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The sea winds whipped at the Viera guest's placid face, eyes wide. Always blank, it seemed, no matter where she looked. Some of the ship's crew had muttered that something was off about the passenger. The money they were paid might not be enough after all.
What sort of madwoman charters a ship to the Sirensong Sea? The same sort who walks around with a Viera that looked more doll than flesh. Rarely blinking, never emoting. It was simple to assume the case she had kept carrying around with her contained some sort of weapon. What really bothered them was how heavy the case seemed to be, and how easily the doll-woman carried it.
One of the sailors, a shrimpy Hyuran cabin boy, thought he had a bright idea at the least. If they were going to be locked into this contract, the least he could do was make it less miserable. Maybe even get to know them. What was the worst could happen? Most of the rest didn't share his optimism, but he pressed on.
He swallowed. Steeled his nerves. Walked up to the Viera, case in her hand, staring out into the open sea.
"Hey, Miss?"
"Are you speaking to me?" Her voice was near-perfectly monotone.
The cabin boy's heart hit his shoes, and his neck itched. He scratched it, with a grimace. "Aye, ma'am. Ye can call me Harald. It was me dad's name, ye know, so it's mine now."
"Why?"
"What?"
The Viera turned to face him. Her eyes would have been beautiful, he decided, if they weren't staring straight into his soul.
"What does your father's name have to do with your own?"
"Er, well, I wasna much fer imaginin' things." She stared in silence, until he continued. "It's jes, ye kin either make yer own name, or take what's someone else's, I s'pose." He immediately shrank back, crumbling like paper in a flame.
"I see." The Viera stared in silence at him for another few seconds, before it seemed a switch flipped in her brain. "I am called Lacina."
"That's a pretty name."
"Why?"
"Uh." Harald looked up to see her staring dead at him, stock-still. Head slowly tilting. The only sign she was even aware of the weather around was the way her hair whipped past her head, ears drooping to the sides. The way the case slowly bobbed up and down with the ship. Was she keeping it level? How would she even do that?
"Why is Lacina a pretty name?"
"I dunno. Sorry."
"Why would you be sorry?"
"I shouldna - I shouldna talked to ye, is all."
Lacina's head tilted the slightest bit further. Harald took a step back.
"Sorry fer botherin' ye, ma'am."
"I do not understand. Did I say I am bothered?"
"Well, no."
"Then why are you apologizing?"
His ears felt like they were ringing, the longer he looked at her. The more she stared back at him.
"I dunno."
"I don't either. Do you often do things without knowing why?"
"I dunno..."
"If you did not think further about what you were saying, why did you say it?"
"It's /talkin'/, lady."
"I see."
He wasn't sure whether to back off or to stay. On the one hand, she was the prettiest woman he'd seen in moons. On the other, he wasn't sure how many more moons he'd live to see if he kept asking.
"So - so why Sirensong Sea?"
"There is a man hiding there I must kill."
"Oh." Well. That clinched it. "I think the cap'n needs me, needs his, uh, books... carried..."
"Okay." The Viera turned right back to face the sea once more.
Another orchestrion roll she had all but destroyed from overuse. Sitting in her room before it while morning turned to night, every single day. If she wasn't training, she was there. She ate in front of it. She slept in front of it. She listened until they had to replace parts of the machine, and each time something new broke she banged on the door harder than the last.
Eventually, they added a second to her room - one to listen to while waiting for repairs.
Instead, she just put both on. Listened to songs layered over one another. She made the second play the birdsong recordings - her handlers quickly rushed an order for copies of that scroll before the inevitable happened.
There was some level of debate as to whether or not it would be wise to have her watch a live performance. The oversight committee expressed the view that the entire project was growing to be a liability, as more and more of the subjects started to degrade mentally and fall apart. Why put in almost a full cycle into preparation for a subject that only lasts a matter of moons, when a trained team could accomplish just about as much?
Until Lacina was the oldest one left in the program. The researchers insisted: this was their star experiment. Their ace in the hole agent. Lacina would be the start of a new generation, the first of a whole new line of assassins for the Garlean Empire. They staked the entire project on her shoulders. Previously, the longest shelf life they had seen was just under six moons - Lacina had been going for closing on a full cycle without cease.
It seemed that the way to achieve stability with the project was to twist the subject's psyche towards something consistent and repeatable.
It would not be difficult to requisition orchestrions. Her operational cost was a drop in the bucket compared to the cost of keeping a strike team on hand and ready to go. And her results could not be denied: a one-hundred-percent success rate was exactly what the project had aimed for from day one, after all.
The best part was, they had been throwing her against everything they could think of, and she had shown no hesitation or restraint. Political dissidents, deserters, prominent members of scattered resistance movements. They could ask for zero collateral damage - they could demand zero survivors. No matter what they pointed her at, she did exactly as told. Even in cases where she seemed to have lost, she would not stop until she had killed her target - and her victory was proven, time and again, to be inevitable.
And with each successful mission, she demanded more music. They watched every new development with the closest of scrutiny. To their fascination, she began demanding fabric and weaving supplies after her fifty-sixth operation.
And then the ritual changed. Work out, drill, clean equipment, then sit before the orchestrions and sew. Every single thing she created for the first moon, she threw into the fire. And yet she still tore into the work, the music, and everything else with a ceaseless obsession. An endless appetite.
They asked her, finally, the obvious question: why?
The interviewer's collar felt just a bit too tight for comfort at her reply:
"Perfection alone has earned its place. My creations are imperfect, but a pursuit of perfection. When what I make is precisely as I intend, I will keep it. Until then everything burns."
The committee did not like that answer either. Fortunately, it was only brought to their attention after the quarterly budget proposal.
Unfortunately, that also meant they needed to step things up this quarter if they would secure funding for the next.
Three subjects remained. Their performance going forward would determine if the committee would approve acquisition and production of further agents.
Lacina Lune's work for the Garleans was just a memory, now. They had abandoned her. Couldn't handle perfection. It didn't matter. She had no further need or use for them. She was one target away from closing out her perfect record, and that was what truly mattered.
She checked the fuel lines on her gunscythe.
In the meantime, she had taken up smaller jobs, to afford the information she needed on where her target had fled to after faking his death. To her luck, she had managed to find several clients willing to hire an assassin. She had yet to figure out why they all seemed so trepidatious about her. More than one prospective client had turned her down not long after she quoted her price.
Soft music playing over the orchestrion. A piece which was popular among Ishgardian nobility some time ago. The recording had been made in a private manor. She could hear the individual claps of the audience members.
Perhaps she was asking for too much? She had calculated the cost based on what a talented craftsman would make in a trade. She was, after all, a perfect assassin. This meant she would be worth the same price as a perfect carpenter, or perfect blacksmith. Their hesitation struck her as an impenetrable mystery.
She opened the crate. For an hour, five hundred rounds would be sufficient. She had no reason to expect more than a hundred targets would present themselves. Her shots did not miss. It was possible there would be dangerous, powerful creatures involved. They may take more than one shot to fell. Her client was unknown to her. Perhaps this was a trap. It did not matter. Five hundred rounds was sufficient.
The Thanalan desert would be dry. Irritatingly so. She did not like what it did to her sinuses. She would need plenty of supplies to survive long enough. How strange a contract. Not a specific target, but a specific location. She would scout the specific location a day in advance. Drive wooden stakes into the ground as markers. Get herself used to the size of the field she would keep clear.
She shut the crate once more. She needed more supplies.
She made her way to the market. Bustling. Full of life. Teeming with shoppers and merchants. She fingered the knife in her sleeve. Walked with a slow pace. The experienced pickpockets left her alone. The inexperienced would have found themselves stopped in short order - if they had dared to test her.
She met a merchant selling water. Bought several jugs.
"Going to the desert, my lady?"
"Why?"
"Water is quite essential to-"
She heard a voice. Plucked from the crowd. A singer. Soft. Performing for someone, secluded in an alleyway.
The woman's perfect use of vibrato pierced Lacina's ears and drilled into her mind.
She dropped a fistful of coin on the desk. "Hold it." And hurried through the crowd.
"Wait-!"
She was already gone. The alley - not far - she could hear - the singing stopped.
"Well? What do you think?"
A man's voice: "I think you've a career on the stage, my darling. I'll speak with my man in the Troupe, and I'm sure you'll be a shoe-in for an audition. As long as you can sing there just as well as you did here, then you're all but guaranteed a job. I'll keep my fingers crossed."
Lacina froze in the entrance to the alleyway. Fingers crossed? What did that mean? Was that a musical term she had not known before? That was impossible. Wasn't it? She knew everything about music. Didn't she?
Her heart pounded in her ears. More to learn. More to know. This Troupe. Who were they? Where were they? Would she be able to see them? If all the musicians they hired were of this quality, she could listen. It would be perfect. It would be thrilling. Intoxicating. It would-
"Excuse me." An elezen woman. Lacina blinked.
"Huh?"
"Could you move, please? You're blocking the alley." The same voice. Speaking? This was the same woman? Her hands - weathered. Worn. Callused at the fingertips. An instrument-player as well as a singer. Her face - plain, but symmetrical. A hint of dirt at her cheek. That could be washed off. Why wasn't it? A singer should present herself- "Please, miss?"
"Sorry." She turned, pressed against the wall. Stared. The clothes - plain. Simple. A mix of drab colors that showed more effort than was normal for an outfit of the poverty-stricken. Lacina looked down the alleyway. Where was the man? She had to know. What was 'fingers crossed'? A magical technique? Some spells had somatic-styled components. Perhaps it was a spell. But a singer so talented wouldn't need a spell.
She looked.
The singer was almost gone.
"Wait!" She barked it out. Tone unsteady. "You mustn't use magic. They may disqualify you. An audition of music. You are capable enough. You do not need such things. The risk is not worth taking."
The woman stopped. Turned. "I'm... sorry?"
"The audition. Do not let him deceive you. Magic will lower your chance of acceptance. I am certain of it."
"Um. Thank you for your advice. I'm going to go home now."
"Yes. This is appropriate."
The woman walked off. Lacina rushed into the alleyway. The man had left out the back. She clenched her jaw. Slammed the back of her fist against a wall, knocking a layer of dust free. "Where is he?" She charged through the alleyway. Winding paths - no good. The dirt had most recently been disturbed - she followed. Left. Straight. Left. Right. Straight. Straight. Right. Another Ul'dahn street.
Where? Where?
She closed her eyes. A cacophany of voices, all talking. She clenched her jaw. A vein at her temple pulsed. Her eyes shot open. She marched into the street. What was she to do? She spotted a tall man carrying a staff slung over his back. A spellcaster of some kind. He would know.
She followed the man. For twenty minutes. Until, finally, he stopped.
"May I help you, miss?" The voice was old. Gravelly. She had not realized his apparent age.
"Yes. I must know what crossing fingers is used to do."
His eyes narrowed. "What?"
"A spell. What sort of spell requires crossing your fingers. A man crossing his fingers for another. Why? What is it? I must prevent the spell being cast."
"...It's a good luck charm."
Her eyes widened. "Luck? There are spells which affect such a thing?"
"No, it's not a spell."
"Charms are not spells?"
"Some children think so, perhaps. Magic is not so simple or free. Academically speaking-"
"This does not interest me. I care only about crossed fingers. What do they mean?"
His nose crinkled. "Young girl, it is a way to wish someone 'good luck'. Or 'farewell'. And with that, I wish you farewell."
She stared, blankly, as he walked away.
She turned, and returned to the water merchant. Making a mental note:
Job: Requiem Aeternam
A hybrid style centering around space management, wielding a Garlean weapon combining the impact and range of a high-powered bolt-action rifle with an oversized scythe, modified to self-propel for an even stronger swing at the pull of a second trigger.
Weapons:
Gunscythe “Moonlight”
Lacina’s style is all about moving in and out, back and forth in a fight. More of a skirmisher role than someone who actually stays on the front lines for an extended period, she picks off the enemy starting with the weakest or most terrified,
AI Behavior:
Lacina will never pull first, and is quick to throw down interruptions and status effects immediately after an enemy starts going for a big hit. She’ll rarely stand still. She will steal your melee LB, and she will not apologize. There’s a secret animation for if a Dancer makes her their Dance Partner.
Battle Lines:
Engaging Enemy - “Come on, let’s hear the song together!”
Skill Use 1 (Common) - “Predictable weakness.”
Skill Use 2 (Common) - “Listen to the blade sing your requiem!”
Skill Use 3 (Rare/Cooldown) - “Everything dies someday. But you first.”
Assist - “Keep up, shape up or get out.”
Limit Break:
Level 1 - “We’re out of time. How boring!”
Level 2 - “Listen to how it sings!”
Level 3 - “Ceruleum infusion complete. Moonsplitter blade optimized. Aetheric capacity at one hundred percent. Kinetic limiters disabled. We sing the crescendo!”
Defeated
Common - “...No! I never lose...”
Rare - “No, this can’t be the end..!”
Revived
Common - “Hell could never hold me.”
Rare - “You’ll only regret this if you tell anyone else about it.”
Tagged by, and image made by, @twelvesavethequeen. Thanks for helping me show off my edgelord! being a good friend!
She was no stranger to watching others, but for the first time in a long time her questions had completely stopped being voiced. Yurei had explained ‘intuition’ to her and suggested she work on improving it.
The blinder she had been given held pinched between her fingers, Lacina did just that. She sat in the back everywhere she went, and... watched.
She saw people argue, laugh, make up. It took some time, but eventually she did come to recognize a consistency: the most erratic of shifts in relations seemed to accompany sake.
She had been drained that a target which had been drinking was easier to eliminate, and told nothing more. And now she found herself with even more questions. Why was this? Why did they act this way? Why would they choose to voluntarily lower their own competence?
Perhaps the purchasing of it was a social signal she didn’t quite understand? Perhaps it was something akin to raising a flag of parley - an action which tempers the expectations of the other party, and makes clear that they wish to approach conversation and interaction through a more relaxed lens?
And yet, it seemed so universal a response to drinking it. And the physical changes.
Was it a drug? Some sort of poison? It was almost like a tranquilizing agent, and yet it didn’t seem to be strong enough to work as such on practically anyone she had observed.
After the third night, she returned to the inn room with a declaration.
Strings hummed through the concert hall, a rich tone that pleased the ears of the audience - and captivated one Viera seated to the side. To be too visible, to sit too close to the front - much as she wanted to - she couldn't afford to pay that sort of price, and couldn't afford to be remembered any more than necessary.
But as she sat, wide-eyed, staring at the stage, Lacina Lune realized: she had to do something. She had to show respect to this virtuoso. The skill, the finesse with which the player's hands moved the bow - it was as if she was bewitched.
At the conclusion of the concert, she stood. Blinked. Caught a glimpse of the violinist, herself - a short Elezen woman with dark hair? Or perhaps a tall, thin Hyuran woman? Lacina hunted down the violinist, listening from a distance.
The woman came off as rather bored. A musician of her calibre, bored? After a show for that many? After a performance that grand? Should she not be more excited?
Lacina waited. Still as a mannequin, near the exit. Until, finally, the musicians trickled out. She spotted the woman - her hands - definitely the same one. Definitely an elezen. "Hello." Voice even-toned.
The woman looked to her. Brows raised. "Uh. Hello?"
"You performed perfectly. I wish to give proper obeisance for your performance." Several seconds of unbroken silence. "Obeisance means-"
"I am aware of what it means. But it's unnecessary. You can leave, now, lady."
"Oh." Lacina's hands raised from her sides, and folded together before her in perfect unison. "I understand. There is a custom of denying gifts at the first-"
The violinist hurried off. Lacina turned her head. Watched in silence, until she had disappeared around a corner. Lacina looked straight ahead, eyes blank.
Do musicians not enjoy gifts? Perhaps this is part of the trade she had not read about yet. She would need more material to study.
The airship was little more than a shuttle, juddering in the night sky. Lacina Lune rode in the back and stared, intently, at the dossier. Practically devouring the thing in its entirety. A depiction of her target - a minor Doman noble suspected to be attempting to incite the Domans to revolt.
"So," her handler, seated across from her, said. "You see the importance of success, here. If you fail, it could mean the start of an open rebellion in a valuable province of the Empire. The Domans have known their place beneath our rule for-"
"Are you going to talk the entire trip?" Lacina looked up at him. "Your voice is not harmonious. I do not care about the why. And this-" She raised the dossier "-is the who, and the what. It does not matter if he is a farmer, a merchant, or a king. What matters is how much security he has." She tapped the page. "Fifteen guards. He hides in a building with few windows. I will pick off what I am able from a distance, and close the gap. I will not be able to slip past all fifteen, and it is therefore better to thin their numbers before engaging in direct combat."
"I... see. I was merely-"
"Please do not waste time."
His voice died in his throat, as the thrum of the engines filled the silence. The turning of a page. Again. Again. Her eyes moved rapidly, her head shifting in swift, short movements at regular intervals as they moved across the page.
"The engines require tuning. They are not in alignment. The leftmost is being overtaxed to compensate for the weakness of the right. I would estimate one thousand, two hundred malms of travel before one or the other fails completely. Depending on weather conditions."
"I... see. I will inform the mechanics upon our return. I am surprised they did not notice sooner, though."
"I am not." Another page turned. "Domans utilize swords they call 'katanas'. Curved. Deadly. Sharp. Quick. The disadvantage they have is their range."
"This is so. But I have seen them carve projectiles out of the air. I would suggest-"
"I am unconcerned by this. I will be able to move aside from such an attack. And I will be able to strike while they still recover."
"Your confidence is admirable."
"I am perfect. There is no reason to doubt myself. There is no reason to hesitate."
He cleared his throat. The air shuttle steadied, landed. He sighed in relief. "We're-"
The hatch had opened. She was already gone, the dossier left behind.
She did not care to know his name. She did not care for anyone's name but her own. Somewhere, deep down, she wondered what it was. But it didn't truly matter, in the end. What mattered was that she was perfect.
Carrying her field kit in a large case, she ascended a modestly-tall building in a couple of quick leaps. As she reached the top, she set the case down. Opened the locks. And drew, from within, her weapon. A magitek-designed scythe and long-range rifle combination.
The moon shone down upon her, and the front of the small cottage ahead and below her. She counted six guards milling about. She fell to one knee. Braced the flat of the blade against her shoulder. Lifted the weapon, raised it. Closed one eye. Held her breath, the barrel perfectly steady.
-BLAM-
The gunshot echoed, breaking the quiet of the night.
-BLAM BLAM-
Four had fallen. Two with one shot - through the head, into the heart.
-BLAM-
Five.
She dumped the magazine, swiftly replaced it. Raised the rifle - the sixth had retreated into the building.
She watched. Waited. Screaming all around.
Four samurai with katanas burst through the door of the cottage.
-BLAM-
Three. They reached for their blades, fanned out.
-BLAM-
Two - both drew their swords and, in a quick flash of light, the air itself was cut - a shockwave aimed straight for her.
She was already gone. Where had she disappeared to? The men looked around. Ran towards the building she had been atop.
The whirring of a ceruleum motor.
The first samurai looked - the blade of the scythe burned in blue flame. He froze.
-VRRRRRRRRRR-FOOOOOOM!-.
He fell to the ground, in half. The other reached for his sword.
Too slow.
His top half hit the ground first, split cleanly through the chest and arms.
Ten targets remaining.
Lacina looked around. Doors all around were getting latched shut and sealed off. She heard the telltale clicks of locks. How fascinating. They were truly afraid. How odd. None of them were her target. Why would they fear?
She ran to the doorway of the cottage - leaped to the side as a blade swung outwards, followed by the samurai behind it. He had overcommitted. A fatal mistake made in fear.
-SCHING-
The last thing he saw was impassive eyes that felt like they were boring into his soul.
A buzzing in her ear.
"An alert has been raised. I have issued a stand-down signal, but you may be having company soon while they work out the chain of command. Be advised - you are forbidden to kill any soldiers responding, but we cannot afford to have you surrender either. Our project is top-secret."
"Understood." She peered at the doorway. Smiled, a gesture that did not reach her placid, doll-like eyes. "We are approaching the final movement."
"Just get it done."
She hummed, under her breath. Stepped through the doorway. A large trapdoor held ajar in the center of the room. She stood stock still, a moment. Jerked her gunscythe to the side, aimed at the door - BLAM! - a samurai hiding behind it collapsed to the ground, screaming in agony, until another -SCHING-.
"Eight remain."
She inspected the trapdoor. Poorly-made stairs. Her eyes swiftly adjusted to the darkness. The third stair had a hairline crack, and less grime on it than the rest. A trap. She took the stairs two at a time, landing on the floor of some sort of cellar.
-SCHING- -SCHING- -SCHING- -BLAM-
"Four remain."
The bodies collapsed around her. Her head swiveled.
"You may run," she offers. "You may continue to hide. Know that you cannot escape. And you cannot defeat me. I am pe-"
-SCHING-
"-rfection."
The wall to her left swung open. A hidden door. Her target ran out, yelling at the top of his lungs, a katana raised - flanked by two other samurai, their swords sheathed - aether pulsing through them.
She spun around, her scythe swinging with her - using the momentum to cleave the target in half at the waist in a blindingly-fast motion, one she quickly reversed. Taking his head off, as well. Aether pulsed again.
Time slowed.
The two expected her to dodge. To defend herself. They were ready.
She rushed them headlong. They hesitated - their attacks would hit each other, now - one last flash of light.
Both fell to the ground.
"Targets eliminated. Returning for extraction."
Her ear buzzed again.
"Negative. Proceed to secondary extraction point. And hurry!"
She bolted - up the stairs, out of the cottage. Drew a remote from her belt - pressed the trigger. The case she had left on the rooftop exploded, eliminating all trace of its existence. She had leaped over the back fence and had slipped behind a nearby building just as the initial military response arrived.
In silence, she slipped through the shadows, making her way out of Monzen and to a secluded point in the woods a malm away. She only slowed once she had reached the shuttle and had entered into it.
"You did well," her handler remarked.
"I desire Doman music."
The scribbling of a pen. "I will submit your request on our return. You may rest, now."
She leaned back in her seat. Set aside her gunscythe. And went limp, empty eyes still staring forward.
