Curtain Call

by Aeslynx

Freedom: Prison Break

The building is on fire, and it is all my fault.

"…security mages, the escaped subject is in the South Wing. Subject is armed and dangerous. This is not a drill. Subject Red-Zero-Sigma, return to your containment cell immediately. Message repeats. Notice all royal security mages, the escaped subject is…"

The realization makes me laugh, loud and free and more than a little crazy. That's good. Crazy's good. Screaming through the sterile white halls like a maniac and leaving a trail of blood and broken bodies is far superior to weepy depression. I'd never escape if I gave in to that kind of toxic despair, and I'll be damned I don't escape. Not after all this effort. Not after all I've gone through.

Step Three: Head to the basement. I don't hesitate, all-but flying down the nearest stairwell. I skip five steps in seven, a truly herculean feat with these tiny legs of mine, and feel guiltier for breaking one of Momma's old rules than for orchestrating a prison break.

The scum who work here don't deserve my remorse. All they deserve is a slow death.

I spy a card-carrying member of said scum halfway down. It's a standard security guard, with the trademark navy blue coat, funky sci-fi helmet, and full-face scarf. A magic sword hangs at his hip. Rookie mistake: in a crisis, it should already be in his hand.

A dangerous smile splits my face at the thought. I am the crisis. I'm going to enjoy this.

Gravity and momentum are on my side. Not wasting a second to talk myself out of it, I leap, hurtling down the cramped stairwell like a falling meteor. I don't bother orienting myself in some kind of kick, instead forcing my body to slacken and crash into him like the fun-sized ragdoll I am. He collapses, aping a puppet with its strings cut to the soundtrack of his skull breaking against the steel floor.

Mercy is the domain of the strong, and I have neither the strength nor the inclination to be gentle in victory. No time for it, either. My amateur duck-and-roll fails against the cold steel of the wall, and my breath and sight are stolen from me both. I struggle, fueled by the desperation afforded only to those who are tumbling off the line between life and death. By the time I stumble to my feet, I can hear a full squad homing in on my position and know I have lost far too much time.

Nothing for it, then, I think, and grab the late guard's blade. It's too large for my childish hands, but that doesn't matter. I'm not planning on cutting someone up with it, therapeutic though it may be. Instead, I twist the power knob on the handle to max, hit the timed release, and begin spinning like a dog chasing its own tail. Then, like one of those Olympic athletes with the weird disk things, I release the blade.

I don't bother watching it soar up the staircase. I know it worked the second I hear the sound of a thousand Fourth of July fireworks all going off at once far, far too close for comfort. When it's immediately followed by the screams of the damned and dying, all I can do is smile with vicious, sick satisfaction.

If I were a Hollywood action hero starring in a summer blockbuster, this is the part where I'd shed a tear and slowly walk away. As it is, I'm already the rest of the way down the staircase and aren't sparing my victims a third thought. I'll shed that tear later, when I know the hesitation won't get me murdered or, worse, stuck back in my white cell. Maybe. We'll see, if all goes well.

Step Four: Find the source room. This is where things get tricky. Carving my way through an army is one thing. Going into it, I knew that I was almost certainly going to die, but with luck I knew it was possible. The source room is something I've only heard of from the uncensored whispers of bored security guards who didn't consider the dead-eyed girl in the next cell over to be a flight risk. None of them have ever seen it, and for all I know it doesn't actually exist. If that's true, then this jailbreak was for nothing.

Not nothing, I correct myself harshly. I'd rather die like a dog then spend another day in that cell.

Resolution reaffirmed, I shove open the basement door with my shoulder and immediately tumble sideways. A lightning bolt shrieks right through where my head was a moment before and makes my hair dance with static electricity. I scream, partly to startle and distract but mostly just to scream, and charge forward staying as low to the ground as I can.

I see the flash of a second bolt and wonder where the thunder is when I realize I can't hear it over the blood pounding in my ears. The pain staggers in a moment later and my knees buckle, nerves alight with more volts than any human being should suffer from. The pain is what I once theorized the Cruciatus Curse to feel like, but real, and interspersed with stripes of far more worrying numbness. It's like being stabbed with a thousand knives. It's like being struck by lightning and oh God, I was just struck by fucking lightning.

Desperate, horrified, and more than a little vengeful, I jerk forwards and limply body tackle my would-be executioner. I doubt it hurt more than a corgi aggressively trying to hug him, but he screams, too, and I realize the magic staff in his hand is still on. I should probably fix that.

My hand lashes out blindly, only half under my control, shoving against his face like an annoying older sister would. He sputters and stumbles back, the dull smack of his ass hitting the floor the only sound in the sudden silence. He tries to stand back up, twitches, and collapses back onto the floor.

The sliver of my mind that's still mired in lucidity commands me to make a grab for the staff. I do, and violently bash my aggressor over the skull with it. The not-rubber handle in the middle is all that's stopping the electricity coursing down its length from being pumped into me, too. Half in sadism and half in caution, I only stop once his skin begins to sizzle and the fresh round of screams die down.

In an effort to preserve the battery life, I flick the power halfway down on purpose and fire a lance of bolt lightning at him on accident. Well, it was mostly an accident. …Okay, at least half an accident.

A lingering flicker of electricity races up my spine and, when I come to, I'm leaning against the staff like an impromptu cane. The still very much electrifying staff. Freezing, I very carefully reach for the knob and turn the power all the way down, flicking the off switch as I do.

Theoretically speaking, magic electricity isn't quite as lethal as real electricity. It's not actual electricity, after all, merely ethernano masquerading as it. But, as I lack a wizard's innate resilience to that kind of thing, it's still utterly crippling. After being cooked so thoroughly, I won't be able to defeat another mage without a healthy dose of luck. I wasn't relying on it enough already, apparently.

It takes me a long moment to start walking again, and even then I'm still fighting full-body twitches. I spend that moment strip-searching the guard, and breathe a sigh of relief when I find a map of the lowest level in his pocket. He's either new here, or… I open it up and suck on my teeth. Yeah. I can see why he'd need a map.

The Bureau is designed like a freaking corn maze down here. It doesn't follow a nice, sensible grid like the other floors, instead branching off from various stairwells like a Rorschach blot. It's utterly impossible to get anywhere in any reasonable amount of time. The architect was either too clever for his own good, drunk, or, judging by the strange layering effect near the back, decided to draw inspiration from an Escher painting.

I take what time I dare to scan the thing with suspicious eyes, trying to find anything out of place. Unluckily, there's no clearly labeled Source Room for me to march towards. Nor is there any other variation of it I can think of. Growling, it's only when I see an entire section labeled simply Beware – Heavy Machinery – Clearance Required that I realize I'm being dumb.

I awkwardly hobble down the sterile white walls with the map in one hand and the staff in the other. My stride is rapid but quiet, and I stick to the walls like one of those leech things rich people keep in their fish tanks. I'm utterly silent save for my ragged breathing and the jackhammer impression of my heart, and I can't comprehend why it's not echoing through the halls. Where's the rest of the security? Surely those I haven't burned yet realized I've come downstairs, by now? I don't see or hear anyone and all it does is make me twitchier.

I hadn't realized earlier, but the blaring alarm isn't being broadcast down here. I'm not sure if the architect thought there was no need to include a sound system underground or if there's a more sinister reason. I try not to put too much thought into it, and instead fixate on my hearing and the map in my hand. If there is something going on in the control center, there's nothing I can do about it this far into my escape.

I eventually come to a sign on a heavy, shatter-proof door. Cleaning Supplies, it reads, and I look down at the Heavy Machinery advisory on my map with a bemused eyebrow. I can't help but huff an exhausted laugh. It's like the upper management here was trying to be cliché. Mad science experiments, sci-fi faceless uniforms, and now this? Please, I think, do put some effort into your cackling villainy, Faust.

The door is locked with some fancy-looking technology and is far too thick and heavy to break down. Beginning to panic at the completely obvious complication that has utterly blind-sided me, I tentatively award my captors some self-awareness points. When it pops open after I fire a desperate bolt of lightning at the key-pad, I gleefully take the points back. I can understand not wanting to lock themselves out of their source of magical power every time said magical power runs out, but they really did not think this through.

I shove the door the rest of the way open and laugh triumphantly at what I see on the other side. I'd been sure this was it after seeing the mismatched sign, but a part of me still worried and bit at metaphorical fingernails. Looks like my karma really is starting to balance. I can only hope the broken bodies I've left behind me don't swing it the other way.

What I see is a floating, metallic platform extending into a large chamber, surrounded by the statues of three nameless sages. Their arms are extended as if hugging the humming, luminescent, sky-blue orb hanging from the metal scaffolding. I recognize this place from my dim memories of an anime and my far clearer dreams of freedom. It's a replica of the Anima Chamber below the Edolas Castle, but smaller and less powerful.

To be brutally honest, I didn't think it existed. I hoped it did and planned around it being real, but my vague impressions from the show made it seem like the one below Faust's castle was the only one in existence. However, the Bureau is a closed-circuit and top secret research institute, and they need to get magical power somehow. A couple throwaway lines from security guards and more than a little desperation-fueled self-delusion saw me gambling on it anyway.

And, if I failed? I had decided that I was going to seek my freedom, today. Dead or alive, I would be free. If this secondary Anima Chamber didn't exist, then I would have hurled myself out a window. At least I could see the sun one last time before the end.

"Red-Zero-Sigma! Halt!"

Looks like I'm out of time. I aim my staff at the light, raise it to full power, and fire. Either it'll explode and the entire Bureau will self-destruct, brutally killing everyone inside, or it'll activate and I'll wake up in Earthland. I'm fine with either eventuality.

"Sigma! Last warning!"

Silent white light fills the world.

Freedom: Prison Break

I wake up, which is a surprise. I immediately realize that I'm too exhausted to move, both physically and mentally, which isn't.

I just sort of… revel in the freedom. Sunshine on my skin, wind in my black-violet hair, things like that. I used to hate when grass would slip up my shirt, but it feels blissful. Tired eyes open to the sight of an ordinary evergreen tree, and it is the most beautiful tree I have ever seen.

The deeper realizations come after. The first one is that I'll never have to see endless, sterile white walls again. The second is that I'll never have to see a heartless man in a white lab coat again, either. The third is that I'll never be struck by another Edolas security guard again, too, and I start to laugh and don't stop until I'm gasping for breath and tears are leaking from my eyes.

They weren't all bad, of course. There was one security guard who was… not unkind. I don't know his name, his face, or why he would talk to me after particularly excruciating experiments. Maybe he had a little sister and sympathized. Maybe he had a hidden streak of kindness whispering in his ear. Or, maybe, he was just bored. I don't know, and I don't want to find out. For as long as it remains a mystery, I can lie to myself and say he cared.

He would give me long sticks of chalk, and for years I would scrawl my thoughts on the featureless white walls of my cell. I'd roughly sketch sinuous dragons winding around passages of bleak fears, or childish suns shining down on my happier dreams of the future, few as they were. I'd write and draw and just black out my space until not an inch was left, then I'd wipe it all clean with my spit and scratchy hospital dress and start over.

Then, one day, he made a stupid, rookie mistake. The whitecoats had gone overboard again, and I'd been all but catatonic in my cell. He'd slipped me a fresh stick of chalk, and I went berserk. I bit off the end and shoved the jagged remains into his chest, screaming all the while, vision overtaken by bloody red.

I hope he survived. There's a part of me that hopes he didn't.

I hate them all. Nineteen in twenty never raised a hand against me, but twenty in twenty refused to raise a hand to free me, too. How does that old quote go? "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing?" Something like that. I don't know if any of them were good men, but all of them did nothing. That alone makes them worthy of my undying enmity.

I honestly don't know how I held onto as much sanity as I had. I suspect Edolas-Brain was a little more eager with the Mind Magic than he would admit. Entire seasons of memories are just… missing. Pain and pleasure would spontaneously reverse, and the experiments would actually become enjoyable, if not downright blissful. Then, when I was a particularly good subject, he would fabricate fake memories of Momma and let me live them for weeks.

Maybe that was all me, though. My mind is pretty messed up. Waking reincarnation would do that to a girl. The whole 'being murdered' part was pretty tragic; I'm not going to lie. The 'being reborn' part wasn't very fun, either. Finding out I was born in an alien world with magic and sci-fi technology, and it starred in one of my favorite anime? That was horrifying.

What came after wasn't, though. Momma… I'd have burned down the world for that woman. All she had to do was ask.

Then I got sick and she sold me to the Bureau. You think you know a person.

"…Damn," I swear, voice rough from screaming and disuse. "What's with all the maudlin talk? I'm free, damn it. I'm free." I lost enough to Edolas. I'm not going to give it my future in Earthland, too.

With that in mind, Istagger to my feet and look for civilization. All I find are dirt, various plants, and the occasional flying rat. I may not have thought this through.

I spent sleepless years in my cell planning my breakout, but none of that time on what I would do after. Not seriously, anyway. I didn't believe in my chances enough to risk getting my hopes up. All I have are vague dreams sketched onto my cell wall.

Join guild. Learn magic. Get so powerful you can never be hurt again.

Easier said than done.

The sun begins to fall and I orient myself west, singing the juvenile eenie-meenie-miney-moe song to choose a cardinal point at random. I set off, thunder staff, bloodied hospital smock, and happy thoughts my only protection against any angry wildlife or monsters that might want to snack on a little girl. I fire more than a few lightning bolts at rabbits that come too close, trigger finger aching and twitchy.

It's hell. It's also the most peaceful day I've had in years. I can see living creatures that aren't armed with scalpels or magic weapons, colors that aren't white or navy blue, and food that isn't bread and a half-dozen vitamins. Most of it is probably poisonous, but it looks a fair sight tastier and, really, isn't that all that matters?

Then night falls and with it, my smile. I'm a small child who hasn't run outside of a carefully monitored treadmill in years. Even if this seemingly endless forest doesn't contain all manner of hungry creatures, I'm in danger of going hungry myself. I don't know what I can eat and what I can't, I have no idea how to find water at all let alone a clean source of it, and my experience with creating shelter begins and ends with pillow forts on movie night. I'm screwed.

I eye my stolen magic staff with an appreciative gaze. I have no idea when its battery or lacrima or whatever will die, but it's a damn sight more versatile than a stun baton. If I ratchet up the power and fire it into the sky, I could draw any people in the area to me like moths to a flame. There's no guarantee they'll be good people, but I'm not feeling particularly picky. Getting pressganged into a dark guild is still better than starving to death on my first day of freedom.

"Nothing for it." I twist the dial until it clicks in protest, flick the switch from 'volt' back to 'lance,' and fire it into the sky. And then I fire it again, and again, and again, and again, until the thunder staff starts to angrily vibrate in my white-fingered grip. Then I fire it one last time for luck and have to drop it with a hiss.

The boomstick's lances of lightning are a lot less pretty to look at than an actual flare gun's would be. It's all flash and no fire, the bolts streaking off into the sky instead of lingering to show off my position. Assuming I'm not loudly devoured by wolves in the next five minutes, I'll have to fire it again so any observers can actually find me. That's fine – hopefully the snap and crackle will scare off said wolves.

Since Momma taught me to always stay still when I wander off and get lost, I clumsily scale a tree and find a high-hanging branch to rest on. The foliage in this forest is huge, the branch I'm lying on easily a good six, seven times as wide across as I am. They must be ancient, or feed off magic, or both. It's incredible, and the air tastes almost unnaturally fresh. This world just seems so much more alive than Edolas.

"It's because of the ethernano," a voice says, and I shriek in response. Reflex has me swinging the still-overheated boomstick around and firing it at point-blank range, the setting still locked at full power. The branch explodes, wooden shrapnel and two children sent surfing across the sky on a wave of kinetic force. This time, my Hollywood somersault doesn't crash against a wall and I'm able to stumble to my feet with relative ease.

Clarity returns with sudden sharpness and the sight of another magic staff aimed at my center mass. I've lost, I realize with dull horror, before the fight has even begun. With my lack of experience, this is like one of those wild west quickdraw shootouts, but the enemy already has his drawn. If I make a move towards my weapon, he'll fire and I'll be fucked, just like that.

Then I take a closer look and my eyes widen. "Prince Jellal?" He has the blue hair, the red facial stigma, and the gentle face,exactly like I remember seeing on the television when I was young. Then my past life's memories start to trickle in, and I see the bandaged staves and the heavy, dark blue clothing, and come to a similar but altogether different conclusion:Mystogan.

Conversely, his eyes narrow. "Edolas." He takes notice of my bloodied hospital smock, obvious youth, and general weariness. "What have they done to you?"

A smile. It's a small thing, tired and slight, but is the most genuine positive emotion I've shown since Momma walked away. "Lots."

He doesn't seem amused, but he does lower the staff. "Is now really the time for snark?"

"Always."

His lips quirk slightly at my response, and I count that one as a win. "Nice try. Specifics, if you would."

...I could lie, but there's no point. I doubt I could muster the energy to care even if there was. "Underneath the Edolas Bureau of Magical Development. Five years." I don't tell him who put me there. "Escaped. Found Anima Chamber. Here I am."

Jellal closes his eyes. "That explains how they've been casting it simultaneously, at times. Damn."

He doesn't make mention of my depressing past, for which I'm thankful. I'm repressing pretty badly right now. When he does open his eyes, they're set firmly on the future.

"Am I right to assume the lightshow was a call for help? I can find you someplace to live."

"I'd… I'd like that." I awkwardly cough into my hand in a vain attempt to cover up my relief. Time to change the subject. "How'd you find me? Teleport?"

"No, of course not. I'll explain, but we need to begin our walk now if we wish to reach my camp before sunrise."

He sheds his thick coat and wraps it around my shoulders, a true gentleman, and I freeze in place. ("Bundle up, sweetie," came the kind voice, "It's cold outside, and we can't have you getting sick, can we?") He quirks an eyebrow at my reaction but seems to understand, casting a dark glance at the hint of smock peeking through the collar of the coat. Instead, he gently grasps my hand and pulls me along through the forest.

"The Anima merely feels instantaneous," he eventually explains. "In truth, it takes several days. With my experience and these staves, I can sense the first stirrings of that magic and track it, assuming I'm within a week's travel." He lights his staff with luminescent magic, as if he was Gandalf the Grey. It makes the smile he flashes me seem all the more striking. "Good thinking with the flares. I had no idea anyone came through the Anima, and came running as fast as I could once I saw them."

I look down shyly. Social contact is rare for me; kind social contact, even rarer. An outright complement... gods, I'm a wreck. "Th-thank you, my prince."

Jellal ruffles my hair. "Think nothing of it, ah… I'm sorry, I was rude. My name is Jellal, as you know. What's yours? And how old are you?"

"Red-Zero-Sigma, twelve years and forty-nine days," I say automatically. His demeanor instantly darkens, and I flinch back. "S-sorry."

His hand in mine feels like a lead weight, but he traces soothing circles in my palm as an apology. "You have nothing to be sorry for, but… do you not have a name from before the Bureau? I can't call you such an impersonal thing."

I look him in the eyes and lie. "None that I remember."

"You…" He sighs. "You do not need to deceive me. If you don't want to talk about it, I'll understand. We all have our demons. But I do need a name to call you by, and Sigma… will not do."

At that, I turn away. I'm not ashamed – I don't think I can feel shame anymore – but something in his dark eyes makes my heart rail against itself. "I… I can't. Sigma I survived. The other name… I… I didn't."

He stills. "Your family, they… I see." He works his mouth, but no sound comes out. "So it's like that. I will name you myself, then, if you do not mind."

"…Please."

He stops moving, then, and pulls me into a warm hug. I freeze- but the soothing beat behind his chest relaxes me, and I melt into it. In that moment, he held my heart in his hand, and with a single, whispered word, he could have crushed it.

He didn't.

"Amity," he says. "It means 'friendship' and 'harmony.' Whenever someone says your name, think of me, and know that you will never be alone or abandoned again. I'll always be here for you, even when I'm on the other side of the continent." He smiles, and it takes my breath away. "Do you like it?"

I bury my head in his chest and cry. No one will ever call me Ultear again.

Freedom: Prison Break

A Semi-SI as Edolas Ultear. What have I done.