Omen 6.3
2001, September 22: Washington, DC
I arrived back in my room wondering how many pans we could keep in the fire before we inevitably let something burn. Running a multi-dimensional conspiracy sometimes felt like juggling live grenades.
Frustrated, I took a seat at my desk. I must not have been very good at hiding my annoyance with myself, because mom made a comment on it over dinner. I told her I was working on a teleportation device for her safety. I was, and it wasn't as though I could tell her that I'd doomed two hundred people to a fiery grave.
Before I knew it, I found my hands straying towards drawer with the Mask. I leveled an exasperated glare at the quasi-sentient object.
"Why is it that you only want to be worked on when I'm in a mood?"
No reply came, but the pair of blank eyes stared up at me expectantly. After meeting the Mask Mother, First Wave, and Last Wind, the mask was a half-finished thing of ominous beauty. Its eyeholes were rimmed in waves and clouds too small to determine with the naked eye. The bristlecone pinewood looked ancient, with twisting ripples that were once the origins of gnarled branches. They gave the illusion of motion, of some grand entity alive and stirring from ancient slumber.
I wondered if it'd end up looking like a specific face. Lamb's was the Wolf and Wolf's was the Lamb after all. Or maybe, it'd end up retaining its perfectly oval shape. Or… would I split in two and get my own spirit animal? That was a thought…
I sighed and picked up Isolde. "Fine, let's see who I'm to meet this time."
With Isolde in hand, I began to carve. The blade ran careful lines across what would be the bridge of the nose and I allowed myself to sink into the rhythm of the action. Slowly, I could feel the mana build up in the mask, drawing me closer to whatever vision it wanted to show me. Just as the mana reached a crescendo, I was elsewhere.
The first time was disorienting. The second was a mild surprise. The third was practically routine.
I looked around to find myself in the foyer of a once luxurious mansion, though time had taken its toll on the furnishings. The building was a strange mix of roman and gothic architecture, with sweeping columns and ornate details carved into every arch and pillar. Beneath my feet, a crimson carpet extended up a Y-shaped stairway to rooms unknown. Up above, three flags hung down like unraveled scrolls.
The one in the center was easy to recognize, a stylized black ax on a crimson background, the flag of Noxus. To either side were the flags of House Kythera and House Zaavan, not that they were familiar to me.
They didn't need to be. The spiderwebs large enough to hold grown men that hung from every shady corner were a damn good clue.
"Guess I know who I'm meeting," I muttered.
I wandered the empty foyer. Looking closer, I could see cracks in the foundation and the walls, the once pristine black marble tiles that made up the flooring now stained brown with what I was sure was not rust. I tried not to think about it and focused my attention elsewhere.
My eyes were drawn to the paintings on the walls, though one in particular caught my eye. It was a man who could be considered handsome in that typical aristocratic way. He had high cheekbones and a strong, square jaw highlighted by his neatly trimmed mutton chops. His garb was militaristic, a dark-blue tunic under Noxus-red. "Emet Sassen," the small plaque beneath the painting read.
For a moment, I thought I was mistaken. Perhaps I wasn't in Elise's mansion?
Then I read the other plaques. Every name was different. Some lacked last names altogether, implying that they were not of the Noxian nobility.
"Oh… Shit…" I whispered. I remembered who Emet was. He was the Hapless Aristocrat in Legends of Runeterra, one of many Elise Zaavan charmed to his death by her allure. She traded his life and those of others' for Vilemaw's venom, all so she could retain her youth and beauty.
Plus: I was exactly where I thought I was.
Minus: I was exactly where I thought I was.
Something stirred, a flicker of mana that warped the air as the Noxian aspect of death materialized behind me. "Is life so cheap?" I asked him without turning around. I traced a finger along Emet's outfit. He wore a sword on his hip bearing a red jewel emblazoned with the crest of Noxus. It implied wealth, perhaps even an officer's position in the Trifarian Legion.
This was a man who had a future, had potential, and he'd lost it all in a single fool's gambit.
"It is not cheap," came the voice behind me. It echoed like all the others, though his voice held a silky, almost musical quality to it. It spoke of peace, of well-deserved rest after a hard-fought battle. "Life is not cheap, my friend, but it is fragile."
The man, if he could be called a man, could only be the Soulspinner. He was tall and lanky, though with defined muscles that spoke of many lifetimes of refinement. His six arms were unexpectedly humanoid, not a bit of chitin to be found. The mask he wore sported four glowing eyes, with jagged, uneven cracks towards the chin that could be mistaken for mandibles. From his fingers, I could see strands of magical energy connect to every portrait in the room. It wasn't mana alone, but an idea. Death. Destiny. The Tapestry.
"So it is…"
"Who are you?" he asked, as all the others had.
"I suppose I am He Who Inspires, but I don't think that's the answer you want."
"What is it you inspire?"
I turned to face him fully. His eyes seemed to bore into my soul, which in hindsight might have been a far more literal description than usual. They burned with a haunting light that reminded me of the Black Mist and demanded a sincere answer.
"I… I don't know," I spoke haltingly. "I thought it was new possibilities. Hope. But now… Why is it that it feels like nothing's changed?"
"Everyone dies."
"So the Last Wind told me."
The Soulspinner raised a pair of hands out to me. A single strand was spread between his fingers, wrapping around them in an intricate pattern, much like a cat's cradle. "What do you see, my friend?"
"A spider's thread. Is this what represents my life? That's what this is, isn't it? This entire place is a representation of Elise's life and now you're here to tell me I'm just one strand in the Grand Tapestry. Right?"
"No," he spoke to my surprise. He nodded towards Emet's portrait. "Once there was a hapless young man who thought to court a spider, never once suspecting he would end up in her web... You are not he."
"Then what? I wish one of you would give me a straight answer."
"This place belongs not to the Spider Queen, but to you. It is but one facet of the gem that is your soul, one reflection among countless more. One thread, one connection… one knot…"
I was starting to understand. "You're saying that my soul's connection to Runeterra is growing. It's how you're here, how all the others came to visit."
"There are few who see the threads, and fewer still who can weave them."
"I'm not one of them. I failed. I fail. Constantly."
"Is death failure?"
"Isn't it?"
"My friend, each strand is fragile. None are meant to last, but there is beauty in fragility." He walked up to the portrait. "His tale was one of love unrequited, enchanting because of its transience. And though he was but one of many who fell to the Spider Queen's charms, that one strand now weaves the tapestry of her tale."
He sounded so sincere, almost reverent in his care. It only made me angry. "Is that what people are to you? Just parts of someone else's story?"
"That is what we all are. One day, I will be but a strand in your tapestry, and you in another's."
That didn't settle well with me. "I reject," I said after a long minute. "People aren't just faceless mobs and extras in a play. Their lives have meaning beyond the privilege of acting a part in someone else's story."
"They do," he agreed, "to them. It is their lot to find some small meaning in their small roles within the Grand Tapestry, but it is not our lot to delight in them."
"There is none fairer than Death, for Death comes for all."
"Indeed. I treasure a beautiful tapestry, but it is my lot to collect them all, no matter their beauty."
I looked into his eyes. "But I am not death. I am not one of the Kindred."
"You are not, yet you will be, at least in part. So I will ask again, my friend: What will you inspire?"
"I want to inspire hope. New paths and ideas. I want to make the world a brighter place. Is that too much to ask?"
"Do not ask. Take. Weave." He spoke with the surety of a concept given form. I couldn't help but envy it, that assuredness of purpose. "It is not an easy task, this thing you have set for yourself. There will be a great many knots to unravel."
"But not impossible."
"No, nothing ever is."
"Then we'll just have to see," I said, voice filled with a resolve I didn't know I had.
"We shall, He Who Inspires. What a wondrous tapestry you will weave. I for one am eager to be a part of your work, my friend."
"… Thank you…"
The world around me broke apart as the mist covered us. Then, I was back.
As always, meeting one of them was discomforting. They thought in such alien ways. Never once did the Soulspinner show a shred of empathy for young Emet's fate. Instead, he admired Emet's beauty, the beauty of life and love and loss. It was an alienness that I couldn't reconcile with my own beliefs. I wasn't sure I wanted to.
A human ought to be empathetic, mom once said. When my pet rabbit died, she wiped away my tears and told me that those tears were a part of being human. To care is not weakness, but a sign of strength, for it takes great strength to be vulnerable.
I took a shuddering breath. The Mask… It would make me one of them, one of the Kindred. With it would come power, power like nothing else on this world. Perhaps even, the power to oppose Scion directly. But as with all things, power came at a price.
I just had to make sure that price wasn't my own humanity.
No pressure.
X
2001, October 19: Washington, DC
My birthday came and went without much fanfare. I took the day off from the Madhouse, though I spent two hours in Babylon under the pretext of going jogging just to make sure everything was going smoothly on that front. Although most of the manufacturing centers for Galio were incomplete, a smaller facility dedicated to the production of the less complicated Wrenchbot drones was finished. I set the Wrenchbots to help with further construction and materials-gathering efforts.
After checking in, I spent the rest of the day with mom, baking enough pastries to stock a small bakery. Funnily enough, I woke up that morning to find a post-it note taped to the ceiling with a list of pastries Fortuna wanted by tomorrow. There was no explanation of why, only the list. I could either not make any and leave her dry or feed her burgeoning sweet tooth.
But, if I didn't, I could potentially interfere with the Path. There was a real possibility that she was planning on using one or all of these to social-fu her way to her objective, much as she did with Rinke.
'Or, she could have left no explanation to force me to feed her cravings knowing I'd think this way… that sly bitch.'
I sighed and resolved myself to being her personal cookie-dispenser.
Still, dubious reasons aside, baking with mom was relaxing, especially since I got to bake my own birthday cake, a twist on a black forest cake using matcha and sweet plum wine instead of cocoa and kirsch. I still kept the dark cherries; those things were awesome.
One of these days, I promised myself I'd figure out how to make a Biscuit of Everlasting Will on my own.
I polished off the evening doing what every other ten year old did: opening presents. My mother came into the living room and set three boxes down on the coffee table before sitting on the couch.
"It looks like your friends sent you something."
I picked up a blue and red box decorated with cartoonish raccoons. "Yeah, looks like it." I shook it a little and smiled at the satisfying rattling sound.
"Are you going to call them? You do that every Friday."
"Sure, why not."
I sent them a quick text to thank them for their gift and warned them to keep their masks on before sending a video invite.
"Happy birthday, shorty," came Ranchero's southern drawl, played up for my mom. "You any taller yet?"
"Hey, I'm actually tall for my age," I whined.
"Sure, chico, whatever you say," Hat Trick said as soon as she hopped on. "Is that your mama? Tell her we said you're a little brat."
"Mom, they said hey," I drawled in Korean. I flipped the screen and pointed each of them out. "The tall blonde is Stingray, my old Wards Leader. Hat Trick has a hat. Masked Bandit wears fluffy pajamas. Rancheros is the man with the tacky accent."
"Why do I get the feeling he's making fun of us?"
"Because I am."
"Oi!"
I ducked a dope-slap from my mother. "I understand English fine," she said with a thick accent. "Thank you again for putting up with my son. He is much trouble."
"Hehe, hello, Mrs. Kim," Stingray laughed, a little awkward at meeting my mother. "You're very pretty."
'Yeah, Biscuits will do that,' I thought. Mom was still in her early thirties and a combination of good genes and magic cookies made her look several years younger. "Don't you know? Asians don't age until we're fifty, then we shrivel up like a nutsack and shrink like Yoda."
"Yusung!"
"What? It's true, mom."
"I sorry. I don't know where gets his tongue."
"Hero," I snarked. "The man swears like a sailor."
"That's okay, Mrs. Kim, we're used to him," Bandit grinned. "He's funny."
"And it's Mrs. Lee technically," I chimed in. "In Korea, women don't change their last names after getting married so my dad was Mr. Kim, but mom is still Mrs. Lee."
She flicked my ears chidingly. "I changed it to Kim."
"Wait you did? When was this?"
She looked for words in English but switched to rapid-fire Korean. "My American driver license says Kim. It was easier to take on American customs for citizenship, social security, and other reasons. There are fewer questions when our last names are the same."
"Huh, news to me."
"So, presents?" Bandit prodded. "Do you like my wrapping paper?"
"It's cute," mom said, "like you, pretty girl. My son is lucky to know so many pretty girls."
"Heh, hear that, Andy? Your mom says we're pretty."
"You are," I said simply. I wasn't ten, mentally. It'd end in far less embarrassment if I just went with it. "You're all very pretty and fit because we're heroes and we exercise as part of our jobs."
"Psh, you're no fun. You're supposed to be embarrassed and think girls have cooties."
"Oh? You want embarrass Yusung?" mom asked, a glint in her eyes. "When we were in Korea, he love the train show… Thomas?"
"Wait, Andy? Thomas the Tank Engine?" I could see the glee in Bandit's eyes as she connected the dots.
"Yes, funny train with face. In Korean. He watched it every day. Then, TV company…?"
"Broadcasting station," I added for her, face turning red but resigned to my humiliation. "The broadcasting station canceled the show for some reason. I threw a fit and made mom call to figure out why it got canceled."
"Oh my god, that's adorable," Stingray grinned.
"Yes, yes, I was a child once. Can we move on?"
"Aww, but we want to hear more stories about you."
"Sting, I swear I will send you a potion filled with the hottest pepper extract I can feasibly make. It will be hidden in a box with every other potion and you won't know which until you breathe fire and piss blood."
"Okay, okay. Presents. I hope you like it. We all contributed a little."
I began to unravel the wrapping paper. "It really is cute. Where'd you find it?"
"The PRT gift shop," Bandit said sheepishly. "But it's cute!"
"It is," I assured. I unwrapped it to reveal a nondescript box. I opened it to find… another box. And another. And another. "Really?"
"Hehehehe."
"Don't look at me," Ranchero said, "I just threw twenty bucks into the pot."
"Hat Trick's idea," Stingray said, happily throwing her junior under the bus.
"Hey, you guys thought it'd be funny too."
I ignored them as they descended into friendly squabbling. Two more boxes later, I finally arrived at a box the size of a wallet and twice as thick. When I opened that, I was greeted with a sturdy, steel pocketwatch. The exterior was decorated with the national Protectorate logo. Inside, one face was an analog watch while the other held a group picture of the five of us.
"Thanks, it looks cool," I told them earnestly. I wasn't the type to carry around accessories like this, but I appreciated it all the same.
"Thank you," my mom said, "now my son can remember things. He so forgetful sometimes."
"I'm not, I just hate being disturbed from tinkering."
"That's bad too."
"Yes, mother."
"It's no problem, Mrs. Kim," Sting told her. "He already does a lot for us. He's been sending boxes of potions every month so we wanted to do something nice for him."
"Yeah, thanks, guys. I appreciate it," I said.
I quickly opened the rest of the presents. There was a winter jacket from mom and a jazz CD from Eugene. I did a quick search of my room and found a simple cookbook from Contessa in the bottom drawer of my desk. No rare relics this time, it was probably for the best.
Author's Note
Not gonna lie, I'm really enjoying writing these visions. If they seem uncertain, that's because they're supposed to be. Andy's slowly figuring himself out. Wanted a fluffy end.