#no beta we die like kallist rhoka

[gay-little-izzet]

A Symphony of Perfection

Separated as Phyrexia surges across the multiverse, Jace and Vraska nevertheless try to reunite. This chapter is a bit looser, but it explores how Jace and Vraska might experience compleation, as well as how their relationship is altered by it.

The song of Phyrexia surges through Jace’s mind, caressing his neural circuitry as it resonates. It is so peaceful, now, to hear nothing but their glorious harmony. Gone is the chaos he knew before. Creatures of flesh were so messy, so foolish, and their thoughts were a discordant clamor of emotion, desperation and desire. But the symphony of Phyrexia is beautiful. Perfect. Once, he had thought the hum within their mental networks to be nothing but barren thought, white noise in oppressed minds. But now he saw it to be quite the opposite.

Every part of Phyrexia, from the magnificent Praetors to the smallest mites, every cog and gear and engine in the great machine, had a piece in the symphony. Some sang in unity, their myriad minds becoming a singular great hive. Others, those with more important parts to play, sang above the rest, their harmonies nonetheless merging with the great frequencies of Phyrexia. 

Jace had never been one for music, nor for singing. But he could feel the approach of his own melody- a song he shared with another.

He had not seen Vraska since the Arena. He cringed in shame at the thought of how he had, for the first time in years, been afraid to meet her gaze. He had been flawed, then. But no longer.

Vraska felt, somewhere deep within her, a pang of longing. Though it intrigued her, she ignored the sensation, choosing to focus herself on the task at hand- the forces of Ravnica, fleshbound as they were, were formidable foes. Soon, they too would join her in perfection.

No longer would her people be ostracized, assaulted for the mere act of existence. The Azorius, the other guilds, even the might of dragons and gods could not destroy the spirit of her kin. As Phyrexians, the Golgari would rise, strong and unified, and they would throw off every one of their oppressors. First, she would free them from their flesh– and then, together, they could rise against Norn and her blasted Orthodoxy. Vraska, while a daughter of Phyrexia, had no love for the self-proclaimed mother of Machines. 

Again, Vraska felt that creeping desire within, and she felt her thoughts drift to her beloved. Had he reached compleation yet, or did he still resist her gift? Vraska found herself frowning at the memory of their last encounter. She had granted him perfection, yes, and he would soon be grateful for that… but even now, the terror in his face, the betrayal, haunted her. She did what she had to do, but… she had hurt him. 

Standing amid the fray of clashing blades and bodies, Vraska felt herself come to a standstill, the chaos around her fading away. Before she even knew what she was doing, she felt the caress of the Blind Eternities as she planeswalked away from Ravnica.

Keeping most of his eyes trained on the progress of the armies that marched onward through realmbreaker’s tendrils, Jace took a moment to examine his new form. 

His body had taken to completion readily, his weak flesh succumbing to the glistening oil before anyone had bothered with surgical replacement. He’d never liked that flesh. It had always felt, to him, like nothing more than a shell, a tool for his own use. It had been a tool for others, too, in more ways than one. Before this, before Phyrexia, he had begun to finally feel at home in that body.

But now, as Jace ran his fingers, plated in shimmering chrome and laced with steel rigging, across the hard planes of his chest, he couldn’t imagine inhabiting any other. 

Over the last few cycles, the skin and flesh that remained had peeled away from his body. He had allowed his tattoos to remain, flashes of white that danced across his silvery casing. But the scars were gone. Mostly. He had tried to smooth away the ridges on his arms and back, but found his form, perfect as it was, still carried a memory of the manablade’s touch. But perhaps, in time, that too would heal.

Vraska marveled at the carnage as she passed through the Blind Eternities. The great and terrible branches of Realmbreaker forced themselves across the multiverse, pushing into countless planes to spread their Phyrexian gift. Vraska had no need to travel within the massive tendrils, using them instead as a guide, taking her back to their roots. Home. 

She emerged from the Blind Eternities at the borders of the Mycosynth Gardens, pausing to survey the progress of the great invasion. Thousands of Phyrexians still streamed toward Realmbreaker from across the plane, heeding the call of conquest. Here, the Hosts stood proud and distinct, their own perfect materials unsullied by the touch of blood or gore. Vraska knew, having led these same armies beyond New Phyrexia, that it would not be long before their orderly ranks dissolved into a crushing swarm of bodies, porcelain and metals intermingling. In battle, there was no Orthodoxy, no Hosts– nothing but the perfection of the Machine and the weakness of the flesh.

Floating above the armies, a lone Gitaxian kept watch over Realmbreaker’s gate, surveying the march of progress. Even if it weren't for the tattered blue cloak, somehow surviving his transformation, Vraska could feel the pull in her heart, the melody humming in her mind. 

She had been afraid—though she marveled that she was even capable of the sensation—that he would have fought compleation, but clearly he had finally accepted perfection.

For all the pride her new form brought her, Phyrexia had neglected to grant her wings. This was of no concern to the Queen of the Downtrodden, as she had always made the earth and the dark her home, and this form was excellent for traversing caverns and fighting in close quarters. However, Jace was currently levitating, graceful, ephemeral, and utterly out of Vraska’s reach. She would have to bring him closer to her.

Vraska sunk her hands into the malleable pores of the mycosynth, and began to call out with her mind. 

There. He could feel it, rising above the simulacrum’s melody. Her song. Their song. He felt her, reaching out through the Machine. She was here for him.

Jace quickly reached to weave an illusion, dodging the porcelain honor guard that hovered beside him (a flight of Norn’s dolls, watching the watcher in case he tried to reject Phyrexia once again). They were mere puppets, easy to fool with a duplicate and an invisibility charm.

Although he could find her by thought alone, several of Jace’s eyes began to scan the area, picking through the masses to find her impressive form. Soon, one of his receptors caught a glimpse of her serpentine tail, leading up to an armored body, her shoulders, ashy and smooth, her eyes—her beautiful, terrible eyes… 

He released his invisibility as he approached her, gliding down, beholding her glory. He stopped a few feet from her, and felt himself compelled to sweep into a bow. She was a commander, soon to be a Thane, and she was deserving of the utmost–

The subservient thoughts were expelled from his wandering mind as Vraska pounced on Jace, surrounding him with her deliciously sharp embrace. She held him close, and the machinery that bound his ruptured heart together buzzed with pleasure at the touch. Holding her was nostalgic in a way that only someone who had lost his mind twice over could know- it was something entirely new, and yet, he knew it was familiar. 

“I feared I might lose you,” purred the gorgon, her voice resonating with the Phyrexian language. She spoke in tune with the melody of her mind, a proud and righteous tune that rode above the chorus of armies and drones.

I thought I had whispered Jace, his message dancing across her mind. He had no need, in the great Machine, for speech, easy as it was to share thoughts with his fellow Phyrexians. Vraska’s mental circuitry attuned to his own as their minds met, embracing as their bodies did, as the steel tendrils branching from their bodies met and twisted together. Their minds sang, not with the song of Phyrexia, but with their own. No, they certainly had no need for speech.