[1.2]

"You may be wondering why you're here." Wave says, breaking the silence. "The short answer is that you are one of the few people still live who knows - knew - Najenda personally."

Knew. That word carries with it a massive set of implications, most of which she doesn't want to think about.

"You probably haven't heard of this, considering your habits and how quickly the leak was covered up, but there are people beginning to suspect that the Najenda currently ruling the republic is, in fact, someone else." he continues, "If you haven't guessed by now, our job is to figure out what is actually going on. Needless to say, this is classified information. One word about it and you're dead, no questions asked."

"There are a lot of people insisting that Najenda's personality and appearance have changed drastically since she became ruler. The problem here is that most accounts differ even on key points, so we've deemed them unreliable. However, there's one little piece of evidence that we can't ignore." Turning around, Wave taps a few keys on the keyboard of his computer, bringing up what looks like a video and beckoning for Chelsea to come and watch.

She sighs, using the arms that are at the same time so foreign and familiar to her to push herself into a standing position, staggering over to where Wave is sitting. The image on the screen is a familiar one - the small garden inside of the Royal Palace (now renamed the House of the Senate), a place she has been to several times before. The grainy texture of the visual is enough to confirm that it's source is one of the old security cameras that had been planted there.

Najenda enters the courtyard, turning back over her shoulder to speak with someone, most likely a guest. The dark, olive green of her metallic right arm glints in the moonlight. A shadow moves, indicating that the person she had been speaking to has left, probably to go home after a banquet.

The white-haired general-turned-ruler makes her way to the centre of the garden, stopping within a ring created by some potted plants and two curved benches. She stops there and looks upwards, as if she's admiring the moon and stars. The camera is not tilted at an angle where it's possible to see what she's looking at, but the lazy, unfocused look in her eyes is enough to imply that the sky itself is the thing she is observing.

Then, all of a sudden, without any warning or precedent, her body explodes into thousands of red shards, dissipating into the cold night air.

Chelsea stares at the screen for a bit longer, her eyes distant. To anybody else, she probably looks like she's deep in thought, maybe trying to make sense of the video. But she isn't, even though part of her wishes that she is, if only to be free from the strange, crawling sense of unease that's creeping over her body, as if she had just stepped on a anthill.

Something almost entirely foreign to her is coursing through her half-mechanical veins, a forgotten sensation, reminding her of a time long before she became what she had become - an empty, worthless shell of a human being. A time where she would have been able to look at herself and see something more than someone who ought to be dead, gone, sleeping forever.

By all rights, it should be a pleasant sensation. But somehow, it isn't.

Why are you so picky? Why do you keep demanding more? Why are you never satisfied?

She knows that had she been alone, she would most likely have spent the next hour or so seated there, unmoving, chasing a nonexistent answer around and around in her mind. Like an amateur detective trying to track down a master criminal, desperately searching for something that's always barely out of reach, taunting her with it's presence but also it's elusiveness, always tantalisingly close but never close enough.

It's become a habit by now. With nowhere to go, nobody to meet, and nothing to do, her only source of 'entertainment'', if you can even call it that, is the constant swirl of conflicting thoughts that run rampant in her mind.

However, for better or for worse, she isn't alone.

"That's not all," Wave says, his voice pulling her out of her thoughts and back into the featureless greyness of the real word, "Other strange things are happening. I've heard reports that Esdeath has been seen near the northern town of Frostrend. She's dead, of course... died that night. But with Najenda's identity being called into question, we can guess that there might be some sort of connection between that and her reappearance."

"So far, we haven't gone very far. Only when we get into contact with Akame and Tatsumi will we officially begin the investigation. You may continue to use your apartment, and if you ever need anything, we'll be right upstairs."

Chelsea blinks. She ought to have expected this, considering that he had mentioned gathering people who knew Najenda near the start of their one-way conversation, but the idea that she'll be meeting the people that had tormented her thoughts for years isn't one that comes naturally.

Why? Why now? You want me look them in the eye? After that? What do you expect me to do?

Being simultaneously filled with dread and hope is a strange feeling, not only because of their conflicting natures, but also because both emotions are ones that she's unfamiliar with. She had spent a long time living with nothing to hope for and nothing to dread, so it's natural that she would have forgotten them. When the most valuable thing you have to lose is a life you don't care for, and all the things you wish for are so completely beyond your reach, the spirits of hope and dread don't tend to visit you often.

"Before you go, there's something else I've got to give you." Wave sighs, interrupting her thoughts for the third time that day. Spinning around on his chair and reaching into a drawer under the desk his desktop is placed on, he pulls out a disturbingly familiar bag labelled 'snacks'. "Here. These are experimental drugs the Senate is working on. They're supposed to completely kill your pain receptors and heighten your reflexes and strength significantly. Of course, there are... side effects, so only use it if you have to."

She notes that there's a slight, spiteful edge to his voice.

"If you want, you may leave now. No need to worry about checking in on us - I'll call you if we need you."

Whenever she feels the need to leave the relative comfort of her home, her go-to destination is usually the small cafe just across the road. It's a comfortable place, just popular enough for her to blend into the background without it being stuffy or cramped. The coffee they serve there is cheap, and very tasty. Overall, perfect for her needs, which are few and very easy to accommodate.

Sitting near the back corner, she watches as the people of the New Capitol walk through the streets, chatting, laughing, more often than not carrying a bag full of goods bought after a nice, long day within the city's many markets. The consistent regularity of their happiness - shallow, but at the same time more genuine than anything she has ever had - it calms her, makes her feel at ease.

The cup of coffee standing on the table in front of her slowly loses its warmth, losing the battle against the cool autumn air.

She has never liked her coffee hot, not like he did. The burning sensation of a boiling liquid on her tongue had never been in any way pleasant and never will be. Lukewarm is her preferred temperature, although she can deal with cold if that is more readily available. When one lives off the much-improved but still meagre pension for retired soldiers, they have to take what they can get. As the old saying goes, beggars can't be choosers.

Lukewarm. Up till this point, her life had been all about avoiding extremes. Boiling and freezing, love and hatred, elation and despair. She had experienced them all, and discovered that she hated it.

There's no peace in extremes, no stability. Even the greatest love can be stripped away in the matter of seconds, transformed into something more sinister, as easily as tearing a piece of paper in two. In the end, even the greatest jewel, the strongest weapon, the most beautiful painting - they're worthless unless you manage to retain them.

Like the happiness of those people, so casually strolling down the street, so confident in the fact that their happiness will remain theirs. It's something so much plainer than the flame between lovers, but at the same time so infinitely more valuable. Lukewarm.

She'd know, after all. Years ago, she had been a reaper. A destroyer, bringing about the ultimate punishment, and at the same time the ultimate reward - the never-ending, mind-numbingly constant neutrality of death, pure and simple. She had watched as bonds of love and hatred were shattered by a single well-aimed prick of a pin, the subtle flick of a poisoned dagger. Such is an assassin's job.

But even after the world burnt down around them, destroyed and built again, the happiness born from daily life remains. Constant. Never-ending. Shallow. Plain. But at the same time, infinitely more valuable.

She sighs and reaches forward with her left hand, the one that is still, at least partially, made up of flesh and bone. The cup of coffee fits snuggly inside her unsteady grasp, what remains of its warmth seeping through the paper and entering her palm. The feeling of warmth on her skin is yet another sensation that has become largely foreign to her. It's one of the few ones she truly misses.

As she gingerly brings the cup up to her lips, gently blowing on the liquid to ensure that it had cooled down, everything stops.

The people who were walking down the street stop walking, their mouths frozen mid-sentence, faces pleasantly contorted with a laughter that started but didn't finish. The waiter pouring orange juice for a grinning child stops moving, the liquid overflowing from the cup and onto the nice tablecloth beneath it, staining the white fabric a sickly yellow colour. The man spooning rice into his mouth stops just as he tilts the spoon forwards, causing the rice to spill back onto the plate on the table in front of him.

All of their bodies are surrounded by a pale crimson red glow, like a faint, water-colour outline drawn on by a mediocre artist. The glow binds them, stifling their movement, forces them under it's control. Then, completely synchronised, all the people turn to each other, opening their mouths to speak with a voice that isn't their own.

A slightly mechanical, raspy voice begins to speak, it's volume being amplified by the thousands as it escapes through the throats of every single person in the metropolis, echoing through the streets in a cascading, otherworldly symphony.

"Good afternoon, citizens of the New Capitol. From now on, you may refer to me as the AUTHOR. With all capital letters, if you please."

A/N: That's it for now :) The technology in this AU is a bit more up to date with current standards, so people have access to computers, surveillance cameras, and the like. I mean, in a country that can create guns capable of blowing up cities, I'm sure a computer or two won't be much of a problem for them. I imagine that the cities would be a bit more modern as well. And in the end, my story, my rules :P

Thanks for reading.