#UNTIL THE ROOM IS FULL OF WATER VAPOR AND THE WINDOWS ARE FOGGED UP

[elenaxnena]

The things I would do for Letho of Gulet.

[revenant-dumpster-fire]

Flower (Revenant x Reader)

[For AO3 archive, click here.]

Theme: Loneliness and depression are a painful but wicked combination after you have to talk about your past when you don’t want to. No matter how optimistic your friends might be, it doesn’t really fix anything.

Warnings: Graphic content, references to sex, references to past assault, references to noncon, male dominance, threats of violence, descriptions of violence, sharp objects, pain, post-traumatic stress disorder, bipolar, depression, mania, fluff.

Reader's Notes: Revenant (Apex Legends) x Reader, reader is female.

Writing Notes: What the fuck is a plot?

Navigation:

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You wake up to the sun fully over the skylight window, shining brightly into your eyes. You groan as you realize what time it must be. Closing your eyes only reminds you how thin your eyelids are, as the only color you see is a fleshy red rather than the lovely darkness you wish you could experience. You pull your arm over your eyes and experience the darkness again, if only for a few precious moments.

As you come to, you remember what you did last night and feel a weird sense of concern overcome you. That wasn't a dream, was it? You are lying here without clothes on, after all, and you don't exactly feel clean either. It definitely happened. You panic a little and jolt up in bed, holding the blanket to cover you as you scan the room. You're alone, and there's no sign of where Revenant could be.

You review the events of yesterday to yourself. You remember Revenant taking apart his old chassis and saving some of the parts from it. You remember teasing him until he tied you to a chair using his scarf, although you remember kinda deserving that. You snicker to yourself, remembering how he called you a "bully" to Sherry. Yes, you definitely bullied the giant, metal simulacrum built to kill. You remember Revenant left you pizza that was good enough that a blatant murder couldn't distract people from it, and then you remember chasing it down with too much vodka. You remember Revenant covered in blood at some point after that, then Pathfinder showing up, then falling asleep alone...? That last bit doesn't make much sense, but there was probably a decent reason for all those things happening together. Then you remember waking up in the middle of the night and definitely remember Revenant gently loving on you to the fullest extent.

You've never actually thought you'd be open to sex at all. Especially considering all you've been through, it's amazing you trusted Revenant enough to let him do that to you. You take a deep breath to yourself. It's too easy to be anxious about experiences like this, especially when they tread such a close line to your past traumas. In reality, you don't regret anything, you've just surprised yourself. The main concern now is why would Revenant run off immediately after a night like that?

Maybe you'll feel better after a shower and cleaning stuff up a bit. After all, you've learned that dwelling on discomfort only leads to more confusion and generally a breakdown. That's the last thing you need right now. No need to ruin something that should be a positive experience with an anxiety-riddled spiral into depression. Imagine losing your mind all because Revenant had some errand to run today. That would be silly.

You get out of bed and scurry to the bathroom, finding some used towels hanging to dry. You're not sure if they're the ones you used or the ones he used, but it doesn't really matter. He's made of metals, plastics, silicones, and PVCs. It's not like his towels are going to have anything gross on them. You grab the closest one and quickly change your mind when you notice the red streaks across it. That's blood, and it's not like it could possibly be his. You throw it to the corner of the tile floor to remind yourself to wash it later. The other towel must have been yours, because there's no blood on it and it's considerably drier than the other.

You turn the shower knobs and wait patiently for the water to warm up, taking a moment to brush your teeth while you wait. Ever since he went on a long tangent about shaving, you can't help but eye his razor case when you see it. You wouldn't dare touch it since you know how much it means to him, but you'd like to see it at some point. The steam starts to fog up the mirror, so you quickly finish with your teeth and jump in the shower. You rapidly clean yourself with as much soap as you can manage to lather into your hair and skin.

You nab the clean towel and dry yourself off, spending an excessive amount of time trying to dry your hair as much as possible. You made the right call, a hot shower helps a lot with anxiety. You leave the bathroom and rummage through your bag for the most comfortable pair of shorts and shirt you own. You notice you're a bit shaky and sore from the night before, but it's nothing you can't handle. As soon as you're dressed and your hair is brushed enough to be detangled, you consider yourself put together enough. Nothing wrong with a lax day for laundry and lounging about.

You grab the towels from the bathroom; the sheets, blanket, and pillowcases off the bed; your clothes you found in the corner of the room; a bloody old towel from the kitchenette; and a small pile of your dirty clothing from the past couple days and wrap them together in the comforter, dragging the giant makeshift bag of dirty laundry down the quiet hall into the laundry room. It seems like the trios match was as violent throughout as the ending was--there is not a soul in the hallway, meaning the infirmary must still be quite full. The only Legends you know are back from the match are the winners--Revenant, Wattson, and Wraith--as well as Pathfinder. That makes sense, after all Pathfinder just needs some repairs to be good as new since he's a MRVN, which can be performed hours after any match.

The laundry room has only one dryer running, echoing a mundane hum in the large room with the uncanny beat of the contents turning over repeatedly. You find a few washing machines in the far corner of the room and start separating the delicate items from the colors from the bleach-worthy whites. Thankfully, all the blood-soaked towels were once white, so they get a washing machine all their own along with the sheets. You pull the detergents and bleach out of the cabinet and start over-soaping all the loads, setting the timers to start each machine as they fill with hot water. Steam starts pouring into the room: commercial-quality washing machines are able to use tons of near-boiling water to sanitize anything inside of them. The room's vent fans kick in to try to keep the room's humidity low, but the fans will definitely struggle to keep up.

The door to the laundry room opens and Sherry shuffles in, bags under her eyes and likely hungover from a night of celebrating Wattson's victory. She's too foggy to notice you, so you shuffle over to her.

"Hey, Sherry! Drink too much last night?" You chime, Sherry weakly holding her head.

"Ugh, yes. And that stupid pizza didn't help. It was so perfectly greasy that I couldn't feel how drunk I was getting." She moans, making her way over to the only running dryer.

"So, this is all Revenant's fault then?"

"Absolutely, you and your stupid metal man always conspire to make me worry or drink myself into a stupor because of good pizza." She manages to put just a little sarcastic tone to her voice, but is clearly struggling through her headache. "So, why aren't you hungover? After what I saw yesterday, I was sure you'd bully Revenant into a drinking contest until he tied you to the ceiling vent."

You chuckle, it sounds almost too wild to be accurate, but you've learned that testing Revenant's limits always leads to the unexpected. Sherry continues, a sudden glint showing in her eye.

"So, since you didn't drink to celebrate, then you obviously must have--" 

"Sherry--!" You try to shout over her, knowing exactly where she's going with this.

A devilish look creeps across Sherry's face, almost wiping out her hungover grimace. She dashes away from you and towards the running washing machines, leaving you stunned just long enough that you can never hope to catch her. She throws the lids open of all three, pouring steam into the room and all over her face, but she doesn't wince at all. The hot steam almost seems to invigorate her more.

"Sheets! I fucking knew it!" She laughs maniacally, her face red and moist from shoving her face in the billowing plume of vapor. She slams the lids shut, letting them clang loudly as the agitators begin to whir back to life after being interrupted. "You did it! You finally did it!" She scurries back to you with the energy and erratic movements of a cockroach, finally reaching you to shove her finger against the tip of your nose. Her wicked grin is now in full form, only enhanced by the deep purple hues under her eyes.

"Sherry, it's not that big of a--" You start, trying to be honest but not let her go where she's definitely going.

"Ohohoho, yes it is! This is proof that you can move past your assault! It's huge! It means you're working past your traumas!" Her excitement makes her sound much louder than she actually is. "And it makes me feel so much better about this whole fling you're having, since Revenant was understanding of it all." She twirls away with her arms outstretched, as if to praise some unseen angels.

"Sherry, he doesn't know." You mumble half-heartedly, hoping she might ignore you. She whips her head back in a fury, which must hurt with her hangover.

"You didn't tell him anything?!" Now she's loud. "What were you thinking?! I get that you don't need to tell just anyone, but don't you think you should have told him so he'd know to take it slow?!" She grabs you by your cheeks and pivots your head to meet her eyeline. "What if he did something that caused a breakdown?! He wouldn't have had any clue why, and he wouldn't have been able to help you!"

"Sherry, it's oka--"

"No it isn't! That's not fair to either of you! You can't just let someone go waltzing through a minefield because you're not sure how to tell them that you had some fucked up shit happen to you!" She pulls you into a massive hug, shoving your face into her chest per usual, since it naturally lands there due to your height difference.

"I'm sorry, I don't want to yell at you, but you seriously need to be careful." She softens, sighing as she realizes you're shivering a little. "Look, if you don't know how to tell him, I will do it for you."

"Thanks, but I think I have to do it." You sigh, recognizing she's right. "Honestly though, the only thing I remember is the rag and then waking up in the hospital." You pull away from her, ensuring she can hear you clearly.

"I know you may not think it's a big deal since you can't remember much, but what happened to you is absolutely traumatizing." Sherry wipes away a tear you didn't even feel escape your eyes. "Seriously, if you really like Revenant, you should tell him what you remember and what you know, even if it's hard." Now you feel the emotional hurt, and you hate this. Everything was fine, but now it isn't, and you're struggling to keep your composure.

"I wish I didn't have to. I don't like talking about it. I didn't even do anything wrong, I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Why do I have to confess it like it's some crime I committed? It's not fair!" Now you start to cry, and Sherry hugs you again, drying your tears with her shirt. She pets your head and hair, trying to comfort you in any way she can.

"Like I said, I'll do it if you need me to." She sighs while holding you tight. You don't intend to pull away until you've calmed yourself anyway. "I guess you don't really have to tell him, but I really think you should..." She trails off, trying to undo any harshness from before. You feel her face bury into your hair as she holds you closer.

You manage to pull yourself together, the despair slowly releasing its hold on you, even if the sense of doom does not. You have no idea how you're going to tell Revenant anything. How do you even start such a conversation? What if he thinks you should have told him before, like Sherry does? Will he feel betrayed? Or will he understand? The knot in your gut stiffens more.

Sherry holds you until you naturally pull away, rubbing your eyes and now looking worse than the hungover woman in front of you. Sherry looks at you with very concerned eyes that betray her wary smile, clearly trying to cheer your spirits despite her honest concerns.

"I'm sure it will be okay. After all, you managed to open up to him already in a way." Sherry sheepishly encourages you, placing her hand on your shoulder. She takes a deep breath, clearly feeling her aches again, but continues to try to bring you back from the brink of despair. "I bet you opened up real nice for him last night, didn't you?" Her teasing is missing its usual edge, but you can't help but appreciate her effort. You chuckle a little at how hard she tries.

"Didn't have to when he can do it for me." You banter back, taking pity on her weakened state.

"Your little rendezvous must have made quite the mess to have to wash the whole bed, huh?" You shouldn't have given her the inch, she fully plans to take a mile.

"Sherry, why must you do this to me?" You ask, rolling your eyes, turning away to help her with her laundry in the dryer. She could use the help, there's no way she feels well.

"Did he pull out? Is that why you needed to wash the whole bed?" She pauses as you actively try to ignore her, pulling her miscellaneous clothing from the dryer and placing it on top of the machine. Sherry doesn't quit. "Wait, if he's mechanical, can he even cu--"

"Sherry! That's gross!" You interrupt her.

"The pursuit of knowledge isn't gross!" Her energy is back now that she's found a foxhole she plans to dig into. "Anyways, you're the one who holds this forbidden knowledge! Now spill it!" She pauses, "Literally, if you must."

"For fuck's sake Sherry, why are you like this?!" You yell at her through a genuine laugh. No matter how gross that statement is, it is also really funny. You feel a little better, but the knot in your stomach remains.

She grabs a shirt out of the clumped up pile and folds it with zero care or grace. It might as well be a glorified knot. She puts it down and grabs for another, not caring at all to fold anything well. You help her fold, but actually do it correctly.

"So? Spill it!" She insists after making a few knotted clothes. You sigh, frustrated but unwilling to fight her.

"Yeah, I guess he had something in him. Probably the same slick stuff those synthetic refills are made of that you can get for prosthetics. Not that I could really tell anyway, it felt like any other liquid would in there." You mumble quietly.

"Heheheheh, gross." She giggles.

You throw the warm pair of pajama pants you're holding square in her face for that one.

• • • •

You're sitting on the bench in the laundry room, a pile of Sherry's properly folded clothes off to the side and Sherry herself snoring against your shoulder. She promised to stay with you while you wait for your laundry to finish, but you're not sure how helpful it is for her to snore in your ear and drool on your shoulder. She didn't manage to stay awake for long after she sat down with you, but this was inevitable with how hungover she is. Sometimes it really is best to sleep it off whenever possible, although you worry about her hydration. You'll wake her up if you really need to move, and then you'll get her a sports drink or something when you do.

At this point you've moved your laundry into a dryer. The commercial grade washing machines are insanely fast, but drying can only work so quickly. You might be here for a bit, whether you like it or not. Properly folding all of Sherry's clothes kept you occupied for a little while, but now all you have left to keep you company are your thoughts and the sounds of Sherry's snores.

You wonder to yourself why you're so worried over talking about your past with Revenant. You've been dismissive of it this whole time, but to be fair he has never pressed you on it either. You've told him you were homeless and used to date one of the other women in the shelter, but you didn't tell him that she eventually found a way out of poverty. You had to break up with her so she could move on. You didn't fully explain that your past relationship was so you could always stick together and watch out for each other. You definitely didn't tell him how you ended up homeless in the first place, and certainly not what happened to you after the breakup. In truth, you don't want to talk about it. You don't like being a victim of circumstance, modern societal failures, and a criminal underbelly that intentionally preys on people like you. Everyone who's unfortunate enough to be born into this cybernetic hellscape has a story or two that could curdle blood, and you're no different. Heck, you're sure Revenant has plenty too.

The fact of the matter is, you're alive and able to tell the tales of your past, which is better than the slew of victims, predators, and petty criminals alike that are missing or buried in shallow graves. It almost feels disrespectful to the slew of dead and abandoned individuals to complain since you've survived and gotten somewhere better. There's no way you can deny that you've won the jackpot by getting to work for the Apex Games, let alone getting hired and getting so close to one of the Legends themselves. Who are you to complain? You know that feeling shame for getting out of your situation isn't how you should feel--after all, everyone should have a right to talk about their past and experiences--but you can't shake the feeling of survivor's guilt that ebbs away at you.

You put your arm around Sherry and rub her opposite shoulder, but she doesn't wake up. She's really the reason you're out of the trenches of modern society at all. She secured you this job which gave you everything you could need, rent free. The tips from the Legends have let you save up money to escape when this opportunity falls through. Even moreso, Sherry didn't drop the offer for the job when you were hospitalized; in fact, she doubled down on making sure you got the position. You have no idea how much harder she had to work to get you here while you recovered for months, and you've always been afraid to ask. You almost don't want to know the debt you owe her, since you'd spend your whole life trying to pay her back. Sherry probably wouldn't want you to do that either; she's just so happy to have someone she can treat like a sister again.

The door to the laundry room opens again, snapping you out of you pondering.

"Skinsuit! There you are! I've been looking for you." Revenant swiftly makes his way over to you. He's holding a plastic bag, clearly with something inside. He towers over you, looking down at you and the drooling sloth latched to your side.

"Oh, sorry, I was just doing laundry." You mumble, caught in his bright, LED eyes.

"Skinsuit." He pauses, likely seeing your blank stare. You take a moment to come out of your adoring trance, shaking your head a little to clear your thoughts.

"Sorry, what's wrong?"

"We need to talk." The knot in your stomach falls deeper and yanks your gut down with it. Those are the worst words in the world, and the catastrophic thoughts in your head immediately start to wind up. Before you can even finish processing your thoughts, Revenant has picked Sherry up and off of you, laying her down on the bench. She doesn't even stir, she just snores louder now that she's lying flat. Revenant grabs your wrist and hoists you to your feet. "Come, now." His voice is so foreboding.

"Wait, the laundry isn't done yet." You pull back, resisting his grasp on you. You don't want to confront whatever he's upset about. It could be anything, and you just don't want to hear whatever words will inevitably hurt you.

Revenant doesn't release your wrist, but he grips it harder, forcing you forward and closer to him.

"I'm not asking." His eyes are terrifying points, the most intense look he can give, and he's staring straight at you. "Come. Now."

He doesn't give you time to even step forward before he starts dragging you. You trip over your feet as you try to regain your balance. He takes you out of the room and down the long hallways.

You panic. What the hell did you do? Does he regret last night? Did you accidentally hurt or insult him? What on earth does he want to talk to you about? Is he going to fire you and treat you like a nobody again? How could you possibly still work here if he cuts ties? You'll be traumatized every time you see him. What the hell did you do?

He drags you into his room. You could throw up you're so stressed. He drags you to the bare mattress and flings you down onto it. You try to fall into a sitting position, but fail and roll onto your back. He's standing over you, the intense look still hardened on his visage. He throws the bag to the side, its contents smacking the side table hard.

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to upset you!" You practically cry, feeling the tears well up in your eyes. You hold your hands in front of you instinctively. He's breathing so rapidly, he must be livid. What the hell did you do?

"Skinsuit." His voice isn't angry, his heavy and rapid breathing isn't rage. He's clearly upset, but not enraged at you. He almost sounds sad. "Who tried to kill you?"

You hold your breath, staring at him. Time passes, but you don't know how to answer. Finally, Revenant hunches forward to get closer to you, slipping a claw under your shirt and against your abdomen.

"This isn't a surgical scar. This is a stab wound from a kitchen knife." He sounds calm again, but you're still too locked up to answer him. "I wasn't sure until I saw the other four scars."

His hands glide to another place on your abdomen on the opposite side, then to an area of your lower rib cage, a second under your breast, and one near your clavicle. He brushes each one carefully before pulling you up into a sitting position to meet his eyes.

"What happened?" His face is right in front of you. You didn't realize this is how you were going to have to tell him, let alone that the scars are what he'd latch on to. He sighs, not getting a word out of you yet.

He stands up and sits down next to you on the side of the bed. He's so damn heavy that he creates a pit in the mattress that sucks you towards him. You land against his arm, which wraps around your back and holds you close.

"Don't panic, I just want to know what happened." He states, keeping as monotone as possible. You can sense that he's actually quite upset still, but is likely trying to make sure you don't feel like the target of his ire.

You're still having trouble reigning in all the anxiety, catastrophic thoughts, depressed ideations, and traumatized fear to yourself. If you speak now, nothing is going to make sense and you might start to cry instead. His hold is reassuring, but it's not enough to stop your brain from running on all threads against your will. You feel yourself shaking against his metal frame, trying to come up with an extra bit of bandwidth to talk, but unable to muster any.

You hear him sigh as he notices you struggling. He pulls you further into the gravity sink he's created in the mattress edge and leans into you, intentionally rattling his artificial lung pumps in your ear. He gives you a few minutes to try to gather yourself before he decides to intercede.

He holds your chin and forces you to face him. His LED eyes are bright and much more relaxed than before, and the sight of him calms you down quite a bit. You almost forget what you are even thinking about; only a single, lucid line of thought still runs in your head. Your shuddering stops, and you feel clear enough to speak again. You take a deep breath, and you let yourself speak.

"Right after my ex and I went our separate ways and I met Sherry, I would walk between here and the homeless shelter so I could keep on top of getting this job." You lower your head to look away, so Revenant withdraws his hand from your chin. "I guess some gang was watching me and saw an opening one night. I got grabbed from behind and they put a rag on my face, but when I went to scream I woke up in the ICU instead." You pause. "I don't remember anything, but they told me I had been--"

"You don't have to say it." Revenant interrupts before your voice cracks from the thought. You sigh, grateful for the reprieve.

"I guess they decided to kill me and dump me in a ditch out in the Dust, probably hoping a pack of prowlers would destroy the evidence." Your voice tremolos as you struggle to put together experiences you don't remember. "They nearly succeeded. I almost bled out in the ditch, but a Hammond employee found me on his way home from a late night at the office and got me to a hospital." You feel numb, but your voice betrays you. "They destroyed one of my lungs, managed to slit open my digestive tract in a few places, barely missed both my jugular and subclavian veins at once, and hit me directly in the liver and popped one of my kidneys. I should have died."

You sit there for a moment, gathering your thoughts. Revenant respects the silence and waits for you to continue.

"The Hammond employee who found me donated a bunch of their prototyped synthetic organs to replace mine. One of my lungs, one of my kidneys, and my liver are Hammond prototypes of the ones currently on the market. I also have some of their experimental silicone meshes holding together the digestive tract in the multiple places it was sliced open. I don't think I would have recovered without them."

"How are they holding up?" Revenant asks, carefully pushing his hand against your chest on the side with the artificial lung.

"I haven't noticed any problems, not to say that I know what that would feel like." You place your hand over his, gently touching the Hammond Robotics logo etched into the plate on the back of his hand. It has giant gashes in it, as if he's tried to scratch it off at some point. If this is a new chassis, he must have scratched it out very recently.

"So they used you as a guinea pig for their prototypes?" Revenant growls. "Typical."

"I never thought about it like that. It's not like I could afford synthetics anyway, let alone real ones. It felt like a blessing." You run your fingers over each jagged metal scratch on his metal plates carefully. "I would have died if Hammond hadn't donated them."

"Not to scare you, but be careful with the deals you make with those devils." Revenant's hand pushes harder into your chest.

"I didn't make any deals, I wasn't even asked. They just put them in and sewed me up." You mumble, concerned by his apparent disgust for his own manufacturer.

"Of course they didn't even ask. Silly me." His voice is low and dripping with hatred. You start to pull away from him in fear, but he notices and pulls you back gently. He wraps his arms around you completely and his chin rests on your head. You're not going anywhere at this point. "I'm not angry with you. You're a victim in all this." His voice is softer, but it's a ruse. His lungs are labored with rage and you can feel the tension in his body. You let the silence fall for a moment.

"Revenant, are you okay?" You whimper from under his grasp, unsure of yourself. You feel his fingers turn to points and grip you, but carefully angled not to puncture you.

"I have a lot of work to do." His voice is low and hateful again, his words equally as ominous. His voice jumps back to something softer to address you. "Do you remember anything about the men who chloroformed you? Or when it happened?"

"I'm sorry, it's all really fuzzy." You shake your head a little, in case he can't hear your quiet whisper. He growls, clearly caught up in his thoughts, determined to find a way to narrow down his search. "Does it really matter?" You ask, unsure of what he plans to do.

"Yes, it's important." He huffs for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I'm going to give you the entrails of every punk who violated you as a gift, and I'm going to pry Hammond's claws off of you before it's too late."

"Wait, you don't have to--"

"You used up your pardon, skinsuit. Now, I am the sole judge, jury, and executioner in this case." He sounds so livid, you can't help but shrink under him and hope none of his wrath is aimed in your direction.

The silence falls again, spare for his blood curdling huffs of rage. He slowly calms himself, likely with some kind of plan on what to do.

"Skinsuit, did they kit you when you were at the hospital?"

"Of course, but there's not a universal DNA database of criminals in the Outlands, assuming it was even entered into one at all. As a gang they might have connections. Either way, it didn't amount to anything. Plus, there was a lot of different DNA..." You trail off, shuddering at your own words and trying not to vomit up the pit in your stomach. Revenant grips you tightly in response to your quivering.

"Skinsuit, I need you to listen to me. I will handle this. I don't want you to worry about it anymore." His voice is determined and steadfast.

"I wasn't worried about it before, I just didn't know how I was going to tell you any of this." You manage to get out as you choke back stressful tears. "I was worried you'd be upset that I didn't tell you earlier."

He locks eyes with you from above, but you avert yours. His LEDs are bright enough that you know he's staring at you, trying to gauge your emotional state. Sure, maybe you are upset by the whole ordeal. Maybe it is why you struggle so much with despair. Maybe it is the event that broke you emotionally. But you don't want to dredge it up any more than you have to. It's hard enough telling him this, why does he need to make it into a mission?

"Your heart rate is spiking." You hear him dryly state. You cower deeper into his frame. "Don't be so nervous, like I said, I'll handle it from here."

Something in your head pops and you feel the unmistakable taste and heat of anger overtake you. Mania shows up for a mere few moments, in an attempt to bring righteous indignation to the fray.

"Handle what?! It's not like you can just undo what happened! What's the point? Just pretend like I didn't say anything!" You pull away from him and stand up, but he holds onto your wrist, only allowing you to get arm's length from him. "You can't just assassinate every problem into oblivion! It doesn't work like that!" You're staring down a simulacrum that has single handedly spilt more blood than in all the people you've met in your lifetime, but for this rage induced moment, you don't care. "Heck, if you really want to erase the problem, kill me! Because then nobody has to deal with it! That's what was supposed to happen! But I just had to get lucky at the worst time imaginable!" Your lungs empty out from yelling.

He reels back in shock, releasing your wrist. You have nowhere to go, so you just hover there, staring him down. In this fleeting moment, you have bested the Revenant. You are in charge, but only for a mere moment in time. The anger peters out and sadness overwhelms you in its place. Tears start flowing before you even start to vocalize your pain. The moment has ended. You hurriedly collapse to your knees on the floor and bury your face in your hands, trying to hide yourself as you cry. You hate it when this happens. Immediately after you get angry enough to snap, you regret everything and collapse into a sobbing mess. Every time. You just openly confessed you wish you had died instead. You asked Revenant to kill you instead. On top of it all, now you're crying on the floor like you didn't just say something heinous to him.

You gasp for air between your desperate attempts to suppress your cries, which leak out as sorrowful whimpers instead. You feel his palm on your head, but you can't bear to look up at him. He gives you a moment, possibly hoping you will collect yourself, but he gives up quickly. He kneels down beside you and you hear the clangs of his scarf straps coming loose. You feel his scarf wrap around your face like a hood, absorbing the wayward tears and helping hide your face. He bunches up the extra scarf around your shoulders and loosely ties the buckled straps to hold it to you. He reaches into the hood and holds your hands that are pressed against your face, intentionally fluttering his fingers around yours to wipe away tears. He withdraws, wraps his arms underneath you, and lifts you in his arms. He doesn't even struggle to lift you, remaining completely unwavering.

You feel him carry you out of the room and down the hallway, back towards the laundry room. You pull his scarf completely over your face, trying to calm your cries to be as quiet as possible. Your labored breathing is the only audible indicator of your tears now. You feel his arms push up against the swinging door to the laundry room before feeling the humidity difference wash over you as he enters. You hear the sound of Sherry still snoring on the bench. Revenant carries you towards the back of the room and gently places you on one of the still-warm dryers. You feel him open the front-loading door on the dryer and pull out the load of laundry, doing the same to the second dryer next to you. As the door clicks shut, you hear Sherry stir and wake up, moaning a little in protest.

"Oh, hey, is she okay?" She sleepily addresses Revenant.

"She needs time." A fairly honest dodge, but not really an answer to her question.

"I guess she told you while I was out, huh?" Sherry sighs, yawning afterwards. Revenant stops moving next to you for a moment.

"You knew?" He doesn't sound mad, simply intrigued.

"Of course, I lied and told them I was her biological sister so I could get into the hospital and stay with her." Sherry sounds sad, reflecting on it. "I had no idea she walked alone between here and the shelter. Had I known, I would have called a cab or just done the interviews over the phone..." She trails off, regaining her composure. "After that, I fudged everything to get her this job so she could escape that life."

"Do you remember any details of that night?" Revenant asks with piqued intrigue.

"Of course, I couldn't forget even if I wanted to." You rarely hear Sherry sound so deep in self-shame. You wish she would accept that it wasn't her fault, but you also know that's easier said than done.

"I'll speak to you about it later, then." You jump a little as his hand caresses your arm. You're too withdrawn in his scarf to see anything, so you have no warning when he touches you. Your startled wince doesn't seem to bother him, as he locks his arm around yours, allowing him to continue working with his hands. He must be folding some of the laundry, or at least trying. You can't imagine he's well-versed in the practice.

"You're going to try to find those guys?" Some hope returns to Sherry's voice.

"I will." He doesn't hesitate and he has no doubts. As an assassin he must have some sleuthing skills. He's more than proven himself to be clever, at the least. You still don't want him to bother, though. It doesn't fix what happened, but maybe it could save someone else, at the least.

"Hey! What the hell?" You hear Revenant shout as he withdraws his arm from you and staggers backwards. You pull your face out of the scarf to see Sherry hugging a very confused Revenant.

"Eviscerate them and hang them by their fucking entrails." Sherry mumbles before letting go, and turning to you. "I hope you don't mind, he earned it." She smiles through her exhausted expression, giving you a quick hug too. She pulls away and shuffles to her folded stack of laundry, picking it up and making her way out of the room. Revenant watches her exit with concentrated attention before turning to you.

"Never thought I'd have a second idiot asking me for a favor." He huffs, stepping back over to you. He reaches into the scarf and holds your cheek for a moment, locking eyes with you. "No worries though, you're my first and favorite idiot." His intense determination has melted back down to a teasing vitriol. You let your head tilt into his palm approvingly, letting some wayward tears drip onto him.

He pulls his hand back slowly, intentionally tugging the scarf back to cover your face so you can't see. You're startled when you feel a pile of warm, clean laundry land in your lap.

"Hold this." You hear him instruct as you feel him pick you back up. You wrap your arms around the pile of sheets, clothes, and towels, doing your best to prevent any from falling out of your grip. He carries you, buried in a pile of warm laundry, all the way back to the room before lightly dropping you onto the bare mattress. You let the laundry bury you, enjoying the warmth.

"Why did I even try to fold anything...?" You hear Revenant mumble as he reaches in and pulls you upright, undoing his scarf from you. You let him pull it off of you, but don't bother to watch him put it back on himself. You prefer to bury yourself back in the warm pile of clothing, messing them up further. You hear his buckles lock down on his chassis as he walks away. "I have some leads to follow up on, stay there until I find you a babysitter." The door slams before you can sit up and ask him what he means. He's already gone. He can disappear as quickly as he can appear, climbing walls and collapsing himself into vents and nooks. Even though he used the door this time, it never ceases to scare you a little.

You wish he would just stay around and not leave. Considering how hard it was to even explain what exactly happened to you when you were attacked, you had hoped he would realize being left alone is the worst possible thing. Although, maybe he does realize this, and is getting Sherry to stay with you. Still, you'd rather it be him. It feels like a cop out for him to just leave you with her, but maybe he's also dealing with some emotions too. Unfortunately, you're worried he thinks he can somehow undo everything that happened to you with a bloodbath of vengeance.

You sigh, getting up and looking at the disheveled pile of laundry. You begin to toss your wads of clothing into your duffel bag. No point in folding any of it, it's not like you own anything nice. As you pick through, some appear to be partially folded but his claws had poked some holes in them. Well, at least it's all cheap and replaceable. You toss them into the bag anyway, right now you don't have time to get new ones. You fold the towels and place them in the bathroom, nicely folded and ready to be used again. You take the one odd rag to the kitchenette, finding the drawer full of its siblings and placing it nicely.

Finally, you make the bed. It's an annoying and cumbersome process when you're working alone--the beds here are so big you have to do laps around it to get all the sheets and blanket right. However, you refuse to cut corners, and get it done pretty quickly. The majority of your past few years here have been focused on housekeeping, so you consider yourself quite adept and efficient at it. After throwing on the pillowcases and making a small mound of plush pillows to jump on later, you consider it done.

With nothing left to do, you decide to jump on the pillow mound early, burying yourself in it.

Almost as soon as you get comfortable, the door swings back open.

"Skinsuit! Meet your friend for the day!" Revenant sounds oddly sadistic, but why?

You turn around to meet eyes with a single, red, optical bulb.

"Hello, new friend! I'm Pathfinder, and I am a MRVN!" He waves at you as if you're not a mere few yards away. You actually already know Pathfinder, but he tends to forget who you are regularly. Maybe it's from getting damaged in the Apex Games? Or perhaps it's since he's only ever met you in passing before. After all, there's never been a good reason for him to remember you until now. "Very nice to meet you, Skinsuit!"

Revenant fights back a chortle as Pathfinder gets your name so morbidly wrong. You have no reason to correct him, though, after all you never had parents to give you a real name. You've been trying on different names for decades. 'Skinsuit' just seems to fit this stage of your life, weirdly enough.

"After our misunderstanding yesterday, I decided to make it up to him by introducing you two." Revenant explains to you, his hands gesturing sarcastically. Misunderstanding is one way to put it. "He's going to make sure you don't hurt, maim, kill, or otherwise damage yourself while I'm gone."

"Yes! I don't let friends do any of those things!" Pathfinder pipes up excitedly, probably not even realizing the subtext of what Revenant is implying.

Revenant must be holding on to your self-destructive rant from earlier. That explains why he's keeping some distance. You wish you could take it back, but words don't work like that. You still can't ignore it and let it stand, though.

"Rev, I'm sorry." You blurt out, not caring what Pathfinder might think. Revenant locks eyes with you for a moment, looking slightly less on-edge than before, but still quite tense. His pause doesn't last long, as his manipulative performance must go on for Pathfinder.

"There's nothing to apologize for. " He shrugs with heavy exaggeration, even though he clearly knows what you're referring to. "Just don't be a liability." He turns to Pathfinder, who has been listening intently. "Try to keep her safe, you wouldn't want to get me in trouble if she gets hurt, would you?"

"Absolutely not, brother!" He salutes, seemingly aloof to the tension in the air.

With that, Revenant disappears behind the closing door and is gone again.

Cool, more metal friends you didn't ask for. Well, the first one went well, maybe this won't be so bad.

"You said the right thing." Pathfinder suddenly sounds more serious, even if it still has an unmistakable twinge of optimism. "He seemed upset. I think you made him feel better."

"Wait, you saw through that?" You're dumbfounded, what is with all the perceptive robots in this place?

"He always acts like that for me, but I don't mind. He only does it for me, so we must be like brothers!" Okay, maybe he's not working with a perfectly clear perspective, but still. "And he wouldn't try to get me to watch you if he didn't value you, so I will do this as a favor to him." The screen on his chest emotes a heart-eyed smiling face. "He was very upset when he thought I had figured out his secret, so you must be a very good friend to be a secret friend!"

"Wait, you saw me yesterday?" Is this MRVN a genius and pretending to be unassuming, or somehow a perfectly naïve clairvoyant? He's able to hide his power of perception from Revenant, so he can't be stupid.

"Of course! I have sensors that pick up on heat and vital signs. But you were clearly hiding, so I did not want to ruin your fun."

Fun? Oh, he's so perfectly naïve, or you're falling for a perfectly executed feign. Whichever it is, Pathfinder is a little scary in the exact opposite manner that Revenant is. Revenant may be a homicidal simulacrum with deeply human roots, but his intentions are fairly obvious and any malice he has is clear cut and concise. Pathfinder is much more confusing, clearly more intelligent than he lets on, but so perfectly optimistic that he comes off as non-threatening. Despite that impression, you've seen Pathfinder take down some of the scariest Legends over the years, often with a near-condescending air of playful joy while doing so. When Revenant kills, the bloodlust is sensible, but playfulness? It's somehow scarier.

"Are you okay, friend? You seem nervous. Did I say something bad?" His emote shows a distressed face.

"Sorry, I just get caught up in thought sometimes. What did you want to do for fun?" You figure he won't hurt you, even if you can't completely figure him out.

"Well, what do you and Revenant usually do for fun?" His emote brightens into a smile again as you grimace internally. He's either wholly unaware or viscously teasing you.

"How about we do something else? Let's..." You think, what would be nice to do? You're a bit hard pressed to come up with anything fun.

"We could bring flowers to people in the infirmary!" He pipes up happily. It's not a bad idea, really.

"Sure! I actually wanted to visit the second place Legends, if that's okay. Fuse is so nice and so is Bloodhound. Caustic... probably won't mind." You've never really met Caustic, but you know he has a reputation for being grumpy.

• • • •

You walk out into the hidden atrium behind Pathfinder's room. You knew this was here, but nobody ever comes out here to your knowledge. The doors lock if you're not careful to keep them open, so the risk of being locked outside tends to lead most to avoid the area entirely, even though it connects two wings more efficiently than the hallways.

It's full of flowers of all types, sizes, and colors. The arrangement is chaotic and seemingly random, but the lusciousness of the plants more than makes up for it. The ground flowers are blooming and have various bee species hovering around, seemingly at peace with one another. There are a few small trees reaching around eight or nine feet high and giving a little shade. One has flowers, another has berries, and yet another has some kind of unripe fruit. It's truly breathtaking, and completely undisturbed after years of being left alone by the other Legends.

"You did all this?" You ask aloud, completely in awe of the secret oasis.

"Yes! Do you like it? We can pick some flowers from here!" Pathfinder seems especially happy to be sharing this with someone.

"It's beautiful." You mutter, still captivated by how mythical this little cut of land feels.

"Thank you! I have been meaning to show Revenant, but he will never chase me this far." Pathfinder shuffles over to an area and pulls up Revenant's abandoned bovine skull from the last match with a giant chipped gash in the forehead. He's filled in the bottom and red rose buds have been replanted in the eye holes. A large snail is making its way around the gash with its mossy shell, making for an artistic arrangement. "I am really proud of this one. I felt bad his new suit was destroyed, so I wanted to keep a part of it for him. Once the roses grow, it will look really nice!"

You're impressed. Revenant seems to have some kind of distaste for Pathfinder, and you're beginning to understand why. Pathfinder is scary. He's terrifyingly kind. If your guard isn't up at all times, he will reach a deep part of you and break down your defenses in an instant. When the entirety of the Outlands treats people as disposable assets and teaches everyone to trust as few people as possible, this MRVN will treat anyone like they truly matter, like they are truly cared for, and like they are capable of great things. It's dangerous to believe those things in this universe. That's how you get victimized, abandoned, and let down. Yet, this MRVN manages to hold on to these beliefs about himself and others, and he isn't broken, dead, or an abandoned shell.

Revenant, like you, can't adhere to those beliefs. The universe has spoken, and it says otherwise. Yet, it feels nice to indulge in the feeling of mattering, even if only for a few hours. Is that why he chose Pathfinder? Of course, Pathfinder is the living opposite of a suicidal ideation, after all. Maybe Revenant knew that.

"Stupid, clever jerk." You mumble out loud.

"Me?" Pathfinder has a confused emote as he points to himself.

"Oh, sorry, no, I meant someone else." You pause, switching subjects. "It's really nice of you to reuse his favorite chassis like this. I think it's really pretty, even if he never sees it."

"Thank you, friend!" His happy emote is back, and he waves you over to another area. "Have you seen this chassis? It's my favorite!"

You walk over and follow him to see a rounded red, purple, and white chestplate that has been cracked and shattered, but loosely put back together. It has the word "Thunder" and the number "81" written on it, as well as a unique mask attached to it. This mask doesn't look like any skull you've seen before, human or otherwise, but still has a bony texture. It appears to have hooks near the chin, perhaps where it was attached to the exoskeleton, as well as unusual leather bags under the eyes. It looks perpetually tired and angry, but you definitely can't say you've seen him wear this before. The chestplate is closed over an old wood stump and beautiful mushrooms have sprung to life in the darkness and reached beyond the chassis to meet the light. His mask has a particularly colorful fungus growing on it, happily latching onto the porous material more easily than the chestplate. It's gorgeous, but you wish you could see this chassis on him too.

"No, I've never seen this one before... I haven't seen him wear it in the games either. What is it?" You ask, curious why he would have such an odd chassis in his repertoire.

"He uses it when we spar! I don't think he uses it much otherwise."

"You two spar?" You're surprised. Maybe Revenant also finds excuses to dabble in the feeling of mattering sometimes.

"Yes! Not too often, I think he gets frustrated that I am an excellent boxer. I have tried to let him win, but he doesn't like that." Your eyes widen. Pathfinder can outclass Revenant in a sparring match? This guy really is scary. "You should come sometime!"

You look back at the busted chassis. Was Revenant knocked out of this one with a blow from Pathfinder? You knew all MRVN are particularly sturdy and powerful, but you never really felt it until now. You're a helpless ragdoll full of easily exploitable and fatal flaws to Revenant, but you never even considered that perspective when around Pathfinder. Now you do.

"You can really beat Revenant?" You mumble aloud, not intending it as a real question.

"When we only use our fists, yes! I don't think I could beat him if he was allowed to use his stabbing hands. He is getting better though!" He doesn't acknowledge your apparent fear, simply giving a chipper answer. "Whiplash to the neck is a weak point in his design. He is learning that he can't let me land an uppercut. You should come watch sometime! I bet he would fight harder with you there!"

The thought of Pathfinder knocking out Revenant with an uppercut is unbelievable to you. You almost want to know if it's really possible.

"I will, if you're both okay with it." You look up at Pathfinder, who immediately makes a happy clapping motion.

"Yes! I look forward to it!"

"Do you have any more insider information on his other suits?" You ask, curious how many he has seen.

"He's told me about some, but I haven't seen them yet. Only some special colored versions of his normal one." He looks upwards as if to think, the emote on his screen changing to match. You've seen some of the other colors in past games, but never in person. You hope he has a lot of different suits, especially since they tend to alter his personality a little. You wonder what his sparring suit does to him.

"We are here to visit Fuse, Bloodhound, and Caustic!" Pathfinder chirps, flashing his ID badge. You place yours on the counter as well, as the receptionist scans them both. You know the receptionist, Carol's been here a long time, and she's used to seeing volunteers come through to visit the Legends.

"Let's pick some flowers for the others, then maybe we can talk some more." You want to make sure you get to see the second place team, knowing the extent of their injuries is well beyond simple gunshots wounds. Revenant had run Caustic and Fuse through completely, and probably broke many of Bloodhound's bones. You're a little worried for all of them.

• • • •

You and Pathfinder approach the receptionist in the infirmary wing, holding three unique bunches of flowers. You couldn't find vases, so they're propped up in glass soda bottles filled with water. It may be a cheap alternative to a proper vase, but the flower quality makes up for it.

She starts to laugh after scanning your badge.

"Little Skinsuit? Is that what you're going by now?" She prods. "Also, I didn't know Revenant liked anyone enough to have a direct hire. I guess all that dedication to the grump-machine paid off, huh? Congrats!" She's very nice, and doesn't pry further than that.

"I'm not going to tell Revenant what not to call me, that would be asking for trouble. But thank you! It only took four seasons and figuring out his favorite liquor." You take your ID back.

"Ha! Leave it to you to make your way up in the world through the craziest means possible. Revenant still scares the heck out of me. Today was the first time I've ever seen him visit anyone, though. Maybe he's softening up." She spins a little in her chair thinking about it. "Anyway, tell Sherry I said 'hi' when you see her next!"

"Will do! Thanks Carol!" You chime back, walking past the desk with your arms full of bouquets, Pathfinder following behind. Why would Revenant have come by here earlier? That's very odd.

As you turn the corner, you see the names of the currently admitted Legends on each of the doorways. There are not many left, it seems like most were discharged this afternoon. Fuse, Bloodhound, and Caustic are all still here though.

Caustic's room is the closest, but you'd rather wait to deal with him last. You haven't met him, and those who have aren't usually treated well apparently. He almost has as bad of a reputation as Revenant, but Sherry has always been able to interact with him reasonably. She told you it had something to do with being close to Wattson, but that doesn't make much sense to you.

"Let's see Fuse first." You say, carefully making your way to Fuse's door. You knock lightly before you hear his booming voice welcome you.

"Door's unlocked, mate!" He barely sounds injured. As you open the door, you see Fuse grinning widely and sitting upright in bed. He's in a hospital gown, chest exposed to reveal a massive but sewed up and sealed wound. "Oy, you brought me flowers! How kind of ya." He's absolutely beaming for someone with a massive hole in his chest.

"Sorry we came so late in the afternoon, I just wanted to visit and make sure you were okay." You fumble over your words, not sure how else to admit you were worried about him and the others. Let alone that it's partially an apology for Revenant absolutely skewering him.

"Not a problem, I see you brought a different metal fellow with ya t'day." He motions to a table beside him, where you place the flowers.

"Good to see you again Fuse, I am glad to see you are recovering well." Pathfinder chirps, forever positive.

"So, sheila, how is the angry feller?" Right, he knows about you and Revenant.

"He's, uh, under some stress, but nothing he can't handle, I'm sure." You're not sure how else to answer. Saying he's fine is too obvious of a lie, but you don't want to be too specific either.

"Really? Who knew? The red rage actually has problems like the rest of us." He chuckles. Normally you wouldn't think much of his statement, but Fuse is the type to try to get anyone to warm up to him, Revenant being no exception. Perhaps you've said too much.

"Yes! Which is why I'm taking care of his secret friend for him! She's not allowed to be a liability!" Pathfinder gently pats your shoulder. Why did he have to say that? Fuse catches sight of your dejected look and laughs harder, gripping his chest to steady the pain. Pathfinder takes his laughter as some kind of endorsement, while you hang your head in embarrassment. Fuse catches his breath finally.

"No worries sheila, I won't tell a soul. You may have to keep that a bit more under wraps though, Pathy." Fuse says through labored breaths. That laugh must have hurt. Pathfinder cocks his head in confusion. "I think the point of having a 'secret friend' is to keep them a secret, not to tell everyone!"

"Oh no! I'm sorry!" Pathfinder realizes his mistake, a blue sad face appearing on his screen.

"It's okay, Pathfinder, Fuse actually already knew." You pat him on the arm in reassurance.

"Yeah, no worries mate. Just be a little more careful." His smile erases any embarrassment you feel. "Well, I'll let ya make your other rounds, I'm gonna turn in for the night." Fuse waves goodbye to you both as you excuse yourselves.

You make your way across the hall to the room labelled for Bloodhound. You lightly knock, and a nurse opens the door carefully for you. You slip in quietly and see Bloodhound lying on their back, their head facing your direction. You see their eyes dart in your direction, no longer buried under their usual goggles. Their head is well-wrapped in gauze, and their breathing mask is replaced with a hospital oxygen mask. You can finally see their eyes, which are filled with a softness you don't usually see.

Artur is on a large perch in the corner of the room, surprisingly. Bloodhound likely had to fight to get Artur into the infirmary at some point, since the perch almost looks to be a permanent installment now. Artur coos, watching the room carefully.

"Ah, the apprentice and Pathfinder." They address you both, but don't sit up. They likely aren't able to in this state.

You look to the nurse and offer her the flowers, not sure if you can approach Bloodhound at all. She takes the vase and puts it on a table a short ways from them, but well within their eyesight. Bloodhound seems enamored by the flowers, but also confused by their presence for a few moments.

"Ah, right, flowers are a common gift to the injured." They say to themself before turning to you both. "Your well wishes are accepted graciously. May the Allfather bless you in return."

You bow instinctively, not wanting to speak too loudly in the quiet room. Pathfinder notices and attempts to do the same, but starts to lose his balance and barely recovers. Once you right yourself, you break the silence for a mere moment.

"Get well soon, Bloodhound. Please don't..." You trail off, not sure where you were going. Die? Unlikely. Hurt? They're already hurt. Hate Revenant? They're not the type. "... don't be a stranger." You recover a little, but you're sure you're coming off awkwardly.

Bloodhound smiles with their eyes, and you feel much better, quietly slipping back out the door. Pathfinder follows, waiting for the door to close before speaking.

"I kept the secret!" He pumps his fists a little. You chuckle.

"By not talking at all. I guess it works." You pat him on the arm again. "One left, but I don't know anything about Caustic. I hope he's not as bad as they say."

Pathfinder takes the last bouquet from you and leads the way this time, apparently willing to handle the interaction himself. He knocks on the door and opens it, revealing a growling Caustic on the other side, sitting upright in bed and writing in a notebook. His usual mask is switched for an oxygen mask, and he's in a hospital garb that is far too large for him.

"Greetings, doctor! I brought you flowers!" Pathfinder chirps happily, ignoring Caustic's scowl.

"I don't want flowers. I already had to answer the simulacrum's idiotic questions, why are you bothering me now?" Caustic asks angrily, averting his attention back to his notebook.

"I intentionally got you chamomile flowers, they're Wattson's favorite for tea!" Pathfinder chirps, holding the white and yellow-centered flowers up. Caustic suddenly looks up from his notebook with a softer expression, before sighing and relenting.

"Fine, put them down on the table." His voice and expression have softened, but you're not sure why. Pathfinder must know something you don't.

As Pathfinder moves to put the flowers on his table, you lose your body to hide behind. Caustic notices you, and suddenly smiles a little wickedly.

"Ah, the simulacrum's personal lapdog reveals herself." He sneers. How did he know about you? Did Revenant say something? "You have quite the science project at your beck and call. How did a little thing like you manage that?"

You're not sure how to answer, and you know your discomfort is visible on your face. Pathfinder seems to notice as well.

"You seem to be a kindred spirit, flirting with death. Makes you feel more alive, doesn't it?" He coughs a little, interrupting his train of thought. His voice returns in a much more serious tone. "I'm afraid I can't do anything more for either of you, but I'll keep you in mind if I need to get under the simulacrum's skin."

Pathfinder doesn't speak, but starts walking towards the door, gently herding you in that direction. You leave, unsure of what else to say after that. The door gently closes behind you both.

"Are you okay, friend?" Pathfinder asks.

Now late in the evening, you finally make it back to Revenant's room, bidding Pathfinder goodbye before opening the door. You're holding a single flower you picked out for Revenant, despite Pathfinder's insistence that Revenant doesn't like or accept flowers. He's tested it thoroughly, or so he claims. You're certain this one is different, though. You picked this one for him, and you picked it for a reason. As you slip through the door, Revenant stands up from the computer desk to meet you.

"Yeah, just disturbed, I guess. Let's go, it's getting late. Let me grab dinner and let's go back to your garden." You answer, not sure what Caustic meant. You'd rather spend the rest of the evening chatting about Revenant's different chassis with Pathfinder than dwelling on Caustic's cryptic words.

• • • •

"You must have had fun. You've been gone all day." He notices the flower. "Pathfinder managed to pawn one of his flowers off on you?" He scoffs, rolling his optics.

"Actually, I picked this one for you." You correct him, unsurprised by his initial rejection. He seems to tense at the realization it's a gift from you, not Pathfinder, and that he has already judged it so openly. "It's a datura flower, I thought it was fitting."

"Datura? Like the drug?" He asks, trying to ignore his previous judgement on the flower.

"Yeah, it's called the Devil's Trumpet. It's poisonous if ingested, and causes psychedelic delusions. It's legendary for giving some of the most hellish waking nightmares. Isn't that something you've said about yourself? A nightmare flower for the nightmare Apex Predator!" You finish your short speech, and he carefully takes the flower from you, staring silently at its alluring but deceptive beauty for a few moments in silence.

"Thank you." He finally says, carefully placing the makeshift vase and flower down on the computer desk. "I wanted to talk to you about something while we're at it."

"Is this about what I said earlier? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I wasn't thinking, and--"

"You wanted to die. It's okay. I understand that feeling." He takes your hand and sits you down on the bed as he takes the office chair opposite to you. "I don't want you to die, even though I am certain I will live to see the day anyway." He pauses, gathering the words he wants to say. "If you really find you cannot handle living any longer, I want you to die painlessly in my arms."

You sit there, unable to fully process what he means, or perhaps you're refusing to process it. It's hard to swallow, if your suspicion is right. He lets the pause hang before finally specifying.

"If you truly must die, I want to be the one to take your life." His head hangs, and he refuses to make further eye contact. "It will be painless, you won't be alone, and I can hold you one last time." His pain is apparent.

As soon as the words register in your head, you throw yourself to the floor and kneel under his hunched over body, trying to meet his gaze. He is unmistakably despaired, so you stand into him, hugging him as you do.

"I'm so sorry Revenant, I promise it won't come to that." You're pleading with him to trust you, but you're not sure how to convince him. "I love you, I just want to spend as much time with you as I can. I won't let it come to that."

You're pretty sure you sound desperate, but you're not sure how he'll interpret that. You are desperate to get him back from wherever his mind is. He stays limp in your arms for a few moments--long enough to concern you. His optics are still on, so he's not rebooting. He's just pondering, and somehow that's more worrying than anything.

Finally, Revenant hugs you back, standing up and lifting you off the ground. He brings you to the bed, carefully lying down in it and dragging you into an enveloping hold. He holds you tightly, but with an intensity you haven't felt before. He doesn't speak, just holds you, refusing to let go.

You lay there, unable to move and unwilling to abandon him for what feels like hours, until your consciousness starts to fade. You drift off quickly, unable to deny your exhaustion any further.

[shineonmalcolmbright]

Shine On, Bright: Chapter Twenty-Seven

Table of Contents

Present

The world’s a murky place. There’s nothing black and white about it yet somehow Malcolm’s out there always trying to still piece it all together into a larger more concrete image. It’s full of murky rules and murky happenings and sometimes the world’s murky because water vapor grows too thick thanks to a cloud touching down into the ground. Doesn’t seem right though to have headlights beating down fog on a Christmas night in New York. Fog needs it to be humid and the air is too dry, the sort of dryness that makes your nose bleed.

Malcolm watches Owen put the car in park. Owen’s so busy trying not to look at Malcolm. They’re wedged between buildings full of people’s wanted and unwanted goods. Full of people’s secrets. Back to the murkiness.

You shouldn’t get into cars with strangers. It takes a lot of power to not look. Malcolm can barely recall the last time he heard his imaginary friend. Chances are it could be years ago or moments ago.

Either way, Tommy’s back again.

Tommy’s sitting in the back seat putting pressure on Malcolm’s headrest. Owen’s avoiding eye contact as he shuts off the headlights and unbuckles. Grabs his keys from the ignition with Malcolm watching his every move while his imaginary friend warns him again and again. Tommy’s always been right about his warnings, too.

You shouldn’t follow him. It’ll only bring danger. For a moment, Malcolm uses the rearview mirror to see Tommy there but it’s him, young him. It’s always been young him though. Young Malcolm who once was Old Malcolm compared to how Young Malcolm was when he first started having premonitions. Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

No going back. Malcolm watches Owen leave the car without a word forcing him to climb out without sparing a look at Young Malcolm.

Please don’t. Don’t!

Still, Malcolm climbs out of the car shutting the door as if it could turn his brain off. “What is this place?” he asks right away.

Owen’s leaning down pulling a brick from the ground. There’s not a window for its use, that’s if his use is to break inside the place in front of them. He’s busy bringing Malcolm somewhere but at least he also provides answers. “Turner was a private guy. He liked the quiet out here.”

“. . .You’ve been here before?”

Malcolm’s keeping an eye on Owen, trying to steady his breaths. You’re supposed to inhale deeply while counting to five to help with anxiety. Or is it seven? Or maybe it’s another number. Malcolm flinches as Young Malcolm pounds on the windshield from inside the car. Young Malcolm’s carrying such a fast beat. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. He’s screaming the whole time and it’s not like Malcolm needs to hear what he has to say word for word because he knows. He knows.

Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

It’s the question and not the sounds of the shining that stalls Owen. He has keys in his hand and his fidgeting with a lock. He looks at nothing, maybe he can see memories of his own. There are some flooding his brain. They’re blurs though. So many blurs of tumultuous times.

“Not in fifteen years,” whispers Owen as he continues to fidget with the lock. There’s no issue with it. His hands tremble. It’s a little warm for a winter night. “We were partners. We used to come and work out here sometimes.

The lock clicks, it slides open with ease. It’s frequently used. Young Malcolm continues banging on the windshield as he screamed into the window. Steam creeps across the glass. And not once does Malcolm move, his hand isn’t even trembling as he watches Owen move to the next step of opening the door before them.

Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back. Please don’t. Don’t!

Owen looks at Malcolm who moves forward as he hauls the door upwards leading to a garage. Some reason Malcolm walks past Owen, he pauses to peer at him as he holds open the door. Not a word is exchanged before the two and Malcolm slips right into the building.

Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back. Young Malcolm never stops screaming and pounding on the windshield. He could try and open the door.

Malcolm’s heading inside more and more only for metal to scrape behind him. Owen releases the garage door for a moment, he’s coming inside and drags it shut. Darkness collapses on them and Young Malcolm’s shouting is lost, it’s lost outside with his banging on the windshield.

Please don’t. Don’t!

Electricity hisses, it flickers hardly allowing shadows to retreat. There’s a blue hue to it and it almost sounds like those mosquito zappers some people have hanging right outside their doors. Malcolm is standing in the middle of the garage surrounded by archival boxes. It’s Owen’s turn to watch him. Malcolm pays no mind to the boxes or Owen as he watches the ends of a sheet flutter up, it’s covering something large, something that’s not archival boxes stacked up on each other. He means to take it one slow step at the time. Instead, he trips up, moves forward too fast, and almost crashes into whatever the sheet hides and pulls it off.

Crime scene photos decorate a board. Puzzle pieces are spread across it, Turner tried to fit them together but these puzzles aren’t so easy. There’s no edges to find and plant. Instead, there’s photos all across them including recent images from the junkyard where they found bodies, bodies, bodies.

Malcolm snaps his attention to Owen who’s trying to not look so startled. His jaws slightly ajar and Malcolm touches some of the images on the board. “Why-Why was Turner looking into the Junkyard Killer?” Maybe he should’ve listened to Young Malcolm. He shouldn’t have followed Owen inside because now it’s too late to turn around and return to the world before. “He never even worked on The Surgeon Case?”

Owen’s already turned on another light bringing some warmth to the room. He’s looking through a folder of some sort. He glares at Malcolm. “Yeah, but I did.” And it’s back to the flipping of the pages in the book. Malcolm leans back against a desk, he crosses his hands in front of him watching Owen, analyzing his words and movement. “These are all my files from 20 years ago.” All of them. Owen slams the folder down on top of a filing cabinet. Can’t believe him. All of them. Twenty years.

Puzzle pieces are surfacing in Owen’s mind as he turns his attention at the photographs on the board. He stares right at images of a younger Malcolm, walking home and another candid shot of him. There’s a post-it note that simply says “Malcolm Whitly” and it’s underlined twice.

“I always thought there was more.” He knows. He had to know. Bet he knows. “Martin must’ve had a cleanup man, but my higher-ups. . .” Malcolm again is stuck on Owen, trying to analyze but there’s a lot fluttering through his thoughts. His hand quakes and he needs to stay present, not fall out of time again. All of them. Twenty years. I knew it. I knew it! . . . “closed the case. . .” Owen’s eyes are bulging as there’s overstimulating thoughts circulating all throughout his mind. There had to-There had to be more. Twenty years. “They called it a day.”

Malcolm’s leaning forward into each of Owen’s words almost lost in between the spoken and the silent ones. “You kept digging.” It’s obvious on all levels but the old papercuts on Owen’s hands from researching still sting.

“Uh, hell yeah, I kept digging.” Here. All of them. Twenty years. There had to-There had to be more. . .He knows-He knows something. That look. Look. Owen sinks into the seat he’s on. “I was blackballed for my trouble and by the time Turner showed up, I was pretty well spent.” Words scraped his throat as thoughts continue to fluctuate. Owen snags his flask out of his pocket, shaking his head. Turner. “You know, he-he-he put up with me until. . .”

Malcolm looks away, he looks at the board as if he’s studying the images but he parts from Owen’s mind as best as he can. There’s puzzle pieces but private memories as well. The pain of them still clenched up in the pit of his stomach. Daggers in the intestines.

“He put up with me until-until he couldn’t and he gave up on me like-like everyone else did.”

There’s a faded snapshot. The sort of a polaroid aesthetic. Owen’s shaking his head trying to loosen it from the front of his mind. But it’s him at a bar, he’s sitting at the actual bar, mulling over another shot of whiskey, it’s burning his throat, tells himself it’s clearing his sinuses, somebody taps his back and he turns to see Turner there commenting on how it’d go down better if he grabbed a bite to eat before asking, Wanna go grab some pizza?

“I don’t think he did,” Malcolm whispers looking back at Owen to give him full attention but to also analyze, analyze, analyze. Malcolm points at some of the images on the wall and the archival boxes waiting around in the dark. Even his brain is almost stuck on the same repeat as Owen. All of them. Here. Twenty years. “Turner did all this for you.”

Like anybody, there’s some of Turner left behind. Memories spread all about everywhere.

“When the news about the Junkyard Killer came out, he must’ve dug up all your old case files.”

Owen curls into himself, he attempts not to and to hide it. There’s him at the bar again, him drinking at the bar again, him stinking up the bar again, this is different though. The bar’s barely open because the sun’s still out, people are casually walking by and there’s a tap on his shoulder. His nerves feel so deaden he almost doesn’t feel it until he hears it. Turner’s behind him simply saying, Owen. . .

“He was trying to clear your name.” Malcolm takes a few steps toward Owen.

Some semblance of silence enters the garage. Owen’s mind hits a sound, an emergency broadcast sort of sound as he sinks into the seat biting down on his fingernails. There’s not much of them left, his cuticles instead start to bleed. The emergency broadcast carries on for a second, two seconds, three seconds longer before his hand falls from his lips.

“Damn it,” Owen whispers. Turner. All of them. Here. Twenty years. “Damn him for being a good guy.” He never takes a swig from his flask as he stares down at his feet and the steady beat of overstimulation bearing down on his brain. All of them. All of them. All of them. . .Turner. Owen’s breath hitches, he’s close to possibly shedding a tear and he tries to take in one long steady breath and it’s back to the bar the first time. “For being my guy.”

“You and Turner were in a relationship,” Malcolm says as he continues to study Owen.

Owen comes close to smothering himself again. His fingernails still bleeding. There’s more hitches in his shaky breath. “I-I spent ten years hating him for ruining my career when all he was trying to do was save me from myself.” The flask in his hand feels more like the morning after, the taste of vomit burning his mouth and nostrils. “And-And now he’s dead. And. . .And I-I just want him to know that I. . .I just want him to know that-that. . .”

Emergency broadcast erupts again and Owen chucks his flask across the room. People not like us. They’re too good. And Owen’s sinking again while Malcolm pats the air knowing he should comfort and he should help him, but it’s hard. There’s such discomfort in emotion yet emotion intrigues him. So much emotion is left behind along these walls.

“He knew,” Malcolm whispers as he attempts to make eye contact with Owen. “All this, all this was because he believed in you, Shannon.” Malcolm picks up the folder Owen had been looking through for emphasis. He pages through it only something catches Owen’s eyes and stills his mind as he zones in on it. Without moving much, Malcolm pauses catching this silent drift.

Owen snatches something from the folder blurting, “What?” He’s staring at the paper, staring at it, the puzzle pieces are all into play. “Turner was hunting down my suspects.”

“You had suspects?”

“Everyone I thought that might be helping Martin. If there was a stone, we turned it over.”

Energy causes Malcolm to bounce about, he’s twitching warning to get his hands on the papers Owen holds. Owen gets up coming closer to him as he is staring at those names.

“Now don’t get too excited.” Owen makes sure Malcolm can see as well. “Each one was a dead end.”

Malcolm looks up trying not to grin. There’s so much energy, he might bounce right out of there. “Not if we compare them to my list.” The words almost slur together, he’s talking so fast. “The Surgeon met The Junkyard Killer at St. Edward’s Hospital and we narrowed it down to a possible 50 names.”

The words are still sliding together. Malcolm whips around to take off and grab what he needs. There’s banging outside the garage door. By the way Owen follows him, it doesn’t appear Owen can hear it. Instead, it’s gotta be Young Malcolm out there shouting his same warnings again and again and again.

Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

“So if the name is on both lists. . .” Owen comes up beside Malcolm ready for research. They’re standing with more light. He spreads the sheet of names out and Malcolm pulls out his phone so he can show his list. Owen snaps up, he almost accidentally headbutts Malcolm. “No, no, no, no, no, no. We don’t get to be so lucky.” Twenty years

“It’s not luck if it took twenty years.”

Malcolm lowers his head to study the names. Owen is teetering off balance as he gawks at Malcolm before getting to business. There are names to list and names to reject. Owen saying one, “Wade,” only for Malcolm to go, “No.”

“Waits?”

“No.”

“Walker.”

“Nope.”

The pounding on the garage door increases, but Malcolm’s too hyper-focused to even give Young Malcolm a second thought. Besides, what else is he going to say other than: Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back.

“Watkins.”

The name snaps like a brittle twig, a warning when you’re walking through the woods. Malcolm looks up forgetting how to speak for a second. He’s on the edge of falling out of time. There’s Malcolm squinting at a man trying to dig through his thoughts only to find nothing, nothing, nothing as the man kept them so tied up and private. The man made jokes. The man made apologies. The man said, ”John Watkins, a friend of your father. Told me I could stay here if. . .I helped with this place.”

Without a no following, Owen looks up and Malcolm finds words again, “Watkins! Uh, John Watkins.”

Owen’s breath rasps as he releases one long exhale. “Holy hell, I remember John Watkins. He was a really strange guy.”

All the way back then and in the past, back at the Overlook as life too often happened, Malcolm added no comment while he watched this John Watkins unable to remember a time he heard his name. For a person who could hear the spoken and unspoken, it seemed weird he had no idea who this stranger was standing in front of him. And John Watkins went on as if not a single oddity was apparent.

“He used to work swing shifts at the hospital.”

Malcolm glances at his information. “I have an address! It’s twenty years old, but still!”

Both Owen and Malcolm chuckle. They pop up ready to make a run for it. Malcolm gets the lights as Owen hauls the garage door back open. All along Young Malcolm stands there banging his fists on the metal. He spots when it’s no longer within reach. Owen holds the door open waiting for Malcolm to make a move, but Malcolm almost trips over himself. Startled by the fact Young Malcolm watches him so closely and with such silence.

Malcolm does his best to scurry past Young Malcolm, but Young Malcolm’s fingertips brush across his elbow. Malcolm watches as he continues toward the car.

Young Malcolm stares him down. But you already knew all of this all along. Don’t do it. You know if you go in there, there’s no going back. He wasn’t ever speaking of the garage and what they’d find. The door comes down with a racket. Owen talks but his words are gone. Malcolm is stuck looking at Young Malcolm. He wasn’t ever warning Malcolm about the garage but instead-instead, something else. . .

Thanks again! If you’re still here reading, thanks so much! This might be it for awhile because it’s where I left off and am 1. depressed 2. tired and 3. I have a lot of schoolwork but I hope to get back into writing more scenes because I miss this show so much.

[touchmycoat]

Hey!~ How about number 9 with MAS for the kiss prompt? I told you just ask and I will send prompts! XD

((send me a ship and a number and i will write a kiss))

yaaaaahhh it’s the Chinese lantern festival today!!! have some Romance, which is apparently good labor, aggressively un-romantic biological manifestations, and the dissolution of class boundaries in Ancient China

MAS, rated G

#9, in Public

Sabo snagged a sprigof spring onion from the planter box outside the window on his wayout.

“Young Master—”

The fig tree outsideSabo’s room has only ever grown wider, and it took only twovaulting steps for Sabo to reach the secondary trunk made of aerialprop roots. Well-worn footholds held as he shimmied up, crossed thetiled roof of the courtyard wall, and was gone.

He’d timed it, ofcourse, so that by the time he reached the village at the foot of themountain dusk would’ve taken over. The night was cold, amid-afternoon heatwave drawing in the cold front with a blanket ofseaside fog. The water vapor diffused all the golden lantern lightlining the streets, and Sabo with a scarf barely draped over hisdistinctive scar could hum and walk boldly through.

Ace’s stall was,of course, completely packed. Mothers and fathers and grandparentsand toddlers and teenagers. His was just one of maybe ten waxsalespeople, but everybody knew Fire Fist Ace’s name and that hiswares were the best: what he sold burned hot but steady, with noimpurities that could suddenly crackle and make a child cry, no cheapfiller that left a lantern too weighted and cold to fly.

“—the smallsize? But da-ge, I got the sixteen here are yousure you need— aiya okayokay, let me unpack it—”

Saboslipped out like a shadow from the crowd, reachedinto Ace’s wagon parked behind his stall, and hauled out theappropriate crate. It wasalready fairly light, meaning Ace was well on his way to selling outdespite the time being so early in the evening. Justas he set it on the ground and priedopen the lid, he felt Ace’s knees gently bump into his back ingreeting.

“Hey,look who snuck out.” As ifSabo could resist the beckon of that warm tone. He peaked frombehind the scarf, and asalways, Ace looked deliciouslygolden in firelight, all tanskin and wide smiles. “Isthe YoungMaster here to romance somebody tonight?”

Liftinga whole plate of the small wax dishes, Sabo held it up above his headfor Ace to take.

“Why?Is there occasion to romance?” he replied ironically with a grin ofhis own. Ace took the plateand bent down to smack a kiss to the top of Sabo’s head.

“There’snot even occasion to piss,” Ace complained. They parted—Ace forthe stall front and Sabo to fetch another rapidly depleting stock ofwax dishes—then reconvened again, like willow branches swimmingthrough the wind. “I swearto Heaven I’ll burst by the end of the night.”

“That’snice,” Sabo said loudly. “Gopee, what the hell.”

“Yeahbut the outhouse is outthere—”

“Andwe can cover you in here,” came a deep and familiar voice behindSabo. Sabo didn’t even turnaround, just walked forward shoulder-checking Ace until Acerelinquished his position atthe front of the stall. Ace’s mouth was open, but any protest diedaway when Marco—the muchmore publicly beloved Young Master withthe blue robes and goldenembroidery, the lazy smile anda doctor’s bedside manners—immediately started handling thesales.

“Yeah,we’re here,” Sabo said,quieter now that they had their own little pocket of shadow to workwith. “Take a break. Bringsome drinks back.”

“Mmh.”Keeping eye contact with Sabo, Ace slowlyreached his hand into the fold of Sabo’s shirt. Hispatting motions weren’t suggestive, but they certainly weren’t…collegial, either.Sabo let him, fighting hard not to smirk when Ace’s fingers clampedaround his coin purse and tugged it out.

Alongwith the springonion.

Aceburst out laughing when he saw it, andlooked over Sabo’s shoulder.

“Yo,Marco! Is the Newgate Houseready for a marriage tonight?”

Thespring onion went flying through the air like this was a farmer’sstall, and Marco, in the middle of taking an order from a young girlaround five years old, straightened to catch it. Saboshould’ve snagged his coin purse back from Ace at that point, butinstead, he caught a glimpseof something in Ace’s sleeve and reached—

Itwas a fistful of watercress, roots still muddy by the looks of it,which meant Ace probably did actually steal it, per tradition. Sabosnickered, “oh you’re a romantic,”as Ace tried to snatch it back.

Thewatercress ended up being thrown at Marco too, who shotthem both a flat look for, presumably,not only leaving him with all the busy work, but also flingingvegetables at his head.

“Howabout two?” Sabo said to Marco, now involved in a minor wrestlingmatch with Ace as he tried to prevent Ace from leaving for theouthouse. The bastard could pee in his pants for all Sabo cared; it’swhat he deserved. “It’snot like your father can’tafford you two spouses,right? Wanta harem, Young Master?”

“Please,”Marco muttered, tossing both the watercress and spring onion back atthem with a grimace, “stop giving them ideas.”

Themwas the three, now four olderwomen crowding at the front of the stall, allof I have a lovely daughterage. Their attentions weren’ton the display of wax dishes for use inside the floating lanternstonight, but on the shinyclothes of the shiny, richnobleman behind it whoapparently wanted a harem.

Acecaught the onion and Sabo the watercress. They exchanged a lookbefore approachingMarco in twin determined steps. On either side of him they paused.Each placed a hand on Marco’s shoulder.

Agust of wind swept in,momentarily diminishing all of the flames lighting Ace’s stall.Frosty fog pecked at all their cheeks.

Aceand Sabo, too, both leaned in andeach pressed a kiss to Marco’s face.

Theflames steadied, and lit thestall in full gold again. All three of them were grinning and lookingahead (except perhaps Marco’ssmile was tinged ever so lightly with pleased embarrassment).The green onion andwatercress were bundled andtucked into the front of his robes.

Theolder women all saw this, and shuffleddisappointedly back into line for their lantern fires.

“See,”Ace laughed quietly, “we take care of you too.”

“Willyou hurry up,” Sabo sighed in exasperation, wrapping up an order offour for a gentleman in the back, “and go empty your bladderalready?”

AsAce finally wentscrambling off, Sabo andMarco worked side by side for a while, no words exchanged between thetwo of them. As Saboreached behind Marco’s head to cut some candles from a hangingbundle though, he felt Marco suddenly turn. Fingers on his wrist.

Lipson his knuckles. Idiotprobably thought he was so smooth or something, stealing so small akiss, in such an innocuousplace, before turning back around again. Toobad he hadn’t met Sabo’s eyes, or he would’ve seen Sabo’sutterly unimpressed expression.

(Ormaybe he would’ve seen Sabo’s utterlyincriminating blush, but since Marco didn’t look, that was a mootpoint.)

//

Marco’scharacters were better than Sabo’s, much less Ace’s. He’sthe one designated to calligraphy duty then, when all the wax disheshad sold and Ace officially closed down the stall. The night wasstill young, and beautifulbubbles of paper-dressed flames went gliding into the far skies abovethem. Their own lantern stoodbefore Marco’s brush.

“Whatare you writing then?” Ace asked, securing away the last of hisempty crates. He’d made apretty penny tonight, and glowed with the pleasure of a day’s hardwork done. Sabo leaned around Marco to ask for another kiss. Got it.

“Mushyshit,” Sabo answered.

“Marriageproposals,” Marco snickered.

“Mushyshit,” Sabo said again, this time sighing in a long-beleagueredway. “Why is he like this?”

“Youtwo brought the vegetables,”Marco pointed out, gesturing at the bundleof green on the table besidehim. Sabo picked up thewatercress, and took a bite.

“Okay,”he said, chewing deliberately loudly, “so now we’re marriedright?”

“Oh.And you didn’t even wash that.”

“Areyou calling your fiances dirty? Here Ace, have a—”

Pickingup the spring onion, Ace too took a bite. The moment he did, Sabo andMarco exchanged looks.

“I—What?”

“Ohno,” Sabo mourned, as the strong scent of green onion scatteredthrough the air. Ducking a grin, Marco went back to his preciselettering. “I can’t believe nobody’s going to kiss Ace on ourwedding night.”

“What!”Ace squawked in indignation. “What do you— It’s not thatbad—”

“Ican smell it from here Ace,” Marco murmured, finishing the lastcharacter of the couplet with flourish. Strong and full ofvitality, Sabo’s calligraphy teacher might’ve said aboutMarco’s characters. “Green onion breath… Well it’s hardlyromantic, is it?”

Blinkingonce at them both, Ace scowled, then crammed the entire spring onioninto his mouth, chewing with vicious abandon. Sabo straightened andimmediately began to back away. Marco wasn’t so lucky; Ace had sunka hand into his arm, keeping him within reach.

“Comehere then,” Ace said, breathing heavily until Marco’s nosewrinkled with the overwhelming scent. “Give us a kiss now and I’llshow you romance…”

[theawestruckwonder]

WYVERNS, SKY WHALES, and KITCHEN TROLLS (Full Story)

Like every other morning, eleven-year-old Jenna Walker woke up before the stars had disappeared from the sky. Her mouth was drier than usual as she took her first deep breath since the previous evening, but she pushed the half thought from her mind as she sat up and slinked out from under the covers. She shuffled downstairs, curling her toes as her bare feet hit the cold wooden floors. Imitating her mom, she filled the coffee pot with water and poured the pre-ground beans into the filter, adding a soft shake to brew a stronger batch. As she turned the machine on and waited for the coffee to brew, she watched the sun rise through droopy eyes. The neighborhood lightened, and the mist twisted and curled above the grass in the backyard.

A woman rose from the fog, her form vague. She still had arms and a face, but her feet disappeared. Another mist woman arose and another and another. They spun around each other in greeting until they began to dance, their vaporous hands intertwining. As the sun rose higher and higher in the sky, the women’s dancing slowed until they were all but gone. When only one mist woman remained, she turned and pointed at the kitchen window.

Jenna looked over her shoulder. The mist woman was pointing at her.

The woman waved her arm, gesturing to follow her.

Jenna glanced to the clock. It was almost seven; her father would be more preoccupied about who brewed the coffee than whether or not his daughter was getting ready for school. She grabbed her shoes and coat by the front door and ran out the back. The fog woman was only visible by the outline she left behind. She stood underneath the apple tree and pointed up. Jenna saw nothing except branches and the first signs of fall, but she climbed up anyways. If she reached the curly branch, then she would be able to see over the fence and into the forest behind her.

Reaching the top of the tree, she gazed into the forest as her eyes searched for something. Anything. The sunlight had not yet penetrated the canopy, leaving the undergrowth covered in darkness. The shadows contorted themselves, wriggling into serpents as thick as bears. Their tongues flicked in unison. Raising their onyx bodies off the ground, they revealed a front pair of short legs with serrated claws. They dragged their bodies under and over each other toward her, but yielded at the sunlight’s presence. They blinked once. Twice. Three times before hissing and reluctantly turning around.

“Lindworms,” Jenna muttered.

“Jenna, what on earth are you doing out here?” her father shouted from the deck. He leaned against the door frame as he struggled with putting his socks on. “We have to leave in twenty minutes!”

Jenna stared at the forest a minute longer, but the sun had risen high enough for its light to filter through the branches. She dropped from the apple tree and ran inside. She understood the mist woman’s message clear enough. Shadows were creeping closer to home.

She ran inside, following her father as he scrambled around the house looking for his computer bag. She reached under the table and held it out.

“I swear I looked there,” he mumbled under his breath.

“Can we see Mom today?” Jenna asked.

Her father froze and stumbled out the beginning of an excuse.

“Nevermind,” Jenna said quickly. She didn’t want her father to finish that sentence. That sentence could never be finished. She ran up the stairs and rummaged through her closet until she fingers wrapped around the old shoebox in the back. She sorted through the jewelry, old coins, even a hand mirror until she found the rock at the bottom. Her mom had given it to her a few years ago, saying that it had magic inside it. The magic would only be released once it was broken and since it could only be used once, Jenna had hidden it away until a time when she really needed it. She stuffed it in her backpack and ran downstairs where her father was grabbing his keys.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I got everything I need.”

Behind her, the car door slammed behind her as her father rolled away with a crooked tie and shouting out a final word of encouragement. Other kids wove in and out of the crowd; a few pushed her with half mumbled apologies, but most passed by without any acknowledgement to my presence. With wide eyes, she stared at the white letters on a plaque in front of her.

Jefferson Middle School.

Jenna navigated through the halls toward her first period class, math, and took a seat at the far end where the windows were. Outside was the perfect view of the out of season baseball fields and sky. Even the tops of the forest were visible from her desk. She wondered if she would be able to see the lindworms from here.

“Welcome to Prealgebra,” the teacher announced after the final bell rang. “My name is Mrs. Oiler. I am your substitute teacher and today…”

Jenna drifted off. The dry grass of the fields had been mowed recently, even though the fields had been half dirt since the end of summer. Through the glass, there were little men and women, barely the size of her thumb, sneaking from stalk to stalk. They had skin that matched the dusty red dirt, but wheat colored hair. Old leaves covered their bodies like short robes. Though dozens of them wove in and out of the grass, all of them glanced up at the robins fluttering by the bleachers. One robin hopped further and further away until it bounced right on top of a pair of grassmen. It stared at them, its head cocked to one side, deciding if they would make a good meal.It must have been three times bigger than them. Their torsos would have fit nicely in its beak. The two men pulled out twigs sharpened into rapiers and swung them at the bird which jumped back in surprise. Once more, they thrusted the weapons towards its eyes, managing to scratch its left eye. The bird took off with an indignant squawk.

“Jenna Walker? Jenna Walker?”

“Oh, here, Mrs. Oiler,” Jenna called. She ignored the snickers of those around her. The teacher nodded and began her lecture while Jenna turned back to the window.

A single grassman climbed up a dandelion and saluted her. She smiled. They were on her side.

With half a dozen grassmen on her backpack and shoulders, Jenna walked home from school. She had waited at the loading zone for her father and after an hour, she started walking home. Though a brief journey, the sun had disappeared behind darkening clouds. The wind gusts pulled her hair and tied it into knots. She scolded the wind for being so careless, but it did not listen to her. She was grateful when she finally turned the corner to her street.

Jenna stopped by her mailbox at the end of her driveway before heading inside. The first raindrops were falling and promised only to grow worse as the day finished. She flipped throughout the envelopes as she walked to her door, wondering what the different municipal seals meant until she reached the final one. The Jefferson Middle School insignia was in the corner. Grades were out. As she slipped into the house, she hid the envelope in the first pocket of her backpack. When it started to fall, the grassmen climbed out and pulled it back.

Jenna brought out her math homework to the dining room table, several multipart problems, but her equations quickly spiraled into doodles on the page. She had only completed a few problems by the time her father came home from work later that afternoon. He was sopping wet, despite the short distance from the driveway to the front door. He was muttering curses under his breath as he took off his soaked coat and shoes. Jenna kept quiet as he ran upstairs and came down in dry clothes after which he began to prepare dinner. Her dad had ordered take out for the last few weeks, but tonight he seemed determined to burn mashed potatoes. She watched him fumble through the kitchen and opening cupboards that definitely did not have minced garlic before standing up and fetching it from the fridge. She closed the door as her father slammed a drawer onto his fingers.

“Son of a bi-,” he paused. His eyes caught her holding out the jar of garlic. “-scuit. How long have you been there?”

“Not long,” she said. Her father took the garlic and wandered over to the glass dish her father had taken out of the oven. Jenna eyed the meal.

Trolls crawled out from the bottom cupboards and gathered on the counter. They were small, only a foot tall, but they were fatter than Thanksgiving turkeys. They switched back and forth from glaring at her dad and glaring at the potatoes. One of them grabbed a meat grinder from the drawers. He beat the top of the potatoes, dismayed when it did nothing to break the charred surface. They grumbled with one another until one with a funny sagging hat wobbled over to a window. He shouted and waved his hands.

A chipmunk appeared behind the glass, its full cheeks bouncing as it walked through the window. It shook the rain off and opened its mouth. Out rolled two round gooey balls covered in saliva. She couldn’t hide the disgust from her face.

“That bad?” my dad asked.

“What?”

“Does dinner really look that bad?”

“Oh.” The troll brought the balls over. He tossed one to his friend and cracked them both over the edges like eggs. A thick silver slime fell from the shells, but no one seemed to mind. The troll trio exchanged glances with me and nodded, giving a thumbs-up before climbing down the counter and scurrying under the kitchen table. “Not really. Just thinking about school”

“Ah. Did grades come out?”

Jenna shrugged.

“Do you know when they’ll come out?” Her father moved toward the stack of envelopes near the door. He shuffled through them, throwing the spam mail into the trash while holding onto the bills, mostly form the hospital.

“No,” Jenna lied. She stole a peek at her backpack. The corner of the school’s letter was sticking out. Her father took a magazine and tossed it toward the trash can. However, instead of landing in the basket, it hit her backpack leaning against the wall and knocked out the contents of her backpack, including the school’s envelope, onto the floor. Her father leaned down to pick up the magazine when his eyes landed on the letter. His fingers hesitated, but he picked it up anyways. He looked up at Jenna.

“Is this what I think it is?” he whispered. His voice cracked at the end. Blood rushed to her cheeks as she stared at her father, unable to find the right words. Without another moment’s hesitation, she darted from the kitchen. She jumped up the stairs, two at a time, and disappeared into her room, shutting the door behind her and waiting for the sound of his footsteps as he asked for an explanation. But they never came. There was only the sound of her heart and the walls whining, not unusual despite the unseasonal thunderstorm shaking the place.

She curled under a red blanket at the window seat her parents had given her a few years ago and stared out the window. She watched the storm clouds billow into dark mountains, crashing over the sky like a tidal wave. Lightning flashed. She ran to turn out the lights. Thunder rumbled.

With that crack of thunder, a large blue whale pushed its way through the thunderheads. It opened its mouth, the baleen bristles in its mouth catching a second bolt of lightning. The electricity danced through the bristles until they were pearly white. Any leftover barnacles had fallen to the earth as shooting stars before winking out of existence. The whale opened its mouth even wider. Its song bounced upon the clouds with the thunder as its beat. A second one, this time a baby, floated through the storm-

“Jenna, we need to talk.” Her dad interrupted the scene as he nudged the door open. The whales disappeared as the light turned on overhead. She was faced with her own reflection in the pane, but also the reflection of her father. He looked tired and his hair was graying. When had that happened, she wondered? Surely it wasn’t like that last week. He took a seat next to her. With a quite groan, she turned towards him. He had a piece of paper with the outline of Jefferson’s seal in his hand. She pulled the blanket over her shoulders.

“I don’t want to,” she answered honestly.

“I’m not… mad about you... lying. Disappointed, maybe.” He stumbled over his words. He sighed. “Do you want to tell me why you have a D in math and PE and a C- in social studies?”

“I did okay in language arts and even science,” Jenna mumbled. Her father dipped his head to be at eye level, but she instead examined how the threads were fraying at the edge of her blanket.

“You’re right, Jenna, and I know the last few weeks screwed up some tests, but you can do better. I know you can.”

She stared out the window, wishing that the sky whales would come back. But however hard she tried, her reflection was the only thing she saw. Her chest tightened with each word. Her dad grabbed her chin and pulled it towards him, forcing her to look him in the eye, but she pulled her chin away from his hand and stared out the window. How was she supposed to explain the darkness that lived just beyond the forest? That it was her mom who had always kept back the monsters that lived beyond the fence? That her stories were the only thing between Jenna and her nightmares? Her father sighed and stood up.

He placed the wish stone in his place. “I’m going to head to the hospital in an hour. Do you want to come?”

Jenna stared at the stone. She nodded.

Without her reflection to block the view, the whales came back. The big whale swam through the clouds, its baby following it until the next lightning strike brought forth an eel. Its skin bristled with electricity as it wrapped its body around the baby. Its song turned from long deep notes to short high ones. The two animals rolled in the clouds until she had to look away.

Jenna sat inside the hospital room later that evening. Her father had stepped out to speak to a doctor, but Jenna knew that there had been no change in her mother’s condition since she was first brought in here almost two months ago. Comatose, her mother lied in the hospital bed completely still. Computers beeped rhythmically with her mother’s heartbeat. She was breathing on her own, but the breaths were shallow. Her chest barely moved. No, there was nothing the doctors could do anymore. Jenna turned to the bouquet her father had brought and placed on the small table by the window.

An amber wyvern the size of her hand was sleeping at the base of the glass. Curled around the vase, it snored softly, emitting puffs of smoke with every exhale. Its feet twitched. A spark flew from its mouth as it awoke with a start. Baring its teeth, it scanned the room. When its eyes landed on Jenna, its mouth opened.

It honked.

Jenna smiled as the creature bounded to the edge of the table. Wiggling its hips, it judged the distance to the bed and jumped, opening its wings. It glided to her mother’s bed where it carefully climbed across the sheets and onto Jenna’s lap. It honked again and rubbed its head against her fingers.

“Hey, Aves. Enjoy your nap?”

The wyvern’s throat rumbled.

“How’s Mom been?”

The wyvern stopped rumbling. Its wings dropped as it looked up at her. With the tiniest shake of its head, it answered.

“It’s okay, Aves. She’ll wake up. I have a wish stone.” She held out the gray stone. The outer surface had softened over the years of constant turning in her hands, waiting for the right moment to be used. The wyvern honked repeatedly. She raised the stone high above her head and, whispering her wish, threw it onto the ground.

As it shattered into a thousand crystals, lightning blazed outside, and thunder roared. The hospital shook back and forth as the winds rushed past the building. The vase filled with flowers was shaken off of the table and crashed to the ground. The lights flickered overhead before turning completely off as her father and the doctor ran into the room. The doctor immediately ran out again to check for the backup generator.

“Jenna, are you okay?” Her father asked.

However, Jenna ignored him. She was watching her mother, illuminated by the lightning strikes happening outside. Aves had crawled up her body was now perched on her back, looking around her arm at the bedridden woman.

“Jenna, are you okay?” her father repeated.

“It didn’t work,” she breathed.

“What are you talking about?”

“The stone, it- it was magic. M- Mom said it would grant wishes and-“

Jenna was aware of the scalding tears running down her face and her father pulling her into a tight embrace, but as her vision blurred, her mind numbed. She barely heard her father whispering, “Jenna, that rock was a geode. Not magic. At least, not the kind you’re thinking of. It can’t wake her up anymore than you or me can. Do you understand?”

Jenna was shaking as her father slowly let go. She collapsed onto the floor as she cried. Her father knelt with her as he pulled her back into his arms, ignoring the broken glass and crystal on the floor. Jenna wasn’t sure how long the power had been out, but her eyes stung when they flashed back on. She was still trembling when she and her father carefully stood up and shuffled to the door. The glass crystals tinkled as the last few tears slipped off her cheeks.

“Jacob? Jenna?” a woman’s voice croaked from behind them. Jenna whipped around the see her mother’s open eyes. “What happened?”

She was awake.

[unapologeticallyaisha-archive]

Scrying

WARNINGS: creepy images, mild gore and violence

Summary: Loki investigates some magical mirrors and has a terrifying encounter.

Word count: 2500+

Author’s note: Pre-Thor and not part of my fanfiction series (for now)

The ancient art of scrying is prevalent in many cultures across the cosmos. This technique is utilized to divine the past, the present, or possible futures. Scrying tools are not limited to mirrors. Any reflective surface can be used for scrying: metal, stones, water, fire. What the scryer sees may be personal to them, or it may have nothing to do with them at all.

“Are you hoping to see your future lover?”

Loki looked up from his book. A grinning Thor was leaning over the desk, threatening to mess up Loki’s piles of carefully-taken notes.

Loki was interested in a wide variety of topics, and his curiosity was not superficial. A topic could be subjected to intensive research for weeks, even months. The latest one to catch his eye had been mirrors.

Mirrors were surrounded by numerous superstitions. They were said to show visions. Breaking them was considered bad luck. Some believed they could trap people’s souls, especially the souls of those who were dead. With magic being as diverse as it was, Loki held to the notion that not all such fears were irrational.

And mirrors held a special meaning for Loki. Because of his ability to cast illusions, he knew better than anyone how images could fool people. He startled himself when he walked in front of a mirror while disguised.

Thor had heard many of the same rumors, but he didn’t believe any of them. For him, mirrors were just tools for vanity.

Loki was planning on visiting a place called the Vale of Mirrors. Stories about it varied and many sounded exaggerated, but they all agreed that the Vale held some very mysterious mirrors, possibly the most powerful in the universe.

Loki wasn’t interested in scrying or seeing any deep truths. He just wanted to experience the mirrors for himself.

Loki gave his brother a bored look. “I would not waste my time asking such empty-headed questions.”

“You may find out that your sweetheart is a lizard,” Thor continued. “Or a troll.”

Loki’s eyes dropped to a drawing on the table, depicting a man cowering from a storm of whirling leaves. His mother had warned him about delving too deep into powerful magic, but the temptation was just too great.

“You should be careful in the Vale, brother,” said Thor, taking his hands off the table. “You might accidentally summon a Fire Demon that will gobble you up!” Chuckling to himself, he left Loki in the shadowy corner of the library.

The distant planet Loki landed on was largely uninhabited, so nature flourished freely. The planet’s three faraway suns gave off a comfortable light through the blue and gold trees. Furry animals with long snouts leapt through the branches, and worms twined around the trunks. Colorful rocks crunched beneath Loki’s boots.

Strangely, many of the trees were broken near the tops, with the severed branches lying in a heap around them.

Loki plucked some leaves off the ground. They were very soft, like velvet.

Placing the leaves in his coat, he continued on through the forest, following a faint but undeniable tug of magic.

At last, he reached the grove he had seen so many times in illustrations. The trees here looked as if they had been pruned. In the center of the grove was a perfectly circular pond with worms swimming in it.

Wondering if the pond was one of the mirrors, Loki peered into the water. However, it was so clear he could see right to the bottom.

Loki walked around the pond and found the ground sloping down into a pitch dark cave. He lit up his hand with yellow magic and went in.

The tunnel led to a circular room with nine large mirrors on the walls, each a plain sheet of glass.

Loki studied the mirrors. He could only see himself from several different angles. Nothing unusual.

Loki then noticed that everything was still. The sounds of rustling leaves and animals had stopped. There was invisible magic in the cave, but it was static, unmoving.

Maybe he had to focus. He drew closer to one of the mirrors. Still nothing changed.

Just as Loki was wondering if he needed to use a spell, the eyes in his reflection darkened, and the face became longer and narrower.

Loki stepped back and noticed that all the reflections were changing, growing broader or thinner, their hair morphing into other colors, until each one was a different person. All of them turned to face him.

“Who are you?” Loki asked.

“Why have you come here?” one of them asked back.

“I am here to see the magic of the Vale.”

“We can show you a great many things,” said another man.

Each of them was standing in another cave, also full of mirrors. It was his own world, multiplied a myriad times.

Maybe the mirrors were windows into other worlds, ones he could see but not touch.

Or maybe he was the reflection, and the others were reality.

Loki summoned up his courage. “What do you have to tell me?”

“Are you afraid of your future?” one of the reflections asked.

Fate was not something Loki considered very often, because it unsettled him. The conviction of most Asgardians was that no matter what came to pass, they would face it courageously.

Loki was not nearly that confident. Still, if that was what they offered, he would take it. “What do you know of my future?”

The magic in Loki’s hand extinguished itself, but the mirrors remained lit with their own eerie light.

“If you are not afraid …” said the reflection.

“You should be,” all of them hissed.

The cave and the mirrors disappeared. It was very dark, but Loki could see the faint outlines of trees. Leaves were falling around him – some silver, some a ghostly blue. The gleaming tips of creature’s snouts darted in and out of sight. Luminous worms as large as snakes swarm in a murky black pond in front of him. The whole place gave off the stench of wet leaves and dirty rainwater.

Loki heard a crackling noise that grew progressively louder. Ice was creeping over the forest floor and up the trees. Pinpricks of red light appeared in the rocks, like a million eyes looking up at him.

Terror gripped Loki. Every muscle in this body wanted to run. But just as that thought crossed his mind, a wind blew him onto his knees.

All at once, the trees broke at the point where their trunks forked, as if a giant scythe had cleaved off their tops.

Loki looked into the pond. The reflection looking back at him seemed melancholy.

Then his reflection’s arm grabbed the front of his tunic and pulled him into the dark water.

Loki barely had time to gasp.

But he wasn’t drowning. He didn’t even feel like he was underwater. The other him had vanished, and he was floating in empty blackness.

It isn’t real, he reminded himself.

His toe hit something solid, and he fell onto hard ground.

Loki’s head was on its side, and he could see that he was on a patch of rocks that smelled vaguely metallic. Beyond the rocks was a thick black fog. It was extremely quiet.

Loki tried to push himself up, but he couldn’t move a muscle. Even his eyelids had been forced open.

Something oozed up from between the rocks, flowing over Loki’s fingers and seeping through his clothing. The scent of blood filled Loki’s nose. He tried to get up again, but to no avail. His magic wouldn’t respond, either.

The blood kept coming, and Loki wondered if it was his. He thought he could see ghoulish faces in the rocks, screaming silently. Maybe they were the ones bleeding.

Just as Loki thought he would be trapped forever, the rocks turned to dust beneath him, and the liquid vaporized.

Loki twitched his fingers and found to his relief that he could move again.

He got to his feet shakily and wiped the blood off his face. The fog was gone, and he was on a barren plain. He stood there, legs apart and eyes alert.

The wind picked up, and dust got into Loki’s eyes and clothes.

Loki then thought he saw something hovering in the distance, unmoved by the wind. A spark of flame, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Was it a friend or an enemy?

The bits of dust started to twist themselves into cable-like strands. One end was anchored to the ground, while the other end waved in the air. Instead of attacking Loki, they started converging on the tiny flame.

The flame could be his only aid in this place He started running toward it.

Immediately, some of the cables started moving towards Loki. Their ends became pointed, like spearheads.

Loki pulled a dagger out of his coat and sliced through the cable closest to him. The cable exploded, its dust spraying over Loki. However, no sooner had it burst apart then it reassembled again.

The cables slashed, making small cuts on Loki’s hands and face. One of them darted straight towards his chest, and he dodged it.

If Loki had been facing a conventional opponent, he would have known how to fight. But these were very different entities. Stooping down, he put away his dagger and unleashed a blast of magic.

The magic scattered the pieces of dust much better than his dagger could.

Loki charged towards the flame. As he cupped his hands around it, it grew slightly larger, lighting up his face with its orange glow. It was pleasantly warm.

Loki smiled a little, but he knew he had to be careful. Fire was fickle, and not easily controlled.

Similar types of magic were attracted to each other, Loki remembered. He conjured a small flame of his own and held it steady.

The cables were advancing on him.

He strengthened his magic, and the flame grew along with it. He unleashed them both as one fiery blast. The cables were disintegrated instantly.

Loki grinned proudly. He extinguished his own magic, but the small flame stayed.

The ground quaked, making Loki almost lose his balance. The plain began turning into sinking pits of dust. Soon, only the patch of ground Loki stood on remained.

Many voices whispered all around him, speaking as one. “Will you join us? Or will you be the one to escape?”

Burning white objects, like stars, began showering from the sky. Loki had nowhere to run to, so he shielded his head.

He hated this. He had fought hundreds of enemies before, but none of them could compare to the forces of nature.

The flame spread out above him, incinerating the objects as they came near. But he could feel the flame weakening.

Fight nature with nature, he thought.

Some of the objects grazed Loki’s arms, scorching him through his clothes. When they fell around Loki’s feet, Loki saw that they were leaves, sharp as glass and smoldering with white fire.  

Images danced in the flames. A blue crystal mounted in gold. An army mounted on winged horses.  A rift in the sky that was full of stars. A long sword stained with blood.

Just as suddenly as it had began, the bombardment of objects stopped.

Loki took his hands away from his head, and the orange flame shrunk again.

Rocks rushed out of the pits, and as he watched, the cave walls rebuilt themselves around him.

There was a flash of lightning and a thunderclap that made Loki cover his ears. He was almost certain the cave roof had split open.

Then it was absolutely silent.

The flame was gone. The leaves were gone. Except for the nine mirrors, the cave was empty.

After a few heartbeats, Loki hurried back through the tunnel into the open. The sunlight blinded him, and he fell to his knees.

When his eyes refocused, he realized he was kneeling by the edge of the pond, which was clear again. The sun was warm on his back. He watched the rippling water and fluid movements of the worms, and gradually his heart stopped pounding.

Loki gingerly reached up to touch his face. There was no blood, no dust. All his wounds had healed, but the sensations still remained.

He had to laugh at himself. He, the illusion-caster, frightened by false images. Nearly all sense had departed from him in the cave. He had always prided himself on being the rational one in his family, but it seemed fear always triumphed over intelligence. He knew the best thing to do was to go home, talk to other people, and remind himself that reality still existed.

He pictured Thor coming to him and asking, So, did you see your future lover? and him answering, Yes, and it turned out to be myself. Now please leave me and my books in peace.

Loki saw that more of the trees were broken than before. Perhaps he had actually left the cave during his vision.

The blissful scenery suddenly seemed to be overlaid with sinister images. Anything – from the ground to the plants to the sky itself – could turn against him at any moment.

Loki backed away from the pond. Then he reached into his coat and took out the leaves he had picked up. They were still blue and gold, and as bright as ever.

What had the Vale been trying to tell him?

Here’s a piece of music to go with this story (lyrics in description)

[roguephenon]

A good morning

Out on the far fringes of the universe, deep in the unknown void of stars, a tiny ship blinked into existence. It dropped out of hyper-space, the engines slowing to a respectable speed as the sleek vessel continued its endless voyage.

Inside the ship, within a darkened room, four, pebble sized gemstones floated aimlessly in the dark. Every so often, they radiated soft, violet glows that illuminated the dwelling of a child. Hand-made stuffed animals laid strewn about in a random stampede, a pile of journals and coloring books remained half-finished in the corner, and artifacts of various shapes and sizes hung proudly from the walls.

In the center of the room was a nest-like bed bulging with fluff and cotton sheets. Tucked comfortably in a mass of pillows and blankets was a slumbering girl no older than nine; Tali. Her bouncy, chocolate hair curled around her face, and her arms and legs remained securely wrapped around a fuzzy, squid-like doll. She smiled in her sleep, nuzzling deeper into the warmth of her bed.

The four gemstones rotated around the bed, giving off low warm light around the child. After a moment, their glow brightened and a breezy hum echoed throughout the room. The gems orbited faster around Tali as they slowly homed in on her.

With a wide yawn, Tali slowly roused from her slumber. She sat up, rubbing at her eyes and adjusting to the dim lighting. She looked at the gemstones, groggily blinking as she watched their odd symphony in a daze.

All at once, she gasped.

“We’re here!” Tali gave her squid doll an excited squeeze, now fully awake. She cutely shooed off the gemstones, the items dulling and returning to their original pattern as they quieted. She then began crawling out of her bed as the lights of her room eased on.

At the foot of Tali’s bed, curled up into a ball, was a pale lizard creature. As she disturbed the creature’s rest, its ruby eyes snapped open and it raised its head. It poked around curiously before its maw stretched into a large yawn. Once Tali had left the bed, it curled into a tighter ball and resumed its slumber.

Tali turned and peered over the lizard, giving it a soft pat. “We’re here, Sasha!”

Sasha borrowed into the covers, ignoring Tali and continuing to sleep.

“You so lazy,” she giggled. Forgetting the lizard, Tali trotted to the left, her padded pajama bottoms causing her to tumble. Undisturbed, she continued going until she hopped into a towering pile of clothing.

Tali rummaged in the clothing pile, digging around and causing a stir. After a moment, she crawled out, her hands holding onto a green, star-shaped backpack and a floofy purple sweater. She struggled between shrugging on the sweater and fastening the straps to her backpack as she made for the door.

An overhead light fixture blinked as the child neared the door, and the pathway automatically opened as Tali ducked through it. One arm flapped to adjust her straps and her other quickly snatched up her shoes as she exited the door. She tumbled to the floor, a disheveled mess, but continued to wiggle down the hall as she hastily dressed.

“We’re here,” she continued to chant as she kicked on her shoes. She scrambled up to her feet, grinning with not a care of how her sweater was on backwards. “We’re here, we’re here!”

Tali skipped merrily down the winding corridor, never missing a beat as she neared her destination. She passed an observation window, and paused to press her face against it. She breathed deeply, fogging up the glass as her feet stomped wildly.

Below was an azure planet, beckoning curious adventures forth to unlock all its secrets and mysteries.

“We’re here!” Tali exclaimed as she bolted down the hall, running full tilt. “We’re finally here!”

Her laughs echoed throughout the interior until she approached a large, bolted door. A series of lights and luminescent tubes bled into the walls and journeyed beyond the seal. Defense turrets lazily monitored the hallway, charged and ready to vaporize any trespasser on sight. When Tali wandered close, they snapped towards her.

Tali pounded her hands against the door, oblivious to the turrets scanning her. The red lights of their visors turned blue as they instantly retracted, and she stepped back before charging in as the bolted door opened with a hiss.

The air was cold, stale, and eerily silent. The only light within the chamber came from the dull glare from the dozens of computer screens plastered to the back wall. Tali could barely contain herself as she ran to the center of the room, towards an unsettling cocoon of wires and steel. She approached them without a fear in the world, and hugged the wires tightly.

“Mom! Mom, wake up,” Tali said, voice light and pinched with eagerness only a child could muster. She hugged the cocoon tighter as she announced, “We are here!”

Tendrils shot out from the base of the cocoon and instantly aimed for Tali. They coiled around her body, lifting her into the air. The girl continued to smile, not fighting the wires as they held her away from the cocoon while it groaned and slowly bloomed.

A sterile mist erupted from the cocoon as a pod unraveled itself. From its core, the sleek frame of a body began to become visible. Its cylinder torso rounded as it lifted, and its legs bent and formed as the pod rose. A head with an assortment of loose wires nodded upwards, and a visor faceplate blinked as it came online.

Tali smiled. The tendrils brought her closer to the bot and the visor displayed a smiling heart symbol as she leaned in for a nuzzle.

“Good morning, Tali,” a smooth, delicate voice spoke. “Did you sleep well?”

“Uh-huh,” Tali said, nodding. “I slept good. But guess what – we’re here!”

“Here?” the robot repeated, the head tilting curiously. It rose, as if looking towards the ceiling, and hummed before speaking again. “Ah, my sensors indicate we have arrived above Planet En’dol.”

Tali nodded again. “Yep, so we can land and go look for the thing, right? Right?”

The robot beeped, the visor displaying a bemused emotive symbol. “Well, aren’t you eager.”

“I’m ready!” Tali protested, wiggling out of the tendrils to land on the floor. She then proudly stood and spun around. “I got dressed all by myself and everything!”

The robot studied Tali’s appearance, with her backwards sweater over her pajamas. It spouted a series of beeps and whirs the child recognized as a ‘laugh’. “Yes, I can clearly see that.”

“So that means we can go land and explore now, right?”

“Tali,” the robot said quietly, “there are several protocols we must go through before we can embark. Besides, I am still not at full operational capacity.”

Tali pouted and stomped her foot. “But, moooom, I’m ready to go now! Can we, please?”

“Sweetie, just wait a little longer, and we can go as soon as I am able.” The tendrils gently lifted the whining Tali off the floor, and gently scouted her towards the door. “Now, please report to the mess hall for breakfast.” She lowered the child to the ground and used the tendrils to pat her head. “I shall make you burgle pudge!”

Tali huffed as she shuffled off. The door behind her close and she crossed her arms as she kicked at the floor.

“I don’t want burgle pudge,” she grumpily mumbled. “I wanna go exploring.” She frowned back the door, displeased that her mother wasn’t ready. How could she not be ready? Did she not understand that they were here?

Apparently not. Tali plopped to the floor and groaned, puffing her chest up before letting out deep breaths. She had no time for breakfast, they were here and she had to go exploring for the thing! That was way more important than delicious, tongue-tingling burgle pudge…

Mmm, burgle pudge…

No! Tali slapped her face and shook her head. Now was not the time for those kinds of thoughts. She had to get down planet-side. She tapped her chin, her mind fluttering through various ideas and plans to speed up her long-awaited En’dol expedition. Her mouth quirked to a grin as she stood, making an immediate left down the hallway.

Tali entered through another door, coming to the bridge of the ship. She looked forward, her eyes widening as she looked out the massive, observation deck window. The entirety of En’dol was right before her, a sparkling ruby against the darkness of the universe. It was so close, and her mom wanted to wait until after breakfast.

That was silly!

Tali moseyed up towards a blinking computer console, the panel blinking on its own and buttons and dials turning of their own violation. Tali’s head slowly peaked over the edge of the console, and her lips curled into a tiny smile as she petted an idle lever.

“Good morning, Ship,” she whispered as she patted the console. “You did a good job getting us here.”

To her right, a panel turned on. It let off a quick series of beeps as a response.

“You’re welcome,” she said. “And guess what? Mom says we should probably go ahead and land.”

There was a pause. The panel beeped slowly.

Tali shrugged. “I don’t know, moms are weird. But I just wanted to go ahead and tell you that.” She petted the console again. “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

The panel gave a dubious beep.

“Because mom said so, gosh!” Tali groaned, rolling her eyes. She slouched against the console, smacking her head against the keyboard impatiently. “Can you just please laaaaaand.”

The panel gave a dismissive beep before the ship vaulted. Tali perked up as she looked out the window, her brown eyes oozing excitement as they breached the planet atmosphere. Jagged lines on the horizons became mountain ranges, and small blobs grew into massive bodies of water they soared over as they ship searched for a suitable landmass.

It was not long before the ship glided over an inlet, positioning itself further down the coastline before hovering over a stable cliff-side. Ever so delicately the landing legs extended as the ship lowered to the ground, the grass and debris billowing under the force of the propulsion fumes.

Tali’s hands balled into fists as she literally counted down the seconds in her head. She wavered to and fro as the ship landed, and her arms shot into the arm as the panel to her right gave an affirmative beep.

“Yes!” she cheered, hopping up and down around the bridge. “Good job, Ship!”

The panel smugly beeped.

Tali peered out the window once more, now looking at the world from a ground-perspective. The light shimmering outside reflected off the crystal waters of the beach like stars among the blanket of space, and the tall grass swayed comfortably under the push of the breeze. The planet seemed so inviting that it was practically begging her to come play.

“Um, hey, ship?” Tali slowly started, twisting her toes in the floor as she clasped her hands together. “Mom also said it was okay for me to go out. But just around the landing zone! She said…um, she just said it was okay?”

The panel was silent for a moment, Tali waiting on baited breath. After the span of a few tense seconds, it beeped.

“Pleeeeeeeease,” Tali all but begging, dropping to the floor and hugging the console at its base. “I haven’t seen a new planet in foreverrrrr. I promise I’ll stay in the landing zone. Please? I pinky promise!”

The panel was silent.

Tali’s lip trembled as her eyes watered.

The panel reluctantly beeped.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Tali rattled off as she ran around the console. She gave the console and good pat before darted off towards the airlock. “Love you, Ship, bye!”

The panel went silent as the onboard ship computer logged Tali exiting out the airlock. It then logged a reminder to regret this course of action later.