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{ daathicae‌ }:

“So you would have me disappear, is that it? Would that truly give you peace?” fists curl fiercely around the staff, tightening with a plethora of emotions he can’t understand all at once. Anger at what Sync was saying–how those that would abuse the Score had caused so many needless deaths, a grit attempt to maintain his composure while feeling overwhelmed, sadness for his predecessors, and…dare he say it, indignation for himself, and for Luke. The last is swiftly snuffed.   He’s not in the place to cause conflict; he has no way of defending himself. But Ion had learned the hard way that he could not always hide behind his demeanor, that being timid could cause more harm than good. And even if he somehow died here again, it wouldn’t mean much in the grand scheme of things. Hard eye contact is established, even if Ion already feels a bit lightheaded. Though all he wants to do, is trained to do, is slink away and yield for the sake of peace…he can’t. Sync deserves better than that.   “If the hatred in your heart gives you even a little lust for life…I’m glad.” he sighs, expression defaulting into a little bit of a grimaced smile, “If you’d like to never cross paths again, that’s the least I can do. But I won’t disappear.” A pause, “Not for you…not for anything unless I choose to do so. You taught me that.” Score or no Score, they’d both managed to deviate in their own way. In the end, it was fear of the unknown that drove the world on its path to ruin. “I’m sorry, Sync, for the immeasurable pain you’ve endured. I’m sorry I have nothing better to offer you than to let you continue to scorn me.” he’s not sure if this will amount to anything, or if what he says will only make things worse. He doesn’t know what he’s doing at all, but at least for once…he gets to be honest.  

“I hope one day we can be friends. And…thank you, for allowing me to change my fate.”

Even if Ion did disappear, would it really change his past and how much he has impacted his existence? Peace...as much as the replica strives to achieve it, he believes it inconceivable, with or without the other in his life. The questions the Seventh raises were questions the Fifth never even took time to consider, not here, not ever. He hesitates as his mouth parts to speak but immediately closes, pursing into a thin line. As much as Sync refused to admit it, Ion was right -- it didn’t matter. 

Still, how else was to rid of the burning resentment in his heart? If blaming himself and now the Seventh was futile... then now what? Gloved hands fall to his sides as he exhales, his gaze breaking and resting at his feet. When did he, the Tempest become so pathetic -- searching for sympathy in Ion of all people...? He couldn’t let the words of the pitiful replica who would fall over from walking too far affect him. 

“I haven’t taught you anything,” he finally manages to muster, “I didn’t choose for Van to retrieve me from the planet’s core. I didn’t choose to have this useless body that couldn’t even deter that idiot replica’s group. I didn’t choose to have this pathetic life!” Without giving much thought to his words, he spewed exhausted notions that have plagued him forever, bottled up to release on fools who attempted to see the better in him. 

To think the Seventh even sought to understand his suffering and offered to share the burden warrants a small smirk. 

“Sorry? You’re sorry? Don’t make me laugh. You can’t possibly be sorry when you were kept guarded, surrounded by people who needed you!” Throwing words like daggers, he returns his gaze, glaring Ion down under his mask. He wanted to believe Ion was deceiving him, but more than anything, Sync wanted Ion to feel a pinch of his sad, miserable existence. 

“And you’re thanking me? The failure of a replica who wasn’t even worth keeping alive?” He clutches the fabric covering his stomach, bracing for the churning frenzy of laughter. “How can we be friends when we’re nothing alike, having led two completely different lives?”

[reppuu]

{ daathicae‌ } :

Sync speaks, harsh and emotive, and Ion flinches with the sound of it. He can’t help himself—even though he knows Sync is speaking from a place of pain rather than objective responsibility, he can’t help but remember that time. ‘Ion…please don’t hate me…! I had to do it because she…Anise took you from me!’ But no, Ion had taken the original from her. Poor Arietta…he’d always wondered how the original could get so attached to one person, but then…when you were lonely like that, perhaps one person was all he had. And maybe he’d been all Arietta had, too. Ion had been lucky, unlike them, unlike Sync. He’d had Anise, Luke and the others, even attendants that were kind to him. He couldn’t imagine how a man like Van treated subordinates when they failed if he’d allowed Sync to just die. “Sync–” the word slips past before he can catch it, struggling out of him. He takes another bold but careful step forward, forcing himself to refrain from showing sympathy. He had a feeling that should just make Sync angrier. ‘This world…it doesn’t need you.’  He’s not wrong, but Ion won’t let the sting of those words catch him off guard.  “No one needs me, you’re right. I’m as replaceable as the rest.” 

“I…I don’t know what to tell you about that. But I’m not trying to take anything from you!” a pause, and another step as he clutches his chest, “What can be taken from us now? We’re  dead.” It’s the first time he says it aloud, and it honestly feels good to say. And now they were here, wherever here was. He’s proud, that he’d gotten to choose. He’s not sure if he should be, but he is. Ion takes a deep breath, forcing himself calm again. 

“Sync, please talk to me. I know there are things you want to say. You don’t have to tell me now, but one day. Please.”

Gloved fists tighten as he braces himself in anticipation for worlds of pity -- but none is offered, which fuels his agony even more. Nothing Ion ever did was for himself and yet, Sync’s reflection in his eyes -- the same eyes, mirror the thoughts that resound in his mind every single day. 

All replicas felt they were replaceable, but the one who managed to usurp their designated role, the one who surpassed the rest and earned a life of purpose, the Seventh -- did he even deserve to feel that way? If what Ion says is true, even he feels the same emotions as the Fifth, who was cast to die in a volcano because he was defective. How cruel... 

Teeth grit as he listens to Ion’s defense; oh how naive he was. Those two words alone, ‘we’re dead’ shatter this false reality he’s built for himself in response to this world, this place that initially offered him a sense of security. While they may in fact still be dead, Sync can’t deny that he feels more alive here now than he ever did in Auldrant. 

“No... No you’re wrong. We might’ve died in that hopeless world but... we’re not dead here. We’re not longer forced to succumb to the tragic fate written in the Score. Don’t you see? My life... It was finally mine but because of you,” as his eyes narrow, he throws a slicing glare at him, “because you’re here, it has no meaning once more.” 

The Seventh’s slow advancement finally irks him enough for the Tempest to respond -- if only he could just disappear like the other replicas were forced to. It is now Sync who makes a move, stomping with infuriated steps, he stops in front of Ion who seemed more collected than usual. “There’s nothing more to talk to you about. Your existence -- I detest it.”

[reppuu]

{ daathicae } ‌:

This shift of existence gave Ion reason to be thoughtful, gave him time to himself. Was this a realm for ghosts? He doubted Replicas would end up in the same place as real humans, if they ended up anywhere at all. He sat very near to the bottomless pit at the heart of the city, wondering just why he wasn’t still inside it, suspended as nothing. It was…a hauntingly familiar feeling that made his stomach churn, but Ion chose to entertain it anyway. Perhaps focusing on the feeling would give him a revelation, or at the very least remind him of something important. A few had stopped by and asked him if he was okay, reminding him the area wasn’t safe, suggesting he leave–but Ion politely shrugged them all off. He was just curious, he’d tell them, and eventually they left him to his devices. Perhaps more than a few hours passed. He sat at times, then got back to his feet only to sit again. He’s not sure how often this was done, only that he’s on his feet again. Ion sways a little at the edge, clearly in some sort of trance. It’s only when he catches himself nearly falling in that the boy clutches his staff to chest, taking brisk steps backward away from the pit. The trance is broken, and he’s both alarmed and frustrated that nothing came of the ordeal. What time was it? His stomach growls loudly even through the perpetuate nausea, and he’s reminded that he needs to pick up some way to earn money. And, Ion noted somberly, there was no overarching presence of Yulia here to comfort him. He was truly on his own. He turns on his heel with the intention of returning to the house he’d been afforded, but is caught in his tracks. Another ghost–surely his mind was playing tricks on him? Ion blinks several times, as if that would clear his vision of a mirage. But they were not in Chesedonia and he was only mildly hungry, so there was nothing he could blame. The Tempest. One of Six, perhaps more. He didn’t know for sure, as most of his earliest days felt much like a fever dream. Ion freezes at first, afraid any sudden movement would cause Sync to disappear or to dart off like a frightened animal. The feeling that settles between them is tense and unreal. Finally Ion steps forward, determined to dispel the ghost if he really was a figment of his imagination. When Sync doesn’t immediately disappear after a few steps, Ion hesitates again. He swallows hard, lips pursing into a thin line.

“You still have the mask.” knuckles whiten around the staff, “Why now?”

@reppuu​

Aimlessly, the Tempest finds himself enchanted, continuously drawn to the endless pit -- or quite honestly, he has no clue how to navigate back to his quarters. But this spiral of wasting time didn’t bother him; no, time was an illusion here with no sense of purpose or duty. There was no need to abide by it, but why did it seem like he was standing there forever, watching, waiting? 

At first, he believes the other was imaginary too -- a figment of a twisted desire to reform and redeem himself from within. Maybe it was the Original... But as he continued to watch him interact with those who showed concern, it was clear that it was none other than the Seventh. His reliance on his staff is too apparent in the manner he seems to cling to it for dear life. Why was he here? After all this time, he knew his mind enjoyed playing tricks on him but this... this was torture. 

When their gazes meet, emerald optics widen with swirls of fear, disgust, envy, hatred. And he thought he finally had a chance to start anew without the chains and strings that bound him to his life, that life for so long. How could this world betray him as well...? 

“Why... Why are you here?” his words burn, full of contempt. 

Forsaken by the promises of new hope, his body trembles as a gloved hand firmly pulls the mentioned golden mask, hiding his features. A grimace turns into a scowl as his frame becomes rigid, vulnerable. Why...? Why does he still carry his mask? He should’ve thrown it away like he’s attempting with the rest of his memories. That’s right... he should. But right now, it was the only thing saving him from accepting what was in front of him -- the replica that took everything from him. 

The Seventh’s question annoys him enough to warrant a raise in his voice, hoping to instill the same pain and malice the Fifth felt because of his existence. “Tch, you already know why! This world... it doesn’t need you. So why are you here? Are you going to take everything from me again?”

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{ doctorgneiss‌ } :

@reppuu

With every passing minute, Saphir lowered his head further behind his newspaper, until he looked like he was hiding underneath it.

Whether it was true or not, Saphir was convinced that the short, angry bird-looking individual loitering near his current favorite café was there for him. He thought this because, at least as far as he would ever consider, Sync the Tempest did not just stop anywhere for a muffin; he had a reason for hanging around.

The pressure finally got to Saphir. He slammed the newspaper down on the table and shouted at Sync.

“I don’t know you! You must be looking for someone else!”

The Tempest could eye his flamboyant attire from miles away. As the Reaper is situated in a public establishment, he had no reason to share their personal affairs with the rest of the customers. At first, Sync was perturbed as to why the former God-General was idling away, reading a paper of everything, but as he continues to watch him from across the room, he has come to realize the other’s expanding annoyance. With arms folded, a smirk graces his features when Dist finally snaps. 

“What makes you think I’m looking for you, Dist the Runny? How could you be so vain?”

[reppuu]

{ forsylvarant‌ } :

“Sync, got it.” It didn’t sound familiar – not that she thought it would, but the next thing said did. In a way, she really did feel like she was back home. That was probably odd, all things considered. It was funny, how someone telling her to stop apologizing made her feel that way. Finding some comfort in the sentiment, she can’t help but chuckle. 

“S- Okay, I won’t apologize anymore.” 

Or at least she’d try her best to break what was a usual habit for her. Just because she knew how serious of an issue it was sometimes, she didn’t question his reasons for speaking so bluntly. He didn’t have to say anything more either, because she was sure whatever reason he had said that was a valid one.

Hopefully, her word would ease the tension – if only a little bit. Once she felt it settle down a little, she continued on. “I’m Colette, by the way.” 

Though she proclaims that she ‘got it’, Sync finds it difficult to believe she would actually remember it. After all, what need would his name be in the future -- this didn’t make them acquaintances... did it? In response to her chuckle, a gloved hand rests across his temples. She wasn’t laughing at him, was she? 

“Good. That suits you better,” but what did he know, he didn’t know anything about her. 

“Colette,” he breathes, rolling her name around in his mouth. This was a first -- someone offering their name instead of ordering him to familiarize himself with it; so the Tempest has no idea what to do with it. “I... see...” he responds finally, “you wouldn’t happen to come from Auldrant, would you?” Immediately realizing what escapes his lips, he slaps both hands on them as if reprimanding himself for letting his thoughts slip. 

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{ brimstonegeneral‌ } :

 “She is here?” His grip tightens and the wooden scythe he was carrying breaks in half. A loud snap of wood breaking , the sound echoing as if a great battle was about to begin. His expression thundorous. if anything he wanted her out if only she would return to where she rightfully belongs as the true princess of her kingdom instead of a prisoners. He worries as any latent father would do. 

 “…Where?” so he can avoid her like the awkward father he is. 

Not even flinching or fazing at the Black Lion’s reaction, Sync simply shrugs. Largo’s overbearing father nature was starting to leak and as per usual, the older male had no idea how to control it. I mean how could he -- he lacked the experience. The wooden scythe snapping was quite the display and warrants a fleeting smirk. “Now what will you fight with?”

“I’ve only seen her briefly so even I’m not aware of her whereabouts. After all, we’re no longer required to keep track the idiot group’s location. I would advise you to keep your distance still however.” 

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{ doctorbalfour‌ } :

Well, at some point in time, Jade might have been surprised. As it was, death was becoming more and more of a suggestion as time continued on. Still, he didn’t mind offering a brief chuckle in response to Sync’s question. It was understandable–he had no idea of knowing what Jade could have seen in that time.

“I’m afraid you’re a bit too late to catch me by surprise–I’m beginning to wonder if death is permanent at all at this rate.”

Perhaps he would have a better chance to explain how he already seen faces from the past that he shouldn’t have, but for now, he settled for simply tucking his hands into his pockets.

“But at any rate, how are you enjoying the scenery? I suppose it must be a sight nicer than anything you were seeing in the Fon Belt, hm?”

What was that reaction? Perhaps his first rebirth was more of a surprise and the subsequent just became tireless, even for others. The Tempest was sick and exhausted too, but no one ever took his feelings into consideration. Emerald optics squint at his comment -- especially here, maybe it wasn’t permanent. “That’s too bad. And here I was hoping you could help me verify that fact.” He lets out a small chuckle himself. 

“Oh?” Head tilting to the side as an inquisitive brow raises, he folds his arms in front of him. Was the Necromancer actually concerned about how he was adjusting? Not likely but he decides to humor him a bit. “I can hardly complain. The more unlike that wretched planet the better.”

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{ alarakhighlordofthetaldarim‌ } :

@reppuu The Highlord was at the end of his rope. This land was unfamiliar and jarring, and with his psionic power gone, Alarak had almost no option but to turn to a Terran for assistance.  He snapped out of his train of thought when something bumped into him, or more specifically, someone. 

This Terran was different, and one of the first younglings he had seen since he had gotten here. Perhaps he would have the answers the Highlord needed.  “Terran, you have one chance to prove yourself competent. Tell me all you know about this strange land, or spare me from your very presence. I care not which.”

With no further need to continue his duties as a God-General, a member of the Oracle Knights, the Tempest finds himself devoid of purpose, devoid of any desire to continue on. His former assignment was offered to him when he had absolutely nothing, yet he felt the most pathetic. Here, with life as an offering, he struggles to find another reason to fight. 

When he collides with another completely lost in thought, a scowl crosses his features and persists as he listens to the other’s demands. His semblance reminds him a bit of the Commandant, but he was clearly not human. 

“Terran?” He has no clue what that even is. “Ah, do you wish to use me as a tool as well? I guess you’ll just have to throw me to the side because I can’t meet your demands.” Not even bothering to answer his question, he turns to leave. 

[reppuu]

{ brimstonegeneral‌ } :

 It would be easy to tell, if someone like Legretta or Arrietta was here. Just look for the screams of mercy and pleading and follow it to the source. Of course there were other such characters in here, but Arrietta had the distinct sense of no mercy in the feral sort of way. 

 “Paradise? I suppose.” there is a lack of purpose that these people exhibit , like no one is there to tell their future. Only phony fortune tellers, fakers. In other words a world without a score. But… if only… 

he’s too old to remake his life. Sync has his whole life until his fonons seperate. 

 “But … I am glad to see you alive. And well. “ and without the mask. 

“The Score is no more. This is what we desired, what we threw our lives away for. How could it be anything but?” The replica spews these words as if it were fact when in reality, he thirsts for the actuality of it, when he would come to truly believe it himself. Alive, yes. Well? “Well is an overstatement.”

Though he’s come into contact with the redheaded idiot’s underlings, Sync decides not to inform the Division Commander. Here they were simply spiteful residents of their former planet and were in no way, terrorizing their intentions. Even mentioning them was a waste of time if not for the presence of the other’s daughter. Despite the Commandant’s lectures of not involving themselves with the God-Generals’ pasts, the Tempest decides to prod a bit -- not to throw the Black Lion in a state of disarray, but for the pinch of curiosity that ignited since their encounter.

“Your daughter -- the princess is here as well. Have you come into contact with her yet?”

[reppuu]

{ forsylvarant‌ } :

Ehe… While that was a little awkward of a response to be given, she just figured it was who this person was. Not taking it as something to get worried about, Colette smiled and offered no such comment in return to his first response. Hopefully, her kind response would eventually cut through the tension that seemed to form. 

“Ooo…” All those flavors were so good, earning her interest easily. “Sure, I’ll do just that, thanks!” Her smile widened, but before she went and turned towards to face the nearest worker, Colette had a realization. 

‘Oh, um, what’s your name? I almost forgot to ask, sorry.” 

Simply nodding in return to her gratitude, he switches his attention back to wallowing in self-pity, assuming the conversation was over. He couldn’t be bothered to continue ones that didn’t pertain to God-General duties because he was born as a tool for war, and completely oblivious with social etiquette. Making small talk with this one was already proving difficult.

“Sync,” he replies curtly, no longer feeling any attachment to his former titles. She sure liked to apologize for no reason and it was starting to peeve the young replica who was unaccustomed to such idiocy. “And stop apologizing...” makes you appear weak, he wanted to add but refrains himself as he wasn’t quite in the position to make such a statement.

[reppuu]

{ brimstonegeneral } ‌:

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 “Sync. Your here too.” Words could have been said ins a more excited fashion, but Largo is one tired man who simply needs to rest. the expectations that there was a afterlife is not held right now. No, he could still feel the burn, and pain from his recent battle and he even without his armor, it hurts a bit much to move. He leans on the wooden copy of his own weapon for support in these times.  “Does this mean the other god generals are here as well.”

The voice of a man he didn’t scorn, Largo, is met with respect. Simply nodding at the Black Lion and his waning grand stature, the Tempest keeps his gaze fixated on his wooden scythe. While the other God General’s existence was quite the shocking discovery, his course in this cryptic world has taught him to expect surprises. Still, Sync couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved; even though he was in a weakened state, his former comrade was alive. 

“Hell if I know. If this was some sort of paradise, would we all even deserve to be here? You look like you’re doing well,” he scoffs, a lack of sympathy in his voice. 

[reppuu]

No longer yearning for another chance at life nor any recollection of the memories or ideas that subdued him, the Tempest would never admit he is actually... content here of all places. Unlike Auldrant, there is something about Spirale, perhaps its isolation or lack of structure, that allows the replica to feel more at ease. Though his intent was to keep his stay brief, his poor sense of navigation only delays that goal. There are countless beings that inhabit the city, yet he feels unworthy to ask for assistance -- rather, he is adamant on figuring his whereabouts himself. 

Approaching a bulletin board of sorts, a finger traces around the circle labelled ‘You Are Here’. Brows furrow as emerald optics scan the nearby area -- mostly a residential area. Just buildings, trees, and -- He was at ease and yet, a familiar voice snaps him to life once more and gloved hands clench into a fist. Out of all places... Even the people who cornered replica with his own words and defended the seventh -- even they were here to shatter his final chance at redemption. Oh how cruel fate was to the boy who never gained anything since he was created.

“What more could you possibly want from me? You’ve succeeded, haven’t you? Now why is it that you are here before me now...?” With features hiding under his bangs, his voice cracks with desperation, his frame rigid. He is far from delighted to see the princess. > @belovedprincess​

[reppuu]

{ divinesmasher‌ } :

@reppuu

       The city offered a wide variety of locales, each one wildly different than the last. While it helped one differentiate between which ward they were in, it made memorizing the actual layout of each area a lot harder than he felt it needed to be. Not insurmountable, anyways, just annoying. So, it didn’t come as a surprise when, on his way back to his apartment from a walk, he noticed the young man wandering around as though they were totally lost. 

“(That’s some getup… Not like I’m one to talk, though.)” 

       Stepping in to help didn’t seem like a bad idea. He’d feel bad if he just walked off, anyways. 

“Oiiii!” He’d shout as he approached, raising a hand in greeting. “You lost? You’ve got a look like you wanna punch a tour guide in the chin.”

It always took the Tempest some time to grow accustomed to new settings -- this was no exception but the expansive city seemed to advance at an increasing rate. A map proved futile as the technology it was located on was already difficult to perceive. He wasn’t dumb by any means but... the tactical leader sure felt it. A sigh escapes as a gloved hand rises to scratch his head. He was indeed, completely lost. 

As a boisterous voice approaches closer and closer, he whirls around to meet the origin of the abrupt greeting. Was his current status really written all over his face? Brows furrow and annoyance is apparent in a scowl. 

“I’m not lost,” he blatantly lies, refusing to admit it. “If you’re one of them, then I suggest you start running now. I don’t need your help.” 

[reppuu]

{ roseacorde‌ }:

@reppuu

     ❝ What… Is this… ❞

     Getting over her initial shock, the older teen now begins to inspect the various books that had been seemingly placed within her bag. Just from looking at the cover, it seems to be a manga of sorts and if she had to guess the genre, Natsuki would say it looks like a ‘shounen’ for sure… Which is one of the genres she doesn’t particularly care for.

     Flipping through the book she picked up, however, it becomes apparent to Natsuki that what she initially thought isn’t true at all. As she flips through its pages, poorly framed panels and terribly drawn people jump out at her, causing a look of disgust to contort onto her features.

     ❝ This is… Garbage–!! ❞ she finally exhales through gritted teeth, wasting no time in throwing the books down onto the ground now. As she does so, the glaring eyes of another at her person becomes apparent and for a moment, the girl freezes in place.

     ❝ Wh-what do you want?! ❞

With hands stuffed in pockets, the Tempest finds himself walking aimlessly through the city. Spirale... they call it. Another world, yet, more like home than his original felt. A chuckle slips at how ridiculously ironic this was. As days passed, the discarded replica has come to believe that this has become some sort of haven for him -- That was until a singular word brings him back to the undeniable reality.  

❝… Garbage–!! ❞ 

Like a snap out of hypnosis, he blinks at his surroundings -- a pile of books sprawled in front of him. Taking personal offense, regardless of who or what it was directed at, he stops in his tracks and glares at the girl who spewed them in the first place. Not even catching the words that came before or the context of the situation, adrenaline boils as a fuse is lit. To remind him of the same word that became his label in his world, she was clearly unaware of the consequences.  

“If you think that is garbage, why don’t you throw me on the ground and discard me as well?”

[reppuu]

{ forsylvarant‌ } : 

…Oh. She hadn’t realized that her staring was obvious. She had tried to sneak in a glance or two in hopes of figuring out what sort of drink that was. Whatever it was, it appealed to her. Feeling kind of awkward, she made sure her glances were quick, never lasting too long before she looked elsewhere.

And then by some chance, she had been discovered. Deciding it was too late to turn away, even shyly, she shook her head. “N-No, that’s not it…” Trying it herself would be nice, though. 

“Sorry about that.” Her apology shortly follows after her quiet response, and she tries to raise her voice just a bit more. “It does look like a good drink though! Um, what is it anyway?” 

The apology catches the Tempest off guard and brows furrow, eyes rolling in place. For once, to have another not immediately grow defensive when he made assumptions was... strange and unpleasant to say the least. It was like an unreachable itch, and as time continues, only grows more irritable. Unaccustomed to such a frivolous thing, he lets out a grunt. “Sure. Whatever.” 

When she mentions the drink, he picks up the cup and gives it a little swirl, taking a second to recall its flavors. “Mango, strawberry, kale,” he responds curtly and to the point. To think, he’d end up here talking about drinks was beyond him. “Just ask for the greenest thing they have.”

[reppuu]

It was as if yesterday was the day the God-General was this close to fulfilling their wish -- his given purpose. Under the guidance and ideals of his creator, they were to finally replicate the world and thus put an end to the Score that blinded the masses for so long. That was their wish and yet... the Tempest succumbs to the people that offer him another chance life, a better one with the seventh that he loathed so much. 

As for the Commandant, if he did succeed, would he have saved the replica again? Even without consent, that man forced his resolve upon others and did as he pleased with his power. But he -- Sync didn’t want any of it, not anymore. After his attempted suicide, he no longer felt any attachment to his life and solely existed as his tool. If his plan did succeed, the replica was no longer needed -- trash soon to be thrown out. Finally, he would be able to relinquish his purpose so that he can give up everything once again -- to rid himself of this tormenting curse of life. 

But that same man was here, standing in front of him in a world far from Auldrant. With the Score no longer, why was he here? “H-How...?” Attempting to savor his erratically, racing heart, the Tempest takes in a deep breath. Though he has yet to find it himself, he acquiesces himself to the stupid notion of hope, and any flicker of a memory was to be erased. A gloved fist clenches and he bares his teeth.

“Commandant, or should I say, Van. Have you come seeking new puppets for yet another mission?” His voice is cold, full of doubt and distaste. > @scoredefying​

[reppuu]

If a pond could stay stationary forever, would it? Even without the invitation, as long as it was without solitude, peace always had an expiration date. And the boy thought he found just that here but... Emerald hues fasten on the familiar visage -- the Necromancer. The one the Reaper always muttered and wrote about in that stupid journal of his. While the Tempest neither cared nor took time to remember their enemies’ names, their faces are forever etched in his memory as they took his final breath on Eldrant.

Yet, here they were -- face to face once more. Perhaps if the setting was more familiar, he would’ve attacked the other with no hesitation. It wasn’t -- but of all people, this person was partially responsible for the technology that created this tragic waste. The notion of simply allowing the Necromancer to slaughter the replica right then and there came to mind, but he didn’t want to go out without putting up a fight. With nothing left to lose, he bares unwarranted arrogance with a smirk slain across his features.

“Looks like you’re not with the red-headed idiot and the rest of them. Surprised to see me alive?” > @doctorbalfour