Chapter Text
Contrary to popular belief, Kafka doesn’t enjoy diving into the Fragmentum.
Not that she hates it, mind you. It’s just more along the lines of something she’s able to tolerate for the sake of what will happen if she doesn’t do it. Namely, the continued spread of an eldritch miasma that seemingly desires nothing more than to devour the entirety of humanity. That, alongside the thought of the few people she can actually tolerate dying, means she keeps going back in.
You see, for every dive she successfully completes, there’s an estimated month or so of time given back to the human race. Precious time that could, eventually, mean the difference between the planet succumbing to the Fragmentum and finding a way to eradicate it permanently. Not that she’s the sole reason the planet isn’t a dead hunk of rock though.
The entirety of the Astral Express organization, currently comprised of around 80-ish members on any given day, is dedicated to the cause of stopping the Fragmentum. Kafka just so happens to be exceptionally good at her job, better than most she’s more than willing to admit.
(According to one of her bosses, her death would guarantee the world’s premature demise, but he says that about most of the people she works with so she takes that particular bit of praise with a grain of salt)
Her current record of 86 successful Fragmentum closures, still considered inhuman by almost everyone outside the Astral Express, have given her something of a reputation for preferring the other-side to the real world. And, when taking into account the fact she’s spent roughly 600 hours there in total by now, it wouldn’t sound all that ridiculous to anyone that doesn’t know her personally.
However, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.
She hates practically everything about the Fragmentum. The smell of rancid blood and burnt marrow, the sights of the dead souls trapped within twisted into things that can no longer be called human, the sound of a silence born from death and the feel of its miasma trying to burrow its way beneath her skin. It's as though the place itself is alive and revels in her disgust because some of those aspect of it follow her everyday. The smell, especially, lingers on her no matter how hard she scrubs and the sights of the dead she's failed remain no matter how much liquor she drinks.
Kafka would be more than happy to never set foot within it for the rest of her life if the chance ever arose, but she knows better than to wish for the impossible.
So long as the Fragmentum exists, so long as this footprint left by the Aeons continues to gnaw at the very fabric of their reality, she’ll never be able to escape her responsibility of stopping it.
Even if it means she’ll never live to see the day it happens.
-
The night sky is weeping as Kafka emerges from the disintegrating remains of the Fragmentum’s entrance, the heavy droplets of rain immediately soaking through her clothes and making them coldly stick to her skin. It’s a pleasant change from the scorched hellscape that she’d just spent the last 5 hours in, even if her multitude of still healing wounds sting from the contact.
A glance around reveals that the blockade surrounding the entrance is still firmly in place, concrete barriers and hard-light signs keeping a massive throng of onlookers at bay alongside a hefty contingent of law enforcement personnel. Not that any of it would have helped had the Fragmentum actually took root here and expanded.
The gathered civilians all shout and shove one another with renewed enthusiasm as the opening into the Fragmentum fully collapses with an unholy shriek, a subtle madness born out of relief that they will be spared the evacuation or death that would have followed had she failed. More than a few people will spend the remainder of the night and early morning celebrating.
Kafka doesn’t spend long contemplating that line of thought, not when the sound of footsteps drawing closer forces her to turn to face a familiar man walking beneath a brown umbrella.
“...That took quite a bit longer than we were expecting for a Level III, Kafka.”
The statement brings the beginning of a smirk to Kafka’s face, even as the rain continues running down her cheeks.
“Well, that’s because it wasn’t a Level III, Welt.”
“Then, do you mean to say…?”
Kafka’s smirk transitions into a full on grin as she answers.
“Yeah, turns out it was a Level IV.”
This bit of information actually forces out a surprised gasp from one of the only two people Kafka considers her superiors in their little organization. After all, the difference in severity between a III and a IV incursion would be like comparing a lion escaping the local zoo to the invasion of an enemy nation’s entire military.
Kafka slowly rotates her arm while Welt stands there in shock; eventually her shoulder lets out a satisfyingly pop. She’d taken a cheap-shot not too long ago that had forced her to relocate it on the fly and she’s still not entirely convinced she’d set it quite right. Best to have Natasha take a look at it in the morning, just to be safe.
“It would’ve been pretty nasty if you’d sent in anyone other than me, but it looks like Elio was right to swap the assignments after all. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Welt reflexively adjusts his glasses, the lenses flashing in the glare from the emergency floodlights illuminating the area. His mouth is set in a frown, his displeasure at being surreptitiously manipulated by his rival only barely outweighed by the fortunate outcome said manipulation had wrought.
Kafka could practically see the question now forming on the tip of the older man’s tongue.
“Why couldn’t he have just told us this would happen? Surely, knowing that this incursion would turn out to be so dangerous would have only made it easier for us to-” Welt abruptly cuts himself off as Kafka lets out a small huff of amusement. His frown softens as he exhales a defeated sigh. “I suppose I should know better than to ask that by now, shouldn’t I?”
Kafka hums her assent, the rain’s chill quickly becoming less and less refreshing the longer she’s forced to stand in it. A sudden flash of crimson hair weaving through the crowd beyond the barriers is all the excuse she needs to cut this little conversation short sooner rather than later.
“I’ll be sure to include a recommendation for more straightforward communication from Elio in my mission report. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get out of the rain before I catch my untimely death.”
The sarcasm in her tone sails clear over Welt’s head, his eyes going wide as if only just now realizing that she’s soaked to the bone while he’s completely dry.
“My apologies, I was so caught up in what you said that I neglected to notice you didn’t have any-” He weakly gestures towards his umbrella with his free hand before holding it towards her. “I know it’s a bit late now, but would you like to…?”
Kafka declines his offer with a shake of her head. It wouldn’t exactly accomplish much at this point, even if she appreciates the thought. Better late than never and all that.
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine. My ride should be here any second anyways.”
And, right on queue, the sound of a motorcycle’s engine revving cuts through the cacophony of the gathered crowd. In short order, the rider, in a clear breach of traffic laws and general vehicle safety, forces their way through the mass of onlookers like a hot knife through butter. Thankfully with less body on chassis contact and more horn blaring and curse slinging than the casual observer would’ve expected.
The sight of the crimson hair from before getting steadily closer despite the newborn commotion is all the motivation Kafka needs to shoot Welt a two fingered salute before vaulting over the concrete barriers and sliding onto the back of the mysterious motorcycle. The rider, as expected, doesn’t bother handing Kafka a helmet, instead opting to merely hit the gas and peel away before any of the law enforcing folks decide to try and enforce some of the laws currently being broken.
There’s a shout as the floodlights begin fading into the distance, something that sounds dangerously close to a woman calling out Kafka’s name.
...But that’s not something she dwells on for very long.