Author's Note:

Hello, I get some motivation to write so here I am. Is it easier to read with longer paragraph? Or should I shorten it?

Blessed Messiah

Chapter 7

It was boundless, what humanity's limitless possibility could create.

She circled around the steel platform, breathless as she couldn't contain her amazement. Fuuka touched the immaculate, smooth surface of the decommissioned metal scraps with child-like wonder despite the obvious sign of disarray and age. The metal was heavy but lean, giving both protection and speed she couldn't expect from the scoop of newest technology. Supposedly, it would've need unimaginable amount of energy to move, if she wasn't wrong. But the scrap's circuit suggested that instead of going for a bulky source of energy that was installed outside the frame, it has a hollowed cavity in place of its left chest where the heart is. Probably for an internal battery which was something shorter than the length of her palm.

It was too advanced.

Tilting her head curiously, Fuuka tinkered the joints that gave a creaking sound as they were moved back and forth. She winced, examining the rust that collected around the parts of its body. The rough, dust like substance cluttered mostly around its limbs, forming a thick bronze-coloured lumps that showed how long it has been buried here, pushed to the back of this storage room like an unwanted remains. Fuuka understood why it has yet to be dismantled or recycled to be trigonal metal clips, though. It was too important, too rare, or something along the line of being a prized specimen of what humanity could achieve.

There was a certain beauty in its lifelessness. The scrap was humanoid, that much was clear from the body frame and its four limbs. There were round-shaped holes in place of its fingertips, which when Fuuka investigated further led to an intricate lines of cables as big as a bullet, if the remaining traces of gun powder were to be believed. Its head lolled to the side as if it was merely under a deep sleep. The peaceful posture and the loud silence of the store room were stationary, almost as if it was so otherworldly that it was untouched by time and space, but the cluttered lumps of rust proved her wrong. It made her wonder.

For what purpose were you produced? Why were you thrown away here?

The purpose of its production must've been to fulfill the necessity of whatever it was back then. Assault, violence, crowd control... She could guess, but she didn't want to imagine what had happened to require the production of an advanced assault machine. Fuuka shook her head bitterly, gazing up at the silent occupant of the storage room. Its half-lidded eyes shone a blue glow that illuminated the room, flickering like dying fireflies. It should've horrified her because for a moment, she wanted to reach out to what could've been a killing machine.

Still, she wanted to touch, to be connected. Because even though it was a mere metal scraps forgotten by its creator and time, there was an air of solemnity around it.

Like surrender, like devotion.

Her heart clenched, the air dissipated so suddenly that her lungs burned. But Fuuka stayed there, rooted in her place even as her knees wobbled and she fell in a crumbled heap. Her white lab coat swept around her like an imperfect half moon, her glasses touched the dusty ground while her head bowed. Somehow it grounded her, somehow it felt right and it got easier to breath as each second passed.

Eventually, strength returned to her legs and Fuuka pushed herself up with no care about the dirt or cobwebs that stained her coat. She tucked her stray long teal hair behind one ear as she smiled at the remnant of a history she didn't know of. It was difficult to leave because she wanted to know more, but Fuuka has to. The sunlight has faded from the only window that ventilated the room.

Fuuka left the metal scrap with the approaching darkness, useless pieces of junks, the broken machine propped up on its tattered metal bed and flickering blue fireflies that watched Fuuka as she closed the heavy security door with her Personnel ID.

"See you later, Seventh Generation." Fuuka whispered, leaning against the door when the machine was already locked out from her sight, like she didn't want any living being to hear it.

Fuuka took another breath and exhaled, stepped back once as she touched the fingerprint scanner. Steel rolling door descended after the scanner recognized her, putting the broken scrap further against the world. But even as she walked back to her lab, she didn't feel any better.

Maybe, it was because she didn't want to see it anymore.

When Fuuka arrived back at her lab, a note was posted on the notice board directly at the wall in front of her door. It was recent, she could tell from the way it was haphazardly stacked on top of the older, yellowing papers that people always forgot to update with newer information. Fuuka smiled slightly, reminded by a friend who always made people parted slightly to let her see the notice board easily, looking at how well she did on the exams each term. She was shorter than most people, so it was always an uphill battle.

Her friend was kind, he even put up with her bad cooking even though he always had to brush his teeth thrice afterward. He laughed it off so easily even though she felt guilty, but the promise of improvement and his encouragements were what made her practice more. Eventually, she decided to give up on her horrid cooking skill, choosing to pursue her innate talents instead. It was a major decision, one that shaped her future and she was grateful for that.

Fuuka remembered her immense gratitude. The feeling of wanting her friend to know how much she was grateful for being there, wanting him to know how much she valued his encouragements, wanting him to know that his words were what made her soldier on even years in the future, despite the tough competition to be accepted as a Kirijo Group's researchers or her parents' apathy. Working on her lab and inventing next-gen technology for the betterment of humanity were better than the crawling pressure of worthlessness. Anything would be better than that.

Feeling upbeat, she tore the small note from the notice board as she turned on the fluorescent lights of her lab. As light cleared what the rushed scrawls were about, the note turned out to be a series of number with a hasty "Call me!" written on it.

Fuuka didn't recognize the writing or the signature, and it might be a prank from her colleagues but something... prevented her from throwing the note to the waste bin. She decided to call it a mere whim. So, Fuuka wore a wireless headphone before she pulled up her phone, connecting the phone to the hands-free function on her creation. The Voice Input let her call the unknown number as she moved about, joining an electrode to the high-voltage currents.

A spark flew as the call connected, Fuuka hissed in pain as a male voice registered through the call.

"Oh, thank god. I didn't think you'd call me this quick."

The voice was panicked and relieved at the same time, it puzzled her. "Um... Who am I speaking with?" The other end cursed, and she heard car horns beeping noisily. For a second, Fuuka felt a beginning of worry crept up to her.

"You don't recognize my voice? We were dorm mates for a few years, Fuuka." The male voice replied exasperatedly. But then, it took on a hasty tone as he asked,

"Have Junpei visited you lately?"

Junpei? ...Who?

She didn't realize that she said it out loud before the voice grunted, "Junpei Iori, your dorm mate. I'm Akihiko Sanada, a year above you. Serously, Fuuka? What's wrong with you?"

She wondered what. Her high school years seemed like a faraway memory buried under the sands of time. Fuuka tried to recall the name.

"Iori-kun...? Oh, is he the baseball club member who always hung around Takeba-san?" Come to think of it, she wasn't that familiar with Sanada-senpai, infamous as he was. Why would the Golden Boy of Gekkoukan called her by her first name? It wasn't like they were friends, even if they lived in the same dorm. After all, her only friends were Natsuki-chan and-

But I feel like if I'm with you, then I can change.

I've come to truly depend on you.

...I appreciate you.

As if she was plunged into a cold lake, Fuuka froze unaware of the sound, the noise and everything in her sight as black spots danced around her eyes. She tried to balance herself, holding unto the edge of a table closest to her, but it was as if invisible hands dragged her down to the deepest calm of silence. But Fuuka savoured the calling numbness, the utter powerless feeling that encased her so suddenly even as it horrified her. And eventually, Fuuka gave up her hold on her consciousness and slipped into weightlessness, watching with unfocused eyes as a darkening thread was wrapped snugly on her wrist.

Mitsuru didn't know why, but as she rode her jet black motorcycle around the city to help Akihiko searching for her junior, she pulled to a stop in front of Gekkoukan High's front gate and walked inside. The ground was easily twice the size Paulownia Mall, covering hectares of building and fields used by students to study and do extracurricular activities. The building was larger than the planned blueprint, with the addition of a new library at the east wing to support the students' learning.

It used to be a small clearing where a young persimmon tree grew, but it was cut down with the permission of an aging couple whose son died in a car accident. The tree was a tribute by the students he used to taught. Such sentimentality was eye-opening- that in place of his death, a new life sprouted and cherished with great care that it blossomed to watch over the students.

She remembered the day clearly, when a heartfelt letter was left at the school's front gate and arrived at her desk. The letter was accompanied with a packet of persimmon seed, which the student council decided to plant near the gate with utmost agreement of the student body.

Right now, she was standing at the centre of the walkway that led to the school entrance, where the students in charge of morning duty carried heavy watering cans to the budding trees. Some of them recognized her and gasped in awe, to which she only smiled back and nodded at them to let the students returned to their duty. For the younger generation, this place was just a facility to study. But for her, it was so much more than a piece of Kirijo family's history. It was a proof of their failure. It was a proof of their foolishness and empty dream. She remembered the explosion, the unsettling panic, the sudden darkness, the secrets of the bewitching hour...

It was their responsibility.

But when it ended so suddenly with no clue of how or why, only the firm voice that calmed her down stayed behind in the recess of her mind. It was something so compelling that she couldn't help but heeded it without any hesitation. Mitsuru was surprised with how much she trusted that voice at first, or how much the reassuring presence settled her nerves, but she never questioned it. Her memories were shattered.

They were vague and blurry. But there were things that always looked clearer than the others, the colour sharp and so vivid that Mitsuru would've believed that it happened right in front of her eyes.

The voice told her that it was alright, that it didn't matter. That there was nothing greater than the people who were important to it. That there was nothing to be regretful over. That they were not lambs walking blindly to the slaughter. That they were rams and ewes, leading the flock to the greener pastures under the bright sunlight.

Mitsuru trusted it, completely and absolutely.

Because it vowed that it would help her atone.

Bit by bit.

Even if her guilt was just out of responsibility.

And even though she wanted to cry the entire time, she desperately summoned a smile, and cradled the motorcycle key to her chest.

"You spend a lot of time protecting it,"

"It's not like I can do anything else."

"You're not hungry? Not tired?"

"...No, I don't think so. Can the deceased feel hungry, I wonder?"

"Want to try going out, feel the sun?"

"I can't,"

"Why?"

"Because there are people who are important to me."

"Are they your friends?"

Silence.

"They aren't?"

"They're... They're my family."

"Huh, good for you."

"...But that's why-"

"What?"

"Because they're my family, their betrayal stung more."