Carpe Diem

"**Carpe Diem**" is the eleventh episode of Season One of *The Demon's Light*.

## Synopsis

Atticus and Melissa mull over the failure of their treatment. The group receives an interesting offer from a former agent of Alchemilia Corporation.

## Prologue

A body lay on a table in the autopsy room at the Silivia Masquerade Hospital. He was one of the many victims of the angel attack. The effects of Sabaoth firearms on the human body were already well-known. But there was something about this particular man that required greater attention.

"This is John Fontaine," the doctor motioned to the deceased. "Alchemilia security."

"Didn’t someone come by about him?" the assistant asked.

"Yeah, demanded I let him take everything in the pockets. Showed me a badge and I had to. Said some of it could be ‘Gimel-tier’ classified, as if I knew what that meant."

"And asked for the autopsy, against the family’s wishes."

"The family changed their tune once they knew the probable cause of death."

The assistant raised an eyebrow.

"Fontaine wasn’t shot by a Sabaoth soldier in the attack. He was stabbed," the doctor explained. "Preliminary analysis found traces of plasma in his wounds."

"Of course there was plasma. He was bleeding."

"Not that kind of plasma, smartass," she rolled her eyes.

"So, a new angel weapon."

"Possibly. But the fugitive Alchemilia was after reportedly had a ‘plasma sword,’ so they think that’s what killed Fontaine."

The assistant sighed. "That thug's still out there, and everyone’s too worried about the angels to even think about it. Sarah’s started thinking about movi—"

"Excuse me," the corpse interrupted. "Where am I? Why am I here?"

The doctor and assistant turned to see Fontaine slowly sitting himself up. He groaned from the effort. His breathing quickened when the memories started to reemerge. Whitesmith's body falling. Wellington disassembling his weapon and pinning him. The azure blade cutting into his chest.

Inexplicably, Fontaine distinctly recalled seeing a man with a lantern between the battle with Wellington and his awakening. That had to have been a dream. The deep wound then ached beneath his white gown, as if to tell him he was mistaken.

"Well, uh," was the closest to an immediate response, from the doctor.

"You're in the hospital," the assistant explained. "We thought you were dead."

Wellington had killed him. That was undeniable. Fontaine was not a theological man, nor did he believe the gods would favor him had he been. But he could not deny that a miracle had happened. He was given a second chance.

"I don't appear to be dead anymore," Fontaine finally responded.

"We can see that," the assistant said.

"This can't be possible," the doctor was bewildered. "Your heart stopped beating. There was no brain activity. No pulse. All attempts at revival failed."

Fontaine shrugged. "There is no explanation I can think of. That doesn't change the fact that I'm alive now."

"We should inform your family," the assistant suggested. "With everything going on, they'll be glad to know you're alive."

He was right. Mary and Jordan had doubtlessly suffered greatly thinking Fontaine was gone for good. There was a strong temptation to let them know he was okay.

"We need to tell Alchemilia as well," the doctor added. "They will want to know what you can tell them about the fugitive."

Hearing that name reminded Fontaine exactly why Mary and Jordan could not be allowed to know. He had felt surprisingly little anger at Wellington for killing him. Fontaine's rage had shifted to Gabriel Arsene. The Wellington incident could have been avoided if Arsene was willing to reason with the emotional machine instead of treating it like the standard models. Arsene had needlessly led Fontaine to his death.

But that was only Fontaine's personal disdain for the man. Arsene carelessly approved the development of weapons that could very well bring about an end to humanity. Pavlovic's creatures. Atomics. This might have been why Fontaine could live again, he realized. He knew their secrets and had the will to oppose them. His death meant he was completely under their radar.

"No one will be informed of this." Fontaine had spent so much time deep in thought that the assistant was almost out of the room by the time he spoke up.

"Don't be ridiculous," the doctor chided. "Your knowledge of the fugitive needs to be shared to prevent further casualties."

"And your family deserves the peace of mind," the assistant added.

"They will be informed in due time, I assure you," Fontaine said. "For now, the fugitive thinks he’s out of the woods. I don’t intend to change that until it’s too late for him. This must go unreported."

The assistant and the doctor exchanged concerned looks. Fontaine got off the operating table. He nearly lost his balance as he stood up. The doctor approached to help steady him.

"Mr. Fontaine, you need time to recover," she explained. "We can bring your suggestion to your superiors and they can decide if they want to act on it."

"They would not understand what I have to do," Fontaine replied. "If the request went through the official channels, it would be refused."

"Not unreasonably," the assistant remarked. "Look, John — it’s John, right?" Fontaine and the doctor both nodded. "You have no idea what you’re talking about, John. Listen to us, we know what’s best for your health. Listen to your supervisors, they know—"

It suddenly became very difficult for the assistant to continue speaking. Fontaine had rapidly advanced towards him. He was being held just off the floor by the neck.

"Put him down!" The doctor screamed. "We won’t tell anyone, just put him down!"

Fontaine complied. The assistant caught his breath. When he had, he scampered away as fast as he could. He took a bonesaw from a nearby table. Fontaine knew he wouldn’t be able to use it as a weapon. It was incredible he had not simply hidden behind the doctor.

"Give me your coat," he said to the doctor. "I can’t go walking around in this, can I?"

She nodded and handed it over. Fontaine began making his way out of the hospital. His destination was clear: he could not pursue Alchemilia alone. There were others like him, even if no resistance had been organized since Cantrell’s group was locked up.

But those inside still had some loyalties. He needed someone outside with the same motivation he did. Nadia Cantrell was imprisoned, but her son walked free. Her son, with whom Fontaine shared a chance encounter just days earlier. Before his superiors did, Fontaine had to find Marshall Rooke.

## Narrative

### **Part I**

Beep... Beep… Beep…

As Atticus Anoethite stirred, his senses slowly returned to him. He could feel the softness of the bed beneath him, and hear the distant sound of machinery running. Turning his head to the right, he noticed a huddled group — although they appeared blurry and unfamiliar.

Atticus attempted to speak, to call out to the group, but couldn't form the words. One of the figures stepped forward and reached their hand out to him.

At that moment, Atticus caught a glimpse of their identity and realized it was a tall man with pale white skin and glasses. The man smiled and turned to face behind him, giving Atticus a clear glance at the other figures. All six of them were in robes and seemingly moved in unison. They gestured at Atticus and muttered among themselves.

"Doctor Brownlee, I think he's waking up."

Suddenly, Atticus looked over to see Blossom Cane in a chair next to him, with Samuel Brownlee close to the end of the bed. The previous beings were nowhere in sight, leaving him somewhat confused by their sudden disappearance.

Was I seeing things?

He spoke up, although sounding somewhat weak. "What happened?"

"We, uh, had to cancel your treatment as it didn't go as planned," Doctor Brownlee answered, picking up a nearby clipboard and pen. "How do you feel?"

"I just… feel something." Atticus answered. "It's not bad, it feels weird. I'm not entirely sure how to explain it."

Samuel nodded and glanced at Blossom for a quick moment, before continuing with his questions. "Do you remember anything? Any dreams or maybe a memory?"

For a moment, Atticus' mind flashed back to the last thing he vividly remembered - a throne, writhing in black fabric, a man seated. The rest of the memory was blurry and he wasn't certain what he was recalling.

"Atticus?" The sound of Blossom's voice broke him out of his thoughts.

"No, sir. I don't remember anything, just flashes here and there. Nothing important or concrete."

"Huh," Brownlee responded, quickly scribbling into the clipboard. "I'll, uh, be right back. I'm going to check on Miss Devlin."

As soon as Brownlee exited the room, Blossom turned to face Atticus. The boy waited a moment for the door to close.

"Why did the treatment fail? What happened?"

"Well...." Blossom glanced at the door, seemingly making sure it was shut. "Doctor Devlin didn't want us to mention this until we knew more, but you weren't doing well. Your vitals were —"

From somewhere outside the door, the sound of two men disagreeing could suddenly be heard. The source of the voice continued to come closer as footsteps echoed.

"I am *going* to check on Atticus!"

"I just checked on him now, Rich."

The door opened and Richard Devlin walked in, with Samuel following behind.

"And you checked on him earlier and you were wrong, Sam. He was —" Richard looked around before continuing. "— nearly in a coma," he half-whispered.

"Rich, relax. He's better now that he's up, I think."

"Well, I'm just going to ask him myself," he said, crouching next to the boy. "How are you feeling?"

"Normal, I guess. It feels like I just woke up from a long nap."

"Are you sure? Everything is fine?" he asked again.

"…Yeah."

"That's good." He looked at Blossom and Samuel and then back to Atticus. "Samuel has another patient in a couple minutes, so let's get a move-on."

"All Richard and I need to do is sign some forms and then you can be on your way," Samuel added.

As the group piled into a room a few doors and a set of stairs up from the rooms where the treatment occurred, no one knew quite what to do next. Everybody looked for somebody to speak up and say something. It had been rather awkward because of what had happened, after all, and needing to move rooms didn't improve anyone's mood.

The room was nice, as some noted to themselves. It was almost like a waiting room. Comfortable seating surrounded a table of magazines and floral arrangements, and there was a TV on the wall.

Marshall noticed this and turned the TV on to allay the silence.

*"—hemilia officials say the fugitive known as Chris Wellington is still at large following the unprecedented angel attack yesterday. Many in Silivia fear this person is possibly—"*

"Enough of that," Marshall said, turning it off. "What are you all gonna do now?"

"It is important that we do not draw attention to ourselves," Chris said. "I am still wanted by Alchemilia Corporation and Melissa told me you guys are, too."

"Right," Marshall agreed. "We *are* wanted and we all need to remember that. Maybe not to the same degree as Chris here, but we need to avoid cops, security, anyone with a badge or gun."

"Wanted? Why?" Blossom asked, stepping into the room.

Marshall walked over to the door and closed it behind the girl.

"Aren't you supposed to be attending to a patient?" Marshall interrogated.

"Samuel said he needed a minute so I came to check up on you guys," Blossom said. "What do you mean 'wanted'?"

"We're wanted by Alchemilia for something we didn't do. We saw something they didn't want people seeing and they are trying to kill us because of it," Marshall told her.

While he was excluding the fact that they stole a laptop and a vehicle from Alchemilia, Marshall thought to himself it didn't really matter as he wasn't lying. Taking a gamble with it, he figured he might be able to get her on their side.

"Wait, what? Is this true?" the girl looked around the room.

"It is! …true. It is true," Atticus fumbled.

"What Atticus means to say is yes, it did happen. I wasn't there, but Melissa and Chris told Uncle Richard and me about it all," Steven said.

"Melissa?" Blossom turned to the girl who was sitting on the arm of one of the chairs.

"Blossom, these people, Alchemilia… they're cruel, the things they do… It’s horrifying."

"They're *sick*, all of them," Marshall said. "We saw stuff that angels or demons wouldn't think to do."

"Oh," Blossom said, sitting down. "But aren't you afraid of being caught?"

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Steven answered.

"Our faces weren't plastered on every screen in Silivia," Marshall said. "Chris was, and—"

"Wait, no, no, no," Steven stopped him. "Chris wasn't, I'm sure of it."

"I don't remember seeing his face before today," Blossom added.

"No, yeah, you're right, he wasn't," Marshall said.

"That makes things easier on all of us," Melissa said.

"Yeah, it does. Chris could be any number of people, I could get him a fake ID card. Just steer clear of cops, okay?" Marshall said.

"I understand," Chris replied. "But what about you guys?"

"Probably the same as you," Melissa said. "I'm still worried about Savannah though, we still haven't seen any sign of her. What if Alchemilia caught her already?"

"I'm sure she's fine," Marshall answered. "She might've returned to Gladea after separating from us, maybe she decided she didn't want a part in whatever this is anymore."

"Marshall might be right," Atticus chimed in. "I'd like to find her as well, but if she left on purpose, that might be impossible."

Melissa nodded, though she didn't seem satisfied with the answers.

"Savannah?" Blossom muttered. "Who is that?"

"She was our friend," Melissa answered. "She found the three of us at the barn, shortly before we met Marshall. After we started running from Alchemilia, we got separated and haven't seen her since."

"Oh..." Blossom responded, glancing at the floor. "I hope you guys find her soon."

"Blossom," Marshall said. "You cannot tell anyone this."

Instead of responding, Blossom simply looked at the gathered teens and nodded firmly.

"With that said, Silivia will probably forget about you guys in a few weeks," Steven said. "And Chris in a month or two."

"Let's hope," Atticus said.

At that moment, the door opened once more and Richard appeared. "I'm ready to go, how about all of you kids?"

They all nodded in general agreement and began to pile out of the room.

Waiting until after most had already left, Atticus quickly tapped Melissa on the shoulder before she could head out. "Come here for a second."

Catching Blossom's eye as she exited the room, Atticus quickly diverted his attention as he waited for Melissa.

She turned towards Atticus. “What is it? Need something?”

"Yeah, uh," Atticus started, unsure of how to ask. "Do you, like, remember anything from the treatment? Like any dreams or something?"

She thought back to the frightening images of fire, blood and the sound of screaming. "Yeah, I remember something, but I don't think it was a dream. It felt too familiar, I think it was a memory of a place I've been before."

"Really?" Atticus felt intrigued, although uneasy. He wanted to learn more about what she saw and compare it to his own experience, but he wasn't sure how.

"I think it was a memory from when I was in some militia my brother told me about, it just seemed like the definition of war."

Oh, that doesn't sound like what I remember at all. Maybe it only affected me, but why?

"Oh," Atticus stammered. "That doesn't sound good. I'm sorry that happened, or something."

"What about you? Did you see something strange in yours?"

"Uh, no. Actually, I don't remember anything after I fell asleep," he lied, feeling it was better to avoid mentioning what he saw.

*It was just a dream, I don't know why I'm so bothered by it.*

Melissa looked at him, concerned. "That is a bit strange, but they did interrupt our treatment, so it's not unexpected I guess. Maybe we can bring it up to my uncle and see what he suggests we do next. I'm not prepared to give up on recovering our memories."

"I didn't think it would really work anyways, but yeah, we can keep trying," he stated.

"Are you guys coming or what?" Steven asked, suddenly interrupting.

"Yeah, I guess we are," said Atticus. The three of them made their way out of the room.

### **Part II**

The group exited the center, passing the mural once again. Some were eager to converse about recent events or what to do next, while others felt like staying silent. As they went around a few cars in the parking lot, Richard decided to speak up first.

"I'm sorry for putting you all through that mess," Richard apologized, "Perhaps we all can get something to eat and discuss some more about the history of Euclid. It's a fascinating topic and I think you'll enj—"

A loud ring came from the scientist's pocket. Richard mumbled softly and pulled out his phone. He gave it an odd look and glanced at the others. "I'll be right back, I need to take this."

"I wonder what that's about," Chris stated as Richard walked away from the group and towards the Center.

"Uncle Richard has a tendency to get easily distracted and very caught up in things." Steven answered. "Let's just head to the car and wait for him, it could take a while."

Heading to Richard's car, Steven pulled the keys out of his pocket and was preparing to unlock the driver's side when he was suddenly interrupted.

"Please don't do that," a man said as he placed his hand on Steven's arm to stop him. The man was definitely odd-looking, simply wearing a black jacket that seemed slightly too small over a white hospital gown.

"What?" Steven asked, snatching his arm away. "This is my car."

The man looked behind Steven and towards the rest of the group. "Pardon me, but I need to speak to your friends. It doesn't concern you."

"Sir, you need to leave. My friends don't have anything to do with you, and you—" Steven paused as he studied the man, "—clearly have better things to take care of."

"Who even are you?" The man asked, and a baffled expression crossed Steven's face as he continued. "I'm here to see Marshall Rooke and his friends."

At this point, Marshall looked up in surprise.

"Huh?"

The man walked past Steven, left speechless with confusion, and addressed the rest of the group.

"—and I'm glad to see that Chris Wellington is here, too."

The group shot one another panicked looks and Marshall quickly interrupted.

"Look, pal, we don't know what you're on, but you've confused us for somebody else. We don't know who these people are and you need to stop bothering us. Go beg for change somewhere else."

The man smirked, before continuing.

"Marshall, we don't have to play these games. You've got a rap sheet longer than the Antae River. And this one," he pointed a finger at Chris, "was quite the hot topic a few days ago."

"What do you want?" Melissa asked, dropping the pretense. "Are you going to turn us in?"

"No," the man shook his head. "I don't want to help Alchemilia Corporation with anything, anymore."

"Then what did you come to us for?" Atticus asked. "You said something about Marshall, and what do you know about him?"

"First, I have my own questions. Why did you provoke Alchemilia? Were you looking for valuables or just trying to cause trouble?"

There was silence for a bit. "It's none of your business," Marshall finally answered. "Our reasons are our own. There's no need for you to get involved."

"Just answer him," Melissa suggested. "It's too late to stop."

"Okay, yeah, we were looking for… something. A piece of information, so to speak," Marshall replied.

"On what? What was so important to you?"

Atticus looked to Marshall for a response.

"I won't explain my actions until he explains himself," Marshall responded forcefully.

"I guess that's fair, then," the man nodded. "My name is John Fontaine. I've worked with Alchemilia my whole life, and I regularly meet with Gabriel Arsene.

"My parents, my grandparents — we've worked with the company for generations. And in return, they've placed restrictions on our freedoms and the people we've been allowed to interact with. They've forced me to do things that I can't bear to remember. They've done unspeakable things to regular and innocent peopl—"

"We saw that firsthand," Atticus stated softly. "We discovered a group of scientists experimenting in a room in Gladea.

"Then you know exactly what I mean. Like you, I've lost people to them. I've wasted years of my life in service to them and I'm going to make a change now."

"What?" Melissa stammered. "What do you mean? Like us? We haven't lost anyone to—"

"So, you don't know."

"What do you mean?" Steven asked, stepping closer to Melissa.

The man placed his hand forward, waving Steven down. "You don't know what happened to Savannah Whitesmith?"

An uncomfortable silence settled upon the group before Marshall broke it.

"Go on."

Fontaine shot a glance in Chris' direction before continuing. "You weren't told?"

"Told what?" Melissa asked. "Do you have information on Savannah? Is she with you? Is that how you found us?"

"I'm sorry, but Savannah Whitesmith is dead."

The words floated into Melissa and settled in her throat as a heavy lump. Whatever Fontaine said next passed through her entirely. Her friends' initial reactions were as silent as hers, and she could see in their eyes that their minds were racing just as fast.

Of course Savannah had died. Savannah was dead the moment she and Melissa separated. Savannah was dead the moment she found Melissa in the barn. Melissa averted her eyes. Fontaine kept his firm on the group and bored holes into her. Chris was next to take the man's gaze, and the first to break the silence.

"Uh, I'm devastated. Yep, completely devastated. She was a nice girl, and I know she did help the others out."

Another short silence followed. Whatever Chris had just said offered no comfort to Melissa. Fontaine continued.

"—collateral damage in the hunt for a fugitive, from what I've heard. Someone stole a laptop, or saw something they shouldn't have, or something."

The mention of the laptop redirected Melissa's sorrow. Guilt weighed heavily on her, but none of them had *intended* to provoke Alchemilia. Nobody but Marshall.

As Fontaine revealed Savannah's fate, Marshall shifted his view toward the ground and did his best to avoid eye contact with anyone. Now that he knew Savannah was dead, he felt horrible. It was almost undeniable that it was his fault.

"Do you have any proof? This is a pretty wild story you're spinning," Marshall started. "It seems to me that you're just trying to weasel your way in."

"It's not *me* you have to ask," responded Fontaine. "Chris could tell you all about it. He was there."

"What?" Melissa gasped, before calming herself. "You're lying. Chris, tell him he's crazy."

"I can't do that," Chris said, slowly. "He's not lying, I was there."

As the full attention of the group immediately turned to Chris, he continued talking. "Before any conclusions are jumped to, please let me explain myself. After I escaped from Alchemilia Corporation and made my way to Silivia, I encountered Savannah. The search for me was underway here and the angels had just started their attack, so things were very hectic. She wanted to stay with me, but we were ambushed by an Alchemilia operative.

"He killed her. He slit her throat in front of me and threw her to the side. It happened so fast, I couldn't do anything. In a rage, I attacked the man and I… killed him."

"Where is she, Chris?" Melissa interrupted, stress laying heavily on her words. "Where's her body?"

"I-I was on the outskirts of the city when this happened. I defeated the operative and took her body to the hospital, I collapsed there and I don't know wh—"

"But that's where you met us," Atticus began. "You've known that Savannah was dead this entire time and said nothing? Why didn't you tell us?"

"How could you do this to us? We did everything we could to find you and this is how you pay us back?" Melissa responded.

"When I was reunited with you guys at the hospital, I was so happy to see all of you again," Chris replied. "I really wanted to mention Savannah, but I didn't know how, I didn't want to ruin the moment. After that, things just spiraled out of control. Time kept passing and—"

"That's enough of that," Marshall said. "I hate that happened to Savannah, but you mentioned killing somebody. That's a big deal, but you said it was an operative from Alchemilia. That's an even bigger deal. If they discover what happened, they'll have even more of a reason to hunt you down. You put us at risk by not telling us."

"I didn't think of that," Chris stammered. "Again, I'm sorry."

"And that brings me to my next topic, the reason I'm here: Alchemilia must be destroyed. I would like to ask for this group to assist in the endeavor," Fontaine explained.

"That's quite a lot to ask from, you know, teenagers," Atticus spoke up first. "Surely there are more qualified people to ask before us?"

"Of course there are, but I know of no one with the same motivation that you possess. The dissidents on the inside will demand to make concessions out of self-interest. The slate must be wiped clean." Fontaine turned to Marshall. "Your mother, brilliant woman she was, understood that despite her time with the company."

The others looked at Marshall in confusion. "My mom was an Alchemilia employee," he explained. "She wanted to stand up to them. They locked her up, put her away. I haven't seen her for five years."

"I cannot imagine the pain you've endured because of that," Fontaine said.

"I can't imagine why you think your rebellion is going to end any differently than hers."

"We have the element of surprise. You are outsiders, beyond the reach of the surveillance network which discovered Nadia's group." Fontaine emphasized, "With the information from Chris just now, surely you understand the need to attack Alchemilia before they can strike against you."

"He's not wrong," Melissa turned to Steven. "And once they find us, they find you and Richard."

"I think this is a horrible idea," Steven said. "Let's just leave, this man is insane and not worth listening to."

"We've already lost a friend," Melissa responded. "I'm willing to take the risk if it means not losing my family."

"You're really thinking of joining him?" Atticus asked.

"We have to consider the option," Melissa looked at Fontaine. "But I need to know how you plan on *doing* this."

"The specifics of the operation can't be set in stone until I know what resources we will have available on the inside. No matter what, it will involve infiltrating their headquarters, Remnant Rock, and the exposure of their illegal activities to the public."

"I know that this isn’t necessarily my fault, but I think I want to avenge Savannah’s death most of all." Chris said. "Fontaine has provided an excellent way for us to accomplish this, but I still think we should be careful.”

"Well, I think he might be right about us," Marshall said. "We might be the only ones who can do something like this and there might not be that much time. That being said, and I know you didn't want any concessions, but…" he trailed off.

"If we can save your mother, we will. If not, we will honor her memory by completing her work."

Atticus' expression was wary. "How do we know this isn't a trap? You definitely have compromising knowledge about Alchemilia, but nothing some of us didn't already know and nothing actionable. A little convenient that you can't explain how we would be able to infiltrate Alchemilia."

"We could use the maintenance access. We could use disguises, although how effective those disguises could be, again, varies depending on what resources we will have available on the inside." Fontaine repeated. "If this were a trap, I would be attempting to lure this group away to a secluded location. Instead, I only ask that we keep in touch until I have something more actionable."

"Yeah," Atticus added. "We need a plan. We need training, if that's possible. Right now, this is far too vague."

"I understand, but we will need to act with at least some swiftness," Fontaine said. "Killing your friend and genetic tampering are far from the only crimes Alchemilia is guilty of. Their alliance with the Sabaoth could have dire consequences for humanity."

"The Sabaoth?" Melissa asked. "The angel army that just attacked the city?"

"The very same," Fontaine affirmed. "That attack was just a means of drawing attention away from a trade taking place between them and Alchemilia. Their base of operations is an ancient Alchemilia facility that contains long-forgotten technology. Arsene arranged for that to be returned in exchange for advanced weaponry."

"What 'advanced weaponry' can Alchemilia offer them?" Marshall asked. "I saw an angel kill a guy with a laser pointer. It's gotta be something really impressive if they don't already have something better."

"Alchemilia plans to give them atomics: explosives that can reduce a city to ash in a flaming inferno brighter than the Sun. The Union and Coalition both forbid the construction of atomics, but Arsene plans to give them to the angels," Fontaine explained.

"No way..." Steven muttered under his breath. The others looked at him for further explanation. "Atomics were used in wars before the demons arrived. *Really* old but extraordinarily powerful weapons, lost to the ages. Most governments don't even know how to produce them anymore."

Fontaine gave an affirming nod. "But Arsene was *very* eager to resume construction. I have no doubt that negotiations with the Sabaoth are nearing their end."

Fontaine quickly finished his statement as Richard walked near. As the older man rejoined the group, everyone became a little tense.

"I see you kids have made a friend," he chuckled. Richard patted Fontaine on the shoulder. "Now, how can I help you?"

Fontaine took a moment and decided to let the man continue whatever it is he was doing.

"I'll tell you what," Richard said. He dug around in his pocket for his wallet. "I'm going to give you this. A nice crisp twenty. Now, the homeless shelter is a few blocks northeast. Maybe there's a bed there with your name on it, huh?"

Fontaine laughed off Richard's comment and took the money.

"Thanks for the assistance, I'll be on my way there now." Fontaine walked off, while Richard smiled at the teens and went to open the car door. "Consider it!" The group heard him shout back to them.

Marshall eyed the others. If what Fontaine said was true, if Alchemilia intended to let the angels win the war, then his own petty quarrel with the company paled in comparison to this newfound threat. Every one of them, whether they knew what Fontaine was talking about or not, was in grave danger. Marshall had already poised his allies against Alchemilia, all that was left was to take up the fight. To challenge them on their own territory.

## Epilogue

The clock on the wall ticked as Samuel was engrossed in his notes from the procedures earlier. It was incessant ticking that would drive a man mad. It was an incessant ticking that Samuel had found solace in.

He was on the last of his papers that needed to be digitized. He would fill in the respective fields and review everything he wrote and typed carefully, just like any other day.

However, this day was different for him.

Instead of feeling the warm glow of success after a test, he felt grief and sorrow. The type of sorrow he could only feel from failure. His treatment didn't work. It was ineffective. And more importantly, he let someone down that he admired.

Since the development of the treatment a year ago and its first usage with the patient Ellen, he had seen one hundred and seventy amnesia patients. Administered the treatment one hundred and seventy times. All had been successful. All brought back with them the memories of old, all reversed the horrible condition. But not this time.

Not with Atticus. And not with Melissa.

He hurt someone and they made this very known to him. This feeling — this feeling ripped at his stomach. What had gone wrong? Why had he failed this time?

It didn't matter then. He could hurt later, he thought. When he was wide awake in bed. For now, he needed to finish digitizing the reports from the day.

He shuffled to the last few papers in the stack. It was Melissa's file. There were a few notes written by Richard in the stack. And while Richard was not employed there and while it was not his area of expertise, Samuel decided to enter them anyway. He valued his thoughts as much as they pained him to read — another reminder of his failure. But Richard had been a scientist for decades longer than Samuel had even thought about it. He knew the processes like the back of his hand. Samuel admitted to himself that he wasn't following the process as he should. He was young and new to the field ― prior to Maninder, Samuel had only been a surgeon for a few years. He didn't *know* how to go about it all, and frankly, he was scared to ask. While Samuel dealt in neuroscience, he could hardly call his work "science."

He thought back to Ellen. Was any of this even ethical? Yes, it worked for her and everyone thereafter... but it hadn't been tested before Ellen. In fact, it could be said that Ellen *was* the test. The treatment was, after all, intensely speculative — it came from pre-war diagrams, papers, reports and looked as if it hadn't been tested then, either.

He was getting sidetracked. "Just need to finish this report," he muttered to himself.

A final clack.

Samuel powered his computer down and left for the door, his bag in hand. He was looking forward to going home, and continuing his nightly routines, before he would start anew tomorrow. The prospect of tomorrow loomed over him, almost as if he could not fathom doing the same things for the center as he normally did. It was almost as if someone else was controlling his thoughts and emotions, but Samuel shrugged off that notion.

Still, a part of him wanted more, much more than he would typically ask for. He wanted to find the teens again and help them. Samuel carefully turned his key in the lock, stepping out into the same dreary parking lot that greeted him every day. He made his way towards his black sedan, getting inside and casting a glance at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. It was almost as if he didn't recognize himself.

The failures continued to plague Samuel as he drove home, and he was reminded of other times in the past when similar events had occurred. When he first presented his new discovery on neurolinguistics, for example, he had forgotten to bring his slides and had to do a lot of improvising. But things weren't going to be this way anymore. He was going to rectify this recent mess of an experiment, just like he had with his past studies.

Samuel parked his car and wondered just how he could help the troubled teens. Perhaps he could try to study more of their history, or offer more insight into how they came together. He slowly got out of the car and began to walk to his apartment.

When Samuel finally entered his apartment, he was struck by how barren his living room and dining area were. It was almost as if his home lacked any personal touches, as if it was merely a place he was renting. Samuel hardly thought of it as a "home." He knew he had been letting his job consume him too much. There was not much he had besides his job. Maybe he had been content with it when he was successful, but the failure had shaken him out of it.

There were bigger issues in the world beyond what little he could do at the center. He was helping people, but he could only do so much. He needed to do *something* in life for once. Exactly what that "something" was eluded him at present. Perhaps he would find out in the course of assisting the amnesiac teenagers? He owed them after his previous failure. But then what?

As Samuel laid down in his bed, he decided he would figure it out as he went along. Nothing struck him as of yet. But he refused to let himself remain where he was. He had endured enough complacency, that was certain.