show me why you're here in this world

The wide straps of Shimmer's compressionwear chest armor hide his term marker well, and their thickness makes them sturdy and secure, unlikely to slip and show a vulnerability. Had he not shown Crys the location as proof of his dwindling time remaining, Crys would never have known.

Not known where the marker lay, and not known that Shimmer is about to fade. His swiftness and surety are too bright for a careful soldier coming Home, too skilled for a brazen third-termer eager to substantiate their larger-than-life title.

Shimmer is unshakeable, unbreakable.

Despite this, his regalia, that of a highly renowned and dangerous commander, is characterized by open space. Beyond even the literal and figurative lightness of Agnian aesthetics, Shimmer seems to defy gravity, riding the wind upon swings of wicked scythes and superhuman strength that audaciously defies what a power frame attempts to replicate.

He shouldn't, should he? He should carry all the weight of ten terms, of the lives he's claimed, of the mournful song that lifts the motes so high.

If he didn't know better, Crys would say that he's jealous. A slow, ineffectual Blade that he uses to defend his honor and string his lowly life along until he can send off his departed comrades...

Such zeal, present in Shimmer's every step. Such defiance. Such commitment. It casts a harsh, pallid light upon all the rest of the commanders Crys has seen, whether he'd defeated them or limped away with his flute clutched in spasming hand.

What good is a fineness of technique, a thorough method to ending and reaping life, if you've no purpose in it? If you're not setting anyone free?

Apart from the Consuls. Apart from the Queens. Who are they, as soldiers? Can they not make the best of it, but be their very best? Is their excellence for these units with no eyes to see?

The thought is sickening. But Crys cannot even the summon the strength with which to be sick.

And the point, of seeking out Shimmer? Of imprinting upon this enemy figure, hopelessly and relentlessly until the memory remains through cycles?

Crys doesn't know whether to be grateful for this sense of progress or disgusted by it.

Shimmer is always moving; shows no hesitance. Likely, has no patience for the irresolute. In fact, he's said as much.

"Let the Consuls punish me," he says, not even scornful. He's been punished before. He knows what comes of it. He doesn't care.

He is playing this game to advance. To stockpile resilience. To seek out someone who challenges him, but not actively. Not solemnly. Shimmer is never forlorn.

Would that Crys could be so vibrant. Would that Crys could laugh, could smile, in this way.

What is it that defines their personalities? What is it that drives Shimmer to be the way he is?

By whose design?

Shimmer's color is so consonant. His every cadence, assured. Crys is indeed one who fixates, and often with alacrity, but the compellingness of Shimmer's motifs makes them unlike any Crys has ever seen.

With his every step, every leap, every twist of his scythes, Shimmer is demonstrating an emphatic character. How ineffable. How mesmerizing.

Crys wishes to touch him. To hold Shimmer's cheeks between his palms, to feel how different the texture of his hair must be from Crys's waxy, haylike mop, easily tamed into a loose plait by virtue of its limpness.

It's not fair, is it?

That Shimmer's every particle of resonant air should sparkle, should sing to the top end of a piccolo flute's range, always ringing true, and thrum through with sorrowful energy. That song...that haunting song...

That's it! It's that inexplicable, intrinsic sorrow. For it would only be a fool who could describe Shimmer as happy-go-lucky, regardless of his confidence.

It would only be a fool who would describe Crys as a depress-ed drip, regardless of his pensive moods and ways.

Crys knows he is doing very little to efficiently develop the material of this fascination. It frustrates him to no end that all he can do is think, think, think about Shimmer. His framework for questing toward excellence, in Aionios, does not provide for simple and inadmirable obsessions.

At the same time, he cannot only emulate. It would be pathetic to do so.

There's only one answer, isn't there? In Aionios, at least.

Shimmer's become a commander. He always does. He always will. Mastery is his calling card.

Crys is a commander too. He usually finds his way to it. Consuls and other soldiers alike recognize him as a dependable, diligent sort.

So Crys takes out Shimmer's platoon first, knowing that Shimmer will likewise wipe the field with Crys's companions.

They're both going to die, so what does it even matter?

"Dark Reaper Shimmer," Crys greets. "I've been longing to meet you."

Shimmer laughs, evidently seeing the humor in this. "Yeah? Your face is doing me a favor, I suppose."

Easy prey, he likely means. And Crys is not offended. No such thing as underestimation. From Shimmer, all judgement is crystal.

Crys draws his Blade. Ugly, clumsy thing. A crackle of dark energy, so grim against platinum hair, flashes from the blades of Shimmer's scythes, so elegant.

He fights with all he has, not letting go of any conviction but instead steeping in it, thrilling in what it is to do battle against such a strong foe.

This is not Crys's purpose. No, no. Living to fight and fighting to die is not his aim.

But dying at the hands of an individual so alive, despite it all? It infuses Crys with a fulfillment that sending off husks has, though he shouldn't admit it, never brought. He cannot explain it. The music envelops him. A staccato heartbeat, gorgeously gory, pounds pumping rhythm in his ears. To be seen, reached, touched, even by execution...

His death may be dissonant, but at least it is definitive.

The last thing Crys hears is Shimmer's sweet song. Perhaps that's the most he can ask for. Or perhaps...perhaps there's more.