ASAIMC/7/15
The wet weather is slower today, to peak in a later hour of this perpetual nigh time, but he's bringing the equipment of the Yarra's Student Council, so he dares not let it soak. Instead, he sits at the stop, awaiting a cart to come along, feet up below the shelter, his coat open as he listened to distant music and the rain and played with the string of the wooden pendant which hung from his sword, his other hand resting on his chest. He thought he better give better attention to the kit he's carrying, which rests under his perch, but then he sees nobody to steal it.
Then someone of misshapen and painted proportions, in a colossal scarf and a conical hat, carrying lanterns and a smoking pipe, wandered past the stop, which reaches from the long corridor of an abandoned sub-section, virescent and plant-consumed lights hanging like the vines which broke through the aged roof.
The wandered looks right, down the line, motion drawn by age, and then left, to the boy sprawled under the shelter, watching the elder from his corner, their eye drifting from him to the bags, and then to the sword which rested against his seat. The boy couldn't define a gender from the scrunched paper face, but remained still as it turned to shuffle below the outcropped ceiling of the forgotten stretch, crouch with a back to the observer, and lights a small taper within a bundle of timber beads, offering a short, silent motion of worship to the newly formed idol, rubbing both hands in prayer and the pursuit of warmth.
The music bleeds from someone's window and it plays among the weeping towers, to brush in quiet tones against the stop, cast in choking green from plant-consumed lights, harbouring the boy who slouches under its parting from the rain.
The Yarra watched, his lower face buried in the collar of his coat, his attention flickering from the figure to the long rods they carried, upon the ends of which hung lamps. They twitch within their glass cases, swaying as the elder rose, turning to the boy with a warm smile, which reduced all other features to wrinkled folds, as they shouldered a cumbersome crate within which were more candles, and exhaled the fumes of their smoking pipe with another low nod.
The elder, in the voice of a woman, thanked the boy for everything he did and offered him luck in all his ventures, her hat collecting the smoke as it rose through the straw streaks. Pulling down his collar, he asks her where she's going, looking down the road she'd trekked and knowing it to stretch on long beyond. There was nobody about, and she could probably catch a car to wherever she was going, but against the lengthy walkway she said she was fine, and left to continue into the downpour, past the stop and into the endless night.
Listening to her footfall in the puddles he let the rain consume her, a new river formed atop the station's cover and draining to form a new gutter, falling at the other end of the stop. He watched it from within his layers, tired but tired through waiting instead of fatigue, and breathed in the sweet scents of the moist vegetation and listened to the wet on one of the few still functional ground levels of the Megalopolis.
Here, in this district, the ocean had not yet consumed the low roads and streets, once general walkways, turned into surging canals and rivers, to run through the city and into the forests beyond. Here, in one of the newest sectors, cars still ferried those needing transport across the lower regions, lending a hand to the locals or any Yarra needing a ride.
He wondered whether the Meshuga still had unflooded ground. The idea to trying to imagine a map tugged at his brain, so he shook it off and shifted a margin, to watch the green-shaded droplets trickle down the glass and see the light of his honoured totem waver over his shoulder.
The faraway music was soft and suited the rain, and the oncoming storm which called over the ocean, to their world's single, vast island and to the single city upon it, trembled among the spray as the waters started to sheet, beginning to batter the terminal hut in which he rested. He didn't mind. He liked the rain stronger anyway, and whoever was playing raised their noise to compensate, sending their waves down the way to him. The stop was getting hit hard, so the clouds had to be sending from down the street. It lashed against where his head lay, streaking overtop and spilling with neat form into the walkway's entrance.
The soft breeze playing with his hair and the constant heartbeat of his home must have forced him to sleep, or at least doze, as when he awoke to a car's call, it was not the one he had been expecting.
Skipping between the overhang and the carrier, sword hanging from tie and bags used to sling himself forward he climbed the step and swung in, dropping the equipment by the nearest seat and pulling spare from his pockets. He'd been given enough for the ride and had a little extra anyway, so he handed it all and turned to the car, empty save for one, who stood in the centre, watching the pavement with dull eyes, clutching a bar while he held his blade with the other hand.
For a brief moment, the emotionless void could have been a mask at his glance, and the boy paused with a breath. Once he exhaled, he saw a fellow, drenched and worn.
The rider was covered. Head to toe.
The boy thanked the driver and took his things, leaving them once more by the side of his fellow as he too took a rail, looking from the opposite window as the downpour was muffled by the closing door and joined with the engine, which started the car on with the jolt. The shudder made both shift, but neither remarked.
Their pilot had the radio on, tuned to something within his small driver's cabin. It hummed throughout the space, as the boy watched the stop pass by and shook himself down with a wriggle, lowering his weapon to let it lie on one of the chairs. Outside, the most modern of the Mizupini Megalopolis worked to restrain the ravenous greenery, which had already reclaimed and made peace with the oldest of the city, although even here, in a place built not so long ago, it made it's presence felt through cracks and splits in the groundwork, falling to the vegetation's will. People had already taken to building shrines and laying offerings at these small imperfections, with small presentations glimmering through the ribbons of wet, offering refuge for passing spirits.
The Yarra had built loads when he was a child. If you were a force from the forests, he could see how the alien constructs of the city could lead you lost, or build betrayal as the Megalopolis demanded more resources. Passing miniature sites of worship and blessing, he turned his attentions forward, the coursing, leafy lights of the street dancing in and out of the car in shades of green and the amber of lamps and strings of bulbs.
Even from side on the boy saw his fellow blink and look at himself in the window, raising his bloodied blade and staring at it with impartial distaste. The boy lay a hand on his side and felt his cloth, pulling it from a pocket and passing it to the other, who looked over slowly and took it without expression, tending to his sword with gentle motions.
The boy watched in silence as his fellow cleaned, both shifting to the rhythm of the car and the call of their rain.
He wore a fluttering button up, the sleeves rolled back and a complex design stitched into the fabric, stained in a dark mass only red in the clear lighting, which splattered from his face all the way down to his soles in a patchwork of streaks and splashes. But it was only to his weapon did the Yarra work, tracing end to end while his peer viewed the passing offshoots and roots of the road, checking the board against the roof for his stop.
The red clung to his fingernails and hands, and carved into his clothes in distinct arcs and pleats, painting images of cuts and thrusts which the boy could read, in motions which left his sharp features weary, and plastered.
The bloodied said his thanks and handed the cloth back, without a hold for his weapon so left to keep it in hand, tip an inch from the floor. The boy said it was nothing, and pocketed the fabric. He introduced himself, and the bloodied did as well, neither knowing the other and residing back to silence, their metropolis flowing past them to the endless song of the ocean spray, cast high and constant over the large, yet insignificant city in comparison to the island of Roshi. A ribbon of lights, pushing toward the massive, sunless green which sat atop the blanketed sea.
The journey was short, and he wished well his compeer, asking whether his stop was close. The bloodied nodded, but said that he still had work, and bowed the Yarra goodbye, his drowsy eyes following the ladened figure from the bus but returning to emptiness by the time the car started on, pulling from the post and moving on into the sheets. Soaking by the second the Yarra retreated, disappearing down an alley taken by the vines.
Tokens hang with wiry string from outlying branches to sway against the impact of the waters, lit vaguely by forgotten lanterns of dirtied casings which cleared around a still used door, the porch swept and dimly yet carefully illuminated by hanging lights.
The Yarra slipped through, hauling his bags with him and shunting the entrance closed quietly, looking up the central staircase with a lean. It climbs, intersected and carved by the glow of the night, which beams through open windows, the chill draining down the column. Seeing nobody out he ran the wet from his feet upon a misaligned mat and shouldered the equipment, hearing its contents rattle as his resounding footfall took to the steps. A window up high was cast far and allowed light in through the slats of blinds which clattered softly, beckoning the boy up as he rose, passing lower rooms left abandoned and higher homes, their doors open as the subtle bustle from within was heard and lost with each new floor, until he reached the top and saw another friend.
Maybe asleep, maybe just idle, he sat upon a blanketed table, his back to the wall and his body running alongside the opening, sword against the window frame and his arms crossed, a knee bent to hold him there.
He did not move when the Yarra came and didn't move when he left, sliding through the exit and onto the roof, walking from the window and out along the pass, sheltered under an angled tree which hung heavy with unkempt tendrils, then tied with the many memorials and carvings offered by its people. In its shelter sat the makings of textile tents and perches although there were none built here, the fabric folded into draws or caches stored from the rain's touch. The boy wandered, but saw other structures warmed by small lamps and candles across nearby heights and continued on, leaving the tree to cross an arcing bridge lined with lights and hurry across the roofs, holding his apparatus close as the ocean sprawled up above, and the city say below.
He was near a disputed stretch of coast, claimed by both Yarra and Meshuga who fought a slow war for the valuable ribbon of food, holding their sides but rarely moving. He'd see many of his own here, who crept across the line to prod and shave at the masks, and would hold his guard in case of a similar challenge. There were no strongholds, though. That was the issue. No building or landmark to take. Just students, hold out in the homes of supporters or hunched in dry spaces, or wet ones, waiting for an opponent to come or for others to signal an attack.
Here, there would be little noise but soft music and chatter. He crossed another empty roof and didn't think of it.
He saw his landmark; a towering complex of a feature waterfall running down the centre, funnelling the rain through against levels of dim lights, and turned, working toward the small pylon a way from its base. A banner fluttered from its peak, although any insignia had been worn by the weather and it was always too dark anyway, so instead the streamer acted as a clear hosting point, visible from far around. The sacks he carried weren't heavy but shook with every move, so he hurried toward the flyer, weaving through and around the taller buildings to keep level until he reached a plane of vents and tubes, falling to the flat and taking the uninterrupted straight quickly, the hiss and rising steam of the ports muted by the element which followed behind, pushing him on.
As he weaved, he smelt green, and felt compelled to look down the tubes.
When he came toward the final corner, he took a pause, running a wet hand through his wetter hair and looking at himself through thought, brushing down his sleeves and wiping his face. There was little way to win this topical zone but through wearing down the Meshuga, and yet the ace against their opposition sat ready and waiting, their guard sent to hold this area and keep an eye out for trouble. With the Student Council held at such a small number, meeting one was a privilege, either through summons or witnessing them in battle.
To meet two was something rare. The Yarra knew this and felt his cargo through its casings to see if anything was broken. He hadn't known what it was, but then he knew the profile of a sword when he felt it yet didn't know what to think of its light weight.
Shaking himself down he continued, tracing a thin streak of overlapping roof and then dropping to a lower floor, the floor of the pylon, upon which stood beams supporting a material canopy protecting the small bundle of lamps underneath, surrounded by crates converted through thick coverings into seats and even beds, set back against the high masts. A courtyard had been formed across the rest of the roof which stretched another ten meters, although it was unused save for a corner dedicated as a shrine, overlooking the road which stretched far below. The Yarra ducked for the shelter, only looking up once he was safe, and faced a seated group of six, all fallen silent to turn to his arrival, the central duo offering a gaze to the dampened figure.
Tsweiasoto, vice deputy, stood and started over, waving away his bow as he held her equipment forward. Behind her sat Clou, the second of the council, who watched over the distant road alongside what the Yarra decided were their pupils, under direct command from them, personally. All watched as Tswei approached, the adorned, wooden veils of fallen Meshuga hanging from her fur-lined waist, above loose trousers bound by thin ribbons around her shins. She took the bags and offered him a seat.
He sat next to one of the proteges as she opened the cases and drew loose bundles of bokken, laying them flat atop one of the crates while Clou inspected each piece, holding it straight and at every angle, eyeing in line with the timber blade.
The Yarra asked why they would need training swords out here, on the edge of conflicting districts, away from the safety of the city centres and away from anyone who still needed to train with timber, looking from student to student, each carrying a blade of their own design and form, fitting the specifications of a unique style.
Tsweiasoto, not looking up from her cache, held a wooden weapon forward, both hands on the false grasp and blade, and separated the two at an invisible line, exposing true steel encased within, sparkling as the others observed.
That was the first time Walden met who would later become his closest friends, to traverse the heights by his side and later die in service of their academy and the Megalopolis, as equals.
He would join them first, to deliver their false apparatus upon lunges and thrusts and gain their favour, to become fellows through to now, when he sat and watched Tswei, younger than he'd ever seen her in life, walking Jamie through a set of slashes he himself had never before seen performed, new friends he would never have dreamt of knowing sitting around to the rhythm of a great engines rumble, in his child state, stolen of his strength as she was, to work as figments of lost prowess.
He wondered why he was thinking this.
He'd recounted every inch of his life while imprisoned, pondering on each decision and learning the intricacies of his fellow Yarra's lives in a detail none could relate to. To say now that those four where his friends would be to forget to account the tales they'd told each other, when sleep failed to hold or they stumbled into dreamy conversation. He could recount every name the others could name, as could they for him and then the rest. He knew every technique each of the other disciplines had mastered, therefore making him what he had thought to be an equal swordsman, in perfect alignment with his older serving members. Watching Tswei, he thought that this may have been the root of his long-winded recount, as arguably the best combatant amongst them displayed acrobatics, flexibility and strength he pretended not to notice.
But this left Walden with an issue, as Sahiel and Magual spoke behind him, one which became one of the few things he had never discussed with his fellows. To remember his past in such detail, and the pasts of the few people he cared for, and therefore to have a complete catalogue of his entire, whole, uninterrupted existence, presented a question he was yet to truly take to mind, let alone speak of.
Why here?
What was he doing here? Where was he going? The Mizupini Megalopolis thrived through its ocean, so he was no stranger to vast fishing trawlers churning overhead, faint lights barely visible, and the noise a distant roar.
But this ship, this Omnipotence, was something completely foreign. It was a database. Coursing at unimaginable speeds, and to retreat from the constant song of the machines within was only to look from one of the windows, and face the towering pillars, webworks, oceans of rolling colour and vibrance. Luminosity among clouds of cosmic ash and rubble, to burn against the eyes of a boy who spent his life in almost complete darkness, in comparison, and then the near eternity of his death in true, loveless night, to now move through milk and oil of spectacular definitions, in shades unseen.
Its people, too, were wild and unknown, and none of the Yarra attempted to ignore this. Hushed pasts of presumed wickedness or loudly sung declarations of pride, Walden hadn't found a middle ground between the examples here, save maybe for Jamie, who secluded herself to a distant cabin with a machine who was scarcely seen. The deserter, who the Yarra thought could claim an admirable life, kept his exploits and origins quiet, unless directly asked, and then to kill the point of conversation. Magual had spent most of his time learning the layout of the craft, or using its many servers, or just generally keeping to himself.
Where Walden came from, there were only two types of people; students and students. Every child applied to become either Yarra or Meshuga, but most soon abandoned the course to further aspirations or desires, beyond a one-way ticket to a brutal, edged murder; to die in a conflict long lost of its purpose, or to live in relative peace under the dominion of the ruling faction, without much interference. He himself had joined with everyone else but had stuck, and eventually reached the standard to separate a boy who, like everyone, practiced a traditional artform, and a boy who abandoned a life of what Walden viewed as mediocre prospects, among a highly demanding, developing city, to instead walk the heights with all expenses and commodities swept, on the promise that he ruins any face behind a wooden veil he sees.
No true home, save for the shores of Roshi, and its Mizupini Megalopolis. No nationality, nor any true desires, beyond what became his common routine of waking in wherever he had found hostel, caught as the world was in constant darkness, and then wandering the soaked rooftops with a sword held close. An existence he saw as incomparable and seemingly unfulfilling, however one which gave him a purpose and a character more concrete than he could ever have hoped for.
And now here. Among a strange crowd with no obligations once more. No home to turn to, and no true, formal desires. No aspirations which he could boast, and a past which could be effectively portrayed, he thought, in a few moments.
Why, then, was he here, following a cursed girl headhunting things incomprehensible, alongside her motley crew of silent glances and crude smiles, justifying what Walden knew would be blind murder on the premise of demons and hypocritical deities, no more scrutinous than the evils they hoped to subdue.
He could appreciate, without hesitation, that the Meshuga he had slaughtered were hardly malefic, beyond their love of a life he himself adored, and could see the parallels to be drawn by his peers between his previous actions and his current course. To kill, simply because that was what he did.
But looking around the room, at the many characters from their many pasts, to the song of a grand ship's propulsion and watching a child swordswoman train someone to murder, he thought this couldn't be true. While they wouldn't say it, everyone here had to have a purpose. A reason to be here, in the same way they needed a reason to do whatever it is they do.
Walden, back on the shores of Roshi, may not have consulted a moral guidance with every death he pursued, but his people had their spirits and beliefs, beliefs in the spirituality of the Megalopolis and the faith that, when their side won, the control that academy would hold over the still relatively young city would ensure a prosperous future for all people alike, under the leadership of a new, undistorted yet experienced generation, bred of the conflict. He didn't need to think or ponder every morning, when he awoke to near senseless violence, because everyone else was thinking for him. He'd kill, yes, but they'd be the ones to think about it. He was killing for them.
The same, he presumed, could be said for everyone else here. He turned a margin and looked toward Sahiel, the deserter, who was known to have abandoned his own war and to have, under situations untold, worked his way toward Mauven and then to here, among her crew, now headed toward the fabled Kyut. What reason could he have, to follow this path, and not simply return home, to what was probably a family awaiting his arrival?
A family understanding of his desertion and moreover willing to aid in his survival. To allow him to escape and live out his days, however few, upon whatever world he desired.
He had had the drive to make it to the Yarra, and to seek out a cabin filled with small devils lost to time. He could loose himself on some distant world too.
He'd been hiding something, Walden had thought, as he'd watched the man help Toya feed the group, or assist the Technomancers in their machine endeavours, or even now, as he observed the woman he'd helped grow strong grow stronger.
Now though, Walden wondered otherwise. In the same way he himself had lost his purpose, but now saw no alternative, he thought that maybe this deserter, who had done what he'd done, not like the Yarra had, out of devotion and genuine love, but out of Museishingen aspirations and Museishingen goals. Walden didn't even understand their conflict, and hadn't had time to either, but he knew the man came from their heartland and so had been made to serve. A case worse then than Walden, who at least had wanted to do the horrific things he'd previously done.
Walden, who could even sympathise with these demon desires which he, supposedly, was supposed to combat. Walden, who was used to a chaotic command, and a call to simply leave the door and kill whoever you saw until you yourself fell, either to a blade or exhaustion.
But to get stuck on this, he knew, would warrant the investigation of every member of the craft, and that would take forever. He knew why Mauven was going; she could proclaim previously honourable intent, but now her disgust at the skeleton she scorned, and her eagerness to exploit his current weakness was burning, with her lust for power subsiding to her need for vengeance. Maybe for her people and maybe for her unjust imprisonment, but still vengeance regardless.
She was the only one he could be truly sure of, her malice and disregard for her fellows displayed vividly through her careless selection of crew and abandonment of the flustered, confused and dazed Lenglen. Then again, he thought, cocking his head; maybe he didn't want to know everyone's reasons. The one woman who's drive he understood had changed from an ill-tempered child into a selfish little thing which ferried a boat of criminals, he presumed, to their deaths.
He was going because Clou was going.
That's what he decided. Truly, he had to ask himself what the alternative was, but ultimately, in the same way that he was indeed going, if Clou told them to leave, then he and the other three would go without protest. Clou himself could pledge assistance to Sahiel and Cal for them saving him, but then that was to fall down another chasm of unpredictable intents, and to ask the president if he knew the way back to the shores of Roshi, or even its location alone, would warrant nothing.
Still though, Walden thought that he and his comrades were a poor example from which to judge those around them. Asking someone who spent their life killing people they didn't truly hate and shared more in common with than had differences why they were killing people they didn't truly hate and shared more in common with than had differences was meaningless. And then, to go and ask one of the others why they were doing that which, in voice, is an indisputably evil thing to do why they were doing it, as the issue with your own question, would leave their answer either incomprehensible, crude, or without reason to be said.
Walden blinked and yawned, and rubbed an itch upon his nose, turning into Sahiel and Magual's conversation, which discussed the origins of the man's title of Fire Fighter.