~ I don't mind silencing people~ In case someone discovers that we let
that useless girl die, we'll have to take action~"

"That's too much work, brother."

…There really are monsters in this world.

Stella swallows her conscience, her desperation, her fear, her guilt, her
humanity.

Stella kicks the half-closed door completely open, announcing her presence to
the twins making out against the wide windows of their shared room, the
artificial lighting installed both inside and outside the room helpless against
the shadows that envelop the outside air and the darkness that intrudes from
the long hallway. Her black gloves fall unceremoniously to the plush carpet,
the scent of blood filling her nostrils as her bleeding fingers systematically
stretch the compressed blade that was hidden alongside her chewed-on
fingernails with help from said fallen gloves.

For Lyra's sake, she's willing to become a monster.

First, she has to get rid of these two murderers, because they abandoned Lyra
to perform the mission that snatched her life away. She'll be doing the world a
favor, because ARCHADIA surely doesn't need filthy bastards like these two.
Afterwards, she is going to retrieve clearance from the higher-ups to go after
Crew and his OPHAN.

Attacking first, Stella doesn't waste time trying to listen to the twins'
mocking words.

…There really are countless monsters in this world.

And she's willing to change, because her feelings for her friend are second to
none.

With her sadness suffocating her to the point that her humanity has already
drowned and died, Stella goes on to become a monster.

•
END of sixth rotation;
the birth of a monster.

•••
***** turn 07: seventh supremacy *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 07: seventh supremacy

(—schadenfreude—)

•••

pilot. Oliver Payne
sphere. None / In Probation
rank. Grand Romania – pilot trainee

•

Despite his unfortunate familiarity with the action, he still finds it
undesirably tiring to be on his hands and knees, the strong cleaning liquid
steadily corroding the cheap fabric of his pants, the pungent smell tickling
his nose and making his eyes well up with unmanly tears. While there are
cleaner robots available for these types of stubborn dirt on the dim hallways,
the sneering pilot trainees circling his prone form are blocking his figure
from being detected by the roaming cameras that are programmed to take
snapshots of situations that don't fall in the list of events that are
classified as 'normal'. Not that he has harbored delusions of escaping from the
so-called 'divine punishment' issued by his fellow trainees who are far from
divinity.

Once upon a time, he spent a considerable amount of time pondering about the
existence of a signboard tacked onto his back, a signboard that invited people
to take turns in bullying him with methods that ranged from plain pathetic
("Dance in front of another training class, naked!") to severe sadism ("Oopsie,
it seems that your oxygen tank is in our hands! How about you evacuate all our
things first before you think about getting a breath of air? Who knows, maybe
you'll finally drop dead in the process!").

…Once upon a time.

Now nearly fifteen years old, Oliver is already more than aware that examining
his life using the confines of sound logic is useless.

Not that his realization of his place in the hierarchy of society is able to
stop him from entertaining thoughts, every once in a while, of how much he
desires superiority.

It's hard not to crave supremacy in a world that's filled with chaos and
despair from every corner, every pore. He has known nothing but inferiority
ever since his birth, so he can't deny the desire to be the one reigning over
others, if only just once.

As a means of ignoring the jeers and taunts his fellow trainees hurl at him,
Oliver allows his mind to drift to his past.

His name, Oliver Payne, used to signify something important. Or rather, it was
the surname that his father passed onto him, the surname that labeled him as
part of a political dynasty from Herzog Kingdom. But there's nothing completely
set in stone in this world and it didn't take too long for the Herzog Kingdom
to ask the Payne family to send some children who could fulfill the role of
'political hostages' to other countries. As if it wasn't enough to pluck him
from the only place where his name, his being, actually meant something—Oliver
was sent to Grand Romania. That would have been fine, but there was the
knowledge that his older sister, his wonderful, better sister, was sent to the
Freedom Union. Apparently Jade deserved being sent to the better, stronger
country because she was better and stronger. And consequently, Oliver was the
one sent to the weaker, more unstable country.

…Oliver frowns, blinking. He repeats the action, blinking furiously, when he
realizes that his eyes are welling up with too much tears. There's no way he
can wipe those tears away with bleach-covered gloveless hands; there's no way
he can stop the salty liquid from spilling out of his eyes. He berates himself
for even considering that it's a passable idea to start thinking about his past
that is filled with even more bullying and regrets, especially while he's in
front of a crowd who seems hell-bent on drawing a tearful breakdown out of him.

Once again, despite his unfortunate familiarity with the intricacies and
workings of being the world's most favorite bullying target, it seems that he
still has a long way to go before he can accept the punishment without getting
the tiniest urge to fight back or to start a protest. Oliver thinks that his
situation used to be manageable before, when the only ones who despised him
were the senior trainees, people who weren't all that important in the grand
scheme of things.

Ever since he had the misfortune of meeting the much-revered and much-feared 01
pilot of Grand Romania though—

—Now that he thinks about it, isn't it a misfortune indeed?

The Main Assembly Hall is the largest gathering place inside Grand Romania's
infrastructures, as long as one doesn't count the launch hangars that house the
SPHEREs that aren't out on missions. Such a huge space, with thousands of
people, and still…

Oliver is hardly a newbie to Grand Romania and its pilot system, that's why he
doesn't bother listening intently to the announcements, doesn't bother paying
attention to the naïvely optimistic speeches of the old farts onstage, doesn't
bother securing a seat near the front so he can catch a glimpse of the Grand
Romania's Very Important People. Oliver opts to stay at the far back, far away
from the commotion, far away from the sight of the officials who will
undoubtedly recognize him for his value as a pawn discarded by his own family
and his country, far away from the disgusted sneers of the bullies who will
complain about his shabby appearance and sweaty smell even though they were the
ones who were responsible for his unpleasant state.

And that's probably one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

Contrary to his expectations, the most important person in Grand Romania's
story of worldwide conquest doesn't enter the Assembly Hall flanked by security
guards, doesn't enter with any fanfare, doesn't even enter using the doors
designated for the high-ranking officials. The doors located mere centimeters
to the left of his bruised left arm opens with a low hiss of metal against
carpeted marble, and Oliver stupidly, instinctively whips his head (…previously
busy with morosely counting the number of women who showed up in too-tight
clothes and too-short skirts, in misguided hopes of catching the eyes of the
pilots perhaps) to acknowledge the latecomer. Foolishly continues to stare at
Ash Vlastvier, unmistakable in his custom all-black pilot uniform that has
earned whispers of a 'death god', undeniable in his powerful aura even though
he's just one person in this dizzyingly huge hall.

It's hardly the first time Oliver sees Ash Vlastvier's face: a face that's
familiar to every single Grand Romania citizen, a face that's hated by
countless corpses and ghosts and families said deaths have left behind, a face
that's known by every single military organization and every SPHERE pilot in
the world. It's hardly the first time, yet Oliver fails to pull his gaze away
nevertheless. And because Ash Vlastvier is the ranked one pilot, because he is
unmistakably strong and definitely not oblivious, he easily notices the
speechless gaping from the filthy trainee not even a meter away.

"I didn't think anybody is stupid enough to let himself be bullied," Ash
Vlastvier's voice is surprisingly smooth, sweet even, and Oliver even forgets
to feel a spark of irritation at being called stupid, because the idol of
aspiring pilots is talking to him in a low voice far from his usual hoarse
tone, "but I guess I shouldn't underestimate stupidity."

"They're my seniors," Oliver retorts and he doesn't even know why he replies
instead of silently accepting whatever is thrown at him. He almost gasps and
almost apologizes for speaking in such a familiar manner to the most powerful
man in the country that isn't his own, but Ash Vlastvier's eyes already narrow
just the slightest bit. Oliver surrenders to the urge to hide his bruised arm
behind his back, away from further scrutiny.

Ash Vlastvier takes a step forward, bridging the already-short distance between
them. Tips of heavy boots bump against the worn-out tips of Oliver's mere
military-issued trainee shoes. Ash Vlastvier leans against him, voice still
maintaining its smooth baritone. "Then you're even stupider than I thought."

Oliver is busy being flustered, that's why he doesn't even have time to foresee
Ash Vlastvier's right fist embedding itself on his stomach, hitting a spot that
forces him down on his knees, puking his stomach's contents out, a public
humiliation for the entire Assembly Hall to witness.

"You should be fine with that, right?" Ash stands in front of him, above him in
so many levels, his smooth voice melting away to give room to his well-known
hoarse and uncaring tone. The eyes looking down at Oliver's battered figure
don't even see a human being, and that's one of the perks that come along with
reigning supreme. "After all, I'm your senior too."

And that's the beginning of Oliver's even bigger misfortune.—

"If someone as filthy as you is scrubbing the floors, you will just make things
worse."

Oliver slips a bit, places a little more force into his hands that use rags to
spread the cleaning liquid evenly. There's no need for him to look up in order
to recognize the person who barges into his punishment, breaking the circle of
senior trainees jeering at him. The cacophony of noise quiets down unnaturally,
words die out inside the trainees' throats, sadistic ideas to make Oliver's
penalty more entertaining end abruptly.

Without waiting for anyone else to move or speak up, Ash Vlastvier goes on with
whatever he's thinking, uncaring whether his actions and ideals hurt others.
Oliver almost sees it coming, primarily because the same routine has been
playing over and over again since the moment that he crossed paths with Ash
Vlastvier. Oliver almost sees it coming and he still can't do anything to
stifle the groan of pain that drips out of his mouth as a steel-toed boot
connects with his chest, the hard movement sending shockwaves to his diaphragm
and lungs.

Blood trickles down from his lips into the makeshift rags held by his gloveless
hands, mixing with the cleaning liquid and dirtying the floor he's been
attempting to clean. He coughs up more blood as he attempts to catch his
breath, as he makes a futile effort to regulate his labored breathing and his
erratic heartbeat. Ash Vlastvier only grants him twenty seconds to gather his
wits before letting his steel-lined boot establish contact against his left
torso.

Oliver's vision blurs with more unshed tears, the pain exploding and
overwhelming his senses. He feels his stomach acid bubbling and spilling back
out of his esophagus, and he tries to force down the urge to vomit his lunch.
Dimly, he wonders if his fellow trainees are still around, whether they enjoy
witnessing a low-class trainee like him get literally stomped on by the
highest-ranked pilot in a blatant display of power and supremacy. His senses
are focused on the pain dancing on his sides and on his chest, so he barely
notices Ash Vlastvier pulling his head back by the ends of his brown hair, just
as he doesn't even realize that his tormentor is standing behind him, feet
planted on either side of his defeated body.

The stinging of his scalp brings his pained tears out of their hiding place,
and the absence of catcalls and mockeries that come with his tears is enough to
inform him that his fellow trainees have fled the scene, undoubtedly because
the pool of blood around his prone form indicates that there's a very good
chance that Ash Vlastvier will end up killing him, possibly because the display
of Ash Vlastvier's monstrous violence effectively instills terror.

"If you keep on touching someone as filthy as me, you'll end up being filthy
too, Mr. Ash Vlastvier." How Oliver manages to recite that line without
stuttering or breaking down into a coughing mess, he doesn't know.

Ash Vlastvier's reply to his words is brief and painful: letting go of his
hair, one steel-lined boot then descends on the back of his head, forcing his
face to be acquainted with the floor slick with his own blood and pungent with
the cleaning liquid. Oliver faintly hopes that none of the cleaning liquid
makes its way to his squeezed-shut eyes; wounds close and fractures heal, but
medical advancements haven't yet reached a level where sight restoration or
eyeball implantation is feasible.

Oliver then wishes that Ash Vlastvier doesn't get any other ideas on how to
make this 'bully session' more sadistically interesting. He didn't even wrong
Ash Vlastvier in any way and the other is already treating him like this. Ash
Vlastvier is already frightening and monstrous enough—a perfect example of a
person who can't be considered human. Oliver thinks that it wouldn't surprise
him if nobody would even care if Ash Vlastvier just simply dropped dead,
ridding the world of his presence.

…Of course, Oliver is acutely aware that Ash Vlastvier is immensely important
to Grand Romania, more specifically, Grand Romania's plans for military
improvement and subsequent world domination. But as he continues to suffer and
groan underneath the merciless kicks Ash Vlastvier so generously doles out,
Oliver thinks that he is entitled to delude himself into thinking that he's not
the only one who wishes for Ash Vlastvier to disappear from this world.

•

"—to uphold dignity and honor of our Name and our Country—"

Hiding behind a row of tall computer systems is hardly a dignified and
honorable action, but Oliver doesn't really place any value in the flavorful
words that make up the so-called Family Pledge of the Herzog Kingdom's major
political families. That's just fine, since Herzog Kingdom is nothing but an
obsolete name of a country that doesn't exist anymore, and Oliver too is like
his original country, forgotten and useless in the grand scheme of things.

He continues reciting the pledge, though not for reasons related to his loyalty
to his country or to his nostalgia regarding his previous way of life. He
enunciates the syllables clearly though softly, so that the voice recording
program opened on his desktop can still capture each and every word correctly,
while he remains unnoticed by the other occupants of the room.

Oliver has always been a meek student, because lesson time serves as his only
reprieve from the constant bullying, since his bullies take the training
modules rather seriously. Oliver is more than satisfied for things to remain
that way, that's why he goes out of his way to avoid attracting any attention
to his person during lessons; one way to ensure that is for him to stay
absolutely quiet and unnoticeable.

He has always been the quiet little student hunched back at the back, but
today, he has an additional motivation for remaining under the radar. Said
motivation is situated in front of his fellow classmates, possibly scowling
down at the trainees who aspire to reach his level. Oliver understands little
regarding Ash's appeal to the masses, since there's nothing admirable about a
person who is talented when it comes to destroying other people's lives.

…In any case, his personal feelings regarding Ash and his popularity aside,
Oliver isn't looking forward to getting singled out and getting humiliated in
front of his trainees who already think of him as something beneath the dirt
stuck in-between minute cracks in the flooring.

Oliver controls the strength at the tips of his fingers so he doesn't make any
noise while typing sets of string commands on the voice recording program's
interface. It's a project that's way advanced compared to the scope of lessons
they're discussing in their classes, but Oliver supposes that having zero
friends and accumulating too much time in the infirmary are both very conducive
to giving him ample time to fiddle around with his personal computer. It's
almost pathetic how Grand Romania doesn't give much weight to the intelligence
tests compared to assays that measure trainees' physical capabilities. Not that
Oliver is a particularly intelligent person—but even he is painfully aware that
his mind is more refined than his muscles.

"Everyone already thinks you're a useless worm," Ash Vlastvier is suddenly by
his side, easily breaching the feeble defense that Oliver set up around him,
"and you don't even try to change their opinion. That makes you a masochist,
no?"

"My apologies for any class interruptions…" Oliver trails off, as he lets his
fingers go limp atop the keyboard, eyes registering the deep scowl and
irritated draw of shoulders on Ash's face, easily understanding the reason for
the pilot's obvious annoyance. "…sir."

"—I'd really appreciate it if all of you pay attention to my demonstration," a
different voice cuts into their confrontation at the far end of the classroom,
and Oliver recognizes the speaker to be the 02 pilot, Davy Black.

With hair as black as the most precious obsidian stones, with eyes as green as
the earth's legendary emerald gemstones, with a prestigious name that
establishes him as a member of Grand Romania's royal family, Davy Black is on a
whole other league. It's almost unfair how Ash Vlastvier still garners more
respect and awe, but that can be attributed to the mindset of Grand Romania
citizens who regards the truly strong above all else. There are unpleasant
rumors about how Davy Black is simply playing around with the SPHERE pilot
system, as he has nothing else to do while he waits behind the line of people
supposed to ascend to the throne. No matter Davy Black's reason for joining the
chosen ones, the results he consistently puts forth once he's inside his SPHERE
are undoubtedly real. Despite not taking the trainings and placement tests
seriously, Davy Black remains much stronger than Oliver, a status quo that he
can't even hope to break.

It's such a shame that Davy Black doesn't even attempt to mask his displeasure
at being stuck inside a training room that he has left behind eons ago, at
being stuck mentoring trainees who can't even last five seconds in a fight
against him.

…Nevertheless, Oliver doesn't fault Davy Black for feeling displeased with his
current responsibility. Oliver just hopes that the 02 pilot doesn't start
asking the trainees to come forward and present their test results and the
results of their one-on-one coaching with a specialized synchronization
instructor. It's a well-established fact that Oliver constantly scores the
lowest when it comes to synchronization and sparring, or any physical activity
really, just as it's a deep-seated rumor that Oliver only remains in the pilot
training program because Grand Romania doesn't have any other open slots for a
political hostage like him.

"I'll teach this brat," Ash Vlastvier replies to Davy Black's unsubtle request
for the room's occupants to keep their eyes focused on the board where he's
about to discuss different physical measurement stats and how those meaningless
numbers gain significance and how can those values grow with the correct set of
training. "You don't mind that, do you?"

"…Actually, I do mind that, Vlastvier."

"Well, how much do you think I care about your rich-boy feelings?"

Oliver chances a glance at Ash's face, devoid of any apprehension at the
consequences of openly challenging a member of Grand Romania's royal line. It
is equal parts amazing and horrifying to find someone who hails from the
destroyed Herzog Kingdom act as though he owns the entire world. It's the
exclusive right of someone who stands above the rest: to remain unchallenged
and secure in his position even if the things he does deserve rebuke.

Davy Black's eyes narrow, as though in warning and Oliver half-wishes for a
fight to break out between the two top-rank pilots, since an amazing
distraction will effectively grab the attention of everyone around, which will
surely lead to him being left alone to his devices for the duration of the
period. It's just a half-wish because Oliver is unfortunately aware of how much
property damage goes hand-in-hand with Ash Vlastvier getting involved in a
fight, no matter how petty and small said fight is. Oliver doesn't care for the
building getting caught between the two pilots' fight, but he does care about
the computers in this training room, computers that have top-notch programs
that he enjoys tinkering with.

…But then again, he's getting ahead of himself.

Davy Black stays in the designated area for the student-teachers, though he
does fold his hands across his chest in a defensive and very irritated gesture.
"Whether you care for my, as you put it, 'rich-boy feelings' or not is
irrelevant. I just need you to do the damn job that our bosses gave us. Please,
kindly."

Ash Vlastvier takes in a deep breath. Oliver begins to fear that the 01 pilot
is preparing for a deep, scary, monstrous laugh; he begins to hastily save and
copy the data he's working on in his workstation so that he can run away at the
slightest provocation.

…Yet again, he's getting ahead of himself, because Ash Vlastvier simply spits
out his next words in absolute disdain, tone booking no room for arguments or
counterattacks from his fellow student-trainer for this class.

"I am your boss, aren't I?"

Ash Vlastvier glares pointedly at Oliver's work computer next, and Oliver
swallows back the sigh that's threatening to spill out of his lips. There's no
point trying to argue with the 01 now—not that there's ever been a circumstance
when it had been a wise idea to question Ash's orders, whether they be verbal
or not.

"And I'm telling you to stop interfering with me."

Despite the considerable distance separating Oliver from Davy Black, Oliver
witnesses and comprehends each emotion that dance around the other's face: from
the instinctive jolt of fear, followed by the immediate denial of weakness,
then a burst of indignation, and finally descending to resignation. They are
familiar emotions that Oliver used to see in front of a mirror. Oliver
instantly understands that even a high-ranking pilot with a royal blood is
inferior to Ash Vlastvier as well, because there can only be one truly supreme
being. He tells himself that he feels an odd sense of camaraderie, a connection
that links someone as useless as him to someone as great as Davy Black—they're
all inferior beings, no matter how strong Davy Black is, he isn't strong enough
and Oliver isn't alone in the suffocating oppression he's suffering from.

The strangely exhilarating feeling of having someone experience a similar
suffering soon fades out though, for Oliver finds his left arm grasped with
bruising strength, the grip hauling him off his swivel chair and out of the
classroom. No snickers follow his unceremonious exit, but that can easily be
attributed to the fact that Ash Vlastvier's eyes are probably flashing green
like the prisms they add on a SPHERE's eyes. Either that or his fellow trainees
are silenced by the murderous vibes radiating from Davy Black, no thanks to his
humiliation in front of a mere pilot training group.

…In any case, Oliver aborts any train of thought that leads back to the
trainees who bully him mercilessly, because his life is in grave danger at the
moment, and the grip on his left arm remains steadfast. He instead focuses his
thoughts on weighing the pros and cons of venturing to ask Ash Vlastvier about
his stress levels; ever since the start of the year, Ash Vlastvier's 'visits'
to Oliver has been steadily growing more frequent. Oliver has enough sense in
him to discern that the cause of the increasingly frequent bullying sessions
isn't something like Ash Vlastvier missing his company. It's almost definitely
related to some stressor in Ash Vlastvier's life.

Oliver has no interest in learning to care for Ash Vlastvier's life, no matter
how superficially. It's already too much that their pilot training notes
include completely useless tidbits about how Ash Vlastvier's routine as a
SPHERE pilot goes. Though there might be an advantage in helping uprooting the
thorn in the pilot's life—if Oliver manages to help Ash Vlastvier out, the
pilot might start decreasing his 'visits', which translate to fewer trips to
the infirmary, where his other set of tormentors love to ambush him before he
even obtains medical treatment.

His train of thought splits and derails into countless railroads running around
in circles once Ash Vlastvier leads him to an empty training room and shoves
him in front of a computer that has better specs than the one in his usual
classroom. Oliver almost allows himself to forget that he's trapped in a
classroom with his most dangerous tormentor and nobody can probably discover
his corpse before it completely rots, if Ash Vlastvier grows inclined to
dispose of him.

Concepts of personal safety flee his mind as soon as he logs in to the
computer, an advanced operating system greeting his eyes and touch-
hypersensitive keyboards welcoming his fingers. Before his mind catches up to
his excited typing, he already opens ten programs simultaneously, the programs'
interfaces seamlessly opening without any lag. Oliver dimly thinks that drool
is starting to pool inside his mouth, but he can't seem to control his body,
can't seem to stop the face-splitting grin that he knows he's sporting at the
moment.

"This is amazing," Oliver breathes out in awe, and he almost forgets that the
person beside him is Ash Vlastvier, almost lets words of gratitude spill out of
his mouth.

"It is," Ash Vlastvier echoes numbly, zero conviction in his words, apathy
towards such an amazing piece of technological advancement incredibly apparent.

His tormentor's voice sobers Oliver up, unnecessarily reminds him that Ash
Vlastvier is dangerous, needlessly tells him that there's no way this visit to
a higher-tiered classroom doesn't have an exorbitant price attached to it.

"…Why did you bring me here?"

"Your test scores when it comes to SPHERE synchronization is on par with a
toddler's, possibly even less." Ash Vlastvier rattles off the specific stats
and metrics that the pilot training engineers measure, easily demonstrating the
fact that their experiences when it comes to successfully piloting a SPHERE
can't even be compared. "Physical strength tests show that you can win a fight
against a one-legged and one-armed seventy-three-year-old woman. Either that or
against a two year old brat who hasn't received any initial motor coordination
training. Ha, at least they're considerate enough to give you options, no?"

Oliver's cheeks don't even flush red with embarrassment or shame, because those
are truths that he's already familiar with, because those are facts that he has
already internalized and accepted. He has zero talent when it comes to any
physical exertion and his test results attest to that. Despite growing up in a
harsher environment due to all the bullying he received, he regretfully didn't
grow stronger from his experiences that keep on failing to completely end his
pathetic life.

"The training engineers' initial assessment told me that I can't even win
against a newborn, so I supposed I have already improved."

Ash Vlastvier lets out a tiny noise that suspiciously sounds like an amused
snort, but Oliver doesn't believe in impossibilities like that turning into
reality.

"However," Ash Vlastvier continues as though Oliver didn't say anything, "your
results for intelligence tests and theory-based exams are the highest in Grand
Romania's history."

Oliver's face doesn't even blush pink with pride or happiness from getting
acknowledged, because he has long been aware that strengths that don't
translate into physical results are strengths that might as well be absent.
Anyone can sit down in a place hidden from anyone's view and become absorbed
with whatever book he's reading or whichever project he's doing. Anyone can
keep quiet and absorb the information floating around him and remember them for
future use. Anyone can have test results as good as his, but a high-number
intellect is useless in a world controlled by unexplained weather changes and
incomprehensible robots that can level mountains with a simple push of a
button.

"My theory results can't strengthen my bones, just as my IQ results can't take
me away from my fellow trainees and into the actual mission briefing rooms."
There's nothing in his voice that betrays the regret and dissatisfaction that
he doesn't feel at the moment. Oliver straightens his back, waits for the blond
pilot beside him to backhand him for answering back or for doing the simple act
of existing in this world.

The physical retaliation doesn't come. Instead, Ash Vlastvier's right hand
drags Oliver off the chair (again) by his still-sore left arm (again). Ash
Vlastvier leans in, whispers in a wicked tone: "Your theory-based exam results
are the best in the country, but they're not perfect." There's a short pause
and Oliver's thoughts don't even have a chance to recover. "There's no room for
mediocrity."

"…There shouldn't be."

Apparently satisfied with his response, Ash Vlastvier lets him go, even allows
him to nurse his bruised left arm.

"Take this test," seemingly out of nowhere, Ash Vlastvier throws a set of thick
folders to his direction, "and if you get a perfect score, I'll give you one
hour of unsupervised computer use."

Oliver doesn't even suspect the truth behind his tormentor's statement. There's
nothing that Ash Vlastvier cannot do: that's a mantra that every Grand Romania
official rely on, that's a truth that Grand Romania citizens place faith in,
that's a chant that every aspiring trainee believes in. Granting a filthy
trainee unsupervised computer time with the country's best equipment is
something that Ash Vlastvier can definitely do, there's no question about that.

But like his earlier suspicion, there's a catch.

"And for each mistake, I'll make sure to punish you extremely thoroughly."

…Oh.

That's it?

Oliver thinks that he can definitely handle that. Physical punishments are part
of his everyday life anyway.

Ash Vlastvier must have seen the confidence on his face, or maybe there's a
slight curve to his lips, because the next thing he knows, Ash Vlastvier's
gloved fingers are squeezing, tilting his chin up, uncomfortably dragging him
upwards.

"On second thought, maybe that's not punishment enough." No malevolent mischief
appears in the green eyes looming so close to him. "…Maybe I should give you a
kiss for each wrong answer you have?"

…A kiss?

Isn't that—?

"…Ha, as if I'd go through with such a disgusting action just for punishment."

Oliver almost retorts that there's no point reciting suggestions that will just
get rejected immediately. Almost. Oliver also almost agrees with the sentiment
that kissing someone is a disgusting action. Almost.

Ash Vlastvier lets him go again, makes a vague hand motion towards the thick
folders parked near the computer station he gravitated towards. Shockingly,
conversationally, Ash murmurs into the compressed air separating the two of
them: "In my home country, each time my birthday comes around, there's a custom
for a demonstration on how to poison an enemy with a kiss."

…Birthday?

Ah, so even monsters like Ash Vlastvier celebrate ordinary things like
birthdays too?

…Wait.

…Home country—? Ash Vlastvier is—!

"I'm also from Herzog Kingdom but I haven't heard of—"

There's a rough press of something that feels like knife-sharp icicles against
his lips.

…Isn't this a kiss?

Oliver takes a hasty step back, the forceful action causing him to accidentally
step on the wheels of his swivel chair, consequently causing him to crash to
the floor, back-first. Oliver manages to reign in his instinctive urge to flail
his arms around to grab anything that can break his fall, because his
surroundings are too precious and expensive to be touched by his helpless,
dirty hands. Oliver then touches his lips with a trembling finger, dismay
settling in his stomach when he feels and smells the thick liquid he finds.

Blood.

Ash Vlastvier is smirking at him, nonchalantly sitting on his own swivel chair.
"…Of course that's just a lie, idiot."

Oliver licks his lips and coughs almost immediately after, the taste of his own
blood somehow more unbearable today after it has been chilled by his
tormentor's kiss.

"I can poison you on any other days too."

…And as though his brain is disconnected from the rest of his body, Oliver can
only think of one thing while his body busies itself with spasms running up and
down his arms and legs, with coughs that wrack his body from head to toe.

It's him, who doesn't harbor any interest in learning more about Ash Vlastvier,
who now knows a personal detail not divulged in training manuals and mission
reports.

Today is the birthday of the monster that constantly torments not only Oliver
but also countless others.

Oliver tastes the blood in his lips and thinks that such a disgusting kiss is
an effective poison indeed.

•

The month of March signifies the end of the yearly training term and everyone
awaits the verdict of the higher-ups with a bated breath. There has never been
a time when the results are accepted by everyone wholeheartedly, because there
are always discrepancies and decisions that trainees find objections to.

Oliver hasn't even attempted to hope that this year's results will be different
from the previous years.

…But then again, Grand Romania is consistently stomping down on his
expectations, because this year, the decision is something that Oliver can't
imagine happening even in his most irrational delusions.

If it was anyone else, the rest of the class will be bursting with excitement
and congratulatory greetings.

The silence that follows the announcement is uncomfortable at the very least.
Oliver knows that his fellow trainees are waiting for their shell-shocked
trainer to suddenly inform them that it's just one distasteful joke. But
there's nothing else that follows the announcement that shocks even the pilot
training engineer handling their class.

If it was anyone else, surely the rest of the class will be overjoyed to know
that their entire class is crossing the threshold to getting the promotion to
the next level of training. However, the entire class being promoted means that
even Oliver is finally attaining the clearance for him to start on the next
level, after getting stuck in this current training plan for years.

…It means that the no-good Oliver everyone longed to leave behind is going to
spend the next year with all of them.

Oliver understands that feeling of overwhelming disappointment, that's why he
doesn't even utter a groan of protest after getting shoved into the specialized
metal lockers that release bursts of electricity once the biometrics system
fail to recognize the nearest person's prints. He understands it all too well,
which is why he simply accepts the words of the revered pilot that walks in on
his daily bullying fanfare.

"I cannot comprehend the reasoning behind you moving up the training ranks,"
Davy Black intones in a dreadfully nonchalant voice, "when you have absolutely
no chance of getting promoted to pilot level anyway."

Oliver understands that those who are better and stronger than him feel
threatened by the way the system is showing incongruities and making awful
decisions that don't follow the long-established doctrine of true power only
getting awarded to those who deserve it. And because even Oliver himself cannot
comprehend the reasoning behind his sudden advancement to the level directly
below being assistant pilots, he allows Davy Black to peruse his strength and
stamina with an on-the-spot physical examination.

If it was anyone else—

Oliver keeps his mind carefully blank as he welcomes his punishment with open
arms.

•

As though to compensate for an entire month of not having a special guide to
his personal hell, Oliver finds himself trapped in a slightly-malformed circle
of a decidedly angry-looking mob, right after he completes his submission of
required papers before he can start his lessons as a Tier 4 trainee next week.
It's a set-up he's highly familiar with, but amount of people involved today
still manages to catch him off-guard. He recognizes most of them: trainees who
are in the same recently-promoted class as him, and trainees who used to be his
classmates and are now in Tier 9. There are some unfamiliar faces, though
they're probably trainees from the levels below his, who want to protest his
advancement with the sound of their fists.

"Even Mr. Davy Black thinks that you're a worthless piece of shit," one of the
noisier bullies spits out his words along with a targeted spit of saliva to his
face. Oliver keeps his head down because he might get the urge to correct his
bully; while he has no qualms in accepting that Davy Black regards him a
useless piece of shit, there's also no doubt that the prim and proper Davy
Black will not say those words outright.

"You deserve to die, you bastard!"
"You're just wasting the time and resources of our country!"
"A pathetic foreigner like you doesn't deserve to live here!"

Syllables, words and sentences melt together and form a cacophony of screeching
sounds that mean nothing to Oliver's ears. The circular formation of his
bullies effectively blocks the roaming security cameras from detecting and
recording the ongoing lynching. Alone in a crowd made entirely of his enemies,
Oliver is helpless to escape his fate.

…Not that he's particularly keen on the idea of slipping through the grasp of
his fellow trainees. Not only does he lack any form of allies and friends that
can assist him in hiding from his pursuers, Oliver also lacks the strength to
continue defending himself against people who have every right to be furious
with him.

Oliver mentally winces when one of his older tormentors brandish an ancient-
looking metal mace, its tip decorated by scattered blooms of rust. That's bound
to hurt, possibly even break a bone or four. It will probably take more than
three months to completely heal from the beating he's about to receive.
Foreboding feelings regarding the amount of physical pain aside, Oliver is
somewhat looking forward to getting confined in the infirmary for quite some
time. Sure, it will make him laughably easy to track down, but ever since he
has learned about the heavier and busier schedule for the Tier 4 classes, he
has already started worrying about the diminished amount of time he can
dedicate to his personal pursuits. And if he's bound to the infirmary bed, he
will be rendered unable to attend his training classes, which means his irate
classmates will not see his face and will not be reminded by the higher-ups'
ridiculous verdict. It's the ideal situation that will bring everyone
satisfaction, so Oliver doesn't mind suffering a few broken bones and a few
torn muscles in exchange of attaining that situation.

"Just as expected of a Herzog garbage, you're truly pathetic!"
"Why don't you just do us all a favor and die?!"
"You're taking up a precious trainee spot that could have been occupied by
someone better!"

Oliver agrees with their sentiments, one hundred percent, though he's careful
not to mention his agreement out loud, because that might just unnecessarily
bring his tormentors' emotions to the edge. The crazed look boiling in their
eyes and the high-strung tension lining their arms are clear indications of
their heightened distress; the air is saturated with almost-palpable danger,
and Oliver hazily thinks that he'd like his eyes and his typing hand to remain
relatively unharmed.

Whatever thoughts he's having gets thrown into a collusion of chaos and
corruption of human morality, as he drowns in the terrifying howls for justice
and shrieks for his death that just wouldn't come. The metal mace he noticed
earlier is now swinging down at him—once, twice, thrice—all the while following
a rhythm of a broken pendulum.

If he's more scientifically-inclined, maybe he can summon interest at the
aspect of observing his nerve endings and his pain receptors, since the
unending assault of agony seems to anesthetize his mind. If he closes his eyes,
he can probably successfully deceive himself into thinking that he's just
passed out in the military dormitory's battered, solid couch, instead of
getting his bones broken into segments.

…He's a coward, when all has been said and done, so he doesn't quite dare to
close his eyes to the reality playing out in front of him, doesn't quite dare
to attempt anything that might make his tormentors even angrier than they
already are.

His fellow trainees systematically take their turns into hitting him with their
weapon of choice, but as this bullying session lengthens, the order they abide
to starts to crumble. Oliver doesn't fault them for surrendering to their baser
instincts, because humanity has survived for so long, has succeeded to live in
deteriorating conditions, because humans learn to follow their survival
instinct. It's somewhat poetic that his fellow classmates are promoted to Tier
at the same time they graduate from the childish, almost-naïve bullying they've
been indulging in for the past few years. There's a strange glimmer of pride in
his mind, since his classmates finally manages to break free of the soft-
hearted confines of good-naturedness and are instead attacking him with a very
maddening intent to kill.

Oliver recalculates the amount of time he'll spend confined to the hospital,
since he now has to take into account that attacks made with solid conviction
bring about more effective damages. A sickening crack to his right catches his
attention; almost belatedly, he realizes with little wonder that his right leg
is broken at his calf. Pain signals haven't traveled up to his brain yet, but
he's expecting another explosion of neural signals, perhaps enough to send him
fainting from the sensory overload. His tormentors don't even pause in their
animalistic way of surrounding their prey and attacking him with very little
precaution against getting caught harming a fellow human being.

It's almost amazing, how humans easily succumb to their beast-like tendencies
once they're overcome with emotion.

Oliver offhandedly thinks that it's maybe the reason behind Ash Vlastvier's
strength; Ash Vlastvier is able to draw beast-like power that completely
ignores human logic and common sense, even while he's completely level-headed.
It's almost amazing, how humans easily transform into monsters if it's for
something as petty as feelings and wants.

The rust-tipped mace swings down again and catches him by his left cheek, the
pendulum of punishment bringing him down to the floor in one strike. His
forehead bangs against the synthetic bulletproof glass floors, the impact's
wave ricocheting inside his skull. Something pointed—an ordinary kitchen knife,
maybe—pierces his back shallowly—an ordinary, unsharpened kitchen knife, most
likely—and Oliver thinks he gasps with the motion. And almost as though that
first cut is a sign, multitudes of knives and blades enter his body through his
back, breaking his skin and spilling his blood. Oliver is inclined to believe
that he still won't die from such shallow wounds, but he doesn't voice those
thoughts, because his bullies might read that as an invitation to stab him
directly on his heart.

It's quite difficult to live but it's far more difficult to die, Oliver thinks.

But then the rusted mace makes its way back to his much-injured form, and this
time, it hits him at the back of his head, making sure that his thoughts fall
to a limbo of nauseating nothingness.

•

Oliver wakes up reeling from a strange contradiction of heavy limbs and light
thoughts. He looks around the very familiar enclosed space of what is almost
certainly the infirmary, his stare wavering at the sight of his condition
displayed for everyone to see in the status machine beeping in front of him.
His gaze drops down to his waist and sees nothing but thick, white bandages;
his hands and legs seem as though they weigh five-hundred kilograms, an
impossible mass, he knows.

The amount of damage is well-within the range of his expectations, which means
that he's going to spend quite an absurd amount of time inside here, with
nothing to do aside from sleeping and consuming bland, tasteless, drugs-and-
protein-laden food. The higher-ups aren't going to spend money to send a
useless trainee like him to a rehabilitation camp or to an ability-improvement
program, so his following months are definitely going to reek of unparalleled
boredom.

His personal computer is inside his briefcase and he presses the button to call
for an attending nurse so the robot can bring his briefcase within reach. His
computer is his only company and that's also within his expectations, his hopes
even. He can't wait to start working on his little project again—

"Sir Vlastvier is leaving the health research department soon, isn't he?"
"What are you saying! I heard he's still going to be stuck there for a few more
weeks!"
"Where the hell do you guys find these types of news anyway?!"
"I heard from Mika that Sir Vlastvier successfully recovered though! He's
really super cool!"
"Yes, yes! I heard that he didn't even flinch or anything while they're running
tests on him!"
"He's so dreamy!"
"You said it!"
"Yes, that's so true—!"

—Well.

Against his better judgment, Oliver surreptitiously glances around, feeling a
bit paranoid and awkward that Ash Vlastvier is apparently situated in the
health research department—a place that's just down the hallway. It's been a
month since their last confrontation, since the day that Oliver learned of Ash
Vlastvier's birthday, since the poisonous kiss between them. His relief at not
seeing Ash Vlastvier, along with the increased torment from his classmates,
usually distracts him enough to avoid dragging his mind to thoughts regarding
that venomous closeness they shared.

…Usually.

Oliver decides that there's no point wasting time and brain processes in
thinking about someone who's probably busy getting injected with
synchronization-increasing drugs and physical-improvement vaccines, on someone
who's busy rising far away from inferior beings like him. He isn't curious, not
even a little bit, to see Ash Vlastvier again. It isn't something like denial,
because he really isn't interested in taking slow, baby steps to be closer to
Ash Vlastvier.

He isn't curious, because he knows that just like he will still be a pathetic,
spineless loser in the future, Ash Vlastvier will still be a monster the next
time they face each other.

•

Contrary to his calculations, Oliver receives the 'Release from Confinement'
form just one month after he is sent to the infirmary for the treatment of his
wounds. It's almost in tandem to the accelerated way he completed editing the
syntax of his programming codes for the voice program he's been busying himself
with for the past four weeks. If he's more scientifically-inclined, he can
probably collect data on himself and observe whether his enhanced healing rate
is in a cause-effect relationship with the way his mind (and his typing hand)
seems to be working faster.

"I think that will be a worthwhile research project," Oliver recites to the
empty air in front of him, his gaze fixed on his computer screen where the
sound waves from each syllable he just spoke are recorded and replayed and
restructured into digital waves, "…don't you agree, sister?"

    [It'll be totally better if you just shut up and keep reading your nerdy
books, Oliver.]

"I wonder if you still speak like this, after all this years?" Oliver wonders
aloud, his eyes watching the way his voice program attempt to break down his
words into binary codes, into something his software can understand, something
his creation can formulate a response to. It doesn't surprise him in the
slightest that his software crashes after two minutes of utterly failing to
find the proper response to his words. There's only so much he can do to make a
computer understand human language, especially since he's expecting his program
to answer his questions and question his opinions. There's no way he can
completely mimic his sister's speech; she's a completely normal human being,
after all.

[What's up, useless brother?]

The computer program greets him with his sister's standard greeting, producing
his sister's voice, adding his sister's inflection. It's a set of words that
are totally out-of-place with what just transpired before his software crashed,
but that's the best a machine can do. Or rather, that's the best the machine
can do under his own programming codes. It's entirely possible that the voice
program will develop into something revolutionary once it's under the hands of
someone more intelligent than him.

[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Stupid brother, how dare you make me wait?]

"My deepest apologies, sister," Oliver continues the conversation nevertheless,
because mediocre intelligence and simple program codes are easy to remedy, and
he still has time to improve, "I've been thinking."

[You're always thinking, but it brings you absolutely nowhere!]

"That's true," Oliver concedes, because that's the unchallenged truth, not only
in this militaristic country, but also in the entire world. During the ancient
ages, intelligence used to be a highly-prized attribute, since humanity was
enamored with rolling out newer, better, compacter technologies, all the while
leaving commoners to suffer from the waste said technology race spewed out of
factories. It has been more than six hundred years since the ancient ages ended
and the entire world has already settled into its new philosophies, rules,
systems. "I'm fine with going nowhere though."

[...You're really useless.]

Oliver bitterly smiles, eyes shifting their focus on the 'Release from
Confinement' form on his bedside table, without bothering to deny words that
could sound like a human's on any other circumstances. But he is painfully
aware that his real sister, the real Jade Payne, is instead ensconced within
the impregnable walls of Freedom Union, masquerading as an admirable teenage
pilot when her real self is really just a spoiled brat. He is regretfully
conscious of the way the world sees his sister as someone much stronger than
him. He knows, that's why he doesn't ever bother denying any of the words
thrown at him, doesn't bother refusing the blows delivered to him.

He's the one, above anyone else, who knows about his own weaknesses and
failings.

He knows.

And once he leaves his infirmary bed, he will be back to his classmates who
will still be disappointed at receiving detention for beating a fellow student
to half-death, to his trainers who will look at him as somebody who doesn't
exist outside of his abysmally low synchronization numbers.

"…I really am."

(And that's the truth.)

•

Completely exhausted, Oliver drags his feet against the glass floors paving the
way from the Tier 4 training halls to the special military dormitories for
higher-tiered trainees. Every single trainee who signs up for the initial
assessment all possess unquestionable drive and motivation to persevere in
climbing up the ranks in order to finally reach the coveted SPHERE pilot
position; the higher-ups, however, believe that it's better to have more than
just one incentive, that's why higher-tiered trainees continuously receive
access to superior facilities. Oliver doesn't think there's any point in
wasting money to change the floors from the usual cement-alloy to strengthened
glass, but maybe that's the reason why he doesn't do well in this world.

While he wobbles and sways as he trudges toward his assigned room, he makes
sure to keep his gaze focused on his feet, as he tightens his grip on the
specialized computer safely tucked close to his chest.

Today is a very dangerous day.

Annually, his bullies celebrate his birthday by making sure he suffers through
enough misery to last him an entire year.

He knows that holding onto something important isn't going to help him if he
finds himself in a tight situation, but he is particularly productive today.
Actually, it's not just today; recently, he's been improving really quickly
when it comes to learning more advanced scripts to use in his software. Once he
reaches the confines of his dorm room, he plans on duplicating the dedicated
server he reprogrammed in the computer in his arms, so he can have a back-up of
his software—

Ah.

…Isn't it unfortunate?

"Happy Birthday, Oliver Payne," his previous trainer from Tier 3 is waiting for
him in front of his room, a smile lighting up his normally-stern face, the
switchblade in his hands a clear symbol of the sincerity behind his birthday
greeting.

"…Thank you." Oliver's grip on his computer tightens even more, his fatigued
knees buckling and knocking together awkwardly as he takes slow steps away from
where his previous teacher is standing. He's usually accepting of whatever
punishment the world wants to hand to him, but today is important, because he's
making great progress in improving his skills, even if it's regarding a topic
that can't help him in his pilot training.

His deliberately slow retreat stutters into a halt though, once he realizes
that he's caught in-between his previous trainer and his current classmates,
both factions wearing identical furious expressions on their faces. The
appearance of his classmates effectively snuffs out any hope that he can settle
this without injuries. Oliver just hopes that his computer makes it out of this
encounter unscathed.

"Is that how you fooled the system, brat?" His previous trainer's gait looks
even more unstable than his. "My supervisors are all nagging me, scolding me
for promoting a useless brat like you, berating me for not questioning the
promotion verdict, and now they want to expel me from my job—because of you!
They want to fire me! ME! They want to punish me, all because of YOU!"

Oliver opens his mouth to offer applying for a demotion, just so everyone can
finally stop getting affected and irritated by things that happen to him, but
before he can even make his voice box work, hands already reach out for him,
trapping his limbs behind his back. The sudden tug of his arms backwards is
painful, but the sickening thud of his computer crashing against the glass
floors bring him more anguish.

And because the computer with him is already customized to only hold one
program—

[What's up, useless brother?]

Oliver bites his lip anxiously. The familiar voice of his sister calls out from
the slightly broken computer, the volume largely unaffected by the fall. The
deceptively human voice catches the attention of his bullies for a short
moment, but because they're more interested in strength and power, the idea of
messing around with a computer doesn't even cross their minds.

[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Stupid brother, how dare you make me wait?]

The software jumps to the script after failing to receive additional voice
input from Oliver.

[Don't tell me you just want to waste my time? That'll be super uncool!]

Oliver senses it coming. The air hisses warningly before his previous trainer's
polished leather shoe enters his field of vision, before said shoe swings
forward in a motion he's accustomed to. Before the shoe can connect with an
already-cracked computer screen, Oliver is already hunched forward
protectively, eagerly receiving the kick meant for his computer with his
shoulders. He keeps his mouth shut, as kicks descend upon him, as the digital
version of the sister he hasn't seen in ten years mockingly laughs at him.

[Damn, you're pathetic. It depresses me to remember that we're related.]

Ah.

It doesn't look like his tormentors are going to stop anytime soon.

…Ah.

Well, maybe he can do something else while they're busy?

"But we are related, sister," Oliver mumbles to his computer, his words uttered
extra-carefully since there's already a cut on his upper lip and that might
affect the word recognition, "there's nothing we can do about that."

[I try my best to forget about your existence. That works most of the time,
idiot.]

If his tormentors find it weird or disgusting that he's mumbling words that
receive synthetic voice responses from his computer, they don't use words to
express it. Instead, the blows that rain down on his body grow heavier and more
painful, like a steady downpour of fist-sized hailstones.

The rain of hail suddenly disappear without warning and Oliver doesn't even
have time to blink before it's replaced by a sharp thunderstorm, by a well-
aimed kick to his ribs that sends him flying more than ten meters away. A wall
catches him unwillingly, his sore back knocking against the cement-alloy so
hard that he wavers between consciousness and unconsciousness immediately
afterwards.

[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Hey! Are you ignoring me?! You actually
dare to ignore?! A useless, stupid person like you, is ignoring someone like
me?! How irritating!]

"Shut up," a scratchy voice commands the irritated voice of his sister, "you're
noisy."

[H-H-H-How dare you?! Who are you anyway?! You're not my eternal loser
brother!]

"Voice recognition, huh?" The person takes a step closer to the computer, picks
it up and speaks directly to the microphone embedded on the center of the
keyboard: "I told you to shut up."

[...Program entering forced hibernation mode. Saving data, saving data,
progress 100%]

It's an ability that he programmed into his computer, to enter a forced
hibernation mode once it detected a harmful stimulus, but it's still nothing
short of amazing to witness it happen firsthand, to see something like a
slightly-more-intelligent-than-normal machine be intimidated by a living,
breathing person.

"A-A-A-A-AHHHH—! It's a beast! A monster! Quick! Call the security team!
Faster, before it—!"

Oliver's short-lived relief at seeing the person place his now-hibernating
computer down on the floor, instead of simply chucking it, disappears as he
realizes that the people around him are in grave danger.

It's almost laughable, how the people around him fail to recognize the person,
the monster, the white-haired beast in front of their eyes. Oliver doesn't
understand how they cannot recognize Ash Vlastvier when he sounds the same,
acts the same, grins the same as before. The only things that changed are the
colors of his eyes and hair, but other than that, everything is still the same,
the same Ash Vlastvier that he hasn't seen for quite some time. It's almost
pathetic, how the people panicking around them fail to recognize their idol,
when they claim to regard Ash Vlastvier with an unhealthy amount of respect.

"…Long time no see," Oliver attempts small-talk, if only to distract the
unhinged-looking pilot enough so that his fellow trainees have time to gain
their wits and assess the situation properly and escape. And even though he
doesn't really care for the answer, he ventures to ask: "How are you feeling?"

"Shut up." Ash Vlastvier bares his teeth, sparkly white teeth that would have
looked lovely in toothpaste commercials if not for the bloodthirsty grin that
comes along with it. "Shut up!"

Oliver worries his lip between his not-so-sparkly teeth, gingerly standing up
while seeking assistance from the wall directly behind him. His fingers are
trembling in instinctive fear, because even while he's suppressing any train of
thoughts that can lead to how frightening Ash Vlastvier is right now, his
humanity intuitively understands the amount of shit he's in. His knees knock
together as he quivers with a mixture of terror and tiredness.

"—Yes, yes, it's an escaped beast! …What do you mean there are no beasts inside
the tower? I'm telling you, there's a wild beast here! I don't care if it's a
top-secret military thing or whatever, but you need to help us!"

"It's not a beast," Oliver struggles to keep his voice above a mere whisper,
his chest wheezing with each moment he spends standing upright, "can't you see
it's—"

…It's—

What should he say? Does it even matter if his fellow trainees understood the
so-called wild-beast's identity? The important thing here is to flee this
place. And it's not like the others are going to believe his words! Yes, the
correct thing to do is to just force everyone to flee from this dangerous
situation.

"OH HOLY HELL—! IT'S MR. ASH VLASTVIER!"

The person who belatedly manages to recognize the intruder to their 'Let's beat
Oliver up on his birthday!' party forfeits his life the moment he yells those
words.

Oliver doesn't even have time to gasp in shock as he witnesses a fellow trainee
die, quite messily, in front of his dilated eyes. His heart skips a couple of
beats before seemingly recovering from its shock-induced stupor, before
resuming a head-pounding drumbeat against his ribcage. Grand Romania's hallways
normally smell like an odd mixture of gunpowder, oil and ozone; now, the smell
of blood and torn flesh permeate every inch of the glass floors and cement-
alloy walls.

His fellow trainees recover their bearings, one by one, and resume to trip over
imaginary obstacles, screaming out incoherent words that brings noise pollution
instead of actual help.

The country's so-called hero is actually a bloodthirsty monster. Oliver has
always known about Ash Vlastvier's unhealthy fixation with destruction, but he
supposes that while that fact hasn't exactly been a secret, everybody just
contented themselves with the thought that their top-rank pilot isn't actually
a beast.

Contradictory to his well-established cowardice, Oliver limps towards the
crazily grinning Ash Vlastvier, gravitating towards the source of chaos instead
of fleeing from it. His knees still wobble and quiver with each step he makes,
but he's moving forward steadily, eyes wide and hyper-aware of his
surroundings. The person in front of him may have bleach-white hair and blood-
red eyes, but he remains as Ash Vlastvier. He's still the same person who has
unfailingly made his life a very painful hell ever since their first meeting
five years ago. He's still the same person who somehow believes that there's
something worth mentioning regarding his intelligence test scores. He's still
the same person who Oliver admires for the sheer amount of confidence and
control and utter supremacy.

He's still Ash Vlastvier.

And because he's still that person, Oliver hopes that Ash Vlastvier manages to
recognize his approaching figure, manages to feel annoyance at having a filthy
being approach him, manages to retrieve his control from whatever impulsive
state he's subjected to.

"Yes, I'm Ash Vlastvier," the white-haired teen confirms his identity, smirking
at the horror that dawns on everybody's faces. "And now that you know who I
am—"

Oliver whips his head around so fast that he feels his neck muscles straining
painfully, but that's beside the point, since he needs to shout, needs to tell
the others to run the hell away, NOW—

"…I have to kill you."

It doesn't even take two minutes.

There's no metal barrier that descends from the ceiling, but everybody is
confined in the tiny space that shrinks even more with each reach of Ash's
wire-thin sword.

Oliver can only keep his eyes wide open so he doesn't forget the victims' final
moments, caught in the web of someone they can't even dream to defeat, their
lives forfeited because of a simple knowledge that links a Very Important
Person to a monstrous result of the government's bid for power. He leans
heavily against the wall, his entire body simultaneously stiffening in an
attempt to cease drawing attention, while melting shakily from distress.

Ash Vlastvier finishes up the purging of the trainees who learned of his
secret, looking immensely dissatisfied with the short-lived fight. Oliver takes
in a deep breath, shuddering as he thinks about how much stronger the 01 pilot
is now. Somehow, he doesn't imagine that Ash Vlastvier volunteered to be a
guinea pig for whatever the military needed him for; of course, there's no
confirmation that Ash Vlastvier underwent an improvement experiment, but it's
nevertheless too obvious to Oliver's eyes.

As if to answer Oliver's unvoiced questions, Ash Vlastvier turns to him with a
bloody smile, before disappearing from his sight in a flash, before reappearing
right in front of him with a punch connecting directly to his left cheek.

Oliver digs his elbows against the unyielding walls, in an effort to minimize
the distance he's flung to. The action renews the throbbing of pain on his ribs
and Oliver feels bile crawling up his throat. There's nobody around who can
witness his pathetic act of vomiting all over the place, but that doesn't
lessen the amount of shameful humiliation that burns at his cheeks. He manages
to simply end up a couple of paces away, but Ash Vlastvier is already closing
that short distance with brisk steps. Oliver feebly raises his hands in front
of his chest, his body thrumming with unease as he attempts to mimic a
defensive stance he knows nothing about.

Ash Vlastvier's now-crimson eyes look vaguely amused, but that's probably just
a trick of light, because there's nothing lighthearted or amusing with the kick
he delivers directly to Oliver's kneecaps. Oliver's legs give out from the
explosion of pain. He sinks to the ground in a twitching, trembling mess, but
before he can completely face-fault to the bloodied glass floors, Ash Vlastvier
pulls him up roughly by his aching elbows. There's nothing remotely gentle
about the action, and the rough treatment continues as Oliver finds his breath
knocked out of him as Ash Vlastvier slams his back forcefully against the wall.

Oliver dimly hopes that his spine is strong enough to withstand the assault,
because he isn't looking forward to paralysis in case his spinal cord is
damaged by the repeated slamming.

…Somehow, in the middle of his hazy wishing for fewer injuries, Oliver sort-of
understands the crazed light bubbling underneath Ash Vlastvier's eyes.

His mind is simultaneously dull with immense pain and clear with blank thoughts
that lead to nowhere.

Oliver doesn't think of poisons and venoms when Ash Vlastvier leans down,
brings their intermingling breaths unbearably closer, and touches their lips
together in a union that robs him of his heartbeat altogether. His pulse
freezes from the agonizing proximity of someone so powerful and his heart
doesn't resume its pounding until his tormentor tentatively retreats a few
centimeters away. There's a pause that almost lulls him into expecting
something slightly tender.

Oliver doesn't think of spilled blood and broken bones when Ash Vlastvier holds
his unmoving form down by his arms, clamps down hard enough to raise red lines
on his skin, and nips the wounded edge on his upper lip. The action elicits a
sharp gasp from him, since his tormentor seems intent on making his current
injuries worse. Sharp teeth continue their path down to the cut near his chin,
to the swollen skin on his upper neck, to the laceration on his right
collarbone. Claw-like fingers squeeze his arms with strength sufficient to
break bones and he lets out an uncontrolled gasp again when the grip tightens
even more.

Oliver doesn't think of roaming security cameras and inquiring pilot engineers
when Ash Vlastvier shifts a knife-sharp hand from trembling elbows to push at a
dislocated shoulder, moves another hand to forcefully remove the flimsy
training uniform shirt from Oliver's body, and bites down on the exposed skin
with the intention to bring about more wounds to his figure. He keeps his arms
carefully still, because he isn't sure if it's a good idea to do anything that
might end his tormentor's instinct-driven stupor. There's a steady flow of
agony to his nerve endings, to the point that Oliver himself isn't sure if he
can remain conscious for much longer, since his vision is darkening and his
entire body is swaying unsteadily.

Oliver doesn't think of his own fifteenth birthday when Ash Vlastvier growls at
him in a decidedly feral manner, punches him on his gut, and twists his
shoulder into an even worse position.

Oliver doesn't think of the corpses surrounding them, as well as the fact that
he's once again alive after an encounter with the endlessly violent pilot, when
Ash Vlastvier continues to divest him of his clothes.

…And until the entire affair is finished, until the moment that he shakily puts
on his clothes, until the minute he wobbles away from the hallway soaked in a
viscous of gore and body fluids, until the time he scrubs off the sweat, grime,
semen and fear from his body, Oliver doesn't think of anything at all.

•

The last week of June, following his stressful birthday, passes by quickly
enough that Oliver's wounds don't even have time to properly heal yet. His
entire body is covered with five layers of bandages and gauzes, his skin
itching and crawling with medicine applied topically over his pores, his veins
pulsing and writhing underneath with injected drugs that supposedly hastens
regeneration. Drips of anesthesia are inside his circulatory system too,
spreading mild numbness all throughout his body.

His days pass by relatively peacefully, almost to the point of inducing
boredom, since he only busies himself with his personal computer and there's
nobody left (alive) in his class to visit him in the infirmary. Even the robot
nurses milling around seem to thrum with calmness, an impossible feat for
mechanized beings that supposedly only radiate digital signals from metal
cores.

That tranquility is deceptive though; Grand Romania is practically boiling
right now, rather literally filled to bursting with artillery being shipped and
stored even at residential lots. Oliver isn't the type to pay attention to the
government's announcements or to the King's speeches, so his details are rather
vague; he is fairly certain though that Grand Romania is targeting to
completely overhaul their international reputation of being dead-last to being
a terrifying force to behold before January of AC 687. There are some extremely
dangerous missions lined up towards the end of the year and he thinks that
there should be a limit to how much the government wants to show off its power
by enforcing a mandatory live broadcast of said missions.

—"We have sent our word to Central Tower, informing them that they have no
chance of winning this bout. If they are foolish enough to ignore our
Declaration, approved by myself, the Highest King, then they are truly pitiful
beings indeed."

The current reigning King, Cesar Black, has twenty cameras focused on his face,
the angles only varying slightly and unnecessarily, in Oliver's opinion,
because there's no way anyone is actually interested in having a 360-degree
view of the King and his military uniform. The facial focus effectively reminds
Oliver that the King truly is the father of Davy Black—the resemblance is
really strong in the sharp lines of the jaw and chin, in the deep-ebony hair,
in the brilliant-emerald irises.

—"Our glorious country will remain undefeated from this point onwards, because
The Chosen One fights for us, for the sake of our brilliant futures, for the
heroic act of altering the course of history forever!"

Oliver rolls his eyes at the embellished speech, fully aware that there's no
such heroism present in Ash Vlastvier or in any other pilot for that matter. He
doesn't quite understand the King's reasons for avoiding the cold truth that
Grand Romania seeks to expand its territories and its power, that's why the
country is keen to be at war with everybody else. It's not like Grand Romania
citizens aren't aware of the country's ambitions. Ignorance isn't an option
when military posts are installed at every intersection, when artillery
shipments freely use the underground city highways, when people literally sleep
beside guns and unassembled missile parts.

The King projects more words to the hundreds of microphones shoved in front of
him, but Oliver doesn't pay them any mind, because they're just probably the
same old spiel that kings shout about in mediocre hopes to bring enthusiasm and
luck to the knights that do all the work. The wall-screen in front of him then
splits the view into two: the left pane showing the King making his televised
speech from the Castles of Nevermore, a sprawl of strengthened brick-and-metal
fortresses at the junction of the above-ground and under-ground territories;
the right pane broadcasting Ash Vlastvier climbing up his remade SPHERE,
AETHER, bypassing ten tentacle-like arms that are now contracted inside sheaths
by the machine's waist.

Oliver sinks to his infirmary bed, nearly hearing the trembles and whines of
the entire headquarters' building as AETHER proceeds to its launching sequence.
The newly constructed launch hangar for the remade SPHEREs is now located at
the top-most level, as if to further cement the fact that the pilots are
untouchable beings. The previous launch hangar is apparently getting
transformed into a new military research pod, but he isn't quite sure, since he
rarely pays attention to the government's announcements. It's not like it
matters, since it's not like he has any reason to oppose or agree with the
government's policies, especially since he's not just simply weak: he's a
pathetically weak foreigner who's here to be a political hostage.

AETHER, despite its etymology of its name, is far from light and airy, far from
being considered ethereal. The SPHERE is bulky and foreboding, with black and
navy blue painting its outer armor, with weapons stored at practically each
limb and opening, with an eerie shadowy black circle for a face. It's
definitely a SPHERE meant to strike terror into the souls of those who gaze
upon its form.

Somehow, in the midst of actually paying attention to a government broadcast,
Oliver realizes that Ash Vlastvier isn't a hero at all, isn't even The Chosen
One, isn't even the most supreme; rather, Ash Vlastvier is a monster born from
the wombs of humanity's greed for power. Ash Vlastvier's white hair and pale
skin is swallowed by his all-black pilot uniform and his dark SPHERE and Oliver
bites his lip in a strange case of anxiety. Without thinking much about it,
Oliver ends up massaging the wound on his neck—something that can be called a
'hickey' during the ancient times, he supposes—kneading in circular motions
until the fresh scab falls away with a whisper of pain, rubbing the irritated
skin until the wound completely re-opens and bleeds and he only stops when the
robot nurses barge into his room after the elevated blood pressure levels alarm
resounds in the ward.

Oliver ends up getting transferred to a bed farther from the wall-screen and
much nearer to the door. He almost regrets his mindless action because now it's
far more challenging to watch the broadcast since he has to tilt his body and
strain his neck uncomfortably. But then the almost-regret is short-lived, since
he reaches out for his personal computer and starts accessing the government's
camera feed directly with his video programs. The beauty of his new position is
that he's situated far from the installed security camera as well, which means
that there will be no surveillance evidence of him doing the low-level hacking.

He attains the camera feeds from a total of sixty cameras (twenty-four on The
King and the Castles of Nevermore, seven on the launch hangar, twenty-nine on
the Eurasian border where the designated battle is about to commence) within
five minutes. It's either a testament to how advanced he's become when it comes
to computers, or proof of how much Grand Romania doesn't care about its own
security that doesn't involve artillery and SPHEREs.

…It doesn't take long for Oliver to notice that something is off about the
broadcast.

The televised version of the battle coverage shows Ash Vlastvier still in the
middle of his launch sequence, with AETHER still securely docked inside the
hangar. The real-time camera feed, trembling with static and noise, shows that
Ash Vlastvier is already locked in combat with the Central Tower SPHERE.

Oliver selects three choice cameras that establish the view completely: ten
tentacle-like hands shooting out of their sheaths, wrapping their mechanical
grip around the enemy SPHERE's limbs. A tall, bulky plasma cannon lies broken
in the background, and Oliver discerns the attack behind the damage and splits
of the cannon's frame. The outer armor covering of the Central Tower unit is
faintly glowing with heat, the sound of scorched earth crackling across the
camera feed. There's no answering burning hiss from AETHER's hands, which means
that their country's engineers successfully managed to develop a metal-alloy
that can withstand extreme temperatures.

The enemy SPHERE's response time is still admirable given the amount of visible
damage dealt to it, since it managed to somehow block an attack from an arm and
its accompanying short sword. The enemy SPHERE escapes instant decapitation
from the previous attack, but Oliver can see the frantic blinking of the
emergency infrared light installed on the enemy unit's forehead, the sign for a
distressed call for help. It's wholly possible that the enemy machine is
already on its double-critical level, which means that Grand Romania's victory
is near.

Judging from the way Ash Vlastvier doesn't portray an ounce of mercy on his
opponent—knocking down the enemy by striking quickly on the hip-leg junctions
of the machine, followed by jumping on top of the fallen unit and crushing a
leg and outstripping the armor of another leg—there's no way the government
will show the real happenings to the public. The King apparently operates on
the principle that people actually accept that Ash Vlastvier is a hero instead
of a monster.

Oliver refocuses on the video feed just in time to witness AETHER's cockpit
receive mild damage from a last-minute counterattack rife with desperation,
just in time to watch AETHER's hand pierce the opponent's cockpit. The way Ash
Vlastvier stretches a hand out in order to completely crush the Central Tower
SPHERE's cockpit is unnecessarily cruel—unnecessarily, because the act of
robbing someone of her life is already cruel enough; there's no sound logic
behind forcefully demonstrating the difference in power.

…And then the infamous OPHAN from Central Tower enters the battlefield, and
Oliver forgets to breathe.

•

Returning to his assigned training tier feels almost surreal, because there's
absolutely no trace left behind of the events that happened last June 20 of AC
686. The trainers and engineers assigned to his tier remains the same; the
hallways are now devoid of any spilled blood and torn bodies. He doesn't
attempt to probe further aside from the low-level search he makes on the
trainee database; a search that gives him nothing but 'Match not found' results
for each (dead) classmate he types, as though said classmates didn't even exist
in the first place.

…Though being placed in an entirely different classroom, with a wholly altered
class member list, doesn't seem to be doing wonders to Oliver's status as the
universal target for bullying. His new classmates aren't stupid; of course they
know about him and his unfair promotion and now he's intruding on their turf.

Oliver has been expecting their attack, ever since words of acknowledgement
left their current trainer's mouth. The hallways connecting their training room
to the trainee locker areas seem more cramped and shadowy, as though hinting on
the terrible beating he's going to receive soon. He manages to reach his
locker, already worn-down and lockless only two days since he started using it.
His extra uniform inside is wet with some liquid that he doesn't even want to
identify, dirtied by some mud-like emulsion that probably hails from one of
their laboratory hands-on classes. He doesn't get a chance to retrieve his
dirty clothes and stuff them inside his bag, because the lights in the locker
room begin to flicker intermittently. The floor tiles seem to shiver and shake
along with the blinking lights and Oliver expects it, expects the entire class
to step out from the shadows and the hidden corners, expects everyone to look
at him with menacingly bared teeth.

His personal computer is buried underneath his laundry pile inside his dorm
room, so he has nothing to protect in his person. Nevertheless, Oliver dislikes
pain so he still retreats instinctively, his back knocking against the row of
lockers. Cold metal burns through his trainee shirt, presses bruises against
his thinly-veiled skin, rattles the mark on his upper back, just below his
nape.

Ignoring his surroundings as a way of coping with his circumstances is approved
by his lifetime of experience when it comes to being the receiving end of
bullies' attacks, so Oliver does just that: shuts down his senses and averts
his eyes from the things happening right in front of him. The voluntary descent
to oblivion works for the next hour, since anger is apparently enough of a fuel
for fellow trainees who are supposedly drained by all the harsh exercises
mandated by the government's pilot training program. Oliver is quite confident
that his ability to divert his attention from his surroundings to a blissful
void can last until he keels over from lack of nutrient or electrolyte intake;
he doesn't get the opportunity to test his faith on his ability, because after
one hour of getting stomped on by his new set of classmates, somebody not
invited to the lynching party makes a late appearance. And as much as Oliver
takes pride in his ability to completely ignore the events transpiring around
him, it's just impossible to overlook a presence that threatens to drown
everyone inside suffocating darkness.

A couple of minutes pass with only the sounds of labored breathing and stressed
flexing of muscles punctuating the otherwise tense silence.

With much difficulty, Oliver lifts his face from its spot on the floor, nose
throbbing with pain, cut on his left eyebrow swelling with inflammatory
cytokines. His legs feel like half-solidified jelly; with great effort, he
stands up and leans against the row of lockers so that his twisted right ankle
doesn't drag him back down to the grimy floor. He moves with as little noise as
possible, his blood confusedly rushing everywhere, his thoughts crossing and
crashing against each other. He's caught between contradictions—he doesn't want
to draw attention to himself, yet he feels like he needs to catch Ash
Vlastvier's murderous gaze—he doesn't want anyone to be on the receiving end of
Ash Vlastvier's temper tantrums, yet he wants to somehow punish the bullies
around him—and he doesn't know what to choose, doesn't even know that he's
allowed the luxury of choices.

"Who gave you the right to punish that brat?" Ash Vlastvier doesn't specify a
name, most possibly because he doesn't even care to remember the name of the
person he's been using as a punching bag for five years, but everyone
nevertheless understands who he is referring to. And the ensuing pause gives
everyone within listening range a moment to blink in confusion, because it
almost sounds as though Ash Vlastvier disapproves of Oliver beaten up. The
pause is thankfully short-lived, so any confusion is easily cleared up anyway.
"Only the powerful are granted the right to punish others, so… Do you think you
are powerful enough to punish him?"

Ash Vlastvier gives a little growl when nobody dares to answer him.

Oliver thinks it's supremely unfair to expect ordinary people like them to be
able to strike back to the number one pilot, even if it's only through harmless
words. No doubt that his fellow classmates are frozen to their spots due to the
01's powerful glare—crimson eyes almost glowing under the flickering lights. A
malevolent aura seems to stretch out from the entirety of Ash Vlastvier's body
and even Oliver's heart refuses to beat.

…He's weak and pathetic and he is rooted to his spot just like everyone else,
but Oliver still finds himself voicing out words that serve no purpose other
than to break the overpowering silence with a feeble attempt to placate a wild
monster about to go berserk.

"…It's a trait for those who aren't the strongest," he falters, clears his
throat and tastes warm blood in his tongue, "to overestimate themselves. But
that doesn't mean," he nervously swallows the blood before it threatens to
overwhelm his taste buds, "…uh, it doesn't mean that they're correct in
thinking that they're truly strong."

Eyes focus on his wretched form that can't even stay upright without assistance
from the sturdy metal lockers, and Oliver can almost hear the sizzling of
impatience and hatred coming from his classmates. There's no doubt that they
misunderstood his words as an insult, even though all he wants is for them to
escape from this locker room so that the tragedy doesn't repeat. Judging from
the way a collective sigh of relief propagates around the room, there's also no
doubt that they're misreading the way Ash Vlastvier takes a light step forward,
away from his earlier position of bodily blocking the only escape route.

Oliver almost squeezes his eyes as an innate reaction against painful
experiences, but he commands himself to stay focused, because he's the only one
who can yell at his fellow trainees to start running away, because he's the
only one who can receive the open-palmed hit Ash Vlastvier strikes him with.

It happens in less than a fraction of a second, because there's no such thing
as time slowing down to a standstill when important things are happening.
Oliver attempts to scream at his fellow trainees, to rouse them out of their
fear-induced stupor, but he bites his tongue accidentally when he doubles over
to nurse his aching stomach.

The strikes that rain down on his already-battered form are drenched with an
almost-desperate violence, so Oliver decides to not let out any sounds of
protest or complaints. It's a strange decision, all things considered, since he
doesn't owe Ash Vlastvier anything, since there's no logical explanation behind
wanting to be the one to take on all the viciousness bubbling underneath the
01's hands.

…Oliver then resolves that remaining blissfully ignorant of his surroundings is
really the best way to deal with things, since conscious thoughts are too
troublesome to deal with, stealthily leading him in circles that end in
conclusions that make no sense.

Unlike the tragedy a little over than a month ago, Davy Black disrupts the
proceedings just as Oliver is starting to feel panic at the way his clothes are
acquiring more and more rips with each blow that lands on him. And unlike Davy
Black's usual composed disposition, the 02 pilot now appears fatigued and
frazzled, with his pilot uniform seemingly haphazardly slipped on, the lines on
his forehead deep and prominent.

"Ash Vlastvier, you should stop ruining your image even further, since it just
damages the honor of being a pilot quite thoroughly—"

Oliver easily crumples like a broken rag doll as soon as Ash Vlastvier
relinquishes the unforgiving grip on his left arm. His legs are now like
completely melted gel, shamefully unable to support his weight. A traitorous
thought crosses Oliver's mind as he silently watches Ash Vlastvier transfer his
rough hold to Davy Black's neck instead. Oliver hears snarls and sneers
exchanged between the top two pilots and he thinks (again) that Davy Black is
just like him, in this case, powerless against the exact same oppressor.

…But then Ash Vlastvier doesn't seem like he's interested in relenting in his
pursuit of choking his fellow pilot to death, so Oliver scrambles to sit
upright, to crawl forward, to place himself in harm's way once again just so
the tyrant's attention will shift back to him, just so there's nobody else who
will die ahead of Oliver in the hands of Ash Vlastvier.

"Ash—" and Oliver only hesitates for a split-second, only wavers a little when
saying a name that he hasn't said since their last frenzied encounter, "Ash
Vlastvier—STOP!"

Oliver isn't quite sure on what to do next, after yelling the 01's pilot's name
that he definitely doesn't have the permission to even whisper, but the ground
rumbles almost warningly, and Davy Black twists his neck to fix Oliver a glare
that still looks compelling despite the situation he's in. "I DON'T NEED YOUR
HELP, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

Ash Vlastvier doesn't pay the two of them any mind, and Oliver drags his jelly-
like legs forward, because he's going to stop Ash Vlastvier, even if it means
bodily clinging to a leg or something, even if it means enduring Davy Black's
screams and hatred for the rest of his life.

"I DON'T NEED YOUR PATHETIC ASS TO SAVE ME—!"

The ground, or rather, the entire building shakes again, the lights overhead
blinking in an uncoordinated frenzy. There's a deep grumble that reverberates
from the ground all the way to Oliver's ears, and he almost allows himself to
feel a smidgen of relief at the clash between the top two pilots diffusing
instantly. A low whining sound spills out from the speakers installed around
the headquarters and it's a sound that Oliver has memorized and hoped to never
hear in his entire life.

[CODE 999]
[All pilots are to report to the launching hangar, proceed to launch codes 999-
RED in 120 seconds]
[All staff are to report to their respective 999 positions, proceed to
emergency process flows code 999-RED in 480 seconds]
[All trainees are to report to their respective emergency pads, proceed to
emergency process flows code 999-RED in 480 seconds]
[All civilians are to report to their assigned evacuation centers, proceed to
emergency process flows code 999-RED in 600 seconds]
[CODE 999, ALERT, CODE 999]

Just like that, Ash Vlastvier and Davy Black leave the locker room way beneath
their clearance levels. Just like that, his fellow trainees fall all over
themselves to make their way to their respective emergency pads drilled into
them at least once a month.

Oliver doesn't know anything about the situation outside the headquarters,
because he isn't meant to know anything beyond what is broadcasted by the
government. Everyone shuffles obediently to their assigned locations, even
without knowing anything about the reason for emergency code blasting out of
the speakers. The ground trembles once again, the overhead lights starting to
burst one after another like little supernovas.

…And just like that, Oliver hugs his knees and leans against the rattling metal
lockers, mind shutting down so that he can patiently wait for the emergency
situation to pass, so that he can effectively chase out thoughts that are
somehow connected to wanting to change his current state of helplessness.

•

It's almost dinnertime when Oliver unfolds his knees and attempts to make his
way to the computer labs, the emergency code still singing an undesirable
melody all over the headquarters. Most of the hallways are pitch-black, while
some are in a dizzying limbo of dark and light, since a huge number of the
ceiling lights have already exploded hours ago. He keeps his palm open against
the corridor walls, lets his memory and the infrastructure guide him when his
eyes fail to absorb any reflected light waves in his surroundings.

There are other, nearer, assigned emergency pads aside from the computer labs,
but while he is realistic enough to understand that he can't keep on avoiding
them forever, he also isn't masochistic enough to actively seek his classmates
after he managed to sort-of escape from them. The longer walk should give him
enough time to sort out his thoughts, to put a stop to the continuous replay of
Davy Black's hate-filled screams intermixed with Ash Vlastvier's usual
bloodthirsty eyes, to familiarize himself with the echoes of helplessness that
ripple through his body.

…His thoughts are still in dismaying state of disarray when he enters the empty
computer lab—or rather, a not-so-empty computer lab.

Oliver finds his voice after a full minute of gaping speechlessly.

"Y-Y-Y-Y-Your Majesty, the Highest King!" Oliver doesn't even have time to
think about how ironic it is for him to kneel down and kiss the floor in front
of a king of a different monarchy, doesn't even have time to think past his
body's protests of pain from his injuries, doesn't even have time to worry
about his pathetic appearance while spouting off words that are drilled into
them every single day. "It is my greatest honor to be blessed with your
presence!"

Oliver faintly hopes that there's no hint of bitterness in his words. During
his first trip to Grand Romania nearly twelve years ago, Oliver didn't even
catch a glimpse of The King, even when his first trip wasn't actually the
vacation that his parents told him about, but was actually a deposit of a
political hostage to an enemy country. For so long, Oliver hasn't even met The
King. Oliver doesn't really peg The King as someone who easily waltzes in and
out of commoners' areas.

…A headache is building up underneath his temples, all the facts he knows about
The King spinning together to form unintelligible hypotheses and conclusions.

As though reading his mind, The King stretches out one hand and points it
towards the projector screen in front of the room, and Oliver understands The
King's reason for appearing in front of him.

Suddenly, Oliver's throat is too dry. The pain radiating from his open wounds
and bruising injuries is now pushed to the back of his mind. His dilated eyes
are focused unsteadily to the video projected in front of the computer lab he
has started to view as his only sanctuary.

"Time is precious, I'm sure you understand, so I won't beat around the bush."
The King's voice is gruff with age and experience that his son, Davy Black,
lacks. "I am all too aware of the, ah, peculiar relationship between you and
Ash."

Oliver meets the piercing glare head-on. "He bullies me… a lot."

The King doesn't even bother raising an eyebrow at the response of a commoner.
"You seem to be the only one who can recognize and -well, there isn't a proper
term for this, is there?- reach out to Ash while he's on the Bloody Beast
Mode."

…Bloody Beast Mode?

How appropriate for Ash Vlastvier.

Instead of feeling satisfaction at having gained additional knowledge (—so the
government really is the one behind Ash Vlastvier's transformation, called a
Bloody Beast Mode—) Oliver only feels irritation and a flare of something that
is deeply akin to anger.

"My ex-classmates merely failed to account of changes in hair color and—"

"Ash also seems rather fond of utilizing you as how one would use a stress-
ball, yes?" Disregarding Oliver's responses, The King plows on with his
statements that are likely designed to pin Oliver down into the chopping block.
"And for someone with your strength statistics, you seem to do exceptionally
well in surviving against the very, ah, deadly Ash, hmm?"

Oliver realizes that The King's little message is definitely timed and
practiced, because the scene being projected changes the moment The King
finishes speaking. Oliver doesn't need to continue watching the footage in
order to understand what The King is implying.

"I hate him," from the edge of his eye, Oliver can still see the security
camera's recording of his mouth being devoured by the berserk Ash Vlastvier
while his arm is getting twisted into an impossible position, "and while I
don't presume I can vouch for him, I'm pretty sure he hates me too."

"Pretending to be dumb doesn't quite fit someone as supposedly intelligent as
you, don't you agree?" The King smirks at him as though he is merely playing
along with The King's plans. "I assure you, I'm also very aware that Ash hacked
into the promotion verdict database just so you can move up the ranks."

Oliver heaves a sigh, resisting the urge to run a hand through his blood-matted
hair. It's quite easy to read that The King wants to intimidate him into docile
obedience. It's quite a quick decision to resolve to not give in.

"…What do you want with me then? Since you're so convinced that there's
something that's not quite hate between me and Ash Vlastvier—"

The King's carefully neutral façade breaks into a pleasant smile—a split-second
afterwards, The King's lips curl down in a disgusted snarl, his facial features
transforming into something that is more befitting a King of a country who
wants to destroy everyone else into submission.

"You are nothing. You are just someone thrown away by your own worthless
family. You are just a relic from a kingdom that doesn't even exist anymore.
You are useless." The King's snarl reverts back to his earlier amiable,
friendly smile, though he continues glaring at Oliver. "You will be pleased to
note that I, Cesar Black, in my glorious name, am offering you a position as a
lead scientist in any underground research institute of your choice."

"…Underground, huh?"

Oliver feels the floor beneath his feet sway to the beat of a pendulum's swing.


The King's smile turns wicked. "It won't do for Ash to be seen hanging around
garbage like you. It won't do for Ash to keep on depending on you for stress-
release. It won't do for Ash to think that just because he's our best pilot,
that it's fine for him to continue bending the rules of "THE WEAK SHALL
PERISH", just for your sake!"

Oliver's gaze travels down the King's outstretched arms—one is now pointed
accusingly towards him, while another one is gripping the edge of the
sophisticated-looking teacher's table hard enough for his handprint to imprint
on the table's clear glass surface. The King's composure is now broken into
pieces and Oliver almost wonders about Ash Vlastvier's unique capability of
driving everyone around him crazy.

The King's glare is heavy with impatience, so Oliver hurriedly makes a
decision, and he opens his mouth to answer—

•

It's been a long day—with him getting accosted by his classmates in the locker
room, with him crossing paths with Ash Vlastvier once again, with the Emergency
CODE 999 alarms, with the encounter with Cesar Black in the computer labs—and
Oliver wants to do nothing else but sleep, especially since he has early
lessons tomorrow morning.

…He wants to do nothing but sleep, but he doesn't even try to lie on his back,
doesn't even attempt to savor the privacy of having his own room because nobody
is willing to share a room with the sole survivor of an entire class
'disappearance'. He doesn't even bother keeping his eyes closed since he can't
even see anything in the mandatory lights-off system that starts every midnight
and lasts until morning.

The conditioned air thrums with something akin to electricity, alternating
between lightly caressing and subtly prickling his skin. To say that he's
waiting for something can neither be called an exaggeration nor an expectation.
He isn't waiting. He's simply… postponing sleep, even though he's more than
ready to fall into a slumber. His eyelids are heavy with the weight of an
entire day's worth of activities, an entire year's worth of beatings, and an
entire lifetime's worth of stress.

His wounds are wrapped in three layers of bandages and his twisted ankle is
encased in a corrective plaster mold. From experience, flimsy things like
bandages and plasters aren't enough to deter bullies from injuring him, but
Oliver continues on using them anyway, since there's no point in inviting
bacteria and parasites to enter through the breaks in his skin and kill him
through gangrene or something.

…He isn't waiting.

Nevertheless, Oliver immediately looks up at the person who enters his mostly
empty room at three minutes past three in the morning.

He waits for his unlikely visitor to stand in front of him, waits for a
derisive comment about how he's definitely waiting since he even went to the
trouble of dragging a chair to the middle of the room, placing it directly in
front of the door. But there's only a silent hum of their breathing, so Oliver
allows himself to let out a sigh tinged with forced casualness and genuine
fatigue.

"Don't drip blood all over the room."

It's a belated warning, since there's already a trail of blood that traces Ash
Vlastvier's path from the door to the middle of the room, where Oliver is
seated on his chair. It's also a useless warning, since Ash Vlastvier lets out
a derisive snort that shows just how much he values another person's opinion
about bloodstains on the floor.

"I just figured that if The King has time for lowly idiots like you," and
Oliver doesn't even bother feigning surprise at the fact that Ash Vlastvier is
already informed of The King's little visit, "while he doesn't even bother
showing up to pilot-specific meetings that actually matter…"

Oliver starts to say something, a warning maybe, a reminder that they're still
within Grand Romania's premises and they shouldn't put it past the government
to install surveillance bugs inside dorm rooms of even low-tiered trainees.
Words die in his throat as a handful of clothes gets thrown haphazardly to his
face—parts of the infamous custom uniform that garners the recognition of
belonging to the Grim Reaper himself. It's not readily apparent because all the
lights are turned off and stains don't show up as easily against black fabric,
but Ash Vlastvier's uniform reeks of blood—the same blood that circulates
inside the pilot's veins, the same blood that is still pouring out of the
criss-cross slices decorating Ash Vlastvier's pale back.

"…he doesn't bother showing up because he just doesn't want to see his useless
son in the mission briefings," Ash Vlastvier concludes with an air of finality,
marching towards Oliver's closet as though he's been to this room many times,
as though he is the resident occupying this room. Oliver is loath to admit, but
that's probably true. As The King mentioned earlier, his promotion to a higher
tier isn't based on his merit after all. Everything that has happened to him,
good or bad, has always been caused by Ash Vlastvier in one way or the other.

Oliver sighs helplessly as he stands up and dutifully folds the clothes thrown
to him, all the while watching Ash Vlastvier raid his closet for something that
can fit his taller but slimmer build. He doesn't have the energy to continue
scolding the 01 pilot, even though he has plenty of reasons to (attempt to)
rebuke the other.

The sound of his lamentation irritates Ash Vlastvier easily enough, and before
Oliver can even figure out what's going on, fingers are already wrapped
securely on his throat, squeezing with sufficient strength that can stop his
breathing. Oliver hears his blood sloshing around inside his temples, smells
the sweat blanketing his feverish skin as adrenaline starts coursing his veins
alongside oxygen-cells-blood, tastes the intuitive dread that skitters up and
down his spine.

"Why?"

Why?

What is Ash Vlastvier asking of him?

Oliver shakes his head, attempts to pry the fingers off his throat so he can
suck in some air to alleviate the crushing pain in his lungs. The grip doesn't
budge or slide off and Oliver's chest heaves even more with the effort. His
vision shakes and dims, like a low-budget recording. Ash Vlastvier leans in
close, but even with their abridged distance, Oliver loses sight of the fine
details of the other's face—doesn't see the budding pimple dead center on the
other's forehead, doesn't see the slight depression on the lower left cheek,
doesn't see the bitten-red edge on the lower lip. Despite his blurred eyesight,
he can still vividly see the scarlet eyes and silver-tinged hair, the
characteristics of a monster born from various experiments in attaining more
power.

"Why do you keep on letting people step all over you?" Instead of continuing to
choke Oliver until he turns blue, Ash Vlastvier's hands shift to seize a pair
of trembling shoulders, utilizing unrestricted amount of power that nearly
crushes bones. "Why don't you mind getting defeated? I know you're capable of
rejecting!"

The mention of rejection snaps Oliver out of his dazed staring at Ash
Vlastvier's face.

"I can't be like you." Oliver isn't strong and he doesn't have anything to make
up for the fact that he lacks strength. "I accept things when doing otherwise
complicates things."

Ash Vlastvier shrugs on the acceptable set of clothing that he manages to
unearth from Oliver's closet. The thin fabrics rapidly absorb the blood from
the open cuts and Oliver is almost fascinated to witness spidery flowers bloom
crimson against the white backdrop that is his shirt.

"It's an emergency attack—a sneak attack against the headquarters." Ash
Vlastvier rolls his eyes at the dumbfounded expression that flickers across
Oliver's face. "I'm talking about the CODE 999 earlier, dumbass."

Against all logic, Oliver presses for more details. "From what country—who are
the pilots?—no wait, what SPHEREs did they use?—no that's not it either, did
you kill them?"

"…two units from the United Nation of Nobility," Ash Vlastvier replies after a
moment, seemingly taken aback by the amount of interest Oliver is displaying,
"I didn't bother to remember their SPHEREs or their names. They managed to
escape though, with their tails wagging between their legs."

So the wounds in Ash Vlastvier's back aren't because of the emergency mission,
but are rather due to the ritualistic punishment handed down to pilots who
don't fulfill their missions up to the higher-ups' standards. And judging from
the fact that Ash Vlastvier is knowledgeable about his encounter with The King,
it's also entirely possible a few more whip counts were added because of
Oliver's reply to the invitation to basically fleeing from the headquarters.

Oliver feels his heart rate slowing down from its temporary increase. It's
illogical to feel any worry or anxiety over someone who's already present in
front of his eyes, alive and still unfairly strong despite undergoing a mission
and sporting wounds all over his body. It's ridiculous to waste any brain cells
thinking about what would happen if the attackers succeeded in stealth-bombing
the headquarters, because Grand Romania's main tower is still proudly standing
above the surrounding marsh-like earth. It's all very irrational to be burdened
with uneasiness when the person in front of him is already frowning in
dissatisfaction with their close proximity.

"I hate you," Oliver whispers instead of enunciating the words that bump and
crash against each other inside his head, "I really, truly hate you."

And it's true, because there's a plethora of reasons why Ash Vlastvier is a
being who deserves abhorrence, because there's no other explanation for the
severe headache that plagues him whenever he thinks of the other teen, because
there's no other fitting hypothesis that can explain the spike in his blood
pressure whenever the other is within hearing range.

There's nothing left to explain the way Ash Vlastvier holds him by his
shoulders again, at arms' length.

"The feeling is completely mutual," Ash Vlastvier reaffirms, ascertains that
nothing has changed between them, since earlier today, since almost two months
ago, since five years ago—even though today is the first instance Ash Vlastvier
ventured to Oliver's room, the first time Ash Vlastvier volunteered information
about his missions to anyone outside of the mission briefing meetings, the
first occasion of Oliver finally articulating what he really feels, "because I
hate useless, pathetic cowards like you."

Oliver sighs in relief, smiles the tiniest bit, because hatred is the bridge
connecting the two of them, the emotion grounding Oliver to the harsh reality
of being a weak foreigner who doesn't have anything to his name, the only
remaining constant in his life.

"I hate you," he repeats, because it's a statement that bears repeating.

Ash Vlastvier finally releases his hold the shoulders that have long stopped
shaking, but he doesn't take a step back to widen the gap between the two of
them.

And it doesn't make sense for his heart to skip a couple of beats when the word
'hate' echoes and tumbles around his mind, doesn't make sense because he's
still doing this even though he already said—

•

The end is near.

There are no mandatory-attendance meetings issued for the entire Grand Romania
workforce, no nationwide broadcasts for everyone to see, no staged speeches for
the whole world to witness. Grand Romania's government-owned news stations are
uncharacteristically quiet, yet even so, Oliver understands that the end is
near.

The world is changing, crumbling, bit by bit into irreconcilable pieces.

The process of decay starts with the unforeseen fall of Crew Charroue and his
OPHAN to the hands of the foreboding sky-high Pillar of Despair. Grand Romania
barely manages to contain its excitement at the prospect of Central Tower
losing one of its most powerful pawns. Crew Charroue is the enemy of quite a
number of people—politicians, pilots or plebeians, it doesn't matter—due to his
terrifyingly effective campaign during his much-younger years as The Slayer of
any and all opposing forces. At the same time, Crew Charroue is admired by the
entire world, the sort of admiration that doesn't limit itself to only those
who see him outside of his SPHERE—due to his amazingly powerful charming
nature. People love him, hate him, sometimes both at once, which is plenty of
reason enough to explain the surge of tears and disappointment at the news of
his demise.

It's a sobering experience, since it effectually portrays the truth that power
doesn't last forever. Nobody is invincible, not even the frightening Slayer;
that's why Grand Romania is only too happy to continue investing time, money
and effort into grooming a well-disciplined and insurmountable battle force.

The compressed-and-recycled air is heavy and oppressive, hanging around his
shoulders like huge metal clamps. Oliver appreciates the silence, but there's
something sinister that weaves in and out of the lulls of noiselessness.

Soon enough, the uncanny silence breaks; a female classmate approaches him and
matches his light footsteps, accompanying him on his longwinded walk back to
his quarters. Oliver recognizes her, vaguely, from the classes that he mostly
missed because of his trips to the infirmary, from the bullying sessions that
are the driving force behind his confinement in the medical wing of the
headquarters. There's no scent of loathing wafting around her though, so it's
unlikely that she's walking with him to steer his path to lead him to a place
where he will get beaten up.

Oliver places a hand over the biometrics-enabled doorknob. He half-turns to
regard his classmate who is wordlessly standing behind him. He's not quite sure
how to handle people who don't display outright animosity towards him. He
faintly wonders if it's proper to just leave her outside his room, since
inviting her inside breaches some sort of understanding he's established with
himself.

He is spared the trouble of thinking of what to say though, for his female
classmate breaks the silence willingly, confidently. "Will you be my
boyfriend?"

Oliver feels his mouth go dry. Of course, a love confession is supposedly a
valid reason for following someone back to his residential quarters, but the
person in front of him doesn't love him, that much he's sure of. He doesn't
love her too, because she's one of those girls who prefer to be far away from
where the bullying is happening, who prefer to taunt and chortle at him from
behind a layer of other trainees. He doesn't even know her name, though he's
certain that she knows of his.

"It's because I'm getting the special promotion, isn't it?"

From the way her cheeks flush pink and her eyebrows draw together in
indignation, Oliver is inclined to think that it's a bulls-eye.

"Of course it's because of your special promotion," a gruff voice slices
through the thick air and the confession-that's-not-really-a-confession,
"there's just no way chicks will dig you otherwise."

His classmate's pink cheeks blush an even deeper color and Oliver thinks that
that's what love looks like: overwhelmingly foolish and utterly obvious and
illogically empowering. The sight of her love-struck schoolgirl antics only
cements Oliver's belief that Ash Vlastvier really drives people crazy.

"You have impeccable timing as usual," Oliver mutters in a tone that relates
how he doesn't think it's dignified for Ash Vlastvier to start keeping tabs on
him. A side-glance to his classmate tells him that he can be rude to the 01
pilot all he wants and she won't even notice, since she's so entranced by Ash
Vlastvier's presence.

Apparently her enchanted trance also extends to her self-preservation, as she
also fails to notice the way her heart is already, quite literally, pierced by
Ash Vlastvier.

…That's apparently the worth of a life: one flick of sword-sharp hands. She
crumples to the ground right in front of Oliver's door, bleeding profusely from
the hole on her heart. Oliver thinks that it's bothersome to clean human-sized
trash, especially since it's now bodily blocking his dorm door. Explaining this
to the higher-ups will also be troublesome.

"There's no point in killing a girl who didn't do anything wrong aside from
having ridiculous affections," Oliver is aware that relaying words of complaint
is already useless at this point. But the fact that there's already a corpse
waiting to be cleaned up doesn't mean that Oliver's words are false. "It's true
that she's greatly misled by the prospect of my accelerated promotion, but—"

"…I'm not in a good mood," words of warning sound alien when they come from Ash
Vlastvier, "so I suggest that you shut the fuck up."

Oliver's knee-jerk reaction is to follow the other pilot's suggestion, and
that's when he notices the mission folders in Ash Vlastvier's other, not-bloody
hand. Oliver forgets to breathe, the subsequent lack of oxygen blurring his
mind and eyesight.

The end is near.

Grand Romania is probably spurred on by the way Central Tower is starting to
lose its grip on the number one country position. Oliver isn't courageous by
any means, that's why he thinks that it's better to wait for more Central Tower
pilots to fall before they launch a decisive attack, just so their victory is
ensured. But judging from the way Ash Vlastvier's left arm is covered in
bandages, inferring from the way Ash Vlastvier's frown is deep-set on his face,
surmising from the way Ash Vlastvier is gripping the thick mission
folders—Grand Romania is already raring to go against the most powerful
country.

…The end is near.

"In two months, in November, they're sending me against Central Tower's 01,"
Ash Vlastvier offers the information after two minutes of tense silence. Oliver
doesn't reach out for the mission folders that are off-limits to a mere trainee
like him, even though the curiosity and the need to know are gnawing at his
stomach.

…Central Tower's 01 pilot—isn't that Rei? Aside from the Slayer, there's one
other Central Tower pilot whose name is well-known even to the civilians
underground. Rei rarely fights against weaker opponents, against pilots that
aren't ranked within the top three, but when he does get involved in a fight…

Oliver feels his throat tighten.

"You should be excited for the fight, no?" Ash Vlastvier walks past him,
clearly not interested in helping clean the mess he made, flippantly talking
about a battle that only has one outcome as though it's no big deal, "…after
all, even this country's ambitious engineers only project a 9% chance of
survival for me."

Ash Vlastvier is already the strongest person in this country.

But Grand Romania wants to pit him against the strongest monster of the
strongest country.

There's no doubt in Oliver's mind that the bandages in Ash Vlastvier's arm are
covering needle entry points for whatever drugs they want to test on him, for
whatever experiments they need to perform on him. There's also no doubt that
Rei will completely annihilate Ash Vlastvier alongside his AETHER once the two
of them face each other. There's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier will end up as
part of Rei's perfect statistics of victory that always entail absolute
destruction.

There's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier will perish.

In two months, Ash Vlastvier will die in Rei's hands.

"…I'm looking forward to it," Oliver agrees numbly, but irrationally, his mind
is a suffocating blank.

•

Oliver writes 'October 02 of AC 686' on the top line of his data logbook,
before taking a sip from his smoldering-hot cup of coffee. The burst of
caffeine awakens and energizes his much-frazzled nerves. He adds a bite of some
hastily-made tuna sandwich to his breakfast meal of-sorts; he actually isn't
sure if it's appropriate to consider it a breakfast meal, since his sense of
time has completely melted and decayed while he's inside his little fortress.

Glass windows are covered with thick noise-blocking, light-absorbing curtains;
the one door to his room is barricaded with his unmade bed. He hasn't stepped
out of his dorm room in a week, not even to grab a bite from the cafeteria, not
even to attend the pilot training lessons, not even to appear in front of the
Trainee Promotion Committee to defend his stance of rejecting his mid-year
promotion to the next tier. He doesn't plan to set a foot out of his room until
November and he took great pains in order to arrange for his confinement here.

His back still burns whenever he leans against his chair or whenever his
clothes shift against his charred flesh. It's a risky gamble in order to bully
the doctors into giving him a long sick leave; high risks accompany higher
gains. His burnt back also serves to deter him from sleeping and consequently
forcing him to stay awake and do something. Oliver likes to think of it as a
win-win situation, even though he knows he's merely fooling himself.

In any case, he's now quite sure that Ash Vlastvier is right to call him a
masochist.

***

'October 10 of AC 686' is scribbled hastily on a new data logbook—the old one
is both too worn-down and crumpled for any more data to make sense. There's a
cup of stale coffee beside the logbook; the half-finished sandwich beside it is
at least a day old. The study desk is filled with notebooks in varying states
of shabbiness, pens and markers of different colors scattered around in an
organized chaos.

There's a small, blinking locking device attached to the door; the bed that
once acted as a barricade against unwanted visitors is now cushion-less and
placed directly beside the study desk, already housing all three computers that
Oliver owns. Underneath the bed lies a forest of intertwined wires and power
adapters, kept cool by a ventilator attached to the metal frame of the bed.

All of Oliver's belongings that aren't paper or electronics or project-related
are shoved to the far-left side of the room, where his closet is located.
Oliver rarely ventures to that side of his room, since he is almost-stuck to
being cross-seated on the floor in front of his bare bed, eyes glued to his
computer screens.

Computer 1 is the personal computer that houses his human voice program; it's
now relegated into being the data-recording computer since he's a bit paranoid
in retaining his data in both soft and hard copies. Computer 2 is a bulkier,
more powerful computer where his current project software is running algorithms
and computations non-stop, a stream of equations and numbers filling its
screen. Computer 3 is dedicated to capturing feeds from the security cameras
installed all over headquarters; he's not brave enough to hack into all the
security cameras—he simply keeps track of the important places: like the spot
right outside his room, the computer laboratory that he frequents, his assigned
training classroom, the launch hangar, a certain room and the place right
outside Ash Vlastvier's room.

He disables the clock display on all his computers; he merely keeps the date
tracker. He's working towards a deadline, an important deadline, so any time
aside from that deadline is meaningless to him.

***

'October 14 of AC 686' is written with the grace of a delinquent toddler, the
handwriting barely legible as Oliver rubs his eyes with a free hand, stress-
hunger-fatigue-anxiety rolling and stretching and strangling him with each
breath he makes. The air inside his room smells like sweat flavored with
desperation and he makes an effort to trudge to his closet and change clothes.

He instantly regrets the action, since approaching his closet means seeing the
neatly-folded uniform that rests on top of his clothes. It's a uniform that he
knows won't fit him, an all-black color that seems almost breathtaking once
worn by its owner. Oliver takes another shuddering breath and changes his
clothes, bypassing the too-skinny outfit and reaching for a pair of clothes
that is exactly the same as the one he's discarding.

Images and numbers dance across his computer screens and Oliver thinks that he
wants everything to work out. He grimaces when he carelessly puts on his flimsy
shirt, his back protesting with the rough contact of textile against tender,
healing skin. His thin bed-cushion is now covered with stacks of print-outs,
but it's starting to look appealing to his sleep-deprived mind. Another quick
glance to the all-black uniform immediately sobers him up though, and Oliver
utters a curse as he realizes (once again) that he really is a hopeless,
pathetic person.

***

'October 22 of AC 686' is displayed on the lower right edge of the video feed
from camera 228C-13F. Oliver faintly hears voices from the live feed, loud and
grating complaints about the back-breaking training lesson for today, followed
by an abundance of gossip topics that range from the mundane to the brain-
melting. His ears perk up a little when he catches mention of his name,
followed by speculations about his rejected promotion and his sudden medical
absence, even though nobody from their class has accosted him lately.

It's harmless, pointless gossip, but Oliver momentarily panics. He's been very
careful in his steps and actions, but there's always a chance that even the
most perfect plans go awry. He only releases the breath he doesn't know he's
holding when the classmates in the monitor change their topic to so-and-so's
crush on their current trainer.

Oliver doesn't quite understand why Grand Romania is eager to send Ash
Vlastvier to his certain demise, but judging from the way they planned this
mission since the beginning of the year, it's entirely possible that this is
really meant to be a suicide mission. Rei, Crew Charroue and Ash Vlastvier are
the only three pilots who possess the one hundred percent mission completion
rate; with Crew Charroue out of the picture, it's now a clear match between the
two 01 pilots of the strongest and weakest country. Grand Romania is most
likely planning for Ash Vlastvier's defeat to drag Rei down with him. And
judging from their insistence for the battle to take place near the Central
Tower Headquarters, Ash Vlastvier's defeat will most probably trigger a self-
destruct command on AETHER, which in turn can start a chain reaction of
explosions that can destroy the enemy's headquarters.

He forgets how to breathe for a few minutes, momentarily forgetting how to stay
alive. He stands up shakily after he regains his breathing rhythm, drinks the
bland-tasting coffee and finishes a sandwich in just one bite. He doesn't have
time to laze around or think about strategies, because he doesn't have any time
left.

***

'October 29 of AC 686' is Davy Black's birthday. The date flashes on the
computer screens for a brief moment. As an heir to the Grand Romania's royal
family and as a son of The King, Davy Black is surrounded by Very Important
People and is watched by Not So Important Commoners. Nevertheless, social
standing doesn't quite matter as people from all walks of life are invited, or
mandated rather, to attend the celebration party for the young pilot.

The date flashes again on the computer screens, but there's nobody inside the
stuffy room to disable the notifications.

Computer 3's screen displays the feed from camera 194X-92F: a scuffle of
movement as a person wearing a suspicious black hood darts around the launch
hangar.

***

Oliver scribbles 'October 31 of AC 686' on the final page of his final
notebook, moments before the date notification for 'November 1' appears on his
computer screens. His freshly-bandaged back still stings, but it's numb and
dull compared to the insistent throbbing of his chest. His room is already
rearranged to what it looked like before the month of October arrived.

Computer 1 is back to being the voice software database, Computer 2 is wrapped
with bloodstained bandages, while Computer 3 is unplugged from the power
socket.

"I'm finally done," Oliver says his first words for the month.

[...You're really hopeless.]

And Oliver is fine with that.

•

Select security cameras are now disabled; that's why Oliver is able to make his
way out of the Main Assembly Hall without catching the attention of the guards
on duty.

Every single Grand Romania citizen is riveted to their screens, where one of
the government's representatives is rattling out some facts and statistics
about how AETHER is improved and remodeled in order to render the previously-
collected data unusable. The citizens—whether they hail from the underground
cities or from the towering above-ground headquarters—are all required to bear
witness to another milestone in Grand Romania's glorious history. There's no
doubt that military personnel and teenage pilots from the other countries are
watching the highly-publicized match through their own illegal channels,
because this is an important moment in determining whether Central Tower is
still powerful enough to defend its honor.

The entire world is focused on the high-profile mission, so Oliver takes the
chance to slip out unnoticed. He hopes against hope that his plan will proceed
smoothly. They say that the first step is usually the hardest, though he is
painfully aware that that's not true at all. Every single step in his plan, in
his project, is extremely difficult, with great risks and severe punishments
awaiting his failure. The Grand Romania government is unusually fond of
mandatory broadcasts; he doesn't even want to ponder about his penalty if he's
caught shirking on his duty as a citizen to watch the proceedings.

With little time to spare, he manages to reach his initial destination: the
computer laboratory that houses high-level computers that are supposedly off-
limits to mere low-tier trainees like him.

He disables the blinking security device attached to the front table, before
sliding its desk drawers open. The three computers he prepared the day before
are there waiting for him: computers 1 and 3 both encased in their respective
laptop boxes; computer 2 wrapped in bloodstained bandages and is further
encased in an airtight container.

Methodologically, he sets up computers 1 and 3 underneath the front table,
kneeling against the cold, hard floor so that nobody can even catch a glance of
his overgrown brown hair or the black wires sticking out. He activates a
separate voice recognition software on the first computer and enables its wide-
range signal recognition. Computer 3 boots up to a dedicated server of the
program he spent an entire month creating from scratch. He makes sure that
there are no bugs before he connects the two computers together, before
connecting the two computers to the local network within the computer lab.
There's a nearly inaudible beep that signifies an established connection and
that's when Oliver forgets to breathe again.

He can't see the broadcast from here, but he thinks that it's just about time
that Ash Vlastvier is approaching enemy territory.

Oliver regains his bearings and he almost trips as he hastens to the nearest
lab computer. He opens it by pushing the power button a little too forcefully,
but that little blunder doesn't matter because the start-up system is being
overridden by the new software he created on Computer 3, and it only takes a
minute before all fifty computers inside the laboratory are open and running
the requested sequences by his program. His biggest hurdle in this project is
getting a computer powerful enough to be on par with a supercomputer, but
distributing the burden amongst many computers in a lightning-fast network can
compensate for the lack of a supercomputer of his own.

…In any case, he's done with the first phase here.

***

His next stop is quite tricky; reaching the top floor without getting caught by
roaming military personnel and by the surveillance cameras is nothing short of
impossible. The tiny, imperceptible electronic bug that he attaches to the
elevator panel overrides the access codes needed to reach the 92nd floor. He
sneaks into the dimly-lit launch hangar with only his Computer 2 in his hands,
still wrapped in preserved bloodstained bandages. Bringing very little as he
moves around is ideal for someone as clumsy and feeble as him.

Nonetheless, he's able to breathe a little easier once he manages to finish
attaching a couple of untraceable palm-sized devices to certain parts of the
new launch hangar. He doesn't have much time to spare, since there's no doubt
that Ash Vlastvier's mission against Rei is already starting.

True to his suspicions and proven by the security feeds he managed to get and
extract from the staff milling in and out of the launch hangars for the past
couple of weeks: Grand Romania indeed plans to activate a self-destruct command
on AETHER's systems the moment Rei is posed to deliver the finishing blow.
AETHER's self-destruct system is configured to explode and scatter a certain
wavelength that's calculated to affect the surrounding architecture,
effectively bringing about the destruction of Central Tower from one sacrificed
knight.

…Oliver grits his teeth as he realizes that the most important part of his plan
isn't in the new launch hangar as he predicted. Of course, his prediction has a
margin of error of 50%, so he really doesn't have a right to be surprised. His
prediction is based on a 50-50 probability of the device getting transferred to
the old launch hangar that is now remodeled to a military research pod. He does
have enough time allotted to rush downstairs to the near-ground level, but his
irritation is more focused on the fact that he didn't manage to be absolutely
certain about his data. It's still acceptable to commit mistakes now, but once
he moves forward in his plan, there's absolutely no room for error.

He keeps his head bowed down painfully low as he makes a beeline to return to
the elevator, slightly paranoid that one of the remaining enabled cameras will
somehow catch a glimpse of his face. Messing around with military property is
definitely punishable by death, and he can't afford to die yet, not when his
project is only half-way done, not when he's still not even sure why he's
pushing forward with his project anyway.

***

It doesn't sound appealing when he looks at it that way: Electronic Domination
Program. Nevertheless, those words are the ones that appear once he boots up
his Computer 2, the cool laptop resting on his crossed legs.

The floors he's seating on is blanketed by a thin layer of dust despite getting
meticulously cleaned and surveyed by cleaner robots that don't possess the
impatience and laziness of human cleaners. His legs are covered by his pants
though the metal floors don't come across any difficulty in sharing the
freezing temperature via breaching the thin fabric of his government-issued
clothing. He stifles a sneeze and a shiver that threatens to overwhelm his
senses and snatch away his concentration. Headquarters is allegedly completely
unaffected by the moody weather changes outside, but Oliver can easily feel the
cool winter winds seeping inside the microscopic cracks in the foundation and
walls.

He supposes that maybe the cooler temperature is also caused by the proximity
to the ground level, where the atmospheric effects are more evident. After all,
the impregnable fortress, Castles of Nevermore, is simply a few kilometers
away. That eerie-looking castle of absolute defense looks foreboding and is
almost-always almost-completely covered with a thick mist not commonly found in
the earth of today. Maybe having that creepy castle nearby is contributing to
the chill that crawls up and down Oliver's spine.

Following a made-up beat, Oliver taps his fingers against the dusty floor,
forcing impatience away from his thoughts. Computer 2's connection is running a
little slow, even with hijacked bandwidth capabilities of all the processors
inside the computer lab. It's still within acceptable performance values
though; everything just feels irritatingly slower and bumpier now that he's
waiting for the visuals of the hacked video feeds to load.

His breath catches when he finally sees the events unfolding from thousands of
kilometers away: sees Rei's SERAPH perform a godly pirouette that perfectly
avoids all the missiles launched at him—watches AETHER execute a series of
cartwheels that slice the distance separating the two giant SPHEREs and land a
non-critical blow against SERAPH's outstretched right wing—witnesses Ash
Vlastvier be so utterly average and harmlessly ordinary in the face of someone
with even whiter hair and even crazier attacks.

The interface of his prototype program blinks incessantly in order to remind
him of the order of things he needs to present in order to grant him complete
access to the military files and to the controls of every single artillery and
SPHERE stored inside Grand Romania's territory. He takes out a sheet of clear
plastic-like paper from between his laptop's monitor and keyboard; in it is a
copy of The King's handprint, ten fingerprints blown up and fixed to minimize
blurriness. He doesn't really need to input the other biometric data he has
with him, but he supposes that it doesn't hurt to be more paranoid about these
types of things. He clicks the onscreen option to include more identification
samples, before shoving one end of the bloodstained bandages for sample,
fingerprint and DNA identification.

His Electronic Domination Program prototype is still having a hard time not
crashing every thirty minutes, but he has nothing else with him now. His
software's interface fades away almost completely into the background, as his
foremost display is the actual government main page portal. Controlling Grand
Romania's moves will be extremely easy now, a few budget allocation changes
here and there, followed by a rejection of the purchase for more raw materials
from the underground (vagabond) dealers.

But that's not what he's here for.

He calculates the distance between Headquarters and the magma-mountains
swallowing the giant footsteps of AETHER and SERAPH. It will take ten minutes
to reach that place, even with a supersonic missile.

Oliver takes a deep breath and—

***

It's flying.

…He's flying.

—They're flying.

***

Transparent, strengthened glass screens enclose the cockpit area of Central
Tower's ace SPHERE. A confident handicap offering from Central Tower's best
pilot, as though letting opponents and enemy countries observe the way fingers
glide smoothly over keyboard controls is tantamount to barely anything at all.
The shamelessly amused grin is permanently etched on Rei's face as he continues
commanding his unit to bombard AETHER with well-timed blows and homing
missiles.

It's flying.

Like the predatory hawks preserved in the underground zoological laboratories,
it circles around the area like a ravenous beast eyeing its plump prey.

Buried deep within abnormally-high security levels and labels of confidential
documents, is the information that links Grand Romania with the discovery of
its own, non-stolen, SPHERE blueprint. To Oliver's knowledge, there are only
six blueprints available in the entire world; it seems that the countries have
really been keeping information from fellow countries and from its own
citizens. International politics don't really interest him, but the blueprint
he managed to catch a glimpse of is a transformation blueprint, undoubtedly an
important military resource. It's just a couple of pages filled with straight
lines and long numbers, but it's something that made Grand Romania well-known
in the entire world for its sudden ascent into a major superpower.

It's just a few pages of data, a couple of megabytes' worth of information, but
it's the object fueling Oliver's plan now.

…It's flying.

The result of his month-long effort is currently encircling the atmospheric
zone directly above the two battling SPHEREs, the distance and the device's
size calculated to favor stealth and mobility. None of the SPHERE sensors and
alarm systems resounds once the device starts flying low enough to be spotted
easily.

AETHER's right arm's armor is already completely stripped from the machine's
mainframe, exposing the cables and super-alloys intertwined underneath. Ash
Vlastvier appears like an average person now, trapped inside the all-black
unit's broken armors and shredded bullets. The world's eyes are focused on this
mission, spy cameras from around the globe hovering from a safe distance,
recording every single thing that happens in the fight. Oliver doesn't doubt
for a moment that Grand Romania isn't showing this mission real-time, since
they need time to edit the footage to suit their agenda.

There's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier is losing completely against Rei.

—It's really flying.

SERAPH's wings stretch out like a yawning phoenix, shimmering in silver and
gold underneath the watchful eyes of the brittle world. The air hums with
repressed power, crackling like a summer thunderstorm about to ignite a forest
fire that will engulf the world whole. The clouds start to grumble and whine,
weather changes that react to the sheer amount of energy gathering around
SERAPH's wings.

SERAPH is about to launch an attack, its signature attack, and there's always
been a one hundred percent casualty rate for the unfortunate people who have
been faced with that attack.

Oliver catches his breath as the supersonic flight's effects grip him by his
neck and his gut.

There's no doubt that—

***

He's flying.

Oliver isn't even sure of the exact order of events.

He just knows that he did prepare a thousand micro-bombs before he arrived in
this desolate, magma-seething place that is the border between the strongest
and weakest country. He just knows that he did load those micro-bombs to the
carriage pad of the supersonic jet plane he hightailed from the military
research pod. He just knows that he did double over and coughed his guts out as
soon as he started performing synchronization with the jet plane.

…He's flying.

The Electronic Domination Program he developed isn't perfect, but it's
extremely useful for situations like the one he's currently in.

With a synchronization rate as dead-last as his, there's no way he can coax a
huge, complicated lump of metal, alloys and gunpowder into following his
thoughts. With a physical and genetic make-up as foreign as his, there's
absolutely no way he can remove the restrictions and avail permission to head
out of the headquarters. With someone as weak as him, there's just no way he
can be of any help to the loss that Ash Vlastvier is trapped in.

With help from his newly developed software though, he is able to quickly and
efficiently command the robots standing guard in the launch hangar into
following the steps in his carefully constructed plan. He is also able to
override security settings regarding the unlocking of the artillery, as well as
obtaining access to the launching sequence codes. Someone as pathetic as him is
now suddenly capable of doing things others cannot, just because he spent
enough time in front of his computer, just because he suddenly can't visualize
a world that is devoid of the tormentor he has longed wished to disappear.

—He's really flying.

Oliver's eyes focus on the readings of his jet plane's oxygen and atmospheric
pressure levels, as he inputs the command code necessary for his jet plane to
descend from its hiding place in the upper stratosphere, and descend to the
magma-hot ground.

***

They're flying.

Micro-bombs escape from their tiny holding spaces, rolling out of the carriage
pad and scattering into the throat-burning atmosphere. Grand Romania developed
them to unleash a wide-range smokescreen that can effectively disable both
particle-based and wavelength-based way of visual tracking; Oliver's additional
software imprint into them commands the barely-visible bombs to release a
specific set of interference waves that can cripple data transfer between the
spy cameras here and their recipients.

Oliver is strapped to the jet plane's pilot seat, but his eyes are focused on
the computer screen on his lap rather than the smoke-covered surroundings shown
in his front display screens. His fingers are already partly numb, since it's
been a few hours since he has started typing non-stop. He knows he can't stop
though, because even pausing for a second while entering coordinates and
command lines can easily cost him not only his own life, but also Ash
Vlastvier's. It's a foreign feeling: having someone's life resting on one's
shoulders, no matter how one-sided the commitment is.

…They're flying.

Ultimately though, the opponent is Central Tower's number one pilot equipped
with its strongest SPHERE.

SERAPH is already diverting a portion of its energy into dispersing the heavy
smoke settling uncomfortably in the surroundings; there's a tell-tale glow of
energy pulsing around SERAPH's outstretched wings.

Oliver is rarely confident in things that are linked to his existence.
Nevertheless, he believes in the hours of sleep he lost in favor of tinkering
around the software he developed, he believes that there's no way his effort in
keeping someone else alive will be in vain. He opens another command line
window in his laptop, quickly typing strings of numbers, coordinates and
equations that all lead to the future of SPHERE function ceasing momentarily.

The future that he's aiming for falls into his hands the moment he hits the
'Enter' key on his keyboard. The two gigantic machines grappling for victory
both obediently stutter to a halt, and Oliver takes that chance to establish a
bridge between his jet plane's now-empty carriage pad and AETHER's cockpit. His
laptop's command line is then filled with instructions on how to extract the
cockpit from the ruined SPHERE without jostling the possibly-injured pilot
inside. Oliver suppresses the urge to leave his seat and personally make sure
that the connecting cables don't coil around the cockpit too roughly—it's a
peculiar worry… probably just an odd delusion concocted by his oxygen-deprived
mind.

Extraction process is at seventy-nine percent and Oliver snatches a close-up
glance of SERAPH and its glass-fragile appearance that belies its terrifying
strength. His gaze immediately gravitates to the silver hair that is similar to
the color that Ash Vlastvier possesses now. Oliver should be the only one who
can distinctly recognize shapes and movement amidst the smokescreen he set up,
but Rei is staring straight at him, as though his gray eyes can easily
eliminate the barriers imposed on them. Oliver shivers despite himself, his
cowardice crawling up his legs and arms, his human instinct screaming at him to
hurry up and leave this dangerous place.

Oliver is the one in-charge of the situation, just as he's the one who
unhesitatingly fires a round of close-contact missiles towards SERAPH, but he's
also the one who feels like his life is in grave danger. He presses the bridge
ejection button a tad too forcefully once the extraction process hits the one
hundred percent completion status. He doesn't spare a glance back to the smoke-
filled environment he's running away from, because he's sure that he'll lose
his mind if he links gazes with that monstrous Rei once again.

—They're really flying.

The two most unlikely duo—the epitome of strength and the embodiment of
weakness—are flying away from the mission that the entire world wants to
witness from beginning to end—together.

•

The pendulum that swings to the beat of Oliver's miserable life is now
repaired, now devoid of any unexplainable accelerations, now free of all
unforeseen troughs.

Grand Romania continues to pine for the throne that belongs to the world's most
powerful organization, disregarding any irrelevant things like Ash Vlastvier
ridiculously making it back to the headquarters even though his SPHERE is now
crushed into pieces after Rei's childish tantrum at losing his prey.
Recruitment of aspiring pilots proceeds at an alarming pace, probably because
the government is eager to fill the positions left behind by the trainees who
unfortunately stumble upon the landmine filled with Ash Vlastvier's berserk
buttons. Proposed plans for building another tower beside the current
headquarters are filling the gossip time of trainees and staff members milling
around the hallways that somehow feel a little more cramped lately.

Everything falls back to the normal flow of time, events locking into each
other as a concept of inevitability, everyone moves towards the same path as
before.

Oliver remembers re-watching the footage that Grand Romania propagated across
the country's television screens: Ash Vlastvier's complete and utter defeat
somehow morphs into a stalemate with Rei; AETHER's absolute annihilation in
SERAPH's hands somehow transforms into a heroic sacrifice in order to save a
human's life. The broadcast is filtered by bias and ambition, but Oliver is
somewhat okay with it, since he's not really looking forward to having his
involvement with the supposed-to-be-suicide-mission and with Ash Vlastvier's
unexpected return to be revealed to anyone else.

He's not even sure if Ash Vlastvier is aware that he's the one behind that out-
of-character rescue; Oliver is fine with the uncertainty hanging over his head,
because he doesn't have any acceptable means of confirming the truth.

The December winds are sharper, Oliver observes. He presses his left ear
against the strengthened glass windows separating the empty training room from
the outside air. Uncoordinated pounding resumes from the other side of the
glass, making him wonder if the irritable outside atmosphere is really meant to
be treated as something untouchable, as something to be wary of. He's still
reeling from his sudden desire to go out and sacrifice himself in order to save
someone he wants gone; he's still teeming with the desire to do something that
can make him temporarily forget that he's utterly useless.

Training rooms found in the lower floors lack windows that can chill the
optimism and drive of trainees who want to go out of the headquarters aboard
SPHEREs. The training room Oliver is occupying at the moment is opened by the
electronic signals emitted from his laptop, still equipped with the Electronic
Domination Program. This is Oliver's new fortress, a place where he can sigh
and contemplate his actions in peace.

He hasn't seen Ash Vlastvier since that day when he dumped the jet plane on the
docking hangar, released the controls and left Ash Vlastvier with his untreated
wounds to make it appear as though Ash Vlastvier reached Grand Romania by his
own perseverance.

That might explain why he's actually making an effort to stay away from
potential bullies—he's inexplicably waiting for Ash Vlastvier to show up and he
never appears once he's already in the infirmary.

Oliver stifles a snort at that thought.

He's growing sick, he supposes, with thoughts of Ash Vlastvier. He's becoming
affected by the other man's presence and it's something that he doesn't want to
happen.

He doesn't want it to ever happen.

He doesn't—

"—I'll give you superiority."

—Isn't it unfortunate indeed?

"…What are you talking about?" Oliver asks after a few heartbeats, his voice
pinched with a mixture of worry and relief. It's completely absurd, to feel the
slightest twinge of relief at the sight of Ash Vlastvier looking the same as
always: mean-faced, tight-lipped, stiff-backed.

"As payment," Ash Vlastvier drawls the words out in slow syllables, tone dyeing
the words tar with venom, "for your daring rescue."

"I just didn't want you to—"

—To what? Oliver doesn't even fully understand his own actions, so he has no
business justifying himself to the other teen. Oliver doesn't even comprehend
why his logical reasoning can't quite match his unexpected actions. Oliver's
pretty sure that he doesn't enjoy breathing the same air as the other, but he
still didn't want Ash Vlastvier to—?

"Shove it." Ash Vlastvier enters a code at the security device attached near
the doorway; the device's lights change from solid green to flashing red. Ebony
black walls descend to cover the view from outside, effectively sealing the
room. The overhead lights' brightness remain the same, but the surrounding
darkness gives off the feeling of decreased luminosity. It's a peculiar
feeling: to be physically enclosed in so much dimness. "I have no interest in
your reasoning."

"…I know."

"—you know?" Ash Vlastvier looks like he bit off his tongue or something
equally unpleasant. "You, of all the idiotic people, know?!"

"That's right." Oliver doesn't think he's right, but what else can he say? "I
know you don't care for my reasons. But I want you to know that I only did that
because—"

…Because what?

Oliver bites his lip, creating an awkward silence that chafes against his
exposed skin. He isn't any closer to understanding his own mind than a few
minutes ago, so there's no reason in continuing to bring up his inexplicable
actions. Shouldn't he be more worried about committing a crime against the
country anyway? He's quite certain that there's a lofty punishment awaiting
people who foolishly attempt to steal military resources for personal usage.
Shouldn't he be more concerned about his willingness to spend a month without
much sleep for the sake of a person who doesn't even rank within the bounds of
humanity?

"…Because this world will collapse if you disappear." Oliver is somewhat loathe
to be a part of a country that will snowball into failure once its ace pilot is
kicked out of the picture, but it's the truth. Grand Romania officials may be
blind to the sheer importance of Ash Vlastvier's presence to the success of
their military campaigns, but Oliver can see it clearly: the outstretched lines
that radiate out of Ash Vlastvier's present, lines of fate that extend long
into the unknown future. "That's why I saved you from SERAPH."

"You're using such heroic words, aren't you?" Ash Vlastvier's lips twist into
something ugly, a visible sign of disdain and scorn. His too-pale skin appears
even paler under the overhead lights, surrounded by so much blackness, and it
gives Oliver a headache trying to look at the other directly. Oliver averts his
eyes from the sight of Ash Vlastvier looking as cool as a block of ice even
though he's clearly seething already. "Aren't you being too conceited,
trainee?"

Ash Vlastvier told him, many weeks ago, that he is capable of rejection.

"I was merely rejecting an outcome that I disliked." Oliver blurts out in a
rush of tangled words that somehow sounded smoother than he anticipated. He's
not very sure why, but it's important that Ash Vlastvier understands that
there's nothing else to talk about—he simply acted on a sheer whim, isn't that
fine already? "That's all there is to it."

Frustration looks fascinating layered atop Ash Vlastvier's face—it's one of the
few expressions that bring a humane sparkle to those death-cold crimson irises.
For a fleeting moment, Oliver feels an immense relief wash over him.

He isn't wrong to save Ash Vlastvier. He isn't wrong to charge in the middle of
a fight between two titans. He isn't wrong to commit a huge, risky gamble that
could have gotten him killed.

He isn't wrong.

"You hate me." Ash Vlastvier takes slow, confident steps towards him. Oliver
backs away from the approaching pilot, retreats until his back meets with a
cool glass window. "But you want my superiority, my standing—everything I
have."

Oliver doesn't. Not really. But he doesn't have the courage to admit that he
dislikes the way Ash Vlastvier wields his power and supremacy, to deny that he
wants to rob Ash Vlastvier of everything he has.

"I don't—"

"I'll give you power," Ash Vlastvier promises almost sweetly, cloying words
wrapping around the two of them as they stand close to one another, reminding
Oliver that he doesn't really have much choice when it comes to his own fate,
"and then—"

***

Oliver supposes it can be misconstrued as something sweet. It's almost as if
Ash Vlastvier has learned how to be considerate, in that he even informed
Oliver of what he's going to do, as though there's any chance in the world that
Oliver had the ability to issue a viable protest. It's almost as if Ash
Vlastvier has learned to do things for the sake of someone else, in that he
claimed that his actions are going to benefit Oliver, as though Ash Vlastvier
actually needs a reason to go on a rampage against people he doesn't consider
worthwhile anyway.

—Grand Romania's size and geographical location both limit the amount of
natural resources it can siphon out of the brittle earth, which in turn
restricts the quantity of SPHEREs they can produce, which consequently affect
the number of pilots they can approve for promotion to the highest tier. The
government is tripling its efforts regarding the production of more SPHEREs, so
that they can increase the number of pilots from the current five.

Without care for the country's revolutionary plans, Ash Vlastvier easily
slaughters everyone who possesses the government-approved pilot tags.

***

Corpses of pilots and back-up pilots are neatly lined together as the clean-up
team attempts to scrub the floors free of the stench of death, as the recovery
team tries to match the mangled faces and battered bodies to their identity.

Oliver denies any involvement when he's questioned by the security team. He
isn't even in the vicinity of the murder scene when it happened, so the
investigators let him go without reluctance. It's easy to deny any connection
with the carnage in front of him, even though he is aware of every single thing
that happened.

He breathes in the scent of blood mixed with cleaning solutions. Hijacking the
security feeds brought him to a place where he could have tried to stop Ash
Vlastvier's rampage. The cacophony of bodies resisting against overwhelming
power is burned to Oliver's mind, even if there's static and blurriness that
separated the events he witnessed from his own reality.

Oliver doubts that there are digital fingerprints left behind on the security
feeds' database, just as he finds it highly unlikely that the higher-ups will
end up discovering the identity of the culprit behind this massacre. And even
if the IT team ends up tracing the hacking of the surveillance cameras back to
Ash Vlastvier, Grand Romania isn't going to sacrifice losing their ace pilot
just so they can placate the grieving families left by the approved-pilots'
unfortunate demise.

It's a clear display of superiority, Oliver supposes. A flashy massacre that
didn't even wait for the cloak of nighttime is a sign that the culprit is
extremely confident of his abilities. The world is slowly being narrowed
down—this is just the beginning. Oliver isn't quite sure if he's fine with the
way things are proceeding, but it's not like the choice lies within him.

…Or rather, Oliver has already long forfeited his right to make a choice that
can impact the world.

***

This is the moment that Oliver has been dreading for quite some time: ever
since that day when emergency codes whistled across the shaking hallways, ever
since that day when two enemy pilots dared to attempt to launch a stealth
attack on the headquarters, ever since that day when Oliver encountered Cesar
Black face-to-face.

It feels like a long time has passed since that day, but it's only been roughly
three months in reality. Perception is relative, after all, heavily dependent
on one's own priorities and feelings. Oliver isn't strong like Ash Vlastvier,
that's why he doesn't stop thinking about that day and what that means for his
future.

It's a milestone, a rather unpleasant one, but it nevertheless remains a
milestone in his life.

It's the first time Oliver had made an actual decision that actually mattered.

It's a decision that rendered Oliver unable to make any other choice
afterwards, because that day opened only one path for him.

And that path includes this day, this moment, that Oliver has been dreading to
arrive.

***

It's almost insulting, now that Oliver spares a few seconds to think about it,
to even wish that nobody will resist against the path that he has opened up not
only for himself, but for the entirety of Grand Romania.

Everything is coming to an end.

He wonders if the fall of the Herzog Kingdom was like this: a sudden sweep of
the damaging tides of revolution, without granting anyone a chance to even
blink before they find themselves at the bottom of someone's heel, a rebellion
that sparks from just a handful of self-centered humans.

There's only the two of them here, controlling Grand Romania's tumultuous
future from the top floors of the headquarters. Oliver bites his lip as his
fingers fly over the keyboards of the five computers in front of him. The
headquarters has one hundred floors and he has to keep track of the security
systems on all those levels; it isn't a job that can be done by one person
alone, but that's what he's doing, because there's only two of them here, and
there's no room for anybody else.

Aside from that time inside the training room a week ago, the two of them
haven't exchanged words, haven't discussed any plans, haven't agreed to any
rebellions. But Oliver is nevertheless here out of his own volition, even
though he's aware that this mess is ultimately because of a choice he made with
his own hands, three months ago.

With the top levels—containing the storage database for the most sensitive
documents and the launch hangar for the precious SPHEREs—in their hands, Grand
Romania officials are helpless and frantic outside the security lockdown that
Oliver is imposing on each floor. The military research pods are also locked
from the inside, forbidding anyone from entering the pods and obtaining weapons
that can help the officials resist against the coup d'état.

…It's a coup d'état, plainly put, though they're already more than halfway to
their goal because the teenagers that can pilot SPHEREs are all massacred
already, while the news of The King's long-hidden death has already been
released to the country's news system.

It's almost insulting, now that Oliver thinks about it, to even hope that Davy
Black will not struggle against the blockades Oliver has placed around their
current fortress.

Davy Black looks regal and even his brandished gun seems to sparkle with
nobility. Oliver tries to control the anxiety that's threatening to spill out
of his lips; Davy Black is rumored to not have a congenial relationship with
his father, but deaths have uncanny effects on a human's psyche. There's a huge
chance that Davy Black is going to challenge their coup d'état not because of
grief but because of loyalty to his name and honor. Oliver doesn't know if he
and Ash Vlastvier possess a drive that can rival Davy Black's, and that can
place them at a disadvantage.

Oliver breaks his self-imposed rule of avoiding to look at his companion.

Ash Vlastvier looks unaffected as always—or rather, he even looks pleased with
the appearance of Davy Black pounding against the meter-thick steel walls that
Oliver controlled to descend around the launch hangar area. Oliver's breath
catches in his throat at the sight of that challenging grin; Davy Black is one
of the few people that Oliver regards with great respect and admiration and Ash
Vlastvier's grin isn't very conducive to Davy Black's continued survival.

…But this is a coup d'état and Oliver is highly aware that this moment is
inevitable, ever since he heartlessly murdered The King inside the computer
room that Ash Vlastvier granted him access to. Oliver, until now, isn't quite
sure about the actual reasons behind his actions; he has avoided contemplating
about his reasons for a few months now, but he hasn't evaded the guilt of not
feeling any remorse over his actions.

Killing Cesar Black not only robs the country of its King, it also steals a
father from Davy Black's family. More importantly, the lack of a King throws
the country into chaos, with its most important figure taken out so easily and
swiftly.

It's Oliver's first decision in his life and he doesn't feel any regret over
it.

"Let him in." Ash Vlastvier's voice thunders over his shoulders like an ominous
cloud. Oliver mourns the imminent loss of yet another life, yet another
addition to the increasing body count linked to his decision. "Let's go welcome
him, hmm?"

Not without hesitation, Oliver leaves his spot facing rows of computers
displaying various security feeds and headquarters' blueprints. He takes
cautious steps towards the door where the steel barricade has been lifted,
shadowing Ash Vlastvier's confident footsteps. Their shoes click against the
metal floors; the sounds echo in the mostly-empty launch hangar.

Davy Black practically bulldozes over to where they're standing, his gun
unwavering even though his chest is heaving with a combination of exertion and
barely restrained anger. There's almost no need for proper aiming at their
distance; there's at least an eighty percent chance of the bullet ending up
inside one's organs once Davy Black presses the trigger.

Oliver can see Ash Vlastvier's shoulders drawn and not shaking the slightest
bit. There's no question about it: Ash Vlastvier is exhilarated at the thought
of fighting Davy Black. Oliver lets his right hand touch his pants' right
pocket; he relaxes a bit once his fingers bump against the compact controller
he pocketed earlier. In just a few minutes, there will be an inevitable clash
of weapons here and Oliver isn't capable of utilizing a weapon without harming
himself. He needs something that he can use, because there's no telling how
much strength Davy Black gained from his heightened emotions.

"You deserve to be thrown into the Abyss for your sins." Davy Black cuts the
air with razor-sharp words; his right hand aims for a straight line to Ash
Vlastvier's chest; his left hand rummages lightly around his back pocket for a
long knife with an intricate-looking handle. "Or rather, being dumped to the
Black Sea will satisfy the ones you harmed with your little game."

This isn't a game, Oliver wants to say, but his words shrivel inside his
throat. Oliver takes two steps back, placing considerable distance between him
and the two pilots. His graceless movement catches the eye of the next-in-line
to the throne of The Highest King.

"I've always known that you're incredibly messed-up," Davy Black addresses the
grinning Ash Vlastvier pointedly, "but I didn't think you're cruel enough to
drag an idiot like him to your silly games."

"He didn't threaten me—" Oliver attempts to choke out his words, but his weak
rebuttal doesn't even garner a moment's worth of attention from either pilot.

"I'd need a stress ball once I'm king, you know?"

"He didn't—"

"I'll send you directly to hell," Davy Black promises darkly, eyes glinting
with fervor and seriousness that Oliver can't quite produce himself.

Oliver moans inwardly at Ash Vlastvier's provocation; Davy Black is already a
formidable opponent on a normal day, on a moment when there's no future of a
country resting upon his shoulders, on a time when his hands aren't affected by
a thirst for vengeance. There's hardly any need for Ash Vlastvier to string
Davy Black's emotions along.

…If Davy Black succeeds on ending this snowballing revolution right here, right
now, there's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier will be sentenced to a dishonorable
exile to the Black Sea.

Exile to the Black Sea is not different from a death sentence; the Black Sea
isn't nicknamed the Hell Abyss based on sheer arrogance. The small, peculiar
water mass that lurks inside the shadows cast by the Pillar of Despair
compliments the tower of despair splendidly. Old texts from the initial
exploration expeditions sent by Grand Romania during its founding years entail
the gruesome fates of the prisoners sent to the Black Sea for their punishment.

A fate worse than any death.

Oliver sucks in a shuddering breath.

Sending Ash Vlastvier to the Black Sea will effectively remove him and his
influence on Oliver's pathetic life.

Oliver exhales slowly, his chest simultaneously squeezing tight enough to burn
and relaxing enough for his entire body to grow lax.

It's almost a wonder, now that he thinks about it, how drastically things
change within just a span of a few months.

The compact controller inside his pants' pocket is just waiting for his voice-
activation, since the blood and fingerprint biometrics have already been
permanently programmed into all his devices. Oliver presses his thumb against
the controller's small nub on top, a transmitter that communicates with the
devices in the launch hangar area.

It's almost unfair, to utilize one's own weapons against oneself, but Oliver
justifies it by thinking that Grand Romania should have invested a little more
time and effort into developing intellectuals who could build layer upon layer
of security networks around their precious military resources. Oliver is
plainer than an average person, but given enough idle time inside the infirmary
transformed him into someone who actually knows a thing or two about hacking
into flimsy security systems and stealing login information, as well as
pertinent access codes that can grant him permission to control restricted
places.

He didn't develop the Electronic Domination Program in order to destroy Grand
Romania—he didn't develop the EDP for anything in particular really.

But as much as he relies on his unfeeling computers and unfailing machineries,
Oliver remains human, painfully so, and he still functions under faulty human
reasoning, loyalty and feeling.

"Kill him," Ash Vlastvier breathes out the words that are already ricocheting
inside his skull.

Oliver's foliage-green eyes widen almost imperceptibly at the timing of Ash
Vlastvier's words. The 01 pilot takes two steps to the side in order to give
Oliver a clear path to face Davy Black.

Oliver is ready, he tells himself, to follow Ash Vlastvier's words and murmur
the words needed to activate his EDP-controller. He is ready to block another
pathway that leads to the future, steering Grand Romania to an outcome that
favors the half-baked scenarios coiling around inside his mind. He is ready to
end an era, even though he personally doesn't have much complaint about the way
life is proceeding for him.

But he remains human still, and his humanity grants him the unenviable task of
shouldering illogical emotions-needs-wants that shape his decisions into
something more tangible.

So Oliver replies with a sigh dipped in a mixture of mercilessness and
indifference: "I will."

***

With a bleeding right hand, Oliver attempts to slide his knees and elbows
across the floors, fingers grazed with bullets stretching and reaching out for
the tiny device that rolls far away from his reach.

The familiar sensation of pain skittering down his nerve endings serves as an
effective reminder to why he actively avoids physical confrontations. Oliver
jerks his head downwards, tugging it close to his neck, when he hears the
scream-pitch whistle of a bullet leaving a gun's nozzle. There's a sound of
metal-polish hissing and sizzling as the newly-shot bullet carves a hole into
the launch hangar floors. It's a dangerous situation altogether and Oliver
remains within range of Davy Black's frantic attacks.

Without even looking back, Oliver is hyper-aware of Davy Black's gun now
pointed at the back of his head, an easy shot to end his pathetic existence in
this miserable world. He continues alternating between sliding and crawling
across the floors, undoubtedly provoking the 02's instinct to shoot down all
opposing forces. Without even looking back, Oliver is also hyper-aware that Ash
Vlastvier is forcing Davy Black away with his signature frenzied series of
movements.

There has been no such thing as plans, pacts or promises between the two of
them, but Oliver somehow instinctively understands that Ash Vlastvier isn't
going to let him perish that quickly.

…Wait, what?

Oliver's neurons crackle at his most recent traitorous thought. He suddenly
slows to a stand-still, half-kneeling against the floor, fingers inches away
from his EDP controller. There's a steady stream of sounds, of blows landing on
clothed flesh, running in the background. Oliver's heartbeat confusedly swings
between shocked hollowness and accelerated perplexity, his blood rushing
everywhere and all over, pressure building up behind his eyelids.

Why is he even here?

Why is he even risking his life here?

Why is he even risking everything to be with Ash Vlastvier?

He doesn't have any reason to do anything like this, yet he's frantically
reaching out for a remote control that can end his quickstep-fast dance of
violence. He doesn't have any reason to be anywhere near here, yet he's still
not stumbling over his legs in order to flee.

Oliver looks back, slowly tilting his body, in time to witness Ash Vlastvier
successfully land a vicious uppercut to Davy Black's jaw. Such a blow can bring
someone to a staggering stop; Davy Black simply takes two steps backward,
before recovering and countering with a punch of his own.

Pilot assessments, physical indicators, capability calculations—reality—numbers
proclaim Ash Vlastvier to be the strongest person inside the Grand Romania
territory. Those numbers are losing their meaning steadily, as Davy Black
refuses to fold under the attacks raining down on him, as he rejects the limits
imposed on him by his own body and his own statistics.

Much like Ash Vlastvier's battle with Rei, there's now a possibility that Ash
Vlastvier will actually lose.

'Kill him', Ash Vlastvier had said, and Oliver had easily failed that simple
instruction.

Oliver stares down at his hands with some sort of wonder, life seeping out his
bullet-wound.

Davy Black will surely not stop with just demanding for Ash Vlastvier to be
thrown into the Black Sea, now that Davy Black has observed Oliver's defiance.

Oliver feels pain prickling his skin, but he moves anyway, unsteadily rising to
his feet, shakily making his way to where his own, back-up computer is located.
Something akin to desperation throbs inside his head, driving his thought
processes haywire.

Despite now having access to more powerful supercomputers, Oliver keeps the
most important program inside his personal computer.

Oliver mutes his computer immediately after booting it up. He keeps his
breathing shallow and silent, as his eyes are focused on the two pilots fully
concentrated on each other. That arrangement is just fine with him, since he
doesn't really want to attract the attention of any one of them, especially not
now.

The launch hangar is a strategic position as the headquarters of their coup
d'état, but no matter how many SPHEREs and artillery are stacked here, Oliver
remains as useless as a weaponless newborn.

He's going to change that—soon.

It only takes a couple of words-numbers-strings-1s-0s. His fingers fly over his
keyboard, the tap-tap-tap noises easily drowned by the clash of weapons-
against-flesh-against-bones-against-swords a few meters away. Even the sound of
a cryogenic container ascending from its hiding place underneath the metal
flooring goes unnoticed. That's just fine with Oliver. It's much better if Davy
Black is unable to see the body of his father, Grand Romania's Highest King,
artificially frozen in a state that can almost mimic life, in a form that
surely brings shame to the royal line. It's much better if Ash Vlastvier
doesn't notice the way Oliver has sunk so deep into his area of influence,
acting in a way that mimics insanity.

Oliver's thoughts are both deafeningly screaming and eerily silent at once.

The end is near.

There's no more fitting end than this.

Oliver almost senses it before it happens: Davy Black's newly reloaded gun
unleashing a bullet to the joint on Ash Vlastvier's right shoulder, Davy
Black's dagger embedding on the flesh of Ash Vlastvier's upper thigh, Davy
Black's hatred driving away all sense of reasonable limits.

Oliver's physical strength tests show that he can win against a one-legged,
one-armed, seventy-three-year-old woman—either that, or against a two-year-old
brat with zero initial motor coordination training.

Davy Black is neither of those.

Oliver is incapable of even killing an ant.

The Highest King isn't as minute as an ant.

Oliver's fingers are cold but firm, positioned in an unfamiliar grip, an
elaborately-designed gun colder and firmer in his hold.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs to the air thrumming with discord, unheard by anyone
else but his own ears, unacknowledged by the ones who he needs to apologize to.

A bullet hits Davy Black's shoulder and Oliver panics, pressing against the
trigger again, uncaring about the recoil traveling up and down his trembling
arms. Another bullet joins the first one, red flowers blooming wonderfully on
Davy Black's skin.

Oliver almost drops the gun that he retrieved from the Highest King's cooling
corpse. The freezing temperature is spreading from his fingers. He barely
notices Ash Vlastvier looking at him expressionlessly.

"It's you…?"

Oliver figures that Davy Black deserves to know the truth, so he nods, with as
much certainty he can summon.

Instead of beautifully red petals, disgust and fury bloom on Davy Black's
handsome face, spinning and mixing into one ugly emotion that spells out the
desire to kill Oliver.

Oliver raises his right hand, the stolen gun in plain view. Davy Black deserves
to know the truth, about the untimely end of his father, about the experiments
and desecration Oliver has performed on the unresisting corpse just so he can
obtain the biometrics data he needed for his software to successfully bypass
all the security restrictions inside the headquarters, about the way Oliver
didn't hesitate dealing death blow upon death blow even when he's painfully
aware of Cesar Black's importance not only to the entire country but to his
family as well.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs again, this time reaching Davy Black's ears and fueling
the other's righteous wrath. "I'm sorry it came to this."

Oliver is just an outsider—thrown away by his family in order to protect their
own status and dreams, rejected by his classmates who are stronger and better
than him, discarded by life altogether—a useless, pathetic person.

Davy Black runs toward him, murderous intent palpable in his dilated eyes,
uninjured hand raised up, dagger's sharp edge ready to puncture his heart.

'Kill him', Ash Vlastvier had said.

They didn't speak or collude. There are no plans and schemes between the two of
them. There is nothing holding the two of them together aside from their toxic
relationship.

Oliver's fingers are numb, too numb to even lightly brush against the trigger.

Ash Vlastvier is looking at him, undoubtedly curious to observe what he's going
to do, to choose.

In the end, there's really no such thing as guilt in his heart.

Three consecutive shots later—one to the forehead, one to the heart, one to the
right lung—and Davy Black's furious face is suddenly awash with crimson paint,
his tense arms flopping lifelessly forward, his entire form sinking to the
ground.

Kill him, Oliver did.

"You're really stupid," Ash Vlastvier comments a short moment later, displeased
with his stricken expression.

Oliver just nods, mind hazy and confused with the choices he's been making
recently. The royal gun that he stole from Cesar Black and then used to kill
Davy Black is still in his right hand. The evidence of his decisions is still
in plain view, bared for anyone to see.

Without another word, Ash Vlastvier turns his back to him, before returning to
where he's been proclaiming his demands to the entire country.

Oliver just sinks to his knees and silently—

—smiles.

•

There's usually a party that accompanies each promotion to the main pilot
ranks, but since there's no such thing as 'main pilots' and 'back-up pilots'
anymore, and there are no fellow pilots to congratulate the newcomer, the
'welcome party' is just a silent affair.

Oliver Payne finds the view from the topmost floor to be nostalgic and
depressing, but he presses his forehead against the glass window nevertheless,
his gaze focused on the skyscraper rising from the desolate landscape. The
second headquarters' construction is proceeding smoothly, freeing up some of
his time so that he can focus on other projects.

It's just a couple of hours before the New Year, but the Main Assembly Hall is
filled with rows of supercomputers, while Grand Romania citizens' hearts are
filled with dread and steel. Surprisingly, the approval rating for Ash
Vlastvier's reign is the highest since the country's inception.

…Though maybe that isn't so surprising, given that the citizens are most
probably too frightened to voice out their concerns and dissatisfaction with a
teenage pilot's hostile takeover and subsequent policies.

It's only been days since he placed Davy Black's body beside his father's, both
hosted comfortably inside the cryogenic freezers he developed, but it feels
like an entire year has already passed. Sleep has been relegated to an optional
activity, since there are a lot of things that need his attention. Ash
Vlastvier is an excellent military strategist but his power-oriented mind
doesn't have much room for other concerns regarding how to operate a country.
Oliver isn't very smart either, but there's nobody else who can make sure the
balance sheets are well, balanced, just like there's nobody else who can link
the scattered security systems together to create a more stable framework, just
as there's nobody else who can devise plans and process flows that need to be
followed to ensure efficiency.

Oliver can almost hear the protests of the brittle earth against their planned
expansion.

Instead of spending time inside their homes, citizens of the underground cities
are surely still milling around the city areas, silently bearing the rules and
orders imposed on them by a teenager who happens to possess undeniable power.
Oliver murmurs a quiet apology against the window, his breath fogging up the
glass slightly, a useless gesture since he didn't even try to argue with 01's
decision to inflict a hundred-hour work week to the citizens.

Oliver faintly wonders if there's still a scrap of logic fueling his actions,
but it's much too late to feel remorse over the things he has done, over the
things he is doing, over the things he will undoubtedly do. He changes
alongside the country, sinking deeper and further into an inescapable abyss as
time goes by. Unbeknownst to the entire world, Grand Romania's metamorphosis is
about to reach its peak.

The near-emptiness of the area makes it possible for the soft sound of a door
sliding open to feel like a sound booming against his ears. Oliver doesn't turn
his head to acknowledge the arrival of the person he never thought he'd work
alongside with.

"Congratulations on your promotion," Ash Vlastvier's voice is brittle and
raspy, almost a little breathless, "02."

Numbers don't matter anymore, though the label '02' still unfailingly brings a
light flutter to his heart. He's only 02 because there's nobody else around and
nobody dares to question the words of the new, self-instated King.

Oliver shrugs, his shoulders sighing with fatigue and melancholy.

A rustle of clothes reach his ears. Oliver keeps his gaze fixed on the
headquarters whose construction he's overseeing. There's a faint scent of blood
that travels across the distance separating the two of them. He folds his hands
across his chest, his fingers digging against his skin as he restrains himself
from asking questions he knows will go ignored.

Oliver doesn't breathe again until there's another sound of the metal door
sliding open. He slumps forward, bumping his forehead against the glass window
a little forcibly. There's no point regretting or hoping to feel regret by now.


There's no doubt that Ash Vlastvier slaughtered everybody assembled inside the
Castles of Nevermore—thanks to the intelligence he gathered from the linked
security system he layered over the entire country's perimeter. While most of
the Grand Romania citizens are more content to keep their heads bowed
respectfully, fearfully, some factions made mostly of politicians and members
of the royal family are more than a bit displeased at the thought of their
privileges disappearing in a blink. It's Oliver's job to make sure those
whispers of dissatisfaction and schemes of upheaval are discovered swiftly and
squashed thoroughly. That's why there's no point in continuing to harbor hopes
for guilt to start taking root in his conscience.

He distantly wonders if he should start with a project proposal for training
new sets of soldiers, since the Castles of Nevermore is quite a large area that
can undoubtedly be more useful if utilized properly.

Oliver sighs deeply, the sound echoing in the nearly-empty area.

He turns his head to the side, gaze now focusing on his opened personal
computer.

"I'm the 02 now, sister," Oliver reports to the digital Jade Payne he molded
from his memories and from his mind, "I guess that rank is higher than yours,
even if mine doesn't mean anything really."

[You really enjoy saying stupid things, don't you? As if I give a shit about
your bogus promotion!]

Oliver chuckles softly, mentally agreeing with each word his 'sister' says.

There's little time left before the world witnesses the effects of Grand
Romania's transformation into a powerful country controlled by an equally-
powerful leader. He wonders if his sister can keep her arrogant tone once she
realizes that even her country isn't safe from Grand Romania's ambitious grasp,
once she discovers that her useless brother is involved with Grand Romania's
transformation into a greedy conquistador that is willing to destroy even
itself just so it can annihilate others, once she understands that there's
nothing she can do to stop Grand Romania from advancing and spreading to each
corner of the dying world.

[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Stupid brother, how dare you make me wait?]

Oliver laughs again, a gentle sound that doesn't match the documents he just
circulated to the government networks in the lower floors, a kind gesture that
contradicts the plans he devised to sustain Grand Romania's expansion.

[You dare to laugh at me? You? Know your place, idiot!]

"For the first time, sister," Oliver informs his 'sister' with a tone that
almost sounds mystified, "someone actually chose me over someone else." He
pauses for a moment, thinking, before he amends his earlier statement, "…Over a
lot of people, actually."

[What the hell are you blubbering now?]

Oliver shakes his head, as though to say that it can't be helped if his
'sister' is unable to comprehend his sentiments.

He wonders if his sister will be the one to greet him once he moves out on his
PLATINUM. It's unlikely, since his scheduled mission is a stealth attack
against Allemagne, but there's still a chance that Allemagne's security cameras
can catch a glimpse of his inappropriately-named, obsidian-hued PLATINUM, a
chance that his sister's perimeter sweep coincides with his scheduled attack
against the world's third-ranked country.

Now that he thinks about it, isn't it funny?

He spent most of his life underneath the heels of bullies—yet now, he's the one
getting ready to make thousands of people suffer.

Not only that, he's also helping the person who has plagued him the most—the
person who continues to torment him at the end of the day, cruelly snatching
away the few hours of rest he's entitled to after nearly an entire day of
approving submitted plans and devising new projects.

He ignores his 'sister's' squawks as he unceremoniously closes his personal
computer without properly shutting down his voice program. He then goes back to
thumping his forehead against the glass windows, staring at the expanse of
shadowy lands that stretch out uncertainly in front of him.

Now that he thinks about it, isn't it funny indeed?

It seems that while he isn't even aware of it, supremacy is already crawling
into his hands.

Oliver closes his eyes and just silently—

•

END of seventh rotation;
the reign of kings.

•••
***** turn 08: eighth entity *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 08: eighth entity

(—equivalence—)

•••

pilot. Jade Payne
sphere. AMETHYST
rank. Freedom Union – 04

•

It might come as a surprise to quite a number of people, but she only lives by
one rule—or if you want to call it principle, then fine—or code even, or
whatever you want to call it. She knows that she comes off as someone who is
full of complicated thoughts and what-not—which she doesn't deny, because
there's just no way she'll allow someone who calls her ugh, 'simple', to
continue wasting oxygen in this horrid earth—but the secret to being
wonderfully complex yet also not insane like the mad scientists downstairs is
to abide by one belief.

"Different people have different worth," Jade Payne recites in front of wide-
eyed pilot-hopefuls, her hands on her hips as she wets her lips afterwards. She
registers looks of awe and wonder, as well as looks of desire, from her little
audience. That's all fine with her, since there's no way she can turn a blind
eye to her own amazingness. She's okay with giving them a few things to be
happy about—not that they should even dare feel unsatisfied with just her mere
presence, that is—so she leans forward rather excessively, subtly jiggling her
chest barely covered by her low-cut top. She notices a few more guys join the
group unabashedly staring at her body instead of listening to her words of
wisdom.

She smirks, her blood-red lips curving seductively. She straightens up her
stance, delighting at the way disappointment clearly shows up on the trainees'
faces. She isn't here to grant them their wishes though; she's here to give
them information on what to expect once they successfully make their way up the
ranks. While it's true that pilots live a pretty luxurious life, the higher-ups
apparently aren't too pleased with trainees solely motivated by the pretty
things—the truly important things, she thinks, but whatever to the old farts—so
current pilots are required to stage learning sessions with the trainees. She
isn't too sure what kind of results the higher-ups are expecting from this
waste of time, but hey, she gets extra pay while avoiding spending time inside
boring mission briefing rooms, so this is a rather not-entirely-useless waste
of time.

"Some actions become acceptable in society's eyes if done by a person with
enough worth," she says importantly, elaborating further so she can extend her
stay in this room for a few more minutes in hopes of avoiding the boring pilot
assessment that definitely doesn't fail in driving her to a state of
narcolepsy, "while people without worth sin just by existing."

It's definitely true, Jade thinks. Wearing low-cut tops that are definitely out
of the dress code is acceptable, welcomed even, in her case because she is a
worthy person. Nobody will even dare to give her a warning or a verbal
smackdown because of her provocative way of dressing—not when every single
person drools at her sight. She isn't so thrilled with wrinkly old men leering
at her, but most of those wrinkly old men are the ones who approve her paycheck
and fine-tune her AMETHYST, so tolerating them is quite high in her priority
list.

Her younger brother, however, is an eyesore who needs to just please die,
because the thought of someone like him alive is enough to tickle her gut—and
not in a good way. Maybe he's actually dead, she isn't sure, since she doesn't
have even a minute that is available for useless idiots who happen to share the
same mother-father-name as her. It's enough to prompt her to gag. He doesn't
matter, so she decides that there's no harm in deciding that he's already dead.
He doesn't matter anyway, so it's not like she's harming anyone with her
thoughts and her decision to just kill him off. It's better this way, she
justifies inside her mind, smiling beautifully on the outside—he won't irritate
others if he's dead and isn't that just splendid?

The trainees in front of her all look at her with dilated eyes. They don't
really respond to her words, but that's just fine. She isn't terribly
interested in hearing low-grade opinions. And they are trainees, so the chance
of them having insightful comments is close to none.

"There are a lot of worthless people infesting this world," as if there aren't
enough things to worry about, Jade spitefully adds in her mind. Unfortunately
worthless people multiply a lot faster than people worth her attention. It
almost feels like a conspiracy to drive her nuts. She pauses for a bit,
thinking about her next words. She's supposed to give them something they can
learn about, something they can apply to their training, something they can set
as a goal instead of merely attaining wealth. "So better hurry up and do your
best to add value to yourselves."

There, that sounds great.

Really, these kids should be just about jumping for joy. They're superbly lucky
to get a learning session with her, instead of maybe with Ruby or Narcissus,
the two most disdainful pilots ever. Not everyone has the fortune of spending
time with her and her radiant awesomeness, so they should be brimming with
barely-repressed ecstasy now, or something.

Her distracted gaze travels to the front door, just in time to see Ruby
Alizarin, the current 02, pass by.

Jade's lips curl into something resembling a snarl—but it isn't a snarl,
because that's just ugly and there's nothing in her actions that can even
qualify for something less than perfectly beautiful—as she catches a glimpse of
one of the most worthless people she had the misfortune of meeting.

Her only reprieve is that everybody else agrees that Ruby Alizarin is a being
that deserves all the disapproval, all the mockery, all the hatred she's
receiving. Ruby only got her 02 position because she spread her legs for the
higher-ups who are so frustrated with simply looking at her hot body and are
instead consoling themselves with whoever is available. While Jade is only too
happy to not be burdened with the disgusting job of relieving the sexual
frustration of the higher-ups who are old enough to be her grandfather, it's
still revolting to think that someone that nauseating exists within her radius
of influence.

She hasn't seen Ruby's battles, not one of them, which only cements her belief
that she's as useless as all the rumors say. She isn't interested in seeing a
whore's battle anyway, because that will probably just end up with her flashing
her opponent into a state of shock, or something equally unprofessional.

There's a cough that sounds almost awkward—the sound disturbs her thoughts, so
she readies an icy glare for the person who dared disrupt her Ruby-hate
session. The trainee practically shrinks to her seat, looking embarrassed and
sheepish—and that's about right, since she's just a mere trainee who hasn't
even breathed the same air as SPHEREs. The trainee also looks pathetic: with
freckles all over her pudgy face, a flat nose that's only less flat than her
very-flat chest, with unbelievably fat lips that appear right at home with the
prehistoric humans. Disgusting. Jade feels justified in glaring even harder,
willing her scathing thoughts to travel across the room and slap the trainee
soundly.

Jade thinks that the only person she dislikes more than Ruby is Narcissus Duke,
an utterly useless person that's unfortunately born to the country's most
powerful family. She is one hundred percent certain that the only reason
Narcissus is occupying the last spot in the pilot rankings is because his
family is the main economic contributor to Freedom Union. He's completely
unlike his younger sister, Jade's best friend, who is plenty strong and
deserving of her position as a Freedom Union pilot.

It's a relief that everyone agrees with her assessment of Narcissus'
worthlessness—Narcissus definitely deserves all the bullying he's been
receiving all throughout his life, because he's a waste of air and space.

Her worthless brother, Narcissus Duke and Ruby Alizarin make up her top three
worthless people list, and she is more than simply excited in waiting for
deaths to befall all three of them, just so she can breathe a little easier. It
doesn't bring her a pleasant feeling, to think that worthless idiots are
actually occupying space in this earth. She feels like she grows more stressed
with each moment she spends inhabiting the same planet as those three. Stress
counteracts her natural beauty and her make-up products, so stressful things
need to disappear ASAP, for the sake of her magnificence.

There's another cough—this time from a different trainee. Jade glares again,
tapping her high-heeled shoes impatiently against the floor. She isn't that
ecstatic with babysitting hopeless trainees, but she's here out of the goodness
of heart. They should be thankful she's even allowing herself to be this near
to people that don't have anything to be proud about; instead they're rudely
coughing and just being ungrateful for the blessing in front of them.

She's rapidly reaching the end of her long patience. These valueless people
don't even have the luxury of being labeled with the word 'pilot' yet, so they
don't have any right to interrupt her. These worthless people only exist now
because she's very hard-working when it comes to fulfilling her missions that
mostly involves securing the country's perimeter and checking for breaches in
the security. It's a very important job and she doesn't even complain—unless
her mission coincides with a date or with a scheduled trip to the spa or with
her beauty sleep: essential stuff, basically—and they dare to be anything less
than completely grateful to her?

The nerve of them, really!

She narrows her eyes and parts her lips in order to give them a piece of their
mind, but a familiar face appears on the corner of her peripheral vision.
Scratch that, a familiar, perfect face.

A familiar, perfect face with ethereal blond hair that reaches past his lovely
knees, braided not-too-loosely-not-too-tightly: beautiful long hair that
symbolizes an entire lifetime of not losing to anyone, following the tradition
of the millennia-old Gainsboro line of only cutting one's hair once he tastes
defeat. A familiar, perfect face with striking gold eyes: warm and vibrant with
pulsing life, cool and composed with aristocratic grace, flawless and
impeccable like the rest of his person. A familiar, perfect face with slender
limbs, intellectual mind, complete excellence: capable of harmonious actions
that appear wonderfully enchanting even while he's bringing his opponents to
their knees, gifted with an impossible combination of wisdom and skill that
allows him to best people in both strategies and actual fighting,
characteristics held together immaculately to form an image that is utterly
spotless and just completely perfect.

Aster Gainsboro's sudden presence effectively catches the attention of her
entire class—and while she loathes getting upstaged by anyone, she totally
understands that she can't even compare to someone as dazzling as the gold-
haired teenager who serves as Freedom Union's 01 pilot—and even she takes a
moment to breathe sharply in order to force oxygen to enter her turned-to-mush
brain. It's absolutely hopeless: she's just no match for someone as picture-
perfect as Aster, even though she's known him for years.

—That thought suddenly reminds her: she's been in Freedom Union for, like, ten
years already, but she can't actually pinpoint when she first met Aster. It's
totally weird, because her memory's quite good—an outright understatement,
because there's nothing about her that can be described as simply 'good'—but
she just can't remember the exact moment she crossed paths with Aster.
Something as romantic as a first meeting between her and the enthralling prince
should stand out, quite proudly, in her memories, but it just… isn't.

Jade frowns a little, before she soothes the lines in her face with the thought
that it wouldn't do to show a less-than-perfect expression in front of Aster.
She foregoes her usual composure and instead practically bounces to where her
upperclassman is standing by the doorway. Normally, she loathes being seen as a
ditzy, teenage girl, no matter how appropriate that description fits her. But
to be seen, by fifty pairs of eyes no less, as someone cool enough to be on
such friendly terms with the Aster Gainsboro is good enough reason to act giddy
and flirty beyond acceptability.

She talks, rapid-fire words that flow and mesh with each other, about a lot of
things because she's bored beyond her mind and Aster always looks interested in
what she's saying, no matter how mundane her topic is—not that the concept of
dullness applies to someone as brilliant as her. She sometimes pauses, a bit
uncertain if Aster can still understand the things she wants him to know, the
thoughts she wants to convey, the feelings she wants to share, but Aster smiles
at her, a gentle curve of his lips, and she mentally swoons and continues
talking, if only to obtain another one of those wonderful smiles.

She definitely isn't the only one smitten by Aster Gainsboro, but that's
completely fine with her. Aster deserves all the fawning and admiration he gets
because he's a wonderful person, a worthy person, a valuable person.

Different people have different worth and Aster Gainsboro is worth a million
people, maybe even an entire world.

"Are you done with your lesson?" Aster inquires, a stray strand of hair
escaping from his braid and falling over his eyes with a curious tilt of his
head, sounding so genuinely interested that Jade finds it hard to not start
blabbering nonsensically.

"Yes—yes—I'm, yes, quite done," she manages to say, a tad more forgiving to
herself for tripping over her words.

Aster smiles at her once again, the sight pushing her heartbeat to accelerated
levels. "Well, I can wait for you? And then we can go to the pilot assessment
meeting together."

"I'm actually finishing up," Jade mutters quickly, totally not caring that
she's actually not too pleased with having to go through boring speeches and
talks about future plans for the pilot trainings in order to increase their
competitiveness or something, "so we can go soon. Just, um, give me a sec,
okay?"

"Oh!" Aster replies cutely, eyes traveling around the roomful of trainees.
"Okay then. I'll wait for you here."

Jade grins in absolute giddiness, her cheeks flushing a pretty pink.

Finally!

There's an entire legion of Aster-admirers but only if they can see her now!
He's the one who asked her to walk to the pilot briefing rooms together! He's
the one who volunteered to wait for her! He's the one who took the initiative!

He's the one who thinks that she is worthy of his attention!

Oh, how wonderful this moment is!

If only there were scented candles illuminating the entire room, instead of
blinding-white fluorescent lights. If only there were violins and guitars
strumming in the background, instead of meaningless chattering and breathing
sounds. If only there were important people gaping at the sight of a prince and
his chosen princess, instead of valueless trainees that don't even have enough
sense to applaud at the magnificent event happening in front of their very
eyes.

But no matter—this moment is quite perfect already and there's no point in
being too greedy when it comes to the blessings raining down upon her dainty
shoulders. It's not like she can do something about the banality of her
surroundings.   

She is a whirlwind of hasty goodbyes and rushed pleasantries, as she tries to
make her way back to where Aster is waiting for her in the shortest possible
time. She doesn't quite realize what she's saying, doesn't quite comprehend the
stream of words spilling out of her lips as she wraps up the training lesson.

None of those things matter though, once she's already out of the classroom,
with Aster offering to carry her bags for her in that heartbreaking gentlemanly
way of his. She almost faints with giddiness at the gesture, very certain that
she's blushing to the tips of her toes.

Her studies about the ancient times tell her that there existed a time very
long ago, when women were actually treated as dispensable beings. It's a
pleasant surprise to see and experience Aster subvert all the reported findings
about men being arrogant bastards who consider themselves superior just because
their reproductive organs are hanging vulnerably in between their legs. Or
something.

In any case, Jade almost floats as she matches Aster's easygoing pace, her
heels practically bouncing with delight. Not everyone has a chance of being
this close to the unbearably popular 01 and she feels like the luckiest person
ever just to have a moment like this. It doesn't even matter that she hates
attending pilot assessment meetings or anything that has something to do with
her position as a pilot for Freedom Union. The only thing that matters is that
Aster wants her with him and nobody else.

Aster wants her.

Aster wants her.

Aster wants her to remain with him, not only now, but also tomorrow, and the
day after, and twenty years after, an eternity after.

Aster wants her.

Yes.

That's the only thing that matters.

***

It comes as a bit of surprise to find out that all the pilots are there already
except for her and Aster. She rarely is late for these types of meetings, since
she can get rather obsessive with managing her schedule so that she has ample
time to prepare herself for whatever she needs to do next. Aster smiles at her
softly, before dropping off her bags at her designated table.

Jade sighs forlornly, already missing the quiet moment she shared with Aster
just a few minutes beforehand. The looks on the SPHERE engineers and the
military heads gazing down at them from their elevated holographic projectors
don't seem to be very welcoming. Everything's moving at an accelerated pace,
which is just fine and dandy with her, because they're all just so eager to
hurry up and destroy themselves.

Too much excitement is hardly an advantageous thing, but Jade isn't really keen
on devising strategies and spending hours in front of computers while trying to
think of all possible scenarios. She's the type who prefers actual action—she
doesn't mind going out on her AMETHYST so that she can swiftly crush Grand
Romania's hopes at becoming an international superpower. She's not too eager on
sitting beside computer screens and making predictions and plans on how to
handle Grand Romania's ambitious expansion.

The year 686 has just started and everybody's already acting as though the year
is driving to a close. There's a string of anxiety circling above everyone's
heads at the moment and that just isn't cool. Apprehension and stress go hand-
in-hand and Jade has already declared stress to be her number one enemy.
Stressing about the what-ifs isn't going to solve anything, so Jade would just
rather the higher-ups assign the pilots to cascades of missions so they can nip
the budding problems as soon as possible.

"Where were you?" Pearl Duke, her bestest best friend, asks her with a barely-
controlled hiss, her naturally loud voice doing its best to not disrupt the
professional silence that hangs over the pilot briefing room. "I've been, well,
leaving you messages! Like, well, ten messages already! And you weren't picking
up your communicator, hmph!"

"My training lesson took a bit longer to finish," Jade murmurs secretively,
rolling her shoulders in their secret code for 'I'VE GOT GREAT NEWS THAT'S
SUPER SECRET', smirking furtively at her best friend. By the way Pearl's exotic
silver eyes widen—and hey, those are some killer eyeliners she's using!—Pearl
definitely understands her secret message. It would be too easy to just gossip
and giggle about Aster's actions earlier—it's still incredibly sweet and
wonderful and oh, it's definitely great that he's already moving their
relationship forward!—right here and now, but Jade isn't the type to make it
easy for others to bask in her gloriousness and in her news that she should
rightfully share with her best friend first.

Pearl replies with a soft, humming noise that promises her understanding of
Jade's underlying message. Not for the first time, Jade praises herself for her
ability to make friends with awesome people who function on the same wavelength
as hers.

Jade's attention shifts to the cascade of statistics now filling the floor-to-
ceiling monitors mounted on each corner of the room. The annual pilot
assessments finished less than a month ago with not-entirely-satisfactory
results and the numbers on the screens haven't changed much since then. It's
only been three weeks since the previous assessment and she hasn't had the
chance to participate in any missions yet, robbing her of the opportunity to
improve her figures.

Freedom Union is continuing its passivity as it merely observes the way the
world turns. Recent missions are mostly reserved for perimeter checks and
prototype tests. Bitching aside, she wants this fake tranquility to end because
she's very sure that Freedom Union is just pretending to be a goody-goody
country that doesn't involve itself much with the world's ambitious conquests.

Individual pilot statistics are replaced by a mind-numbingly detailed itinerary
that spans an entire year, dates and words and names of people filling the
screens instead. Jade rolls her eyes, uncaring whether the old stooges see her
lack of enthusiasm regarding the country's plans for the next twelve months.
She sees her name and her SPHERE's on quite a number of lines; she feels a
sense of placation running all over her skin, since piloting responsibilities
mean chances of improving her status for the next pilot ranking.

There's a diplomatic visit scheduled for February of AC 686—the details catch
her pretty green eyes easily. There isn't any reason for Central Tower
representatives to come and visit their country peacefully, not when Central
Tower is currently at war with Archadia, one of Freedom Union's allies. Jade
stares at the words displayed on the screen, ascertaining that she isn't just
seeing things. The phrase 'diplomatic visit' doesn't waver or morph into
something else.

"Central Tower's Head of Research, Nise Hojo, will be representing his
country's ideals and proposals on February." Aster's melodious tone drapes all
over the room, and Jade is reminded of one of the reasons why she tolerates
these types of meetings. As boring as they may be, most of the time, Aster
takes over the role of meeting facilitator, which grants Jade the chance to
hear more of Aster's deep and utterly orgasmic voice. "Central Tower's 01 pilot
will be his escort."

Jade straightens in her chair.

…The 01 pilot?

—The 01 pilot?

What a wonderful opportunity, she thinks, giddiness recirculating in her veins.
The 01 pilot is quite well-known for being extremely thorough in shoving defeat
and annihilation in front of his enemies' faces. He is undoubtedly the
strongest pilot in the entire world and Jade needs to meet him. Aster is
exquisite and very perfect, but Rei is stronger despite being less pretty than
Aster. Jade's quite certain that Aster will understand her straying from his
side for a bit, because she deserves only the best, doesn't she? Aster should
definitely understand that. Yes, Aster might even encourage her gunning for
Central Tower's 01, because he will definitely consider her desires and her
feelings above anyone else's.

Excitement grips her body and it takes all her self-control to not hug herself
tightly and squeal incessantly. She feels the weight of a few pilots' gazes
settling on her flushed-with-excitement face, but she doesn't care! It's highly
unlikely that they can understand her superior thoughts anyway, since a lot of
the pilots unfortunately are lacking in the worthiness department. She grins in
happiness despite the depressing thought of being surrounded by a number of
useless people.

She isn't concerned with Freedom Union's plans, not a little bit, but oh, she's
so looking forward to February!

***

Yes, this isn't surprising at all.

She definitely has been looking forward to this happening, but it still brings
her a feeling of fulfillment, to know that she's right as always.

Does she dare say it?

Yes, she does, she decides after sighing in absolute bliss, shuddering a little
as gloved hands massage her back in slow, firm motions.

"I knew this would happen," she breathes out contentedly, nearly purring in
delight as strong, sinewy arms tighten around her, encasing her in an embrace
that makes her feel as though she's the only person in the entire world, as
though she's the only one that has any value in this entire kingdom. She
doesn't spare any time to think about how her partner will think of her after
she voices out the reality of their situation.

"You don't say," a not-breathless voice replies, but there's nevertheless a
hint of interest there, and the slight tightening of the embrace is followed
immediately by a curious tilt of the head.

She isn't the type to hold back in declaring her beliefs and thoughts and
opinions that are incredibly well thought-of and definitely correct. But she
hesitates for a brief moment, her fingers stiffening for a few seconds,
stilling while they are massaging soothing circles into her partner's scalp.
Most of the people—ugh, does she even have to consider them to be a human being
like her?!—that she's unfortunately surrounded with are too worthless to even
comprehend her words. If, by some chance, they possess intellect to understand
the meaning just lying underneath her statements, they aren't worthy enough to
spew out complaints or contradictions.

It's a different case now, since she's cradled inside the arms of possibly the
world's most worthy person, an existence that's even higher than that of
Aster's perfection.

"You love me," she says instead and there's no hint of embarrassment there,
because she knows it's true. He was the one who called out to her in such an
authoritative voice that almost sent her down to her knees. He was the one who
held her hand as he steered her towards a place unnoticed by the security
cameras so that he could do things to her that did send her down to her knees.
He was the one who kept on—keeps on—pressing kisses all over her skin as he
branded her body over and over with the mark and fragrance of the world's
strongest being. And she is the one who deserves his attention, his affection,
his love. "And I love you. So that's why I knew this would happen."

There's a charming grin on his lips, decorating his mouth that only knows words
that render people submissive to their own defeat. He's happy, it seems. He's
happy and she knows why. He doesn't tell her why he's grinning, but since
they're in love with each other, she already knows why. It's only been four
hours since they first shook hands, but love is a powerful emotion that can
transcend logical boundaries, set up by humans that are much less worthy than
her. It's not even half a day since they first met face-to-face and she already
understands him as easily as a toddler's picture book.

"Of course you're right, my goddess."

She shudders in pure ecstasy—her mind spiking with pleasure because of his
words rather than his touches—and she leans with her full weight against the
wall, her eyes dilated with desire for more, more of his firm hands, more of
his undisguised truth, more. She watches the way that charming grin remains
etched on his thin lips, the way that his expression doesn't change at all, a
totally flawless pinnacle of utter perfection.

Yes, she is worthy of him.

"I love you," she repeats, because there's no such thing as overkill when it
comes to saying one's valuable sentiments. In her opinion, people don't say
those three little words often enough; of course, when uttered by completely
pathetic people, the words decay into rubbish, but when someone as fantastic as
her is the one uttering those three words, eight letters, her existence, just
the very fact of her opening her lips to say those words, they gain an entirely
different layer of meaning. "…Now and forever…"

He doesn't lean forward to capture her lips after her wholehearted declaration
of their eternal bond, though he does lift his hands to caress the sides of her
collarbone, of her neck, of the back of her ears. The charming grin is still
painted like a masterpiece on the confident planes and lines of his face.

She shudders again, her entire body trembling as she strains to listen to his
reply.

"…Of course you will."

And with those words that are utterly annoying to be heard from the mouth of
someone with the rank of a bug, she looks at up at her partner with shining
eyes, completely taken by the person who is the most powerful and most worthy
of everything in the entire world.

And Rei, the wonderful, enthrallingly destructive number one pilot from Central
Tower, retains that permanent grin, face not changing its expression even
slightly.

***

It remains an insurmountable surprise to her: for completely imbecilic humans
to be so utterly engrossed in their own pathetic lives and so totally
captivated by their own low-grade happiness that seems almost enviable if one
forgets the basic truth that undeserving people don't deserve, don't even
receive anything hardly worth receiving.

She has a discerning eye, that's why she can easily spot a fake from a mile
away. And the happiness in front of her, shoved nastily in front of her when
she doesn't have any intentions of publicly acknowledging that kind of
counterfeit happiness, is fake. After all, one unremarkable person can't
produce anything remarkable. The thought of two unremarkable people joining
forces to produce something true and valuable is in the negative.

Instead of feebly accepting that absolute logic though, the couple in front of
her eyes continues to laugh and grin, with their expressions changing and
fluctuating and generally acting like humans who are content. It's impossible,
she knows. There's no way anyone can be content in the world they're currently
in, especially if you don't even possess any real estate underground, if you
don't even have at least three major achievements under your belt, if you don't
even rank higher than fourth place in the pilot rankings.

There's just no way.

How can anyone be happy without any home to return to underground? How can
anyone be happy when one's utterly stupid-brained? How can anyone be happy with
being dead-last when it comes to piloting SPHEREs?

It's unthinkable.

It's been more than a year since their marriage, but they're still so
inseparable, so attached-attracted-magnetized to each other.

It's disgusting.

She wants to snipe at them, even though that's something that is hardly
expecting from someone as composed and dignified as her. She wants to scold
them for being so cozy and sweet with each other at places where she can
witness the loving gestures and hear the affectionate words that they share
with each other. She wants to berate them for being so satisfied with their
little cocoon of happiness, especially since she knows without question that
the happiness they're cultivating is something that won't stand the test of
time, simply because it's forged by two unworthy people.

It's a tad annoying to feel this way: irritated beyond measure by the little,
insignificant things happening around her.

Pearl is more than a little busy recently with the problems in the Duke
family's inheritance ceremony; she isn't spoiled enough to be so crass and
intrude upon her best friend's hectic schedule when the root of her problem is
just two insects who happen to score the two pilot positions below her rank.

Daily, she uses the communication device that Rei pressed into her ample
breasts before they parted a month ago. Daily, she undergoes a series of
identification verifications and code decryptions before she can even reach the
stage where she can hear the ringing sound that signifies a successful
connection to the partner communication device in Rei's hands. Daily, she fails
on hearing anything but the endless ringing tone that doesn't lead her
anywhere.

Obviously, as the number one pilot, Rei is the busiest among everyone in the
entire world, so it's not like she has the right to actually complain or be
ungrateful. He's just busy—busy being a pilot, busy being an idol, busy being
perfect—that's why he hasn't been able to answer every single one of her calls.

The simulated March weather is too bright and she narrows her eyes, squinting a
bit, so that she won't get blinded by the artificial sunlight. She's supposed
to head out to the SPHERE launch hangars in a few minutes' time, but she
doesn't think she can pilot her AMETHYST while harboring a nauseated feeling.
She sinks against her seat, closing her eyes in hopes of blocking out
everything related to the couple waiting for their turn to enter their SPHEREs.

They're just insects, she reminds herself steadily, repeating the mantra-like
statement over and over inside her head.

She isn't jealous of their happiness and of their proximity and of their love.
The bond that she shares with her beloved Rei is still much better and much
stronger than theirs, even if they haven't really talked to each other about a
number of things yet, even if they haven't really communicated with each other
since that single day last month, hidden inside the curves and shadows of the
headquarters' hallways.

There's just no way is she feeling any sort of envy—she's too awesome for that.
Envy is an emotion reserved for weaker people who can't obtain the things that
they want for themselves and instead resign themselves to being a mere observer
of other people's blessings. She already has the things she wants, the person
she wants, in her grasp, so she doesn't have any reason to feel envy.

She looks at the two of them—Esmeralda safely ensconced in Jasper's arms as the
two of them murmur softly-spoken words to each other's lips—and her fingers
shakily tighten around the communication device that looks like an ordinary
handheld phone on the outside.

Their happiness isn't real, she reminds herself, because they're two
unremarkable people who won't amount to anything.

…Yes, she has no reason to feel any resentment at all.

•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 08: eighth entity

(—equivalence—)

•••


pilot. Esmeralda Cordovan-Cornell
sphere. TOPAZ
rank. Freedom Union – 05

•

"Things happen for a reason." Esmeralda doesn't have any qualms with sharing
her innermost thoughts with the researcher in front of her, as well as the
recording devices that will surely display every single angle of her mannerisms
and habits to the other members of the pilot evaluation team. She worries the
left edge of her lower lip for a few seconds before restating her point, eyes
unnecessarily drawn to the nearly motionless fingers that are unobtrusively
typing every single word she says and every single thought that she doesn't say
out loud. "Every single thing that happens has a reason behind them."

Fingers smoothly flow over the keyboard, noiselessly, and her evaluating
researcher is silent. She presses onward with her answer to the question
regarding her main guiding belief in life. She idly wonders if she's straying
too far away from the question's main point, but there shouldn't be any right
or wrong answers when it comes to personal beliefs.

There shouldn't be.

"Sometimes, the reasons don't become apparent quickly, or at all." That's the
only explanation for the so-called impossible occurrences, for the so-called
unfair injustices, that are befalling people in this world. "There's always a
reason. We just don't see or understand them, a lot of times."

There always is. She wholeheartedly believes that. She doesn't claim to
understand all the reasons that lie in the shadows of the events that happen
sequentially in this world, but she accepting the fact that there's a logical
reason behind any action is one step to being a responsible individual. It's
one step further away from being a complacent person satisfied with labeling
any unfavorable outcome as something 'unreal', 'impossible' or 'unfair'.

Things happen for a reason.

There's a reason indeed for why a person like her, sheltered by loving parents
and reliable friends, managed to succeed in getting selected to pilot the
special SPHEREs that are tasked to protect the country. She's always been
protected; that's why fate gave her a chance to protect others in return.
There's also a reason why a person like her, buried neck-deep in her studies
and pilot training, managed to look up at the exact time that a certain person
entered the briefing room.

There's always a reason.

That's why—

***

"How was the assessment?"

Esmeralda removes the outer coat that has all the emblems and symbols of being
a SPHERE pilot, effectively ridding herself of her responsibilities for the
next few hours before her mission. Routine pilot inspections are vital to a
mission's success, but even she can feel fatigue from being questioned and
assessed for six straight hours. She understands the higher-ups' concern about
the stability of her emotions right now, but the only way she can completely
answer their expectations is when she finishes her mission tomorrow without any
trouble whatsoever.

"A bit tiring," she replies honestly, not finding any reason to lie to the
person in front of her, to the person who she fell in love with at first sight,
to the person who's now her husband. "But I'm fine," she adds in order to
alleviate the bubbling question about her wellbeing, "…better than fine,
really."

"Come here," Jasper murmurs, arms stretched out to welcome her into his arms.
Esmeralda smiles as she allows herself to sink into her husband's waiting
embrace, aware that this is the exact matter that the higher-ups are concerned
about. They want to know if she can still do her job perfectly even if she has
other things to think about, like wanting to prioritize someone else's safety
and wellbeing instead of regarding her missions as her priority number one.

"I'll need to leave by two in the morning," Esmeralda whispers softly into her
husband's collar, "I'll take the right side, okay?"

Jasper shrugs, the arms around her tightening for a split-second. "I don't mind
if you wake me up."

"But it's too early—"

"I want to send you off," Jasper's neck grows warm and Esmeralda realizes that
he's blushing, "…it's your first mission after our marriage, so. So I want to.
Okay?"

Esmeralda laughs a little, feeling the embarrassment infect her with wonderful
happiness. This is exactly what the higher-ups are afraid of, for their pilots
to become heavily invested in things other than their missions, because the
lack of concentration can be fatal, if one isn't careful. This is exactly why
her pre-mission assessment was especially grueling, but Esmeralda finds that
she doesn't really mind the challenges that come her way, because there's
surely a good reason for the things unfolding around her.

That's what she believes.

***

Her mission summary states that this is just going to be a normal perimeter
patrol on some unclaimed aerial territory atop the NEO-Atlantic Ocean. Though
of course, given the amount of fuss and preparation that preceded her launching
sequence earlier, it's very easy to see that her country's intention is to use
her luck of-sorts against the enemy presently facing her.

MORNING STAR, inappropriately matched by its deep charcoal paint, is
Allemagne's number one SPHERE, piloted by Allemagne's number one pilot. Gloria
is behind Morning Star's controls, undoubtedly also here for some perimeter
patrol.

Despite only ranking fifth, Esmeralda is always sent for missions against
Allemagne's top pilot, only continuing the strange connection between her and
Gloria. Most of Esmeralda's early missions have always ended with her having a
non-fatal encounter with the enemy, a feat that isn't shared by anybody else
with that many instances. Her higher-ups surely suspect something going on
between the two of them, a cooperation pact perhaps, since she keeps on
avoiding injuries whenever she's pitted against Gloria. She's been honest with
her evaluators from the beginning: her success is only due to Gloria's
principles and morals regarding the protection of all human life, even if it
belongs to her enemy's.

Today is quite different though, because instead of only the two of them,
there's a SPHERE that barges in the middle of their match, a SPHERE that she
dimly recognizes to belong to Archadia. Since this is an unclaimed territory
quite far-flung from any of the existing countries, there's no reason for her
to be surprised at seeing a representative from Archadia snooping around as
well. She's more surprised to read the intent on the star-like SPHERE, to read
the desire to defensively escape from this space. It almost stings her pride as
a pilot, to see someone that cowardly, but she supposes that the Archadia pilot
has some things she needs to protect more than her own integrity and pride.

Her evaluators will surely appreciate a bonus gift, so Esmeralda readies
herself to take the Archadia SPHERE hostage, or at least block its escape. Her
TOPAZ is quite well-known for its speed, backed by the doubled engines on her
SPHERE's legs, so she isn't worried about falling short of her plans. She sets
the calculations for her SPHERE's motions with quick fingers, already
anticipating her evaluators' words about her initiative to capture enemies for
the sake of the country.

All her calculations are easily thrown off though, when Gloria's face loads in
front of her visual display immediately, blocking her sight of MORNING STAR
raising both its hands in a gesture of placating surrender. She almost panics
about some hacking intent from Allemagne, before she rather belatedly recalls
that her SPHERE has already recognized the communication channel that Gloria
uses and has already tagged it as one of the 'safe contacts'. It irks her, the
way even her SPHERE assumes that she's buddy-buddy with Gloria even if all
that's happened between them is share a couple of missions that finish
peacefully and safely.

It irks her to the point that she uncharacteristically blurts out harsh words
the moment the three-way communication call finishes loading to include the
Archadia pilot. "What the hell? What's the big idea, Ms. Number One?"

There's a reason for this happening, but what she can't understand is why must
the scared-looking sissy Archadia pilot be there to witness the strange
relationship between her and Gloria, a weird connection that's earning her
distrust from her higher-ups. She can't afford any more suspicions piling up on
top of her shoulders, especially since they're already suspecting her of
something more sinister. That's the only explanation behind the increased
evaluations on her performances and the added surveillance on her actions.

Gloria's gentle, unbetraying, smile alternates between making her feel serene
and making her feel like she's going to get strangled with irritation. She
can't begrudge Gloria of her actions though, because she knows, more than
anyone, about the way Gloria believes in not harming anyone. Gloria is the only
person who thinks like that in this entire wretched world, just as she's the
only person who can knowingly allow her enemies to see her unhidden face and
hear her unscrambled voice. She's completely honest in a way that Esmeralda can
only feel envious about.

There are a few moments that pass without any pilot saying a word to the three-
way communication channel. Esmeralda watches the way the Archadia pilot's face
is filled with a hunted expression unmasked by the low-level pixilation layered
atop the video feed. Esmeralda thinks that it's her chance to catch Gloria off-
guard, so that she can redeem herself in front of the higher-ups' eyes, so that
she can prove to them that getting married this early in life doesn't make her
a stupid teenager that doesn't know how to place her pilot duties above
anything else, so that she can inform them that she's a person who deserves
their trust.

"I'd like to propose that we just continue with our missions without any fights
or bloodshed." Gloria's gentle smile doesn't fade from her face, her blue eyes
clear and untarnished by the unstable transmission signal. "There's no point
having any scuffle for just a normal perimeter check, is there?"

Esmeralda almost sighs at the way the Archadia pilot so obviously sinks to her
pilot chair with such obvious relief. There's no doubt that the Archadia girl
is expecting Gloria to suddenly demand some peace treaties or maybe some arms
exchange, since the way Allemagne operates is clearly more focused in
militaristic dominance. Esmeralda almost wants to shake Gloria by her shoulders
so that she'll realize that while she's the number one pilot for now, Allemagne
will surely not turn a blind eye on the way she handles her missions without
killing anyone, almost an insult to Allemagne's bloody history of forcibly
taking lives away from people who oppose them.

"You're right. Let's just go on our respective missions, okay?"

And the Archadia SPHERE backpedals hastily away, leaving without a second
glance, without hesitation.

Esmeralda almost calls out to her, so that she'll return, if only so that she
won't be left alone with Gloria in the communication channel that now just
contains the two of them.

She reasons to herself that since the communication link has been opened by a
third-party source, her SPHERE's recording mechanisms wouldn't work. She shakes
her head, her hair swaying with the motion. She isn't good with secrets and she
doesn't understand why she ends up keeping a whole chunk of them. It only makes
her very vulnerable to her evaluators' piercing eyes and penetrating questions.

There are a million and one reasons why she should terminate the signal between
the two of them.

"…What's wrong, Esmeralda? You look tired. Have you been feeling unwell?"

There are a million and one reasons why she should stop speaking with the other
pilot.

"I—"

But—

***

Esmeralda decreases her pace as she observes an odd occurrence at the other end
of the launch hangar. Her eyesight is one of her rare assets, so to speak, so
she can clearly see Ruby Alizarin limping away from her BLOODSTONE. If she
remembers correctly, Ruby's mission isn't due to finish in a couple of hours,
so it means either her mission ended prematurely or she's just really good at
finishing off her opponents quickly.

There's quite a huge distance between the two of them and there's quite a
number of mechanics and engineers milling around the area. Even so, not a
single person makes the slightest move to approach her limping form, not a
single person ventures to assist her with going to the medical wing to get
treatment for her injuries.

Esmeralda frowns at the way Ruby Alizarin is treated with such blatant
disapproval. But then again, there has to be a reason behind the cold
treatment, since there's no way everyone in the headquarters will just, without
any reason, unanimously agree into swinging between hostility and indifference
when it comes to treating one of its precious pilots. There has to be something
that Ruby Alizarin has done to elicit such intense disapproval.

Judging from the whispered rumors that follow her wake, everybody agrees that
Ruby Alizarin repeatedly sold her body in order to achieve the 02 position she
has. Esmeralda isn't inclined to agree or disagree with that rumor, though
there has to be a source, a beginning, for that type of nasty news to start,
right? There's definitely a reason why everyone believes the rumored sluttiness
rather than the overwhelming strength that Ruby displays.

"Welcome back!" Jasper calls out to her, and Esmeralda easily pulls her
attention away from their 02 pilot, shifts it effortlessly to focus on her
husband's presence. Everybody in the headquarters is aware that the two of them
got married recently, so nobody is really surprised to see Jasper welcome her
back from her mission. She returns the hug that Jasper gives her, own hands
wrapped securely around her husband's torso.

She looks up to an unspecified scenery, but it's at that moment that time winds
down infinitely slow, opening the door to her own reason for not entirely
believing in the integrity of Ruby's soul and the power in Ruby's hands. She
looks up, her chin resting on Jasper's right collarbone, and she meets Ruby's
blazing green eyes dead-on. It's a gaze that's definitely drawn to her
position, or rather, to the person wrapped in her gentle hold.

Their eyes only meet for just one moment in the long, steady flow of time. but
it's enough to remind Esmeralda why she can't really regard Ruby Alizarin with
an emotion more favorable than cold indifference.

Everything happens for a reason, Esmeralda believes so.

That's why, there's definitely a meaning behind Ruby's gaze constantly drifting
to where Jasper is.

And that's why, Esmeralda can't approve of her existence.

***

Esmeralda pauses her quick strides away from the mission report conference
room, as soon as she stumbles upon the training room filled with cheering pilot
trainees. Since physical confrontations between pilots or trainees leads to an
immediate dismissal from duty, so the crowd is definitely not watching a fight.
Esmeralda discreetly takes a peek inside the training room to witness
whatever's drawing this type of rabid attention from the crowd; her eyes widen
in a mixture of surprise and understanding. The transfixed gazes of the crowd
are justified then, since there's an epic sparring session ongoing inside.

Aster Gainsboro is sparring against three former pilots who now serve as
military trainers for the current pilots. The trio is well-known for their
immense physical strength and fighting genius, but Aster is kicking their asses
soundly. Judging from the lack of dripping sweat and heavy breathing on Aster's
side, being outnumbered this much is still not enough of a challenge for him.

This is just one of the countless occasions that remind Esmeralda of how
perfect Aster is.

Watching Aster effortlessly parry the blows being dealt to him only prompts
Esmeralda to wonder, for possibly the twenty-seventh time, about Aster's love-
life, or lack thereof. There's a myriad of options easily available for him to
choose from, and that's not even counting the more secretive admirers that
don't stalk the sparring trainings that Aster favors. Admirers from both
genders bestow starry-eyed glances upon the country's number one pilot; it's
not an exaggeration to claim that there's representative for each type across
the entire spectrum of people-types.

Yet Aster's perfection continues to be something that is limited to only
himself and not shared to any sort of partner. Her viewpoint might be extremely
biased towards having a relationship, but Esmeralda does believe that Aster's
perfection can still be compounded by having a significant other in his life.
After all, there really is something to be said about fighting for the sake of
someone else; strength and power gained through wanting to protect someone else
aside from yourself cannot be measured and cannot be defeated by a selfish,
lonely power.

She knows that best, because she knows that she's much stronger now, more
powerful than herself without having met Jasper—even if there's no outright
improvement in the pilot rankings whatsoever. It's her inner strength, she
knows, just like she knows that she's destined to use that increased strength
in order to protect the person most important to her.

Esmeralda resumes walking then, because just think about Jasper is enough to
make her want to see him even sooner. She pities Aster, a little bit, a little
strangely, because he might be the best pilot produced by her country, but he
remains far away from being leading a fulfilled life.

***

"Wanna try this?" Esmeralda waves the piece of artificial meat towards her
husband, the strangely lavish servings terribly out-of-place with the usual
government-mandated pilot diet. "I think this is supposed to be hybrid pork?"

She obliges spoon-feeding Jasper the assortments of amuse-bouche stacked upon
her plate. Normally she declines in outright participating in public displays
of affection, but it's not like this is a business setting even if everyone is
gathered in Freedom Union's grandest and most spacious hall.

There had been a time, she remembers, when December 25 was celebrated for a
reason related to some religion-related savior's birth, but the birthday being
celebrated now belongs to someone famous in the entire country and maybe even
the world. The event's person of honor is surrounded by countless admirers and
circles of people from different levels of the country's social hierarchy.

She's rather content with staying with her husband in one secluded corner of
the hall, kept away from most of the hustle and bustle. She has finished
greeting Aster and congratulating him for yet another year of standing on top
of his own family line and the pilot ranking; she has completed her duty to
personally hand their joint gift to one of Aster's many caretakers.

Despite the fact that the table they're occupying is reserved for the pilots,
only the two of them are left to hang around in this corner. Ruby disappeared
from her seat as soon as the opening speeches concluded; Pearl and Jade giggled
their way through the crowd as soon as the lights dimmed a tad to encourage a
more casual atmosphere.

…Oh.

Narcissus is apparently still here, looking incredibly lost and surreally white
amidst the dim atmosphere.

"I'll get us more drinks," her husband murmurs against her cheek, before
standing up to retrieve more drinks for their table.

Esmeralda unthinkingly replies with some soft acknowledgement, mind still
focused on observing Narcissus. Despite hailing from one of the most celebrated
families in the country, Narcissus looks and acts harried and stressed and
generally acting different from an ideal heir. To her knowledge, Narcissus is
also a prime target for being ostracized and bullied by staff members and the
second-tiered pilot trainees. More than pathetic, she considers the harsh
treatment to be necessary in building courage and developing Narcissus'
character further.

Nothing in this world happens for no reason after all, so even the
disappointing bullying has a role to fulfill, she's sure.

"Do you want to try this?" Esmeralda offers the untouched artificial meat left
on her plate, both as a gesture of goodwill and to break the uncomfortable
silence that settles over their table.

"Eh? Oh! Sorry, sorry, I wasn't paying attention!" Narcissus spews out a couple
more nonsensical apologies, bowing his head so low that it almost knocks over
the champagne flute on the tabletop. "Thank you for your offer! But I can't
possibly eat your food! It's for you, after all! So sorry!"

"…Right." Esmeralda smiles tightly, thinking that it isn't really a surprise
that people are rather fond of being cruel to the teen in front of her. There's
nothing that screams 'bully me!' harder than a frail-looking teenager with a
severe doormat attitude after all. "Well, feel free to—"

"Sorry!" Narcissus interrupts her, apparently still not finished with his
litany of apologies. "It's not like I was rejecting your generous offer because
I think it's like leftovers or something! It's not like I rejected your offer
because I dislike you or think that you have germs or think that you already
had your saliva all over the food! I swear!"

"…"

…It's not like she thought of those things either, but now that he mentioned
it…

"It's fine, there's nothing wrong with rejecting food offers—"

"Oh no, I wasn't giving you any ideas or anything! I'm so sorry! I should stop
talking now! Sorry, sorry!"

"It's fine, really—"

"Sorry!"

"…"

Even though Narcissus is technically one of her seniors when it comes to
piloting—not only is he from a renowned family, he was also recruited much
earlier compared to her—Esmeralda has never once thought of the other as
someone ranked above her. It's mainly due to that attitude, but Esmeralda
didn't think that Narcissus was this… annoying. It's probably because she
didn't have a lot of opportunities to interact with him, but now that she has
experienced how exhausting it is to handle Narcissus, she isn't wishing for any
further encounters between them.

"Yo, sissy," a voice remarks rather nastily from somewhere behind Esmeralda,
prompting her to crane her neck back to tell off the person intruding on the
pilots' table, surprising her with the knowledge that it's one of the second-
tiered pilots who said that. From the corner of her eye, she notices Narcissus
cowering and shivering, most likely out of fear, leaving no guesses as to who
was being addressed with the demeaning nickname.

Esmeralda doubts that her destiny dictates her to defend the damsel in distress
in this dilemma, but it doesn't sit well with her conscience and dignity to
simply allow this to continue. Nevertheless, she doesn't rise up from her seat
to chase—Robin? Yes, his name is Robin, she thinks—away, if only for the sake
of maintaining peace in this lavish birthday party. She waits for the right
moment to diffuse the conflict brewing, but the proper timing doesn't reach
her, as the crowd around their table thickens.

She does rise to her feet then, looking for her husband and momentarily
ignoring the situation at hand. He isn't the type to stand out in a crowd, so
she encounters considerable trouble locating him. He's taking awfully long to
get drinks for them, but it's not like she can blame him because it really is
becoming quite suffocating on her table.

"I'm sorry—"

"…Ah, can I have a glass of champagne?"

Esmeralda whips her head back to glance at Narcissus and at the newest addition
to the vicinity, almost giving herself a nasty whiplash. Confused and grateful
at once, she heaves a sigh of relief at Aster's sudden appearance. If there's
anyone who can effortlessly dampen the rising tension, it's definitely Aster.
She arranges her smile to something a little less strained, before she offers a
glass of the bubbly drink to the birthday celebrant.

"Thank you."

"Y-You're welcome," she almost automatically replies, slightly taken aback with
the polite and oh-so-genuine remark. 'Thank you' is part of normal social
decorum, but there's something more with the way Aster says it, as though he's
truly, completely grateful for her help… with giving him the glass of champagne
that he wants.

"Are you enjoying the party?"

"Yes, the program is wonderful and the food is excellent—"

"I'm sorry! I don't think I managed to greet you earlier! I don't think I
managed to hand you your gift either? So sorry!"

Narcissus' way of speaking is a combination of being energetic and nervous as
hell. It makes for rather poor conversation and Esmeralda thinks of a way to
salvage the situation by steering Aster's (and the surrounding crowd's)
attention back to her insipid commentary about the ongoing celebration.

"That's fine," Aster replies diplomatically, giving the aura of absolutely
serenity, like he's used to handling nutcases like Narcissus, "I won't take
offense as long as you greet me now?"

"I'm so sorry for the lateness! It's not like I wanted to delay this purposely!
It's not like I didn't want to greet you personally! It's not like I didn't
want to give you my gift just because it will pass through some stringent
security checks before it reaches you! It's not like I thought it was absurd
that you still have caretakers solely for your gifts even though you're already
this old!"

…Esmeralda didn't think of those reasons either, but judging from the way the
crowd is collectively glaring coolly at Narcissus' hastily-apologizing form,
everyone is now pinning those far-fetched, exaggerated, reasons to Narcissus'
actions.

"Then let me amend my earlier statement," Aster's smile retains its calming
effect, bright and sparkly even if Narcissus keeps on shooting himself on his
foot with his words, "as long as you greet me and give me your birthday present
now, I won't take offense?"

Esmeralda wonders if Aster's smile is hiding his real emotions that are
seething at getting insulted rather blatantly without the other person being
entirely conscious of his actions and its consequences. Aster doesn't strike
her as the type to harbor dark thoughts because he looks too clear and too
brilliant for that. She can't blame anyone though, no matter how saintly they
are, for feeling the tiniest bit irritated at the words tumbling out of
Narcissus' mouth.

"Oh, okay, okay, sorry!" Narcissus bows down again, his loose and messy braid
appearing mediocre in front of Aster's similarly braided hair. "…Happy
birthday, Aster Gainsboro!"

Robin snorts from behind her, as Narcissus retrieves a fist-sized gift from his
baggy pants' pocket. Esmeralda's smile wanes as she takes in the off-color
wrapper and the dismal size of the present, something that definitely doesn't
match Aster and his status. This isn't helping Esmeralda's doubts about
Narcissus being a part of the Duke family—maybe he's an illegitimate kid or an
adopted prisoner of war? There's just no way will a rich kid settle for handing
out pathetic gifts like that.

"Thank you," Aster carefully retrieves the object hidden with poor wrapping
technique, the genuine tone in his voice unwavering even if he's surely stunned
by the unbelievable shabbiness of the gift, "…Narcissus."

Aster doesn't display the gift for anyone else's eyes. Esmeralda isn't even
half-curious to discover what type of useless thing Narcissus bestowed upon the
person who already has everything.

"I'm so sorry for the lateness!" Narcissus apologizes for the nth time, his
upbeat voice contrasting sharply with his self-critical words and his self-
deprecating personality. "Ah, I'm so useless!"

"Thank you for coming here," Aster murmurs before quickly granting Narcissus a
brisk comradely hug, "I really appreciate it."

And just like that, Aster moves away from their table, taking the thick crowd
of admirers, caretakers and government officials along with him.

Esmeralda heaves a loud sigh of relief then, thankful that things remained
tactful and peaceful despite Narcissus' airhead behavior and crass statements
disrupting each moment. She settles back to her seat, strangely spent even if
nothing physically demanding has occurred. She jolts a little bit when her
husband's comforting hand brushes by her shoulders.

"Hey, sorry for the wait," Jasper looks sheepish and mildly curious, "it was
really hard to return to this table…"

"No worries, it is fine," Esmeralda murmurs, wiping her suddenly sweaty palms
against her skirt.

She gratefully accepts the tall glass of the fruity alcoholic drink her husband
managed to get for her, hoping the effects will get hold of her quickly so she
can start relaxing again.

"Oh, hey! I didn't notice we have champagne here!"

Esmeralda almost replies that they've always had champagne available on their
table, but then her gaze swings to the untouched drink at the edge where Aster
was standing just a couple of minutes ago. She was preoccupied with watching
out for Narcissus and his unthinking words, to the point that she barely
noticed Aster not even taking a sip from the drink he personally requested.

…Why did he even come here anyway?

While it's true that this is a table reserved for pilots, Aster's seat is on
the VIP side of the floor, surrounded by the country's top officials and the
heads of the main economic forces of Freedom Union. There was no logic behind
Aster's sudden appearance then, as though summoned by some outside force in
order to interfere with the impending fight between Robin and Narcissus. Was it
completely coincidental then, dictated by destiny?

"That drink is reserved," she murmurs rather secretively.

Everything happens for a reason, so she definitely believes that there's a
reason behind all of the things happening in this world, no matter how trivial.

She eyes Narcissus and his hunched posture and his messy appearance.

Esmeralda doesn't quite roll her eyes, but she actively ignores the other
teen's presence then, deciding to focus on the more important things.

There's a reason for the irritating behavior that Narcissus exhibits, but
Esmeralda has no interest whatsoever in finding out more about that.

***

There must be a reason for the bold indifference practically coating Pearl Duke
from head to toe, a strange sort of confidence regarding facing an unknown
enemy. Well, it isn't like Grand Romania is a new country that managed to
suddenly appear like some unwanted fungus popping out from humus—but the
concept still applies, somehow. Information about Grand Romania's new
technology spreads throughout the intelligence network like wildfire, the
stolen video recording about one of the initial prototype tests eliciting a
mixture of bewilderment and terror. Esmeralda half-expects Grand Romania's
propaganda team to be the one responsible for the leakage of their own training
simulation, because it's an incredibly effective way of controlling the world's
view on their current standing.

Nevertheless, the method behind the information leak barely matters in this
case. The important truth is that Grand Romania has somehow managed to grab a
fearsome power capable of transforming their military into a dominant force in
the expansive playing field consisting of the entire planet.

Esmeralda hides her sneeze behind a rumpled handkerchief. Rubbing her hands
together isn't enough to warm her extremities, an unpleasant reminder that the
world is steadily getting colder. While the skies have never been particularly
sunny or clear in the last couple hundred years, nothing beats the nearly
constant darkness of the heavens nowadays, almost as if the earth has already
started to show its fatigue and has exhaustedly begun to sleep. Even with the
thermostat controlling the headquarters' room temperature, cold winds from
outside the tower manage to pierce through the thick walls without much effort.

This strategy meeting is supposed to inform the pilots about the recent
situation and obtain inputs from them, but nobody is forthcoming with
suggestions regarding handling Grand Romania's most recent development.
Esmeralda watches Pearl Duke from the corner of her eye, the Duke family's
heiress standing out from the black backdrop of the briefing room. While most
of the pilots remained silent all throughout the meeting, Pearl actually shared
her opinion that basically amounts to just not caring at all regarding Grand
Romania.

Indifference, Esmeralda believes, is hardly the right solution to a country
outright challenging the world to a fight, but the main point of this meeting
is to gather opinions and thoughts, not to criticize them.

Esmeralda snakes her right hand inside her left sleeve, crawling up her wrist
until she reaches an elbow.

She does agree that there's no point going after a country that hasn't made an
official declaration of war against them, especially since that country is
neighbors with the most powerful country in the entire world. Grand Romania
will easily get crushed by Central Tower, so there's not much point in
burdening themselves with extra hassle.

…There's a reason though, she's certain, for Pearl's unusually indifferent
stance.

Everything happens for a reason, after all.  

***

Esmeralda never once indulged in any sort of interest regarding politics and
diplomacy, which is why she's rather puzzled by the formation of a tentative
not-really-alliance with Central Tower. Strategically, there's nothing better
than gaining the backing of the most powerful country in the world. Not
everything is that straightforward though. There's nothing more dangerous than
a lukewarm agreement, after all.

…Though of course, she's allowed to change her mind given ample evidence.

Just the sight of Jade Payne—one of the most arrogant person she's ever had the
displeasure of meeting—practically salivating and foaming by the mouth as she's
relentlessly plundered by that savage monster immediately after the
introductions, is enough to render Esmeralda motionless with disbelief and
nausea.

Esmeralda is the last person who'll ever deny the strength of love and its
capability to turn anyone's mind into mush. But there's a limit to allowing
your emotions control your actions, and to Esmeralda that limit guards the
boundary between self and duty. What Jade is doing is unforgivably
irresponsible, because at this point, this diplomatic visit and idle talk can
easily just be clever ruses to divert their attention from Central Tower's real
motives.

…She isn't very bright when it comes to intellectual strategies, but even she
can smell footprints of obvious betrayal.

If Rei turns out to be really head over heels in love with Jade, then Esmeralda
couldn't be happier for the two of them.

As it stands now, however, the possibility that Jade isn't being played around
with is abysmally small.

There's a reason for the happenings of the world.

Maybe this will serve as a lesson for Jade that even people of her rank and
status can become toys in the hands of someone even more influential. Maybe
this will serve as a lesson for Freedom Union to sharpen their sense of
suspicion so that a second betrayal will never happen in the future. Maybe this
will serve as a lesson for her to start having more faith in her fellow human
beings and their trustworthiness. Maybe this will serve as a lesson that she
won't ever comprehend even if it takes her entire lifetime.

There are a number of possibilities and only one of them true.

Esmeralda resumes walking, briskly removing her presence from the awkward scene
with silent footsteps. She isn't a voyeur so she refuses to participate as an
audience any longer for Rei and Jade's little rendezvous secluded in the small
area that serves as the security cameras' blind spot.

This world is filled with such mysterious.

Esmeralda hurries to her room, intent on locking herself up inside her quarters
until her husband returns.

…Everything happens for a reason.

[Because if there's no reason, then why is she even here?]

***

[Esmeralda's happiness is with Jasper.]

There's no other way around it.

It's love at first sight for her—she remembers the day vividly, March 19 of
AC683, Jasper's birthday—and Jasper has admitted that it's the same for him.

Since that day when they laid their eyes on each other, Esmeralda has loved
Jasper with her whole heart.

[Esmeralda's happiness is only with Jasper.]

She didn't ask any unnecessary questions about Jasper's past, because the
Jasper she fell in love with and continues to fall in love with is the person
in front of her, the present Jasper, not the past, not the future, not the in-
between. There's always the possibility that there's a girl or two in Jasper's
life before their meeting, but Esmeralda doesn't care about those details. She
has never intended to begrudge Jasper of having a complete life before meeting
her.

Nevertheless, being married and spending life together are bound to introduce
details that Esmeralda doesn't even think to ask.

[Esmeralda's happiness is only with Jasper.]

She doesn't want anyone else.

She will not ever want anyone else.

She will never reach a point where she will think about wanting anyone else.

[Esmeralda's happiness is Jasper.]

She's heavily aware that more dangerous than Jade's completely blind love
towards Rei who will mostly betray her heartlessly, than Pearl's suffocating
indifference regarding the affairs of the world, than Ruby's lack of morals
when it comes to forming relationships, than the world seemingly striving to
kill off all its inhabitants—there's a traitor in their midst.

She firmly believes in the image Jasper paints vibrantly over his surface—a
jolly, loyal, capable pilot representing Freedom Union—which is why she
effortlessly uncovers the true face behind the brightly colored masquerade. She
reads the dissatisfaction and smells the betrayal long before they flounder
before surfacing up Jasper's expressions. More dangerous than possibilities of
betrayals is the definite messenger from hell—a spy from another organization.

She observes her husband more critically nowadays, because there's no telling
when Freedom Union would start recognizing the signs of a mole in their ranks,
because there's no time left to devise a plan B-C-D-Z in order to save Jasper
from the brink of his lies' collapse. She doesn't know details about the rogue
organization her husband is working for, but it must be something fairly big
and important, since they were able to smoothly add Jasper into the ranks of
the second-most powerful kingdom in the world.

She's being completely disloyal to her country.

But it's for the sake of protecting the one person she considers most
important, she doesn't mind throwing everything away.

[Esmeralda is Jasper's.]

…Forever.

***

It's been:

— [one] year
— [two] months
— [three] weeks
— [four] days
— [five] hours
— [six] seconds
— [infinite] moments

—Since the two of them got married.

***

Everything happens for a reason—
—and now the pendulum to her story swings to a staggering stop.

***

Everything happens for a reason—

NO.

There's no possible explanation for the scenery so shamelessly displayed in
front of her eyes.

[Esmeralda's right knee shakes violently, the tremors running up and down on
her muscles and bones freely. It gives out after a few drawn-out seconds, the
sickening crunch of the kneecap collapsing against the metal floors somewhat
tapered by the sticky, viscous fluid covering the entire area.]

There's no such reason that can fit for the scene in front of her.

[Esmeralda's left leg resembles a half-solid jelly: unstable and unsupported.
Her arms hang uselessly limp by her sides, unable to even feel the twitchy
tremors that travel up to her shoulders. Even her lips join in the seemingly
common act of uncontrollably shivering and shaking, both in numb terror and
blank-white-anger.]

There's just no way.

[Esmeralda barely registers the Freedom Union security soldiers gathering by
the open doorway behind her, because her eyes remain transfixed on the mangled
body of her husband, pathetically still in the middle of a crimson lake, and
she can't even bring her limbs to make coordinated movements so she can at
least close her husband's wide-with-terror eyes. There's a slight movement to
the left of her husband's body, a movement that her gaze immediately follows.
She looks at Narcissus, at the way the tips of Narcissus' shoes barely touches
her husband's dislocated shoulder, at the way pale fingers are somehow loosely
wrapped around a gun pointed directly to her husband's nearly-unrecognizable
face.]

NO.

[Esmeralda's mind is eerily blank.]

Everything happens for a reason.

But there's no reason that can ever explain this.

"YOU FUCKING MURDERER! HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO HIM?! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

***

"This is a warning, Miss Esmeralda Cordovan. Please refrain from using violence
in this court—"

"MY NAME IS ESMERALDA CORNELL. I'M MARRIED, DAMN IT! MY SURNAME IS CORNELL—!
AND I'M GOING TO FUCKINGKILLYOU—!"

"Very well, Mrs. Esmeralda Cornell: This is the second warning. Please refrain
from engaging in violent acts or else you'll be charged with Disruption of
Order, punishable with a minimum of five weeks in the maximum security prison—"

"FUCK YOU—LET ME GO—!"

"Esmeralda," Aster Gainsboro, the number one pilot of Freedom Union, the same
person that holds one of the highest seats in the court's jury, attempts to
soothe the furious woman's violent outbursts, "you need to calm down."

"CALM DOWN?! HOW THE HELL CAN I CALL DOWN?!"

"This court is being held to investigate the circumstances surrounding the
unfortunate incident yesterday regarding Jasper Cornell's—"

"DON'T YOU DARE SAY IT!"

"…Alright, I won't." Aster takes a half-step back, giving the grieving teenager
more of her personal space. Without Aster's form shielding her from privy eyes,
Esmeralda's bloodshot eyes and tearstained face is completely visible for
anyone who'd care to take a look at the pathetic state she's reduced to. "But
you'll need to calm down. Sort out your thoughts, look at this objectively—I
know this is extremely hard to do right now. But you'll need to be strong. So
that the culprit can be found and can be punished accordingly."

The entire court is silent, intently watching the unfolding drama explode into
a cacophony of chaotic cries and curses. The other pilots are seated on the
jury seats as well, while the rest of the court is filled with all of the
justice specialists of the country, with the addition of some more high-ranking
officials. Freedom Union is rather stringent in implementing their policy of
banning any sort of violence or brutal intent towards any other comrade—the
mere fact that one of their main-tier pilots got murdered in their own
territory is already a huge dent against the country's collective pride. As
though to spice up this proceeding, the main suspect's identity belongs to no
one other than the next generation of the highly-regarded Duke family.

Simply put, Jasper Cornell's murder case is one of the most high-profile cases
to ever land Freedom Union's courts.

"…Culprit? Find? HA?!" Esmeralda calms down visibly, her expression twisted by
madness relaxing to a firmer, more composed countenance. The psychotic snarl
that nearly broke her face in half earlier is now gone. The hoarse screaming
voice is now replaced by a low, rumbling tone. "The culprit is that bastard
Narcissus, isn't he? What more evidence do you need?"

Aster's expression looks almost pinched, as though it's physically painful to
say the words aloud. "It's true that Narcissus is at the crime scene—"

"…with a gun in hand."

"—Yes, with a gun in hand. But the gun found in Narcissus' possession doesn't
match the murder weapon according to the preliminary autopsy reports. There's
no motive and there's also no way Narcissus could have overpowered Jasper—"

"…WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED?! Narcissus was standing in front of my husband,
smoking gun in hand! Security camera records show Narcissus being the only one
in the room with my husband before his death! WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED?! WHY CAN'T
YOU SEE THAT NARCISSUS IS A GODDAMN MURDERER?!"

"I didn't kill Jasper with that gun! I didn't kill anyone with that gun! I
didn't kill any person! I'm so sorry!"

For the first time since the beginning of the trial session—and possibly with
the worst timing—Narcissus speaks up, teary-eyed, with a purpling bruise on his
cheek, courtesy of Esmeralda successfully landing a brutal punch to his face
before the court guards managed to react to her quick attack.

"This is a warning, Mr. Narcissus Duke. You are not allowed to issue statements
until you are permitted to do so by the court—"

"Oh, sorry! Sorry! I just wanted to let Esmeralda know that the only reason I
had a gun in my hand was because I only picked that gun up by mistake because
it's just there, you know? And before I knew it, it already fired and there's
recoil and then I notice Jasper dead even though I didn't really see him
properly—"

"This is the second warning, Mr. Narcissus Duke. You are not allowed to issue
statements—"

"Just shut the hell up, Narcissus! You're a disgrace!"

"This is a warning, Ms. Pearl Duke. Please refrain from participating in
arguments happening out of the jury box—"

"Let's all calm down, everyone!" Aster Gainsboro is technically also disobeying
the rule about not causing any sort of disturbance, especially out of the jury
box which is supposedly his only allowable territory, but the main judge is
only grateful that the charismatic young man is able to silence every member of
court without resorting to nitpicking and going through the entire rulebook and
handing out punishments. "Let's make this an orderly proceeding, shall we?"

Aster leaves the seething Esmeralda on her seat as attending doctors
effectively strap her to her seat, injecting her with depressants. It's rather
inhumane to resort to controlling one's reactions through pharmaceuticals, but
there's no point in allowing the victim's stress level to shoot high up,
especially since there's no way she'll be able to calm herself down without any
external influence. Instead, Aster makes his way to the suspect's stand,
because while Narcissus is way more talkative, he's almost much easier to
silence.

"Narcissus, I believe you didn't do it," Aster soothingly reassures his fellow
pilot with his words, sounding totally genuine that nobody doubts Aster's
conviction and belief, even if everybody has plenty of qualms about accepting
Narcissus as completely innocent amidst the floating allegations, "and so that
everybody else will believe you, I'll need you to stay silent until the judge
asks for your statement. So that nobody can misinterpret your words and trap
you into a corner. Understand?"

This time, since Aster is stage-whispering to Narcissus at a rather close
range, nobody else is able to witness the brief moment when a strange sort of
realization dawns on Narcissus' usually-clueless face. It is but an ephemeral
moment, because the dense cluelessness settles back rather snugly against
Narcissus' wide-eyed face. Aster doesn't leave immediately after, almost as if
he's waiting for some sort of acknowledgement or response from the harried-
looking suspect.

Moments pass in relatively undisturbed, but highly-charged silence.

"I think we can start the trial now," Aster tells the head judge with a grim
smile, before returning to his reserved seat.

The head judge clears his throat rather loudly, no complaints whatsoever with
getting bossed around by the Gainsboro heir.

"We hereby start this trial—"

***

YES.

Everything happens for a reason.

The remote-controlled pod's original mission is to be used when disposing
radioactive chemicals or garbage that's otherwise extremely hazardous to the
surroundings and to Freedom Union's inhabitants. Today, in order to deliver
justice upon monsters who don't deserve to be treated as human beings, the
remote-controlled pod is going to be delivering and disposing of garbage into
the other side of the world. It's almost a fitting conclusion for a useless
waste to be disposed of like its fellow garbage.

It wasn't easy to reach this conclusion—she had to fight with all she had, just
so she could make them see that she's right and they're all wrong about
Narcissus.

YES.

Nevertheless, she and her truth have prevailed.

The idea of robbing Narcissus of his five senses before he's packaged inside
the pod came from Pearl—which explains the three layers of bandages around the
other's gouged-out eyes, the ear mufflers covering the ears harboring pierced
eardrums, the tubes plugged directly into twin nostrils so that oxygen can be
delivered directly into the other's airways, the gag around the other's mouth
to make sure that he doesn't bite his tongue and escape from this living
torture, the numbing liquid that's slowly filling the cramped cylinder where
the other will be packed into. The idea of packaging Narcissus like some
compressed garbage came from Jade—a situation that pleases her greatly.

Aster's quiet suggestion after the jury's verdict had ended with a majority
vote against Narcissus was to hold Jasper's 'heroes' funeral' as soon as
possible, but Esmeralda postponed that. For one, she isn't thrilled with the
thought of letting Jasper rest at some place far away from her. Another reason
is that she won't be able to face Jasper straight if she can't even report to
him that she has successfully avenged him.

YES.

With the amount of restraints and drugs in Narcissus' system, it will be
impossible for him to flail around or even move an inch while he's getting
dumped into the Black Seas—the dark oceanic water mass that stretches out from
the shadow of the Pillar of Despair. There's no solid proof about the Black
Seas' hellish conditions, but from the records of the country's earliest
navigators and explorers, the Black Seas have long represented agonizing terror
second only to the Pillar's.

Everything happens for a reason.

Narcissus Duke, despite being an annoying weakling that has a penchant for
spewing out words that implicate himself, is now getting the punishment he
deserves.

In just a few moments, he'll be sent plummeting in a fantastic crash against
the Black Seas.

…At this point, Esmeralda cares very little even if somebody is to suddenly
barge into this execution with cries about discovering the real culprit behind
Jasper's… incapacity to move.

Everything happens for a reason, but she doesn't have to understand the reason,
right?

YES.

There's a reason for Narcissus to deserve all of these sufferings.

And that's more than enough for her.

***

It's been:

— [one] year
— [two] months
— [three] weeks
— [four] days
— [five] hours
— [six] seconds
— [infinite] moments

—Since the two of them got married.

It's been more than that, she thinks, maybe, she thinks.

It doesn't matter, does it?

In her mind, it's always been: one year—two months—three weeks—four days—five
hours—six seconds—endless moments since the two of them got married.

That day—today—every day—time stopped in her world.

The pendulum that swings with each passage of time through her fingers has
stopped, as though weighed down by her heavy heart.

"Hey, Jasper," she calls out to the mirror in front of her, cracked into
countless pieces so that she can only see a distortion that can manage to pass
for Jasper if she closes her eyes hard enough. "I have a mission early tomorrow
morning. It's a start of a war. My war. Do you want me to wake you up?"

There's never an answer recently.

There's never been an answer since that day.

"Oh, you're such a sleepyhead." Esmeralda scolds her husband, caressing the
edges of the broken mirror lightly so that she doesn't cut herself any more
than necessary. "Fine, I won't wake you up."

She's starting to say those same words over and over again.

Jasper's becoming a sleep-monster.

Not that she'll love him less for such a trivial change in his character.

"I love you."

And when she squeezes her eyes hard enough, when she covers her ears with
bloodstained fingers, she hears a reply from across the mirrors.

[Only it isn't an iloveyou.]

•
END of eighth rotation;
the funeral of a lover.

•••
***** turn 09: ninth nullification *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 09: ninth nullification

(—nevermore—)

•••
pilot. Gloria Shkval
sphere. MORNING STAR
rank. Allemagne – 01

•

The world is worth protecting.

Each year that crawls past seems to teem with every possible misfortune known
to mankind, but Gloria believes that the world remains worthy of being
protected, of being nourished, of being fought for. After Herzog Kingdom's
collapse and the chaos that followed afterwards, the world has continued to
slowly march to a definite conclusion that only included wars and more wars.
Gloria believes that it isn't too late to try to turn back the tracks of time,
or maybe at least attempt to steer the roads to a place that harbors paradise.

In heavy contrast to her country's ideals and history, Gloria believes, with
her entire being, on not killing anyone. As the number one pilot, she's
expected to uphold Allemagne's values and principles, but she just can't bring
herself to find anything worthwhile in killing someone just because they
happened to belong to the opposite side of the war. Gloria doesn't mind
defeating the enemies, because she does believe that her country is capable of
leading the entire world into that paradise, but she also believes that even
when at war, any deaths, including the enemies', are always one step further
away from peace. And since she's fighting so that there will come a day when
the entire world will be led back to peace, she isn't going to kill anyone.

No matter what.
***** turn 10: tenth throne *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 10: tenth throne

(—trojan—)

•••

pilot. Isabelline Noir
sphere. AIR
rank. Kingdom of Thrones – 02

•

For successfully bridging the gap between the economic and political goals of
the Kingdom with the ambitions of the far-off land of Allemagne: 100 points~!

The year 685 is a good year for her, with many accomplishments and a perfect
mission record. There are no changes in the overall pilot ranking but she isn't
concerned about the number emblazoned on her coat. Overall ranking of physical
and mental capabilities place her at second place, though theory is always much
different than the application of said strengths. She's contented with
producing ace results that are way beyond the expectations set for her
position.

Just look at her most recent accomplishment. She's the one who had the most
involvement regarding the secret alliance forged between the Kingdom of Thrones
and Allemagne, an accomplishment that not even their number one pilot can
pretend to brag about.

…Of course, she can go ahead and spread things about her being the brains
behind the entire operation and maybe stress that it's completely her genius
that bent the other country's officials' decisions into something that would
favor their Kingdom more. But she isn't the type to parade useless, senseless
lies that can easily be discovered.

While she isn't going to start announcing the things she did, including
sizzling details on how she steadily wore less and less with each meeting that
happened, she isn't going to start denying anything either. It's been so long
since humanity has started to walk the earth and build societies, but humans
collectively hasn't been able to get rid of the instantaneous desire to judge
people based on their physical looks. And one look at her miniskirt, thigh-high
boots, and tight, low-cut top is more than enough to form an image about her
and her promiscuity.

Everyone already assumed that she seduced all of Allemagne's higher-ups, that's
why she was able to close the negotiations quickly—and they would be right to
assume that.

Nevertheless, it's still a victory for their Kingdom, that's why nobody will
dare to voice out protests about her methods.

…That's why it's a solid 100 points.

•
***** turn 11: eleventh eve *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 11: eleventh eve

(—ethereality—)

•••
***** turn 12: twelfth transparency *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 12: twelfth transparency

(—transformation—)

•••


                   Alliance Of World Nations Annual Meeting
                               665th anniversary
                1 January AC 675 – Herzog Kingdom Utopia Tower
                              [arrival of guests]

•••

title. Grand Romania's Highest King
name. Cesar Black
age. ???
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Dock 5B [Utopia Tower]

•

Display of power and influence at its finest is what this is all about, truly.
Every single corner of the arrival dock and the entirety of the minute but
extremely efficient country is decked with welcome banners and fancy holograms
that showcase either fancy engineered images or helpful guides and maps to help
everyone navigate on their own. And just as every single square inch of the
small kingdom is filled with pictures and words that spread cheer and good
vibes, underneath all the expensive decorations are the countless layers of
security systems that detect and record every single event that occurs inside
the country's perimeter.

Oh, how he longs to crush Herzog Kingdom completely.

He's been one of the usual guests to the annual meeting of the Alliance for
countless years now, and his desire to actually take this country into his
hands and make everything crumble. He doesn't fancy himself as stretching out
prematurely to the Herzog Kingdom territory, but he just wants the perfect
little nation to fall from its place higher than anyone else's.

Grand Romania is also quite compact, but the efficiency with the government and
the synchrony with all the branches of decision-making aren't even in the same
league as Herzog Kingdom's. It's almost enviable if it isn't so vexing.

He leaves his thick winter coat on his shuttle seat, not even bothering to
spare it a glance and double-check if it didn't cascade down the shuttle floor.
He has assistants trailing behind him for those little things; even if he
somehow didn't bring his very attentive assistants on this very important
mission, Herzog Kingdom is quite well-known for their helper robots that fuss
and attend to everyone's needs in a completely thorough but admirably
unobtrusive manner.

Again, it's almost amazing if it isn't so frustratingly perfect.

He retrieves his identification badge from the hands of the helper robot
milling by his peripheral vision and generously allows one of his servants to
pin the badge on his shirt's breast pocket. Donning on the identification badge
is akin to surrendering himself completely to the hands of Herzog Kingdom; it's
a twenty-four-seven tracker that has a three-sixty-degree vision range: his
privacy is utterly defenseless against the security system that will track his
every single move until the end of the annual meeting.

It's part of the whole 'we come in peace' thing that this meeting is supposed
to promote. He's willing to bet a few years of his life that not a single
person who comes to these annual meetings is there without any ulterior motives
or without any thoughts that contradict the notion of peace and equality that
the Alliance is so fond of preaching about. It's unthinkable, after all, for
even a brainless child, to wholeheartedly believe in altruism and peace when
the world outside isn't even habitable, when even the air outside seems intent
on spreading ill will and death.

He steps on the light transporter field that appears near his feet, maintaining
his calm when his assistants all gush and squeal about how amazing the
technology is, even while breathlessly trying to slow down their heartbeats
that spiked during the initial acceleration of the transporter. He gives a
nearly imperceptible nod to his wife and son, who are travelling on their own
transporter a couple of paces away from his. His wife returns his barely-there
acknowledgement with a dry smile that's just the right mixture of inbred social
graces and experience-bred spite. His son is too busy looking so embarrassingly
awestruck about the displays and decorations around him to even notice his
parents' silent marital dispute.

Arrival Dock 5C is just a couple of staggered meters ahead: the representative
is just about to step out of his own shuttle transporter, the helper robots
already lined up just outside the sliding doors. The C-labeled docks are
reserved, if he recalls correctly, for representatives from Freedom Union. He
frowns as the sliding doors remain tightly shut, robbing him of the opportunity
to spot his contemporaries before the start of the actual meeting.

Freedom Union has been pushed to third place because of Central Tower's rise to
power—it's very likely that they sent the most cutthroat of all the country's
leaders so that they can retrieve their position back at the top. If he's
lucky, Freedom Union might have even sent out the notoriously secretive head of
the Duke family, a main driving force when it comes to economic and military
deals all over the world.

His frown grows deeper when the transporter field he's using completely passes
Dock 5C without him managing to get a glimpse of Freedom Union's main
representative.

It's only a matter of time before someone brings Herzog Kingdom down to its
rightful place. It's only a matter of time before this façade of peace and
diplomacy stays, just as it's only a matter of time before the world's
countries reveal that they're all building and upgrading more SPHEREs than the
sanctioned numbers set out by the Alliance. Grand Romania is hardly an
exception: instead of contenting itself with possessing two SPHEREs that are
supposedly only used for defensive combat, it's already on the final stages of
testing the fifth SPHERE that has deadly offensive capabilities. It's more than
likely that none of the Alliance members are following the rules supposedly set
up to maintain the power balance between the countries.

He's already supervising the recruitment and selection process for the next set
of pilots who will be trained to handle the excessive strength and toxicity of
the newly-developed SPHEREs. The candidates that he has reviewed so far lack a
certain amount of power, of potential, but he isn't worried. He's fairly
convinced that there are brats living in this era who have the right amount of
drive, confidence, bloodlust and ambition needed to ignore the enormous
physical strain on one's body once the synchronization starts.

Grand Romania researchers are working day and night in order to unearth and
decipher the blueprint that is buried underneath the country's bedrock. It's
only a matter of time before those symbols and figures begin to look like
concrete plans for absolute domination. Once that happens, they should be able
to make newer and better SPHEREs that can match and overpower the rest of the
world's more advanced SPHEREs.

It's only a matter of time, he tells himself to calm down the burning feeling
low in his gut.

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five
months after this very day, there will be a nondescript earthquake that dances
slowly and surely along the earth's fault lines… even if he knows that the
earthquake will just be the beginning of the shattering of several landmasses…
even if he knows that the Herzog Kingdom will fall even without much
interference from him and his country, without even giving out any indication
or any clues as to how it will happen… even if he knows—)

—Cesar Black just frowns even deeper and thinks that he really wants to
dominate the world.

•

title. Sienna Navajo   
name. AA9999
age. 6
location. Herzog Kingdom: underground border gate [Unknown Tower]

•

Eyes closed, limbs bound, mouth shut: that's how the experimental subjects are
being rolled out in batches, smartly and successfully utilizing the blind spots
of the security network that doesn't focus as much on the underground border
gates that aren't currently being used for transporting any materials.

That's understandable, since the eyes of the entire world are riveted to the
events ongoing above-ground—with common folk engrossed with watching the
arrivals of the world leaders as though they can be part of the event just by
turning the television on.

…In any case, completely unrelated to the fanfare and commotions happening
above-ground, this particular underground tunnel is being exploited as the
pathway to secretly dump and forget about the products of failed experiments
that are being done all year round inside the top-secret laboratories of the
kingdom.

Eyes closed, limbs bound, mouth shut: that's how Sienna Navajo is sent to far-
off places that may or may not have a chance of being visited by signs of life,
and that's how she will survive along with nobody else in this horrid batch of
failures.

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if she knows that exactly five
months and one day after this very day, the highly advanced experiment
laboratories will just be reduced to an ashen mess… even if she knows that she
will be discovered by a childless couple who just happens to be collecting
glass from garbage dumps… even if she knows that she will end up the same way
as now in the last few moments of her life… even if she knows—)

—AA9999 just opens its eyes and observes the shadows of the world.
•

title. Duke Family Head
name. Narcissus Duke
age. 6
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Dock 5C [Utopia Tower]

•

As one of the first representatives to arrive, he's already a bit bored with
waiting. Even the game in his hands is already nearing the end of the bonus
boss battle, yet he doesn't feel any excitement whatsoever. This is his first
time to personally attend this annual meeting; his seniors deemed him too young
to attend the previous meetings. He personally thinks he remains too young even
this year, but the situation is dire, or so the country thinks. Central Tower
is getting too strong, they fear, and it might be too late to do anymore
countermeasures if they hesitate and wait for things to unfold. He understands
the itch to actually do something about the situation; he only doesn't
understand where the fear is coming from.

Central Tower has long displayed the potential for greatness: expansive land
territory is always conducive for more expansion, just as the wealth of soil to
mine makes it easier to establish sprawling underground cities and excavate
more resources. Freedom Union is just a little bit smaller than Central Tower
when it comes to size, but Central Tower has the advantage of riding out the
momentum that it possessed once it started getting stronger. It's only been a
couple of years since Central Tower succeeded over its neighboring enemy
tribes, so they still have the confidence boost and the fresh drive to excel
and exceed the world's expectations.

It's almost entertaining to witness: his country panicking over every
additional expansion that Central Tower does. It's unlikely that Central Tower,
even with its ambition, will hope to expand even towards the Western Hemisphere
where Freedom Union is located. Expansion over the unforgiving waters isn't
something that can be easily achieved and Central Tower is too busy with
fortifying its own fortress to care about that kind of conquest. That's what he
thinks but apparently nobody else agrees, since they forced him to attend this
meeting as the country's representative because they want him to use his
abilities to negotiate a better arms deal for them.

How amusing.

His country is panicking over how they can maintain the façade of being a
peaceful and freedom-loving country while trying to claw their way back up in a
status that they only think they possess. It contradicts every single one of
their so-called mission and vision values, just as it challenges the name that
the country chose when it was established.

Greedy ambitions are really quite funny to observe, but he wants to remain an
observer first because dipping his fingers into a very crowded pot isn't very
wise. He's just a kid and he knows his limitations, even if he does enjoy
toeing the boundary lines and pushing the envelope a little too much.

His gaze flickers to the tinted windows of his transport shuttle, observing the
way Grand Romania's Highest King is glaring icily at his docking area. It's
quite obvious that Cesar Black is hoping to be the first person to catch a
glimpse of Freedom Union's representative, maybe in order to gain a self-
satisfied feeling of superiority. He doesn't really mind being seen by others,
because he's fairy sure that none of them will look at him as a threat to their
goals. None of them will look at him and feel the fear that they should be
feeling—and that serves his purposes well. He doesn't really mind, but he is
really looking forward to making a grand entrance as the spoiled little brat
that Freedom Union sent to shake things up a little.

He sinks a little into his seat, the strain of the day-long flight settling on
his ankles and on his thighs. He brings his knees up to his chest, dirtying the
seat with the soles of his shoes. It's not like anyone is around: he sent them
off for some sight-seeing around Herzog Kingdom's infamous gardens and
displays. Or rather, it's not like he brought anyone who has authority over him
to disapprove of his actions.

His younger sister should be on the other end of the country, arriving with an
entourage of maybe an entire mansion's worth of maids and personal assistants.
He doesn't really care enough to give suggestions and pointers to Pearl on how
to act with a little more poise and power; she seems to think that
indiscriminately displaying her wealth and status are enough to garner the
respect and command of the surrounding people. Power isn't something that
should be wastefully revealed: there's always more impact if it's withheld
until the very last moment, just as there's always more ripples it can cause if
it's being hidden from some undisclosed location. That's only about the only
reason why he doesn't really mind getting publicly bullied and humiliated by
his younger sister who regards herself as the more superior sibling. It's
nothing but her delusions of grandeur, but he supposes that it's his failure as
an elder brother and as the family head, it's his failure to educate her at a
young age on what power is. That's also about the only reason why he doesn't
order an assassination hit on her, no matter how annoying she gets, because he
feels a little tiny bit of responsibility over her delusions that will never
bear fruit. She isn't ever going to be the real head of the family, and the
reasons aren't because of her younger age or of her gender. The head of the
family position always goes to the stronger one and she just isn't it.

…Well.

He sighs and shifts his legs a little, drumming his fingers against his
kneecaps. The video game he was playing is now resting on the empty chair
beside his; the bonus boss battle is already cleared and he doesn't have any
more interest about it.

He supposes that he can indulge the world's delusions for a little while
longer. It's a good thing he still has time to laze around before he has to
make his way to the meeting rooms. He can use this time to perfect the persona
he's going to show to the entire world.

Power should always be withheld from prying eyes, because displayed power is
always weaker than the power stored within. Nobody will feel threatened by a
cheerful boy who looks like a girl and acts like an airhead—that's what he will
be to the world's observing eyes then. Nobody will bother denying him anything
if he looks fragile and exotic; nobody will think twice about verbally abusing
and eviscerating him. He will be a person who stands out so much yet so
completely nondescript that nobody will expect him to be the most powerful
person in Freedom Union and then, if he wishes, the entire world. He will be a
six year old boy who acts like a normal kid, even if his real self is already
brimming with knowledge recorded from all the libraries and information depots
in the world, even if his real self is already inching to start using the
assassination and combat skills drilled into him since birth.

He will be Narcissus Duke, the weak and useless head of the family who only
attained his position because he's the eldest male son of the previous head,
and he will be the victor of this little game.

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five
months after this very day, the Herzog Kingdom that stood so proudly and
defiantly above everyone else will be brought down to the ground by an
earthquake that will appear harmless to all that could sense it… even if he
knows that the fall of one kingdom will just be a prelude to an outpour of evil
intent that will seep through even his own country's walls… even if he knows
that there will be an unpredictable addition to Freedom Union and its pilot
applicants… even if he knows—)

—Narcissus Duke simply looks out the window and decides that he isn't
particularly interested in finding out what's going to happen next.

•

title. Aster Gainsboro
name. Aster
age. 6
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Dock Center Dome [Utopia Tower]

•

Despite being a kid extremely far away from adulthood, nobody bothers stopping
him from his leisure walk around the convergence point for all the arrival
docks inside the Utopia Tower. It's most likely because everyone is busy
schmoozing with each other, acting completely casual and conversational even if
most of them are rather used to serious talks while hidden behind walls of
computers and stacks of data files.

He isn't a regular visitor to this area, but he does know that the entire
Herzog Kingdom spends the rest of the year in relative silence—the upbeat
atmosphere and the brilliant fanfare are definitely out-of-place occurrences to
this kingdom's citizens. This is supposed to be an international conference
that gathers representatives from each corner of the globe in order to discuss
and resolve issues that plague the entire world, but he thinks that nothing can
be fixed in an assembly that is built upon fake cordiality and false
cheerfulness. But of course, that's just his 'kid opinion'.

…Extremely different from his thoughts though, is the expression on his face,
more attuned with the sham fanfare that drips from each corner of this
kingdom's territory. It's regrettable, but it's part of his reason for
participating in this international conference despite being a non-adult.
Smiling happily like a kid without a care for any of the plagues and problems
that will be brought up in the talks: that's his job as a child caught in the
middle of the messy world of adults.

He'll have to do this exact same smiling routine tomorrow, once the welcome
parade is launched. Today is just practice, in a way, for an entire day of
being expected to act like a statue of a benevolent angel tomorrow.

Stifling the urge to scratch his scalp or unravel his tightly-braided hair, he
bounces on his heel and nearly glides throughout the long, winding hallways
filled to the brim with visitors with stiff shoulders and strained smiles.
Despite his small stature and fragile appearance, nobody dares to block his
path as he weaves through the crowd of politicians and bureaucrats. He
attributes it to the fact that he looks a hundred percent similar to one of the
humongous portraits placed at each entrance; nobody would dare to affront an
important person, after all.

Carefully, he empties his brain of faltering thoughts that belong securely with
his childhood, because he will not be able to continue smiling happily,
innocently, if he allows himself to think of other concerns.

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five
months after this very day, the entire world will change alongside problems
that used to mean nothing… even if he knows that his situation will worsen with
each passing day… even if he knows that he will continue to follow a destiny
that doesn't belong to him… even if he knows—)

—Aster continues smiling, keeps his thoughts hidden from the world's prying
eyes.

•

title. Siobhan Rex
name. Siobhan Rex
age. 5
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Dock 12D [Utopia Tower]

•

…This is it?

There's been so much fuss and rules about going here with her brother, to the
point that she was almost expecting golden-plated docking areas and silver-
glazed floors. Of course, she did adjust her expectations accordingly during
the shuttle ride to this country, but she wasn't expecting the reality to be so
underneath her expectations.

"Ehh, everything looks ugly," she mutters loudly and doesn't listen to the
hushing instructions from her caretaker. Why should she listen to a servant?
She might be a young kid, but she's a Rex. The dirt at the tips of her fingers
is of higher quality than her servants' lives added together. She doesn't have
any reason to listen to existences lesser than dirt. She ignores their frantic
gestures easily. "Stop shushing me!"

"—Siobhan."

Siobhan suddenly stops her scolding of her servants of their presumptuousness
(yes that word!) in thinking that they have the right to tell her what she
should say. In sharp contrast to her servants' rank beneath grime, the person
who just said her name is someone worthy of being placed alongside deities.

"Yes, brother…?" Siobhan cocks her head to the side, her curls fluffing out
with the motion. "What is it, brother?"

"We are in an international conference," her wonderful brother talks to her in
smooth, even tones, his dependable figure in front of her, guiding her, "you
must behave."

Oh, how silly of her!

It is part of the world of adults that her brother inhabits: faking interest in
the lives of people beneath them. As someone who represents the proud name of
the Rex family, her brother is tasked with being diplomatic and noble and
perfect as always. It's her job to support him! She should be diplomatic like
him—and that means no voicing out of her complaints, even if Herzog Kingdom is
really nothing. It's tough, smiling and looking interested when all she wants
is to go back home with her brother and maybe ask him to help her out with her
lessons.

"I understand, brother!" She chirps out her reply, blinking her artificially
lengthened lashes, a bit (just a bit!) disappointed that her brother didn't
look at her long enough to notice the fluttering of her eyes. She resolves to
not dwell too much on that, because there's absolutely nothing interesting in
this country, so her brother's gaze will surely swing back to her prettier form
before long, she's sure.

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance, even if she knows that exactly five
months after this very day, there will be worldwide panic about the emergency
state of Herzog Kingdom… even if she knows that her home country will start
opening its doors to taking in refugees from this forsaken country… even if she
knows that her brother will end up focusing his gaze and his time into people
who are not her… even if she knows—)

—Siobhan Rex continues to look only at her brother and doesn't care about
anyone else.

•

title. Vlastvier First Heir
name. Frederick Vlastvier
age. 5
location. Herzog Kingdom: Arrival Lounge Reception Area [Utopia Tower]

•

While he isn't so arrogant to assume that everyone will be looking at him at
each single moment, it's still within his responsibilities as a member of the
host country's nobility to paste a permanent cordial smile on his face, if only
to simulate what a good, welcoming, upstanding citizen he is. It's a bit of a
challenge to maintain a pleasant expression on his face, especially since the
person seated beside him is freely showing frustration on his features.

As the older brother, it also falls within his range of tasks to make sure that
Ash becomes a respectable representative of the Vlastvier line, and
consequently of Herzog Kingdom. There's only a one-year difference between
their ages, but their tutors are already loudly gossiping and complaining about
how Ash's immaturity is making everybody's lives a thousand times more
difficult.

He spares a side-glance to his younger brother's sullen face and thinks that it
wouldn't be so bad if Ash wasn't so good at exceeding the expectations for his
prowess when it comes to fighting. Ash's indiscretions are being forgiven only
because Ash is a natural-born genius when it comes to military topics and
training—that kind of half-assed disciplining is only making Ash cultivate his
rebellious and uncooperative personality even more.

As the first heir, he's accountable for the movements of every single person in
the family and if he can't even keep track of his younger brother then he's
going to be a failure at his responsibility. He doesn't want that. He doesn't
particularly want to be the best when it comes to anything, but he also doesn't
really enjoy failing to answer to the demands being asked of him.

It's not like it's impossible to understand Ash's simple point of view of
wanting to just do whatever he wants. It's only impossible to follow that way
of life, since part of the responsibilities of being a noble is to be a good
role model to all the other commoners, to be the shining example of what others
should act. There's no room for selfishness, a fate that he has already
accepted even before he has started undergoing the harsh training that prepares
him to take his place as the head of the family.

"That person stinks," Ash whispers in a feather-light tone that makes his
stomach grow heavy with unpleasantness.

Alarmed, he looks frantically around them if anybody heard Ash's childish
accusation. This is a peace summit and statements like that is practically
inviting a scandal, or even worse, an altercation.

"What?!" He whispers back, easily delivering his words right next to Ash's ear
without bending down; it's only been a couple of months, but Ash's height is
already catching up really quickly. "Don't say such things. We need to behave."

"You sound like the headmistress," Ash snickers with no sense of duty or
respect whatsoever, taunting him, "scary, scary."

"Just shut up," he hisses, his welcoming smile nearly overcome with strained
frustration. He reigns in the urge to stomp his feet childishly so that Ash
will stop ridiculing his attempts at being a role model.

"But he stinks," Ash wrinkles his nose as Cesar Black roams around the arrival
lounge with a sharp smile that feels like an unsheathed sword, "of evil
intentions."

He isn't quite sure which is worse, diplomatically speaking, between stinking
of body odor and stinking of foul ambitions. He doesn't know if he has the
capabilities to decide about, so he simply takes Ash by his elbow and drags him
toward the secluded area for the Herzog Kingdom welcoming committee. It's like
running away from his responsibilities as a good host, and it irks him a bit.
But, it will be really devastating if somebody overhears Ash's accusations, so
it's better if they just retreat from the scene for a little while.

Ash protests, of course, but there's still a one-year difference between the
two of them and their strengths and builds, so he still manages to drag his
younger brother to the destination that he wants, just not without some
difficulty.

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five
months after this very day, there will be mass chaos and confusion once the
earthquake subsides and leaves behind impossible assassination cases and
impossible palace destructions… even if he knows that all his drive and desire
of being a polite and respectable member of nobility will all amount to nothing
after the name Vlastvier and the name Herzog will both cease to mean anything
but annihilation… even if he knows that Ash will reverse and lengthen the gap
between the two of them and their abilities in a future not too far from now…
even if he knows—)

—Frederick Vlastvier simply continues holding on to his brother's elbow and
doesn't let go.

•

•••


                   Alliance Of World Nations Annual Meeting
                               665th anniversary
               2 January AC 675 – Herzog Kingdom Paradise Tower
                               [welcome parade]

•••

title. Herzog Kingdom's First Prince
name. ???
age. 6
location. Herzog Kingdom: Royal Palace: Hanging Gardens [Paradise Tower]

•

A huge part of his entire job description, so to speak, is to keep a brilliant,
dazzling, enchanting smile pasted upon his face. It's an incredibly easy chore
to accomplish, honestly, and it thoroughly baffles him why others fail to
notice the tense lines at the edges of his constant smile. However, as
effortless as smiling is to him, he's finding it exceedingly difficult to do
right now. A person possessing average comprehension skills should be able to
understand that his unusual mood can be traced back to a certain person's
disappearance from the palace.

He twists his smile a little bit, wryly, as he muses about how such an
outstanding kingdom is filled to the brim with useless idiots. It's almost a
wonder Herzog Kingdom has continued to hold on to the distinction of being the
number one country, especially since its population is made of people with
disappointingly dull existences. It only goes to show how much the entire world
has sunk. It's rather pathetic, and if he's the type to actually, genuinely,
care about the events happening around him, he supposes that he'll feel a
sliver of anger.

He feels nothing even remotely similar to anger about the way his thoughts are
spiraling downwards to the descent of humanity's overall quality. He just
sighs, in deep boredom, as he swings his torso sideways, like a reversed
pendulum, complete with broken arcs and imperfect rhythms.

He doesn't feel anything like anger, but he does feel an almost overwhelming
disappointment at the loss of the Second Prince from his side. It's almost
unfathomable, really. It's not like he's particularly close with the Second
Prince; they haven't even communicated much on the five years they spent side-
by-side.

It's been nearly a year since the Second Prince's quiet disappearance from the
Palace however, and it drives him crazy with each passing day.

Worse, the Herzog Kingdom's royalty system is actually crazy-prepared regarding
disappearances, that's why the public remains blissfully unaware, doesn't know
anything about a missing prince. Since the hour the Second Prince disappeared
from all the tracking radars, the Kingdom actually already had a back-up prince
masquerading as the Second Prince.

It's not like it annoys him.

Annoyance is too strong of an emotion.

But it… disappoints him.

It's an indescribable feeling: to suddenly have someone who's been by your side
every single moment of the day for five years, for that person to suddenly
disappear without any notices or clues, without any answers as to when he'll be
back by his side.

"Your Royal Highness, there you are!"

He ignores the relief and panic intermingling at the servants' voices. It's
either they're slacking on the job or he's becoming really awesome at hiding
from them. It's been three hours since he broke into the hanging gardens at the
Paradise Tower, supposedly off-limits for little kids like him, no matter how
high his status is in this land.

"Come, your Highness, you need to be at the Welcome Parade…"

His nose twitches at the mention of the frivolous display of fireworks and
holograms that nobody really pays attention to. While it's true that it's
something like an annual celebration of the New Year, the Alliance's annual
meeting is something embroiled with politics, economics and even more politics.
It's not something that can be successfully associated with fanfare and
enjoyment—and that's true for even the more ambitious politicians and
negotiators. It's his fourth year attending the meeting and it gives him
stronger migraines each time. It seems that growing older and wiser to
understand the schemes of the different world leaders is only helping his body
think of ways to make his head even more painful.

"I'll go later," he promises to the horde of personal security guards and
assistants nervously huddling behind his back. They titter and generally make a
lot of noise amongst themselves—they're probably looking at his back and
worrying if he's going to fall from the garden edge that's he dangling his feet
from. He's almost insulted that they're even considering to feel fear about his
precarious position; while he isn't as gifted when it comes to physical
abilities and all-around strength, he isn't weak enough that he needs someone
to worry about him when he's playing around at the hanging gardens, even if
he's seated at the edge of a display that's nearly a kilometer high. He's
careful even if he doesn't seem like it.

If he falls to his death and becomes a splatter of bones and flesh on the far-
away ground below, then how the hell can he meet with the Second Prince again?

Really, do these people even use their heads?

"But your Highness…"

He almost raises his hands to tap his cheeks, just to make sure that there's
still a smile plastered there even if he's starting to feel the beginnings of
an emotion that can only be distantly associated with frustration. He doesn't.
He simply leans back, farther away from the more dangerous edge, and doesn't
stop reclining until his back is lying down on the tasteful decoration of
artificial plants. His feet remain dangling over the edge, swinging mildly even
though there's no breeze inside this garden.

His assistants spring into action almost without any split-second of delay, and
he almost whistles in appreciation of their thorough training of instantly
hurrying to his side. He doesn't, and he simply looks up to the artificial sky
projected overhead, a bit disappointed that his view is quickly filled with the
interchangeable faces of his servants, worry and anxiety playing on their
faces. They're probably going to spend an hour or two fussing over him and his
hair, possibly add a few more layers of foundation on his face as though he
needs assistance with looking gloriously pale.

He fails to understand the appeal of having a sickly pale prince with long,
platinum blond hair as the presiding officer to these annual meetings. He knows
how much humans love to judge people by their appearances and he knows that his
fragile, feminine appearance hardly commands absolute obedience. And then he
has his personal assistants, just glorified servants really, who make sure that
his hair and clothes are all picture perfect—just to make sure that he's the
epitome of perfect appearances.

It boggles his mind.

The Second Prince, with his ebony-black hair and chocolate-brown eyes, is the
perfect example of someone who can simply stand there and command respect and
subservience. It's all about the aura, he supposes, something that he isn't
quite convinced he possesses.

…Not that he particularly cares about that either.

He frowns a little as his servants all murmur apologies and excuses for hauling
him up and dragging him as respectfully and as gently as possible towards his
private chambers, where they're undoubtedly going to spend ages in dressing him
up in an outfit that will appear exactly the same as the one he's wearing right
now, sporting exactly the same hairstyle as the one he has at the moment.

Another moment passes and it's filled with thoughts of how he misses the Second
Prince—the real one, not the shadow that the Kingdom has cultivated for
emergencies—especially since the Second Prince was the one who spared the time
to silently and efficiently arrange his hair in a not-too-loose-not-too-tight
braid that's just perfect and completely unlike the braid his servants do to
his hair.

"Oh, how wonderful: at last we have the star of the program!"

He keeps smiling a wonderful smile that is sure to electrify the hearts of the
people around him.

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five
months after this very day, the hanging gardens will all become a splattered
mess of artificial displays and fake lighting to the ground one kilometer away…
even if he knows that his title of being the First Prince and the kingdom's
title of being the number one entity in the world are all going to burn
asunder… even if he knows that Herzog Kingdom will fall five months after this
day's meetings end with tense agreements over peaceful settlements… even if he
knows—)

—The First Prince just smiles and realizes that he really doesn't care.

•

title. Herzog Kingdom's Second Prince [Third Prince acting as proxy]
name. ???
age. 4 [???]
location. Herzog Kingdom: Royal Palace: Observation Dock [Paradise Tower]

•

Overlooking the hanging gardens' display of seasonal blooms—(and the term
'seasonal' doesn't really mean anything because nothing is seasonal if the
world doesn't change, if the weather remains a stagnant mess of corrosive rain
and suffocating air)—is a wide panel of bulletproof glass windows that encloses
the so-called Observation Dock. From his view, he can actually witness the
First Prince being surrounded by his servants who all undoubtedly just want the
charismatic, yet often-childish prince to actually peacefully acquiesce to
doing his job of being a pretty display at the welcome parade.
[wip]

•

•••

                   Alliance Of World Nations Annual Meeting
                               665th anniversary
                3 January AC 675 – Herzog Kingdom Heaven Tower
                                [annual meeting]


•••

title.–   
name. Alice Majorelle
age. 5
location. Kingdom of Thrones: Underground City: Low Town Sector

•

Don't judge a book by its cover: definitely one of the oldest and truest
sayings that Alice knows. He isn't quite sure about the origin of the saying,
but it's certainly from the very old and ancient civilization a few millennia
back.

"Those are some lovely apples, mister."

The apples are deep red in color, almost unnaturally so. Definitely a fake
fruit, or maybe something stolen from the agricultural laboratories. Mr.
Vendor's eyes are uncannily bright and his smile is distastefully wide. There's
definitely something fishy with his goods, something that goes beneath the
exorbitant pricing he's displaying to the passersby. He doesn't intend on
becoming Boy Detective or even Defender of Fair and Just Pricing, but he's
interested in tasting those crimson red apples that just don't make it to the
dining tables of starving commoners like him.

"Oh dear, oh dear, you have great eyes!" Mr. Vendor looks so obviously
interested in scamming the hell out of him, eyes gleaming with greed and
practically shining with thoughts of money. "These are top-quality apples
imported from—"

He tunes the vendor's words out quite easily, his eyes scrutinizing the fruits
on display. Shiny skin and full shape, almost like the sinfully beautiful apple
he used to read about. Things that look beautiful are usually the ugliest,
that's why there's no doubt that these apples are probably laced with a fatal
amount of insecticide and pesticide, or maybe this stall is just a ruse to get
an assassination target to buy an apple being sold to hundreds of customers
milling around in the common marketplace.

"—top-class, rare fruits—"

Yes, definitely just a ruse. There's no way a smart merchant will sell gem-like
apples in the commoner's market, especially with the threat of riots and theft
running rampant. This is definitely just a set-up, for some poor fool who can
be swayed by the gleaming red color and the soft, sweet smell.

…Smell?

Hmm, so there are hallucinatory drugs here too? Wow, Mr. Vendor must be really
selling some one-of-a-kind apple.

"Wow, that sounds so cool, mister," he says with inflected enthusiasm and
wonder, adds some childlike gushing gestures as well. There's no twitch of
suspicion in Mr. Vendor's eyes, so he's definitely buying his cute boy act.
He's interested in getting a sample of those poison apples, but it's his
personal motto to not pay for anything. Huh, it's probably time to start
hastening this. "But, well, thanks anyway, mister. I don't think I got the
money to buy these."

He's always been told that he looks ethereal, angelic even. With round,
expressive eyes and full, pouty mouth, not to mention his natural paleness and
his sickly body, he's the embodiment of frail, feminine charm. He doesn't get
it: why would anyone want someone who looks weak? It's possibly one of the
quirks of his fellow humans that he would never understand. They most likely
just want someone with that frail look just so they can feel the satisfaction
of taking care of him, maybe even protect him like some diligent knight. Ha!
How stupid. Humans were the ones who made the saying 'don't judge the book by
its cover', by they're also the same ones who routinely forget about those
words when they see his angelic face and his shivering body.

He bats his eyelashes flirtatiously, inwardly feeling nauseous at the way Mr.
Vendor practically salivates in excitement in front of him. Oh, for shit's
sake, aside from selling dangerous, poisonous apples, this freak is apparently
a depraved pervert too. Some people just have all the disgusting traits
magnetized all together, huh? He isn't going to complain though; this vendor's
perversion makes his job much easier.

…After all, it's much easier to handle people who are somehow similar to you.

Alice tilts his head to the right, exposing the left curve of his pale neck to
the vendor's greedy eyes, letting the golden threads of his hair fall into a
curtain in front of his eyes. His eyes are zeroed in on the vendor's movements,
but he is acutely aware of the stream of people pushing and pushing around
them. He's judging whether these people will notice or care about a vendor
nearing his forties manhandling a frail, young boy into a dark, secluded alley.
There's no doubt Mr. Vendor is thinking of the exact same thing, maybe add a
little more brusque fantasies or something more disgusting.

Humanity's capacity to think is severely impaired by wants. He loathes
referring to them as needs, because unlike air-food-water, traitorous feelings
and mere wants are unable to cause someone's death if denied. Nevertheless,
humans fail to see that simple wants shouldn't control oneself so exhaustively;
humans label whims and urges as needs in hopes of satisfying their own sense of
judgment about the things that they greedily grab.

…He understands that concept thoroughly. He is human like everyone else, that's
why he understands the bad habit of labeling mere wants as something that he
needs like air.

He also understands the way Mr. Vendor's mind works, even if the phrase 'don't
judge a book by its cover' rings insistently at the base of his skull. He isn't
judging Mr. Vendor's potential for perversity based on his pig-like body or his
greasy hands; he's calculating Mr. Vendor's capacity for evil intent based on
the way his breathing accelerates while his eyes shamelessly roam up and down
his young body. Not only that, he also reads the data falling all around him:
the insistent stream of people, the cloying scent of sweet apples, the
appealing redness of the blood-like skin, the set-up of the ups and downs of
the buildings in the area.

He reads the entire book, not just the cover, of Mr. Vendor.

"…Mr. Vendor?"

Alice tilts his head to the left this time, swaying his body to a rhythm that
he knows old perverts like, the pendulum of one's life criss-crossing like a
death knell from above. Golden strands of his hair that are dubbed 'gold-silk'
by his fellow beggars swing as well, a hypnotizing gesture that he expects to
lure Mr. Vendor into his trap.

Mr. Vendor's mental processes are heavily impaired as he focuses on the little
seduction that Alice sets up; Alice almost whines that the police force will
definitely not come to this area and they will definitely not meddle with what
will look like some underage prostitution. Kingdom of Thrones doesn't bother
with low-level crimes like that, but telling that to someone who is so laced
with paranoia is just no good. That will just be too easy and Alice dislikes it
when things approach the inevitable conclusion without any excitement
whatsoever.

Not even five minutes after their paths first cross, and the vendor-assassin-
whatever is already within his grasp.

Alice fakes a sound of distress and panic as poison-laced hands grab him by his
waist, bodily dragging him to the secluded alley a few paces away from the
apple store.

The steady stream of people doesn't even spare a glance at the middle-aged man
dragging a protesting boy against his will to some dark corner.

It's… almost disappointing.

Humanity's tendency to contentedly gaze upon the surface is going to be
humanity's downfall as well.

Things that look beautiful are usually the ugliest.

…He believes that, because he himself is the best example.

—ring, ring, ring, ring—

Ah.

Alice coughs into his right hand, instantly regretting his action when he
notices how dirty his hand is. He tries to use his left hand to wipe his mouth
free of the string of saliva, but he halts the action midway, noticing that the
left hand is at an even dirtier state than his right.

—ring, ring, ring, ring—

Ah, his phone is ringing. Normally, beggar children wouldn't even dream of
dreaming of possessing a cellphone, but his circumstances are a little
different. He thinks about which hand to use to bring his phone out of his
pants' pocket, ultimately choosing his right hand because he isn't sure when
can he get that person to replace the cellphone casing if it gets too dirty.

"Hello~" Alice croons his greeting to the video feed that appears instantly
after he accepts the call, dirty left hand arranging his perfectly golden hair
to a more acceptable style. "Long time no see?"

"You look like shit, you moron."

Alice smiles, but it's nothing like the ethereal smile that wins over the
hearts of every single person in the vicinity without him even trying. It's his
so-called 'real smile', a barely-there twist of lips that reek of smoke and
ice, an expression that he knows no five-year-old should be able to wield.

"You're lucky you're far away, or else I'll make you pay for calling me a
moron, shithead."

"And you aren't gonna deny looking like shit?"

"I know I look like shit, I'm covered with blood, duh." But even so, Alice
knows he is beautiful. It's like a curse: the curse of looking so fragile and
weak that everybody becomes smitten with the thought of getting close to him
and dominating him entirely. Even if he doesn't want to, he's able to
effortlessly attract the attention of every single person he encounters, to the
point that he can easily lure them into breaking all their principles and all
the country's laws just so they can follow him back to where he's nested.

…Every single person with only one exception.

"…But you look beautiful on the outside, still."

Alice jerks his head in surprise, definitely not expecting their conversation
to suddenly dip into the thoughts in his head.

"Y-Yeah…"

The person on the other end of the line looks like he's lounging on a really
enormous bed. Alice calculates the time difference and concludes that it's way
too early for bedtime and the person he's talking to is simply too lazy and
unmotivated to do his job instead of slacking off.

"I've got the poisoned apples," Alice informs the person on the other line, his
left hand rummaging around the ground for his proof of victory. He triumphantly
waves his trophy-of-sorts as soon as he successfully finds it.

"Wow, that's so gross!"

"I know, right?" Alice swings the dismembered head a little, making sure that
none of the leftover blood drips into his clothes or into the video phone. "I
was only going to shoot him with his gun, you know. But then he took the gun
from me. How stupid! I was trying to be considerate to him, but look where that
brought us."

"…I can't even recognize if that's a broken nose or a crushed eyeball."

"Your compliments are well-received, Alexander." Alice almost lectures him
about the huge structural differences between broken noses and ground eyeballs,
but then he remembers something important. "Ah, damn, you're not Alexander
today, right? What name did you choose again?"

"It's Isabelline Noir, moron."

Alice smirks. "Right, right~! …Since I forgot, I'll let that 'moron' comment
slide for now."

They converse for a few more minutes, talking about the ongoing meetings in the
annual peace summit, about insulting each other's (unearthly beautiful)
physical appearances, about death and assassination targets, about topics that
would sound completely synchronized with seasoned soldiers or maybe sadistic
pilots, but not with five-year-old kids like the two of them.

Alice is usually content with acting sicker and dumber than he actually is,
when it comes to dealing with the rest of the world. But since he's speaking to
Alexander—or Isabelline Noir, as he calls himself now, while masquerading as a
princess or something equally stupid—the only person who isn't affected by his
so-called charms and the only person who knows the ugly pages in his book, he
doesn't bother with hiding his real self.

His real self: the Alice who is capable of completely pulverize a grown man's
face using his bare hands, the Alice who is capable of such bloodthirsty
violence despite having a fragile heart that cannot keep up with the strain on
his body contributed by his piss-poor lifestyle and the deteriorating
environmental conditions, the Alice who is capable of being a complete,
heartless monster.

Things that look beautiful are usually the ugliest.

He understands that well, just as he understands the villains and the filthy
ones that make Kingdom of Thrones their home. He's filthier than the entire
underground world combined, so he understands the yearning to kill, to hurt, to
destroy very well.

He used to blame his parents for abandoning him; he used to blame the world's
cruelty for his circumstances; he used to shiver in fear at the memory of his
very young self, left behind in some dumpster by the side of some prostitution
house, completely sick and feverish and powerless and without any cloth to
protect his naked skin from the Kingdom of Thrones' bitter winter. He used to
remember that moment for his subsequent actions; he used to perfectly recall
the faces of the drunken bastards who stumbled upon where he was thrown away by
his parents who can't afford his medicine—the drunken bastards who were so
thoroughly affected by his magnetizing charm even though he was barely past
being a toddler back then.

He used to futilely reconcile the gory contents of his book with his angelic
appearance, refusing to recognize the fact that his first kill was out of self-
defense against drunken bastards who couldn't separate right from wrong.

"—you should get the money too, since I might not be able to sneak out after
this shitty meeting."

Alice snaps out of the reverie that winds over his body. His left grip slackens
around Mr. Vendor's decapitated head, letting his proof of a job well done
crash back to the trash-infested ground where it belongs. The mission for today
is to simply remove the eyesore from the commoner's market: at least, that's
what the members of Alexander's little gang is told. But since the leader
himself gave Alice the okay to start ransacking the poisonous drugs vendor's
place…

"Alright, I'll go and do that."

"…Did he try to touch you?"

"They always try to touch me," Alice answers without any malice, systematically
adding and removing emotions from his words and thoughts, because he knows he
is a being that is easily affected by darkness, easily consumed by his
bloodlust, easily conquered by his own strength. "That isn't anything new."

"I suppose," and Alexander's expression looks absolutely horrible with a
woman's face—or was it the other way around?—and Alice doesn't hesitate voicing
that particular concern out.

"For now, you shouldn't let anyone else touch you."

If someone listened to their conversation now, it sounds like a declaration by
some psychotic, jealous, overprotective boyfriend. Never mind that they're both
little kids and that they're both guys and that they're both disinterested in
having a relationship different from what they have right now. Alice
understands what Alexander is saying, because he isn't an eavesdropper nor a
newcomer to this conversation. He recognizes the meaning behind those simple
set of words.

"Got it~ I won't even let anyone come within a meter radius!"

Alexander Nightwalker is the next in line to the country's throne. Anything
unsavory that can be linked to him must be absolutely eliminated and that
includes Alice's entire existence; getting close to Alice means getting the
possibility of discovering the cellphone that links the two of them despite
being worlds apart. More importantly, getting close to Alice so soon after his
kill will just compromise his entire façade of being a harmless little fly;
he's always thrumming with energy after a particularly enjoyable splatter, so
there's always a hint of danger for the next person he encounters afterwards.

That's the complete meaning behind Alexander's almost-touching words.

"That's great to hear." Alexander's lips are red with some sort of lipstick,
the mocking smile standing out explicitly even with the phone's imperfect video
quality. "That should be 100 points as usual."

Alice lets his left fingers dip into the sticky blood and dirt covering the
alley floor. He's surrounded by filth yet he still looks picture-perfect, he
knows; he's rotting inside yet he remains not-infectious to his surroundings.
Working with Alexander gives him the opportunity to release the feelings that
are just recirculating inside his bloodstream, but there are times that he
thinks that there's really nothing good that will arise from this relationship.
Each time he crosses paths with Alexander, he always feels an intense urge to
sever all ties between them, but he always ends up getting seduced by his own
wants for more and more destruction.

"Hey, I need to go." He doesn't, because he can't hear anyone nearby within a
twenty-meter radius, because he won't have any problems disposing of any
potential witnesses. But he does need to go, because he needs to return to his
cardboard home under the bridge, if only to fake interest in the ongoing
negotiations disguised as campaigns for peaceful relations. He needs to raid
Mr. Vendor's stash as well, and then redistribute the loot in his hiding places
scattered all over the city. He needs to do a lot of things that he can
actually do later today, if he wishes to continue speaking with Alexander more.
But part of their relationship is not asking any more than what's being offered
on the table, and the only reason why Alexander gave him a call out of schedule
is because he's bored beyond his wits with the annual meeting.

That's the only meaning behind this call, because Alexander knows about his
capabilities first-hand.

A perfect monster hidden by a glorious angel: that's Alice in Alexander's eyes.
There's no way he called because of worry or doubts; he only called because
he's probably itching to see something gory since peaceful meetings aren't
really welcoming to terrorist attacks that exhibit excessive violence.

"See you, Alice!"

Alice turns the phone off and contemplates breaking it into countless pieces.
It will be too easy to shatter the only communication link between him and
Prince Alexander. All it would take is one well-aimed punch from his fist.

It will be too easy.

"…but then, nobody else knows how ugly I am…"

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that exactly five
months after this very day, Herzog Kingdom will suddenly wobble down from the
high display case it's enclosed in and affect every single country and every
single person in the world… even if he knows that there will be a terrorist
attack in the lower towns of the country in conjunction with the influx of the
arrival of the war-stricken refugees… even if he knows that he will be lifted
from the collapsed rubble where he will hesitate to show his real capabilities
in front of anyone else… even if he knows—)

—Alice Majorelle just steps on the severed head and unthinkingly crushes it on
his way to the place he calls home.

•

title. Mutsuruku Clan Heir
name. Matt Mutsuruku
age. 2
location. Mutsuruku Clan Main House: Training Room UG1

•

…Instead of participating in the mockery of peaceful negotiations and instead
of watching the splash of explosive fanfare, the two-year-old Matt Mutsuruku
has his eyes closed, while floating inside a pool that can rival the size of a
public park.

…Instead of dozing off peacefully while sunbathing or anything remotely similar
to relaxing, the young child is instead forcibly floating atop a liquid that
can only be aptly described as a lethal mixture of poison, breathing in the
enclosed air that can only be appropriately defined as soaked with the intent
to end a thousand lives.

…Instead of developing rashes against the harsh water and instead of coughing
out the bloodied remains of destroyed lungs and windpipes, the Mutsuruku Clan's
young heir proves himself worthy of succeeding the family line by successfully
surviving the severe surroundings, against all odds.

…Instead of congratulating him for a job well done, the Mutsuruku Clan's head
simply nods in satisfaction as he supervises the poison training from behind
glass-reinforced windows that wouldn't allow a single poison gas molecule to
pass through.

…Instead of removing the young kid from the premises filled with poison at all
ends, the entire family simply retreats to the nearby observation room and
splits the television screen between monitoring Matt's vital signs and the
progression of the negotiation for more militaristic awareness for young kids
across the world.

…Instead of playing with kids his age, Matt Mutsuruku simply lies there,
floating in a stream of nothingness, thinking of an empty void where there's no
poison water or poison gas to tickle his skin and scratch his throat,
remembering a place that doesn't exist inside his mind simply because he hasn't
been there yet.

(—and even if, somehow, by some chance… even if he knows that the collapse of
the Herzog Kingdom will be the trigger to the changes on his destiny, despite
not knowing a single soul from that doomed country… even if he knows that he
will somehow end up using this estate and even his entire family in order to
achieve his goal that is so horrific that it will even terrify himself… even if
he knows that he will be helpless against the poisonous emotion called
obsessive love meant for a person that he will never attain in his grasp… even
if he knows—)

—Matt Mutsuruku simply opens his eyes and gazes at the ceiling, head devoid of
anything that can be called concrete thoughts.

•

•••


                   Alliance Of World Nations Annual Meeting
                               665th anniversary
                10 January AC 675 – Herzog Kingdom Heaven Tower
                             [departure of guests]

•••
•

title. Kingdom of Thrones' First Prince
name. Alexander Nightwalker (aka Isabelline Noir)
age. 5
location.–

•

Argh, that has to be the most completely, totally, utterly waste of time!

Not only did nothing whatsoever got accomplished, but the complete charade was
boring as fuck and the exact same resolution could have been reached without
having to go through all this trouble of going to Herzog Kingdom to pretend-
discuss issues that are already being worked on individually by each country
anyway. One has to wonder how stupid and self-serving the human race could be,
if one enjoyed coming together to meet at one place to talk about some
documents and computer programs and presentations, even if nobody believed in
the shit that they're presenting anyway. There's just no freaking way anybody
with half a brain would believe that all the countries in the world are still
abiding by that rule about limiting militancy and stabilizing the amount of
weapons within each region.

There's just no way.

Just like a beast that can be lured into temporary captivity and domesticity,
the human race is really just a war-hungry population that attempts to curb
their desire for destruction by futilely distracting themselves with things
like wealth and peace. How ridiculous!

It's so utterly stupid that he's itching to just grab something and maybe chuck
it at someone's head. Maybe the sight of real violence, no matter how small and
unprovoked, will actually spur people into action, into acting upon their
instinct to show off just how barbaric they really are.

Ah, he's bored.

There's like a million pages that he has to read and affix his royal signature
to, but fuck those stupid documents. It's not like adding signature to the
document is going to change anything. It can be a document ratifying the
agreement of the entire world to stop amassing certain elements that can be
used to strengthen military weapons, but a flimsy paper isn't going to stop
researchers from thinking of ways to make their less geeky and more muscly
colleagues become more formidable in battle. It isn't going to stop strategists
from devising plans in order to fool other countries into guarding their
territories less; it isn't going to stop government officials from allocating
funds to development of military bases instead of routing the funding to
support the impoverished citizens.

Ah, just thinking about all this stupidity is making his head hurt.

…Or wait, maybe that's the tiara sitting atop his head that's actually giving
him a headache?

He removes the diamond-studded tiara and looks at it in barely-veiled disgust.
Girls actually wear this type of shit? It's a wonder anyone actually dared to
look at his direction today, since his head is like a fucking lightbulb,
shining and glittering like a discoball or something equally stupid.

But oh, did they look. They looked at him, those old perverts, with eyes that
appraised his full bust. They looked at him in hunger, before they took a
moment to realize that they're ogling someone too short and too petite to be
anywhere near the legal age. Sure, he's bigger than other people his age, and
sure he borrowed high heels from some unsuspecting person, and sure he did make
sure to apply obscene amounts of make-up so that he won't be recognized as
Alexander Nightwalker. But oh, did his disguise fool those disgusting perverts.

He needs to properly thank Alice for giving him this wonderful idea—

Oh right, Alice.

Maybe he should give that kid another call? Alice did look a bit lost
yesterday, though maybe that's just because the signal is a bit bad and the
video quality of the cellphone he handed him just isn't cutting it. Or maybe he
just isn't too updated with Alice's moods and expressions—it's not like they're
bosom buddies or anything anyway. They're just two kids who stumbled upon each
other by total accident, and two kids who continued knowingly stumbling into
each other's lives thereafter.

It's almost amazing how the two of them managed to find each other, especially
since they're both deceptively beautiful and harmless kids who revel in
violence.

Hmm, Alice. It's also amazing how his boredom seems to have easily fled his
mind as soon as his thoughts switched to the other boy. But that isn't
something that's a cause for some panicky epiphany or any sort of surprise,
because he's long understood that Alice is an extremely interesting person.
They do say that first impressions last forever—that is definitely true for the
way he holds Alice in such a high regard, despite the other's laughably weak
appearance and pathetically poor financials. It isn't just anyone who'll
nonchalantly rob the first prince even while knowing about his identity. The
person must have the perfect mixture of guts and cleverness to be able to pull
it off, and a four-year-old Alice was able to do that on their first meeting.

It's really amazing.


[wip]


•



•

title.–Doctor
name.–
age.–
location.–

•
***** turn 13: thirteenth timelessness *****
•••

Pillar of Despair
turn 13: thirteenth timelessness

(—traitorousness—)

•••

A Simple Teenage Story
[In a Certain Underground City]

•••


year. January of 670 AC
location. In a Certain Underground City

•

Being a teenager is this era is filled to the brim with misfortunes. He closes
the electronic book with a hard push—with fingertips dried by the steady gust
of regulation thermostat of the room—against the touch screen, somehow
unreasonably irritated that the teenagers from millennia back had it so easy,
despite living in an age that had ancient technologies and mediocre knowledge.
He's aware, thanks to the time he had spent holed up inside the electronic
library, that there was also a time when children were abused so thoroughly as
a cheap source of dangerous, manual labor—he isn't envious of that era, since
that uncomfortably mirrors the situation teenagers all over the world find
themselves in now.

Without much preamble, his communicator beeps with increasing frequency as his
alarm activates. That alarm is actually meant to wake him up, but he's too
jittery to stay cooped up underneath the bedcovers. It's unlikely he'll
encounter anyone on his way to the front door, but it's also unlikely that he
won't be able to find the breakfast left behind for his consumption.

He spends a moment of silent gratitude as he munches on his lightly toasted
nutritional bread, thankful that his parents didn't bug him too much about
dropping by the hospital later after school. Some might say that his life at
home is just nothing short of lonely, but he doesn't actually mind that, as
long as there's still peace and harmony, and as long as they don't encroach on
his personal matters. He just doesn't have enough interest to take time out of
his schedule, just so he can stand silently behind glass windows as he
disinterestedly peers at his newborn sister.

It's a good thing that the start of the training program for pilot applicants
coincides nicely with his sister's birth—not that successfully passing on the
chance to bond with his little sister is a great enough of a boon to ignore the
very huge misfortune of having to apply for a chance to sit inside bulky,
dangerous machines and duke it out with other equally dangerous machines. Pilot
application is mandatory for every single citizen of the country though and he
doesn't have the privilege of escaping from that chain.

…Of course, the privilege of letting his frustrations regarding the compulsory
pilot application also doesn't belong to him, even if he is already from a
high-class family considered to belong to the top strata of the country's
contributors.

In his opinion, possessing a certain surname doesn't have any useful benefits
attached to it. Not only does it not allow him to pass up the opportunity to
measure his compatibility with SPHEREs, it also attracts hordes of starry-eyed
teenagers in his vicinity, magnetizing and blinding them at the same time in
order to lure them tight to his personal space. It's very unpleasant, but it's
part of the consequences of being born to a famous family.

He dislikes it.

He does possess enough common sense though, to comprehend his own powerlessness
against the rigid rules that make this world revolve.

Declining to stay any longer at his empty home that's filled with reminders of
his newborn sister's intrusion to the four walls that are now simply too frail
to keep its contents bottled up, he downs the bland taste of his breakfast with
a healthy gulp of ionized water. With the precision of someone who has
performed the exact same motion with the exact same timing for an extremely
long time, he efficiently removes his house-clothing and dons on the uniform
that he will be forced to wear for the following years of his life.

There's no embarrassment in his bones as he clips the badge that proclaims him
as a beginner in the ranks of the pilot applicants—he'd actually much prefer it
if he doesn't have to be a part of this entire thing, prestige be damned.
There's no shred of interest in his mind about getting a lifetime's worth of
fortune and fame from piloting giant robots—he'd really much prefer staying
cooped up inside the electronic library and memorizing every last letter of
every document ever recorded by history.

His communicator beeps again, but it's to a more amiable tune this time.
Eagerly—but not too much—he presses the [accept] button that blinks and shakes
on the touchscreen display with a gentleness that's not part of his usual
repertoire. He's playing favorites rather blatantly, but it's not like there's
someone to witness this display.

"…Yes?"

"GOOD MORNING TO YOUUUU!" Incredibly enthusiastic despite the early hour, the
greeting traverses several kilometers of distance with outstanding clarity.
"Hey, hey, hey, are you about to go out now? I just finished breakfast but my
tummy still feels funny so I think I'm gonna rest a little while, oh, but, hmm,
I don't wanna be late since you're gonna be super early AS USUAL?"

Despite himself, he finds his lips stretching to a faint smile. "…Did you take
your vitamins and your medicine yet?"

"HEY! Of course I didn't forget to eat my vitamins!" There's a silence that
almost feels painful as the person on the other end gasps in horror. "OH MY I'M
SO STUUUUPID. Ahahaha, so that's why my stomach feels funny! You're super
smart, buddy!"

"Be careful not to mix up the prescriptions." It's mostly a futile effort, but
something that he doesn't mind offering a couple of moments to. "I'll see you
later."

"You're such a mother hen!" Faint sounds of someone juggling a bottle of pills
followed by noisy gulps fill the line. "Yes, yes, see you LATERRRRRR!"

His finger lightly touches the [end] button on his communicator because if he
doesn't act now, the conversation will never end despite the lack of reason
behind continued dialogue.

Strangely contrasting against his usually silent demeanor is his friend's
chirpy, slightly airheaded attitude. He can't think of any alterations to his
life regarding his friend's presence though, so he supposes that it's just
inevitability at work here. Even though their conversations reek of a
lifetime's worth of friendship, the two of them have barely known each other
for less than a month. There's just something inherently perky about the other,
to the point that the sudden, whirlwind relationship-of-sorts doesn't intrude
upon his own preference for solitude.

Without further ado, he leaves the spacious residence that serves as a tangible
representation of his family's aged wealth, a mixture of apathy and slight
anxiousness warring underneath his stoic façade.

•

"I hoped that we'll manage to get assigned to the same class." There's a
fragile sort of earnestness in the feminine face in front of him. "…I…I'm
glad."

He rolls his eyes at the overdramatic gesture—hands clutching conditioned air
in front of a too-tight blouse—and at the heavy-handed dosage of adoration in
the other's words. "Good morning, Francesca."

"Why don't you ever call me Fran?" Dismay is the only word that could possibly
hope to capture the essence of Francesca's whining. "We've been together our
entire lives!"

Together indeed; if the meaning of the word 'together' has evolved to encompass
unwanted and unavoidable acquaintanceship then yes: he's been together with
Francesca since the moment January 21 of AC 657 arrived. With family estates
practically toe-to-toe with each other and with business dealings practically
entangled together, there has never been a chance for anything to happen
otherwise. While his own family is considered to be more stable and secure, the
Mountbatten's current generation is proving to be incredibly intelligent when
it comes to taking bold risks to improve its own status.

Francesca, as a testament to the truth of knowing each other for more than a
decade, doesn't wait for a form of answer or acquiescence from him. Just as
well, since he doesn't have anything to provide for her dissatisfaction.

"GOOD MORNING!"—Comes an incredibly loud and energetic greeting that tears away
the attention of not only Francesca but also the entire class.

He allows himself a small smile as he nods in acknowledgement of the other's
arrival. A startlingly bright grin comes as a reply, before the ball of energy
bounces his way towards where he's seated.

"Good morning to you, Tyler~" Wallace enthuses without any sort of stomachache
from earlier after having forgotten to drink supplementary medicines. "And a
pleasant morning to you as well, Fran~"

"…Uh, right…" Francesca looks midway between startled and bewildered; her
eyebrows are furrowed, deep in thought, most likely attempting to remember what
kind of connection she has with the overzealous ball of energy. "Good morning
to you too, um…"

"It's Wallace," his one-month acquaintance chirps in merrily, unfazed by the
fact that he's a stranger to most of his classmates, "Wallace Cornwell!"

If the obnoxiously loud greeting failed to capture the whole room's attention,
the other's surname definitely succeeded in doing so.

The Cornwell family is definitely not one of the older, ancient, dynasties that
hold power over this country; the last three or so years have definitely
invited them to the playing field of titans, thanks of the sudden spike in
their businesses' growth and expansion. He has a fairly good idea about the
main contributor of that exponential improvement, but it's a piece of knowledge
that he doesn't care much to test about. He's never been particularly enamored
with the idea of having an exclusive group of elite ruling everyone else from a
high-above throne, so there's no problem with him if people keep on surpassing
expectations and challenging the top themselves.

"Oh!" Francesca's face now looks pinched, torn between continued courtesy and
ineffectual snobbishness. She gains composure quickly enough, as expected from
someone with such high-class breeding. "W-well, it's a pleasure to meet you.
I'm Francesca Mountbatten."

Wallace takes the extended hand and shakes it vigorously, almost rattling all
the jewelry off of Francesca. Abruptly, he lets go of her hands and practically
jumps into his own personal space, peering up really closely into his eyes.
Without flinching (much), he meets the curious stare dead-on.

"Are you guys together?"

He's usually perfect when it comes to controlling his emotions before they
could even flare up on his facial expressions, but the curious, innocent
question is enough to throw him completely off-guard, surprise widening his
eyes without his express permission.

"Hmm, maybe not," possibly to alleviate the shock and horror painted on his
face, Wallace offers an alternative, "more like childhood friends then?"

That's also wrong but it's infinitely better than the initial observation.

Francesca blushes like a schoolgirl—well, they are in school right now, but
that it isn't the point.

"Classes are going to start soon," he says instead to smoothen over the
wrinkled interactions that jumpstarted their very first day on this pilot
training class. The instructor hasn't even arrived and he's already feeling the
miniature whispers of stress and migraine inside his ear.

"There's still some time," Wallace protests childishly, even as he moves
towards the seat matching the designated number on his ID badge. "We can still
get to know the others—"

He almost replies that their instructor is definitely going to start some lame
icebreaker game once classes start formally, but before he can inject logic
into the conversation, Wallace shots up from his seat and flaps his arms around
like an overexcited hummingbird. "HEY! GOOD MORNING, CHARLES!"

He winces at the booming greeting that's just getting repetitive; he chances a
glance at Charles and finds out that the other is cringing too.

"We were on the same class during the preliminary selection," Wallace appears
to be trying for a conniving tone, but it only comes out as a failure at
secrecy, "that's why I know him~"

He isn't really that interested about Wallace's connections, but he smiles
indulgently anyway and manages to reply with a calm command to sit down and
shut up for the next five minutes at least.

Wallace shoots him a look that's almost piercing—and for a brief moment, he
feels as though there's a sudden shortage of air in the spacious
classroom—before the look and the moment disappears into the folds of excited
chattering and anxious primping. And before he can attempt to add something
else to his words, Wallace exaggeratedly gives him a submissive salute, "Yes
sir!"

•
***** reverse -05.05: negative reverse: ownership cycle *****
Chapter Summary
      
•••

Pillar of Despair
reverse -05.05: negative reverse: ownership cycle

(—"the one who was captured"—)

•••

"If someone as filthy as you is scrubbing the floors, you will just make things
worse."

Never has his personal policy included meddling with petty grievances of pilot-
wannabes who immaturely lash out at the weakest person they land their eyes on.
It's too much of a common occurrence, especially inside Grand Romania's
insecure walls, to the point that he doesn't even see the point of getting
involved with things that will naturally lead to their own ends without any
guidance, especially not from him.

He does end up meddling anyway, because the hallways have remained quite silent
for the past couple of minutes; he only knows one person—and he does hope that
there's only one of him in the entire world—who accepts these types of
punishments with quiet acquiescence.

The sight shamelessly, recklessly, bared in front of his eyes cause his
eyebrows to twitch the slightest bit. Strong cleaning liquid spills out in
slow, viscous drops from a knocked-over container, yet the pungent smell isn't
enough to completely shut down his olfactory senses, yet the acidic strength
isn't enough to clear the hallway of its clinging grime. The set-up is far from
impulsive and thoughtless: a circle of massive evil intent forms around the
prone form of today's victim, the human-blockade protecting their own interests
and records from being tainted by reprimand from the higher-ups. The dim
lighting contributes to the vague, ominous atmosphere that settles nicely in
the corridors.

There's a slight tremor on the brat's arms as he speaks out; there's no doubt
that the person on his hands and knees knows his voice. There's nobody in this
rotten country unfamiliar with the sound of his commands, after all.

The person in the middle of the sneering bastards doesn't lift his face up from
the metal-cold floors wet with the cleaning solution. Before taking up their
respective places and positions in the grand scheme of life in Grand Romania,
he and the brat used to be countrymen. It's a connection that he shares with
other refugees from the Herzog Kingdom, but none of them managed to pass the
initial selection tests for pilot candidacy. Of course, none of them possess
the same noble blood of the Payne family either.

Ever since their first meeting, he has already started thinking of the other
brat as someone useless and spineless.

That's why, meddling with this affair continues to surprise him a little.

Jeers and sneers crumble and disappear into the tense, cold air at his
approach.

Incomprehensible as his actions might be, his movements don't register in
sprint-blur, nor does it stagger forward in slow-motion. Everything happens as
they should be, with no indication if they are special actions that mark
something important in the flow of time.

Naturally, too naturally, his foot eagerly meets with the puny, heaving chest
barely covered by a thin shirt. He spies the other's bare hands painfully
clutching makeshift rags, drops of blood spilling out from chapped lips,
wasting the already useless effort in cleaning floors that will get cleaned by
cleaner robots during their routine rounds. The brat is putting up a brave
front and is attempting to reign in his groans of pain; it annoys him, to a
certain extent. Thoughtlessly, his foot kicks the other's stomach, with more
vicious force than necessary.

It's almost unthinkable for someone like him to get involved with someone like
him, but here they are: two teenagers locked together in a strange,
inexplicable connection.

He spies blood pooling out slowly from the prone, battered form of his victim.
Brown hair feels coarse against his grip. It's too easy, too easy, to
completely twist the slender neck into an irreconcilable position, to harshly
tear out a handful of hair from their roots, to end the tyrant and victim
situation between the two of them.

But just as he starts entertaining the idea of putting an end to this pitiful
life in his hands, a tired, but serene voice speaks out: "If you keep on
touching someone as filthy as me, you'll end up being filthy too, Mr. Ash
Vlastvier."

His grip on the uncombed hair slips; he's surprised by the other's audacity. He
makes up for the split-second of blankness on his part by quickly stepping at
the back of the other's head, forcing the other's face to join the filth on the
floor.

There's no point to this violence, he's well aware. There's no point to going
out of his way to torment and punish the other for sins that weren't committed.
There's no point to descending from his much-superior throne to become closer
to the garbage-infested ground.

There's no point at all.

He lets his gaze drift to Oliver Payne's pain-filled face.

Yes, there's no point to this charade, at all.

***

Though he is in an arguably more prominent and important position compared to
his previous standing while he was in Herzog Kingdom, his social decorum hasn't
improved even slightly. He doesn't bother stifling the yawn that nearly breaks
his face into half, nor does he bother with letting his disinterest with being
inside this training room from being broadcasted clearly. He doesn't give a
shit about acting all prim and proper, and even gives less of a damn in
participating in a demonstration of the current training technologies for
pilots since the useless brats all staring at him slack-jawed have absolutely
zero chance of becoming a pilot and being able to make use of whatever is being
taught today.

Judging from Black's irritated glare though, there's at least one person in
this room who is affected by his lack of participation in what's supposed to be
a joint pilot demonstration. He rolls his eyes at the other's obvious
annoyance. He isn't exactly fond of being a volunteer, especially if it's for
nonsensical purposes. It's not his problem if Black finds spending time here
worthwhile. Plus, it's not like the trainees will stop on looking at him and
hanging after his every word because he lets out a yawn or three.

From the corner of his eye, he spots a hunched back well-hidden behind rows of
tall computer systems that are supposedly unused because this training room
isn't supposed to be filled to maximum capacity. It's a rather perfect hiding
place, he has to admit. It's must only be because of his boredom that he
managed to notice the other's presence in this room saturated with pathetic
uselessness.

Even before Herzog Kingdom had sunken to the deepest pits of the abyss, Grand
Romania has already been a proponent of bloodthirsty, power-hungry campaigns;
everything is simply accelerating at alarming speeds now. As the first-ranked
pilot of Grand Romania, he knows a lot about the bid for power, knows a lot
about having to gain knowledge and strength. Willingly choosing to not listen
to lectures and demonstrations by pilots who are already at the top—that isn't
something that someone weak should do. Disregarding Black's warning glare
easily, he makes his way to the far back of the training room, satisfied that
the trainees actually continue paying attention to the heir of the current
King.

He's all set to scathingly scold the puny little brat about respecting
authority and knowing his own status, but his eyes see something else entirely,
something that makes him stop for a full minute. The taller computer systems
placed at the far end of the training room are separated from the other
workstations mainly because of their more advanced interface and their more
complicated system. It's one thing to observe a mere pilot trainee meddle with
them; it's even more interesting to see someone who doesn't have any computer
background whatsoever continuously type sets of commands that can make computer
specialists appreciative.

There's an odd sense of loss, for a brief moment. Here they are: two castaways
from the once-glorious Herzog Kingdom. Here they are: on completely different
worlds. It's all because Grand Romania places more emphasis on testing its
prototypes to search for the weapon that can place them higher than anyone
else.

"Everyone already thinks you're a useless worm," he does notice things around
him after all, because even if he's the number one pilot, he doesn't lose his
awareness of his surroundings, "and you don't even try to change their opinion.
That makes you a masochist, no?"

His words come out as a taunting hiss, but that's mostly because he is
irritated at things that don't make sense to him. The other brat seems hell-
bent on making things more difficult for himself, as though he's
masochistically inviting trainees to keep on stepping all over his person. It
doesn't make sense. It's maddening.

"My apologies for any class interruptions…" Oliver Payne trails off, mock-
respectfully stops typing, eyes half-mast and meek as they meet his stare.
"…sir."

He almost rises to the bait, irritation sparking from being called so
respectfully and so normally that it's laughable.

"—I'd really appreciate it if all of you pay attention to my demonstration," a
different voice cuts into their confrontation at the far end of the classroom,
and if only he can remember what the other's complete name is, he'd gladly dish
out a more scathing reply.

He watches, curiously, a different emotion splay across Oliver's face. It's
barely noticeable, a simple, sudden shift. Nevertheless it happens: admiration-
reverence-veneration locks and intermingles into one another. He observes,
inquisitively, at how Oliver seems to regard the son of the King.

The three of them used to have similar prestige kept under their names; now
only the King's son remains royalty; now the only achievement linked to his
name is something drenched with blood of thousands; now one of them will never
amount to anything anymore.

There's that pang of loss again, lasting longer than a fleeting second, but it
doesn't last any longer than a quick flutter of his eyelashes.

"I'll teach this brat." He suggests instead to the person whose name doesn't
register beyond 'Black'. He's surprised by his own words, but only for a moment
even shorter than a whirr of a gun's barrel. There's nothing that Oliver will
learn from discussions about different physical measurement statistics and how
those numbers are obsessively tracked by trainers and engineers and other staff
who ironically cannot produce half the values they demand from the trainees.
"You don't mind that, do you?"

Of course he does mind that.

"…Actually, I do mind that, Vlastvier."

See?

But well.

"Well, how much do you think I care about your rich-boy feelings?"

Now is the perfect time for him to mockingly call the other pilot by his full
name, but he still can't remember it, for some stupid reason. Of course, he
isn't exactly the brightest when it comes to remembering forgettable names
belonging to people who don't deserve to be recalled.

The King's son doesn't pout, but what he does in retaliation is just as
useless. "Whether you care for my, as you put it, 'rich-boy feelings' or not is
irrelevant. I just need you to do the damn job that our bosses gave us. Please,
kindly."

He breathes in, reigning in the spark of irritation that bubbles this time.
Fake-respect, even just extending to fake-respect-words, annoys him to the
point that he can't see straight. He hates being superior to everyone else,
because it's a pain in the ass to remain as the role model and to be the one
person everyone is counting on; he loathes his obvious superiority being mocked
even more.

"I am your boss, aren't I?"

And it's the truth.

Grand Romania is almost pitiable, with the way that the entire country clings
and worships strength even if strength doesn't even exist in the same timeline
as their ambitions. But he is the strongest in a country of weaklings—he
dislikes opportunities being wasted instead of being used to their fullest. And
as the most prominent man second only to the King: "And I'm telling you to stop
interfering with me."

The King's son is below his rank.

And he knows it.

Well, as long as Black knows and understands that he still has a long way to go
before he can even dream of acting like he's in charge, then all is well. He
supposes that he can let the matter go now—and more importantly, he can go
ahead and witness first-hand just how much can Oliver surprise him.

Unceremoniously, he grabs Oliver by the nearest available limb and hauls him
out of the classroom. None of the trainees verbally react to the scene that
they just witnessed and it's one of his privileges, he supposes, for his
actions to remain unquestioned just like that.

He finds human psychology difficult to understand, but he does know and expect
those trainees to corner Oliver afterwards and beat him up for scoring a
puzzling rendezvous with their hero. He doesn't particularly care and he
doesn't think Oliver does either. It angers him, just thinking about Oliver's
passiveness.

There has to be a way to break that annoying passivity.

There just has to be.

Or else.

He drags Oliver into a separate training room, easily clearing the security
check by the entrance by swiping his pilot identity card. Yet another one of
the perks of being the number one pilot: unlimited access to the rooms off-
limits to most of the occupants of the Grand Romania headquarters.

He shoves the brat into one of the empty seats, mildly careful since the brat
is rather lacking when it comes to balance and there are expensive and fragile
devices around. The computers in this room have the same specs and capabilities
as the computers that are reserved for the engineers that handle his prototype
SPHERE's tune-ups, so they must be powerful—and extremely attractive to a
budding computer geek like Oliver. There are supposed to be some bunch of
unintelligible software that will only make sense of one understands the
developer team's initial thoughts and quirks; the hardware is supposed to be
hypersensitive to stimuli making it useless for his own use. He is interested,
though he wouldn't ever admit this aloud, to see what Oliver can do when given
access to something better than what he's used to.

"This is amazing." Oliver's expression of awe towards Black earlier pales in
comparison to this one, definitely. It's almost funny how Oliver completely
loses all apprehension he's been sporting ever since it's only been the two of
them.

"It is."

It really is.

He's already observing changes in Oliver's disposition, proof that Oliver is
capable of not remaining passive forever.

"…Why did you bring me here?"

What's even more amazing is that he's right to think that Oliver definitely is
smart enough to know that this freebie isn't, well, free.

"Your test scores when it comes to SPHERE synchronization is on par with a
toddler's, possibly even less." His memorization skill is rather average, but
he remembers Oliver's data because they stand out even amongst the worst batch
of failures. Calling Oliver the weakest human being to ever walk the earth is
probably not an exaggeration. He recites the dismal values flatly, akin to a
judge rattling off the person's inadequacies one by one. "Physical strength
tests show that you can win a fight against a one-legged and one-armed seventy-
three-year-old woman. Either that or against a two year old brat who hasn't
received any initial motor coordination training. Ha, at least they're
considerate enough to give you options, no?"

Looking very much like he doesn't give a damn, Oliver even smiles a little bit.
"The training engineers' initial assessment told me that I can't even win
against a newborn, so I supposed I have already improved."

It's really rather amazing, how much a weakling like Oliver can spout off these
lines and manage to survive from the beatings that result.

Is it possible for Oliver to actually be a genius who is just pretending to be
foolish?

Or is Oliver really just that foolish and weak—yet still with enough of an
interesting spark of something to not be completely useless?

He wants to know.

He thinks that he can make it a project of sorts, to see if he can change
Oliver somehow. It's nothing serious, just something to pass the time with,
since he's rather tired of people focusing on him, on his improvements, on his
statistics. He kills people for a country that isn't even his own, what else do
they want?

In any case: "However, your results for intelligence tests and theory-based
exams are the highest in Grand Romania's history."

It's as though possessing a few extra brain cells robbed the strength away from
Oliver's bones and muscles.

"My theory results can't strengthen my bones, just as my IQ results can't take
me away from my fellow trainees and into the actual mission briefing rooms."

He feels his eyes widen.

It's this passivity again, completely devoid of regret or dissatisfaction.

He idly wonders if it's possible that Oliver is a really, extremely, dangerous
genius who is subtly, surely, sadistically riling him up.

One look at the top of the slightly-bowed brown head though tells him
everything he needs to know.

"Your theory-based exam results are the best in the country, but they're not
perfect." His tone is maliciously wicked, he knows, because he's feeling quite
irate now. He kind of wants to shake Oliver by the shoulders; maybe that will
wake the other up to reality. He settles for dragging Oliver upwards by the
nearest available limb, again. "There's no room for mediocrity."

"…There shouldn't be."

…Huh?

He knows his eyes widen even more at the unexpected response. His grip on the
other's arm slackens. He smirks to himself when he realizes that this is going
to be his project then, before he is sent to fight Rei in a few months' time.

This is going to be interesting.

"Take this test and if you get a perfect score, I'll give you one hour of
unsupervised computer use." Oliver's tense shoulders relax the tiniest bit, but
there's still a heavy scent of suspicion hanging around the other's form. "And
for each mistake, I'll make sure to punish you extremely thoroughly."

Watching those shoulders relax entirely after mentioning punishments is
definitely the only proof he needs to ascertain that Oliver is a masochist.

This is going to be really interesting.

"On second thought, maybe that's not punishment enough." He leans in close to
the other's face, their noses nearly bumping. The two of them both have green
eyes, one of the most common eye colors for those born under Herzog Kingdom,
but the tint on the other's irises is much more murkier, more innocent than his
own. He should know, since he can see his face, his eyes, looking back at him
on nearly all television programs advocating Grand Romania's policies and
poster advertisements for pilot recruitment.

Hmm, what to do?

"…Maybe I should give you a kiss for each wrong answer you have?"

He takes a small step back.

"…Ha, as if I'd go through with such a disgusting action just for punishment."

He can see the workings of Oliver's mind reflecting on his face.

See, he is capable of not being completely frigid!

Most people who look at him think that he enjoys abusing his privileges as the
number one pilot and he bullies the entire population of pilots and pilot
wannabes. He doesn't. He just enjoys tormenting one particular person—bullying
a number of people is bound to be tiring and troublesome and tormenting someone
is supposed to be something fun to do.

And because it's not within his nature to resist the urge to do what he wants,
he continues teasing Oliver. "In my home country, each time my birthday comes
around, there's a custom for a demonstration on how to poison an enemy with a
kiss."

Again, there's that rapid firing of Oliver's nerve cells as his brain clamors
for the meaning behind the just-spoken words.

"I'm also from Herzog Kingdom but I haven't heard of—"

He kisses Oliver: a simple, flat overlap of lips together.

It doesn't mean anything.

It shouldn't.

It's just a trial of the punishment that he's dishing out, since Oliver just
made a stupid mistake then, even if the question isn't included in the tests
that he chucked over to the nearest workstation.

It doesn't mean anything to Oliver as well, but it sure as hell amusing to
watch Oliver flail around trying to regain his wits. True to his outstanding
reputation of being a useless weakling, Oliver ends up crashing to the floor
when all he probably meant to do is take a couple of steps away from him.

"…Of course, that's just a lie, idiot." Of course it's a lie: his birthday
isn't due for a two more weeks, for starters. He sits on the swivel chair that
rolls away from Oliver's shaky, collapsed form. "I can poison you on any other
days too."

He takes a look at Oliver Payne's disgust-filled face.

Yes, this should make things even more interesting.

***

Politics exhausts him so thoroughly to the point that he barely manages to keep
his eyes open after a grueling six-hour discussion amongst the country's
monarchs, officials and pilots. In his opinion, teenagers like him should be
exempted from these types of discussions, because it's not like they have
anything worthwhile to contribute, or at least, it isn't like they have
anything to contribute that wouldn't be twisted into something different
entirely or ignored into a mass of oblivion. Of course he personally loathes
discussing pros and cons of attacking so-and-so or befriending so-and-so or
doing whatever sort of manipulation with so-and-so.

He'd rather focus on annihilating the people they tell him to destroy.

He's disappointed that Central Tower and Freedom Union weren't careful enough
to completely conceal the fact that the two nations have arranged a diplomatic
meeting under wraps, perhaps even a compromise agreement. Grand Romania is
panicking not-too-subtly because of this. He's due for three more test drives
for the newly-reconditioned AETHER and it's all because Grand Romania is
paranoid about remaining the only one tiny force against a coalition of several
huge countries. Of course, it's highly likely that it's part of Central Tower's
plan for the meeting with Freedom Union to be leaked out, if only to strike
terror within the governments of their enemies.

Ah, how annoying.

His current direct supervisor, the head engineer leading the project to develop
a new SPHERE prototype based on the blueprint that Grand Romania has recently
acquired, stops him before he can bolt from his seat.

"Be sure to report on time later, got it, Vlastvier?"

He makes a noncommittal shrug, as he nearly runs out of the discussion hall.
He's granted a couple of hours for personal use, but then it's back to a
special hell for him. It's things like these that make him envious of the
weaker guys; they get to spend more time for the things that they want to do
and they don't have to be locked within testing chambers just so engineers and
scientists can try out their new toys on him.

There's The King, flanked by some bigwig advisors, and he hastens his footsteps
so he can get the hell away from them. Spending six hours straight with only
their boring faces and superficial words for company is already more than any
human can possibly take. He doesn't intend to spend any more time with them,
not if he can help it.

There's also two other pilots who look as though they want to speak with him
about some unimportant matter, so he arranges his expression into a menacing
scowl, confident in its inherent scariness to chase away everybody else.

It works wonderfully—granting him a relatively peaceful walk back to his
designated room.

Well, this isn't exactly a room.

It's more like a storage space that somehow houses a bed, a closet and a
bathroom. It's simple and easy to maintain, so he doesn't want to ask for
anything more. Any upgrades or luxuries that he might wish will surely be
granted to him, because Grand Romania is a stupid country that thinks placing
the highest priority on the strongest teenage pilot is any wiser than hoping
everybody else starts worshipping them out of nowhere.

He's still a teenager, at the end of the day, and the adults around him just
love forgetting about that fact. Nobody bats an eyelash about the fact that an
entire country is pinning their hopes for world domination on a teenager like
him. It's a screwed-up world, but it's easy to understand.

Moreover, he's still a citizen from Herzog Kingdom, even if there's nothing
left to tie him back to those ruins aside from his name and the tattoo on his
nape. Nobody bats an eyelash about the fact that a kid who used to be political
hostage from a now-gone country is now lording over them. It's a screwed-up
situation, and he doesn't even want to try to understand.

He practically dives into his bed, rumpling the covers and sending some pillows
tumbling down to the floor. The heavy-duty springs barely make a sound of
protest at the sudden addition of his weight. He resolves to stop thinking
about useless things, not only because it's a waste of his time that can be
better channeled to more fruitful pursuits, but also because the mark on his
nape—the small, barely visible tattoo that all Herzog Kingdom heirs
possess—hurt enough to cause a killer migraine whenever he ends up thinking
about his past. It's definitely psychosomatic, a knee-jerk reaction to an odd
nostalgia.

"Hmph," he exhales in dissatisfaction, his face pressed hard against his bed,
his words half-swallowed by his sheets, "this is annoying."

He then rolls out of his bed, quickly making his way to the closet where his
clothes and his few personal belongings are stored. It's only an idea that pops
into his mind because he's bored and he isn't feeling so sleepy anymore.

Nothing more, nothing less.

He then takes out his laptop, modified with one of the hard drives he has
stolen from his engineer's testing room, and he returns to his bed. It's only
an idle sort of curiosity, he knows. He isn't the type to commit to something,
let alone someone, unless it involves destroying things. He dislikes getting
involved with anything else, but he's bored and he'd rather meddle with that
brat rather than lock himself up in his room and think about how stupid
everyone is.

Hacking into the pilot trainees' database is incredibly easy, but he isn't
doing this for the challenge anyway. It's only a curiosity, a whim, a prank
even. This month is the time for the end of the yearly training term for
aspiring pilots. March is the end that trainees all look forward to, because it
signifies the opportunity to attain an increased rank.

…It's unlikely that Oliver has improved much during the year; consequentially,
it's unlikely that his name is included in the list of promotions to the next
tier.

It takes a couple more clicks before he gets a confirmation (yet again) of
Oliver's weakness.

He supposes that if there's anything to be blamed for his actions, it's the way
Grand Romania just makes things too easy. Promotions, eventually to pilot
status, are what keeps trainees from spending unholy amounts of time training
and obsessing about training, but said promotion verdicts are way too easy to
subvert and change.

See, it only takes one click!

He knows that by changing this verdict, he exposes himself to the risk of
getting detected by the cyber security team, just as he exposes Oliver to even
more hatred and bullying from his peers.

But well, this is just a curious prank.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

The Health Research Department is surprisingly high-tech, with wide plasma
screens that monitor the status of his body functions, with state-of-the-art
equipment that he didn't expect Grand Romania to spend money on. He hasn't
visited any of the underground cities, but he has seen the pictures of the
abysmal state of the underground centers. Grand Romania isn't a country that
allocates funds to maintain the well-being of its citizens, but its officials
do apparently realize the importance of making sure that their pilots remain
healthy to be useful.

He rubs the medicinal patch on his upper left shoulder, the pain radiating with
the motion of the pads of his fingers. The new injection still stings a little
bit. The values displayed on the screens inform him that his body remains
unstable currently, because the serum is still on its way to make the necessary
changes in his body.

The doctors tell him that the medicine is to make sure that his hair strands
leave their current dry, wiry state and return to their original golden color.
The drug is supposedly also able to counteract the discoloration of his irises.
The medication is supposed to cure whatever disease is infecting his
bloodstream.

But he knows better.

The hourly injections aren't there to return him to normality.

They want him to forcefully evolve into a superior being that can be useful to
their campaigns. His condition worsens each time he allows the serum to be
directly injected to his veins: his hair becomes brittle to touch, his eyes
ache, his thoughts stray into a million different paths that all lead to
nowhere. It's an experimental drug, he understands as much, even if his direct
supervisor tries his best to pretend that the country isn't poisoning his body
slowly.

…Not like it matters anyway.

He's going to continue offering his hands to the doctors with downcast eyes and
he's going to continue letting them replace his blood with whatever drug
they're developing in order to create their strongest soldier. It's all in
preparation for the inevitable confrontation with the strongest representative
of the strongest country in the world.

His time is dwindling into nothingness and there's nothing he wishes to do
about it.

***

His confinement is about to breach the two-month mark. It's a countdown that
he's only aware of because of the displays on the screens in front of him; his
sense of time has long faded into murky consciousness, after all. On his own,
it's extremely difficult to keep track of the flow of time. Of course that's to
be expected: his days are filled with drug injections, tests and more tests.
There's no resemblance to a normal person's normal life.

Whenever he opens his eyes, he's treated to a sight of himself partly reflected
on the containment glass cylinder's surface. He didn't recognize himself at
first, but he supposes that the only real changes that have occurred to his
appearance are linked to the change in the colors of his hair and his eyes.
He's used to seeing blood, but the sight of it inside his irises still jolts
him every now and then.

Two months ago, the Health Research Department was a little cramped, with more
than twenty samples for the serum for inducing the so-called Bloody Beast
Disease. Now, he's the only research subject left alive.

He's observed other, weaker, subjects fall deep into the influence of the
disease's constant decaying of brain matter. He's witnessed half-turned-
monsters rampaging without any sense of surroundings and without any concern
about killing any bystanders. He's watched his own limbs move lighter-faster-
stronger, even without conscious effort from himself.

He is going to be released from his quarantine quite soon. He honestly thinks
that the research team is a little stupid for releasing someone like him to the
headquarters without any of the confinements present now. He is definitely
going to grow berserk, triggered by some outside stimulus, and he isn't going
to want to stop himself from killing everyone in his vicinity. There's
definitely going to be a one-sided massacre once he's released to the
unsuspecting public. There's definitely going to be a spike in the body count
within the staff members and pilot trainees, but it seems that the worst-case
scenario is still within the desired outcomes of this research team.

Well.

He isn't terribly concerned about the wellbeing of anyone else, so it doesn't
really matter to him if he ends up killing maybe a few hundred more. He does
dislike being considered superior, but he isn't going to deliberately weaken
himself just so he can avoid being the best. No, it doesn't matter to him if he
does end up soiling his hands with a few more buckets of blood.

…There is something that seems to be missing, something that he hasn't had
contact with for the past two months of his isolation. He can't quite remember
what it is, but if it's so important, he's bound to recall it eventually,
right?

Well, whatever it is, he's going to end up destroying it as soon as the binds
around his body are released.

***

Escaping from another political discussion meeting is hardly acceptable
behavior from someone as revered as him, but he doesn't really care. Grand
Romania isn't losing anything by allowing him freedom now, since it's not like
he has any valuable insight on creating military strategies and what-not. He
possesses awareness about the things going on around the world, but that's
nothing special compared to the data and theories that the bureaucrats have
obtained after spending time, money and effort pooled into studying the
different factors that make the world go round. He's always been the hands-on
type when it comes to making any sort of contribution to society, so he'd
really just rather do whatever action plan they end up devising, instead of
spending time glued to his chair thinking about possible outcomes and
consequences.

Of course, a huge part of his disinclination to participate in strategy
meetings is because he loathes the idea of sitting still while doing
disinteresting things. He's more willing to spend time messing around with
people whose reactions fascinate him. That's primarily the reason why he's
stalking the hallways that are rather unfamiliar to him.

These halls are reserved for trainees that have been promoted to the next
series of tiers, but a top-rank pilot like him doesn't have much experience
when it comes to navigating around this place. The floors are made of
strengthened glass, supposedly crystal clear, supposedly fragile-looking. He
doesn't give much thought to criticizing the design of the floors and the
entire headquarters itself, though he does feel bewildered about the strange
choice of floor-material.

Aimlessly, he ambles around, distantly thinking about how his supervisor is
definitely scouring the security cameras for his presence. He didn't ask for
any permission to miss the meeting after all. Furthermore, it's not like they
have given him distinct permission to show his new appearance to anybody else
outside of the Health Research Department.

While he does roam around the corridors in hopes of stumbling upon Oliver and
tormenting that brat to relieve the tension curling around his bones, he
doesn't really mind the thought of getting captured before then. He's fine even
if his supervisor finds him and drags him to the meeting room, because it's not
like Grand Romania is big enough for some serious hide-and-seek. It's just
that, if he can escape from his responsibilities, then that'd be more
preferable.

There's only a few more months, weeks even, before the scheduled battle with
Rei and that's the unspoken countdown to the end of his life.

He understands his own strength, better than anyone, that's why he doesn't even
think there's a chance for survival.

It's been a couple of years already in this world that is terribly unkind to
human beings, so bowing out of the grand stage of life isn't so distasteful or
horrid. He's planning on enjoying himself, of going all-out in the fight
against Rei, but he's also planning on making the most of his time until then.

He isn't interested on sparing time for things he dislikes.

"—My supervisors are all nagging me, scolding me for promoting a useless brat
like you, berating me for not questioning the promotion verdict, and now they
want to expel me from my job—because of you! They want to fire me! ME! They
want to punish me, all because of YOU!"

Blah, blah, blah.

Really?

Those idiots allowed that verdict to push through?

While he was the one who actually played around with the database in order to
screw up the passing verdicts in order to allow Oliver to be promoted to the
next tier along with his fellow trainees, he didn't expect then for his changes
to be approved by the trainee supervisors or by the in-class trainer.

Nobody actually questioned Oliver's promotion—not until it was too late?

Oh, this is definitely why Grand Romania remains a third-rate country.

They're plenty stupid, aren't they?

They make it too easy for others to trample them.

A computer drops to the glass floors, the sound falling like an ominous
drumbeat. Oliver is completely surrounded by his current set of tormentors,
amazing him just how many people hate Oliver and his existence. It's almost
amazing, how one person can accumulate that much hatred.

[What's up, useless brother?]

He blinks.

The computer should be damaged beyond repair. Instead, it lets an electronic
sound escape from its speakers. Foolishly like a human being, the sound
continues to resonate in the hallway where Oliver is about to receive a beating
worse than all his previous beatings combined.

[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Stupid brother, how dare you make me wait?]

It's a program that seems simple to simplistic minds. A program that can mimic
a person's voice, as well as adjust its replies accordingly based on the
situation: it's a first-class software that can take even a seasoned computer
programmer a year to finish. There's no way Grand Romania allows trainees like
Oliver access to programming lessons; there's no way Oliver has had any
computer programming-related courses when they were still young children at
Herzog Kingdom.

That can only mean that Oliver managed to somehow learn to make this type of
voice software through self-study, during his free time.

[Don't tell me you just want to waste my time? That'll be super uncool!]

He isn't wrong then, to challenge the brat into proving his intelligence. That
challenge is temporarily forgotten, placed on hold because he's been busy with
the experiments done to his own body, but there's still something there right
now, something worthwhile.

Trainees that are too weak physically-mentally-emotionally surround the person
they rightfully consider the weakest.

[I try my best to forget about your existence. That works most of the time,
idiot.]

…He'll probably do that as well, forgetting about Oliver's existence, sooner
rather than later. But for now, he still remembers the pitiful teenager hunched
protectively in front of the computer that he's spent months programming into
something wonderful, into something brilliant.

He isn't here to save Oliver, no.

He's just here because he's bored and he's not yet caught by his supervisor—and
because that synthetic voice program is something that couldn't have been born
into fruition without the help of a brilliant mind nurturing its growth.

That's all there is to it.

…Plus, he's starting to feel the indescribable itch on his fingertips, an
insurmountable urge to make his surroundings flow with a downpour of blood.

It will definitely not do him any favors if he ends up damaging the brat's
skull before he finishes showing off all the amazing, intelligent things he's
capable of doing.

He kicks Oliver sharply, pleased with the trajectory that sends the brat a
couple of meters away. He watches the way Oliver crashes to the wall back-
first, satisfied with how that feeble body slumps forward in weakness, like a
puppet discarded by its master. He isn't rescuing Oliver per se, because he's
actually saving him for the last, because he's rather interested in tormenting
the brat personally, more attentively. He'd like to get rid of everyone else
first, especially since they're looking at him like he's some kind of monster
that they aren't aware of.

He wants to laugh at them, because really? They only noticed that he's a
monster now?

Talk about dense.

[Hello? Hello? Hello, hello, hello? Hey! Are you ignoring me?! You actually
dare to ignore?! A useless, stupid person like you, is ignoring someone like
me?! How irritating!]

"Shut up," he takes a step closer to the discarded computer that somehow still
works, "you're noisy."

[H-H-H-How dare you?! Who are you anyway?! You're not my eternal loser
brother!]

"Voice recognition, huh?" It's only been a few months since he has introduced
Oliver to that computer room; it's only been a few months then, since he first
started knowing how to make this type of software. It's really amazing on how
much Oliver was able to accomplish in that short span of time, even if that
accomplishment is ultimately useless and fruitless when compared to the entire
workings of the world. He picks up the computer and speaks directly to the
microphone button embedded on the center of the keyboard. "I told you to shut
up."

[...Program entering forced hibernation mode. Saving data, saving data,
progress 100%]

How curious indeed. Oliver's also been able to program a forced hibernation
mode—something that forcibly saves everything once faced with harmful stimuli?
He's rather interested in the fact that his voice, or maybe it was words, is
considered dangerous even by inanimate objects. That software catches on to his
real nature much quicker compared to the wide-eyed trainees gaping at him,
still frazzled by his appearance and rooted dumbly to their spots.

"A-A-A-A-AHHHH—! It's a beast! A monster! Quick! Call the security team!
Faster, before it—!"

He pats his pockets, belatedly realizing that they're empty.

His eyes register panic and fear on the trainees-humans-prey-toys-prey in front
of him.

They proclaim him a beast.

He looks down at his hands.

Hmm, he can't see his hands because he's still holding on to that computer.

Wait, why is he holding a computer?

…

He can't remember.

It's probably not important.

Should he just throw this computer away?

…

No!

No?

No.

Okay.

He slowly places the computer down on the clear floors.

He sees his reflection on the glass surface.

That doesn't… look like him.

He doesn't have red eyes or silver hair, does he?

…Does he?

Does it even matter, in the end?

It's just hair color.

It's just eye color, additionally.

It's okay.

Isn't it?

Yes.

Yes?

Yes!

Why is he here again?

He's here for something important.

…

He can't remember.

If he can't remember, then it isn't important.

…Right?

Right!

"…Long time no see." There's something talking to him. How funny. Why would
something talk to him? Does he even know how to speak? He does? He does. Oh.
"How are you feeling?"

What?

What!

He doesn't feel anything.

He's a monster, isn't he?

That's why there are ants running around screaming.

…Right?

Why are there screaming ants?

Can ants scream?

Well, they can.

Can't they?

He's a monster surrounded by ants then, ants that scream, he thinks.

Aren't ants supposed to be squashed?

…Right.

…Especially if they're screaming?

…Yes?

Yes!

…Yes.

"Shut up." He tells the ants that are screaming. He tells the ants that look at
him—right—like he's a monster. He tells the thing looking like an abandoned,
broken, crippled doll. "Shut up!"

"—Yes, yes, it's an escaped beast! …What do you mean there are no beasts inside
the tower? I'm telling you, there's a wild beast here! I don't care if it's a
top-secret military thing or whatever, but you need to help us!"

He's a wild beast?

He's a monster.

But he's also a wild beast?

He looks down at his hands and sees red.

Why is he seeing red?

Oh, must be the blood on his eyes.

Wait, why is there blood on his eyes?

What the hell is happening to his eyes?!

"It's not a beast," the thing struggles to stand, to crawl, to kneel, but it's
advancing slowly but surely, "can't you see it's—"

…He's not a beast?

…He's not a monster?

…He's…

What is he, then?

"OH HOLY HELL—! IT'S MR. ASH VLASTVIER!"

He's—

…Ash Vlastvier?

That's his name?

Yes!

Yes?

Yes.

Oh.

Okay then.

If he's Ash Vlastvier then his job is—

…To be the Vlastvier heir?

…To be the number one pilot of Grand Romania?

…To be the most terrifying monster that can walk the land?

Oh, that must be it.

He sees the thing's green eyes go wide. He recognizes shock there, with very
little amounts of fear. He thinks he remembers this thing in front of him.

Why?

Does it matter?

Hmm, no, it doesn't.

Okay then.

If it's important, then he'll remember it.

For now, his instincts are telling him that he's here because he wants a
fountain of blood.

He dislikes the crystal clear floors.

He is a man of action.

He does what he wants.

Even if he isn't a man?

Even if he's a monster.

Yes.

He should cover the crystal clear floors, if he dislikes them so much.

He should paint every single corner of this hallway then, so that he won't have
to look at his reflection again.

The ants are screaming again.

They're rather noisy.

They wouldn't make any noise after they're squashed flat, would they?

Oh!

The first ant he crushes makes a gurgling sound, but quiets down afterward.

He grins.

He's happy that he finally finds a solution that can solve two of his problems.

He can stop the ants from screaming and he gets to cover the floors with free
paint!

He waves his hand around, a thin sword in his grip, creating arcs of
destruction effortlessly.

"Yes, I'm Ash Vlastvier, and now that you know who I am, I have to kill you."

…Not that his name has any relationship with his almost frenzied desire to
kill.

He's only killing them because he hates glass floors and he hates noisy ants.

Oh—and also because he can't remember why he's even here in a floor unsuited
for his name and status.

He'll stop killing these pathetic excuses for insects once he remembers his
purpose for being here.

That's what he thinks.

…He does run out of things to kill quite soon, even before he can even start
recalling the important thing that he's here for. He takes a deep breath and
listens for any signs of potential prey. He only notices the thing from
earlier, with wide green eyes and unkempt blond hair. He thinks he can remember
the thing's name but he isn't quite sure. He barely manages to hold on to his
own name and he dislikes the thought of remembering the wrong name.

He frowns.

Why should it matter anyway?

He watches the thing lean heavily against the wall.

Why is he even wasting time here?

He rotates his shoulder a little bit, stretching, before he decides to punch
the thing by its face.

He thinks his fist connects with a left cheekbone, but he isn't interested to
know the details.

He idly observes the thing dig its elbows futilely against the walls,
masochistically worsening his agony, before it skids to a stop and vomits all
over the place.

Well.

He supposes that the other is contributing to his desire to dirty the too-clear
floors.

He walks closer to the thing, intent on bringing Oliver out of his misery.

…?!

Oliver.

Yes, that's the name of the thing.

Why would he remember such a pitiful person?

Oliver's hands are meekly raised defensively in front of Oliver's body,
Oliver's fists leveled with Oliver's chest, in order to protect Oliver's self
from his approach.

Oliver.

Oliver thinks he can protect himself against his approach.

HA!

HA!

HA!

How funny!

How pathetic!

But isn't he more pathetic, for remembering the name of someone like Oliver?

HA!

HA!

HA!

He swipes at the other's knees with another well-placed kick. He reaches for
the bruised elbows just as the other's knees sink to the floor. He drags the
other upward to keep him away from the dirty floors and to slam him hard
against the dirty walls.

Oliver's eyes are glowing splendidly green, a shade dissimilar to his name,
vibrant hue standing out even if his vision is stained thick with crimson.

Just as suddenly, the memory trickles back to his consciousness, the reason for
his presence here in a corridor that can't even hope to contain his
concentrated power. He's here because he wants to mess around with Oliver, to
send the other's world into utter disarray for his amusement, to observe the
other's intelligence floundering in a world that only awards brute strength.

He looks at the broken body beneath him.

Everything around him drips red with flowers that will never have the chance to
bloom, but Oliver remains alive—barely—in his hold, continuing to grasp the
edges of life even if he looks and acts as if he's just too keen to welcome
death. Oliver's passiveness remains a prime source of his irritation, but
seeing the other's progress in evolving into a being that's still within the
bounds of humanity… it's enough to pique his interest, even just mildly.

He thinks he ends up murmuring the other's name in the miniscule space that
struggles to separate the two of them, but he isn't quite sure.

It's not important.

He presses a tentative kiss against the other's chapped lips, waiting for his
instinct to surge up again so that he'll know what he needs to do next. The
natural course of action doesn't claw out from his subconscious; the urge to
take a small step back comes from the thought that he doesn't really understand
what he's doing.

But does he need his thoughts for this?

He shouldn't.

He declines to tax his mind to think about military strategies—this is an even
lesser concern, compared to moves that can affect millions of lives in just one
moment.

That decides it then.

He shifts his grip on Oliver, digs his fingers into arms that are too puny to
withstand any of the tests and injections he's been subjected to for the past
two months. He bridges the gap between them again, bites the edge of a bruised
upper lip. He isn't doing this to make Oliver feel anything but increased pain.
His previous methods at tormenting Oliver seem to be weakening; Oliver's too
used to the constant beatings for his injuries to matter. This is just another
way to alleviate the boredom and tension that's insistently crawling across his
skin.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

One of the new policies, he's been informed, is to record and broadcast the
following skirmishes with pilots from the other countries. He isn't terribly
fond of being placed under the spotlight, but it isn't like he has valid
reasons to protest against the new methods of gathering more supporters under
Grand Romania's thirst for conquest. It isn't like he's incredibly annoyed at
his actions being monitored; he's been under stricter surveillance when he was
still an important member of a celebrated family back at Herzog Kingdom.
Enduring this much is child's play compared to everything else that he has done
and everything else that must happen to him.

The resulting AETHER has too many hands, resulting in a SPHERE that's rather
difficult to control. He needs to keep track of the multitudes of limbs and
make sure that he doesn't damage himself with the thermal expansion capability
located at the 'palms' of its 'hands'. He adjusts the temperature of AETHER's
'palms', calculates the difference between melting off his own armor and
melting the opponent's. He decides on 3300°C, with a leeway of a 100°C loss for
conduction between two imperfect metals.

His opponent isn't… very good.

He can read the desperation controlling her every movement. She's older than
him, according to the records, but she has very little experience, he can tell
certainly even if he didn't pay much attention to the enemy pilot data
compilation that's been handed to him last week. She relies too much on her
SPHERE and on the top-class toys Central Tower equips all of its pilots with.
Without the highly destructive Zwei Cannon on her side, her capabilities are
decisively diminished by half. It's only a matter of time before she succumbs
to her inevitable defeat.

He doesn't gather much enjoyment from this kind of one-sided fight. There's no
point in battling with someone resigned to one's fate, especially if that fate
entails a future of blankness. He doesn't have any interest in holding
someone's hand as he guides her into her funeral.

She's definitely a sacrificial lamb—not that she knows it. She's the bait that
Central Tower has heartlessly tossed to the Grand Romania that's so eager to
prove their newly acquired firepower.

Well.

There's not much point dwelling on it at this point, since it's not like he's
going to stop following the mission orders handed down to him.

Destroying things is easy to comprehend.

He likes that.

He yawns from behind the controls, even as he readies a coordinated blow with
Arms 10 and 12. His attack fails to decapitate the enemy SPHERE, but he,
instinctively, knows that he's successful in damaging the enemy's left arm.

This battle with Central Tower is supposed to lure someone within the top three
pilots out. If the mission plans succeed, it's going to be the infamous Slayer
who will battle with him. He's looking forward to that: OPHAN and its pilot
will provide a more entertaining fight than the pilot he's relentlessly
bullying right now.

He sends out a couple more arms to wrap around the enemy machine's armor, with
the goal of either melting the metal armor completely or at least severing
major connector cables here and there. He observes the sluggish movement of the
enemy and decides that it's not going to take up more than two minutes to
finish her off. It's an unsightly ending, but he isn't the type to draw out a
one-sided massacre. He isn't that cruel, he thinks.

This video is undoubtedly going to be edited a lot. That knowledge isn't enough
to make him hold back the force behind his attacks, as he neatly dodges the
desperate attack aimed for his pilot seat, as he wickedly retaliates by shoving
AETHER's main arm to the enemy's cockpit. The privacy screen on his seat breaks
with the enemy's attack, but it doesn't give him any sort of damage, so he just
smirks at the pilot gasping out her final breath.

Well, this should be the end.

Environmental values suddenly spike, especially the inside barometers.

…He's late.

But he's here.

He un-hides the video communication link to the headquarters. He frowns when he
hears nothing from the other side even if they're obviously speaking to him. He
discreetly unmutes the video feed after a few seconds, belatedly remembering
that he did mute the communication line because his motivation plummets
whenever there are people manipulating his actions unsubtly.

He calls back the tentacle-like hands, sheaths them inside their holding
cylinders as he awaits the arrival of Central Tower's incredibly delayed
backup, as he listens for comprehensible instructions from the headquarters. He
pulls out AETHER's main hand from the enemy's damaged cockpit, leaving behind
torn cables and splashes of blood. There's very little chance that his opponent
is able to survive such devastation, but he dislikes being uncertain, so he
stomps on the cockpit just to be sure, uses a little more force than necessary.
There should be nothing left there that can be considered remotely human; he
doesn't stop trampling on the remains of his enemy until he sees Central
Tower's OPHAN land a few kilometers away.

OPHAN is still on its Chariot Mode, so it's possible that the reason for the
incredible delay is because all Central Tower pilots are out of the country and
are on missions presently. He grins at the golden opportunity that presents
itself in front of him. While he's not that concerned over things like the
country's image or worthlessness like the country's goals, he is itching for a
good fight, something that the previous match lacked. OPHAN is a top-class
SPHERE, definitely, but he thinks AETHER is well-made too, and he has a very
good chance of dealing damage to The Slayer.

He's quite ready to start exchanging blows with the SPHERE surrounded by
defensive angelic wings, whether headquarters issues him an approval or not.
Thankfully for his patience, headquarters gives him the green signal.

He doesn't waste time in refocusing the power allocations from the tentacle-
hands and diverting most of his power supply to the four main limbs of AETHER.
He jumps, crossing the kilometer-wide gap with just one move, grinning
manically once he practically tastes the surprise from The Slayer and once he
hears the cheers of exultation from the headquarters. He takes out his short
sword, easily taking a swipe towards OPHAN's cockpit, satisfied when the wings
move like laser waves in order to defend the most important part of the machine
without any bit of hesitation or delay.

This is going to be a difficult fight, but that's what makes this interesting.

The Slayer isn't going to be defeated easily and it's that aggressiveness that
he enjoys from his opponents.

He's saving up on fuel because he never knows when he'll get sandwiched between
two or more enemy SPHEREs, because he never knows when it will be more prudent
to make a hasty escape. He doesn't allocate any energy for the thermal
expansion capability of AETHER's limbs; witnessing the effect of his SPHERE's
secret attack against his opponent is more than enough to clue him into the
fact that no other SPHEREs manufactured at the moment possess enough durability
to resist melting off at that high a centigrade. Using that ability will skew
this fight unfairly to his favor; he doesn't want that to taint this fight that
he's been looking forward to for quite some time.

OPHAN is an all-rounder machine, though its mobility deserves special
recognition.

Well.

He'll fight toe-to-toe with OPHAN then when it comes to maneuvers.

That decided, he goes ahead and shoves AETHER's right hand directly to the
junction between the forefront wheels. His grin widens when the defensive wings
strain to reach his attack and futilely attempts to block it. With this, OPHAN
should forcibly revert to its more combative form instead of its transportation
form—The Slayer should understand that he isn't an opponent that can be
defeated half-heartedly.

True to his expectations, OPHAN then unleashes an earsplitting noise wave that
rattles the screws and cables connecting AETHER. He reflexively covers his ears
against the onslaught on his eardrums and realizes that his SPHERE goes ahead
and removes its main limbs from their cozy position shoved inside OPHAN's
innards. OPHAN doesn't waste a moment in accelerating to the opposite
direction, widening the gap between their machines to a more comfortable
distance.

He watches, with great interest, OPHAN transform in front of his eyes: watches
wheels get rolled inside the bulky frame while robotic feet descend down from
the folds of the machine's insides. The defensive wings expand to accommodate
the offense-specialized laser ray tubes that radiate out from the destructive
angel's back.

This is definitely a sight to behold: a clash between an angel and a devil yet
both sides have terrifying strength backing them, both sides have body counts
that can rival world wars' casualty lists.

He savors this moment, this deafening moment of absolute contentment, this one
moment in the flow of his own dwindling time.

He knows he isn't allowed to go all-out on this battlefield, because he is
being reserved for the clash against Central Tower's 01.

But he can bend the rules a little bit, he supposes, for his own selfish
interests every once in a while.

It's just for the sake of fighting an interesting fight.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

Oh, for fuck's sake.

[CODE 999]
[All pilots are to report to the launching hangar, proceed to launch codes 999-
RED in 120 seconds]
[All staff are to report to their respective 999 positions, proceed to
emergency process flows code 999-RED in 480 seconds]
[All trainees are to report to their respective emergency pads, proceed to
emergency process flows code 999-RED in 480 seconds]
[All civilians are to report to their assigned evacuation centers, proceed to
emergency process flows code 999-RED in 600 seconds]
[CODE 999, ALERT, CODE 999]

Won't that annoying alarm stop?

It's been almost a month since he managed to last cross paths with Oliver and
he's been itching to deliver yet another beatdown to the brat, but no thanks to
some incredibly dumb people orchestrating a horrendously stupid surprise
attack, his chance to release his stress and to even make Black's life a living
hell… is gone.

He was itching to start delivering his much-deserved punishment, mainly because
it's no good if Oliver starts thinking that he has that much free time to
actually go around and save him from his daily routine of getting savagely
injured.

The alarm codes won't stop from ringing incessantly, echoing outside in the
launch hangar, ricocheting inside his skull. He's all set to fight, since
AETHER's launch protocols are all cleared, all-green. It's Grand Romania's
system that isn't able to keep up with his speed. It's definitely an
improvement since his previous performances; he left the hallways at the same
time that Black did, but Black and his SPHERE are not even halfway finished
with the launching sequence.

He expects it before a communication link opens up on his display screen: the
ashamed admission of the engineers at the command center bridge that they
screwed something up in their haste to follow the steps on the extremely rare
CODE 999 emergency alert. That's the only possible explanation behind the
extreme delay between the unblocking of the launch pads. Of course it's always
the important things that get screwed during an extremely important situation.

"I'll go," he mutters with a shrug of his shoulders, because he just wants the
obnoxious alarm to stop. Never mind that he isn't the front line pilot for this
kind of situation, because his top priority is designated to being the last
line of defense in case there's a breach of the headquarters' security. He's
better suited to leading the counter-attack and he's the only one with enough
security access to override the block on the launch pads anyway.

He ignores the overlapping explanations because they're all just trying to
delay the inevitable.

After adjusting the cables linked to his arms, he moves on to skip the health
diagnostic tests for pilots. He knows he'll fail that diagnostic anyway,
because even if he isn't very knowledgeable regarding medical stuff, he
understands his own body the best, and he understands the unnatural spike in
his blood pressure and the unusual spots that appear on his vision every now
and then. Definitely a side-effect of the experimental drugs they keep on
pumping into his bloodstream. Definitely untreatable, given that his own
symptoms are being caused by his own doctors.

He clears the security clearances with a retinal scan and fingerprint scan.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, he remembers a glimpse of Oliver's bruised face. The
expression on that weakling's face when he interfered with the bullying party…
the solemn expression that radiates acceptance and enlightenment about his
pathetic situation… the strange courage that spikes every now and then from
beneath a layer of passive cowardice. He remembers that as the blockades
retreat one by one, as his AETHER progressively rolls forward so that he can
meet the idiots who are currently attempting to launch a failed sneak attack.

—"Ash—" and that weakling only hesitated for a split-second, "Ash
Vlastvier—STOP!"

He shakes his head, the motion mimicked by his own SPHERE. It's useless to
continue pondering about Oliver's uncharacteristic outburst earlier. He has a
fight he is going to win unfolding in front of him.

Visual recognition identifies the intruders as representatives from the United
Nations of Nobility: both enemy SPHEREs proudly bearing the superfluous crest
of their country. There are no rank designations on the UNN's pilot roster,
though he supposes that the enemy will not easily send two people for a sneak
attack if they don't have even the slightest bit of confidence on their
fighters. Of course, he can't entirely rule out the possibility that UNN is
stupidly suicidal when it comes to ideas of conquests, but he'd like to think
and assume that the enemy have an inkling of a logical plan behind their
actions. It's incredibly difficult to fight against insane and stupid
opponents, since it's hard to apply concepts of logic on their actions, making
them unpredictable.

In this type of situation, it will be ideal if he can kill one pilot and
capture the remaining one for information extraction. He doesn't have enough
fuel to power all of the tentacle-like limbs coiled inside his AETHER's body;
he's going to have to make sure he fulfills his mission then even with lesser
firepower. He idly hopes that he'll have enough presence of mind not to just
mindlessly slaughter everything in his sight, since the fight is going to
happen while within the headquarters' proximity. Indiscriminate attacks will
certainly damage the headquarters, so he can't attack with reckless abandon.

A delicate situation—he needs to strike a balance then.

United Nations of Nobility operates under a secretive façade, with its pilots
identities under heavy protection from persistence for information regarding
their private lives. Unlike most of the countries that prefer to broadcast the
identities and personalities of their ace pilots, UNN seems to think that
keeping the pilots' lives away from the public eye is somehow more regal, more
respectable.

The only information available to him then comprises the data of the attacking
SPHEREs. That's fine with him; he isn't terribly interested in knowing
unimportant details about his opponents' private lives, about his enemies'
personality quirks. He isn't going to treat them with any more mercy if he
somehow understands their life story, after all.

Ironically, the attacking SPHEREs are named after the seven virtues. There's
nothing virtuous about landing a sneak attack on a country they're not even
officially at war with. But then he supposes that it's not his job to question
these things. After all, philosophy and logical arguments are mere sophistry
when it comes to troubled times.

He doesn't give PURITY a chance to defend when he re-allocates a larger portion
of his fuel to AETHER's legs in order to give a sudden boost to his movement.
Everything accelerates, the cables digging into his legs and calves as he spins
on the balls of his feet along with the SPHERE he's manipulating. He stretches
his right leg out, performing a pirouette of sorts while releasing the long
blade hidden inside his legs' armor; the protruding blade then damages PURITY's
armor effortlessly as he spins three more times. He slows down the rotation on
his left leg as he re-sheathes the blade, before he plants both feet on solid
ground again.

The second SPHERE is located at a farther location, but it's not much further,
especially given his burst movements. KINDNESS doesn't display any of its
namesake traits, as it doesn't even attempt to rescue PURITY from the onslaught
of short-distance attacks that AETHER inflicts.

He jumps behind PURITY, making the half-damaged SPHERE a shield against sniping
attacks from KINDNESS. He loathes being on a defensive stance, but this is a
win-win opportunity. He doesn't expect KINDNESS to shoot down its comrade, but
in the event that KINDNESS does… then that will make for sensational publicity
against UNN and its supposedly noble ideals of utopian goodness. He's fairly
certain that his shields will be able to withstand more so it's not like he'll
be seriously damaged in case KINDNESS receives an order to sacrifice a fellow
UNN pilot.

The enemy then does something not within his immediate expectations though:
KINDNESS focuses its sniping cannon on the base of the headquarters, targeting
the foundations of Grand Romania's tower, instead of acknowledging the fact
that its comrade is caught in a dangerous situation.

He smirks then, interest piqued by the weaklings that attempt to bite back in
the worst possible way.

He doesn't give a damn about Grand Romania's headquarters, so he lodges an
exploding tag inside a hole made by his right hand shoving into PURITY's upper
back, before he shoves his 'shield' forward, away from his space. With a manic
grin and a crimson-stained vision, he blatantly ignores the warning
notifications and chiming sounds that accompany his activation of half of his
tentacle-limbs and their thermal expansion ability.

Somehow, he's overcome with the need to wholly damage his opponents, a desire
that he doesn't question.

He doesn't have enough fuel to completely execute his attack with enough power
left to counteract any possible emergencies and dangers. He knows that it's
possible that the enemies are hiding some cleverly concealed reinforcements or
weapons. He knows that it's stupidly dangerous to charge in heatedly without
any concrete plan.

…But why should he care?

And won't that annoying alarm stop?

He wants to see a fountain of blood, maybe the geyser of red liquid will wash
off the stains on his eyes.

…Maybe?

The sniping cannon melts as soon as one his unraveled tentacle-limbs wrap
around the bullet barrel. He thinks he can hear some sounds coming through the
communication link, but he doesn't care enough to strain his ears to listen
past the thundering heartbeat that pulses inside his skull.

He thinks he can hear shouts at him to stop his attacks, but why should he
listen to them?

They're voices that don't exist.

…Right?

***

"Great job on defending the country today," pilot number whatever gushes like a
broken record, bewilderingly looking excited and ashamed at once, "I knew we
can count on you!"

Pilot-something joins the chorus of meaningless praises, "You're really the
best, Mr. Vlastvier! Do you have like, a technique name, or like, a special
attack name, or something, for your attacks? I think I can, like, learn a lot
from your fight today! Promise!"

He frowns as he tries to focus on the bandages on his legs to no avail. He's
undergoing the post-launch physical checkup and the doctor is murmuring some
unintelligible explanations and excuses for the constant bleeding of his
irises, as well as the unnatural bruising on his legs. He has performed a
similar burst movement during his previous fights, but it's only today that he
actually gets bruised for his efforts. He isn't growing weaker—on the contrary,
his mission values and physical statistics are higher than ever—but his body is
somehow becoming more… fragile.

Disgusted, he then focuses his gaze on the two pilots—or hell, there're more
than two of them—huddling around him. They all look at him with starry eyes,
like he's some sort of hero that they need to emulate or some pathetic shit
like that. They must think it's their lucky day or something, to be this close
to him and to be this near the event of the number one pilot getting patched up
after some valiant act of saving the entire country.

…Or something.

His supervisor is busy reading the mission data, preoccupied with the numbers
instead of helping hasten this check-up. Frankly, he just wants this health
check-up to be over with—again, all his medical problems are caused by the
medical team treating him, so this is just a bunch of fruitless endeavors—so he
can return to his room and rest. Anything will be more helpful than getting
surrounded by adoring admirers who don't really understand the concept of being
a terrifying force in the battlefield and the sacrifices that go along with his
status. If only they knew how broken his mind is, if only they knew how crazy
his thoughts could get, if only they knew how many lives he carelessly
destroys… nobody, in their right mind, would want to idolize him.

They should despise his existence thoroughly, should look at him with eyes
filled with furious hate, should regard him as some unwanted obstacle to a
better life.

They should not want the superiority that cloaks him.

"How did you even do that attack?"
"Did you see how he spun around like AETHER was nothing?!"
"It's like there's no burden, like, at all!"
"Mr. Vlastvier, you're really super amazing!"
"I joined the pilot trainings because I admired your strength and I really do
feel blessed to be chosen to fight alongside you—"

"Did you have to melt off their cockpits?" Black's cold irritation easily puts
a damper on the strangely cheerful mood inside the command center, as the 02
pilot makes his way towards his seat. "You didn't have to do that, you know."

"Really?" He inspects the non-existent dirt beneath his fingernails as he
speaks, not acknowledging the person with arms crossed righteously in front of
him. "I don't think someone who got stuck inside the launch hangar has any
right to question my actions."

"Hey, you—!"

The excited mutterings that polluted the meager sounds of the room somehow
reach a complete stop. He isn't blind to their keen interest in seeing the top
two pilots argue about their differences. It's a pointless, perverse, pathetic
interest that he doesn't really approve of, but it nevertheless holds true for
the lesser-ranked pilots surrounding him.

"Sorry to get in-between this discussion," with an authoritative voice despite
being socially lower in rank, it's a benefit of being an adult, he supposes,
"but I need to borrow Vlastvier for some post-mission evaluation."

He does acknowledge the new addition to the suffocating sphere surrounding him,
with a curt nod of his head to show his agreement with his direct supervisor
and to simultaneously dismiss the others crowding around his injured form. He
senses something off about the much older man, a surge of strange seriousness,
but he obediently follows the other's brisk footsteps away from the crowded
hall. He isn't overly worried about his supervisor's intentions, since he
doesn't expect it to be anything too grave.

He's proven wrong when his supervisor goes ahead and places an administrative
lock on the meeting room they occupy.

His sword is still inside AETHER, since he didn't think he'll need to slice
someone up right after an emergency mission. He has confidence in his hand-to-
hand combat skills, but if this is a planned attack on him, it's possible that
his supervisor—whose name he still can't recall, even at an important moment
like this—already has a gun or two prepared to counteract his counter-attack.

Oh well.

It's not like he can do much else at this point.

He looks around the meeting room and notices some unnatural metal bars hanging
from the low ceiling. Walls are pale gray with the dim light from the
projector, just a blurry picture of blankness. The tables are all pushed back
to one side, providing unbalanced space inside the meeting room. Numbness
crawls upwards from his calves to his thighs, the loss of sensation spreading
swiftly. He grins sardonically at the thought that even the doctor treating him
earlier is involved in this ambush. Superiority is really a pain in the ass and
definitely not worth the trouble, since it never fails to deliver him worse
headaches each time he gets involved in some illogical bid for power and
influence.

"…What is this about?"

"You didn't manage to capture a single intruder. You didn't manage to kill any
of the attackers. You didn't manage to keep the headquarters undamaged. Do you
need me to list all of your inadequacies, Ash Vlastvier?"

Hmph.

All logical complaints, but no.

Those inadequacies, as they've been labeled, have nothing to do with this
punishment room.

He isn't stupid.

"Why don't you tell me the real reason for your bad mood today, hmm?"

He's not particularly interested in the answer, but since he's already dragged
into this shitfest, might as well get to the bottom of this. That's the fastest
way he can get disassociated with these problems.

Judging from the way his supervisor's face darkens, like he has eaten something
nasty, he definitely nailed it.

"You—"

Rage spills out like a geyser escaping from a narrow break in the earth, but
the older man seems to regain a few strands of sanity and a little bit of
adulthood when it comes to handling unpleasant situations.

He sighs, a sharp exhale that represents his dissatisfaction with the
situation, before he spins on his heel. Even his elbows feel paralyzed now, his
vision swims underneath murky waves of dizziness, but as long as he can still
hold on to his consciousness, he will be able to survive this room, without
fail.

"You are treated as if you are special. You are not. You are not. Even if they
think you are, you aren't." Mantras are repeated for the sake of convincing
oneself of facts. Truths are rather subjective, in that manner, because
anything can be true with enough belief, with enough will, with enough
insanity. His supervisor's mutters don't possess even a small glimmer of sanity
coating them. "The Highest King doesn't think you're special too. He doesn't.
You're not. He doesn't, because you're not special. No-no-no-no—not special,
not special at all—"

He… knows, understands, the way superiority clings to him, regardless of his
will or his want. He is special, undoubtedly, even if there are people who
would gladly deny that universal truth until they foam uselessly from their
mouths. He waits, uncharacteristically patient, for the ranting to disclose the
reason behind this inexplicable action.

The answer to the little mystery arrives soon enough: with the way his
supervisor starts threateningly waving a double-barrel gun around.

"You're not special, but you're a strong little brat, I'll give you that." He
doesn't bother pointing out that he may be a youngster compared to his
supervisor, but he's also much stronger compared to anyone else in this
country. "You're not even from this country yet we give you everything. And
what do you do to repay The Highest King's benevolence? You do things that make
him unhappy! How dare you do that, you piece of filth!"

The King is someone he barely sees—not that he has any particular interest in
seeing the older man more often—but his impression of him doesn't fit with a
personality that enjoys being pampered like a spoiled little princess. He
recognizes bloodlust on a fellow bloodthirsty person; the King didn't seem like
someone who'd approve of having his supervisor running around crazily,
devotedly, while trying to eliminate things that made him unhappy.

"And now, The Highest King isn't even answering my calls ever since he met up
with that brat you associate with!"

Without even bothering with some false pretense about faking disinterest or
feigning innocence, he responds automatically. "…What the fuck does Oliver have
to do with this?"

"Who the hell is Oliver?"

A beat of silence, a few seconds to allow his supervisor's realization to catch
up with his mind, and then the nasty sneer deepens on his supervisor's face.

"You, who don't even care about things like names, call that worthless weakling
so casually!"

A hysterical, accusing tone takes over his supervisor's speech.

He shrugs unpityingly, because he doesn't have any solid accusations to refute.
He can call Oliver whatever he wants to call the brat, because he doesn't care
about him in the slightest, aside from the few encounters they have. His
interest only lasts for an entire encounter; there's no reason to change the
way things have been going on.

Knowing The King and his ideals that perfectly blend and mix with this
country's obsession with strength and supremacy, Oliver probably got punished
for a sin of simply existing, possibly got penalized even more to be taught a
lesson about hierarchies and status quos that could never be breached even
momentarily.

Though now that The King is apparently unreachable after a 'meeting' with
Oliver… it's entirely possible that there's something else then that happened.
It still reeks of weirdness, the way The King takes time out of his schedule to
even swing by the commoner's floor, especially during a dangerous, emergency
situation. Illogicality drifts in and out of the set of events that happen
today.

"You're not special, not special, not special—"

He sighs again. Without any method to forcibly lift the administratively lock
imposed on this room's only exit, the only alternative that remains is to go
along with his maddened supervisor's plans for now. It isn't difficult to guess
what his supervisor wishes to do to him at this point. And since he isn't
terribly well-known for subtlety or for being anything aside from a
slaughtering machine, he easily removes his shirt even if his limbs are a
little slow in coordinating properly. He lets the dirtied custom uniform fall
silently to the floor, while he considers removing the bandages as well.
Everything that has happened during the post-mission health checkup are now
supremely useless—or will be soon rendered a complete waste of time.

"…This is punishment," his supervisor whispers with a manic grin, a cross of
pity and regret behind thick glasses, a thoughtless and broken expression on
the face aged by the flow of time and the merciless turns of events.

He just stands there, unmoving, colder than a block of stone, eyes screwed shut
so that he won't see the bloodstains clouding his vision and overwhelming his
senses to the point that he ends up killing his supervisor and simultaneously
eliminating his only chance of leaving this room ever. There's a notable
absence of pity or empathy in his body as he lets his supervisor unleash his
frustrations about being left out of the loop by the King he adores above all
else.

He's only allowing this punishment session because this is the most efficient
way of getting out of this locked room.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

Regretting his actions and their consequences is not within his style of doing
things, but he is feeling something that can only be labeled as 'regret' right
now, no doubt about it. There were a hundred possible retaliations he could
have indulged in, the moment his supervisor finally gets a grip on his
whirlwind emotions, the moment that his supervisor regained his senses enough
to release the administrative lock that can only be willingly released in order
to avoid getting trapped for eternity, the moment that he doesn't have to
silently accept the unjustified punishments any longer. There were more than a
handful of possibilities that he could have chosen from, but none of those
prospects manage to leave the realm of probabilities and enter the field of
reality.

It's nearly three in the morning, not that time possesses any significance in a
world completely locked away from everyone else. He briskly makes his way
towards the residential quarters that he hasn't set foot in ever. There's
something he wants to verify, something that he could have checked through
another method, something that he chooses to confirm by confronting Oliver
directly.

There's no doubt that the King used his time wisely during the emergency
attack, used the overall chaos that settled on everyone's eyes for them to
witness the King leaving his post to reach a destination so far removed from
his normality, used the citizens' innate response to follow the emergency
code's suggested movement pattern in order to bring everyone to safety. The
King made sure that he managed to confront Oliver during that time.

It's also certain that the King interrogated Oliver about the peculiar tale
that spun around the two of them, about their actions that have undoubtedly
been captured by the security cameras installed everywhere, about their
relationship that is simply that of two strangers who somehow managed to damage
each other's life more than absolutely necessary. Judging from the King's
personality, there's a very strong possibility that he presented Oliver an
offer that he couldn't have refused under any circumstances. Additionally,
since the King is hardly at a position to make unsupported accusations pulled
out from his ass, there's a good chance that there's a great deal of so-called
evidence to support the hypothesis of, let's say, Oliver poisoning him and
leading him astray from the righteous path of heroic pilots.

Now the only question left is—

The unlocked door swings open with the slightest press of his palm, his path to
enter the almost-vacant room halted by a chair pulled up near the door. There's
a person seated on that lone chair, looking haggard and exhausted enough to
belong in the cheap bed tucked on the corner of the small room.

He walks over to where the room's occupant is seated, letting the door swing
shut. Sore muscles and open wounds make his movements dull with pain, but he
manages to move without much suffering. This level of pain is nothing.

"Don't drip blood all over the room."

He snorts derisively at that nitpicky command.

If Oliver thinks that he cares about bloodstains on some rundown dormitory
floor…

Well, no matter.

"I just figured that if the King has time for lowly idiots like you…" He starts
removing his shirt again, the strangeness of situation of him stripping in
front of another person for the second time today not lost on him. He looks at
Oliver critically, surmising that there's a definite gap between their body
types, but ultimately deciding that he dislikes the feeling of his shirt
brushing against open wounds even more than clothes that don't fit him
perfectly. "…while he doesn't even bother showing up to pilot-specific meetings
that actually matter…"

He didn't have enough free time to hack into the architectural layout of the
headquarters, superimposed with the security camera network, but there's very
little chance that whatever goes on inside this room will get recorded and
broadcasted to someone else aside from the two of them. He isn't bothered by
the thought of being trialed as a traitor to the country's cause; he's really
more bothered by the fact that the cuts on his back sting unnecessarily.

With his back turned, he throws the uniform haphazardly aside, secretly
targeting (and successfully hitting) Oliver's face. He raids the closet that
does not belong to him for a set of clothes that he can wear back to his room.

"…He doesn't bother showing up because he just doesn't want to see his useless
son in the mission briefings."

The lack of lights inside the room makes his search for replacement clothing a
tad problematic. He thinks about the flimsy, low-quality threads that hold
Oliver's clothes together, rolls his eyes at the pathetic amount of concern
that Grand Romania exhibits toward pilots that don't promise much. He
carelessly throws the clothes around, silently baiting Oliver to react, to
sputter, to tremble even at the sight of some stranger waltzing into his room,
uninvited, unwelcome, without a care about his feelings and his privacy.

There's nothing but a helpless sigh that radiates so much pathetic
powerlessness.

Instantaneously, as though a knee-jerk reaction to unpleasant weakness, he
finds himself crossing the distance that separated them a few minutes prior, he
finds his own hands reaching out to wrap snugly around a thin, vulnerable neck.
He spins the two of them in a distorted crescent, effortlessly dragging Oliver
and his feet over the floor, his grip unwavering. His fingers feel the pulse
accelerating; his ears hear the pained breathing; his eyes watch that
abominable expression of passive surrender cloud into something more
unspeakably irritating.

He isn't particularly invested in any of his little projects that whittle away
his time locked in boredom, but he does remember the spark of satisfaction when
he notices the marked improvement in Oliver's performance in the intelligence
tests. He can't understand how someone that gifted when it came to learning
things can be so dense, can be so useless, so uncaring about his own situation.

"Why?" He hisses out, eager for an explanation, even a flimsy one, for a
reason, even a stupid one, for an answer, even a useless one, just so this
puzzling attitude can stop bothering him. Cruelly, vindictively, he tightens
his fingers around the neck sweaty with exertion. He ignores the cold fingers
that attempt to loosen his lock on the other's neck. He observes the green eyes
so close to his own widen and then flutter slowly shut.

"Why do you keep on letting people step all over you?" He releases Oliver's
neck, only to let his hands seize the other by his shoulders, shaking him until
he regains his senses and realize that there's no point in pretending to be a
saint and accumulating the world's sins or something. "Why don't you mind
getting defeated? I know you're capable of rejecting!"

He knows Oliver is.

Because that's the only answer left, the answer to the way Oliver looks drained
and fatigued even more than usual, the answer to the only question that he has
left regarding the future of this rotten country.

And the mention of the word 'rejection' is immediately able to snap Oliver's
eyes open, brings back the focus and concentration that he lost while his brain
got deprived of oxygen. It's enough introduce a glimpse of seriousness so far-
flung from the usual apathetic passivity that controls Oliver's motions.
 
He then lets Oliver go, as he returns to his interrupted raiding of the closet
that sorely lacks in variety.

"I can't be like you."

And that's a good thing.

What's the point in gaining power, strength, total supremacy, if there's
nothingness awaiting him at the finish line?

"I accept things when doing otherwise complicates things."

He then removes the bandages that were haphazardly stacked on top of his skin
that's supposed to have been infused with chemical factors that's supposed to
grant him exponential healing rates. The strips of white are soaked with sticky
blood, decidedly crimson even if he doubts his body's constitution remains
human still. The amount of open cuts that stay on his skin even after a couple
of hours just proves how useless the temporary strength his so-called Bloody
Beast mode gives him is. In fact, his healing seems to be even slower now;
trust Grand Romania to just single-mindedly pursue offensive improvements
instead of remembering that a powerful offense only becomes successful if
there's a solid defense backing it up.

Despite the fact that his wounds are dripping all over the room, there's no
outburst of any stench or anything. Rather, there's no way his wounds can add
anything else to the already overwhelming stench of decay and death trapped
inside this room. He eyes the coffin-like box at the opposite end of the room,
containing the answer to the only question he had left regarding Oliver's
sanity and logic governing his actions.

He doesn't understand it.

But he does feel the almost oppressive desire radiating from Oliver—not a
desire for him, no—but the desire for him to start answering some unvoiced
inquiries.

He puts on the smallest shirt he can find and feels it still a little loose
near his shoulders.

"It's an emergency attack—a sneak attack against the headquarters." He rolls
his eyes at the dumbstruck expression on the brat's face—filled with
bewilderment as though he's blind and unaware to the way Oliver is now acting.
"I'm talking about the CODE 999 earlier, dumbass."

His offer of information is akin to unlocking some floodgates.

"From what country—who are the pilots?—no wait, what SPHEREs did they use?—no
that's not it either, did you kill them?"

He pauses, uncertain how to proceed.

There's a possibility that he's reading this situation wrong. There's a
possibility that the dead body captured inside that coffin-like container
belongs to someone different from the one he had in mind. There's a possibility
that Oliver is much smarter than he expected and this is all just an elaborate
ruse to trap him to an inescapable situation.

He then watches the way Oliver earnestly looks at him—filled with hatred for
his existence, with admiration for the strength that he represents, with
befuddlement with his own uncanny interest in the current turn of events—with
absolutely nothing hidden in that green-colored gaze.

There's a possibility, no matter how small, of everything else occurring.

He just can't think of any microscopic probability that Oliver is heading any
sort of diabolical plan against him.

"…two units from the United Nations of Nobility." He frowns a little when he
feels his own blood seeping through the thin fabric of the shirt he just
pilfered from Oliver's closet. "I didn't bother to remember their SPHEREs or
their names. They managed to escape though, with their tails wagging between
their legs."

The next time he crosses paths with his supervisor, he'll probably be taken
over by some vengeful bloodlust, with the way he's building annoyance about the
way he keeps on losing precious blood now, because of some vindictive
punishment when the person his supervisor should have punished is right here.

He could do a lot of things, while he's here.

There are a lot of things he's been forgetting recently, but Oliver's quiet
whisper reminds him of one important fact.

"I hate you."

Oliver's eyes are like molten metal.

He feels the same way.

"I really, truly hate you."

Despite the corpse inside this room—a dead person he thinks he can identify,
but doesn't care to double-check—the fact that they both hate each other
remains true.

There's been years in-between their strange relationship, but it's always been
furious, bubbling hatred that continues gluing them together. No matter what
happens in the future—Oliver getting caught with a dead skeleton in his closet,
him dying in a suicide mission that will undoubtedly fail in bringing Grand
Romania the glory they're seeking—it will always remain as hatred, the feelings
between the two of them.

He watches the way those weak shoulders shake and tremble.

He gives in to the urge to hold those shoulders then, place pressure on them
because it's almost painful, almost irritating, to watch a grown man like him
tremble like a child.

"The feeling is completely mutual," he reassures the brat in front of him,
spins the words into the abridged gap between them, because he won't start
thinking stupid things like Oliver suddenly feeling something else at this
point, because he won't mistake this strange burst of individualistic insanity
for an action fueled by the desire to remain close to him, because he won't
expect Oliver to start acting like a useful person anytime soon, "because I
hate useless, pathetic cowards like you."

And it's the truth.

"I hate you," Oliver repeats with a relieved smile, sighing out the statement
in a soft shudder of lips, "I hate you."

It's the truth.

He relinquishes his grip on the shoulders that have finally stopped trembling.
He doesn't take a step back though, doesn't attempt to widen the space between
them even by a mere millimeter. He stays close enough to smell the desperation
and the almost helpless logic error chaining Oliver's thoughts. He knows the
other is masquerading around as not knowing anything about anything that can be
linked to the corpse hidden in his room.

It's not up to him to bring this topic up, not when he has a duty to report
this scenario to Grand Romania's bureaucrats.

The country is unstable enough: this news will just unnecessarily shove
everybody off the cliff opening up to an abyss of unrecoverable defeat.

He hates Oliver too.

He resolves not to remember anything from this room though—not the uncanny
tiredness on Oliver's body, not the desecrated, mutilated corpse with a face
that heavily resembles the King's, not the vials of blood that are lined up
like neat little shop displays in front of the desk—even if he hates Oliver,
truly.

There's a possibility that this is all just a misunderstanding on his part.

It's just that he dislikes the hassle that will definitely accompany him if he
reports and investigates the possibility that Oliver killed the King.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

Everything hits him full-force the moment he steps out of the briefing room,
holding a hardbound file that can only be detailed reports and instructions for
his upcoming mission. Detailed to the exact minute, there's a timeline that
details each and every action he needs to take until his first and last
confrontation against Central Tower's best pilot. Almost like a looming
countdown, he can see his future stretching out futilely to a very abrupt
horizon, the edges of his future burnt ashen.

The entire world is dwindling down to a destructive doomsday—the world will not
end the moment he loses (against Rei, his life, his everything) then the world
will instead continue to a crescendo of cathartic collapse.

Crew Charroue dying isn't something that he readily believed the moment he
received the news. While not as fearsomely, decisively, destructive as Rei,
Crew Charroue is definitely one of Central Tower's formidable pillars—his death
brings a near orgasmic glee to the country's bureaucrats, almost like a
prophetic sign that Central Tower is crippled now, almost like a start signal
to startle everyone into a frenzied bid for the position of the ruler of the
entire world.

There are a lot of changes that show just how much the world is falling. His
upcoming dethronement from the top tier of Grand Romania is merely a faint
ripple in the grand scheme of things. Despite harboring a healthy,
straightforward acceptance of how easy will he fade away from the face of the
world's reality, he still gets flabbergasted when he completely realizes that
the papers in his hand is just like a meek, passive acceptance of a fate that
he can't even hope to fight. He's displaying that passiveness that he loathes
so much when he spies that same behavior being exhibited by Oliver.

It's enough to make him both overcome with a strange sort of empty dread and
with a more understandable volcanic fury at the thought of being infected by
the brat's weakness.

He hates Oliver.

"I hate him," he reaffirms aloud, talking to the heavy recycled air in front of
him, uncaring whether there are people around who manage to catch a glimpse of
him talking to himself, deciding that repeating that statement over and over
again loses its appeal quite quickly.

…Despite having no changes whatsoever to his outlook in life and to his
feelings for Oliver, he does find himself taking steps that shouldn't seem
familiar towards a place that shouldn't feel welcoming. Nothing good can come
out from another confrontation between him and Oliver: he'll only feel the
take-over of his Bloody Beast disease each time the other acts like an annoying
wimp, he'll only end up lashing out and injuring the other whether or not the
brat actually deserved it.

He takes a left turn and takes the elevators down to the trainees' floor.

He leans against the cool wall of the spacious elevator, eyes trained on the
steady decrease of the numbers on the display.

He takes the moment to reflect on his sudden decision to spare the life of his
supervisor earlier, in contrast to his earlier resolve to retaliate and return
the favor ten-fold. He rejects the idea that it's because he felt a smidgen of
pity towards his supervisor who doesn't know anything about the King who's
supposedly keeping to himself and refusing to leave his room. That degree of
kindness oh-so-obviously doesn't fit in his repertoire of emotion range, but
there's no other logical explanation behind his actions.

…Though to claim that he possesses the truth behind the King's disinclination
to leave the confines of his personal quarters is a bit too forward, quite
presumptuous really.

He raises his right hand and gingerly places it atop his forehead, feeling for
his body temperature.

Cold.

He's cold, blood cooled by the circulating conditioned air, body temperature
heavily affected by his surroundings. Unlike ordinary humans that manage to
somehow keep certain internal warmth even when placed in a drastically
different environment.

It's been quite some time since he last pondered about the fate of his brother,
Frederick. Their relationship has always been strained, only exacerbated by the
fact that not only do their personalities clash wildly, but also since their
capabilities and talents are separated by a wall that no amount of hard work
can overcome.

He smiles, a curve of lips that can be construed as bitter, even.

The boundary of ordinary human beings and geniuses…

What a bunch of bullshit.

He, who is supposedly standing supreme above everyone else, is the one with a
death sentence strangling him slowly. He doesn't feel a drop of gratefulness
for the way he's been acknowledged by the world as one of the truly special
beings. There's just no point, no merit, no benefit gained in being the best.

On times like this, alone and undisturbed in a cramped space with only his
thoughts for company, he actually faintly wishes that he can be as weak and
worthless as Oliver, so that he wouldn't have to deal with all those hassle.
Weak people have it easy, he thinks, because nobody expects anything from them.
Their weakness acts as the best possible cover for their aspirations, and since
nothing is expected from them, anything else that happens afterwards can only
be regarded as surprises, as unexpected realizations, as miracles.

…But only at times like those, and not even then.

Because right now, the moment he lifts his right hand away from his forehead,
away from his eyes, all he can see is the ding of the elevator displays about
him reaching his destination, all he can feel is the ding of a pendulum falling
into an ominous stop, all he can hear is the ding of death dripping from deep
down.

…Why is he here?

He's here for something, isn't he?

This is the floor for trainees. He's a first-rank pilot. Therefore he isn't a
trainee.

Therefore he shouldn't be here.

He takes a step closer to the doors that are wide open, closer to the elevator
controls, closer to closing the doors again so he can return to the top floors.

He's here for something.

He takes a step, one-two-three, out of the elevators.

Ding.

He can see numerous paths extending out from in front of him.

Where should he go?

His grip subconsciously tightens around the folders that articulate his
upcoming death in so many words and figures.

He allows his body to take him to his destination, allows his legs to take the
necessary action so he can be done with his business on this floor that doesn't
deserve his presence, allows his mind to wander around as he registers and
processes the sights and hallways that expose themselves to his eyes.
Everything is hazy and ashen gray, as though there's a smoky mist filtering his
vision, but everything is hyper-clear and magnified in his mind, like he's
peering through a microscope that even details the tiniest specks of dust and
dirt on the things around him.

Information overload is the best term to describe what he's feeling at the
moment, but that changes soon enough.

He finally stumbles upon his destination, or so his instincts claim.

—A few meters away from the residential quarters of a person who has always
remained weak and worthless and unremarkable except for bursts of brilliance
that takes his breath away and replaces it with a mixture of curious madness
and maddening curiosity.

He sees Oliver: passive and devoid of strong emotions that can grant him the
power to establish a revolutionary era; drained and fatigued not only by the
day's lessons but also by the day's news and also by the day's contradictions.

He should also see what's-her-name: trainee uniform two sizes too small in
order to emphasize her laughable breast size; lips and cheeks too scarlet-pink
in order to grant her a natural, innocently seductive look; eyes downcast and
voice too meek in order to appear hesitant and desirable.

He should see her, but all he can at this point is red.

He rubs his eyes with his right hand, his mission folders still in his left
hand's clutch, but the crimson paint doesn't fade even after vigorously wiping
his eyes.

He distantly hears, like a far-away echo, a simple, straight-forward
proposition.

He still sees her dyed in red redder than her fake lipstick and fake blush.

He—

"Of course it's because of your special promotion," he parrots the echo that he
heard just a few seconds ago, "there's just no way chicks will dig you
otherwise."

He sees her red growing darker, rustier, dirtier, almost black now, almost
decayed, almost dead.

Ding.

He only meant to show an obscene hand gesture that can mean 'go fuck off and
die'.

He blinks at his right hand and at the sword that's just there and at the other
end of the sharp sword and at the heart that he's already captured and pierced
for himself.

He frowns.

He isn't interested in her heart.

He doesn't even know her.

He doesn't even have the slightest interest in knowing anything about her aside
from her awful taste in men.

He pulls out the sword with little difficulty, ignores the squish and the groan
and the splatter that follows his actions.

He hears noise—some words, maybe, sounds that fail to tell him anything
important—and it hurts his ears even more than it hurts his skull. It probably
has something to do with the quality of the other's voice—with a passive sigh
that grates jarringly against his eardrums—and he doesn't want to hear that
noise ever again. He hates it. He doesn't even know—doesn't even want to
bother—what the other is yammering about.

He hates it.

"I'm not in a good mood," and he truthfully can't ever remember a time that
granted him a less-than-foul disposition, "so I suggest that you shut the fuck
up."

A peculiar smell of something disgusting reaches his nose, but that's probably
just the garbage near his feet. There's no reason, no logical explanation,
behind the almost volcanic loathing he feels towards the trash he just disposed
of. Jealousy doesn't fit—not only does he not love Oliver, but he also knows
without a shadow of doubt that Oliver will not choose to accept that offer to
become a boyfriend. He doesn't have any reason whatsoever to be jealous, which
means that he isn't jealous, which means that he still does not have an
explanation for his behavior aside from the possibility that he's losing his
mind and therefore is exempted from following the rules and regulations that
governed sane interactions.

He thinks of making his way nearer to Oliver, not minding the body crumpled
beneath his feet, but then he peers at the other's face, recognizes an odd sort
of expression there.

Throughout all the years he has known Oliver, this is possibly the first time
he has seen such blatant fear bleed over the other's expression. Terribly
unrelated to possible showcases of bravery and courage, Oliver simply is too
accepting of the pain inflicted to his body to even start bothering to manifest
fright in his appearance.

But right now, Oliver looks afraid.

He traces Oliver's gaze and connects it to the file folders in his left hand.

He's here for this, isn't he?

"In two months, in November," he offers the summary of information transcribed
as blocks of text upon glossy white paper, "they're sending me against Central
Tower's 01."

His reason for subjecting himself to a degrading environment is because of this
folder thick with information that won't really mean much once he's already
inside the cockpit and all he has with him are his thoughts and his power—it's
this.

Oliver's expression is pinched, like he's slowly being strangled by the words
coming out from his mouth.

It's mildly interesting: because he isn't the type to be horribly conceited to
the point that he'll assume that every single thing works in accordance to his
actions, he wants to know, to observe, to watch how Oliver will react to this
news. The truth behind the body stored inside Oliver's residential quarters is
something that manages to stay secret until now—there's no bleep of information
regarding any missing corpses or any suspicious decaying smells.

He's interested, not concerned at the slightest though, about the real identity
of that corpse.

He thinks he knows who that person is.

He isn't the type to be satisfied by things that don't possess an ounce of
hard, irrefutable evidence.

He hates Oliver.

Oliver hates him.

Their feelings are mutual.

Therefore—

"You should be excited for the fight, no?" He will die in two months' time,
while participating in a campaign that doesn't have any chance of ending
successfully. "…after all, even this country's ambitious engineers only project
a 9% chance of survival for me."

It's a lie.

They don't outright tell him the projected percent for his survival, though
they did offer him a tidbit about a 70% chance of success. Succeeding and
surviving his next mission are entirely different concepts: he will succeed as
long as he manages to activate the series of bombs they have implanted near the
area so that they could incapacitate Central Tower's broad underground security
network. Since activating the bombs require a huge spark, sacrificing his life
while inside AETHER will barely suffice.

He will not survive his next mission.

He looks at the body crumpled beside his feet and thinks that he'll end up like
that fairly soon.

He throws the mission folders to Oliver's chest, using uncontrolled force to
the point that catching the bunch of paperwork is enough to make the other take
two steps back.

He doesn't have any life-altering reason for this visit, really.

He just wants to find out, on the last few moments of his life, whether or not
someone is capable of entertaining him.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

Castles of Nevermore has never been a paragon of cordiality, but the subzero
temperatures of the hallways, the dim lighting illuminating the pathways, the
stale circulating air reek too much of an abandoned warehouse. Definitely a far
cry from its imposing image of powerful nobility, the insides of the Castles of
Nevermore are filled with stocks of artillery, with the only vacant rooms
transformed to host the testing laboratories meant just for him and the study
of the transformation his body is suffering from now that his entire head is
filled with silver strands and his eyes appear like he's constantly
hemorrhaging from his retinas.

The Octobers of yesteryears have never been as cold as now, but he supposes
that environmental temperature ceases to hold any meaning since he's already
feeling nothing but a hazy recognition of his own limbs, with just one
injection straight to his bloodstream. His arms look like they've been bitten
by countless insects, with the amount of open wounds that accompany each
experimental drug that enters his system.

Somewhere, there's a countdown to the days left until his scheduled launch
against Rei, but he can't see anything right now and to be honest, he doesn't
particularly care.

He isn't the slightest bit worried about this temporary loss of eyesight; he's
rather used to this feeling of opaque crimson dropping like a heavy curtain in
front of his eyelids. He resolves to remember asking for a picture—it doesn't
have to be high-quality, a snapshot from the security camera feeds will be
fine—of his appearance right now: with eyes bleeding heavily from inside his
sockets, his body protesting against the accelerated aging it's undergoing, his
organs squishing out their contents as decay creeps alongside his vessels.

Surely, he's quite a sight right now, his terrifying image amplified by the
outburst of blood from places where humans shouldn't be bleeding profusely
from.

While the color changes are rather permanent, the loss of eyesight isn't, so he
blinks slowly to get used to light entering his vision again. He sees wide
computer screens filled with rows of data that don't interest him even
slightly; he allows his gaze to travel to the other corners of the banquet hall
transformed to a testing area, successfully spotting the replacement project
supervisor the bureaucrats are using while The King continues to refuse leaving
his private quarters.

Black is there, a mask of indifference calmly tacked atop his face that's most
probably seething inside, arms crossed as he critically observes the ongoing
preparations for the day Grand Romania seizes the top spot in the world.

His supervisor is there amongst the sea of researchers and engineers who look
at him with a healthy mixture of dread and anticipation.

This is just the first quarter of the first day of the first month of
preparations and he's already beyond exhausted with dealing with all of them.

He mulls over the idea of letting his instincts, his disease, take over his
entire system now. It will be easy: taking out all of these nerds that don't
have the strength to withstand half the things that they do to test his
physical limitations. True, he'll end up cornered like a sitting duck by the
country's military forces by the time they realize that an unforgivable carnage
just happened upon the lives of the top brass. But he's starting to think that
there's no outcome worthy of this much inconvenience, especially since there's
no way his body could be molded, upgraded, into something beyond the reach of
humanity.

He's going to lose.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

…What is he again?

"…Administering drug set 686-10-25 Batch 0B5a."

Words echo uncomfortably at the base of his skull. His ears can smell the
amount of poison mixed with the liquids encased in a steel-needled syringe. His
eyes can feel the pin-pricks of pain on his pale skin.

What is he, exactly?

Dimly, he recalls that the doctors that come and visit him all address him with
a familiar name.

Right now, he just can't remember that name.

It doesn't matter, does it?

He's here, confined by tubes and cables and human avarice, but that's about to
change soon.

He can taste change permeating through every microscopic pore of this
building's walls.

He knows he's about to participate in an important mission.

At this moment, it's just that he can't exactly remember anything about that
supposed mission.

If he can't remember, then it's not important.

If it's important, he'll surely remember.

…Right?

"Right," he echoes with a twist of his lips, smelling fear in the air, seeing
rough detachment akin to treatment of rogue beasts.

***

Drugged beyond the normal limits of human beings, even after his status as a
'super-soldier' is considered, he barely registers the feelings of cables
winding up his legs and connecting to his pilot suit in order to transmit his
movement, his underlying nerve pulses, his remaining scraps of humanity, to the
SPHERE born out of a certain country's overpowering greed. He's reluctant to
label this as part of the country's last vestiges of pity for his upcoming
demise; at this point, his entire body is too fucked-up to even feel the
remotest suggestion of pain upon his system.

It's the ideal way to die, he supposes, since he won't have to worry about
being overcome with so much pain he'd wish he could shoot himself just to end
things.

Cheating death is impossible with the current available technology but it's now
apparently possible to imitate a state of complete bliss anyway.

It's nothing short of miraculous: the way he successfully managed to execute
the launch sequence with minimal fumbling and with zero faults. He grins dully
at the notification for the medical clearance blinking out of the screens as
soon as it popped up; he supposes that the command center realized that there's
no point in doing a pointless check-up on a pilot that's harboring deciliters
of drugs in his circulation.

It almost feels surreal, like he's detached from the things happening to his
body, as if he's merely observing the way things work. This is possibly the
hundredth time he's done this launching clearance, but it almost feels new to
him, like he's a newbie pilot who's just starting to learn the ropes of what
he's doing, as if there's something there that can be mistaken as fascination.
The heavy dosage of the so-called 'limit removers' is most likely the culprit
behind his altered perception of his surroundings; there's just no way he, of
all people, feels all of these things on a normal day.

One of the offshoot mini-screens on his main display showcases a video clip
that's being shown right now on all Grand Romania television sets and video
feeds. The entire country is forced to witness a series of shows that have
nothing but dirty lies in them.

Case in point: the current video clip is about a so-called interview with him
prior to this launching sequence, with the interviewer asking all sorts of
stupid questions that are all about his upcoming strategy, things that have no
business getting answered prior to a fight because that can compromise his
mission (even worse than its current situation). That pre-launching interview
never happened, because it's definitely not within his policy to entertain this
type of ridiculous propaganda. He doesn't even want to think about how the hell
his higher-ups found the time to fake that video when everything is happening
at an accelerated timeline.

He pinches the skin in-between his eyes in an effort to alleviate the
exasperated headache that's starting to form. He resolves to discontinue his
train of thought since it's now skittering by the topic that he personally
considers to be the absolute worst: politics. He just has a couple of hours
left and he refuses to taint his last moments with traces of annoyances.

Keeping his eyes open doesn't prevent the sight of his pale skin turning
crimson red from entering his vision, even though absolutely nothing has
changed in the lighting. Everything is now tinted red, like donning on
permanent correction glasses dipped in rich wine. The scarlet curtain falls
more in front of his eyes now, to the point that he's almost more surprised to
find his vision back to normal.

The two months of preparation spent inside testing chambers and glass cylinders
acclimatized him to the special feature of his red gaze, even if he refused to
actually voice out the fact that he has noticed a drastic improvement in his
eyesight while everything is colored red.

…Not that it can be honestly called an 'improvement'.

Whenever blood floods his vision, his eyes almost act like a probing camera
that zooms in unnecessarily on the tiniest details, mostly minute mistakes in
the scenery, or faint faults that line the object in front of him. As expected
of an upgrade born from a disease that trades one's life and sanity for a boost
of strength, it's a transformation that brings him farther away from humanity
and drags him deeper down into entertaining his destructive tendencies.

Right now, he can see the wires running at the control panel just slightly
above his head, he can see the pixels, the tubes, comprising the information
displays in front of him, can see the uneven sizes of the pores of his palm.
Everything around him is filled to the brim with mistakes and he's starting to
feel a gnawing itch on his gut to correct them.

He tries to think of a classical masterpiece, a calming melody, a comforting
memory—but he grasps at the edges of control then, when the beastly urge to run
berserk is beginning to resurface. He needs to save that rampaging for later,
because in front of the entire world's spectating eyes, he refuses to show any
thread of weakness even if he's certain of the match's conclusion. He plans to
fight with every intention to kill and destroy, no matter how unsuccessful he
ends up being.

"Ash Vlastvier," he relays to the speaker, as soon as he sees all-green on the
launching clearance display, pressing the pads of fingers against the proper
controls, reciting his name and the standard mission launch phrase for the
first and last time, "…launching!"

***

Breaching the boundary between the two countries doesn't disappoint in being
the perfect lure to bait Rei into flying out farther away from the
headquarters. While Rei is strong enough to last an entire fight without any
reinforcements or supplementaries from his headquarters, every little help
counts in his case, since his first goal is to damage SERAPH thoroughly in
order to showcase to the whole world that the pilot they revere the most
doesn't deserve the respect and fear they regard him with. The mission folder
for today—now left behind as burnt ashes on some abandoned garbage bin—words
his mission goals a little differently, a little more dishonestly, but that's
the general gist of things.

Of course, shaming Rei in front of the world's eyes is just the tip of the
iceberg, since the main plan is to actually activate a self-destruct system
installed inside his AETHER's limbs, which in turn will release a cacophony of
wavelengths that will rattle and resonate with the underground infrastructure
that houses Central Tower's most populated cities. The engineers are hoping to
achieve a destructive domino effect that will affect nearby underground cities
as well in order to relay the damage back to the main headquarters'
foundations; the bureaucrats are wishing to attain the fear and respect of
everyone that will witness the clash between the top two pilots.

He struggles to find a more stable footing, since the surrounding landscape is
a mixture of arid desert and frequent molten magma mountains. The extremely hot
temperature isn't a hindrance, since AETHER is built to house much hotter core
temperatures, though the uneven slopes and viscous footholds aren't very
helpful to his combat skills. He supposes that he'll have to rely on more
traditional weapons then, because there's no point in showing off his dozens of
tentacle limbs when the whole world has already witnessed that horrifying
sight.

Launching missiles doesn't require much skill, but launching them in perfect
timing and order by predicting the next moves of his opponent so that not all
missiles will land (and miss) on one spot: that's what he's doing right now. He
doesn't feel too disappointed that Rei manages to avoid all of the missiles by
practically dancing on top of the uneven landscape, performing a pirouette
that's nothing short of divine and impossible for human standards. He almost
cringes as he imagines the amount of coiled tension that move dumps unto the
pilot's body.

…Well, he's not that averse to pain, but now that he doesn't feel any sort of
ache because of the drugs…

He grins.

He performs a series of cartwheels that nobody in their right mind would
attempt, barely feeling the whine and stretch and tear of his skin as the
cables linked to them understands and unfairly executes his commands.
Everything remains coated in red, even as his vision swims for a short moment.
His grin grows wider and more deranged as he successfully vaporizes the
remaining distance separating their SPHEREs; he lands on his feet just a few
meters short of actually colliding against SERAPH and he doesn't waste a split-
second in delivering a straight punch that SERAPH manages to redirect to the
edge of its outstretched wing.

Even with his death ascertained—or maybe because of that—he feels life
practically pulsing through his veins right now. He might have been waiting for
this moment his entire life: for someone much stronger than him to appear and
thoroughly wipe the floor with him. He wants to yell at his instructors from
Herzog Kingdom, at his bosses at Grand Romania, shout at them that he isn't the
genius that they've been celebrating, make them see that there are plenty of
stronger monsters in this world.

He's just an ordinary person, at the end of the day.

Without giving up even though he's dimly aware that his left arm is already
broken at an unnatural angle, he aims another punch towards SERAPH, intent on
damaging the cockpit and exposing Rei to the toxic fumes of the earth's
atmosphere. The cockpit's clear reinforced glass doesn't hide the cocky grin
playing on Rei's face, an expression that only deepens in amusement as he fails
to inflict heavier damage to his opponent.

He doesn't plan on yielding anytime soon, even if he's beginning to feel the
tell-tale burn on his lungs, like he's stayed underwater without breathing for
too long, like he's made a thousand laps around the practice hall without
pausing, like he's undergone lengthy simulation exercises for one week without
sleeping.

SERAPH retaliates immediately afterwards, easily landing a kick to the joints
serving as AETHER's right knee, further shaking the already-wobbly balance that
he has.

He doesn't want to give up so easily, not because there are millions of people
who can see him stripped to normality in front of such a terrifying strength,
but because he still possesses his own, human, pride.

With a roar that bubbles from his diaphragm, he stretches out his left leg as
he tilts sideways, hooking the pointed tip of his foot and catching SERAPH by
its knees. There's no real strategic value in toppling the two of them together
to the ground, but he refuses to lose. He braces for the thundering impact and
readily outstretches his right arm to distribute the impact throughout his
robot's mainframe. He watches SERAPH activate the defensive portion of its
wings—the moment that he's waiting for.

…Even with a broken arm, he can still achieve an accurate shot, especially at
this short a distance.

His left arm fumbles with the controls to quickly pull out a cannon from the
inside compartments of his AETHER's limbs, not wanting to miss the chance to
shoot during the split-second faltering in the energy fields surrounding
SERAPH, during that one brief moment that SERAPH's defense is at its weakest.
His timing is perfect, even if he only shallowly perused the huge stack of
reports about SERAPH's abilities; it's a shame that the firepower behind the
cannon in his hand isn't enough to considerably lower his opposing SPHERE's
health.

Rei's grin widens, if that's even possible, teeth displayed in a feral manner.

He's the one who's supposed to be beastly right now, but witnessing Rei's
expressions is enough to convince him that there are worse monsters in this
world.

There's a spark of satisfaction as he notices a chip in SERAPH's perfect,
angelic armor. It's not much, especially if he compares his status to his
enemy's, but he's not completely helpless in this fight. That thought
strengthens his resolve to continue fighting even harder, unleashing a wave of
wild attacks that follow no particular martial arts form or technique. Being
unpredictable is his favorite tactic, aside from simply overwhelming his
opponents with sheer power. He doesn't mind the notification alerts on his
screens; he simply punches and kicks the nearest surface within reach.

His communication link is eerily silent, a huge departure from its usual status
of mass chaos. Figures that nobody wants to stay on the line and give
instructions to someone who'll get killed soon. But, well, no matter. It's
actually better to have silence as his company, since that will grant him an
easier time concentrating on his mission and a more peaceful atmosphere as he
tries to not lose his willpower to keep on going.

He doesn't see it coming—not just because his vision blurs for a moment—the way
SERAPH actually fully outstretches its wings to unleash all of its pointed tips
that are supplied with high-power lasers. One decisive hit from all of those
wings' tips will immediately vaporize a chunk of AETHER, rendering him unable
to move any further. He has to avoid that attack at all cost, even if he has to
break two more limbs of his.

And then, just as quickly as a shallow sigh, the drive to persevere in this
fight leaves him.

He feels the inevitable conclusion soak chillingly into his bones.

…This is the end.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

…He isn't dead.

…He isn't dead?

…He isn't dead!

He brings his bloodstained hands up to his face, as though to ascertain his
continued presence. The cables connecting his limbs to AETHER's motion system
have already snapped and twisted in their refusal to continue fighting a losing
battle; AETHER remains still as a chunk of useless scraps of metal, ceasing to
emulate its pilot's movements the moment the machine got disconnected from its
user's body.

The self-destruct system is apparently encountering some errors in its
execution, prolonging this moment of tiptoeing the line between life and death.
He isn't that interested in hastening his disappearance from this world, though
he is a little miffed that Grand Romania can't even perfect its machineries
when this is supposed to be the crowning moment of their glory.

His screens have long stopped functioning and his communication links have
never started connecting, so he's a little lost with how to explain the unusual
stillness of his surroundings, like a thick cloak has been placed over the
entire area. Briefly, he considers opening a one-way line towards the command
center, if only to be a dutiful little pilot who reports insignificant details
like the self-destruction sequence getting jammed and refusing to follow
through.

This is a rather unfortunate moment to suddenly regain his senses though. He's
rather hopeful that his death will reach him while his mind is too muddled with
the Bloody Beast disease's insane cycles. He's more satisfied with the idea
that he'll die without knowing what exact thoughts were running through his
mind.

Surprisingly, since he knows his radar systems are greatly impaired at this
point, he becomes aware of a sound too high up the normal hearing range, of a
sound that feels like a wailing shriek combined with a rumbling moan. Seconds
later, the entire operating system of AETHER stutters to a complete stop, the
machines' whirrs and clicks disappearing into a whisper-soft stillness that's
just incompatible with the known status of a broken robot. The countdown for
the self-destruction sequence lapses into silence, almost like the entire world
has been hushed forcibly by a nagging god.

A couple of moments pass in the virtual vacuum, time that goes by agonizingly
slow for him who's just simply waiting for everything to end. There's a heavy
jolt from above and that's when he hears the telltale whine of metal scraping
against each other, a sign that AETHER's armor is being stripped away
completely. Instead of being roughly flung aside or being harshly grabbed out
of machine's core, his main cockpit area is instead hoisted up carefully,
slowly, almost like he's being rescued from the definite ending that's already
been handed down to him.

He coughs then, his lungs letting out squishy noises as his guts bubble over
and his diaphragm suffers from the sudden change in atmospheric pressure. He
feels his heartbeat rise in time to the self-preserving instinctive panicking.
He hears the sounds of cables winding around the glass-metal combination of the
main cockpit's surroundings, confirming his suspicion that somebody went ahead
and rescued him.

There's a spark of admiration there for his unknown rescuer, because it's
surely not an easy feat to sneak around two top pilots and suddenly burst into
the middle of a fight involving SERAPH. He wonders who possesses the
capability, the willpower, the desire to save him.

And as he feels the atmospheric pressure change once more as his seating
orientation shifts, like he's being laid down on a steel bed, a communication
link opens manually, overriding the unnatural shutdown of his SPHERE's
operating system.

And the incoming voice belongs to someone he isn't expecting at all.

"Ash? Ash? Are you okay? Hey, answer me! Are you still alive? Ash!"

***

…
…
…
…
…

***

Laughably, the entire world continues to march onwards even as inexplicable
events tore through all possibilities and explanations. It's almost enough to
make him doubt his own consciousness and memory, because everything around him
is pointing to a past where he dueled admirably against Central Tower's best
pilot, where he ended up having to conclude the battle with an honorable
stalemate, where he ended up safely travelling back to the headquarters. None
of those situations occurred, since the duel against Rei was an overwhelming,
one-sided loss on his part, since the battle was forcefully settled with an
uninvited, mysterious smokescreen, since his return to the headquarters was
something that he wasn't even entirely aware of.

Alarmingly, pilot recruitment proceeds at a feverish pace, almost as if Grand
Romania has decided to conveniently ignore their resounding defeat at the hands
of SERAPH, blindly setting their sights on a much grander stage of challenging
the whole world to war. Trainees fill the hallways of the lower floors, gazes
misted by the promise of eternal glory attached to their name as future pilots
for the future reigning empire.

Engineers have also started pouring an immense amount of effort into building a
second tower, preparing for the predicted outcome of overcrowding in the
current headquarters' space for more trainees and more manufacturing floors.

Despite his demeaning defeat, everybody looks up to him even more now, if
that's even possible.

It's incredibly irritating and there's only one person he can blame for this
annoying turn of events.

It takes him two weeks to free himself from the researchers' grabby hands
filled with charts and measuring tools; it takes him another week to navigate
down to the floor where the person he's looking for is currently located.
Somehow like a glimpse of what utter nonexistence tastes like, his eyesight
leaves him for hours before returning without warning, jolting him out of the
eerie darkness that he's starting to feel comfortable with. Nobody notices the
lapses of his senses, since he doesn't trip over his feet or crash into walls;
it grants him even more frustration with the way Grand Romania is an utter
failure when it comes to paying attention to details that can elevate them to a
higher standard.

Becoming blind is a condition that he has learned to embrace quite easily
within the first couple of days: not seeing anything at all isn't that much of
a hassle compared to his current eyesight anyway, since the times that the deep
black clears only give way to a curtain of crimson color to erupt beneath his
eyelids, tainting every single corner with blood. It causes him enough hassle
though, with the way that reaching the lower floors from his private quarters
is already a daunting challenge, made even harder by the fact that it's not
like he can ask someone to join him on his little trip to visit somebody
extremely beneath his status.

Everything is suddenly too vague and too clear in his mind, a jumble of
contradictions further descending into a maze whose only solution only he can
discern. December is a mark of everything tumbling down to an end, with the
winter winds wrestling with the walls and windows of this tower built upon
humanity's combined desire for something out of their grasp. November did not
manage to end his life nor did it send Grand Romania's plan collapsing down on
its own blind ambitions. This month is the conclusion of this year wrought with
incongruities that make his head hurt even more than it already does.

Similar to the way he doesn't possess concrete proof that Oliver was the one
behind the King's demise and continued charade of existence, he also doesn't
have any solid evidence to back up his current working theory of Oliver being
the one behind his daring rescue. If anything, there's a million and one
support to the opposite sides of the two ideas, culminating with the truth that
Oliver is a weak, spineless coward who doesn't own any semblance of power and
control.

…More than anyone else though, he is familiar with the way the world works.
Illogicalities are what make the world infallible in its constant spinning on
its own axis, slowly but surely decreasing its tempo until the day it stops
rotating entirely.

And more than anything, there's nobody else who he can think of, nobody who is
stupid enough to do those things.

His thoughts simmer down to a suspicious lull when he arrives in front of a
training room that should be closed to anyone else.

"—I'll give you superiority."

Because there's no other way but to go doggedly forward from this point on.
Because there's surely nothing else Oliver can do to continue keeping up the
charade of the King's continued existence. Because this is the only way he
knows how to return a debt he didn't even ask for in the first place.

"…What are you talking about?"

Oliver is rather intelligent—that much he can freely admit without breaking
into uncontrollable hives. But the brat determinedly pursues the art of playing
dense and stupid, dumbing himself down to the point that his refusal to
acknowledge his own strength is almost a sharp insult to his own intellect.
Oliver is also rather contradictory—with the way he looks complacently
defensive yet terribly relieved with his uninvited entrance.

The sight of the brat's stiff-shouldered stance is enough of a confirmation to
seal his own theories.

It's really Oliver who was behind that daring—unwanted—rescue.

As illogical that may be.

"As payment," he replies sarcastically to the unvoiced question that Oliver
should be asking instead, "for your daring rescue."

Instead of continuing futilely with feigning innocence, Oliver instantly jumps
ahead. "I just didn't want you to—"

Expectedly though, Oliver loses heart and confidence in himself quite quickly,
cutting his explanations short. That's inconsequential in the grand order of
things, since he's personally not interested in hearing half-baked explanations
made with fumbling words and inconsistent excuses.

"Shove it."

He enters a code at the security device attached near the doorway. This should
make sure that nobody witnesses this meeting, something that he should have
done for all of his encounters with Oliver if he cared a little more about the
King's life. As the security device's lights switch to flashing red, black
walls descend from the ceilings to add a layer of thick cover from any prying
eyes and recording devices outside. He lazily watches Oliver panic at getting
so easily and so helplessly trapped in an enclosed space with his number one
tormentor.

"I have no interest in your reasoning."

Inconsistent with his usual characteristic passivity when it comes to trading
insults and exchanging words, Oliver actually replies with a solemn "…I know."

"—you know?" He isn't quite sure if he should be overjoyed that Oliver is,
finally, starting to stand up for himself even if it's against him, or if he
should just be plain irritated at the other's grave voice. Everything is
starting to become noisy at the back of his skull, the near-static noise
climbing up and settling on top of his head, beneath his eyes, turning his gaze
redder than ever. "You, of all the idiotic people, know?!"

He's starting to lose his grip over his control and it's making him madder and
it's making him lose control even more.

It's an unpleasant feeling.

"That's right," the brat continues to say irresponsible things that fuel his
anger and his desire to strangle the fuck out of that idiot, "I know you don't
care for my reasons. But I want you to know that I only did that because—"

…Because what?

He's almost frightened by the pause that follows afterward, because that
sentence can be finished by a million and one phrases and none of them can make
his boiling anger go away.

He hates Oliver.

Oliver hates him.

It's a mutual cycle of hate—he's not too sure if he can allow that balance
being destroyed because of one stupid action of an exceedingly stupid moron.

"Because this world will collapse if you disappear."

…Huh?!

What is that idiot saying—?

"That's why I saved you from SERAPH."

Those words were uttered with such heavy conviction, incredibly alien from
Oliver's usual disposition. Is it really possible—for somebody to change that
much, to get affected that much, to be influenced that much because of him? Is
it really possible for a person like him to attain true superiority that won't
get damaged by any outside event? Is it really possible for him to continue
existing in this cycle?

"You're using such heroic words, aren't you?" He doesn't have any evidence to
back up his hypothesis of Oliver being the one behind singlehandedly killing
the King, but there's no other way to explain the path that the world is taking
now. Oliver's selfish, ridiculous, actions have successfully steered Grand
Romania's future into a path that only opens to one direction. It's both
annoying and thrilling at once. "Aren't you being too conceited, trainee?"

But he needs insurance that he'll be able to continue this hate, as well as the
assurance that Oliver will not chicken out of the choice that he has already
spun into motion.

"I was merely rejecting an outcome that I disliked." Oliver's words are
twisting and tangling together in a rush of defensiveness, but the conviction
in a decision forged from unsure reasons is there. "That's all there is to it."

Oliver still hates him.

"You hate me." He confirms the feeling, the mutuality, with slow, deliberate
words. "But you want my superiority, my standing—everything that I have."

Only a couple more weeks await him, a shortened lifespan sealed by the Bloody
Beast disease. He doesn't mind letting the weakling in front of him inherit
everything from him, doesn't mind playing around for a little longer, doesn't
mind seeing the world burn.

"I don't—"

And it doesn't even matter, at this point, what Oliver really wants.

"I'll give you power," he promises with sharp words punctuated by cool breaths,
his warmth intermingling with the other's as he presses forward and traps
Oliver's puny body against the darkened windows, "and then—"

***

Grand Romania calls it a revolution: an upheaval of the current world's
policies and restarting everything from the very beginning in order to avoid
making the same crippling mistakes that shaped the world into its current
abysmal state. Grand Romania can call it any name they want, can paste any
label on top of the mission folders, but there remains a single truth: the
country simply wants to gloriously reign on top of the world.

Without letting constraints such as landmass and location affect their
strategies and dreams for conquest, the country's efforts are focused on
maintaining the exponential turnover rate for production of more SPHEREs and
training pilots that will be able to control those machines. With a low count
of five SPHEREs, Grand Romania's military firepower is limited and shackled to
a second-class strength.

Trainees and pilot hopefuls bearing the government-approved pilot tags fill the
corridors and classrooms of the headquarters, almost as though to make sure
that his eyesight is obstructed by those brats whenever he attempts to keep his
eyes open.

He calls it not giving a shit about this country's wishes: the way he's easily
slicing through ribs and guts like he's simply waving his hands freely against
air is almost like doing Grand Romania a favor of filtering the weaklings that
will not amount to anything once behind the SPHERE's control panels.

Heels click-clack against the floors, but he can't be too certain about that,
since the jarring sounds of screams more than overwhelm his eardrums. Even if
the reported weather conditions outside the headquarters spell black-lined
clouds and particulate-heavy winds, the hallways are flooded with bright
streams of light from the high ceiling fixtures. This massacre is occurring in
plain sight, with proof of his traitorous killing spree easily available to
those who would care to implicate him.

…Honestly, he finds it hard to believe that somebody will even be alerted of
this rampage within the next four hours. It's a bit of a stretch, but he can
almost feel eyes boring through his back as he sidesteps a futile attempt of
some idiot to deliver a vengeful blow in return for him slicing someone.
Revenge is meaningless in a sea of corpses that he doesn't recognize, so he
doesn't even bother giving one of his attackers a chance to prove his worth to
him. The fact that his sword meets near-zero resistance when he slices through
air and bodies is a good enough sign that this place is overrun with worthless
beings that will never stand a chance against the responsibility of piloting
SPHEREs.

There's someone to his left who lets out a bloodcurdling wail, souring his
expression. Unnecessarily, he stabs her throat first, something like a
punishment for displeasing him with her voice. Everyone seems to be crying and
shouting all at once, but his vision doesn't shift or doesn't cloud over with
the now-familiar immense bloodlust. It's almost like he's starting to control
the Bloody Beast tendency to just unconsciously slaughter everything within
range, but he's more self-aware than that. He understands that the strength
lent to him via artificial means is simply running out, dwindling down and
rusting the gears that make his body move forward.

Nevertheless, this is only the first station of his final journey.

He isn't noble enough to pay so much concern with keeping his promises, but he
does wish to transfer this burden of supremacy to someone else. And because
this is simply the beginning of the end, he continues to stop the people around
him on their tracks, stealing their lives because that's the way this world
works.

Nothing more, nothing less.

***

Coup d'état is the term that can explain the scenario that's unfolding from the
choices he has acknowledged with his hands. Grand Romania doesn't see it
coming—…well, the country did futilely try to struggle against the horrific
discovery that most of their pilot hopefuls have been easily turned to
mincemeat—surely didn't expect that the teenager they entrusted their future
with turns out to be the one who'll bring the country down from the inside.

Revolutions always depend on the side that comes out on top after a full turn,
but rather unfairly at this point, almost all of Grand Romania's top officials
and top fighters have already been taken care of. He supposes the circumstances
now are rather different compared to another kingdom's fall into ruin, because
right now he cannot imagine losing to the rest of the country's occupants. Not
when nobody had been able to stop him running his bladed hands right through a
body count matching the Slayer's, not when nobody had been able to capture him
even if everything has been done without any cover-ups, not when nobody had
been able to prevent him from settling comfortably in the top floors of the
headquarters so he can easily watch them struggle to crawl up to his location.

Herzog Kingdom's fall's only similarity to this scenario is the swift timeline,
almost like the building blocks have suddenly turned into dust, almost like the
pillars holding up the kingdom's honor and dignity have been simultaneously
detonated. Frowning, he impatiently drums his fingers against the long office
table he dragged all the way out to the middle of the launch hangar. He's never
been inclined to reminisce his past, especially those moments of limbo-like
trance while he awaited the judgment of survival upon him. Herzog Kingdom has
long fallen, with a long enough passage of time to properly convince everyone
that it won't ever be climbing out of its ruins.

…Of course, once word gets out that someone from the noble line of Herzog
Kingdom has started to make a move to conquer a country that's not his own,
there's no doubt that some of the crazier Herzog nationalists will be more than
happy to take this as a sign that it's about time for them to be serious in
restoring their home country's glory.

Not like he gives a shit about though; he's only doing this because of that
promise that day, nothing more, nothing less.

Even if he hasn't exchanged words—written, electronic, silent—otherwise with
Oliver, the two of them are here at the same time, the same place, as though
everything they've done has synchronized with each other. It's almost
fascinating and he would have paid more attention to that if he had the
interest to.

He's here to enjoy these last few stations of his prolonged journey to his own
death.

Knowing Oliver, there are tons of strategically favorable reasons why taking
over the top floors is the correct way to conquer Grand Romania. Reasons like
taking control of all the SPHEREs and the intelligence databases mean nothing
to him—it's not like he's keen on hacking into the government's total control
of the headquarters' security system, especially since being on top of a dark
tower is an incredibly easy way of acting as bait, as a taunt, to those who
want to reach him.

He relaxes back against the reclining chair he has pilfered from the research
analysis room, slowly ceasing his insistent drumming against the glass table.

Since there are only two of them inside the spacious launch hangar, he can
practically hear each heartbeat resonating from Oliver, even as the sound
systems installed at every imaginable corner of the headquarters blast one
thing: the report about the King's death.

A little disbelief remains in his system as he somehow refuses to accept the
fact that there are people as stupid as the Grand Romania bureaucrats who
easily got swindled and fooled by a teenager playing a dangerous masquerade
with the King's body-corpse-skeleton. There are only so many excuses that could
attempt to cover-up a physical inability to show oneself in front of other
people, but Oliver managed to outright convince the entire government that
their so-called Highest King didn't suffer from any mutilating experiments,
didn't die in most humiliating possible. He knows he should grant a bit of
credit to Oliver for his resourcefulness and newly-discovered talent with
spinning lies, but the officials' and staff's incompetence are what allowed the
charade to go on for so long.

Nevertheless, the end result is still the same: instability soaks through the
cracks of Grand Romania's surprisingly fragile government, with righteous,
honorable children working up such pretty rage to avenge their fathers.

He smiles slightly as he watches the security feed of Black struggling to get
past the blockades that Oliver has placed around the hangar's outside
perimeter. Just like how numbers do not lie when they proclaim that Rei is a
million times better than him, the statistics also do not lie when it comes to
demonstrating the wide difference between him and the only other registered
pilot left alive to uphold Grand Romania's tainted name and questionable honor.
Despite the certainty of his victory upon their inevitable clash, he's looking
forward to fighting Black, because vengeance can provide unexpectedly strong
boosts in power. He hasn't experienced such a power boost from revenge—if only
for the sole reason that he's never had the need to avenge anyone at all—but
that's what the country's military researchers have discovered.

…Instead of doing the right thing by focusing his gaze on the security feed,
Oliver's eyes are trained upon his form.

He feels the heaviness of the look, almost suffocates from the weight of the
uncharacteristic concern. Oliver is smart, regardless of how the rest of world
considers him, so he definitely understands that Black is going to crash into
their little fortress with such dignified aura that it will be impossible not
to futilely root for his victory.

…Since this is a day when everything changes, he allows himself a small smile
at the thought of some puny brat's concern pinned uncharacteristically,
undeservingly, upon him.

"Let him in," he commands the brat wasting his time staring at him. There's no
point in stretching this moment tautly across minutes when everything can be
over in a blink. He rises from his seat, the near-silent squeaks now positively
deafening in the solitary battlefield. He takes slow, but confident steps
towards the only opening in this entire fortress, certain that Oliver will be
scurrying after him with an expression awash with doubt and hesitation. "Let's
go welcome him, hmm?"

Oliver does follow his instructions; the sound of the metal barricades
retreating to their containers above ringing insistently in his ears. Louder
than the sound of the fortress's defense intentionally withdrawing for a brief
moment, Black's noisy exhalations echo in the emptied launch hangar.

Black practically bulldozes towards him, waving around a gun that doesn't look
threatening in the slightest. He's tempted to comment about how using weapons
that look like they've been stolen from national museums and archives exude
very little dangerous aura. He keeps his mouth shut though, because it isn't in
his policy to bother with other people's choice of weaponry.

Nevertheless, toy-like gun or not, Black is fairly good when it comes to target
shooting. The only question about this scenario is whether anger will sharpen
Black's concentration or it will blur the other's eyesight to the point of
missing messily.

"You deserve to be thrown into the Abyss for your sins."

…Of course Black will start lecturing them.

Really?

There's an ongoing rebellion and the first thing you do upon entering enemy
territory is to start a goddamn lecture?!

Priorities—Black really has strange ones.

"Or rather, being dumped to the Black Sea will satisfy the ones you harmed with
your little game."

Thankfully for the other's self-preservation, Black does remember the more
important things he should be doing, like pointing a gun straight at him. Black
also makes a show of retrieving yet another artifact-looking weapon from his
pocket—it's a dagger this time, with a jeweled handle.

He almost loses control of his mouth and he almost comments about Black doing a
very disgraceful act of robbing the national museum for his toys—but Black
continues with his stern lecture anyway.

"I've always known that you're incredibly messed-up," and here, he notices
Black's eyes focusing on the brat surreptitiously hiding behind his back, on
the person who actually is the cause of this coup d'état despite not looking
like anyone important, "but I didn't think that you're cruel enough to drag an
idiot like him to your silly games."

This isn't a game—

"He didn't threaten me—"

"I'd need a stress ball once I'm king, you know?" He firmly cuts into Oliver's
futile attempts of shedding some understanding light into this matter.

Oliver pipes up, with a small, pathetic voice that fits someone as weak as him
quite wonderfully. "He didn't—"

"I'll send you directly to hell." Black cuts off Oliver this time, with an
intense promise that will no doubt go nowhere.

Black is easy to provoke, thankfully, because he isn't looking forward to
exchanging words and debating ideologies and reasoning—especially since he's
participating in this revolution with none of those things—and he's only here
in this place because he's waiting for challenges to come hurtling towards his
direction. Black is far from his level of strength but he's the next strongest
person in the rankings; Black's the only person who can stop this revolution
from completing a whole turn, who can stop this country from descending into a
future that is so different from what it should be travelling on, who can stop
this insanity from continuing.

—He'll definitely die, Bloody Beast disease or not, the moment Black succeeds
in stopping him and sentencing him to the highest level of punishment.

…That's not such a hateful outcome.

Black takes two steps back to widen the gap between the two of them,
positioning his two weapons favorably, looking very much like the hand-to-hand
combat instruction guides they've been asked to practice and emulate many times
before. Likewise, he hears Oliver take a couple of steps away from the center
of the launch hangar.

It's just been a few months, but everything is different now.

It's almost mysterious.

But at this point, is there really anything else left to be bewildered about?

Even if there weren't any agreements—written, electronic, nonverbal—reached
between the two of them, he still knows the words that he should say at this
moment, while held at gunpoint by someone thirsty for vengeance in return for a
humiliation caused by them.

"…Kill him."

Kill him, just like the way The King was forcibly, shamelessly, removed from
this world.

He takes a couple of steps to the left, showing Oliver a straight path towards
the target.

And as though to conform to the bizarre labyrinth of today's events, Oliver
replies with a toneless voice: "I will."

***

It isn't in his policy to meddle with petty grievances of pilots and pilot-
wannabes beneath his rank, just as it isn't in his policy to bother with other
people's principles and choices.

Nevertheless, he ends up getting in-between two people currently undergoing a
serious battle situation—not that the expected one-sided beatdown can be
considered a battle situation at any cost. Cleared of any sort of hesitation,
Black unflinchingly sets his gun towards Oliver's vital points, the intent to
kill radiating like an intense forest fire in the middle of this winter-frosted
launch hangar. Without warning shots wasted, it's a wonder that Oliver manages
to scrape by the dangerous situation with only scratches and minor wounds.

There hasn't been any agreements or compromises before the start of this coup
d'état, but he supposes that since he's been steadily breaking his personal
policies recently, doing something uncharacteristic will not hurt much.

Eyes starting to blur with the telltale dizziness and murkiness that comes with
the Bloody Beast disease, he disregards his perception of pain and distance as
he jumps towards Black, landing on his left foot and swinging his right leg
back to gain momentum, before letting his right foot form a decisive sidewise
arc in order to upset Black's balance and line of fire. Conceptually, such
motions require his joints to perform some inhuman rotations; he's currently
using his strange condition to its fullest advantage, especially since Oliver
is much weaker than him and therefore needs cover for whatever he's planning.

Judging from Oliver's sudden stillness, it's entirely possible that even the
brat isn't sure what he's planning himself.

Black doesn't miss the opportunity to return his disrupted firing position,
leaving him no other choice but to continue the onslaught of hand-to-hand
combat against the orphaned pilot.

He attempts to dislodge the dagger and the gun away from the other's hands, but
Black is ready and quick to counter, withdrawing his elbows closer to his torso
and keeping the dagger's sharp edge pointed forward. Undaunted, he sacrifices
his left hand as he bare-handedly chops the fingers holding onto the dagger,
repeating the same motion as Black refuses to let go of his pointed weapon.

Within such close quarters, it's hard to draw his sword out; Black is
definitely aware of that difficulty and is steadily keeping the distance
between the two of them at a manageable range. Turning on his heel at almost-
360-degrees, he keeps up with the fast-paced exchange of blows and attacks,
dividing his attention effectively between the opponent in front of him and the
idiot further ahead.

He forms a closed fist with his right hand, before driving said fist upwards,
hitting Black's jaw and chin. Despite the precarious situation, he's pleased to
witness Black only stumble backwards mildly, he's elated to receive the
counterpunch to his left shoulder. Pilot statistics place him way ahead of his
opponent, but it seems that the idea of protecting this country's sullied honor
is a great boost to Black's morale and strength.

After spending practically his entire life loathing his own superiority, it's
slightly refreshing to discover another person who can possibly bring him down
from his throne.

Firmly grabbing the fist that just punched him by his shoulder, he anchors
Black in this position, as his right hand drives itself into the captured
Black's stomach. Without wasting a moment and without giving a chance to
recover, he follows it up by kneeing the exact same spot, twice.

Black doubles over from the successive blows, hands painfully clutching him by
the shoulders. His vision swims and blurs, almost like the old television
technology with bad reception, and he literally doesn't see it coming: the way
Black recovers quickly from getting kneed in the stomach, the way Black takes
advantage of the close range by headbutting him quite solidly.

It isn't like him to voluntarily limit himself, but moving away from this range
will free Black to more maneuvers and will endanger that useless idiot even
more. Gritting his teeth, he sneaks a peek towards where he last spotted
Oliver, only to find that the brat has somehow successfully silently crawled
away. Uncharacteristically, he sighs a little in relief—most likely just
because this means he doesn't have to maintain the close distance between him
and Black.

Unfortunately, it's that small sigh that slackens his defenses somewhat, and
before he can even properly dodge, before he can even blink, before he can even
think, there's already a gun pointed to his face, then there's already a hiss
of a bullet embedding itself on his flesh and bones. Reflexes sharpened by the
Bloody Beast disease automatically lifts his left palm to press against the
burning wound on his right shoulder joint. Instantly, he sidesteps the
attacking Black's forward thrust of his dagger; instinctively, his body is
propelled into a course of action that prioritizes minimizing bodily damage.
It's those same instincts that bring his limbs into an array of motions that
conclude with him narrowly avoiding a direct stab to the heart by redirecting
the dagger to his upper thigh.

Everything is now dyed in red according to his failing eyesight, but the moment
Oliver enters his peripheral vision, he sees a spark of vivid green that almost
glows like gemstones being incinerated.

Oliver's movements are shabby and slow, but he succeeds wonderfully in shooting
Black, two shots that break the graceful and noble appearance of an orphaned
royalty. Of course, it's entirely possible that the only reason that Oliver was
able to make his bullets connect is because Black is too horrified to properly
avoid the amateurish shots.

Removing any other ambiguity about the situation, The King's corpse looms from
behind Oliver, held together by a glass cylinder that freezes time cheaply and
effectively, bound together by a certain teenager's actions that hold no regard
for others' circumstances. Frozen like a statue crafted out of inexpensive
cement, The King's tattered robe does nothing to hide the dismal state of his
mutilated face, just as the cryogenic solution does nothing to change the
mortified expression forever saved upon the once-proud face.

"It's you…?"

Oliver's hands are nervously wrapped around a gun that definitely doesn't
belong to low-class trainees like him, but he supposes that he can still lay
claim on the title of being The King's murderer, as long as that idiotic brat
doesn't verbalize the truth.

The solemn nod breaks the possibility of him redirecting Black's attention and
wrath.

He's somewhat torn between groaning in frustration and clapping in approval at
the sudden burst of bravery and honesty spilling out of Oliver.

"I'm sorry," Oliver murmurs conceitedly, because only a self-serving person can
waltz around with a corpse and have the guts to utter an apology in front of
the bereaved person's face, because the word 'sorry' doesn't mean anything when
there's a gun accompanying his proclamations, "I'm sorry it came to this."

There's absolutely no remorse in the way Oliver robbed the entire country of
their future.

He takes a half-step back, his shoes clicking against the floor, his motions'
sounds swallowed by the gurgled, incomprehensible cry of utter rage roaring out
of Black's mouth.

Everything happens in a split-second in his world that only has a curtain of
red and a speck of green—his right hand tense on top of his sword's hilt;
Black's hand untouched by the shallow gunshots raised in a wide arc, dagger
held tightly; Oliver's right arm trembling, yet maintaining a determined angle
with his raised gun—and it's only a brief moment where everything ends.

Black's body flops forward without any of the dignified grace that has
obsessively ruled over all of his actions during his shortened life. Three
holes pierce his body, modified bullets leaving smoking holes in the other's
completely human flesh, gunshot wounds that gain an entirely different level of
deadliness in them once Oliver actually focuses in shooting.

He doesn't see Black's final expression, though he can guess that it's most
likely a terrifying sort of rage that can only come hand-in-hand with being
destroyed in the most humiliating way possible.

Guiltlessly, he walks over the where Black's corpse is releasing the dirty
insides of a human body, nudging the unmoving body with the tip of his shoes.

Sandwiched in-between the two corpses of the two royal family members that he
has killed, Oliver sinks to the ground as well, knees painted crimson by
Black's spilled blood. Oliver looks blankly forward, eerie silence upon his
throat.

He breathes in a deep inhale that does nothing to satisfy the strange void that
suddenly forms in his gut. With this, the entire Grand Romania is theirs.
There's nobody else capable of resisting against this revolution they have
selfishly started for no apparent reason.

"You're really stupid."

He can't help those words from escaping him, especially since it's Oliver's
decisions that have brought them here to this point.

Outside of this captured headquarters, the rest of the world moves on with
their own agenda, uncaring about the two teenagers that have cruelly and
nonchalantly swerved an entire country's future forcibly.

Oliver nods to his words.

He sees a certain expression fill Oliver's green eyes.

He doesn't like it—the way blankness fades away to give room for something that
shouldn't be there.

He leaves Oliver there, in the middle of the beginning of the end of his
humanity.

There should have only been twisted hate spiraling between the two of
them—nothing more, nothing less.

But the expression on Oliver's eyes that dominates the vast emptiness of the
entire area isn't hate—it's an emotion that is almost enough to drive back all
the blurry scarlet hues that ominously clouds his eyesight.

It's—

It's an emotion that he doesn't recognize at all.

***

Uselessly and lazily lounging in comfortable couches can only stay interesting
for so long.

Three days since Black's demise and he's already feeling the pinpricks of
annoyance in his skin, the urge to do something-anything-everything bubbling up
from within him. It's never been his personal policy to be a good, obedient kid
that follows society's boring standards of right and wrong, but it's also not
within his personality to simply lie back and watch the world wander into a
wonderland of chaos. Three days since the verification of their success as
revolutionaries and Grand Romania is already molded into something different,
to an almost unrecognizable country. Three days have never been significant to
him before, but now it holds the meaning behind the strange vigor that Oliver
has been treating this hostile takeover with.

He has never pegged Oliver as the type of person who finds pleasure in
dominating over others, but it seems that he's very off about his expectations.
Of course, the radical changes in Oliver's personality and actions are only
happening because of their bizarre involvement in each other's lives, so
technically it's his fault. He idly remembers wishing before for Oliver to grow
out of his annoyingly passive mentality, so he supposes that this is now a
result of his whims being granted.

"My King," the soft-spoken announcement that follows the whisper-silent slide
of the door is unnecessary, given that there's nobody else occupying the
topmost floor of the headquarters, "I have compiled today's security reports."

Quite honestly, he doesn't really give much weight to the nitty-gritty details
of how the headquarters manages to stay upright despite the turbulent hearts of
its citizens and the unforgiving state of the outside weather. That's probably
why Oliver is the one who's shouldering that burden in this little game of
playing house—he has no patience for compiling and comprehending data of things
that are too inconsequential for him to be bothered with.

"Go ahead." Acting as Grand Romania's Highest King turns boring quickly, but he
supposes that his stress-free reign is only thanks to Oliver's daily efforts.
It isn't characteristic of him, but he's regretting, slightly, his decision to
inform Oliver about the decaying state of not only his eyesight but also his
life force.

Almost like a mechanical doll, Oliver starts rattling off coordinates and
accompanying actions, detached tone effective in showing just how much Oliver
has changed recently. There is still a shade of that cowardly idiot hiding
beneath the lifeless statements, but it's mostly covered by the grim reports
and the cool subordination.

He stretches with a sleepy yawn, his face nearly splitting in half with the
action; Oliver doesn't even twitch in reaction. He's not sure if he should find
this boring or interesting, this newfound coolness. He's only sure that he
isn't paying much attention to the words leaving Oliver's mouth, if only for
the sole reason that if it's vital information that he needs to know
immediately, Oliver would have worn a more panicked expression. Since Oliver
still looks stoic—unhealthy pallor upon his skin, sleepless nights darkening
the space under his eyes—it's safe to function under the assumption that
there's no need to be alarmed or anything.

"—it's been going smoothly." Oliver's face relaxes, slightly, the tension on
his lips fading away into folds of uncertainty and subservience. He almost
appears happy, contented, and the foreign look on that face is enough to jolt
him out of his inattentive trance. "If we can convince every single citizen to
cooperate, it's possible to build half the tower within three weeks. According
to my calculations, a ten-hour workday is not unachievable."

There's no spoken question afterward, though he can hear the silent plea for
approval, almost as though Oliver is asking for his acquiescence with this
charade they're playing.

"…That's fine," he relents in giving out the agreement that Oliver is fishing
from him, "I'm sure everybody can do it if they just quit complaining about
every single shitty thing happening in their lives."

Oliver nods in acknowledgement, placing two file folders atop the wide office
table beside the plush couch. "The green folder has the proposed work
schedules, compensation, workforce management analysis and target timelines.
The blue folder on top has the approval slips that will need your signature and
your royal seal."

Rolling his eyes, he declines to comment on the strange civility and the office
demeanor ruling their conversation. He isn't particularly in any mood to
ostracize Oliver today. He lifts a hand awash with a crimson paint that only
exists in the privacy of his own eyes. He places said hand atop the folders
that are awaiting his attention and approval. He doesn't start signing the
papers that he doesn't have any plans on reading. He inclines his head
slightly, granting Oliver the luxury of a few seconds to start gathering his
non-existent courage to outright breach the topic of the conqueror's initial
quest.

"You do know that I don't really read these things, don't you?"

Oliver bows his head a little more, accepting his apathetic tone. "My job is to
do everything right so that you don't have to."

"How convenient for me," he murmurs offhandedly, flipping through the pages
while his (blind) eyes are fixed on watching Oliver's actions.

"…ALLEMAGNE is the best place to start," Oliver places a thick folder beside
the others, a dull thud accompanying the motion, "getting the cabinet's
approval should be easy. In case they don't agree, well…"

"Hmph."

"…is something wrong?"

"It's just hilarious to see you like—" His gestures manage to be mundane yet
offensive at the same time. "—this, all cool and shit."

"…Glad to know that you're enjoying yourself." Oliver obliquely replies to the
wrong comment and false sentiment.

Oliver had already been metamorphosing into someone completely different, but
it's his statement yesterday that has sparked this odd change. Isn't it his
fault then—because he is the reason for this inexplicable and unreasonable
transformation?

"You can leave now."

"My King—" Oliver hesitates, tension tightening around his posture. "Are you
going to—?"

Without reading the papers and the ink splattered accurately over each line, he
signs the necessary pages with a flourish, speedily affixing his royal seal on
the papers that hold no significance to him. He isn't in the mood to continue
staying cooped up in this room, but thankfully Oliver's daily security report
grants him the reason to leave this place for someplace more exciting.

"You can't stop me."

"…I understand that." Oliver sounds resigned, defeated effortlessly despite
being the person truly behind the coup d'état and the forceful reconstruction
of the broken country afterwards. Possessing an intelligence that serves as
compensation for lacking any semblance of physical prowess, Oliver chooses the
phrase that will bear the least amount of friction. "…Have fun."

Greed for power doesn't interest him in the slightest, but his position as King
is born out of something else entirely. Conspirators crowding around the
Castles of Nevermore want to seize the throne in the middle of this chaotic
civic confusion—they're definitely starving for supremacy. Crushing their goals
and dreams into little unrecognizable pieces is bound to be enjoyable.

That's why, despite his impending total blindness, he finds it in him to grin
mischievously in reply.

"I will."

***

Living in grandiose pieces of architecture isn't new or even interesting for
him, though he isn't going to deny that the dimly-lit hallways have acquired a
different feel to them, compared to the last time he'd been (locked) here.

Most of Grand Romania's citizens have only seen the Castles of Nevermore from
propaganda-filled newspapers and government-controlled broadcasts. Most of them
are familiar with the imposing image of the aristocratic piece of history that
has stayed standing despite the hundreds of years corroding the fortress-like
partitions separating the Castles of Nevermore from the rest of the world. Mist
thickly blankets the dark grey castle walls like a blinding veil, the arctic
temperature made worse by the recent atmospheric changes. Fittingly for a
structure pinpointing the division and the junction between the underground and
the aboveground territories, the Castles of Nevermore suitably appears spooky
and lost in the middle of warring worlds.

Serving as the only piece of Grand Romania left by Ancient History, the Castles
of Nevermore is enriched with the country's history steeped in blood.

He doesn't have any interest in sightseeing or in revering the artful statues
and winding corridors. He marches right ahead into the palace that doesn't
house any real royalty; he doesn't bother with disguising himself or with
tampering with the security system's expanded network. He confidently strides
into each room, kicking each door open loudly to announce his unwelcome
presence, left hand casually holding onto the hilt of his sheathed sword, right
hand raised parallel to the ground and perpendicular to the person(s) he shoots
without hesitation.

One hundred rooms at least for the entire castle, so he needs to work quickly
and efficiently. He doesn't wait for the shock and anger to sink their claws
into his victims' faces, just as he doesn't wait for their sputtered words that
include imperfect lies and unwanted explanations for their presence in this
place marked as a magnet for terrorist activity. He doesn't examine the
blueprints scattered all over the castle's many rooms; he simply burns them all
by either expertly shooting a nearby power outlet or igniting a faulty gas
bulb. He doesn't care for their plans or their innocence, because they're all
guilty anyway.

Oliver's twenty-page detailed security report says so.

Completing the first floor—the one nearest to the underground entry toll
gate—takes nearly nineteen minutes, despite his brisk walking pace unaffected
by any sort of enthusiasm or reverence for the artistic designs on the castle's
inside walls and the elegant preserved paintings consolidated and then
dispersed amongst several viewing parlors. Unless Grand Romania's citizens are
really that ridiculously stupid, the anti-government rebels on the upper floors
are already well-informed of the presence of a lone entity taking on every
single member of their terrorist organization effortlessly.

Most of the rooms located at the second floor are modified and expanded to
accommodate the huge research supercomputers and machines—but right now, the
hallways are eerily empty, to the point that his footsteps echo unnecessarily
with each step he makes. Castles of Nevermore has long served the role of
harboring the experiments that are meant to be hidden from the general
populace's knowledge—but right now, it's instead filled with bureaucrats and
nobles and military bigwigs occupying the castle as they move past their
differences and personal goals in order to retrieve the position snatched away
from them by two teenagers.

Nevertheless, he does a thorough sweep of the area, systematically opening
doors and inspecting the possible entrances and exits for signs of life.

He walks faster despite the faint dizziness settling from behind his head,
because he isn't into spending extended amounts of time in the gloomy
atmosphere and gray-hued surroundings, especially since his eyesight is already
impaired beyond simple deterioration.

Four more floors to go—he's half-hoping that the conspirators instead seek him
out, so that he doesn't have to go through all this trouble of checking every
nook-and-cranny of the huge castle. He even graciously uses the spiral
staircase to reach the third floor, letting himself become easy to spot even by
moronically blind idiots. He sighs in vague disappointment as he remains
unchallenged by the time he reaches the end of the third floor's hallways. He
spies the very obvious traces of human life and abandoned paperwork with great
distaste; not only did the rebels appear to be nothing but cowards, apparently
they're also messy and uncoordinated idiots.

The third floor is quiet but it's the type of silence that's a fruit of forced
hushing and muted hustling. He's rather grateful for this development—he's
getting somewhere at the very least. He hears the despair-tainted shuffling of
footsteps from above; he's looking forward to continuing his march across all
of these rooms and his blade slicing through all of their lives.

It isn't so obvious in his previous daily routine, but there are a lot of
people involved in the government of Grand Romania, people who have lots of
things to say about the recent changes that are suddenly imposed on them. It's
a piece of knowledge that he wouldn't have realized before today, just as he
wouldn't have any use for that piece of information unless the grand revolution
of theirs didn't push through.

Every day is a learning process, he supposes, even if waxing philosophical
isn't one of his strong suits.

Heavy curtains are drawn over the huge glass windows punctuating each break in
the castle's walls—a futile endeavor in his opinion, since the outside view is
hardly worth seeing, since the outside world is ensconced in blinding darkness
anyway.

The entire world is welcome to persevere in breaking through the obstacles
separating this country from the rest, but Oliver's high-level security traps
are unheard of with the type of technology that currently exists; the entire
Grand Romania can howl with anguished sorrow with all of their voices, but the
rest of the world's apathy will not allow any other reaction aside from an ice-
cold indifference.

"STOP RIGHT THERE!"

…Ah.

How surprising.

He's already considering them as cowards, but the sudden burst of exclamation
isn't characteristic of cowardice. Lightly, he tilts his head to the right,
pondering about this development for a couple of seconds. This is a good
thing—not only is he spared of the trouble of hunting down the rebels one by
one, he's also going to be able to fight more soon. True, he'll probably have
to deal with (unnecessary) words of anger and (useless) bravado, but this is
still (ultimately) a good development.

One hand remains limp and casual atop his glass-thin sword's hilt, while his
right hand reeks of gunpowder and silver-borne bullets. Hidden artillery weigh
on his right hip and on the holster near his buttocks, leaving only one gun
visible for the ambush team to see. Compared to their unabashed display of
mounted long guns and unsheathed gleaming swords, he looks like a weakling
being ganged on by an overwhelming circle of bullies, much like how Oliver
trudged through his everyday life before the 'Great Revolution', as the
citizens have started to call it.

"I'll stop right here," he murmurs just loud enough to be heard by the angry
rush of hormones in the rebels' bodies, "and then what?"

"And then we are going to put you back in your proper place," comes the
seething answer from a person he's never had contact with since his mission
against Rei oh-so-very-long ago.

"Wow," he makes sure to inject just the right amount of pinched sarcasm in his
words to address his supervisor who's apparently still alive despite his
inherent weakness, "you're still alive?"

Without losing a beat, his supervisor growls words that fall upon disinterested
ears. "You'll pay for your actions."

Instead of his usual excitement that underlines his actions whenever he's about
to indulge in violence, there's instead an overwhelming taste of disgust
curling upon the flat of his tongue. These are people who have a myriad of
valid reasons for their rebellion, but if his (previous) supervisor is the one
leading their operations, then they're nothing but just a bunch of misled lambs
that are fighting under a banner of lies. Of course, the reasoning and
philosophy behind human actions don't really matter in the grand scheme of
things, but he still can't ignore the wave of nausea that washes over his
entire being as he thinks of his (previous) supervisor's obsessive devotion
towards the (previous) King.

Romantic fanatics should be outlawed, he suddenly thinks.

Love makes the world go around and around until every drop of energy and effort
have been exhausted and emptied out of everyone.

It's a dance of madness he doesn't care for participating in.

"Make me pay then," he breathes out this challenge without any genuine
interest, not because he doesn't gleefully invite people to actually try to put
an end to his wicked ways, but because he has already judged the splay of
rebels in front of him as weak, weak, weak.

He brings his right hand forward, his gun beckoning for them to attack.

"Come."

***

Making an effort to minimize the amount of splatter is surprisingly harder to
accomplish, compared to his usual acts of simply burning a trail of flashy
killings through the line of wide-eyed sacrifices. Nevertheless, he's more or
less successful with annihilating the entire rebel army occupying the Castles
of Nevermore within just a couple of hours. Most of the rooms that have huge
experimental machines locked inside them are stain-free, just as the storage
quarters filled to the brim with stocked weaponry are undecorated with
disgusting human innards.

The ding of the elevator doors opening ricochet around the expanse of empty
hallways that lead a labyrinth inside the topmost floor of this headquarters.
The entire tower is now completely vacated, with each floor littered with
things overturned with panic and corpses overrun with chaos. The cleaner robots
are all sleeping with their electronic dreams, ready for an endless stream of
work after the mandatory three-hour charging.

With the final hope of rebellion snuffed out like a pitiful dying candlelit
flame, there's nobody else who can lead the outcry against the forceful
leadership under a person who was just a pilot mere days ago.

He's now truly the King.

To his left lies the twisted throne room, transformed into a huge office decked
with computers and synchronized security system feedbacks, tailored to fit a
young King that has no use for lavish bedrooms and intricate courts. The path
on his right leads to the launch hangar housing sleeping SPHEREs that now
belong to nobody else aside from him, given that he's the only qualified pilot
left in the entire kingdom.

There's always the option of opening the doors of this lonely tower to
civilians willing to swallow their pride and to trample upon their own loyalty
and dignity to this country's culture and past, just so that this headquarters
will not only serve as the residence for two (foreigners) people. He's not that
thrilled to scrutinize potential pilots one by one to ascertain that they
wouldn't harbor plans of screwing around with the fragile system that's not
even established fully yet.

…Of course, at the back of his mind, he's already delegating those annoying
chores to Oliver.

Oliver might be developing in some strange direction, but he's fairly confident
that there are still a lot of things that will remain the same, like Oliver's
illogical loyalty to the idea of keeping him alive and on top of everyone else.
He's certain that Oliver will take care of everything else that he'll leave
untouched when it comes to governing this country, so it doesn't sound like a
terrible idea to actually give Oliver some semblance of acknowledgement and
status—things that have surely been deprived of Oliver even during his past as
a noble in a kingdom that had been the paragon of power.

Steadily, he walks towards the left corridors, his steps unbothered by thoughts
about having left one prisoner from his trip to the Castles of Nevermore, his
gait undisturbed by the one-in-a-millionth possibility that his prisoner might
actually gain the ability to escape despite his special… state. Torture
disinterests him, though he's more than willing to make an exception for his
previous supervisor, since there's still a favor he needs to repay regarding
that. Priorities-wise though, settling things with his previous supervisor
comes second to his commitment to the idea of crowning Oliver with a position
stained with blood and a title stripped of pride.

Upon reaching his destination, the doors slide open in reaction to his
presence, the sound startlingly clear despite the smoothed metal edges gliding
against top quality carpet threads.

Oliver's back is small and frail against the deep darkness framed by the glass
windows, a puny human standing miserably in front of an entire world that would
never acknowledge his existence nor his exceptional intellect. If his eyes
aren't damaged by the drugs administered regularly to his system, he should be
able to recognize the sight of a second tower being made by employees that have
no choice but to work in an environment that will rob them of their lives the
moment they are careless enough to pierce their specialized suits designed to
combat the harshness of the earth's atmosphere.

Computers are humming with their own designated commands, but he doesn't pay
attention to them aside from the split-second of recognition that Oliver has
already expanded his responsibilities into taking care of the citizens' endless
protests about their right to refuse objectionable jobs and their right to
their own rest from the backbreaking workload that keeps on just getting more
difficult. Seeing the country's management stabilize and expand makes it very
hard to believe that it's only been four days since he and Oliver successfully
eliminated Davy Black and made their unreasonable declarations of possession
over Grand Romania.

He alternates between being bored beyond his skull and being exhausted by the
mere thought of the things that he must do.

It's almost like he's buzzing with life.

It's kind of weird, especially since he's doubly aware of his dwindling life
force, since there's an unspoken countdown creeping closer to zero about his
continued existence.

…But it's not like he's here to wonder upon the accelerated rate of everything
rushing forward to a certain doom.

"Congratulations on your promotion," without any preamble, he's granting the
title that has eluded Oliver's grasp for years, but not before deciding that he
wants to keep the meaningless spot as top-ranked, "02."

Second-in-command, second-best, second-ranked—any of those apply to Oliver now.

Promotion to pilot usually happens in a grand ceremony, but there's no point in
following that tradition, since there's only the two of them in this enclosed
space that will soon break boundaries if their expansion plans manage to push
through without much interference.

Oliver's back relaxes slightly—a sight that he has no idea he can detect, given
the deterioration of his eyesight—almost like this development has already been
expected and anticipated, though cloaked with a cowardly refusal to accept
improvement. Getting this idea of his predicted effortlessly doesn't irk him in
the slightest, because while he scathingly reminds Oliver of his absence of
physical strength, he also recognizes the odd intelligence that seems to act as
overcompensation for weakness.

There's a rustle of movement from the back that appears all-too-clear despite
the heavy curtain over his eyes—shoulders shrug with a sigh of sorrowful
lethargy.

He thinks of the things that he needs to do to keep up this charade of being
King, of missions that he needs to accomplish to continue holding onto this
disappearing life, of thoughts that he needs to forget to proceed with the
plans that still requires polishing. He thinks of how Oliver will surely burn
out from the sleepless nights and restless days that are now making up his
cycle of daily life. He thinks of how his previous supervisor will surely grow
lonely if he left alone for too long without the punishment he richly deserves.
He thinks of how his brother will surely corrode his own heart with guilt and
jealousy once he learns of this revolution that widens their gap even more.

He thinks of many things.

Priorities, he reminds himself.

He removes his filthy clothing, the sacrificed articles that allowed him to
reduce the mess on the castles' rooms. He disentangles the weapon holsters
around his hips, since there's absolutely no need for weaponry when he's inside
this headquarters strangled securely by the spread of Oliver's security
network. He kicks aside his bloodstained shoes, rendering himself completely
naked while Oliver resolutely looks forward, possibly to avoid making eye-
contact with the body that has made him suffer many times, probably to continue
admiring the sight of blooming carnage below.

After this, he will have to finish off his previous supervisor while capturing
the last agonizing moments on film, not only to strike terror into the hearts
of possible rebels, but also to establish himself as the absolute ruler of this
country. He will have to make a formal announcement about Oliver becoming the
02 pilot. He will have to review the arrangements for tomorrow's nationwide
broadcast of the new cabinet meeting.

He will have to do many things.

Wordlessly, he leaves the trail of clothes and returns to the empty hallways,
his footsteps echoing clearly as he marches steadily towards the elevator hall.

At the top of his to-do list…

***

"I hate you I hate you I hate you—"

Regret doesn't quite cover the emotion welling within him right now. Sighing,
he refocuses the camera's lens to zoom in on the furrowed eyebrows, the
shivering neck, the heaving shoulders. Overhead lights are blinding for normal
people who have functioning eyesight, but for someone like him, everything's
just an indistinguishable, blurry scenario. Quite certainly, he has already
stepped on the other's throat, in hopes of crushing that noisy voice and having
this… session end without his ears ringing with annoyance. Humans are really
admirably, ridiculously, resilient—for that voice to survive despite the rough
treatment, for that anger to fail on subsiding despite the blood loss that must
be plaguing his captive.

"You're not going to succeed, you know. Because you're—"

Coughing uncontrollably stops the outpour of words from further spilling out.

He patiently waits for the racking of those damaged ribs to subside, before
moving forward, his footsteps still echoing despite the relative noise level of
this room.

Security cameras are hidden in this room too, so anything else not captured by
his own set-up will not be missed. He crouches down near his prisoner, taunting
him with the apparently closeness, knowing that he can't be reached even if his
captive struggles.

"You're—" More coughing. "You're going to fail." He's certain that the glare
will look more menacing if he can actually see the expression clearly. "You're
just an arrogant kid playing king."

…Yes, he is.

But that doesn't stop the fact that he's now really king from being the truth.

"You're right," he acknowledges, nudging a bruised cheek with the blunt end of
his sword's hilt, "but it's not like you can do anything about it, hmm?"

"You're not king." Without any gags, his captive continues mouthing off. "I
won't acknowledge you."

Snickering, he stands up straight, the sword's sheath whispering darkly against
exposed metal. "I don't particularly care for your acknowledgement."

He takes a small step to the right, leaving his previous supervisor's enraged
face in full view of the camera, making way for the device to record a gruesome
death that he's planning to deliver. Torture doesn't interest him as much as
people would expect from someone with his personality, but he's more than game
to do it if there's some purpose behind its application. Unreasonably stubborn
subjects can't be expected to divulge important information about the objects
of their loyalty, though the torture this time is for the sake of following the
footsteps of the blatant propaganda that has lead this country for hundreds of
years.

Emotionlessly, he sharply rotates his wrist, wind whistling in his ears with
the motion.

Loud howls of agony fill the entire holding chamber, as his previous supervisor
clambers to liberate his hands from their respective shackles, in futile hopes
of using his limbs to cradle his wounded face and his severed ear. It's only
one earlobe; there's still an extra one on the other side and it's not like
it's a vital organ. He rolls his eyes in exasperation as he listens to the
exaggerated screaming. He's a little sore about having had such a weakling
preside over him in the past; if he can't even handle just one severed ear…

"This is just the beginning."

***

"This will work, huh?"

He gestures to the bound and gagged guests squirming on their chairs, a file-
folder filled with the written documentation of today's agenda forgotten atop a
fine-polished piece of furniture. He leans fully against the highest seat in
the entire court, his back flat against the cushioned support of the throne
befitting a king. He lets his eyes roam around the room once more before
closing them entirely, since there's not much use letting his eyes dry out when
he can't even see much. He can still hear the mostly-silenced groans and
protests, so he knows that the guests that they have oh-so-graciously invited
into their mostly-empty headquarters are still alive and conscious.

After his hour-long torture session with his previous supervisor yesterday,
Oliver had informed him about the little progress he had made regarding the
search for new cabinet ministers. He had given his approval for Oliver to go
along with whatever he had in mind to compensate for the lack of capable,
trustworthy people in the country, but he honestly hadn't expected that it
would lead to this. He had severely underestimated Oliver's knack for answering
his expectations—he didn't think Oliver would have the resolve to actually
kidnap the few remaining bureaucrats from the previous king's reign and force
their presence here.

"I think it will be better to do a more thorough search for capable ministers
when we're not so pressed for time," Oliver sounds a little breathless and
mildly disappointed as he flips through the file-folder until a specific page
before placing it squarely in front of him, "but since it's imperative that we
do this today…"

Similar to the death-like black robes that comprise his pilot uniform, Oliver
is now wearing an obsidian-hued coat, almost like he's trying to blend into the
shadows and darkness of this kingdom. Oliver flits around the court chamber,
fussing with the arrangements of the nationwide broadcast scheduled to let the
entire country know about the plans and laws that nobody will have any choice
but to obey. Court sessions like this used to symbolize compromise, but ideals
like that remain a mockery now, with ministers forced to attend this session
involuntarily, with agendas already agreed upon ahead of time.

Less than half of the original cabinet that served under the previous King are
present in this room—not because of any failure on Oliver's part, but because
the rest have either committed suicide on their own accord, or have already
been annihilated during the first day of the revolution. Getting the cabinet's
approval is painfully easy, since they don't even have the luxury of having
their real thoughts heard; broadcasting the supposed peaceful negotiations
between the country's bigwigs is much harder to achieve.

"You're really rushing this."

Oliver inclines his head, the lengthened edges of his messy bangs hiding his
eyes. "I apologize for the—"

"It's fine." Offhandedly, he dismisses the unneeded apology; the reason behind
Oliver's rush is something that he knows all too clearly, after all. He adjusts
the stuffy high collar on his formal coat, giving in to the urge to massage
faint lines on his upper neck. "Let's just finish this."

"…As you wish, my King."

Demurely—weirdly enough the action fits Oliver wonderfully—Oliver inclines his
head to acknowledge his total deference, before snapping into action once more,
determination running through each angle of his movements.

Oliver moves in front of the minister that used to handle foreign policy
relations, carefully undoing the gag tightly wound around fat lips. "I'll
need—"

Due to his poor eyesight, he isn't able to see where the spit projectile landed
exactly, but he'd like to assume that nobody can miss at such a close range.
The stiff silence that radiates from Oliver tells him that there's some certain
offensiveness to the action that even Oliver's (annoying as fuck) passiveness
bristles at.

"I'll need samples of your voices," Oliver's voice is steady despite the mild
commotion, betraying nothing, "so that we can move forward in our agenda."
Oliver smiles a little, chilly and razor-sharp, as he pointedly wipes the
wetness of his cheek. "Of course, it will certainly be more convenient for
everyone if you voluntarily offer your voice samples, but rest assured that we
have other methods of obtaining them."

Even with his deteriorating eyesight, even from this distance, he can see
Oliver's eyes glow like molten gemstones.

He shivers in a mixture of delight and interest, breathing in and tasting the
cold tension that wiggles disturbingly inside the court.

It's so jarring, so out-of-place, so very interesting to witness Oliver acting
like this, like a capable little right-hand-man, like an obedient number-two,
like a heartless little soldier.

Oliver's tone is convincing enough to suggest other painful means of obtaining
said voice samples, even without an outright display of violence or without an
obvious show-off of torture devices.

Funnily enough though, Oliver's tone is also effective enough to spur on the
misplaced pride of the bound ministers, as they all enthusiastically renew
their protests against their bindings and their gags, rattling the heavy blocks
of chairs they are bound against.

"Know your place, scum," the minister-who-spat nastily rasps out, "I understand
Ash Vlastvier being king, but you? You're useless low-life garbage."

"…I suppose everyone here in this room shares the same opinion?"

He smirks, sensing the obvious question hiding underneath, feeling Oliver's
words reaching out for him to refute anything. He stays silent, eyes remaining
open even though it's just for show since he's basically sightless anyway. He
waits for Oliver to stop waiting for him.

"…Alright." In flash-like movements, Oliver knocks the recently-ungagged
minister's face into the nearby table, the impact causing an ominous sound to
reverberate like a toll of impending doom. The exclamation of anguish and
surprise is swallowed by the table's wooden material; Oliver shoves the face
more fully against the table in response, nonchalantly muffling the minister's
rebellious sounds and movements. Oliver's eyes are narrow and focused as he
continuously lifts the minister's face from the ends of his hair and pushes the
now-broken nose and now-bleeding mouth into the table in successive motions.
"…It seems that I'll have to resort to other methods then."

After almost five minutes of the repeated head-banging, Oliver lets the beaten
minister slump breathlessly forward, allowing only a split-second of respite
before replacing the gag with a flick of his hands.

Idly, he observes the sharpness that aligns Oliver's hands into a straight
line, the austere slant to those half-bitten lips, somewhat fascinated with the
sheer purpose emanating from Oliver's movements. Previous physical tests and
military statistics have all frowned upon the sluggishness that used to govern
each of Oliver's limbs, but Oliver's almost like an energized hummingbird now,
flitting through the compact spaces and not knocking against anything, expertly
manipulating his entire body to move faster, quicker, sharper.

In other a minute, Oliver successfully refocuses the odd-looking bulk of
electronics that seems like a cross-mutation between a cinematic motion camera,
a supercomputer and a super-compact reflector; in that short amount of time,
Oliver has realigned the spaces and lines so that the minister-who-spat is
surrounded by wooden holding fences on three sides and leaving only a tiny bit
of open space where Oliver is standing.

Odd nostalgia washes over him as he realizes that Oliver is now about to start
a torture session that aims to draw out voice samples from the uncooperative
ministers, when it hasn't even been a day since he has recorded his own torture
session with his previous military supervisor. Oliver hasn't told him anything
(yet) but he can read the future actions and plans brimming underneath Oliver's
surface for now, and they involve (ambitious) creation of holograms in order to
simulate the presence and complete agreement of the cabinet with all of their
current and future policies.

"Are you ready?" Oliver breathes out his question, almost like a bittersweet
sigh. The minister-who-spat struggles wildly against his bindings, without any
indication that he's aware of how useless his actions are, without paying
attention to the piece of strengthened fiber wrapped between his teeth. "…Well.
I suppose that nobody is ever ready for this."

A push of a button—and the supercomputer flickers to life, a dull glow of light
emanating from the cold chunk of metal parts. It is Oliver's most trusted
companion, he supposes, since it's been the same computer that's been with him
even during his days as a pathetic pilot trainee, even during the coup d'état,
even now. It's the computer that houses the solid proof of Oliver's intellect,
a voice-synthesis program that's now embedded to each web of the country's
security network.

Almost skipping, Oliver makes his way to the minister's back. Brandishing a
blunt-ended hammer-like object, Oliver silently leans forward and swings down
the hammer to an elbow, with enough force to cause pain, but not enough
firmness to break any bones.

He squints, narrowing his focus to the object in Oliver's hands, while ignoring
the muffled protests from the bystanders and the controlled sounds from the
minister in the spotlight. A blunt hammer can only dole out so much pain, but
in the hands of someone so determined to get what he needs…

Syllables are being muffled and absorbed by the supercomputer, but he isn't
going to be surprised if Oliver has somehow transformed the filthy-looking gag
between his captives' teeth into a vibration-measurement device of some sort.
There's only so much words that could be discerned from a gagged mouth rife
with agony; it really wouldn't shock him if Oliver's prepared for all possible
scenarios that can give him what he needs.

Without dragging the scene any further, Oliver drags the half-unconscious
minister back to his initial seat, making room for the next victim efficiently,
as time is of great importance. There are only a few more days until the end of
the year and the plan is to introduce Grand Romania's strength to the world at
the onset on New Year.

…It's doubtful that Oliver will quietly acquiesce to him suddenly joining and
then usurping the control of this interrogation… meeting—especially not when
there's rigid purpose underlining every tense line of muscle and bone in that
fragile, weak body. His interest has more than completely expired though, so he
unrepentantly yawns without any shred of grace or abashment at being caught
doing something so unlike royalty. His eyesight leaves much to be desired but
he's fairly certain that his actions will not go unnoticed by the very busy
Oliver. There's only but a moment's pause—a whirr of gears inside titanium-
plated supercomputers and an exhale of exertion inside the cloak of skin over
bones—before the rhythm of Oliver's steps hasten exponentially, before the
tension in the room tightens tautly around each of their necks.

"I'm giving you five more minutes," he obnoxiously calls out with a sleep-
punctuated voice, just to be unreasonable.

There's no way a normal human being will be able to go through all of the
captives here and successfully obtain voice samples—but Oliver is hardly
normal, isn't he? He's painfully below average to the point that it's almost
fascinatingly strange; he's eerily powerful now, enclosed in his new outfit and
his new rank, all provided to him by the one he should consider his most
terrorizing enemy. There's no way an average human being will be able to
accomplish the task he has not-so-subtly delegated, but Oliver is far from
average, isn't he?

…Undoubtedly, he's very interested to find his hypotheses proven right.

***

AETHER is in top condition—not that there's going to be a lot of workload for
that huge chunk of metal in the recent future. Nevertheless, it brings him a
strange sort of satisfaction to actually be on his hands and knees and
surrounded by cables of varying thickness and length, armed with the knowledge
that he's the one learning the intimate details of the connections of the
machine that somehow breaks the boundaries of humanity. This marks the first
time that he's actually been the one fine-tuning his own SPHERE—one of the
advantages of completely wiping out the staff of the headquarters. Despite
being the first-ranked pilot before, he's never had contact with the SPHERE
unless it involved actual piloting inside the cockpit; maintenance and tuning
have always been delegated to the mechanical engineers and the manual laborers.

"I'm done," he calls out offhandedly to the person on the opposite side of the
launch hangar—to the only other person in the entire floor—feeling another
strange glimmer of emotion at working with someone on such close quarters of
fifteen feet, another first for him. There's no immediate response, so his lips
curl into a nasty snarl, ready to just jump down from the modified stepladder
he's perched at, but then he actually hears a sound that surprises him a tiny
bit.

He hears the sound of pained breathing: almost like someone is pathetically
crawling towards a far-away oasis in the middle of a glacier-like desert, even
while all four limbs are held by thorny chains, even while an entire ribcage
has been damaged with nothing but splintered bones digging into internal
organs, even while someone cruelly steps down on the bruised and battered back…

It's a sound that doesn't shock him one bit to escape from Oliver's lips; the
surprising part is to hear it here and now. Here, where there's nothing that
could even dare to think about approaching them, let alone hurt them; now, when
there's nobody who could even formulate plans about bullying the passive teen
into submission. The only things here are lifeless chunks of metal that simply
need some maintenance work done on them to make sure they're at their best
condition on that day.

…it's one of the first times that he's actually wrong.

Instead of doing an inspection and optimization on the hardware of the SPHERE,
Oliver is instead inside the newest SPHERE that's somehow already ready for
take-off. It's not even a full week since the start of its construction from
raw materials—and now Oliver is test-driving it without doing any initial tests
or any quality checks.

It's crazy.

It's completely anti-Oliver.

…It's interesting.

Boredom has been his number one state during the past couple of days where he's
just lounging on the throne room, torturing some prisoners, signing some
papers, scaring the shit out of the unlucky ones that were actually handpicked
to work inside the headquarters. Today marks the first time that his interest
actually reaches the maximum level—to the point that he actually drags a swivel
chair just so he can comfortably watch Oliver's insanity and foolishness
collide in a catastrophic mistake.

Configurations and technical shit are of no consequence to him, so he can't
claim to understand the specifics, but SPHEREs can somehow choose its pilots,
in a way that only strong teenagers can actually successfully make it obey
their thoughts. Cables that just look like giant snakes house sensors all
throughout their bulk, so every thought and every plan is somehow being
transmitted back to the SPHERE. Pilot selection is notorious for being
incredibly hard for most of the population because of the severe stress it
supposedly generates on one's mind.

It's hardly expected of Oliver—the annoyingly passive and incredibly indecisive
excuse of a fool—to possess physical strength and mental fortitude to withstand
the untested-as-of-yet SPHERE.

The most likely outcome is insanity and total breakdown—a coma, he decides with
a touch of glee on his face. Configurations and technical shit are definitely
right up Oliver's alley, so there's no way he wasn't aware of the probable
results of this craziness.

There's blood all over Oliver's mouth and jaw; he didn't even have to bite
those chapped lips to attain the effect.

"He probably accidentally bit his tongue," he muses out loud because there's
nobody to hear his words. …Well, the microphone switch is set to ON, but it's
doubtful that Oliver has enough presence of mind to pay attention to him. "Or
maybe he's deliberately doing that to muffle his screams? Hmm…"

Oliver's eyes are dilated in a mostly-silent scream.

It's almost like a cheap, grotesque, too-real Halloween costume that's going to
be buried underneath all the skimpy witch outfits and vampire imitations.

Staring at Oliver's bleeding face gets boring quickly though, so he moves
around the space in front of the control panel, looking at each counter and
flipping through each folder. There's an abundance of inconsequential
information staring back at him, so he flops back down to his chair, the wheels
skidding backwards slightly. His eyes itch at the prolonged use and he looks
down at the modified watch hugging his left wrist. He presses a tiny button on
the right side of the watch; a timer that digitally informs him that it took 04
HR 23 MIN 41 SEC for the effectiveness of the trial-drug for his eyes to wear
out.

Even with all the itchiness, it's not like he's completely blind right now, so
he spares the last few moments of his blurrier-than-average eyesight on
watching Oliver and his masochistic tendencies. There's strange wave of
something akin to awe once he compares the lazy-bum crawl of his past few days
to the over-productive way Oliver has been spending his time.

In-between taking control of the entire headquarters' security system,
commandeering the underground cities' controls, constructing the newest SPHERE,
building a second tower for the headquarters, organizing the new cabinet of
ministers, inventing a new electronic super-missile, subjecting corpses to
human studies for alternative medicines, concocting solutions to help prevent
the side-effects of the Bloody Beast Disease, and of course, serving the King…
Oliver has really outdone himself, foregoing sleep and rest in exchange for
gaining more time.

"…PLATINUM, huh?"

There's a soundless alarm that flashes in the middle of the widest screen,
easily acquiring his attention.

The test drive is finished even though PLATINUM hasn't moved a single inch.
It's all battle simulations and imaginary spaces; it's almost unfair how that
is more dangerous than actual reality. There's enough red on the results graph
to make it seem like the entire screen has been drenched with blood; there's no
surprise that the results are way below satisfactory levels.

Oliver isn't meant to be a pilot—that's a fact that's been made certain even
before the revolution. Oliver isn't going to let him be the one to lead the
attack on New Year—that's also another fact that's been made certain possibly
even before the two of them even had a more defined boundary of king and
subordinate.

"You're crazy," he tells the half-conscious Oliver that slumps readily forward
against the cockpit controls as soon as the holding cables retreat. There's no
acknowledgement or repentance or even sheepishness from the foolish idiot who
thinks he can bend the rules of the universe just because the world seems to be
ending. Despite being the king of this entire domain now, he doesn't hesitate
in taking a bleeding and swollen arm and slinging that across his own shoulder
so that he can drag the useless fool away from this mess.

Given the way Oliver obsessively… obsesses over controlling every single aspect
of the overhaul of Grand Romania, he's definitely going to be unhappy once he
regains consciousness.

Without another thought, he ends up bringing the injured failure of a pilot to
his own room just so he can easily watch the reactions that are definitely
going to be interesting.

***

Digital numbers trickle down like a slow downpour of artificial rain, the
values measuredly decreasing with each passing moment, the meaning lost to the
world steadily marching at a pace wildly different from the countdown timer's.
Night and day lost their significance countless of years ago, but inside the
dimly-lit throne room nestled inside a bleak tower, everything exists in a
suspended limbo of cruel apathy.

Strengthened glass windows surround each corner of the room; there's nothing to
see from beyond the tower; there's nothing to see because of the thick
soundproof curtains cascading to the carpeted floor; there's nothing to see
because his eyes are closed; there's nothing to see because his eyes are blind.

Most kings who have successfully etched their names into slabs of stone and
rolls of paper—a cacophony of bitten fingertips, chipped nails, callused
hands—have made sure to enjoy the spoils of their own petty wars. He is hardly
comparable to the conquerors of the past and the dissimilarities extend further
into the impersonal and empty decoration of the throne room. There are items of
luxury present, sure, but there's nothing there whose loss would pain the new
king. There's nothing personal about the smattering of belongings and he could
be in a barren room and everything would have been the same to him. He isn't
very kingly in that regard—he has no patience for keeping track of the
countless victories material or not.

"…you should be sleeping," comes a murmur of not-quite-suggestion from
somewhere in front of him. Despite the poor visual recognition offered by his
deteriorating eyes, he is certain that Oliver is wearing an anxious expression
on his face that doesn't fit the way the two of them interacted in the past
that's only really just a couple of days.

"I find it really funny," he starts with a raspy, throaty voice that has no
traces of humor whatsoever, "that you seem to think that I care about your
suggestions."

"You don't have to care for them," Oliver responds with a calmness that's just
dripping apathy all over the dark floor, a mixture of the distance he has
cultivated since his youth and the indifference to the way the world regards
him, "as long as you do take your rest. You're…" Almost as if he's composing
himself, he continues. "You're the most important person in this kingdom."

"I'm the most powerful person in this kingdom," he corrects after spending a
moment of snorting derisively, "but I do wonder to whom am I most important
then?"

There's a certain pleasure in feeling Oliver's sudden stiffness at the
insinuation snaking dangerously around his words. He's never had illusions
about the strange electricity that sparks continuously between them, nor has he
ever harbored delusions about the deep meaning of the encounters that have
connected the two of them with an inexplicably bloodied thread. It does seem
extremely inappropriate to bring up the not-closeness the two of them share;
that's why he's smirking as though there's a particularly scandalous love
affair going on between them.

"…you are the most important person to me."

Blood clotting at the back of his eyes rush up to his brain, triggered by the
small whisper of reverence. His eyes widen in a muddle of surprise and
disbelief—before he sees Oliver clearer than ever, despite the sorry state of
his eyesight. Somehow he understands the next set of words before they even
leave the other's lips.

"You're the most important person to me," there's solid conviction behind the
repetition, "as you should be to one of your subordinates. You're the most
important person to each person in your kingdom, as you should be."

"You're crazy."

"If that's what my king says." Oliver accepts the words diplomatically,
complete with an almost diffident bow.

"…In any case, I was going to report the progress about the cabinet members
before we got a little sidetracked." Oliver places a stack of folders on the
desk nearest to him. He doesn't bother reading out any of the text there; he
simply recites his report from memory—an utter display of perfect memorization.
It's a talent that's little interesting so he doesn't yawn in earnest while the
boring details fill the air around them.

"So everything's going according to plan?" He interrupts once it seems that
Oliver is starting to run out of breath from the rapid pace of his mini-speech.
He is starting to run out of patience on his end, because watching Oliver
display his genius isn't interesting enough to suffer an hour-long lecture for.

"…in summary, yes."

"Then it's fine."

He doesn't plan on ever saying 'I'll entrust this to you' or 'I trust you' or
anything that has an ounce of sentimentality in it. Oliver inclines his head a
little, lips thinned into a simple line.

…He is the most important person in Oliver's life.

He knows that.

…It's only because he's the only person in Oliver's life now.

He knows that too.

"…alright. I'll be taking my leave then for now. I do hope that when I return
later, you're already resting."
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!