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 Posted: Tue Feb 21, 2023 12:23 pm
Once that second set of double doors opened, he was back out in the Rift. He faced it grimly while he carried Bloodstone's bullshit diagnosis — the insistence that his human half wasn't enough to stand up to the youma in him. That Faustite wasn't strong enough, that he was two halves of the whole to become half again and be made whole. That all his years of traversing the Rift and coming to understand those who claimed it as a home was preparation for joining them permanently. He liked youma — enjoyed their company, their idiosyncrasies, the saturnine and incomprehensible way they viewed the world — but he loved his boys. He loved Albite, Alkmene, Celadonite, Heliodor, Taenite. He loved Kamacite and his quiet, unending loyalty. He loved Fafnir and the way that boy fought hell and earth for his brother. He loved Ashanite's easy, carefree manner.
He couldn't love boys if he was a youma. Faustite knew that, the moment he became a youma, his annoyance for Albite's antics would become loathing. He would want nothing more than the starseed out of his chest, no different than the fate he wanted for Ida, or Encke, or Cybele.
Faustite couldn't fight for the Negaverse to the same degree if he were youma. They couldn't summon subordinates with a wave of their hands, nor teleport about the battlefield, nor awaken new officers, nor summon groups of youma to assist them. Youma weren't a part of the well-laid plans that led to operations, but as grunts to lead a charge. And in front of a Princess? They were little more than cannon fodder. Lives to be cast away with the flick of a wrist.
He'd gotten this far. Spent years with a body that fought him in its progressive youmafication. He couldn't give up his life for this — not when it would pain so many of the boys for whom he learned to live.
It was that thought that spurred Faustite on from grimly accepting the inevitable. Faustite snorted as he descended the steps, down past the lost city, down into the valley, with thick swaths of smoke and choked coughs marking his wake. He knew that youma were watching him, having felt his presence. He knew they would be bolder now that he was injured and weakened. He couldn't wander far.
Certainly not farther than the valley. It was there that he lingered, searching about the vast plains of cracked earth and crystalline flourishes, searching for youma that had enough thoughts in their head to comprehend his problem. For the better part of an hour, he wandered and called into makeshift dens and climbed towering crystals for a better view of what lay beyond. He'd seen many a feral youma, from swarms of youma rats that chased him to the other side of the valley to the flock of stork-like youma with too many feet that picked a fight with the pestiferous vermin. He found one that looked like a rhinocerous made of nothing but horns in the front and hid behind a stone formation until it wandered out of earshot. He found the oversized scorpion youma who clicked and chittered at him scornfully for the number of dustings it suffered at the hands of a Knight with a shovel.
But no matter how often he called Revenant or Salthiss, the pair never heeded him. He hadn't the energy to summon Headache, either, though he was loathe to speak with his personal youma about something that required a modicum of sensitivity. Calling for Galvorn was of no use either, and only piqued the ire of a previously unseen lamp salesman that cursed him out and wanted nothing more to do with him afterward.
So who did that leave? Arles? Aquamarine's harpy, Alys? Who else did he know? Who else could he call?
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Posted: Tue Feb 21, 2023 12:44 pm
Another hour had passed. Faustite found himself a strange spire of collected rocks and crystals, somehow cemented together in a manner about which he did not want to ask. Near the top of the spire was a flat, angular rock with just enough room to sit the narrow General while he let his legs dangle off the edge and swing gently in the still air. It promised something of a view, allowing him to see as far as the poisonous river, before the fog from the more distant parts of the Rift obscured the rest. It granted him shelter, too, from the creatures that lurked below.
His presence, and particularly his deteriorating cough, had attracted a lion youma that circled the spire. It would pace, then wait, then pace, then wait, then pace, until it determined that its next starseed would not be descending so soon. Turning about, the bone-thin and mouth-ridden lion laid down in the shadow of that outcropping where it stared upward at the boy's dangling legs. In time, it knew, that boy would have to leap.
Faustite didn't appreciate the opportunistic lion youma. Though he could not be certain why, it reminded him of Tanais, for which his shoulder ached terribly. Different angle, he reminded himself, but the pain still lingered. Still left him exhausted while he waited.
With no one else left to name, Faustite tried a final time. "Forgemaster!" He yelled, then sputtered into heavy coughs that sent thick smoke curling down to the lion youma. Faustite paused as his voice echoed over the barren valley. For several minutes afterward, he heard nothing.
Then he heard the low rumble of the lion youma's growl. As he looked down, he watched the creature rise and arch its back, its head low, its tail curved against the dead ground. Dregs of foul-smelling spit dripped off its jaws as its lips pulled back to expose too many incisors. Whatever it looked at was beyond what Faustite could see, and he was reticent to turn himself about on such a precarious perch. He stared at the creature, perplexed, until he saw it dart beneath him.
A masculine voice bellowed, then the sound of a blunt snap was followed by the lion youma's pained howl. Another bellow, and a wet smack punctuated their disagreement. The lion youma had no more arguments left to give; either it was dusted by its hungry competition or it was temporarily paralyzed.
Faustite didn't want to know what did away with his stalker in a couple powerful blows. He tried to stay still but for the eternal fire in his guts, but a burgeoning cough found its way out. What was once a quiet cough quickly devolved into deep hacking.
"Faustite!" The deep voice thundered up to him. Faustite turned in response, but his ledge dislodged from the precarious pile. It slipped, and so did he, and soon the pair were falling.
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Posted: Tue Feb 21, 2023 1:48 pm
The rock struck first. It broke into shards that scattered across the ground. Faustite was next. He braced himself, knowing he couldn't deflect the fall with an injured shoulder —
Then he stopped. He was inches from the ground. Then the wearied, screaming pain in his shoulder caught up to him, just as air returned to his lungs —
"Ouch, ********, owowow, watchtheshoulder!!" Faustite hissed through gritted teeth.
"Apologies, General." The burly youma stooped and let the burning boy down slowly, then brushed the dirt and detritus from his outfit with a few extra hands. "And I apologize for my untoward familiarity with your name. It was not my intention to hurt or disrespect you." The creature bowed low, its disembodied head following the motion.
Faustite huffed as the impromptu agony devolved into a dull throb and lightheadedness. He regarded the familiar youma at once — while more sallow in the violet light of the Rift, Faustite recognized the unmoving mask with its fixed facial expressions on each side. The hypertrophic arms that couldn't quite sit flush with his sides and the calloused hands were just as familiar to him, even if steam rose off of them for catching the burning General.
"Forgemaster. Surprised to see you."
The glow behind the mask dimmed with contemplation. "I do not understand why, General. I heard you call me."
Faustite waved the notion away as he sat in the shade of the spire. "Didn't know if you reformed after the forges exploded. Seemed a harsh way to go."
"I appreciate your concern. I am well." It hesitated, bowing its head, then ventured a question of its own. "If I may ask, where is your crown?"
"… What?"
The disembodied head turned, revealing a stern face. A glow echoed out its empty mouth and sightless eyes as the creature spoke again. "The laurels I forged for you, General."
"Oh. Those. Still have them." Faustite raised his good hand and the mess of shrapnel appeared in it in an instant. Faustite gave the smoldering thing a once-over before he tried to fit it on his head, then was beset with an abrupt dizziness and burgeoning migraine. Grunting his incredulous disgust, Faustite wrenched it off his head. "Felt like my brain fell out the back of my head when I put it on."
"Oh. Is that bad?"
Faustite dismissed the trinket, already weary of the conversation. As he opened his mouth to speak again, a terrible cough burst out of him.
"You do not sound good." Forgemaster knelt down next to the burning boy. "Are you injured?"
"No. …Yes. But I'm also sick." Faustite shifted back against the spire and rested against its base. As he leaned back, he looked skyward; his attention followed the warped reimagining of an attenuated nebula while he gathered his thoughts.
Youma weren't alive, he reminded himself. They didn't reproduce. They didn't grow. They had no cells or metabolic processes. They didn't get sick. Nothing lived off of them, just as they lived off of nothing. Unless Forgemaster had been around enough officers to know what illness was, the concept would be foreign to it. And Faustite suspected that, while Forgemaster was polite and respectful toward its commanding officers, it wasn't the smartest youma in the Rift.
"Apart from the a*****e who stabbed me," Faustite explained with only a single hand's worth of gestures, "Something's gone wrong with my body. Always struggled with it — like the youma parts and human parts couldn't reconcile with each other as I earned ranks, but it always worked itself out. Was always fine afterward. Was fine, for years, but now —"
Faustite unbuttoned and rolled up the sleeve on his immobilized right hand where molten orange cracks and dark blisters made home in his skin. "Something's gone wrong again. No one knows how to fix it."
"My apologies."
Faustite shook his head at the youma. "Someone told me to consult a youma about it. Get a different perspective. That's why I called you."
Forgemaster fell silent. Faustite was used to this; he recalled the long gaps of quietude in their conversations when they were together in the forges. Faustite always kept busy during those times, darting from forge to forge or inspecting strange symbols carved seemingly at random. Now that he had nothing to do, he felt the silence drag on and on until it matched the length of the spire's shadow.
When Forgemaster raised its head, its mask turned to its neutral expression. "I do not understand why this confuses you."
Lidded flame eyes stared up at it, unamused. "Why."
"Because you are part youma already." Forgemaster thought its answer clear and succinct, but when he saw Faustite's expression grow more irked, it folded its arms across its barrel chest and continued.
"Do you remember when I commended you?"
Faustite nodded.
"I did it because I thought you knew you were on an inevitable path. Despite what you will ultimately become, you fought valiantly for the Negaverse and led your subordinates to become devoted officers of all stripes. What you have said does not change my mind about you, but I thought you understood that you will eventually become youma."
"… I did," Faustite ventured quietly. "But I thought that…" There was more time. "What can I do, then? Will anything stave it off?"
Forgemaster's answer rumbled in his chest. "I do not know. Perhaps starseeds and energy will quench its hunger, as they do ours. I apologize, General, but I know of nothing that will stop what is happening to you."
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Posted: Tue Feb 21, 2023 2:56 pm
"I do not —" "Shut up." Faustite pressed his good hand against his face. "Just shut up. Heard enough. "I'm turning into a youma as slowly as ******** possible. Fine. I'll eat ******** starseeds, then. Maybe that'll do something. Delay it. Make it worse. I don't ******** know." His breath hitched between wan coughs. He swallowed, but his throat was too parched to force down heat and mourning alike. His mouth twisted into a grimace. Steaming black tears swept down his face. "I don't know." Faustite couldn't determine where he'd gone wrong. Was this some delayed reaction from when he ate all those starseeds? Was it from being exposed to too much magic? Did it have something to do with powering that building that was stuck in the Scar? Or was it simpler than that? Were youmafied officers only guaranteed six years of service before their bodies gave out on them and they joined the unranked majority? No, it couldn't be that — Axinite would've said something. Would've had files on one who came before, who was now completely youma. Someone in Medical would've heard. Even Bloodstone might've known, unless that feckless b*****d left that out of the conversation. As Faustite pulled himself to his feet, he told himself it didn't matter how it happened — not if the origin wasn't also a cure. He was becoming a youma. His body was dying. He was sentenced to the world's slowest cremation, destined to become that fiery figure he once was when hit by those glimmering scales. Soon enough, he'd be wearing a cape of his own skin. He'd be nothing but grate and flame. And the Negaverse could do nothing to stop it. When Faustite collected himself, when he scrubbed his face clean of that black mess with the back of his sleeve, he spoke to his attending youma in a dull voice. "That's all I needed." That was all that remained to be said. Faustite walked away from Forgemaster without dismissing him. He supposed that, if he was joining that youma in the Rift soon, he would need to get used to being unable to issue commands. "General," Forgemaster called after him. "You will make an inspirational youma ******** off," Faustite muttered under his breath as he stalked back toward the base of the Citadel. What was left, then? Crawling to the White Moon and groveling for them to take the youma out of him? Finding Lysithea and lying to her face that he reconsidered her offer, that he's ready to join them? Beg Cybele, whose feet he burned to the bone, to drag Ganymede out of hiding? Promise her that, no, this time, it's different? He smiled scornfully, smoke eking out from between his teeth. Morals or death, he supposed. Something made a traitor out of everyone.
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