Something uneasy stirred in still air two weeks after the Red Claw's final act, and the blue skies and light of the Sun felt disingenuous. Port Cyrreine, Sentinel Academy, both snapped back into order too quickly. Dismantle a domestic terror organization one week, struggle through a calculus final the next. And a handful of days after that, the Vytal Tournament's opening ceremony, aired on national television. The Academy League had apparently been making a big deal of Lazula's rivalry with Sterling. The possibility of an impending rematch. But after Condor, it all felt so long ago and far away. So inconsequential. Only when she imagined the lights of the stadium, feeling the grooves of Impetus's hilt on her fingers as she stared down her "rival" again, did she remember how badly she wanted to win.
She hadn't gone to Sparring Team practice since the fight with Condor– the fight with The Ambassador. It was canceled for finals week, anyway. But she skipped the week after because she knew Midas would be there. Masked up, playing the part of their charming, undeniably talented yet a bit scatterbrained leader.
A pulse at her wrist reminded Lazula she'd reached Madrona Hall.
"RESIDENT NOTICE: Hello Lazula. A letter is waiting for you in mailbox A302."
She paused before the door with a stitched brow, only tapping her wrist to the pad and continuing through when she heard an impatient scuff of shoes on the concrete behind her. Not many sent paper mail anymore. Fan mail, slow as it was recently, typically arrived at her box downtown. She only hoped she didn't have another stalker– she didn't have half the time or energy to deal with that again.
She turned left at the main desk, to the wall of glass and hard-light numbers beside it. Another wrist to another pad, and glass slid open to reveal an envelope. Her name at the center in neat handwriting, "Rosie Sinclair" at upper left, and an address in the city. A woman's name was some relief, as about two-thirds of the worst-case scenarios she could come up with were out of the picture. Less likely, at least. Poison was still a possibility. But curiosity got the better of her, and she opened it.
She didn't expect it to make her smile.
Twenty-four hours later, Lazula and LSLI sat across the aisle from CRLN, in a Whale-Class thirty thousand feet above rolling waves. A few more hours, and the lights of Atlas twinkled above the horizon, like a cruise ship in the night. Grand, utterly unsinkable, an eighth of the world's population onboard. When Lazula's parents would have flown to Atlas for the Vytal Tournament, they would have seen a massive clump of earth hoisted two thousand feet above the dregs. A marvel of technology, and an on-the-nose allegory for the city's castes. At least Port Cyrreine had the modesty to be subtle about it.
But after the floating city's leader plotted to raise it into the stratosphere and forsake Mantle to Salem and her Grimm, it came crashing back to Remnant, where to the day it sat broken, reshaped, reforged, upon a rolling grey ocean.
Atlas Academy still held the kingdom's apex, though it had, in its rebuilding, been separated from the military and government. The central tower and its satellite buildings– the bridge of the ship– sat upon the highest tier of broken stone, about a quarter of a mile across. The campus fanned out across the next tier, three hundred feet below and twice as wide. Stairs, terraces, and elevators cross-crossed the cliff separating them, the air surrounding it abuzz with a swarm of airships.
Most of the tournament grounds, at a glance, were on the level below that– though still raised a thousand feet above the sprawling urban lattice that made up Atlas. Mantle was no longer a geographic location, but the idea survived the fall. The outer crust of the city– a half-mile barrier between the rich and the frigid wastes, took up the mantle.
Lazula looked back to the upper tiers. The arena was obvious enough, as were the fairgrounds only beginning to spring to life. But she wondered what the giant glass bean-shaped structure was, bigger than the stadium and hoisted fifty feet up on four crystal legs. She also wondered about the kingdom's famous dust-globe that filtered light pollution and granted the city the most gorgeous view of the night sky. But their ship passed within a mile of the city, and starlight washed over them. A stunned murmur rolled from the front of the ship to the back, and cameras pressed to every window. Not even Lazula was above it, though she'd take hers on the ground, in secret.
Washed out by glamor lights and weighed down by a pound of makeup, Lazula fantasized about being anywhere else. The makeup artist Lazula was pretty sure had been flirting with her leaned in to brush powder from her neck, and unbutton the cape around it. Black satin peeled away, and glamor lights painted the ridges of her armor.
"How's it looking?"
"It's… fine. Thanks." She already wanted to scrape it off, but it could have been much worse.
"Kingdom reps! You're out in five!" the director's voice called from beyond the door of Lazula's dressing room. "Come on out, and line up behind the white line!"
The artist pinched her bicep playfully. "Knock 'em dead out there. Don't worry– you look great!"
Lazula only wished she was privileged enough to worry about her looks. There were two people backstage she'd rather never see again– or one she'd rather see exactly once, standing beside her on the second-place podium– and another she'd rather never see again.
The former's dressing room was directly across from her own, and as they exited in tandem they made eye contact. "Good to see you again," he goaded.
"Mm-hm."
She had no strong feelings toward the next to enter the lobby, Mazin Hadley from Vacuo. Skin tanned halfway to leather by the kingdom's sun. Coarse, salt-and-pepper hair styled a bit like how Caspian used to wear his, aside from a ponytail down the back of his neck. Sleeveless armor of blue and grey kevlar, heavy-stitched black pants and combat boots. Just missing the double-edged dust glaive that carried his team to a near-unbeaten record in regional tournaments the last couple of years. He nodded at Lazula and Sterling. The quiet type, apparently. Lazula didn't mind at all.
Then, Cerise Morello from Haven. An armored black bodysuit hugged her body, its accents and inner lining of the knee-length coat over it matching her hair and sharp eyes that managed to hold Lazula's gaze. No singles tournaments under her belt yet, but Team CHRY racked up enough wins in Mistral for Lazula to recognize the name.
The last door opened.
"There you are, Mister Baine!" the director beamed with open arms. "Debonair as always." He nodded at Lazula, and waved Midas forward. "Come along! We'll have the two from Sentinel come out together."
She wouldn't look. But she felt Midas settle in next to her. Remembered the feeling of Impetus in Condor's chest, the feeling of blood washing over her hands. Then the sharp scent of burnt blood clotting her nose, and a blade resting beneath her chin. Her throat tightened, the base of her tongue prickled. She felt like she'd be sick all over the red carpet. Midas smirked.
His hand rested on her shoulder and a chill rippled down her spine, clutched her heart on its way down for good measure. "Haven't seen you in a while. Hope you're good?"
She wanted to tell him she'd be much better if he stopped touching her. If he would just walk out from backstage, down the red carpet and out the door, never to be seen again. But anything she could say in the spotlight would turn the rumor mill, and the less eyes on them, the better. She finally forced something out about how finals kept her busy. The curtain began to open. For the first time, she welcomed it.
"Oh– how could I forget? I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the Vytal Tournament's sponsor, Frontline Biomedical Technologies! Thank you for all the good you do for the people of Remnant," the announcer bleated. On each of the Holoscreens hovering behind the crowd and above, Frontline Biomedical's symbol replaced the faces of each kingdom's representative. "First in the lineup, the powerhouse of Team CNMN! Whipping up winds and locking down wins, it's Shade Academy's very own Mazin Hadley!"
Mazin disappeared past the curtain, and on the upper deck of the repurposed concert hall, Shade Academy's student section erupted in cheer.
"Born in Argus, raised in Vale, and now representing Haven Academy, it's the red-hot cherry bomb herself, Cerise Morello!" Lazula almost chuckled to herself, because Cerise couldn't stifle the visceral cringe her nickname elicited. Welcome to the Academy Leagues. She was next across the red carpet, and the producer directed Lazula and Midas a step forward. "Because one professional-grade huntsman wasn't enough for them, our two frontrunners from Sentinel Academy– Midas Baine and Lazula Skye!"
The two walked down the runway side by side, Midas beaming for the cameras, waving to the crowd, every few seconds pointing or nodding to some lucky audience member. Cameramen dove to the ground, ducked and weaved anywhere they could get an angle on him. A spare few snapped pictures of Lazula. She kept playing her part. Play it cool. Wave. Act like the one next to you is a friend, not a corporate assassin and the Grimm's puppeteer. The runway led to a stage, elevated a dozen feet above the front row. Beside Midas, under hot white light, she felt she might pass out.
Sterling was next to join them. Lazula couldn't hear his introduction, because as soon as he broke out onto the stage the audience exploded in noise. They were mostly from Atlas– they had to be, because they cheered for the one who somehow managed to be less likable than herself. Lazula caught herself on a screen above the crowd and realized her look was severe, even for her. She forced a smile toward a set of cameras, and realized it looked even more suspicious. Her audience must have thought the shit-eating smirk Sterling kept flashing her way was the source of her furrowed brow, her curled lip. Annoying, but probably for the best.
The interviewer, an almost-gaunt blonde who looked like she could have been Mari Golden's understudy, started with Mazin. Five feet to Lazula's left, Midas. To her right, Sterling. She grounded herself with the instructions drilled into them all backstage: watch the interview, look at the camera, back straight, look pretty. Ignore the murderer centerstage.
Mazin was surprisingly humble in his interview answers, and took a second to shout out his friends, family, and partner back home. Cerise was concise even if a bit curt– out of awkwardness, rather than intention like Lazula.
"Now, onto the Midas Baine! I know I'm not supposed to be biased. This isn't my place to comment. But I'm rooting for you." she leaned in closer. "I know there's a ton of buzz about Lazula and Sterling, but you can take this, you hear me?"
Midas flashed pearl-white teeth and chuckled. "I don't know! The competition keeps getting tougher, but I'll try. For you!"
"Always the charmer– you were called Sentinel's Heartthrob last year, weren't you?"
"Gods, don't remind me!"
Waiting for the interviewer and audience to stop laughing was excruciating.
"Well, are there any lucky ladies in your life right now?"
"There was, but that ended about a month ago. Why? Know someone who's looking?"
She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "Maybe! Poor girl's missing out now, isn't she?"
"No comment. She might be watching this!"
The announcer put a hand to her earpiece, and exaggerated a look of embarrassment. "I'm being told to stick to the script! So the other competitors have to balance school and training, but most don't have to factor in photoshoots and sponsorship meetings," she continued. "I also hear you're the captain of Sentinel's Sparring Team. Where in the world do you find time for all of that?"
"Not to mention volunteer work for the family business," Lazula thought. But Midas maintained his facade, countering with a joke about never sleeping. Or maybe it wasn't a joke. He'd been changed by the Grimm, but Lazula didn't know just how much.
The announcer's hand came to rest on his arm, and they locked eyes. "Well, Vale's my home, so I'll be rooting for you! Now, onto Lazula…" and Lazula noticed a cautious look in her eyes, like she approached a wild animal. "There was some debate as to whether you should be allowed to compete this year. The rest of our contenders only have one soul, after all. Do you not see some kind of unfair advantage over your competition?"
"Well I lost last year, so it can't be that unfair."
"Right, but you have to understand that there's some form of advantage."
"Sure. But I'm also better than just about anyone."
"Let's look at your most recent tournament, where in the championship round you competed against Moka Chino. Now, she was fighting to secure the prize money for her mom's treatment, wasn't she? And you won," she said, and continued before Lazula had a chance to respond. "She took you down to about 50% aura. Let's imagine you had been anyone else. She would have won, right?"
"Maybe. Most people don't come close to that. It was impressive."
"Very impressive. And if you think that's fair, I won't try to change your mind!" She paused for a second to force a grin. "I hear you're on the same Sparring Team at Sentinel, does that ever make things awkward?"
"We're friends, actually. So you can drop this whole narrative."
The statement made her pause, look at the camera and out toward the murmuring audience. "...I see. Well, that really speaks to her character, doesn't it? I don't think I could be friends with someone who prevented my mother from receiving cancer treatment."
"Sure, yeah. She's great."
"We sure are glad you were able to bury the hatchet," was the vacant platitude returned to her, as if there were a hatchet to bury in the first place. "I know we were shocked to hear about the four hundred and sixty souls inside of you. But how did you take it? How has it affected you knowing that's the reason your aura is so strong? And the reason for your near-undefeated record?"
"It was... big news to me," Lazula admitted. A glimpse of sincerity, like blue sky opened by the shifting winds following a rain storm. "I've learned a lot since then. And since last year. Re-arranged some priorities, learned about myself a bit. And what I really value." Her sudden eye contact made the interviewer flinch. "But don't get me wrong. I still want to be the greatest of all time."
Lazula stood at the hotel's open window, taking in an unfamiliar skyline. A breeze wafted in. Chilled, but pleasant on her skin. She breathed in the night. Breathed it out. So much still hung over her. Her fight with Condor, discovering 'The Ambassador's' true identity, all Ichigo told her after– and all he was too afraid to. Looking upon a million lights before the dark of the ocean, it all felt far behind her. Not out of sight, not out of mind, but frozen in place– paused– for one last hint of normal before the end of the world.
She sighed, returned to the bed, and pulled the covers up to her waist. She plucked the envelope from her bedside, explored it again.
"To Miss Lazula Skye,
My name is Rosie Sinclair, and my daughter's name is Aronia. You don't know us, but you've left an unforgettable impact on both of our lives; and likely saved hers. She was coming back from Summer classes when the shelter in place order came, and couldn't make it home in time. She told me you fought the Red Claw's leader in front of her– that you saw her, and sacrificed your own safety to ensure hers. She told me how scared she was. Told me how bullets tore through the seat a foot above her head. But she's alive and uninjured, thanks to you.
Aronia is my joy in this world. I know you tend to receive negative press. But Aronia and I know what kind of person you truly are. You've made two fans for life.
-Rosie"
Lazula smiled, folded the paper neatly, and set it on the bedside table. She faced it as she turned out the light and settled into the darkness.