War of Elysium

Epilogue: The Puppetmaster

        He sat alone, as he always did, in his study. An old book and bottle of two-hundred year old scotch to keep him company. He lay the crystal glass on an old mahogany table after a gentle sip. The fire roared at his toes and lit his old face orange. The sun kissed and battle scorched old man sat in his red leather armchair with one leg kicked upon an old ottoman which still bore battle wounds from his daughter's destructive childhood. 

He turned a page, and then another, not totally interested in the book. His mind lay elsewhere, several elsewhere  to be accurate. The war, the plan, the truth and more so than anywhere else, the foolish little Rebel Queen.

He stroked a callused hand across his brow, gathering a sheen of sweat disproportionate to the temperature of the room. His own hand caught his eye, the skin had grown so thin he could see every vein and bone through the firelight. That was the least of it, the grey mess that was his once jet black hair, the splotches in his beard, his ever lessening health. He was getting old, undeniably so. The irony of spending his entire later life to secure the world after him, only to die of old age just before his plan could come to fruition was enough to rise a single breathy chuckle. 

"Sir." Gardener interrupted. He poked his head through the door and made his way in once the old man raised his hand to allow him.
"Reports, Joseph?" 
"Yes, sir." Gardener answered. Hesitant creeks along the intentionally noisy floorboards marked his slow approach. 
"Elysium has fallen?"
"Yes, sir." Gardener passed his a folder thicker than the book the old man had cast aside.
"She lives?"
"Yes, sir."
"And Songbird?"
"We believe she completed her mission and retrieved the prototype Apotheosis treatment, sir. Though there is a complication."
"I see that." He read through the report until an image pulled from a security camera dropped from its page. Within was four unidentified corpses, all burnt to a crisp while the room around them was completely untouched by flame. "And Hosun?"
"As planned, sir. The traitor killed him."
"Excellent. I've already seen the reports on the disarray caused by his death."
"Yes, sir. It seems the traitor is more valuable as an enemy than ally."
"After Lazlow, I'm inclined to agree. He is foolish to believe he would simply come upon two councillors effectively unprotected." 
"Sir..." Gardener hesitated to speak.
"Speak freely, Joseph."
"Thank you, sir." Gardener considered his words thoroughly. "Will the council not grow suspicious, sir?"
"Suspicious?"
"It's just... You absorbed the responsibilities of the judiciary wing after Lazlow was killed, now - a matter of weeks later - you will claim control of the armies. Will the council not catch on that you mean to dismantle them?"

The old man laughed for a single breath before catching himself. He signalled for the hulking soldier to pour him a drink, and Gardener obliged.

"I've been at this a long time, Gardener. I selected foolish men to take the council for a purpose. Hosun was easy to control with promises of finding Akemi; Lazlow was easy to tempt with his long estranged family. The rest of them, I raised from dirt. The public think this is a result of my pragmatic and egalitarian nature... A foolish thought for foolish masses. I raised them because they admire me; worship me." He wasn't gloating, merely stating facts. his plan had been half a century in the making and every facet was intricately planned out. He took no pride in the required death and suffering, but knew it to be the only way to win what was to come. 
"So, no. They will not grow suspicions of me. They will beg me to take up these roles. They both failed terribly at their roles, so when I come in and complete them with efficiency and competence, the council will beg to give me their jobs. At long last they will be officially subservient to me, and we will be ready for the next stage of my plan." 

"So what comes next, sir?"

"Next... They will require some genetic data to stabilise their little science project. Leak project German to the Arbiter. She will send Raptor and I will plant some information in the lab that will lead the traitor to our little loose end."

"Cannee, sir?" 

"The very same. Max has become more effort than he is worth. Let the sentinel at him. With any luck, vengeance will help him heal from your mistake, Gardener. The Rebel Queen still needs an heir and she'll struggle with no husband to bed her."

"What about project German, Sir?"

"A waste, unfortunately. They promised me an army and delivered only two soldiers; one half mad. The data can be salvaged if it leads to a successful Apotheosis treatment for the Alliance, however."

"And the rest of the squad, sir? That protégé of his is pretty talented." 

"She, alike the others, are irrelevant. They need not die; but they are not protected. The Mack is a talented scout, yes, but she lacks value beyond that. The child, however, will be dead within the next five years. Do not worry for her."

The old man turned to a tablet at the bottom of the file. It flickered on, battling the orange flame to light his olive skin blue. On it appeared five small windows, each showing a room; Raptor's bunks. Each showing an enemy and the ally they didn't know hid within them.

In the top left, the white haired Mack sat in bed wearing little but a scarf as she spoke on a video call with some dark haired Russian commoner. The next window showed the child, Adeladia. She was sat so very still. Wound like a viper preparing to strike, though no prey passed before her. Instead, what had entranced her gaze was a simple photograph, and the dead family within. It was too much for her, and she broke. Alone and afraid, she shook and wept into her pillow. It didn't seem to take her for long. Before no time at all had passed, she dried her eyes and stood; leaving her room and disappearing from view. 

A knock on the Mack's door marked the child's path. He couldn't hear them, but saw the child collapse in tears before the white haired girl, and the girl leading her into her room. 

It felt additionally perverse to watch the mourning of an irrelevant child, so he flicked the screen along to Serah, the prize. 

She lay alone in her own room, notably without a doubled bed. She didn't last long, she never could. She fidgeted and rolled around for a moment before standing and marching out of her room.

It took no guess as to where she headed. He flicked the camera along to the traitor. He was not calm, nor was fidgeting. He was a broken mess. He writhed on the floor over a picture of some dead family or something akin. He clutched at his metal arm as though steel could feel. He tantrumed and raged in a manner fit for a child, not a king consort. Then she appeared in the doorway, and she had never looked more like Alice. Stood over some foolish soldier with her heart bared for him. If only she hadn't hidden her natural colourings. 

The two collapsed, and cried, and consoled. Then began at the next thing, and Matias had no wish to view at that. He placed the tablet aside his scotch and took a habitual swig.

He was alone again, in his hollow study, with naught but a silly little book and dusty old bottle to keep his company fresh. The orange flame cast accusations of age across his grizzled face and he muttered to himself.

He turned to the empty seat across from him, and imagined the woman who used to sit there.

"Is it wrong that I yearn for my plan to be complete, Alice?" He asked, though he was completely alone. "That I might die at last. She would miss me, she is kind like that, but she shouldn't. She should mourn me not as I die, but as I live. For in death there may be peace, reunion with you; or there may be eternal torment, even endless abyss. Yet here, in life, I know true suffering. I know war, and I know mornings and nights alone. In truth, all risk of naught and nothing; torment and punishment, will be worthy should I find an end to my lonely strife."