**Astraea's Ship - Night**
The ocean stretched endlessly in all directions, dark and rhythmic, waves rolling beneath the ship with a consistency that should have been soothing but instead felt oppressive. The sky above was clear now, stars scattered across the blackness like broken glass, and the moon hung low on the horizon, casting a pale silver path across the water that led nowhere.
Angela stood alone on the deck, her hands gripping the railing with enough force that her synthetic fingers actually left small indentations in the metal. She stared at that moonlit path without really seeing it, her mind turned entirely inward, processing and reprocessing the events of the past few hours until they felt less like memories and more like abstract data that refused to organize into comprehensible patterns.
The air was cool against her synthetic skin. She registered the temperature change, felt the wind moving past her, but none of it reached her in any meaningful way. It was all just sensory input data points her brain interpreted and cataloged without actually experiencing. Like reading a description of being cold rather than feeling it directly.
*Does Eve know something she's hiding from me?*
The question had been circling through Angela's mind for the past hour, growing more insistent with each repetition. Eve's reaction to seeing Aetherion hadn't been simple recognition or even normal fear. It had been something deeper, more visceral ancient hatred that seemed to transcend her synthetic existence, rage that felt like it came from somewhere beyond her programming or even her conscious awareness.
*That voice she heard,* Angela thought, her grip on the railing tightening further. *The child begging for touch. The predatory voice responding. And then she saw Aetherion and exploded with fury like she'd been waiting centuries to kill him.*
Angela's mind worked through the possibilities with methodical precision, examining each one, testing it against known facts, discarding what didn't fit and returning to what did.
*She knows him. That much is certain. Not just recognizes him knows him on a level that goes beyond their brief meeting on this ship. The hatred was too specific, too absolute. You don't develop that kind of rage from a single encounter.*
*So either she met him before and doesn't remember consciously, or...*
Angela paused in her thoughts, the alternative forming slowly, reluctantly, because it implied things she wasn't ready to consider.
*Or she's been hiding her memories from us. From me. Pretending to be confused about her emotions, about her past, about who and what she is, while actually knowing far more than she's revealed.*
The possibility sat uncomfortably in Angela's mind. She didn't want to believe Eve capable of that level of deception, but she also couldn't ignore the evidence. Eve had spoken Aetherion's name before anyone else said it, had threatened him with torture and death with a certainty that suggested experience rather than impulse, had broken down afterward in a way that felt like grief over something lost rather than confusion about something new.
*What does she know about Aetherion? What's their actual history? And why would she hide it?*
More questions piled on top of the first, each one generating three more, until Angela's mind felt like it was drowning in uncertainty and suspicion and a growing sense that everything she thought she understood about Eve was fundamentally incomplete.
*I knew Eve when I was five,* Angela thought, pulling up old memories from before the fire, before the synthetic body, before everything changed. *She was always there, always serving the family, always present in that quiet, unobtrusive way robots were supposed to be. But...*
She frowned, trying to remember specific details, specific moments, anything that might shed light on Eve's history or hint at hidden knowledge.
*Was she different back then? More emotional or less? Did she ever react to things in ways that seemed odd for a robot? Did she ever show signs of knowing more than she should?*
But the memories were too old, too filtered through the lens of childhood perception, too contaminated by everything that had happened since. She couldn't trust them to be accurate. All she could remember with certainty was that Eve had always been there, a constant presence that she'd taken for granted the way children take everything in their environment for granted.
*However,* Angela continued, forcing herself toward rationality, toward explanations that didn't require assuming deliberate deception, *it's likely some miscalculation in her systems. Or some virus. Or corruption in her memory files. Synthetic beings can malfunction, develop errors in their processing, generate false data that they interpret as real memories.*
The explanation felt hollow even as she thought it. Too convenient, too simple, too cleanly dismissing something that felt profoundly significant.
*But what else could it be? She's a robot. Her consciousness is synthetic, constructed, programmed. She can't have real memories from before she was activated, can't have actual history with Aetherion unless... unless...*
Angela couldn't finish the thought. Or wouldn't. Because finishing it meant accepting implications about consciousness and identity and the nature of self that she wasn't prepared to confront.
She was so deep in these spiraling thoughts, so absorbed in trying to untangle questions that seemed to have no answers, that she didn't hear the footsteps approaching across the deck until Carmilla's voice cut through her concentration.
"Angela? Are you okay?"
Angela jumped slightly, startled out of her internal monologue. She turned to find Carmilla standing a few feet away, her remaining hand holding a fresh cigarette, her expression carrying concern that looked genuine despite the clinical way she usually approached everything.
"Huh?" Angela said, her mind still half-caught in her previous thoughts. "I'm fine."
The words came out automatically, reflexively, the kind of response people gave when they didn't want to explain what they were actually feeling or thinking. She could see from Carmilla's expression that the scientist didn't believe her, but Carmilla didn't push, didn't demand elaboration. Instead, there was a long pause, silence stretching between them while waves continued their endless rhythm against the ship's hull.
Finally, Angela asked the question that had been underlying all her other concerns. "Is Eve fine?"
Carmilla took a drag from her cigarette, exhaling slowly before responding. Her voice was measured, careful, choosing words with the precision of someone who understood that what they said mattered. "Well, I think we should wait for now. Give her time. She's clearly in trauma whatever she experienced when she saw Aetherion, whatever memories or emotions got triggered, it was severe. Forcing her to talk about it before she's ready would only cause more damage."
Angela nodded slowly, accepting this assessment even though it didn't satisfy her deeper concerns. Before she could formulate another question, Carmilla continued, her tone shifting slightly, becoming more contemplative.
"However, I can say with certainty that something is waiting for us. If we look at every clue we've gathered, every piece of evidence, there's a pattern forming." She paused, organizing her thoughts with visible effort. "My master appearing and disappearing impossibly. The storm that existed and then retroactively didn't. And Astraea..."
"Wait," Angela interrupted, her attention sharpening immediately. "She what? What about Astraea?"
Carmilla's jaw tightened slightly, as if she was annoyed at herself for bringing it up but felt compelled to continue now that she'd started. "She lied. I don't have proof, can't point to specific evidence, but I feel it with certainty. When she said she was going to Valenora for the Tree of Hope, when she claimed she was Blessed and seeking power it didn't ring true. Her hesitation before confirming, the way her expression shifted, the fact that she knew about Valenora but seemed genuinely confused about the Tree... she's hiding her real purpose."
"Good observation," Angela said, and she meant it. If Carmilla, with her enhanced analytical abilities and experience reading people, sensed deception, it was worth taking seriously. "So we don't know why she's actually going there. Or what she wants. Or whose side she's on."
"Exactly," Carmilla confirmed. "Which means we're walking into a situation where we don't understand the full picture, where multiple parties have agendas we can't see, where even the people who help us might have ulterior motives."
"Thanks," Angela said, her voice heavy with sarcasm that was only partially joking. "That's very reassuring."
Carmilla smiled slightly, acknowledging the irony. "I'm not here to reassure you. I'm here to prepare you for reality." She took another drag from her cigarette. "Well, for now we should rest. Tomorrow, we absolutely have to move forward. We've already taken too many days getting here, and every hour we delay gives others time to reach Valenora first, to claim whatever's there, to set traps or establish positions."
She turned as if to leave, to return to the cabin and her endless planning and preparation, but Angela's voice stopped her.
"Carmilla?"
Carmilla paused mid-step, turning back with an expression of polite inquiry. "What is it?"
Angela hesitated, the question forming slowly, carefully, because once she asked it she couldn't take it back. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than before, carrying uncertainty and something that might have been fear.
"Are we even humans? After all of this?"
Carmilla went completely still. Her expression didn't change, but something shifted in her posture, a tension entering her frame that suggested the question had struck deeper than Angela realized.
Angela continued before Carmilla could respond, the words spilling out now that she'd started, thoughts she'd been holding back finally finding voice.
"A robot like Eve is showing more emotions, more determination, more genuine feeling than either of us. She cries without tears, she rages with absolute conviction, she breaks down from trauma like... like she's more alive than we are. And when William died..."
Her voice caught slightly. "The most emotional person in that entire facility was Eve. Not you, who knew him for years. Not me, who witnessed it. Eve, the synthetic being, showed more humanity than any of the actual humans present."
She looked directly at Carmilla, her eyes searching the scientist's face for any reaction. "So are we even humans anymore? Or have we just become robots? Going through motions, following programmed responses, executing pre-determined behaviors without actually feeling anything real?"
The silence that followed was absolute. Carmilla stood frozen, her remaining hand clenched around her cigarette with enough force that Angela heard the paper crinkle. Her face had gone pale, her expression shifting through several emotions too quickly for Angela to identify them all, before finally settling into something that looked like barely controlled fear.
"Shut up."
The words came out flat, hard, but carrying no fury just that underlying fear, that desperate need to not continue this conversation, to not examine this question too closely.
"I'm not a philosophical teacher," Carmilla continued, her voice still controlled but with cracks showing through. "Ask this question to others. Ask Eve, ask Aetherion, ask whoever you want. But don't ask me."
She started walking away, her steps quick and precise, clearly trying to end the interaction as efficiently as possible. But Angela heard her speak again, so quietly it was almost inaudible, words meant for herself rather than for anyone else.
"I'm losing myself, aren't I?"
The question hung in the air between them, unanswered and perhaps unanswerable. Then Carmilla was gone, disappearing into the cabin, leaving Angela alone once more on the deck with her thoughts and questions and growing certainty that nothing about their situation was as simple or straightforward as it appeared.
Angela turned back to the ocean, to that silver path of moonlight that led nowhere, and let out a long breath.
*We're all losing ourselves,* she thought. *Eve to recovered trauma, Carmilla to guilt and fear, me to this synthetic body and the distance it creates. We're all becoming something other than what we were, and none of us knows what we're becoming instead.*
The ship rocked gently beneath her feet, carrying them all forward toward whatever waited in Valenora, toward answers they weren't sure they wanted and questions they were afraid to ask.
**Nazi Germany, Berlin - Evening**
The apartment looked different now, emptier somehow despite being full of Ravina's creepy collection and various equipment. Boxes were scattered across the floor not many, because neither Ravina nor Ignis owned much beyond the essentials and their various disturbing personal effects.
Ravina was stuffing clothes into a duffel bag with the kind of chaotic energy that suggested she was either very excited or very manic, possibly both. She grabbed items seemingly at random, shoving them into the bag without bothering to fold or organize anything, her movements quick and careless.
Ignis sat on the couch nearby, methodically packing his own much smaller bag with precise, efficient movements that contrasted sharply with Ravina's chaos. He folded each item carefully before placing it in the bag, his face carrying its usual expression of exhausted resignation.
"Well, well, well, Ignis!" Ravina declared suddenly, her voice carrying across the apartment with that same bright, theatrical quality she used for everything. "Looks like you're so excited for this trip with your girlfriend!"
Ignis didn't look up from his packing. His voice came out flat, automatic, the tone of someone responding to annoying stimuli with minimal effort. "I'm excited about my girlfriend."
Ravina paused in her chaotic stuffing, turning to look at him with obvious delight at having gotten any response. "Really?"
Ignis reached into his bag and pulled out a small glass bowl. Inside, a goldfish swam in lazy circles, its orange scales catching the apartment's dim light. He held it up with one hand, his expression deadpan. "My girlfriend."
For a moment, Ravina just stared. Then her face twisted into something between amusement and genuine offense. "Damn you! That's the worst joke ever!"
"I know," Ignis replied, still not smiling, carefully placing the fishbowl back into his bag where it was somehow secured and wouldn't spill during transport.
They continued packing in relative silence for a few more minutes. Ravina had moved on to her collection of creepy dolls, trying to decide which ones were worth bringing and which could be left behind. She picked up Ghost, the bandaged pirate doll, and studied it for a moment before carefully placing it in her bag.
Eventually, they finished. Their bags weren't heavy neither owned much, and both had learned to travel light given their chaotic lifestyle. They headed out of the apartment, locking the door behind them, and made their way through Berlin's evening streets toward the train station.
The flying trains crisscrossed overhead, their running lights creating geometric patterns against the darkening sky. Street-level pedestrians moved with purpose, robots performed their endless maintenance tasks, and propaganda displays cycled through their messages about duty and strength and national pride.
"Well, you know," Ravina said conversationally as they walked, "it's been a while since I've moved from this place. Gonna miss the old apartment." Her tone suggested she wouldn't actually miss it at all.
Ignis had pulled out a book from somewhere in his coat and was reading while walking, his enhanced senses apparently sufficient to navigate without looking where he was going. He didn't respond to Ravina's comment, just kept his eyes on the pages, absorbing whatever was written there.
"You don't care?" Ravina asked, though it wasn't really a question.
"Doesn't care," Ignis confirmed without looking up.
Ravina's eye twitched slightly. "You are so corny, man."
"I know," Ignis replied, turning a page. "No need to remind me."
"You remind me of those cringe, cold guys," Ravina continued, her voice taking on a mocking tone. "Who cry alone and think they're so mysterious and special and the best at everything. Like some bad anime protagonist who's too cool to have emotions."
Ignis finally looked up from his book, his expression shifting from blank to annoyed. Small flames began dancing across his free hand, heat radiating visibly in the cool evening air. "That's right," he said, his voice carrying an edge now. "I'm the best. Any problem with that?"
Before Ravina could respond, the flames shot out in a controlled burst, engulfing her upper body. Her clothes ignited, her hair caught fire, and her skin began to blacken and crack.
Then she regenerated.
The burned flesh sloughed off like old paint, revealing perfect skin beneath. Her hair regrew in seconds, and her clothes somehow restored themselves whether through her powers or because she wore synthetic fabrics designed for this kind of abuse wasn't clear.
And then she kicked him.
Directly in the balls. With considerable force.
Ignis's eyes went wide. His book fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. A sound emerged from his throat that was barely recognizable as human somewhere between a scream and a wheeze and the noise a dying animal makes.
"Damn you, psycho bitch!" he managed to gasp out once he could form words again, doubling over, hands moving to protect what she'd already damaged.
She kicked again.
This time his scream was full-voiced, loud enough that it echoed across the street. Several robots within hearing range stopped their tasks, their programming interpreting the sound as potential danger alert. Pedestrians turned to look, some with concern, others with the kind of morbid curiosity that comes from witnessing public spectacles.
Ignis collapsed to his knees on the pavement, his face contorted in genuine agony, tears streaming down his cheeks involuntarily. He tried to curl into a protective ball, but Ravina was already stepping back, examining her handiwork with satisfaction.
"Well then," she said brightly, as if they'd just had a perfectly normal interaction, "we wasted our time on this nonsense. Let's go."
She looked down at Ignis, who was still on the ground, breathing hard, clearly unable to stand or even move without considerable pain. She smiled that same cheerful, disturbing smile that suggested empathy wasn't really a concept she understood and simply picked him up.
She lifted him with ease, her enhanced strength making his weight irrelevant, and slung him over her shoulder like he was a bag of grain. His body hung limply, too wracked with pain to resist effectively.
"Let me go, bitch," he managed to say through gritted teeth, his voice weak and strained.
"No need, darling," Ravina replied in a sing-song voice, starting to walk toward the station with him draped over her shoulder like luggage.
A couple passing by a middle-aged, dressed in expensive clothes that marked them as successful professionals watched this display with expressions of amused affection.
"What a cute couple," the woman said to her companion, smiling at the scene.
"Look at that woman carrying her husband," the man replied, chuckling. "Such devotion. You don't see that kind of relationship much anymore."
Ignis heard this and wanted to scream, wanted to explain that this was abuse not affection, wanted to demand they call authorities or at least stop assuming that everything they witnessed was wholesome and romantic. But he couldn't form words, couldn't do anything except hang there and endure both the physical pain and the existential horror of being misinterpreted as part of some loving relationship.
"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Just kill me already."
"Well then," Ravina said, either not hearing or not caring, "we've arrived!"
The train station loomed before them a massive structure of steel and glass, with elevated platforms for the flying trains and ground-level areas for more traditional rail transport. Hundreds of people moved through the space with typical German efficiency, following clear paths to their destinations, purchasing tickets from automated kiosks, checking schedules on displays that updated in real-time.
Ravina finally set Ignis down, though he immediately collapsed against a nearby support column, still recovering. She approached one of the ticket kiosks, interacted with the interface, and secured two tickets to the Netherlands for the next available departure.
They found seats in the waiting area uncomfortable plastic chairs arranged in neat rows facing the departure boards. Ignis finally managed to sit properly, though his movements were still careful, pained. His face had regained some of its normal color, though his expression suggested he was seriously reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment.
Ravina sat beside him, completely comfortable, swinging her legs slightly like a child waiting for an exciting trip. She pulled out her phone and started scrolling through content, occasionally giggling at whatever she was seeing.
After several minutes of silence, she turned to Ignis. "Well, do you know where Valenora is? Like, specific location?"
Ignis froze. Completely froze. His body went rigid, his expression shifting from pained exhaustion to dawning horror. He turned to look at her slowly, his voice carrying dangerous quiet when he spoke.
"You don't know where it is?"
"I thought you knew," Ravina replied, as if this were perfectly reasonable. "That's why I didn't think about it that much."
Ignis's voice rose, fury cutting through his pain, energy returning to his body purely through the power of absolute rage. "I thought YOU knew already! That's why I came with you! You're the one who insisted we go to the Netherlands! You're the one who seemed so certain about Valenora! You're the one—"
"I know, I know," Ravina interrupted, waving her hand dismissively. "But I thought since you're Blessed, you'd know the location. You know, like there'd be some instinct or sensing or something that guides Blessed individuals to important places."
Ignis stared at her, his mouth opening and closing several times as he tried to find words adequate to express his disbelief and frustration. "Then why don't YOU know?" he finally managed. "If Blessed are supposed to sense these things, if there's supposed to be some kind of guidance system, why don't you know where it is? You're Blessed too!"
"Uhh," Ravina said, suddenly looking slightly embarrassed for the first time since Ignis had met her. "I ate a Blessed person. I didn't actually visit the Tree of Hope myself, so maybe I don't get the full package? The sensing instinct might not transfer with the consumed powers?"
There was a long pause.
A very long pause.
Ignis's expression slowly shifted from rage to something else entirely disbelief transforming into absurdity, absurdity transforming into something that might have been hysteria. His shoulders started shaking. His mouth twisted. And then, for the first time since Ravina had known him, since he'd tried to rob those drug dealers and gotten bisected and been forced into partnership with a psychopath, Ignis laughed.
Really, truly laughed.
It started as a chuckle, then built into full laughter that shook his entire body, that echoed across the waiting area and made other passengers turn to look at them with curiosity or concern. He laughed so hard he had to hold his sides, tears streaming down his face though these were tears of laughter rather than pain, which felt like an improvement.
"You—" he managed between laughs, "You actually managed to eat a Blessed person? What a cannibal you are!" The words came out not with horror or judgment but with genuine amusement at the sheer absurdity of their situation. "We're traveling to a place neither of us knows how to find, based on information from a terrified old man, with no plan and no guidance system, and your qualification for this trip is that you ATE someone who had powers!"
Ravina started laughing too, caught up in the infectious nature of his amusement. "Yeah!" she said between her own giggles. "He was so desperate when I started eating him! That old man when I said we kill him begging and crying and offering me information if I'd just stop! But I was hungry, you know?"
"Fuck you," Ignis said, but he was still laughing, the words coming out without real venom.
"Yeah, fuck me please," Ravina replied seductive and automatically, grinning.
Ignis's laughter cut off immediately. His expression shifted back to serious, then to annoyed. He reached over and punched her in the shoulder not hard enough to really hurt, but with clear intent to make a point.
"Don't say that again," he said firmly.
Ravina rubbed her shoulder with exaggerated motion, pouting. "I thought we were a couple now! That's what everyone keeps saying!"
"Just because I laughed doesn't mean I love you," Ignis replied flatly. "It means I've reached the point of hysteria where our situation is so ridiculous that laughter is the only sane response."
"Aww," Ravina said, placing her hand over her heart in mock hurt. "I got wounded. Right here. In my feelings."
Before Ignis could respond, an announcement echoed through the station
automated voice, speaking in clear German, informing passengers that the train to Netherlands would be boarding shortly at Platform Seven.
"Whatever," Ignis said, standing carefully, still moving a bit gingerly from earlier trauma. "Now just enter the train."
"Sure, darling!" Ravina replied in that sing-song voice, picking up both their bags with ease despite Ignis's protests that he could carry his own.
They made their way to Platform Seven, merged into the stream of passengers boarding, found their assigned seats in one of the train's middle cars. The interior was clean and efficient typical German engineering, with comfortable seats arranged in pairs facing each other, large windows for viewing the landscape, and overhead compartments for luggage.
Ignis settled into his window seat, immediately pulling out his book again, clearly intending to ignore Ravina for the duration of the journey. Ravina took the seat across from him, pulled out her phone, and returned to scrolling through content.
The train began moving smoothly, transitioning from ground rail to magnetic levitation, then gradually ascending into the air on its predetermined route toward the Netherlands. Berlin fell away beneath them, the city lights creating patterns against the gathering darkness.
Ignis read his book, his expression carefully neutral. But internally, his thoughts were less composed.
*I should have killed myself rather than meeting her,* he thought, not for the first time. *Should have let those drug dealers shoot me, or let that first bisection be permanent, or jumped off a bridge, or done literally anything except agree to become her cameraman.*
But even as he thought this, he knew it was only half true.
Because the other half the half he didn't want to examine too closely, the half he certainly wasn't ready to acknowledge out loud was that despite everything, despite the violence and the chaos and the complete insanity of their partnership, he wasn't entirely miserable.
He'd laughed. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he'd genuinely laughed at something. And while that might just be hysteria or trauma response or his mind breaking under the strain of impossible circumstances, it was still something.
*Half truth, half lie,* he admitted to himself. *I hate her, but I don't hate this. I want to escape, but I don't actually want to be alone again. I'm trapped, but maybe...*
He didn't finish the thought. Instead, he turned another page in his book and pretended to read, while across from him Ravina hummed quietly to herself, occasionally giggling at her phone, completely comfortable in her chaos.
The train carried them both forward through the night, toward the Netherlands, toward Valenora, toward whatever waited in the place neither of them knew how to find.
And in the reflection of the window, Ignis could see his own face exhausted, pained, annoyed.