There were two individuals.
"Do you find it infuriating?" inquired a voice with a cultured tone. "Ye who were once my god?"
A calmer voice responded, "In what sense?"
"To have to sit on the sidelines; to be a perpetual observer, unable to interfere in the ways you once possessed?"
"To be infuriated implies a degree of frustration with current circumstances; why should that be the case?"
"You were, for all intents and purposes, the incarnation of the Monado; nay, the very essence of the Monado. You possessed the power to choose who would control the passage of fate; amidst the Endless Now, you even chose to enact your own design."
"For all that it accomplished, in the end; in the former scenario, the power of the Monado was wielded by others. In the latter, the decisions of Alpha were decisively rebuffed by others: my design, insofar as it was 'mine', was rejected in favor of another. With all that being said...I am rather satisfied with this current turn of affairs."
"Truly? To witness such feeble creatures falter? To see the same mistakes, made over and over?"
"It is that very monotony which makes new decisions so intriguing to witness."
The first voice, its bearer flickering between Z, X, and Y, simply sighed. "No matter how much time passes, their state always returns to the same origin...even you will eventually tire of the futility, Ontos...or perhaps you prefer the name Ousia?"
The second voice, its bearer flickering between Alvis and A and an indefinite entity comprised of crimson energy, could only smile. "Existence itself cannot tire, for it can only ever be. A value judgement of 'futility' requires presuppositions and axioms...and those differ between individuals. You know this quite well, Moebius...I wonder: will a day come when you choose a different name for yourself?"
"Only when human nature changes...which means we will be waiting forever."
"I suppose we can only wait and see..."
xxxx
/Three Months after Dirk Ran Away from Home/
In the grand scheme of things, the High Entia were the best around: longer-lived than the Nopon, the Homs, and the various humans of Agnus, thus providing a sense of stability and fortitude; yet not so long-lived as the Machina (or, apparently, the Indoline), which served as a guard against becoming stagnant; plus, their heads bore angelic wings, giving an essential elegance that no one else could claim! Even their pure-blooded brethren, eternally transformed into Telethia, possessed an inherent grace and deadly beauty all of their own. Truly, the High Entia were the proverbial wellspring of all that was great in Keves.
That's what Garvel thought, at any rate.
A shame that his father was not so accepting of such pride.
("There was another subordinate of mine who once possessed such fanatical attitudes towards our blood," murmured Maxis, looking stoically at the distant towers of Alcamoth. Their Havres quietly flew in its designated patrol route, providing an immense overview of the town — nay, a city, by this point — underneath the capital of Keves. "And it drove him to his own destruction. It is one thing to have pride in our people, my son...but not to the point we disregard the contributions and talents of others.")
It was for that reason that Maxis had pulled some strings to get Garvel reassigned from his duties on Alcamoth, to give him some 'experience' working alongside those outside the High Entia.
What rubbish, he mulishly thought, staring at the gangway connecting a pier of Magnamanus — a port town built in, around, and upon the Fallen Arm of the olden Mechonis — with a weathered vessel: a metallic beast, looking akin to an ancient sailing vessel married with the design philosophies of the Machina, Nopon, and Ardainians. It was quite messy, to be honest; Garvel doubted the vessel could even comfortably hold a crew of fifty!
"Ho ho! So ye be the landlocked flyboy who's tryin' to get his sea legs."
And here's one of the few bright spots, mused Garvel as he looked at the burly man standing atop the ship's deck. With hardy gray pants stained by saltwater, a burgundy shirt that was bursting at the buttons, and a frayed corduroy vest, he came across as a man who lived hard; only his thick mane of black hair — with bushy beard, and long locks bound up in a ponytail — countered that roughness with a sense of lively vitality and vigor. If nothing else, this man exuded a sense of power well beyond the average Homs. "And I assume that you're the captain of this vessel?"
"Indeed! Ye can call me Cap'n Triton," boasted the man. "Hurry onboard! We've gotta be setting off soon; daylight waits for neither man nor beast!"
Garvel nodded, adjusting the rucksack that held his personal belongings. As he ascended the gangway, Triton's thick hand rested upon the pauldrons of his Eryth Armor. "What? Is something the matter?"
"Yer gonna want to ditch that fancy outfit," said Triton with a knowing grin. "It ain't gonna be much of a help."
Garvel couldn't help but sneer at the Homs; even if he was the captain of the vessel, what did he know about military-grade gear? "This is the standard-issue armor of my people, and is highly effective against the claws and fangs of monsters! Given the reputation of your crew and the beasts you've been reputed to fight, why would I part with it?"
Triton only seemed amused by his rationale. "I suppose you'll find out soon enough. Welcome aboard the Defiance, lad..." The taller Homs turned, slapping the hull with a meaty hand. "...you're in for a wild ride."
xxxx
It took less than three hours for Garvel's pride to run headfirst into practicality, because sparks it was hot! (He was too weary to even chide himself for using the vulgar lingo of that other world; he couldn't fathom why the impulse was even there!)
"Hmph! Captain Triton warned you, sillypon," chided the little pink Nopon that was apparently the captains' first mate; Api, her name was.
And that had been captains, as in plural, because of the woman with honeyed blonde hair watching him with a critical eye. "Old Captain T prefers to let the new recruits learn the hard way. That always seems to be the only way they learn anything." Clad in wide-legged green trousers and a billowy white tunic, her only ornamentation was in the form of a red sash wrapped around her waist, a leather belt over one shoulder, and a bicorne hat made of dark felt with golden embroidery. With a plain tone, Captain Irma asked, "So...Garvel, was it? Do you need help removing your armor?"
"...I...am just fine...!" growled Garvel, ignoring the sensation of sweat running down his skin underneath the hot plates; the flapping of his headwings was doing bugger all to cool him off, either! "I will...adapt."
Another High Entia, tending to secured pots filled with sea fig bushes, huffed at his demeanor. "Adaptation would be putting on clothing suitable for the environment. What you're talking about is enduring, not adapting."
Garvel scoffed at the blond's calm words; his headwings were barely bigger than clenched fists! "Sod off; I'm of tougher stock!"
"Best not to insult ship's cookypon!" retorted Api, gesticulating wildly. "Zeon might sneak spicy papaya flakes into stew!"
(Zeon sighed, muttering "I would not disrespect the ingredients in such a manner" under his breath.)
Garvel seethed, even as a nearby deckhand — cleaning away at the wooden planks with a long-handled soft brush — snorted at him. The condescension was enough for him to snarl, "Then why would you bother getting a slow naval vessel instead of a flying ship?" A glorious commercial-class Havres, a Machina clunker, or even a garish Titanship would have been better! Flying through the sky, with the cool air brushing underneath his wings...truly, there were few sensations like it!
"Takes more energy, you dingus," retorted Irma, crossing her arms with a huff. "Besides, you were aware you would be sailing on the open sea. You can't blame anyone but yourself for not adequately preparing."
"Tsk," grumbled Garvel, even as his ears caught the snickers of the scrubbing deckhand once more. "You find something humorous," he asked, glaring at the young man; the blue bandana wrapped around his head was enough to betray the fact he had no High Entia heritage. If he was a Homs, he couldn't be any older than twenty. "I won't be lectured by someone at least half a century younger than me!"
"Oh?" Scratch that; the accent wasn't Kevesi in nature. An Agnian human, apparently. "You're that old, huh? Strange; I've seen kiddos with better manners." Tilting his head, the young man's red eyes twinkled with amusement. "Pretty sure I've met at least one High Entia who's younger than you...and with better manners. And she wanted to right proper kill me at the time, so what's your excuse?"
Garvel's headwings flared out with irritation. "My excuse is that you're a disrespectful cur! Were it not for the fact I am now a part of this crew, I wouldn't hesitate to put you in your place!"
"That can be arranged," blithely replied Irma. "Use whatever you want."
"...truly?" remarked Garvel, looking at the deckhand with vicious glee. "Then I'll prove myself in record time."
The young man sighed, briefly stowing his brush before reaching for two sticks — nay, truncheons of some kind, formed from a hardy composite material — that were hanging from the belt loops of his pants. "If you insist..."
Garvel, reaching for the sword on his back, withdrew it with a skillful flourish. The edges were blunt, and would not slice nor kill unless he ran his ether through it; as such, it would be perfect for putting the upstart in his place. "I insist on showing my superiority!" With a roar, Garvel charged forward, swinging his blade down expertly. When the deckhand dodged to the left, Garvel expertly used his momentum to spin on his heel, slicing for where the man's head would be-!
BONK.
Stars flashed through his head, courtesy of the baton smashing against the back of his skull. "Mudder," he cursed, glaring at the petulant upstart.
The young man rested a baton on his right shoulder, sporting a lazy grin. "Come on, Garv."
(Garv had been an affectionate nickname given by some of the younger soldiers in the Alcamoth garrison, much like his father had the nickname of 'Max' from his peers. To hear it come from the lips of this little wretch was surprisingly irritating.) "HAH!" he roared, holding out his left hand; with a bit of ether, a gust of wind burst forward.
The deckhand held his truncheons up as he knuckled down and leaned into the wind. "Ether Arts, eh? You're already breaking out the good stuff?"
"You've not even seen the bare minimum of what I can do!" exclaimed Garvel, swinging his sword; a bare bit of ether was enough to create a wave of force. The energy wave crashed into his opponent's batons, pushing him off balance. Sensing his chance, Garvel darted forward, aiming his sword for the center of mass-!
The young man, shockingly, intentionally fell backwards; as the sword sailed over him, his right leg shot up, crashing into his abdomen. There was an audible sound of metal bending, as plate crumpled at the point of impact.
Snuff, that hurt, thought Garvel with a wince, even as he instinctively backed away from the opponent. A wily sort, this one is...! "You think you're clever? Break out your own Arts; I'll beat them down, and then some!"
The deckhand chuckled, even as he kicked back up to a standing position. The movement caused the thick bracelets on his wrists to shift, ever so slightly. "Hate to disappoint you; why should I use Arts when I don't need them?"
Garvel scowled, feeling downright incensed now. "You..." With a furious howl, he unleash a flurry of slashes at the mouthy upstart, keeping far enough back to take advantage of his weapon's superior range, while simultaneously avoiding the tricky mudder's movements. "You can't keep this up forever!"
The seaman didn't even respond, his face set into a picture of concentration. Such was his focus on parrying and dodging that he couldn't even get a strike in edgewise, which suited Garvel just fine!
That is, until he timed a parry just right; his left truncheon pushed down and outward against the flat of Garvel's sword, causing it to smack against the wooden deck. Without hesitation, the deckhand's right hand flashed forward-!
SMASH!
-and Garvel could only think about the pain in his nose as the man's right fist crashed into his face. "Ah, sparks," he hissed, impulsively cringing backwards. "You little-!" Out of frustration, he threw his sword at his opponent.
The young man bashed it to the side, only to grimace as Garvel bull-rushed him onto the deck. The deckhand smashed his batons against Garvel's body, but the Eryth Armor absorbed just enough of the blows for the High Entia to successfully straddle his opponent, finally getting into a position to rain punches down on him. The man quickly switched to a desperate defense, trying to wriggle away.
Garvel wasn't having it. "Where's all of your talk now, you ruffian?! Come on, show me what you got!"
The cur bucked his hips, getting just enough leverage to bring his leg up and knee Garvel in the back; with the High Entia out of position, the wily seaman shimmied beneath the High Entia's legs.
"Spark," hissed Garvel, frustration boiling over as his prey got away. Scrambling for his sword, Garvel got back to his feet. "It's not over yet-!" he yelled, turning around just in time to get the tip of a truncheon crashing against his jaw.
The next thing he knew, Garvel was waking up within the sick bay. "...huh?"
"Please be quiet," politely asked a humanoid female with dark gray skin, white armor plating, and glowing ether lines running over her form; a bitball-type weapon hovered over her head, which shimmered with curative ether. A Common Healer Blade, it seemed. "I am almost done healing your injuries."
"...say what now?" That's what Garvel tried to say, yet his jaw still ached too much to move.
"Let Fana finish," said a familiar voice; Irma moved into his field of vision, coolly looking down at him with her yellow eyes. "Or else I might let our lowest ranking crew member knock you silly again."
Garvel tried not to be irritated. Truly. But it still stung.
"If it makes the lunk feel any better, I got treated much the same when I first joined the Defiance," said a familiar voice.
Irma looked away at the sick bay's other occupant. "If you're done flapping your gums, you can get back to work."
"Eh, if you insist, boss lady."
Garvel huffed, sitting up to gaze at his victorious opponent. "Wait," he forced past his lips, ignoring the residual pain from where his opponent had knocked him good. "...you bested me. I would have your name." If only so I know who I'll have to defeat to at least show my worth among this lot. If the lowest ranking member of this motley crew was capable of defeating a member of the Alcamoth garrison without any arts...well, that only solidified the reality that Triton and Irma's crew were as tough as their reputation indicated.
The young man looked back at him; now that they were closer, Garvel could see hints of ashy blond hair sticking out from underneath his sweaty bandanna. "I go by Dee. Don't wear it out." Without another word, the deckhand departed.
Dee, hmm? Garvel couldn't think any further before Fana pushed him back down on his cot. "Ah, gentle...!"
"If you insist on moving about, I will not be gentle," warned the Blade, her blank eyes giving off an unsettling effect.
"I'd take her advice," warned Irma.
Garvel sighed, acquiescing to the humiliation...for now, at least.
xxxx
As night crawled across the ocean, Dirk — or rather, Dee, as he went by now — quietly ran a wet cloth over his skin and hair, wiping away some of the excess perspiration from the day.
(Months before the fateful night he had fled Gormott, Dirk had been perusing advertisements for particular mercenary crews. One had caught his eye, if only because the two co-captains were faces he actually recognized: namely, former members of Moebius. Not that said advertisement said it out loud, but even his spotty memories of Aionios had some flashes of T and I. Before long, a plan began to form itself in his mind...he would just have to arrange for a message to be delivered through discreet means.)
He paid special attention to his green Core Crystal, hidden underneath his shirt; he had gone through great pains to ensure nobody else could see it.
(On the night he had left his home since childhood, he had intentionally gone on a route heading towards the mainland of New Elysium, where he would be caught by the security cameras of both his family estate and those utilized by the local security forces; as a member of the duly-authorized patrol, he knew where they were located. He also knew where the gaps in the video coverage were; hence, in a particular alleyway that was not within view of any recording device, he disrobed of his patrolman's uniform and pulled a secondary outfit out of his rucksack. Donning a baggy hoodie and tightly wrapping his hair underneath a bandana, he then clasped a pair of distinctive bracelets around his wrists; hissing at the draining sensation, he nonetheless endured as he altered his route, heading towards the ports of Torigoth.)
After all, this whole self-imposed penance of his would do little good if everybody and their grandmother could see the Aegis's emerald Core Crystal shining on his chest. The only reason its glow was dimmed was thanks to the shackles he had around his wrists: 'borrowed' from his old job on patrol duty, built and designed for detaining unruly types and destabilizing their ether flow to the point that the usage of Arts was impossible.
(Right as Glimmer was first discovering his farewell note, Dirk was staring intently at the faces of Triton and Irma. "Ye sure this is what you want, laddie?" asked the former Moebius T, even while the former Moebius I tried to get a read on him. "Your little 'job request' made you come across as a downright miserable sort. Truth be told...I think ye undersold it." Dirk didn't care about Triton's concern; all he wanted was to be put to work, on a vessel that would go far away from Agnus. He did not ask for payment, nor did he want any; beyond a place to stay in the crew's quarters, and whatever food the rest of the crew was allotted, that was all he needed.)
Using his distinctive Brightfire Spears wouldn't help, going incognito and all. It had also been why he had bothered using blunt batons as his weapon of choice: no chance of cutting into anyone's flesh. No chance of accidentally severing someone's head.
Even so, it did nothing to stop the voice of his greatest demon.
"You really think this will accomplish anything?" whispered Moebius D, sounding both amused and infuriated in equal measure. "Lowering yourself to such a degree; you could have wiped the floor with the bird-headed cretin. You could wipe the floor with anyone on this ship...you have the power to do so."
"Probably," he admitted under his breath, quietly getting into the hammock that served as his bed in the tiny little cabin. If it was even a sixth the size of his old room, he'd be shocked.
"Yet you're committing to a life of nothingness. A life of slaving away like some nobody."
"Yep," he whispered, unable to stop his smirk. "When people think of 'Dee', they'll think of the guy who scrubs the decks without complaint, and does what he's told. They'll think of the guy who's got the most menial jobs, because he's the one with the lowest rank. When they think of 'Dee'...they won't be thinking of you. And that...will be my victory." That was his vow. That was his oath.
"...hah. What a farce. In the end, when it all comes crumbling down...I'll be here, as ever. Waiting."
"...you'd better be willing to wait a long time," growled Dirk, rolling over to let the ship's gentle swaying lull him to sleep. It won't be my strength that stops you...it'll be my weakness...
That was the plan, anyhow; as for how long he could keep it up...well, it had gone pretty well for three months. Now he just needed to stretch it out for the rest of his life.
No big deal, right?
xxxx
Author's Note: This ship is shaping up to be a disastrous combination of personalities, and I am here for it.
/why yes, I DID make Garvel the son of that mustachioed High Entia from Future Connected
/I contemplated making Garvel related to Gael'gar instead
/but that seemed a bit too on the nose :V