04/12/2012, Grigori HQ, Afternoon
The world reassembled itself from a vortex of disorienting light and pressure with a sudden, silent pop.
Makoto's senses recalibrated, the faint nausea of teleportation subsiding as he found himself standing on the cool, polished floor of an immense chamber. The air here was different—sterile, humming with a low-frequency energy, and tinged with the distinct scents of ozone, hot metal, and old parchment.
He stood in the heart of what could only be described as organized chaos. The room was a cathedral of science and sorcery, vast and illuminated by the soft, blue-white glow of countless monitors and enchanted crystals embedded in the high, arched ceiling.
Workbenches of brushed steel and dark, polished wood were arranged in long rows, each one a landscape of incredible invention. They were littered with a dizzying array of devices, from the mundane—screwdrivers, spools of wire, soldering irons—to the utterly arcane.
One contraption nearby resembled a complex medical scanner, but with prongs that crackled with violet energy; another was a sphere of interlocking brass rings that rotated slowly around a core of pulsating light, humming a faint, melodic tone.
Scattered among the hardware were piles of notes, schematics scrawled on everything from pristine vellum to crumpled napkins, each dense with formulas and sketches that blurred the line between advanced physics and magical runes.
"This is my sanctuary, Messiah. My laboratory," Azazel announced, his voice brimming with a pride that was almost paternal. He gave himself a satisfied pat on the shoulder, his wings rustling softly as he gestured to the magnificent clutter surrounding them.
"The heart of Grigori's research and development. Every breakthrough, every understanding of Sacred Gears, starts right here."
Makoto's grey eyes swept across the room, taking in the breathtaking scope of it. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
'Fuuka would love this place,' he thought immediately, a clear image of the shy navigator from S.E.E.S. flashing in his mind, her eyes wide with wonder as she traced the circuits of some fallen angel gadget.
'She wanted to be an engineer, right?' His gaze lingered on a bench dedicated solely to intricate electronic components, a soldering station still warm, its green LED eye blinking patiently. The meticulous order amidst the chaos reminded him of her.
The heavy door to the lab hissed open, and a woman with sleek, dark hair tied in a severe bun entered, her attention completely absorbed by the tablet she held. She wore a tailored purple suit that spoke of efficiency and authority.
"Azazel, you're finally back," she said without looking up, her voice crisp and professional. "I have the preliminary report from the Slash/Dog team. Baraqiel has already reviewed it and thinks—"
Her sentence died abruptly as she finally glanced up, her violet eyes scanning past Azazel and landing on Makoto. She blinked once, a slow, deliberate motion. Then again. Her breath hitched. The tablet in her hands trembled slightly.
"He's... He's..." she stammered, her professional composure shattering. She pulled off her glasses, polished them hastily on her jacket, and put them back on, as if doubting her own vision.
"Penemue," Azazel said, a subtle, teasing smile playing on his lips. He was clearly enjoying her reaction. "It's considered somewhat rude to gawk at a guest like that."
"Guest?" Penemue's voice was a shocked whisper, then rose in volume. "Azazel, he's the Messiah! You weren't... you weren't exaggerating! It's... it's so obvious! I can feel it just by looking at him!" Her finger, still slightly unsteady, was pointed directly at Makoto.
While the two fallen angels conversed, Makoto's attention had been drawn to a specific workbench. At its center, held in a complex cradle of articulated arms, was a device that seemed both mechanical and organic.
It pulsed with a soft, rhythmic light, and intricate, vein-like patterns of gold and silver traced across its dark surface. It was beautiful, but it radiated a strange, possessive aura.
'I don't like iiiit,' Fafnir's voice creaked in Makoto's mind, laced with unusual distaste. 'It feeeels like me... a hollow, hungry thing.'
A sound like smoke struggling to escape clogged pipes echoed faintly in the mental space the Personas shared.
"Oh, taking an interest in my projects?" Azazel asked, his tone brightening, pleased to see Makoto's curiosity. He seemed to relish having an audience that could appreciate his work on a fundamental level. "Penemue can pull up the research summaries for any of them if you'd like. The theoretical frameworks are particularly fascinating."
Penemue, with a visible effort, wrestled her shock back under control. She took a deep, steadying breath, smoothing her jacket. "It is... an honor to make your acquaintance, Messiah," she said, offering a deep, respectful bow of her head, her voice now carefully measured, though a tremor of awe still lingered beneath the surface.
Makoto simply nodded in return, a silent acknowledgment. He wasn't sure of the proper protocol for being bowed to by an ancient, powerful being.
"By the way, Azazel," Penemue continued, her professional demeanor mostly restored, though her eyes kept flicking back to Makoto with a kind of reverent anxiety. "Do you truly believe no one else will... sense him? His presence, while not overtly aggressive, is profoundly unique."
"Only we Cadres, and those with a specific sensitivity to conceptual energies, will be able to perceive his true nature," Azazel explained, his expression turning more serious.
"To the rest of the organization, he's just a human I've taken a personal interest in—a unique Sacred Gear user with a potent holy-type weapon. It's the simplest cover story." His answer didn't seem to fully satisfy Penemue's concerns, but she gave a reluctant nod, understanding the necessity of the subterfuge.
"Now, you were saying about the report?" Azazel prompted, taking the tablet from her and scrolling through the data.
"Tobio and his team have been tracking a significant surge in rogue yokai activity over the past several weeks," Penemue reported, her voice all business once more.
"Their attacks are becoming bolder and more coordinated. They're targeting our remote outposts across Japan, but also sites belonging to the Church and even a few isolated Devil holdings." Azazel hummed thoughtfully as he read, his eyes scanning the lines of text and tactical maps.
'Rogue yokai forming large-scale alliances is rare, but not unprecedented,' Azazel mused internally. 'Concerning, but I don't see the critical pattern yet.'
"Why does Baraqiel think this is so urgent?" Azazel asked aloud. "They seem like a normally troublesome, if slightly more organized, bunch of rogues."
"Tobio engaged one of their lieutenants, an oni of considerable strength," Penemue clarified. "He confirmed its elimination. However, a scout from a different team reported a sighting of an oni matching the exact same description—and bearing the same wounds—today on Tsushima. Baraqiel has already diverted a reconnaissance squad to investigate the island thoroughly."
At the mention of an oni, Makoto turned his full attention away from the strange device and back to the conversation. "I fought an oni in Kuoh two days ago," he stated calmly.
The statement landed with the weight of a stone in water. Azazel looked up from the tablet, his interest sharpening. Penemue's eyes widened. She quickly took the tablet back, her fingers flying across the screen before she turned it to show Makoto a high-resolution image.
It was a detailed sketch of a specific armor ornament: a stark, black, withered flower with thirteen cruel thorns, all enclosed within a blood-red square.
"Did the oni you fought bear this symbol?" she asked, her voice tight.
Makoto looked at the image. It was unmistakable. The same symbol had been embossed on Kazan Ishikagawa's pauldron. He gave a single, firm nod.
"Yes."
A grim silence fell over the lab. Azazel's playful demeanor vanished entirely, replaced by the sharp focus of a strategist. "Resurrection or replication... either option is deeply troubling. We better look into this with more than just a scout team," he declared. "But that is a problem for later this evening. Right now, we have other introductions to make."
Leaving the humming laboratory behind, they moved into the sleek, quieter corridors of Grigori's headquarters. The architecture was a blend of futuristic minimalism and ancient, angelic grandeur, with soft light emanating from the walls themselves. As they walked, Penemue fell into step beside Makoto, attempting to make conversation, though her nerves were palpable.
"S-so, Mess—ehm, Makoto," she began, correcting herself with a slight flush. "You, uh, enjoy music? I see you have a player with you." She gestured awkwardly to the MP3 player clipped to his belt.
The conversation that followed was stilted and halting. Penemue seemed caught between treating him like a revered deity and a teenage visitor, resulting in a painfully awkward mix of both. Her mind was racing, a torrent of unspoken questions and implications.
'Even if he could rewind the Fall of just one low-class angel, the consequences would be... unimaginable. Heaven would sense it instantly. The entire precarious balance of the last five centuries could shatter in a moment.' The sheer weight of his potential presence was overwhelming.
Fortunately, their awkward walk was brief. They arrived at a pair of ornate double doors marked with the sigil of Grigori's Ministry of the Interior. Azazel pushed them open without ceremony.
Inside, a man with stark white hair and an air of weary authority was seated behind a massive oak desk, delicately sipping tea from a porcelain cup while reviewing a stack of documents. The room was a library, every wall lined with shelves groaning under the weight of books and scrolls.
"Hey, Shemhazai! Look who decided to drop by," Azazel announced cheerfully.
Shemhazai looked up, his eyes flicking from Azazel to Penemue, and then to the blue-haired boy beside them. He frowned slightly, a momentary puzzlement crossing his features as he processed the unusual sight of a human in this inner sanctum.
Then, recognition dawned—not intellectual, but a deep, instinctual, soul-level recognition. His eyes flew wide open. The teacup slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor, spraying tea and porcelain fragments across the polished stone.
"AZAZEL!" he roared, lurching to his feet. "Why in the name of our fallen grace didn't you warn me you were bringing the Messiah here?!"
"That was my exact reaction!" Penemue whined, gesturing emphatically.
"Surprise!" Azazel joked, laughing heartily at his second-in-command's priceless expression.
Shemhazai ignored him, quickly moving around the desk, trying to regain his composure. "I apologize for this... mess," he said, his voice strained as he gestured at the broken cup. "It seems someone here believed springing the most significant theological event since the Great War on his vice-governor was a stellar idea." He was flustered, his usual unflappable dignity in tatters.
As he was trying to compose himself, the sound of rapid, heavy footfalls echoed from the corridor outside. It was a purposeful, powerful stride that spoke of impatience and immense energy. Before anyone could react, the office doors were thrown open with enough force to make them shudder on their hinges.
Standing in the doorway, silver hair stark against the corridor's light, was Vali. His blue eyes were blazing with a predatory intensity, fixed not on the Fallen Angels, but directly on Makoto. His body was thrumming with barely contained power.
"Azazel! You brought someone strong here, right?" he demanded, his voice ringing with excitement. "Albion is practically vibrating! He says there's a pressure here he hasn't felt since the old days!"
He was hungry, a hunter who had just caught the scent of worthy prey.
The three Cadres stared at the newcomer in a mixture of disbelief and dread. Azazel's smile became strained. "Hey, Vali. How's the training going?" he asked, trying desperately to deflect.
"Don't try that with me, old crow! I know what you're doing!" Vali shot back, not taking his eyes off Makoto. A wide, feral grin spread across his face.
"You're the one, right? I'm Vali. Let's fight." He said calmly as he pointed at his own chest with a thumb, issuing the challenge without preamble or pretense.
"No," Makoto replied, his voice flat and calm.