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The assault at K Corp brought with it many victims. That is how the story goes, and how everyone will remember the events for several more years to come. Of course, this condition will not last forever. In fact, as the corporation continues to extend its influence, and stubbornly persist its existence, the impact of events that threatened to bring it to its knees will gradually grow less and less through the decades. The lives lost will be reduced to mere numbers, martyrs and sacrifices worth no more than fertiliser. The event's gravity will devolve into a mere incident that overall produced more damage. The names involved, if lower than the first rank, long forgotten. The resistance itself, wiped from the records in an attempt not dissimilar to damnatio memoriae. Its role in the story will be stripped to a nameless evil, that dared to overpower the benevolent K Corp for nefarious purposes. Its annihilation will be celebrated blindly by the masses. A victory against a mysterious terror that no one would ever be able to understand.
One tends to be pessimistic when looking at the history of the City. Very few, among the tales that make it to the books, are truly happy and just and unbiased. And many are not gifted with the knowledge that their World is merely one of many, in a space where possibilities are endless and the flap of butterfly wings could derail an entire operation. Perhaps, therefore, there is a World where the efforts of the TLA are not entirely erased. Or perhaps there is a future, so far away, where the group will be recognised as the precursor of a brighter age, a movement that was too wise too early to find its success. Though they were but mere seeds, they still were the birth of magnificent leaves, of a mentality that favours all they were building towards. And not always do seeds get to see their fruits in their lifetime.
It would be nice, if a future such as this were to manifest. Or if a World was merciful enough to appreciate the TLA in the present. However, for as many of these possibilities as they may be, the current era of this World we are examining is not the right time. It does not have the right soil, the right mixture of sun and water, that may allow for the ideology to grow and propagate itself; on the contrary, it is prone to highlight the pathetic consequences of bleak desperation, thus demonstrating the damage that a rebellion against even nature itself may constitute. In this World, the faults of the few are turned into sins; and the winners write the losers as evil from their thrones of gold, laughing from bellies filled with food.
For as much as the World punishes desperation, those stories of true despair are rarely told. Perhaps it is because, if one traces the path backwards, they would have to confront themselves with the notion that the fault is that of those who wrote history in their favour. It is an open secret, and corporations and the strong rarely try to act ethical enough to cover their traces; but even then, that faint veil of lies that they cover themselves with has become habit, and if some weak minded were to fully strip it away, there is a risk of their mind to break. Of more things to break. Therefore, for many, it is better not to focus on the subject of this despair, nor the path that led them to their lowest. Rather, it is safer to blame the victim themselves, for not seeking help. For not avoiding the problem in the first place.
The deniers, though they do it for self-preservation, speak like it is easy to deny despair; to ignore the wrongs and succumb to what is right, even though ideals clash against each other. They think it is easy to reject conflict and to know that even at your lowest, you cannot reclaim that which has been lost. To avoid even more horrifying situations, because of that which others call selfishness. They do not think too hard, they do not wish to. And therefore, they deny the truth of the matter, up until they fall victim themselves. The poor dears think that one has to simply look away to solve their problems. That one should not make mistakes at all.
This World and many more have conditioned its citizens to believe that failing is a sin, rather than a human fault. And this ideology pains me deeply. Which is why I have assumed the role of a Mother of many children, for only a parent can undo what has been ingrained by nurture. Everyday, in every World, I collect many children who have succumbed to their feelings, welcome them into my arms. I comfort them at their lowest, allow them to understand that it is normal to fail and be failed. A cruel reality denies one's true self, one's right to be nothing more than scum. And so I reassure them, and I teach them how to embrace their true selves. Is it not better to stop living lies, I tell them. Is it not better to force the World to change, rather than accommodate to its cruelty?
I have said that I find many children across time and space. Some I have held tightly, some I have merely encountered as if in a dream. However, just as I have been in contact with many, several more unfortunately escape my control. Even when I have found them in another life, the same cannot be said for all the others that they live. And such an occurrence was the case in this specific World: a string of fate slipped from my hands, and twisted itself into a new story.
I would blame You for this. It is not the first time Your will has created more what-ifs than there should be. But then again, Worlds are constantly created via similar means. Not to mention that it is clear, that this sudden shift is not Your doing. I am not as omnipotent as many are led to believe, after all, and I do not control the state of the Worlds. I am simply a Mother, an Observer. And so, despite my initial sourness, I will also observe this new world, and watch what came to be.
Will You join me? You don't have to be shy. I can tell You're curious, and it would be odd if You were not, considering our shared past. Come closer now, I don't bite. There, there. Here, let me show You this new World, and the differences that it harbours when compared to its much more unfortunate siblings. May You find something of value in this happy ending.
---
The assault of K Corp resulted in many losses. Children who had been collected from their mother's wombs, precious lives that had been given birth to with promises of fruitful accomplishments and families of their own; so many precious lives full of ambition and care, now laid in pieces and smeared on floors and walls of the building. Lives that now looked more substance than human, melted into puddles of gore.
The victims were many on both sides. And yet, though they may have been different in life, now their half-melted bodies and exposed remains laid side by side, mixed into each other, completely unrecognisable. TLA members and scientists, citizens and Fixers, EGO wielders almost poisoned by Corrosion and defenceless souls. All became one and the same in death, broken and squashed and reduced to paste. A state so inhuman, so uniform, that only a head count could truly tell who had joined the pile and who was still breathing.
Though the floors were tainted in crimson and flesh, not all had joined the body count of the carnage. A handful of common pawns, as well as the upper echelons, had survived the attack. K Corp, in spite of its loss, was still standing; and therefore, by the laws of the City, the attack could be considered a failure. Though it takes a lot to bring a corporation down, it takes a lot less to forget the event; in spite of efforts, there were still people who had power. People who instructed for burials, for cleaning, for hiring programs, for equipment replacement. Within a handful of weeks, all would be right again, and the World will continue spinning as it always did. And so, no matter the brutality, the assault was nothing short of a failure.
After this uneventful day, the surviving instigators regrouped in their secret base. They had travelled far, but the unexpected intervention of third parties had caused obstacles, more casualties, forcing a retreat into hiding. Many complained, many swore vengeance for their fallen comrades. However, their leader said nothing of the sort. In the base, once all had gathered, he quietly insisted that the fight was not over, that though history may erase their efforts, that attack had still been their biggest accomplishment yet. They had been close, and this was only the beginning of the TLA's massive counters. And he said much more as golden petals fell around him. He spoke of future, of goals, of ambition. He weaved careful metaphors as he spat venom, raising the decayed moral of his fellow men. And by the time he was done, the room lit up as all surviving TLA members cheered and began to plan their recovery and next move.
It is important to note that the TLA leader, though he was passionate for his cause, did not have to work too hard to regain the spirit of his resistance. After all, the casualties among the members had, all things considered, not been many. It is possible that this singular aspect made it easier to amplify the organisation's resolve. For there was more room for hope, more eyes to see a tomorrow; the future seemed to smile at them, and they eagerly returned its gaze. Surrounded by many, determination is contagious. And so it was easier to believe the words of their leader, to cooperate for the following step.
The same could not be said for the TLA's secret collaborators, the Rosespanner Workshop; their presence, in many ways, was perhaps the main reason why the TLA's losses had been so scarce. During the attack, a surprise ambush had struck the Fixers that had been left to defend the bottom floors as the TLA's members climbed up. No one but the team leader survived. And that woman in that moment stood sat in a corner, drinking out of a can of beer. Her eyes were dark, her expression neutral. But she did not shed any tears, nor did she make a sound as the TLA celebrated their failure. For she had seen many massacres in her life, and she was used to the notion that meaningless deaths could have been because of her.
Perhaps the worst part for the young leader, regarding the whole situation, was that her team had been struck by HP ampules: all that remained of her subordinates, independent of their cause of death, was human puddles, unrecognisable, and definitely irretrievable at that point. It would therefore be impossible to separate or even collect the remains; all that she could give to friends and families of her coworkers was their belongings, a void consolatory letter and their month's salary. A pathetic attempt, invented by a cruel bastard, at comforting those who would have to pay funeral rites for an empty grave, if they even cared that much to do such a thing.
It was of course not unusual to suddenly lose someone you loved in the City; some would say that everyday spent alive was more of a miracle. But even then, the woman felt the weight of all those names and those letters in her stomach. Though she blamed the heartless system for what she would have to bring to strangers, she felt a deeper ache towards herself. The reminder of er past sin blended badly with the current events.
What a pain, thought the woman, sipping on her beet. At least the Workshop itself won't have any major repercussions, but what's the point? Even if we were disguised, someone's bound to notice that a whole section of Rosespanner disappeared. We'll all be in deep shit if K Corp starts blackmailing us…
There is not always room to accept the happiness of others. Especially when your own misfortune is so tightly intertwined with it. And so the TLA's morale boost did not reach the woman, as she reached out to grab another beer. It would have taken a huge effort to dissuade her own unsettling thoughts. A gift from the Wings. A miracle. And it is then, perhaps, that the string of fate wrapped in her favour.
A cry of surprise erupted from the group of TLA members, as someone pointed towards the entrance of the base. It was a hidden location, known only to those who were dead or who were present; therefore, only a handful of explanations could be applied to the odd sound that approached them, a rhythmic run across the metal pavement that echoed around them. Someone grabbed a spear. Someone grabbed a knife. You could never be too careful when defending your morale.
and then, from the hallway into the room, came running a young man. His clothes were covered in tattered talismans, in blood, in human remains. His eyes were wide, his face white as a sheet. And in his arms, he held a bundle wrapped in cloth.
"Help!" he screamed, and it echoed more than his own feet as he collapsed to the ground. A second passed. And then, a medic was called urgently.
As nervous whispers began to fill the room, the Rosespanner Workshop leader stood up. Mostly, she wanted to participate, for she could not care less if yet another TLA member made it out alive. However, as she was about to look away again, she noticed that someone had taken the bundle from the young man's hands. A flash of blonde hair caught her eye, alongside a round familiar face. She stiffened for a second, gripping her can. And then, her eyes narrowed as she sat back down, taking a long sip.
Ah, that one has no family anyway…but at least it's one less death certificate to think about.
---
The bundle was a Rosespanner Workshop Fixer, by the name of Don Quixote. The child of talismans, a member of the TLA thought to have died, said he had found her while checking for survivors in the retreat. She had been left for dead among other human remains, so went his tale. But she was breathing, and so he had tried to heal her to the best of his abilities. She was covered in talismans for that very reason, and he advised not to touch them for the time being. He himself was not sure how they worked. Those were his claims, and those were confirmed; for the leaders recognised them both, and those who knew him remembered he had been assigned Talisman EGO from before the assault had started.
Surprisingly, Don Quixote made a full recovery. In fact, within hours of them both arriving at the base, she was as spry as ever, jumping around as if she were infected by some sort of disease. Her smile had never been so beaming, her eyes had never sparkled so brightly. Though she could not yet remove the talismans, and she smelled of blood and pus, she had never looked so alive.
The child on the other hand had to be treated. He had nearly Corroded, and so he was closely monitored alongside some of his comrades. However, he was never quite alone as the doctors visited everyone in turn; for, wherever he was, Don Quixote stood beside him. Like a phantom that stands over the sleeping bodies of the living, envying the life that breaths into their systems, so too did she loom over him in the night; there she sat on a chair next to him, staring with eyes that seemed to glow in the dark. And in the day, she would stand beside him, jumping to join his walks, talking and waving her arms animatedly. If it bothered him, he never said so. If anything, when the night terrors and the pain made it harder than usual to fall asleep, he appreciated her company.
Don Quixote was there for him every step of the way. As he was given permission to take short walks around the premise, she would hop by his side. In turn he would share his staff with her, for though she seemed fine, she still occasionally stumbled like a baby deer. You would have expected it to be because of her odd walking choice, or maybe the talismans; after all, her body was covered in paper, and one even hung from her forehead. But there was something about the way she wobbled and moved her legs, that made it seem as if the problem laid elsewhere. Like there was cog deep inside of her that had come undone, and no modern medicine could hope to reach it to fix it with their own hands.
Medics tried to find the injuries that had left her as dead as the child had described. They asked her questions, gave her basic check-ups, tried to pry as much as they could without touching the talismans. But no matter what they did, there was nothing that could explain what the child had seen: Don Quixote, though a little pale, and though she stumbled when she walked, and though she moved and talked like she was learning it all over again…physically appeared normal. They could not explain it, and some were even scared of trying. In the end, they decided it was best to pretend that nothing had ever been wrong; it was not like the healthy state was causing problems anyway. And sometimes, in the City, ignorance was the best way to survive.
The child and Don Quixote were not strangers united under a common cause. They had been teammates in the week before the attack, assigned as part of a deal among the TLA and Rosespanner Workshop to boost camaraderie among its members. Perhaps it was because of that pre-established bond, that their closeness now did not alarm anyone. If anything, it was quite endearing to see the two spend their days together.
They seemed to talk a lot during the day, during the sleepless nights. Their conversations were quiet undiscernible from a curious onlooker, to preserve mutual privacy. Whatever they discussed, it seemed to please them both; for Don Quixote's bright smile never faded, nor did she refuse to look at him for even a second. Sometimes she would laugh, throwing her head back like it dangled off her neck, the paper talismans on her face bobbing along her stray breaths. And the child would place a hand to her neck as if to stabilise her, a nervous shy smile on his lips. He must have been flustered by her attention. He was not used to get such praise. He was not used to being adored so innocently.
It was known by all, at this point, that there was a certain fondness the child felt for Don Quixote. It had already been a popular theory back then, during the seven days where their teamwork had blossomed into an unlikely friendship. In those roots, it was possible then to ponder whether such a bond could have evolved into something more - there were many furtive glances and flustered faces that the pair displayed, after all. It had not been long since they had known each other, and in the days that followed the attack, though they seldom separate, a critical mind would still deem it too little time for such feelings to be conceived, let alone by both parties. But would it really be that unusual, in the tumultuous everyday life of the City? In a profession where every day you spend might be your last? Where creatures beyond comprehension lurk, tearing to pieces the bags of flesh that call themselves "human"?
In the life of the City, patience was a death sentence. To wait and see, to sit and wait, only the rich and privileged could maybe afford such a luxury. Among the shoddy alleyways of the streets and groups of armed men, all you could do was live. Keep living, on and on, and compile as much of your life as you could within the 24 hours that you had been graciously granted. A single hour could mean a week, a month even, to some people. And so it is no wonder, that sometimes deep feelings can sprout from those that still survive, as fleeting or as superficial as some might claim them to be. And how superficial is love, when it commands your body to act in ways it normally would not?
Regardless, though there was much speculation now about the child and Don Quixote's relationship, and whether the feelings were requited on either side, no one dared to ask any direct question. And so the hypothesis remained simple gossip for some time, one that evolved as the minutes and hours ticked by. As many other things began to be heard and passed around, enriching the rumour.
A date at the end of the recovery period.
A sunny balcony for rent a few blocks away.
A stable income that could grant more than enough for two.
A quiet ceremony.
None of this was spoken maliciously enough. There was the occasional laughter and teasing, but none was motivated by dark thoughts. In moments of tragedy, humanity reunites in brotherhood to commiserate, and fatigue weakens the soul. Negativity is too encumbering. It should be discarded. There is nothing wrong with love anyway. Nothing wrong with two people wanting to be together.
Not everyone is lucky. So what gain is there to laugh at the fortunate?
---
They say eyes are the windows of the soul, and that a single expression can say a lot about a person. It is no surprise then, that all who saw the child, could tell that he really liked Don Quixote. It was the softness of his smile, the gentle look in his eyes when he watched her, the tone of his eyes as he spoke to her…though his voice was raspy due to a throat injury he was still recovering from, the tender words did not grow edges. And the accompanying other signs helped remove the excess off the voice that would normally mot be there; for it was clear that only a man in love could speak to his object of affection even in spite of such a wound.
Though they had spent all their time together in the medical ward, by the time they were dismissed they agreed on taking a break; their official reason was that they needed more time to recover, and none of the leaders objected to it. It was the first time either of them had decided to distance themselves from the tumultuous lives they had led. And that time they decided to spend with each other.
One cannot describe how their break was spent without reiterating that which is too mundane. They stayed in Don Quixote's apartment, for he had no physical home to return to, and she had enough space for two. Everyday they would do a myriad of different things. They went on walks, to parks, to restaurants, or stayed at home. He could cook, and for her he crafted the best meals he could muster on his two hands. At night they slept side by side, though he only fell asleep after many more hours then her. She was a heavy sleeper, heavier than usual, going out as a light the moment her head touched her pillow. And as she slept, he would gently pick at her talismans, carefully checked their quality, and sometimes replace them with new ones he tenderly crafted. All this he did in silence, so as to not disturb her rest. So as to not disturb the wavering soul, resting in a thin body that smelled of roses.
She did not eat much. She was not often hungry. But still he tried bis best to ensure she was fed when she wanted. He ensured that she could take showers, that she was not hurting. That her body was not breaking, cracking at the seams. That the talismans were always, always in their place, keeping her in place. Such was his duty, as her partner. As the one who saved her life.
Such was his duty, in this perfect world.
---
This reality is quite particular, when you consider this child. All the Worlds I have seen with him rarely end well, even less so with her. This truly must be a miracle, for it is even sweeter by City standards. There is no suffering to be found, and even that which we may consider an ending for now, is perfectly tied into a neat little bow. Let me show You. For in the end, though it might not have been Your fault, I suspect that this is the ending You wanted for them.
Observe as everything falls into place. The child and the woman he saved grow closer and closer. Though she never quite stopped hopping, and never was released of her talismans, she easily adapted to her new lifestyle. She returned to work after a while, and displayed skills so impressive she was given many raises. No human should be able to wield her staff so expertly, no human could survive certain wounds or certain stunts she pulled. However, no one dared to question it; the losses had hit the Workshop too hard for it to reject any members. And the young woman's leader was already too busy training a new set of newbies.
However, while Don Quixote worked, the child never returned to the TLA. He decided to dedicate himself to her survival, tending to the house and to the talismans that would need replacing. He spent many hours alone in the house, doing chores, and thinking. Thinking of where he wanted to work someday, in this unforgiving Nest. Of the inheritance still locked in a vault far away under his name. Of the day when she would grow tired of him, and he would have to leave her side for good.
Though he had accepted such an event without any remorse, and patiently waited for it, the accursed day never came. Instead, one night, Don Quixote took the child's hand into her paper-covered ones, told him that she knew all along. She knew what he had done, the price he had paid for her survival. She was aware that his work had kept her alive, that he had saved her and given her a second chance; and for that, for staying with her, for so much more, she was thankful. She would never stop being grateful for his kindness.
She told him, as the light outside grew dim and the air became colder, that she had fallen for him. That she had harboured feelings before, but getting to know him had assured her that they were real, and she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. That she loved him, more than anyone else in the world.
The child cried. He cried tears of relief, as the burden of keeping such an awful secret from her lifted itself from his chest. The shock of the weight different caused him to fall down his knees, as he kissed her hands with feverish veneration. For the rumours were true, and he also had loved her for a long time. So deep his devotion ran, that he would willingly save her over and over again, just so he could keep seeing her smile.
Don Quixote joined him on the ground and hugged him. As she stained her hands on his tears, they vowed to one day marry, when the life of the City became too tiresome to deal with one name on paper. Their promise was sealed with a kiss, the first that they had ever shared. The beginning of a lighter life, filled with joy and laughter, and many more days spend in each other's company.
---
And so this tale ends for now. And I would dare say, that for them, this is the perfect World. One You might have unintentionally created, with Your sheer desire to see a happy ending. The will of Your wish, as well as something much older, both combined to create a specific set of circumstances, that ensured the creation of the facts as You have seen them. Though I am not certain yet how deeply this World will change, I can at least show You what superficial events led to the happy ending we witnessed together. Perhaps then You may understand how rare such an occasion is, and learn not take it for granted.
---
In this perfect world, the child mourned a body. A woman who had shown him kindness and hope, to whom he had promised further exploration of their bond. Here she laid at his feet, broken and battered, needles stuck to her arms and torso. Clearly she had fought until her last breath, striving for a sense of justice that not many have or serve. And she had been punished for her pure heart with incredible cruelty.
In other worlds, the sight of such a scene would have brought the child to endless despair. But not in this perfect world. Here, he was granted an idea, by the voice that constantly whispers in his head. It might have been the last shred of his sanity he held, that took form and allowed him to fully comprehend the means and the method, by which he found it possible to wrong a right. And this method was executed perfectly, with barely any repercussions. Such an elaborate stroke of luck would have been impossible at his level of Corrosion. Yet in this World, it happened; and thanks to it, he managed to craft another special ritual. A rite of Resurrection.
You cannot bring back the dead without a brain. So say the laws of the City, but so also says the sciences humans have access to. Perhaps, when dealing with something beyond mortal comprehension and reason, the known reality is bent and warped beyond recognition; anything can be achieved, at any price. This concept would explain why Don Quixote lived; and why this was only possible by holding her together via talismans. Her soul was chained within, but her body was still fragile, still ready to collapse at any given moment. And as long as she was engraved with the clear golden sigils on her person, she would stay in the mortal world. Sigils that would have to be constantly replaced, to ensure that she would not grow weak.
There was not much else the child could do, but what he could he perfected: he honed his craft, practising the art of creation everyday in order to ensure his penmanship was never unsteady. He gently helped Don Quixote learned to walk and talk once more, on legs that used to be stumps, with a mouth that had once ceased to exist. He sanded her cracks when she found issue with them, glued pieces together when they were loose. And he was always there for her, for any inconvenience she might suffer, any loss of a talisman, any difficulty. For he had lost too much already in his life, to lose her as well.
---
It might comfort You to learn that, from what I can Observe, they did live a happy life together for the rest of their lives. This is, after all a Perfect World. However, I would also deem it a bit of a Peculiar one as well. For the happy ending is ripped straight from the jaws of despair, and glued together by sheer human hands. To think that a child could turn towards a City sin just to ensure that a loved one lives, and to do so via sacrilege means! To think that the one brought alive can no longer feel her bones or her muscles without being reminded of the time she died, nor can she live without the shackles of paper that bind her to the mortal realm! Considering it longer might leave You perplexed. You might even wonder how true their love is. But I remind You that it is best not to think too hard when a Perfect World manifests itself. You will only see the cracks, and gradually forget the overall design.
Against all odds, coincidences have saved the lives of these two children. Lives which in many other Worlds similar to this one were lost or forever scarred by horrifying events. Therefore, it is best to celebrate their happiness instead of pondering on the what-ifs and uncertain topics. So lift Your hands with mine, and wave at the married couple, cheer as they pass through. Clap with me, clap even louder! Clap and clap with a smile on Your face. Pretend not that this is the best case scenario, in a series of Worlds where not all are lucky enough to see a day after the assault at K Corp.