They sat close, each girl pressed against the other and drawing strength from each other's presence. They were two broken girls, first broken by their families and then broken further by their powers. The irony was very clear, even to a child as young as her.
But together, they were in it. At least, that was how Mimi saw it. Her eyes drifted to where Elle sat beside her, gaze unfocused, her body still.
Mimi wanted more than just to feel the girl through their clothes, so her eyes moved to the pale hand exposed by the long-sleeved shirt that had bunched up. She stared at it for long seconds, knowing the strange white-clothed men and women observed her just as much through the glass.
With slow, hesitant movements, she reached out her hand. Elle was the only one who understood her, and she understood the blonde girl in return, for when Elle escaped from the world in her strange way of dissociating, Mimi gave in to her powers in the same way.
Now, with a clearer understanding of what filled the nozzles that littered the room, she was forced to make do by grounding herself with her fellow patient's presence.
Her hand finally reached Labyrinth's, and she grasped it slowly, gaining confidence as she held on. Labyrinth's pale hand was cool compared to the internal furnace dwelling beneath Mimi's skin.
Yet unlike with others, for Mimi had seen the way the other girl reacted to doctors and the other big men clad in white, Elle did not jerk away from Mimi's grip. Her focus remained far off, but she didn't return the little affection either, so even with mixed feelings burning in her chest, Mimi allowed a smile to form on her face.
"—after two days of uncertainty, it has been confirmed by our sources on the ground, as well as some of the capes that participated in the fight: Behemoth is dead."
Elle twitched while her eyes partially focused, and that was the only reason Mimi managed to draw herself from her thoughts as she focused on the screen hanging in the corner of the room.
A man in a well-dressed suit with fine features twisted in surprise spoke, reading from a paper he gripped tightly. His partner on the screen wasn't any better, but she continued from where he stopped after taking deep breaths.
"Yes, just as my partner Jim Burton has said, Behemoth, the first Endbringer, is dead after a battle that shook all of France, with bordering regions of Spain and Germany recording tremors and atmospheric changes likely caused by the fight. The reports are still inconclusive, but we obtained brief footage from a Tinker who recorded some of the battle with his helmet.
The hero has refused to be named but volunteered some footage after a great deal of persuasion. This would be the first video of an Endbringer fight since the disastrous morale-breaking leak from São Paulo in 1993. I advise you, the image we're about to show is graphic and not suitable for children."
Mimi knew what was coming next, and she refused to be denied of it—not when Elle seemed interested in what was happening.
The common room assigned to them was a white, blank space with a TV high up on the wall, wide plane of glass taking up a wall, a small circular center table, and a large U-shaped sofa. But in a corner stood a pair of solid steel tables and chairs, brought in for Elle whenever she wanted to draw.
So, with great reluctance, she released Elle's hand and ran to the heavy chair. With sharp, jerky movements, she dragged it behind her.
And with adrenaline fueled motion, she hurriedly dragged the heavy chair behind her and pressed it against the handle of the door, adjusting it to block the handle, just like her mother did whenever her father came home drunk with a cigarette in hand.Not a moment too soon, because the door handle jerked seconds later but refused to budge. Burnscar smiled at her initiative but knew it wouldn't last. Her mood darkened slightly—after all, her father always found a way to break through. Her hand instinctively moved to drag her sleeves down, hiding the cigarette burns that were proof of it.
"—Now we bring you the footage, with the greatest belief that your wards are not viewing this. Again, this image contains graphic content unsuitable for viewers under eighteen."
Mimi rushed back to the sofa, invigorated with more energy than she'd felt in months. She jumped over the cushion and scurried back to her place beside Elle. This time, when she grabbed the other girl's hand, there was another twitch of awareness. Mimi stared at the girl in surprise, but the lightning from the TV changed, drawing her attention back.
She looked at the screen, where there had been a simple stage with two presenters. Now, she saw a city on fire, the viewpoint came from the top of a building. The cape's helmet reflected armored bracers as he looked at his hands and began speaking.
"Something weird is going on. This is not how Endbringer fights usually go. By now, there should be more casualties. Behemoth should have moved in closer, yet he's being held back."
A crack, like a lightning strike, sounded, followed by a solid boom that even Mimi felt through the screen. The hero stood up from his previous crouch, and for the first time, Mimi saw Behemoth. She understood now, the fear associated with the name, the few times it was mentioned. The rocky skin, the multiple horns, the cyclopic eye that seemed to stare right at her. Mimi knew that, at any other time, she'd have been frozen. But this time the Endbringer's fearsome presence was diminished for Behemoth was bound.
Strips of black fabric held it to the ground, tied around its form with metallic rods nailing it down. She could almost feelthe Endbringer struggling as it thrashed and fought to break free. The camera panned up, following the hero's gaze, and focused on a figure in the sky.
The angle wasn't clear, so all she saw was a bald, scarred head and a white overcoat with a strange writing on the back. Then she saw others, more popular capes. Hero, Legend, Alexandria, and Eidolon. They hovered near the man, and something was said, because he turned to face them and for the first time, Mimi saw his face. Old, with a long beard, mustache, and eyebrows. His eyes barely opened, and then somethinghappened.
Something indescribable, something that even though she understood nothing, her heart skipped a bit and her breath hitched. The camera went blank for a second. When the color returned, cracks marred the screen. Had the hero fallen and cracked his camera? Mimi wondered as he stood up, focusing on the old man, and that was when the words rang out.
Even from so far away, and seemingly without raising his voice, Mimi heard him clearly. His voice was as old aged and harsh in a way, she could not interpret or put into words.
"All things in the Universe turn to ashes."
Then the Old man swung the blade he held in his hand down viciously, and Mimi saw Behemoth do something other than struggle with futility, for the Endbringer screamed as Its body spontaneously combusted, and for the first time, Mimi understoodfire. The purity, the transcendence of the life-bringer and earth-scorcher. A very different view from what she had held previously. Transfixed, she felt her eyes burnin response.
There was a sudden crash as the door suddenly broke open, sending caretakers and doctors sprawling to the floor. But Mimi didn't care, not for the attendants entering, nor for the whine of nozzles around her. She ignored Behemoth's bone-chilling screams that silenced the entire building.
All she saw was fire as it should be, and some infinitesimal part of her understood. Her reverie broke only when Elle's now warm hands, closed around hers, squeezing with as much force as Mimi did.
Burning orange eyes stared into ephemeral blue, and a goal was born. In that brief moment where she stood on a knife's edge, between herself and the monster her powers created, she knew they had to see it for themselves. And somehow, Elle understood, smiling at her.
"There is a path."
Then the nozzles activated, drenching her and Elle with foam. Before it covered her completely, she heard the hero's shocked whisper as the video ended, his last words filled with awe and fear; "Gods."
...
Yamamoto looked at the set before him with a frown that could hardly be distinguished on his weathered features. Although "look" was a misnomer, considering he hardly had his eyes open, but he was aware all the same.
Aware of the calligraphy set he had requested from Sachiko, delivered to him a day ago. A set with a fine-haired brush, a solid ink stick of the darkest black, a quality pair of inkstones, specially prepared calligraphy paper, and a paperweight.
The set of tools lay in front of him, on a low-hung table. Calligraphy was not his preferred method of relaxation, as it reminded him of that great, bearded, annoying monk who refused to either look or act his age.
No, the spot reserved for his preferred method of relaxation was held solely by the act of tea preparation and ceremony. Unfortunately for him, his homemade, home-grown, preferred reishi-flavored tea leaves were slow to grow, despite the fact that he had poured more reishi into the plant than some Shinigami were capable of outputting in a lifetime.
And while he had grown some measure of taste for the mundane blend, it was not one he was going to torture himself with often, so he was left to try something else. Something an old friend had taught him while they exchanged pointers and held centuries-spanning debates and arguments over the greatness of each of their preferred hobbies.
He had dallied enough.
His frown eased as he focused on his requisitioned calligraphy set once more, and with the background drone of the inhabitants of the building a few doors away watching that contraption that spoke in moving colors and sounds, Yamamoto reached for a fine brush.
With great care, he dipped the tip of his brush into the inky depths, watching the black liquid cling to the bristles before drawing it away with measured grace. His movements were slow, deliberate. Each breath marked the emptiness of his thoughts, for not even he knew what he was about to do.
But his hand was steady, his mind clear, his heart calm, and that was all that mattered.
A memory surfaced, Ichibei Hyōsube, the Soul King's monk, had a presence that was part mountain, part shadow. Yamamoto could almost feel the weight of his laughter and his words like thick ink marking the page of his memory. Their conversation had taken place on a night when the world was young, and Yamamoto was younger. Ichibei's older and vast presence filled the space between them as they sat before the same array of ink and parchment.
"Calligraphy is more than words, Yamamoto," Ichibei had murmured, his eyes gleaming with a mischievous warmth. The old monk even then held his brush with fingers as deft as a warrior's, yet his grip was softer, gentler than one might expect. "It's about spirit. It is a record, a reminder of the power within each stroke we make. When you press the brush down, you press the weight of your own being onto the paper."
That night, they had sat in silence. Yamamoto with a head full of hair and Ichibei with a smaller beard. Two souls bound by duty yet separated by their natures. Ichibei's brushwork was bold, unrestrained, embodying the boundlessness of his existence, while Yamamoto's had been sharp, direct, each character formed with the restraint of a prospective yet disciplined swordsman. The parchment that night had captured their personalities as keenly as any memory or blade.
Yamamoto's brush descended, the bristles grazing the paper, and he felt Ichibei's words echo in his grip, the faintest tremor of his own thoughts now fused with the ink seeping into the parchment. He let his breath guide the brush, the memory of Ichibei's laughter fueling his movements. Ichibei had claimed calligraphy was a way of harnessing oneself, as well as understanding the world.
In a way, Yamamoto knew that every stroke held a trace of his own spirit. The black ink was like fire to him, flowing freely from his soul, each line holding the quiet thunder of his power, tempered with discipline, shaped by will. He traced the first character with a confident grace, the lines bold yet controlled.
"Ichibei," he whispered under his breath, the name slipping into the quiet room. "I hope that unlike me, you did not falter in your duty. I hope peace has not dulled your strokes as it dulled my blade, for if it has…" He refused to finish the sentence. Instead, with a sharp stroke of his brush, he finished the calligraphy.
On the paper was a simple word, one written with the sharp strokes that were all too common with him.
RESOLVE
To what?
Setting the brush down, Yamamoto rested his hand, filled with a sense of satisfaction that he had not even gotten from his past battle. There were still unanswered questions, but he welcomed them all the same. He shifted his attention towards his audience: a gaggle of children and some of the older ones. They stared at him with bright eyes, not at his calligraphy, for that was a stimulating act beyond what they could understand or comprehend.
Instead, they stared at him, as if for the first time, they could truly see him. There was no fear, no hesitation, no true understanding of the kind of monster that he was. The only thing that could be found in their all-too-bright eyes was a mixture of reverence and surprise.
Then, whatever spell had been cast over them that somehow deprived the gaggle of whelps of their speech was broken with a loud clap from the occupied doorway, behind the children.
"All right, that's enough of the ogling and staring. Off you go, you miniature monsters. I'm sure the revered elder is tired of your presence already!" Sachiko's voice boomed out with such force that the whelps all but jumped to their feet and scrambled out of the room.
The older ones were slower to move, with the bravest among them, the boy who had driven him into the city, already opening his mouth.
"Revered elde—" A slipper to the side of his head ended whatever the whelp wanted to say and sent him to the ground.
"Did I stutter you barely grown brat? What is that fire in your eyes? You want to fight your granny Sachiko, is that it? You think you're all big and grown, eh! Back in the forest of Vietnam—!"
The old woman continued a well-told story with a tone that brooked no argument as she sent the rest of them running. Finding herself alone with Yamamoto, she took a deep, calming breath before easing into the more subservient posture she was prone to.
"Great and revered elder, whose presence is as bright as the sun, and whose magnanimity is as clear as a ray of light in stormy clo—"
He cracked his eyes open and stared at her, and that was enough to end whatever tirade she was about to go on. She ended her speech with a nervous laugh and gave another bow. "Do you want tea?"
"What happened?" A simple question.
Yet it took her long seconds to reply as she formulated the words. When she finally decided on how she was going to say it, she began slowly.
"A brief footage of the Endbringer battle leaked a few hours ago."
Yamamoto stared at her for long seconds, and seeing that, for the first time, she was unable to decipher his unasked question, he vocalized it.
"And?"
Sachiko stared at him in surprise, blinked, then let out a peal of long laughter that trailed off after a few seconds. "Forgive me, honored elder. It seems like such worries are beneath you. The kids watched the video and were understandably excited. Yet when they got here, you were too focused on your calligraphy, so they kept silent and waited. I'll make sure their exuberance does not trouble you further."
Yamamoto nodded in response. The whole thing faded from his mind as he picked up a hand fan and started blowing softly at his work. Sachiko made to move, but he asked her a question.
"How long has it been?"
"Three hours, revered elder."
Suddenly, the patter of footsteps rang out as one of the older whelps came to a stop beside Sachiko. The older woman's response was a scowl, but instead of berating the whelp, she allowed him to speak.
"There is someone at the door."
"Who?"
The whelp took a stabilizing breath before he replied. "The Marquis himself."
A/N: No PHO unfortunately. I think it was heavily implied that Dragon was the one to create it. Other than that, enjoy.