level_act26side_08_beg

All is prepared. Come Matins, the people will take... take their final communion.

Will your strings... lament for me? Or will they celebrate me?

I am clueless about music, Arturia. Just as I cannot understand you.

Here you stand, and here I empathize with you, yet you seem a total blank.

I am no more than free to perform according to Your Excellency's will. My music is but a mirror.

A mirror... hah.

The elderly abbot lifts a porcelain tray, his hands quivering amidst string's overtones.

He appears as if wrestling with the sound that echoes throughout the dark, awaiting their end.

He was still young when the sounds of paradise arose in the abbey years and years ago, so young that his reflection in the fountain did not yet show a single hair of white.

Wild fowls were drawn to these roving soils, fluttering through skies rich with organ chords, flying for the square. In his old age, the last abbot handed the monastery down to him, Cleric Stefano, the youngest of them all.

'You must be their keeper, that they live in Paradise.'

And how? How would I see them stay in Paradise?

Abbot Torregrossa shuts his eyes. Storied is his life.

The strings continue to echo, echo, echo. And then—

He lets his hands go.

...Ah.

How painful. So this is your choice.

From behind the sealed chapel entrance comes the muffled sound of speech.

Federico stands in the spacious hall for a while, listening, then turns to walk upstairs.

...Equipment normal.

The only loss has been one communicator.

Current objective remains unchanged. Proceeding with mission.

Locked onto suspect.

How're things in there?

Communion should be over by now.

Is it as bad in there as I think?

Signs point to yes.

Damn. How's Federico?

Unreachable.

The Church of the Deep doesn't breed pushovers for monsters. Does he know that?

Someone needs to do the work. Status on Lemuen and Serpilia?

They got your message and went underground to investigate.

Alright. That means the trickiest job of all is all ours.

Let's open up.

And be where we may, and face what we may, it remains that we must respect each other in kind, care for each other in kind—

—Good morning, emissaries of the Holy City.

The trays are empty.

Richele, get every inhabitant under control. I'll handle the abbot.

Is there something amiss, emissary?

Amiss? Well, here's the thing... what's got you so down, Most Reverend Abbot? So insistent that Matins today has to be the 'final' one?

I'm pretty sure Lemuen's informed you that after you dock back up with Laterano, there's a real chance you'll continue serving as this monastery's abbot...

Emissaries of Laterano, you question me... but on what basis?

I have made my choice—renounced my vain hopes that all could be met with equal salvation.

The monastery's course is run. On this final Matins, may all our trays be empty.

I have just delivered them the news. The Sanctilaminium Ambrosii has agreed to return to Laterano.

Return to Laterano...?

Sir, don't tell me you thought we'd let the Church of the Deep off the hook...

...I told you, my choice is made.

Oren, he's telling the truth.

The inhabitants haven't shown any signs of change. I've examined the trays, and they're clean.

Yes. I prepared the flesh of those monsters by my own hand, and mixed it all into the bread.

But though it was meant for Matins, I locked it away in a cabinet underground, lest my starving people ingest it accidentally.

Now that Aulus has left, that which you fear flourishes no longer.

This is the key to the cabinet door. Take it, it is my plea. This will prove that what I say is true. Perhaps you will know better how handle the Church of the Deep's givings.

Thank you for cooperating.

Looks like my gun's resting easy today...

What, are you sad about that?

Come again?

No, I'm just breathing out, finally. We got the rough part over with. Work should be getting back on track now... right?

Lemuen, catch what the abbot said? I'm bringing the key down now.

You don't have to.

Someone smashed the cabinet open. It's empty inside.

Yellowing napkins, pottery shards all over the floor. All the details line up with the abbot's description.

And looking at previous accounts, the consequences of eating this stuff are irreversible... If he'd made them partake already, he wouldn't need to lie to us anymore.

Which means someone's gone and thieved this little 'Eucharist.'

We have to find them <i>immediately.</i>

Uh, finding one person in an abbey this big—maybe a tall order?

It's hitting me. I think we've all forgotten a few things.

For one, Gerald heard about how that Sankta girl fell, and that dealt him a huge shock.

But we would've never let any word out about the falling. How did Gerald learn of it?

And for another, just what was the deal with that fire in the sacrarium?

Without someone else's encouragement, the abbot might not have been so dogmatic either...

After all of this, I've got a bad feeling our abbot's not alone in his despair.

When Fortuna went into the chapel, I remember somebody else was in there.

So this is the Abbot's choice...

Not that it hasn't crossed my mind before—that things would ultimately turn out this way.

He is kindhearted. So kindhearted that he strove to this day, embracing such lofty ideals, and in turn, he lost to weakness at the very last moment.

But I am not like him.

It was long, long ago that I gave up hope.

Oh? A guest.

I have to say, I'm a little surprised. I gave you fair warning, but...

I thought with all your rational, logical judgment, you'd conclude that 'there are other matters of higher priority to handle,' or something like that.

How long has it been since we last met, Federico? Five, maybe close to six years?

Hm? Aren't you going to say—'Discontinue this meaningless speech, fugitive Arturia?'

Or do you finally plan to switch to a different greeting?

Why not go back to those days when you lived with me, then... and call me Soror?

Oh...? And you're still not angry?

The first instant you came through the door and saw me, you didn't even make a move. That's unlike you.

Let me take a guess at why you're so out of sorts, then.

Are you waiting for something?

Or... are you hesitating?

Listen. Sounds of all kinds fill this little monastery.

Sorrow, pain, suspicion, resentment... and despair.

All woven together. More exquisitely touching than any man-made melody could ever be.

Ah... how very curious. Federico Giallo, have you felt anything? Is there any note out there that can dance within your brain, the one so different to how normal people think?

Fugitive Arturia, I have fully assessed your words and actions.

My present priority to address is not you.

You aren't in the chapel, Senior Federico?

I thought you and your colleagues all had your eyes fixed on the Most Reverend Abbot...

<i>You</i> are the prevailing suspect in this series of abnormalities.

...Hm.

I honor... yes, I honor His Excellency's choice.

We all respect him. Love him. This was always the way it would be, for we are all under His Excellency's wing...

It's simple to understand, isn't it?

When every cause sees you expelled from the cities, and your only choice is to roam the wastes, and you've become sure your end lies in death...

When your stomach groans with hunger, and all you ever find is despair, no matter where you walk, and eternity seems to have you trapped in the land that eats of man...

That's when past a gentle hill, and over the rock, you enter a canyon.

You see a building past the dust, a building that could dare to be a city, where its people bring you food, and let you stay in a room for the night.

Yes, there is only meager grit-like bread, and a bowl of watery soup.

Yes, there are cracks in the walls of the rooms, forever in need of repair...

But you have not died in the wastes. You have been admitted.

And that is why some of you call this place Paradise.

'Paradise'... yet it was a sham.

Not long after I arrived here, I found... that a Sarkaz friend of mine who'd caught Oripathy had vanished from my side.

I spent an age searching for her, only to find... she was here all along, in a room in the basement. They say it used to be a training room. Its walls are sturdier than all...

It's to that room where they send the deathly ill.

Improvised protective equipment cannot obstruct the propagation of Originium dust with any effectiveness.

We didn't have any other way.

Maybe you want to tell me how the sick could decide in their own final moments to leave the monastery, and go out into the wastes alone to wait for death to take them?

We can only bury this pain out of sight, and cover our ears, and turn not to look... We could never save anybody, and there's no one who could save us.

But even this facade of serenity is waiting to be shattered in the end.

And here we are. You've come.

Our mission here is to maintain order.

Of course. It wasn't any of you that destroyed our life here, after all. It simply and naturally came to the way it is now, as a matter of course.

And no matter how carefully I tend to the flowers I plant, when it's time for them to wilt, they will transform in invisible measures until they're beyond recognition. It's all the same.

You have been affected by Arturia.

You mean by Seniora Arturia's music?

Perhaps. In them, I often hear recollections of these things.

But she's never been a part of our lives. I know, she simply takes our distress, our suffering, as ornaments for her leisure...

And so, how could she ever go far enough to disturb our wills, to make these choices for us?

...Dangerous articles detected.

You have concealed a large quantity of flammables beneath this sacrarium—no—this entire monastery.

Yes.

It was a... possible alternative.

Whether you came or not, the tranquil life of this monastery was never going to last.

Have you seen what hunger and fear of wandering the barrens can drive people to, Senior Federico?

I have.

Before things reach the point of no redemption... I will end it all.

Clément Dubois, you are a suspect in the destruction of the Sanctilaminium Ambrosii, and are involved in multiple cases that concern or have concerned the rights of Lateran citizens.

You have been confirmed an executorial target by the Notarial Hall. In accordance with regulation, I will immediately proceed to apprehend you.

Federico never gives more warning than needed. The gun in his hands simply serves the place of speech.

Clément has not collapsed.

The wasting man clutches at his arm, where all feeling is lost, and gives a bitter smile.

Destruction of lighter confirmed.

Why... won't you kill me?

Why go to the bother of aiming for the lighter?

Your actions have not directly led to the deaths of any Lateran citizens. The law would not sentence you to death.

The law... So many years I've lived here, hearkening to His Excellency's guidance, following your law.

I feel its bind in ordinary times... Yet in chaos, in the time we need it most, it disappears without a trace.

There was some point where the music of Seniora Arturia became all I could even hear.

Senior Federico, is it the law of Laterano that wants to save me... or is it you, yourself?