Chapter Text
“She will never paint again.” Verso said it with a finality, staring at the monolith on the horizon. If there was ever going to be an expedition to get his Maman out of this damned canvas- it would be this one.
Renoir did not say anything, and Verso made no attempt to look behind himself at the man. But he could hear the sound of his cane-
click,
click,
click,
- as Renoir made his exit from the cliffside cave.
Verso tried to steady himself with a deep breath as he took stock of the scene around him. The rain still battered at his face in bursts with the gusts of wind. The lamps embedded partially into the ground and floating casted eerie shadows, despite the light from the overcast day. The setting felt fitting, for what had happened here today.
What he had allowed to happen.
What had to happen.
Verso closed his eyes, as if to block out remembering the look on Alicia- no, Maelle’s- face. To block out the pain it caused his heart. But, as with most things, despite his intentions it only served to deepen the turmoil.
He could clearly recall her blood stained face, lips trembling as she begged Gustave to run. Fists beating against the paint cage, tears making tracks through the crimson splatter down her cheeks. The picture overlaid with Alicia's face, hot haze surrounding her. Half her face was bright angry pink, stuggling against the pain to sob, scream, make any noise at all to get Verso out with her. The same tear tracks cutting through the soot on her face.
A curse of memories, not his own.
Memories that belonged to a dead man.
Ones he did not want.
Yet, a small part of him would trade anything to have those memories actually belong to him.
He opened his eyes, trying not to linger on the not-memory, to focus on his current task at hand.
Verso dragged his eyes down from the monolith ahead to the corpse at his feet.
The man, Gustave, he heard the name as Maelle had screamed it- lay on the hexagonal rock floor of the cave. His own blood splattered across the pale skin of his face, splotched dark spots into the arm of his uniform. The deep crimson pooled around the man on the ground, mixing with the rain as it continued to steadily drizzle. The man's eyes stared, glassy and bloodshot, straight ahead.
He hadn’t given Maelle any time, even to close the poor man's eyes.
Guilt swelled inside him, and he tried to squash it down. Remind himself why he had to let this man, who had been a brother to his not-sister, die.
Even though he had not dealt the killing blow, the weight of death still sat heavily on his shoulders.
Soon enough the bloodshed would be done. He would be done. Maman and Alicia would be safe, alive in the real world. This canvas, himself included, could finally be erased.
He could rest.
Verso bent down over the body, searching for the thing he knew he would need. If he was to make any headway at all in getting this expedition to trust him- the Lumina Converter was what would have a shot at getting him started.
He was impressed that this engineer had been able to build such a feat, a way for expeditioners to gain chroma and use it. For creations to have even a slice of a god's power, was an incredible accomplishment.
Despite his musings, he found the small lamp shaped object attached to Gustave's pack. Thankfully it hadn’t been wedged underneath him, and seemed unharmed. He then gently untied the golden fabric from the stump of his left arm, he would give the band to Maelle.
He held the converter, still crouched over the other man's body, and considered it.
It felt wrong to leave Gustave’s body here, but it wasn’t like he could haul the corpse with him as he tracked the expedition down again. He had some idea of where Equie had probably taken the party, but he would definitely be unable to make it there before tomorrow by carrying literal dead weight around. He flinched away from the thought.
Verso knew that, logically, the body would soon dissipate into chroma. Renoir had killed him after all, so the body would not solidify into one of the horrifying statues that haunted every corner of the continent. Those formed only from Nevrons killing blows, Clea's genius to keep the chroma trapped away from Maman.
He knew he was being sentimental, letting the guilt of causing his not-sister the grief of losing another brother.
He pulled out a blank picto into his left hand, before he could overthink it too much, and began to guide the chroma from Gustave's body to the converter.
Verso was not a painter, and also not the real Verso. But Maman had been very precise in her pigment.
Sometimes, when Verso was especially self loathing, he wondered just how long Aline had taken in painting him. She had worked so meticulously to create the perfect copy of her son, she had also tied him to the canvas. Woven his painted soul into the fibers.
So while he could not paint, sometimes he could do things no other painted being could. Maybe because he was so close to the soul of the painting in spirit, it took pity on him.
He continued his pondering as he eased the chroma through the converter, guiding it into the picto.
Maybe he could bury the chroma in the red tree grove. It seemed more peaceful a rest then he had been able to give many that he had buried in spirit there.
He would be sure to also to bring the man's mechanical arm, which had detached during the fight, to the rest of the party. If they needed anything from it they could extract it. Maybe they could also let Maelle put her brother to rest under the great red tree as well.
Slowly, the body was finishing disintegrating into golden flakes that turned into a brilliant luminescent turquoise as it filtered through the converter into the picto. Still crouched on the ground, Verso saw a tear fall onto his arm that cradled the picto in his palm, just as the last of the chroma settled inside. He hadn’t realized he was crying, but from the all too familiar ache in his eyes he knew he must have for some time.
Taking another steadying breath, he prepared to stand up and head out to find the rest of expedition 33. But before he had the chance, a searing pain shot up his left arm.
On instinct, he tried to drop the pico in his hand. Instead of falling to the ground, he stared in horror as the pico melted into the palm of his hand.
The pain increased, the burning intensifying as he watched delicate gold filigree etch a small, intricate lighting pattern across the width of his palm.
The pain subsided, but his hand still felt hot. Slowly bringing up his right hand, he gently traced the pattern across his palm. The gold of the lightning felt slightly raised, and even hotter than the flesh of his hand.
This could absolutely, in no way, be good.
But when had good things ever been meant for him?