Somewhere Someplace

The foreigner looked around, scanning the space about. The apartment’s interior was very dusty and also…riddled with toxic ash from the world outside, for indeed, there was still that hole in the ceiling above.

She stepped in more…cautiously so, somewhat uncertain of the actual…stability of flooring; though, it quickly became apparent it held fine. She paused, however, as her attention stared down at that shell…still gently yet firmly implanted into the floor. She evaluated this rather small…primitive artillery shell, contemplating it.

Truly…she realized how close she herself was…to becoming a casualty of that bombardment, and how close…this whole section of this apartment was to going boom in kind.

She had to admit…even if it so very annoyed her to do so…that the Calamity fragment had…saved not just her, but—more importantly—so many others around her unit…all due to its own abominable interest in her specifically.

The foreigner sighed…no point in touching the shell; she passed it and headed into the bedroom. The curtains gently waved from the night’s cold wind blowing through…the still broken window. The room itself was…thoroughly contaminated with dust and ash; it was clear that, even though this apartment survived, she could not…live in it any time soon. Though, it still survived…along with her former associate’s…stuff; that was sufficient enough.

She did not stand there for long to…reminisce about this room, about that adequate-ish bed…she had so taken for granted; instead, she made way immediately to the side-table and opened a drawer, scanning and searching.

From it, she retrieved that strange…so-called ‘advanced selectee’ badge…she had been given the month and a half prior…along with that ‘token of acceptance’ she had been given at the beginning of this…rather long yet fast-moving year.

Truly, and perhaps ironically, it did not feel as though she was given enough time whatsoever to actually…think and contemplate about whatever ‘advanced selection’ she was being tossed into, or to think about…what that patron…that ‘sponsor’ of hers…truly wanted with her, what the Bureau truly wanted with her, and what they had wanted with her former associate.

Indeed, all of that had been so decisively derailed by that sudden happening…that it all had escaped her mind, priorities having shifted.

Her mask-obscured ignited eyes…spotted…also within this drawer her—now dusty—Collegium application…which she never did finish filling out.

Hmm…she turned her attention back to the badge and token in hand. It was immediately clear that…the two were supposed to become one—practically made for each other. She then…shifted her attention back to the Collegium application…and then back to the badge…repeating this, as if…doubts and…second thoughts entered mind.

She sighed…and closed the drawer.

She inserted the token into its respective slot; with a twisting press, she heard a locking snap, the token now locked firmly in place. The badge was completed...as was this strange…ritualized acceptance. And certainly, this badge was unlike any ordinary Guild badge she had seen; neither elaborate nor powerful, it was…oddly bland and simple yet…detailed enough and conveyed a clear sense of ‘specialized other’.

As she…stared more into the badge, her rotting ancient mind…abruptly fell into an abyss of sudden contemplation.

She still…did not truly know what she was doing with all of this. She did not know what path or strategy to follow; what approach was best and most optimal. All she knew…was that…she was here, in this place, among all of these denizens, and was going to be here…for the next foreseeable eternity. What this meant to her, she did not know; she did not comprehend…even if strange feelings lingered in her mind’s shadow.

Though, one thing was absolute: whatever road, whatever path, whatever route…regardless of angle, trajectory, and speed traveled…every single one converged upon that one single inevitability…that calamitous singularity at the center of it all.

She sighed; yet despite such an…inevitability, the future ahead that led into it…was riddled with uncertainty and unpredictability. Her priority was still…the immediate present, since that was all…she could react to.

And right now, in the present, she was to be this ‘bird’ agent of the Bureau and this ‘advanced selectee’ of her sponsor. She was set to leave…the confounds of this settlement, out into the exposed world beyond; a world with so much happening beyond awareness…cards being played, pieces being moved, a play unraveling…all around her, always.

The world around remained enigmatic to her as much as she was enigmatic to it.

And in order to even figure out…what she could even do next regarding her…predicament of being stranded, she needed to better understand…where she even was…to begin with; and in order to properly…understand this place, she needed to venture out into it.

It was still hard to tell if cooperating with this Guild and its Bureau was…an optimal path, but…right, she needed information, and this information collection apparatus of a guild clearly had…a plenty. Though, really, what else…could she even do, besides moving with the tide’s flow?

Thus, the foreigner rationalized and…reminded herself…of the vague goals she already had set before.

And even though the future remained uncertain and unpredictable, she had to prepare for whatever possibilities…could be predicted; if she was going to be venturing out, she needed to be prepared enough, and in detail.

She took a deep…filtered breath, placing the advanced selectee badge onto her side-table for the time being. She opened another drawer and…took out a special key of sorts. She lit her side-table’s oil-lamp and took it in hand…before making way out of the bedroom. Reentering the living area, she…paused before a special and specific door that led to…an equally special and specific…large storage space. Locked and sealed, the door was; she inserted the key and, with a clicking twist, unlocked it.

Opening the door, she stepped in as the oil-lamp’s light illuminated the space within.

Due to local customs and laws, every housing unit in this city were required to have a large storage space in order to store surplus grain, flower, and other such…long-lasting supplies in the event of sieges or other…sudden happenings. These storage spaces, however, tended to be the largest in most housing units, and thus…most tended to repurpose them for…different things—hence why the bombardment’s aftermath was met with an immediate food shortage, ironically.

In this case, her former associate, once known as that adventurer named ‘Gunslinger’, had repurposed hers into…essentially an armory. Barrels of powders of all kinds, crates of munitions of many sorts, racks filled with firearms from all eras, so on and multa cetera. This was where the foreigner had retrieved most of her own…firearm-related stuff and things, plus satchels and other equipment.

Though, in addition to…all of these, her former associate had also stored…memorandums and other objects which…she had been unable to…let go of, despite the fact she had been trying to move on.

It was, quite frankly, rather…perplexing how much…stuff her former associate had managed to organize and squeeze into this large…but still compact…apartment-grade storage space.

The space around was largely free of toxic ash and dust, discounting…whatever the foreigner has certainly just brought in. Nevertheless, this was a condition…she wanted to preserve as much as she could; thus, she shut the door behind. Now secluded within, she took off her thick facemask, now able to breathe more…clearly at last.

She looked around, evaluating.

Hmm…it seemed even more compact than she last remembered, especially now that she trapped herself in it. Despite having been in here multiple times throughout this year, she had never really…snooped in detail, only ever doing a targeted and precision-oriented search…for things specifically sought.

Yet, now, however…for whatever reason, perhaps because she was…soon-to-be leaving this entire…locality—this bubble of illusionary safety—for an unknown amount of time, she could not help but…peer around, and…see what it was her former associate had been so compelled to keep.

The foreigner carefully held the oil-lamp in hand as she began to snoop about. So many things in here…indeed; truly, her former associate was…rather the hoarder—though, so too was the foreigner herself…if not more so.

A small cabinet of sorts, she noticed and approached, was shoved in the corner. Sitting gently atop it…was a framed ‘painting’ of sorts; a rather detailed one at that, though it was…rather dusty and aged. She drew the oil-lamp closer as she inspected this…painting.

Her former associate…she immediately saw, a painted depiction to be precise—her so-called ‘half-elven’ ears and dark-blue hair were…unmistakable giveaways.

Her former associate…was wearing a white dress…of sorts, one rather elaborate and…different from typical local wear. Her face was…obscured by a masquerade half-mask, one different from the one she had been wearing…when she was living here; light-blue with…some greens and whites, though the…‘painter’ or whoever…did not seem to have preserved the intricate and meaningful details…of the design and patterns.

Yet…her former associate was not alone in this…‘portrait’ of sorts; next to her was a…denizen; maskless, male, brown-haired and green-eyed… much taller, and dressed in similar elaborate local wear; her former associate was…holding onto his arm, smiling…and so too was he.

Smaller denizens were depicted alongside them; children…four children of…varying ages and developmental stages. Three were seemingly males, the other—seemingly youngest—being presumably female, judging from the ‘feminine’ attire. Two of these boys had some shade of dark-blue hair, one had more black leaning hair, and the girl had…more dark-green leaning hair…or blue-green—it was hard to tell. Their ears were…rather ‘elven’ compared to the man’s…

These were…all…her former associate’s…offspring, then? Right…she actually…had managed to…reproduce…somehow. The foreigner really had no…comprehensible idea what to feel or think…regarding the implications, since…that should not have been the case to begin with.

Though, she did wonder what the offspring of a Remnant trooper would even manifest as. Her former associate was…female, and as such her essence and all of its encoded whatnots would have…rubbed off, so to speak, onto her offsprings’ own, the effects of which the foreigner could not help but be…perhaps curious about deep down within.

Hmm…numbers, she noticed, were inscribed and segmented in the corner… ‘6,3,26’ so the numbers read. Interesting…what could this be? Was this a stamp of time, perhaps? Thus a ‘date’? The foreigner did not know.

Interesting… She backed away from this cabinet and painting, and looked around more.

Indeed, more than 75 years, such was how long her former associate had been stranded here, in this place, and this room…reflected that. She had lived…a full life here, as if she had been a denizen; though, likewise, such had been a life…that did not seem to end…even as time dragged on, even as it had ended…for her mate…or her ‘husband’, rather.

With this…pondering in mind, the foreigner approached one other thing…which was situated almost in the center of this space, albeit near the backend. A mannequin of a female human donned upon which was attire… yet not just any attire.

A feathered hat atop the head, with an elaborate and long cape extending down from the shoulders, and with dozens of satchels and even holsters equipt. The ‘outfit’ itself was ‘dramatic’, ‘theatrical’, and ‘play’ thematically, though also militarized—Far Western line infantry attire and equipment intermixed. It was…somewhat similar aesthetically to what the foreigner was familiar with, yet local and primitive in material. The color patterns were…largely dark-blue—of course, Blue-Coats—though with brands and auxiliaries of brown, green, and some whites.

Indeed, her former associate, even after all the time she had spent here, could not truly escape her past…still drawn to what was familiar. She could have shoved all of the stuff here into a crate, yet…clearly, she had held her past with respect, and it showed.

Though, the foreigner’s own mask-obscured eyes…found themselves fixating not onto any of these details, but rather…onto the masquerade half-mask affixed to the mannequin’s blank face.

So elaborate, so intricate, so detailed and pristine; it was similar to the depicted in the painting, yet still distinct. ‘Feathery’ and ‘avian’ thematically…it was largely blue—of course—with elegant brands of white, gold, and brown. She stared into it…as if it were staring back into hers.

It was said…that to those primeval progenitors of masquerade and shadow, masks such as these were gateways to the self; they could read masks as if they were reading the soul. Each stroke of color, each pattern of brands…were engraved with the truest intent; every detail…from the shape and design to the colors and patterns…conveyed meaning, conveyed aspects of identity and persona; it was a projection of the intended self to be impressed and displayed.

All pointless abstractions, yet…even now, despite so much having been eroded, she and those like her…still seemed to value such masks. Masks were their faces, after all.

In fact, their brains’ facial processing…had been readapted around being able to perceive, differentiate, and read all of the minute differences and fine details of such masks, much like a human face, making each and every mask…unique and individuated, even if identical to the perceptions of most others. Though, such was also why maskless faces…tended to be more…ambiguous and difficult to differentiate, even if not entirely blank and empty.

“…‘Gunslinger’…so the name was?” the foreigner remarked in blurt. Indeed, as she stared at this mask, such was the only thing…she could think. Such was…what this mask conveyed and defined.

Calculative, adventurous, dangerous yet passive, daring and risky, shock and awe, stern yet kind, lost yet hopeful, bounded by duty, she could read so many inferences from this mask alone, as if she were peering into the very soul of who her former associate had been…when donning the name…‘Gunslinger’.

Yet…in the end, such was all this was: her own inferences. In the end, it was just…a mask. In the end, she and the Remnant were not…that progenitor culture of masks, merely followers, inheritors, or…rather appropriators—not the source, nor the origin, nor…the intended practitioners. Quite frankly, the Remnant only wore them because they always had worn them; the meanings…the significances…the identity…had been lost eons ago.

Yet, nevertheless, you all carry their legacy

Preserving them forward

At the expense of all the rest

Legacies left behind to be lost by time

An irony never lost on any of you

Both during our era

And even now, no doubt

The foreigner shifted her focus to the rest of this mannequin, and quickly noticed affixed to the attire’s shoulder…was a badge, a distinctly Guild badge.

Shiny and refined, aesthetically ‘powerful’ and ‘supreme’, and vibrant black in color; it was an Onyx-rank badge, the highest of the Guild. Right…her former associate had been one among them, even if she certainly did not look the part.

The foreigner carefully…plucked off the badge, taking it in hand, feeling it. Cold and metallic, a bit heavier than expected. Her mask-obscured eyes peered closer…evaluating it, squinting somewhat…as she saw the full name—that name which had been donned by her former associate for much her time…stranded in this place—engraved upon it.

« … » Yet…her face instantly flatlined, blanking…as her mind processed the name; « …s…se…ģe seríamente, sarģeante? Ita’f ‹ Kariçea Pyrolançea › temet appellaște verë? » her voice blurted aloud; her face…could not help but faintly grin an amused smirk…one genuine, one she did not even notice was being made.

‘Caricia Pyrolancia’, thus was the name inscribed—and spelled more locally. ‘Loaded Firelance’, ‘Gunslinger’, truly…her former associate knew exactly what she was doing. Though, it was…perhaps rather pleasant to see that…the foreigner herself was not the only one who had so struggled with…coming up with a pseudonym.

The foreigner sighed…as she stared down at the badge, gently stroking it as she returned her gaze to the mask. She smiled an ever-faint…but solemn and genuine…smile, one…of enduring respect and honor.

« Serviția tua completatùr, milite Federațiae; ģe finalter…élla omnja perdita fueront…atque élla omnja tu perdiște, ĵoinitù habes, soldate Federațiae; uți aș sâ echo tua dormissít ita núc paçe aeternalid așque sâ semper liberassítùr d’af eod Aeterno Bello, trüper Federațiae; pro-semper honorathéon, pro-semper én memoríam aeternalem; et nunqua oblitathéon…ușque ad eom terminom omnjom épșíos tempores » thus, she uttered…these solemn words in slightly more poetic tongue. Words which she did not say…even after it had become apparent…that her former associate was likely dead, even if…she still did not definitively know.

Finally, her former associate’s service was over; at last, she could join all that had been lost…everyone…everything…she had lost. May her echo be with eternal peace and be forever freed from this War without end; forever to be honored, forever in memory; never to be forgotten…until time’s very end.

Though, such would not be the first to whom

Such a promise… you had made

Never to be forgotten

I wonder, trooper, if you will keep this one

Unlike all the rest

To whom such a promise

You had broken

The foreigner exhaled, that genuine faint smile fading…as flat affect resumed, and carefully pinned the badge…back to where she had plucked it. She had not entered this large storage space to reminisce and snoop at her former associate’s memorandums. No…she had actual business needing to be done, many preparations…needing to be made.

She quickly turned her attention to…another…more peculiar…storage thing…of sorts, one that…was rather girthy and took up more room than her former associate had really wanted to sacrifice; one which stood out utterly and unambiguously so.

Shoved into the farthest corner of this large-yet-compact space was a storage…hexagon—not a box, not a crate, a storage hexagon. Silver-white in color…with hexagonic patterns outlined in very faint grey; bland and featureless, yet also refined…made from exotic synthetic materials unlike anything found in this place: Remnant in all ways.

It was her storage hexagon, one which she had not necessarily forced as much as…well…forced…her former associate to…permit her to bring and store…here. She had been instructed to ditch her prior equipment and things, not abandon them…after all, and there were many things—practically everything—she refused to be without, even if such was not to be used for the next foreseeable eternity.

She approached the storage hexagon, standing before it. It was not tall…but it was rather the…chunky thing—impossible to carry on her own and had only barely fit through the doors…to be frank; but it could move on its own, at least.

She leaned down, inspecting, her finger scouting for…something at the front of this featureless and uniform hexagon; a hard-to-make-out button…she found and pressed.

Suddenly, cyanic lights on the hexagon’s edges activated in glow, before a chunk of the bland surface slid open, revealing a digital terminal screen…also quite cyanic in digitized coloring.

The screen immediately began to flash and pulsate away, and in a way that did not seem pleased. Indeed, despite making not a single noise, she could immediately tell that the terminal screen was…still…nevertheless, screeching at her with its…relentless flares of notices.