Quid est anxietas mea?-LXXVIII

-

-

DATE:12th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation

LOCATION: Concord Metropolis

-------------------------------------------------

-

-

The next day Alice didn't want to eat. She also didn't want to leave the bed. I left her a sandwich and went for a morning run to clear my mind.

I pushed the thought aside and glanced at the clock. The city was falling apart, and I couldn't afford to linger. The Combine gang was spreading through Concord like a virus. What had once been sporadic clashes with the Civil Militia had turned into daily bloodbaths. They weren't just targeting infrastructure—they were toppling garrisons and HQs with shockingly advanced tactics.

The Quartz HQ was a prime example. "Protesters" had stormed the building under the guise of fighting oppressive rule. The Civil Militia had no authority to fire on unarmed civilians, so they evacuated instead. Sham or not, it worked.

Meanwhile, the city's leadership debated martial law. Temporary open-fire privileges for the militia were on the table, but approval crept forward at a bureaucratic snail's pace.

To make matters worse, the Donn's vacancy loomed like a shadow over the city. There was a Clause in his post-mortem "manifesto" that the Balmundi family was explicitly barred from inheriting his title so his estate scrambled to find an heir. How do you find relatives of his that somehow don't have any blood connection to the Balmundi clan? The leading candidate, Lucien Paula Mosa, caught me off guard. I had forgotten, but Emily reminded me that I met him back at the casino. I was surprised that such a playboy would even be considered, Yet, it made sense—when you eliminate 95% of the options, the pool gets smaller..

And then there were the rumors. UltraMan's resurrection. It seems like they started to use it to recruit civilians into their operation . The Combine gang's murmurs about the national holiday of celebrating the 71st year since the coronation being the moment he would return. Two months left before everything unraveled—if it even took that long.

I returned to the apartment, the weight of it all pressing down on me. Alice hadn't moved. Still curled in bed, still crying.

I turned on the TV but it was a mistake. I should have just stayed in silent as it was blaring another crisis.

There was no report. Only a gangster who introduced himself as "Big Head," one of the Combine lieutenants, leering at the camera. Hostages—an entire news crew—were tied up behind him. His demands were simple: one-on-one combat with a hero to decide their fate.

The problem was that No one had come Even if he started this whole crisis since the morning.

He mocked us all. "See that? The heroes don't care about you. Too comfortable in their mansions to face a normal man like me!"

He was spouting threats and revolutionary quotes.

In the Stochk Confederacy there once was an economist who they call a prophet called Karl Marx that tried to overthrow the old feudal system.

This is how he fooled the people, because he didn't even understand why Marx had started his fight. People say he was fighting the new capitalist system that started 200 years ago in the Confederacy, but the factories were owned by lords, not common folk. She wanted to make a rebellion against the Confederacy itself so he rallied the people in some of the city-states that make it up.

But he failed. Miserably at that.

He was executed with a pot of boiling oil while he was strapped to a table.

His associates were skinned alive and hanged like that.

Even then he himself was one of those Lords that owned factories and he only wanted to make his own position stronger, given if he said he would give the workers better conditions.

The fact that people think he was a hero is just due to their lack of literacy. Ventia also went through such a period and my mother didn't let me forget about it's "lessons" even once when I was young.

Big head's words stoked the fire of desperation in his audience. Suffering citizens with nothing to lose could all too easily be radicalized by such provocations. A man that can't get treatment for his illness, can't get a job or the job he does get he has a miserable salary, A man who was family was robbed and couldn't even find the perpetrator because the Civil Militia didn't bother to look, A man whose family was killed because a hero doesn't want to step up and do the job he is payed for...

Such people have no regard for the government, even if the idea that things will get better is a lie.

To them this feudal Administration is already the worst scenario possible.

In any case, the fact that no hero showed up could only mean that they expected others to do it. Each and every one of them. This is the system that remained after UltraMan died. In his time, he will have done it. Such arrogance.

I wanted it to ignore it, but It would be really bad if the Combine gang got any more support.

I sighed and put on my gear.

"I'm taking the car," I told Alice. A part of me hesitated, wondering if I should say more. Maybe hold her, whisper empty words of comfort. But I couldn't. That wasn't me. I didn't know how to comfort someone. Even if I did force myself to falaely mourn with her, I wouldn't seem genuine. I'm sure she would notice. I just don't have the capacity to fake such an advanced emotion.

How could I, when I'd never received kindness like that? My mother had always told me I didn't deserve to cry. "Only Mithras can cry," she'd said. That damned god… The worst part is that supposedly I always see him because he is the sun.

I hate the Ventian Faith.

I'm sure she finds it. Strange how I don't seem to care about the reveal from yesterday. The fact that I don't remember my own name or my physical state... She probably thinks I am just bottling the emotions in, but that isn't the case. I just can't help it.

My mother was right. I tell myself I don't care about feelings because I would die in my line of work, but being real, I did have colleagues that mourned for their losses. Wasn't Sophie one of them? Keep all critical as it was for killers to do that, it's still grounded them as humans. What does it say about me when I don't care about things like that?

I'm sure I certainly did before my transformation. In those memories from the desert when I was just 20 I did. One could say like I did that. Those were just memories from when I was young and inexperienced, but the human heart doesn't just "die" like that. There's no amount of desensitization that can make you immune to trauma. Immune to feelings.

Not even the most indoctrinated soldiers aren't immune to having their morale shaken. I'd know that. I saw such elite people crumble with my own eyes and I wasn't even trained like that.

What does that say about me?

I shook the thought away and slipped out the door. I had a villain to face before his words tore the city apart.

It felt strange driving through the city streets in my full gear, even in Alice's Miata—it was a stark contrast to the chaos brewing around me. Emily's voice crackled in my ear, cutting through my thoughts.

"Why are you even doing this?" she asked, her tone almost concerned. "It's unlike you."

She wasn't wrong. Why was I putting myself in danger for a camera crew I'd never met? To stop the Combine from gaining more support? To prove that I was human? That I care?Did that even matter? Heroes hadn't stepped in. Not even Sarah. Not anyone.

It was a small gesture considering how few victims were concerned, but it was blown out of proportion by this sad reality.

"Big Head" was right. The hero agencies didn't care. They stayed in their pristine offices, whispering about potential ambushes and protecting their public image.

The thought lingered bitterly as I parked a block away from the plaza and walked the rest of the way on foot. I had no intention of being a gallant savior, but letting this man's rhetoric go unchallenged would do more damage than good.

The plaza was packed with people—a thousand at least. The crowd's energy buzzed with a strange mix of fear and reverence. Big Head stood in the center, a self-proclaimed prophet rallying the masses.

No Civil Militia. No Royal Investigators. No snipers. No heroes.

When the crowd spotted me, their whispers turned to murmurs and gasps. Parting like a sea, they gave me a path to the center.

Big Head turned, his skull mask catching the sunlight. His tall frame and blue tracksuit gave him an almost absurd presence. He spread his arms wide, his voice booming.

"So, Aionis finally graces us with his presence!"

"Big Head"...name startled me. What did it even mean? Something about being "smart," maybe? I pushed it aside and stood before him as he laughed.

"What took you so long?" he asked.

"I don't watch the news," I replied flatly.

He turned back to the camera, addressing the crowd. "Here he is! Aionis, the only real hero!"

I ignored the jab. "Let the hostages go."

Big Head's laugh echoed through the plaza.

"Not so simple. I want a duel. A real fight between hero and man. To prove that training and human potential can surpass your... cheats."

"Cheats?" I raised an eyebrow.

He gestured toward me. "Your unnatural abilities. You're not human—you heroes said so yourselves. You're a different species, you self-proclaimed gods. I want to show that humanity doesn't need you."

"This is pointless," I said, my voice calm but sharp. "I could kill you in an instant with my powers. You're nothing compared to me."

"And that's exactly the point!" he snapped, stepping closer. "Can you do anything else besides kill with it?"

I tilted my head, studying him. "You're a hypocrite," I said simply.

"What?"

"You demand a physical duel, but say my power makes it unfair. You claim to want to prove humanity's potential, but only if I handicap myself. What does that prove? That I had to suppress my abilities just to make you feel better?"

Big Head froze, his bravado cracking for the first time. I pressed further.

"There's no point to this fight. To this movement. To this conflict between us. All you're doing is endangering innocent people. The same humans you claim to fight for."

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

The crowd shifted uneasily as Big Head stepped into a fighting stance. Without hesitation, I signaled Emily to remotely deactivate my suit.

I unbuckled the armor and powered down the exoskeleton, leaving myself exposed.

The crowd gasped, and even Big Head blinked in surprise.

"I'll prove I'm no different than you," I said, stepping forward. "No power. No armor. Just two men. I'll still beat you."

The crowd's energy was electric, every cheer and jeer blending into an unrelenting cacophony as I stepped toward Big Head. He stood tall, his skull mask tilted slightly as he sized me up, confidence radiating from his every movement.

"You've got no chance," he sneered, crouching into his stance. "I used to be a national athlete. You're out of your league."

I met his mocking tone with quiet determination. "It doesn't matter."

Without warning, I snapped forward and delivered an uppercut to his jaw, the force jerking his head back. The crowd erupted in shouts, but their allegiance was unclear to me. I didn't need their approval.

Big Head recovered quickly, smirking as he wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. "Lucky shot," he muttered, launching forward with a flurry of punches.

Emily's voice crackled sharply in my earpiece, her tone urgent. "He's favoring his left! Watch for the—"

"Shut up," I snapped back, swatting his next punch aside. "It'll lose all meaning if you help."

Big Head's fists were relentless. He jabbed, ducked, and swung with the precision of a trained fighter, the power behind his blows tearing through my shirt and leaving me bruised. He was taller, stronger, and clearly more experienced. It didn't matter.

Pain was irrelevant to me.

Each of his hits landed with bone-crunching force, but I shrugged them off, pressing forward with aggression. No thought, no hesitation—just forward momentum.

I threw a straight jab that collided with his ribs, drawing a grunt from him. He countered with a hook to my side, but I stepped in close and delivered a brutal body shot, feeling the satisfying crack of his ribs beneath my knuckles.

We were both in the zone and could only focus on how to counter the other.

The people were cheering louder now, though I couldn't tell if it was for me or him. It didn't matter.

My blood surged as I landed two more punches to his jaw, staggering him. He stumbled, his footing shaky as I advanced again. He tried to regain space, but I gave him none.

Angry, he announced how he will end me.

His next punch was aimed for my temple—a knockout blow. It connected, sending stars exploding across my vision, but to his shock, I didn't fall. Dazed but unyielding, I stepped into his guard and drove a powerful right hook into his jaw.

The sickening crunch told me everything. His jaw fractured under the force, and his body crumpled to the ground like a broken statue.

I stood over him, huffing heavily, my fists still clenched. The world seemed to slow as I scanned the plaza. His guards—six of them, armed with submachine guns—shifted nervously, their fingers twitching near their triggers. The crowd watched silently, a thousand pairs of eyes frozen on me.

I ignored the guards and stepped toward the camera crew. One of them flinched as I grabbed the camera and yanked it toward my masked face.

The lens stared at me, unblinking, as I spoke directly into it. My voice was cold but steady.

"What was the point of this fight?" I demanded, my words slicing through the tense silence. "What was this unconscious man on the floor even trying to prove? That he could inspire you with false revolutionary zeal? That he could endanger innocent lives for his own ideals?"

I turned away from the camera and faced the crowd, my voice rising. "And you—you stood here, cheering him on while a news crew had guns pointed at their heads. You did nothing. What makes you any better than the heroes who refused to show up?"

The crowd shifted uneasily, murmurs rippling through the sea of faces.

"You were all spectators to suffering. Happy to watch as long as it wasn't your necks on the line. What does that make you? Hypocrites. All of you."

A man near the front raised his voice in protest. "We couldn't do anything! They were armed!"

I snapped my gaze to him, my voice sharp and cutting. "There were six of them. Six armed thugs. And there are a thousand of you. Do the math."

The muttering stopped. Silence fell over the plaza.

"That's exactly your relationship with heroes," I continued, my voice cold. "You expect us to fight your battles, to take your risks, while you stay on the sidelines and complain. You outnumber them. You could have ended this yourselves. But no—you waited for someone else to solve your crisis."

I let the silence settle, the weight of my words hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

I stepped back from the camera, my chest heaving as I looked around at the frozen faces. Their eyes were wide, their mouths shut. Maybe, just maybe, they'd finally realized how stupid they were.

I breathed in deeply, my focus narrowing as time seemed to slow. Moving with precision, I reattached my armor and exoskeleton, the mechanical components locking into place with quiet clicks and hisses.

With one last look at the crowd, I exhaled and left. Time resumed, the muted murmurs of the people fading into the background as I walked back to Alice's Miata.

Sliding into the car, I gripped the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white against the leather. Anger pulsed through me, but it wasn't directed at Big Head or even the crowd.

It was exhaustion. Emotional fatigue. It had been a long time since I'd felt like this—so raw and human.

Fighting him had been physical, sure, but the real battle had been something deeper. Something I didn't want to face.

I started the car, the hum of the engine filling the silence. It was over—for now.

rewrite it considering the suggestions you provided

Here's a revised version of the scene, incorporating the suggestions for smoother emotional transitions, deeper exploration of Alice's vulnerabilities, and better alignment of the narrator's philosophy. The rewrite softens the harshest elements while maintaining the rawness and intensity of the interaction.

---

I drove back to the apartment in silence, my mind still preoccupied with the fight, the speech, and the weight of everything that had just happened. The crowd's frozen stares, Big Head's unconscious body—the images lingered, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.

When I stepped inside, I found Alice on the couch, clutching a pillow and staring blankly at the TV. She looked fragile, her body curled up like she was trying to protect herself from the world.

Her eyes flicked to me, wide and expectant. There was a faint brightness in them, but I could tell she wasn't as composed as she wanted me to think. The TV was still tuned to the broadcast of Big Head's speech, though she hadn't changed the channel.

"You're…" Her voice was soft, almost hesitant. "You're such a great hero. Unlike me."

I stopped mid-step, taken aback by the comment. My chest tightened as I turned toward her, unloading my gun and setting it on the counter. "That's not true," I said simply, my voice steady but firm.

She didn't respond. Her gaze lingered on the screen, on the moments that had already passed. Maybe she admired what I had done. Maybe it reminded her of her mentor. Whatever the reason, I didn't let myself dwell on it. I shrugged off my armor and packed it away, the sound of metal against the box filling the silence.

"I'm going to make dinner," I said, trying to shift the mood. She hummed a soft response, though the sadness in her voice remained.

She said she was going to take a bath.

-____

As I opened the fridge and began pulling out cheese for the sauce, I heard her move behind me. I turned just in time to catch her heading toward the bathroom, something glinting faintly in her hand under the light.

I froze.

"Wait."

The realization hit me like a jolt of electricity. I moved quickly, reaching the bathroom door just as she tried to close it. I pressed my hand against the frame to stop her, my heart pounding as I pushed it open.

"Alice, step away from the door," I ordered, my voice sharp.

She looked at me, startled, the knife trembling in her hand. Behind her, the bathtub water rippled faintly as if it had been disturbed. I stepped inside, brushing past her, and dipped my hand into the water. It was ice cold.

"You were going to…?" I didn't finish the sentence. My words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken.

Tears welled in her eyes as I turned back to her and yanked the knife from her trembling hand, tossing it to the corner of the bathroom.

"You're such an idiot," I said bluntly, my voice low.

She flinched but didn't say anything.

"Do you even know how to do this?" I gestured to the tub. "Ice baths don't work with just cold water. You'd need actual ice. This wouldn't have killed you—it would've just made you uncomfortable."

Her tears spilled over, and she wiped at her face with shaking hands. "I'm useless," she whispered. "I can never be a hero like you."

The words struck something inside me—a familiar ache, a memory I didn't want to touch. She was talking just like Sarah. Since when did I become a babysitter? My hand curled into a fist.

"Useless?" I echoed, my voice hardening. "Since when did being a hero mean something? Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I'm not angry? At myself? At the world? Do you think there's ever a day when I'm not disappointed?"

Her wide eyes stared back at me, her tears falling silently.

I stepped closer, towering over her, and lowered my voice. "So what? One sad day leads to another. Big deal. You don't think I've suffered? You don't think I've wanted to quit? But I didn't. Because it doesn't matter how much it hurts—life goes on whether you're ready or not. So you move forward."

She continued to sob quietly, her head bowed. My frustration simmered, but beneath it was a knot of something I couldn't name—concern, maybe. Pity, even.

I exhaled, my voice softening slightly. "There's no point to this, Alice. Killing yourself doesn't take the pain away. It just passes it to someone else."

I turned, walking to the corner where the knife lay. I picked it up and held it in my hand for a moment, weighing its cold steel against my palm. Then I walked back to Alice and placed it in front of her.

She looked up at me, her expression a mixture of shock and confusion.

"If you really want to do it, go ahead." My voice was cold, detached. "But don't think it'll make you happy. It won't."

I turned to leave, only to feel her grab the back of my shirt, her small hands trembling against the fabric.

"I don't want to," she sobbed. "I just—I don't know how to keep going. I don't have your strength. I'm not like you."

I sighed, turning back to face her. Her face was streaked with tears, her eyes red and raw with grief.

"It's not about strength," I said quietly. "It's about understanding the truth of the world. Life doesn't wait for you to adapt, Alice. It moves forward, whether you're ready or not. No one's going to step in and save you. They'll just watch. That's all anyone ever does."

Her sobs quieted slightly as she looked up at me, her expression shifting.

I reached for her hands, pressing them firmly against my chest. "Feel that?" I said softly. "My heart. It's still beating. That's the gift we've been given—another day. Another chance. Good or bad, life is still life. Without it, we wouldn't even be here, you and me."

Her tears slowed, her breathing steadied, and she leaned her forehead against my chest. "What happens next?" she asked weakly, her voice barely above a whisper.

I placed a hand on her head, brushing her hair back gently. "We face it together," I said.

For the first time in days, she gave me a small, hesitant smile, her sadness still lingering but no longer overwhelming her.

We returned to the kitchen, the knife forgotten, and I prepared dinner while she watched in silence. It wasn't much, but it was a start. -*-*-*-*-*