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A/N: A prelude to the events of Punch Through the STONE CIRCLE, where the Time-Space Administration Bureau will face off against the Jirai. Some questions are left unanswered, but they will be answered in the following story.
Originally, Clockwork SIGMA was going to be about Signum and Fate meeting again just prior to the reunion in the A's epilogue and disposing a draconic beast (similar to that of SideWINDER) as a time trial mission to uncover the hidden exit of their surroundings. Things, however, turned out quite differently when I decided to add more characters to The Bygone Years Saga aside from Fate and Nanoha.
The title also has a deeper meaning to it. It's pretty simple when you think about it.
Clockwork SIGMA is the FOURTH piece in the TBY timeline, set six-to-five years before StrikerS, seven-to-six before the first MLR fanfic.
The Bygone Years:
Clockwork SIGMA
"Time is the substance from which I am made. Time is a river which carries me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger that devours me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire that consumes me, but I am the fire."
-- Jorge Luis Borges
It is said that to be human is to pay a very high price.
Before, I had no such idea of being human. In those days of constant warfare and rising casualties, I was programmed to obey my masters at their every whim, every word and every order that slipped past their lips. Not just I, mind you, but the fellowship whom regarded me as the de-facto leader of the Wolkenritter.
Vita.
Zafira.
Shamal.
We were created this way by the Book of Darkness. Designed to fill its pages with the magi and beasts robbed of their Linker Cores. Created to unleash the beast inside the vault of data. Born to sever the ties of its strength and be sealed in weightless eternity throughout the course of history lost and forgotten.
To them, we were the Guardian Knights of Darkness. To them, we are machines, tools of destruction. To them, all that is worth are data and magicks. No more, no less.
That was until we were summoned by Mistress Hayate Yagami, then young and unknowing of the world we were thrust upon. She had brought this change to us. She had taught us, showed us, reminded us what it is like to be human. It was strange, especially for me, to experience this transition. Our previous Masters never gave us such kind treatment nor did they ever express sympathy to our grievous wounds. Where blood would splash on the cold, lifeless floors, they would not come to our aid. Where emotion deemed weak and inappropriate for a warrior would seep along our masks, they would punish us severely.
Our lives are not the fond and happy memories we share today, oh no. Before we were released by the Mistress we had the same thought calculating in our minds. She would be no different, we mused. We may be blind to those changes that occur outside this sarcophagus, but we are not deaf to the voices ghosting to and from dimensions. Mistress is a descendant of Yagami, we learned. Mistress is divine, all-powerful and terrible to behold. She would be no different than the rest.
How wrong we were. How wrong she proved us with her uncommon methods and gentle heart, her soft voice and strong determination.
We are glad to be here with her. We are glad she is living to the fullest.
We are complete.
I am complete.
But what would she say to me, had she accompanied us on this mission? How would she help me with this unspeakable tremor pulsating in my every vein, every cell, every twitch and nudge I make with this body?
"We are going to wipe clean the taint of every last sinner off the face of this shithole! We are going to recreate this god-forsaken world in fire and ashes!"
A painful whimper emits from Shamal's throat. The blade that is the man's arm presses slightly deeper into her neck.
The bastard . . . .
I rise to my feet with the aid of Levantine and the brick wall on my left (and pain -- erupting burning crippling pain -- leaves me broken and incomplete). I assess the situation, forcing my eyes to stay open. The target has her pinned, one hand clamped over the jade jewel that is Klarer Wind. His lithe, willowy body is immersed in the radiant glow of an Anti-Magic Field and dark magic (how is it possible?). His gold weapon (not device, mind you; a mage he is not) draws beads of rich wine.
The suffering she is enduring is too much.
I can't take it. I can't stand it.
I can't--
(You have two hands and one sword. One hand is in no condition to wield Levantine's electric might. Too bloodied. Too maimed. Too much to handle.)
"Remember our name when you burn in the circles of hell! Remember our name when the heavens echo of our glorious triumph over your imperfections!"
(What would you do, Mistress? How far would you go to
protect
the ones
you
love . . . ?)
I tighten my grip on the hilt.
"Repent, flawed child! Remember our name! WE. ARE. JIRAI--!"
SHUNK.
His words die on a crimson stream coughed from his mouth. Grey orbs glaze over and an armored hand releases Shamal from death's embrace. The man, now a lifeless vessel of fluids and organs, slumps slowly down Levantine's length.
I rip my blade out of him. He hits the floor with an unceremonious thud, mouth forever opened in shell-shocked disbelief.
'Who's burning in hell now?'
He no longer matters.
I sheathe my device and take the wounded mage by her shoulders. I hold her, close, tight, protective. The cut isn't serious, but it requires immediate attention. We both do. Dark magic has its impotent effects, and none are ever discerned so lightly.
Her blood stains the pale orchid of my barrier jacket, but I don't care.
I don't care much about my condition.
I care about Shamal.
"Vita, Zafira, call for an EMT," I tell them via telepathy. "Target has been eliminated. Request permission for a biopsy. Also, we've found our lead. They call themselves Jirai; Gods of Death, Weapons of Mass Destruction. Please let Mistress know ASAP. We could use more information on them."
I sever the connection and look to the blonde woman in my arms. Her breathing's slowed, eyes closed. It makes me want to join her in unconscious, unfeeling oblivion, but I won't allow it. Not until we're back at Central Command. Not until she's within the white, sterilized walls of the infirmary.
Ah, my chest aches. Suddenly, warmly, rapidly. Is this what human beings desire above all others possessions, be it physical or mental? Is this what Mistress Hayate calls love? Deep, sacred, soul-consuming love?
"Hang in there, Shamal," I assure her slumbering form. I allow us to settle on the floor, our backs pressed to the wall. "We'll put an end to those Jirai." We will show them who the sinners are, I leave unannounced.
My gaze grows heavy. I will them, fiercely, harshly, to stay open. I must stay awake.
Sirens howl in the distance. Lights illuminate the tunnel, signaling their approach.
I lay my Knight's head upon my breast, stroke her amber locks.
Do you see us now, old Masters? Look how far we've got. Look at us and be amazed. You said we were nothing but tools, nothing but machines. You said all that was worth are data and magicks.
Look how wrong you all are.
Look at how we live. Look at how we thrive. Look at us and don't turn away.
I've taken the initiative. I have freed myself of my bonds.
The price to being human will be very high, but I'll do it.
I will be me. I will be I.
I shall cast aside my inhibitions and become human at the cost of my life.