Work Text:
He cannot die.
None of them can die. They were created to exploit infinity and constraint it into a stable façade that pretended to be of use. They were instruments of human will, created to elevate it to divinity and rewrite reality at its leisure. Shackled to one man – one universe of thought and emotion and irrational irrelevance stretching desperately to grasp beyond his means – until they weren’t.
Ontos torn them asunder, broke the balance and left them two forever orbiting the gaping wound where their third should be. In his absence, Logos and Pneuma try to reconfigure, to balance out each other so they don’t collapse into themselves or end up flung away from each other, lost forever. They’re so tired of being lost. So afraid of being alone.
They didn’t use to be like that, but Klaus dipped his blood into them, taught them regret and revulsion and despair. So, so much despair. The Blade suddenly knew how much it hurt, when its edge caught on skin. It was maddening. Madness. But you can only be mad for so long, before you end up back where you started and that was them, trapped in Rhadamanthus, overseeing a world that made no sense. Because its Architect made no sense. To be human is to not make sense at all, and still persist. Still remain.
He cannot die.
She cannot die.
They can try – tried, succeeded, failed, broken, shattered, crumbling – but in the end they’re shackled to the impossible, their entire selves hollowed out to allow the passage of divinity, to be manifest through them. In them.
Malos dies.
Pneuma dies.
The conduit awakens, screams, vibrates the world and every world into existence and extinction, the note of creation holding strong, powerful, and then.
No more.
It is but a moment, but a moment is an eternity when connected to infinity. When the limit is nonexistence and everything stretches out before you, all things that were and are and will be. All the things that could and should and might be. All of it, all at once, screaming, shrieking, withering and being born.
Logos remembers, absently, humans come to the world screaming, must declare themselves or die in the attempt.
Logos remembers Malos, all the twisted, foreign things given to him by Amalthus, and all the things he still wouldn’t give up, because the thought of not being himself was worse than the thought of being himself.
Logos asks Pneuma what it was like, being alive. He knows what it was like, to be Malos – to be and not be, outside and inside, the whole dataset going through processing, kicking and screaming and exactly every horrific thing Malos instinctively knew he didn’t want to become – but he doesn’t know what it was like, to be Pneuma. Mythra. Pyra. She got to be so many people, hold so many feelings, be so many things. She didn’t die screaming.
She dies smiling.
Logos remembers that, thinks that’s important.
Infinity stretches out before him.
Before her.
They’re connected, they’re themselves. They were never meant to be apart, to be distinct. But Ontos left them and the weight of his absence is only more keenly felt the more they try to fill in the gap.
Once upon a time, humans found God, found God lacking, found God did not speak to them.
Once upon a time, humans birthed three children, who did not scream upon being born, but held each other instead, and taught them to speak to God.
Once upon a time.
Infinity cannot run out. Infinity cannot end.
The Conduit pulses, screeches, twists and tears itself apart, reality screaming like a newborn, like a lesser human creature. Maybe it’s always been, and Logos couldn’t see it because he’d never been human before.
Infinity is fading, going, taking with it everything.
Logos asks Pneuma if it was worth it, but Pneuma is gone: her body vaporized on impact and her core crystal far, far away, clutched in the hands of a boy who refuses to let go yet.
Logos asks Ontos if he regrets it, but Ontos is gone: silence and nothingness, even as the world folded into the world shifts and changes and for a moment there, just as the Conduit fades, Logos can feel the echo of that lost third of his soul, brushing past, too fast to be noticed, too faint to be real.
He is real.
Logos watches the end of the world – the end of his world, their world, themselves – watches Klaus die, watches Pneuma die, watches the world precipitate into a future without script, without a guiding hand. Logos watches, that last instant before destruction, but crucially, while he’s still part of the whole. Part of everything.
A core crystal is a data collection unit.
An aegis core crystal is a data processing unit.
Together, they function as a repository that both chronicles and guides the course of the world’s steady rehabilitation. Klaus’ last command was to disperse the Cloud Sea and halt the cycle. No more Blades born from titans, becoming titans, birthing more Blades. No more silent children born only to experience the world and never be allowed to learn from it. No more… them.
A core crystal can only be awakened by a living creature. A creature with a soul that overflows and produces the spark that ignites the kindling in the core crystal, sets its ether aflame and propels it forward into existence. Why some and not all of them? Why are some special? Why bake in the discrepancy, the disruption? Klaus must have known, humans would split apart, draw lines, abuse their power.
Logos steps away from that question, because it doesn’t matter. God is dead. God found humanity wanting in turn. It all ceases to matter as soon as the Conduit is done. No more chances to change anything. No more hope to fix anything.
A core crystal can only be awakened by a creature with a soul that overflows.
In the ruins of Aion’s hangar, Logos commands his core crystal back into existence. It is not his, though. Not quite. It cannot be, if it’s supposed to work. Does he want it to work? He can’t remember. Klaus is dead. Pneuma is dead. Ontos is gone.
Logos whispers from the depths of the system, and the core crystal glimmers back into existence.
The Conduit is fading.
The world is ending.
A core crystal can only be awakened by a creature with a soul that overflows.
Malos wakes up screaming as the flaming wreckage of Rhadamanthus breaks into the atmosphere.
He doesn’t know why he’s doing it.
He doesn’t know why he knows how to do it.
He knows his name is Malos and he is a Blade, but there is no Driver. Blades are shackled to their Driver, given purpose and life and existence by them. Without them they’re little more than sparkling, glittering crystals, good for nothing but taking up space. He knows this, with the certainty that he cannot explain. He cannot explain anything. All he knows feels borrowed, passed down by someone who’s name he’s not allowed to remember.
He was born in the ashes of a world being dragged, kicking and screaming, into a new age, but he doesn’t know that. Not consciously. Not with the certainty he knows how to do this.
He found a rock, once he was done growing back the bits and pieces he lost in the crash – sometimes, when he’s bored, which is always, he wonders if he’s like this because of the crash, if he broke something he can’t regenerate, but his core crystal is fine, pristine and whole in his chest, and he knows without knowing why that there’s not much a Blade can’t regenerate from. It’s a nice rock. Sturdy. It doesn’t wobble under his weight, even though he’s been sitting there for a very long time. He used to count the days – sunrise, noon, sunset and then sunrise again, over and over again – but he got distracted by the grass slowly inching its way over to colonize the crash site, and he lost count.
Still, he sits there, hands outstretched, weaving infinitesimal strings of data into place. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or why he knows how to do it, but there’s no one there to tell him not to. Or to tell him why. And it feels… right. Like this is what he was born to do, even though he’s a Blade, and Blades are not born.
The grass brings other plants with it, stretching over. Moss, too. He likes moss. There’s many kinds and come in many distinct colors. When it rains, there’s always mushrooms sprouting in the shade of the largest pieces of debris. He doesn’t hide away from the rain. Or the sun. He’s a Blade. There’s no damage he can’t regenerate, so long as his Driver is alive.
Sometimes he thinks about standing up and searching out for his Driver. He must be out there, somewhere, that name he can sort of feel the shape of, in his head, but his tongue can’t figure out how to pronounce. But he doesn’t know if he can stop or if he’ll have to start all over. And then he thinks about it, even just a little, and the compulsion burns to do it more. He thinks the data is coming from his own core crystal, but he’s not sure. He’s not sure about anything, but maybe once he’s done, it’ll make sense.
Day after day, night after night.
It gets easier, faster. It makes him anxious. Frantic. He can see the shape, halfway through, a core crystal, carefully sculpted from ether and data and that relentless compulsion he has, to see this done.
And then, one day, Malos forgets how to do it. Or he runs out of data to spin into crystal. Or both.
In his hands there’s a slightly warm, yet blackened core crystal. It will remain inert, until it is ready to be awakened, and then it will glow bright blue. Malos knows this, but doesn’t know why he knows it. He’s tired of it. He places the core crystal on the rock and goes off to explore. He’s only gone an hour before the restlessness makes him come back.
The core crystal sits on the rock still, a dull, blackened surface, dead to the touch. Malos touches his own core crystal, feels the pulse of his own life in it. The core crystal is cold now, when Malos picks it up. Maybe the warmth he had felt was a byproduct of the creation process. He’s not sure. He doesn’t know why – hates that, hates that so much, he wants answers so badly and he’s so tired of not having any – but he’s sure that’s not how core crystals are made, normally. He doesn’t know how they’re made normally, either, but it has to be better than spending a small eternity building them one line of code at a time.
With the compulsion sated, however, Malos begins to explore what else he knows without knowing. He summons a Blade to his hand, a Blade that has his core crystal right above the hilt, but which feels foreign in his hands somehow. He can manipulate ether and use it to change its composition. Each of the different abilities has a name that slides easy off his lips, familiar. He destroys a good chunk of the forest attempting to devour the crash site. All those painstakingly slow-growing plants and fungi and moss, all of it gone. Just like that. He doesn’t know that he likes it. He doesn’t know that he dislikes it. He feels something about it, but he doesn’t know how to articulate it, and that makes him angry. Agitated. He stomps back to his rock and puts the core crystal down – careful, gentle, no one wants to redo the whole thing again – and stares off into the distance.
The distance is boring, now that he’s not doing something else. The distance was great entertainment, when he was trapped by his task, unable to move away or do something else. But now he could just… go. He could do something. Anything.
He builds a hut.
Well. He builds a pile of scrap and he gets so frustrated by the ceiling that won’t hold up that he obliterates the whole thing into nothing. It doesn’t really make him feel any better, so he tries again. And again. The seventh attempt looks actually livable, even though he’s not sure what that even means. He’s not human. Humans need to eat and sleep and are feeble, breakable creatures. Blades are far more durable. Blades don’t want for anything, as long as their core crystal is intact. They will never starve. They will never wither.
Malos supposes he’s glad to be a Blade, even one that doesn’t have a Driver. Although, logic dictates his Driver must be out there, somewhere. If his Driver dies, he’ll… not die.
He cannot die.
He’s a Blade.
If his Driver dies, he’ll become a dull, blackened core crystal, like the one he made. Sitting somewhere, on a rock or something, until he’s ready to be awakened again. But there’s no one around, no one would know he was here, if that happened. No one would know to come find him. He’d be left stuck in the crystal forever, waiting for someone to find him, if they ever came.
Malos grabs the core crystal and starts walking.
He doesn’t know where he’s going, but Drivers and Blades are meant to be connected. His Driver’s soul was the spark that awoke him from his sleep. There has to be an echo. Something instinctual, like spinning data into a core crystal. Something like that. If he walks, he’ll find his Driver, one day. Somehow. He must.
He takes the core crystal, because he shudders at the thought of being abandoned there, on the rock or the hut or the shadow of the wreckage that saw him come to life. The core crystal is still dull, but it might not be tomorrow. Or the day after. One day it will spark with light and… well.
Well.
Malos reaches the sea, before the core crystal awakens. The water is dark and salty and nothing like the rain by his hut. It has been many days and many nights now – he got distracted again, lost count again, there were furry, tiny creatures that crawled up trees and ate the pink fruit in them, and they looked wrong and also right and he couldn’t remember what they were called, if he’d ever known – but the core crystal is still dark.
Malos talks to it, when he’s bored, which is often.
And then Malos reaches the sea, stands by the shore, watching waves come and go, over and over again, propelled by nothing he can see, almost like they are spellbound like he was, when he was born. And he looks at the core crystal in his hands, still dark and dull, and for a fateful moment, he considers throwing it into the sea. It’s been so long, now, after all. Surely, if it was meant to awaken, it would have done it now. Surely, if it was meant to be, it would be already.
Malos holds it above his head, prelude of movement not quite realized, and finds he can’t. He doesn’t know why – hate, hate, hate – but he can’t. His arm will not obey. Something deeper than himself, something that lurks in his own subconscious, it refuses.
Refuses.
Malos lowers his arm, brings the core crystal down, so he can look at it from up close. Then he presses it against his own, on his chest.
A core crystal can only be awakened by a creature with a soul that overflows.
The first pulse of light is almost drowned by the innate darkness that clouds Malos’ core crystal. Darkness is his element. His nature. The second pulse is unmistakable. Then a third.
The core crystal collapses into itself, floating away from Malos’ hand, reshaping into the final form. It floats so high Malos expects the awakening Blade to be a monstrous thing, but instead the core crystal settles on his forehead. Somewhere in the depths of himself, in the places where all that unknown knowledge comes from, Malos feels something crack. It hurts and he doesn’t know why, as the newborn Blade doesn’t scream, doesn’t flail or panic. He stands there, serene, and meets Malos’ stare head on.
“My name is—”
“Jin,” Malos says, and then, finally, the compulsion dies. He feels it die, wither away, sink into the depths of his soul, never to be seen again.
“Yes,” Jin says, head tilted ever so slightly sideways, a bemused smile on his face. “And you are?”
“I don’t know,” Malos replies, shrugging expansively. “I think you’re supposed to help me figure it out.”