Who: The Operator and Junia the Vestal
What: The Operator copes poorly with Mother's Mercy. Junia helps them confess.
When: Mid-February
Where: Junia's church in Cassandra

Content Warnings: self-harm, burns, suicide, discussion of unhealthy/abusive parent-child dynamics



[ Ever since they arrived in Trench, the Operator has spent much of their time in Junia’s church of the Holy Flame. They’ve been living there for the past month and, though the arrangement had been intended as a temporary stopgap, they’ve felt no urgency to leave. Instead, they’ve simply done their best to ensure that their residence there isn’t a burden on their host. Tidying the space, replenishing spent incense, and keeping the braziers lit is the least they can do in exchange for room and board. Even when their chores are complete, it isn’t uncommon to see them tucked away in one of the church’s quiet corners, kneeling in meditation.

As February draws on, though, they become less and less inclined to leave the church at all. Before, they would often venture out to explore or conduct research at the Archaic Archives. Now, they spend ever-increasing hours in meditation, new wings folded, neat and unused, on their back. Even the prospect of flight, which had seemed so exciting to them on the first day, now holds little appeal.

It might be easy to assume that they’re still suffering the effects of the second, less pleasant chocolate they’d eaten, which had driven them to such paranoia and terror that they could barely move. But those effects have long since passed and what they feel now isn’t fear or even the embarrassment at their rather public meltdown. What they feel now is a deep and gnawing guilt.

It had started with thoughts about Rell—inescapable after their day spent in the grip of paranoia that the Man in the Wall was coming for them like he had for him. They remember their last encounters with Rell, how frightened and bitter and exhausted he’d been. The Operator feels like they understand him now more than ever. A day spent merely in fear of the Lidless Eye had drained them completely. But Rell? He’d held the entity back for centuries.

…Only for someone who’d never even set foot on the Zariman to tell him that he was wrong. Delusional. That he was responsible for all the suffering and madness he’d fought for centuries to contain. And the Operator? They’d let the Lotus say those things. Of course they hadn’t told her that they had seen it just as Rell had. Of course they weren’t willing to risk that she might think them mad, too.

Did she even truly believe that there was no Man in the Wall? Or was she just trying to keep them in the dark? Again.

Pain like a knife lances through the Operator’s chest, catching the breath in their throat. Yet still, they don’t move. Kneeling on the stone floor, they recite the same silent litany they have been for the past week to try and dull the ache. ’I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You were only trying to protect us.’

Prayer is a poor substitute to the true means of relief. They’d discovered it a few days earlier and it makes itself plain in the state of their hands: cracked and peeling, marred by blisters, patches marbled with red and white. In a place like this, it isn’t hard to find opportunities to burn themself.

It’s a fair trade, they think. They accept a pain they can ignore to cure themself of one they cannot. Except, it isn’t a cure, not really. A cure would be permanent and the fire only silences the pangs for a few minutes at best. They’d thought that with mediation, they could cure themself of the root cause—their traitorous, ungrateful thoughts towards the Lotus—but after days without results, they are coming to accept that that is no solution either.

They sigh. They’re only delaying the inevitable, they know. They’ve already done enough damage to this body to necessitate its remaking, even if not for its internal suffering. Still, they feel silently humiliated by the thought; they’ve been dissipated plenty of times, but never by their own hand.

They rise from the floor, tired beyond measure. They’ve barely slept in the past week, kept awake by their own racing thoughts and the swells of agony that accompany them. It’s good that they’re doing this now—if they waited much longer, they might not have had the strength for it.

There is no self-pity nor much display of emotion from them at all as they head outside the church. Indeed, to the Operator, their actions don’t feel like giving in to some darkness or despair. It simply feels like a practical, if a rather regrettable solution to a problem, one they understand well. Something is punishing them for their disloyalty toward the Lotus. It demands penance—and so the Operator will give it, as efficiently as they can.

They do their best to make sure that Junia isn’t about as they step out of the church and walk around to the back. They don’t see her anywhere, but then, they aren’t currently at their sharpest. They don’t want her to be upset by what she sees. There’s a good chance she wouldn’t understand it.

They walk far enough to be out of easy view of the street and find a stretch of hard-packed ground suitable for their purposes. The pain within them now is a deep and abiding ache, somehow disapproving. The Operator frowns. ’I’m doing what you want,’ they think, irritated. ’Leave me to it.’

No matter. Their next actions are sure to put an end to the pain, one way or another. All that remains to be seen is how long the relief lasts.

They take one last look around to make sure they're alone—then push off from the ground and into the air, buoyed up by the beating of their wings. They ascend in a tight spiral, a balancing act between gaining enough height to ensure their fall is fatal and remaining out of sight from any passersby. Either way, they’ll need to fall as fast and hard as they can. Anything less risks crippling themself rather than dissipating. Not only would that hurt a good deal more—it would also leave them incapable of trying again.

Finally, they reach the apex of their ascent. The altitude feels dizzying, though that’s probably just the fatigue talking. Even so, it’s certainly high enough for what it is—a weapon, to be turned against themself.

They don’t waste any time with hesitation. The Operator is, above all, a being of conviction—that is the source of their pain and its remedy. With a final beat of their wings, they reorient themself in the air, turning their head back towards the ground. Then, they simply tuck their wings against their back, close their eyes, and wait.

The rest is predictable. They feel a rushing of wind followed by an instant of bright, splintering pain—and then they’re gone. Their body unravels, not into viscera and shattered bone but into pure Void energy, into scattered sparks of golden light. Even that fades quickly, leaving nothing but undisturbed calm in its wake.

The calm remains for a long few moments…

…and then, again, there is light. It seems to tear its way out of nothing, a brief, shimmering blaze that solidifies into a familiar shape almost too quickly for the eye to follow. One moment the Operator is gone—and the next, they are there again, lying on their side on the dusty ground.

A quick inspection will show them to be unharmed—and, apparently, unconscious. ]