level_act47side_08_beg

Report.

All pods on the levitation layer are now connected to the detonation web. We have people on the lower levels evacuating people from the square.

People are very passionate about the exhibition. Things will take some time, but it will not delay our plans.

We will detonate the levitation layer as soon as Propeller Paradise docks with the District.

Any movement from Rhine?

We've taken twenty-three into custody. A dozen are still at large on the platforms.

We have control of the eight observation points. Those people are going in and out of the exhibit area and the ropeway stations. No special Rhine equipment other than standard maintenance gear.

They're just playing hide-and-seek? No plan B?

Keep an eye on them. They don't know the details of Maylander's plan, nor do they have any means of communication. Any last-gasp effort is doomed to fail.

Understood.

The outline of Max, D.C.—the most vibrant nomadic city in Columbia—is already visible from the ropeway station's waiting area.

The agents have not had a chance to enjoy the view of Propeller Paradise until now. With an excellent visibility, all the elaborate facilities of the levitation layer are brimming with vitality.

Pods float in mid-air like aquatic creatures. Floating botanical units line up orderly between small platforms, forming a power grid that supports the entire layer...

Wait... where did you say Rhine's people were?

Exhibit area and ropeway stations.

Where exactly? Show me.

Looking at their movements, there's no way they can reach the platform where that 'tree' is, or other companies' pods...

Could it be... they're not trying to take back their turf at all?

But Rhine's people, the testers, and the company reps, they all seem to be flying around blindly in the dark...

What's the point of it all?

The agent casts a casual glance at the nearest planting unit. The unremarkable Rhine creation stands quietly.

He suddenly realizes that the warning lights on their edges are easily visible even during the day, and they have been blinking irregularly for quite a while now.

Spotters report that all the Rhine people have disappeared from sight!

No, they didn't disappear!

They're going in the same direction... there's a pattern to their movement!

Everybody, listen up! Destroy all the planting units you see along the way! They're not decorations! Rhine is using them to communicate!

Cut off the exhibit area from all the ropeway stations, and find every one of those people playing hide-and-seek! Find out where they're heading!

What on Terra are they thinking...

You've been looking outside the window for a while.

You said you must win your gamble, and you have a reason.

Yes.

I'm in the middle of a gamble too.

I have a rough idea what's going on in Propeller Paradise, given the look on your face and the freefall that we just experienced.

You wouldn't run this kind of risk with me for no reason. But there's nothing I can offer you now, except—

Hm...

You want the Lucky Cystybeast?

You could say that.

I want the contraband that Gordon Tannen sold you.

Coming to the broadcast room to bother me, when you should be preparing your own speech? You sure have a thick hide, Mr. Tannen.

I would have died a long time ago if all my enemies refused to work with me ever again.

Work with you? I'm afraid I can't.

Maylander has a laundry list of violations that I committed during my career. I don't want to spend the rest of my days giving prison tours.

Neither are you looking for a peaceful life. Besides, my proposal has something to do with Maylander.

There's no better vantage point than here on Propeller Paradise. Oakley's too excited to notice, but I doubt you would miss what's going on.

Well, if I gotta say it...

The broadcast screens of the levitation layer are switching too quickly. They say it's because they're doing testing, which I'm not convinced about. There are a dozen testers on the square whom I don't recognize. They don't look like they're taking a stroll; they look like they're patrolling.

Like they know that danger is impending.

Are you trying to trick me into another plot?

There's a plot afoot on Propeller Paradise alright, that's a fact. It's also a fact that I won't let Gustave make a mockery out of this place in front of all of Columbia.

You have ten seconds. Yes or no.

What are the chances of success?

Ten percent.

Doesn't sound like a gamble you'd take.

I don't have a choice with that old fox sitting across the table, holding all the cards.

A plan almost certain to fail... interesting. Tell me about it.

I need you to convince as many people as possible to return to the levitation layer, and retrieve the Originium equipment and Arts units on this list.

...All contraband that you sold?

They have far more potential than just sitting under the spotlight.

You want to...

Escape. And take all of Propeller Paradise with me.

Gustave and Maylander never intended to allow the exhibition to go ahead. The opening ceremony was just a smokescreen.

The levitation layer will fall a second time soon. But miracles don't happen a second time.

The Lucky Cystybeast can't afford to start over...

Neither can most startups on Propeller Paradise.

'Escape. And take all of Propeller Paradise...'

It's the only way to save both Propeller Paradise and the people on the lower level.

Propeller Paradise has been traveling on the barrenlands for seven days. Fuel is short, and the plate is operating in safe mode. The basic propulsion module is not enough to change its direction.

But the Arts unit that the Lucky Cystybeast got was just a transformation stabilizer. It can't supply enough energy to turn a plate.

Correct.

But it wasn't the only item that Tannen smuggled.

You mean, get all the contraband devices, and build a makeshift propulsion module to make the plate deviate from its course?

Not deviate. Make an about-face.

About-face? Have you any idea what you're saying? It's the direction of the borders!

True, the procedures for cross-border travel is a little complicated.

It would be treason!

No, I can't go to jail. People need to see Lucky Cystybeast on the broadcasts. My wife in Northville needs to see it...

In the interest of full disclosure, I must inform you that people won't see Lucky Cystybeast on the broadcasts, whether we succeed or fail.

No...

I'm sorry, but I'm taking the unit, whether you give it up voluntarily or not. We don't have time.

What's the point? We can't even leave the pod...

Someone has unlocked it remotely.

What?

You see the floating botanical units outside the window? Three flashes is a distress call. The current message is cycled after five continuous seconds of being lit.

Right now... three, four, five... seven flashes.

Looks like the other units on the list have been retrieved. Everyone is rendezvousing on Platform 7. Wait—

...The light went out.

What does that mean?

It means Maylander knows what's up. We're in danger.

Mr. Aspen, you can either come with me on your feet, or you can go to sleep right here, right now.

People like us never get to choose, do we?

Sit down.

Gustave looks at the Savra who has butted heads with him for seven years, who now sits stiffly on a chair, like a potato wrapped in foil.

He knows young officers well. They are angry, flamboyant, unhappy about everything, and frustrated about being restricted by rules.

In the end, however, they all sit in the same chair that rectifies their young spine, and become a proper member of the upper stratum of Columbian society.

As Gordon Tannen will.

Once Maylander's plan succeeds, the broadcast room will switch over to Cloud. Don't screw up.

Put your usual attitude away. Sound sincere, devastated. It's the Propeller Paradise you built. It won't be hard to stir the appropriate emotions.

Tomorrow, that sorry face of yours is going to be on the front page of every Columbian newspaper. Look the part, won't you?

And stop staring at your little freak.

I know, I know. You don't want to be Propeller Paradise's sin eater, sharing the same spotlight as Nasti.

But your little hotchpotch trinket isn't going to save you.

So I'm sitting in Gordon Tannen's defendant seat.

Yes.

I can follow you to the DOD once I apologize, according to the script?

Do as you're told, and you'll rise quickly through the ranks.

Yeah, guess what? I don't give a shit.

What was that?

I don't like this seat. It makes my scales itch.

...Broadcast countdown. Cloud restaurant, stand by...

Broadcast? Now?

Impossible... no movement on the levitation layer. Did Maylander screw up?

Who's operating the broadcast?!

Three, two, one—

Do it, Five-Four.

Yes, sir!

What?

Ugh—

As the broadcast cuts to the Cloud restaurant, Space Fin 054 leaps at an unprepared Gustave, pinning him to the ground.

The screen in the restaurant lights up, and Gustave sees his own face, writhing in pain and shock.

He knows that this face is being displayed on every screen in Propeller Paradise.

His contingency plans flash before his eyes, but Maylander's plan is in its final phase, leaving little room for distractions. His communicator lies in pieces on the ground, destroyed by Space Fin 054.

Gordon stretches his neck and wrists, crushes the 'defendant seat' with his foot, and leisurely lies down on the sofa next to it.

Oh, that felt good—

By the way, tomorrow, that sorry face of yours is gonna be on the front page of every Columbian newspaper. Look the part, won't you?

You—

What, you didn't expect to be immobilized by a little 'hobby made to fuel sky fever'?

You're the elder statesman of ATAO, planning a new chapter at the Department of Defense. You made the rules of Columbia when you were young, and you continue to 'serve your country' even after your retirement...

Woo-hoo. First-rate, ain't you? Maybe you've grown into thinking that your enemies will always use the rules to fight back, in smart and clever ways.

Did you forget that Gordon Tannen is a bandit who never gives a shit about the rules, a piece of trash obsessed with his toys?

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. You don't even recognize Five-Four, even though I didn't change its voice module—

Hello, Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Arts Units, and Originium, at your service. To check the progress of an application, press 1. To report a safety risk, press 2. To be connected to an operator, press 0...

...An ATAO answering machine?

I said Space Fin 054 wasn't a rich man's cigar. And I won't be smug just because it obeys the rules I set down.

Seven years ago, I sat on a tiny chair that made my ass hurt, writing my first self-reflection letter late at night, wondering if I should quit.

Answering Machine 054 started giving off an unusual noise, and I racked my brains trying to figure out the problem.

I started studying every Arts unit and Originium device that passed through my hands, just to give Five-Four the ability to operate, communicate, and think on its own.

You think the hundreds of self-reflection letters I wrote were the symbol of my submission. But Five-Four is the real culmination of my seven years at ATAO!

You're full of crap! You didn't learn the tricks of bureaucracy for your little invention!

You think I've never seen you negotiate or threaten? Arrogant, vain, ambitious... I know them when I see it.

I can hear shadows of my own speeches even now as you're talking to me.

...I never thought I was perfect.

Maybe I will never be able to get rid of the bad habits that I learned from you. They disgust me, but they weren't mistakes.

My only mistake was to define my transactions as 'smuggling'. I shouldn't have allowed myself to accept the rules that have taken form, rules that don't make sense.

Foolish boy, you don't understand what's at stake—

Listen, old slug.

I don't care what high-and-mighty reasons you have. Propeller Paradise isn't supposed to be a breeding ground of war.

Sure, kinetic engines and high-powered Arts unit could become powerful weapons, but what they're supporting now is the dream of life in the sky.

Until Propeller Paradise docks with the District, I'm its chief executive, the man who built this little piece of heaven that still has a semblance of freedom—

I will decide whether it should be destroyed, or whether it should escape.

Take his passcode, Five-Four.

Yes, sir.

It's no use. The central control console is locked. You can't stop the plate from docking with the District, even if you have my passcode.

Who said anything about stopping?

What...?

I said, 'escape'.

Not only did the former head of ATAO not disable his passcode when he retired, he used the security access it granted to disable the urban identification code system on the Columbian border...

Cool, isn't it?

You're going to commit treason for this stupid, pointless children's playground?

Hah. You were right. You didn't learn a single thing from me.

Let me remind you that Propeller Paradise is running out of fuel. You can't operate the plate's steering system, and you don't have enough energy.

Even when you're pinned to the ground by the robot I built, you somehow manage to forget that I've always been an inventor.

I hope they deliver the goods on time.

<p=1>Platform 7, Propeller Paradise Experimental Park</>

The sound of rotary motors has never been so clear.

The skies are clear. Overly-pristine self-cleaning artificial clouds combine with natural clouds to form a wondrous scene, but the people on the platforms are oblivious to it.

Some fifty Propeller Paradise guards and Maylander agents block off every passage and cable connections, forming an impregnable cordon line with their bodies and weapons.

Beneath their feet, the classical black-and-white tiles form a chessboard, the two sides separated by a ten-meter-long open-air passage.

The eyes of the agents are fixed on the support platform on the other side of the passage. The Rhine staff and testers who had at one point disappeared from sight now assemble there.

Platform 7... the analysis was correct. This is where the hide-and-seek converges.

Our people are ready, but there are more of them than expected.

They took out our guys in the broadcast room. The intel was not accurate.

We're putting in everyone we have.

Strength in numbers alone isn't enough. Be on your guard. They have an advantage when it comes to the new weapons and lay of the land.

Propeller Paradise is about to dock with D.C. Do not let anyone pass.

Use force if necessary. I'll take responsibility.

Yes, sir.

Six elite squads...

We have numbers, but the guys on the other side are...

Hard to tell people to keep going when they're exhausted.

Get the word out to the others, Jelena. Anyone who's too tired to move, give someone else their core components, pick up any hover unit, and stay behind to guard the support platform.

You're betting on them being wary about unknown new products?

I hope it works.

Phew... made it.

Are you sure you want to go this way when it's like this?

Yes, this is the only way to Cloud.

Take my parachute. Things might get dangerous.

What about you?

Me?

Ferne gazes at the Maylander blockade with interest, as though she is going to meet an old rival.

The camera drones left Platform 7 half an hour ago. Nothing that is about to happen here will be seen in the broadcast room.

Everyone knows that conflict is inevitable. Neither side wants to delay.

Their eyes are fixed on each other. Everyone is waiting for a sign.

My tour is waiting for my signal.

Suddenly, a yellow-and-black warning flag is raised. A young Feline woman leaps out from the crowd, loudspeaker in hand.

The first day I snuck onto Propeller Paradise, a kind guide told me that no one in this place can be stopped, if even the sky is no longer off-limits.

From the exhibits to the underground lab, I memorized every strange and curious invention, the complex ideas behind them, and hundreds of thousands of words of descriptions.

I could tell you who made the flying toaster above our heads, its model, and the generation.

I could go on and on about how wonderful they are, but to be completely honest, I find the levitating plates less interesting than the sunset of Bleached Wasteland.

Then I remember what my father used to say to me: 'A story is always more interesting than an explanation.'

I've had many frustrating experiences in the years that I worked as an independent guide.

There's nothing wrong with seeking truth, but many people subconsciously disparage exaggeration, inspiration, and dreams yet to come true.

I swore I would never again label things that I've never seen for myself as 'impossible', and laugh at my own family with my neighbors, as I did I few years ago—

It was not until the day my father died that I truly understood what he said.

If Propeller Paradise needed a guide, I would rather tell the people of Columbia about the people I met here, about their stories.

Rice Bush.

H-Huh?

A cobbler from Bunkerhill whose dream was to leave a footprint on each of the twin moons, so that everyone who looks up with a telescope would see his shop's logo on the shoeprints.

There's no bigger billboard than the sky, after all...

Owen Fredericks.

...I'm here.

Hardware store owner who wants to put his own screw on the second Ring Lab, and earn a spot for his family when space colonization becomes reality.

Hey, never hurts to be prepared for the future.

Aspen—

I'll tell it myself.

Aspen, grocer from Northville.

After being tricked into taking out exploitative loans, I divorced my wife and left home, so the creditors wouldn't go after my family.

My wife and I came up with the name 'Lucky Cystybeast' together. We haven't spoken to each other in two years.

She was worried sick when I left. I promised that the name 'Lucky Cystybeast' would be on TV, so that she'd know I'm safe.

Now I know that the exhibition was one big, fat lie. But I want her to at least see this red balloon with the Lucky Cystybeast logo on it, even if all the pods crash.

Aspen, and all of you.

The things we want, whether they're based in reality or just a pipe dream, whether they're the result of blind conformity or superstition... they're much more important than Maylander and Gustave think they are.

Run! Jump! Fly!

We'll overcome everything that tries to block our path and change us, without ever trying to understand us. We're the ones who'll decide Propeller Paradise's path!

Ferne dashes forward like a fowlbeast, loudly blasting her signal, as the rest of the pack follows behind, charging at the Maylander blockade.

Exhibits fly over the heads of the pushing and squeezing crowd, carrying all kinds of contraband towards the sky.

Absurd, and flying free.

Phew... finally out of the woods. Good work, guys. We just have to hang in there a little longer.

Thirty-four contraband core components.... all intact. Looks like the landing module works quite well.

My work is almost done. All that's left is to deliver this to Gordon. Hope all is well on his side.

Next—

Put it down.

Turn around.

Y-You're Gustave's science consultant? What are you doing here...?

Outside the window, the pinnacle of the D.C. Government Office and the Columbian flag are already visible.

Gordon's eyes are fixed on the bottom-left of the broadcast, as the red dot on the map gets closer and closer to the District plate.

According to the plan, the devices on the list should have been delivered to Cloud more than ten minutes ago.

He forces himself to not look at the door. Gustave is bound to notice any sign of anxiety.

The plan isn't going the way you expected it, is it?

You're calmer than I expected.

Being willing to take risks is not a bad thing, but you're not good enough at assessing risk.

You didn't have time to prepare a Plan B for your reckless Plan A. All of you will pay a heavy price if it fails.

And what's YOUR Plan B?

It's all good and well to rediscover your confidence, but never forget who you're competing with. I told you that getting carried away will cause you to overlook fatal flaws.

What do you mean...?

You're late.

I was delayed.

Your science consultant...

More than just a science consultant. I needed insurance for my plan.

The tall, dark Kuranta walks towards Gordon. The box holding thirty-four Originium devices, safely contained by protective material, seems almost weightless in his hands.

He lifts his arm and hands the box over to Gordon.

What you wanted.

Thanks.

What are you doing?

I learned a lot from you. Of course I knew what your trump card was.

A rival to provoke competition. A scientific consultant with both brains and brawn. A fair and impartial outsider to give legitimacy to the hearing and plan.

Too bad you picked the wrong guy.

Gramophone made from the tentacles of fossilized Seaborn? Decorative, or specifically functional?

Oh, it's for—

I see, automatic tuning with the Seaborn's sound-producing structures...

The grooves on the edge indicate that the designer even tested whether Seaborn adjust their biostructure based on the music. An interesting idea.

Where does this golden skeletal hand come from?

The one on the wall is from Sar—

It forms a pair with the heavily corroded one on the shelf, doesn't it?

The construction of the joints and the level of wear-and-tear indicates that it originated from the western deserts of Sargon.

Ah, this runed dagger is a familiar face. It—

<i>They</i> were supposed to be a pair!

I got it from a Sami snowpriest, who said a pair of lovers put a curse on it with their blood. It's driven by witchcraft, and cuts through iron like butter...

I know. The other one was once impaled in my heart.

It no longer cuts through iron like butter, but it's still good enough to carve a walking stick.

Mr. Consultant, I apologize for any offense I might have caused, and I understand your desire for recompense.

But I don't have time. I brought you here for a serious purpose.

If we take off part of the structure of the gramophone and combine it with the sensor module on the metal skeletal hand, we might create a new type of voice-guided navigation model.

That witchcraft-driven blade can serve as a low-loss needle. And here, this high-powered Originium internal combustion engine, legal only in Rim Billiton, can provide thirty times the power of standard Columbian equipment.

If only we can find a Victorian transformation stabilizer, which is no longer in production, and a Locus of Sorcery that was once seen on the Columbian barrenlands—

We'd almost have all the parts necessary to put together the initial core assembly of a nomadic plate's mobility layer.

You know what I'm planning to do?

Trying to modify an entire plate's power source with a single device is extremely risky, but not impossible.

You're not one of Gustave's guys. Who are you?

You're the one who said you don't have time.

The real question is, what do you need me to do?

Gordon glares at the Kuranta standing at the center of the collection room.

The Kuranta recognized all Gordon's collections, saw through all Gordon's thoughts, and nonchalantly revealed a glimpse into his own past, as though he had pursued death across the land...

To Gordon, the Kuranta seems to stroll through the halls of his thoughts, like a king that knows nothing, and everything.

Once again, the spikes on the Savra's tail rise up on their ends, swaying conspicuously.

This time, it is not because he is on guard, but because of the excitement of victory being in sight.

How's the stability of the power unit?

It will last no more than three days, or one day and a half, if fuel is insufficient.

Good enough.

You don't actually plan on driving it out of Columbia.

You don't think I would shit on everyone's future for a grudge?

That's what you want people to think, to allow you to protect as many people as possible.

Is that so?

Treason is a serious crime.

Pfft, you should look up my file. I've got enough charges against me as it is.

Come, help me take these stuff to the control room.

The wings of a fowlbeast, the horn of a burdenbeast, the teeth of a manglerbeast, the hide of a sandbeast, and the blood of a beckbeast. What would happen if you took something from thirty-four creatures and put it all together?

Sharp, weird, chaotic, dangerous, malicious... these are the thoughts that flash through Gordon's mind as he gazes upon the power unit he just created.

But he is also filled with excitement that threatens to drive him mad.

The plate's original power system has been turned off. The device is now connected.

You may now decide the course of Propeller Paradise.

I swore an oath when I got my transfer notice.

I would be the one who lights the fire of everything new on Propeller Paradise.

I would do everything I can to make even the stupidest ideas come true. No one would ever again feel the pain I felt at ATAO, to be forced to admit their own uselessness in rules set by others.

Now, I'm still the one who lights the fire, except I'm doing it to the engine of Propeller Paradise, and let it run into the empty wilderness.

Gordon grabs the fierce-looking lever on the power unit and takes a deep breath.

Say goodbye to Max, D.C., Propeller Paradise.

Tin Man, that Ferne is leading a group on Platform 7...

...I see it through the monitors.

Looks like Tannen got one up on Gustave at Cloud.

Hearing from the guys monitoring the Rhine tree. Nasti has broke through the blockade. Our guys are trying to follow her, but they're being blocked by something that feels like Sarkaz witchcraft.

Væla...

Send a team over and get the situation under control. I'll deal with matters on the Rhine side.

Looks like we're going to meet an old friend, Larry, Curly and Mo... a mad Banshee on the brink of death might be a bit of a headache to deal with.

As for you, Merry, you can choose to stay here, or help our colleagues outside.

You should stay a little longer.

Hey, you three...

Tin Man hears no answer from his revenant friends.

Ol' Curly is lithely waving a stick and dancing an impromptu tap dance. Big Larry lies on top of Mercia's head with tears in his eyes, recalling memories of who-knows-what. As for Lil' Mo...

He is howling and yelling, and Tin Man can hear—

He seems to think he is back in Kazdel, taking out a revolver and emptying it into the elder revenant trying to stuff him into the furnace.

My legs are numb, and I'm a little dizzy...

Perhaps you've been lax about your exoskeleton maintenance.

This brain isn't supposed to rust.

Your Arts have improved considerably, huh? You managed to drag these three into the whirlpool of memory, even though Ol' Curly had confiscated the projector.

Or was it dumb luck? Did all the memories of their overly long lives make it easier for you to manipulate?

It will take a long time to play through the movies of your lives, even at 320x speed, not to mention all the moments that need to be paused and replayed...

I apologize.

You understand that the effectiveness against me is limited.

Yes, I'm sure you'll break free of the shackles quite soon. I've read the Ho'olheyak reports... she could not fully incapacitate you, even after lopping your head off.

Therefore, all I can do is stall for as much time as possible, and delay your intervention.

You're an outstanding agent, Merry.

You've always been doing an admirable job, helping people forget what they should, be it through Arts or other means.

But this is the wrong time, and you've chosen the wrong target.

You told me not to forget my family name... I've never forgotten.

Any Selene who grew up in that old house would never forget.

The 'orphanage' of Maylander Selene, predecessor of the Foundation.

It was our 'home'. We truly considered Mr. Selene our grandfather when we were little.

Do you know what my most vivid memory of him is?

When I was eight, I came home from school one day to find the doll, that should have been in my room, spinning in the middle of the garden, watering the grass around it.

It was the only thing I had that reminded me of my mother. I don't remember her face, but I remember her thimbles gleaming under the lamp when she sewed the doll for me.

Grandpa turned it into a sprinkler without a single word to me, as though the doll was always meant to do that.

The children who grew up with me all have similar stories.

You were Grandpa's best friend. You know that, to the 'Founding Father of the Federation', there are only new things in Columbia, the youngest nation on Terra, rising out of the frontiers...

The only reason for old things to stay is to be used for pioneering.

It didn't matter if we were Victorian emigrants or Gaulish refugees, whether we were children of debtors or criminals.

Grandpa wanted us to become the children of Columbia, become Selenes. That was the only reason for our existence.

However, that's exactly why I can't accept what's happening right now, and take it for granted.

What do you mean?

I can't begin to imagine what you experienced in the long course of history. The Maylander Foundation, the president, the vice-president, they all have more things to think about...

I've seen the analyses on Kazimierzian power armor. They've reverse-engineered the technology of the Gaulish Vieux Vanguard, achieving results that surpassed the 'Transmitter' using the flesh and blood of knights.

I've read the textbooks of Leithanian 'Basic Arts Tactics' courses. It will not be a surprise if, in a decade, every citizen of Leithanien is a soldier, as is the case for Laterano.

I can understand why Maylander thinks Columbia is falling behind, and how a timely arms race could bring us back on the 'right track'.

Judging by the standards that Grandpa taught me so many times, there is nothing more efficient from the perspective of national development.

It's not that I don't understand these fallacies. Indeed, if I was asked to deal with these problems, I would draw a blank, and I would be able to do little else but cry.

But I just can't take it for granted. Not now.

If orphans like us, who had nowhere to go, could all become children of Columbia—

Then why should a mother who walked a thousand miles in search of her daughter, a merchant who put everything on the line so that his wife would not be hounded by creditors, and testers who are simply trying to earn a living...

Why should they be sacrificed for the sake of Columbia's progress?

My job is to make people forget. But this time...

You decided to pay a price for Columbia's progress. You shouldn't be allowed to forget. You should remember the lives and dreams that were part of the sacrifice.

Don't think of it as no big deal.

Nasti gazes at the indistinct figure within the winding branches. The figure of her mother.

Væla's limbs have been replaced by grey-white branches, bark climbing up her clothes and skin like scales, printing countless indistinct visages.

Glowing resin pours down like a waterfall, obscuring her face. Many desperate hands reach out from within, clutching her throat like clutching at straws.

Both the 'tree' and the person within seem almost unrecognizable.

There is only one thing that Nasti can be sure of: this was not a natural occurrence.

You merged with the tree?

Falling... I see your road back falling, collapsing. I must make sure you can go home.

My incantation could not reach the broken path, but the roots of this Roosting Tree will.

...I harmed it.

(In Sarkaz) Unravel!

Nasti's incantation goes unanswered.

The tree's design was based on the grammar of the Banshees. It remains flawed in many ways, but it has never before rejected my incantation. Yet now...

The branches continue to spread around Væla, dragging her floating silhouette towards Nasti, bit by bit.

Pease, Væla, stop... let me analyze what's happened to you.

Nasti's plea goes unanswered too.

All Væla does is ask questions, in an urgent, trembling voice.

There's no mistapple pulp outside the valley... how do you polish your feather horns, Nasti?

I never taught you incantations, but it looks like you've learned it on your own... a kind of imitation... how did you...?

And your bone pen... your... your...

That's not important, Væla. What I need to know is what happened to you here.

Not... important?

Væla is suddenly silent, and the creeping branches come to a standstill.

An instant later, they start to spread in the opposite direction, encroaching upon what is left of Væla.

The fusion is progressing?

This Roosting Tree has shared your memories with me... where you went... what you did...

It can share more... more important things.

I saw you dig for answers in the great library of the Lich for days and nights... you ruined your eyesight, but the curmudgeon Fremont kicked you out in the end.

I should have told him that you were never a foolish child. It was because of me...

I saw you bind your horns and attach fowlbeast feathers to them every day, just to sneak into the city of the Sankta to find food...

But it was bad for your horns. That's why the one on the right stopped growing, isn't it?

I saw you sleep on metal scaffolds, where there were no leaves to give you shade. You didn't built a treehouse either, just used a simple metal plate...

How could anyone sleep like that...? Do you get sick?

Nasti listens to her go on and on. The voice is distorted, barely recognizable, but the words of concern are familiar.

Væla used to say these things when they lived in Convallis.

Nasti realizes that she is not looking at a problem that needs to be solved, nor a patient who needs to be treated.

She is looking at a worried mother who needs to be understood.

Nasti lowers her bone pen.

Ferne told me how you looked like when she found you. There were burns from Arts, holes from bullets, and gashes from sandstorms all over you...

You walked the path that I once did, only harder and more painfully.

You could have died... you should have stayed in the Convallis.

There was nothing more I could do for the valley, for Laqeramaline, for the children.

You've already done so much. The lies you weaved for the sake of all the Banshees...

I knew it... they couldn't fool you.

I began to sense that something was off soon after you brought me to the Convallis.

I've kept the lie going for two hundred years. This was my greatest achievement as custodian of the valley, and my greatest sin...

Two hundred years... do you mean... that war?

Yes.

The King of Sarkaz at the time was old and foolish. It was not just the Royal Courts; even outsiders thought they could turn him into a puppet and thus control all Sarkaz.

It was already a bad year. Catastrophe raked the land once, then the alliance's guns raked it again.

The green Feline appeared on the horizon, leading a wall of steel that stretched as far as the eye could see. Which were the Steam Knights, which were the spire casters, and which were the Vieux Vanguard? I couldn't tell.

I don't know when they learned to build ships of steel, and tubes that breathed fire.

All I remember is that the towering Wendigos could only whimper as they were crushed beneath the ships, and our kin fell burning from the sky like broken kites.

No one who heard the wailing that day would ever forget it.

...The wailing of the Banshee.

We couldn't tell if we were delivering death, or delivering the dead. All we could do was wail and howl, hardly able to put together a single coherent elegy.

There were less than a thousand of us left when the allied forces withdrew from Kazdel. Half of us had lost our voices.

Because of our nature, the Banshees have never missed a single war of the Sarkaz. But such losses were unprecedented.

I survived by sheer chance and left the blood-soaked land of sorrows, trying to find a place where life still remained.

The Convallis?

The Convallis.

The vast Mist Lake separates it from the outside. The seasons come to a still in the golden woods. It is a quiet place... one that seemed like it didn't belong to the Sarkaz.

There's nothing that shouldn't belong to Sarkaz.

Yes... we believed it at the time. Me, Laqeramaline, and the new king chosen by the crown.

We believed in a new life for the Sarkaz.

Laqeramaline and I took our remaining kin into the Convallis, built a dock by Mist Lake, and built our court in the forests.

For the first time, we added symbols of life into the song of the Banshee, guided the trees to bear rich fruit, and the vines to weave themselves into bridges with incantations.

For the first time, the Banshees settled in a single place. They no longer had to sleep with only the night sky as their blanket, traveling from one death to another.

But 'tokens' from outside soon came flying in like snowflakes.

Tokens announcing death.

...Yes.

Not even Theresa and Theresis could solve the problems left behind by war overnight.

Yes. Death lingers, long after the smoke has cleared.

We made dried fruit out of our first harvest. It was barely enough for a few hundred Banshees to make it through the coldest month of winter.

But the tokens in my room... the murky blood crystals of the Vampires, tattered shrouds of the Nachzehrers, the shriveled, rosen hearts that Djaj become...

They soon piled higher, much higher than our dried fruit. I knew that if we went out to deliver the dead at that time...

We would return to our old path. But the catalyst for change was won with the lives of thousands upon thousands in war.

So you made a choice on behalf of all the Banshees.

I made the choice. I convinced Laqeramaline.

I concealed all the tokens announcing death coming from outside.

Occasionally a Banshee might leave the Convallis to deliver our kin, but I chose the people carefully and sparingly... Laqeramaline faced much criticism outside.

For a long time, we believed that we could cast aside our nature and lead a different life. If the Banshees could do it, so could all Sarkaz.

Even if the price was that the owners of the tokens would never find their way to the myriad souls.

Even the price was that the Banshees, having violated their nature, are swallowed by a lifetime of emptiness, destined to endure a long and painful journey of forgetting upon their deathbed.

Two hundred years passed. Two hundred years we had endured.

Until I met you.

...That's why I had to leave.

How many deaths did you tell the others about each month? More people die in Kazdel every day.

You could fool the others, but you knew that I knew from the beginning.

Laqeramaline was right. You were too smart, and you grew up in Kazdel... I could not have fooled you.

But I hoped you could live in the Convallis.

Not just because your mother was one of the many thousands of souls that I turned a blind eye to... not just because I owed you a happy childhood for failing to respond to the last wish in time.

But also because I hoped that the Convallis, the sanctuary that was built in the hope of seeking a new life for the Sarkaz, would at least be able to take in a child from outside after two hundred years.

I took the child who was most likely to expose my lie in, as my daughter.

You carefully kept me away from other Banshees.

Ultimately, your hopes for the Convallis fell through.

I...

I made many mistakes in my life. But there is none that I regret more than your departure.

You were always a smart girl. I've thought about it many times... that if I had told you the truth about things, you would have understood and played along whatsoever.

If that was the case, then perhaps you wouldn't have...

No, I would have left regardless.

I remember the day we parted.

You called out to me. I didn't turn around, but I looked down at the water.

There was no wind on Mist Lake that day. The boat sailed across the water like a knife cutting through a piece of paper. I saw your face clearly, reflected in the still water.

You wept when I said I was leaving, but let out a sigh of relief... so small, so imperceptible, that perhaps you didn't even notice it yourself.

Deep down, you wanted me to leave, didn't you?

We were co-conspirators in the parting.

Haven't you realized it, Væla?

It is the Convallis, not me, that is truly your daughter.

You discovered it, entrusted the Sarkaz's future to it, and built it with pavilions and boats, fruits and cakes.

Your love for it grew as time passed.

There were two reasons why you brought me back to the Convallis: to make amends for the price you paid for it, and to verify whether it has grown the way you hoped it would.

My departure brought relief, because the one who could expose the fragile lie that ties the Convallis together left.

But my departure also brought anguish, because it proved that the valley could not carry the burden you hoped it would, even after two hundred years.

It was too fragile to accept a child who grew up in Kazdel, much less become the future abode of all Sarkaz.

Nasti, don't...

Do you know the answer, Væla?

You left the Convallis, came here, and merged with this tree, which is like the Roosting Tree, yet different... did you do it for me, for yourself, or simply out of obsession?

What are you running from, Væla?

Are you running from death, from the failure of the Convallis, or from the fact that you are dying and there is nothing else you can do for the Convallis's failure?

Tell me, help me understand, and put an end to this error.