The elevator climbed the towering megastructure to its apex, the office of Alister Valicar. Aliceria skipped delightfully down the sterile halls, greeting the many workers by name along the way. The entrance to the office was constructed from fine blackwood, contrasting stylishly with the surrounding white interior. Aliceria recalled the days of her childhood, pushing on this heavy door with all her might, only for her father to open it from the other side, greeting her with a hug. Now, not much taller than before, she slid her palm against the surface, and the door opened with little effort. Her father sat at his desk with his head down as his assistant urged a response from him; neither had noticed she had entered the room.
"Sir, the optics on this are not looking good. Drugs or weapons are one thing—but KIDS?!"
"KEEP…! Yer voice dow—!? Alice… I didn't see you there, daughter." Alister regained his composure, glaring at his assistant with fiery eyes, "Get out."
The door slammed shut as silence filled the space between the two. Her father reached into his desk and pulled out a bottle of root beer cola and two glasses.
"Come, come, sit," he waved, offering his seat.
Alister had spent the last few weeks at his office, so this was the first time the two had seen each other in a while. Aliceria's frame shrank as she approached him. Her father was always a tall man, but lately he had put on a considerable amount of weight. His once flat stomach sagged a bit above his waistline; the containers of fast food beneath his desk surely did not go to waste. She caught a strong whiff of alcohol from his breath; what was he trying to drown, she wondered. Her mother would take great delight in the hypocrisy.
"Root beer for the big boss, eh?" he chuckled as he poured her a glass. "You would sip on this stuff for hours when visiting, orderin' me and your moda around, hehe… Yer hair covered most of your face back then, you were like a little tomato wit legs."
He rubbed her cheek before taking a seat on the sofa next to the desk. Aliceria knew he was troubled, but she preferred not to bring it up and spoil their first day back together. She leapt onto his lap and took a sip of the fizzy beverage; the sweet tingle at the back of her throat was pure nostalgic bliss.
"So, what's on the agenda?" she asked.
"You tell me, hotshot. What'd ya want to see first? Perhaps a small tour?"
"Daddy, I've been here my WHOLE life. I know Martha, Jean, Hammel—if I'm going to be running this company one day, I want to help where it matters."
"Okay, I hear you. What did you have in mind?" he asked, placing the small girl down beside him.
"Well," Aliceria set the glass of root beer on the floor, "the people of Wernicke, for example. The few kids from there who attend Cloud Academy are always late…"
"Mhm," he nodded, staring deeply into their family portrait hanging on the wall.
"...but that's because the city transit stops right before reaching that district—meaning they have to walk to the inner city, THEN catch the bus. We provided them with a program that allows even the less fortunate a higher education, but so often does that program fail them due to tardiness that isn't their fault. Like Mika, she—"
"The Rezz girl?" Alister scoffed. "Lemme tell you, sweety, that one's got MORE problems than just tardiness. Prolly always late because she's huffing that crap, that-that-that—Phantasia."
"She's NOT like that, Dad!" Aliceria rose in protest. "She's kind, and-and—funny and—"
"She's a fuck up—they all are—!"
"SHE'S MY SISTER…!"
The curtains billowed from the open window as Aliceria stood over her father.
"...And she, as well as the other kids in Wernicke, deserves a chance! You used to help people. Like, REALLY, help people."
Alister had no words…
"One time… when I was small, Wernicke was hit with a massive flood. We were in the car, on our way back from Mom's art gallery, when the sirens went off, calling for the evacuation of the district. As the flood gate began to close, shutting off Wernicke, a girl, no bigger than me, stood on the opposite side as a wall of water tore through the streets behind her. I remember crying when I saw her, I didn't even know her… but I shouted from the car, 'run', of course she couldn't hear me…"
Her words brought back the imagery from that day, the smell of dirty water, the pleading, the freezing air. Alister remembered it all, although part of him wished he did not.
"...but you did. You saw me call out to her, and within seconds, you were at that gate, scooping her into your arms and shouting at the city workers to keep the gate open… The sun was absent, but there was this… radiance, coming off of you. And it was at that moment that I realized… a voice, no matter how small, can push against the tides."
Alister fought back his emotions long enough to hug his daughter, his chin resting atop her head as the tears fell. But she would never see them; he was undeserving of her sympathy. The path he once took was one he could no longer turn back from, but it was not too late for Aliceria. She could be whatever she wanted—and he knew the first step to securing that future was doing whatever he could to keep her from becoming CEO.
***
Mika sat alone in Zellington Park, watching as the kids played with their parents, her shoes scraping against the flowers. A small boy in tattered clothes waddled to her, holding his hands out as his stomach gurgled.
"Pfft, you and me both, kid." She rubbed her stomach.
A tall man approached the boy from behind, dropping the fluffiest of donuts into his hands. The grateful boy smiled with glee as he chomped on the powdered sweetness, thanking the man before skipping away.
"Want one?" the man asked Mika.
"K-Klaus?"
"Yo," he smiled, holding out the box of donuts.
"You walk around parks handing small children donuts—lil creepy if ya ask me," Mika joked, snatching one before he could sit down.
"I was getting coffee at my favorite spot, and Detective Cambridge was there. This box was his leftovers. Couldn't understand a word he was saying."
"I've seen that dude hangin' around Tempora on Nightwalkers Street with some floozy," Mika licked her fingers. "Protecting AND serving, huh?" she nudged at Klaus' shoulder.
"You are… overwhelmingly immature." Klaus snickered, holding back his laugh.
"That's why ya love me," she snatched the final donut as the two sat and watched the park together.
Klaus's smile slowly vanished into melancholy. Mika looked over at him but did not notice the change. He was always the same to her, difficult to read, but never cold; in fact, she felt invigorated whenever he was around. She looked up to Klaus a lot, in more ways than one. He was a very athletic individual, though it was hard to tell since he always wore suits. She and Zoi used to sit on his back as he did push-ups, which made her want to train as well, but she was not as careful as he was, often scraping every inch of her tan skin. But Zoi and Klaus were always there to pick her up, and Aliceria too, even though they bickered; these individuals are what made her herself, and the thought of losing them was…
"Mika."
"That's the name."
"Thank you for being friends with them."
He held her close in an unexpected display of affection. Mika was known by many as the problem child; most adults wrote her off. When she first met Zoi, Klaus was just his older brother who would drop her off at home after they finished hanging out. But over time, he became much more, and in those nights when she did not want to go home, he would always open his doors to her.
"I don't have a lot of time, Mika… so listen close."
She pulled away from him, confused by the serious tone in his words.
"In twenty minutes… everyone in this park is going to die."
***
Half an hour earlier…
"These are all the records of death's crawl we have on hand, Mr. Rinel," Ms. Swallow informed Zoi as she climbed down from the ladder, handing him a single book covered in dust and cobwebs. "You seem disappointed?"
"No, no, thank you. Really. I, um, I guess I was expecting the material to be a bit more… extensive."
"Well, in truth, these texts are considered to be somewhat blasphemous," she warned, picking up her candle and directing Zoi to the checkout table.
"Because of the Gnostics, correct? The Followers of Cassius?"
"My, my, very informed for a boy your age," Ms. Swallow smiled. "Yes, the Cassions, a heretical bunch that directly opposed Holy Symmetry and our goddess, Eros."
"From what I've read, they believe Eros to be a false—"
"WATCH YOUR TONGUE, BOY!" a man interjected.
"He-He meant nothing by it, Bishop Dumar, just curious is all," Ms. Swallow bowed profusely.
The Bishop stepped forward to Zoi, scowling. The golden ornament over his nose meant that he was one of five leaders who ran the separate branches of Holy Symmetry, each representing one of the senses. Standing at the top of this hierarchy was the Archbishop, who resided in the Holy City of Percepta.
"The Gnostics were curious as well, and such inquiry led to the genocide of over one hundred thousand egos during the usurper's age," he warned Zoi, looking down at the dusty text. "You will find no salvation in those pages, only death."
The bishop exited the room and entered the garden, the door slamming behind him; Zoi could finally release the air in his lungs. Ms. Swallow distanced herself from him, scurrying behind her desk, "You should leave, Mr. Rinel. Return the text once you have finished."
"Y-Yes ma'am," he retreated to an empty corner near the entrance, far away from Bishop Dumar's gaze, and examined the pages thoroughly. The text was handwritten and old; it was no book but someone's journal. It contained illustrations of plants and other things that were difficult to discern. He flipped through all of the pages and closed the journal, discouraged; it was practically useless. The backside peeled open again, revealing a final doodle, a very impressive sketch of the death crawl. It was almost… beautiful. He had never seen it depicted in such a flattering manner. As he observed the drawing, his thumb rolled over the artist's signature.
"Zoey Rinel—Urgh!!!" Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain at the back of his skull as unfamiliar memories flashed before his very eyes. The images were of a setting ripped straight from the pages of the holy text—there was no mistaking it—this had to be heaven. But why was he so certain? Why did such imagery evoke pain? He slammed the journal shut and rushed outside the botanical church in search of Mika, recalling that she had gone in the direction of Zellington Park. On the way there, he called Klaus but got no response, opting instead to leave a text as he dashed down the street. A few steps away from the park—something came crashing down from the sky—like a bolt of lightning but with the impact of a small meteor, knocking Zoi to his feet and shaking the city.
"WH-WHOA…! WHAT'S HAPPENING?!"
The citizens screamed in horror, parents shielding their children as debris came raining from the skies, demolishing everything unfortunate enough to be at the end of the deathly trajectory. The fallout of the event destroyed most of Viewing District, leaving behind nothing but silence and a thick veil of dust. Zoi navigated the hazy landscape, stumbling upon a small hand gripping a donut. The dust settled, and the park was gone—all that remained was a massive crater.
"Huff, huff… MIKA!!!!" he shouted.
No one responded…
"MIK—!!!"
A sharp blade pierced his back, protruding from his abdomen. He choked as blood filled his lungs, a voice whispering in his ear, "Found you."
The blade was ripped from his body, and he fell into the crater, never once seeing the face of the perpetrator. He tumbled and crashed into broken concrete and busted water pipes—the fall ending next to Klaus's corpse; his brother's torso separated from its lower half.
"K-K-Kla…"
He could feel the life evaporating from his body, like a flame burning close to wax. Was this death? It surely felt synonymous with the concept. But who knew it could be so… unforgiving. Though perhaps that was the wrong word, it lacked a being, so to be unforgiving would be impossible. It also enflates one's self-importance, believing that the universe itself not only possessed an ego, but that such an ego had some form of vendetta against humanity. No, this could not be death; it lacked finality. It allowed the mind to wander on in perpetuity, adrift in a sea of collected experiences. But it was within this sea that the self dwelled—awaiting actualization.