Here, a legend lays, the remains of him after he gave his life for his grandson.
Gaius Vermillion, Slayer Of Cruxes, The Wings’ Savior, Romul’s Grandmaster, Little Legate, and the Drowned Dragon. May you rest in peace, my friend.
It will be a dry sea without you in it.
- The gravestone of Gaius Vermillion, carved personally by Legate Vicar.
Eight hands tensed atop a field of ember roses, contracting in dreaded tension. The Harenlar feared across Sector, not for her power, but her ruthlessness, met her match.
They walked toward each other, eyeing their counterpart in intrigue. Silence, broken only by their falling feet, felt deafening to any onlookers. That is, if there were any.
But no. These two walked alone, isolated from the rest of the universe. One degree was from their remoteness, another because of the Inferose, and a final point inside this enclosure.
No words were said. No instructions were given. Each was used to being on their own. It was their default. Their expected way of life.
Cruel gaze met cruel gaze, neither coming out on top. Joan circled her opponent while she followed her lead. Every motion slid into place like a chess piece, both careful not to reveal anything they shouldn’t.
Until they both spoke at once, voices layered over one another, “How interesting...”
Eyebrows raised at the copy, and the flap of an invisible butterfly began. The slight, minute differences in posture, stance, and location upon the fields of burning roses brought out different thoughts.
However, no spectator could ever discern the real from the fake. The Inferose had made perfect copies of the other.
But Joan found a flaw in the reflection, not that she mentioned it.
“Do we have to fight? If the others have the same trial, Dante will surely pass,” Joan said to the false imposter.
The duplicate of the genuine being grinned mischievously, the tips of her lips contorting in thought. Countless ideas, desires, and experiments ran throughout a single Joan’s mind. With two of them...
They came to a quick agreement as the fraud said, “True. True. Then what shall we do?” her words hung for a second before that smile broadened. “What... shall we work on?”
Joan flipped a hand toward her copy, answering with a thunderous heartbeat. Her excitement held no bounds, even toward the torture that would soon be inflicted upon her own flesh.
“We will study the Rosemen and learn how they work,” the Harenlar declared as the other’s brow slipped ever so slightly. It was the most miniature of tells, but Joan held a sharp eye for detail.
She knew all her own machinations and imperfections more than the periodic table. How else would she ever become greater if she ignored her flaws?
Nonetheless, Joan didn’t point anything out. She waited for a reply and nodded as it came from an excited clone, her four arms shivering in joy, “Okay. Then how do we decide?”
The question would have stumped any other person. Decide? The ambiguity held meaning for Joan alone.
“Coin toss,” she spoke with a matter-of-factness as if her life wasn’t on the line.
Twin laughs echoed into the air with the complete agreement of the other. Joan retrieved a coin from her medicine bag, rolling it over her dextrous fingers and ending its journey upon her index knuckle.
Then, she held it up to the dim glow of the flowers.
She asked softly, nigh a prayer, “May the victor overcome their birth. May they overcome their fate. May they overcome... death.”
The other bowed her head in confidence and solemnity. Only these two beings understood what the words touched upon, what evils stewed inside their pasts.
The coin entered the air with a metallic chime, soaring across the gap between the figures. It spun again and again, catching the faint glow of the burning roses in fleeting, fiery arcs. Time seemed to slow, each rotation of the coin accompanied by the hushed crackle of flames around them.
The heat seemed to grow. Shadows lengthened. Hearts intensified. Joan’s sharp gaze followed its movement, her mind calculating the trajectory, every possible outcome spinning in tandem with the coin.
“Heads.”
“Tails.”
They called it only once it was in the air, deceit no longer possible.
Her heart thudded in her chest, each beat synchronized with the metal's ring. Her duplicate mirrored her expression—intent, expectant, ruthless. Neither of them blinked.
The coin reached its apex, paused for the briefest of moments, then began its descent. It struck a flaming rose with a sharp ping, sending sparks scattering like stars torn from the sky. The edge glowed faintly, ignited by the heat of the petal, before the coin slid free, landing with a dull clink on the soil below.
It bounced once, twice, rolling across the field of embers. The roses it touched seemed to brighten as though feeding on the heat of its metal. It teetered, spun one final time, and settled.
Heads.
The breath Joan didn’t realize she was holding escaped her in a controlled exhale. Her duplicate’s lips curled into an unreadable smirk, but there was something behind it—approval? Resignation? Perhaps both.
Or neither.
“Well,” the copy said, breaking the silence, her tone laced with amusement. “It seems you’ve won.”
But the tension didn’t fade. Joan’s body remained taut, her four hands flexing involuntarily as her mind raced ahead. Victory in this game was not a conclusion. It was a beginning.
The clone knelt, lifting the coin with a reverence that bordered on unsettling. The faint scorch mark from the rose’s flame marred its once-polished surface. She held it up to the light, tilting it this way and that before flipping it expertly back to Joan, who caught it between her thumb and forefinger.
“No tricks,” Joan said, her voice low but firm, her eyes locked on the duplicate. The copy raised her hands in mock surrender, an exact mirror of Joan’s own habitual gesture.
“None at all,” she replied. “Your terms, your method, your win. I agreed. Shall we?”
Joan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she slid the coin back into her medicine bag, its slight weight an anchor in her pocket. She stepped forward, closing the distance between her and the copy. The roses beneath her feet crunched softly, embers sparking with each step.
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The reflection waited, unflinching. For a moment, they stood face to face, the inferno’s heat pressing against their skin, the growing ashes painting them both in the same fiery glow.
Joan raised a single hand, and the clone mimicked her. The gesture was eerily synchronized, like two dancers rehearsing a well-practiced routine. Then, in one fluid motion, Joan reached past her duplicate and plucked a burning rose from the ground.
Its petals smoldered in her palm, but the heat was no longer enough to faze her. She turned it over, inspecting it with a clinical eye before holding it out to her reflection.
The act was confirmation. Her copy would not strike her. Yet.
“Let’s begin,” she said simply.
The copy’s smile widened as she accepted the rose. The light of the flames danced in her eyes, filled with an unsettling curiosity that matched Joan’s own.
At the next glance, one kneeled before splaying their figure across the dirt. She had lost. As such, she surrendered.
However, both knew the battle was not yet over. Joan was the slow and steady type. A gambler? Perhaps. A frenetic?
Never.
Scalpels emerged from the doctor’s medicine bag as Joan replenished her stores with the other’s bag. She fit what she could, which admittedly, wasn’t much as she had stored much of the Rosemen’s flesh inside in packages.
With one hand, she settled her affairs. The other three worked along her duplicate’s body, slicing open her chest while drawing out some of that flesh. Other medicinal scents entered the air, but the resigned figure didn’t fight back.
She used her four arms to help with the procedure, both of them talking through it. Joan described the abilities of the Rosemen once more aloud, as if for discussion’s sake.
Undying, absorbing, and temperature-controlling.
Ideas flew, and genius achieved much in mere seconds. Even as the copy’s flesh tore open to the air, not a gasp emitted from her mouth. Only her face twitched the slightest twinkle to reveal the agony she fell under.
Joan nodded at the sight, finding them equal. The doctor, after all, had done many surgeries on herself. She had once replaced her own heart after the worst night of her life. This was nothing new.
Just the possibilities were. She merely had to be careful for the doctor’s maw. Because...
Joan would bite even the hand that fed her. Her clone would be no different.
************************
Rejo chuckled. His right hand bent low, swiping over the ignited petals. With a profound sense of home, the embers soared into the enclosed space.
A snarl emerged beneath his mouth-tendrils as he recalled it.
Home.
He loathed his home planet. It stood for everything he wanted to escape. Languish and squalor. He wanted to be great. Rejo wished to be greater than great.
The Araki desired to be the second-greatest thing in the galaxy.
He looked forward and discovered the copy that met his gaze. His mind, while not the fastest in the world, understood the trial. Across the vast field of roses, he called out, “Cards or dice!”
A moment later, “Cards!” returned to him.
Rejo jogged atop the roses, brushing past them as he quickly came upon his copy. They stared at each other once within a gap of ten feet.
Heads bent, eyes widened, and guffaws bloomed. The two hugged each other, patting one another on the back in bliss. Then, they sat apart from each other.
Head to head.
Two decks laid out in front of them while the copy drew his gun, six bullets inside it. Rejo raised an eyebrow at it but didn’t say anything as a bullet was handed to him.
“Liar’s Gamble.”
Both spoke at once, their voices resonating. The copy emptied his revolver with all but one round while Rejo slid a single bullet into his weapon.
Then, they shuffled the cards after removing all but the face cards.
The cards shuffled seamlessly in both hands, the sound of slick paper sliding over paper filling the tense silence. Rejo and his copy locked eyes, mirth gone now, replaced by cold determination. Both shuffled longer than necessary, testing the weight of the cards and the way they slipped and stuck. The stakes required perfection. No mistakes.
Finally, they dealt their counterpart five cards each, the revolvers resting between them, one loaded chamber apiece. The roses flickered around them like a living audience, their smoldering glow casting twisted shadows over the scene.
“Kings first,” the copy said, his voice identical to Rejo’s, but the way he spoke held a slyness the original hated. It was as though he was already sure of his victory. However, so was Rejo. All things were fair.
Rejo nodded and selected three cards from his hand, laying them face-down with care. “Three Kings,” he said flatly, though his tendrils twitched with anxiety.
His copy’s mandibles clicked softly as he stared at the cards, “Three Kings? That’s bold.”
Rejo waited, his heart pounding in his chest.
Will he call me out or play his own cards? Come on. I’d lie first round! Call me! Call it!
After a moment of deliberation, the duplicate laid down two cards. “Two Kings,” he said with an infuriating calmness. “I’ll believe you.”
Rejo’s stomach sank. Did he believe him? Or no?
Seconds ticked by while the prime stared into the other’s eyes. With a curse, he followed his gut.
“Liar,” he said. The cards were flipped with a duality of melancholy and joy.
The false hand revealed two actual Kings, one of hearts and one of spades.
With a sharp grin, he slid the revolver toward Rejo. The original had lost the game. It was a game of who lost, never who won. Either your opponent ran out of cards or you called wrongly. Or, you were called a liar correctly. The three ways to lose echoed within Rejo's mind as he knew the consequences of failure.
Dante’s closest friend sighed as his hand trembled slightly. This was not his first game. After steeling his nerves, he picked up the cold steel weapon, spinning the cylinder once for good measure, something not allowed past the first round. His mandibles twitched as he lifted the gun to his head. His finger hesitated on the trigger.
The first click was silent. Relief washed over him but was short-lived. Rejo's duplicate chuckled and began reshuffling the cards.
“Queens,” the duplicate declared. “Round two.”
Rejo’s breathing quickened as he sorted his new hand. It wasn’t ideal. He only had two Queens. He cursed silently, placing down two cards. This time, though, he lied to start, “Two Queens.”
His duplicate eyed him, his expression unreadable. Then, with maddening nonchalance, the copy played one card, “One Queen,” he said. “I’ll believe you again.”
It became heart to tell who was who, but the loser fell into contemplation.
Just one card? Is he lying? Are the other four Queens? We do have two decks... No. He couldn’t be that lucky. I’ll play it safe.
“Okay. My turn. Two Queens,” Rejo gambled his life with resolution, placing down his honest hand.
A low chuckle lowered the nearby embers with its expulsion, “Hmmm... I think you’re telling the truth. Three Queens.”
Rejo’s teeth gnawed against the inside of his mouth as he struggled further.
Now, he has to be lying. Or is he? Fuck. Dante was always better at this than me! I only ever won with luck! It’s fun... but we never actually played with real bullets! Why would he only leave one card behind, though? That has to be the real Queen!
“Liar!” Rejo shouted, confident in his observation this time.
The cards flipped, and three Queens beamed back against Rejo.
“Shot two,” the double said with scarcely concealed joy, sliding the revolver back across the burning petals.
Rejo’s tendrils quivered. The odds were growing worse. Two losses in a row. He stared into the cylinder, sweat gathering on his brow in conjunction with the heat of the roses. His breathing grew shallow as he pressed the barrel to his temple.
Click.
He exhaled sharply, the chamber empty once more. But his luck couldn’t hold forever.
The duplicate leaned forward with a grin that made Rejo’s blood boil. “Jacks,” he said, shuffling with infuriating ease.
Rejo clenched his fists before gathering his new cards. His hand was barely better than the last. One Jack. Nothing else of value. He didn’t even bother with the pretense of a bluff, laying down one card. “One Jack.”
The duplicate’s eyes narrowed in mock contemplation. Then, with a lazy smirk, he played three cards. “Three Jacks.”
Rejo’s heart skipped a beat. Three? Impossible. No one was this lucky. But what could he do? If he called the copy’s bluff and was wrong, he’d lose. And if he didn’t call it... he would be damned.
He bit back a growl, “Liar.”
The cards flipped. Three Jacks. All real.
Rejo’s breath caught in his throat. His hand clenched around the revolver as his duplicate pushed it toward him with a growing sense of superiority.
“Luck’s a funny thing, isn’t it? Dante always said he made his own. But us... well... we're not creators. We... enjoy the flow,” said the infuriating smirk.
Rejo didn’t reply. His hands trembled as he ran his hand over the hammer. He raised the gun to his head, his vision narrowing as his heart thrashed in his chest.
Click.
His vision blurred for a moment before the realization sank in.
He was still alive. But barely. Three losses. Only three chambers left. The odds were no longer in his favor. One in three chance of death.
But he could still win. However... after another round of failure, he thought differently.
One in two. A fifty-fifty. This cannot go on.
The duplicate began shuffling again, his movements maddeningly calm, as though victory was assured. Rejo’s breathing steadied. He couldn’t let this continue. If he played fair, he’d lose.
Then, the thought struck him. What would Dante do?
He grinned, his mandibles twitching as he bent low, letting the roses’ embers mask his movements. The moment his counterpart reached to take his cards, Rejo’s fingers moved deftly, palming an extra five cards from the discard pile and sliding it into his sleeve.
The Araki had learned this six trick six months ago. He and his captain were in a casino, tasked to capture an outlaw inside for a bounty. No one else would enter, too scaredy cat to do so.
But Rejo? He’d follow his human anywhere. As such, he got a treat.
Ten whole rounds of poker with the fastest hands on the Starsinger. Dante wasn’t a mere deadshot. His hands boasted many skills, as did his mind.
And by the end of the night, after they had tied up the serial killer wanted for a hundred deaths, they played more poker. He was a slow learner. No matter how Dante tried to teach him, it never seemed to work.
So, they played and they played until Rejo learned. By the time he stole his first card from the dealer’s watchful gaze, sixteen hours had passed. The dealer caught him every other time, giving grace for who they had captured, but not that time.
That one time, Rejo saw a smile on Dante’s face.
He looked up, locking eyes with his copy once more as the figure overlaid with his captain. The smirk was gone. Determination burned in his gaze now.
“Let’s play,” Rejo said.
Another round of cards passed, and this time, Rejo drew four aces. He bid his time, forcing the other to call his bluff. And he did, without complaint, when he lost. The counterpart felt only confidence.
A click resounded.
Both nodded as if such was expected.
Then, the next round arrived, and Rejo stole five more. He glanced down at his chosen hand from the cards he had stitched together.
Five Queens. The decks were shared, after all, and the sixth round’s time had come.
He stared across the low light without an ounce of emotion. The Araki copied not the man in front of him but instead the one he always followed behind.
“Three Queens.”
The bluff was loud and proud. Or was it a bluff? The replica squinted and shook his head. He played his own two, “Two Queens.”
Rejo ignored him, slamming down a pair, “Two Queens.”
Now, the other had to call him. Such were the rules.
“Ah. Fine. Liar,” the duplicate sighed aloud. His hands reached for the gun, still possessing that same flair of confidence.
As he moved, Rejo’s mind recalled his Stigmata, pushing the gun toward the round’s loser. Then, he held his own with the other hand as if in solidarity. With a grimace, the copy gripped his weapon and brought it to the side of his head.
The identical weapons swapped at the last moment while fingers wrapped around the trigger. A light squeeze followed.
Blood splattered over Rejo’s face, trailing down his tendrils and entering his mouth. A brief lick told him all that he needed to know.
Rejo had won. Not how he would like to… but…
He was his captain’s sailor. And all first mates must know when to shift the wheel off route, no matter how bumpy.
Or bloody.