Chapter Text
Micro kicked the dirt, hard and fuming he was, so many lives were lost just in the span of a few hours.
His friends were slaughtered, many of his customers and allies were all probably dead too. He hissed, deep down—the only person he blamed was himself.
If only he weren’t such a greedy man, if only he led the Canadian Cartel to a different path; one far away from the harsh wars. He couldn’t, and he never will anymore. He is a murderer, his friends’ blood are on his hands. It would haunt him for the rest of his life.
He shouldn’t even be alive right now, he was supposed to be dead. The only reason he was alive was because of just dumb luck. Out of everyone—why must he be the only survivor? Why couldn’t it have been someone else, someone more worthy, someone who actually deserved the blessing of living. Not him.
People only realise the value of life when death shows up, unannounced and prepared to take someone they care for away.
To live in the present is a gift, but for Micro—it felt more of a punishment, to continue living off of his friends’ legacies with the guilt of killing them strapped to his shoulders.
He cursed the universe under his breath, how it led everything to dust, how its misguidance turned his friends into just their heads. Someone had to pay.
Thinking back on his past memories with the dead, he vividly recalled the robber from Tricolour. His fists clenched together, knuckles shaking and teeth gritting.
If only that little pest hadn’t stolen from the cartel, they would’ve never had to be involved in the war.
Micro emerges onto the land of Tricolour, thoughtless and desperate to vent out his rage on the nation that was responsible for everything. Even if he were to destroy Pandora, that wouldn’t satisfy him enough.
He traversed around the land of Tricolour mindlessly, wandering around with a plot of vengeance forming inside.
Micro stopped in his tracks, if Tricolour dared to steal from the cartel, he could do the same.
The question was how—how was he going to pull it off, with no friends, no proper plans and a burning anger buried in his chest.
“Excuse me,” Micro says, with a fake sanguine smile.
The unknowing citizen of Tricolour smiled back, making Micro feel slightly guilty for what he was going to do. “How may I help you Sir?”
He kept the act playing. “I’m a tourist from Harbourbloom, could you tell me any spectacles of Tricolour? I would love to visit them before I return.”
“There’s a statue of our late queen, you should definitely pay a visit!” The citizen suggested, pointing towards the shores.
“Thank you,” Micro replies, his smile slightly faltering.
He takes off in the direction of the supposed statue, a breath of relief released from his lungs. It was still a miracle of how ‘composed’ he was right now, normally he would’ve stammered in his speech and had stutters everywhere but now—he was fired up, adrenaline pumping through his veins and arteries.
He dragged his feet across the ground, exhausted by the war he was in. He looked like he’d seen better days, he really did.
He hated how even after the ravages of war, Tricolour was still floating smoothly, living off of his wealth and being more alive than ever. If only he were some master conspirator; able to diminish civilisations with a single flick of his hand.
It wasn’t fair, everything wasn’t.
His friends, his life, his comfort.
He reached the shores of Tricolour, eyes meeting a large memorial statue of Jophiel—the late queen of Tricolour that died some way or another. His face furrowed seeing the shiny golden crown reflecting into his eyes, resentment took over and he made his move.
Micro scaled upwards the monument, climbing from the sword the statue was holding. His legs were weak, almost as if they were going to snap at any given moment. He persevered, slowly making his way up the statue.
Reaching the peak of the build, Micro took out a diamond pickaxe, gripping it tightly. The air pressure at this height was harsh and unforgiving, he had to make this quick and flee without being caught.
Staring down at the land of Tricolour, it played as an exacerbation of his anguish he had towards the nation. His fumes aggravated, he wanted to make the world pay; to compensate for taking his friends away from him.
But he couldn’t, he couldn’t bring himself to do that.
Banana should be the one doing it, not him. He envied Banana’s boldness, dedication and energy. He could never imitate it.
Micro broke down the golden crown, he went all this way up here—might as well take his vexation out. His mind was getting distorted, thoughts overwriting each other, and feelings overlapping.
Then,
“Stop right there!” A voice yells, short circuiting Micro’s brain.
He froze, the sight below was daunting, people were watching in horror as he stole their late queen’s golden crown in broad daylight. Micro gasped, pickaxe slipping out of his palms with the gold left unpicked.
He stepped backwards, turning around—looking for any escape routes. It was a dead end. Either he jumped into the water or climbed down and ran.
Time was ticking, each second he was lost in his thoughts, was an extra second for the people of Tricolour.
He made his choice.
And he sat where he stood.
He really was the stupidest criminal in history. Patiently awaiting for his arrest, without a single thought of aggression.
His friends would’ve been laughing at him, and they probably are currently. His gaze shifted upwards in the sky, where his deceased friends watched over him. “I miss you guys,” he whispers, a small droplet of water drops, absorbing into the statue’s surface.
He doesn’t expect a reply, there was never a recipient in the first place.
And there he was, going to rot inside a cell for the rest of his life—mourning over the losses of his friends to war. Maybe the thought of freedom was his last will to live.
The guard was getting closer, Micro sighed as his last few seconds up here came to an abrupt departure.
“Man in a neon yellow hazmat suit, you are arrested for the crime of robbing from the Kingdom of Tricolour!” The guard yells, pulling out ropes that Micro assumed he was going to use to strangle him.
“Fine by me,” Micro says, giving his hands out. “Pass the rope to me, I can do it for you.”
“Hmph, let’s see what the judge will have to say for you Sir! Glory to Tricolour!” The guard replies, hooping the rope around Micro’s wrists, before securing it tightly into a knot.
The guard pulled the rope hard, pulling Micro forward as they descended down the monument. He kept his head low, staring at the ground he was walking on as he headed closer to the people.
He was pelted with rotten eggs, tomatoes and even salt water, straight from the sea. He didn’t fight back, only kept his head down in shame as he took the hits. His hair was already a mess of grease and oil from the fighting he went through and his skin was sweaty enough for the hazmat suit to stick on.
He was stupid, idiotic enough to think he could pull it off alone.
Micro really was nothing without the Canadian Cartel.
The judge banged their gavel on the round sound board, their frustration and disgust echoed through the courtroom. Micro didn’t even try defending himself, he knew he was wrong and that was the end of the story.
“Guilty!” The judge ruled out their verdict, the bang of their mallet caused Micro’s ears to ring. The courtroom erupted into a sonorous cheer of delight, and justice had been delivered.
Micro stared down, mind blank as his ears distorted the insults hurled towards him. He was verily going to prison, and spent the rest of his life inside a cramped cell with limited sunlight reaching in.
The guard pulled the rope, dragging the hapless Micro forward. “We’ll be transferring you over to Luminara, Legacy will take you in… scum.”
Micro lifted his head upwards for the first time in a while, he never imagined someone would talk to him with so much venom in their tone. “…Alright,” he replies, subtly nodding his head.
He bowed his head down, walking out of the courtroom like a dog on a leash he was, pathetic and shameless. Deep down, he hated how he hadn’t gone back first to at least make a memorial for his late friends.
Boarding the wooden boat, the guard wrapped the rope around their waist, hands on the paddles—waiting for the other squads.
The currents looked gentle, calm and tranquil, the opposite of Micro before everything happened. How he longed for those days where he had someone to experience life with.
The boat started to move, across from the sea was the thriving land of Yggdrasil, in spite of its geographical disadvantage from Pandora, the people were still able to build up civilisations with their scraps. It was impressive, something Micro had never expected. Micro never got the chance to visit Westhelm in his time in the war, he never realised how pulchritudinous it was up close. The grand colosseum was truly a spectacular work of architecture.
The boat set sail off of the coast of Tricolour towards Luminara. Micro wondered why Luminara? Did Tricolour seriously not have their own prisons built? Was he the first ever recorded criminal in Tricolour?
The answers he desired for would all be declined, there was no point in trying to ask.
Arriving at the port of Luminara, Micro was greeted with a load of purple. His eyes gleamed with recognition, that flag he had seen on some people’s shields in the Infernus war.
He’d heard of Luminara before, the nation that was planning on building a bridge over to Yggdrasil, and from the looks of it—it was finished by now.
The Tricolour guard dragged Micro towards the Luminaran guard, “this one’s obedient, but don’t let your guard down.” The Tricolour guard warned, handing over the leash as if Micro were a pet.
Micro could feel the guard glaring darts at him, he kept his head down and followed them compliantly.
Reaching a building not so far away, Micro raised an eyebrow, “is… this it?”
“You’ll be sharing this ‘cell’ with someone, but they won’t be here for any longer anyway”
Micro frowned, this wasn’t the prison he was expecting, it looked more like house arrest compared to the dirty cell he was expecting.
The guard tapped their key card in, the red stone door opened up, revealing a cozy cottage. Micro’s jaw practically fell out, this was more of a hotel rather than a prison to lock him up.
“Have fun with that… weirdo,” the Luminaran guard says, waving off and shutting the red stone door close.
“Weirdo?” Micro asks, looking around; confused.
“They’re talking about me,” a voice interjects in, revealing a brown haired man in a purple blazer. “Hello, my great saviour.”
Their eyes met, locking in, despite no prior meeting. Micro blinks, dumbfounded.
“Saviour…?” He asks, confused.