The beauty of the Sigma Systems was wasted today on a lonely soul, emerging from the depths of darkness and solitude only to find herself in one of Freeport 8's small drinking establishments. Aside from the view from the windows, there was nothing beautiful about the place. Rough, cheap metal, covered in scratches. Traces of rust were the only decoration, and the few people around barely noticed her. Somewhere in the distance, the clatter of docking mechanisms could be heard; in a far corner, the laughter of a mercenary who had just won a large sum in a card game rang out. Freeport 8 continued its normal life, oblivious to her.
Perhaps she should have remained in the darkness. But a conversation with a mercenary lost in the cloud spurred her on, if only for a bit.
A glass of wine, produced somewhere in Gallia, rested comfortably in her hand. She'd never liked alcohol, but now it seemed to bring her closer to the one for whom she'd decided to change this world. It was naive to think she could do it. Her black cane was nearby, a reminder of her own powerlessness.
She was called a "liability." She was called a "traitor." In an instant, all her efforts, all her achievements, all her successes vanished. She no longer fit the worldview of a tyrant who imagined himself the guiding force of a revolutionary movement. Blinded by the loud speeches, unable to understand the difference between empty rebellious bravado and the achievement of the goals that gave them strength.
But the most painful thing was that she'd trusted him. And he turned out to be just another hypocrite. One who chose child murderers with loud slogans over his own principles, of which he seemed so proud. And she could blame no one but herself and her foolishness.
Emilia peered into the glare of the local sun reflecting off the surface of her glass. She was faced with a choice she wasn't prepared for. Leave—and lose all her hard work, lose Chevalier, lose the purpose she'd seemingly found. Stay... and live amidst the madness, helplessly watching everything crumble around her. She delayed the choice, but knew it would soon have to be made.
Leaving everything behind was difficult. Supply lines for the Order, carefully cultivated contacts, sleepless nights working on projects designed to give them at least a small chance against the Alien God. Every drop of sweat, every moment of fear, every small victory—it would all be wiped away. Crossed off the list. As if it had never existed.
If she chose to plunge into the unknown instead of madness, she would have to be cruel to the only person who saw in her something more than a sickly girl or a useful tool. She could abandon the cause, she could survive the Platform's disembodiment. But leaving Chevalier was... unthinkable. And taking her away would have meant exposing Chevalier to too much danger. And Veil would rather die herself than condemn to that the one who made her truly feel Human for the first time. Not a street rat from Pittsburgh, not a burden to a stronger brother, not the architect of someone's future... But simply Alive.
Veil exhaled, then downed her glass in one gulp, wrinkling her nose. She waved at the bartender, asking for more. An older man with a Bretonian accent raised an eyebrow, but without comment, he poured her more wine. He'd seen all sorts of broken people here. She was just another one of them, albeit a strange-looking one. She paid, so he didn't care.
And then there was another option. To stay in this madness... Smiling and nodding, complying with all the demands, forgetting the very principles she'd accepted when she joined the Platform. Seeing Chevalier every day, knowing it all wasn't bringing them any closer to a world where they could live peacefully.
The wine was slowly but surely doing its job. The sharp edges of the dilemma were smoothing, dissolving into a dull, throbbing ache. But the core remained, a cold, hard lump in her stomach.
She raised her hand a bit, peering at her wrist, where, at her will, a virtual interface could appear. She could text Chevalier. "I need you. I have to tell you something." But what would that accomplish? It would only drag her into this mess. Force her to choose between her mission and the Veil herself. A senseless weakness it would be, one that made Emilia sick of herself.
A group of mercenaries off to the side burst into laughter at some crude joke. One of them, a young woman with bright purple hair, approached the bartender for drinks and met Emilia's gaze for a couple seconds. A flicker of recognition flashed in that gaze. Not of the pale girl, but of her condition. It was almost as if mercenary's gaze said, "I've been there. It will get better. Or not. Either way, the booze never runs out."
Emilia turned away. She had survived back then, at Pittsburgh. She would survive now, one way or another.
And that "Something" inside her seemed to rejoice amidst it all. As if asking, "So, did your ideals and moral superiority help you?"
The albino girl didn't answer. "It" already knew the answer perfectly well anyway. Just as "It" knew most of what Emilia would say or do. There was rarely any reason to respond.
Perhaps at this very moment out there Emilia was stuck in escape pod, drifting after her ship was down during the skirmish with Corsairs and Unioners. Whatever the case may be her mind turned back to this moment.
Back in the bar she did notice there was a person near the window also staring at the view outside, in contrast to the rest of the patrons of the bar today. A solemn looking man somewhere in late fifties with jet black hair mixed with patches of grey. Past his prime but now carrying a certain dignity that comes with age.
Not known to anyone around that man was also one of the hosts to a certain being Emilia has met a while ago. Elusive and otherworldly, even his kin tend to keep a safe distance so as not to be ensnared and become unwitting actors in a long chain of events spanning cycles and generations. Whatever his motives are to Emilia he is the enemy. The enemy she knew very little about, save for a brief encounter. But then again who does? Even Chevalier would tell little to nothing, raising even more questions.
The view outside had Emilia lost in stillness of the cosmos, detached from the world around her and not noticing that the person has moved. Bartender leaned forward telling something to the man, then nodded pointing towards her.
"Quite a sight, is it? Makes you think..." - he spoke, distracting Emilia from the wandering thoughts and pulling back into reality. The old man looked like something out of a painting, perhaps a bretonian noble but stripped of pomp and eccentricity associated with those. Perhaps a long retired veteran of Armed Forces somehow ending up in this middle of nowhere as well.
"Apologies. Didn't mean to startle you, young miss. I do enjoy the view outside as well but you've been sitting there for hours all by yourself. Nothing wrong losing yourself in a good drink, I suppose. Still, I do have to ask if you are alright... are you?" - the voice has carried a tone of genuine concern.
Looking out the window at the space, one could easily indulge in lengthy reflections. About how much humanity has, yet continues to desire more. In its greed, it spares neither outsiders nor its own. In its greed, it will consume itself. Greed, greed, greed...
At least, that's what most of her people would have said.
Emilia, however, saw other facets here, and greed was only one of them. Those others were no less powerful over people's souls: fear, desire for control, vanity, arrogance. She herself was not free of them all. Her actions were built precisely on fear; fear of losing what she had found by pure chance, which had upended her view of the world. For which she was willing to kill, to commit baseness, and to risk her own existence.
Foolishness. But precisely the kind of foolishness that made life worth living.
...
Unexpectedly hearing a voice nearby, the albino blinked twice, looking slightly surprised, as if waking from a fleeting dream. She glanced at the man who had addressed her, taking in the contours of his face and clothing. He didn't look like someone who belonged here. But, then again, neither did she.
When she was still a street urchin on the streets of Pittsburgh, she might have reflexively flinched, looking for her brother, seeking his protection. But not now. She was in Freeport, and random violence was not tolerated here. Not to mention Emilia herself now had some tangible aces up her sleeve... Still, it was best not to use them.
So far, however, there was no hint of hostility in the stranger. So perhaps she should curb her paranoia.
"Yes, the sight is impressive... Especially when you've spent most of your life seeing only smog and dark clouds."
She smiled with a hint of sadness. The voice sounded slightly distant, but not cold. Her eyes, though, still studied him, as if searching for a chink in his armor.
"Perhaps it really is obvious that I'm in a kind of... daze. It's hard to stomach when someone I considered practically family turns out to not value me at all. And forces me to choose between the cause I've dedicated my life to and sanity."
Crimson Veil, looking away slightly, twirled her glass in her hand. Then she exhaled.
"...They all walk toward the abyss, lured by the loudest shouters. Many complain about power determined by blood or wealth... But is power really better when it goes to the one with the loudest voice?"
