A/N: It's been almost 3 years since I last updated… but I still get messages, favs and follows. As always, thanks for the feedback guys! I'll get this ball rolling again.
There's nothing of interest left in the fort after I finish dealing with Gascon. I could bunker down here and try to ambush wandering bandits, or I could go looking for trouble. Being an Undead takes a lot of the risk out of the latter, so that's what I settle on.
I head out with Gascon's worn-down silver axe looped into my belt. It should be worth good money if I can sell it. One of the great things about not being completely limited to game mechanics is that I can loot the dead freely. I should try to pawn it off while I'm able; I doubt I'll be able to get away that if I join Chrom.
Two days of travelling East brings me to another fort. The good news is that I manage to successfully infiltrate the fort without being caught, and I discover a new batch of bandits.
The bad news is that they're all stronger than me. I dive into the shadows of a narrow alcove, kicking up what must be years of dust by accident. I suppress a gulp as two of them idly walk right by my hiding place.
Thassel - A no-nonsense man who interprets his orders a bit too literally.
Warrior
LV: 5. EX: -.
HP: 68/68.
His clothes are a tattered mess and he looks the part of a bandit at first glance, but there's something different about the way this man holds himself that puts me on edge. His hair is swept-back and crisp.
Thassel's companion gives off a proper bandit vibe, though. He looks like the standard tough-guy that hosts Arena fights in most other Fire Emblem games.
Creyton – An unruly gambler who dreams of becoming a Feroxi Khan.
Berserker
LV: 2. EX: -.
HP: 60/67.
They both have defense values greater than my total attack. I pray that they don't notice me.
"So then I says, tell me when that shit works on a woman," Creyton guffaws, light flickering off of his bald head. He claps his fellow bandit on the shoulder. "Ye should've seen his face! So he asks me what I mean, and I says, 'I mean you're a pillow-biting boy-lover' and then smash his stupid face in!"
Thassel tsks and runs a hand through his hair. "And you started a fight over that?" His tone is as sharp as his appearance. If this guy is a genuine bandit I'll eat my belt.
"It was fun!" Creyton insists, throwing his hands up. "Ye gotta learn to live a bit, mate."
"Keras was with you. You put your subordinates at risk," Thassel says reproachfully.
"Suborda-wha'?"
"Subordinates. People under your comman-" My heart jumps when I realize his footsteps have stopped. I get the impression that the man is looking around. "… Do you smell something?"
"Smells like shit," Creyton says, barking out a laugh. I suppress a curse. "Three guesses who's on cookin' duty today, eh?"
I breathe out a sigh of relief when the footsteps resume, letting my back slide down the cold stone of the alcove.
If I had a few more points in STR, I could probably wrangle a trap for someone like I did for Gascon and leech off them for EXP. As it is, I think it'd be smart to abort this mission and look for smaller fry. If I die again, I'm going to lose a couple of days while I wait to re-spawn, days that I can't afford to throw away carelessly. The early-game in Awakening is logically the most time-sensitive part of the story, excluding the final confrontation with Grima.
A more honest part of my brain quietly whispers that I really just don't want to die again.
I rub my chest absently. Sometimes, when I have nothing else to think about, I can feel the phantom sensation of Rayne's axe slicing my chest cavity open. It's like bedtime tinnitus on a quiet night. Except instead of a harmless ringing in my ears I get unfiltered pain.
Focusing on that will lead to madness, though, so for my own sake I venture out back into the hallways of the fort. I channel my inner Solid Snake again as I sneak from alcove to alcove, crouching low and trying to keep the pat-pat-pat of my footsteps soft.
The stone ceiling above me gives way to open air as I walk into a small courtyard. There's a few stone pillars that jut out into the sky, not connecting to anything. A weathered statue of an archer catches my eye in the center of the yard. There's a faint inscription, crumbling with old age. It looks legible, but I don't have time to inspect it.
The courtyard walls are weathered – maybe I can try getting out here. I search the walls, looking for a good spot to scale. I can't find anything. I jump in vain, but I'm a long way from the stone ledge.
The sound of approaching voices catches my attention. I hurriedly push off the walls.
"… then he says, 'I mean yer a pillow-biting boy-lover' 'nd floors him!"
I manage to dart behind the stone statue just as a pair of bandits pull around a corner.
There's a disbelieving snort from the taller of the pair. "What a load of Pegasus shit."
"It's true. I'd swear it on me Pa's soul!"
"Dincha hate yer old man, though?"
I slowly circle around the statue to keep it between the bandits and myself, using their voices to guess their location.
"Bah, on me Ma's soul then. And don't you talk shit 'bout her, 'cuz she's a saint."
"Ain't nobody but a saint could love a face like yers – ow!" The resounding thump of a shoulder punch reaches my ears. I remain crouched down and the pair carries on past me, chatting all the while. I breathe out lightly.
I give a last, longing glance at the walls. If I had someone else with me, I probably could've boosted them to the ledge and had them assist me to get back up. Forget it, I'll just try the main entrance again.
Dancing around these guys plays havoc with my nerves as I try to navigate my way out. It's like the prison break level in Path of Radiance, except I don't get vision of the entire map to guide me.
The fort is way larger than its first impression suggested – it could comfortably hold ten times the number of bandits actually present. There's staircases leading to upper levels and hidden basements, but I ignore all of them since my destination remains on the ground floor.
I'm tempted to break into a run as I approach the entrance again, but I keep a firm hold of my nerves and stay in stealth mode. It's a good decision.
Of course there's a sentry by the entrance now. He looks like a teen, but he seems unusually vigilant for a bandit. He stands at attention at the exit, head constantly swiveling to scan for anyone approaching this fort.
Keras
Fighter
LV: 20. EX: -.
HP: 45/45.
He's not facing me, since his job is to look for people trying to sneak in, not out. Still, I can't get out from here with him completely blocking my way. I try to head back –
A familiar looking bandit – Thassel – is pacing not even fifty feet away from me, head down as he skims some parchment.
"We'll need to meet up within the week," he thinks aloud, brows furrowed. "Maybe if we resupply here, after they cross the border…"
Don't look up from those papers, don't look up from those papers, holy shit.
My Undead heart pounds with adrenaline, but I force myself to slowly edge out of sight and tiptoe down some nearby stairs. He doesn't even glance at me.
I can hear a passing remark as I reach the base of the stairs, well after he's out of sight. "Honestly, what is that smell?"
Fortunately, it sounds like idle commentary.
The basement is otherwise quiet, permeated by the scent of dust, mold and hints of alcohol. For a human, it'd be very hard to see down here. Fortunately, Risen eyes are better suited to the dark. It takes me a few minutes to explore the basement; it's basically just one large room with a cell in a corner and some wooden barrels and crates.
I sit down in a corner and rest my head in my hands for a bit to recover from the stress. I wonder what chapter number this bandit group would qualify for in the original game? Given the ratio of promotes to pre-promotes, I'd put it at early Valm arc – way beyond my current capabilities without a team or someone like Robin to call tactics.
I'll wait here for a bit and periodically head upstairs to see when the sentry leaves, then run as soon as it seems safe. Until then, I decide to examine my surroundings a bit more.
I dig through the barrels and find they're mostly empty. One of them has a bundle of treated wood, and two fresh-looking ones are filled with what I assume is some kind of alcohol. Another is halfway filled with a tarry substance I can't identify. The crates are empty.
The jail cell is more interesting. It's empty and doesn't even have a door, its outline instead marked by a number of rusted bars. A section of its back wall is chipped away, leaving an opening large enough for a child or skinny adult. I peer through. The end of the passage is cloaked in darkness – there's so little light and space that even my eyes have difficulty perceiving anything.
Perhaps a captive tried to tunnel out of their cell back when this fort saw regular use.
Wary but hopeful for an alternative escape route, I stash my belongings in an empty crate. My larger weapons won't fit with me, but I elect to keep a couple of arrows in case of an emergency. Then I lean in and try to squeeze through -
Stop trap can't breathe stop!
Only to push myself away from the wall with a yelp, suppressing an instinct to retch. I draw in a shaky breath as I fall back on my butt, trembling at the sudden influx of panic.
What was that -
I back away from the wall slowly, my limbs still shaky, and decide to stick with my original plan of waiting out the sentry upstairs.
Salvation comes in the form of Creyton, who finally calls the sentry for lunch. I'm halfway up the stairwell leading to the ground floor, patiently trying to eavesdrop.
The burly berserker passes by my stairs. "… and grab some ale, Keras, there's a good lad."
"Weren't you plannin' on saving that for tonight, sir?"
"Sir? Bah, whatever. Klariss is on cookin' today, so you get that gods damned ale. We're gonna need it."
"Right away, sir- uh, Creyton. It's in the basement, right?"
I get a bad feeling. Almost against my will, my eyes are dragged towards the barrels I spotted down here earlier.
Make a break for it or hide here? The choice is taken from me almost immediately.
"It is," a new voice interjects. If I recall correctly, that crisp tone belongs to Thassel, probably the strongest bandit in this fort. "And I remember asking you to get it, not Keras."
"Oi, I'm just doin' that dagarating thing we were talkin' about." Creyton seems unphased by Thassel's tone. "Or was it daragating?"
There's a meek suggestion from the sentry. "Delegating?"
"Aye, that's the one-"
I'm already moving back down the stairs – I doubt I can slip past them now, so it's better to hide. I won't fit in the crates, but I might fit in a barrel. Then again, considering they're probably going to search through the barrels, that's a bad idea.
Naturally, the best hiding place is in the jail cell. I'm hesitating in front of the crumbling hole in its wall, though. Maybe I can just try to blend into the darkness, instead.
My eyes snap reflexively to the stairs as echoing footsteps herald Keras, who descends halfway down the stairwell before he pauses. He frowns into the darkness, being unable to see as well as I can here.
"Uh, sir," he calls up the stairs, and I groan inwardly at his next question. "Can I grab a torch?"
Hide or you're dead, some part of my brain whispers.
Still, I hesitate. It's a good hiding spot, but being so cramped and unable to see damn near triggered a panic attack just now. Of all of the times to develop a phobia…
"I've got one," the voice of Thassel answers. There's the flicker of a torch near the stop of the stairwell and I grimace. Time and a lack of options is forcing my hand.
I press myself through the opening shoulder-first. It's a tight fit and I have to contort awkwardly to make any progress. As soon as my body plugs the opening, all traces of light disappear and I'm left in darkness deep enough to veil even my eyes. The reaction is instant.
Don't trap yourself you won't be able to move don't do it don't go
Intellectually, I know that the only thing that can hurt me here is making noise. Unfortunately, most of my brain didn't seem to get the memo. The rest of the fortress falls away from my mind as I give my all to stifling a building scream.
No you can't breathe can't move
There's not enough air and it's all stale. My body is shaking and there's a horrible, nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. I suppress the urge to whimper. I can hear the muted sound of nearby footsteps.
Can't breathe can't move –
We don't need to breathe anyway, Logic says. Just wait and -
No no can't breathe means dead!
Just think of something different. There once was a man from Nantucket, who -
Died! Died going to die going to die going to -
I hear muted words, but I can't focus on them because it's taking too much effort to not give myself away.
"… That smell again, is it coming from…?"
It feels like my heart is a balloon and someone's using a tire pump to fill it up – it's too fast, I'm going to pop from the inside.
I don't know whether to panic more or cry out in relief when someone grips my ankle and pulls me violently from my hiding spot. I crash to the floor in a heap, the sudden flickering torchlight a reprieve from the darkness.
"Ar-right, now what do ya think yer doin' and… who…"
The light seems blinding, illuminating the faces of three bandits who look upon my Undead face with identical expressions of growing confusion. I'm still coming down from my panic attack. No one knows how to react.
Creyton's the first to recover, brandishing his torch. "Kid, barrel!"
"B-but!" The sentry looks like he wants nothing more than to run away, so I snarl to try to intimidate him. Surprisingly, it works.
"Aieeee!" He pulls back with a scream, before turning tail and stumbling his way to the stairs. I try to make use of the opening and run past the other two bandits.
"Damnation, Keras!" Thassel rushes in to body-check me, knocking me off my feet again. I abandon my attempt to get up when Creyton waves his torch in my face, the heat forcing me to crawl backwards.
"Back, demon!" Creyton warns. "Stay back!"
Ess'ai
Outrealmer
LV: 8. EX: 16.
HP: 17/22.
The two bandits work in concert to keep me down. I see Thassel reaching for a barrel so I make a desperate bid for freedom, but Creyton lunges aggressively with his torch. I'm forced back, the fire nearly scorching my eye. They support each other well.
With a grunt, Thassel picks up a barrel and haphazardly spills its contents near me. I recognize too late that the liquid is too viscous to be ale.
Oh fuck… oh no no no.
"Creyton!"
"Aye, leave 'er to me. Burn in hell!"
Creyton drops his torch at my feet and hastily steps back. The basement is suddenly too bright. The tarry substance around me ignites with a fwoosh, with me inside it.
I half-roar and half-cry from the pain as I'm set ablaze, loud pops and cracks echoing in the basement. It can't be described. I try to run away but the fires are sticking to me and I can't do anything. It's ten times worse than anything I've ever experienced before, and that's coming from someone who's already experienced death.
My enemies rapidly back away from my flailing form, shouting words that I can barely process.
"- should stay back, Creyton! We don't know what -"
It hurts!
"- … demon while it's down, come on!"
I want to scream at them to at least give me a clean death.
Hurts it hurts it hurts!
I feel like I'm choking on scent of burning skin and fabric.
Ess'ai
Outrealmer
LV: 8. EX: 16.
HP: 5/22.
My HP is rapidly trickling down. Like an idiot, I think of my Estus.
Use item.
There's a temporary lull in the pain as I lose control of my body to sip from my Flask. I feel a cooling rush spreading from my core, but it doesn't help erase the searing pain at the surface of my skin. If anything, the dichotomy makes me feel worse. The fire has grown too much, enveloping me entirely. It seems to feed on my skin.
At least the Estus gives me enough presence of mind to try something I was too afraid to use before. My menu is still available to me.
I focus on the Darksign. Use ability. Use Darksign.
It doesn't work, but I'm not sure if I've missed the correct trigger phrase or if my running commentary of fuck fuck fuck stop stop stop is interfering with my attempt to kill myself faster.
I try more combinations in a desperate attempt to stop the pain that I stupidly prolonged by using Estus, until finally –
Skill.
There's a hum in my brain. As I focus on the Darksign, I feel a twinge somewhere in my head, like a tiny string keeping my mind together has suddenly ripped.
Oh, I'm on my knees. And there's the floor in my face. At least the pain cuts away immediately.
Ess'ai
Outrealmer
LV: 8. EX: 16.
HP: 0/22.
I want to laugh in my last breaths but a gurgle comes out instead. I was cornered and exterminated like a rat. What a joke.
I can see my killers in my peripheral vision. I can't summon the energy to be angry at them. I can't hear their last words to me. I can't even finish a defiant thought.
The memory of pain is too much for me.
YOU DIED
Dark Awakening – Now Loading
Rip: A skill inherited from a cowardly hero of the monkey-like Highlander tribe. Feign death to avoid enemy attacks.
A brutal war broke the spirit of a young General, leading him to fake his death and abandon his men. Destiny brought him to a small band of heroes, who flourished in spite of their own sufferings.
The General soon came to regard these kindred souls as friends. He would use his skills to diminish his presence in battle, launching surprise attacks against unsuspecting enemies.
The effectiveness of this strategy lessens without allies to provide cover for the user. At the end of his long life, the General had perfected the trade-off between risk and reward.
Time passes languidly in this burnt-out basement.
I idly watch over my unmoving, scorched corpse. Every now and then the phantom sensation of flames dancing upon my limbs returns and I need to shake it off.
The bandits are gone. My weapons are untouched, still stowed away in the barrel I hid them in so long ago. I hear commotions coming from above, sometimes, and I watch the open stairwell with curiosity.
Only one person ever came down. He made a lot of noise and had burn marks all over so I guess he was in a lot of pain. I put my arms around his neck to stop the noise. It's nice to help out others.
He didn't seem to want my help, though. He pushed me off and ran away. It's so confusing that I'm not sure if it actually happened. I might have imagined the whole thing.
I feel a little strange. Scattered. There's a numb feeling in my chest and it grows the longer I wait around here.
Flames are dancing on my arms again. I grab my shoulders and shake violently to dislodge them.
I know I'm not actually burning anymore, of course. It's just phantom pain, and keeping that in mind helps. I quietly rock back and forth.
Maybe things will feel better if I can find some water to run over myself.
… Yeah, that's a good idea. I gather my weapons, not wanting to get overpowered and burned again. My bow and staff are where I left them. There's also an old silver axe. Why did I have that with me? I leave it where it is.
I cautiously venture up the stairwell for the first time in days, where the air is lighter. The light is uncomfortably bright to my sensitive eyes, though I'm still indoors. I shy away from torches on the walls.
I should go outside. Which way was it? I pick a direction at random.
The fortress is quiet as I walk through its halls. Walking is nice. I can feel the air brushing against me when I walk, but it's not enough to quiet the flames on my skin. I pass by empty rooms, looking for an exit or at least a courtyard.
I pause when I see a room that's roughly barricaded with barrels and crates. Curious, I take down the barricade and wander through. There's a man lying on a cot, breathing deeply with his eyes closed. One of his legs is bent awkwardly.
Atlas – A disgraced Ylissean knight with a reckless streak.
Mercenary
LV: 13. EX: -.
HP: 5/39.
Sandy blonde hair and a typical mercenary outfit, caked in blood. I don't know what I should do, so I watch him silently and wait.
A hitch in his breathing. He's noticed me.
He opens his eyes blearily and fixes his gaze on me, then barks out a small laugh. He doesn't seem afraid. "Ah. K-knew there'd be a price," he coughs out, voice raspy. "I'm ready… just, stay away from big sis for a little while longer, please..."
It looks like he's in pain. Seeing that hurts me. I shiver and rock on my feet to show him how to lessen the pain. He doesn't seem to understand my intention. I feel like I'm peeling cobwebs off of my brain as I try to figure out how to communicate with him.
Eventually he groans and closes his eyes, still breathing lightly. It hits me that the man is utterly defenseless. I feel an inexplicable rush of anger and my hand twitches towards my bow.
No no no, shouldn't.
I think… I'll regret it if I hurt this man right now. I shudder and force myself to walk away quickly.
I move on through the fortress. I find a corridor with bodies strewn about the floor. Bloodstains mark the ground and walls. Looks like I missed a fight here. I notice some discarded weapons lying about, but no arrows or staves. I pass by without a second thought, still feeling unsettled.
I find the fortress entrance, beckoning me back into the great outdoors. There's no one blocking my way out anymore. I raise an arm to shield my eyes as I advance, momentarily stung by the daylight.
The wind dances softly, ruffling the grass below the shining sun. It's so much more vibrant than the dreary fortress that my steps falter.
It reminds me of… something. Something from another time. We would sing songs where no one could hear us.
We? I used to sing… with someone else…?
I sit down cross-legged. How did it go, again?
Take a deep breath, open your eyes.
There's a bit more... yes, I still remember!
Sweet slumber's over, it's time to rise.
I sit as still as a statue while the sun trawls through the sky, lyrics running through my head. Slowly, I begin to feel more like myself.
…
I'm… I'm not broken yet. I won't let this break me. I breathe deeply as I stitch my thoughts back together.
Build the road in front of you…
I exhale slowly. The setting sun isn't too bright for my eyes now.
My head feels like it's been duct-taped back together, but I'm functional.
So… I've died twice now. My first death wasn't so bad because everything happened so quickly. This second death, though… I'll admit I'm shaken. There was something so utterly hopeless about being set on fire, surrounded by enemies I couldn't harm. It makes me want to scream. It makes me want to run. It makes me want to find some bandits and kill them –
Logic awakens and takes a single glance at my train of thought.
Unproductive, it says dismissively. If you feel weak then get stronger. Remember Atlas, the dying soldier we passed on the way here? To get stronger, go back to the fort and farm him for EXP before he dies.
I don't think I should be making decisions like that right now. I was feeling pretty fey when I first revived from death. I have no way of gauging if I'm back to 100% yet.
I shiver as a phantom flame licks my shoulder. No, I'm definitely not at 100%, and I'm pretty sure I won't be until I'm human again.
Speaking of which. I close my eyes and pull up my inventory.
Humanity (1): A mysterious black sprite. Effects depend on context of use.
It still doesn't feel like it's a good time to use it. If I die again after using it up, I'll be stuck as a Risen. I just need to hold out until I'm relatively safe with the Shepherds.
If you're not going to use it in the foreseeable future, then it means you have to make a decision about Atlas as-is, Logic points out. The facts: he's a non-canon character, he's ready to die and probably will die without any intervention, and you have all the tools you need to farm EXP.
This is all true. It also makes me feel vaguely uncomfortable.
Logic delivers the coup de grace. More EXP equals stronger equals lowered chance of getting burned to death in the future.
Ah. That's my priority, right…?
But there it is again, that strange feeling that I got when I was attacking Gascon. Like I'm forgetting something. I close my eyes and idly examine my stats page, trying to remember.
Humanity (1): A mysterious black sprite. Effects depend on context of use.
Something about it is niggling at me. I stare at it in my mind, uncomprehending.
Humanity (1): A mysterious black sprite.
Humanity (1).
Humanity.
And then I feel really, really confused.
Didn't I explicitly create a mental label called "Humanity" to manage Logic's cold decisions?
That's right. I'm supposed to comprise one component of our thought processes, not all of it, Logic realizes slowly.
Risenfication must affect my ability to think, but I don't feel particularly inhumane. Plus, I've been able to identify the issue on my own, so it can't be that extreme.
… No. Forgetting the word "Humanity" is a massive red flag no matter how I look at it.
I should try to recreate Humanity, but I think it used to run on gut feelings. Will I intuitively understand it as well as I used to? I suppose I can deduce how Humanity would act based on my actions when I was fully human.
Acknowledging a degree of separation is good, but it's a bad idea to run a simulation based off of our past self, Logic says. It's too hard to be impartial. There's too much risk of conflating past values with our current values when we're in a critical situation.
Then, what's a safe reference for Humanity that'll closely reflect my pre-death values but isn't actually based on me?
I close my eyes and think of what it means to me to be human. My usual menu is overshadowed by the memories of flowing, golden hair and a hidden smile.
My shoulders subconsciously relax. I uncross my legs and begin to walk back to the fort, the earth crunching beneath my firm steps.
Humanity hums quietly in my mind.
I take in the mercenary's condition with a fresh eye. He doesn't look so good.
"Damn, and h-here I thought you were gonna overlook me," Atlas chuckles weakly, then coughs. "B-best for last, eh?"
Atlas – A disgraced Ylissean knight with a reckless streak.
Mercenary
LV: 13. EX: -.
HP: 4/39.
Str: 16
Mag: 0
Skill: 17
Spd: 17
Lck: 7
Def: 11+2
Res: 2
He's lost health since I left him. I can't be sure of his rate of decline, but in any case he's not going anywhere on his injured leg.
I call forth an instance of Humanity, built on my memories of Libra's personality. It sees Atlas on the verge of death and speaks.
He deserves to live, it says.
We don't have to take the bonus for the killing blow, but we should still farm him, Logic counters.
"Do it," the mercenary says, as if hearing my thoughts. "But, my sister… I know she's g-gonna do something stupid, so…"
Libra shakes his metaphoric head gently. He feels like a good person. He's dying and his only thoughts are for another. Give him a chance.
We can only have one ultimate goal. That's… to save the world. Logic says. Getting stronger brings us closer to that goal than saving an NPC.
Not an NPC, Libra says immediately. Approach him as a human and heal him, and perhaps he could be an ally. A friend to share the road may be what we really need right now.
Logic short-circuits for a minute because damn that's a pretty viable alternative to have overlooked.
By his description, it's reasonable to assume he would be an ally, Logic concedes. But blindly using our Humanity when we don't know our next step is a high-risk gamble. Better to revive only when someone like Robin is around to keep us alive. Farming is still the more prudent option.
Then at least treat him as you would wish to be treated, Libra says. I can see him spreading his arms out, eyes bright. Don't force your will upon him. Compromise.
Logic analyzes Libra's intentions warily.
It'd require speaking, which means revealing our sentience, Logic says, weighing the negative utility against my subconscious desire to be closer to my pre-death self. Well… it's acceptable.
I nod as I come to an agreement with myself, crouching down in front of the NPC. He flinches, but I'm too busy preparing myself to speak to let it bother me.
"… We… deal," I grind out.
The man in front of me freezes for a moment. I don't blame him. My voice is meant for growls, not speech.
"D-deal…?" He asks hesitantly. He tries to sit up, the groans and gives up, collapsing on his back. "What kind of deal?"
"… Second… chaaaance…" Fuck, it's hard to speak as an Undead.
The man barks out a short laugh. "Heh… I've lost it," he says. He gives a weak grin, looking at my face but obviously ignoring my eyes. "I… I've gone mad…"
I grip his shirt and look at him. He struggles against me, but I'm not trying to hurt him. I make him meet my gaze.
"… Sister…" I manage to say. I meant for it to be a question, but I'll settle for at least getting the word right.
The man misunderstands. He starts thrashing with a sudden burst of energy, but he's too weak to do anything. "Stay away from her," he snarls, trying to push me off of him. "Y-you, if you touch her…!"
I maintain my grip and pantomime an exasperated sigh. I give him my best expression of determination.
"… You… save… her…!"
He stops struggling when I say "save". I try again, hoping that he'll understand this time.
"… Second… chaws…!"
I was trying to say "second chance" again.
"… Shumargh… chwaaaa…"
I strain my brain, but the words aren't coming cleanly right now.
"Second… chance?" Atlas guesses for me. I nod vigorously, but he shakes his own head in denial. "But… t-this isn't real…"
His eyes are on my staff. I can see the hope rising in his eyes.
"U-unless… haha, she was right. The spirits of regret… haah… from this gods-damned place…" the man trails off. He exhales sharply and bites his lip, closing his eyes.
I wait for a minute before I realize he's done speaking. Has talking used up his remaining strength?
Atlas
Mercenary
LV: 13. EX: -.
HP: 4/39.
… No, I guess not. I poke him gently.
"Ah!" His eyes snap open and refocus on me.
I grunt patiently, unable to gather any words this time.
He hesitates, but he stays conscious and I can tell he's thinking. I don't have to prompt him again. I can see his expression slowly morphing into one of determination.
He looks at me warily. "What do you want from this? What do I have to do…?"
Bingo.
I grasp my bow, and pantomime firing a shot. I manually move the arrow, showing it launching from my bow to his body.
"Hah… I figured," the man gives a bitter smile. "Gotta kill me first, huh? Turn me into somethin'… somethin' like you, eh?"
Whoa, hell no!
"F-fine. To save her… I'll do it...!"
I back up, shaking my hands frantically in denial. He notices and relaxes.
"That's not it? Then what?"
I demonstrate attacking him, then healing him, and then attacking him. I show myself healing him repeatedly, then pantomime him getting up and flexing his muscles.
He looks justifiably confused.
"… I really have gone mad…" he coughs. "So… you gotta shoot me before you can heal me?"
Well, I don't need to shoot first. But there's no point in arguing over minutiae and I can't manage enough words right now to clarify. I shrug and then nod, as if to say close enough.
He nods. "… Do it."
Logic and Libra both give their assent.
Atlas doesn't resist as I bind his hands with the charred belt from my previous corpse. It's in surprisingly usable condition. I offer my current belt for him to bite down on.
He does so reluctantly. I'd be worried about contamination – I mean, the belt's been on me, but priorities.
Attack. Atlas.
My body runs away from Atlas, before pivoting and drawing on Hush's string. My shot is clean. Atlas gasps in pain as my arrow takes him in the torso, but I'm already closing my eyes.
Ess'ai
Outrealmer
LV: 8. EX: 28.
HP: 22/22.
Plus twelve experience. Not bad. I focus on the man in front of me.
Atlas
Mercenary
LV: 13. EX: -.
HP: 2/39.
Staff- Mend.
Atlas
Mercenary
LV: 13. EX: -.
HP: 17/39.
Healing him gives me a solid eighteen experience points. I strike again before it can truly kick in, trying to get it over with quickly.
Attack. Atlas.
Attack. Atlas.
He makes to dodge on the next hit, but I gesture at him sharply to stand down. Amazingly, he does.
Attack. Atlas.
He grunts in pain as he takes another arrow to the chest, forehead sweating profusely.
Attack. Atlas.
Bows reached rank C.
Attack. Atlas.
His eyes widen as my attack deals 3 damage instead of 2, courtesy of the increased weapon rank.
LEVEL UP!
Ess'ai
Outrealmer
LV: 9. EX: 0.
HP: 22/22.
Str: 6
Mag: 0
Skill: 4 (+1)
Spd: 9
Lck: 9 (+1)
Def: 12
Res: 12 (+1)
I was hoping for more, but three stats is acceptable.
Atlas
Mercenary
LV: 13. EX: -.
HP: 6/39.
The mercenary's expression is a little wild.
Check in with him! Libra says.
We're almost done, Logic begins.
No, Libra says firmly. You simulated me for a reason.
I kneel next to Atlas and focus hard on getting my words right. "… Arawww…" I fail to say almost. "… Owahhh?" That was supposed to be okay, damnit.
The words are meaningless, but maybe he understands my intent. He calms down slowly, still breathing heavily.
"… Just f-finish it already," he croaks, chest riddled with arrows. He winces as I pull them out, fresh blood seeping into his shirt and my fingers. Two of my six arrows are still in usable condition, and I quickly add them to my inventory again.
I run some calculations and try to determine how many more times I should attack. Libra frowns but doesn't say anything.
Attack. Atlas…
It turns out the shock was a little too much for him. He passed out, despite being at full health. I keep an eye on him as he finally stirs, careful not to make any sudden movements.
"Gaia," Atlas murmurs. "What happened?"
He freezes when he catches sight of me, casually leaning back against the fort wall with my arms crossed. I've fashioned another makeshift disguise from the clothes of a dead man, but Atlas seems to see through it anyway.
"Shit!" he curses, scrambling for a weapon. There's none nearby, of course. "M-monster!"
I snort, and Atlas finally seems to realize that he's capable of movement again. Considering how damaged his leg was not even an hour ago, I've got to admit that staves are stupidly overpowered. The man pats his chest, looking for wounds that aren't there anymore.
He relaxes a bit more when I make no move to approach him. I decide not to say anything, and the mercenary warily backs away from me. I turn away from him, showing that I'm not interested in following him.
He runs out of the room without another word, footsteps echoing through the fort's hallways.
I sigh and close my eyes. Well, in the end we both got what we wanted.
Ess'ai
Outrealmer
LV: 10. EX: 8.
HP: 22/23 (+1).
Str: 7 (+1)
Mag: 0
Skill: 5 (+1)
Spd: 10 (+1)
Lck: 10 (+1)
Def: 13 (+1)
Res: 13 (+1)
Hush 16/50 (E)
Mend 1/20
Bow Rank: C (9/25)
Staff Rank: D (6/25)
I didn't get a skill for level ten, implying that Outrealmer is a special class. I can't be disappointed though, not when I see the results of my latest level-up. I unfold my arms, barely shivering at the remembered sensation of fire scalding my flesh.
For now, the thrill of success keeps the pain at bay.
A/N: HE'S BACK.
That'd be the chapter title if I did those. Or else I'd name it Bipolar Rolls 2, Electric Boogaloo. Seriously I rolled 8/100 and 93/100 right next to each other, how do I even write that