I have nothing but my sorrow.
And I want nothing more.
Malkuth's book lay far, far below. The singes of her scorching flames held evident on his suit – the singes that stained the front of his two piece suit was the fiery proof that Malkuth had the will to stand and fight to the end against him, though she was but the first to fall to his rampage and final revenge. It has been,
And still is, faithful to me.
Yesod's book had been thrown amongst the purple hued gears placed around his room. The ringing concussion Yesod had given him with his relentless attacks over and over made his head throb every heartbeat, even two hours later. His thoughts had been blurred and slowed ever since the surprisingly blunt E.G.O attack Roland had all but failed to block– and a rhythm that still played in the back of his mind that reminded him so of the oath he made that fateful day.
Why should I begrudge it?
Since, during the months—
Hod's book had been covered in his gore, slash after slash had worn him down to a near crawl, taking a minute to recover after the ceaseless barrage– along with the surprisingly strong webs– had made his body too sluggish to avoid the entourage of strikes that cut, bled, seared and stung before he forced away his aches and thoroughly slaughtered Hod and her librarians.
–When my soul is crushed to the depths of my heart,
It was seated there beside me.
Netzach's book had been crushed– lost in a hazy smoke that reminisced from a lost memory. The screams of a fragmented nothingness still sung within his ears. The unearthly abomination that had leeched into Roland's mind and latched itself upon his body had proven too much for the friend and his librarians. O, Sorrow. I have ended, you see.
O, sorrow.
I have ended, you see.
Tiphereth's broken body laid among the books of her librarians. He found himself unable to finish somebody who reminded him so strongly of what could have been, who had tried so hard to give him hope for a brighter tomorrow, a fiery nostalgic spirit Roland couldn't bring to kill.
By respecting you.
Because I am certain you will never leave me.
Gebura's book had been covered in the ash, dust, and debris that had been wrought during their battle. The Floor of Language hazed with the thick smog the death of his smouldering memories had caused. Gebura's courage to protect her librarians had led her to death first, and through her sacrifice that abomination of an abnormality had been crushed and torn away from its host– leading to the unexpected formation of his emotional peak underneath it – the sorrow that he had finally accepted for the final time as old memories of a bloodfiend permeated his hazy mind as he danced one more time with the silvery flow that traced and followed the dark blade of Durandal.
Ah, I realise it;
Your beauty lies in the force of your being.
Chesed's book lay softly among his floor facing the picturesque aurora that was the Floor of Social Sciences. He had respectfully tried, but the task of concluding his waltz of white and black was too much for the loving soul that was Chesed, who had exhausted both himself and the abnormalities in his best efforts of defence, a wall of compassion which stood little chance against the monochrome ballet of Roland's long suppressed ego.
You are like those who never left the fireside corner of my poor black heart.
Hokma's book lay betwixt apostles— the librarians of his floor. The solid, nigh immovable wall that was the Patron Librarian of Religion had all but drained his will, and the realisation that his beloved was forever gone had been fully carved into every crack of his mind, and his psyche was overcome with images of a fresh yet rotten memory, of a small, infantile hand coated in blood that protruded from the gutted stomach and mangled corpse of the true Black Silence.
But with it too, the floodgates of his experiences had opened; memories of his mentors– one who showed him how to fend off the horrors of the city, and the other to relate, trust and the first crack in the mask that was his isolated stigma. Of rats that struggled and fought like he once had; A man who's passion to protect had run dry; A loving couple forced into the hell of a wings' sick way of profiting; A woman on death's door with only her bonds with the others to face an insurmountable corruption; A warrior desperate and furious at the death of a dearly beloved– just like him.
A dear friend he slew with his own hands– these shadowed gloves that gripped the hilt of Durandal with what little strength still resided in him.
The sorrow that wrought him when he had taken their lives. The agony that still coursed through him, and the blistering rage that had pushed past the librarian's guard and into– through the man's shoulder.
O, sorrow.
You are better than a well beloved.
Because I know,
On the day of my final agony.
Binah's book lay but a few paces back, having barely overwhelmed the degraded Arbiter. Even with this power, Binah's synchronisation had been brutal to defeat, worse than the Angel's on the floor of religion. The endless cycle of Fairy and overwhelming power had pushed him to his absolute limit, but was able to just barely get close enough to slit her throat through the endless sea of pain. The fatigue from the combat had fully set in by then, his movements were sluggish and Fairy leaked from his wounds, prying open his suit and skin.
The irksome F corp singularity dug harshly into his every step, his adrenaline running out at last, his shell dissipating as he limped from the Floor of Philosophy. His legs were shaking, eyes jaded and any stimuli numbed and blurred, his mouth tasted moreso of iron than anything else, panting deep breaths as his wounds changed each step into a dragging of his body through nothing short of a herculean act.
You will be there,
Lying in my sheets.
"Angela…" Said woman had a conscience-stricken expression, a far cry from her neutral mercilessness at their first meeting, or the stoicism at leading so, so many to their deaths under the guise of fairness. She had been steeling herself for this, however long he hadn't known, but she still seemed woefully unprepared. She was alone.
"Roland…" She mirrored. She clutched her book hard as her eyelids twitched, evidently holding back her sorrow. "Can't… Can't you stop this? Did it all– was it all a lie? Every second… Just your façade for this ultimate, final betrayal at the end of my path?" Her voice was tinged with it. Slightly broken, she had the look of determination, but her eyes betrayed her, tears nestled to her golden optics.
It has to be like this. He doesn't want to do this— but she deserves it– and it was he that had to kill her.
Every breath since that day hurt, like his heart had fractured into every part of his body since he last saw Angelica– the real her, not that damnable puppet.
"If you had only chosen a different choice, Angela. Any other way than violence… But this–?... This is what happens when you try to wash blood with blood."
After a mouthful of fresher air he continued, "...But, I just… I just can't blame you. You just wanted your freedom afterall. This is this, and that's that." The words came naturally. Roland let Durandal out from his gloves, holding it in his right hand.
"'Sides, I'm doing the same shit aren't I?" Sucking in a breath, he raised the longsword, which he used to to half warn her that the time for talking was over. Angela still seemed to be taking it all in– as expected when she had the emotional intelligence of a teenager. Even if she was more prepared then before Argalia ruined his betrayal— she was still young, not sure what to say or how to process this. It's what made her so easy to manipulate.
His body screamed at him to stop moving— something he completely ignored as he slashed at her torso, expecting her to freeze was strangely optimistic for him, but Angela took a panicked step back and grabbed a book from thin air.
Durandal overextended, unable to pause from the weight that his wounds carried, but seeing how open she was Roland twisted his wrist and tried again, only to be met with some strange, toothy grin on a canvas of skin, hitting his blade with enough force to almost rebound Durandal's hilt into his mask.
He had the sword disappear before it could, pulling out Old Boys Workshop's hammer– rather certain Wheels Industries' greatsword would have been too heavy right now– and clumsily put his weight behind it as Angela grunted and raised another book, red branches burst forth and wrapped around the hammer and dug into a wound on his arm, though it shrunk under his baleful gaze.
Roland grit his teeth as it tore some blood on the wag out of his scorched, scratched, now bleeding wound on his wrist.
Angela pulled out another set of leather bound pages– or simply changed the previous one, and Roland retracted Old Boys Workshop to stumble back, clutching the now freshly bleeding wound on his arm, a sword quickly pierced his shoulder with a familiar feeling of despair, as though he was seeing that fateful scene again. Mook Workshop's katana was drawn as fast as his body allowed, knocking down a second and third sword as the first twisted inside his shoulder, trying to force him to keel over from the pain.
He tore it out and threw it at her, own muscles yowling in pain only for the book to simply gobble up the sword, the other three hovered by her side.
Roland got closer to attempt to prod and deflect the swords to go for a counter attack, but they held too defensively around her, and so Roland drew an Atelier Logic Magnum and its supporting gauntlet which encapsulated his glove.
She barely had time to react, a sword moved into its path to reflect or do something, as the bullet sparked against the sword and wedged itself into the ground by Angela's feet. He stepped in and batted one sword away with the Zelkova Workshop axe, the other narrowly dodging the mace counterpart and scratching skin off his cheek and stabbing through his ear. Roland quickly stopped the sword from causing more damage so close to his head, but felt a sharp, visceral pain in his stomach.
The sword he'd knocked away–? No– it was the third sword. It looked like it had pierced his liver, but he grit his teeth harder than before and snapped the sword in half with the mace. The one in his ear had retreated to the book too. All five swords were gone, but he was far too weak right now to push an advantage, and he limped backwards, holding the small yet heavy opening as it mixed with the last dribbles of Fairy and forced a wider hole inside his liver.
The pain was almost enough to make him throw up.
He took another wobbly step back before sucking it up. He drew the Crystal Atelier twin blades, Angela seemed to have teleported another book to her hands. Roland dashed to finish her before she could open it, though he vastly overestimated his speed and fumbled– nearly falling– before reaching her. A lively wooden tentacle shot out from the book for his head. He caught it on his bleeding wrist as it sucked the remaining Fairy out of said wrist before exploding and returning to its book. The ease of which he had dismissed the abnormality made Angela fumble and the book visibly changed colour, from a sparkled yellow to a bright red.
Its contents changed along with its colour, as a part of the Mountain of Bodies intercepted the Atelier blades and dug its canines deep into his skin, making him curse and fall back as it tore off his ring and pinky, along with some of his Glove and hilt of the blade.
He cursed, drew an Atelier Magnum, pulling a round straight through the top of its teeth and into the book, where he heard a smaller mouth roar and retreat back into its domain. Angela had taken the time to take a few steps back to collect herself.
Roland slid the gun back into the injured glove and let out a pained groan now that he had the space. He was hoping to do this in one piece, but what's a few fingers if he could finally lift this unbearable weight?
He drew Mook Workshop and slashed at her body with a jump forward, the sudden movement enough to completely catch her off guard– most likely still unused to her new perception of time– and she flinched away from the cuts that drew the fresh blood from the incredibly sharp edge that had only grazed flesh.
Roland drew Old Boys Workshop once more, the hammer slamming against another hardback that shielded her fragile bare-human skull from a deathly blow, though it was enough to knock off her feet and a few steps away, enough of an opportunity to wedge Zelkova Workshop's axe into her shoulder and drag it out, feeling a little more invigorated at the sight of her blood on the edge of Angelica's axe. Angela grit her teeth and let out a brief curse. An almost feral grin slipped onto his face upon hearing it.
She stepped back and flung an open book at him which spat bright purple dust that burned into his flesh before disappearing a second after, followed by vines creeping out of another book that intertwined with his leg. Unsurprisingly it had more weight than a simple book so he could hardly drag it along.
He drew Ranga Workshop's daggers, slicing through the vine that had crawled up to his knee before turning fast enough to see a fluffy bear claw clobber his mask against his face with all the force of an R corp Rhino, feeling air rushing against him as he managed to remain standing, blood trickling under his mask, he couldn't help but bring a hand to his head, which felt as though it had just about every injury under the sun.
His eyes grew narrow under his Mask, letting Durandal fall from his glove into his hand, taking a moment to catch his breath. Once he killed her, he'd definitely need a few days rest.
'She's using abnormalities to fight, pulling them out of thin air to surprise me. I can't tell what's going to pop out, nor do I know nearly as much about them as anybody else here. I need to think of something to counter it…'
He'd prod from afar then. Dammit, he hadn't planned for so much of a fight from her, and he wasn't all too sure on how much ammunition Olivier might have put into the Gloves…
Roland took a step back and ducked as a fast moving swarm of monochrome butterflies shooting out over him, drawing the Atelier workshop Magnums, he leapt clumsily to avoid another wave of the little pests and Angela's eyes widened as she was only just able to raise a long, white magnum of her own in front of her face that was hit with such power it flew out of her hand.
Roland took the opportunity to fire a shot at her leg this time, though she proved to be made of sturdier flesh as it barely scraped into her knee. She reacted poorly to the pain, leg buckling as she panicked and grabbed yet another book. His hand hurt, his body hardly numbed the pain of recoil against his mutilated fingers– but he pushed on nonetheless.
Roland dashed towards Angela with the Ranga Workshop dagger in hand, pausing and weaving underneath a large dark sword warped in some sort of bandages, slicing her abdomen and hopefully cutting into a kidney, Angela turned and stepped back, and Roland continued his attack with a hook to her jaw– something in him hesitating slightly, perhaps the searing pain in his hand when he made contact?– and followed it with the Old Boys Workshop hammer, Angela's instinctive retreat had it only crash unto her shoulder, and she gave out a winded gasp.
He went again, crashing the Hammer through to the floor and narrowly missing her. Instead of counter attacking she took a few steps back, book raised, and so Roland let her get a few seconds break, squeezing his hand to attempt to stop his bleeding, keeping a close eye on her.
Angela was looking away, around the environment for the Keter librarians perhaps, and Roland spotted his opportunity. Lunging and leaping forward and slashing across her body a few times with the tip of Mook Workshop, Roland almost threw himself off balance with his weakened state. Angela let out a pained gasp and tried to avoid another blow by moving back, but Roland stepped in with the Allas Workshop's lance to skewer her heart.
Angela stepped to the side, twisting her body as a slice of fabric was caught instead. Roland's knees buckled at the weight of what was going to be his killing blow– and Angela's golden eyes widened at the opportunity, and from the book, an equally golden gauntlet with an amber jewel formed around her hand, and It crashed through the arms that Roland barley threw up in front of him, probably causing one to break as a searing pain smashed right through his haziness, his teeth grit to the point he hadn't realised he just almost bit off a part of his tongue, flying back into a pile of hardcover books. They were knocked back and he had been sprawled out atop them, and sat up with a pained groan, blood dribbling down his chin as his mouth filled with iron.
He had dropped Allas Workshop to block. Angelica would've killed him for that.
He slowly stood as he heard Angela's heels click against the floor of Keter, getting louder and louder. He looked up, and the look of hesitation on Angela's eyes had turned into a grim determination.
Angela swallowed and blinked, keeping her eyes shut for a second. Roland's instincts instantly bound into action, leaping forward with Durandal extended, his knees buckled and he fell before her feet, weapon clanking away, utterly, truly spent, kneeling before the human that had taken his better half..
"I see, now." She started. The fact she was about to monologue mid fight annoyed him endlessly. He wanted to so badly stand and slit her throat right now– but he was too tired.
No, they weren't mid-fight… Had he… lost?
"You… No– you and every guest– are just another ordeal I must overcome. To reach it. The one, true book that will set us free." She justified. The look in her eyes clearly said she didn't believe that.
No, it hadn't been that he'd lost. She had won. She had killed hundreds of thousands, and was about to get everything she'd ever wanted –He had lost the second Angelica had died– but she finally understood. Maybe she always had. Understood the way of the city– the only way to go through life in this hell hole. She had truly become a human, hadn't she? She got her revenge.
"Well done, Angela…" He congratulated. "… Chances are you'll probably make it— with that mindset." He didn't have the energy left to speak further. He couldn't hear the droplets of water that hit the ground at her feet. Despite everything, Angela had been a friend. No matter how hard he tried to not enjoy her appreciation at his work, or how he genuinely felt sorry for her, a million years stuck repeating that script, resenting everybody close to her – and then betrayed by him. She was fond of him, a friend, absolutely. He was too, in a way. Loathe as he still was to admit it.
The wet spots on the floor grew more and more in quantity, and Angela took another step forward, her hand shaking slightly. Roland let his body relax, the suppressed pain hitting like a tidal wave, flooding through his body the instant his muscles relaxed… He was too tired to hate. Too sick of all the revenge and hurt. The hurt he himself had bestowed onto others, and the sorrow he'd accepted into his life as a result of his mindset.
Maybe it'd be better this way. All the shit he'd been through could be forgotten. Gruesome thoughts and sins that weighed him so heavily looking back at them was sure to drag his mind into depths unimaginable— and here Angela stood, stronger than he, for she had gone through even worse.
Maybe he'd once more unite with Angelica, if he could make the hike up to her.
"Thank you– Roland. I'll…I'll use this sorrow. And move toward the next— stage of my life." She choked out. She wanted to get this over with. Truth be told, he did too.
"Seeing you crying is… is a rare enough sight." He gave her one last, weak, yet genuine smile– lost under the Mask Of Orlando before Angela took his life, with which abnormality he'd never know, her future— the city's, he'd never know.
This is just how it is. This is what it means to live inside the City.
O, sorrow.
So that you may once again,
Try and enter my heart
.
.
.
.
—
"Hey, Roland? See that star, there?"
"There's a few stars out tonight, Angelica. That one?" The pale haired woman let out a mock exasperated sigh as he evidently hadn't chosen the right 'there' amongst the twilight sky.
She smiled and moved onto his chest, her gloved hand taking his and pointing it into a bright white dot in the sky, ever so slightly larger than the others. Roland couldn't help the immature rosy colour that stung his cheeks at her warmth on his chest.
"It's called Venus, Roland. People used to praise it like a God way before, and even today there's a lot of references to it in diners and such. Even though it's not a star, it shines brighter than any other, doesn't it? It was supposed to be a God of love, too. Don't you think it's symbolic in that way?"
"Hm… Yeah. A planet that shines brighter than the stars, huh? Love that shines brighter– keh, I can't. That's way too cheesy." He sighed, a brush of embarrassment brushing his cheeks. Angelica giggled.
"Can't help but wonder though– just how is it brighter than a star?" Angelica let his hand go, and he moved it to brush her silver, silky mane.
"Well it's all very confusing, and I doubt you'd understand how light works. I bet this is your first time even hearing of Venus in the first place, no?" She teased, looking up at him. They both knew he'd hardly received any education barring his granny's basics. Roland didn't know much about space, but hearing Angelica talk about it was enough for it to pique his interest.
"Oi." He exhaled softly and bopped her nose with his index. She giggled lightly at his movement."When'd you learn all this space and light stuff anyway? It seems like something they'd teach in a district 14 school." It took Roland a second to realise– probably from the nest that had held her captive for so long.
"I… Had a lot of free time and a few books with me. I'd rather not go into it too much– that was that, after all." Roland nodded in understanding. They loved each other dearly, but knew little of the other's past, only during deep, much needed talks. There was no reason to pry further than that.
Angelica seemed to be fine with letting the silence drag on. It was hardly awkward, looking at the white sprinkled blanket above them. Roland had never really done it before.
"Oh, and Roland?" She seemed to be waiting for his acknowledgement.
"Mhn?" He grunted lazily, one hand still running through her hair, one eye closed as he still looked up at Venus.
"I love you."
—
The boy on the couch awoke with a burning gasp, his lungs completely empty as he gasped for air to alleviate the scalding sensation in his chest, his heart racing as he had just awoken from his uneasy slumber.
'The fuck?' Was the only thought that revolved around his head for a few minutes, looking down at his very much uninjured– if a little messy– clothes and body. 'Angela..? She didn't kill me?' Roland felt a bit of anger at that, if she hadn't killed him that meant he had to try again– that he had to go back and—
His thoughts were interrupted by a beer bottle falling from the table, though it didn't break, it brought him to reality. He gazed around the room and– there was honest to god moonlight coming in through a window in this room. There were some bottles of cheap root beer on the table in the middle of the room, even a half smoked pack of cigarettes, and unless Gebura had been visiting –of which he doubted– must have been his own.
But he hadn't smoked in… who knew how long? This wasn't the floor of Keter or Art, and Angela would have snapped in and had him clean up the Asiah floor or for getting drunk– though any relationship they had would've long since been…
Roland's eyes drew to the window, and he skittered up to it eagerly, noticing the sluggishness in his body as his eyes gazed upon the backstreets outside. There was a sweeper dissolving a body of some unfortunate soul a storey or two below, opposite the street he was.
"I'm not in the library…" He muttered. His voice was dry, so he downed an almost empty bottle on the table. It stung his throat and tongue harshly before he laid it back admist the other empty bottles.
Then how did Angela..? Well she… carried him? Had a librarian carried him? But why?
Roland let out a delirious little chuckle as he fell back onto the couch to avoid some sudden nausea.
This was… A singularity? That lunatic –Ayin?– they kept talking about?
His wounds were lethal, there wasn't a single hole or even scratch on him– his suit was in one– or two pieces– and wherever he was sure as hell wasn't nest L or the library. Sweepers were basically extinct according to the invitations– so what the fuck?
His chuckling turned to a feverish laugh, a tad of relief boiled up over his mind. There was a series of thuds from the roof that Roland couldn't have possibly given less of a fuck about. It felt so good to stretch his lungs like this, this must have been the first time he's laughed like this in literal years! It took him three whole minutes to actually compose himself, having laughed himself breathless.
After calming himself enough to stop laughing, his eyes scanned the room and he spotted Durandal leaning against a wall, and the Hana Association seal on some paper by the mostly empty bottles that littered the surface of the coffee table.
He let out a sigh, his little moment of giddiness had passed now as memories of Olivier passed into him, and so out of pure curiosity, he took the paper to read through it.
'Addressed to; Roland 'Orlando'
Your skills were reviewed after your examination and deemed acceptable and above average by Hana East Section 4, and your request for a fixer's licence has been granted and sent with this letter. To begin working as a fixer, you may be able to seek hire at nearby offices, workshops, association recruitment programmes, or private hires. If you have damaged or lost your fixers licence, you can order or purchase a new one by contacting the Hana Association. If it has been lost or damaged during transit you are liable for a fifty percent discount on your replacement.
Signed– Kui Areya'
…
Roland's eyebrows had furrowed, his eyes squinting to just ensure this was actually real– and past all the filler text, it looked legit. Nah, the deja-vu was way too much. He was supposed to be a grade 9 fixer for life after his 'investigation' anyhow, but through all that one thought rose about the rest in his mind.
'Am I back in time?'
The sensations were very real, the breathless pain of when he had woken, as well as the burning alcohol he had downed but a few seconds ago ruled out any sort of dream. The way the honest to God moonlight outside shone into his little apartment he must have rented for himself decades ago, when he had started fixer work.
Time travel wasn't… Well it was impossible, T corp had said it more than enough times in just about every news outlet that covered stuff like that. But if Angela was in a timeloop for ten thousand years– something Roland wasn't too concerned about right now– then it evidently was within human limits to travel back in time.
No, too much thinking. That was Olivier's thing. They both agreed he wasn't too good at it. Infact, Roland took pride in not thinking ahead. Well, he had previous to his meeting with the Briah Patron Librarians and Binah. She had sort of opened his eyes to just how hypocritical he was. That he could in fact change lives for the better, because he was strong.
If he had travelled back in time, good. This is this, his current situation was money, and that's that, he couldn't worry about the Patron Librarians right now. Making it like that calmed him a bit, having been slightly hysteric at processing this new ordeal that lay before him.
It was night out, sweepers indicated it'd be around three or four but Roland washed away the thought of sleeping. He was wide awake, and there wasn't nearly enough booze to calm himself down and head to sleep. Maybe there's more in the fridge, Roland could envision his younger self putting it in there instead of a stasis box. Those things were usually expensive, so buying one was pretty out of the question.
If he was in some sort of time reversal situation like he had heard Hod and her librarians discussing a few months back in their book club, then he could –just maybe– change things.
The thoughts of saving Angelica rushed to his head. She'd be out there, right?
Maybe. The thought lifted some kind of weight off him, or at least it felt like it. If he could save Angelica… He'd pay any price.
He found himself in the shower a few minutes later. Being made of light in the Library, he hadn't really had the chance or reason, as he was constantly refreshed as long as he wasn't receiving guests. Or being received. The water was cold and it made him jump and tense the tiniest bit, but it wasn't nearly as bad as that ice abnormality. Good thing he was pretty used to the cold, because it was frostbite cold in that one book.
He hadn't purchased any augments or tattoos yet– and he wouldn't need to for some time. Durandal, through whatever means, singularity, E.G.O, straight up magic, his Gran had never told him and he had never asked— empowered him greatly when he attacked and killed with it, though he'd never understood that until he was in his mid twenties. His first augment was as a grade four, and even up to the Library he must have been in the single digits of procedures or augments, and even most of those were minor things like dental and a missing finger or two– which he had gotten bionics for.
Stepping out of the shower, he abruptly realised he hadn't gotten a towel out, so walking over to the cabinet just outside the bathroom–
'And of course. Of course it's tiny.' It was just a few inches off a hand cloth and literally the only towel he had. The rest was filled with washing stuff, paper towels and toilet paper.
Walking over to the mirror, Roland took in his… Old, new self. He had that young sparkle in his eyes. The mere thought of seeing a living Angelica brought that. She told him of her childhood with Argalia as a test subject in some wing, the specifics she'd left out and he hadn't pressed – that's that she'd said.
It took a little while to dry himself, about an hour. Night in the Backstreets had ended, and he wasn't too sure how great his body had functioned some fifteen to sixteen years ago. If he took a gander at his appearance he'd say he was around eighteen. He was… What, thirty six when he entered the library? That's seven- no, eighteen years.
Hah, that was… at least sixteen years to the pianist. And a mere seven before joining Charles' office. Roland idly wondered if he could kill every pianist in District 9 by then. Chances were that he could, but what would the point be when he could just move somewhere safer?
Right now he'd be in District… Nawh, couldn't be 23. He'd only ever been there to kill the Blood Red Night, other than a few jobs in Charles' office and some leads on the distortion phenomenon– also it didn't smell like an organ-orgy outside, so probably not.
He worked in the east part of the city, so he must've grown up there, right?
But what he had to do was obvious. He just needed to find Angelica. He'd figure the rest out from there. Maybe Olivier and Astolfo too– but to do all that he'd probably need money. Seven associations would be the go to, but seeing how prescripts were made, the index might be good too.
Roland's eyes flicked to the new fixer's licence on the table. Grade eights didn't make much in the way of money, so he might join or take over a syndicate if he had to. Maybe even raid a wing or association. Rolands hand slid to his wrists, only to realise the Gloves hadn't been adjoined to his hands. He cursed briefly as the pitiful face of Angela flashed through his mind– though, that was that. Angela's suffering wasn't any of his business right now.
Roland dried himself almost mechanically, actually doing his best to plan for the future. It almost worked out last time he had, so maybe it would now?
Roland scolded his past self for lack of neckwear other than a few clip-on ties, God, Yesod would have hanged him for this. Roland tucked the clip under his collar and ensured it was well hidden.
Clipping the tie into his iconic two piece suit, Roland gave his body a little stretch, a bit more sluggish and a noticeable lack of… strength than he was used to, but nothing a few months of training couldn't fix– surely? Maybe a tattoo or a bionic implant when he got enough money.
'Although, having experienced the R corp exo-suits first hand… There's just too many options.'
Roland smirked lazily, grabbed Durandal and set it through his sheathe. Angelica always had why he always had it sheathed, even in her gloves. He could never give an exact answer.
Grabbing both his licence and his ID –god, the first time he went without had been embarrassing, and something he'd never forget– he went off into the backstreets half an hour after the Night in the Backstreets, black leather shoes clacking against the dingy apartment floor as he made his way out.
Angela's suffering wasn't any of his business right now…
[-]
The Heart faltered at the alien tremor, the vibration of footfalls made of a true impossibility, and for this new curiosity, a prescript was– for the first time– a genuine question.
From the strings of the great clock above, and arteries that connected the puppets of District 17 to the grand heart and thousands of machines that wrote, refined and translated to the religious following of the Index. The wheels stirred at an unusual pace, a frantic motion if one was so bold, and from its production the heart wrote — 'To Olive – Go south five blocks and ask the names of five people with swords on their person, afterwards proceed a block north east and speak the names of the said people into the wall of Cuisine Essen, then, go home.'
The question was not asked to the recipient, but rather the young man that had undergone a drastic change in the nearby area, and that mere change had thrown his short-termed predicted future off course. Every step was wrong, the way he carried himself, the slight hints of annoyance instead of the predicted sheepishness— all an absolutely alien sensation from the individual. After the months of precise work to clear the influence of the Fate Defying Woman from the seemingly unnoteworthy boy, of his own volition, had broken the script that had been written for him.
The Weaver, Tim, shrugged, yawned, stamped the prescript, and shoved it into Q0102 after rolling it the adequate size that it would fit, and sent it up to a messenger, unaware of the conditions and circumstances going through the thoughts of the brain of sector seventeen. His assistant sent him a questioning glance, having caught a glimpse of the order and having been intrigued by the especially strange format of the request – Only very rarely did prescripts request speech to inanimate objects, the last instance having been before the beginning of the assistant's tutelage.
"Master?" He asked.
Weaver Tim turned his head with a lazy look on his eyes as the assistant continued; "Didn't that prescript look rather… specific? We've never had requests of speech before–"
"Not sure, don't read them." He simply stated. "Doesn't matter anyway. Not like it's our prescript or anything. If we questioned every 'new' order we'd never get anything done." Tim's voice was hued with a slight irritation, blurted out in the unnatural burst of words that counteracted his usual lazy and laid back attitude.
"As the East Head Weaver, and you as my assistant, our jobs are to stamp and send prescripts, as well as protect and repair The Heart." He looked thoughtful before continuing, "No, 'job' would be undermining our duty here. This is our very destiny as living creatures in this city," The assistant bit his lip. Although it wasn't his intention the assistant felt themselves a fool. "All things in this city are puppets of The City, and it is us, we weavers who have been trusted with such a prestigious position as to ensure its benevolence is carried to the populace above."
The assistant understood they'd overstepped, and apologised before he could continue his zealous ranting further.
Continuing to weave and assort the first prescripts that would be leaving for the early morning. Weaver Tim left them some coffee, before following suit in the messages to the Index.
The assistant was grateful despite their irritation at his more talkative attitude. Afterall, the Master had many, many years of experience— and mayhaps the only light of the City with more knowledge than he, were the Head and Heart themselves.
Because, The White Bullet, who had served as both Colour and Proxy– and now Head Weaver of District 17…
Was surely a man nobody could overcome.
Authors Note;
This fic was posted on AO3, where uploads will happen far more regularly. Every 15 chapters a sliiightly higher quality version of the latter will be uploaded. One chapter a day until 15.
Also curse this site! Why no edit chapter outside doc manager?!
Curse this site again! It removes all bold and italics on copy paste!