And there goes this month's rent. [Dust, Iesua]

[Ryo?]

You had thought that this would be a day like any other. Wake up in the morning fifteen minutes before the alarm can pierce your ears, contemplate the inexorable advance of time as each minutes is shaved away in the darkness pierced by digital lights, linger on that uncomfortable bed for five minutes after you have deactivated the alarm, get up. Bathroom, toilet, shower, shaving, teeth. You never were one for breakfast, preferring to wait for the cramps to start clawing at your stomach to tell you that it is time to get something between your teeth. Get dressed, start working.
It all got wrong when you noticed the silence. No traffic, no old granny yelling at the first floor, no airplain busting your eardrums as it passes overhead, nothing at all. You would have welcomed the silence, if it was something you had ever known; as things stood, you never did. Ever the questioning type, in job as in life, aren't you, Dust?
« ...You aren't going to explain this to me, are you. »
It would did not answer, as always. Laplace is like that: playing deaf to questions, for he is just an observer, a parasyte feeding on all that you see, hear and feel. A gourmand of modern day's society, feasting on the big web of information that makes it up... the thought struck you naturally before you could process it; that it would have been more correct to state that this made a society up, before it got wiped out.
The silence was eloquent, in that regard. It spoke of something that shouldn't, could not have happened, a joke straight out of a bad movie. You thought that you even saw one like this situation, what was the name... about some legendary guy. Barely relevant, really.

Then you saw her.

An error, a paradox, something that should have not been. Her presence was, for all purposes, wrong and you knew it. Or, to be more specific, it knew. Laplace, that thing you carry in your very being. If there is one thing you have learned in this intense month of 'cooperation', it is that Laplace never, ever releases information unless the circumstances are very specific - and particularly dire, of course.
This information was a feeling, an awareness. Run away, as fast as you can. Stay clear of her, because she spells trouble. And so you ran, not one to question the advice of eldritch beings that possess your soul.

This is you, right now. A figure running past the ghost of a metropolis, jumping over abandoned cars and slipping on trash scattered about with nobody to tend to it. You already know the destination: it would be hard not to notice it, since for all you can remember, there never has been a giant spire-like tower piercing the Earth like a god's spear.

You think that this makes no sense, that it is also too sudden.
You also think that the world could have chosen to end after you had paid your rent, now that you finally had the money to do so.
Life is mean like that.

[Denarius]

The world around her slowly started to appear in her eyes. At first it was just lines. Lines of black within black, the only difference appeared to be some sort of veil, a warped part of space, that represented where matter met space. It would turn to real lines, lines and specks, and these lines formed shapes. Shapes that would gain texture, colors, and soon it was no longer just lines and shapes and various shades and hues. She was now examining the remains of a broken world. Broken, because of her.

The nearby dials were still cracked and sparking, and the room was still full of smoke from their failed experiments. A high pitched noise, unnatural in its quality, was fading fast. Labcoats and various other clothes were scattered in specific locations crumpled on the floor and still warm with the heat of mankind. Iesua walked over to a large monitor. On its left screen was a human body, an adult male's. A DNA structure was visible in the corner along with several long strings of data, written in a cipher, though it was easy to understand that this was all for the summoning of a deity. However, portions of the text were glowing red, and in the center, large words kept blinking, blinking... ERROR, ERROR. Everything else was bits of shattered glass, bits of rubble, and poorly painted basement floors. As badly decorated as the room was, the fact still held. The Novagenesis had achieved their goal: They had resurrected a God.

Of course, it was easy to see what the cost was. They had failed to properly close the gateway, and the essence of heaven had leaked in. Every human on this Earth was brought to the afterlife immediately in the consequence of a premature Rapture. The Novagenesis' Messiah had arrived on earth, just as they had hoped. Unfortunately, not a single human soul was alive to see her. Of course, not every human. After all, those who side with the devil can't truly be sent away. This was exactly what Iesua had hoped for... She left quickly, and would soon reappear.


And then they would meet.


A mistake, an unintended incident, some sort of chance event that could only be explained as "Fate". Yes, it truly was fate. Fate that this child would be born into the world, and become the same detective that would work against the Novagenesis. This child would be the would that Iesua had purified during her last death, and this child would be the host for the demon she wished to meet once more. Fate that his actions would result in the Novagenesis' hasty resurrection of Christ, which would lead to the Rapture, which would lead back to this very moment.

She wished to talk, but she could already tell that the demon within Dust had other plans. It feared her, and Dust was equally worried. They ran, and she followed. The cross on her back turned white and fired several needles at the man, hoping that one would hit. One that would release the poor human's soul from Laplace. He had served his purpose here, and yet fate seemed to have other plans for him. For all of them. Demon, God, Human. Was everything already planned for these three? It seems that the only answer is yes.
Life is mean like that.

[Ryo?]

Well then. There is not much you could claim to have made your life an exciting one: if anything, Dust, it is precisely because of the dullness of everyday happenings that you decided to try your hand with something that seemed to have the potential to lead you towards that excitement you never had managed to feel. Not even as a little kid sprawled in front of a low-cost television, idly wondering why a society should have entirely revolved around a bunch of silly-looking critters and their battles against each other.
You weren't the cheeriest of kids, needless to say.
And yet, it still did not work. You found the unfaithful husbands and their sexual exploits behind your clients' backs boring at best, annoying at their worst, especially when they turned out to be the armed kind - damn mafia guys, always eager to take out the iron whenever some poor fellow tried to get some juicy photographic proof out of them. The homicides were equally uninteresting: a silhouette at the margin of a dark alley, the bad looks of the police. 'It's not your business', they all kept saying. Then what the hell was it, this business of yours?

It was all so dull. Therefore, you should be happy now. Laughing, even, or at least forcing a smile out: who else could ever state that a random kid has been chasing him while floating a few centimeters from the ground, hurling things that look very much like nails made of light?
Oh, right. Last human on Earth, therefore nobody. Hard not to consider that part.

But what is it exactly that makes you so sure about the end of it all? It's that, right? Laplace. It's not really yourself who's pushing those limbs to move, but an awareness born from external influence - although in Laplace's case, it could be very well said to be internal. Crazy affair, this of possession; always gets a headache out of you.

Look out there! Almost got impaled by one of those things. Damn, whatever they are, they sure look nasty. Might want to stay clear of them. But running is only going to do you so much good and you barely gained any ground on her. It won't take long before you'll have to resolve to use more forceful means to communicate your uneagerness to entertain a bloody conversation.

That truck barring your passage into the nearby street might be a signal that said moment has come far sooner than you could have hoped. There really aren't any options now: she is coming, she sees you. You are going to become pincushion material unless you do it.
« Look, I'm busy here. Trying to gather why the world ended and all that, you know? That sort of stuff. Requires concentration, and it's hard to concentrate if you keep trying to gut me. »
The nerve! How much time did it take you to spout all that? Probably dodged another pair of spikes or whatever those are, but at least now your right hand is gripping something more reassuring than empty air. Good thing you reminded yourself of bringing the speedloaders, huh? Always bring bullets when searching clues in mad cultist retrieval spots, rule number... something of being a private eye. Maybe you should have written those down.

No matter. What you really care for now is the clicking of metal as the bullets enter the chambers of the good ol' Dan Wesson iron, after all. Mighty piece this one, and not that common to boot. Best of all, it packs quite a punch. But are you really ready to do it? Could you bring yourself to point a gun towards a child and--

*BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!*

Good grief, you did it. Three .38 caliber shots, all directed towards a little girl's chest. You tried to aim towards the head, but you know yourself better than to go for the harder target. Now go, hide yourself behind that unmanned taxi, crouch... yes, that's how it's done. Now wait and stop shivering. Why are you trembling, after the deed is done? The world is already finished, everyone is gone. What's one more digit to the counter? Is it because you are doing it personally?
Can you really say that you weren't the one who did it to everyone else, though?

« ...Still alive? If you are, then don't shoot more nail-thingies. »

Might be polite to ask, at the very least.

[Denarius]

So he would continue running. She continued firing, though all the shots would merely be dodged as their pursuit continued. Was this the work of Laplace's possession, or was the son of man simply this dextrous from the very beginning? To think of all the preparation that had happened before this. The days spent as she remained within Heaven. The world underneath her was always changing, yet her days were always the same as she had waited, watching as the Novagenesis rose and how Dust would rise to combat them, no faith in his heart, only the spirit of the demon that Iesua was fighting for.

But let's go even farther back. Back to the original world that Iesua first found Laplace. The world was already burning in fire, as it was approaching its end... something that was actually caused inadvertently by Iesua. It goes to show what happens when one allows the child to be summoned, and why taboos existed. But it seemed as if both had made mistakes. Laplace was injured and was forced to flee, while Iesua... She couldn't let him just run away. She had to find him again, and the only way to do so was to know exactly which body Laplace would chase after. So with a final sacrifice, Iesua would kill herself again, sending her spirit to that soul... To purify it. She took the final nail, and drove it right through her skull.

That wound was still recovering. The bandages around her head were proof enough to that. The two of then would eventually stop, although Dust would now pull out a gun. Iesua let the cross remain stagnant, the metal weapon would simply latch back onto Iesua's back.

« Look, I'm busy here. Trying to gather why the world ended and all that, you know? That sort of stuff. Requires concentration, and it's hard to concentrate if you keep trying to gut me. »

She wished to open her mouth to comply, only to find that she would be shot thrice. The child looked at him with a blank look, as if to say "Really? What a poor trick", before hitting the ground. It was already looking bad for a diplomatic negotiation. But this was just ridiculous!

« ...Still alive? If you are, then don't shoot more nail-thingies. »

[["Of course."]]

As if nothing had happened, or probably more as if she was simply a 12 year old middle-schooler that woke up the next morning (Do 12-year-olds even go to middle school?), Iesua stood up, the majority of the front of her dress torn by the gun wounds while the rest of the dress was quickly stained red. The actual flesh, however, was healing fast. The skin was still that glowing type of raw red you get after peeling off a scab, but the gun wounds healed, and the only proof of damage was the torn dress and blood. Even that was recovering.

[["...I do not wish to harm you. The nails I threw would have never harmed you, even if they did hit. I am Jesus of Nazareth, resurrected to serve once more. Thank you, Dust Triple, for your help. I did not wish for you to suffer here, but it seems as if our fate has a different opinion."]]

She looked at him in the eye, though her gaze was now much more serious. No half-smile, or blank expression. One of command, as one who calls herself Christ should have. Although she spoke to Dust, she now addressed Laplace directly.

[["We have waited long enough. Come out and speak to me! Allow me to save you!"]]

[Ryo?]

Knowledge is a fun little thing. It latches onto people and never leaves, even if they think that is what happened, like a particularly nasty guest that will slowly fade into the background, only to jump up and start yelling as soon as you bump on him as he's dozing on the couch.
Good things. Couches, that is. You always wanted one in your office, less for the professional look or to let clients have an alternative to the uncomfortable mess of wood that is your chair for the sake of sitting their arses somewhere, and more to have a place to doze off for the majority of the day (while waiting for the guests to arrive and be directed to the above-mentioned wooden torture device). Oops, got kind of digressed there, right?

Thinking. You know how to do it and your brain is aware of it, for obvious reasons. That is why, like all other functional minds out there... ah, nevermind that part, apocalypse just made it pointless, but anyway! That is why it knows when to do the work for you and fetch the memories that could help in translating reality in something intelligible. Or give you one more reason to suspect that you really should lay off the booze before sleeping schtick.

Let us be honest here, alright? You never were the religious type. It's not the fact that you were one to go around and point your fingers at nuns to laugh at them, but more that you simply do not get it. What it is that, exactly, makes people worship stuff from a book while disregarding others: you would have found it more stimulating if, say, people were to create a religion based off a cooking book. Definitely better than that thing they call 'bread' back at the Church... you tasted that once when you were a kid and your parents had you partake in masses and it sufficed to make you think that it really isn't worth it at all.

Leaving all of that aside, however. There is one thing that, regardless of your beliefs or lack thereof, you know for certain: that is, the Son of the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary is, or should be, that. A son. Male noun, get it? Yes, you do. And this is exactly why you cannot help but feel that you at least have the right to the benefit of doubt if some little girl starts saying that she is what has been pictured as a skinny, bearded poor sap strung on a cross. The latter of which she at least got right, but the rest? No, definitely doesn't look Christ-y enough for you to be convinced, which is why you very much prefer keeping your hiding spot behind that car.

« I am pretty sure that pointy objects do hurt when they pierce meat, Jesus. »

You stop to consider whether the last word was a curse or you really calling her by what she said is her name. It takes you all of two seconds to decide that it is not something you want to mull over, not right now at least.

« If serving is what you came to do, at least let me take a look at the menu. I do not know who your usual clients are, but you can bet that 'stabbing' is not what I'd like to have as my appetizer. »

One, two, three bullets substitute the expended ones inside the Dan Wesson's chamber. Judging by the fact that she sounds pretty fine, you can either surmise that your aim has never sucked so much before, or she's got some damn fine bulletproof vest on herself. Still does not explain how she knows your name, nor how she's floating. It would really make for a good conversation subject, were it not for the fact that she seems bent on making it stride towards paths that you are not at all willing to take. And to think that you never had anything against kids.

« I do not mind waiting though... » you murmur to yourself, a sigh punctuating the end of this private sentence. Well, as private as it can get with a thing listening to anything you say and think. Speaking of which.

Directing your sight inwards is an activity that you have more or less mastered. It is kind of like thinking, but on a different level; no need to analyze it too deeply, since it comes almost instinctively now. The familiar figure is quick to come up in your sights, as if it was resting behind your eyelids since the beginning. Laplace doesn't seem that bothered by the chaos thas been bothering you this morning.

« I am not too keen on ending up like the rest of the world, 'Lace. How about you answer her call before she hangs up on our coffin? She wants to 'save' you, after all. »

His shrug does not seem too promising.

" Her wants and mine hardly fit together, Dust. What I need you to do right now is to ignore her banter and reach that which is piercing the world. If you manage to avoid death or contact with the girl, all the more appreciated. "

It is easy to make requests or thinly veiled orders when you are just a figment of someone's soul, or about as similar a concept you can grasp. There is also the fact that you can't really argue with his idea: for some reason, you find the giant tower stabbing the Earth more appealing than the little psychotic magical girl.

This is what, your third sigh in a row, already? All this respiration will not work well with your tar-riddled lungs. Now, to find an escape route... well, look it there, seems that there is a tiny opening right between the truck's cargo and the vehicle proper. If you squat down a bit... yeah, should work.

« Alright, he's coming. He just needs a minute to get dressed, you wait there while he's done, alright? You can brush up on some sermon or... something like that in the meanwhile. »

While you crawl towards your only way to escape, that is. Damn, seems like it's less fitting than you thought... God help you if she gets impatient and finds you before you can get unstuck and on the other side.

Wait, she's technically God. Maybe, or not. This is quickly becoming ridiculous and--there, passed through! Now run, pump those legs of yours! You've got what, one single city block to run through before getting there? Then go, before that girl decides to start raining locusts or frog on your sorry head.