Everything slowed down to a crawl for one mournful second —just like his heart. Teitai’s body remained standing, as if the discipline that had governed every single one of her motions could somehow keep her headless frame from succumbing to physics.
But the uncaring world would resume its inexorable march anyway. Gravity took its toll, bringing this suspended moment to its unavoidable end.
Her torso hit the soil with a haunting thud, followed by the smaller impact of her head rolling unceremoniously before settling. Neon held her disembodied gaze through the dimming radiance of Light Infection, watching helplessly as those indigo pupils lost their luster, drifting out of focus and towards something he couldn’t see.
Blood seeped from each severed body part, not in the obscene sprays that he had come to expect from movies and videogames, but in gentle, permeating weeps that were swiftly devoured by the dry soil.
Its sight was when it fully hit him. The final note in this fatal orchestra.
Four unique lives, now extinguished forever. Victims of a cruel, gruesome fate none of them deserved. He had received their kindness, their severity, their angst and their meekness. Been welcomed to their home like a friend, extended a hand as a potential ally.
And this was how his team had repaid them.
Neon’s stomach finally caught up to all the visions of gore it had been exposed to. Caught up to the certainty of death. He failed to hold it back any further. The pain still needling beneath his skin became secondary as he lurched sideways, covering his mouth as an acidic rush of bile rose through his throat.
At the corner of his watering eyes, Nomine remained momentarily locked in a wide martial stance, gradually releasing his coiled muscles alongside a deep exhale. Neon didn’t know he could strike from such a distance —though whatever technique he’d used left him stiffer than usual.
His expression had already returned to his common emptiness. With tense fingers, he collected the residual wisps of Deconsecrate crackling along Black Metal’s edge. The second time he performed this… Ritual?
Did it serve him some functional purpose, or did he do it out of ceremony?
What a joke. As if this heartless bastard could feel something resembling reverence for the lives he had choosingly trampled over.
Scowling, Neon forced himself back to his feet, using his copy of Black Metal as a crutch for his trembling legs. Was it time, then, to face the consequences of his actions? Was Nomine going to finish the job and kill him too?
Surprisingly —or perhaps insultingly— there was none of that. The veteran simply looked up towards the smoke-saturated skyline, his soft-spoken voice emerging with an almost innocent quality.
“Tera, don’t drag this any further. It’s over.” Quiet impatience threaded his words, directed at some unseen observer. “Score him.”
Nomine’s command acted as a kind of verbal trigger, prompting Neon’s interface back to life with egregious enthusiasm. Bright and sanitized. As if the surrounding carnage warranted the same neutral tone of a weather report.
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Out of all the notifications, the latter struck him as the most pressing. It had an almost cheerful flourish to it, like the delivery of good news. Neon double-checked the minimap, confirming that four new red dots had joined the initial two. The six converged in a semi-circle steadily closing in, distant but no longer theoretical. Tangible enough to become a concern.
Were these Hushhouse and Ashen Bloom’s rivals, now marking them for death in their absence? Should be. The rules had mentioned a consequence for indiscriminate violence. Could they win a fight against so many people if all those pairs joined against them as a common enemy?
The thought felt bitter in his mouth. Worse than the prospect of having to massacre yet more teams was the idea of continuing to work alongside Nomine. It pulled a self-deprecating laugh from somewhere deep inside his chest. Sharp and pathetic.
Funny, really. All those hours wasted on doubts and worries, on the fear of being double-crossed… When the only real danger had always been singular. One person alone.
"So? What changed, rookie?"
Same person who now addressed him as if nothing had happened.
Something had changed, alright.
But for now, Neon limited himself to a dejected sigh before answering.
"You got a brand new label to go with the previous ones." He began by stating the obvious. Maybe Nomine knew already. Maybe he didn't care. "Looks cute on you. It says Transgressor."
"Hm. That's unfair. I broke no rules." Nomine’s hand rose to rest on his lower lip in a pensive gesture. His brow furrowed, making him look younger. Like a child crying foul after receiving an unfair bad grade. “Getting that sub-label this early could be bothersome.”
His tone shifted into something more analytical, already problem-solving around the inconvenience.
“You haven’t killed anyone, so maybe you were spared. It’s worth considering for future encounters.” What was he even talking about? Why didn’t he check his own interface? “Anything else?”
What was he? His personal assistant?
“There’s a super-team of six people coming after us.” Neon’s voice emerged low and flat. Devoid of its usual spark. So tired… “They’re not close, though.”
"We shouldn't linger even if they're far. Other teams might be drawn to the fire, and I have no interest in being ambushed for a third time."
But it was perfectly fine when he was the one doing the ambushing, eh?
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Goddammit... He couldn't keep up this charade any longer. The performance had shattered, and Neon lacked the energy to bother gathering the pieces back together.
"Do you... Not care? About anything? About anyone?"
The words tore themselves free before he could stop them. Same impulse that made him return his copy of Black Metal back into the techno-ether. Keeping it felt wrong. Disgusting.
A hand traveled up to clutch his face, nails digging into skin —searching for a sting painful enough to ground him. Or maybe he just wanted to hide the tears from him.
"We attacked each other… Does that not matter to you!?"
His voice cracked on the question. Maybe it was lucky he kept his eyes from seeing. Neon couldn’t put it past him to swing a punch depending on what expression Nomine wore as silence stretched between them.
“Would you prefer it did? What would that gain me?”
>> “Nothing. That’s the answer. You did what you wanted to do, as did I. Things worked out in the end, and it’s done now.”
Neon snorted, though the gesture carried no mirth whatsoever. So this was his answer. Always so efficient. Always so removed. A weapon that had learnt to walk and talk and pretend at civilization for as long as it served a purpose.
And he had been fighting beside him. Had defended him. Had convinced himself there was something worth saving beneath all the detachment.
"Fine. You win. Let's move." The rookie conceded, though his head moved in negation to express his true feelings. His hands lowered, shoulders slumping under a burden far heavier than exhaustion alone. “Just don’t be surprised when I ditch you the first chance I get.”
This wasn’t a surrender. His survival had been bought at the cost of Whisper and Plaza, CC and Teitai. Curling up and letting this place crush him wasn’t an option. The only way he had to honor their deaths was to carry forward with whatever pieces of will he could salvage from this wreckage.
To defy those behind this twisted game that created hollow monsters like Nomine.
"Sounds good. That’s about what I expected from the start." Nomine’s words led Neon to roll his eyes, exasperated. He made it sound like the rookie finally stopped pretending, but it was this way only because he wanted to. Talk about a self-fulfilled prophecy. “Now that you’re done with your melodrama, how many credits were you given?”
Neon didn’t answer. Didn’t even bother looking his way. What was there to feel insulted about anymore? He just turned away, and began walking.
Past the cooling bodies.
Past the fires devouring what had once been a home.
Past the cold-blooded killer he’d finally stopped trying to see differently.
“Wait. I asked you a question.” The veteran tried again, harsher than before. What a hypocrite. How about all those times Neon had tried the same to be met only with silence?
No. His stride wouldn’t falter. There was no value left in his Nomine’s words.
“You really feel that bad about that sorry bunch?” Neon heard Nomine sigh in annoyance, but he refused to take the bait. Refused to be offended by someone who clearly wouldn’t understand. Until… “If you’re so bothered by this outcome… You can bring them back, just so you know.”
>> “If you win the games, that is.”
The world ceased advancing after those words. Neon didn’t meant to. His feet simply… Stopped. He could bring them back. So many feelings coursed through his entire being, like trapped birds crashing against their cage, that it was almost overwhelming. That it was almost enough to rekindle hope.
But no. Absolutely not. This guy had already fooled him once.
Neon turned slowly, dragging his gaze back towards the veteran. Nomine stood exactly where he’d left him, silhouetted against the inferno —an impassive statue carved from marble and malice alike, as beautiful as it was unreadable.
“Why…” His voice came out weak, scraped raw by smoke and everything he desperately sought to extinguish. “Why are you telling me this?”
It wasn’t a question more than it was an accusation. Neon had given up on finding humanity where there was none. This new attempt at manipulation must’ve had a reason. That’s how Nomine operated.
“Tsch…”
The veteran’s head turned away immediately, like the conversation itself was distasteful. Neon wasn’t sure what to expect once Nomine resumed talking. Would it be raw honesty? Or something close to the quiet way he used his name before sleep?
Which one would be worse?
“Because I believe you can be an asset. You think quickly on your feet. Your reflexes are acceptable. Same with your social skills.” Nomine’s arms crossed, as if it was painful for him to give out this begrudging acknowledgment. “If we had a lucky break with those four rookies, it was mostly thanks to you.”
>> “So you do have some use.”
Yeah. He figured it’d be something like this. Performance metrics. A post-game analysis where human lives became statistics. Where all the horrors he enabled were proof of his value as some… Asset. Nomine said it best.
“But you need more power than what you have now to stop being deadweight.” Without further warning, Nomine returned to his cutting sharpness. “And you’re not going to get it by sulking around like this.”
He stepped in his direction, halting just short of invasion. The proximity felt deliberate, almost as if to remind him of the size difference —and beyond it, of the chasm in experience between the two.
The flames continued their hungry crackling behind them. A tree collapsed somewhere in the devastated clearing with the groan of surrendering wood, its defeat punctuating Nomine’s dismissal as he walked past and advanced into the waiting darkness.
Neon remained still, for a moment, caught between the two paths. To his back lay the corpses of kind people, who’d offered him shelter, food, companionship. Ahead walked a survivor, he who’d snuffed out those same lives with the casual disregard of someone ticking boxes in a checklist.
To stand beside Nomine wouldn’t free him from death. All it did was change which hand held the sword. But clinging to ideals while lacking the strength to enforce them would change nothing.
So he chose the path that could lead somewhere, even if it meant swallowing his pride.
“I’ve got 200 credits.” It felt like making a deal with the devil, but if that’s what it took… “How do I use them?”
Nomine’s march remained steady, though his head turned slightly to confirm that Neon was heard. When he spoke, his tone had shed all its harshness, settling into something closer to the detached instruction of a particularly dispassionate guide.
“Don’t be distracted by shiny new things. Cheap new skills or traits might look appealing, but they’re a gamble.” Neon listened intently. It was the first time Nomine had ever offered anything resembling an explanation. “Don’t waste what little you have on cosmetic garbage. Apply that same logic to the weapons and armor you can get at your current balance.”
>> “But sitting on unspent credits while fantasizing about future what-ifs is equally idiotic. Anything you save will be worth nothing if we die.”
The veteran’s pace remained measured, unhurried despite the potential threats converging on their location. Reassuring, in a sense. Like he’d already calculated every variable to find their odds manageable.
“Your best bet is investing in what you already have. Levels mean a clear, quantifiable increase in power. Make that your priority. Don’t wager on synergies you can’t understand yet.”
Listening to Nomine felt like betraying the person he’d been just an hour ago. Like betraying all the people he murdered in cold blood. But… Staying weak and useless wouldn’t help anyone. Wouldn’t save anyone.
His arguments were sound despite their bitter taste. Neon spotted no manipulation in his words. No condescension. And so, he took the advice.
The translucent panels of his interface greeted him with enthusiasm, along with the updated number sitting in the shop’s corner. Fifty credits per life. According to whatever code governed this nightmare, the combined worth of Hushhouse and Ashen Bloom didn’t even amount to half the bounty offered for helping a single sponsor.
Disgust twisted in his stomach as he decided to shelve his anger for later, navigating to his augment submenu and finding the appropriate channel. The blood-stained credits funneled into Ours to Steal’s experience bar, and he watched the number drain until…
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