The only room that was still illuminated in the darkness of the night was Fran's. The candle flame about to go out was the only light source that reminded him that he was still awake, after telling himself that he would soon go to rest. But he couldn't rest when his head was full of unsolved questions and problems. Everything was in disarray inside him, in contrast to his tidy desk, from the pencils to the vials lined up in an almost perfect row, with the failed reactions.

He knew perfectly well that it was time to rest in his bed that had laid unused for several days or weeks, he can't tell. With the sheets unprickled and untouched, the bed was inviting. There were only a couple of medical texts that he thought would be helpful by his side, but that only created more contradictions in his head.

Fran couldn't give up. Not when the whole group was counting on his help, his intelligence, and his “kindness” as they called it. He didn't know if that last part was true. Perhaps, after all that had happened during the vampire war, he still had that same kindness. Or was it simply his need to prove to himself that he was still human. That he was capable of creating things that would help humanity and not destroy lives.

But he could prove nothing to himself if he continued with his old habits. With his lack of results that couldn’t silence his own words of contempt and hatred. He always returned to his pessimistic side, where he would not leave his room until finally a formula made sense and did what he hoped it would do. But the moon had almost run its full cycle, and he couldn't say for sure that he remembered the faces of his companions, whom he considered his only friends.

He could recognize their letters and the distinct way they left his food outside his door.  He went out the door only when hunger and the rumbling of his stomach would no longer let him concentrate. Cardia always decorated the tray with a flower from the garden or left a short message of support written in the most beautiful, softest cursive he had ever seen. Lupin would knock on the door, hoping that at the very least he would snap out of his thoughts and pay attention to the sound so that he would grab the food.

Impey would scream, no matter how early or late. Unlike Van Helsing, who was silent, but his footsteps announced his arrival and his farewell, a silent greeting that was routine and comforting. Saint-Germain always left a section of the newspaper, the one that might be the most interesting to the doctor.

But none of it brought peace to the sounds in his head. No matter how much he kept the window open to listen to the sounds of the animals outside, his mind was still hating his own meager accomplishments.

He decided to return to his desk after watching the clouds obscuring the moon in the hope that the glowing powders in his vials were the solution to his problems.

But they were not. The jars remained inert to the various mixtures and no matter how much he applied heat or mixed with a stick nothing changed. Well, his mentality had changed.

He was hunched over his table stained with old medications. He had to replace it soon. But now all he wanted was to disappear. His hands could not stay still. He ran his finger through his short hair and throws his glasses across the desk. A sigh came out of his mouth, but it was not enough to get rid of his tension that was invading his body and growing more and more. A loud scream escaped from his chest with a feeling of anguish, despair, and anger.

Fran, again, was failing the world. To the only thing that still believed in him.

Without thinking, he opened one of his desk drawers. He reached for the familiar cigar box he always kept on hand. A gentle wave of his hand pulled out one of the little companions of that night. He held it close to the candle, and it lit immediately, leaving a trail of smoke as he brought it close to his mouth.

The first inhalation was always too harsh, rough. It was a taste that he would never get used to. It hit his throat as if it was tearing its walls from inside him, wanting to escape from his body. He coughed loudly, but he didn't care, he knew that on the second try his hand would start to tremble, but he wouldn't notice that, not when his chest and the weight on it was getting lighter.

He knew that no matter how much he wanted to, smoking would no longer give him any response. But it did feel good. He wasn't a compulsive smoker, he didn't even do it for recreation or happiness. On the contrary, he did it because, just like the smoke, his problems vanished for a few seconds.

He shouldn't be smoking so close to his flasks filled with liquids that at that point he didn't know exactly what they contained. But he had also been having sleepless nights already and wanted to relax a bit. To smoke for a while without feeling the pressure that he was a good-for-nothing.

The ashes fell on his notebook, leaving black stains on the failed hypotheses he wrote, hoping that one of them would be true. Fran did not think of removing the ashes, those old formulas were useless. It was better to forget all those attempts.

His hands were beginning to tremble, but the grip on the cigar was still strong, as if it would slip away if he didn't hold it tightly. He hadn't realized that in his other hand he had another cigar ready to be lit when the one in his mouth ran out.  The smoke every time it came out of him curled around his neck, trapping him in a sense of conformity, like his mother's arms, whispering to him that everything would be all right when the sunlight would come out again.

When he would see the sunrise again, maybe he could feel whole again. Pretend everything is all right.

He could hear the bustle of everyone's life. The explosions in Impey's workshop that made the floor rumble and end up shaking his stability when Fran poured the liquids of his reagents. But it was more noticeable when something went wrong, when the smoke completely flooded his room in aromas that many years ago would have made him vomit, cough without being able to stop or faint, but now he would run to open the window while  listening to the conversations of the others at that moment. Of Lupin's latest thefts, or of that new painting from the other side of the world that Saint-Germain had bought.

They made him feel isolated. Alone.

All those voices outside the four walls of his room reminded him that he was horrible in social situations.

And in a way, they also made him feel dead.

All his companions had full lives, which led them to put themselves at risk, but which gave them a sense of life and joy. And him? He could achieve nothing.

Every mixture he made ended up in endless reactions, but nothing was the cure he was looking for or the solution to his nightmares. He was useless.

The others were advancing with great strides, but he seemed to have stood still on the road. That he could not even see his companions near him.  He could not even compare himself to them, when they had all accomplished so much, had so many dreams they were still living for. Fran could not manage to synthesize the medicine he had been planning and working for years.

His mistakes were just that, mistakes and not a learning step that would teach him to keep trying. They weren't a step forward, it seemed like taking a step backward. Time was moving forward with every sound of the clock in his room. He had tried to stop it in one of his anxiety attacks, where the rhythm of every second drove him crazy, rumbling in his head and his heart, beating faster and faster. But it wasn't even his, he couldn't destroy it. He didn't live in a house of his own.

Although he was grateful to be out of the laboratory where, being completely honest, he was only being used for the good of the British crown. He still had his pet peeves and habits that had remained from those nights.

One of those was smoking. No one in that mansion knew about it. Or they pretended not to, thought Fran, someone as perceptive as Lupin was, could notice how his fingers had not only inked stains, but also those left behind by the cigarette. That mark, that meant he still couldn't control his impulses and his self-hating thoughts. And that he expected the rest to ignore, to not care about. They had more important things to pay attention to.

Every time he watched the grayish cloud of smoke drift upward and escape through the open window, he remembered the first time he took a cigarette between his fingers.

Years ago, when he still proudly wore his white coat with that identification card that said that he was one of the doctors under Beckford's tutelage. He still had that sparkle in his eyes full of dreams and hopes, even though it was difficult for him to speak English. Those were good times, when his teammates focused on their own projects, while being supervised by the then kindly Dr. Beckford.

Fran, without hesitation, was the team's main promise. The one who everyone claimed would accomplish something that would blow everyone's minds. Ironically, he did it literally.

His way of dealing with the stress of his life in those distant days was coffee. There were times when there were more empty cups with black marks from the liquid than flasks from his experiments. He would get to the point where he would put cups on the floor, promising himself that he would clean them up later. But everyone on that team had their own ways of relaxing. Though the most common, by far, was going out for a smoke in the break room. It was always a good time to smoke, according to many of his former colleagues.

Fran, still young and incredulous, noticed how everyone else, after returning from the “obligatory break to light up a cigarette or two” came back relaxed and with such a clear mind that great results came out.

So he gave it a try. He had as an example almost all of his colleagues, but most importantly his father. His father, who smoked alone in his office, did not smoke simple cigars. He only lit the best cigars imported directly from Cuba, those that smelled fragrant and impregnated the smell during the hugs, which, rarely, were given to little Fran. A smell of wood, smoke, and some nature was not far behind.

He thought smoking might connect him to his family in Switzerland.

The cigar didn't smell the same. Fran didn't expect to feel nostalgic, but the feeling of lighting the cigar between his fingers was familiar. So many times he had seen his father do it. Despite his mother's pleas for him to give up such a habit, his father still did it in the darkness of his office.

The first puff was invasive. It filled his lungs without warning, without asking permission. He ran out of oxygen, causing him to cough loudly. He received a couple of pats on his back from some others, while laughter came from them. Comments that it was clearly his first time and to take it easy were not lacking. It was really all he could hear between his coughing and shortness of breath.

The second was gentler, still rough against his throat, but the sensation was addictive. Fran couldn't help but think he understood what others said about being a relaxant.

Yes, his hands were shaking. But his mind was also sorting through every thought. Slowly, the formulas in his head that were stopped for lack of answers were filled with possibilities. Ideas that kept flowing without a stop.

He liked the feeling, plus he could discuss with his colleagues about their problems.

That the rent for an apartment was expensive, or that the project of one of his colleagues had resulted in another explosion.

It was not a waste of time or a break. For the team, it was a time when they could talk about their problems, about themselves.

Some went to get stuff off their chest that they were divorcing their wife or that another one didn't seem to find love in his fiancée. Fran listened to each of these problems, completely unrelated to him.

He kept going back to the times his mother would get upset with his father about his bad habits. Fran couldn't help but wonder if at some point he would meet someone who would say the same thing to him. Who would shelter him like the smoke of his cigarette in an embrace where he would feel safe. No worries, no fears and most importantly, no need to hide his thoughts.

Since that day, he always kept a box of cigars in his desk. Hoping that someday he wouldn't have to open that drawer, that instead he would just have to run into the arms of his beloved to quiet the voices in his head.

He wanted the smoke to be replaced by someone else's soft hands, gently running his fingers through the strands of his hair. No worries.

He was looking for those words that would tell him that they preferred the smell of chemicals to the smell of smoke that would linger in Fran's clothes and room for days. No matter if he left the window open or not.

Maybe he didn't want to smoke for relaxation. Maybe, and only maybe, he was looking for someone to correct him, to tell him that the cigarette took away his own essence.

Cardia actually gets to try to step in and attack Van Helsing during their first encounter, though this is before all of the training so it is useless. She did try though and honestly I’ve played so much I forgot if the following scene is part of other routes. Regardless right then is when Cardia’s origin is revealed to him and he realizes she’s the monster he’s been hiding. When Cardia learns from Lupin, she’s only learning to run. It’s amusing but I really do hope she’s proactive in this route.

The game of tag was really fun to watch, and I’m proud of Cardia for using the things she learned instead of just running. I’m very disappointed in the airship race. In this route Cardia really doesn’t do anything for the race except having to steer the ship while Impey fixes the engine. She doesn’t do that much in the counterattack option but she at least sees the action. I don’t know, it just felt so anticlimactic.

Why is it not revealed in any other route that everyone heard what Finis said? They do gloss over the not being human thing but this little bit shows how they learned. Oh, this is one of the few routes where Cardia actually leaves alone and this time she does not get kidnapped and play damsel in distress. She returns to her home. I love how we can see the changes in her and how she views her life at home when compared to her life at the mansion. The villagers returning with torches and hunting her down is perfect. Of course I feel bad for Cardia but it’s a moment of characterization of sorts. Despite her growth the past few months after returning home she regresses to her past self because of the villagers. Lupin saves her before she can get hurt more and we even get to see a short visit from Etty! Awww, even Van Helsing was so worried about her he had his newspaper upside down.

As seen in previous routes, Isaac planned on using Cardia as a way to rebel against god. His plan is called Code: Realize, and it is the same terrorist plot Lupin is chasing. I hate how Cardia fell for Finis’ lies again. She literally just went through all of this with the villagers and Lupin saved her, it doesn’t need to happen a second time. Interesting, Saint Germain himself told Cardia about Idea and that he is one of their apostles. He protects her from Omnibus! I’m still struggling with my feelings about him. I love the side of him he shows everyone and I love how he’s more powerful than everyone thinks but his route…leaves me with mixed feelings.

Lupin’s teacher caught him stealing from him and taught Lupin to steal from the rich and give to the poor. By doing that his teacher is trying to atone for his sins. But years later he stopped giving to the poor and created a criminal organization. Lupin stopped them but before the police could get involved they killed each other. Lupin’s teacher was an agent of twilight and he made his escape from Britain when he saw what code: realize entailed.

Finis isn’t a homunculus, the bodies are biological terminals or dolls fashioned from living flesh and blood that was grown for him. He resembles Isaac’s lost son. His main and true body is a celestial sphere. His existence serves as a memory device to store their father’s mind. Anyway he kidnaps Cardia and their father takes over his body. I think the person whose guide I’m using said in this game or the fandisc that Isaac isn’t evil but dear god he is. I don’t give a shit if he loved his family and they were killed, he created dolls in their likeness and wanted to kill them. Not to mention the act of making them to begin with was evil enough. I hate him for doing that to our Cardia. I will never sympathize with him.