#peripetia

“You shouldn’t do this...you know that.” Her voice seemed so distant, but she was standing right next to him...the only thing clear in a haze of red.

“And why shouldn’t I?” The mask on the faunus’ face seemed to encompass her entire face: the damn masks were fitting. They wanted to be equal. They became equal to the Grimm they embodied.

“I know how you feel.”

Chrom’s focus shifted immediately toward his feline friend, eyes wide.

“I’ve been in your position before...and I know that you have it in you to do the right thing. You shouldn’t—”

Everything else was fuzzy. He couldn’t hear anything but his own thoughts, roaring at him.

I trusted you...! You...you were with them?! For how long?! You were in her position, holding robberies at gunpoint?! I poured my heart out to you, swore that I would make this world better with your help, and you just...

“—om? Chrom!”

Her touch brought him back to his senses, just for a little bit: the tea shop had been cleared out. No robbery had taken place, he could deduce that much: in fact, the Faunus seemed to have left the mask on the table.

...But his relief gave way to the anger he harbored inside, and in what seemed like an instant, Chrom slammed his hands against Blake’s shoulders, gripping them tightly as he stared right into her eyes.

It was plausible deniability at first, maybe just... coincidence. Then, I found it again, and again.

Maybe my model was made multiple times, but.. I haven't seen any.. thing... like me.

Some psycho played with his doll, a poor girl whom he insisted was his assassin. He preached prophecy and informed me early on about some clients I met later. Supposedly she was going to come kill him.

Thing is, he was probably right. Well, except him playing dress up with a corpse. Crazy fuck.

Some part of me wonders though, what if he was talking about me?

even then, what was he doing in some skate park with my photo plastered on the wall, and some militia's name above it?

I need to think. Maybe Kasia will know something - If I should get her involved, at all.

I will keep it brief.

Follow the rails, stay off of the tram.

Take the footpath to the remote radio station.

It's too heavily guarded to be anything but some kind of clue.

They will shoot your head off if they see you.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

-'I'

I received a letter in the post. It had no indication of an owner, no handwriting, not even a name. The first thing I had hoped was handwriting, a type writer, something to give me any indication on who was interested in me.

It was cut out scraps of the awful propaganda machine, the papers which litter the lands with lies and deceit.

I had nothing but scraps on a page and the slight smell of cigarettes that stained the letter. The same crap laying around that the commie insurrectionists suck down like water.

If not for their trading, it would have lead me straight to a culprit, a trail on finding someone to blame - on interrogation and espionage to give more than a sliver of hope on why someone might have known something beyond a head shake and claims that I have lost and corrupted memory.

I knew exactly where they spoke of, though.

A tram system on the way to one of my leads took a sudden diversion, while the average eye would stare at the dancing lights and towering plaza, in the distance lay a single set of lights on the horizon. It lay obscured under the shadow of darkness, but i knew the shine of a gas mask when I saw one.