If there was a way V would want to look at the crooked world before him, it would be through muses. Unfortunately for him, in Red Grave city after being spit out of the Underworld, the only muses he could acclimate himself to was how his body would look after it had completely withered away. A crumbling conglomeration of stones, or a pilfered pile of dust?
Even if his current body lacked the versatility and power Vergil had, it was still no contest between its current state and what it had once been before. Even the city of Red Grave was an undeniable cesspool run rampant with criminals—those unfortunate enough to fall down the latter. With how many times he had been a bullseye target, no thanks to his perceived fragility, V could say he possessed wholly enough experience in its sordid affairs.
As a result, it had taken quite a given time to acclimate himself to this new environment, where in spite of guns being religiously coronated to the eccentric ensemble of angels, crime was drastically low, and everything was wholly paradisiacal. Stepping out from hell and into heaven would have always been jarring for himself—aided by the fact he had become a two days old infant upon arrival.
His years as an infant was horrendously humiliating. Ne'er would he ever desire to spill any of his experiences or memories of such, and especially ne'er, if by some miracle, were he to meet Dante once again; would he ever denote he had been forced to restart his life in such a way.
So now, he had gone down the proverbial domino effect where his life was where it was at now. Spending it normally, as a human would, after years upon years stacked atop each other like books.
What better place other than an 'orderly', and 'normal' mall? Aside from the occasional gunfire, en masse of carried firearms, and muffled explosions, of course; because such things were only natural for the place.
V's remembrances ended there, as he eyed an acquaintance sat by him.
Lemuen was sipping on a pink lemonade from the straw, fingers curled around the base of the transparent cup which revealed the suffused interior of the object. Like seeing the organs of a body in full display, but instead of physical ornaments, it was in a liquified form.
V couldn't help but be self-conscious of his wandering thoughts. Without a doubt, I have found myself far too inured with treading the Underworld.
"Find something interesting, V?" Lemuen tilted her head, inquisitive.
V blinked. His gaze must have lingered a tad longer than he expected after spacing out. "Perhaps I did. How is the drink?" he deflected immediately. A torn and transparent wrapper was by his hand, cookie crumbs present in them as he fiddled it with his fingers. The Sankta had been quite enthralled with dragging him along with Fiammetta across the mall they were at.
"Could have more sugar," she replied.
With a flash of his wrist, he threw the plastic wrapping perfectly in a nearby waste bin with perfect precision. "You've already expended fifteen extra grams into the drink." He thinned his lips, the unhealthy prospect repulsive to his human body.
"Fifteen grams? But that's so little~!" Lemuen faux whined with sagged shoulders, smiling with her eyes closed in a dramatic display.
Fiammetta spoke up from the side in a deadpan, "Consuming that much sugar on a daily basis would have me falling over dead within the next five years." She held her own drink, a strawberry sundae which brought V back to a certain man who fancied the selfsame delight. "If that's so little, then I don't know what is."
Lemuen chuckled tenderly. "You're exaggerating."
"Whatever," Fiammetta exhaled out. "You've already dragged me across the entire mall two times already, I'm too exhausted to think of anything to say to you."
"Giving up so easily?" Lemuen asked, a vicious idea coming to mind. "Oh, by the way, how were the sunglasses which matched your soul?"
"...You wouldn't dare..." Fiammetta, once burnt-out from previous activities, sprung up from her chair.
"Well~ I may have already texted a certain somebody about the details already?" Lemuen chirped, gaze briefly locking onto V who acted as if he was minding his own business.
"..." Fiammetta looked flabbergasted, turning to stare at V with a flushed face.
The white-haired man averted his own eyes, as if neither confirming nor denying the statement for the sake of the woman's pride.
"Three for Lemuen, two for Fia?" Lemuen said, the context seldom lost on V, but he postulated it related to whatever activities they had done before he arrived.
"...Hey, V?" Fiammetta spoke with indignation, a shadow cast over her eyes. "Wanna know something hilarious?"
"I'm listening." V raised an eyebrow, Lemuen holding just about the same confused expression.
"Well, you know—Lemuen was such a huge fan of yours that she ordered at the cafe earlier like a poet."
"...I see?" He blinked, turning to the pink-haired Sankta. "I wouldn't have expected that from you." He could seldom imagine the girl possessing such timbre, but it didn't match her image.
Said Sankta looked to be slightly pouting. "I was just attempting to be a bit more creative today, can you blame me?"
"Yes," Fiammetta immediately fired, thus causing Lemuen to sip from her drink with a sulky mien.
V still bore a confused look, mentally attempting to conjecture why Lemuen had attempted such, and why it was being treated as if it were something substantial.
Fiammetta, by the looks of it, seemed to have caught on. "Still don't get it? Remember all the times you ordered for us?"
"I've ordered for you two oftenly. Narrow it down." He leaned back on his chair, unable to recall what the Liberi was talking about.
"You know, the way you always walk up with your book open, without a care in the world?" Fiammetta specified.
"That's... accurate to some degree." V said, still attempting to make sense of what she was attempting to say.
"And your... 'unique' way of talking?" she added, half-wincing.
"I fail to see the issue," he replied, earning a laugh from Lemuen off to the side.
"Forget the issue. What usually happens next?" Fiammetta probed, eyes narrowed. "Particularly with female cashiers?"
V's brow furrowed. "Are you referring to the discounts?"
"Yes!" Fiammetta snapped. "Don't you remember all those mysterious 25% discounts?"
"Is that not a marketing strategy?" He creased his brows. "A branding scheme to entice customers for a second rebound?"
"By the Law..." Lemuen gasped.
Fiammetta groaned, hands over her face.
Bahahaha~! Griffon's rambunctious laughter erupted from within his mind. Holy crap, you're just like Dante! There's no way! Hahaha~!
V's eyebrow twitched. He desired naught but to correct them and say that some cashiers were Demons in disguise, and he had killed them in secret after, but held his tongue.
"V," Fiammetta gave in, "the only way to get discounts by mall-owned stores is if you have a coupon. They gave you a discount because they want to see you again... for different reasons other than profit." She chagrined. "Lemuen here tried copying it for the discount, and I quote, 'for the funsies'. She flopped."
...As I can see. V turned to Lemuen.
"Hey, at least I tried?" Lemuen shrugged without much of a care, but V could tell from the thin crevice in her eyes that she was most likely to even the score with Fiammetta later down the line.
He would let them do as they pleased, as he always had. "That's unfortunate. I have nothing to say."
"Please tell her not to try that again," Fiammetta groaned, "the second-hand embarrassment was unbearable."
V eyed Lemuen. Her posture was relatively composed, shoulders high, but her grin was gleaming like a drawn sharp blade glistening its luster.
"Ah, is that so?" Lemuen daintily crossed her legs, propping her hand atop her palm, retribution loaded like a lethal sniper round. "Darling Fiammetta, if I remember correctly from Mr. Pozzo—"
As if electricity had coursed through Fiammetta by some default program activated by the computer's control center of the human body, the Liberi extended her arms forthwith in an attempt to stop the Sankta from speaking any further. It proved futile, as Lemuen placed a hand over Fiammetta's face, keeping the bird lady away from her.
"W-wait!" Fiammetta turned pallor, colors long since subdued and lost from resurfaced childhood memories of undeniable trauma. "D-don't, not here! Not when V—"
"My? I didn't know you'd drop by the wayside so quickly?" Lemuen placed a hand on her own cheek as she continued with her guileless lineament to Fiammetta's one-eighty turn.
Lemuen: 4
Fiammetta: 3
V flicked open his book watching Fiammetta continuously sputter. "...You two are free to slander one another. I'll catch up on some reading in the meantime."
"Hm?" Lemuen said, both she and Fiammetta pausing. "Catch up on some reading? You've read that book over so many times now."
"...I never said I completed it," V countered.
"N-not directly!" Fiammetta recovered from her brief sporadic heart-attack due to a certain Sankta, clearing her throat. "But you've had it since, what?"
"Since I was born."
"Yeah, and you probably already knew how to read when you were just a fetus," she accused, in a way that an accusation would hold no particular tonnage.
"Sure," V turned back down to his book.
He heard Griffon say, She's not wrong! In his mind.
Lemuen set her chin atop the summit of her hands, this time, with two of them. "V, V, V..." She spoke as if tasting the word "...I can't believe you're winning this game without doing anything. You're so~ lucky we don't have any dirt on you."
"Perhaps you are not trying hard enough," V taunted, turning up an eye, a smirk forming. A rare instance of pride shown, intentionally besmirching the visage of one who need not care. He just couldn't help it.
Fiammetta looked almost gobsmacked, mouth agape and eyes loose. "This guy..."
For a moment, Lemuen—while in thought—gasped as if she had come to a recollection. "Oh my~ V~!" she candidly called to him, placing a hand over her mouth, a creviced smile forming a haunting painting beyond reckoning. "Don't you remember from today? During school?"
V held curiosity over what had caused the Sankta to regain a spark of mischief, recalling memories, and the past day—oh, the past day.
"Huh? What?" Fiammetta looked confused, glancing between the two.
Lemuen giggled, tilting her head.
V thinned his lips. He knew the message she was giving him clearly. A dastardly play. How could I have miscalculated? For a moment, a multitude of plans bordering on bureaucracy and cold calculus formed in his cerebellum, attempting to recover from his salvaged situation.
Griffon chimed in with a quick voice, Holy crap, V! you can't be losing like this! C'mon, think of something, fast, fast, fast!
A bead of sweat trailed down the back of his neck as Lemuen continued to stare at him with enough rascality to make even the Devil cry.
"Shall we make a deal? I could forget that, if you owe me a favor?" The Sankta, despite her rather soft disposition and soft-spoken nature, was as hardened as Laterano's ivory walls.
"Deal," he spoke without hesitation.
Huh, V?! Griffon squawked in his mind, but V ignored it. You folded like a goddamn card tower!
"Really?" She looked relatively taken aback, before renewed with confidence when the white-haired man nodded. "I'm glad you understand, then. Deal~!"
"What are you two talking about?" Fiammetta demanded. "'During school'?"
"Nothing of note," Lemuen said, sipping her drink merrily.
"Indeed. I have no recollection of what she speaks of," V turned down and back to his book, averting his line-of-sight completely.
"Hey—!" Fiammetta thumped Lemuen's shoulder, begging for answers.
"No can do~" Lemuen winked. "A deal is a deal."
Fiammetta drooped in frustration, no different from an angry bird. At that point, she had thrown in the towel, giving up any attempt to scrounge up any information over what they were implying.
***
More time passed as they traversed the mall, taking route to a rather highly-rated restaurant Lemuen had wanted to endeavour. Based on first impressions, it looked rather eloquent with a wide array of colors—and by wide array, it was merely shades of pigmentless marble and shining aureate as any Lateran restaurant would be—but at least, the menu looked to be rather appetizing.
Pavo Aureatus, Vitulus Sacrum, Legumina Alba, and even Tubera Lucida; wholly expensive meals were on the menu. V made sure to order the cheapest options, while Fiammetta struggled with the vast array of delicacies. In the end, she simply chose to order the same meal as he did.
Lemuen, surprisingly, also bought the same meal as he did. He had asked her if she wished to order any desserts, but the Sankta said she'd much rather handcraft them for the three of them.
A Liberi waitress went to take their orders, V... taking the chance to take it for the group of three. Of course, he stood up, held an elegant posture, and spoke as openly as he could, hand on his cane and a sauve smile plastered across his face.
Why?
Because something was amiss.
He ignored the stares he received from Lemuen and Fiammetta as he continuously made 'rapport' with the waitress giving short titters to his responses before she stated that she needed to tend to other customers—not before leaving him with her phone number written on a napkin.
659-550-XXXX
Now V assessed it while seated, also under scrutiny of his two acquaintances.
Fiammetta was the first to break the silence. "...Did she seriously give you her number?" she asked, squinting at the napkin as if it were blasphemous.
He twirled the slip between two fingers before folding it neatly, and tucking it into his pocket, before his fingers curled around his untouched glass of blue Aqua Vitae. "So it seems," he replied, tone light and lilting. "The hospitality here is... charming."
"Charming?" Fiammetta repeated, disbelieving. "W-why did you want her phone number in the first place?"
"Reasons," V murmured warily under his breath, just soft enough that neither of them caught it.
Lemuen, meanwhile, hadn't said a word. She merely observed him with a level gaze. Something was unnatural with the white-haired man. For her, it was unnatural for him to act in such a way.
Keeping up her sweetness, though now a facade, she asked him, "Did you become a playboy overnight?" She folded her hands with mock politeness.
"Only for the ones who wear 'perfume'," V said, waving a hand absently.
Fiammetta frowned. "Pardon?" She was still flustered at the brazen act the white-haired man had so composedly pulled.
"I wonder what that means," Lemuen said, but her brow furrowed slightly as if suggesting something else.
"Ah." Fiammetta slumped back in her chair, visibly deciding not to pursue the topic further. "You're weird, V."
"I'll take it as a compliment," V said as he gently adjusted the cuffs of his white dress shirt, his gaze flicking momentarily to the waitress across the room—who was indeed watching them. She eventually turned away at his emotionally neutered gaze.
He smiled thinly, the edges finding no route to his eyes, thoroughly.
"Anyway," he said, shifting the mood like turning a page, "Lemuen, you said something before? About desserts?"
She perked up slightly. "Mhm, I thought of making another parfait."
"I look forward to it," V said with sincerity. "The one you made before was quite excellent."
Fiammetta grimaced as she stared at V.
He continued to cradle his William Blake book with one arm, undistilled in any sense, privy of something they didn't know.
***
Despite the previous atmosphere, the three eventually went back to discussions pertaining to school over a hearty meal, as V had put it.
Lemuen wasn't too happy at how ambiguous the white-haired man had been with his maneuver. In a way, the pink-haired Sankta was truly starting to believe he had gained a penchant for being a playboy, but then at the same time, doubted it.
At times, she found herself lost attempting to understand him, and it was voraciously bothering.
For now, she listened to her two friends talking.
"—What about you? You're the fifth ever non-Sankta candidate for the highest honors certificate for the Summa cum laude." Fiammetta veered at her seat, watching a water fountain continue to blubber outside the window.
"The SCL?" V's eyes traced the letters of his book, indulging the written poems for the millionth time. "Unfortunately, with my record, it may be revoked."
"Are you serious?"
"I am."
Lemuen frowned at the exchange. Her mind wandered back to V's tattoos, and his currently frail attendance. She doubted he'd become a delinquent so suddenly, and she was confident there was something more to it than that.
Back at Fiammetta, she looked disturbed at his casualness. "...Then at least, are you going to do anything about it?"
V opened his mouth, but then clamped it shut. He chewed phrases between his teeth and tongue for an acceptable parlance. "I'll find a way. An acceptable path will open itself to my view eventually."
"That's it?" Fiammetta deadpanned. "So you'd rather go with the flow?" An acidulated taste appeared to have lingered atop her tongue in tandem with her verbalized words.
He flicked open his book, paper fluttering for a quote, "If the path be beautiful, let us not ask where it leads."
"Way to say you're gonna drive the car down the road with your eyes closed," Lemuen's finally spoke, light wings fluttered. "I ought to straighten you out next time we meet in school, hm?"
"Spare me," he sarcastically responded.
***
The time of parting came, and V waved Fiammetta goodbye as the Liberi walked herself back home. Although, he didn't miss the woman mumbling about her grandfather, most likely another harmless quarrel between the two over films. They argued over films a lot.
The meals, he could say, were adequate in both taste and portion; but he would never order from the restaurant again. His satisfaction was not satiated enough for the price it upheld.
Afterward, he had been requested by Lemuen to come to her house for old-time's sake, whatever she meant by that, and complied without much complaint.
Her parents were not home, but Lemuel was, apparently sleeping in her quarters. He didn't wish to disturb the slumbering sister of Lemuen—mainly because he would become pestered by her excess liveliness—so he walked with silent steps.
With a click of the door closing into Lemuen's room, V glanced around. It had seldom changed the last time he visited, mainly in antiquity and decorations as the Sankta had grown up over the years. He hadn't ever known what to expect, considering the nature of his vagabond-like life in his previous world, and—
The portion of his arm just below his shoulders were grabbed by Lemuen, his attention torn.
V looked down with confusion, feeling the pressure applied onto his arms. Lemuen's head was turned upward, staring into his eyes with a mildly disturbing lack of light in her eyes.
"The waitress, what was that about?"
"...I simply asked for her phone number," he replied calmly, although a breadth of confusion was obvious upon his features.
"First you get tattoos, and now you're unironically flirting with other people?"
"That was not the intention," he clarified. "If you're afraid I will become a 'streetwalker' in the future..."
"No..." Lemuen shook her head. "Ugh, fine, maybe." She averted her gaze. "What you're doing right now, it's just... worrying."
V exhaled. "I know my actions have been rather perplexing, but you needn't worry. I am not a fool." He still couldn't move his arms without magic. Terrans were... abnormally strong.
She turned back to stare at him, lips curved into a frown. "If you do become a delinquent in the future, I'll shoot your legs off."
"My, how terrifying," V sarcastically said, "then I give you my best wishes, not that I would partake in such unscrupulous activities."
"If you really want to know how well I can aim," Lemuen let go of his arms, "then maybe you could attend the annual shooting competition?" The tense air was released, returning to normality.
V, while massaging his arms, raised an eyebrow. "You know there are many annual shooting competitions in Laterano."
"The one between schools." Lemuen shifted back to her amicable countenance, even if disapproval could be felt. "Can't keep up with the recent school events?"
He ignored the second remark. "Ah, that one. Are you planning to participate again?"
"I'm the head prefect, what do you expect?" Lemuen moved to her bed and sat down while V took a chair off to the side. "Also, did you decide whether to join the school council or not?"
"My decision is still unmade," V replied.
"How indecisive." Lemuen twirled her long hair.
A small silence pervaded the room as V sat with his William Blake book on his lap, and with his cane perched against the chair. He still felt Lemuen's gaze trained on him, so he decided to shift the gears of the topic, glancing to where Lemuel's room would be from his position.
"How is Lemuel doing?" He asked from the vacancy of his mind, far too lulled at the moment to think of anything else.
"Oh?" Lemuen tilted her head with curiosity. "Looking to babysit her again?"
"She's well beyond her years of being babysat." V leaned back on his chair, letting his right arm holding his book fall limp. "And in addition, vastly ahead of her peers in relation to... incendiaries." His lips curled downward into a mitigated scowl of discountenance.
"Don't they grow up so fast?" Lemuen beamed purposefully, as if in response to his convoluted expression. "El was only 5 when she already demolished her first building," she looked to the azure heights, suspiring in reminiscence.
V clicked his tongue, the mental recollection inducing a palpable headache. "Foolishness, foolishness..." He pinched the bridge of his nose.
"No need to be such a Negative Nancy." Lemuen smiled. "You ought to have some fun with Laterano's culture, unless you wanna grow up with a grumpy old man with a frown."
"I know, I hear your request. Objectively, I do believe this place is vastly superior to most." V lifted his book onto his lap, elbowing the table and marbling his stance as he inclined his chin with a fist, bearing dignity.
It wasn't mere platitudes he was conceding to this country, because it—from what he knew—had a higher living standard compared to most other regions. He could have been thrown into the sullied fields of Kazdel, where blades and mercenaries flourished in the soil like twisted trees in a forgotten side of nature, a wholly aberrational twilight.
Bolivar and its current state of armed conflict would also be an unsuitable ground to grow up in. Nevermind its rising crime rates which have been in news sources outside even its own walled confines.
Speaking of crime, there was nothing that needed to be said for Siracusa, a country bordering rather close to Laterano, other than that it was run by the essence of crime itself. Mafia was its lifeblood sealed in its veins, and unless some drastic 'cleansing' was done, V doubted it would ever develop out of its repugnant shell.
Ursus was practically an allegory for Tsarist Russia from what information he scoured of it.
The follies of humanity.
"I am grateful for such. But sometimes, and I am sure Fiammetta agrees, you Sankta know far too well how to induce a cardiac arrest out of sheer absurdity."
"I'll take that as a complement." Lemuen careened over, elbows pressed on her knee as she looked at him with a smile. "So, are you up for a movie?"
"A movie? I wouldn't mind," V said, shutting his book and setting it off to the side. "There is not much else for me to do."
"Okay, then!" She clapped her hands together, a smile still brimming. "I have a perfect one we can watch."
She delicately hopped off her bed as she moved to where the TV screen was, reaching down to a small compartment where it held DVD players, a more old-fashioned way of watching films, but V knew it was this way due Terra's divergent technology.
Originium blanketed the air, disallowing long-ranged communication, and satellites—or space travel in general—didn't exist due to the Starpod. Therefore, despite possessing near sci-fi features in society at times, along with vast gross energy output, DVD players were still used commonly.
"There it is. Blood Saint 2, the Full Gore Explicit Edition." Lemuen pulled out a DVD holder with an unperturbed smile, revealing the graphic cover of guns, blood, and a human skull. "I heard the CGI has improved with all things related to the gore."
"...Sometimes, I wonder how you could fancy such crude and robust films." V's lips thinned, once more seeing a contrast between the radiant Sankta and her... grotesque fascinations.
"Oh? I hope you aren't slandering my hobbies, V." Lemuen's smile never faded, her eyes sealed. "Or does the gore scare you too much~?"
"You can watch what you wish to watch," V said. "I just believe the stories in those films are rather lackluster. It has nothing to do with the gut-wrenching display those films would show." He had seen enough carnage and human butchery to have become a desensitized slate.
Lemuen gave a gentle chuckle, daintily brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as if she hadn't just described a cinematic bloodbath like a child recommending a favorite cartoon.
"Mmm, well, you do have that whole 'shadowy poet' aesthetic going on," she said, swaying slightly on her heels. "I guess art films and tragic soliloquies are more your taste. But sometimes, V, a little intestines-on-the-ceiling energy is just what the soul needs to feel alive, you know?"
V raised an eyebrow. "Excuse you?"
She opened one eye slightly, peeking at him with a twinkle. "Alarming? Well, only if you have a weak constitution. Which, if I recall, you don't. But I suppose your sensitive poetic soul just prefers long metaphors about crumbling leaves and dying stars as compared to a chainsaw to the face."
"Is that not preferable?" V asked, folding his arms. "Artistry does not come from shock value, and not—what did the critic dub it? 'A ninety-minute arterial spray'."
"Oh, V~" Lemuen called, tapping the DVD case against her chin. "I like metaphors too. For example, this film here," she said, holding up Blood Saint 2 again, "could easily be read as a deep commentary on the fragility of the human psyche... or how your head can pop like a grape if hit just right with a crowbar. Duality in a way, or would it be juxtaposition~?"
"I believe the apt term would be psychopathy."
She smiled sweetly. "I thought it would only be so if you did it? We're just watching, you know?"
V sighed. "I'm not watching that with you." If there was one thing he knew not to verbalize, it would be Lemuen's and Fiammetta's lackluster taste in films.
"Oh, I never asked you to," Lemuen said, beaming. "But I might continue to bring this up until time immemorial~?"
V shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Laterano's moral decay begins with you."
"Oh V, don't be so dramatic," Lemuen said brightly. "Now, do you want to watch the film?" Before ending her request with a sugary tone.
"...Fine, I won't mind." V snapped his book shut, relenting. " Let's see what makes this sequel film so interesting to you."
"I'm glad you came around, then." The excitement written upon her face was palpable, as if she couldn't contain the excitement threatening to bubble up.
V didn't understand why the pink-haired Sankta liked movies with gore and blood-splatter so much, but he was prone to shift the blame onto Mostima, for she had been the one to introduce this soul to those kinds of media.
***
The film finished, and there was not much of an opinion V gave to Lemuen as he stepped out of her room, the day having grown weary, for night's descent had been an inevitability soon to come. A few more words were exchanged as he bid her adieu.
Well, until somebody had interrupted.
"V!" A high-pitched voice called out, the causation for the white-haired man halting midstep as he recognized it from anywhere.
"Lemuel," V huffed, watching the mass of unbidden joy bolt her way in his direction.
The red-haired Sankta slammed into his chest, the human-half of Vergil being forced to place his hands on the girl's shoulder so he wouldn't be propelled back by the force.
"Big Sis! You didn't tell me you were bringing him home!" Lemuel pouted to Lemuen.
"I didn't wish to disturb your sleep," Lemuen replied, placing a hand on her cheek as she warmly looked at the scene.
V struggling once more with an ebullient Sankta, for her, looked to be amusing.
"Oh, well, it's been so long!" Lemuel giddily said, shifting back to V, golden stars in her eyes as she looked up at him. "Where have you been? Big Sis talks about you so much, but you haven't visited our house in so long!"
"A mere half month's worth is an exaggeration for a 'long' length," he replied, slightly pushing the Sankta back to regain some personal space. "...Still, I'm glad you're doing well, Lemuel," he added.
"Just call me El!" Lemuel puffed her cheeks, waving her hands in front of him, height disparity apparent between the two. "Like Big Sis does! You always forget that!" She pouted afterward.
"I hear your request." V eyed Lemuen who was leaning by the open frame of a door not too far away, bearing an entertained look. "El."
"Hehe~!" The radiating blob of energy—in some literal sense—seemed to have been energized even further. "So, what were you and Big Sis watching?"
V clamped his lips shut, discreetly looking to Lemuen for any sign of what to say—for he knew Lemuel was inept in age qualifications to watch any of the Blood Saint trilogy. He saw Lemuen making a singular horn by clasping her two hands together, placing it atop her head. It was a gesticulation he knew all too well, and no thanks to his lack of contemporary knowledge when it came to films, it was one of the only ones he knew.
"...Pony Adventures 3," V spoke on command, brief instances of the childhood film during his nursery home days erupting in his mind.
"Huh?" Lemuel widened her eyes. "You? Watching that?" She looked like she was about to burst into laughter.
Lemuen did not fare any better than her, unable to restrain a chortle as she placed a hand over her mouth.
"Look, even she is laughing!" The younger sister pointed to her, giggling. "I thought you were older than that, V!"
"Anybody can have their interests." He glanced away. "Besides, it was by your sister's recommendation for... nostalgia's sake."
"'Kay!" Lemuel beamed, Fluorescent Light and wings shining, not buying it. "You must really like ponies, huh? What's your favorite pony! Mine is Fluttershine!"
Lemuen laughter could still be heard from the side, even if it were soft.
V sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. A certain white-haired boy from his childhood with the same zeal appeared in his mind.
Dante...
***
His time at Lemuen's house ended there, with a promise to revisit some time, mostly to Lemuel. The red-headed Sankta had been far too acclimated to him when he first decided to follow the pink-haired one to her home under the basis of a group project. It just so-happened that he had bought a miniature apple pie in plastic wrapping before he arrived, and it had attracted the attention of Lemuel.
...Of course, he 'willingly' gave it to the Sankta when she had stared at it for a long time, earning her graces. Whatever happened after that was up to providence and his memories, far too many memories to keep track of..
Night's ebb had already begun, signaling the end of the day for most people. But for some exiguous Sankta—they knew who they were—would stay up all night in flourishing parties with decadent delicacies and without worry. V knew what it was like, wholly so, for some random passerby had miraculously invited him with no hesitation on a rather sunny day.
The country was bizarre, but he was used to the bizarreness, and perhaps, he wouldn't mind spending much more time in it.
"Enjoy your time out, V?" Griffon squawked, interrupting his thoughts. "I know I did, that movie was a blast! Hey, hey, remember that scene when Saint Mary blew that Mafioso's face in?"
"I remember it very vividly, no need to remind me." V tapped his cane against the ground as he stared off to the ivory walls of Laterano.
"Well, didcha' like the movie?" The Familiar hemorrhaged from his tattoos, perching on his right arm as V extended it.
"Complicated," he replied. "The film certainly knows how to express itself in radical ways..."
"C'mon! It was stylish as hell and you know it!"
V stretched and massaged his neck, humming. "Stylish for some, perhaps, but it lacks substance. Somebody such as Dante may have preferred the movie, more so compared to myself."
Griffon tilted his head. "Wow, that Lemuen girl was right about you and your 'refined' tastes."
"What were you expecting?"
"You're not denying it!"
"Indeed, I am not." V twirled his cane. "If you want my full opinion, then I would say the viscera in the film is overused. Perhaps if they had been more purposeful and elegant with its usage, then I might not hold as many qualms as I do."
"Purposeful and elegant? What are you talkin' about?" Griffon chuckled. "How're ya' supposed to do that with guts? Guts are supposed to explode all over the place!"
"Perhaps an aspiring film-maker out in the world would find a way."
V turned an alleyway, the darkness eclipsing his form. Even for a back alley, there was no residue trash nor the tainted sorrow of impoverishment. Just like all the ivory or marble glistening in this city, with some velvet or scagliola in-between their prominence, this hidden valley would be no different.
"It would be a shame to dirty it," V mouthed, turning to the side as he felt a sickly presence behind him. "Was it my Demonic Energy? You could have made your arrival much less obvious." A disdainful yet respectful tone laced his tongue, as he jabbed his cane onto the ground.
Behind him was...
"...Hm?" V could see the blackened silhouette of a man behind him, his stature tall, fatiguing a trench coat, shoulders wide and robust, with not a single sight of human skin being capable to the human eye.
"Hah?" Griffon burst out from his tattoos, electricity cackling power across his feathered form. "That isn't the waitress you got the phone number from!"
"This might be a problem..." V sighed, watching the figure start to convulse, limbs bending, bones cracking, and then their back turning bent. "There are more disguised Demons than I expected." He pointed his cane their way, edge shimmering with an amethyst glow.
The Demon burst out feathered wings from their back, a holy eminence of crimson with a hint of burgundy accompanying the sprouted features, before it reeled over, regurgitating a waterfall of blood.
"Well, shit! Let's kill it fast and find that damned waitress, then!" Griffon spread his wings, a spherical barrier of electricity forming around him and V as a hellish beam of Demonic Energy and blood slammed against it. "Wanna reenact that scene from Blood Saint?!"
"Which one?" V tapped his cane against his other open palm, awaiting the attack to end.
"You know which one I'm talkin' about!" Once the Demon's turn came to pass, Griffon shot forward with a near thunderclap, barreling toward the Demon.
"Might I do." V's body flickered, disappearing from sight due to sheer speed.
The Demon scowled with its parted face, reptilian skin mixed with avian fur to form the tincture of some sacrilegious angel misbegotten from both Hell and Heaven. It fluttered its wings, attempting to fly into the sky as Griffon's blistering form passed it.
"Dumbass!" Griffon, although missing his mark, grinned.
It growled, but from behind, the figure of V descended from the skies, feet slamming into the back of the Demon, along with his cane piercing through it. The pain was immense, causing the creature to start to flail about, wings in disarray and losing its control.
"'Everything that lives is holy'," V looked at his book, quoting the Marriage of Heaven and Hell. "But at times, I must disagree." He motioned for his familiar. "Griffon, ascend."
"And everything that dies is also holy!" Griffon yelled, slamming the Demon from the front, bolts of electricity flying as V leapt off. "One fried Demon comin' right up!"
A brighter intensity burned in purple as sparks flew, off the Demon and unto the surrounding area. Blisters formed on skin, flesh searing to a medium-rare, and blood boiling into a gaseous state. Griffon remained unrelenting, flying 'round and 'round, bashing the Demon from all directions with his flight trajectory, each impact increasing the luminous intensity of his electricity.
Once the parade of lightning ceased, and the nightmare was soon to end, Griffon flew into the sky, casting his shadow over the moonlight. In that moment, V's form blurred through the air in an arc, swinging his cane as he would a certain dimension-cutting weapon, clothes fluttering as he landed daintily on his feet; knees bent.
V stood back up, sensing the Demon eviscerate into a splatter of ash and sparks.
He placed his hand on his forehead, pushing his hair back out of habit, before speaking: "Rest in peace."
"Ah~! Amazing to be back at it again after so long!" Griffon fluttered around him. "I know I've said that like a million times by now, but you wouldn't know what it's like to be an orb 24/7!"
V didn't give much recognition as he dusted himself off. Now, to find the other Demon...
He reached into his pocket for the napkin with the phone number written, and...
"...What?" V blinked, feeling nothing in them. He patted his pockets a few more times with his free hand, brows pressing down on his eyes as a pit formed in his stomach.
"Haha—hey, uh, V?" While Griffon continued to cackle, the Familiar seemed to have noticed his distress. "What's wrong, dropped your phone?"
"...The napkin, with the disguised Demon's contact..."
"Huh?"
"It's gone."
***
The napkin was creased twice and damp around the corners from her fingers. Lemuen sat alone atop a vacant bell tower, still wearing her school uniform, taking in the night sky of Laterano. She stared down at the object, a distant glare in emotionless eyes, gazing at the phone number written upon it.
She had called it on her phone line, the device still connected to the 'person' behind it. The Sankta didn't like impulsive thoughts, but something was utterly wrong with it, to the point where it had stirred her guts and provided an unwanted sentiment.
Nothing was heard on the other side, but she had texted the number her location, acting as V.
A bolt-action sniper rifle—her Patron firearm—was hung over her shoulder by a strap. Inside the barrel was a white flower peering out as she continued to fiddle with the napkin with stilted gestures. There were footsteps behind her, ascending the spiral stairs to the top of the bell tower, and it resounded a nauseating squelch.
Lemuen didn't say much and just listened to the phone, a single word finally being heard behind it, unintelligible and inhuman.
"I'm almost there."
Those words, it churned a sense of irritation in her. She hadn't spoken, and turned off the line. Proning herself down, and removing the flower; she felt the cold marble atop the velvet-sheathed platform. She adjusted the sights of the Patron Firearm, pressing the bolt-action sniper rifle's stock against her shoulder, cheek also firmly pressing it. Her hands remained steady, vision magnified through the lens.
The reticle floated atop the doorway that led to the room at the bell tower—where she was at—envisioning the height of the waitress. It started to open slowly, and a shadow with a disgusting multitude of eyes was seen.
There.
BANG!
The gunfire echoed, and the thing she shot was repulsed, flesh, blood, and bones liberated from body by the Arts-enhanced bullet shining a pink sheen.
Her sniper's bolt handle turned up as she lifted it with two fingers, then pulled back. The bolt drew with a clean metallic scrape, a satisfying sound, ejecting a disposed Originium-etched cartridge case. It was hollow and empty, clamoring against the ground
Forward, down—a new cartridge locked into the chamber, producing a click.
She breathed out calmly, undisturbed by the gruesome sight, centering the crosshairs over the figure's neck. It staggered pathetically out from the shadow, waitress clothes tearing apart as it revealed chitinous skin. Behind the 'Liberi waitress', wings unfurled with flesh-toned feathers, multiple eyes reflected like glass.
It's not human, she told herself.
The Demon looked up at her, screeching, before holy light in rosy hues was fired off from the long barrel. Toward the tower, as if sensing the glint of holy light atop the long barrel.
BANG!
The shot echoed like divine thunder through the room of the pristine bell tower, echoing against the stationary bell. There was a recoil kicking gently into her shoulder, leaving her to absorb it out of muscle memory and maintaining stability.
The thing's head twisted violently to the side, for the round had made its mark. Yet, even then, it still stood, legs moving about, limbs flailing and. Focused. On. Her.
"Damn it..." Lemuen hissed, Sankta wings and Fluorescent Light shining.
Up, back, forward, and down. Another round was swiftly chambered with practiced precision and without failure. While the process was undergoing, the thing leapt skyward, wings spread out, claws at the ready.
Adjust position, lead the trail, and breathe calmly, Lemuen passionlessly recited in her mind, cold-blooded eyes tracking the thing with clarity.
She aligned just ahead of its arc, estimating altitude, wind resistance despite the empty room, its acceleration, before she fired!
BANG!
The shot pierced one of the rising wings, and in fact, clipped it in its entirety, leaving white feathers stained in ichor to fly around haphazardly. The thing screamed, spiraling down.
One more. Lemuen watched it fall.
Up, back, forward, down; and another round loaded, ready for deliverance. Aim upward, pointed, focused, and in line.
You cannot let the Law do all the work.
The creature crashed onto the ground—back to the mortal realm from its falsified high heaven—losing its kinesthetic and vestibular senses all at once, shrieking against the holy earth it could no longer fly above.
BANG!
Directly through the base of the neck it traveled. The holy round detonated right as it made a half-way point, dispersing a vermillion wave of blood which splattered in all directions. Light spilled from the wound in blinding waves too, her Arts having done its work.
The twisted and extended limbs of the creature contorted and twitched despite being headless, before losing all sense of motion and eventually, truly, dying as a profane creature should.
Lemuen remained still, Patron Firearm still trained against the withered thing. It was only after the last cinders burnt away from the thing, and it vanished into dust—somehow—did she lower her gun, watching the false angel be whisked away by the wind blowing into the room.
Then, slowly, she reached into her breast pocket and pulled out the napkin.
"V..." Lemuen muttered, complex emotions swirling within, the most prominent one being worry. She folded it once more tucked it away, hoisted her sniper rifle, and began to descend the tower.
***
A facility pulsed with the synthetic rhythm of machines engineered to live longer than human flesh and blood, to pave through outlasting eras unlike the fragile human body. Cryo-cooled data conduits cycled behind walls of carbon-stitched alloy, their thermochromic panels blinking in sync with maintenance vectors in place meant to keep them breathing resiliently. Fluorescent panels above cast artificial photon flux across the corridors, each lumenshift carefully modulated by Rhine's aging but loyal lightwave equilibrium system, now three firmware cycles past its original mission profile.
Somewhere deeper in the core block, footsteps reverberated between compressed leather shoes, polymer-sealed floor designed to mitigate seismic interference for any potential extraneous variables that could affect results; a result of paranoia amongst perfectionists dedicated to their craft. Mixed in-between was the desperation of researchers behind private quarters engrossed in work, to pave a new future for Terra.
With it all naturally, came the eventual placating voice of an entrepreneur destined to grandiose dreams as bright as the artificial lights used.
"—Well, you see, Ms. Wright," a brown-haired Perro man in a reinforced lab coat marked with a faint, glowing Rhine insignia and an embedded ID chip near the collar spoke. "What we lack, fundamentally, is what we can do with Originium. There's a limit to our current understanding of its extraction vector efficiency. If we want Rhine Lab to sprint, we need it to run, we've already gotten past the walking stage ages ago." He cleared his throat. "To achieve this, we need something like a self-iterating energy paradigm."
"Mhm." Kristen Wright's utility coat, woven from non-reactive fibers, shifted around her knees as she moved. A magnetic stylus clicked against the tablet's OLED surface as she reviewed what appeared to be energy field resonance charts.
"Sure, we've got access to multi-tonnes of Originium post-Columbia-Ursus Treaty—that absolute hell—but, ahem! I digress!" he quickly said. "Raw mass doesn't equal usable potential. Right now, our draw rate is capped by the volatility coefficient of standard Originium matrices. We're bleeding resonance during the energy cascade phase." He gestured fluidly, as though holograms of the concepts he articulated floated around like constellations.
"And you think that's enough to justify this—" Kristen flicked her stylus, scrolling down a page "—request for a Tier-VIII isotopic reactor simulation field?"
"Sustainability's old news," he said, readjusting his coat. "We've had green-loop power solutions since the Tethered Originium-Reactor Project. But the next step is surpassing systematic entropy. We need adaptive Originium harmonics that evolve in real time with task-specific output modulation."
Kristen clicked her stylus shut. "Then research deeper."
"Unless we can parse Originium's nonlinear decay curves or develop a containment schema that doesn't melt through three floors of lab plating, I'm not sure how much deeper we can go," he muttered, half to himself, with weary optimism waning.
"Seems like a problem you'll endeavor through. Good luck," she monotonously said, ready to turn to the other side of the hallway.
"Ah, wait, wait, wait!" The Perro man quickly waved his hand in the air. "Ms. Wright, I still have something I—we—want to show you." A newfound energy seemed to spark in him as he cleared his throat henceforth, excitement of all things boiled in the pot of scientific joy. "Something that blows the Tier-VIII isotopic reactors—blah, blah, blah—whatchamacallit, out of the water a thousand times over."
"...And that would be?" Kristen placed a hand on her hip, tablet still in grasp to the hand that did so.
He smirked. "Follow me. It'll only take a nanosecond of your time to see." He motioned with his hand, before placing his hands in his coat pockets, Kristen tilting her head, before following along.
Multiple decontamination zones were passed as they continued through the corridors, with twists and turns only made through memory, they finally reached an air-locked door with a terminal by the side. A few inputs were decreed into the machine with quick hands before the Perro man stepped back, hearing the whirring components loosen themselves.
"This is...?" Kristen questioned, a stroke of interest finding way to herself.
"This right here..." He spread his arms, voice ricocheting across the thick walls "...Is the solution to all of our energy problems."
In front of him stood many researchers in large quantities attending to countless screens and switches, with mutters and quick conversations the mainstream method of communication. Above all else, there seemed to linger an air of uncertainty hovering amongst the researchers as falls scratched their heads or cupped their mouths reading over reports both digital and physical..
Kristen flicked her sights across the collection, before speaking, "You have monitors and terminals recording information, but I don't see any designated for energy or Originium. I assumed you had found a way to remedy our energy 'crisis'?"
He merely smiled. "Let me clarify: We've found an energy source that is separate from Originium."
"Oh?" Kristen raised an eyebrow, a sliver of interest coming to her. "Continue."
"With pleasure," he cleared his throat, motioning for somebody. "Take a look at that recording screen over there." He then pointed to one of the screens shortly off in the distance, the console becoming static before switching to another display. "That, there, is the source of the energy we've found."
Kristen squinted her eyes, attempting to make clarity of what was being displayed. It looked akin to some sort of misshapen blob with chitinous-like fragmented plating crudely attached to it—damascus patterns upon pale obsidian—with continued static distorting the digital screen as if the technology used to record it was primitive in design.
...It was fascinating.
There laid in the cosmos' bedchambers unknowable horrors beyond the scope of the human mind. Informable masses that comprehension cannot cohesively analogize, whether it be from past experience, cognition, or anything else currently existing.
An eldritch ball of gooey mass undulated with sickly sweet sounds, a kind of ebony outside the spectrum of colors. Skeletal waste, corpses long since rotten, laid inside, oscillating along with the pulsating breaths of the seemingly living piece of Hell itself.
"Apologies for the static, but I believe this is a testament to the profound energy radiating from it." The Perro man placed his hands behind his back, never once turning away from the screen as if he had been enamored by the sight. "Looks weird, I know. But the reason why I'm showing you this, is because none of our detectors, instruments, or technology has been able to record even a speck of its true energy."
"I take it you haven't been using out-of-date OM720 instruments?"
He chuckled, almost laughing. "Oh, no, no. We've been using state-of-the-art, cutting edge technology in regards to energy recording. It's just that this... beautiful thing we've found far eclipses any of their prescribed capabilities. "
Kristen nodded. "So this, whatever it is, exceeds the limitations of what we can record. Is that why you've filed so many budget requests with the abstract relating to, 'progressive gross energy measuring devices'."
"Haha, I'm glad you've read them over," he said.
She ignored his words, words shifting back to the screen displayed. "...Aside from requests, what is that thing?"
"We don't know."
"Figures." She wasn't too surprised.
"But—as I said before, it's latent and potential energy is far beyond anything we've seen before. Not even Feranmut-grade research material in Victoria's top universities can compare to this." He clapped his hands together, rubbing them in excitement. "This entire laboratory was built around the foundation of that single specimen you're seeing on that screen."
"Ever since your late father's passing, correct?"
"You know even that?" The Perro man looked both shocked and touched. "Ah, nevermind, forget it. Yes, this was first discovered by my father ten years ago, and it's thanks to Rhine Lab's assistance and aid that we've been able to construct equipment and grounds to keep this inanimate blob of energy. It's a miracle, really."
"Hm."
"The branch focused on studying the far Northern reaches of Sami—SCIEN—have also provided invaluable insight in regards to comprehending this source." He took a deep breath.
"Tell me," Kristen inquired, "by estimations from your explorations and inquiry, how much energy in total is in that source we're seeing?"
"An estimation, huh?" The Perro man cupped his chin, rubbing a stubble beard. "Combine all super Originium veins in the entire world, and they might not even reach the soles of what we have predicted so far. All in that one, single mass."
"That's a bold claim you're making."
"We can provide the necessary results from tests to confirm or deny our claims, if we access to higher-level instruments which, as you know it are—"
"Are you asking for increased funding?" Kristen's voice interrupted like a deft and short scalpel passing through.
"Er, I didn't necessarily say this was a request for funding, you see—"
"Approved. Get the papers prepared." She waved her hand, turning around and finally breaking eye-contact with the strange horror encompassed in waves of static. "And have it in my office by six hours—minimum. I wish to know more about this thing you've found." Without another word, she vacated the proximity, footsteps audible yet becoming distant each step. "
"Uh?" The Perro man blinked owlishly for a moment, until he changed his face into an impressed look. "...Well, I'll be," he exasperated the idiom. The only thing he could do now was turn around, watching the screen display of the nightmarish blob.
For an inexplicable reason, a bifrost shiver coursed down his vertebrae the more he gazed at the screen. He gestured at an employee to turn it off as they complied, the sense of unease and discomfort only quelling ever so slightly. Gripping his fist, the Perro man pondered once more the exact nature of the creature they had found.
In all likelihood, since the entity exhibited behavioral and ontological markers consistent with what contemporary theories classified as a Feranmut-class being, it could be labeled, or perhaps should, be labeled as such. Historical records, primarily those collated during joint academic tenures at the Victorian Institute, provided sufficient enough precedent to justify the working hypothesis. However, unlike deific manifestations commonly attributed to Feranmut-class entities, the specimen displayed neither sovereignty nor sentience. Instead, its behavior approximated a state of low-order cognition even for the animal kingdom. It was formless, non-reactionary, and inert. A mindless sludge, in the literal and metaphorical sense.
Therefore, classified as functionally sub-deific, and operationally manageable for their resources, as evident by their capability to hold it in a tenure without resistance. For current containment parameters, this was a favorable deviation compared to what many others would expect from a Feranmut.
Suppressing the adrenal spike that lingered in his chest cavity, he exhaled in order to recalibrate himself, and to dispel any residual fears. Emotional bias, he reminded himself, was the antithesis of rational inquiry and what science stood for. There was a promise he had once codified into personal protocol, which was to rekindle the embers of scientific pursuit. To do so, he would have to uncover a means of safely deriving energy from the—
"Mr. Henson."
The interruption was clean and precise, delivered in a neutral timbre. A male voice, specifically. Turning with conditioned reflex, Henson met the gaze of a Liberi colleague dressed in a black suit.
"Yes?" Henson blinked, latency in his flesh automaton controlled by neural-transmitters resolving itself as his mind found itself in the present once more.
"A report from Human Resources." A biometric-locked data slate was extended, which Henson received with a flick of his wrist. The exchange was a rather routine one as requested by himself for the administrative substrate. "So far, we've had five absences today."
"Five?" His ocular orbs narrowed over the listed entries, brows incrementally lifting at the readouts. "...Christina, Albert, Serena, James, and... I'm not even going to attempt to pronounce that name."
The Liberi gave an amused snort unfiltered by protocol.
Henson shook his head. "Anyways, last time I checked, at least three of them haven't missed a single day in at least three years."
"Know them personally?" the Liberi asked.
"Comes with the length." Henson shrugged. "What was the reason for their absence? It's not listed here." The tablet was returned, fingers briefly brushing the screen to turn it off, before relinquishing it.
The Liberi pressed his temple in thought as he resecured the device beneath his arm. "Reportedly, they haven't been feeling too well. Symptoms of insomnia, night terrors, and repeated nightmares are the most common between them as of late. Maybe it's the stress getting to them."
"Nightmares? Well, it could be attributed to stress as you suggest, but we haven't done anything extraneous recently?" His mind trailed briefly to the ongoing probes instituted around the amorphous biological variable beneath the facility's foundation. A biochemical mass with unknown sentience, encased in observation-grade alloy and dampened via three-layer Arts-enhanced shielding. It's all routine as usual. So why's there stress?
"Maybe it's because Ms. Control herself was invited here. We all know how nerve-wracking that can be," the Liberi offered his thoughts aloud, two cents. "At least you settled it well, right?"
Henson briefly let a smile break. "...Let's just say we'll be able to do proper research from now on." The answer came with a trace of restrained satisfaction, carried pride sheathed as an ornamental blade would be to a warrior. "But of course, you probably don't care about that, seeing how you're... you know, from Human Resources and all?" He gestured, performative hands fluttering in mock flamboyance, his attempt at levity in a place rarely afforded it due to 'costs'.
"You're not wrong," the Liberi conceded, repositioning the tablet under his right arm as if it had become uncomfortable. "If the attendance report was all you wanted today—for some reason," he added under his breath, "then I'll go back to my office. Contact me if you need something again, or don't."
"Good day, then," Henson replied. Although half-way from furrowing his brows, waved to the employee for his departure.
"Good day."
Once the footsteps receded down the corridor and was absorbed by the facility's seismic null-flooring, Henson's gaze was left stilted. Data points and programs shuffled themselves like a digital library in his thoughts, breaking away from their unfiled states. Five unplanned absences, all citing sleep-based disturbances as their rationality. He made a mental note: Refer them to psychiatric review, possibly through a Rhine-licensed sleep specialist.
He snorted under his breath. A bureaucratic solution to a non-linear variable. It would work out in the end, and if not, he could always contact Human Resources with good enough reasons pertaining to 'asset disposal'.
Time to return to work.
Yet, just before drafting the internal report per Kristen's directives, a vague contraction gripped his gut with curled fingers, something he couldn't easily categorize in his misshapen state. Without even a degree of conscious decision, his head rotated toward the central monitoring terminal linked to the observational cask.
The status read as dormant and inactive, as it always has been when they hooked up activity-detecting vectors to the energy source sealed deep within the facility. In tandem, the screen connected to the observatory remained offline as per its black screen, protocol of his previous command.
His lips pressed into a tight line, furthermore bending downward a curvature even he couldn't quite make out.
It must have been nothing.
***
...The Mental Machine quartered in slumber awaited its master's calls, whether it be for an eon or until eternity's end. It was a machination of ruin ill-begotten from a Dark Emperor far beyond his own aspirations, yet so was this cog paradoxically tantalized by a single force no sane mind would have found empirical to a monstrous being.
It dreamed, and it dreamed endlessly, near incessantly. It dreamed as a volatile mass that should not. And it just so happens to be, it was humanity it sought in those dreams. Within its withered and sludging mind, the single visage of a once-discarded human, draped in gothic attire, luminescent with pure white hair, appeared.
V(ergil).
It would await his return, longing to be known.
***
Power.
He held power in his grasp, between his fingertips, embedded underneath his nails, and coursing through skin and veins. Plated by the roots of a tree which once breached through worlds to feast upon human blood and fuel the Underworld's appetite for destruction and chaos, he sat upon a jagged throne of the same making.
Power.
He was power incarnate ever since feasting upon the fruit, a fruit even Demons had sealed deep in legends amongst their treacherous kind. There was no humanity in him, he had discarded it, thrown away as a decaying husk, as it should, and always will be.
Power.
Why was he powerful? Why did he become so powerful? Why was this power his? And why, most of all, was it not enough?
Flashes of memories dragged across its mind in a primeval diluvian. From a certain home, to the Underworld, to a blood of Sparda, his own blood, and the standing stature of a pathetically frail human being; stood above him, a mockery of his status he couldn't stand to bear even a step away from death.
"...Dan...te..." Urizen growled beneath its sealed compartments, slagging the posture of a king as it gripped its hand. "And my... discarded half..." A modulated voice passed through from both Demonic vocal cords and hardened roots. "Why...? Why...? Why had I lost...? What had gone wrong...?!" Frustration echoed a tremor across the land, atop the throne he was monarch over, and the countless mountains of desecrated Demons beneath it.
A Hell Gate remained sealed behind it all, executed by his own decree. The Underworld would not accept an usurper such as himself. Not that he hath borne much security in those pathetic fools no less than ants, for they satiated nothing he could have ever wanted.
Right at that moment, Urizen clenched his claws into the armrest of his corrupted throne. A single word prematurely echoed in his mind hinging on what he had ruminated over: Want. What was it that he wanted?
Power?
Was it truly so? Did he need more? Did he need more power? Once before, it kissed him upon the lips, and he kissed it back, spilling the blood of a million humans unto it, slipping down his gullet; and into his entrails. It stirred deep inside his viscera, and yet now he felt such a need to vomit.
Yon the gaping abyss of his abandoned memory and pride, the ethereal flash of a soft blonde-haired woman, and a strict white-haired man dressed in purple accents manifested in his mind. Gentleness refined and nobility sublime was the essence of their soul, and it gnawed at him, scarring a great frustration.
"Enough...!" Urizen slammed his ironfist down, slouched posture quivering ever so slightly. "Have I grown... weak? Have I become... impotent?" With renewed clarity, the Demon King wrought himself back to more recent times, beyond slaughtering Demons who detested his rule and mutinied him from their kind.
Pathetic ilk of humans also congregated themselves in this world, bearing resemblance of demons with their blasted horns. Whether it be some sort of mimicry or play undertaken by cultists he was not aware of, they still feared his presence as any human would, running away; doused in despair.
He felt the need to growl as he remembered the frail skeleton of a man donned by a deplorable cloak. A feeble ant scrawling their legs across the ground in a desperate bid for survival, lost and purposeful in direction.
It was just like him.
Urizen's body tensed. "...Foolishness..." He moved a hand over his face, feeling the coarseness of the rooted thorns attached to his body.
A frail child laid across the ground, Demons cackling.
A question struck him: Why had he merely watched the helpless whelp scramble away, rather than feasting upon the ichor plump in their skin? The dubiety continued to fester greater magnitudes of ire.
Lost, wandering child.
He could no longer dissimulate the irritation welling within, so he released a strained breath, slow and drawn out. Memories he discarded should have been as such, thrown into the desolate pits of the void where it would never return.
"...Who approaches now?" Urizen momentarily banished those thoughts from whence they came, for he felt movement rising from the far length of proximity.
He could detect it with his enhanced senses, a battalion sized group of humans not too far from where he had established his throne.
"Humans," he disdainfully said. "Even they eventually find their way here... how predictable." With all honesty, Urizen could claim he hadn't made any effort to explore this new world he had found himself in.
He was far too stuck in the grievance of his loss in order to do so.
But now? "Should they tread lightly in my palace... these humans masqueraded as Demons... I will have them suffer." Urizen glared to the far distance, across the prairie of corpses.
***
"Dark revolving in silent activity: Unseen in tormenting passions; An Activity unknown and horrible; A self-contemplating Shadow, In enormous labours occupied."
—The Book of Urizen