Twilight of the Gods: A Metahuman RP (IC)

[Nagakawa]

Vatican City
Domus Sanctae Marthae

Day 1 -- near midnight

Finding himself unable to sleep, Cardinal Hayasaka put on a nightgown and exited his room in the Domus Sanctae Marthae, walking down a long corridor to an open terrace. From where he stood he could see red-roofed houses stretching into the horizon, interrupted here and there by oblong parking spaces and pockets of shrubbery. St Peter's Basilica was behind him. Overhead a thin sliver of crescent moon parted the darkness.

Seated in the terrace with him were two other cardinals -- Fouad Boulos Nasr, Maronite Patriarch of Antioch, and Michael Benavidez, Archbishop of Manila. Neither man was saying a word to the other when Cardinal Hayasaka appeared, and for a moment longer none of the three men spoke. They had met each other before, at the previous conclave, but had not spoken since then.

"I'm happy to see you're doing well, Lazarus," said Benavidez, at last breaking the silence.

"Thank you." Hayasaka turned and gave him a faint nod.

Benavidez stood up and shuffled over to the railings, standing beside Hayasaka, looking together at the moon. Nasr, still in his seat, lowered his head.

"I fear," said Benavidez, "this conclave may be misguided."

Hayasaka did not reply.

"Cardinal Baines is a sick man," Benavidez continued, lowering his voice. "He is aged. He will not last long as pope; but in the years he has left, I fear he may be influenced to steer the Church in a direction it cannot turn back from."

"The hand of God rests over this conclave still," said Hayasaka. "I am confident the right man will be elected."

"If only I could have the same faith as you do in the outcome." Benavidez sighed. "Have you spoken to Dhammachala?"

"I will not canvass for votes," said Hayasaka, firmly. "Nor do I wish to be pope."

"And yet," said Benavidez, "the Church needs a man like you. A man who can take a stand on this perilous boundary, human, not human, more than human."

"You wish to rescind the Holy Father's final encyclical?"

"Pro utilitate hominum has done nothing but weaken the Church's position, as far as the metahuman issue is concerned. I... May God forgive me for speaking ill of the Holy Father's works so soon after his death. But the metahuman is an abomination unto the Lord. And to recognise an abomination as being created in the image of God is a blasphemy among blasphemies--"

"I will have you know, Michael, that I have no desire to see Pro utilitate hominum suspended."

"Ahh." Benavidez broke into a smile. "So you do want to be pope, do you not?"

"The Church must stay its course," said Hayasaka. "Our duty is not to meddle in the petty affairs of temporal politics."

"Even if it would see the further decline of the church? Even if it means Aloysius Baines is elected pope?"

"I have no desire to be pope."

"If that were to happen -- if Aloysius Baines were to become pope, the Church will be governed not by Christ, not by the Holy Father, but by Toyonari Hikawa."

"Absurdity."

"Surely you cannot be blind to the ambition of your mentor?" Benavidez looked at Hayasaka with a wry smile. "Cardinal Numasawa is the brother of -- surely you must be aware of this -- one Dr Masayuki Numasawa, who worked on the Asura programme. This is open knowledge."

"This should have no bearing on our conclave. We must choose the man toward whom the Holy Spirit guides us."

"And how do you suppose the Holy Spirit guides us?"

Hayasaka looked behind him. Cardinal Nasr was seated still in his almost meditative silence, having overheard the entire conversation but too outwardly tranquil, so it seemed at least, to have paid it any mind.

"At any rate," Benavidez added, "I will continue to cast my vote for you. And I will speak to the supporters of Cardinals Moretti and Bianchi, to see if arrangements can be made -- if not to have you elected, at least to block the advancement of Cardinal Baines."

"This isn't a game," said Hayasaka, sternly. "I will not be elected pope through such dark tactics."

Cardinal Benavidez's expression became concerned, pleading almost. "But you must understand," he said, "we are at a dire time. We must block the election of Aloysius Baines through any means necessary. The survival of the Church depends on it."

...

[Arlye Austros]

The Structure

Santiago moved through a round, swirling tunnel that twisted the light and bent his path over and over. Tt was almost like moving through the blood vessels of an immense creature whose innards he could see even through the opaque, dark and smooth stone the tunnel was made of. A green and blue light pulsed somewhere beyond sight, shedding itself on enormous spaces and narrow passages filled and draped in a dark mossy tissue, where small creatures nested and waited for him. Behind him the collapsed wall was out of sight and a shadow followed suit, crawling up through the opening and entering the tunnel. Santiago ran. Was it Stasi? Was it one of the things that lived in the Structure? He didn’t want to find out.

“Stay away!” he cried out, and used his hands to push himself up the narrow shoot, damp and slippery with a cold, salty water. Once on the top, he came into a large chamber where the moss hanging from the ceiling crawled against his skin. Santiago recoiled and crouched to stay out of reach of white bugs moving through its surface and emerging between the strands, then moved away from the opening of the tunnel. The room was made with fused bricks of some rough surface. As he moved between piles of the formless remains of some creature -or perhaps many-, he realized the bricks where white with a yellow taint on them, and that they were aligned like teeth.

“Stop!” a voice emerged from the tunnel. Santiago turned and saw a hand crawl out from it. He moved faster and felt his foot sink into one of the piles of chitin and cold mush. Too late. He slipped and found himself laying inside the pile. Things moved around him, invisible in the darkness, and crawled to his skin. And started cutting him. He yelled and thrashed against the pile, rolling himself out of the trap and dragging with him small beetle-like creatures with antlers that shook and to feel the air and surface. They were blind, but they smelled Santiago, and he somehow became keenly aware of it.

Santiago started running and the man followed him through the chamber. They went into an open balcony with a bridge without railing and suspended within a thundery cloud, without a floor in sight below. Large, irregular towers rose on both sides, their shadows projected by the chain of lightnings that shattered the pitch-black air. Frantically and without rest, more like a club than like a storm.
And things battered their wings over them, smelling dinner.
“I said stop!”

Santiago felt a thing wrap inside his chest again, and he found himself feet on the air and whipped back to the floor. He couldn’t breathe, and rolled on the ground to try to force some air into his lungs. Instead, he coughed and then threw up a black bile. His eyes were flooded by tears and the shadow that approached him was blurred. Still, he fixed his sight on it, feeling the terror take over him. It said something, but he didn’t manage to understand it, and Santiago attempted to get back on his feet and hands and push himself up and forward.
“Stay down!”

But it was too late. A pair of claws grasped him and embedded themselves on his shoulder and ribs. Santiago was briefly lifted off the bridge and then slipped out, feeling the blade-like toes slice through his rags and skin. He fell on the floor and rolled over and over. And then the bridge under him disappeared.Santiago’s fingers grasped the pale and yellow stone brick in the last second, and used his other hand to balance against the wind, which swung him back and forth. His legs dangled over the dark abyss, cut by the rattling flashes. He felt the creature that had struck him make a horrible yell behind him, and he turned his face to see the red and black stripes on its wings come and go, circling him and preparing to finish its hunt.

He reached up and his other hand grabbed something long protruding out of the stone, like some kind of stick. It gave him some balance. A second later, however, it snapped. Santiago yelled and cried out for help. The creature now came for him, and its wings cut through the air with a deep, hollow sound. He closed his eyes and prepared to die.
There was a flash of orange light. Santiago opened his eyes and instinctively reached up again as fire fell around him. There was a high-pitched scream and his fingers held some other rock. Something in his body remembered the ceaseless drills and exercises. He pushed himself up and used his body to swing his knees up, then rolled over the ledge and looked up as he laid on the floor.

The creature was suspended on the air, screaming and flapping its wings without any direction or intention. It was engulfed in flames and its skin shed out like burning paper. It hovered over him for a second or two, it them moved, or rather was moved away, describing an arch before bashing onto the floor of the bridge four or five steps from Santiago.
“Th- Thank you… ” he gasped for air and closed his eyes, hearing the steps. When he opened them, a tall figure in a white robe looked down on him. His hand was still covered in flames, but they shrunk and vanished. His face was stern and angular, hardened and shining with some strange, grey light. He was also young. Perhaps slightly older than Federico. But those eyes were unbearably old, filled with layers upon layers of experiences that crushed down on him. Santiago cowered.

Or rather, would have. He was paralyzed. There was nothing he could do. The figure crouched and its hand came down on his chest. Fire exploded from it and his rags were blazed away. Light engulfed him and he fell through the bridge. His mind was merged with Jason’s. He saw many hings without form and name. But he felt people pleading for mercy. Too many to count. Too petty and helpless for him to process. He hated them, and he hated Jason for it. Worst. He knew Jason also saw him, if only for the blink of an eye.

His chest hurt and burnt. He was falling down and the bridge shrunk. Jason was a star falling down and away from him, engulfed in a white light and trailed by smoke and winged things that were set alight one after another. Santiago was not seen, and he soon found himself alone, going faster and faster through the storm. Then, he crushed through a muddy floor. But he kept going faster and faster.

The boy was a blur moving through many levels of cement and steel. It reminded him of Buller. But it was in chaos and crowned with fire, not snow. Creatures much like the things that lived in the Structure fought through cracks and ruined hallways, killing many men before being riddled by gunfire. People cried and died as they tried to flee. Outside, more fire raged, and inside, entire cities were emptied of life, with few survivors killing each other as the darkness flowed in.

Something shone below him, as each level faded as he passed through. The light seemed concrete and of substance. It was getting closer and closer to him, and Santiago had to squint. Yet he never reached it. A shadow didn’t fade, and he struck something. It was an instant, yet so much happened in it that he felt as though he’d gone through another dream entirely.
The two noticed each other as he bounced off. She opened her eyes and looked as he turned his head, trying to hold on to her. She was pathetic, in pain, humiliated. Yet her eyes flared back to life as she tried to get him. They hands slipped and he vanished. He knew he was gone.

Santiago woke up.

Berlin, Deutsche Demokratische Republik.

It was still September 4th. It was still past noon. And he could still hear the voices outside the door. How long had he been asleep? The room was dark and he was completely alone. But he was no longer weak. At least not as he had been before. When he opened his right eye a deep pain in his skull pierced right behind his nose, but it faded fast and remembered how he felt before the lights went out.

The pain on his left eye was still there, and the throbbing pressure in his head was familiar and long held, not something he brought from the Structure. The gauze was falling off his eye socket, and he tore out the tissue. He didn’t open his eye, though, used to not using it.
However, some things were different. The deadly hunger that made him want to sleep and escape was gone. He wasn’t full, but his body now had energy that he could only explain through food. On the other hand, the pain he felt in the structure when the creature attacked him followed him after he escaped, and the cuts on his side and shoulder seared under his shirt

He didn’t think about checking if they were real or imagined. There wasn’t time for that. The door opened and light soon engulfed the room while Santiago stayed down behind the rows of seats.
„Siehst du etwas?”
No reply. Santiago looked over his hiding place and then hid right away. Two men with the armbands on their jackets were at the door and at every detail of the futuristic-looking meeting room. It wouldn’t be long until they began searching behind the rows of seats.
„Gibt‘s Neuigkeiten zum A-Bericht?“
„Keine. Es wäre nicht das erste Mal, dass sie Fehler machen.“
The started to move towards the central table. Santiago was running out of options. On eof them sniffed.
„Es riecht wie ein Furz.“
„Ja. Er war hier.“
„War?“

His power was his best chance to escape. He could create a distraction, even a minor one. But as he thought of this, he remembered the warning he was given to not use his power. Yet, he already had used it. How could things be worse now?

He closed his eyes and split his mind.
„Hörst du es?”
„Was?”
A moment passed. Santiago laid on the floor, his mind was drifting through the hallway outside. And he made the air vibrate like a furious hummingbird, breaking into a lightbulb on the ceiling.
The two men rushed outside, and Santiago snapped back into action. He stood up and rushed to the other side of the room just as the door was closed.
„Zurük!” They shouted, and returned just as Santiago glanced back on his way out across the room. He then started to run.
„Halle Sechs!”
„Bericht ist da! Fangt ihn um jeden Preis“ A voice replied from the lower floor. More steps rushed through the staircase on the edges of the second floor of the convention center. Santiago sprinted and then turned left. More shadows appeared at the end of the hallway.
„Dahin!”
Volkspolizei. Or at least people working with them, produced their guns and aimed. Santiago jumped aside behind a steel bin, and the bullets bounced off, ringing into his ears.
„Nein! Fängt ihn im lebend!”

They wanted him alive. At least that meant no bullets. For now. What options did he have? His training. It had to give him an idea. Somebody once told him that in this war, rules were thrown out of the window. Everything was on the board.
Santiago stepped out with his hands in the air. The guns were risen once more.

„Ich ergebe mich. Bitte. Nicht schießen!“ He walked to the center of the hallway, facing the five men with their guns aimed at him from fifty meters away.
„Dem Gesicht nach unten auf dem Boden!“ one of the ordered. Santiago didn’t comply, and as the man started to yell the order once more, he sprinted to the other side of the hallway, into Halle four. Once more, bullets riddled the air behind him.

He ran across a room similar to the one he’d been hiding in, and quickly dashed between the rows of seats and jumped over the table. The people chasing him barged into the room, but didn’t open fire. He reached the door and made it into the southern hallway, quickly sprinting right over the red carpet. He looked back and saw people pointing and running behind him. The chasers also came out of the room and joined the race. Santiago gasped and ran as fast as he could. His shoes made a contant soft noise on the carpet and the hair on his head started to move and bounce, lighter and lighter.

A painful shock crawled up through his knees and thighs. Santiago lost control and fell to the ground, feeling his muscles contort and stretch. When he managed to move an arm, he used it to push himself and look ahead.
A man with a graphite jacket and an officer cap with a green band raised his hand as sparks emerged from his fingertips and arched towards the carpet.
“Stay down!” he said in broken English, then „Fange sie ihn!”
Behind Santiago, the pursuers started to walk towards him. He feared he was utterly done for. No. He had to act fast.

The metahuman had Santiago on his grip -figuratively speaking- and was glad this whole matter was about to be put to rest. Perhaps the kid would be sent to some reeducation center or something after questioning on the Lahnsteiner Straße shooting. With a bit of luck, he would reveal the location of the others.

Except another one appeared. A boy roughly the same age and height of the first one appeared out of Halle 1. He held a gun and rose it to the people moving in to arrest the first one. Hauke, as if he held a rope tying him to the downed boy, whipped it aside against the intruder. Sparks and arches rose from the carped against him, and just as he, in his hurry, set that part of the hallway on fire and scattered glass from the exploded frames, the oncoming VoPol opened fire in an attempt to save themselves. The wall was riddled and splinters flew in every direction.
The boy was getting up in the distraction. Hauke saw it and flicked his static charge at him. But before he could be done, another figure appeared right in front of him. Another boy. Same age. Same clothes, same face. But merely inches from his face. Frowning and seemingly ready to stab him with the knife in his hand. He didn’t see the details before he reacted. Hauke stepped back and then unleashed a charge on the new one. But nothing happened. The boy simply disappeared.

„Er flieht!” He yelled. The boy had gotten back on his feet and was running towards the window, emerging from the smoke under the faint sunlight.
More gunshots. The boy stumbled and the window before him shattered.

He then vanished, and another figure emerged from the smoke. Hauke turned his charge control again, but missed. The sparks and electric arcs bounced between the ceiling and the window frame, and barely touched the boy as he jumped off the window into the street below. The fire alarm triggered and water sprinkled down. Hauke and all those in the hallway felt the shock of his power, scattered and numbed, but enough to stop their breath for a second.

By the time they over came it and ran to the window it was too late. People looked in the direction of the corner, where the boy vanished.


N Level.

He saw Berlin. He was sure of that. The Brandeburg Door was almost illuminated. But it was a dark light, one that made no sense. Nothing really did. He’d managed to keep his eye on the boy as he was shot off through the Structure. He knew he’d made contact with 218 over there in Production, and he knew he’d then been returned to Berlin, where he was projecting from. But the way it worked escaped his understanding.

And more importantly. Berlin sat under a heavy disturbance. The canvas of his manifestation was rippled and shaken by the bubbles of nothingness over the city, and they had spread over Europe. This had happened some time before, and he wasn’t sure if the other Roots knew about it. He had to report.
Jason opened bis eyes. The shots in the hallway were ringing closer now, and he was alone in the gutterhole that served as his little temple of meditation. The petri dish was atop the cube. But the content in it was gone. The cube was dark. Impossibly dark, as a matter of fact, as it had fully absorbed 216’s DNA. Somehow, they were absolutely connected now.
Jason stood up and tried to remember the boy’s face.
“Menzendorf…” he whispered. Somehow he knew who it was. Moreso, why he and 218 had been so close during that moment of chaos. Hammerlich smiled at this strange choice from Fate. “Maybe there is something to Hail’s ideas. Now, why are they so silent?”

The shooting in the hallway had stopped, and he felt steps coming through the opening. A moment later, Dyke Rowan’s face emerged into the dim light. He didn’t seem to question the source of it, but Jason counted on that light for his survival. A light without a source.
“Governor… Oh, right. General Governor.”
Rowan frowned. Two men came behind him and stood at his side from above the gutter. One of them seemed to be wounded pretty badly, but held his composure and standing. Rowan himself had a bruise on his face.

“I assume my boys gave you the trouble I hopes they would.”
“They are dead. And so will you.” Rowan aimed his handgun at Jason. The Root smiled.
“Dead is a bit of an overstatement. It’s more like a temporary suspension.”
“You are mad, what’s what you are.”
“If anything, we are closer to sanity than anybody else, Governor. And you have been played by people more sane than you are.”

“Sir. We are running out of time. E…”
“E is about to fall.” confirmed Rowan. “And I am sure that only people the people above are going to be trapped both sides.”
“And let me guess, you have a plan to save them or something to bargain with?”
Jason chuckled and closed his eyes, amused. “Oh, no. Not at all. I don’t need to bargain. It’s just that your legitimacy as governor is running on fumes. Once E falls, you are done for.”
“I still have the IMs, you prick.”
“For now. My calculations are you won’t have them for long. I’ve made sure of it too.”

Dyke seemed to hesitate, and his hand trembled, still one flick of his finger away from shooting the young man in the face. Young. Jason thought about his real age and found the number funny.
“What is this?” protested the governor.
“I’ve got ways to interfere with neural paths. A little gift from our mutual friend 217. Well… gift isn’t quite the word.”
“You are a metahuman!”

The scientist scoffed, and walked towards the steps and out of the gutter. All three guns aimed at him, but none could shoot. “I am sure our enemies would not admit me into their circle. Not that it matters. Metahumans. Human Beings. The distinction is no longer important. What matters is what comes after them. And who actually makes it there. It’s a race, my good Governor. Whoever gets there first gets to be born anew. And right now, we are winning.”

All three pistols shot and their muzzle fire shed light on the walls and the floor. But not on Jason or on the wall behind him. It remained veiled in a shadow as thick as obsidian.
“Hammerlich!”
“Until next time, Governor General.” a voice replied. Old and deep. But it was, in a strange way, still the voice of Jason Hammerlich.

[Britanania]

Vatican City, Evening, September 3

The recess scattered the cardinals through the Domus Sanctae Marthae. In a small reception room overlooking the Vatican gardens, five cardinals had gathered around a table laid with untouched coffee and mineral water.

Cardinal Matthias von Eltz, Archbishop of Germania, stood beside the window. Tall and spare, with silver hair cut close to his scalp, he watched the lights of Rome without appearing to see them. Cardinal Konrad Weiss of Salzburg occupied the nearest chair, his hands folded upon his stomach. Across from him sat Cardinal Étienne de Villiers, the displaced Archbishop of Reims. The South American prelates had arrived together: Cardinal Paulo Neves of São Paulo, Cardinal Tomás Aguirre of Germania, and Cardinal Rodrigo da Câmara of Recife. For several moments they said nothing. Aguirre finally broke the silence.

“Primum scrutinium nihil ostendit praeter divisionem.”

Von Eltz turned from the window.

“Divisio exspectanda erat. Sed tanta dispersio suffragiorum periculosa est.”

Neves frowned.

“Periculosa cui? Ecclesiae, an iis qui eam regere volunt?”

Weiss shifted in his chair.

“Non est tempus suspicionibus. Pontificem eligere debemus, non hostem quaerere.”

De Villiers gave a tired smile.

“His temporibus saepe idem sunt.”

No one laughed. Cardinal da Câmara lowered his eyes to the coffee before him.

“Urbs mea adhuc clamat. Homines visiones viderunt. Pueri mortui sunt metu rerum quas parentes videre non poterant. Sacerdotes interrogantur utrum daemonia fuerint, an morbus, an arma. Responsum non habemus.”

Weiss crossed himself.

“Et tamen iam sunt qui morte Pontificis utantur ad causam suam promovendam.”

Aguirre looked toward him.

“Baines.”

Von Eltz walked back to the table.

“Cardinalis Baines senex est, sed non stultus. Non debemus eum iudicare solum ex fautoribus eius.”

Aguirre nodded

“Fautores eius satis dicunt. Volunt *Pro utilitate hominum* rescindere. Volunt quaestionem de metahominibus iterum aperire, quasi baptismus, sacramenta, et ipsa natura humana possint decreto mutari.”

De Villiers’s expression tightened.

“Quaestio numquam clausa est.”

Neves turned toward him.

“Quae quaestio? Utrum anima habeant?”

“Utrum potestas quae urbes delet, corpora mutat, mortuos suscitat, adhuc intra fines naturae humanae intellegi possit.”

“Potestas peccatum non est. Usus potestatis peccatum esse potest.”

De Villiers leaned forward.

“Facile est hoc dicere in São Paulo. Ego vidi Parisios.”

The room became still.

“Vidi homines e caelo rapi. Vidi ecclesias ardere. Vidi creaturas per vias currere quae neque homines neque bestiae erant. Nolite mihi dicere antiquas distinctiones sufficere.”

Da Câmara raised his head.

“Et tamen, cum homines in Recife moriebantur, non quaerebant an sacerdos humanus esset, metahumanus, an aliquid inter utrumque. Eucharistiam petebant. Absolutio­nem petebant. Deum petebant.”

Von Eltz rested both hands upon the back of an empty chair.

“Haec est difficultas. Si Baines eligitur et encyclicam suspendit, episcopi nostri statim cogentur respondere. Fideles metahumani rogabunt utrum Ecclesia eos adhuc filios suos putet.”

Aguirre’s mouth tightened.

“In Reich nostro quaestio non solum theologica erit.”

Weiss looked sharply at him.

“Explica.”

Aguirre met his gaze.

“Si novus Pontifex principes metahumanos vel ipsam naturam metahumanam damnat, regimen nostrum id pro declaratione hostilitatis habebit.”

Weiss raised an eyebrow.

“Ecclesia non potest doctrinam suam ex timore potestatis saecularis formare."

“Neque potest se gerere quasi potestates saeculares nihil valeant.”

Von Eltz’s voice hardened.

“Cave, Eminentia.”

Aguirre did not look away.

“Veritatem dico. Kaiserin viginti tres annos nata est, exercitus imperat, tempus sistere potest, et se defensuram esse existimat populum suum. Putatis eam tacite accepturam esse Pontificem qui subditos eius abominationes vocet?”

Neves scoffed.

“No one has proposed that language.”

“Not yet.”

Cardinal de Villiers looked from one South American to another.

“Ergo quid vultis? Pontificem qui Reich placeat?”

Neves answered before Aguirre could.

“Volumus Pontificem qui Ecclesiam non in bellum inutile ducat.”

“Bellum interdum vitari non potest.”

“Martyrio non est eundum propter superbiam.”

Weiss’s face reddened.

“Non superbia est doctrinam defendere.”

Da Câmara looked at Weiss

“Nec doctrina est timorem sanctificare.”

Outside, a breeze moved through the gardens. Leaves whispered beneath the windows, though the room remained warm.

Von Eltz eventually sat.

“Moretti?”

Neves shook his head.

“Italis nimis debet. Curiae nimis proximus est.”

“Bianchi?”

“Prudens. Fortasse nimis prudens.”

De Villiers nodded.

“Baines habet blocum constantem. Si suffragia reliqua manent dispersa, sufficiet ei paucos allicere.”

Aguirre poured water but did not drink.

“Tum dispersio finienda est.”

Von Eltz watched him carefully.

“Quid proponis?”

“Non Baines.”

“That is not a candidate.”

“Est principium.”

Weiss frowned.

“Conclave non est senatus. Non possumus factiones politicas componere quasi de ministeriis agatur.”

Aguirre gestured toward the closed door.

“Et tamen hoc iam omnes faciunt.”

No one contradicted him.

Cardinal Neves folded his hands.

“Europaei inter se divisi sunt. Alii Baines timent, alii Moretti, alii influxum Hikawae. Americani timorem habent ne Pontifex eos condemnet. Africani et Asiatici nolunt iterum papam Europaeum qui bella Europaeorum agat.”

Aguirre looked at him.

“Et cardinales Reich Europaei?”

Von Eltz considered the question.

“Volumus Ecclesiam liberam.”

Aguirre’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“A Morrígana? A principibus Germaniae? Ab omnibus praeter Romam?”

“Ab omnibus.”

“Etiam si libertas illa nihil aliud sit quam solitudo?”

De Villiers looked toward Aguirre with open irritation.

“Vos in America Meridionali libertatem facile contemnitis. Regimen vestrum Ecclesiam tolerat dum utilis est.”

Aguirre’s face remained controlled.

“Et Morrígan Ecclesiam tolerat quia nondum eam devorare voluit.”

The Archbishop of Reims rose halfway from his chair.

Von Eltz lifted a hand.

“Satis.”

De Villiers settled back, though his eyes remained fixed on Aguirre.

Von Eltz continued.

“Non hic sumus ut dominos nostros comparemus. Quaestio est quis Ecclesiam ducere possit per hoc tempus sine schismate.”

Neves sighed.

“Tum vir eligendus est qui encyclicam Leonis servet. Sed non videatur instrumentum cuiusquam Domus.”

Weiss nodded slowly.

“Bianchi fortasse.”

Aguirre turned.

“Bianchi exspectabit donec crisis eum superet. ”

“Moretti fortior est.”

“Moretti Vaticanum administrabit. Mundum non intelliget.”

Da Câmara finally reached for his cup, though the coffee had gone cold.

“Fortasse nullus eorum sufficit.”

Von Eltz looked at him.

“Alium habes?”

Da Câmara shook his head.

“Nondum. Sed primum scrutinium demonstravit cardinales nomen exspectare quod nondum ausi sunt scribere.”