It was good to see the sky again. A pure blue painted by wispy cirrus brushstrokes, filtered through hexagonal imprint glass. As far as I could tell, it was a real sky unaffected by the waking mirror nightmare of the Frontier, the very thing I spent centuries dreaming of.
But even in that endless blue, I couldn’t find the answers I desired.
Six rode in a retrograde gunship through the stratosphere, crammed shoulder to shoulder in plush red seats that couldn’t fit us, let alone our battle equipment. But we made do. There weren’t any other private vessels willing to cross the Mankaria-Frontier border.
Our office was summoned five days into our week off by an assignment that came earlier than anybody expected. We arrived at the sight of Tapio humming and grumbling in our less-than-clean living quarters. Jaxl and Nia were out, but I could imagine both of them snickering at his displeasure as he handed over the digital dossiers.
“Sanity and budget management issues aside,” he said, lifting an empty pizza box with the end of his cane, “I managed to get past the international bureaucratic mess and got you in early. Pack up for an escort mission — you’re going abroad for this one.”
Our present members, minus Owl, looked at each other.
“I thought this entire mission was contained in the Frontier itself,” Elias said.
“Our objective moved. Your original sixth member was a former Sage-type Hunter codenamed ‘Harpy Angel’ — he was staying at a concealed Oracle facility in the Frontier, but for whatever reason, he’s been moved to a city on the wrong side of the border: Die Ernte.”
Wiz raised his hand. “Oi, isn’t Sier here a Sage herself? Do we need another?”
I’m sure Tapio already thought of the answer before calling us but paused for a moment. “Correct and forgive me if I’m wrong,” he answered, “Sier. You specialize in melee and midrange, despite your training in the Sage Arts. In becoming a generalist, I fear you may have neglected your… more subtle approaches. How is your Spellcraft?”
Sier shrugged. “A work in progress. I got the fundamentals.”
“The two members of the Rings that we know of are master Sages,” Tapio answered with a grave expression. “As much as I’d like to, I cannot make enough equipment to prepare for every scenario — nor can I directly participate, given my current… disabilities. Therefore, we need to fight, if I were to speak with trite cliches, fire with fire. We need somebody who can figure out exactly what the Rings are up to and enact immediate countermeasures.”
Sier hardened her gaze. Though the true motives of the others were a mystery to me, she was the only one I could see right through: she wanted to bring her brother home.
She and Wiz spent their break bickering back and forth between management work and tourist activities; according to our resident hacker, she bugged him nonstop to find as much information on her brother Felice as he could. Meanwhile, Elias ended up babysitting criminally lazy Grimm — the mystery of who decorated our place with cans and cardboard containers of takeout was solved with a direct confession.
“It could not be helped,” Elias said, bowing apologetically. “I shall assist in cleaning up, now that my duties as caretaker have been fulfilled.”
“Can’t be helped,” Grimm echoed as she napped on a couch. “Can’t be helped.”
I watched the warm reunion and bickering from a distance, amazed by the speed of their bonding. Sier, Wiz, Elias, and Grimm had made each other’s acquaintances and were interacting like old friends; perhaps such friendliness between collaborating Hunters was required when every battle they entered was potentially lethal.
Can’t say the same about me and Owl.
I couldn’t find her until the last day, where I found her huddled near the front gate of what was once an airbase. She hugged her knees in the shade of a fallen watch tower; I had collected some food and water for her, sensing that she was desperately hungry for something through our link.
When I asked if she was alright, she shot me such a murderous gaze that I froze, unable to speak or move. Our standoff continued until she simply disappeared, reappearing only when it was time for the temporary truce to end.
We haven't spoken since.
The idle chatter of familiar voices eased the gaping hole in my chest. I knew that my feelings towards Owl were irrational and unfounded. We’ve known each other for two weeks and only spoken two or three times, yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something I could do. There had to be something I could do for her.
But why did I feel that way? Ever since I saved her life, she’s treated me like a stranger — an enemy, a pest that needed to be swept out the door at the worst of times. A sensible person would drop the issue there and give her space to wind down. Everybody we knew was already doing just that. So why couldn’t I leave her alone?
No. Enough of this. My other self had a point: I’d end up destroying myself if I was confused to confront what was tearing me apart. closed out all external stimuli and focused on the truth. The long-winded tangents were only a pathetic excuse, some feeble groping to find an alternative answer to the one I already knew.
The only reason I was attracted to her was that she was broken like me. The Stigmata she bore was evidence of her frayed and battered mind; her self-destructive behaviour and barely averted fate were evidence that she couldn’t be saved. None of us could be saved from ourselves.
That’s right. I was just looking for an excuse to continue being my miserable, pitiful self. Insufferable, insatiable. I thought — and still did — that if I could save her as I was, then there would be salvation for myself. It was an entirely selfish desire.
In the dark miasma of our minds, we’re all alone with our shadows. In the end, we fight alone.
Still, I couldn’t let her go. There was some part of me that clung to her the same way I did to Lyra, and I didn’t know what it was. Why was I so attached? Somebody like me couldn’t change fate. She was on life support. I didn’t want to admit it, but I could kill her in a mere instance. Her very life, her very existence was in my hands.
So why didn’t I pull the plug?
No matter how many times I asked the question, no answers came. Not from myself, not from Owl, not from the others or the Nexus system or the blue sky I had wanted to see for so long. Yet no matter what logic or delusion I threw at the problem, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something obvious that I was missing; I simply hadn’t matured enough to figure it out.
Several lifetimes had passed, and I couldn’t even help anyone at all. If the only thing I could do was bring suffering and despair, maybe it was better if I just went and—
“Let’s change the topic. Hey, Vivian, Owl. What did you two get up to? The silence got me wondering something fierce.”
In my self-loathing, Wiz spoke to me. I looked up into his greyish eyes and said the first excuse that came to mind: “Sabbatical.”
“What’s... that supposed to mean? What?” When he realized neither of us was going to elaborate further, he shrugged and continued conversing with the others.
I didn’t have anything useful to say. What good was there in informing the others that the Four Rings participated in humanitarian work and actively strove for those abandoned by the federations and Oracles? Would they even care? I checked the details of the Arlequins mission logs some time ago and found that they had cut down several guerilla fighters without hesitation during their retreat. Even if they didn’t care, adding another potential burden to their hearts would only slow us down when we would eventually have to confront the Rings.
With Cassandra, I never got past small talk. Vera, I couldn’t find her anywhere. There was only meaningless conversation and the realization that the people on the other side of our blades were human with their own goals and dreams — trying to find salvation for the Frontier’s forsaken was surely nobler than getting a fat paycheck at the cost of other’s lives.
Once again, I looked to the blue sky and searched for answers. And once again, I saw the reflection of my other self suspended in the glass: they smirked and sat in the chair that was supposed to be mine, appearing only when I wanted to distract myself from my thoughts. For the rest of the trip, I withdrew into myself and refused any further attempts at communication.
If all this — slaughter, suppression, politics, and fighting only for the sake of coin and fame — was the only way of life to people like us, people who held the power of heroes and monsters and the eldritch, what hope was there for the future?
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An armoured truck waited on the cracked tarmac runway for our arrival, its tinted windows reflecting the rust-coloured clouds and concrete towers armed with guards and black railguns. A hundred mirrored visors watched us transfer from the gunship to our ground escort — though I’m not sure if running off to explore came across anybody’s mind.
“Welcome to Die Ernte,” Wiz read off a sand-caked sign at the airport’s exit. “Hm. Doesn’t seem to be much of a harvest of anything going on around here. Other than dust.”
The wrinkles of our driver’s sun-blasted face twisted into a lop-sided smile. “There’s plenty out there, sonny boy. Rust. Dust. Decay. Weird crawling things in the dirt. The labbies we get, they smile at this stuff. Says it’s a miracle of science.” He adjusted the rear-view mirror and looked at Elias, who was riding shotgun. “Say, you lot Hunters?’ Only Hunters bother with their fashion around these parts. Shit, y’all look like Christmas decorations.”
He wore a stained sleeveless shirt that was once white, desert trousers, and steel-toed boots that reeked of gasoline. The whole uniform was finished by a beret emblazoned with two crossed spears and a rooster holding a scroll in its mouth. In comparison, any one of us could’ve stepped right off a fashion runway for the battle-inclined.
With the exception of me, of course. Nothing fashionable about looking like a drone.
He chuckled at his own joke and gave us a thumbs up. I thought it was an attempt to reassure us about our wardrobe choices until he said, “Need one of you on the MG. Can’t be too careful, what with all the muties in the sand.”
Before any of us could ask for clarification, Wiz was already in the gunner’s compartment. The driver nodded. “Good lad. But shush now. Voices carry far further than they should ‘round these parts, so keep it down if ya can. No heated arguments, but questions are good. Alright?”
The sound of burning diesel interrupted by the occasional burst of high-calibre fire said enough to sate most of our curiosities. But there was one exception: after an especially long burst of gunfire at something on the road ahead, we took a detour down a cracked sand road. Sier looked behind us and stared for a while; she eventually scratched her head and asked, “What’s a Christmas?”
Die Ernte was a solemn oasis, a city-sized circle of stone and steel. We slipped through five separate gates, each host to more mechanized infantry than the last. Our last gatekeeper was a house-sized artillery cannon that stood on two, pillar-like legs — we were advised to close our eyes as a thousand red beams swept through and scanned every aspect of our truck and our bodies.
As we passed into the innermost ring of the city, Wiz elbowed me and grinned goofily. “Hey look, it’s your cousin. What do you—ough—”
He was met with an aggressive elbow to the ribs and glare from Sier. “Don’t bother Vivian with your ceaseless antics, knave.”
Wiz rolled his eyes, looking more annoyed than hurt. “You don’t have to be so goddamn severe all the time, you goddamn…. Corpo princess.”
Not entirely sure if they were play-fighting or if there was actual tension between them, I said the first thing that came to mind: “D-Do you think I’ll grow up to be that big?”
“Only if you drink your milk and eat your veggies,” Wiz said.
“I don’t think I can do that,” I replied.
“Alright, try petrol and metal rods painted green.”
“Are there any vegetables made out of metal in this world…?”
Wiz held his hand to his chin and looked towards the others. None met his gaze. “I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me.” Turning to the driver, he said, “You metalheads got any metal veggies growing anywhere?”
“You betcha,” the driver said. “Got a whole-ass feast waiting for me back at the barracks. Tin carrots, iron potatoes, tungsten onions with a side of mutie meat. Company’s gonna eat good tonight. Probs’ gonna cook a pie or something. Best we’ve had in a long time, I tell ya. Could nibble on that too, don’t think anybody will mind a few bites missing.” He pointed towards our destination, a glimmer of turquoise glass and brick shining through the red smog skyline.
The armoured truck pulled up to a row of ambulances and ushered us out onto the sidewalk. “Name’s Ander,” he said, flashing a badge. Rank Major, an impressive amount of awards to match. “Call me when you’re done here, and I’ll call in a bird to get you out.”
“Awfully insulting that a commissioned officer be resigned to escort duty,” Elias inquired, giving a belated salute. None followed the gesture. “You have my deepest condolences.”
To that, he only laughed and clapped Elias on the shoulder, taking it as an opportunity to usher him — and by extension, the rest of us — through the sliding front doors. “None taken, and if I did, the pay makes up for it. Take as much time as you need, I’m getting paid by the hour. Welcome to Saint Beekes.”
A swipe of his badge took us away from the frenetic jumble of the main reception to a silver elevator. Ander handed out six staff keycards, and since I didn’t have hands, I held mine in the gap between my plasma pistols. “That'll get you anywhere,” he said, “Just in case you need to do some poking around. Behave yourselves, now.”
We wandered onto the blue carpet of the 24th floor, ready to carry out our business. Anden bid us farewell with a salute, and with nothing we could say out loud, we only moved towards our objective: long-term care unit 32-0A.
Everything was covered during the initial discussions. Plan A to E involved the diplomatic route, a scattershot of talking our mystery agent down. The sympathetic approach. Appeal to compassion, fairness, justice, sympathy; Sier worked her corporate magic and internalized every avenue of verbal attack and would serve as our vanguard. Failing that, we each had our own methods of attack; I was even ready to perform Cognesis, should every other member with basic social competence fail.
Nothing prepared us for what lay inside that unit.
A girl’s voice leaked through the open doorway, low and sombre. Golden, featureless pixies drifted into the hall and chased away the sterile hospital light: dancing to the tune, they giggled soundlessly and welcomed us with open arms. Around the corner were a boy and a girl confined to a wheelchair and a hospital bed respectively; they gazed into each other’s eyes so tenderly that I felt guilty for daring to intrude. And as we basked in that innocent light, the concept of worry and the future melted contented glow; there was only this moment of music and mirth, a memory strong enough to erase all of our worries — it was all our collective minds could process.
In spite of the warmth, Wiz paled and looked away.
“Excuse us,” Sier said, the first to recover. “Are we interrupting?”
Her words cut through the light. The kids looked at us, both blushing cherry red.
She glanced at their nametags. “Lady Petra. Sir Lawrence. I am Sier Yuan Taria, current head of the Chunyan Security Service. We would be most honoured if you were to grace us with your attention.” She bowed, resting a hand on the hilt of her blade. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“We’re not really up to anything,” Lawrence replied, smiling gently. “Just passing the time. Pray tell, what do I owe the presence of such an esteemed figure?”
She locked eyes with him and grimaced. “We seek the audience of the Harpy Angel.”
The pixies stopped dancing. Lawrence held Petra’s hand just a little tighter, prompting a look of concern from her, but eventually nodded. “Suppose I can’t avoid it any longer. Petra—”
Wiz barged in and strode across the room to grab the handles of her wheelchair. “I got it,” he said, refusing to look at any of us. “Where to?”
“...Five doors down, to your right.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Wiz left with a frowning Petra. “I thought I made my stance on the matter quite clear,” Lawrence said, a few moments after the door closed. “Even if I were to go with you, I’m not sure I’d last long. I don’t have much time left.”
The boy had bright blue eyes, fluffy blonde hair, and a radiant halo of light that chased away the gloom of the smog and hospital; even the cracks of light spreading across his body gave him the appearance of being carved from marble and gold. Had I not read Lawrence’s hunter profile before I came here, I would’ve thought of him as a genuine angel, or a blessed child at the very least.
Lawrence was twenty-two with a kill count in the hundreds.
“We seek consultation for our plan of attack — in three weeks, we plan to raid the Empress of Ice’s domain.”
“You seek to take the crown of a Monarch,” Lawrence said. “Ambitious. But that has nothing to do with me. I’m done with the Hunter’s life. I’m going to spend the rest of my days helping people before my Stigmata takes me, and if you think you can force me to do otherwise...”
Lawrence flipped a Mankarian penny at one of the hundreds of pixies placed throughout the room and hallway. There was a shrill, hawk-like screech as the metal passed through — and it came out the other side as copper dust.
Sier didn’t flinch. “We have come here on terms of amiable negotiation only and will leave without further incident. The very last thing we desire are enemies at this moment in time. I believe you fled the Frontier for a reason — should I alone be satisfied with your explanation, I’ll force my comrades to leave immediately.” She looked towards us. “Any objections?”
Grimm raised her hand. “Want detour. Local treats.”
There were no further interjections. Lawrence rubbed at his eyes, the fight fleeing from his skinny frame. “You got a point. Maybe you people would’ve never come after me if I submitted a resignation letter.” With the assistance of a crutch, he pulled himself from the bed hobbled to the window. I could see now that his lower body had been nearly entirely eaten by light; despite the outline of leg and foot, he couldn’t stand on it. “My whole life, people thought I was a good person. Maybe it was how I looked. How I talked. You know how many things I’ve gotten away with. Even now, the Bureau calls me an angel instead of what I really am: a dust devil. But I’m trying. If my time draws near, then… I want to do something good for real. Anything. Just… anything. I can do something meaningful here. It’s a fresh start.”
“A different ending is all a dying man can ask for,” Elias intoned. “Good on you for getting your heart straight.”
“That’s right. That’s exactly right. If the Oracles dedicated their resources, they could clear out all of this miasma in an instant.” His hands tightened on his crutch. “They sell pills that can cure any wound, regrow limbs, yet the people here are forced into hospitals and to use old medical technology. Do you know how many people in this hospital alone could be cured if they tried? I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of turning a blind eye. I’m here to save as many people as I possibly can.”
Sier nodded. “And if we can assist you in your salvation, you’ll come with us back to Hadron to assist us against the Empress of ice.”
Lawrence looked over his shoulder and, frowning, said, “I’ll give it some thought.”