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“Althaus... May I ask you a question?”
The tall blonde aristocrat sat across from Isra, his legs crossed rather delicately. He idly swirled a nursed half glass of bourbon, a drink the interloping cowboy Arthur Morgan had turned him on to, and cocked a fine brow while tilting his head. They had already been talking for over an hour at this point, catching up on various things happening on the Phantom Blossom “Hm. You may, Doctor~ Though I make absolutely no promises that you’ll enjoy whatever answers you wish to wring from me. Is it about the Incident or are you wanting to interview me as a patient~?”
Isra rolled his eyes. It was always the smarmy coyness with Ez. The arrogant man certainly loved taking any chance to stroke his ego. “It’s about Nausicaa, yes.”
The noble smiled with a hint of giddiness, the glow around him brightening ever-so-slightly. “And what is it that you’re wanting to ask me about that circus-show~? Those twaddling bureaucrats make my skin itch. So obnoxious, the whole lot of them. Can you believe how they treated us? I for one--”
“You did trash their leadership and general competence at the end of the day.” The medic was quick to remind him.
“Well. Yes. Sometimes the truth hurts, but it still needs to be said regardless. Maybe they should stop being such sensitive politicians and care about their people for once. Even so they treated us terribly over the issue of magic before the incident. What business is it of theirs if we are magical beings or not? I might understand a ban on the use of magic, but treating the magically inclined as a second class is filthy any way you approach it.”
“Yeah, it’s a real shame.” Isra sighed dismissively. “Loved the seafood--”
“You liked that stuff?” The general’s mouth curled into a frown, his face tightening as a wave of goosebumps raced across his skin.
“And you didn’t? I saw you enjoying it once you got over yourself. Hopefully this spaceport has decent rations.”
The aristocrat’s stomach roiled. A very distinctive oily decay sprang to the forefront of his mind at the mention of seafood, it coated his tongue and begged his guts to retch at merely a memory. He raised the back of his hand to his mouth, closing his eyes. It had been nearly a week since leaving the City of Hope behind, and yet he swore he could still smell that rot-tainted bilge water deep in his sinuses. “Please-- please. No more. It sickens me profoundly.”
The medic took a deep breath and sighed heavily, shaking his head. Yeah. They were getting sidetracked on Ez’s tangents, and the man looked about two-seconds away from vomiting all over the meeting room's walls.
Isra had carefully watched the ongoing news on the incident from his medical ward, his mind desperate to gain the context he lacked- but there was woefully little helpful coverage of the battle of the Flying Dutchman. “I wanted to ask you about that young man I took a half a meter of rebar for, Tobias...”
“Ah. Yes. The Gal’skapian cultist.” Ezrihel gave a soft scoff as he regained himself, tossing his bangs from his face. Almost instantly his tone grew distant and semi-disinterested. “What about him?”
Once upon a time, it had been his utmost priority to weed out heretical zealots preying on society... And yet he found himself an ally to one of these mad cultists in the apocalypse. Perhaps he was simply being irrational in his fear, after all, now was not the time for them to be turning away friends, however temporary.
He had already spent about a handful of hours researching the cult of the so-called elder god of madness. What he found were various snippets of the cult’s appearances at Syntech’s annual Abyss, and their seeming connection to an obscure Inverxe settlement and strong ties to a Mesa-Rojan ‘Uruk’ owned by the Babylonia faction. The online spaces he had found gave him an awful feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, an unease that refused to settle.
“I didn’t see him in any of the news reports, or in the medical ward when I was volunteering.”
Ez frowned, now his voice grew quiet. “Tobias fell while providing myself and Morgan the opportunity needed to vanquish the fallen Arbiter.” His jaw tensed, clenching a few times as his emerald eyes dropped to the rim of the snifter. A misplaced stress-chuckle escaped the noblethem’s throat as he struggled to remain dissociated. “Ruedlen inspired him as a final act I suppose. She was brave until the very end. Warrior priestess and all that... You know how she was. Always knew how to motivate people.”
“Was? You’re speaking like she’s already dead.” The doctor sounded hurt, his thick dark brows furrowing.
“... Israphael... We both saw how bad it was. You know what damage like that means. I’m just not... Entirely sure...” Ezrihel slowed as he noticed Isra’s expression darken dramatically, and frowned deeper in turn. “Ehem. Not that I’m trying to insinuate that you are a poor medic,” he guessed, “but the odds are not in your favor. Davy Jones was a cruel god to face.”
“Besides,” Althaus continued, “why drag her through such a lengthy recovery? Tzalel can perform the rites of Yntaeus and Koneus, repair her frayed threads after the fact.”
Isra’s full lips were pursed into a thin hard line, his jaw clenching for a moment. “And how much of her soul’s memory will be lost if we let her die and be reformed, hm?”
Ez shook his head, utterly perplexed as he scowled at the medic. What was into him, suddenly caring so much about something so menial? “What’s most important right now is that she be returned to us as soon as possible.” He scoffed. “What’s a couple of years lost amongst thousands when her absence hurts us more each and every day?”
“Was that something she told you she wanted?” Came the skeptical inquiry of the doc.
“Oh and suddenly you care more about ethics and dawdling than the efficiency of your treatments!” Ezrihel laughed- no, cackled and guffawed at that notion. “What in the name of the gods has gotten into you? You’re being ridiculous with this nonsense, Isra. You have a job to do, and I expect it to be done promptly and efficiently. You act as though you would know what she wished.”
“I do not presume to know what she wanted done.”
Ez lifted his hand, gesturing at Isra’s expression and getting right in the man’s face. “And whatever ‘this’ is? Get a hold of yourself. ‘Professionals have standards’, isn’t that what you enjoy saying, doctor?”
“And weren’t you the one to preach about ‘honor in ethics’, Althaus?” Isra retorted in kind, softly tapping his pen with an anxious rhythm. “Where’s all that glorious motivation to care about it now, hm?”
“I don’t have the luxury of crystal clear ethics, doctor. In case you haven’t noticed, these gods forsaken Crossroads are in the middle of a galactic, maybe even interplanar catastrophe! You and I both know that you read the reports of Govermorne’s destruction. This is far bigger than your individual qualms and morals.” The inquisitor leaned forward, grabbing Isra by the hand and guiding his pen down to the table. The medic looked abnormally pale and hollow. “Quit fidgeting and listen carefully to my words: as your superior I don’t care about your sensitive ethics. Ruedlen is too valuable to wait on. We need her and her input right now. I am not asking for your opinion on this, I am demanding your compliance and I am expecting competence. Am I understood?”
Isra did not- and could not- meet the aristocrat’s eyes. Instead his gaze focused down, away from his superior because he could feel his face going cold and numb, that tingle in his fingers and twisting in his stomach. He knew his composure was slipping away by the second, his hearts climbing into his throat as he struggled to swallow. It was too much at once, too many intense emotions and thoughts conflicting until it all coalesced into the irritating fuzz of unfiltered, chaotic static. In a mere moment his inner monologue had evaporated, leaving his body unusually catatonic as if the medic had turned to marble.
“I expect things to be ready once the Saerhaus brother comes to you--”
Raphael yanked his hand out from under the aristocrat’s as if he had just been plunged in slime. “Don’t touch me, Ezrihel....”
The noble was confounded and the frustration was becoming increasingly apparent on his face. Then it suddenly all clicked in his head, the revelation dominating his expression before his eyes narrowed. “Ah-- I see... I had a feeling when I picked you two up together. Two officers. Fraternizing. Compromising the function of the crew and this ship. That’s why you don’t want to do your damned job, you’re busy being caught up on your personal emotions.”
Isra abruptly sprang up from his seat, as if to avoid the brutal daggers of the General’s words. He snatched his suit jacket from the back of the chair and yanked it over his arms. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to think about it. “I need space to think.”
“This problem is bigger than any of our personal needs and comforts--”
“Would you do the same thing to Eliza if the need called?” Israphael blurted out in his upset state, voice cracking along with his self-control. He was already storming from the room, lithe fingers tapping on the door’s keypad with a shaky urgency as he made his veiled accusation. “After all, what’s a few years? What’s all their memories of you right now when they may live for tens of thousands more? Just do it all over again!”
The question struck the inquisitor like a sack of bricks to his chest. Something deep inside recoiled in discomfort as his brows pinched together, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Our situations are not the same.”
“You are too selfish and egocentric to understa--”
Ezrihel tossed his crystalware to the floor, bolting up from his chair in a quiet fury. His beautiful visage was twisted by his vehement indignation. ”I am too selfish, Israphael?” He hissed, clutching his chest. “I have lost far more than you could ever imagine for the sake of this.”
“Good.” The hydraulic door slid open and the medic took the three steps necessary to leave. “I’ve lost enough and I don’t care to imagine suffering any more for the sake of whatever this is.”
The inquisitor scowled deeply. “Hurry up and figure yourself out, Israphael. I would hate to court martial you for insubordination amongst other things.” He was answered with the door hissing shut behind the medical officer, leaving him alone in discontented silence. On the floor the shattered snifter remained a stubborn, obnoxious reminder of his loss of face, the fine bourbon and glass wasted across the cold metal like the blood and brains of a homicide victim. He chewed at his bottom lip, still staring hard at the mess he had made. Someone else would clean it up.
“Truly, your incompetence is astounding at times...” Ezrihel grumbled with a sigh, stalking out into the hallway. Isra was too hot to the touch right now, unreachable. He would have to wait before approaching once more, a considerable inconvenience. This was his ship, his crew. He expected them to act in the best interests of it. He expected them to be mature enough to avoid compromising themselves in such stupid ways. As Ez made his exit from the meeting room he was greeted by the waiting form of the resident time-traveler aboard the Phantom Blossom, who was leant against the far wall of the lounge by one shoulder.
Arthur dipped his head, chuckling deeply at the high dramatics that seemed to follow the andromedan general at every turn. “Whatever you’ve said has got him iller than a snake. I suppose the talking didn’t go over too well?”
Ez frowned. “No.” He answered flatly. “But that doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for baby-bellyaching and coddling.”
Morgan raised a brow at the catty complaints and gave a scoff, shaking his head and shrugging. “Coming from you? Must’ve been bad, huh.”
What was that supposed to mean? The andromedan narrowed his eyes at the veiled criticism and stalked off, unwilling to dignify the teasing with a response. He had suffered more than enough disrespect for the day already.
“Oh com’on General. You know I was just messin’--”
“Do me a favor, Morgan,” Althaus snipped tartly over his shoulder, “find something to do and get busy with it-- in fact, you can find someone to clean the meeting room up.”
The tall blonde aristocrat sat across from Isra, his legs crossed rather delicately. He idly swirled a nursed half glass of bourbon, a drink the interloping cowboy Arthur Morgan had turned him on to, and cocked a fine brow while tilting his head. They had already been talking for over an hour at this point, catching up on various things happening on the Phantom Blossom “Hm. You may, Doctor~ Though I make absolutely no promises that you’ll enjoy whatever answers you wish to wring from me. Is it about the Incident or are you wanting to interview me as a patient~?”
Isra rolled his eyes. It was always the smarmy coyness with Ez. The arrogant man certainly loved taking any chance to stroke his ego. “It’s about Nausicaa, yes.”
The noble smiled with a hint of giddiness, the glow around him brightening ever-so-slightly. “And what is it that you’re wanting to ask me about that circus-show~? Those twaddling bureaucrats make my skin itch. So obnoxious, the whole lot of them. Can you believe how they treated us? I for one--”
“You did trash their leadership and general competence at the end of the day.” The medic was quick to remind him.
“Well. Yes. Sometimes the truth hurts, but it still needs to be said regardless. Maybe they should stop being such sensitive politicians and care about their people for once. Even so they treated us terribly over the issue of magic before the incident. What business is it of theirs if we are magical beings or not? I might understand a ban on the use of magic, but treating the magically inclined as a second class is filthy any way you approach it.”
“Yeah, it’s a real shame.” Isra sighed dismissively. “Loved the seafood--”
“You liked that stuff?” The general’s mouth curled into a frown, his face tightening as a wave of goosebumps raced across his skin.
“And you didn’t? I saw you enjoying it once you got over yourself. Hopefully this spaceport has decent rations.”
The aristocrat’s stomach roiled. A very distinctive oily decay sprang to the forefront of his mind at the mention of seafood, it coated his tongue and begged his guts to retch at merely a memory. He raised the back of his hand to his mouth, closing his eyes. It had been nearly a week since leaving the City of Hope behind, and yet he swore he could still smell that rot-tainted bilge water deep in his sinuses. “Please-- please. No more. It sickens me profoundly.”
The medic took a deep breath and sighed heavily, shaking his head. Yeah. They were getting sidetracked on Ez’s tangents, and the man looked about two-seconds away from vomiting all over the meeting room's walls.
Isra had carefully watched the ongoing news on the incident from his medical ward, his mind desperate to gain the context he lacked- but there was woefully little helpful coverage of the battle of the Flying Dutchman. “I wanted to ask you about that young man I took a half a meter of rebar for, Tobias...”
“Ah. Yes. The Gal’skapian cultist.” Ezrihel gave a soft scoff as he regained himself, tossing his bangs from his face. Almost instantly his tone grew distant and semi-disinterested. “What about him?”
Once upon a time, it had been his utmost priority to weed out heretical zealots preying on society... And yet he found himself an ally to one of these mad cultists in the apocalypse. Perhaps he was simply being irrational in his fear, after all, now was not the time for them to be turning away friends, however temporary.
He had already spent about a handful of hours researching the cult of the so-called elder god of madness. What he found were various snippets of the cult’s appearances at Syntech’s annual Abyss, and their seeming connection to an obscure Inverxe settlement and strong ties to a Mesa-Rojan ‘Uruk’ owned by the Babylonia faction. The online spaces he had found gave him an awful feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, an unease that refused to settle.
“I didn’t see him in any of the news reports, or in the medical ward when I was volunteering.”
Ez frowned, now his voice grew quiet. “Tobias fell while providing myself and Morgan the opportunity needed to vanquish the fallen Arbiter.” His jaw tensed, clenching a few times as his emerald eyes dropped to the rim of the snifter. A misplaced stress-chuckle escaped the noblethem’s throat as he struggled to remain dissociated. “Ruedlen inspired him as a final act I suppose. She was brave until the very end. Warrior priestess and all that... You know how she was. Always knew how to motivate people.”
“Was? You’re speaking like she’s already dead.” The doctor sounded hurt, his thick dark brows furrowing.
“... Israphael... We both saw how bad it was. You know what damage like that means. I’m just not... Entirely sure...” Ezrihel slowed as he noticed Isra’s expression darken dramatically, and frowned deeper in turn. “Ehem. Not that I’m trying to insinuate that you are a poor medic,” he guessed, “but the odds are not in your favor. Davy Jones was a cruel god to face.”
“Besides,” Althaus continued, “why drag her through such a lengthy recovery? Tzalel can perform the rites of Yntaeus and Koneus, repair her frayed threads after the fact.”
Isra’s full lips were pursed into a thin hard line, his jaw clenching for a moment. “And how much of her soul’s memory will be lost if we let her die and be reformed, hm?”
Ez shook his head, utterly perplexed as he scowled at the medic. What was into him, suddenly caring so much about something so menial? “What’s most important right now is that she be returned to us as soon as possible.” He scoffed. “What’s a couple of years lost amongst thousands when her absence hurts us more each and every day?”
“Was that something she told you she wanted?” Came the skeptical inquiry of the doc.
“Oh and suddenly you care more about ethics and dawdling than the efficiency of your treatments!” Ezrihel laughed- no, cackled and guffawed at that notion. “What in the name of the gods has gotten into you? You’re being ridiculous with this nonsense, Isra. You have a job to do, and I expect it to be done promptly and efficiently. You act as though you would know what she wished.”
“I do not presume to know what she wanted done.”
Ez lifted his hand, gesturing at Isra’s expression and getting right in the man’s face. “And whatever ‘this’ is? Get a hold of yourself. ‘Professionals have standards’, isn’t that what you enjoy saying, doctor?”
“And weren’t you the one to preach about ‘honor in ethics’, Althaus?” Isra retorted in kind, softly tapping his pen with an anxious rhythm. “Where’s all that glorious motivation to care about it now, hm?”
“I don’t have the luxury of crystal clear ethics, doctor. In case you haven’t noticed, these gods forsaken Crossroads are in the middle of a galactic, maybe even interplanar catastrophe! You and I both know that you read the reports of Govermorne’s destruction. This is far bigger than your individual qualms and morals.” The inquisitor leaned forward, grabbing Isra by the hand and guiding his pen down to the table. The medic looked abnormally pale and hollow. “Quit fidgeting and listen carefully to my words: as your superior I don’t care about your sensitive ethics. Ruedlen is too valuable to wait on. We need her and her input right now. I am not asking for your opinion on this, I am demanding your compliance and I am expecting competence. Am I understood?”
Isra did not- and could not- meet the aristocrat’s eyes. Instead his gaze focused down, away from his superior because he could feel his face going cold and numb, that tingle in his fingers and twisting in his stomach. He knew his composure was slipping away by the second, his hearts climbing into his throat as he struggled to swallow. It was too much at once, too many intense emotions and thoughts conflicting until it all coalesced into the irritating fuzz of unfiltered, chaotic static. In a mere moment his inner monologue had evaporated, leaving his body unusually catatonic as if the medic had turned to marble.
“I expect things to be ready once the Saerhaus brother comes to you--”
Raphael yanked his hand out from under the aristocrat’s as if he had just been plunged in slime. “Don’t touch me, Ezrihel....”
The noble was confounded and the frustration was becoming increasingly apparent on his face. Then it suddenly all clicked in his head, the revelation dominating his expression before his eyes narrowed. “Ah-- I see... I had a feeling when I picked you two up together. Two officers. Fraternizing. Compromising the function of the crew and this ship. That’s why you don’t want to do your damned job, you’re busy being caught up on your personal emotions.”
Isra abruptly sprang up from his seat, as if to avoid the brutal daggers of the General’s words. He snatched his suit jacket from the back of the chair and yanked it over his arms. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to think about it. “I need space to think.”
“This problem is bigger than any of our personal needs and comforts--”
“Would you do the same thing to Eliza if the need called?” Israphael blurted out in his upset state, voice cracking along with his self-control. He was already storming from the room, lithe fingers tapping on the door’s keypad with a shaky urgency as he made his veiled accusation. “After all, what’s a few years? What’s all their memories of you right now when they may live for tens of thousands more? Just do it all over again!”
The question struck the inquisitor like a sack of bricks to his chest. Something deep inside recoiled in discomfort as his brows pinched together, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Our situations are not the same.”
“You are too selfish and egocentric to understa--”
Ezrihel tossed his crystalware to the floor, bolting up from his chair in a quiet fury. His beautiful visage was twisted by his vehement indignation. ”I am too selfish, Israphael?” He hissed, clutching his chest. “I have lost far more than you could ever imagine for the sake of this.”
“Good.” The hydraulic door slid open and the medic took the three steps necessary to leave. “I’ve lost enough and I don’t care to imagine suffering any more for the sake of whatever this is.”
The inquisitor scowled deeply. “Hurry up and figure yourself out, Israphael. I would hate to court martial you for insubordination amongst other things.” He was answered with the door hissing shut behind the medical officer, leaving him alone in discontented silence. On the floor the shattered snifter remained a stubborn, obnoxious reminder of his loss of face, the fine bourbon and glass wasted across the cold metal like the blood and brains of a homicide victim. He chewed at his bottom lip, still staring hard at the mess he had made. Someone else would clean it up.
“Truly, your incompetence is astounding at times...” Ezrihel grumbled with a sigh, stalking out into the hallway. Isra was too hot to the touch right now, unreachable. He would have to wait before approaching once more, a considerable inconvenience. This was his ship, his crew. He expected them to act in the best interests of it. He expected them to be mature enough to avoid compromising themselves in such stupid ways. As Ez made his exit from the meeting room he was greeted by the waiting form of the resident time-traveler aboard the Phantom Blossom, who was leant against the far wall of the lounge by one shoulder.
Arthur dipped his head, chuckling deeply at the high dramatics that seemed to follow the andromedan general at every turn. “Whatever you’ve said has got him iller than a snake. I suppose the talking didn’t go over too well?”
Ez frowned. “No.” He answered flatly. “But that doesn’t matter. I don’t have time for baby-bellyaching and coddling.”
Morgan raised a brow at the catty complaints and gave a scoff, shaking his head and shrugging. “Coming from you? Must’ve been bad, huh.”
What was that supposed to mean? The andromedan narrowed his eyes at the veiled criticism and stalked off, unwilling to dignify the teasing with a response. He had suffered more than enough disrespect for the day already.
“Oh com’on General. You know I was just messin’--”
“Do me a favor, Morgan,” Althaus snipped tartly over his shoulder, “find something to do and get busy with it-- in fact, you can find someone to clean the meeting room up.”