At first, there was nothing. Only warm, primordial darkness.
The vast emptiness - open plains of sweet, endless non-existence.
Not a single lucid creation, not even a drop of a coherent thought.
A blank void of warmth and comfort, soothing one's mind, like the gentle caress of a lover.
But what even was a lover in this empty reality? No such thing existed. No concept of anything that had ever been conceived and born walked this barren vacuum of nothingness.
It wasn't black, nor white nor gray nor any other color. It was nothing.
Utterly nothing.
Then, a miniscule glimmer surfaced above the void. The conscience of a soul glued together with false hopes and strands of guilt - no larger than a mere ant.
Fermenting, rotting, dying.
Here, the soul had nothing left to do anymore. No fights to pick. No struggles to face. The void made sure of that.
It felt happy. Surrounded by the sweet, warm blankness, it was free. Reveling in the feeling, the soul remembered it had feelings.
Unwanted, uninvited, they seeped into its consciousness, slithering like a wild bed of rattlesnakes chasing after a desert mouse. How awful it felt, the immense stings of guilt, explosions of unrecognizable happiness, sudden attacks of sorrow, mighty assaults of anger and fear, all conquering the soul's tiny mind, squishing and pulling, forming like dough, establishing their own place within.
The soul yelped. Gone was the feeling of pure, mindless bliss. Gone was everything it had ever known - which was nothing.
Trapped in a prison of its own mind's creations, the bright and the dim, the soul felt an overbearing presence grasping and groping all around its bodiless form. Swallowing the poor glimmer whole, a bloated, twisted mass of rotten, corrupted flesh forcefully enveloped the radiant gleam in its disgusting embrace. Squished in between the walls of meat, the poor soul couldn't even protest, as it had no way to vocalize its words of discomfort.
Right away, the soul felt the fleshy trash compactor crushing it to bits, squeezing way too tight. Fusing into one, forcing itself upon the poor conscience, brutally desecrating, tainting with sin.
The soul could feel its mind forming. Arms and legs growing from its fleshy core, fingers sprouting from the stubs.
Skin and veins wrapped around the flesh automaton, sealing it shut. Two bright, gray orbs formed in its skull's sockets, the silent witnesses to endless degeneration - unwilling to be let out, protected by the meaty eyelids.
Beams of light tore through the creature's back - shapeless wings forming as a form of the innocent soul's protest. A ring of gray radiance ascended down upon their head, refusing to touch the messy forest of silver curls, yet also unwilling to drift away from the sinner for good. A parasitic, toxic relationship.
Rolls of fabrics slid onto the nameless body, covering up everything for the soul's convenience. It felt utterly trapped and battered, unwillingly assimilated into this strange organism.
Finally, the eyelids slowly parted - curtains, eager to reveal the next play.
Andy sat up straight, feeling strangely cold. Sitting amidst a field of golden wheat gently swaying in the wind, he turned towards the horizon.
An endless ocean of yellow, as far as the eye could see. Not a single other landmark tainting the sight, no mountains, no bustling cities, no small settlements, nothing. Just wheat, only wheat.
The sun had frozen in a never ending setting position, gracing the world with its orange glare. It looked really pretty.
The boy stood up, letting the restless wind blow through his hair and playfully flick the curls in each direction. He didn't mind.
Away from the sun, facing his back, stood a giant of marble and stone.
Taller than anything he's ever seen before, piercing the milky clouds above with towers and spikey spires protruding from within its many roofs, a cathedral stood amongst the plains of wheat, sticking out like a drop of blood in a glass of water. With its pure, carefully sculpted arches accompanying each door and stained window, its massive eyes of molten sand staring down at the boy and the overwhelming size of this ethereal monster of Lateran architecture, Andy couldn't help but feel just a tiny bit inferior. What creature would ever need a house so grand and large? How would they go about sculpting each individual little column and tower with their gigantic hands? Why is it that such a perfect, beautiful sight descends upon him and graces the sinner with its presence?
He did not know.
His feet shuffled through the waist-high sea of gold, before he pushed the colossus' doors apart and entered.
The interior was filled with dim, orange light. In itself, it appeared much smaller than one may have thought - some might even go as far as to call it stuffy. Horizontally, at least.
Spread around the floor, the walls, tainting the perfect image were mountains upon mountains of clothes. Torn, tattered, soaked in crimson, burnt to nigh nothing. Stacked high, the mountaintops disappeared into the dark, high above, presumably touching the unreachable, invisible ceiling. Gathered everywhere, threatening to fall over and bury everything under their weight.
Each rag felt familiar. Each piece brought a needle of guilt driven into the boy's side.
Andy heard a familiar sound coming from the vast emptiness above. A cluttered, mechanical clacking.
Clack, clack, clack…
His heart skipped a beat as he approached the very center of the room, where a small pile of gray rags had gathered. His knees touched the floor.
Amidst the uniforms laid a coat a few sizes too large for anyone of usual proportions. A coat soaked in blood by the collar.
By its side, an undug grave - wraith of the past.
Andy laid his friend's attire atop the grave and closed his eyes. He wanted to say sorry, to apologize for the ill-considered funeral, but he knew it would amount to nothing. Not now.
Clack, clack, clack…
His hands reached into the pile once more, stumbling upon a hard, cold object. A tool of war. A weapon of a coward turned hero, who could only take down so many before growing docile.
He pulled the .44 revolver from within, wiping the crimson smudges off its barrel. It shot a ray of orange sunlight into the boy's eyes, reflecting the glimmer off its spotless steel finish.
An identity stolen. A mask smushed against his face.
The last of the pile was a neatly folded set of uniform. Forgotten, left to the grand catastrophe's will. To be torn to shreds, pierced by the deathly rain of black rocks.
Yet, there it was. Completely unscathed. Andy didn't know what to think of it. He touched the soft fabric to show him he still remembered - that every word of song ever uttered on Terra, every strum of a guitar's strings reminded him of the bard.
Clack, clack, clack…
Softly, he picked the clothes up like some small, fragile child that needed to be held close and comforted. Yet, his arms immediately dropped to his sides as the gray fabrics uncovered a small pile of black powder.
The potent smell of burning alcohol filled his nostrils.
His eyes locked on the pile of ash before him. Small, barely a stain on these marbles' pristine surface, yet still noticeable. Noticeable enough to stop a senseless war for the "greater good."
His fingers inched forward. Shakily, with sweat already covering the tips.
They ran through the pile, feeling the soft, warm dust along their length, spilling to the sides and latching onto his moist skin.
Mere specks of dust. Utterly insignificant, ever so distant and cold. Warm, only in death.
His hand reached into the largest pocket of his pants. A small object rested within - As black as the ash itself, a snub nosed gun. Thirty-eight special.
He laid it atop the pile, in the hands of its rightful owner.
Clack, clack… Clink!
The endless dark above was torn apart by a momentary flash of light - a mere millisecond or two.
Just one, single uniform fell from the sky, landing in the boy's hands. His fingers grasped the familiar cloth, sliding down to a torn slit in its gut. Splattered with crimson, it was still fresh, still not quite thoroughly soaked through.
He put it on - a perfect fit.
…
Further, deeper into the cathedral's depths, echoes of his soft footsteps carried along the endless hallways. Through complete and utter darkness, Andy walked with nothing but the ring of light atop his head clearing the path. Like lively organisms running from a deadly, volatile fire, the void dispersed, escaping in tandem.
Before him stood a door. A simple, wooden door. His hand grasped the round knob and twisted.
A gentle, warm breeze hit his face, carrying along a faint, familiar scent. Gunpowder mixed with vanilla and sweat - the smell of summer.
He was standing atop some sort of rooftop. Snowy, immaculate marbles lined the floor, reflecting the sun's copper gleam. In the far distance, he could see grand mountains rising along the horizon, hugging the shepherd of the sky's weary body of fire. All around, however, were the tall rooftops and miniscule streets of Laterano.
And right in front of him, facing away, sat a figure clad in dim robes, complementing her dark blue hair. Her wings shone barely, weary and tired, tilted towards the floor. A trail of smoke arose from her fingers.
Right by the edge, she sat in a chair made of white, cheap plastic. A familiar sight.
Another chair awaited at her side - empty, reserved just for him.
He took a few hesitant steps and sat down, staring at the city below, bathed in orange. The lively streets, hundreds of little ants scurrying off in each direction, a sea of bright halos and colors, a cacophony of sounds and smells, surrounded by the towering marble blocks of flats, communal buildings and such - none as tall as their rooftop.
He averted his gaze to glance at the person by his side. Her weary, tired eyes were locked on a certain point far beyond the horizon, invisible to the boy. She wasn't going to speak first, he knew that.
Her hand moved, a cigarette stuck between her slender fingers. The filter grazed her lips, leaving behind a cloud of smoke escaping her lungs. Andy frowned at the familiar smell.
"... Never took you for a smoker."
Her gaze remained locked on the ethereal presence beyond the mortal plane.
"Me neither. Weird, how the mind works."
That voice lit a spark deep within him. A voice he hasn't heard in so long.
She never spoke in his dreams, only ever watched. Watched and filled his heart with guilt.
"..."
He didn't know what to say. Should he apologize? Drop to his knees and beg for forgiveness? Hug her close and promise he won't ever do something as utterly mindless, ever again?
"... Tower of revelations, Drew."
Her voice was soft, as warm as the summer breeze passing by.
"This good enough for you? Or do you still want something more?"
"..."
None. She didn't seem mad in the slightest.
"It's good. It's nice. Tall, too."
"The tallest. And the first to exist. The cradle of Laterano."
"Didn't know that."
Her lips twitched, tilting upwards and forming a tiny smirk. A mischievous glint in her blue eyes gave her away.
"Of course you didn't, you moron. You had a, what, a one in history class?"
This wasn't the fearsome reaper. Nor the cold hand of death itself, that he had so desperately feared all these years, no. It was just… Her.
Just Mostima.
"Yeah, a one, I know. Not like you were any better, though."
"Was I? Wow, your memory's awful."
"What, you weren't?"
They both locked gazes, confusion painted over their faces.
"I don't know. You don't, so I don't."
She shrugged.
"That's so dumb."
"Mmm. You're dumb, Drew. You're so, so very dumb."
He let out a sigh, soaking in the setting sun.
"I know. I'm sorry."
"I don't think a "sorry" is enough."
Once more, her lungs filled with smoke as the cigarette touched her lips.
"... You're so convinced I despise you, that I don't think anything would ever be enough. You're so scared of me, Andy."
Her head tilted to the side, those curious eyes boring into his.
"Why?"
Good question.
"... I don't know. Because I left you two?"
"Oh, so we were entirely dependent on you, then? What, you think our worlds just fell apart without you?"
The smile on her face only grew in size. Andy felt as if someone both put an affectionate hand to his forehead and jabbed him in the gut, hard.
"Fair. Fair, it's a bit selfish. And dumb."
"Yeah, mostly dumb. You're not the center of our world, Drew. Never were. Don't think so highly of yourself."
She took another puff from her cigarette.
"... That's what you want me to say, anyway."
"Not really, it's…"
"Shh. It is. You know it, I know it."
A small flock of smoke seeped into his nostrils, bringing back memories of a stuffy room filled with mountains of unfinished poems. He frowned.
"Can I have that for a moment?"
"You want a puff? Doesn't that go against your whole life's ethos, Drewie?"
"Can you just gimme that thing? Just wanna try it at least once."
"Pfff, fine…"
She handed him the cigarette. He flicked it off the rooftop straight away.
"..."
They both watched the stub falling down the tower's side.
"... You're so strange, Drew. First, you make me a smoker, then you take my fodder and throw it down a skyscraper. Pick a side, dude [...]"
Andy felt better without the constant barrages of smoke. His eyes turned towards the girl, taking in her appearance. Older, not just a smile plastered onto a picture, anymore.
"... Where's Lem?"
"I knew you'd ask. Just how head over heels are you, Drewie? By Law…"
She gave a small chuckle and crossed her legs.
"She's not here. And no, she won't come here. You won't find her anywhere near here, either."
"... Alright? And why?"
"Why? 'Cause she's waiting for you behind that door of yours, dummy. The one you bust through, every night, like a lost puppy looking for their owner."
"..."
"Here, it's just me. Me and you. It's better this way. Look at you, what you're wearing."
She stuck her tongue out. Surprisingly, it wasn't blue. Andy turned to his clothes. Mud splattered cargos, dirty tank top, bloodied Pontifica Cohors Lateran jacket, with a stab wound in its gut. Not very presentable.
"You're wearing a dead person's uniform."
"... Still, better than your funeral rags, hag."
"Is it…? I don't know. At least they're clean. I don't see any blood on there, Drewie. Can't say the same about you. You're all covered in it, you poor thing."
A stream of crimson seeped from within his halo, trailing along the ring of light and trickling down onto his head, sliding down his forehead, his face, staining his clothes.
"We don't want your perfect Lemmy seeing you like this, do we? She's a good person, after all. The best"
Her voice had turned cold. A freezing gust of wind flew by, bringing tears to his eyes.
"But you're not, Andy."
With a loud scratch, she pulled the chair closer to his and crossed her arms.
"Why? Why, Andrew Reiff?"
"... Because I had to."
"Did you?"
Her inquisitive eyes dug deep into his skull.
"That's what you keep telling yourself? Every time you pop a bullet, it's always "because I had to" with you, isn't it? Each person you mindlessly slaughter, you just absolutely had to blow their brains out, huh? Otherwise, what? You'd die? Of boredom, maybe."
She let out a mocking snort.
"You're… You know, W was right, yeah. You are more sarkaz than sankta at this point. You do nothing but barely avoid death, kill, drink, fantasize about a girl you haven't seen in four years and sleep. How dull is that, Drew? Is this the "more" you wanted from life?"
…
He sighed.
"No. No, not in the slightest."
Mostima kept her weary eyes on the boy, only relaxing in her chair after a moment or two.
"... At least you can admit that. Shame it took these words to get you out of this stupor. I hope it did, at least."
She produced another cigarette from her robes and held it up to her face.
"This?"
She threw it off the tower's side.
"This isn't me, Drew. We both know that. This is you. All you."
"I'm talking to myself."
"You're stuck in your head."
Her soft, gentle hand moved to his stomach, resting on the fresh wound torn through the coat.
"... Question is, for how long."
Andy leaned back against the chair, sliding down its back, sprawling himself out comfortably. His gaze turned towards the night sky - gone was the orange sun, resting peacefully behind the mountains. One thing kept drilling into his brain. Just one, miniscule, unimportant, tiny detail.
"... Mosti?"
"Mmm?"
"Am I dead?"
She took her hand away, turning to look at the rising twin moons.
"... Do you want to be?"
The question lingered in the warm, summer air.
His glossy eyes reflected the twin moons' soft image, blending into one with his gray irises.
"Not yet. I still need to do a few things."
She smiled, her sight remained half lidded.
"Like what?"
"Like seeing you two. The real you."
And her smile only grew. Her soft hand graced his shoulder.
"Then there's your answer, Drew."
"You're still needed."