save your tears 
						for the day
						when our pain is far behind
						on your feet
						come with me
						we are soldiers stand or die

						    --Origa, "Rise"





				 -APOTHEOSIS-


When you've lived and died and lived again, you start to notice all 
the little things you missed the first time around. The cool wind 
blowing against your face on those lazy, summer afternoons. The 
midnight orchestra of insects in the dark. Being carried in your 
papa's arms after a picnic in the park. Your first crush. Your 
first kiss.

The first time around, I missed out on that last one. I still 
haven't had a first kiss yet. When I do, I'm hoping it'll be 
followed up by a swift and passionate second kiss. I don't know if 
it will be an awkward exchange, or if it will be like firework 
explosions lighting up the night. I've seen the way Haruka-poppa 
and Michiru-momma kiss each other when they think I'm not looking. 
If I'm lucky, my first kiss will be something like that.

It's not about death. 

It's about how precious every breath of life is.

Usagi-san understands this. She understands it better than anyone 
else I know. That's why I had to knock her down. She can't be the 
one to take the long walk down this darkened hallway. It's my duty 
to take her place, to make the choice and sacrifice she wants no 
one to ever make. She'd look for another way. Last time, she got 
lucky. Last time, everyone was spared.

This time around, there will be no cheating death.

I can still hear her behind me, beating her hands against the 
barrier, trying to scream and plead with me through the Silence 
Wall. I can barely make out her voice. It's better this way. The 
less I hear, the less I'll want to cry. I've always hated good-
byes.

I can hear another voice now. It's drifting in from the far end of 
the hall.

"There are no more miracles," it boasts.

It's a pompous voice, belonging to a pompous owner. He sent us all 
an invitation to watch his Valentine's performance. I decided for 
us all that I alone should answer. I step out of the corridor, and 
into the infernal light of his theatre. 

"The world is filled with fantastic things," the beast remarks, 
"and each of them are more beautiful and terrifying than the last."

He strolls across the expanse of the empty stage, beheld in all his 
resplendent obscenity. The stage lights have been dimmed. A series 
of three spotlights burn down a blinding white upon the outermost 
edges and very centre of the stage. Behind the beast: curtains of 
faded crimson, tattered at the edges by age and torn apart by 
claws. A hundred eyes watch him from the wings to his left and 
right, and from the rafters above.

For now, I stand at the back of the aisle, near the entrance. The 
beast knows I'm here. He probably smelled me the second I entered 
the lobby with the others. He knows I'm alone, that I came 
willingly.

"There once were demons in the sea," he proclaims, "capable of 
devouring a man whole without even needing to chew. There are 
horses the colour of night who could be tamed by no rider. There 
are wolves with soft fur and sharp fangs."

The beast is dressed in his best suit, and it shimmers with the 
temptations that brought down Atlantis, and is as smooth as a 
serpent's lies. His jacket whispers madness to any within earshot, 
and the polished cane he absently twirls about in his hands, its 
ivory handle sculpted like a winged angel, is tainted by the blood 
of those who've tried to stop him before. From behind the tinted 
lenses over his eyes, he smiles down at the assembly gathered 
before him.

You could call them a captive audience, mostly because the 
theatre's been sealed with the darkest of contracts. He only opened 
them to let us inside, and then let me venture in even further. In 
here, the doors are bound with unseen chains, the exits immovable 
with impossible locks. And yet every last person sprawled and laid 
out in their chair is giving no heed, no worry to their fates. 
Their heads are tipped forward and tilted back. Their arms are 
useless at their sides. Some hang over the armrests, and some are 
laying facedown on the floor. Some actually managed to make it to 
the aisle, where they too fell.

"And truly," the beast says, staring out to his audience, "humanity 
is the most beautiful and terrifying wonder of all. Look at 
yourselves...well, those of you with the vacant eyes that are 
actually open can try, at any rate...and marvel at the birth of 
humanity. You are capable of mercies beyond measure, and cruelties 
limited only by the boundaries of a sickened imagination. The man 
who painted the Mona Lisa also devised bladed carriages that would 
have left in its wake severed limbs and oceans of blood. A poet 
will marvel at a woman's beauty, and end his life all because of 
her brilliance. The faith of saints will mount a nameless crusade 
to appease gods who crave only sacrifice and conquest. A mother 
cares for the child in her arms, and ignores the dying man on the 
sidewalk. There are ghosts in the jungles, and the weapons they 
carry spatter the green earth red."

He's enjoying his soliloquy. He probably spent centuries rehearsing 
it, getting each and every vicious little word absolutely perfect. 
It's my cue now, my turn. The folds of my uniform rustle as I make 
my way down the far left aisle.

"Ah, there you are," the beast says, and enthusiastically gestures 
to me. "And so the second act begins, where we stand face to face 
and give each other our names."

"I already know yours," I tell him.

At that, the beast smiles. "And I yours, Sailor Saturn. You reek of 
Armageddon. It rather becomes you, though I prefer my scent. It's 
more wholesome, more pure. How appropriate that on a day 
celebrating life and love and everything else in between, two 
Deaths stand together in the same room."

The beast removes the tinted lenses from his face. He has no eyes. 
Black, empty sockets bore into my very soul. I don't flinch. I've 
seen worse. I've been worse.

"I'm glad it's you I find before me," he says. "This is for you, 
after all. My masterpiece here would be lost on the others. They 
wouldn't appreciate it. As it is, they don't appreciate the madness 
I've sown across the face of this quaint little world, but I say 
you can't make art without a little anarchy first. Do you believe 
in the miracle of love, little soldier girl? Do you like my 
Valentine's Day present?"

There's no love in the terrified faces and dead eyes surrounding 
me. Only terror.

"You understand, don't you?" the beast says to me. "You understand 
better than anyone else. The futility. The ridiculousness. Look at 
these idiots: parading around for sad morsels of affection and 
pithy scraps of romance. There are so many shallow loves out there, 
and everyone is so desperate for any kind of love they'll settle 
for less than they deserve. The devotion they receive is hollow and 
transient. The words they hear are empty, and the promises they 
make taste like dust in their mouths. It ends badly and leaves them 
wanting. And yet they continue to abuse themselves with such 
absurdity."

It enthralls him to hear me respond. It surprises him to hear me 
counter. 

"It's still better than nothing," I say. "Sometimes being hurt by 
someone you tried to care about is better than bearing the pain of 
knowing you're all alone in the world."

It's true, and a good idea. Maybe I'll try it out one day. When I 
get the chance.

The beast grimaces slightly, and twirls his cane around in a grand 
fashion. Not entirely amused, he lets out a huff of air and pivots 
on the stage, looking out at me. "I pray that you simply forgot to 
add sarcasm to that last remark of yours, my dear. Or are you 
repulsed by your very nature that you must pretend to smile at the 
world around you? Rose-tinted glasses do not suit you. Love is just 
a word, Sailor Saturn, nothing more. But death...death is a 
reality. Death is what we are, what we've been destined to 
embrace."

He spins his cane, the sculpted angel pointed down at my chest. 

"Who are you when you're not being a weapon--a means of destruction 
--a killer?" he demands. "I could bet you your heart's desire that 
when you take off that uniform, you don't know who you are anymore. 
You can't turn off being the soldier. You cannot simply forget that 
you are an emissary of death, that while Sailor Moon brings 
restoration, you bring only annihilation. Deep down, you find your 
sense of purpose in death, in the termination of life--even if it 
is a youma's."

The beast leans forward on his cane, leering at me. He wants me to 
flinch. "I guess it still frightens you, does it? Makes you try to 
drown it by pursuing silly illusions like love and friendship. You 
delude yourself into believing you're like everyone else, that you 
want a normal life. You play nice. Play good. Play house."

"Play God," I add in not so subtle tones.

He almost flinches; I'm not rattled, I'm not worried, and he 
doesn't like it. He can't fathom it.

"There are no more miracles," he says again. "There never were. 
There is only, and ever has been, death. And I am its god, its 
creator and destroyer, and I capriciously will it upon whom so ever 
I choose. Why do you think it is that you have not fallen like all 
the others? It is because we are kindred spirits. We know. We 
understand." The beast looks up to the rafters, and even without 
his eyes, I can see his expression growing wild and frenzied. "This 
is my Valentine gift to you, Sailor Saturn! The truth of who you 
are, of why we are, why we belong here together."

At this he stands straight, triumphant, his arms outstretched to 
the entirety of the theatre: its empty stage and poor player and 
unseeing audience.

"I am everything humanity could ever hope to be," he proclaims, 
"and I am its obscene child. There are no more miracles." He slams 
the base of his cane down upon the floor a single time, the echo of 
the strike ringing across the theatre. "Miracles once were 
plentiful, and even then they were still mere illusions. Do you 
know why? Because miracles are nothing more than a failed attempt 
to explain what humanity has no answers for. 'How can a bird lift 
into the air when we cannot?' It must be a miracle of flight. 'Why 
does a woman like her fall for a man like him?' It must be a 
miracle of love."

The beast turns to his audience of one, and lets me witness his 
corroded smile. "'What makes a person carry on in a world of such 
majestic atrocities?' It must be a miracle of hope."

With a cruel bark of laughter, the beast twirls his cane about in 
his hand. His relentless march across the stage resumes. Each 
strike of his feet against the wooden floor grows louder, and 
threatening. His crescendo is coming to its peak. "Hope is an 
illusion," the beast tells me. "Love is an illusion. I am neither. 
I am here to claim legal ownership of your world and all that 
inhabits it. I am the master and the monster. You could share in 
this, Saturn. You could be so much more...if you choose to accept 
my present."

The beast lets out a breath of exhilaration. His speech is 
finished, his soliloquy complete.

And I, like a Greek chorus, am expected to respond. I can't bring 
myself to hate this beast. He's sad in so many ways. He's shallow 
and desperate and hollow, but he's reminded me of what matters the 
most, of what I must do. I give him my answer: "You may not believe 
in miracles. But you should believe in my princess." And I turn my 
back to the beast, and begin to walk away, walk back up the aisle 
towards the exit. "I do."

The beast gives the stage a momentary glance, as if it put me up to 
this stunt, and then I feel his empty sockets burning against my 
back. "And why should I believe?" the beast asks me.

I pause and look back over my shoulder. "Because it will make your 
destruction easier to accept in these final moments."

In the blink of an eye, amidst the flicker of the shadows around 
us, the beast sees the Silence Glaive held in my hands. Suddenly 
there is fear.

"You invited death into your sanctum," I tell him. "You should have 
known this was coming."

Disbelieving, the beast shivers as I speak the words--those three 
little words. He tries to run, tries to stop me. He can't stop what 
I bring into his petty fifedom. The eerie quiet in that final 
second causes the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. Without a 
noise, the tip of my blade strikes the ground, and everything 
erupts.

The beast is caught in midair, leaping off the stage in an attempt 
to claw out my eyes. He's catapulted backwards, sent through 
curtain and backdrop. When he falls and hits the stage, he spills 
out across it in a clumsy mess. The wood beneath him splinters and 
splits and explodes into hundreds of tiny pieces. 

The air is charged--electric and explosive. Everything is igniting, 
becoming one with the pillar of fiery light forming around me. 
Inside its eye, all is still, and I watch with almost detached 
interest as the beast flops and stumbles his way back over the 
eroding seats and crumbling steps. The revolution is consuming him, 
eating him alive. If he ever was alive to begin with.

"Fool!" he hisses at me. His allure is unraveling amidst the flames 
and the fear. "You stupid little bitch! You'll die too. You'll die 
here with me!"

All I can do is shake my head at him. "For a self-proclaimed death 
phantom," I tell him, "you understand absolutely nothing."

There are things worth protecting with your very life.

The beast makes one final, obscene gurgle before he loses corporeal 
form. The blast washes away his filth and sends his infernal spirit 
to some dark and distant system. I know better than to smirk at his 
exile. He'll be back. I've heard Chibiusa-chan tell me the stories. 
It's good to know he'll be humiliated just as much by the others.

The pillar around me expands in a violent explosion, fire and 
lightning and magnificent destruction breaching the walls of the 
theatre. I know all too well that it will radiate out from this 
point, and try to consume everything. It's just as well. His 
madness has already spread across most of the world; there's no 
place left on this planet he hasn't tainted with some sort of cruel 
blasphemy. 

Usagi-san will give her all to save the survivors, to build a 
future. The future. The one Setsuna-momma talks about every now and 
again, but tries not to say too much about. My Death Reborn 
Revolution will drive the phantom's poison from the very depths of 
the earth. It will give Usagi-san a fighting chance.  

The theatre's almost gone now. I don't think there's a corridor 
separating me from the other Senshi anymore. It doesn't really 
matter. I couldn't see them through the roaring storm even if I 
tried to look.

It's a hell of a way to end Valentine's Day.

This time around, I've missed out on a first kiss. Again. Next 
time, my luck might change. You never know: maybe I'll make it 
through this one. We like to celebrate the things that are precious 
to us, those unexpected moments we treasure. I think I'll have a 
large slice of chocolate cake when I finally get that first kiss.

It's not about death. It's about how precious every breath of life 
is.






**
**

Sailormoon, its characters, struggles and story, are copyright and 
the children of Naoko Takeuchi. No recognition to this tale can be 
given without properly paying honour to her first. First and 
foremost, they rightfully belong to her, and I make no claim on 
them.

Originally intended as an answer to a Valentine's Day fanfic 
challenge, this story was written between the hours of midnight and 
2:30a.m. As such, the author is grateful to Depeche Mode, The 
Servants and a faithful cup of After Eight chocolate mint tea.


	--His lordship Chaos. (January 9, 2006)