Chapter Text
They told him it was his thirty-third birthday. It had been twenty years he had been employed with them, and he supposed that this was believed to be a reason to celebrate. But he didn’t know his exact date of birth, nor did he care to celebrate it. He was cybernetic, he didn’t age the same as ordinary people anymore. Birthday celebrations were meant for people with families, with friends – ordinary humans. He was far from ordinary. He examined his hand, glove removed, dating his flesh back as the data scrolled through his vision. Thirty-three years. His gaze shifts to the prosthetic, robotic arm on his right – three years. He recently had his arm redesigned. In times of peace, there was no use having a cannon for an arm. He’d recently had his arm enhanced and he was due for an upgrade in the next few days (maintenance done semi-annually).
They told him it was his thirty-third birthday. He received a medal on his desk commending him for his twenty years of service. On his desk, there was an envelope as well. Violet in color, lovely, curled handwriting on the card. He was thirty-three years of age; he received his first birthday card. From a stranger.
His past was hazy still. He could not recall anything prior to his employment. He knows he was a child soldier, but he had been informed he was an orphan; his parents were dead and he was an only child. He had no one and the Pig Masked soldiers had taken him in, given him a home. He was told he was on the brink of death when they found him. They had given him a life. A purpose. The only thing he had eventually recalled from his past was his name: Claus. But he dared not use that name. He did not have one, nor did he need one.
He sits at his desk and removes the medal from its case and pins it on his uniform -- sleek, dark grey with gold trim and white buttons, adorned with medals and pins for his service. Behind him on the wall, two decorative weapons. Although they were hardly decorative. One, a translucent, golden sword, glimmering and manufactured from an engineered hybrid material that you care not to know the value of. Beneath it, what looks like a rapier, a needle to be precise, but it looks like it should be used for fencing. This was more a trophy than anything, retrieved from the ground after he struck down the single force trying to stop him in his mission. It had been hard to preserve as its magical energy was supposed to dissipate with its release.
He had never received a birthday card before. He’s a professional, so he retrieves the letter opener (a gift for his tenth year of service) from his desk and tears open the envelope. He scans the paper -- homemade, an art form in and of itself now. Made from recycled scrap paper. Impressive -- before he slides the card from its encasement. However, he is greeted with a superfluous explosion of glitter and confetti, littering itself upon his desk. He does not need to scan to know this will take a long time to clean up.
He has any number of soldiers and lackeys at his disposal but he chooses not to call them to clean up the mess. Now and then he doesn’t mind cleaning up messes; enjoys it even. So he tidies up before he settles down to see the card. He won’t lie that he’s somewhat excited. Excited? Oh, he has not felt that in a long time…
Perhaps it’s anxiety as well, again, another feeling he had not since felt since his youth; he scans the room for more glitter hoping to prolong the inevitable. The problem with being a cyborg is that you are the only thing capable in all existence that can clean up ever spec of a glitter bomb. It’s a fate that he must deal with, and a lonely path he must walk. Nevertheless, he holds the card within his hand. There are a few granules of glitter left on its surface but he cannot be distracted by the need to clean them now. He’s dawdled enough and it’s time to open his card.
Of course, he somewhat wished he hadn’t as he reads the text inside.
So, I figure it’s about time someone gives you shit for everything you did. Seriously, you’ve got some nerve.
Ah, so it was hate mail. This, he was no stranger to.
I should have been spending my teen years having fun, enjoying the cusp of adulthood, living my best life. But no, thanks to you, I had to hold a dying child in my arms. Does that haunt you, ya son of a bitch? Actually, no, that’s a huge insult to your mom. You’re just a complete, utter piece of shit. I didn’t know your mom, but I knew of her. I knew that she died for you. I knew that in the end, her sacrifice for you was in vain.
Well, this was just crass, now wasn’t it?
You’re probably thinking, ‘Wow this is some crass writing,” at this point, huh? Well it is, and I don’t really care! You ruined the lives of so many people -- and don’t get me started on what your stupid army has done recently. Holding an entire world hostage with that needle? Dangling the threat of pulling it if any of us so much as slip up and voice our opinions? That’s shallow. That’s even low for villains. Villains would have just pulled the damn thing and let the Dark Dragon consume us all! But no, your stupid army is torturing us. You got a lot of enemies out here and the second I get my chance, I’ll gladly show you all what for!
Certainly bold. Voicing an opinion while speaking about fear of opinions. He had to admit, the person who sent this had some courage.
But this isn’t about the world. As much as I would like it to be. It’s about you. It’s about something I promised someone years ago. It’s about who you are. I promised someone very important to me that I’d try and find out the truth about you. And I found out. I know who you are. Or, well, who you were .
Well, this certainly has his attention.
I’d love to tell you in writing. But I have no idea how much those freaks monitor your mail. Somewhere in the glitter, I hit a note with where to meet me. You better come. Coward.
And never, in his entire life, had he opted to make a mess so quickly. He scrambled to his feet and snatched the vacuum from the corner, ripping the bag from its place, sending dust, glitter, line and amongst it all, a small slip of paper with the words Osohe Castle .
(He thinks, hadn’t Osohe been demolished…? No matter. He would investigate.)
Sitting on the floor, now an absolute disaster full of bits of shimmering plastic, dust bunnies and filth, he stares at the small sheet of paper. It was out near Tazmily. Again? He thought that village had been destroyed ages ago. All that was there now was a bunch of abandoned buildings, an old cemetery and the castle ruins. People still lived out that way...Master Porky assured him he had no reason to return.
But, he wondered…
Curiosity wasn’t an emotion, it was an itch to scratch. And he found that the itch was starting to consume him. He’d leave immediately -- alright, not immediately. He had a mess to clean up first. And a shower to take.
He had come to find that he enjoyed wearing his full military regalia whenever he went out to investigate a tip. Medals all affixed to his uniform, gloves worn, collar pressed and cape adorned to trail behind him. Maybe capes were passé, but he enjoyed the look of them. Freshly dressed and prepared, he descended the floors of the tower in which he lived and worked and began to walk down the long hallways and corridors toward the hangar where the various air carriers were located. He had no intentions of bringing anyone more than necessary with him. He was capable of flying himself to Tazmily, but. . .
effort
.
With two pilots in tow, both in the simplest of military dress, he strode toward the entrance of a small craft, suited for only four people, the hatch open for him to enter.
“Where are we headed, commander?” one of the soldiers asked, saluting to him, somewhat nervous as if he were overstepping.
“The Tazmily ghost town.” he spoke coldly.
“Why there?” the other asked, also saluting hastily.
“I received a tip.”
The two, a few feet behind him chatter between themselves for a moment before rushing up to keep in step with him. He pays little mind to their apprehension.
“Isn’t that place haunted now?”
“Yeah, I heard it’s cursed.”
“People say there’s some kind of monster there.”
“No monster can be as terrifying as what we’ve created.” He interrupts their panic quickly, turning to face them, cybernetic eye glowing bright (the eye cannot do anything but scan environments, but it comes in very handy for intimidating people who don’t know its capabilities).
“But what is there, sir?” one of them asks as he steps into the craft, settling into one of the seats, arms crossed pensievely across his chest.
“I heard a tip, some sort of resistance.” He says coldly. “A possible threat, but most likely nothing. If it’s a threat, I wish to eradicate it before it can spread to the masses.”
The pilots board and he gazes out the small, oval window as the gate to the hangar opens for them to leave. He has no intention of harming the sender of the letter. Could it be a trap? Quite possibly. But the temptation of learning about his origins were so strong. Besides. If it was a trap to lure him in, to attack him -- to kill him. They wouldn’t stand a chance.
Upon arrival, it’s beyond evident that this region is in disarray. No one lived here anymore, and with good reason. There was nothing here. Wildlife had run rampant. No one wanted to be in this mess. Why someone would be living in Osohe Castle still was beyond understanding. But squatters would be squatters, he supposed, and there was little reason to come in with an eviction notice.
The soldiers that had accompanied him had opted to remain with the craft. With the number of chimeras, both organic due to suspected radiation, or fabricated, due to military interference, it was smart to stay guarded. He knew better. He knew how to take care of himself. He was equipped for that. No, he was designed for it. He could not be scared off by chimeras, hostile or not.
The main hall of Osohe Castle is the same as he’d seen on records. Old, worn down carpet on either side of the hall leading to places off to the side; he cared not their destination. Upon the floor, an intricate marble engraving that he could not fathom being easy to clean. Before him a short hallway leading to another section of hallway. The sender of his letter did not specify where to meet. Frustrating.
“
Alright so get your ass through the door on your left and stop standing around like an idiot. We got a lot to talk about
.” The voice is neither spoken, nor a sensation but he turns to examine a possible source regardless. But he heeds the instruction, prepared to activate the sensors on his arm to transform it into a cannon to strike if the need arose.
As he enters the door to his left, he enters what appears to be a modest library of sorts, a few couches and coffee table decorated the center with shelves upon shelves of books laid into the walls. A few end tables sat around, books opened to pages studied and scrawled on. Lights sat upon the tables as well, some candles, some electric and battery powered. At the far end, a woman, perhaps in her forties had her back turned to him, book in her hand.
“You know, I wasn’t actually expecting you to come so fast.” She says, closing the book. Her hair is long, to her mid back and a striking shade of magenta (familiar, he finds himself noting).There’s a few loose braids tied in with her hair, none seeming to have any real means of tying them off, possibly tied in place out of boredom. She’s dressed somewhat earthly, a dark, plum poncho (or perhaps scarf? He doesn’t know fashion) draped over her shoulders, covering the top of a long, grey and lavender dress and loose fitting pants. He suspects she’s dressed more for comfort than style, but he is not one to judge. He doesn’t own any clothing but his military attire, so he couldn’t complain. There’s a faint growling noise before she can speak further as a small, brown dog comes bounding out from at her feet, having been resting on a pair of tan, fur trimmed boots. The dog lunges, but it does not attack, growling at him as if he were an enemy. Well, he sort of was, now wasn’t he?
“Easy, Bonnie.” The woman says as she faces him, her eyes a piercing shade of purple? Blue? It’s hard to tell. Her arm raises, finger twirling before she points at his feet, sending a chill through him. Gazing down, he sees why. Ice, enclosed around his boots, rendering him immobile. The dog settles as she approaches the dog, stroking its head to ease its nerves. “I’d tell you to have a seat, but,” her lips quirk into a smirk. “I think you’d understand that I can’t exactly trust you.”
“You will release the ice,” he says coldly to her, his brow furrowing as his finger hovers over the switch to activate his cannon.
“In due time,” she says stepping back and sitting on one of the couches, patting the cushion for the dog to join her. As if conjuring it from nothing, she produced a bag of snacks -- chips, he suspected -- and began to munch on them as she started him over. “Man, you still look like a little boy, huh?” she comments, her lips quirking to a smirk before she swallows her snack. She’s spilled crumbs on herself and he wants to tell her to tidy up but she brushes them from her poncho before he can address it.
“Then make quick of work of telling me what you have to say, I’m not one to be trifled with.” he insists as she snorts, laughing a bit as she stretches out on the couch.
“Man, you look like a little kid, and you’re talking like a old man. I’m sorry but you’re going to have to dial back the seriousness. It’s weird. I’m used to this face of yours sniffling and trying to tell jokes about dog farts, not, this bullshit.” She crunches down on another bit of her snack. “Eh, whatever, not like you’re gonna listen to me. You’re here ‘cause I have information for ya. Not to listen to me reminisce about the kid you killed twenty years ago -- you know what, yeah. That’s a good place to start.” Her face lights up in such a way that it’s almost hurtful. “How about we start by me telling you all about how I had to hold a thirteen year old boy in my arms as he was dying, and so desperately trying to get back up to chase you down and stop you? You remember him? You remember me?” And she was on her feet again, her snacks now set on the table that had been in front of her. She takes a step forward, pointing at him faintly maliciously, sparks coming from the tips of her finger. “Do you know what it’s like to feel a tiny fist grabbing your clothes and saying ‘Kumatora, I gotta stop him,’ as a child chokes on his own blood? You know what it’s like to watch another boy turn his back as his own brother is slipping away? You have absolutely no idea.”
And she has closed the space between the two of them, her finger pointed beneath his chin, sparks flickering at the tip, stinging his skin. He feels the individual flecks of electricity in the metal panel of his face. He feels the circuitry in his system briefly surge in response. She does seem to want to kill him, but he makes no move to let her know she’s actually quite good at this intimidation thing.
“Your words are empty threats.” He says coolly, knowing that he needs to speak selectively lest his jaw slack too much and he get shocked in response. “I don’t know what it’s like, nor am I capable of it. I’m afraid your anger and grief is misplaced. I am a Commander in Master Porky’s army, not a figure for you to share your personal qualm with --”
Yet he stops; his eyes scan a small pin affixed to her scarf. Globe like design with a lightning bolt. Gold. A little dirty -- a smudge of dark brown at the edge. Something comes up in his immediate scan. Franklin Badge: Heirloom.
“Where did you get that?” He asks, eyes gazing upon the badge. The tingling of electricity wanes as he finds himself looking at the woman's face again. It’s a smirk, but it’s incredibly pained.
“Your brother.” she says with loathing heavily laced. “Took it from your brother after he died in my arms. Thought he’d want me to have it. Especially considering how much Psi Thunder you were tossing at us.” And then her eyes narrow. “You have no idea, do you? You have no memory of him at all.”
“I’m afraid not --”
“Stop.” She orders. “This was such a stupid, stupid waste of time. I knew there’d be no getting through to you. He told me you were stubborn, but I never imagined you’d be this dense. Even as a robot. I would have thought something would have gotten through to you! God, not even hearing about how you killed Lucas is working.”
She steps away and he feels the ice loosening around his ankles somewhat. But he studies her. The name. Lucas. That was that boys name, the one Master Porky told him about. The one who was a threat to him. Lucas. He was that boy. He had Psi too, didn’t he.
“--God, you’d think that a twin would remember something, anything about his brother! Especially when he’s responsible for killing him!”
He had blonde hair, striped t-shirt. Very similar face. He had been rather meek. Looked frail but he was quite the opposite. He was a threat to you, just as Master Porky said. Lucas. That was his name. He work what was called a Franklin Badge, a tool used for deflecting electricity. It came from his father. How...did he know that?
Lucas.
His name was Lucas.
“--For fuck’s sake, man!” Kumatora is still on her tangent. “
You killed your twin, you absolute bastard!”
Lucas.
His name was Lucas.
He stops. The ice around his ankles shatters finally, the effects of Psi Freeze wearing off as he steps away, backing himself into the wall. It hits him. It hits him like an ache. (He was thirteen years old. He loved his mother. He was lonely. He was shy). There is a weight that overcomes him as something clicks within his head and his heart. (He loved his dog Boney and his dad so much and he never gave up hope. He was so strong. He faced the world knowing he was alone. He was a child). He inhales sharply and suddenly, his gazes is focused on his hands. His eyes scan himself: Murderer. Killer. Monster.
Brother. Brother. Brother. Brother. Brother Brot--
His name was Lucas.
He was his twin brother.
And he killed him.
Kumatora looks at him with something akin to what he suspects might be apathy -- something he’s more familiar with than anything else. But it shifts within a moment or so to that of satisfaction. Surely, this was not how she intended to get through to him, but apparently it worked, leaving the man in question, in a state of moral quandary and perplexion. Her hands clap together in an act of triumph. Not an applause, for sure, but certainly that of approval.
“Well, that worked out better than expected. For me, at least. Can’t say the same about you, but I think this is what they call karma -- hurts, huh? Guilt really sucks, doesn’t it?!” And she begins to laugh and then steps away from him, sinking into her couch to resume crunching on her snacks again, this time with the sound of victory between each crinkling of the bag.
“You call this a victory?!” he manages to choke out as he feels his weight begin to crumple as he slides down along the wall. Something, that he supposes is a heart, begins to ache inside of him and had he been capable of it, he wondered if he were about to cry.
Around the time he had turned, twenty-five or so, he had inquired about having parts of his body returned to their human state. By the time he was eighteen, most of his internal organs had been replaced with machines, with the intention of making him more machine than man. A cold, calculating commander with little regard for the feelings of others. But he was a curious individual, stubborn too, and he had begun to do research. If he were mostly machine, how could he appeal to humans, especially when he needed to order them around. He could not appeal to their fear, their anger, their desires or feelings. It was something he wished to be able to learn about. To manipulate. To exploit . So after several years of being groomed to be unfeeling, uncaring -- he wished to learn how to feign caring, if only to help further the advances of the military. By the age of twenty-six, he had his lungs, liver and digestive tract replaced -- for the first time in his life, he could eat food again, although he didn’t need to. But learning how to taste things again was an experience.
Breathing again had been an experience as well. He’d had a ventilation system installed in place of a respiratory system, so having to learn how to relay signals from his brain to organic lungs once again had been a challenge. Now and then he would still find himself forgetting to breathe, although he had been informed that normal people would forget to inhale from time to time as well. What he had supposed was an entirely subconscious action, was not so subconscious after all. However, breathing was the first thing he had truly come to learn again. He had found that now, becoming organic once more, his breathing indicated how his body should react in various situations. Sometimes he would find himself holding a breath in when he anticipated something. His breathing would become labored after extensive periods of running, or during moments of high tension and anxiety. Breathing patterns, he would learn, were a first step in learning how emotions worked again.
Despite what many believed, he never actually lost his heart. It was still there. Beating slowly. In and out. Every now and then he would place his hand to his chest and feel it. Taking time to remind himself that despite the machinery, he was still a living human being. Somewhere in there. His heart was one organ that he never lost. He easily could have had that one replaced but the surgery for that one was so tricky, so complicated -- there was never an opportune time. He supposed, somewhere down the line, he had voiced his concern for losing his heart to the various operations he underwent, and perhaps, someone had some compassion and allowed him to function with the same one he’d been born with. Though, he supposed Master Porky wasn’t all too thrilled with the idea. However, a cyborg must still have human parts to be a cyborg. He was a chimera, as far as research pointed out, so he needn’t have every aspect changed. The strongest parts of both man and machine would be spliced together, and if for one second someone considered that the heart was not the strongest part of a man, they didn’t know how man worked.
By thirty-three, his organs were once again organic. Aside for those necessary. He’d had enough enhancements externally that mechanical organs weren’t required for him to be a true cyborg any longer. He liked to think that with these organs again, he could once more be closer to human.
Even if that was quite the opposite of what Master Porky wanted.
He had been warned not to develop too many independent thoughts. Or at the very least, if he did, not to vocalize them in such a way that might pin him as defying the wishes of the military. Having some semblance of emotion was enough for him. But.
As he sat huddled on the floor, an aspect of himself that he had never considered to be part of the human experience, started to manifest itself. It was called memories. None were quite stitched together, but there were patchy glimpses. Patchy, disjointed flashes; reminders of who he was before the army took him in. Nothing about himself. No, he couldn’t remember that. But he could remember the boy named Lucas.
He was waiting for some kind of cold reaction from Kumatora. Some bold, confident comment from her about how she had succeeded over him. But the phrase doesn’t come. Instead there’s a sigh from her direction as his brain had to process the matter at hand. The feelings. The single frames of memories. Who would have thought that just the accusation of being a killer would be enough to cause him to malfunction. But was this a malfunction? He opted to blame his organic chemistry for this moment of weakness. He would have to immediately invest in reversing the organic changes once he returned.
“Hey,” Kumatora spoke up and he is able to bring himself back to reality momentarily to find that she’s standing in front of him, bent forward a bit so she can look at his face. “Take the helmet off. Lemme get a good look at the rest of you. I can only see part of your face like this.” He heeds the request, arms lifting as he grasps the sides of the helmet, lifting it from his head. His hair used to naturally spring back up when he removed the helmet, but it lay somewhat flat to his skull as the helmet is set aside. He gazes at her, and she studies him, noting the way he still sported a youthful appearance, despite the metal plate holding part of his jaw and skull together, flesh puckered and scarred at its edges. As far as she can tell, unbeknownst to him, she spots a few flecks of freckles that were commonplace on him, and his late brother. All that would detract from his youthfulness was the sagging bags beneath his eyes and the hollow, dullness in them. No eyes should lack a spark. But his did.
She studies him and after a moment she kneels in front of him, placing a hand upon his cheek. He jerks, wishing to withdraw from her but her expression tells him to remain still. In the past the only ones ever permitted to lay a hand upon him were engineers and researchers. Anyone else who dared touch him often wound up discharged instantly, or worse. He expects her touch to be rough, unfeeling -- but it’s soft. Warm. Welcoming. And he makes eye contact with her as her thumb delicately strokes his cheek, as if she were wiping away tears.
“I know the boy you used to be isn’t a monster.” she says quietly as she draws in closer, her hand falling away before each of her arms enclose around him, embracing him warmly. Her voice is soft, much different from the tone she had taken before. “Your brother knew that you weren’t a monster,” she whispered against his ear.
It was a bold, daring move. Anyone else would have been killed on the spot. Everything he had been trained for told him he should kill her for getting so close. For touching him. For threatening him. But it was as if his internal commands were being overridden by something stronger. Something human. And so he permits her contact and lets her hold him in the embrace. He tries to analyze the situation but his scan yields no appropriate results. Ordinary humans are designed to return the embrace, but he is quite the opposite of ordinary. So he allows her to take the lead. The first moments are tense, but his brain sends out the signal to relax his shoulders, and in turn relax his torso and accept the contact.
“Claus is still in you, somewhere.” She says. “Lucas died knowing you were him, but not knowing how to act…” Kumatora’s previously aggressive tone has been abandoned, leaving her words with a soft, ethereal chim to them. “But...I can tell you how to act. I can tell you how to make things right. If you’ll listen. If you can prove to me that you are still in there. You are not Him, Claus. He is not you.”
His arms fall limp at his sides, hands touching the floor as she speaks.
You are not him.
He shakes his head, no...he doesn’t believe he’s that Claus, the boy from Tazmily. There’s too many factors at play that dismiss this. He had been in the care of the military for three years before Lucas had been noticed as a threat. Coincidences don’t happen like this. You don’t like this.
Kumatora lets him go and pulls herself away to study his expression again. His eyes scan her once more, yielding results: Psi User, Subject of Illegal magic, Princess of Osohe Castle. Status: Trustworthy.
Her expression softens and you see her smile during your study, hands holding your cheeks again. “You look so much like him.” She says. (The scan yields a notice stating that her heart is racing). “You need to listen to me, I need to make things right. I promised Lucas. I told him I’d reach you, and tell you how to make things better.”
And clarity overcomes you. You do not know for how long you will have this grasp of yourself, but you know you must act quickly. You raise your arms and place your hands upon Kumatora’s forearms. You inhale -- a truly human breath -- and exhale slowly. You nod. You nod, showing her firmly that you understand. You grasp the idea for a moment, and just a moment, that something is very, very wrong in this world.
And you speak. You have not since spoken with clarity in a long time. And the words that come out are In a voice that is lower, calmer, but more lively than what is customary for you: “Tell me how.”
And her eyes light up. And she knows, somehow, she has reached you. She has reached Claus.