#heavenslapse

[heartsaligned]

@heavenslapse | alpha team is flying around raccoon city...again🦝

     September 28, 1998 — Jill would never forget that night. The city had seen signs of viral activity, but nothing the R.P.D. hadn't been able to handle. Or so Jill thought. She had stayed behind in Raccoon City to continue her investigation, but by the time she realized that she was fighting a losing battle time had gotten away from her. Leaving the city wasn't an option with constant surveillance, and by late September she found herself basically stuck in her own apartment, unable to leave. Brad had done what he could to send her supplies, but the other S.T.A.R.S. members were long gone from the city. She couldn't rely on them anymore, nor could she find her way to them.

      And then the shit really hit the fan.

      Jill wouldn't lie; there was a moment she considered just ending it herself. Sitting in her apartment, watching the news, realizing the city was going under, Jill half-wondered if eating a bullet wasn't the sanest option she had available. But then anger took hold of her and she steeled herself to escape. An obsessed tyrant, a few dead friends, a T-virus infection and a lot of bullshit later, and somehow she found herself free of the nightmare. Against all odds, she had escaped, just moments before the missile strike obliterated life below.

      Or so she thought.

      Nearly thirty years later and Jill had somehow found herself in the wreckage that was once her home. It made her feel sick to remember that night. All those nights, really. The good and the bad. Nights at J's bar, relaxing with a beer after a shift, laughing with Chris and the others. Mornings at the Stagla station near the precinct to refuel her car and grab a few sweet snacks to hide away in her desk, only to end up having to share them with the team. Even St. Michael's clocktower, it's powerful bells ringing out every hour, a historic staple of the city and far more impressive than the police station's. She wasn't even sure what was still standing, but her heart ached to see everything in ruins, the color washed away, bleak and broken.

      But Jill didn't bring any of it up, not when they were here for a more serious mission. There was no telling if Leon was still alive after the terrifying call they received. Sherry had mentioned he was dying then, that he was stuck in Raccoon City and infected. Even if he had somehow found answers here, found the cure he so desperately needed, what then? He needed evacuation ASAP. She really didn't want to think about what might have already happened.

      They had found his car abandoned in the middle of the street, but besides some bullet casings and some spiderwebbing nearby there was no sign as to where Leon had gone. Sherry had mentioned that he had moved toward the center of the city, at least, and as such they had continued their search, ultimately settling on exploring the area around the old university while the other team checked elsewhere. From survivor reports, the university had not only been the source of one of the vaccines, but it had housed an underground facility of its own. If it wasn't the ARK that intel mentioned, then the others would surely be on the right track.

      "He'll be okay."

      Her voice was quiet, softer than she meant it to be, less sure than she would have liked. But she knew she needed to keep Chris calm all the same. "Leon's strong. And incredibly stubborn. He's not going to die here, Chris; Raccoon City couldn't stop him twenty-eight years ago, it won't stop him tonight either."

[heartsaligned-a]

@heavenslapse​ | akira and akechi on 2/2 ❄️

     Gentle snow fluttered softly past frosted glass, peaceful, quiet. The night was mild, dark and cold, but a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature had settled into Akira’s bones, into his heart and soul. For weeks he had forced himself not to think too deeply about Akechi’s reappearance, to take their time together as a blessing and not pull away the curtain, but in one swift movement Maruki had lain everything bare. Akira had been forced to look, forced to see something he couldn’t bear, all in a final, desperate attempt to control him. To control them.

     It wasn’t fair.

     Akira wasn’t stupid. Far from it, really. Everyone who met him commented on the sharpness of his gaze and his uncanny intuition. Incredibly perceptive, able to see past the mundane into something few others could see. He had seen Akechi when no one else could, witnessed the goodness of his heart despite the weight that clawed through his chest into the very fiber of his being. He had fallen in love with the person who would be his murderer, and yet it was the man who had been sent to help him had escaped detection. Maruki had displayed as unreadable for Akira, working his way into the teen’s head before he could be blocked out. For months Akira had let him use him without understanding why he felt so disgusting, so guilty--as if he owed the man something he wasn’t able to offer. And now, after months of pulling strings, he finally dealt his coup de grâce.

     At first, Akira couldn’t explain Akechi’s survival, but he also wasn’t going to deny his presence. It was a miracle. But the sparkling sheen began to chip off as the days passed, as Isshiki Wakaba and Haru’s father mysteriously returned to the world of the living as well. The thought had occurred to Akira then that Akechi might be in the same situation, but before it could even process his mind set up another wall, blocking the truth from sinking in. His mental state was already on the decline, and losing Akechi once had nearly killed him. How was he supposed to go through that again? How could he?

     There was no denying it anymore, of course. Maruki had made sure to make his terms clear, dangling Akechi’s life in front of him like a carrot on a string. Taking such a detestable deal sounded suddenly almost palatable, but the thought of accepting quickly turned Akira’s stomach. The Phantom Thieves fought as a unit, a tight-knit team that decided on everything unanimously, but in the end Akira was their leader. They followed him when he made the calls, and Maruki understand the nature of their relationship all too well. In the end, the decision was his and his alone.

     Time was running out. 

     After what seemed like an eternity in silence, Akira rose from his seat at the center booth, moving to stand next to Akechi, the resolve etched into his features already telling him everything he needed to know. There was no way they could accept the deal, they both knew it. Maruki had to be stopped, the world had to return to its true reality. Yet all Akira wanted to do was stay in this moment, to stay with Akechi no matter the cost. It was selfish, he knew that it was, but when did he ever get to be selfish? It was one thing after another with him, a life of selflessness, of struggling to meet other peoples’ standards, of taking their pain, being the responsible leader. Why did things have to turn out like this? Didn’t either one of them deserve one little bit of happiness after all these years?

     “Akechi...”

     Softer than he intended, more quiet and raw than he would have liked despite the attempt at keeping his approach impersonal. There was still so much left to be said, so much that had become suddenly so impossible to speak aloud. Neither one of them could afford to back down now, and if Akira knew that saying the wrong thing would have devastating consequences. The world could easily fall into the hands of a sociopath with a god complex and they would remain under his influence, puppets forced to smile and dance until they day they finally were allowed to die.

     “Do I get any say in this?”

[heartsaligned]

@heavenslapse | chris and leon finally meet ❤️

      For two days Leon had felt that cold, creeping darkness getting closer, threatening to overtake him like it had after Raccoon, after Spain. Jason had brought up memories that were still far too recent, and good people had died because of some idealistic crusade. Leon was no fool, he knew better than to blindly trust the government, but he also knew the power of fear and terror itself. He knew that the fallout would cause even more suffering and destruction than Raccoon City and the fall of Umbrella combined. If it had taken nearly six years to tie up the legal matters with all of that, what would happen if the world suddenly turned on the United States? If the world was suddenly made aware that, at any moment, another biohazard could take away everything they loved?

      Keeping the chip had been the smartest move, and Leon was 100% sure he was doing the right thing — he just hadn't expected, even in a million years, that Claire would stand against him. Of all people, he had believed she would understand him rather than try and use him. For a moment, he remembered how Ada had tried to get the G-virus off of him, how she had taken the Plaga sample away from him at gunpoint. Everyone found a use in Leon. Claire was supposed to be different.

      Out of respect, Leon had waited a day to call her, hoping to give Claire some time to settle down. He understood her anger, despite how much it hurt, and he wanted her to understand why he had made the decision he had. It wasn't loyalty to a government whose corruption seeped into the soil like a poison, nor was it his duty as a man forced into service. It was purely protection, a burden to shoulder on his own. You didn't stop terror by making it spread: you quietly cut it out by the root.

      Much to his surprise, Chris Redfield answered the phone, and Leon couldn't help but feel his mood tick upward at the sound of his voice. They had spoken before, but had never really gotten to know each other despite their connections. But now that Chris was in town, Leon couldn't help but find an opportunity there. Claire had told him more than once they should meet, and if Chris was willing to listen then maybe his sister would accept the truth from him. Feeling optimistic (and maybe a little opportunistic), Leon suggested grabbing a drink. They settled on a bar downtown, and Leon got himself ready, making sure he was fashionably late — even if that just meant changing into a leather jacket and a pair of dark wash jeans.

      Fifteen minutes after the agreed upon time, Leon walked into the bar, pushing through the crowd until his eyes landed on the man who could only be Chris. Although they had never met, Leon was aware of who he was, having used his connections to learn about him in order to rescue Claire from Rockfort Island. Of course, that had been years ago, but the man resembled Claire enough that Leon didn't have to second guess. With a small wave to draw his attention, Leon slipped over to Chris, offering him one of his practiced, but charming little smiles.

      "Can't believe it's taken us this long to actually meet." He held out his hand, offering a handshake. They might as well make it an official thing, even if they were meeting in a bar for drinks. "Leon, by the way; just in case you thought I might be some random guy trying what would be a really pathetic pick-up line. Now that I think about it I have no idea if Claire's ever actually described me to you. If she did paint you a picture, I hope she captured my good side."

[heartsaligned]

@heavenslapse | leon's in so much trouble💍

     Death was hardly a stranger to Leon by this point. He had witnessed it firsthand when he was eighteen. The quiet tragedy of a parent slipping away beneath his fingertips, the haunting pain of loss, of a wound that would never heal. He had found death lurking around every corner at twenty-one. Monsters that had once been people, forcing him to fire a gun he had never actually wanted to turn on human beings. Death stalked him around every corner, through the halls of the RPD station, destroying the life he had once dreamt of, and while it had robbed him of his innocence, it had not extinguished that spark burning inside of him.

     Time had not gone easy on Leon since that fateful night in Raccoon City, and more than once he had found himself spiraling, despairing, only to pull himself back up because his life no longer felt as if it belonged to him. He wasn't a person anymore, he wasn't a man with a name: he was a commodity. A tool. He was an ID number assigned to handle bioterrorism and little else. So why? Why did he keep fighting, keep surviving? For a government who didn't care about him? A government who had now abandoned him?

     At one of the lowest points in his life Leon had understood why he kept fighting. He wanted to live, not survive. Actually live. And the people in his life meant something, the people he had grown to care about and love. The people he had yet to meet who would impact him. People like Claire and Sherry, who had just been kids when their lives were upturned. People like Jill and Rebecca who had joined the police department to try and help people, just like Leon had. People like Grace and Ashley, who were just thrown into nightmares, wholly unprepared.

     And of course, people like Chris, who taught Leon that it was okay to love and be loved in return.

     Because of people like Chris, Leon kept moving forward. He regained parts of himself once thought lost. He had never wanted to stop saving people, but that bitterness inside of him turned back into something that almost felt like hope, that there were people he could save. He wasn't useless, he wasn't a failure. And even though he took every life lost personally, he understood that every life saved was still a miracle.

     It was strange to think how Raccoon City had been the final piece to a puzzle long unfinished.

     The cool, early autumn air of Raccoon City against his skin was a feeling Leon had never expected to feel again. It was surreal, even now, to be standing in the same city he had driven into, terrified that he was late for work. Surreal to think he had just escaped another Umbrella lab, to be rescued when it felt like he had reached the end of the road. For just a moment, Leon felt like that rookie cop again.

     But then a sharp pain in his chest brought him back to reality and Leon winced, placing a hand against ribs that were definitely broken. Adrenaline had kept him going and prevented the worst of the pain, but now that it was wearing off and the T-virus sickness had been purged from his system Leon was acutely aware that he was more wounded than he had previously realized. Nothing he hadn't been through before, but it wasn't going to make his explaining things to Chris any easier. There was no way he was winning sympathy points when he ran off without a word.

     Still, a small smile tugged at his lips, and Leon couldn't help but feel happy. The gravity of everything would sink in later, and the trauma from just this night alone would be a lot, but for the moment Leon let himself hold onto everything good he was feeling. He had not only survived and helped save Grace, but she had helped save him. Without her, he would have destroyed Elpis, and he and Sherry both would have died. They had both managed to eliminate feelings of worthlessness, of failure. At the eleventh hour, Grace had figured everything out. She opened up the path for Leon to (hopefully, and finally) put a close to Wesker's story, and to finish off Gideon, the man who had started everything for Grace's chapter. And in the end, Chris had come to their rescue like some really fucked up kind of fairy tale. It made Leon almost want to laugh.

     He was just sure Chris wasn't going to see the humor in it all...

[heartsaligned]

@heavenslapse | p struggles to remember who he is 🦋

     The aroma of dust and aged paper seemed to fill the room, mixing with the heavy scent of cherry so aged it smelled more like spilled red wine than a woman's perfume. Old letters and photographs bound by yellowed lace ribbons, a damaged journal, a music box whose melody seemed to haunt more than soothe — Carlo had collected so many fragments of his past, and yet he could still feel the missing parts of himself like phantom limbs. He could feel the way his memories fell off, broken and frayed at the ends as though torn from him. Was this the best he could hope for? What if those memories he had lost were gone forever?

     What if he could never truly be himself?

     If that were the case, what would that make him? Could he actually call himself 'Carlo' knowing full well he wasn't complete? Or was it possible he was never Carlo to begin with, and he was little more than an impostor who had cut off a boy's face and worn it like a mask until he forced himself to believe? The only true litmus test he had was Romeo; he would know in an instant if anything was off, but what if he was deceived as well? Maybe he was just seeing what he wanted to see, and Geppetto's puppet was all 'Carlo' would ever be.

     "That's stupid."

     He hadn't meant to speak aloud, but Carlo's frustration grew the more he pored over the box in front of him. Much of his old journal had been badly damaged, with blue blood staining much of the latter. Even the leather cover was destroyed, looking as though it bad been nearly clawed through. While he was grateful for the glimpse into his past it had offered, there unfortunately just wasn't enough there. Carlo still had so many questions, and it felt as though he would forever be chasing those answers, doomed to always wonder what had once been.

     Feeling discouraged, Carlo wound up the small silver music box and opened the lid, letting the melody inside creak to life with its haunting, twinkling tones. The memory of it being given to him felt like a distant dream, watercolors running against their canvas, swirling together, becoming more muddled. So much had come back to him already, but when it came to Romeo the past felt beyond the stars themselves, as though it was a place he was never meant to be.

     Humming idly along with the music box, Carlo continued to sift through, reading and rereading everything as though he could force a revelation. Strange, how the song was such a comfort to him, yet he knew his mother had not sang it to him since he was just a baby. The maid puppet had known it, and Carlo had taken that song with him to Monad — but when it came to the music box itself, he could hardly remember the finer details.

      A single page jumped out at him among the damage, the elegant, flowing script excitedly detailing the cherished moment that Romeo presented him with one of Lady Isbelle's prize roses. The rose itself had been pressed neatly between the pages, and as Carlo gingerly picked it up he felt an odd rush of emotion he couldn't easily place. Something like happiness and a loving fondness mingled with a deep, yearning sadness — more than just nostalgia itself.

Romeo brought me one of Lady Isabelle's roses today! I can't imagine what he had to do to get her to agree to part with it, but it's beautiful. I wish it would last forever; it's gorgeous and it smells heavenly. I hate to even think about its petals falling off, especially after Romeo looked so happy to give it to me. I think in a couple of days I'll press it between these pages and let it dry, that way I can look at it any time I want...

      A pain shot through his chest, and Carlo felt his eyes begin to sting. Romeo had been happy. Carlo could remember now, the way he smiled, the way it felt as though the sun shone just for him. He could remember taking the rose in his hands and being so careful with it, as though it were made of precious glass and not actually a flower. And yet still he could not remember exactly what it had meant. It was if all the signs were there, but written in some language he no longer understood.

[heartsaligned]

@heavenslapse — P has a nightmare 🌩️

      Things were never going to feel normal again, he knew that much. There was just too much between them now, shared trauma, unspeakable horrors, death, decay, destruction. Carlo didn't know where his ended and Romeo's began, but there was at least some solace in that. They had always been bonded, since the day they met it seemed. Inseparable, even in death. They were somehow lucky enough to have gained another chance together, but it was clear to him that there was no returning to the past they had once loved so dearly.

      They had both changed — mentally, physically, spiritually. Carlo was still reeling from everything, his memories filtering back to him steadily, but it felt as though there was still a haze there in the distance. He had, at least, managed to come to terms with the two sides of himself. P had merged back into Carlo, the two lives he lived becoming one, singular identity. But there was so much pain, so much trauma there, stemming back to his childhood, his very first memories. He could scarcely begin to unravel it all.

      One day a time. One step before the next. During the day it seemed to help to have something to do, to try and attend to Romeo's needs over his own, to focus on the hotel, the people that had both come to rely on him, and allow themselves to be relied upon. But night was different. He was not a puppet anymore; even his metallic heart beat solidly, warm and constant. He was alive, he was human, for the most part — or perhaps something more. Even he wasn't sure. He just knew he still needed rest, and sleep rarely afforded him peace.

      Blood ran over his hands, crimson, fresh. It soaked into the pure white of his shirtsleeves, seemed to seep through to his very soul. The theater around him burned, intense and desperate, as if the flames themselves were trying to cleanse Carlo of his very sins, but he didn't care — couldn't care. Divine judgement was deserved. It was even desired. After his transgression, he could see no point in being allowed to live.

      He hadn't known what he was about to do, but nightmares had no want of logic. They preyed on his pain, replayed it, amplified it. It felt real, like he was standing there again, staring down at Romeo's broken body, but no longer was he a puppet; Carlo could see him, see the Romeo he had grown up with, the one he had failed to save. The Romeo that had been left behind, left to suffer. And Carlo had taken his sword and stabbed him through the heart, had torn him apart himself. It didn't matter if he screamed, or if he cried, or even begged. It didn't matter when he called his name, reached out to him with bloodied fingers, desperate for one last grim embrace. Carlo had struck him down without a thought.

      Flames inched closer, licking at the back of his heels, but he felt nothing. He stood there, staring wordlessly, as the fire began to reclaim Romeo's body, pulling him into the blinding light now engulfing the opera house. Somewhere, Carlo was aware that someone was screaming, and for a moment he wondered if it was Romeo, if he had been wrong and the other was somehow still alive. But as the flame rose around him, encircling him, burning him, he realized.

      He was the one screaming.

      The world around him came into focus suddenly, the bedroom ceiling barely illuminated by the soft glow of the lights outside the window. Rain drummed against the window pane, but it did nothing to drown out the pounding of his own heart. A cold sweat broke out across his brow, and for a few terrifying moments it felt as if he could hardly breathe. Icy tendrils of panic snaked around his heart as he quickly sat up, fumbling for the lamp beside him with shaking hands. He needed light, he needed to see, needed to know —

      "Romeo —"

      Carlo felt his voice catch, forming into a lump in his throat as he turned to the empty bed beside him. Romeo didn't need to sleep, but he had quickly gotten into the habit of resting beside Carlo at night. However, seeing him gone now seemed to open the flood gates of doubt and panic, and Carlo felt himself start to break. A small voice in the back of his mind unhelpfully added fuel to the fire, and he began to wonder somehow if he hadn't imagined it all to begin with.

      What if Romeo was gone? What if he was never here?

      Breathing shallowly, Carlo stumbled out of bed, his shaking legs nearly giving out the moment his feet touched the cold ground. He didn't bother grabbing shoes, didn't bother throwing anything else on — already he was moving, opening the bedroom door and hurrying out into the hallway.

"Romeo!"

      His voice broke, the fear and pain flooding out of him in icy, thrashing waves, his heart beating so quickly and erratically it felt as though it would explode. He knew on some level he needed to calm down and think rationally, but he couldn't do it. The panic wouldn't let him. He couldn't stop until he knew, one way or another.

      Please don't be real...please...

      Something soft brushed against his leg as he moved, and Carlo was vaguely aware of Lunette's soft cry, her little bell jingling as she tried to follow him down the corridor. He would have to apologize to her later; despite how worried she was, he didn't slow down, not until reaching the second floor landing overlooking the hotel lobby. A shock of familiar blond hair beneath him. His heart continued to race and his body trembled almost violently, but a warmth started to slowly come back to him. It felt like he could finally breathe.

      Just a nightmare. It really was only a dream. Romeo was alive.

      Trembling fingers gripped the banister as Carlo tried to ground himself, but it was all he could do not to just rush straight down to Romeo and throw his arms around him and make sure he was really there. Despite the state he was in, he could sense the tension hanging in the air, his eyes drifting from Romeo's face to the puppet he had so clearly been talking to. Carlo didn't know what they were discussing, but the the knot of dread in stomach tightened all the same.

      Something was definitely wrong.

[heartsaligned]

@heavenslapse | resident evil 2 au 🧟

      This could not be happening.

      When Leon had woken up late that afternoon, he had told himself as he rushed out the door that this was easily the worst day of his life. His first real job, his career path, and he was late. Not just late, but hung over because he had stayed in Wrenwood a day too long just to celebrate his birthday with his friends. He had turned twenty-one, and while the number felt so big and scary, Leon knew he was ready to begin his new, grown-up life in a new city. His new life as a cop.

      Some fucking adult I am.

      Becoming a police officer had been Leon's dream since he was young, consuming cop dramas and movies throughout his entire childhood. The police were the good guys, the ones who helped every day people. They weren't always big, flashy heroes with their faces plastered across billboards, but that was okay; Leon didn't want that. He didn't want the world to know his name, or to go on some superhero-esque mission to save the planet. All he wanted was to help as many people as he could, the people who fell through the cracks: the people who really needed him.

      It made him sick to think about all the people he had already failed.

      Driving into Raccoon City had been a surreal journey. One moment he had gone from cooking up an excuse to watching people die in front of him, screaming and bloody. His mind had stopped working, autopilot switching on, and while he was terrified he knew he had to be strong. Especially after having met Claire, who arguably needed help more than he did. Or at least Leon liked to think that. Somehow, she seemed pretty capable, even at nineteen...

      Getting separated from her had sent Leon into a tailspin. Luckily, they both had avoided being injured in the crash that set them apart, but it had left Leon lost on the streets of a city he didn't actually live in. Fires burned, clouds of thick, billowing smoke making it even more difficult to navigate the maze of crashed cars and makeshift barricades. A sickly sweet smell like rotting flowers mixed with the burnt stench hanging in the early autumn air, oppressive, choking. Glass crunched beneath his shoes as he ran, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears he could scarcely hear the groans of the (sick? wounded? dying? undead?) infected roaming the streets around him. More than once he had nearly been grabbed, forced to pull his gun and open fire. His stomach churned, but Leon fought back the urge to be sick. He was trapped in a nightmare, but he didn't want to die. If he planned to survive the impossible, he had to be strong.

       For a time, Leon found himself able to just turn his brain off and compartmentalize. It felt as though he had created a checklist for himself in his head, and once he passed through the gates of the RPD station it was if he had truly shown up for work. Never had he imagined anything so horrifying happening on his first day, but he had gone through training to become a cop. It was his duty to serve and protect to the best of his ability. The city seemed bad, but Leon knew it couldn't be lost. He would put on his uniform, gather as much information as he could, and do everything in his power to help. He could do this. He had hope.

      He'd had hope, anyway.

      Within an hour Leon realized he was starting to dip beneath the surface of the water and was in danger of drowning. The station was overrun, his lieutenant was injured, and the survivors left were all infected or dead in some capacity. The spark of hope had renewed when Leon heard a voice shouting for help, but when he reached for the officer's hands beneath the rolling shutter, Leon had ended up pulling out only half of him. Blood smeared across the dirty tile, the man's internal organs spilling out of him in front of Leon's eyes, but the worst part of it all was the officer was still alive for a few agonizing moments. A numbness crept over Leon, stalling his heart and stealing his breath. His mind seemed to block off parts of the scene, protecting him from absorbing it all once, but unfortunately it didn't stop the sudden wave of nausea that struck him like an out of control train. Moving automatically, he grabbed the nearby trash can and pulled it over to himself, allowing himself to (finally) become immediately and incredibly sick.

      God, what was he supposed to do? How was he supposed to handle all of this? All he wanted to do was sit there and just melt down, but he knew he couldn't let himself have that luxury. He was still in danger, and could not afford to stop. Not just yet.

      Not until he found what seemed to be a safe room, tucked away from the nightmares and blood-soaked horrors.

      It was a stark contrast from the rest of the station. Although clearly searched, the S.T.A.R.S. office felt oddly removed. It was warmer somehow, well-lit, safer. The door was sturdy enough that Leon felt he could allow himself a moment to rest and just sort through everything he had already seen. His entire body trembled, the edges of his vision starting to fade into black, and before he could pass out on the spot he grabbed a nearby chair and dropped into it as his legs seemed to just give out beneath him.

      I'm still alive. I'm still okay. I think.

      He wasn't really okay, sitting there in someone's old chair, breathing too fast to be safe and trying hard not to completely panic, but he was alive, and that was a start. As he sat there, trying hard to focus and stop himself from hyperventilating, he let himself look over the personal affects on the desks around him. A picture of a dog on someone's desk behind him, a nice leather jacket hanging nearby with a familiar design he oddly couldn't place now, a mess of paperwork, CDs, flyers and other things. It was all so human it made Leon's heart ache. Were these people who had died in the attack, too? Had they been here when everything went down and rushed out to save the survivors, only to meet horrible ends of their own...?

      Curiosity got the better of Leon, and he leaned forward, picking up a worn diary sitting amongst the papers in front of him. Right now, he knew he couldn't step back out into that hallway; might as well try and gather a little information while he could.

[heartsaligned]

@heavenslapse | p decides it's time to rebuild romeo 🔨

      Everyone had told him to wait. He was exhausted, run down, traumatized. Anyone else would have been confined to bed after everything he had been though, but P refused to stay down for long. And how could he? The only reason he was still alive was the vain hope that Romeo could be saved, a desperate dream that had been born in Carlo's heart once he realized his power to restore Sophia. The toll of his battles had sent him into a deep sleep directly afterward, but the moment his eyes had opened again he found himself desperately clinging onto his newfound determination.

      Rosa Isabelle felt oddly quiet as Carlo passed through, but he didn't stop to explore. It seemed as though most of the fires had burned out thanks to all the rain, leaving the streets eerily quiet and cold. Whole sections of the street had gone dark, the once glittering electric lights burnt out. The reconstruction of the city seemed a monumental task, and for a brief moment Carlo found himself wondering if it would even be possible to restore any semblance of life. At this point, it felt almost like it was a futile effort, and the survivors should simply pack up what they could salvage and escape.

      It wasn't until he reached the opera house that Carlo finally saw any puppets, his hand coming to rest on the hilt of his rapier almost automatically. When none turned toward him, he cautiously continued onward, relieved to avoid unnecessary fighting. Not only was he running on simple adrenaline alone, but he didn't want to waste any more time. He had a long laundry list of things he would have to get done before Romeo was saved; the sooner he got started, the sooner he would get to him again.

God; he had so much to apologize for.

      Carlo felt his heart begin to pound as he pushed open the heavy doors leading to the main stage. It seemed a lifetime ago that he had been here, had slapped the King's hand away and blindly followed his father's orders. Small fires still burned throughout the room, reduced to embers. The warm light flickered against the burnished gold accents set into the cool marble, and overhead the impressive crystal chandelier still sparkled. But then, finally, his eyes were drawn downward, to the broken husk that had been Romeo's puppet body.

      For a moment, he did nothing, feeling heavy, ill. His legs didn't seem to want to cooperate, and his head felt strangely fuzzy. At the time, he hadn't known — couldn't have known. Geppetto had seen to it that when Carlo woke up, he would wake up as an obedient, subservient little puppet, ready to follow orders and do everything father dearest asked. Any memory of Romeo was buried deep, and even now Carlo understood there was more he had yet to remember. He almost wondered if some of those precious memories weren't gone forever.

      Oddly, a smattering of candles and offerings had been set up around Romeo's body in some sort of shrine. A half-burned teddy bear, photographs of strangers in broken frames, flowers. A necklace had been draped over one of the pictures, the clasp broken, as though it had been snatched directly off of someone's neck. As bizarre as it was, Carlo recognized it as an odd attempt at a shrine; however, that wasn't the reason he had come here. Whatever it all meant didn't matter.

      Emotion rushed through Carlo the moment his gaze traveled from the offerings on the floor on the broken porcelain face of the King of Puppet's. His chest tightened painfully, his breath stolen away in an instant, and without thinking he crossed the room and dropped to one knee next to the body, his common sense all but shutting off. He knew Venigni's talent, knew he could create something far better than the scrap metal shell that his father had cobbled together, but right now he felt so close. If he put Romeo's ergo back, he would wake up — just as Sophia had.