"Phew~"
As I stepped out of Markus' train car and quietly shut the door behind me, I let out a long sigh of relief. Nothing major happened—thankfully—despite that little incident at the end.
"Well, I didn't get as much as I wanted, but it was still useful"
I murmured to myself. I hadn't uncovered much more about "Markus," but even just having a conversation with him helped peel back some of the myth surrounding the so-called White Jackal. It made me a little less irrationally terrified of him.
(Don't get me wrong, I'm still afraid of him…but at least after talking to him, I can tell he's not some unstoppable monster like what people described. Just a very dangerous person. It's not anything to write home about but it's enough)
I mulled it over, wondering how to share this with the corp.
"Oh? And what exactly would that be, I wonder?"
An onminous if not unfamiliar voice came from my right.
I responded instinctively in a tone that was as if I was giving a casual report:
"I was just curious about the person behind that mask, you see… and it seemed prudent to gather intel on a potential enemy so—"
I stopped mid-sentence as my brain finally caught up with my mouth.
"B-Boss?!"
I asked, a cold shiver settling in my spine.
*SMACK!*
"OOOWWW!"
I yelped, clutching my head where he'd whacked me with a flat look of disapproval plastered across his face.
"What were you thinking, ya reckless, stupid little brat?!"
He bellowed, voice thundering like a cannon as he yanked me forward by the collar, practically dragging me down the corridor by my neck.
"Gargh—Gah! B-boss—p-please—!...I c-can! Expla—!"
The words sputtered out of me in a desperate choke.
(I can't…breathe!)
My vision began to tunnel as the iron grip of his arm constricted around my throat, cutting off my air like a vice. My feet stumbled beneath me, barely keeping up as I gasped soundlessly, my face draining of color with every second.
"Explain?! Oh, ya gonna explain alright—maybe from inside a damn box! What in Astraea's name possessed you to stroll into the Jackal's car?!"
His shout echoed down the hall, each word like a hammer blow. The veins on his forehead bulged with fury, his expression twisted in disbelief. But underneath all that volcanic rage—past the wild eyes and clenched jaw—I could hear it, deep worry.
Not the cold, professional kind one would have for their subordinate, the deep, raw kind of worry one would reserve for a family member.
He wasn't just mad because I disobeyed orders. He was scared. Scared because I could've died, or worse.
"Sorry b—"
*SLAM!*
Before I could even finish the sentence, my body was flung backwards—hard.
My spine collided with the opposite wall of the train car, the impact rattling through my bones. My legs buckled beneath me, and I crumpled to the floor with a dull *thud*, landing on my rear.
"Owww~...!!!"
I winced, a sharp jolt of pain lancing up my back, but the ache barely had time to register before I looked up—and froze.
The boss stood over me, looming like a thundercloud. His eyes locked onto mine, burning with a quiet fury that felt colder than ice. His jaw clenched tight. He didn't need to shout. That glare alone carried the full weight of his wrath.
"Start. Talking"
His voice was low, but absolute. It cracked like a whip, leaving no room for excuses, hesitation, or mercy.
"Y-yes sir!"
I straightened up as much as I could from my spot on the floor and began spilling everything in a panicked rush. I told him everything—how I thought getting a read on the infamous "White Jackal" could be valuable, how I came to the conclusion that having an honest man-to-man talk with him would be the best way to go about it, how he introduced himself as "Markus", how he agreed to chat, how our conversation played out from start to finish.
I explained that a direct, personal approach felt like the most effective way to gather insight—no threats, no tricks, just a one-on-one talk. Or…whatever that counts as that with him.
I talked fast, hoping the sheer detail would shield me from more of his wrath—hoping he'd see it was calculated, not reckless.
But deep down, I knew I was still gambling.
"And that's all that happened."
I finally finished my impromptu "report," still catching my breath.
"..."
The boss stood there in heavy silence, eyes shadowed over. I couldn't tell if he was mulling over a fitting punishment or genuinely giving my actions some serious thought. Either way, the tension in the air was unbearable.
"*Gulp*"
I swallowed nervously, bracing myself for the fallout.
"Haaaaa~"
At last, he let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose in that classic way he always did when trying not to explode. Just that subtle gesture made something in my body relax—I hadn't even realized how tight I'd been wound.
"I get that you were doing this for the corp…but damn it, Fiama, that was way too reckless! What if he'd changed his mind halfway through, huh?! You've been with Corvus long enough to know how temperamental the average Jaeger is—let alone a damn headhunter!"
His voice shot up like a cannon blast. I had to cover my ears just to keep my eardrums from bursting.
"But boss—"
"NO BUTS!"
His finger drilled down hard on the top of my head like a missile, pressing down with sadistic precision and righteous anger.
"AAA! AARGH! OW! OK! I'M SORWY!!"
My face scrunched up in pain, eyes watering as my words came out slurred and pathetic.
"Regardless..."
He finally released me and stepped back.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
His voice had softened, no longer a disciplinary bark but something more… fatherly. Casual. Curious.
"Huh?"
I blinked, genuinely confused by the change in tone.
"Don't play try to keep secrets with ya old man, kid. I've been raising you since you were knee-high to a knife holster. This wasn't just about recon for the corp, was it?"
"Ugh…"
I looked away.
(Damn it! He always sees through me...)
I was like a child being caught with her hand in the cookie jar right now.
"You wanted to be less afraid of him. Figured if you saw the face behind the mask, talked to him, maybe he wouldn't seem like such a boogeyman anymore, yeah?"
His words hit the bullseye dead-on. I had no rebuttal.
"...Ye-yeah... something like that"
I mumbled.
I braced myself for another round of yelling—but instead...
"Ya did good, kid"
His hand gently ruffled my hair. That familiar warmth in the gesture completely threw me off guard.
"Huh?"
I stared up at him, surprised.
"Don't get me wrong. What you did was reckless and idiotic—but confronting someone like him, face-to-face, takes some serious hutzpah. You showed initiative, and more importantly, you looked fear in the eye and didn't back down. That kind of iron clad resolve? It'll carry you far, not just as a Jaeger but in life as well"
He gave me one of his signature old-man smiles—equal parts pride and warning.
"Uhm...ok?"
I was still processing everything when he took a step back, turning serious again.
"Now…I need to have a word with ya new friend. I was planning to hash things out between me and our fellow passenger anyway"
That softness disappeared as quickly as it came. He turned and began walking toward Markus' car.
"Wha—boss, wait!"
I reached out instinctively, grabbing his coat.
"I know you've got a past with him, but please—don't antagonize him. He's not the monster everyone makes him out to be. Sure, he's kind of an ass, but he's not... evil. Just—don't turn this into something bigger than it has to be."
I didn't even fully understand why I said it, but the words spilled out of me with real urgency.
"...Ya developed quite the rapport with him, huh?"
He didn't look back as he spoke.
"Huh? No, that's not—"
He cut me off with a soft chuckle.
"Haha...I won't start anything, Fiama. We made a deal. He hasn't broken his end, so I won't break mine."
He gently pried my hand off his coat and continued walking.
(He used my full name?)
That was one of the very few times the old man called me by my full name. I wondered if he did it to reassure me.
"I...see...that's good..."
I stood there, watching him leave, left alone with my whirling thoughts.
(Why am I so worried about the boss fighting Markus? The Jackal himself said he lost to him. If anything, he should be the one who's afraid)
But even as I told myself that, something still gnawed at me.
(Wait…am I actually concerned for the Jackal? Why?)
It hit me like a slap. I wasn't just afraid they'd fight—I didn't want them to. At all.
Maybe it was the side effect of trying to overcome my fear of him…By attempting to humanize that terrifying figure everyone in Corvus treated like a plague to be avoided at all cause. For a brief moment, I had seen the person behind the myth. And that allowed me to, if only for a brief moment and to a limited degree, ACTUALLY empathize with Markus.
"Maybe...because he's a lot like me?"
I said out loud wondering to myself.
After all, we were both essentially child soldiers.
*Meanwhile, back in Markus' train car...
""...""
I sat in silence, lost in thought, still processing the unexpected interaction I'd just had—with none other than Fiama Iger, the adopted daughter of Edward Iger, the Lord of Crows, an old enemy of mine during my time fighting in the Second War of Vindication.
((Where have I…seen her before?))
That strange flicker of déjà vu came up during our exchange—it clung to me like smoke, persistent and off-putting.
""Haaa~ I let my guard down""
I exhaled, muttering under my breath. It was that vague sense of familiarity that had pushed me to let something slip—to give her the name "Markus."
((Tch! Stupid! Careless!))
I chastised myself, my instincts sharpening now that the moment of unclear familiarity had passed.
((It's just an alias, sure. No real damage done… but even so—revealing anything without a clear gain is a violation of protocol))
Old habits, old training—burned into me by Executerii doctrine—surged back like muscle memory.
Never speak without purpose. Never give without leverage. I knew better.
((Fiama Iger…that name wasn't part of Corvus' roster the last time I tangled with them. And during the Second War of Vindication…no, I don't recall her))
I dove deep into the recesses of my neatly organized memories, using perfect recall to cycle through image after image, like flipping through pages in a mental dossier.
((She would be no older than me during that time...I would remember meeting someone like that even if it was through a passing glance. I remember every face I encountered. Every child soldier, every combatant that I've either cut down or passed through))
Her appearance, demeanor and voice didn't match any of them.
""Hurgh...""
I focused harder, closing my eyes and diverting ALL of my attention inwards.
My memory wasn't natural—it had been tailored, enhanced to preserve everything. Sights, sounds, names, scars. Even if I couldn't access it all at once, I've been practicing perfect recall as soon as I was aware of my surroundings.
((She has to be there. Somewhere...))
The certainty of it gnawed at me. I knew that face—I just didn't know from where.
And that unsettled me more than I wanted to admit.
And then...
""Hmm?""
Something came up, not violently, not like a sudden spark or a jolt. No, it was subtle—like a slow crack forming under glass, spiderwebbing through the stillness of my thoughts. A disturbance, bubbling up from somewhere deep and long buried, something that should've been stayed forever forgotten.
((Wha—?))
A flash, a sensation. And then...I was put into a perspective that I didn't recognize from any of my lived experiences—but strangely ir felt no different from my own memories. I didn't see myself, and yet I was there. Somewhere I did not recognize, reading a book of some kind.
But not just any book.
It wasn't bound in cracked leather or stitched animal hide, the way tomes usually were in my experience. It wasn't scrawled in ink by a scholar's hand, nor was it preserved behind glass like the brittle parchment texts from the oldest libraries.
And it certainly wasn't wrapped in copper-thread casing or iron bracing, like the reinforced field manuals we carried during wartime.
No, this book was...alien.
((What is this made of...?))
Its cover was smooth—unnaturally so. Not vellum, not cloth. Something flat, glossy, and thin.
The pages turned with a strange crispness, lacking the grainy texture of hand-pressed paper. They were too uniform, too perfect. No blotches, no margins marred by age or soot.
The ink was penned with uncanny precision, clean black lines that didn't bleed or fade. Tight, even spacing. Like the words had been pressed into the paper by an invisible army of scribes working in perfect synchronicity.
((This doesn't belong in my time...))
I knew that almost instinctively, there was no press in Valentia that could create something like this, even in Fanoshia this wasn't possible.
((The machine-forges of the iron holds belonging to the Relictors Collective could maybe fabricate something like this? But I'm not sure...))
The closest thing to this book I've ever seen were the remnants in the forbidden archives—ancient, pre-Collapse relics sealed away in vaults beneath Executerii facilities. Books from before the great collapse.
((Is this some kind of pre-Collapse text...?))
I wondered, one side of the open spread was packed with neat, tiny words, arranged in blocks across the page with eerie symmetry. I could barely register what any of it said—my focus was drawn immediately to the opposite page..
The other side was…an illustration, an illustration of her.
((Fiama Iger?))
It was a perfect illustration of the girl I just talked to earlier, bloodied, bruised, kneeling in cracked earth under a collapsing sky. Smoke and ruin framed her figure, but her face—her eyes—they were locked with defiance. Even when on the brink of ruin, she refused to break.
And then—
"I really hope Fiama doesn't die here. Her arc is sti—"
The voice wasn't mine...
It came from me, from my throat, using my lungs and my lips. But it didn't belong, the tone was too relaxed. Amused, even. Like a reader commenting aloud. Like someone…reading a story.
((What in Gehenna...?))
But before I could even react, it started to fall apart. The memory—vision—hallucination, whatever it was—began to crumble like sand slipping through my fingers.
Color faded, sounds dulled, the feeling of holding the book, of being someone else, vanished.
Reality reasserted itself with a soft, bitter snap.
((Wait—come back! What was that?! What does it mean?!))
I reached for it mentally—desperately—but it was already gone. Dispersed like fog after sunrise. Leaving only an eerie emptiness behind.
""Haaa~...haaa...""
My eyes snapped open as if I'd just broken the surface of a deep, black sea after nearly drowning under the tides—air rushing back into my lungs in a sharp, greedy gasp.
*Thump!* *thump!* *thump!* *thump!* *thump!* *thump!*
My heartbeat pounded in my ears like war drums, each beat echoing against the cage of my ribs. Cold sweat clung to my skin, soaking into the collar of my shirt, and leaving a chill despite the warmth of the cabin.
""Ugh...my ears are ringing...""
I muttered, my voice low and rough, as I pinched the bridge of my nose. A searing headache bloomed behind my eyes—sharp, sudden, and pulsing like an aftershock.
"Uhm...are you ok?"
A voice called hesitantly from across the room. The same rude attendant I'd pegged with a coffee cup earlier. She tried to mask her fear beneath a thin veneer of professionalism, but I could still hear it—the tremor in her tone, the way her words clung to caution like a child to a blanket.
""I'm fine...""
I answered flatly, voice like frost, and turned away without sparing her another glance.
((That wasn't one of mine...))
I thought, the vision felt like a memory. Carried the weight of one. But it didn't fit. Not in the timelines I'd lived. Not in the archives etched into my hippocampus. It had no anchor in reality. No entry point, no reference, absolutely ZERO connection to anything else in my memories.
((And that voice...who was that?))
I had no answer. Just a lingering sense of wrongness.
And something else, something foreign yet familiar at the same time.
((Wait...I've heard it before))
Suddenly, something else stirred in the back of my mind—an echo, faint but unmistakable.
((Those dreams I've been having! That was the same voice, wasn't it? He...or I? It was speaking that strange language again...and somehow, I understood it))
I recognized it now. That vision—it mirrored the dreams that had been haunting me for some time. Not just in sound, but in feeling. The same eerie clarity, the same dissonance, like stepping into a world that wasn't mine—but felt like it should be.
((Why does everything always come back to those dreams? Ever since that strange mission. It's only gotten worse))
The more I thought about it, the deeper the pit grew in my stomach.
Lately, I'd been slipping—acting more erratic, more impulsive than usual. It wasn't like me. My training was supposed to keep me in control at all times. Precise. Disciplined. But now, these...episodes were becoming harder and harder to ignore.
And I knew the source. I had no doubt anymore.
It was the dreams.
They weren't just dreams. They were doing something to me—getting inside my head, changing how I processed things. Emotionally, mentally...I was being compromised, changed in some way.
((Is this the result of that prescience the Maestro supposedly put into me?))
I recalled the conversation I'd had with him not too long ago. He'd spoken—so matter-of-factly—about giving me the ability to glimpse the future, to tap into potential timelines and outcomes before they happened.
((But what kind of future is that? It doesn't look or feel anything like my world. It's almost like an entirely different era))
That possibility chilled me.
((Is this my latent prescience manifesting? If so...what kind of future am I seeing? And why does my voice sound so unfamiliar? Why am I speaking in that strange, foreign tongue?))
It had sounded vaguely Eastern—something I'd heard once or twice during my training in linguistic decryption—but I'd never traveled that far east in my life. And yet, in the dream, it came out of me fluently, effortlessly...like it had always been there.
((Just what exactly is happening to me?))
My thoughts spun faster, more disjointed. Each question gave birth to three more. It made my head throb, my vision blur at the edges.
""Haaaa~""
I let the breath out slowly, feeling the weight of it all settle over my shoulders again.
((No answers...well that's just typical isn't it?))
I was overcome with frustration and a growing sense that I was slowly losing control, but as always I kept it under wraps.
During my moment of frustration, a presence made itself known.
""...!""
*Click!*
My head snapped up as the door to my section of the train slid open with a soft mechanical clunk. I didn't need to see who it was—I already knew. The atmosphere shifted before he even stepped through.
((Great...as if I don't have enough problems on my plate. Haaa~ let's just hope this doesn't get ugly—I don't have time for distractions))
My muscles instinctively coiled, subtle but ready, calm on the surface, but prepared for whatever might happen next.
"Yo, let's have a little man-to-man, boy..."
The voice was unmistakable—gruff, confident, and commanding. A broad-shouldered man stepped in, his thick leather jacket creaking slightly with each movement. His eyes locked onto mine with the weight of someone who wasn't used to being told no.
""...""
I held his gaze without flinching, keeping my expression as unemotive as ever even under my mask.
((I can't afford to provoke him. Especially after the last time we crossed paths....I barely made it out alive))
I gave a small nod, then subtly gestured to the empty seat across from me—the same seat his daughter had occupied not long ago.
A silent invitation.
"I heard ya been talking to my kid"
The man dropped into the seat across from me, wasting no time getting straight to the point.
((The contrast between this and my conversation with Fiama Iger is night and day... then again, there's no point in subtlety when we already know where we stand with one another))
Unlike his daughter, he didn't carry even a hint of fear or formal politeness. Understandable—considering we'd already tried to kill each other once. At that point, civility becomes optional.
""She was an intriguing person to converse with, I enjoyed our talk""
I replied without pause, my voice flat and emotionless.
"Is that right?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, watching me with a calculating look, a stark difference from his usual nonchalance and jovialness—trying to read me, break past my expressionless shell. I mirrored the scrutiny, measuring him in turn.
"Well, don't expect any other chances. I'm not letting my kid anywhere near you"
His tone was blunt, firm, and full of warning. His gaze never left me, like he was daring me to object—daring me to make the wrong move.
""I would expect so...""
I responded coolly, utterly unmoved by his attempt to intimidate me. My posture never shifted, my eyes never wavered.
"..."
""...""
We stared at each other in heavy silence, the kind that weighed on the air like a storm about to break. Then, finally, he spoke again.
"I know it's been obvious since we ran into each other at the station, but...ya haven't changed one bit. Still the same cold, obnoxious, inhuman bastard. Honestly if you weren't a brat I would've killed you that day"
He said it without hesitation, his voice edged with venom and his teeth bared slightly—not in a snarl, but more like a show of disdain. I didn't sense any intent to strike. It wasn't a threat, just a declaration of warranted distrust.
"And even if this ain't news to ya, let me say it anyway. I. Don't. Like. You. Not even a little. I can stomach a lot of things—even Hector's bullsh*t—but you? You're a special kind of monster. And I'll never forget what ya did to my crew that day"
The Lord of Crows—Edward Iger—spoke with a deep, simmering fury, restrained but palpable, burning low and slow behind his eyes.
The "Hector" he mentioned was almost certainly Hector Varn—the War Ogre. Leader of the Crusading Corsair, another Jaeger corp and the most infamous rival to Corvus. According to what I know, there was bad blood between them. The especially bitter and long-standing type.
((That day…oh right. I killed quite a few of Corvus's men before he intercepted me))
The memory surfaced effortlessly—steel clashing, men screaming, smoke and blood filling the air. I recalled, with precise clarity, how our battle began.
""I have no regrets. It was war, and they stood in my way. They attacked me first. If you wish to settle the score...I'm ready. Any time...""
Even knowing full well my odds of victory were slim, I didn't flinch, refusing to look away.
((I didn't endure years of torture, experimentation, and conditioning just to be treated like a toy soldier you could disrespect))
There was no pride in the role they'd forced on me. No honor in being a living weapon, but I wouldn't let this man spit on what it took to still be breathing—to still be alive despite every attempt this world has made to break me.
"Hmm...fair enough"
To my mild surprise, Edward backed off. He pulled back his hostility—not erased, but momentarily reined in. His eyes never softened, but he didn't press further.
Edward leaned back slightly, arms crossed, his glare still fixed on me—but less like he was about to strike, and more like he was assessing a problem that wouldn't go away.
""...""
"..."
The silence returned, but it was different now. Less charged. More contemplative.
((This is alot more awkward than earlier))
I thought, thinking that compared to this awkward atmosphere, my interaction with Fiama was much more pleasant.
""...""
My eyes drifted past him, to the train window beside us.
Outside, the world blurred by in waves of sand and stone. The vast desert stretched endlessly in every direction—its golden dunes scorched under the mid-afternoon sun, interrupted only by the occasional jagged ridge or the skeletal remains of some long-forgotten structure half-buried in dust.
((It's been years since I last saw this place. It's been nonstop work for me after the war ended...))
A strange feeling settled in my chest.
""...This stretch of desert""
I spoke without turning from the window.
""You remember what it used to look like? Before the war, I mean...""
I didn't expect a real answer. Neither of us were the sentimental type. I wasn't even sure why I asked. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the dust in the wind stirring old echoes I couldn't quite name. Maybe it was the way the light fell on the dunes—like even the sun was trying to remember something long gone.
"..."
He didn't answer immediately. Took his time. Let the question sit in the dry air between us.
"It wasn't all bad, greener than what it is now, with a few towns and villages scattered around...out this far, the Cartel didn't have the same stranglehold as they do in the cities, probably because the Famiglias didn't want to bother wasting effort on land that couldn't be turned into a huge profit. It used to be quiet out here. Peaceful, even...didn't deserve to end up like this"
He turned to the window as well, his voice losing some of its usual gravel and grudge, replaced by something more distant...almost wistful.
And for a brief moment, there we were—two old enemies of war, indulging in a glimpse of the past. Not exactly a pleasant experience, but preferable to constantly baring our fangs, waiting to see who would strike first