The orange glow of the lamp illuminated his surroundings, and a musty smell permeated the long yet thin corridor that led to two sections of the building. One was a short set of wooden stairs, while the other extended farther into the same floor—a thin layer of dust all over it.
Vern paid it little mind and instead focused on regulating his breathing, and Miss Cera seemed to do the same. Her short hair clung to her face that had managed to conjure drops of sweat in such a chilly weather.
CLANK
The gun slipped from her palms and came crashing down, landing on the ground with a sharp metallic clank. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands as her back collapsed against the door.
Her body slowly lost all strength as she sagged down, crumbling on the floor. Her knees closed the gap between her palms which rested against her eyes as low sniffles pervaded the air.
Vern looked at the frail girl and held himself back. She had to internalize what she had done by herself. This was the harsh reality—yesterday's crime was today's survival tactic.
She didn't need his soothing. Not yet.
So he instead took deep breaths and did some internalization of recent events of his own.
He had shot someone in the head.
Killed someone.
Willingly.
Yes, there were excuses like it was a tense situation and that if he didn't kill the boss, he wouldn't be alive right now, and whatnot. But he had reduced the already low count of humans on the planet for selfish reasons.
Objectively, it was quite a justified action. From society's perspective, a man such as him was better off dead than alive. He would have destroyed so many lives if he had lived.
But everyone negatively impacted the lives of others to some extent by simply existing. If skilled people didn't live, then the unskilled ones would have it easier. If beautiful people weren't around, plain-looking individuals would be in demand.
Yes, from what he'd seen, this person had a much higher negative impact on the world than most, but who was Vern to decide that his balance of positive-to-negative impact on society was enough to warrant death?
Who decided the threshold where it was justified to grant death? Was there even a threshold? Is any such threshold objectively correct?
Vern sighed and shook his head.
These were all rhetorical questions with no real answer. As always, these philosophical thoughts were futile. They were good to reorient one's moral compass, but they almost always ignored the practicality of the real world.
For now, he'd have to suffice with the fact that the man had crossed Vern's subjective threshold of negative impact on his life.
He might have had a much more vehement reaction to his first murder if the world was a tinge more sane. But the repercussions of this were going to be fueled by Vendetta and how he'd managed to affront the authority of some bishop rather than going against the morality of human society.
This was a shit show.
He had considered this topic beforehand. What would he do if he ever had to commit such a crime? None of that was coming in handy right now because the base assumptions of the world didn't quite match up.
AHH! I need to let it go. What's done is done.
It was indeed time for reflection, but this was going nowhere. He'd need to sit down in a more serene environment and contemplate to arrive at a more complete answer.
So he pushed off the ground and stood up. His eyes and head were still heavy, but his heart had calmed down.
Unhooking the lamp from his waist, he held it higher and shone it at the corridor. Thick ropes were extending out of a couple pulley systems—the strands snaked upwards, fading into the darkness.
Then there was the short set of wooden stairs that led to a raised platform. He didn't even need to go up to realize it was the stage. This building was a theater, after all.
A minimal amount of space was wasted in here. The stage was just a meter away from the outer wall of the building.
Well, real estate used to be quite expensive, so such decisions only make sense. Not anymore, though. It might even be the cheapest commodity nowadays.
A few cupboards and cabinets also lined the other end of the thin, long hall, probably housing dresses and props for stage performances.
This seemed to be an old type of theater where actual humans performed. The film had sensationalized drama at the start of this decade. But nobles believed that real humans performing for them was far superior to the fake drama of the films—killing the industry in its infancy.
So, it was only logical that the middle class tried to emulate the aristocracy. It was apparent that it used to be quite a busy theater because even though the air in here was stale, the contraptions and pulleys seemed well-maintained.
Another few minutes passed by as he silently took in his surroundings.
"Mum, this—I…you. Ephram, I…"
A faint whisper entered his ears, half of its content too low for him to hear. She was sitting there, leaning on the door, hugging her knees, holding herself tightly.
It was hard to watch.
He decided to give her a little more time.
Moving farther into the thin corridor, he scrutinized the pulleys and the ropes. He even ventured up the short stairs of the stage to check out what was going on.
Seemed like a good way to distract himself. Thinking too much about those events made him want to retch. In the last five days, he'd had a bit too much gore for his liking. Recalling it wasn't going to do him any favors in keeping his lunch in his stomach.
So, yeah. He quickly found out that those ropes were there to draw and repeal huge curtains that covered the stage from the audience.
His curiosity sated, he walked back down and opened a trunk on the other end of the building, surrounded by a bunch of props. As expected, it was costumes and dresses.
.
.
.
After wasting what seemed like a quarter of an hour, he walked back to the door with two masks in hand. They would make them look conspicuous in their own right, but it should be good enough for them to move about the district at night without being recognized quickly.
Miss Cera sat there, her face resting on her knees—eyes distant and swollen. It should be fine to talk now, right?
Vern walked to her side and turned around before sitting right next to her. He put the lamp in between them, the masks on his lap. He played with the masks for a while before he spoke softly, "Would you like to talk?"
.
.
.
She simply stared into nothingness for a while before she whispered, her voice cracking, "Please don't do that again…I was scared."
"I couldn't risk them figuring it out before I was ready."
"…I—know. I was just, just scared."
"…"
"Have you done this before? You seem so…unfazed," she said, turning to face him. The soft orange glow drew highlights on her exquisite visage marred by tear stains.
He lightly shook his head, resting it on the wall, looking at the ceiling, "I might have a good poker face. But you were quite unfazed during the situation yourself."
"…it—it was necessary. At least I believed that."
"You don't believe it anymore?"
"I…don't know. We killed them, Vern. We killed them."
Vern shook his head again, this time with more vigor. Even though his own argument didn't convince him, it was still solid.
"If we hadn't done what we did, you'd be underneath some random man, while I might have just been another corpse floating in the rivers."
A twinge of unease prickled in his gut because the words didn’t sound as harsh in his mind as they did in the air.
"…yes. I just."
She lapsed into another bout of silence. Her black locks tried to hide it, but her eyes were growing moist again.
After a while, she uttered, "Just what happened to everyone, Vern? People were unpleasant before Duskfall, but this is too much. Why did it have to turn out like this? I understand the logic, but why did this happen? Just why did it happen?"
Her voice which was a whisper, began to tremble, taking on a higher, shaky tone as she struggled to contain her emotions, "Just why did so many people disappear?"
Vern focused back on her, the intensity in her words making him question it himself. What was the impetus?
Blinking rapidly, she wailed, "Just where did they go?"
Were they really dead?
"Just where did mum go?"
He didn't know.
"Just why did things turn out this way!"
Only if he understood it himself.
Tears slipped past her fingers and rolled off her cheeks.
"Just why can't things go back to how they were?"
It was…
"Just why does everything feel so overwhelming?"
It was hard…
This outburst wasn't just about what had happened at the bridge. It ran deeper than that.
And it was hard to watch.
He closed his own eyes for a moment, holding back his roiling emotions. He'd rather not fall into her pace and recall the anxieties he'd been keeping in check.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he shifted his weight to one side, turning his body towards her. Sliding closer to her on the floor, his eyes locked onto hers for a brief second before something in her expression made him want to reach out.
"Just why is the world—" her next words were caught in her mouth as Vern did something that didn't match his usual demeanor.
With a gentleness he hadn't known he possessed, he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her slight frame tremble under his touch. It was clear that words weren't enough, but perhaps this simple act of compassion could give her the solace she needed.
And himself.
Her body stiffened for just a moment at his touch, but then she relaxed, leaning into his embrace. Her breathing was ragged, and he could feel her tears dampening his shoulder.
He said nothing, simply holding her as the silent sobs took their toll on her.
Minutes passed by in silence as her warmth became a comforting distraction from his own worries.
.
.
.
He tried to remember the last time he had hugged someone other than Ariane. Nothing came to mind except those formal conferences and parties where it was an obligation rather than a choice.
.
.
.
But hopefully, this helped her release some of her bottled emotions. She seemed to be a person who tended to do that.
.
.
.
Finally, she pulled away slightly. Wiping her eyes, she looked at him with a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. "Thank you. I am…" she sniffled, "I am sorry."
"Please don't worry. Just keep yourself mentally well because this new world isn't very forgiving. Repressing your emotions will wear you down one day or the other."
"…yes."
After wiping away her tears with her sleeves, she ran her fingers through her dark hairs and smoothed them. Meeting his gaze with those beautiful eyes, she said, "I apologize for doubting you back at the bridge."
Shaking his head yet again, he replied, "It was the right thing to do. Please don't worry about it." But then he remembered his manners and continued, "Thank you as well for quickly adapting to my plans. If you hadn't taken the shot at the boss, all my 'smartness' and 'discreteness' would have been nothing more than arrogant foolishness."
She hummed, and her lips stretched towards a smile. But shaking her head, she crawled forward a little and reached for the gun that was lying on the ground before holstering it quickly.
Finally looking like her prim and proper self, she stood up and spoke with a little more vigor, her sweet voice still cracking, "We should go. I've wasted enough of our time."
Nodding, Vern extended his arm and offered her one of the masks.
"Let's go."
The orange glow of the lamp illuminated his surroundings, and a musty smell permeated the long yet thin corridor that led to two sections of the building. One was a short set of wooden stairs, while the other extended farther into the same floor—a thin layer of dust all over it.
Vern paid it little mind and instead focused on regulating his breathing, and Miss Cera seemed to do the same. Her short hair clung to her face that had managed to conjure drops of sweat in such a chilly weather.
CLANK
The gun slipped from her palms and came crashing down, landing on the ground with a sharp metallic clank. She closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands as her back collapsed against the door.
Her body slowly lost all strength as she sagged down, crumbling on the floor. Her knees closed the gap between her palms which rested against her eyes as low sniffles pervaded the air.
Vern looked at the frail girl and held himself back. She had to internalize what she had done by herself. This was the harsh reality—yesterday's crime was today's survival tactic.
She didn't need his soothing. Not yet.
So he instead took deep breaths and did some internalization of recent events of his own.
He had shot someone in the head.
Killed someone.
Willingly.
Yes, there were excuses like it was a tense situation and that if he didn't kill the boss, he wouldn't be alive right now, and whatnot. But he had reduced the already low count of humans on the planet for selfish reasons.
Objectively, it was quite a justified action. From society's perspective, a man such as him was better off dead than alive. He would have destroyed so many lives if he had lived.
But everyone negatively impacted the lives of others to some extent by simply existing. If skilled people didn't live, then the unskilled ones would have it easier. If beautiful people weren't around, plain-looking individuals would be in demand.
Yes, from what he'd seen, this person had a much higher negative impact on the world than most, but who was Vern to decide that his balance of positive-to-negative impact on society was enough to warrant death?
Who decided the threshold where it was justified to grant death? Was there even a threshold? Is any such threshold objectively correct?
Vern sighed and shook his head.
These were all rhetorical questions with no real answer. As always, these philosophical thoughts were futile. They were good to reorient one's moral compass, but they almost always ignored the practicality of the real world.
For now, he'd have to suffice with the fact that the man had crossed Vern's subjective threshold of negative impact on his life.
He might have had a much more vehement reaction to his first murder if the world was a tinge more sane. But the repercussions of this were going to be fueled by Vendetta and how he'd managed to affront the authority of some bishop rather than going against the morality of human society.
This was a shit show.
He had considered this topic beforehand. What would he do if he ever had to commit such a crime? None of that was coming in handy right now because the base assumptions of the world didn't quite match up.
AHH! I need to let it go. What's done is done.
It was indeed time for reflection, but this was going nowhere. He'd need to sit down in a more serene environment and contemplate to arrive at a more complete answer.
So he pushed off the ground and stood up. His eyes and head were still heavy, but his heart had calmed down.
Unhooking the lamp from his waist, he held it higher and shone it at the corridor. Thick ropes were extending out of a couple pulley systems—the strands snaked upwards, fading into the darkness.
Then there was the short set of wooden stairs that led to a raised platform. He didn't even need to go up to realize it was the stage. This building was a theater, after all.
A minimal amount of space was wasted in here. The stage was just a meter away from the outer wall of the building.
Well, real estate used to be quite expensive, so such decisions only make sense. Not anymore, though. It might even be the cheapest commodity nowadays.
A few cupboards and cabinets also lined the other end of the thin, long hall, probably housing dresses and props for stage performances.
This seemed to be an old type of theater where actual humans performed. The film had sensationalized drama at the start of this decade. But nobles believed that real humans performing for them was far superior to the fake drama of the films—killing the industry in its infancy.
So, it was only logical that the middle class tried to emulate the aristocracy. It was apparent that it used to be quite a busy theater because even though the air in here was stale, the contraptions and pulleys seemed well-maintained.
Another few minutes passed by as he silently took in his surroundings.
"Mum, this—I…you. Ephram, I…"
A faint whisper entered his ears, half of its content too low for him to hear. She was sitting there, leaning on the door, hugging her knees, holding herself tightly.
It was hard to watch.
He decided to give her a little more time.
Moving farther into the thin corridor, he scrutinized the pulleys and the ropes. He even ventured up the short stairs of the stage to check out what was going on.
Seemed like a good way to distract himself. Thinking too much about those events made him want to retch. In the last five days, he'd had a bit too much gore for his liking. Recalling it wasn't going to do him any favors in keeping his lunch in his stomach.
So, yeah. He quickly found out that those ropes were there to draw and repeal huge curtains that covered the stage from the audience.
His curiosity sated, he walked back down and opened a trunk on the other end of the building, surrounded by a bunch of props. As expected, it was costumes and dresses.
.
.
.
After wasting what seemed like a quarter of an hour, he walked back to the door with two masks in hand. They would make them look conspicuous in their own right, but it should be good enough for them to move about the district at night without being recognized quickly.
Miss Cera sat there, her face resting on her knees—eyes distant and swollen. It should be fine to talk now, right?
Vern walked to her side and turned around before sitting right next to her. He put the lamp in between them, the masks on his lap. He played with the masks for a while before he spoke softly, "Would you like to talk?"
.
.
.
She simply stared into nothingness for a while before she whispered, her voice cracking, "Please don't do that again…I was scared."
"I couldn't risk them figuring it out before I was ready."
"…I—know. I was just, just scared."
"…"
"Have you done this before? You seem so…unfazed," she said, turning to face him. The soft orange glow drew highlights on her exquisite visage marred by tear stains.
He lightly shook his head, resting it on the wall, looking at the ceiling, "I might have a good poker face. But you were quite unfazed during the situation yourself."
"…it—it was necessary. At least I believed that."
"You don't believe it anymore?"
"I…don't know. We killed them, Vern. We killed them."
Vern shook his head again, this time with more vigor. Even though his own argument didn't convince him, it was still solid.
"If we hadn't done what we did, you'd be underneath some random man, while I might have just been another corpse floating in the rivers."
A twinge of unease prickled in his gut because the words didn’t sound as harsh in his mind as they did in the air.
"…yes. I just."
She lapsed into another bout of silence. Her black locks tried to hide it, but her eyes were growing moist again.
After a while, she uttered, "Just what happened to everyone, Vern? People were unpleasant before Duskfall, but this is too much. Why did it have to turn out like this? I understand the logic, but why did this happen? Just why did it happen?"
Her voice which was a whisper, began to tremble, taking on a higher, shaky tone as she struggled to contain her emotions, "Just why did so many people disappear?"
Vern focused back on her, the intensity in her words making him question it himself. What was the impetus?
Blinking rapidly, she wailed, "Just where did they go?"
Were they really dead?
"Just where did mum go?"
He didn't know.
"Just why did things turn out this way!"
Only if he understood it himself.
Tears slipped past her fingers and rolled off her cheeks.
"Just why can't things go back to how they were?"
It was…
"Just why does everything feel so overwhelming?"
It was hard…
This outburst wasn't just about what had happened at the bridge. It ran deeper than that.
And it was hard to watch.
He closed his own eyes for a moment, holding back his roiling emotions. He'd rather not fall into her pace and recall the anxieties he'd been keeping in check.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he shifted his weight to one side, turning his body towards her. Sliding closer to her on the floor, his eyes locked onto hers for a brief second before something in her expression made him want to reach out.
"Just why is the world—" her next words were caught in her mouth as Vern did something that didn't match his usual demeanor.
With a gentleness he hadn't known he possessed, he wrapped his arms around her, feeling her slight frame tremble under his touch. It was clear that words weren't enough, but perhaps this simple act of compassion could give her the solace she needed.
And himself.
Her body stiffened for just a moment at his touch, but then she relaxed, leaning into his embrace. Her breathing was ragged, and he could feel her tears dampening his shoulder.
He said nothing, simply holding her as the silent sobs took their toll on her.
Minutes passed by in silence as her warmth became a comforting distraction from his own worries.
.
.
.
He tried to remember the last time he had hugged someone other than Ariane. Nothing came to mind except those formal conferences and parties where it was an obligation rather than a choice.
.
.
.
But hopefully, this helped her release some of her bottled emotions. She seemed to be a person who tended to do that.
.
.
.
Finally, she pulled away slightly. Wiping her eyes, she looked at him with a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. "Thank you. I am…" she sniffled, "I am sorry."
"Please don't worry. Just keep yourself mentally well because this new world isn't very forgiving. Repressing your emotions will wear you down one day or the other."
"…yes."
After wiping away her tears with her sleeves, she ran her fingers through her dark hairs and smoothed them. Meeting his gaze with those beautiful eyes, she said, "I apologize for doubting you back at the bridge."
Shaking his head yet again, he replied, "It was the right thing to do. Please don't worry about it." But then he remembered his manners and continued, "Thank you as well for quickly adapting to my plans. If you hadn't taken the shot at the boss, all my 'smartness' and 'discreteness' would have been nothing more than arrogant foolishness."
She hummed, and her lips stretched towards a smile. But shaking her head, she crawled forward a little and reached for the gun that was lying on the ground before holstering it quickly.
Finally looking like her prim and proper self, she stood up and spoke with a little more vigor, her sweet voice still cracking, "We should go. I've wasted enough of our time."
Nodding, Vern extended his arm and offered her one of the masks.
"Let's go."
