Project:Imagine

The air in the room was thick with tension, so suffocating it felt as if even Excalibur itself couldn’t cut through it. Maxwell and Frank stood in the center of the ruined stage, amidst shattered props and broken mannequins, the glow of the dimming stage lights casting long, eerie shadows.

Frank's blood-smeared form stood in stark contrast to Maxwell's, his twisted smile never fading, eyes gleaming with manic delight. His unsettling presence filled the space, as though the world itself bent around him. Maxwell, on the other hand, still reeling from his transformation, kept his expression carefully neutral, though the weight of his unlocked memories pressed heavily on his shoulders. This wasn't just a confrontation between allies—it felt like the prelude to something far more dangerous.

The silence broke as Frank let out a slow, malicious chuckle, the sound reverberating through the empty auditorium. “So,” he said, his voice laced with condescension and mockery, “care to tell me what that was about, Sin of Greed? Avaritia?”

Maxwell’s face didn’t flinch, though his mind raced. Avaritia. The name still echoed within him, like a curse he couldn’t shake. He straightened his posture, adopting a casual, dismissive tone. “I’m sorry to tell you, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Frank’s grin widened into something truly grotesque, as if Maxwell’s denial was exactly what he expected. “You know,” Frank began, his voice almost playful, “when you get older, we offer an optional class for agents—lying, deception, all those good things. You should sign up, you’re not very good at this. But let me inform you of something right now.” His grin faded into something darker, his eyes narrowing, his voice dropping to a low growl. “This blood isn’t mine. So, you’re going to answer my question.”

Maxwell's eyes darted over the bloodstains smeared across Frank’s clothes, the sight gnawing at his unease. The metallic scent lingered in the air, mixing with the remnants of the shattered dolls and the warped stage. Frank stood there, wild and unpredictable, as if some unseen force had snapped a final tether inside him. The sight of him dragging that bloodied, doll-like figure had only made things worse, a grotesque symbol of his unhinged state.

Maxwell’s pulse quickened, but he held his silence. There was no way he could tell Frank the truth—not now, not ever.

Frank's grin widened as if he could sense Maxwell’s hesitation, feeding off it like a predator toying with prey. “Fine, fine,” Frank said with an unsettling casualness, his voice teetering on the edge of madness. “Listen up, brat. I want to work with you. We’ve got ourselves a common enemy.”

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed as Frank leaned in closer, the tension thickening between them.

“That bastard, the leader of A.E.G.I.S, he’s hellbent on hunting down and slaughtering all seven of you sins,” Frank continued, his voice dripping with venom. “And I want that man to die. So, how about this, I’ll keep your dirty little secret—Avaritia, and when the time comes, you'll help me kill him.”

Maxwell’s breath caught. Frank’s grin was now twisted, his eyes gleaming with manic intensity. “I’ll gladly sell my soul to a demon if it means I can take my revenge,” Frank spat, his voice a chilling mixture of desperation and resolve.

Maxwell felt a chill crawl down his spine. Frank wasn’t just unstable—he was willing to cross any line, break any taboo, to achieve his goals. The proposition hung in the air, dark and treacherous, like an open wound.

But before Maxwell could respond, a familiar voice cut through the suffocating tension.

“I’m not sure if I want Maxwell near someone as bad of an influence as you, Frank Stein,” the mysterious woman said, her voice soft yet commanding.

The air shifted as she appeared behind Frank, her presence ethereal yet overwhelming. Glowing green fireflies trailed her as if heralding her arrival, casting an eerie glow across the stage.

Frank reacted instantly, his arm shifting grotesquely into a writhing tendril, slashing toward her with brutal force. But she was faster. With a flicker, she vanished, reappearing effortlessly across the room, her movement graceful, untouchable.

Frank’s eyes narrowed in frustration, his patience wearing thin. Maxwell, recognizing the ethereal figure who had once again intervened, broke the silence first. “It’s you again,” he muttered, a mixture of relief and wariness in his voice.

The woman’s glowing green eyes met his, a deep, inscrutable warmth flickering within them. “Yes,” she replied softly, her voice carrying an eerie calm that contrasted with the tension crackling in the room. “And it seems I’ve arrived just in time.”

Frank’s twisted smile resurfaced, though his gaze was now scrutinizing the woman with renewed interest. “You’re quite the enigma yourself,” he said, his tone probing. “Your healing abilities seem… beyond what even Wallace can manage, from what I’ve seen.”

Her eyes flickered coldly, cutting through his words with disdain. “So you were the disgusting presence I sensed when I first arrived,” she said, her voice laced with contempt.

Frank’s grin didn’t falter, even as her sharp retort landed. “What intrigues me more, however,” Frank continued, unfazed by her insult, “is your teleportation. It’s seamless. You and objects vanish in an instant, and yet…” He gestured around the room with his bloody hands. “None of the projectiles shot at you reappear. It’s as if they just—” He snapped his fingers. “—vanish.”

She remained still, her expression unreadable, as Frank’s words hung in the air. Her silence was as much a statement as any answer she could give.

“Your deal,” she finally spoke, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. “I dislike it. Especially when I don’t fully trust you.”

Frank's smirk deepened. “It’s convenient for both of us. You’ll come to see that in time,” he said, his voice dark and persuasive. “You and I both want the same thing. To eliminate him.” The words dripped with venom. “The leader of A.E.G.I.S won’t stop until he has slain every single one of the Seven Sins. Eventually, he will find out about Maxwell—what he truly is.”

A shadow crossed Maxwell’s face at those words, the weight of his truth hanging heavy between them.

Frank’s tone turned conspiratorial. “Even if the Bookkeeper can’t obtain knowledge about the Sins, he’ll always find a way. The man is relentless, and obsessed. He will learn the truth, one way or another.”

Eden's gaze sharpened as she mulled over Frank’s words, the weight of their conversation sinking in. “You’re right about that,” she admitted, her voice tinged with a rare vulnerability. “That man is relentless. And dangerous.”

Frank smirked, sensing the shift in the air. “Since we're playing nice, how about some proper introductions?” He leaned forward, his tone mockingly polite. “Frank Stein, current manager of this facility. And you? Care to share?”

Eden’s lips curved into a faint smile as if debating whether to indulge him. After a moment’s pause, she spoke with deliberate calmness. “My name is Eden. I’m the boy’s guardian.” She glanced at Maxwell briefly before returning her piercing gaze to Frank. “And I should mention, I’m the Bookkeeper’s younger sister. That alone should tell you I’m not someone to trifle with.”

Frank’s eyebrows shot up, his surprise quickly masked by a widening grin. “Really? The Bookkeeper has a little sister. Well, now I’m really interested.” He chuckled darkly. “I’ve had my fair share of chats with him, you know. Funny, he never mentioned family, except for that one time he slipped about his dead brother. I guess the Bookkeeper’s full of surprises.”

Eden's smile faltered, her expression cooling. “Our family… is not on the best of terms,” she said, her voice distant. “Not since our brother’s death. We have one more sibling, but while the Bookkeeper and I manage to remain in contact, our other brother—he resents us both.”

Frank's grin broadened, as if Eden had just handed him a priceless gift. “Oh, this just keeps getting better,” he said, barely containing his excitement. “Embarrassing family secrets and powerful allies? It’s like Christmas came early.”

Eden’s eyes narrowed. “Before you get too comfortable,” she said, extending her hand, “there’s a condition.”

Frank shrugged, grasping her hand in a firm handshake. “Yeah, yeah, let’s hear it.”

As their hands met, a strange pulse of energy coursed through the air. Purple runes blossomed from Eden’s arm, snaking their way across Frank’s wrist and up his forearm. The runes twisted and coiled, forming a branding tattoo in the shape of a circle that pulsed faintly with energy.

“Under my Authority of Rules,” Eden said, her voice cold and steady, “you will not speak of Maxwell’s true nature. Break this pact, and you’ll die instantly. Not even your healing abilities will save you.”

Frank glanced down at the glowing tattoo on his forearm, the purple runes still pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. His grin remained, but there was something else beneath it now—genuine awe, mixed with a twisted kind of excitement. “Oooh, scary,” he mocked lightly, though his eyes betrayed his curiosity. “But fine by me. Now you’ve got every reason to trust me.” His voice dropped in tone, sharpening with a raw intensity. “I’ll gladly stake my life on this.”

He leaned forward, eyes alight with mischief. “So, come on, Eden, just one little secret about your brother, the great Bookkeeper. A single juicy, embarrassing detail. You can’t leave me hanging after all this,” he begged, his usual nonchalance shifting into a near-desperate plea.

Maxwell, watching this exchange, had never seen Frank like this. The man who had always been a picture of unhinged control now resembled a curious child, giddy and ravenous for knowledge. Maxwell’s thoughts drifted, his curiosity piqued. Who was this Bookkeeper, a figure so mysterious that even Frank seemed desperate to know more? And Eden—what was her story? The questions swirled in his mind, and he found himself staring at the woman who claimed to be his guardian, trying to decipher the truth behind her serene exterior.

Eden tilted her head, a playful smile dancing across her lips as she contemplated Frank’s request. “My brother would be quite upset if he found out I’d shared any of his secrets,” she teased, her tone light, but there was a knowing glimmer in her eyes. “But… perhaps someday, if you're well-behaved, I might let something slip.”

Frank groaned, throwing his hands up in mock defeat. “Tease,” he muttered, though the amusement in his voice betrayed that he was far from truly disappointed.

The three of them, an unlikely trio—Frank, Eden, and Maxwell, sat together on the broken stage. Despite the violence and chaos that had just unfolded, the atmosphere between them had shifted into something almost warm. The tension from earlier melted away as they began discussing their plans and the grim future acts they were destined to perform. A strange camaraderie, forged in blood and secrets, took root amidst the wreckage.

But far from their small moment of respite, in a distant castle veiled in shadow, a young girl burst from her room, tears filling her eyes. She was no older than twelve, her long black hair streaked with white, her green eyes shimmering with frustration as she clutched a small teddy bear to her chest. She wore a black dress, the fabric trailing behind her like a shadow as she ran, her sobs echoing down the stone corridors.

“It’s not fair!” the girl cried, her voice a mix of fury and heartbreak. “It’s not fair! They cheated! They cheated!”

As she fled, she collided with a tall figure—a man with long white hair and deep crimson eyes. He wore an outfit reminiscent of a bartender, sleek and unassuming, though a peculiar tattoo of a snake wrapped around his neck, the head of the serpent poised as if to consume his eye. His expression was calm, his presence unnervingly composed.

“I’m sorry about what happened, Miss Anya,” the man said, his voice smooth and soothing. “But you truly performed exceptionally. There’s no need to be upset.”

Anya clung to her teddy bear, her lip trembling. “I was so close,” she wailed. “Then that woman came in and ruined everything! It’s not fair, Uncle Pandora!”

The man, Pandora, smiled indulgently, a soft chuckle escaping him. “It’s always endearing when you call me ‘uncle,’” he said, resting a gentle hand on her head. “But you mustn’t let this defeat weigh on you. I had no idea my sister would intervene like that. Despite her lawful nature, it seems she’s willing to bend the rules when it suits her.” He sighed, almost amused by the irony.

Anya’s eyes brimmed with fresh tears. “Is Dad going to be mad at me because I didn’t win?”

Pandora’s expression softened, his tone growing more paternal. “I promise you, Nikolai will be proud of what you’ve done. You uncovered crucial information about our enemies. Without it, we might have faced even greater losses in the future.” His voice was filled with admiration. “You’re already a prodigy among the Awakened, Anya. There isn’t a human your age who can match your talent.”

Anya sniffed, still clutching her bear but comforted by Pandora’s words. “But I wanted to win…” she whispered.

Pandora’s chuckle reverberated softly through the dim hallway, but there was a gentleness in it—a warmth reserved for the girl at his side. “There will be other chances, my dear,” he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. “This battle may be lost, but the war is far from over.”

Anya, still clutching her teddy bear, wiped at her tear-streaked face, her green eyes now alight with renewed determination. “I want to try again,” she insisted, her voice firm. “Can you do that memory thing you do? Get me into the facility, make them think I’m a student there?”

Pandora raised a brow, considering the idea. “It is possible,” he mused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “But I’ll need to ask your father first. If we proceed with this plan, you’d need to be placed in the Alpha facility. That’s the only option if you don’t want to end up a mindless monster like the rest.”

Anya nodded eagerly, her black and white hair bouncing with her excitement. “That works! There’ll still be plenty of chances for me to run into Maxwell. Please, Uncle Pandora,” she pleaded, her voice softening with desperation. “If anyone can pull this off, it’s you. Not even the Bookkeeper would know I wasn’t supposed to be there.”

Pandora smiled faintly at her persistence, but his expression remained calculating. “I’ll think about it,” he said, his tone measured, as though he were mentally piecing together the moving parts of an elaborate scheme. “But let’s shift focus for now. How’s the progress within the other facilities?”

Anya’s face fell slightly, her enthusiasm dimming as she spoke. “It’s not great. We lost Calum—the Bookkeeper got him. Hummingbird barely made it out, but the Boogeyman ripped her arm off… for fun.” She shook her head, her voice tinged with frustration. “And the Boogeyman’s been tearing into the Slayer. He should be able to win.”

Pandora’s expression darkened at the news, though his calm exterior betrayed little emotion. “At least some chaos is brewing, though it seems our forces are taking a hit. What about the Beta facility?”

Anya sighed heavily, her small frame tensing. “Not much better. The Lich and the Butcherer have torn through most of our forces there. The only one left standing is Crow, and he’s busy hunting that tentacle-head guy.”

Pandora nodded slowly, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his side as he thought. “I see. Send word to Finch, just in case. I want her on standby—if things start falling apart for Crow, she’s to extract him immediately.”

Anya gave a firm nod, her expression softening as she smiled. “Got it. I hope Dad’s doing well on his mission.”

Pandora’s crimson eyes softened at the mention of her father. “Your father is the strongest we have. Well, besides ‘her,” he added with a knowing look. “But don’t worry, Nikolai can handle himself. Whatever mission he’s on, he’ll complete it. He always does.”

A grin spread across Anya’s face, her earlier disappointment dissolving in the warmth of Pandora’s reassurances. “You’re right. He’s the best.”

Pandora’s smile seemed gentle as he reached out to ruffle her hair, his demeanor still one of doting affection. “I have some business to attend to, but I'll be around if you need anything,” he said, his voice calm, almost soothing.

“Okay, good luck, Uncle,” Anya chirped, waving as she skipped off, blissfully unaware.

As soon as the door to Pandora’s private quarters clicked shut behind him, the mask of warmth and cheerfulness evaporated like mist under a harsh sun. His expression twisted, sharp and cruel, as his eyes darkened with malice. The sinister nature that lurked just beneath the surface now bared its teeth. He sank into his chair with a heavy sigh, a wicked grin pulling at his lips.

“God, that brat’s voice is grating,” Pandora muttered, his fingers drumming impatiently against the armrest. “Maybe I should just snap her neck and erase Nikolai’s memory of her existence. Hell, it’d be easier than dealing with her incessant whining.”

He paused, considering the idea. “No, if I mess with his memories again, it'll fry what's left of his brain. The idiot's barely holding on as it is. And, unfortunately, that worthless child is the only thing stopping him from swallowing a bullet. What a tedious little anchor she’s become.”

Pandora leaned back, a dark chuckle rumbling deep in his throat. “Oh, what would he do if he knew she wasn’t even his daughter? To watch that soul-crushing realization dawn on him… the agony, the heartbreak… now that would be a priceless sight.” His laughter grew, a perverse joy blooming from the imagined scenario, eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.

His revelry was interrupted by a knock at the door. Irritated, he flicked his hand, the air around him growing heavy with invisible malice. Slowly, Pandora stood and crossed the room, opening the door with a practiced, neutral expression.

Standing there was a random member of Noir, fidgeting nervously as he met Pandora’s eyes. “Excuse me, sir, there’s something we ne—”

Before the man could finish his sentence, his head exploded in a violent spray of blood, the walls instantly painted red with gore. The soft splat of brain matter hitting the floor barely registered with Pandora, whose eyes lazily surveyed the mess. His face twisted in mock exasperation.

“So many nuisances today,” he sighed, as if bored by the tediousness of it all. He gave a slight wave of his hand, and the man’s head began to reassemble itself, chunks of bone and flesh flying back to their original place. The body convulsed, then jerked upright as the skull sealed itself with a grotesque squelch.

The reanimated man blinked, trembling as the life returned to his body. “I-I died. I died!” he gasped, horrified, clutching at his newly restored head as his mind struggled to process what had happened.

Pandora looked on, entirely unimpressed. “Forget,” he commanded, his voice cold and casual, laced with a force that burrowed into the man’s consciousness.

The moment Pandora spoke, the man’s expression went blank, his memories of the ordeal vanishing instantly as if they had never occurred. The man gave a quick, dazed nod and stumbled out of the room without another word.

Pandora sighed again, this time out of sheer boredom. “What a bother. I should leave him in pieces next time.” His lips curled into a sinister smile, the twisted pleasure of cruelty now dancing in his eyes.

The room fell silent again, save for the soft hum of Pandora’s dark thoughts. He returned to his seat, leaning back with a sigh of contentment, and for a brief moment, all was still. His mind, however, continued to plot in the shadows, weaving intricate schemes with malice-laced precision.

“One day, all these pawns will fall into place,” he whispered to himself, the grin never leaving his face.

Pandora’s gaze drifted lazily around the room as a swarm of glowing red moths fluttered through the air, their eerie, blood-colored glow casting an ominous light against the walls. The soft flutter of their wings was almost hypnotic, like a dark lullaby that echoed through the stillness. They danced in erratic patterns, swirling around the room like shadows with wings, their very presence amplifying the sinister energy that hung thick in the air.

The room itself was a reflection of Pandora’s twisted nature—an unsettling blend of the mundane and the grotesque. Shelves lined the walls, filled with ancient tomes and journals, each one harboring secrets too dangerous for the world to know. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and ink, the faintest hint of something metallic—blood, perhaps—lingering beneath it all.

Pandora’s favored chair sat in the center, a plush and deceptively welcoming piece of furniture, worn in by years of use. It was where he spent countless hours scheming, plotting, and weaving the webs of manipulation that ensnared so many unfortunate souls. Even now, he sat there, his fingers lightly tracing the edges of the chair’s armrests, as if savoring the comfort it provided amidst his chaotic thoughts.

Across from the chair was a small, unassuming bed, simple and unremarkable, as if it were an afterthought in the grand design of his lair. But it was the walls that drew the eye—the walls lined with cases, each containing the delicate forms of butterflies, pinned and preserved in pristine condition. They were all meticulously arranged, as though Pandora had curated a personal gallery of beauty and death. Their iridescent wings shimmered faintly in the dim light, creating a haunting contrast to the red moths that flitted about freely.

Each butterfly was unique, its vibrant colors dulled only slightly by time. Yet, to Pandora, they were more than mere decorations; they were trophies, reminders of those he had broken, manipulated, and destroyed. Each butterfly had a name next to it, reminding Pandora of each person he broke. Every one of them had been alive once, fluttering freely—until Pandora had decided they were better suited as ornaments for his collection. Now, they remained frozen in time, their beauty trapped in the stillness, much like the people he manipulated, caught in the intricate webs of his control.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, his smile faint but present, as if in quiet reverence of his surroundings. The moths continued to circle the room, their crimson glow reflecting off the glass cases that housed the butterflies, casting twisted shadows across the room.

“How fitting,” Pandora murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "So delicate, so easily broken."

The moths responded as though they understood, their movements becoming more erratic, more frenetic, like the desperate final flutters of a creature caught in a web. His eyes flickered toward them briefly, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“I suppose I could add more to the collection soon,” he mused, his thoughts already spiraling into the next game, the next victim. "I wonder who will be next.”

He laughed softly to himself, the sound low and dangerous, reverberating through the quiet room. The moths seemed to pulse with energy at the sound of his voice, their eerie red light growing brighter for just a moment before returning to their dim glow.

Pandora stood, walking over to the nearest display case. His fingers hovered just above the glass, tracing the outline of a particularly vibrant butterfly—a deep violet with flecks of gold. Next to it was the name, Emma. He stared at it for a moment longer, eyes gleaming with the hunger of a predator.

“So many wings to clip,” he whispered, his smile growing wider, more menacing. "And so little time."

He turned away from the wall, his mind already racing with new possibilities. There was always more to be done, more strings to pull, more lives to destroy. The moths swirled in his wake as he moved, their crimson glow casting a hellish light upon his figure as he settled back into his chair.

The room, with its unsettling beauty and quiet menace, seemed to hum with dark energy. And Pandora, at the center of it all, was its maestro—a twisted conductor orchestrating a symphony of suffering, his heart as cold and still as the butterflies pinned forever to his wall.