gen_battle | Purpose [Yoroiden Samurai Troopers: Hashiba Touma, what yoroi are made of]

Title: Purpose
Fandom: Yoroiden Samurai Troopers
Wordcount: 522
Rating: PG
Notes: Contains eccentric author armour-name translations.
Summary: Touma gnaws at the puzzle; what is Stratos anyway, and what does that mean for him?

“You’re the devil to try and figure out, aren’t you Stratos --?”

A smirk at his own bad injoke played across Touma’s face as he circled the inert bulk of the cobalt-sky armour, so solemn looking as it sat silent on the frame he’d supplied for it in the middle of his bedroom. Devil indeed, part of Arago’s own cuirass if the old mountain mystic were to be believed –-

“And I suppose there’s no reason not to believe Kaos, except for that one little detail about us fighting his battle for him. Doesn’t really matter now, though, because we’re just in too deep …”

Of course there was also the other little detail of Arago manifesting as nothing but an -– admittedly incorporeal -– helm and mask. So maybe it was true enough, as far at that part went.

Another circuit around the silent Stratos, like a satellite orbiting its planet; a comparison not lost on Stratos’ bearer, who laughed to himself at his own fancies, fingers digging up through his hair and tangling briefly. If the armour was forged (through magic, he assumed, how else would one get nine armour sets from one) from a demon’s shell, what was it? Assuming Arago was always some form of otherworldly creature -– but Touma pushed that thought aside as more complication than was needed. The Demon Generals were enough, thank you.

Not for the first time, Touma reached out to tap, testing, testing, on the dully gleaming carapace. Not metal, that he was positive of. It didn’t feel right, and was not nearly heavy enough to be metal (or was that an artefact of being tied to it?); the sheen resembled lacquer, or enamel, but both of those required some form of substrate …

We call them out of nowhere -– I do the same thing with individual arrows --

Arrows which were solid things, no real fletching; yet flew like the wind, swift as the void.

With a small snort Touma threw himself into his chair; leaning back against the solidity of his desk he stared the silent Stratos down. The armour stared back slightlessly, mark empty and impassive. Touma smirked again.

“We call you out of nowhere, and you answer. We can combine our power -– and you -- when we have to -– when we really needed to! -– and a tenth set was the result, an answer to what we wanted. To put an end to Arago. Seiji couldn’t destroy Halo; not from indestructibility, but because Halo ignored the damage and remade itself -– and Seiji admitted he’d still had the will to fight, only rejected what he saw as a danger.

“Is that what you are then, Stratos?

“Are you part of a demon’s shattered self, reforged into something else? Something else that responds to, that reflects my true will, a human will now? Spirit-stuff taken from a spirit, responding to a different sort of spirit?

“… And imposing my will on you, I find myself.”

Touma leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands under his chin, as his eyes slid slowly slitted in satisfaction.

“It’s a rough sort of enlightenment, but I’ll take it.”