It had been days since a mysterious package had inexplicably begun to exist in the Drifter’s room. It was rather generic-looking; boxy, medium-sized, and covered up in cutesy seasonal gift-wrap, the gift had come from a certain individual that many others had claimed to not know of.
Indeed, instead of rushing into tearing it apart (much less, touching it), the Drifter had been sure to quietly collect what information he could from others about the package. Eavesdropping and lurking around the Internet helped to lessen the Drifter’s suspicion of it, but he’d also heard of the gift going wrong, depending on the sender.
More importantly, the gifts often seemed personally tied to the receiver. He had been troubled with this pattern, worrying over what could possibly await inside the box; it was much too small for anything like the Cell or his missing firearms. Was it one of his old companion robots, perhaps?
...Beyond that, just how would a vision of Justice or the unknowable form of Panacea wait for him within?
Back in the privacy of his assigned room, the Drifter knelt down toward the package, cloaks pooling onto the carpet. It had started to collect a very fine film of dust, but nothing substantial enough to have obscured the label on its top. Underneath his name, a neat scrawl of ink:
You’ve always wanted this,
but have you ever realized it~?
A joyous Snowtide to you.
- Noel
The package’s wrapping and tape are torn apart with ease, owed to the Drifter’s claws. The box’s top flaps are unfolded, exposing the gift inside with a crown of cardboard. It was something from the world he used to know--he hadn’t even remembered it existed until now.
They stared at it.
A rumble of laughter bubbled up from deep within his chest, rising up into whole-hearted peals. Tears welled up and spilled. He wipes them away; they don’t return. The Drifter hadn’t laughed like this in a while, hadn’t been surprised like this in a while--it felt cathartic and strange and good. The laughter settles back into the quiet as they contemplate their feelings, and the meaning of the gift. They are grateful for Noel, and for Snowtide.
Lifting the thing out of the box, the Drifter rises with it in his hands, then drops it onto the ground.
He kicks it.
The ball rolls and bumps around in the exact way it should. It’s a strange pink and fuzzy elastic sphere, whose sole purpose was to be used in a game of Drifter Soccer.
After a while of messing around with it alone, they head downstairs. It was snowing, but even that wouldn’t deter them from starting a friendly match with someone.
// In the next moment, they’re falling. No--gravity pulls them down with strength incomparable. Memory waits in reality’s stead.
She does nothing to catch the Drifter. Content to leer at his prone form through the mask, Death itself laughs at him.
“What was that? Drifter, rise.”
What, the Drifter’s mind eloquently thinks, sluggish with the transition into daydream. With pitiable strength he is at least able to push his upper half up from the ground. Where am I.
“Get back on your feet,” she continues to scold. Even muffled through the mask, he could hear the humor fade from her voice. It is accented in a way that confirms her status as a Drifter, a foreigner to Buried Time.
While he does as commanded, the alternate Drifter remains in terrible sitting posture. The swordsmaster’s shop is clear of everyone but the Magician and Death. The door is closed, the total absence of ambiance suggests that the world ceases to exist outside of the store.
Where am I, the Drifter thinks again, and notices that his message is not transported to his companion. The robot lies on the table beside Death, entirely taken apart and neatly organized. Her companion in contrast is put together, humming with life and hovering beside her shoulder loyally. He makes eye contact with the mask, its pink eyes crying eternally. The Drifter shudders. Here is my successor, whenever I fail completely.
They were both guided by Justice, both corrupted with hyper light, and yet even from the look of Death’s outfit, the Magician could see she was the better pick for the job. Perhaps the perfect Drifter. In sparring, she outclassed him by far; there was no way to deflect her attacks or come into range close enough without suffering a blow. She was faster. She was blessed by Justice Itself to bear Its likeness. And the mask’s eyes--
One of the eyes winks at the Drifter. His mind blanks.
She is not sitting, but standing facing him, poised and expectant. The water is up to their ankles. The wolf-mask turns, slowly, and he follows its gaze to find another set of pink eyes, another set of pointed ears. Behind those ears, a halo of diamond.
Justice does not speak. It doesn’t have a voice. The Drifters hear It anyway. Its words address the light Drifter, and how It knows how he’s spent his time imprisoned.
The Drifter knows not to interrupt, but can’t help a rush of thoughts directed toward It. No, please. I promise I’ll find the Cell, he thinks, I promise I’ll destroy it; nothing has mattered more to me. I have suffered your visions and understood their meanings. I understand my corruption, and I fear it.
Don’t leave me, he thinks, harder, and reaches his hand out; his subconscious wants Justice to wait, to delay the inevitable weighing of his heart against a feather.
His splayed fingers seem to blur into each other. Don’t leave me, his mind begs, weaker, and feebly sputters out incomprehensible reasons as to why he should not be rejected for the better candidate.
The alternate Drifter kneels before Justice. The Drifter steps forward despite knowing better. Please give me more time. I need more time. I know It is here. I have found it for You before, and killed It. I won’t break this promise.
Death rises, and speaks for her master.
“Then go. Find it, then kill It again. That place has made you become hesitant and distracted. Justice knows you have begun to recover your former strength, and is here to guide you--that is why we are here, Drifter. We know you need reassurance of your path in the holy mission.
“Though you must complete this mission by your own hand, you don’t have to be alone. That place is more gentle than this cruel world has ever been to you. You have been too afraid and too proud to acknowledge that. You can hear the Cell Itself; you know that the Devil is lonely. Don’t let yourself become any more vulnerable to Its promises.
“And remember that the Cure is sought after by many, not just yourself. You think yourself as weak and frail in that place, a pitiable thing forsaken by Justice... It isn’t true. You need to remember your strength. Remember how you used to fight? I do. Even sick--even alone--you were strong.” she pauses, then adds with what sounds like a hidden grin:
“If a little clumsy.
“... What’s with that look, Drifter? Did you think you were here to be replaced?”
The Tower’s doors shut in front of Justice and Death before the Magician could dream of a response.
// The otherworldly twinkle had caught his eye immediately, gleaming in the dark.
They looked at it without much surprise, thinking the star a mere vision--before their phone chirped to life. Transferring the announcement from cell phone to companion bot, the Drifter watched as an eager young girl introduced herself.
Soon enough, the screen dissipated, leaving the twinkle once more as the primary source of life within the Drifter’s hut.
No move was made as it finally formed into a silver star. Eleine had mentioned hiding it, but in the ever-present dark of underground Sector Alpha, the Drifter could easily notice it.
Her words, her instructions, these echoed in the Drifter’s mind, heart beginning to pick up pace.
(working hard... congratulations...
close your eyes, and think really hard.
a wish.)
As they began to stand up from their seat and stagger toward their dusty bicycle (behind which the star was “hidden”), the Drifter felt the hyper dark murmur:
(won’t work... doesn’t last...
i know you want the cure
how naïve.)
They closed their eyes, imagined a mirror shattering, and the dark was silent once more.
But the thought remained.
// How could they wish to be cured? What hard work had they done to deserve it? Judgement still haunted them, Justice’s complete absence was damning (you failed It, you must have), and to simply wish away their sickness, even if temporary, would be...
The Drifter clasps the wish tightly between both hands, like he had done before with the green diamond at the front of his cloak.
