June (Sunday)

Judas Contract Subject 000
Codename: Impulse
**** Infohazard Warning. The changes [redacted] snuck into our barriers beforeI uncovered [redacted] corruption are still being found. They seem mostly harmless, but in addition to any spells that would target [redacted] fizzling, any direct mentions to [redacted] cannot be read. Ensure you have received proper protections before reading this file!
Proceeding…
Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ made over a third of the barriers which Terran Rider-Waite bases reside in, but so far no counterproductive changes akin to ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ restrictions in the Springfield barriers, but investigations are ongoing. Regardless, the Major Arcana have decided to **** the ownership of all ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ previous barriers to shift as a precautionary measure. This long, taxing process is still ongoing, given the overly complex nature of the guild’s barrier systems. Guild resources at the top are spread pretty thin as it is. Bothering with any barriers beyond those in Springfield seems like a waste of time to me, but I’m only the detective paid to be an expert on ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ .
Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ used to be the most prominent of Judgement’s pupils, and has empathic abilities second only to that of ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ fateweaving. ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ reality manipulation inside barriers ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ owns and even those ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ opposes is quite frankly terrifying. A pioneer in the fateweaving field, Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ created the discipline of fateweaving which takes partial control of barriers by slicing them up into smaller more manageable pockets of space within these barriers. Notably, allies have observed Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ manipulate these ‘pockets’ of local space and time to freeze enemies in place while time moves around them, even in hostile barriers. While inside of ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ own ‘pockets’ or barriers, ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ can create even the most complex of machines or typically taxing of materials with relative ease and little expenditure of mana. Though such creations which ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ forces to persist past the boundaries of ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ controlled space have been observed leaving Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ pale and exhausted.
Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ recreated many legendary beasts and warriors alike from the guild’s past, though only those ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ has witnessed personally. Thankfully, ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ cannot compel these echoes beyond the boundaries of ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ own space. Furthermore, the reports of their quality are a bit scattershot. One thing remains consistent: the closer these copies are in physical appearance to their original, the closer their capabilities. Field reports have shown Nairis to exploit this ability along with the necromantic abilities ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ obtained from the time ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ was host to Sirian. Attempts to undermine this operation are ongoing, but encountering more of Wallace or Sorvel in the field certainly has not helped local operations.
ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ empathic abilities are most terrifying at scale. Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ can capitalize on the doubt or hesitance of just one enemy and sow those feelings across an entire battlefield a thousand times over. Likewise, Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ can bolster ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ allies in the same manner, spreading inspiration, confidence, and tenacity to them which has in some cases doubled effectiveness. On reflection, ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ callous use of the former ability to compel weaker members to fight so hard that they seriously injure themselves in relatively low-pressure situations displayed at best an apathy and self-indulgence consistent with those easily corrupted. Such long-ignored complaints began my investigation into ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ to begin with, and they date back to before my time or clearance with the guild.
Taking that investigation into account, it’s clear to me that Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ has been a selfish and malicious woman long before Nairis came to ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ promising more. I can only wonder what more ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ was promised, given ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ abilities to begin with. However, it would be misrepresentative to let ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ dedication and service to the guild go unacknowledged. Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ often took no reward for ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ services. Indeed, many of the very same lower ranked guildmates ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ pushed to injury would receive generous gifts ranging from unorthodox, lasting increases in power to luxurious living accommodations, sometimes before ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ torment but often after. Suffice to say, Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ is an eccentric being.
Thankfully, one weakness remains consistent throughout ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ time here. Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ does none of ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ fighting personally. Though ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ is capable of altering reality at a touch and a direct approach is not recommended, Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ never showed any interest in and indeed actively avoids physical combat. ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ often throws away positional or territorial advantages to avoid any direct confrontation. When fighting ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚, a prolonged battle by a physical attacker and a fateweaver reducing ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ influence would best counter and stress ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ abilities. ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ reality altering abilities cannot heal ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚self, though ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ can stabilize ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚self by manipulating the reality around ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ to make it seem as though ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ is healed in ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ own space. However, once ƨ̵̡̜̤̩̱͂̃͒̂͠ʜ̵̱̜̟͈̀̊̊͊͊ͅɘ̸̢̨̨̜̤̾̓̈́́̌ enters any space not under ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ explicit control, ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ injuries quickly reveal themselves. Additionally, a sufficiently powerful fateweaver such as The Magician or Judgement can quickly put ʜ̶̥̘̬̦̀̄̾́͘͜ɘ̶̡̣̙̮͚͑̊͌͘͝ɿ̷͍̬̝͉̞̎̈͑͛̚ magic under their control.
Judgement submitted herself for a thorough investigation both physical and mystical after her foremost pupil’s turning. Though Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ often kept people at arm’s length, the two spent a lot of time together, and Judgement claims to never have felt any ill feelings from her student. It is not unheard of for an empath to hide their thoughts or feelings from magical sensory, but Judgement has never failed to see through such protections before, or at the very least seen such magic existed at all. It is difficult to imagine the self-styled ‘most sensitive empath in the world’ so fooled even by the one she taught. However, thus far Judgement has been extremely cooperative in unraveling many of the more hostile changes put by Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ into the Springfield barriers. Even further, any barriers that she has tailored Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ out of owning she has freely given to The Magician as a sign of trust and, I suspect, in case the student she underestimated implanted any traitorous impulses into her. Though neither empath can control peoples’ minds directly, controlling their feelings emulates mind control closely enough.
Ɔ̷̘͓͍̞̯̊̏̓͒̀i̴̠̰͎͖͍͗̓͌͘̚ɿ̴̮̣͉̫̓͛̑̅͒ͅɔ̶̬͕̬̘̹̄̓͒͊͐ɘ̸̡̢̱͉̻̀̉͊̕̕ joined the guild about a decade ago, not long after the Major Arcana’s guilds came together to form the Rider-Waite proper. If there was any doubt after the former Strength’s departure, members with a history of loyalty to the guild are not immune to Nairis’ corrupting effects.

Grungy guitar instrumentals and salty Astreaen air floated above the seawater through the cluster of platforms to the barge John stood on, leaning against the raised rim on the back of their platform and smiling at his friends. Among others, Jenny, Amy, and Grace jump-danced to the beat in the more open front, the redhead with a tiny gold crown atop her head. Abigail floated down from a far-away leap, her bottom half a storm of flame and in her arms a giant tray of assorted seafood covered with a thin layer of translucent mana that fell away when she touched it to access her bounty. Mandruzzo landed from his bubble skates a bit rougher, shaking the boat but saving the large square tray of tiramisu in his hands when he skidded to a stop.

“Best birthday ever!” Jenny yelled. Grabbing John with the crook of her elbow, she turned around and took a picture of them, their vessel, and the enormous concert stage far behind. John kissed her on the cheek then ducked low to touch the wood at their feet and Create a table by pumping a bit of mana into it. He Created a couple dozen wooden plates and Moved them neatly into place, then set the cutlery and paper towels he had prepared from his inventory to their impromptu table as his friends set down their trays of food.

“To the best bassist in the world.” John raised his mug of grog, earning him a playful shoulder from the bassist at his side as they all joined in. The next few hours were a blur of indulgence through music, food, ****, and subtle suggestive acts on the part of the birthday girl. Eventually, though, John sent David back toward the docks and town they came from. Ensuring the entire party in some way touched him was a bit trying with twenty people and some were not subtle about their advances, but he Displaced with his hawk and they all arrived safely, most of them dispersing toward the Rider-Waite base in small groups to return to their home cities.

The usual six of them remained clustered together as John led them first toward what he expected to be a familiar food cart, though instead a new rough wooden storefront with ‘Millenium Calamari’ painted across the top in faintly glowing white letters sat in its place. “I’m telling you, this is the best calamari I’ve ever had, and it’s huge.”

“Ooooh, you’ve brought this home before! I can’t wait to try it fresh!” Abigail chimed in, bringing up the rear as John ushered them all inside.

“Ho! Wren, what’s this? You’ve got a fancy place here now.” John accepted the hug of the small man that emerged from behind the host counter.

“Well, after all, your generous investments enabled my family to do quite a lot with this company. We have a few locations now. Since you called ahead to ensure I’d be open, I left room for you in the barrier.” Their host disappeared into the aforementioned space and they did the same. The low tables and packed bar alike reappeared before them in the barrier as exact copies, this time with a single table big enough to sit their group. A tall, dark man at the bar but in the corner of the barrier stirred at their entrance, and his gaze sat on what would become their table. John and friends sauntered over carefree, and though the gunman spared the man staring at their table a glance between his friends in front of him and the **** inside of him, his joviality overtook his paranoia.

Two hours more of food and **** later, the six friends exited the restaurant and sauntered toward the Rider-Waite base and home. The first Astreaen sun below the horizon and the second crawling down, the drunken champion recognized the tall, hooded man from the bar, but confident from the lack of Discordance and sure in his own strength to any ambush besides, he took the man to simply be another Kingdom traveler as he entered the Rider-Waite base a minute after them then disappeared into the crowd of Abyssals meandering about the lobby while John’s group progressed through security.

“Tonight was so much fun. It’s a shame Sable couldn’t make it,” Jenny said, looking up from her phone to nod at Grace.

“You’re tellin’ me! She’s not returned texts for a couple weeks. Things busy at the Inferno?” the artist replied, idly sketching on the inside of her jean jacket with an orange felt marker.

“Kinda, but she hasn’t been there either.” Jenny’s face fell and her brow furrowed as they all took a step forward through the security line. “You think she’s okay?”

“She’s disappeared like this since we were kids, not too convenient when you need her,” Grace mumbled, capping her marker and stowing it away in her inside pocket. “Still, I don’t like it. She’s got a contract with the Inferno.”

“Why don’t you try and see where she is with your scrying ability, John?” Amy asked, swiping her guild card and paying for their travel before John could with a sly grin.

“Next time I’m under a clear sky, I’ll use Astral Witness on her. Is Sable Aria her true name?” John asked, shaking his fist good-naturedly when he passed through security and noticed Amy’s gambit through the travel info displayed for them.

“Only one she’s ‘ad,” Grace answered, slipping her phone into her pocket and stepping through the dark chamber of the Rider-Waite security machine immediately before the entrance to the teleportation room.

“That guy,” John said, pointing to the same towering man that followed them clothed in a full body suit and trilby hat with a black cloth mask and sunglasses whose face shifted from side to side. The buzz of **** in his head started to clear as his nerves tingled. “He followed us from the bar, got into the base after us, wasn’t in the security line, AND got into the mirror room before us.”

“C’mon, Johnny, don’t get into this right now, let’s just go home,” Jenny said, waltzing up to him and tracing a finger on his chest.

“No worries, my friend, he’s probably just a high ranking member that skipped security. If you’re really worried about it, I can question him while you… take your lady friends home,” Mandruzzo offered, smirking at Jenny when she stuck out her tongue at him and pulled John toward the mirrors.

The bubble mage approached the man, and despite his obscured face, the observant former mafioso could have sworn that the man was looking at their group. “Excuse me, my friend, may I see your guild card or ticket? My friend over there found you suspicious but I am sure he was wrong.”

“Leave it to the rich white dude to do some racial profiling,” Shango replied with the most American accent he could muster, crossing his arms to show off gold bracelets and taking off his sunglasses when John crossed through the mirror.

“I’m above board, though. Got my card here,” Shango flashed a guild card from a former Rider-Waite member that had joined his crew, doctored by forgers among his men to have his picture. “Beat it. I’m on assignment.”

“As you wish, sir. I apologize for any offense.”

Above the prison in the basements of the Rider-Waite building in Springfield, for such a complex system of imprisonment goes beyond just a disparate grouping of cells, exists rooms which were once a part of the prison but now serve other purposes. One cell was repurposed to storage for all the things necessary to maintain the prison below. Another serves as a bathroom for the myriad of workers that pass through the prison system, often some four of swords stepping in to guard a week for easy money and guild points. Lately, however, it has fallen into disuse because of the woman staying in the conglomeration of four cells as a **** guest but also dangerous patient to the Rider-Waites, one Sirian Lie.

At least, that is how she sees herself. She is unsure that she could leave if she wanted to, but luckily for her she doesn’t want to. She wants to do very little lately; the loss of a soul will do that to someone. Food tastes bland, games lose their enjoyment, and friendships are mechanical. Life dulls. Not a great way to live.
They claim they are doing everything they can to help her. She wants to believe them, but the inescapable pessimism and lingering trauma of losing a soul make that harder and harder to believe as every day goes on. Not to mention the things she did when Nairis was in control. Feeling like a passenger in her own body but still feeling every physical sensation, seeing every horror. At the end of the day, what can be done for someone that has totally lost their soul? She remembers from her time in the apothecary that many who become soulless rather than being born that way spontaneously die, or worse, off themselves. Her knowledge provides her with little comfort.

The people who bring her meals do not like her. It’s an inescapable part of being soulless. The soul abhors a soulless being. They may not be able to understand why they don’t like her, or they may justify their dislike through perceived slights in their minds, but really, they feel that way because in the deep recesses of their mind they feel she should not exist. The chef visited her in person at first, unafraid of the soulless girl and seeking to offer her comfort. The effort was appreciated, but each time the man left earlier and colder. Soon he did not visit her directly at all.

The portal woman who brought me here is okay, she tries the hardest, Sirian thought, her dissociative reverie disrupted by the aforementioned robed woman’s appearance at her door. Despite everything, despite everything, this is an improvement.

“How are you holding up?” Shelle asked, holding out a styrofoam cup with the ‘Knuckles Drive-in’ logo on it. “’Least we always have the little things, right?”

“Been worse, thanks.” Sirian took the offered oversized cup in both hands while the floating mage sipped her own. This is exactly what I’m talking about. She listened to what I wanted and went out of her way for me like nobody since…

“I want to visit my parents,” Sirian decided, setting the cup on her desk and rising from her rolling chair. “I need to get out.”

“Well, Springfield is really dangerous for both of us, the cemeteries especially.” Shelle turned around when her smile fell, and put it back into place before facing the girl again. The mage touched down onto the ground and took one of the soulless healer’s hands in her own. “I promise to take you there when all of this is over.”

“If I last that long,” Sirian mumbled, slamming back into her chair which slammed into the solid wooden desk behind with a crash.

“Sirian, you can’t really mean that,” Shelle gasped, sitting down on the messy bed of blankets and plushes retrieved from her old apartment by the woman comforting her. “Soul-removed people can live long, fulfilling lives. And we’re trying to help reclaim your soul with what you have left.”

“It doesn’t feel like I have anything left.” Sirian pounded her fist on the table weakly, shaking the cup nearby but not the farther monitor. “I can’t draw on my magic at all. My feelings are muted. I see the way people look at me, even you! Whatever’s inside me, it’s not soul!”

“We’re just figuring that out ourselves,” Shelle admitted, standing back up but quickly rising into a float, “but we can still help you. You know it’s dangerous out there.” Shelle opened a portal to a bright alley with a view of the ocean beyond. “We can go to a nice, mundane city like Santa Cruz. I have a villa there; you can stay the week if you’d like. Anything you want.”

“That sounds nice,” Sirian admitted, wrapping her fingers halfway around her styrofoam cup and following the redhead through her portal. The mage’s purple robe shifted into a violet t-shirt and matching jeans before the two strolled into the warm California sun.

“Don’t you have a million other people that can do this for you?” John asked, lounging back on a pillowed bench while the two ate pizza Isabelle had retrieved for them from around the world, his from Naples and hers from Brooklyn.

“Don’t be difficult, I’m doing you a favor here. Vulcan is a good friend and a valuable ally. Plus, he likes you, thinks you’re funny. It’ll take half an hour.” Isabelle tore a chunk off her slice and ate it before setting it back down on her glass top coffee table. John already Created plates for both of them, but she ignored hers. She threw a pillow at him to emphasize her point, knocking a cushion off his seat.

“Great prankster, that one,” John remarked. Setting down his fork to look at the scarless hand, he tried to pick up her side sword with. He flexed his fingers a few times before picking his fork back up, slicing another piece through the fresh mozzarella.

“Be easy and do this. I can have Adelaide meet you in the mirror room of the Rome base if you’re really busy. We were supposed to have lunch for another fifteen minutes, though, so I think you’ve got the time.” Isabelle smirked, nabbing the last piece of Italian pizza from the box in front of him and taking a loud, crunchy bite.

“Oh, you mean now.” John sat up, tossing the rest of his slice into his mouth with a wary look toward Isabelle and rising to his feet. Dusting off his hands, he headed toward the door. “Fiiiine. Next time, show up to the missions we’re supposed to pair for,” John jibed, quickly leaving the barrier to dodge her next thrown pillow.”

“Well met, fellow champion, in familiar circumstances,” Vulcan added, beckoning John to follow him with a hand over the shoulder as he retreated to his dim and dusty forge-room.

“Do you think this place is a bit of a hazard?” John asked, gesturing with his arms to the stagnant air around them. “It’s not exactly well ventilated.”

“HA!” Vulcan coughed, beating his chest with one fist for a moment. “Never thought about it, but you’re right. Unfortunately the very thing that makes it hazardous improves my capabilities. Keeping the energy of the forge during and after each creation tight. These walls are designed for it. Better hope a champion’s longevity keeps me going, eh?”

“Do we live longer just for being champions?” John asked, walking aside the man toward the dim yet somehow blinding light of his ethereal forge.

“Aye, indeed we do.” Vulcan nodded, spitting into a nearby bucket and pulling a lever near to his forge to dim the flames below a grate sticking halfway up the ring of stones and purple fire beneath. He grabbed the glowing blue katana carefully by its grip and sheathed it before handing it to John. “One sword that seals the darkness, no small feat. Especially with a stubborn base like the Mikazuki Munechika. I’ve heard tell Munechika himself was a smithing champion under Astra’s command. The blade bears his will and her influence. I hope to make a piece like it someday.”

“What have you made lately?” John inquired innocently, Isabelle’s words fresh in his mind. The untidy weaponsmith gave him a sly smile and beckoned for John to follow, approaching a nearby soot-covered metal flat top. There lay an enormous silver sword, a familiar disassembled brass revolver with light wooden grips, and a violet sash with faintly glowing swirls embossed on.

“Lots of work from Springfield of late. Not that I mind, I have no loyalty to Rome or the man who rules it. I’m glad to use my talent where it’s really needed,” Vulcan explained, hefting the claymore into the air with one hand. “Lucien’s blade, some of my earliest work. It’s getting the same treatment as Isabelle’s katana. Won’t take me nearly as long.

“I made some revolvers for Shelle’s new apprentice and the designing process gave me some ideas, so I’ve been tinkering around with making more. For all the good it did her,” Vulcan continued, a bit somber, “I could have done better. Hope the girl’s alright, you remind me a bit of her.”

“In what regard?” John countered with a raised brow, leaning down to inspect the disparate metal pieces scattered across the middle of the table.

“You’re both very driven people. I’d be surprised to see her out there corrupted like the old Strength. She hated the idea,” Vulcan said, setting the sword down and pointing to the silk sash on the far end of the table near John. “That last one is a belt I enchanted for Shelle. Her old one was unenchanted. Among other things, it makes any spell successively cast less taxing. Wearing so many layers of powerful enchantments all the time isn’t very peaceful for the soul, but she was pretty insistent.”

“I can imagine,” John replied, recalling the fiery mage slamming a portal through a member of the major arcana. “Among other things? That’s pretty broken on its own.”

“I could make you something, if you’d like,” Vulcan offered. Leaning one hand on his work table, he regarded John with one eye screwed shut and a shrewd grin. “If you’d leave me your guns and belt for, say, a month. I’ll get ‘em back for your birthday.”

“A whole month!?” John started, hands reaching down to his guns in a protective gesture. “I’m doing some dangerous work over the next few weeks! And-

“How in the Dream did you know my birthday was next month?” John took his guns out and set them on the table, the offer weighing in his mind of what he could gain later for losing now.

“Call it a joint gift from your mentor and I. I’ll even loan you out my latest prototype to cover it.” Vulcan reached down for a moment, hands a blur while he slotted the dull metal pieces into place with each other, returning to a normal pace only for him to grab a screwdriver and secure the grips in place with a few turns each.

“You won’t regret it.”

“Fine, but I’m not taking off my pants, unless you pay well,” John said, taking off his belt, “even if I’m the one that should be paying.”

“I’d not charge another guild member, for craftwork that is, not undressing. Though I don’t have the time to make things for people at the pace or quality I’d like,” Vulcan admitted, taking John’s offered belt and inspecting it in his hands.

“If even you’ve got impostor syndrome, I guess everyone deals with it.” John laughed, taking the now assembled revolver from the table and laying it across his hands from grip to barrel. The barrel hung off the edge of one hand, and the weight felt good. The single revolver weighed more than both of his previous pistols.

“I’ll keep the soulbinding enchantment intact. And hey, if you really need ‘em, you can call them at any time with enough grit.” Vulcan smiled, taking the black and white guns in each hand.