The little girl’s footsteps lost their sound to the echoes of narrow, winding corridors. The lively streets of Excala city had withered into a catacomb under the guise of a moonless night. Suffocating, yet it hid its true boundaries. Eyes lurked in this place, watching where no light existed to betray their whereabouts. Pursued and pursuer, criminal and innocent. This realm did not dictate character with such niceties afforded to the overworld.

Iris did not know this place. She did not know what it wanted to do to her. She did not know what it could do to her.

Muffled shouting shockwaved from every which direction. Echoes that enticed her one way and dissuaded her from another. The bricks of the vague building walls rattled faintly with each scream, each command, each cry. She was lost, confused as to if she was even running towards or away from something. She had lost track long ago, her legs only concerned with preserving her life.

No. The boy. That’s who she was trying to find.

A chilling crunch, the brutal annihilation of skin and bone jumped her ears. Over and over, it repeated, like a hammer driving home a nail.

It was him. No one else she had ever encountered fought with such brutality.

She took off towards the hammering, which somehow grew more inhuman with every step she took. With every crunch, her surroundings faded. With every strike, the silence between them grew louder. She could hear only it, the rhythmic pounding, crushing, crumpling.

She found a small light, big enough to mimic a firefly—a pinprick in her blackened vision. She reached for it, running at it with renewed purpose as her vision tunnelled on the lone speck of light. Her shoes fell in crevices and slipped on damp brick, but she kept going.

She could hear it now, every speck of bone, every splatter of blood. She could hear it all now. It all was so clear, so audible, so naked and visceral. It longed to demonstrate to her just what it looked like when the sound met the sight.

The light enveloped her as she finally rounded the last corner. The sound stopped. A streetlamp, shining with a tinny orange from several metres above. The meek lighting illuminated the shutters of a corner store, an apartment staircase, and the sight of a massacre.

Bloodied men, all fighting age, cut down like logs ready for a fire pit. Trench coats, black gloves. Well suited, almost like it was a uniform. Broken jaws, caved-in noses, dented skulls. No mercy had been shown in their pacification, only ferocious efficiency.

The boy stood amidst the carnage, his poise as if he was standing atop a pile of deadened corpses. Bruised and cut as he was, his lungs heaved wheezing breath after wheezing breath, sustaining the adrenaline overload for a few seconds longer.

Blood seeped into the pores of his hand, clotted under his nails, and stained his clothes. Every muscle still twitched with anticipation, with a deadly instinct to use itself to its full lethal capacity.

His raven black hair was dyed with a hint of crimson. It was anyone’s guess if he was bloodstained or born that way. However, the same could not be said about his eyes. Razor sharp, needle-thin, predatorial. A gift from whatever hell had birthed such a monster.

The brass knuckles on either hand lustred in the streetlight, glinting as though they were lapping at the fresh blood.

“I can’t say I’m all altruistic myself,” the boy said. “A person who changes things can’t be all selfless.”

He walked forward in a swaying limp, shoulders tense like a hunting mountain cat. Brass teeth bared and fresh from its most recent feast. His voice was soft, yet a certain creeping confidence animated its very tone into something threatening.

“Ah, but what a beautiful thought! For the world to die for the sake of one person. Yes, I would like to see what that looks like.”

Sabaton, Greaves, Cuisse, Fauld, Plackart, Breastplate, Rerebrace, Vambrace, Gauntlet, Gorget, Helmet. A package of words that had refused to leave Iris’s vocabulary for days, to the point she could almost recite. Studying images and pouring over descriptions had proved helpful, certainly. Accurate renderings of various ancient armours from different eras and different nations. The humble kind that did not stand several men tall and wield cannons like rifles. Differing designs from Sidos to Geverde and beyond were all compiled rather succinctly in Evalyn’s, now unused, collection. Although it had piled dust in her personal archive, Iris had requested to bring it out of hibernation.

From her toes to her chest to her fingers, Iris had considered each and every piece, fussing over how it all interconnected. Whether it be insect-like segments or elastic joints, Evalyn had warned her not to leave anywhere exposed. Even a single stray piece of grenade shrapnel could leave her immobilised. She had to sketch it all, from how the Vambrace may connect with her Rerebrace to how the spine followed her body.

She had kept pieces of her armour materialised, sometimes for hours at a time. She repeated until shaping and wearing almost any piece felt as natural as wearing one’s own skin. Piece by piece, she forged Breastplate, Gauntlet, Rerebrace, yet each attempt was ultimately useless.

“I can’t focus on two things at once,” Iris complained. “The Cuisse disappears as soon as I think of the Greaves.”

“Try again,” Evalyn said, kneeling in front of Iris to take a closer look. Iris focused on her right thigh, moulding the piece in her mind’s eye like a blob of conceptual clay. She felt her scalp grow lighter as a thin line of hair atomised into pure colour. The cuisse formed down her thigh as a solid piece of purple matter. Largely featureless save for the heavy, shield-like plate that guarded from the front. Forward facing, as all good shields were.

“Good,” Evalyn complimented. She knocked on the reinforced armour, satisfied upon hearing a thumping, muted sound against her knuckles.

“Before you try the Greaves, let me do something first. Close your eyes.”

Iris did, shutting out the strong afternoon glow streaming from the windows of the quaint fifth-floor office. She had frequented the office windows more often as of late, watching the green beacons of the city harmonise with their surroundings. Their leaves fell, stained with the same orange that outlined Evalyn’s markings. The incremental change had not occurred to her on a daily basis. But, before she knew it, the entire city was awash with an enchanting orange-red hue. She had soon come to realise that every season treated the city kindly—

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Iris squealed a sharp snap rattled her eardrums. A slap that sounded as though it could tear meat from the bone. She stayed frozen, peeling her eyes open. Evalyn was behind her desk, holding a smouldering, silenced pistol.

“Relax, it’s a hunting round. Everyone’s bulletproof to hunting rounds.”

Iris searched across her body for any pain, any screaming nerves or broken flesh, but there was none. Evalyn smiled at her again.

“I shot your leg,” she said, following her first outrageous claim with another.

Iris looked down at her thigh, still encased in a purple Aegis.

“You’ve passed the smallest calibre you’re likely going to face. But, judging by the lack of any scratches on it, I’d say that plate could probably withstand rifle calibres. Well done,” she said, a genuine smile across her face.

“You shot my leg….”

“Yeah? I knew you were going to—”

“Let's see how well you make armour while you're in the bathroom,” Iris warned. Evalyn put the gun down on the table and stuck both hands in the air.

“Isn’t that usually where someone would say while you sleep?”

“Maybe, but which is more humiliating?”

“Fair point. Your wish is my command,” Evalyn said, resuming her place in front of Iris. She held out her hands, grasping onto the girl’s second skin and holding it tightly.

“It’s cold,” Evalyn remarked. “It really does feel like there’s no energy in it, almost like it isn’t magic at all.”

“What does that mean?” Iris asked.

“I don’t know. Anyway, focus on the Greaves.”

Iris did as she was told, surrendering another layer of hair to her power, yet the same hands in her mind were clumsier. As one hand held together the already-formed piece, the other toiled away at the new one. Its fingers tripped over each other, tying themselves into impossible knots that the other hand tried to undo.

The mental management, juggling of two otherworldly tasks. They were in essence supposed to work in harmony, but they now fought over her attention and compromised one another.

“It’s alright,” she heard Evalyn say. “It’s gone.”

Iris opened her eyes, not realising she had closed them. Evalyn knelt, holding the space between her hands and Iris’s thigh. Empty space. Failed, yet again.

“How do you do it?” Iris asked.

“Me? I don’t know. My power was a lot gentler, more malleable, I guess. I worked from the top down, remember? Instead of building my armour piece by piece, I sort of forged it like cast iron. Stamped it like a tank.”

Evalyn stood to her full height, still in thought. “Perhaps Colte was wrong about the top-down approach applying to you. There’s more factors to your power than personal skill.”

She knelt, trying to look beyond Iris’s pupils, searching for the bland hallway with its gallery of doors.

“Almost as though something is picking and choosing what it shares with you.”

“Is that possible?” Iris asked.

“It’s not unthinkable,” Evalyn admitted, pacing around the room. “It’s just a nuisance for us.”

“What if,” Iris started, hesitating mid-sentence. She took another moment to formulate her thought. She was set on saying it, no matter how absurd it sounded. “What if…whatever it is, knows what I can do? It doesn’t want me to use my power because it thinks I'm dangerous.”

She gripped the hem of her jacket, straining to force the incessant thoughts out of her mind.

Over a month on, the imagery still haunted Iris, no matter which way she turned to avoid them. In one direction, the Death Spirit waited to greet her. If she turned another way, her hands would begin to flail godly swords as though they were nothing. If she looked down, she would begin to fall into the depths of Recres Wesper’s Mind Palace. The millions of eyes staring, drilling holes into the one girl who denied them their freedom, equated their worth to that of a few tens of people.

“Even if that is the case,” Evalyn started, walking back to her desk, “it’s your responsibility to make sure that your power doesn’t use you. Take a break for today.”

She collapsed into her office chair, spinning it in a half circle before it lost its energy.

“We’ll get him one day, Iris. I promise you we will.”

Iris thought, but was wary to entertain the thought for too long. The nights she did not break into tears over them, she would instead get no sleep.

“How did you come up with your helmet, Evalyn?”

“My helmet?”

“Yeah. I’ve looked at all the designs you’ve collected, but none of them look like that.”

“It’s pretty similar to some of them. The visored Barbutes from…say four hundred years ago?”

“Yeah, but. I don’t know exactly how to describe it. It just doesn’t feel human, really. It looks almost perfect.”

“Well, let’s hope Ms Caney is sleeping.”

Evalyn’s markings glowed from underneath her thin buttoned shirt, running up her arm and culminating on her cheek. The infamous helmet began to form, beginning as outlines tracing her face, before the golden plating materialised, swallowing Evalyn’s face whole.

She walked over, her figure now awkwardly top-heavy, and took off her helmet. Iris had only ever seen it moments before Evalyn would charge into battle. To see it so intimately was thoroughly alien. Evalyn turned it over in her hands as if it were any other object, as she was not the sole reason it existed at all.

“It’s beautiful,” Iris muttered, tracing every inch of the artwork’s contours. The outlines which oversimplified the human face and stripped away any humanity. The piercing golden openings and engraved jaw pieces. Etchings of whales which seemed to shift ever so slightly.

“The whales never look that good,” Evalyn admitted. “It’s only because I’m staring at them now. Two hours a day, for a whole year, I would stare at myself with my armour, turning over myself in the mirror until I knew it like the back of my hand. It was worth it, though.”

“Why?” Iris asked. “I thought you didn’t like pretty things.”

“…Iris, please learn what a filter is.”

“But you’re always wearing the same thing.”

Evalyn, lifted the helmet, spinning it on one finger as she pouted.

“Those are work clothes, it’s different. I just don’t go out often, since Elly and I are both homebodies. I like pretty things, I used to be the makeup and dresses type.”

“Oh, I see,” Iris said, conceding. “I always thought it was because you were pretty enough already.”

The helmet disappeared as Evalyn’s body stiffened. Her jaw quivered a little as she pursed her lips, glancing around the room.

“Is-is that so? Thank you…Iris.”

Iris grinned, blissfully unaware. Evalyn cleared her throat, and the helmet unceremoniously popped back into her hand. She tossed it to Iris, who fumbled with it until it was steady, the glowing eyes looking directly through her.

“I made it look like that once I realised it could be a battle advantage. Sure, just a second skin would do the same job, but it’d still be missing out on the psychological warfare side of things.”

“How come?”

“Well, if you thought of it this way, which would scare you more? A vaguely human-ish blob with eye holes, or a divine knight that looks like it’s the incarnation of everything good in the world? When something like that is your judge, jury, and possibly even executioner, it’d make you reconsider.”

“Does it work?” Iris asked, still entranced by the helmet.

“Sometimes. Entire brigades have thrown up their hands in surrender. Others already saw themselves as judge, jury, and executioner. I can’t blame them, though.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m doing the same thing. There’s no difference.” Evalyn watched Iris as she marvelled, her eyes never leaving the helm for even a second.

“Try it on, why don’t you?” Evalyn smiled. Iris looked up at her, questioning her offer yet not daring to put it in words, in case Evalyn changed her mind. Evalyn nodded in approval, egging her to try it on.

Iris lifted the helmet above her head and lowered it, engulfing her vision in an orange glow. She felt the top of her scalp touch the inside of the helm, and it rested uneasily.

She wiggled her head, and it jostled quite freely inside the helmet.

“Hold on, let me make it smaller.”

Iris panicked as the helmet shrunk around her, the walls now pressing against her cheeks. It fit snugly, and she could see out of the openings all the same. It was warm, like a loving embrace that lasted a few seconds too long.

“Do you still have that mirror?” Iris asked.

“Yeah, hold on,” Evalyn said, jogging over to her desk and pulling a mirror out of the top drawer. She returned, the reflective side outstretched. Iris took a good look at herself.

“I look like a bobblehead.”

“Yeah, a little.”