Fleeing The Prison Tower

“Vergil, the report on the operatives in the streets of New Louis has come in. Shall I share with you the results?” Octavius poured two small cups of tea for him and his superior, which sat on a tray he picked up and maneuvered over to the lounge-like area where their meeting was taking place.

Octavius found his words fell on deaf ears, however, as Vergil instead commented on his actions instead.

“We have an automatic brewing machine, why not use that?” Vergil posed the question as the ornate teacups clattered having their tray be set down on the table in the center of the sitting area.

“A delicate beverage requires a delicate touch, wouldn’t you say?” The eyepatched man lowered into his seat across from his boss, raising the teacup from his tray to his lips.

“Not a fan of how things work in the modern times?” He leaned back, not touching his own cup yet, and resting his arms along the back of the couch he was seated on.

The raised teacup found its way back to the metal saucer with a muted clink, followed by Octavius’ reply: “It simply… Lacks love, at least, that’s how this old man sees things.”

“I’m not exactly young myself! All this new stuff is still throwing me for a loop, but I can admit I sometimes miss more traditional things like these.” Vergil threw his body forward and extended his arm to the teacup designated for him, admiring it for a few seconds as he picked it up, then gave a small sip.

Despite the blatant physical discrepancy of the two, the men shared the same old soul. Poured from the same kettle, even if at different times.

“Gah!” The leader of the white coats let out, spitting out some of his beverage. “How can you drink this? It’s damn hot!” His cry was more playful than anything, not letting the scalding temperature affect his demeanor, even if he couldn’t say the same for his tongue.

“Sometimes a little hot tea is what one needs to change things around. For example, seeing you so lively is certainly a change of pace I’m delighted to have witnessed.” The gentleman covered his mouth as a posh chuckle escaped his lips.

Vergil adjusted himself and leaned back yet again. “If it’s change you want, let’s get started on that report you mentioned.” His face hardened, finally allowing the conversation to continue.

“Right,” Replied the subordinate, wiping his lips with a handkerchief. “According to Levema, they made contact with the VIP, but the object of interest was lost.”

“Do we know where it is now?”

“We stationed our own operatives at all exits to the city and contacted the Wendigos about preventing them from crossing the border, however, it seems they still slipped past our precautions at the border.”

“And our people?”

Octavius’ head gave a slight turn. “Hm?”

“You said our own people were used in this, did any make contact with the target themselves?”

“Er—Yes, three of ours seemed to engage in combat directly.”

“How are they now?” Vergil’s concern was put on full display, as the tension in the room began to skyrocket. Octavius shed a single bead of sweat, wondering where this intensity had been when he heard they failed their mission.

“Two suffered minor injuries but should be fine… But, one follower, he suffered life-threatening injuries and the treat—“

The leader leaped forward and stood with his face inches from his advisor’s, one leg planted just next to the metal platter holding the hot beverages they drank just seconds prior. Any sense of playfulness had been dashed from Vergil’s face, the only thing his eyes now focused on was the condition of one lowly follower.

“Where is he now?”

The man in the eyepatch had leaned backwards to avoid his skull colliding with the man he swore fealty to. He wasn’t used to this kind of pressure from a man he saw as carefree, and because of that, the words struggled to exit his throat.

“H-he just… he was transported here, Levema—“

Vergil stood up and made a hand signal as he opened the door to the lounge just by standing in front of it, motioning for Octavius to follow him.

“Let’s walk, we’re going to go see him.”

The older man scrambled to his feet, almost falling over as he threw himself out of the automatic door (at least, as much as his elderly frame would allow) and to Vergil’s side.

“Are you sure we have to? The doctors are all—“

The leader’s head turned, with an indignant stare poised directly at the older man, yet, the two continued their walk down the sanitized halls. Had he not known any better, Octavius would be afraid his life was at risk.

“How am I expected to lead an organization built on a mission of peace if I can’t even spare a moment to support my followers in need? I was taught that by a great man, and he isn’t here to carry it out right now. Which means it’s my duty until he returns.”

“But, you can’t be expected to meet with every single follower of yours! It’s simply not economical!” Octavius’s words came out rapidly, even if he tried to conserve some gentlemanly class in his demeanor. “Please, just let us Apostles handle everything with the lower ranked members.” He tried to sound more reasonable in his final statement at least.

Vergil took a turn towards a sign labeling the Medical Bay to be ahead, leading him and Octavius down a hallway that still was the ever-present white he had grown accustomed too inside the base. The windows peering into each room they passed gave small glimpses at the sufferings happening under Vergil’s watch. Each passing injury and cry of pain that made their way to Vergil’s attention seemed to weigh on Octavius, who continued to shrink back with each one.

“Let you handle it for me? But, Octavius, leading is a delicate matter.”

Octavius gave a gulp he’d been suppressing the entire conversation.

“Now, Octavius, talk to me about treatment.”

“Y-yes!” He wanted to risk no further agitation in the man running the show. “We’ve taken a look at the options, and it seems the only option we have is to implant the follower—“

“Use his real name, please. I don’t want to dehumanize a man who has put his life on the life for me.” Vergil continued his refusal to look back at Octavius, whose sweat stood as a testament to his stress from his brain’s imagination of what expression his leader’s face held.

“R-right, it was…” He paused, trying to recall what it had been. That was when the two’s stroll passed by a room with a slightly recognizable name to the old man’s failing memory. “Icarus!” He pointed at the nameplate, then cleared his throat, returning to his explanation and previous demeanor. “Icarus requires a part transplant, but giving him one would automatically promote him to being an Apostle. However, he is rather new and hasn’t undergone—“

“Do it.”

While he had reset to his previous demeanor, Octavius had momentarily forgotten the stance Vergil had continually made apparent throughout the conversation. When the realization of what he had said hit him, he thanked his lucky stars that a simple command was his boss’s only reaction. Now truly committing to not agitating things further, Octavius gave no verbal response and only ended the dialogue with a neat nod fitting of an older gentleman.

A small smile came to Vergil’s mouth as he approached Icarus’ room’s door, appreciating the gesture Octavius had given him.

“Now, let me be alone with him for a bit. If you need to keep yourself company,” Vergil paused for a small moment, then his smile grew just a little bit bigger. “Pour some more of that hot tea of yours for me, and maybe some for yourself too.”

The white-cloaked man opened the door and entered, with the door sliding shut behind him. Octavius simply stared a moment, taking in the words of the man Levema had awakened. After a dozen solitary seconds, the man sighed, wiped his brow of any remaining beads of sweat, and made his way down the hallway to return to his tea set.