Work Text:
Luca’s ‘Seventeenth’ Birthday
----
Sleeping.
Dreaming.
Something like that.
It’s two days after I celebrated my seventeenth birthday with the Inventor--it’s shocking to think he’s raised me and cared for me for so long, don’t you think? I’m nothing but grateful, though.
I’m expecting to dream of something simple, like those usual dreams I have of completing various inventions or of saying things I don’t remember to servants I know I’ve never seen anywhere but my dreams.
But I wake up on my back, staring up at a blue sky.
I know I’m dreaming, but while I can usually tell if my face is in my pillow or if I kicked the covers off based on how the dream feels, I can’t do that here. What I’m wearing feels real, these long, heavy white robes that glitter in the bright light despite there being no sun in the sky.
It’s windy, too.
“....?”
I try to speak, ask what’s going on, why this dream is so different, when I realize I can’t even speak. I open my mouth to repeat myself more loudly, but no sound comes out. I feel my heart rate speed up a bit, and--
The light flashes, bright enough to induce a headache, and suddenly, everything smells like irises.
I’m glad I didn’t stand--I would've fallen, and--
I hold my breath as a figure seems to step out of the light itself, the sharp breeze causing his robes to sway in the wind--they’re like mine--
The only color I see on him is white. White and a bright indigo and yellow, courtesy of the irises circling his head, waist, and forearm. He has two sets of wings and a marble cross that looks too heavy to wear around his neck on a white string.
“...!”
And I still can’t talk.
I’m not religious, but I’m aware enough to know this is an angel, much like what’s in the Bible, except I am being approached by one.
Angels carry messages. God, do you need me to do something? What is it?
I make no noise, as expected, when the angel kneels in front of me, bright and white and radiant as he leans forward and picks up my hands.
I’m starting to wonder if this is some sort of weird daydream when the angel suddenly turns my palms towards me, and I notice nine golden scratches on each palm.
Nine plus nine is eighteen.
“...”
I can’t even tell him I’m seventeen--
His hair covers his face and I notice that his visible eye is some weird red color, and I feel my body go numb as he drops my palms and reaches for my face.
The second he touches my face, he cups it tightly, and while normally, I’d hate it, I’m relieved because my whole body goes numb. I can’t even breathe, which is horrible because I should be panting from stress right now. I can’t feel my heart in my chest or anything, and it’s pretty terrible.
Then there’s a sharp pain right beneath my ear, on the edge of my jaw, and I’m suddenly able to gasp and jerk away from the angel. However, my actions are unfinished as the light flashes, just like before, and suddenly I open my eyes, sweating and suffocating in the heat of the comforters as I try to kick them off.
I’m in my room again.
It’s still dark.
I start inhaling as deeply as I can and exhaling as slowly as my shaky breath allows, trying to lay still to reduce the whole-body shivers making me tremble.
I’m not scared, not anymore, but it takes my heartbeat way too long to leave my ears.
When I feel strong enough, I push myself back into a sitting position and slowly shake my legs out of the wad of blankets I’d trapped them in. It’s a little weird feeling cold air against them, since my whole body’s still a mess of hot and cold.
My head goes fuzzy for a moment, and I close my eyes while the dizzy spell passes, taking care to move slowly as I stand up.
I’ve never had a dream like that. I’ve always been able to control what I dreamed of.
...Maybe it’s a coming-of-age thing? He did show me eighteen lines--eighteen.
I’m seventeen.
Or not.
Maybe they got my birthday wrong because I’m adopted.
It’s weird to think I’m eighteen, though.
I slowly walk over to the mirror and look at my face. There’s a bit of moonlight coming through the window, so if I crouch down and look at where the light is, I can tell my skin’s still got that sweaty sheen and everything.
...Huh?
I angle my head up and notice a small, whitish scar on my jaw.
...From the dream.
But it’s impossible for a wound to heal and scar so--! I’ve never had that! Is God actually real? What do They want--
He’s standing there.
I turn around so fast trying to catch the flash of feathers in my peripheral vision that I get dizzy again and have to lean against the wall to ease myself into a sitting position.
Maybe a midnight snack (whatever the time is) will help…?
I get up and leave my room.
I don’t turn when I think I see feathers because I don’t want to get dizzy again, but I look long enough to realize they’re feathers--the same broad, white ones on the wings of the angel from the dream.
----
The Death of the Inventor
----
He won’t stop yelling, won’t even listen, WON’T EVEN LISTEN--
“PROFESSOR!--”
He cuts me off again. It’s been the same thing for at least the past ten minutes, and won’t let up. All I did was make one comment about--
“You ungrateful BRAT! You should know better than to accuse me of not playing fair. I’m the BEST! You’re barely making it by on my coattails, Balsa. I’m the leader of the world of inventions, of electricity and engineering! You know this--WE know this! Stop interrupting me and APOLOGIZE.”
I’ve been holding back tears for a while now. Ever after my eighteenth birthday--which I’m guessing isn’t my actual one--he’s been like this. Like I’m some bothersome co-worker, not his son.
“Professor,” I begin, quieter this time. “Take a look at this, now.”
I make sure not to comment on his opinions as I take one of my works in progress, my Greatest Invention, our Souce of Conflict, in my hand and step back from him.
“And what about it? Is it not stolen? You surely do not have the talent for--”
“Professor, it’s not stolen. I’ve said this for the past, what, twenty minutes?! You’re the one taking ideas and credit, if anything--”
“YOU AND YOUR PRESUMPTUOUS CHATTER!” he shouts, and I can’t help whining under my breath as he steps forward.
We’ve argued about this before. It’s just never been this bad.
He thinks I steal ideas--I don’t. I know he takes more credit than what’s due, especially when it comes to my inventions. He acts like he doesn’t.
It’s been all passive-aggressive chatter or snapping until today, when he--
“HEY! LET GO!!! PROFESSOR, LET GO!!”
He’s standing in the background, the angel, but I ignore him as I try to yank my project back.
“YOU KNOW NOT TO GRAB IT! THE VOLTAGE!! LET GO!!!!”
“SHUT IT, BALSA,” the professor snaps back, and my grip loosens, more out of shock than anything, and suddenly, the device--now in his hand--
Flies back and hits him in the chest.
The impact is immediate.
Sparks fly out in some elaborate arc and I feel nothing but pain as I’m apparently electrocuted as well, and I’m screaming and and trying to control the spasming and the spots appearing in my vision and I can’t scream again.
I think I’m finally crying as my head hits the floor. Hard. I can’t control my body.
I can’t turn my head, either, but I think the professor is lying behind me on the marble floor. Is he okay--I was mad but now I’m just panicking because ELECTROCUTION ISN’T FUNNY IS HE OKAY--
The angel steps closer.
He’s never done that. He’s always lingered back, barely visible in the corner of my eye. I’m used to that.
Am I dying?
Am I dying?
Am I dying?
But once he’s close, only two tiles away, he stops, robes still because there’s no breeze. The irises are in full bloom, and his hair falls in his face. His wings are neatly folded.
He looks the same, why isn't he HELPING--
He stares at me without meeting my eyes until there’s suddenly a slamming noise, indicating the opening of a door.
I finally have the energy to push myself off of the ground, fueled by panic, and suddenly, I don’t see the angel, he’s somewhere behind me, and there’s only me and the Marchesa. I’m kneeling in front of the Professor’s still body.
“WHAT HAPPENED?!” she shrieks, rushing forward. I grab the device from the Professor’s hand and hurl it away from us and the Marchesa despite the ache in my chest--not from the lightning--as I hear it crack some ways away.
“WE GOT IN A FIGHT, A-AND HE G-GRABBED THE--THE DEVICE, A-AND, THEN, THE ELECTRO--”
The Marchesa rushes forward and grabs the Professor’s hand. I do the same, and I feel a sudden, all-consuming panic as I realize his hand is cold when I pull his glove off.
I take a deep breath and start to stammer more, the tears coming back with a mission to leave my eyes, but they only fall from shock as the Marchesa begins to shriek.
“YOUR INVENTION! HE’S DEAD! YOU KILLED--”
“N-NO, I--” I’m sobbing, and a crushing headache turns her hysterics to mush as I scream illegibly in reply, trying to block her out.
I didn’t WANT TO, didn’t MEAN TO, only HAD TO AND--
Suddenly, the shouting stops.
I take a moment to catch up and stop screaming, but it feels like there’s a high whine somewhere that warps the words the Marchesa speaks.
“...the police. Leave. I’m calling them...murder! MURDERER!”
“IT WAS A-AN A-ACCIDENT AND--”
“STOP! TALKING! I DON’T WANT TO EVER HEAR YOUR VOICE AGAIN! YOU AREN’T MY SON, STOP CRYING AND SHOWING YOUR TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE FACE! STOP! YOU KILLED HIM!”
I feel the world stop more than it already has, and comply pathetically.
I want to keep screaming. I want to, I want to make her LISTEN, but I feel so terrible. I cry without even bringing my hands to hide my face as I sink lower and lower on my knees until I’m sitting with the worst posture I’ve ever had, ruining my clothes. His body hasn’t moved, and it’s in the corner of my eye no matter where I look unless I close my eyes.
I don’t stop crying, but I don’t argue with the Marchesa as she runs off sobbing. She’ll get the police, and… and…!
I stare at the ceiling, tears streaming from the corners of my eyes as I don’t even try to control my gasps and sniffles, ignoring the disgusting feeling of snot in the back of my throat. The spots have left about half my vision, and I feel increasingly exhausted. The tingling won’t leave my legs and the buzzing won’t get out of my ears.
It’s like I’ve already forgotten what it feels like to not be in pain.
After a while, I notice the angel next to me. I only see up to his waist from where I’m sitting, and I don’t have the energy to move more.
I didn’t kill him.
Maybe the angel can read my mind.
I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him I didn’t kill him DO YOU HEAR ME I’m gonna go to prison because of this I’m gonna go to prison because of this I’m gonna
The headache’s too much.
I close my eyes and try to rest, and i feel something like fingertips brush against my cheek before I fall asleep.
----
Prison
----
I don’t like to think about prison, even though it’s really all I can think about, really. I know I did something, yeah, I didn’t kill the Professor, but I can’t recall his face or what I want. I’m grasping at notions here. The only concrete thing is the cell.
‘Didn’t kill him,’ and, ‘my Greatest Invention,’ and ‘No one believes me.’
That stuff.
Not concrete.
It’s frustrating, and whatever’s happened to my body doesn't make it any better. The chain hurts my skin and I’m so hungry. Walking is way too hard, and these headaches happen out of nowhere and last for I don’t know how long.
The kicker?
It can’t have been more than a week.
He’s stood in the corner most of the time, and I’ve considered trying to talk to him, even if he won’t reply, to kill some sort of time.
When I talked to him before, he didn’t reply, I’m almost certain.
The more divine a punishment, the more cruel. Is it like that? What’s the matter with me? It’s not even my fault!
“I hate it here,” I say, making sure not to look at him directly. He always disappears when I try to look right at him. “Why not leave and go somewhere better?”
He doesn’t reply. Typical. But it’s something to do.
“You really--”
The bell rings for dinner. I throw my head back and groan. I hate dinner. Everyone’s a slob and it tastes terrible--I just want something, anything to tinker with--I don’t remember everything, but I know it’s better than whatever else I can possibly do.
Walking still sucks. My legs won’t work, and my head goes fuzzy with dizziness. I still can’t see out of my left eye like normal.
It’s safe to say I’m not in the mood for anything.
I almost miss him going to sit on the pathetic piece of wood we call ‘beds’ here as I go to stand by the door, waiting for a guard to come by and unlock it.
~~
The anger makes way for desperation.
I still can’t see or walk right, and the headaches haven’t stopped--I’ve just gotten better at waiting them out.
I want out.
I want out.
I cried once at dinner and got punched in the face.
I don’t cry in front of the inmates anymore.
But the angel…
He helped me, I guess.
My initial anger got me in a horrible spot--I picked fights I couldn't take on out of sheer frustration, and all my losses--no wins--have turned me into a punching bag of sorts.
How am I even supposed to fight back? I try, I swear, but there’s just no way.
He’s always helped with my wounds.
I actually came back from dinner with some re-opened scars, and wordlessly, he’s come to my side, soundless even though I’m able to imagine the sound of his heavy robes shuffling.
I extend my injured arm, and his fingertips ghost my wound. If it were any other person, it’d hurt--but I don’t think he can hurt me. He doesn't look me in the face, never does, and simply covers the injury with his hands.
The pain is never gone entirely, and the pain is never gone forever, but I think it’s the one thing keeping me alive here anyways, this odd relief.
Once, he held his hands on my head so I could tinker through a headache.
I wonder if he’ll ever do it again.
Speaking of tinkering…!
I’ve found the most pathetically minimal materials possible, but it’s something, and I’ve been disassembling and reassembling a low-grade pocket watch with a pair of tweezers obsessively for a month now. I don’t think I specialized in clocks, but it’s something, and it’s what I’m doing.
My stomach hurts from eating dinner too quickly, so once the angel removes his hands from my arm, I curl onto my side. I’d tried to sleep on the floor out of spite for the first few times, but I learned that even this ‘bed’ may be better.
I don’t expect the angel to sit down in front of the bed, watching me with the ability to avoid any and all eye contact. I really don’t.
I feel a bit of jealousy staring at his face, even though there are scars there as well. No one is unmarred in this world, not even the angels.
I don’t know if I cried myself to sleep or cried in my sleep, but I woke up with the puny greenish blanket on the bed spotted darkly by my head with tears.
~~
The desperation makes way for empty nothingness.
I thought I’d be able to maintain my emotions, hold onto them like a human, but that’s clearly not the case.
About two months after getting dragged in this pit, I’d been told I was going to die after being tossed in front of a judge, a whole world away in their dark robes and powdered wig.
I’d screamed for a little bit, but after I got kicked in the calf for making a scene (the angel helped ease the pain later), all the fight left me.
I don’t really know what’s going on anymore.
The angel sits close to me and likes to watch what I tinker with, though. I’ve discarded my morals in favor of the vague dream of my Greatest Invention, and the things I steal are like parts of the thousand-step staircase I’ve only just started on.
I rely a lot on muscle memory. The formulas have long since abandoned me.
In all honesty, it’s the only thing I care about anymore.
When I need to leave for dinner, I lean against the wall before I once again remember I have my leg braces on.
After an unfortunate collapse during a labor session, I’d finally been given something to help me walk, though it’s crude and I need to take care not to get splinters or break the wood.
I’ve only recently started wearing them a lot since I finally modified them.
Dinner passes by uneventfully. I barely eat, and I guess the dead look I’ve developed (it’ll be even more dead in… I don’t know. I stopped counting) scares off the inmates by now.
The chain weighs my neck down as I try to maintain my posture, exhaustion curling in essentially all my bones as I take a small bite of cold stew and let it sit in my mouth. I don’t know if I’ll eat anything else.
Dinner ends, and we’re back to our rooms. I take something that looks like a large needle from the floor--toothpick--and then continue walking.
I think I’ll at least be able to make my way into my room when I suddenly collapse right in front of it, groaning lowly as I barely manage to shield my face from the ground with my arm.
People walk right around me, as if I’m a spill on the floor.
A headache is creeping up on me with its telltale heaviness, so I just crawl on the floor until I can curl up in the middle of my cell.
The angel sits in front of me--it’s weird to be able to actually see him this much.
“Am I seeing you more because I’m dying?” I ask, and my throat hurts because it’s too dry for talking.
He doesn't reply, as usual, but he picks up one of my limp hands and places it between his. It’s nice to be touched, even if the idea of physical contact’s been terribly warped for me, turned into nothing more than trying to release as much electricity as I can in weak shoves at people trying to hurl me to the ground.
I close my left eye, since I can barely see out of it anyway, and watch the angel in his gentle stoicism.
I’ve come to notice a few more details about him.
He has some sort of scar around the skin he’s covering, but he doesn’t move his hair to mess with it. It just was visible one day, the unmistakable look of scarred tissue near the bridge of his nose, and then all of it was covered by white hair again.
The irises on him grow from wounds--directly from his wounds. His blood and flesh is golden. The scars and dried blood on his body glitter dully, as if they’ve healed long ago.
He makes no noise. At all.
He…
Sleep almost swallows me whole (I’ve begun to fall asleep as soon as I hit the floor in a measly attempt to get energy) when I suddenly feel an odd texture against my cheek.
...Paper?
I haven’t touched paper in a while. No one has it here.
A blueprint-?!
A burst of excitement at a baseless conclusion spurs me into snatching up the paper, but I open my eyes to…
A letter.
Cream-colored. Red wax stamp with an emblem I might've known before, but don’t know now.
I open the letter carefully, and unfold its contents. A small slip of paper with the same emblem on the wax stamp flutters down onto my chest since I’m laying on my back. Me and the angel ignore it, and I want to read the letter aloud, but my throat hurts.
It reads:
Dear Mr. Luca Balsa,
I am writing you to invite you to a chance at a second life. Your accident with Professor Balsa has resulted in his death and your own subsequent fall from grace, but I want you to know that there is a way up from that rock bottom.
Show the included attachment to all the authorities in the prison you come across the morning after you receive this letter. You will be taken to someone who will take you to a place known as Oletus Manor. Participate in the Game there and win, and you will receive all the money necessary for your Greatest Invention, and you will be freed of your death sentence.
Sincerely,
The Owner of Oletus Manor
I reread it.
Once.
Twice.
Three times--and then the headache’s back, but my face burns from grinning too as I try to look at the angel.
“So, divine punishment now warrants salvation?” I ask, and he doesn't reply, but he reacts with a small shrug and tilt of his head, which is the most I’ve ever seen from him.
“...Thank you. I’m gonna sleep, and we’ll leave tomorrow!”
~~
In prison, I’ve just had the angel stand on the sidelines as I relive some blurry, blocked-out re-enactment of the Incident in the form of a nightmare when I do sleep.
I know I used to dream before the Incident, but I can’t remember what. It’s like my life had some forgettable and lighthearted (but much better) prologue only to jump right into the cyclical pattern of ridiculously dark chapters.
Now, it’s…
Not the nightmare, is all I know.
I inhale the air’s earthy scent and look up at the clear blue sky, sunny and breezy and completely free of clouds.
When I look back at the building towering in front of me, I blink in surprise. The angel’s there. Not in the corner, like he always is. He’s standing in front of me, wings folded neatly as his robes flutter in the breeze and those irises of his seem to drink in the sun.
“...Are you gonna come with me here? If it’s Oletus Manor?” I ask, slowly making my way closer to him.
I feel a twist of dread in my gut as I realize he’s shaking his head no. “Huh? What do you mean, no-?! Are you really leaving me-?”
Another no.
“...You… You’re not coming with me, but you’re not leaving me? What does that mean?!”
The angel shrugs and spreads his wings.
I stumble forward and try to pull him into a hug, keep him from leaving, but his warm skin crumbles beneath my grip like dust, and an explosion of feathers obscures my vision, smelling of dust and irises. When the feathers clear, I’m staring at the ceiling of the cell with the breakfast bell ringing in my ears.
I sit up slowly, head developing that low whining buzz as my soul leaves my body for a moment. I feel around at the ground before clutching the paper and ticket like a lifeline--and they sort of are.
I scoot to the wall and lean against it to help me stand, and realize with a cold blossom of dread that the angel’s actually disappeared.
...But there’s no time to hesitate. He said he wasn't leaving me. I…
I have to get out of here.
----
Oletus Manor
----
I fell asleep on the ride there, hair tangled with hay and my few belongings stuffed down my shirt uncomfortably because I don’t have enough pockets. The letter flew out of my hand at some point along with the ticket, but I don’t need either anymore.
The sun almost feels too warm, really.
I’m still too tired to express what I truly feel, so I simply stay laying down as elation fizzes in every muscle and bone I have in my body, drunk on the simple fact that I’m alive.
I wake up again as the driver comes to a stop. It’s almost silent, so unlike the noise of the city and of prison I’ve… never felt anything but.
The air smells so clean, too…!
“Mr. Balsa?” the driver asks, and I sit up.
I frankly can’t care less about how I look, lightheaded and finally somewhat well-rested despite feeling like a huge chunk of me is missing. I’ll fill in whatever I’ve lost with what I wanted before and want now--my Greatest Invention.
“Thank you, sir,” I tell him, and lean against the wagon before I stand on my own. My belongings sag in my shirt awkwardly, but I ignore the driver’s disgruntled look.
“Miss Nightingale will greet you.”
The driver says nothing more and hops back on his horse, taking off and leaving me standing alone.
I look around, and while I don’t see the angel, I realize with a shock so large I almost stumble that there are other people here.
Of course. A game needs participants.
I don’t really know what to do, so I look around for anyone else outside of the cluster of people in the center of the lawn. I spot a man with tan skin and a green hood and another man in all grey some ways off, but my attention really is drawn to a girl with fluffy blonde hair and loose brown clothes, crouched down and seeming to manhandle what looks an awful lot like…!
I hurry over to her, thankful for the strength provided by my naps. I lean over the bed of wildflowers she’s nestled herself into. “Is that a robot?!”
The girl shrieks, and I accidentally let out a yelp and a short burst of electricity in return.
We resort to staring at one another, but the girl breaks eye contact right after it’s made and hugs her robot closer. I think her lips move in some sort of answer, but I don’t hear what she says.
“Huh? can you speak up a little? I’d love to hear what you save to say, but I sadly--”
“Ah! What’s sad?” a breathy voice asks, and I’m glad I just used up a lot of charge, because grabbing my arms and leaning over my shoulder would normally fry someone. “Are you lonely? Me and Eli are getting people to join the crowd! We’ve gotten almost everyone!”
I think the blonde girl gives the ‘crowd’ in question the same wary look I do, but the stranger, in an ornate hood with horns and shocking pink hair, laughs and beckons for us to follow.
I take a step, but then turn back to the girl with the robot. She looks reluctant.
“...What’s your name?” I ask, looking at her robot instead of her once she hides behind it.
She seems to calm down. “...Tracy. Are we… going?”
“Yeah, I’d say so,” I tell her, glancing back at the woman already back at the crowd. “I’m Luca, by the way… Luca Balsa.”
“Luca… Balsa?!” Tracy asks, suddenly seeming to lighten up a thousand times on the inside. “You mean the--! Oh, uh… oh. O-oh.”
I pause before smiling, ignoring the slight pang in my chest. “I don’t remember much of that.”
She hides behind her robot again. “...L-let’s go.”
So we go, and I think today might actually be the first good day I’ve had in… way too long.
I don’t say much, simply watching the pink-haired woman and a man in navy blue robes chatter to whatever people seem willing to talk. There’s a short blonde man dressed in obnoxious colors, too, yammering away alongside them. It’s all I really notice, since I’m paying more attention to the edges of the crowd and--
A feather seems to fall from the sky before landing in the white hair of a scrawny, slouched figure that I swear to God, the actual God, looks like my guardian angel.
The feather. The iris. The scars. The eyes. The hair. The skin.
He looks up at me with narrowed eyes, and I notice with a start that I’d moved entirely involuntarily, and am now clearly approaching him.
“...What do you want?” His voice is quiet and raspy.
I want to grab him and show him it’s me and thank him for helping with it all, or check the skin hidden by his hair for scars, or check if he bleeds gold or anything.
He has to be my guardian angel. There’s no way he isn't, but…
“...Stop staring. You look just as terrible.”
I force myself to keep a polite expression. “That’s fine. I can’t, um… I... can’t wait until we start making friends, okay?”