Chapter Text
Mercy is what makes you...you. To be the pinnacle of existence is to be born with the duty of divine mercy, a god and your birthright. To listen to the last words of someone’s dying breath is a responsibility, not a choice. Mercy seasons justice — you think Vox wouldn’t have agreed.
It’s been half a year since the Elysian Society started to reconstruct its system. It was never going to be an easy process; perhaps the impending doom of what came before served as an ultimatum of its own, uniting servant in a neverending marathon, more of a relay race now. You were always an optimistic person, but to see your vision manifest right in front of you was something you never imagined happening in your lifetime. To share the burden of honor with your allies has always been your goal, something you strived for, and now you bear the fruits of your labor. Tasks are less tiring these days and you have more free time than you did before. Despite that, you don’t let yourself sleep.
You've just come back from a mission abroad, bags of souvenirs in hand. It’s a habit that you nurture, to bring little mementos to share with everyone, to have them in mind even when they’re far away. It’s a silent appreciation, a token of your gratitude. Thank you for staying. You keep a bag of sweets to yourself, hide it behind your back sheepishly before you go to his apartment for a change of clothes. You head out right after. You don’t bother resting.
The neighborhood you teleport to is a cozy one, nestled in the outskirts of The Pride ring. You spot your destination and walk towards a two-story apartment complex, climb the outdoor staircase and stop in front of door 203. You stand there for a while, contemplating the risks of your actions, then you place the bag of sweets on the door mat. You don’t wait for the door to open, don’t knock to let them know. Vox usually comes out of his apartment at around 6:30 a.m., anyway.
Vox is a free man.
After successfully regaining consciousness and seizing his body back, Vox became instrumental in dismantling the foul society that had rotted his bloodline from within. The extraction of the brain was supposed to kill him, to take back what was never meant to be there, but he lived. He isn’t the same as before, but he’s alive.
Vox isn’t considered a hero, quite the opposite, with what he’s done with his life, but without the memories that made him who he was, it didn’t make sense to execute him. It didn’t make sense to execute a former student who has no recollection of jujutsu, a person who can’t even see curses. You think mercy is a funny thing. You remember how relieved Vox looked in that alleyway the last time he saw you. If it was up to you, you’d let Vox die peacefully, let him leave the world that abandoned him. Your mercy would be different.
Then you’d catch a glimpse of your friends, smiling and laughing with their peers after another mission well done. You wonder when you’ve gotten so hypocritical.
Vox is essentially a new man, not even a shadow of who he once was. After much collective deliberation, he’s been released as a civilian of hell, stranded in a town he barely knows. You were the one who helped set everything up for him, a decision you made on your own. You made sure Vox had a place to stay, made sure the place he chose would be kind enough to ignore someone on shaky fawn legs. You leave sweets on his doorstep, a habit you’ve nurtured for a different man, someone of the past. This Vox has never seen you.
This Vox has changed infinitely. He has a right leg, something the thing that inhabited him created, functional with barely a scar to show. You wonder if Vox stares at the faded marks on the seam of his shoulder, wonder if he pays attention to the faint line across his forehead.
This Vox is now a CEO. His innate curiosity and approachable demeanor secured him a position leading a rising company at the forefront of innovation, his very own, VoxTek. You think it’s ironic. Whenever you pass by the place Vox usually works, you’re reminded of his rapport with his friends. You wonder if Vox feels lonely sometimes.
This past half year, you’ve been looking out for him, making sure he’s getting by alright. Vox doesn’t need it; he’s always been good with people, even with no recollection of how he ended up where he was now. His neighbors love him. His colleagues love him. His friends love him. He’ll be alright. You want to believe that, but you still make it a point to pass by him to see for yourself.