Ravanaugh, when Aleph was in the hospital for the second time
Many who knew of the veritable buzzing hive of illicit activity but hadn’t actually been would think they have a pretty good idea of what it is like, and why it was named as such. It’s an underground den of chaos and revelry, right? Well, there’s a little more to it than that.
The place wasn’t just a name- it was a physical representation of the slumbering underworld of the city, a relic upheld by what was left of the syndicates of old. A church that rested defiled for ages, hanging from the ceiling of a cavern older than each and every citizen of Mortum. The Underchapel.
Tentatively, Ravanaugh stepped through small overturned stone hamlets and cottages, the occasional reinforced pathway bridging the gaps. The sound of dripping echoed throughout the massive cavern, adorned with stalagmites and stalactites the size of skyscrapers that appeared almost carved out of the landscape. And, if one made that baldfaced assumption, they’d be correct. There were no deposits of limestone remotely significant enough to produce ones this size; each one was hand carved to sell a story if you knew the oldest magics of the God of Stone, a tapestry woven out of mineral composition, weathering, and a classic love of details too small for the eye to see. However, the God of Stone was long gone, and in their place, the God of Masonry, having perverted their essence in lieu of new wants and desires by man, mer, oni, and alien. One would be hard pressed to find someone who could translate the language long thought lost.
Ravanaugh pondered the possible secrets that could be uncovered here, besides, in this old ruin. She loved visiting this place, but hated staying even more- this place was a risk each time she came, even without the criminal element. The only place that remained safe to walk was the Underchapel itself, and she wasn’t permitted to teleport there anymore.
Not after she kicked the hornet’s nest, so to speak.
Even so, she had a small favor left of the owner. One she aimed to use to better sort out this mess, and perhaps give them a sense of… finality, to their dealings together. After all, he still owed her, here.
Dust shook and an artificial breeze billowed out from the chapel, as if trying to look grand in the face of it’s new guest. In reality, she had simply gotten past the barrier of oxygen that surrounded the chapel, keeping it as the only breathable area. Tunneling out would risk revealing the place to the authorities, and much of this place was barely standing even without the presence of the deteriorate gas.
She took off the mask she wore that had personally ensured she didn’t suffocate on route, teleporting in through an entrance only two knew of that ran through the city. One being her. The other? Stuck in the Underchapel, where she put them.
She pushed the double doors open, and she was inside for a whole of 5 seconds before being accosted.
“Shit, she’s here!” Shouted one guard. Or, what can be assumed to be one. They levelled a weapon- shotgun, rifle, it mattered little- at them, before a hand tenderly set itself on their gun. Grey and long-nailed, weathered and bruised. Old, and all the more deft for it. Some call them a Dark Elf, sometimes a Darko. The Cirus have long known them by another name entirely; the Onivan- though this one was far less scrupled than their ancestors, or they’d have been at eachother’s throats by now. His name was Teshier, and they beckoned her in with a reserved smile to the stunned silence of their cadre. “How goes, it, Ravanaugh? Finally come to visit your old Uncle?”
Yeah, their relationship was complicated.
“You could say that- though, it was more to confirm a suspicion, and cash in the last of favors between us.” She replied diplomatically. If Teshier was offended he didn’t show it as he gestured to a table that suddenly lit up in one corner of the room. As far as imprisonments go, he’s rather suited to the benefits this place offers.
“Very well. But at least allow me the theatrics, if just this once more.” He clapped his hands, looking around at the group of a dozen men that were already here in force. “Let your names fall from my lips, faithful- the day one of you fell Ravanaugh would be the day our Sun swallows the Moon.” Truly, much of his establishment was armed with a mixture of combustion and energy weapons, the former breaking upon her barriers and the latter being unable to pierce her skin. Despite being reinforced by the power of artifacts, none matched her in combat. None except his.
“Was it your doing?” She questioned. Ravanaugh had long lost her taste for his sense of embellished ‘flair’.
“If you’re referring to the attack on your new ‘aqcuisition’,” He held, pausing, “Then yes… and no. I heard of a talented actor, and wanted to let them know their services would be needed in the Underchapel.” He gestured at the empty stage, taking up half the chapel in it’s opulence. “I have money, but it cannot buy what I need. You know this. More thoroughly than any other apprentice of mi-”
“That was not an apprenticeship.” She cut flatly. There was nothing left in her, to feel towards Teshier- towards his games. it was why she needed to do this now, while she had a reason to. Before she could change her mind.
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That fucking smile-
“Ah, my mistake.” Even his apologies felt callous, grinning all the while. “But, as I was saying, since you know it better than any, eh, associate of mine, you may understand why, when an old friend of mine suggest-” A roaring ball of fire fell down at him from an innocuous spot in the rafters. For a moment of time, reality stumbled slightly as if catching up, and the ghostfire seemingly ignored the specter in it’s path, dissipating harmlessly in a small patch of now oxygen-deficient air.
In retort a single gunshot rang out, and a single corpse fell from the rafters. Far more than a single spent casing rang out against the ground. Not a soul heard it, besides the two of them- Teshier wouldn’t allow it.
“As I was saying, before someone interrupted me for a second time,” he casually passed a spent gun to a butler, who took the handgun, polished the barrel, reloaded the engraved work of art, and passed it back in three seconds flat, before returning it to him. “One of my, as of now, former associates encouraged me to take in the man. Test something in a risk-free environment. And I, being the good friend, listened. But there was a problem.”
He tapped his sharpened fingernails upon the table, as if pondering. It could be, or it may just be to hear the clack of acrylic on wood- Ravanaugh knew not which. All she knew was that it wasn’t within his typical habits, and that was typically at least a small sign of distress. “Your… friend, pet, whatever you call it. They… are not an oni.”
Ravanaugh affixed him with a glare. “You think I don’t know that? Really, Teshier?”
With a put-upon expression, he sighed. “Yes, yes of course you knew. I taught you too well for it to be otherwise. But did you know that he isn’t exactly human, either?”
This got her attention. “He’s-”
“-in a hospital, under constant diagnostic, yes. But the scanner I was lent told me just a little bit more about who our pal Aleph really is. Just enough to see a common thread among it all. See, he’s not just a human, Ravanaugh. He’s a homunculus, the most advanced, closely-built homunculus I’ve ever seen in my entire life. No- he isn’t just closely-built. He is, ostensibly, a human to anatomic, magical, soul, and mnemonic scans. But you know where he reads as- something different?”
“Thaumaturgic.” She finishes for him, tone suddenly that much sharper than before. “You’re not just playing with a hatchling here, Tashier. You almost threw a bone to a dragon that needs one more bite to break free from it’s prison. Do you want to lose everything you have left? Who could have convinced you to risk that- and for what, an actor? Really?”
More mirth than she thought possible left his face, and he turned from her to look at a broken glass window instead of offering a response.
The stained glass once told a story, now usurped by Teshier to tell others of his own history. The most cutting, most brutal, and most iconic of which is the bloodstained, broken glass window of a branching snake, hands reaching up at them from the endless mouths that formed the base. Few on it remained, even now. A grandfather’s uncle’s son, and… two unconnected directly to the tree, but adjacent. One of them was her.
There was only one person he could be referring to.
“Not one for direct answers, are you?” Ravanaugh stated more than asked as she came to the answer she needed. “But… this is at least what I need. Thank you for cooperating, Teshier.”
That faint feeling of reality flickering in and out around him returned, “But Rav, who said I-”
“I have your ‘scanner’ Teshier. One word and I’ll also have MPD at your doorstep.”
He frowned, and the energy stabilized. “It was only in jest,” He claimed. “But very well. Do you wish to stay for tonight’s performance at least?”
She shook her head. “I’ve lost a taste for theatrics.”
He smiled, sadly; half in jest, half in truth. Just as with his previous threats. “You can leave with the teleportation circle.” He offered, after. “I wouldn’t want anyone to follow you home after all,” he gestured to a few of the more uncouth members of his merry little band underground. The ones who stuck to the corners, mostly. The ones that had the decency to sit and stare, rather than do anything untoward.
Ravanaugh didn’t so much as grace him with a reply as they stood up.
“May your next visit be longer.” He tried.
Ravanaugh, back turned to him, hesitated a moment. “May it be shorter. And, hopefully distant.”
He did not meet her gaze, instead turning to sip a drink. It was bittersweet. He spoke once more as she stepped towards the small circle that allowed members to exit. “Perhaps that’s for the best.” He finished, staring straight ahead.
When he worked up the courage to look back, finally, at Ravanaugh, she had vanished into thin air.
“Perhaps that’s for the best.” He repeated to himself, stewing in the air the room had in the wake of the sudden betrayal.
For the first time in years, Teshier felt regretful.
It was that familiar feeling, as though he let a piece of history slip through his fingers and shatter on the floor, the pieces too many for him to mend that fracture, the fragments big enough to gather biting at his fingers all the while.
For the first time in years, Teshier spoke not a word during the performance that followed in the wake of his forlorn apprentice.