#{ drabble tbt. }

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — local legend.

In which the youth of Hill Valley debate a thirty-year-old music industry conspiracy theory about their very own hometown hero.

[feliscus]

　/ * WHERE THE HEARTH IS ,

“All you need to be deserving of the throne is conviction, and the necessary strength to act on it.” “…Protecting my family at all costs— that’s my conviction.”

　　　* ignis purgatorius chapter spoilers.

Morning dawns.

Lynette and Freminet slumber, snug on either side of him, but sleep eluded the magician like some grand magic trick, slipping from his grasp every time it seemed to be almost within reach. He’d neither twisted nor turned for fear of waking them, laid flat on his back staring up at the ceiling as the memory of red seared itself behind his eyelids.

In the end, Lyney had not slept at all, arms numb from where they’d stayed curled around his siblings throughout the night.

Gently, not wishing to rouse them, he tugs himself free, slips from beneath the covers to pad silently across hardwood floors. There are bandages set atop a drawer, some food and some salves. But it is upon the triplet bottled flames sitting there that his attention catches, gleaming their molten temptation.

Does Father know how he hums and haws over it now, fingers curling around the vial’s neck? Does she expect this flicker of doubt in her heir, this moment of hesitation, of weakness? Had this, too, been foreplanned by her?

Lyney knows he will never burn as brilliantly as Father. He is not strong enough, not smart enough to be named her heir. If he had been, Clervie would have been gone long before it ever had to come to this. If he had been, Lynette and Freminet would have never been hurt.

No illusion he conjures will ever fool her all-seeing gaze. No spell he casts over an audience will ever capture her attention. His steps do not fit into the path she wishes for him, too, to tread as she once had.

Because to be her successor, to become king… One day…

It would be so easy to let the flames swallow up his memories— and everything that made up ‘Lyney’ alongside it. Flush away the past that ever nips at his heels, the title of the Fatui, the burden of the heir and all its troubles.

But there is nowhere he and Lynette have gone that they have not gone together. He will not ask his sister to follow him to death too or ask Freminet to watch his siblings turn into a husks of themselves that cannot even recall his name. They both wish to stay, and Lyney will not cloud their judgement on the matter with his own doubts.

He pockets the vial and goes noiselessly from the room.

“Um… Lyney?”

A half-step from the door, he halts, twisting to meet Heloir’s gaze with a smile. Lips part to respond as he swallows around the lump in his throat, and only then, as it drags and burns all the way down, does he realize how dry his throat is. “Good morning, Heloir.”

“Oh.” He hears it, the realization in her voice that he is still himself, but she says nothing else, just continues to eye him warily. If she notices the rasp to his voice, there is no other response than to weigh the two potion vials in her hand, then hand him the one filled with clear liquid. A pause. “It’s water.”

Lyney exhales. “…Thank you. Did you need something?”

She shrinks, her voice alongside it. Normally so loud and proud, it’s strange to see her so small. “The bottled flames…did you need help administering them? I—I’m sure I have some medicine or potion to make it hurt less, but—”

But who’s going to watch over them if he leaves? Who will rock the younger kids to sleep or make sure Heloir doesn’t try any of her potions or teach Freminet to improve his sleight of hand? Or put on small magic shows by the hearth, with every trick practiced to perfection and even the ones less so able to call forth their smiles and laughter?

“Lyney? Should I go get something for you?”

Well…someone else will be able to do it. Father can find another heir.

But the yes sticks to the tip of his tongue as he reaches for the vial in his pocket. Because there will likely be a dozen other children like him— as smart, as ambitious, as clever— that Father can pick from, but Lyney will never find another home like this.

For a long time, the only home he had known was Lynette. But the House of the Hearth is his home now too. He doesn’t know much about how a family should really work or what a home should look like, and the thought of leading them is terrifying. Yet the thought of leaving them is infinitely more so.

If Lyney was predisposed to easy solutions, he’d have died long ago.

Anger makes you impulsive. Sorrow causes you to waver. But Lyney was forged by neither, and the flames caught in the orb of his Vision had not been born from rage. His ambition is as it has always been: he will protect his family, no matter what.

Even from Father. Even if it means death.

He clears his throat, producing the vial with a snap of his fingers. “Actually, I was hoping that you would keep this for me. After all, Father entrusted them to you for safekeeping.”

And there is the sparkle in her eyes. The smile. The vial is snatched— too eagerly, perhaps— from his hand. “Oh! Yes, sure!”

Lyney has no desire to be king. He has no ambition for strength other than for the ability it gives him to protect those dear to him. And, most times, he doesn’t know what home or family should mean.

But he never could have left. He wonders if Father had known that from the start. Wonders if this is the answer she had been looking for, if he will ever be able to tell her what family means to him.

Regardless, Lyney will know what she thinks of it soon enough.

Night falls.

As he always has, Lyney opens the door to Hotel Bouffes d’ete at the end of a long day and calls out, “I’m home!”

And the chorus of voices that calls back, “Welcome back!” is the beginning of his answer.

[loyaltymoved]

This isn’t his body anymore… at least it doesn’t feel like it at the moment. For years he’d had this fullness, this light within him. A fire hotter than the sun, a warmth entangled in the depths of his soul.

He felt so cold.

His death hadn’t been permanent… He’d been ‘restored’ by the new god. Humanity was back, the world was as it was. But Adam… no, he wasn’t how he was. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be with Michael.

So where the hell was he?

He can’t even begin to count the number of times he’s prayed. The different iterations of prayers, the nights spent awake, looking at the stars and hoping that maybe he’s just a little too far away.

He doesn’t want to think about it-

So here he is, on the floor of his bedroom, in his tiny little apartment, after getting off work at his silly little job… and all he feels is sadness. Emptiness.

“Michael…” His voice is hardly even a whisper, a tear threatening to spill from baby blue hues as he takes a shaky breath. “Please… I don’t know if you can hear me.. but.. come back… I…”

Words get caught in his throat, a pang in his chest as he tries to find the strength to continue. Who is he kidding- he hasn’t come… why would this change anything?

“I need you. I miss you… without you I’m… I’m empty.. I’m cold, Michael… I… I don’t know who I am without you. You’re a part of me.” His words waver ever so slightly as he swallows thickly, his fists balled up at his sides. “I love you… and I’ll do anything to get you to come back to me..”

“I’d rather spend eternity in the cage with you than spend another second on earth without you… I hate it.. I hate this feeling. I hate this empty feeling, this void where your grace is supposed to be.. where you’re supposed to be.. We made a promise…”

So where are you?

[areadri]

       HE FELT IT--- he felt everything; the warmth of blood splashing his face, the phantom pain of a thousand blades piercing his flesh, and many more to join them. every inch of him bleeds, weeping in rivulets from the gashes torn through his armour, screaming for a reprieve that was not his to give. he treads a road paved in red, littered with shards of wood like the leaves in fall, corpses sprawled across the trodden grass and bathed in his shadow. a lonely beast, he battles against the tide, storming through the throng of soldiers attempting desperately to hold him back. amids his rage, without falter even as another spear is plunged into his back, the tempest king bellows a single name---

               ❝  EDELGARD...!  ❞

       his fury reaches across the battlefield, far above the din of clashing steel and carnage. it hangs in the air, unanswered, for whom it is intended retreats without looking back. no--- he cannot fall here, not until he has rent her head from her shoulders.

                                           not until he has avenged all who suffered in her name.

       a spear flies into his shoulder, forcing him down to a knee this time. with a grunt, he rips it free, spraying blood into the dirt, hurling it aside in frustration more than anything else. clenching his teeth, he rises, to spite every wound wracking his broken silhouette, and presses forward once more. his mouth opens, poised to shout her name lest she forget his presence--- but he can only roar. a bestial, bloodthirsty roar.

       for only a brief moment, the resolve bolstering the imperial soldiers wanes; it is fleeting, like the flicker of a lit candle braving the slightest shift in the air. there is fear in their eyes, fear of this monstrous thing unleashed into the fray, fear for what it might do to them should they get too close. it takes a few steps more, staggering, blood upon its lips and dribbling down its chin. despite the waver in its advance, its grasp remains firm as iron on its lance. it resumes its bloodied procession towards the troops gathering in their leader’s stead.

                   cut them down, its gaze seethes, cut them all down.

       his pace begins to slow, and the weight of his weapon becomes too much. it slips from his fingers, falling into the grass, where it lays forgotten as he continues towards the enemy. 

       one step... his bones creak. two steps... a haze descends upon his vision. three steps... the pain finally catches up with him.

                                                       and another--- he stops.

       falling to his knees, his body sways. a final ragged breath whispers from his parted lips... before he crumples to the ground, where he lays, silent--- unmoving. that peace never came, and the tempest king dies alone, and in agony until his very last moment.

       dimitri presides over his own grave in silence, the ghost bearing his face now merely a heap at his feet--- before the memory fades, and he is left standing in the mist alone. except... it is not his memory. he is... still alive, is he not? a trembling hand finds its way to his shoulder, where only minutes ago, a spear had torn through him. he felt it; every blade that wounded him, every bite of imperial steel wearing him down. he can’t hear anything anymore, not even the cries of the dead pierce through the shrill cacophony screaming in his head as he holds it.

         is this not what i deserve?                                     i failed.

                           i did not bring them the peace they deserved. 

                                                EDELGARD.

               where are my soldiers?                        where is the professor?

                            is this... truly what becomes of me...?

[herbalremedied]

THE   pharmacy is dark tonight, doors locked and window blinds drawn. Glass litters the floor, shattered light fixtures with their wires bared from above in sparking tendrils. Among them stands the doctor, motionless and mad under the enduring minute hand of the wall clock. Tick…                 Tock… Tick…                 Tock… He breathes in time with it, ragged and labored, though the effort feels wrong. He is lucky to be alive. Yet he is plagued by the lack of finality to this visit, left only to dwell on the promise that there would be another once the blossoms had retreated, where they would no longer be bound by their honesty. The sense of the unknown crushes him, paralyzing him beneath its insurmountable weight. Breathing is all he's capable of, for every breath should have been his last. And so the pharmacy would close, and remain closed for an indefinite amount of time while its owner ran his mind in circles, consumed whole by his own fear.

[sensoryled]

destiny and regice

his return home had been marked by a long and arduous conversation with his parents -- one which had been overdue for months. the initial joy they had had at seeing him had been punctured when he revealed his purpose for coming. it had been a long talk, wherein he had tried to impress upon them their faults as parents -- had tried to pry an apology from them, even -- but it is not so easy to change the minds of people set in their ways. he had given them his phone number at the end of their conversation, but had warned them -- only call him if and when they are ready to apologize and make amends. they had tried to stop him leaving, of course, but with gardevior by his side, they had never had a chance. he had left easily.

now he sits on the beach, staring out upon the open ocean, its rolling blue waves . . . the occasional wingull would fly overhead, a swimmer would occasionally appear out in the surf . . . but aside from all that, it is mostly peaceful. he cannot hear the chatter of the occasional beachgoer, cannot hear the cries of the birds in the sky, cannot hear the crash of the waves . . . it is silent. it is calm. his eyes fall closed, and he starts to dream.

he dreams that he is on that same beach, but that pull . . . that pull with which he is all too familiar . . . it tugs at him again. like a vision, a flash appears in his mind, the image of that cave, being tossed about by the waves and the door -- open. that’s weird, he thinks to himself. it’s never been open before. idly, he takes gardevior by the hand ( or what counts for a hand for her ) and manipulates her energy in a way he never has before. the world twists around them, spits them out on the sand of the beach, the cave before them. there is an eerie energy about it, ominous, like an ancient warning not to be disturbed . . . but that matters nothing to him.

he enters the cave as though in a trance. he does not feel connected to his legs which carry him forward, seemingly of their own volition. when he reaches the innermost part of the cave, he runs his hand over the braille. he has never been fluent in it, but he knows the words somehow -- STOP AND WAIT. WAIT FOR TIME TO PASS TWICE. he keeps his hand pressed against the cool rock, frozen in place, until the wall in front of him collapses into passage. nonplussed by this development, he steps over the rubble and through, into an inner chamber.

in the center of this chamber resides a figure he has only seen in dreams, a pokemon that he had never imagined could possibly be real. his person approaches it easily, step after step, but not by his own intention. he can feel one hand reach up to touch the being -- it is cold, but he does not withdraw his hand. his other hand reaches into his bag and withdraws a pokeball. one step back, and then he tosses it gently, but with confidence. it opens with a flash of light, and envelops the ancient being. it closes, falls to the ground, then shakes thrice. a green ring around the release button indicates a successful catch, but immediately after he picks up the ball, he releases the being, whose name he knows by heart, somehow. 

❝ regice, ❞ he murmurs. ❝ be free of this place. ❞

with a start, he seems to wake up, in a manner of speaking. what he witnesses is not the beach where he had dozed off -- no, he awakes in the place where his dream left off. he blinks a few times, as though trying to reconcile the discrepancy, and then gazes up at the pokemon he has . . . apparently . . . just caught . . . he should be afraid. he knows he should. he doesn’t know how he got there, how he caught the being before him. but he’s not afraid. no, in his chest there is a feeling of warmth . . . of destiny. like this moment was always coming.

❝ i can’t believe you’re real. ❞

[mirevasan]

if not for the fact she could feel the slowly cooling air stinging fresh against her raw skin, the Inquisitor might think she was still dead.

it's quiet. night has fallen and the gray she once saw has been replaced by muted color. somewhere off in the distance, crickets chirp. distant light shines faintly as the stars flicker above, leaves rustling as the breeze flows through the trees. the large double doors of the gallery behind her clicks shut softly, yet the sound is enough to make her jump. ( she never jumps. she has brought a mountain down on top of her, face every threat with conviction, but gone from her blood is the adrenaline and fight, leaving only the beating of her heart.)

one, two, three. deep, painful breaths as her chest rises and falls. one, two, three. eyes blink as fingers curl and straighten, little bolts of pain shooting up to her wrist. (still broken?) one, two, three. her back protests with every movement. one, two, three. the mage glances downwards for the first time to take proper stock of herself.

her armor is practically ruined. cracked metal, torn leather, shreaded fabric stained a deep red with blood and god knows what else. (darkspawn and red templars, a voice reminds her. flemeth's, too. she winces at that for some odd reason.) every inch of her aches and begs to lay down, to stay still. she raises her right hand, fingers flexing slowly. good, this one was not broken. carefully, she brings it to her abdomen, fingers delving between the large rip in the leather and fabric to touch her surprisingly frigid skin there. eyes narrow as her fingertips touch a half-healed wound, opened, still slowly dripping blood from the jagged gash. she can't recall what caused it, but she can breathe easier. which means her lung was no longer pierced.

she tries to reach, to stretch her hand towards her back. intense pain shoots through her like a bolt of lightning. she hisses sharply through clenched teeth, eyes squeezing shut as something wet flows freely down from her shoulder diagonally to the tip of her backside, staining her armor anew. the mage gives up, shoulders sagging as her hand rests against her leg once more as she struggles to calm her breathing.

the rest of her is covered in healed cuts and half-faded bruises, some angrier than the other. her hair hangs loose and free, the strands towards the end stained darker than the rest.

she was dead. that much Elaria was sure of. she starkly remembers feeling her last breath leave her and it all going black only to wake up in that place which then led her.....to here. she could not make heads or tails of it. she died and yet she was....alive again? her mind did not have the strength to understand nor even try to make it make sense. no, the only thing she could think about was finding somewhere soft to sleep for a little while.

her steps are slow. careful, as bloody footprints are left behind in her wake. she needed to clean herself up. wash this blood off of her, tend to her wounds, bandage them, and dress in something clean. warm. make herself look as if she got beat up at best. surely after what had happened, nobody would bat an eye at her sleeping for a couple of days. it is to be expected, isn't it?

there is relief in the fact that it was dark outside. late, perhaps sometime after midnight? there is almost nobody out. good. she did not have the strength to try and sneak her way back home. as tempting as it was to find a spot in-between some shaded trees and sleep, she could not. someone might find her and nothing raises the alarm like a bloody elf curled up on the ground. and so, the moon is her guide and silence is her companion.

it wasn't far. she just had to make it back home. walk through the pain, be thankful for the faint numbness and pray nobody she knows spots her.

[ru5t]

Curiosity and the Cat

  Treading lightly, Tech followed the invisible edge of her discovered dead zone. One step to the left, her signal was free and clear to do as it did, connect her to that wide web of voice and information. A step to the right, nothing got in, nothing went out. You could try all day, and no one would ever hear you speak- or even know you were there. By far the most interesting thing was that there, where Tech was standing, it flipped between the two at irregular intervals with almost no in between. Tech planted her feet and wobbled in place. The resulting dance of her measured signal --sky high and flat nothing back and forth-- made her giggle.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“You’re a weird little line, aren’t you?” she asked aloud.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤFor what had to be the hundredth time, she scanned her surroundings and the horizon. There were a few ridges to something that could be called her right, off in the distance the way that the ridges dotted through the flats always seemed to be, but everything else was, relatively speaking, flat and empty as it should be. Nothing but hard packed earth that supposedly used to lie at the floor of an ocean. There were no buildings to speak of, no structures built into the air that could, by any stretch of the imagination, cause this kind of interference. She had passed a sign or two on her way in, but they were only the usual stuff, or dummy signs meant to ward away the weak willed. The tracks, faint as they were, had told Tech that. There was some reason someone had for passing over this line directly into the thick of the big fat nothing.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤSo why cut yourself off?

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤWell, that was the question she hadn’t answered yet. She broke from her walk along the edge of the zone to collect her reading. It told her how many steps she’d taken, when she had lost connectability, what line it followed: in short, a guide to the section of it she had spent the last few minutes weaving in and out of. That was where her map, which was spread out across the hood of Jack’s truck -which had been borrowed (legitimately!) for her exploration- came into play. She marked her line in pencil, making note of the slight turn. It was a listing, more than anything else, a listing to the right. In. After a moment of thinking and being briefly distracted by one of the locations someone else had marked on the map, Tech made a speculative leap: she pulled her line out into a rough circle.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“What if,” she asked her cat, who was acting as a wind-weight for her map as he napped on top of the truck’s hood, “it’s not natural? Hmm? Could be a generator right at the center; makes a bubble. I don’t know what good it would do, though. They draw attention and- y’know, what’s a dead zone good for except stranding somebody, anyway?” The cat had no answer, only the noncommittal flick of a tail that may not have even been related to her speaking to him. Tech stowed the pencil behind her ear and reached across the hood to pinch her cat’s toe beans. “You’re a horrible lazy thing, y'know it?” He remained unperturbed, not even bothering to escape. Tech joined him on the hood of the truck to pose her theories and questions to the unrestricted airwaves.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“So,” she kicked off, taking it for granted anyone tuning in would know her voice well enough, “If you were to drive out and find, oh yknow, a big spot where anything that sends a wireless transmission doesn’t work, what’s your go-to on that? Desert phenomenon, or somebody being stupid about hiding?” Her question had barely begun to settle when the white noise warbled, and a voice broke through.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“A what?” Midnight's typical clipped words. Clear and sharp, like he was closer than usual.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Hmm,” Tech hummed and, though he couldn't see it, flapped her hand in the general direction of the bubble of bizarre, “dead zone. I know they’re common 'round some of the old places right? old tech or somethin' that just breaks stuff up, but there’s… nothing out here. So I’m tryin' to figure out if someone camping out here turned something on and can’t figure out how to turn it off, or if the desert’s just getting weirder by the day.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Where.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ “Hm..?” Tech blinked lightly at his tone. “Oh, um. Around here.” She fussed with her transmitter a bit, and pulled the coordinates to send across. “There’s those ridges, you know, they’re off over there. Not close enough to be doing anything, I don’t think? Not at this range, anyway. .. Although it does sort of… turn in, in that direction a bit? Not really a turn but… I don’t know. It’s all sort of… wibbly. I would say ‘weird weather’ but. I mean. It’s blue as fuck out here. Hot as, too.” She twisted around, shading her eyes against the glare from the windshield to peer into the cab of the truck. “Did I.. bring that umbrella? Or was I out of room? Shade would be nice.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“.. You’re—” Midnight cut off. Tech turned back toward her radio, brow scrunching together. It hadn't dropped out, had it? But then came the ruffling shuffling of moving-around on the other end of the line. “Don’t go any further in— You should- go–”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  She huffed sharply at him. “Well obviously I’m not gon– I’m not that dumb, thank you very much.  All I’ve got is the radio, could walk into a rattlesnake den and nobody’d ever know, not with that .. thing up like that.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  “That— Tech, I mean it, you should leave.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  “I will. In a bit.I have this- okay well the short version is ‘tool’ even though that’s less fun to say, but it’s been running basically since I got here and if I calibrated it right it should be able t'tell me whether or not the line -y’know like, the point where the interference is so strong signals stop sending?- has been movin'g' at all, line in or out or anything, and if it stays absolute, or if there are any breaks, like if it’s on unstable power or.. I guess it could be natural. Somehow. …Maybe.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  He did not answer her again. Tech pouted at the silence for a long minute, then stuck her tongue out at the speaker of her transmitter. That would show him. She pushed it aside and sprawled out on the hood of the truck, letting the warmth of the metal melt her bones.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤShe spent awhile that way, kicking her feet and postulating a few more scenarios to her cat: secret societies and magnetic fields and vast alien conspiracies. They weren’t the least bit plausible, but she had fun letting the concepts run on whatever train they pleased. She was a thousand miles down one of these when the distant growl of an engine carried ahead of the vehicle it powered. Tech sat up.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤShe half expected it to be Jack, for some reason. Why he would be gunning across the desert on a chomp-chewing motorcycle was a mystery almost less believable than her runaway alien-theory train. It took her a few moments of squinting, her hand hovering over her transmitter in case she decided to call someone about this, before she put together what she was looking at.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤOh boy.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤWhat had she done to warrant actually summoning Midnight driving faster than a dirt devil? Or was he on the same curiosity train? One way to find out.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech jumped down. She stretched, long and lazy, before settling in to put another little note on her map. ‘Ask Midnight about aliens. Face = priceless’. The engine cut off sharply as Midnight pulled up.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Desert’s full’a oddities,” Tech opened. Midnight didn’t give her the chance to elaborate- he immediately began collecting everything that she’d allowed to spread out on the hood as the morning had gone on. Piece by piece, he fed it into the truck through the open window. “Hey, Midnight?!” her protest was more baffled than irritated. Nevertheless, it was a decidedly displeased exclamation. “Wait that’s- I’m not- Stop!!” She pulled one of her smaller, jury-rigged machines from his hand, immediately checking it over. That was what got him to turn around and face her, the half-folded map still in his other hand. “It’s fragile.” She informed him with the indignant defensiveness of an investigator just scraping by on their own ingenuity. He squared up to her with a tense line pulling at the corners of his mouth; he wasn’t taking this lightly.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“You need to leave. Put all this in the truck and get out of here.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech shook her head, confused. “Wha- why? I just wanted t'see what-”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“There’s nothing out here worth investigating,” he interrupted brusquely.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech’s brow dipped into a frown. Nothing worth, not just ‘nothing’. “Whaddyou mean? How do you know?”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤMidnight seemed… unsettled? Tech wasn’t sure. He stalled for an answer by folding Tech’s map the rest of the way down, into a pocket-sized square.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“I will explain everything to you if you would just,” he turned half away, aiming a gesture meant to mean her at the truck’s cab, “get in the truck. I’ll-”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech opened her mouth to take her own turn at interrupting when she was accosted by a bizarre sensation, like someone had slipped up behind her and, without even a whistle of air as indication, cracked a two-by-four across her shoulder blades, forcing the air from her lungs but somehow without the pain. Just force. Tech's little machine dropped out of her hands. She pitched forward, arms outstretched. Midnight, with a grunt of surprise, caught her by the biceps. She closed her fingers over his dusty sleeves.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Tech, what- ?”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech shook her head. I don’t know? She took a breath. Her chest felt… shaken. Buzzing. Numb? A wave of heat started in the center of her chest and rolled out from there. She blinked at the scarlet blossom forming in the sand at her boots. One petal at a time… She straightened: Midnight’s expression crumpled. The pain that followed her next breath felt something like grabbing a handful of cactus that was still spined, if said cactus were the size of a building and said spine the size of her forearm, now running straight through her chest like a sewing needle through a bead. Her vision flared red, then white. She could still feel the grit of his sleeves under her hands; she gathered handfuls of the fabric.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“-Midnight?”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Pumpkin-” His grip on her arms tightened. “Hey, look at me.” What he didn’t say, though it somehow seemed implied: don’t look down.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤThe universe tilted strangely, wobbling back and forth, her sense of gravity gone, until she felt the hard ground against her spine. Flat. When her sight came back she found herself looking at the empty sky, so blue and bright it burned her eyes. A clap like thunder rolled over the sands. The thought occurred to her: “I… Someone ...shot me?”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤThe question felt dumb on her tongue. She would know, wouldn’t she? If someone had shot her just now, she would know. As her heart began to beat, catching up with the few it must have missed sometime earlier the burn became obvious. Each little leap sent a ripple of it out from her chest, dwindling to sparks at the edges of her torso. She reached for the center of the tide. She closed her fingers on fabric that was soaked. Another hand —Midnight’s, some whispery part of her acknowledged, and was unalarmed— pulled her hand away. A second later, she was being lifted into a sitting position. The pain lanced sharply. Tech cried out.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤMidnight had, with something (gauze? she couldn’t tell) grasped in hand, pressed one palm to her chest and the other to the back of her shoulder and pressed. Crushed, she’d even say. Tech grabbed Midnight’s shoulder. She tried to speak but couldn’t find words beyond the wildly insufficient “..ow.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤMidnight didn’t address her complaint, focused wholly on compressing what Tech could only assume was a hole in her chest. In her heart. She began to shake.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“What- what happens?” She’d never been shot before. She’d been clipped, certainly, grazed once or twice or maybe a few times by a standard Better Living Ray Gun, beaten down with fists and feet, acquainted with the unfriendly side of a knife so often it almost didn’t strike her as so unfriendly —never shot. Maybe it was another understatement, but the way every bit of her kept alternating hot then cold then hot again made her think it would be bad. He didn’t answered. Tech adjusted her grip, vying for either his acknowledgement or at least a sense of reality. Shot? By who? For what? ㅤㅤ“That. That was a bullet yeah? A real one? ‘Cause the, the ray ones, they don’t make that noise, they’re not that loud.” The sheer concussive blast. She wondered how someone could be holding the thing that made that noise and not be deaf forever after just one shot. “Is that- does it make it worse? Does it- do something?” Do something like what? It was already being shot: would a metal bullet change the facts? “Fuck,” she whispered, “I didn’t see anything I didn’t think that there was anything out here it was just a dead zone, I thought- I thought the ridges were doing something or maybe there was a weird reflection but it’s just more desert.” She might have turned to look at said surrounding desert, but she didn’t even make her head turn halfway before something snagged her focus, there on the sand just past her feet. His duffel. “That’s like what yours is isn’t it? That case- it’s because it’s made to shoot that far? I- you can’t even see it but it might mean whoever did it is high up, right? And you can’t even see it because it’s so far away, there’s no warning I- oh god can they still see us?” Would the next shot be for him? “You shouldn’t stay, you should- I’ll- ’m already- but if they haveta reload or they just can’t shoot, you go before they can I don’t- I don’t want- nn-”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤMidnight had first interrupted with a gentle ‘Hey’ somewhere around the mention of the dead zone, but Tech didn’t hear it, not on a level that gave her a way to stop or answer. Twice more, ‘Hey. Hey.’ each more insistent. In the end, she was reached by the pressure against her chest doubling. The dull, radial pain sharpened, stabbed. She exhaled in a faint whimper. When she finally focused on Midnight’s face, her eyes overflowed with tears and hysteria.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Wide open spaces,” she quoted him, newly understanding, “wide open spaces sit funny.” If he recognized his own words, it didn’t show.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“First, I'm gonna need you to take a deep breath for me.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech nodded. It took a moment, a handful of shallow puffs in preparation, but she managed. Long, slow pull; shuddering but measured release.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“What happens now is you breathe, and you keep looking at me, and you don't fall asleep on me.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤFall asleep? She was a fork in an electric socket; everything was alight. Nevertheless, she nodded again and tried to take another breath where the air actually sank into her lungs. If he was concerned about it, it was a possibility.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“I'm going to pick you up and get you in the car, and we're gonna go back to the Haven, and we're gonna get you through this.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤThe way he said it was so certain. We’re gonna get you through this. A fact, he said it like a fact. Through it? She almost asked him how but didn’t want to put him in the position to have to attempt to explain the impossible. Tech squeezed her eyes closed, trying to stop the flow of her tears if for no other reason than that they didn’t change anything. A person didn’t get through being- being— there was a word for it, she knew, for being shot somewhere vital from far away. She couldn’t find it, but knew it was a synonym for killed. This was how she got killed. Years down the road, if anyone ever asked Jack about her, he would say she had been killed.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤMidnight put arm around her back, the other under her knees. He lifted her easily. Despite the sudden wave of nausea that came with leaving the ground, Tech found the hold comforting. Despite the glimpse she caught of a cherry red stain in the sand, she was eased away from being terrified. By the time Midnight set her in the passenger seat of Jack’s truck, the tears had slowed, almost stopped. Her breathing hadn’t quite hit a pace that deserved to be called stable, but it wasn’t a struggle to speak.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Gear shift sticks unless you push it a little to the right first.” Midnight shot her a sideways look. He pulled the driver’s side door closed.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Need you to keep pressure on that. Hard as you can. Don’t let up if you don’t have to,” was his only offered return, but he took her advice as he started the truck and set its tires to turning.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech did as she was told.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤShe wondered privately whether any amount of pressure could postpone this, never mind the minimal amount she was capable of inflicting on herself. It was a unique sensation: her hand was cold, fingertips slightly numb, and yet it was also doused in warmth. Heavy warmth. Warmth that seeped out from underneath her palm. And still, cold. And it didn’t even seem like it was slowed: when her heart thumped, vying for another beat, it just pushed up between the creases of her fingers, re-dousing the whole of her hand in warmth that could not warm. Tech blinked at the sight of the ground flying past beyond the window. She was tempted, as she watched the ridges disappear, to simply… let go.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤBut Midnight was there.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤHe was staring, hard-eyed, through the windshield. His face seemed pale. He kept adjusting his grip on the steering wheel; his hands were covered in blood. Tech watched him with a growing sense of dread that did not seem to belong to her. The blood. The speed at which they were traveling. These were distant facts. She was immersed in the familiar rumble of the engine and the smooth feel of the worn leather.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤWith effort, she pushed herself away from the passenger side and invited herself instead to sit in the jump seat. She gathered her feet onto the seat with her and tucked herself, neatly, to Midnight’s side, borrowing (or perhaps lending?) calm. She rested her head against his shoulder.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤIt was a shame that they didn’t have any music. The radio only fizzled and whined quietly. “‘s stuck on one station,” she told Midnight, gesturing at the number frozen on the display, “has been… forever. He won’t let me fix it. …. Says he’ll get around to it.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤIt was a shame that they didn’t have any music. Without it, there was nothing to hear but the creak of the truck’s ancient suspension and the irregular ping and clatter of rocks against the underside of the chassis: the sounds of monotony on a journey across any piece of the desert. It was normally the kind of thing that felt like it took forever, but Tech blinked and truck was dragging to a rough stop inside the Haven’s front fence.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤAlready?

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤShe had to admit, she hadn’t thought she’d make it this far. Her shirt was stuck to her torso, hugging her ribs even when she tried to shift it loose. It stuck to the seat, too, peeling away with a wet zip when Midnight lifted her out through the driver’s side door. He swung around and stomped straight into the Haven without stopping to close the truck’s door or wait on whoever that was Tech had spotted climbing down out of the watch tower.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“The right,” Tech told him, wondering if he remembered from being hauled in there, “Tox.. 's on the right.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“MADDY?” a yell to shake the heavens.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech did her best to show Jack she was -for one more minute- okay, lifting her head to look at him over Midnight’s shoulder, raising her hand in a weak flutter of fingers. She couldn’t look at him for very long. It was difficult.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤHe followed at an unhealthy distance, pestering not with questions but with presence. He would have, Tech knew without doubt, demanded a transfer of arms if not for the fact that they had already reached their destination just inside the doors. In just a handful of seconds, Tech was set down on the long silver table that was the closest thing to actual medical equipment in the whole of the Haven. Even with a layer between her and it, the steel was achingly cold. ㅤㅤ(She never understood how that worked- even in the desert, the metal was always cold.) Someone pressed down on her shoulder again, drawing a groan out of her. She made a vague attempt to escape it, twisting in place. Jack cradled her face in his hands.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Mads?”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“…..Did some'n’ stupid.” Tech tried, for his sake, to sound teasing.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Stupid,” Jack didn’t disagree, “but you came back. You keep coming back.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech closed her eyes against the fresh wave of tears. She nodded. Kept coming back. She wanted that on any memorial anyone gave her, kept coming back. Ran but never away. Was here. “Toldja… there was somethin’ weird….. out there.” Turned out to be a weird thing that was trigger happy. Who knew? Well, everyone here did, now. Good. Better that they know and stay away, then.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤJack said something. Tech could hear him talking but couldn’t tell what the sounds were supposed to be. Her head seemed heavy; her thoughts sagged. Her eyelids fluttered, but only just, as she battled the strange urge not to open them again.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Tech? Hey, Tech, c’mon.” She didn’t know when it had happened, but the person hovering over her, holding her head, was no longer Jack. “Come on, come on back.” Tox. He propped her up slightly, the rhythmic squeeze of his fingers at the back of her neck somehow drawing her back in a seat of awareness. Tech blinked.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTox was easier to look at than Jack, and it had nothing to do with the slow response of her eyes’ focus. Looking at Jack just now, as she had been swept through the Haven, had been like looking at a car crash, a raw nerve. Everything was pain, forward and untempered. That was always the way he looked when she was in trouble, and the only time he ever looked like that. Tox was the opposite. His worry was there, concern unhidden, but whatever pain was causing it couldn’t be read like a magazine headline. It was tucked away somewhere, neatly, so that he could still offer Tech a faint smile.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Hey, there you are. I need to ask you something. You in there enough for that?” His hand felt uncommonly warm on the back of her neck. For some reason it made her feel more awake. She nodded. Tox mimicked the gesture, an echo of agreement. “I thought so.” He adjusted in place; took a breath. “Alright, listen. They missed your heart- crazy, I know, I’ll tell you about it some time, just listen for a second. The bullet missed your heart, but it damaged an artery. You’re cold and tired, your fingers might be numb? That’s why.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“…Bleedin’ too mush,” she murmured. He nodded again.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Bleeding too much. If we want to stop it for real, I have to get in there and close the tear.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤA sick chill pulsed down her arms. Tech shivered. Get in there. Tox’s mouth became a flat, pressed line. Yeah, get in there.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Listen,” Tox insisted again, “… I don’t have a good way to get you unconscious. If we do this-”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤA sudden, wordless protest. Jack was still in the door, and he surged forward.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“What do you mean ‘IF’, Tox? Just-”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTox silenced him with an uncommonly severe look.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Jack,” he barked, “I need you out of here five minutes ago.” Tech got the impression Tox would have backed his statement up physically if not for the fact that he was still carefully holding her up. “You too.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤThere was a beat of resistance. Jack remained a shape in Tech’s peripheral for a handful of seconds. She could tell he was looking at her. Probably waiting for her to disagree, let him stay. For that reason, she kept her eyes glued on Tox’s profile. Jack swore though his teeth and retreated into the hall- at least one other person went with him, but Tech couldn’t see or think who it was. Tox focused back in, gently squeezing the back of her neck again to double check he still had her attention.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“If we do this,” he began again, “…we do this with you awake. You’ll probably pass out before I’m done, but it’s not a guarantee. It’s your choice. You gotta pick quick, but …your choice.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech was often someone waylaid at choices by misgivings; second thoughts; indecision.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤThis was not one of those times.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤThe people she loved — who loved her had the right to try to stop this.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“Do it.”

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTox smiled. “ 'Attagirl.” He planted a kiss on her forehead.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤThe next steps weren’t for Tech: Tox had to do his best to have sterile tools and hands. Lith had to make sure anything they might need would be within reach. Tech’s shirt had to be cut away. Then Tox had her tuck her left hand under her back and slide her right hand into Lith’s to hold on to. Lith was also responsible, in no uncertain terms, for keeping Tech’s shoulders pressed as flat to the table as humanly possible- as still as humanly possible.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤHe started in with minimal warning.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤIf it had been a hot poker before, it was the entire set of fireplace tools now. Tech screamed. There was no other word for it.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤ“I’ve got you,” Lith was quiet if only by comparison.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤTech had told herself she wasn’t going scream. It wasn’t something anyone was trying to draw out of her: it wasn’t Tox’s fault that there was no other way to do this. The least she thought she could do for him was make it seem less cruel. But that was an option denied to her. Overridden, the worst burning- the worst feeling she had ever known left her to scream until the world melted away completely. The last thing to go was the fire, which took a final few bites of her heart before everything was black and cold and endless as an empty night sky.

ㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎⁤  ㅤㅤㅤ‎‎‎⁤ Ｉ̜͘ '̠͝ ｖ̧̥̱́ ｅ̧̙̝͘ ｇ̷̨̱̩̗̱͠͠ ｏ̴̷̴̯͈͔͎̖͜͝ ｔ̀̕͏͚̤̞͉̪̕͢ ｙ̷̕͘͘͝͠͏͔̱̜̬̘̯ͅ ｏ̵̡͟͜҉͟͏̝̜̞̹̼͚͈ ｕ̶̡̨̨̯̹̣͕͚͈͚̦́͟͢͜.̶̀͘͢͜͡҉͏̼̻̯͉̘̹̮̯

[burdenedchaos]

I like to headcanon that of the Variants in the Void, Lokes does NOT like Kid Loki at all purely for stupid angsty reasons that he would need a therapist to unpack.

Everything about the younger Variant raises his hackles and puts him on edge.

It isn't a good feeling to see this younger version of what you could have been. To hear him speak of Killing Thor, a pipe dream that you know you could never actually go through with, no matter how the Thunderer has hurt you.

He hates seeing the innocence of youth coupled with the burden of everything the younger variant went through.

I think Classic Loki would have to be a mediator and buffer between the two of them constantly but maybe one day they'd be able to stand on equal footing.

[snkts]

The Good Fight - Ouija & Siren

“Ah, Logan. There you are.” Charles says from Cerebreaux. His voice bounces off the walls of the room. It’s almost a perfect sphere, and it turns into an echo chamber. “Welcome home.” 

“Hey, Chuck.” Logan puts his hand on the back of Charles’ chair. “Got here as soon as I could.” Charles looks up at him with a smile.

“I appreciate your haste, old friend. I hate to interrupt your vacation, but this is a rather pressing matter.” 

“It’s fine.” Logan shakes his head. He’d been minding his own when the call came in, standing at one of his favourite seedy bars (Tony Slim’s, an unknown and unwashed gem) and playing pool. A good way to unwind and destress after missions and mansion life. (Yeah, yeah, he knows, what a hard existence he’s leading now.) But his comm had gone off, and that was more important. He’d always be there when his family needed him, and they needed him now. “Tell me about the kid.” 

“Right.” Charles looks back at the display. Rendered in blue light is an array of photographs of a young girl - a yearbook photo, family portraits. Beside them all is a neat rectangle of statistics and flashcard-style information. “Her name is Samantha Everett, from Chicago, Illinois. She just recently turned seven years old-” 

“So I’m guessing she didn’t go out for a pack of smokes.” Logan shoved his other hand in his pocket. 

“Doubtful.” Charles typed in a few commands, enlarging some of the photos. 

“Seems a little young to be getting her powers.” Logan remarked, frowning. “What kinda baggage are we looking at?” 

“Surprisingly, none.” Charles said. “We’ve already conducted interviews with her parents, teachers, and even her babysitter. As far as anyone knows, she’s a happy, healthy little girl.” 

“I’m gonna want to talk to ‘em myself.” Logan said, chewing the inside of his cheek. Charles nodded. 

“And you will.” Charles shifted, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a paper-wrapped plastic straw before holding it out. “They’re eager to meet with you.” Logan blinked at the straw, then accepted it. He raised it in a silent ‘cheers’, removed the wrapper, shoved it into his pocket, and stuck the straw between his teeth. It wasn’t nearly as good as a cigar, but if he wasn’t allowed to smoke in here, it was better than nothing. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, chewing on the straw. 

“So, happy, healthy little girl just up and vanishes.” He mused. “With no sign of a struggle.”

“None.” Charles confirmed. “And before you ask, there’s been no sign of her on Cerebreaux, either.” He reached up and removed the helmet, resting it in his lap. “Wherever she is, she’s not using her abilities.” 

“You said she’s a telepath?” 

“Something tangential.” Charles put the helmet away and wheeled backwards out from the desk. “When my gift manifested, I was the only one hearing voices. If other people had reported the same, I may have felt less…” 

“Alone?” Logan supplied. Charles hummed and nodded. 

“Yes.” For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Logan plucked the straw - now thoroughly mangled - from his mouth. 

“Well, Charles?” He turned towards the door. “Might need half an hour for this one.” Charles chuckles and follows him across the catwalk. 

“Don’t tell me, you’re slowing down in your old age?” He asks, grinning and arching a brow. Logan scoffed. 

“Watch it, Junior.” But he’s laughing, too. 

***

The Blackbird touches down in what looks to be some sort of baseball field. Nothing too fancy. The sort of thing that made Little League teams feel important, but that's about it. Logan stepped off the gangplank, one hand in his pocket and the other hanging loosely at his side. He glanced around as his boots met the grass. It's empty aside from a small group of people - five of them - huddled a ways away from the jet. He could smell their anxiety even from where he stood. It was brought over to him by the breeze that ruffled the grass and plucked at his hair. The parents he would’ve recognized even without the family photos. The mom had the same straight ash-blond hair as her daughter. She got her daddy’s nose, though. The other hint that they’re the parents are the eyes. Not just the colour, though it’s the same green-hazel on the dad as stared back from the school photo. The dark bags and red rims tell it all. The scent, too. The salty, sickly-sweet smell of grief and tears. That wasn't something you could fake easily. The other three were a separate family unit. A girl - maybe seventeen, eighteen at the oldest - and her parents. Her hair was red and tightly braided, a similar shade to her father’s short crew cut. She kept clutching and releasing the too-long sleeves of her sweater. Nervous. Not afraid, nervous. And judging by how frayed her sleeves were, she’d been doing this a lot - it wasn’t a ‘new’ nervous, not brought about by his and Charles’ arrival. Her mom was a different story. Her hands were on the girl’s shoulders, and her freshly-manicured nails dug into the mint-green fabric as the two mutants approached. Logan furrows his brow but says nothing. Charles does the talking for him. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Everett,” he begins. “I’m-” 

“Professor Xavier!” Mr. Everett let go of his wife and stepped forward, shaking Charles's hand in both of his. “Thank you so much for coming. We still haven't heard anything. We’ve been worried sick, and we didn't know who else to call-”

“There's always the MRA.” The redhead’s wife sniffs. Logan scoffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Not if you wanna see her again.” He says. Mrs. Everett’s heart rate spiked. 

“What?” She gasps, hand flying to her mouth. The redhead’s wife’s had a fast pulse the whole time. She shifted closer to her husband, pulling their daughter along with her. Her husband, the red head’s, scent shifted from anxious to aggressive to anxious again when Logan grinned at him. Big man didn't feel so big after all. Still big enough to open his mouth, though.

“And you are-?” The redhead clutches at his wife and daughter. 

“Logan.” Logan replies. He turns his body to face the redhead square. “Who’re you?” The redhead clenched his jaw in an attempt to rally and puffed out his chest.

“I’m Lyra’s father.” The effort to put more bass in his voice was noticeable. Logan blinked at him, one brow raised to indicate how little that meant. He glanced at the girl, then at Charles. 

“Samantha’s babysitter.” Charles supplied.

“Ah.” Logan nodded. He’d figured, but it was good to get the confirmation. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Everett.” Charles wheeled forward to once again take charge of the conversation. “Logan is the one I told you about over the phone. You would be hard pressed to find a better tracker.”

“There isn’t one.” Logan said, crossing his arms. “Doesn't matter where she is, I’ll find her.” Mr. and Mrs. Everett smiled.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Everett says, reaching to hug her husband’s arm. 

“If there’s ever anything-” Mr. Everett begins, but Logan cuts him off with a raised hand. 

“Save it for when the kid’s back watchin’ Saturday morning cartoons.” And then he rocks his weight back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “Now, how’s about we get outta this field and talk somewhere more private?” 

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Mr. Everett nods. “We actually live just across the street from the stadium. That’s why we suggested meeting here.” The couple turns to go, Lyra and her family at their heels. Charles and Logan follow behind, Logan matching his pace with Charles's, never straying from his side. It takes a concentrated effort to let Charles into his mind, but he can manage enough to get his point across. 

Babysitter’s parents seem shady, he thought. I don’t trust them. 

They do not trust you either, old friend. Charles’s voice in his head. They’re quite suspicious of the both of us. 

Figures. Logan struggled not to scoff out loud. Think we’re gonna have to worry about a phone call? 

Perhaps we will. The thought has crossed their minds once or twice. Charles mused. We’ll have to be alert.

Always am. Logan returned, then relaxed as his mind closed and he put more of his focus into the world around them. The wind through the faint trees scattered at the park’s edge, and the residential yards across the street. Birds chirping - robins, sparrows, chickadees. The hum of insects, the rustle of their footsteps, the sound of a dog panting a few streets away. A nice, quiet neighbourhood. So painfully upper-middle-class that the lack of white picket fences felt like an oversight. Given the time of day, most people were out, as demonstrated by the many empty driveways. Didn’t stop a few nosy neighbours from peeking through their blinds, but that wasn't surprising. As long as they kept out of his way, Logan would pay them no mind. 

They approached a quaint little two-story bungalow, white siding and blue shutters, flower boxes under the window. The path up to the front door was cobblestone, greys and sandy browns framed on either side by perfectly manicured grass. There was a single step up to a small concrete porch that was barely larger than the front door. Logan lagged behind just long enough to ensure Charles got up alright before joining everyone inside. 

“Nice place.” He comments. Mr. Everett shoots him a long-suffering look. 

“The next door neighbour is HOA president.” He said. Logan let out a noise that was half sympathy, half amusement.

“You poor bastard.” He says, shaking his head in sympathy. Mr. Everett nods, and his shoulders relax a bit. Good. If they were calm, they’d give better intel. Might be easier for Charles to sort through, too. They stepped through the foyer to the family room, wide and spacious, a cream carpet, white walls that were covered in photos and paintings. There’s a fireplace, and the mantle is covered in more pictures, some figurines - animals, mostly, one or two that looked like Disney princesses. At least one that was some unrecognisable lump of clay, probably made by a grade schooler. Three guesses who, and the first two don’t count. 

“What about you?” Logan asks. Lyra’s parents look up from where they’ve settled themselves on a loveseat. “You live around here?” 

“The street behind this one.” Lyra speaks up suddenly. Logan shifts his attention to her. She’s small, and skinny. A smattering of freckles across her nose. Her hair pulled into two braids, done tightly and bound in elastics. And still pulling on her sweater sleeves. It’s a miracle the damn things hadn’t fallen off. “And a few houses down. I used to come in through the back gate when I…” She trailed off and looked around, realising people were staring at her. She ducked her head to hide from the attention. Logan glanced at Charles, then stepped around the glass-topped coffee table to crouch in front of Lyra. 

“It’s okay, darlin’.” He says gently. “Anything you can tell us helps. That gate you mentioned - anyone else use it?” 

“Just us.” Mrs. Everett comes out of the kitchen with a tray of glasses. Lemonade, by the smell of it. Store bought - too artificial to be home-made - but a nicer brand - real lemons and sugar. “There's a lock on the back. We have the key, Ted and Aimie and Lyra have a key,” she nodded to indicate Lyra and her parents, “and my mother has a key. And Jack’s father.” After setting the tray down, she put her hand on her husband’s arm. 

“But neither of our parents live in town.” Mr. Everett - Jack - says, bending over to lift some of the glasses from the tray. He passes one to Charles, who accepts it with a smile and a quiet ‘thank you’, then one to Lyra’s father, Ted. Then he passes a glass to his wife, then Aimie, then holds one out to Logan. Logan eyes it, then looks back at Jack with a raised eyebrow. 

“Wouldn't happen to have a beer, would’ya?” He asked. Jack sighs and pushes his free hand through his hair. 

“I could go for a beer.” Jack mumbles. He turns and heads past a marble-top counter into the kitchen. There's the sound of a fridge opening, a clinking rustling noise, and Jack returns with two bottles held between his fingers.

“Cheers.” Logan says as he accepts his drink. Jack nods. 

“We have a bottle opener around here somewhere…” He turns, and Logan huffs. 

“So do I.” His claws extend with a snikt from them and a gasp from the humans. He wedges the blade under the bottle cap and twists his wrist. The cap flies off. He catches it, retracts his claws, and stuffs it in his pocket as he tips the beer back. 

“So.” Charles says pleasantly, sipping his own drink. “What can you tell us about your daughter?” 

“Oh, uh…” Mrs. Everett blinks, closing her mouth. Then she collects herself. “Well, she’s very shy. She has some friends, she does well in school… She’s a normal little girl.” Logan didn't miss the look Ted and Aimie exchanged. He glared at them. 

“Got something to say?” The edge in his voice made them flinch. 

“Just that-” Aimie starts, then stops. Ted puts his hand on her shoulder. 

“Normal little girls don't do the things she does.” He’s trying to be defiant.

Cute. 

Logan growls. In the same moment, Mrs. Everett stands. 

“There is nothing wrong with her!” She snaps. 

“Marcy-!” Jack cautions, putting his hand on her arm. 

“Everyone, please!” Charles spoke up. Logan settled somewhat and took another swig of beer. The humans quieted too. Charles paused to have a sip of lemonade. “I understand that emotions are running high right now. A child has been taken. It is only natural that you might feel stressed or defensive. But the best way we can help you right now is through rational discussion. The more information Logan and I get, the sooner we can ensure Samantha is brought home safely. That is what we all want, correct?” A silence. Jack and Marcy nod, Lyra nods, and after a beat, so do Ted and Aimie. Charles nods as well. “Very good.” He set his glass down on the coffee table, minding the coaster. “Now, let us resume our discussion. We’ve brought up Samantha’s gift multiple times, now. Could you explain to us what that is?” Marcy nodded, then slowly pried herself off of her husband and sat in an armchair. Jack rested his hands on the back of the chair. 

“We thought it was Lyra, at first.” Marcy begins. 

“But it wasn’t.” Aimie says, grabbing at her daughter’s hand. Lyra looks up at her, then back at the floor. Logan grunted. 

“Wait your turn.” That quieted Aimie down, even if her face looked like she wanted to say some non-PTA-approved words. Tough luck. Marcy, by contrast, smiled. Her shoulders loosened and her heart rate slowed just a touch. She was grateful. Another good thing. 

“She told us she heard voices. And we were alarmed, but-” 

“Not-” Lyra started, then clamped her mouth shut as her scent spiked with fear. But Logan just looked at her and tilted his head curiously. She swallowed and tried again. “Not voices. Just one voice.” 

“Whose?” Logan asked, facing her fully. She started pulling at her sleeves again, letting go of her mother’s hand in favour of fiddling. 

“My Nana’s.” She says, then blinks. “Um, my grandmother on my mom’s side. Her name was Nancy, and she, um…” 

“My mother passed five years ago.” Aimie said, putting her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. 

“Heart failure.” Ted supplies. Charles nods and folds his hands in his lap with a sympathetic hum. 

“I’m sorry. And you said you heard her voice, Lyra? Could you elaborate on that?” He asks, and she nods. 

“I was walking Sammy home from school like I do every day. We have one of those weird schools where it’s mostly a high school, but then there’s a bit at the back for the elementary schoolers.” 

“It’s a private school.” Jack cuts in. “It’s smaller, but they teach the kids how to sign, and Sammy’s mute, so we thought it’d be good for her to be around people who could actually communicate.” 

“Mute, huh?” Logan chewed at his lip. “So, chances are she didn’t call out when she got taken. Keep going, kid.” Lyra nods, even though she keeps her eyes on the floor. 

“We got to the back gate, and I unlocked it for her. And she always wanted a high five before we said ‘bye’. It’s our thing.” She twisted the fabric some more. Her breathing hitched. “So I did, and…” She sniffles. Logan tilts his head and crouches down, setting his beer on the table. 

“And what, darlin’?” He asked. (Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Charles lean forward and slide a coaster under the beer bottle.) 

“I heard my Nana.” Her voice was even quieter now. “Loud and clear. She told me to tell my grandpa not to go in his car, because his breaks were broken. And I got freaked out, so once Sammy was in her yard, I closed the gate and ran home.” 

“She told us about what she heard.” Ted says quietly. “At the time, we thought maybe it was some kind of divine intervention.” Logan cast a glance back at Charles, who nodded subtly. That fucking figured. When mutants do weird things, it’s a curse, a disease, something to be fixed and cured and punished. But when it was their own kid? It was an act of God. A miracle. (Until it got too much to handle - then it was back to being a curse again.) 

“I didn’t know what to think.” Aimie says. “I just mentioned it to my dad because I was worried. He checked the breaks to reassure her, but-” 

“But they were actually broken.” Logan finished. Aimie nodded. 

“Just like she said.” 

“We didn’t know about any of that at the time.” Jack said, squeezing the back of Marcy’s chair tightly. “We thought it was strange that Lyra didn’t come say hello like she normally does when she drops Sammy off, but thought maybe she was just busy. Nothing to comment on, you know? So I picked Sammy up to hug her hello, and one of my old war buddies was suddenly talking about being cold.” 

“Us Army,” Charles offers. 

“Canadian Special Forces.” Logan said. 

“Marines.” Jack replies, easing his grip. “Swanson was his name, Fred Swanson. KIA. He just kept saying, ‘It’s cold here, kid.  It’s real cold’.” Marcy reached up to put her hand on her husband’s. She gave his fingers a squeeze. The tense look on his face and shift in his scent hinted that he needed the comfort. 

“Do you believe he was speaking to you?” Charles asked.

“No.” Jack didn't hesitate. “Fred never called me ‘kid’. We were the same age. He called me Jackie.” 

“I heard my grandmother.” Marcy said. “She was just singing. The same songs she used to sing when she was gardening.” 

“I see.” Charles frowns. “And what did you do?” 

“Got us out of the house.” Jack shrugs. “I thought we were hearing things. I thought- I thought maybe there was something wrong with our carbon monoxide detector. So I got us out and called the emergency number to get someone to come check it, and everything came back clean.” 

“But it kept happening?” Logan prompted. Marcy, Jack, Aimie, and Ted nodded. 

“Not the same voices.” Marcy said. “Different ones, every time.” 

“And it was every time.” Jack picks his beer bottle off the counter he’d set it on and takes a pull. “Every time we touched her, or she touched us. It didn’t stop. I would’ve thought I went crazy if Marcy wasn’t hearing it too.” Logan frowned, looking over at Charles. 

“That’s not a telepath.” He says. 

“No, it isn't.” Charles steeples his fingers and furrows his brow. “At least, not the typical sort. I can understand how that might have been troubling to you. Did you tell anyone else?” 

“We called around to different resources.” Marcy said. “That's how we found out about your school. We emailed you not long after.” Charles nodded but said nothing. 

“So how else do you factor in?” Logan looks to Lyra. 

“I was the last person to see Sammy before she vanished.” She said, her voice cracking. “But I didn’t do anything! I swear, I-” Charles held up a hand. 

“It’s alright, Lyra.” He soothes her, cradling his glass of lemonade. “I know for a fact you did nothing wrong. This is just part of our investigation.” Lyra nods again. “Just tell us what you saw.” 

“She was just playing in the backyard.” Lyra said, graduating to chewing on the ends of her sleeve. “I was worried. She hadn't been to school in a while and nobody knew why, we just heard she was sick.” Logan and Charles glanced at Jack and Marcy. 

“We pulled her out of school.” Marcy said, fiddling with one of her earrings. “We didn't want people knowing she was a mutant until we had the, ah, resources, to handle her- gift.” 

“So I hadn't been walking her home, and it kinda felt… It was weird. I guess I missed her.” Jack smiled at this, sad though it was, and Marcy reached out to take Lyra’s hand. Lyra accepts the gesture in spite of the look Ted and Aimie exchange. “So when I was passing by their house, I just… Looked over the fence.” She grimaced and let go of Marcy’s hand. “Oh, god. That makes me sound like a creep. But I looked in, and I saw her, and she was just playing. She had her dollhouse and her bike and a few other things. And she was just playing. So I called to her and waved hello and she waved back. I tried to get her to come high five me, like we always did, but she didn’t want to. Guess I know why.” She shrugs and pulls her knees to her chest, locking her arms around her legs. “We had a conversation for a little bit. Nothing really important. I was asking how she was feeling, she was telling me about the story she came up with for her dolls. Something about a senate that got infiltrated, and trying to find who the bad guy was. She did that one a lot. And then I got a phone call, and I looked away for a bit, and when I looked back, she-” Lyra’s voice broke and she buried her face in her knees, holding herself tighter. “She was gone.” 

“Who called you?” Logan asked. Lyra kept her face buried and shrugged. Logan waited. Eventually, she spoke again. 

“Brian Casey.” She mumbled. When she looks up, her face is bright red, and her pulse is elevated. “He’s, um, a boy from school. We talked for a minute or two, and I turned to wave bye to Sammy, and I didn’t see her.” 

“Was there anything strange about the phone call?” Charles asked. Lyra nodded. 

“Yeah. I asked Brian about it the next day, and he had no idea what I was talking about.” Her face twisted into a frustrated frown. “But I know it was him. We even talked about a chemistry assignment we’d done together.” 

“But he denied it the next morning?” Charles pressed. 

“According to him, it never happened. … And there was nothing in either of our call logs.” Charles and Logan stared at each other. They both nod. 

“That’s all I need to hear.” Logan crossed his arms and rocked his weight back on his heels. Then he looks back to Jack and Marcy. “You got anything important to her I can take with me? A stuffed animal, a blanket…?” 

“Part of Logan’s gift is enhanced senses.” Charles explains. “Bloodhounds are quite envious of his ability to follow a scent.” 

“If it’s something that makes her feel safe, it might help me get her to come out if she’s hiding.” Logan adds. 

“Oh.” Marcy says as the humans glance between each other. Then she stands up. “I think I know just the thing.” She steps around the chair, manoeuvres around Charles with a quiet ‘’scuse me’, and heads up the wooden staircase by the door to get to the house’s second level. Logan tilts his head, following her footsteps, the creak of the door, the pad of socks on carpet, her mumbling, the quiet ‘there you are’ when she finds what she needs.  And then she retraces her steps and joins them in the sitting room again.

“Here.” She held out a shapeless, threadbare blob of fabric that had, at one point, been a plush lion. “This is Thimble. I-” She flushed. “I had a hard time saying ‘Simba’ when I was little. Sammy sleeps with him every night.” 

“That works.” Logan reached out and took the toy in one hand. He glanced over to Lyra and added, “You said the last place anyone saw her was the back yard?” Lyra nodded. Logan smirked. “Half an hour.”

“What?” Ted asked. Logan was already moving past them to the sliding glass door in the back of the kitchen. 

“That’s how long it's gonna take me to find the kid.”

“But she's been missing for three days.” That was Jack. Logan didn't turn around.

“I know.” He said, pushing the door open. “That's why I gave myself extra time.”

****

Finding the scent had been easy. It was all over the place. And yeah, it matched the scent that clung to the toy, Thimble, so he had double confirmation it was her. The artificial fruit scent of children's shampoo, goat’s milk, sidewalk chalk, grass and dandelions, petrichor, something not-quite but similar to ozone, the worn rubber of her shoes that was just a bit burnt from the lights that would come on when she stomped, bananas, washable markers, and granite. A little bit of sweat, which made sense if she’d been playing outside, but no fear. Highly unusual for a kidnapping victim. Her scent travelled alongside another, one he didn't recognize. That was bad enough. What made it even worse was that it carried traces of a scent he DID know. Oily-slick and painfully artificial, like pouring cologne on a chemical spill. Rot and rebirth, cold metal, blood. 

Sinister. 

If he was involved, a half hour search was probably too long. Fucking hell. His Harley, retrieved from the jet, roared down the street. The suburbs had long since fallen away. The buildings here were crowded together, businesses hunched under apartments and jostling for an inch of breathing room. He wrinkled his nose and growled. He hated places like this. Noisy, smelly, chaotic headaches. The perfect places to get lost in. well, not on his watch. 

The trail led him to a bus terminal. It was empty now, but they had definitely been here. Logan cut the ignition and kicked the stand into place, swinging off the bike. He glanced around and sniffed the air. Yup, there was Sammy’s scent, and the other one, too. Leather and hand sanitizer, hair gel, gunpowder and gun oil (the good stuff, too, nothing cheap), lemon and honey and tea leaves, wintergreen mint and nail polish, glacial ice, adrenaline and blood and Sinister. Who the hell was this? And where had they gone? 

There was a schedule on the wall. Laminated paper, sun-bleached but legible, detailing the routes each bus took. Logan grunted and ripped the sheet off the wall. Could be useful. He studied it a moment longer, then looked up and around. … There was a newspaper stand across the street. Logan was quietly amazed that those still existed. It was a hole-in-the-wall, probably part of the convenience store with the barred windows, with road sign-yellow paint on the counter and the signage. A far cry from the Everett’s suburb. Logan cast a quick glance in either direction then crossed the street, taking off his helmet and cradling it under his arm. The kid leaning against the counter can’t be more than late 20s. Long hair, stubble that was probably meant to be a beard. He had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, and fixed Logan with a disinterested stare as he approached. His nametag introduced him as Jeremy, and that he was a ‘proud employee’ of Luckee Mart. Congratulations, Jeremy.

“Hey.” Logan said, stopping in front of the counter. Jeremy said nothing, only raised his eyebrow. That was fine; Logan would do the talking for both of them. “I’m looking for a kid. You seen this girl?” He slaps Sammy’s school photo - printed off before they even left the mansion - down on the counter. Jeremy props his face on his fist and looks down. 

“You a cop?” He asks, and Logan grimaces before shaking his head. 

“Hell no. Private investigator.” He taps his finger against the photo. “Her parents really want her home.” Jeremy looks down at the photo. His brow furrows, his heart rate picks up, and his scent shifts to nervousness and fear. Oh, okay. He was about to start lying. He takes a drag of his cigarette and holds it out to the side, tapping the ash off. 

“Never seen her.” He said, leaning his weight to the side in an attempt to appear casual, confident. Logan sneers. 

“Listen, bub.” He says. The cockiness vanishes from Jeremy’s face when Logan lifts him, one handed, by the front of his shirt and snatches the cigarette away. “You can keep talking outta your ass if you want, but I got three things you should consider first. One.” His first claw slid out, close enough that the flat pressed against the punk’s cheek. “Two.” The second claw slid out along the other side of his face. “Three.” the third, central, claw extended just enough to press into the soft underside of Jeremy’s chin. Jeremy’s eyes were wide, frantic, and brown. Same brown as his hair. Same brown as his jeans were gonna be, too. 

“Wait! Wait wait wait, shit man, wait! You’re a- You’re a fuckin’ mutant?!” 

“Nothin’ gets by you.” Logan grunted. “Where's the girl?”

“She took a bus!” Jeremy yelped, scrabbling at the counter and Logan’s wrist. Logan growls his frustration and tightens his grip. 

“I know that, numbnuts.” He snapped. “When and what direction?” 

*I don’t know!” Jeremy tilted his head back even further, trying to get as far away from the claws as he could. “I-I was just coming back from my lunch break, so I dunno, like- Noon? Noon-ish? And they went off towards McKellen street– Uh, that way!” He pointed. 

“They?” Logan pressed. Jeremy started to nod, then thought better of it when he felt cold adamantium against his neck. 

“Yeah, she was with someone. A woman. She was kinda freaky-looking, but still a babe, y’know? Really tall, hair slicked back, some kinda… Body armor type deal. And she was strapped, man, like- Guns and shit? I was surprised they let her on the bus. You ever seen Kill Bill? Or the Matrix? Like that- Hey!” Logan shakes him once. 

“Focus, kid!” He snaps. “How long ago was this?” 

“I dunno!” Jeremy shakes his head frantically. “I dunno! Two days ago? Three? Something like that!” Logan growls his frustration and drops Jeremy back down, retracting his claws. He wasn’t going to get anything else from this guy. No point wasting his time. He kept the kid’s cigarette, though, and held it between his teeth, inhaling deep. Then his frown deepens as he lets the smoke out from his lips. 

“What is this? You smoke Pall Mall?” … He still took another drag as he referred back to the bus schedule. Logan shook his head. “Switch to Camels. You’ll thank me later.” He rolls the bus schedule up and stuffs it into his belt to hang onto, just in case, and makes sure to swipe the school picture as well. He crosses the street again, puts on his helmet, and swings onto his bike. The engine takes just long enough to cut on that Logan gets to hear Jeremy’s bewildered ‘What the fuck just happened?’ as he drives away.

*****

They’d left the city.  They hadn’t gone far, but they were past the limits. He’d picked up the scent at one of the bus stops marked on the map. That hadn’t been difficult. There was only one bus that matched Jeremy’s estimated scheduling: the 632. From there, he’d figured out the stops in order, and had taken alleyways and side streets to check each one off faster until he hit paydirt. Then it was just tracking. Tracking, and breaking a few traffic laws. Not like he cares - if the cops ever got on his tail, they'd have to catch him, first. 

“Hey, Chuck.” Logan said, flicking his comm on. 

“Logan!” Charles's voice is bright and pleasant. “I was wondering when we might hear from you. Good news, I imagine?”

“Yeah.” Logan took a right turn. “I’m close. The scent's blowing pretty fresh. I’d say I’m roughly three minutes out from her location.” 

“Already?” That was Jack’s voice, muffled by distance. Logan grinned. 

“I told ya, thirty minutes to find her.” He says. He slows his bike and comes to a stop, bracing his feet on the gravel road. “But your police force must be shit. Nobody checked the…” He squinted at the weather-beaten sign in front of him. “Steel mill?” 

“He’s at Flagship?” Jack still sounds surprised. “But…”

“But why would she be there?” Marcy’s voice, equally surprised. 

“No idea.” Logan grunted. “But as long as I get her back safe and sound, who cares? I’ll call back when I’ve got her.” He shut the commlink off. If he was being honest, the ‘why’ did matter, and he was curious about it, but he was on a time crunch - both for the limit he’d set for himself, and the kid’s safety. They could chat and theorise when she was home. 

He elected to leave his motorcycle behind. It would make too much noise on the approach. Best to go it on foot. He circled through the grass, stepping past what remained of a chain link fence and avoiding the main entrance. That'd be too obvious. Besides, the scent didn't lead to there. Whoever took the kid also didn't use the front door. 

That was interesting. 

They skipped most of the broken windows, too. Could be a couple reasons for that. Reason one: The kid couldn’t get that high. That would suggest that whoever took her wasn’t carrying her - which in turn suggested Sammy had gone willingly, or had been coerced to follow. Reason two: For whatever reason, the KIDNAPPER couldn’t get through the windows. Could be because they were too big to fit. At first listen to Jeremy’s story, that didn't sound right. He’d described a woman, and those windows were pretty damn big. But Logan didn't know this person. If they were a mutant, and he was assuming they were until otherwise proven wrong, they might have some sort of shape shifting power. Maybe the woman wasn't their real form. Maybe they had increased weight for another reason (better not be chomping his flavour).

Maybe they just couldn't jump that high. 

He stopped just behind the steel mill, staring at what probably used to be a loading bay. He was around a corner, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Coast looked clear. He could hear talking, but it was too distant to be at the door. He counted one voice- No, wait. … Why did it sound like so many more people all of a sudden? He swore, he SWORE he’d only heard two heartbeats a moment ago. Only two sets of breathing. And he didn't smell sulphur, so what in the fuck-? He narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air once, twice. Three times. He smelled rust, and dirt, and decay, mould and mildew and wildlife, petrichor and rotting paint, crumbling wood, and… 

And…

What the fuck? 

Why did it smell like the forest? … And why did he recognize those voices? 

This is a goddamn trap. 

He growls low in his chest, bares his teeth at nothing in particular. This is a trap, and it makes no sense. The people he hears, smells, can't possibly be there. And if there's a trap, that means whoever was behind this - whether they were just in league with Sinister or it was the man himself - knew someone was following them. If it had been tailored to him, they knew he was coming, specifically. But he was three days and a few police calls behind, and he'd gotten on the trail as soon as he'd heard all the relevant Intel. How could they know…? 

Fuck it. Screw the door, screw the loading bay, he was going in through one of those windows after all. He retraced his steps at speed - if they knew he was here, there was less point in being stealthy - braced his feet against the concrete and jumped. His hands caught the edge of the window. Glass bit into the leather of his gloves. Sliced into his hands. He swung up and over, using the windowsill as a pivot point. By the time he let go, the cuts were already healed, and he landed on the ground and woke up.

… Had he been sleeping? It felt like he had. Logan screwed his eyes shut and groaned, grinding his face into the heel of his hand. His head hurts. He hears the sound of chatter, and opens his eyes. … He's on a bench. On a bench, at the institute. His favourite bench, the one near the treeline. He frowns. Breathes in. The air is clean and fresh. Wasn't he just doing something? Or had it been another dream? Another nightmare? Another lost memory trying to bleed through to the surface? He blinked a couple times, trying to clear his vision. Something flew at his head- His arm snapped up- snatched it out of the air-

A frisbee. 

Bright red plastic with a black ‘X’ emblazoned on the top, marking it as property of the Institute. 

“Sorry, Logan!” A young voice called. Logan looked up, still clutching the frisbee. There, waving and giggling sheepishly, was a group of familiar faces. Pyro, Drake, Rogue, Kitty, Jubilee, and Colossus. Kitty was the one who had spoken. She stopped waving to rock onto her toes, then back down. “Can you throw it back?” He studies it a moment longer - does the weight feel different, or is he still waking up? - then shrugs and gives it a toss. It flies in a clean, precise arc, and Drake jumps to catch it.

“Thanks!” He yells back. Logan nods. 

“You need t’ work on your aim, petite.” That voice is also familiar, and he looks over to see Gambit propped against a lamp post, shuffling his cards. “You missed.”

“She throws better than you, Gumbo.” Logan huffs, standing and stretching. His back pops and he grunts. 

“You break Gambit’s heart, homme.” Gambit says, pausing his shuffling to put the back of his hand to his forehead. “I bake for you, and you talk t’ me like dat?” Logan rolls his eyes, but the ghost of a smirk belies his amusement.

“Don’t forget who pulled your ass outta the deep freeze, ‘homme’.” He crosses his arms loosely and looks back at the kids. “Whadda’ya want?”

“Gambit? He wants for nothin’.” Gambit returns to his cards. “Storm was lookin’ for you, though.” 

“Storm?” Logan glanced over, and Gambit nodded. Logan let out a curious hum, then set off back towards the mansion, tossing a ‘thanks’ over his shoulder. As he stepped out from the shade, he was awash in warm, buttery sunshine. It was warm enough to be nice, but not overbearing, and the breeze that carried the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass was the perfect equaliser between hot and cold. The lawn crunched under his boots as he walked. The voices of the frisbee game drew slightly softer as he approached the front of the grounds. There was a deeper sound. A low, baritone rumbling, growing louder and louder and Logan sprang back just as a red sports car zoomed into the circular driveway. 

“Jesus, Slim!” Logan shouted, regaining his footing. “Eyes up!” 

“Oh, man, sorry Logan!” Scott climbed out of the car with his shoulders hunched and his hand in front of his mouth, the universal posture for ‘I fucked up’. This was echoed in his scent, which was spiked with adrenaline and worry. “I didn't see you there. It’s just, Jean and I were planning this field trip for the kids, to the natural history museum. There’s this travelling exhibit that's coming to town, one about folklore and sea monsters and how that connects to different real-life sea creatures, and we thought it could be a creative tie-in for the mutant history class and how-”

“What Scott means is,” Jean steps out of the car and cuts Scott off with a hand on his shoulder and a fond smile. “We’ll pay more attention next time. Are you alright?” 

“I’m always alright, Red.” Logan said, then glanced to Scott, who was fiddling with his glasses nervously. “But I’m holding this against you, next time ya try to kick me outta the pilot seat.”

“That's fair.” Scott’s shoulders relaxed and his grin became more casual. “Sorry again, Logan.” Logan turned to leave, but only managed a few paces before Jean spoke up again. 

“Actually, we were hoping to run into you.” She said, taking an imploring step forward just as Logan turned back again.

“Almost did.” He huffs, and Scott sulks. Jean ignores them both and continues. 

“We were hoping to ask if you and Mariko would like to chaperone with us.” 

“Mariko?” He repeated, breath caught in his throat. No. No, that wasn't possible. He couldn't ask Mariko, because she was-

Just fine. She was fine. She was fine because she'd been there when he'd gone back to her home. She’d been waiting, safe and sound. And he’d dealt with the other Yakuza, and everyone else, and she’d finished disentangling her family from crime. It had been a long and arduous process. Some people had resisted at first. But in the end, she’d persisted, and eventually succeeded. The Yashida clan was respected under her lead. And she’d come to visit as a vacation from the constant work that came with running a family.

“Yeah.” Scott nodded. “The kids really like her. And, besides, we know she’s not going to be here much longer before she goes back to Japan. We thought she might like seeing a bit of American folklore before she goes home.” 

“She might.” Logan nods slowly, then screws his eyes shut and rubs at his temple again, teeth grit tight. “I’ll- I’ll ask.” 

“What's wrong?” Jean asked, signalling her concern in the tilt of her head and the furrow of her brow. Logan shook his head and stepped back. 

“Just a headache. I’ll be fine.” He says, muffling a growl in the back of his throat. “If I see her around, I’ll ask.” And now he did walk away. His head hurt more now. This isn’t right. None of this is right. It doesn’t make sense - why doesn’t it make sense? He was still glaring at the dirt when little footsteps scurried by him. A young girl, running across the lawn. She was about seven or eight, with straight, ash-blond hair and… Green eyes. She was very familiar. Of course she was familiar, she was a student, wasn’t she? Had to be. But there’s still  something– Movement behind– He turned– 

Caught Victor Creed’s arm by the wrist. (Wait-) Victor looked down at him with a bemused expression. 

“Uh, boo?” He blinked, waggling the fingers of his free hand in a half-assed parody of an old-school movie monster. Logan released his arm, and Victor let it drop to his side. “Hell’s got you all jumpy for?” 

“What the fuck, Creed?” Logan grumbled, loosely crossing his arms over his chest. His head felt like it was about to split open. 

“What?” Victor sniffed, adopting a similar posture. “Can’t a guy come ask if his partner wants to go for a hunt?” Logan tilted his head in confusion. 

“Hunting? Now? … What time is it?” Both he and Victor looked up at the sun. It hung contentedly in the middle of the sky. The ferals looked back down as Victor pulled a smart phone from his pants pocket. He tapped his thumb on the almost comically undersized screen. 

“Three-thirty.” He says, stuffing the phone back and away. Logan took a half step back. He scratches at the back of his head, then twists his hand in the hair that grows from the nape of his neck as though that can hold the sides of his skull together when it feels like they’re trying to rip apart. 

“I… Have a class to teach.” He says it slowly, like he's trying to remind himself of the fact. It’s three thirty, and he's pretty sure it's Friday, so-

Victor laughs.

“Boy howdy, that must’ve been some nap.” He grins and picks at his fangs with a claw, peeling off a shedding layer. “You put your brats up to it, remember? Said they gotta… Earn their stripes, or, somethin’. I wasn't listening.” He pulls his hand away from his mouth to examine his nails. Satisfied, he gives his claws a quick extension-retraction, then props his hands on his hips and grins. “And before ya’ ask, yes, you're still on Earth, but Bugs Bunny is president.” Logan turned and walked away, shaking his head. 

“Thank God I’m Canadian.” 

“You guys got Daffy.” Victor called to his retreating back. “And what about our hunt?”

“Later.” Logan replied, waving him off. “I gotta find Storm.” And so, he continued around the perimeter of the mansion. With every step, his head hurt more and more. Maybe this was why he'd asked the kids to cover for him. He was so distracted by the pain in his skull that he only narrowly avoided Lockheed, swooping low to bring something to Kitty. Logan didn't know what it was, and shot a few curses at the tiny dragon as it flew off. Maybe Kitty oughtta invest in some pint-sized glasses. He’s still grumbling to himself when he rounds another corner, and what he sees is enough to  dissipate his bad mood instantly. 

There they were.

His kids - or, three of them, at least. The ones that looked like him. Akihiro, Laura, and Gabby. Even from here, he could hear what they were saying. It was a tracking lesson. Laura and Akihiro were explaining how to read broken undergrowth to determine approximate weight, speed, and direction of moving prey. Gabby was holding up Jonathan, who was chittering contentedly. Apparently, she was gonna take the oversized rat and they were both gonna hide themselves somewhere in the woods. It was a good drill - real world practice in a low-stress setting. He’d done it plenty of times before. Sometimes they’d have to find him. Sometimes it’d be someone else. Sometimes he’d just stash a random object and have them bring it back to him. And now his kids were using the same lesson. 

So they did listen to him, after all. 

And seeing that - seeing them, happy and safe and together - brings a smile to his face, even despite the throbbing behind his eyes and what the FUCK was wrong with his head?! He snarls to himself, squeezes his eyes shut, and shakes his head, clutching at the roots of his hair. His vision blurs and he squints. … That girl’s there again. The little one whose name he can't remember. She's hiding behind Mikoto, clutching at her leg and peering out. Mikoto doesn't react. That's weird for a lot of reasons. Mikoto liked kids - she was great with the younger students. He’d heard her refer to herself as their ‘big sister' countless times, and they adored her right back. She’d never ice one of them out. And, hold on, why was the kid even in that class? The rest of the students there were teenagers, and if they were doing field tests, this was steering towards the advanced track-

“Logan! There you are.” A voice interrupts the latest snarl of frustration before he can finish it, and he looks up. There's a trace of desperation in his eyes as he seeks her out. Her.

Storm.

Ironically, she'd always been a calming presence in his life, from the moment he met her. Her and Charles, who, speak of the devil, is at her side. They approach him with smiles that falter when they catch sight of his expression.

“What's wrong, old friend?” Charles asked, steepling his fingers in his lap. Logan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I dunno, Chuck.” He took a moment before looking up again. “My head fuckin’ hurts, and I swear, something just ain't right about today. Can't put my finger on it.” Storm frowned in sympathy.

“You're stressed, Logan. This is exactly why we suggested you take the day off.”

… Oh yeah. They had told him to do that, hadn't they? Said he’d been pushing himself too hard and no matter how he argued - and he’d argued - they’d insisted. And now he was here. … Was that right? It felt- At least, it made-

“You still seem tired. Though I’m not surprised to find you watching over the students again, I assure you, Logan. They will be fine while you take some time for yourself.” Charles’s expression is equal parts fond and exasperated, the guiding hand that he always is. So why does this…? 

“Cajun said you were looking for me.” Logan mumbled, once again blinking against the discomfort.

“I was.” Storm confirmed. “Though I told him not to wake you if you were resting. I hope he listened.”

“Does he ever?” Logan rolled his neck to one side. It doesn't help. Storm tutted and rolled her eyes.

“That man.” She huffed. Logan grunted. 

“What'd ya need, Storm?” He asked. She blinked and stood a bit straighter.

“Oh! Yes. I was about to head to the greenhouse. There are some plants I need to prune, so I was wondering if you might lend a hand. It’s been far too long since we’ve had some time to really catch up.”

“Y’know what?” Logan managed a smile. “That’d be nice.” 

Snikt.

“Except you're not Storm.” 

And he drove his claws into her abdomen. She let out a shocked, pained gasp. It echoes off the walls of the loading bay, shattering the quiet that remained once the constant droning was gone. Already, his head started to feel better. The little girl - Sammy - toppled over from behind the guard rail. She shook her head like she was coming out of a daze. And the woman on his claws staggered back, olive face ashy and grey eyes wide. 

“H-how-?” She sputtered. Logan pulled free, but didn't sheath the blades. Blood dripped onto the concrete, and it smelled real and it smelled heavenly. 

“You’re good, sister, I'll give ya’ that.” He said, stepping a slow circle, stopping only when he stood between her and Sammy. The woman looked up, sweat coating her brow and making her slicked-back brown hair look even shinier. (Fuck, she was younger than he expected. Probably had a good few years before she even hit thirty.) “Not too many people can get anywhere near my head. But you made one huge mistake.” He held up his index finger. “Things never go that smooth when I’m around.”

“...Wait.” The woman slowed the desperate scrabbling she’d been doing through her belt pouches, and looked at him with what he sure hoped, for her sake, wasn't concern. “Are you saying you broke through my illusion and evaded all my attempts at killing you… Because you think it's unrealistic for you to be HAPPY?!” Logan let his shoulders sag as he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, for fuck’s- What are you, my therapist?” And when he looked back at her, she had a syringe in her hand. The scent of Sinister got stronger. “Wait, the hell is-”

She pressed the plunger down and gasped like she'd been pulled out of ice water. He lunges. She jumps back.

“Do you have a therapist?” Her voice was still unsteady, but she grinned, flashing bloody teeth. The flow of blood from her stomach had stopped. “Cause if not, I can probably help you find one. And when you get there, you can tell ‘em Siren sent-” She yelped and leaped out of the way of the concrete slab that shattered against the wall. “Hey! Rude!”

“Shut your damn mouth.” Logan growled and lunged again. She - Siren, really? Another one? - drew a pistol from her belt and fired. Logan ghosted the first three with little effort, but the fourth- Ah, shit. Too close to the kid for his liking. Better just take it. The bullet collided with his shoulder with a dull ting. Logan roared. Duck. Slice the gun. Useless. Catch her arm. Slice the stomach. Block the swing, take the headbutt - moron - both sets of claws through her shoulders into the wall.

Ding ding ding.

We have a winner. 

She cried out and struggled, but it was useless. 

“Why are you working with Sinister?” He snarled directly in her face. The bruising from the failed headbutt was already fading, but… Slower now. 

“Who?” Siren sputtered.

“The guy who hired you. Essex, or whatever he’s callin’ himself now - and I bet he gave you that fancy needle, too.” 

“A job’s a job.” She coughed. “Not all of us get a cushy mansion.”

“Not all of us use that as an excuse to hurt kids.” Logan shot back. He pulled his claws out and let her drop. She looked pale. If that shot let her heal like he thought it did, then she better hope it could fix all that. Not his monkeys, in any case. 

“If you ever want a taste of the good life…” He said, stepping back and retracting his claws. “Charles Xavier, he can help you.”

“Charles Xavier…” Siren’s voice was thick and wet as she reached into her vest. “Is a fucking hypocrite.” Logan realised what she was doing just in time. He dove over Sammy right as the explosion went off. 

…

…

…

The dust settled. Nothing moved. Then, the scuttle of smaller rocks as something shifted. A chunk of ceiling moved. Then, with a grunt of effort, Logan shoved it off and away. His hair was a mess, he was streaked with dirt and his own drying blood, his jacket was shredded and his shirt and jeans barely survived - but he was alive. 

And more importantly, so was she. 

“You alright, kid?” He asked, looking down. Sammy was curled into a tight ball at his feet, hands over her ears and trembling visibly. When he inhaled (a strange feeling, given that his lungs were still repairing themselves), what he smelled above all else, more than the blood, the accelerant, the rubble, was blind terror and tears. 

“Ah, geez.” Logan scratched at his neck and crouched down. “Hey there. Sammy, right?” She didn't move. “I think you’ve had a real lousy couple of days. Is that right?” She stayed curled up. He tilted his head. “I bet I know just the thing.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his comnlink. “I have her, Charles.”

“I heard. Your link must have turned on during the fight.” Charles’s voice - the real Charles. 

“Figured.” Logan shrugged. 

“Are you both alright?”

“I’m fine. Takes more than that to bring the ol’ Canucklehead down. The kid… she ain't hurt, but she's shaken up bad. Think you can get her parents on the line?”

“Of course.” Charles sounded relieved. “I’d stepped outside when I got your signal. Let me fetch them.”

“Thanks.” Logan said. “Oh, and, uh- Charles?”

“Yes?”

“I dunno how much you heard, but, uh…” Logan chewed the inside of his cheek. “What that Siren lady said? She's wrong. You saved all of us. … Especially me.” 

There were a few seconds of silence. Logan wondered if he had lost the signal. 

“Thank you, Logan.” Charles finally spoke. “Coming from you, that means more than I can say.” And then it was silent again, aside from the sound of a sliding door. And then Charles’s voice again, distantly. “Mr. and Mrs. Everett?”

“Is that-?” Jake sounded hesitant. 

“Sammy?!” Marcy sounded close to tears. 

“She's here.” Logan confirmed. 

“Oh, my baby-!” Marcy wailed. There was a jostling sound, and then her voice was much clearer. “Baby, Mama’s here, is that you?”

Sammy finally looked up.

“Hey, little mermaid!” Jack's voice, and it sounded like Marcy’s weeping was contagious. “The nice man’s gonna take you home, okay? Make sure you listen to him!”

Her big, green eyes welled up with fresh tears. 

“And then we’ll bake cinnamon cookies.” Marcy promised. “All day.” 

“All day.” Jack echoed.

“Why don't you stay on the line til we get back?” Logan said, then held the commlink out to Sammy. “Here, little darlin’. Hang on to this for me.” She blinked up at him, uncertain. He crouched down even lower and softened his voice. “It’s real this time. I promise.” She sniffled, and when he dropped the commlink into her open palm, clutched it to her chest.

“We love you, baby.” Marcy’s voice leaked out from her fingers.

“You’ll be home soon.” Jack added.

“Y’know,” Logan rocked back on his heels. “They’re not the only ones who missed you.” Sammy looked up again, her face tear-streaked and puffy. “I had someone who was so worried, he came all this way just to help me find ya’.” And off his belt, Logan pulled Thimble the Lion - a bit flattened from having been caught underneath him during the explosion, a little dirty, and maybe a bit torn, but otherwise intact. Sammy gasped and surged forward, gathering the toy against her chest. Logan smiled, then stood. 

“C’mon. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.” He held out a hand to help her up (thankfully, his gloves were dark enough to hide any bloodstains). Sammy peered up from Thimble’s threadbare fur, looked at the hand, then shifted Thimble to the other side so she had a free arm to reach up with. She hiccuped. 

Well.

How the fuck did he say no to that?

“Alright, up ya’ go.” Logan said, ducking down to scoop her into the crook of his elbow. She nestled her head against his shoulder and soon, even with the revving of his motorcycle’s engine, was asleep.

******

The reunion was about as tearful as Logan expected it to be.He’d woken Sammy up when they got close. When they pulled in the driveway, she didn’t wait for the engine to cut off before she’d jumped off.

“Sammy!” Jack and Marcy cried, sprinting off the front step. They scooped her into her arms and collapsed on the lawn, holding her so tightly Logan couldn’t see her anymore. Charles wheeled out of the door, down the small step, and then moved to Logan’s side. 

“Well done, old friend.” He said with a smile. Logan nodded. 

“Just doing my job.” He replied, arms crossed. “Glad it’s over.” And both he and Charles smiled. 

“Oh, and Logan?” Charles spoke. Logan grunted.

“As I told you, we could hear what you and Siren were saying. We will be discussing it at your next session.” Logan opened his mouth to say something, then glanced over at Sammy and reconsidered his phrasing. 

“Sometimes, Charles, you can be a real pain in the- … Rear.”

Charles only laughed. Jack and Marcy looked up.

“Thank you.” Marcy sniffled, her cheek still pressed against her daughter’s hair. 

“Charles?” Jack nodded, then glanced back at his wife, who nodded. Jack faced forward again. “We want to take you up on it.” Logan tilted his head to the side, then glanced at Charles with an arched brow.

“She comin’ with us?” 

“Not yet.” Charles shook his head once. “But soon. We’ll make arrangements once they’ve all had some time to recover.” Logan looked back at the Everetts.

“Then why don’t you hang on to that commlink for a while?” He suggested. “It’s a direct line to the mansion. Anything happens again, we’ll be here before you know it.”

“Thank you.” Jack, this time, and his voice broke before he scrubbed his eyes with his sleeve. Sammy took advantage of the loosened grip and squirmed free, stumbled, then scurried to stand in front of Logan. He blinked, then crouched down.

“Hello, little lady.” He said. She studied him for a moment. He tilted his head. Then she carefully set Thimble down and reached for his face with both hands. He froze. Once again, he was hearing impossible voices.

But these weren’t voices he recognized.

Or- They were. One was. But- But he couldn’t be hearing it. It wasn’t possible. He’d… He’d thought he’d never hear it again. He shouldn’t be able to…

[Hello,] said a young girl’s voice. Shy and innocent. 

[Hm? Oh, good afternoon, my dear.] A man’s voice. Oh god. 

[What are you doing?] The girl asked. Logan struggled to breathe.

[I’m sitting, I imagine,] the man said. [Would you care to join me?] It hurt.

[But why are you sitting here?] The girl asked. [You can go.]

A moment of silence. Logan wasn’t even sure his heart was beating. 

[I’m waiting for someone.] The man said finally. 

[Who?] The girl asked.

Logan felt his chest constrict. 

[My son.] The man said. [James.] Logan’s eyes stung. [He’s a sweet boy. A strong boy. But he’s always hated being alone. I’d like to be here for him when he arrives, to help show him the way.] His voice sounded so different than Logan remembered. Had he remembered his father wrong, all these years?

[You must’ve waited real long.] The girl said. 

[I… I assume so.] The man said. [I’m not actually sure how long it’s been. I hope it’s been many, many years, though. I’d like him to have grown up by the time we see each other again. I… I hope he got the chance to do so.]

[Do you miss him?] The girl asks. Logan feels sick. 

Another silence.

[Yes.] The man says softly. [But I’m glad that I do.] And then Sammy steps back, and Logan snaps back to the present. She blinks up at him curiously, waiting for a reaction he couldn’t give her. He couldn’t move. 

“Logan?” Charles sounded a thousand miles away. A hand on his back. “Logan, are you alright?” He blinked, rocked back. He was replaying those words over and over again, as much as they hurt - desperately trying to cling to that voice. The first voice to ever love him. 

“Sammy, what did you do-?” Marcy asked, pulling her daughter into her arms.

“I’m so sorry-” Jack began, but Logan just shook his head. He swallowed, drew a steadying breath.

“Sammy, can you do me a favour?” He asked. She nodded, peeking out from her mother’s blouse. “You ever see him again… You tell him not to wait up.” And he turned and stood, waiting for Charles, and remained silent long after they got back to the mansion.

He had a lot to think about.

[timechange]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 — video rental.

JUNE 12, 1984

“Hey Doc, can we watch this one next?”

Most sixteen-year-olds, on the anniversary of their births, would mark the occasion with a sweet sixteen party. They would not celebrate by spending the night in a garage smelling of oil, fries, and flame-broiled burgers in the company of a crazy old man and his dog.

Then again, Marty wasn’t most sixteen-year-olds, and Emmett had never been more grateful for that.

“Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” he recites, squinting a little to see the cassette tape case as Marty waves it around, offering a bemused smile. “That over American Graffiti? Or Star Wars?”

“Those are great!” Marty’s quick to defend. “But I think this one might be my favorite. I mean, all of these are my favorites, but this one…” He grins. “It’s outta sight, Doc.”

“You might even say it’s… out of this world?”

“Jesus, Doc, that was terrible,” Marty rolls his eyes and groans, but his grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it brightens. “I kinda walked into that one, huh?”

“You did,” Emmett agrees. “But go on, go on. Tell me more.” He’d seen the movie before, of course; he’d gone to see it when it first came out in theaters. Ever since he’d first seen Frankenstein as a boy, he'd tried hard never to miss a science fiction release, but seeing Marty’s boundless enthusiasm makes him want to see it all over again through his eyes.

“My dad took me to see it,” Marty explains. “I must’ve been about… nine?… And yeah, it’s about aliens, and that’s cool, but it’s about way more than that. Connection, love, and music, Doc. How music brings us all together. How it can help us save the world. That’s why I think it’s my favorite movie— if I had to pick just one, y’know? Plus… I think it’s the first— hell, maybe the only— time I remember my dad being happy. Really, actually happy. I, uh… I guess that doesn’t make any sense, does it?” He runs his hand along his upper arm, looking away as a shadow clouds his features.

“Marty, my boy, it makes all the sense in the world.” Emmett gives him a reassuring smile, squeezing his shoulder firmly. “Let’s make some more popcorn and get started.”

Marty’s smile returns in an instant.

[whirling-fangs]

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar

As long as humankind could remember, the wild lands of Japan had always been inhabited with Yōkai. Some large, some small, some dangerous, some inoffensive. Some evil, some benevolent.

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar cared little for such labels. They could not remember how long they had known each other. Their differences only cemented their bond, one's qualities complimenting the others' flaws. They were a team.

They were a family.

The Dog, the Cat and the Boar roamed the lands together. They were all the ruler of their own domain, and they would sometimes part to attend personal matters – but at the end of each quest, they would always meet up for a celebratory banquet.

Together, they were unbeatable. There was no enemy fearsome enough, no army large enough to take them down when they combined their strength.

Their downfall could only come from inside.

The humans and the yōkai were always bound by a precarious balance, begging to be shattered. It only took one spark, one death too many, to light the fire.

The Dog believed that humans were fundamentally good, and worth protecting against those that evil had irremediably tainted. The Cat believed that humans were the root of all problems, and that a peaceful coexistence was nothing but a pipe dream.

The Boar could not pick a side. He watched helplessly as his comrades grew further and further from each other, too set in their own ideals to see what they were losing.

Decades worth of memories. Of shared meals, shared laughter, shared smiles. Three similar trinkets, carved out of their own fangs. How odd for the Cat to be the most sentimental of them all – the Dog and the Boar had laughed, as they happily donned their friend's gift.

The Boar fled the bloodshed. He refused to let his memories be tainted by what had become of his comrades. He departed to the lands he had long left behind, to the mountain that had been the command center of his turf.

He was never to part from it again.

The years passed. Leaves grew anew on the trees, only to turn yellow, orange, red, lying a thick carpet across the lower slopes. Snow covered the mountains and melted away, turning lazy brooks into mighty rivers. The Boar listened to the wind, to the distant news its howls carried all the way to his mountain.

When he learnt of his old friends' untimely demise, he was not surprised. A single tear rolled down his cheek, before he brought his axe down the large log at his feet. Timber for the winter to come.

A simple life. Away from the rest of the world, away from the wars, the famines, the plagues. The Boar stopped listening to the wind's cries.

Until the old world came crashing into his old cabin, in the shape of a disheveled woman.

She was but skin and bones. Her face deformed from being bashed in, clothes torn over her bruised body. Tears had frozen over her mangled visage, her feet and hands turned blue from hypothermia.

The Boar ought to have chased her off. Had she not felt the demonic aura that surrounded his mountain, warding off any creature that bore even the slightest hint of ill intent?

The barrier only let the animals through. Only their hearts were pure enough to cross the sheer manifestation of the Boar's will.

As the Boar opened the door, and the woman collapsed into his arms, he was struck with a realization. This one's heart was not tainted. He had never seen such a pristine soul, gleaming with such force despite the abuse she must have endured.

The swelling of her face subdued with intense care. Her traits angelic, one eye gone blind from the repeated hits. Eyes that shared the same vibrant green as the young leaves of early spring.

The Boar's favorite color.

The weeks turned into months. The months turned into years. The woman's pursuers never came looking for her. The Boar's heart opened again, day after day, letting the radiance of the woman's soul seep into his old wounds. Cure aches that had festered for decades on end.

The Boar thought he couldn't be happier.

He was soon proven wrong.

The little one had his mother's eyes, and his father's ears. Every time he laid eyes upon that small form, allowed those minuscule fingers to wrap around his thumb, the Boar could feel his heart grow another size.

What a fleeting, fragile little life that was. There was nothing he wouldn't give in order to protect it from harm.

Dark clouds gathered above the mountain. They announced a storm unlike any other, one mighty enough to rip the trees apart and turn the rivers into devastating streams. The Boar led his family away from the cabin, into the deeper, higher caves, where they would be safe from the landslides and the floods.

Lightning parted the skies. The Boar felt the barrier, or rather, what remained of it, shatter all around him. For every wound that healed inside his heart, the barrier had grown weaker.

The Spider had not missed that chance. He knew all about the Boar, about his former comrades, about the past that the Boar had for so long tried to run away from. Like an old nightmare resurfacing, fate had caught up with him.

How ironic, for the Boar to finally take a side. A spit in the face of his dead comrades, was it not?

Rage festered inside the Boar's chest. The Spider needed nothing more to seep inside his soul, and seize a heart that had lost all its defenses.

When the Boar opened his eyes again, the scent of blood mixed with petrichor assaulted his senses. A terrible chill ran across his spine, from the warmth that coated his fingers to the rain that soaked his clothes. As his eyes fell to the ground, he felt the remnants of his soul shatter to pieces.

The woman lay sprawled across the ground, her arms outstretched towards the cliff upon which they stood. There was no light surrounding her. No pure glow, not even the smallest spark.

Her soul was gone.

The Boar collapsed to his knees. He brought her body to rest on its back, hands crossed above her chest. A final kiss placed on her forehead.

Before the Boar plunged his own claws into his chest.

The Spider would return to reap the rewards of his plot. As low as the mighty Boar might have fallen, the body of a Daiyōkai was always worth devouring.

The little one was washed away by the streams, until his wails caught the attention of a sorrowful boar mother. The sow brought the child over to her burrow, and nursed him to good health.

The Hanyō never worried about the past, neither did he think about the future. He survived day after day, discovering his own strength as he fought off the many demons that crawled over the mountain, looking for a master that had long departed these lands. The Hanyō's existence in itself was nothing but a rumor for the humans to fear.

Perhaps, someday, he would depart on a quest. Perhaps he would seek more power, better status, and a way to show the world just how strong he really was.

And perhaps, someday, he would figure out the meaning behind the odd little trinket that never left his wrist.

[loyaltymoved]

adam's death, round 2

It’s beautiful outside. The sun is shining, and the cafe is full of life. He’s happy. For the first time in a long time. He feels free. They can be free. They’ve done their part… they helped. Now it’s their turn to live. There’s a pizza sitting on the table, a smile tugging upwards at his lips.

Everything is perfect.

He glances over to Michael, that smile still on his face. A dumb little grin to the visage of the archangel that only he can see. He doesn’t care if he looks crazy, talking to himself. He knows what it might look like from the outside. Let them talk, let them judge him. He knows the truth.

He’s about to speak when a deafening silence surrounds them. One moment they were surrounded by voices, the clink of cutlery on plates. And then there was nothing. Everyone was gone, and it was just them.

He casts a glance around, his heart racing in their chest as his eyes finally come to focus on Michael. He can feel the burn of grace holding tightly to his soul… there’s a flicker of concern across previously bright features. Something’s wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Michael-” He feels a tug at his soul, and panic creeps in. Another harsh tug, separating him from the controls of his body. “Mi-“

“No-!” Is the last thing he hears, feeling the grace of his lover ripped away from him. There’s a cry of pain from the vessel, different from any sound a human had made before. This wasn’t physical pain- no… this was much, much deeper. He can feel as his soul is ripped, his desperation to stay causing it to be all the more painful.

He’s dead… again…

[inseparableduo]

"My name's Kat. I brought the gummy bears. When I was 6 my mom killed herself so, she could meet my dad up in heaven." The girl then pours the entire bag in the bowl.

"I'm Darla! Uhhhhh. I brought the peach rings and when I was little I drew a picture of my family. When I showed it to my dad he ripped up the paper and then slapped me so, hard I put, a hole in the wall." Darla then pours the entire bag in the bowl.

"I'm Andrew. I got the sour gummy worms. When I was younger my dad once locked me in a closet because I told him I was hungry."

[scarrfaze]

Mist spills into the city -- creeping at first, only to pick up speed, pouring forth like a great spill of water. It would be easy to mistake it as simply remnants of the Mistwood if the Mistwood were not several miles from the city's center.

The ground trembles.

Steven can only watch, helplessly, feet rooted in place, as the buildings around him start to break apart, the scattering debris left to hang in the air above his head. This can't be happening here. There is no Beyond here, no gate between worlds. There can be no tear in a veil that does not exist. Yet he cannot deny what his own eyes are seeing. New York City again. New Year's Day.

Dread grips him by the heart and stomach, and for a moment he feels he might be sick. He takes a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm and focus.

"I need to..." he mutters to himself, not bothering to even finish his thought aloud. He fumbles his phone from his pocket. Klaus. He needs to call Klaus. And then text everyone he knows to be careful.

There is a sudden, stinging pain in his shoulder and the phone goes flying from his hands, skittering across the pavement, screen now cracked and useless.

He moves to feel the wound, pulling something sharp from where it has embedded itself in his flesh. It is difficult to tell what it is, smeared as it is in his blood-- a knife, a piece of the debris, a shard of bone? It drops to the ground noiselessly. And then there's a growl.

A blood breed. A massive blood breed, with a face that seems made of static, constantly flickering. It takes a second for Steven to realize that the face is not flickering but changing, and that he recognizes each face he sees. Every vampire he has ever fought. Every person dead by his hands. All of Libra.

Instinct moves Steven's body even as his mind stumbles, kicking a barrage of bladed ice up at the creature. They shatter against the thing, shredding its skin, causing it to howl in pain, but it does not slow the thing down. It comes barrelling towards him.

Steven is only quick enough to avoid the brunt of the impact, hurling himself out of the way with so much force that he hits the ground just to the left of where the blood breed comes to a halt. The momentum of the charge disorients the creature for a moment, long enough for him to press both of his hands in turn to the open wound in his shoulder, hissing. When the blood breed bears down on him again, Steven grabs the thing's arm in a vice grip. Frost begins to spread from his fingertips until it becomes true ice, snaking its way up the blood breed's arm, to its torso, to its head. A blanket of ice, a cocoon of ice.

Soon the creature is frozen completely solid.

It is only then that Steven removes his hands, allows some of the tension to ebb from his strained muscles.

"Shit, what am I going to do with you?"

He'll have to find Klaus and bring him back here, make sure the creature is sealed away for good. He should probably get his shoulder looked at, while he's at it; even if he's full of too much adrenaline to feel the pain.

A crack appears in the ice. Steven does not notice. He is at the point of rolling himself over to get back up on his feet. Damn, he'll need a new phone, too.

Another crack.

They'll have to make sure no other vampires or beyondians have appeared with the mist. It's a shame there's only the two of them, now. They'll need help.

The ice shatters.

The creature is on him before he has the chance to stand, shoving him back to the ground. He can feel its breath on his face, its terrible maw gaping before its head ducks and he feels its long, sharp teeth tear into his flesh. He thrashes in a desperate bid to push the beast off of him, but it does no good. His hands are slippery with blood. Everything is coated with blood, steam rising from the puddles as the air rapidly begins to cool. Snowflakes form. Steven can see his own ragged, hoarse, heaving breaths in the night air.

Then he sees nothing at all, as the world around him goes black.

[gravesung]

"a kiss on the forehead as the other sleeps." (pernaps.... kismet/anah bc i miss them)

kiss & tell. ACCEPTING

ANAH WAKES BEFORE SUNRISE. it's inevitable, with her the way she is: if there was ever a time in her life where she trusted people farther than she could throw them, not a soul knows about it. in fact, staying the night at all was a mistake.

somewhere along the line, when sex work blurred into a less transactional relationship she doesn't understand, anah slipped into the dangerous habit of comfort. sleeping atop falkner, listening to the augments in his chest as they thrum a quiet body song. lying with him on a rainy day, talking for hours, sneaking chocolate oranges into his pantry while he isn't looking.

somewhere along the line, she began to care.

and it's a mistake, she knows this. it's wrong. she exists to manipulate, to deceive, to seduce. she takes advantage of the weaknesses in men's hearts and binds them to her, and it keeps her safe, because if she controls everyone else then no one else can control her. she does not exist for soft and fragile things like this. ( deep down, she knows she doesn't deserve them. )

so, as always, she leaves. after slipping into the change of clothes she brought with her just in case, anah crawls back onto the bed and presses a kiss to falkner's forehead — not enough of a disturbance to wake him, but enough to give her some sort of closure on their night together.

the bedcovers still smell like her perfume when she steals away under the earliest threads of dawn.