Work Text:
The Doctor was dead.
Mostima wrenched open the door to the morgue and pushed past the crowd gathered around the bed.
She saw Amiya, seated beside the bed, her face buried in her hands as she wept. She saw Kal'tsit, standing to one side, frozen in shock.
And there, lying on the bed beneath a white sheet—a thin, frail body, a stray lock of disheveled, gray-white hair escaping from beneath the cloth.
Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch him, then jerked back at the last instant, as if burned.
The Doctor was truly dead.
The sensation lingered on her fingertips, like frostbite, refusing to fade.
Finally, she gathered the courage to lift the sheet. The sight beneath it shattered the last of her restraint.
She slumped to the floor, strengthless.
The faint sound of weeping filled the room.
---
On the abandoned routes of a mobile city, ravaged by Catastrophes, derelict city blocks lay scattered, discarded in the disasters' wake. Inside one of these ruined buildings, a wounded Sarkaz mercenary fled down a corridor, clutching at the bleeding stump where his arm used to be.
His face was a mask of collapse and distortion. His breath came in ragged, chaotic gasps, but he didn't dare stop running.
"Go! Get out of here! That blue-haired fallen angel freak is—"
Before he could finish, a pale blue bolt of Arts energy pierced the thin armor over his chest, blasting a fist-sized hole straight through him.
He crumpled forward without another sound, blood pooling from the wound into a dark, grimy stain on the floor.
Footsteps approached, unhurried, and Mostima emerged from the shadows. She walked up to the corpse, her expression cold and detached. After confirming the body was lifeless, she straightened up and walked deeper into the building.
She turned corner after corner, climbed flight after flight of crumbling stairs. As she neared the top floor, she found herself at the end of a long corridor.
She stepped forward. In a daze, she thought of another hallway, the one on Rhodes Island. The day the Doctor had first appointed her as his assistant.
---
The corridors of Rhodes Island were always spotless, the metal floors ringing with the click of footsteps. The ship bustled with people attending to their duties, keeping the entire operation running like clockwork.
Mostima gently pushed open the office door. The Doctor was writing something on a whiteboard. Hearing her enter, he turned around, and a smile spread across his thin, tired face. "Ah, Miss Mostima. Hello. I look forward to working with you."
Mostima sighed, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Doctor, I've told you, I'm not bound by the cooperation agreement between Penguin Logistics and Rhodes Island. Technically, I don't have to answer your request at all." She walked in and leaned against the wall by the door.
"And yet, here you are," the Doctor said, still smiling.
It was true. Mostima could have refused his commission, could have done whatever else she wanted or needed to do. But she couldn't ignore her curiosity about this legendary Doctor that Exusiai never stopped talking about. She wanted to see for herself what this supposedly all-powerful Doctor was really like.
Mostima let out a noncommittal little laugh. "Well, I didn't have anything else going on. Spending time with you isn't the worst option, so here I am."
She straightened up and folded her arms. "So, what's the job today, Doctor?"
The Doctor capped the whiteboard marker and stretched, a rare, long-overdue stretch. He turned to her with a smile. "No work today. Just... keep me company for a bit."
"...Huh?"
The Doctor lifted the steaming coffee pot off the induction cooker and took two cups from the rack, pouring one for himself and one for her. "Right now... I know nothing about this land. I've even lost the person I used to be."
He gave a bitter smile and tilted his head towards the whiteboard. Mostima looked over. It was covered in writing—formulas, data, tactical analyses, personnel assignments—every inch filled, some areas erased and rewritten so many times the surface was worn down.
"This is everything I have now," the Doctor said, carrying the coffee over to the table in the lounge area. "Workaholic, right? So I was thinking... maybe I could ask someone as worldly as you to tell me stories about this land. And I could use the break. Kal'tsit has already told me that if I keep working like this, my body will give out."
He pulled back his hood, revealing disheveled gray-white hair tied in a short braid. He nudged one of the small coffee cups towards Mostima. "Coffee?"
Mostima listened to all of this, a faint smile on her lips. "You want me to tell you stories? Well, it's not like I can't."
"But next time, Doctor, I highly recommend you prepare some decent snacks. Even the most thrilling story gets boring without them. At the very least," she settled into the sofa and gracefully lifted her cup, "put some sugar in the coffee."
The Doctor shrugged, still smiling.
But Mostima still raised the unsweetened black coffee to her lips and took a small sip.
"Yech," she grimaced, her face scrunching up. "So bitter."
---
Mostima stepped into that decaying corridor. It was dark and ruinous, the air thick with the smell of rot and dust. Parts of the ceiling had collapsed, and sunlight streamed through the gaps, scattering small, fragmented pools of light across the floor.
As she walked, she scanned the hallway ahead. Suddenly, her eyes caught something—a thin, almost invisible wire glinting silver, strung across the corridor. At the same moment, she heard the faintest whisper of leather against leather.
She sighed. "Traps and hidden sentries? This is getting old." She reached behind her back and drew her staff, Lock and Key.
The air seemed to freeze. Then, dozens of automatic crossbow bolts came screaming towards her face. But she merely flickered, vanishing from the spot. The bolts didn't even graze her shadow, thudding harmlessly into the floor.
In the instant the volley ended, Mostima reappeared at the far end of the corridor. Behind her, the tripwires for the mines lay neatly severed, and one by one, the hidden sentries toppled out of the shadows. Each had been dispatched instantly, without a sound.
"Ha... ha..." Mostima lowered her staff, panting heavily. She crouched down. The extended, high-intensity spellcasting had exhausted her. Her staff trembled faintly in her grip. She clenched her jaw and took a deep breath. "Sorry, old friend. No time for your complaints now. When this is over, you'll have all the time in the world to rest." She rose to her feet, ready to move on.
Suddenly, the door beside her burst open. A heavily armored Sarkaz mercenary lunged out, driving a dagger towards her. But just as the blade was about to find its mark, he, too, hit nothing but air.
The mercenary stumbled, falling to the ground in a heap. He scrambled back up, holding the knife defensively between himself and the fallen angel.
The fallen angel merely watched him, staff in hand.
The mercenary spat a curse and lunged again. But no matter the angle, the technique, or the brute force behind his attacks, she evaded them all with ease. He even thought he saw a flicker of confusion on her face.
His breathing grew more and more ragged, his footwork more and more desperate. After one final, wild thrust that met only air, the fallen angel seized her chance. She caught his arm in a fluid motion, locked the joint, and snapped it cleanly.
The sharp crack of breaking bone echoed through the building, mingled with the man's screams, rolling over the cold corpses on the floor.
The mercenary's dagger clattered to the ground. He tried to wrench himself free, but a brutal kick caught him square in the chest, sending him crashing backwards into the wall with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. Before he could even think of rising, three compact crossbow bolts tore through his right arm and both legs, completely crippling him.
Mostima tossed aside the now-empty hand crossbow, walked over to the groaning mercenary, and crouched down. She grabbed a fistful of his greasy, matted hair and forced his head up. "I was just thinking I'd have to hunt you down. And here you are, walking right up to me." She met his pain-filled, hateful gaze with eyes as calm and indifferent as still water. "Now. Tell me who ordered the assassination of the Doctor. Who planned the attack on Rhodes Island."
At her words, the mercenary's pained howls abruptly shifted into manic, unhinged laughter. Without a word, Mostima stood and drove the bolt in his leg deeper with her heel. The laughter choked into a strangled gasp of pain.
Mostima lifted her foot. The mercenary gasped for breath, his hook-like eyes scraping over Mostima's face. "Hah... fallen angel. You're no Sarkaz. You're not even a Sankta!"
*Smack.*
Mostima slapped him across the face. "Answer the question."
The mercenary let out a low chuckle. "Fine. I'll tell you. I was one of the soldiers who infiltrated that ship you call Rhodes Island!" His eyes suddenly bulged, bloodshot and wild. "For our beloved Her Highness, that sinner had to pay! Whatever the cost!"
He went on, spilling every detail of that day with the relish of a hunter displaying his trophy, his words dripping with blood.
---
That day. The Rhodes Island landship.
A Catastrophe had blocked the planned route, making it impossible for Rhodes Island to reach the negotiations in Columbia on time. The talks—covering the settlement of infected pioneers, the provision of treatment, and cooperation with the local government—were too critical to miss.
Therefore, Dr. Kal'tsit had taken Amiya and departed the ship in a convoy headed for the negotiation city. This also meant that a number of elite operators and a significant portion of the combat personnel were now away from the landship.
In other words, Rhodes Island's home base was currently vulnerable.
However, the ship was parked in the middle of nowhere, far from standard travel routes. The chances of being targeted seemed slim.
...Or so they should have been.
"Mayday! Mayday! This is Operation Team B7! We've encountered a large force of unidentified hostiles during a patrol outside the ship! Three lightly wounded, one seriously wounded, one incapacitated! Requesting immediate backup!"
That evening, the emergency comms channel received the distress call. Whenever the landship was stationary, several squads patrolled the perimeter to deter wild beasts or scavengers, but this threat was clearly beyond the patrol's capabilities.
"Copy, B7. Teams A9, B2, and C7 are en route to reinforce. All other external patrols have been redirected to the engagement zone. Elite Operators Sharp and Stormeye are also on their way. The defense systems are now active. Hold your position. More reinforcements are coming." The duty officer in the Security Department replied with practiced calm, simultaneously granting all operators access to the emergency frequency and raising the ship's alert level to maximum.
---
"An attack outside the ship?" Sharp, who was in the Doctor's office, was surprised by the message. He lifted his longsword and shield from where they rested against the wall and began to gear up. "Right when our defenses are at their thinnest..."
Once his equipment was secured, he raised his communicator. "Confirm, is the enemy carrying heavy thermal weaponry?" After a brief pause, the duty officer's reply came through. "No heavy weapons sighted at this time. Tactical data updated, coordinates synced to your terminal." He pressed the comms button, his voice low and steady. "Stormeye, circle around from the east flank. Suppress any potential sniper positions. I'll push through the front and cover the wounded's withdrawal."
Sharp opened the door of the Doctor's office. His primary task had been to act as the Doctor's temporary bodyguard, but now a more urgent situation demanded his attention. He had no choice but to leave.
"Doctor, I've activated your office's defense systems. Remember, don't leave this room. I'll be back soon." Sharp turned and nodded at the Doctor. "I'll leave things here to you."
The Doctor's face was solemn. He nodded, his gaze dropping to the tactical terminal open on his desk.
"Authorization Level 8. Welcome back, Doctor."
---
Sharp led the support squad to the ship's exit. The spotlights on the outer hull could only pierce the darkness for less than a hundred meters, and beyond that, the wilds were filled with the sounds of clashing blades, the flashes of Arts, and the thud of crossbow bolts striking the hull.
The squads that had arrived earlier were already locked in fierce combat with the enemy in the buffer zone outside the ship. The enemy had taken heavy casualties, but their formation remained unbroken. They were using the darkness and terrain to push forward, layer by layer. Sharp's eyes narrowed as he rapidly scanned the enemy lines—standard-issue short spears, coordinated breathing. These were trained soldiers.
"Spread out and form a defensive line! Get armored vehicles out here and build fortifications! Caster squads, create as much light as you can! Prioritize getting the wounded out of here!"
Sharp's orders hammered through the comms channel like iron commands. He was the first to leap out of the ship's hatch, his shield angled before him. An armor-piercing bolt slammed into the alloy surface with a clang, only to be deflected violently, leaving a shallow scratch.
"Stormeye! 10 o'clock!" He charged forward, shield raised. There was no verbal response, but an arrow from Stormeye sliced through the air past his ear, and a pained grunt sounded from the darkness.
"A4, two Caster squads are circling around. B4, B2, move to intercept. Sharp, Team B7 is retreating in your direction. Be ready to cover them." The Doctor's voice came through the earpiece. Sharp looked up to see several operators staggering towards the ship's entrance, supporting each other. Some had uniforms soaked in blood, others had arms hanging limply, dark red seeping through their bandages.
"Good work," Sharp moved forward, shielding the wounded with his own shield. "We'll take it from here. Get back inside the ship, now."
The lead operator had his cap pulled low and a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, revealing only a pair of exhausted but sharp eyes. He said nothing, merely nodded, and led the others into the shadows of the ship's entrance. Sharp's peripheral vision caught a smear on the edge of the scarf—it was a mixture of fresh gunpowder residue and a dark, brownish-red stain. Something nagged at him.
"Wait," Sharp suddenly raised a hand to halt the retreating operators. His gaze was locked onto that dark smear. It was too dark, too thick to be fresh human blood. His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed, and the tip of his longsword shifted towards the man. "The blood on your scarf. Explain it."
He slowly turned his shield towards the "B7" operators. The leader of the group stiffened, then turned his head.
"It's from a wound I got on an operation last week. Got some on my scarf. Wouldn't have noticed if you hadn't pointed it out, Sharp."
He pulled down the scarf a few inches, revealing a tired smile. It was Dominic, the leader of Operation Team B7. A Sarkaz guard operator who had once worked alongside Sharp. His face still bore his trademark stubble and a long, old scar that ran from his left brow down to his jawline. That scar, Sharp remembered, was from a blade meant for him, a wound Dominic had taken while covering him in a fight years ago.
Seeing a familiar face, Sharp relaxed his guard slightly. "Get that washed when you get back." He swatted an incoming crossbow bolt out of the air with a flick of his sword and brought his shield back into position. "Now move. I can't hold here long."
Dominic nodded and led the remaining operators back into the ship. Out on the battlefield, more and more Rhodes Island operators were being wounded, falling. Even with the Doctor still directing the battle, the enemy's numbers and ferocity showed no sign of waning. Arts bolts flew in all directions, and explosive shockwaves, carrying scorching debris, tore through the air. After watching Team B7 retreat, Sharp spun his shield around, deflected a searing lava Arts bolt that was screaming towards him, and charged back into the heart of the battle line.
---
"Identity confirmed. Welcome home, Dominic."
Dominic inserted his ID card into the terminal and pulled the scarf back up over his face, covering his mouth and nose.
He looked up at the gate that had once belonged to Babel, now bearing the emblem of Rhodes Island. His eyes wavered. "Home... huh. Maybe..."
He stepped through the gate. The metal floor reflected his slightly hunched silhouette. In the reflection, the old scar on his face rose and fell with his steps, like an unhealed crack. He took off his Rhodes Island ID badge and replaced it with a headband made from the remnants of his old Babel uniform. Behind him, the other members of B7 fell into line. The Babel insignias on their chests, polished to a dull shine over the years, seemed to catch the light. Their facial features blurred and warped, like clay being kneaded, then reforming—but not into their own faces. The illusion spell was wearing off. Dominic looked back at his "operators," then turned his gaze back to the Rhodes Island emblem. The confusion and flicker of pain in his eyes vanished, replaced by a steel-hard resolve and a cold, terrifying clarity.
"The time for revenge has come."
---
The battle grew more frantic. A lava bolt exploded against Sharp's shield in a blinding flash of fire, the impact tearing through the armor on his left arm and sending searing pain through his nerves. He gritted his teeth, his right arm muscles straining. With a powerful upward heave of his shield, he deflected a second lava bolt, sending it careening into a steel structure in the distance, where the intense heat began to melt the metal. More and more of his comrades were falling around him, but the enemy pressed on relentlessly, charging, dying, and being replaced by more bodies. The sounds of Originium explosives began to echo from parts of the defensive line. Suicide bombers, blindfolded, laden with raw Originium charges, were screaming as they ran at the line, clutching detonator cords. Sharp roared, "Fall back! Fall back now! All non-infected operators, don protective gear! Do not inhale Originium particles! Infected operators, move forward! Do not let them break through!"
"Teams C2, M3, N8, proceed to coordinate F7 for support. Team A9, pull back and regroup," the Doctor's voice, steady as iron but with a barely perceptible hoarseness, came through the earpiece. "A9 copies, withdrawing... Doctor, the Originium concentration in sector F7 has exceeded the safety threshold. It's from the crude bombs detonated by the suicide attackers." After a short silence, the Doctor's voice returned. "Abandon defensive point F7. Regroup with the other squads at F9 and reform the line—" The voice in the tactical earpiece suddenly spiked to a deafening screech. Almost every operator cried out in pain, ripping the earpieces from their ears. "Battlefield comms... jammed..."
Sharp ripped off his shattered goggles and hurled them to the ground. He wiped the blood and grime from his face and roared, his voice hoarse, "All operators, listen to my command! Form groups of three! Covering fire, retreat back to the main entrance of the ship!"
He whirled around to face Stormeye, whose mask had been cracked. "Do you have any arrows left?!"
Stormeye's Adam's apple bobbed. He pulled one from his blood-stained quiver. "Not many. Three."
"That'll do." Sharp stabbed his shield into the ground and dropped to one knee to steady himself. "Every Caster who can hear my voice—I don't care what your specialty is, if you can make light, make it! Tear this night sky open!"
A blinding white light erupted, a blade of brilliance slicing through the thick night. Casters poured out every light-producing spell they could muster, a tide of multi-colored radiance surging outwards. The darkness was peeled back, exposing the enemy Casters lurking in the shadows. Caught in the blinding glare, their pupils contracted to pinpricks and their chanting was cut short. "Loose."
Steel arrows rained into the enemy formation like needles. The Casters who had been jamming their communications crumpled to the ground, their staves clattering into pools of blood. Sharp replaced his earpiece and pressed the comms button. "All teams, check your comms channels."
"Received, A7, all clear."
"B5, copy."
"C1, confirmed."
Every participating squad confirmed their comms were back online. Sharp took a deep breath and raised his cracked shield, bracing for the next wave.
But for some unknown reason, the enemy did not launch the expected counterattack. Instead, they silently melted back into the darkness, not a single one stepping forward again.
Sharp was momentarily stunned. He hadn't expected the attack to stop so abruptly. He pressed the button on his communicator. "Doctor, something's wrong. They're pulling back."
Dead silence.
He repeated himself. "Doctor, do you copy? The enemy isn't pressing the attack. What are our next orders?"
Still, no reply.
Sharp's throat tightened. Only the static hiss filled his ears. He looked up sharply. "Stormeye, confirm: were all enemy jamming Casters eliminated?"
"All confirmed KIA. No survivors." Stormeye's voice was low and certain. His eyes never lied; the enemy's comms jammers were dead. But the jamming hadn't been lifted. That was impossible. There was only one other possibility: the Doctor was unable to answer.
Sharp's bloodshot eyes stared hard at the edge of the darkness. He couldn't understand why the Doctor wouldn't respond—unless his communicator was broken, or Closure's comms system was malfunctioning. Or... the Doctor was being held up by something far more lethal.
A sudden, terrible thought struck him. During the retreat of B7, he'd only clearly seen Dominic's face. The faces of the other operators had been smeared with dirt or covered in bandages. What if... what if it wasn't Team B7 that had retreated into the ship...
A sense of dread, cold and absolute, seized his heart. Sharp gritted his teeth and roared, "Teams B2, L4! With me, back to the ship! Prepare for combat!"
Stormeye made to follow, but Sharp stopped him. "Stay here. Don't let those bastards get any closer. We need you in command." With that, he sprinted for the ship's main entrance.
---
And the rest, as we all know.
Sharp rushed back to the Doctor's office. The defense systems had been manually disarmed. A dead silence hung in the room. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Dominic was sitting on the sofa. The Doctor lay in a pool of his own blood, motionless.
Dominic slowly raised his head, his face filled with a profound sense of relief and release.
He confessed that he was a former member of Babel, a man who had once followed Her Highness Theresa. After the fall of Babel, he had been forced into Theresis's service, serving under him in silence for years. Then, one day, he stumbled upon the truth—a fractured, distorted version of it, but the truth nonetheless.
He spoke of how that hatred had burned inside him day and night, how it had festered for thirteen years, transforming every breath he took into a silent scream.
His fingers traced the Doctor's cold forehead. His voice was as soft as falling snow: "Thirteen years... long enough to burn a man to ashes. And long enough to forge those ashes into a blade—and today, it has finally reached the throat of its enemy."
Dominic rose to his feet and spread his arms wide.
"The die is cast. I await your judgment."
Sharp's vision, already stained red with blood, twisted with rage. The face of his former comrade blurred in the crimson haze, as if time and hatred had etched it into a stranger's mask. He gripped his sword's hilt so tightly that the leather of his glove creaked against the polymer, his knuckles white.
"I know what you want," he breathed, the words forced from between clenched teeth. "But you won't get it from me. Not today."
He slammed his longsword back into its shattered sheath with a jarring clash of metal. He understood. Dominic had done what he came to do. He had no desire to live. To kill him now would be to make him a martyr, not a criminal. He had to let him live, to face what he had torn apart with his own hands. Sharp turned and strode to the communicator. His finger slammed down on the control panel. "All units, this is Sharp. The Doctor has been assassinated. Everyone... withdraw back to the ship."
As the last word left his lips, he swayed on his feet, as if all the strength had been drained from his body. But he did not fall.
He walked straight past Dominic, meeting his gaze without the slightest flicker of intent to strike. Dominic's mouth twitched, then twisted into a bitter, knowing smile. "As expected... you're still the same old Sharp." From his belt, Dominic drew a black handgun and aimed it at Sharp's retreating back.
The other armed operators in the room immediately snapped to alert, crossbows drawn. The sound of Dominic racking the slide echoed in the silence. Sharp stopped, but didn't turn around. "You told me once you took that from a Lateran soldier."
"Yes, but..." Dominic gave a bitter chuckle. "I didn't tell you the whole story."
"This gun belonged to Rodriguez."
"He was my friend. We roamed the wilds together, traveling, hunting, living. He was a Sankta, and I'm a Sarkaz. An angel and a devil, the best of friends. Ironic, isn't it?"
"The day he died, the sky was bright and clear. His body was cold. The last thing he said to me... was to go and see that future for him. The future where everyone could smile."
"So I joined Babel. I chose to follow Her Highness, not just for the future of the Sarkaz, but for the world Rodriguez should have been able to see."
"...And which of them did you do right by?" Sharp turned his head slightly, speaking only that one sentence.
Dominic's pupils constricted. The barrel of the gun trembled, but his finger never pulled the trigger. His breath shuddered. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his knuckles turned white on the trigger guard. A soft click—he thumbed the safety off himself. But he didn't point it at Sharp. He pressed it to his own head.
A single gunshot.
---
Wind rushed in through the shattered window frame, stirring the dust on the floor. The air reeked of mold, rust... and something else, sweeter and more putrid.
Mostima stood before the mercenary leader. She had let go of his hair at some point. Oil, grime, and dried blood clung to her fingertips. She looked at his face, and in a daze, she thought the arc of that twisted smile might have been exactly like Dominic's.
"You finished?" she said.
"What else do you want to hear?" The mercenary grinned, a trickle of dark blood oozing from the corner of his mouth. "I could tell you how I snapped his fingers one by one. How I pulled out his nails. How I gouged out his eyeballs and stuffed them back into his mouth. I remember, before he died, he even called your name. A short knife was stuck between his ribs. His voice was a mess, hardly understandable. Poor bastard was calling for you right up to the end. Oh, and those gray eyes of his... they really were beautiful."
Silence.
A long, long silence.
Mostima's hands began to tremble. Her nails dug deep into her palms. She pushed herself up slightly, her bangs falling forward to veil her face.
She clenched her fist, ground her teeth, and brought it down.
The punch landed squarely on the mercenary's face, shattering his nose in a spray of blood.
The mercenary collapsed, a grotesque gurgle escaping his throat. He coughed up a mouthful of blood, yet he was still laughing, a mad, cackling howl. "HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! YES! THAT'S IT! YOU'RE JUST LIKE US! THE SAME! HAHAHAHA!!"
*Thud.* Another punch. The orbit of his eye shattered, a sickening, wet pop blending with the manic laughter. It was a horrid sound.
*Thud.* Another. His jaw was knocked askew, teeth spraying out with a mix of blood and spittle. The laughter turned into a slurred, unrecognizable rasp. He was still laughing.
*Thump.* Half his face was caved in, a mess of pulped flesh and exposed cheekbone revealing a ghastly white rictus. His throat worked, but the laughter was like a rusted gear, grinding, hoarse, yet it never stopped.
*Thump. Thump. Thump.*
The pace of the blows quickened. The mercenary's body grew more and more limp, like a sack of wet flour being beaten repeatedly.
The pain in her knuckles had long since faded to numbness. All that remained was inertia and weight.
Another punch.
Her fist struck the ruined body, but the sound that echoed was a crisp, clear *knock, knock*, like knuckles rapping on a door.
*—Thud, thud, thud.*
Three more. Crisp. Restrained. Not the muffled thud of a fist hitting meat, but the sound of knuckles on a metal door panel.
---
The standard-issue door of Rhodes Island, a metal surface with a faint matte texture. The nameplate on the door read "Doctor's Office." The corridor outside was warmly lit, the air faintly scented with coffee.
"I'm back... oh?" Mostima pushed the door open. The Doctor looked up from a pile of documents, and a smile bloomed on his thin, tired face. The table was laden with pastries, and the coffee pot was bubbling cheerfully.
She smiled, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. "Doctor, were you waiting for me? And all these pastries..."
The Doctor stood up and stretched, the stiffness in his neck and shoulders from sitting too long easing with the movement. "Yeah. Last time you said I should prepare some snacks. Well, here they are." He chuckled and sat down on one side of the sofa. He lifted the coffee pot and poured two cups, the fragrant steam swirling gently in the afternoon sunlight slanting through the window.
Mostima sat down on the opposite sofa, her gaze sweeping over the spread and the steaming coffee. A smile played on her lips. "Not bad, Doctor. For a Lateran-style afternoon tea, I'd say this is... passable."
The Doctor watched her pop a pastry into her mouth. "I asked a few of the Sankta operators to make them. I'm not much of a baker myself, so anything I made would probably be inedible. But theirs should be fine. Tell me what you think." He lifted his own cup and took a small sip of black coffee. Unsweetened. His habit.
"Mmm... the flavor is right, but..." Mostima put on a serious expression, using her index finger to wipe a dab of cream from the corner of her lips. Her cyan-blue eyes stared into the Doctor's gray ones. "Not sweet enough."
"Huh...?" The Doctor was clearly not expecting that. "That can't be right. I watched them put in loads of sugar..."
He picked up a macaron and took a bite.
He froze for a second. Then he was coughing violently, tears springing to his eyes. "So sweet!!!" He sputtered, eyes watering. When he looked up, Mostima was watching him bent over in a fit of coughing, her face barely containing its laughter.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, the flavor is fine. I just suddenly wanted to play a little trick on you." Mostima wiped a tear of laughter from her eye and offered the Doctor a napkin.
The Doctor straightened up and took the napkin. "Hmph... fine." He pulled two boxes from a drawer under the table and took a paper packet from one of them. "Sugar. For your coffee. Otherwise, it's really bitter." Mostima took the sugar with a cheerful smile. "Thank you, Doctor. Alright, as compensation, let me tell you a story. From my last trip."
She tore open the packet, poured it into her coffee, stirred, and took a delicate sip. But a strange, familiar sweetness spread across her tongue. Her brows furrowed. This time, the confusion was genuine.
She looked up. Under his hood, the Doctor's gray eyes were watching her, barely hiding their amusement.
"...Doctor." She slowly put down her cup. "This isn't sugar, is it."
The Doctor finally broke. He pulled off his hood, running a hand through his messy, gray-white hair, a triumphant grin on his face. "Indeed it's not! It's the artificial sweetener I use." He gave her a playful wink. "Just a little revenge for your little trick." He shrugged, a smug smile on his face, and took another sip of his own coffee.
Mostima looked at him and let out a helpless laugh.
"Are you a child?"
---
The body on the floor was dead. There was no possible doubt about it. The entire head had been pounded into a pulp. Mostima was gasping for breath, slumped on top of the corpse.
Her mind slowly came back into focus. She raised her hands. The gloves were soaked in blood, flecked with bits of flesh and bone. Her knuckles were torn raw, and she couldn't tell whose blood was on them—hers, or the corpse's. She staggered to her feet, her legs so weak she nearly fell.
Mostima took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. She surveyed the carnage before her, then let her eyes fall.
She peeled off the blood-soaked gloves and put on a fresh pair. Pulling a scrap of cloth from a pocket, she wiped her hands and face. The world slowly came back into focus. She straightened up, swaying slightly, and walked away, step by step, leaving the scene of the killing behind.
In the dim corridor, her footsteps echoed. She opened her backpack and pulled out improvised explosive charges. As she walked, she planted them on the building's load-bearing walls and main support pillars. She didn't look back. She just calculated the time, silently, moving from the bottom level all the way to the top.
On the rooftop, a wild wind, thick with yellow sand, howled past. Mostima kicked open the rusted door and walked to the edge of the roof.
The broken rooftop was littered with discarded junk and rusted equipment, covered in a layer of wind-blown sand. Mostima stood at the edge, looking out over the desolate land stretching into the distance. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. No one could know what she was thinking; all anyone could see was her silently lowering her eyes.
Then she turned, leaned back, and let her feet leave the rooftop, plummeting downwards.
At that moment, the timers on the explosives reached zero. The building erupted from the ground floor up, a brilliant, fiery bloom against the sky.
The sensation of freefall blotted out nearly everything. The roar of the explosions, the blinding light—it was all left behind. She only felt the warmth of the flames. It was warm, like sunlight.
---
"I want to go with you. To see what a messenger's work is like."
The hand holding the small cake stopped in mid-air. Mostima froze for a moment, then a smile spread across her face. "Doctor, a messenger's work is hard. Sometimes I'm on the road for a whole month. I'd be fine with it, but what about Rhodes Island?"
The Doctor smiled and pointed at his empty desk. "Kal'tsit confiscated all my work and ordered me to take a vacation. But I had no idea what to do with myself. Then, last night, while I was thinking about it, I thought of you."
"If it's a Catastrophe Messenger's work, it would help me understand the situation on the ground better. And maybe," a flicker of barely perceptible pain crossed his face, "it would help me understand the person I used to be."
He quickly composed himself, though, and smiled at Mostima. "But the main reason is that you'll be there. I trust you."
Mostima held her cup of sweetened black tea, her eyes darting thoughtfully before she smiled. "Alright then, Doctor. But remember, stick close to me. The wilds are dangerous."
The Doctor nodded and patted his chest. "Don't worry. I've been through a lot. I won't be a burden."
But he seemed to have been a little too forceful with the chest-thumping, as he immediately doubled over in a coughing fit.
Mostima rolled her eyes and popped the rest of the cake into her mouth. It was delicious.
Two days later, Mostima was on the road with the Doctor in the passenger seat. The work of a messenger wasn't as exciting as he might have imagined. Most of the time, it was just silent driving through the wilderness. They ran into the occasional bit of trouble—wild beasts or scavengers—but nothing they couldn't handle. At first, the Doctor had a notebook out, diligently recording the terrain, the local fauna, and the weather patterns. But soon, he stopped writing. Mostima thought he was bored, but every time she glanced over, his expression was peaceful. Not boredom, but a kind of concentration she was reluctant to interrupt.
One evening, after completing a delivery, they were on their way back and passed a hillside. Mostima stopped the vehicle, saying she needed a short break. The two of them climbed to the top of the hill. Before them lay the sprawling wilderness, and in the distance, a Catastrophe cloud was drifting slowly, lightning flickering silently within it.
The Doctor sat down beside her, propping himself up on the grass. He didn't speak.
The silence stretched on, but Mostima didn't feel awkward. This was what she found most comfortable about being with the Doctor—a silence that didn't make her want to run.
A gentle breeze blew, carrying a slight chill. They started chatting idly, talking about Amiya's growth, the hardships and funny stories of messenger work, and the occasional times Fiammetta would get frustrated. Laughter echoed across the grass, the sunset's afterglow painting them in warm light.
"Doctor, what are you looking at?" Mostima asked, noticing he'd been quiet for a while.
"Hmm... that Catastrophe cloud over there." He pointed at the distant, lightning-trailing cloud. "What did that patch of sky look like, before the Catastrophe cloud formed?"
Mostima looked at him. The gray of his eyes reflected the light of the Catastrophe cloud, but it wasn't fear she saw in them. It was something else, something she couldn't quite name.
She thought for a moment, then asked softly, "Have you seen a lot of Catastrophes?"
The Doctor was silent for a beat before giving a bitter laugh. "Probably. I don't remember."
He didn't continue the subject.
Mostima didn't press him. She just looked back at the Catastrophe cloud, her right hand propping her up on the grass without thought.
The breeze swept over the hill, bringing the faint scent of distant flowers. Both of them fell silent for a moment.
After a long while, Mostima spoke softly. "I've seen my share of Catastrophes. No matter when, they always make you feel so powerless."
"I've seen refugees driven from their homes, and ruins ravaged by disaster. Those scenes always stay with me. They make you feel how small we are in the face of it all. But I believe, with you here, there's at least a little more hope."
The Doctor didn't reply. He was just lost in thought.
The wind rushed up the slope, gently pushing the blades of grass against the back of the Doctor's hand. His hand moved slightly, just a tiny adjustment, but it was a fraction closer to hers.
Mostima felt it. But she didn't look down, and she didn't pull her hand away.
Another silent lightning flash lit up the distant Catastrophe cloud.
Mostima felt the Doctor's fingers touch hers.
To be precise, his little finger. Not holding, not clasping, just resting lightly against hers.
She simply stayed there, feeling the warmth of another person's skin against her hand.
She didn't move.
Neither did he.
They stayed like that for as long as the wind blew, just as they always had.
---
A cold gust of wind hit Mostima's face, making her sneeze.
She sat up from her sleeping bag in the makeshift camp she'd built in the wilderness, blinking sleepily.
The fire in her pit had long since burned out, leaving nothing but pale, white ash.
She'd been dreaming again.
She didn't say anything. She just silently got up, packed up her tent and sleeping bag, and quickly checked over her gear.
From a bag at her side, she pulled out a battered, worn-out notebook. She flipped open a page sewn in with needle and thread and forcefully crossed out a name, while also crossing off a red dot on the map beside it.
The map was covered in these crossed-out red dots, densely packed like pustules.
Mostima put the notebook and map away and pulled the hood of her jacket over her head. The wind was picking up, grains of sand pelting against the fabric like rain.
And there, behind the curtain of yellow sand, a flash of fiery red entered Mostima's vision.
"Ah. It's her."
"I should have known."
The newcomer's face was filled with both anger and worry as she hurried towards Mostima, shouting, "Mostima!"
It was Fiammetta.
Mostima didn't respond. She just hoisted her gear and prepared to leave.
"Hey! Don't you walk away!" Fiammetta, now certain it was Mostima, quickened her pace to a run. "You absolute bastard! You just disappeared without a word! For months, both the Lateran Papal Hall and Rhodes Island have been looking for you! Where have you been hiding?!"
She grabbed Mostima's arm, holding her back. Mostima glanced over her shoulder and pulled her arm free from Fiammetta's grip. "Where I go is none of your concern now."
Fiammetta froze for a moment, but quickly recovered. "None of my concern? I'm your overseer! You're supposed to tell me before you go anywhere! And don't think I don't know! I've been following your trail for months. I know what you've been doing!"
"Every time Rhodes Island found a lead on the assassins who killed the Doctor, the trail would suddenly go cold. And every time, you'd turn up in those same places. By the time Rhodes Island arrived, all they'd find were bodies and rubble!"
Her voice trembled as she grabbed Mostima and forced her to face her. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is? That was an entire trained, structured, organized military force! Were you going to take them all on yourself? For revenge? Do you know how much Rhodes Island and the Papal Hall have been covering for you?! You think going rogue like this will bring you justice? You're throwing your life away!"
Mostima gave no response. She just adjusted the straps of her backpack, her face half-hidden in the shadow of her hood. She turned, glancing back slightly. "I told you, it's none of your concern. Let go."
Fiammetta didn't let go. And Mostima didn't need her to.
She snapped her fingers, and in an instant, she was gone. Fiammetta blinked, startled, then recovered. She looked up, but Mostima's form was fading into the dust-choked wind.
*Boom!* A massive explosion roared, stopping Mostima in her tracks. A grenade had detonated right beside her, tearing through the dust cloud she was using for cover. She looked back. Fiammetta was holding her launcher, her expression resolute.
"I told you—I'll bring you back, even if I have to beat you to a pulp!"
Mostima said nothing. She just dropped her backpack and took Lock and Key in her hand.
Fiammetta's finger tightened on the trigger.
In the next instant, a flash of pale blue light shot towards her. Fiammetta sidestepped. "How long are you going to keep running?! Do you know how worried we've been?!"
"I didn't ask you to worry." Mostima fired off two more Arts bolts. They grazed Fiammetta's shoulder, blasting a crater in the thick sand dune behind her. The power was low—not meant to attack, just to push her back.
"You didn't ask us to—" Fiammetta was equal parts anger and exasperation. "You disappeared without a word, all alone, to hunt down an entire army by yourself, and you say you didn't ask us to worry?! Mostima, you—"
"I killed them all. Every last one." Mostima's voice was indifferent, as if discussing the weather with a stranger. "So, I don't need your worry. And I'm not going with you."
Fiammetta clicked her tongue in frustration. She took aim at Mostima's figure, and two grenades launched in quick succession, exploding right in front of her.
The heatwave and concussive blast limited Mostima's movement. Seizing the opportunity, Fiammetta sprinted across the sand and was on her in an instant, throwing a hard punch. Mostima twisted aside quickly. She dodged the punch, but Fiammetta's elbow caught her hard in the ribs, sending a dull ache from her ribcage to her back. She didn't make a sound, instead sweeping her leg low to take out Fiammetta's footing.
They both hit the ground, crashing into the sand. In a heartbeat, they were scrambling back up, regaining their stances, not even bothering to wipe the grit from their faces.
"You think I don't know what you're trying to do?" Fiammetta interrogated her, panting. The yellow dust was caught in her hair, making it look like a flame about to go out. "You're trying to destroy yourself. You never planned on coming back alive, did you!"
Mostima didn't answer, just stared at Fiammetta. The wind blew strands of hair across her face, her blue eyes, under her bangs, were bloodshot from the sand. She stared at Fiammetta. That was her attitude. That was her answer.
Fiammetta's voice began to shake. "Did you ever stop to think, what would happen to me if you died? What about Lemuen? What about Lemuele? All those Rhodes Island operators still waiting for you—"
"Shut fuck up—" Mostima's teeth were clenched, her voice low and suppressed.
Fiammetta didn't stop. She thought Mostima's reply was her trying to avoid the issue. "Stop this blind obsession! Look at your own hands, how much blood is on them! You think this will avenge the Doctor? No matter what you do, the Doctor is already dea—"
Fiammetta suddenly realized what she'd just said and clamped her mouth shut. But Mostima's pupils had already constricted. Her clenched fist trembled. The light on her staff slowly faded.
Fiammetta wanted to say something, anything, to take it back. But Mostima's mind was no longer there.
---
The Doctor's funeral was held on the deck of Rhodes Island.
Due to the torture he'd suffered, the Doctor's remains were too disfigured. In the end, the body was placed directly in a casket, denying the operators a chance to say their final goodbyes.
Amiya, as the leader of Rhodes Island, fought through her grief to preside over the funeral. But she couldn't even get a single coherent sentence out. For the sake of her health, Kal'tsit was forced to step in and lead the ceremony in her stead.
On the deck, the casket was placed in the center. The operators of Rhodes Island had, without any order, changed into the black attire from their wardrobes to see the Doctor off on his final journey.
Mostima, hood pulled over her head, leaned against the railing of the deck, silently watching the casket. Her eyes were hollow, her face expressionless.
Fiammetta, dressed in a somber black gown, walked over to her.
She gently patted Mostima on the shoulder. She didn't say much. At a moment like this, any words would have felt too thin.
Silence.
Mostima thought about the first day the Doctor had asked her to be his assistant. She thought about the times they'd spent chatting and drinking coffee. She thought about the Doctor's tired but smiling face.
She was angry. She was grieved. She was in despair.
But it was all useless.
She remembered what Kal'tsit had told her the night she returned.
"According to our investigation, the people who orchestrated this attack are a group of fanatical supporters of Her Highness Theresa."
Mostima had been slumped in a chair in front of Kal'tsit, her head down, hair veiling her face.
Kal'tsit had continued, "They believe the Doctor was the one responsible for Her Highness Theresa's death. So they planned this attack."
Mostima hadn't spoken.
Kal'tsit had also fallen silent.
After a long, long while, Mostima had slowly asked, "Do you have any leads on them?"
Kal'tsit had been somewhat surprised. She hadn't expected Mostima to ask that, and for a moment, she was caught off guard. "Yes. We've already identified some of their hideouts. I was about to dispatch personnel to investigate."
"Give the information to me."
"...No." Kal'tsit was silent for a moment, then gently shook her head. "The enemy is powerful. You won't be able to handle this on your own. The Doctor has already been assassinated. We can't afford to let other operators take unnecessary risks."
She paused, looked up to take a breath, and continued. "I know what you want to do. But don't take the risk."
Mostima had said nothing. She'd just stood up from the chair, stiffly, as if just learning how to move her body. She gave Kal'tsit a silent, slight bow, and then silently left the office.
Now, here she was, leaning against the railing. In her pocket was a notebook, filled with the leads she'd recorded after sneaking into Kal'tsit's office.
The sound of weeping came from afar.
She looked up to see the Doctor's casket being carried into the elevator. Soon, it would be taken to the crematorium. Soon, the Doctor would vanish completely from this world, reduced to a light box of ashes.
She saw Amiya collapse to her knees on the deck, sobbing uncontrollably.
She saw Kal'tsit crouching beside Amiya, her hand on her shoulder, her own face etched with grief.
As if she had made some kind of resolution, she leaned back against the railing and let her body fall from the deck.
From that moment on, no one on Rhodes Island ever saw Mostima again.
Until now.
---
"...Mostima! Mostima!"
Mostima's consciousness slowly returned to her body. Before her were the yellow sand, the wilderness, and Fiammetta's face. But the rage had already risen to her throat. Months of suppressed fury, her hands drenched in blood, the mercenary she'd pounded into pulp, the building she'd blown to pieces like fireworks, that hand on the hillside, so close, just resting against hers, the hand she'd never gotten to hold—it all surged up in that one instant.
She raised her eyes.
Fiammetta noticed the change in Mostima's eyes and swallowed, hard. She instinctively took a step back, her finger moving to the trigger.
"You're telling me to go back... is that it?" Mostima's voice was low and hoarse, trembling, as if a question held back for too long was finally tearing through her own chest.
Suddenly, she lunged forward. Her staff erupted with a blinding cyan light, and in a flash, she was upon Fiammetta, her Arts detonating around her.
"You're telling me to go back—back where?! That office is empty!"
Fiammetta, startled, pushed off with her right foot, propelling herself backward. But Mostima was relentless, her temporal Arts blooming around Fiammetta, who instantly felt her own movements betray her, her time stretching, slowing, like she was struggling through viscous water.
"He's dead! Completely dead! They killed him—they snapped his fingers one by one, they gouged out his eyes, those gray eyes!" Mostima reached Fiammetta and drove a knee into her gut. "I'll never see him again! I'll never hear his voice! I couldn't even see him one last time! He couldn't even leave a last word!"
Fiammetta took the knee strike square in the chest. It felt like being rammed by a burdenbeast. The air was knocked out of her in a rush. She let out a stifled grunt, her body flying backward uncontrollably, rolling once in the sand before she managed to stabilize herself.
She gritted her teeth and scrambled back to her feet, but Mostima was already on her, staff raised. Orbs of temporal Arts light coalesced around her. Mostima's expression had completely unraveled, and she was screaming as she attacked.
"I finally had a place where I didn't have to run anymore! I finally had someone who made me feel like Rhodes Island could be a home! And then they killed him! They took him away from me—you tell me, where am I supposed to go back to?! Where is there left for me?!"
Tears welled in Mostima's eyes. Anger, grief, regret, despair—the maelstrom of emotions made her attacks even more frantic. Fiammetta didn't dare take them head-on and was forced to retreat, again and again. Then, suddenly, Mostima stopped.
It wasn't exhaustion. It wasn't a softening of heart. It was the words that had been festering in her chest for months, the rage and despair finally blocking her throat.
"You want me—"
Mostima's jaw was clenched so tight it trembled. Her staff flickered erratically, pulsing with her heartbeat.
"You want me... how do you expect me to forgive those murderers who took him away from me?!"
The roar ripped across the wilderness. It was an accusation. It was an interrogation. Mostima screamed the words at Fiammetta. And her tears finally broke free—not from weakness, but because the dagger that had been lodged in her heart was finally pulled out by her own hand.
Fiammetta silently watched Mostima, who was teetering on the edge of utter collapse. There was no avoidance in her gaze. She simply closed the cylinder of her launcher and raised it, aiming it at Mostima. Her finger rested on the trigger.
Mostima's breakdown continued. The orbs of Arts energy were still gathering, whipping the sand and dust around her into a whirlwind. *If I take this hit head-on, I'll die,* Fiammetta thought.
She pulled the trigger. Three grenades hurtled through the pale blue sky, screaming towards Mostima.
They hit the sand. And didn't explode.
Mostima froze. In that moment, the grenades burst, releasing a thick, choking cloud of smoke. The shock broke her concentration, and her Arts orbs dissipated as her focus wavered.
And in that very instant, a figure appeared behind her. Mostima whirled around, but Fiammetta burst through the smoke and lunged at her.
Their weapons fell to the ground. The fight Mostima had expected never came.
All Fiammetta brought was a hug.
She held Mostima tightly, suppressing her struggles with all her strength, letting Mostima's wild fists rain down on her.
Fiammetta's voice sounded softly in Mostima's ear. It wasn't an order. It was just a simple statement.
"I know. I know everything."
Fiammetta's voice was trembling. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She reached up and gently stroked Mostima's hair. Her lips moved, as if she wanted to say something more, but in the end, she just rested her chin on Mostima's shoulder.
Mostima's body went rigid. The hands that had been struggling slowly stilled, falling heavily to her sides. It was as if she'd suddenly lost all her support. Her knees slowly buckled, and she gradually lowered her head, pressing her forehead against Fiammetta's shoulder. Her shoulders began to shake.
Lock and Key slipped from her grasp, hitting the sand with a dull, heavy sound.
A sob escaped against Fiammetta's shoulder. It was the emotion she had suppressed for months, the vulnerability she had forbidden herself to show since the day the Doctor died. Her breathing became ragged, like someone just pulled from the water. Slowly, tentatively, she raised her hands and wrapped them around Fiammetta, hugging her back. The moment her arms closed around Fiammetta, it was as if a shackle had shattered. The facade and strength she had held onto for so long crumbled in an instant, and tears streamed uncontrollably down her face.
And so, in Fiammetta's arms, Mostima wept. All the sorrow, the pain, and the regret that had been festering in her heart flowed out with her tears, the tears soaking into their wounds together.
---
"Feeling a little better?" Fiammetta asked.
Mostima didn't reply. She just lay there quietly.
Fiammetta didn't press her. She just stood up, dusted herself off, and said to Mostima, "The vehicle is on the other side of the road."
She picked up her launcher and slung it across her back. She heard the sound of cloth rustling against the sand behind her—Mostima was getting up and following.
She didn't look back. She just set off, walking forward.
The two of them walked in silence across the sand, just like they used to.
---
The wind on the deck of Rhodes Island was strong, whipping Mostima's hair across her face.
She leaned against the railing, gazing out at the mountains undulating in the distance.
"Miss Mostima?"
Amiya's voice came from behind her. Mostima turned. Amiya was standing there, her hands clasped in front of her.
"You're back." She smiled brightly, though it couldn't entirely hide the exhaustion in her eyes. "Everyone on Rhodes Island has missed you these past few months. Did you go see Dr. Kal'tsit?"
Mostima smiled. "I saw her. Sorry for making you all worry."
Amiya shook her head. She turned to look at the distant bridge. "It's okay. The Doctor's passing has been hard on all of us... but Rhodes Island can't stop here. We still have so much to do. We can't let his sacrifice be in vain."
Her eyes dimmed for a moment, but were quickly replaced by something brighter.
Mostima watched the child before her in silence. She didn't say anything. She just gently patted Amiya on the shoulder.
She thought of what the Doctor had once told her, about the future he dreamed of.
"We're still slowly recovering," Amiya paused for a moment before continuing. "I was thinking, Miss Mostima, would you like to stay for a while... eh?"
Amiya turned her head as she spoke, but Mostima was already gone. All that remained was a faint, lingering scent in the air, as clear as water.
She was gone, just like that time before.
Amiya blinked, then let out a helpless smile. She turned and walked towards the bridge.
The wind was still blowing.
---
**End**