Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You may call me Corvine. I am the Operator of Crows Office, a Grade 5 Fixer Office under the Seven Association. My Office specializes in handling homicide cases and, as of late, particularly those involving the Distortion, or instances of the Distortion in general.

For the uninitiated, the Distortion is a phenomenon in which residents of the City undergo a transformation into something else entirely. It may be a change into a beast-like form, or some other type of creature, yet they may also transform into buildings, or completely alter the space they occupy; the cases of the Distortion vary drastically from each other. It was officially recognized by the Hana Association shortly after the events of the White Nights and Dark Days incident, however much remains unknown about the particulars. Some have theorized Distortions are related to a person’s mental state, or environmental circumstances, but such details are ultimately irrelevant when dealing with these cases. The Distortion is a danger to our society, and arriving at a solution to this problem is of the utmost importance. Thus, Crows Office seeks to uproot this weed, to get to the bottom of the mystery for the sake of protecting the order of the City. This is ultimately the noble purpose of this Office.

I gaze into the forest in front of us. The trees rise high above the dilapidated buildings which line the now overgrown street. What light manages to break through the canopy doesn’t do much for visibility, as in the monochrome hues of T Corp.’s Backstreets the long shadows only serve to blur all details together into a disorienting mess of grey shapes. I’m staring at the case of the ‘Tree People’, a presumed Distortion that was recently elevated to an Urban Plague level threat due to the risk of it spreading to the Nest. Much like an actual plague, this Distortion appears to infect people, turning them into trees and continuing to spread from there. With its proximity to the border, the higher ups of T Corp. are obviously becoming concerned about a potential breach, hence our involvement.

“So all these trees were… or are people?” Rook, who had arrived late, speaks up as she finishes inspecting one of the trees. 

Rook. She is one of the two Fixers in my employ and while I may at times be at odds with her attitude, she is loyal to the Office and does good work for it despite her quirks.

“Regarding them as ‘people’ now will do you no favors; they’re fully Distorted,” I reply calmly, turning to Pica, “seeing as we’re all finally accounted for, go ahead.”

She nods, inspecting her notebook, “The ‘Tree People’. The first reports came in about a month ago, but most were ignored. Since then it looks like it’s been expanding in a radius from a fixed centerpoint.”

Pica. Certainly the more ideal employee of the two; dutiful, diligent, and she does her job without complaint. In terms of deductive reasoning, she is a natural.

“Wait, so this is all one person, then?”

“They are sub-entities.” I correct Rook’s assumption. Depending on the Distortion, it may possess the ability to create ‘offspring’, so to speak, either through infecting other people, or through various forms of mitosis. In this case: “Reports indicate each individual tree is indeed formed from a person.”

“Ugh, that’s a lot of people then. Are they dangerous at all?”

“Aside from their ability to turn others,” Pica continues, “they don’t exhibit any signs of aggression.”

“Then how come no one’s taken care of it yet?”

“That’s unclear.”

“Hahh…” Rook sighs, “then there’s probably some other trick to it. Did you really have to call me for this on my day off?”

“Opportunity does not wait—”

“—’it must be claimed’,” she interrupts me, “yes, yes. I got it.”

“Hm. If you’ve ‘got it’, then I trust you’ve no further complaints?”

“Zilch, boss.”

I nod approvingly, gripping my claymore. “The solution to this Distortion plainly lies at this centerpoint—with the source handled, the sub-entities will sort themselves out.” How we must proceed is clear. I order the two of them to follow behind me and begin to traverse into the Distorted forest.

Our trek through the forest began uneventfully, which was to be expected; the streets are empty and buildings are overrun by the numerous trees sprouting from the ground—some growing out of said buildings. It is clear that the denizens of the Backstreets are steering clear of this deeper area.

“If it goes on like this,” Rook mumbles, but loudly enough to be audible, as she steps over roots and overgrowth, “will we even be able to get to the center?”

Indeed, while the forest edge was still quite dense with trees, their number and closeness have only increased the further in we traversed. At this point, the canopy is nearly blocking out the sun entirely.

“Most people were turned when the Distortion first appeared, and it’s been steadily progressing since then,” Pica comments.

“Right, I guess since no one knew what was going on, there would’ve been a lot more people gathered in one spot, but now people know to avoid it. That makes sense.”

I touch the bark of a tree next to me, attempting to ascertain its thickness, as they discuss these somewhat irrelevant details of the mission; the Distortion's rate of expansion is a moot point once it has been dealt with. All in all, they appear very similar to regular trees, at least in composition. “If the path forward is blocked, we’ll cut our way through.”

“Such… a waste…” 

At first I think it might be Rook responding to me, as proven earlier she certainly has a tendency to find sympathy for the Distorted. Distortions originate from humans and some indeed retain qualities that could be attributed to the person they once were, but this lost humanity remains only as a pretense precisely to evoke such feelings, to cause lapses in judgement—crucial judgement that may be the difference between life and death—but I’m getting ahead of myself. I do not recognize the voice as hers after all. I cast my gaze over my shoulder and it appears they both heard the voice as well, judging by their confused expressions. 

“... Stay alert.” I frown; we have not faced many, but Distortions that affect the mind are always troublesome, their ability to poke and prod inside one’s head freely means strategy becomes difficult. However, it’s of course possible this one is limited to communication, it would be foolish to jump to conclusions so quickly.

“You both heard that too?” Rook asks, and Pica nods in response, “it was echoing through my head… so freaky.” 

“... a waste…” Like a quiet wind, it passes through me.

“It almost sounds,” she pauses, but I have a feeling I won’t like what she has to say, “sad?”

“Don’t let it affect you,” as I expected, “we must press on.”

I continue to walk ahead, with the two of them quickly following suit. If it does indeed have the ability to influence our minds, then it’s all the more reason we should be swift in our extermination of this threat; the longer we remain here, the more susceptible we could become. I won’t have us wasting time on needless thoughts.

“... why…?” Of course, those voices won’t stop simply because we’re walking and, in fact, more voices seem to be speaking to us as we progress further into the dense forest, “... such a… waste… why…? are you… such a waste… tired…? why… such a… trouble…?” More and more ‘voices’ begin chiming in, implanting not so much a sound as the conveyance of a concept, abstract and vague, but clear in intent.

“Is it trying to ask us why we’re going through the trouble?” Rook, once again. She winces, pressing on her temples, “ugh… it’s like the thoughts are being put in my head, it’s way too crowded up here.”

“It seems like they're becoming more clear as we get closer to the centrepoint. It might be possible to communicate, eventually.”

“So we could figure out why they’re—”

“Absolutely out of the question,” I don’t stop walking as I speak, “there is a time and place for sentimentality, and this is neither.” It may be harsh, but I speak only to protect them.

“But, boss, we might be able to learn something useful about the Distortion. If it comes down to a fight, it would be bad if we know nothing about it.”

“Do you believe I managed to survive the Smoke War on planned tactics and forethought alone? No. Quick-wit, responding to the situation at hand with no prior experience or knowledge, such skills were required of a soldier if they would have any hope of survival. Submitting to the enemy’s terms would mean we have already lost.”

“... why… all this… for what…?”

“You see,” I inhale, steadying myself, “the Distortion wants to speak to us. Whatever it wishes to convey, it will not be to our benefit.” Neither of them appear to have a response, as their silence is evident. Seeing as they understand, we continue towards the center.

“I told you we’d need to talk to them.” 

She is insufferable when proven right, that air of arrogance around her won’t go away for at least a week, and I’m certain to hear about this often in the meantime.

When we arrived at the center, we found it to be encircled by a wall of trees, all grown so closely together that there was no way to squeeze past them to get inside. They would have been easy enough to cut through, as I judged before, but these particular trees are sturdier than the rest. Not even the accelerated swing of my Alas Workshop claymore manages to leave so much as a scratch in the bark.

“It’s no use… don’t bother…” And the ‘voices’ are at their loudest here, those intentions resounding clearly through our minds, where they’re translated into something we comprehend. If there is a way through, it might just lie in diplomacy.

“... I’ll allow you to try, but if there is any indication you’re being affected by the Distortion, I won’t hesitate to cut you down.”

“Relax, I’m sure my willpower isn’t that bad, right, Pi?”

“No comment.” Her comment—or lack thereof—elicits a huff from Rook.

“Fine then, why don’t you do it? You’re always rational and calm,” an astute assessment of her characteristics, “I’m sure you wouldn’t have any problems staying sane.”

“I have to agree with her. I very much doubt any charms of the Distortion would affect me, but seeing as I am your Operator, we shouldn’t take that risk.”

“If I have to.” 

She’s willing to put her life and sanity on the line for the Office, yet another indication of her quality. 

Pica closes her eyes; reasonably, we can only communicate with the Distortion in the same way it does with us, through intent, rather than words. I’m unable to hear Pica’s thoughts, however the responses from the Distortion are still felt: “You struggle… but there’s no… use… why do you bother… to go through… all of this trouble… when every second… of your time spent… is wasted… on this…”

“Time? Are they talking metaphorically, or…?” Rook tilts her head. 

In T Corp., Time can be seen as a resource, or a currency—some have more of it, while others have less. With the systems that are in place, a person’s Time also literally reflects on the time they have available to them in a given day. This way, those with more Time can maximize their productivity, due to having more Time available to them than the standard 24 hours. Of course, those with less Time…

“We are in the Backstreets; it’s safe to assume they mean it literally.”

“Yeah, and… It’s like I can feel that’s what they mean, too.” 

If there is one thing I have to admit she is exceptionally proficient at, it would have to be reading people—and seeing as these ‘voices’ are nothing but intent, she would naturally pick up on such details. Still, the conclusion was rather self-evident.

“It doesn’t… have to be… like this… we have no more… time… we are… free from… time… you can be… like… us… forever still… forever… in never… never… in forever… stillness… freedom…”

“It’s odd,” Rook stares at the wall of trees in front of us, looking up slightly, “they really don’t mean any harm, huh? It’s kind of like… they feel bad for us.”

“Nonsense? Free of time? As much as I do not agree, the Distortions count as people as far as the Head is concerned, otherwise they would have been excised long ago; they would therefore still be bound to the four hour daily minimum time of T Corp.,” I shake my head, “it’s more likely the main Distortion is siphoning their time to itself, like a parasite—”

“No, they really don’t have any time at all.” Pica stops me, her attention on her pocket watch, a TT-O2 (TimeTrack-Observer2, which measures the Time of a given person). She shows it to us, and the reading clearly displays ‘10^-308 hrs/day’, the rounding error enough evidence that if they do have time, it’s too little to even detect.

“And the device is not faulty?” 

We check it quickly on ourselves, but there doesn’t appear to be any issue. The Crows Office operates on 24 hours, the standard time scale of the Head, and the average for most residents of T Corp. not living in abject poverty. We also have a modest reserve of Time, as any sane person would. 

“So they have none,” I will not argue with the reality apparent before me, “interesting. However, no solution to the wall has presented itself from this gambit.”

“... It may have, actually.”

“Ohh, did you think of something, Pi?”

“Given that their time is either non-existent or incredibly slowed from our point of view, it would follow that we’re unable to affect them with outside force. ‘Damage’ is an aspect of time, so… without it, they can’t be harmed.”

“We must give them time.” I finish her thought, with a weary undertone. It’s certainly not ideal for us to have to spend our Time to solve this case.

“Yes,” Pica waits a moment to confirm my statement, eventually nodding, “just enough to bring them back to a reasonable time scale. The reward for clearing this request should make up for the losses.”

“Barely,” but it’s better than nothing, “so be it. Transfer your reserve Time to them, as little as necessary; I won’t compensate for unnecessary spending.”

“We have to do it with our own Time?” Rook complains, but she keeps the rest of her thoughts to herself after I give her a look.

As they begin siphoning the Time from their watches into the trees before us, a sharp pain suddenly roars through my head, causing me to instinctively grab onto my head, my eye twitching from the pressure that’s suddenly placed upon me. That intent —which only mere moments ago conveyed calm—was now screeching, clawing at the insides of my mind, as well as theirs, if I had to hazard a guess—something incredibly inconvenient when it felt as though my head was folding in on itself. The ‘voices’, now much more difficult to make out, are all screaming in unison: “WHY!!!WEDONTWANTTOBE,WEDONTWANTTOBE,DONTBRINGUSTIME,DONTTAKEOURFOREVERAWAY,WHY!!!WHY!!!WHY!!!WEAREFREE,WEAREUNBURDENED!!!WHY!!!WEDONTWANTTOBE,WEDONTWANTTOBE,DONTBRINGUSTIME,DON’TTAKEOURFOREVERAWAY,WHY!!

“Gahh,” I force out the words through the torrent of pain, forming even one coherent word, an insurmountable effort that is stretched over an unknowable amount of time, “don’t … stop!”

!WHY!!!WHY!!!WEAREFREE,WEAREUNBURDENED!!!WHY!!!WEDON’TWANTTOBE,WEDONTWANTTOBE,DONTBRINGUSTIME,DONTTAKEOURFOREVERAWAY,WHY!!!WHY!!!WHY!!!WEAREFREE,WEAREUNBURDENED!!!WHY!!!WEDONTWANTTOBE,WEDONTWANTTOBE,DONTBRINGUSTIME,DONTTAKEOURFOREVERAWAY,WHY!!!WHY!!!WHY!!!WEAREFREE,WEAREUNBURDENED!!!”

It’s difficult to tell how it happened, but I stand, claymore in hand, the path before me one I must’ve cut open while I was barely conscious. felled trees and sliced vines lay silent in the wake of the devastation; not a ‘voice’ is heard anymore. I look around me, the two of them are both alive—they seem to be having trouble standing. I grunt, supporting myself on my weapon and looking straight ahead again. The narrow path I’ve cut should lead into the center, where the Distortion awaits. If it built a shield like this around itself, I cannot imagine it will pose much of a threat to me.

“Stay here.” I utter the order, and proceed.

“You have brought… inertia… change… you have brought time here, where there should be none.” The massive tree that rises into the sky before me speaks to me directly, not in vague intents or feelings, but with words transmitted through some psychic connection. The clearing is peaceful, a single, solid beam of light shines down through the canopy onto the shape of a man embedded into the bark, like some divine iconography of times long past. The short walk through the cleaved trees was enough for me to regain my focus, I grasp my claymore firmly.

“Indeed, I have,” my voice, resolute and stable, I will not be intimidated by the sight before me, “and with it, I bring the end of your time.”

“My time has already… ended… ceased… I exist in the forever, and I have granted the same to the lost souls of the Backstreets… those… whose time was up…”

“I know better than to converse with a Distortion, but I’ll humor you,” I approach slowly, “why?”

“... I long toiled under the weight of time… I only want to grant others the same mercy which I was permitted…”

“By turning them into trees?”

“Timeless things… rooted in place… existing as they are, without change… I realized that the struggle… was endless… no matter how much one struggles… those who do not have time… they will also never be free of it… toiling to rise, endlessly, hoping to grasp… every extra second we could hold onto… hoping incessantly that it would eventually be enough… even though we knew… it would never be… no matter how much time passes, we would remain in place… and so… I gave people a choice… find root, remain still… step off the endless treadmill, and rest… I have not turned a single soul against their will… but I have found… when faced with the question… struggle for eternity, or be still for eternity…? Many… accepted…”

“I see, so the Fixers who have attempted to solve this case were swayed by this drivel?” It’s only natural, lower ranked Fixers are often weak willed; I know many who would probably take the offer, believing there is some kind of relief in remaining put forever.

“We do not… have to concern ourselves with rising any longer… the stars need not be usurped, for they twinkle so beautifully in the endlessness… we need never worry… again...”

“What a pathetic mentality. You believe yourselves incapable of rising, and so you fix yourselves in place with the belief that your misery is all that you shall ever have, because it is all that you have ever known,” I raise my claymore slowly, lifting it with both hands, “your suffering weighs upon your shoulders and instead of lifting, you crumple beneath it—convinced that the attempt is pointless to begin with. No, in this world you must fight; all you have done is surrender to your self-inflicted suffering, and your limiting faith.”

“How could you… ever understand… with so much time… to spare?”

“Though, there is one irony; your desire to stay put is precisely what caused you to rise. Had you continued to strive, you might have lived beyond this day.”

There is a tug on my arm, my weapon’s vibrations causing a delicate humming to fill the area. With a simple tug, the blade flashes across the horizon line, accelerated to speeds no human could possibly produce through strength alone. A perfectly horizontal slice, the tree splinters and shatters from the shockwave—a messy cut, but it will do. There are no screams and there are no words, only silence once the humming has died down. As the massive tree begins to fall, the trees around me already begin to wither and die, their protection from time now gone. Indeed, there is no escaping its grasp.

“... Those who cannot rise, fall.”

Chapter Text

(Art by me.)

Seven Association Office Fixer-Report - N193462

Author: Lorenz Langley

Name: Corvine

Age: 42

Gender: Male (He/Him)

Affiliation: Operator of Crows Office, under the Seven Association.

Grade: Grade 5 Fixer

Height: 195 centimeters (~6'4'' in feet)

Hobbies: None that don't directly relate to his work (reorganizing stacks of paper that have already been organized doesn't count as a hobby).

Specialties: Organizing intelligence, inter-Office communications, combat.

Birthday: January 15th

Likes: Orderly things, ruminating on various topics (brooding), being punctual.

Dislikes: The Distortion, people who don't follow orders, coffee with milk or sugar.

Noteworthy Details:

• Missing right eye with no prosthetic replacement
• Utilizes an Allas Workshop Claymore (outdated model and make, but still in good condition)
• Was a combatant in the Smoke War