𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐑.
𝐈. 𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅-𝐌𝐔𝐓𝐄 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐘
They say that death is a kind of Finality, and so you comfort yourself with the knowledge that, if you cannot witness the universe’s end, at least you might yet get to see La Mancha’s — provided, of course, that you can find him first.
But when the only help you have is the world’s most handsome worst detective, a girl from your ruined home planet, La Mancha’s own employee, and the aforementioned detective’s assistant monkey, it starts to look less and less likely that you’ll manage to find him at all, let alone before he encounters his own version of “the end.”
Series Masterlist
Pairing: Ashveil x F!Reader
Chapter Word Count: 6.6k
Content Warnings: age gap that’s probably problematic but idc, reader is from mendasia and a member of the creed exequy, no i did not finish 4.0 before starting this so bro is probs ooc, consider this an au set in the hsrverse ?? like it’s not canon compliant but also kind of is based on it, eventual smut so MDNI please, never ask a woman her age a man his salary or me to understand any of the lore i lowkey make tf up, crack treated seriously is a good way to look at this, but also angst if you really get into it (not a bad ending though I SWEAR), canon typical violence and such probs
A/N: i guess this chapter is like .. a prologue of sorts ?? hence why it's short and mostly sets up the cast and all !! anyways faq no i do not know why reader and boothill are Like That yes larose sallie is an actual npc no xyz aspect is not canon compliant i . don't really care you see
The hideous, burning cruelty of a lit match should feel heavy and wrong between your pinched forefinger and thumb, but as always, it breeds in you an ache which you suppose can only be desire. On this planet of Beauty, of perpetuity, that furious, winking crimson is a foreign sight, an unseemly one, yet you are singular amongst your people in that you are unafraid of these endings, these sorrows. You tolerate them in their way, as if you are their steward and they, your sole companions, so more often than not, it falls to you. How quickly it rises, smoke from flame, flickering up until it brushes against the silver-mirrored sky! Your very own minute apocalypse which you must carry out many times over without reason or retort.
Today it is a little sapling planted by a girl named Larose Sallie. She is a singer, pink-cheeked as her name would suggest, golden-haired and green-eyed besides. The two of you are in the same class and you think she despises you a little, despises the ash that sometimes stains your fingertips, finds it ugly and undeserving. She must have been humiliated when her dogwood tree wilted and refused to bloom. She must have been humiliated when she was told by her parents that they would have it killed quickly, quietly, as if it were never there in the first place.
You picture her in your music class, her high soprano running up and down the notes of the Song of Beauty, the world’s most beloved canticle. Maybe she’s there even now. Maybe she’s looking at your empty seat despondently and wishing you were like the rest of them, a singer who lay amongst flowers and shouted hymns at the breeze. She’s charitable even in her dislike. Everyone is. You are the only one like this match, who cannot stand the sweet peace of Mendasia’s paradise, who searches for completion and waits for the final end most earnestly.
“Oh, my.” A hand plucks the match out of yours before you can press it to the dogwood’s miserable, yellowing leaves. “An arsonist on Mendasia? Never thought I’d see the day.”
“I’m not an arsonist,” you snap, whirling around and swiping for the match, which the man keeps decidedly out of your reach. He’s tall, with a beautiful, ageless face — you can’t decide if he is several Amber Eras your elder, or if you both might be in the same class at school. His irises are a dull artemisia, banded with knockout rose, framed with dark lashes that flutter whenever he blinks; he’s not dressed in the pale robes of Mendasia but dark-heeled boots and a long coat, the hair spilling around his shoulders messy, unkempt. He is as unfamiliar as the match he holds, which looks to be at home in his gloved grasp, and when he notices your scowl, he frowns a little, polite, puzzled.
“You’re setting fire to random trees,” he points out, twirling the match for emphasis. “Seems pretty arsonist to me, kid.”
“It’s not a random tree,” you say. “Look at it, it’s not like it has anything left to go on for. Meeting its end is its final chance at purpose and bliss. Give that back.”
He arches a sharp brow at you but does not oblige, not even when you hold your hand out expectantly.
“What are you going to pay me? I’ll accept dinner, I’m a little hungry and I’ve heard a lot about Mendasia’s cheeses—”
“What?” you say, swiping the match from him when he is distracted by his musings, holding the sparkling thing close to your heart. “I’m not paying you!”
He sighs dramatically. “Yeah, alright. So you’re going to kill this little thing, huh?”
“Just so,” you say with an injured sniff, because you are entirely irritated with this lovely man and his strange accusations and his match-stealing ways.
“Because you think there’s nothing left but the end for it, and you want to witness that very ending. I see, I see,” he says.
“I’m sure it’s odd, but that’s how it is,” you say.
“Not that odd. I’ve met a thousand people like you in my time, obsessed with apocalypse and the Finality. It’s fine. Do as you’d like,” he says, patting you on the shoulder.
“I will,” you say, but now you are not so sure if you want to. You can’t help but wonder what he will think when he sees the orange tongues of your fire as they lap at the sickly brown bark. It doesn’t matter, but for a moment, you waver, and you do wonder if it will disappoint him.
“Good,” he says.
“Good!” you say. The match is heavy in your hand. The ache in you is different now, less acute, sweet on your tongue, hot in your stomach. You don’t know what you want but it’s something. It’s something and it’s close, you are sure of it, but for some reason, you cannot quite put your finger on what it might be, what you might call it.
“Well, I have business to attend to. Someone told me this is the home of Mendasia’s Chief Singer?” he says. You nod mutely, because it’s true, Mrs. Sallie does live here, but she’s Larose Sallie’s mother, and the thought of Larose meeting this man makes you feel ugly and ill.
For his part, if he notices, he does not say anything beyond calling out a farewell, waving at you over his shoulder, his other arm swinging by his side as he walks away jauntily, humming a song you’ve never heard in all of your years on this planet of music.
“Wait!” you say, darting forward, your fingers clasping around his loose wrist, your palms so clammy you cannot believe the matchstick in your free hand has not been put out by sweat. “Sir—”
The two of you flinch at the same time; he pulls away from you, but not quickly enough to spare you from the consuming hunger bursting beneath his skin. For a moment you think you are about to die, that you have reached your own — what did he call it? Finality? — but you cannot bring yourself to draw back. You chase it, you embrace it, even as he steps back and the darkness fades from the corners of your vision you reach out for him once more, faintly, fruitlessly. You want to touch him again. You want to see the end of the world that pulses in his veins. You want it, you want it, you want it.
“What is it?” he says, not unkindly but without his earlier flippance. You swallow, and then you nod towards the spindly tree.
“Do you think it could ever become anything?” you say. He squints, angles his head as he regards the dogwood, and then he shrugs.
“Who knows? But one thing’s for sure,” he says. You lean forward subconsciously, hoping for some great and profound wisdom. “If you burn it down now, it definitely won’t. Boom! The end is the end, kid. You can’t take that kind of thing back.”
Then he really does walk away, gone before you can insist that you’re not a kid, gone before you can ask him his name or what business he has on Mendasia or how he even found the planet, protected by Idrila’s wall as it is. You clench your fist before dropping the match into the dirt, grinding the sole of your shoe into it until it’s muddy and cold. After that, you glance around furtively before pressing your nails into the ground, digging until your knuckles crack and peel and you reach root.
Ripping the sapling out of the ground, you heft it to your heart and take it with you into the woods, where it will be safe from the sun and Larose and her parents alike. You plant it there with your own bleeding fingers and try to imagine it in ten years, in twenty, when it is old and sturdy and flowering. It will be beautiful, you decide. When you come to see it again, it will surely be beautiful, worthy of Mendasia's favor. And maybe that man will come back, too, and you will take him to see it with you and you will tell him you were right, good sir. Most assuredly, you were right.
“In my life, I have witnessed many ‘Finalities,’ though only three concern you,” you say to the crowd of gathered onlookers. Most of them are Foxian, their pricked ears swiveling around nervously, their tails lashing back and forth at the mention of Finality. Once, you might’ve pitied them, but now you only think to yourself — well, I’m not the one who called you here. You saw my black cloak and asked me yourself, so do not blame me when the answer is not the one you seek.
“The third: the tsunami of Neese, caused by the very people who drowned in it. How tragic, to think your Finality was preventable, avoidable, and yet instead of fleeing you only hastened it. Terminus was there; THEIR impartial gaze looked upon Neese’s end and chronicled it quietly, taking the civilization’s known death as an offering and continuing in THEIR march against time.
“The second: the devouring of your very own Xianzhou Cangcheng.” The Foxians gasp at this, because it is nigh-blasphemous to speak of the great ship’s death. But you are not a guest of the Xianzhou as much as you are a visitor, so you continue undeterred. “The living planet Rahu…there was nothing they could’ve done to prevent it. It wasn’t like Neese. They fought as hard as they could against their Finality, but it was futile, of course. Finality is inevitable.
“And the first, the greatest, the most beautiful ending of all: the fall of the planet of songs, the fall of my home — Mendasia. It was my first encounter with the Finality, with THEIR method, and with the Creed Exequy who embraced me as one of their own. Swallowed by a sun-eater, Mendasia sits in that beast’s stomach even now, for its Finality is a slow one, its ending quiet and long. The death of the planet was the closest I have ever been to—”
“Excuse me,” an authoritative voice interrupts you. It’s a man in a Cloud Knight uniform, stern and sturdy, standing in front of the Foxians as though he can protect them, as though you are anyone who they need protecting from. “Miss, members of the Creed Exequy are not welcome on the Xianzhou, especially not members such as yourself.”
“Members such as myself?” you say, raising a brow. You have known since the Finality of the Cangcheng that the Xianzhou holds no love for the Exequy, but you did not know that there was a special sort of protocol for you.
“Even a child could smell the sickly-sweet stench of Finality that trails after you,” he says, pointing his spear at you. “You are not a witness but a harbinger. Wherever you go, apocalypse follows.”
“I see,” you say. The Foxians are long gone; you wonder if they were meant to trap you, to chase you from this silver ship of fools. “You needn’t fear, sir knight. Terminus’s gaze has not yet fallen upon the Luofu.”
“Leave at once,” he says as if you had not spoken. “We have no desire to witness your disasters, Portent of the End.”
The title is enough to frighten anyone. Portent of the End. To have witnessed enough Finalities that Terminus’s gaze layers upon you until you are steeped in it…the mere thought of an existence like that, a shadow caught on the edge between life and death, scares people more than it ought to. Especially when it is so rare, so frightful to encounter one who is more than a mere worshipper — you cannot blame the Cloud Knight, then, for how he shudders.
“Terminus has turned THEIR attention to a new ending,” you say, drawing your dark cloak around your shoulders and bowing as you know is their custom. “It will not do for me to dwell in this flourishing land, where endings are postponed by cyclical Permanence. I take your farewell in the good spirit I am sure it was intended, and I will not mourn it, for we will all be reunited at the end of things, when the universe is rewritten anew.”
You can sometimes catch traces of the Finality, whispers that foretell those moments when a vast and great existence reaches its end. It is not prophecy as much as it is an awareness of the shifts of the Aeon, who moves for very few incidents. The deaths of planets, of stars, of solar systems and galaxies — so why, then, has a single man caught THEIR interest? Yet as board your ship, the white-gold Plumhawk, you are quite sure that when this man dies, Terminus will watch over him personally, will guide him through apocalypse and into the embrace of THEIR eternity.
La Mancha’s death…approaches. La Mancha’s ending…is near. La Mancha…who hides on the planet of laughter…will soon meet…Finality.
Planarcadia’s landing dock is large, an industrial IPC-sponsored construction made of steel and concrete. It’s manned by mechatrons that beam signals to the Plumhawk’s navigation system, guiding you to land beside a ship that looks like it’s meant for racing, sleek like a bullet but with a long gouge down its side. You hope that’s not evidence of the mechatrons’ handling; the Plumhawk is your pride, and you don’t want its pristine exterior to be so unnecessarily marred.
“Be gentle,” you instruct the mechatron who greets you when you step onto the runway. The mechatron nods and rattles off some pre-recorded speech about how the IPC aims to please all of their associates, although it does lag for a little at the flutter of your cloak, as if you possess some preternatural force which can even frighten a heartless, soulless thing.
Compared to the serenity of the Xianzhou, Planarcadia is a little frightening in its overt muchness. It’s exactly the kind of place a maimed old wolf would go to die, filled with dark crannies shoved between the hustle and bustle where he can curl up and depart peacefully, without witness or woe. But, then, how will you find him? You duck into a kitten-themed cafe and massage your temples, reaching out for the Finality, praying it will guide you to him.
“What d’ya mean, you have to put Arcadia Nuts in the milkshake? The girl said she’s allergic, you maggot-farming shroom-for-brains!”
Your meditation is interrupted by a string of childish almost-cursing, which sounds just as vile as actual swears would when rolled over the man’s lovely twang. His accent is slow and foreign and deep, not Planarcadian in the slightest, and you eye him with a modicum of interest, although you are sure he is not La Mancha.
“Um, it’s alright, sir,” the young girl at his side says, tugging on the hem of his dark jacket. “I can just have something else, it doesn’t matter…”
“Like Halovians it is!” he snaps. “I’ll get you a gosh-darned milkshake, even if I have to make it myself!”
“Wow,” you say, because the frightened employee has just meekly announced that your Ahaberry smoothie is ready and you have no intentions of letting this man frighten you away from it. “Are you some new kind of mechatron? I didn’t know they were into public justice of the milkshake variety nowadays.”
The cafe is silent, so your first sip of your smoothie is a little obnoxious, but you stare at the silver-bodied man without flinching, continuing to sip as the girl shrinks closer to him and the employee scoots backwards towards the blender.
“I would be entirely surprised if a milkshake with an Arcadia Nut milk base could be made without Arcadia Nuts,” you say, taking one more sip and then handing your smoothie to the girl. “Are you allergic to Ahaberries, too?”
“No, miss,” she says.
“Well, there you go. Come on, cowboy, you owe me a milkshake now,” you say, motioning him towards you, not out of any sympathy for the cafe owners but because, although he is not La Mancha, you recognize the bullet earring dangling from his ear.
“I’m not a gosh-darned mechatron, by the way, and don’t you ever fudgin’ forget it,” he says, but he does come along with you rather gamely, even holding the door open for you like a proper gentleman.
“But you are a Galaxy Ranger,” you say. “And I’d wager you’re here for the same reason I am — La Mancha has made this planet his hiding-hole, and we both, for our own reasons, want to find him.”
“How d’you know that?” he says, his face paling. “The amount of people I had to threaten — I mean, talk to — before I even heard a rumor that he might be here, and you’re telling me you, a random girl, just know?”
“So it’s true,” you say. “Of course, THEY never lie, but I was a little confused…yet it’s the case. La Mancha is here. What is your business with him?”
“Now why in Lan’s green arm would I tell you?” he says. “What’s your business with him?”
“He’s going to die soon,” you say promptly, carelessly, because this Ranger’s knowledge of it won’t change that outcome any. “I intend to be there for it.”
The cold barrel of a pistol is pressed against your chin before you can blink. He’s definitely a Ranger, no doubt about it; no one else would be so quick, so loyal. His words come out as a growl, his brow furrowed as he jams the metal into your tender flesh. You both are in the middle of a crowded road, but no one even stops, the world milling about around you as you curl your hand over his, holding the gun in place but rendering him unable to shoot, as well.
“You leave the boss alone, you hear me?” he hissed. Precarious. The situation you’re in is precarious. A slip of your finger, a flare of his temper, and you’ll die. You close your eyes, but try as you might, you cannot sense Terminus. Your existence consists only of the Ranger’s hand and his pistol, both cold, both digging against you, which means that either you are of such little consequence to the universe that Terminus cannot bother to look your way or the Ranger does not mean to kill you just yet. “You even think of killing him and l’ll kill you, you moth-eaten shirtsleeve.”
“I don’t have any quarrel with him,” you say. “I’m not going to kill him.”
“But you know he’s going to die?”
“Yes.”
The Ranger’s hand flexes beneath yours, but he doesn’t move it. He only narrows his eyes and leans impossibly closer to you, close enough that you can smell him, earthy and warm like leather and sandalwood, nothing like the clinical sterility you had expected.
“How?” he says.
“The Finality,” you say. “THEY told me.”
His index finger twitches over the trigger, but across the street, someone shouts in delight, and suddenly you are swarmed by the masses, people raising their phones and recording the two of you.
“Is this a movie scene? Is this one of Director Reca’s new films?” a boy says, shoving a camera in your face, the flash blinding you as he takes close to fifty pictures in quick succession.
“What now?” you murmur to the Ranger. “I told you the truth. Terminus has shifted; La Mancha’s time has come, and it will draw the gaze of even an Aeon when he falls. Whether you believe me or not, that is the case. If you kill me now, you might also have to kill all of these people, if you even can. Or, we can work together.”
“No, it can’t be Director Reca, he normally makes his main leads attractive!”
“Work together?” he says.
“Hm,” you say. “How shall I put it? You want to find La Mancha, and I also want to find him. On our own, we may not be able to do so. Planarcadia is enormous, after all. But if we work together, we might be able to manage. What becomes of him once we find him can be decided at that time; until then, we can be allies. Do you see?”
“I do,” he says tersely.
“Do you accept?”
“I do.”
“Then put down your gun, Mr.—?”
“Boothill,” he says, clipping the pistol back to his belt and watching with pursed lips as you rub the sore spot.
“Thank you, Mr. Boothill,” you say as everyone around you claps, clearly assuming him putting down his gun is the climax of your scene. “Now let’s get out of the public eye before we meet people who we have no interest in meeting, and then we can talk more about what this partnership might entail.”
“Good idea,” he says, scanning the streets before grinning, revealing teeth filed into sharp, perfect points. “Y’know how to ride a bike, missy?”
“What?” you say. “No, I can’t say I’ve ever — put me down this instant!”
He hauls you over his shoulder without any sort of grace, much to the crowd’s delight. You’ve never met anyone so daring, not since you were young and still on Mendasia, an ordinary girl instead of a Creed Exequy, and it’s doubly bewildering because you are not sure how you are meant to react. He is so unaware or so unafraid or both, chuckling to himself as he swings his leg over the seat of a polished motorcycle, setting you behind him and revving the engine.
“What is your problem?” you say, flustered and confused in a way you have never been.
“Wait, that’s my bike!”
“Muddlefudger,” Boothill says as a man sprints towards you. “Hold on tight, missy, you’re about to get a private lesson!”
The motorcycle takes off, and all you can do is throw your arms around Boothill’s waist before you fly into the streets of Planarcadia. His slippery torso offers little comfort, and although you know, logically, that the Plumhawk goes many times faster in space, that knowledge does nothing to soothe you when you and Boothill are whipping through alleyways hardly even wide enough to accommodate the two of you if you were to attempt to go at them side by side, your surroundings a blur as you speed by.
You’re in a barely-lit part of the city when the engine finally sputters and then gives out fully, the bike keeling over as Boothill hops off and yanks you after him. You rearrange your cloak about you, drawing yourself to your full height, though you do not think he finds it very intimidating based on the way he raises a brow and has the gall to chuckle.
“I have never in my life encountered someone so irreverent,” you say regardless. “Are all of you Galaxy Rangers so reckless and foolhardy? It’s a wonder your La Mancha has lived as long as he has if so!”
“Hey, hey, relax, missy. I got us out of there, didn’t I?” he says. “Aren’t you meant to be a follower of the Finality or something? Thought you were all a bit cuckoo.”
“The Finality, not the Elation. We aren't mindless adrenaline junkies; endings are only of worth when they have meaning,” you say before sighing. Explanations on the theology of the Creed Exequy will be lost on the Ranger, who already looks bored out of his mind. “Whatever. Where are we?”
He mutters something under his breath about how you’re a lot less impressive and a lot more bratty than you first seemed, and then he shrugs. It leaves you in a tough spot because you can’t exactly protest without proving him right, so you settle for glaring at him, though you think that has the same effect as whining would’ve.
“Fork if I know,” he says. “This is my first day here, too, y’know.”
“Your first day and you’re already yelling at service workers and stealing motorcycles,” you muse. “What a first impression you’ve made on this planet, Mr. Boothill.”
“Believe it or not, I’ve made worse in my time,” he says.
“Oh, I believe it.”
“Hilarious.”
“Where shall we go from here?” you say. “You don’t need to be from around Ahatopia to tell that we’re somewhere a little more unscrupulous than Duomension City.”
“Scared?” he says.
“When I have a Galaxy Ranger with me? Hardly,” you deadpan. “Honestly. I’ve witnessed the universe’s greatest disasters unscathed. Do you think a few local gangs are enough to frighten me? I just don’t see the sense in lingering. Unless this is the kind of place La Mancha would frequent?”
“Nah, the boss has honor,” Boothill says. “He wouldn’t be hanging around somewhere like this.”
“Overall we’re at a distinct disadvantage,” you say. “He’s hiding from us, and ostensibly he knows the planet far better than we do.”
“I feel like you’re about to suggest something I have no interest in,” Boothill says, leaning against the alley wall and taking out a piece of scrap metal, chewing on it as he tilts his head up towards the sky.
“We need to enlist the help of a native Planarcadian,” you say.
“There it is,” he says, rolling his eyes and spitting the metal out, replacing it with a bubblegum-pink lollipop. “No fudgin’ way, missy. I work alone.”
“You’re working with me right now,” you point out.
“Not by choice, and it’s more like I’m keeping an eye on you if anything. I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you,” he says.
“Come on, Mr. Boothill, be reasonable. A lone Galaxy Ranger is a sad thing, and the Creed Exequy’s modus operandi has always been bearing witness, not taking direct action. Anyways, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed yet, but there’s a rot taking hold of Planarcadia, a rot which is only further concealing La Mancha’s location from me. Ordinarily I might be able to find him with the power of the Finality alone, but…I don’t know. The path is in a disarray, as if something is blocking my attempts at reaching for it,” you say, frowning with your hand over your heart.
“Maybe it’s Aha. Seems like the kind of thing THEY’d do,” Boothill says, the white stick of his lollipop held between his teeth. “But listen up, missy, ’cause I’ll only say it once: I don’t care about muddlefudgin’ paths and Aeons and all of that beeswax. I just wanna find my boss and get outta here.”
“And the fastest way to do that will be to enlist the help of someone who knows the area and might have a clue where La Mancha could be,” you say.
The two of you are at a standstill for a moment, but you can see in his eyes the exact moment Boothill relents. The corners of his mouth tug downwards, but he nods shortly, sharply.
“Alright, but no IPC,” he says. “It was hard enough for me to sneak on here without them realizing. We’re not going to play right into their hands.”
“That’s fine,” you say. “I have no particular love for the IPC myself. They are useful in their place but generally worthless elsewise.”
“No goons from the Department of Aberration Defense or whatever the horse-hockey they’re called here,” he continues.
“I’m sure they have better things to do,” you agree.
“Actually, you know what? You’re going to make me work with someone? Fine, but I get to pick who it’ll be,” he says.
“Very well, but if I don’t like them, I reserve the right to refuse,” you say.
“How about you reserve the right to go work by yourself, then?” he says.
“Mr. Boothill—”
“Oh, come on, before I change my mind,” he says, kicking the fallen bike aside and stomping off. With a final glance at the sky, you reach out for the power of the Finality once more, a last, pathetic attempt to beg Terminus to guide you. But all you get is those same whispers, which surge with the strength of omen and do little but assure you that you are still somewhat on the right track.
La Mancha’s death…approaches. La Mancha’s ending…is near. La Mancha…who hides on the planet of laughter…will soon meet…Finality.
“Every gang member I’ve interrogated — ahem, politely questioned — has said that this guy’s the best of the best when it comes to dumb-fudge cases like this one,” Boothill says. You both are standing together in front of a publishing company, and you weigh the merits of asking him if there’s something faulty in his coding before deciding his earlier threat about referring to him as a mechatron is probably meant to be heeded.
“We’re going to ask Imagenae reporters to find La Mancha?” you say.
“Not exactly,” he says. “Apparently the detective’s broke as a busload of baloney, so his agency is inside.”
“Inside,” you repeat dubiously. “Er. Like, inside the publishing company? Are you sure you have the right address?”
“This is where they all said he works,” he says.
“How naive of you to believe them. Have you considered that they might’ve lied?” you say.
“Would you lie to a guy with a gun down your throat?” he says, tapping the pistol resting against his hip for emphasis.
“I guess you have a point,” you admit. “Lead the way, then.”
You don’t really let him lead the way, though, the two of you walking next to each other, skirting around the little Imagenae who pay you no mind, hunched over their desks and bustling about as they are, speaking in squeaking tones to one another, despairing over debt and unpaid rent and other typical corporate concerns.
True to Boothill’s word, in the very back of the publishing company’s white-painted building is a door, wooden with a bubbly glass window, adorned with a sign that reads Ashen Detective Agency in dark, messy marker. He flashes you a victorious grin and knocks on the door; when no one answers, he huffs and kicks it open.
The Ashen Detective Agency’s headquarters is a single dim storage closet and not much else. There’s crumpled papers and old takeout boxes littering the ground, and in the corner a refrigerator hums merrily, tunelessly. You click your tongue, exchanging glances with Boothill.
“Entirely unprofessional,” you say.
“We’re working on the recommendations of gang members here, missy, dunno why you were expecting a red carpet to be laid out in welcome,” he mutters, but he’s obviously embarrassed.
“How is he supposed to find a missing person when he can’t even find a trash can?” you say. Before Boothill can retort, someone clears their throat, and from beside the refrigerator, a diminutive shadow shuffles into view.
“Well, butter my biscuit and call me a banana—”
“I’d rather not.”
“—the Ashen Detective is a monkey!” Boothill exclaims.
“It does appear to be the case, but I’m not so sure,” you say. The monkey clears his throat again and knocks on the refrigerator.
“If the great detective continues to ignore me in an attempt to gain a few more minutes of shut-eye, he will miss out on a pair of incredibly wealthy clients who might pay ten million credits or more!” he declares.
Almost immediately, the refrigerator door bangs open, a dark-gloved hand clenching the edge as the chill manifests in the form of an icy fog. The monkey chuckles to himself, bowing at you and then stepping aside as a boot-clad leg swings over the side of the fridge, toeing for purchase before meeting ground and straightening, its owner letting out a deep sigh as he stands and gives you both an exasperated look.
“Mr. Ashveil is entirely disappointed to discover that, despite their cosmos-renowned statuses, the duo before him appear to be entirely broke!” the monkey says. “In fact, he wonders if they even have ten credits between the two of them, let alone ten million!”
“What in tarnation?” Boothill says. “I don’t know about her, but I definitely have more than ten credits to my gosh-darn name!”
“You,” you say, your breath hitching in your throat. “I know you.”
“Huh?” Ashveil says, pointing at himself. “Me?”
“I’m sure of it, though I don’t know how,” you say, furrowing your brow. “But we’ve definitely met.”
He’s well-built and handsome in a way that is unforgettable, his every feature so perfectly striking, callous angles and mercury highlights and pen-stroke brows. So why can’t you remember him? Where do you know him from? The answer lurks somewhere deep within you, but it’s like there’s netting thrown over it, veiling it from view, a warning as much as an obstruction.
“I guess it’s probably unimportant if you don’t remember,” he says. “So. Ten million credits for a missing persons case? Easy.”
“How’d you know it’s a missing persons case?” Boothill says.
“My excellent powers of deduction,” Ashveil says with a nod.
“What he does not add is that you also mentioned it when you first entered the room,” the monkey says.
“Mr. N, if you really must continue with these little asides of yours, can you at least paint me in a good light in front of my clients?” Ashveil hisses. “Anyways, let me guess. Looking for an estranged parent?”
“Not exactly,” Boothill says.
“Childhood friend?” he tries.
“You couldn’t be further from the truth,” you say.
“I got it!” he says after a moment of contemplation, clapping his hands together. “Your child!”
“No!”
“It’s my boss,” Boothill says, inching away from you with a sidelong glance, a favor you happily reciprocate.
“Why would you want to find your boss?” Ashveil scoffs.
“It is important to note that, as of yet, Mr. Ashveil has not recognized either of his clients,” Mr. N says. “Perhaps a clue to jog his memory…the boy is wanted by the IPC, with a bounty of more credits than you can dream of looming over his head.”
“I didn’t know you had a bounty that grand on you,” you say.
“Eh,” Boothill says. “Shot a few bigwigs. You get the picture.”
“Most assuredly,” you say.
“Enough of this,” Boothill says when Ashveil cocks his head and squints at him. Pulling his gun out, he points it at Ashveil; in the back of your mind, you feel like a discussion about this shoot-first, think-later mentality is probably in order, but you file it away for later consideration. “The name’s Boothill, and I’m a Galaxy Ranger. No one’s heard from our leader in years, so I aim to be the first in the organization to chat with him in a good while!”
Ashveil doesn’t even flinch, his gaze dragging over to you, syrupy and nigh-decadent as it washes over you. “What about you, then?”
“I am also here in search of La Mancha,” you say. “Because he is going to die.”
His eyes widen slightly, and then he smiles knowingly.
“Am I to assume you mean to save him?” he says.
“No,” you say, and just for an instant, Boothill and Mr. N and the rest of the world fade away. It’s only you and Ashveil, the question and the answer, something blooming in your chest, an ache you think is called desire, an ache which has been withered and dead since your days on Mendasia, when there was still feeling and sensation to be found in your life. “I only wish to watch.”
“I see,” Ashveil says, and he doesn’t seem quite so daft anymore, his teeth glinting in the flickering lamplight, his irises almost malevolent in their understanding. “So my suspicions were correct. Creed Exequy…yes, even I have heard the stories of those who don the black regalia of Terminus.”
“Will you help us or not?” you say, a little impatiently. “Whatever your price is, I can pay it. I’m told you’re the best Planarcadia has to offer, and with things as they are, you might be our only chance. My only chance.”
“I don’t want money,” he says. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do want money, but first, I need you to answer one question for me. If it’s true that La Mancha’s ending approaches, can you guarantee that he will meet his Finality in peace?”
“I cannot,” you say. “That’s not within the scope of my power, detective. Even I am not that strong.”
“Aren’t you?” Ashveil says, and it’s so hypnotic you almost want to say, well…
“What?” Boothill says, yanking you back to reality. “Aren’t you a normal Creed Exequy weirdo? All doom and gloom and Finality and whatnot? You’re freaking me out a bit here, missy. Why does this old fogey think you can guarantee anything?”
“It’s true that the girl follows the Finality,” Mr. N says. “And it’s also true that she is a member of the Creed Exequy. Here, I implore of you to remember that the Xianzhou call this girl the Portent of the End, which is, in effect, their method of referring to—”
The door to the storage closet slams open yet again, and a girl storms in. She’s all pretty and righteous, her golden hair tied back and her green eyes swirling with fury. She shoves past Boothill, who is too surprised to do anything but stumble backwards, and then, for some reason, she slaps a wad of credits in Ashveil’s hand.
“Hey, detective. There’s a new visitor to Planarcadia, and I need you to dig her out. I have a few choice words for her that I’ve been waiting to say for quite a damn while,” she says, her every word a lilting melody, almost like she is singing instead of speaking. It’s a cadence you haven’t heard in so long that a lump swells in your throat unbidden, the aroma of matches and flowering fruit trees invading your nose with nostalgia.
“Woah, there!” Boothill says. “The two of us were here first, if you mind!”
The girl gives him a disdainful look before she glances at you and then does a double take, her jaw dropping before she’s slamming you against the wall, digging her forearm into your neck to pin you in place. Ashveil shouts in surprise, and Mr. N starts explaining who she is, but you tune him out, because you know this girl, and not in that hazy way you know the detective. You know her, you know the betrayal brimming in her eyes, know the tears she threatens to shed, know why her face flushes pinker and pinker with every passing second.
“Larose,” you say. Her grip is weak, her arms slender and trembling, but you don’t fight to break free. The girl who saved you from Mendasia’s fall, the girl who you then abandoned in turn and never spoke to again…you still remember how she sobbed when the sun-eater swallowed your planet, clinging to you as you watched that apocalypse in faint, muted horror. This anger is the least you owe her. “How did you find me?”
“I’ve been looking for you all of this time,” she says. “There’s so many things I want to say to you. So many things I need to ask.”
“But there’s one that’s more important than the rest,” you guess. “One that you traveled from your home in Penacony to ask me.”
“I just want to know why,” she says. “Mendasia followed the Beauty, so why did you abandon that once it fell? Why did you give everything up to become — to become —”
“An Emanator of Finality,” Mr. N completes for Larose when she breaks off and dissolves into tears. Boothill says something under his breath that sounds like what the fruitcake. “A girl obsessed with endings, who has seen so many that some have begun to wonder if she can even write them herself.”
