Day 0: First Stop, Last Stop
December 19th, 1981.
If there was one thing that Katja Petrovna Molchalin hated more than sleet, history class or angry dogs, it was Post Duty.
To keep her fingers from turning numb, even with her mittens on, Katja sat on the painstakingly cleaned wooden bench with her hands placed beneath her legs. As she sat in her misery, shivering terribly in the midnight air, she had only her bubbling anger to keep her warmed.
"W-when I get back home, I-I'm not leaving the studio for a week!"
Uncle Grigori always told her that everyone eventually gets used to the cold, but as far as Katja was concerned, seventeen years and counting was far too long a wait.
She supposed she should be thankful. Even though the train comes in once a week, Katja only ever needed to be on Post Duty once per month. As much as she knew she shouldn't complain, she felt that it was her only real method of coping.
The sheepskin coat that she wore over her unremarkable brown dress kept the worst of the frost at bay, but just enough managed to seep through the cracks to numb her mind.
Katja was the only one sitting in the station today. Just her luck. At least when there were others around, she wouldn't have to carry as much home. Plus, the conversation would at least provide enough of a distraction to keep her mind off freezing. But no, just her tonight.
It wasn't surprising. Looking around, it had been years since the old train station had been renovated. Bits of rebar stuck out of the floor at odd, twisted angles like angry spears, threatening to impale any who didn't have their wits about them. Because of yesterday's sleet storm, the concrete floor was covered in a thin film of frost, making it a veritable walking hazard. And perhaps to top off this misery cake, the train was late, meaning that Katja, who had been sitting on this bench since 4 o'clock, had been sitting on this bench for - Eight. Continuous. Hours.
Yes, Katja felt she was right to complain.
Perhaps it would be helpful to think of this task as a sacred responsibility only you can perform.
Katja chose to ignore the bodiless voice pestering her, instead focusing on her misery. It wasn't even that she hated getting the town's mail. She had never minded carrying heavy things, and the wait itself wasn't the most unpleasant. What really made the experience terrible was the fact that she was outdoors.
Why?
Why in the Lord's name is this station outdoors?
In Moskva, Katja heard tell of stations walled on three sides by large stone buildings, there to shield poor citizens from the winter's fury. How much she would give for a boon like that! Katja imagined the freedom to wear something other than this heavy and itchy coat. To walk about without fear of fingers and toes turning purple. Or even, Lord forbid, to read a book to pass time instead of sitting and staring at the frozen steel tracks.
The thought only succeeded in making her more miserable. Thankfully, it was only lightly snowing tonight.
If I were you, I'd be proud to know that your entire village trusts you and your family enough to manage their entire contact from the rest of the world! The very thought would fill me to the brim with joy!
Shut up. Katja still refused to acknowledge the voice in her head. Without her input, it would keep talking, but if she responded, she knew it would never shut up.
I mean honestly! In my day, that kind of ingratitude would have resulted in a beating. Not that such a thing would be preferred, but it certainly taught a boy respect! How soft modernity has become!
The voice kept speaking like that, like it wasn't from here. Katja made the conscious choice to ignore it. It's not as though she could keep up with its inane ramblings if she tried. She just told herself to stare at the tracks and keep her ears open. She'd hear the train long before she saw it.
Why by the time I was your age, I had already become a soldier! Now that's a duty one could be proud of!
"S-stop talking like you're my dad!"
Dammit. Katja responded on instinct. If the voice had a face, she was sure it was grinning now.
Ah, looks like someone found their tongue after all. To be perfectly honest, I had thought that my Spirit Origin was broken. Or maybe you simply left your ears at home.
"W-what do you think I am, some kind of robot?"
I don't believe a robot could possibly complain more than you.
Thank goodness. The sound of tracks. Katja stood up from her bench, her sore bones loudly complaining at the affront, and she watched as the distant lights of the train poking through the white-blue night grew closer. Every time she had been placed on Post Duty, the sight of the train had been a welcome sight. Even now, the sounds of creaking metal and steam billowing from the roof of the front car were as pleasant to Katja as any Glinka.
Katja skipped up to the front of the train. She was so ready to be done with this chore. After a few years on Post Duty, Katja had gotten to know the beleaguered train engineer, Yegor. Though he was a surly-looking man in his fifties, he and Katja bonded over their shared misery from sitting in a single location for hours on end.
When she turned to look into the train compartment, however, the face she saw wasn't that of Yegor's uncontrolled beard. Instead, she found herself face to face with an extremely small man with a thin moustache seemingly plastered to his face. The man yelped in surprise and fell backwards, almost tumbling out of his chair. When he registered Katja, he looked her up and down with suspicion.
"You are...here for the package?" He said, slowly.
Katja shrugged and handed the man a slip of paper.
"I'm here to pick up the packages for the village, yes. My uncle is the Postmaster."
The man snatched the slip and scrutinized it closely. Katja leaned into the train car and looked about. The engine room of a train was always a compact space, so she wasn't expecting to find anyone else in the car, but she did note that this was not the same train that came last month.
"So...are you the new pilot?" Katja said.
The man handed her back the paper and stepped off his chair.
"You wait here," he said, curtly.
Katja turned to follow him from outside.
"Actually, I can help unload the packages," she said. "There might be a lot."
"No!" the man ordered. "I will do it myself."
The suddenness of the refusal stopped Katja in tracks long enough for the man to disappear into the train's back cars. Because this was not a passenger train, Katja had no way of seeing anything behind the first car. After some time, the man emerged with two bundles of letters and practically threw them into Katja's hands.
"That's everything, now leave," the man said.
Katja strained under the weight of the packages, needing to adjust the positioning so that they wouldn't leave marks in her skin. She waddled over to the bench where she sat and began to prepare herself for the walk home. Before that, she turned over to the man.
"Do you know Yegor? He usually brings the train."
The man wasn't focused on her. Instead, his head seemed to be rotating in quick, jerky movements around the roads that led up to the station. He didn't seem to have heard Katja's question, but Katja was never one to press for conversation, so she decided to leave. As she walked away from the station, her knees struggling not to buckle under what must've been around ten kilograms of weight, she kept glancing back at the man in the train car. Even after Katja moved about fifty meters away, the man made no move to leave.
Strange, the voice in her head said. Didn't you say this was the last stop on this track?
Indeed, Katja's village of Polnoch, located far north in the easternmost tip of Siberia, was the last stop in a series of remote villages wholly dependent on the railroad to keep them from being reclaimed by the wilderness. It was as far away from civilization as one could get without becoming a hermit, a cold and quiet existence.
In theory, what Katja was holding should be the last of what that train contained. After all, where else was there to go except backwards? Still, Katja did not bother to ponder what caused that man's strange behavior. Even in a world full of mysteries and unanswered questions, her biggest concerns were about not getting hit by rulers at school and not freezing to death.
Who was she to question someone else's mysteries?
Day 0 End
- - - Updated - - -
Day 1: Shaped from Clay
"Ow!"
The crack of wood on bone resonated across the classroom. Katja watched out of the corner of her eye as the history teacher, Miss Gorky, stalked from desk to desk like a vengeful spirit. Katja was careful to keep her head down and buried in the textbook, so as not to draw her ire.
As usual, Katja sat in the second-to-last row of the classroom as far away from the windows as possible. Even indoors, the flimsy wood and glass windows did a remarkably awful job of keeping out the cold, so Katja always made a point to always sit on the interior side of the room. Around her, her classmates seemed inexplicably oblivious to the low temperature, instead far more concerned with maintaining the vigil of looking busy. The trick, Katja found, to staying out of trouble was not to look distracted, but also not to look too intensely at the book. By appearing unremarkable, she could easily pass under the radar.
You know, the voice in her head said. Perhaps you wouldn't need to bother to look busy if you actually, and stop me if this sounds crazy, read the book?
Katja wouldn't dare respond to the voice inside the classroom, so she instead voiced her displeasure at the voice's remark by glaring at the outside window, as though the voice was the voice of the winter itself, taunting her discomfort.
"Molchalin."
Crap. That was her name. Katja jumped to her feet, her arms rigid and her response practiced.
"Yes, teacher."
Miss Gorky eyed her through thin eyes and small, rectangular eyeglasses. While Katja had never been on bad terms with her teacher, she had never endeared herself to her either. The eyes scanned over Katja and her black and white uniform, looking for any infraction, any excuse to reprimand.
"Hmph. If you enjoy looking outside so much, then perhaps you wish to sit outside instead?"
The classroom chuckled. So often, the only respite from punishment was the torment of another. Katja understood this and thus didn't resent her classmates. Still, it never felt good to be called out.
"No ma'am. With all due respect, that would be terrible."
The classroom laughed again. Katja bit her lip to prevent another sarcastic rise. She found herself unable to look directly at her teacher without the temptation, so she instead glanced upwards at the portrait of Comrade Lenin hanging just above her teacher's head. The balding man, a figure from Moskva that she knew next to nothing about, seemed to look down upon her and judge her from on high.
"Well, if you are so committed to a classroom learning environment, then surely you can tell the class what the name of the famous Roman general who ended the Second Punic War was, yes?"
Drat. Drat. Drat. Katja had her head buried in the book that didn't mean she actually read the stupid thing. History was by far Katja's least favourite subject, and any attempt at deciphering historical texts was pointless at best and downright sedative at worst.
"I....err....well...If I recall, it was..."
Katja flipped through every Roman name she knew. Caesar. Romulus. Julius. No, wait, that was also Caesar.
Ah yes, the voice in her head mused, snapping Katja out of her panic. Old Publius is still mentioned in history books, is he? I'm sure he'd have loved that.
She was being tossed a bone here. The question was whether it was real. Katja shrugged internally. It was all she had.
"Um...Publius?"
There was a pause in the room, almost as though the answer was more surprising than outright ignorance. Then, Miss Gorky let out a patient sigh.
"Please sit down, Molchalin. In the future, I'd advise you to pay attention in class instead of yearning for the outdoors."
Katja had to resist the urge to retort to that blatant mischaracterization, but sat down without a fuss as Miss Gorky walked to the front of the classroom.
"The actual answer is of course, Scipio Africanus, whose tactics are still being used today."
Miss Gorky had always been interested in battle formations and army movements, an interest she did not hesitate to hoist upon the class, even if it broke curriculum. And she began enthusiastically drawing on the blackboard various lines and rectangles. Grateful for the respite, Katja took a moment to whisper under her breath.
"Traitor."
Well, I'm sorry. If you must know, his full name is Publius Cornelius Scipio, so I told no lie.
Just as Katja resolved to ignore the voice for the rest of the day, a movement caught her eye. She snapped her head to her right and locked eyes with one of her classmates. As soon as their eyes met, she looked away from her.
Did she see her whispering under her breath? It was difficult to tell from this distance. That particular one didn't strike Katja as the type of person to spread foul rumors, but Katja groaned internally at the possibility. She would have to be more careful not to draw unwanted attention. Bullying was common at the uncreatively named State School 974, and Katja certainly didn't want to give anyone any excuses to target her.
That had always been the way Katja lived her life, quiet and unremarkable. She hated the thought that she could exist in the minds of others, a version of her misrepresented and misremembered. And so, she finds comfort in being unseen. She doesn't associate with anyone besides her uncle, she doesn't look at, speak to, or go against anyone.
--
The sound of the bell signaled the end of class. Katja slipped her empty notebook into her pouch and slipped out before anyone else had even stood up from their desks. Thankfully, putting aside the incident in history class, today was a remarkably uneventful day. Katja supposed she could chalk that up to 'that' girl missing class today.
Being careful not to slip on the icy road to her uncle's house, Katja elected to take a back road this time. She spotted a few metal vehicles on her way to school today, a clear sign that the Army was in town. Obviously, she should rejoice at seeing the soldiers who protect her and her family from the Capitalists to the west, but all she really felt was indifference. Unlike in the heartland proper, the reach of the Party here was weak, and Polnoch was distanced from the political roil. That was part of why Katja still loved her life here, as even the most zealous Premier from the capital couldn't be bothered with a tiny hamlet in the Arctic Circle. So when Katja saw the trucks and soldiers on the main road, she decided to take the scenic route.
The village was hugged tightly , with the only open side facing the sea. In the past, Polnoch was a fishing village, but as more and more of the populace moved to urban regions further south, it gradually lost that specialty. Most people today lived like Katja, eking out a humble existence. In time, the children would replace their parents, while some would leave for brighter futures. A beautifully concise cycle.
Katja tried the backdoor directly to the studio. Locked. Drat. Her uncle had repeatedly asked her not to sneak into the studio after school, a mandate Katja loved to ignore.
"Alright Uncle, you win this time."
Katja would find the key eventually, but for now, she'd honor her uncle's wishes.
As quietly as possible, Katja tried to slide the door open. Unfortunately, the heavy wooden frame had been dislodged slightly, requiring a forceful shove to push the door open. After several moments of ineffectual fiddling, Katja decided to abandon subtlety and tackled the door open, causing her to tumble forward and into the living room. After quickly struggling to shut the door before any of the cold got in, Katja leaned against the door and let out a sigh of relief.
Well, that was dramatic, the voice said.
Katja slid down the door and let out a heavy sigh. Years of trudging through snow and carrying mail have given Katja a fair bit of endurance, but she wasn't strong by any stretch of the imagination. And this bit of physical exertion was all that it took to wind her. Footsteps sounded in the hallway just past the living room from the kitchen. Her uncle, Grigori, walked in, dressed in his normal casual garb and holding a cup of coffee. Upon seeing her sitting against the door, he raised a hairy eyebrow.
"Well, that was dramatic," he said.
"Haven't heard that before," Katja said, sarcastically.
She stood up and brushed the snow off her uniform. She threw her bag onto the sofa and attempted to make her way to the studio in the back of the house.
"So, how was school today?" Uncle asked. "Did you get today's dose of poison?"
Katja was glad that her uncle didn't live closer to Moskva, as her uncle never missed an opportunity to badmouth the regime. Given the way that her uncle would talk about the Party sometimes, Katja was sure he'd be executed anywhere else.
"No uncle, not today."
Uncle Grigori grunted and sat down at the kitchen table. He was a large man, easily towering over Katja. And despite the existence of various manufactured hair products, Uncle always kept his beard in full form, creating an image of a towering stoic figure. While sitting on the small kitchen stool, he was just taller than Katja. As she moved past him, he placed a hand on her shoulder, stopping her.
"Dinner tonight at 7, don't miss it."
"Yes, Uncle."
"And remember, it's your turn tomorrow."
"I know, I know."
"Would you please look at me when you answer instead of just staring at that door?"
Katja tore her eyes away from the door to the studio and focused on her uncle. She didn't mean to be this way, but she'd always had a bit of a one-track mind. When she wanted something, it consumed all of her focus.
"I'll be working late tomorrow, so just put my dinner in the fridge and I'll heat it up."
"Late? But why? I don't even see you go to work these days."
Uncle took a sip from his coffee, careful not to dip his upper beard into it as he did. Honestly, Katja had no idea what the appeal was for men to keep those things on their faces. All it seems to do is get stuff caught in it and make you look like a sasquatch.
"News from back west. Some military units are being stationed here soon, I'm to arrange their mailing information. I'll probably be late for a few days actually."
Uncle's job was mainly to keep track of people's addresses and collect their mail, so in a town like this, he didn't have to work all that hard. Usually, that meant him smugly waving as Katja went to and from school. Well, that did mean more time in the studio instead of helping Uncle out with chores, so she certainly wasn't complaining.
"Alright Uncle, I'll take care of things here, no need to worry."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Of course. I'm sure the studio will be nice and clean."
Katja laughed. Then made her way over to the studio door.
"You know me so well, Uncle."
"Just make sure not to leave the lights on again, y'hear?"
Upon entering the studio, Katja took a moment to breathe in the air. That faint scent of marble and musty wood always soothed her nerves after a long day. Along the far walls of the studio lay some of Katja's previous projects, statues inspired by the artistic traditions of various ancient sculptors. One was an experiment in attempting a North African stone statue style, while another was Katja's attempt at mimicking the jade sculptures of ancient China. Every sculpture she made was a message, a love letter to a faraway discipline. It was apparent through the disparate styles that Katja had yet to truly find her own language, a set of sculptures that she could truly call her own. She had always loved shaping the stone, beckoning forth a shape from it through careful instruction. But everything she had ever done, she did from reference, from the work of someone else. The stone never seemed to speak to her as she spoke to it.
At least, not until recently.
Well, a charming place as always, the voice said behind her. Before you begin, how about a short game of chess? Draughts was fun, but I much prefer chess.
Katja sighed. The walls were thick enough that sounds wouldn't carry well into the kitchen, so Katja turned around and faced marble artwork sculpted in the form of a young, armored man leaning against a small pillar.
"Listen here, you. This is getting out of hand! Your constant ruckus almost got me in trouble today!"
Three days prior, Katja had been toiling away at a Celtic wood carving when the voice first called out to her. Katja had been so shocked that she almost set fire to the whole house. After a brief assurance that she had not, in fact, finally huffed in too much marble dust, she simply learned to begrudgingly tolerate this strange presence.
You give me too much credit. I cannot affect anything outside of your head. If anything, I'm the one who's surprised. You've been taking this in stride remarkably well.
The statue didn't move when the voice spoke, mind you. That might've been a little scary. The voice just seemed to prefer sourcing itself there for some reason.
Katja shrugged.
"I've seen weird before. Honestly, this whole experience is, like, top five weirdest experiences at best."
Right...well, what do you say to that game, eh? Let's say I only use pawns for this handicap, how's that sound?
Katja rolled her eyes and glanced over to the small bedside table her uncle placed against the wall. On it was a simple wooden chess set that came from her uncle's old belongings. Katja pulled it out of the basement at the voice's insistence and one of its favorite pastimes quickly became absolutely demolishing Katja and her uncle with it at every opportunity.
"Why don't you try playing yourself? I'm sure you'd be a far better opponent than me."
Nonsense. What's the point if I know what the enemy is going to do every time?
She rolled her eyes at the voice's pettiness. Admittedly, seeing her uncle's shocked expression as she completely swept over his board was a treat, even if it was a deception that wouldn't last very long.
Katja strode over to the corner, where all the uncut stones lay, and picked out one that she liked the look of, a smaller stone, no bigger than her hand, and placed it on the work table. To prepare for her work, she made sure to put on the thick cloth apron she had hung on the wall and rolled up her sleeves. Normally, she wouldn't want to sculpt in uniform, but yesterday was Post Duty, so she was impatient today.
"Yeah, yeah. Now be quiet for a second, I need to focus."
Katja closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"In accordance with the first, the clay from which all life is shaped shall be molded by my hand."
As Katja exhaled with these words, her hands suddenly became alight with a bright blue glow and her breath left her mouth in the form of a fine light-blue mist that seemed to sparkle faintly as it wrapped around the small rectangular black stone. As it made contact, the surface of the stone began to melt into a viscous liquid that slowly began to spread out over the table. Her magic crest, shaped in the form of branching vines extending from both of her palms and up towards her elbow, began to pulsate as Katja carefully modulated the flow of her Prana.
"In accordance to the second, the breath of life shared by the god of fire dances across the Earth."
The liquid stone shifted and jumped as though it were made of water. It seemed to dance between many different forms, as if it was undecided on what shape to take. At first it seemed to coil, then straighten, like a string being made taut. Then, it transformed into a tiny stone elephant that walked around the table. Katja giggled as the elephant seemed to triumphantly trumpet its nose and prance about like a schoolboy in the spring. Even as it danced, however, Katja could not help but feel a pang of sadness, knowing that the creature's spark of life was not only temporary, but a simulation, the facade stone going through the motions of life. As the elephant curled down, Her only experience with animals had been with the hunting dogs that some of her neighbors owned, so the stone elephant seemed to curl up into a ball much like a dog.
Your Magecraft is fascinating as always, Master.
For a moment, the stone seemed to lose its uniformity as ripples of uncertainty passed across the elephant's surface.
"Wait, what did you just call me?"
Katja's head snapped over to the voice's stone statue, but of course, the face remained as expressionless as ever. A silence hung in the air for a few moments, followed by a quick gasp of pain as Katja's blue magic circuits were suddenly overwhelmed by a flash of red light. Katja let out a yelp of pain and the liquid stone began to flail erratically as Katja's concentration broke. Then, the flow of magic was broken and the stone burst like a popped bubble, spraying liquid stone that instantly hardened into the shape of a black, messy spread-eagle. Katja looked down at her right hand and saw some sort of injury on the back of it.
No wait, that wasn't an injury at all. It was some kind of tiny marking. Katja stood up in a panic and stormed over to the statue.
"What the heck is going on‽ Did you do this? Explain now!"
Katja swore that the statue refused to make eye contact with her.
I....am not yet at liberty to say. It is not yet time.
"Time‽ I don't know how, but you interrupted my magic, I want to hear an explanation!"
Katja didn't mean to shout, but she had difficulty controlling her nerves. Nobody can interrupt her magic. It was to one place in the whole universe where she felt well and truly at peace. The only other person who could've even tried was her father. He's the one that taught her this magic. But he's not around anymore, so this magic was all hers.
Or so she thought until now.
"You keep saying weird things and you just called me 'Master' just now. If you keep being vague, I'm tossing you into the ocean. So you'd better start talking. If you're some sort of or something, I just want to be left alone, okay! I'm not about to be tricked into some weird ritual!"
Katja didn't consider herself a deeply religious person, not by a long shot. The State taught that Katja should always rely on science and reason as the foundation of her beliefs, but Katja had seen enough in her life to never fully rely on the known to explain everything. She didn't consider herself a believer, not in the traditional sense. There are no churches in Polnoch, after all, so the opportunity never presented itself to try. Her uncle did believe though, and Katja always held the notion deep in her heart that if there was something, anything watching over her from above, that was comforting in its own way.
Right as her hand reached for the door to exit her studio, it suddenly swung open. Katja froze as she stood in front of her uncle, who was holding two mugs of hot cocoa in his hands.
"Katja?" he said, mildly surprised. "Were you about to turn in?"
"Uncle! Don't surprise me like that!" Katja exclaimed.
"I brought some hot chocolate," Uncle Grigori said. "I figured you would be up all night again. You'll want some sugar in you."
Her uncle stepped inside and placed the cups down on the center table. He took a seat on the bench chair and looked about.
"So which crazy sculpture are you working on today?" Uncle asked. "I don't see anything new."
"Eh, I was mostly planning today, so I haven't done much. You know how it is." Katja said, shrugging.
Her uncle nodded.
"Yes, yes. Your strange witchcraft doesn't need tools and the like." he said gruffly.
"I keep telling you uncle, it's not witchcraft, it's-"
"I know, I know," he said dismissively. "Believe me, I got enough of it from my brother. I don't need to know. I don't want to, anyways, as long as you don't do anything stupid."
Katja took a sip from her cocoa. It tasted sweet and delicious, just how she liked it. The heat filled her body and she let out a satisfied sigh. Her uncle also took a sip, though with much less external satisfaction. He wasn't a very expressive man though, so Katja was used to it. Over time, she'd grown used to picking up on his habits. Here, it seemed as though he wanted to talk about something.
"So what's up, uncle?" Katja asked. "You never come down to watch me work."
"Er....yes," her uncle said, clearing his throat. "Actually, there's something I wanted to ask you, Katja."
"Okay, shoot."
"Well, as you know, it's been a few months since you've started at your new school," he said. "And so I was wondering if you've put any thought into your ."
Katja rolled her eyes. This again.
"Uncle....I keep telling you that I'm too young to be thinking about that. Give me a year or two, I'll think about it. I promise."
"You're never too young to start thinking, Katja." her uncle said. "Opportunity won't wait for you. For instance, say you wanted to go to Moskva...."
"With all due respect uncle," Katja said, sniffing. "That sounds awful."
"Don't dismiss this out of hand," her uncle said reproachfully. "There are plenty of opportunities in the capital, especially for someone talented like you."
"I told you before, uncle. I like it here. I don't want to move away, especially not to Moskva."
"And I've told you before that you'd be wasted in a backwater like this!" her uncle said.
"That's not for you to decide. And besides, who would look after you when I'm gone?"
Her uncle raised an eyebrow.
"Young lady, I believe you're mistaking which side of this caretaker's arrangement you're on." he said.
"I'm serious though! I do half the chores and half the cooking around here. What would you do without me?" Katja asked.
"Well the first thing I would do is turn this room into a storage shed. I'm not sure how much more the attic can hold."
"You wouldn't," Katja gasped, hugging her table. "If you're going to throw out all my things when I'm gone, then you can kiss leaving goodbye!"
"This is your future we're talking about Katja, I expect you to take this a bit more seriously." he said.
"I'm fiiiiiine! Once I graduate, I'll just live here and do what you do!"
"You're going to take over the postal service?" her uncle asked, crossing his arms.
"Yeah, sure! I mean, why not?"
"You're going to perform mail duty every week? You?"
"I-"
Katja paused. Admittedly, that sounded like hell. Perhaps she ought to take her uncle's words a bit more seriously.
"I mean....It's not as though I would only do mail....I have my statues. I could like, sell them and stuff."
"I'm not sure if that's a good idea, child," her uncle said, shaking his head. "It's fine for you to do your witchcraft as a hobby, but as a career...."
"What? What's wrong with it?" Katja asked, her body tensing.
"I mean, people will ask questions and the like, and...." her uncle scratched the back of his head, unsure of how to proceed.
"I knew it!" Katja exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips. "This is about my father isn't it? You don't want me to study magic like he did!"
"No, no! It's not that at all," her uncle said hastily. "It's just....think about it, okay? I want you to live a normal happy life, one that's free from suffering and . If you do the same thing my brother did, I'm not sure if that'll be possible."
"What? What do you mean?" Katja asked eagerly. Her uncle always refused to talk about her father, so any bit of information about him was something Katja latched onto hungrily.
"Uncle, I won't know what you mean unless you tell me," she said impatiently, prying as far as she could.
Unfortunately, her uncle would not bite.
he said, shaking his head. "I'll explain it all to you when you're older, I promise. Just trust me that I'm only bringing this up for your own good."
"It's been eight years since he died, uncle," Katja pleaded. "How much longer do I have to wait?"
Her uncle didn't say anything to that. Instead, he looked Katja in the eyes and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"The less you know about him, the better Katja," he said, his expression grave. "He delved into secrets no man should ever have known. I do not want you to go down that same path. Do you understand what I am saying?"
It was clear to Katja that this would be the last word on this subject. And so bitterly, Katja nodded her head.
"Alright Uncle," Katja said. "I'll put some thought into it. Is it alright if I get back to you about this later?"
Katja finished the last of her cocoa and let the mug down on the table.
"Sure," her uncle said, nodding. "By the way, I hope I wasn't interrupting something. You looked like you were going somewhere when I came in."
Katja got up and threw on her coat, which she had left lying on one the empty benches.
she lied. "I've been feeling a bit stale lately, so I figured a change of scenery might give me some ideas."
"Heh, a walk would do you some good. You spend any more time in here and you'll start growing mold," her uncle said, chuckling. "But is it really a good time? The sun's already setting. It won't be long before it becomes dark out."
"It's fine, it's fine," Katja waved dismissively as she began walking out of the studio. "You can't make me go out on mail duty at midnight and then lecture me about the dark."
With what seemed to be the last laugh, Katja left the room before she could hear her uncle's response. As concerning as she found her future, there were far more immediate problems to address.
--
The town of Polnoch rested beside a small inlet in the East Siberian Sea where a small estuary had formed between the edge of the sea and a river delta. It was divided into five generalized regions spread out over an area roughly one-hundred square kilometers. The region where Katja lived, the residential countryside, is not too far from Old Town, where the previous town center used to be. To the north of the countryside was the Town Center, also called Rybak Square, so named despite not actually being a square, and north of that was the Wharf, though it has largely fallen into disuse, as a diminishing number of small fishing vessels were all that existed there. The final "region", if it could even be called that, was the Dvorets Kashchey, or , a heavily wooded area that encircled Polnoch on all sides ending in the far east where it was cut off by mountains.
The walk from her home in the countryside to Old Town didn't take long, but it was certainly long enough for Katja to feel the winter chill even through her coat. She walked through a hole left behind from the stone wall that used to encircle Old Town. It has long since fallen into ruin, having evidently failed to serve its original purpose. Few people still lived in Old Town, as none of the houses here were connected to the electrical grid, but there did exist a few elderly in Polnoch that stubbornly refused to abandon their homes even to their last breath. Of these people was a man named Erel Ivanovich Odolunov, whom Katja recalled was the son of a priest long ago. Erel passed away five years ago, but the church building that Erel once lived in still stood, though it had fallen into disrepair.
It was a large structure, roughly two stories tall, with a large stone dome that had caved in at some point in the past. The wooden sign that had been placed outside the church entrance was so rotted that the words were unintelligible. Although the place had long since been abandoned, Katja still felt a chill run up her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. If this strange voice truly was a or some other foul creature, surely this place would hold the
As Katja stepped around the one remaining double door at the entrance to the old church, she took in just how ruined the interior of the building had become as well. Where once there had likely been stunning paintings along the walls and ceiling of the church, there was instead a thick layer of ash and rot; and the once beautiful central horos chandelier that had formerly hung from the domed roof now lay crumpled and shattered on the ground, any bits of value from its splendor stripped from its decaying corpse by looters long ago. And everything inside the church had been coated in a thick layer of ash and snow flowing in from the hole in the roof. Katja thought it was a shame that nobody took over care of the church after Erel's death. He was banned from practicing his faith here, but he still kept the building immaculate back when Katja was a child. It seems as though nobody had taken to caring for the old place after Erel passed. Katja thought that was a shame. As she stepped closer to look at the horos, she was startled to find hand streaks across a portion of the chandelier. She quickly looked down and realized that she was standing in footprints quite a bit larger than her own, footprints made recently enough for the snow coming on from the ceiling to have only partially covered them. Instinctively, she quickly brought her hands close to herself.
There was someone else in the church tonight.
- - - Updated - - -
Contract
When Katja was a child, she once dug through her home's attic in her father's house and found an old book. She had been too young to understand the text, but an image that had been burned into memory was the striking figure of a Templar Knight, painted in the mosaic-like Byzantine style.
It was no small exaggeration to say that the man standing on the far side of the horos, right between the collapsed altar and the wreckage of the pews, was a Templar.
Formerly with his back turned away from Katja, the man stood at the front center of the ruined church, like an immovable red and white statue, no different from one of Katja's stone sculptures. He was dressed in flowing white robes with several large red crosses streaking across the fabric in geometric strokes. When illuminated by the moonlight, the man seemed to radiate with holy energy, though that was surely Katja's imagination.
The man himself would certainly have stood out in Katja's village. His skin was a darker shade, more reminiscent of a Mediterranean heritage, and his sharp, hawk-like eyes looked as though they sought to pierce Katja's very soul. She would have known if such a man lived here, so he must've been some sort of traveler from somewhere far west, though what century he would have come from was a mystery to her. Despite her best efforts to remain unseen, their eyes met, and so Katja stepped out from behind the horos.
"I-If you're looking for the owner of this church, he's unfortunately no longer around."
Katja wasn't sure if he was looking for Erel Odolunov, but she couldn't think of any other reason why anyone would come here. As she cautiously stepped forth, she could see now that the man before her looked to be a man roughly in his late thirties with neatly cut black hair that streaked to either side of his face. He gave Katja a thin smile then bowed deeply.
"Forgive me, young miss. It was never my intention to trespass. I merely wished to pay my respects to this holy site before the coming of the great storm."
The man spoke with an elevated level of flourish and dramatism, punctuating his language with varying shifts in tone and speed. It was as though he spoke while standing on a stage.
"Oh...I....um....Well, I'm not the owner either, I was just passing through myself."
Katja didn't really have any idea what the man was talking about, but she wanted to at least avoid any kind of misunderstanding. But at her words, the man let out a wide smile and spread his arms outwards in a joyful gesture.
"Ahhh, forgive my assumptions then! You are but a pilgrim like myself, a worshipper of God's great light! I had been told that this village was devoid of the Lord's grace, but to think that even one as young as you would feel that pull towards the faith!"
"I-I....uh...."
Under this bombardment of words, Katja found herself unable to get a single word in. She was never good at dealing with talkative people, and so this was the worst kind of interaction for her. Upon seeing her fumble with a response, the man bowed again.
"I apologize for my excitement, my child. It seems as though the Holy Spirit took my body for but a moment. I am . A pleasure to meet you."
"I-I'm Katja...? I was just....um, taking a walk."
The man cleared his throat and turned back to face the altar, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Of course. It does my heart good to know that even in a town devoid of faith, the word of God will still resonate in the hearts of men."
He knelt down at the foot of the ruined altar and lowered his head, allowing a silence to fill the air. Then, he stood up and faced Katja.
"In times of troubles, it is only ever right to rely on God's forgiveness and protection. So, what troubles brought you to this place. Surely you must have a purpose in being here."
Katja opened her mouth, then hesitated. She was tempted to explain the possible demon in her head. After all, she did hear rumors that the church dealt in exorcisms. Maybe this man could help her. Right when she resolved to speak up, the voice in her head returned.
"I recognize eyes like that. Those are the eyes of a man who would doom his nation for his own ego. The eyes of a bastard."
Without thinking, Katja looked into the man's eyes, and for a moment, she froze. In the eyes of the man who called himself Dante, Katja saw the reflection of a hollow intensity that shook her to her core. Each time he blinked, each time he moved, Katja felt across her skin. It had been present from the moment he became aware of her existence, yet Katja had never even noticed the oppressive aura that the man had been letting out constantly. A bloodlust and quiet insanity so potent, yet so restricted, that the only place from which it could leave was through his empty eyes. Instinctively, Katja took a step back and her foot slipped on a frozen piece of stone. She let out a yelp as she struggled to maintain her balance when a hand grasped her shoulders and stabilized her. Somehow, Dante had moved to break her fall in a fraction of a second. She broke away from his grip, though it was more accurate to say that he let her go.
"I-I was just exploring Old Town. I've always liked the art in this building."
Katja tried her best to meet the man's eyes as she lied, but she couldn't do it. A silence hung in the air for a moment, before the man walked past her towards the entrance.
"I see, I will not deny that this place was once beautiful."
He placed his hand on the remaining wooden door and turned his head around to look at Katja, his eyes now aglow with furious intensity.
"Still, I told no lie when I spoke of the coming of the great storm. If you value your safety, you should refrain from leaving your home for a few nights. The followers of the Shepherd will be protected, but the sins of this village shall be cleansed."
The man stepped through the doorway and disappeared into the night. And for the briefest of moments, Katja swore she saw what appeared to be a massive sword hanging from the man's back. Once the man was gone, Katja fell down as her legs went numb from the tension in her legs. She heaved a great sigh and allowed the tension to leave her muscles.
"Haaaaaaaah~ I have never been so scared in my life! Who was that guy‽ I thought he was going to rip my eyes out of my skull!"
Quite so, that man was dangerous, though his words were not wrong. You shouldn't have left the house tonight.
Katja glared at nothing in particular.
"You sure took your sweet time getting here." she said bitterly.
Katja would never admit it, but she felt a little safer knowing that the voice was now present.
I had thought that you wanted some privacy, so I refrained from speaking to you, but that man was dangerous, I know a warrior when I see one.
Katja shook her head.
"What was someone like that doing in Polnoch? Could this be related to the soldiers coming into town? He might be a wanted criminal or something." Katja muttered.
She curled up into a ball in the center of the church. Now that the situation was over and the tension gone, Katja could feel the winter cold biting her face. She wrapped her scarf around her face a little tighter and breathed into it to warm up.
"Hey, tell me what's going on. You know something, don't you?" Katja said out loud.
I have already told you, it is not yet time, the voice replied. Katja sighed, not especially frustrated this time. She hugged herself a little bit tighter and began to shiver, though she wasn't sure if it was from the cold.
...Are you afraid? the voice asked her.
Katja shook her head.
"I don't know. I just want to go back to the studio and forget about all of this."
As far back as Katja could remember, she's always hated being close to the center of attention. She'd much rather live outside that sphere, in her quiet studio away from the chaos of the outside world. As long as she had her sculptures, she'd be satisfied. As long as she could ignore the rest of the world, she'd be happy. Katja let out a sigh. She had calmed down considerably and slowly got to her feet. If the voice didn't want to tell her anything, that was fine. She didn't want to know anyway. Whatever plans that strange man has, Katja wanted no part in it whatsoever. She stepped outside of the church and began to trudge home in the snow, though with a bit more of a skip in her step.
As she traversed along the now hidden dirt road leading away from Old Town, she found herself atop Angel's Mount, a large hill on the path home that overlooked Polnoch. When she reached the top, Katja covered her eyes from a sudden flash of light. She looked down upon the whole town of Polnoch, a small settlement composed mostly of stone and the occasional wooden structure. On a normal night, the limited electricity made the town a dark and quiet place. But tonight the town was in uproar.
Off in the distance, the old Wharf was burning.
--
Before Katja even knew what she was doing, she had already started running. It didn't take very long to traverse Polnoch, though it would still take several hours on foot. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, Polnoch was dotted with large patches of uncontrolled forest that allowed anyone to slip through town relatively undetected. She ran through the forest, figuring that an indirect route would be safer, though her mind was still playing catchup to her body.
"WhatamIdoingwhatamIdoingwhatamIdoing?" Katja mumbled as she sprinted.
Obviously this was the wrong decision. If there was some kind of accident, then she should run home. She was an idiot and she knew it, but something - something pushed her to run, to see with her own eyes the scene that caused this. Some part of her that she had never felt before, a part of her that had been dormant her whole life, wanted to see it. Beneath her coat, Katja's magic crest began to glow and vine-like lines began to spread across her legs. All of a sudden, the landscape vanished into a dull blur as Katja's reinforced legs carried her far past normal human speeds.
Reinforcement was never something Katja was taught. When Katja got this crest from her father, she suddenly just knew how to use it, as though the information was surgically implanted into her mind. Katja didn't like using it all that much since it had no real purpose in her life, so when the sudden burst of strength filled her legs, she almost went flying into the air from the unfamiliar force. As she ran, Katja found it difficult to control her speed and occasionally had to reinforce her arms to crash through trees she couldn't avoid. By the time she was close to the wharf, Katja was covered in small cuts and bruises, a product of her uncontrolled charge. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, leaning against a nearby tree for support. As soon as the reinforcement left her body, she felt drained. While not necessarily unfit, Katja tended to neglect exercise in favor of her time in the studio, which made her body rather weak. As she approached the wharf on the north-eastern edge of Rybak Square, she stopped to marvel at the bright orange glow that seemed to tower over her.
Katja had never seen fire of this magnitude and intensity before. The way it seemed to reach up towards the sky, like tongues of flame desperate to sate their thirst, was terrible to behold, yet the sight enthralled Katja. And for a moment, her artist's soul begged her to immortalize it, to sit away from the catastrophe and simply create in isolation. She quickly shook such thoughts from her mind and began to walk towards the wharf. At a stone building just behind the boundary between dock and town, Katja crouched and placed her hand on her chest. Whatever was going on, once Katja passed this boundary, she would know and she would see. Here, she felt her knees begin to tremble. The adrenaline from the sprint was beginning to fade, and it dawned on Katja just how astronomically stupid her actions were. She thought that she had resolved herself to a quiet, peaceful life, one where she would be free to create her sculptures until she grew old and died. That door was still open. The darkness of the forest off in the distance, the path back to her home and to her studio called out to her, beckoned her to come back. Instinctively, she knew that if she crossed this threshold, she would become a player in this game, whether she wanted to or not. All it would take is one step, yet at that border, she froze.
The voice, which had been strangely quiet, brought Katja out of her thoughts.
Well, why do you hesitate? You've come this far, why not take a look? it asked.
"Heh, it's almost like you wanted me to come here," Katja couldn't help but laugh nervously.
...I don't. But there are difficult decisions that must be made.
Katja looked away, though from what she didn't know. It was as though she could feel its presence standing right in front of her.
"You knew this would happen didn't you? That I'd have to make this choice."
I did.
"...Why me? I just want to make my sculptures in peace."
Only the gods would know the answer to that. We can never choose why we fight, only whether we do at all. Here.
Katja suddenly found an image inside her head. No, not an image, a glyph, a circle of some sort.
Draw that in the snow.
As if her body were being controlled by someone else, Katja obeyed. With each stroke of her foot in the snow, Katja had to silence the voice in her head that called for her to stop, that called for her to snap out of this bout of madness. She soon found herself inside a complex circle of runes and glyphs beyond her comprehension, and she swore that she could see the faintest outline of a man standing beside her, though the details were still murky and hazy. The figure held out both hands in front of Katja.
Right now, the voice said, loud enough that Katja almost believed it to be out loud. I hold before you both peace and war. Choose peace and walk away now and forsake me, return to your quiet, uneventful life for the rest of your days. Or, choose war and enter into a contest of glory, a battle so fierce that it would set any soul alight. Choose what you will.
Katja looked at the figure, her heart pounding.
"Will....will I be okay?"
The figure neither nodded nor shook its head.
You will not be the same. You may die, or you may live. Whatever, the outcome, I can only promise you glory.
Every fiber of Katja's being wanted to run, to curl up into a ball and drown out the flames and the terror. But that spark that pushed her to run here, that same spark that pushed her to draw the circle, held her back.
Katja didn't want to die. Of that, she was absolutely certain. Yet all her life, there was one thought that pulled at the edges of her mind, a thought that she had believed banished long ago. To live a life accomplishing nothing, even a quiet one, to live a life looking from the outside in, neither participating nor engaging, could that be considered living at all? Could she experience glory from the half-life she sought? Or was it right to take this chance, to find the moment that would give her life color?
In a flash, every small detail about the voice seemed to fit into place. The words from her history text, burned into her mind against her will, were seared into her mind like a fresh brand. All of a sudden, things began to make sense. Katja clenched her fist and the red marking on her hand began to grow in luminosity. Katja closed her eyes, not trusting herself to see the choice before her, and spoke the first words that came to mind.
"I choose war."
Her hand released a ring of red light, before solidifying into the shape of a runic, feathered symbol, with an eagle's head at the center. The figure bowed its head before her before fading away into mist.
The contract is complete.
--
The first thing that Katja noticed as she ran through the burning wharf was the smell. Burning flesh, smoke, and gunpowder all furiously fought to overwhelm Katja's senses. All around her, the smell of death and destruction sent tremors down her spine.
Is this your first time on a battlefield? the voice asked.
Katja suppressed a scream as she saw a twitching arm sticking out of a now collapsed stone house. She had never even seen a corpse before, much less a fresh one. The sight of mutilated and burned flesh made her tremble with utter terror.
Then she heard the gunshots. Quickly, Katja dove behind some collapsed rubble as she took in the sounds of battle all around her. Soldiers, soldiers from the Soviet army, were firing upon a group of men closer to the ocean. They seemed to have formed a defensive line along the wooden platform built to extend over the shore and the sounds of machine-gun fire littered the air.
"What do you think?" Katja hissed. "Do you have any idea how dangerous this is‽"
Katja could practically feel her heart ready to burst from her chest. Her vision began to blur as the constant flood of sensation threatened to overtake her sanity. Then, she felt hands on her shoulders. At first, she tensed up, but then she relaxed. The hands were gentle, not hostile. She inhaled deeply, then stopped trembling.
Calm down, Master, the voice said. We must analyze the situation with clarity and focus. Now, let's figure out what is actually happening.
"I don't know! There are soldiers and gunshots everywhere." Katja whispered though she wasn't sure if anything could be heard over the noise.
Think. Try to ignore the sounds and smells. Break the situation down into its core components. Why is the wharf burning? Why are there soldiers?
Katja clutched her head in her hands and let out a groan. Then, against the will of every iota of self-preservation in her body, she stuck her head out of the rubble and scanned her surroundings.
She was currently in the base of the wharf, which consisted of a wooden platform sticking out of the shore with several long wooden platforms jutting out from it, each around one hundred meters long. Immediately to her right was a squad of soldiers firing off into the night, towards the ocean. From her current vantage point, it was difficult to see who their enemy was, so rather than relying on her eyes, she instead tried to drown out the sounds of battle and listened for telling noises.
It was the sound of intense footsteps, heavy enough and numerous enough to be felt by Katja many meters away. Then, Katja watched as a horde of spectral men erupted from the abyss of night, armed to the teeth with swords and pistols, in a wild charge against the soldiers. Each one seemed humanoid in shape, yet their flesh glowed with a faint bluish light. She watched with horror as the soldiers rained a hail of bullets down on the men, only for the strange ghost men to continue charging without even slowing down. The spectral men crashed into the defensive line cutting down soldiers left and right with long cutlasses. Sounds of laughter and screaming intercrossed in the orange-lit air. As a series of melees erupted at the base of the wharf, the spectral men began to fan outwards past the soldiers and towards the wings of the wharf as well as towards Rybak Square.
As they ran through the wharf, they threw around explosives and flaming bottles of alcohol, spreading the fire more and more. She watched with rising panic a small group of these spectral men broke off from the battle and began to head in Katja's direction. None of them had any semblance of consistent dress, with one wearing a middle-eastern looking garb, while the other two wore more European garb, though theirs were off by several centuries worth of fashion.
"We should leave," Katja said to the voice. "Whatever they are, they're coming this way!"
Wait, the voice said, I believe there's still more to be learned here. We should press on.
Katja looked at the voice, incredulous.
"Are you insane? Did you see what they did to those soldiers? You're trying to get me killed aren't you?"
No, and it's important that you realize that. I am your ally.
Katja scoffed.
"If that's true, you have a really bad way of showing it."
The aura of the voice flickered, then she felt it solidify, similar to when she passed the boundary. It's misty, spectral form looked dim compared to the firelight.
Do you trust me? it asked.
"Are you asking me that based on evidence because-"
Do you trust me?
"....I have no reason to, but yes."
The figure nodded, then stood. Katja instinctively reached out to grab their arm and was surprised to find it solid. The figure looked down at her.
"Wait," Katja said. "Promise me that after this, you'll explain everything."
The figure seemed to nod.
Everything I know. I swear it.
Katja took a deep breath, then clenched her fists.
"Alright, what should we do?"
The figure pointed out towards a collapsed stone fountain where the wharf met the land. There, a collapsed stone statue of Camniel, Angel of Strength, lay fallen on the ground, still clutching its sword to its face.
We maintain the element of surprise, let's take this chance to see our enemy. Use that to help us.
"Wait, use what?"
A pause hung in the air for a moment, before Katja grasped the meaning.
"Hold on, you don't mean-"
We need to balance the numbers, especially since you cannot fight.
"It's impossible, the spell wears off after a few seconds. I can't..."
That's because you never had a purpose. Find your goal, then command it! the figure said.
"I-"
I'll create the opening for you. You'll only have a few seconds.
The three spectral men were almost upon them. They stalked forward less then ten meters away from Katja and the figure. Katja looked at the figure with a pained expression.
"Why do you believe in me? How do you know I won't fail?"
By now, the figure had almost solidified to the point where Katja could make out the faintest of facial details. The face that looked back at her smiled warmly.
Give it a try, and I'll answer your question, it said. Then the voice gave her a light push forwards as it ran off in the other direction, away from the fountain. Alerted to the noise, the three spectral men began to wander off in that direction.
No time for hesitation, no time for fear. As quietly, yet as quickly as possible, Katja scrambled for the stone statue. After closing the eight-meter distance between herself and the statue, she stopped herself from tripping directly onto the stone sword, which was pointed directly at her one meter from the ground. Katja quickly reached around and placed her hand on the statue's chest.
"Uhhh....let's see what steps were needed again?" Katja mumbled.
Unlike her reinforcement, her stone magic was something that Katja came to herself. And while she added the spell sequence to her magic crest like her father taught her, this wasn't something that she could simply cast mindlessly. She'd never used her magic on a finished statue before, but she had to try. Katja closed her eyes and reached out to the statue.
Whenever Katja tried to stoneshift previously, she had always used a formless rock as the base, one that she would shape herself. As she connected to the soul of the statue's maker, she felt a sense of wholeness coming from the statue, an identity that her works never possessed. For a moment, the noises of battle and death around her dulled to a faint thrum in the background. Katja felt as though she could feel the statue's life force within it. Not the literal life of the statue, but the soul of creative energy placed within it. The statue was over sixty years old, having been sculpted by an elderly artist back when Polnoch was a larger town. Katja felt the pride in the statue's creation, the angelic beauty the sculptor sought to capture.
Move, she asked the sculpture. Please move.
Why should I move? the sculpture replied. I am exactly as I want to be.
Because...Katja paused. Up until now, Katja never questioned why the stone should move. The answer had always been: Because I want you to.
That's because you never had a purpose.
Katja clenched her teeth and steeled her resolve.
Find your goal.
You should move because right now, I need strength. I need you to give me strength!
Then command it!
"Accordance with the third, may forethought hone your fangs beyond all measure, to rise to the king of beasts!"
Katja felt the Prana leave her body and she fell backwards, unable to stand. Standing before her was the majestic form of a fully animate stone angel, who gripped his sword and knelt towards Katja. Behind her, the spectral men, unable to locate the source of their attention, turned and spotted Katja and her angel. They all let out a war cry and began to charge towards her, weapons drawn. One pulled out a flintlock pistol from his belt and fired at Katja. She let out a yell and scrambled back as a stone sword intercepted the bullet. The impact sent shards of stone flying and a large indentation formed along the stone blade. Scrambling to her feet, Katja stood by the statue with confidence, for even though she wasn't touching the statue, she could feel its intentions, its voice. She placed her hand on the sword, her left arm aglow with green-blue light.
"Second," she commanded.
The blade rippled, then melted together, creating a complete, but slightly thinner, surface once more. The angel nodded, then turned and faced the charging spectres, blade raised. Katja nodded.
"Go!"
The angel charged, meeting the first spectre in combat. As it brought its blade down upon the first spectre, who blocked the strike with its cutlass, the second spectre, the one with the pistol, attempted to run around the angel at Katja. Without looking away, the angel used one of its large wings to swat the spectre away, sending it flying back. The angel kicked back the first spectre and began engaging the third, who had gone in to flank the angel. They exchanged a series of quick blows, neither side taking any damage. Then, the spectre attempted to perform a horizontal sword sweep, but the blow was quickly parried by the angel. With each exchange, Katja could see the integrity of both the sword and the angel beginning to decline. She herself was connected with the angel. And wordlessly, she had it animate. After parrying its sweep, the angel sent the third spectre stumbling forwards, its balance shaken, and the angel quickly impaled the spectre with its sword. As the spectre let out a guttural grunt, it grabbed the hilt of the sword and held it close to its chest, preventing the angel from withdrawing the blade. Then the second spectre leapt onto the angel's back and began bashing its head with the base of the pistol with strength great enough to send stone chunks flying off. Right when it looked like the angel would be overwhelmed, two of the spectres suddenly went limp. As they fell to the ground, their heads fell separately, their forms melting into wispy mush with not but a trace remaining behind.
You asked why I believed in your success, did you not, Master? a voice said beyond the scuffle. I shall now answer you!
The angel, now free to engage with the impaled spectre, swung its sword and sent the spectre careening towards the source of the voice, a shadowed figure standing tall against the flames. The final spectre attempted to make one final gambit and threw its sword at the shadowed figure. Before the blade could strike it, though, a massive rectangular shield formed in the figure's hands, which sent the blade spinning into the ocean. The figure then drew a short sword from its belt and cut down the final spectre, which dissolved like the rest.
The figure that approached Katja caused her breath to catch. Dressed in flowing red robes with streaks of gold and white running through it and intricate golden armor crafted to resemble a bird's feathers underneath, the form of the voice that had been pestering Katja for days knelt and offered his hand to Katja. She looked up and saw a man in his late twenties with and an impish grin beaming down at her.
"The reason is because so long as I, the great Quintus Fabius Maximus, Servant Assassin, fight by your side, you shall never see defeat!"
Day 1 End
- - - Updated - - -
Interlude 1: Voices
Light filled the room as a being of pure spirit manifested before Sasha. Around him, the soldiers all gasped and stepped backwards in awe at the sight, clutching their firearms like rosaries. A ghastly howl filled the room, blasting a wave of force that shook the solid stone chamber of the testing facility. Then, in movement faster than the human eye could detect, the figure pounced from its stone dais at one of the nearby soldiers, who hardly had the time to scream as his throat was torn from his body. Before the other soldiers could react, the figure hurled the body of the now dead soldier at the nearest one, sending both flying against the wall with a brutal crunch. Then, as the final soldier attempted to raise his gun, he let out a small grunt before falling down in two perfectly sliced halves down the middle. The figure, whom Sasha could now see was a tall, silver-haired woman dressed in scaled, metallic plate, with bright orange eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the darkened room, then stalked over to the nearest body and began to tear it apart, stuffing handfuls of flesh into her mouth while tossing out clean bones. After her meal, the young woman walked towards Sasha, who had not moved during this entire exchange, and knelt down on one knee.
"Sorry about that little display," she said to him. "I sensed too much hostility in the air. I trust there is no problem,
Sasha looked at the woman, whose grey hair seemed layered like fur, then up at a viewing platform made of stone and glass that had been set up at the far end of the room.
"Am I done here? I would like to return to my room now."
The amplified voice of Sasha's handler boomed from across the room.
"Excellent work, Two-eighty one! It would seem that you have been deemed worthy of fighting for us. Fortune has favored us tonight!"
Sasha looked down at the remains of a finger lying by his foot. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the finger was gone, instead replaced by a small pile of dust. He didn't respond, he wasn't allowed to, after all. Instead, he simply turned and began to walk away from the viewing chamber, towards the door on the other side of the stone dais. Before he could leave, a gauntleted hand on his shoulder stopped him. He turned and saw the woman, who was glaring up at the man in the chamber. From this distance, Sasha couldn't see him, but he could easily imagine the large man's heavily scarred and bearded face without needing to see it.
"I don't like that one up there. Can I kill him, too?"
If only it were that easy. If killing him would change anything, Sasha would have done it himself long ago. He shook his head, then moved the hand off his shoulder.
"No, there's no point. From now on,
Then, without another word, Sasha left the room to be let back into his cell. He could feel the woman's eyes on his back as he walked out, but he didn't care all that much. The outcome of a day's experiments meant nothing to him. He'll just continue to do what he's told so that the irritating voices leave him alone.
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