Before he knew it, Charles and Beatrice went to their rooms. Left to his own devices, he turned to the back bar, staring out the window, until he felt an uncanny presence just behind him.

  Victor didn’t turn around. “Hey, Ingrid. You’re up late.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” the child soldier replied. “Did everything go according to plan?”

  Victor cradled his forehead. “It did.”

  “I see.” She walked past him. “Are you well, Victor?”

  “That’s certainly the question.”

  Victor almost forgot that Ingrid was so young. How old was she? Twelve, maybe? She carried herself better than Victor ever could, even at the cost of her own humanity.

  “Indeed.” Ingrid turned to him, breath dragging and deep. “A question I would appreciate answered.” She looked away. “Beatrice does not return your feelings. However, that is only a small part of what troubles you. You are having dark thoughts.”

  “I’m not going to deny that.” Victor ran his fingers through his hair. “I feel trapped. I don’t know what to do anymore. I mean, I saved them both, but…now what?”

  “That something I cannot answer,” Ingrid said. “Still, it is interesting how we’re not so different, having both been used by the Imperium, only to turn to rebellion. But I must ask, Victor. Why Thaddeus? Why do you trust him so? Whatever he may mean to you, his kind are not to be trusted. They are sociopaths under the guise of paladins.”

  “Not all of them are. You don’t know him. Not like I do.”

  “Thaddeus dealt my sentence,” Ingrid stated. “I know his cruelty better than anyone ever will. Especially you.”

  With that, Ingrid stepped out the door, vanishing into the night. Victor wasn’t surprised, only sickened by the truth he’d suspected all along. But what was true morality—to be born good, or to overcome one’s own evil? He did not know the right answer, let alone if one even existed. But as the lonesome hours dragged on, Victor scribbled little melodies on a napkin, trying to resurrect what inspiration remained.

  Not a whole lot’s left.

  It manifested as a melancholy reprise of his earlier works, a waltz to the grave. Victor cracked a bitter smile, recalling life before all this, life in the Waking World. The warm confines of his dormitory, draped with books and thick curtains. The laughter he shared with a few friends, and the time they’d spent late into the night at the bars—all of that wasted in the name of arrogance. Victor had always been young and ungrateful, but now, he knew it.

  He placed his toy rabbit on the table and stared into its lonely button eye, channeling that soul-crushing nostalgia. Keeping a radio nearby, he listened as the Music of the Spheres reflected his homesickness, beyond the veil of static.

  Why? What was it all for?

  It was all so hazy. Victor couldn’t escape it—a part of him screamed a mantra, trying to eviscerate himself as penance for causing all this. Deep down, in a sick way, he’d wanted this all along. To escape into another world, where he would make a difference. And for what?

  I hate myself…I hate myself….

  He slammed his fist on the table, clenching his teeth. Now what? What was he supposed to do? It was because of him—all because of him. His friends had been dragged and utterly stranded here. Victor tugged his hair, pain dulled by panic as the music intensified, a wailing reflection of his frustration and despair. He was better off dead. He should just die.

  “Shit,” he yelled, almost knocking over the radio. “Stop it!”

  Silence filled the air. Victor looked over his shoulder. The punks stared at him from the bar. Turning back to the table, his eyes widened. He’d used an entire box of napkins, having written a small symphony with a dried out pen and unfettered angst. He smiled past those drying tears—it had been a while since he’d been that productive.

  “Hey.” Silky hands touched his shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  Victor didn’t reply, head hanging low.

  “Existential breakdown, huh?” Yuko pulled up a seat. “Suppose it was only a matter of time. But you saved them. Even if you’re still stuck down here—”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I know.”

  Yuko smiled, rubbing her thumb against his palm. “Look at it this way—at least you had a childhood. I was just whipped up with a pre-programed sass and free will.” She shrugged. “Then again, I can’t miss what I never had. But I can listen.”

  Victor looked away. “You’ll make me cry again….”

  “There’s no reason to pretend you’re such a stud,” Yuko sighed. “I’ve been paid to deal with much worse, and I saw the whole thing. C’mon, let’s go somewhere.”

  Victor cocked an eyebrow. “Where?”

  “You’ll see.” Yuko took him by the hand. “Just hang tight.”

  #

  Yuko and Victor sat atop the highest watchtower, gazing at the heavens, all veiled in shadow and smoke. He lay against that slanted roof, feeling cold night air against his face.

  “Why are we here?” he asked. “Is something supposed to happen?”

  “Wait for it,” Yuko replied, eyes fixed on the pollution above. “Just wait for it.”

  Victor withheld a sigh, until he saw gaps in the churning clouds of smog. He beheld dazzling vistas of darkness and starlight. Unknown constellations and distant worlds, all at the whim of the cosmos, untouched by the blight of industry. Yuko and Victor watched comets soaring above the spires of the metropolis, in tune to the synapses of his mind.

  “See?” Yuko said. “Holy Gothica may be a fascist hellhole, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t some beauty in this world. If there is a Grand Conductor, his vision is pretty amazing. I mean, look at it all. Maybe as creations we aren’t perfect, but we aren’t…I don’t know. You get what I’m trying to say, right?”

  “I do.” Victor watched as something launched from the city. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, shit,” Yuko laughed. “It’s Epiphany Eve now, isn’t it?” She tried to speak, only for fireworks to explode in neon patterns over the Wastes, drowning her words, shining upon her ruby smile. She squeezed Victor’s hand, turning to him, eyes reflecting the dazzling lights. “Honestly, I just thought this would help.”

  “Thanks.” The fireworks pierced holes in the heavens, until even Victor smiled. “It’s a good reminder that I can either choose to be a miserable misanthrope, or I…I don’t know.”

  “You can choose to be a better person?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that. Maybe some people are just born good. I wouldn’t call myself that. I’m way too selfish, too lazy,” he scoffed. “Too stupid.”

  She frowned. “Don’t talk like that. You are a good person. You’re just young.”

  Victor smiled, even if he didn’t believe her.

  “So, what happened with Beatrice? You two seemed distant.”

  “To be honest,” Victor replied, “I never really knew her. She was just a stranger who got swept up in all this. What can I say? I let my libido get the better of me.”

  Yuko shrugged. “She’s a cute, strong, punk chick. I’ve known Beatrice for a bit. Since she first wound up in Yoshiwara. I mean, kinda hard not to, given how she arrived…if that makes you feel any better. You mean something to her. To all of us.” Yuko inched closer, but Victor barely noticed. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Conflicting thoughts.” He shrugged. “How much I hate myself, but how crazy and creative I had to be to make all this. I’m filled with masochistic pride, I guess.”

  “Coming around to the whole Far Messiah thing?” Yuko looked him in the eye. “I’ll say it again. You’re a good person. The sooner you realize that, the happier you’ll be. Here, let me prove it.” She turned Victor’s head and planted a deep kiss on his chapped lips. She tasted like dark chocolate and raspberries. “Free of charge,” she whispered in his ear, warm breath against his neck. “And I don’t do freebies for just anyone.”

  “I’ll take pity sex.” Victor blushed, smiling and shaking. “I’ll—”

  “Oh.” Yuko ran a finger down his bony cheek. “This isn’t pity.”

  #

  Yuko pushed Victor down onto the rooftop, mounting him. Her tongue dove into his mouth, rocking her hips over his. Victor’s eyes rolled back. She grabbed his wrists, pinning his hands against her breasts. He squeezed, trembling. They felt like pillows of flesh and glory, as Victor’s mind raced over with tantalizing thoughts.

  Fuck. How do I do this? The penis goes where?

  Under the fireworks, there was a glow in Yuko’s eyes—raw and dangerous, yet nonetheless alluring. And in her power, Yuko slammed Victor’s hands against the shingles. His heart pounded, unsure of what to say or do, only staring, in awe of her beauty. The cables and laces of her corset slid off, her ample bosom descending towards his chapped lips. Flying blind with his tongue, flicking and kissing, Victor felt her every movement. As a firework boomed above, met with her whispers and moans, Victor felt something.

  Music…? Is there…music being made?

  Anxiety lost all meaning with her. This “music” flowed out of him and into her, like a symphony of ecstasy. The rest was a blur, as Victor felt her words and moans reverberating inside him—a choir of sensual beauty, impaling his mind with passion and pleasure. In this union of synesthesia, he felt her every movement, breath heavy, when—

  Oh...! Oh my God...!

  Her tongue slid back and forth, in and out of his drying mouth. Victor felt a tremendous crescendo course through him. As he collapsed below her twitching body, the currents fell, the symphony was over, and he knew solace. He rediscovered a timeless inspiration, one drawn upon by countless other artists. The sacred power of lust.

  #

  Before he knew it, Victor’s eyes drifted shut, falling asleep to Yuko’s touch. He sat in that plush chair, staring at the twilit chandeliers and flashing neurons of the Opera House, as the Impresario rolled his wheelchair forward. The proprietor’s grin did not flinch.

  “Did you have a good night?”

  This melancholy world seemed different now. Brighter. Fuller. As if time with Yuko had filled a gaping hole in Victor’s soul, reflecting the state of this Opera House.

  He couldn’t help but smile. “You might say that.”

  “Indeed,” the Impresario replied. “While you are scaling the stairway to maturity rather swiftly, Victor, I still have important matters to speak of. Your odyssey is nearing one possible end. And soon, the fate of this unhappy world will be decided.” He nodded. “You have already saved your friends. What is stopping you from saving the world?”

  “Still trying to convince me?” Victor did not raise his head. “Look, I’m really not in the mood for this. I’m lost and want to figure this out on my own.”

  “Remember, your actions may yet decide the fate of Holy Gothica—”

  “What did I just say?” Victor spat. “Besides, name one ‘messiah’ who jumped head over heels to their destiny. I highly doubt Jesus threw himself on the cross, or Mohammed believed the voice of God the first time he heard it. For my mentor, you sure are rushing things.”

  “At least those prophets came to acknowledge their cosmic roles.” The Impresario gritted his teeth. “You are Victor Roland, a prophet of another story. And I trust you know by now that when the prayers of men are not answered, some may forsake their faith.” He clasped his wrists. “Such is your next foe. Blinded by malice, and born of pain itself.”

  Victor stepped forward. “Wait. Are you talking about Ingrid?”

  “From a certain point of view,” the Impresario said. “I fear two opposing forces will collide in full force, and the result will be…calamitous.”

  Victor’s eyes widened. “What kind of calamity?”

  “Is that a twinge of care I sense?” The Impresario smiled mockingly. “At any rate, evil wears many masks, none so dangerous as that of the knight templar. Such is the one responsible for these coming hardships.” He drew a pair of tarot cards, shimmering with cobalt light. The Hierophant and the Justice Arcana in the reversed position—one of fatherhood and utmost piety, and one of blind yet misguided judgment.

  “Honestly, that fits them both. Thaddeus and Ingrid.” Frustration boiled in Victor’s chest. “Dammit. Just what are you trying to tell me?”

  “Beware.” The Impresario began to fade. “The coming trial may be your greatest challenge yet. And your commitment to inaction will be truly put to the test.” The Opera House blurred out of existence. “Remember, your journey is not yet over.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  When the seizures soothed and his nerves calmed, Thaddeus’s eyes fluttered open to a beeping cogitator. A coarse cot rubbed against his back. He was blinded at first, vision fading in and out. Thaddeus knew where he was—convex monitors, bloodstains on the pillowcases.

  The rebel hospital? It must be.

  “Date of birth?” someone asked.

  Thaddeus turned his head. A young nurse kept her distance, eyeing him with caution. With stringy blonde hair, she was dressed in a red and white uniform—a military medic, complete with the scarlet armband of the Powder Kegs. Her face was dour. Judging.

  Thaddeus averted his gaze to the broken ceiling. “October 4th,” he replied. “1837.”

  “Last name?” She scribbled something on a clipboard.

  The room smelled like cleaning chemicals, barely masking the reek of bodily fluids. Thaddeus breathed as deeply as he could, shuddering, his respirator plugged into an oxygen tank. Iron joints creaked and hissed as he tried to sit up, only to lay back down. His head was a daze, wracked with wandering thoughts and starry vision.

  “Thaddeus,” he answered. “Hector Thaddeus.”

  The nurse paused, staring at metal augments and prosthetics. “Yeah, there’s no mistaking it. You’re him.” She sighed. “Still, hard to imagine, an inquisitor joining our ranks—at least without an ulterior motive. On a scale of one to ten, how’s your pain?”

  The agony slowly hit him. He was accustomed to it, but the throbbing aches and stinging stabs returned, harder than ever, particularly in his skull and heart. Like something was trying to break out of his mind.

  “Nine,” he shuddered. “Nine point five….”

  The nurse’s lips curled into a soft smile.

  “How long was I unconscious?” Thaddeus asked.

  “Two hours.” There was a twinge of disappointment in her voice.

  Thaddeus looked at a television across the room, sizzling with static. “I see.”

  “I’ll save you the other questions.” She pulled up a seat. “Everyone knows you. Ser Hector Thaddeus. Hammer of the Inquisition. You’d have to leave the Imperium altogether to find someone who doesn’t know your name.”

  Thaddeus looked away.

  Everything he had done was in the name of justice. Blind justice. A day ago, he was an unquestioning agent of the Imperium, an exemplar of law and order. He’d worked so long for the machinations of the state that he’d lost more than his limbs along the way. His dignity. His identity. His humanity. And for what?

  “They say you killed twenty lepers in ten minutes,” the nurse said, “in the lazar camps.”

  Thaddeus did not look at her. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  “Intel found the footage,” she spat. “My little brother was one of them.”

  Thaddeus laid his head in his hands. There was so much he couldn’t remember. So much that was erased from his mind. Months shrouded in fog. An entire operation expunged from the records. There was something missing, but the crushing guilt was all the same.

  What happened? What exactly did I do? What is the Purgatorio Project?

  “There is no need to fear me.” Thaddeus held back his sorrow, voice muffled by that mask. “I assure you, my days as an Imperial agent are long over. I am…lost.”

  “That doesn’t change what you did,” the nurse said.

  “And I don’t ask for your forgiveness.”

  “Because ‘God’ will?”

  “No,” Thaddeus replied. “Because I am unworthy.”

  He gazed at the television again. A portal to another world, when the stars were right. Then a thought crossed his mind. If the Inferno behind the screens reflected people’s thoughts, what would happen if he went in there? Alone? Would he discover the truth buried beneath a mountain of reconditioning and propaganda? Would he be ripped apart by his own inner daemons? Did that danger even matter anymore?

  “Well,” the nurse stood up. “I got other patients.”

  The nurse left, and a tear trickled down Thaddeus’s cheek as he sat up with what strength he could muster. This wasn’t a life worth living. He was a criminal of a different sort—he had been all along. But anyone could atone, if they tried. He’d always believed in that. Thaddeus sought the truth, and there was no use running from it. It was a matter of confession.

  The clock struck midnight.

  As the lights buzzed off and the world turned grayscale, Thaddeus unplugged himself. He took his sword and electro-staff, feeling another surge creep into reality. The television turned itself on again as a portal to Hell, to the horrible truths he’d long forgotten.

  Victor. I will do this for you. You deserve a worthier mentor.

  #

  Victor awoke to the midnight sky, making out constellations in the dancing stars. Yuko was curled next to him, but he could not go back to sleep. He was at peace.

  “Wow.” Victor was dazed, flushed and throbbing. “That was….”

  “You weren’t half bad.” Yuko gave a coy smile. “I totally thought you would freeze up with performance anxiety, like halfway through. But hey, you proved me wrong.”

  Victor lay a shaky hand on her stitched leg. “God.” He admired her in the moonlight. “I never really said this to anyone, ever, but—”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23