Endless kilometers of covered ground laid beneath the black, starry blanket of the night sky. Sand, dirt, rocks, pavement and steel, all left in the wake of two lost souls scaling the treacherous Land of Old. Days turned into weeks, weeks to months, as the journey to nowhere dragged on and on, pulling their muscles, sucking any miniscule reserves of fat still stored beneath the skin, dirtying the mind, and putting a lit lighter to the very core of their nerves.
Two sock puppets, haggard and way-worn, tottered painfully along to the funeral march sang by the instrument of death itself, under the watchful eye of Mother Nature. Every step, each careful consideration put a strain on an angel's mind which grew ever so attached to his devilish companion. Black and white, loud and quiet. Two opposites, joined as one, brought together by fate itself.
A guardian angel. Something to cling onto. Someone his younger self kept desperately searching for, something his current mind yearned to throw away, to keep his utter and complete independence.
Yet, it couldn't. No matter how hard it tried, the Land of Old's unwritten laws were nothing but a mere suggestion to the boy. To care about oneself above all? To never trust? To never love? To kill any and all that may stand in one's path? His ears wouldn't listen. As much as he wanted to crumple up and discard this bolshy part of him, he knew he'd never be able to kill the tiny, rebellious remnants of childish innocence that rested within. The will to care for others, to be cared for in return sprouted its veins all over his mind, wrapping the soul up in a tight, warm embrace, unwilling to let the radiance dim. Muffled, hidden underneath endless layers of false faces and facades, and yet…
… Still there. Still alive.
Beating, breathing, nourished by the dream of leaving this sickening reality behind. The thoughts of a feeble return back home, the yearned-for warmth provided by the ones he left behind all those years ago. A certain smile, waiting just for him, hidden beyond a curtain of crimson, lit up by a golden ring of light above.
Stripped of any false identities, the angel found himself traversing the depths of his weary mind once more, crawling through a familiar, burnt down hallway. The prize waiting in front, behind the door at the end of the tunnel kept him going, kept him wanting to live, to flick away the reaper's hand each time it approached.
His fingers grasped the doorknob, feeling the warmth seeping from the unmoving metal.
He was there, again.
With her, where it felt like home.
And it was where he truly wanted to be.
Forever.
...
Under the twin moons' lazy glance, a tiny swordsman stood above his sleeping guardian angel. So serene and peaceful, humming and mumbling in his tired slumber - slurred words of affection, tiny huffs and pleas for the dreamy companion to never leave.
Seven never really understood the angel's strange behavior when it came to traversing the dreamland. So fierce and confident during the day, only to curl himself up into a tiny ball of pitiful frailty at night, clutching tightly onto a blanket or any other fabric within reach.
However torn and tattered his mind might've been, he did not mind. It was his guardian angel, after all. No one else.
Someone to protect. Someone to lead and keep him from harm.
With a tiny clatter, the boy produced his beloved blade from within the wavy folds of his poncho and laid it gently by his sleeping bag. His sandals stirred a cloud of dirt, aimed at the dimming campfire by their side.
The forest around seemed to die down along with the last ember, fowl of the night putting their orchestral performances aside to let the young swordsman rest. His dutiful watch had still been far from over.
Seven took off his straw hat, a gift from a passing merchant, his first prey. Strong, unwilling to break, exactly like its previous owner. He laid down on the soft blanket and put it over his face, as protection from the inevitable morning sun.
A lid fell over the bottomless wells drilled into his face, as the boy joined his fingers together, preparing to drift off into the land of memories once more.
Each and every night, same story, different day.
Cold.
Overarching, ever ruling, indisputable and unending.
White ceiling.
White walls.
No windows, no furniture. Only a hole in the floor and a bed in the corner, its frame welded together with the toughest, coldest metal ever conceived.
Childhood. Room eighteen.
A single door on the wall opposite from his resting place. A chatterbox of a cyclops laid above, its empty, soulless eye forever locked on the boy's every tiny movement. A tiny glimmer of red lit next to it.
It was watching. Never ceasing its eternal duty.
He stared at the ceiling. The bright, white light above, how it buzzed.
That annoying buzz. A steady, never ending current.
His eyelids fell. The buzz was all he could see.
Digging into his brain, filling his ears with nothing but buzz. Only buzz. As if it was the only sound that has ever existed.
A world born from buzz. Locked within four buzzful walls of white, buzzing along to the buzz.
Buzz.
His eyelids slowly lifted. The metal frame dug into his back.
A new day, a new buzz.
A faceless person entered the room, clad in white, unblemished fabrics. The silent cyclops recorded their steps.
They moved towards the boy, clipboard in hand. Soft footsteps drowned the buzz out, for which he was thankful.
Without hesitation, he took the board. New words. Words, words, words…
"Who are you?"
The faceless woman spoke. He gazed down at the paper sheet attached.
"I am "the warm summer breeze."
She gave a nod.
"Who are you?"
His eyes slid down to the next string of words.
"I am "the sweet release of death."
Nod.
"Who are you?"
Gaze.
"I am "the land laid to waste."
Nod.
"Who are you?"
Gaze.
"I am "nothing."
She took the clipboard from his hands.
"Who are -you-?"
He took a glance at his own soft, fragile hands.
"I am Seven Dash Three Dash Seventy Eight."
She flipped a page, noted something down. Left without a word.
Him and the overwhelming buzzing couldn't fully reacquaint themselves, as two more figures clad in white stepped in, faces covered.
They led him through the familiar hallway. As white and empty as his own room - down the stairs, through the floating bridges, tunnels of utter blankness, masked faces watching from behind splatters of glass.
To a heavy, steel door. They left him there
Soon, the metal giant stepped aside. It creaked and grinded against the floor, unwillingly moving its old bones.
He stepped inside.
The door locked behind him. The tomb had once again been sealed shut.
A gut-wrenching odor hit his nostrils. A deadly mix of cleaning supplies spilled on the floor, the walls, the ceiling. They could wash the blood out from the white tiles, but not the scratch marks or bullet holes.
Before him, on a tiny pedestal laid a blade hidden within a black scabbard. A tool bestowed upon him to do the reaper's bidding. He's heard that phrase somewhere, but never really understood what it meant. It was just a sword. A weapon, not some otherworldly contract.
A pair of sirens came to life, blaring out a chorus of approaching misery and death. Their red glimmer filled the room.
The pearly gates swung wide open.
A sea of pitiful groans washed upon the shore of white.
And before him stood a horde of broken men and women, all thoroughly covered with black crystals sprouting from deep within their bodies. Mindlessly stumbling forward, their pathetic growls filled the air.
The boy slowly unsheathed his weapon, holding tight. His mind filled with a certain warmth sent upstairs by a blue, glowing shard embedded deep into his chest, sticking out from his simple uniform.
His heart sped up. Pumping blood and the bright substance through his veins, fueling the mind's hidden flair, it spilled from behind his eyes as a gentle trail of blue paint.
The choir of misery grew slower with each passing second. Slower, slower, until it disappeared completely. Until seconds were no longer seconds but minutes. Hours. Days. Weeks and months and years.
Until each and every movement felt burdened, as if moving through a thick substance made of messily woven strains of time itself, tearing them apart with each little twitch of a muscle, laughing in the face of Mother Nature and her laws.
The boy gazed upon the wicked procession, all frozen in place, eyes bored into his. A familiar sight.
With each step he took, his heart sped up tenfold, with every move, the blue substance filled his brain, doused it entirely, suffocating, drowning out its desperate pleas for air.
All standard procedures. He knew his limits well.
With the grace and elegance of a true maestro, he slid by the unmoving fiends, flicking his blade along their throats.
Just a few simple incisions. A cut, a slash, a bite for the blade to satiate its restless hunger.
Just a few seconds for him. A mere fraction of a millisecond for the monsters clad in black.
He stood behind the parade of gloom, blade in hand. Now stained with the blood of a dozen throats, it flicked to the side, shoving the dirty substance off its surface.
As the devils' heads dropped to the floor, his sword entered its scabbard once more. Done, for now.
He turned towards the blank glass dug into the room's side. He knew there were faceless men and women watching from behind. His empty eyes drilled into the surface, staring at his own reflection.
Bathed in blood, his long hair sticking to the once pristine white jumpsuit, face completely blank, void of even a glimmer of emotion.
The sirens blared once more. The gates swung wide open.
Strident noises. Another horde of walking corpses, promised freedom in exchange for a simple task.
A task doomed from the beginning.
Time slowed to a crawl once more.
Heads dropped.
He stood victorious, watching the headless bodies plummet to the ground.
Sirens blared.
Again.
And again.
They sang and sang, up until a mountain of bodies laid beneath his feet, with his heart rapidly reaching its breaking point. A familiar buzz seeped into his ears, produced by the boiling blood gathering in his earlobes.
Huff.
Puff.
He breathed in and out, hard. Each breath like a dagger shoved down his throat, sliding its thin surface against his lungs.
His heart, like a devil's jackhammer, beating out of his chest, pumping the blue substance out, desperately trying to keep the blood flow going. The treacherous shard kept glowing, warm to the touch.
Beep.
A wall came apart. Tiny door shuffled to the side. A man with no face came from within, his bright garb a stark contrast to the crimson splatters rampaging around the walls.
"On my mark."
A simple command. The boy knew what to do. He nodded.
The faceless produced a gun from within the sea of white. Seven shuddered.
He knew his limits well. This was far beyond his capabilities.
No emotions behind his eyes. Neither, behind the shooter's.
Seven stared at the lead dome waiting at the very end of the barrel. His fingers itched, blue mass already gathering at the base of his brain.
Gently, the blade's handle felt a bundle of fingers wrapping around, a tender, loving embrace.
"Set."
His eyes narrowed. Breath hitched.
"Off."
An awaited gunshot tore through the silence, echoing through the massive room, slowly turning into a low, static sound, before eventually disappearing. A tiny projectile of lead rested mid air, right before his nose, almost giving the tip a little kiss. Seven knew he could simply move out of the way, but that's not what they wanted him to do. He's had enough beatings.
The boy grasped his blade and slid it across the bullet. It wailed in pain, let a few sparks fly and tamely shattered in two.
By the time time had returned to its normal pace, he was left breathless, heart pounding like a drum. Everything felt so uncomfortable. His clothes, too tight, his blade, too heavy, his horns, seemingly scraping against his skull, his hair, too sticky, too touchy.
"Series. Set."
He raised the blade once more at the command, one hand clutching the shard protruding from his chest.
"Off."
Bang,
Bang,
Bang,
Bang…
Seven danced around the projectiles, cutting through a few. He could barely see anything. Barely feel his own grasp. Everything went dim and blurry, the bright, white room, suddenly so dark and empty…
A sharp, uncomfortably warm sensation struck his right arm. He fell to his back, dropping the blade.
"Failure. Again."
With a few clicks, the man removed the magazine and hid it within the ocean of fabric. A new one arose from within, sliding into the weapon. He racked the bolt.
Seven stood up, clutching onto his arm. Blood, staining his jumpsuit, trickling down his body, mixing with the contaminated, oripathy riddled puddle beneath his feet…
"Set."
He raised the sword with one hand, heart pumping out of his chest.
"Off."
The blue substance filled his skull once more, completely submerging his brain. He could see nothing. Feel, nothing.
Slowly, as reality started taking hold once more, as his eyes opened, a warm, growing pain sprouted somewhere inside both his arms. A bright, white light shone right into his bottomless eyes.
A mask on his face, air pumping in and out, constantly.
A trail of needles stuck in his arm. He knew a needle could only mean one thing.
Yet he couldn't do anything about it. It was either this or a metal pole to the stomach.
He found himself lying on a hard, flat surface. Faceless gathered all around, digging into his skin, churning and twisting steel inside his stomach, tearing his chest wide open. The valley of ribs, rivers of blood pumping through his systems, spurting out like ink from a fountain pen - all on full display.
He laid still, unable to move. His body was asleep, yet his mind ran rampant, feeling each and every stab, each twirl around his veins, each cut and tear.
The shard kept glowing, pumping out blue, carefully guided by the men and women with no faces. It felt as if they were operating on the rock itself, not him. The projectiles laid on the side, messily, haphazardly torn out. He wasn't the one that mattered most, far from it.
His vocal cords could never form any sort of protest. He had to lay there, needles occasionally pressed into his bloodstream, and endure each and every second of excruciating pain, surrounded by faces with no noses, no lips or eyes.
Hours would pass.
It felt like days. Months, even. Stuck in his own mind, forced into a state of mental hibernation. He'd find himself pressed against the wall of his tiny room, legs hugged tightly to his chest. The best part of each day - time spent doing absolutely nothing.
Voices arose in the corridor, breaking through the light's annoying buzz.
"... Fuckers at Rhine are already far ahead. This is taking too long."
"It's not a race."
"It's a contract, Calì. The Military Commission wants results."
"They're getting their results, what more do they want?"
"Results? You call that "results"? He's had a heart attack today, for gods' sake! What kind of fucking results are those? That we're raising a failure? A vegetable?"
"Stop."
"Why? Why are you so attached to that thing? It's a vegetable, not a person."
"He's more of a person than you are."
"Is he?"
The footsteps grew louder. A second later, the door swung wide open. In, came two figures, one, a male devil clad in surgical white, the other, a hound, a lupo woman in a familiar, unconventional poncho, a sign of rebellion against authoritarian dress codes.
The devil spoke first, pointing at the boy's blank expression.
"You. What are you?"
Seven blinked a few times.
"... Seven Dash Three Dash Seventy Eight."
"No. You're a vegetable. Understood?"
The boy gave a polite nod.
"What are you?"
"I am a vegetable."
"Good. Good, see, Calì? This is what you're fighting for? This…?"
She clicked her tongue and shoved the man towards the door.
"Just get out. Out. Out, or…"
"... Or what?"
He stood his ground, pushing the lady to the floor. Seven felt his heartbeat picking up pace, yet did not dare move.
"Or what? You're gonna set that thing on me? Your little pet?"
"... I may."
The devil and Seven exchanged a glance. Nothing, empty space behind those endless, blank eyes. He shook his head and spat on the ground before the lady.
"Would be your biggest mistake yet. You'd be lucky if that thing stays alive for another month."
And with that, he left, letting the door softly click behind him.
Seven stared at the woman, who laid on the ground for a couple more moments, eyes locked on the closed door. She sighed and got up, pulling a small device from within her poncho. With a click, the cyclop's eye averted its gaze, letting the red light dim. It was that time of day.
"... Are you okay, buddy?"
Seven gave a small nod. She took the liberty and sat down on the bed, next to him. Off, went the surgical mask, revealing her weary, tired, yet smiling face.
"You took a beating today. Two bullets, hm? That's better than last time, still. I'm proud of you."
He nodded, again. With her by his side, the cold room felt just a tad bit warmer.
"Thank you, Doctor Calì."
"Oh, don't thank me, buddy. You don't have to thank me, of all these people."
With a bright smile, she produced a sizable book from within the endless folds of her coverlet.
"I got something for us. A little sightseeing, how about that…?"
With some forced excitement, she snuggled up to his side and flipped the book open on her lap. Seven's tail immediately perked up, swaying gently with a hint of excitement. Her fingers grazed the dingy pages, flipping through walls of text, before stopping at a wide, two page wide photograph.
The boy's eyes widened in awe, filled with the sight of a bustling city full of neon signs, wide roads and cars, all hurrying off to be somewhere. Unintelligible words lined the skyscrapers in the distance, all bathed in the twin moons' gentle radiance.
"... What is it?"
"That's Kazimierz. I'm… Not sure which city, exactly, but I know for sure it's Kazimierz. They hold the Majors there."
"Majors?"
"Mmmhm. Knighting tournaments. People fight there with… With swords, mostly. Like you, buddy!"
With a smile, she gently ruffled his hair. Seven never really knew how to react to being touched like that.
"..."
He flipped a page.
"... What's that?"
His eyes ran rampant all over the wide streets of marble, tall skyscrapers towering over the bright souls smiling towards the camera. It appeared as if their wings radiated light through the photograph itself.
"That's Laterano. It's a nice place. I managed to visit, once or twice."
"You did, Doctor Calì?"
"Mmm! Had the best gelato, from some stand on Chocolate Street… It's kind of like ice cream? But if you called it ice cream, these angels would shove you into a fountain, hehe…"
"Ice cream?"
She tilted her head, gracing the boy with a warm smile.
"Food. Sweet, cold… I'll try to smuggle you some, someday."
Seven gave a nod, eyes locked on her tired face. The doctor sighed, pointing back towards the picture.
"Lots of nice people, too… Walking past all of them almost makes you wonder whether you've accidentally passed your guardian angel."
"Guardian…?"
"A guardian angel, buddy. Someone who's there to look after you."
His sight was drilling into the photograph, staring at the smiling Laterans. Their delicate faces, the wings, rings of light floating above their heads…
"These are all guardian angels?"
"Hm? Oh, no, no. It's just a saying."
She shrugged and nudged his arm, gently as not to tear his stitches.
"Though… Who knows? Maybe your guardian angel happens to be a sankta? Maybe she happens to be a lupo, like me?"
Another slow shrug. She flipped the page, but Seven couldn't get the image of the angelic protectors from his head.
"Ah…"
Her smile turned to a frown, seeing the rain bathed streets, the gray skies and empty town squares laid out before her.
Seven tilted his head.
"What is it?"
"... Siracusa. Sette Colli."
His eyes wandered the rainy city. Empty, lifeless, gray and barren.
"..."
"... That's where I'm from. And where I never want to return."
A grim chuckle left her lips.
"Until I'm dead, anyway. Bury me anywhere, cover me with rain."
She flipped the page.
Seven did not understand much, but decided not to ask. He liked spending time with Doctor Calì. She was his only lighthouse of warmth among this cold ocean of faceless, masked creatures. Someone to come back to, someone to trust.
His guardian angel.
Without wings or a halo, yet so radiant, always beaming.
Tired, bags lining her eyes, purple shadows resting beneath.
Always there, with him. Each and every night, for as long as he could remember. Back when she was still free of the chains that burden her now, when Seven's tiny arms could barely even lift the sword bestowed upon him every day.
Every night, he stared from above, standing amidst a field of dull nothing. Gazing into the white room from beyond its buzzing ceiling, eyes drilled into the bottomless depths that were his very own eyes, begging for the abyss to stare back.
Yet, the one beneath the surface never paid him any attention. It was a continuous cycle.
Wake up, cold.
Fight, too fast.
Lay, dead.
Listen, warm.
Sleep, empty.
Before his eyes, the boy clad in the disgustingly spotless jumpsuit would traverse the halls of the facility, living out his own life - each and every second of it.
Seven blinked.
He looked down upon his tattered, familiar poncho. A small glimmer of red light filled his eyes.
A tiny voice resonated in his head, repeating a single phrase, burned into his memory with a branding iron crackling with heat.
"A guardian angel."
Before it all faded into nothing. Complete and utter darkness.
Tiny glimmers of light breaking through, assaulting his eyelids. His arms and legs could move once more. Feel, hurt, explore.
Slowly, he took the conical straw hat off his face, letting the sound of a fire, happily crackling away, fill his ears.
"... You up? Got some fried eggs on the pan. Oh, and coffee! Can't believe these morons from yesterday were just traveling around with a spare box."
His eyes opened, giving birth to the world that was now his reality. The morning sun on his face, the gentle breeze, a tiny forest clearing…
… And amidst all of this, a gray-haired angel, twirling a sizzling cast iron pan above a tiny fire. He was all smiles, as always, bandages wrapped around his fists, trailing all the way up his forearms, disappearing deep beneath his sweater's rolled up sleeves. Seven gave a nod and brushed his messy hair aside.
They sat underneath the great pines, accompanied by a gentle murmur of the native fowl. Far from the tumult of civilization, the noise and violence of the Land - with a plate full of half-burnt eggs, undercooked toast on the side.
Andy sipped his lukewarm coffee, having long abandoned his routine of daily morning, mid-day and evening drinking. With the entire country on their backs, a sharp mind was worth more than even the deadliest weapon.
Seven kept staring ahead, barely holding onto his breakfast. The plate kept shaking in his feeble grasp, threatening to spill at any moment.
A comforting hand found its way onto his shoulder, creeping up the side of his arm. He turned towards the angel.
"... You look like a wet dog today."
Seven did not answer. Andy gave a sigh and shoved his cup of coffee into the boy's hand.
"Here. Oughta pull you right up to your feet."
"I can stand up on my own."
"That's a metaphor, dummy."
The merc flicked his straw hat, making his tail wag in slight annoyance. No matter how many times he'd spew his unintelligible nonsense or treat him like this, Seven never truly did mind. With Andy by his side, he felt the same warmth sprouting from within that Doctor Calì used to once provide. Someone who treated him like a person, not an object, someone who had a face, not a mask sprawled across their mouth.
Someone to fully trust.
To stay by their side, whenever and wherever.
He took a small sip of the lukewarm substance. Not much to write home about. Way too sweet for him. Andy would always abuse any sugar packets they had lying around.
"... Where are we going today?"
The merc shrugged, digging in some makeshift radio their would-be executioners left after yesterday's massacre.
"Wherever the wind takes us, I guess. Or we could try going even further north, find a-..."
The tiny box came alive, with an unpleasant, ear shattering noise.
"Fuuh… Not in the morning, c'mon…"
Andy rolled the volume knob all the way down and randomly flicked through the frequencies, searching for the "official" info-line. Seven simply sipped on his coffee, staring at the radio.
"..."
"..."
"... And with the major decline of opposing forces, the scale had been tipped once more in favor of the rightful King's reclamation of his proper position of power…"Andy clicked his tongue and sat down on the grass.
"Guys at Babel are getting their asses kicked. Wonder how they're doing, actually…"
Seven did not utter a word, eyes locked on the chatterbox. Sip.
"... Safe to assume the soon-to-be victorious King's reign. As a token of His Majesty's might, a sign of appreciation to all those who remained by his side, his word shall be spread all over the land…""... Just more political bullshit, can't they ever say anything interesting? Really, it's-..."
"... Far beyond the borders of Kazdel, which shall, from now on, remain OPEN and NEVER CLOSED AGAIN."…
The tiny box kept buzzing, the announcer's voice slowly droning into silence.
Andy and Seven exchanged a small glance. The angel's eyes went wide.
Disbelief? Shock?
Excitement?
They had it all, swimming around the endless ocean of gray.
"Seven…?"
"...?"
The merc stood up, a wide, uncontainable grin stretching the feeble contours of his face.
"... I think I know where we're going today."