Chapter Text
The almost-operational Chrome Office didn’t have the best view – those were hard to find in Nests, let alone the Backstreets –, but Roland had to appreciate the sunlight it got thanks to its elevated position, as well as the full-wall windows.
Or maybe it was just the pride talking. Objectively, the view sucked – as per S-Corp’s monopoly over the ocean view. Yet purchasing the office-space had taken quite a bit of favor-haggling, and installing the windows involved… quite a bit of trial and error.
In hindsight, they should have maybe hired professionals to install those windows.
I’m sure wannabe handymen walk off skyscrapers all the time, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Even if Angelica still laughs about it every time I open a window.
“Angelica?” He called out after setting down the thermos and the cooking pot he had been carrying. His wife had stayed at the office overnight. They would be officially opening soon enough, and that had sent her on a frenzied binge of micromanagement. There was paperwork to organise, an armory to stock, and a whole floor to decorate. He would have worried about burnout, but Angelica's energy reserves seemed to be endless for the task.
He didn’t personally share the enthusiasm – writing one mediocre book was enough paperwork for him to last a lifetime –, but watching the pale woman dive so wholeheartedly at her fixations was a beautiful sight to behold each and every time. Whether it was minutely rearranging the arsenal in their shared glovespace or tracking down different editions of poetry books to compare the differing censorships between the Wings. And now, being an Office Operator.
Sometimes, the City made him forget it was even possible to have sincere, unconditional passion. His wife’s fervour was a consistent living proof for the opposite.
Their daughter seemed to share that trait with her mother, judging by how the little thing got so giddy when it came to how each District differed in their architecture, or the names of the obscure colors in her crayon set. So it seemed he was unlikely to forget that joy ever again.
“Angelica?” The lanky man called out again. It was eerie; most Fixer Offices he visited would either be dilapidated after years of struggle or abuzz with dire activity. Chrome Office, for now, was pristine like a museum piece. Silent save for the gentle hum of air conditioning.
Wait, why is the AC on? It’s the mildest coastal winter in a while.
It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford it, the income of two Color-grade Fixers was pretty significant, but instincts from his days as an overworked Backstreet dweller were still screaming at him to turn it off.
“Where was the remote- oh, nevermind.” Apparently, the noise wasn’t the hum of any machinery, but of the legendary White Noise snoring into a scattered mess of papers, a pen still gently held between pale fingers, resting on several sketches of floor plans and uniform designs. “This one goes to the family album~”
After immortalizing the moment with a photo, the Fixer took another moment to admire the sight of the sprawling platinum mane of hair, somehow positively angelic even while passed out and drooling on a desk. It took considerable amounts of willpower to not spontaneously fall into a sugar coma in the face of such sweetness.
“Knock knock, you ridiculous thing, we have things to do.” He rapped his knuckles against her skull, producing an impressive amount of noise.
“Mhmm…” Angelica rose, groggily getting her bearings, only snapping to attention upon spotting the cooking pot. “Pajeon?”
“‘Fraid not. This is just some cake and tea for tomorrow. Gotta butter up our employees first before working them to the bone.” Roland gently removed the drool-soaked pair of papers stuck to her cheek, then leaned in to whisper conspiringly. “I splurged to get plenty, so feel free to help yourself."
The pale woman rolled her eyes with a soft giggle as she chased away the ennui of sleep with some stretches. “Where’s Ubbie?”
“Our daughter is at school where she should be. It’s noon, your majesty.”
Her pale blue gaze narrowed into a look of serious contemplation as she calculated what time of day it was before she fell asleep, what day it was, and maybe the year.
“Hmm… a shame, I miss her now.”
“Sure ma’am, I’ll call up some favors from T-corp right away, they will fix what time it is.”
“Hss-!” He attempted to dodge her sudden lunge, but was too slow as the thin fingers dug into his side, making him recoil from the ticklish sensation shooting through like lightning. “Don’t make fun of a mother’s love, dear.”
“God damn it, too fast every time!” He dashed out of tickling range, fixing up his suit. “And there’s a pen stuck in your hair.”
“Leave it, it lives there now.”
“Can I move in too? Looks luxurious.”
“You couldn’t afford it.”
“Try me, maybe I’m secretly super rich. I’m mysterious like that!”
They would have gone on like that for a while if it wasn’t for the imposing man bringing the second pot and a large bottle of soda to complete the impromptu buffet. “His only mystery was that very plain face, but thanks to you he lost even that appeal. What are you two even talking about?”
“Classified Color stuff Olivier, you wouldn’t get it,” Roland answered, emphasizing the word ‘Color’ in a pointedly cheeky way. Their former colleague remained unimpressed.
“If you did, we would have a patent war on our hands,” Angelica added with utmost seriousness, sneaking in between them to play with the shiny golden buttons of the man’s coat, apparently the novelty of the uniform didn’t wear off the last time they met. “More importantly, how is the Hana treating you, mister Olivier?”
“Busy, but good kind of busy. Barely got today off.” Oliver raised a brow as he inspected the office. “So… Chrome Office, huh? Sturdy windows too. Good, vertical warfare has been trending recently.”
“Eh, it’s something to keep us occupied now that we’re tied down to one District. And you really didn’t have to get out of your way to see us off.” Roland uncomfortably rubbed the back of his neck. “Surely work from the Hana Association is more important than helping with the opening of an Office with an ill-advised mission statement.”
“Roland, you’re a friend in a line of work where those are hard to find, and desperately needed whether we like it or not.” The ever-stoic man began, placing a hand on the other’s shoulder. “You’re doing good. Honestly, before Angelica came along, I fully expected you would end up dead in a ditch somewhere with that mask stuck on your face. This… you finding a calling, I had to see for myself. I wanted to see for myself. And I’m glad to.”
“...Come on man, don’t get me all sentimental now. I’m supposed to be the badass dark and gloomy veteran for the newbies tomorrow.”
“And, Angelica, I didn’t get to know you for as long, and you insist on calling me ‘mister’ which feels weird, but…” He paused, realizing too late he didn’t have much to say in comparison. “There is a pen stuck in your hair.”
She let out a light breath of a laugh that had been building up for a while; a brief but clear sound that filled the air and chimed through a heart that Roland once thought was doomed to remain black as pitch.
“How are you so beautiful?” He muttered to himself, snatching her close into an embrace and a shared kiss. In an ideal world, he would never have to let go.
***
Roland let go of Durandal’s hilt-
“To meet my end by the blade of a friend…”
“Thank you for everything,” he found himself saying uselessly, just barely better than a scream of grief. “And-”
The white and gold-clad form, stained with blood, dissolved into pages of light – leaving behind only a book that wouldn’t hear him no matter what he said. Perhaps it was better that way.
And now, there was one less person to remember the bygone love of his life.
The Fixer pushed the screaming emotions down with a now-familiar ease, where they would simmer along with the hatred brewing deep inside. It wasn’t the time to wear his mask yet, so instead he kept his face as still as one. Soon, the Library Director would come asking questions, and he would need this figurative mask to get through that conversation. And after… he supposed he would visit the Floor of Art yet again.
He would be troubling the green-haired Patron Librarian for booze more and more often as the Light approached its completion, it seemed.
An out-of-place wave of fondness passed through him at the thought. Admittedly, the fondness, and companionship he felt towards the… unexpected friends he made here was genuine, but it wasn’t quite enough to matter. He pushed that feeling down, more kindling for the suffocating smog inside.
“Damn it…” With unfeeling steps, he retrieved the now-pristine sword – as if baptised by the burst of light –, storing it back in the gloves’ pocket space. And yet again, that familiar, pristine space felt agonizingly empty without the second set of gloves connected to it. Sometimes, the Pianist’s music still rang through his head, but this particular silence the monster left behind was far worse by far.
What’s gone is gone. It hurts today, but I’ll be going my way soon enough. A tale as old as the City.