RE: Incident [TEXT]
10-14-2013, 08:12 PM
You can’t watch this.
You fumble at your shoulder holster, and not a moment too soon both of your hands are gripped around that familiar weight. You level the gun, flick off the safety and line up your shot. Zephyr raises his hands. Either his concentration has unravelled to the point that he can’t restrain himself to twitches anymore, or he doesn’t mind letting everyone know where he’s aiming.
You don’t want to kill him. You don’t want the stranger to die either. Can you risk opening fire?
Zephyr’s arms start to move.
It turns out your trigger finger decides for you.
Silence follows the shot. The dust spinner collapses slowly, the paths of the dust becoming lazier and weaker until it settles upon the ground like the revolutions of a spinning coin. Zephyr lowers his arms. Almost mechanically, he twists and touches the dark, rapidly expanding stain on his side. He stares at his red fingertips blankly. He’s swaying. His legs buckle, and he joins the dust.
He says something. You don’t catch it.
The sacerdos reaches him first, being the only one to try, pulling off their grey jacket and kneeling down to press it to the wound. You notice that they’ve closed their eyes. You briefly wonder if they don’t want to look at the blood, but then you realise the obvious. It’s too bright; their glasses are gone.
“Sergeant, I’d appreciate it if you could take your remaining corporals and run to your nearest superior to get some medical attention.”
She stands to attention, apparently as an instinctive reaction to the commanding tone.
“Of course, sacerdos.”
“Take this.” They pull the black armband from their jacket and throw it to her. It’s a surprisingly accurate throw for someone with their eyes shut. “If they ask whose it is, say Guardian Phylaktos Ahazai. If there are any other Guardians there they will know me. Nameless guide you.”
Only pausing to offer the stranger a slight bow, the sergeant yells at the other two mercenaries to come with her and stalks off. Phylaktos waits until they’ve passed beyond the wall of illusion to talk again. More softly, this time.
“I suppose you must find my arrogance astounding. This is definitely not what I planned. You have my gratitude, for acting when you did, and my apology, for being endangered by my poor judgement.”
They’re still positioned to keep pressure on the gunshot wound, but the rest of their posture has slumped and shrunk, their head bowed and shoulders fallen. The difference between this person and the one radiating confidence and control in the alley is disconcerting.
While you struggle for a response, Phylaktos turns their head towards the wall of illusion.
“My glasses… did they break? Did you see?”
“They were smashed to pieces.”
They sigh.
“I did bring a spare pair, but finding where I put them can wait until I’m less occupied. Hopefully that will be rather soon.”
You glance up at the brilliant blue sky, then at the white hair of the sacerdos.
“If you don’t mind me asking, are you-“
“Albinistic? Yes. Oculocutaneous, if that means anything to you.”
“I can’t say it does, but… doesn’t it present problems? For being a Guardian, I mean.”
“Not so much now, but it did. I was born nearly blind, and when I joined the Church no one had any reason to believe I would be capable of any discipline other than Thinker.”
There’s a faint note of pride in their voice. You start to piece things together.
“But you didn’t become a Thinker. You became a Guardian instead. The fighters of the Church of the Nameless God. And not only that… you became one of their elite, didn’t you?”
A bit of a stretch, perhaps, but Phylaktos smiles.
“Yes, well done. That’s part of what the black armband means. It’s my rank, and the highest honour available to the Guardians, barring ascension to the station of Hierophant.”
“What else does it mean?”
The smile vanishes, and they hesitate.
“I’m not sure I’d be able to explain the significance to someone so… unaware… of the Church.”
“Give it a go.”
“If you say so. Do you know what the Abominations are?”
“Unforgiveable actions. The things you should never do.”
“In simplistic terms, that’s more or less accurate. Those who commit Abominations are spiritually scarred and their souls are in great peril. But they are not completely condemned. Sometimes it may be deemed necessary for an Abomination to be committed, which will not spare the perpetrator but the context of the action will weigh in their favour. Upon death, if all other actions outweigh the Abominations and unforgiven transgressions, the Nameless God may grant pardon.
“And so the reasoning is this: if there are necessary Abominations, surely it is preferable for those already scarred and with hope of reparation to carry them out, rather than damage the innocent? That is what we are, the Guardians who wear black. To take this rank, we must have committed justified Abominations in service to the Church. Unjustified Abominations are grounds for excommunication, naturally.”
They grin.
“There’s a reason there have been so few Hierophants who were previously Guardians. The elite of the other disciplines don’t want what they see as the ‘spiritually degenerate’ in charge of operations.”
That’s somewhat unsettling. You’re not fully aware what constitutes an Abomination under the teachings of the Church of the Nameless God. You’re fairly certain murder is one of them, and you have a vague notion of a few other malicious acts which might count, (Corruption? Defiling? They seem like words that could fit in there somewhere.) but that’s not enough to give you a full range of what the person in front of you might be capable of. But even so, whatever you choose from the list of the worst possible acts a person could commit, it’s not going to be pleasant.
“I see. If I may ask-“
“You may, but keep in mind that you should be gone before the police return. Unless you want to be detained as a witness, that is. Normally I would advise that you stay, but I don’t see anything to be gained by it.”
“What if they ask who I was?”
“I don’t believe I know your name, and I was far too preoccupied with events to get a good look at the mysterious shooter.”
“I appreciate that. But tell me, how were you dodging Zephyr’s hits? The wind around him was dusty but the air in his attacks was not. I don’t see how you could have otherwise predicted what he was doing.”
“He was very confused about that as well.” They shrug. “I was born virtually blind, as I said, but I was lucky. A few weeks after my seventeenth birthday I started seeing things. Things that weren’t always necessarily or literally there, but of the few things I could see with almost perfect clarity were people… and powers. In some respects it was useful, in others infuriating, and occasionally terrifying. I couldn’t block it out, and most of the time what I saw was nonsense. It was only when I joined the Church as an Acolyte and I underwent several unusually successful surgeries that I was able to see the real world. My sight was still bad, even with glasses, but it was enough to temper the visions. Together they form a happy compromise that gives me sight good enough for most situations. Good enough to be a Guardian, and with a few added bonuses. Such as being able to see Zephyr’s wind. He was controlling it, therefore I could see it.”
“You’re a sparker, then.”
“If you want to use that word.”
A short silence.
“Right. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. If we meet again, may it be under more favourable circumstances.”
You nod, turn, walk and vault over the roadblock and head onwards to your apartment building. The lobby is dark and deserted when you get there. It’s nearly noon.
As soon as you enter your apartment you drop the flowers on the table and pick up Number 6’s letter. After slipping it into your jacket you pull out your gun. You sniff, and the faint scent of gunpowder, already fading, greets you. You sit down at your coffee table with your cleaning kit and start dismantling the weapon. You spend a few earnest minutes inspecting the disassembled pieces and scrubbing the bore and action. The methodical steps leave your mind free to drift. The worries about Number 6, your parents and Dominique are completely brushed aside; your mind is dominated by the events of the past few minutes. Away from that street it feels strangely dreamlike. You shot someone. You might have killed them. You’ll find out, sooner or later. Zephyr wasn’t the most famous of the mercenaries, but he was famous enough. The press will be all over this.
You suppose… if you’re quick, you might be able to cash in on it yourself. The Voyeur might be interested in the details of the situation. Or you could go straight to a newspaper with it. But you’ve got to be quick, and your time is already scarce.
You think of the dead girl and those mangled bodies, and a wave of fear crashes down on you. You stop cleaning the gun.
Think of something else. Not of stillness or mortality.
Your eyes fall on the flowers. You pull out an indigo rose and raise it to your nose, drinking in the heady scent. They’re beautiful flowers, and a kind gesture. The Festival of Faces has never held much allure for you, but the thought of seeing Evelyn again is enough to make you smile. It’s been too long.
You snap off the majority of the rose’s stalk and place the flower in your buttonhole. Feeling calmer, you return to cleaning the gun.
Later, after the gun was satisfactorily cleaned and returned to its holster, after your feet had taken you back to your office along a route that completely circumvented Leif Street, you found yourself sitting at your desk with your typewriter in front of you.
“Red Queen,” you type. A perfect copy of Number 6’s letter follows it, and upon forging the masked man’s insignia you replace the letter and burn the original.
Then you sit back and wait. Ten minutes to noon. It seems likely that the Red Queen’s goons will show up soon, but that probably still leaves you with a few minutes to spare. Time enough to make some phone calls, perhaps. Number 6’s assignment seems rather straightforward, ignoring the mystery of how Dupont happened to end up lying on top of your name, and only requires time enough to follow the linker parchment’s directions. Dealing with your mother is only a matter of waiting. The case of Dominique’s disappearance is mostly untouched, however, and might benefit from a few inquiries. Arranging an appointment with her sister and her agent would be useful for a start. If you can spare the time it could be worth calling the reading room to put aside either old newspapers or books on crests. Evelyn also asked you to call her in the letter she included with the flowers, and there’s the matter of the monetary value of Zephyr’s disgrace…
Who will you call, and what will you say?
You fumble at your shoulder holster, and not a moment too soon both of your hands are gripped around that familiar weight. You level the gun, flick off the safety and line up your shot. Zephyr raises his hands. Either his concentration has unravelled to the point that he can’t restrain himself to twitches anymore, or he doesn’t mind letting everyone know where he’s aiming.
You don’t want to kill him. You don’t want the stranger to die either. Can you risk opening fire?
Zephyr’s arms start to move.
It turns out your trigger finger decides for you.
Silence follows the shot. The dust spinner collapses slowly, the paths of the dust becoming lazier and weaker until it settles upon the ground like the revolutions of a spinning coin. Zephyr lowers his arms. Almost mechanically, he twists and touches the dark, rapidly expanding stain on his side. He stares at his red fingertips blankly. He’s swaying. His legs buckle, and he joins the dust.
He says something. You don’t catch it.
The sacerdos reaches him first, being the only one to try, pulling off their grey jacket and kneeling down to press it to the wound. You notice that they’ve closed their eyes. You briefly wonder if they don’t want to look at the blood, but then you realise the obvious. It’s too bright; their glasses are gone.
“Sergeant, I’d appreciate it if you could take your remaining corporals and run to your nearest superior to get some medical attention.”
She stands to attention, apparently as an instinctive reaction to the commanding tone.
“Of course, sacerdos.”
“Take this.” They pull the black armband from their jacket and throw it to her. It’s a surprisingly accurate throw for someone with their eyes shut. “If they ask whose it is, say Guardian Phylaktos Ahazai. If there are any other Guardians there they will know me. Nameless guide you.”
Only pausing to offer the stranger a slight bow, the sergeant yells at the other two mercenaries to come with her and stalks off. Phylaktos waits until they’ve passed beyond the wall of illusion to talk again. More softly, this time.
“I suppose you must find my arrogance astounding. This is definitely not what I planned. You have my gratitude, for acting when you did, and my apology, for being endangered by my poor judgement.”
They’re still positioned to keep pressure on the gunshot wound, but the rest of their posture has slumped and shrunk, their head bowed and shoulders fallen. The difference between this person and the one radiating confidence and control in the alley is disconcerting.
While you struggle for a response, Phylaktos turns their head towards the wall of illusion.
“My glasses… did they break? Did you see?”
“They were smashed to pieces.”
They sigh.
“I did bring a spare pair, but finding where I put them can wait until I’m less occupied. Hopefully that will be rather soon.”
You glance up at the brilliant blue sky, then at the white hair of the sacerdos.
“If you don’t mind me asking, are you-“
“Albinistic? Yes. Oculocutaneous, if that means anything to you.”
“I can’t say it does, but… doesn’t it present problems? For being a Guardian, I mean.”
“Not so much now, but it did. I was born nearly blind, and when I joined the Church no one had any reason to believe I would be capable of any discipline other than Thinker.”
There’s a faint note of pride in their voice. You start to piece things together.
“But you didn’t become a Thinker. You became a Guardian instead. The fighters of the Church of the Nameless God. And not only that… you became one of their elite, didn’t you?”
A bit of a stretch, perhaps, but Phylaktos smiles.
“Yes, well done. That’s part of what the black armband means. It’s my rank, and the highest honour available to the Guardians, barring ascension to the station of Hierophant.”
“What else does it mean?”
The smile vanishes, and they hesitate.
“I’m not sure I’d be able to explain the significance to someone so… unaware… of the Church.”
“Give it a go.”
“If you say so. Do you know what the Abominations are?”
“Unforgiveable actions. The things you should never do.”
“In simplistic terms, that’s more or less accurate. Those who commit Abominations are spiritually scarred and their souls are in great peril. But they are not completely condemned. Sometimes it may be deemed necessary for an Abomination to be committed, which will not spare the perpetrator but the context of the action will weigh in their favour. Upon death, if all other actions outweigh the Abominations and unforgiven transgressions, the Nameless God may grant pardon.
“And so the reasoning is this: if there are necessary Abominations, surely it is preferable for those already scarred and with hope of reparation to carry them out, rather than damage the innocent? That is what we are, the Guardians who wear black. To take this rank, we must have committed justified Abominations in service to the Church. Unjustified Abominations are grounds for excommunication, naturally.”
They grin.
“There’s a reason there have been so few Hierophants who were previously Guardians. The elite of the other disciplines don’t want what they see as the ‘spiritually degenerate’ in charge of operations.”
That’s somewhat unsettling. You’re not fully aware what constitutes an Abomination under the teachings of the Church of the Nameless God. You’re fairly certain murder is one of them, and you have a vague notion of a few other malicious acts which might count, (Corruption? Defiling? They seem like words that could fit in there somewhere.) but that’s not enough to give you a full range of what the person in front of you might be capable of. But even so, whatever you choose from the list of the worst possible acts a person could commit, it’s not going to be pleasant.
“I see. If I may ask-“
“You may, but keep in mind that you should be gone before the police return. Unless you want to be detained as a witness, that is. Normally I would advise that you stay, but I don’t see anything to be gained by it.”
“What if they ask who I was?”
“I don’t believe I know your name, and I was far too preoccupied with events to get a good look at the mysterious shooter.”
“I appreciate that. But tell me, how were you dodging Zephyr’s hits? The wind around him was dusty but the air in his attacks was not. I don’t see how you could have otherwise predicted what he was doing.”
“He was very confused about that as well.” They shrug. “I was born virtually blind, as I said, but I was lucky. A few weeks after my seventeenth birthday I started seeing things. Things that weren’t always necessarily or literally there, but of the few things I could see with almost perfect clarity were people… and powers. In some respects it was useful, in others infuriating, and occasionally terrifying. I couldn’t block it out, and most of the time what I saw was nonsense. It was only when I joined the Church as an Acolyte and I underwent several unusually successful surgeries that I was able to see the real world. My sight was still bad, even with glasses, but it was enough to temper the visions. Together they form a happy compromise that gives me sight good enough for most situations. Good enough to be a Guardian, and with a few added bonuses. Such as being able to see Zephyr’s wind. He was controlling it, therefore I could see it.”
“You’re a sparker, then.”
“If you want to use that word.”
A short silence.
“Right. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. If we meet again, may it be under more favourable circumstances.”
You nod, turn, walk and vault over the roadblock and head onwards to your apartment building. The lobby is dark and deserted when you get there. It’s nearly noon.
As soon as you enter your apartment you drop the flowers on the table and pick up Number 6’s letter. After slipping it into your jacket you pull out your gun. You sniff, and the faint scent of gunpowder, already fading, greets you. You sit down at your coffee table with your cleaning kit and start dismantling the weapon. You spend a few earnest minutes inspecting the disassembled pieces and scrubbing the bore and action. The methodical steps leave your mind free to drift. The worries about Number 6, your parents and Dominique are completely brushed aside; your mind is dominated by the events of the past few minutes. Away from that street it feels strangely dreamlike. You shot someone. You might have killed them. You’ll find out, sooner or later. Zephyr wasn’t the most famous of the mercenaries, but he was famous enough. The press will be all over this.
You suppose… if you’re quick, you might be able to cash in on it yourself. The Voyeur might be interested in the details of the situation. Or you could go straight to a newspaper with it. But you’ve got to be quick, and your time is already scarce.
You think of the dead girl and those mangled bodies, and a wave of fear crashes down on you. You stop cleaning the gun.
Think of something else. Not of stillness or mortality.
Your eyes fall on the flowers. You pull out an indigo rose and raise it to your nose, drinking in the heady scent. They’re beautiful flowers, and a kind gesture. The Festival of Faces has never held much allure for you, but the thought of seeing Evelyn again is enough to make you smile. It’s been too long.
You snap off the majority of the rose’s stalk and place the flower in your buttonhole. Feeling calmer, you return to cleaning the gun.
Later, after the gun was satisfactorily cleaned and returned to its holster, after your feet had taken you back to your office along a route that completely circumvented Leif Street, you found yourself sitting at your desk with your typewriter in front of you.
“Red Queen,” you type. A perfect copy of Number 6’s letter follows it, and upon forging the masked man’s insignia you replace the letter and burn the original.
Then you sit back and wait. Ten minutes to noon. It seems likely that the Red Queen’s goons will show up soon, but that probably still leaves you with a few minutes to spare. Time enough to make some phone calls, perhaps. Number 6’s assignment seems rather straightforward, ignoring the mystery of how Dupont happened to end up lying on top of your name, and only requires time enough to follow the linker parchment’s directions. Dealing with your mother is only a matter of waiting. The case of Dominique’s disappearance is mostly untouched, however, and might benefit from a few inquiries. Arranging an appointment with her sister and her agent would be useful for a start. If you can spare the time it could be worth calling the reading room to put aside either old newspapers or books on crests. Evelyn also asked you to call her in the letter she included with the flowers, and there’s the matter of the monetary value of Zephyr’s disgrace…
Who will you call, and what will you say?