Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Bloody Ink, Cruel Evil, and the Pervading Presence of Fear.

Those are what drives the world. This world uncaring for the plight of the innocent embroiled in horrors and tragedies made by their own hands. And in this world that still bears the scars of the most destructive war in history, they suffer still the difficult times brought on in the aftermath of what the greed, apathy, and treachery of a few had sowed. What drives some to hunt, and others to cower, hide, flee, or fight. Storied legacies of the spilling of blackened ichor. Spilling it from screaming men, women, and children, that leaves its stained mark on every person. In every place. Across all time. That is the truth of this world of paper.

And few understood that better this unfair fact of existence than a lonely old man. An old man cloistered in isolation within his property, that lay deep in the jungle. His dwelling place, old and secluded, served as an escape from all the blood and tears he had seen upon the faces of countless people. Here, he lamented his sins by his lonesome, and grieved for all from afar.

The house was grand, finely constructed in the old Spanish style. Built on an elevated space between two hills while overlooking a wide river some miles below. Had it not been as large as it was, it would have been swallowed completely by the tall trees on its flanks, and leaving it in the dark of the shadows whilst beneath its canopy. Greater still were the calls of the jungle's inhabitants. Squawking parrots, chirping fantails, the chitter of a troop of macaques, and the hiss of fighting civets. And if that wasn't enough, it was foggy today, the mist shrouding the area in a calming, cool dampness.

It made his house, something that was close to an old-fashioned villa in style, stand out even more. Three stories tall, carved out of marble, stone, and brick, it stood out contrastingly as a work of man amidst the vast wilds around him.

Its current sole inhabitant, however, could be seldom described as merely a man. He was much, much more than that to the average observer. That simple fact was immediately discernible to anyone, even a first glance.

Standing at an unbelievable height that was greater than that of two men combined, a veritable giant of a man emerged from a heavy metal door of the house which he closed behind him. The physical features of his body were unremarkable, should you ignore his tall stature, and the faded white lines that remained visible on his face. Dark grey hair, brown skin, simple buttondown long sleeves, suspenders and khakis, and leather shoes. Dressed up as any aged man from his time. One's attention would be more easily drawn to the sight of a large mechanical arm that was in place of his right arm, and the mechanical eye implant that replaced his left. A cyborg giant.

Clearly, there was much that he had gone through. Anyone could tell from looking at the subtle dullness in his remaining organic eye. Not of lacking intelligence, but diminished emotion. The giant spent a few moments staring listlessly around the area just outside his home. Everything about him, from expression to posture, were evident characteristics pointing to him being a tired man, one walking through the living world while seemingly separate from it. He was an extraordinarily resilient survivor of the harshness that this world could inflict. But the result was a man void of vibrancy in a world so full of it, as deceptive as it all seemed to him now.

He passed through a brilliantly colourful garden chock full of greenery of every sort. Flowers of every colour and shape bloomed, their nectar lapped up by bees, butterflies and sunbirds. Weaver ants made woven balls of leaves on one of the trees to make into their nest, the orange eusocial insects making sure no hungry pests harm it. Fruits of sweet taste and nuts of crunchy texture dangled from various points. Herbs and shrubs blanketed the base of these trees. The man picked a number of these, easily picking from even the tall trees thanks to his great height. Thus he gathered into a basket handfuls of mabolo, katmon, plums, figs, raspberries, rambutan, mango, chili peppers, tomatoes, calamansi, and betel and pili nuts. 

Once he felt it could hold no longer, he placed it down on a small wooden table located next to where the spaces of his garden and his house met. Moving onwards her unlatched the handle of a tall gate and ventured out to meet a mixed congregation of various animals. A score of goats, two dozen small native deer, a number of wallabies, a few donkeys, an emu pair and a swamp buffalo quartet grazed or rested in the shade at this time of noon, never minding the chickens and ducks that often joined the group by perching atop them.

Reaching into a woven bag he carried on his side, the man poured a heap of pellet feed mixed with hay and leftover vegetables into several troughs, which attracted the animals quickly. Silently observing them as they gorged themselves, there was a sense of unspoken contentment in his gaze. Though his expression remained unchanged as ever. It was a nice here. Nice to accomplish something in a passive way. No need to worry about others. Worry of people. His past had given him so much reason to dislike them. But he never did. He simply preferred the peaceful life after everything he had done. And in truth, he knew that he had done much to be the one reviled and villainized instead.

However, the funny thing about people is that you could never truly escape them. Somehow, someway, they will eventually come up to you and try to understand you. Many still aren't able to make sense of his likes completely, but some stick around to find out. And still, the access some have to you may be easier or harder depending on the person's reach, for better or worse.

Ending the self-isolation of his routine came from the footsteps of someone stepping onto the soft grass behind him. Turning his head ever so slightly, the giant old man's eyes caught sight of a face he knew well. Standing at a straight, rigid posture some distance away from hum was a man dressed in a proper suit and pants of faded blue, with a white undershirt and black shoes. The straight long hair on his head and mustache were whitened with age, but his frame and lack of wrinkles suggested that he was bearing well with the times. A butler, in other words.

"Good day, Master Iker." The man said to the giant. 

A moment passed before the giant man grunted, as if he had not spoken much for a time.

"...Naimbag nga malem, Wilford." He finally spoke as he slowly turned his entire body this time to look at him more clearly. "Diak ninamnama ti aniaman a kompania iti daytoy a tiempo...I just had early lunch."

"No, I suppose not. I am aware of your preference, sir. But I believe that something has been delivered here that is of great importance. It is a packaged mail, containing a letter and other items."

Iker's eyes, both the organic and robotic one, squinted a bit as the words rolled off his helper's tongue. "A letter?" he asked. "The kind that is wrapped and sealed in an envelope sort?"

"Yes sir. It appears to be very much the case." The helper Wilford produced the envelope in question, which he kept at his side before lifting his arm. It was a large paper envelope. Its contents pushed at its sides, pointing to the conclusion that it held more than a mere message. "I have briefly glanced into this mail myself. Nothing dangerous or of malicious intent. Otherwise ordinary. But. I believe it would greatly intrigue you, to speak lightly of it."

Iker sighed softly, not certain about its significance. "It seems easily discerned that there is more to this mail's constituents than the apparent 'letter' that it holds, Wilford. What is this? A message from the new higher-ups? A request for aid? I don't believe you would bring to my attention something the likes of mere fanmail with such gravity in your words. And you of all people know that I do not waste my time reading insincere pieces of flattery with ulterior motives. I have had much enough of those."

"No, sir. The sender is anonymous. That is to say, the name on the letter itself is the only identity amongst these that is more likely than not to have been at least taken part in compiling it and sending this to us. The mail itself is bereft of other such markers, particularly no return address. There is no guarantee that the writer of the letter is the same as its sender, or its ultimate deliverer. But, knowing how things are, I believe that a member from one of our allied organizations has sent it. There was no immediately traceable means by which it arrived here. The guards downhill made no report of any delivery vehicle, much less a package for you. As far as it can be said, it simply appeared. Placed on the welcoming mat up front no less."

Intrigue slowly crept in. Enough to make him consider the likelihood that whatever Wilford had received from the front door had more weight to it than he had presumed. 

"Hmm. I see. Thank you, Wilford. Please, give it to me."

Iker humbly took the envelope from his helper's hands. Though it seemed regularly-sized in his hand, it was merely because he himself was so much bigger in comparison. Scanning it from all sides, there were no signs indicating where it came from, just as he was told. Instead of merely reopening it from the weak tape that held it close, he made use of his advanced prosthetic to get straight into it. Warily he sliced an opening along the top with a clawed finger from his mechanical prosthetic right hand and retrieved the letter and documents that lay inside.

Peering at the letter first, he read the following:

There was little room for other interpretations. It was direct and straightforward, the style he was most suited to and preferred when it came to all things professional. The words caught his interest just as quickly. Flipping around the letter showed a bundle of other papers behind it, some sealed. 

A cursory glance was all that was needed to shift his expression from mild curiosity to one of profound veritable surprise. Listed among them were family trees, genealogical records, legal documents, and other identification material.

His gaze though ultimately fell upon the most eye-catching of the bunch; the images of the two. A view into who these people were. Now careful and aware, he took note of the two individuals that indeed proved to be of great interest to him. A young girl, seeming to be in her young teen years. A father, one that looked relatively young. No mother to speak of in the picture. Strange. He reckoned that there'd be answers that could only come from them directly.

So that's exactly what he had every intent to do. From the moment he learned of his relation to these two, and thus how this otherwise unassuming ordinary father and daughter pair were relevant to him, he was already constructing a plan to approach them with.

"...It appears that the contents of this mail proved more remarkable than I was expecting." Iker admitted to himself and to his well-dressed aide. 

"Is that so, Master Iker?" Wilford asked.

Iker shot the man a distasted look conveying mild irritation.

"I told you not to call me that. I am no one's master." He said briefly.

Wilford obliged, and quickly corrected himself.

"My apologies. Sir Iker. What do you intend to do, knowing the information that has just been disseminated?"

For a moment, he himself contemplated his words. The idea itself was absurd. To leave his secluded abode and travel halfway across the world to meet people he never even knew existed just minutes ago. And that was ignoring the reactions others will have to his arrival. That of the common citizen. To see what he believed to be his own horrid form step foot on lands he himself scarred decades ago. Those who knew of his great sins would surely cower before him, or admonish him with a thousand grievances.

Unenviable as it was, there was a feeling within him that, somehow, he owed these two strangers something better than the unknown whatever they currently had now. And furthermore, it was greater than his own anxiety of venturing out of the country for the first time in a long time. At least here the people understood him to an extent. Familiar with him, even trusting of him.

Out there, who knew what awaited him? Awaited them? The latter of the two prevailing thoughts scared him most. Did anyone else know of their relations to him? What sort of connection they had, even if never close to begin with?

Difficult as it was, after a few minutes of standing and staring blankly at one of his carabaos as he thought deeply, his heart's calling held a strong pull that beckoned him to action. The decision came unnaturally to him. It was something that he would find almost illogical and flawed from strong emotion. Too erratic and impulsive for his logical thought processes.

Yet, that was what made him choose what he would do next.

His decision is set, and the die is cast.

"I will go. I will meet them. I must meet them."

His helper nodded and bowed. There needn't be any more words to be said between them for an understanding of what was to be done to come. But for the sake of good manners, Wilford spoke anyway.

"Understood, sir. I will make the proper arrangements and pack your items and resources then."

As quickly as he had arrived to bring him that mail, so was he in leaving and heading back to the house. Carrying a plain towel in his tucked arm as always. Speaking still in a distinguished voice to confirm that he would help the old giant in making the proper arrangements for his chance trip far away.

Iker looked back at one of the papers again, looking at the printed images of the faces of the two persons that he was now greatly fascinated by. In particular, he took a look at their names. Scanning it and inputting all relevant information into his brain by use of his bionic left eye. The father was named Julian. Julian Bouchard. When he turned to the girl's name, he spoke it aloud after a bit of contemplation as he hummed, as if forcing himself to quickly familiarize himself with this information.

"Claire Bouchard. Claire. Her name is Claire."

In the back of his mind, there was a nagging feeling that repeatedly made itself known. Though he obviously could not truly predict how things would play out given the unknown number of unknown factors at play here, he agreed that there was one certainty to this case he was going to pursue by meeting them himself.

This was going to be unlike anything he'd dealt with before, and it will make a lasting impression. For all sides, all parties involved.

He decided that there was little time to be wasted. He had some very distant descendants to meet.

It is 2078. A misty but surprisingly revelatory Saturday in his case. A trip is planned for a skilled and storied killer of men. To leave and return back into the open, and go out into a wider world that still fears him. Even if it's a venture that's considerably harmless enough for a cyborg giant with a past like his. They will question him and his reasons for reappearing. They will fear him. Some will loathe him. Many he suspects will try to hurt him. Yet one way or another, they will make way and be placated, be it through talk, or through force. They will tremble in his presence, or flock to him for safety. No in-betweens. 

It is 2078, and Iker Saavedra is on the move once more.