The aroma of dinner still lingers in the air.
The tomato fish soup has just been set on the table, its steam misting the glass.
Enid holds her bowl and blows softly on her spoonful of soup.
The man stares blankly. For some reason, even this simple dinner leaves him feeling strangely disoriented.
The woman raps her spoon against his plate, calling him back.
What's with you? Off in your head again?
Sorry... long day. Just tired.
Anyway, no work talk!
Enid, your birthday's the day after tomorrow. Figured out where you want to go yet?
Constellia! Everyone at school says they've been to Constellia!
Your dad goes there on business all the time. Just ask him about it. Same as going yourself.
Dad goes there for work! I want to go for fun! Totally different!
It's fine. If she wants to go, we'll take her. No trouble.
Wait—
Constellia...
Constellia... Constellia...
Constellia... Constellia... Constellia?
The man does not understand why this name keeps surfacing in his life.
It feels familiar and yet foreign, like something lodged inside him that does not belong. In his memory, Constellia should be...
Yay!
You spoil her way too much.
We barely ever get to go out as a family. My treat. We've never all gone somewhere together.
Before he can finish, someone switches on the television.
I've said it before, no TV during dinner... We're all finally together and you want the TV on? Turn it off.
Where's the remote? Did you hide it again, Enid?
The man starts searching for the remote.
Not telling.
If she wants to watch, let her watch. What's the harm? Just some background noise.
Larene tugs at Crassus' sleeve, motioning for him to sit back down.
Bzzt—
The signal seems weak. The screen fills with static at first.
A shriek of interference follows. Then the static begins to resolve, grain by grain, into something watchable, like a signal hijacked and held.
The TV seems to be playing a science fiction disaster movie. The images offer no better explanation.
The protagonist is a girl in an ornate dress. The actress tugs at his memory. He has seen her before, somewhere, but the source escapes him.
A billboard, perhaps?
That nagging familiarity keeps his thumb off the remote.
A chase sequence unfolds. The girl sprints through ruined interiors, a horde of machines closing in behind her.
The gap narrows. The machines vault forward, lunging to strike first.
Raarrgghhh—
The girl snaps out a tether and rides the recoil past the blade's edge.
The costumes and sets are disturbingly realistic. It is hard to believe that in the twenty-second century, drowning in CGI, anyone would still shoot practical effects like this.
The girl soon vanishes from the frame, but the sounds persist. Footsteps, collapsing rubble, alarms, a broadcast.
The broadcast cuts in and out. All he can make out is someone shouting.
Commandant ▆▅▇█ situation ▅▆▁██ get out ▅▇▃██.
The shot cuts wide. Red turbulence churns around the city, rising and falling.
From a distance, the city already appears wrecked. Even the landmark buildings are visibly out of place.
Whether it's the docks, the distant city blocks, the signal tower...
Or...
Which city?
Something stirs in his mind.
He feels like he knows every street there, every dock. He could even boast he has walked every inch of that place.
The footage does not feel staged.
What's on the screen feels real enough, but so does where he stands right now.
Dread crawls up his backbone and into his skull.
He lurches to his feet again.
What is with you tonight? Just sit down and eat.
Larene taps her fork against her plate.
This... this movie... looks pretty damn real, huh... haha...
But... isn't that the news?
Crassus rubs his eyes.
The evening news is on right on schedule, no different from any other night.
"Today's temperature in Port Podesta is 21 to 27 degrees Celsius. Rain is expected tomorrow..."
Are you alright?
Larene takes Crassus' hand. The warmth of her touch eases his nerves, just a little.
Yeah, I... I'm fine. Nothing's wrong...
Crassus laughs it off, strained, and pushes himself up from the table, drifting into the middle of the living room.
Let me grab some liquor. No wonder dinner felt off tonight.
So that's what was missing... No big deal.
He pulls open the refrigerator. Nothing but the day's groceries. Not a drop of alcohol to be found.
...You don't drink, Crassus...
I... don't?
Crassus turns his head and stares blankly at it all.
An awkward smile is all he can manage. He does not even know how to answer.
He cannot recall why he started drinking in the first place... Was it after someone left?
His body locks up. He stands frozen so long the refrigerator alarm begins to beep.
Communications Control Room
Port Podesta
Alarms are blaring through the entire building.
[player name], you've got Corrupted heading your way!
They're locked onto you. Five minutes, tops, before they reach you. Get out of there!
I'm... ██ heading to your ████...
The signal crackles, fading in and out.
But...
The crashes from below are closing in. The Corrupted's ragged howls grow loud and clear.
The surveillance feeds dissolve into static, one by one.
You draw a deep breath and press the broadcast key.
The crashing below draws closer.
You don't stop.
BAM!
A heavy impact shudders through the door of the control room.
[player name], they're almost on your floor!
I'm almost █ █ █... hold █ █ █...
Your fingers find the grip of your pistol.
Szzzt—
The lights in the control room go out without warning.
The signal tower's hum dies into silence in a single second.
In the darkness, only your own breathing remains.
And beyond the door, the Corrupted's growls, drawing closer.
Crash.
The door fractures, torn open from the middle.
Through the wound in the metal, the first Corrupted leaps inside.
Raarrgghhh—
Your finger snaps down on the trigger.
BAM!
The sound of the sea wind brushes past Helentine's ear.
She pushes herself up from a street bench. Dawn has just begun to break, and her eyes have not yet adjusted.
Beside the bench, a young woman leans against the railing, staring out at the horizon.
Ophe... lia?
Helentine. You're awake.
It's really you...
Ophelia faces her, one hand settling softly on her shoulder, and guides her down to sit once more.
It's been a long time.
The last time we saw each other... was before the Punishing Virus outbreak, wasn't it?
Constructs really are something... After all these years, you haven't changed at all.
I was always so worried you might have become a different person.
So tell me, how have you been? All these years?
...
...Not great. But I suppose... not so terrible that I couldn't keep going.
Ophelia looks at her and suddenly reaches out, tucking a windblown strand of hair behind her ear.
But you made it this far.
Tell me about it. Everything I missed.
I want to know.
A drift of ocean wind passes through the space between them, carrying her words more gently.
Helentine gazes down at the water beyond the railing, as if carefully searching for an answer that will not sound too pitiful.
She falls quiet for a moment.
My own life... you mean?
The truth is... I've spent so long not knowing how to live my life.
When I first woke up after the surgery, it always felt like I was borrowing someone else's life.
"Helentine's" life...
I had no idea what she was supposed to be like...
All I could do was follow my notes line by line. Smile when I was supposed to smile. Say the right thing when I was supposed to say it.
Back then... you helped me so much.
I'm glad. That I could help, even a little.
More than a little. At the time, I didn't even know what I was supposed to do with myself.
Those macarons... I still remember how they tasted.
But after you were gone... the whole world changed.
The Punishing Virus broke out, and suddenly nothing looked the same anymore.
Maybe... it didn't look the same to anyone.
Her words begin to slow.
Ophelia rests her chin in her palm, the way she always did, and listens as her sister talks through the small things weighing on her mind.
After that, I joined a rescue team. I fought in the war against the Punishing Virus.
After you left, Father changed a lot, too.
He stopped talking to people. Grew more and more obsessive.
He even started hoarding supplies meant for other regions.
That's what we fought about... the reason I left home.
After that... I could never go back to Port Podesta.
Ophelia drops her gaze a little.
Father was always like that, deep down. My death just made it worse, I suppose.
You don't have to carry that weight, Helentine.
Back then, I was so lost... I could never go back to the home we used to have.
But I still wanted to do something. Anything.
With nowhere else to go, I reached out to Adelyde.
I submitted my application and enlisted with the World Government military.
I thought I could finally make a difference... but the pain never really left.
War is a sad thing, Ophelia.
So many comrades told me you get used to it eventually. But I never could. No matter how hard I tried.
So many times... someone I'd just started to know, someone I'd just become friends with, would be gone the next day. Nothing but a name on a plaque in the cemetery.
I did save people. But the losses kept coming, over and over.
In the end, all I could really do was write down their names. For them. For everyone who loved them.
A quiet sigh escapes Helentine.
Just like... she would have done.
...Like the Helentine you used to be?
At first, yes. And even now... I still think that way sometimes.
But this way of living... it's become my own.
What she would have done and everything you taught me... All of it has become a part of who I am.
My M.I.N.D. deviation has gotten much better, too.
She lifts her head and looks out at the distant sea.
Dawn is spilling across the waves in shades of warm tangerine.
"Helentine" really is a heavy name to carry, isn't it.
I used to wonder, what was there to admire about her, really?
But that was never it. What made Helentine truly admirable wasn't her ability.
It was that sense of responsibility. The kind you can't just learn or copy.
That strange drive she had, always thinking of others, always trying to do just a little more.
That's who "Helentine" was... But you're no different.
...?
You've already found something that's truly yours.
The fact that you carried my consciousness with you and made it this far on your own... that alone is more than I could have ever hoped for.
So tell me... have you been happy? With your life so far?
I have... though there were hard times... I've always done my best to live... to become a better person...
And... Ophelia... I wanted so badly to see you again...
I've missed you.
I know. I've always known.
But this time... I'm not just here to catch up.
For a single breath, the wind off the water goes still.
...
I'm here to say a proper goodbye.
...
No.
She reaches out and seizes Ophelia's wrist, holding on tightly.
Helentine.
[player name] is broadcasting from the signal tower, warning everyone not to fall into Understanding's illusions.
But... the Punishing Virus keeps pressing in on them.
The commandant won't last much longer.
A tremor runs through Helentine's eyes, like she has just glimpsed the real world through a crack.
You want me to... go back. Right now.
No, not exactly. You don't have to bear everything alone.
Take your time, Helentine. I'll be with you this time.
Listen.
Right now, I'm only a fragment of consciousness within the Understanding Sefirah.
I'll lend you what's left of my consciousness. Parts of me are already woven into your M.I.N.D. It won't be difficult to connect.
This part of me... which is still linked to the Sefirah, can become your channel.
Through it, you can... temporarily seize partial control of the Understanding Sefirah.
Helentine's lips move slightly.
And after you "lend" it... what happens to you?
Ophelia does not answer.
She only takes Helentine's hand in her own,
as though she wants to leave a little more warmth behind.
I've been gone for many years, Helentine.
You're a soldier now. A proper one. Between the world and me, you know which one to choose.
Helentine's voice chokes up, a hint of regret visible in her eyes.
I don't know.
At least we get to say goodbye this time, right?
Now go. Do what you have to do, as Helentine.
Ophelia yanks the starter cord of the buzzsaw.
Beyond them, the waves pound on, relentless.
Ophelia...!
Seagulls glide across the sky, a few landing on the water now glowing orange in the sun.
A tranquil, peaceful scene.
The buzzsaw hums back to life at her hip, its blade catching her own reflection.
Raise it, Helentine.
What comes after... you'll have to do on your own.
I'm just someone left behind in the past, but you still have a future. Your own future.
But you are not in that future, aren't you...?
Helentine.
This is something only you can do.
Whether it's your future or your life, they belong to you alone.
You don't have to live for anyone else. And your name doesn't belong to anyone's past.
Every life... can only be walked by the one living it...
Sunlight begins to shine through Ophelia's body, and the weight in Helentine's arms grows heavier.
She lowers her gaze. Her face stares back from the buzzsaw's steel.
What she sees is not a counterfeit clutching a notebook, carefully mimicking someone else.
She sees only herself.
A Construct named Helentine.
She falls silent for a beat, then lifts her head.
Ophelia—
Helentine, promise me. Destroy this false "understanding." Destroy it all!
A brief silence holds her.
The buzzsaw growls to life.
Helentine takes one step forward.
Golden light bleeds from the tip down the length of the blade, gentle and razor-sharp.
The stillness carries the weight of a goodbye too long delayed.
She lifts her head, raises her weapon, and strikes down with all her strength.
The blade rips through the orange-lit sea like a veil torn open.
In that instant, countless fragments of the past burst from the sound of the rupture.
Gray, ruined, the real wasteland announces the truth.
At last, the wind gets in. Real ocean air always carries the old smells of brine and corroded metal.
The strain of the Sefirah sends tremors through her entire body.
She does not look back.
█ █ █
Port Podesta
Afternoon
After a few drinks, the chief editor grows talkative. He rambles on and on, from Port Podesta's politicians to its economy, from grand dreams to the small details of daily life.
The Golden Age? People just want something long gone to hold onto. That's all it is.
So now you get what people really want, yeah?
The editor pours himself another glass.
...Mm.
I'm still curious, though. Was yesterday's piece really that big?
Honestly, I can't even remember what I wrote...
In Wynne's memory, she was supposed to be interviewing Helentine just yesterday.
See for yourself. Can't even remember your own work?
The chief editor slides the newspaper across the desk toward her.
The article is polished and complete. The structure is solid, the headline carefully worded, the paragraphs flow naturally. Even the small emotional hooks meant to draw readers in are all in place.
But at the very end, the piece takes an unexpected turn.
"Port Podesta is sailing toward death...?"
Huh...? Sailing toward death?
Wynne holds the newspaper and reads through it several times, searching for the reasoning behind this conclusion. But...
Brrrring—
The phone in the office starts to ring.
Yeah, this is the editorial office.
Huh? What? What do you mean the sky's splitting open?!
The chief editor drops the phone and rushes to the window, yanking the blinds open.
The sky has divided into two distinct hues.
Beyond the daytime blue, so ordinary it almost feels fake, another Port Podesta hangs quietly within the fissure above the signal tower.
It is a ruined city, drowning in endless night rain.
A crimson tide surrounds the entire coastline. The waves no longer crash like water. They sound like the low, guttural groans of something vast and alive, slowly writhing in the deep.
The fissure in the sky is widening, inch by inch. Atop the signal tower stands a young woman, one she knows all too well.
—!!
She lifts her buzzsaw and brings it down against the sky. Silver light flashes with each strike. Amid the ringing thunder of metal, the fissure splits wider and swallows more threads of light.
Port Podesta... is sailing toward death...
The broadcast, coming from somewhere unknown, grows louder.
"Port Podesta doesn't need me. It needs every last one of you still here."
"That is reality... And that reality is going to take all of you in Port Podesta. All twenty thousand of you."
"Whatever happens next, I trust you to make the right call!"
The voice cuts through the night sky and pierces her ears.
Wynne turns back and glances once more at the bold, oversized headline.
<color=000000ff>"Port Podesta's Golden Age Dream"
Her hand brushes gently over the ink-stained paper.
The voice cuts through the night sky and pierces her ears.
Chief.
I didn't actually write this article... did I?
I'm not good enough to write something this polished... And you know it.
The stunned chief editor turns his head toward Wynne by slow degrees. His face holds too many things at once. Disappointment. Release. A kind of wonder she cannot name.
What are you saying...? Sit. Sit down. It's nothing. We've still got to head out and cover the scene.
Tomorrow's headline...
Tomorrow... what day is it again...
He leafs through the stacks of newspaper proofs in front of him, his pace growing faster with each page.
You've gotten so old.
The pages stop turning.
The office goes quiet for a few seconds. Only the distorted broadcast drifts in through the window, broken and intermittent.
...Have I?
Well... it has been a lot of years, after all.
He does not look up. His eyes stay fixed on the proof he has already flipped through countless times, as if it truly holds something vital for tomorrow's edition.
See, my eyes aren't what they used to be. Can barely make out the words anymore... Can't even find the right paper half the time.
He rambles on, but his voice grows steadily quieter until something seems to catch in his throat. Then he stops altogether.
He slowly lowers the newspaper. His shoulders sink.
...Sigh.
But you... you haven't changed one bit.
A faint, almost imperceptible tremor slips into the editor's voice.
I thought I could keep the act going a little longer. But truth is... I knew.
I just wanted you to stay and talk with me a while longer.
I think... I have to go now.
There are people waiting for me. People who need me. People who need the truth, Chief.
The chief editor studies the young woman's expression and offers a gentle, resigned smile.
You said the same thing to me when you left Port Podesta. All those years ago.
After all this time, you haven't changed. Sometimes I wonder if I should've tried to talk you out of it...
If maybe... life at the paper would've just... kept going...
You never even told me you were leaving, you know. You're supposed to file a resignation. Properly.
The editor drops his head. His voice turns rough.
You always looked out for me. If I'd told you...
I was scared you'd try to stop me... And even more scared you wouldn't. Goodbyes... I've never been good at them.
So I thought it'd be better if I just... left without saying anything.
So... did you become the kind of reporter you wanted to be?
A silence settles over Wynne. Outside, the warped transmission continues, its voice bleeding through the wall like a signal from a distant place.
A lot happened after that.
I was on the frontlines. I helped logistics move supplies. Organized evacuations...
I've seen streets right after the battle ended, where they hadn't even had time to recover the bodies yet.
People I'd interviewed the day before... would be nothing but a name on a casualty list the next...
I'm a war correspondent, after all. It's just my job, and I don't regret any of it.
Wynne smiles faintly and leaves the ending of her life story unspoken.
Look at you. You've outdone me.
You didn't let me down.
The chief editor pats her on the shoulder, the same way he did years ago when he first gave her a major story.
But his hand stops in midair, as if he has just remembered something.
Go, Wynne.
When you've got time, we'll finish that bottle. Yeah?
The reporter says nothing more. Outside, the sky is falling apart.
...I'm heading out now, Chief.
Wynne takes a step forward and breaks into a run toward the newspaper office doors.
And then she sees it. That young woman's smile, shining through from the other side of the fissure.
