”The secret of happiness, you see, is not found in seeking more, but in developing the capacity to enjoy less.”-Socrates
I hate soccer.
No, like, football, I think?
Yes, yes, that’s correct. It’s certainly football. Yes. Hmm. Honestly, it’d be far more bearable if this damn city isn’t constantly spending seven months out of the year in nothing but white and black and going HOWAY every few minutes in complete violation of proper English. Bah, another problem you can pin on my ancestors’ encouraging this chimeric monstrosity of a cultural melting pot for millennia… But least it brought them money!
Honestly, I think I’d be able to tolerate all the hype about Newcastle every Sunday if they just weren’t so in my face about it every time I come down here. I come down from the house every week, a thirty-minute drive, just to attend service for an hour, before taking the same trip back up to my own home.
But noooo, ever since last season when the Geordies had managed to break even with the other four top teams in the League, the local obsession has hit a fever pitch, even though the city is much closer to Sunderland yet that apparently doesn’t count because they are Mackems. What a pointless distinction!
No, I’m not bitter. Despite having to deal with this every single week. I just want to listen to a decent sermon, and serve my spiritual needs to honor the last gift Kirei had given me. Seeing as he died ignominiously during the Holy Grail War, a fate he is apparently damned to in every single timeline. Every week, listening to people asking me if I was a tourist because I tried to wear a palette more diverse than black and white on the weekends.
“HOWAY what’re you doing with red and blue? You some kinda out of towner or something?” No, sir, I’m from South Shields born and raised the same as you. “Really? Then where’s your club pride? Show some of that Geordie spirit!”
And it’s damn cold for the beginning of October, too. Stupid city.
My only threats being hooligans and a runny nose is why, as I pull my zebra-patterned jacket tighter around myself-- for I will at least have my passive-aggressive mockery if nothing else-- I approach my precious vehicle with more lax awareness than usual. And subsequently find myself staring at two individuals blocking my access to it: The first is a tall woman in her early twenties. Curvaceous, with a professional suit and mauve hair. Her reddish eyes glare at me in annoyance, fists curled in hostility.
Besides her is a larger figure, dressed in driving leathers. Though he comes only to the woman’s shoulder in height, he is her superior in bulk by a wide margin. Even though I cannot see his expression through the tinted, black visor of his biking helmet, I can detect an air of challenge in unseen eyes.
“Very well,” I call out to them in answer, “This is precisely the kind of thing I need to take my mind off the absurdity of this town.”
The racer tilts their head, while the taller woman cracks her knuckles and her neck with the ease of casual routine, “You’ve kept us waiting, Lord Vine.” She says accusingly, “Time is money, as they say, and I really hate having mine wasted.”
I snort, and peel off the gaudy jacket I had been wearing to reveal my Sunday’s Best beneath: A rich, wine-red suit with a white undershirt and black tie. I take a moment to remove the ornate onyx ship cufflinks in order to bare my arms properly for the battle ahead. It’s all a highly coincidental outfit, really, and I took no pleasure in the twitches that sprang up around me after I shucked my jacket back during the service.
Heh.
“You really enjoy pissing others off, don’t you?” The completely covered person calls out with a clearly masculine voice as I limber my arms for the match to come. All I answer him with is a loud crack of my neck, filled with a kink from keeping my head bowed for an hour straight.
“Put ‘em up,” The disappointing woman ahead of me calls out, having placed a pair of black, fingerless gloves on while I had been engaged in my own preparations. With a dramatic flourish of my own fingers, I withdraw a pair of my own gloves from my pocket that I had prepared for this very occasion.
As I slip them into place with utmost satisfaction, I turn towards my opponent, “Don’t think that I’ll fall easily here. I’ll have you know that whatever problem you may have with my past self, I’m not the man that I used to be.”
My hands come out loosely to my sides, elbows out in a sloppy boxing stance, and reddish eyes close in what appears to be frustrated annoyance. I shoot a grin as I firm up my defenses.
“Come at me, then.”
…
I awaken some time later to soothing green light, pulsing out from the black-clad figure that I had accompanied my partner for the brief, yet intense, sparring session. With each wave of more intense brightness, I felt the sensation of bruised flesh and other injuries begin to fade.
“Why heal me?” It was a legitimate question.
The man snorted, “It wouldn’t be a challenge if you were at anything less than your best.”
I snort back, “Bold words,” My lips twist into a sneer, “And what manner of ‘challenge’ did you have in mind?”
He gestured behind himself, deeper into the parking lot in which we were located. The early morning sun leaving the vehicles surrounding us glinting in it’s reflected glory. Where his palm directed my gaze lay a beautiful beast, lacquered a plain, yet ostentatious black. Sleek, aerodynamic, made with the latest and most efficient molded plastics to draw smoothly aesthetic lines. A four-cylinder horizontal in-line engine that was made with the utmost care by the most handsomely paid Japanese engineers. Ostensibly going only up to forty-five kilometers per hour limited by its six-speed manual transmission per factory standards, with the “luxury” of casually exceeding that due to the lax standards of my own contacts throughout international shipping lines.
My partner, my trusted steed; my 2004 Kawasaki Ninja ZX-6RR V-Custom. The finest beast I could obtain with my own two hands, the pinnacle of modern technology married to the pinnacle of Vine Clan Magecraft. Designed to all but ignore the very concept of air resistance, enhanced traction on its tires and modest enhancements in the fuel intake combined with earth spirits contracted to dwell within its suspension system by forbidden druidic rites to allow an absolutely supernatural smooth control to the experience of riding it.
It’s honestly a funny thing. Before I had laid eyes on her, I had frankly never cared for the maintenance and running of the various vehicles I had driven! But once I turned on the ignition for the first time after completing my adjustments, I found myself inescapably drawn into its care and maintenance.
There is a cough, bringing me from my reverie, and I turn to stare at the tinted black visor of my challenger.
How rude.
“I accept your challenge,” I arch my eyebrow menacingly, “As if you stand a chance against me on my own home ground.”
The heavyset man chuckled knowingly, heading over to his own steed: A white and gold-colored rendition of last year’s Super Glide model. I snort at the presumption, “You think that just because you have the newest paperweight that means you can overcome my trusted partner?”
“You’ve been calling it “the most advanced technology” for two years now, Vineas.” My would-be opponent replies, “When are you going to trade out that old thing?”
“When they make something better.” I answer easily. Which is to say, never.
He shakes his head, before clambering onto his own overpriced clunker, and with practiced ease kicks its engine to life with a loud roar. I snort at the display, before approaching my own ride and equipping myself properly, bringing my own steed to a state of readiness with its own quieter, more efficient growling. I casually palm a piece of red bone, etched with contracts into a slot built under the seat. Ogham runes begin glowing, and the spirits housed within my Ninja begin tearing apart the offering in a shower of crimson particles.
“The usual route, then?” I hear, and shake my head.
“Scenic, this time. I’d hate for you to lack the chance for a turnabout.”
Our hands twist the handlebars, revving our the engines of our respective bikes in sync.
Once.
Twice.
And on the third, both our steeds roar with might and power and charge down the streets of South Shields. Ordinarily, the urban sprawl would be an obstacle to our competition, but my opponent and I were of the world of Magecraft. The hidden side of the supernatural, and we would be poor magi to not have integrated our personal rides with Mystic Codes to dissuade the attention of the more mundane sort. Traffic crossings were less impediments than dynamic terrain features.
Pedestrians an ever-evolving maze of opportunity and penalty as the two of us weaved through those who would, by pure coincidence, interpose themselves into our path. Automobiles threatened to strike us down through their inattentiveness at every turn, but our skill was long since the equal to the nature of our rides. A merely mortal driver could never hope to impede us.
There had been a time, once, when I had experimented with my Ninja’s smaller, more maneuverable nature to have it live up to its namesake and maneuver in a more three-dimensional manner. A kind of Moto-Parkour, if you will. But it is overrated.
The urban sprawl is meant to accommodate the motor vehicle, and thus a lesson I should have learned much earlier came to the fore: A sufficiently small and maneuverable vehicle can easily circumvent any and all traffic, simply by employing the paths left open for pedestrians. So even though I had spent painstaking hours on the intricate runic arrays necessary to grant supernatural suspension and traction in three-dimensional maneuvers, such techniques were largely wasted save for the occasional wall running.
To my ever-present shame, rather than bringing to life a modern-day Hattori Hanzo, I had instead created the vehicular equivalent to the Naruto Run.
It was a useful enough gimmick for circumventing heavy foot traffic, but such a use was niche at best.
By comparison, the lack of investment in their own machines enabled my opponent to swap out a base set of modifications that merely enhanced the overall performance of his motorbikes, perfectly marrying the technological advancements of the mundane world with the modular versatility that made modern industry so enormously powerful and thus resulted in a set of easily swapped out, highly effective Mystic Codes to enhance the performance of his vehicles.
Indeed, as he and I left the denser parts of the city behind and began heading north towards the mouth of the River Tyne, before following the coastline. Our end goal was Lawe Top, where the Vine mansion lay hidden from the urban sprawl, conveniently located on lands technically considered a historical preserve.
We moved east towards the North sea-facing bank of the peninsula on which the property sat, the sandy beaches facing into the open ocean on our left sides as we moved towards the River Drives starting point, until that point keeping pace with one another. The route would follow the River Drive, keeping the open water on our left until tracing the shoreline before spiraling back in to the residential area, where we would have free reign to determine our own route to the Bounded Field which marked the edge of my family’s ancient property and thus the finish line of our little race.
The wind swept by as we charged headlong down the black asphalt of the road, left largely abandoned by the time of day, as the two of us hurtled down the road. The scent of brine filled my nostrils, tearing at my sinuses as the speed of our race ripped the air past me as quickly as it arrived and my hands tightened further, throttling the engine of my scooter as it drank deeply of the gasoline, the air, and of me. My partner and I were one, a complete circuit forged through mutual effort. An extension of my body, the sensation of rubber gripping the road so strongly, and the burning of exhaust and heat of friction filled my senses.
As the surroundings blurred into a line, the mark of that space where all senses but speed cease to matter, my mind cleared and so I attained peace. The high of the racer; the crossing of the redline.
But this peace, the humming of my engine and my self, were interrupted; the engine of my opponent coughed and for this blasphemy there was but one answer:
I pulled out a knife and pulled alongside him, stabbing at his bike.
My knife tore deeply from the white-painted chrome of my opponent’s ride, leaving behind a wide and vicious gouge. But as the first turn on the Sea Road came up, and we curved around the peninsula, my foe did something unexpected:
He throttled his engine slightly.
He slowed.
And he did not turn.
In my eagerness to pass him, I had attempted to coast into a sharp turn, swinging widely in preparation for a drift, but as I shot forward into the turn the significantly greater bulk of the damaged Super Glide (a misnomer if I’ve ever heard one) and its rider slammed into my elegant Ninja, sending us skidding to the edge of the road and nearly tipping into off-road territory. Tires squealed, rubber burned, and I gunned my bike into its next gear, pouring smoke into the air as we shook off the bled-off momentum.
But his job was done; my opponent had ruined the drift, and opened up a sizable lead.
Very well then.
A torrent of red sparks began pouring from the rear of the vehicle, lines of runes forming pseudo-circuits of magical energy as crimson lines, shaped elegantly as decal began to form along the onyx surface of my Ninja. The humming of my engine increased threefold, and to ease the transition into the new state the front wheel was tipped into the air-lunging like a talon drawn up to strike at prey.
I shot forward, the enhanced speed of my partner closing the distance between myself and my rival easily, but it took time, and in the interval we approached the second turn around the edge of the peninsula, the Sea Road once more turning back inland.
Since turnabout was fair play, I aimed for the moment in which the other driver would make his own turn to strike him with a proper broadside. I approached, blood and RPMs roaring in my ears, and as I saw the light illuminating his face through the tinted visor of his helmet, I swooped down for the kill.
The wheelie terminated, timed perfectly for the moment where the Super Gide would curve into the turn, and as black rubber struck white and gold decals a third color was added to that surface: Lines of eldritch blue flared up, and with a gust of wind the other bike shifted laterally, executing a perfect sidestep and thus dodging my attack.
That was impossible.
But then, that, too, was the world of magecraft.
Even so, this wasn’t so bad as the previous turn. I had caught up, and forced the other rider to expend one of his trump cards to avoid that strike. The energy being fed into the engine is lessened, as the two of us hurtle back inland, nearly neck to neck going past the final stretch of coastline, facing into the Tyne itself. The smell of brine has vanished now, replaced by the scent of industry, of city folk, and the experience is lesser for it.
We still charge onward, the sound of our engines roaring echoing through the air and I run a brief diagnostic: The acceleration earlier had cost me. Ordinarily, the residential stretch of the course would be where my Ninja would shine brightest; the ability to move three dimensionally combined with the afterburners being fuel enough to take the shortest possible route back to Arbeia.
Yet where before I had held the advantage, I now had to face my opponent with most of his trump cards still in play and with my own hand severely depleted.
No matter. This would come down to individual skill, as it well should have.
I pull even with him, my black and white jacket standing in stark contrast to his pure ebon riding suit. My hand curls, tightens; my wrist twitches and elicits a roar from the engine as it hungrily devours the air around us to race ever more quickly. A plan forms in my head as we come into the final turn, and as the Sea Road comes into an end, I shift my balance, the Ninja pitching to the side ever so slightly as the other rider guns forward. The tinted helmet tilts towards me for but a fraction of a second, before lines of eldritch blue light erupt to life along the Super Glide once more, and the screech of rubber marks my opponents advance.
Orange sparks erupt from the ground as my own clothing begins to shine with the luminescence of enhancement magecraft, the increased durability causing the asphalt beneath me to suffer damage in my passing. I twist the handles of my handlebars once more, and the Ninja drinks deeply. Roaring, it guns itself, pouring out a stream of red particles, and as Sea Road ends I shoot upright, cutting straight through into the residential zone like a crimson meteor.
The wind whips by, the smell of smoke from Sunday morning brunch being prepared in scores of homes, and the scent of suburbia strikes in full as my Ninja and I charge straight through it all; clamoring through fences and over walls and roofs as if they were as flat and even as the road itself. The face of one shocked child is soon replaced by another. And another. Adults too incurious to look above them for the source of the unknown, until I land unceremoniously back in the narrow roads between houses halfway towards my destination.
Red particles gutter, then die out as their fuel is exhausted; but there is still plenty of gas left in the tank, and so I kick my Ninja and we barrel forward through well-known twists and turns.
In the distance is a sound like thunder, and the roar of a mad god, and I know that my time is limited.
Climbing obstacles will take too long, so as I gun my partner to its limit I barrel down short roads, leap over obstacles, and climb over parked vehicles to scrape off even a single inch more before my dearly bought lead is exhausted by the stubborn fool behind me.
The sounds grow louder, and the familiar ruin appears in my vision, looming over the roofs of the homes of the mundanes. But the wind is stirring, as a mechanical beast drinks greedily and deeply from the sparse magical energy that fills the air. Roars grow louder, closer, and drown out the steady sound of my scooter as it closes the distance between us ever more.
I jerk the handles of my ride with a split moment decision, then gun it for all that I’m worth (a considerable amount), and as I break the line of homes into the cleared hill upon which my destination rests, there is a sputtering and scent of acrid burning as the opponents Super Glide comes into view, exhaust pipe sputtering and swelled unnaturally.
Blue lines still sparkle about the white and gold frame defiantly as I line up to it, and I know that there’s only one chance as I approach it from behind, popping a wheelie before completing my earlier work.
The front tire of my scooter descends onto the rear of the larger Motorbike, and as I gun the engine the increased traction of magically enhanced rubber increases the drag of the craft a hundred fold. It bucks, before blue energies flare in a bright corona before dying out completely. So satisfied, I pull off and line up side by side with my black-suited adversary.
We’re even now as we approach a final stoplight, now red.
His black tinted visor stares at me, leather gloves revving his engine as across from him I mirror his actions.
Beneath us, our steeds tremble at the continued exertion, but my Ninja did not earn my pride by being fragile, unlike the mass produced bike that was its own rival for the day.
The light turns green, and we’re off. That final stretch being so short, yet so long. Time slows to a crawl as my focus turns entirely to that straight line, vision becoming a tunnel. The beating of my heart thunders in my ears, the roar of the engine shaking my very bones. My lips are widened, teeth bared, and just like that it’s over.
We cross the Bounded Field, the spell asks if the person ahead of me has permission to enter the premises, and like that I know that I have lost.
Slowing, the two of us make our way into the expanded space in which the Vine Household lies hidden, a sub-texture hidden from the ever going march of mundanity upon the wider world. A well worked set of doors, wrought of star-iron and wyvern bone in ages long past creaks open to welcome us both.
As my opponent and I park in the courtyard of my clan’s ancestral home, what waits for us is none other than the mauve-haired woman who had knocked me unconscious only a short time prior.
“I see that you’ve beaten us both back, Toole,” I look the artificial woman in her unnatural red eyes, “We’ve got a long way to go, it seems.”
The homunculus scoffed, “That’s the fault of you and the Master.” Her head jerked towards the other rider, even now kicking out the stand of his bike as he descended. With a sigh, he unclips the black helmet and reveals his face to the artificial world.
“Good race.” Gordolf Musik says by way of greeting, blond moustache glistening with the exertion of our latest competition, “That makes it forty to twenty in my favor, doesn’t it?”
....
“The only reason you won,” I explain as the three of us enter the hall to my home’s sitting room, “is because you had a larger frame. Were my Ninja of equal size, I could construct a far superior array to enhance it to speeds far beyond anything your mismatched bike of the week could match. How many of those have you gone through since we started this little game of ours?”
Opposite of me, Gordolf scoffs, “It hardly matters, Vineas. I can replace as many bikes as I need to, as quickly as I need to. That’s what seperates a true magus lineage from the common rabble.”
“Oh?” I reply skeptically, “I am a commoner now?” My body shudders from sheer force of sarcasm, “What on earth has led you to that conclusion?”
Thick yellow eyebrows quirk on the older man’s rotund face, “Your income model is ossified, Vineas. Where are your stocks? Your bonds? You’re so focused on the less aggressive methods of income, that I’d think you were some kind of nineteenth century industrialist!”
My response as I turn away from him is a simple snort of disdain, “What sort of a fool wastes all their time pursuing incremental gains twenty four hours a day, based on the ebb and flow of entirely imaginary value? Where’s the human element? The negotiations? The contest of squeezing your soon to be victim of every last dime in exorbitant interest rates or one-sided profit sharing deals?” I shake my head in disbelief, “Absolutely wasteful. What’s the point of making money if you don’t have any actual say in how it’s generated?”
“Nonsense!” Gordolf snaps back, “The investment game is deep, constantly changing, evolving, and shifting! You have to make bets every second of every day, read and predict the flow and ebb of markets on every conceivable level! By comparison, your shallow and petty chasing of one-time payouts is basically pretending to be some kind of dressed up loan shark!”
I pause, turning towards the other man, “You say that as if you don’t pay a bunch of desk junkies to do all that work for you! Where’s the romance? The excitement? You’re basically just living vicariously through your own employees!”
The Musik Scion reels as if slapped, jowls quivering from the imaginary impact, “Y-you take that back, you geriatric…Capone-lite!”
I raise an eyebrow, adjusting my spectacles so as to be able to peer over them, “Really?” My eyes meet his own, stiff upper lip on full display, “You’re the one playing the boom and bust bubble simulator that is the stark market. Even if you have infinite wealth, unless you spread yourself widely and deeply, you’ll never be more than a single face among the crowd of a company’s investors.”
As the three of us proceed into the sitting room, an exasperated voice invites itself into our conversation, “Is that really something you should be saying when your only such investment is in a company called Titmouse, Vinea?”
My mouth twists into a sneer, “We all have to start somewhere, Olga. If I’m going to establish myself as a proper corporate overlord, I intend to make sure my brand begins with a success!” My gaze turns towards the girl in question, her dissonant hair braid among the otherwise unkempt mane of white distinctive as ever, “Not as if you would know that, with your head forever stuck in the clouds up on your mountaintop.”
An amused titter joins in as Olga’s face twists into a pout, and my attention shifts to its source; the proverbial devil. I feel the color drain from my face as I lay eyes upon the amused expression of a girl dressed in fine, dark blue dress; as tall as my younger friend, despite being older than my own self. Cerulean eyes focus upon me as their accompanying eyebrows quirk in sadistic consideration.
“Reines El-Melloi Archisorte,” I grind out, “An unexpected pleasure to see you here. Today. At my home.”
“Ara,” The addressed woman replies, accepting a china cup from a nearby maid composed of pure mercury, “Quite the face you’re making there, ‘Mister Proper Corporate Overlord’.” She takes a sip, her gaze never leaving mine even as the edges of her eyes curve in amusement.
Unable to respond to her smooth deflection, I turn towards the more vulnerable member of their team, “Olga! How interesting. I didn’t know you were going to invite hangers-on.”
Rallying, the younger girl tossed her braid, and with it the rest of her disheveled mane, “You’re quite welcome, Vinea.” Her lips quirked into a smirk, one that I would enjoy wiping off her face soon enough, “Goodness knows that if I didn’t broaden your horizons, you’d only ever associate with…” Amber eyes glanced to my side, where Gordolf had already appropriated a chair to rest his considerable girth, “The more eccentric types.”
“And your solution to that ‘problem’,” I make the appropriate air quotes gesture, “Is to invite over her?” My hands gesture toward Reines, who only smiles thinly in response.
“Indeed!” Said she-devil replies, “Why, imagine if poor Lady Animusphere had brought over one of my dear brother’s students instead!”
“That’s a high bar, calling yourself normal compared to that thing.” I shoot back.
A gloved hand covers Reines mouth in mock surprise, “Oh dear, to think that poor Flat is being referred to as ‘that thing’! Perhaps I ought to go and inform him that the young Lord here seems to think he’s finally gotten one over the El-Melloi Classroom’s star pupil!”
My thoughts come to a screeching halt, “That’s one hell of a threat, you monstrous bitch.”
Olga blinks, looking towards me owlishly, “Isn’t that a bit uncalled for?”
I turn towards Olga, and blink myself, “Uh, ahem, yes I suppose it is.” I incline my head towards Reines, “My apologies for that, Lady Archisorte.”
The devilish woman waves a hand airily, “No harm done, I do suppose that anyone would be in a less than pleasant mood given the circumstances.” Her lips lifted into a knowing smile, “Isn’t that right, Mister Gordolf Musik?”
My older friend turned away from his homunculus as he was addressed, “Yes, of course. We had quite the exciting race on the way over.” His thick moustache twitched, “That I won.”
“Yes.” I grit my teeth, “That you won.” My eyes catch a bit of movement, a shuffling of orange, out of the corner of my eye, and I turn towards a young girl sitting in the corner of the room, dressed in an eclectic outfit; by all appearances a woman’s business suit’s upper half sized for a child, with a frilly skirt beneath it. Joined with it were dark stockings on her legs and with a thick, black eyepatch noticeably pulsing with magical energy obscuring a full third of her face.
She notices my attention, and quickly looks away.
“Oh!” Olga speaks up, planting a fist into her open palm, “This is the first time you would have met.” My friend stands up, one palm splayed against her chest while the other gestures grandly towards the newcomer, “May I present to you my newest acquaintance; Miss Ophelia Phamrsolone!”
So named, the other girl squeaks out, before standing up to attempt a curtsy, “N-nice to meet you, Lord Vine!” The poor girl shivers, “Thank you for letting me into your home!”
I cast a side glance towards Olga before bowing grandly towards her, “The pleasure is all mine, Lady Phamrsolone; unlike the other two, I welcome your presence, so please.” I clap my hands together, and a well-dressed man with hair the same shade as Toole’s enters the room, “Make yourself at home.”
Her sole visible eye shifts, sky-blue pupil glancing towards the newly arrived butler, “Could I have some tea, please?”
The male homunculus performs a perfunctory bow, moving to brew a fresh pot for her, “So if I might ask, Miss Ophelia, how did you and Olga meet?”
Said young girl glances towards my friend before the mussy-haired menace steps grandly before her, eyes closed and held tilted back with pride, “She’s something of a talent in Spiritual Evocation, and between the Phamrsolone’s inherited Mystic Eye and the fact that Ophelia is named for a celestial body, it seemed obvious that I would take an interest! Hmmhmm!”
“Ophelia is a Dutch noblewoman in Hamlet, though.” I reply back, “What celestial body is named after a Shakespeare character?”
To her credit, Olga’s posture only trembled slightly before she rallied, and her amber eyes shot open to glare at me, “Hmph! As much of a rube as always, Vinea!” Rube I mouth silently, “Ophelia isn’t some mere fictional character, it’s a moon of venerable Uranus!”
“And apparently a young girl right behind you.” Gordolf chimed in with his own two pence.
“Oh I’ve heard of that!” Reines comes to my friends rescue, “That was only named such in 2003, correct?” Or not, “Miss Phamrsolone, are you less than three years old?”
“No?” The orange haired girl answered, shaking her head in denial.
“There you have it, Olga.” I nodded towards her newly acquired ‘friend’, “It would appear you owe Miss Ophelia an apology. I hadn’t thought that the Astronomies was in the business of stealing names. I’d always expected Policies to indulge in such acts.”
“Only on a slow day. Usually that would be the Tenth Faculty’s business, rather than ours.”
I nod in appreciation at the resident experts flawless follow up, “And there you have it.”
Her lips tightened, glancing back to the young girl who, in obvious hindsight, was likely as old as Olga herself was. My oldest friend’s face strained, before her nostrils flared and she sighed in apparent defeat. Swiftly, she turned on Ophelia, hands balled against her hips, and the poor girl stepped back in surprise and sudden fear.
Then Olga gripped her skirt and curtsied towards the orange-haired girl, “I apologize, Miss Phamrsolone. I’ve done you insult, it seems.”
A sky blue eye blinks in surprise and confusion, turning towards the other occupants in supplication. Yet, I know from personal experience that there would be no assistance to be found amongst this particular group. The young girls eye sank in defeat, before her childish expression appeared to firm with resolve; she spoke up.
“There’s nothing to apologize for, Lady Animusphere,” Ophelia told my friend, “So please raise your head. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Olga raises her head up, and from where I stand I can see the look of shock shift into a wide grin on her face, “Yes! We! Are! Absolutely, friends!” Her hands shoot out to grasp Ophelia’s own.
The pink haired butler returned with a fresh pot of tea, with accompanying biscuits and cups on a tray. Naturally, I help myself, “Thank you, Mook.”
“As expected of my second friend,” Olga continues energetically, “You’re as gracious and ladylike as a woman of your stature ought to be!”
I pause, cup nearly to my lips, “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Second friend, she said.” Reines chimed in from her own seat, a pale yellow eyebrow quirks upwards, “I do wonder who would be the first one then?”
“Well, that should be obviou-”
“You are, Miss Reines!” Olga replies without even looking back at us, nor an ounce of hesitation in declaring so.
I-I’m sorry?!
“Oh dear, Lord Vine,” The damn she-devil called out, “That’s quite the expression you have there. Perhaps my dear brother can introduce you to some of his stomach pain medicines?”
My mind turns towards Waver, and his perpetual gastrointestinal cramps, “But I’m too young for whatever he’s taking.”
A cold, heavy weight presses itself against my shoulder, and I turn towards its source only to see the inhuman eye sockets of the Mercury Maid Golem, Trimmau. Though the shape of the liquid metal is crafted to resemble closed eyes, still, the placid mask conveys a sense of pity and I find myself well and truly horrified.
“Oh!” Olga perks up, seeming to finally remember something, and as she turns towards me I realize that said thing is my own self, “Well, don’t feel bad, Vinea.” She flicks her hair braid absently, “It’s a ranking, not a race.”
I glance downwards at the plush persian rug beneath my feet. Tracing its intricately hand-woven patterns as I seek the truth of the universe within them. Perhaps my ancestors had chosen it for some specific purpose? A signal, a hidden message that I could find? Then I recalled that, no, I had been the one to pick out this particular design because I thought it matched well with Mook’s whole aesthetic. I breathe in, and then out.
I look up.
Reines is smirking at me.
I breathe in. Drink my tea. And contemplate my options.
“It’s refreshing,” Reines says at last, “To know that I’ve made such a good impression on Lady Animusphere that she would consider me a more valuable friend over someone such as Lord Vine, who has only known her for longer.” My gaze returns to the tiny little pain in my ass, “The bonds of friendship between women truly are lovely, aren’t they Olga?”
“Yes!” I can practically see sparkles growing in her amber eyes at her response, “Vinea is hardly a friend friend,” I feel like something is stabbing me in the chest, “Not like the three of us are, isn’t that right Ophelia?”
“Oh!” The orange haired girl glances around her own freshly poured cup of tea to take in the room, before facing Olga again and dipping her head, “Yes.” The little brat slurps.
You know what? I don’t even know why I’m bothering with these THOTs. I turn towards Gordolf, “What are you doing next weekend?” If Olga’s going to be like that, I’ll spend time with actual friends.
He glances towards Toole, standing besides him as she groans irritably to withdraw a day planner. A few moments later there is a soft clap as she shuts it, “You’re free.” Gordolf tilts his head towards Toole, as if confirming her own assessment.
“I have some business I need to attend to on one of our properties on the continent,” This is the actual reason I had called Olga over and had intended to ask both, but…, “There’s a need for me to run maintenance on the anchors and various pacts with the spirits that keep the Texture in place.”
“A preserve?” The Musik scion raises an eyebrow, suddenly curious, “Where is it, exactly?”
I shrug, “It’s not as if it does any harm to let you know; Kebnekaise, over in Scandinavia.” I freely admit, “Basically, there’s a collective there that the Vine have helped to stagnate the recession of Mystery over the course of the past few thousand years.”
“Oh?” Reines leans forward, Trimmau having returned to her side, “What an interesting thing, Lord Vine. Mind sharing what exactly has been kept there?”
I hear an excited squeal from elsewhere in the room, but proceed to ignore it, “I absolutely do mind, yes.” I hold out my cup towards Mook, who diligently refills it with tea, fantastic. Much better tha-
I blink.
Than what?
“So what does this have to do with my having next weekend open?” Gordolf follows up, and I turn back to look at him.
“Well, I mind telling people who won’t be seeing it right off the bat.” I incline my head knowingly towards him before continuing, “Might as well keep the mystery around it up until you arrive. Not ruin the magic of the surprise.” I hum cheerfully as I begin to sip from my warm drink, the groans of the philistines soothing to my ears.
“That was a terrible joke,” Reines speaks up, “Puns deserve curses, Vine.”
“Puns are a hallmark of language, Archisorte.” I reply cooly, “The highest form of humor. The ability to rattle them off as smoothly as this is the peak which all conversationalists seek to climb.”
An inelegant snort meets my boldfaced declaration, and I am forced into a contest of wills. Eyes are said to be windows into the soul. Sight as the first magecraft. And as the unimpressive woman’s eyes glow crimson from focus I feed my own flesh into an imaginary conflagration.
“I don’t see why you’re so quick to run to English’s defense, Vineas.” Gordolf speaks up from behind, Mook having topped off his cup of tea, “It’s hardly something with chastity worth speaking of to begin with.” With a monumental effort, his prodigious form lifts itself up from its resting place, carrying with him a sample of the biscuits he had been served. Walking between myself and Miss Archisorte, our tense standoff is broken as he strides through our field of vision and with an inaudible snap the tension withers away.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, young lady.” The older man says to the much younger heir of the Pharmsolone, “Please don’t mind the young Vine heir, for so long as I, Gordolf Musik, am here! He shall never be able to harm you,” The lardass winks playfully at the girl nearly half his age, “After all, he’s never beaten me once.”
“Wow.”
“Disgusting.”
Two sets of cold words pierce through the prodigious predator, and I glance back towards Archisorte. She meets my gaze, and we communicate a shared revulsion at the highly inappropriate preferences of our shared acquaintance.
“If you’re so desperate for a partner, Gordolf, I’m sure that I can try and set something up.” I add in. It’d be a bit of a pain, but as a rival with that creature, it was my obligation to ensure that he didn’t fall to...his more disreputable urges.
“And should that fail, I’m sure that there are plenty of eligible young ladies I can introduce you to.” Reines’ lips curl into a predatory smirk, “I have many friends who fit the, what did Elder Brother call them? Pettanko?” My lips curl in disgust at the blatant weebery in my home, “Yes! Most girls with that body type are nervous, so I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to know that there is such an eligible partner in their midst!”
Gordolf’s eyes blink confusedly at Reines statement, before turning towards Toole for clarification.
“They’re saying there’s no reason for you to take an interest in an impressionable young woman, young master.”
Gordolf groans in response,
“So Vinea-”
“Anyway,” I glance towards Reines again, “I understand that you and your elder brother are big on sticking your noses in where they don’t belong, correct?”
The young lady chuckled, “A rather rude way of putting it, I suppose.” Deep blue eyes twinkle, the red of magecraft having receded completely, “But I can’t say it’s wrong, either. Why?”
“It’s a bit out of the way, and for all that I’m confident in my own abilities and the safety of the bounded fields making up the territory, having someone who knows what they’re doing would be a load off my mind.” I shrug helplessly, “It’s going to be my first time acting in a capacity like this.”
“Like this?” Reines asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“As the head of the Vine clan.” I clarify, “I don’t know how the locals will react to me, so having as much muscle with me as possible is the safest route to take, I think.”
“If that’s the case, then-”
“Vineas Vine, are you implying that I’m some kind of brute?” The future inheritor of the El-Melloi name asks, her voice taking on a hard edge.
I merely snort, accepting a refilled cup from my butler before sipping deeply from the fragrant liquid, “If you were simply some kind of dumb muscle, then I doubt you’d have ever brought that stubborn Waver Velvet to heel.”
Reines chuckles at the compliment, her eyes glittering with genuine cheer, “Well, if you put it like that then it’s hardly an insult at all, is it?”
“Naturally,” I respond, “I’m not so blind as to not recognize those stronger than myself.” My head inclines towards the older woman slightly, “I’d make sure you’re well compensated, of course.”
“Hmmmm,” Reines draws out the sound, “But do you have anything that I would want? Vineas Vine.”
“Aside from the obvious material wealth,” I reply smoothly, “Once you see our destination you’ll understand that it’s far more actionable than simply some empty classrooms you have no way of utilizing.”
A shadow of a frown crosses over Reines’ face, “And how many were you hoping would come along?”
“Between yourself, myself, Gordolf, and his homunculi, I was thinking that three would be the optimal number. It shouldn’t be too dangerous.”
“Oh?” The Archisorte tilts her head thoughtfully, “Any reason why I’m valued as being equal to any number of Musik homunculi?”
I nod towards her at the question, “With yourself and Trimmau, you’re easily the equal of any two maguses in terms of combat and knowledge. Granted, that’s a bit unfair to most others, but I think its a fair assessment given that Trimmau is hardly an analytical Mystic Code, and you yourself don’t seem to possess much actual combat ability.”
Not everyone could be Kayneth. God rest his soul.
“So if you can get two more competent maguses in my place, then it should be sufficient for your purposes?” Reines says, eyes narrowing.
“I...suppose so?” I answer back, honestly it didn’t make much difference. I had intended to bring her along, but if she had someone else in mind to fulfill the role then it’d likely be cheaper at lea-
“Olga!” That damn witch clapped her hands enthusiastically, “Hear that? Your dear Vinea said you could come along!”
My lips curl into a frown of distaste as I stare at the blonde woman, “Explain. I distinctly recall saying no such thing.”
“Well, dear it’s quite simple: I have a previous engagement on that day, whereas Olga does not and seemed so interested in joining you for this trip!” Reines smiled thinly at me. So that had been her game, then?
“I had extended the offer as I would from one friend to another, Reines.” I reply through grit teeth, “That is all.”
“And yet you said you’d allow for replacements I recommended?”
I scoff, “You’re saying you’d recommend someone incompetent?”
The blonde girl blinked, nonplussed, before her expression shifted into a small, sly grin, “That’s quite the amount of trust you’re extending to me, Lord Vine.”
“It’s good business to extend faith towards those who can live up to it, Miss Archisorte.” I raise an eyebrow towards her, “No more, no less.”
“...Are you not going to invite me, Vinea?” A weak voice called out, and for the first time since her betrayal I turned to look upon the miserable form of Olga-Marie Animusphere, her eyes wavering and watery, “That’s so cruel, Vinea.” Amber eyes peered at me, shimmering with a vague wetness.
“You…” I pause, considering my words, “You said that we are not friends, Olga.” As I harden my heart, I spread my arms out, hands pointing towards the other two women in the room, “You already have a number one and number two, so you have no reason to join me.”
Olga blinks, shakes her head, and with a firmed expression turns a glare towards me, “Well, as the Heir of the Animusphere, and as a business partner of my family, I am obligated to guarantee your safety and thus shall accompany you, Vineas Vine!”
My lips curl into a frown and I level a glare of my own towards her, “I’m not going to invite someone who isn’t my friend, Olga.” I knew why she wanted to come. The opportunity to explore the Animusphere’s craft on a different mountain top removed from civilization was rare for someone in her position. Ordinarily, her family stayed to just the one, and as a fellow magus she could not help but be interested in the potential for experimentation. So, like the child that she was, she had grown all too impatient and forgotten a most important fact in her eagerness.
Her eyes falter, and she glances off to the side before continuing, “T-that was poorly phrased! Of course you are my friend! My Number Three friend! Just like the Earth, that makes you the third planet from the sun that is me!” She pauses, gesturing at her orange-black outfit, “That makes you the most important one of all!”
“Does it now?” I ask wryly.
“You should be grateful!” Olga replies haughtily.
“Well, apology accepted then.” I allow magnanimously, but as my oldest friend squawks indignantly, I continue out loud, “Thankfully, this means I don’t have to pay you.”
“And whyever not?!” The heir of the Animusphere huffs out loudly.
Wordlessly, my hand is held out to the side, palm up. On cue, Mook places a tightly wrapped vellum scroll into my grip, “Remember how Lord Animusphere went around seeking funds for whatever that big, mysterious project of his was a few years or so ago?” Naturally, I know it was the funding necessary to create Finis Chaldea, but I wasn’t supposed to.
Olga nodded, which I take as assent to continue, “Well, he also took a few loans from the Vine in general, and myself in specific.” With a flourish, the geas scroll is unfurled, and I show the contents to the younger girl, who grimaces, then pales.
“You took an oil platform as your collateral.” My friend says, in near disbelief.
I nod, “Having Seraphix interrupting our control over the North Sea leylines was an eyesore, so I took the opportunity to assert control over the property for later.” Olga stared at me, aghast. Reines merely glanced at her, lips curled into slight grin..
“Naturally,” I continue as I pluck the heavy vellum from the silver haired girls numb hands, “I’ll be deducting whatever pay you would have earned from this trip from the debt your father owes me.” Casually, I reroll the scroll and deposit it back into Mooks waiting hands.
“That is absurd,” Olga finally gets out through grit teeth.
“Well,” My response comes out as a chuckle, “We can always renegotiate the terms of the agreement once you take over the family, Olga.”
“You better believe that we will, Vinea! Those terms are ridiculous!”
A sardonic chuckle cuts through the atmosphere, and Reines chooses this moment to re-insert herself into the conversation, “You know, Sir Vine, I have to admit I underestimated you.”
I turn to glance back towards the sadist, who even now was wearing a smugly satisfied grin, “Oh? Is that right?”
“Mhm,” Those cerulean eyes met mine once again, “If things don’t go well between my brother and I, how’d you like to join your family’s strength to my own?”
I hum thoughtfully for a moment, considering the offer, “That’s quite flattering,” An opportunity to tie the Vine directly to one of the Twelve Lords was...Not a small thing. It was a long-held ambition of the Vine themselves, in fact. However, I am not a man who fell easily, “But a rebound?” My head shakes, “I’m not sure how I should feel about being the second choice.”
“Consider it, will you?” Reines replied playfully, “I doubt such a good offer will fall into your lap again.”
Naturally, she was correct, “I’ll give it some serious thought.” I answer, inclining my head respectfully. As my head rises to meet her gaze once more, her face shifts to the side to meet my own eyes, “Even if it’s only a possibility, it is still quite the honor.”
“Vinea!” Olga shouts out from right next to me, “Don’t take her seriously!”
I mean, obviously, but I am in no mood to play along with my friend’s whims just yet, “That’s a rude thing to say about a girl’s honest confession, Olga.” I stare directly into her eyes while muffling my own laughter, “As a gentleman, I’m obligated to treat such delicate matters with the respect they deserve.” Amber pupils waver, shifting between my own gaze and that of the paneling on the wall of the room. After a few moments of this silent deadlock she sighs wearily, then begins walking back towards her new friend, Miss Phamrsolone.
“Ophelia, you’re interested in Scandinavia, yes?”
The younger girl nods her head quickly, and I feel a smile grow on my face.
“Then why don’t you join us?” Olga continued, “Vineas said that he needed a second would-be bodyguard, and you’re very talented.”
“Naturally, I’ll pay you for your trouble.” I noticed the orange haired girls hesitation, then continued, “Olga’s share too.”
As my friend squawks in outrage, I simply smiled to weather the storm. But even through the storm of anger that followed, I saw Miss Ophelia smile and nod her assent. Things were finally in place, then. A weekend trip with Olga-Marie, Gordolf, and Olga’s new friend. On some level, I knew that things would likely turn sideways on us during the trip, but between the four of us, truly, what was the worst that could happen?
Originally Posted by Dullahan
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