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DATE:22nd of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
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My eyes opened on instinct. It was still dark; I couldn't have been unconscious for long. I saw the fountain, which meant someone had moved me. There I was, my head pillowed on something soft—a woman's lap, from the feel of it. The rest of my body lay straight as a plank on the bench. I was utterly exhausted.
I turned my head to look up and met the gaze of some Ventian woman. She had soft, black eyes and clean hair tidied in a bun. Small glasses rested on her nose. She was elegant for a local. Seeing me awake, she smiled softly and began to caress my hair.
"Who are you?" I asked, my voice raspy. "Why did you move me?"
She chuckled softly. "A dried-up fountain isn't a normal bed, even for a drunkard."
"A drunkard?"
"Why else would someone fall unconscious inside a fountain?" she asked. "You're lucky I saw you first. Anyone else would have robbed you blind."
I tried to rise from her lap, but I had no strength. She caressed my cheek softly. "Don't move."
I patted myself down. My phone, guns, and watch were all in place. She really hadn't robbed me? A Ventian? She was too nice.
Whatever. Her thighs were very soft. Not quite like Sasha's, but a close second.
"Who are you?" I asked again.
She tilted her head to the left. "Anastasia Rossi," she said. "I'm a local elementary school teacher. I found you during one of my nightly walks."
"You're behaving suspiciously."
Her eyebrow rose, so I continued.
"A normal Ventian would have gone through my pockets, even if they didn't plan on robbing me," I said. "You would have seen my guns and daggers. Then you would have run."
"'Normal Ventian'?" she asked. "Are you some kind of foreigner, to talk like that? Not all of us are criminals, you know."
I scoffed. "I've spent the better part of three decades in this country. I know what I'm talking about." I added, "And no woman walks alone at night, let alone touches a supposed drunkard."
"You didn't look dangerous," she replied. "Your skin is too well-cared-for to be a local's." A giddy smile touched her lips. "Besides, I thought you were pretty."
I rolled my eyes and tried to push myself up from her soft legs, but failed once again.
"You must have drunk a lot," she said.
"I didn't drink at all," I commented. "I was here to remember."
"Remember what?"
"I used to live in this area," I said, the truth coming easily. "I was feeling nostalgic. The emotions must have gotten the better of me."
"I understand completely," she said, her expression full of pride. "Just yesterday, I visited my grandmother's grave and I almost collapsed. It happens to the best of us."
"What are you really doing out here alone at night? You can't actually just be walking around."
"That's exactly it," she insisted. "I have insomnia, so I've gotten used to walking at night."
"And you aren't scared of the gangsters?"
"I simply stay away from the places they frequent," she replied, strangely proud of her strategy. She started caressing my hair again, but I told her to stop.
"Why do you have such an office-man haircut?" she asked, her curiosity undeterred. "Do you work in the Normandian offices?"
I just shrugged.
Seeing I had no intention of responding, she changed the subject. Her gaze shifted to the building across from us. "I wonder why they never demolished those ruins," she mused aloud. "Only rats live in that burned-out place now."
"The city is evolving backwards," I said, my gaze still fixed on the ruins of my past. She chuckled, a soft, melodic sound that seemed out of place in the grim surroundings.
"What's your name?" she asked.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. "...William."
Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "You're not a very honest person, are you?"
"You're imagining things," I argued, deflecting. I shifted the conversation. "Why are you still letting me keep my head on your lap?"
"I told you," she repeated, "I find you pretty."
"Why?" I asked. "I'm average at best."
She shook her head. "I've never seen anyone with skin as perfect as yours. You have a professionally done haircut, your shave is flawless, and you have no scars, no blemishes. You're a well-cared-for man." She concluded with a knowing smile, "You must be rich."
"You were correct until the last part," I said. "These clothes are cheap."
She raised my hand, her fingers brushing against my wrist. "This watch alone is worth a hundred homes here," she said, chuckling. "You're trying too hard to blend in." She tilted her head, her analytical gaze sweeping over me again. "A man who takes such care of himself would never fit in with the local thugs. You must be a businessman returning from foreign lands, or a local who lives outside the city in one of those new Normandian settlements."
"You're pretty inquisitive for an elementary school teacher," I praised her, my tone dry.
Just then, I remembered. I'd killed five or six men in the alleyway leading to this place. She must have walked right past them to find me. By the wrinkles on her dress, she'd been holding me on her lap for a while; she might have even heard the gunshots. Was she playing dumb? Who was this woman?
Whatever. I had to keep her talking until I recovered my strength.
She tried to caress my hair again, but I pushed her hand away. "I have a girlfriend," I told her.
She sighed, a flicker of genuine disappointment in her eyes. "You do look like a taken man." Then she smiled slyly. "But you also look like a playboy, so it's fine."
"What about me makes you think I'm a playboy?"
She chuckled again. "You're very confident. A normal office worker wouldn't have the courage to set foot in these areas." Her expression softened slightly. "But you do look tired. You can keep sleeping if you want. I don't have anything better to do."
"I sure as hell am not going to sleep in the lap of a stranger."
She sighed sadly. "Do you find me ugly?"
I grimaced. "Why do you think this has anything to do with looks? It's common sense."
"But it's pretty normal in novels," she said, her voice wistful.
"'In novels,'" I repeated, letting the words hang in the air between us.
I didn't know what to say. When her fingers returned to my hair, a wave of exhaustion washed over me, and I gave up the fight. For a few minutes, I just lay there, letting her.
Her hands were soft, unnaturally so. There was a smoothness to her skin that felt manufactured, lacking the fine lines and calluses of a living person. It was like touching polished marble, and a deep, instinctual revulsion coiled in my gut. I couldn't place it, but every brush of her fingertips against my skin felt wrong.
At some point, she lowered her head to get a better look at me, letting out a soft, breathy "Haa..."
"You look so young," she mused. "Are you still in college?"
"It's my routine," I stated.
"A routine? For what?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.
I took a breath and began.
"I believe in taking care of myself, a balanced diet, and a rigorous exercise routine. In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I'll put on an ice pack while doing my stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. After I remove the ice pack, I use a deep-pore cleanser lotion. In the shower, I use a water-activated gel cleanser, then a honey-almond body scrub, and on the face, an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb-mint facial mask, which I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an aftershave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm, followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion."
A genuine, unrestrained laugh escaped her. "My goodness, you're serious," she said, wiping a tear of mirth from her eye. "You put most women to shame. I thought I was being extra by using a separate soap just for my face."
I tried again to rise, and this time, my muscles obeyed. I pushed myself up, my back straight, and shifted to sit beside her on the bench. The world tilted for a moment, then settled. Now I could see her clearly. She wore a modest, black blouse with white polka dots tucked into a long skirt, so she wasn't in a dress after all. She had to be in her late thirties, but she carried her age well.
But the strangeness remained, a discordant note in an otherwise perfect performance. It was her hands.
Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed her right hand, bringing it close to my face and pinning it between both of mine.
She let out a small, surprised, "Oh, my," a blush creeping up her neck. I ignored it. This wasn't seduction; it was an interrogation.
What was it about her hands that my instincts screamed was wrong?
Then I saw it. Amid the fatigue and the fog in my mind, a detail so slight it was almost imperceptible. As I held her hand, the skin on the back of it shifted. It wasn't a twitch or a tremor; it was a brief, liquid shimmer, a ripple that distorted the constellation of her freckles before they settled back into place, as if they were floating on water.
I dropped her hand as if it were a hot coal and let out a short, sharp scoff, turning my gaze toward the empty fountain. The revulsion I'd felt earlier snapped into focus. It wasn't just disgust. It was instinct.
"What are you doing here, Sophie?" I asked, my voice flat.
From the corner of my eye, I saw her hand fly to her mouth, a caricature of surprise. "No way," she whispered, her voice laced with a strange mix of panic and admiration. "That's what this was about? My hands?"
"You're not as good as you think you are," I said, my back still to her.
She scoffed, a genuine sound of indignation this time. "You called me smart five minutes ago," she retorted, crossing her arms.
"I said the role was smart," I corrected, finally turning to face her. "You, however, were sloppy. I knew something was off long before I saw you glitch."
Sophie scoffed again, turning her head to the side with a theatrical huff. Silence fell between us, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant sounds of the city.
Then, her voice, softer now, broke the quiet. "Is that where you lived?" she asked, nodding toward the skeletal remains of the burned house across the plaza.
I gave a curt nod.
"Did you ever deal with the trauma?" she pressed gently.
"It wasn't trauma," I replied, the words tasting like ash. "That would simplify it. It was a debt. I was running away, and then I decided to go back and pay it. To face my father one last time."
Her eyes, full of a curiosity that felt both invasive and enthralling, were fixed on me. "How was it?"
"He was an animal," I said, my voice devoid of emotion. "And he fought like one, right until his body gave out."
A slow, strange smile spread across Sophie's face, and she let out a low laugh. "Wow. That's the first time you've ever really opened up to me. Why so expressive all of a sudden?"
"It doesn't matter anymore," I said, shrugging off her observation. "I'm done. There's no reason to hide it."
I reached into my pocket, pulling out the small earpiece to call Emily. This conversation was over. But before I could place it in my ear, Sophie's hand clamped over my mouth. It wasn't a playful gesture. Her grip was tight, silencing, and when I looked into her eyes, the playful mask was gone. In its place was a flicker of genuine, raw anxiety.
"I know you're going back," she whispered, her voice a raw, desperate plea. "But please... rethink it." Before I could argue, she plucked the earpiece from my hand and set it on the cold stone of the bench.
I tried to rise, to put distance between us, but she was on me in an instant. Her strength was absolute. She forced me back onto the bench, climbing into my lap and wrapping her arms around me in a crushing hug. I was still recovering, my body weak and aching from the fight, while Sophie was a coil of supernatural power. I was trapped.
I took a sharp breath, but the calming effect of the drug I usually relied on was gone from my system. My mind was clear, which only made the situation more infuriating. What the hell was this bitch doing?
She glanced at me, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her expression one of profound sadness. Then she buried her face in my shoulder, hugging me tighter.
"What is this about?" I asked, my voice low and tight.
"Please," she pleaded, her voice muffled against my jacket. "Stop this. Just... stay with me."
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I snarled, my patience gone.
That broke her. She pulled back, her face wet with tears. "I don't want to lose you," she choked out, her entire body trembling.
"Lose me? What are you even crying for?" I spat, my words like venom. "Is this about the Donn killing your family? That has nothing to do with me. We barely know each other."
"No," she whispered, shaking her head frantically. "We do know each other." She broke the hug but didn't move from my lap, her arms now draped around my neck, our faces inches apart.
Even with her eyes red and swollen from crying, this form she wore was beautiful. But I couldn't call the changeling pretty. I knew what lay beneath the flawless skin. I knew that in reality, it was a mangled tapestry of scars and ruined flesh. This beautiful woman clinging to me was a lie, a grotesque parody of softness and femininity. The changeling was ugly. Why was it crying about us?
Then, so faintly I almost didn't hear it, Sophie asked, "I've pretended for so long... but do you really not remember me?"
I shrugged, my entire body rigid with disgust. "Fuck off me."
Fresh tears welled in her eyes, but the changeling didn't move. "You're so perceptive," she whimpered, her voice cracking. "I thought… I was sure you would realize… but you really… didn't?"
Annoyance boiled over into rage. "No," I said, my voice cold and final. "I don't know who the hell you are."
Sophie whimpered and tried to hug me again, but I was faster. I headbutted her, putting every ounce of strength I had left into the blow. It wasn't enough to send the creature flying, but the sharp crack of impact made my point.
She recoiled, her head lowered as she grimaced in pain. When she looked up, the desperation in her eyes had been replaced by a fragile, dawning horror.
"Who the fuck are you, really?" I demanded. "You pretend to know me, but I don't think you get it. I don't do well in the memory department."
She recovered, but the fight had gone out of her. Weakly, she asked, "How much do you remember? Of your days as an assassin, under the lower branches of Balmundi? Before you became a mercenary."
"Almost nothing," I told her. "It's a blank slate."
She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, but my patience was already frayed. I tried to force my way out of her grip again, but it was useless. Seeing my frustration, however, seemed to restore her own composure. She loosened her hold, her expression becoming calmer, more deliberate.
"Do you remember Anastasia Rossi?" she asked.
The name meant nothing. "No." Didn't she present herself like this a few minutes ago?
A disappointed sigh escaped her. "That was my real name," she said softly. "You used to call me Ani."
She explained that she was the daughter of a former mayor of Mediolanum. That for the better part of a year, I had been her bodyguard, going undercover as a caretaker at the orphanage where she was hiding. That my room had been just down the hall from hers. That we had spent all our time together.
The details were like ghosts, faint and hazy. "I remember the mission," I said, my voice distant. "The specifics… what we did together… that's all gone. I barely remember what happened a few months ago after I killed Ultraman. Don't judge me for it." I thought it was suspicious when I saw her squirming in the same way two months ago, but I didn't think that it was real. i saw her die. In hindsight stranger things happened.
She shook her head. "I don't." A sad smile touched her lips. "You were important to me. I'll never forget you." She hugged me again, and this time, I didn't resist. I returned the embrace, my arms closing around her stiffly. We stayed like that for a long while, two broken things clinging to each other in the dark.
She was soft, but the revulsion was still there, a cold knot in my gut. I couldn't ignore the feeling of her skin, the artificial perfection of it. She was a corpse animated by some grotesque science, a beautiful mask stretched over rot and decay.
But wasn't I the same? The thought was a splinter in my mind.
What could have happened to turn Anastasia Rossi into this?
I pulled back, my voice low. "I remember another associate of mine shot you," I said. "I vaguely remember attending your funeral. What happened after that?"
"I did die," she confirmed, her voice cracking. "My corpse… it was collected from the church before the burial. Some thieves took it, and I was… I was…"
Anastasia broke down, her body shaking with sobs. I hesitated, then placed a hand on her back, caressing it gently. A more decent man would have told her to stop, to spare her the pain. But I was not a decent man. I was intrigued.
"Continue," I said softly.
She took another shuddering breath. "My body... it was taken to some kind of facility. A saint... a saint brought me back to life."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, my voice low.
"The Saturnite witch from Rome," she whispered, the words catching in her throat. "The one they call the Grand Priestess, Lucrezia Borgia. She brought me back perfectly, just like a normal human. Not a ghoul, not a shell... I was just as I was before. But I wasn't released. I was brought back with so many others... to become a testing dummy."
Her voice fractured. "They experimented on me... disfigured me in so many ways... At some point..." She trailed off, her eyes vacant. "I can't... My memory of the facility is fragmented. The drugs..."
She said that one day, she simply realized she could change her form, and she used that new, terrifying ability to escape.
"Where was it?" I asked, my voice hard.
"I can't remember," she sobbed, shaking her head. "I just ran. As far as I could. By the time I regained my senses, I was in Syracuse." She explained that she had adapted, more or less by force, to the criminal lifestyle before becoming a mercenary. "I was so surprised when I found you again," she whispered, her gaze pleading. "I didn't know how to tell you. I was scared... scared you wouldn't recognize the real me, the scarred thing I've become."
I grabbed her by the shoulders, my grip firm, and pulled her back so she was sitting upright on my lap. "Show me," I said, my voice leaving no room for argument. "Show me what you really look like under the illusion."
She trembled, a violent, full-body shudder, shaking her head in frantic denial. "No, please..."
"Yes," I repeated, my tone unyielding. "You didn't go through all that trouble just to hide in the end. You need to face it. Just like I faced my nightmares."
She tried to look away, but I cupped her jaw, forcing her to meet my gaze. Her eyes, wide with terror, stared into mine. Eventually, the fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by a grim resignation. She gave a single, sharp nod.
Her body began to shake, then convulse. A low, guttural sound escaped her lips as her hair and nails detached, falling away like dead leaves. Her form began to morph, rippling as if multiple layers of skin were fighting a roiling war beneath the surface, each one wrestling for control.
Eventually, one layer won. Scar tissue, raw and angry from burns and deep cuts, out-wrestled all the others, revealing her true form. It was an amalgamation of pain. A geography of second-degree burns covered her face and hands, the skin melted and puckered like wax. Most of her hair was gone, leaving only a few sparse, desperate strands clinging to her scalp. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, but it was impossible to place an age on this wreckage. Even if I could remember her original face perfectly, I could never connect that memory to the abomination that now sat before me.
Tears welled in the scarred remnants of Anastasia's eyes. "I look disgusting," she whispered, her voice a raw, broken thing.
Before I could process the thought, my arms were around her, pressing her head against my chest in a gesture that felt alien to me. "You're ugly," I admitted, the words stark and unsparing. "But so am I." The name came to my lips unbidden. "Ani... I died about sixteen years ago. My true form... it must be even more damaged than yours. But unlike you, I'm stuck like this." Well, I am not sure if I even have a true form at all, but it should make her feel better about it.
She broke the hug, pulling back to look at me, her gaze suddenly serious and sharp. "What do you mean?" she asked. "Your body... it's only about three years older than when you took care of me."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your aura is different," she explained, her voice gaining a strange intensity. "Your behavior, too. You... you subtly smell of Myrrh. And your skin," she said, her fingers tracing the back of my hand, "it has the texture of polished leather, a smoothness that isn't natural."
She raised the hem of my shirt, her touch clinical. "You used to have dozens of scars," she murmured, her eyes scanning my torso. "From your past missions. They're all gone, as if they never existed."
Then she grabbed my hand, her grip surprisingly firm. "But worst of all," she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, "is that you became heartless. When we were reunited as mercenaries, I thought you had just adapted. But I researched your past lives, your missions... Your methods are cruel, something no human could repeat. The man I knew... the agent sent to protect me... he was the kindest person I had ever met. The only one who approached me for who I was, not because of my father, the only one who..."
Her words dissolved into sobs, tears erupting from her damaged eyes. I found myself brushing them away with the sleeve of my coat, a mechanical, unthinking motion.
Ani took the opportunity to hug me again, her grip desperate. "Just stay with me," she repeated, her voice muffled against my chest.
"Here? In Ventia?" I asked, my body rigid.
"We could go anywhere," she pleaded. "I'll accept any compromise, as long as we can be safe, together."
"I'm not about that lifestyle," I told her.
"Liar!" she cried, pulling back to glare at me. "Peace was the only thing you ever dreamed of back at the orphanage. Even the assassination of Ultraman... you did it so you could finally retire!" Her voice grew frantic. "I've saved a lot of money. We could run away to the edges of the world and live safely."
"Get off me," I said, my voice cold.
She refused to move.
"You've moved on," I continued, my words a scalpel. "You're only desperate because you lost your real family to the Donn, and now you're trying to replace them with a ghost."
Her expression hardened, the tears drying on her scarred cheeks. "You know nothing," she spat, her voice laced with a fury I hadn't heard before.
"Then explain it to me," I prompted, my own voice dangerously quiet.
She fell in love, she told me, with a prostitute.
Her voice was raw, wounded. She'd met the woman, Tiana, while undercover, spying on the Donn at a bar he frequented. Tiana wasn't just another face in the crowd; she was kind, using the money she earned to supply overlooked orphanages. An orphan herself, she was heartbroken by how little the Ventian city councils cared for the disenfranchised.
"I was hurt when the Donn killed her," Ani admitted, her voice cracking. "He thought she was going to blackmail him, so he beat her to death in a drunken rage. But even then, I never forgot about you. I thought you were lost forever, but this last year… I saw you regain some of your humanity. Your kindness."
She looked at me, her scarred face illuminated by the faint city lights, a desperate hope shining in her eyes. "It proved you could go back. You could be the man you were before."
"It's a nice story," I said, my voice flat. "But I can't stop. Not until I kill Secondo Manus and destroy his project to resurrect Ultraman."
"That's not your fight!" she pleaded. "Someone else will take care of it."
"Get off me," I said again, my patience gone.
She refused, her grip tightening.
"Do you realize what a hypocrite you are?" I snarled, my voice low and venomous. "You want me to regain my humanity, but you're asking me to abandon Concord to its suffering."
"You weren't going to save them anyway," she shot back, her own anger rising to meet mine. "Your only goal was ensuring your own safety. You can do that by running away." Her voice softened slightly. "I know you don't care about being a hero. All your acts of heroism have been contextual."
I couldn't deny it. "I agree."
Her expression crumbled, the fight draining out of her, leaving only a raw, desperate vulnerability. Her voice was a whisper, a fragile thing that barely disturbed the air between us.
"So then why," she breathed, tears streaming silently down her ruined cheeks, "why will you still deny me? When I love you so much…."
"Do you have any idea how many women have told me they love me in the past 6 months?" I asked, my voice devoid of emotion. Before she could answer, I continued, "Five, including you. And every single one of you is delusional."
She flinched as if I'd struck her. "How can you say that?"
"Because I'm a walking corpse with almost no memory of my past," I said, my words like ice. "I remember next to nothing about you, Ani. To me, you're just as much a stranger as any other woman on the street."
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a low, cutting whisper. "Do you understand how distant those memories are? They're ghosts. Phantoms. I am incapable of loving anyone."
"That's not true!" she cried, her voice cracking. "You proved you can love, too many times to ignore it!"
"Did I?"
"Why else do you want to return to that girl, Alice?" she demanded, her desperation making her bold. "She's so much younger than you!"
"Age has nothing to do with it," I shot back. "The man you knew is dead. I'm what replaced him."
"No!" she insisted, shaking her head frantically. "You're one and the same! I know you're still in there!"
I tried to pull her away from me, but her grip was like steel. I changed tactics. "Do you really know me, Ani?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. "Do you know my real name?"
She hesitated. "I know Zaun is fake, but…"
"Do you know what I did to my parents?"
Her silence was the only answer I needed. Her grip finally slackened, and I shoved her away. She stumbled and fell to the gravel. I rose from the bench, towering over her, a cold statue of indifference. She didn't get up.
I felt no sympathy, only a hollow finality. "I may have loved you once," I pronounced, the words like stones dropping into a well. "But I don't love you anymore. People change. Hell, you changed. The fact that you moved on and fell in love with someone else proves that. You don't need me. We are two scarred remains of the people we used to be, but I am much more far gone than you."
"No, Zaun, please!" she cried, her voice tearing through the night.
I ignored her, pulling another earpiece from my pocket and placing it in my ear.
"You don't deserve someone like me," I said, my voice now a detached murmur meant more for myself than for her. "You deserve better. You'll find someone better. Don't lower yourself to accept someone who doesn't even remember you. You aren't in love with me. You're in love with who I was. Or maybe not even that. Maybe you're in love with what the past represented. But we can't rewrite it. We can't bring it back." My gaze was fixed on the darkness beyond the plaza. "I can't love you when I don't even know you. When I don't even know myself."
She scrambled forward, grabbing at my feet as if she could physically anchor me to this moment, to her. It was useless. "Emily," I said into the comms, "prepare the coordinates. I'm coming home."
As she clung to my legs, sobbing, I looked down one last time.
"Goodbye, Ani. I hope you will find happiness."
Then I was gone. The world dissolved into a shimmer of light and static. She must have kept crying there for a while, a broken thing on the cold ground, but the teleportation didn't care about her grip, her pleas, or her supernatural strength. I was gone.-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*