#(he sort of forgotten cause he was very young but still gets some nightmares and just wakes up like gosh what rude people are those? :()

[randomwriteronline]

(A Day)

The sun was pouring in through the window, calmly, stretching like a drowsy Liepard. They had forgotten to get the blinds down, yesterday - but in their defense they had been too horrendously tired by the end of their snickering dinner to remember to do that, or to move back to their respective rooms for that matter. It still felt incredible that Elesa had managed to remain lucid and awake enough to go home on her own.

Emmet was asleep still, his cheek resting on his brother's sternum and arms wrapped in a loose hug around his neck. Ingo patted his back softly, intermittently, trying to follow along to vague memories of songs.

He wasn’t used to being awake before anybody else - usually he would continue snoozing only to be quickly yanked out of his torpor by a sudden sound caused by the activity of somebody already up and about, whether that be Tangrowth stumbling out to get some sun, a clansman checking on him, a Pokémon prowling around in an attempt to strike him unprepared.

It had taken just a moment to assess that his twin, even trembling so fiercely and twitching uncomfortably with his brow furrowed deep, muttering something like ‘viva’ in a pleading tone, was very much not conscious.

His nightmare had been dissipated quickly, thankfully, when his nape was scooped into a scarred hand and his hair kissed by a dry mouth that began to soothe him by muttering a litany from the Icelands, with a soft beat like patta-pat, pat, pat - patta-pat, pat, pat - patta-pat, pat, pat, patta-pat.

It was a sort of nursery rhyme, if memory served him well, to scare away Ghosts and bad dreams; and now Ingo struggled to recall the words to it.

There was one about Bergmites, but it had their ice armor melted in the sun, and this one was more of a playful march. He was half sure it featured an increase in number of some sorts - or maybe he was confusing it with the Aipoms swinging across the side of a river? Very likely; though he still had a feeling math played some part in all of it. What Pokémon do scare off Ghosts... Well, that’s easy, Dark or Ghost types, but it certainly wasn't about Glalies or wandering spirits. Might have been about... Riolus? Or Glameows. No, no, Riolus was more likely. Walking in rows after a Lucario acting as their teacher, or training together by attacking and blocking. Ah, but that didn’t have anything to do with shielding from apparitions - they couldn’t even touch them, Fighting types that they were! Though Steel is very effective against Ice... But what did Ice have to do with anything? Now he was thinking of Irida and Gaeric.

He rushed back to focusing entirely on the beat against his brother’s ribs before his mind wandered into territory that turned his own chest into a suffocating iron cage collapsing under the deep sea pressure.

Patta-pat, pat, pat - patta-pat, pat, pat - patta-pat, pat, pat, patta-pat.

Not remembering the lyrics was making this quite a challenge.

Did he at least know the melody?

Ingo tried humming a note or two, just to hear how that would sound like. He remembered to draw them out a little, like chant, or a lament. When he had heard Lian sing it to one of of Kleavor’s smallest Scythers while swaddling it in a blanket, his young voice had sounded a bit akin to the whine of a Swinub; Ingo traced over the fuzzy memory of his singing with his own buzzing throat, as if the still incomplete tune were a drawing and he himself an unskilled child learning to draw by following someone else’s lines on a paper held against the sun.

Had he ever listened to it properly? No, probably not. What a shame.

A part of him thought it was a relief. That meant it would have been easier to go back to everything being normal, being right; he would leave all of Hisui behind himself in some lost nook of his brain like he had left it behind in time and space alike, and he would return to being whoever he had forgotten he was, and it would have been good.

Not a trace of change.

(The warden that was bound to fade away from his self eventually was fiddling with the stark white kimono Irida had given him, lamenting without words how he wished he could still see in its place the pale pink of his former tunic, and mumbled that he didn’t like the idea of forgetting. It was just something that nobody could stop, Ingo tried to reason with him, sheepish and defensive: it wasn’t out of malice, but simply how things are. The warden looked at him very sadly, with that pale unhappy face of his.)

(I think it was about stars, the warden said: I’m not certain, but I believe the words sounded a little like this.)

The head on his chest lowered for a moment, nuzzling his ribs, and its shoulders moved as if trying to properly push down or take off a shirt too tight.

“Oh,” Ingo said, interrupting the string of vowels he had begun singing and stilling his hands over the bony back. “I apologize. Did I wake you up?”

Emmet shook his head with a sleepy groan; his arms stretched and tensed to make his joints crack imperceptibly, imitated by his legs; his eyes were still closed, and his mouth felt full of clay-like paste that stuck his tongue to his palate and his teeth to his lips.

“Already awake,” he lied.

“I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Don’ worry.”

He tucked his knees against his chest and curled up a little more to be more comfortable, slightly tightening the hug he had his brother ensnared in. He couldn’t remember sleeping like this, like a rock placed on top of an ironing board, in what felt like ages. It felt warm, and nice, and familiar.

His twin’s hands rested back on his spine, as light as feathers, no longer patting it. Emmet hoped he wasn’t embarrassed by it, nor that he thought himself silly for it. It was calming, really.

He could have stayed like this for another hour.

Huh. Weird for him to want to keep sleeping. He was the early riser. Could have been the sleeping pill again. No, no way. He must have had digested it by now.

But his brother definitely would not wake up before the alarm.

“What time is it?” Emmet asked, groggy voice a little gurgling despite the fact that his mouth seemed drier than the Route 4 desert.

“I don’t know,” Ingo replied, “But considering the sun, it’s morning.”

Considering the what?

The sun doesn’t rise anywhere near 5:30 in the morning in early spring.

Emmet furrowed his brows and slithered, with some difficulty, one of his arms away from under his twin’s neck. Forcing his eyes to open (shutting them for another moment with a groan as the light bothered his not yet constricted pupils) he squinted at the numbers on the Xtransceiver. It took him a hot second for his brain to once again comprehend any written sign.

It was currently 9:03.

“Shit,” he croaked out with a wheeze.

With all the gracefulness of a nightstand falling down a spiral staircase and launching itself through the wide enough hole in its railing to bounce with a horrid crunch directly into a den of hungry Bidoofs, he began climbing down from his brother’s hold face-first, possibly emulating Eelektross when the dastardly Mold Breaker emanating from Haxorus would reduce him to pitifully crawling on the floor like a wet tube in disdainful protest.

His attempt at not worsening his disastrous delay was however quickly vanquished by a pair of arms slipping right back under his armpits and around his neck, which pulled him back up, and by the body attached to them, which turned and squashed him against the back of the couch.

“Fucker,” he spat out.

“You’re still tired,” Ingo commented casually like he wasn’t constricting his younger twin in a grapple: “From what I understand, you spent the entirety of yesterday extraordinarily drowsy. It can be dangerous to go about not well-rested, you do know that, right?”

“Let go. I am verrry late.”

“By how much?”

“Three and a half hours.”

“Ah! That’s quite a shame. At this point it might be better for you to take another nap and head out later, if not at all entirely.”

Punches began pelting his back.

As a response, he leaned a little heavier; his younger brother made a sound that reminded him of a Magby whose paw got stepped on, and started hitting him even harder.

“You’re a little weak,” Ingo noted, genuinely slightly concerned: “Have you been eating enough?”

“Fuck you.”

“I am very serious.”

“So am I! Fuck you!” and seeing as brute force was having no effect, Emmet was now trying to wiggle his legs back up to his chest in the hopes that he would manage to punt his feet directly in the older twin’s stomach. “I am already late on schedule! Don’t make that worse!”

Hm. A reasonable complaint. Very well then.

With a final squishing that got him another fist banging on his shoulder in an attempt to stab him with air (as there were no knives or other silverware available) Ingo sat up, stood on his creaking legs, and began making his way to the kitchen so his poor mess of a baby brother could sit down and get something in himself stat, before he decided he did not need to ingest anything before spending a whole day doing Sinnoh knew what with nothing to keep him standing upright on those bony ankles of his.

He spaced out for a moment once in the room, right before the fridge which still buzzed as loudly as the day before, wondering why his arms seemed to be occupied when he could have sworn he wasn’t holding anything in them.

Once he actually opened his eyes - must have been tired himself, trying to sleep even as he walked - he noticed he was indeed holding something.

That something happened to be Emmet, whose hands were holding extremely tightly on the fabric of his older brother’s shirt and whose legs were wrapped around his sides in a similar iron grip as to not fall onto the ground despite the fact that firstly, the arms keeping him airborne were very much not going to let go of him, and secondly, he could have easily stood on his own feet if he just put them back on the floor since they were the same height.

Emmet might have forgotten that in the throes of being picked up like a packet of potato chips, because he seemed slightly terrified by the current situation.

Ingo gently put him back down.

“Sorry.”

“I don’t like that you can do that,” his brother stated plainly. “You could use that for evil.”

"I most certainly would not," Ingo scoffed. "And you are just thin. Please sit down and get something to eat."

His twin fake-slapped him to shut him up. The slaps turned more frantic as he unceremoniously picked Emmet from under the armpits and hoisted him back up in the air, completely deaf to his string of no-no-no and sorries and ingos and put-me-down-put-me-down-Dragons-above-put-me-down until he planted his ass on a chair.

“You are going to eat,” he declared.

Excadrill, who had just scuttled into the room, agreed loudly with the sentiment.

In true younger brother fashion, Emmet pouted: “See,” he argued as he slumped in his seat: “I was right. You used it for evil.“

“I wouldn’t call making sure you don’t starve an ‘evil’ motive.”

“It is! Because I’m late.”

“By three and a half hours.”

“Exactly.”

“Which is so late, at this point the schedule must have been already rearranged to accommodate for your absence,” Ingo rationalized, trying to search through the fridge: “So might as well take your time and eat properly first.”

He then spent a few moments looking mesmerized as Emmet struggled on his chair against apparently nothing with such violence that, after rocking it over and over in all directions, he finally slammed so hard on its back that he should have by all means launched himself right onto the pavement tiles. Instead, he stopped just short of that, winning against gravity in a way that made no sense; the chair settled very gently back on all fours, and the younger twin whipped his head around to stare directly into Chandelure as she deflated in the relief of having caught him in time.

He then turned back to his brother older by eleven minutes exactly. His mouth was flat and his eyes told of unspeakable rage.

Ingo turned to the haunted light fixture: she gracefully showed him her back.

He could hear the younger twin wheeze and whistle in fury like a kettle left too long on a burning stove as he retreated back in the metal parallelepiped in search of something that could have constituted a good first meal. He sighed, re-emerging from the cold.

“Please let him go,” he demanded politely.

His brother gave a victory groan and slammed his face on the table to make sure the Psychic bindings on him were completely gone.

Archeops took the opportunity to sit on his nape.

“No!!” his trainer’s shout was muffled by the weight pinning him down as he reached up and harshly scratched the scaly body covered in feathers with hands hardened into claws. The overgrown snake-headed chicken gargled delighted by the annoyance of his mischief accompanied by Excadrill’s snickering chitters while Ingo reached out to get something in the pantry he was pretty sure he had seen yesterday.

Resuscitated fossil manhandled off of himself with the help of a couple belly rubs, Emmet jumped to his feet and shot him a glare.

“I am Emmet,” he announced irritated, “I am tired of being bullied.”

His brother hummed: “When are you set to return home?” he asked, completely ignoring the other’s demand.

“Eleven thirty at night.”

“I see,” Ingo commented.

The strange conciseness of the sentence set off alarm bells.

The second he tried to move forward to grapple him again, the younger dropped into a defensive stance and grasped the table to keep it as a barrier between the two of them.

“Nooo,” he growled.

“I will not pick you up again,” Ingo promised, only half-lying.

Emmet pointed at his face: “No!”

If the older took a step to the left, he moved to the right, and vice versa. They did that old comedy routine for maybe less than a minute before juvenile impatience overwhelmed the younger brother, and his brain suddenly shot to a completely different topic: had their Pokémon eaten? He glanced around to find their bowls, planning to pull off a fulminous move in some way or another and disappear first into the livingroom to somewhat set up breakfast for their teems and then into his own room to change shirt at record time and teleport out the door before he could be wrestled into a chair again.

The bowls were missing though, and the cabinet holding the various Type-specific foods had been left open to reveal its insides empty if not for a variety of edible pellets that must have fallen out as they were moved out.

Right. They were smart. And Gurdurr had sort of human-like hands. They probably got tired of waiting but didn’t want to wake their humans up. Especially not with one of Crustle’s spoiled baby tantrums. Dragons, how come that crab of a Bug was still behaving like an unsocialized only-child Dwebble? They had trained him like everybody else. Maybe it was because of that time they made him a fancy shell. Now he exploited the fact that they loved him to death and back. Verrry unfair.

The crackle of a clear plastic packet being opened got him focused on avoiding his brother again.

“Emmet,” Ingo sounded a little exasperated.

“I am Emmet. I am verrry late.”

“If you do not eat anything, you risk fainting in the middle of the day and putting yourself in danger.”

“False! I didn’t eat anything for a whole day once. Twice. I am alive. I survived. Cease and desist.“

Hm.

Considering the wide-eyed, pale-cheeked, brow-furrowed, very noticeably worried look he was getting, maybe that had not been the best thing to reveal to his renownedly protective twin at this time.

“Forget that,” he ordered in the bossy tone of baby brothers.

“I think I will singe it into my brain instead,” his brother replied in a horrified tone. “Emmet, what the hell do you-”

“I survived!” Emmet repeated.

Ingo ignored that and approached him directly: “Two days, you forgot to eat?”

“Not consecutively!”

“That doesn’t change anything!”

“It does. And I’m still alive!”

“That alone is surprising,” the older brother replied, nonchalantly handing him something no larger than his palm, “And your survival is not an indication that you are safe to repeat that experience whenever you want.”

The younger stuck out his tongue as he took what was being offered to him without even looking and opened it, almost as a reflex: “I can handle it.”

“Not if you faint in the middle of the street.”

“I am Emmet. I have never fainted ever in my life.”

“Maybe so, but I’m afraid that I truly cannot remember an occasion in which you have not fainted before.”

“I have not! You-”

He interrupted himself, biscuit halfway bitten through. His face fell into such an annoyed frown so fast that Ingo couldn’t help snorting a bit.

“First you lift me. Then you Psychic me. Now you use your amnesia to bully me.”

“Chandelure was the one to Psychic you, I unfortunately lack the power to make you sit down consistently with my mind.”

“You’re the worst.”

The lifeless delivery stung a little, hit a bit too seriously. But the comically disgruntled grimace that accompanied it, similar in every way to how a Pachirisu tries to fold its face into itself after biting into a horribly sour Rawst Berry, both eased any possible tensions and felt so familiar that he couldn’t help cracking a misshapen dastardly smirk at it.

“I am only looking out for my baby brother,” he defended himself.

Emmet groaned at being called that, shoving another biscuit in his mouth.

“I am not hungry anyways,” he still argued back as he chewed, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I don’t need breakfast. I’m fine as I am.”

Ingo only looked down at his hand and replied: “Alright.”

His twin followed his gaze to the clear plastic.

He squeezed it with a crackle, the last few biscuits inside it swimming in crumbs.

“Fuck you.” he spat through the fifth bite he was taking.

Ingo snorted horrendously loudly.

Boldore peeked in to somewhat chirp at them, with its strong tripod legs clicking very gently against the floor and Eelektross in tow, who wrapped around his trainer in a loud gurgling hug. He rested his huge mouth on his head careful not to scratch him but all the same insistently reminding him, in his own very loving and very deadly enormous electric tube of a lamprey kind of way, that they were supposed to go, possibly as soon as they could, and he was notably being very slow this morning.

As Emmet grabbed his long head and swayed it back and forth, sputtering something like a whiny ‘I knooow’ through his mouthful of biscuits, Klingklang tried to persuade their impatient flatmates by whirring that he likely deserved a lie-in, or at the very least that they should have let Ingo have a bite to eat first.

Before Durant could agree or Galvantula could sneak off to try and get some jam for herself (because she was one bastard of a lady) Archeops began screaming wildly, jumping up and down all antsy and obnoxious in the hopes of speeding up the process until Crustle got bored of the other crybaby and threw a pebble at his coarse bald head to shut him up.

That worked for approximately ten seconds. Then the overly scaly chicken turned all teary eyed and wobbly lipped and broke out into wailing sobs, waddling away to Haxorus to get some comfort from his fellow reptilian.

“Harsh but fair,” the twins sentenced in favor of the hermit Bug.

The fossil bawled harder.

Excadrill interrupted the heart-breaking scene to ask her trainer if he was going to sit down and eat something himself or if her, Gurdurr and Chandelure would have to make sure he did that in his stead with a stern chitter.

In response, he showed her three ravaged clear packets, without even crumbs inside: “Ah, don’t worry! I’ve already met my stomach’s needs for the morning.”

His brother eyed the spoils with mild bafflement: “What- when?”

“Earlier, while you were making a fuss about not eating.”

“How do you eat so fast?”

For a moment, a rush of paranoia made him inclined to just lie. His common sense managed to shove through it, however, reasoning that he just had to not say one single stupid word, and how hard would that have been? So he looked straight into his twin’s eyes, praying his voice wouldn’t shake in a way that made it clear something was up, and told him, dead serious: “Sneasles are horrible little thieves.”

After a long second of confusion, the reply he got made him almost deflate in relief: “Oh right. You were on the mountain.”

“Yes.”

“Lots of little burglars.”

“Exactly. Heaps and nests of them, to be quite frank.”

“Man.”

A loud wail distracted them.

“YES!” the younger twin almost yelled, launching the clear plastic into the sink - or at least trying to, as it was so light that it got caught in the air and fell to the ground with a miserable pirouette of sorts to be picked up by Garbodor’s slinky arm for her to snack upon it. “I AM AWARE! We are going. Hold on.”

He marched out of the kitchen to a variety of jubilant shrieks of Joltiks waiting for nothing other than to be left alone to wreak havoc (accompanied also by the distraught beeps of the ones who didn’t want him to leave) and fetched his Pokéballs in a somewhat swift movement, trying to recall all six members of his team to varying degrees of success.

As he watched him fumble, Ingo suddenly remembered something he’d been aching to ask since yesterday.

With barely any fanfare or build up he ensnared his brother’s wrist in an iron grip; he hadn’t meant to spook him into stillness, but before he could apologize different words were already leaving his mouth as fast possible, as if afraid they wouldn’t have gotten through otherwise: “May I come with you?”

Emmet blinked for a moment.

“Where?” he asked - a little stupidly, he had to admit.

“To the Station.”

“... Why?”

“I’d like to see it. The inside of it, I mean. I’ve never... I’ve yet to see one. Since I’ve gotten my amnesia.”

Ah. Yes. Good point. Reasonable request.

Problem: nobody was aware of the fact that previously-missing-for-years Local Minor Celebrity Guy was back in the region, except for people who definitely were not going to disclose such a detail to the public before the man in question was allowed some time to at least re-acquaint himself with everything in a geographical sense and also with his own family instead of letting the doors of the media circus swing wide open to drown him in unwanted attention.

Second problem: previously-missing-for-years Local Minor Celebrity Guy was perhaps one of the most recognizable people in the region after a maximum amount of three glances in his direction.

In conclusion: fuck.

Emmet stared into his twin’s eyes for a span of time that would have made anybody nervous and uncomfortable, and to be completely fair, Ingo himself wasn’t necessarily enjoying the situation either.

Finally he clamped his older twin’s shoulders between his hands, tightening his grip around them for a moment: “Dress up,” he only ordered.

“Pardon?”

“Yes. You can come. But. Dress up,” he repeated, trying to formulate a proper sentence in the chaos of having to change and trying not to worsen his delay and making sure hordes of journalists wouldn’t materialize as soon as his brother stepped out of home: “Change clothes. Get normal ones. Random ones. Not much attention. Unrecognizable. Otherwise. You know. Newspapers.”

The last word clued Ingo in on the bigger problem, as his eyes widened and he nodded with an air of great gravitas: “The Sewaddles of life...”

“The Sewaddles...” his brother repeated with a horrified expression, agreeing.

Now the older twin clamped his hands over his shoulders, tone growing almost comically determined as he reassured him: “I shall endeavor to give myself as generic an appearance as possible!”

His brother gave him a thumbs up and launched himself in his own room.

It dawned on him, suddenly, that he’d been wearing the same clothes for something like 48 uninterrupted hours.

An invincible itching took over his limbs.

If he didn’t change immediately he was going to physically explode.

-

Ingo had only gotten a glimpse of the station when Elesa had kindly taken him to the fairgrounds the day before: despite his eyes feeling almost magnetized in its direction he’d barely seen it as they had passed it in a rush, an imposing cement shadow colored in a light muted yellow intervalled by steel blue veins.

Its entrance was framed by white stairs and pillars, he could notice now that he was walking directly towards it, and each of them was topped by what resembled an opaque petrol green gem, the same color as the roof.

Its windows seemed rather dark from the outside. From the upper floor a sort of balcony stuck out; he recognized red and yellow banners hanging beside it.

The style reminded him vaguely of the Galaxy Team’s headquarters, though notably smaller in size and completely different in coloration, and otherwise void of elaborate rooftop decorations or visible chimneys. It’s rather modern, professor Laventon had commented when he’s seen him look at it intently once, to tentatively try and strike up a conversation before he found out the warden’s love for his study subjects: I suppose it wouldn’t look quite as out of place if it were in Galar instead of here among much simpler architecture, don’t you think?

He stumbled on his own feet for a moment as he attempted to take the whole thing in as it came closer and closer, becoming larger and larger. Emmet was still pulling him by the wrist, and kept him from falling.

There must have been some kind of carpet before the door even though he hadn’t noticed it, because the clack of his soles was muted for a few steps.

In a moment he was hurtling down a flight of stairs, barely getting the time to acclimate to a strange sort of artificial light that gave them an orange hue (no, it didn’t give them anything, they were simply colored like that, he realized as he looked  better) - and then the sound beneath his feet turned completely different again, shoes hitting unfamiliar terrain, yellow tiles looking like bricks that had been worn and smoothed and dimmed and lightened by constant passage, almost vibrating from the way they were illuminated until somebody walked in front of him and cut him off, and he stumbled back, head rising from where it had been stuck staring mesmerized at the floor to catch brownish veins slithering through it before fixing his eyes on the face of a large clock, the glass encasing its hands gleaming in a way that burned his retinas against the dark grey behind it; he shut his eyes only to be shoved off by a passing shoulder that was already gone when he turned to apologize, and a different golden shine made his pupils hurt enough for him shove the brim of his cap down on them - but now that he couldn’t see came the noise, an incessant downpour of noise, voices talking, someone screaming, music playing, metallic words being spoken garbled and aloud from all around him at once, something rushing hurriedly making the air tremble, discussions about food school work outings did you see what they and then she said are you coming to the damnit i told you it’s not I’ll see what I can that lying piece of next train for delayed by ten arriving in platform 3 unavailable mother what is the it not clang twang you to stop here! where what minutes hour drift theater route 14 8 20 12 1 9 sand of to which go by from juice next close crack rrrrrrrrrrr up at in nacremistrusveilton bank multi single ville train track grrck see now then soon when down here him? in in an the that this it’s those go! ahead behind he’s she you how we’re sorry for ‘scuse me get off open on buzz go! inconvenience it not got rot thought hold on--

Suddenly he felt cotton on his skin, and a force yanking him away, and then he gasped for breath and saw his own face looking back at him in a dim light.

A hand was exerting pressure intermittently on his palm. He was holding that hand’s wrist.

He gasped again. Then took a deep breath.

“I-”

“It’s a lot,” Emmet preceded him. He kept pressing intermittently. “It’s a lot.”

Ingo nodded, staring at their hands.

It was a welcome respite from the overload of that unfamiliar environment.

(But it should have been familiar, shouldn’t it? He had worked here. He should have known its every nook and cranny. It shouldn’t have been so disorienting and frightening, to find himself inside it again.)

“It’s alright,” his brother reassured him. “It’s always a lot. Weird light. Weird sounds. Too much light. Too many sounds. Too many people. Many bump into you. Verrry bright. Verrry loud. Verrry intimidating. The first impression is always like that. Always a lot. I cried the first time. It was too much. Verrry much too much. The first impression is always a lot.”

The older twin swallowed, feeling his mouth dry: “But it gets better?”

“Yup. You get used to it quickly. Stops being so scary. And the hat helps.”

The conductor hat did have a rather large brim, he noted absentmindedly. Must come in handy against the golden sheen of everything.

Speaking of that, wherever they were at the moment was notably azure in hue.

Ingo blinked at the four walls around them.

“Where are we right now?”

“Elevator. We’re going down to the control room.”

“Ah. ... Wouldn’t an elevator go up, considering its name?”

“That’s the good part. Goes both ways.”

“Fascinating...”

Emmet snickered a little at his very honest delivery. His thumb began squeezing slower, slower, slower on the scar of a cut on his brother’s palm, until he stopped pressing completely.

They waited a moment more in silence.

“Better?” he asked.

Ingo nodded; he watched the gloved fingers leave to press a button, and held onto Emmet’s wrist a little tighter for the surprise when the elevator moved.

“The control room is better,” his twin reassured him: “A lot less lights. Dimmer ones. And less sounds. And less people. A lot of beeping but it’s not bad. The Depot Agents will be there.”

An extremely vague idea of what the title meant struggled to resurface, so he felt safer asking: “Is that bad?”

“What’s bad?”

“The Depot Agents being there.”

“Nope! They work here. They know you.”

“Ah,” Ingo noted in a weird tone.

The thought of a room of people who knew him made him uncomfortable. Pokémon were one thing, to have re-introduced to himself in bulk, but humans - so far they’d shown up one at a time divided by fairly long intervals, giving both him and them some time to assess and handle the whole thing. Would they have asked a lot of questions? Did they even know he likely didn’t remember them? Would he freeze up on them? He feared this would have ended badly.

His brother waved beside his hand with a wide motion, snapping him out of his worried musings: “They know about the amnesia. They won’t be mad.” he smiled. “I bet they’ll be verrry happy to see you.”

The older deflated a little: “That’s a relief.”

For now, he would blindly believe in his little brother and hope for the best.

His hand was squeezed intermittently again, slowly, softly. It hushed away his worried thoughts, allowing his eyes to wander.

The elevator whirred very quietly as it descended.

“There’s something misspelled on your coat,” he noted.

The other blinked: “Something what?”

Ingo pointed at what seemed to be a paper square of sorts hanging for dear life on the white fabric through a piece of tape: “It’s misspelled,” he repeated, “I would guess it’s meant to be ‘substitute’, with an additional ‘s’.”

Emmet plucked the makeshift tag to examine it; then he gave a short wheeze; and pocketed it without a single explanation.

A soft ding: the elevator’s sliding doors opened upon a dark colored corridor, much more pleasantly lit than the upper level had been. It wasn’t particularly long, opening into what, even from the relatively limited angle they had as they stepped out of the machine, appeared to be a fairly large room out of which was running a young person in dressed in green from the bottom of their trousers to the top of their hat - very similar to Emmet’s in shape.

“Cameron,” the conductor greeted.

The man blinked twice and stopped in his tracks with a little difficulty, skidding across the pavement for a moment, genuinely surprised.

“Boss!” he exclaimed; he sounded rather young. “We thought you weren’t--”

His boss interrupted him: “I am verrry late. Didn’t hear the alarm. Awfully sorry.”

“Oh, I mean, we got everything under control, sir, that’s no problem, it’s just that we’ve already, uh, we’ve... We’ve... Uh... We’ve...”

His words had begun trailing as soon as he’d spent just a moment too long on the man who was standing a little hunched and awkward next to Emmet, just long enough to recognize the shape and color and brightness of the eyes stuck between the face-mask and the brim of the hat.

Under the intense gaze of those vaguely disbelieving ever-widening eyes Ingo realized there was little to no reason to keep his frown hidden in a so deeply underground place, where media outlets very likely had no chances of hounding him. Should he have taken the mask off in the elevator? Should he take it off now? Should he leave it on? His time in Hisui hadn’t exactly left him looking, as the kids and various medical professionals who had been one breath away from declaring him legally dead say, good. Was this a good time to be self-conscious?

Emmet picked up the conversation again: “You have?”

“Oh, uh, yes, we’ve - we’ve adjusted shifts and everything to cover for, to cover for everything, so, so, yeah, you know? Yeah,” Cameron stammered, struggling to take his eyes off of Ingo.

He fiddled with his hands a moment, looking about to ask a question but holding himself back. At that point the amnesiac decided to try his luck: mask hastily taken off with a little titubancy, he watched the Depot Agent’s face turn bright with recognition and, more concerningly or heart-warmingly, genuine excitement.

“Good morning,” Ingo cawed out on instinct.

The young man flashed him a huge smile: “Good morning, boss!” he replied, almost a little out of breath: “It’s been a while!”

That was oddly sweet.

“He asked to come,” Emmet butted in.

Cameron turned to him with his fingers shaking: "Is... Does, the press--?"

"Absolutely not."

“So we’re the first to--?”

“Yup.”

That seemed to throw the agent for a loop. A very awed, clearly happy loop, but a loop nonetheless - one that was keeping him planted where he stood, entire body jittery with a joyous energy that couldn’t find any release.

“Cameron,” his boss called him.

His shoulders jumped a little as he turned to fully face the white clad subway master: “Y-yes! Boss!”

“You were going somewhere.”

 The enormous grin on the young face faltered in an instant to be replaced by pure terror: “RIGHT!” the poor boy shouted; his head sunk into his shoulders immediately in utter mortification at the realization that he had yelled in their faces, and he repeated with a squeak as his legs began anxiously attempting little steps to bypass them (offering apologetic glances as they helpfully moved away to let him get to the elevator): “Right, sorry, sorry, right, I should- sorry, I’ll-! I’ll be, I’m going now, sorry, sorry - right on schedule, right, sorry— ah, boss!”

Both twins raised their chins in his direction and widened their eyes ever so slightly, to assure him they were all ears.

Cameron smiled again, all wobbly and earnest: “Have a good day!”

“You too!” they replied in unison.

His excitedly waving hand vanished behind the sliding metal doors, and they were once more by themselves in the short tunnel.

It had gone… well.

It had gone well. All things considered.

Ingo repeated the sentiment to himself a few more times as he was turned around until the moving machine was no longer in his line of sight. It had gone well, with a single person and his brother by his side. Maybe it would have gone well for a whole room of people with his brother by his side, too.

A gentle pressure on his palm asked him if he felt ready to go into the control room.

He nodded without a word; they began walking again, a little slower.

It was definitely darker than the main hall, which was a pleasant surprise: the deep petrol green of the roof coated the walls, light bouncing off of them with a slight metallic sheen, coating the entire chamber in a nice penumbra. A few doors broke their compact appearance, leading deeper into the entrails of the earth, away from civilization, from the noise, from everything. Perhaps they opened upon spaces specifically designed for quiet and repose, or dedicated to specific functions or people. He imagined Emmet must have had his own private quarters of sorts.

Illumination was provided by thin insertions between the panels glowing a bright neon green, as well as coming from the wide curved screens that took up half of the room itself, all blue gradient backgrounds and dark magenta squares popping up on them every so often, azurish words blinking or typing themselves into existence. The floor too was of a deep blue that made it almost seem, if one were caught up in their own thoughts enough, like a large shallow puddle of semi stagnant waters, like those of underground springs or basins. Ingo had moved his first steps on it very carefully, holding onto his twin’s arm, convinced he would have heard a muted splash each time he shifted his feet.

Emerging from the pavement was an imposing hexagonal table emitting a dull glow from whatever the screen upon it was displaying. He noticed several chairs, and long desks full of dark buttons and small lights and smaller screens like those of old televisions, and a few strange stiff metal stalks with what looked like porous round petal-less flowers on the end protruding forward.

Those are microphones, you dollar-store poet, a little voice smacked him from inside his head. Hopefully his embarrassment wasn’t obvious.

A small concert of beeps, trills and cues filled the air just enough to be noticed without resulting as totally overwhelming as the cacophony a few hundred meters above his head. Even the chatter, although very much present, was also notably more subdued.

It felt comfortable, all in all.

He’d likely spent hours upon hours every day in here.

It really was no wonder that he’d taken to caves as naturally as a Zubat might have. Him being constantly magnetized towards them made so much sense now.

Also it thankfully meant that it did not have anything to do with the electromagnetic field around the mountain, or the enormous space-time distortion directly above his head, which certainly gave him some manner of confused relief from a vague concern he was still unable to articulate.

The rubber soles of his shoes were awfully quiet as he advanced into the room, in stark contrast to the click-clack of his twin’s.

That did not stop a fairly older man from noticing him near instantly and making his way over to them at a fairly quick pace, his face ever so slightly contorted into a gentle reprimand as his hand already stretched out to stop him.

“Sir - sir, I’m sorry, passengers are not allowed in this area of the station, I must ask you to return to the upper level,” he explained in an amiable tone; his gaze shifted onto Emmet for a moment, with almost a hint of exasperation in his eyes as he noted how he was holding onto the dark sleeve trying to slip away in mortification at the scolding: “Boss, what about following the rules?”

“I am following them.”

“Bringing some other person here like that is following the rules? You more than anybody else know only personnel have access to the control room, it’s a…”

His pupils had shifted back onto Ingo as he’d spoken, and while the vowel dwindled in the man’s mouth he could tell the cogs of recognition apart as they grinded as fast as they could to process every bit of visual information available to them. Finally the agent smiled in a vacant manner, like someone who struggles to believe what they’re seeing, and adjusted his cap.

“It’s high time I got myself a pair of glasses, it is,” he corrected himself with a short laugh. His hand, square and wide, stopped halfway over to the younger man: “The name’s Ramses, by the by. Sorry for the scare, you’re not in trouble.”

He quickly shook it, surprise overtaking his momentary fear of having messed up.

The strangest part was that the agent had immediately recognized his anxiety. Had he suddenly grown more expressive?

Then he realized he had moved to be almost completely behind the back of his (by barely above ten minutes) younger brother, actively trying to make himself smaller, and in order not to crumble into twelve thousand little bits from the embarrassment he hid his face all the way behind Emmet’s shoulder blade.

In part also because he noticed, not without a slight apprehension, that more and more people were turning towards them to stop everything they were doing and stare, very pointedly, very specifically, at him.

Ramses cackled without any malice to turn over to his boss again: “While you are rather late, aren’t you.”

“I am Emmet.” his interlocutor replied, unamused: “I am aware.”

“May I ask just what happened to cause such a strange lapse?”

“Didn’t hear the alarm.”

“Only that?”

“I was. Verrry tired. Also a victim of a conspiracy.”

“A conspiracy!”

“Yes.”

“And what would that have been all about?”

“Nobody wanted me to get out of the house.”

“A tragedy, truly.”

“Ah ha. Ah ha. Ah ha.”

“By all means, I admire your dedication, boss, but I really don’t think it would’ve been that bad for you to–”

Somebody gave a loud, gross cough with the specific intention of focusing the general attention onto their person.

That happened to be a gaunt young man who seemed to have been clenching his jaw from the second he had begun having enough teeth to grind them together, who had still had the courtesy of spitting up that racket into the crook of his elbow instead of the open air.

A less intentional cough wracked him as eyes settled on him.

Must have been the nervousness.

Finally, he found a way to articulate the words he was trying to get out of himself: "Emmet, sir, sorry - but are- are we allowed to perceive-" and he made a nervously stiff wide motion with his arm to indicate the man in dark clothing, though there was still something respectful about the way he flailed his hand about, "-This? And, and acknowledge, the situation currently happening? Or is there an unspoken rule to not... Do that?"

Emmet did not answer right away.

"Hm!" he eventually replied, not necessarily responding. He turned to his brother, who had remained all but frozen in place where he had been pinpointed, and looked right into his eyes: "Since you're the one this will be impacting the most: do you wish to agree to subjecting yourself to the mortifying ordeal of being known?"

Ingo blinked.

"That was very verbose," he noted flatly.

“Please answer.”

Ah. Yes, right.

He turned to the agent who was trying to singe holes into his head by staring at him with the intensity of a billion suns concentrated through a magnifying lens that he couldn’t decide if it was enormous or minuscule - whichever made the light burn hotter.

He retreated a little more. The man must have realized how impressively intimidating he was being and moved his gaze a few inches away, to allow him room to breathe.

Masking a cough that was meant to give him courage, Ingo forcibly dragged himself out of his brother’s shadow and extended his forearm in his direction, lying only a bit as he said: “But I can assure you that I have no problem about my existence being acknowledged by the people in this room, mister...”

"Isadore, sir!" his interlocutor replied. He rushed to shake his hand - his arm nearly dislocating for the speed at which he had moved.

His stalwart grip wasn't particularly strong, and unlike the nervous warmth of Cameron's gentle if slightly trembling hold it or Ramses’ jovial light pressure it seemed to almost carry a sort of chill, an attempt at maintaining the correct distances at all costs in the name of professionalism; despite his best efforts, however, his dark eyes shook a little as he tried to set them somewhere on Ingo's face, failing.

He opened his mouth - a small mouth all in all, more akin to an isosceles trapezoid than a circle or a line - to suck in a breath: "I'm honestly glad to see you again," he said, tenser than a well-pulled rope, serious. A little emotional.

Ingo nodded and hoped not to come off as too stilted: “Likewise.”

He thought he heard something crack weakly, in a way that did not inspire alarm - like a thin layer of half-melted ice breaking between the soles of a boot and steady ground.

Then his brother nudged him a little, and the comfortable murmuring arose again.

Suddenly, he felt fine.

The people in the room no longer appeared as oppressively terrifying as they had been just a few moments ago, not even when they reached out to him to introduce themselves all over again.

He took note of each name being offered to him, each differently built face smiling at him, to store them in pairs somewhere in the back of his mind. It felt familiar.

(It was the same as the first few days in the Icelands, the warden reminded him in an absentminded tone: he was more disoriented than nervous, and more trying not to freeze where he stood than to keep himself from hiding somewhere he could find enough air to breathe, but his modus operandi had been the same - associating sounds to as many somatic traits as possible to minimize the embarrassing chances of mixing people together.)

(He didn’t have the heart to slap his mouth shut, feeling as though that would have been uselessly cruel.)

(It was completely different now, he reasoned with him gently. And as he had noted earlier, they needed to stop thinking about Hisui. It wouldn’t be good for them.)

(The warden looked at him sadly as he slowly greeted more people.)

(It’s not that different, he murmured.)

(Then he fell back into silence.)

The green and yellow of their uniforms also felt familiar, comfortable, easy on the eyes, and the worn cotton of their gloves gave him the strangest sensation, like an incorrect deja-vù: he recognized the texture, yet found the lack of stitches running along the sides of his fingers awfully weird.

He must have worn plenty of these for days on end across the years before everything had happened if that specific feeling was so ingrained in his brain.

And he had forgotten he hadn’t been wearing gloves for about three years, after all, hadn’t he?

Not forgotten, actually - just, assumed he was wearing a pair.

Hm. Yes.

He had definitely spent a lifetime in gloves like that.

An entire lifetime.

…

They must have reeked.

Heavy steps bounced off of the floor with a notable stomping rhythm; he turned his head around for a moment to find the source of the noise together with a few others until he ended up facing towards the corridor that led in from the elevator.

Something was there which had certainly not been there beforehand.

It appeared to be a smaller replica of Emmet, head turned to the side.

One that had not seen the gentle hand of a cleaner in quite some time, if the spent dullness of its form and the heavy grey patina covering every inch of the subway master uniform was of any indication.

An even smaller humanoid form trotted next to it, dragging around a black ponytail larger than their entire body without any apparent struggle.

It took him a moment to realize that those were not long black gloves, nor black shoes, nor wide, pleated, bright yellow pants - though in his defense he had been misled by both their shape and the presence of a red vest, which instead was, indeed, an additional garment.

And of course nothing could have prepared him to see the supposed hair snap open to reveal a sparse set of sharp teeth and what looked like the inside of a mouth.

His shoulders had jolted at that, he was certain.

He turned his head left and right, to check if anybody else had seen it: not a single person in the room seemed to have any interest in whatever was happening at the room’s entrance, glancing over in silence and returning to work.

Was this a common occurrence?

Was he having some kind of hallucination?

When he turned his gaze back to it, the head of the replica was definitely in a different position.

Which distinctly did not help.

His fingers grasped his brother’s white sleeve, pulling gently if with a very obvious urgency to direct his eyes to the very uncanny sight of a smaller, dirtier, technically (hopefully) unmoving version of him standing not that far away.

Thankfully, he followed his gaze without question.

Puzzlingly, he smiled a little wider, and waved.

The eyes of the statue twitched, the head shifted slightly to look at them.

And then the mouth opened with a squeaky, delighted sound.

“Oh!”

The dusty miniature living copy of Emmet was not, in fact, as he could now tell while it approached very quickly with a gait that was nothing like his brother’s save for the intensity, a copy of Emmet.

For starters, it was not nearly as pure white or extreme in pallor, skin taking on a faint maybe yellower undertone, hair being a grayish brown whilst also lacking their distinctive sideburns, replaced by braids. The nose also bumped forward around the eyebrows’ height and hooked to fall straight down instead of pointing outwards - possibly having been broken once, too. The mouth was much too thin as well, while the shape of the eyes was almost exactly an inversion of the twins’ hooded ones: a flat line underneath, turning rounder towards the eyebrows.

And obviously neither had irises of such a dusty, rotten green.

A small hand in a white glove was extended out to him before he could fully process just how quickly the distance between them had been traversed: an incredibly angular turn of the lips’ corners forced the previously emotionless neutral expression into the amiable squint of a smile.

“Pleased to meet you!” a voice that sounded the way overly saccharine artificial strawberry tastes squeaked at him: “Briosa Crociera, Substitute Subway Master! I’m a recent development.”

He greeted her just as enthusiastically, noticing vaguely the lack of even the slightest budge at his volume or handshake: “My name is Ingo!”

He liked that description - recent development.

Something about it put him at ease. Perhaps it was the somewhat elegant way it managed to completely remove his amnesia from the conversation’s equation. Of course he wouldn’t be aware of any recent developments even under normal circumstances, like taking a three year long vacation or moving to a new region or getting himself another job, or something similarly plausible.

“She’s deaf,” Emmet filled him in, as though the fairly crucial detail was little more than an afterthought.

Almost as if to corroborate or prove the statement Briosa continued cheerfully without taking her eyes off of the man she was replacing, oblivious to the fact that she was repeating the same exact information: “I cannot hear a single thing!”

That explained her total stillness when he’d yelled his name in her face.

Hearing people tended to shirk away afterwards.

“If at any point you need to communicate with me, please refer directly to my hearing aide, Mawile, so she can translate you!”

His gaze shifted even lower to encounter a pair of crimson eyes on a short yellow snout looking back up at him. The Pokémon greeted him with a nod that had the black flaps (hair? Ears?) framing her face sway a little, small arms folded behind her back.

He could read now, on her vest, a proudly displayed SUPPORT POKÉMON written in big bold letters.

She seemed surprised, or perhaps amused, when he somewhat awkwardly sat on his heels and extended his hand to her as well, to shake her paw as he had done to every other human in the room with him at that moment.

“It is a pleasure to meet you!” he told her, as genuine as they come.

She chirped her own greeting and shook on it.

Her black paw felt less fuzzy than he would have expected, as well as cold but receptive, like Klingklang’s core, Excadrill’s claws or the surface of Magnezone’s body: she must have been a Steel type then, despite not looking like one at all. The unusual appearance and more lively texture must have come from a secondary Typing. Psychic, perhaps, considering her role?

“Pardon my curiosity,” he added following that train of thought; she craned her neck and listened intently. “I hope it’s not a bothersome question, but, ah - may I ask how exactly does a translation work? I’m not quite sure I can imagine it…”

The little creature nodded. He would have assumed she might have simply redirected his words into her trainer’s brain or something of the such through a telepathic power; instead, much to his surprise, she let go of his hand, unfolded her other arm, turned to her aidee, and began making a slew of quick signs with outstanding precision despite how small and stubby her fingers were.

Briosa waited for her to finish before looking at Ingo and gesturing to the proud beastie: “Like that,” she answered in her stead.

“Ah!” he noted loudly, impressed, eyes very wide. “I see!”

Mawile huffed a cackle through her nose. What a whimsical human. He’d known him again for less than five minutes and yet his at times sort of awkward propriety and excited politeness were already bewitching her body and soul, as she liked to exaggerate. Which was an impressive feat considering only Briosa herself had won the throne of her affections in more or less the same minuscule amount of time.

(Unseen, Emmet shot her a glance and signed: “Be nice.”)

(“I am nice,” she replied in equal silence: “He is fun and silly. I like him.”)

(“You never told me you like me. In two years.”)

(“I did not.”)

(“You wound me.”)

(The Fairy snickered and discreetly signed a little ‘love you’ at him. His small triumphant smirk made her cackle in silence again.)

The substitute snapped her face with a sudden stilted movement: “By the way, good morning! Did you sleep well?” she asked the twin in white, using a particular inflection on certain words that made them almost sound like rubber being bent and released to produce a goofy kind of wobble.

Emmet placed his nails against the underside of his chin and lazily thrusted his fingers forward, producing a soft ‘twhip!’ noise as his skin was pulled along.

Briosa turned to Ingo: “Did he sleep well?”

Being addressed made his shoulders jump for a moment, and he forgot she could not hear him: “Oh, uh, I - yes, yes, I believe he has, at least, for the most part.”

Thankfully he’d nodded vigorously as he’d spoken, so the other had still managed to get the gist of it: “Yes, I could tell,” she reassured him, “His eyebags are looking a lot less sapient today.”

Emmet repeated the gesture with an added stiff emphasis.

He regretted it as his brother asked: “Does that mean something?”

“Nope.”

“That means fuck you,” Briosa helpfully corrected, helped by Mawile’s snitching.

“Does not.”

“He’s telling me to go fuck myself.”

“Am not.”

“He’s denying it, isn’t he?”

Ingo nodded.

“Ingo,” his brother said in his most betrayed monotone.

“Hold on,” his substitute stopped Emmet before he could go on and turned around, once again repeating the gesture: “Anybody know what this means?”

Several hands left their duties to spell and an equal amount of voices arose to reply, in a slightly confused tone since she should have known that well: “Fuck you?”

She triumphantly faced Ingo again: “See, that’s a fuck you.”

To which he craned his neck towards his younger brother and exclaimed quietly, flabbergasted: “Emmet!”

“She’s being mean!” was the explanation he got.

“Well, you cannot just walk around telling people to go fuck themselves whenever they are mean to you!”

His brother groaned loudly.

Then, a mischievous glint overtook his eyes.

“You’re right,” he conceded.

His hands then carefully signed a sentence that caused Briosa’s amused expression to morph into a puzzled one, furrowing her brow and reducing her mouth to a thin austere line as some of her fingers joined together to attain a peculiar shape that seemed to ask ‘what do you mean?’.

The thin strip of paper that read ‘susbstitute’ was handed over to her.

She held it for a moment, staring at it quizzically.

“It’s not misspelled,” she objected.

A helpful finger pointed her to the superfluous S.

It took another few seconds before she spurred into action, but when she did she slammed her hands closed, trapping the heinous label between her palms before hastily shoving it in one of her pockets.

The look with which she gazed up at Emmet was mostly barred from Ingo’s view, as he was still sitting on his heels, but he did catch the glimpse of an absolutely furious smile wobbling with an attempt not to laugh; her hands flew with the quickness of intense, snickering anger at his brother’s face, probably promising who knows what sort of retaliation, and he wheezed out a cackle of his own.

Ah! So they were friends.

The realization felt like a strange weight off his chest.

-

The agents were, of course, laser focused on their job.

A subway station, especially the region’s central subway station, needed constant care and supervision, after all. There was always something lurking out there ready to create a Situation of some kind which would then require to be remedied somewhere between ‘as soon as possible’ and ‘if we could do it instantly it would be great but alas we are mere humans incapable of even the simplest Skullbash without caving our heads in so we will be handling This as best as we can, Please Hold On, We Are Very Tired’, and the more brain and muscle power available, the better.

However.

In their defense.

It was really hard not to want to look at what Ingo was doing.

Partially because, of course, he had disappeared from the face of the world three years ago and then re-emerged out of the entrails of a snowy mountain in a foreign region with said region’s most powerful teenager in tow, which to be honest felt a little bit unreal, so it was nice to see that yes, it had indeed happened, and yes, he was physically present in the room.

But in larger part it was because Ingo reacquainting himself with the machinery he used to operate daily was a joy to watch.

He looked around the control room like a kid in a candy shop.

Granted, neither twin had been too enthusiastic about duty calling Emmet onto the Battle Lines, and everybody could see how their boss had very clearly wished he could tear himself in half to keep one eye on his brother and do his job at the same time; but in the end he had been forced to compromise with the promise that Ingo would remain with at least an agent at all times, even in the case he would leave for the upper levels.

Luckily for him the chaos and brightness and noise that had first welcomed him had not made leaving the underground chamber particularly appealing to the just repatriated man, who had gladly preferred watching the subway’s hidden machinations behind the trains for entire hours now.

At first he’d stuck to looking at screens and wandering very carefully, with an exceptional silence to his step, in order not to bother anybody.

The pose and attitude reminded Furze of an old man watching a construction site - the kind that stands there a little hunched, with their hands held behind their backs, just above the hip bones, that always waves back at polite Gurdurrs and Conkeldurrs and tries to yell instructions at them sometimes because ‘he knows how it should be done’.

Ingo had not the faintest idea what he was looking at nor how it worked, so he refrained from offering suggestions or tips.

Instead, at some point, after gathering enough courage and being as certain as possible that he wasn’t being bothersome, he very shyly approached Eloise and bashfully asked if she could explain what an ATO was.

Once he knew all about Automatic Train Operation, he asked about everything else.

It was pretty fun actually, to split the various topics between them to sort of teach him the ropes as though he’d been a newbie - he was an attentive listener after all, making pertinent questions, interrupting explanations only when necessary, and by the way he looked at both the agents explaining and the object or program being explained he was very much one notebook and pencil away from compiling an entire work guide where he stood.

It also helped that the various explanations took up a discrete amount of time, meaning that it was almost midday and the entire control room had successfully contained the still sort of flighty ex-conductor.

Not that they didn’t trust him to be out and about, of course!

It was just… Well, they’d been worried about him.

As everybody had been.

And now he was back, and there was still a sort of fear that any wrong move would have had him bolting away and disappearing into the fog again.

So knowing he was there with them, asking questions, being interested… Showing how, despite the time passed, despite the amnesia, he was still indeed very much enamored with their job…

To call it a relief would have been putting it mildly.

But when the bulk of the questions were over and Ingo’s presence had melted back into familiar commonality again, their attention to where he was at all times might have sort of faltered slightly.

It did not lead to losing track of him, thankfully - but it did lead to them all freezing in horrified realization as an announcement about the train to Undella experiencing a five minute delay rang out across the correct platform by a voice that was notably not coming from any of their mouths.

Furze met his boss’s eyes just in time for the older man to widen them in a sudden shared awareness.

“I should not have done that,” Ingo peeped, guilty as charged, hand still near the mic.

The agent did not reply yet.

He turned around quickly, checking a couple of things. One: Isadore was notably absent. Good. Two: were the others thinking what he was also thinking?

Jackie definitely was, because he and Jackie had a lovingly defined “telepathic connection” since they were kids that came with people who grow up together and are obsessed with trains to the point of either exploding or phasing through the floor about it, so he knew they were absolutely down for what he was thinking; Josh had a notably vacant gaze that would not express anything beyond a very intense dial-up tone, so jury was still out on him; Hank, one of the older agents, seemed very intent on waiting for him to proceed with the plan - he definitely knew exactly what it was about, and as a fairly important figure to the youngsters in the room he wanted to make it very known through his expression that he thought it would have been funny as hell; Eloise on the other hand was gripping her desk in an attempt to repress or at least hold herself back from beating him to the punch with a delighted scream that might have scared the hell out of the poor man.

Everybody else in the room approached his inquisitive gaze with either trepidation (like Vip) or a shy attempt at stopping him that didn’t quite work (like Billie).

Oh come on. They’d done way worse bits when prey to boredom before.

Strengthened by the general agreement, Furze raised both hands and took a big breath through his open mouth, making Ingo worry. Then he curled his lips inside his mouth, held still by his teeth as he appeared to be trying to eat his own chin, and cocked his head to the side.

“Technically, that’s… Not good,” he admitted. He clicked his tongue very loudly before continuing: “Because, you know. You’re, uh… Not here yet. In the region. Technically.”

“I apologize,” the poor amnesiac cut him off. “I don’t-”

“HOWEVER!” the agent cut him off now, both index fingers outstretched to point upwards - causing a few to actually look up.

Pause.

“However. I don’t think. That anybody, here, would be too sad about having some… Help, with announcements. You know. Since we’re all busy with other stuff…”

Ingo’s face lit up at the prospect of being helpful.

Oh hell yes.

This was going to be so funny.

Would anybody even notice that the missing Subway Master was now warning about staying behind the yellow line? Probably not, since even when newly maintained the intercom still garbled voices just enough to make them hard to recognize.

Even if a few of them did, they would probably just be really confused - which only added more fun to the bit itself.

The problem with this assumption is that Furze’s brain was so overwhelmed with the love for anything related to railwork that he had completely forgotten a couple of fundamental things: firstly, that humans are extremely nosy creatures that really, really like to make friends or strangers aware of any weird business they come across; secondly, that the Subway Masters were still immensely popular figures in the region with their fair share of fans and an indescribable amount of clips of their voices readily available on the internet, so it wasn’t that hard to recognize them.

Also, thirdly, this was Nimbasa City.

A not insignificant percentage of the urban populace probably met the twins more times than they could count properly.

So imagining that the Nimbasians wouldn’t have near immediately recognized the voice of a minor local celebrity who was technically still missing through the vague garble of the speakers was like imagining that a shiver of Sharpedos wouldn’t have found a wounded swimming tourist bleeding profusely in the Hoenn seas.

Which is to say it would have been incredibly stupid.

But Furze (and Jackie, and Hank, and Vip in a way) lived in a world that did not account for such silly things, and so the control room had a bit of a blast for the better part of an hour listening to their boss bellowing out warnings like nothing had changed..

Then a little crackle coming out of nowhere made them all jolt, and a well known voice calling out for an answer had them all getting a little heart attack.

Josh fumbled a little with his radio and finally replied: “Yes, boss?”

“Why is Ingo’s voice doing the announcements?”

“OH you know!” Josh quickly replied as he began sweating buckets. His voice failed him for a few more instants before he wheezed out: “Briosa. And her... Impressions.”

The other end remained quiet for a moment.

“Sure, I’ll take that,” Emmet said cheerfully.

Then the radio went silent and the depot agent gave out a wheeze.

Billie would not, however, let him take a break: “BRIOSA?” she nearly shouted, “The ONLY deaf person here?”

“I panicked!” the poor man shrieked back.

“And you chose HER?”

“What was I chosen for,” the Substitute asked roughly at that moment, her small size and light weight allowing her to make her way over to barely two centimeters away from Vip unnoticed until it was too late for the agent, who proceeded to jump and smack her in the face with her elbow by mistake as they retreated for the spook.

The hit did not make her budge in the slightest; the girl, on the other hand, immediately clutched said joint in pain.

Her Mawile's large mouth snapped sharply when the small gloved hand pointed at her: "Apparently I got chosen," Briosa stated plainly. "Chosen for what?"

She had not seemed that threatening when Ingo had first looked at her earlier.

The agents, frozen in place, with eyes wider than tea saucers and cold sweat coating their brows, clearly had a different opinion.

Hank at last waved a hand with a sort of airy, light-hearted motion, smiling as amiably as he could despite the anxiety making the stubble on his abundant chin wobble: "Oh, you know, we were just comparing out impressions of Mr. Ingo here - and in the end, see, we concluded yours might've been the best!"

He swallowed a knot in his throat as the small three-fingered hands signed.

The Substitute read them intently, laser focused; then her mouth produced a squeaky sound, as if her tongue had been made of whistle grass, that couldn't have come out of Ingo's lips after a thousand years of practice.

"Sure, I'll take that!" she replied cheerfully.

Immeasurable relief swept through the depot agents in a fairly noisy cacophony of wheezes and sighs and held back breaths being released.

Completely oblivious to it, Briosa turned her attention solely on Ingo, gazing at his face with a small smile, flat lips barely curved upwards: “Have you been to any of the train platforms yet?”

He shook his head.

It dawned on him, in the time that it takes for the thunder to crack a small distance away from where the lighting has struck, that he hadn’t seen a single train so far outside of the ones in the books they had at home.

“Would you like to?”

His eyes widened slightly with interest.

Could she read his mind?

Ah, no - the subject was different. Still, the outcome was the same.

He nodded.

Or at least, he was fairly along in the motion when Jackie slithered between him and the small conductor and hurriedly began signing: “Maybe it- maybe it would be better not to, actually! Right?” they turned to Ingo for all of two seconds before deciding he agreed with the sentiment: “Right! Right.”

Briosa stared directly at them and blinked, slowly, leaving a long beat of silence: “Why?”

Even with their reputation as the most off-putting of the Depot Agents, Jackie couldn’t help but shrink a little at the weird inflection and pause. Their fingers felt as though they could only move in a small area, mimicking their voice as it came out in a whisper: “It could be dangerous. For, for, you know. News.”

The only answer he got was a second, slower blink.

Ingo felt the weirdest kind of deja-vù, like he was looking at a Purugly intimidating a Beautifly into submission, with the main difference being that the Purugly was excessively small and the Beautifly was not flying at all.

Point being, it was so utterly alien that he could not tell what was happening other than that it was comically strange.

Eventually Jackie began slinking over behind him, gently pushing him forward to take their place (to shield themselves or not to hinder him?) as they conceded with nervous signs: “But he’ll probably be fine, it’ll–”

“He’ll be fine,” Briosa finished for them.

“Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine, you’ll be fine boss, don’t worry, you’re in good hands, right?”

A chorus of ‘Right!’ replied from the rest of the room.

Rotten olive eyes shifted back onto Ingo: dusty eyebrows raised beneath the cap to silently repeat a question, and he nodded again.

The sudden grip on his wrist did not hurt, but it did make his heart jump in his throat from the scare; not even the time to yell out a prayer into his head that he was already being dragged away with the same ease as a fairly large leek.

In the tunnel preceding the elevator the substitute casually remarked: “Sorry for throwing you back into the pits of hell that’s the upper level but I’m imagining that whatever you did that got pinned on me is not something you could do outside of the control room, right?” and turned to him briefly, staring him down with an unblinking gaze inside the azure walls.

With a foreboding feeling crawling along his spine, Ingo nodded. An apology, stuck in his throat, decided to get swallowed back down just in case it attracted her ire.

“Nice!” was the calm reply; at the hit of a button the elevator doors closed, and the machine began rumbling upwards. “Remember to pull your face mask back on once we arrive. Do you have any Pokémon with you?”

He shook his head.

Maybe it had been a bad idea, in hindsight, to leave without any of his Pokémon in tow; but Emmet had reasoned that being back in the subway after all that time would have filled his team with the urge to launch themselves into battle thus causing a rather destructive commotion, an hypothesis which had instantly proved itself to be correct when they’d all perked up at the mention of any sort of scuffling, each quivering excitedly with sportsmanlike bloodlust.

Ingo also still hadn’t properly reacquainted himself with their movesets, their personalities, their dynamics and the ways they each took on the battlefield, so he would have likely been left at the mercy of their enthusiasm, unable to handle them nor lead them into a satisfying match. It would be better to practice on their own somewhere quieter.

Briosa clicked her tongue in a rather curious manner at his answer, the hint of a sympathetic smile on her face. Her small hand reached wordlessly to her belt to pull out a Pokéball, opening it without even looking.

The beastie emerging from the metal sphere was relatively stout and not too big, easily standing without too much trouble on her arm. Its paws were relatively small, white much like the fur on its belly, while the flaps of skin between them were of a bright yellow replicated on the round cheeks, or at least on one of them. The other had an enormous gash of naked skin ripping through it, joined by a few more which forced one of the black eyes into a perpetual squint and one of the nostrils to reach almost up to a lacrimal duct. One of the black ears also seemed to have been halfway through a rudimental shredder.

“This is Emolga!” Briosa cheerfully introduced the defaced rodent: “He will make sure you’re not getting bothered.”

“Ah,” the man only commented. “It seems he’s gone through quite a lot.”

“He has! A Mandibuzz tried to have him for lunch but he disemboweled it and ate it instead!”

“Oh my!” Ingo noted, now genuinely impressed.

She grinned, handing her partner over to him: “He’s not going to bite off your face, don’t worry,” she reassured him as she made a motion for him to cover his mouth and nose while holding the door closed for a moment more. “These days he’s more into fruit and Type-specific food, you know, like a normal apex predator.”

He waited until Emolga had crawled onto his shoulder before pulling up his facemask and following her out: “Perhaps he’s related to Gligars.”

“Hm! Never saw one,” she replied, easily bulldozing her way through the crowd via a one-armed iteration of Emmet’s patented terminator walk as she held Mawile aloft on her other hand to keep on listening to her ward.

“They are fairly common on Mount Coronet,” Ingo helpfully explained: “Their main means of sustenance is sucking the blood from prey.”

“Hm! Intriguing! You ever got bit?”

“No - luckily, my quick reflexes have left me unscathed from Gligars and Gliscors, their evolution, alike.”

“Ah, good for you!” she spoke louder now, to be heard above the chatter of the station: “I can’t stand getting blood taken to be honest! Even when it’s just for a blood check I have to look away and clench my fists really tight, so I guess if something tried to suck it out of me I’d freak out and knock it clean off. No clue why it bothers me so much!”

“It’s always more comforting knowing one’s blood is not out and about,” Ingo noted thoughtfully.

She nodded, solemn in her motion: “So it is, so it is.”

Emolga squeaked gently on his shoulder as if to join the conversation while getting comfortable; kind scritches behind the round ears had the mangled rodent chittering in delight.

They must have kept talking about blood or Gligars or similar small death machines, if anything because while he struggled to retain information he could still feel the way the facemask molded and stretched around his mouth as it kept opening and closing. He was rather glad of her determination in keeping this somewhat gruesome small talk going, as he was so concentrated on replying to her that the mass of bodies and sounds and colors and lights couldn’t pierce through his senses as it had when he had first entered the station: it still hung all around him, waiting to strike him at the worst possible moment, but so long as he had the muted grey coat to follow and answer to he found himself powering through the sensory overload with relative ease.

It somewhat helped that the rest of the crowd wading through the station seemed to magically part at the first glimpse of her, likely repelled by her potent aura of menace.

Her voice was squeaky as it raised in volume, her words getting lost along the way between the chatter and the fuzziness of his senses but still managing to lead him along through the dark and dull gold with a candy rose trail. He wasn’t perfectly aware of where they were going, though he did thankfully take notice of the stairs; otherwise he would have likely catastrophically crashed along them knocking out anybody who accidentally happened to be in his way like a Golem down Bolderoll Ravine.

The rush of wind from the tunnel distracted him as he was answering something. While not daring to step over the yellow line he still leaned a little towards the darkness snaking away into the earth, just in time to see the blinding light of a pair of beady Bug-like eyes rise out of it as it kept approaching.

It was almost more reminiscent of an Onix than of a Steelix, if he had to be honest; and if he really had to ponder over the matter a moment more maybe he would have even preferred comparing it to a Gyarados, between the roaring and the fairly evenly sized sections of its long body. Of course none of them blasted light from their eye sockets, nor did they travel on long threads of metal or carry dozens upon dozens of people inside them, opening their enormous bodies to let them in and out.

Emolga’s paws kneaded into his shoulder, and he realized he was heaving inside his facemask. A hand went to place itself on the black and white fur so he could ground himself while its twin reached out beneath him to be sharply stopped by a firm palm around its wrist.

“Are you ok?” he heard being asked to him.

Ingo swallowed and looked down, meeting Briosa’s unmoving eyes. Something in her and Mawile’s faces read like slight worry.

He nodded as he absentmindedly caressed the electrical rodent’s ear.

“It’s... Awfully loud,” he explained, like it was an apology.

The substitute tilted her head sympathetically once it was signed to her: “So I’ve been told,” she replied, and without him noticing she pulled him away from the crowd pouring in and out of the steel shell, towards the end of the platform. “Can’t know from experience, I’ve never been on a train before I was twelve - but it sure does look like it’s real loud.”

“You were not deaf at twelve?” he asked, to unconsciously distract himself.

“I was, actually! But not before that.”

“May I ask what happened?”

“No.”

“Understandable. My apologies for prying.”

“Don’t worry.”

The train huffed and puffed and groaned, and at last it pulled itself forward, gaining momentum faster and faster until the lights of its tail disappeared behind a curve of the dark tunnel.

Emolga squeaked and bumped his soft head against Ingo’s. A tepid comfort washed over him at the contact.

Furred Pokémon were such blessed creatures to have around. Ah, why did he have to favor the ones with harsh skin, jagged scales, impenetrable carapaces and cold metal bodies? No, that was not the right question - why did the universe have to be so cruel not to grant his most beloved beasts with at the very least some kind of plush texture, just to let them be hugged more often? Why did it have to make his body so delicate to the point where he could not hug them without bruising himself?

Not that their rough exteriors deterred him all that much, but it would have been nice to lay his head on a comfortable tummy that wasn’t Excadrill’s yet again. The others deserved to have their own chance as living pillows, too.

Doors sliding shut spooked him out of his musings. What was it with making doors slide? Who was making them slide? Wouldn’t they slide open due to centrifugal force?

This was going to drive him insane.

Much like the noise.

The noise might have done him in first.

Luckily, the rumbling beast was off somewhere else already, dragging a wide number of people and its infernal chatter along with it. Those whom it had deployed onto the platform slithered away like generous swarms of frightened Zubats into the tunnels leading upwards, towards the main hall, and the void they left was quickly filled again by other commuters arriving from the opposite direction.

He scratched behind Emolga’s ears again; the sight of Briosa still leaning against the fencing by his side quieted down his worries.

She locked eyes with him for a moment and gave him a tiny smile.

“Better?” she asked.

“I’m… Not sure, actually,” he admitted: “I fear I’m not used to so many people and lights and noises all at once anymore. But I’m certain exposure will help me.”

“You were on a mountain, right?”

He nodded.

“Without anything around you?”

“Aside from the occasional Pokémon cries or small avalanche, there was not much clamor, no.”

“Yeah, a large city’s subway station will do that to you then. Must have been real quiet.”

“It was.”

“Do you miss that?”

(No. Not at all. Not in the slightest. The quiet had been horrifying at first, maddening, and then it had curled around him and prevented him from resting. It felt impossible that ever since he left he’d been able to sleep so easily when it had become such an arduous feat.)

(Not even the warden could deny that.)

“I prefer the noise, in truth. Even though it’s not always pleasant.”

Briosa hummed: “I feel you.”

(Ah. Of course.)

(She more than anyone must have understood the restless terror of the quiet.)

A second loud cacophony quickly approaching had Ingo startle out of his skin and try to back away into a trashcan, stopped only by the conductor’s titanium grip and Mawile’s jaw very quickly wrapping around his leg to put it back on the ground with a surprising amount of gentleness for an appendage made specifically to maul and chew.

He looked on with dismay and disbelief as the train returned, causing everything that had happened barely a few minutes before to repeat in a nearly identical manner.

Did it…? How the - no, there was no way. It had just-

“That’s not the same one, is it?” he asked just to get confirmation on his doubts, because otherwise that would have been absolutely batshit.

“Same what, train?” she replied. When he nodded, she clicked her tongue: “Aaah… No, it’s a different one, that’d be way too fast even for our standards. These ones pass every three to five minutes. It’s a busy commute, so there’s usually a very small waiting time between them.”

Oh, thank goodness. He wasn’t fully sure of how long the whole journey might have been, but certainly the train wasn’t just running in circles in three minutes.

Speaking of the second train, the beast had already departed with no more additional fanfare than a derogatory flash of the headlights on its tail, dragging its body into the tunnels with as much clanging and roaring as it could, and the new passengers were already congregating on the cement floor, all careful to stand by behind the yellow line.

It was frankly a little amazing how the chatter and general noise never subsided at any point. It was less like waves washing upon the shore before being pulled back and more like a school of extremely young Magikarps jumping constantly in shallow water.

Despite that, however, he couldn’t help but sense a sort of disturbance among the disharmony - some kind of even less pleasant sound intermingling in it.

Almost on the other end of the platform a woman let out as high a shriek as possible.

She then proceeded to yell at length at the top of her lungs.

A second similar voice replied in the exact outrageous volume.

Ah.

So that was the additional worse noise.

Oh joy.

On his shoulder, Emolga growled.

Everybody else either shut or lowered their voices, turning to the extremely loud argument before facing away, not interested in joining the two screamers who very much looked ready to tear each other apart from what he could see among the sea of passengers dutifully waiting. Glancing at Briosa to figure out what the right procedure in this case would have been, he found her blissfully continuing to lean onto the railing of the platform’s end with not an ounce of concern in her eyes; Mawile on the other hand, sitting next to her on the same railing, had a paw to her face pinching the bridge of her snout, approximately five seconds away from taking a long inhale before sighing just as deeply, ruefully and tiredly as a Fairy could.

Hm. Perhaps he should help.

His hand was blocked by gloved fingers before it could gently nudge the substitute’s shoulder to get her attention, eliciting the same desired effect of having her turn to face him in an inquisitive manner.

The problem of communication returned to his mind at that moment, though in the span of a second he had already opted for the simplest of solutions: without a word, he pointed his index finger straight at the two commuters violently yelling and making threatening gestures at each other without a single concern for the space nor the people around them.

She turned towards the source of the commotion. Clearly being too short to properly visualize the matter, she then effortlessly pulled her body to stand completely vertically upon the metal bar through the strength of her arms before settling her feet down on it and getting a better look.

The groan she let out was more like the sound of a revving motorcycle with chainsaws for wheels.

“These types again,” she lamented, flat lips parted in an annoyed grimace. As Mawile climbed up her coat to get on her shoulder she extended her hand over to Ingo: “Can I have Emolga back for a moment?”

He complied, allowing the electrical rodent to climb into her palm.

The little scarred beast laid on it on his belly, pointed directly towards the disrupters; his trainer then reeled her arm back, snapped: “Get’em, GGGuts!” and launched him into the air, apparently attempting to splat him against the opposite wall - which thank Palkia did not happen, as he opened up the flaps beneath his arms to stall in the atmosphere a moment and angle himself so that he would land right on the head of one of the screaming idiots on the platform.

Said screaming idiot shrieked even louder for the surprise.

Hm!

Interesting technique!

Briosa patted his arm as she jumped back on the floor: “Gonna be back in a hot minute, do NOT move,” she simply instructed, and before he could even just nod off she was, cutting through the crowd like a Mamoswine through a snowstorm.

Ingo might have kept on looking (and if had indeed been solely focused on her he might have eventually gotten to take in the rare sight of Substitute Subway Master Briosa Crociera, roughly as tall as two lemonade cans and as heavy as a Leppa Berry and a half, lifting two entire women three times her weight and height into the air to hurl them up the stairs to the platform like a pair of feathers after harvesting at least a couple molars from each of their mouths) if the next train hadn’t rushed into the station at that moment, distracting him.

Rivers of people poured out once again, blocking his visual. Hundreds of feet tried to cover the enraged yelling with the sound of their stomping - thank goodness he’d been shoved a little away or he would have been right in the middle of the flood - passing over the gap between metal and cement in either direction.

Among the indistinct clamor rang out the name of a flower.

He turned immediately, as though he’d been called.

His eyes searched immediately, feverishly, looking for something or someone like he knew exactly what he was searching. A bloom? Sprouting from the cement, from the paint on the walls? From the lamps? The faces rushing past him?

(The flower had roared before talking, and roared straight at him, with the viciousness of a little prune moving little hands like little claws, but he couldn’t remember that.)

Pupils fixed onto the heads slowly disappearing left and right, all unfocused as they passed faster and faster despite his attempts at… At what? He had no clue, no clue at all. He sifted through them over and over, left and right, left and right, only managing to catch glimpses of each of them, not finding anything, anything, not even the slightest thing.

Somebody called out once more to a flower.

Bodies passed, eyes and noses and hair and mouths and ears, and he just kept on searching, and searching, and searching, without even knowing what to look for, so focused that he didn’t even notice every head he looked like was turned to show the profile except one.

Hold on.

He just lost that one, actually.

A sudden panic struck him and closed his entire digestive tract in a painful knot.

The impact on his stomach had him double over, but at least it completely obliterated that terrible feeling.

His face’s disastrous descent towards his own knees was stopped only thanks to his chest hitting something soft and voluminous that was doing its absolute best to lodge itself into his body just below his sternum; arms were wrapping his waist in as tight a grip as it was humanly possible, holding onto him like a lifeline, trying to sway and strangle him all at once.

He choked something out as a reflex, though the words were completely unintelligible even to himself. His hands found small, sturdy shoulders, with the kind of still wiry muscle that kids who haven’t yet finished growing have - he pushed them away from himself as the embrace around him loosened enough for him to actually manage that.

While he struggled to inhale after getting the breath knocked out of him so suddenly, the girl came into his focus very slowly - first her hair, of a dark and deep violet color, held fast by some yellow bands of sorts, then the brown of her eyes, the shape of her nose and mouth, the little faded scar next to her ear from when (she’d run into the edge of a table faster than a Blitzle as a tiny itty bitty prune and started to cry as loud as she could and he had cried even louder with her in solidarity so that she would stop to try to console him while her dad fixed her up, but he couldn’t remember that), the hunch of her back that made her seem so small, the strength in her hands as she still held onto his middle, onto his clothes.

She seemed about to apologize, but between her huffs and humid eyes she could barely make a sound.

A boy shouted for the flower again.

A half-asleep conversation came back to mind.

His grip on her shoulders tightened slightly.

“Forgive me for the strange question,” Ingo asked with a sudden hurry: “Would you happen to be my cousin?”

She inhaled in a noisy, watery way a few more times, a trembling smile creeping up on her face as it lit up.

She nodded.

A moment later arms were lifting her into the air from under her armpits in a bone-shattering hug, so tight she could feel her chest being compressed and yet filling her with such an incomparable wordless joy that she couldn’t help shrieking out a laugh as she wrapped her legs around the man’s middle, holding onto him like a Komala to its log. He swayed the both of them left and right, faces buried in each other’s hair, gripping so hard they were probably bruising - then suddenly pulled away to face her again, eyes wide and shining like he was about to cry.

“I’m sorry!” he apologized, “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, I wasn’t aware that you were such a beautiful young lady!”

Iris laughed even louder and found it impossible to stop herself from tearing up a little, and gently slapped his cheeks over and over, forgetting her soon-to-be nineteen years of age in favor of returning the five-year-old who didn’t like to be called like that because she was a Dragon Tamer, not some noblewoman.

She buried her face in his shoulder again, heart beating frantically. Ah, why did words have to be so hard now of all times!

A sob wrecked through her, unable to be contained.

Before she could chastise herself for it, an absent minded hand had already started patting a song on her spine.

She hugged him even tighter.

She knew it.

She knew he still remembered her.

She knew they couldn’t have been that unlucky.

A male voice called for her: she unwound herself from her cousin to turn around, his white arm still gripped tight in her palm, wide and tearstained grin illuminating her still somewhat child-like face.

“Marshal!” she cried out, waving at the man whose approach was slowing down more and more the closer he came to the formerly missing Subway Master as though frightened by the possibility of doing something too brash, too wrong, to come off too strong, “Marshal, come here, quick! He knows me! He knows me!”

(That would have been an exaggeration, but this wasn’t the time to make it known.)

He looked at the empty expression on the ghost of a man before him as bright white eyes stared into him.

He’d been stuck in situations that sparked and screamed with tension before, competitions and brawls and battles alike, close calls and last hits the anticipation of which had made time stretch endlessly as though it were a long, infinite rubber band struggling to return to shape after being released in an ocean of air denser than drying cement, but this - this had his heart and throat in an iron grip, squeezing them so hard that he could feel every single vein pulse with how desperately quick his heart was beating against his chest.

Speaking didn’t come hard to him usually. He’d honed that skill like many others, balancing himself as he always had been taught to do. And yet now his tongue felt dry and tangled, and his mind was blanking hard.

Should he have even said anything at all? Should he have just waved? He could have always turned around and left. He would have been ashamed of it for the rest of his life, like any fighter with some self-respect, but it was still an option. He could have just gone.

But could he, really?

How much had he missed him? That idiot who’d gotten poisoned by toxic trash enough times to become immune? To whom he’d tried to teach capoeira with no success at the tender age of seven, only managing to flail him around despite their difference in height? Was he seriously going to leave him like that, staring, not even offering a simple greeting, an introduction of even the barest kind?

His cousin was looking at him.

Not vacantly.

With purpose.

He raised a hand to give a little wave, offering a small bashful smile with it, but didn’t get to accompany either with any sound: the taller body slammed into him after carefully setting his sister back on the platform so quickly he barely saw the motion, and squeezed him in the spindly arms.

It took him a second for him to fully feel the hug.

A few moments after he heard a loud bony pop coming from a spine that wasn’t his own and reverberating against his arms, he realized he was hugging back.

Oh boy.

That must have hurt a bit.

“I did need that,” Ingo thankfully wheezed in his hold.

Marshal coughed out a laugh. These guys - they had such a way of being goofy…

His embrace grew a little softer as he nestled his face into his cousin’s shoulder, and he allowed himself to chuckle again: “Good to see some things don’t change, eh?”

The grip around him seemed to grow fonder.

-

Ingo was not there.

Locating him in the control room should have been easy. For starters, he would have stood out by being the only person not wearing any uniform; then, even if he could have melted into the penumbra with his dark clothes, the area of his head was so white between eyes and hair and pale skin that it would have been impossible to miss.

So, vice versa, the fact that he was not immediately recognizable among the small crowd and dim lights made it all the more obvious that he wasn’t there.

And if he wasn’t there, either he was somewhere else, or he had never been there to begin with.

Both of which were equally terrifying possibilities.

Cloud jumped a little when a hand grabbed their shoulder with a grip strong enough to just yank it off of their body in one go like a dangling baby tooth waiting to be pulled out of a child’s mouth.

“Where is Ingo?” Emmet asked with a face that could have effortlessly killed a man.

Luckily for the Depot Agent, their gender crisis which had decreed them to be no such thing decades ago spared them long enough for the moment of blinding terror to subside and let them answer in a peep: “With Briosa, boss.”

“Where is Briosa?”

“She should be on one of the platforms - she wanted to show him the trains, I think-”

“Which platform?”

“I - I don’t know, boss, it’s-”

“When did they leave?”

“I, ah - uh,” they scrubbed their brain to recall what the other had said and checked the clock: “About, uh… Maybe an hour ago, an hour and a half at most, by now.”

Perhaps they should have lied - whatever little color was in Emmet’s face was draining rapidly leaving him almost transparent, and based on how his grip was trembling, how his chest was squeezing quicker and quicker, how his eyes were shaking to find something to focus on, he was very close to breaking down.

They needed to fix the mess they made now, before it turned into a catastrophe - but how, how, how…

By chance their eyes fell on a printed copy of the staff schedule.

The subway master jumped when a palm laid on his wrist: kindly furrowed brown eyes forced him to look into them to ground him.

“Boss,” Cloud spoke more securely, “Briosa’s on the Single Train right now, right? Her shift started a while ago and she didn’t come back to the control room, so she likely went straight to the train. Ingo seemed interested in seeing one, so maybe she decided to let him tag along and let him watch some matches!”

It sounded right; it sounded plausible. Emmet gave a few small nods: “Yes,” he conceded, “Probably. Maybe. Possibly."

“You can check in on her on the radio,” they continued, “Just to make sure.”

Radio! Right! Right. He had the radio. He could contact her. He could ask her.

He should have done that.

He should have thought of that.

He would go do that.

He would go.

His hands unclenched: “I’ll call her,” he managed to force out of himself.

Cloud offered him a smile and gently patted his forearm: “Sounds like a good idea, boss. Your office is probably better for these sorts of things - we’ve got everything under control here.”

“Yes. Thank you.” he breathed. “Verrry much.”

“Anytime, boss.”

Bless whoever had ever decreed the existence of the Depot Agent profession.

Who knows where he’d be without them by now.

Emmet counted the long swinging steps that covered the distance spanning across the control room, the short corridor opening from its wall, and the office it lead into; then he counted them again as he marched laps around the furniture, trying to find a spot where he could lean onto (sitting would have worsened his panic, he just knew it, he had had a taste of that on his own skin enough times before that he was certain he had to keep moving) while searching around in the pockets of his coat.

At last having found the small radio, it sizzled to life as he tuned the correct frequency and spoke into it: “I am Emmet. Calling Briosa.”

He could feel a panic attack climbing up his leg.

It hurt like hell when he slammed his shin against the side of his desk, but at least it staved off the spiraling thoughts for a moment as he hissed.

He waited for the snap of Mawile’s maw to come through the receiver and urgently asked: “Is Ingo with you?”

The answer came a moment later, extremely calm: “He’s outside.”

“Where?”

“The city.”

“Alone?!” he almost shouted, stopping in his tracks..

“Nope,” Briosa popped her lips: “Two people came over to pick him up I think, one girl looking younger than I do, one guy not older than me, both from the Opelucid train. Ingo said they were his cousins and they were all sort of crying in the middle of the platform, so I figured I could let him go with them.”

Opelu - oh!

The tension in Emmet’s shoulders completely dissipated as they uncorked with a snap when he laid against a wall, like the cap of a heavily carbonated drink flying away, and he let out a relieved sigh.

Oh, alright. This changed everything. Thank goodness. 

“Champion Iris and Elite Four Marshal?” he asked just to be sure - though that was most definitely them. They must have heard about that mess with the announcements somehow, and the girl had probably dragged her half-brother to see Ingo as soon as possible. They had both missed him dearly, after all, he was certain of it.

The other end remained quiet for a bit longer than usual.

“If that’s a code I don’t know what it means.”

“No - question. Were the people Champion Iris and Elite Four Marshal.”

“I don’t know.”

Confusion settled on Emmet’s brows, making them furrow.

“What do you mean?”

“That I don’t know.” Briosa repeated.

“Don’t know what?”

“I don’t know if they were who you said.”

“The Champion and Fighting member of the Elite Four?”

“Yes.” now she started to sound annoyed. “Should I know them, anyways?”

Out of all the new things to learn about his co-worker today, this was not one he had remotely considered.

Also!

It was possibly the worst thing to short-circuit him at this precise moment, while he had no clear whereabouts of his brother and was beginning to doubt if his company was indeed who he thought they were and not somebody else.

His Xtransceiver decided that was the right moment to start ringing: an unknown number blinked on the display.

“Please hold until further notice,” he ordered automatically, too torn between panic and bewilderment to think, and just as he shut down the radio before getting an answer he opened the call.

His own eyes, magnified, replied.

A distinctly much louder and more expressive voice then made the speakers shriek: “HELLO! EMMET! CAN YOU HEAR ME!”

“No,” the conductor replied thoughtlessly with a wheeze that almost collapsed him.

“OH NO!”

“No no no, he can - he can hear you just fine, don’t worry, maybe just- just lower your voice a little, actually, I don’t think the speakers can survive that,” a definitely darker hand said as it came into view to gently pull Ingo away from the screen so that he wasn’t trying to shove his head through it.

The video feed trembled as it was yanked a little lower, revealing bright maroon eyes and an enthusiastic smile: “Hi Emmet!!”

“I am Emmet,” he replied fondly, out of breath: “Hello Iris. Hello Marshal.”

After another adjustment, the Fighting Elite Four member also properly came into view, waving back at him.

“You’re looking nice,” was the first thing he said.

His not-quite-cousin’s eyes narrowed, smile turning playfully angry: “Ah ha. Thanks.”

“No, seriously, you seem well-rested! That’s a relief!”

“It’s likely due to the fact that he slept in today,” Ingo snitched.

Iris gasped: “Slept in? Did a shooting star pass by? Did someone pray for a miracle?”

Oh no. Not this again. “I have been bullied enough about this already.”

“Oh yeah?” Marshal egged him on, “By who?”

“Ingo. My team. His team. The Agents. Briosa. Elesa, if she finds out.”

“That last one doesn’t count.”

“Yes it does.”

“She doesn’t even know it!”

“She will. And she will bully me.”

“Can I call her on this as well?” his twin instantly asked their cousins at that, feigning innocence: “She will surely be glad to hear he’s gotten enough sleep.”

“No.” Emmet prohibited.

Iris ignored him candidly: “Oh, you can call her right now if you want-”

“Nooo,” came from beyond the screen, and she giggled. “Stop that.”

“You only need to get the number pad open down here and then you type in–” Marshal began to coach him.

“Stop that!”

Ingo snorted loudly at his furious pout: “Don’t worry, don’t worry - I will delay the inevitable as of now. I shall save her contact and call her later in the day to let her know of your prolonged nap, which I’m certain she’ll approve of.”

“Do not.”

“I cannot make promises.”

“Yes you can. Promise you will not.”

“I would have to make a promising gesture in order to do so, but unfortunately both my hands are occupied.”

“No they’re not.”

His supposedly free hand came into view, very much held by Marshal’s own in an invincible grip. The young man’s smug grin followed suit.

Emmet almost forgot he was behind a screen and tried to physically wipe it off.

Remembering he was behind a screen, however, brought him to a slightly delayed realization - together with the much needed question, as embarrassing as it might have been, of whether or not he was still suffering from the excessive sleepiness of the day prior in order for him not to be noticing horrendously obvious things.

If anything, he concluded, getting more rest was proving to be much more detrimental to his attention than getting less, so he probably shouldn’t have slept at all instead.

Everybody he knew would have likely strangled him for coming to such a conclusion, but even they couldn't have argued against the stone cold facts his lackluster performance was serving up.

Anyways.

“You have an Xtransceiver,” he noted with no shortage of relief.

“Took you long enough!”

A gentle elbow playfully pushed the girl’s head away: “Give him some slack, Iris, he was busy letting us make fun of him.”

“Ha ha. I was also verrry worried. I didn’t know where Ingo was. I got verrry scared.”

Ingo’s mouth was already halfway open to offer an apology, but Iris beat him to the punch, throwing her arms in the air triumphantly: “Well you won’t have to worry about that anymore! Now you can just call him whenever you want!” she added, moving her hands in a very goofy way as if to showcase an invisible product: “On his brand new welcome back gift we got for him so he never loses track of anybody of us again! And we don’t lose track of him!”

“Which I’m assuming was the main point,” her constantly frowning cousin pointed out.

“Good job making him feel like we’re putting him on a leash,” Marshal mumbled at her sort of jokingly, getting a slap on his arm for it.

“Oh no, by all means, it’s perfectly sensible! It will certainly be much easier for you to keep track of me than the opposite - I’m still not sure how to use most features on this blasted thing, I’d likely mess up any simple function spectacularly…”

“Trust me, we’ve seen worse.”

“Yeah, nothing can beat Grandpa Alder on that.”

“He took out the batteries by accident once, I don’t even know how, just pulled them out manually somehow. We brought it over to the manufacturer and even they couldn’t figure out what he’d done. You’ll be fine.”

“You’ll figure it out super quick.”

“You still should have told somebody. Have them send a message to me. I was worried.” Emmet brought the three of them back on track sternly. He still allowed a smile to creep up on his lips, relaxing his shoulders a little: “But I admit, it’s a verrry good idea for a gift. Yup!”

“Of course it was,” the girl gloated, “I had it.”

“She did not,” her brother shot her down.

“Yes I did!”

“For the sake of truth I must confess,” Ingo interrupted their argument: “It was Marshal who first proposed it.”

Iris gasped at him in furious outrage: “You’re supposed to side with me! I’m the baby!”

“I thought you disliked that definition?”

“It’s situational,” Emmet predicted.

“It’s situational!” she replied a moment later. Her piqued finger took up the entirety of the screen: “You shut up.”

The conductor wheezed in her face.

Overwhelmed with righteous fury, the current Unovan Champion loudly stomped her foot: “Whatever! I had a better one right now!” she declared, “And it’s to go get lunch because it’s midday and I’m kind of starving.”

Then she gasped again, and smiled wider: “You could come too!”

“No.”

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Too abrupt. Damn panic.

“I’m working,” Emmet added hastily before she thought he was denying out of anger or annoyance. “I can’t. Sorry. I should not leave the station. Sorry. Sorry.”

“It’d be quick!” she pleaded back to him, and the saddened look on her face made him want to crumple into a dead leaf and turn to dust. “It could take what, maybe fifteen minutes? While you’re on your way we can get a sandwich or something, we hide Ingo in the bushes so he’s safe–”

“Excuse you-”

“-Shush, and then we can eat out here! And maybe once we’re done the three of us can go around to see the city and you can go back to work, just–”

“My,” he started, and then stopped. He had a hard time swallowing the lump in his throat, but there was no need. It was the truth. “My lunch break. It’s not now. Later. I’m working. Sorry.”

“We can wait then!”

“No. You’re hungry. You get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“No I don’t!”

“It would be disastrous. Can’t put Marshal and Ingo in that kinda danger. Better appease you verrry quickly.”

Iris furrowed her brows at him and pouted.

It would have been funnier if looking at her didn’t feel like getting stabbed in the gut.

“Not sure if it’s a good idea though,” he decided to change the subject, “Walking around with Ingo.”

“Why not?” Marshal asked.

“You know. Paparazzi. And other Sewaddles of life.”

“We can deal with those.”

He doubtfully scrunched up his face in response.

His cousin took that personally: “What, you don’t trust the Champion and her loyal fist-fighting knight to be able to handle a couple flashing cameras?”

That had Ingo turn to the still somewhat distraught Iris with eyes as wide as the moon itself, shining brilliantly with absolute surprise and a pride that was undoubtedly going to explode into a sonic boom in roughly eight seconds: “You’re the Champion?”

“Yeah?” she just replied.

Emmet quickly pulled the Xtransceiver down and stuck it close to his back. His fulminous reflexes saved him from the shrieks of the speakers as the latest contender for the title of world’s loudest BRAVO rippled through them in an attempt to make them explode.

He could envision the ear-ringing state of deafened daze Iris and Marshal were in at the moment extremely clearly, which likely said something about either himself, his brother, his cousins, or all of the above.

“YOU DID NOT MENTION THAT!” his brother was continuing in the same volume of voice, too caught up into the prideful euphoria to lower it: “CONGRATULATIONS!”

Faintly he made out Iris shakily replying her thanks.

“THAT’S INCREDIBLE! WHEN DID YOU MANAGE SUCH A FEAT?”

She responded it had happened around four years ago.

Whatever Ingo shouted next was completely unintelligible, so perhaps he should have intervened before the Xtransceivers completely gave up and burst into flames on their wrists, which would have been notably distressing.

.

“Fine! Fine.  I am Emmet and I’m convinced. He’ll be fine. Go for it. I trust you with him. Show him the city. Catch up with him. Hide him in the bushes.”

“Emmet.”

“I am Emmet.”

“Please do not advocate in favor of shoving me in any nearby shrubbery.”

“Would be a good hiding place.”

“Emmet.”

“It’d be much more effective than having you pretend you’re a lamppost.”

“Marshal.”

“It’s true!”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” Iris insisted. “We can wait just fine, seriously…”

“I am Emmet. I am sure. My lunch break is at… “ fuck. When was it? “Two. Do not worry for me. I will eat. Have a good meal. Go see the rest of the team home. They’ll be verrry happy, I bet. And Elesa. But don’t tell her I slept in.”

At least she smiled mischievously: “Immediately tell her you slept in, got it.”

“Nooo - avoid.”

“Instantly.”

“No!”

“Right now.”

“Iris Wittle Wyvern Lophiris. Stop that.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Call you what.”

“You know what you did!”

“I do not. Anyway!” he decided to cut it all short, before the credibility of his excuse began to dwindle: “Enjoy yourselves. And avoid paparazzi like the plague. I love you.”

They must have answered. He wasn’t sure he heard that.

By the time the call was closed and he wasn’t under their eyes anymore he was fairly sure the only thing keeping him still upright was the wall against his shoulder and the grip of his soles on the dark pavement.

Maybe he should have fainted for a while. Just slumped right down on the cold floor and lost consciousness for about half an hour. Maybe he could have gotten himself a nice little cardiac arrest for all of two seconds to ragdoll his way out of the wildly spinning tornado of thoughts passing by his neurons so fast they were essentially incomprehensible, some shifting amalgamation of panic and shame and a general desire to slam his head very hard somewhere and cause a dent either on the unfortunate surface of the day or in his skull.

What was even the matter? He hadn’t even talked to them. He hadn’t shut his door in their face. He had just not answered after the first two calls.

He hadn’t even been rude.

(I love you.)

(What a stupid fucking thing to say after as prolonged and obstinate an avoidance as his own. He was going to–)

Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.

How did that… The stupid one… How did that song go? About the, uh… The stupid… Ugh. He scratched at his forehead. The one… With… The fish. Captain.

Ca-pitan Findus, controilran-cido As-do-mar…

He couldn’t scrape the rest from his brain, but at least it cleared it enough.

Should have used this instead of medicine. Then again, he’d been half asleep and easily conditioned by his brother’s own less than stellar feelings, so he was excused.

Normal things now.

Things to do.

… Save the number. That would have been verrry useful.

He opened his eyes as little as possible to check on the display, so that he wouldn’t fuck it up by trying to do that blindly.

A warning; he selected ‘yes’ without even reading.

That was something he’d have to figure out later. Or tomorrow. No matter. Just… Not now, please.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Things to do.

The ringtone made him first jump, then cuss.

Dragons help him. These five minutes were feeling even more never ending with every millisecond that passed.

Breathe.

Marshal nodded at him in greeting from the screen as he walked leisurely.

“Heya.”

“You just called.” Emmet noted dryly. He bit his tongue at how annoyed he sounded to himself; luckily for him, it came out just as monotone as always.

“I wanted to talk with you for a moment more. Without the whole…” he moved his arm in a fairly eloquent way towards a couple of louder voices off-screen. “You know. And it was Ingo who called you first, to be precise.”

“Tamayto, Tamato. Same thing.”

“Ugh, whatever,” the younger man stuck out his tongue at him.

“Unsportsmanlike. Penalty.”

“Hey!”

“You taught me that.”

“Can I talk to you for a second or are you going to keep doing this?”

“Hm. Perhaps.”

“Cuz…”

He was smiling. He was smiling - he wasn’t angry. A little annoyed, but in the way one is annoyed at a friend being a little too goofy. He was even chuckling a bit - his chest shook slightly from it.

The relief the sight of such a simple expression gave him left a disgusting aftertaste all over his mouth, not sparing even a singular cell. It was similar to that of gastric acid.

“I’ll be quick, I know you’re busy and all,” Marshal got to the point, now that the interruptions seemed to have finally stopped. “I just wanted to say it’s good to see you again, too. Even if you’re only on a screen.”

Emmet’s throat dried up.

Marshal didn't notice: “Maybe another time we can all meet up, with Mom and Dad too, and Grandpa. I bet I could rope Grimsley in if you wanted,” he laughed a little.

“Maybe.” his cousin conceded faintly. “Another time.”

“You’d be up for that?”

No. “Yup. Sure. Another time, maybe.”

“Of course! Of course.”

It was still weird to see white teeth when he grinned. He was so used to him wearing that teal guard over them in recent times (recent years, a few years ago, which meant they weren’t so recent anymore, and it made him want to look away and leave and curl up in a ball and apologize and never talk again) that he’d almost forgotten that wasn’t their natural color.

“I’ll see you then,” his cousin waved.

The conductor waved back a little: “Bye.”

“Have a good day!”

“You too. Love you.” (what a stupid thing to–)

“Love you too!”

The image sizzled away; Emmet breathed in again sharply through his nose, swallowed, and slid down the wall until he was sitting in midair.

He waited in a limbo devoid of thoughts for a few seconds that felt more like a couple hundred minutes, eyes closed, trying to quell any tremor that attempted to make his muscles quiver with nervous antsyness.

They’d looked honestly happy to see him.

Honestly it was going to make him cry.

Or have a breakdown.

Calm down, calm down - other things to do, there’s other things to do first.

Work to do first.

Briosa to call first.

To tell her.

And also for the other thing.

He turned the radio back on and spoke into it without registering the action, clawing his way back into his body as the words left it. Mawile’s snap arrived right on schedule to assure him his messages were being received.

“It was our cousins,” he confirmed.

“Oh, nice.”

“But.”

Silence.

“But what.”

“You don’t know what the champion looks like?”

“No.”

Emmet willed himself to calm down. Maybe she hadn’t kept up since Alder had gone off in grief; champions change often. That made sense.

That could not be applied to Marshal.

So he changed his question: “You don’t know what the Elite Four look like?”

“No? Should I?”

He could not answer that in a way that kept him sane. So he remained silent, absolutely stunned.

“Am I supposed to know them?” Briosa insisted.

Was she - “They’re the League!” he replied.

The response came in the same unbothered shrug of a tone as before: “I don’t know the League.”

She what.

“How.”

“I’m not into competitive battling.”

…

Huh??

“This is. This is the Battle Subway. You work at the Battle Subway.”

“Yes! And here we just run over trainers. By the way you should get over to the Multi Line as soon as possible, would be better somewhere around uhhhh this precise instant, there’s an obnoxious pair that’s been very slowly making their way through the twentieth car with some kind of stalling strategy and should be done in about fifteen minutes. If they come in and you aren’t here I will not guarantee for the safety of their tendons.”

Alright. Yes, he should have returned to the train. Ingo was safe with family, so he had nothing to worry about.

And he could have continued this hell of conversation much more easily, too.

-

Emmet was notified of Ingo’s return to the control room somewhere around six in the afternoon, while he was still rushing through the tunnels of the Double Line. Moments before the arrival of the next challenger, he was then notified that his brother was currently snoring away on one of the breakroom’s couches.

When he peeked his head in a little less than two hours later, he was still asleep.

Iris did have a tendency to drag people around as though they had as boundless an energy as hers, and while Marshal had trained for years and had enough stamina to actually keep up with her, her not-quite-cousins definitely did not; so his poor twin was probably exhausted from being flung around the city like a gymnastic ribbon on a go-kart passing through a wind tunnel, or a wacky inflatable tube man being pulled into one of Tornadus’s storms.

A weight settled on his bones.

Ah, damnit. He should have eaten his lunch after all. Not his fault he forgot about it.

His glove scratched his eyelid a little as he rubbed it.

Hm, yes, had to be sugar withdrawal. Nothing else. Nothing at all. Not sleep, definitely. He was Emmet. He wasn’t tired. And certainly it wasn’t having stayed here instead of going to see his cousins. Nope. No way.

He’d been busy. Verrry busy. He was working. He couldn’t just go around. Sorry. He could not. Nope. Sorry. Sorry. Verrry busy.

He repeated the words to himself ad nauseam as he mindlessly chewed through his previously abandoned sandwiches with all the glee of a thoughtless automaton spending its days stamping bottle caps. He could have sat for a moment, just to stretch a bit and get this torpor out of him - yes, he nodded with a yawn, he’d do that, timing himself with Ingo’s snores.

A hand shook his shoulder: “Boss, you’re needed upstairs.”

Emmet opened his eyes to find himself hunched on his knees.

When did that happen?

“How long?” he asked vaguely, feeling his tongue stuck to his palate.

Thankfully, Hank had a degree in barely awake communications and was currently getting a coffee not too far away: “About ten minutes, maybe,” he replied.

“Yeah, that sounds right,” Ramses nodded.

Their boss hummed; like a Purrloin, he snapped his back into a sitting position, listening to his spine as it popped while stretching his arms upwards.

Well, that didn’t do him good.

He was going to need a chiropractor. Or maybe Marshal could have just realigned his backbone with some kind of grapple.

If he ever managed to crawl back to his cousin in shame.

“I am Emmet,” he groaned to ignore his own thoughts: “I’ll be there in a second.”

Ingo was still sleeping. His brother gave him a gentle pat on the arm and left him to continue resting.

-

By the time he opened his eyes again he felt like a few geological eras had passed.

He checked the nearest clock, squinting to figure out what he was looking at: the hands told him it was 10:23. Most likely in the P.M.

He was suddenly very hungry.

They probably would have eaten once they were back home though, right? In the meantime he should have probably had some water. He felt like a dried up Petilil slowly shriveling under the midday summer sun.

On second thought, where was he, exactly?

Because this did not look like home, or the control room, or his hut. Perhaps he had been abducted, which however sounded unlikely as he did remember finding the elevator with Cameron (Cameron? That was his name, right? Not Cloud. Cloud had longer hair. Hm, yes, that was Cameron.) and descending away from the piercing golden glow all around himself.

“Oh! Finally. We were thinking you had a heart attack.”

His eyes shifted groggily onto some gaunt young man almost glaring at him..

“Is… Adore?” he tried, unsure whether it was that or Isaiah but feeling a preference for the former.

The agent nodded and reached for some weird large thing standing against the wall to stick a sort of key in it before poking at it repeatedly with one finger: “You’ve been asleep for four hours and forty-seven minutes,” he let him know with surprising precision. “Did you sleep at all before coming here today?”

“Yes,” Ingo replied dryly. “The whole night.”

The weird thing spat out something similar to a very small paper cup.

Isadore looked at him in bewilderment as something trickled into the tiny container; he shook his head after a moment, as if remembering something: “No, that makes sense.” he nodded again.

A hiss escaped his heavily clenched jaw as he grabbed the little cup in his palm for all of one second before retreating his hand.

By the time Ingo had finally managed to sit back up without almost falling asleep in the process the liquid must have finally cooled down a little bit, because the young man was finally able to pick it up and bring it over to the couch. He took note of how carefully he maneuvered the little thing, gripping it with the precise grip of a machine, moving in perfectly strides so that the contents of the cup could not have so much as moved in the slightest.

He stood for a short while, narrow eyes fixed on the beverage.

“Do you like lemon tea?” the agent asked finally.

Oh, that sounded nice: “I believe so, yes.”

“I hate it.” Isadore replied, and with the same precise robotic motions he lowered the cup down so he could take it from him. “But I messed up my order and ended up with this, so if you’d rather drink it than let me waste it I’d be fine with that.”

“Ah! Thank you.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Still, thank you.”

Like he couldn’t tell that he’d done that deliberately, just to be nice - especially from how he insisted it hadn’t been intentional and how he’d left in an embarrassed hurry. He might’ve not had that good a relationship with Ingo before.

And the tea tasted just fine. He didn’t know what he was missing.

-

The Battle Lines were officially closed.

As much as he loved them, Emmet sighed in relief. They could really drain one’s energy worse than a whole candelabra of Litwick.

Now all that was left to do was ensure that all passengers left the station for their final destinations, return the trains to their rightful resting platforms, close down for the night, and go back home.

And make sure his brother still existed.

Because there always was the possibility of him not existing.

Which was the worst possibility, right next to him being found dead.

(Him being found dead was so close to the former in the scale of worst things to be real because by ‘not existing’ he meant specifically ‘not existing here and now back home’, not ‘not existing since the beginning’, and that left the window very terrifyingly open for the latter to happen.)

Briosa cracked her phalanxes with her thumb one at a time.

Once she was done, she moved onto those of her left hand.

She did not say anything. He focused on the quiet snaps muffled by the cotton gloves and tried to relax his shoulders.

The tension suffocating him in the elevator thankfully disappeared as soon as he stepped into the control room and an incredibly pale head all but literally lit up at the sight of him.

Ingo waved at him as though they were twelve kilometers away from each other, remaining perfectly still right where he was. Emmet waved back in the exact same manner, smiling as wide as he could.

Mawile found them impossibly silly and held back a cackle.

Billie decided to interrupt their silent waving by gently launching the older twin towards the younger with a hand on his back, promising under their breath that Vip was going to help with the last few things to check, and the man took the momentum in stride and slammed directly into his brother so quickly that neither even had the time to outstretch their arms for a hug, headbutting the shit out of each other and ending up stumbling a little for the recoil before they grabbed each other’s forearms to keep themselves from falling on the pavement.

“I apologize for falling asleep for nearly five hours!” he told him once they had established some distance again: “Iris and Marshal have the same terrible grip and powerful legs. I was no match for such behemoths.”

“Marshal was pulling too?”

“Yes!”

Memories of getting thrown around by an eight-year-old who could wrestle a Fraxure made the other at once smile and wince: “Oof. Did you try any opposition?”

“Absolutely not. They would have run me over like a herd of Piloswine.”

“Good call.”

He took a long breath through his nose and groaned.

“I am Emmet. I will admit. I am verrry tired.”

“Preach!” Vip (short for Venipede - her mothers were from outside the region and really, really liked Unovan bugs) hollered back at him unprompted before slinking her head down onto the desk in defeat. Josh, ever the sweetheart, patted her back in solidarity; Billie preferred shoving her a little out of the way.

Emmet was very tempted to imitate her, but pulled all of his remaining willpower to resist, only hunching his back forward in a slump and giving a long sigh: “Exactly. Let’s go home.”

“Oh! Is the Station shutting down for the night?”

“Yep.”

“I see! It is very late after all…”

Noticing the saddened tone, the younger tilted his head: “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing, just a silly thing. It could be handled tomorrow, or another day - it’s not a big deal anyways.”

“What is it?”

“... I would have liked to see the inside of a train,” Ingo admitted bashfully, like he was confessing something embarrassing or ridiculous: “I know the vague layout of an old locomotive from the books I’ve read a little from at home, but I have no idea how current trains look…”

“Ah! That’s fine. We can do it an-”

“The last train to Anville Town departs in a few minutes,” Briosa helpfully interrupted him out of nowhere.

Mawile must have filled her in while they weren’t looking.

Josh checked on one of the monitors and nodded: she was right, the last run for the day would have left in a moment or two.

“I can accompany him,” she continued simply.

Emmet tensed: “It’ll be verrry late for you,” he tried to dissuade her.

“I’ve gone home later. Plus I’ve got business on it.”

“I know. But it’s late.”

“I know. And I need to go anyway.” she turned her head towards Ingo: “Do you wanna come along?”

“Briosa.” Emmet signed before his brother could reply, not smiling. “Look at me.”

She did.

“It’s late. We can do this another time. It’s fine.”

She gave a short hum. Her fingers moved quick in the total silence: It’s forty-five minutes of ride at most. We’ll leave around 10:50 and we’ll be back by closing time. Rapid and painless.

It’s late, Emmet insisted equally quiet: It’s verrry late. We can do it tomorrow.

Do you want to come along?, the substitute asked then.

He hesitated; then he shook his head imperceptibly.

Being on unmoving ground was making the prospect of getting back on a train worse than anything, almost to the point of nausea. It happened, sometimes. It had happened several times, in the past years. Once the seasickness had even had the horrid idea of manifesting physically, and it had been mortifying to clean that cab.

At the same time, he didn’t want to leave Ingo alone on a train launched towards an unknown destination. Anything could have happened, literally anything, and instead of arriving at Anville Town he could have ended up across the world again, or somewhere he could have never returned from, or the train could have derailed with him on it, or he could have fallen out, or, or, or…

He couldn’t know how much Briosa could have known about what was going on in his brain since she couldn’t read his mind, but she didn’t smile.

Her stout fingers just moved, with as much understanding as they could have: I’ll be with him. I’ll make sure he’s fine and return him home right on time. Nothing else will happen. I’ll protect him. You know I’m good at these sorts of things.

Yes, she was. And yes, he did.

He took a long breath.

“Is everything alright?” Ingo asked softly.

Emmet waved a hand to reassure him: “Technicalities,” he replied, hands signing as he spoke: “You can go. If you want. Briosa said she can come with you. I’ll stay here. I’m feeling a bit lightheaded. Is that ok?”

“Of course! Please take care of yourself.” then, after a moment of nervous pause: “Are you sure I can go? I can stay here if-”

“Woof, train leaves in seven minutes,” a little voice interrupted them again. “Better go now unless you want to wait a whole day. There’s other ones, actually, but this one actually gets out of the ground, which is much niftier.”

(“Woof?” Vip mouthed.)

(“Niftier?” Billie mouthed back.)

Briosa fixed her rotten green eyes directly in Ingo’s: “So! You wanna go?”

Ignoring the brief sensation that she was challenging him to a hand-to-hand combat match to the death, he looked to his twin.

Emmet gave him a thumbs up.

The older nodded; the minuscule Substitute smiled, stuck her entire arm down Mawile’s open enormous maw so the little thing could safely dangle from it instead of having to scuttle after her, grabbed his wrist with her free hand, and left without any additional words to anybody in the room.

Had the tightening deadline put wings at her feet, or was he so baffled by the fact that she had just consciously and willingly had one of her limbs swallowed by her hearing aide that he forgot to take time into account?

Either way, he could have sworn they had taken much longer to reach the platform earlier today.

He also could have sworn that they had returned to the same exact platform.

He blinked hastily several times, finding a definitely smaller amount of people than he had seen on his first visit waiting for the mechanical beast to come pick them up, and turned left and right before looking down to find his guide’s translator - still happily dangling from the arm she was chomping on..

“Are we going to-” he began, stopping himself for a moment out of uncertainty “-Opelucid City, I believe?”

“Anville Town,” Briosa corrected after raising Mawile to her eye level.

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly certain.”

“I don’t want to doubt your expertise - you know much more than me, that’s without question - but are you absolutely positive this is the right platform? It looks a lot like-”

He couldn’t finish that thought as the conductor howled: “OOOH - oh ok, no, that’s fair, they’re all designed to look the same. They have signs before the entrance though, and Anville Town trains and stations and signs all have a brown line on them? Like that one over there.” and she pointed to a long bright brown line painted across the shorter wall of the platform. “It’s because it’s the oldest train line in the region and all stations were initially decorated with brown lines. Did you know that the slang for railway officials is brass collar?”

Actually, he did! From the moment she mentioned ‘slang’, but he did. Huh. He nodded, genuinely surprised by himself, and even added: “Or main pin.”

“Yeah!” Briosa grinned, squinting a lot: “Funny stuff to know.”

Funny indeed.

The train still made a horrid amount of noise, causing Ingo to regret not having asked for Emolga’s support again before Mawile very gently patted his leg to offer him some comfort. The sliding doors hissed open; the Substitute Subway Master positioned herself perpendicular to them and extended her arm towards the brightly lit interior of the rumbling millipede titan.

“All aboard!” she encouraged him - stretching the first word and rushing through the second, in a perfectly opposite intonation to his own and Emmet’s.

Ingo complied, stepping onto the train.

They were in the cab directly behind the locomotive (Briosa seemed to privilege this placement, as she had moved them towards the end of the Opelucid platform earlier as well) and if he turned his head to his left he could see a corridor made of long sections like the abdomen of a Bug stretching all the way into infinity, all identical as far as he could tell: same two lines of blue plastic seats built almost like sofas, same metal bars right above them, same handles dangling from them, same grey doors with wide windows, same openings into new cabs, same rows of glass separating the inside from the outside wind, over and over and over and over.

Gently buzzing above him, the neon white lights didn’t hurt as much as they could have.

(He remembered dreaming something like this once or twice.)

(Hadn’t he dreamed it in Sinnoh?)

(Not Hisui - Sinnoh. On the couch of Johanna and her child’s house… Yes, he recognized it now. He’d dreamed of sitting here, on a train, headed who knows were; he recognized now, the more he thought about that dream, the scratch of Marshal’s hair on his nape, the scent of Elesa’s Persim shampoo coming from his shoulder, Iris’s weight pressing on his lap, Emmet’s face leaning against his arm. He wondered who it had been, then, on whom he was sitting.)

A mechanical voice instructed him to stand away from the doors as they closed, and a rumble startled him so much that he almost jumped.

Briosa, at his side, made no motion nor betrayed any emotion.

The man looked around for a moment, thinking back to the plane and the car and finding a glaring problem.

He turned to Mawile with great urgency: "Where are the seatbelts?"

Both she and her aidee gave him a funny look.

"Trains don't have them," the substitute told him.

What?

The gigantic wretched beast moved with a jerk, and Ingo felt his entire body, completely stiff and as straight as a perfect line, get yanked back like a catapult towards the floor.

A thin arm pressed harshly against his back to stop him from actually making contact with the ground, keeping him upright despite the notable difference in height almost effortlessly, and as his freefall was stopped in time he became fully conscious of the fact that, oh! Yes! He had, indeed, been descending right into a concussion!

So he screamed.

The body under him seemed to shake incredibly hard for a moment; he was then grasped between two hands, manhandled for a hot second, and firmly planted on one of the smooth plastic seats.

Briosa looked directly into his eyes. Her vaguely square smile had an air of disbelief, and her hands trembled a bit.

"PLEASE MAKE SURE TO HOLD ONTO THE HANDRAILS OR TAKE A SEAT BEFORE THE TRAIN DEPARTS!" she said, not quite screaming but almost, sounding incredibly shrill. "ALSO DEAR DRAGONS YOU ARE LOUD!"

Ingo sunk in his mortified shoulders.

"I - I apologize, I did not-" he only managed to babble.

"I'M NOT MAD BY THE WAY, I'M REALLY IMPRESSED!" the Substitute interrupted him (not out of a lack of manners but because she could not have heard him if she wanted): "I DON’T THINK THE HUMAN BODY IS MEANT TO BE ABLE TO MAKE A SOUND AT THAT VOLUME! THE CLOSEST THING I CAN COMPARE IT TO IS WHEN I ACCIDENTALLY LAID AGAINST A VERY BIG SPEAKER AND A BASS LINE RIPPLED STRAIGHT THROUGH ME AND JUMBLED MY MARROW LIKE GELATINE!"

This must have been what roughly half of Hisui had felt when he spoke to them most of the time, Ingo managed to think for a moment before his brain focused on imagining how exactly something like a ‘bone marrow gelatine’ would have looked and tasted.

In a fraction of a second he concluded that it would have been abysmal, and not for the shape or ingredients; despite having apparently never eaten gelatine as far as his brain could remember he could feel it in his mouth, and the texture made him want to shrivel and implode.

He quietly snuck it on the shelf of his mind reserved for Things I Forgot I Found Abhorrent And Would Like To Forget Again.

Blissfully unaware of the plight her boss had unleashed upon himself through the power of recalling horrendous attacks at his senses, Briosa then made her tone and volume drop drastically to much quieter ones as her whole body relaxed: "But seriously, make sure to secure yourself next time you're on a subway car. You can get really hurt and injure other people along with yourself. If you screamed again you could also probably bust their hearing."

She smiled again, looking right into him as if pinning him like one does to the wings of a Beautifly, with that flat smile that stuck the corners of her lips up in a sort of strange parenthesis and her rot green eyes a little squinted.

"You can't hurt mine in a way that matters," she chirped, as if to reassure him.

That actually was a relief. He’d had enough complaints about his shouts risking avalanches and attracting dangerous Pokémon, without counting all the ringing ears he had caused; he was truly glad the only living beings in this car were himself (naturally immune to his own volume), a completely deaf person and --

His head retreated inside his shoulders as a horrified realization hit him and he turned, absolutely mortified, to the small beast sitting right beside him.

“I am - so sorry,” he started off as her big red eyes tilted curiously, “I did not mean to - I am honestly, earnestly sorry, this is - probably very bad, considering what you - did I, did I hurt you? Did I hurt your ears, was my voice...? Again, I am terribly sorry, I, I hope I did not cause you any harm...”

Mawile blinked twice before snapping her smaller mouth open with a chirp of sorts, not looking cross at all. She began twisting her tiny fingers at him, but before he could apologetically remind her he could not understand sign she realized so herself, and turned towards her aidee: Briosa read her paws and furrowed her brow, replying in the same silent language with a certain puzzlement to her motions.

There was a moment of stillness that followed - their equivalent of a beat of flabbergasted silence. Mawile then gestured something with a very amused shit-eating smirk on both lesser and greater mouths, and her owner quickly clamped her hand in front of her little face as though to force them both shut.

“Vai a ciapa’ i Patrat, bimba, vai - che sarò stanca pure io a quest’ora, eh?” she sneered softly, chuckling a little as her fingers repeated whatever completely incomprehensible thing had just come out of her mouth. The little Fairy insisted on something with a grin, getting a gentle swat from a gloved hand: “Stocazzo che glielo dico, me lo posso anche tenere per me che mi son scordata che tu ci senti per lavoro.”

She then turned her gaze on Ingo’s face, ignoring her snickering companion.

“Steel types are actually virtually immune to hearing loss!” she explained chipperly: “They’re often employed in dangerously loud jobs because their organs can only get deformed under extreme pressure from all sides, like at the bottom of the ocean! But in that case they’d already be dead before the compression could do the trick so it barely counts really. But yes. No matter how hard you scream you cannot deafen this little beast.”

Three-fingered paws waved to get her attention once more and added something else.

“She still appreciates your concern!”

The poor man wheezed out a sigh of relief. Oh thank goodness. No harm done. He would have climbed out of the train window out of mortification otherwise.

Mawile seemed to be amused by his reaction, considering the gentle chittering laugh that left her lesser beak-like mouth and the cackling snap of her larger one. Her little three-fingered paw went to pat his arm in a comforting manner, as though she understood his feelings perfectly: maybe this had already happened on a previous occasion? Or perhaps she was simply very empathetic, as Fairies tended to be?

She and Briosa appeared to be on the exact same wavelength, that was certain, since they understood each other perfectly despite the language barrier.

Wait, no, they had no language barrier.

The both signed.

Right.

Yes.

That made sense.

Wait.

He furrowed his brow suddenly: “You translated her right now, did you not?” he asked the substitute, realizing only at that moment what had happened.

She turned her attention to the beast next to her and answered him with a slight lag and a fairly satisfied smile once his words were made understandable to her: “I did! It’s a mutually beneficial kind of deal. Makes it a lot easier to understand other Pokémon as well.”

“Your communication with your team must be on another level!” Ingo replied.

“I doubt that!” she struck him down airily: “I don’t want Mawile to work overtime translating every single thing my lads say. They’ve learned to be real expressive for that. My communication with her is on another level, that’s true - I forget that five-fingered sign exists sometimes.”

“Five-what?”

“Five-fingered sign,” and she waved her fingers in a sort of cheeky goodbye. Then she held down her thumb and pinky, moving the other three as she spoke: “She only has three fingers, so she most usually tends to use three-fingered sign. She’s also fluent in five-fingered, but that takes her two hands so, you know, it’s much less convenient.”

Ingo nodded, eyes enraptured by the fluidity of her signing: “It’s as though you were trilingual,” he commented in awe. “Or quadrilingual, perhaps? I believe you were speaking something else, before...”

“Ah. That. Yes.”

The stilted way she said that had him shrivel in his own shoulders, convinced he’d overstepped another boundary.

Mawile laughed louder and mischievously gestured something at her aidee.

“Zitta.” she was shushed.

She laughed even harder.

“I apologize,” the much taller man peeped as quietly as he could, which admittedly wasn’t that much: “I didn’t mean to bring back any animosity.”

The beastie found his addition even more hilarious clearly, because she leaned her back down on the plastic seat and kicked up her feet as she wheezed and cackled uncontrollably to the point where she had to grab her stomach as it started cramping. Still coughing a little she wiped away tears of absolute mirth from her eyes as she pulled herself up once more before launching in a series of signs so fast and naturally that it would have likely caused him to short circuit in an attempt to follow had he been able to understand her.

He turned to Briosa with a frown that told of being completely at a loss.

She replied by keeping her mouth perfectly shut.

Mawile egged her on.

“Stocazzo, t’ho detto,” the substitute insisted.

Not at all deterred, the Steel Fairy snapped her maw as though accepting a challenge. As she turned back to Ingo she clearly threw sign to the wind and began, instead, to mime at him: whatever they had talked about, he pieced together from her performance, regarded Briosa asking her a question related to her hearing.

His comprehensive noises with which he began commenting on the show clearly sent the subway master into a short panic, launching herself forward to grasp her aide to shut up her theatrical endeavors before she could get to the point.

She did successfully delay the ending of the story; she also however got laughed straight at her face with each miss.

After not even thirty seconds she threw her patience out of the window with wild abandon: “Basta!!” she softly shouted as she trembled with an exaggerated cartoonish rage, “Guarda che ti mangio!”

Not frightened in the slightest, Mawile signed back a retort.

“Va bene!” the substitute caved in.

She rubbed at her eyes to try and mask her snickering as she attempted to recollect herself enough before she could properly turn to Ingo, who had been left a little concerned by their interaction.

“It’s stupid,” she reassured him immediately with a wave of her hand and an easy smile. “I just. When she told me you were worried about having destroyed her eardrums, I got confused. Because I forgot that she can hear. Even though that is literally her job.”

“Oh!” he sighed in relief. That was kind of humorous. “I see.”

“She’s not letting me live this down now because she’s mean,” she then specified, putting a special emphasis on the last word as she eyed the utterly remorseless Fairy, who seemed proud of her mischief. A gloved hand pressed onto her flat nose: “You’re lucky lip reading only gets me so far or you’d be still stuck back over there in Kalos.”

Mawile made a motion as if to hug herself before pointing back at her.

“Love you too.”

“If I can -” Ingo began, lifting a finger to catch Briosa’s attention, but he stopped and retracted it as he reminded himself she couldn’t hear him right when she actually looked at him.

His attempt at turning towards her Pokémon was however stopped by the substitute herself, who quickly motioned with her hand towards her face to incite him to speak directly to her. Had she forgotten he couldn’t sign? It seemed very much unlikely. Still, if she was encouraging him to engage with her instead of Mawile, she must have had her own reasoning, right?

“You mentioned lip reading,” he tried.

“I did,” she replied without missing a beat, staring at him. Her eyes seemed to be focused a little under his own.

“I... Assume it would be something akin to... Figuring out letters from how the mouth moves?”

“I’d correct you since I’m reading the individual words, but yes actually, it’s mostly telling letters apart.”

“Is that what you’re doing right now?”

“Yep.”

“Ah! It seems more convenient than the translation.”

“It’s not!”

He tilted his head in surprise: “How so?”

“It’s hard,” she explained matter-of-factly: “The mouth can only move in so many ways. A lot of letters end up looking exactly the same. Plus I can’t do it on phones or radios, I can’t read multiple people at once, if I’m in a group swapping between person to person is a whole struggle that gets annoying real fast, sometimes it’s just plain difficult, like when Emmet’s got his neutral face on--”

“His neutral face?”

“You know--” and she gave him a somewhat vacant smile, forcing her mouth into what she probably believed to be a V shape of sorts. “This face. The bane of my eyes. You know how he doesn’t speak much? Makes a lot of pauses? That’s actually perfect since it’s little bits of information. Easy to read and digest. But this face makes everything so much harder.”

“Ah,” he nodded without much conviction. He did remember that specific expression now that she mentioned it, but he still failed to see what she actually meant. “Why does that make lip reading difficult?”

“Because his face gets locked in place and he speaks real small and cramped keeping all his words to himself, like this,” she answered: following her finger as she pointed he noticed then that her lips moved quickly, although describing them as ‘moving’ almost sounded like an exaggeration (a more apt verb could have been ‘twitching’), barely parting as they did. “Every single sound looks the exact same. It’s a nightmare.”

“I can see that…”

 She then began switching between expressions as she continued, her entire face shifting in ways that conveyed all sorts of emotions like a theater actor’s might have: “But when he’s actually reacting to things it’s so much easier, because he uses every single muscle he has to show what he means and his mouth gets dragged along, like this! See? He’s verrry expressive. Verrry readable.“

Ingo nodded again, transfixed: “You’re very expressive yourself!”

Briosa giggled at that: “Thanks! It’s the circus training!”

Thefuckingwhat.

He shook his head to clear it of the dozen barely comprehensible questions that clamored to be asked. Keep focus. No getting off-track. We’ll be here all night if you keep changing the subject.

“I imagine I’m giving you a lot of grief then,” he noted as he got back on his train of thought, “Since I’m... Not quite good at conveying emotion through my face.”

“No, actually. You’re really loud.”

Her knowing such a detail should not have come as a surprise, because she had already remarked on it previously when he had thanked her for saving him from a concussion after almost slamming his head against the metal floor with a blood-curdling scream directly in her ear.

However, she had mentioned she could tell because the vibration had vigorously coursed through her like an electric shock.

So in the end, he was again left completely baffled.

She seemed amused by how wide his eyes had turned when he finally got her back into the focus of his gaze, cheeks almost red with embarrassment, and asked: “Is it... Is it visible?”

Her smile curled a little more; she opened her mouth as large as she could and replied at a fairly high volume, to show him properly: “The louder someone speaks, the wider they tend to open their mouth! You do that all the time! It makes it much easier to tell the individual sounds apart since there’s a little lag between each of them and they’re enunciated fairly well!”

Huh! She was right!

At least, it helped her understand him better. He’d been worried about the opposite, so it was nice knowing that.

“You are extremely observant!” he noted.

She laughed with a rubbery sound: “And you’re trying real hard to make your lips as readable as a book!”

“It seems to make it much easier to converse!”

“It does! But watch out.”

“For what?”

“Long sentences. My brain fries a little if I’ve got too much on my plate.”

“Oh! That’ll be a problem. I’m fairly talkative, as far as I’m aware.”

”I figured.”

“I must admit this feels more natural than on-the-fly translations - I mean no offense for your line of work,” Ingo specified quickly (Mawile reassured him with a thumbs up) “But it is easier to speak directly to you instead of having to relay the information to a third party first. I suppose it’s a matter of awkwardness, or perhaps just a feeling of strangeness in the process of having to first speak to you, Mawile, who then has to translate it all to you, Briosa, in order for you to give your interlocutor an answer. To put it much more simply, it just... It feels a little weird. Is it not a little weird to you?

The Fairy nodded sagely in wholehearted agreement. It was very likely surreal for her, to have the vast majority of her daily conversations be in actuality a game of telephone between two other people.

Briosa instead looked at his face intently, mostly without any emotion.

It dawned on him a little too late that his musings had been in fact expressed in a tempestuous river of words which had likely stunted her comprehension.

She shook her head repeatedly for what felt like the span of a second, very quickly, in a very brisk movement: “Got the gist of it but lost half of that, hold on,” she apologized before turning to her hearing aide: “What’s weird?”

A few quick signs.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” she then immediately agreed as well, “I forget it is because I live like this but it’s weird as all get out for everybody all the time, everytime. Ramses still tries to talk directly to me even though he's known that his mustache covers his entire mouth and I cannot read a single syllable since I first told him five years ago.”

Five years?

But she’d said...

Wasn’t she a recent development?

Five years was not necessarily recent.

Five years...

"Then -” Ingo noted, confused: “We do know each other."

"No," Briosa's reply was quick, sharp, completely flat in tone.

The train hit a harsh curve; unbothered, she simply leaned in the opposite direction and remained upright on her feet, not changing her stance in the slightest, as though it were the easiest thing in the world.

"You were definitely aware of me, but we didn’t know each other,” she explained: “You hired me and I worked here. And anyways we probably wouldn't have made much progress because I'm not particularly sociable and as far as I'm concerned you didn't sign. I've gotten to know Emmet because it's been about two years, but I didn't know him either before the promotion."

"Before you became a substitute?"

"Yep."

But he had been in Hisui for at least three years. He mentally counted the seasons that had passed again: yes, the math made sense.

The tracks had returned straight; his interlocutor had returned upright.

"Why didn't you replace me as soon as I went missing?" he asked then, confused. It made no sense to wait a year or so - running such a network alone would have taken a toll after a few months, probably.

"Oh, I'm not replacing you," she corrected: "I'm a temporary solution. Speaking of -” and before he could ask her what exactly that meant she seemingly changed the topic of conversation entirely: “How much do you remember about how to drive trains or running a station in general?”

The man blinked.

He simply shook his head.

Briosa loudly clicked her tongue in a way that briefly reminded him of how Mawile’s larger mouth would sometimes snap when opening: “Huh. Then I guess it’ll be a while before I get demoted back to depot agent. If you want to be a subway master again, of course, which is likely. Not a fan of having to wait, because I hate being responsible for things, but oh well!”

“Why should you be demoted?” the man asked, furrowing his brow. She had seemed to be doing a fine job, hadn’t she?

“Because you’re back,” the substitute replied: “I told you. Temporary solution.”

“But you are already a subway master! There’s no need to for-”

“I am not!” she interrupted him before he could finish. Mawile hadn’t even gotten to the beginning of the second sentence.

Her thin, gloved finger pointed at her dusty face, at her broken nose and flat-lipped, straight-lined mouth: “I am a Substitute,” she repeated a little slower, spelling out each syllable carefully. “I am temporarily filling in for one of the two Subway Bosses. You are said Subway Boss. You were before and you have remained as such.”

“... For all three years I’ve been missing?”

Mawile did not translate that. She answered him herself, nodding. Her owner probably had already understood.

Ingo was still, on paper, a Subway Boss.

No, actually - he had never stopped being a Subway Boss.

For all that was worth it, the whole world might as well have hallucinated his disappearance: checking Gear Station documents one would have been certain to have found him in the tunnels, or maybe in the control room, in a locomotive or one of the stops, casually making his rounds, checking maintenance, battling, driving, working as if his own friends and family weren’t desperately looking for him in every nook and cranny. Like a ghost, or a cutout. Empty air in a shape that resembled his, doing what he ought to be doing, unseen, unfelt, unheard, mindlessly performing tasks it was convinced it could achieve while being completely mute and deaf and blind and incorporeal, incapable of feeling hungry or tired. Housing the station like some kind of specter.

He had remained a Subway Boss, in Hisui. He had held onto those rags of a uniform like his life depended upon them and worn them religiously every second he could - but that was different. That was him trying to preserve and maintain whatever scrap of his own identity he had left. That was not important to others, nor did it conflict with the reality of his situation.

It was just yet another symbol of his many statuses: he was a part of the Pearl Clan, as his tunic showed; he was Sneasler’s warden, as his bracelet showed; he was a strange foreigner, as his old clothes showed.

Why was he a Subway Boss?

Why was his replacement something that should have lasted what sounded like a couple of days, maybe a week, always ready to be replaced back?

What if he had never met that kid, Sinnoh bless them, and had never had the chance to come back home?

“Why?” he only managed to say.

His throat felt weirdly dry.

Mawile made a quick gesture. The train swerved again, and the overhead handles leaned to Ingo’s left; Briosa’s body shifted towards his right with the fluidity that comes from practiced ease while her feet remained unmoved on the ground, and he watched how the corners of her rectangular smile eased downwards until her mouth was a perfectly emotionless straight line.

She looked at him intently, with her rot green eyes; she blinked.

“I don’t think anybody could ever really understand just how stubborn your brother is.”

So it had been Emmet’s decision?

What was his plan? To go on his whole life like that? Pretending his brother was still there, somewhere, doing everything he always did, just always out of reach? Was he ever going to give up, eventually? Bury an empty casket? Or was he going to keep convincing himself that somebody was still just sleeping coated in dust in that empty room until the day he dropped?

Something abnormally cheery snapped him out of his spiral.

He looked up. Briosa was smiling again, in a strangely stiff way, and looking right into his eyes like she was trying to drill through his pupils.

Her words reached him with a slight delay, her voice squeaky and disgustingly dripping with sugar-coated honey.

“I collect teeth!”

Ingo was so taken by surprise that he completely stopped thinking.

Alright.

“This is a conversation stopper!” she continued, tone unchanged, the shade of her visor over her unblinking eyes making her suddenly appear mildly terrifying. “I would like for the conversation to stop!”

Frankly, that sounded like a marvelous idea.

He gave her a thumbs up.

She cheerfully nodded in thanks. One of her hands shot up from where she had held both behind her back, pointing somewhere behind her passenger.

Ingo followed it.

The world outside the glass rushed past him, an endless cave carved by fulminous winds and globes of light flying towards the end of the train; and then the walls ended, and it was bright.

Not bright as in daily - bright as in bright, deep blues, and bright, swaying greens or golds. Bright as in bright, far off stars, illuminating houses in dots or clusters with hundreds of different colors against the shadowed backdrop the night draped over hills or plains or mountains in large blue paint strokes.

Raising his head skyward he found only bright, small white sputters in that waveless celestial ocean - all their brethren fallen to inhabit a poor thing like the Earth, to shield it from the fear of a dreaded something hiding in the same shade humans could not see through: their sparks pierced apart the foliage of any trees they found to reach bright, murky waters flowing away, streams like long sleeves of light fabric left out to flutter in the wind.

The mountain coming closer colored itself a bright, luminous silver as the night peeled back from it momentarily only to return all at once when the train ran right into the tunnel dug through its entrails, fitting within it perfectly. The lights were back once more, rectangular in shape, and began zipping past the metal giant, eager to reach what to the passengers had been the entrance - he couldn’t help but wonder where they would have gone next, once out of this cave, if they would have flown away into the sky they’d been taken away from or if they planned to head towards the cities instead to escape the monotony of their previous home - as the clanging of the rails spurred them onwards between the empty patches of carved rock left in the wake of their travel.

Outside there was a long line of darkness, extending bright, golden beams into the night sky to lead the winged beasts trying to lower themselves to the ground with utmost care: the Mistralton City Airport. How weird, when looked at like this, from the outside in! Skyla’s bright red hair would have certainly glowed in the dark, even if such a big distance would have shrunk her to the size of a doll; if she’d been out he would have been able to spot her and wave at her. But how could she notice him back? He strained his eyes looking for her, but it was too bright and too dark at the same time.

Fields of crops distracted him, black soil ready for sowing interwoven with already matured stems. He found himself half entranced by the way the latter danced in the cool wind and how they rustled, piqued, like Staravias furiously preening their feathers back in place after a gust of wind left them in disarray, as the train passed them by. Under the nightly veil they looked like a cobalt sea; beneath the sun they must have seemed like forests of green algae misplaced, somehow, on land, moved by invisible currents...

So Unova was this, too? Beyond the paved cement roads and the sturdy buildings and the endless man-made light? He looked up again: more stars had come out, but nowhere near the galaxy the Pearl Clan so adored to gaze upon, the same he’d watched up there near the peak of Mount Coronet. They seemed lonely in the same strange way that makes melancholy feel lovely.

Those were Unovan stars. The Hisuian ones had gone, had left with their era. Somewhere out there they were traveling, maybe in a train.

Maybe they were resting on the ground, in the many lights of the many cities.

He liked both of those ideas.

(He needed to stop thinking of Hisui.)

Ingo turned back to Briosa after what had seemed like ages spent looking out the window like a little kid, bright white eyes wide with wonder.

She smiled, the corners of her mouth curling it into a square bracket.

“It’s a beautiful place,” he only managed to say.

She read his lips and conceded, sweetly: “It’s nice.”

Mawile chirped in agreement.

Anville Town introduced itself first with the sight of its bridge closing in, its station appearing only once the train was fully out of the thick forests around the small settlement. From above the bricks, once everything was quiet, the breeze carried what seemed like the sound of a flute.

Through the glass on the other side of the car he watched as the few passengers still on the train stumbled out and hurried back home as instructed by the conductor over the speakers.

They awaited a minute, maybe two, in near perfect silence.

The buzzing of electric lines above them was becoming comforting.

Mawile clacked her large maw and signed something; Briosa made an indescribable face ascribed to some sort of yet undiscovered emotion, though certainly leaning towards negative and vaguely malicious.

“Excuse me,” she began.

Ingo nodded, excusing her, as she turned towards the cab.

“JACKIE! FURZE!” she screamed so loud that he jumped in his seat: “I KNOW YOU’RE STILL IN THERE! YOU’RE NOT GONNA HAVE ANOTHER STATION SLEEPOVER! IF BY THE TIME I GET TO TEN I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU GET OUT OF THIS TRAIN I’M TEARING THE PHALANXES OUT OF YOUR FINGERS AND BOILING BROTH OUT OF THEM! ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX-”

The door leading into the car slammed open: scrambling messily as though the pavement was covered in oil, the two Depot Agents forwent any friendship between them in favor of avoiding the very real threat, even at the cost of sacrificing the other.

They barely had the time to raise their hats as a goodbye with a pair of hasty ‘goodnight boss!’ before they quickly disappeared into the station.

Briosa watched them without changing expression. She took their place in the cab naturally, her composure utterly unbroken, and made quick work on the control panel to set the Grade of Automation to 4 so she wouldn’t need to drive it herself. Ingo looked as she activated the intercom for one last warning, her cavity-inducing saccharine voice reverberating through the empty Steelix carcass on wheels.

Then the sliding doors closed with a gentle, dull sound; the metal beast set itself in motion, inertia pulling the overhead handles to the side before they settled back into their unsteady stillness, shaking with every rumble on the tracks.

The Substitute walked out the cab and closed it behind herself.

“Sorry about that,” she said with such simplicity that it almost scared him. “They’re idiots.”

Ingo blinked heavily.

He turned away from her, looking instead Mawile in the eyes: “May I ask why such a harsh sentence was warranted?” he asked, watching as she translated.

“Remaining in Gear Station at night, let alone overnight, is strictly prohibited,” her aidee replied, “But those two have camped in there before and will try to again. Furze because he’s obsessed with trains and Jackie because they like making it seem like they’re a ghost infesting the station.”

Ah. “That is reckless behaviour,” he conceded, “But I’m not sure the bodily harm was necessary.”

She shrugged: “It works! And I like making colorful threats.”

As mean as that was, he could believe that. It was still an exercise in creative writing or improvisation after all - even if maybe not that pleasant for others to hear, especially if it was directed at them very specifically.

“Speaking of which, I would like to ask you a favor.”

Ingo studied her face: nothing about it said that she was going to request he lend her one of his bones willingly or otherwise, so he nodded.

“Emmet should not come to work tomorrow,” she began: “It’s a scheduled break day. Every Gear Station employee including him has one and it’s a regular occurrence specifically so nobody risks overworking themselves.”

That sounded like a very useful idea. Commanding the station seemed like stressful work for everybody involved, even despite the fact that by now they were probably used to it. Between conducting the trains and the myriad of things to keep in check in the control room, departures and arrivals and delays and scheduling maintenance and whatmore and whatnot - it really wasn’t any wonder such a decision had been taken. He doubted he would have managed such a routine.

(But he had, hadn’t he?)

(He had, once. It had been his routine, once. His life. Not even four years ago, it had been his life.)

Briosa tilted her head slightly, snapping him out of his musings with the slight movement of her braids: her right one draped itself along her cheek, while the left one - which started at the front of her temple and ended up tied at the back of her head - moved away enough to show the thin sideburn following the curve of her jaw, ends split into diverted scissor blades.

Oh!

So she did have them too.

Something about them suited her face.

“Please tell him that if he so much as tries to walk in tomorrow I will fold him like a shirt and hurl him straight home through a window, frisbee-style.”

Ingo replied with a blank stare.

On one hand, that sounded a little extreme.

On the other hand, this was about Emmet.

He gave her a solemn thumbs up.

She adjusted the brim of her cap to cast a dark shadow over her rotten green eyes and gave him a toothy, rectangular grin: “Thank you for your cooperation!” her sugary voice chirped: “We hope you enjoy the remainder of your ride home.”

Mawile gently pulled at his sleeve and helpfully pointed back to the glass, to the world breezing past the three of them, only living beings in the rumorous stomach of a wheeled Gyarados, as if to steer him into a more pleasant experience with her beak-like smile and the slight snap of her much larger maw.

Ingo thanked her with a deep nod, and let himself become absorbed once more by the beauty of nighttime Unova.

-

The train arrived at 11:31 p.m., with the slightest delay. Emmet notably deflated in relief when the doors to the last car opened, his brother’s silhouette stark against the neon white light as he rushed to greet him. Briosa only peeked through without getting on the platform, upper body bent at a forty-five degree angle and face inscrutable; Ingo, though he lit up as soon as his younger twin came into view, seemed a little worn by the rather busy day he’d just had.

“You’re back,” he said. He could have sounded a little more emotive, or at least not as overwhelmingly flat - even more than usual - but evidently he was also pretty exhausted.

“I am!” his older brother replied without missing a beat. “It was a very interesting journey! It was quite enjoyable, despite a minor accident.”

“Oh? What happened.”

“Nothing to be too worried about - I simply had not expected the train to ricochet me into the floor when setting into motion,” Ingo commented (getting a slight wheeze out of Emmet), before turning a little bashful: “Briosa was kind enough to catch me before I actually fell... And regrettably, I repaid her by almost deafening her.”

His white-clad sibling furrowed his brows almost imperceptibly. He turned towards the substitute, who looked back at him with the gaze of someone who has no idea what the hell is happening but does not want to interrupt.

“That’s an achievement,” he noted.

“I would not call ‘causing irreparable damage to the senses’ an achievement.”

Emmet signed as he spoke: “It’s hard to deafen the deaf.”

Ingo did not reply to that.

Briosa, on the other hand, threw her head back and cawed out a single rubbery laugh before gently slapping the very embarrassed freshly returned (if not going to be operative for a long while) subway master’s back a couple of times, in a sort of attempt at comforting him while also sharing in Emmet’s amusement.

She pushed him a little closer to his brother: “That’s a sign you need some sleep, boss,” she said airily: “I’ll handle things here.”

The younger twin signed something at her, probably a question to make sure she was certain about that, if she didn’t need any help at all; she waved back at him as if to shove away his worries and replied silently with a formal salute - two fingers leaving the brim of her cap and a squinty-eyed smile. Mawile chirped her own goodnight to them from her shoulder when Ingo waved, jaws snapping merrily as the two men departed.

Golden lights had dimmed to dirty silver in the rest of the station to match the eerie silence dripping from the walls. Gone was the noise and the chaos; exiting into the night lit up by the spherical lights of the street lamps somehow felt as though they were still underground, rushing through a now spacious tunnel.

“Was it good?” Emmet asked as they walked: “Coming along?”

“In spite of how tired I am, I’d say so, yes,” Ingo nodded. “It’s been an interesting day, despite the noise. And I got to see Iris and Marshal!”

“That was a nice surprise, yep.”

“I wish you’d been able to come along too. They were so excited at the prospect of seeing both of us.”

“Were they?”

“Yes, I’ve told you. But maybe for another time.”

“Hm. Another time.”

“Oh - I saw Unova, you know? While on the train?”

“Oh?”

“Yes! I saw the fields and the mountains, the city lights - the airport at Mistralton City, even. It’s a beautiful place.”

“The airport?”

“Everywhere. The whole region.”

His brother smiled, and nodded.

They both yawned.

Good thing they still had some leftovers from yesterday. They probably wouldn’t have managed to cook on their own if they had to.

“And Briosa?” Emmet asked suddenly.

“Hm?”

“Briosa. How is she. What do you think of her.”

“She’s...” several words he wasn’t sure he could have found in any dictionary come to his mind, but for the sake of being at least somewhat comprehensible he had to compromise: “A lot, to be completely honest with you. But I cannot say she wasn’t also quite kind and overall pleasant company to have.”

“She is, yup! Nice. And a handful. I’m glad.”

“Of what?”

“That she was nice. And that you enjoyed her.”

“Ah! I’m glad as well.”

The faintest buzz of electricity and metallic rattling within trash cans accompanied their silence for a while.

“That reminds me, she had a message for you.”

“A message?”

“She politely asked me to tell you that if you come to the Station tomorrow, which is your scheduled free day, she will - and I quote - fold you like a shirt and hurl you straight home through a window, frisbee-style.”

The younger wheezed.

Ingo stared at him awfully stone-faced.

“She meant it.”

“I know.”

“Do you also know I too will enforce your free day upon you?”

“I know.”

“I am serious.”

“I know.”

[pixel1678]

Almost forgot to mention from the patch notes, but yeah Larthetica (Meowscarada) lore exists now

(Tw for mentions of multiple cases of murder and a pokemon going feral)

So, Larthetica's old team belonged to a young trainer, with their name forgotten to time. He does remember, however, that the trainer had violet hair and scarlet eyes, and was a very kind yet unpredictable trainer. One second, they're relaxing in a picnic, and the next they're having one of the members of the team knock out a bunch of Orthworm! And speaking of the team...

Larthetica's team changed a lot, but a few things were consistent:

They would always have a shiny Revavroom named "Denali" that did all the grunt work: dealing with outbreaks, taking on wild Pokemon, always the front of the party

The team rarely had overlapping types, save for two Pokemon being Steel type

And most importantly to Larthetica, they were always used in the same team as a Ceruledge named Scarims. In fact, they're the Pokemon he knows the best, as they met right after the Bug gym, when he was still a Sprigatito! And because of this, they refused to stay apart.

There was a general team that the trainer used, however, and Larthetica knows this perfectly:

Denali the shiny Revavroom

Larthetica the Meowscarada

Scarims the Ceruledge

Tinkatonka the Tinkaton

Squomp the Gastrodon (West)

And most relevant here, Nightmare the Garchomp

Nightmare has always been weird. It always seemed WAY too big for a Garchomp, and the trainer even calls it an "Alpha" for some reason. But Larthetica prefers the term "Feral."

One day, while in the bottom of Area Zero, they were all relaxing, somehow out of their Pokeballs despite the lack of any picnic stuff. But suddenly... Nightmare was either hungry or down-right sadistic, and suddenly dashed at the trainer, ripping them to shreds. Tinkatonka noticed immediately and made some sort of warcry, bashing their hammer into a nearby crystal before attempting to use Play Rough. But Nightmare struck first, causing the ground to fracture under Tinkatonka, knocking her out, before she had a similar fate. Squomp finally noticed after Larthetica physically turned them around, and they tried to use Ice Beam. But, they got stabbed straight through their head by Nightmare, killing them instantly.

Denali, Larthetica, and Scarims all tried to run away, but a following Earthquake blocked them in, or at least stopped them fast enough for Nightmare to catch up. Denali tried to Iron Head them, but dashed straight into a Fire Blast, melting them with a painful screech. However, Scarims saw this as a chance, and unleashed a Close Combat, doing a ton of damage to them. Larthetica tried to follow up with Flower Trick, but a stray crystal cut the small line connecting his flower to his body, so it failed. And then, Nightmare unleashed a devastating Earthquake, knocking Larthetica down and throwing Scarims at him, hurting them both greatly.

Nightmare jumped over, prepared to slaughter both of them, but Scarims managed to slash at their neck using Bitter Blade, doing some good damage and causing them to barely miss Larthetica. Instead, Nightmare's claw landed directly into Scarims' heart, having them start to bleed out their soul energy. Larthetica, with a bunch of adrenaline coursing through their veins, managed to jab right into their cut throat, finally killing them after their rampage.

After the massacre, Scarims was hardly alive, hanging on through their undying will. Larthetica ran over, trying to help them, even getting their trainer's blood-covered bag and trying to use Max Potions and Revives and even trying to give them another Malicious Armor. But even after their efforts, Scarims was done for. Larthetica dug his head into their chest, once burning so hot, and felt them slowly cool down in his arms, Scarims' flame dying out with their life.

After this happened, Larthetica managed to get a Flying Taxi using the trainer's Rotom-Phone, trying to ask for help, but the Taxi got too scared and left, believing him to be the killer. Then, in a mix of fear, rage, and sadness, they grabbed the trainer's belongings and Scarims' armor that once housed their flaming body, then used one of the teleporters to get out of Area Zero.

After this, Larthetica disappeared from everything for a while, mourning the loss of everyone they cared for, as the Pokemon in the trainer's boxes got released, making sure he was completely alone. He still knows this spot, and treats it as his home; perhaps he keeps Scarims' armor tucked away. He learned English over there, teaching himself, and finally began going into the public, FAR away from Paldea. And somehow, he got a job at a high tech bar.

...this thing took an entire hour to make, but that's all. Nowadays, Larthetica has majorly suppressed these memories, but will still kill any Garchomp he sees. Perhaps one day, he'll truly move past the death of all his friends, and especially the end of the battle-ready spirit he cares for the most.

[arthurs-farm]

*Throws Glass Brother and Glass Mother into my weird lil Salad man au*

[lxngbottom]

Mistakes That Last Forever. | N.L.

in which neville stumbles across... an “old friend”.

warnings: mentions of cheating, angst, pregnancy, slight trauma mentions (lmk if i missed any!)

i got inspired for this by an outsider imagine that i read like a really longgggg time ago... so enjoy this ig (AND YES THERE WILL BE A PART 2 TO THIS)

(PART 2)

—

neville’s whole life had been filled with regrets. they seeped into his skin, torturing his clouded mind on day to day basis. the trauma from the second war had left a mark on him, and even though he was now in the infamous herbology professor at hogwarts, he still didn’t feel as if he was living the life he had always wanted to. he didn’t feel successful, he didn’t feel... good about himself. and the main source of that?

you.

his biggest regret was losing you. hurting you. leaving you in such a needing time.

it had all started after the war. you two had been inseparable since 2nd year, as you were the one who had helped him down from the chandelier when he was tragically hung up by those pesky pixies. and ever since then, he was enamored with you. he was consumed by the mere thought of you. and, your feelings didn’t differ too much.

so, you two became official in your 4th year. you two were each other’s firsts for practically everything that could be a first. and, you wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. you were so in love with him, it tore you from the inside out.

but unfortunately, the war arrived. and, it took a huge toll on your relationship. it affected each bit of what you guys had built together. after the war had ended, you guys tried so hard to make it work. but, neville... it seemed as if he just... gave up.

you would never forget the day you came home from work to your shared apartment, and heard strange noises coming from your bedroom. you went up, deep down, already knowing what the noises were. and of course, when you opened the door, your worst nightmare had became a reality. and even worse?

you were pregnant.

neville knew this too, but, he felt as if he had spent so long being “stuck” in a relationship with you, he never got the chance to meet new people. and because of that, for the sake of your child, you left. because, he had left you first, and he had done something unforgivable. something that would leave you scarred, and something that would take hold of you for years.

but, now things were different for you. you were more than content with where your life was at right now. you had an amazing job as the journalist for the daily prophet, and you were damn good at it too. it was a collective agreement that you were definitely a step up from rita skeeter.

neville couldn’t disagree more, though. not that he didn’t think you were good at your job, he always thought that you were an amazing writer. but, he had to force himself to cancel his personal subscription to the daily prophet, as the simple mention of your name on the front page, or sometimes, maybe even your picture, broke his heart to see. some from guilt, but mostly, from just missing you.

just five years later, here you were. walking through a muggle hardware store, looking at all of the houseplants that surrounded the small garden.

“mummy, look!”

you whipped your head around, and smiled when you saw your small son, chubby just like neville used to be when he was young. you had always tried to disregard the fact that he looked exactly like his father, but it was difficult to. you loved your son, with everything you had in your body, but, he was a constant reminder of all the pain that had been caused.

“very nice, nev!” you giggled, watching as your son played with a single pink flower bouquet. he grinned at you, and suddenly plucked the fresh flower off of it’s stem. you gasped, and wanted your hand at him, “neville longbottom! we don’t do that! do you want to get in trouble?!”

his face contorted into a guilty one as he made those ridiculously adorable puppy dog eyes at you, “i’m sorry, mum... i-i-i didn’t know. i was trying to pick it for you...”

you couldn’t help but to feel a little guilty as he sadly dropped the broken off flower on the floor, watching as it blew away from the huge fan that hung above the both of you.

“it’s okay, dear. but, try not to pick them from the actual stems, okay? just... look on the floor. you’ll see a bunch of free flowers everywhere.” you teased, sending him a small smile. he looked up at you, and those sad puppy dog eyes quickly sparkled with excitement as he ran away, looking around the garden for those small, long forgotten flowers.

you chuckled quietly to yourself as you watched your son, seeing how his eyes glowed from all of the plants.

yeah. he was definitely neville’s son.

you turned your body back around, attempting to continue your shopping. but, your body then collided with another, causing you to come to a complete halt.

“oh, merlin! i’m so—“ you were just about to spurt out multiple apologies, until, you looked at the figure.

there he was. tall, muscular, and a intent gaze fixated on his face as he stared at you.

“n—neville?”

he was so shocked. he couldn’t even let out a single mutter. you were right there. right in front of him. after not seeing you for so long, but thinking about you always, you were finally right here.

“y/n...” he breathed out finally, trying to not show how incredibly nervous he was.

this was the first time you two had seen each other since the day you packed all of your things, and left him standing alone at the door step that once belonged to the both of you. he could never seem to part with the apartment, the whole environment still leaving trails of you. so, of course, he still resided there during his off times.

“um—wow... shit—i’m sorry. you know... for bumping into you...” he laughed nervously, stepping away from you. you gave him a nervous chuckle as well, trying to hide the redness that was now blending within your skin.

“oh—it’s alright. i should’ve—you know... been watching where i was going...”

neville opened his mouth to respond, as he wanted to ask you so many things. but, he was interrupted by a small child running up to you, tears streaming down his face as he clutched onto your leg.

“mum...” he sniffled out, and you looked down with a concerned look on your face, “t-t-the lady yelled at me...i-i-i accidentally b-broke one of the f-f-flowers...”

neville knew those eyes. he knew that familiar stutter. he knew those tears. it was like practically looking into a mirror.

that was his son.

you looked over at neville nervously, seeing realization flashing in his green orbs. but, you bent down to neville jr, who was an absolute mess. he never took kindly to people getting onto him, especially if they were yelling.

“oh... it’s alright, nev. we have a whole garden at home that we can grow flowers in...” you reassured him, wiping his small tears. he nestled into your touch, “why don’t you go and pick out some seeds? any kind you like... i’ll get them for you.”

there was a shy smile on his face as you said that, and he looked over at the strange man that stood baffled beside you.

“okay...” he sniffled, wiping his nose, “but... who’s that?” he asked, pointing to neville.

you had never told your son about his father, and you had hoped that he never would. but, you knew the day would come. you just didn’t think that day would be today.

“an old friend, darling. now, do as i say and go find some flowers, alright?”

your son nodded, reluctantly leaving you with the tall man that he had no idea the identity of. you stood up fully awkwardly, and looked over at neville who’s face was now angry.

he watched as the boy ran off, “he doesn’t know who i am?” he asked through gritted teeth, his eyes narrowing at you.

you looked back at him, “nev—“

“no... how could you not tell him? that’s my son, y/n. you—you told me you were putting the baby in adoption... how could you lie to me? and him? why would you do that?”

you knew you owed the man an explanation, but all at the same time, he had brought this upon himself. and yeah, maybe it was fucked up that you had lied to him, but, you genuinely did believe at the time you were getting rid of the baby.

“neville... not here. please...”

“no, y/n. you owe me a goddamn explanation. i mean... this is my fucking child we’re talking about. look at him! he looks just like me!”

you looked over at the chubby boy, watching him closely as he skimmed through seeds, staring at the images on the front.

“don’t you think i know that, neville?” you whispered, “listen... we can talk about this. but, not here. and, not while he’s around...”

“no! i want to talk to him! i deserve it—goddamn it, y/n! how could you fucking do this to me?!”

“and how could you cheat on me?! after everything we went through together! you fucking left me in the dust!”

he could see the pain in your eyes. there was obviously still a lot of hurt, so much rage pent up from the whole scenario. of course you had never fully gotten over it. it was still something you thought about on a daily basis, as you had believed at one point that you would be married to neville by now.

“y/n...” neville started, stepping closer to you, “i—i never meant to hurt you...”

you stared into his eyes for a moment, trying to find some sort of other answer other than that stupid apology you had heard so many times before.

“it doesn’t matter, longbottom. i have to go. we can talk about this whole thing another time. goodbye.”

[whumperooni]

omg i love your todoroki incest fics and i saw you want aizawa and chisaki thirsts,,,we have dadzawa,,,,,so what about kai-nii with quirkless baby sister hehe👉🏼👈🏼

I’ve never written Chisaki before, so please be gentle! m(￣ｰ￣)m

I, uh, also added in some Kurono x Reader because I can’t help but to be self-indulgent;;;;

tags/warnings: tw incest, a bit of angst, drinking, mentions of blood

word count: 4.7k

Lucky- that’s what you are.

Lucky to be adopted by a rich man along with your brother. Lucky to have so many capable men around to protect you from the people that might try to cause you harm just to get to your brother, your father. Lucky to be living in a gilded cage so spoiled and cared for.

Lucky to be quirkless.

Blood drips down the walls and your brother breathes ragged- skin spotting and rage in his eyes, your own staring down at the mess of what used to be a man that’s now ruining a formerly spotless hallway.

Lucky.

You’re very lucky.

Your brother slips his glove back on and places his hand to the small of your back. He begins walking and you follow him without a word- skirting and stepping over the gore littering the floor, staring ahead with a blank face.

✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣

The world is filthy. It’s disgusting. Marred by a plague that everyone is oh too happy to pretend is a miracle.

That’s what your brother tells you.

You don’t really believe it- not really. Quirks are miracles, nightmares. They’re not a plague, though- simply an evolution that no one could have ever predicted.

An evolution that you have been spared.

“Miss? Your brother wishes to see you.”

Wishes to see you? That’s a nice way to say that he’s demanding your presence- ordering you to come to him.

Not that you can mind- as crazed as your big brother may be, you do still love him. He’s your big brother, after all, and he’s always kept you safe, cared for.

You hum and then you nod, dismissing the maid with a lazy wave of your hand.

“Thank you, Saiko.”

The maid bows, low and proper, and then you’re left by yourself, left to sigh and rise from the bath.

You had wanted to soak a little longer, but you musn’t tarry whenever Kai calls for you.

You dry yourself and you take just a moment to smooth lotion over your soft, still warm body.

Floral and sweet, but not overly cloying. It carries the scent of roses and peonies, is laced through with the scent of honey.

It’s your brother’s favorite.

You begin to dress after- humming absently as you slip on your stockings, your garter-belt, your lace adorned bra and panties. You hesitate over an outfit before selecting a simple dress- something that hugs your body gently, keeps you looking ever so innocent.

Kai prefers you to look innocent. Sweet.

Pure.

You’re the daughter of the head of Shie Hassaikai. You’re the sister to Kai Chisaki- the sister of Overhaul. You’re expected to look as a young lady should- put together, soft and gentle, without any sort of flaws in either your appearance or composure.

You cast a critical eye over your reflection and only look away when you’re sure that you’re acceptable, when you’re sure that you look worthy enough to be in the presence of your big brother.

A step out of your bedroom and then you’re flanked by two guards- solemn things that don’t look at you, stony faced men that lead you through the maze that lies underneath your home.

Kai doesn’t like men looking at you- he thinks that they’re unworthy to cast their sordid gazes upon you; he thinks that filthy men shouldn’t taint you with their leers and hungry eyes, their disgusting stares.

Kai may look upon you. Father may look upon you. Kurono may look upon you.

They’re the only the ones.

A soft sigh leaves you and it’s ignored by the men, left to dissipate in the quiet of the hallway. It’s the same hallway you had seen splattered with blood just two days before- now spotless, now unassuming, now without the scarlet gore that pervades your every dream.

Your eyes lower as you walk through the hall and you remind yourself that you are lucky, that you will never meet the grisly fate of being torn asunder by your brother’s quirk.

You are lucky.

Your silent escorts lead you to Kai’s office and then they drift away like ghosts- still without sound, but with a relaxation in their shoulders that you can’t be notice.

It’s a little amusing, almost- you’re certainly not the threat to be feared.

Though, you suppose, it’s the threat of your brother that has them always so, so tense.

A huff escapes from you and you smooth non-existent wrinkles from your dress, raise your hand to knock on a golden, gilded door.

“Nii-san?” you call. “It’s me.”

“Come in.”

A deep breath and a practiced, sweet smile. You open the door to your brother’s office and let it shut behind you, glide over to Kai and press a kiss to his temple.

You’re the only one that can touch him. You’re the only one that can brush your lips along his skin, wrap him in a hug, thread your fingers through his hair.

Lucky. You’re lucky.

“Good morning, nii-san,” you murmur, drifting back around the desk to perch yourself in a chair. You cross your ankles and slide them to the side, smile at him as you fold your hands in your lap. “How are you today?”

“Fine.”

It’s said so dismissively, the word. You’d huff over it- fondly- if you were sure it wouldn’t cause your brother to turn grumpy.

“I’m having a guest over today,” he continues- fingers steepling as he leans back in his seat. You blink at the mention of a guest and your head tilts, curiosity curls through you.

A guest? You wonder who they could be...

“Chrono is going to take you shopping,” Kai informs you. “You won’t be returning until nightfall.”

You blink, again, and press your nails into your hands. Your smile is threatening to grow and you can’t allow that- it’ll make suspicion gather in your brother, unease and distrust.

But, still, the thought of being out of the house for more than a few measly scraps of hours has you lighting up- excited and giddy.

It’s been so long since Kai has allowed you away for more than an hour, two. Yes, you’ll be with a guard- one with sharp eyes and a presence almost as imposing as your big brother- but it’s still such a treat for you.

The curiosity over the guest gets forgotten in a flash and you nod- maybe just a little too enthusiastically- as Kai soaks in your reaction.

“Yes, nii-san,” you practically chirp. “When should I be ready to leave?”

“You have an hour,” he tells you. “Chrono will come get you when it’s time.”

Another nod from you and Kai dismisses you with a wave of his hand. You press a kiss to his cheek and offer him a murmur of “have a nice day” and then you leave the office.

As soon as the door closes behind you, you press a hand to your mouth and stifle a giddy giggle, beam despite the presence of another escort waiting for you just outside the room.

A day out? How lucky.

✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣

“Kurono, do you think nii-san would like this?”

Grey eyes flick to the tie you’re holding up and the man nods- obviously bored, obviously uncaring.

He knows Kai, though, and you trust his judgement as much as you trust your own when it comes to your big brother.

You hand the tie off to the waiting shop attendant and then turn your attention to cuff-links, tie pins. Kurono trails after you- silent, still a little bored- and he watches over you as you pick out little gifts for your brother.

You should be shopping for yourself, you know. But you’ve already picked out dresses, shoes, jewelry, perfume, makeup- you really don’t need any more than you already have. You have more than enough and you know that Kai never has time to shop for himself- you’re happy to pick up a few things for him.

You’re happy in general, actually. It’s a sunny day and the shops are fun, quiet and blessedly without too many people crowding them. Earlier, you had dragged Kurono into a cafe and had giggled your way through coffee as you watched the stoic man slowly eat a jelly filled pastry.

He had almost looked pleased then and it had struck you that Kurono is a handsome man.

A handsome man that will never be allowed to grow close to you. A handsome man that is unworthy of you.

Still, though, he’s one of the very few that Kai trusts without reservation. He’s one of the very few allowed to keep his gaze on you, follow your movements with careful scrutiny. 

Which he does- he watches quietly as you shop, watches quietly as you flit to and fro between stores. He gives his opinion whenever you ask if Kai would like this or that and he waits patiently whenever you try on clothes, rakes his grey gaze over you whenever you twirl out of the dressing room. He listens as you comment on the garments and hums when he approves of them, raises a brow when you dare to try on a pair of jeans, a few things that aren’t soft and sweet but brash and sexy.

He doesn’t say anything when you bust out of the dressing room in the clothes you’ve never been allowed to wear and you get to enjoy yourself- giggle and grin as you look over a reflection that seems almost like a completely different person.

It’s fun, it’s nice, and you let yourself play dress up for longer than you should, costume yourself with a lightness in your heart that you can’t ever really remember feeling.

After you’ve tried on the last of the clothes, you begin to sort through them and pick out which ones you want to buy. A few dresses, a sweater and a couple of skirts, a coat you’ll need for winter. Your hands linger on the jeans and you bite your lip as you trail your fingers over denim, feel a quiet sadness swirl through your veins.

“The boss won’t like those.”

The sudden voice has your shoulders jumping and you twist your head back to look at Kurono- bite into your lip deeper when you catch the disapproval in his eyes, the knowing look that he gives you.

Shoulders slumping, you sigh and nod, let him take the jeans from your grasp.

“I know,” you mumble. “I know.”

Kurono nods and you look away from him, turn your attention toward the waiting attendant and offer her one of your well practiced smiles.

“Just these, please,” you tell her. “And can you give me a recommendation for a kimono boutique?”

The woman nods, picking up the clothes, and she begins to chatter away in a soft voice. You only half hear it- smiling and nodding, looking off in a distracted daze- and you swallow whenever you feel your throat constrict, force your smile a bit bigger.

You’ve been able to buy so many nice things today. You’ve been able to shop and enjoy fresh air, wander through a city to your heart’s delight.

You’re lucky.

You’re...you’re lucky.

✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣

“It’s time to go home.”

Already?

You look out the window and find the sky dusky and hewn with purple, orange, dark streaks of blue. The moon is faint in the distance and the streetlights are kicking on, neon is beginning to light up the city.

Nightfall. You suppose you have reached the limit of the day’s freedom.

Quietly, you nod and lay your chopsticks on the plate in front of you, reach for your wine as Kurono waves the waitress over.

You down the wine, the meal gets paid, and then you’re led to the car.

It’s a bittersweet feeling that curls through you as Kurono drives toward your home. You had a wonderful day- a fun day- and you’re thrilled that you got to enjoy it.

That just makes it harder to return home, though, and you’re left sighing softly as buildings and streets pass by in a blur.

It’ll be nice to take a bath and slip into bed, at least- the day was nice but you’re tired from it, made sleepy from a good meal and rich wine.

You’re ready to rest.

When you get home, maids are waiting for you. They gather your shopping bags and listen to your murmured instructions, flit off with their tasks once you’re done. A yawn slips from you as you watch them wander off and a soft, startled noise follows after when you feel the lightest pressure against the middle of your back.

“Inside,” Kurono tells you- eyes meeting yours, his own so impassive as he watches your cheeks flush, your lashes flutter, nervousness gather and grow over your face.

He’s not supposed to touch you. No one is supposed to touch you save for Kai. Hands other than his are filthy and unclean, disgusting and foul.

They’re dirty and impure.

And, now, so are you.

A tremble runs through you and your breath hitches, your very soul quakes. Something burns down low and you have to turn your face away from Kurono, squeeze your eyes shut as your thighs press together.

Filthy. Dirty. Disgusting.

You’re not allowed to feel like this. You’re not allowed to be touched like this- even if it’s so innocent, without any sort of malicious or selfish intent.

Only your brother can touch you. Only...only him...

Kurono nudges you and a whimper catches in your throat, your feet stumble forward.

You should tell Kai- you have to tell Kai. You need to tell Kai.

But then- but then Kurono will be punished and you don’t- you don’t want his blood on your hands. You can’t have his blood on your hands.

Why did he- why did he-

Your heels click over wooden floors as you enter into your home. Kurono trails after you- distance proper, hands to himself- and you try to convince yourself that maybe the touch didn’t happen, that maybe you had just imagined it.

(His hand had been warm. Your brother’s hands are always so cold.)

Kurono only leaves once you get to the bedroom. You’re left to be watched over by your maids then and you burrow yourself in instructing them where to put your new clothes, the new trinkets you had picked up. They lay the things you had picked out for your brother on your bed and you stare at those tokens of affection once they leave.

Something sick pulses through you and you grab your arms, stab perfectly manicured nails into your skin.

“Saiko,” you call out. “Saiko!”

The door opens and your maid scurries in- eyes wide from the harshness of your call, worry all across her face. Guilt snips at you and you flinch, swallow and try to offer her a smile.

“Can you- can you draw a bath?” you ask- voice croaking, laced with a tinge of panic as you try your best not to order the maid you have always tried so hard to be kind to. “And- and can you please fetch a bottle of wine? Red, please...”

“Yes, miss...”

Saiko turns away and then she pauses, looks over her shoulder at you with worry still showing in her puckered brow, her pressed lips.

“Miss,” she asks softly, “are you...alright?”

The question, honestly, startles you a little. No one ever really asks if you’re alright and the concern is touching, has you feeling even more guilty for your near harsh call to her earlier.

You force your smile to grow and you nod- tight, tense, eyes beginning to prickle.

“I’m fine, Saiko,” you reassure her. “It’s...it was just a long day.”

Saiko hesitates but she nods after a moment and then she leaves, then you’re left to sink onto your bed and bury your head in your hands.

You begin to cry in the solitude of your room- shoulders shaking and your insides all twisted up, guilt and panic and a screaming confusion searing through you.

✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣✣

The water is warm. The bubbles are starting to fade away. The wine bottle is near empty next to the tub.

You take a sip of wine and your head lolls against the rim of the tub, your flushed cheek presses against porcelain. It’s cool despite the heat of the bath- cool like your brother’s hand, cool like the panic that had blossomed in you earlier.

You almost can’t remember the panic from before- not with the haze you’re in, not with the way your mind is so fuzzy and slow.

You can still remember the faint touch of a hand, though, and it makes you shiver, just a bit, makes your lashes flutter.

Warm hands, cold eyes, an uncaring face.

Kurono is so much like your brother...

Another shiver and your legs brush against each other- slip and slide over one another.

A soft sound disrupts the quiet of the room and you blink heavily as your big brother enters into the bathroom.

He looks...tired? Tired but- but pleased? Why is he...

Oh...oh. The guest- maybe that had- maybe that had gone well...

“Nii-san...?”

Kai hums and he draws closer to you, looks over your flushed cheeks and hazy eyes, your soft body barely concealed by the lingering bubbles. His eyes flit to the wine bottle nearby and he huffs, tilts his head as he watches you give another slow, heavy blink.

“Angel...did you have a nice day?”

Angel, angel. He so rarely calls you by that petname. Kai only uses it when he’s in a good mood, only uses it in poisoned softness before he punishes you.

You shudder and your legs rub against each other, a soft noise leaves you as you nod.

“Yes, Kai-nii,” you mumble. “It was...was nice. I...I got you some presents...”

Another hum and he crouches beside the tub. You can smell his cologne now and it’s nice, so nice- clean and strong just like him.

“I saw them,” he tells you, eyes still on you- eyes staring at you with something you can’t quite puzzle out. “Such a good sister I have to think of me while she’s out.”

The praise has your breath hitching, but the touch of his ungloved hand has you mewling- his palm so very cool against your flushed cheek. 

“Why are you drinking in the bath?” he asks you.

Your mind doesn’t process the question for a moment- you’re too busy nuzzling into his palm, soaking up the attention as your craving to be touched is fed. You blink whenever you finally comprehend what he had asked and a quiet whine leaves you.

“Because I’m...’cause I’m dirty...”

Golden eyes narrow and you whimper whenever his hand tightens on your face, feel a far off panic start to sound deep within you.

“Dirty?”

You nod, whimpering again, and your lashes wet whenever you blink, you sniffle like a pathetic little thing.

“Dirty,” you whisper. “D-dirty. Filthy.”

Your thighs press together and the water sloshes in the tub, a shudder runs through you as something down low begins to pulse.

You’re rotten.

“And why are you dirty?”

The question is icy, accusing. It has you whimpering again and your fingers curl along the edge of the tub, grip it tight. Even in your drunken state, you know that you can’t be truthful- you know that you can’t tell your big brother of a casual touch.

“Because- because-”

You cut yourself off with a whine and your lashes flutter as the image of a warm hand on your thigh flashes through your mind, you squirm in tub and make the water ripple. Kai’s gaze darts toward those ripples and then roams over your body, fall toward your pressing thighs.

“Ah,” he murmurs, “I see.”

Before you can even blink, his hand is dipping under the water and between your legs, drawing up to cup your silken crux. You mewl, softly, and your hips rock against his hand, your head tilts back with a quiet moan.

A hum sounds from your brother and he thumbs across your slit slowly, watches as your cheeks flush even darker.

“You should have come to me, angel,” he tells you- a finger slipping in and curling.

“Didn’t- oh- didn’t wanna bother you, nii-san,” you mumble- words stumbling, catching on the half life. You really hadn’t wanted to bother him- you hadn’t wanted to go and ruin his day by tattling on his subordinate, hadn’t wanted to face the possibility of death and rebirth staining your hands, your brother’s. “You had- had such a big day...”

“And so did you,” he huffs, another finger dipping into your puffy insides. “Tell me what you did today.”

“Went- went shopping,” you whimper, clenching around his digits, trembling as he continues to grind his thumb over your clit. “I- I got dresses and- and a kimono and- and things for nii-san...”

It ends with a whine- your back arching and your fingers flexing, your head lolling as pleasure starts to blossom within.

“You were thinking of me.”

You nod, chest moving with a tiny pant, and you look up at your brother with a fuzzy, flushed gaze. His face is almost unreadable- eyes still narrowed, mouth hidden by his mask, just the barest tint of pink brushed along his cheeks.

“Y-yes,” you mewl, hips twitching as he curls his fingers deep inside. “W-Was thinking of you...wanted- was thinking what would make nii-san happy...”

If he was another man, Kai might groan from the words. He just breathes deep instead and stuffs another finger inside of you, watches as you gasp and fall apart from his touch.

Under the water, his hand is warm. Feels good, has you imagining things and people that you shouldn’t.

A moan leaves you and Kai grunts as you clench even tighter around his digits, squirm and almost splash him with water. He slips his fingers from you and you whine softly- upset and pleading as you look up at him pouting, trembling lips. He steps away from the tub and you try to follow after him- drunken and heavy, your body squeaking against porcelain.

Kai strips before you- eyes greedily drinking in your need, your trembling form. You bite your lip as his clothes fall to the floor and you whimper as he slides off his mask, reach toward him with a mewl that he huffs over.

“Make room.”

You scramble to comply- water splishing and splashing- and Kai steps into the tub, sinks down and crooks a finger toward you.

It’s a good thing that the tub is so big- that makes it easier to seat yourself on his lap, grind against his hard cock in fumbling, clumsy rocks. You only still once he places a hand to your cheek and you look up at him through heavy lashes, press tight against his palm as you try to keep from collapsing against him.

Kai is...Kai is so handsome. Handsome and sharp and strong and fierce. He’s such a protective brother, so possessive and strict.

But that’s because he loves you. He loves you. Otherwise he wouldn’t do all this, right?

...right?

Kai’s hands fall on your hips and he lifts you, makes you stay on unsteady knees as he lines his cock up with your soaked hole. He puts his hands on your shoulders and he pushes against them, forces you down so his cock can press into your cunt, slip deep inside.

The stretch has you whimpering, keening and tossing your head back. Underneath your noises, you can hear your big brother grunt as you clench around his cock.

When you try to start to ride him, Kai squeezes your waist and forces you back down, smirks as a pleading sob slips from your lips.

You look at him, eyes teary, and Kai cups your face, thumbs along your heated cheeks.

“Such a tight, wet pussy,” he rumbles out. “So warm and wet for nii-san.”

Yes, no. You’re wet for him, wet for-

“Kai...”

He breathes in deep at your whine, grinds his cock up into you and grunts when your nails curl and scratch along his chest. You don’t ride hi though you want to- even if you’re drunk, you know that you can’t disobey your big brother.

“Do you like nii-san filling your dirty pussy with his cock?” Kai asks, thumbs digging into your cheeks when you whimper, sniffle.

Dirty. You’re dirty.

He knows that you’ve been soiled.

A tiny sob slips from you and you nod, clench around him even as fear prickles at your pleasure, threatens it.

“Y-yes! L-like it- love it!”

Something in his expression relaxes- something you can barely see through your teary eyes, your blurry gaze. His lips find your jaw and they travel lower- hands flexing along your waist and teeth nipping at your neck whenever you moan.

“K-Kai-nii...Kai-nii, please...”

You can feel his cock twitch inside of you, can feel his breathing stutter against your throat.

His hips roll in a languid rock and you gasp, tilt your head back as your lashes flutter. Kai’s fingers thread through your hair and he pushes your head forward again, lets your head loll in his hold as he forces you to look at him with a hazy gaze.

“My pretty little angel,” he murmurs, hips continuing their slow, slow roll and eyes taking in your trembling lips. “You know you’re nothing but pure, right? You know you’re the only pure thing in this disgusting world.”

No. No, you’re not. You’ve never been pure. You will never be pure.

No one is. Nothing is.

A whine leaves you and you shake your head- hair pulling taut in his hold, pressing need making your insides flutter even if upset curls through you.

Kai huffs and he pushes your face close to his, has you gasping as molten gold stares through you.

“You’re pure,” he insists in a rumble. “Pristine. Clean. Immaculate.”

Each word drips with praise, is coupled with a thrust of his cock. That has pleasure rising again, that has it eclipsing the upset scattered all through you. You keen and Kai growls, fucks up into you hard and has you collapsing against him, whining.

“So fucking- so fucking pure,” he mutters, hands falling to your hips again and gripping tight as he humps into your cunt. “Only pure thing. Only clean thing. Only- angel!”

It’s too much. You’re too drunk and too wracked with guilt and fear. Your mind is swirling with the pleasure of being fucked and filled by your brother’s cock. It’s hot now in the tub and you’re flushed from head to toe- crying out and squirming as your body races to orgasm.

“F-fuck- Kai!”

A growl and he slams into you- water sloshing out of the tub as brother and sister come together.

The force of it has you dizzy- so dizzy- and you nearly faint as you slump against your brother, as you pant and whimper and tremble.

Kai breathes hard, too- though he’s not as dramatic- and his hand reaches up to card ever steady fingers through your hair.

It’s a blur after that. You’re so soft and sleepy, so fuzzy from it all. You barely notice whenever Kai calls Kurono in and you certainly don’t notice when grey eyes tighten at the sight of your nude body pressed against your brother’s.

It’s nothing new to him. It’s nothing new to any of Kai’s eight bullets.

You nuzzle against your brother as Kurono cleans the water up from the floor and you sigh as Kai lifts you, sits you on the sink. Another bath is ran and your brother scrubs you down, scrubs himself down too.

He scrubs you so hard that your skin almost bleeds, scrubs himself that hard too.

You whimper through it and Kai ignores your pained little noises except to place light kisses to your temple.

You’re soft and relaxed again by the time he ushers you to bed- eyes unable to stay open and body limp in his arms.

You’re laid down on silken sheets- moonlight spilling over your body, sighs of contentment leaving you. Kai’s body is warm whenever he lays next to you and he allows you to curl up close, lets you rest your head on his chest in a way no one else will ever be allowed.

He strokes over your hair as you drift off and your last thoughts are of the cum slowly seeping from you, of eyes flicking from grey to gold, of how lucky you are to still be alive, of how filthy you truly are.

[writingwithacupoftea]

The Perfect Birthday Present

Summary: Y/N Shelby’s birthday was fast approaching, and Tommy has no idea what to buy for her. Who would have thought that a night of drunken antics would give him the perfect answer?

Word Count: 2462

Y/B/M = Your birth month

A/N: Is this fic basically a belated birthday present to myself? Yes. Is it completely different to the one I planned? Absolutely 😂 Hope you all love this one as much as I do 💜

Upon Tommy's arrival back to Arrow House, Mary could tell as soon as he stepped out of the car that he was in a foul mood, even by his standards.

He'd been in London for the past week, sorting out some business. That part of the trip had gone well, Tommy had conceded, but the same couldn't be said for the other part of his mission: finding a birthday present for Y/N. In the past the Shelby's had clubbed together to buy presents, however this year Tommy wanted to get Y/N something special that was just from him.  

It was to be a thank you, really, for having put up with his shit for so long, yet never wavering in her loyalty to him. To say that he was supposed to be the one looking after her, for Y/N was his little sister, the roles had definitely been reversed over the last few years: she had helped him through his nightmares and opium addiction, provided him with brutal and blatant honesty (no matter how much he sulked or raged afterwards until he realised that she was right), and had dropped everything to move to Arrow House with him and Charlie after Grace's death.

To say that he was grateful for Y/N would be an understatement.

But seeing as everyone knew that Thomas Shelby was abysmal when it comes to talking about emotions, he wanted to show it in the only way he knew how – spending ridiculous amounts of his money on her.

He had dragged Ada through all of the best shops in London, looking for something spectacular to gift to Y/N. Tommy had ignored Ada's reminders about Y/N's love for simplicity and the little things: in his eyes, Y/N deserved the best that money could buy, so that's what he would get for her.

Yet nothing that they had looked at seemed quite right – it just wasn't Y/N enough. He should've realised then that Ada was right.

So Tommy returned to Warwickshire a day earlier than expected, empty-handed, exhausted and annoyed at himself.  

Curiosity took over, however, upon hearing music echoing through the halls of Arrow House. After following it, even Tommy's seemingly ice-cold heart melted slightly at the sight that greeted him home: Y/N has dug out the old gramophone, which hadn't been used since Grace had died, and she was dancing around the room with a whiskey in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other.  

Tommy smiled softly at the sight of his sister swaying to the music, unaware that she was being watched. She looked young and happy and carefree, a far cry from her usual reserved and guarded self. Tommy forgot about his own troubles just watching her, enjoying seeing Y/N so alive.

But quickly, his mood changed and the smile vanished. Tommy found himself mourning, almost, the life that Y/N should've had, but because of him she could never live. Times like this shouldn't have been a rarity for his little sister: her whole life should have been filled with the unabated joy that exuded from her in this moment. Instead, she looked over her shoulder at every turn, cleared up the mess after each of his mistakes and constantly walked the streets with a target on her back.

Y/N chose this moment to turn around, having noticed that her glass was empty once again, and was momentarily stunned at seeing Tommy. That feeling passed in an instant, however, and she found herself barrelling across the room, throwing herself into her brother's arms. "TOM!" Her delight could be seen from a million miles away.

"You alright?" He rubbed her back gently as they hugged, and he noticed the strong smell of whiskey on her. "How many of those have you had?" Tommy gestured to the empty glass sat on the table, which Y/N was now refilling, along with a second one that she poured for him.

"Only one or two, Tom." Despite her best efforts to look and sound innocent, what Y/N didn't realise was that her flushed cheeks and the devilish glint in her eye gave her away, causing Tommy to smirk in amusement.

The track on the record changed to a lively Charleston, which only sounded vaguely familiar to Tommy's ears, however sparked far more of a reaction from his sister. She gasped loudly and downed her drink in one, slamming the glass down on the table, causing Tommy to raise his eyebrows at her. Y/N had a large smile plastered on her face as she exclaimed "Oh , I love this one!" She ran to turn the volume up, and started dancing once more.

"Won't this wake Charles up?" Tommy wasn't in the mood to deal with the screaming baby, especially if he was already fast asleep.

"Oh no, Tom, he's the reason I got the gramophone out in the first place. What I've discovered over the last few days is that your son adores music." Y/N turned to face Tommy, and adopted the matter-of-fact tone that she used so frequently with him. "A little dance to something upbeat to tire him out, then you put something gentler on and in no time at all he's out like a light."

Tommy felt guilt bubbling up inside of him, replacing his amusement at his younger sister's drunken state. Y/N had managed to find the solution that he had been looking for since Charlie's birth in a matter of days. It showed how little he knew about his own son, and was just another thing Y/N had had to figure out on her own, another problem that she had taken upon herself to solve for him.

Following Tommy's long silence, Y/N looked over at her elder brother, noticing the sad and far-away look on his face, and held out a hand dramatically towards him. "Will you join me, Tom, or have you forgotten how to dance?"

"I'm tired, Y/N/N. Another time, perhaps."

"So you have forgotten."

"Remember who taught you how to dance, sweetheart." His gaze softened as he recalled fond memories of his sister stepping on his toes. "Anyway, I don't think I could keep up with you now I'm older, as you kindly keep reminding me."

Y/N smirked at this. "Yes, Tom, but I'm older as well... that's how age works." She grabbed his hands in hers and started to force him to move his body a little to the music. "Come on, old man, you're not doing anything to help those creaking bones of yours!"

Tommy sighed, realising that he wasn't escaping, and reluctantly started to dance a bit with her. Y/N cackled at how out of practice he was, his movements stiff and face void of emotion, and was determined to get her older brother to loosen up before she went to bed.

***

A couple of hours later, the room was filled with laughter and both siblings had uncontainable smiles on their faces.

Everywhere was a mess. Records were strewn across the table, as they had quickly been through every one and couldn't remember which ones they liked the best; the furniture had been shoved to the side to make more space, with Tommy's suit and tie discarded on the sofa; and empty bottles of alcohol and various glasses were dotted around the room.

It's safe to say that Y/N had succeeded in her mission – Tommy was the happiest that she had seen him in a long time. She wished that this night could last forever, just her and her favourite brother in their own little world, where none of their worries could touch them.

***

The clock on the mantlepiece would have told Tommy that it was now the early hours of the morning, but he paid no attention to it

A slower tune played as the brother and sister swayed together in the middle of the room. Y/N was half-asleep, exhaustion having taken hold as her body caught up with the amount of alcohol she had consumed. It was rare for her to spend so much time with Tommy these days, despite having moved into his home, and she refused to waste one second of it while he was in the right mood.

As for Tommy himself, he was thinking; not at the fast-pace at which his thoughts usually raced, but just thinking. Well, more reminiscing. He hadn't spent a night like this since before the war; in fact he hadn't come close to feeling this free and at peace since before the war. Even when Grace was still here, his mind was more often than not occupied by business.

He thought about the not so little girl wrapped safely in his arms. Placing a soft kiss on the top of her head, he wondered ‘When did she become so grown up? Where did the time go?’

Breaking the quiet between them, Tommy only just heard his sister’s drunken mumbles of ���This is the best birthday present ever,” and felt his heart melt even more.

He observed the contented smile that rested on his sister’s face and realised that Ada was right about Y/N: she lived for the special little things in life, she lived for family and for love, not money and jewels.  

Y/N lived for moments like this… and, just like that, Tommy knew what the perfect present would be.

***

Two days later, and it was Y/N’s birthday.  

Since it was a Sunday, all that she had wanted to do to celebrate was to have a big lunch with all of her family. So, the whole Shelby clan, spouses and children included, piled into Arrow House for one very chaotic afternoon.

Y/N couldn't have been happier with how the day turned out. Arguments were kept to a minimum (but Y/N secretly enjoyed the slight bickering that inevitably occurred), she was able to play with all of her nieces and nephews in the garden to her heart's content, and the whole of Arrow House had a buzz about it.

Even Tommy didn't seem to be as grumpy and pre-occupied as usual. Something had changed in her brother since that drunken night, and Y/N couldn't quite put her finger on what it was. But it was a change for the better, so she wasn't going to complain or question it. Despite her longing for a night like that again, she knew that it was an unrealistic dream: Tommy had far too much on his plate nowadays, even if Y/N thought that it would do him the world of good to let go every now and again. And, Y/N admitted to herself, she had missed her big brother much more than she realised.

But Y/N didn't dwell on that for too long, knowing that she'd miss out on things if she spent too long in her own head (such as John, who had just fallen out of a tree in an attempt to beat his own children in climbing it).

***

It was dusk before the family left, and as much as it was one of the best birthdays that Y/N could remember, she was glad for the quiet and a bit of time to herself.

After eating some more birthday cake and having a cup of tea on the bench in the garden, watching as the stars gradually appeared in the Y/B/M sky, Y/N retreated back inside having discovered that it was nearly midnight.  

Mary informed her that her brother had already gone up to bed for the night. On any other day, Y/N would have been surprised at this bit of news, knowing how late Tommy normally stayed up to work; but her family was exhausting when they were all together for half an hour, never mind half a day, so she quietly padded up the stairs to do the same.

Her attention was immediately drawn to a large box that rested on her bed the moment that she entered her room. Y/N would’ve been suspicious if it wasn’t for the note that sat on top of it:

“Happy birthday, sweetheart.

Love,

Tommy x”

Excitement and intrigue building up inside of her rapidly, she untied the messy bow (Tommy had clearly tried his best) and lifted the lid. Inside she found four new records and two bottles of whiskey. For a moment she was confused, but then she found a second note:

“For the next time…

T x”

Y/N felt her heart swell with emotion and tears began to line her eyes as she smiled.

She threw on her nightdress and wandered down the hall to her brother’s bedroom. Knocking gently, she pushed the door open slightly, just enough to stick her head around it. Tommy’s crystal blue eyes locked with hers and she suddenly found herself wondering why she was there at all: she and Tommy were both awful at things like this (when then were sober, anyway). There was a reason why he left the present somewhere that she would find it by herself, rather than giving it to her himself.

Suddenly feeling awkward, Y/N smiled slightly and nodded, not knowing what to say to her brother. As she began to close the door again, Y/N heard a slight chuckle from inside the room and Tommy softly called her name.

She shuffled back into the room, looking at anything but her brother sat on the bed. "I know it's late, but I just wanted to say -" But she was unable to finish that important sentence, a loud, long yawn having escaped her.

When she opened her eyes again, Y/N saw, to her surprise, an amused smile playing on Tommy's lips. He pulled back the covers on the other side of his grand bed, and raised his eyebrows, silently posing a question that he hadn't asked for a long time.  

In recent years, Tommy hadn't been overly affectionate: Y/N guessed that it was just another side effect of the war. So, when the opportunity arose for Y/N to get a hug from her brother (who used to give the best hugs, not that she'd ever tell her other family members), she would never refuse.

She half-ran over to the bed and snuggled under the duvet before Tommy could change his mind. Cuddling into his side and letting the warmth envelope her, the siblings lay there in silence for a while, perfectly content.

As Y/N's eyelids began to flutter shut, she mumbled into her brother's chest a soft "Thank you, Tom," that he only just caught.

Tommy tightened his arms around his Y/N's frame in response and pressed a kiss to her hair. He turned out the light next to him as he felt his little sister's breaths even out, and whispered so that no one else could hear: "No, darling, thank you."

[perfectpaperbluebirds]

@sicktember Prompt # 27: Blankets

Title: Sick Day Spells

Fandom: N/A

Based on an ask box prompt. The prompt: “It’s all well and good until the cleric gets really sick.” 

What does a party of adventures do when their cleric is forced to take a sick day after a battle? Featuring a Halfling Rogue, a Dwarf Fighter, an Elf Sorcerer, and a Human Cleric.

(Author’s note: Holy crap this was fun to write, and I’m thrilled with how it came out! I can’t believe it took me so long to write a D & D-based story. This is the first time I can say with confidence that you will almost certainly see these OCs again. I loved them way too much to let them go. And there's three more people here for me to whump in all ways magical and physical. So keep your eyes peeled for them again soon!)

They say pride comes before the fall, but most people like to think that applies to everyone except them. Still, perhaps the adventuring party should have kept their pride in check, or else watched more vigilantly for the possibility of falling. 

The party of four were riding out of the village they had simultaneously saved and partially destroyed. True, they had fought off a school of necromancers that were terrorizing the local area and destroyed the necromancers' constructs, but the fireball they had used to wipe out the zombies had also wiped out the entire market and half of the residential district. Still, collateral damage was to be expected, and the slightly-singed foursome were in high spirits as they left the smoking town in their wake.

Their calamity came from a very unexpected source, and it started with a sneeze. The party always traveled in pairs of two, with the fighter and the sorcerer in front and the cleric and the rogue in the back. This meant that Filius and Kandry were generally surrounded by a cloud of dust while on the road, but they didn't usually mind, both being the hearty sort.  

Today though, the dust began to make Filius sneeze even before they'd left the town. After two sets of three sneezes nearly back to back, Lorellyn turned, looking at him with concern.

"Are you all right, Fil? Your cold is still bothering you, isn't it?"

"I suppose. Honestly I'm so tired I barely notice it right now. I just want to get back to camp and sleep for a day or two," said the cleric, congested and hoarse, trying not to cough.

"Well yeh certainly earned it. It seemed yeh were everywhere at once ou’ there, throwin' out healin' spells left an' right, an' destroyin' th' zombies in droves, plus flingin' necromancers here an' there with tha' mace o' yourn," Gundor said.

"He's right. We couldn't have done this without you," Lorellyn said earnestly. "You're the hero of the day."

Filius smiled tiredly, but before he could reply, a sickly green bolt of energy hit him in the back, making him spasm. He froze, then slowly his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped forward on his horse. 

The other three jumped into action immediately. Kandry leapt off of her mount and onto the back of Filius’ with flawless acrobatics, somehow managing to prevent him from falling off of his horse and take control of the steed immediately, though she couldn't reach the stirrups. 

Lorellyn whipped around, immediately shooting a firebolt from her palm, aimed at the bush from which the offensive spell had come. The dry bush caught fire immediately, causing the pair of tiny goblin mages hiding inside it to run out shrieking, heading toward the smoking village. Gundor was already off of his mount and chasing them down with rage in his eyes, ending them with his axe before they knew what hit them. 

Gundor and Lorellyn were at Kandry's side as soon as the threat was eliminated. The halfling was anxiously checking Filius over for visible injuries.

"He's burning up!" she cried. "What did they hit him with?"

"It was a wimpy Ray of Sickness. I saw it out of the corner of my eye," Lorellyn said, taking over assessing the cleric. "Those mages were barely second level. I'm surprised they were able to hit him at all. There's no way this is just from that. There's something else."

"Well can't you figure it out?" Kandry snapped.

"I'm trying! But divination is Filius' specialty, not mine!" Lorellyn snapped back. 

"Let's jus’ get ‘im back ta camp. We need ta get off th' road. We're too exposed, an' distracted ta boot," Gundor said, looking around worriedly. "Yeh can look ‘im over there just as well as here."

The other two quickly agreed. They hastened back to their base, with Filius slumped in the saddle in front of Lorellyn, and Gundor leading Filius' horse behind his own. 

The ride was somber, the high spirits from their successful battle all but forgotten. Filius had a raging fever and was dead asleep, unable to be woken, but seemed to be in the throes of terrible nightmares, for he writhed and cried out the whole time they were moving. Whenever he would yell, it would send him into an awful coughing fit that left him panting and sweating. Lorellyn tried her best to soothe him, but she was clearly distressed, especially when it seemed to have no effect, and she had tears in her eyes most of the trip.

Arriving at their camp, they made a makeshift stretcher for him from a blanket, gently carrying the tall man to his tent and laying him down on his mat. They lingered at his side, unsure how to proceed.

"Why don't you do a healing spell on him or something?" Kandry snapped at the sorcerer. "There's got to be something we can do!"

"I don't have any spells left after that battle," Lorellyn hissed. "I need to rest my magic! And anyway, sorcerers can't do healing spells. Our magic is too chaotic. Bad things would happen if I tried. Do either of you have any healing potions?”

"I never waste time with that. They're too heavy to bother with. You all always carry them... Or Filius takes care of it," Kandry mumbled. 

"I gave mine ta th’ villagers tha' got hurt in th' blast," Gundor said sheepishly. "Filius planned ta brew some more, so I wagered I wouldn't need 'em."

"Some adventurers we are," Kandry groaned. "We can't even take care of our cleric."

Lorellyn wrapped Kandry in a hug, which the halfling immediately tried to wriggle out of, but the elf was stronger. 

"We'll figure something out. It will be fine," Lorellyn said bravely. 

At that moment, the party heard a commotion on the highway, with many people screaming and yelling loud enough to be heard at the camp, though they were well away from the road. The three healthy members of the party gave each other worried looks. Lorellyn attuned her hearing to better assess the situation while Kandry and Gundor waited breathlessly.

"It's a green dragon," Lorellyn gasped after a moment. "Something angered it and now it's flying around, attacking randomly. It's already killed dozens of people." 

"It's all well and good until the cleric gets really sick," Kandry groaned, covering her face.

They didn't have time to make any sort of plan, for immediately they heard the sound of running footsteps approaching their camp. A young man with wild-looking eyes dashed into their midst.

“Adventurers!” he gasped. “Have you heard? There’s a dragon terrorizing us! We need your aid to defeat it!”

Gundor stepped forward. “We hadn’t heard o’ this trouble. O’ course we’ll do what’s necessary in this time o’ danger.”

“So you’ll come? We must go right away!”

“Give us time ta make our necessary preparations. Leave us fer now.”

The lad nodded, hurrying away again. 

Gundor, Lorellyn, and Kandry shared a look. Without a word, they quickly began to break down their camp, hastily packing their things and snuffing out the fire under cover of Lorellyn’s disillusionment cantrips, and taking full advantage of Kandry’s stealth. In minutes they had packed their belongings on their horses and were heading in the opposite direction of the main road, deeper into the forest. Through it all, Filius remained unconscious, mumbling and sweating and weak with fever. 

After another hour or two’s ride, having hidden themselves deep in the forest, Kandry found a secure cave in which they could hide out. The party was in no shape to fight a dragon right now. Here, they wouldn’t be in danger, or be run out of town for not assisting with the dragon. Gundor secured the perimeter while Lorellyn attended to the sick cleric, laying him out gently on his bedroll once more and bathing his sweat-slicked face with a wet rag while Kandry saw to the rest of the camp preparations. The cool water slowly brought Filius to consciousness, with much coughing and trembling. However, wakefulness did not bring awareness with it. He looked around dully, his eyes heavy-lidded and fever-bright, but seemed to take in little of what he saw. He closed his eyes again wearily without acknowledging his companions hovering over him worriedly. Shivers wracked his body.

“ ‘m so cold,” he coughed. “Thirsty….” 

Kandry rushed to get him a mug of water while Lorellyn snatched the blankets off of each of the other bedrolls and brought them over, covering him in all of them. They seemed to have no effect though, and he continued to shiver violently. Gundor built up the fire frantically, but it took a while to catch, and the smoke only made the sick human cough more. After drinking two mugs of water, Filius fell back asleep, which was somehow both a relief and a worry to his friends. His fever never changed, neither going lower nor higher.

“I’ll run ta th’ village ta get ‘im some kind o’ potion,” Gundor murmured over supper. “I can’t watch ‘im suffer like this.”

“And risk being seen, or worse attacked by a dragon?” Kandry scoffed. “After all the trouble we went to to find this place and stay hidden? Please don’t.”

“She’s right,” Lorellyn said. “That’s at least two hours' ride, and one of us will be left alone and vulnerable. At least wait until morning, when our health and spells are back up. If he’s the same or worse, then go. We’ll see how he does through the night.”

Once night fell, with nothing else to do, the party tried to sleep, rotating 6 hour shifts keeping watch, as usual. However, even when not on guard duty, the party members found they couldn’t settle, and kept lifting their heads to shoot worried glances at their cleric, or make sure he hadn’t worsened. Gundor had had the first watch, and when it came time for him to rest, he settled on his bedroll, but then tossed and turned for a long time. He was usually snoring like a bear within moments of shutting his eyes, so this had the ladies on high alert. Finally, the dwarf got up with a huff, picked up his bedroll and carried it over to Filius’ side, dropping it there. When he lay back down, he was close enough that his shoulder touched the cleric’s. The dwarf then pulled a corner of one of the blankets over himself and rolled to his side, pressing up against the human, and immediately falling asleep with a weary snore. 

Lorellyn had the second watch, and she kept shooting tender, but envious looks at the sleeping men. Filius never woke, but he seemed to sleep more peacefully after Gundor had joined him. As soon as her watch was finished, she followed the dwarf’s lead, pushing her bedroll up against the other side of the sick human, sliding under the blankets, and resuming her meditation. 

Kandry was not so easily swayed, and tried to ignore the thoughtless sharing of germs happening behind her as she took her turn at the watch. However, when no one was looking, she surreptitiously slid her bedroll around to the other side of the fire, placing her closer to her companions.

Had Gundor and Lorellyn been aware of their surroundings, they would have noticed that in the wee hours of the morning Filius began to sweat profusely. He had hardly moved after the other two had settled in with him to share their body heat, but he began to mutter and toss a bit once more. Finally, just as dawn was creeping over the horizon, he woke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright with a hacking cough. Lorellyn and Gundor were instantly awakened as well, and Kandry was at their side in an instant. Filius tried to catch his breath, pushing his sweaty hair out of his eyes. 

“Where ‘m I?” he croaked. “What happened?”

Lorellyn leaned over to press the back of her hand to his forehead, then his neck. “We’re safely hidden in the forest. Are you alright? How are you feeling?”

“Awful,” Filius groaned. “Sick. How long have I been asleep?” He yawned hugely. 

“Almost a day,” Kandry said, pressing a mug of water into his hands. “You scared us half to death. You got hit with a Ray of Sickness and you just… passed out.”

“I did?” he said worriedly, looking confused. “I don’t remember that….”

“Yeah. Did you have some poison in your system too or something? I’ve never seen Ray of Sickness do that,” Kandry said accusingly. 

“Not that I know of. Might have to do with me already being sick when it hit me. Just exacerbated everything, made it worse temporarily.” He coughed roughly into his shoulder, wincing, then downed the mug of water. 

“Well your fever is much better,” Lorellyn said happily. “Let’s hope you’re on the mend now!”

“I’d be on the mend faster if I got some whiskey,” Filius sniffled, looking meaningfully at Gundor. The sleepy dwarf readily got up and shuffled to his pack. Finding what he was looking for, he returned with an amber-colored bottle and handed it to the cleric, who took several unceremonious gulps. 

“Good ta have yeh back, mate,” Gundor rumbled happily, reclaiming the bottle and taking several swigs of his own. 

“What are you all doing over here anyway?” Filius said after a moment, yawning again. “This cave is plenty big enough for all of us.”

“You were freezing, so we shared our blankets with you,” Lorellyn said.

“Really? You mean you slept here all night?”

“Tha’ we did. ‘Twas a mighty fine night’s rest, too,” Gundor said. “Matter o’ fact, I could use some more shuteye if it’s all th’ same ta you lot.” With that, he lay back down right where he was, pressing up against Filius once more and closing his eyes. The cleric looked surprised, though not unhappy with this development. 

“Some more rest would be nice. Filius, are you able to put up some protection spells so we can all relax for another day? I hate to ask so much of you--” Lorellyn began.

“No, it’s fine,” he said, coughing chestily. “I can manage.” He grasped his talisman of Njord and closed his eyes, his brow furrowing. After a moment, an opaque barrier appeared over the cave’s entryway. No creature, magical or otherwise, would be able to pass through. Looking exhausted now, he lay back down alongside Gundor and shut his eyes, a tiny smile appearing on his face as the dwarf shifted cozily against him and Lorellyn too pressed closer. 

Lorellyn was also grinning. “Come join us, Kandry.”

The halfling rolled her eyes. “I don’t cuddle.”

“I don’t either, but here we are,” Filius mumbled, almost asleep. “Just call it team bonding.”

Kandry almost declined again… but it really did look very cozy to be surrounded by blankets and pillows and teammates. With a little sigh, she shuffled over and slotted herself in, with Filius’ long legs on one side of her, and Lorellyn’s on the other. 

They spent the rest of the day just like that, sleeping and eating and talking, content to take a day to simply enjoy each other’s company as they let their cleric take a sick day.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Sometimes if you pray to someone enough, they become a god. The people of Yunmeng have been praying to Jiang Cheng since he rebuilt Lotus Pier.

Everyone thought it started later.

With Jiang Cheng rebuilding the Lotus Pier with his own hands, side by side with cultivators and common folk alike, working on it night and day – the real cause for his enthusiasm was insomnia, spurred on by endless nightmares, but to an outsider it looked a lot like virtue. When there was no more building to be done, he took up his sword and went night-hunting: not for fame or glory, though he would hardly refuse those, but simply to have something to do. Nothing, no matter how small, escaped his grasp.

It’s said that Hanguang-Jun went where the chaos was, but he never needed to come to Yunmeng. Jiang Cheng, as terrifying as he might be, a force of nature in wind and lightning, would always get there first.

Everyone thought it was because of Zidian.

After all, to a common person, what sort of person can call lightning into their hand with little more than a thought? Even cultivators, rarely seen and mysterious, could not reliably do such a thing, and Jiang Cheng’s ancestors had generally been respectful of the ancient spiritual weapon, using it only for war.

It wasn’t that Jiang Cheng wasn’t respectful of Zidian. It was only that in time it became as much a part of him as his own right hand, and he had never learned to stay his hand when anger filled him from head to toe. Zidian crackled on his knuckles when his nephew irritated him, when something when wrong, when he felt upset – the sight of the lightning comforted him, reminded him of his mother’s devotion, and let him feel powerful when he felt powerless.

Still, it did mean the common people saw a lot more of it than they had before.

Some people – including Jiang Cheng – thought it was because of Wei Wuxian.

The majority thought only that Wei Wuxian, that daring genius, that talent that hadn’t been seen in a thousand years, had done something; the minority who knew what it was that he had done, the truth of the golden core settled in Jiang Cheng’s belly, believed that it was Wei Wuxian’s merits that had set Jiang Cheng on the road to glory.

Those people were all wrong.

It was true that cultivation was a means to fight against one’s fate, and that it could, if perfected, give a man the chance to leap up to a higher branch and become a god in a single moment, the right opportunity of fate and luck and merit.

That just wasn’t what happened, that’s all.

Wei Wuxian was a talent not seen in a thousand years, that much was true, but the same could be said for many others in his generation: times of anguish were often fertile grounds for geniuses. Hanguang-jun himself, who took Wei Wuxian as his husband, was very nearly perfect in his sect’s cultivation style, upright and righteous even beyond their expectations, and yet he also fulfilled the requirements of Wei Wuxian’s Jiang sect, being free in his heart and defying all odds to claim the man he loved. If there was anyone the cultivation world could place their hopes on, it was him.

Not Jiang Cheng. Easily angered, overly emotional, too competitive, overly trusting, self-sacrificing yet selfish – not Jiang Cheng.

And yet when the lightning tribulation came, when the opportunity to ascend to the heavens appeared, it appeared to Jiang Cheng, not Hanguang-Jun.

The truth was: Jiang Cheng did not cultivate to greatness and godhood.

The truth was:

It began years ago.

The lady of the Jiang sect was cultivating alongside her husband, with her two children brought along to gain experience by proxy, but night-hunting was sometimes a dangerous sport and this particular evening they left them behind in the small, obscure village at the foot of the mountains; a place that no one cared about, nobody noticed.

Jiang Yanli was polite and kind to their well-paid hosts; Jiang Cheng was restless, and snuck out the window to go walk around.

He had very little spiritual energy back then, being only a small child, but his mother was fierce and strict, and he knew the basics. When he found the village children grieving over an injured dog, which panted and whined in agony, he squatted down at once and stained himself to the utmost to transfer his little store of energy to the dog.

The dog was healed, and tottered to its feet, happily licking the faces of all those who came by.

“How did you do that?” one of the village children asked, but, embarrassed at the new experience of being talked to by a child his own age, Jiang Cheng fled instead of answering.

The money the Jiang sect leaders had spent was used, eventually, to send the best and brightest of those children to school, and it just so happened that that child, too, was a talent that hadn’t been seen for years; he scored well in the imperial examinations and became an official. He never forgot his home, going back often to Yunmeng and offering money and help to all those who asked; his little obscure village whose name was commonly forgotten became wealthy, and its children, now grown, spread out across the land – and with them went their little superstitions, formed in their youth, of praying for good luck from a youth dressed all in purple, who’d said his name was Jiang Cheng.

It didn’t take long before someone connected the local god that had given the children such fortune with the Jiang Cheng that swept through their lands like a scourge aimed at evildoers: a man who had survived his own family’s ruin and resurrected a dead sect from the ashes all on his own, a man who summoned the wind and lightning at will to scold his impudent nephew, a man who would come no matter how far the distance at the merest hint that a demonic cultivator had emerged to torment the common people, refusing to tolerate injustice.

The stories, exaggerated through retelling, spread through the common people.

It began at the outskirts of Yunmeng, where the cultivators and cynical wits of the Lotus Pier rarely went; by the time it reached further in, the stories had become fantastical and personal – a sea captain swearing that he’d been rescued from pirates by a lightning storm that sent down purple lightning, a village talking about how Jiang Cheng had come in person to eliminate a demonic cultivator that would have become the next Yiling Patriarch if he’d been left unchecked, a housewife shyly whispering about how her children had become filial at last after a mere glimpse of him.

When the Jiang sect cultivators, travelling around, first heard the stories, they laughed in delight – teasing their too-prickly sect leader was a popular pastime, since his bark was invariably worse than his bite – and immediately set to telling even more stories. And so the tales of what Jiang Cheng had achieved during the Sunshot Campaign, previously limited to the world of cultivators, began to circulate among the common people, and even made its way to a certain court official in a far-off capital, who told his Emperor about it.

It was truly a coincidence that around the same time, the Emperor’s favorite son encountered a misfortune, surrounded and assaulted by wicked creatures, and that Jiang Cheng, night-hunting in the area because he couldn’t sleep and because he simply refused to stay one moment longer in the house where Hanguang-Jun and Wei Wuxian were stuffing everyone full of dog food, was bored enough to intervene with a flick of his finger.

The Emperor was still laughing about his earnest official’s little backwater superstition, for which he’d indulgently lit a candle as a reward for an especially fine display of merit – such a charming request, so naïve and innocent, he could hardly believe it, and he’d added the gold and honors the work had really deserved on top as a matter of course – when he received the letter from his son, telling him about how purple lightning had descended from nowhere in a night with a clear sky, saving him from certain death.

Only a sailor was more superstitious than an Emperor.

In his overwhelming relief, he ordered a temple to be built, and the poor folk of the capital flocked over to see who this new god was: it turned out that part of his legend involved dogs, which was fairly rare for a god, and since plenty of people in the capital had dogs that they treasured like part of the family, it was easy enough to accept him.

Eventually the story of the temple (and its copycats, quickly constructed or converted) made its way, carried by merchants, to Lanling; the young sect leader there rolled around on the floor laughing and insisted on going to visit every single one of them.

He brought his spiritual dog, his friends, and a very great deal of spending money.

Every single town that had put up a temple to the god of purple lightning was suddenly flooded with good fortune: money, money, and more money, with cultivators in yellow competing with those in white to buy better gifts for those at home, and the gifts they liked best of all were the ones sold by the temples.

Even the local dogs suddenly all became well behaved after meeting with the cultivator’s husky.

(It wasn’t a husky, it was a fairy! One of the villagers insisted. You’re all blind – didn’t you hear the way the cultivator in yellow and gold referred to it? I’m telling you, it was a fairy rescued by Jiang Cheng years ago and given to the cultivator as a gift –)

Good fortune begets more good fortune: even more temples began to be built, and the ones that had become rich overnight had not yet had time to formulate the habits of the wealthy; they were initially inclined to spend their money locally, rewarding good deeds, rather than consolidate influence or seek position, and that encouraged even more people to come to pray. Eventually, of course, one of the temples ended up in the hands of an ambitious man, who used the unexpected fortune to raise his family’s stature, and that made the temples a matter of interest to the wealthy, too.

It was a joke in the Lotus Pier, Jiang Cheng going around with red ears and a furious temper that refused to hear a further word about it – not that that stopped anyone, most especially Wei Wuxian, who had taken to telling outrageous tales of the godly Jiang Cheng everywhere he and Hanguang-jun travelled.  

Outside of it, though, it became less and less of a joke, especially as the wheel turned and the generations shifted; what one generation thought of as a novelty, the next accepted as a matter of course.

And so one day, the skies above Yunmeng opened up, the lightning tribulation descending, and –

“Hanguang-jun! Senior Wei! A story has just come – Jiang Cheng ascended to immortality!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wei Wuxian said with a smile.

“It’s true,” the junior insisted. “I’ve heard about it from three different sources – I’ve even heard that Sect Leader Jin has already gone to the Lotus Pier to investigate; I heard the senior people there sent him a letter, most urgently.”

“An urgent letter?” Wei Wuxian asked, smile starting to fade. “Lan Zhan, do you think something actually happened to that brat Jiang Cheng?”

Lan Wangji shrugged, indicating that he didn’t know.

Wei Wuxian huffed, amused, and looked up to the sky. “Hey, Jiang Cheng! If you’ve really ascended to the heavens and become a god, you’d better come and tell me yourself, or I’ll never forgive you!”

The sky was clear that day, with only a scattering of pale white clouds.

There was nowhere in nature for the rumble of thunder to come from, and Wei Wuxian, who had turned away, turned back to the outside with a confused expression: how had it suddenly become dark? Where had the thunderclouds come from? Why was there lightning –

There was a flash so bright it blinded the eyes, searing purple, and suddenly Jiang Cheng was there, standing in front of Wei Wuxian.

“Don’t threaten me, I hate that,” he said.

Wei Wuxian gaped at him. “Jiang Cheng? Where..?”

“I can’t stay long, too much to do,” Jiang Cheng said, scowling; it was a familiar look on his face. “Tell Jin Ling he either has to find someone else to do the damn job or consolidate Lotus Pier and Lanling, and not to pray for help too often or I’ll break his legs. And anyway, for you –”

With Wei Wuxian still speechless, he didn’t have any time to react before Jiang Cheng moved, slapping his hand right up against Wei Wuxian’s dantian: the weak golden core inside, a gift from Mo Xuanyu, suddenly glowed bright, strengthening back to what Wei Wuxian had had before he had given it away.

“I can’t give you more than what you had; cultivation is fighting the fates, and every man’s path is his own,” Jiang Cheng said, looking irritated by this inescapable law of the heavens. “But at minimum I can restore your potential – not that I think you’ll stop with the demonic cultivation, because you’re you, but at least a stronger golden core will help mitigate the effects, and make your lifespan more similar to Hanguang-jun’s. Who is not getting any sort of gift from me,” he added with a glare, “is that understood?”

Lan Wangji’s eyebrows had arched up and he stared wordlessly at Jiang Cheng, who immediately became so uncomfortable with it that he shifted from one leg to the other and then spat, “Fine, one gift, whatever. Think about it carefully. Anyway, I’m going now. Don’t bother me too often – but don’t not bother me at all, you hear me? Or I’ll find a way to break your legs.”

Another flash of lightning, and he was gone.

Wei Wuxian put his hand to his dantian, which still glowed warm, the strength starting to spread through his veins to his entire body – he’d forgotten how nice the feeling was, having never expected to feel it again.

“Lan Zhan,” he said blankly. “Did – Jiang Cheng – he just –”

Lan Wangji exhaled; in anyone else, it might have been called an aggravated sigh.

“We should,” he said, “probably set up a shrine.”

[stargaze-sunflower]

I wrote more Dewey and Louie bonding! I hope you like it! :]

Ao3 Link     Word Count: 1184

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Having been slightly taller than usual for a few hours, Dewey was now having a bit of trouble using his legs as he normally would. Not enough trouble to where he couldn’t walk, thankfully, but enough that it was a mild annoyance, especially with Louie snickering at him and Huey hiding a grin every few seconds. He was just a little wobbly, that was all. He was readjusting.

They hadn’t stayed at the resort for very long after returning the spring breakers to their original ages. No one had wanted to be near the pool for any longer than they had to, given what had just happened in it. It’d been nightmare fuel, for sure, along with being stuck in a pool floaty awaiting instantaneous old age. Not that Dewey had expected anything else from an adventure with his family; this was probably actually pretty tame in comparison to some of the other things they’d had to deal with.

Anyway, nightmares and trauma aside, they’d eventually decided on leaving, and Scrooge had said his goodbyes to Goldie, smiling like a sap the whole time. Yuck.

As mentioned before, Dewey’s legs were being less than cooperative, what with his brain being confused at the two sudden changes in height he’d experienced that day. He couldn’t help but be mildly surprised whenever his feet hit the ground sooner than expected as he walked, and that slight confusion caused him to stumble more than once.

It was irritating, and his brothers teased him a little, but they also caught him whenever he lost his footing, and made sure he was steady before letting go. It made him feel warm inside, even as he glared at them playfully and stuck his tongue out at a smiling Louie. They were annoying, but they were his brothers. He wouldn’t trade them for the world.

They finally all made it back to where Launchpad was waiting with the plane, and Dewey climbed aboard and sunk down into a seat with a single triumphant laugh. Webby plopped down into a seat on the opposite side of the plane and almost immediately fell asleep. From what he understood, she’d had a pretty rough day herself. She deserved the rest.

Huey went up to the front to talk to Scrooge about the aftereffects of being young and then aging rapidly, and Louie sat down next to Dewey just as the plane started to take off. Dewey swung his legs back and forth a bit as they climbed higher and higher into the sky, trying to force his mind to get re-used to his normal height.

“You know, I think part of Huey’s problem with today was that you were taller than him,” Louie said casually, giving him a little grin. “It’s always been his dream to be tall.”

Dewey glanced towards where Huey was listening to Scrooge’s rambling – earnestly taking notes in his guidebook – and huffed a laugh.

“Don’t remind me,” Dewey said, his mind quickly being overtaken by the memory of Huey with freakishly long legs. “His dream is my nightmare.”

“And today, your dream was his nightmare,” Louie pointed out, sliding down in his seat a bit as he made himself comfortable. “It drove him crazy that you insisted you were oldest.”

“Yeah, well, he takes being oldest way too seriously,” Dewey complained, not as irritated as he might’ve been, a few hours ago. “We’re triplets, it hardly matters!”

“Then why did it bother you so much?”

Dewey turned to frown at Louie, who was smirking back at him. Why did brothers have to be so annoying and perceptive? It was inconvenient, really. Dewey sighed.

“I guess I just wanted to be the big brother for once,” Dewey said, staring down at his slightly aching legs. “I thought it’d be fun.”

Louie hummed in response, yawning soon afterwards. Dewey felt the corners of his beak tug upwards; Louie was always tired after an adventure.

“And was it?” Louie asked, eyes half lidded.

“I mean, I guess,” Dewey replied, his brow furrowing. “It was more work than I was expecting, though.”

Louie shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Right,” Dewey said, finally leaning back in his seat and settling in for the ride. “And neither do I, now that I’m not the big brother anymore.”

“Maybe not the big brother,” Louie mumbled, obviously half asleep already, “but you’re still a big brother, y’know.”

Dewey blinked, taken off guard, and the warm feeling in his chest from earlier came roaring back, wrapping around his heart like a loving hug from an old friend. It almost hurt, with how pure it was.

“Oh,” Dewey said. “Oh.”

He hadn’t forgotten, exactly, that Louie was younger than him, it just didn’t cross his mind very often. He was usually too busy thinking about he was younger than Huey. He’d spent all day trying to prove himself as ‘big brother’, and he’d sort of overlooked that he’d actually been one all along.

Because Louie was independent, sure, but he also cried at TV shows, and put his hood over his head when he was upset, and held onto Dewey’s arm when he was spooked. They were triplets, yes, but Louie was still his little brother.

Dewey thought that he suddenly understood Huey a lot better.

“Louie, you— Oh.”

Whatever he’d been about to say was cut off as he looked over and saw Louie fast asleep and lightly snoring, his head unfortunately resting against the back of the seat at a pretty uncomfortable angle. Dewey found himself continually impressed by the conditions in which Louie could sleep; him and Huey had found him sleeping in a cabinet once, back when they were living on the houseboat.

Dewey laughed softly and gazed at his sleeping brother with a fond grin. His younger brother seemed to be quickly developing the habit of saving the day and then immediately going to sleep. If Louie hadn’t figured out what was really going on at that resort, who knew where they’d be.

Dewey envied that, a little bit; the fact that sleep came so easily to Louie. He himself could never fall asleep after an adventure; he was always too excited and energetic. Usually about this time, him and Webby would be enthusiastically talking about whatever had just happened, but even she was exhausted after the day she’d had. Dewey made a mental note to ask about it later; it seemed like it would be an interesting story.

Returning his attention to his brother, Dewey slowly and carefully guided Louie’s head to rest on his shoulder, attempting to at least get him into a more comfortable position. Louie sighed softly against his neck, shifting a bit, leaning his full weight onto him before dropping back into deep sleep. Dewey grinned happily, feeling like he’d done something right, like he’d done something good.

From the front of the plane, Huey caught his eye and smirked at him, something teasing but proud shining through his gaze. Dewey rolled his eyes good-naturedly – careful not to move his shoulder too much – and settled in for the long ride home.

[suffering-with-fiery]

Rune translations and Bottom theories (I did my best!) (: It's long! I mean REALLY REALLY REALLY LONG!!!! You've been warned. (Potential TWs below the cut) yeah Hyoga doesn't have a good time here.

I should probably start calling Hyoga "Hyouga" instead since I'm pretty sure it's spelled with a 'U'... but I probably won't. Apologies.

Bottom English translation by Tackmyn Y! (I can't speak Japanese, again, apologies, though I was able to make my own version of Autophagy)

Potential TWs (I dont want to harm anyone by going on this rant): Autophagy (medical terms), nightmares, demons tormenting a guy, Hyoga being unhealthy in more ways than one, mentions of death/murder, self esteem issues, mentions of destructive behavior, manipulation, violence.

Yeah, my boy Hyoga ain't having a good time in this theory.

I feel the need to clarify that this is all speculation. So uh. Everything here is just what I've been thinking about since I hopped into this rabbit hole.

Sinfan (I'm not sure what order they go in, it's quite hard to tell):

["Death"

"I"

"Revive"

"Spirit"

"I"

"Something with shape"]

I'm not fully sure what "something with shape" means, but there's a possibility that Sinfan could be referring to Hyoga, (a doll/wax figure) or maybe that Sinfan needs something with a shape to be able to exist. Sinfan could need a vessel to stay on the mortal plain and go undetected while staying alive.

Sinfan needs a vessel. And with that thought, it launches into indecipherable theory crafting.

Hyoga summoned Sinfan when he was 12 years old. Thinking he found a vessel, he called upon Pabometh, another grey demon, to help torment Hyoga so the two could get their wish.

Hyoga, at the time, is young, dumb and susceptible to manipulation, meaning it could be easy for Sinfan to grasp the situation with an iron grip which follows Hyoga into adulthood.

"Revival" could also be referring to "Rebirth," symbolized by a butterfly. It could also mean that Sinfan/Pabo has the powers to revive people. Maybe as a last resort if they need it.

In Hiiragi Kirai's album trailer on Youtube, Hyoga shows up in a scene with 'D' and 'B' in calligraphy on each cheek. They could mean "Death" and "Birth" respectively.

Lines from Autophagy:

"I just wants a peaceful life." Likely means Hyoga wants the demons gone so he can live how he wants to. (Who wouldn't?)

"The voice inside my head? Huh... how odd." Also implies that the demons are still with him.

"My body pulses, memories from my past bringing pain." Means that in Autophagy, Hyoga remembers his past, but it hurts him.

""You can't avoid it in life, so it's best to just deal with it." You say, but you dont seem bothered." Is most likely Sinfan talking to Hyoga. It could also mean that Hyoga can't avoid the demons, so he should just deal with it.

"I can't stop now, so pretend nothing happened!" Could be Hyoga trying to ignore the demons, or maybe he did something he shouldn't have. (Always knew those were prison tattoos...)

"I want to wash my skull out! I want to say bye bye! But yet I didn't do it..." Could mean that the demons are still with him in Autophagy and likely still tormenting him.

"I won't stop, I can't look back." Might mean Hyoga is trying to move on, but with the demons still in his head, he can't, so the "Let me forget!" after the instrument solo might be him wishing that he never remembered in the first place and trying to get the demons to take them away again.

"Just stay away from me!" Could be Hyoga distancing himself from everyone he knows, or trying to get the demons to go away.

"Hello! HAHAHAHA Hello! HAHAHAHAHA!" Might be Hyoga as he slowly loses his remaining sanity due to constant tormenting and pressure from the demons.

"A A A A- 'Allo/Allow/Arrow" could all imply different things, so I'll give a short on all of them.

"'Allo!" Is just an abbreviation of "Hello."

"Arrow!" -According to a quick google search- is a common symbolism for peace and philosophical ideas, and used for protection and hunting. It could mean that Hyoga just wants peace and quiet, which is enforced by "I just want a peaceful life." in the beginning.

"Allow!" Could mean that the demons are trying even harder to bend him to their will and take him over as a vessel. They want Hyoga to allow them to posses him so they can do whatever they please.

Pabo only has 2 that I can see:

["Nightmare"

"Save (?)ime"]

It might be "time" but I couldn't make out the rune symbol there.

"Nightmare" hardens my thought that Bottom is just a massive nightmare set up by the demons to torment Hyoga, that the song is sung from the perspective of one of the demons (likely Pabo), and that Young Hyoga(tm) in the video is Pabometh playing the part of his repressed/forgotten memories.

This is all assuming the song is, infact, sung by the demons.

Lines from Bottom:

"You're keeping me alive! Today, today, you're killing me!" Could go both ways (Pabo/Sinfan and Hyoga) For Pabo it could just be another variation of the next line I'm about to talk about.

For Hyoga it could mean that he wouldn't be able to function if he didn't have the demons (Sinfan might posses him to make him fit in so nobody notices, keep him from dying from mortal wounds, and he's lived with them so long he might not know what to do without them), but with them he's slowly tearing himself apart from the inside out due to their constant tormenting. Metaphorically or literally is anyone's guess at the moment.

"Autophagy" (his songs name) is a medical term for "self eat" which normally happens when your body is starved, so it eats it's own cells to survive as long as it can. It can also correlate to certain diseases. Autophagy in these terms might also be referring to emotions. It's possible he's been stewing in any sort of negative emotions to cause such effects. (I.E: Guilt, fear, self worth issues,) which could make his resolve weaker, making it easier for Pabo and Sinfan to torment him/possess him. The longer it goes on, the closer he could be to self destructing.

"A wax figure/a doll is keeping me alive/killing me." Is more related to the demons in my eyes. "Wax figure/a doll" is likely referring to Hyoga. Hyoga could be their only tie to the mortal realm, (Sinfan being more prominent because he was summoned first, and by Hyoga himself.)

It could also mean that they need to inhabit his mind/body in order to survive and make it easier to torment Hyoga. If they both are in Hyoga's mind 24/7 while he suffers from nightmares (which cause lack of sleep, keeping his body in a perpetually weak state), no self worth, and a fragile mental state ("I wanna keep you out of my fragile mind!") while he tears himself apart, it would mean it would be harder to stay with him without something happening.

Due to that, it's likely that the very thing keeping them alive and in the mortal realm is also killing them at the same time.

It may be worth mentioning that a line in Bottom is "You think you're a god to me?" while 9lore translated Rinen's (Möbius') tattoo on his chest, which reads "Be still and know that I am god." It could a a coincidence, but I thought I'd mention it just in case (:

Throughout the entire song the demons are mocking and belittling Hyoga. (I.E: "Defying all logic, you're nothing but evil." "You're so stupid! You scumbag, scumbag, scumbag!") Most of the angry rant type of thing happens when Young Hyoga (tm) is on-screen. (It could be a tactic to make Hyoga not want to remember/manipulate his memories/tear down his resolve even more/or just plain upset him.)

"I mean, who, who, who are you?" It's been made clear that for the longest time (according to WOOMA) Hyoga didn't even remember his own name. "Who are you?" might be Pabo trying to get into Hyoga's head and make him question his own sanity.

"What the hell are you to me?" Implies that Pabo also want Hyoga to question why Pabo is here. Sinfan was summoned by Hyoga, but Pabometh was likely summoned by Sinfan to help tear down Hyoga. That means the two don't have much history, and Hyoga most likely doesn't know why Pabo is here for awhile.

It's "you to me" instead of "me to you" so Pabo could also be trying to get Hyoga to try and notice him in a positive way so that the nightmares stop. I'll expand on that some more a few (a lot) of paragraphs down.

"Inside my heart is- such a rage! Such a rage! So I'll grab you, grasp you, and crush you flat!" Is a line I find interesting. It also leads directing into another line; "The symptom of the unforgettable emotion is my burning intent to murder, which is absolutely right." Pabo would likely be talking about Hyoga, which implies that if he could, Pabo would murder Hyoga himself, but since the "wax figure" is needed to keep both him and his accomplice, Sinfan, alive, he can't.

It also implies that Pabo is extremely angry with Hyoga, for a reason I can't particularly pinpoint, except maybe for the fact that Hyoga's becoming more and more unstable and not safe for Pabo and Sinfan. The only problem is, it's Pabo and Sinfans fault he's like that. They're the ones that chose Hyoga as a vessel while simultaneously destroying him.

However, it's possible that Pabo's aim was to devoid Hyoga of anything and everything, (I.E: memories, emotions, etc. etc.) so that he was just that: a vessel. But with Hyoga being so destructive to himself, the whole plan could have gone awry and Pabo's only thought was how furious he was at Hyoga for messing up his chance to be in the mortal realm undetected for good, meaning he wishes he could destroy Hyoga and just get it over with so him and Sinfan could wait until someone else summoned them so they could take advantage of that.

""How deplorable you are! How deplorable you are!"" Is a line that has a chance of Hyoga himself having said it due to it having quotes on it. It also implies that he he could be fighting back, so his resolve might not crushed completely. However, a show of strength like that would likely just enrage Pabometh even more than he already is. It also doesn't help the positive impression he wants Pabo to have of him.

"You're involving yourself with me again like a clingy, clingy neighbor!" Sounds like Pabo, again, insulting Hyoga. If we go off of another part of this fever dream I've cooked up, (Hyoga not knowing what to do without the demons, but with them destroying himself), sounds like Pabo doesn't want to be with Hyoga anymore, going as far as hating him so much he's festering in it.

The "again" makes it sound like Hyoga's tried to communicate with them more than once, being unsuccessful each time. Hyoga could be trying to latch onto them, either to take them down with him or trying to get the nightmares to stop. Like I said, for a while Hyoga could have been trying to get positive attention and make Pabo like him.

"The low-end is going to manipulate me." Could be Pabo addressing that he knows what Hyoga was trying to do and calling him out for it.

"Brimming with momentary anger, rot away quickly, quickly, quickly!" Again, Pabo is talking about his burning hatred for Hyoga.

"I'm always losing! How, how dare you!" Implies that even with all the nightmares and torment, Hyoga has just enough willpower to keep Pabo from getting his wish, angering him even more.

And finally, a line from Autophagy:

"Oh, rise seeds of evil, bursting with malice!" Might be Hyoga finally giving into the demons and becoming their vessel if they take away his painful memories and stop hurting him.

Pentagram:

["-r Guide(A) N(?)E A(?)R"

"The ability to know wh-"

"Grant me the power to be strong in spirit-"

"Grant me the wisdom to understand-"]

With it over Pabo, it's possible that this was the one that summoned Pabo instead of Sinfan, although with it also under Hyoga, it could be Sinfan's. Who knows, it might also be boths.

In the ending scene with the pentagram, the colors of the other songs are visible, meaning that it's possible all of them are connected.

(I could go on for hours about the small loopholes that I think mean all the songs are connected in specific ways. Either way I know they're all from the same universe.)

With all their colors on it, it might mean they all have a demon of their own.

I'm still working slightly on the pentagram, I'll probably keep ya updated if I can find out what the rest of it says (:

If anyone can find the full version (preferably readable) of the pentagram, that'd be lovely (if it even exists)

(If you find more runes in "Bottom" or another Hiiragi song I'd be happy to see if I can translate it (: I'm not very good though, and I can't speak Japanese-)

English translation of Bottom used by: Tackmyn Y (I don't know where you are but you're a lifesaver)

Find any spelling errors, let me know! I'll see if I can fix 'em (:

If you read this far, what're you doing??

Have an absolutely amazing day!!! <3

[rukakikuchi]

Dreamcatcher Ultimate Timeline theory - Everything is connected

Dreamcatcher has had a lot of interesting storylines with their releases. From the "Nightmare" series which ran from debut all the way to "Piri" (or "Breaking Out" depending on how you view it), to their "Dystopia" trilogy, and even their one off game collaborations.

However, are those game collab MVs really stand alone? Do they play a bigger part in the lore of Dreamcatcher's videography? And does the "Dystopia" trilogy have some connections to the "Nightmare" series? This is a question that has been asked by many.

Personally, I always regarded each storyline as being separate and self contained within their respective narratives. But recently, that's begun to change.

As pointed out in a video by "Sua's SinB" on Youtube, during a VLive, SuA said that the "Nightmare book" which appeared in "Good Night" was one of the most important objects in the lore. We haven't seen the book since "What", so how is the book important to the lore as a whole in regards to subsequent releases?

That's when they pointed out the symbols called "witch glyphs" on one of the pages shown in "Good Night", how it relates to each member, and how it connects the music videos together.

That got me thinking about everything we had seen, from certain dynamics between members' characters, reoccurring scenes or symbols, and even my own past theories. And while the idea that all of Dreamcatcher's MVs are connected isn't a new theory, I'd like to put my own spin on it and give my own personal perspective on what exactly is happening.

To do that, before heading into my full breakdown on the possible timeline, I'd like to give three main points.

1. "Scream" is the beginning of *everything*.

2. JiU and Yoohyeon have parallel/intertwined fates.

3. The girls are being reincarnated all across the timeline.

~~~

Birth of evil

The music video for "Scream" is where we see the catalyst for the creation of Dystopia. In the very first frame, we learn that the light had disappeared and people forgot how to say good things.

However, looking at a broader scale, I believe what we see happen in "Scream" also serves as a precursor to everything that happens across the timeline, not just for the "Dystopia" trilogy, but also the "Nightmare" series and the game collabs (Deja Vu and Rose Blue).

In my previous analysis, I pointed out how Gahyeon was the one who released the evil spirit that corrupted the tree of language and created Dystopia. To me, this feels similar to the story of Pandora's Box.

The world was a paradise, but after Pandora opened the box, evil was unleashed. Gahyeon in "Scream", whether she was tempted by the evil spirit or chose to on her own, had unleashed the curse that could corrupt people's hearts and spread evil, much like Pandora.

Because she did this, Gahyeon faces many hardships in her next lives after "Scream", as a form of karmic punishment for releasing the evil into the world. She was one of the first to be corrupted by the nightmare curse in "Fly High", gets captured by the nightmare twice in "Good Night" (her falling endlessly) and "Piri" (the hand grabbing her and being trapped in a dark room), being suffocated in "Breaking Out", and becoming a target of hateful words in "Boca" and "Odd Eye".

With that in mind, and the supposed time period that "Scream" appears to take place in, I believe that this is the true starting point of Dreamcatcher's world view.

~~~

The sun and the moon

The next part of the major storyline is "Deja Vu". This music video highlights one of the major dynamics in Dreamcatcher's videos; JiU and Yoohyeon.

They are frequently seen together, and seem to display a yin and yang dynamic. Good and evil, light and dark... The moon (JiU) and the sun (Yoohyeon).

Going back to "Sua's SinB"'s analysis, in one of the pages from the "Nightmare book", there are symbols called "witch glyphs" visible. Considering that they are called "witch glyphs", and we see the girls performing witchcraft in some of the MVs, as well as adding my personal theory that the members are a witch coven in "Scream", then perhaps the witches were the ones who created the book.

Now onto the glyphs themselves. They have specific meanings and seem to be tied to each of the members. And guess what JiU and Yoohyeon's glyphs were.

JiU's was a combination of "moon" and "mirror", and Yoohyeon's was "light" or "sun". Because their links represent duality of day and night, and the moon reflects the sun's light like a mirror, this means JiU and Yoohyeon are deeply connected.

However, in "Deja Vu", Yoohyeon gets corrupted by the evil that was released in "Scream" and betrays JiU and all her friends. She was selfish; she wanted power. That made her heart become vulnerable to the evil's influence and she ultimately betrayed everyone, left alone in a kingdom of ruin.

This, once again, turns into a sort of karmic destiny that influences JiU and Yoohyeon's next lives. JiU is trying to save Yoohyeon, but Yoohyeon keeps falling victim to the evil's influence in some way, or is punished for her own mistakes. Yoohyeon is in a constant struggle with her own inner darkness, her inner evil.

However, JiU might have a similar issue that she is running away from rather than confronting it. In "Fly High" and "Piri", we see instances of two JiU's being shown together. However, when JiU sees her doppelganger, she runs away from them.

Let's look at JiU's witch glyph again. It represents the moon and a mirror. The moon doesn't just reflect the light of the sun. There is a dark side, the back of the moon, that isn't shown. Likewise, a mirror can represent two sides of a person. Their shadow to their light; another self inside oneself. Perhaps JiU is afraid of facing this other self, her own inner shadow.

~~~

The endless cycle

The last main point to discuss before heading into the full breakdown of my timeline theory is the idea that all of the girls are being reincarnated multiple times throughout the timeline.

One thing I kept coming back to was the butterfly. Much like how Yoohyeon is closely linked with the spider, JiU is closely linked to the butterfly. We saw them in "Fly High", "Deja Vu", and "Rose Blue". And remember what's something butterflies symbolize? That's right, rebirth.

With each music video, in each story line, we see the girls in a constant struggle of overcoming some form of "evil". In some cases, they became separated or succumbed to the "evil".

Be it nightmares, a dystopian world, or even each other, they were trapped in a never-ending cycle of hardships and pain because of the evil that had escaped into the world.

With all this in mind, let's look at this timeline, from the very beginning...

Scream:

The world is a utopia, full of light and goodness. This world is protected by a group of goddesses, who share a deep connection to a tree called "the tree of language". When people say good things, the tree bears white fruit, but when people say bad things, it bears black fruit. The goddesses protect the balance of good and evil within utopia.

Living in this utopia is a coven of seven (yes, Handong was absent during "Scream" and "Boca", but I'll still be referring to them as seven) witches called "Dreamcatcher" who possess powerful magic. They help the goddesses tend to and protect the tree of language.

One day, however, a young girl who was a friend to the witches died. Left in a vulnerable state due to her sadness, one of the witches (Gahyeon) heard a voice call out to her from the tree. There, she found a strange crystal that resonated a powerful energy.

However, when she touched the crystal, it shattered before her eyes. This released a powerful evil into the world that corrupted the tree and spread into the hearts of many people in utopia. The light vanished and people forgot how to say good things, causing the tree to bear more and more black fruit.

The witches tried to fight the spreading evil, but ultimately became consumed by it and were separated. Now the witches' souls became cursed as an inner evil was born in each of them.

Deja Vu:

Years later, in a grand kingdom, a group of seven friends are having a dinner party. However, inside of one of them, there grew a fruit of evil. Yoohyeon had a selfish desire for power. Even if she had to betray her dear friends, she wanted to obtain power.

So, she killed her friend, JiU the princess, and took control of the throne. She betrayed all of her friends, and was left all alone, haunted by the memories of her biggest mistake.

Fly High:

Time passes, and the knowledge of magic, witches, and curses is long forgotten from human memory. Seven school friends live together in a boarding school manor, spending their days together in peace. One day, one of the girls, JiU, finds a spider while everyone is playing outside. She feels a strong connection to it, a sense of protection.

However, unbeknownst to her, one of her friends, Yoohyeon kills it for fun, because she has selfishness in her heart. The death of the spider caused a curse to be released and come after the girls, one by one.

The curse drew out an inner evil from each girl and corrupted them slowly by feeding off their deepest fears. To stop the curse from escaping into the world, JiU locked the gates to the manor.

With help from Siyeon, SuA finds the book of nightmares, written by a coven of witches from long ago, the Dreamcatchers.

Chase Me + Good Night:

Now, JiU and her friends have become nightmares, trapped in another plane of reality. In this world, they are like ghosts, and can only interact with people through haunting their dreams. One day, a young man starts investigating these girls and trying to capture them. He is a ghost hunter.

He finds a book full of strange text and pictures. It is the book of nightmares that was found by SuA. Using the book, he traps two of the girls in their worst nightmares, and chases after two more.

Three of the girls manage to retrieve the book and free their friends, trapping the man in the nightmare world so they can return to reality. In the process, however, they lose the nightmare book, never to be found again.

You and I:

The girls continue their peaceful days together at a photography studio. However, there are still remnants of evil within them, as Siyeon is seen burning a photo. Then, Yoohyeon sees a woman who transforms into a spider and attacks her. She is the spider queen, and she took revenge on Yoohyeon who killed the spider that was meant to protect the girls from the nightmare curse.

Now Yoohyeon's soul is trapped in the dreamworld again. JiU and her friends perform a ritual to try and save her, but are unsuccessful. Yoohyeon remains in a deep slumber, stuck in the nightmare realm once again.

What + Piri / Breaking Out:

JiU and the others begin having strange, lucid dreams. Yoohyeon has been trying to reach out to them while still trapped in the nightmare realm. JiU sees Yoohyeon in her dream, since she has the strongest connection to her out of all the members.

Eventually, the girls reach the nightmare realm to save Yoohyeon. They come face to face with their greatest fears and overcome them one by one to reunite with Yoohyeon. After they reunited, they free themselves from the nightmare and return to the real world, together again.

Boca:

After confronting their inner demons, the girls start to realize how the world they're in is full of evil people that hurt the lives of others through harmful words. They lead a movement to shut the mouths of those who spread hate, which helps the goddesses purify the tree of language. However, they are also made a target for slander.

Rose Blue:

Far in the future, a strange crystal traps the souls of six friends in a dreamlike state. JiU, the leader of the group, realizes what's going on and breaks out of the illusion to save her friends. She wields a gun which can help her friends break free from the dream. However, she only has five bullets.

When she re-enters the illusion realm, she faces her friends and her sister, Gahyeon. Holding back tears as her sister reaches out, she shoots the gun. She freed all of her friends, but had no bullets left to save herself, becoming trapped in the crystal as her friends reawaken in the real world.

Odd Eye:

Now, further in the future, technology has taken control of everyone's lives. The advancement of technology and social media causes hate and evil to spread more rapidly across the world, further corrupting the tree of language more than ever before.

The goddesses watch on as their hope of finding their paradise, utopia, fades away. Because in the end, the Dreamcatchers who overcame many hardships, could never find the utopia they once dreamed of.

+++

And that concludes this theory! Hope you all enjoyed it! Honestly, I can't wait to see what kind of storyline Dreamcatcher will choose to do next. Whatever they decide, no doubt it will be awesome!

Feel free to share your own thoughts and theories! Until then... Sweet dreams! 🌙✨

[bluegarners]

AHHHH YOUR CARD LOOKS SO GOOD!!!! maybe hope is scary with young bruce and dick ?

Ugh, dust, you know I’m such a sucker for them!! Thank you so much for sending in your request, I hope you enjoy it~ @dustorange

Hope Is Scary

Bruce never really realized how quiet the Manor was until he began to notice the echoing of padded footsteps that weren’t his own. Alfred was easy to tell, polished shoes with prim heels step step stepping along waxed hallways and carpeted floors. Easy and comforting in a way that Bruce was accustomed to and found a strange warmth in. Alfred had been wearing the same brand of shoes since coming to work for Wayne Manor. The same color and shoe size, and though Alfred had lost some weight over the years, he still carried himself like the young man at heart he’s always been.

But the additional pair of footsteps was new to Bruce and the dim creaking of stairs and uneven floor boards made that apparent to him. 

Dick didn’t like to wear socks. He said they were distracting and made it easier for him to slip and fall when he was running around and trying to do intricate flips off of the railways and walls. When Bruce suggested that, maybe, he just not do those things, Dick had leveled a look at him that made him feel as if he had just stepped upon his parents’ graves. Which, perhaps, he did. This was Dick’s livelihood. All he had ever known. To ask him to stop flipping and twirling was like asking him to stop breathing. It just couldn’t be done.

Bruce buys him some socks with rubber pieces on the bottoms as a compromise. Dick wears them only once before stowing them away in a drawer. He says he doesn’t like not being able to feel the floor.

And maybe that’s something Bruce should have been paying more attention to. That key part in Dick’s reasoning. He’s new at this though. New to being a p... a guardian. To being responsible for the well being of another. Bruce doesn’t interact with children. Ever. Sure, he’ll smile at the camera and kiss a couple babies on the head so the Gotham Gazette has a nice picture and headline, but he’s never actually had to take care of a child before. What do nine year olds like? What do they do? Are there certain rules he has to follow? Rules Dick has to follow? It’s not like Bruce can go up to him and ask what his parents usually did because that would be horribly insensitive and Bruce doesn’t want to replace Dick’s parents. He doesn’t. 

It’s only been a month since Dick arrived at the Manor. A little more than three since the Grayson tragedy. The weeks in between were days Dick did not like to talk about. Why Gotham thought a juvenile detention center was the next best thing to house an orphan still infuriates Bruce. He tries his best not to think about it. Dick doesn’t seem to be bothered much by it, however. In all actuality, Dick has been remarkably resilient so far.

Again, maybe that’s something Bruce should have been paying more attention to. The stability factor. It didn’t align with everything that had happened recently, but Bruce had taken it as a sign of hope for the small boy. That perhaps he wouldn’t be as badly affected by the murders or the things that happened afterwards. Of course, these were all stupid and foolish notions Bruce had convinced himself of. He’s studied psychology before, knows the signs and symptoms of PTSD, but Bruce kicks himself sometimes for not having invested enough time into child psychology. 

Bruce’s room is three doors down from Dick’s. Between them is a guest bathroom, a guest bedroom, and a spare closet Alfred likes to keep his dusters in. They had allowed the nine year old to choose his own room and when he had realized Bruce would be down the hallway from him, a strange look had passed over his face. Dick had looked up and down the corridor, something similar to trepidation flashing across his young features, and Bruce had glanced around too, searching for the thing that had caused that look. It was just an empty hallway though, a picture here and there of a late Wayne or some sort of art piece Bruce has never really bothered to look at.

Briefly, Bruce had allowed a sliver of panic to settle into his chest at the idea that it was himself that was the problem. Perhaps Dick didn’t want to be so close to Bruce, a near perfect stranger offering a house to live in, and maybe three doors just simply wasn’t enough for the boy to feel comfortable. The initial anxiousness had passed after a week though, Dick showing no further outwardly signs of distress at their proximity. In fact, he was a rather cheerful child.

Was, being the unfortunate key word.

The small but sure steps that echo down the hallway at twelve thirteen a.m are Bruce’s first clue that something is wrong. It’s not uncommon for any one of them to get up in the middle of the night, seeking an out from the nightmares or sleepless dreams. Alfred’s habits usually just had him retiring into bed late and getting up early, something Bruce has been trying to coax him out of by taking melatonin pills. Bruce himself is a deep sleeper, his REM cycle taking only about ninety minutes to take over, but even then he can’t seem to sleep more than five or six hours at a time. 

The smallest things will forcibly wake him up, now ingrained into him not to ignore them ever , and that has resulted in him listening very carefully to the patter of tiny feet across wooden floors. It’s Dick, Bruce knows this, and it’s not uncommon for Dick to get up late in the night for water or exploration. The boy was still learning to accept the fact that neither Bruce or Alfred would be angry with him for exploring the Manor, peering into all the rooms and invading the attics. Bruce had done the same thing when he was younger and he does remember it being quite fun, but Dick carries the notion with him that one little slip up will spell out his removal from his new home.

Bruce struggles with reassuring the boy. He hasn’t made any head-way as of yet.

The footsteps stop outside his door and Bruce can see the shadow of small feet beneath the gap. The lights are on, dimmed in the hallway, and the figure stands there for several moments, refusing to move. The handle shutters, like someone grasping at it but failing to fully turn the mechanism, and Bruce sits up in bed unsure at what to expect. The handle slowly turns again, jerking back upwards when the door opens a crack, and Dick stands in between the door and the corridor. His slight figure blocks out some of the light, shadowing the child’s face, and Dick continues to stand there, seemingly staring into the void that is Bruce’s room.

“Hey,” Bruce whispers, completely lost on what he should be doing or saying. “Are you okay, bud?”

Is he allowed to say that? Is it alright for him to use nicknames yet? Bruce has heard Alfred refer to Dick as “lad” or “chum” a few times, old English nicknames second nature, but Bruce has been careful not to overstep his bounds. He still doesn’t know what the boy thinks of him. What he thinks of his… guardian. 

No sooner do those thoughts enter and leave his mind does Dick turn around and begin walking away. He pads away almost as noisily as he came and Bruce tosses off his sheets to follow the boy. Just as Bruce steps out his door, he sees Dick re-enter his own room, leaving the door wide open. The lights aren’t on in Dick’s bedroom, bathed in darkness, and as Bruce takes measured steps to check in with the boy, he hears Dick begin to cry.

It’s a sad and hollow cry, one that Bruce himself is much too familiar with, and his heart skips a beat as he fumbles with the light switch. Dick is sitting on the floor, legs splayed out in front of him like he’s fallen, and for a moment Bruce wonders if he did fall and hurt himself. He crouches down beside the boy, hands hovering and unsure of what’s appropriate for him to do.

“Dick?” he asks, trying to look into the boy’s eyes. “What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

The nine year old ignores him though, continuing to cry and look down at the carpeted flooring. The tears that pour down his face and drip off of his chin sadden Bruce deeply, a strange pang in his chest as he merely watches the boy sob in earnest. Should he get Alfred? No, the man gets little sleep as it is. Besides, Bruce is an adult. He can handle this, he’s handled much worse before.

“Dick,” Bruce tries again, “Bud, please look at me. What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

He’s ignored again, the boy’s small shoulders shaking beneath the weight of his tears. Cautiously, Bruce reaches a finger under Dick’s chin, tilting it upwards so he can see his face. Dick’s eyes are open but there’s a lull in them, like he’s not quite focusing on anything at all and is merely just staring off into space. They contract and expand like normal though and carefully Bruce waves a hand in front of his face. This seems to be the wrong thing to do as Dick flinches back, a whimper escaping him. At the sound, Bruce feels himself pale a bit.

“Sorry,” he is quick to rush out. “I didn’t- sorry. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

It’s like Dick can’t hear him though as he continues to whine, hands fidgeting with nothing and grasping at air. His mouth moves in patterns like he wants to speak but has forgotten the right words, and his eyes dart about as if picking one thing to look at only to find it gone the next. It scares Bruce. He doesn’t know what’s going on. What’s happening? What is happening? 

Despite his better judgment, Bruce reaches out a hand again, gently placing it on the ankle of one of Dick’s splayed legs. He’s wearing SpongeBob themed sleep-wear, and though Bruce nor Alfred know hardly anything about the cartoon, Dick’s smile had bloomed at the sight of them and had shyly given them each a hug. It was like receiving a… gift. Full of love and gratefulness that Bruce isn’t used to getting. It was warm. Genuine. Kind. He places his hand, that is neither warm nor kind because he has hands made for punching and handling sharp things, atop the ankle-cuff of the silly pajama bottoms and Dick screams. 

Bruce jerks his hand back, immediately shuffling backwards, and he’s about to say something, say anything, say sorry because he’s still new at this, still doesn’t know where the boundaries are, still doesn’t know if Dick is even happy here at the Manor, but Dick is still screaming and wailing. He’s staring off into a dark corner of the suddenly too massive room and a chasm yawns before Bruce as he struggles with the urge to help and the knowledge that it’s not wanted. He steals a glance towards his open hand, half-way expecting to see blood or angry red or something that would tell him what he did, how he hurt the boy, because that wasn’t his intention but he should have known. He should have known.

His hands are not made to be gentle.

Soft and thunderous footsteps pound against the wooden floors and Bruce surges upwards as Alfred enters the room, robe half on and feet clad in old gray slippers. His crinkled eyes are wide open, searching for the distress that had announced itself so loudly, and with a presence of mind Bruce himself isn’t capable of having at the moment, flicks on the light switch to the room.

“Good heavens,” Alfred cries as he finally sees the sobbing child. “Master Dick, what in the world-”

Finally, Alfred’s eyes flick over to Bruce’s guilty and hunched form, a hand hidden behind his back and an awful look of shame shrouding his sharp face. “I don’t know what I did,” Bruce says, shaky and uncertain. “I didn’t hurt- I didn’t mean to hurt him, Alfred.”

The butler just frowns though, neither unkind nor scolding. Instead of a lecture or some reprimand, Alfred cautiously approaches the nine year old, who is still staring sullenly into the far corner of the room and heaving with great hiccups that expand his small frame to a great degree that was surely painful. Carefully, in full view of the child, Alfred lowers himself to the ground and assesses with an experienced and all-too-ready gaze. 

“Master Dick?” he calls softly. “Can you hear me?”

There is no response other than the continuing tears and rough hiccups that echo in the much too wide room. One would think with the impossibly thick pillows, soft blankets, and even softer still carpet, sound would travel as if stuck in a tube, but each cry is as loud as a gunshot in Bruce’s mind. He caused this. He did this. He… didn’t mean to.

Bruce is a man composed of glass shards and copper stained cement. There is nothing gentle about him. He should not have tried to be.

Alfred stands then, hands on his knees as he heaves himself off of the ground. Were his joints bothering him? Bruce thinks he should look into getting another physical therapist for the butler. Maybe a chiropractor or massage therapist as well. It couldn’t be good to crouch and bend so often and the man has-

“Master Bruce,” Alfred says, “a word, please.”

At the beckon, the younger man takes a few steps forward, meeting the butler halfway to the door. The brighter lights from Dick’s room bleed out into the dimmer hallway, a shadow of sorts created between the two sources as their figures shroud the doorway. Carpet meets wood and Bruce wonders if Dick chose the softer texture for a reason. If he chose the cushioned floor so he’d have something nicer to land on when he falls. 

“I don’t like it when I can’t feel the floor, Bruce. I just don’t.”

Bruce sighs heavily and with the knowledge that he was never fit to be any sort of guardian to Dick. He had fooled himself into believing he could save this child from the same fate he’s cursed himself into, save the child from years of torment and ache that came from the bones of murder and the empty graves of justice and peace. Who was he to think he could save someone from that when he was still stuck in that chasm himself, still struggling to use these scarred hands of his for anything else other than exacting his vengeance in the dark night.

“Alfred,” and Bruce hates the way his voice cracks but he’s so lost and still so young himself, “I didn’t-”

“No,” the butler sighs, placing his own calloused hand on Bruce’s sagged shoulder, “No, you didn’t, my boy. I know you would never hurt that child, not if you could stop yourself, and even then that would be some fight.”

“But, Dick, he’s-”

“He’s fine, Master Bruce, I promise you that. He won’t even remember any of this come morning.”

The younger man looks up, still so horribly ashamed and confused. “I don’t understand. He’s crying. He- He screamed when I touched him, Alfred. He’s terrified of me. I must have done something to make him so scared. Maybe this was all a mistake. I thought I could help him by bringing him here, but I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?”

Alfred’s face is a weathered one. The creases in between his brows tell of many nights spent thinking, frowning at the future and unknowns. The crow's feet that dance and jump at the corners of his eyes also tell of many days spent laughing, smiling, embracing the present. He, too, has his own scars to tell about stories that are best left unsaid, marks that are proof of a life that could have been but would never be. There are a thousand words alone that can be thought of through the visage of the old butler’s weathered face, but sometimes, it’s good to say them aloud. Sometimes, they are needed, deserved, to be said aloud. 

“My boy,” Alfred says, a softness in his eyes belaying the heartache in his face, “you have done a tremendous thing, bringing Master Dick here. A tremendous and kind thing. In the few weeks that boy has been here, I have seen remarkable growth and healing. This,” Alfred motions to the crying nine year old still on the floor, “is all part of that. This is a sign of hope, Master Bruce.”

“He’s frightened of me, Alfred. He… I’m not good for him.”

“These are simply night terrors, Master Bruce. When you were a child, you had them too. I know it’s… scary to look upon but you must understand that they are here because the boy finally feels safe. Master Dick finally has a place, a home , to feel safe and happy in once more.”

Dick wails again, forlorn and raw, and Bruce flinches at the sound. The palm of his hand stings with the phantom touch of soft fabric and the echoes of wrong-doings.

“What do I do?” he asks, head bowed and voice hardly above a murmur. “I don’t know how to help him.”

Alfred squeezes his shoulder, a grounding and solid gesture. “For now, my boy, you must merely be there for him as I once was for you.” Alfred sighs, releasing Bruce’s shoulder and letting his arm fall back to his side. “Talk to him. The terror will be over soon enough, but in the meantime, comfort the boy. Coax him back to bed. This will pass, Master Bruce, but please. Do take it as a sign of hope for the boy. He is in desperate need of it.”

Alfred’s muted footsteps go back out into the corridor and Bruce is left standing halfway between the open doorway and the weeping nine year old. The carpet feels like grain beneath Bruce’s toes as he shifts to face the boy, tugging against his feet as he takes the three steps that distance them. Slowly, gingerly, Bruce lowers himself to the floor and criss-crosses his legs. He does not touch the boy, does not dare get close enough to even consider it, and folds his hands together in his lap. The bumps and fine lines he feels on his own palms make him cringe and he hides them deeper into his knees.

Dick doesn’t stop crying. His bright blue eyes stay transfixed into the far corner of his bedroom and Bruce wonders what he sees. What captures his attention so completely and holds onto him like that of cold hands and wilted flowers. Alfred said Dick won’t remember tonight. Won’t remember coming to Bruce’s room. Won’t remember cowering away from Bruce’s touch. A small part of Bruce hopes that he doesn’t. Hopes that tonight remains forgotten in oblivion, the only shred of evidence of it all being the wet stains on SpongeBob pajamas.

Dick mutters something, voice small and a jumble of nonsense, and Bruce’s heart clenches in his chest. His hand twitches to wipe away the salty tears that slide down the boy’s face but Bruce resists the urge and continues to sit motionless. Yes, it was better to have this chasm between them. Dick is kind and pure, composed of things that would only become crippled when exposed to what makes up Bruce. 

He was not made to be gentle.

Bruce sat with the nine year old into the night, well after the terror had stopped and Dick had fallen asleep once more. He leaves before the first creep of morning, slinking back into his room, and splashing cool water on his face. By eight, Alfred is ringing him to come down for breakfast and with heavy limbs and an even heavier heart, Bruce lumbers down towards the kitchen. 

He freezes when he spots Dick happily munching away on eggs and toast, mussed up and pillow-worn hair splayed in different directions. He sees Bruce as well and gives a sloppy wave, sleep still tugging at his small arms and droopy eyelids. 

“Mornin’, Bruce,” he says. “Alfie made toast.”

And it’s just as Alfred said it would be. Dick doesn’t remember any of it. Bruce does. He always will. But this is hope, right? This is what healing is: searching eyes. Tears. Screams. Terror. Helplessness. 

This is hope, Bruce reminds himself later that night as his door creaks open again and footsteps slap against the wood floors. Dick screams at him again and howls at the walls, grieving over things he won’t remember in the morning but will bounce around in Bruce’s head for weeks after. 

This is hope. This is healing. This is Dick feeling safe and comforted. It has to be, it has to be.

But it scares Bruce.

[the-l-spacer]

Summary: After a battle goes wrong, Madeleine realises that he's not as infallible a knight as he'd hoped.

(He deals with it badly. Espresso helps.)

haha madeleine hurt/comfort time.

-

Madeleine wasn’t okay.

Madeleine wasn’t okay, and yet, he knew it hardly mattered. Not when the battle had gone this wrong.

Surrounding him were remnants of the fight. Ripped pages of monster books that snapped at their heels now drifted slowly to the ground, the air clouded with dust from collapsed bookshelves, the wisps of the nightmare-ridden librarian’s howling specter dissipating slowly. Behind him, his fallen companions; Custard, Chilli Pepper and Gingerbrave.

The companions that he had failed to protect.

The only other cookie that remained standing was Espresso, though the mage was hardly in any position to help. Bleeding from several places, and swaying on his feet, his eyes unfocused.

First order of business, help the mage off his feet.

Madeleine limped over, gritting his teeth whenever his weight landed on his shattered right ankle. He slung an arm around Espresso. “Alright, I’ll get you somewhere you can rest. Then, I’ll tend to the others.”

Espresso did not respond, only sinking ever-so-slightly against Madeleine. Together, they hobbled over to the nearest bench, where Madeleine set his friend gently down.

“K-knight. You need to rest, too,” Espresso finally rasped. “You’re in no state to move. The others will wake up on their own.”

“There’s no guarantee that they will. The librarian hit them hard.” Madeleine felt panic begin to rise from his chest, his usual eloquence leaving him. “They looked bad. Really bad. I must go to them. I must.”

He got back up roughly, batting away Espresso’s thin, brown hand that reached out to hold him back.

In his head, over and over again, The young cookies are dying. Dead. And it’s all your fault.

“No. No. Nononono.” He reached Custard first, knelt gracelessly on the dank, carpeted floor beside the would-be boy king. With hands that shook from panic and pain, he drew the last of his healing potions from his pouch, and tipped half of it into the boy’s mouth. “T-The Divine, please spare your grace to save this child. If it be your will, if it be your will-”

A sliver of light filtered in through the dust-caked windows, warming his skin. Sleepily, Custard’s eyes opened.

The relief he felt nearly made him double over, but he knew he couldn’t spare a moment to rejoice.

“Heal the others,” he softly said. Standing on knees that trembled, he made his way to Chilli Pepper. When he first met the de-facto caretaker of the young band of cookies, he’d turned his nose up at the common, mercenary thief. Yet, over their journey she had proven to genuinely care for the children she’d unwittingly found under her charge, and Madeleine knew she could be trusted to take care of them now, when they were at their weakest.

His left knee hit the ground at her side, and he gave Chilli Pepper the dregs of the red potion. The thief’s eyes flew open. “Madeleine…? You.. what’s going on…” As memories of the fight returned, she sat bolt upright. “Gingerbrave! Custard! The stupid brats insisted on coming with us to fight, and now-”

“-Custard is awake. Gingerbrave is still out,” he hoarsely interjected. “Go to him.”

Ordinarily, Chilli Pepper would have scoffed at taking orders from a toff. Now, she only nodded, and stumbled to her feet.

Madeleine was left, kneeling gingerly on the floor, lacking the strength to get up, willing himself to stay conscious. As if through water, he could hear the sounds of pounding footsteps. Wizard and Strawberry, who had stayed behind where they had made camp, arrived at the scene.

Distantly, he heard the cookies crowd around Gingerbrave, saw the healing glow as Custard laid his hands over the boy. He prayed to The Divine that it would be enough.

A collective cheer rose from the group, and Madeleine let his head hang in relieved gratitude.

A while later, he became aware of several presences around him. “Mister Madeleine? I’m going to heal you now!” The voice of Custard cut partly through the fog in his mind, and he gave a small nod.

He felt hands — child’s hands, too young and small to have to face the battlefield like this, and yet, unshaken in his determination to do so — rest on his shoulders.

And bit by bit, the pain was lifted. Cuts sealed, bruises faded from purple, to yellow, and then, nothing, the gash around his midsection closed up, his ankle righted itself, and the sudden lightness that he felt left him giddy.

He slumped forward, and found himself caught by a pair of familiar arms. “Don’t pass out on me, Madeleine” He looked up, and there Espresso was, brown eyes filled with concern.

“Espresso…” Madeleine murmured. Then, noticing the others around him, he tried to right himself, despite the churning of his stomach, “Espresso! How kind of you to catch me. I must say, I’m much obliged!”

Upon hearing him speak, the cookies let out a breath of relief. Gingerbrave threw his arms around the paladin, shouting, “I’m so glad you’re okay!”

Before he could respond in kind, Chilli Pepper quickly pried Gingerbrave off. “Hey! The guy needs some space. Let’s go back to camp, yeah?” A responding chorus of cheers rose up from the kids, and they began running back the way they came, the lure of warm food and rest drawing them away from Madeleine and Espresso, still kneeling amongst the carnage.

Madeleine watched as Gingerbrave, who just minutes before had been nothing but a crumpled heap, raced the others, darting between bookshelves, yelling and laughing. He saw Custard bossing the others around playfully, as if the very same did not happen to him.

Espresso’s hand cupped his face, gently turning it back to his. “Madeleine, are you certain that you’re ‘okay’. You seem… unlike yourself.”

Upon hearing the other cookie’s words, the weight of his guilt doubled on his shoulders, and he sagged. “I failed them, Espresso.” He whispered. “I swore I would protect them at all costs, but then…”

The specter of the librarian, dwarfing the bookshelves of the Forgotten Academy’s library. Its ghastly form ranting and raving over distant memories of noisy students,. Flinging wild, relentless projectiles the size and weight of bricks at the party before it.

Custard going down under the barrage. Gingerbrave and Chilli Pepper’s anguished screams as they saw their friend fall, before swiftly meeting the same fate.

His breathing quickened as scenario after scenario flashed before his eyes. If the potion had been too weak, if The Divine hadn't answered, if Custard and Chilli Pepper had been too slow in stabilising Gingerbrave.

Dimly, he could hear Espresso’s voice. “Madeleine? Madeleine! Listen to me, you’re spiralling, you foolish knight!”

His heart racing, he laughed, high and unnatural. “Yes, I’ve been foolish, haven’t I? If I hadn’t been so slow, so weak, so foolish, perhaps none of this would have happened. Perhaps, perhaps if I hadn’t been such a failure of a protector!”

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that!” Espresso said, panicking, mentally combing for books he’d read on how to deal with a situation such as this. “Okay. You need to breathe. Can you breathe with me? In for three, then hold it for four counts, then let it out in five? Can I hold you?”

Everything was too much. Too much and Madeleine was shaking and he wanted to scream or cry or both but all he did was give a tight nod.

Arms encircled his shoulders, warm and feeling like home, and he almost threw them off because how could someone like Espresso want someone like him, someone who had failed so badly in his oath, who, through incompetence nearly caused the death of children?

“I- I- Espresso, it's my fault,” he gasped, “my fault.”

Espresso’s voice was soft. “It wasn’t your fault, Madeleine. Now breathe with me. In… and hold… and out.”

Madeleine tried to match the other cookie’s breaths, and after a while, his own breathing slowed.

They stayed there, simply breathing together. Then, Espresso repeated, “It wasn’t your fault. None of us were prepared for this. Even with the extent of my skill, I nearly perished trying to defeat that… that thing. You did the best you could.”

“I promised myself, when I first knew that the cookies I’d be escorting to the Vanilla Kingdom were children, that I’d defend them. I’d take the blows so they didn’t have to.”

“And you have.”

“But it wasn’t enough.” The tears came, pooling in his eyes and streaming down his cheeks. “In the end, it wasn’t enough.”

Wordlessly, Espresso’s arms tightened around him, and Madeleine collapsed against him, face pressed to Espresso’s chest, tears wetting the front of his robe.

Silence, but for Madeleine’s soft sobs. Espresso closed his eyes, and continued, “I’ve never said this before, but I suppose there’s no other time but this. You’re the-” He grimaced slightly against the next words, unused to such openness. “-The strongest, bravest cookie I know. I don’t know no one else so willing to throw themselves in front of others to defend them. Foolhardy as all hell, but brave.”

A choked, disbelieving laugh. “Really.”

“Really,” he affirmed.

“And what of today,” Madeleine said, “If- when the ‘brave’ defender fails to defend.”

"You forgive yourself. You train, become stronger, and do better. You thank the stars that everyone made it out alive. There’s no use dwelling on ‘if’s. I know I'm a damn hypocrite for saying this, but failure doesn't doom you." A sound of incredulity from Madeleine. "It's something I struggle with too, but I do remember Latte telling me something of this sort... Our failures don't define us. We- you are enough, just as you are."

They remained that way, Madeleine clinging to Espresso until his tears slowed. A few minutes passed, perhaps more. Faintly, Madeleine said, “...my leg’s fallen asleep.”

Espresso chuckled. “We should probably get up, then.”

The two cookies helped each other to their feet, and began the slow walk back to camp, in companionable quiet that followed. Espresso chanced a look at Madeleine. The paladin was running a hand through dishevelled hair, cleaning up his appearance so the others wouldn’t worry. His red-rimmed eyes fixed on him. “Thank you,” he murmured, “for calming me down. For… for your words.”

“Don’t think I didn’t mean every one of them.”

Madeleine took Espresso’s hand in his, squeezed briefly, and let go.

“...Besides,” the mage smiled impishly. “What else are boyfriends for?”

He strode ahead, leaving Madeleine trailing behind, gobsmacked, his mouth forming the word ‘boyfriend’ over and over, a stupid grin eventually spreading across the paladin's face.

After all, sometimes what one needed to feel better was warm reassurance, and sometimes, one needed a surprising kick to the system. And like all good coffee, it was Espresso’s pleasure to provide both.

[ladykissingfish]

Bedtime with the Akatsuki (Part 1/2)

Pein Nagato worked hard to put together the group known as the Akatsuki, but he works even harder to keep them all together. It’s difficult, considering the group contains so many clashing sets of personalities, so many different desires and beliefs. Nagato has read before that sharing a meal can foster a sense of bonding and communication within a group of diverse people, so he makes it a rule that whoever is home in the evenings must sit together at the table and share dinner together. The others balked at this at first, but after several first disastrous attempts (and several wonderful meals put forth by Konan) it quickly became something everyone looked forward to. For an hour, negativity could be dropped, rivalries and grudges temporarily forgotten as the group broke bread with one another. The Pein-body doesn’t eat, but Nagato listens through him, and is able to see these people that he chose to serve his cause, as PEOPLE. After dinner, after making sure that everyone is clear on the next day’s upcoming missions, the Pein-body goes to his room, and shuts down for the evening; and Nagato spends the night in much-needed sleep. Sasori Sasori doesn’t eat, so unless he’s feeling particularly bored/in want of some company, he won’t join the others for dinner. Sasori partakes in bathing rituals every night, although not in the way an organic human does; he keeps himself clean with scented wood-centric polishes. He’s surprisingly vain of his red hair, and will comb/wash and dry, with real shampoos, each night. Also spends a lot of time cleaning up Hiroku, as this is the main form that everybody sees him in. What’s “bedtime”? This man/boy/puppet doesn’t sleep. However, if asked Sasori would state that nighttime is his favorite time of the day. Everybody else is either asleep or on an overnight mission, meaning the hideout is quiet and Sasori can work on his puppets uninterrupted. If he knows that he and his partner have a mission coming up the next morning, he will sit with the maps and carefully plot out the quickest, most convenient route for them to take to reach their destination. During the long night, or during a lull in his work, Sasori might pause and go outside, sitting on a tree stump and staring up at the inky sky. Evenings remind him of happier times with his grandmother, who used to tell him stories about the Gods who resided amongst the stars. Foolish, maybe, and made-up, obviously; but still immensely satisfying to a little boy who needed to be distracted from the pain of missing his mother and father. Sometimes Sasori will be joined by the insomniac Itachi, and the two will sit quietly side by side, both lost in their own thoughts (but grateful for the company). Deidara Besides being young, there’s another reason why Deidara is so slender; he barely eats as much as he should, or when he should, or WHAT he should. If left to his own devices at night, the kid will sit on his bed and eat snacks. Chips, candies, pastries; Deidara has almost as bad a proclivity for sweets and junk food as Tobi, although he would never admit this. If it’s one of the fabled Family Dinner™️ nights, he will join the others ... but between him and Hidan fighting to make their voices the loudest at the table, neither gets much food into their mouths (which is a shame, because whatever Konan makes is always delicious). Beauty like Deidara’s doesn’t just happen; it takes a lot of meticulous prep work and a very disciplined routine to keep the blonde looking the way he does. While he saves the majority of his work for the morning, one thing he can’t neglect in the evenings is his hair. Dividing the locks into sections, combing, oiling, and brushing until it shines; by the end Deidara’s arms feel ready to fall off ((again)), but it’s worth it. He also takes care of his eyes; nobody knows this but Deidara has suffered from severe dry eye since he was a kid. He puts in eye drops each night, and gently massages the muscle to keep them vital. As he goes through his routines, he (very softly) sings. To the others,

he’s always maintained that he doesn’t remember anything about his parents; but in reality, he can vividly remember his mother. And mom liked to sing. Before bed he also likes to get in some exercise (push-ups mostly, as he’s trying to strengthen his arms back up). If he’s in a rare good mood, he’ll allow Tobi to sit on his floor and talk to him for a bit. He’s been made to work with this guy for a while, and he stills knows almost nothing about him. Sometimes Deidara thinks he’s just a simple-minded buffoon, but sometimes he seems like ... more. Sometimes the veil is lifted and Deidara sees glimpses of a very different Tobi. A calm Tobi, a quiet Tobi. A Tobi who had a damn brain on his head. Sometimes Deidara thinks that the guy might be — but then the idiocy comes back in full force and Deidara just sighs and tells the kid to go to bed. It takes FOREVER for the artist to fall asleep (his thoughts are always racing so fast that it’s hard for him to shut them off entirely), but once he does, he’s down for the count. He’s learned the hard way that when he sleeps he has to wear gloves on both hands, because the mouths on Lefty and Righty have the unfortunate habit of drooling, and Deidara doesn’t like waking up in a soggy mess. He’s also learned that he has to lock his door, or he risks the chance of being visited by prankster Hidan or Mr. I-Had-A-Nightmare-Senpai-Can-I-Sleep-With-You- Tobi. Itachi Itachi is not much one for eating a big meal at night ... well, at ANY time, really. He can be coaxed by Kisame or Konan to eat snatches of things at the beginning or end of dinner, but you’ll never see this guy with a full plate (or a full belly). After “dinner”, one of the few joys in the young brunette’s life is an occasional nightly bath ((as opposed to his normal routine of morning showers)). Steaming hot water, scented oils, time to wash his hair and moisturize his face — the only time anybody has ever seen Itachi lose his cool calmness was the time that Tobi broke the bathtub and Itachi couldn’t take a single night-bath for the week. But as for sleep, well; Itachi has been existing off of three hours a night, MAX, since before he’d even joined the Akatsuki. Nobody can figure out how he lives like this, unless the Sharingan gives the guy some sort of magical staying-awake powers. And to make matters worse, he’s an ultra-light slumberer; even the tiniest of noises will have his eyes wide open and his ears straining in the darkness to identify possible danger or threats. To compensate for the lack of good rest, Itachi will spend a good deal of time BEFORE laying down in meditation. Being able to put his mind fully at ease, even if he can’t achieve the same for his body, is what keeps him from going completely insane. Although he doubts that the others care about his well-being, in truth everybody expresses some mild concern for Itachi’s worrisome habits. Kisame has even approached Sasori, who is a master herbalist, about making a sleeping pill that he could slip into Itachi’s nightly cup of tea. Sasori won’t do it, because he has no desire to drug his fellow teammate — but he IS working on a tea variant itself that might help Itachi catch a few more Zzz’s per night.

[votederpycausemufins]

and you thought we would have less angst~! lol nope!

@petrichormeraki @helleborusangel 

Grifter left briefly and returned with Sefter and Grifect, taking them over to where Grian and Mumbo had taken Jrum. “Oh I had the best idea! Since you have your kids and Sense and I have ours, they could be best friends! I’m sure they can get along great!”

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea right now.” Mumbo said, keeping Jrum close to him. “Jrum is very vulnerable right now and-”

“I kinda do want to play.” Jurm spoke up, tugging on Mumbo’s pant leg. “It was something nice I got to do when I was with d- uh… Bad.”

Mumbo hesitated, but then nodded. “I guess it probably wouldn’t hurt. But if anything happens to Jrum-!”

“Oh calm down, I won’t do anything to him.” Grifter replied. “Besides, I’m sure he wouldn’t let me.” And he pointed behind him to a doorway where Xannes was just coming in, followed by NPG.

“Jrum’s okay!” NPG smiled, before moving behind Xannes when he locked eyes with Grifter, the hels admin crossing his arms.

“You’re out of prison.”

Grifter smiled and pulled himself close to Sense. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to leave this hot stud alone for too long, now would I?”

“Well, You’ve had time with him, now it’s time for you to go back.”

Grifter pouted. “But my kids are having a playdate with Jrum. You wouldn’t want to upset a child, would you?” Grifter’s pout turned into a sly smile and he moved closer to whisper to Xannes. “And Sense has said you’re such a softie when it comes to kids. Before you can do anything to me, I could do whatever I want to that robot. I could create a fun little feedback loop and break them like that. And you couldn’t do anything about it because you decided NPG is better to protect, hmm?”

Xannes wasn’t sure what to say that wouldn’t cause some problem, so he just glared. Grifter’s evil smile quickly turned to one that was much sweeter, and he pulled Grifect over, letting the child talk to Xannes. “Hi Mistew Xannes! Awe uwu weawwy the best hackew evew?”

“I… am known as the best hacker, yes.” Xannes gritted out after another smirk from Grifter.

“Wow! Thawt's so coow! Cawn uwu teach me how tuwu duwu stuff wike thawt?”

“Don’t you want to play with… whatever Jrum would be considered to you? Cousin or some shit?”

“Yeah! But cawn uwu teach me watew?”

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” Xannes growled, rolling his eyes. Grifect went back over to Jrum and Grifter tried pushing Sefter to play as well, but the older sibling refused to join in.

“Hmm, it looks like Sefter doesn’t want to play. I guess I should take him back to Prof. Sense, you can watch Grifect, right dear?” The evil scientist nodded and Grifter gave him a kiss. “Now Grifect, remember what I told you.”

“I wemembew!” The young bot replied, getting a pat on his head from his dad. Grifter left with Sefter after that, but Grian and Mumbo watcher where they had been.

“You’ve got a bad feeling about that too, right?”

Mumbo nodded. “After what we’ve heard about him, of course I do.”

.

.

.

Sefter twirled a sword in one hand while holding an axe in the other. Behind him, Tommy was tied up and stuffed in a large chest, muffled sounds being the only thing to escape the box. 

On the other side of the room, Grifter dragged Grum along, who was doing his best to resist. “P-please. I d-don’t w-want to g-go.”

“I don’t care! I need you for this, so you’re coming with me. No one will even notice!”

“N-no. I w-want to s-stay with T-Tommy. P-Please!”

“Stop complaining or I’ll rewire you for what I need. I’m sure it can’t be much worse than a lobotomy.” Grifter threatened in a cheerful voice. “Now let’s go!”

Grum was scared by the threat and then stopped resisting. Grifter found it much easier to move the robot now, though the screen changing to a smiley face confused him. He hefted the bot onto his shoulder, quickly sent a message to Grifect, and then they were gone.

The_Grifter left the world

Sefter left the world

The_Grifter joined the world

Grumbot_System joined the world

When they arrived in the SMP, Grumbot jumped off of Grifter’s shoulder and pulled out a sword. “Alright, I’m guessing that means you can also find Theseus from here, right?”

“Theseus is likely to be with the admin. The admin also has a needed item. That item must be retrieved.”

“Good.” Grifter smiled. “Take us there!”

Grumbot hesitated, buffering for a few moments. “Console commands have been disabled. Locating Theseus is not available. Reinstate programs before trying again.”

“Ugh, well how do I do that?” Grifter huffed, smiled gone. 

Coordinates appeared on Grumbot’s face for a few moments before it spoke again. “If it has not been moved, those should be the coordinates. There will be people around it.”

“And they know my ‘good’ copy?” Grifter asked, using air quotes.

“Correct.”

Grifter sighed and pulled on his new outfit, replacing it with a standard red sweater. He cleaned up his hair a bit, resisting the urge to mess it up again and then showed himself off. “How do I look?”

“You look like bzzt.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Grifter asked. Had the robot just censored a word. “I look like what?!”

“Was that not the goal? To look like bzzt? You did change into what looks like bzzt sweater.”

Grifter calmed down. “Oh, you were trying to say Grian’s name hmm? And people say I’m the bad one. He won’t let you say his name.”

“Incorrect. That is a recent addition as protection against the Admin and Dream.”

That got Grifter’s attention. “Oh really? So it’s something you’re doing on purpose?”

“Also incorrect. It has not been turned off and knowledge about the program is recent. It also cannot currently be turned off.” Grumbot explained in a deadpan voice, starting to walk to the quartz mansion, leaving Grifter to follow behind.

“Well now I’m curious. Why can’t you turn it off?”

“Another component controls that program.”

“Hmm, I see.” The helsmit nodded. “So, where are we headed?” He paused as Grumbot pointed to a building in the distance, far enough that Grifter needed to squint. “Over there? Pfft, why walk. I can get us there quicker.”

He grabbed Grumbot, and greenish magic swirled around them, teleporting them next to the building. “If you are attempting to mimic bzzt, that is not helpful for the image.”

“Pfft, it’s fine. No one saw. And if they did, I would deal with it. Now let’s go inside. I already know what I’m going with. Oh, and you better play along, or else.”

Grumbot nodded, making Grifter frown about that fact that it didn’t seem even a little scared from his threat. The helsmit picked Grumbot up before walking into the building, putting on a smile. “Hey, we’re back. Mumbo’s still back in Hermitcraft with Jrum keeping Tommy company.”

“Did you not figure out how to help him out? His body’s still here and obviously he didn’t come with you.” Philza spoke, having returned and Techno gone once again.

The helsmit didn’t need to worry about figuring out an answer because Grumbot quickly answered. “The revival process for those from this world requires an extra step in the form of an item that the admin was in possession of. He will need to be found.”

Those there glanced at each other, which obviously didn’t mean anything good. “What’s wrong?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. Fundy held out his communicator, letting Grifter look at it before showing Grumbot. Grifter held in a smile when he saw that Theseus was here, and it looked like his old admin was here too. The errored message was interesting though.

“Obviously it isn’t good news. Dream was bad enough, I don’t want to see what an evil version of him is like. Unless of course it’s an opposite version and he’s nicer.” Phil spoke again.

“From what I’ve heard? He’s not really that nice.” Grifter replied. Not nice to most people that is, at the very least. But he wondered if this Nightmare person would want to be on the good side of a Listener. In fact, he had already lost his server, hadn’t he? So what more could he possibly lose from some sort of partnership. “And while it probably isn’t a good idea to go near him, it looks like we’ll have to.”

“I’m not sure how long it would take to gather people up to help with that.” The hardcore player said. “A lot of people are still injured from the banquet and-”

Grifter cut Philza off. Grian would probably be concerned for his faaamily~. Ugh. “I’m sure I can do fine on my own. Even an admin can’t do much against a Watcher. And while extra help would be nice, you getting close could just end up being more harm than good if you end up in the crossfire. I don’t want to need to revive anyone else just trying to get this thing.”

“He will also be getting some assistance already.” Grumbot spoke up, and Grifter held in the urge to roll his eyes. 

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea.” Grifter tried his best to sound genuine. He’s pretty sure calling the robot by its name would be more effective, but to be completely honest, he had forgotten it at this point.

“There is to be no discussion on this matter. You will be getting assistance.” Grumbot replied, pulling out an axe. “And the sooner travel is started towards the new admin, the better.”

Grifter looked over the people in the room. Obviously getting Philza to look after the robot wouldn’t be a good idea. Even if he wasn’t like his own dad, the helsmit was sure he would be equally as experienced. The demon was off the table too. No way the robot would escape from that. The enderman thing could just teleport around.The fox hybrid might also be too quick on the draw, though he did look young. But no, the fluffy haired boy with little nubs of horns poking out, he seemed like the best option.  He even already had a kid attached at his leg, so adding another would make things tougher on him.

Grifter took Grumbot over to Tubbo and put the robot in the teen’s arms. “Here, try to keep him occupied. I’m sure those two could even play together.” Though Grumbot didn’t react, it looked like the ziglin liked that idea, making it even more likely for the teen to respond positively. And that he did.

The helsmit sent a little wink to Grumbot before giving it a hug and leaving the building. As soon as he was outside, Grifter leaned against a wall and waited for the robot to come out. In a few seconds, there was a commotion from inside and then Grumbot rushed out of the building. Grifter immediately pulled the robot into his arms and teleported them away before anyone could follow outside. “I’m hoping you got what you needed?”

“That could not be obtained.”

“Well then what the fuck was all that noise?”

“Attempting to reconnect programs followed by a necessary escape.”

“Ugh, well I’m sure everyone’s out looking for you now. I’ll take us back and you can do whatever the hell you need to.”

“That would be a good idea.”

Grifter teleported them back. The Fox hybrid unfortunately stayed behind, but the helsmit quickly bashed him over the head, letting him fall to the floor unconscious. “Hmm, I think I could have gone a little harder without killing him. Normally there’s more blood. Maybe I’m just out of practice?”

Grumbot didn’t respond to the banter, just staring at the replacement console. It didn’t need all the programs, but it would be so easy to just add them all back. Its arm reached to plug itself in, but the other arm’s hand stopped the first. Its screen flickered for a moment, and then it released its arm and plugged in. Just a copy of the coordinated program. That’s all that was needed.

When Grumbot unplugged again, Grifter picked it up. “I’m guessing that means you’re ready. Where are we headed to?”

Coordinates appeared on Grumbot’s screen and Grifter smiled before teleporting them there. They reappeared in a large field of snow, the helsmit glad he had changed back into a sweater. “You’re not going to freeze in this, right?”

“Correct.”

Grifter nodded and then looked around. “I’m not seeing them. Are you sure these are the right coordinates?”

“The coordinates were altered slightly based on movement, positioning and terrain. They will be four chunks in that direction in a number of ticks.” Grumbot answered, pointing towards a hill.

“Alright, sounds good enough!” Grifter shrugged and then started dragging Grumbot along in the pointed direction. When they reached the top of the hill, the helsmit looked around, smiling when he saw the people he was looking for. Theseus was following behind what was presumably Nightmare. Then the helsmit’s gaze drifted to a few blocks behind them and the extra set of footprints following the pair. It looked like someone was using an invisibility potion.

Grifter pulled out a bow and arrow, attaching his signature TNT to the end of his arrow, and then fired it so it would land in front of the pair. Not enough to hurt either of them, but enough to startle them at the very least.

When it exploded, Grifter teleported closer, leaving Grumbot behind. “Hi there. I don’t really want you going much further.”

“Who the hell are you?” Nightmare spoke as Theseus glared.

“Mmm… I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I’m a Listener. Grifter to be precise. I’m sure Theseus has talked about his much better older brother. If not, well I guess he’s just more of a little shit than I thought.”

“Nope, he never mentioned you. But I’ve heard of your kind.”

“Aww, that’s too bad.” Grifter pouted, pulling back another arrow and firing it at the invisible figure. “Anyway, nasty tail you’ve got there.”

Nightmare and Theseus turned around to see an arrow floating in midair, footprints being created in the snow with nothing visible making them. Immediately the invisible figure was pulling armor on, ready to fight. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Anytime! Anyway, I need Theseus. Apparently Dadza really likes him still and is upset he’s gone. I wouldn’t do anything, but he kinda cursed someone that I actually care about, so if I don’t do this, it’ll end badly for me.”

“Well tell him Theseus is staying with me. There’s still some training he never finished.”

Grifter’s eyes lit up briefly and the implications, but he still frowned. “Can I at least have him long enough to take back to Dadza? It’ll take five minutes, ten tops. If he doesn’t let me bring bitch boy back, I can just try killing him.”

“Try killing death?” Nightmare asked, sounding skeptical.

Grifter nodded. “Yeah, we’re pretty sure I’m the only one who can actually do it. It’s why people really prefer being on my side.” The helsmit’s smile shifted to something darker. “Which is why you should probably… you know… Listen. Besides, being on my side has plenty of perks!”

Grifter couldn’t see Nightmare’s expression because of his mask, but eventually he nodded. “Fine. But you better be back before those ten minutes.”

Grifter nodded, giving a beaming smile before grabbing Theseus and disappearing. Nightmare put his arms behind his head, acting bored, before pulling out an axe and shield at the last second, blocking an attack. “I know you’re still here idiot.”

The invisible figure didn’t respond, so Nightmare just threw their axe at the person, the blade digging into the armor, deep enough to break through it. “I guess the durability was low.” Was all Nightmare said as he popped his arm back into place, having dislocated from the amount of force he used in the attack. “So, got a na-” Nightmare continued before being cut off as he was grabbed from behind.

“You are in the possession of a needed item. It must be handed over.”

“And what are you supposed to be?”

Grumbot buffered for a moment before answering. “Console. The admin used a console for various jobs before he was taken away and replaced by you. You likely still have an Item needed for the revival process of this world in your possession. The surrendering of that item would be appreciated.”

Nightmare kicked Grumbot away. “Not a chance.” He then pulled out a sword, hitting away the invisible figure. “Not like I can do it with this person fighting me.”

“Then they will be eliminated.” Grumbot replied, booting up its combat program. It pulled out a sword, ready to attack, but then was pushed to the ground.

“Nah, you might be useful later. Get out of the way.” Nightmare said before pulling out a trident and stabbing it into the ground, impaling Grumbot’s arm and nailing it to the ground.

As Nightmare and the invisible person fought, Grumbot looked at the trident. Fortunately it only injured one arm, and as a robot, it was ambidextrous. It pulled the trident out and held it in its hand. With the combat program active, Grumbot angled the throw, adjusting for movement from the other combat, and then threw the weapon.

In a moment, Nightmare was the one stuck to the ground. The invisible person tried to take advantage of the situation, but Grumbot managed to push them aside. The face flickered and then changed to its normal self, though even then it still flickered a bit. “Look, I’m just after my book. Give it here and you can be on your way.”

No one moved, Nightmare wasn’t even struggling, so Grum pressed his foot into Nightmare’s chest. “Give it up, or we could just stay here.”

“Who are you?”

“I think you know.”

There was quiet for a bit, but then Nightmare pulled out a book. “Fine, but I’ll be getting answers.”

“No you won’t.” And Grum pulled the trident out again before smashing it down on Nightmare’s face, shattering the mask he wore before the body disappeared into a cloud of smoke. Immediately Grum closed his combat program and curled into a ball. He started crying at what had just happened, everything quickly catching up with him. But the danger was gone now, right?

The sound of armor moving drew Grum’s attention to the now formerly invisible person, the piglin now looking down at Grum. The bot immediately regretted closing his combat program and tried to boot it up again, shakily drawing his sword. He didn’t want to die again, especially now he had the- the book! Grum dropped his sword and grabbed the book, shoving it into one of his extra inventory slots. It was just in time too as Techno grabbed him.

“D-d-don’t kuh-kill m-me ple-please!” Grum stuttered out. He was lifted up, which he thought was a curious way to kill him, but he also didn’t expect fireworks as a weapon, so anything was on the table with him. 

Instead, Techno just moved Grum onto his back before leaning down and grabbing the dropped sword. “Already made the mistake of killing you once. Besides, you’ll get rid of my ghost problem.” And then he started walking. Grum was still a bit scared of getting killed, thinking the piglin could be lying, but he was also tired. He was glad he still had the trident, which was channeling at the very least, so he wouldn’t necessarily need his charger, but conserving power would be good right now, so he went to sleep.

[revengeoftheantichrist]

What Kind of Man

Warnings: recovering from injury, possessive behaviour    AO3  <<<Previous

Chapter 6: Haze

You woke to the sensation of someone running their fingers through your hair. Slowly opening your eyes; it must have been the afternoon. You don’t remember going to bed. You started to whimper; your leg hurt so much. Why did it hurt? What happened while you wandered the halls? “Shh shh my love, it’s alright, you’ll be better soon,” cooed the voice. You looked up, confused, why was Michael here? “M- Michael, why are you here a day early? Did something happen?” you questioned. As you tried to get up, the pain in your leg shot through you, bringing tears to your eyes. He gently pushed you back down, wiping the tears. “It’s Friday my dear,” he stated. “What do you mean its Friday? I went for a walk on Monday. And why does my leg hurt?” the questions just spilled out of you. Michael lay next to you, holding your hand in his, stroking it with his thumb. Just feeling the warmth again calmed you down a little. “I arrived on Wednesday,” he started. “Mrs Mead found you in the servants’ hallway on Monday night. You had collapsed from your fever and set fire to your night gown in the process. The fire was put out, but …” he hesitated. “your leg has been burnt a little.” A wave of nausea hit you. You finally looked down to your leg, it was wrapped in gauze. As you looked you felt the pain get worse, finally acknowledging your injury. “The shock and the fever combined had you out cold for a few days. You did wake occasionally, albeit you were a little delirious.” “H-How bad is it?” you asked. “second degree nearer to your foot, first up to your thigh. Mrs Mead had put you out very quickly. The physician is due to visit today to check the progress, to see if it’ll scar or not,” he explained. You started to cry. From the pain, from the fever, from the turn your fate seemed to have taken since you married this man. Why had the universe been so cruel to you? Who had you wronged? Had you done something in your past life and was this your punishment? He pulled you into his chest, warm arms enveloping you. He stroked his fingers through your forehead, letting you sob into him wholeheartedly. “I want to se my m-mother,” you cried. “Oh little dove, I was already on my way back before any letters could reach me. You know I would have brought her with me if I could, I’d give you the moon if u asked.” You cried until you tired out, but the pain was still unbearable. You just wanted to be held and to sleep. “No sleeping for you Mrs Langdon, you need to eat something before you put your head down again,” Michael stated. As if on que, Mrs Mead came in with a tray of food. A hearty soup and some bread, the same as before. “Dinner time seems to be the crying hour for you,” she joked. You pressed you face further into Michaels chest, embarrassed at her observation. She set the tray down and left, leaving just you and your husband. He rearranged the pillows so you could sit up comfortably and brought you meal over. As you reached for your soup, he slapped your hand away. “You’re sick, I’ll help you.” “Michael, my leg is burnt, not my hands,” you stated. “That is of no concern to me, now say ‘ahh’,” he replied, holding the spoon up to you. You hesitated and looked away before opening your mouth. You knew he wasn’t about to take no for an answer. He fed you the rest of the meal; time flew as you asked about his trip, wanting to take your mind off the pain. //// You had fallen asleep again by the time the doctor had arrived. Woken by a cold press on your forehead, your fever had returned. “Good afternoon Lady Langdon, its nice to see you finally awake. I’m Dr Montgomery and it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he introduced. You could only nod in reply, the pain making you unable to speak. “I’ve already checked your leg; Medina has changed the dressing. I suggest bed rest until next week. The wound will take a few weeks to fully heal; you’re extremely lucky, the wound isn’t too deep so scarring will be minimal,” he finished. “Will it still hurt?” you asked. “Your pain should reduce in a few days, however your fever is making it feel worse, so I have prescribed some Laudanum. All I can suggest for your illness is rest, and that too shall pass.” “Why am I sick?” you asked again. Dr Montgomery sighed, “It isn’t uncommon in new brides. Especially moving from the south to the north. It’s a sort of homesickness. The faster you get accustomed to the temperature and new surroundings, the better.” Something deep in your gut told you that he was lying, your sickness was caused by something else. And what about your nightmares? What could explain those? A simple fever could not be the culprit. But you kept your mouth shut, this man was not to be trusted. He left you alone with Medina, and you drifted off again. //// The laudanum was helping with the pain, but the constant daze it kept you in frustrated you. Michael had moved his office into your room for now to keep an eye on you; you had tried to leave the room far too many times to leave you unattended. The rustling of paper and the scratch of the pen remined you that you were being watched. Despite that, you still tried to get out of bed. “How many times do you have to be put back in bed?” you heard from the other side of the room. His tone was stern. “I’m getting sick of staying in bed all day,” you slurred out. Michael sighed and walked over to you. He lifted you and carried you over to his desk, sitting down and placing you in his lap. “There, now you’re not in bed.” You couldn’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed. He adjusted you so the pair of you were comfortable. The scratching of the pen starting again. “what are you doing,” you asked. “I’m finalising plans for a trip.” “You’re leaving again?” “I’m taking you with me. Once your leg is healed enough, we’ll be going to Paris,” he smiled at you. Paris. How you hated the sound of that city. Your brother’s stories echoing through your head, the anger breaking through the haze of the medication. “I don’t want to go.” “Why not, it’ll be our honeymoon and it truly is a beautiful city, quite romantic at night.” You answered before you could stop yourself, “of course you’d know all about the city at night.” Michael stopped writing, putting his pen down and inhaling. “And what do you mean by that hmm?” “Nothing,” you replied, you could feel the rage building inside him. He grabbed your face, making you look up at him. “Answer me properly. What are you talking about?” “My brother spoke about your grand tour,” you mumbled. His nostrils flared and his grip on your jaw tightened enough to bruise. The drugs only allowed you the feel the pressure and not the pain that would have come with such a tight grip. You winced anyway. “Gabriel needs his tongue cut out it seems.” “Sho itsh all true then?” you tried to get out, he was still squishing your cheeks. He finally let go of your face. Pushing your hair from your face and stroking your jaw instead. “I am a changed man Y/N. I was a different person two years ago. I was young and unmarried. I’d be a fool to betray you in such a way,” he sighed. “I’d kill you if your ever did,” you smiled at him, the Laudanum seemed to have removed all filters, making you say what was on your mind. You lightly pecked his lips, settling into his chest for another nap. //// You had been given the clear for your bandages to come off, and your fever had gone. You decided to have a bath while you were alone for the first time in almost two weeks. The water was a little cooler than you would have liked it to be, but you didn’t want to agitate your burns. You tried to relax, thinking about the past few weeks of your life. You had been married almost a month now. There was a sense of foreboding before you walked down the aisle that day; every single event since has just made it worse. The nightmares, Michael’s volatile attitude, the painting and now being scarred for life; it all weighed heavy on you. You think that you might be driven insane, or maybe even killed. You didn’t know. would you even last the year? The painting. You had forgotten about it in all the commotion. It had scared you enough to almost die. Why was Michael’s mothers face painted over? Did he want to forget her? Your thoughts stopped in their tracks as the feeling of being watched overwhelmed you. Just like the first night you were here. You got out of the tub, carefully drying yourself off before heading to the dressing room. //// The dressing room was cold as usual, making goose bumps rise all over your skin. You caught a glimpse of your scar in the mirror, moving your robe aside to get a closer look. It started just above your ankle, all the way up to your outer hip. You let your robe hang loosely around your shoulders, as you untied it to inspect the top of the scar. The skin there was sensitive, it felt different to the healthy skin around it. It made you a little self-conscious. No one would ever see it, but you would always know it was there, a reminder of the fear you let overcome you, of your fragile state of mind. You felt weak, so far from the girl you used to be. Your reputation in the local area of your home was one of an intelligent and brave girl, a tongue so sharp that even the priest had banned you from attending church on occasions. But here you were now, pathetic, letting your dreams out of all things, control your actions. “it seems that Aphrodite herself has blessed me with her presence today.” You quickly went to retie your robe and cover your leg, but Michael stopped you before you could. He rested his chin on your shoulder, looking at you through the mirror. His hair was damp, and he donned a robe; he must have had a bath too. His pulled your robe aside, exposing you leg to him. You wished he would never see it. “Don’t you see what I see? Does the mirror not show you the form that occupies my mind?” he asked, as he trailed his fingers over your scar, you almost wept at the tenderness of his touch. He let go of your waist, moving in front of you before he knelt down. “Michael! What are you doing? Get up from there please!” you cried out. This man, who many saw as a god, had knelt before you. He looked at you with a hunger and devotion seen in the faces of the worshippers in temples of the ancient world. He paid no mind to your distress. Instead moving to kiss your scar. He started at your ankle, looking up at you as he made his way up, leaving no part untouched. He stopped briefly to pull the stool behind you, making you sit down. Without a word, he started working his way up to the inside of your thighs, alternating between kisses and little bites. His actions ignited a fire in your belly. Making you shift around to alleviate some of the tension you were feeling. He stopped and rested his cheek on your thigh, you ran your fingers through his now dry hair. “There’s a hunger in me that only you can satiate,” he whispered. He pried your thighs apart, looking directly at your wet folds. “You wouldn’t be cruel enough to let me starve, now would you?” He ran his fingers through your wetness, making you moan and grip his hair. He hooked his arms around your thighs, pulling you towards his face. You had to hold the edge of the stool to stop yourself from falling back. He licked a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit. The sensation was so foreign to you, but you wanted more. He licked and sucked on your lips and clit, like a man truly starved. You felt his groans vibrating through you, bringing you closer to the edge. “M- Michael, that feels so good,” you moaned out. You could feel him smirk as you gripped his hair tighter, lightly scratching his scalp in appreciation. He dove in further, his nose pressed against you as he fucked you with his tongue. He felt you begin to tighten around him and moved up to suck on your clit, he looked you in the eyes as he brought you over the edge, licking you through your aftershocks. Both of you were breathing heavily as he finally pulled away, looking up at you with your juices covering the bottom half of his face. He got up and pulled you into a hungry kiss, tasting yourself on him. “You taste divine.” You could see his hardness through his robe. You averted your gaze, “can I return the favour? “My my, my little dove has gotten bolder hmm?” moving to make eye contact with you. “Some other time, I do not want to agitate the burn and I need to be inside you.” He pulled you from the stool, sitting down, before seating you on his lap to face the mirror. “I need you to see what I see,” he said, as he untied his robe, bringing out his dick and running it over the wetness of your folds. You mewled and tried not to look in the mirror. “Look at us as I push into you,” he ordered, “look at your greedy pussy swallowing me whole.” He pushed into you, making you watch as he did so, the sight making you wetter than before. He bottomed out with a groan and sat still. He brought your hand over your stomach, pressing it down. “Can you feel me inside you? I’m so deep.” You pressed further and made him hiss. He gripped your hips, lifting you up and down, you matched your pace with his. The pair of you mesmerised by the sight of the image in the mirror, the sight of him splitting you in half. You turned to kiss him, your tongues dancing as you picked up the pace. Neither of you lasted long, you were already sensitive from before; he was (you hoped) pent up from all those days away. The coil finally snapped, you squeezed around him with cries of his name. He followed behind, painting your insides with his seed. He pulled out and you both watched as your mixed fluids seeped out of you. “Look at yourself, you must be a goddess,” Michael stated. You looked at your fucked-out form in the mirror, lips swollen from kisses, hair mussed, and skin covered in a sheen of sweat from the exertion. In the haze of pleasure, you could almost mistake yourself for a carnal version of Botticelli’s ‘Venus’. You smiled at the thought. “We’ll need to bathe again,” you pointed out, making you and Michael laugh. //// You had your second bath of the day together. Getting ready for the evening; dinner would be served in your room as you needed to sleep early; you left for Paris tomorrow. Michael had brushed and braided your hair, and you had done the same for him. As you waited for MRs Mead to bring your meal, Michael had brought out a box, one that you had recognised. “Your mother sent this for you, your embroidery seems to be quite well known in the area and she was surprised you forgot to pack your materials.” Michael handed you the box. It was your grandmothers, then your mothers, and now it was yours. How had you forgotten your most prized possession? “Thank you so much Michael,” you hugged him. “It’s a family heirloom,” you explained, opening the compartments. You floss and needles were just as you left them. Michael reclined next to you, watching you inspect the item. “I’m sure it’ll continue to be passed down generations of Langdons,” he said. You blushed at the thought of children, you hadn’t given it much thought before. “I’ll take you to the finest cloth merchants Paris has to offer to get more materials for your liking,” he smiled at you. “I’m sure Mrs Venebale will know some locally?” “Nonsense. Why go to Paris if not to take full advantage of what the city has to offer? We can also see what the new seasons fashions are.” You raised your eyebrow, “I see, this tip is for you to dress yourself isn’t it?” “Well my love, the wardrobe does not curate itself. Personal shopping trips are must in high society,” he winked at you. You laughed and shook your head, thinking about your next project, trying to calm your nerves for the trip.

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