"Come in, Demons Echo. Looks like we're finally connected."

Sypha cups the earpiece in her palm and pushes it further into her ear, filling her head with the scratch of abrupt static that somehow sounds far less significant than it had before. She is quirking her eyebrow in a way that conveys both of their thoughts and confusion, and while Trevor would enjoy wasting more time in silence he knows that the person on the other end won't be as patient.

He gives Jericho and the Elder a side glance before asking into the mic, "And who are you?"

The man on the other end barks out grating laughter. "Now are you asking me personally or on a broader scale, because if you're asking the latter then I have some questions about the Admiral's judgment in choosing you for the job," the man quips.

Trevor snarls bitterly. "Keep up this attitude and I ain't doing shit for anyone."

"Trevor," Sypha scolds, but the man on the headset simply hums to quell her.

"Alright, alright, no need to get rowdy, Belmont," the man starts, and the only reason Trevor doesn't reply is because of a pointed glare from Sypha. It is not until static has taken over the conversation again that the man speaks up.

"All jests aside, you two do understand that the documents you've received contain minimum information in order to keep this operation as tight-lipped as possible, right? Hence why the Belmont's driver only knew his name and destination and why the Elder could only open one folder."

"Yes," Trevor glances at the unopened folder, "we've already established that."

"Good. And I trust that you haven't looked at the other one?"

"Correct."

"Even better. Go ahead and have the Elder there give it a look. You guys can take turns reading it over after him, if ya want. I'll give you a few minutes," the man says with just the slightest hint of amusement before disappearing into the raft of static. They stand there for a moment longer, both Trevor and Sypha meeting each other in a stalemate of brief hesitance, and then Trevor is throwing back his head in an exasperated sigh and looking towards the Elder and Jericho.

Warily, the Elder picks up the manila folder as if it contained the rarest of jewels, or a sacred document from years past. His grip is light, crinkling no corner or edge as he pries open the folder and pulls out the files inside. In the candlelight the papers seem slightly darker than the ones with Trevor and Sypha's biographies on them, just on the side of yellow to suggest some aging. The Elder holds them in the air one by one, right beneath the candle above the desk to catch the most light, and as he reads the atmosphere in the room begins to thicken.

It happens gradually, in time with the painstakingly slow pace the Elder takes in scanning the pages. First a wave of miscellaneous hostility, and then the progression of weight barreling down on his and everyone else's shoulders. The background noise of Speakers working and cleaning has dwindled down to soft shuffles and whispers; the drip of water from the sinks set the tempo of their thoughts, and the howl of wind from outside appears to be no longer muffled by mosaic windows. Trevor shifts his weight to his other heel and crosses his arms, slouching just enough to take some of the pressure off of his lower spine.

Anxiety is not the proper word to use when explaining the conglomeration of emotions rolling around in the pit of his stomach. It is more of a mixture of apprehension and dread, along with other less noticeable feelings, that make up the majority of his concern. He stares at the Elder's face like a hawk, noting each time the older man's eyebrows furrow or his lip twitches, every time his eyes light in alarm and then calm back to their previous state just seconds later. Trevor can read it all despite the mask of stoicism the Elder tries to hold, and with one look at Sypha he can tell that she can, too.

The Elder makes neither sound nor expression when he reads the last of the pages, just simply lines the pages up and shuffle them into place with a few taps on the desk. Trevor expects the next person to read them to be Jericho, since those two have been a relative pair ever since they walked into the House, so he is genuinely surprised when the Elder holds them out for him.

"Ah, thanks," Trevor nods before taking the papers from the Elder.

It feels the same as taking one's death certificate, too surreal in the moment, itching at the back of his throat and nails and in his peripheral he can see Sypha practically bouncing in anticipation, so he runs a finger over the corner of the pages before waving her over with two fingers.

"Are you sure?" she asks despite rushing to his side, all the while her gaze refusing to stray from the file's cover page, which is nothing more than a blank page with DEMONS ECHO scrawled in the middle. This close Sypha stands just above his shoulders which gives Trevor a good whiff of the scented soaps she uses to wash her hair; it's a strong but welcomed distraction.

He breathes in deeply and then adjusts his hold so that she can see more of the papers. "Yeah, might as well get this over with. I doubt the asshole in our ear is going to wait much longer."

Sypha nods her agreement, and then pinches the side of the cover. A beat of static catches his attention right as she turns the page.

'The Last Great War was waged on multiple fronts, with divisions in each major sector: the Americas, Oceania/Europe, and Asia. It is difficult to pinpoint why exactly humanity tore itself into parts; some put the blame on economics, religion, and geography, but those are all very vague and broad terms. Could it have been the building tension within peaceful nations, or the everyday storm brewing in less developed countries? The frequent bursts of aggression from oppressed persons in war torn areas, or the passive aggressive comments and disagreements held between world leaders? Just like the bullet that sparked the flame of World War I, it all seemed to snap overnight.

There was no pragmatic approach to this – not when deaths were broadcasted over television and torture was livestreamed over the internet. There was no stopping the snowball of bloodlust when one's family was taken from him in the blink of an eye. There was no God to shed mercy upon his people when the whole world turned its back on him in order to slaughter its brother.

Every state had its own strife, every country hated its neighbor; years' worth of pulling a rubber band taut had led up to this very moment, and when the military was sent to intervene and governments collided it was a complete train wreck.

Attrition warfare does not work when the battle itself is based on idealism. One cannot simply squash the beliefs of another, especially not when the attack is divided among various categories. And at a point, someone did indeed ask, "What are we even fighting for?"

But too many people had been dragged into the fighting (not knowing for who or what they were fighting for, just acknowledging that either 'their country needed them' or that 'they needed to defend their beliefs') and soon the individualized conflicts surpassed borders and a full on global offense took hold of the planet.

East vs. West, North vs. South, Developed vs. Underdeveloped, Democratic vs. Nondemocratic, any nation with an idea that could be countered had a reason to join the fight. If one did not fight then they'd be pillaged for resources. It was a world war that literally encompassed the civilized world, and there was no end in sight – no deterrence when political leaders seethed with hatred.

Yet despite all of the buildup and bloodshed, the war itself lasted a little less than two decades. It had the potential to last for years upon years, but it didn't. It couldn't. Not when the European Sector fell, and the bombs were dropped.

History shies from stating who exactly dropped the first nuclear bomb, but people have a way of no longer caring when their skin started to peel off.

After that, life became nothing more than desolation and a few standing governments trying to take control of their wounded. Although only select cities in each country were targeted to be hit with bombs (usually the capital), the accumulation of destruction and radiation made it severely difficult for civilization to return to a state even of that of the medieval period; yes, technology remained as advanced as before, but the mass population had no means to gather precious metals or other resources. And if they did, it was only in small amounts.

Humanity had never been at a lower point, and when people thought that life couldn't get any worse, it did. Exponentially so.

Dracula Vlad Tepes had returned after hundreds of years of lying dormant, right at the cusp of civilization's restart.

He resides in a location yet undetermined in Wallachia, in a castle that has been documented as 'shifting' in the journals of deceased Belmonts who had vanquished him before. While the night hordes have remained isolated in Rumania, it is wise to destroy the Vlad before his demons can spread any further.

Due to their experience in dealing with the devil, the church of Wallachia has risen as religious and political leaders, forming an army that has been appointed the name 'Covenant.' For the past year, Covenant forces have struggled to keep up with the hordes, let alone find Dracula himself. Discussion was proposed by leaders to rethink their efforts in stopping the devil and his monsters, and the matter of finding a known myth was brought into question.

A secret weapon whispered through the cities like a ghost, rumors spreading overnight of a man capable of ending the Vlad's assault. A savior, to some; a man who goes by the epithet-'

"The Sleeping Soldier," Sypha whispers in reverence, her eyes growing wide and fingers twitching, disbelief or shock playing across her features in flickers. She leans closer to the papers, running her fingertip over the words as if they would come off the page. She rereads the sentence aloud and takes in a deep breath of air. "He's real."

"That we don't know yet, Ms. Belnades, but we sure as hell are going to find out," the man says suddenly, effectively cutting off the drone of static. His voice pulls both Trevor's and Sypha's attention from the file, and whereas Sypha is glowing with energy, Trevor grits his teeth.

He brings the mic to his lips. "And how exactly are you going to find out if he's real or not, huh?"

There's a beat of static, and then that cocky attitude from earlier comes back full throttle. "With you two, of course! Why else would we recruit a Belmont and Speaker for something like this?"

Sypha stops brimming with childlike hope almost instantly. "And what is that supposed to mean?" she inquires.

"Exactly as it sounds," the man says. "Look, you read the paper. Our men failed at finding this Dracula and they spent an entire year searching day in and day out. And while we would rather not ask, we have no other options."

He doesn't intend to, but Trevor finds himself balling the corner of the file into a fist, body thrumming to nail this guy – whoever he is – in the face for how flippant he sounds. The audacity with which he speaks is beyond what Trevor usually puts up with, yet, the curiosity Trevor feels keeping his mouth shut is even more frustrating. Why would the church send an entire army out looking for a single man? And why is this the first time he's hearing about a 'Sleeping Soldier' when he is a soldier (albeit by name, for the most part) himself?

But if the church did indeed succeed in finding this 'savior,' they would prefer to not have all of the glory go to yet another Belmont, wouldn't they, especially not after secretly letting one remain in the military after excommunication?

It was enough to make him want to tell the man and church to fuck off and ask someone else to do their dirty work, but the man cuts through the static before Trevor could say so.

"How much longer do you think that we can hold out, Trevor? A couple months, a year or two? If we don't stop Dracula now we might not be able to later, and you of all people should know this better than anyone else." He says and Trevor clenches his jaw in time with the papers. Beside him, Sypha bites her lip. "Hate us all you want to but you wear our armor and carry our weapons for a reason. And right now we are asking you to go out and find someone who can help kill the devil that's cursed this land before he can kill us, got it?"

Trevor tongue shapes itself to say 'no.' To lash out and curse the church that has taken everything from him – to rip off his armor and spit on the fabric that has been declared his. But there is something, an anomaly in his blood that boils and refuses to do any of that. So he closes his eyes and focuses on the static buzzing in his earpiece, allowing it to coat his thoughts like a blanket while he reigns everything in. A minute passes, or maybe two, and then he is opening his eyes to meet the large, hopeful gaze of Sypha.

She's so young, far too young to be a part of this shit storm waiting to happen.

Interrupting the static, Trevor expects the man to command him, but instead he hears a relatively sincere, "So, are you in?"

Without hesitating, Trevor loosens his grip on the papers. "Fine. What do you need me to do?"

"That's what I like to hear, Belmont! But before we get into that let me introduce myself, properly this time. You can call me Seven, and I'll be your contact for the remainder of this mission."

Gresit, apparently, was the city where the Sleeping Soldier was most likely to be hidden; although, there wasn't much concrete evidence lending as to why this location was chosen aside from the rumors revolving around catacombs under the city. It was as good of a guess as any other, and the least the two could do was scope out the stories from the people who lived there and try to find other leads.

Sypha headed back to her desk on the other side of the room while Trevor and Seven discussed the intricacies of the mission, with her piping in occasionally with questions. Whereas Trevor was skeptic and brash, Sypha hid her uncertainty behind tack. She asked about their access to resources (i.e. money) and what would happen if one or both of them became too injured to continue. Seven tried to sweeten his words as much as possible, but the underlying fact was that they were going to be on their own for the most part. While Seven could supply information and support through small means, they wouldn't have the force of the Covenant behind them. They were the unnamed soldiers who completed the mission and were only acknowledged as such; and perhaps the sting would be stronger if both Trevor and Sypha weren't used to being ghosts already.

Meanwhile, Jericho and the Elder were discussing something in the background that caused them to share frequent glances at the two. The moment Trevor picked up on it he became annoyed, and even shot them a few threatening frowns but the older men seemed completely unbothered and continued as they were.

"So ya got any more questions? Or have I ironed out all of the details for you?" Seven yawns, bored, and scratches something that just might have been the mic.

"I don't. Sypha you got any?"

"Nope," she says and twirls in her seat to face Trevor. From this distance she's back to looking like a teenage boy, and in her hand she holds another grenade that glows a faint crimson.

"Sweeeeeet," Seven drags out the word like an appraisal and clicks his tongue. "Just so you know, Sergeant Jericho isn't permitted to chauffeur you throughout this operation so I trust that you can find a ride to Gresit, yes?"

Trevor scoffs. "And how would you even find out if he were?"

"You're still under watch, Belmont. Don't forget that," he says, far too seriously to be a joke, and Trevor has to grit his teeth again to check his words. No reason to argue when he already knew the answer. Seven clears his throat, and perhaps the air also, before continuing, "And we have another request for Jericho so he'll be too busy with that to help you."

This time Sypha is the one to grumble. "Sounds more like an excuse to make our lives harder."

"And it just might be, but it isn't either of our calls to make so just deal with it." Seven yawns again and there's another loud scratching sound over the mic. "Well guys, I'll get back in touch in a day or two so don't break your headsets, please. Also, try to head out tonight or early morning if you can, we're working on borrowed time here. I'm out," and before he could even finish his words are cut off by sharp static disconnecting him from the network. Trevor wastes no time is flipping the dial off and pulling out his earbud, and Sypha follows suit.

Shoving the headset under his cloak, Trevor rolls his shoulder and groans into the satisfying crack of his neck. "Well that cleared up the bare minimum," he mutters.

From the desk, Jericho says, "It would be unwise to depart this late into the evening. I already asked the Elder and he said that you can rest here til morning."

"I assumed so, but you have my thanks." He says to the Elder. He hadn't really planned on leaving tonight anyway, with or without the Elder's approval; only an idiot would travel such deserted roads at night with who knows what kind of transportation. Speaking of which, Trevor approaches Jericho with a raised eyebrow. "Our contact from the church – Seven – said that you won't be staying with us for the rest of the mission."

"My orders were to escort you to the rendezvous point and then return back to my post," Jericho answers, and there's a trace of regret in his voice despite the formality he assumes. "I would rather not…but I am not fond of testing the church's temperament any more than necessary."

This makes sense, considering, so Trevor just hums his indifference and settles his hip against the desk, arms automatically crossing. Now that their conversation with Seven has ended, the other Speakers in the room have gone back to working; although, their numbers have dwindled down to about five preparing the room for night. Larger candles have been lit to replace the blown out, smaller ones, and some incense curls in wiry wisps at opposite sides of the room. The Speaker that was on guard outside enters and goes straight to the desk, making to converse with the Elder but Trevor holds out his hand between them.

He flashes a toothy grin and curls his fingers in a grabbing motion.

The Speaker literally twitches in anger. "How preposterous of you!" he shouts and then looks to the Elder. "Sir, please tell this man that you refuse to have him carrying functional arms in your presence!"

The Elder, to the Speaker's chagrin, glances between the two in confusion before asking, "And what did you take from him?"

"Just my magazine," Trevor answers and holds out his rifle for the Elder to see. The Speaker's wail is akin to a pig when he sees this, face lighting in flustered frustration, and if Trevor listened closer he's pretty sure that he'd be able to hear him hyperventilating, too.

"What do you think that you're doing?!"

The Elder waves dismissively. "It is fine, Arvis. Just give him back what you took. This Belmont will be shown to his lodging soon, anyway."

And the amount of self-control it takes for Trevor not to poke out his tongue in childishly is extraordinary as he watches Arvis pout and sulk and seethe with annoyance when he has to pull the magazine from his pocket and hand it over to Trevor. It's enough to keep Trevor from doing anything obvious, but not from taking his precious time actually retrieving the part just to soak in his victory and piss the Speaker off further.

Trevor tucks it into the same place his headset is in. "So about my sleeping arrangements," he starts, and the Elder snaps his fingers.

"Sypha dear," he calls, and the girl's head pops up from her gadget with a whoosh. "Could you perhaps show Trevor to the room he'll be staying in tonight, please? I have a few things I must discuss with Sergeant Jericho before he also retires."

"Yes, sir," she nods and sets her device on the table before standing, brushing off her robe. She waves for Trevor to follow her once she reaches the door and holds it open for him.

Dragging himself from the side of the table, Trevor says a short goodbye to both the Elder and Jericho and then heads for the door. Once outside, he takes to Sypha's side and asks, "How do you know where I'm staying at if Jericho just asked if we could spend the night here?"

"We already planned for it, assuming that you two would arrive in the evening," she shrugs.

He doesn't ask her anything else after that, allowing Sypha to lead him back to the center of town in compatible silence. Similar to the decrease of Speakers in the House, the life that he saw upon arrival has dwindled down to tranquil quiet and one or two Speakers left walking outside. If he had to make a guess he'd say that it was only about 8 o'clock right now, which would lead to a rather boring night otherwise if not for the fact that death threatened anyone who stayed out too late.

They stop in front of a small house that looks more like a shed than anything else, with two lanterns hanging from the nearby trees, and through the front window he can see a set of candles flickering on a table stand inside. Sypha clasps her hands neatly in front of her lap, her smile polite yet distant.

"There's a futon rolled up on the side of the wall in there, and you have a small kitchen area with water and a few supplies, too. Oh, and there's a toilet and sink that's separated from the rest by a curtain," she says and twirls her finger in some sort of diagram of how the curtain moves. "Sorry it isn't much, but that should be enough for one night. I'll be back in the morning to make sure we have everything packed before we leave for Gresit. Any questions?"

Trevor muses over it for a second before saying, "Yeah, one."

"Shoot."

"Got any ale I can stomach for the night?" He asks in all seriousness, feeling his gut cave in need of some sort of relief that'll also buzz his thoughts.

She stares at him blankly for the longest time after that, meeting his demand with the same sort of intensity as a mother scolding her child, and doesn't even deem him with an answer before huffing and turning on her heel, churning up a cloud of dust that threatens to choke Trevor the moment he inhales.

He turns his face into his elbow to cough in lungs into, feeling tears stinging the corners of his eyes from the grit, and when he can finally breathe without dying he can feel an amused smirk pull at the corner of his mouth.

Well, at least he tried.