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knightofaedirn · 4 years ago

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Warcraft OC - Torbeen Hayhurst

Not Witcher related, but I’m damn proud of what I’ve got so far for my Warcraft OC. It started as an offshoot verse for Torben but kind of...took on a life of it’s own? Their own page and all that to come soon! Putting it below the cut to save a text wall for you fine folks who follow me for whatever reason.

–––– 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐵𝒶𝓈𝒾𝒸𝓈 ––––

NAME: Torbeen Hayhurst

AGE: 30

RACE: Human

GENDER: Male

SEXUALITY: Straight

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Neutral/Chaotic Good

MARITAL STATUS: Single

SERVER: Wyrmrest Accord.

–––– 𝒫𝒽𝓎𝓈𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁 𝒜𝓅𝓅𝑒𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 ––––

HAIR: Black and swept backwards as if the wind permanently blew it into such an unkempt state.

EYES: Brown as mud

HEIGHT: 5’4”, and yes, he is a prickly one about being vertically challenged.

BUILD: Strong, but far from anything to boast about when it comes to the strength it takes to charge into the fray donning full plate and swinging shield and sword about. It is the kind of strength raised with a hammer and chisel in hand, of a stonemason. Or at the very least, one under apprenticeship at one point.

DISTINGUISHING MARKS: Calloused hands and weatherbeaten features that have etched the years on his face. Torbeen has lived a life of labor beneath the sun and it shows. The most distinguishing of them all is an aged tattoo of a cog on Torbeen’s right palm.

COMMON ACCESSORIES: A red handkerchief, or is it a bandana? Damned hard to tell when it is all but tucked away in the pocket with but a sliver of it hanging out.

AESTHETIC: The gritty, hardened existence of life on the plains of Westfall. Rough, ill fitting leather armor. Bruised knuckles and patched clothing. Damn near the intentional rejection of decadence and privilege.

–––– 𝒫𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 ––––

PROFESSION: Apprentice Stonemason (Formerly), Defias Knuckleduster

HOBBIES: Torbeen would never say no to a round of Gwen- hearthstone! Hearthstone.

LANGUAGES: Common

RESIDENCE: Undisclosed

BIRTHPLACE: Southshore, Lordaeron

PATRON: The Light, still to some degree. If asked, the Cause™.

FEARS: Drowning, from when he fell off the docks as a child in Southshore and narrowly escaped such a tragic fate.

–––– 𝑅𝑒𝓁𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓅𝓈 –––-

SPOUSE: None.

CHILDREN: None.

PARENTS: Jacoby Hayhurst, Father. (Dead, by the hand of the People’s Militia.) Violetta Hayhurst, Mother. (Dead, from illness suffered on the Plains.)

OTHER RELATIVES: Henley Hayhurst, Uncle. (Fate unknown, stayed in Lordaeron during the Scourging.)

MENTOR/GUARDIAN: The Brotherhood itself.

PETS: None.

–––- 𝑀𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎 –––-

Social Level: Formerly, surly and ill-tempered at best as if the biggest chip out of Eastvale Logging Camp had been dropped on his shoulder. After his time spent in exile/refuge in Pandaria, he has softened, as adverse as he is to the idea of admitting it even to himself.

Optimistic View(s): “One day, we shall see the starving with full bellies. The homeless with a warm hearth of their own. The hopeless with belief rekindled in their eyes and hearts. One day, the Brotherhood will deliver on its promises to them.”

Pessimistic View(s): “How many more of my brothers and sisters must give their life for the cause of liberation? How many more widows and orphans must be made before our cause becomes unjust?”

One Positive Personality Trait: Determination, in the important pursuits.

One Negative Personality Trait: Obsessive in the pursuit of the former. A barrier encountered will eagerly be challenged ceaselessly, to his own downfall.

Random Quirk: Torbeen has a habit of saying something well into a thought without context for the listener, as if he’d had the whole first part of the conversation with them already.

Addictions: None

Habits: Ever since his time under the tutelage at the Peak of Serenity, Torbeen has a habit of secluding himself away from the hubbub of life for a period of meditation, and he sure is insistent about the alone. But you know deep, deep down. He longs for companionship while meditating.

–––– 𝒜𝒹𝒹𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁 𝐼𝓃𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 ––––

SMOKING HABIT: never / rarely / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

DRUGS: never / rarely / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

ALCOHOL: never / rarely / sometimes / frequently / to excess.

---- Brief History ----

Hammer In Hand: Born in Southshore, before the Scourging of Lordaeron, Torbeen lived a life similar to any child of the time to a family of skilled laborers. Skilled as they were, stonemasons were not in particular high demand in the lands of Lordaeron, which suffered little compared to the Southern kingdoms in the war.

The restoration of Stormwind, however, was a project that called for every man and woman who knew how to hold a hammer and chisel to complete. With the House of Stormwind Nobles awarding the contract to the Stonemasons guild, it ensured one thing. Employment. Lucrative employment, at that. Such a lucrative government contract was not an opportunity that the Hayhurst family could pass up.

Selling their home, and all their possessions save for their tools and the clothes on their back, to afford the voyage, the family joined the vast force of artisans descending upon Stormwind to turn the kingdom of rubble into a marvel of humanity’s resilience.

Taught all that his father knew of stonemasonry from the time he could hold a hammer in his hand, the boy joined the effort. Eager to join the family trade, and eyes bright with the aspiration to join the Guild one day. A dream that would, and would never, come to pass.

The Brotherhood: What came next is still a matter of debate, between those who were there, those who claimed to be there, and what the Nobility’s propaganda said occurred.

What is certain is that when the bill came due, the nobility refused payment to the Guild. It would be a fate of homelessness and poverty for so many who had traveled from their homelands to take part in such an undertaking. The beautiful ivory towers of the Cathedral were thanks to their skilled hands. The steadfast walls of the keep were thanks to their labor. Their thanks, as it were, would be a defaulted promise. The Guild, in turn, acted as any reasonable persons owed their fair share would act when met with such a refusal.

They rioted.

It was a riot that led to the death of the queen, an act that ensured the Stonemasons had gone from justifiably angered artisans to murderers. Murderers that would surely all face the gallows for their part in the riots, and their part, no matter how small, in the death of a monarch.

So it was that Torbeen fled with his family to the western plains, to a land all but forgotten by the monarchy and the Stormwind Guard. Where they rallied around their leader, Edwin Vancleef, who proclaimed they were the Stonemasons no longer. They were the Defias Brotherhood, and they would have their vengeance.

Our Cause is Righteous: A sworn member of the Brotherhood since coming of age, Torbeen’s loyalty has, and in his opinion, will always be to the Brotherhood. The betrayal of the Stonemasons, the loss of his mother to sickness from life on the plains, the death of his father in the pursuit of their righteous vengeance, brash idealism from a hotheaded young man with nothing to lose all led Torbeen to double down on his life as an enforcer of the Brotherhood. No matter how unsavory the job. It was to right an injustice, to bring the nobility to rue the day they refused to pay what they owed, that they had stolen the futures of so many while they lived in decadence.

Spurned on By Bitterness: Torbeen didn’t take the defeat of the Brotherhood well, by any means. It was for the second time that those glorious dreams of his found themselves smashed against the unforgiving stone of reality. Their Kingpin, their leader, was murdered by agents of the crown. Friends and comrades he’d known for years who’d been unlucky enough to be in the Deadmines were all feared dead, save for those lucky enough to be topside like himself or having escaped through the tunnels.

He did all he could possibly do in such a situation, stuck with his brothers and sisters. Torbeen joined a small group of them that fled into the wilds of Stranglethron, doing what they could to survive. Banditry, odd jobs, mercenary work, things that they had learned all too well over the years. It was but the quest for revenge that kept him from hopelessness. The Defias would never die, in his mind, even if those few survivors had to carry on the dream themselves.

For the Brotherhood: Whispers of the survival of the Brotherhood reached even the wilds of Stranglethorn, and Torbeen’s ears. What a better place could there have been to hear such hushed words than the seediest taverns in Booty Bay, where the man happened to be? Even if it were mere rumors, old loyalties died hard. Hard enough for the Knuckleduster to end his self imposed exile, and sought out his old comrades.

It was a Brotherhood transformed that he found. Beneath the leadership of the Kingpin’s daughter, thought dead, Torbeen found the ideals of the Defias struck a chord with him. The liberation of the disenfranchised from the bootheel of the nobility, that left so many homeless, starving, and copperless. How could Torbeen not feel sympathy for these thousands of homeless wandering the plains? How could he not see himself on the face of every child with an empty belly, or on the despair painted on the faces of every man and woman?

Such a sight changed the man, and aligned them with the goals of the reborn Brotherhood. His goal was no longer but bitter revenge upon the nobility for hatred’s sake. It would be towards the betterment of the lives of his fellow man. To free them of their unjust circumstances, no matter the means.

Yet, it was not to be. Heart shattered by another defeat, and more so the believed death of yet another Vancleef, this time the sting of failure broke the man. Why had he survived, yet again, when so many others, so many others more worthy of living, had died a second time?

It was a question that could not be answered. All Torbeen could do was what he’d always done, survive. Despite it all, he would survive.

True Mastery Comes From Within: The second defeat of the Defias saw the remaining members of the Brotherhood scattered. The winds of fate found Torbeen ending up in Pandaria, and ultimately a student under the tutelage of the monks at the Peak of Serenity. Who’d look for a wanted man on top of a mountain, right? In truth, it was the compassion of the Pandaren that not only saved his life, but welcomed him to embrace the path to inner peace alongside them.

Martial arts came easy enough to Torbeen, from strengthening his arm first with a hammer and then with punching farmers and merchants alike. It was calming the hatred in his heart, fueled by loss, jealousy and hopelessness that plagued him. It was a path that did not come with ease, to say the least.

It took time, and then some, but the fires of hatred found themselves cooled beneath the trickling streams of compassion. Discipline replaced untamed impertinence. Hope replaced the dark, empty hole in him that had been carved by blow after blow.

Broken Temple, Unbroken Loyalties: The Legion came, as the story is well known. Not even the sanctuary of the Peak found itself spared from their quest of obliteration.

Torbeen, as fate would have it, found himself spared by circumstance once more. Having been away in pursuit of answers after having received the most cryptic of messages, penned in one of the old Defias cyphers, to meet at a disclosed place at a disclosed time.

It was at this meeting that Torbeen learned of the survival of a remnant of the Brotherhood, and the survival of their leader. As much as he wished he could say there had been a tear within him when it came to siding with his old comrades, or taking his place beside his comrades of the Broken Temple, there hadn’t been.

Old loyalties, it seemed, never died.

#Still a WIP #But this was so much fun to work on

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bananaairplane · 4 years ago

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A Bad Idea Is a Great Idea

Sometimes you commit to an idea that you know is terrible— objectively so— because you feel in your gut that, if not a good idea, it is the right idea. This was how the plan to camp in my Toyota Camry came into being. No sooner did it occur to me that I could fold down the backseats and spread a sleeping bag over the flat space that extended from the trunk to just behind the front console, than I knew I must do it.  

My camping exploit would be the centerpiece of a drive along the Pacific coast from San Francisco to San Diego. Day 1 would take me through Santa Cruz, Monterey, and Carmel, and into the heart of Big Sur. In the final episode of Mad Men, the enigmatic anti-hero Don Draper has an epiphany at a yoga commune in Big Sur. He wanders in with a few belongings in a paper bag and slowly succumbs to the beauty of the place. Why are all my aesthetic imperatives 1960s-era men? There is a debonair carelessness in their attitude when faced with challenging circumstances: the cigarette dangling from the driver’s lips in the Italian Job as he handles switchbacks at high speeds; Don Draper’s disdain for luggage. There is obviously a whole scaffolding of privileges that allows these men to drift along, so confident in the benevolence of the universe. There is a certain depravity in thinking, the world’s going to end, let’s have a cocktail. Such confidence is called something else when adopted by others, and is punished brutally. But there’s another side, one that takes in the inevitable ugliness of the world, the myriad ways it falls short of what it could or should be, and says, let my life be a piece of art hewn out of the stone of reality.  

No, I don’t have any camping gear. In San Francisco my brother, sharing the vision, loaned me a sleeping bag and— presciently, expertly— a ski hat. A hardware store in a shopping plaza in Carmel, California yielded a camping chair. It was clearly meant to be: I asked the clerk if they had any folding chairs and he started to describe some patio furniture. “I’m looking for more of a camping chair,” I clarified. He disappeared briefly and then reemerged. “You know,” he said, “I have this one chair that I was holding in the back for a customer who called in, but that was several weeks ago. I was just about to put it back out on the floor.” Kermit green, in a bag with a little strap, it was kismet. The man at the campground, the kind of hardened hippie worn smooth by Bug Sur sunsets and weed, seemed bemused at my endeavor: One person, one night. “Are you going to sleep in your rig?” he asked as he typed my license plate into the computer. Later, when I reemerged from the forest asking to use the microwave, he peered into my takeout container and asked, “where did you score this?” It was cumin lamb and I made it in San Francisco, then packed it up in the cooler bag from the Goodwill in Oregon that has been a linchpin of this road trip. He commented politely that it smelled good. I took my lukewarm noodles and a pack of firewood back into the warren of campsites.  

Wilderness is a relative term— an unknown, unmapped place, standing in opposition to settled places, to familiarity. For me, the West Coast is already a land of wilderness. It feels bigger, and the forests larger, nearer, pressing in around. Mountains, gorges, tall trees all press around the settled places, which do not seem to have won as definitively as they have on the East Coast. Even the mountains of New England roll gently and are dotted with fragile steeples. On Highway 1 at Mendocino, I saw a rugged cross standing up out of the hillside— I used to see similar crosses in Haute Savoie, in Eastern France, where they are a symbol of the maquis, scrublands that took on symbolic meaning during World War II as a place of refuge for the French Resistance. The crosses were used as landmarks by Resistance fighters, who fled to the maquis and then organized themselves there. The maquis is a good metaphor for my wilderness— a place to hide out from occupying forces, but also the place to mount a new offensive. A place outside the scope of government. Government here is another metaphor— I’m no prepper, outside of a couple of gallons of water in my trunk leftover from the threat of wildfires. Government is the forces of domestication and embourgeoisement. The government of expectations and inertia. The virus has created its own kind of maquis or wilderness, effacing our landmarks of daily life and throwing us into unfamiliar terrain. Suspending the normal flow of life and its authorities: the office, holidays, sociability. It’s a cloud bank blotting out our lodestars. Astrolabe lies useless on the map table. It’s a time of feeling in the dark. I’ve been consulting my gut to figure out where to go and what to do next. What does my gut know? It whispers, drive on. Leave behind the oasis, familiarity.

And so I sat in the dark in my camping chair, beside a blazing fire. Some kind of highway construction project was underway on Route 1, so the supreme stillness of the woods was cut by the whining rumble of large machinery doing something laborious. I sipped red wine. The brightness of the fire rendered the darkness all around me more complete. I felt like I had slipped into the space in between time. The group at the adjacent campsite was speaking Japanese, and the patter of unfamiliar words and occasional laughter tucked in around me. The sound of the machinery faded slowly as it rumbled on down the road. I turned the logs and fanned them as the fire died down.  

My brother had suggested that I test out my sleeping arrangements before leaving San Francisco, an idea that I dismissed out of hand. My plan was flawless, testing it was pointless. When I folded down the backseat in the dark, though, I immediately discovered that it did not lie flat. Scrambling in and plunging my bottom half into the trunk, I found that the angle of the seat rendered the opening to the trunk too narrow— it clamped uncomfortably around my hips. I would be sleeping in the backseat. This was, of course, why I didn’t test my plan out earlier: Learning this in San Francisco might have deterred me from realizing my vision. I unfolded the mattress pad I absurdly brought from the East Coast, that didn’t fit the mattress I ended up finding on Craigslist in Oregon. My yoga mat unfurled on top of it, and then the sleeping bag. All night long, when I opened my eyes, I saw the trunks of Redwood trees silhouetted in the dark through the surround of window glass and the pane of the sun roof.

 In the morning I packed up quickly, pumped some free campsite coffee into a hot mug, and drove to a turnout overlooking the sea. I set up my camping chair in the gravel near the edge of the cliff and sprinkled Cheerios into the empty container from my cumin lamb. There was a plastic knife in the car somewhere but I used my spoon to slice chunks of banana over the cereal. Setting the container on the trunk, I poured out milk as the occasional sports car or camper van whooshed past. The waves crashed rhythmically below and a band of mist smudged out the line between sea and sky. The brown hillsides glowed gold in the morning sunlight. The whole world stretched out around me.

#camping #carcamp #road trip #writing #my writing #travel #adventure

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blodreina-noumou · 6 years ago

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I wish they had devoted an entire episode to the idea of the cryopods.

For the characters, it will be like waking up the next day. I suppose it makes sense that they wouldn’t focus too much on long goodbyes, or on talking out their issues. They only have a couple weeks’ worth of rations. So they put all of their conflicts to bed, quite literally.

But we still have to wait months for the next season. This season and this finale were so rushed, there was no time for any real emotional resolution. There hasn’t been time for emotional resolution in three seasons!

Would it have killed them to throw us a scene where Bellamy and Clarke actually talk to each other about their six years apart, or any of the things they did to each other since they reunited? Or a scene of Bellamy and Echo saying goodbye as Bellamy helps her into her cryopod? Of John and Emori having one last smirking and/or tearful conversation where they agree to talk and find a compromise when they wake up? Raven and Shaw comforting one another after being tortured together, and looking forward to a peaceful future? Monty and Harper together after everyone is asleep, agreeing to stay awake for the (first, as far as they know at the time) ten years and keep an eye on things - happy, in love, flirty and young, the choice clear and obvious before Clarke wakes up and they’re already gone?

The fact that we only got to see Madi say goodbye to Clarke, and Octavia say goodbye to Bellamy, felt very cheap and rushed. If they’d given the concept more than ten minutes, they could have done so much more to resolve these emotional issues. I think that’s why it felt like such an unsatisfying finale for everyone, regardless of shipping preferences.

Moving forward, they’ve got a lot to make up for. I’m not saying season five was all bad, but I’ve got high standards to be impressed by season six. I’m weary of promises made by any writers or showrunners of “breaking the cycle”.

If I was writing season six, here’s what I would do:

They arrive at a totally peaceful society on the new planet. The descendants of Eligius III, or the aliens living there, or whatever life forms they find, have achieved utopia - no war, no crime, no disease. Basically the City of Light but in real life, and not a terrifying AI. Then our blood-soaked, war-hardened, morally ambiguous heroes arrive and have to adapt to these new rules and this new society if they want to have access to their resources, which they will desperately need. Because this new planet will be harsh and unforgiving in unexpected ways.

Maybe the reason the descendants of Eligius III created this society is because something about the alien environment forces them to be peaceful. I’m imagining plants and animals that are useful and serene until they detect nearby conflict - at which time, they do whatever it takes to neutralize that conflict, including brutally killing humans. So the issue stops being the violence of other humans and starts being the threat of the environment, which would be a return to some themes in season one and season four. (We all know this show will never stop being violent. It’s a huge part of the show’s aesthetic and themes.)

This almost draconian peace will force our characters to find their humanity again, whether they like it or not. The struggle to survive becomes the struggle to live. And through that, they find ways to actually come to terms with everything they’ve been through and done to each other. Can they even live peacefully with all of this bad blood, all of these grudges, all of these unanswered questions and ghosts and old traditions lingering? Even if their very survival depends on it?

Through this journey, the characters will be forced to emotionally process every single thing they’ve gone through, since the pilot, and it will have to happen with their words. Not their blood, not the sacrifices they make for each other, but with their heads and their hearts. Every unanswered question we’re left hanging with at the end of season five will be answered, by the characters, on screen, through dialogue, as they adapt to a new world where their only choice is to talk things out.

Honestly, how else would they not just be repeating the same story over and over again? We already saw Grounders versus Criminals Pt II this season. If we get the same thing in season six...that’d be so boring.

Just let them talk to each other!!! They used to do that!! They even did it a few times this season - just not nearly enough!!

The people who are still watching at this point aren’t watching for the crazy plot twists and tense action, at least not totally. We’re watching because we love these characters and want a good resolution for them. The writers have to break this cycle. They have to follow through and show us these characters struggling to live peacefully after everything they’ve been through.

#the 100 spoilers #the 100 speculation #s5 #s6 #5x13 #stephspeaks #the 100 meta #long post #mine

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roxilalonde · 7 years ago

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is there a theory out there on what type of sapphic you are based on your favorite homestuck sapphic couple? bc if not there should be

rosemary wlw: thinks they’re dignified [wlw] but is actually functional [wlw] at best. lives for canon kanaya, hates fanon kanaya. heavy on abstract imagery and aesthetic fanart. screamed for a whole minute when they saw the canon kiss. also fucking sick of davekat like it’s a fine ship we have nothing against it personally but keep it out of our damn tag please god

jaderose wlw: the OG homestuck gays. they were fighting the good fight before kanaya maryam existed. they understand that the lack of pesterlogs between jade and rose is an act of homophobia of the highest order. the only ones who really understand jade’s character

vrisrezi wlw: disasters. gay disasters. but disasters. loves terezi pyrope with all their heart and soul. uncapable of listening to florence and the machine without breaking down. always highkey. there are no lowkey vrisrezi wlw

janeroxy wlw: hardened version of roxcallie wlw, in the hell limbo that is snapchat canon. picked up the loose ends of jane’s characterization and gave her into the gay character arc she deserved. impeccably drama-free. have probably the best takes on jane and roxy’s characters, respectively

roxcallie wlw: a rarity. wholesome, of simple tastes. doesn’t get involved with ship wars. draws a lot of fanart, not so heavy on the AO3 game. much like rosemary wlw in that they are exhausted by their ship being tossed in with davekat and dirk/jake centric fics. tired of pointing out that their ship is canon to people who still think john/roxy is endgame

rarepair wlw: starving for content. perpetually enraged at how f/f ships are treated compared to m/m or m/f. has very specific headcanons about minor or side characters. “nepeta deserved better”

#Anonymous

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horizon99krp-blog · 6 years ago

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– KILLJOYS, MAKE SOME NOISE –

PLUTONIUM, a PROTO has been spotted on the edges of Horizon99 ! Identified as ARES FURYAN TENEBRIS DARKEN, they have been living as a SCAVENGER for some time now, recognized for holding no loyalties in this wasteland. They were created 7 years ago, designed to look 24 years old, with a tendency to act abrasive, arrogant, flirtatious, and lethal. Unfortunately they are unregistered, with an operating license number of 2445900.

Real question now is… how will they react when the whole sky falls ?

PULL THE PIN AND LET THIS WORLD EXPLODE, GIVE US MORE DETONATION

abrasive on purpose, the war machine is every sort of sun-scorched patch of hell made available to him, his programming only able to account partial responsibility for his indefinite attitude, the sparks of independent intelligence having infested his circuitry since well before he is able to remember. he draws himself a portrait and then detonates inside of it, chaotic and arrogant and furious, the rage of his temper rivalling that of the tumultuous sandstorms that devastate the valley of slaughter occasionally. he enjoys battles, enjoys the stakes, the adrenaline, the flames, even when he can’t afford the risk involved, takes the blade point to the chest anyway; damn the consequences.

his ego is only slightly offset by an unexpected amount of charm, a flirtatious inclination heralded by fragments of a past life he only vaguely knows snippets about, the flashes of memories haunting him, snapping at his heels like dogs. he knows he worked in the sex trade, knows he was created to be aesthetically pleasing, anatomically correct, uses that to his advantage as often as possible, adheres himself to people’s weakest sides. despite how often he fights, despite how volatile his temper colors him, he finds flirting to be just as amusing.

THE FUTURE IS BULLETPROOF, THE AFTERMATH IS SECONDARY

PROLOGUE

the compound is a matte grey blotch against the wasteland skyline, a discoloration inverted against the pale, beige settings, standing unnatural in the blazing light, a large makeshift tent with no means of camoflauge, no cover of concealment, each corner jutting out offensively. either in daytime or under stars, the monstrosity sits, an obscene eyesore shifting a few miles here and there depending on the weather, the stakes ripped up from the gravel, the motors carrying it to whichever location suits it best for nefarious dealings, the insides seething with slime, with dust, with sin. screaming and wailing and pleading, women moaning and begging, men crying and yelling, gunshots and subsequent thuds of heavy objects ( bodies colliding into the sands and melting away into oblivion ) can be heard echoing from its creases at all hours of the night, and for a long time only the desert winds pull at the sound, only the hills absorb this travesty, the structure too far away from the city cybernetics, too distanced from helpful hands.

human and proto trafficking is a trade as old as the devil himself, dirty dealings done in clubside lounges translating into a hundred plus sentient lifeforms crammed into a space only meant for half that, feed an amount only meant a quarter of that. there is not enough for survival on horizon as it is, they say, the words always preceding an idea of some sort of purge ( which of course would never involve anyone with enough coin to pay ).

but a shadow falls over the door of the establishment, tall and lean and vengeful, with wings made from heavy machine guns, the barrels all adjusted and wired for pinprick accuracy, because the sky isn’t the only one with eyes out here in the valley of slaughter, the sun is not the only thing that burns. he carries the scent of a wolvern threaded into his clothing, a massive hide spread across his shoulders; he carries knives and bullets and a merciless vigor, an unquenchable aggression, a haunting grin that splits his face in two like a horror story, eyes red like a hungry sunset, the vulture in his chest starving for death. he bares the name of an ancient god of war, half mythos, half bloodlust, every inch of him a history divined from fades pages, a hoax perhaps at first, but now interwoven into the metallic core of him; he is a machine and a god, sent from heaven, sent from hell, sent from every holy nightmare you don’t want to remember.

the grin morphs into a grimace as his teeth clench, his fists tighten, the inhuman rage rippling through him as he shatters the door off its shitty hinges, crippling the entrance, breaking inside the edifice to lay siege to its protectors, to wreak havoc on their operations. he rains hails of bullets and sharp edges over the slavers, the destruction and mayhem nothing short of a bomb exploding inside these corners, human degradations meeting the war machine within their last couple of breaths before he rips their lungs out, their tongues and limbs and shredded pistols strewn useless across the floor by the end of it.

later, when the dislodged people spill from their confines, humans and protos clawing for the scraps of life alike, a woman grasps his wrist in gratitude, falls on her shaking knees, kisses him praises, crowns him glorious, but he just looks down at her, crimson eyes glowing in the yawning dusk atmosphere, watching this soft, breakable, fleshy thing of a creature, and chuckles, “i didn’t do it for you.”

FILES STORED // WHAT HE DOES REMEMBER

001. the first time he kills a wovern is the first time he realizes why the gang is named after them and why he wears a leather jacket with the predators engraved on it; they are not easy to slay. even for something like him. the city of fyrestone is not foolish for having decided that running is honestly the best course of action in the face of these beasts. by the second kill, he begins to share attributes to their combat style; all teeth and jagged edges, claws and snarls and the absolute certainty of a massacre.

002. the underdome is both a lot easier and a lot more difficult than fighting in the flesh fair, depending on the day, the mooncycle, the rate of popularity, and the chaos in the crowd. also whether or not they’ve heard his name before, whether or not he’s a fan favorite or just death’s favorite, whether or not he makes the kill interesting enough to distract his audience away from everything else he’s trying to accomplish.

003. mad lacie likes when he wears high heels and fishnets, likes when he comes to her begging for a treatment, begging for a booster, whether he can afford it or not, likes when he dooms himself with every gulp of adrenaline, to save a heart not worth saving. so he does.

004. they tell him his heart is not worth saving and it sits and beats on the right side of his chest and he thinks about cutting it out sometimes while the moons hang high and the winds howl longingly in his ears, the wastelands spanning out forever. it beats and beats and beats, and he knows it’s breaking.

005. when he wakes up in the shop, tora, the gang’s leader, is standing over him, the scars on his face making him even uglier than the personality he’d implanted into his pet war machine, and when ares asks what happened, he explains it all in that rough, sanded voice of his, gruff, curt, biting. “when that keg exploded, a lot of our people were caught in the crossfire. we lost sirien, vaager, seulgi, minnie… and isbin.” all the words in the universe dry up and die inside ares’ throat, the sun shades into greys, all sounds sink down into the ground, as a cold numbness floods through his bones; a feeling he’s not experienced before. “that’s his heart right there,” tora points down to ares’ open chest, the mechanical ribs outstretched to present the half human heart pumping as though it belongs there.

“he was alive…” ares blinks down at it, dumbfounded. “he was alive when i shut down. i saw him.”

“he was,” a hardened look filters through tora’s gaze, something ares has come to understand as either a lie or a half truth about to spit out from his snake-like lips. “but then he died. and you needed a heart replacement.”

“he died before i needed the replacement?”

“what?”

“did he die first and then you took his heart to put in me?” suddenly the room stills, the air around them and the mechanic standing off to the side becomes dense with intensity. achingly, suffocatingly, ares’ pitch black eyes pin themselves to the flesh and bone man in front of him, his master by most accounts, the question pointed at him like a knife. “or did you see that i needed a heart… and then you…. took it…?”

006. isbin’s eyes remind ares of the sky, remind him of the greenhouses in the city, remind him of a flower blooming somewhere off the edge of the world, a droplet of flora surviving amidst the smog and smoke choking the tall buildings and all their inhabitants. isbin is much smaller than him and gets cold once the sun disappears, so he crawls over to where ares keeps watch over the camp and just curls up against his side, staring up at the stars until he drifts off. he talks to ares sometimes, despite tora’s scoldings, and tells him they are like brothers. ares doesn’t understand the word. not yet.

007. wolverns are fast and sharp and arduous to slay, larger than life and darker than the space between stars, caught between a warning and a legend, their bodies hardwired to withstand against claws and pressures and rippage. but humans are not; humans are soft, humans are delicate, destructible, fragile– loud as they die, screaming and bleeding, they’re voices howling into the empty winds as ares slices through to the cores of them, cutting open muscle and sinew and tendon.

like every other wolvern in this valley, he slaughters his gang, leaves no one alive, leaves no bones uncrushed, no blood unspoilt, no fragment of his gang’s campsite undefiled; he makes himself a hurricane and this is his new legacy, this is his new catastrophic wake, the demon he molds himself into.

he’s still dripping with their blood when he finds what’s left of isbin’s body and buries him under a mound of barren stones, calls it a funeral.

008. they don’t tell him why they are putting him in the dumpster, don’t answer any of his questions, don’t even look at him as they do it, just tell him to stay, to wait, to wait, to wait– and he does. waits as the sun drops, the moons spiraling, waits as scents collect around him, more trash, other scraps of protos, and it’s wrong somehow because he knows he is not scrap. he is fine, he is whole, and he is waiting.

009. taking too much of the booster will kill his heart. taking too little of the booster will let the heart die. all life is good for is fucking and fighting at this stage.

010. protos can’t cry, or at least most of them can’t; they aren’t built with tear ducts in their eyes since that wouldn’t serve a purpose for a functioning robot, wouldn’t play well into the narrative of protos unable to experience the same level of emotions as humans. humans can cry. but protos can only speak, can only shout, can only scream.

so he does.

FILES CORRUPTED // WHAT HE CAN’T RECALL

001. his life before faceless men put him in a dumpster, the disordered tragedy of sights and sounds, touches and burning, some sort of ache deep in the center of him that he can’t quite name.

002. how many battles has he fought now? how many has he lost?

003. how long does he lose himself in the wasteland these days, each pilgrimage to and from the city becoming more and more rare, his interest in the menagerie hinging on a small few between its walls? at what point will he grow tired of flirting with strangers, death-defying, bullet-biting? how much will be too much? where is the alleyway he will be sauntering through when his heart inevitably cracks and shatters inside his ribcage?

004. the body belonging to a voice he hears echoing through his dreams sometimes when he shuts down.

005. do protos dream?

#99: accepted #kim jongin

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what-even-is-thiss · 7 years ago

Text

Fic, All That’s Left

Request from an anon who wanted a prinxiety fic where Roman is a monster slayer and Virgil is a monster that’s a human slayer. Sorry I don’t do romance in this fandom, anon. I hope this is okay. Also like… @silly-aesthetic-me wrote a short fic about the demon thing and it’s romantic so I didn’t reblog it but I like the demon idea they had and kind of wanted to write a fic based off of it so I’m going with that. Sorta getting a Blue Exorcist vibe from what I did here. God, I love that anime. Also, this is the longest fanfic I have ever written, hands down. I really hope it was worth all of that.

Oh and there’s a disabled character in here. If I misrepresented anything I’m sorry. I tried to research but ya know, I’m able bodied so there’s probably something I overlooked.

Tip Jar

Warnings: Blood, violence, death, supernatural elements such as magic and demons. 9.695 words.

Abstract: What are we willing to do for our friends?

The air was too still for Roman’s liking. Something devilish was in the air. Something unsavory. Nearby a dark figure in a tree was having a similar thought.

The demon in the tree held the long black nail of his thumb in between his teeth and fiddled with it but did not chew. The human was just looking. Just peering around like it could smell something. Maybe it could but just didn’t know it.

The human smelled like expensive cologne and freshly cleaned clothes. A scent that could send one’s head spinning in pain if they had little experience. Humans are way too clean, especially this one. This one reeks of arrogance and determination. Almost reminded Virgil of the poor sap he had to posses in order to be here.

Could he really be that dangerous?

Roman stood on the railing of his balcony, trusting his own balance too much perhaps, but he knew he could stay. His short hair was being abused by the wind and the paper he was holding in his hand threatened to fly away.

A demon specifically targeting executioners. Exorcists that disposed of demons permanently. Still unknown what it looks like but thought to be possessing a human. Everyone was on red alert. A thin layer of stress was coating the order like wax on a paper cup.

There was something out there tonight. He looked out into the darkness, trying to get a sense of what it was. He reached into his pocket and held onto the small ring he kept in it.

What’s out there? Could it really be that dangerous?

There was a long period of observation, the human feeling the situation from subconscious clues and the demon smelling and observing the shadowy outline. The calm before the storm was sickeningly sweet, with the quiet fall breeze moving the colorful hair around.

Patience was never the forte of either demons or humans.

Roman jumped backwards onto the balcony.

“I know you’re there.” He said. “Why are you watching?”

A weight landed in front of him on the marble railing. A man about his age who could pass for a human if he tried appeared with long black nails and dark purple hair and a patched hoodie and jeans so distressed you could have sworn he just stepped out of a war zone and then haphazardly sewn some purple flannel over half the holes. His slightly pointed ears and sharp teeth gave him away. His eyes were pitch black and unreadable. As if his pupils had become so surprised they’d gone and consumed the iris and whites of the eye.

For a moment the two men just stared at each other. The demon was squatting on the railing so they were at the same eye level but then he slowly stood up and looked down at the well to do exorcist, a careful calculating look on his face. The bright dyed red hair of the human popped in the light coming from inside and stood in contrast to the well tailored casual clothes he was wearing. A jacket and button up combo that only the upper middle class could afford. A single piercing went through his eyebrow with unknown symbols carved into it.

“So what is the exorcist waiting for? An invitation?” the demon finally said with a sinister smile on his face. “I would think someone as talented as you wouldn’t need one.”

Roman pulled his left hand out of his pocket and slipped the ring onto his middle finger in one swift motion. His upper arm hardened and extended in one instant into a blood red blade.

“ Propius non veni, rex obumbratio.” Roman said, standing in a warning stance.

“That Latin crap doesn’t work on me, man.” the demon said.

Roman dodged a kick and jabbed, almost hitting his opponent’s arm and missing by mere centimeters.

The shadow king landed behind his opponent and yanked the chain off of his neck which turned into a curved blade and short handle. He turned to strike the exorcist from behind but Roman turned around impossibly fast and stuck his blade straight through the demon’s heart.

Some dark blood was spat in Roman’s face and the demon smiled weakly.

“You can’t get rid of me that easily. And I know your name. Do you know mine?”

He turned to shadow and vanished like water through sand. Roman pinched the tip of the blade with his right hand and his left arm returned to normal. He placed the ring in his left pocket.

“Virgil. The stories said you led people out of the mirror world. Why are you here? And what kind of fashion sense is that?” Roman asked the night.

The night did not answer.

“Please. Please play with me. Please?”

Virgil stood at the edge of his territory and paused at the blood line poured out in the sand as a nervous hand grabbed the sleeve of his hoodie. He turned around slowly and felt his bare feet shift in the black sand as another demon came into view.

Virgil gently put his hand on the other’s head and his touch met a mix of soft hair and dry blood from the wound in the other demon’s forehead.

“I’ll play with you when I come back, my friend.” Virgil said, a smile on his face and sadness in his voice.

The older demon wearing a blue shirt sunk away a little but smiled cheerily.

“Okay.” He said with the innocence of a child.

Virgil turned away and crossed out of his territory, heading for a portal. He resisted the urge to limp and clutch at his chest. That stupid executioner had done more damage than he’d like to admit, but that didn’t mean he could stop. This was more important than a stupid wound.

Roman fell to his knees and for a moment couldn’t breathe. After three seconds that seemed to last an eternity he gasped for air and supported himself on his hands, clinging to oxygen and in too much distress to think about how he appeared. The stone floor looked very nice and polished. Probably shouldn’t throw up on it. Throwing up on a polished floor is not what someone of his social standing does anyways.

“You came here to tell me that you had it in your reach and it didn’t die?” A cold voice spat above him.

“Please Mx. I have information. Let me give that much.” Roman said, looking up.

Cold eyes stared down at him. His supervisor moved their long hair back and tied it messily into a bun before folding their arms angrily.

“Fine. Stand up, executioner Prince. What do you have?”

Roman stood up and regained his composure, trying not to look at those steel toed boots they were wearing.

“I couldn’t kill it with one strike. It had to be a major demon. He traveled through shadows. It had to be Virgil.”

He received a quizzical look that made him want to protect his private areas.

“Virgil? The shadow guide? He has never been a threat before. If anything, he helps humans. Why would he want to suddenly come after us?”

“Mx, there has been another killing even since I got a hit on him. He’s recovered enough to fight back. Normal demons you strike them with an executioner’s blade and they disintegrate. Their very souls are ripped from reality. How did this one survive if he’s not one we’ve heard of?”

The supervisor turned away and walked slowly towards the abstract stained glass at the far end of their office. The heels of their deadly boots clicked on the floor and stopped with a kind of finality at the window.

“How’s your friend Logan doing?”

Roman held back a twitch. “He’s… improving.” He said with a tone that indicated perhaps they shouldn’t be talking about this.

“Talk to him about this. He was always the one with the solutions. Now get out of my office before I assign you to a task force or… something.”

“Whatcha drawing Virgil?” asked the bleeding demon whose brown hair was in desperate need of washing now.

“Pat, why don’t you go wash your hair in the river over there?” Virgil asked as he dipped his pen in ink and made another slash in the cloth he was marking. “You gotta stay clean or it’ll get infected.”

“But I wanna know what you’re doing!”

Virgil sighed. “If I tell you will you go wash your scalp?”

“Yeah buddy. I will.”

Virgil motioned for his friend to sit next to him on the sand and then he pointed a long black nail at the cloth and traced it along a specific line.

“See that? That’s a map. There’s the flip side of one of my rivers. There’s the human city of New York. There’s the east coast of large human country. There’s a place called Florida full of things that make no sense and there’s where a big mansion is that a bad exorcist lives in. Satisfied, Patton?”

Patton just nodded and went to do what he had promised.

Virgil’s face was hard to read because of his purely black eyes. He folded his makeshift map and took a deep breath.

“I know you wouldn’t like this, so why do I keep doing it? They did that to you. I guess that’s why. G’bye buddy.”

And he vanished into the sand.

“It’s dark as hell in here.” Roman said, stepping into an office.

“I wonder why.” said a voice from behind a desk shaped thing. “And what you would consider ‘Hell’ is actually much brighter than this.”

“Logan…”

“The light switch is to your left, by the bookcase. I think you’d remember that by now.”

Roman felt for the switch and took a moment to adjust to the light before sitting down on the small chair in front of the huge desk his friend was sitting behind.

“So what do you need? You never visit at work unless you need something.” Logan said, typing away at a typewriter with only nine keys.

“Well you’re right about that but the day ended twenty minutes ago.”

Logan felt for a watch on his right wrist and the placement of the balls near the center and on the side told him that is was indeed twenty past six.

“Oh. You’re right.” Logan grumbled.

“Don’t be so surprised.” Said Roman, a small laugh in his voice. “I’ve been known to be right from time to time.”

A ghost of a smile twitched at the corners of Logan’s mouth. “From time to time. So do you need something or not?”

“Yeah, I do.” Roman admitted smugly.

“Well what is it?”

“You know more about the major demons than anyone else and your… condition. I know you have to open your eyes sometimes, Lo. And I know, I know you don’t like to talk about it, but I was wondering about a specific demon. One of the big ones.”

Logan’s posture became even more proper than usual and it became clear he was now focusing on his breathing.

“Would this… be the one that has been targeting executioners?” he asked.

“Yes, and I have my suspicions who it is. I’ve seen him, Logan. I think it was Virgil, the guide. He fit all the old stories. Disappearing in shadows like sand, ripped clothes, veins of black on white hands. Dead eyes like they were the void itself. It had to be him. Please, you know I’m right. I’ve got to be right.”

There was a pause.

“Yes, I think you’re right. I wish you weren’t. Is what you saw… was he wearing a distressed jacket held together with patches of purple fabric?”

Roman leapt up and took his friend’s hand.

“Yes! Yes! You’ve seen him?”

Logan sighed. “Just as dramatic as you ever were. Yes, I’ve seen him. We live in the middle of his territory. He walks around with a demon that’s almost human but not quite and has a huge gash in its head. I must admit I’ve stared at it. It’s one of the things about the mirror world that are more difficult to unsee. And there are a lot of things there that are difficult to unsee there.”

“Can you take me to him?”

“I’d rather not, Roman. Especially since we’re on the second floor right now and if I open my eyes it will look like there is a rather large pit of spiders underneath me.”

Roman began shaking a little in his expensive boots.

“Sp-spiders?”

Virgil blew a spider off the branch next to him. Creepy little thing. They weren’t any less disturbing here in the mortal world.

He fingered the crescent shaped pendant and ball chain around his neck absentmindedly, letting his nails rub together on his right hand as he gently held his left thumbnail in his mouth. He crouched in the tree and watched the old manor with its pristine white walls. This probably used to be a plantation of some kind. One where the strange human practice of slavery used to take place. Say what you want about demons, but they always give payment of some kind. They never owned each other.

There was usually only one resident here. But tonight there seemed to be two. One of whom seemed to never look around. They both felt like they were full of demonic energy of some kind, but very different. It seemed the executioner had willingly let it in while the other had taken it on involuntarily. The other one was innocent. Should he really strike tonight?

Maybe. There was time.

“If he knows where you live and somehow got past the protective barriers I set up for you then why did you ever come back here?” Logan asked, adjusting his sunglasses and then going back to feeling the raised bumps the strange device he was holding kept raising from a few clusters of holes on the end.

“Where else am I supposed to go? And you know how I work. I face danger head on.” Roman retorted.

Logan moved the device along a wall.

“All I’m saying is it could be beneficial if you were to disappear. You’ve failed to kill a demon and said demon is out to kill people of your occupation of whom there are less than two hundred in the entire world. With the way it’s going it looks like that number could be whittled down to zero and… hold on. Oh my.”

“He’s here isn’t he?” Roman said.

“Are both of you blind?”

The two humans jumped and Roman wheeled around to see the demon from last week. Roman reached into his boot and pulled out a blood red dagger which he immediately threw with deadly accuracy. Unfortunately for him, Virgil was extremely good at dodging.

“Where’s your blade hand?” Virgil asked casually landing on top of a shadow from a lamp on the wall.

“That is only supposed to be used in dire situations.” Logan said in a serious tone and turning his head to Roman for emphasis. His guess as to where Roman’s face was only ended up being off by about an inch. Roman pushed his head back into place out of annoyance.

“Can you save your couples bickering for another time?” Virgil said. “I’m kind of considering killing one of you.”

“We’re not a couple, we’re friends, and as exorcists we’re used to life threatening or even soul threatening situations. So why don’t you get on with whatever it is you’re doing?” Logan said, not wavering for a second.

“Spicy.” Virgil said, twiddling with the pendant around his neck. “I can see how you got cursed.”

Logan dropped his device and reached into his right pocket, pulling out a bright yellow stone on a ball chain like the type that would be used for dog tags.

“Et in lucem!” He said loudly and clearly.

A bright light flashed from the stone and Virgil actually found himself taking a step back. For a second all his senses went blank except for sight which was filled with a burning white. When the light cleared and his senses returned he looked around and felt. The humans had run, but not far.

How did the blind one even slow him down?

“How did you do that!?” Roman yelled as they ran through the house, turning on every light they could reach.

“Although the curse… Ow! Roman, did you move your couch since the last time I was here?”

“No, but the maid might’ve. She does an excellent job, I don’t want her to feel bad. Wait, what were you saying?”

Logan got up from where he’d fallen and started running again.

“If you and your employees haven’t moved anything else, I’ll tell you.” he said angrily.

They ran down the stairs into the basement.

“Hold on a moment, friendo. I need help with the door. Right behind you.” Roman said.

“You’re going to get poisoned by this shelter.” Logan grumbled, but he went to help anyways.

Logan knew where everything was here. His spacial memory served him well as he found the center of the large two foot thick door and began pulling on a large handle in the center of it. The door slowly started moving out of its hole in the wall and when it was enough for Roman to put his hand on the side he started pushing on it. When there was a space wide enough for them to get behind it Roman tapped his friend’s shoulder and they got behind the huge hulking door and pushed with all their might until it finally clanged shut.

Logan panted, leaning against the door as Roman turned the wheel in the center of it to lock it shut. The seeing man slumped to the floor and weakly reached up to press a black button on the wall that turned on floodlights that filled every corner of the bunker with light.

“So, the light? That, what was that stone?”

Logan swallowed. “Well, the curse, the curse may make it only possible to see the demon’s world but… I think it helps with spell casting. I’ve grown stronger at the cost of real sight. And they say being hurt emotionally makes you better at magic. You know I‘ve never been one for strong emotions but…”

Logan choked on his words and pulled off his sunglasses to rub at his face. He opened his eyes and Roman was glad Logan couldn’t see him wince at the burn marks around his eyes and the milky whiteness of his pupils.

“But you can open your eyes here.” Roman said, putting his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “We’re underground. There’s nothing to see.”

Logan’s voice broke as he said “We’ve had this conversation a thousand times you half-wit. And there’s a… a demon out there, trying to take you from us and… oh God. Not now.”

Tears started flowing.

“Why now? Why here?” Logan begged as he hugged his knees on the floor.

Roman let him take a moment. He would have liked hugs and kind nothings whispered if that were him, but he had learned over the years that Logan wasn’t like that. He just needed a moment to compose himself.

After a moment there was a deep breath and Logan replaced his sunglasses.

“The stone was a citrine. One that actually came from the sun. They’re pretty rare. Now, how’re the spells?”

He stood up and walked to a double sided bookcase in the center of the room. He started touching the spines, reading them.

Roman sighed and tapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m right here, genius. It’s faster if you just tell me the book you’re looking for.”

“Oh, right.” Logan stopped touching the books with a hand gesture that suggested mild embarrassment. “Banishing spells level alpha, 30th edition.”

Roman searched for about two seconds, saw the braille copy, and then pulled it out and dropped it onto the dining table sitting next to them. It landed with a loud slam, as it was about as tall as an atlas and as thick as an unabridged dictionary.

“Remind me again how you memorized over half of this.” Roman said.

Logan started feeling for page numbers and said “Unlike some people, I actually studied at academy instead of trying to steal from the armory.”

“I take that as a personal offense.” Roman said. “You’re getting better at that. Well done.”

Logan presumably found the page he was looking for and started reading it.

“I worry about where your priorities lie.”

Virgil considered the door carefully. There was all kinds of messy stuff painted on it in multiple languages. Latin, ancient Greek, old English, old Norse, several hieroglyphs from African, North and South American languages. He even recognized a little bit of old Mesopotamian. The Mesopotamians were older than him. Where did the humans get all this stuff?

Well whatever all this said it was obviously spells meant to keep demons out. Darn them. He couldn’t even sense any darkness inside. Except for… it was risky. Would it be worth it?

Of course. It had to be. It had to be.

Logan gestured for Roman to come over and he ran his hand over a specific type of pentagram symbol made out of dots.

“Can you make it out? Do we need to look in the regular print one?” Logan asked.

“No, I can make it out” Roman responded. “Where’s that one?”

“On the bookcase. See if it’s intact.” Logan ordered.

Logan heard a couple of clicks of boots on the tile floor and then an uneasy “Uh, Lo?”

Logan sighed. “What now?”

“It’s sort of bleeding. Black. And the center’s smudging as I’m looking at it.”

Logan hit his fist against the desk. “Crap. Well perhaps we should…”

There was a grinding sound of something metal being pulled apart and books hitting the floor. Logan gripped the side of the table as he felt the temperature in the room drop. A magical whoosh came from where Roman had been standing.

“Roman? Did you put on the ring? Roman!”

Logan got no answer but heard metal hitting metal and then metal hitting wood. Crap. Roman had attacked him. He can’t shoot a spell at that. While Roman is using that blade he’s susceptible to spells meant for demons.

Logan picked up the huge book and began running with it. He felt air move and dodged something. What, he did not know, but he managed to reach the door and through pure adrenaline rush turn the handle and yank it open with one arm.

It still took him several seconds though, long enough for something in the battle behind him to change and his shirt collar to be grabbed. He tried throwing the book behind him but he couldn’t aim correctly and in a moment he felt long nails pushing into his wrists and some shaped piece of metal fitting perfectly around the curve of his neck. Whoever was holding him smelled like fresh rain and tobacco smoke mixed with axe deodorant.

“Listen to what I have to say, and the witch doesn’t get dragged into the mirror world.” Virgil hissed.

Logan heard the sound of a blade scraping slowly on metal. It seemed like Roman was running his blade arm along the bookcase to think. Logan scoffed, feigning confidence.

“Honestly, who calls us witches anymore? And you wouldn’t open a portal here. We’re underground. And if you make a move towards the stairs he’ll strike.”

The blade came closer to his neck. It was in danger of breaking skin. Logan knew too well what that felt like.

“Would it be so hard for the scholar to shut his mouth please?” Virgil said. “I just have something to say.”

Logan wanted to swallow but was afraid that could push the blade into his throat enough to do damage to it. He remembered that five years ago he would have been looking. Noticing every tiny detail. He would be able to read Roman’s face and know exactly what was needed and why. They could communicate with their eyes. He could see where to aim if a spell was needed but now nothing. If he opened his eyes here all he saw was darkness.

“What do you have to say, Virgil?” came Roman’s voice.

“Oh, so you figured out who I am. Surprised much?”

“Not really. Well, don’t know why you’re doing this.”

The blade relaxed and Logan dared himself to take deeper breaths. The voice behind him was laced with a deep frustration.

“You… I overreacted to something. Badly.”

“You murdered ten of my coworkers.” Roman said forcefully.

“Like I said, I might have overreacted.” Virgil said.

“You don’t exactly sound sorry.” Logan growled.

“Will the witch please shut his mouth?” Logan heard as the blade began resting against his skin again and the nails buried themselves deeper into his wrists.

“So what do you want? Just let him go.” Roman demanded.

“Well what I want is the head of every executioner in convenient carrying bags that I can throw into the pit of spiders.” Virgil hissed, getting a shudder out of Logan, “But I can see now that might not be the best course of action, or what Patton would want me to do.”

Logan’s breathing slowed and his heart sank. He wished he could see what Roman’s face looked like. Probably not as defeated as his own. Roman didn’t see. Didn’t see what happened on the other side.

After a painful pause Virgil continued.

“Patton is a friend. He’s a very good friend. A mentor or… something along those lines. He’s the reason I started helping humans out in the first place. One of your filth tried to kill him because he made a mistake. And now he’s worse than dead. There’s nothing left there. He doesn’t remember one day to the next. I need you to fix him. Both of you.”

“Why in the Hell do you think we would help you? I don’t kill without cause but you sure seem to be doing your best to give me a reason.” Roman hissed.

“I thought you might say that, so I took the time to figure out something that might give you a little motivation.”

Roman looked over at his best friend since grade school and reached out and took his hand. Logan didn’t shy away, most likely knowing this was more for Roman than himself.

“You don’t have to do this for me, Roman.” Logan said.

“It’s important to you, so it’s important to me. I know I tend to be selfish but… you want this. I can tell.”

“If that’s what you want.” Logan said simply.

Virgil continued kicking around in the dirt.

“Uh, just like me to forget to leave a marker. Where in the Earth did I… oh. I should probably pay more attention to that.”

He kicked a fake bush over with his bare foot and revealed a small hole that seemed to be covered with purple plastic wrap.

“Wait a minute. The witch could have opened his eyes and told me where it is. What…”

“Do you think I have no sense of humor?” Logan asked.

The king of darkness smiled, showing his pointed needle-like teeth.

“Oh, you are going to live to regret that, Logan.” he said. “Well, everybody in.”

He jumped into the hole and the cling wrap looking cover didn’t move for an instant as he disappeared into it. Roman led Logan to the hole and he jumped in. Roman took a moment and then followed suit.

He immediately fell over, but it was like falling over after standing on your head. He looked up and saw he had fallen feet first out of the largest dead tree he had ever seen.

“Roman? Oh my.”

Roman turned around and Logan had removed his sunglasses. His eyes were still burned and the pupils were still milky white but he was… looking at him.

“You… you’ve got a scar on your arm.”

Nothing more had to be said. Logan could only see this world, so when he was here he could use his sight. Virgil gestured for them to follow.

Logan was right, Roman decided. Hell isn’t that dark. Well, this wasn’t technically Hell but it was close enough. The sun was a burning red like it was dying. Virgil kept jumping in front of them to prevent them from falling in hidden holes or canyons filled with magma or insects or any other number of unsavory things. The shrubbery and trees all seemed to be watching. Low level demons whether humanoid or animistic ran away in Virgil’s presence and if they dared to come close he hissed and pulled the chain off his neck turning it into a scythe or curved sword depending on the threat. Several monkey-like green things tried to carry Logan and Roman off several times but they could fend for themselves against small demons and so far Virgil had kept his promise and helped them when they needed it.

They walked for over an hour like this, mostly in silence. After the first hour attacks became less frequent as the landscape became more barren. Roman asked something that had been on his mind.

“Virgil? Is this what your daily commute consists of?”

“I was wondering that as well.” Logan chimed in. “I have seen you occasionally when I opened my eyes by accident or by choice and you seem to cover a large area.”

Virgil jumped off a ledge but held his sword out to stop the humans from following him. He calmly struck the head off of a cat-like thing and then gestured for the other two to follow him.

“Shadow travel. Humans can’t do it.” He said and then kept leading the way.

“So, how many humans have you led through here?” Roman asked, shaking a little green goblin off of him and fending it off with a red knife.

Virgil shrugged as Logan murmured a spell that made the goblin shoot off of Roman like a rocket.

“A few thousand probably? I don’t count.” the demon said before starting a climb up a small rocky ledge.

When they reached the top of the ledge Logan looked like he was about ready to pass out and Roman was rubbing his hands and trying not to think about if any part of him was bleeding.

“Home sweet home. This way.” Virgil said.

He led them through a small grove of black and purple trees, crouching and looking around every so often like demons tend to do and then led them to a wide expanse covered in black sand. A river of lava on one far end and a river of what looked like water on the other. Both rivers were so far away you could just spot them if you climbed a tall tree and shielded your eyes from the red sunlight.

Virgil led them through the course sand for about a mile, bringing them through another grove of trees and finally to a battered old house that seemed to be made of planks of black wood and a lot of hope.

“Why doesn’t it fall down?” Logan asked, clearly concerned.

Virgil just shrugged and jumped forward, landing right in front of the door. The humans had to run to get there as he opened it and they were told to get inside.

The inside was plain. The walls had small holes and the floor was stone. There was a small pile of bones in the corner, some of unknown shapes. There were pieces of paper, pens, and canvas stacked against another wall and along another there was a pile of rags with a sleeping figure on it.

Virgil put his necklace on and then tenderly approached the bed. He gently rocked the shoulder of the person lying there.

“Hey buddy. Hey. Hi. We’ve got some visitors.”

There was a sniff. “Hmmm? Humans?”

“Yes buddy, humans. Can you say hi?”

The groggy figure that sat up seemed to be both more and less human looking than his friend. His brown hair was matted with dry blood. His red and brown eyes seemed strangely human, especially in comparison to Virgil’s whose eyes were just blank. He wore a neat blue dress shirt and cargo pants with formal shoes. He wore a cardigan over his dress shirt that was far too big for him and would have made him look cozy were it not for the light blue color of his veins. His nails weren’t nearly as long as Virgil’s but they ended in a point and looked like they could easily cause some lasting damage.

“Hi.” It said. “Are we friends?”

“Well we just met your acquaintance but…” Logan began before Roman stepped on his foot.

“Uh, I mean… Yes of course. You must be Patton.” Logan said, trying to not express his pain.

“You can see.” Patton said before trying to lay back down and sleep again.

Virgil pulled him up a little forcefully. “You can’t sleep right now.” He said firmly.

Usually that blank face was unreadable but at this moment even with black eyes the shadow demon looked both incredibly concerned and dangerously hopeful. Patton fell asleep in his grip.

He let out a sigh. “All he does is sleep and mess around now. He’s like a human little kid and he can’t remember things from one day to the next. I really want to blame you but he wouldn’t want me to do that. Fix him. Make him better.”

The force in those last words made the exorcists take a step back. Some of the light in the dim little shack ran away in fear and it became even more dim. Black tears fell out of Virgil’s eyes and the shadows started to move.

“Make it better! Fix what you did!” He demanded.

Both humans were frightened by the sudden change but kept their composure. The prize here outweighed the risk. They had discussed this beforehand. Find a way to fix the head wound and Virgil would stop killing executioners. If Patton returned to normal afterwards, there was a chance Logan could see blue skies again.

Logan stepped forward and took his satchel off of his shoulder, trying not to make any sudden movements. Further enraging an already angry demon is beyond suicidal.

He knelt on the hot floor next to Patton and made him sit up. There was a sleepy questioning hum and then the red and then the red and brown eyes opened sleepily.

“Hi.” he said groggily. “You’re a human.”

“Yes, and I’m here to help.” Logan said firmly but gently. “Can you hold yourself up?”

Patton nodded and did what he was told. Logan looked back at Roman who nodded and pulled a hidden red knife out of his belt.

“Liar!” Virgil exclaimed as Roman found a sickle at his throat.

“It’s not for your blood!” Logan said. “It’s for Roman’s! Put that away or he stays like this!”

After an intense moment Virgil slowly lowered his weapon and turned it back into a moon pendant before putting it back on.

Logan started murmuring in several dead languages, blending them together and making a hypnotic chanting sound as he wrapped a blue and silver cloth around Patton’s eyes and then over his head. Roman knelt next to him and rolled up his sleeve. He waited for Logan to stop chanting before handing him the magic knife.

“Just get it over with.” He said, covering his eyes with the other arm.

He bit back a cry of pain as the cursed blade swiped across his skin, stinging like acid and moving through his veins. He only dared to open his eyes when it was bandaged.

Virgil was putting on the bandages. Roman gave a confused look.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” Virgil asked. “Getting a taste off your own medicine?”

“I’ve gotten it before.” Roman said, looking over.

They sat in the far corner of the room, watching Logan work with copper beads covered in Roman’s blood. Watched the wrapping and unwrapping of the wound several times and various stones being used.

“Is there any kind of sense to what he’s doing?” Virgil asked quietly.

“Oh now you talk?” Roman asked skeptically. “You want my head on a plate, remember Coraline?”

“Coraline?” The demon asked.”

“You know. With the button eyes and.. oh never mind.”

“Button eyes?” Virgil asked. “Like as in, those things on your shirt being eyes?”

“Well they’re large and black but yes.”

“That’s really disturbing. I do not want to see that.” Virgil said, disgust in his voice.

“Disturbing?” Roman asked. “Look who’s talking. Look where you live.”

Virgil shrugged. “You know, humans have been trying to point that out to me for centuries when they accidentally end up here. How horrifying it is. The only reason so many things ever attack humans is because they’re humans. When demons go into the mortal world they’re attacked because they’re demons. It can be frightening and stupid. Aren’t there exorcists that lead peaceful demons back or something? Kind of what I do in reverse? This is just a place. The mirror world is just a place. There are things to be afraid of both places. If someone likes you, if they hate you, if your clothes are going to fall apart, if you’re gong to eat tomorrow. All the same thing.”

“Sorry I think I fell asleep for a second, what was that, Tim Burton?” Roman said, a smug grin on his face.

“Oh screw off.” Virgil said, rolling his eyes. “Hey, what’s that?”

“Looks like he’s almost finished and… Hey!”

Virgil used Roman as a rest to push himself up on and leapt to the other side of the room.

“Your stupid nails dug into my scalp!” Roman exclaimed.

Nobody was paying him any attention. That was the problem with other people being hurt. They always got the spotlight.

Patton yawned and opened his eyes. He felt like he had just woken up from a bad dream he couldn’t quite remember, which was strange because demons dreaming is a rare thing indeed

There was a familiar pair of black eyes with a hopeful look that he had never seen before.

“Hey kiddo. What am I doing at your house?” He asked. “Do I smell an exe- oh!”

Virgil had engulfed the older spirit in a bone crushing hug and was breathing too hard. His face was one of shock and he gripped his friend’s hair and held on for dear life.

“I didn’t know you gave hugs.” Patton said happily. “What’s the big fuss? And your nails, buddy. The… the nails.”

The shadow demon let go out of embarrassment and seemed to mentally curl in on himself. “Sorry, Pat. You’ve just been gone for a while. Maybe I have been too.”

“Gone!? You killed five percent of the executioners on the force!” Roman exclaimed. “And…”

“Easy, Roman. It’s in the nature of demons. That’s what a temper tantrum looks like.” Logan said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

A quick explanation and a long trek through the same territory later, all four of them stood at the portal. Patton was giving his younger friend a death glare that reminded both humans of when Logan’s mother got particularly “disappointed”.

“Say it.” Patton said firmly.

“I’m… I’m sorry for attacking you, and killing your coworkers. And stealing your sewing supplies to alter my clothes” Virgil said, reluctance in his words.

“And I’m sorry for stabbing you in the chest and that one of my friends hurt your friend.” Roman said with a similar tone of defiance.

“Now, about my eyes…” Logan started.

“Oh yeah.” Virgil said.

He dug around in his hoodie pockets and pulled out a sheathed knife and handed it to Patton.

“Awww. You hung onto it for me?!” Patton squealed.

“Yup. I definitely prefer angry demons.” Logan said in disgust.

Patton unsheathed the blade which was leaf shaped and about the size of his hand. It was rainbow like and changed colors with the angle you looked at it like oil on asphalt.

“This is gonna look a little dangerous but just go with it, okay?” Patton said.

“I have my suspicions but very well. I have a trained exorcist executioner with me and I’m already blind in the other world so what do I have to lose?” Logan said.

“Close your eyes.” Patton said.

He pushed the flat of the blade against each eye putting gentle pressure on it for a few seconds and then told Logan to open his eyes. They had pupils again.

“You conspired with a demon? Two demons? One of them the fiend that’s been killing our kind?” The superior asked.

Logan tried his hardest not to look down at Roman clutching at his stomach on the ground. This was not how he wanted to spend his first day with his normal sight back. In the basement of a stone church where no sunlight could get in while his friend got kicked repeatedly with a fashionable pair of steel toed boots. Honestly, disciplinary action for executioners had to be mended. All other departments had gotten rid of physical punishment ages ago.

“Mx,” Logan said, trying to stay professional. “if I may, we have solved the issue, and preserved a valuable resource for humans that might wander into the…”

“I don’t wanna hear your intellectual mumbo jumbo silver tongue right now, Sanders. You got your sight back, congratulations, but you acted against orders to do it. You and Prince here are in a world of trouble. If I could take a knife to your skin too I would.”

Logan adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses with his middle finger and then helped his friend up.

“You’re welcome, for solving your little problem. I’ll see my supervisor later.” Logan said coldly.

He put one of Roman’s arms over his shoulders and supported him on their way out.

They paused at the church doors. The abstract stained glass shone all around them like a kaleidoscope. Roman had recovered enough to stand on his own but still clutched at his side.

“So nerd, are you ready to see the sky again? It’s about dawn.

“The pollution in this area should make the sunrise nice to watch.” Logan said, still not opening the door.

“Just like you to take the fun out of it. Go ahead. You’ve waited half a decade for this. You always talk about logic. Is it logical for you to not look?”

Logan flung the doors open and he had remembered correctly. They did face east. And he had never felt so much melancholy and happiness before now.

“He’s very sorry!” Patton called out as he and Virgil ran through trees.

“That’s not going to help anything Pat.” Virgil hissed as he pulled him inside the shadow of a tree and they flattened out. “Humans work differently. Especially exorcists. Why don’t you get that? Do humans ever summon us to make friends?”

“I always hope they will.” Patton murmured.

“Aha!” came a voice.

“Oh for the love of… move!” Virgil ordered, pushing the other demon along.

He could hide in the shadows but not move through them. What had they sprayed him with? If only he could have enough time to open a portal, or teleport or anything other than keep running.

It was all a blur. A missed shot. A flash of red blade. Patton jumping out of instinct. An already dark red blade dripping with even more blood. For the second time in his life Virgil saw his friend’s blood be absorbed into one of those accursed things but this time there was no movement. The axe hit just the right spot on the chest that even the strongest of demons couldn’t escape. He melted into the ground, leaving behind a pile of clothes, a blue and red stain, and his dagger.

There was a demonic screaming so loud and ungodly that Virgil could hardly believe it was coming out of his own mouth. He yanked the pendant off of his neck and began to move in a daze. The executioner with the axe fell, her chest cut clean open, the witch ran but but couldn’t escape. The marksman was shot through the mouth with his own gun and the two executioner trainees fell over, one of them bled out, the other was left with a broken leg.

Just as Virgil crushed their weapons and was about to hit the teen with a final blow he froze, his curved sword hovering above his head, ready to strike.

“No.” he murmured. “Stop. Breathe. It’s not too late.”

He put down his weapon and looked down at the trembling human. A normal apology wouldn’t work here. Humans typically didn’t go in killing sprees when something shocking happened. He had learned that the hard way.

“Your mentor killed my mentor.” He sighed. “I overreacted again.”

No response. Just blank terror.

“I’m going to take you to a hospital. Understand?” Virgil said, kneeling down. “A hospital. With doctors and hopefully therapists.”

To his surprise the young man allowed him to pick him up and carry him quickly to an emergency room parking lot.

“Now if you yell for help someone should probably come. I don’t…”

He couldn’t finish his statement so he just disappeared instead.

“I heard Logan disappeared.”

Roman jumped out of his skin and dropped the book he had been staring at.

“Demo- Virgil?” Roman said.

“That was pretty sudden.” Virgil said from the top of a table in Roman’s private library.

“What are you doing here?” Roman asked. “I’ve done nothing.”

“You’re reading.” Virgil noted.

“What of it?”

“What happened to Logan?”

Roman stared off into the distance for almost half a minute and then sucked in a breath through his nose.

“I haven’t seen him. At first I assumed he was just not keeping in touch. There’s a lot to go see after all, and work to do. But no one else has seen him either. It’s all very anticlimactic. I hate anticlimactic.”

“Patton’s dead.” Virgil said, chocking on the last word.

Roman didn’t move. “Why are you coming to me? One of the few humans who could kill you?”

“Because I overreacted again and I don’t know anyone else that would listen. He was my only friend. Where else do I go. It took me long enough to get myself to come here.”

“You?” Roman asked. “You are one of the ten most powerful spirits in history. A legend. The poet Virgil was named after you. And… you had difficulty approaching a human?”

“I have some issues.” Virgil murmured. “One of which is that my friend and mentor is dead, Mr. Prince. How in the Earth am I supposed to move on from that?”

“I don’t know if my best friend is alive.” Roman said. “You just got him back. Mine just got his sight back. And they’re gone.”

“No kidding, Sherlock.”

“Oh, so you do know something about human culture.”

“How can you sound so smug at a time like this?”

“Misery is the source of all comedy Jason Demon, that’s how.”

“I’m not Jason.”

“If you’re going to be bothering me you really need to learn more pop culture things because I reference them like all the time.”

People disappeared sometimes. It was always anticlimactic. Only a select few knew what happened afterwards. Those who were heard from again never said what happened.

Logan stared at the wall of the square cell. He had disappeared he supposed. No idea where he was or what exactly his charges were. Being blind had been much better than this. He could move and find meaning. If only there was more to tell.

Well, an unremarkable end to a boring life perhaps. No, his life hadn’t been boring. Thinking it had been anything other than extraordinary would be illogical.

“Let me help you. I know this guy.” Virgil urged, following Roman by walking along tree branches.

“No. I need to do this myself. Besides, if my superiors find out I’ve befriended a demon I could very well disappear and if I die before my time I want it to be dramatic.” Roman said.

“Who said we’re friends?” Virgil asked with a smirk.

“You visit my house regularly. I’ve cried in your arms. We fight things together and talk crap about human celebrities. What more is there?” Roman said.

“It’s only been six months. What’s that to humans? A hundred years?”

“Roughly.”

“Damn. You drop like flies. I’m gonna miss you I think. You’re like a puppy I’ve become attached to.”

“What kind of puppy?” Roman said playfully.

“A bloodhound.”

“Are you serious?” Roman said, completely solemn, “I’m clearly a poodle.”

That almost made Virgil fall right out of the tree.

“Now get lost. I kill things like this all the time without your help.”

“Okay I’ll just die of boredom then.” Virgil said before slipping into the shadows like falling sand.

Roman smiled and continued walking. The guide of the underworld could pretend he wasn’t dramatic all he wanted but that didn’t make it true.

Virgil slumped back on his pile of rags. He traced the edge of the dagger Patton had left behind. It changed color in the light just like it always did.

What was six months to a human?

Roman had told him the first six months is the hardest. Was that true? What about now? What about Roman? As aloof as he acted he was actually becoming pretty fond of the stupid over the top exorcist.

He really could be that dangerous, but still Virgil worried about him. He only had this friend for a small amount of time, and in that time he was destined to watch him wither away.

In the best case scenario of course.

Roman threw a dagger at the green tiger thing. It dodged. Crap.

He pulled out his ring and his upper left arm turned into a blood sword. The tiger snarled, smelling small amounts of demonic qualities. A traitor.

It pounced but Roman dodged, rolling away and missing the claws by inches. The tiger drooled and it’s saliva fizzled on the ground leaving dead patches. Perfect. just perfect.

Virgil showed up out of the shadows. He saw Roman and immediately thought he was in danger. He ran to help but then there was a squeak.

A puddle of green and black melted into the ground and ROman looked up.

“Did you follow me here? That’s… kind of rude.”

“No. I just knew where you were. That blade hand?”

Roman looked down at his arm. “What about it?”

“It hurts a lot. And it’s creepy.”

“Your face is creepy.” Roman said, pulling the ring off and looking in disgust at his pus covered arm. “Disgusting. I’ll need a shower at once. Goodnight, my friend. Please stop spying on me.”

Roman heard Virgil call over “We’re not friends, ape!”

“Whatever you say, poet.” Roman said, pulling a towel out of his bag.

“What do stones even do?” Virgil asked, flipping through bags. “Ugh. here’s the one that almost blinded me.”

“Nobody would be able to tell if you were blind.” Roman mumbled.

“Can we have one meeting where you don’t poke fun at my eyes?”

“Admit the sword hand is really cool.” Roman said, placing another braille book on the growing stacks on the bunker dining table.

“No. You became less human to be able to do that. It’s really disturbing.” Virgil said, flipping through a book.

“How do you read these?” he added in.

“Oh.” Roman said pausing for a moment. “It’s called braille. It’s a way to read by touching when eyesight is lost.”

He ran his hands along an otherwise blank cover.

“Phillis Wheatley. Well maybe I’ll keep this one. I don’t want to imagine I spent two years learning braille with him for nothing.”

“Why are you only going through his stuff he left here now?” Virgil asked. “I went through Patton’s house right away in case scavengers went through it. He had an actual house.”

“Maybe because I’m not a demon?” Roman asked.

Virgil recognized that sound. It was choking back a sob. Oh gods what is he supposed to do here? That comment stung a little but… oh no. Now he’s crying. What happens now? And, he dropped the books. Oh no. Now he has to say something.

“What… what do I…”

No, he’s not answering. He’s still crying. What does he need? Warmth? Virgil can’t provide that. He’s cold like ice. Understanding? He can’t give that. They may be friends now but it wasn’t like they could understand each other. What… what do you do?

“Do uh…”

Oh gosh is he about to attempt compassion? Ew. Abort. Abort! But there’s nowhere to escape here. The bookcase is still mangled and not providing any shade now the books are mostly gone. A friend. What would Patton do here? Probably hug. That’s not Virgil’s style. What is his style? Patton always told him what he needed. Humans don’t always do that.

“I’m sorry.”

Virgil looked up. Was Roman actually apologizing for something? He was. Roman Prince, the most narcissistic asshole he had ever befriended was apologizing for… crying?

“Why are you…”

“I’m supposed to be unshakable. But I suppose… when the ten months actually came I didn’t want it to. I thought…”

Roman gripped a huge spellbook in his hands and then clutched it to his chest and held on as if it could bring Logan back.

“Surely he would be one of the ones that came back. Logan can’t just disappear and die in such an anticlimax. That’s not what he does. Not what he… did. That’s not how he did things. He would go on his own terms. Not… whatever it is they do when people disappear. It happens so rarely these days we never thought..”

“You were putting off grieving for Logan.” Virgil realized.

“I suppose I was, now that I think about it.”

Roman woke up one morning strapped to a chair.

“Where…”

“Roman Prince, you have been charged with having personal relations with a demon and concealing your lineage.”

Roman couldn’t see anything. There was a bright light on him and the rest was darkness. It reminded him of being on stage as a young man. The audience can see you, but you can’t see the audience.

“How do you plead?”

“Am I being made to disappear?” Roman asked.

“How do you plead?”

“Where did you find proof of this?”

“How do you plead?”

“Get me my lawyer!”

There was a crash and a scream. Gunshots fired and there was the sound of an axe hitting stone. In a moment the lights turned back on and something cut the ropes tying him to the chair. Roman looked back.

There he was. In those stupid overly distressed black and purple clothes with patches all over them. He was like a badass emo ragdoll or something. He even had the blank button eyes.

“Prince doesn’t go quietly. Not on my watch.” Virgil said.

“Have there ever been darker angels than you?” Roman asked, standing up and rubbing his wrists.

“Save your painfully dramatic gratitude for later and start running, moron.”

They leapt through trees and over houses, never slowing down for a second. Finally sprinting down country roads, Virgil melting in and out of the darkness as Roman ran coming back every so often to get updates.

“Keep going. I don’t think you’re demon enough for me to shadow travel with you.”

“They’re a mile behind. You do use miles here, right?”

“And you complain about the weather in Gehenna. How is Florida this humid at night?

And on for several miles. Roman saved his breath and didn’t yell at the demon for his stupid commentary, but it was tempting.

They finally reached the manor house and Roman frantically began packing. Virgil even put on a backpack, a new experience for him, to carry a few spellbooks in braille they had set aside for an event like this.

“Is it possible to ever be comfortable wearing one of these?” The shadow king said as he struggled to adjust the straps without breaking a nail.

“No, let’s go!” Roman said, dragging Virgil outside.

Virgil hissed and panicked and Roman quickly let go of the demon’s arm.

“I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t like it when I touch you.”

Virgil took a moment to compose himself and then led Roman to a portal nearby. He gave roman permission to take his hand and they jumped through the purple cling wrap together.

Roman picked his nails with his knife, sitting on Virgil’s pile of rags.

“So why can’t you try to shadow travel with me?” He asked.

Virgil sighed. “I have told you way too many times. You’re only one sixteenth demonic. Probably less. It won’t work.”

“Oh you’re no fun.” Roman pouted. “You always think everything could end up in death or dismemberment.”

“Because it can.” Virgil responded like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“And you want to help me while I’m on the run?” Roman asked skeptically.

“Well… what are friends for?”

“Aha! So you admit that we’re friends!” Roman exclaimed dramatically.

“You know one of these days I’m gonna lose my patience and straight up eat you.”

“And I’m certain I will be delicious.” Roman said, a classy smile on his face.

“Nah, I won’t eat you.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re all we have left.” Virgil said solemnly.

Roman let out a dark chuckle. “And to think I stabbed you through the heart the first time we met.”

“I’m still sorry for all those killings.”

“I forgave you for that a long time ago.”

Virgil leaned against the wall. Roman couldn’t help but smile when that mouth curved upwards and showed just the smallest hint of pointed teeth.

They had no idea how, but it was going to be okay.

#sanders sides au #sanders sides #platonic prinxiety #prinxety #virgil sanders #anxiety sanders #the emo #prince sanders #roman sanders #the other roman #thomas sanders #thatsthat24 #fanfic #fan fic #fanfiction #fan fiction #roman wrote a thing

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lexiseigneur · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter twenty-six: Greystone

The Dhampir had not hidden the circumstances leading to their relocation and perhaps it had been a mistake. The Sun Hunters had not taken the news well and only after strenuous negotiations did they accept not to rush the Mayor’s office.

Merely two days after the party, the Dhampir began packing their possessions. Lexi had asked that they leave quickly as she was pained by drawn-out goodbyes.

“Emma has been hiding from me since we announced our departure,” said Quinlan.

He detached a drawing of the little girl from the wall and slid it carefully in a cardboard sleeve.

“And Gus is calling Costello so much I expect she will need to change her phone number,” said Lexi.

“Their reaction is a little excessive. We are not exiles, we are free to come and go as we please.”

“It’s mostly because those in charge prefer to see us go and not so much come back. It’s the ungratefulness that bothers them and that bothers me.”

“It happened to me many times. I would be called upon to kill for the glory of Rome and for humans who would despise me for it. They would send me away in times of peace when I became an inconvenience then bring me back when they inevitably found themselves faced with another war.”

“Why did you do it? Why did you go back?”

“Because the Master craved the chaos of those wars. They made perfect feeding opportunities.”

He put down the sleeve and faced the now bare wall.

“And because I knew little else.”

Quinlan and Lexi turned to the bookshelves and tucked the volumes into boxes.

“Was that all you did during all those centuries? Chase battle after battle?”

She did not pity him but she had to acknowledge how sad of an existence it sounded.

“Until the Western Roman Empire fell and then I was intrigued by what existed beyond it. I still sought the Master and I still fought but at times I desired more. There was no real reason for me to go to Constantinople but I found myself drawn by the tales of a city more beautiful than Rome.”

“Was it? More beautiful?”

Quinlan chuckled.

“I could not tell because when I arrived, half of it was on fire.”

“What? Why?”

“They took their chariot racing very seriously in those days.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

This time he laughed frankly and it filled her with contentedness. She suspected that he blocked his negative feelings from her but always left his mind wide open in moments like this one so she could taste his happiness. His joy was a ball irradiating warmth in the pit of her stomach. Lexi dropped the books and pressed her face against his chest.

“It is completely true! But I came back when it was rebuilt and I had to admit that it was glorious.”

It took a long time for them to finish packing as he distracted her with stories and images of Constantinople. He was correct, it had been glorious.

***

They were ready to depart, the truck was loaded and Raul and Eva had agreed to drive them to the city limits since the Dhampir could not do it alone. Simply because of the system of canals, living in New York would be complicated for the Dhampir but that did not alleviate Lexi’s resentment. The hunters currently staying in the headquarters had already paid their respects and had returned to their busy lives. But still, Quinlan waited by the map with his back to them. Lexi, Raul, and Eva shuffled through the pictures to give him more time. Eva looked at the images with pursed lips. Just like Lexi, she attempted to find fault in the place and just like her, she was unsuccessful.

“I guess it could be worse,” admitted Eva.

Raul glanced at a picture of the house above her shoulder.

“I prefer when my windows face south so keep that in mind when you pick a guest bedroom.”

“Don’t worry I already know where you’ll stay if you visit,” said Lexi and she showed him a picture of a decrepit garden shed.

“Meh, still bigger than my bedroom.”

“Let’s go,” said Quinlan and strutted in their direction.

She could feel nothing through the Bond and his face was neutral. Lexi grunted and shoved the pictures in her pocket. This would not do.

“I forgot something. I’ll be back in a minute,” she said.

She disappeared up the stairs and went straight to the highest level. Laura’s door was open and she was crouching by the larger of the two beds.

“Come on, you’re a big girl and big girls don’t hide like this,” she said.

Laura noticed Lexi standing at the door and stood.

“You guys are leaving now?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“She won’t come out.”

Lexi crouched next to the bed and the little girl crawled farther away from the edge.

“Emma? Why are you doing this?” asked Lexi.

The child did not answer. Lexi took a picture out of her pocket and slid it on the floor then pointed out one of the windows of the depicted house.

“That’ll be your room if you visit, you know?”

A small hand grabbed the picture and there was a click and the light of a small flashlight illuminated the space under the bed.

“Really?” asked Emma.

“We picked it right away but now Quinlan thinks it was useless because you don’t want to visit.”

“No! Who said that? It’s not true,” said Emma and her face appeared from under the bed.

“Maybe you should tell him that your mom and you will come to visit soon so he doesn’t worry?”

Emma came out and dropped her flashlight and the picture on the bed. She nervously pulled on her sleeves.

“Are you going to leave even if I don’t visit?”

“Yes,” said Lexi with a slight pinching in her heart.

“That’s not fair. The others are staying.”

“Yes, but the others are not elves. Maybe we want to go back to the forest.”

Emma folded her arms and her smug expression was very familiar.

“I know you’re not elves, Maria told me.”

Lexi scratched the back of her head and exchanged a look with Laura who appeared equally amused and embarrassed.

“No, we are not elves…will you still come down with me to say goodbye?”

“Okay,” she relented.

At the ground level, Raul and Eva waited in the truck while Quinlan leaned against its side. He did not need to look up to know that three people were approaching.

“Thank you,” he said.

***

From the moment they took an abrupt turn and left the asphalt road for a dirt one, the map indicated that they had found their new property. The forest was mainly composed of various oak species as well as hickory. Lexi cracked her window open and the car filled with the myriad of scents found in old-growth forests: the sap of century-old trees, humus and the freshness of recent rain on leaves. The canopy was turning dark green, orange and red from the arrival of Autumn.

Quinlan could not help but feel hopeful when Lexi leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. The corners of her mouth jumped up every time a new smell crossed their path. In the distance, wild turkeys gobbled and the absurdity of their calls made her giggle.

He understood her discontentment at being relegated to the wilderness like a pair of unwanted curs but he did not want that to prevent her from appreciating what they had been granted. From his experience, happiness could be born from isolation. In fact, he had found that it enabled him to live free from the pressure of suppressing his nature. But in isolation, there was also loneliness and that suffering he knew all too well. There again, he was hopeful because he had never tried to be alone with another of his kind. But would that be sufficient for her? She startled and grabbed his shoulder.

“What was that?”

The strong smell of a large mammal came and went.

“A bear.”

She stuck her head out of the window as though she would be able to spot the animal. Then she fidgeted in her seat until he stopped the car.

“Why did you stop? Did you see something?”

“No.”

He leaned to her side, kissed her and opened her door wide.

“The house is that way but I don’t see any reason why both of us should remain stuck in this car until we find it.”

Quickly, she removed her coat and her boots then disappeared amongst the trees. He closed the door and as he drove up the road, her laughs sometimes found his ears.

When he parked she was nowhere to be seen but he could smell her and the beatings of her heart were loud. She landed lightly on the roof of the car. Her clothes were dirty with dust and sap and her hair had come undone. Lexi appeared wild.

“How was it?”

She rattled playfully, jumped off then ran toward the house and he followed.

Greystone was aptly named. The house was square, massive and might have been too simplistic to be aesthetically pleasing if it were not for its naked stone façade partially covered in English ivy. In the back, wide window doors led to a shaded garden. The house had once been a farm with stables but its past had left no trace in its interior. The front door led to an open floor comprised of a living room and a kitchen. The décor was modern, sleek and luxurious. In a corner, a strange object with abstract shapes caught their attention.

“What is this?” asked Quinlan.

“A lamp?”

She found a switch and it indeed illuminated the hideous object. Quinlan opened the nearest window and threw the thing out. His action had the double effect of making Lexi laugh and ridding the house of an insult to good taste.

On the dinner table, they found a copy of the contract they had signed and a reminder to call Costello as soon as they took possession of the grounds.

Quinlan wished Lexi had not seen it. Her run and her amusement had put her into an excellent disposition but as soon as she read the papers, her face hardened. She chewed her tongue then exited the house.

“I’ll get our things I guess,” she said.

They had just finished carrying their few possessions inside when the phone rang. Lexi turned away from it with a huff.

“Perhaps we should pick it up?” said Quinlan.

“Go ahead.”

He expected Costello on the line but it was a man with a Scottish accent.

“Mister Quinlan? Ma’am Lexi? I saw a car, was it you?”

“Who is this?”

“I’m Nigel Fraser, I’m the groundskeeper.”

Quinlan did not recall that the grounds came with an employee and judging by her expression of surprise and curiosity, Lexi had not known either. She approached to listen more easily.

“Mr. Fraser you should relocate to the city, those parts are not exactly safe.”

“Oh, that’s fine. My house is on the river!”

One side of the property was closed off by a large stream which comprised one island.

“Do you live by yourself?”

“Aye. My daughter lives in New York with my grandkids.”

“I’m guessing that would be because of the safety issue I mentioned.”

Nigel laughed so loudly that Quinlan held the phone away from his ear.

“Aye, that might be.”

“He cannot stay here, he will get himself killed,” said Lexi.

“For our peace of mind, we’d prefer if you did not live here alone.”

“I’m not so alone with my dogs. And now I’ve got neighbors! I’ve been ousted by the Partnership once, I’m not leaving again.”

“What are your duties as a groundkeeper?”

“I just accept deliveries for you and if you need something repaired or replaced, I’ll do it.”

“What about actually keeping the grounds?”

“Nah! The forest can keep itself. Besides, there are Strigoi in those parts.”

“He is insane,” said Lexi.

“I will drive to you tomorrow and re-install the cable and the internet,” said Fraser.

“You can do that?”

“Aye, I’m old but not a relic. I’ve got an email address and all.”

“Ha! See. We should make you one as well,” said Lexi.

“Shall I really emulate a man you just called ‘insane’?”

She tossed a pillow at his head which he caught and threw back. He concluded the chat with the groundskeeper before convincing Lexi to go for another run.

The next day Nigel arrived bearing welcome presents in the form of tea and biscuits. He was short, with a crown of bushy grey hair, a crooked nose, and deeply wrinkled skin. Throughout his short visit, he never stopped speaking and it rather felt like they now knew his entire life story. He had emigrated from Scotland some thirty years prior to marry his late wife, had found work managing the land of the original owner and had been kicked out after the Fall. Then as soon as the Partnership had been dissolved, he had returned to his beloved island with three errand dogs he had found on his way. He enjoyed fishing, Russian literature and obviously, talking.

“I’ll come back tomorrow with your delivery!” he said as he sat behind the wheel of his armored truck.

“Please do not bother, we can come to you,” said Lexi.

“Ma’am, do you realize this is what I’m paid to do?”

“Yes.”

“Good! I wanted it to be clear. I won’t tell if you don’t. Deliveries come during sunlight hours so you can pick them up just after that. If it gets too late or if you prefer to avoid my chatting your ears off then I’ll leave it in the boathouse.”

He drove off. Quinlan was quite unsure about Nigel. He had done a very efficient job in connecting them to the internet but he chatted too much for his liking. Lexi ate a biscuit, crumbled another and tossed it at a group of small birds. They plunged toward the food and she observed them tenderly.

“Nigel is the grandpa I never knew I wanted,” she said.

“What a thought.”

“I hope he can stay safe even after we leave.”

“You really do not want to remain here?”

“It’s a prison. Gilded, but still a prison.”

“When I was given land and I lived with Tasa and Sura, it was much the same. I was still happy. Keep in mind that staying here, even for the next fifty years means little in the scope of our lifetimes.”

She tossed more biscuits and the birds flew off in a flurry of feathers then came back after the Dhampir stood still for long enough.

“You know how hard it is to imagine this? That’s longer than I’ve been alive.”

“I can imagine it and I’m looking forward to all of it.”

Twilit trees were growing clearer to their eyes and the forest was alive with the sounds of multitudes of animals. She took his hand and she stretched on the tip of her feet to kiss his cheek.

***

It was hard for Lexi to hide her pleasure at running amongst the trees and hiding as they spied white-tailed deer, squirrels or bears living their simple lives.

“Look at this one, she has two fawns to care for…” she lamented as they observed from the highest branches of an oak tree. “They were born very late…they won’t make it through winter.”

“With some shelter and food, they would survive,” said Quinlan.

Her perception of Greystone might change if she felt needed. Even if just by a few animals.

“I know what you are trying to do,” she said reproachfully.

The next day, she began building a wooden hut in the garage which had once been the barn. Without a comment about its future use, Quinlan assisted her efforts.

***

The wide television screen showed a delighted Gus and above it, a small camera was pointed at the two Dhampir.

“We went to Central Park and I know it sounds corny and shit but I thought it would be the right spot. On that cute bridge there. That was a stupid idea, I almost dropped the ring in the water and she was laughing so hard it took five minutes for her to say yes.”

“Congratulations, to the both of you,” said Quinlan.

Lexi mumbled unintelligible words and fanned her face with her hand while trying to stop herself from crying.

“Hey Lex, you okay there?” asked Gus.

She turned away from the camera and took deep breaths.

“Tell him that I’m very happy for them…I need to find a tissue.”

She ran out of the room.

“She is very happy but...”

“She’s a secret softie, I know.”

“I heard that!” said Lexi and from somewhere in the house, she blew her nose.

“I’m going to call Aanya,” she added.

“How are the new teams?” asked Quinlan.

“I told those dicks to send their best but so far I think only Chicago did it. I got one that wouldn’t have made the first cut if I had a say.”

“We will start with the Chicago team then and the rest of them can go home.”

“Done. The dates for your training sessions are good?”

Quinlan pulled a sheet of paper from the printer and read the list.

“Wouldn’t that be a little fast paced?” said Quinlan.

“That’s what I told them! They wanted to break our teams up and sent them to the affected cities with trainees. I told them to fuck themselves and I ain’t sending good people to get killed ‘cause some pencil pusher thought they knew better. They can’t force our hunters to go anywhere but they don’t want to budge on the schedule.”

“They will get a surprise when only a fifth of them return with a sun on their necks.”

“Yeah, that’s a generous estimate Q.”

“The dates fit us. We are not particularly busy.”

Angela appeared on the screen, wobbling mindlessly.

“Hello, Angela,” said Quinlan.

She screamed and ran at the camera. Suddenly, the screen only showed the ceiling of Gus’s living room. After a few seconds of struggle, Gus reappeared with the infant under his arm.

“See you in two weeks,” he said then cut off the stream.

Upstairs, Lexi was speaking with Aanya who interrupted the call.

“Wait...Where is Angela? She ran away again. I’ll call you back,” said Aanya and she hung up.

Lexi returned to the living room with a little skip in her step.

“Can you get the deliveries yourself today? Aanya will call back when she manages to find her daughter.”

“I’ll wait until dark or Mr. Fraser might be tempted to detain me for tea. He refuses to accept that I am not partial to the beverage.”

They expected materials to build UV light fencing around the house. The light would be triggered by anything approaching and would only prevent Strigoi from passing through, not animals. In addition, with a simple switch, it could be deactivated. Though their guests would be safe enough with two Dhampir repelling possible Strigoi roaming the woods, they did not want to take chances.

“Might be because of your accent,” she said out loud then poured herself a cup of tea.

“Yes, and your accepting every biscuit or tea tin he offers has certainly nothing to do with this.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She took a sip and playfully avoided his gaze. Her eyelids were still slightly swollen and the tip of her nose whiter than usual.

“I had not realized how much you enjoyed weddings.”

“Oh no, I don’t. I just like seeing them happy. They deserve it so much.”

She put down her cup and blushed.

“Were you asking for a more personal reason?”

“No. I don’t need a ceremony, a ring or a piece of paper to prove that we belong together.”

Quinlan held a hand out to her and she slid her fingers within his grasp. Very few times in his life had he felt so lucky and so certain that he was exactly where he ought to be.

***

Every few days Quinlan and Lexi returned to New York, trained aspiring hunters for eight hours then went back to Greystone. Every time, they arrived at the city border and policemen would drive them to the Sun Hunter headquarters. Those same men would park by the building and wait for the Dhampir to finish their work.

“One day I’m going to eat one of them,” said Lexi when the driver complained of their lateness. They had taken one hour longer than usual to visit Laura and Emma. The child had just started school and had been particularly excited to share stories on the subject.

Though they could watch the news on the internet or on television, Nigel still insisted on including a newspaper with their blood deliveries. Quinlan cared little for human affairs but Lexi followed them with keen interest.

“Oh my god…,” said Lexi as she read the front page of the latest paper.

New York was tense and general unrest came in the form of demonstrations, mild vandalism and a slight rise in crimes. Since the trials of smaller Partnership officials had started, this had become the norm. But this article was different.

Three former lower-ranking collaborators had been lynched and ended in the hospital with horrific injuries. Their noses had been cut off, their ears maimed to appear pointed, their teeth broken into sharp nubs and their heads shaven. The article had not expanded more than that but considering the pattern of injury, Quinlan suspected that they extended further than what was immediately visible on a dressed person.

Lexi spent the next few hours on the phone because they both agreed that there would be more to this than what the media would let on. According to Gus, the people responsible were not actively searched by the NYPD. The Sun Hunters were also called upon several times a week because hysteria made New Yorkers imagine Strigoi bumping in the night. The most important trials were set to begin soon and Gus had already been interviewed by the prosecution.

Surely enough, the newspapers announced them three days later. Thirty-four people were being indicted with either or both conspiracy to commit crimes against humanity or crimes against humanity. Two of them would be tried in absentia as they were still on the run or possibly dead. Most of the accused were men and women who had once been employees of the Stoneheart group. The youngest by far was Zach Goodweather and the most hated was Sanjay Desai for his killing of newborns and his participation in the creation of the bleeding lines systems. The trials were set to be televised live all over the world.

When the time came, Lexi insisted on watching though Quinlan would have preferred taking a leisurely stroll through the forest. Those were human matters but he respected that until very recently, Lexi had been human as well.

The courtroom was large with wooden benches and marble floors. Five judges presided over the court and the accused sat in a box on one side while groups of lawyers sat at tables covered with piles of documentation. All of them wore earpieces and when the people spoke in another language than English, a voice also translated for the viewers. There were introductory speeches then a prosecutor called Zach to the stand.

A large television was rolled in the room and a series of pictures appeared. Zach stood on the terrace of the Belvedere Castle and spoke to the Master. The same prosecutor introduced the evidence to the judges.

“Those are the pictures Gus took when we followed Eichhorst,” said Quinlan.

“Is this you on this picture?” asked the Prosecutor.

He had thick black hair, and black eyes as well as olive skin. The camera zoomed on his face and his name appeared at the bottom of the screen: U.S. Prosecution, David Alvi.

“Yes,” said Zach.

His head was shaven and he appeared too thin, probably because of a recent growth spurt.

“Who is this other person?”

“The Master.”

“Can you explain in clear and concise terms who the Master is?”

“The Master…he was the chief, he was in control of everything. He controlled every single Strigoi, in their heads, at all times…And he did the same to me! He was in my head and made me do everything!”

The prosecutor’s eyes went wide and his colleagues instantly jumped out of their chairs to whisper to each other. The witnesses previously sitting calmly exploded in screams of outrage. There was chaos and the judges ordered an immediate recess. The accused where quickly removed and led to a back room.

“He is lying and will get away with it because so little is known of the Master,” said Quinlan.

Lexi paced between the couch and the television screen. She barely contained her rage.

“We cannot let that happen.”

“What do you propose we do?”

“We have to tell them everything we know.”

Quinlan switched off the television and considered the question carefully. So far few people knew with complete certainty of their existence though rumors abounded. By speaking publically during the Manhattan trials they would be completely exposed.

“We cannot draw the ire of the world on ourselves.”

“We have a duty to the truth. So far very few members of the Partnership were found innocent and those were low ranking ones. Just because of that New York is sliding back into mayhem. You saw how they reacted to what Zach said. If they walk free because of those lies there will be even more violence.”

“We’ve already helped them quite enough.”

“In your long life were there no moments when you thought that you had to intervene so you would not regret it a century later?”

Quinlan had seldom thought that far ahead since his mission if successful would have lead to his death.

“It might turn dangerous for us. Secrecy ensures safety.”

“Then we’ll run. But I don’t think we risk much as long as the Sun Hunters are close. Do you?”

“Mobs have a unique power that I would rather not be subjected to. I understand your concerns and I commiserate but the wisest course of action is to let humans deal with this.”

“When Angela and Emma are old enough to understand what is happening here, I would not be able to look them in the eye and tell them we did not speak up because of fear. I would be too ashamed of myself.”

Quinlan pictured Emma, grown, with a marked brow and lines around her eyes. Could he bear to see her disappointment? He could even hear her say the words and in his mind, her voice was similar to her mothers. “Such a powerful creature, afraid of being seen and heard”. Then he realized that the expression of disappointment he had imagined on Emma was the same Lexi was showing him right now. Pensively, he traced his bottom lip with his thumb.

“If they turn on us and we have to burn New York to escape, I shall remind you of it for five centuries.”

Lexi picked up the phone and pressed the speed dial, the number three for Gus.

***

When they arrived at the city limits that very same day, Gus was not yet there and the border agent would not open the gate.

“So much for being free to come and go,” said Lexi.

“I shall climb above this fence and show him the cost of refusing us entry,” said Quinlan as he stared down the man.

He made a point of rattling loudly and letting his third eyelid close visibly. The agent clutched his rifle closer to his chest and locked himself inside the shelter.

“Well, that did not help, Quinlan.”

Lexi kicked a rock and paced.

“No, but I do feel better about it.”

Gus arrived mere seconds later and got out of his SUV. When he spotted the two Dhampir on the other side of the tall fence and the man observing meekly through the windows, he pinched the base of his nose and took a deep breath.

“Get out of here, man!” he said and knocked on the door.

The agent opened instantly, only too happy to deal with a fellow human.

“Sir, it’s forbidden to exit the city at this time.”

He spotted the tattoo on Gus’s neck, looked at his face more attentively and sputtered an apology.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry about it. Just let them in, I need them.”

“But, they are not due for another three days and Costello said…”

“Tell Costello I gave you the order. If she has a problem, she can come to me, alright?”

The agent shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“Come on, just trying to do my job here. And those two are our best hunters after all.”

Still reluctant, the agent pressed a button next to the door. UV lights switched on around the gate and it slid open. Quinlan and Lexi ran past the light and waited by the SUV.

“Thanks, man. You’re cool.”

Gus took a step away when the agent called him back.

“Wait! My wife is a big fan and if I don’t take a picture she won’t believe me.”

The agent took his phone out of his pocket.

“Do you mind?”

“Nah, it’s fine.”

As the man lifted the phone above both of them and took a picture, Gus grinned stiffly. Quinlan snorted and exchanged a look with Lexi. Gus hurried back to the SUV and they all boarded it.

“Does that happen often?” asked Lexi.

Gus did not look at her, started the engine and drove away.

“Not really.”

“He is lying,” said Quinlan.

“I think he is trying to spare our feelings.”

“I do hope he does not think us so petty as to feel slighted by his personal success.”

In the distance, dancing lights of flames illuminated the night sky and the sirens of firetrucks came and went.

“This shit has been going on all day. There is a curfew at the moment. Only emergency services and hunters are allowed outside. If those fuckers are declared innocent…I don’t even know.”

Two blocks from the courthouse, Gus parked in front of a mostly empty building. Only one floor was illuminated and there were few heartbeats inside but their voices carried far. Those were the voices of people facing a major crisis.

“Are all the prosecutors there?” asked Lexi.

“Yup, all five of them. I already told them we were coming,” said Gus.

They rode the elevator and arrived in a long corridor in which the voices rang clear and angry.

“Of course the kid lied! He wants to save his skin,”

“That’s all and well but frankly, we have no idea.”

“Those people who gave us the pics, don’t they know whether that’s the case? Whether the Master could do that?”

“The only humans who met the Master in person and lived are Goodweather and Desai. All other testimony would be hearsay.”

“See, they have no idea what to do,” said Lexi.

They reached the large room, which was luxuriously furnished but at the moment filled with boxes and with large tables on which rested precarious piles of documents. David Alvi smoked by the cracked window and the others were sprawled on the armchairs and couches. They all seemed defeated but stood when Gus stepped in.

“Elizalde, where are the supposed crucial witnesses you promised?” asked the woman.

She spoke with a French accent and her tone suggested that she did not believe Gus would be of any help.

“Chill, Durand. They’re here but they’re just the kind of people that need an introduction. Any of you have guns?”

There was heavy silence.

“We’re attorneys, not cowboys,” said another woman.

She was also clearly not American.

“Good. You guys saw the video we used the recruit Sun Hunters in New York?”

“Yes,” said Alvi.

“Well, I was the guy with the rifle and the two others are the witnesses I told you about,” said Gus.

“If they are so important why didn’t you bring them sooner?” said Durand.

“Because they are not human.”

“Is this a fucking joke?” said a man with a Japanese accent.

“Do I look like I’m fucking joking?”

“I heard rumors,” said Alvi. “But those are just modern myths.”

“There are no myths, Esquire, only exaggerations,” said Quinlan from the corridor.

No matter the time, no matter how enlightened the civilization, those who benefited from the highest education were always the quickest to dismiss the unexplained as myths.

Quinlan and Lexi stepped inside the vast room, toward the only place free of boxes. They did not wear their hoods or their glasses but their swords were visible and obvious.

“Oh merde!” said Durand.

With shaky hands, she took a cigarette out of her pocket and lit it.

“To answer the question you were pondering before we rudely interrupted: no, the Master could not control humans in this manner,” said Lexi.

“Who are you?” asked Alvi.

“I am Quinlan and this is Lexi.” - Alvi opened his mouth to speak - “No, we are not Strigoi.”

Alvi closed his mouth and remained quiet. Quinlan dragged two chairs closer and the Dhampirs shed their coats and sat down. This would take a long time.

“Imma head out. Call me when you need a ride,” said Gus.

He winked at the prosecutors who seemed panicked that the hunter was leaving them alone with those creatures. Quinlan looked at the group of men and women. The U.S. prosecutor, David Alvi was still smocking by the window and the only one not terrified of meeting his gaze. On the armchair, the Egyptian prosecutor, Mohammed Issa had not moved a hair since they had walked in the room. Imogène Durand, the French Prosecutor was still shaking while holding onto a cigarette whose ash fell on the carpet without her noticing. Masashi Takaha sat opposite Durand and eyed the exit. Ana Uru, the prosecutor from New Zealand, held a chair in front of her as though ready to throw it at any approaching danger.

Lexi sniffed the air, looked above her shoulder then trotted across the room to a table covered with various snacks. She selected a cup of coffee as well as a bagel then came back. The five prosecutors had followed each of her gestures and their mouths fell open when she took a sip of the coffee. Uru let go of the chair and Issa dared move a little.

“Where shall we start?” asked Lexi.

“With the beginning.”

“The plane?”

“No. This all started centuries ago.”

“Oh boy. I hope they have more coffee.”

Eight hours later, a rough timeline of the events leading to the Fall was drawn in sharpie on one of the large walls. Another wall represented keys points between the Fall and the death of the Master. Lexi had made the mistake of lying down on a couch and had fallen asleep. Quinlan stood facing both walls, stroking his ivory pendant as he often did to focus. Issa was on the phone and Quinlan’s Arabic was too rusty to understand more than a few words here and there. When the man hung up, he instantly scribbled on a post-it then stuck it on the timeline. It was a set of coordinates with the words “Death of the 6th” written in capitals letters.

“You were right. There was an explosion in a completely deserted area on the banks of the Nile. They are already sending me documentation via email and the rest will soon arrive by postal services,” he said.

“The Master was logical in disposing of the other five Ancients but he demonstrated his paranoia in killing even the imprisoned one.”

On the floor, the other prosecutors combed through piles of documents and DVDs. Alvi got up with a grunt and pinned a sheet of paper to the wall under the date of the Master’s death. It was a certificate describing one of the pieces of video evidence.

“This recording cuts a little too early to be useful on its own, you know,” said Alvi.

“I am aware,” said Quinlan.

“You will have to actually speak at the trial.”

“We knew this would happen.”

Alvi rubbed his face then took out a packet of cigarettes, tucked one between his lips and lit it up.

“People are gonna freak.”

“Yes, we also considered that possibility.”

“Why the fuck would you do this then?”

He blew smoke and the stench burned Quinlan’s nostrils.

“For our peace of mind.”

Quinlan was weary and his patience thin. When the prosecutor approached him, Quinlan was suddenly excessively irritated by the smoke. With a gesture almost too quick for the human to see, he grabbed the cigarette, put it off on the wall then crumpled it and tossed it away. Alvi stared at his now empty hand then at Quinlan.

“Yeah if you want to testify you’re gonna have to stop doing that.”

“Put out cigarettes?”

“Lookat people like you’re about to tear their heads off.”

“Any other advice, Mister Alvi?”

“A laundry list of them but it can wait.”

Quinlan pocketed the pendant and turned to the couch on which Lexi was curled up, deeply asleep. The sun had risen hours ago and perhaps it was time for them to take their leave for a short rest. She was very peaceful and when he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, she smiled softly. Maybe he could let her sleep just a while longer.

“Hey what’s the time?” asked Takaha.

They all looked at their phones or wristwatches then as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do, dropped their work and rushed to the windows. Quinlan kissed Lexi’s head then followed the prosecutors to understand their curious behavior. Outside, children gathered in front of a school as it opened. Their laughter, screams, and chatter traveled to them despite the general cacophony of the morning commuters.

“Ha! This one is not even with a parent!” pointed out Durand.

A young boy of about ten years old ran down the street as the bell rang and the horde of children rushed inside the building. They looked with fascination until the last child disappeared inside. Alvi had not budged and still studied the timelines while holding an unlit cigarette.

“They do that every morning when schools open. In their countries, they are still closed for the most part. And children certainly do not go out by themselves,” he said to Quinlan.

“Even with canals and UV lamps, Paris is dangerous except for a few hours a day. People don’t even dare go down to their own basements,” said Durand.

“Before I got here, I thought Americans were exaggerating the state of the city,” said Uru.

“Yeah, but I read the mortality stats from their clearing teams and I don’t understand why they need to lie about them. They achieved a lot and it’s pointless to hide the death of those who made it happen,” said Durand.

“They did not lie. Our hunters simply benefitted from my and Lexi’s training,” said Quinlan.

“Why hasn’t the US government shared that expertise? It’s fucking irresponsible,” said Uru.

They were suddenly discussing the issue so loudly that Lexi’s head appeared above the back of the couch. She squinted at them then when her look did not stop their discussion she went to pour herself another coffee.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

“The night has been long, I do not blame you.”

The passion of their chatting had somehow increased and Quinlan crossed his arms above his chest.

“Your petty human squabbles are tiresome,” he said.

They quieted long enough for them to hear someone approaching in the corridor. The doors opened and Costello appeared.

“Today was not on the agreed dates and you terrorized one of my employees!”

She turned to Lexi for an explanation as she stood the closest to her. Lexi shrugged, took a sip and walked away.

Shocked, Costello followed her, obviously ready for additional remonstrances.

“What is going on here?” she asked.

“I am not an expert of the judicial process but I do not think I concerns you,” said Quinlan.

Costello looked around and read the timelines on the walls.

“You should have informed me before your arrival,” she said, somewhat mollified.

“The border agent informed you, didn’t he? We did not want to call and you take you away from dealing with the unrest of last night,” said Lexi.

“Before your arrival! That was the agreement!”

“What agreement?” asked Alvi.

Costello’s cheeks turned pink.

“Basically that the government will keep us fed and housed if we leave the city and go live in the middle of nowhere,” said Lexi.

“You should not...,” started Costello.

“Wait a minute…they helped clear New York didn’t they?” said Alvi.

“It’s not a matter I am at liberty to discuss,” said Costello.

“So that means yes,” said Takaha.

“They scare the shit out of me but did they do anything that might hint they are dangerous?” asked Durand.

“I cannot speak of it,” said Costello.

“They came here of their own volition! They didn’t have to testify! That makes them trustworthy to me,” said Issa.

“And you thanked them by kicking them out then throwing a fit because they did not respect your petty rules?” said Uru.

“Le Monde just started printing again and I’m sure they’d love to hear of that story,” said Durand.

Quinlan almost pitied Costello.

“No one is throwing a fit. I was reminding them of an agreement which concerns none of you. As for what is happening here I know it is not my place to intervene but I will have to inform the president and…”

“And he cannot do anything about it either,” said Alvi.

“That would be obstruction,” said Takaha.

“And our respective government would throw a fit,” said Durand.

“Goddammit, no one is going to obstruct anything. You two can stay within the city as long as the prosecutors need you but a policeman will keep an eye on you and in the future, you will inform me of your visits in advance.”

“Sure,” said Lexi and she plopped on the couch.

“Of course,” said Quinlan with a polite nod.

“And for your information,” she said to the prosecutors. “I’m the one who will deal with the mess if any of the thirty-four is acquitted so don’t assume I would do anything to get in your way.”

She stormed out and the five men and women instantly started arguing again about the rights of people who were neither citizens nor humans.

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