Thirty minutes after Thomas' infiltration, Kiara barges into the med bay.
"Grandpa! You okay" Kiara screams, causing the healers to flinch. "You got into a fight? The temple was infiltrated."
"Shh. It's a med bay," Zhang softly orders. "Your grandpa's fine…somewhat fine."
"I'm good," Edward rubs the bridge of his nose. "I just…I just had him. I was too slow."
"Don't beat yourself up," Zhang reassures. "He was a skilled combatant. A deadly technique as well."
"He also broke Mr. Edward's spine," one of the healers pipes in.
"He broke your spine!" Kiara's eyes widen, shock and fear drip off her voice.
"Really Corin," Zhang shakes his head slowly.
"Sorry," Corin softly mutters.
"Y'all need to calm down," Edward awkwardly chuckles, tapping his finger on the side of his forehead. "He didn't shatter it okay. I felt worse getting up every day from my bed."
"Feeling back pain could be a sign of early form scoliosis," Corin notes. "Degenerative disc disease. Spinal stenosis. Arthritis."
"What?" Kiara exclaims.
"Stop fear-mongering," Edward rolls his eyes. "I just have poor sleep posture."
"That too of course," Corin says softly.
Zhang takes a deep breath, rubbing the side of his temple. The pain of the earlier battle still lingers, as the wounds mostly healed.
"Soooo name? Ability? What does he look like? Was he hot?" Kiara questions, pacing around the room like a detective. She raises her arms as if presenting a wild theory.
"Thomas Maloum. Acid Manipulation," Zhang relays, crossing his arms together. "Medium-length black hair, short beard. Not going to answer that last question."
Kiara let out a small sigh, pacing back and forth in the med bay, everyone's eyes on her.
"You think there was a mole," She suggests, stopping mid-step. "Someone let the assassin into the temple."
"A mole?" Edward lifts his head.
"Think about it," Kiara raises her hands up, defending her wild theory. "What if he's been planted here to watch over us? See our schedule. Someone low ranking as—"
She spins, pointing at the janitor in the corner, refilling the water cooler. "Whoever stocks those waters. Ever notice how they're always full. Suspicious."
The janitor pauses. "I'm right here."
"Don't do Ben like that," Edward shakes his head, an idea flashing in his head. "Still her theory makes sense."
"It does but I still need to talk to Quincy and the Surveillance Corp," Zhang rubs his chin, taking a deep breath. "If there is a mole, he likely tampered there first."
"We have to be careful whom we associate with," Kiara says, theatrically punctuating her statement by placing a finger along the side of her temple with great flourish.
Her words lingered heavy with implication. Meanwhile elsewhere, another shadow moves far away from the temple. Somewhere away in a lonely building, a congregation happens completely hidden under the city.
In the back, Stitch watches over his congregation, legs hanging over the seat in front of him. He takes notice of the eerie, synchronized clapping of the people as the event comes to an end.
Pulling up his mask, the mad surgeon disappears into the crowd.
"So sorry the Covenant could arrive today," the robed man deeply apologizes, his flowy robes catching the dilapidated lights. "The location of the next service will soon be revealed to you all in due time."
"Great," Stitch scoffs, his breathing fogging his goggles. His voice lingers with venom. "The prophet is still hiding." As the man hides behind the stone pillars, he keeps his body low and unassuming.
His shoes softly clink off the floor, as he passes rows of intricate pattern walls. As he rounds a corner, his formal attire is engulfed in a black mist, changing into a classic surgical gown—clean, pressed, and sterile.
"Augh. That feels so much better," Stitch says, stretching his fingers out and twitching in anticipation.
He turns a corner. Ahead, in a crumbling archway and dimly lit candlelight, he spots the robed leader walking away, robes dragging across the floor.
Following the man, Stitch carefully hides behind a stone pillar. He peeks his head, seeing a plague doctor in a jet-black robe discussing something with the man.
The mad surgeon listens carefully, furrowing his brow. His finger fidgets around the hidden scalpel under his sleeve. He breathes--his goggles fog.
"The Covenant will promise our perfect world order," Azrael assures, placing his hand over the man's shoulder. "It shall be in due time." The robed man nods his head before leaving the empty room.
The world around the plague doctor falls silent. No sound–not even the faint rustle of his cloak. Only the faint glow of the candles stretches long eerie shadows over the walls.
"You should go home," Azrael sternly warns. The plague doctor turns his gaze to a stone pillar. "Step away from that pillar and you will lose your life."
Stitch walks away from the pillar, his steps cold but deliberate. He raises his arms in mock surrender.
"Mind I ask why you're here." Azrael wonders, measured and clear.
"I'm just a lost doctor, sir," Stitch lies slowly pulling out his scalpel out of his sleeve, "Can you...please show….me the way out of—"
Stitch smile maliciously and he quickly disappears like a blur, leaving behind a gust of wind. Azrael reacts cautiously as he sees Stitch disappear right in front of him, he raises his daggers preparing for Stitch's next attack.
In the blink of an eye, Stitch appears behind Azrael. He swings his bloodied scalpel as Azrael turns his head.
"Here!" Stitch yells out, finishing his interrupted sentence. He flails his scalpel around with incomprehensible speed to Azrael, a blur that he couldn't block.
Stitch leaps back to create enough distance. Smirking to himself, Stitch turns his back looking at Azrael's reflection in his bloodied scalpel. He watches as blood spurts out of Azrael's body like confetti as he collapses onto the ground.
"Human skin is so fragile," Stitch says somberly, reflecting Azrael's presence in his scalpel.
The plague doctor steadies himself.
"Perfection is so trivial," Azrael refutes.
"Really?" Stitch shakes his head.
"I have no desire to continue this discussion," Azrael slowly rises, his words calm and composed. Drawing out his daggers, the plague doctor launches forward.
Blades clash.
As Stitch and Azrael lock their weapons together, sparks fly out in different directions. Stitch flicks his wrist, causing Azrael to lose his stance. Taking advantage of the situation, Stitch moves in a stabbing motion into Azrael's shoulder.
Azrael's goggles reflect Stitch's psychotic gaze, a blank reflection. Pushing his dagger forward, he knocks Stitch off balance.
Spinning the blade, Azrael's dagger melts and engulfs in a ring of fire, bringing his arm down, an arc follows him.
"Elemental manipulation?" Stitch wonders.
"I prefer Alchemy," Azrael cuts back. Whipping his arm back, he unleashes a lash of ash at his opponent. Stitch rushes forward, effortlessly dodging the flame whip. His scalpel gleamed under the fluorescent light, it didn't need force–only intent.
Azrael steps back, blade inches away from his neck. Stitch steadies himself, maintaining his posture.
"Where is your Covenant?" Stitch interrogates. "The man this cult worships."
Azrael stays silent.
"I have no idea. Maybe today. Tomorrow," he cheekily says, his hands emphasizing his words. "He is very busy." The fire slowly extinguished in his hand.
"STOP STALLING!" Stitch lashes out in a fury.
"You want answers badly," Azrael steps forward, his tone carrying an edge. "Perhaps you should read up on your own failures."
Stitch's scalpel appears in front of Azreal's face like a streak of light. The plague doctor narrowly dodges Stitch's attack as he steadies his body.
"You're going to be a great masterpiece when I'm done with you," Stitch declares. "Maybe I shuffle and stitch every hole in your face?"
Leaping forward, Stitch slices through the space where Azrael was. The plague doctor looms just inches away from the mad doctor. A black cloak so dark that it could consume light itself, the beaked mask leans in, nearly brushing Stitch's cheek.
Coiling his arm back, Stitch's scalpel inches away from Azrael's throat. The plague doctor grabs onto the assassin's shoulder and theatrically leaps over him—a beautiful brushstroke in a violent dance.
His beaked mask gleamed in the dim light.
"You've already lost on me when you embrace an impossible concept like perfection," Azrael lands gracefully, a shadow waiting to strike. The faint sound that rang through the silence was the rustle of fabric.
"Yet your covenant seeks a perfect world order," Stitch retorts. "You're just a filthy hypocrite. It makes me so sick that I could vomit."
"Ain't that a bit exaggerated," Azrael reasons calmly. "All that bile–it can't be healthy." Rushing forward, the plague doctor locks blades with the mad surgeon. Gripping his scalpel, Stitch felt the pressure of Azrael's dagger on his fragile sliver of steel.
Pulling out a hidden dagger, Azrael swings his left hand and tries to slice his opponent. Sidestepping around his opponent, Stitch spins his slender crescent scalpel in his hand. Clasping like an ice pick, the mad surgeon coils his arm back, before thrusting forward—slicing through the side of Azrael's neck.
A slick ribbon of blood blossoms like a chaotic performance.
Cold and unforgiving.
Slick with silent precision.
Clutching his wound, Azrael puts on pressure as he stumbles. Stitch licks the crimson tears off his silver moonlight. With a crazed look, the surgeon decides to build on the pressure. Pulling out his sutures, he extends his right hand forward, but Azrael moves his head.
Pulling his hand back, Stitch smiles with a wide grin.
Azrael's goggles remain empty, reflecting his opponent's expression. Suddenly a bright golden glow shines next to his face. Looking over his shoulders, he sees the hand that was once clutching his wound is now surgically attached to his shoulder, skin melding together.
"Now this is going to be fun," Stitch taunts, pulling out his murder weapon.
Spiritual technique: Surgical Stitch.
A technique in which Stitch can connect living tissue and people together as long as the wielder can patch up any open wound.
"Show me everything," Stitch coldly utters, flat and methodical. "Show me your insides."
He spins his sutures around in the air like he is performing an act.
"I hope you look beautiful under that mask," Stitch points his scalpel at Azrael's heart. "The incision point is where it's perfect."
Azrael stays quiet. The long black cloak envelops his figure, his empty dark lenses reflecting Stitch's scalpel.
"Such a strange man you are," Azrael bluntly mutters, his voice muffled beneath the mask. "Mind if you disconnect my arm from my shoulder."
"Why would I ever?" Stitch furrows his brow, almost offended by the response. "From your brokenness, I shall etch scars–verses of poems of your existence."
The moment fades as Stitch reminiscences of a certain moment from the past. He watched closely as he recorded his latest creation– two individuals. One man and one woman. Both were surgically conjoined by the spine as their arms and legs twisted and contorted into unnatural positions.
Their skins were melded together by a horrific line of flesh that ran across their forms. They were truly unable to look at each other in their new hideous form. He smiled with a wild grin as he left the abomination to rot.
The memory leaves his mind.
"Remember art is taking rejected ideas and putting them into something wonderful for the eyes to see," Stitch explains, malice clearly drawn across his face. "Agony becomes a musical piece in my hands. I'm both a butcher, singer, sculptor, and doctor."
"Hmm. Humans can be considered canvases in a way," Azrael cuts back, only the thin rhythmic sound of his breathing broke through his mask. "Malleable. Fragile. Ugly."
"So you agree with what I believe in," Stitch says, tone-crazed but cheery. He releases the stitches across Azrael's arm, skin slowly unfolding and buckling. Slowly taking off his freed arm, Azrael's expression remains hidden as he looks at his appendage.
He didn't speak.
He didn't move.
His gloved fingers curled in unnatural stillness, his silhouette casting something both human and unnatural.
"No," Azrael turns his head, his curved beaked mask. "You wish to experiment for your own pleasure. I experiment to seek a rebirth where humans evolve and grow–not to inflict pain for pleasure."
He breathes slowly.
"Mutilation for pleasure is not beauty. Nor art."
Stitch stays silent. His breathing hitches. His chest rises up and down in a crescendo. His goggles fog up from the breathing under his mask.
"Augh. The endorphins. The dopamine. Ahh," Stitch groans softly under his medical mask, his breaths quick but heavy. He slowly gets down on his knees, raising his arms as if he is applauding an invisible audience.
"I can feel it. You must think I'm disgusting. I can feel it stirring in my body. Ahh, it's SPLASHING everywhere."
Stitch's hands shook violently, his surgical scalpel slipping through his fingertips. He moves his hands backwards and thrusts his chest forward as if blasting his chaotic charge at his enemies.
Azrael does not make a sound, the fabric of his cloak rustling breaks through the silence. His glass lenses were unreadable and empty.
"I'm sorry. That did something to me," Stitch seductively caresses his chest, staring at the dilapidated lights as he breathes softly.
Stitch's chest rises up and down, falling as he breathes heavily. He pants like a thirsty dog. The hot air leaving his lips fogs up his goggles as he lazily stood from the ground. Slowly, he takes off his goggles and drops them onto the ground with a thud.
"Arise: Cerebella," Stitch commands with a daunting voice. A black ooze leaks out of Stitch's scrubs, Azrael watches intently as the moldy ooze starts to form into a large cluster of mass. Rotten pieces of flesh and machine parts float and form together grotesquely.
A towering, stitched-together abomination of discarded flesh and surgical equipment- rusted bones and scalpels embedded in its limbs. Metal wires stick and hold its body together like a puppet.
Stitch laughs manically, clapping his hands together like an excited child awaiting praise from his mother.
"This is your shikigami? It's kind of gross," Azrael bluntly insults, watching as a piece of garbage falls off its shoulder.
"DON'T INSULT HER," Stitch yells out, his breathing becoming more ragged as he awkwardly stands up. He caresses his face gently like how a mother would caress their child's face.
"Aaughh. Shikigami are beautiful spiritual companions- each uniquely embodied in their wielder's essence" Stitch dances around, raising his arms around playfully. "This beauty is a pure representation of my core."
The shikigami starts moving, its movement janky, and lurches over Stitch. Its rotten carcass suffocates the room with the smell of death. Many pieces of wire and medical instruments fall out of its body, leaving open wounds in its stitched-up body.
Cerebella's massive, decomposed finger gently caresses Stitch's face, her touch uncomfortably tender. Her hand runs through Stitch's disheveled hair. There's no warmth to her touch, only cold and lifeless.
"It's something," Azrael acknowledges, shrugging his shoulders. "You should burn her. Her smell is leaking into my lungs."
Stitch glares, clenching his scalpel with surgical precision. Cerebella eerily wraps her arms around the mad doctor almost as if creating a wall. The scent of burnt herbs and rotten cloth clung in the air.