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"Don't worry dear..."

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"All those other little emotions..."

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"Cast them aside."

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"Yes..."

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"My daughter... Just..."

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"Trust me."

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"You're remembering again."

To a cold yet gentle, male voice. A black haired woman widens her purple eyes as she flinches herself up. As the winter-like wind shrill its way across her locks, the shining stars above her reflect their light onto the shimmering city below them.

Sighing as she leans her arms onto the cold metal of the roof's trim, she looks to her side to a fierce man- an archangel sitting beside her, staring off to the bright city and sky. He has a pair of bold green eyes that are glowing through the night. With a pale complexion that contrasts his rogue-like dark clothes, his black, feathered wings spread themselves wide, matching his wavy hair that halfway covers his right eye.

Twirling her own hair around her finger, the purple eyed dark fae, Azayaka looks at the man with a bored expression as she tugs his leather jacket, "You still got any rolls left?"

Briefly widening his eyes, he glances at her. With a faint sigh, he hands her a churro-shaped cinnamon roll the size of a pinky.

With a silent giggle, she accepts his offer and takes a bite.

"You really like it here, huh?" The man says as she munches on the pastry.

"Hmm..." She only hums. Her silent munch continuing the conversation.

The faint sound of car sirens combined with the whooshing gush flow with the air. The flickering lights above them together with the overseeing crescent moon blink on and off with the passing clouds. All those sounds and sights captivate the pause of their words, they both fixate their eyes onto the sky, captivated by the simple and short moment. Though eventually, the man turns eager to continue his reply.

"You know..." He stands up, crossing his arm as he looks down onto the woman, "A little birdie told me that you... Killed someone. Without any given order."

Azayaka silently grits her teeth as she flicks away some sticky particles of sugar.

The man turns his eyes away, continuing with cold, blunt words, "Now, cuz of that... The Knights are back on our tail after years and years of us successfully hiding under the radar," He sighs as he glances at her, "Tell me. Why exactly did you do that?"

She closes her eyes to read her own thoughts. As she brushes her hair away from her eyes, she tilts her head at him and greets him with a pair of half lidded eyes.

"If she was the one there... Then, you would've done the same-"

Her head scatters into purple butterflies in impact to a sudden stab of a dagger-like feather. It is glowing a faint, sinister and black-ish green and held by none other than the archangel.

"Heheh, caught a nerve didn't I?" Her mouth reforms first into a smirk, then the rest of her face into a delighted stare.

"Tch," he pulls away his feather, it vanishing into a thin wisp of black mist.

"You're so..." He purses his lips, "Annoying," He bats a pair of cold eyes, "grow up."

She smirks as she swings her hanging legs forward and back, "Says the guy who can't take a joke."

Whooshes, sways, breezes- those three words of winds come and go all through the night of the Central City. Within the confines of these rows and rows of tall skyscrapers, one of them- located some distance away from the pair through dots of colorful lights, suddenly shoots out a yellow beam of spotlight to the sky.

After they both looks at that beam of light, the two bat an eye at each other before the man grumbles, "It's time. Get ready."

"Hmm..." She hums, her eyes staying sleepy.

The man spreads his black wings wide as he glances at Azayaka with a pair of cold, sharp eyes. Then with just one flap, he leaps off the building, his wings creating a massive breeze as he flies towards the darkness of the clouds with a quick and fierce, bullet-like speed, leaving only his dimly glowing feathers for her to follow.

Standing up on the ledge of the roof, Azayaka closes her eyes as she brushes her hair behind her sharp elven-like ear, ending her preparation with a sigh.

This... always tires me.

With a sound similar to a tickling rain, the back of her waist emits a tint of bright and vivid, purple scales. Those scales soon form two pairs of clear, butterfly wings that pierce through the exposed back of her waist- Skittering, flapping, rustling, they are embroidered with glowing purple veins that form mesmerizing patterns on each wing.

After stretching her wings, she steps forward, leaning the tip of her shoes off the edge of the roof as if challenging its height. And thus with a sigh, she leaps off and floats towards the clouds, following the feathers left behind by the archangel with owl-like silent flaps.

Through the thick clouds she quietly flutters. The gray cottons of evaporated water spray her face like a really light mists of perfume, only lacking in scent. Scattered in farfetched clusters in front of her, the feathers of the archangel's wings glow green like road lights.

The silent flutters of her wings follow the scattered feathers. Till eventually, the trail of glowing green leads downward to a rooftop of a skyscraper- A fancy hotel sitting within the city's region of elitist. A bright and colorful region plagued with digital billboards advertising prestige and branded names to the rich, cunning, and those blessed with luck.

She lands on the rough, concrete roof with a graceful yet silent landing. As she rises up, she swings her hair back, eyeing her surroundings at the same time.

Her partner, the Archangel, is already there. With his wings folded, he sits beside the glass dome of the hotel that emits the yellow beacon of light.

"Inside. Look," He says as she observes how his floating feathers decays to thin air, though his grunt quickly prompts her to approach.

As her wings retract back to her flesh in the same manner of their emergence, she kneels beside him, both observing the sight under the glass dome. It's a big room, roughly the size of a basketball court complete with a large, curtain-covered stage on the side of the room. Humans, animalias, demons, even aliens in their own accord of formal outfits and fancy dresses sit at round tables covered with white cloths and plated with gourmet food.

Then, a few moments after, the light shining down onto the people snaps off as another beams onto the stage, causing the people to glance at it. Thus the pair of red curtains call open and a new face greets themself under the spotlight.

"Welcome, dearest guests! To the sixth annual auction of Arte!" A voice sounding of a woman's entangled with that of a man's echoes out from a humanoid, mushroom-headed alien who's standing on the middle of the stage with a mic in front of him.

As the alien suit taps the mic, the two watching from above lean in closer to the glass, "Keep on look out," The archangel says, which his partner nods to.

"Now, as you gentlemen and ladies might know. This yearly auction will feature lots and lots of artifacts, jewels, even weapons salvaged from the ruins of the Previous Era! And of course, it'll be more and more expensive with each upcoming year so do prepare your bucks everybody!"

At that, the audience, the group of elitists that have gathered here from all over the four nations cheers and whistles in excitement. Though the pair of outsiders above them stay silent.

"Now, before we cut to the chase, let me first mention the sponsors of this year's auction. This event won't be possible without their funding so... Ehm..." The alien opens up a folded paper.

"### corps and ### group. Organization of ###. ### circle..." The alien continues on and on.

"Tch... Does he really need to read out an entire movie script for that?" The birdman complains.

"I don't know. Events like this probably has a lot of backers. So," Azayaka respond, tuning out the list of those corporate entities, "But I do wonder... What if that-"

"The Morganiel Corp. The ### corp. The ### cult..."

Coming from the auctioneer, that sudden mention to that specific corporate entity freezes the both of them.

"Huh... Guess he's part of this too. Tch, what a stingy bastard. With how loaded he is he could've bought all these stuff himself," The archangel grits his teeth.

"Agreed," Azayaka nods as she leans on her knee.

"Now, with that out of the way! Let's continue on to our first item! You all must be impatient huh?"

To the middle of the stage, two women stroll in an iron carriage covered by a piece of cloth. As the crowd looks in anticipation, the auctioneer unbinds the said cloth, revealing a sharp and shining golden feather, lying comfortably on a red satin pillow inside a cube-shaped glass.

"Now here we have the magnificent golden feather of the Garuda! This golden feather is said to have the ability to power more than thirty nuclear or solar power plants at once with its sun-like magical aura. And considering that, as a starting bid, I'll raise this off with 150.000 Rouss! Come on, come on! Everyone's free to raise!"

The moment the auctioneer announces that price, half of the guests in the room start to bid one by one, each bidding at least one digit higher than the previous.

"Which one are we supposed to steal again?" Azayaka asks as her eyeballs glimmer from the golden feather's vivid reflection.

At her question, he sighs as he furrows his brows at her, "Find and grab the eyeballs. And then we leave."

"And 160.000 offered by number 067! Do I hear 170.000?"

"Just another hit and run I see," She rolls her eyes, sighing as she leans her back onto the glass.

"Stop slacking off, idiot. Hurry up and find them. When they're distracted with that feather."

"Tch. Only if you stop calling me an idiot," She stares at the sky that is still showing its stars vividly despite the light around her.

"And sold! To number 457! With 456.000 Rouss! Congratulations!"

"What're you waiting for? Go in."

And once again, she rolls her eyeballs from his brash words.

"Now! The suction cup of Lord Cthulhu! Though its capabilities remain a mystery, this is the only one in the world since Lord Cthulhu's passing! So be precise with your money ladies and gentlemen! Let's start this off with... 700.000 Rouss!"

"I'll just wait until they bring out the thing," She purses her lips.

"You know what... You do you," With a frustrated sigh, he pulls out a small yet suspicious, thin layer of green bundle paired with a lighter in his other hand.

"Don't think it's a good idea to get high. In this supposedly important mission involving our life," She blatantly states the fact.

"I'm an archangel. I don't get high that easily," He lifts the lighter, heating up the tip of his roll.

Waving away the smoke, she only smirks to him, "Is that so? Is that why you always pass out after one drink?"

"..."

"Were you always this annoying?"

"Heh."

"And now... Ladies and gentlemen! Here we have the Sacred Eyes of The Triangles! This cursed artifact has eaten many of its previous owner's life! So bid by your own risk! 800.000 Rouss would be a place to start!"

The alien's strange voice echoes through the glass. The object he's promoting beside him is a small, golden pyramid the size of a mug with a plethora of multi-colored eyes stuck onto each of its sides, glaring and spinning its pupils at its surroundings.

The audience gawk at the sight, though just as quick, they begin to enthusiastically whisper to each other.

"It's time," The archangel glances sharply at her.

"I know," She replies, sighing to herself.

Without another word, she stands up and pulls on her mask, letting the beam of bright yellow light paint her front as her hair ruffles itself to the wind. She then begins to narrow her eyes towards the center of the stage, to the floor right beside the displayed pyramid. With a sharp focus towards the main stage, her body begins to dissipate into a thin and faint, wisp of purple energy. From the tip of her fingers, the tip of her nose, each end of her hair's strand and the most outer curve of her butt, her body continues to disintegrate with chilling silence. Till eventually, all that is left is a weaving cluster of purple mist that too turns to just boring air.

"Now! On the top is 2.000.000 Rouss from number 218! Do I hear higher??" The auctioneer yells as he slams his hammer to its pad with enthusiasm.

"..." His guests respond with silence.

"Um... Well, I guess that's a sale then!"

The mushroom-headed alien expects some cheerful yet respectful claps, but what comes after are some series of loud gasps. Based on where his audience is looking, he glances to his right to see a black haired and masked woman in black attires, holding the precious artifact with curiosity.

"Hey, who the hell is that woman?"

"What is she doing there?"

"Is this staged?"

Responding to those comments, the auctioneer pulls out a revolver, aiming it at the woman, causing the audience to scream in panic.

"Everyone! It's alright! The auction would be back to normal in a few moments... There's a technical mistake as you can see here," He reassures with a nervous laugh before turning his attention to her, "Whoever you are. Put it back. Or I'll shoot."

At that, she glances at him, eyes half opened without flinching to his words.

Tilting his head in confusion, the auctioneer goes back to glaring with his many, dot-like eyes. The securities in the area; automated, humanoid machineries dressed in formal attires gather around the stage with loud, janky footsteps. As the audience gawk and gasp, the robots' brick-like visors scan the mysterious woman with rays of mechanical green lights, from her leather boots, to her tight pants, then to her fishnet covered abdomen, before stopping at her... Not quite but actually flat chest.

"[TARGET. LOCKED.]" The robots signal their automated, translator-like voice. From their backs, four extendable, tube-shaped appendages emerge, each equipped with sharp pincers that have rubber ends at their tips.

With a gun pointing at her and with God knows how many tentacles that are prepared to do unspeakable things to her, she doesn't move an inch. She only says one thing.

"Tch. Perverts."

In unison, all of the robotic, pincered tentacles shoot towards her with intense speed. Preparing to do the said unspeakable things; arresting her like how normal securities would do.

But inches before those rubber tips touch her delicate skin, her body decays to flutters of purple butterflies as if she's a pile of paper blown by the wind, causing some of the robots to entangle themselves with each other. The butterflies then cluster around the stage like a tornado of glowing flowers. Like normal people would, the audience shoot out into panic and flee the scene, leaving only the calculating robots and the confused auctioneer.

"[TARGET MISSING. TARGET MISSING. TARGET MISSING.]" The automated voices all flare with uncoordinated mess, all of their scanners looking and scanning at each one of the butterflies like looking for a needle in a fine stash of hay.

Though after what feels like hours, with the rows and rows of scanning lights beaming onto the butterflies, one robot sends out a different signal than the others.

"[TARGET FOUND. TARGET FOU]-"

"!!!" A clean slash ends its call, causing all of its peers to glance at it, just to see their target holding out a thin dagger over their comrade's clean, decapitated scar that is oozing with green oil and sparkling with electricity.

Her purple eyes coldly lock themselves with the robots' visors, before she sighs to herself.

Once again, she scatters her body into a tornado of butterflies. As the opposition rise to their incoherent scanning again, she reforms behind a robot, slash off its head, then scatters to another in an almost rhythmical manner. With each sharp slash, comes at least one clank of metal falling to the floor, continuing with an interlude of electric sparks and wireless roars.

Till it all comes down to the auctioneer.

Once the sounds of blitzing electricity dims down, when all of the robots fall limp onto the floor, she reforms in front of the alien with her sharp dagger in hand, tilting her head when she sees that he himself is doing the same.

Huh... Is he... Stupid? He has all that time to run. Why didn't he? By this point. He knows that a simple gun like that won't hurt me. Right?

Not letting him a chance to respond to her own inner monologue, with speed rivaling that of a bullet, she dashes past him with her dagger held out. After a second, a waterfall of purple blood splatters from his neck as he falls to the ground, now as dead as the robots before him.

I really didn't need to incapacitate him. But, when he still stands there without doing anything... He's asking for it.

Tch. That bird better not yell at me. Well, he must've seen the whole thing, he'll understand. Besides, he's the one that chose not to come down and help anyways. What an asshole.

Throwing away her excessive overthinking with faint slaps to her cheeks, she approaches the Triangle artifact, the latter widening its eyes as she lifts it up and spins it around, observing it.

And with each eye contact she makes, the Triangle keeps on narrowing its eyes in a condescending manner, yet with its size, it only looks like a spoiled brat more than anything.

"Huh, you're kinda cute," She smirks, though the Triangle rolls its eyes.

"Surely, that old man's gonna lov-"

"!!!"

With a bang, something hard and hot hit her left shoulder, bringing with it a searing pain. Her left shoulder now emits wisps of faint smoke as a ringing of a gunshot echoes through her eardrums.

"Eh?" Still with shock, she drops the Eyes of Triangle to the floor, she feels nothing when she discovers that her left shoulder is now burned to a charcoal-like crisp. But the moment she sees the wound, the pain slowly but surely seethes in. The sensation of having her body burned like a piece of paper accompanied by the hissing sound her own regenerating cells emit. It fills her brain and widens her eyes, though her mouth stays unmoving.

"Stay in place. Or else," A buzzing and robotic monotone voice said.

To it, she glances behind to see that the splattered purple blood together with the remains of the auctioneer is no longer present. On his last position, a feminine, masked figure in a black suit with the collar of a jester stands. To the faint wind, her pair of harlequin-like black pigtails chime their intricate, silver accessories. Her mask; a white face embedded with blank, pitch black eyes and a pair of tears weave its smile wide as a cloud of smoke swirls over the tip of the revolver she aims.

"A doppelganger... Huh..." Azayaka mumbles as she tries to ignore the searing heat on her shoulder.

"Assassin of The Wings; Butterfly Phantasm. You are to follow my orders without resistance. Failure to comply would result in your death."

The holder of that codename chuckles before sighing to herself, "I assume the gun you're holding holds silver bullets then?"

The doppelganger stays silent as she approaches, her other hand conjuring out a handcuff that shines with the light a silver tint.

Holding her left arm as she flinches back, Azayaka only stares blankly. Though that blankness changes to a cynical smirk the moment a shadow casts itself right onto the masked woman.

Suddenly the glass roof shatters, with it, a faint torpedo of darkness comes crashing down onto the stage, creating a cloud of wood chips and dusts on impact, though from it, the masked woman jumps back, unscathed from the ambush.

"Huh. What a conveniently perfect timing," Azayaka snarks.

As the flurry of dust fades away, a silhouette of a man with a pair of wing flies out of it to land in front of Azayaka, revealing himself as the green eyed archangel, now equipped with a crow-like mask.

"Idiot... You could've died," He coldly remarks to the woman behind him, now with a slightly muffled voice.

"Well, I didn't. But..." She looks to her charred shoulder, "This'll take a while to heal."

Widening and sharpening his feathers, the Archangel turns his attention back to the masked woman, who is steadily approaching, her pistol aimed and ready.

"Ah, another from that wretched organization... It is quite the pleasure to meet you, mister Fallen Angel," The masked woman bows down to him gracefully, before snapping back to aiming her gun, "But... It is quite a shame. To be meeting in this predicament."

Cold wind begins to leak through the glass roof to caress the heavy atmosphere. As each one of the figures in the room eyes each side down, each with deadly intentions.

Though behind the backstage curtain. Sit a certain fox, with a pink haired unicorn and a sassy cyclop by his sides, all eavesdropping on the situation with clouds of concern circling over the fox's eyes.

"Be prepared. The Chief won't double down on her signals," The cyclop whispers with a deadpan voice.

"I know..." The fox, Ren sighs, eyes locked in determination, "I'll do my best."

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