.
.
Tu-turu-tun~!
.
Fanfares blew the streets apart. Pipe instruments sounded aloud, tended to by the more and less fortunate. The musically inclined and the beginners, those with bright golden wings, and those without. Hooded and bare, shielded and open to the thawing sun. Everyone was there. Everyone had gathered to enjoy The Bloat.
Streets glimmered with unspoken words, electrified with an air of anticipation. One could feel the zaps and sparks coursing through each molecule, had they steeled their sight and nerves hard enough. Gazing from the many rooftops, frolicking about the busy streets, everyone had gathered to enjoy The Bloat.
Pam-para-pam!
Klang-kh-klang!
Pam-para-pam!
Salvos of gunshots spilled onto the streets – all aimed carefully towards the bright, cloudy sky. Bullets pierced the clouds. The Law, the Heavens – they smiled warmly, down upon the devoted crowd.
And the crowds smiled back, for it was a time of great celebration! It was a time to enjoy. To bask in the overbearing Bloat. To give oneself whole to The Bloat. To Bloat about with others. Enjoy the closeness of other Bloat-bearers. To walk out into the streets and fire off a volley of 9x19mm in the Bloat's good health.
It was a celebration, after all. A great one.
Children sprung from the marble streets like mushrooms following a heavy downpour. Their hands, filled with swirly cotton candy. With no adult supervision, they ran between the legs of everyone gathered, causing mayhem and engaging in little acts of absent minded mischief. A gloomy Liberi spun like yarn, taken by the wind stirred by the little Law-breakers. They would've yelled after them or grabbed the little shits by the scruff, but what purpose would it serve? Liberi on Sankta violence – that never held up well in front of the Lateran Curia's tribunals. Instead, they shot their equally Liberi friend a look and clapped along to the booming music that shook the streets.
In another part of the city, an armored parade marched through the white-clad streets, boasting garbs welded from the highest quality of shells, battle tested to perfection. Or so had everyone thought at least. These tin cans couldn't have seen much action since the end of the Lateran "intervention" in Kazdel, and even if they did, it wouldn't have been much. The head of the Curia was not a stupid person. He knew not to carry out the same mistake twice.
Thud-thud-thud.
Their armored boots bit the marble pavement. Claps and squeals of excitement followed their each step, erupting from the surrounding crowds. Children looked up at the walking, faceless idols of the Law's fortified will – looked and saw their own faces looking right back, mirrored by the pristinely polished steel. Rifles by their chests rattled, filled to the brim with dummy pop-rounds. Live ammo was permitted for special occasions, sure, but why risk it? Blanks blew the eardrums of everyone present just as well, provided they were overloaded enough.
They sure did elicit the same "oh"s and "ah"s of awe that real bullets did.
Pam-para-pam!
Klang-kh-klang!
Pam-para-pam!
Children and adults alike, Liberi, Sankta, Perro, Forte, Feline, (whatever else!), all ran to witness the spectacle – the row of pure white columns standing up straight, brandishing their shiny weaponry and firing off salvo after salvo into the sky. After each magazine, their heavy, plate-clad fingers reached for the empty boxes with flair in their movements, and switched them out between strings of muttered prayers. The sound reverberated all across the city, all across the maze of marble – in each little nook and cranny, the cheerful celebrations made an appearance. Nowhere was safe.
"Gotta hurry!" A group of schoolchildren exchanged yells of untamed excitement. Their little hands clutched to various small arms, all eager to join the cacophony up front – a gunshot here, a cylinder spin there.
"Watch where you're going!" A grumpy quartet of old geezers all shook their heads in annoyance. Long gone were their own golden days, spent freelancing about the city with coats slung over one shoulder, a rifle lazily rested on the other. They directed their complaints to the closest pair of young executors, the lowly peacekeepers of the streets. It all fell on deaf ears, however. No one could keep up with such menial tasks that day.
Not during The Bloat.
.
.
Far, far away from there, a middle aged Sankta dunked his mighty mustache in a cup of lukewarm coffee. The mustache hadn't actually been of any grand size or even all that much defined, but growing any sort of facial hair came as a massive difficulty for most Sankta, so even the gentlest of stubbles would suffice and be tallied up as a "mighty face-mane." The glow of his blood-orange halo veiled the tiny room in a rather malevolent feel. An image that couldn't be further from the truth.
The door opened. Warm light from an outside corridor filled the room.
"Ezekiel? You still pumping out visas?"
A young Sankta woman leaned by the door frame, her eyes scanning the other's dutiful fingers. They held a pen over a stack of scattered documents, all of them somewhat filled, somewhat empty. Such was the lazy Lateran life, somewhat careless, somewhat left for Mother Nature to fill in the blanks herself. He gave a languid nod, before clicking his pen thrice.
"Finishing up. What, everyone's out already?"
"Everyone's waiting on you, oldie. Going to The Library, remember? First round's on Adriel."
At the thought of a warm mug bubbling with Lateran brew being poured before his nose, Ezekiel couldn't help but smile. Then the woman smiled as well, and so everyone was smiling. Everyone was smiling, because there was a reason to celebrate. Because of The Bloat.
"Right. Coming, just lemme finish letting this poor bastard in." He threw behind his shoulder, to which she nodded and left. Alone with his thought, alone with the piece of paper, Ezekiel drew a long, weary sigh from his lungs and stamped the document with a trident-like insignia, before handing it back out the tiny slit in his own personal, little window. The shapeless creature on the other side took it without a word.
"That should be all, then." Ezekiel stood to his feet. Pieces of dust flew from his cardigan, as he patted his chest down and stretched. The person outside politely waited for the man to yawn. "... Welcome home, Mr Ricketts."
.
.
.
The streets buzzed with life.
Like an overfilled anthill, these tiny bugs kept crawling all over the place, blocking the main roads and forcing new paths onto the traffic-stuck newcomers. Most Laterans were smart enough not to settle out in a motorized vehicle on this day, at this hour – but some still stubbornly decided to pack their goods and chattels into an iron casket and send it spinning down the lively sea of twitchy bodies.
It got exhilarating at some point. Gelato stands, cotton candy machines, makeshift shooting ranges, gun-vans, cordons of shiny gun-knights – all blockades that cut access to the main roads. Chocolate Street? Good luck. If one did get lucky, maybe they'd just barely manage to push their thoughts of the place through the living biomass crowding the plaza. Muffled yells and cheers slipped past the old van's protective plating, as a little ghost-sailor sailed the ocean of foreign souls.
Silent music coming from the radio helped drown out the noise. This sailor usually traveled accompanied by a personal orchestra that serenaded him through each and every kilometer, but it just wasn't available that day. Something must've slipped its mind. A little slip-up.
The streets cleared more and more, the further the ghostly sailor plunged the bow of his vessel into the heart of the city. Apparently the occasion wasn't meant for the more politically inclined areas. Apparently the eggheads working the Notarial Hall to the bone wanted some peace and quiet.
THUD-TH-TH-THUD-THUD-THU-THUD-THUD-TH-THUD
Rapid fire salvos of lead woke the sailor from his mindless slumber. Young, cunning men and women crowded the streets and unloaded magazine after magazine into a perfectly symmetrical pillar off to the side. Foundation for some long-gone statue. The sailor saw a weary, Notarial Hall appointed executor standing by their right, a pen and notebook in hand, jotting down each bullet fired and each spent shell casing sent flying into his face.
The whole marble bone fell with an empty thud. Laterano had lost a white stone tree, but the people were celebrating. Rifles in hand, climbing the toppled giant, they were celebrating their kill. Big game hunters atop their fallen prize-beast. With a tired set of blinks, the executor produced a camera from his jacket and snapped a picture of the victors.
Glory to the Lawful peacekeepers. Shame to the creaking marble beast.
From there onward, the ghostly sailor had to continue on foot. The carcass cluttered the entire width of the street, issuing the entire marble canal unpassable. Hordes of angel-morons had gathered, mountains of gelato and other mind-dumbing sweets in hand, to watch the spectacle and cheer the demolition men and women on. Waving their rifles around, drawing sigh after sigh from the appointed executor, the gun-people theatrically bowed to signal the end of their little performance.
Silently, the sailor had passed them by.
Tap-tap-tap.
Despite the all encompassing bustle, he could still make out his own footsteps.
Tap-tap-tap.
The Sankta hivemind seemed to freely pass him by.
Tap-tap-tap.
Heads sometimes turned to glance, but only for a short moment at a time.
Tap-tap-tap.
Bright, smiling faces gazed into the ghost's eyes.
Tap-tap-tap.
One look was all it took for the smiles to dissipate.
Tap-tap-tap.
Melt, like gelato in the crimson sun.
Tap-tap-tap.
They took in his torn soul. His damaged visage.
Tap-tap-tap.
And decided to throw themselves deeper into the celebratory mood.
Tap-tap-tap.
They paid him no mind. Not a single thought lingered on the noise of nails rattling.
Tap-tap-tap.
And he heard them, too.
The bustle.
The cheer.
The happiness The Bloat brought.
The nearest frozen yogurt stand, tended to by two hooded figures.
.
"FRESH COOKED SWEET-SLOP! FREEEEESH FROZEN! FRESH FROZEN!" The one on the right yelled, waving their arms around like a drowning person. The other promptly stuck an elbow between their ribs. "FRESH FR— OW! The hell?!"
"Don't call them "fresh frozen", you moron. That won't sell." They hissed under a breath, busy with stirring a gigantic pot of shapeless mass behind the display windows of their cart.
"Whaddya mean "won't sell?" Freshly frozen means it's good, no? Won't melt. Won't drip and shit."
Another elbow visited their ribcage.
"Ow, the hell?! Hell's wrong witcha today?!"
"Stop swearing, dimwit. Angels take to bartering with dirty sin-rags who run their mouth too much. And our price's set, we don't go any lower for yogurt."
"Okay, God." They scoffed, a scowl spread over their barely visible face. A moment of shared silence, interlaced with the crowd's buzzing, passed the two. "... I still don't get why "fresh frozen" won't supposedly sell. It's good."
"It's not good. Fresh frozen… Look, people hear "fresh frozen", they think of… of fins, of burdenmeat, of fowl-fillets, all of 'em being flung out some cheap grease-food joint, straight from the microwave. That's what "fresh frozen" means to people, yeah?"
"..." They took a moment to think it through. Staring right into their companion's lightly confused eyes, neither vendor could notice the visitor standing at the counter. "... But we're selling frozen yogurt, not fast food."
"Oh my God." They slammed an open palm against their forehead. Fingers hooked onto their features, as the hand slowly slid down. "... But it's a general thing. It's a general concept, you loon. People hear "fresh frozen", they think of something bad. They think of something bad, they don't buy our fucking yogurt."
"Ey, don't swear, you fucking hypocrite. You said swearing's bad for biz."
" 'Cause it is, but I just can't help myself with YOU around sometimes."
"Fuck you!"
"Fuck YOU!"
The one proclaiming their products to be "fresh frozen" tore off their apron. The other followed suit. Both rags thudded hard against the counter, as the adversaries sprung into action, mutually invading their personal spaces.
"I'm so sick and tired of your bullshit every single day, I swear, I'm gonna–..."
"YOU'RE tired? I'M tired! I'm tired of listening to your moronic ramblings from sunrise to sundown, just staring at your ugly mug under that hood and–..."
"And what?! What're you gonna do?"
"I don't know! Something! I'm gonna do something!"
"You– you cheap bastard…"
"You disgusting… penny-whore…"
Hands interlocked, faces close, the two began wrestling about the cart. Metal spoons catapulted the frozen yogurt all across the street, as the vendors threw one another around. Finally, one of their elbows had hit the stirring appliance sticking out of the gigantic yogurt-pot, sending it flying out the display window.
Splash.
Both of them stopped their bloodlusted dance at the sound of yogurt sloshing against something soft. They turned to stare at the front of the counter.
"Oh. O-Oh, customer."
"Customer. R-Right. Ahem."
Their hands let go of the clutched fabrics, instead opting to unruffle their crumpled cloaks and fix the hoods loosely hanging off their heads. They exchanged an awkward glance, before addressing the, now yogurt-covered, customer.
"... You've got something on your face, mister."
"A sample, maybe? Or not? Probably not. You'll have to pay for that, mister."
"No he won't!" The more sensible one slapped their companion over the head. "You covered him in that sticky shit from head to toe, look at him. He's not paying a franc."
"But it's still product…?" They replied, dejected and softly massaging their head. "... What's stopping him from paying? I could sue his ass."
Another slap over the head.
"OW! What for?!"
"Look'at him. Look."
Two shapeless gazes fell onto the little sailor's shoulders. Their eyes hungrily searched his body, then softened and retreated with pity lining each eyelash.
"... You think he put them there himself?"
"What? Put what?"
"The nails?"
"You're worried about the nails? Look at him, he's…"
The vendor threw him another look. Their sight lingered on the ghost's ring of light for far too long.
"... Actually, good point. Who the hell puts nails in their…?"
"Right? What I'm saying."
"And the arm?"
"What arm?"
"The missing one?"
"The WH-... Whuh? The what?"
The louder one jumped to the counter to size the customer up and down. Any way you put it, the fact couldn't be omitted. A sleeve of soft wool dangled pathetically from the right shoulder.
"..." They retreated back to their buddy, voice all hush-hush. "... Shit, you're right. What a specimen, ah? I mean, really. Guy's a walking pity-machine. You think he'll start crying if I shove a quarter in his mouth–? OW!"
Slap.
"He's a customer, moron! A customer you just spilled a boatload's worth of yogurt onto." They yelled, before turning to directly address the castaway sailor. "... Look, pal, sorry for that. You want a tissue to clean yourself up?"
"Can we charge him for the tissue…?"
The question remained ignored.
"... No? No tissue? You don't want one?"
"I think he's mute."
"He's not mute, look at him. He's just sad. Look into those puppy dog eyes. God, he looks like a kicked puppy."
"He kinda does…"
"And you wanted to charge him for desert, you heartless beast. It's true what they all say about you Sar-... I mean, about your people. Heartless bunch…" They sighed, to their dim-witted companion's confusion. Before they could answer, the sensible vendor produced a small plastic cup from the smallest small-cup pile and ran it through the yogurt pot. Dripping with sweet slop, the cup made its way into the tiny sailor's tiny hand.
"... Here you go, bud. Free of charge, ey? No hard feelings for the spilled 'gurt."
"You're giving him product for free…?"
"It's called advertisement, shut your trap." They hushed their friend down, before turning back to the sailor. "... Eat up, bud. Maybe it'll tear that frown off your lil' mug, hm? C'mon, crying's no fun. Cheer up." A hand reached out to tap him on the shoulder. The healthy one. "... And tell everyone you meet how great our frozen yogurt is."
"Fresh frozen…"
"Shut the fuck up."
.
"..."
.
"..." Andy stared at the pair of claws digging into his shoulder. Melted frozen yogurt kept dripping down his hair and halo, sinking straight into his clothes and staining the fabric. He didn't mind. Even when the cold chunks of slop hooked his eyelashes and irritated the gray pools lurking behind, he didn't mind. When the cold penetrated his halo through, and sent shivers down his spine, he still didn't mind. When he took his yogurt, nodded at the two strange vendors and wandered off into the thick of the crowd, he didn't mind. He didn't mind the strange looks and hushed whispers. The eyes that constantly scanned his body and features, the gazes that licked each nail clean off any rust and left him bare and vulnerable – he didn't mind any of it.
He deserved it all. Every single piece of frozen yogurt on his face, every disgusted glance.
Laterano felt a little crisp at this time of year. The warm sun kept blaring, but the air itself had taken on a hint of chill. His trusty Pontifica Cohors jacket was there to hug his body from all sides and keep it somewhat warm, as always. People gave it weird looks. Sankta, Liberi, everyone else, they stared and stared, as if trying to grind the bleak remnants of the Lateran insignia off his sleeves. As if he wasn't worthy of representing them and their country.
He felt a shadow constantly tracing his every step. A presence looming over his pitiful, disgusting self. In the living rapids that were the streets, he didn't know whether it was just another pair of nosy eyes, or the lens of a scope trained at his brain. All he knew was that something had been following him for a while now.
.
"..."
.
The thought clouded his mind, and Andy bumped into something cold and hard. His eyes took to fluttering in confusion.
Clumsy as ever. Two years working the dishwasher hones the art of lazy indolence. Andy rubbed his forehead and glanced up at the obstruction.
And the obstruction glanced back at him.
Tall, white and mighty – a mountain-man. Or mountain-woman. A mountain-person, clad in steel as pristine as the boy's teeth, which left much to be desired. All the tall creature's imperfections were hidden under a bundle of crimson red rugs that coated its shoulders and chest. In its arms, a massive, handheld cannon.
On its face?
Nothing. The Lateran insignia welded onto an impenetrable helmet. This wasn't no Legatus or executor.
It was a gun knight. A real, breathing gun knight. Like from the poster. The one that started it all.
There was no mountain of dead devils beneath their marble feet. No targets to point their lead-spitter at. No shattered peace to be restored and upkept. Only this tiny mutt groveling at their soles.
"..." Andy blinked.
It felt like staring into a mirror. The armor plates distorted his face and gave it a completely new shape. Gave his sad curls more volume, his droopy cheeks some more meat, his eyes more gleam, his entire person – a certain glow that just was not there in reality. The armor interjected and connected at points that twisted the boy's body and molded it anew in the faint, dying sunlight. The reflection untied the knot that limped off its right shoulder and slithered into the sleeve with its perfectly working and healthy arm. It brushed back the mess of curls and shot Andy a whimsy wink, followed by a gleeful little smirk. He reached out to touch the boy from the other side of the mirror, but his hand couldn't manage. His fingers were in the way. He tried pushing on the armor, but it wouldn't budge. It wouldn't move at all. Too heavy, too hard, too cold.
"..."
The towering mass of metal shuddered. It took a step back, and the reflection was drowned in a shadow of the nearest church.
Andy was left staring at the giant's chest. The empty, shapeless plain of steel.
.
"..." It didn't even say anything. Andy felt its gaze on his scruff, but failed to catch any rough words or commands. No malice to be found in its eye-slits.
Without thinking of the past or the future, he let go of the visage.
Took a step back.
Glanced at his frozen yogurt.
Then back up at the breathing armor.
"..." His lips parted for the first time since Lungmen. Finding his own voice came at a difficulty – and even when the sound had finally been produced from his throat, he couldn't recognize himself in the reverberations.
"C-Could you point me towards the Notarial Hall, sir?" He uttered, whilst his eyes sought the knight's. They nodded back. Softly and gently. Politely.
Their massive arm let go of the handle of their lead-distributor. The gun rattled when it fell to their chest, held up by a sling.
"... It's right there. Right over there, sir." A distorted voice sounded from beneath the helmet. Andy followed its marble fingers and sought out the somewhat familiar building. Big. White. Empty inside. Spiky up top. Just as he had remembered it.
He nodded and thanked the knight. His legs started shuffling through the party-crowd in the general direction of the place, only to be stopped by a rough command.
"... Wait."
Andy froze. Slowly, he turned back towards the knight, staring up at the condensation might of Laterano. People shuffled to the sides, as the metal giant thudded their way through the street, only to stand tall before the boy.
"..."
Their eyes met again.
"..."
The giant creaked. Its hand rose to where the forehead should be. With two fingers outstretched, it gestured for the heavens.
.
It saluted him.
.
"Thank you for your service."
.
It stood motionless, its gauntlets locked in a gesture of the highest honor. The party people passing by stopped to stare at the spectacle, for mere moments at a time. The Bloat still called out to their halos and wings, beckoning their legs to crawl deeper into the city center.
"..." Andy stared at the marble giant. Like a painting, or poster, come to life. It did not feel real. He couldn't trust himself to judge reality at that very moment. Not that day. Or that week. Month. Year. Life, even.
He saluted back, a little hesitant. The gesture beckoned his spine to straighten. Asked his legs to come together. Ordered his head to aim itself high.
There, he stood like a real soldier. The concept of stolen valor held no importance at that moment. Nothing did. Nothing but the knight, the crimson red sun dancing about their armor, and his own hand, saluting the fallen.
.
And then it was all gone.
.
The knight let their hand loose. A nod followed, before they clattered and clanked through the street to rejoin their formation.
Dismissed, soldier.
You're dismissed, Andy.
Forever dismissed.
.
His legs took him on their own. Music pleasantly soothed his brain wherever he directed his gaze. Left, right, up, down, back… just not in front.
The Notarial Hall stood silent. Its shadow drew a protective circle across the entire marble laden plaza, repelling all those party-loving Sankta from its mighty doors. Each window and crevice, each inkling of power teeming within the chiseled stone, they all couldn't escape his eyes. Andy took it all in, sipping his frozen yogurt from time to time.
It tasted nice. Vanilla. He's never had vanilla frozen yogurt before. At some point or another, Lem must've offered him a scoop or two, but he never took the opportunity. He never wrangled life by the horns, so life had him be wrangled instead.
Wrangled by Kazdel, wrangled by Lungmen, wrangled by his sweet, sweet Laterano. Wrangled by his head – wrapped around its metaphorical finger like a strip of yarn, and left to fester in its shady doings. Wrangled by the images of massive cathedrals plaguing his mind, whenever his eyes dared close. Visions of mighty towers cut from marble, rainbow tinted windows and chandeliers dangling far above his head – so far that he couldn't even see them, just hear their creaking. Creaking, as if they were all going to collapse in on him. As if the entire world would one day give out and crush Andrew Reiff beneath its weight. As if the Heavens themselves would lose balance and topple, bringing him down along with all the Saints that had seen his pitiful journey firsthand. A journey. The Crawl, more like it. A constant Crawl towards something. What, exactly? He did not know. The Reiff family had that little twang to it – the absolute lack of a vision for the future.
Andy crouched. He took a little sip of his sweet yogurt and focused on the marble pavement.
Scrubbed clean. Neither there, or anywhere else could he see a black, bellowing stain. In the Notarial Halls' shadow, everything looked the same. They must've sent a flood of detergents through this entire square after the old man's happening. Wiped it off with a scrub, clapped their hands for a job well done. With how lazy most Sankta were, Andy had hoped to see even just the bare outline of a dark shadow kneeling in agony on this very street, a number of years ago.
He couldn't remember when it had happened. When exactly was it, that his father had drew his final breath.
The years - they were all so gray and bleak, that he couldn't even give a precise estimate. A rough one, either.
So he stared. Alone, by himself, he stared at the marble floor, sipping from his now-empty yogurt cup.
"..."
He sighed, then dropped to his knees. A little tear had wormed its way out of his right eye with the motion. Down his cheek it went. It ran its course.
Footsteps rang out in the empty plaza. Andy wiped his face, lest the invader saw him weak before nothing in particular. Just a dusty floor.
.
"..."
.
The steps had followed in his tracks, until they stopped somewhere near his back. His ear caught the invader's soles – heavy. Not too heavy. Light boots, but still tactical enough to be used for rougher terrain. Distinctive against the concrete. A dead giveaway in the echoing plaza.
.
"..."
.
For a moment, there was silence. Laterano spoke in quiet breaths and distant gunshots. The streets whispered past his ears, a muffled song for the fortunate and the happy. The cheerful Bloaters.
Andy wasn't one of them. Andy was left with the new calling. A voice sharp and steady. Trained at his ears, like a sniper's cross.
One belonging to a woman. Young, old – didn't really matter. She kept her distance, and her lungs barked for obligeance.
.
"... Not much of a party person, you are."
.
"..." Andy blinked. His spit had cleared his throat of any remaining sweet residue. "... Is that a question?"
.
"A statement." Her voice bit right into his ears. It wasn't necessarily the most pleasant sensation. "Do away with that facade, if you will. I need an ID."
.
Andy blinked. Down on his knees, soaking in the marbles, he hadn't ever been caught like this. Caught for what, exactly?
.
"... ID, why, exactly?"
"Rudimentary check. Nothing to worry about."
"What if I do wanna worry about it?"
"I'm not required to care." The woman took a step forward. Andy could hear the distinct shuffle of fabric coming apart. "... You can worry all you want. ID."
"..." He glanced at his jacket. "... And if I refuse? Am I under arrest?"
"Depends. For intruding in the work, and disobeying a direct request of a Curia appointed Legatus, you very well might be."
"Scary words." Andy shuddered at the notion. The L.G.D. still shook him a little, but the Lateran curb-police never really bothered his head all that much. The whole concept of "government appointed peacekeepers" still left a bit of a foreign aftertaste on his lips.
Kazdel was mostly lawless. No truths to be upheld there.
Still, he reached into his jacket and rummaged around for the document. When his nails brushed the steel of Nuffer's frame, a sound of rustling fabric arose from behind.
"Don't try anything funny." She hissed.
"Oh, I won't. Graveyards are filled with "funny people", no?" He pulled the document and raised it above his head. A younger Andrew Ricketts smiled brightly from the paper, his eyes drooping with a purplish hue of pure and unfiltered, Kazdel-caused exhaustion. "... That's what I've heard."
"You hear a lot, then. Don't believe in everything you're told. That's a one way ticket to the yard, not "being funny."
Her cold scoldings had a somewhat calming effect on his mind. That, or something else. Something he couldn't quite put a finger on just yet.
"... Andrew Raphael Ricketts?" She asked, tone steady. Unreadable.
"Yup."
"... From Columbia? "
"..." Andy blinked. Memories of a stuffy hovel cluttered with photography-related equipment shuttered in his mind. The old man, the fateful night, the plane that disappeared in the night sky…
"Yup. Columbia."
"..." A moment of silence passed between the two. Her diligent fingers kept carding through the tiny notebook of documents, in what Andy could only assume to be an error-hungry daze. Anything to latch onto and point out, huh? This hungry for a fine to write out? The corners of his lips twisted upwards at the thought of having met someone just as pathetic as himself.
She clicked her tongue.
"... Never seen anything like this."
"Like what?"
"Like a Columbian with a Pontifica Cohors jacket and left papers."
"Wh–...?"
Andy felt a rapid gust of wind being blown right into the crown of his curls. He tried to stand up, to reach for the elusive handle of his beloved (but oh, so wanton!) pistol, only to have his cranium thoroughly rattled by an overbearingly assaultive force. Something hard. Something assertive. Something cold and unfeeling.
He fell to the floor with an empty thud. A heavy platform drilled into his spine, and a cold ring of familiar dread pressed deep into his curls, boring him a new hole to gaze out at the world through.
"... The hell…? What're you-... Hell are you doing?!" He yelled through gritted teeth, his jaw mushing against the marble. The screams only invited the barrel to push deeper into his head.
"An arrest. Half of one, at least." The voice spat from behind. "... I had a hunch it might've been you. A lucky guess, but even those turn out to be bullseyes from time to time."
"What lucky guess? I've no idea what you're talking about…"
"Andrew Ricketts , are you?" She dug her sole even further into his flesh. "... Because I'm not convinced. Not one bit. You don't sound Columbian, either."
"I d-don't know what you're talking about…?"
"Is Ricketts your actual surname?" Something clicked maliciously. The sound echoed all across the empty plaza, much to the reaper's unbound joy.
"Y-Yes?"
"Bullshit, it's not."
"T-Then why are you asking?! Why–... Ow…?" He squealed beneath her sole, feeling the cold metal pushing his face further into the concrete.
"I need to hear it from you. You're lucky it's just me here, not a well-educated executor squadron. As Sankta as they are, there's nothing empathetic about them." She wormed both the boot and the gun further into his body. "... Neither will be the case here. I know who you are, I've seen your mug way too many times. One too many."
"W-What the hell did I even do?!"
"Fake name." She shoved him, again. Andy yelped. "... Come clean. Will hurt less."
"Okay! Law, fine…" He wriggled beneath her foot, just barely enough to shift his head to the side. A glimmer of blue flashed in the very corner of his eye. "... Fine. It's Andrew Reiff . Happy?!"
"Knew it." The voice whispered – more to herself than him. "... I knew it."
"Knew what? What's there to know, I d-don't unders–..."
Her weight shifted. His spine yelped.
"O-Ow…?!"
"With the power appointed to me by the head of the Lateran Church and Curia, I proclaim you to be under arrest. Anything that comes forth from your tongue may and will–..."
"ARREST?! BUT WHY?!" He yelled for the heavens, bubbling with a growing sense of confusion, fear, and anger. "WHAT DID I DO?!"
"... What haven't you done?" She hissed. "The Tribunals will probably start off with treason."
"TREASON?!"
"Treason."
"HOW?!"
"Then, going from there…" She ignored him completely. "... Hopefully instigation. Hopefully so much more. Hopefully what's right for you, you…"
She flung a few pieces of Lateran towards the boy. Andy couldn't make out anything through the ringing in his ears – and even if he did, what good would that do him? He's never really mastered the Lateran language.
"Can you just…" She wouldn't stop swearing… "CAN YOU STOP?!"
"CAN I?" She kicked him in the ribs. "I DON'T KNOW, CAN I?!"
Andy doubled over. The flash of blue from earlier had returned, now amplified tenfold. He gasped for air, but couldn't really unclog the way for his lungs to breathe. Some footsteps hurried from the side, chased by a rapid panting.
"Whee–... Whee–... Whee–..." Another voice, much more girly this time, filled his ears. Something inside of him stirred the second the sound had entered his ears. Something very, very important. Something that drowned his brain in adrenaline. "... C-Can you give me a heads up next time? God, I'm the one who usually ditches, y'know? I'm not used to doing the chasing."
"Good." The rougher one uttered. Not even the slightest bit of pressure had left his back or head.
"... Good? Just "good?" Almost as if disappointed, she blew a raspberry. "... And what've we got here? Lateran official Tequila Sunset tormenting a cripple? Reaching new heights, I see."
"He's a war criminal."
"Ah. Aha." For a moment, there was silence. "... Serves him right, then. I guess."
"I'M NOT A WAR CRMINAL!" Andy bucked wildly under her sole, just now remembering that he in fact did have the gift of free will. "I'M NOT! I'M BEING MADE, I'M NOT A WAR CRIMINAL! I SERVED IN THE CORPS!"
"Shut it."
The boot shoveled apart more skin. Andy whimpered quietly.
"I served in the corps…"
"He served in the corps, Tequila Sunset." Andy could almost picture the wry one sticking her elbow into the other's ribs. Still, something about her voice… there WAS something about her voice. Something he couldn't quite make out. "... Where did you serve, again? Care to remind us?"
"T-The corps…" He mumbled.
"The corps. He served in the corps. Heard that, Tequila S–..."
"Can you stop calling me that? You're using him as an excuse to keep poking at that stupid codename."
"Am I?" She gasped. "Oh, by Law, I would never. Never in a thousand years! This job requires the utmost secrecy and solemnity, Tequila Sunset. This is no time for jokes or silly whims. This is the time to act like us, Legati, would."
"Are you done?"
"Almost." A series of rapid coughs followed. "... Adhering to the given word of the Lateran Curia and Church, working hand in hand with the daily-cited amendments, we will now exercise our right to seize and… and, er… you know, pack up a criminal."
Her light footsteps circled the boy, up until he could see the dirtied, mud-riddled platforms of her shoes.
"... Isn't that right, Tequila Sunset?"
"Stop calling me that."
"Tequila Sunset, I once more remind and implore you to act accordingly to your rank." An air of seriousness veiled her previously carefree voice. Somehow, some way, Andy knew it was nothing but a tease. He knew enough. He knew something that closed his mouth shut and kept him absolutely stunned beyond reason. "... And by that, I meant to remind you of the gravity of our situation. This is a wanted criminal, right?"
"If you had ever dropped by the Basilica to check the archives, you'd have known."
"That wasn't the question, Tequila Sunset."
A weary sigh arose from behind.
"... Yes. Yes, this is a wanted criminal."
"Hehe. Perfect." There was a grin to her voice. Andy knew. Andy knew that was exactly how she sounded whenever she grinned.
A flutter of black and white fabrics tainted his vision, as the girl made an attempt at getting down. Something behind her back rattled viciously, energizing the air. Her hands touched the pristine marbles, as she started lowering herself down to his eye level. "... Lemme see that ugly mug of yours. Might as well make the short stay one to remember, no? Another flawless mission to add to our pile of–..."
.
"..."
.
Their eyes met halfway through.
.
He had been anticipating the sight in silence, yet it still brought a head-on collision's worth of whiplash.
From beneath her hood, a river of deeply cerulean hair springed forth and spilled all across her face. It veiled her soft features with a hint of undeniable familiarity that he no longer could ignore. From the way her cheeks rounded up by the edges of her features, to the slightly, unnaturally small nose that just barely even stuck out beyond the calm surface of her pale skin. Her mouth formed an oval shape the moment her eyes had struck his. Andy could reach out and poke her tongue. Something told him that she wouldn't bite.
Something told him that she wouldn't hurt him at all.
.
Andy blinked.
She blinked.
.
The teasing undertones, the serpents of smugness coiling in her brain, the afore-heard-of confidence – it all had been thrown out the window. The decadent dippings of careless fondue, likes of which Andy hasn't ever seen her display so openly – gone, shattered in an instant.
.
All that remained were her eyes.
.
Wide, saucer-sized eyes, penetrating his own with their cerulean stare.
.
They were overcome with an overwhelming sense of disbelief and realization.
.
.
"..." Andy said nothing.
.
.
But Mostima whispered.
.
.
"... Holy shit."