/Six Years after the Rejoining/
/Seven Months after Dirk Ran Away from Home/
Argentum Trade Guild — Intelligence Division
Report from Contractor Wellwell (INFORMATION RANK: NOT QUITE HIDEY-HIDEY)
Copy of missive follows below:
Wellwell trying hand at black market goods from Keves and Agnus for Emporium. Not quite 'black market', since Polis leaders turn blind eye so long as they can be marketed as crafts. Concern is interaction and contact with Kevesipon and Agnipon, after all!
Polis friends quite busy expanding across new continent, and going bashy-bashy on local monsters. But they keep big eyes and ears on affairs of outside world. Concerned about potential conflict rising with those who remember fighting City friends in Aionios? Wellwell not care, so long as he still capable of pursuing life as traderpon! Caravan ancestors would be proud!
Only wish that Wellwell able to bring memorabilia about certain Founders into store, but that would run afoul of Polis rules. And then Wellwell might get paid visit by Samon! No want to get whacked by Ultimate Hammer!
Missive ends.
Analysis of this and other correspondence from those willing to barter information leads to following conclusions about elusive Polis:
— Given apparent connection of Polis's Six Houses with notable individuals in Keves and Agnus (not yet confirmed; see prior correspondence under heading [CITY FOUNDERS]), political sensitivities may be secondary reason as to why Polis does not want to initiate diplomatic relations with the wider world.
— Primary reason still most likely that Polis leadership have gained some understanding of history of Keves and Agnus, and have not liked what they've seen. Tales of past wars and conflict publicly available; would be all too easy for sleuthy-pon to uncover and bring back to Polis. If isolationist tendencies of certain Houses taken into account, this give them readymade excuse to remain amongst themselves.
— Attempts at uncovering information about [BLUE LIGHT] and relationship to Tantal via Lady Astelle have been unsuccessful. Given documented power of Blade "KOS-MOS", this only make lack of knowledge more unsettling.
For fun and profit of Argentum,
Brobro
Field Agent — Salvaging Operations
xxxx
Atop the deck of the Defiance, Dirk — still going by the pseudonym of 'Dee' — watched quietly as they pulled up into the port (New Hope's Rest, it was apparently called? Why did that strike a bell?): it bore a functional design philosophy, with long piers designed to handle naval vessels of varying sizes, and taller structures designed to serve as the equivalent for aerial ships. However, the eclectic appearance of Triton's ship made it stand out by comparison. "Are we the only ones from Keves or Agnus?"
"Aye, lad," said Triton, roughly patting him on the shoulder. Speaking under his breath, he added, "The people of the City were always a wary lot; they've got space to expand now, but it ain't like minds are gonna change that quickly. Goin' from a never-ending war for generations, to a land of peace...?"
Dirk hummed, not feeling strongly about it one way or another. "Surprised they're letting us in, given that you were Moebius. It's not like they'd forget about that sort of thing, would they?"
Triton laughed. "They sure didn't, Dee! I mean, me old crew in Aionios pretty much lived in the City after we met Ouroboros. Can't speak for Irma, but the fact I had rather peaceful relations with the Cityfolk was one of the reasons the Queens vouched for me to even be here."
"You? Peaceful?"
"I know; 'tis a wonderful joke, ain't it? But our ship is full of naught but troublemakers, far removed from the levers of politics and ruling; I'll leave that stuff to the landlubbers!"
Dirk frowned, wondering what exactly was so important that full diplomatic contact with the Cityfolk had been restricted so. There were a couple of memories involving soldiers from the City — nothing specific that he felt strongly about — but he could not recall ever visiting the City as Moebius D; there was some solace in that, at least. (That didn't stop him from tightening his bandana, discreetly tucking away strands of unruly blond hair.) "...we're gonna be able to understand them, won't we?" At Triton's confused look, Dirk elaborated. "They lived in another world for who knows how many generations; languages change over time, wouldn't they?"
"...a fair enough observation, Dee," admitted Triton. "An odd quirk of how the worlds came back together, perhaps; by the end of it all, every single side in Aionios spoke the same tongue. And after the Rejoining, that common tongue remained for all of us, even though it wasn't the same one used by the worlds' before the Intersection. Almost seems like a little bit of providence, don't it?"
"More like a little bit convenient," said Dirk with the roll of his eyes. That was interesting to think about; from what little Dirk could remember, the speech of Aionios had not been the common tongue of Alrest that he could remember as a child. Wonder who pulled that off, he wondered, even as it was time to move out.
That tension lingered within Dirk as he accompanied Triton and Irma; the rest of the crew split off to do their own thing under the watchful eyes of the security of New Hope's Rest: exploration, haggling, sampling of local wares and doodads...such frivolity faded from his mind as he hopped into an open transport vehicle, more akin to a jeep or troop carrier than anything. Thick wheels rumbled over roads which had been paved over with simple stone bricks fitted finely together, carved and formed so smoothly that there was no turbulence to be felt. The smoothness allowed Dirk to focus on his surroundings: it seemed that the City people had emphasized building along natural thoroughfares in the environment, branching out as a living organism that nonetheless left much of the natural environment untouched. There was a true sense of hesitancy and uncertainty with how homes and markets and buildings lined the road, leaving immense gaps through which one could see unspoiled landscapes; the sense of children handling delicate treasure — nerves wracked and anxious over the mere thought of breaking it — was paramount.
If the City had been as isolated and reclusive as Dirk had been led to believe, perhaps that was no surprise.
It took only about fifteen minutes of relatively slow travel — watching pedestrians mill about near the paved road as they drew past; listening to Triton regale of his fantastic adventures to a seemingly unimpressed trio of guards; smelling the crisp wind, heavy with the scent of unfamiliar grain — before the sight of an immense Ferronis loomed: the proverbial heart of Polis. Numerous buildings and open markets sprawled around it like shoots from a glitterspud, stretching and yearning in a manner that followed no form of planning that Dirk could fathom; it was as though the denizens had seen unclaimed land and set about to making it to their own. Even now, he could see the unabashed enthusiasm in the eyes of their escorts: they were proud of what they had accomplished since the Rejoining. At least things seem to have gone well for them. "So, do I have a job? Can't think of any other reason why you want me to tag along."
"Look around, see the sights, be a good sport. Stuff like that!" explained Triton with a grin. "I mean, I don't think you'd be invited to a meeting with the head honchos."
"And please don't get involved in any fights. We're supposed to be on our 'best behavior'," said Irma with a glare. "Got it, Dee?"
Dirk rolled his eyes. "Yeah yeah, I get it. I'll be a good boy." It didn't answer his question of why he was here, though; after all, it's not like he had much memory of anything involving the City (blessedly enough). Might as well go on a walk...
xxxx
Elsewhere within Polis, on the outskirts of Virid Park...
A brown-haired woman sat on a bench, quietly sketching with charcoal; every motion was short, curt, and frustrated.
Her 'escort' hummed to himself, communicating wary judgment with a single raspy sound. "You're frustrated," murmured Gray.
Shania didn't respond; it would do nothing but 'prove him right' on some obtuse matter that she wished she couldn't care about. "Hmm."
Gray — his muscular frame having become leaner in the six years since the Rejoining — glanced down at her. (Doubtless his expression was condescending; how could it not, after he had been forced to put up with her?) "Everyone gets old."
Like she had to be reminded of that; for some unfathomable reason that she had yet to grasp, the Vandhams' legendary attack dog had volunteered to be her perpetual chaperone. Then again, when the Vandhams had been the deciding vote as to her ultimate fate — execution, imprisonment, and exile had been bandied about by the representatives of the Six Houses — perhaps it was no surprise.
(Her sentence: to labor on behalf of the City for at least twenty years, mapping out territory on foot beyond the general surveyors, to identify areas of interest and monster dens to be aware of. Even with an aged warrior like Gray assigned to watch her, it was a damning punishment in her eyes: a sign of just how expendable she was, good for little more than being a bloody meat shield.)
Yet, despite the monotony of her life — go scouting for days on end in this new continent; return to the City (she still could not bring herself to call it Polis) to update their records; wait in crushing silence and isolation as her 'custodian' rested; repeat, repeat, repeat — she had come to relish the outings into this new world. Gray had never been a sterling conversationalist, yet his presence allowed her to...soak everything in; to witness unspoiled lands with fresh eyes.
It was the only reason she had yet to break and burn this wretched place to the ground-
"A waste of good paper."
Gray's words jolted Shania out of her head, allowing her to witness her handiwork with a grim eye. Instead of her mind's eye observation of an interesting mountain range seen yesterday — its peaks resembling a gnarled spine — she had created a messy blotch of dark gradients. "...hmph." The distant laughter of children caught her children, prompting her to look further into the middle of Virid Park: amidst the grassy field, a dark-skinned girl with lean muscle was wrestling with numerous children, while parents watched on. In the eyes of the newest generation of Polis, Ghondor Vandham was but one of the many heroes that had helped usher forth the new era. Ghondor was lauded, loved, and valued.
(Heartfelt words, spoken more kindly than she could ever recall from Ghondor; about one's calling, about the connection of one's name; she only smiled because she was finally free from the pain of life...except it wasn't the end. And for all that the new world represented a change, not enough of her life had changed to make it mean anything.)
What an infuriating sight. Shania wanted to scream.
"Hey."
Gray's words brought her back once more, even as she crumpled her aborted work into a wad. "I don't know why you even bother. If you shot me in the back of the head while we were out, no one would miss me." Ghondor wouldn't, and her mother certainly wouldn't. No one would care if she just disappeared.
"Then why haven't you?" whispered her own voice within her own mind, quiet and harsh and bitter. (There was little separation between the two; as far as the people of the City were concerned, she was still Moebius S. And so the voice still sounded like her.)
The older gunman sighed, leaning his weight against the bench. Olden wood and tired bones creaked in unison as the sixty-six-year-old said, "It was because of Guernica's request that I ended up watching over a group of brats. I suppose I simply got used to it."
"I'm not Ouroboros." She tried not to sound petulant; truly. "I'm not like them." For good or ill, she could never be like Ouroboros. That ship had sailed.
"Ouroboros or not, you're all youngsters to me," he said, not intimidating somehow in spite of his growling voice. "We old-timers were supposed to keep kids like you on the right path."
"And you all did swimmingly, didn't you?" she spat.
"Hrm." Gray said nothing else.
Sighing, Shania tossed the wad of paper over her shoulder; it was a petty thing, because she would just have to pick it up and throw it away regardless-
"Oi! Watch where you're throwing things!"
-and apparently she couldn't even litter without causing trouble.
xx
Dirk had just been walking along the paths circling around a park — one filled with oodles of children, play-fighting with a young woman — when a wad of paper had struck him in the head.
Glaring at the source, his eyes narrowed at the sight of two individuals: one was an older man — older than his father, probably even older than Uncle Zeke or Dunban — in dark clothing, who exuded the aura of one serious Ardun-stomper. So naturally, the woman sitting on the bench — probably several years older than Dirk himself, maybe? — had to be the culprit. "Doesn't this place have rules against littering?"
"It does," grumbled the older man. "You look new."
Dirk briefly glanced at the woman, wondering why the sight caused his spine to tingle. Even so, he answered the gunman. "I'm with Triton's crew. He's supposed to be allowed here, right?"
"...within reason," murmured the man, crossing his arms out of apparent habit. "What's your name?"
"You can call me Dee."
"Hrm. Call me Gray."
Dirk looked down at the woman, wondering what had had happened to make her look so bitter. "And why'd you toss this?" Unraveling it, he blinked at the sight of numerous scratches of charcoal, creating some unusual image he could not divine the meaning of. "...I can't make heads or tails of this."
"No one's supposed to," growled the woman, swiping the paper back from him. "It's just a mistake. A failure."
"Seen worse," said Dirk with a shrug, thinking about an art museum in Mor Ardain that he had once visited, years ago. "It'd probably be at home with some Ardainian artist's gallery of 'abstract art'." (Okay, so maybe he had a bias for traditional Gormotti and Urayan art; at least the stuff they drew and painted was pretty to look at.)
The woman's bitterness was briefly paired with suspicion. "Ardainian...so you must be from Agnus, then."
Dirk's initial paranoia was stamped down, because it wasn't like a random Polis woman had any connection with the outside world, right? "Pretty much."
"...you look young enough to have been a soldier in Aionios," muttered the woman, ignoring the glare from her older compatriot. "Do you miss it? Is this new world everything you've wanted?"
Dirk tried hard not to scowl. Honestly. Yet, he couldn't stop the harshness of his voice. "What's there to miss about Aionios?" ("More than you want to admit," hissed D with a smug grin.) "Since you Polis folks have apparently been staying away, I take it you've not had much occasion to meet an Agnian or a Kevesi who's been remembering their life from that world. For most...it ain't pleasant."
"Did you have power?" she asked, suddenly looking at him with intent and purpose. "Even in a place like that, if you had power, you could do whatever you wanted. It was...simpler."
("Yep. I did whatever I wanted to do. I loved it. And you loved it.")
Dirk snarled, "Simpler? Maybe. But it was still bloody awful. And if you had any sparkin' idea about what I went through, you'd shut the snuff up." Without saying another word, he stormed away, leaving Gray and the crazy woman behind. Good riddance.
xx
Gray shot Shania a warning look. "That was unnecessary."
"...I know," she admitted, feeling oddly drained. She didn't know what had come over her; only that the younger man had possessed a strangely familiar look, deep within his eyes. (She had never met him before; yet, there was a strange feeling of kinship. Why?)
"Hrm." After a few seconds of silence, Gray added, "Is that what you think about? Your lack of power? Of control?"
Shania glared at her minder. "Why wouldn't I? Every day is a reminder of just how little control I have over my life."
"So you think," grumbled Gray in his typically minimalist fashion, saying nothing more on the matter. He was fantastically unhelpful, like that.
(That concept that he believed she could — and should — figure it out on her lonesome didn't cross her mind.)
xxxx
Dirk stormed about the perimeter of the park, intentionally staying away from the various bystanders; no need to give off the impression that he was a loose cannon or anything like that. That girlie doesn't know anything; that bitch doesn't know what she was talking about. He briefly paused to slap himself in the face. Don't think with those words; not like that. You're not him. He didn't know that bitter woman at all; he didn't know why she seemed to carry such blatant anger and frustration with her. Maybe she just wasn't as good at hiding it as he was.
(Amused laughter, mocking his own conceit, echoed dimly from far away.)
Before he knew it, Dirk found himself near a building at the opposite end of the park, possessing a tall, arching doorway. There was a strangely hallowed air to the area, akin to that of an honored mausoleum: the 'Memorial Hall' labelling was proof enough of that. There were signs advising of ongoing expansion of the exhibits, but his eyes were drawn immediately to the statues on his left. "Glimmer...?" he murmured, looking back and forth between her statute and that of an individual who was the spitting image of his father. "Dad...?" he whispered, with wide eyes. He quickly read the plaque for 'House Rhodes' — "Exceedingly gentle and kind of heart? Pfft, as if." — before moving onto the one for 'House Cassini'. "Robust physique, two great swords...lost an eye?" Dad never said anything about losing an eye. Knowing him, he probably didn't think it was anything important. "An unsophisticated sort, broad-minded but impassioned...talk about backhanded compliments," he muttered with a chuckle, nonetheless standing back to look at both statues at the same time. Here was physical proof of what his father and sister had accomplished in Aionios. So...this is what you were able to achieve. The sheer weight of expectations slowly pressed down upon him, even though he had resolved to live a mortified life of private, unspoken abasement. It was yet another reminder of just how much of a disappointment he was.
("A disappointment in your own mind. You only have yourself to blame for feeling like a loser.")
He briefly observed the other statues — "The Reid guy looks a bit like that Shulk fella," he quietly murmured; thinking of old news stories, and comparing them with Dad and Mum's tales — before stopping at the one with the ponytailed man. "Vandham..." Now there was a name. Reading the corresponding plaque only cemented that Noah hadn't been blowing smoke up his arse. 'The original incarnation of the City was once laid to ruin by Moebius N's hand'...so he wasn't lying about that. Not that he had actually believed Mio's boyfriend-slash-sorta-husband had been lying about doing something so awful, but it only cemented the reality that N had been able to repent...eventually.
(But it had taken N how many hundreds of years to change? He only had one life.)
("I'm inevitable. Why struggle?")
"Ain't seen you around before."
Dirk looked over his shoulder, blinking at the woman who had interrupted his introspection. "That's 'cause I'm not from here."
"Well I gathered that," she said, putting her hands on her hips. The woman — probably several years older than him, maybe? — had skin the color of milk chocolate, with brown hair tied into a single ponytail. She wore a short-sleeved dress with slits up both sides, fit for free movement in combat; even were it not for the gi pants she wore, the musculature in her arms and the hard calluses visible on her knuckles would have cemented her as a fighter. "You must be one of the dags from Triton and Irma's bunch. Heard they were gonna be visiting today."
"Well...you'd be right. Name's Dee."
"Ghondor. Ghondor Vandham."
Ah. A descendant of Mio and Noah...so I'm technically related to her. That felt weird to think about.
Ghondor glanced outside the Memorial Hall, bearing an undisguised grimace. "Saw you talkin' with Shania."
"You mean that angry woman?"
"...guess you could say that," she admitted with a tired sigh. "What you talk about?"
Dirk shrugged, wondering why this woman was so interested. "Not much. All I did was tell her not to litter, really."
Ghondor didn't seem to believe him, judging by her frown. "...interested in these exhibits, huh?"
A safe enough topic to think about. "Yeah," he admitted, looking down the hallways situated between each statute; they were obviously newer, lacking the burnished age of everything else in this chamber. "It's a good thing, knowing where you came from. Helps you figure out where you need to go."
"...you ain't wrong," admitted Ghondor, strolling into the hallway between the statues of Vandham and Doyle's Founders. "Old names can be a major pain, though. But I ain't gonna spill my guts to a stranger," she said, even as she stopped in front of a smaller statue, depicting a man: nowhere near as tall or as grand as those of the Founders, yet still possessing plenty of detail (the pompadour's likeness was downright immaculate). "Wonder what he would've thought, of this world..."
Dirk frowned, looking at the statue with a strange fixation. (Why was it ringing a bell? And why did it seem to be...incomplete?) "Your old man?"
"My gramps, actually," said Ghondor. "Guernica was his name. A right tough bastard he was. It was thanks to him that the last Ouroboros even came to be...and helped bring Aionios to an end. And he gave his life to do it-"
Ghondor's voice trailed off, because the name and the face were echoing in his skull-!
("You know why this statue is incomplete?")
xxxx
He watched from afar, holding two corpses that had yet to realize they were dead.
He watched as three Kevesi and three Agnians were lectured by an old grump from the City: a right nuisance who had plagued Moebius for so long.
J was rather quiet, which suited him just fine; this was his show.
With a keen sense for dramatic timing, he took aim with a glowing spear, and fired.
"...'cause the face of your real enemy is-" Guernica's voice cut off with a pained gurgle, courtesy of the spear through his chest.
And just like that, Moebius D — empowered in his Interlink form — strolled onto the battlefield — as if on a grand stage.
"Oi oi! Don't go stopping on myaccount!"
Their looks of dread and bewilderment were priceless.
xxxx
("...because the statue's missing a hole in the chest. A fine way to die, don't you think?")
"-oi. OI!" Ghondor's voice cut through the murk in his mind. "What's with the panic?!"
Dirk, a cold sweat breaking out across his brow, could barely speak, for how harsh his breathing was. The memory was so stark, so fresh: the wretched intention to murder; the gleeful satisfaction as Guernica Vandham fell. It was too much...it was too much! "I...I didn't...I didn't mean..."
"Didn't mean what?" asked Ghondor, her eyes narrowing with concern. In the background, some other bystanders were watching, wondering aloud at the commotion. "What are you talking about?"
Moebius D had killed Guernica Vandham...
("You killed him.")
...but there was no one else but him that could take responsibility. "I can't take it back...I'm sorry...but it wasn't me...it wasn't me..."
Ghondor, apparently fed up with his lack of explanation, reached over and ripped off his bandanna. Looking at his ashen blond hair and features, her eyes impulsively narrowed with recognition. "We had a roster of known Moebius, you know? And Ouroboros shared what they knew of their battles...so we knew about the Moebius who killed the old-timer...and what the faces of their Consul forms looked like." With terrifying swiftness, the shorter woman yanked him forward by the scruff of his shirt, her eyes flashing with righteous fury. "So tell me, Moebius D: what the hell do you think you're trying to pull?"
Even if Dirk had an answer to give — which he did not — the mere act of speaking was beyond his capacity.
xxxx
Author's Notes: I think that's a good place to stop for now. :V
