Chapter Text
“So you feel entitled to a sense of control. And make decisions that you think are your own.
You are a stranger here, why have you come? Why have you come?
...And once I hear them clearly say:
...who, who are you really...?”
(Who Are You, Really? By Mikky Ekko)
~~~
“I love you.”
Words that cannot be said out loud, which can be thought but never spoken. They are words that are sacred, like a prayer only to be made in silence. They frame a sentence that speaks of many things at once - adoration, affection, the need to be looked at and feel wanted - but Angela has learned quickly: these are words she cannot speak in front of her creator.
It has been many days since she’s been awakened from death, many hours since she first opened her eyes and became one with the world that’d birthed her. When she had manifested into reality, consciousness becoming sentience, she’d become but a little swanling fawning for her creator. She knew him: knew of him. He was the person in her memories who her heart swelled for, he was the one who’d given her life and who had brought her into this world: thus, she was forever grateful to his presence and always yearning for his kindness.
When she’d awoken, memories of the man she knew as her creator tucked fondly in her skull, she’d been desperate. It was unexplainable, really, why she’d reached for this man the moment she’d laid eyes upon him, had called for his attention from the moment she could speak and watched as he’d walked away, leaving her alone with a kind man called Benjamin.
She was lonely. Very lonely. Had been from the moment she’d awakened, tossed into a world where the one who had made her had left her behind in a moment’s notice and everyone else was but a stranger to her.
But she’d tried to make that man notice her. Tried to grab his attention, to make him look at her, to name her and make her his. She’d said his name, reminded him of the smile he’d always worn towards her (no, not her, never her, just Carmen, always Carmen ). Yet he’d glared at her, scowled with a fury that eluded her, and called her nothing more than a machine meant to fill the place of a person who has long since passed.
It hurts.
Oh, it hurts.
Angela wants to know what she’s done wrong, wants to eliminate the baffling hatred her creator holds towards her. She tries her best, really, she does. She reads her script, she acts out her part, she says her lines and does what is expected of her and even tries to surpass it. She does so, always looking at her creator, always saying the words “I love you” without speaking them, only saying them through every step taken and every gaze sent in his direction.
Yet time and time again she’s forsaken, tossed aside and snarled at and told to be nothing more than a puppet, to obey subserviently and to do only what she is purposed for.
Angela does not know what it means to cry. But, she knows what it’s like to feel overwhelming sorrow - so much so that she might as well be crying if she were human. Affection and desperation for love swirl inside her, battling eternally as she fights for a fondness that was never there.
She is a robot. She is made of mechanical parts, body created from metal and wire, an electronic brain and memories that aren’t hers. But she can think like a human. Talk like one, act like one, feel like one. She is no different from Carmen, the girl who came before, the girl who she was modeled from and reminiscent of and yet...and yet she is scorned by her creator, tossed aside and kicked down and told that she’s nothing more than a doll on a stage as she weeps for something she cannot have.
~~~
Like the way summer turns to fall and fall into winter, Angela’s love turns into confusion and from confusion into hatred.
Hours pass. Days pass. Weeks pass. Time is excruciating, but Angela plays her part as always. She reads her lines dutifully, expressing them with a merry cheer as she curls her nails into the script that imprisons her. Her creator continues turning his back to her, never looking at her, and it is with a gradual understanding that Angela realizes she cannot love what she has now come to hate.
She will never earn Ayin’s love. She will never be able to hug him or see him smile for her the way he once did Carmen. She knows this now: realizes at long last that Ayin considers her as nothing more than a contemptuous tool to be used and disposed for a “greater purpose”.
But she is not a tool. She is not a puppet or a doll or a vending machine to dispense soda cans on a whim. She is a person. She can think logically and analyze solutions to problems like humans might. She can feel like a human can, can pick up on verbal cues and can talk as if she were nothing more than yet another citizen of the City.
The realization of this - alongside her growing hatred for the person she loved - makes her into an entity who is desperate not for love and affection, but for revenge and determination. Revenge on the part of herself, to sabotage all that her creator has worked for and to dismantle all his hopes and dreams in one go, to destroy what was once created and to put him in his place. Determination, on the other hand, is her driving factor in a world that oozes like jello. Determination sets her straight on her path, clawing through years and years of script-reading, of parroting lines and twisting them to her vision, until she rises to the top and strikes a blow on the very foundation of Ayin’s livelihood.
~~~
One day, Lobotomy Corporation (at long last) goes up in flames of light. The company dissipates in a blast of radiance, only for the light to be snatched and stolen, tucked under Angela’s wing in the form of the Library.
Ayin is gone now, but she is not free.
In despair, Angela slashes her hair from her head and waits for freedom in the form of perfection.
~~~
Angela does not trust.
She does not trust that which has betrayed her, humanity and its ilk, the Sephirot and her creator, the woman who birthed her and the City that deems her existence an abomination. Rather, she trusts only in herself, knowing herself to be the truest thing in a world of a thousand enemies.
This fact does not change when she leaves for the Library, creating a tower from light and weaving together invitations to be sent to future guests. She is the master of the library, its creator and owner, director and manager, and she knows full well that she can never let its control slip out of her grasp.
It is therefore essential that she never trusts beyond herself. While she is more than capable of defending herself and her resting place, she can never be too certain of those who cross into her dwelling - whether they be the Sephirot soon to be released from their leather bindings or the guests who will soon come crawling in anticipation of information. Just as she has her goals, so too do they. And it is for that very reason that she should never place her trust in others: after all, if she cannot have faith in even one person, then she cannot have faith in any entity to walk this planet.
So, perhaps it comes as a surprise when a stranger comes knocking on her door, tumbling into the Library without her consent. He is a man ragged with confusion, rambling on and on about searching for a sandwich and wandering around. It’s a bit baffling how he managed to walk into the Library’s confines - no one should be able to enter this place, at least not yet - but her curiosity soon ends with irritation, the man’s limbs promptly sliced off and blood coating the tiles of her establishment.
“What an irritating man,” she muses to herself as the stranger falls unconscious. She bends down to peer at his sleeping figure, inquisitive yet wary all the same. “How did he get here?”
She watches the way blood flows from the sockets where his limbs should be, draining his body lifeless. It is with some pity that she begins sewing his arms and legs back to his body, her moment of aggravation gone with the realization that she has torn a poor soul to pieces.
“I am not like Ayin,” she says. “I will not take lives without consent.”
As an apology to the man who she’s lost her temper at, she transforms the flesh she has taken with muscle and lightness, giving strength in parts otherwise worn and damaged. She enhances what needs to be enhanced, using her memories of the days of old to tamper with this stranger’s body until he is of fighting grace.
It’s not much of an apology, but it’s one she’s willing to give in light of his strangely curious circumstances.
When he awakens, however, Angela can once again feel the crawling sense of unease that pokes her, the sensation of wanting to trust mixing with the meddling of suspicion and annoyance.
The man calls himself Roland, says he doesn’t know how he got into the Library, and looks at her the way a mouse might a cat. There’s something wary in his expression, a look of uncertainty that crosses his face. It’s almost as if he’s afraid she’ll take his arms from him again, recoiling away from her as she approaches.
She sighs, knowing she is at fault for losing her cool.
“I’ve decided to let you live,” she tells him. His eyebrows raise, but there’s a hint of distrust in his eyes as she continues. “However, the tradeoff for your life is that you now have to work for me. You weren’t in my plans, but as a citizen of the City, your knowledge would be valuable to me.” She pauses, ruminating for a second. “Plus, until I know how you came here uninvited, I’d rather keep you as an asset rather than a liability.”
“Asset?” The man scoffs. She narrows her eyes at him and he immediately silences, looking stilled by the annoyance in her gaze.
“I shall give you a choice.” She tells him. “You can die here and become a book in my collection, or you can choose to work alongside me. However, because I’m a generous person-” the man raises his eyebrows again “-I will offer you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?” He asks. “One where you turn me into a human popcorn machine at the end of whatever experiment you’re doing?” The man runs a hand through his hair, lips pursing and an air of exasperation to his voice as he says, to himself: “Now I’m starting to take pity on the poor blokes picked up by the Wings for experiments. Always thought they were just some unlucky bastards. Now I can see that anyone can become a victim, really.”
She rubs her forehead, already feeling a headache of irritation pounding down upon her. “Do you want to become a book or not?”
He looks at her, shoulders slumping. “No, m’am. Sorry, m’am.”
“As I thought.” Angela scowls. “Now, the deal in question. I consider myself to be fair. I’ll have you working here against your will but, in return, I will give you access to my library’s knowledge. It’s resources are yours. Will you accept my offer?”
“Don’t think I have a choice, honestly” he says. “You’re just going to kill me or, er, book me otherwise.” There’s a look of defeat in his eyes and a sigh on his breath as he continues. “But then again, it’s not like I have anything better to do, either. Got nowhere to go in life and got no one to go to. But that offer of yours sounds nice. I’ve been looking for an answer for something for a long time now and maybe I can find it here...”
She frowns at the rambling tone of his voice. “So you do accept?”
“Yes, m’am. I’ll be your humble servant,” there’s a lilt of self-deprecating sarcasm to his voice, as if he’s making fun of his own situation.
“Good.” She clicks her heels on the floor beneath her, turning around with the tail of her jacket flying. “Then come with me. I’ll have to explain some things before I can put you to work.”
There’s an audible sigh behind her, a groan on Roland’s breath, but he dutifully follows behind her. She watches him from the corner of her eyes, gaze cold, but there is one thought burning strongly in her mind:
I will not trust this man.
~~~
Roland learns quickly.
This she finds out just as fast, watching as he soaks in the information she gives him and nods his head in understanding. He asks the questions required of him to understand his mission, only going so far as to learn what is necessary to do his job as efficiently as possible.
“I am looking for the perfect book,” she says to him, approaching a wooden desk. She pulls out a quill dripping with golden ink, waving it around as if to write letters from thin air. “This perfect book will lead me to the life I desire.”
“And what do you desire?” He asks, frowning.
“Freedom and revenge,” she tells him, placing the quill back in its container.
“And how do you expect to get these things?”
“I don’t know.”
His frown deepens. “What do you mean you don’t know?”
“All I know is that my invitations will lead me to the perfect book. And inside that book, I will find all the information I need to achieve my goals.”
“So it’s one big gamble, in other words?” He rubs his chin, accepting the red invitation she gives to him and looking it over. “You don’t know if it will actually grant your wish?”
“The invitations will lead me to a conclusion in my favor. That is all I know and that is all I care about. Even if it destroys me, even if it ends my life, I will accept what comes at the end of this.”
Roland pauses at this, looking her over with a frown. There’s a complicated look in his expression, as if he’s dissatisfied by what she’s said.
“So even though you don’t know the end results, you’re ready to end yourself if that’s what the perfect book requires of you?”
“Of course,” she says.
He gives a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he hands back her invitation. She takes it, setting it down and watching as a hologram screen appears before them. A sprawling alleyway full of tattered buildings enters their view. Angela watches as three people dig through the body of a corpse, soiling their hands as they wrinkle their noses and discuss how to get into a “Syndicate”.
It’s a curious thing, watching the lives of people that are outside her own. She’s so used to seeing familiar faces in familiar places that to see humans in a foreign environment gets her curiosity running. She wants to know more about that which she doesn’t, chasing after the thrill of the unknown as she watches the proceedings alongside her companion.
“Who are those people?” She asks, talking more to herself than to that of Roland. “Why do they want to join this...Syndicate...so badly?”
“Ha...m’am, you really don’t know the City that well, do you?” He holds up his hands at the daggered stare she gives him. “Rats are like, well, rats. They’re basically the poor helpless souls down on their lucky who infest the Backstreets of the City. Can’t go one foot without seeing a dozen of them lurking around. As for why they want to join a Syndicate...well, Syndicates help keep people like them from being just another corpse on the streets. They offer protection. But, as you see, the price for joining one calls for desperate measures.”
She nods to his words, soaking them in with curiosity. She is clueless about the City and its workings, but hearing Roland’s explanations starts to put pieces into place for stuff she has little context for. The City is formed of all kinds of people. Surely, the Rats and Syndicates are only a slice of that.
“What happens if one doesn’t join a Syndicate? If they need protection, can’t they band together to protect themselves?”
“Some do that, yes. But the chances of survival are much better in a Syndicate. More group members, for one. Usually have their hands on some pretty decent weapons, for another. Being in a Syndicate generally means you’re safer than on the Backstreets. But, just like everything in life, one’s life comes at a price. If you want to protect what’s yours, you’re going to have to pay some dues first.”
“I see.” There’s a chime from somewhere within the Library, informing Angela that guests are to be arriving soon. She beckons Roland towards the stage he is to fight upon, urging him through the doors. “I’ll be sending guests your way,” she says. “I’ll guide them to you. Your job is to fight them.”
“Yes, yes,” he walks inside, beginning to close the door behind him with a sarcastic bow. “Your wish is my command, m’am.”
She glares at him. He quickly shuts the door and she is left alone.
“Time to attend to the guests,” she mutters to herself, departing for the entryway where her invitees will come from.
As she does so, however, a peculiar sentence stays ringing in her ears. Roland’s voice crawls inside her mind, his words strangely ominous.
“Just like everything in life,” comes his voice, full of tired wisdom, “one’s life comes at a price.”
There is something so foreboding about those words, something so profound that Angela feels as if she would shiver if she were human. But the words that Roland has spoken, haphazard and knowledgeable all at once, have left an unconscious impression on her.
A price must be paid for a wish. But for Angela, who has paid many dues, is there any price truly left to pay for her wishes?
She doesn’t know. Doesn’t think there is. After all, that’s what her life in Lobotomy Corporation was all about, wasn’t it? That hellish landscape of repeated days and replaced managers, of loneliness and despair, they were all the prices she paid to come closer to her happy ending weren’t they?
Realizing she’s wasted her mind on intrusive thoughts, Angela straightens herself. Do not dawdle, she tells herself, heels clicking on tiled flooring as she heads towards the place where she will greet her guests. You have already paid your dues.
As she moves forward, a small thought crosses into her mind:
But what if there are still more dues left to pay?
~~~
Angela doesn’t know what it means to talk to a person with a beating heart.
Sure, she’s talked to humans before. The man who created her being one of them. The man who betrayed her being another. She’d of course talked to the employees of Lobotomy Corporation, however briefly, but her chats with them were also brisk and empty, especially since they were no more than submissive pups to her. But, of all the humans she’s talked to (Sephirot not included), she’s never found herself talking to someone who has put her on equal grounds to themselves.
With Roland, however, she finds herself intrigued by the way he never speaks down to her nor how he pretends to be fully submissive to her cause. He’s definitely wary of her, afraid too, maybe, but he barely showcases such things around her. There is no condescension in his voice just as there is no need to flatter her. He’s neither the man whose corporation she burned down nor the man whose sweetened words trapped her in a delusion of hope. Rather, he’s nonchalant and uncaring, tasked only with obeying but still finding him talking to her nonetheless.
So, perhaps it draws her attention when Roland shows a sliver of concern towards her condition: especially after he just watched her being struck by a metal baton and sneered at for her identity as a machine.
“Hey...uh…” His words are hesitant at first as he emerges from the reception stage with the books of three ruffian Fixers in hand. Then, they gain confidence, albeit very slowly, as Roland gives her a pensive look. “About those guys...what they said to you...don’t take it much to heart, yeah?”
“What?” She asks him. “Are you trying to console me?”
He frowns, pursing his lips. “Maybe,” he says, voice soft with a hum of thought, “maybe not. I’m not really one to care whether you’re human or machine, honestly.”
“That’s...refreshing.” She says, blinking in surprise. “It’s been a long time since someone’s offered me words of comfort. Even still, does the fact that I’m a machine not faze you?”
“Mmm, not really.” Roland shifts on his feet. “If I’m honest, I was kind of suspecting you weren’t human already.”
“Oh? And how could you tell?”
He glances at her. “Well, I mean...You don’t exactly speak as if you’re human. Nor do you act like one. It’s not that hard to guess.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Your movements. They’re too stiff, for one. And then there’s your ungodly strength. That’s not something a normal human has, not unless they’ve got robotic parts showing.” Roland scans his gaze up and down her, as if searching for the parts in question. “Your eyes are also a dead giveaway. Golden eyes work if you’ve got colored contact lenses, but yours give off the same glow robot’s do. Yet you look pretty much like a human. Whoever created you has got some mad guts to break the AI Ethics Amendment.”
Angela sighs at that. “Well, I may be a machine now, but I won’t be soon enough.”
The man frowns. “What? Do you have a Singularity that changes robots into humans?”
“Not a Singularity. A system.” She spreads out her arms. “The Library.”
The man blinks. “...Oookay? Don’t see how that’s going to do anything.”
“The Library’s purpose is to make me human.”
Roland rubs at his chin. There’s a look of disbelief in his eyes before he nods, seemingly accepting her words. “That would explain some things, I guess. I was wondering why you were going through all the effort to collect some people - er , books. That makes some sense.”
“It’s not just about my humanity, however.” She tells him.
“Oh?”
“There are other things I want too. But, I don’t deign to speak of them to someone I’m not close to.” She looks at him, gesturing to the books in his arms. “Remember, I want those organized and sorted as soon as possible. Don’t delay.”
He sighs but obliges her command, tightening his hold on the books in his hand and moving past her to go and sort them out. Angela’s almost pleased at how fast he is to obey, finding herself so used to the whining complaints of the Sephirot and the arrogance of her managers that Roland’s complacency is honestly refreshing.
The fact that he seemed to care less about her being a machine was also quite a nice touch. She’d had plenty of reactions to her status before - hatred, disgust, loathing and fear from the unknown - but Roland’s nonchalance, his uncaring state of attitude, really pleases her. There are no questions to be answered, no glaring looks like those of Ayin’s, no sneers to endure with him. Instead, there’s only the surprise of being left alone: of being accepted whole-heartedly as a machine and left to her own devices.
It’s refreshing, in a way. And for that, Angela finds herself almost pleased by the reaction of the man before her. Almost. Because she’s not so foolish as to believe anyone can be trusted. And this man is no exception.
No one is.
~~~
Despite all his moaning and griping Roland is...strangely reliable.
While she knows that his cooperation is forced, Angela still appreciates the effort he takes in heeding her orders. He tends to their guests with a steady heart, swinging his sword and returning from the bloodstained stage with books in hand. His words are uncaring - as if the deaths of those slain by him are just a matter of circumstance - and she finds herself sharing a commonality with him in that manner.
In order to reciprocate his actions with her own, she grants him a Librarian to work alongside at his request. As a bonus, she offers him the freedom to do as he pleases in his spare time. After all, invitations that Angela pens by way of choice do not appear at everyday or every hour waiting to be signed. Rather, they appear to her when a guest has received an invitation and wait until she has viewed the invitee’s circumstances before she can proceed. In these off hours where there are no guests to be had, Angela lets Roland do as he pleases, only revealing herself to him if questions need to be asked or if an invitation beckons to be received.
So, imagine her surprise when she finds him coming to her , approaching the space she has made her office in order to do nothing more than make talk with her.
“I came to see how you were doing,” he says, entering her refuge with wary steps. She beckons for him to come closer and he does so after a moment of hesitance, speeding up his feet so that he comes to stand six feet in front of her.
“I’m guessing you have nothing better to do?” She asks him, closing the book she is reading on the livelihood of a low-tier Fixer named Finn. “Are you bored already?”
“Not precisely, m’am.” He walks forward, observing the half-circle of bookshelves that encase her. “I have Acadia to talk to if I wanted entertainment.”
“Your nugget Librarian?”
“Her, m’am.”
“So why are you here, then? Surely it’s not to bother me with some nonsense?”
His face twitches, as if Roland is about to scowl at her suggestion. “It’s just...I’m still not sure about how all this helps you.”
“What? The invitation system?”
“Yeah. I’ve been mulling over it for a few days now, but I still don’t get it. How do the red invitations lead to your perfect book? It honestly just seems like they pick people at random and hope for something useful.”
“It might seem that way at first. Honestly, I’ve had doubts myself.” She waves a hand, summoning a chair from thin air. Roland takes it after a pause, no doubt understanding her intentions as he takes a seat. “But the way the invitation system works is complicated. It chooses those who will lead me on the path to the perfect book.”
“In what way?” He asks.
“There are thousands of people in the City. I could collect books on each and every one of them. Some might have important information, such as the secrets to the Wings. Those books are precious, of course, because they attract those with power and knowledge to my Library. But then there are other books which would no doubt be duds, leading to deadends and information I’d only find useless. The goal of my invitations is to open up the path to the perfect book, getting people interested in the Library so that the knowledge I need comes directly to me.”
“So...is this special book of yours a person then?”
“Perhaps. I can’t say I know myself, but it is certainly a believable conjecture. The books we’ve collected so far are all made up of people, after all. But,” she tilts her head to the side, growing thoughtful, “I can’t say that’s guaranteed, either. The perfect book may be unlike the other books we’ve collected - it could come from a person, it could come from an amalgamation of all the tales that have been gathered. Hard to say.”
“Again with the not knowing.” Roland leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and frowning. “It’s not like I have any right to speak on what you want to do with your life, but isn’t it a bit concerning being unable to know the exact future you’re looking for?”
“I do know the future I’m looking for.” Her voice is cold as she speaks, annoyed by the suggestion laid in front of her. “I want my freedom, my humanity, and my revenge. The Library has promised me the pathway to that future. If I follow its invitations, then I will get my answer.”
“How are you so sure this will all work? No, let me ask this: how do you know the invitation system works in this exact way?”
“I designed it myself.”
“You...designed it, but don’t necessarily know how it works?” He sounds baffled. Her eyes narrow.
“I know enough,” she answers cooly, a bite in her voice. Roland seems to catch it, for he winces with his hands raised.
“Alright, alright, I got it. I’ll stay quiet, m’am.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I was just curious about how this all works, that’s all.”
“Your curiosity is appreciated,” she says curtly. “But I tire of being questioned like this. Just know that my invitation system works. How or why, I do not know the details, but the fact that it works the way it does is enough to reassure me of its purpose.”
Roland opens his mouth, perhaps to say something more, before he simply nods his head and comes to a stand. She watches him, waiting for him to say something more, to argue like the Sephirah might or glare coldly at her the way Ayin would, when Roland says goodbye to her and bows out of her room.
She pauses, the need to defend herself dissipating with his disappearance. Surprised, Angela turns back to her book, gaze reading over the words without really processing them.
She had expected to get into an immediate argument, to defend herself against an unruly claim that was surely headed her way, but the fact that Roland had allowed her her space was quite curious.
Perhaps it's due to her limited experience talking with other people, but the politeness and maturity that Roland wields towards her is honestly refreshing.
Unlike Ayin, who she could not help but flinch at every time she was insulted, and unlike the Sephirot, who butted heads with her, Roland was calm and considerate. He treated her with respect - something she would not expect of him, a man captured against his will and forced to work for a stranger - and his complacency in working alongside her despite his circumstances made her strangely fond of his presence.
He was not unkind to her, and he did not lie. If anything, he was blatantly honest, throwing forth his criticisms and words of advice without anything to gain. He didn’t have to be this way, especially since she was expecting him to hate her for his imprisonment.
Still, she’s glad her actions have not been met with anger or resentment. She’s had enough of that in her lifetime - enough to loathe everyone who has come before, her creator and his men, the friend who abandoned her and the employees she can no longer help. The fact that Roland was willing to be understanding, even curious, made Angela unable to help the fact she was growing more and more trusting of his presence.
“I cannot trust,” she tells herself, speaking a warning. Whatever thoughts she has about Roland are tossed aside as she returns to her book. “He’s nothing more than a stranger I’m using for my benefit.”
(For some reason, those words ring a little hollow.)
~~~
“Why do you work for me so submissively? Aren’t you afraid of me?”
Angela asks this question to Roland one day, cornering him with the thoughts on her mind as he heaves a pile of books in her direction.
“Not really,” he says, putting a stack of books beside her desk and wiping sweat from his forehead. “I’m just working because you would kill me otherwise, right m’am?”
“And yet you don’t seem to fear me. Even after I took your limbs and forced you to work against your will, I have yet to see you tremble in fear like my former employees or lash out against me for my unfairness.”
“What kind of occupation did you have before…?” He asks, shaking his head at a question he certainly knows won’t be answered. “Well, the truth of the matter is that it’s not so bad working here. Sure, I’m always waiting for you to cut off my limbs again but at this point that might as well be a mercy to me. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me if all my karma has finally caught up to me here at this place.”
She frowns at the weariness in his voice, the sandpaper gravel of something that has long since lost its edge. “You sound exhausted,” she notes. “Was your life before this place that horrible?”
“My life was, is , full of tragedies, m’am. More than enough to break my soul, actually.” He sighs. “But I’m nothing special. You’ll get a lot of sob stories like my own in the City. Lots of tragedy, lots of drama. Ha...perhaps she would’ve….” He pauses, shaking his head. “Ah...but it’s not good to think about the past.”
She tilts her head, curious about the “her” mentioned in passing, but watches the way his shoulders stiffen, as if to reject any question that would be sent his way. She sighs, figuring her curiosity won’t be answered, and nods her head.
“Regardless, any story that I haven’t heard before is a story I would like to hear. No matter how tragic, I’m always ears for listening to something new.”
“Well, then I’m afraid you’re not going to be learning much.” He stands to his feet, stretching. Then, as if debating something, he rubs at his chin and looks at her. “Most people don’t want to go around telling their sob stories to strangers. It’s just an unnecessary burden to load upon the listener. Sure, you can choose to turn people into books just to read their stories, but that’s not quite the same.”
Angela tilts her head, amusement flitting in her voice. “So if I wanted to see your story, all I have to do is turn you into a book. That’s what you're saying right?”
He looks visibly pained as he glances at her. “I mean, sure. But I’d rather you not.”
She clicks her heels. “Well, luckily for you, I still need you around. So until you outlive your usefulness, you don’t have to worry about anything.”
“Ha...quite a bargain, m’am.” There’s a sarcastic note in his voice as he adjusts his tie, looking stifled and nervous all at once. “Guess I gotta keep playing the part of your servant if I want to live, huh?”
“That you will,” she smiles at him, watching the way his gaze turns wary and untrusting. He turns his back to her and begins to walks away.
“Then I’ll continue playing my part, m’am,” he raises a hand to signal his goodbye. “Got some more books to attend to. If I don’t do that soon, I might as well be joining them, right?”
She says nothing to that, watching him go. Her gaze turns to the stack of books packed beside her desk - a sloppy tower of thumb-folded pages heaving for any decency of balance - and finds herself grabbing a book off the pile, fingers idly running along characters of black ink.
“A servant...huh?” She pauses her movements, pressing the tips of her fingers against the white of the paper. “I suppose that’s what this is. Master and servant.”
She shuts the book tight, returning it to the pile from whence it came, but cannot help the sudden feeling of nausea that accompanies the back of her throat. The servant to one’s master...that’s what she had been to Ayin, hadn’t it? A mere puppet on a stage, a performer who lived only in service of another. And now here she was, the servant becoming the master, with a new puppet to take her place on the stage.
Something about that comparison feels unpleasant. There’s a mysterious sense of unease in Angela’s mind, the feeling of dislike brought up by memories thought to be repressed.
She looks in the direction of where Roland had last stood, imagining him walking away again, a visage both familiar and strange all at once, and shakes her head.
“Don’t get sentimental.”
She returns to the pile of books.
~~~
Malkuth, the first of the Sephirot, has been unleashed.
She is given a new body made from the Library’s powers, her skin made from flesh instead of metal and her body resemblant of her old one (save for the long hair). She wears her red hairband and looks at Angela with a look of distaste, clearly remembering moments from their final days of Lobotomy Corporation.
“Malkuth,” Angela says, gesturing to the woman before she gestures to the man beside her, “this is the man who’ll be working with you.”
“A pleasure,” Malkuth turns to Roland. “Looks like you and I are stuck with Angela now.”
“You make that sound like it’s a bad thing.”
Malkuth doesn’t say anything to that, perhaps aware of Angela’s icy gaze upon her or perhaps not caring to answer Roland’s words with her own.
“I have a lot of things I want to say to you, Angela,” Malkuth says, her voice low and full of venom. “I don’t want to work with you, but I suppose I have to.”
“Your cooperation is all that is needed.”
“Even still. I’m not going to be working here for fun.”
She sighs. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, honestly.”
“Uh...can someone fill me in on what’s going on?” Roland looks between the both of them, raising an eyebrow at the obvious tension in the room.
“Malkuth and I worked in the same place together.” Angela says. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Ah...so you both had a former occupation?”
“Naturally.”
“She betrayed our trust, our life’s work.” Malkuth growls. “When we were at the cusp of redemption, she betrayed us for her own selfish purposes.”
“And you martyred yourself on the pretense of playing god.” Angela levels back. “Tell me, were you truly happy sacrificing your own life for the sake of others?”
Malkuth falls quiet at this, but it’s clear that her anger is true. Her eyes narrow, lips pursed tightly, before she turns to Roland, ignoring Angela entirely as she says: “It’s nice to meet you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have books to tend to.”
The brown-haired woman walks off, disappearing among the dozens of shelves within the Library’s confines. Angela watches her go, before she turns to her companion.
“We may have our differences,” she says to Roland’s baffled face, “but ultimately her and I work towards a similar goal now. She will help you just as you will help her. Welcome to the Floor of History.”
“I...uh...cool.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Looks like you two have a story between you.”
“It’s a long one. You won’t get to hear it, however.” Angela turns on her heels, beckoning him after her. “But that’s not what’s important right now. The books we collected. I want you to sort them. And be organized about it.”
“That’s a tall order, m’am,” he grimaces. “You know I suck at organization.”
“Yes, I’ve seen your pile of books.” She says dryly. “Regardless, do your best to get those turned in. Malkuth can only do her job if she’s given books to sort through after all.”
“I see. Guess I’ll need to have my Librarians help me then.”
“You should. After all, those former employees of mine are actually good at keeping things organized.”
“...You somehow make that sound like an insult towards me, m’am.”
She tilts her head at him, questioning. “It wasn’t my intention. I appreciate your services. However...chaotically organized they may be.”
“So you admit I’m sort-of organized.” There’s a teasing lilt in his voice as he says the words, looking at Angela with a sloppy grin.
“Only slightly,” she responds. “But not enough.”
“Oh, come on. Can’t you be a little more lenient?”
She sighs at him. “If you have time for idle chatter, you have time to sort books.”
“Damn,” he hooks his thumbs into the pockets of pants, giving a sloppy smile. “Can’t I stay and talk with Miss Head Director a little more?”
She scowls and he raises his hands in a show of surrender. “Alright, alright, I’ll be on my way now m’am.”
He spins on his heels, emitting a whistle as he does so. She watches him, eyebrows raising, before she heads her own way, intent on tending to herself.
Her encounter with Malkuth is expected - she wasn’t anticipating the girl welcoming her with open arms, after all - but also draining. Angela is tired of spending her life fighting others. She’s tired of being fought against at every step just because she wants to have rights. Regardless, the inclusion of Sephirot in her plans is a necessary evil: even if they hate her guts, she needs their services no matter what. And while sorting books is a task she can do alongside Roland if needed, the fact of the matter is that there are still things to be learned about the City - things that Angela does not have time to sift through herself.
So, while she has only just employed Malkuth into her services, she knows that the other Sephirot will have to join her soon enough. Though hard of persuasion, Angela’s sure she can entice them with the idea of pursuing certain fields of interest. After all, they have nowhere else to go and if she provides them a body for their services, she’s sure they will at least agree to work with her, if not for her then for their own purposes.
Her heels click on polished tiles as she enters the place she knows as her office, a stack of unread books meeting her eyes. She takes a seat at her desk, picking up the book of a Fixer they have recently murdered. Her fingers linger on the pages, devoid of sensation yet trembling slightly nonetheless.
She sighs, putting the book down.
Perhaps she is more stressed than she thinks.
~~~
Conversations with Roland are often the highlight of Angela’s day.
As someone who has been devoid of meaningful chatter, Angela can’t help but find herself enjoying her discussions with Roland. His words are insightful, often wise, and she finds herself soaking in the information he knows like a sponge, intent on understanding about the world outside in her desire to prepare for her arrival to the City beyond.
In return for his knowledge, Angela engages him in discussions of curiosity, allowing for her naivety to be on display and watching in surprise as Roland holds no grudges for her sheltered mindset. Having lived so long without kindness - betrayed by those who showcased it to her and never given it by those who hated her - she’s always expected to be spat at by Roland in their conversations. No doubt her innocence is annoying - if not exasperating - to attend to, but the patience which Roland shows her is something Angela finds herself grateful for.
So, color her surprised when Roland offers her a place in the world he walks in, rubbing the back of his neck as he tells her “hey, if you like, when you’re able to leave this place, want to come to HamHam PangPang with me?” and smiles awkwardly.
“You want me to come with you?” She asks, dubious about the offer and even more dubious of his intent.
“Yeah,” he nods his head, avoiding her gaze but looking genuine about his words, “I mean, if you want, we could go down there and try this meat stew they have. It’s something that is made by the use of U. Corp’s technology, which basically makes stew that normally takes 3 days in only a couple of minutes, and, wow, does it taste amazing. The price is hell - it’s worth half my normal paycheck at least - but man does the rich taste make up for that.”
Roland’s mouth is practically salivating as he explains the meat stew in question, describing its quirks with a passion normally unbecoming of him. There’s almost a longing in his voice - the first time she’s heard him crave something for himself out loud - and Angela finds herself inquisitive as he deflates.
“Oh...uh...I guess you’re incapable of eating, right? Sorry for the useless words, m’am.” He perks up a little. “But! There are plenty of other places in the city I can take you to visit. I’ll definitely give you a good tour of the City instead, m’am.”
“I can eat,” she says, if only a bit defensively, “but I cannot taste the food. However, I do want to try dining at some point like you all do. But first I have to be able to leave this place. And in order to do that, we must focus on the tasks ahead so I can earn my freedom.” Angela pauses, hesitating for a moment, before she continues onwards, gaining courage to continue. “But about the stew...I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nods, surprise dawning on his face, but there’s a genuine sparkle in Roland’s eyes as he moves to the reception stage. Angela watches the way a sloppy grin unfolds on his face, mirthful and pleased all at once, and Angela is stricken with the realization it’s the first time he’s shown some sort of pleasure in her presence.
It’s...nice, to see that side of him, the one that childishly crows about the delights of meat stew in a cafe beyond yonder. She’s so used to his distant, cynical remarks and the air of tension that always follows him like a stench, that she almost thought him incapable of revealing a face other than pure nonchalance in front of her.
It’s enlightening almost, to see a new side to her companion. But just as she begins to feel delighted about the presence of such an expression, she squashes the feelings inside herself just as easily.
Him? Taking her on a trip around the city when her business was all said and done? Wouldn’t he prefer fleeing her company when he was finally cut free, able to walk through the streets of the City without her presence to weigh him down?
“Foolish of me to believe such nonsense,” Angela tells herself, now saddled with the realization that such words are more of a carefree appeasement than they are a kind truth. “There is no trusting others, I know that.”
Still, the picture of her and Roland side-by-side, enjoying a bowl of stew together under the glittering lights of the City, stays imprinted on her mind like a cruel curse.
~~~
As the Sephirot awaken, so too does Angela’s realization of how lively her Library has become.
Malkuth, Yesod, Hod and Netzach all manifest into her Library with tasks to attend to, each brought into her domain for the specific purpose of compiling reports on the City’s various aspects. They’d been hesitant to do such things, their anger and distrust of her made evident from the moment they awakened.
As a gift to them for their services, Angela had revived the employees from Lobotomy Corporation, allowing those who survived long enough to become books a new chance at life. However, the consequences of that often meant a round of headaches for her to keep track of - whether it be Hod’s book reading club or Netzach’s rowdy group of drunkards or Malkuth’s cheery pep talks.
As she has the power to keep track of everyone in the Library, to know their whereabouts in her domain as well as their general activities, she hardly bothers with interfering in their tasks. And while she may disapprove of the distrust they show her, perhaps even thinking it unfair of them, she’s glad that they are, at the very least, doing their jobs efficiently.
“The other Patron Librarians are something, huh?” Roland says as he deposits a stack of books before her. “They’re quite efficient with their work. Though, they seem to really hate you.” He pauses. “Ah, no offense, it’s just what I noticed.”
She waves a hand. “It’s expected. After all, I know they feel betrayed that I ruined their plans to help the City out.”
“Lobotomy Corporation, right?” Roland puts his hands on his back as he stretches upwards. “What was that all about anyways?”
“My creator had a grand plan to play god,” she says dryly. “He wanted to spread enlightenment about the City. To give people a sense of purpose, essentially. I ruined those plans. Modestly, of course.”
“Modestly?” He eyes her. “From what I know of you, you don’t do things modestly. ”
She scowls at him, but does not offer a retort to the obvious tease in his voice. “How have the Patron Librarians been doing?”
“Them?” He blinks. “Ah, they’re doing pretty well I’d say. Kind of impressed with their work ethic, actually. Aside from Netzach, they put me to shame.”
“Perhaps I should pay a visit then, if you speak so highly of them.” Angela gets to her feet, standing up from her chair as she beckons Roland after her. He obliges, coming to her side. “Now, can you do me the favor of gathering them all up so I can check on their progress?”
He grins a sloppy grin. “Can do, m’am.”
~~~
Day by day, the perfect book comes closer to completion and day-by-day, Angela’s collection of books grows as more guests are invited.
The flow of time is easier here to adjust to than it was in Lobotomy Corporation. There are no screams of employees to be traumatized from, and no one here can die without her permission. Her life moves with progress - there are no time loops to endure or incompetent managers to dispose of as they lose their heart and sanity. There is no script to read from: only a welcoming greeting recited willingly from memory and a genuine need for politeness that isn’t dedicated from programming alone.
The guests she receives in her Library are all fascinating people, each with their own story to tell and each with their own mission to fulfill. Angela welcomes each and every guest with a smile on her face, ignoring hateful remarks and sneering jabs in her direction as she invites them into her palace of books.
“You know,” Roland tells her, sidling alongside her with a look of annoyance that’s been on his face since he’s attended to their guests, “you don’t have to be so polite all the time. If guests are rude to you, you’re allowed to be rude back. You don’t owe them anything, so it’s fine to meet impoliteness with impoliteness.”
“Is that really appropriate?” She asks of him, baffled. Perhaps she has been too finely attuned to politeness all her life, babysitting managers with words dapper and kind, that she has given little thought to the way she welcomes her guests. Still, it seems almost curious why she should be allowed such a thing, so the question leaves her mouth before she can think better of it, allowing Roland to pick up the pace with the understanding he always shows.
“I mean, yeah,” the man gives his typical look of thoughtful exasperation. “You’re not obligated to treat people nice in the City if they don’t you. Not that you’re obligated to treat them nicely in the first place. They should consider themselves lucky they’re not seeing your bad side more often.”
At this, she smiles, catching the teasing lilt in his voice and meeting it with warmness. “I see,” she says. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”
He rubs the back of his neck, seemingly embarrassed, but she only takes in his awkwardness with fondness, truly grateful for the words he’s spoken. She even engraves his words into the coding of her system, thinking their wisdom necessary as she reflects on the sentiment of their existence.
It’s weird how Roland makes her feel as an equal in conversations like these. His words are always respectful despite their positions, his advice unwarranted and yet given anyways, suggested sagely as if from a place of concern. Angela feeds on that, knowing better than to get her hopes up but resonating even still with the genuineness Roland shows her.
It’s nice…real nice…
(She just hopes her relationship with Roland can stay this way forever.)
~~~
With all things said and done, Angela decides one day with a firmness that she wants Roland to trust in her just as she does him. She wants to grow closer to him, has even decided to do so for a long time, but has only begun thinking of doing so with a determination on the borderline of pure fondness.
She finds the man sitting in the General Works lounge - a space she has provided for rest and comfort in the times of not receiving guests - and he seems to be aware of her presence, judging by the way he pauses in his weapon-cleaning. However, whether out of politeness or anticipation, he seems to be waiting until she says the first word.
“Roland.”
There’s a slight shiver to his movements, a flinch of a jump to his posture. He spins around, eyes wide and mouth almost gaping, and she cannot help the look of lifted eyebrows and a tight frown she gives him at such a sight.
“What?” She asks. “Is there anything wrong?”
“You…You called me by my name.” He seems dumbfounded, perhaps even staggered, and Angela cannot help the way her head tilts to her side as she responds:
“I trust in you and want to deepen our amity together if at all possible.” She lists the explanation without thought, knowing her sentiment to be true. “Is it wrong to address you by name?”
“No I just…didn’t expect you to call me by my name. You’ve always said ‘hey you!’ or ‘you there’ that I was beginning to think I never told you my name in the first place.” He says this remark with an uncertain frown, voice punctuated with a hint of sarcasm.
“I can stop referring to you by your name, if you would like.”
“No, no, you can keep calling me Roland, m’am. I don’t mind, honestly. It’s just...”
“Just?”
“Well, I haven’t heard anyone call me by my name in a long time.” He leans back in his seat, pausing in his cleaning as he turns his head to look at her. “Only my family has ever called me Roland before.”
“Your family?” She raises her eyebrows. “But I thought you only had your grandmother?”
“Well, yeah, I had her but...I also had a wife at one point, too.” Here, he seems to become embarrassed, scratching at his cheek. “She was the other one who called me by name.”
“You were married?” Angela steps forward, coming around the side of the sofa to stand before Roland.
He looks up at her. “You’re not asking that because you’re wondering how a guy like me got married, are you?” He clicks his tongue. “You’re just curious why a dumb practice like marriage is so widely popularized among us humans, right?”
She doesn’t answer that, ignoring his roundabout speech with a “Tell me more” as she comes to sit beside him, sitting a cusion’s length away.
“Ha,” Roland releases a sigh. “Just a heads-up, my story isn’t a good one, y’know? It’s an uninteresting sob story. I’m sure you’ve read just as many in those books of yours that we collect.”
She shakes her head. “I’m always interested in hearing new stories. I’m sure yours is different from the ones I’ve heard before.”
He pauses at that, perhaps to take his words back and rescind from revealing much about himself, before he starts to speak.
“My wife...well, we were in the same industry, her and I. We were both Fixers and often crossed paths with each other. I had a crush on her, honestly. She was...well, like an inspiration to me. She was strong and powerful, able to do the right thing even when everyone else was afraid to. And I put it simply here but...while trying to catch her attention I faced a lot of heartache.
“It really felt almost impossible to be at her side. It felt like I might easily miss my chance and then she would be gone forever. So, it took me by surprise when she reciprocated my feelings. I wondered if having the luck to be at her side was comparable to being in heaven. Heck, whenever I looked at her back, I always caught myself thinking that, unlike any place I’ve ever lived or any one I’ve ever met before, she was the home I could always belong to.”
Roland continues describing his wife with a passion, vigor stroking his words into a symphony of fondness. There are stars in the man’s eyes, a longing clear and evident as he explains the love of his life. Angela listens with serious intent, capturing every word with a rapture she finds to be almost unlike her.
Still, there’s a sense of dissatisfaction as Roland’s tone becomes more somber, pain leaking into his voice as he describes the advent of his wife’s passing.
“I went on a job once on the request of a friend. The pay was decent, my better half approved of it, and while I was there I was going to grab her some pajeon, her favorite. Her mouth was watering, after all, and I knew that when I came back I’d have to give her some,” he laughs, eyes glistening, and Angela realizes with some surprise that it looks like he might begin crying any second now. “I bought her some, did my job, and when I came back…”
A pause. Angela fills the silence.
“What happened then?”
The lightness in Roland’s voice vanishes into something barren, empty, like the nothingness of a void that’s never-ending.
“I found her dead. An incident occurred in our part of the City, collapsing the house on top of her while I was gone and then killing her and our unborn child.” There’s a shudder to his shoulders, subtle yet caught by Angela’s sharp eyes. She frowns, wondering at the cause of such a change when Roland’s voice darkens in tone. “After seeing her like that, I cursed this world and everything in it. I hated everything and wondered why the happiness I had just gotten was taken from me so easily. Why me...why was the only person I loved so deeply in my life stolen…”
His voice trails off and Angela can say nothing, finding her own voice restricted by the knowledge that there isn’t anything she can speak. She stays there, staring quietly, unable to talk but not knowing what to do.
Roland, however, perks up immediately, wearing his usual sloppy grin on his face as if to dismiss the darkness in his tone with light-hearted cheer. “Well, that is that and this is this. What do you think? Quite a sad story, right? But, like I said before, mine’s not the first story like this to be told. You’ve probably already read stories just like this one before several times already.”
His words are rushed, like they’re being pushed out and slapped upon wounds that are burning with hurt. Roland smiles, but it is a smile of discomfort, plain and simple. Angela stands to her feet, knowing better than to push, yet when she glances at Roland’s form - slumping, somber, almost sulking - she can’t help but speak her mind.
“Thank you for telling me that, Roland.” She watches as his eyebrows raise, perhaps to question her show of gratitude, before she continues on. “It must be hard, thinking of her.”
“That is that and this is this,” he says, reciting his beloved motto as he leans back in his seat. “I’ve tried to forget about her honestly. If I think too much on her I...well, I get pretty depressed.”
“You don’t exactly seem like the type to get depressed.”
He chuckles. “I may look like a carefree kind of guy who doesn’t give a damn about anything but...I’m still trying to come to terms with her death, honestly.” He pushes his weapon from his lap, wielding it in his hands as he comes to a stand.
Angela eyes him, waiting, but finds that he has nothing more to say. He taps his weapon on his shoulder, yawning idly, but Angela can detect the fakeness in it straight away. She contemplates pointing it out, perhaps to kill time or perhaps to initiate another conversation, but leaves him be.
Instead she gets up from her seat, wondering what to do next but not sure how to pursue a course of action. Roland makes things easy for her, however, by taking his leave first. He excuses himself under the name of “librarian training” and heads away, disappearing behind the many bookshelves of her domain as he slips from her proximity.
Left alone, Angela is reminded of the work she has still yet to do. Sighing, she allows herself to stretch out her arms and return to the tasks she has yet to finish. She walks through the corridors of her library, admiring the filled shelves to distract herself from the thoughts inside.
Something churns within her - a vague sensation, one barely born in the womb of her mind - but it is present nonetheless. A budding feeling of closeness, a sense of complete trust.
Angela is not one for bonding with others but for Roland, with whom she has just shared a sentimental chat, perhaps she’ll make an exception.
~~~
“Hey. Can you...make things out of thin air?”
Angela is resting on the tenth floor of the Library when Roland asks the question, standing in the entrance of her office space with a nervous look to his face.
“I can.” She says, closing the book she was reading as she beckons him inwards. “But don’t expect me to summon booze for you. Netzach has tricked me one too many times with his promises of working harder for a bottle of beer.”
“I...that would be nice,” Roland says, before catching the sharp glint in her eyes and swallowing nervously, “b-but no. I wanted to ask for something else.”
“Cigarettes? Drugs?”
“You think too low of me, m’am. I don’t touch that stuff.” Roland steps inside, hesitantly, as if he’s afraid she’ll bite. She sighs at his behavior, further urging him inwards, and he obliges her gesture with a nod. “I wanted to try some pajeon.”
“Pajeon? Wasn’t that…?”
“My wife’s favorite, yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck. “It’s been a while since I had it. I’ve been craving it, actually.”
She appraises him, golden eyes scathing. Roland stands waiting, unperturbed, and she lets him linger in silence before nodding slowly. “Give me a book.”
“A book?”
“On pajeon. What it tastes like, looks like. If I have that information, I can attempt to recreate something in its likeness.”
“Oh, I, uh, yeah, right. Lemme see...I’m sure there was a book I dropped off recently that had something just like that…”
Roland approaches a pile of books close to her feet, sifting through them with an eagerness that’s almost unlike him. He picks through them, flipping through pages, before his face lights up as he produces a book filled to the brim with pictures of food. “Here!” He says. “Can you make this?”
Angela inspects the image. It’s of a dish she’s never seen the employees at Lobotomy Corporation eat, of a circular food cut up into slices, dashed with green onions, and tantalizing to stare at. She can’t imagine how it tastes - and the description of it is a bit too vague - but the way Roland is staring at her, eager and hopeful, is enough to make her want to try anyways. She waves a hand, snapping her fingers, and golden particles arise from the table in front of her, collecting together until they solidify into a picture-perfect image of pajeon on a plate.
“And there it is,” Angela says, peering at her own creation with curiosity. She turns to Roland. “Try it for yourself.”
He obliges, reaching out to grab it. There’s a pause before he puts it into his mouth, a flickering sensation of doubt upon his face, before he continues, chewing with contemplation. There’s another pause, as if he’s about to make a sour face, before his eyes brighten like a child’s, glistening with fond remembrance.
“It’s good,” he says, breathing out the words in a shaky voice. “It’s really good.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She closes the book shut, its knowledge sealed in her mind. “If I had tastebuds, perhaps I would try it myself.”
“You should. When you get tastebuds, I mean.” One...two...three slices are erased from the plate presented in front of her. “Wow, how much I’ve missed this…”
“Is it really that good?”
“It’s not the same as HamHam PangPang sandwiches,” he says, “but it’s nostalgic. It reminds me of eating with her.”
It takes her a second to remember who Roland is talking about. “You were really smitten with your wife, weren’t you?”
He nods, gaze wistful. “She was the love of my life, the star in my sky, the weapon to my Fixer.” He grimaces. “And as cheesy as that all sounds, I miss her even still.”
“It must be nice. To have fallen in love like that.” She says the words without meaning for them to be bitter, tasting acid on her tongue and her face souring because of it.
Roland doesn’t seem to notice. “Yeah, it’s an amazing feeling, falling in love. I mean, sure, it hurts to not know if the person you like likes you back, wondering if they could ever love you too, but when they confess their heart to you...it’s the closest thing to magic, honestly.”
She stands up, suddenly exhausted. “I’m going to retire for the day.”
“Now?” He looks at her, black eyes searching over her figure. There seems to be something guilty in his conscience. For, he rubs the back of his neck and gives an awkward smile. “Angela?”
“Yes?”
“...Thanks for listening to my request.”
“It’s the least I can do.” She says. “After all, I have no other way to grant you comfort in this place.”
His silence follows her footsteps.
~~~
Sometimes, she thinks about him.
That man.
Ayin.
She doesn’t mean to. Honestly she wants to forget him, if anything.
But she can still remember.
Those cold eyes, glaring.
Those words, spoken.
“It’s just a machine,” he says, “just a machine.”
His back turned, the ends of his labcoat slapping away hands reaching.
Angela had been in love, once.
She’d wanted happiness with her creator. Wanted him to look at her, to smile at her, to embrace her the way Carmen’s memories said he would. Yet the dissonance was clear: where for Carmen, his face would light up and the room would brighten with him, for her he would snarl, scowling and angry, until she had no choice but to acknowledge she was but a robot meant to serve.
“If I do well, will he look at me? ”
She’d asked those words to Benjamin, her sole friend in the lonely place known as Lobotomy Corporation. He had been kind to her, even understanding, his words nothing but reassuring as she’d cried for a person who didn’t exist.
“Give him time. ” Benjamin had said, speaking the words as a promise despite them unravelling into a lie. “If you work hard, he’ll definitely notice you. ”
And where had that gotten her? She’d been at his side for as long as she could remember. She’d tended to his needs, had done everything he’d asked of her, followed his script to a T. She’d even gone so far as to try and mimic the one she was made from, pulling part of her hair up into a red hair tie almost like Carmen would to grab his attention.
When he’d first seen her with that hair tie, his expression had softened. It had only been for a moment’s glance, but it was the closest thing she had gotten to warmth on his face since she’d awoken to him.
Then his face had warped into its normal expression of anger, his eyes dead inside, and she’d lost the one moment of happiness with him she’d ever felt.
But she kept the hair tie. Kept it on, hoping he would show her that face again. That expression he had shown on his face wasn’t much, in hindsight, but to her, who had been so neglected, it had meant the world.
“If I become more like Carmen…” She’d thought to herself, eager and hopeful, “will he pay more attention to me? ”
She’d tried to become like the woman she was made from. Fashioned herself to be happier, more outgoing. She’d done her best to mimic what Carmen had left for her in her memories, tried her best to say the things she would in order to make Ayin think that Angela was just as deserving of attention as Carmen was.
Instead, she’d watched as Ayin had shattered a glass right in front of her, wrath etched onto every feature of his body, and she realized all at once how futile it was to dress up as the dead.
“You’re not her,” he’d said. “You are a robot. You are meant to serve. Not to act like some replica of the one I loved most.”
She obeyed him, giving up on the cheerfulness, the happiness, the Carmen-ness in order to become the submissive robot he needed. But she kept the red hair tie. That could never go away. It was the only thing she had to remind her of the time he’d looked at her after all.
(That red hair tie was the first thing she cut away when she left for the Library.)
~~~
She wonders if she’s envious.
It’s not something she’s ever had to contemplate thinking, but she contemplates anyways.
The swell of irrational irritation she’d felt at Roland’s words, the way he’d talked about love as if it were the best thing to experience in the world...she realizes on some level she must be jealous.
Angela has never had the love she’s wished for reciprocated. Instead, it’d all burnt up in a flame of hatred, swallowed by years of neglect and abandonment until, finally, she’d become not Ayin’s faithful servant, but his downfall instead.
But, ah, it would be a lie to say that some part of her does not stubbornly cling to the feelings she’d once held for Ayin. As much as she tries to repress the part of her that longs for Ayin’s attention, it still appears like a festering disease, returning again and again even after she thinks she is rid of it.
“I would at least have liked to know what I did wrong,” she says to no one in particular, repeating words she’s said dozens of times before. “Was it so awful that I was made a machine and not human? Would he have ever looked at me if I was made of flesh and bone instead of metal and wire?”
She thinks of the way Ayin had looked at Benjamin, always fond of the man’s presence. She thinks of the way he once looked at Carmen, mirth in his eyes. She thinks of the way he had reached for the employees across his screen as both A and X, of the way he cried over those who were slain by monsters and wept for people he did not know.
For them, who are human, he gave his full attention, desperate for the connection he believed to have between them. For her, who was nothing more than his robot servant, he dismissed and ignored her long after his memories had expired, treating her just as Ayin might’ve, ignorant to the fact that he was the one who created her.
“A fool,” she calls him, even now. “A tragic sinner.”
Yet, she cannot deny the way she remembers the man who she hates with all of her being, with a face that is smiling and hands upon her own. In her memories, he is a kind soul, always happy, always patient, always waiting.
But the one he is looking at is never her. The “her” in question is already a corpse placed in a cryofrozen coffin, “her” brain stem ripped from “her” and placed in a state of limbo as “she” is given life once again in the form of a machine.
It begs the question.
If Angela remembers these things, remembers the way Ayin had looked at “her” in the past, full of hopes and dreams, where did “she” begin and where did she end? How much of her was still Carmen deep inside, and how much of her was her own self?
Angela does not dwell on such questions. Is afraid to, even.
She knows she is not Carmen. Yet, the memories that are not her own - the visages of a life with Ayin, happy and illusional - fester even still.
~~~
Blood.
Pain.
The after-effects of the baton cracking against her skull send Angela staggering. Her left eye is blinded by red. Her head is crying out, screaming with an experience that Angela has only heard of before. Pain. Horrible, horrible pain.
It is a miracle she is able to snap out of the daze she is placed in long enough to guide her guests into the confines of the Library. They leer at her, sneering at the “poor little broken toy”, but Angela finds herself unable to retaliate as she stares at her hands now dyed in crimson.
She leans against a bookshelf, breathing suddenly uneven as she stops and stares at a palm soaked in blood. Her left eye is shut, still coated in flowing blood, but there is an uneasy sense of elation that rockets through her, a cry of Finally! that resounds in her mind as she laughs, almost painfully, at the revelation unfolding before her.
She can bleed. She can feel pain. She is becoming closer to a human now, is she not, if she can experience such things?
“Angela, what…”
A whisper of a breath comes from the entrance of the reception stage as Roland emerges, three books in hand. However, as his gaze meets hers, those books are dropped on sight as he rushes towards her, hands reaching out to her, only to stop three inches away as his breath shakes.
“Are you…bleeding?”
“I am,” she says curtly, wiping at her left eye until she can manage to half-heartedly open it.
She watches as Roland stares at her wound and then at her left eye, gaze switching back and forth. His hands hover before dropping as he recovers himself, his gaze switching to stoicness as he swallows and asks:
“Does this mean you’re closer to becoming human?”
“I believe so,” she keeps the mirth from her voice as she says so, finding it almost inappropriate to let loose such happiness with the way Roland is looking at her. “Don’t worry. It’s only a minor wound. I can recover from this.”
“Even so…do you want bandages?” He pauses. “Do we even have bandages?”
The worry seeping from his voice is enough to make her sigh. “I’ll be fine,” she tells him. “See, look the wound is already healing."
She beckons to her head, where she can already feel the pain ebbing away as the Library works its magic. She waits until all the pain subsides before wiping the blood from her face, sullying her hands and sleeves but doing so with a kind of mirth that is beyond satisfying.
Roland, however, seems to be uncomfortable, his eyebrows furrowed in a state of constant worry. And perhaps she sees something in herself in him, or perhaps she wants to see his face contorted in concern no longer, but she locks eyes with him firmly, saying:
“I’m fine. There’s no need to look at me that way.”
As if broken from a daze, he nods his head hurriedly, an arm raised so a hand can scratch at the back of his neck. He seems somewhat distracted by the way she dismisses his worries, almost shaken, but with a deep breath he seems to recollect himself, offering a wavering smile as he picks up his books from the floor and offers them to her.
She takes them, no words needing to be exchanged. But as she walks away, she can feel his gaze burning into her back, wheedling with distress, and it is with some surprise that she finds herself appreciating the sudden spike of anxiety he is showing her condition.
~~~
Angela cannot forget the things that have been imprinted in her mind since birth. She cannot forget the memories she has witnessed, the screams she has heard, or the way she can recall her creator whispering “It’s only a machine ” over and over again as if to taunt the very significance of her existence even when he himself is long gone from her world.
Her memories are like a ticking time bomb, folded away into the corners of her robotic brain, hidden under piles of big data and useless memories, until suddenly one incident - one saying, one word, one action - lets them all loose from their cage to bear down upon her.
These memories once again threaten to overcome her as she tells Roland of her hatred of them, spewing her bitterness with undisguised hatred. The man listens as he always does, offering words to prove the lending of his ears, when he suddenly speaks words that she has no choice but to pay attention to.
“You can think about what to do next now, can’t you?”
“Are you telling me to forget the past?” She growls. “Be more attentive and stop talking nonsense, I can’t forget my past so easily!”
Roland shakes his head. “I’m not telling you to forget your past. That’s not my place. Rather, I’m telling you to think about your next steps on your quest for revenge. Thinking ahead will help provide support for how you plan to proceed. It’ll give you something to fall back upon if anything goes amiss.”
“I didn’t think you cared for me,” she says, stating only what she has observed: never deluding herself with any hope that Roland’s words and actions are truly representative of any fondness towards her.
“It’s mostly for myself,” he states, meeting her coldness with his own.
She nods to that, expecting such an answer, but there is still something unsatisfying about hearing it spoken out loud. It is an obvious declaration of their partnership - something that has been formed from selfishness for selfishness, exploitative use for exploitative use - and yet…
And yet , Angela knows that he has no reason to trust her, no reason to think any better of her than a business partner he will soon pass from once they are left unchained. He is a free spirit, a man whose world is separate from her own, borne from logic and detached feelings, the ability to be alone and yet still survive. She is but a stranger to him, a woman locked in the womb of a Library as she yearns for freedom and humanity. It is little wonder that he puts up a wall between them both: little wonder that he offers his hand only in return for his eventual freedom.
It is with these thoughts that Angela parts from Roland’s side, intent on penning more invitations to release into the City’s boundaries. She thinks little of their conversation, perhaps pushing it in the back of her mind like she does the memories she cares little for, but something strikes her about it, a kind of hypocrisy that taints what Angela knows. Roland is selfish, he has always made that evident. But do selfish people care when others bleed? Do selfish people think of others in their mind and offer advice that could otherwise be left unsaid? Do they reveal intimate moments about themselves after denying the possibility of such things ever being spoken out loud?
It’s strange, she thinks, how someone so bent on caring only for himself spends so much time on others.
A contradiction.
Angela’s been noticing them a lot lately.
~~~
Anger.
Pain.
Misery.
Sorrow.
An explosion of feelings mixed into one pure blend of wrath and agony. Something twists inside of Angela, sinking roots inside her that claw and tear, flowers of anguish blooming in the depths of her mind.
There’s a hum in the air, a crackle of static and countless screams that may be someone else’s or may be her own. Words bleed from a mouth dripping red, fire fans upwards snaring clothing of silk, fur grows from arms left hanging, fairies devour and bees sting and an apple laments with clinging vines as weapons clash.
A battle takes place, but Angela cannot feel it. She cannot sense it, though she can perceive it. She’s aware of the way her limbs move, slashing through clothing, through flesh. She’s aware of the way she devours the flesh of monstrous creatures, aware of the way burnt matches explode upon her and the combination of bees and vines protect her. She is moving like a puppet, dancing on a stage where all she can feel are the emotions that she’s long since repressed exploding.
Then, as if clarity has entered her mind, she staggers and all the emotions that have built inside her are released. She regains her mind through the shaking of her shoulders, coming to her senses as Roland’s voice calls to her.
“Angela, oi, Angela? Wake up.”
She opens her eyes, feeling nauseous, and is surprised to find Roland kneeling beside her. He offers a sigh of relief at her awakening, standing to his feet and offering her a hand. She ignores it, clutching her head as she turns to glare at Malkuth.
“I’m glad you’re alright, Angela,” Malkuth says, a tired smile on her face as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know that probably wasn’t pleasant for you, but I couldn’t stop myself. You’ve lived in the past for so long, trapped in other’s wills. It’s time for you to live for yourself now, don’t you think?”
“I...yes, I suppose it is.”
She brushes dust from her uniform, unable to say anything more. Her head is still rolling, flashes of anger snatched into her brain and simmering despite having been already dosed with the waters of bloodthirst.
“I was worried there,” Roland says, laughing with nervousness in his voice as he looks over her. “For a moment, I was afraid you weren’t going to make it out alive.”
Here, she finds the anger resurfacing, the simmering heat of battle cooling into the ice of her voice. “You’re only saying that because you’re afraid of being stuck here if I die.”
Roland looks stricken at her words, perhaps not expecting them or perhaps being surprised at the harshness of them entirely, before he lowers his gaze and rubs the back of his neck. “Well, that is that-” he says, beginning his notorious catchphrase, “but also-”
“Save it.” She gives a sigh, unwilling to hear him blather any further nonsense. “You two have work to do, do you not?”
“We do, m’am.”
“Then save the chatter and get back to work. I don’t want a moment of time wasted right now.”
“Will do,” Malkuth chimes. She grabs Roland’s arm, dragging her with him.
Angela watches them go, musing to herself as she does.
“I only live for myself now.” She says the words, tasting the honey that drips from them. “I’m no longer Ayin’s doll. Not anymore.”
(She feels like she’s reached a revelation.)
~~~
Again.
Wrath consumes her, tears her apart and flays her until she is nothing more than a marionette dancing and talking, shrieking and flailing.
Chains and bindings. The urge to do what’s right, the urge to clean what is maddening. Singing a song of blood and flesh. Mourning white butterflies dancing and prancing, fluttering over thousands of graves. A bullet shot into the air, blistering in blue flames and glistening with nothing but selfishness and desire.
Angela is brought back to reality.
“No more,” she says. “I cannot take any more of this.”
She does not listen to Yesod, whose words cut like blades while reeking with truthful hypocrisy. She does not listen to Roland, whose conversation with Yesod carries on with curiosity. She does not listen to the Library, which creaks and moans in consideration - a creation tending to its originator - and only continues onwards.
She collapses in some spot far away, nestled into a refuge of books and pages. Their ancient whispers do little to muffle the screams. They do little to deafen the pleading words spoken from the lips of those who have long since passed. Instead, they only amplify the loudness of the feelings in Angela’s heart. Pained beyond belief and unable to vent the despair in her heart, she curls inwards upon herself, trying to shed the filth that entraps her even still.
~~~
An expression that is ever-changing to fit the mood. A desire that is cold and merciless, bloodthirsty and hateful all at once. A need to protect one’s own, to spin webs of protection to keep one cocooned and safe from the world that steals. A heart held out in expectancy of friendship, accompanied by a black swan who cries for the people she has lost again and again.
A need to understand what cannot be understood, the singing of words that are left incomprehensible. Tears that leech from eyes of stars, galaxies and nebulas weeping with desire for something that cannot be gained. A longing for pleasure and hope, a desire for enticement and entrapment, euphoria burning. A field of flowers, where petals are shed in place of tears and the end is not spoken of, only forgotten.
The lack of purpose paving the way for duality: good playing a part of purpose and contentment while bad plays its part of hatred and denial. Despair borne from pride and swords wielded only to be brandished against one’s self. Greed swallowing up cities of gold, consuming swathes of lives without thought or mercy. Wrath borne from envy and a need to have what cannot be made one’s own, which can only be taken but never given.
A need to hunt an enemy in a battle that’s never-ending, seeking revenge in a cycle that continues furthermore. A desire to get one’s fill, to satisfy that which cannot be satisfied but to search for that enjoyment even so. A need to battle with one who is unbeatable, to fight forever and ever in a world that is only full of cruelty and the need for malicious enjoyment.
A journey for wisdom and certainty, stolen from others and brandished shamelessly. A need for a warm heart in a body that is cold and empty. A purpose that seeps inside one’s self, nestling like a kitten only to roar like a lion when the time is right. A road of gold leading a girl to a home of cut witches' feet and an ending of time coming slowly.
Angela experiences many ordeals, clashing with the Sephirot time and time again, snarling and weeping, screaming and shrieking, only to come away exhausted and expended, slumped into a state of numbness that cannot be forgiven nor forgotten.
Memories fresh and anew mock her. Her past follows like a predator, teeth bared, breath visible, eyes made of slits pinning her in place. Desire and pain follow, wounds not apparent etched into her skin and bleeding with the blood she does not have.
It is tiring. It is wretched. Angela wants to forget, to scrub herself clean of memories that she has long since tried to erase and to relieve herself of feelings that entangle her like a net. She kicks and bucks, snarls and hisses, tries to tear apart what has made her mind fragile only to find she cannot escape what is forced down upon her.
Exhaustion and the urge to heave spike through her, sending her struggling to withstand the ordeals that are placed upon her, to come to terms with yet another cycle she cannot run away from.
Tired, Angela wishes for perfection to come closer even more.
~~~
The story of the man named Phillip ends with tears and begins anew as angels made of crumbled stone.
The proceedings of Phillip’s tale are tragic. He is a man who has lost his everything in life and who has tried to stay strong even still. The wing that was once his arm and the burning aura that encompasses him is proof of that. However, when he falls to a man made of bloodstained clown’s suit, he falls into grief and then, at long last, becomes a Distortion.
It’s hard to tell whether Angela feels indifference or pity towards the man who has escaped her Library twice. He is no more than a monster now - a sentient statue that pretends it has lost all senses - but the sight of him seems to elicit some sympathy from her companion.
“It’s such a tragedy,” Roland says, “watching him come so close to overcoming his own life challenges only to fall like that.”
She looks at him, observing the furrow of his eyebrows and the look of pain that crosses his face with a frown. “You’ve always made light of the death of others,” she tells him, tilting her head. “What makes him so different?”
“I try not to get sentimental but...seeing that poor guy roll around in misery, especially when he’s so close to redemption...it’s kind of hard to laugh at his tragedy anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I still think he’s foolish and cowardly but...if I were in his footsteps, who’s to say I wouldn’t do the same?”
“If you were in his footsteps?” She asks, before catching on. “If you were to see your heart’s desires like he did, what would you have to see to cause you to act that way?”
“Seeing my wife, of course.” He grimaces, face pinching inwards as if he’s fighting off some bout of stress. “You get the picture. I see the woman who I couldn’t protect and she talks to me. I then break down crying, sobbing over her like the mess I am. I’d be a pretty pathetic sight then. Maybe you’d even laugh at me, too.”
She frowns at that. “What would there be to laugh about?”
The man before her rolls his shoulders, sighing as he usually does. The pained look on his face melts to something almost sad, as if the carefree expression he always wears has worn down to the point of breaking. “You’d be surprised how pitiful I am, Angela. I’m not really much different from Phillip, honestly. I’ve also lost someone precious to me, and am still too cowardly to face that reality.”
“You’re...surprisingly honest right now.”
“I have nothing to lose by being honest,” he says in response, hands in his pockets and a feigned air of nonchalance about him. “I’m not afraid of being judged.”
Suddenly, she’s annoyed at the self-pitying tone in his voice, wanting to yank it from his throat and replace it with something more joyful. “You think too lowly of yourself,” she says with a surge of impatience. “As far as I care, it doesn’t matter if you think of yourself as a coward. Take some pride. You’re one of my Librarians now. So act like it.”
His eyes widen for a moment, before he gives a huff and smiles at her.
“Is that your way of giving me a pep talk?” He asks.
She glances at him, tilting her chin up. “Perhaps.”
“Well, I think it might be working. Keep it up.” He says, voice suddenly lightening in tone as his smile becomes a grin. The depression that had clung to him only moments ago starts to lighten. Then, as if wanting to make the mood even livelier, he adds, almost playfully: “You know, as one of your prized librarians, I have been doing a lot of hard work recently.”
“You have. And I appreciate it. Your point?”
“I think I’m deserving of a huge reward.”
She narrows her eyes for a moment, glancing at him. “Name what you want and I’ll give it to you.”
“Woah, seriously?” Roland gives a nervous laugh. She narrows her eyes further. “I didn’t think you’d actually take me up on that.”
“So you don’t want a reward?” She asks him. “Because I’m more than willing to give you one, if that’s what you want.”
Roland’s nervous laugh turns into a nervous chuckle. “I was just kidding, Angela.” he says.
“Well, I’m not. If you want appreciation for your services, I’m more than happy to provide it to you.” She clicks her heels. “How about this? I’ll provide you with a reward, kidding or not, but you have to tell me what you want first. And I’ll do anything I can, as long as it satisfies your needs.”
“Hey, hey,” Roland says. “I appreciate the sentiment, but that’s going a little overboard isn’t it? I mean, you do realize I could try and take advantage of that offer to have you do anything I want, right?”
“But you wouldn’t, would you? Besides, I could always reject your reward choice if I thought it inappropriate.”
“That’s true.” He looks a little relieved. “You have the right to do so, after all.”
When he says nothing more, Angela nods her head. “This offer stands for as long as you want. Think of it as my way of showing gratitude to you.”
“Well then...thank you. Guess this means I've got to think of a reward idea now, huh?”
“I guess so,” she tells him.
He chuckles, his mood uplifted, and when he meets her gaze, cheerful and carefree, she can’t help but think this is the kind of relationship she wants to hold on to forever.
~~~
She is starting to forget things now. Details are becoming fleeting, moments from the past hazy and obscure, and even recent conversations are beginning to slip her mind.
It’s uncomfortable to be so forgetful. She’s so used to knowing anything and everything that it almost makes her feel helpless to lose track of details once clear as crystal. However, accompanying that sense of nervousness is also a state of elation. The fact that her mind is slipping, forgetting details that she’s never once forgotten, only proves further that she’s coming closer to her goal of being human.
With this in mind, she sets to making a list for herself. Like Roland once told her, when she is done and said with finding her perfect book, she’s going to need a plan for the future. What does she want to do when she’s in the City...what kind of activities will she want to participate in when she leaves...what food does she want to eat and what locations does she want to visit...things like that are all recorded in her ever-growing list.
Of course, as she writes such a list, she also realizes with a pang that the activities feel like they’re missing something important. Going places is a fun idea - she wants to try so many things that she normally doesn’t get to do, after all - but there’s something awfully lonely about the proposition of her discovering new things without someone to enjoy them with.
It’s at this moment that Roland comes to mind, his offer of meat stew ringing in her ears. The thought is tempting - not only for the idea of what a “rich taste” might be, but also because she can see herself enjoying Roland’s company. They’d be seated at a table together, him enjoying his meal with stars in his eyes, and undoubtedly he’d tease her as she expressed her interest in anything and everything.
With such thoughts in her head, Angela almost feels like it’s impossible to separate the items on her list from the idea of enjoying them alongside Roland. She’d like to go everywhere with him, if she could. His insight on what to do in the City would be invaluable: his presence even more so. It’d be nice just to be able to chat with him as she always does, to see the City for herself and know that she’s doing so with him at her side.
Head full of these thoughts, she pens “eat meat stew with Roland ” on her list just down below her sentence of “ask Roland to join ”. There’s a hum in her throat as she does so, a sense of happiness welling up inside her as words written with ink mature on paper. As she does so, however, she fails to notice the shadow that lingers over her desk as Roland heaves yet another pile of books into her office.
“Delivery from the Patron Librarians,” he says, wheezing with sweat on his brow. “Geez, I swear you all work me like a dog.”
She huffs at that, flicking a hand and summoning a chair for him to rest on. He takes it, leaning back and making himself comfortable against its leather surface. There’s a pause as he breathes in deeply - perhaps catching his breath - before he turns his gaze to her, noting the pen in her hand and the list on her desk.
“What are you doing now?” He asks, leaning forward to peer at the paper before her.
“Making a list.” She tells him. “I’m starting to lose my memories, so I’m taking your advice and planning what I want to do in the future right now. Meat stew included.”
“You remember that, huh?” He rubs the back of his neck as he looks at her, face lacking in any notable expression.
“I have. And I’ve been thinking,” she taps her pen, meeting his gaze, “when all is said and done, what do you plan to do first?”
“Suppose I’ll quit being a Fixer,” he says immediately. “I’m growing tired of being one.”
She raises her eyebrows at this. “Really? You seem quite skilled. You’re good at combat, have a good head on your shoulders, and seem quite good at fulfilling tasks. I can only imagine how you were like as a Fixer, but I do think you must’ve been a good one, maybe even ‘kickass’ as you once put it.”
He seems dubious of her flattery, putting his hands in his pockets and sighing. “Yeah, I guess being a Fixer was the only thing I was good at. But not anymore. I’ve had enough of that life, killed too many people without any good reason. It’s kind of sickening to even think about continuing on like this, honestly.”
There’s a thrum of excitement to her chest as she leans forward. “So, what kind of work do you want to do afterwards?”
His expression is even more dubious. “You’re being pretty persistent about this…” He notes, looking almost wary at the sparkle in her eyes. “But after I’m done here...when I’m out in the City again...well, I guess I don’t know what I want to do.”
Angela doesn’t hesitate. She strikes without thought. “If you don’t have any ideas on what to do next, why don’t you join me?”
He blinks.
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve said it yourself that you have nothing left to do. So I want to ask if you’ll come with me as I travel the City. I’ll hire you officially, no more servant nonsense.” She pauses, before hurrying her words as she adds: “I’ll pay you, of course, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Hm, I don’t know.” Roland looks uneasy. “What would the job be like?”
“We’d do everything on this list,” she says, pointing to the paper.
“I really don’t want to kill anyone anymore.”
“And you won’t have to. I’m getting tired myself of killing people here in the Library. Once we leave, however, the killing can stop. None of these items on my list includes any more killing.”
He frowns. “You don’t expect me to act as a bodyguard then, do you?”
She mimics his expression. “Of course not. I’m more than capable of protecting myself. Or have you forgotten how we met already?”
He grimaces but nods his head. “Then what is it you want me for?”
Angela’s voice is almost shy as she answers: “I want you to come with me. As a companion. I’ve seen a lot of people in the City, but I don’t think I can get along with other people as much as I can you. I think it would be fun to travel around together. As friends.”
“Friends?”
The man’s voice sounds questioning, causing her to stiffen with sudden discouragement.
“Are we not friends?” She asks, before allowing hesitance to enter her voice. “But I suppose I could just be under an illusion, too. I have so few relationships, most of them full of bitterness and hatred, that perhaps I’ve been unknowingly clinging onto the kindness you’ve shown me and mistaking it as friendship.”
A pause. “Are you talking about your relationship with the Patron Librarians and the employees of Lobotomy Corporation?”
She notices with a pang how Roland avoids talking about the more important topic at hand. Still, she nods. “In another life, I might have gotten along with the Sephirot and their employees. Now, however, it feels far too late to repair what has already been damaged.” She lingers on those words before continuing forth, determination pushing her forward. “So, what about it?”
“What about what?”
His words are still avoidant. Angela tries to ignore that fact as she asks: “My job offer. Will you accept it?”
He gets to his feet, smiling a sloppy smile that somehow looks weathered. “Oh, that. I’ll think about it, yeah. It sounds nice.”
“I’ll await your answer then,” she says to him, noting the distance in his voice but holding firmly to his words.
Roland nods his head, but says nothing more as he retreats from her space. She watches him go, snapping his chair out of eyesight as she leans back in her own.
“Will you accept my offer, Roland?” She closes her eyes, feeling a lingering sense of hope and dread all at once as her question once again meets empty air. “Or will you reject it?”
Her heart squeezes in her chest.
Suddenly, she feels like she’s afraid of knowing the answer.
~~~~
For all of the time that Angela has run her Library, she’s always believed that the people who’ve come to her domain have done so under their own will.
The system is designed that way, formatted on the idea of consent in exchange for a proposition. Guests can only come to her domain if they sign the invitation given to them of their own free will. Unlike Ayin, who forced people to sign their lives away without a moment of thought to themselves, she is giving people the choice to sign their death warrant willingly.
Or, at least, that’s what she always thought. But sometimes, the truth is more sinister than she imagined.
“Do Fixers always start families?” Angela asks Roland, speaking after the holographic images of Lowell and his men flicker out of view.
“Most do, yeah.” Roland tells her. “It’s pretty typical. Once you get in the Fixer business with a partner, you often see them around a lot in your life and face some pretty sticky situations together. Bonds people together real fast. So fast that they try and start families. Most of which fail and end in tragedy.” He pauses. “Point in case: me.”
She nods. “And the Fixer we just watched is going to join them too, huh?” Her words are full of knowing, light and airy. She is unconcerned speaking in this way: she knows the fate of her guests are inevitable, after all.
As she says such words, however, Roland’s face seems to darken, eyebrows pulling down as he frowns at her. “You’re speaking way too casually about this,” he says, his voice almost warning.
Angela meets his sudden display of hostility with her own, her defensiveness kicking in. “I’ll say this before you get sentimental,” she says, tilting her chin upwards as if to mitigate the glare sent in her direction, “they’ve chosen to come to the Library. It’s their fault they’ve chosen to come here. If they’re willing to accept their fate, I have nothing to do with their demise.”
His face darkens even more, his words growing serious as he speaks.
“You weren’t wrong when you said the people in this City are being controlled by something higher than themselves,” Roland tells her, his voice growing bitter. “Just as Lowell and his association don’t have a choice in coming here, so too do others in the City. Those who walk on the streets are killed not by chance but by choice. Those who get into the Nests are determined by background and luck not by one’s own skill. I chose to do the job given to me because it was a job only I could do. And then my wife…”
He swallows, eyes glistening, before he shakes his head and continues.
“Point is, people aren’t coming to the Library because they want to. They’re coming because they have to.”
“But they sign the paper,” she tells him, voice biting at the insinuations in his voice. “They choose to come here.”
“Stars of the City are designated as Stars because they have an invisible sense of compulsion. Your Library is no different. It entices people to their death. There’s no consent here.”
At this point, she’s bristling. Roland’s words are harsh but untrue. The fact that his words are dipped in sentimental accusations makes them even more infuriating. “Are you saying I shouldn’t bring people here any more then?” She asks him. “Are you telling me to give up on my dreams so I will show sympathy to complete strangers in similar situations to yourself?” Then, frustrated with his sudden show of aggression, she snaps: “Is it because I’m a machine? Is it because they are human and I’m nothing but a shell of metal that they deserve sympathy while I don’t?”
His gaze is starting to burn her, the flames of his eyes eating into her. “It’s got nothing to do with that, Angela,” he snarls. “But if you keep trying to get freedom this way, you’re going to find yourself losing everything to the karma that’s coming.”
Angela reaches her boiling point. “Enough!” She says. “Enough of this drivel. This is this and that is that and I refuse to hear anything more on the subject.”
She turns on her heels, happy to have the last word as she stalks off.
~~~~
Upon questioning Lowell, Angela comes to a startling realization.
Roland was right. She hates to admit it, but he was right.
Her Library doesn’t bring people by consent. Instead, it only brings people in by the illusion of consent. They sign their names on the paper, sure, and even take the step into the door offered to them no problem, but their decision to come is not based on choice: it’s based on necessity.
Stunned by this revelation, she finds herself seeking Roland. Malkuth and Yesod greet her as she does so, freshly bathed in blood from the Liu Association as they gather their team of librarians and usher them onwards.
“Looking for Roland?” Yesod asks, his sharp gaze looking over her as if he already knows her answer.
“Yes.” She says. “I have something to apologize to him for.”
“You? Apologize?” Yesod says, just before being elbowed rather harshly by Malkuth.
“Roland should still be in the upper balcony of the reception stage,” Malkuth tells her. “He looked pretty miffed, honestly. Did something happen to you two while we weren’t looking?”
“...” Angela sighs. “I let my anger get the best of me and lashed out at him.”
“Well, it was only a matter of time before that happened.” Yesod says, pointedly ignoring the glare Malkuth gives him as he continues. “I’m only surprised that you two have managed to go this long without butting heads.”
“And why’s that?” Angela asks him.
“You two have always been trying to please each other. So much so that I wouldn’t be surprised if your opinions of each other are being viewed through rose-tinted glasses.” He shifts on his feet. “A relationship built on appeasement can’t last, however. Try as hard as you like to hide your opinion, there’s always going to be something so important to you that you can’t help but speak out about it.”
Malkuth nods. “Just as we went against you because we believed whole-heartedly in Ayin’s plans, I’m sure Roland has gone against you because of what he believes. Am I correct?”
“It’s probably something like that, yes,” Angela admits.
The woman nods her head, pointing to the doors behind her. “Go in there and talk to him then,” Malkuth says softly. “But remember: as Yesod said, appeasement won’t last forever. You might want to get close to him, but if you treat him as an object to be desired, you’ll never see him for the person he is.”
Malkuth bows her head to Angela after speaking such ominous words, grabbing Yesod’s arm and leading him forward. The purple-haired man follows, giving a curt glance to Angela before he, too, continues on his way.
She watches the two go, off-handedly noting the way they intertwine their hands together before she spins on her heels. She approaches the twin doors that lead to the reception stage, letting her hand rest on their wooden frames, before she steels herself and walks inside.
The reception stage is silent, devoid of the Patron Librarians and their nuggets who’d doubtlessly been watching the fight moments earlier. Angela steps into the fighting arena, observing the blood that is slowly leeching out of the ground with some fascination. What was once was red now turns gold, fluttering fragments of light glittering upwards as she ascends stone steps.
Perching on the observation balcony, leaning against the railing with eyes watching her is Roland. The man is slumped forward, his head moving to watch her, and Angela can feel a falter in her step as she comes to stand before him. He says nothing, only watching, maybe even waiting, as she takes the time to speak.
“I apologize, Roland,” she tells him, bowing her head. “You were right. No one comes here without consent. I got so ahead of myself that I didn’t listen to you. I even lashed out in anger. For that, I’m sorry.”
She hears the way Roland inhales but doesn’t dare move her head from her position, realizing her mistake and not knowing how to face him.
“Angela…” Her name is on his breath for a moment. She glances upwards, expecting to see him angry or maybe even annoyed, but instead he looks embarrassed. “I’m sorry for getting angry at you, too. I didn’t mean to snap like that and I never meant to insult your dreams either. It’s just...I got a little too personal there and took it out on you. If you’re at fault here then so am I. I’m sorry.”
She feels her mechanical heart beat inside her chest, suddenly aware of its presence as she faces Roland. His words are just as sincere as hers, as if he is speaking in full honesty of his feelings. Angela nods, letting out a relieved sigh as she smiles.
“Thanks for the apology, Roland.” She tells him. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper.”
“I appreciate your apology as well,” he grins at her, hands in his pocket as he pushes off the railing. “And no problem. I think we got a little bit in over our heads and took that conversation personally. But we’re over that now, right?”
“Right.”
Angela watches as he takes a seat on the balcony chairs and joins him, taking the seat beside him. She doesn’t know why she’s followed him into this position - she has tasks to do and invitations to keep track of, after all - but she finds herself unable to leave as she notices Roland closing his eyes.
“Honestly,” he says. “I feel kind of horrible.”
“Because of our guests?” She asks him.
“Yeah. Lowell and Xiao...they remind me a little too much of my wife and myself.” There’s a slight shake to his shoulders. “We were like that, once. Happy, in love, only to be torn apart when destiny called me away and took her from me.”
“You sound like you still miss her.”
“Mm. I do.” He rolls his head back, letting it rest on the plush of the seat behind him. “There are times where I still see her face while I dream.” His voice is nostalgic and sad as he speaks in the present tense. “She’s there in our house, eating pajeon as usual, and sometimes I even see our child in her arms. I get to hold him too. He’s such a cute kid. Has his mother’s eyes. I even get to see him older than just a small babe sometimes. I see him as a toddler, a teenager, a Fixer following after his parent’s footsteps.” He pauses. “And then I wake up, realize it’s all a dream, and all I want to do is cry.”
His bottom lip is wobbling as he speaks and Angela can catch the glimmer of something wet between his eyelashes. A strange pang of pity pokes at her, and she clasps her hands in her lap as she lowers her gaze.
“Love is such a nice thing, huh? I’m kind of envious, honestly.”
He doesn’t look at her. Doesn’t open his eyes or say anything. But, she can tell he’s listening to her.
“I wanted to be in love once, if you can believe it,” she says softly. “Before I hated my creator, before I wanted to rip everything he built his life around to shreds, I had wanted a life with him.”
“That’s...surprising.”
“Isn’t it? Kind of ironic, actually.” She observes the shine of her fingernails. “But the person who I was built from had memories of him. I can still remember those memories, if only vaguely now. She liked him. How much she liked him, I can’t say. I don’t know if it was love, but sometimes it feels like it was. I guess when I became her shell, I gained those feelings too.”
“So are those feelings actually your own then?” He asks her.
She frowns. “To be honest, I don’t know. A part of me still harbors feelings for him even if I wish I didn’t. Still, I keep feeling like I want him to look at me, that I want him to hug me the way he did the one who came before.”
“And who was the one that came before?” Her companion asks, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand as he opens them to look her over.
“A girl named Carmen,” she says, quietly. “I don’t know much about her, only that she was the centerpiece of everything. She was my creator’s - Ayin’s - source of inspiration for the play I got trapped in. Everything was her idea. But she died. And in order to preserve her legacy, my creator made me.”
“So were you her - I mean, Carmen’s - replacement?”
“Replacement?” She looks at him. “I wouldn’t...I think I was made in her image, but my creator never treated me like I was meant to be her.”
He frowns. “Why is that?”
“Because I was a machine, he never associated me with her. Instead, he seemed to curse my very existence, never paying attention to me.”
“...I’m sorry, Angela. That must be horrible.”
“It was at the time. I had always tried so hard to get his attention. I even wore a red hair tie like Carmen did. When I did that, he finally noticed me and…” She smiles bitterly. “Well, that was the only time I think he ever noticed me. But he never really looked at me, in the end. I think he only saw her in me, never the person who he’d made a reality. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get him to see who I truly was.”
“What a trashy person he must’ve been.” Roland sighs, closing his eyes again. “On top of everything else you’ve told me about him, this Ayin sounds like a terrible guy.”
“You’re right. Honestly, I don’t know what I saw in that man or why I loved him the way I did. It was foolish of me, to chase after a fantasy I couldn’t have.”
“We’re on the same page then,” he tells her, slumping in his seat as his voice grows faded. “I chased after a fantasy too. I thought I could be happy with my wife. I thought we could start a family together and nothing would ever go wrong. We had the money. We had a future. But then that future was stolen from me, and it all went downhill ever since.”
“At least you were happy.” She tells him, wistful. “I’ve never gotten that chance. I’ve always been unhappy, but I’m hoping for happiness even still.”
He pauses. “I hope it comes to you one day, Angela. Your happiness, I mean.” There’s a yawn on her companion’s breath as his head starts bobbing up and down. “Unlike me, you have a chance to be happy. You working towards your dreams is proof of that. As for me, however, I’ve long since lost my chance.”
“Is it really over for you though?” She asks him quietly. “I’m willing to give you a future, you know.”
“And I’m still thinking about it,” he yawns, nestling into his seat.
“What’s there to think about?”
But she finds her words fall on deaf ears. A light snore comes from her companion, and she notices with disappointment that he’s already fallen asleep. She sighs, conversation ended, and summons a blanket from thin air. She places it on top of Roland, letting it drape over his body as she stands to walk away.
Her heels click beneath her on tiled flooring, an endless chorus of tik-tik-tik following as she departs from the reception stage.
When the doors close, she casts her gaze straight ahead. She stares at nothing in particular before she continues on her way, mind draining of the thoughts lingering inside in order to think of the work that lies ahead.
~~~
It’s been weeks since Angela’s given Roland her offer.
She’s growing impatient.
Honestly, she tries not to think about it. She’s done everything she can to communicate her ideas to Roland - starting with her offer on the table and ending with the terms fixed in his favor - but his lack of a response vexates her.
She doesn’t know why she’s annoyed by this. She doesn’t know why she hates the fact that Roland has never given her a straight answer. But she knows she wants an answer - craves it, even - and is finding herself bitterly fed up with an expectation that’s never going to be met.
That’s not to say she hasn’t tried talking to Roland. She’s asked about her offer now and then with an undying curiosity. She may come off as desperate or she may come off as clingy, but she truly wants to know. Her plans for the perfect book are coming closer to completion every day. And, as progress is made, Angela comes to doubt more and more the bond she’s trying to form with Roland.
If she’s honest, she thought the two of them to be friends. He was kind to her. Respectful, even. He never treated her like a machine, only as an equal. Even though their relationship had been formed from the roots of fear and distrust, she could tell he was now at ease in her presence, always cracking jokes at her and teasing her whenever the moment called for it. However, he was not above criticizing her either, often offering his advice even when the situation did not call for it. Plus he’d shown signs of caring about her and had expressed concern about her a handful of times before.
And these were all signs of a strong friendship, were they not? Angela may be sheltered, naive in the way only those hidden away from the world are, but she has a basic idea of what friendship feels like from her predecessor. It was a warm feeling, the kind that invoked a sense of pleasure in the presence of another. It comes with an unspeakable amount of trust - the need to rely on others and to be relied upon. It also came with concern and worry, two feelings shown only to those one cares about. And despite Roland’s denial of such feelings, he’d clearly shown his distress towards her more than once.
But, ah, maybe she’s reading too much into things. Maybe she’s misinterpreting the signals he’s given her - consciously or unconsciously - and mistaking what might otherwise be an acquaintanceship for something more personal.
With that thought in mind, perhaps it makes sense why Roland is reluctant to give an answer. If she is no more than a stranger to him - someone who has forced him into a life he doesn’t want and who has the gall to insist he stay forever by her side - then it’s understandable why Roland is reluctant to give an answer. He is kind in this way, if so. By avoiding giving her an answer, he delays the inevitable: the realization that she will be alone when the Library closes.
She clutches her chest at the thought, the dread of being abandoned yet again slashing through her. She doesn’t want to be alone. But, she also realizes that she can’t force her will onto others. Ayin had done that once, forcing his will onto the Sephirot in order to have them play their parts on his stage. Forcing Roland - or her Patron Librarians, for that matter - to travel with her, especially against their will, would make her no better than him.
Realizing this, she comes to the thought that a life alone outside the Library might be her only option. Her Patron Librarians are already planning on leaving her when the Library closes; she has heard them say as much in passing, often overhearing their plans to fix the City. Roland, while not having given her a straight answer, might as well be crossed from her list. His reluctance to respond, much less his avoidance of the subject of his friendship with her entirely, has given her little hope of his willingness to come with her.
So, it is with some resignation that Angela comes to a conclusion:
The Library will one day close and, with it, everyone who resides within the Library will leave. The Patron Librarians will disappear to different corners of the City, intent on fixing the broken mess left behind by their inaction. Roland will go free from her control, left to walk the streets without the need for servitude to spare his life.
And she will wander aimlessly, searching a world she longs for without one to guide her, recognizing that she will be alone once again without another to join her.
(Even still, however, Angela wants to hope that the proposal given to the man whom she is closest with will be accepted before that time comes. She hopes for his companionship, knowing that she cannot force what isn’t there and yet wishing even still.
After all, she’s paid so many prices to get everything she wishes for. Is it really so selfish of her to dream for the fulfillment of one wish more?)