stryder107: Too late for it to matter, but it's okay. For the sake of this story, let's say she's in her twenties. :D
Requiem of Time: Chapter Forty-Five - Allen
Allen wandered.
After dressing and releasing Lulubell with the Akuma Egg somewhere in Canada, Allen had wandered his Ark, looking for friendly and familiar faces. There were none, save for an excited Kawamura. The converted Akuma mentioned that everyone had left some time ago, leaving her by herself.
After speaking with her for a bit, Allen expanded his aimless searching outside his Ark. He checked international hotspots, finding and destroying some Akuma if not discovering anything significant. At least the Earl hadn't destroyed the world during his imprisonment.
Completing his quick-search of the major countries left only two more things on his list to check out: the Dark Order Headquarter's recovery and the thus far rumored rioted towns that he was somehow the cause of. He was reluctant to revisit the building he still called home, so he decided to see the towns first.
"Oi, Timcampy!" Allen called. The golden golem that was his companion hadn't been seen in too long. Allen watched through the Ark's screens as Timcampy zipped through halls and rooms, following the internal map Allen had used to find Cross those years ago.
Eventually, the modified golem appeared, and he crashed into Allen in a friendly hug, fiery tail clutching Allen tightly. Allen laughed and patted him, just as relieved to see Tim.
"Hey, boy, you think you can show me some of the towns we visited when tracking Cross on this map?" Allen pointed to the screen before him, displaying an image of the entire world.
Timcampy growled as if insulted and spat out a projector beam that illuminated the entire path they had followed. Allen smiled and zoomed in on eastern Europe, allowing Tim time to readjust his beams. Allen zoomed in again, and again. This continued until he had narrowed the screen to a noticeable city, and after checking the name managed to make a Gate inside a forest nearby the town.
Dressed in top hat and Marshal's uniform, Allen emerged from that Gate and made his way to the town. Timcampy insisted in coming along, not that Allen would dream of arguing, and the modified golem had ducked inside Allen's hat, tail sprouting from the back like an odd golden ponytail.
Leaving that heavy Marshal's jacket open was done automatically, without a thought anymore. As Allen smiled and greeted passersby (he noticed a great deal of them), he missed their reactions once they caught sight of his exposed torso. Husbands' eyes would widened, mouths opening in surprise and sympathy; women would gasp behind a hand, horrified. The pink flesh of scars were an obvious contrast to his tanned skin, as well as purplish lash marks and the tell-tale spiderwebbing of old burns. The white blotch of Innocence over his heart that had saved him from Lulubell's attack several months ago was a deformed tumor of flesh, pearly like a protruding bone.
The ravages of war he no longer noticed.
What he did notice, however, was the people themselves. Some leaving where dirty and carrying nothing. Those few going towards the town appeared to be government officials, a few volunteer rescue crews, and similar groups. However, one thing consistent with everyone, from the empty-handed leavers to the refugees carrying their lives on their back to the officials going in, was the stark tension. The air seemed alive with it, a soundless buzz loud enough to match the Music in Allen's head.
This man here would scowl, his very soul filled with a bitterness that would not and could not be expelled. That woman, her eyes shifted erratically, trying to watch everything and everyone. The gentleman with a slow walk appeared almost indrawn and reflective, yet that blank cast spoke of a bleakness within – and bleakness could only be shaken off with the most extreme of emotions... like depression, or rage.
Allen carefully maintained his disarming smile, not a beaming grin that could inspire envy or loathing from those around him, but a gentle curve of his lips that built to an image of confidence and stability. His mere presence made him stand out immediately. Outside of his extravagant and prestigious clothes, beyond the enigmatic white hair of elderly on a young man, Allen was alone in his self-assured stance; at times like this, he was a leader, and the eyes of the passersby saw that and looked to him, not even realizing they were seeking guidance.
And then the town came into sight.
Allen had chosen a town to visit at random, hardly remembering any of the specifics in his flight with Sarah towards Cross. However, he was most certain that what he had seen in his second coming of the town in no way matched what he saw in the present.
Not walled in the first place, the magnitude of destruction laid completely bare to open eyes. So close to a forest, most of its buildings had been of wood construct, though it was obvious many were brick or stone. Fires had ravaged the town in the riots, though, and now black heaps lay scattered in divisions throughout it, some buildings with blackened bricks scarred yet standing. So few of the buildings still stood strongly enough to be usable, perhaps around half; in a town of this size, the devastation would be staggering. From a single riot, hundreds, perhaps even a thousand, were left homeless.
And Allen knew that homeless families starved, and starving families grew desperate, and desperate people would kill and steal because they felt they had to. With so many at once, the crime rate would have to increase to match, further hurting the local government and country as a whole.
The Fourteenth had taught him this, once upon a time. Allen was certain the man had taught him this.
It was frightening how ideal this situation was for the Earl, with the stewing emotions so ripe for Akuma production, yet the man had nothing to do with this or any of the other hundreds of rioted towns. In fact, all evidence said that Allen was the cause for this. Him or Timcampy, at least.
Allen glanced suspiciously at the sleeping golem resting on his head, then nearly laughed at how preposterous the idea was. No, this could be laid at his own feet, and he would have to find the reason for it before the problem could grow. He hoped to find more answers inside the town.
A flame-licked sign read "Heissen Sie willkommen zu Görlitz," with the top portion blackened and charred. It was obvious from the larger letters that Görlitz was meant to be the name of the town.
Inside the town only brought the full impact of its destruction. Walking down streets brought him past the ashen remains, assaulted his nose with the smell of refuse and soot. Even the standing buildings showed marks of damage, not allowing even an illusion that things were alright, and being this close only made it more real. The street itself was littered with trash, rubble, broken glass, splintered wood, what could be the remains of furniture, torn clothes, and the unmistakable stains of blood.
Allen rubbed his forehead in distaste as he was forced to walk around an abandoned wagon of spoiling goods, the smell near making him gag. He wanted answers. How could such a thing happen without Earl influence? It didn't make any sense. People fighting people didn't make sense, especially on such a large, self-harming scale.
A man, perhaps a clerk by his uniform, was walking opposite of Allen as if in a trance. His clothes were dirtied and ripped, his sleeves rolled up to show an injury on his right forearm. Judging by looks, Allen guessed him to have been present for the riot.
"Excuse me," Allen called out to the man. The clerk glanced up at Allen for a moment, eyes expressionless and face bleak, then returned to the ground as his dragging feet kicked some rubble. "Excuse me," Allen repeated, "I was wondering if you could tell me what has happened here."
Allen was right in front of the man now, and he tried to step past. Allen refused, repeating his question and staying in the clerk's path. Finally, the man looked up at Allen with those same blank eyes. "Riot..."
Allen blew a sigh of relief; at least he was talking. "Yes, I heard about that. Do you by chance know what caused it? Why has the town of Görlitz rioted? To what purpose?"
The man shocked Allen with laughter. Raspy, sporadic laughter that had him clutching his stomach. The lifeless eyes suddenly danced with scorn and rancor. "The cause, English-dog? Oh, I know the cause. Haha! Cause, he asks! Ahaha!"
Allen's smile strained but remained in place. "Could you please tell me, sir? It is important that I know."
"Why?" the man snarled suddenly out of his laughter. As Allen had known, the bleakness had left him, replaced now by a building rage. "Why is it im-important for you to know?"
"Sir!" Allen snapped, the sound like a ripcord as he stepped forward, invading the man's space. "Tell me the cause."
The clerk's eyes were wide at their sudden closeness, uncertainty clouding his anger as he took a step back. Thank you, Lulubell. The man's teeth were bared in a growl, and he glanced behind him once before quickly turning back to Allen and retreating another step. "Ludwig," the clerk muttered finally. "He had vision of prophet. He was touched by God, screamed that night entire night. I was there; we prayed for him."
As the man spoke, his words grow louder and louder, tumbling through his German accent. "We thought it was demon, that shadow, but Ludwig told us no once it entered him. It was Appollyion, the angel of destruction. Ludwig was given sight, and he knew who needed redemption. He could not die, not for four years. So we plan, we wait, and then we strike. We got them, yes, we got them all. The fire purifies. It does."
Allen was left with a look of uncertainty on his face, and then the man shoved past him and continued his wandering onwards. Allen watched him go, thoughts whirling.
Half of that was a mad ramble, but the other half... The shadow? Immortality? Screamed the whole night? Some of it matched what Komui had said, but... Shadow? Allen asked himself. Why does that stand out?
Allen moved onwards, looking around the town that had once been so peaceful. Once it entered him. The shadow left him screaming the entire night, then entered him. Given sight. No, given memories! Allen froze, jaw tightening as his whole body tensed. Everything clicked together suddenly, and it all made sense!
Surrounded by the destruction and scents of death and the feel of misery in the air, Allen fell to his knees suddenly. He was overwhelmed. It was so obvious now, something he could have and should have seen sooner. Those... cloaks, those black Clown Clowns. They gave memories of the future, they spawned only when Noah and Exorcists interacted. Allen, you fool! And he had recently found that not only did they appear for Exorcist and Noah, but at the Dark Order they had appeared for everyone in range.
Something else hit Allen then, a new fact. A prophecy, and fear tightened his chest. He buried his face in his palms, the full magnitude of things coming to him suddenly. This wasn't a random occurrence. He had been warned, and he had so quickly passed the idea off to something else. Fool, fool, foolish fool!
This destruction was a ravaging of time. After achieving recovery of memories of a time yet to come, out here alone and without an idea of what had happened, those men and women who suddenly woke eight years in the past, some of them could only attribute it to an act of God. They felt there was a purpose to it, a calling to right the wrongs of the future. Eight years was a long time. If someone became a known killer in that time, someone could kill him now and save the lives.
People rally to self-proclaimed prophets. These men and women who knew that they lived eight years from now, well, how could they possibly die before then? In their own minds, they were untouchable until then. Foolish, but logical enough for people going through that kind of trauma.
Time. It kept going back to time and their new experiences with it. Those cloaks, they were linked with that time. Those cloaks, they didn't exist until Allen had been sent into the past like this. Allen had done something to create them, something he couldn't yet explain. And it had to be him, too, not just anyone. When Lulubell had destroyed his Innocence in the forest, that cloak had gone away. His Innocence...
His Innocence had created these cloaks of time, the cloaks that spawned this destruction through the ravages of time.
He might as well stop dodging the point and just say it. "My Innocence, it has created a destroyer of time. It's not the Earl the prophecy spoke of, not that Level Two that sent me back here. No, those cloaks are Destroyers of Time."
Allen clenched his fists against his face, felt the frustration and anger within. Those damn cloaks!
"So you have a problem, brat," Cross was saying to young Allen. "Are you going to just sit there and complain about it or are you going to solve it?"
Twelve year old Allen pouted, think of how unfair it was that his Master was making him do this when the man could easily solve it himself. Focus on the problem... How to solve it...
There was nothing complaining or lamenting could do about it now. Allen needed to focus on the solution, on the path to finding one. He needed to simply walk that path, not despair over that he must do so. He could apply Mana's creed here, the one that told him to keep walking always.
Allen stood from the dirt and brushed off his pants. He couldn't solve this on his own – he didn't have enough information for it – but he had a strong inkling about someone who would know.
There was only one place to get answers about the Destroyer of Time. The one who first prophesied about it; his next stop, Hevlaska at the Dark Order Headquarters.
AN: I take that back then. It appears you've just been very quiet lately. Well, on with the show.
