Chapter Text
“In four hundred thousand meters, turn right.”
Those were the words written upon the book I’d collected just a few years ago; a Prescript delivered just as I entered a Workshop. My brows furrowed at first, and then came the usual smile. This was another good one, if a bit daunting, and its implications were particularly phenomenal: who wouldn’t enjoy an adventure into the Outskirts? But, ah, that’d have to wait. Something was written on its appendix as well, two more pages, two Prescripts for the two people inside this Workshop.
Two stools stood before a large counter and an assembly of tools on the wall after it. To the left, an open door with machinery peeking through, lit by bright yellow light. The evening light of the City fell across the faces of a seated black man wearing the northern attire of the Index, with its fur paddings at the neck of the cape, and a woman wearing some dirty, worn clothes, clearly a Fixer with no care for fashion. The woman squinted at me through the sunlight, almost annoyed, and the man’s expressions hadn’t changed an inch since he first laid eyes on me. And so I approached them and handed them one page each.
The man took it as if it were routine, reading it immediately. The Fixer, however, interjected after receiving her Prescript, an eyebrow raised. “This isn’t another fake Prescript, right? Why is it on a page and not a piece of cloth?”
“I’ve been trying to figure it out for some time now, too. It’s how I deliver them.”
“Makarov? Is that normal?” She still had an eyebrow raised as she looked over at the man.
“I’ve heard of it before,” he said with a deep, assertive voice, his eyes passing through the Prescript. “It wouldn’t hurt to follow it regardless. Now… ‘Describe the messenger before you to the readers and follow all their commands until the dawn of the next day.’ Great.”
He sighed in annoyance, looking me up and down.
“You are a white person, but a bit tanned, with brown, curly hair and a white strand on the left side of your hair, at the front. You wear the same cape as mine, but the clothing beneath it is more unique. You got, ah… a long, black skirt, a black corset with golden details, a black shirt just like mine, and some sort of red transparent cape that goes down to your shoulders... You wear white eyeliner and have two gold earrings shaped like stars. And your name is?”
I knew what his Prescript was, of course, and I could only be amused as he listed all of my features with a stare, looking deep into my soul. Now, my name… interesting question. There was a pause before my reply.
“Let’s see… Call me Selene. And you are Makarov, correct?”
“Obviously.”
“…right.”
Makarov himself wasn’t much different from the common unfolded member of the Index: all the gold rings on his fingers, the piercings all over his face and the many silver earrings he wore, as well as his long hair braided in a single braid, was all that separated him from the fodder. In the right side of his cape stood two gold bands, one more than mine; it indicated he was of average power within his ranking.
“Okay,” My eyes met the Fixer’s, clasping both hands together, “Now, I’ve received a difficult Prescript of my own, and I’ll need some tools. What is it you craft here, Fixer?”
“You haven’t heard of Avdotya Workshop?! We provide explorers with whatever it is they need. We craft guns, gadgets, and all sorts of doohickeys… just tell me something, and I can craft it for you.”
Wasn’t that convenient? It must be why the Prescripts brought me here. “A compass and a pedometer. That’s what I’ll need.”
She nodded as she crouched to search below her counter, “I have the compass on hand, for five thousand Ahn… but I’ll need to make a pedometer.”
“When is something like that going to be ready?”
“Who’s to say, who’s to say? Let me see.” From behind the counter she produced a paper, likely a list of requests. “There’s two people ahead of you. Two lengthy works. But since this should only take an afternoon, I wouldn’t mind putting it in front of the other two requests,”
A pause,
“as long as you pay a little extra.”
My expressions couldn’t hide my dumbfoundedness. “…How much more?”
“Eh, nothing too big… normally it’d be fifteen thousand Ahn, but you can pay some… fifteen thousand more.”
Doubling the original price. In Y Corp. In the Backstreets.
Fascinating business operation, and certainly the reason why this Workshop seemed rundown to the point they had to sell things to syndicates. But I couldn’t afford to lose precious time, so I took two ten-thousand and a five-thousand Ahn bills from my pockets and handed it to the woman. She pocketed the money and turned on her heels excitedly, nearly jumping towards the back of the establishment, as if proud of her scamming.
My eyes rolled and I looked towards Makarov, who was still reading the Prescript, brows heavily furrowed. His eyes locked with mine as he stored the prescript neatly away, his expressions returning to that coldness of his. I took a seat close to him, crossing one leg over the other.
“So, Makarov… do you have any other Prescripts to fulfill?” He could’ve only been a Proxy.
“Only the one that involves you.”
“And nothing more?”
His arms crossed. “What makes you ask?”
“Please. Nobody keeps looking at their Prescript in worry if they’ve already completed it. Did it superimpose something else, Makarov?”
“…that’s a crazy assumption to make, Selene.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it? As long as it exists, read me the passages you haven’t read out loud yet, every single letter in it. This is a command.”
What a surprise it must’ve been for him, as his eyes widened as soon as I finished speaking, gaze drifting elsewhere. But I kept staring deep into his eyes. Silence didn’t last long this time around; the paper was unfolded and he read it out loud weakly:
“‘Slice the Backstreets when it is most deadly and retrieve four claws from the ones you’ve claimed.’ And it doesn’t superimpose anything.”
The Book wrote post-scriptums to Prescripts more often than I liked. This was not surprising, much unlike the Prescript itself. At first, I frowned and sighed in disappointment: how much I wished that Prescript was my own, how exciting it must’ve been..! As it couldn’t be anything but a Prescript commanding Makarov to survive the Night in the Backstreets.
…
Though, hm, if he were to do this alone, then he’d die. In his shoes, I would as well, I’m unfortunately aware. And nowhere does the Prescript say or imply that it must be done alone, just that he has to be the one to collect all the claws. If that’s the case, then I can participate, and…
…Ah, yes. Something more interesting could be gained from this. Something that could benefit us both; that could make both our Prescripts survivable.
Facing the Sweepers alone was a deathwish. With the combined efforts of a Proxy and a Messenger, it was a gamble. Moreover, nowhere did the Prescript state that he must survive through the entire hour of the Night. And as much as I was excited, as much as I hated to admit this, I knew for a fact that going alone into the Outskirts was as much of a deathwish as facing the Sweepers alone. So, my lips parted with a proposal.
“Nowhere did it specify that you must survive the Sweepers alone. So, let me propose this to you, Makarov: I’ll accompany you and we’ll deal with the Sweepers together,” a pause, “as long as you follow me for further than a day.”
There came silence for a bit, his hazel gaze locked onto mine still.
“You’re assuming I want your help.”
“I’m assuming you can’t survive the Night alone.”
“Do you think that makes it any better?”
“I think I’m just being realistic.”
“And what makes you think I can’t survive the Night?”
“I’m not doubting your power as a Proxy, but who could, really? It’s not just about power, Makarov: no human being can cover all three hundred and sixty degrees of our three-dimensional universe alone. Not even the Capo dei Capi, the strongest Great Sibling you can think of… or any other Star of the City threat. All of them would get overwhelmed quickly and die.”
“You’re underestimating me.”
“You think you’re better than the Capo dei Capi? Don’t let them hear that..!”
“No. I’m implying all of us have different qualities. Who’s to say I’m not…”
A long pause, a sudden sigh. His continuation came abruptly, senselessly.
“…Okay. And what if I get a Prescript while we’re together?”
I wouldn’t reject a form of conceding, though, as strange as it might be. But… fair point. There was a second, maybe two, of consideration to the question.
“Then I will gauge if it’s worth waiting, and we will complete it together if so.”
“And what if it wants us to separate?”
“Then so be it; thus will have proclaimed the Will of the Prescripts.”
His gaze drifted from my own again as he turned on his chair, but my own set of eyes persisted on his figure. His left elbow moved to above the table, arm facing upwards, and his head rested against it, hand pressing his cheek. He was deep in thought. And he remained so for quite the time. Maybe half a minute, maybe a full minute. The Fixer audibly worked in the background in the meantime: there were some beeps, some sounds of electricity, and the light sometimes flickered. But my eyes lay on Makarov even then. Then, suddenly:
“…Okay. Let’s do that.”
A small phrase barely acknowledging the topic, but it was enough. My arms unfolded, my brows unfurrowed, and a sigh escaped in relief.
“…Good.” A commentary that came without a followup for another ten or fifteen seconds. “…Let us discuss exactly how to go about this, then. Tell me exactly what it is you can do.”
“I
Not now.
This kind of exposition is undesirable.
[...] The light seeping through the building slowly turned darker and darker until night fell on the City; and like many other establishments, light turned on instantly as the clock struck 18:00. Some thirty minutes later, the sounds of work stopped, and a Fixer emerged from the back door. Makarov and I nodded to each other and turned towards the woman, a device in her hands.
“It’s here,” a simple sentence as she handed me the device.
The pedometer was a repurposed watch, but a well-repurposed one. It was a pleasant surprise to discover it had a touchscreen and, furthermore, more functionalities than what I initially asked for; it featured a nice interface and was designed in such a way that it focused entirely on benefitting a journey. At that, I nodded a couple of times.
“Isn’t this nice! Thank you,” and my eyes returned to Makarov, ”Makarov, let us go?”
“Yes. It’s about time.” He too rose from his seat, nodding once and saying his respective goodbyes to the Fixer.
“Well, then, goodbye, you two..! Safe journeys. I hope to see you again some day.”
“You will! You… definitely will.” A wink at her and I turned on my heels. Makarov looked at me flatly and with crossed arms, his head shaking in disapproval before he turned around and walked out of the door.
I paid no mind and followed him close behind, stopping at the door and turning on my heels with the compass in hand. It pointed 38 degrees, and so I set that as my north. I figured the starting point was supposed to be where I first read the Prescript, and, annoyingly, it wasn’t in an avenue with a clear defined path, but an entrance to a building. I turned to Makarov.
“Makarov, if you know roads that would cross exactly here if they were extended, follow them. It’ll be easier for me.”
Collinear was the term, but I chose not to complicate wordings this once.
“Right,” he answered. And so I followed close behind, turning on the pedometer.
…it worked nicely. I could save a given segment and subtract or add from the total at any given moment. And this compliment is the most I could say about this segment of our journey. What else is there to say? We walked six kilometers before reaching a collinear avenue, and then spent another ten kilometers on that long avenue. District 25 had a particularly brutalist design that no other District held: every apartment was pure concrete with no paintover or curves or any other semblance of humanity in them. Neither was there any molecule of nature anywhere near, as this concrete jungle was never ever broken down by even the smallest of trees or patches of grass. The Head valued humanity, and yet they created an environment where proper humanity was forbidden.
In the seventeenth kilometer, my eyes trailed from a scared citizen, running at our sight, back to Makarov. Like those moments where you remember you are alive, I was reminded that he wasn’t simply a direction-giver. And like he was aware of my realization,
“What time is it, Selene?”
He spoke, nearly making me jump, so scary that was. He wasn’t mute after all!
“Welcome back, Makarov! It’s 21:23.”
A sigh in annoyance, then silence.
“What is it?”
“Walk faster.”
“Why?”
More silence.
“…You will need to explain things if you want our journey to work.”
“I had a problem and found an answer to it. Why explain?”
“Is it that hard to add a few details every few speeches?”
“No, but it’s stupid to discuss what I already know.”
A pause.
“Fine, but I want to know what troubled you—”
“Figure it out yourself.”
And my mouth opened to speak— to curse, to tell him he’s a motherfucker. But I stopped myself the second before the words left my mouth.
Fine. No need to curse, no need to invoke the Prescript.
Eventually, he left the avenue, and I followed. Another spark of life as he sighed in frustration, but he said nothing, obviously, simply leading me down an alleyway northwards, stopping at an intersection. One look to each side, and he turned right, walked some ten steps, then turned back around, eyes meeting mine for just a fraction of a second before he awkwardly averted his gaze. He walked all the way to the end of this alleyway, and turned northwards again.
It was fun to see him lost or confused after acting so tough.
22:12.
“…You… aren’t lost, are you, Makarov..? We have five hours left.” Even augmented bodies had a limit, after all. He seemed to be exhausted as well, panting.
“…No. I’m just looking for a place to rest.”
Our plan accounted for an hour of rest. But not at this time. Any hindrances on the way could mean not arriving at the lodging in time, but…
…if we kept like this, then we’d just fall to the ground in exhaustion, and die anyway.
“Do you… want to rest now for thirty minutes?”
Silence. He stopped at a deadend, looking around.
“Are you hungry, Selene?”
“Are you tired, Makarov?”
“Aren’t you?”
I closed my eyes and sighed in frustration.
“I guess.”
“Then let’s rest.”
Makarov gestured towards the dusty ground, and I sat first and he second; from a bag he produced a small container, and I did the same. Like everything else, our daily meals were defined by the grace of the Prescripts. I had never gone a day without eating at least three filling meals, but these days…
These days, my meals were terrible.
Cold, mushy. Terrible taste. This meal consisted of many different nutritional sources compressed together into one disgusting loaf. But I couldn’t ask for much more. And at the very least, it was nice to let my legs rest; my posture shifted into laxness, and so did Makarov’s.
My eyes danced around him as I ate. In one bite I looked at his cloak; in another, at half his blade; and in the third, at his hazel eyes. There I opened my mouth to speak. He met my own eyes, raised an eyebrow, a judging gaze upon me—
“M-Ma—… when… a-after we…”
A tilt of his head.
“H-how are…” What was that? All I could do was stutter some incomprehensibilities, but why..? Ah, nevermind. I gave up, closing my mouth. His gaze lingered while mine traced elsewhere, until he eventually averted his eyes as well and, after some seconds, sucked in air to speak. One, two seconds of hesitation, then:
“...Forget it.”
Forget what? My mouth opened, but I didn’t speak; the words simply didn’t leave my mouth. And I tried once, twice. On the third time, I closed my eyes, lowered my head and resumed my meal. Whatever.
Our next five or six minutes were in complete silence and mechanical eating, practically ignoring the other’s presence even after we finished. Two anxious taps in the empty box where once lay the slop, and I threw it away after some seconds of hesitation. Makarov instantly rose after that, as if he was expecting a prompt this whole time, and began to walk.
Annoying shell to crack, he was. I followed hesitantly. At least my legs gave me a break; at least they could hold on their own now, instead of trembling in every step taken.
His maneuvers were cleaner now, returning to the intersection with ease and cleanly making his way through the alleyways — though tunnels was a far better word to describe them. Sometimes they were small, sometimes they were spacious; at times, they were completely covered by interconnected buildings above; they were often damp and full of rats, and their temperature varied from cold to hot to cold many different times. I always despised the alleyways of the City, and the ones in Y Corp were the most disgusting ones of all.
The reward for the claustrophobia was a sprawling avenue that extended as far as the eye could see, though not collinear to our starting position. And it was nearly uncanny to see such a large avenue with no one in it, save for cars that zoomed by in an interval of maybe ten to fifteen minutes. We stuck out like a sore thumb as we walked down the path.
At a point on our walk, my eyes landed on the clock. 00:00. I’m not really sure why, but my heart skipped a beat, my eyes widened, and my heartbeat accelerated. My legs stopped moving and my mouth opened agape, but, ah… of course. None of these things mattered; Makarov hadn’t even noticed.
…but my clock-checking became more frequent then. 00:05, 00:09, 00:12… By the time the clock reached 00:45, I raised an eyebrow. Why was I doing that? My head shook, my mouth opened to speak instinctively, but closed itself immediately. Of course, we had no topic. The intervals in which I checked the clock diminished by then, until I was at my usual checking pace again.
Strange.
Well, didn’t matter.
As the clock struck 01:34, exactly twenty nine kilometers had been walked; a little over an hour and a half stood between us and the Sweepers. Makarov turned right and led me on a particularly strange path from then on, one very tight and dark and full of turns, eventually arriving on an alleyway again — though these were spacious, clean, and lacked the dampness of the others we’d been through. It was the entryway to many apartments, and so it made at least some semblance of sense.
“Time,” he randomly blurted out, nearly making me jump again,
“02:03.”
“We rest for an hour, then.”
He kept moving and I followed along wordlessly. Thankfully, this was the last kilometer we walked: I could see a bright light naming a lodging, written out in the alphabet of Y Corp. As I struggled to read it, Makarov knocked on the door multiple times, and I could watch from the window a blonde-haired white woman sleeping clumsily on a table, mouth open and round glasses ill adjusted. She didn’t wake up. Makarov moved to the window, knocking on it, and only after the fifth round of knockings did she awaken, flailing her arms around pathetically.
Makarov moved to the door and I followed. The woman opened the door and spoke before I could process anything else.
“Makarov!” Her brows furrowed, eyes locking with the man as she adjusted her glasses.
“Speak, Selene.”
“…Good night, lady. Would you mind letting us in?”
“…guess not.”
She got out of the way and I entered with Makarov behind me. Torches illuminated and gave warmth to the inside, plants and paintings decorated the interior quite well, and there seemed to be a bar to the right side, but I barely paid any mind to what was inside; I was mostly happy to be out of the streets again.
“Sorry for the trouble so late at night. We’re two travellers in a dire situation. We’d like lodging here for one night, and for a favor, if you’re interested.”
She crossed her arms, looking back and forth between me and Makarov. “Go on.”
“Makarov has a Prescript commanding him to collect the claws of four Sweepers. We want you to maintain your door open and—”
“HELLO?” She chimed in, eyes widening and body rocking forward. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“…They won’t come in.”
“So? Y’think it’s good for business to let all that sound in? I paid so much money for these I-Corp sound-blocking thingies! Not a sound comes in from outside here!”
She had a slight, very slight southern accent. U Corp, maybe? Strange.
“Okay. How much is each room?”
She backed away and locked the door behind us. “I got a room for two startin’ at 35000 Ahn. I should make the price higher since Makarov’s involved…” She turned to look at him and then back at me, “but you’re a pretty person, so that cancels it out.”
My hands moved to my pocket and I started counting money, not acknowledging the compliment. It was basic intuition anyways. “Let’s do it like so, then. You can keep the door closed, but I’ll knock when we’re done, and you’ll open it. You and your clients will hear the trampling for maybe a second and I doubt any will be awakened. And, since you woke from the window, I imagine you’ll hear our knocks with the proximity, yes?”
I extended my hand forward with the 35000 Ahn, but didn’t open the hand just yet.
“Uh-huh,” She nodded mockingly, eyes locking onto the money and my hand, “And why should I help you?”
“You’ll lose clientele if you don’t. You’ll lose the money in my hand. Isn’t that valuable to you?”
Silence. Her eyes didn’t leave mine, but every second she hunched over more and more, until she groaned right as she was about to fall on the ground. Her head lifted upward then, and she rolled her eyes.
“Ughhhh… What time even is it..?” She looked at a clock on the wall. “Damn… you want me to be awake for an hour… but… shiit.” She swayed to and fro. “Yeah. I need that money. Sure, whatever… just… eh, wake me up when the time’s right.”
She grabbed the money as soon as I opened my hand and then moved to the table, sitting on a chair and lazily setting her head atop it again. A hand searched beneath it while the other stored the money somewhere, and as she produced a key, I took it and nodded.
“Good night, then.” And as I turned on my heel…
“By the way, Elena,” Makarov suddenly said assertively, ”Are you housing any Middle members today?”
“What?! No! Haven’t housed any for some time now… don’t like ‘em, think I got myself in the book.”
“Great,” Makarov turned on his heel as well.
As I began to walk, he followed.
“Have you gotten yourself into problems with the Middle in the past?” My question came as I walked up a set of stairs.
“Haven’t you?”
“I asked first. Tell me what you did.”
“A Big Sister got in my way, once.”
“And?”
“That sums it up well. Now answer me.”
At the end of the corridor lay our room. I entered the key and opened the door as I replied. “Not that I’m aware of.”
It was no use talking to him, so I entered the room; and it was nothing to write home about. Wooden floor, two beds each on opposite sides of the wall, a bathroom to the side left, and mirrored decoration: a nightstand, a drawer, and torches to illuminate the room and provide warmth. This was commonplace in Y Corp: it was cheaper to maintain and doubled as a heat source.
To be honest, it could be a hole in the wall, and I’d still find this delightful when compared to the Backstreets at night. I checked the clock — 02:13 — and slowly walked over to the nearest bed, taking off my coat and neatly placing it atop a nightstand. It could’ve been the exhausting walk, but the bed was much more comfortable than what I had anticipated. It felt fluffy, light, the kind that you sank in as soon as you laid down. But my comfort was only physical.
“...It’s exactly an hour until our time of judgment, Makarov. And we have fifty minutes of rest.”
I barely got my deserved rest before I rose to a seat. Makarov made his way to the opposite bed and laid there after removing his shoes and cape.
“Yes,” he said.
“Now, Makarov, there’s something important we need to talk abou—”
“…Where are you trying to get to now?” He too rose to a seat, eyes looking at me.
A sigh in exasperation. “...You’ve been insufferable all night long, Makarov. I’m trying to work together with you, and you just—”
“No, that’s not what you’re doing. You keep asking me intrusive questions all the time as if we didn’t just meet.”
“I never asked you any—”
“You asked me about the Middle. You asked me about my own Prescripts. Are you gonna tell me these aren’t intrusive questions?”
My eyes widened if only for a fraction of a second and I hesitated.
“…But it’s fine when you do it? It’s fine when you force me to tell you about my past? Maybe… Maybe I went overboard. But would it have hurt to tell me earlier instead of deflecting?”
“They’re completely different situations, Selene—”
“How so?”
“If only you’d let me talk,” he widened his eyes and grit his teeth as if containing anger, “You ask me stupid questions. I ask you what’s crucial for my survival. Is that hard to understand?”
“It isn’t. But it’s stupid, Makarov. We’re Y Corp citizens, Index members where the Middle dominates, but here you are turning everything into a transaction. What’s so harmful about getting to know each other? Or, rather… about getting to know the person you’ll probably spend months with?”
He retreated just slightly, eyes widening not in anger this time but in a softening gesture, clearly accidental as he quickly recomposed himself into neutrality.
“...I don’t want us to grow attached. Is that too much to ask for?” Spoken weakly, lacking the assertiveness of before.
“It is. What purpose does it serve?”
“You’re optimistic we’ll stay together. I’m not. People come and go all the time. Why’s it gonna be different this time?”
“Let’s assume that’s true. We’d have a relationship deeper than mutual toleration for two, three days, and then go our separate ways. What’s so terrible about that?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
He didn’t answer, eyes locking with mine instead. Four, five, six seconds. His eyes moved elsewhere and then the whole head followed. I didn’t press.
Eleven, twelve seconds. His lips parted. Fourteen seconds; he spoke. “Fine.” Bluntly, barely acknowledging me. But I gave a faint smile all the same: no person hesitates for that long if it means nothing at all.
“Okay, let’s eat!” A pause as I looked around. “ …How do you find the food here?”
“…Good, but Elena’s not gonna sell anything at this hour.”
“Eh… she’s probably asleep again, right?”
He nodded.
“Fine. I had planned a light meal for now anyways.”
“Yeah.” He had put his bag near the nightstand, but now stretched over to grab another ready meal, smaller than before. I repeated the same steps.
My mouth opened to speak, to ask how he was feeling. But I stopped myself. No, not now. Makarov needed time, and I’d just be pushy again. That didn’t stop him from looking at me and raising an eyebrow, and to stop this from becoming a repeat of the alleyway episode, I turned my head over to the box of food, opening it. Dinner was a little more palatable: meat pelmeni, seasoned with highly synthetic and metallic-tasting spices. Makarov quietly did the same, and his seemed to be… normal. Minced meat mixed in with something else, but it looked appetizing, unlike mine.
Our meal was silent, and I let it be that way. Not a strange look was sent his way and neither did he send any; his expressions easened, his brows no longer furrowed and his lips no longer downturned, and the gestures were mirrored from my side. This was fine. I liked to hold onto the belief that it was some sort of progress.
The last of the artificially filled pelmeni slid down my throat, and I tossed the box in the nearest trash can I could find. A habit led me to take hold of the book. Obviously, there was nothing to be found. I stared at it all the same, at the narration it insisted on writing in real time. “[...] remained motionless, gazing with high expectations at the Book. As if unaware of the book’s circumstances and its inner workings, the Messenger wished for a Prescript to fall out of the sky unannounced."
…Of course. Not everything can change so suddenly.
A large thud as it was closed and stored away, and I clock-checked, “02:24. And there’s nothing new.” Makarov stared at me expectantly, and nodded simply when I delivered the news, lying on the bed. I laid down, too, stretching my arms and legs and slowly closed my eyes, a dangerous gamble I was willing to make, until, suddenly,
“How are you feeling, Selene?”
I opened my eyes immediately.
“A-ah?” A pause. “Uh… in general?”
“No. About the Sweepers.”
“Hm,” I paused. ”I’m excited. I’ve always wanted to witness the Sweepers, but I never found a reason until now.”
“…That’s something only someone who’s never seen or heard of the Sweepers would say, Selene.” He sounded disappointed, if not a bit worried.
“I guess so. But what’s so terrible about being excited for a new experience? If that excitement causes greater disappointment, then so be it.”
“Is that your reason for following Prescripts?”
“Spot-on. And yours would be?”
“Who’s to say?”
I sighed. Old habits die hard, I guess.
“But yours is interesting,” he continued, “Usually we’re just lost people who find purpose in following the Prescripts.
“You’re not indirectly telling your reason, are you?”
“No.”
“Good. I’d be heavily disappointed in you if that was the case— in part because it’d be useless guarding, but mostly because the reason is unfathomably weak.”
He let out a short, almost hesitant chuckle, but kept silent. I continued.
“So, how are you feeling, Makarov?”
He paused. “Fine.”
“Fine,” I knew that wasn’t the full extent of it, but it was best not to press. “I see. That’s good.”
Neither of us continued the conversation further. I enjoyed what was left of the rest period fighting my own drowsiness, constantly moving in the bed to stop myself from sleeping. I figured Makarov would wake me if it did happen, but I’d rather not risk it. Ten minutes passed, then twenty, then thirty. 02:59. I rose to a seat to find a Makarov with his eyes closed, and as I stood up, they opened and immediately locked onto me.
“Is it time?”
“It’s time.”
“Alright. Stick to the plan. Let’s descend.”
We put on our capes and strapped our weapons in tandem. A gesture for him to follow and I led the way out of our room. Step, step, step… nearly an hour of rest does have wondrous effects, it seems: where I once stumbled around without even noticing, now I walked with the same efficiency as the average person. And my movements in general felt lighter; the only complaint I had was my worsening perception from the sleep deprivation. But there was nothing that could be done.
As we arrived in the lounge, we found an Elena sleeping as soundly as when we first met her. I moved up to her table and knocked on it thrice. She cartoonishly woke up with a scream, flailing her arms around just like before.
“WHO’S— Ah! Motherfuckers! Okay. Damn, is it time already? I thought I could sleep some more…”
I checked the clock. “It’s precisely eleven minutes until our hour of judgement. We’ll need you to stay awake and guard the door. Listen to the knocks and open it. Just for further confirmation, even with the technology you’re employing, you should still hear sounds outside if you listen close enough, yes?”
“Uh… yeah, I guess. If it doesn’t work, I’ll open the door after, uh… five minutes? ‘s that enough?”
I looked over at Makarov for assurance. He nodded.
“Yes,” I replied.
“ ‘kay.”
She rose from her seat sluggishly, picking up the wooden chair she sat at and placing it right beside the door. After she was done, I moved towards the door with Makarov close behind me, a hand on the knob.
A big sigh, and my eyes closed. Slowly I turned on the knob and pushed the door, opening my eyes to find the familiar nocturnal streets: peaceful, without a single person or even animal in sight. Some trash littered the streets, some trash soon to be cleaned by our judges. The temperature had reached its lowest point and the colder air made me pull my cape closer to my body, and as usual I could see the breath that escaped my lungs. One of my hands took hold of my book as I finally stepped out of the building with Makarov close behind.
Eight minutes. I attempted to ignore the cold and wielded my rapier.
Seven minutes. I checked the Book. Annoyingly, nothing.
Six minutes. I kept staring at the book.
Five minutes. I gave up. I distanced that hand, entering my usual fighting position.
Four minutes. Makarov unsheathed only half his scissorblade.
Three minutes. I wasn’t so sure, but I might’ve been hearing trampling in the distance.
Two minutes. My heartbeat accelerated to a rate I’d never seen before.
One minute.
"Do not turn around until seven minutes have passed.”
Motherfucker.
And the lodging just had to have its entrance right at an intersection. Thank you!
“Makarov,” I began, “You’ll- you’ll need to cover my back. I can’t turn around. Can you do that?”
“A Prescript?”
“Of course it’s a Prescript!”
“Right.”
Thirty seconds. Makarov moved from my side to behind me.
Ten seconds. Wasn’t the sound of trampling supposed to be heightened by now?
One second.
And then, 3:13.
I still stood by what I said to Makarov. I was excited at the thought of meeting the Sweepers, but now this excitement was only a small, small fraction of what I was truly feeling. I trembled, I breathed rapidly still. And there were no Sweepers out in the Backstreets.
3:13:30. I’m glad that Makarov couldn’t see how much I trembled.
3:14. There it is. The trampling again.
3:14:10. And it’s… it’s getting louder.
3:14:22. Louder and louder by the second, and—
3:14:26. They’re here.
As this indescribable mass of indisputably non-human bodies turned onto the road we were standing, I noticed what I was feeling, finally. It was anxiety.
If I wasn’t already vaguely aware of how the Sweepers looked, I wouldn’t be able to tell they weren’t just one singular body mass. Their body seemed metallic, the kind of metallic you only find in cheap prosthetics, and their weapons and eyes were bright, bright red. Behind each of them was this sometimes large, sometimes small tube of goo, presumably blood. They trampled over each other, some stopped to liquefy the trash that people had thrown out in the streets, but I knew that they weren’t just cleaners. There’s something that they very much wanted, and something that only us on that road could provide.
The first few line of Sweepers had arrived. They weren’t any less terrifying up close than from afar. Between hurried breaths and eyes so widened they might as well jump out of my body, I perforated the head of one of them, slashed the other cleanly off, defended a hook attack with my book and thrusted my rapier deep inside its… skull… or whatever that was; all felt like liquid, and two of them dismantled like liquid, but not the one that attached itself to my book. I saw it remake itself right before my very eyes.
What was that?
I’d heard it in stories. Fragments, rather. They could do that. But it always seemed like bullshit to me. The Head would never allow something so bizarre to exist in the City, but—
A hook raised to strike me in the head. Whatever, man! That doesn’t matter!
A parry, and a following desperate flurry of attacks liquefied the Sweeper before me— ena, five to go. Some others ignored me in lieu of Makarov, who dealt with them swiftly, or maybe passed through us both, I couldn’t tell; five stepped up, and three lunched the bodies of the Sweepers I had just claimed. Wait. A thought hit me: the claws! But, ah— as according to the plan, Makarov would collect them. As I ducked the hook-strike of one of them and kicked it to the ground, I heard clashing steel behind me; and as I stomped on its head, the sound of liquefaction was doubled. Makarov was fighting fine. That’s what I wanted to believe.
I unleashed a flurry of punctures in the remaining Sweeper. It liquefied. I advanced a step towards the three lunching their fallen allies, and sliced cleanly through the head of one of them; the other two immediately rushed towards me, and as I parried the hook of one I kicked the scythe of the other. Dio, four to go. Two stabs was all it took—
And I suddenly felt something nailing through my back. It pierced two layers of Nuovo Fabric and started dissolving the skin around where it hit. And, ah, I should’ve been expecting something of the sorts, or at least expecting the unexpectable. But as it stood, nothing prepared me for the strange, terrific sensation that was being dissolved, if only partially: it felt as if the coldest of waters ran through my skin and, eventually, my blood; and yet, in the most ironic of dichotomies, it burnt like fire. I shivered, I screamed; and I felt this sensation for a full second before it stopped, before Makarov liquefied the perpetrator.
“My bad, Selene!”
“Argh, shit! It’s… it’s alright, Makarov! Thanks..!”
A parry against an incoming attack. What was taking Makarov so long? A thrust into the torso of another— no, not there, fuck! Two more on its head, and it liquefied. That was my seventh. Behind me, I could hear multiple Sweepers liquefied all at once. If he had such a good-fit weapon, then..?—
I ducked over a claw and pierced the attacker at the same time, liquefying it instantly— wait! Oh! This was the first to have an actual claw..! It had to have been literal..!
Ah… That was fine. We’d only have to endure for more time, that’s what it meant. With the wall of the establishment to my right, The Sweepers this time tried to surround me and pin me against the wall, that much I could tell; but I couldn't handle it with the limitation I had.
Ah, fuck it. I’ll just have to make do.
Two Sweepers approached from the left, nearly exiting my peripheral view, while two others approached from the front. I stood completely still at first, standing with a high guard. Then, just as the two to my left tried to strike me, I lunged backwards,
hitting Makarov, who lost balance and screamed.
I should’ve heard him. I should’ve figured he was right behind me! One look at the clock told me it was 03:16. Nowhere near enough seven minutes. I couldn’t even turn around to help him, if worse came to worse.
“Are you alright?! Did you fall?!” At least things went better on my side. My plan worked in a vacuum: I could see all the Sweepers now, and kicked and slashed and pierced through each one of them. Tria, three more to go. Two recomposed themselves, but I was able to quickly deal with their reassembled forms.
“No, and no!” Makarov replied with clearly gritted teeth, and I could hear an ample splashing sound as he did something, presumably slashing through multiple Sweepers at once, with… some sort of effectiveness.
“On better news, I got one of the claws..! Argh!” He continued.
“And I have one on my side, but I don’t think you can come over here to pick it up…”
“No shot!”
“Alright..!”
One claw in two minutes. Assuming a continuous rate, we’d collect four of them at 3:22. Six whole minutes from now… and two minutes after the expiration of this current Prescript. Okay. We could handle that.
A single sweeping attack from me took down multiple at once — tessera, two to go. I had never stopped the fighting even as I mentally calculated our rate, and I finished just in time to prepare for the following horde, double the size of the one I’d just fought. A third of them dedicated their time to sweeping their allies; the other advanced all at once at me, and I did another sweeping attack as I lunged to the right. Two of them recomposed their bodies and left my vision, supposedly turning to Makarov; but as soon as they did so, I could hear their liquefaction just close nearby. The stragglers were easier to handle: a series of cuts and slashes was all it took.
“Two!” Makarov exclaimed.
I gave a quick glance at the clock. 3:17. One minute early.
“That’s good to he—”
"Close your left eye. Slash the hook and puncture the pickaxe. Engage physically with the claw and throw them to the other side.”
It didn’t help that it was such a hindering prescript in the midst of the battle, it just had to be a mouthful, too. By the time I finished reading, there were already five Sweepers beside me. I had to look at each of their individual weapons with half my vision and my perception of depth gone and act accordingly, and I couldn’t say that I didn’t struggle.
I slashed the first of the hook users too early, and overextended myself. Two pickaxe wielders raised their weapons up high, but I quickly kicked them back before they descended on me. I rose with a jump, very careful not to turn even in the slightest angle, and punctured the other pickaxe user that approached me right through its head—
then, again I felt something puncturing my flesh, and that strange cold water sensation of before. But it lasted for an even shorter period as I heard liquefying noises from my side. Makarov saved me just in time, even if I couldn’t see it.
…I wonder if that was intentional.
No matter.
“Argh! Thanks!”
“It’s fine. Just be more careful…”
I wish it was as simple as that.
The remaining Sweeper received two slashes in quick succession as I nearly stumbled forward again, and then another set came. Four clumsy slashes, one direct puncture, and the last had a claw.
I deliberately culled all others before this one. Three other Sweepers advanced, and one of them took their time cleaning the fallen. They were distant enough to me and this Sweeper that was now attempting to strike my head in full. I grabbed the claw midair, grasped the Sweeper by its waist or whatever that was, and threw it over me as strongly and quickly as I possibly could. And here’s two interesting things about Sweepers: they are incredibly light, and they feel terrible to the touch, as if they are one slimy, strange liquid.
“Makarov! I threw one at you! One with a claw! Get it!”
“Onto it.”
And then—
"Good job.”
A Prescript was cleared. Judging by the time — 3:18 — it could only be the latter one. Suddenly, I felt refreshed, tranquillized; weirdly… acknowledged. The drowsiness I was constantly suffering hadn’t disappeared, but it was significantly reduced. And so, as a Sweeper jumped towards me, quickened reflexes and depth perception from the eye I could now open meant slashing through that Sweeper midair like butter. Pende. One more…
“Three. But I see another one. Give me twenty seconds. Can you move closer to the door?”
The door. Come to think of it, five minutes had already passed and Elena hadn’t so much as opened it, despite the promise. No matter. Without turning around, I retreated backwards slowly, parrying and riposting attacks of Sweepers, until I could see the door in my peripheral vision. And then,
“Open it!” Makarov spoke as I dealt with a recomposed Sweeper.
“Cover me!”
It was a near sin to do so during a battle, but it was the best option I had: I stored the Book in a pocket and used that free hand to knock on the door with as much force as I could. I did this repeatedly even as I was fending off Sweepers, but nothing.
The clock struck 3:19. Seven minutes had passed and I again could feel that surge of adrenaline coursing through me; another Prescript had been fulfilled. I had no reason to turn around just now, though. I kept knocking.
“Makarov, she won’t answer! What should I do?!”
“Try opening it, I don’t know! Maybe she left the door open!”
Unlikely. But with no better option, I tried to open the door myself. Obviously, it wouldn’t bulge.
Another set of knocks. One Sweeper managed to hook itself onto my free arm and I grit my teeth in pain, but I was able to slash its head off before it could liquefy any sizable portion of me. Nobody answered the door.
Nobody was going to.
I don’t think Elena left us out here to die on purpose. She was quick to sleep, she likely overworked herself all day and just wanted to rest. That’s fine. She fucked up, we all do that.
But. I wasn’t going to let that fuck up cost me my life, was I? A broken promise awards another broken promise. And so…
“Yeah, fuck it.” With my arm paradoxically burning from that cold sensation, I utilized my three-dimensional rights to look towards the door, distancing myself from it just slightly. I breathed in, breathed out— and kicked the door with full force, striking the area close to the door knob.
The door fell down with no resistance. Makarov gasped audibly. Elena, who was indeed sleeping beside the door, fell from the chair in her awakening, and they both screamed in unison:
“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?”
“Shush, Elena. Makarov, come on in.”
And I sure did. I didn’t wait for Makarov’s confirmation, nor did I look back to see how he was doing. I didn’t need to. Not one second after, I could see him come after me running, sweaty, but surprisingly unhurt with one large exception: the back of his cloak was soaked in blood, as he was presumably hit by a hook.
“Selene. Selene, Selene!” Makarov looked at me as I looked out to the road, the sound of trampling inundating the room. “Do you know what you just did? Do you have any clue what you just did? This isn’t—”
“...M-Makarov… hang on for a moment.” I stood right beside the door. A Sweeper walked — not run, walked, — right to the front of the door, looked inside,
tilted its head,
and moved on.
“I didn’t break any taboo. I didn’t destroy any residential area. Just a front door. Now help me close it.”
“How—” Makarov was surprised, speechless. There wasn’t any good argument against a Sweeper ignoring the supposedly-broken residence and the taboo breaker inside, but that didn’t stop him from being confused. That was fine.
As I crouched to try and raise the door, I could see an Elena crouching on the corner of the room, holding a shotgun. And Makarov didn’t come to help me. That was fine, too.
“I… I will admit, though. I did employ more force than I intended, maybe because of Prescript compliance.”
No response. By a miracle, or really good framework, the door just barely stood in place, but it didn’t close. Sounds were just barely muffled. Certainly the rooms above wouldn’t be able to hear anything, at least.
I turned around, finally, to find a Makarov with a tired and worried expression. He breathed rapidly, his posture was crooked to the front, and he weakly wielded one of his swords. He was speechless. So was Elena. I turned towards her.
“…look, my bad. I’ll fix your door. Well, I’ll pay someone to fix it. No, I’ll double the money necessary for the trouble caused too. I-is that okay?”
“…d-does it look like it’s fucking okay?” She replied, her expressions denouncing fear.
“What’s done is done. I’m just trying to make up for it.”
“Y-you…” She paused. “…fuck it, man, do whatever the fuck you want. I-I don’t have time for this. Y’sure the Sweepers aren’t gonna come in?”
“If they haven’t now, they won’t later.”
“Damn it, man… holy fuck…” She placed the shotgun on her lap, burying her hands in her face.
I turned to Makarov. He spoke first.
“…you know what, Selene? I would’ve done the same thing.” He sighed in disappointment and gave a deathly glance at Elena, who was rising and walking to a backdoor, trembling. “You aren’t the one at fault. Neither of us. Now let’s go rest… I need to store these claws. And take a break.”
“You aren’t going to tend to your wounds?”
“Once we get there.”
“Alright.”
I sighed in exhaustion. I put up the toughest appearance I could, but I was done with today. The only saving grace was that Makarov was understanding of me.
He led the way and I followed. When we got to our room, he took out a small case from his bag and stored the claws in there, but he kept digging in the bag.
“Where are you hurt, Selene?”
“My back and my right arm. Why? Are you going to say you have a K Corp ampule with you?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t waste it with those wounds. But I have something close enough. Do you mind taking off your shirt?”
“I don’t.”
No reason not to. I took off my cape, then all other layers of clothing I wore underneath, and finally untied my shirt. Makarov produced a strange spray from his things and gestured for me to put my arm forward. I did. Sweeper wounds are truly a nasty thing: part of my arm looked entirely liquid, and the two places of impact were like a crater, but the layers of fabric made the wound not as deep and deadly as it could’ve otherwise been.
I don’t think it helped, and likely neither did Makarov, but he began this impromptu treatment by cleaning the arm wounds. As he did so, he spoke.
“Are you still excited, Selene? You’re trembling.”
I—
I was?
A look downwards, and I noticed my legs wouldn’t stop in place. A nervous chuckle escaped me as I attempted to stop, but it was of no use. “Y-yeah… my body and mind disagree sometimes, is all.”
“If you say so.”
A shrug and he sprayed that liquid all over the wounds; and it stung. Worse than that, it felt as if the pain was coming back, the same pain of before, and so I grit my teeth.
“W-where’d you even find this..?”
“Somewhere.”
Of course. At least I could see that it was doing something: the crater was disappearing, and my flesh was turning back to normal.
“…well, thank you. Will you do it on my back as well?”
“Yes. Turn around.”
And so I did. He repeated the processes, and the pain came along too. But it was better than having that strange wound on me.
“All done. If you want, you may shower first. I’ll apply this on myself.”
Showering. With all that happened, I didn’t even think about something so trivial as showering. But it would be the last time I’d ever get the chance to do something like that, and so I nodded simply and headed to the sole bathroom our room had equipped.
It was small. Just a shower, a toilet, and a mirror. But it didn’t need to be anything else. At the very least, we could control the temperature of the water; and as I turned it on, I sighed. Adrenaline died down as water trickled down my body, and the exhaustion piled up. What a day it had been. At least everything I immediately set out to do was resolved: one Prescript was concluded, and Makarov was growing amicable. Even if we departed tomorrow, I’d still feel realized.
Yeah.
I would.
I finished taking a shower. I took off the water from my body, and changed clothes into something more casual; since I would sleep I wouldn’t need the uniform, even if I was in the presence of another Index member. But as a minimal counterexample to what I had just thought of, I arrived in our room to find a fully uniformed Makarov, storing the claws in that bag of his. But my brain barely registered that. I headed over to my bed, fell face flat on the pillow, hid the book deep below it and—
…started coughing uncontrollably.
A skip of my heartbeat, too. Between coughs I dug into the pillow I’d hid the Book, grasping it with force and opening it swiftly. And, as I knew would happen,
"Within seventy-two hours, turn a stranger into a companion.”
A Prescript waited for me.
But I was afforded some time, at the very least. The fit of coughing stopped, and my peripheral vision allowed me to see Makarov staring at me from his own bed. I didn’t acknowledge him. I closed the book and stored it where it belonged as my breath slowly recovered.
It did make me wonder, however, if I’d have to deliver anything else tomorrow, or if the Prescripts would prioritize my journey. With the thought in mind, and an earnest attempt to ignore Makarov’s judging gaze certainly still on me, I feel asleep.