Disclaimer: They are not my characters. I am renting them for now.
1. Getting Reacquainted
It is not common for a deserter to inhabit a busy town full of humans, especially a town that had a reputation for its zero tolerance policy on those warriors with silver eyes. The holy town of Rabona had soldiers equipped well enough to take care of weak youma. They didn't need the services of a warrior. Of course, this was the place where Galatea had chosen as her refuge. On the one hand, Miria finds it brilliant. Of all the places for her to hide, Rabona was probably not high on the Organization's list. On the other hand, the sacrifice Galatea made to stay here for seven years seems almost too harsh.
Miria watches Galatea as she moves about the room of children with a sort of inhuman grace about her and a smile that charms every single heart there. Amid this fragile atmosphere the jagged scar that runs across her eyes is jarring, a stark reminder that they've long since rotted away. It's unsettling, but both Miria and Galatea know that her survival in the town itself depended on the removal of her tell-tale silver eyes.
"Something is troubling you," Galatea says, ruffling a boy's hair and patting him on the back before sending him outside with the others. "Your yoki is nearly nonexistent now, but I can still feel it."
"As expected from the organization's former eye. No one was ever a match for you." Miria leans against a table, crossing her arms. "I think it's unfortunate. Your eyes I mean."
"Why? I don't. It's a small sacrifice."
"It's still a sacrifice."
The smile on Galatea's face softens but doesn't disappear. She lifts a hand and motions for Miria to follow her. They make their way to a doorway to the back, Galatea expertly evading all of the furniture and reaching up to grab the doorknob with pure ease. The door opens to a stone hallway and their footsteps make confident sounds on the floor that echo along the corridor. The air in the corridor is cool and Miria finds herself adjusting her body temperature slightly to keep a shiver at bay.
"How do you do that?" she asks. "Move around as if you can still see?"
"Did you know that every living creature emits a kind of energy, Miria?" Galatea asks in the tone of voice that often rubs others the wrong way. "It's just on a different wave length, or frequency perhaps. We are half human, so even if your yoki is nearly nonexistent right now, your human side still radiates its human energy. I seem to be sensitive to these things."
"And how does this help you with inanimate objects?"
"It's just like yoki. If you can control it, you can bounce it off objects, people, things flying at your head even, and get a fairly clear picture of what is happening around you. Humans call it a sixth sense, intuition. In reality, they're really just in tune with this energy."
They come to a door and Galatea grips the knob and twists it, opening it to reveal a hallway full of identical doors. A nun steps out of one of the doors and looks up at them. She adjusts her robes and offers a smile. She looks older than both of them by appearanes alone, but Miria knows she was born after them. Most humans alive today are at least ten years younger than herself and who knows how much younger than Galatea.
"Is that you, Sister Camelia?" Galatea says, closing the door to the corridor behind them. "The children are out in the courtyard since they finished their geography lesson fairly early."
"Oh?" Sister Camelia says. "Well, I suppose I'll go see what strange game they are playing today. That Thomas needs a little watching sometimes, especially if you aren't there. You just well may be that boy's first love."
"He'll grow out of it, I'm sure." Galatea only smiles. "If you would excuse us then. Miss Miria and I have some matters to discuss."
Miria straightens her back at the sound of her name and gives a curt but polite nod of her head to the woman and they part ways there in the hallway. She notices how Galatea's shoulders tremble slightly with suppressed laughter and shoots her a quick look, slightly irritated.
"What's so funny?"
"Oh, nothing," Galatea says, opening the last door on the left and ushering her in with a grand sweep of her arm. "You were amusingly stiff with Sister Camelia. You should learn to loosen up a bit, especially around humans."
Miria fights the urge to roll her eyes and looks about the humble room. There aren't very many possessions inside. There is a stiff bed with clean linen, a modest table with a few pieces of parchment, ink, and a quill and against the far opposite wall, a fairly sizable wooden cross that stands at Galatea's height. Miria runs her fingers across the fine lacquered wood and notices the seems on the sides, two slabs of identical wood slapped together. That's where Galatea's claymore is, she's sure of it. It's the perfect size and proportion to conceal such a huge blade.
Galatea pulls the chair from her desk and takes a seat, motion for Miria to sit on her bed. Then she says, "This is the safest place we can talk without unwanted ears listening in. And I know you have questions."
Miria stands from the cross and watches her for a second, the light shining from the small and high window falling over the jagged scar. She continues to stand.
"Why did you desert the organization?" she says. "You were never a problem child. You carried out every order they ever gave you."
"Every order but two." Galatea rests her elbow on the back of the chair and her fingers explore the cheap wood, worn and rounded at the corners turning a much lighter shade. It reminds Miria of the light colored scar tissue across Galatea's face. She ponders asking this question as well, but decides to continue on the current line of inquiry.
"First, to bring Clare back to the organization," Miria says. "And the other?"
"Your execution." Galatea says this nonchalantly, intertwining her fingers and pushing her palms outward as she stretches. She is like an agile cat, her spine bending in a graceful arc as her slim physique accents the curves her body cuts.
Miria's not one for surprises these days. She's sure she has seen nearly every surprising thing the Organization has managed to throw at her and yet, she finds herself taken aback at this statement. In this small, claustrophobic room with the high and useless window she cannot reach, she takes a few steps toward the bed and finally sits down, the mattress bending beneath her weight with the soft squeak of the metal springs.
"And why would you choose this for my sake?" she asks.
Galatea lets out a chuckle. "Don't paint me so nobly. I hardly knew you at the time. They were not positive you were killed in Pieta, so I was to confirm it and, if necessary, finish the job. All I knew was that they considered you a threat. And I-. Well, I didn't care if they did."
Letting her shoulders slump slightly, Miria loosens up and leans forward on her knees, the seam of the black fabric of her clothes pressing uncomfortably against the skin and bone beneath. She says nothing.
"What kind of face are you making right now?" Galatea asks. "I have a fairly good idea, but I can't say I'm positive on that assumption."
"Nothing," Miria tells her. "I"m not making any sort of face."
She moves with incredible speed, pushing the chair back so that it knocks against the stone wall and covering the distance between them. It's not too fast for Miria to track, so she doesn't move, choosing instead to wait to see where she intends to go. Miria does not expect, however, to feel the fingers along her cheeks and the thumbs brushing over her momentarily closed eyes. Pinky fingers follow the contours of her chin and then one palm smoothes over her forehead while the other hand explores down the bridge of her nose. The bed creaks slightly as Galatea brings a knee to it, drawing Miria's face up as she maps it with her fingers. She smiles.
"Liar."
Miria pulls her face away from the invading hands, heat spreading across the skin of her cheeks, and stands, feigning a sloppy stretch. She glances to the light coming from the high window.
"I better get going before Tabitha starts to wonder where I am. She is sometimes needlessly clingy."
"You just well may be that girl's first love, then." Galatea sits down on her bed.
"That's not a funny joke." Miria frowns, bids her god day, and then opens the door and leaves.
Galatea rests her hands in her lap and then allows herself the small pleasure on leaning back until she is resting against the stone wall. She chuckles.
"Who said it was a joke?"
It's been a month since the others have left to take care of unfinished business and Miria finds herself becoming more anxious with her free time. Her mind is preoccupied with developing some kind of plan for taking on the organization, but her body is fidgety and stir crazy. There's no doubt in her mind that they are not strong enough in their present state and that fact bites at the edge of her conscience. When they return, if they return, she will ultimately be sending them to their deaths. The reality of it is hard and heavy and she takes a mug of beer in hand and holds it in the air a moment before lifting it to her lips.
"What's wrong, Captain?" Tabitha asks from across the table, concern marking her features.
Miria's eyes dart her way and she says, stern and serious, "We have to leave this town."
"But the others-."
"It'll just be for a week at a time," Miria says. "If we're going to face the Organization head on, Tabitha, we have to train, and we can't do it here. Round up everyone else and have them meet at my room when we're done here."
Tabitha gives a nod and then stands from the table, leaving the rest of her food on the tin plate. Miria sighs. She could have waited until she was finished eating, but she supposes it'll be all right since they require very little food anyway. She lifts a loaf of bread from her plate and breaks off a piece, placing it in her mouth. It's not that she's hungry, really. It's more that chewing food gives her something to do as she races through the thoughts in her head.
The seven of them can probably make their way through most of the ranked warriors, but if Raphaela is still number five, they will have a problem. Claire has taken care of number four, Ophelia, but none of them, not even combined, have a chance at tackling either Alicia or Beth, the Organization's number one and two. Miria herself has never met them, but she is well aware of their power.
When she stands from the table, she catches the eye of the owner and he gives her a nod, acknowledging that she has finished the meal. Then, she takes up her claymore, bound in strips of soft leather and then slings it across her back, heading back into the open street toward the great cathedral. Her eyes linger on the massive cross that stands high up on its steeple and she stops and stares at it, dark against the light blue sky. For the first time since she can remember, Miria wishes that the god of Rabona actually does exist because she suddenly feels an overwhelming need to pray to something beyond this world, something untouchable to the clutches of the Organization.
She enters her room on the south wing to find the others gathered. On her bed sits the two newest deserters to the Organization. The more mature looking one, Clarice she said her name is, seems to have undergone a half-failed transformation and she still retains a bit of rust tinge to her hair and a faint but noticeable olive sheen to to her skin. She holds on to a less matured girl, Miata, looks the age of a human 12 year old, though her mind has regressed to years beyond that, as if her mind is incapable of comprehending the sheer amount of power her tiny body holds, or the amount of damage she is truly capable. The only other survivor of the North War in Pieta in this room is Tabitha. She has chosen to sit at Miria's desk. Last, there is Galatea on the foot of her bed, shoulders pressed against the wall behind her. All heads turn to Miria as she enters and she quietly closes the door behind her.
"You told her?" she asks Tabitha, referring to Galatea with a small nod of her head.
"I did." Clarice lifts a hand. "When Tabitha said you wanted everyone gathered, I thought it only right to tell her. She used to be a claymore too."
Miria sighs. "It's all right, Clarice. It's not a huge deal. She has as much a right to choose as we all do."
"Choose what, exactly?" Galatea asks.
Miria folds her arms and leans against her desk next to Tabitha. She lowers her head for a moment to think before her lips part and the first words escape into the crowded room.
"We're going after the Organization," she says. "The seven of us. As soon as the others return from tying up the loose ends of their lives. I am offering an invitation to the three of you to join us if you so choose to."
Clarice's mouth has dropped open in an unbecoming manner and she sits up straighter, unintentionally disturbing Miata who had gotten comfortable against wrapped around her waist.
"You can't be serious," she says. "It's the Organization you're talking about. They've got forty-seven warriors and more at the training camps just waiting to replace the ones lost. They'll kill us."
Miria stares straight at her and says, "I never said I expected us to live."
There is a long "hm" and all eyes turn to Galatea who has crossed her arms and rubs a finger along her chin.
"You have an amazing attraction to suicide missions, did you know that? Thankfully, though, you and those close to you also have an equally amazing ability to survive those suicide missions."
"It's not without a lot of effort." Tabitha chimes in.
"You don't have to come with us," Miria tells them. "The seven of us are more than prepared to do this on our own. I'm merely offering you a chance to seek revenge for whatever qualms you carry against the Organization, if you carry any at all, that is."
"Qualms, hm?" Galatea lets out a quiet laugh. "If a warrior lives long enough, she has nothing but qualms. Well, so do they, I suppose. They get anxious the longer we're alive."
Clarice looks at her, frowns, and then returns her gaze.
"What do you mean?"
They all look at her. If Miria were one to wear her emotions upon her sleeve, she would shake her head right now. Instead, she holds her gaze and begins to explain.
"To the Organization, no matter how good we may be, it's better if we die young in battle, or reach our limits quickly and awaken before we have a chance to mature."
"What's so bad about maturing?"
Galatea rests her head against the wall, still smiling. "Well, only matured warriors would even dream of dismantling the Organization for starters."
"To be frank, Clarice," Miria says. "The smarter we are, the more of a threat we are to them. Why do you think you were sent to take out Galatea as soon as they found you had sway over Miata? Of all of the deserters out there, they sent Miata after her first."
"It's because I know too much, colored one," Galatea says. "And allowing both me and Miria to run loose could prove a fatal flaw for them. For instance, I could tell Miria all that I know of the warriors number one and number two and she could use this information to deal with them."
There is a silence in the room as Miria's eyes narrow and gaze at her.
"What do you know about them?"
Galatea says, "I'll take proper payment for this information later."
"Just tell us what you know."
"They're sisters. Twins. In battle, Alicia fully awakens while Beth concentrates to maintain her sister's human conscious. Beth is merely a sitting duck, easily taken out. Alicia is a frightfully powerful being, but half her power is Beth. If you remove Beth and her yoki, she is just another awakened being. She's powerful, yes, but not indestructible." Galatea turns her face toward Miria as if actually looking at her with her empty eyes. The corner of her mouth pulls up and points to Miata, sleeping against Clarice. She says, "And you also have this little one, who could easily have been the next number one after Alicia and Beth are discarded."
"Wait," Clarice says. "We haven't agreed to anything yet."
Miria is quiet a moment and then turns to Tabitha and says, "And Clare did say Ophelia is no longer a concern, did she not?"
"Yes, Captain. It seems she defeated Ophelia some time before the North War," Tabitha says. "That leaves only-."
"Rafaela." Miria nods.
"She has perished." Clarice chimes in. "After the North War. She went to kill Luciella of the South and ended up dying as well."
Galatea's eyebrow arches slightly. "Did she?"
"That's what I heard anyway."
In this one moment, Miria feels something warm in the center of her being as she comes to a startling revelation.
"That means," she says. "Unless the Organization has some other hidden trump card up their sleeve, the probability of survival on this mission isn't a certified zero percent. We just got about a five percent doubt in our favor."
Tabitha breathes in and smiles. "Five percent is better than zero, I guess."
Galatea is amused. "You two seem awfully optimistic with such a laughable survival percentage."
"We've had worse."
They set out from Rabona at dawn one early morning, claymores slung across their shoulders, except Galatea, who straps the wooden cross along her back. Father Vincent walks them to the gates and takes Galatea's hands giving them a warm shake. They exchange a few words regarding the children, reiterate once more their estimated return, and then turn on their heels and walk out of the gates into the open countryside.
"You don't have to come," Miria tells her. "It looks as if you are needed here."
Before them, Tabitha leads Clarice who holds Miata's hand. Tabitha has a fairly good sense of direction in these parts and Miria has entrusted the job of navigator to her. It is amusing how her face radiates pride at such a special designation.
"You've seen what Miata is capable of when she is set to kill," Galatea says. "It's like she has blinders on and all she sees is her target. Anything you do with her, you'll have to communicate through Clarice. If you do that, you run the risk of ignoring poor Tabitha who is probably looking forward to some one-on-one time with you. I'll handle Clarice and Miata. You satisfy the poor girl's hopes."
"It's not like that," Miria mutters. "Get those weird thoughts out of your head."
"The girl is hopelessly devoted."
"And you're hopelessly misguided."
Galatea ponders this a moment and then adjusts the wooden cross on her back before she says, "Well, I suppose you're right. In a way. Hold on a moment."
She sets the cross down on the road and kneels beside it, trailing her fingers along the glued seams until she feels something and then then pulls the over off. Miria smirks to herself when she sees the claymore lying inside cushioned with purple velvet, Galatea's symbol neatly engraved on the broad side just above the hilt. She slings the sword across her back and removes the modest nun wardrobe to reveal her old uniform. Then she packs the clothes inside the cross and picks it up again, standing tall beside Miria.
"I knew it," Miria says. "This look suits you much better."
Galatea chuckles. "A compliment from Phantom Miria? Whatever should I do?"
"Don't take it the wrong way."
"Oh, don't worry, I'm not. I'm just glad you looked long enough to notice."
Miria coughs and turns away mumbling to herself how such a person came to hold the rank of three.
Continued...