Chapter Text
When she pulls the sword out of him, the gold bars on its side and the triangular quillon morph into something less electronic and more organic. Bones, she thinks. The shining wide circle set midways on the blade seems to hum and glow with a stronger red, almost blinking. The angular channels extending down from the inset eye-circle flicker.
She wraps her grip around the long handle. The sword is lighter than its size suggests but still heavy. It seems like it is hers now.
Hey, Thea. Yeah, it’s me. Weird, huh? Really think we can get away with this?
He’s in there -- that much she’d felt, to take the sword -- but he speaks? She stops a moment out of surprise. “--” She tries to respond but no sound comes out.
“--” She tries again, still, nothing. The sword flickers. She looks at his still form, slumped over. Perhaps she should be falling to her knees, outpouring emotion, as probably would be the scripted reaction in most any production. But there is only the horrible blanket of shock cast over her mind and nerves.
Oh no. That’s -- your voice is gone? But at least you’re in one piece, and we’re still together -- sorta.
There's the creeping feeling whoever destined the weapon here is not too far away. The perpetrator is unknown to both of them; the sword had come singing through the crowd with no hand on its hilt, moving like an arrow from a string. A chill wind whispers down passing through the open roof of the opera house foyer. Strange. That wasn't the elected weather today.
She struggles for some precious moments, pulling his jacket off and donning it herself. Then she runs, the tip of the broadsword dragging on the reflective tile, throwing sparks and light, the gouge slowly repaired in its wake. She's going to the place she knows best, the place where she might be safe, where someone might have an answer.
The sword is the transistor: he tells her this as she's holding it, holding him now.
But is it really Sylvain?
I -- think so.
***
She stops only for half a minute to rip her skirts. Can’t run so fast in a floor-length gown.
So what happened? Did we just leave my body and your voice behind?
Again, she cannot physically produce an answer. Not that she has a good one, not anything that explains any of this. Sylvain’s in the sword, maybe he can figure it out from whatever’s inside.
I’m trying . . .
The hairs on the back of her neck still stand, telling her something is coming.
She resumes her fleeing path, blood pumping.
***
Halfway down the goldwalk, some of the architecture appears white and depthless.
It was not that way when she came, flanked by adoring crowds behind the golden posts and rope, on the red carpet, was it?
She had felt a moment ago that she was outrunning her pursuers and the sense of imminent danger was fading, but it is now back in full force.
Hey, I think there’s a block party waiting up ahead. They’ve -- they? it? -- I’m still figuring it out -- they’ve found us.
They? Who’s they ? What’s in the sword? She can only think this, unable to speak. The shock and the pure instinct to run gives way to a modicum of panic. They are supposed to be running away, right, from whatever or whoever - oh, she isn’t going to have to fight something with this sword --
Sorry Thea, think that’s gonna be our only way out of this one.
But she’s never fought a thing in her life. Sure, she may have been fighting for something her whole life -- she made herself from the ground up, her own woman -- but never had to do much beyond that one time she slapped a man for being much too forward, and that one time she stomped the toes of another man for making inappropriate comments about her friend -- once she swung the mic stand at her old stage manager --
Alright, fine, she’ll try fighting. A staggered wall of white pillars awaits, patchy blank base tiling out and encroaching on the ornate curled patterns carved into the goldwalk. The adrenaline hasn’t totally worn off, either. That should help. She raises the sword.
That’s it, just --
Arrow-like blue sparks gather at its tip. Slamming the weapon forward (she has not the control or muscle to swing it properly, better hope it’s indestructible) a breaching blue light slices ahead. It blasts through a few of the white pillars, which flicker red and then disappear.
That’s -- that’s breach().
Sylvain had better hurry up with the tutorial because scuttling from behind the opening in the wall comes a spidery white machine with a singular red eye. She runs behind the remaining pillars, dragging the transistor, but the creeping creature stops a short distance and fires a fizzling white beam at her. It quickly takes out pillar after pillar -- Dorothea isn’t fast enough to outrun it, not with the sword weighing her down. As the last pillar flickers and evaporates, she turns to raise the transistor, but the creep’s beam hits her square in the chest, lighting her nerves on painful fire.
You have something else, it’s turn() --
Turn()? But as soon as she thinks that --
Everything freezes. Her surroundings go dark, brightness down, contrast up. The far surroundings fade out of focus. She can only see her opponent, motionless now, and wherever she glances, there are ideas in a glowing blue of what she could do with this time she’s bought.
Sylvain could have mentioned this instead of breach(), this seems much more useful --
Freezing time is useless unless you can do something with it, like breach() the hell out of this thing. You could also just stab it. That’ll be a bit faster. This thing is pretty heavy for you, though, don’t wear yourself out--
Indignantly, Dorothea determines a path where she will get within range of the creep and breach() it several times.
Hey--
When her surroundings light back up, she goes into motion just as determined, almost like she’s on autopilot, execution perfect as she slices through the offending creep several times with the blue lance of energy summoned by the transistor. On the last hit, it blasts apart, a cell clunking to the floor before righting itself and hovering.
Not too poorly done. Perhaps . . . perhaps she exchanged her voice for this sort of synergy with the strange transistor. Or is it Sylvain trapped in there who’s rendering her efforts successful?
It . . . might be both. Hate to admit it, but I don’t exactly know what’s going on here. We should probably credit whoever made it.
Whoever made it? Whoever tried to kill her.
Would be nice to know who. They could maybe get me out of this thing.
Well, they’re on their way to ask the first person Dorothea would think has answers: Edelgard von Hresvelg.
Breathing hard, Dorothea drags the sword over to the cell. Cells are something the regular citizen is rationed, for health’s sake. She picks the cell up in a hand and it clips down to pixel fragments, then nothing. Accordingly, she feels a little stronger. Suppose that’s her ration for the month.
Nobody around to measure.
Unfortunately, he’s wrong. The scuttling sound of another creep comes from behind a balustrade similarly taken over by this strange whiteness.
This time, she’s ready. She calls her turn before the creep even marks her. Upon releasing the flow of time, she dashes up and tries the stabbing move suggested. Violent layers of hot gold energy flood off the sword and crash through her enemy. It bursts apart as did the last, and she retrieves the leftover cell.
She isn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it’s above her rations. She takes the cell and heads off to the break point that’ll lead them to the promenade.
***
As they travel, it’s apparent the whole area is evacuated. A quick check at the OVC terminal confirms the evacuation order. More white offends, square on the edge of shops and storefronts, flickering underfoot in patches, almost like a current. The walk down the promenade gives Dorothea a few more foes to defeat, but she’s learning quickly. Well, she’s always been a quick learner. Why isn’t the precinct here? If she, a combat-unready starlet, is getting along fine, surely the precinct would have these creatures snuffed out in no time. Perhaps it just means that there’s no need for incredible alarm and an obvious explanation for these events will show itself soon . . .
Hard to imagine an explanation for a targeted attack on you with an extremely powerful and knowing weapon followed by strange creatures and architecture swarming the goldwalk.
The transistor - exactly how powerful and how knowing? Sylvain shares bits and pieces of information about the sword, as if he’s learning it too. Since when did he become so action-oriented?
You see, there’s really nobody around to impress except you, Thea. Though hopefully I did enough of that when I got myself stuck in here in the first place.
He didn't have to. He didn't have to shove her to the side and take the lethal blow -- but -- but it's going to be alright. They'll get this fixed, and then she'll give him a talking to about throwing his life away.
Looking forward to the lecture. In the meantime, I could do my very best to impress you. Lay on the charm if you want. I'm pretty good at that.
She’d rather he help keep her (them?) alive, thanks very much. Not that being action-oriented in this situation is an unusual response, but rather that Sylvain seems to be doing quite well given the circumstances of being trapped in the transistor.
In case you haven’t noticed by slamming me -- this thing -- I guess it’s me now -- into the ground every thirty steps, I seem pretty unbreakable. Not that I wasn’t before, of course. My confidence around the ladies could always withstand the blow of rejection.
Oh, please.
Just pulling out all the stops for you, Thea.
The mood dampens again when they find a body mostly blanketed in crawling white. It’s left a trace, the ghostly tesseract floating above.
Let me find out more, Sylvain says. Put it --
Dorothea is already hefting the transistor up so its edge carves through the tesseract. The information packet fizzles out as it uploads to the sword, channels blinking.
Lorenz Gloucester, Sylvain says. I knew him. He was kind of an arrogant jerk, but not that I’ve had wished this end for him.
Lorenz. Dorothea knows of him too, like she knows of most elites. High up in fashion, made this very dress for her. Pompous, poor at concealing his overinflated head with lurid purple hair. He was similar to Sylvain in that they both thought they had more charm than they actually did, but Sylvain was somehow more tolerable about it (and much better looking). Despite the fact that Dorothea hated everything about Lorenz’ appearance and his too-polite conduct, though, his attention to each detail in her dress was impressive.
Too bad it’s ruined now, careful stitches along the diagonal panelling of the skirt ripped in favor of mobility and survival. Lying here engulfed in the crawling white, which is beginning to settle overhead like a fog, Lorenz is nearly unrecognizable.
What exactly is this white stuff?
Think it’s called the Process. Kinda messed up what it’s done to Lorenz. And what it’s doing to the streets.
It’s getting worse as they travel, or as time goes on? Hard to tell which. Won’t it just . . . go away?
I dunno is all Sylvain has to offer. Thea, this is gonna sound weird, but Lorenz’s trace seems like it’s . . . expanded the transistor’s abilities.
Well, it’s not exactly weird, considering Sylvain is trapped inside said transistor. Clearly the sword can absorb a significant amount of data.
Data? Awww Thea is that all I am to you? Anyways. Try running. It’ll . . . give you a boost, I think. It’s called jaunt().
She tries, and to her surprise, the first several meters it seems like the sword is helping to propel her along. The effect fades quickly, and now they’re already at the plaza. On the north wall, there’s a poster of her from her last concert. She’s used to seeing her face, well, everywhere. To be honest, this artist did make her nose look a little nicer in this particular depiction.
Look, I completely understand admiring your gorgeous face, as I’ve clearly done that before, but we should go . . .
How did she fall for such a silly man?
I heard that. Hey Thea I really think we should go --
When she turns back around from the poster, a many-headed creature of the same white-and-red nature as the creeps floats threateningly there. Its body looks like a feminine mannequin, heads round with scoping red eyes inset, not all the same diameter.
Ok, sword says this one is a younglady. What a name. Guess you should just let me loose on this one, I’ll drive it away in no time --
The younglady starts rapid-firing laser beams at them.
-- oh shit!
A panicked series of calling turn(), running away, and unleashing the transistor’s incredible if slow energy on the thing, it explodes into a bunch of bad cells. These Dorothea also has to chase down and destroy.
Finally, the plaza is clear again.
Dorothea rubs her face with the back of a hand. Gosh. This is really happening. If they make it to the opera house, it won’t be evacuated, will it? It’s far enough away . . . Edelgard should be in the offices there. Dorothea needs to find an OVC terminal. Check the news.
Maybe we should find a bike.
That would make the trip faster, if the transistor will fit on a motorcycle. But it seems everyone has driven their vehicles away at the evacuation order; they come across rental bikes but it appears the area has been taken offline as well as evacuated. Dorothea isn’t able to unlock the ride with her credit.
On foot it is.
These days Dorothea usually stars in her own show, but it has never been as real as what’s happening now. Surely someone will know what’s happening, there will be an explanation for the attack on her; maybe just someone jealous of her fame. That would be most likely. Surely there is a way to return her voice -- without that, frankly, her career will be over. And somehow -- somehow they’ll get Sylvain back in his body.
You seem incredibly confident everything’s going to be alright.
Oh, Sylvain. Confidence is her way of life. If there is someone in Cloudbank who knows what’s going on, it’ll be Edelgard.
****
At first, Sylvain had been just another elite, another wallet, another set of admiring eyes. He was high-up in social circles. From the people he sat with, Dorothea knew that he knew the Blaiddyds, the Galatea patriarch, the Galatea heiress; she’d seen him talking to von Hevring, the cell systems owner; she’d even seen him talking to (or at) the reclusive von Varley girl at one concert. Not to mention the many different women he’d have on his arm now and again. Edelgard had mentioned his reputation to Dorothea once; skirt-chaser, that he was.
He was handsome, sure, but Dorothea would not be so foolish to bat eyes at the first looker who came her way, and Sylvain definitely was not the first.
When he had the nerve to argue with her, that’s when she’d thought that maybe there was something more to this man than met the eye. He had somehow gotten her to go for a drink with him in the middle of a disagreement on social status and its boons.
After that, they were together often. He would visit her dressing room, her study; they would go out dancing, and soon word got around that Dorothea had found someone.
He’d attend her concerts, of course, and always vote for her in competitions; she would steal away to his matches sometimes, as it turned out he was a bit involved with the brawling circuit and loved a good fight in the ring.
She started to have odd thoughts of permanence with him. Their arguments began to end in laughter and surprising agreement that they actually saw things the same way. In the end, they were not so different. People had always wanted to take advantage of Dorothea for her talent and charm; she soon learned that many of Sylvain’s admirers only cared for his connections and status. They both had a fighting spirit, though expressed perhaps in different ways. It seems she had found someone she could confide in with him, and he had found a worthy challenge in her, not a withering flower of a woman who would fall onto any elite’s arm. Somehow, Sylvain understood her, no matter how insufferable he could be at times.
And then, well, someone tried to kill her, and he got in the way, and now here they are.
****
They pass down the carpeted, red-curtained backstage path to the opera hall, round lights strung, many colors on the walls.
The opera hall has long cleared out. She has to go backstage to the offices and hope that perhaps Edelgard is still around, but the quiet atmosphere does not give her hope. The process does not look to have invaded this far; so far, they have not encountered many foes.
What was it Sylvain had said first, from the transistor? Besides the initial garbled mutterings that had Dorothea’s eyes wide in horror, thinking it had taken and twisted him.
Something about getting away with this?
Yeah. I don’t know if we’ll get away with stealing the transistor.
It’s really not stealing, in fact, it’s more like getting even, considering the attempted murder.
Morality aside, whoever owns this thing isn’t going to be happy that we’re running off with it. It is a pretty nice sword.
Can Sylvain even see her still?
Oh yeah, of course I can see you. I can see nearly all around. Hey, it’s kind of nice. But don’t take that the wrong way. I’d rather be with you in person.
She’ll get him out. Whoever sent this weapon should know how to extract Sylvain (and her voice) from the sword. They just have to find that person.
So far the opera house is empty. They enter the main stage, golden light from above, a gold-plated microphone at center stage.
This is where Dorothea belongs. Now if only she could speak, announce her presence - perhaps Edelgard would hear her from the offices. She takes her position at the microphone. She tries a hum. This immediately reverberates around the room. At least this, for now. She plants her stance firmly, inhales, and begins the first few bars of The Spine, directing the sound with her breath control, keeping the hum focused and resonant.
But her voice is not the only sound in the room for long.
Warped mutterings herald the descent of a creature five times her height through the golden light, dripping process white like heavy fog. It has a billowing, fragmented white skirt, a red-jeweled bodice in the claws of a writhing darkness, multiple spindly arms similarly blackened, her head white and features as if carved, adorned red and black headpiece in the semblance of a crown.
White pillars grow up from the ground, architecture ringed around the creature. It moves for Dorothea, quicker than you’d think it could move judging by its size.
Dorothea barely wastes a second in calling her turn. She stands for a moment, looking at this thing, in the midst of the darkness that highlights her potential turn-paths. Shouldn’t this surprise her more? Shouldn’t it scare her more? But it is terribly familiar.
She’s had a day-dream of something like this, once, and it had been somebody she knows. Could it be -- ?
You’re doing great so far. C’mon. You can do it again.
Dorothea plans a breach(). Then a jaunt(), a spark(), a jaunt() away.
The world comes blinking back - lights, camera, action. She carries off the planned attack without any damage or interruption, but barely makes a dent in the towering, billowing thing.
Instead of attacking, it vanishes in a wisp of black.
Maybe she doesn’t know how to fight, exactly, but she knows when to run.
She hides behind a wall of those white pillars. They feel oily, but aren’t. Strange.
The pillars to her right burst apart and disappear with the flare of a spindly weapon. Dorothea scrambles aside, calling her turn. But the world continues in bright color and real time.
Wait for it, wait for it, gotta load up --
Really, Sylvain? He already died, does he want to make it both of them now? Can’t he hurry it up?
It’s not charging any faster--
Dorothea runs for the next outpost of white pillars. The corrupted lady’s weapon is something like a planner’s folded parasol, except larger, and deadlier. It lunges forward again, the huge range of the parasol lance decimating Dorothea’s would-be hiding station before she reaches it. Now she’s in the open.
Ready!
She calls her turn and her surroundings freeze into darkness. Panting, she bends over for a moment, recovering. She may have good breath control and lung capacity but it hardly makes her a prime candidate for melee combat.
How long can she afford to rest here?
I don’t know, but if I were you, I don’t think I’d push it.
Wearily, she nods and plans the next few attacks.
It takes many minutes of darting in, fleeing, hoping to stay just one inch ahead of that deadly parasol sabre while the transistor recharges. Slowly, the creature begins to break down. The process of defeat is delayed further by small creeps and bad cells that come to assist the hostess. Dorothea avoids the lancing stabs of the billowing lady, but some creep beams hit her, whole body momentarily on fire.
When finally the parasol-wielding process creature shatters into cells with a final crash(), Dorothea thinks not of rations. The bad cells she swiftly chops to bits with arcing electricity from the transistor; the good ones she scavenges for their restorative effects. She stands, panting heavily, the few unbroken white walls sticking up stubbornly but otherwise no threat. It is strange to not have an audience for such a triumph.
Sylvain cackles. Yeah. That’s what you get for messing with me and Thea.
Yet there is no other cheer. Dorothea has always loved drawing attention and the controversy that comes with it. That and her talent has gotten her to her level of fame and influence. Perhaps a reason why she was targeted with the transistor. She captures hearts too easily. Perhaps she was in the way of someone else’s path to fame? It is puzzling, because she feels she has a good working relationship with most of Cloudbank’s popular performers.
Whoever it was behind the attack, they’ve been foiled in part, so far, though. Despite the lack of applause, Dorothea stretches out an arm and takes a bow.
Aren’t you going to give me some credit? C’mon Thea. Sylvain’s laugh from the sword is still cheery but with an obvious undertone of relief.
Dorothea quickly goes on high alert as something caterpillar-like three or so feet long comes slinking around the edge of one of the scarce white pillars. It has a flat black body and a white, nondescript face, murmuring warped phrases, scrunching and unscrunching towards Dorothea. It must be a small remnant of the elegant monster. Horrified, Dorothea sends breach() towards the thing, and it finally lies still, ejecting a trace.
Dorothea steps in close, the transistor feeling heavier after the battle. The dead thing looks nothing human. But . . .
You did it. Soft admiration from Sylvain. Whoever this thing was, it got fully integrated into the process.
Dorothea hauls the sword vertical so it hovers off the floor, and plunges it through the trace, which shimmers and shatters with the intrusion, the blade of the transistor flickering. There’s a readable file. We can unscramble it at the next access point.
Still unsettled from how familiar her felled enemy seemed, Dorothea has a feeling there is no one waiting for her in the offices now. To the access point then. She hauls the transistor backstage. There’s the access point close to the lighting panel.
Sliding the sword into the dock (luckily, it fits the multi-purpose slot), Sylvain opens a file from the trace, projecting it for her to see what -- who -- that creature had been.
Oh, my. That thing was Edelgard? The process can do that? We killed Edelgard von Hresvelg . . .
Dorothea draws a breath in at the name. As she felt but was loath to believe. Somehow, a very human woman had become that creature. Her friend is a short woman with violet eyes and white hair in her memory, perhaps a little jealous as of late but not the corrupt monster she’d just felled. She feels unsure. It is seeming less likely that there is a simple explanation for all of this. But surely Edelgard is just another victim of this strange ‘process’. Can they still ask her trace, if not her? Does she know why Dorothea was attacked?
It’s pretty jumbled. But bad news. It seems like something bigger, and I think she was in on it. Not a victim at all. And she has friends. But . . . there’s no readable data on them.
In on it? Really? Edelgard?!
Really. I can’t understand all of it. It’s working on decrypting. Give it some time. But she knew something.
But why Dorothea, why her?
Give me a bit on that one.
Dorothea chews her lip, regarding Edelgard’s corrupted form on the floor of the stage.
Her friends - probably more elites. But perhaps there is a chance Edelgard was just one bad apple? Perhaps her ‘friends’ know how to fix all of this. Maybe they’re already doing it, doing more than the evacuation, working behind the scenes to set back in order the mess Edelgard caused . . . After all, elites are nothing without society around and underneath them.
I dunno about that, Sylvain says dubiously.
While the data’s decrypting, Dorothea decides to go look for transport, heading to the docks. They pass an OVC terminal and she logs in. Skips the weather vote. Swipes to the newsfeed. Well, look at that. She’s in the headlines again. Missing? She’s marked as missing? Oh, and looks like the evacuation is farther than she’d thought. Residents remaining in the opera house district are asked to leave to east Cloudbank.
She checks her messages. Wait. There -- there is a message from Felix at the top. He is an elite both she and Sylvain know on some level; he is a regular attendee of musical events in Cloudbank.
It is a voice message; the transcription scrolls as she unmutes the playback.
Dorothea, if you still have the transistor, bring it to Dimitri. He knows what to do.
Wait, why would he know what to do?
Yes, and how would Felix know she has the transistor at all? He wasn’t at the concert to see anything happen. Wait -- Felix and Edelgard -- did they know each other? Is he one of her ‘friends’?
Felix knew Edelgard through Dimitri, I know that much . . . Sylvain trails.
Ugh. Why -- why can’t things just be simple? All this cryptic messaging. She wants answers.
Are you in on this with Edelgard? Did you all try to kill me? Do you know about the Process? Do you know how the transistor works? I need someone and something untrapped from it. Don’t reply unless you have answers. - D.
Dorothea logs off and continues her look for transportation, an outline of what to do next forming in her mind.
***
Edelgard was a girl with white hair, white like the Process. Maybe it touched her first. Who knows.
She was an elite planner, in the front row of every one of Dorothea's shows. Dorothea had always been wary of those who circulated in higher echelons of Cloudbank, but Edelgard had a certain way about her. She was a little too honest to come off just as a cold elite.
So Dorothea had opened up. Bit by bit. Until she realized Edelgard wanted devotion. Until she realized Edelgard ignored Sylvain because of jealousy, not because of disinterest. Dorothea had made it clear then (a few weeks ago) that she wasn’t romantically interested in Edelgard, but that they could certainly go on being friends. Edelgard had seemed a little distant, a little put out, after that. Still, to kill Dorothea in a fit of jealousy? What was there to gain? And Edelgard simply didn’t seem the type to take that kind of action, even due to a spurned love. Dorothea had thought she would get over it eventually and perhaps all three of them could be friends.
It’s still decrypting.
They meet and fend off a few more enemies. The last gives way to a lone Baudelere type 8 bobbing in the dock.
Done decrypting, Sylvain says as she struggles to drag him into the motorboat. You want to know? The sword wasn’t meant for you. It was meant for me, after all. And the sentiment came straight from Edelgard. Huh. Gotta say . . . I don’t feel so bad about killing her.
Dorothea has to pause loading the boat. She takes a deep breath. Edelgard -- really? Selfish, jealous enough to kill Sylvain? Honestly . . . Elites do like to get their way, whatever the cost -- at her core, was Edelgard truly no different than most? It seems like it now, despite their initial relationship and Dorothea’s initial hopes. Dorothea has squandered her attention and time on someone she thought truly different , that much is clear now. She is a little disgusted at herself for trusting Edelgard like that. Should’ve known better. Ugh.
I guess she just wanted you all to herself.
Sylvain, she tried to kill you, and fairly succeeded.
Ah Thea, really, look at yourself. Who could blame her?
Now is certainly no time to flirt.
I thought you knew me better than that, Thea, Sylvain jokes.
As horrible as it is -- if this whole situation is only because of a jealous admirer -- it seems a little easier to figure out.
Not so fast. I don’t know what’s the deal with Edelgard and her friends. That part I can’t recover. I don’t know if the Process is something she meant to unleash like this.
But is Felix’s name anywhere in the trace file?
It’s still scrambled. I don’t have names, unfortunately. But I guess Felix’s message was enough to mean he and Dimitri know something. Did you know Edelgard is - was - Dimitri’s stepsister?
No? Edelgard had never mentioned such a thing.
I figure that now she’s dead it’s . . . ok. Y’know. To tell.
Dorothea only sighs as she climbs into the Baudelere and revs it. Thank goodness.
She navigates the boat away from the dock, on the waterway that will certainly be a much shorter passage to the Highrise district than on foot. Water sprays in the wake of the vehicle.
We’re going to stop in at home?
They might as well. Before going to find Felix. Or Dimitri. And getting some answers, and some help putting Sylvain back into his body.
Gotta say, destroying the process goons through this thing is almost as good as being in the ring. Almost.
***
Highrise district is far enough away -- certainly the process hasn’t touched it. But as Dorothea drives beside the bridges there, they are mostly empty. Any vehicles she sees are going away, in the same direction as her. A pre-emptive evacuation? Instead of getting alarmed, Dorothea tells herself it is comforting to know that the elites have eyes on this, in some way.
But what are they actually doing to stop it?
***
The Baudelere has enough juice to get them to Port 37. Dorothea drags the transistor up onto land and heads through the archway. The cheery night lights and craftsmanlike architecture of the canal walkways greet them, but . . . there is no one out.
It’s late, this place should be packed.
They’ve been on a date or two here, before. There was a really good food place on the north side of the canal she now drags the sword down. But instead of a waiter, all that greets them is a egg-looking process threat, accompanied by those ominous white blocky pillars.
It isn’t too hard to dispose of this one. Dorothea’s getting tired, though. Fatigued.
Come on, a little further, Sylvain encourages her. I’m here to help.
He is doing a lot of the work with all the transistor functions, she’ll give him that.
Finally some credit.
It seems to go unspoken that they’re heading for the nearest OVC terminal.
A few cluckers later, along with some picture-taking foes Sylvain dubs snapshots, they’re at the terminal. The first item is the quarterly solstice sky poll. Dorothea votes, out of habit. Sea green.
She swipes to her messages. No reply from Felix.
Alright then.
She goes on to the Hairpin, the canal crossing, guarded by more process creatures; cluckers, and tall worm-like things waving around that aren’t too hard to take out, with a crash(), and a new function they found in another trace, bounce(). This little ball of energy throws itself from enemy to enemy on a streamlined trajectory, keeping Dorothea more out of melee range, saving her some energy.
Things remain quiet, too quiet, as they head up to the floating point. A popular proposal spot. Maybe Sylvain would consider that someday, hm?
Aren’t you getting ahead of yourself, seeing as I’m still a sword?
She declines to give an answer and heads to the bridge that will give them a good view of their destination, Highrise district. On the path there, hordes of cluckers watch her go from the rooftops of the shops lining the walkway. (She runs - if they attack, there are simply too many for her to try fighting.) Thankfully, the cluckers do not give chase. Dorothea takes a platform up to the overlook. Here there are no enemies around.
Good; there were at least 50 of them back there --
Sylvain stops speaking in what Dorothea presumes is the same shock she feels. Visible from the overlook should be the familiar skyline of the Highrise district.
But it’s different. The red-edged white of the process has engulfed several landmarks. Some appear to not even be there.
Traverson Hall… the Annex Building…. They’re gone. Half the skyline’s disappeared. Sylvain says this in a tone of disbelief.
It’s not up to Dorothea to fix this, though. Regardless if it’s related to what Edelgard did. This must be -- this is an elite issue. Felix and Dimitri and whoever else knows what’s going on. She’s going to hunt them down only to figure out how to get Sylvain and her voice back. She can tell them what she’s encountered of the process so far if that will help, but clearly this is much too big a thing now to get involved in, she decides stubbornly.
Her home is on the outskirts of the district. She can’t see it from here, but perhaps it isn’t too processed yet.
Tired, she drags herself back into motion. Where’s the next OVC? She could use Junction Jan’s right now . . . their sea monster special.
***
She orders Junction Jan’s to her apartment from the next OVC terminal, after swiping out of the EVACUATE alert active for her residential area.
Sure enough, her news feed displays a report on the disappearance of Traverson Hall. [ Administration scrambles to explain disappearance of historic landmark.] Apparently a 100-square-block area has been designated OPI, offline. Not often you see that.
There is a reply from Felix.
Yes and no. Edelgard made a misstep. Listen, Dimitri -- needs the transistor. We need it. Cloudbank needs it. There’s not much time; of course I know about the Process, it’s taking over. Where are you. We -- I could meet you. We’re still in Bracket, working on this.
Oh, another elite needs this sword? Working on what exactly? Sure, Felix. She’s not about to go trusting another elite so quickly.
The transistor is mine until Sylvain is back in his body and I have my voice again. If you want it so badly, then those are the terms. Agree before we meet. - D.
On foot, she only occasionally sees people in the tall apartments peeking out their windows as she walks the empty streets. By the lack of vehicles, it seems most have evacuated. More snapshots, more creeps, more process pillars grow in her path, and she takes them down, though less efficiently now, feeling tired. A creep zaps her for a good handful of seconds and she needs several cells before she can walk again at her normal pace.
You OK, Thea? Sylvain will ask her worriedly, from time to time as the slog onward.
As they near the elevator to Terrace Apartments, Dorothea’s residence, the streets and shops become more and more overtaken by the process. Flickering in your peripheral when you look away, bigger by a square foot or meter when you look back. White, effacing the buildings and very ground beneath their feet.
There are even white masses from time to time, visible inside storefronts or buildings, traces floating. People who didn’t leave. Dorothea passes them quickly by.
It gives her a disturbing thought. Sylvain’s body . . . the process was starting to take over the whole goldwalk district when she left. If it should reach his physical form -- she almost thinks she should go back and take it somewhere, preserve it, but how? No, the faster she gets to Felix and Dimitri and can bargain some help out of them, the higher the chance they’ll have an easy way to fix this.
Used to be so many good drinking joints here. MacNeary’s. Seaside. Cloud Alley.
Ditto. Dorothea takes out five more snapshots, limbs heavy.
Finally, they’re at the elevator, a large platform gated and twenty feet to a side. This doesn’t seem to have been processed yet.
Dorothea hauls herself and the sword on, punches the button for the 22nd floor.
The ride begins its familiar upwards rumble.
Something’s wrong, Sylvain warns her a second before the process springs up from the floor of the platform. Not again, not more! Weeds, creeps, the relentless white. In such close quarters, Dorothea can only think to call turn() and cast off a few bounce()s. Luckily, this does the trick, and soon they stop at the 22nd floor.
The familiar walkway of Terrace plaza is planted with angular patches of greenery. The process has taken some of the flowers and plants lining the border, edge of the lookout protected with decorative metal fencing.
Some weeds and a barking dog-like process creature later, Dorothea finally stumbles into her apartment. She’s starting to really hate this Process and the total amount of nothing it seems the elite are doing about it, excepting evacuations. Wouldn’t it be funny right now if Dorothea was the single Cloudbank citizen capable of taking out all these hostile creatures? A vocalist, of all things? Oh. And look at that -- Junction Jan’s delivered. Likely via drone, and thanks to the large tip-in-advance she'd left. Food awaits in the delivery slot.
She drags Sylvain over to the table and props him up. She’s hot and sweaty from the events of the day - a shower should be in order after this. She takes off Sylvain’s jacket and wraps it around the hilt of the transistor before enthusiastically popping open the lid on the food box.
Really, Thea. This thing doesn’t fit me so well now.
She just grins at the sword around a mouthful of delicious sea monster special.
… So you’re gonna sleep here? What if the process comes for you?
They are high up on the 22nd floor. It’s got a long way to go. And they’re still far enough away from the epicenter of Traverson Hall or the opera house. She should be able to get some sleep. Where else is there to go? Evacuate? Not when Bracket Towers is the next stop.
Thea, I’m serious. Sylvain sounds worried.
If he’s forgotten, he may be a seemingly indestructible sword, but Dorothea is still very much human. Just six hours, just long enough that she’ll have something left in the tank to make it to Bracket Towers, because sure as hell she doesn’t now.
She leaves him to take a shower. After toweling off, she digs in her closet for clothes she could perhaps sleep in and travel in (just in case she has to get up and run). Hm. Most of her daytime clothes are somewhat fancy. In her line of work, visual impressions are of utmost importance. Never underestimate the power of presentation in helping you close a deal or book a show. Speaking of which, she may have to do some negotiating with Felix tomorrow . . .
In the end she selects black leggings that come with a short, dark fuchsia dress, detailed at the hem. Alright to sleep in. To travel, overtop will go an off-the-shoulder overcoat, long-sleeved and belted at the waist. She should have enough mobility in this to ward off creeps and other process what-have-yous, and still make a good impression.
This decided, she returns to the living room and flops down on the couch.
I don’t like not being able to move, Sylvain says.
Not true that he can’t move. The bony projections on the sword’s sides wiggle a bit when the eye flickers, when he speaks.
You know what I mean. Not being able to go with you.
Well, Dorothea wouldn’t have survived very long without the transistor, so he shouldn’t worry about being left behind. The sword -- it doesn’t need to be charged, does it? A silly thing to think, but there’s something about it in her grip that says it is self-sufficient.
No, I don’t think there’s any way to recharge it. Me. Huh. Good point. How does it get its . . . hmmmm . . . .
Dorothea is too tired to consider this matter further. Without another thought, she falls asleep.
***
Dorothea jolts awake at something like 4 am.
The transistor flickers at her. Did Sylvain even sleep?
I’m not sure. He sounds unsettled. Dorothea doesn’t like that. He’s been a fairly good sport about being trapped in the sword so far. That’s just how Sylvain is. She suspects he’s really not as comfortable as he makes out to be.
There’s one thing on her mind: Bracket Towers and Felix. No time for breakfast. Perhaps she could loot someplace on the way?
Looting, Thea? I didn’t take you for the petty crime type.
She’s bet enough at the brawling rings that she probably is already in line for some kind of credit reduction. Looting isn’t far behind that in her mind. And who’s watching? This area is offline.
She hauls on the overcoat, doing up the wide silver waistband. Ugh. She’s sore from yesterday, her shoulders especially from dragging Sylvain around.
Sorry.
Things definitely seem a little more damp today, waking up with all their problems still there. Nevertheless, she hauls the transistor out of their apartment. She nearly bumps into a couple of weeds outside the door; she holds the sword out and calls bounce(). A ball of yellow energy grows and releases, exploding one weed and then the other into a few cells.
Dorothea takes a deep, steadying breath as she collects the cells. It is dim in the early morning. The first thing she does is go to the railing and look down. Oh. The blank white of the process looks like it’s halfway up Terrace Apartments. At least it didn’t come for her overnight with more than a couple of weeds. However, this probably means more menacing foes aren’t far away. She’ll have to go to the rooftop if she wants a clear view of central Highrise and Bracket Towers.
She logs onto the OVC close to the rooftop elevator.
‘Process’ Spreads to 66% of Cloudbank: Unexplained outbreak causes mass relocation efforts across the city.
[ The entire western half of Cloudbank is now Offline as Central Administration scrambles to contain the threat and relocate citizens to designated safe zones. Casualty rates are unknown though missing person reports crossed 100,000 as of this writing. Authorities denied foreknowledge of the epidemic and urged citizens to travel east as soon as possible and to register relocation requests at their local OVC Terminals. The precinct was initially deployed but authorities say it is unable to contain the so-called ‘Process’. ]
Dorothea swallows. Not her business, except to hack her way out alive. She thinks again of where they left Sylvain’s corporeal form and hopes it’s not yet buried in the epidemic white of the Process.
Better to hope that even if it is, elites have a way to fix it.
There is a message from Felix.
You don’t even know what you’ve stolen, do you? Believe me, I’d agree to your ‘terms’ if I could. The thing is . . . the Process . . . Tch, I have to be careful what I say. If you don’t understand how the transistor really works, then return it to someone who does. Maybe Dimitri can -- I’m sorry but -- I don’t think I can leave right now -- Dimitri --
The audio and transcription both cut off there.
Hmph. She’s not going to even bother replying. Time to trek to Bracket Towers then and threaten what she wants out those two.
I don’t know, Thea . . . that didn’t sound too good . . . I’ve known them forever but this rubs me the wrong way. Maybe you should take me to Central Administration instead.
Central Administration? Oh, please. Those bureaucrats only know how to sign papers, send messages, and trade places. They’d tie both of them up in red tape and hand them over to the precinct for investigation immediately.
They pass by the pools, ascend a series of stairs. She takes the elevator to the rooftop. Exhaust caps twirl, trees and greenery planted on the menagerie of building rooftops which are a popular place to socialize under normal conditions. Always-on lamps and the floor lights illuminate her way in the dim early morning. The rooftop gondola is what would normally be a 10-minute walk, but they’re only at the median before a slew of barking fetches and creeps spring up, process pillars growing from the ground along with them, slowing their progress.
The SouBe market illuminates pink from its shining logo on the edge of the building as Dorothea calls her turn, plans a crash() and a bounce(), moves into action.
That crew of process creatures eliminated, Dorothea sighs and drags the transistor on, shoulders aching. It’s going to be a long day.
***
They reach the rooftop gondola. Before embarking, Dorothea goes to the OVC terminal on their right, which is flashing with alarm.
[Immediate Response Requested. Your input is needed to expedite relief in case of emergency.]
It’s asking her to sign up for an evacuation point. But the server won’t let her in, giving a busy error message.
Not like she’s meaning to evacuate anyway.
The gondola takes them up to the entertainment district of Bracket Towers. Dorothea is on high alert, even though the ride is only 50 feet up. A sudden fizzle startles her, but it’s no process spawn. It’s -- Sylvain?
Oh -- Thea -- I’m starting to lose you. The red eye on the transistor glows a more sickly red, the light wavering.
What? No. Why? Does the sword need something?
Keep . . . going, Sylvain says, his voice drawling, breaking up. I think.
The platform shudders to a stop. Dorothea drags the transistor on through the gazebo, to the long promenade that gives one of the best outlooks to south Cloudbank. No time to admire the view though. The hairs on the back of her neck stand up; a shadow passes overhead. When she glances up there’s no evidence of what it was left in the sky.
What’s -- happening?
Hell if she knows! Dorothea hurries on. Maybe if she can find an access point she’ll figure out what’s wrong with him. There’s a huge jerk jackhammering its way in a patrolling circle up ahead and Dorothea is ready to call her turn() when something whooshes overhead and an arrowhead-like tail much taller than Dorothea herself stabs down, destroying the thing and a good chunk of the promenade itself. It withdraws quickly.
What the hell? Dorothea breaks into as much of a run as she can.
You know I . . . never thought much of Highrise . . . Sylvain slurs. Too far from the water . . .Then I found out . . . you lived here . .
He’s not being helpful. She feels panic rising in her throat. There are undulating, flying creatures closeby, aloft, but she hasn’t the time to track them, only run. Soon she’s climbing a few stairs to an archway, to an open plaza lined on one side with closed doors to residences. Inside. Maybe inside --
Process white springs up from the ground of the plaza, along with creeps and snapshots. She begins the ever-more-familiar task of eliminating them
The spine . . . Sylvain drawls. Suddenly, the calm darkness of her turn() shatters, disrupted, and the same kind of tail that had taken out the jerk comes crashing down just a few meters to her right. She screams without sound and scrambles back to her feet, hauling the sword back up and jaunt()ing away from the site of impact. For a moment she braces herself against the process, panting, looking up to the sky for where the threat is, but then she’s knocked down by a series of rapid-fire energy spheres from a snapshot. This hurts; her nerves scream as her body absorbs the painful surges. Turn()! Turn()! But apparently Sylvain is still reloading her turn() and so she wildly jaunt()s towards the other far corner of the plaza. Just in time, for the creature overhead loops around and dives, arrowhead-tail crashing into the ground where Dorothea has just been, and just as quickly withdrawing.
Finally, she calls her turn(). Though it seems she can’t trust it fully now -- was it that thing that disrupted her last turn()?
The spine . . . heheh, Sylvain says, his voice garbled.
With Sylvain out of it, it seems the transistor is slower to respond to her mental commands. Like he’s the link, and he’s not communicating fast enough.
Dorothea takes more hits, her nerves on fire, her whole body shaking when she brings the sword slamming into the floor for a crash() or breach(). The spine, as it were, continues to hunt her, and once, she isn’t fast enough. The tail comes down like lightning out of the sky, and Dorothea knows she’s done for.
But the transistor throws up a banded, flickering dome, and it deflects the spine away with an electric crash. The impact shatters the barrier and the sword gives a short descending pitch, a bright red flash.
What --
That was a lot, Sylvain drawls. Overload . . .
When Dorothea next calls breach(), the transistor doesn’t respond. Oh. Oh, that’s not good. She switches tactics to crash() instead as the last creep scuttles towards her. A few more jaunt()s and crash()es later, the creep pops apart into a bunch of cells. Dorothea rushes out of the way of another assault from the spine as she takes out the bad cells with a final bounce(), and collects the few good ones for some precious stamina.
And then she wastes no time fleeing into the elevator that will take her to the courtyard.
The platform automatically rises to her destination, but she stays huddled inside, breathing heard, hands still white-knuckled on the hilt of the transistor.
Is Sylvain still . . .
Yeah . . . I’m here . . .Can you hear me . . .? You can hear me . . . right?
Dorothea squints her eyes shut for a moment.
This reminds her of one particularly nasty brawl in recent memory.
//
The 11th of the Guardian moon that year, Dorothea had gone to spectate. The brawling ring was underground, accessed through a dress shop of all things. Crowded, spotlights of many colors, the current odds for the night's combatants scrolling on a screen around the room. The only inch of free space: the 24' by 24' sparring ring.
Dorothea would be a bit of an attraction herself, unless she took care to wear a good wig. Nearly everyone would recognize her otherwise. On this occasion, she'd gone blonde, and thus relatively incognito except some lame attempts from a few garrulous men at chatting her up. She got a drink at the crowded bar; through the jam of bodies and obnoxious music spotted Petra's head. Petra was her favorite in the women's league, and was presumably there to spectate the men that night. On a whim she'd walked over, badly faked Petra's accent, aroused her suspicions. And because she didn't want to get decked, she'd lowered her tinted glasses, watching recognition dawn on the woman's face.
Hope she's survived the process so far . . . Anyways, they'd chatted, involving Petra speaking enthusiastically about her sport and Dorothea complimenting her excellent physique until it was time for the first brawl. She and Petra stood close to the ring as the announcer gave enthusiastic introductions to the first two brawlers, men she hadn't seen before. Dorothea was generally familiar with most of the seasoned brawlers, but they tended to start with the new fighters. Sylvain would be somewhere towards the end. It was still interesting to watch, especially with the costumes they wore.
Dorothea generally didn't bet on anyone except Sylvain, and Felix if Felix happened to show up -- only because it was a strategic bet on that one. He was a lot better in the ring than you'd think based on his physique. She and Sylvain always made a good dollar off him, and it was fun going through the crowd and badmouthing the small man with a ponytail to increase their winnings before the round started.
Once in a while, other elites would chance a visit here as well, but that night Dorothea recognized no one. Her dollars were solely on her redhead. The evening went on in a lovely if loud and testosterone-drenched manner and finally it was time to place her bet on darling Sylvain. She proudly deposited 30 credits on his name.
"You are very confident," Petra said in the strange cadence of her accent.
Dorothea smiled with a lift of her chin. "I'll give you some insider information. He's in very good form tonight."
"I have not seen him fight for a while." Petra held her wrist out over the scanner as if she wanted to bet on him.
"Lots of time to prepare. To practice. If you don't want to cash in, well, I'm quite sorry for you loss."
In the end, Petra bet 10 credits.
They shoved their way back through the crowd to ringside. Sylvain's opponent entered first. Dorothea raised an eyebrow. The man looked quite formidable; she'd seen him once or twice before ("Survivor" - silly name). His outfit was a little plain for her liking. Then, Sylvain entered. He was wearing a short-skirted (very short-skirted) crimson tunic belted loosely around his waist. His forearms and calves were wrapped in dark cloth, with what she could only describe as garters clasped around his thighs. The costume was charmingly antiquated, and the studs and leather edges of the fasteners gave it a solid brawling feel -- not to mention his shoulders, biceps, quads, hamstrings and most of his chest were on full display, along with his mop of red hair and his electric grin. She's never denied she does think Sylvain is quite attractive; it would be foolish to argue such a thing. She cheered as loud as she could at his introduction (stage name: War Master), and his warm brown eyes alighted on her for a moment before going solidly to his opponent.
The announcer slammed the buzzer. The two men circled each other and feinted a beginning move before truly starting the brawl. A referee in each corner dared to get as close as they could to the action. Things happened so fast Dorothea could only gasp and shout along with the crowd. Oh! War Master has the upper hand! No wait -- that's Survivor! Their limbs tangled and sometimes it was hard to believe there was any real system to this sport. It looked as if Sylvain was about to lock Survivor down on the mat but his opponent rolled aside and delivered a furious headbutt to Sylvain's chin.
Sylvain's head snapped back, reeling.
Dorothea screamed along with the crowd. The refs were shouting, but Survivor was closing in on Sylvain for the win. However, as he was about to pin Sylvain to the ground, Sylvain wrested their entangled momentum in a different direction, bringing both bodies crashing to the ground. The crowd went wild. Survivor struggled, but now Sylvain had him pinned down with his legs. He held up a hand, fingers counting above the cacophony: 1, 2, 3.
The announcer smacked the buzzer and War Master had officially won.
Sylvain released Survivor and started staggering up, but the refs rushed to him as he started to fall. Dorothea frantically jostled her way to where the two bouncers moderated the fighters' entry and exit from the ring, tearing her wig and glasses off. "Let me in," she demanded. Although they perhaps did not hear this over the roaring of the crowd, they clearly recognized her and hesitated in blocking her entrance. She wasted no time in pushing past them and stumbled into the ring, sliding to her knees by Sylvain's side. He had blood streaming down from his nose and over his lips; mouth was bloody too like the knock had caused him to chomp his tongue.
"Sylvain you idiot," she yelled at him, "You told me you were in top form!"
He mumbled something, lashes fluttering. The ref on Sylvain's other side produced a first-aid kit. He administered a cell while Dorothea grabbed a sanitizing cloth and started angrily wiping the blood of Sylvain's face -- couldn't wipe off the stubborn little grin still twitching around his lips, though.
Most of the blood was gone now but a trickle still escaped his nose. She held the wipe there with one hand and supported his head with the other. "Sylvain. Talk to me." She looked up to the ref. "They're getting help?" she shouted at him over the hubbub. The ref gave a thumbs up and held a diagnostic instrument to Sylvain's wrist. Sylvain's eyes still fluttered. "Sylvain! Sylvain! Can you hear me?"
Finally, his eyes stayed open long enough to focus on her.
"Of course I can hear you . . . you're screaming at me," he said.
Relief flooded through her. "It looked like you got your brain dislodged in your skull. Perhaps more than it already is! You said you were in top form!"
"Aw, don't be mad over me, Thea. I won," he said back, incessant grin back to full strength. "C'mon, how many credits didya make?"
///
You can hear me, right?
Of course. Of course she can hear. But he's still out of it, tone still jumbled, too electric, too inhuman.
She jolts back out of the bittersweet memory at the muffled thrumming of the spine flying by outside. What is she going to do, hide in here until it goes away? No. There's no help for her, not here, not now. If it’s anything like the other process creatures, it won’t go away, and she’s not about to try and fight its tail.
So it’s time to run, again. Sylvain’s red eye on the sword still fizzles and flickers. She can’t think about that. That worries her more than even the spine right now. There’s an access point not too far ahead if she remembers correctly.
Taking a breath, she hefts herself up, and breaks into the best jog she can muster, across the courtyard, then up the stairs. All of a sudden, white process cubes bubble open a hole in the side of the building to her left, through which plunges the tail of the spine. She stumbles, flattening herself below the intended blow, which then quickly withdraws.
Dorothea almost trips in her rush up the stairs, the transistor bumping along as she hauls the thing with her.
You know what I hate more than stairs . . .
They get to the top, a viewport enclosed in a covered glass building. Dorothea stops to take a few breaths but almost has her hair blown back from her face as a spine roars by outside, flying by in a wriggling flash.
. . . . right now, nothing.
Onto the next promenade. The spine tail stabs at her through buildings that crawl open and closed with process white; catches her once. That hurts. She calls jaunt() as often as she can, barely holding onto her sense of direction.
You know, I have a theory . . . about what’s causing this . . .
Two more flights of stairs. The spine flies by, stabbing at her through the sides of buildings; or is it more than one? Cannot tell. Up here, white panels concrete and glass, the Process slowly taking over.
. . . something big, white, red . . . has a tail . . .
The next walkway. An access point. Thank goodness. Dorothea docks the transistor.
The diagnostics look scrambled, red letters making some of the familiar messages unreadable. But there are no automatic error reports, no prompts asking her to continue with repairs.
. . . it’s the spine. It’s the spine . . . too much, it’s too much, not enough left for me . . .
Dorothea pulls the drunken sword out of the access point. What next? Try the next one? There is another one on the way to Bracket. Maybe this one’s out of service. It has to be. Because there’s no way they can take down those spine things flying around, as Sylvain’s suggesting.
Beside the access point is an OVC terminal. Dorothea checks quickly to see if there’s a message from Felix. It won’t even load a welcome screen; completely offline.
When she turns around, three youngladys spawn from a mound of white process structure and begin firing at Dorothea from all sides.
Watch . . . out . . .
She takes those out, dodging the tail of the spine once, taking a hit once.
When she’s eliminated the bad cells with the blue beam of breach() she continues. North. The stairs to the final gondola. Only a couple cluckers in her way.
Think you stepped in something, Sylvain slurs as a clucker’s bomb goes off underfoot and Dorothea topples before scambling to her feet again. Calls jaunt() just in time to dodge another overhead assault from the spine.
A final breach() -- delayed though it is, the lapse between Dorothea’s commands and the transistor’s execution remaining -- and the cluckers are gone.
That’s my star… you could always handle yourself . . . just fine . . .
Fine? Fine? She feels as scrambled as those cluckers are. But finally, they’re at the rooftop gondola. They begin the ascent, painfully slow. Felix and Dimitri live in Bracket Towers penthouse, so they’re going all the way to the top.
Remember when . . . hey, remember when I dragged Felix out to see you sing for the first time . . . I thought he'd hate it . . .
The gondola has an open roof. Shadows fly by, roars echo off the surrounding buildings.
. . . I almost got jealous when he liked it . . . man, maybe I was jealous.
Dorothea tenses. She’s got nowhere to hide, and if the spine destroys her ride, well. That won’t be good.
Promise that’s not why . . . I’m suspicious of him now . . .
She calls jaunt() just in time to avoid a downwards stab of a tail; it crashes through the floor of the gondola, but as the spine withdraws, the floor joins back together in a flash of angular white.
That’s enough to spook her. She drags Sylvain along in a square, doing laps around the platform as it ascends at an agonizingly slow rate.
Are we there yet?
The tail goes for her twice more. She jumps and startles each time but continues her path, avoiding the blow.
Finally, they’re at the top, in a small enclosed docking space with an access point.
Here, she’s able to reload breach(). But Sylvain remains sick, no helpful diagnostics.
Then Felix and Dimitri will have even more work to do in just a moment, Dorothea thinks angrily, resolutely. They’re almost at the penthouse. One last walkway leads to the set of double doors, brightly lit around the perimeter --
except in their way lies a hulking red mass, enshrined in a ring of process white. The thing is dotted with shining eyes like those of youngladys, a coiled and somewhat indiscriminate mass of white attached. This is a . . . head. The head of the -- of a -- spine?
There’s no more time to think because it begins to unleash a barrage of lancing energy pulses, its misshapen head rotating slowly.
Dorothea is very much going to have to fight this thing, and with Sylvain sword-drunk at that.
She runs behind the wall of pillars farthest from the spine’s slowly gyrating trajectory. The pulses it releases with a machine-like sound, shattering the barriers in its path. Alright. She has a plan, even if her heart is pounding in her ears. Wait till it stops, then rush out, attack it, hide away again, repe --
CRASH!
A tail smashes down from the sky, Dorothea saved only by the transistor’s sacrificial barrier once more. Blue electricity shatters overhead as it rebuffs the spine’s blow. Dorothea scrambles away, somewhat blindly into the trajectory of the spine’s obliterating beams. A burning pain hits her chest just as she gathers her wits to call her turn().
A split second later, the cool, high-contrast darkness envelopes her surroundings.
What was her plan again? Damnit, she’s lost breach(). Bounce(), jaunt() and crash() are left. OK. OK. Jaunt up towards the spine, crash() it, back away, bounce(), back away, bounce(), until she’s out of turn() and close to another hiding spot behind process pillars.
Just before she’s finished planning the first bounce(), her turn shatters again in a flash of red, and the chaos resumes real-time around her. Disrupted again -- no, no no she needs her turn() back!
I can’t . . .
Can’t what, can’t -- Dorothea squeezes behind a pillar; there are not so many left as the spine continues the slow rotation of its head, firing mercilessly. She remembers the tails above and jaunt()s in close to the massive red head, unleashing a crash(). The knockback causes her to skid on the smooth floor, but she still holds the transistor up and calls bounce(). Hurry up, hurry up - a ball of golden light slowly forms at the sword’s eye and dutifully travels to the target, but it is pitifully small when it explodes there against the huge mass of the spine.
She tries to jaunt() away but her mental commands seem to not be getting through to the transistor. She has to run instead, through the crossfire of the spine, a tail stabbing down to her right, almost sending her flying. The pillars on the far side are re-growing --
Losing you . . . .
No. No -- Dorothea calls her turn(), and thankfully, the transistor responds. She frantically plans something like she’d tried earlier, and carries it out without disruption. The spine doesn’t seem bothered. It pauses its attack; Dorothea gathers her nerve and jaunt()s in, unleashing crash() after crash() in real time, suddenly struggling to synchronize her movements with the transistor’s unleash of energy.
Losing . . .
Now is really, really not the time. The head begins firing again, the horrible racket filling Dorothea’s ears. She tries to jaunt() back, but no response from the sword, so she breaks into a desperate jog. Jaunt() kicks in a moment later and the surprise causes her to stumble. She wants to scream in frustration -- another downwards strike from the stabbing tail descends on her too quickly, and knocks her a few feet to the side, no protection from the sword. Her grip flies off the hilt. Dazed, it takes her a moment to get back to her feet. She feels incredibly exposed without the transistor, without Sylvain. Urgently, she staggers back to the sword.
Losing . . .
She wants to scream at him and tell him to focus, to stay around, as she scrabbles to regain her grip on the transistor. If his idea is right, they need to take this thing down to get him un-sick, and she can’t do it alone. She can’t do it alone, alright?
The barrage of energy beams is sweeping closer to her. Please, Sylvain. He’s a fighter. He knows how to do this.
You’re . . . you’re right on th’money there . . . Thea . . .
They jaunt() away from the next tail attack from above. Call turn(). Plan a series of attacks, manage to carry it out, dodge back behind a regrown wall of process white.
I’m . . . . trying . . .
Sylvain hangs on. Sometimes he’s late. Sometimes their turn()s are disrupted. They’re caught in the line of fire once, and the transistor casts a barrier at the cost of bounce(). Surviving, they transition to turn(), unleash crash() with all the planning the sword affords them. Slowly, their sparse attacks seem to be wearing down the spine; it will shake its head in frustration, shedding cells.
Doggedly, they continue. Come on, Sylvain, stay. He says things too garbled and drawled to understand. The white process pillars sometimes don’t regrow fast enough; Dorothea’s caught in the line of fire. They lose a sacrificial jaunt(), which only worsens the chance of dodging any given attack.
But finally, the spine seems to have had enough. It shakes its head one last time and with a sparking kind of explosion, the mass dissolves, leaving the white coiled body behind, soft and greasy entrance gaping.
Stunned, Dorothea drops to her knees. The red eye of the sword flickers, seeming exhausted as well. She has residual physical damage this time: there aren’t enough good cells to remedy it; an abrasion along her arm, feeling like it goes down her side as well. Her legs are trembling, upper body in pain from the exertion. But she still keeps a firm grip on the hilt of the transistor. Sylvain. He’s down three out of four functions. Is he still . . .
Here, he says, garbled and faint. Still not better. No. No, she thinks, desperate. His great theory, that the spine is the problem -- wrong, then?
But Dorothea hears a faint beating coming from the gaping opening to the frankly disgusting body of the spine. It isn’t dead yet.
If you . . . in . . .then . . . won’t . . . Sylvain says, some of it unintelligible. Dorothea thinks she knows what he means. If she goes inside there, then he’s not going to be able to help her.
> You could always handle yourself just fine.
In this case, she’ll have to. She’ll find the time later to be impressed at herself for finding the strength to stand again, taking the sword up, and marching towards the spine’s open body. Now, it’s a necessity: she can’t afford to lose Sylvain. Not now, and maybe not ever, after this.
She steps into the spine. Its insides are white but lined with pulsing gold circuits, or veins, patterns almost like eyes. It is slightly squishy, but it holds up.
She can feel the heartbeat under her feet. Sylvain is silent, the red eye dimming. Dorothea drags him after her, ducking and sometimes squelching around a turn on her hands and knees. It is not too far into the spine that she comes upon what is clearly its heart, red lined with black striations, beating slowly. Sylvain? No, no answer from him. The silence makes a horrible chill go through her. The sword seems dead, just a chunk of metal and bone now.
A sharp chunk of metal and bone.
Dorothea grips the long hilt in two places for the best leverage. Alright. She can do this, just her. And then Sylvain will be back, at least virtually, if he’s right. He has to be right about this. If she could yell, she would, with the exertion it takes for her to struggle the tip of the sword off the ground and hoist it in an upwards slash.
The transistor bites into and through the spine’s heart. It bursts in a shower of red. Red -- all Dorothea can see for a moment, before it drips away, chased away by the scrolling back of the white mass. The process bubbles away in blank cubes, the spine disintegrating under her feet, and then she is just standing on the floor, in front of the doors to the Bracket Tower penthouse.
She falls to her hands and knees over the sword. A soundless sob escapes her.
The dim red eye blinks back to life. The bony flanks of the blade wiggle.
Ohhh . . . hi.
Oh. Oh, he’s back. He’s clear again, the transistor glowing in the old lively way. He was right. It was the spine. At least this one.
Thanks . . . for whatever you did back there.
She couldn’t quite begin to describe what she did now. She cries without sound. She knows one thing: she could’ve died. She could’ve died just now, and couldn’t she have died before, as well? Who’s to say a spine couldn’t have flown into her apartment last night, killed her in her sleep? And Sylvain -- what would happen if they’d overloaded the whole sword trying to keep her alive? What if the spine had gotten him? Oh god, she could’ve lost him. She nearly did. She’s been stupid, hasn’t she? This is too much for her. They’ve been close to destruction the whole time. Maybe there is no easy way out. Maybe there is no good fix. Maybe Felix and Dimitri won’t have answers. Maybe Sylvain will be stuck in the transistor forever, and maybe the process will hound them with enemies and cover Cloudbank in white until everyone’s nothing, until everyone’s integrated --
Hey. Hey, we’re here. You’re doing great so far. We’re doing great so far.
Dorothea’s been a fool. Such a fool.
Well, I guess I’m rubbing off on you.
Sniffling, she gets back to her feet. To be honest, she just wants to go somewhere where she can sit down and talk to Sylvain for a while and forget how slurred and broken up his voice has been since they started their trip up here.
You’re not going to turn around after coming all this way, are you?
Thought Sylvain didn’t really want to talk to the Blaiddyds.
Well . . . after that . . . I think we need someone who knows what they’re doing. Despite the risk.
Despite whatever foul play might be behind the scenes.
I can’t imagine they’re killing people -- destroying Cloudbank -- on purpose. For the fun of it? That’s not like them, Sylvain says, sounding frustrated. It wasn’t like Edelgard, either, was it?
Dorothea frowns, leaning Sylvain against the wall for a moment only to tie her hair back anew. No, it wasn’t like Edelgard. Wasn’t like her to turn into a billowing monster with a parasol for a weapon. But maybe it was like her to be a jealous, murderous bitch.
Yeah, still not feeling too sorry for killing her. But I hope we don’t find Felix and Dimitri corrupted like that. As much for their sakes as for ours. You are still going, right?
She takes up the transistor once more, and slowly, doggedly, goes to the Bracket Tower doors. Maybe things really are terrible, but she has indeed come this far, and she has to go on, for her, and for Sylvain.
That’s my Thea, Sylvain says softly.