Ragazza Magica Renza Veneti
Chapter Three: Flytrap
The wind was biting up here. She'd never really felt it before.
Without her Device, her Jacket could only last a few minutes before disappating - not counting the time in her Puella transformation - and... well, those minutes had passed. E-Ranks... had their downsides. It wasn't that she had no magic whatsoever (there was another Rank below hers before you reached that point), but even the heavily optimised civillian Jackets were still... kind of complex. Definitely the sort of magic you'd need a Device to manage the calculations for.
As it was, Renza sat on a stool on the roof of an old Valezian structure in the Commercial district, the two Judicial Ispettore sat before her on the opposite end of a folding table, wearing only her baggy emergency clothes and shivering beneath the scratchy orange fabric. Jackets did more than provide convient clothing; they also served to regulate temperature and generate barriers against wind and soft impacts; hers were a little sloppy she had to admit but she could feel their absence now.
The sunlight itched faintly on her skin but it was the wind that was freezing. Was it normal for an equatorial region to be this cold? Yes, the emergency clothes were warm but...
Plus... well, Jackets weren't actually spun from cloth. They were just mana constructs that happened to look an awful lot like it - or not, as the fashionista desired. The mass-produced fabric on her arms and legs scratched and itched and no amount of uncomfortable shifting made it stop. They were also garaunteed to fit the user, whereas Renza's hands were practically drowning themselves in the sleeves.
For his part, Domhnall rather wished he'd given the girl her Device back himself, if only to keep the reflective glare out of his eyes. Unfortunately the moment had passed, but at least the awkwardness was proving a point. For an E-Ranker who couldn't support a Jacket unassisted, leaving their Device behind was just the height of stupidity without your life being in danger from the mob. Sooner that fact was cemented the better.
Right now, it was a stalemate. Veneti clearly expected him to start, but he was waiting on her as a matter of professional conduct. She knew why she was here; they'd caught her red handed, and he wasn't about to start potentially leading her. How someone started to explain themselves could give away more than most people knew. Plus... well, he honestly didn't have a clue what the girl had been playing at, and so he had no opening questions.
Thus, the deadlock.
Freiderike, having finished locking down the barca behind them, flopped into the seat by his side and started chewing loudly on one of the pastries without an ounce of shame. Domhnall stared.
"What?" She asked, aggressively innocent. "You did pay for the things."
...Belkans.
She wafted the other one in Veneti's direction. "Want one?"
Veneti took it more on confused politeness than anything else, holding it in both hands and waiting for someone to tell her what was going on. Domhnall sighed.
"You know, falsifying Device readings isn't technically a crime; it's your own property, but you're putting your life at risk if the rescue teams can't locate you in an emergency. In your case, it would be an anti-social misdemeanour, or potentially a case for self endangerment." He folded his hands to form a rest for his chin as he studied the girl before him. The collapsible chairs and table they kept in the barca had proved a surpringly useful addition over the past few months.
His eyes watched Veneti carefully. "Both are too minor offences for it to be worth the Judiciary's time and funding. Particularly amongst people your age, we just pass such incidents off to the Church. Where we catch it of course."
Which meant, inevitably, it would get back to the Basso Trari that she'd inconvenienced the two Inspettore managing her own case. According to the Device tap her Jacket was still set to her school uniform. He knew she'd make the connection.
Veneti had made no response; just waiting quietly for him to finish, pastry in hand. He wasn't sure whether to impressed or worried. She still had that startled look in her eye though; probably this was the first time the girl had been seriously pulled over by the Judiciary. She'd given a similar impression when they'd met in the Serenità. Hopeful sign.
Dohmnall kept going. "Ultimately, however, the matter is at the Ispettore's discretion. We have no official obligation to report it. So, please; could you start by explaining what's going on?"
Veneti considered, and nibbled the pastry. Delaying tactic, or she needed time to collect herself. He kept his face neutral. This was always the problem in dealing with kids.
On Renza's side, she was chewing the pastry mostly to keep her hands from shaking. This... this was not something she'd expected. Not something she knew how to deal with. Hospitals, sure. Penne, sure. Ispettore? Roche had known a bit about the Judiciary but that was mostly related to avoiding them not...
There was, at least, one thing to fall back on. "Kyubey, what do I do?"
The Incubator sat on the roof of the Ispettore' barca, tail awishing, unnoticed by anyone else.
"Lie, or tell the truth."
She blinked at that.
"...The truth? Really?"
"Six days, Renza." The creature reminded her casually. "Then none of this will matter."
She swallowed. No... that would just complicate things. It was probably a given she was being recorded. The black box on the man's arm had the traditional look of an Investigative Device.
"You've had to manage this kind of thing in the past, haven't you?"
"Naturally."
"Then, what works?"
The Kyubey's head tilted as Renza nibbled. And listened.
Dohmnall observed silently as Veneti finished the pastry, fiddled with her fingers for a few seconds and then slumped onto her hands. Here we go.
"I..." She began, hesitant. "I met a guy."
Domhnall waited.
"It was... three months ago. I... he's a good person! He showed me how to do that with my Device it's just..."
The girl squirmed. He could sympathise; emergency gear was never particularly comfortable. Shivering in the flabby orange jumpsuit almost twice her size... she really was just a kid.
"If people knew, there'd be trouble, so..."
...He knew it had to be something stupid. Domhnall sighed.
Freiderike chomped loudly through her pastry with a very doubtful air, making Veneti twitch.
"I-It's true!"
Seemed to shiver a lot. Cold? Fear? Relationship issues? He was terrible at reading children.
"What's his name?" He asked evenly, entirely unaware that on the opposite side, Renza was having the exact same problem. Both of them were just so blank, so professional, like little white boards she could write down all her testimonies on so they could read them back in court. She couldn't tell what they were thinking at all.
But the Incubators could.
"Deflect the question;" Kyubey advised immediately, "his Device will look up names."
"I-I..." Renza hesitated, flustering. "...Do I have to?"
"Do you have any reason not to tell an Ispettore?" Pinici asked mildly.
She bowed her head. "I don't want word to spread."
Pinici sighed. "We're not interested in gossip; we're doing this for your own sake."
That... confused her. "...Si?"
The table went oddly quiet; the Ispettore frowning behind those folded hands. "...You were attacked."
Oh. Oh.
Suddenly everything felt horribly obvious.
"H-He wouldn't hurt anyone!" She improvised quickly. This was turning into a minefield and if the Ispettore got the wrong idea-
Pinici raised his head from his arms, now displaying genuine confusion. Which was somehow more terrifying than everything earlier.
"Even so, you live in Tosca territory, don't you? We've looked into your family history and-"
"It's not like that-!"
-Wait, no, was that a good answer? It could- but- no- wait-
The Ispettore just stared.
Silence fell between them, the wind tearing at her hair. She found herself shivering.
When the Ispettore spoke again, he was leaning forward, hands under his chin, and watching her with a careful, focused intensity. It was like trying to say no to her father; lying to a higher authority than the Trari Sorella. Which she was, technically. She could no more dodge their questions than she could stop the sea.
But she had to, so she gave them her full attention.
"Are you sure of this?" The man asked.
She clenched the sleeves of her coat under the table. "Yes."
The woman tilted her head. "If this is putting you in danger, you need to tell us."
"I know. It's not."
"You were attacked, before."
"That's unrelated. And, that was an accident, wasn't it?"
The Ispettore remained silent as they looked her in the eyes. She saw something shift in there, like doors closing shut.
They didn't believe her. It was obvious she wasn't giving them full information. But she couldn't do that, and had to work with it. If she gave them anything to work with - false or otherwise - then they would... work with it, and the investigation would continue. The best course of action was to give them nothing at all, and hope the Kyubey's subcontractor would arrive on time.
"You know," the man asked quietly, "I usually make a point of not interfering in family affairs, but are you aware of who you are related to?"
Renza nodded calmly.
Another blustery moment passed. It was fortunate there wasn't anything on the table.
"Are you sure your life is not in danger?"
"Yes."
"You live in a Tosca area."
"I am aware of that. There's a protection racket; paid."
"We arrested two men following you with known connections."
"Even so. Please; trust my judgement on this."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. And then Renza found herself presented with a heavy, black shape, packing tape removed.
She took her Device back calmly, strapping it back onto her wrist. Her Jacket reformed around her, warm and cutting out the wind.
The Ispettore was handing her something else, too.
"My card." He explained, standing. The man struck a dark, shabby figure against the Valezorro skyline. The woman slid out of her seat with a small sigh, making her seat collapse with a practised motion.
She took her Device back quietly. "Gratza saneto."
The man was still watching her, weary and tired. Like he'd seen all this before.
"If you ever want to talk about it, contact me. I can promise confidentiality."
She nodded. "Thank you."
The woman started collapsing the furniture; she stood to get out of their way. In silence; no offer of a lift; the two repacked their gear and restarted their barca, Renza staying in position even as the air shifted and blew out around her.
She stood, and she watched, as the Judicial Ispettore took off into the sky, leaving her behind.
It took five minutes to reach the canals towards the Judicial district. It passed in silence.
"Well, Fred?" He began, finally. "What do you think?"
Freiderike hmm'd angrily behind the wheel, watching the waterways. Returning to Judiciary required passing through Commercial, and Commercial, as always, was packed. They'd dropped the colours, transforming them into seemingly ordinary civilians, though really after a cursory glance what they were was a little obvious to anyone who knew the signs. Still, this was Valezorro, and some discretion was better than none.
"Holding back, obviously. She doesn't want to tell us something. But that's the thing." She took a turning, and sighed to herself as they hit the tail end of a queue. "I think she believes she's doing the right thing. It's tricky."
Domhnall nodded. Pretty much his conclusion of events. Diamuid was sending the recordings back to the Polizern's data processing centre; hopefully that could squeeze more truth out of things.
It had been a damn long time since he'd been a kid; if there was ever a question of which of them was better with children... well, there just wasn't much of a question. It wasn't even a statement on Freiderike; he just wasn't good with kids. Not at that age. Impossible to decide whether they were adults or not.
"You're sure?"
Freiderike nodded. "I'm sure."
"Coercion?"
She grimaced. "Not like that I don't think."
That caught his attention. "Oh?"
Freiderike tapped the steering wheel, and took a moment to reply whilst she handled a turning. Barcas could turn on a dime, one of the main reason they were more popular than, say, simple motorboats; Valezorro's canalways could get pretty sharp and narrow in places.
Most of them hadn't initially been canals.
"The guy thing is a lie." She stated with certainty.
He tilted has head. "How so?"
Freiderike shrugged. "Call it intuition. It just doesn't fit. Not saying there isn't another person involved, but I'd be surprised if it was like that."
He sighed as the traffic skiffed to a halt in front of them.
"...She's doing something stupid, isn't she."
Freiderike didn't answer that. Not much need to.
The barcas drifted slowly above the waterline.
"The Judiciary won't waste its time on an uncooperative slumgirl." She observed instead. "Short of hoping she'll come forward and tell us, we can't do anything. Dead case."
Domhnall nodded, prepared for that. Almost seemed what the Veneti girl had been wanting. "Dead case."
Hence the card.
Freiderike watched him in the mirror. "What's gotten you all invested in this anyway? It's not like you."
That... he couldn't deny that. Just another kid from the slum-docks; just another tragedy of Valezorro that happened all the time, Judiciary or no Judiciary. They could only do so much. So why focus here?
There was a reason; and it was frankly unprofessional. Letting sentimentality get involved...
He sighed wearily, trying to grip on his thoughts. Freiderike spared him a glance. A flash of black hair and pale green eyes.
Ah. Childhood. How could he forget.
"It's the table trick." He settled on, finally as the line started moving again. "Máirín used to do the exact same thing before she disappeared."
His partner looked sympathetic, but made no comment. She knew the story.
Yes, things like this just happened all the time around here.
"If she won't take help, there's nothing we can do. When we get back, we'll drop the case." Domhnall decided wearily. "Unless she chooses to offer up explanations."
Freiderike knew how it ended too. "Or we find her in the canals."
Her opinion was pretty much final.
"She ain't got a clue; brainless slum rat."
He lounged on his ski, bobbing gently in the water, cigarette hanging limply from dry, worn lips. The acrid aroma of the burning stick overtook the usual salt, fish and oil smells of Valezorro. At least they were nowhere near Industrial. "You sure? Thought you said she's intelligent."
Natalie laughed bitterly in the alley overhang, tossing an apple in one hand. "Books, sure, but she's an idiot. Acting like nothing's happened. Stupid girl."
He sighed. "So she's a no-go then."
That earned a derisive snort, followed by the crunch of a bite being torn out. "Pretty so; might've got us in with the Delgado sure but just you watch; she'll be dead within the week."
Wince. "Lil' pessimistic."
"Ain't pessimism. Between those Tosca fucks and the Judi, someone's gonna kill 'er."
He rubbed his chin; meeting greasy stubble. Reminder: needed to shave. "I dunno; can't we save her anyway? Castillan loyalty thing?"
"Oh like they're going to give a fuck; it was a long shot anyway. She's just some bastard crawling in the slum; halfie too. Think she'd be a full Valezi just to look at her."
"...Let me guess; blue?"
"Oooh yeah. Down to here. Still one-a our's though." She waved her hand. "It's in the face."
He sighed, puffing smoke out into the breeze. The multistory houses of the Residential districts provided ample shade from the afternoon sun, scattering warm, easy colours through the narrow canal. All the island cities had places like these; old paths and crannies that found themselves unexpectedly forming knife-like canals with the rise of the Ocean Crisis. What Natalie stood on probably technically used to be a roof, since reworked into a pedestrian platform.
The gently drifting waters provided a relaxing cadence.
Natalie threw the core into the river.
"Well, 'tween everything it's gonna be a clusterfuck alright. Not like the Judi and Tosca need any excuse."
She shrugged, still half a silhouette in the shaded alleyway. "I'll watch it for sure, but it ain't worth sticking my head out over."
He agreed, watching the smoke drift away. "...Gonna be a mess."
Natalie kept in her alcove, hidden from the noonday sun.
"Say, Jacque..."
"Nn?"
"If I did drag her out of it... they let me in for that, y'think?"
"Ya ain't 16 chica. That's Cosa rules."
She snorted bitterly. "Yeah, not worth a try."
Wandering the markets of Commercial, Renza took in the sights, smells and sounds of Valezorro.
A little like the slumdocks with more money and slightly more planning, Commercial had, over the years, turned into yet another chaotic mess of arches, shaded walkways, marketplaces, stalls and buildings in an interconnected, multilevel maze; old Valezian architecture merging with Galean ironwork, Belkan masonry and more modern concrete and glass, with temporary timber and scaffold tents crammed into all the spaces inbetween. Put simply, it was a giant, colossal, multicultural smelting pot. Colours hung from every corner. New sights from every stall. Easily her favourite part of the city.
Down here, things could be roughly split into three categories. The retail stores - typically transdimensional, corporate affairs, but you had local ones popping up here and had there - that started appearing with the advent of the TSAB and the resolution of the Ocean Crisis that made establishing businesses on the island cities actually viable for more than ethical reasons. These had their own buildings, logos and hired staff, but tended to be expensive and wouldn't accept bartering; nor would their security trust a slum-docker worth a damn (suspected or otherwise). Things like banks and barca showrooms were cloistered away in Economic.
Below them, you had the two levels of merchants. Put simply, the first could afford a license to put their stall up in the atrial Boulevards that ran through the district, and the second could not. On the Boulevards, things were kept generally respectable, with private cameras and a few on-duty Judiciary around to keep an eye on things. Off them... not so much.
If she was in anything other than her Puella outfit or the uniform of the Basso Trari, no-one would let her even get near. An unaccompanied Valezi kid, using public configurations? That there was a pick-pocket for sure! Obviously going around in her uniform at this time would just cause trouble. Her Puella outfit, though?
All the hawkers tripled their prices. She almost wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. And if they knew her other last name...
Well, they'd probably wonder by what Kaiser she was even here, but anyway.
It was a waste of time to begin with; she wasn't looking to shop. For one, she didn't have the money. For another, she couldn't access her Device in this form, meaning she couldn't use the money she didn't have.
For the third, she was on patrol. She didn't... being a Puella just felt more natural right now. Simpler. Just Puella Magi and Daemons, and that was it. Being Veneti and being Delgado; all that faded away from it.
She held her gem in her hand, having removed it from the back of her neck. A necessity for patrolling, but sadly impractical in combat. She needed both her hands to fight and mercy knew what would happen if she lost it trying to hold onto it and fend off Daemons at the same time. Nothing good, she was sure, given what it was. The last thing she'd need was it accidentally winding up in the canals.
As for the crowds... well, a girl in a rich Jacket, carrying around small blue gem? Obviously she was having a telepathic conversation with an Intelligent Device. It wasn't even out of the ordinary. Kyubey would inspire comments, of course, but he was invisible to ordinary people, and off following the Ispettore to boot. That she was trusted to hunt on her own was a reassuring sign.
Though most Daemons spawned in Industrial, pickings there for them would be slim. No, typically the Daemons wouldn't hang around there for long after they'd spawned. You wanted a place with high population density, where disappearances would be missed and with high chances for grief? Commercial was the obvious answer. Kaisers, but Roche had been a cynic.
She could almost remember her, dancing across the rooftops. Watching the city down below.
"That's what they do, y'know? They hit ya where it's worst."
...Fighting the Daemons was a public good. A moral obligation. No-one could find fault for her in that, surely?
Her soul gem flashed in the noon light.
She had a trail.
Diarmuid negotiated the docking arrangements. Freiderike brought them in following the barca's internal HUD holographics, the Judicial barca and the Polizern's traffic coordinators hashing out the directions to a free space. They used one of the docks for the flight-capable barca; an enclosed parking area several floors up fed into by an exposed landing/departure balcony. Fred brought them in perfectly, having done it a million times before.
Their craft shut down after they exited, the external mana projections switching off and leaving it completely identical to the rows of the other blank grey-blue Judicial barca in the bay. Dark and musty with vehicle fumes and humming power connectors, the barca dock had that feeling of a place that would be pleasantly cool if their Jackets didn't handle thermals anyway.
Domhnall yawned, waiting for Freiderike to finish locking up. She snorted as her glove-Device and the vehicle beeped joint assent.
"Caffi addict."
"Shoot me."
The made their way down the central channel between the rows of docks to an elevator, bland, functional and plain in that way government buildings always were. A few moments of tedium and bad music later and they were in the Polizern Judicia proper.
The atmosphere, as usual, was a mixture of stale caffi and mild professional chaos. As they left the elevator from the barca docks, they had to get out of the way of a squad going in exactly the opposite direction. Pretty normal, all told.
The lower offices, closest to the docks, were where the bulk of day-to-day dispatch work and organisation happened; resembling somewhere half-way between a ready lounge, a very loud call centre and an extremely haphazard armoury. People manning comms rubbed elbows with people repairing devices avoided rubbing elbows with people just off-rotation and trying to nap. In the centre of the floor, in probably the least convenient place possible, a large black bank of Intelligent Devices sat managing dispatch routes and providing general command and coordination. The sad thing was they'd since found over a dozen better places to put them; they just couldn't afford to switch the damn things off. They were still working on getting the backups online; those things cost money.
As Ispettore, it wasn't their department, so they just passed straight through, though Freiderike took the air in a little wistfully; waving to a few people. Domhnall just stole a caff.
Up two flights of stairs and spread across several more were the Ispettore offices; since they didn't need much beyond enough room to fit an Evidence Table, they were just crammed in in the places all the other divisions didn't need. Not at the top, not at the bottom. Not, often, near the windows. The cheap florescent lighting was harsh and acerbic, washing out all the faded woodwork and scuffed floors. The Polizern Judicia used to be the old centre of Governance before that moved into its new, modern headquarters in its own dedicated District. The Judiciary had just inherited the old buildings; before during the Ocean Crisis they'd all been working out of the old Galean Royal Army barracks in the south of town. Were they a museum now? Or had the Church had them torn down...
Ah, he couldn't remember. Cared less. That place had been an obsolete, rickety deathtrap.
Either way, the corridors were bland, bale and boring. It was all back-stage from here. About the most interesting thing they could hope to find back here were the watercoolers. With the Veneti case dropped, the both had a debriefing to file into the databases and a new case to look forward to.
And Director Rice Pascal, Old Man of the Judiciary, smiling, waiting patiently outside their door.
It lead her high and low; the daemons must have swept through the area to gather their prey elsewhere. It was enough to make her ill; the patterns her gem was flashing. This trail hadn't even started to fade; it had to have happened in broad daylight just a few hours ago. It was ridiculous, absurd; a giant, droning monster just passing straight through crowds of civilians? All of them unaware of its presence, all unwitting as the unlucky were pulled under its thrall...
They must have known she wouldn't be around to catch them. They weren't visible to ordinary people but to a Puella Magi or even an Incubator they'd stand out like a sore thumb. The thought was more than a little terrifying... one lone Puella Magi to one massive, sprawling city...
They knew. The chill she felt was far worse than the wind.
It took several hours for a Daemon to drain someone, and this trail was younger than that. Still, Renza found herself instinctively starting to rush. Would there be more? Kaiser's Mercy what if there were groups of them at it at the same time- if she'd gone back to the Trari they'd have- Saints, how many times had this happened before-
The trail was close, but it hardly mattered. She was running for it. Off the street paths and bounding along the rooftops, following the Daemons' 'footprints' - a trail of lingering Miasma - purely on instinct. Commercial beyond the boulevards was a maze built on a maze; buildings rising up and falling down by the day; a rat's nest of factories and docks and marketplaces and storefronts too chaotic for any simple map. She just ran. She didn't need to know where she was. She didn't need to know where the Daemon was. She just needed to follow the trail.
And be there in time.
It was completely stupid of course she'd be there in time she had hours but the shock of it all...
Instinct called her to a halt, skidding on a flat, airy rooftop deep amongst the warehouses, overlooking an old dock long since filled in with concrete to make a slightly uneven loading platform and landing area. Commercial needed somewhere for its commerce, after all. Dark and musty in the shadows of the covered markets and the encroaching towers of the Economic district, it really did have all the trappings of a haunting ground.
Her gem wasn't doing anything spectacular, merely seeming to flash, but she knew this was it, as surely as she knew up from down and the way she needed to breathe. If anyone ever asked her, she'd never be able to explain quite how. It was in the air.
Her grip stiffened. The answer was obvious. It was because she was a Puella Magi. What else could do such things? The Puella hunted the Daemons who hunted the humans. That was how it worked. Of course she'd know how to do it. There was Miasma in the air.
The warm, lively gem nestled neatly behind her head. Her hands flicked out, ornate axes emerging into their rightful place. The silence of the warehouse district began to rise; a brassy, unnatural hum.
Time to get to work.
They came for him during lunch break.
Shipbuilding was an exhausting job. Mostly, they built fishing trawlers; essentially just the barest possible bones for a ship and as much space and structural support for cargo haulage and equipment as they could fit within regulations. As a Myedoan C-Rank, he fabricated the structural supports and was partially responsible for holding everything together and in place whilst the engine and systems specialists did their part. Lunch was important partly because it gave them all a rest, but mostly because it gave him a change to recharge and refocus.
The Tosca contact didn't quite help.
"Benezerre santono; bad news my friend."
She slid into the opposite chair. The cafeteria was as full as you'd expect from the time; loud and noisy both from the kitchens and the continuing pound of industry outside. One of the other shipbuilders; a fellow Myedoan caster, her dark blue hair tied into an over-the-shoulder braid in the Valezian style; entwined with white and blue ribbons.
Ciardo kept himself focused on his soup. Fish, as usual; always common in Valezorro. They nicknamed it zuppa di Mare - 'Ocean Soup' - since it tended to get watered down so much it was if the catch had never left. That and the damned salt.
She sipped at her drink, a little nervous. She looked apologetic, if anything.
"The Judi are up to something Ciar. Bastardo Pascal's involved."
Ciardo grunted.
"There's nothing on record either; all's hush hushed within the jackboots."
Ciardo frowned.
She leaned in. "They're visiting the Delgado family. 'Louis Delgado' sound familiar to you?"
He'd paused. It did. Of course it did.
His contact leaned in, watching him carefully. "Don't know exactly what they're playing at with that lot, but they sure got a stir surrounding your little girl."
She watched him earnestly, even as he'd frozen up in his seat.
"You've always been good with us; so we want to be good with you, but we need your help, Ciar. The Judi will never give you anything. You got this job from us, si? You need the assists, si? Can't fight the world on your own."
His entire body felt cold. He knew what she was asking of him.
"...Fine." He said, simply.
She smiled, and flicked a small, metal object over to his side of the table. He caught it automatically; snatching it out of the air. He hardly needed to look at it to know what it would be.
A small metal ring, with a blue stone set in the top.
His contact was smiling warmly now, raising her cup. "Welcome to the Tosca, my friend."
Just like that.
They drank. The woman, at least, was able to smile confidently.
"Don't worry, Ciar. Everything will be alright now."
The battle began when the roof collapsed beneath her.
It went in a sudden conflagration; a scythe of beams dodged only on the whim of some deeply hardwired instinct. She didn't even register what was happening until she was rolling over the top of a giant agricultural tractor, long since rusted and abandoned after the Ocean Crisis rendered them all useless.
The metal slag of the melting roofing drifted and swirled, spiralling upwards in a lazy, surreal imitation of bubbles in water. That would be the miasma then. Good to know she wouldn't have to explain why a warehouse had demolished itself by the end of all this.
A crowd of daemons. That as far as she got before she was moving again, darting off her perch into the cover of the dusty racks of empty crates and what she assumed was ancient farming equipment. No sign of the civilians. Not good.
Lances of light dogged her, punching, tearing and slicing with impunity, always just a few moments behind.
Given the Daemon's willingness to tear this place apart, whoever they'd enthralled had to be in a different building. Probably somewhere on the other side of the Daemons so they couldn't hit them by accident. The racks where rapidly turning in a barbed wire maze of floating and ragged debris, resembling less ancient but ordered rows and more an angry metal bush as the Daemons hacked them to ribbons in the twisted gravity.
The worst of it was the dust. There must have been inches of the stuff before now, but the sudden anarchy had thrown it all to the sky. Under the warped laws of the miasma, it was staying there too, forming thick, foggy clouds that scratched at her face as she dashed through.
Asphyxiation wasn't a worry. Not compared to being unable to see.
Whatever instinct it was keeping her alive, she was forced to rely on it now. Sudden jerks, ducks and dances took hold of her body as flashes of light crashed past from nowhere, everywhere and anywhere. Too fast to see. Too fast to comprehend; sudden flashes in the smoke that were already screaming past her ears in an erratic, random barrage by the time they registered. She couldn't think; couldn't manage it, couldn't afford to. She was dodging and weaving without a clue where she was going.
That was dangerous. Roche had spelt that lesson out loud and clear.
The shots were coming from everywhere. Probably surrounded. Too fast to charge, she was pinned in by the steams of fire. She couldn't even charge; the fog ruined her perception; whatever hair-trigger instinct was keeping her alive had barely a split second to fire. Add her speed onto that and she just wouldn't be able to dodge in time.
It... this really was the perfect trap.
It was a trap.
The daemons had laid a trap. They knew what she could do. They knew.
She had to get out of here.
The roof buckled, tearing damn near in half as she launched up through it like a shot. The damned dust spewed off her like a rocket trail as Renza sailed up into the clear, blessed skies.
There was brief, bizarre moment of serenity as her velocity slowed. Time dragged out for a second as she hung in the air. All around her, Valezorro was like a dripping watercolour painting; swirling in an impossible heat-haze with oversized plastic gulls hanging on the horizon. Yep, Miasma alright.
Then the second barrage came.
With no way of actually moving in mid-air, Renza improvised; pulling a giant zweihander from thin air, the volley crashing into the massive axehead. Hanging onto the spike at the top whilst her feet found improbable purchase on the grip, the sudden weight dropped her like a stone.
On the plus side, it did get her to the ground faster.
The giant zweihander crashed through the deck, Renza leaping off as soon as it made contact. Shots were already trailing after her, but at the distance she'd bought, she had more than enough time to evade. She was already dodging and weaving as a pealing wail of support structures were dragged down into the pastel sea behind her.
Around six. Ish. Couldn't be completely sure. But it looked like a small group, which was a mercy in of itself. She'd spied them on the way down. There wasn't enough for a full Barrier at least.
She could... do this. She could do this.
Skidding to halt behind a dilapidated loading crane, she stopped to catch her breath. She didn't actually need to; beyond a residual twinge in her leg, her breathing came surprisingly relaxed and even. Well, Puella perks, presumably. She needed to gather herself anyway.
It had been a trap. They'd laid a trap, to catch her... but she must have triggered it early. Right... there would still be several hours until the civilians were drained, weren't there? And less than that hours before she'd normally be leaving from school. So they were the bait and... yeah. Trap.
That they had her schedule was... disturbing, but she could hardly have been the first Puella Magi who had to go to school as well. It wasn't that surprising. Should have been expected, really.
And I guess Roche wouldn't have known about that...
In an older time, there would have been another girl, filling the air with bolts and wires, distracting Daemons, hemming them in and rounding them up like bowling pins for Renza to crash through. In another time, there would have been teamwork. Backup. Support.
An eerie silence had descended over the old depot. Nothing but the waves.
Renza resummoned her axes, and charged.
"Can I get you a drink, Ispettore?"
Pinici deferred. Buhr shook her head. Pascal took a crushed lassé with lemon.
Louis Martice di Delgado had been waiting for them at the Villa's private dock; a quiet, open area with imported grass that doubtless served double purpose as a garden, if the flower bushes were any indication. He lead them through via a series of rooms and corridors into a well-dressed, spacious dining room with bright, high windows, already arranged with a large square table and four chairs, servants bowing out to grant them privacy. The entire villa was done in pearly-white marble and rich, Castillan reds; from the curtains to the carpets.
Domhnall knew the look; the marbles and reds were as iconic to the Delgado's ancestral island-city as the Valezian stone and blue was to Valezorro. It felt a little too false, from his perspective, like a façade; for all the ancient artwork hung on the walls and old throwbacks in the gilded columns and peaked windows, nothing could hide the fact that the Villa Delgado was very, very new. Too clean. Followed all the TSAB building regulations to the letter on ventilation and emergency exits. No weirdly shaped rooms or stumpy corridors from having been torn down and thrown back up five dozen times. No old-Belkan or Galean holdovers, no old scars of water damage...
Saint's Mercy he could go on forever. He shook his head. This... really wasn't the time. He was out of place in this environment; he knew it and didn't really need telling.
Director Pascal, meanwhile, acted as if he'd never left. He and Delgado exchanged greetings, debated the presence of casto - a type of soft, round biscuit the Castillans were inordinately fond of - made passing mention of the Cosa Nostra and proceeded to dance a dizzying maze of formalities and gestures Domhnall couldn't even pretend to understand the meaning of.
He resolved to just keep his mouth shut for most of the proceedings. At least until they had an idea of why they were here; Pascal had told them barely anything informative.
Just that the Veneti case wasn't dropped.
Everyone was speaking Caglici, of course. The 'language of commerce' - on Caglica at least - rather than any of the local dialects. Louis took a seat first. Pascal sat opposite him, and then they progressed right by rank; Freiderike at the tail end.
No-one had set out plates at least, for which Domhnall was quietly thankful.
"Well then," Pascal said pleasantly, "shall we get to business?"
Louis smiled agreeably. "Of course, Director."
Settled into his seat, Louis Delgado made an... interesting figure. Neatly and immaculately dressed in whites and reds - as one would expect from that family - with blonde hair and red eyes; once again, the typical Delgado, and hanging on well to his youth for his age. His sister had been the same, though it seemed the Veneti girl had picked up none of their traits, save some facial structure.
Except the Delgado were supposed to be assertive. Known for it. Knowing what they wanted and plainly stating their cases to public officials such as themselves. They were - politely - an extremely blunt family.
Louis Delgado seemed to be none of these things. Just sitting there quietly, responding to Pascal but making no overtures himself. Smiling politely, as pleasant as pleasant company demanded, but nothing more. He made no demands. He'd said nothing on his own the entire time. Nothing he did seemed to reach his eyes at all.
Once again he was meeting with someone impossible to read. The man just felt empty.
Pascal, Domhnall realised with an unpleasant sort of lurch, was used to it. The old man was sipping at his lassé; even doing work on his Device - non-visibly, of course, but you could always tell - dragging Delgado in and out of the conversation with practised, familiar ease. And Delgado let him.
"This Veneti business -" sip "- all very unfortunate of course. And Jeanne's daughter- ah, can I call her your niece?"
"Of course."
"-Officially recognised as her daughter, though we try not to let it cause a fuss. Wouldn't want the undesirables finding out - cause all kinds of trouble - is, in fact, we believe - Ah! I had the Trari not let word out; the Church shouldn't say anything."
Louis shrugged, a small roll of his shoulders that still didn't reach his face. "She already knows about her heritage, though please, do continue."
Pascal blinked a moment. "She does? Well then, less trouble for you, I think. No demands at all?"
"She contacted me to ask about Jeanne a few months ago, but otherwise we have no contact."
"How many?"
It was as if a play had ground to a halt with one of the actors going off script. Pascal paused a moment, his flow of conversation broken, before giving him his attention. Louis was simply watching him without even turning his head. Both reacted, adapting to bringing a third into the conversation.
Domhnall regretted asking immediately.
"I'm sorry?"
"How long ago did she contact you?"
Louis' eyes unfocused slightly as he looked something up - probably checking his Device's calendar. Not immediately clear what that would be; nothing around his neck or on his wrists. Probably in a pocket somewhere.
"14 weeks ago, in Meurta." He clarified. The 5th month of the Caglican calender year.
Domhnall nodded his thanks, made a mental note of it himself via Diarmuid, then quietly hoped neither of them would notice him again. This whole episode reeked of trouble.
Unfortunately, Delgado didn't seem to be obliging.
"You two are the Ispettore leading her investigation, correct?"
The man was watching them now, seeming to pay full attention for the first time in the entire conversation.
"Yes, we are."
Delgado looked across at Pascal.
"I assume we have confidentiality?"
Pascal nodded.
Louis continued, turning back to the Ispettore. "If you have any questions, I'll answer to the best of my ability. I have access to contacts of my own as well; we can see what we find."
Domh shifted uncomfortably. Freiderike, to her credit, kept as stoic as ever. "Thank you, Signor."
"Louis."
Politely, Freiderike nodded.
Hunching over the table slightly, Delgado picked up his glass. The sparkling wine within was a rich, royal blue - Valezian fare, Domhnall realised suddenly, then kicked himself for not spotting it sooner. It twinkled and shone in the light as Veneti's uncle twirled it gently in his hand.
Even Pascal seemed to be a little thrown.
"Renza Veneti is a stranger to me," Louis spoke up, prompted by nothing, "but she is still my sister's legacy. Ciardo and myself have an understanding that shall not be breached. As her uncle, I wish to help you, but as a Delgado, I cannot."
Those last words seemed more directed at Rice than anyone else. The old man frowned faintly.
"Why?" Pinici asked.
Louis sighed wearily. "Because to the Delgado family, she is a disgrace. My sister is a disgrace."
All at once, the man seemed infinitely tired. As if the face he had put on for Pascal had been dropped aside. Not looking at anyone, simply staring into the little piece of Valezorro that had crept inside this Castillan mansion.
"To understand the Venetis, you must understand this. Nothing in this was planned. Ciardo, when we met, was a good man. The dashing sort; even a comedian. And... a technician. One of our hired staff. Nothing more. My sister..."
He sighed.
"To be honest, I do not understand it myself. But it happened, and now things are as they are. I liked him personally, but Jeanne..."
He swirled.
"The first I knew of their relationship was her throwing up into the toilet with morning sickness. It came out to the rest of the family at much the same time. It was... foolish. That whole thing was a complete comedy of errors. My sister dishonoured, Ciardo disbarred. It should never have happened."
Silence fell across the table.
"So in short," Pinici observed quietly, "You consider Renza Veneti a mistake?"
Delgado looked him straight in the eye.
"They were idiots, Ispettore. They fell too much in love and blinded themselves to the consequences. Now, my sister is dead and Veneti is just some drunk on the docks."
He set the glass down, wearily.
"Of course she was a mistake."
A flurry of white pixels filled the air as Renza crashed through a Daemon and charged out through the other side. At least beyond their Barriers, the Daemons struggled to phase through walls. The miasma helped of course, subverting natural law until there was enough of it to discard them completely.
Too little too late to save the one she'd just chopped in half.
A flurry of lances and she dived, down an alley formed by two warehouses side by side. A long, thin, overhung artery that should have been a killing ground had it been anyone else.
She was skidding out the other side in barely a matter of seconds, using an axe as an improvised brake. Still moving at speed she leapt, hitting and bounding off the opposite wall to swing by an axe head off a power coupler up onto the roofs of the warehouses she'd just passed between.
One down. Five to go? Daemons being both identical and perfectly capable of walking through walls, miscounting and losing track was dangerously, dangerously easy.
Stay high, pick your targets. Only dive down to engage. That's what seemed to work best. And never drop your guard until the Miasma fades.
Her leg twinged. This running around wasn't doing it any good.
There. Moving between the ironwork stumps of a pair of cranes long since pulled down. Were there any more around? Couldn't see. Where were the civillians? Didn't matter; they weren't there.
Snap decision. Renza dived. Initiative was vital in these fights.
She bounded off the lip of the roof like a rocket, crashing into the frames at the opposite side of the dock in less than a second, crashing up great sprays of pixels, water droplets and twisted chunks of iron.
Two dead.
Instinct threw her through the crater as a lattice of laserlight screamed behind her. Ambush again, probably. Beneath the dock was a maze of dust and concrete supports plunging into the unnaturally flat mirror of the ocean. When the debris hit it, it fractured like glass.
Miasma for you.
Renza rebounded off it, the sunlight through the gaping hole she'd punched through the deck reflecting and diffusing into the dank environment. Laser fire dogged her, themselves reflecting and scattering off from the mirror in waves, filling the space that had never seen light for centuries with bright, scathing light as the entire deck seemed to tear up and away, cutting off from the mirror like a model being pulled from its mount.
The Daemons were still shooting her even through the deck, tracking her position with eerie accuracy. But that was fine. Even with the scatter, the barrages of lasers was letting her track them too.
She charged, crashing up through the deck and bursting through an empty office, sailing out into the pure Valezian sun, the head and shredded top half of a Daemon already dissipating behind her.
Three dead.
She sailed straight, wind breezing against her, flying across the decks in a gentle ballistic curve with contrails of dust and rubble trailing leisurely behind.
The roof shook hard when she slammed into it, the metal sheeting denting under her feet. Three dead. That should be half. Not enough to ambush or mob her; she should be able to keep them divided now and pick the stragglers off with relative ease. Good thing too, between the bursts of speed and ensuring that she, herself, did not splatter onto the concrete when she charged, pulling those sort of moves took more of a toll on her gem than you'd think.
With the scene relatively clear, she slid the gem out of its perch - the egg-sized stone slipping out easily and loosely into her hands despite all the sheer forces she'd been moving under previously - and quickly checked it.
You could typically tell by feel or intuition, but it was dangerous to rely on that. Visually was best.
The blue gem was darkened faintly. With an attentive eye, you could spot tiny flakes, little specks of blackness, fluttering and swirling within like a crowd of minuscule feathers in a breeze. Around half full, she'd say.
She grimaced. That was always the danger in losing or getting injured; breaking even could be difficult enough.
Watching the skyline for movement, she slipped it back into place like putting on a necklace, then got moving. Three dead, three left. Time to scout around a little; first to find the last three and second to figure out where all the civilians were being held.
She'd have asked Kyubey if it wasn't off trailing the Ispettore.
She frowned. That was irrelevant right now.
She surveyed the scene, looking for a likely hiding place. The holes she'd punched into the deck where like gaping, weeping scars, debris still floating and twisting about under the broken laws of the Miasma, bringing to mind an open wound in Valezorro itself. The skyline was twisted and warped at the boundaries of the space; skyscrapers protruding like ribs, aircraft circling like flies. Far and in the distance, the beating heart of Valezorro sat in the cradle of Commercial, pulsing and shining and vibrant with life by the commands of Governance's cortex and Economic's stomach. The red sun shone upon the red canals that made the lifelines of the city; a glittering, glimmering red.
Renza flinched. It... it hadn't been doing this before, had it? The seas had gone from a flat, reflective mirror to a red-grey fog that stank of mists and Industrial and decay.
The air had changed. This was almost a Barrier. An entirely different Barrier.
The axes in her hands made a reassuring weight. Swallowing, she tore her eyes away from the cityscape and focused on the structures, pale bone-like concrete and sinewy wood.
There. A big, near-featureless building, built like an oversized concrete slab. One of the storage bunkers during the Ocean Crisis, keeping critical supplies safe from the storms. The Daemons needed the civilians to not die in the carnage themselves; a supply bunker would provide the greatest protection.
The roof was solid when leapt off, and the ground solid when she landed on it, but her brain still interpreted it as squishy somewhere. It was a dock. A collection of buildings. Stone slabs and wood and concrete and iron bars. Nothing here was organic. Nothing at all.
But this old dock, built over and filled in when expansion overtook it, had been one of Valezorro's vital organs once. Taking in supplies, bringing in imports, accumulating refugees, pouring in the resources that made a city a city and helped it grow. Overgrown and outdated after the post-crisis growth spurts but still a major stopping point. Now within its borders it served as storage, a part of Valezorro's industrial gut, a transit point and storage point still visited by the vessels of workers and transporters circulating throughout the city.
She shivered. She had to... stop. Stop thinking about it. It was entirely in her head and had nothing at all to do with the solid iron door she was shoving aside as she cut into the fat slab bunker like a butcher cutting into-
Stop it.
The iron grey door opened like an iron grey door, the squeaking squeal of rusted metal on rough concrete reassuring to the ears. Within was dry and dusty; an entry lobby with the desks unstaffed. All the doors were open in here; the Miasma having crawled into and subverted the security systems completely.
Aware of what it was trying to do, she could see through the Miasma's confusion with ease. Yes, she could see the connection between the Miasma and a disease, and why that would make this a point of festering infection. But it was still very much a very ordinary bunker; just old and dusty, no period details because it was a bunker and had to have been thrown up in a hurry. This wasn't a Barrier. Not yet.
Part of her wondered what the civilians would be seeing.
The lobby was actually part of the thick, thick walls surrounding this place; built by hollowing out the wall; essentially a internal gatehouse. Lit by winking florescent sticklights embedded in the ceiling, the walls drab and covered in posters to remind people of safe lifting technique and the current security procedures. A waiting table and a bunch of half-filled caffi cups filled one of the corners. Just a room, just a building. Just a set of stairs at the side she went through rather than using the main door.
She went high, as she usually did. There would be racks on the other side, she knew; at the end of the day the bunker would be just one high, well stocked room. The civilians, if she was right, would be in the centre, and if she was wrong it wouldn't take long to check, confirm and leave. It the was the Barrier that was worrying her.
Her suspicions were proved right in every respect.
Civilians; a gang of near twenty, dock workers and commercialites and random street-goers alike, clustered in the centre of a cleared space in the middle of the room, the racks and rows of crates pushed out to form circles and patterns on a monochromatically tiled floor. Expected.
Surrounding them, stood the Daemons, tall and proud in wait.
All nine of them.
Not expected. Renza stumbled back as the towering cloaks turned and faced.
And then the light came for her.
"Don't get me wrong through," he said, noting the change in their expressions, "I only consider their actions a mistake. What they did. When they did it. It just wasn't the proper way of doing things; of course it ended badly. I can hardly blame the girl for her parents' actions; it's a folly. We just have no reason to contact each other."
"What makes you say that?"
Louis sighed. "Part of our agreement. The family does not want to even think about Veneti or Jeanne. If word came out we were in contact, it would be trouble for all three of us."
Domhnall considered.
"Off the record, would you consider it likely a member of your family would attempt to assassinate Veneti?"
Louis frowned, clearly a little surprised. "No, I shouldn't think so. It's not their style. They use softer methods, and would be targeting Ciardo in any case."
Freiderike tilted her head. "Softer methods?"
"He didn't always live in the slumdocks."
Pascal just grunted. Domhnall shifted slightly in his seat. "You seem remarkably candid about this."
Louis sighed. "I have no proof of anything, nor suspicion of who specifically was responsible for it. Most likely, it was simply whispered that Ciardo Veneti had angered the Delgado family, and individual employers kept that in mind."
He shrugged. "It's a legal grey area, hence why they prefer it. I know my family, Ispettore. They know how to avoid pointed fingers."
Pascal had frowned, he noted. Global labour law was another thing that would have to be cleared up for the TSAB to accept Caglica under Administered status. As the Director of the Judiciary, he held partial responsibility for that alongside the Directors of Governance, at least where Valezorro was concerned.
"In the slumdocks, the Venetis can be forgotten. An assassination would be too much trouble; raise too much fuss; induce too much risk. The rest of the family is in Castilla, don't forget."
"Except you." Freiderike stated.
"Except me." Louis agreed, nodding diplomatically. "We the Martice branch - that is, Jeanne and myself - came here to expand our business interests in the first place. I stay to maintain that investment."
The way he said it had an air to it; a false little lilt, as if to hint at the subtext within.
Well, not like he could blame the man, from what he was hearing.
"Enjoying your freedom, Mr Martice?" Domhnall asked.
He smiled. "The distance is agreeable, yes, though pray don't mention it. And please; Louis really is fine. We're discussing personal matters."
Domhnall did not nod. "From our perspective, we are discussing professional matters."
Louis conceded. "Then call me whatever you wish, Ispettore."
He nodded. He preferred the formalities.
"So you're certain the Delgado are not involved in this?"
"Not directly, no. Though I can't deny the possibly of them being an influencing factor."
Domhnall nodded, sending another mental note to Diarmuid.
"How is Renza, may I ask?"
Catching him by surprise with the question, it was Freiderike who answered first.
"She's recovered well; barely in the Serenità too long."
"You couldn't check yourself?" Domhnall queried, having finished the note. "You should have access rights as her mother's sibling."
"But such things would go on records," he replied sadly "and someone would take notice."
"It's funny, you know? I hardly know the girl, but I still feel a little proud. If the circumstances had been different, things could have gone so much better."
"You got her into the Basso Trari, didn't you?" Pascal asked.
Louis just smiled. "Actually, I didn't. That girl is a true child of the Saint."
Eyebrows raised across one half of the table.
The glass swirled in his hand once again, before he finally raised it. "For the same reason I cannot check on her in hospital, I cannot help her in her life. But even so, my sister still shines through. She made the Saints all on her own merit, with barely a mage rank to her name. She's a true Delgado at heart!"
He laughed, almost proud. "So you see, Ispettore? There's no need for me to help Renza Veneti."
"She doesn't need it."
She dodged. Somehow. Dodged. Ran. The light chewed into the walls. Walls would slow them down. Ran out, ran through the lobby, slashed through the doors, out into the open air of Valezorro, that faintly charred, faintly oily smell the city seemed to breathe. The lights cut like surgeon tools, slicing and incising through the weary concrete flesh of the bunker.
Outside, three Daemons sat, preaching a dark, bassy drone from individual rooftops. The ones from before. Which meant they weren't any of the ones that been in there. Ahah. Haha.
She was going to die. Walls collapsed behind her.
Something snapped. Summoned at her call, a giant gleaming zweihander crashed up through the deck, the red, gaseous sea spewing up with it in a colossal bout of decaying liquids. Banishing it with a wave of her arm, the zweihander launched itself through the lobbyway from whence she came, a ten-ton collision of metal and rebar tearing through the walls with greater force than any storm or car accident.
Renza hadn't stopped to watch. She was running. Running. Had to run. This was too many and she didn't want to die here.
Her gem tugged at her, icy cold on her spine. She couldn't run.
Desperately, she circled around the dock, dancing the rooftops at insane speed as a hail of light tore after her. First one? Second one? Couldn't remember. The hole in the dock. She landed in a crash, rolling and tumbling and somehow snatching the fallen cube in passing before launching with an almighty kick into the bone-hard concrete into an uncontrolled spin, flying across the open ground of the filled-in docks to burst through the roof of a warehouse in a hail of torn metal skin and hairs of ironwork.
Rolling to her feet, she slammed the cube against the back of her neck so hard it nearly toppled her. Her aching limbs lightened in a brief respite, a few brief moments of weightlessness, before the block of malevolence started feeling truly dangerous. She removed it quickly and made to toss it to-
-Oh. Right. Kyubey wasn't here.
The first lance of light punched into the building. She just threw it as hard as she could.
By the second, she was already outside. Where had the other ones been? When she crashed back up and... between two the warehouses.
Somewhere.
She had to run twelve was too many but if she didn't get the cubes she would barely have enough to fight properly the next time - Kyubey could collect them usually but if left with the Daemons they would just spawn back again and that wouldn't help any why hadn't she contacted Kyubey why-
For a moment, she wondered how exactly she was supposed to do that. It wasn't like the creature had a Device or anything.
"Kyubey! Kyubey?!"
Nothing for it. She broadcasted desperately. The rooftops pounded and rang beneath her feet. From the burst pustule of the demolished supply bunker more lances of light cried out at her, as a throng of sickly white Daemons, five or six strong, emerged from the wound. She hadn't even killed them all.
"Kyubey? Kyubey!"
The small office building she'd exploded out of from underneath the docks was a slumped, sagging corpse of a structure, iron supports bent out like broken bones with the old flakboard walls crumpled and torn away. Broken desks and chairs and storage units - the typical detrius of an office - had spilled out all across the scene like splatter from a gunshot wound. It was carnage; an utter mess and she was looking for a little black object barely the size of a cartridge in here by the Saint's Mercy how-
Utterly improbably, it was right by her feet where she landed. It... that hadn't been conscious at all.
Light flashed for her. She kicked it into her palm and ran, as the lasers tore into the husk of the office like a pack of angry wolves.
She held the cube against her gem as she fled, mid-flight.
"Kyubey?"
Find the third. Run. That was the entirety of the plan. Where had she killed it again one of-
"What is it?"
Calm. Unhurried. Just an odd, artificial lilt of curiosity. Kyubey had responded. She turned mid-flight to look down the direction-
The distraction very nearly killed her.
Managing to fling an axe in the way at the last moment, catching the light in her eye out of sheer dumb luck, the bolt deflected rather than cutting her head off. An angry line of fire tore across her back, sending her flight into an uncontrolled freewheel.
The sky and Valezorro inverted. Flipped. Inverted again. Images passed by like a blur; a blot of red, genuine blood trailing out behind her; the angry black cube flying far out of her hand; Roche falling into the canals; a rush of concrete and wood; the dense, blackening thud of impact as dust scattered in impossible swirls; the sky, oddly brilliant, for a weightless moment.
"Do you require assistance?"
The ocean, rich and red, rising up beneath her.
She sank.
