9/11 Short Stories

SEPTEM—

His first memory was of the fall, the blur of orange skies and the starry sky as he dropped, weightless in the suspension of time.

He remembered nothing before and after that until the landing. Not the countless frantic thoughts racing throughout his mind, nor the fires which burned bright at his skin, around him, igniting nine others like him.

ᴜɴᴜᴍ.

ᴅᴜᴀᴇ.

ᴛʀɪᴀ. ǫᴜᴀᴛᴛᴏʀ. ǫᴜɪɴǫᴜᴇ.

ᴇxᴠɪᴀ.

ｓｅｐｔｅｍ .

That was who he was. Septem. Somewhere, inside his subconscious, he knew. Something. Something. Something.

His eyes snapped open, revealing a vivid array of color upon the semi-darkened sky. Lights shone from open windows, and hues of all shades bloomed at the top of precariously built, delicate, glass buildings. And the noise! His ears

And that gave him hope—hope to proceed, inching his way up that cliff.

Inch by inch, he made it, made it to the light, safety, at the top. The world must've stopped its time for him, because he awoke—alive.

Men were standing over him, faces white with surprise, but only one phrase resounded in his mind: ｓｅｐｔｅｍ ｅｔ ｅｘｖｉａ Seven and six were meant to be together. There was something needed to be done, something big, something purposeful. He felt the calling, the pull in his heart, the tug of his future—of something far larger than him. It was almost overwhelming, if it weren't a constant white noise in his mind previously, fluctuating at the second. And that was fascinating.

— — — — —

"I'm fine, really," he managed, gritting his teeth against the agonizing clash of pain which threatened to overcome him. It drowned out all other sounds, the frenzied shouting, the sirens wailing nearby, the screaming and crying. His eyes took in the scene—upwards, a ceiling full of stars with a sky full of stars above—around him, yellow-and-blue-clad men, hands roaming, searching for the beating of his

I'm fine. I don't want care." Septem persisted, controlling his mouth in all-too-familiar ways. Now that the pain was limited, he was ready. Ready to find Exvia and the rest. Ready to find his future, for there had to be a reason for why he fell out of the golden heavens.

They shook their heads and grunted begrudgingly about "idiotic people," doing as he told. Perhaps it was the strength and force he spoke with, the aura of someone powerful and omnipotent, supported by the fact that he had survived such a fall, or perhaps it was because they thought he was a hopeless case anyway.

Septem was determined not to be a hopeless case. He urged his body to move, urged his muscles to contract and relax on the right beat, leaning against a wall as he did so. The soft fabric of a blue gown was draped over his body as he proceeded throughout the crowd who parted for him, but nothing else, as if this was normal occurrence, a man falling out of the sky. Resting his hands in the pockets of the gown comfortably, Septem's left hand met a cold metallic object. A swiss army knife, gold, lightweight, and perfectly shaped for his grip as he tossed it from hand to hand