A/N: Decided to update with a part of the prelude. Written especially for Godma's 16th birthday~! Take note that the main story of Thesis Mythos starts from Fourth Generation.

The Thesis Mythos
Third Generation / Redwitch Making
Crane Hunters

A slight drizzle was upon London, and there was no shelter overhead the three Religion Hunters out on a mission. As usual, it involved another tiny step to finding the true god to unify mankind, but what made this mission different from other field work was that the Researcher tagged along with the Fighter and the Detective. It was not that the Researcher deliberately making himself a nuisance, it was merely part of the new system to make everyone in the organization more involved in their cause.

Alan Alenor, R26, instinctively squinted as the raindrops hit his eyelids. It was a hard life for him—once he was over with lamenting over being dragged out of the lab while his partner could continue his research, he commenced on lamenting on how he could not stand the rain. It seemed like an outright shame, to be an Englishmen unaccustomed to the typical English climate. Quite self-consciously, he swept the red hair on his face away before they got wet and clung to his skin.

"Benford," he whispered to F109, poking the Fighter lightly on the forearm. He was unused to this too, referring to his comrades with their real names. "We ought to go inside."

"Chill, Researcher," Benford simply said, and nudged him back with his elbow. Alan turned his head and grimaced; it hurt a little, and great, another thing to lament about. And if F109 was making an intended pun there, it was not a good one.

"You might have forgotten that I am unused to field work," Alan pointed out. "You ought to realize that my immunity system is far weaker than yours."

"Well, you go in and receive our helper's hospitality and you'll be risking all your systems," Benford shrugged, jabbing his thumb at the closed door of the cottage before the three of them. "From skeletal to muscular to circulatory. Especially circulatory, since it's a whole house of vampires."

Alan balked, and had to take a step back. The rain was getting heavier, and the tail of his dark purple Religion Hunter coat brushed against a puddle.

"Really?" He said incredulously after snapping out of his reverie. Another reason why Researchers should not be involved in field work—that came out remotely resembling a squeak, effectively showing that people in his department were not trained to mask emotions and bend their individual character at free will.

"Yes," Henry Lou, D5, replied this time. "The child who answered our call still had her baby fangs, which are longer and harder to hide than adult fangs."

"I see," Alan shortly said, and averted his gaze to the ground. It was supposed to be his job, to look out for the seemingly unnoticeable yet important details. Never mind that D5, the team leader, took note of it first, there was no excuse that he was not as sharp as F109.

"Oi, don't think us Fighters are less observant because we're the ones who gun everyone down and make blood flow," Benford said jokingly, appearing to have read Alan's thoughts, and made another friendly jab at the Researcher. "'Sides, Alenor, you're the shortest—the rain will reach you last."

Before Alan could explain the logical fallacy in his statement, the vampire child reappeared, this time with a folded paper crane in her hand. It was made of cheap parchment, not the usual material for making paper figures.

Henry stepped forward and outstretched his hand, opening his palm to allow the girl to place her crane in it.

"Have you written your wish on it, sweetheart?" Henry enquired to make sure. In response, the girl grinned and nodded fervently, and it was then when Alan had a good view of her baby fangs and her set of excessively red gums.

He shuddered, and knew that F109 was rather creeped out too as Benford muttered under his breath, "Wouldn't be calling her a sweetheart any day now."

As the representative of the group, D5 bade his farewell to the vampire child and with a final cheerful wave, the door was shut behind her. With that, the Detective cupped his other hand over the crane to keep it dry and ordered Alan to keep it in good condition it until they returned to Headquarters.

"Because you're the shortest, and the rain reaches you last," F109 answered Alan's question before he even asked it, much to the Researcher's chagrin.

"Stop teasing, sweetheart," Henry jokingly ordered and led the way, Benford following suit with a, "Thus we heed the leader's words". Alan wanted to spend the journey back to formulate a plan on how to permanently be excluded from fieldwork, but ultimately prioritized to keep the paper crane dry, for every London drizzle was only a prelude to a London downpour.

-+-

Moments later, it was time for F109 to invade Alan's territory. He strolled into the Research Department as wet as he was when they re-entered their tower of a Headquarter, not even bothering to wring out his wet coat. It was just the two of them, the rest were still collecting cranes with their group.

"So how's the progress, Alenor?" Benford enquired, his soggy boots creating squelching noises with each step. Alan found it and his presence in general rather distracting, but did not bother to avert his attention away from his current endeavor of folding paper cranes himself.

"That's the 700^th crane," Alan replied idly and folded in a portion of the right wing. He was using a packet of genuine Japanese origami paper, given to him as a present from a distant relative last Christmas. "The chairman of the research wants one from a zombie for the next one. And please kindly refer to one another using designated code names, since we have returned to Headquarters."

"Just better with words than numbers here," Benford gave an excuse, containing another logical fallacy which Alan did not feel like correcting. The Fighter stopped in front of his desk, and brought one of the freshly folded cranes to his eyes for a closer examination.

"You've put no heart in these, you heartless bloke," Benford muttered, and set it down before trekking to other regions of the office.

"It is a subjective activity," Alan retorted, now folding up the portion meant to resemble the tail. "This is a case in which it is merely a physical hobby, not an art, only meant to train the physical ability of the hand."

"What would you say about putting heart in science?" Benford asked. When Alan finally looked up, the latter was nowhere in sight and he supposed that F109 found something interesting on the ground. The Fighter might not know it, but he sounded like the philosopher Alan was taught under when he was young.

Years had passed since then, but he still had the same answer," If it's science alone, you can't put heart in it."

"What about Sheehan?" Benford pointed out. "Sheehan got chosen to be leader over you and everyone else here because he has heart."

The man referred to was just in the laboratory in the next room. Alan rolled his eyes in contempt over how the Fighter was being such a non-discreet gossiper. "You speak like you know my best friend more than me," he said, finishing his crane and placing it on top of the pile. There was a fair amount of his finished works by now, it was sufficient for his little experiment.

"But you've got to admit, Sheehan is doing something different and what he's doing involves heart," Benford further explained. "He wants common folk to pen their wishes down on paper, their own wishes with their own words. Words that even us Fighters can understand, unlike the ancient Latin texts which you Researchers dissect over and over again, and yet the translation sounds like ancient French."

"Aren't you French?" Alan pointed out rather rudely. Never mind, the other party was not even courteous enough to crawl out from the table he was hiding under and conduct a proper face to face, one on one conversation.

"Oui. Exactly my point," Benford replied and thrust his index finger into the air as an emphasis, showing his location to be diagonally opposite Alan, behind R28's chair. "Researchers are supposed to find out more clues about the true god, but these clues seem more and more confusing and far-fetched with each one. Don't say that Fighters are victims of mental retardation due to frequent assault to the head, I bet five bucks that even the Heads don't really get it. If it's not understandable, it's not relatable, and it sure can't hell unify."

"You can't just blame the Researchers on the organization's stagnant state," Alan retorted, his voice tightening .On an impulse to use action to emphasise himself, he braced his hands on his desk and stood up, the chair pushed back upon the impact. Though after a second, he realized that perhaps F109's words were not a complete logical fallacy this time. The most plausible party to blame was in fact his department, since after all, their results and theories were the basis for planning of missions.

"It's not that I'm bandwagoning, but I truly believe that Sheehan can switch things around," Benford continued. "Like most people here, across all departments, I agree with his good idea to make everyone more involved—both members and the folks around here. That's the meaning of unification, which I think you don't really know since your senses seems to be dulled while being hell-bent on being holed-up here."

Perhaps everything F109 said was intended to make him feel ashamed, but to Alan it seemed more like a personal jab, and so he inflicted one back, "Your tone implies that I'm jealous of R25. Aren't you yourself envious of D5, who got promoted first into the new department, despite previously being F111 and being of a more junior position than you?"

"As I have said to my friends and foes alike," Benford said, as he finally rose to his feet. Alan spotted a discarded paper plane in his better left hand, and wondered what he intended it for. "There's more to being a Detective than being a Fighter. Being a Detective involves being a bit of you and me, actually."

He paused, letting Alan to ponder for a moment, before directing the moment's attention to the paper plane. "I presume you folded this. How far does it fly?" He asked.

An abrupt change to the atmosphere, but Alan decided that it was still his obligation to give proper estimations with regards to mechanics. "I didn't build it properly," he started, hesitating for a moment. "I threw it from here."

"I see," Benford nodded. He tore away a strip from the two respective sides to decrease the wingspan, ignoring the litter falling towards the ground as he hurled the newly adjusted paper plane in Alan's general direction. It landed precisely in front of the Researcher and as R26 blinked at it, F109 smirked to himself.

"Anyhow, it's warm here," Benford said with an air of finality. He shoved his fists into his pockets, and damn, the insides were still damp. "The sorcery in the window's bars blocking out the cold and all. Have fun waiting for everyone else, Alenor."

Alan sat down, and needed to draw in a deep breath for his next sentence. "Goodbye, Des Beauregard…and I accept your theory on unification."

Alan knew the last part was audible enough as Benford raised a hand, fingers unfolded, to show his acknowledgement as he retreated.

-+-

Prior to Seamus Sheehan's proposal which changed the perspective of the whole organization, Alan had shared his own ideas with his best friend. It was as far-fetched as what Benford described—to conduct an elaborate nation-wide experiment by drawing out a small amount of every citizen's blood, then creating a new theory of the similarities of every sample. Upon Alan's reflection, that was a fallacy of its own, and would make science appear to be another religion with terminology that few could comprehend.

As Alan took his usual seat at the front row of the underground lecture hall, Benford sat on his right and Henry on the Researcher's other side. To Alan's displeasure, both their coats were soaked and was rubbing against his own comfortably dry one, and trying to be as polite as possible, he enquired why they were not seated with their respective departments.

"Unification, sweetheart," Henry replied.

As for Benford, he wordlessly gave another one of his genial jabs and Alan was disturbed with the realization of how the Fighter's arm hair looked really prominent and disgusting when matted.

Soon, the room became dim as the illuminating lights were diminished, signaling that the lecture was about to start. Sure enough, the up and rising R25 was before the rest of the Religion Hunters. Atop of the oak table was the product of the research—a golden cage filled with a thousand cranes.

There was a short introduction, as Seamus gave a brief telling of the Japanese legend of the thousand cranes, and he placed a hand on the cage. "Thus, in this research, each crane represents a heart's wish," he explained. "After collecting cranes from humans, vampires and zombies alike, each is laced with external sorcery for the purpose of this demonstration. Watch closely, for as I let these cranes lose, they will head to different directions and destinations, showing the nature of each heart's wish."

With that as his only warning, he slid the entrance of the cage open and out the thousand paper cranes flew, akin to free soaring birds. Everyone gasped in amazement at the vast display, marveling at the wide variety of colours and materials.

R25's hypothesis was proven. Some cranes flew in circles around the ceiling, some cranes landed on the ground, some cranes were seemingly attracted to certain people who in shock batted them away and some cranes gathered together to fly in a formation.

Alan noted that some cranes returned to their cage.

And Athanatos said to the Seven, “May it be!” And all other lesser creations received the One Gift none of the Seven have – The Gift of mortality. These creations, imperfect for reasons unknown, were blessed with the fate of termination. He who does not die faces entropy, the slow but inevitable decay of energy with no possibility of reversing. To the immortals, life itself had no final purpose, for even Athanatos will decay in the passage of time, and die with the rest of the world.

Yet if life lacks a final purpose, then why live it? Why did the immortals choose to carry on? Is it because they had no choice? Well, perhaps. However, the greater conundrum lay unseen to the lesser creations. Once you realized that the lack of a higher purpose provides no restrain, your life may be free. Carpe Diem, the immortals said, even if you do not Memento Mori.

Athanatos, before leaving for another realm, left a final item – The Scroll of Disownment. Perhaps it was how Athanatos wanted it, in black and white with no second interpretation. If one signs on the scroll, one rightfully surrenders the One Gift. There are no ways to reverse the decision.

The Seven, bound by the fate to keep the scroll away from the lesser creation, nevertheless hopes that one succeeds. For if one mortal succeeds, his Gift of mortality is passed to one of the Seven. In each of the Seven’s hearts lies a desire to be mortal, and this grew into another self in every one of them. The Seven became the Fourteen. Yet the mortals knew nothing.

Worshippers of the Contented Seven believed that the Discontented Seven were their greatest nemesis, and vice versa. In truth, they were no more than 2 sides of the same coin.

Hemar is the messenger of death. When he is present in the sky, the Contented Seven sings the hymn of mortality, celebrating the embrace of Athanatos’ Gift. He is said to be the ruler of the Hemarittis, the spirit guides which lead the souls of the dead to the Afterlife.

Arthos, his alter-ego/nemesis, is naturally the messenger of life. When he is present in the sky, the Discontented Seven observes new lives. Worshippers bring their newborn for the priests to ‘Arthicute’, or bless him, so that he may grow to be more firm on the search for immortality...

---Hiestos Kronik, Rise of the Seven Origins: Critique of Pure Mysticism.

THE THESIS MYTHOS
REDWITCH HUNT
Prologue-The Common Legend of the Redwitch

"Once upon a time, there lived a woman. Crimson red her hair was, a zombie she was, a vampire she was. She was not called the Redwitch because of her red hair, not because she was a zombie, not because she was a vampire. A Redwitch she was called because of her blood. It was not blue like zombie's, nor green like a vampire's, but red like a human's.

We all believe that the zombies, with their interchangeable bodies and the vampires, consuming lives, are more powerful than mankind could ever be. It was the Redwitch who proved this wrong.

Once upon another time, she was caught in the crossfire between a zombie and a vampire, with only a sword in her hand. She managed to slay both of them before their battle even started, and she did it beautifully so, a goddess in the wind. However, her victory came at the expense of her own life, and though her body was dead, her blood flowed into the waters, drifting away and alive.

Crimson red her hair was, a zombie she was, a vampire she was. But it was indisputable that she possessed human's blood, and shed human's blood at her triumph against the zombie and the vampire, both at the same time. This alone was enough to convince mankind that they could rise above, to be superior, to be proud.

As some now say, it is the Redwitch's blood coursing through their veins."

--Signed, Anonymous
Artist's Alcove

Thesis (n.) A statement or theory put forward to be maintained or proved.

Antithesis(n.) A person or thing that is the direct opposite of another.

Synthesis(n.) The combination of components to form a connected whole.

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Dee dum, dee dum, dee dum...
Can you hear it?
The footsteps of an angry him.
You think you have lost him,
forgotten him in the maze of time.
Yet when you turn back and look,
You see him waiting for you,
Just beyond the last Thesis.

You are destroying the garden
Of a very ANGRY him
And he is waiting for you,
Just beyond the last Thesis.