"You're insane. You skipped the Finger-Bow-Bell for this."
"Am I?" The painter approached, hands swinging about in exaggerated motions in an attempt to truly express the raging confliction within him. "It's not impossible! The Red mist bleeds!" The figure– the Curator, found disappointment in the dissatisfied expressions of their fellows. They'd thought fellow artists would have the teeniest bit more optimism for this particular piece. A collaborative effort that would easily have been a magnum opus to any onlooker.
"It's the Red -fucking -Mist. It's not going to work." A middle aged, crimson eyed woman drew on a long cigar. Half of her face was covered with a shameless mask depicting improper harvests and grandeur treason.
"Why be so down~? There's potential for anything in this world! As long as you have the will to grasp the protrusions of the mountain, one may climb it."
"And how many mountains are as dangerous as this one? It goes without saying but the Red Mist is shaping up to be the strongest fixer in history. The Curator themselves has kept their hands from her. If even the true Oh Emboldened Brush of the Ring shan't dare, what rousing stimulation could the Red Mist provoke other than a fast death?" Another, more verbose artisan spoke up.
"Do none of you see the eclipse at the top of this mountain?" His frustration was finally creeping into his voice. He was the best artist here, and even if none of them could see his vision..! "The aurora that is ever luminous over the seas of rats within this City? The ever luminescent compulsion that drives creativity itself?" He spoke with the passion that truly dwelled inside his heart. Creating 'perfect' art was the purpose of the Ring, and whilst the Red Mist may not have been such perfection, any observer with half a mind could see the beauty in her prowess.
"Don't kid yourself. The Red Mist is an immutable force." The woman crushed the light of her cigar in her hand, letting it stain and trash the pristine glass table. "I have art to do. A handful of artisans can't do anything to her, Yoshihide. Even if you rallied every Artisan and Maestro in this building, I'd doubt you'd be anything but another Tuesday to her."
"Just because you have the sense of a pointillist doesn't excuse such a lack of vision." Yoshihide snided back. He couldn't stand Kyosai and her blind art of weaving a hand of guided fate— it irked him to see her so successful at such a foolish notion. Art should come from inspiration, from the understanding of a concept to canvas. To simply follow nothing but the strings of fate was… "L.A.M.E."
Agh! It infuriated him that such blank minds have such authority.
"Don't you lecture me about vision!" She seethed. "You couldn't paint a sweeper unless it tore somebody apart in front of you."
"Because, imperfections of art are made in misunderstandings." He took on a tone more befitting of a lecturer, a similar tone to how he may speak to his daughter when she sought his guidance in her own art. "By understanding, and realising a process, that is how true creators would ever weld their arts."
"You're a relic, aren't you?" She scoffed, nose upturned. "You are nothing but a dim witted fool with a brush and ahn to spare. Art comes from the unknown, the imp—"
"May we please not cause another disaster in here?" Another Curator spoke up. "Won may we be to woe another waltz of wartime upon this warned abode?"
Everybody scoffed at the wordplay, the lowest form of wit some would say. Ultimately, they agreed. "The fingers cannot show weakness! Not now!" Yet another fellow protested. "We must display our strength with prudence, not brashness. Whilst The Red Mist would make an excellent display—"
And on they went.
Yoshihide felt like crying. All the supposed talented, rising artists in one place, for all their imagination and creativity.
They were all just businessmen now, clawing after money or entertainment. They may as well have been high on Emerald.
None of them could understand true 'art'.
Sitting alone in his abode after the cracks of the meeting had spiraled out into the hems of violence, they'd all decided to take their leave.
His daughter was far away, yet still in the residence being homeschooled. Silence in the air. An empty canvas before him. A brush and a divided palette in his hand. His mind had been clouded with their brash ideas and idiotic ways. He could not move his brush to its ichor and bring forth a new reality.
If he could wish for one thing in this City…
It'd be good inspiration.
[-]
There was no uniform code back in Charles' Office.
Ogiers fault at first, complained about it being too tight for his fighting style. Bayard next, his fighting style was too forward and had to be replaced too much. Charles took it to heart for all of them and they really got to wear whatever— on office funds too. Charles had taken to the original uniform while Roland was relieved enough to be wearing his classic black and white again.
That was a long time ago. Or maybe it wouldn't be too long until he experienced that again?
"This one looks good."
"That's the fifth two-piece black suit you've picked out."
"I know." Roland replied, taking a moment to sigh as he ran his human, fleshy finger across the fabric of the tux. It wasn't the highest quality, certainly not something he'd have for long, but it was better than the literal rags he was wearing now. "It looks good on me. I think I'll head for the ties next."
"You'll have to buy a brown one at minimum. Chocolate or Ash brown— are you even listening?" Roland hadn't the faintest idea about colour theory or whatever it was called. He didn't see any reason to buy something outside of his regular black and white.
The store was a relatively big mall. Workshop owned, with several sections for cheaper nest products and such. There were three main parts of the place they were in; the casual wear, the only place they'd visit on their short trip. The fixer wear, from cheap grade nine stuff to grade six ranging in the five digits. Lastly, just out of view, was the custom tailor area. They're in just about every store that does tailoring, usually to force associations to fork over a little extra ahn for uniforms in bulk.
Above their little shopping escape, Roland could notice how on guard Salvador was. He was subtle about it, trying not to cause a panic, but the signs were there. Especially his call to his 'wife', which to his credit, might have been the director of Liu section 1. He found it unlikely.
But why section 1? Didn't he say he was affiliated with sector 2? Was he mixing up the past and future, or did Salvador lie in order to not rouse suspicion at the store? He wasn't complaining anyhow, with any luck the section 1 director could stave off Iori for the time being.
"How about me? I'm stunning right?" Elena pulled back the curtain to spin herself around beside the two, attempting to draw the eyes of the two men, who gave her little more than a passing look. The grand total of five seconds of attention seemed to get on her nerves. She'd just taken what he had, and Salvador looked a bit peeved at the lack of diversity in their colour schemes.
Elena was by no means an eyesore. Nor was she an expert in fashion, considering she was copying his own style. She wore it well enough and there was nothing wrong about a woman in a suit— Angelica could show him up when she felt like it— but seeing a bloodfiend like Elena, a person who was really out there , in such a bland suit made to avoid fit in and avoid being remembered? It didn't fit her all too well.
He remembered talking to Netzach about this. The outfits of the Librarians matched their personalities quite well, though he said they were ripped straight from their past lives in L-corp. That said, Angela still had to put them all together by hand. Or by light.
Alright, what was she wearing when he and Angelica fought her again? In that fort of rotting bodies?
' Oh right. A coat of Grade one fixers. I forgot about that. '
Maybe later.
The next option. The ensemble suit she wore when fighting Binah back in the Library. ' No, that's too expensive. Silk suits are an arm and a leg, even more so back in the day. The ones the Ensemble fought with might go for a few million right now .'
The yellow and white from the tr—…
Maybe not.
Well whatever. Maybe the black suit wasn't too horrible on her after all. They say imitation is the greatest form of flattery, right?
…
Roland's smile faltered under the weight of his thoughts.
No. They shouldn't be shopping. What the fuck is he doing? Angelica is out there, somewhere. ' The Purple Tear is after me because the Index is desperate to kill me. And I'm busy on a shopping trip with two people I'm willing to abandon once I get a good trail of Angelica. Trying out fashion with a vampire and a war-veteran-to-be can't take priority. I can finally stop looking back and move on, knowing I'm going to be with Angelica. We need to get to Dawn office and quickly; damn anything else. Did I forget all that suffering? I can't laze around like this.'
He felt the smallest fragment of himself cry out against his inner monologue. To look around him and enjoy the journey— that Angelica was stronger than he, and could easily take care of herself.
He squashed it down with the thoughts of that day. Who knows what could change because of him?
"Well, they're just temporary, right? Surely working under a Liu affiliate would let us rake in enough ahn for some better clothes. We should really get a move on."
~~~
Roland hadn't been on a train in a long, long time. Public transport too, buses and trains lost a lot of their functionality once a fixer got to grade three or so and started outpacing them.
He was stubborn though. A lot of fixers still used vehicles at higher grades. Be it out of laziness or necessity– not everybody had access to interdimensional storage like he had.
"An ahn for your thoughts?" Salvador asked. Elena was busy staring outside the window in her new outfit. A hazel, fit and tight button up long sleeved shirt with an extendable hood and a darker, more chocolate coloured trousers that covered her legs completely, and some dress shoes tacked on. And two pairs of gloves.
Roland had taken something akin to his own design— Salvador hadn't let him off with only black and white. So instead he had an ochre button up shirt and a tuxedo with the same colour schemes as the old man. Same pants as Elena though, he hadn't been too picky as long as it wasn't restricting.
"Just appreciating the new clothes. I'm glad to be out of those frankensteined rags and in something presentable." Roland snorted. "Even if we did overspend a bit."
"There's no need to worry about this ahn. I'll take a small cut from your first commission as payment. That's fair enough, no?" Right. The promise of working at Dawn office. Somewhere in Nest V, and a good steady flow of ahn every month. That's not exactly something that just any fixer receives for nothing— 15,000 ahn was good pay on its own, but assuming he'd receive a bonus for the fixer contracts almost made it a one-sided deal. Roland had to wonder if Salvador would even pitch in a bit of extra ahn to place some good roofs over their heads.
Roland had to wonder why. He had an eye for potential, sure. Back in the Library, that Philip kid ended up being one of the strongest guests they had ever taken on. The Yuna girl was nothing to scoff at either. Some of the pages inside of her book had proved incredibly useful when paired up with History, and helped Yesod with his last stand against the Magic Bullet, or so he'd heard from the Librarians. He'd also used her keypage against Argalia.
Salvador smiled and his fingers stroked his chin inquisitively. "In a more personal manner, I must ask; Elena isn't quite what she seems, is she?" His sword laid in his lap, too unwieldy to remain strapped to his back.
Roland nervously tightened his hands into fists. Salvador might not have known. Bloodfiends were unknown to most, a rumour to few, and real for even less people. He'd only heard of the things before seeing some of the monstrosities he had on his chase with Angelica.
"You saw her in that shack, didn't you?" The gore filled wreckage of half-living blood bags and weapons of human innards. Not the best impression usually, but maybe Salvador saw something in the craft Roland couldn't. "Honestly, I don't think there's much to hide after that. Every time she's killed somebody it's been self defence—" Roland left out the fact he'd only known her for a week. He was confident that she went around killing at leisure before they met. " — and it's not like she's a Star of the City or anything."
"I suppose." He smirked, grabbing a newspaper from his bag. "We all have secrets in need of hiding, hmm? I can only hope they're not ones worth hiding. It's always trouble with those kinds."
"Elderly wisdom of yours? Or experience?"
"I'm only 36…"
Roland gulped and let up.
' That's as old as I am… '
~~~
Six hours later, Roland hadn't a wink of sleep. Waking up before dawn and almost dying to the Purple Tear, he'd thought he might get away with a short nap on the relatively comfortable seating.
No. Elena was heavily averse to letting that happen. The constant annoyances were really driving him up the wall, but at least the smell emanating from both of them was far more bearable than before. Pulling on his hair, Roland was a second away from spinning around and knocking her unconscious before he noticed the train had pulled to a stop before a station.
Too far before a station. Without a word, Roland stood and pressed his face to a window. "Why'd we stop?" Elena asked, similarly pressing her face against the glass in an attempt to make eye contact.
"Not sure. We're too far from any stop for a halt like this. There should be an announcement for any delays." Looking over to the freshly snoring Salvador, Roland doubted the old man would have any idea of why they'd stopped. The carriage was frightfully empty. Was WARP up again? The RAIL across the City wasn't exactly in high demand because of W corp. As far as Roland remembered it was shut down in roughly four or five years during the smoke wars by the Wings participating and used as military transits. They'd re-open later but with far less funding and even fewer rails, the one going across the City being closed completely.
'Radio silence. Should I check the driver's cabin? Something might have happened. Could be a robbery. No harm in checking it out.'
"Goin' to the bathroom. Stay here and don't bother me, would you?" He drawled, making sure Durandal was nice and comfy in its sheath.
"No promises~" She winked, though if her immediately turning back to the now cloudy view outside the window was any indication, he had at least five minutes to himself.
Making his way through the passenger cars, he couldn't help but notice how empty the place was. It was overcrowded just a few stops ago. They might have stopped by somewhere important he hadn't known about maybe.
That being said, the lack of people meant a lack of emergency contract fees if the train was being hijacked. He shook off the thoughts and waded his way through to the head cart. Forcing the door open with Durandal was easy enough, and on the other side he… Wasn't impressed, frankly.
"So…" His eyes took in the scene for a few seconds. "Am I interrupting some important process for the engine, or did you fall asleep earlier?"
The frightened man gulped and quickly stood himself up, pocketing his phone and almost knocking over the sweet drink on the controls of the locomotive.. "I—... Erh, there was a prescript. It said to delay the train at 18:04." His own skittish glance at Durandal made him shakier. "I mean it, really! The prescript is right here! I was just messaging my work to tell them, I was just given the prescript here there was no way for me to know– please don't kill me!"
"Here…? There's Index here?" Roland felt his mouth dry. Durandal hissed in the air.
"I-I don't think so..! I think they got off at the last stop."
Even worse. This was a trap, wasn't it? At the very least he'd been found in under two days. "Start the damn thing then." He said coldly. A delay, Look of hesitation. "You want to die now or later? I'll be sitting outside, so don't think of running." Roland sat himself right outside the cabin like promised. He didn't actually think he'd start the train, considering there was an emergency escape inside the driver's cabin and Roland had no actual intention of hunting him down.
Index was here already. It was too fast. Did the Purple Tear tip them off?
No, maybe this was a good thing. If the Purple Tear wanted him dead because of the collateral damage the index was causing to kill him specifically she would have taken matters into her own hands and not let up as easily as she had… if they could get them to man-hunt him down instead of blowing up city blocks, chances are he might not need to worry about the Purple Tear attempting to assassinate him again. If this wasn't all a part of her plan in the first place. That said, if he was too obvious then T-Corp would be back on his trail too, and this time they'd be able to hire extra hands from inside the City.
Too many moving pieces, and Roland's restless brain was chewing itself up trying to put them together.
The engine began to rattle to life, a thrum of movement he could feel throughout his entire body. "Huh…" Roland blinked. He hadn't expected to feel the reverberations from so far away. Once the train got up to a more reasonable pace, Roland stood, ready to return to his small group a few carts down. Stepping his way into the next cart, Roland's gut felt itself trying itself into knots. Maybe he did need the bathroom.
The cart had been detached. He watched them progressively make distance before realising.
' This is an attack!'
Roland prepared himself to jump across the widening gap between the carts. A blade cut down through the steel roof before him, and he quickly threw himself back into the train cart. Hiding on the roof– he should have thought of that!
The blade was thick, shining in the daylight as it tore a straight path through the roof of the cart, four similarly oversized blades stabbing and sawing through the roof at random. The steel blades almost scraped the floor with every plunge and Roland held Durandal defensively in case the random flurry came any closer.
It eventually stopped and a loud SLAM introduced his attacker, plummeting through the roof and their blades catching themselves in the closest wall of the cabin. Long wavy hair covered their features as they dramatically threw their hair up.
He didn't stop to take in the sight, Durandal quickly cut out as Roland leapt for the jugular and felt his weapon pierce through steel. A plate from the wall that was quickly sawed out of the floor and thrown up as a makeshift defence. "You're really—"
Roland jumped over another blade, twisting Durandal and the cover as he kicked off it and slammed himself against the back wall, feeling his injury act up for a second. He clicked his tongue, taking in his attacker's details. Four long bio-augmented blades on thin joints coming from the back. Mix that with the yellow coated knife they were holding, and it was five blades against his one. Long white, fur coat. From the north? This train was headed South. "As I was saying… You chose a really bad—"
Roland didn't let up. Batting away a blade with a quick two-handed riposte, Roland ducked under a second blade that went for his head and grabbed its 'wrist' with his bloodfiendish hand. He let Durandal fall to the ground– too close for it to be effective– and entered a grapple with the adversary. His knees pinned down the bottom pair but it left their actual hands uncontested. He grunted as the knife was almost jabbed between his ribs and into his heart, able to just jerk them apart and pick up Durandal mid-retreat. Roland dashed to the end of the cart, going for the first cart. If he detached the middle card he could continue on to the next stop and wait for Salvador there. No, too dangerous. He doesn't know how to use this thing.
His E.G.O then… No, he'd already used it too much and it was best to at least try and hide it. Showing off all his cards to any possible observers was off the table.
He couldn't leave Elena alone for too long either. She'd definitely stir up some trouble and walk on some shoes she shouldn't the second she wasn't being watched.
If only he had Zelkova Workshop's weapons with him, they could have smashed through these prosthetics in seconds. He needed a few more weapons as soon as he could get his hands on them.
Roland jumped off after another close call with the knife, kicking Durandal up to his hand and tearing some loose wall off with a grunt. He'd seen Elena do this before with the Shi section director, albeit his vision was pretty blurry at the time. A small distraction to help him cover distance and get a fatal blow in. Didn't want to fight for too long and for some proxies or index proselytes to show up part way through. "It's not personal so stop resisting…!"
The metal plating was cut to ribbons the second he threw it forward. No way was he running into that. The blades slashed in an inward motion as they slowly proceeded through the space between them.
Watching the room be torn to shreds gave Roland a little inspiration. He cut out a small hole between them with two solid swings, slashing straight through the train's hull and shaving out a gap that revealed the passing tracks underneath them. They paused and the weapons creaked as the joints changed rotation, stabbing out at him in rhythm instead of spinning. Bio-augments were always a hassle.
Ripping the door off behind him, Roland cut the coupler apart and quickly jumped onto the top of the moving train, hissing at the light that pierced his eye and hand with a horrid pain and moved to cover them.
Nobody else was up here. A blade quickly pierced the cart's roof and Roland hopped over it, leaping over the large puncture wound made before and seeing the other detached carts fall behind more and more.
They were just too far away to jump safely. The gap was about seventy feet and growing.
"I'm not done with you!"
"What's with the one liners?"
A blade pierced into his foot and Roland was quick to step aside, roughly into where a wall should be down inside the car. It might have been risky but he decided to take the chance, jumping down and tightly gripping the door's mutilated frame with a hand, the other still searing inside his pocket. He threw himself inward and drove both of his shoes firmly against their nose, pushing into their face. The assassin grunted and was clearly disoriented, forced to take a few steps back and almost slip into the small carving he'd made earlier. Roland grabbed onto a rubber support from the roof to create some distance and regain some semblance of balance before readying himself.
Roland came in with Durandal again, forcing them to be a bit more defensive as he pushed against them. If he could make them take just two steps back, they'd slip under the train and die and he could continue unimpeded. Only two of the arms were engaging him now. Even with his shaky foot, it was looking far more manageable than before.
An overextension from the prosthetic and Roland severed it with a quick swing at the joint, stabbing it to the wall and ripping wiring from it. Not a 'bio'-augmented then. He was aiming for the other when they retreated over the gap in the floor, their hands twisting at two joints on the top pair of prosthetic arms, working to return them to a striking position..
Right. Old models. Still had kinks like this. It couldn't aim up automatically then? An opening and weak point with gear they were over reliant on. He could use this.
He caught with his claws as it lashed out, able to bat off the other with Durandal. He bent the metal with a good bit of effort, snapping the wiring inside before pulling the stranger forward and dangling them by broken wires above the ever slowing ground below them. Still, they were moving fast enough to cause some fatal wounds.
"Wai-wait! Wait! I'm sorry- I promise– I give up!" They quickly grasped for the floor with their hands. The only two working prosthetics were either the wrong way or too low to pull them back up. "I-I'm sorry okay?! The Prescript told me to dismember the first two train carts on the train today— that's why I evacuated everybody and cut off the cars! It-it's really your fault that we're here!"
"Quiet." Roland took a second to catch his breath, stomping his boot onto one of their desperate hands. The other wrapped around his leg pleadingly. Getting the index to leave him alone would help with finding Angelica, wouldn't it? Durandal was held to their face, his hand holding it tight. "Who's your messenger? Who gave you the prescript?"
"A guy called Gunter! He told— the prescript told me to detach the carts!"
"Where is he?"
"I-I don't know. He comes by every Friday and gives me a prescript!"
"To everybody in the index?"
"Y-yes! Maybe! I don't know– Don't let me fall!"
"Who are you?"
"My name is– my name is Joshua Choi! I-I'm part of a small syndicate under the index that–that operates just south of the next stop!" Roland stopped to think. Durandal slowly drew back but did not sheathe, and he grabbed the wretch by their hair. He heard Joshua grunt from the effort.
' Heavy bastard .' Roland scowled, driving the blade through the side of their head. He pried the hard fingers from his leg before kicking them down and hearing the rattling of metal turbulence before the explosion of the costly grenade he'd been nurturing behind his back. He was lucky to have spotted it.
He limped his way to the locomotive of the train, fiddling with a few levers at random before the great grinding of wheels against the tracks slowed further and further.
The fixer allowed himself a small break, rummaging through a small cabinet. Some caffeine gum. There was worse, Roland figured. Properly sealed so it couldn't have been poisoned.
The index already knew he was here…
Even as a 'color fixer', the most he'd done against a finger was go around to the main facilities in a large portion of the City. He was hunting, and even then the Thumb and Middle with their limited information were troublesome enough.
The Index didn't have that info problem. Iori said it was some sort of plague, that it spread to the things he interacts with?
' The Cat's Eyes seem more than a little fuzzy when it comes to you and your future– but most importantly that woman at that little store you went to. Whatever sort of fate-destroying blight you've contracted is affecting more than just you.'
Every person he interacts with…
Unchains them from fate.
All that is freed in turn, free those of whom they meet.
And so on.
No wonder the Index was scared. It was a wonder the Purple Tear hadn't been more aggressive. Any person — or rather a whole finger— with foresight suddenly having that privilege ripped away like this, the only option would be to purge it all.
What's to say Q corp wasn't the first of many? To be infected by him and cleansed by the Index. Who's to say that Angelica won't be caught up in one of those many purges, conducted in order to control this destiny-denying contamination.
There were only two choices. Kill himself and wish Angelica the best of luck.
Or to expunge the Index from every corner of the City.