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"Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching" (Hebrews 10:25).
The first time he'd tried to sing after being discharged from the hospital, nothing came out, save for what could only be described as a hoarse scrape. His voice had been ruined, shredded, along with his once pristine face. The realization was grave for Kevin. He imagined himself at service, trying to force notes out and embarrassing the choir, and his heart sank. The shimmering in his chest he had once felt, surrounded by love, singing for God, had all been erased.
Every touch to his face felt unimaginably painful, as if that fire had never left his skin at all, and when his mask shifted around, he had to force himself not to yelp, show weakness. His new prosthetic arms were difficult to use, too, limiting him to simple maneuvers with his fingers, which were now long, sharp talons, or rather, gun barrels. But the hardest blow of all was what had happened to his voice. Marco and Lady Jeanne, who had found him at his lowest, tried to encourage him, told him this was no reason to stop attending church.
"Kevin, it's no excuse," Marco had said. "It's not like a sore throat stopped any of the choir boys I conducted from showing up to worship."
Jeanne was a bit more sympathetic. "I'm sure there are other things you can do to contribute to the community."
But for so long, he just couldn't show his face to any crowd of people without anything of what he'd once had to offer, and by the time he could, the Shaman Fight had arrived, and he'd decided it wasn't worth it. Maybe, humming to himself would be enough.
"If anyone grazes their livestock in a field or vineyard and lets them stray and they graze in someone else’s field, the offender must make restitution from the best of their own field or vineyard" (Exodus 22:5).
Ever since Venstar was a child, he'd always had a mechanical knack to him, and he'd always been large in size, tall and broad, towering, but with a smile he hoped was gentle enough to counter that.
It wasn't always enough, though. Other people, his friends, would see him, crouched in his garage with a semi-automatic rifle in hand, and tense up. They'd look at the rack of guns on the walls and wonder just what he was planning to do with them. They'd forget he was in the Army, forget he was trained for this. So, for that reason, until he joined the X-LAWS, he tended to keep his hobby to himself.
There was also the time, when he was a young boy, and first learning how to handle a gun, hold it, manage recoil, that he made a grave error. The rifle in his hands was too heavy for him to properly aim, and by mistake, he shot a bullet into his neighbor's window.
He froze up when he heard a front door open.
"What the heck do you think you're doing, kid?" a voice, that of an old man, shouted.
"Oh, I'm..."
The man came out, blocking the sunlight from his eyes. Anger distorted his features. "Oh, for goodness' sake! Didn't anyone teach you how to hold that thing?"
Venstar didn't say anything.
"Where are your parents? I'm sure they'll have something to say about this."
"Working, sir..." He was in for it now.
"So, they can't be bothered to see what their son likes to do for fun, damaging others' property." The man signed. "Well, I'm not repairing this myself, so you'd better pay up."
Venstar just nodded, biting his lip, before glancing at the garage, wondering what of his he could sell or where he could find some quick work.
"Then he said to them, 'Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; life does not consist in an abundance of possessions'" (Luke 12:15).
Her jaw had dropped when she'd heard the number, amounting to over 2,000,000 CAD. That was the budget Marco had presented to everyone, and, what's more, it excluded what had already covered the ship itself.
Meene wasn't the only one in shock. At first, there was whispering, and then a sheepish request or two. But Meene was certain she'd been the most vigilant, inhibitions melting away, all so contrary to what she considered logical, just.
"We'll be on this ship for a while, right?" she asked, and heads turned her way. "I mean, if we have the money..." A smile grew on her face. "A swimming pool could be nice, right? And maybe a game room? And, well, are clothes included in the budget? I, um, don't have much on me..." She hadn't gotten the opportunity to be as feminine as she'd wanted to as a young girl, always hoping to live up to who her father had been. I've always wanted to try on a pretty dress...
"Well, yes, I'd imagine," Marco answered. "And it's not like it'll be much trouble if we can afford Lady Jeanne's custom-tailored dresses."
But a sting of guilt hit her, because that luxury was something reserved for Lady Jeanne, wasn't it? But as self-conscious as this made her, it wasn't enough. "And we're a team, so...aside from our uniforms, I'm sure we could have some other things we wear for, you know...solidarity?"
"Like what?" Marco asked.
"Um..." Meene stammered. Her mind drifted to her prospect of a swimming pool, and she blurted out, "Swimsuits?"
The room went silent.
"Pfft..." Denbat snickered. "Meene, you're...kidding right?"
Porf raised an eyebrow. "Not the first thing I had in mind, to be honest..."
"Yeah, didn't think she was, you know, like that."
Marco cleared his throat. "I'll allow it. But, Meene, I have to say, materialism shouldn't be the focus, here. Think of something more practical next, alright?"
"Ah..." She knew then she'd gone too far, felt like a total idiot. "Yes, Captain..."
"Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord" (Leviticus 19:28).
"On the back of your head?" Larch almost laughed. "That's where you got it? You really couldn't think of a better place?"
Porf didn't know what to say. "I thought I might as well use the space for something."
"But you can't hide it." He angled his head to get a better look at it, Porf's new tattoo of the X-LAWS' logo. "It's not like you can wear a hat over it, what with the uniforms here..."
"Why would I want to?" Porf asked with genuine confusion. "It shows my pride in our cause, and..." He stopped himself there: pride, that was the problem in of itself. He wasn't supposed to show off, be flashy. Pride was a sin. He knew well, though, that the X-LAWS weren't strangers to embellishment, displays of their class. How was a tattoo any worse than designer clothes, or expensive champagne, or the way they all marched into a room with an air of power and authority? The way they waved their weapons around, the way their angels shone under the light and struck fear into their enemies. That was pride, wasn't it?
"No, it's just that...you were made by God the way you were for a reason. Why go and change that?"
Porf nodded. "Maybe you're right."
"It's fine, though. It's nothing unforgivable, and it's not a terrible choice for a tattoo, if I'm being honest. Better than putting a naked woman or something up there."
Porf smirked a little at that. "Thanks." But he still couldn't shake the feeling he'd made a huge mistake. He could only hope Lady Jeanne wouldn't disapprove.
"Wine is a mocker and beer a brawler; whoever is led astray by them is not wise" (Proverbs 20:1).
Larch wasn't sure how it worked, exactly, but sitting alone, surrounded by racks of wine, champagne, "BAR ROSE" lettered on the wall as the only substantial light in the room, did something for him. Three cans of beer lay idle on the counter, three Budweisers he'd already downed, and a fourth was in his hand. He felt relaxed, at ease, like he could walk out of here right now, strike up a conversation with anyone, feel a hundred times smoother. But, staying here was enough.
No one really came to bother him, aside from that time Lyserg needed to know where Lady Jeanne's quarters were and the couple of times he'd found Marco ogling a bottle of champagne, desperate to hold back from drinking it, struggling not to give in. But he'd done it, couldn't abstain, and they'd talked, a bit less uptight than they usually were with one another, though Marco had dragged himself out of there after half a glass, the ever-so disciplined man he was (well, most of the time). And Larch was by himself again. But it was all fine.
Still, it wasn't right, he sometimes thought. Losing himself, drowning himself in drink after drink, but there was so much flaring up, and it needed to be quenched, that flame so bright that it could never be seen through, not by him nor anyone else. Because Hao had killed their entire unit, everyone, and he and Porf were treated like maniacs, fucking bedlamites for trying to report it. No one could fathom a dastardly little boy enveloped in flames, controlling them, killing soldier after soldier with inexplicable ease. And it was just that simple to discharge the only witnesses, too: how ironic.
Larch heard the can in his hand crinkle from pressure, his squeezing grip, and sighed.
It wasn't right, he knew. It wasn't even his day off, and he was hazy, buzzed, trying so damn hard not to have to think, and he knew it wasn't good for him, knew he'd feel terrible in a few hours. But at times like this, reality felt that much worse.
"Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies" (Corinthians 6:19-20).
His lighter was in his pocket: good, he would've lost his shit if he'd forgotten it. He whipped it out, then a cigarette, and lit it, vaguely aware of Meene's arm around his shoulder tensing up.
"You know that's not good for your health," she chastised.
"Eh, so what? You go to Britain, every man smokes," Denbat grinned back. "And you really think we're gonna live long enough for it to matter?" When she didn't laugh, he added, "What's next, I should eat more, too?"
She pursed her lips, taken aback. "Would be nice. You're as skinny as a rail." He rolled his eyes and moved to hold her hand draped over his shoulder, but she stood up before their fingers could touch, and by the time Denbat so much as heard her bed creak, she had already opened the window. Wordlessly, she sat next to him again and leaned against him. "Though, the way things are going," she breathed, eyes full of gloom, "it won't be long before X-III will be up against Team Star."
"Yeah?" Denbat asked, taking a puff of his cigarette, hoping he could play off the drum of anxiousness that brought him.
"So, maybe you're right." Her voice was soft and sensitive. She stared into the ground with her cheek against his shoulder.
Denbat felt a tinge of regret hearing that. "Hey, no, I was just joking..." He struggled for something else to add. "And...no matter what happens, Lady Jeanne, she's going to wreck him, okay? That bastard, Hao, he's gonna regret the day he was born. He'll wish he'd never messed with us in the first place..."
Meene laughed softly. "Well, if that's what you think, then take care of yourself, alright?"
"Ah, there you go..." Footsteps came echoing from the hall, clacking heels on tile. Denbat jolted. "Oh, shit..."
"Get under the bed!"
"Closet, closet's better."
"Doesn't matter, just make sure no one knows you're here!" Of course, if word got out that they were spending time in one another's cabins, the consequences would be dire, they both knew. And Denbat couldn't help but become anxious imagining what kind of a punishment Marco would dole out upon catching him somewhere he didn't belong, so much that he almost forgot about his cigarette altogether...almost.
"Refrain from anger and turn from wrath; do not fret—it leads only to evil" (Psalm 37:8).
How was he too vicious? He wasn't violent, didn't have "anger issues". He simply didn't tolerate nonsense, that was all. And what kind of a captain was Marco, anyway, keeping him out of the Shaman Fight only to put some scrawny kid on team X-I instead? Never mind the fact that he looked and acted like a pathetic little girl! He could hardly even fight, for Pete's sake!
Reiheit didn't deny that he'd lost to Marco in their little skirmish, now stuck as the X-LAWS' arms keeper, but it just hadn't been fair. Marco was more thick-headed than he could ever be! So why? What was so wrong with him?
"Hans..." Jeanne used his first name when speaking to him, and he couldn't pinpoint why, but it always put him at ease. "There's nothing wrong with you at all." And, God, her soft voice melted his heart, too, soft hair tumbling down her shoulders, beauty all around: she really was a holy girl. "But, I have faith in Marco's assessment. He was only doing what he found best for the X-LAWS, and he has my approval."
Reiheit felt that very heart drop into his stomach.
"We do need somebody to manage the X-Arsenal, after all, and I think..." she said, smiling with rosy cheeks, hands wrung together. "...you'd be perfect for the job."
He didn't know what to say at first, just nodded in defeat, but inside, he was still burning with anger. Of course, he would follow her and honor her ideals until the day he died, but even that determination did little to calm or steady him. "Yes, Lady Jeanne," he grumbled before storming away.
"You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination" (Leviticus 18:22).
Having been away from him for so long, Lyserg had forgotten just how beautiful he was, inside and out, how deep his love and forgiveness ran. Lyserg had left him, chasing revenge, and even now, he couldn't see himself leaving the X-LAWS. They'd become like family to him. But just hearing from Amidamaru that Yoh wanted to speak to him was enough for him to leap out of bed, yank on his shirt and slippers, and sneak out to see him without another thought. Of course, how could he have forgotten Yoh?
But his serenity was always at a distance. He belonged to someone already, too, and Lyserg knew his place, knew he wasn't worthy, knew it wouldn't be right to just dive in and ruin that, no matter how warm he felt when Yoh smiled at him, gave him mercy for his mistakes, and held that mercy from no one.
Not like Lyserg would be able to ruin it, even if he did want to, because Yoh was far too pure for him; he was clean. He could love normally, he could have love that was normal. He could love a woman, and that was what he truly wanted. He could imagine himself in love, without pain, without fear. He could genuinely be happy with somebody without having to destroy himself. He wasn't so...lost.
And as open-hearted as he was, even that would never make Lyserg worthy of him, though if it somehow ever did, Marco surely wouldn't have that. He'd go on a tirade about corruption, about loyalty, about the evil lurking in Yoh's heart that Lyserg just couldn't see. And then he'd take Lyserg for himself again, and they'd sin together, but at least then, Lyserg would know his place.
"When you sit to dine with a ruler, note well what is before you, and put a knife to your throat if you are given to gluttony" (Proverbs 23:2).
If someone were to ask her if she'd killed before, she'd hesitate to call herself a murderer, or maybe deny that her actions had been "killings" at all. Because in the back of her mind, her heart, were comforting words that told her they were executions, that she'd had the right to them, the right to end lives. She was just in her way of life, and her enemies were not, because they opposed her, or served the likes of Hao, or did some other despicable thing. But guilt never escaped her mind. There were always holes in what Marco had taught her, and she was smart enough to see through them. But she didn't want to be, sometimes, because that shattered all the illusions she'd built around herself, about herself. It shattered her.
It was a very special day for her, the day of the month on which she was to endure the harshest training of her life, except it wasn't. That was only a cover for the fact that she was to spend the entire day eating sweets. And she loved them; she'd always had a sweet tooth, and both Marco and Luchist had picked up on this upon first getting to know her, never afraid to let her indulge in desserts when she did as she was told. But lately, she hadn't been able to enjoy this "special training", not the way she did before. Because every month, more blood piled on her hands, and she felt more like a filthy glutton every time she raised her head and saw plates and plates of macarons, towering cakes, madeleines, wobbling jelly, ornate displays of fruit covering the floor of her bedroom. But she wasn't allowed not to finish, and there was still the part of her that didn't want to. So, she ate all she could until she was stuffed, held back her tears, whatever feelings she didn't like, guilt, pain, hoped with all her might she could just be the girl she wanted to be, was supposed to be, without all the self-disgust that came with it.
"The Lord detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy" (Proverbs 12:22).
He wasn't sure how long this would last, but it had been years, and he hadn't been exposed yet. He was grateful in a sense, but as more and more victims of Hao sought revenge and, in turn, sought the girl who would become their savior, their Lady Jeanne, the pressure of keeping her image intact multiplied. Because everyone was depending on it, even Marco himself. He knew, of course, that the holy girl he'd procured was, in fact, just a girl, just Jeanne. She'd been a slip of an orphan living in a French monastery, that was all, and Luchist had left him to sculpt her into a masterpiece, which he had done, and through this, he'd built her quite the following, loyal and devout soldiers to defend her (or rather, his) every word.
And it looked like success, didn't it? it was success, and from it, they'd smite Hao, and his own desire for revenge would finally be satisfied. But there were difficulties, and they piqued at Marco's conscience, something he hated. He'd been working for years to rid himself of it, anyhow. But as much as he could mold, and dissuade, and punish, he could not prevent thought in others. That included suspicion.
"No, I'm not..." Lyserg swallowed. "...questioning her, I'd never, but...I just don't understand it all, how she can really be...a messiah. But, um, it's okay. You can just tell me one more time." But he was questioning, and it made Marco's heart jump. That boy, he was too clever for his own good. Well, at least a blow to the face never failed to quiet him.
Meene, she was full of worry at times, too. "Is her body really able to take it? I know she's different from us, she's not just any normal girl, but I can't help but wonder." That was bad, too. The more she wondered, the more apparent it might become that she was, in fact, just a normal human.
And Venstar, with his years and years of experience, wasn't easy to fool either. "She must really be something if she can handle all this responsibility at her age. It's hard to believe that she's only a child, but she has everything figured out." When he noticed Marco's agitation, he added, "She's absolutely incredible." But Marco knew that, one way or another, the truth would get out. And if everyone knew, left him, and deserted their cause, that would be one thing, but the shattering of Jeanne's heart would be another. And in no world would he be able to take that.