Chapter Text
The pitter patter of rain set a steady tempo against the thick glass panes of a tall industrial window. This apartment building was once a factory, mass producing some product or another. It has that sensation of a cold warmth with its sodium bulb lights casting a fiery glow upon the exposed brick walls and chipped concrete floors. It is well furnished with rod iron and glass shelving that possess a plethora of captured memories, photos of friends and family propped up in neat frames. Potted ivy dangles and collapses, vines spiraling to the floor. The tall ceiling sported three evenly spaced skylights. It felt like sitting beneath a waterfall on this rainy day in New York.
It has been some time since Seven has set foot inside an actual home. A place like this he knows cannot have been afforded by someone insignificant. As if he would consider entertaining someone insignificant in the first place. He shuffles on the plush leather sofa, attempting to find someplace comfortable to settle into.
He plans to be here for a while.
“Jesus,” squeaks an alarmed voice from the archway to the kitchen, the clattering of something and the splash of coffee splatter against the concrete unceremoniously.
“Fire escape,” is Seven’s response. “You shouldn’t leave that window unlocked. There are dangerous people in this city,” he follows up with a dry cackle.
“The latch is broken, I figured no one would be psychotic enough to scale eight stories to test it,” replies the woman, who leans down to pick up what now Seven can see is a journal. “I take it you read the papers.”
“It’s New York. Psychoticism is the standard frame of mind here. Rumors travel quickly in the Underworld, Allie Kinkaid. You seem keen to know truths, to share them with the world. We have a mutual need. I doubt the words from my mouth could be uttered to the public without the OSIC intervening. I require a third party to share my story.”
Allie stares blankly at him, the journalist gripping the leatherbound notebook in her hand. “So you’re actually offering an interview?”
“I’m offering you the plain truth, in its entirety. You can believe my perspective or you can disregard it. One is a terrible decision, however. All I ask is that you wait three months before publishing it,” Seven responds.
“Wait–Why three months?”
“Because in three months I’ll either be dead or I’ll be beyond comprehension. Either way, you’ll get answers when the time comes.”
Allie folds her arms. “Tell me what happens in three months, Seven. Or it’s no dice. You clearly need a mouthpiece, and I’m not going to bargain away my worth for pennies on the dollar. Nothing vague. I want the full truth from you or this won’t be a faithful interview.”
Seven pauses at that. It’s admirable— the bold approach she’s taking. But she’s right, and he knows it. He accepts it. A crackling chuckle causes the lights beneath the black fabric to flicker briefly.
“You might want to clean up that mess and get your recorder prepared. Then I shall divulge to you the secrets of the future and the past that secured its certainty.”
She stares at him, arms dropping to her side. She gives a stunned bout of blinks. As if she can’t believe her gamble paid off. It makes him feel a twinge of nausea. He’d rather her keep that mask of bravado than to let it slip so easily from her face. Then she nods, collects herself, and sets forth on the path laid out before her.
When she finally sits on the chair across from the couch, she slides a recording device onto the coffee table. With a click she puts in a fresh tape labeled ‘Seven Interview #1’ into the machine. The film starts to roll when she presses down a tab.
“I am here with the infamous mystic known only as ‘Seven’. The time of day is nine-o-nine at night, it is the third of August. Seven. What happens in three months?” Allie Kinkaid’s introduction is precise, sharp as a scalpel.
“In three months another Astral event will occur. I’ve run the tests. It is an unquestionable eventuality. Another maelstrom is opening. It’s not like the first. We are going to experience something far more extraordinary. This city will be converted into a mystic warfront between two battling deities. I’ve not decided which side I wish to fight on, but these Patrons are extending an offer to grant the heart’s deepest desire in exchange for their successful summoning.”
“An event like that will draw in others. It can’t just be you on this battlefield. Not to mention, you’re infamous. A powerful occultist. What could be your deepest desire? More power?”
“Yes, that is an astute observation. The patrons will reach out to others who seek something badly enough to risk their life and limb for. It is as you say, I am both infamous and powerful— what could I possibly want? Allow me to elaborate on that soon. In order to comprehend what I propose to ask of my patron, you have to understand the full picture first,” Seven explains.
“What do you mean by that?” Allie asks, curiosity spiked as she takes a tentative sip from her mug of freshly brewed coffee. Her fingers grip the handle with a tense sort of grasp. She's cautious. Reasonably so.
“Have you ever fallen in love? And I don’t mean the frivolous youthful naive variety of a schoolyard romance. I’m speaking of the absolute imprisonment of your very soul. Where you are put into a state so profoundly vulnerable that if that person who you gave every piece of yourself to were to betray you, you would never think to trust another with your heart again,” Seven says, static boiling as the pressure in the room drops.
His upset is composed, held deep within his being. He won’t fracture, not here. If this story is to be told, he must do so in a way that is factual and rational.
Allie stares at him with a contemplative purse of her lips. “No, but this isn’t about me, Seven. This is about you,” she reminds him.
He scoffs, a choked static sound that warbles in his undying throat. “Yes, it is,” he confirms. But he can’t bring himself to elaborate further, words scrambling from him like the rats that scurry from him in the sewers.
“So… How did it start? Who was it?” Allie probes, pulling the frayed pieces of his being together like a copper wire conduit.
“It’s a long story.”
“We have time.”
“Good. I was hoping you’d say so. In order to tell the story with accuracy, it’s important to start at the beginning. Though I want to make sure the details are exact. There can be no mistakes, no bias. Only the pure simple truth. For that, I have a spell.” He laces his fingers together. “It won’t be painful, but it will be as if you are watching a film of my memories. With minimal redactions and no alterations.”
“How will it be recorded?” Allie asks.
“You’re not concerned about whether or not I’m lying?” Seven questions with a cackle.
“I don’t think you’d be keen on lying to me right now,” Allie replies with smooth confidence, her gaze level as it connects to the static gold glow beneath the dingy grey fabric that obscures Seven’s new face. “How will it be recorded?”
“I will inscribe it into the film. It’s a spirit powered device, containing electrical components. It will not be difficult for me to use my ability to etch it into the film. But you or I will be the only people able to review the footage, since we will be the only two compatible with the inscription. The last thing I need is the OSIC getting involved with my work again. You’re also in danger of having my research recorded for and in your possession, so keep it secret if you enjoy your soul.”
Allie shuddered at the thought. Having such information would likely earn her the same fate in Lost Whisper. She would need to keep it secret, if only to preserve her own life. “How long will I be… Not in my head?”
“You won’t be leaving your head at all. It shouldn’t take more than a few hours. It’ll be like entering into a dreamlike state.”
“Sounds like something the OSIC would do,” Allie jests.
“Where do you think I got the idea from?” Seven muses. “Whenever you are ready, Miss Kinkaid.”
She sets the mug onto a coaster on the coffee table, leaning back into the cushions of her couch. She takes a deep breath and nods. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
The spell is instantaneous, a quickened casting from the snap of a master’s fingertips. He weaves electricity with the precision of a sewing needle, connecting the cables to the device on the coffee table. The tape clicks as it winds through the track.
In a moment they are both lolling their heads, synapses merged in a shared viewing of the compounding tragedy that is Ettrick’s life.