[There is a bit of chatter among the staff from the front it seems they're ready to get it started. Before it gets rolling, though, the young person bends in, anxious, to whisper to Vergilius:]
["Sir..."]
[But Vergilius is as calm as ever, only his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at the feminine Maestro of the auction.]
[Don't worry. We don't have to bow down. Rather, they'd be honored to see their works frayed by my gaze.]
[The Maestro steps forward, their voice light, airy - the curtain is drawn back on the first item.]
[A member of the audience raises their placard. Then another. Yet another. 35 million. 40 million. 40 million going once, will anyone give me 45-?]
[Vergilius and the young man don't move. Lobelia should notice that Vergilius isn't staring at the urn, but at a man sitting closer to the front, who also seems to be as still as a statue - his red glasses can almost be seen through the veil.]
[Whatever they're both waiting for, it isn't this.]
[How dreadfully morbid, and yet Lobelia doesn't see so much as a muscle twitch in the audience, nor any gasps of revulsion. The City truly is different, isn't it? A den of hedonism and wanton violence. Lobelia can imagine himself slotting into such a society with ease... but that's not the point here, is it?
His gaze follows Vergilius' to the veiled man some rows ahead, and it's on that man his focus remains. Did Vergilius know what horrors were due to unfold here, unlike before?]
[More items are put up. One of note is a man dancing like a ballerina in a glass box - Mr. Stroud, the Maestro announces, going on for dancing for 3 years now. More bids are made. But still, Vergilius, the young man, and the one he's staring at still do not move, still do not make a bet.]
[We've already reached our final item of the day. It's my favorite one, and one I will expect will sell the highest. I am overjoyed to present this piece to you.]
[Heretofore, an infamous Syndicate known for its brutal reign was wiped out in a single battle. All of its members, including its leader, were annihilated in that carnage.]
[Vergilius notably tenses as the curtain is raised.]
[Since this battle, their names and records have been expunged. Who they were, what they did, whether they deserved their fate....everything about that Syndicate and its members remains a mystery. This painting is painted from the consciousness of the sold survivor unto death after onslaught...]
[A vicious, frenzied painting with thorns, burning red dashes of paint rising from it like fire.]
[The placards are raised, one after the other. Vergilius's eyes narrow. Yes. 1.2 billion. 1.25 billion. 1.3 billion. We have 1.4 billion over there.]
[And then suddenly-]
[The man with the red glasses stands up, his tone stern, serious as anything.]
[10 billion.]
[The audience clamors at the large bid. The young man at Vergilius' side murmurs, looking more nervous - "Is it possible he's after the same thing as us?"]
[And a murmur from Vergilius in return. The corridor of the Ring, access granted to those who win the meister's most cherished work. He's determined to go there no matter what.]
[Vergilius's expression seems especially tight, but the Maestro is already calling for final bids - something must be done.]
[Lobelia's eyes alight on that painting, tension setting into his every muscle. Something about its frenzied design sets a flame alight in him, nerves abuzz, but he can't pinpoint why he feels as if he's been strung up on tenterhooks.
The reason why hardly matters when he's sure to see it with his own eyes, no longer focused on the painting but on Vergilius. Red eyes, red gaze, apprehension in his stare moments before disaster. Surely Christmas was worse?]
[More clamoring. The man with the red glasses shouts, clearly shocked - Hold it!! This is not in line with the rules!! Was it not that the group with the highest bid would be allowed in the corridor-?! Even one of the staff, her smirk alighting her half-hidden face, the other half covered with a garish mask, addresses Vergilius.]
[Hey You ought to pay the full price in cash here and now, right?]
[Vergilius opens his mouth.
[I have something more valuable.]
[It's something of a counterfeit, produced by someone's dying mind. I'm sure you know the painting is unfinished. However......what if I could complete it?]
[And then the world shifts. A lurching sensation, as the scene disappears, only to be replaced by something much more macabre - what seems to be a large public bathroom, covered in piles of dead bodies, carnage incarnate. A man stands in the midst of it, glancing towards the movement of a warm body - a much younger Vergilius, his eyes blazing coldly. There's no recognition.]
[Congrats, Lobelia! You've been trapped in a memory within a memory. And it doesn't seem like there's going back - for Vergilius scoffs, readies his sword.]
Ah, I missed one extra.
[And he's going right for Lobelia without even a shift of his expression.]
[Wow! And what does he win for his efforts? Another death?
Still, Lobelia isn't prepared to die hereβ not in this space, this memory within a memory, and not when this death isn't meant for himself. He has no choice but to stand and fight, but what capabilities is he working with here? His own? Is he borrowing the power of this memory?
He'll defend himself through whatever means he can, but there's a creeping, sinking feeling running up Lobelia's spine. If "he" is meant to die here, what does he gain by fighting, if anything at all? Be it with a blade or his own audiomancy, Lobelia moves to parry whatever fearsome attack comes his way. Not like this. You aren't the one.]
[It seems he still has access to his powers - after all, the world of the City graces those who work hard enough (or pay enough) for their troubles, and to have someone manipulating sound is not something extremely miraculous.]
[Only a minute shift of Vergilius's face, as cold as ice, seems to express displeasure as he feels his sword get knocked back, but he's at it again. A veritable weapon. There's no displeasure, no pain, nothing. The raging fire of the man Lobelia knows is simply not there.]
[The heat of his gladius burns the air as he slams it down to try to amputate the man, nimbly stepping in between bodies as he moves.]
[No, no, no, no. This isn't Vergilius at all. This isn't his Vergilius, and if it was, perhaps he'd show this hollow illusion of him some restraint. As it is, Lobelia's loyalties begin and end with one man, and this man isn't him.
Lobelia manages to largely avoid his attack, but not without suffering some damage to his arm, blood oozing from his serrated wound. Had Vergilius shown him restraint on the eve of their fight...? Where has this bloodlust come from, this animistic rage?
There's no time to play around here. Lobelia snaps his fingers, a wall of sound collapsing on either side of Vergilius' head. His aim is to kill him, or at the very least debilitate him, but will his audiomancy have that much of an impact in this space?]
[The sound crushing into the sides of his head is the first thing so far to knock him off course - he falls to his knees, hissing and spitting out specks of blood.]
[Even though he falters, his eyes burning so harshly they're like lasers burning through metal, there's something harsh and disbelieving in them, a little hint of humanity behind the cold exterior.]
[His body is shuddering as he keeps ahold of his gladius, staring daggers into the other man.]
[Ah... Seeing "Vergilius" like this almost hurts, but not quite. Not quite.
Lobelia takes a knee before the man, exposed as anything, but he's not afraid of what comes next. He's driven by the need to lose himself in those red eyes, and yet they reflect nothing of the passion, the anger, the drive that Vergilius' do.
[A flicker - he's pushing himself up ever slightly, gritting his teeth. What a joke. A colossal joke.]
[...]
[But there's a pause, a hesitation.]
...You're not part of the Syndicate, are you? Then I don't need to bother with you. I got the code. Lapis.
[.........]
Ha. The name of the boss's daughter.
[Now something seems to change, a mark of sorrow in his eyes, like drops in a well that has just been dug. Vergilius is now struggling to move to his feet.]
[Vergilius won't get far in his present condition, so Lobelia makes no move to stop him once he moves to stagger upright. The Syndicate, hm? Lobelia's brow raisesβ naturally, he isn't, but he doesn't answer in the affirmative, nor does he refute.
Still... There's no changing a memory, but Lobelia catches those filaments of sorrow in Vergilius' gaze β some semblance of the real him β and rises to set a hand on his shoulder.]
[Oh, there's the snapping anger - even if its mild compared to what Lobelia knows, and a bit unnatural coming from that young, almost emotionless face, its classic Vergilius, alright.]
[Ah! There's his baby momma. Lobelia does his best not to snicker, but it truly is a relief to hear the bite in Vergilius' voice, so see anger spark in his eyes. Naturally, his response is to fit his fingers into a vice around Vergilius' hand.]
Tsk, tsk! What a fussy boy. I know you better than you think. In fact, I know this is not where you're prepared to die.
[But do you know how insistent these types are, Verg? Lobelia doesn't seem like the type to hesitate on making good on his word, and with his audiomancy lowly thrumming in Vergilius' veins, maybe he'd be better served admitting the rest to him.]
[Hi, you're getting the edge of his gladius placed against your throat, there, Lobelia, even with the humming in his veins. Even here and now, at this age, the rebelliousness of wanting to stay alive by any means possible is here, as taut as a steel wire.]
Tell me how you know that, and maybe I'll tell you what you want.
[Such a thinly veiled threat...! That's his Vergie alright. Lobelia tips his chin up and smiles, all teeth, and considers the terms of their exchange with a hum.]
I told you I was an ange, right? Is it not an ange's duty to guide their chosen one down the correct path?
[But he stares at Lobelia for a moment, his head hurting, the taste of blood in his mouth, and maybe, just maybe, there's a glimmer of understanding, like a lantern shining briefly off a dark shore.]
[He lowers the sword, shakily..]
Maybe it fits I would have a fallen angel like you. [He spits blood to the side.] I don't...know.
[That slight urge, like a seed in a barren land, starting to bloom.]
[In turn, the vibrations ease, Lobelia's grip slacking in kind... but he doesn't let go of his hand. Not entirely. If there's one thing he'll refuse to let this memory of Vergilius do, it's forget how grounding a warm touch can be.]
Je vois! Are you concerned for her wellbeing?
[A little playfully, Lobelia squeezes Vergilius' hand as if to say don't get me started again. All he wants are some answers! Nothing much!]
Tell me more about her. Now you have me curious as well.
[Knowing what he knows about the Vergilius of the present, Lobelia can't help but laugh. Such a bleeding heart. He's always had a soft spot for children, hasn't he?]
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["Sir..."]
[But Vergilius is as calm as ever, only his eyebrows furrowed as he stares at the feminine Maestro of the auction.]
[Don't worry. We don't have to bow down. Rather, they'd be honored to see their works frayed by my gaze.]
[The Maestro steps forward, their voice light, airy - the curtain is drawn back on the first item.]
[A member of the audience raises their placard. Then another. Yet another. 35 million. 40 million. 40 million going once, will anyone give me 45-?]
[Vergilius and the young man don't move. Lobelia should notice that Vergilius isn't staring at the urn, but at a man sitting closer to the front, who also seems to be as still as a statue - his red glasses can almost be seen through the veil.]
[Whatever they're both waiting for, it isn't this.]
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His gaze follows Vergilius' to the veiled man some rows ahead, and it's on that man his focus remains. Did Vergilius know what horrors were due to unfold here, unlike before?]
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[We've already reached our final item of the day. It's my favorite one, and one I will expect will sell the highest. I am overjoyed to present this piece to you.]
[Heretofore, an infamous Syndicate known for its brutal reign was wiped out in a single battle. All of its members, including its leader, were annihilated in that carnage.]
[Vergilius notably tenses as the curtain is raised.]
[Since this battle, their names and records have been expunged. Who they were, what they did, whether they deserved their fate....everything about that Syndicate and its members remains a mystery. This painting is painted from the consciousness of the sold survivor unto death after onslaught...]
[A vicious, frenzied painting with thorns, burning red dashes of paint rising from it like fire.]
[The placards are raised, one after the other. Vergilius's eyes narrow. Yes. 1.2 billion. 1.25 billion. 1.3 billion. We have 1.4 billion over there.]
[And then suddenly-]
[The man with the red glasses stands up, his tone stern, serious as anything.]
[10 billion.]
[The audience clamors at the large bid. The young man at Vergilius' side murmurs, looking more nervous - "Is it possible he's after the same thing as us?"]
[And a murmur from Vergilius in return. The corridor of the Ring, access granted to those who win the meister's most cherished work. He's determined to go there no matter what.]
[Vergilius's expression seems especially tight, but the Maestro is already calling for final bids - something must be done.]
[The Red Gaze stands to be lost to another-]
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The reason why hardly matters when he's sure to see it with his own eyes, no longer focused on the painting but on Vergilius. Red eyes, red gaze, apprehension in his stare moments before disaster. Surely Christmas was worse?]
cw: death
[Stands.]
[More clamoring. The man with the red glasses shouts, clearly shocked - Hold it!! This is not in line with the rules!! Was it not that the group with the highest bid would be allowed in the corridor-?! Even one of the staff, her smirk alighting her half-hidden face, the other half covered with a garish mask, addresses Vergilius.]
[Hey You ought to pay the full price in cash here and now, right?]
[Vergilius opens his mouth.
[I have something more valuable.]
[It's something of a counterfeit, produced by someone's dying mind. I'm sure you know the painting is unfinished. However......what if I could complete it?]
[And then the world shifts. A lurching sensation, as the scene disappears, only to be replaced by something much more macabre - what seems to be a large public bathroom, covered in piles of dead bodies, carnage incarnate. A man stands in the midst of it, glancing towards the movement of a warm body - a much younger Vergilius, his eyes blazing coldly. There's no recognition.]
[Congrats, Lobelia! You've been trapped in a memory within a memory. And it doesn't seem like there's going back - for Vergilius scoffs, readies his sword.]
Ah, I missed one extra.
[And he's going right for Lobelia without even a shift of his expression.]
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Still, Lobelia isn't prepared to die hereβ not in this space, this memory within a memory, and not when this death isn't meant for himself. He has no choice but to stand and fight, but what capabilities is he working with here? His own? Is he borrowing the power of this memory?
He'll defend himself through whatever means he can, but there's a creeping, sinking feeling running up Lobelia's spine. If "he" is meant to die here, what does he gain by fighting, if anything at all? Be it with a blade or his own audiomancy, Lobelia moves to parry whatever fearsome attack comes his way. Not like this. You aren't the one.]
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[Only a minute shift of Vergilius's face, as cold as ice, seems to express displeasure as he feels his sword get knocked back, but he's at it again. A veritable weapon. There's no displeasure, no pain, nothing. The raging fire of the man Lobelia knows is simply not there.]
[The heat of his gladius burns the air as he slams it down to try to amputate the man, nimbly stepping in between bodies as he moves.]
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Lobelia manages to largely avoid his attack, but not without suffering some damage to his arm, blood oozing from his serrated wound. Had Vergilius shown him restraint on the eve of their fight...? Where has this bloodlust come from, this animistic rage?
There's no time to play around here. Lobelia snaps his fingers, a wall of sound collapsing on either side of Vergilius' head. His aim is to kill him, or at the very least debilitate him, but will his audiomancy have that much of an impact in this space?]
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[Even though he falters, his eyes burning so harshly they're like lasers burning through metal, there's something harsh and disbelieving in them, a little hint of humanity behind the cold exterior.]
[His body is shuddering as he keeps ahold of his gladius, staring daggers into the other man.]
Who are...you?
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Lobelia takes a knee before the man, exposed as anything, but he's not afraid of what comes next. He's driven by the need to lose himself in those red eyes, and yet they reflect nothing of the passion, the anger, the drive that Vergilius' do.
How very, very sad.]
Votre ange de la mort.
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[A scoff comes.]
You have to be kidding me.
[A flicker - he's pushing himself up ever slightly, gritting his teeth. What a joke. A colossal joke.]
[...]
[But there's a pause, a hesitation.]
...You're not part of the Syndicate, are you? Then I don't need to bother with you. I got the code. Lapis.
[.........]
Ha. The name of the boss's daughter.
[Now something seems to change, a mark of sorrow in his eyes, like drops in a well that has just been dug. Vergilius is now struggling to move to his feet.]
Get out of my way.
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Still... There's no changing a memory, but Lobelia catches those filaments of sorrow in Vergilius' gaze β some semblance of the real him β and rises to set a hand on his shoulder.]
And where is it you'll go?
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[He's moving to shrug the other's grip off, grimacing.]
The job has been done. Kill the Syndicate. Get the code. That's all there is to it.
[......]
[There's something that seems left unsaid.]
[He tries to move past Lobelia.]
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But that isn't all, Vergilius. I understand that you're a busy man, but you'll be a mort one if you don't fess up.
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[Oh, there's the snapping anger - even if its mild compared to what Lobelia knows, and a bit unnatural coming from that young, almost emotionless face, its classic Vergilius, alright.]
[He's trying to pull away.]
You don't know me.
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Tsk, tsk! What a fussy boy. I know you better than you think. In fact, I know this is not where you're prepared to die.
[But do you know how insistent these types are, Verg? Lobelia doesn't seem like the type to hesitate on making good on his word, and with his audiomancy lowly thrumming in Vergilius' veins, maybe he'd be better served admitting the rest to him.]
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[Hi, you're getting the edge of his gladius placed against your throat, there, Lobelia, even with the humming in his veins. Even here and now, at this age, the rebelliousness of wanting to stay alive by any means possible is here, as taut as a steel wire.]
Tell me how you know that, and maybe I'll tell you what you want.
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I told you I was an ange, right? Is it not an ange's duty to guide their chosen one down the correct path?
[Unto hell, unto death, eternally.]
Hm... Somewhere inside of you, you know who I am. You may not recognize me now, but you'll come to know me quite well in the future. Do you believe in destinΓ©e?
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[At least he's blunt about it.]
[But he stares at Lobelia for a moment, his head hurting, the taste of blood in his mouth, and maybe, just maybe, there's a glimmer of understanding, like a lantern shining briefly off a dark shore.]
[He lowers the sword, shakily..]
Maybe it fits I would have a fallen angel like you. [He spits blood to the side.] I don't...know.
[That slight urge, like a seed in a barren land, starting to bloom.]
I guess I'm...curious about that girl. Lapis.
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Je vois! Are you concerned for her wellbeing?
[A little playfully, Lobelia squeezes Vergilius' hand as if to say don't get me started again. All he wants are some answers! Nothing much!]
Tell me more about her. Now you have me curious as well.
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[She's waiting for me at home-]
[The older Vergilius would make a face at the squeeze. Here, he looks down at their hands, as if confused he would even do such a thing.]
[This man doesn't make sense.]
I don't know about her. What, you want to check on her, too?
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This world is quite sévère. It's hard to imagine a child growing up here alone, non?
[Lobelia is fond of children himself, but not to the degree that Vergilius is. Regardless, he nods.]
As your ange, I insist on accompanying you! Given your present condition, you could use a hand, surely!
[His present condition is entirely Lobelia's fault, but don't worry about the details. Shit happens.]
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[He says, levelly. He seems to be considering something, eyes darkening a bit as he attempts to step away.]
And I don't need you, either. Angel or not. It's silly to think so.
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Do you think you can go through life entirely alone? Don't be so silly, Vergilius. You won't get far with an attitude like that.
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[He's moving towards the door, even in his state.]
It isn't worth it.
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1/2
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cw: implied child death
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pretend i slapped an nsfw warning on this 5 tags ago
also pretends i slapped an nsfw warning on this 6 tags ago
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