Description: From the wasteland of his body, from the conflagration of his soul, he has called to them -- and each has come of his own will. Alma Towazu, the Soul Phoenix, unwelcome and unknown where he was once a hero, has settled amongst the ashes, his radiant form shrouded in fouled bandages, his mind haunted by phantoms of his own creation. What was once clear is murky; what was once familiar is strange. Both he and the one he calls brother seem unable -- or unwilling -- to hold onto their old identities. With so much at stake, and those who once bore such great burdens so broken, who can rise to the occasion? Who can cut through this miasma to the truth? Perhaps their stories should have already ended, long ago; and they may now end in failure. But even in the face of the greatest uncertainty, some things never change -- and hope remains.
The flames have died, for the most part.
But the ruins of what was once Huangyan remain a desolate place, the noxious fumes of past destruction forming a heady miasma that yet permeates this apocalyptic wasteland. In the distance, undying fires, deeper into the hellstorm that has been made of this place, pulse with an eerie and sinister light, painting the dust and ash that coats this abandoned cityscape in bloody hues. The silence is deathly, save for the sounds of still lurking chaos; the smell is of damnation, the acrid tang of sulfur and brimstone, fierce enough to be tasted on the air. This is a place where angels would fear to tread, wrought by man's own hand.
But not all men are made alike.
And not all angels, either.
The blasted building would not, to a casual eye, seem any different than the rest in this bombed-out landscape. Though the ceiling, for the most part, remains intact, the walls have partially collapsed on each side; the fact that it still stands is a miracle, as it is with most of this eaten-away landscape. In any event, doors are most certainly unnecessary; entrance is possible from each side. Once a small factory, it now seems some dark industrial parody of some ancient and corroded castle, a tactical detonation serving as the equivalent to a thousand years of decay.
~ ...you... ~
None of this is apparent to him.
~ ...help... ~
It's unclear how the figure made it here such as he is. In the middle of the single wide room that makes up the blasted interior to this pockmarked edifice, a cot has been set up by some unknown person, upon which lies a person wreathed almost entirely in bandages half-blackened by ash. Their chest heaving with hoarse, shallow breaths, their face obscured by linen, only their eyes are fully visible -- and the glimmer in them, were there anyone to see, might transfix with awe and terror.
~ ...come... ~
Something terrible has happened to Alma Towazu. Some force beyond even his heights of rapture pulses in the depths of his hazel eyes, at times consuming utterly their hazel in pearly, contorted flares of cloying pinks and gory purple. He spasms occasionally, his only real movement other than his breathing. Even when his eyes clear, he seems to be gazing far away, through a ceiling he cannot see.
His hands are folded serenely on his chest.
~ ...I... feel you... ~
He feels them.
There may yet be a part of him that recognizes it is impossible, that he is in reality alone. But he feels them, all of them, close to him now. There may be a part of him that knows he is far from home, but he cannot see it. All of those that have grown close to him, all of those who forged and tempered his heart and soul until they become what they are -- or were. His friends... his friends-unto-family... his parents.
His gaze tilts to their radiant faces, and beneath the cloth, he smiles.
~ ...yes... here... ~
His heart calls out to them, in ecstacy, in agony.
He has been calling out to them, reaching out to them, for days. He sees them standing before him, and calls, and calls, does nothing but call until they respond.
He has something important to tell them.
Come.
There isn't much draw to the strange, desolate place. Life in this strange area has been torn asunder, leaving nothing but death and pain in its wake. Those who would seek to explore it would be insane or stupid. Of course, there is one draw. There is the yearning for something, a voice that has been calling him.
...Something that draws him. It is hard to say what is the draw. It is difficult to say where the feeling is coming from, other than the strange deadlands. The armored figure makes his way through the streets, furrowing his eyebrow before moving out of the mangled road and onto the path where the corroded factory.
Something calls him here.
The figure has a new glass-like helmet, which obscures his face. The Einherjar Agent does, however, look over to his path, then he walks ahead.
This place is hell. It's a broken landscape of fire and ruin, a miserable punishment for any who have dared approach it.
And yet, ever since he arrived in Taizhou, Dr. Richard Tran hasn't been able to shake the thought that it's kind of cozy. Comforting, even. Sure, it's miserable and awful and he hates it in his own half-hearted way, but there's just something about it that makes him /smile/.
This is directly at odds with something else, a niggling sensation in the back of his head that is on and off driving him absolutely crazy. It won't let him rest and just sit back and /enjoy/ the strange feeling of peace.
Figures.
And so it is that, unsure of what he's doing here, or perhaps more importantly why, Dr. Tran kicks the sagging remains of a ruster metal door off its hinges, uncaring of what even mild violence might do to the already heavily compromised structural integrity of a shitty building like this.
It's not like he even had to use a door, anyway. There are holes all over the place. But Tran is /irate/, and he doesn't know why.
Like, moreso than usual.
Why do fighters like high places?
Few people can ever tell. Rooftops, buildings, bridges, cliffs... places higher to the sky than the mere ground. Perhaps when you're capable of jumping a 10' vertical in a pinch you appreciate this sort of thing more. But when many are feeling contemplative, that's where they go.
The sky is faded orange sea surrounding a sun like a massive drop of blood over Huangyan this evening. Many of the buildings here have the character of something that only barely survived a holocaust that took the lives of everyone within, some sort of silent memorial. The remains of a particularly tall building -- offices, perhaps, or the support for a radio or weather tower -- stand high on one side. Concrete survives a bit of it, but the higher you go, the more of it is just girders. At the very apex is girder standing with just enough footspace on it for someone to stand.
Standing on it is Frei.
Maybe he just needed to get a sense of *scope* on the destruction of southeastern Taizhou, the Huangyan district that was for all intents and purposes blown to smithereens. It's as if someone had a chance to see Hiroshima as it looked not months or years after the detonation, but maybe *hours*. It's creepy in its timelessness, and as the horizon gives way from destruction, to the river, to the forests beyond, the sword-sage is forced to ask himself how many innocent lives gave themselves up, against their will, to create this 'sealed zone' that will supposedly birth a new era.
It's not a good place to be when a... not a voice, but a feeling in the pit of your stomach suddenly grips you. Eyes widen, a hand goes to his stomach, but thankfully Frei does not misstep and plummet to his death. Instead, he closes his eyes and, carefully as he can, turns until he... feels like he should stop.
When he does, he looks down, espying a certain building at a certain place. If he weren't quite so high up, he might see Jiro and Tran approaching it from their own angles, in the distance.
By the time he gets down and makes his way there, night must be close on, hazy orange turning to velvet purple-blue as Frei makes his way into the building as well.
A faint, persistent sound, like scratching at a rusty door.
"...Hh... hh..."
Only after some moments does it resolve: the rasping of a burnt throat.
"...J... Jiro..."
The first figure, when he enters the building, has his face obscured by reflective glass, yet that does not seem to be a problem for the bandaged-swathed wreck, who shudders and half-attempts to rise in response to his arrival. Only the head is able to turn, and the voice is almost unrecognizable -- but in that moment, that terrible light in the figure's eyes fades, and their hazel hue is unmistakable.
"...Jiro... you... came."
Alma does not seem remotely surprised that his friend is here, though he could not possibly know of the man's shocking recovery -- he clearly knows nothing about his beloved rival's recent history, of his desire to be known only as Ullr now. And even though his eyes are as they always were, an odd film covers them, rendering them faintly glassy, like the gaze of a drunk. It is unsettling enough that he is here, in Taizhou, alone, wrapped in dirty cloth, on a cot he most likely could not have set up himself. Occasionally flickers of uneasy hues reappear in his eyes, but for now they fade.
Alma has returned to reality -- but he is not entirely himself.
"...Tr... Tran..."
This name emerges a moment before the unmistakable sound of a door being kicked down tears through his makeshift abode. A smile flickers and widens, visible through an open patch in Alma's bandages, at the sound of such heedlessness. "Tran...!" he attempts to raise his voice, only to begin coughing hoarsely, uncontrollably. Of course, he is visible immediately in the middle of this only room, and does not need to get anyone's attention. It is this terrible cough that will be Frei's only greeting.
And then there were four.
Somehow-- there were four.
"...My friends... you came..."
The man once known as the Radiant Angel's voice has cleared.
"...you came... and you... were always here..."
Something faintly dreamy has entered his tone -- a queasy, unsettling note.
"...I must tell you... now that you've come... I must tell you..."
There is a flash of light in Alma's eyes -- a bright flash. The light is one that all of these friends have seen before, have witnessed, and been on the receiving end of. But never has it emerged from his eyes thus, almost as a /beam/, as though his very eyes were bulbs, casting a brief and scintillating pattern on the ceiling before fading. His body jerks once, then settles.
When he speaks again, his tone, for the first time, is even, serious, and calm.
"Seishirou Ryouhara is not dead."
Alma stares straight up at the ceiling, mouth set, eyes determined -- now silent.
"...I regret to inform you..." As the Einherjar agent makes his way into the corroded building, the helmetted warrior shifts his gaze at Alma. His eyebrows furrow briefly, hissing, "Jiro Kasagi died back within the base in the explosion." The helmet glances over at the fallen man, walking his way, as if to make a point to Alma to never call him that name again. "I am Ullr of Einherjar."
His eyebrows furrow, shaking his head beneath the helmet. After all, he cannot go back to being 'Jiro'. Not after all that happened. His reputation, a wanted man. Meh. Not much of a life to go back to. Besides. It'll be easier on Hotaru, his mother, and Mimiru.
He lifts his head up, soon turning to face the direction of Tran. His eyes shift towards Frei for a moment, then it darts back towards Alma. Oh sure, you don't say Frei's name. Asshole.
As for Seishirou. "Hrmph.."
As Tran bursts into the cavernous, eerie space (with a complete lack of respect for any inherent creepiness it may hold), he is greeted by one of the last things he expected to see in the ruins of Huangyan.
A /fire mummy/.
If only. No, no, it's just one of the other last things he excepted to see, once he gets past the ashen bandages and hoarse, rasping speech. It's Alma.
"Fuck." Somehow, Tran's not suprised. This restlessness, this unease...of /course/ it's Alma and some manner of psychic wankery intended for the sole purpose of annoying him. Why wouldn't it be?
In fact, at this point, nothing is surprising him. Even when Alma turns on the pyrotechnics, the (perhaps slightly jaded) doctor just waits it out with as much self-control as he can muster. It's not cool to go smacking someone in that condition, even if they deserve it.
"Nice show." Tran claps. Once. /It is not sincere/. He looks about, to the mysterious man in the motorcycle helmet and Frei. Figures he's here, too. Probably to make Tran miserable. Somehow.
"So what? Good for him. He can have fun doing..." Tran trails off and gestures vaguely. "...whatever it is he does for fun. I don't know." He frowns. "Shut up."
Last to arrive, meaning the first thing Frei sees is... well, Alma going crazy-go-nuts on the ceiling. Wrapped in bandages. Yet the look on his face is dour. *He should have known*. Feeling in the pit of his stomach couldn't just be intuition, or something like that. It has to be Alma, for some reason *in* Taizhou, making things even more complicated than it already is. The fact that 'Ullr' is here in full battle dress, as it were, and that Tran has also made his way into the city just complicates things even more than they already are. If there's one thing Frei needs less of right now, *especially* after his survey of the devastation Nirvana has wrought, it's complication.
Unfortuantely, underneath all that he is still Frei, and his gut negative reaction relents in the face of the reality. Something might be wrong, but Alma is alive, and so is Jiro. Tran is a surprise, but he made it here in one piece, and after Frei's own experience with the Ikizukuri alongside Vanessa, even that is something to be celebrated. Still... one more layer to the puzzle, isn't it.
'Seishirou Ryouhara is still alive.'
He remembers his words to Ayame, effectively telling her that he is not, as long as he exists in the memory of people who paid him heed. To find out that he is literally, PHYSICALLY alive is perhaps a bit of a surprise but it doesn't rise to the level of a shock. "Is that so..." he says quietly, glancing over at Jiro for a moment. What is there behind Einherjar, now, that he doesn't know, either...? "And neither are you," is all he can say, though if he's directing it at Jiro or Alma is anyone's guess.
Alma's eyes grow hazy, gazing, uncomprehending, at his own reflection in the glassy helmet of the man standing over him.
"...Oh... Jiro's... dead...?"
That mask of seriousness seems to have disappeared as soon as it arrived, his visage invaded once more by a nebulous haze. "Yes," he murmurs softly to himself, gazing at the ceiling again. "Yes, I understand." He nods gently, and exhales, a deep and mournful sigh. "Yes... of course."
A moment's pause -- he blinks, his eyes lighting up faintly; he turns his head again.
"Jiro... Jiro, listen to me..."
His eyes are unfocused. He pauses, only to settle back on the cot again.
"Frei..." he whispers this time, and then, "...Tran... please... I..."
Again, silence, hollow like the wasted building they have somehow converged upon -- but all at once his head snaps up, and Alma seems to rise into a half-sitting position, his bandages rustling, and his head quickly turns to survey them all. His eyes have cleared again, and when he speaks it is again with a calm and serious tone-- as though he were in his office at the YFCC, or sitting at Le Petit Chien.
"The attack atop the Sky Noah, at the culmination of the YFC4, was Ryouhara's doing," he begins abruptly, in the firm words of a mission debriefing. "He violated the terms of his agreement with Adelheid Bernstein, in what I believe to be an act of vengeance for my own trespasses against him in Taizhou. Having scheduled a match in Taizhou as part of a charity effort, I took the opportunity to further look into his activities, based on my own suspicions." A brief pause, but only to gather his thoughts -- a typically Alma pause. "There is a factory in Nenzhao," he continues, "surrounded by flame. I faced a mysterious armored guard with a great white blade, a truly formidable opponent, whom I narrowly bested. Yet they let me through as though unconcerned -- and, indeed, there was nothing I could do. There is... there is a room there... covered in seals... and there was a space... a great gathering energy... a space for something..."
His gaze flickers, Alma's mouth twisting in confusion -- but his composure returns, and he forges on, continuing in the same efficient tone.
"That same guardian faced us atop the Sky Noah," he continues, "when Seishirou Ryouhara wrought his wrath against me. He is not only responsible for the devastation here: he seeks to use this wasteland as a staging ground for further death and destruction. I was silenced before I could expose him to anyone but Adelheid, but although I do not yet grasp the details of his plot, I am certain of this: before Ryouhara creates a new world, with new laws, he must utterly annihilate the previous. The power of the force he planted in me... it felt the same as... that room... it... my insides... they..."
He trails off, and begins to shiver.
"He's not dead," he whispers hoarsely. "He can't be. They told me in the hospital, but-- I know it's not true. I feel him. I feel all of them. They're not dead." He coughs once. "Ryouhara's not... he... his world... I'm not... I'm not like him," he suddenly adds. "I'm not like him. He won't die until we prove that!"
The last words are a hoarse and strangled cry, as Alma's eyes glitter feverishly, and his arms begin to tremble. He breathes heavily.
His eyes shift again, and when he begins speaking, his tone is much softer. "Information," he breathes. "I... we... need information, if we are to protect the people of Taizhou. Too many will die meaninglessly if we do not act. The weapon -- whatever its nature -- may now be in Nenzhao. I cannot act as I am. But--" He is interrupted by a coughing spell, and when he speaks again, his voice is strangely plaintive. "Information. Does Ryouhara have any means of disseminating information to you?"
Alma seems to be explaining himself quite unsolicited.
Apparently, he does not consider how he /got/ here to be relevant.
"You're a doctor, right?" He eyes Tran for a few moments, "Make yourself useful and do something for him."
It is hard to see the face or the expression on the helmetted figure. However, it is more than likely that the guy is likely scowling at Tran's way. The arms are folding together, as if a bit expectantly. Then, he lifts his shoulders with a shrug, turning away to gaze back towards the bandaged Alma.
Then, Frei is turned towards. A grunt is given, then he shakes his head once more. The topic of whether 'Jiro' is alive or not is actually ignored in favor of the conversation in regards to Seishirou. The eyes shift towards Alma, who is the fire mummy.
Then, his attention falls towards Alma.
'Jiro... Jiro, listen to me.'
"...Asshole.
And then, the older man provides the information on what the hell happened. Jiro furrows his eyebrow, then he grunts, making note to send out a report to Adelheid of the incident. So, Seishirou has to be put in pain or has to die. They will have to go to Nenzhao. The man shifts his head over, furrowing his eyebrow. Then, he pulls over a small device that is similar to a PDA system. (Or whatever it is, I forgot at this very moment).
"..This 'Sanctum Computer Database'. It provides info on what goes on around here. We get it from time to time."
Somehow, despite Alma switching rapidly from delirium to lucidity, Dr. Tran feels like this is one of the best conversations they have ever had. Perhaps it is because Tran does not actually have the option of trying (and failing) to beat the crap out of him, for once.
Instead, he just shuts up and listens to the exposition bomb. While Dr. Tran is many things, willing to ignore what could be good information is not one of them. What he /does/ with it can often be called into question, but that's not the point.
"What? Go to hell, don't tell me what to do." As is evidenced when Ullnr tries to order him around. But Tran does appear mildy confused, until he clarifies. "Er. A different one. A hell. Shut up."
Scowling, Tran goes and leans against the remains of a wall. Part of it falls down, and he quickly reconsiders, standing a little bit awkwardly as he tries to figure out the extent of what is happening. In the interim, he flips out a sleek little cell phone. "You can pick it up on just about anything. Handy, if you like learning about whatever mechanical horror just tried to ruin your day."
Somehow, despite Alma switching rapidly from delirium to lucidity, Dr. Tran feels like this is one of the best conversations they have ever had. Perhaps it is because Tran does not actually have the option of trying (and failing) to beat the crap out of him, for once.
Instead, he just shuts up and listens to the exposition bomb. While Dr. Tran is many things, willing to ignore what could be good information is not one of them. What he /does/ with it can often be called into question, but that's not the point.
"What? Go to hell, don't tell me what to do." As is evidenced when Ullnr tries to order him around. But Tran does appear mildy confused, until he clarifies. "Er. A different one. A hell. Shut up."
Scowling, Tran goes and leans against the remains of a wall. Part of it falls down, and he quickly reconsiders, standing a little bit awkwardly as he tries to figure out the extent of what is happening. In the interim, he flips out a sleek little cell phone. "You can pick it up on just about anything. Handy, if you like learning about whatever mechanical horror just tried to ruin your day."
"It's true," Frei says absently, holding up his own smart phone. Nice part of professional fighting: you can afford fancy phones. He glances down at the screen, getting instead of his usual wallpaper, the bizarrely sci-fi Sanctum logo and menu. "A little creepy, the way they're doing it. Like a terrorist ninja Wikipedia."
He's being glib, and there's a good reason for that. Seishirou alive, turning on Adelheid, because of Alma? Who even knows. The idea of a building surrounded by flame, right here in this very city, in the most populous country in the world? Collecting some sort of apocalyptic bomb? Does that even make sense?
He remembers meeting Seishirou in the YFCC, the latter casually and unthinkingly using some chi-based ninja trick to knock out a small child. Just because he asked the wrong question. Now he's alive, and handing out answers like candy?
The phone gets put away, and the red head glances over at Tran for a moment. The poor soul tried to help Frei in his own time of mystical-medical need, for whatever intentions. Some part of Frei's logical mind is telling him that Tran 'helping' Alma similarly would reduce even the postapocalyptic rubble to finer particles, but at least the Doctor seems disinclined to do that.
"What do you plan to do?" he asks. His tone is light, not particularly accusatory, but there is a thread of detached curiosity in it, as if speaking rhetorically rather than at Alma, where his eyes are locked. "Out of curiosity."
"...Do...?"
Alma's expression is blank, his gaze returned to the ceiling.
"What am I... going to do..."
For a moment, his eyes seem hazy again, that odd light filtering back in; his body shudders once more, uncontrollably. But the light that had overflowed before instead fades this time, and his bandaged form settles.
"There is little I can do," he says softly, his tone as it once was, even and mild. "As I am, I cannot move." Again, this doesn't speak much for how he got up on that cot, or, indeed, where it came from. "I'm not--"
His voice breaks, briefly.
"I'm not sure what is happening to me. Tran... Frei... ...Ullr..."
Alma Towazu, burnt-out phoenix, swallows heavily.
"I seem to drift in and out of reality," he murmurs softly. "I am not certain when or how I arrived here, though I knew immediately where I was once I did. The white of the hospital room and the bleak gray of this building seem to blur together in my mind, no matter how incongruous. I feel taken out of myself. I see long-gone friends before me. I see Mimiru... and Gabriel... standing by my side. I feel Hotaru's palm upon my forehead, and Xiangfei's smile. I see... my parents... watching over me..."
His voice has begun to rasp again.
"...How long have I been here...? What am I...?"
The shortest of pauses before his clouding eyes narrow.
"Ryouhara must be stopped," he says firmly. "Once I heal, I will set to the task myself." Even Alma's indomitable faith in himself, of all things seems to be flagging; he allows, unaware, a rare hint of uncertainty in his tone, at the prospect of himself healing. "But if we... if we can gather information... and work together to compile what we learn... we may be able to stop his weapon before it is too late."
Alma's breathing settles.
"...He may want to be stopped, you know," he adds quietly. "He only seeks those of conviction, with ideals of their own. I believe the new laws of the world he has devised, in his tortured genius, are for them. If he shares information willingly, it is because he wants it to be known. But--" He swallows again. "To protect the people of this land... who mean nothing to him... I'll walk into any trap..."
As he did, it seems.
"We can't allow him... to redefine what it means to be human."
Alma's gaze flickers.
"...And I..."
But he does not elaborate.
"...Jiro..."
Slowly, as though exhausted, his eyes close.
"...I'm so sorry..."
"Well, I'm here with you, aren't I? That's hell."
That is Ullr's words to Tran himself, before the doctor is dismissed. Instead, the gaze falls over towards Alma, who, Jiro considers, is the mummy man. His gaze falls over towards Alma as he describes the feeling. In a way, Jiro could relate. He felt the hand of someone over his shoulder long ago in his sleep.
...Taira, wasn't it?
Ullr drifts his head over tot he side, then he grunts, "Just rest. You won't be able to do much as is." He snorts, then he looks like he is turning his back. There is a bit of resentment to the fact that he was awakened. ..In a way, he hoped to had died, finally.
But he is needed. His purpose is to serve Einherjar. That is the only life for him now. That is why he turns to face Alma, "...Jiro would not want you to apologies. I'd rather you to get your ass back up and into the fight again and be the holy angel.." And fruitcake, "That you are.."
He turns away from the group, slowly stepping out, "I have a mission to deal with now."
~ ...If you hear me... don't tell Hotaru. Okay? She doesn't need to know. It's not important anymore. ~
So is that the plan, then? Figure out what Seishirou is really up to, stop him and his hidden weapon, and save the world? Tran doesn't bother to hide the skepticism written across his face as Alma labors to explain just what he wants to do.
"Idiot! I bet you're too stupid to...to...shut up!" Tran's riposte is a little bit lacking, especially because he's trying his hardest to ignore Jiro and figure out what he /actually/ wants to say about this whole mess at the exact same time. It's hard.
The doctor is dead to the pain Alma is enduring, as he struggles to press on despite being little better than an invalid. As he lays out the threat that Seishirou represents, and tries to convince Tran to join the cause. Surely he's not pitching to the other two: obviously they'd leap into action without a word of explanation, just because it's Alma. /Obviously/.
"God, is this sort of thing why you get such a big head? Idiots like him telling you dumb shit like that?" Tran rolls his eyes and shakes his head in overwhelming disgust. "Don't listen to him, you're /almost/ tolerable like this, I'd hate to see it cut short." For once, Alma seems like he's actually human. It's refreshing, but not so much to completely make up for past offences.
"Anyway..." Tran folds his arms and tries to look as unsympathetic as possible, just in case anybody might get the wrong idea. "I'll help out, but it's not for you and it's not for anybody that lives here. Understand?" If it was, that would just be...intolerable.
"So..." Frei says quietly, drawing closer to Tran and Alma even as Jiro decides it's time to make his exit. "Seishirou did something and now you're on a cot, hallucinating. Trapped in the world of ideas if you want to get poetic about it." That's the long and the short of it, as far as Frei sees it. There is a weird edge to his tone, as if he... it's not exactly hostile, but as if the longer this goes on, the more things are gnawing at him, and the edginess he feels is clawing its way, unbidden, into his spoken words. He blinks at Tran's sudden vehemence, but for what seems like the first time in history, Frei glances at the Doctor and actually nods a little bit. That makes a bizarre sort of sense, or more accurately, it makes a bizarre sort of sense to someone who is disinclined to deal with pie-in-the-sky pursuits of things like Justice right now.
Soon he draws close enough to the bed that his expression is briefly and intermittently lit up by these... bursts of whatever it is that's afflicting Alma so, looking down at his friend in this most wretched of states. Still claiming he's going to heal, and get up, and bring righteous destruction upon Seishirou's great evil. "You've got a brass pair, Alma Towazu," Frei says quietly, leaning forward a little. "If I wanted to kill you, I could draw a knife right now and end it totally, right here." This is said amazingly deadpan, surprising even the speaker for a moment, before he clears his throat and straightens. "You're here because Seishirou wants you here, for whatever reason. Maybe so you'd have this very meeting with us. Maybe not. I don't know. But..."
A hand reaches back and grips the sculpted wood 'hilt' of the bokken stuck through his back belt loops. The curvature, even the smoothed wood from constant handling, feels familiar and safe to him somehow, a reminder of the time he spent to earn the right to carry it, in his own mind. "I don't mind sharing information, or following leads you might have. But I think the time for big clashes of ideals is over as far as I'm concerned. Understand? This isn't about big-e Evil or big-j Justice anymore. It's about individual lives."
"I won't," Alma whispers, as the Einherjar agent turns away.
But though he is silent, as his friends speak, the cloudiness that has set in to obscure his gaze once more evaporates all at once at Frei's words. 'If I wanted to kill you'-- the bandage-swathed youth looks abruptly toward Frei, with a piercing clarity as yet unachieved. There is no fear or concern in his eyes-- but Frei's words, though they might have surprised the man himself, appear to have drawn the wandering angel down from the heavens and back to earth. Something has stirred Alma awake.
His eyes soften, as Frei finishes.
And he is silent, for some time.
"...I..."
He begins hesitantly, before the once-Stray Dog can step out of the building.
"...Maybe we've both lost our identities... Ullr."
Alma sounds different, but not in the meandering, almost wistful tone of delusion.
"I feel like I'm piecing myself together a fragment at a time."
Alma Towazu sounds hesitant -- and afraid.
Human, indeed.
"You're right, Frei," he continues, voice soft. "But I... whatever is inside me... has eaten away at the edges of my self. How can I explain?..." Sounding lost, not so much struggling to articulate himself as genuinely uncertain, the mummified warrior's gaze returns to the bleak, shattered, answerless ceiling. "This power of mine-- it was always the power to cross the boundaries of the soul. I used it first to tether myself to the world, when I thought I would drift away. Then I used it to tether people to each other. I came to believe this power spoke truth: that the... the interdependence, I suppose, that I perceived between self and world -- between one and another -- was a fact. That Soul Power grants me some insight into the human condition that I... can share."
He swallows again, to soothe his raspy throat.
"That was my form of defiance, I suppose," he continues, "in the face of a world that had seemed to reject me." He says this as though he is trying to remember it, as though it had happened to someone else, long ago. "I refused to believe that the void I experienced upon the death of my parents contradicted the light that filled me afterward. I saw my reaching out to others, and my putting into action of what I thought I understood -- my great mission -- as an extension of my own self-affirmation. It was about individual lives. It was about... my individual life." Alma chuckles slightly, then. "But it was a life bound inextricably up with those I loved -- a life that could only be understood in the context of all humanity. As long as I kept that in my heart, with passion and a firm sense of responsibility, with unflinching faith, I could never be such a thing as selfish. Selfishness itself would be reduced to absurdity, when the truth of the self is only realized in unity."
He coughs once, and clears his throat.
"I still believe that, too... I think..."
Alma's face, beneath the soot-stained white, is grim.
"...Is the only difference between me and him... the different laws we've decided upon?" he suddenly says, abruptly but gently, to no one in particular. "Maybe that makes all the difference: the content of our absolutes. But the fire that burns inside me-- the bonds that I thought necessary to forge so as to tether me to this world-- I feel now-- how can I say it? As though they've strangled me, until the fire within me burst. It was... I know, it was him... it wasn't me... what happened to me... and yet... I can't shake the feeling, in my delusions... that it was inevitable... my own soul becoming my funeral pyre... and tearing me, and what I've worked for, apart."
When did he become a leader? It seems forever ago. More importantly--
"...Why?"
Alma's eyes flutter.
"Why did what seemed my natural path... end up like this...?"
He lifts a trembling, bandaged hand, his first real movement-- to cover his eyes.
"Instead of bringing earth to heaven with me... I tore my soul from my body... Was I wrong, or just too weak...?"
Alma slumps back against the cot, thoroughly enervated by extended sanity.
"Frei," he breathes, "perhaps now... only you can see with eyes unclouded."
"Perhaps we have. But there is a difference between us, Alma." The man faces Alma, the helmet gleaming. "You can get yours back. You still have an identity to grasp onto."
The figure turns around, shaking his head. There is a bit of anger, as he considers, in himself. He was once the free-spirited Stray Dog, who wandered with nothing in his way. However, that is a life he cannot go back to. He'd be on the run again from the police. And... everything important to him would be at risk.
"I don't." He lifts his shoulders with a shrug. "Just as well." The scarlet flames linger with life once more... until the flames blacken. The black flames linger in his grasp, then he snorts. "Nevertheless." He looks at Frei, "...Do what you must." He walks out through the doors.
For a long time, as Alma considers his own life, the path that has led him here, crippled on a cot in hell, Dr. Tran is silent. This is not a side of Alma that he's ever seen. At least, not conciously. Not in any way he could recognize. Only through tenuous connections forged with the power of Alma's soul, connections that the doctor has fought hard, and with little success, to truly deny.
At this rate, if he's not careful, Tran may actually become sympathetic. /Unacceptable/, if for no other reason than misplaced pride. For what it would make him accept about himself, already a hovering gnat on the edge of his conciousness that he can't bear to see. The action he would feel obliged to take as a result.
"For once, you're not the person I hate the most in the room." Tran stares at Alma as Ullnr finally takes his leave. "Whoops. Short-lived." As if filling the space with meaningless words can help him ignore the wounded psychic, Tran speaks, trying to hide his own desperation and agitation even from himself.
"So, what, are you two gonna make out now?"
Eyes unclouded, huh.
"You might like that a little too much," Frei says to Tran distantly, but his eyes are on Alma. This might be the most he's ever heard of the Soul Phoenix's past. He knew they shared one thing in common -- the early loss of at least one parent, both in Alma's case -- but this is the most philosophical he's ever really heard Alma be on the subject of psychic power, be it Soul Power or the less... cute and fluffy variant employed by nearly every other such talent on the planet. Many times Frei has had occasion to consider the dual nature of powers such as Alma's, and the flow of chi. They're not the same but ultimately, they behave similarly. Could it be that what they really are is 'connections'? Psycho power binds soul to soul, chi binds life to life. In the end are they two sides of the same coin? Powers that connect other people?
He visibly shudders, remembering the 'voices' when he was empowered by the proto-BLECE. Where he felt the energy of life not as a soothing presence but as a pounding, incessant drumbeat that drove him to wild acts of exhibition and violence simply to sate the voice. Perhaps it's Alma's turn to be momentarily deaf and blind.
The result can surprise you.
Stepping forward -- and perhaps giving Tran a brief scare that he's going to go through with that just to spite him -- Frei ducks down a bit, bending his knees, and putting both hands on them to steady himself, so that he's at least head-level with Alma. "I watched you," he says quietly, "kill a woman. And I railed against you and gnashed my teeth because I couldn't see the reason, and you said 'trust me'. At the time I couldn't, but over time I came to, if not trust you, then at least forgive you."
There's a pause, and though delirium-sick as he might be Alma perhaps won't notice it, but there is a fire in Frei's eyes that perhaps wasn't there before. It isn't the impish energy of innocence that certainly was his hallmark, but a certainty of conviction. It is, put a different way, a little bit of what Alma himself strives for. "I didn't do what you did, because I couldn't. In the end maybe I'm glad that someone like you exists to do that. But you can't do what needs doing here. So I'm telling you now: trust me. You might come to despise me, and that's alright. But... trust me."
After a second pause, he stands up and shuts his eyes for a second before turning to Tran. "Here... give me your phone a second."
Alma sighs, his breath a brittle leaf in the wind, when Jiro leaves.
That film is returning to his eyes, his grip on his reality slackening by the moment, phantoms emerging from the darkened corners of this ash-strewn hole. The heat that once filled his veins with surety of purpose seems now a foreign object burning away at his own body, a liquid parasite that seeks to shake off the shackles of his earthly form. He has not lost the psychic awareness that formed the foundation of an infinite faith that needed to be shared, by its very nature, with all mankind; it has risen to a peak that oppresses even himself. No longer an individual affirming himself by his beliefs, Alma reflects in silence, these 'beliefs' -- or is it just this mindless power? -- have consumed him utterly.
Frei's thoughts upon his time with BLECE may be all too prescient.
But he clings to conscious awareness when Frei leans close, struggling with all his might -- the violent flickering in his eyes makes it all too clear how difficult it is for him now to hear his friend's words clearly -- to listen. And listen he does.
"...Frei..."
And thinks, for a moment, that there may be hope for him yet.
"...I trust you."
Alma may no longer understand what it means to have faith in himself.
But the bonds he's formed with these men--
They go become the visceral reminders of his aura sight.
Perhaps his power did not speak only truth-- or perhaps some of the truth it spoke was too great a burden for a single individual, no matter how interconnected his soul, to bear. But as he feels that once-familiar friend, certainty, rise up within him, Alma feels, albeit not without a hint of doubt, that some part of what it taught him must have been true.
He does trust Frei, unconditionally.
That is something he can do.
It is a gift.
Greater, perhaps, than his fire.
Those words are spoken, though softly, with more clarity and firmness than anything before -- but as soon as they are spoken, the bandaged youth's eyes flutter and close. He is exhausted, and entirely depleted. It is all he can do to fend off the phantoms that now beset him.
He may not even hear what else is said.
"Shut up." Tran responds to Frei without missing a beat. He's silent for a little while longer as the two have talksies, trying not to look like he's at all interested.
He stands still for a time, until Frei is finished and Alma basically passes out. Tran waits. It looks like the Phoenix is really down, for now. Finally, the doctor tosses his phone lightly to Frei.
"So do you have a plan or anything?" Dr. Tran takes a step forward, looking down at Alma in passing. "It doesn't look like our boy here's going to think of anything for a while, and that leaves you as the only other person besides me who's halfway capable of doing anything useful." There's a pregnant pause, as he considers his position here, in Taizhou, with his...'friends'.
"Definately the only one who gives more than half a damn."
Alma sinks beneath the proverbial waves, Jiro's off on his own damn fool crusade of some form, and Tran's here being a passive-aggressive douche. All is right with the world. For a second the sword-sage takes Alma's words to heart, but then he turns to Tran, who predictably -- and thankfully -- brings up more literal, practical matters. He is refreshing in that sense, and right now, what Frei needs most is grounding in literal, practical matters.
Taking out his phone, he realizes he doesn't really need Tran's, since the stupid things appear to be text-able. For good measure, he tosses what he has now off to Jiro and Tran, hits 'send', and slips the thing back in his pocket. "Not yet. It's probably worth it to check out this place in Nenzhao, though. I mean... look around," he finishes, waving a hand out and encompassing the whole of Huangyan, which is basically a wasteland that will probably never recover. "He was capable of doing this, right?"
A pause, and then he shakes his head, trying to think of everything he's head. Change the world, right? He's talked to Ayame, to Alma... everyone's got something to say. "She said that the prize money was one thing, but that the winner would get their fondest wish." He glances at Tran sidelong, scratching his chin. "It would suck to get your fondest wish and then get vaporized by a giant ninja chi bomb, wouldn't it? Doesn't that make you think that's not what he's going to do?"
Tran shrugs expansively, before flipping his own phone open and kind of half scanning the new stuff Frei's sent him. Blah blah, blah blah, god this feels like actual texting like some kind of teenage girl UGH how disgusting. The doctor hurridly shoots off his own info while he can still stomach it.
"So," he starts, the foul taste of the self-inflicted imagery still lying heavy on his tongue, "That might be right. Or there might be a victory bunker or something. Or maybe it's not a bomb at all because that would be /retarded/." Tran leans in, twirling a finger around his ear. "He would have to be even /crazier/ than he already is to think something as simple as a big bomb can revolutionalize the entire world."
Tran settles back on his heels, somewhat more at ease now that his mind's actually working along a pathway that seems unlikely to bring forth any sort of mental anguish. "So I guess the big question is what kind of surprise he's actually got cooking, and Nenzhou seems like a good place to find out."
The doctor looks up at the ceiling, as he tries to imagine what it could be. "I wanna see it myself, anyway." Dr. Tran: International Tourist of Mystery.
"That's the problem with clever people," Frei says, exhaling sharply and looking at the ceiling. "They KNOW they're clever so everything has all these riddles and layers and..." He spins his hand in the air in a short circle in the international symbol for 'yadda yadda yadda' before shrugging. "I'm not saying clever doesn't have its place, but... egh." All of it hurts his head. Frei isn't stupid, not by a long mile, but he *is* simple. He has the kind of mental pattern that breaks things down into constituent parts and focuses on the parts, one at a time, until the whole starts to come together as a gestalt. He can't start with the big picture. It is, inevitably, why he is practically-minded rather than idealistic. When faced with a philosophical problem, he approaches it in a mundane way. His answer to 'half full or half empty?' is 'Who's got the wine bottle?'
Turning, he looks out over the now-nightlit destruction of Huangyan. Why would Seishirou destroy all this? Tran's probably right in that there's no *compelling* reason to blow up the world. He wasn't part of the initial Jinchuu, but wasn't that Hotaru's worry, or at least one she reported as someone else's? That the ship was a giant bomb of some form, and then terrorists cracked it open like an egg trying to get to it and it sank, end of discussion.
"Probably. Plus I want to meet this guardian for myself. Not to give him too much praise while he's sitting right there, but anyone who can mess up Alma that bad has to have a good amount of skill." He pauses, looking at the ceiling for a moment, before turning back to look at Tran. "So... Nenzhou." It's all he really has to say. 'We're decided' just sounds too... TV.
"Not half so clever as they think they are." Except when they really are, but Tran doesn't believe that can ever actually happen, as a rule. The more clever you get, the less clever you get. It's how things naturally balance out. There are vulnerabilities, somewhere. It's just a matter of exploiting them.
"Nenzhou." Tran agrees, lacking any real context from the first Jinchuu to provide further insight. He was there, but it ended with him being shot out of a cannon and being lost at sea. /Not pleasant/.
"Bring some sunscreen." It doesn't really make sense, and Dr. Tran's not even sure you could find some if you tried, but god damn it, it's the spirit of snappy TV dialogue that counts, no matter how embarassed it makes you feel immediately after the fact.
"S...shut up."
It might not have been terribly funny, but Frei laughs at it anyway; if nothing else, it eases the concrete-thick tension building in the air at this most awkward of situations. And while he speaks big, Frei's emotions are conflicted indeed. Alma lying in some turbulent state, in a dirty room, in a ruined city, unable to control his power? That's heavy. But in a weird way -- and it is the part of Frei that endured a trial of a similar nature, if different in execution, saying this -- it might do him some good. Sometimes you have to have what you possess taken from you, what you think is true proven false, before you can move on in life.
But is Frei... blessedly neutral, I'm-here-for-the-helpless defender Frei... up to the task of dealing with someone whose ideals are so consuming that he would throw away all that is real, pay any cost in destruction, to realize them?
We'll see, won't we?
"I'll do that..." He pauses, giving one last glance back to a now-unconscious Alma, before turning to Tran again and stepping to the edge of the building. Not a long drop, for a trained fighter anyway, and quicker (and probably safer) than crumbling stairs. At the edge he looks down, and considers the difference between the view he started with, high above the city, and the view now. High up, an end to the devastation was visible out there, somewhere. Green pastures beyond. Here, up close, the devastation is vivid, and real, and the idea that there is some hope beyond it seems impossibly far away.
Huh.
He doesn't turn to share this revelation with Tran; instead, he slips off the side of the building and, a short fall later, walks off into the night.
Log created on 20:23:47 04/25/2010 by Alma, and last modified on 22:57:27 04/27/2010.