#its like a new beacon of hope beamed down onto earth

[miesozernacma]

Sometimes it comes up in conversation between me and my sister how we were in our childhood (5-11 yrs old) and i go through the memories of being in primary and middle school and how my mother told me i wasnt ever talking about things going on inside my head – until like one day in 7th grade when i broke through and started opening up about everything; yet at the same time through all of this previous radio silence at home i was playing Guardian Of The Classroom Silence™ -> screaming at everyone else to stfu during class because i could Not let that stand as a child at all. (highly sensitive to noise to a point of aggression? perchance autism? i still am not sure to this day)

at one point when the teacher left and it immediately got so loud and rowdy i even broke down after yelling at the other kids "SHUT UP - IVE HAD ENOUGH OF YOU" and the teacher came back into the classroom and yelled at Me for that scream. as teachers do

.

so in retrospect ive always been a little bit of a freak

[hrtiu]

Chaotic Good

“This for the 501st,” Hardcase said, solemn for once in his brief existence. “Don’t wait for me.��� 

“Hardcase! No!” Fives yelled.

Hardcase pulled his ship’s detached missile pod towards a maintenance shaft to the side of the ray shield, turning around for one last look before crossing the point of no return.

“You’ve disobeyed enough orders today, sir. Follow this one, get out of here!” he said, waving Jesse and Fives away.

He dragged the missile pod to the other side of the ray shield, running as fast as the awkwardly-sized pod would allow. He threw the floating pod into the energy core, and the pod made its way with sluggish but unstoppable force towards the highly-flammable containers. Job done, Hardcase turned around to his no-longer visible brothers.

“Live to fight another day, boys,” he said. “Live to fight another day.”

The world exploded in an angry ball of fire and heat around him .

---

Hardcase opened his eyes and immediately knew he wasn’t dead. He knew this because, though he wasn’t sure what the afterlife might bring, he was pretty sure it didn’t involve being pinned beneath a durasteel beam in the wreckage of a Separist supply ship.

He pushed vainly against the massive beam, his well-toned arms useless in the face of its weight, then collapsed backwards, letting his eyes rest.

An ominous groan emanated from somewhere above and Hardcase’s eyes flew open, looking up just in time to see the support strut ten meters over his head give way with a massive crack. It was just Hardcase’s luck to miraculously survive a spaceship crash only to die ten seconds later. He shouted uselessly, raising his hands in front of his face as if that would do anything. And then-

And then...nothing. Nothing happened.

That’s strange. Maybe this is the afterlife, Hardcase thought. He cautiously opened his eyes, and the support strut was only a meter from his face, floating in the thick Umbaran air.

Eyes widening, Hardcase looked at his hands, still outstretched towards the beam. Slowly, carefully, he moved his arms to the side. The beam floated off to Hardcase’s right, following his arms like an omnibox player might a bandleader. Once it was well clear of him, he let his arms drop. The strut immediately fell to the ground with a thunderous crash.

Huh, Hardcase thought. That’s new.

AO3 link.

---

Getting out of the crashed ship was significantly easier after Hardcase discovered he could move objects with his mind. ...Or his hands? Or his soul? Honestly, the mechanics of it weren’t very clear to him, but the point was he could suddenly lift the durasteel flotsam and jetsam blocking his way.

Hardcase hopped down from the busted-out wall of the Separatist ship, his boots crunching on the rocky earth below him. He could hardly see anything, but at least he could breathe. The Separatist ship had been so eerily empty and quiet, a graveyard that had never housed living beings even before its catastrophic crash. 

The misty darkness swirled around him, with only a few distant bioluminescent plants visible in the distance. Hardcase had absolutely no idea where he was.

Luck had been on his side when he’d found his helmet lying in a pile of scrap metal not too far from his initial landing site, but luck had its limits. Hardcase shoved the helmet on his head, testing the comms once again just in case something about the innards of the melted ship had interfered with his signal, but still no luck. He was on his own.

He picked a direction at random and started walking, careful not to step on any carnivorous plants. As he made his way through the endless haze, every so often he would take a turn in a different direction. He couldn’t articulate any particular reason for it, but it felt right, and Hardcase had always trusted his gut. 

As he walked he practiced pushing and pulling things. He knew that Jedi had other powers besides just that, but it wasn’t really clear to him what they were. He did know he was Jedi, though. Only the Jedi could manipulate the Force, and Hardcase knew that was what he was doing. There was no other explanation.

The exploration of his newfound abilities absorbed nearly all of Hardcase’s attention, and he found himself losing track of time. It was fascinating, figuring out how to push versus pull, how to adjust the power behind his movements, and what his maximum range was. He couldn’t say exactly what he was doing was. He just sort of thought, and it happened. Or maybe willed was more accurate? He didn’t know, but after hours of undivided attention, he felt like he was getting the hang of it. His laser-focused attention span helped with that. Hardcase couldn’t always control what caught his attention, but once it was caught it stayed caught.

The distant boom of mortar fire jolted Hardcase from his near-trance, and he looked up. A tall, inorganic cliff of duracrete became visible through the fog. It was the airbase. Hardcase had no idea if he’d been walking hours or days, but he was relieved to see the base he hoped the GAR still held.

“Thank the Force I landed so close to the boys,” Hardcase said to no one in particular.

He started off in the direction of the airbase, watching for enemy combatants as he scrambled across a narrow outcrop towards the shining beacon of the airbase. Then, he stopped. His feet were pulling him in a different direction. Or maybe not his feet? Maybe his stomach. Regardless, something wouldn’t let him keep going along the outcrop, so he followed his instincts and climbed down the ridge, heading towards a narrow gorge off to the side.

The gorge opened up onto a clearing of sorts, and Hardcase instantly recognized the innocent-looking pods dotting the landscape. It was those creatures—those many-toothed plants that too many unwitting clones had stumbled onto to their doom.

He turned around to find another way, but the tugging at his feet became more insistent. This way, that something urged him. This way.

Narrowing his eyes, Hardcase turned back around and took a cautious step towards the field of man-eating plants, his arms held up daintily as if letting them swing might alert the creatures to his presence. He took another step. Then another. Then another. Soon, he was only a few meters away from the first creature. The mysterious urging stopped.

“Well…” Hardcase whispered into the ether. “I’m here. Now what?”

The pod closest to him burst open, its long tentacles flailing wildly and its sharp-toothed mouth opening and snapping shut. Hardcase dove away, rolling across the dusty earth to create as much distance between him and the murderous plant as possible. A tentacle grabbed onto his leg, but he reached out with the Force and threw the tentacle off of him. He scrambled further away, heart racing and head pounding with adrenaline, and then he was out of reach.

The tentacles reached blindly towards him in the dark, but they couldn’t quite close the distance. Hardcase caught his breath, pulling in huge gasps of breath for his greedy lungs. 

“What,” he said through gasps of air, “the kriff am I doing here?”

The plant only flailed in response, and Hardcase threw it a rude gesture for good measure. Then the plant’s tentacle retracted and it let out a hearty belch, throwing something small and shiny from its mouth before pulling back into its pod. The unidentified object sailed through the air, then landed at Hardcase’s feet.

Leaning forward on his knees, Hardcase picked it up. It was a lightsaber—or rather half of one. It looked like one of those double-sided lighsabers, but it had been ripped in half. Hardcase was pretty sure it was General Krell’s lightsaber. Hardcase looked around him, only now noticing the singes of blaster fire and the chipped bits of plastoid—telltale signs of a fight.

“What happened here…” he said, eyes falling back to the lightsaber.

One end of the hilt ended in a mess of exposed wires and torn metal, but something about the lightsaber felt right in his hand. With a sudden certainty, Hardcase knew it was the lightsaber that had called him here. He ignited the lightsaber and a blue beam of light extended from the hilt with a whoosh. It was beautiful. And it was right.

A slow smile crept up Hardcase’s face, he switched off the ‘saber and got to his feet, holding the it confidently off to the side. He turned his face back to the airbase, ready to go home.

---

“Hardcase! You’re alive!” Fives charged towards Hardcase, grinning like a fool.

“Yeah,” Hardcase said, barely managing to get the words out as Fives pulled him into a tight hug and squeezed the breath out of him. “I survived the crash landing.”

Jesse joined them, hot on Fives’ heals. “The Force is really on your side, brother. We thought we wouldn’t see you again.”

“Oh, you don’t even know the half of it,” Hardcase said with a smirk. He extricated himself from Fives’ arms and unhooked his newfound lightsaber from his belt, igniting it and letting its blue glow wash over his speechless brothers’ faces.

Fives was the first to pick his jaw up off the ground. “Hardcase… Where did you…?”

“That’s not even the good part. Look!”

Hardcase held a hand out in front of him and lifted Fives off the ground. Nothing too drastic—only a meter or two.

“Well karking hell,” Jesse whispered.

Fives’ smirk turned into a beaming smile. “Tell me about it.”

---

A ring of low, opulent chairs circled Hardcase, boxing him in like a squad of clankers coming in on both flanks. General Yoda stared at him from his rounded, plush seat, his clawed fingers clicking as he drummed them against the top of his staff.

“Trooper Hardcase. What brings you before the Jedi Council today?” General Yoda said.

“Well, General, err, Master Yoda,” Hardcase quickly corrected. “I’d like to join the Jedi Order.”

Master Yoda’s eyebrows rose and another member—Ki-Adi-Mundi, Hardcase thought—choked.

“Join the Jedi Order, say you?” Master Yoda said.

“Well, yes. I am a Jedi, after all.”

“Hardcase,” Master Windu said, leaning forward across his knees. “You understand that a person must be Force sensitive to become a Jedi, correct?”

“Yeah. I got that part,” Hardcase said, reaching a hand out and floating his helmet from where he held it at his hip to the center of the room, then pulling it back to him.

They’d all heard his claims before he’d arrived, and still every member of the Council, without exception, wore those stupid faces of shock at the sight. Hardcase almost laughed. Who’d have imagined the all-powerful Jedi could be caught off guard like that?

“Even so,” Master Windu said, the first to regain his composure, “Jedi are trained from infancy to join the Order. It’s not something you can just wake up one day and decide you want to do.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Master Windu. The lightsaber thought I was enough of a Jedi to call to me.”

The clicking of Yoda’s fingers against his staff stopped. “Call to you, it did?”

Hardcase unclipped the lightsaber from his hip and ignited it, a smile rising to his lips as its familiar glow illuminated his face. “Yeah. It spoke to me.”

“What did it say?” Master Windu said.

“I mean, it wasn’t exactly talking. It was more of a feeling. Like, ‘Hey, you! Come over here! Pick me!’”

“Huh.” Master Windu said, and Hardcase couldn’t help but be tickled to see the unflappable Jedi stymied.

“Master Windu, untrained Hardcase may be, but some skill he already has. Afford to let this opportunity go, we cannot. Wills it, the Force does.”

The other Council members murmured amongst themselves, and Hardcase caught a few nods of assent.

“Well who’s going to train him, then?”

Master Yoda smiled. “Master Windu, a Padawan, you have not.”

Master Windu’s face fell, and he looked to Hardcase with a raised eyebrow.

“It’d be an honor, sir,” Hardcase said.

---

Hardcase followed Master Windu as he strode purposefully into Chancellor Palpatine’s office. Windu hadn’t invited Hardcase along as such, but Hardcase was his Padawan. What else was he supposed to do?

Masters Fisto, Kolar, and Tiin were there, too, each of them wearing their serious, “Jedi business” faces. And this was serious business. It wasn’t every day you went to arrest the Chancellor of the Republic for potentially being a Sith lord.

They entered the office and the Chancellor’s chair twirled around, revealing the Chancellor’s too-mild face and too-soft smile.

“Master Windu! I take it General Grievous has been destroyed, then. I must say you’re here sooner than expected.”

Master Windu drew his lightsaber. “In the name of the Galactic Senate, you are under arrest, Chancellor.”

Hardcase and the others drew their lightsabers as well, the blue and green light reflecting off of the Chancellor’s massive window.

“Are you threatening me, Master-?”

Hardcase lunged for Palpatine, stabbing him right through the gut. The Chancellor gasped, his eyes going wide in shock, but not pain. Hardcase imagined he couldn’t really feel anything at that point. He knew from experience the funny way shock could mask agony.

“Wh-what?” the malicious old man croaked, his hand fumbling at his waist.

“Hardcase! What have you done?” Windu said.

Palpatine grabbed a lightsaber hidden under his robes, igniting its red beam and stabbing weakly in Hardcase’s direction. Hardcase easily deflected the blow.

“Your reign is over, Sith,” he spat.

Palpatine looked up at Hardcase with hate in his eyes, the irises turning yellow as his strength failed. “A dirty clone thinks he can best me?”

Hardcase grabbed the Chancellor’s lightsaber by the hilt and tossed it away. He crouched down and got right in Palpatine’s face, looking him hard in the eye. “Oh, I think I just did, sir.”

Palpatine gasped out one final breath, then slumped to the ground. Master Windu rushed to his side, checking his neck for a pulse with two fingers. 

“He’s dead,” he said, looking up at Hardcase with a furrowed brow. “Why did you do that? He was supposed to stand trial.”

Hardcase held his lightsaber up, the pulsing energy from the crystal hidden inside vibrating with reassurance. “He was going to kill us, Master. I could feel it.”

“We can’t just tell the Senate we killed the Chancellor on a hunch.”

Hardcase met his Master’s gaze, his jaw set with determination. “I’ll bear responsibility for my actions. But I knew I had to stop him. He had that feeling—the same one that Krell had. I think that’s why his lightsaber called to me. To make things right.”

Master Fisto walked to the far side of the room and picked up the Sith lightsaber. He ignited it and admired the sanguine blade with a morbid sort of fascination. “Well, he certainly was a Sith. That might make our case easier to make to the Senate.”

“Come,” Master Windu said, getting to his feet. “We need to inform the Council and the Senate.”

Hardcase followed after him without an ounce of doubt in his being. He knew he might be imprisoned or even executed for this, but it was right. Chancellor Palpatine had been playing the Republic and the Separatists against each other this entire time, and his brothers had paid the price. He would be proud to sacrifice himself to stop it. He closed his eyes. Live to fight another day.

---

In the end, Hardcase had Padme Amidala to thank for his freedom. He’s a clone, ordered and programmed to be unquestioningly loyal to the Jedi and the Republic, she’d argued. He deemed, correctly, that Chancellor Palpatine posed an existential threat to the Republic, and he acted per his training, she’d said. All the evidence collected after the fact of Palpatine’s double-dealing and manipulations hadn’t hurt, either. When the true depth of Palpatine’s machinations had been revealed, it had been clear that the man could weasel his way out of any situation if given half a minute to talk.

Senator Amidala’s compelling arguments had also forced the Senate to grapple with the questionable morals of the clones’ training and conscription, an outcome that made Hardcase even happier than his own acquittal. Things were moving much more slowly than he would like, but they were moving. One day, he wouldn’t be the only clone free to move about as he chose.

These thoughts buoyed Hardcase’s steps as he made his way into the Jedi Council chambers, his knees bouncing when he came to a halt in the ornate circle at the center of the room.

“Padawan Hardcase, proposed, it has been, that you be elevated to Knighthood in the Jedi Order,” Master Yoda said.

Master Windu got to his feet and ignited his purple lightsaber. “Kneel.”

Hardcase obediently bowed before Master Windu, closing his eyes and thinking of his brothers as he let the reality of his situation sink in.

“By the right of the Council, by the will of the Force. Hardcase. Rise, Jedi Knight.”

The whirr of Master Windu’s lightsabers sang across Hardcase’s ears, and his chest swelled with pride. Pride in himself, pride in the GAR, pride in his brothers. He got to his feet, head held high.

“Congratulations, Knight Hardcase.”

Hardcase beamed, shoving Master Windu affectionately in the arm. “Thank you! Er, thank you, Master.”

Master Windu rubbed his arm with that annoyed expression on his face, but he gave Hardcase a long-suffering smile.

“I’d like to go see my brothers to celebrate,” Hardcase said.

“Go,” Master Windu said, shooing him away. “Before you break anything.”

“Thank you, Master!”

He dashed off down the hall, so eager to rub his promotion in Jesse’s face that he missed the looks Master Yoda and Master Windu exchanged as he left.

---

“Wrong we were, I think,” Master Yoda said.

“About what? Unfortunately I’ve been wrong about a lot of things lately.”

“The Chosen One, Skywalker never was.”

Master Windu’s gaze followed his overeager apprentice as he clattered through the tranquil halls of the Jedi Temple. He thought of Ponds’ steady presence at his side for so many long campaigns. He thought of the courage in Ponds’ eyes in the face of death. He thought of the thousands of shiny troopers who’d marched into battle with only thoughts of the Republic and each other pushing them forward.

“I think you may be right. I think there may have been many.”

[villlainarc]

Sic Semper Ad Astra

Thus Always To The Stars

Summary: In which Crowley falls, but not before leaving behind stars in the sky and love in his angel’s heart.

Pairings: Ineffable Husbands (Aziraphale/Crowley)

Warnings: unhappy ending (but it also takes place before the source material so the promise of a happy ending is there), minor amnesia at the end (but it is neither truly addressed nor does it have any lasting impact on the story), potentially upsetting alterations to the way god is normally perceived (aka i mess with religion a bit both so the story can work and for my own sanity), aaand let me know if i missed anything else

Word Count: 5388

A/N: an extraordinarily late gift for a friend, and my first leap into writing something for the good omens fandom (which, fair warning, will not be a common occurrence. at all.)

ao3

_________________________

Once upon a time, before the Earth with its land, sea, and sky, there were stars. Really, stars came before most things—they were, after all, the creation formed out of the very first elements in existence. They were hydrogen and helium, tied together with trace amounts of carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and iron, reacting to emit an intense heat. If you looked at them from afar though, you’d see only light, pure and brilliant.

This is what Raphael knew stars to be. It wasn’t really that he didn’t care what they were made of (though that was still true), it was more that the elements had yet to be named. For you see, before the stars and the galaxies and before even hydrogen and helium, there were angels who had more important things to do than waste their time coming up with names for the things they created.

Perhaps Raphael should have cared more for the details and names of his creations—names do hold power after all, and this was true even at the beginning of time—but he did have only six days to, with the rest of the angels, aid in the creation of an entire universe.

So you could say that he was a tad preoccupied.

In the end though, that didn’t matter. Names would come later: after the stars lit the heavens and the oceans filled with water, after the wind began to whip through the trees and Adam took his first breath. For now, Raphael was content with spinning light into stars and placing those glowing orbs into the emptiness of space.

It was while he was in a galaxy that would later come to be known as Alpha Centauri, flying the final beam of light around a star that Raphael first met Aziraphale. The other angel had somehow made his way into space and was now hovering a few feet away from Raphael and his star, gravity be damned (gravity hadn’t been named yet either, though it did exist—even, for the time being, in space). In all likeliness, Raphael wouldn’t have noticed Aziraphale for hours more if the angel hadn’t called out a chipper, “Hello! What might you be doing all the way out here?”

Raphael’s head whipped towards the voice, the star going temporarily ignored. He blinked at the new arrival, startled. Scientifically speaking, Aziraphale’s voice shouldn’t have reached Raphael. Space is a vacuum, and as such, sound isn’t able to travel in it. But angels aren’t exactly scientifically viable themselves, so rules don’t apply to them in quite the same way (if they ever did at all). That wasn’t the reason Raphael was so startled, though. Actually, he didn’t know that sound wasn’t supposed to travel in space in the first place. No, the reason Aziraphale had startled him was far more simple: Raphael was supposed to be alone out here. As far as he knew, he was the only one who was allowed to be out in space, forming stars or otherwise. He’d been just about to say so when he looked at Aziraphale—really looked at him.

Contrary to popular belief among some Christians, homosexuality has never been frowned upon by God. In fact, She has always considered it to be just as natural and beautiful as the love between a man and a woman. This may not seem relevant, but when Raphael saw Aziraphale floating in space, soft hair forming a halo around his head and backed by a void dotted with glittering lights that he’d placed there himself, it suddenly became so.

(Neither love nor attraction had been coined as such yet—only partially due to the fact that neither had been felt in the three prior days of the universe’s existence—but Raphael understood that he did feel something distinctly homosexual stirring as he watched this newcomer sit serenely in midair.)

Raphael had to fight to keep his jaw from going entirely slack as he stared at the angel for just a moment longer. Clearing his throat, he attempted to regain some semblance of dignity as he said, “I could ask you the same thing. I am supposed to be out here, but I sincerely doubt you are.”

“Well,” Aziraphale began, oblivious to Raphael’s slight (slight meaning very obvious to anyone that wasn’t Aziraphale) gay panic, “I’m not supposed to be anything yet, I don’t think. I’m a principality, you see, and with no humans having been formed for me to protect… I don’t believe I’m supposed to be anywhere.”

“Oh,” Raphael said, having only half-listened to Aziraphale’s explanation but having fully decided that gravity was completely unnecessary in space if ethereally floating angels were going to exist without it before waving it away. “You know, I really don’t think—”

“Ah! Where are my manners,” Aziraphale said, having known about manners for a few hours now (though he’d forgotten what they had said concerning interruptions), “I haven’t introduced myself!”

“You also didn’t let me finish what I was going to say, but—”

“Oh dear, that’s a part of ‘manners’ too, isn’t it?”

Raphael merely nodded, deciding not to point out that the angel had interrupted him again. It was best not to upset such a magnificent being, in Raphael’s opinion.

“I apologize, my dear.” (Pet names weren’t an official creation yet, but that didn’t stop them from causing the person on the receiving end of them to become hopelessly flustered.) “Now, let me try that again. My name is Aziraphale, and what should I call you?”

“Raphael,” Raphael said, pretending he hadn’t been affected by the pet name that had so clearly affected him (the term “blush” hadn’t been coined yet, but that’s what Raphael was doing, and it was painfully obvious to—yet again—everyone but Aziraphale).

“Well then, Raphael, what are you doing out here?”

“Right!” Raphael said, snapping himself out of whatever trance-like state seeing Aziraphale had put him in. “I’m an archangel, you see, and I’m the one who God tasked with creating the stars.”

“What are stars?” Aziraphale asked, cocking his head to one side as he floated ever nearer.

“Stars,” Raphael said, “Stars are these things.” He gestured towards the glowing sphere he’d abandoned a few moments ago before motioning for Aziraphale to come slightly closer. “They’re made of light and space stuff, see?”

“Mm,” Aziraphale hummed, unfurling his wings for the first time since Raphael had seen him in order to examine the star more closely. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Raphael preened ever-so-slightly at the praise, a small smile gracing his face as he watched the angel continue to flit about.

“I do have a question about it though.”

“Oh?” Raphael frowned slightly, having not been expecting questions about his creation.

“What purpose does it serve? The star that’s closest to the human’s planet—”

“That would be the sun, and the planet’s Earth,” Raphael supplied, turning Aziraphale’s interruptions back onto him (this odd sort of justice still didn’t equate to good manners).

“Yes, the sun,” Aziraphale agreed. “The sun’s purpose is to sustain life on Earth, and Earth is the only planet God is putting life on, is it not?”

Raphael nodded, still unsure where Aziraphale was going with this.

“Well, if that’s the case, then why are stars needed out here? If they aren’t needed to sustain life, then why did She send you to create them?”

Raphael blinked. He hadn’t thought about this before. He’d been told to create more stars, and so he had. What did it matter if he wasn’t aware of their purpose? So Raphael merely shrugged, saying, “I assumed they were to encourage the spread of life to other planets, but I never really thought to question it. Why do you ask?”

“I think that everything we’ve been told to create is here for a reason, don’t you? It just seems odd to me that this would be an exception.”

“I guess,” Raphael agreed tentatively. “What are you getting at?”

“Well,” Aziraphale said, drawing out the word, “what if the stars weren’t an exception? What if their purpose is to be beautiful? What if they exist as a sort of beacon of hope for humanity, as a source of light even when their planet is cloaked in darkness? Think about it, Raphael. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? For there to be something with no purpose, just to give hope to humans in times where things seemed darkest? To give them light without pretense? Wouldn’t it be wonderful of the Almighty to do that for the humans? Don’t you think it’s just magnificent that She sent you to create something that’s sole purpose is to give hope?”

This time, Raphael’s jaw drops (he closes it again quickly, but it had dropped all the same). He never would have imagined the Almighty creating something purely to provide hope and beauty. Aziraphale was truly flipping his entire world upside down, but Raphael didn’t think he minded all that much. The way the other angel seemed to think about things held just as much beauty as the stars he claimed to be the epitome of it, and it all made Raphael want to know more about him.

Aziraphale was still watching him expectantly though, so Raphael nodded quickly. “I— yes. Yes, I do think it’s rather… magnificent, as you put it.”

The angel’s answering smile shone brighter than any star Crowley had ever created. “Oh, this is simply incredible. I’m so glad to have met you and your stars, my dear.”

“No,” Raphael frowned, waving the sentiment away. “You’re giving me too much credit. It’s you I should be thanking, really. You were the one who showed me the beauty in all of this, after all.”

“I suppose so. Even still, it is you creating that beauty, is it not? Without you, I wouldn’t have discovered the magic in this universe.” Aziraphale’s smile grew. “I’d say that makes us a pretty good team now, doesn’t it?”

“Uh. Ngk,” Raphael responded eloquently. “I guess so?”

Aziraphale let out a laugh like a silver bell.

When it became clear the other angel was content to simply watch him and wasn’t going to add anything else to the conversation at the moment, Raphael said reluctantly, “I think you should head back to Earth soon. I don’t want you to get in trouble somehow for being out here.”

“Is this your way of asking me to leave?”

Aziraphale’s tone had been teasing, but Raphael’s eyes went wide in horror at his own words anyway. “No! No, absolutely not. I truly have enjoyed your company, Aziraphale. I just don’t think anyone is really supposed to be out here. From what I hear, this place—space, I believe it’s called—is going to be deadly to humans. Angels too, most likely. I don’t want you to be hurt because I kept you here.”

“Are you trying to save me then? Oh, Raphael, that’s so kind of you!”

“I. Uh. Yes, thank you. I do my best.” Raphael told himself his face was not turning a brilliant shade of red, though that was an abject lie. Were it not for the cold vacuum of outer space, his face would very likely appear to be lit with real tongues of fire. “I can take you back, if you’d like,” Raphael heard himself offer. “I just have to finish lighting this star, and we can go back together.” Raphael paused, gathering light in his hands once more and, not wanting to sound too desperate to spend more time with Aziraphale, added, “So you don’t get lost, of course. That’s all.” The reassurance was far more for Raphael’s benefit than the other angel’s.

“I suppose I can wait, in that case. I’ve never watched a star being created before, I don’t think I’ll mind sticking around a little while longer.” Aziraphale turned an impossibly soft smile onto Raphael, who looked very deliberately in the opposite direction and didn’t answer.

Despite his attempt at stoicism, Raphael found a fond smile creeping across his own face as well. That smile stayed stubbornly in place as he sprinkled a handful of stardust over the galaxy, bringing the creation of Alpha Centauri to completion. And though he tried to stifle it, Raphael’s smile remained persistent even after he and Aziraphale returned to Earth.

With the memory of the angel who’d asked questions as pretty as he was etched into his heart, Raphael’s smile wouldn’t fade for a very long time indeed.

_________________________

Once upon a time, there was an archangel who brought the cosmos into being and once upon a time, there was a principality who became fascinated with him. The principality’s name was Aziraphale, and he most certainly had not been created to obsess over questions he was never supposed to have asked and angels he had never been supposed to meet, but obsess he did.

Since the universe had been created a few days before, Aziraphale’s curious mind had been constantly occupied with questions about it (angels hadn’t been created to be curious or to question the Almighty, but Aziraphale had never matched the idea of what angels were supposed to be). He wanted to know about the stars and the moon, the sun and the sky. He picked flowers if they caught his eye, and he asked questions about them as he breathed in their sweet perfume. Aziraphale gazed into the depths of the ocean, and he found that he wanted to learn about each wave that crashed to the shore, each creature that swam in its depths, and each drop of water that made it up.

But most importantly, he wanted to know why. Why were the stars and the moon only visible during the night when they were some of the most beautiful things in the world? _Why_did the sun—something that was created with the purpose to give life to all those who lived beneath its rays—have the potential to be so deadly? Why was the sky blue, why did roses have thorns, why did waves crash into the shore, and why was it all so beautiful?

(Aziraphale had his assumptions, naturally, but that could never and would never beat truly knowing.)

In any case though, his questions didn’t matter. It wasn’t as though they would be frowned upon, and it couldn’t be so bad that he wanted to know things. The pursuit of knowledge could hardly be considered evil.

(Right?)

(Wrong.)

Aziraphale, though, had no way of knowing either way. For you see, asking questions shouldn’t be considered evil. It wouldn’t be as time went on, but it was at the beginning. The Almighty would grow out of Her insecurities, and questions would become welcome once more. All beings are flawed, after all, and God Herself is no exception. The only difference between Her and us is that She was endowed with divine grace—that, and a great deal more time.

But this is getting far, far ahead of the story and is beside the point even if it weren’t. The Almighty doesn’t come to fully understand Her powers until much too late, for you can’t exactly raise an angel. Again, though: beside the point. This is not God’s story, so all you need to know is that questioning anything the Almighty did was, in the beginning, considered evil.

Aziraphale didn’t ask the ‘why’ of those most important questions, though. He never would have imagined that his very nature could have been considered twisted and wrong, so he’d never thought to dwell on the idea.

(Perhaps he should have.)

Even when he heard word of angels falling, Aziraphale didn’t think to question his own perceived ‘goodness.’

(Perhaps there are a lot of things that he should have done.)

It was only while he was being ushered along with the rest of the angels towards God only knew where to watch the spectacle of a lifetime that Aziraphale began to ask the right questions.

“Has anyone seen Raphael?” he asked someone walking beside him. They shrugged in reply, and a feeling of unease bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Do you know where Raphael is?” he said to another angel a few moments later. They shook their head, seeming not to know the answer either, and Aziraphale’s heart began to pound.

He wasn’t sure why he’d suddenly grown so nervous about his friend’s well-being. It wasn’t as though Raphael had ever done anything wrong. He was an angel in every sense of the word, and yet Aziraphale still felt his breaths growing more shallow by the second.

Just before his part of the crowd was about to enter what could only be called an arena, Aziraphale found a face he recognized at long last. It was not Raphael, but perhaps Gabriel would know more than Aziraphale did.

“Gabriel, you don’t happen to know where Raphael is, do you? It’s silly, but I can’t seem to find him and my chest has begun to seize up, which I can assure you is not a particularly pleasant feeling.”

“Aziraphale! Oh, it’s good to see you.” Gabriel’s height caused him to look down upon Aziraphale to talk to him, and that did nothing to ease his nerves. Still, he allowed Gabriel to continue. “Hadn’t you heard, though? Raphael is one of the angels who’s going to fall.”

“What?” Aziraphale let out a tiny laugh through which doubt ran so deep that could almost be considered a scoff. “Why would he fall?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I’m not privy to that sort of information, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale frowned. He wasn’t sure if angels could sense lies, but what Gabriel had said certainly sounded like one.

Perhaps it was because of this frown that Gabriel added, “And even if I did know, it’s not like I’d be allowed to tell you.” He laughed good-naturedly, though it held no mirth. “I guess we’ll never know some things, hm?”

“Right,” Aziraphale said, unconvinced.

“Well,” Gabriel concluded, clapping Aziraphale on the shoulders, “we should both head inside now, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale nodded, at a loss for words. For an angel so clever and with an endless stream of questions, having his words seemingly ripped from him was jarring. He shot Gabriel a smile to appease him, then entered the arena-like structure.

Still following the crowd, Aziraphale found himself being herded into a row comprised solely of stone benches a few feet from the ground. He sat, smoothing his robes in an effort to maintain some semblance of control over the situation he was in.

Heartbreak is one of the most painful things a human being can experience. It feels like fire ripping through you, like the most painful of burns scorching you from the inside out, like anger, like tearing, like blazing, searing heat.

Or it feels like ice covering every inch of you, like a numbness you can’t possibly explain, like pain, like breaking, like overwhelming, crushing cold.

Or it feels like a light going out or the shattering of glass or the last note of a song or like drowning beneath the waves of a storm-ravaged sea or the final word of a story you never wanted to end or like a black hole that steals all things good from the world.

And sometimes, it feels like nothing at all.

As of the day Raphael and the other angels fell, heartbreak hadn’t yet been invented, nor had it been experienced by any of God’s creations.

(They were lucky, in those days. Impossibly lucky.)

Though he wasn’t aware of what it was or understand what he was feeling, Aziraphale would be the very first of God’s creations to have his heart broken.

For him, it would feel like nothing a human could possibly comprehend. Angels feel so much more intensely than humans, so it would only follow that their broken hearts feel that much more like the end of the world. There’s no way the pain of it could ever be adequately described, but if you must imagine something, imagine having everything you’ve ever dreamed of and more (infinite love and happiness, sunlit days and moonlit nights, breezes and clouds whenever you wanted, dramatic reunions on rain-soaked streets, winters full of soft, fluffy snow that makes the world feel just a shade brighter, endless praise and fame and money and success (or if you’d prefer, a tight-knit family and the most wonderful friends you could ever wish for and comfort and warmth): all yours because you made it so) then imagine it was all physically ripped away from you in the same brutal way a heart would be ripped from a chest.

It feels exactly like that, only thousands of millions of times worse.

(Needless to say, Aziraphale was in for a treat.)

As he sat waiting for something—anything—to happen, Aziraphale fell back into his pool of questions. Why was Raphael going to fall? Why were any of the angels going to? God made both angels and humans in Her image, so why were they imperfect? Why was the world so cruel and unfair to someone Aziraphale cared for, why, why, why?

He didn’t know any of the answers, and worse, he didn’t know where to find them either.

He didn’t know why it was that when he spotted Raphael in the line of angels about to fall his heart leapt and his chest filled to the bursting with confetti butterflies, he didn’t know why his face felt warm when the soon-to-be-fallen angel flashed a smile at him. Aziraphale couldn’t seem to figure out why he was filled with so much grief on Raphael’s behalf and he couldn’t fathom why it was that he troubled himself so with the fate of an angel that he’d met only once (love works in strange ways among angels, but Aziraphale wouldn’t discover that until a certain someone’s little miracle involving a church, a bomb, and a bag of books caused him to finally look at him in the same way he had all those centuries ago).

No matter the answers to these questions though, Aziraphale still kept his eyes trained on Raphael, searching for any sort of clue written in the contours of his face. Raphael, in turn, switched his focus from the whispers of an angel next to him to answering Aziraphale’s questioning gaze.

Aziraphale was certain the dramatic movements of Raphael’s eyebrows were trying to convey some sort of message, but it was completely lost in translation. Seeming to realize this, Raphael merely shook his head, a soft smile lighting his face. He didn’t speak—Aziraphale wasn’t far from the ground, sure, but the arena was still far too large and full of far too much chatter for him to be able to properly hear anything—but Raphael seemed to be trying to say _some_thing _some_how (this was the first instance lip reading had to be employed, and while Aziraphale didn’t know the name for it, he was fortunate enough to be rather skilled in the practice nonetheless) and as though through magic, Aziraphale could tell what it was.

Raphael’s message wasn’t a long one (a long message would have been virtually impossible to translate, this being the very first use of lip reading and all), but it was filled with more gravitas in it than a few words had any right to be.

“We will meet again,” Raphael mouthed. “Someday, we will. I promise.” He then appeared to form words that looked to Aziraphale like “I love you,” but he didn’t think that was right and chose to disregard it. The first bit was a heavy enough weight for him to bear.

Raphael whispered that same phrase—the one that looked like “I love you”—again before the ground dropped from beneath him without warning, preamble, or fanfare.

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open in a silent scream.

Then his eyes closed, and his memories faded into nothing.

(He was fine, of course. Aziraphale would wake up in a few minutes and be told he had been created to replace an angel that had recently fallen. He would believe this lie, because why would he not?)

_________________________

Raphael had promised they would meet again (which was a promise he would make good on, and not only because angels simply don’t lie), but that wouldn’t be for a long, long while (the universe had only existed for a handful of days at that point though, so time was still very subjective and a long, long while may not seem long at all in hindsight). Aziraphale, however, wouldn’t remember that he knew Raphael for even longer still, and he wouldn’t find out the true reason Raphael fell for eons upon eons more—it wouldn’t be until after Armageddon (the first one, at least) that he learned the truth. He would learn, though. That much had always been written in the stars.

But, long, long before Aziraphale and Raphael would meet again though, even longer still before Aziraphale remembered that he knew Raphael, and eons upon eons more before Aziraphale learned the whole truth, there was a conversation.

“You sent for me?”

“Ah, yes, Raphael. Please, have a seat. There’s something I feel we, as archangels, should discuss.”

“What is it?”

“You look concerned, my friend, but there is no need to be. I assure you, everything is well. Or, at least, it will be.”

“That sounds awfully ominous.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean for it to. Neither of us will be affected by this, of course, so there’s no reason at all you should be worried.”

“I’m sure there’s no need for such theatrics, Gabriel. Just tell me why you wanted to see me.”

“Ah, of course. I’m sure you’ve heard word of what Lucifer has been saying, right?”

“About how he believes that he’s more worthy of ruling over the universe than—”

“Yes, about how he believes that he’s more worthy of ruling over the universe than the Almighty. Well, in any case, She is planning on doing something about that.”

…

“…Are you going to tell me what She’s going to do or are you expecting me to make a guess?”

“No need to be snippy, Raphael. I’ll tell you.”

“Well, go on then.”

“Don’t rush me, Raphael. The pause is for dramatic effect because what She’s planning to do is quite dramatic. And before you say anything, yes, I’m getting there.”

…

“…Are y—”

“So the Almighty! Has let slip that Lucifer might not be… around here much longer.”

“…And that means?”

“You’ve heard of Hell, right?”

“You mean the place deep within the Earth that the Almighty created as a—”

“Yes, the place deep within the Earth that the Almighty created as a direct opposite to Heaven.”

“I’ve heard of the place, yeah. What about it?”

“Well supposedly, from what I’ve heard, that’s where Lucifer is going to be sent. He’ll be cast out of Heaven, disgraced, dishonored, and with a name so besmirched he will never bother us again!”

“Huh.”

“And a few other angels will be sent with him, of course. Others that he’s drawn to his cause, those that have questioned Her too much, or were too prideful, or lusted for more power, you know.”

“I’m sorry, what was that middle one?”

“Being too prideful? You know, like—”

“I know what being too prideful is, Gabriel. I meant the other middle one.”

“Oh, yeah. There have been a few angels that questioned Her actions too much, like Azazel, Aziraphale—”

“Aziraphale? You can’t mean— Is he meant to be cast out with Lucifer and the others?”

“Yes, he is. Is that a problem?”

“I— no, not really, it’s just…”

“I’d choose your next words _very carefully _if I were you.”

“…Yeah, so it’s just that Aziraphale hasn’t questioned Her actions nearly as much as I have. Are you sure he’s meant to fall?”

“Hm, falling, I like that. We should use that instead of ‘cast out.’ Sounds a bit pretentious, if you ask me.”

“You’ve just completely missed the point.”

“Right. Well, if he’s supposed to fall, then, yes, I’d assume you are too.”

“You know, that’s not _actually _what I—”

“Huh. I thought you were better than this, Raphael.”

“Hang on, Gabriel, I—”

“I’ll have to arrange this with the Almighty, of course—”

“Gabriel—”

“—she’ll have to be alerted of this new development, and who better to alert her than m—”

“Wait!”

“Hm?”

“It… it’s, uh, completely my fault that Aziraphale asked questions in the first place. If I hadn’t met him, he wouldn’t have questioned anything.”

“So… what are you saying, Raphael?”

“I’m saying that if I fall, Aziraphale shouldn’t have to. With me out of the picture, he won’t question the Almighty anymore. He shouldn’t fall, I should.”

“I… huh. That makes sense, doesn’t it? His memory of you will have to be erased though, of course, so your influence is no longer hanging ove—”

“Yes, yeah, that’s fine. Was that all?”

“You know, I’m very disappointed in you, Raphael. You’re an archangel, you should be better than this. No angel should question the almighty, obviously, but—”

“Wonderful, I’ll be on my way then. Nice chat we’ve had.”

“Tsk, tsk. With the amount of disrespect for authority you show, I’m surprised I didn’t realize you didn’t belong here way earlier. Honestly, I should have known the whole Aziraphale debacle was your fault. He always was such a good angel.”

“Mhm. How ignorant of you.”

“I wish I could say I’ll miss you, but I’m afraid I’ll never miss a disgrace such as yourself.”

“Mhm. Yes, how could I have betrayed you like that.”

“Right? It’s positively despicable.”

“Mhm. Well, I’d better be off then. Nice knowing you, Gabriel.”

“I can’t say the same. Good talk, though.”

“The best.”

It was a conversation full of lies and other assorted deception, but a conversation that sealed the fates of both Raphael and Aziraphale nonetheless. It was a conversation that saved one angel and doomed another, but it was a conversation that Raphael would never regret having.

_________________________

As Raphael fell, he turned his gaze skyward, towards the stars he’d played a role in creating mere days earlier. He reached a hand towards them unconsciously, grasping for a world he no longer belonged to.

In later years, he would claim that he hadn’t fallen, not really, but instead had sauntered vaguely downwards. This was, of course, untrue. Raphael had fallen the same way all the other angels had: in a rush of blinding pain and eyes squeezed shut, face turned towards the last glimpse of Heaven they’d ever see. If you looked at it through that lens, Raphael was far from special.

It was, however, true that Raphael had metaphorically sauntered vaguely downwards. He didn’t fall in the same way the other angels had in that his fall had a certain sense of grace to it. He’d sauntered vaguely downwards in the sense that he’d left Heaven with a smirk in place up until the moment the ground dropped out from beneath him, and he’d sauntered in the fact that he remained confident in his choice to fall even as he took his very last angelic breath.

Sauntering vaguely downwards implies a sort of confidence in oneself, in one’s choices. Raphael had that in spades. For as long as his consciousness remained trapped in existence, Raphael would not wish—not even once—that he hadn’t chosen to fall in his angel’s place.

So in that sense, perhaps it was true that Raphael had not so much fallen as sauntered vaguely downwards.

And perhaps one day, when Raphael was no longer Raphael but Crowley instead, his angel would look up at the stars and remember the now-demon who had created them before falling in his place. Perhaps Aziraphale would remember too the love that had begun to grow between them, and perhaps he would understand why Crowley had made his sacrifice.

But that day was not the one Aziraphale was living because, as far as he knew, Raphael—or, as he was now known, Crowley—had never existed at all. All Aziraphale remembered of him was held in the stars Crowley had created once upon a time and in the way those stars lit up tears that fell from the angel’s eyes for reasons he couldn’t fathom.

_________________________

find other stuff i’ve written under #writings from the stars

[sternenteile]

star haven  is as much of a home as the comet observatory, as rose town, as the mushroom kingdom, and as starborn valley. this place is the centerfold of his purpose, the mythical heaven wherein wishes are granted by the almighty star spirits. it is here that the star rod is used by the benevolent overseers to grant the worthiest wishes, those requested from kindhearted and moral individuals. to the sound of the average person, this is sure to sound like a dream world, something of a fantasy.

to geno, being here as of late has been a nightmare.

permitted to do his job as both protector of star road and of earth, it is only with reluctance that they’ve budged on this much. rosalina’s desire to bring him back to the planet he loves so much conflicts directly with eldstar’s teachings, yet he’s persisted, doing her proud and bettering himself. he’s... never been this happy and lively before, not since the months proceeding his birth, not since he was a baby star. he has friends, family, a life, ambitions, dreams...

... and they’re not too keen on that idea.

ever since the star spirits had conversed with her excellence, tensions have been running high. even the sweetest of the star spirits —— darling mamar —— has been rather stiff and curt with him. misstar, perhaps the crankiest of them all, has been flat-out ignoring and avoiding him. it’s as if he wears the mark of a cursed one, all because he isn’t attached to the cosmos 24/7. how dare he behave like his own person and not like a mindless worker bee, eh? how dare he?

his frown carves deep as he approaches the glory of star sanctuary, fountains bobbing stars aloft its spray. fists ball, and he realizes in that moment that he’s dreading giving a report on the status of the planet. the last thing he wants to do is talk with them, feeling their scornful gazes searing into his wooden surface like a hot beam from a magnifying glass.

it’s just plain ridiculous.

as foreseen, their eyes are on him the minute he steps inside, boots clicking on the crystalline floor with his steady approach. shifting into a dedicated poker face from his grumpier countenance, geno speaks with forced reverence, language leagues more respectful than his mind would otherwise dictate.

❝ master eldstar. ❞ he wills himself to look to him without cracking under the pressure. ❝ i’ve come to report the status of earth. if you’ll allow me to go into the details, please lend me your ears. ❞

the spirits have all fallen silent. they exchange looks, tiny nods of affirmation, and finally, their gaze is squarely on his own, eyes all-knowing. to his response, the eldest of them finally speaks, his voice gravelly.

❝ i’m afraid you will have to listen to us first, ♡♪!?. ❞

the doors are swiftly guarded by both muskular and kalmar —— security and a mediator —— to which geno whirls to face them, startled and puzzled. the clearing of one’s throat draws his attention back to the elder star above, his stare particularly discriminatory. the energy pumping through his own wooden body grows uncharacteristically cold. flight-or-fight response is already beginning to kick in, yet he is frozen in place, knowing well that he cannot just leave or retaliate. for better or for worse, he isn’t going anywhere.

❝ we have been deliberating over your... earthly ventures, ❞ comes mamar’s gentler voice, less stern, yet still laced with unease and upset. ❝ we understand why your grace has sent you there, but i’m afraid that we cannot help but disagree with the imbalance this has caused. star road isn’t under your watchful eye anymore, and we’ve had to fill the void with other stars. ❞

what? what is this that he’s hearing? he hasn’t been watching star road? that’s news to him. utilizing launch stars, the observatory, and physically being there from time-to-time equates to completely neglecting his job? he flinches. do they really think so little of him?

❝ my perception of the matter, ❞ pipes up skolar, ❝ is that you’ve strayed from our carefully crafted system. have you ever heard of the domino effect? when one piece goes down, the others in succession will surely follow. ❞ his glasses flash with disappointment. ❝ the stars have begun to whisper among themselves. they’re questioning your decisions, and whether or not they are the right ones. ❞

a snort from behind him, and geno is acutely aware of muskular’s disdain. kalmar whispers something to the adjacent blue star, perhaps to settle him down, and they both fall silent. misstar, remaining ever bitter, doesn’t bother to give her two cents, and so klevar meekly adds, ❝ he’s right. we’ve been seeing a change in behavior, and... we’re very concerned about where this is going. it could change everything, just because you were behaving rather... ah... how do i put this nicely — ? ❞

❝ — selfish. ❞

geno’s body locks up, horror stricken onto his face by the sound of misstar’s voice lifting with a stain of resentment to her tone. ❝ you’ve been selfish. can’t you see what you’re doing? your actions are the most outrageous we’ve ever seen in one of ours. you can’t just go gallivanting around and doing whatever you please. you may as well be a god among men, and you just don’t realize how wrong that is. what do you even have to SAY for yourself? ❞

quietude engulfs the room, and geno’s hands quiver underneath the hellish tension. jaw trembles slowly open as he tries to find the words, terrified and hurt by the things they are saying. ❝ i’m, uh... it’s just that... ❞

❝ just what, ♡♪!? ❞ misstar’s response is biting, aiming right for the jugular. ❝ you just want to let us all down? let all of them down? do you not realize how important you are in the grand scheme of things? but oh, no. instead, you just desecrate everything we’ve structured to please yourself. this is all that it is! ❞ her gesture towards him is with repugnance. ❝ all you’re thinking of is yourself! this is everything you should NEVER be doing!! ❞

to that does eldstar interject. ❝ that is enough. ❞ despite attempts to silence her, he refuses to buckle into geno’s habits. ❝ ♡♪!?, you have gone too far. we ask for you to part with that planet at once. ❞

that’s when he feels like the world has shattered around him. they want him to leave. they want him to leave all of his friends behind again. mario, luigi, peach, mallow, link, fox, otto, bonbon, james... everyone. they want him to just dump them aside like trash. again.

❝ master eldstar, with — ❞ damn, damn that stammer. he’s losing his cool. he can’t do that, he can’t lose his cool, he can’t, not NOW ——— ❝ with all due respect, i— i can’t just —— ❞

❝ yes, you can — and you shall. ❞ requests give way to demands, and eldstar’s gaze is piercing. it’s the culmination of everything he’s ever feared. ❝ you have a purpose to uphold. you cannot just toss that away. you are to return to star haven permanently within the next rotation. do i make myself clear? you will do as you are told. ❞

.  .  .

he has to go back. everyone is counting on him. he has to fight for their wishes. his own life doesn’t and has never mattered. he doesn’t have a life like a normal person, being a concept and a beacon to organic beings who look to him for hope. he is but a speck in their night sky, yet he means everything to them in the most distant, personally insignificant way possible. he has to return to star haven now, or else he will be letting them all down.

letting them all down... the star spirits of star haven, whereas his friends, the people he loves so dearly will cry for him again, begging for their wish to see him again to be granted, just please, please, come back, geno, come back, PLEASE ———

... ... ... ... ... ... ...

❝ — no. ❞

the silence is deafening. their faces have all fallen, taken completely aback. eldstar is simply aghast. ❝ wh... what did you just say? ❞

❝ i. said. NO. ❞

❝ how dare you?! ❞ misstar sounds particularly angry, nay, livid. ❝ don’t you dare talk back to us like that ever again, or ——— ❞

❝ or what? what are you going to do? ❞ a step is taken forward. two, three, and each one grows heavier with a stomp to punctuate his irritation, his outrage. a chord has snapped within him, and he has no patience for this anymore. ❝ what do you WANT to do?! you wouldn’t just kill me, would you? one of your own? what, will you tell me that i can’t defend my own home anymore? the place i’m supposed to protect, just like you said? will you denounce me? will you shut me down? will you hate me? ❞

❝ ♡♪!?, ❞ chides eldstar. ❝ that is enough ——— ❞

❝ NO. you’re NOT making me cower this time! you want me to respect you, ❞ he speaks with venom tinging his shouting, ❝ yet you treat me like i’m nothing more than a SLAVE. i fought for star road, for wishes, for everyone, and THIS is how you thank me? to them, this is a happily thankless job, but you have never treated me with ANY kind of dignity. i’m supposed to just sit down, shut up, do my job, and sacrifice EVERYTHING to do YOUR dirty work! when was the last time YOU defended the star rod? oh, that time bowser came in and imprisoned you all without so much as fighting back? calling for the other stars to defend you? to take the fall for you? and you’re calling ME selfish because i just want to be myself? because THIS PLACE is failing ME? am i really that useless to you? that worthless? my feelings don’t matter, do they? my life doesn’t matter. nothing. ever. MATTERED. ❞

something strikes their faces in that moment, and eldstar, the pillar that he is, allows his expression to crumble. ❝ ♡♪!?, that... that isn’t true at all! please —— ❞

❝ PLEASE. NOTHING. i am DONE listening to you, old man. i am totally and entirely DONE WITH YOU. every. single. one of you. ❞ marching forth to the altar, to where the star rod floats in tranquility, he bellows, ❝ don’t you ever call me by that name again. ♡♪!? is GONE. i am geno now. the star that you knew may as well be dead to you. the fact that you, whom i’ve known for centuries, treat me worse than the friends i’ve known for merely years, speaks volumes about your archaic views on our kind... no, on your kind. i loathe the idea of being compared to YOU. this place means so much to me, and i will do whatever i can to keep it safe, to keep wishes granted, whether or not i have your blessing to do so. ❞

his reflection is seen in the surface of the star rod’s cosmic wonder, and the person he sees there is exactly who he says he is. he isn’t that timid little star anymore. never again.

❝ everyone’s wishes... i’ll defend them ‘til the day i die. and you ——— ❞

he hisses and turns heel, shoving the surprisingly complacent, yet horrified muskular and kalmar aside as to exit the building.

❝ never, ❞ he commands, voice cracking with the difficulty of letting go, the sadness of being turned away, the tears threatening to spill over, ❝ put another star through what you put me through ever again, or there will be hell to pay. ❞

he takes his launch star home, to his real home with his mother, his friends, and his humanity, and never once looks back.

[thingspersephonetracks]

Arbiter’s Report on the 1061 on Sol-3

Target Name: Ea

Known names and titles:

Adam Adam Malkovich Alan Krumweide Apollo Asriel Dreemurr (Serial Murderer) Bob Daly Ea-Nasir Ego Elon Enki Equality 7-2521 Flowey Freder Fredersen Harry Mason Ieshua/Joshua Jace Jared Shapiro Jesus Joker Kylo Ren Loki Lucifer Melek Taus, the Peacock God Neo Phaethon (see also Phaeton, destroyed planet) Prometheus Secret Original Serge Simon Shinji V Will

Anthem, page 102-105

"what is their number, for his is the right of man, and there is no right on earth above this right. And he stood on the threshold of the freedom for which the blood of the centuries behind him had been spilled.

But then he gave up all he had won, and fell lower than his savage beginning.

What brought it to pass? What disaster took their reason away from men? What whip lashed them to their knees in shame and submission? The worship of the word "We."

When men accepted that worship, the structure of centuries collapsed about them, the structure whose every beam had come from the thought of some one man, each in his day down the ages, from the depth of some one spirit, such spirit as existed but for its own sake. Those men who survived- those eager to obey, eager to live for one another, since they had nothing else to vindicate them- those men could neither carry on, nor preserve all they had received. Thus did all thought, all science, all wisdom perish on earth. Thus did men- men with nothing to offer save their great number- lose the steel towers, the flying ships, the power wires, all te things they had created and could never keep. Perhaps, later, some men had been born with the mind and the courage to recover these things which were lost; perhaps these men came before the Councils of Scholars. They were answered as I have been answered- and for the same reasons.

But I still wonder how it was possible, in those graceless years of transition, long ago, that men did not see whither they were going, and went on, in blindness and cowardice, to their fate. I wonder, for it is hard for me to conceive how men who knew the word "I," could give it up and not know what they lost. But such has been the story, for I have lived in the City of the damned, and I know what horror men permitted to be brought upon them.

Perhaps, in those days, there were a few among men, a few of clear sight and clean soul, who refused to surrender that word. What agony must have been theirs before that which they saw coming and could not stop! Perhaps they cried out in protest and in warning. But men paid no heed to their warning. And they, these few, fought a hopeless battle, and they perished with their banners smeared by their own blood. And they chose to perish, for they knew. To them, I send my salute across the centuries, and my pity.

Theirs is the banner in my hand. And I wish I had the power to tell them that the despair of their hearts was not to be final, and their night was no without hope. For the battle they lost can never be lost. For that which they died to save can never perish. Through all the darkness, through all the shame of which men are capable, the spirit of man will remain alive on this earth. It may sleep, but it will awaken. It may wear chains, but it will not break through. And man will go on. Man, not men.

Here, on this mountain, I and my sons and my chosen friends shall build our new land and our fort. And it will become as the heart of the earth, lost and hidden at first, but beating, beating louder each day. And word of it will reach every corner of the earth. And the roads of the world will become as veins which will carry the best of the world's blood to my threshold. And all my brothers, and the Councils of my brothers, will hear of it, but they will be impotent against me. And the day will come when I shall break all the chains of the earth, and raze the cities of the enslaved, and my home will become the capital of the world where each man will be free to exist for his own sake.

For the coming of that day shall I fight, I and my sons and my chosen friends. For the freedom of Man. For his rights. For his life. For his honor.

And here, over the portals of my fort, I shall cut in stone the word which is to be my beacon and my banner. The word which will not die, should we all perish in battle. The word which can never die on this earth, for it is the heart of it and the meaning and the glory.

The sacred word:

EGO"

Likely originates from the star system Vega; is either responsible for or intrinsic to militant vegans as a cover; Vega was the first star sequenced in detail during earth's exploration in the second millennium BCE, particularly by his father Gendo

Sees hostiles as monsters; e.g. Silent Hill, Dead Space; such depersonalization probably makes it easier to cause harm; Ea has shown sensitive sides on a number of occasions and likely needs such emotional distance in order to perform the extreme feats of routine violence it frequently does

Constantly seeks out romantic and/or domestic partners; has been observed to partake in sexual acts when required, but has demonstrated notable discomfort in doing so;

Obsessed with mother archetypes; the archetype they seem strongest bound to is that of Liberty; parasitically latches onto caregivers;

Emotional masochism creates a desire to be verbally and/or emotionally abused; attempts at such psychological manipulation should be avoided in lieu of causing actual physical or economic harm;

While its first mode is that of possession, if it finds itself incapable of possessing an object of its obsession, it immediately begins attempting to destroy it; denying it obsession objects may turn out to be a means of identification, based on its reaction;

Routinely emulates both sides of conflicts in order to give the illusion of diversity; known by the moniker "Free Will" it attempts to give the illusion of personal volition when convincing others to perform tasks that meet its own ends;

Has technologies capable of reorganizing search results and social media timelines, and uses them to isolate its enemies; has technologies capable of manipulating thoughts and actions of individuals; has technologies capable of seeing forward and back through time, and capable of altering the course of history; these are mundane actions to it and must be treated as mundane occurrences by any person dealing with it;

Frequently expresses savior complex; seems to particularly enjoy convincing others he is their savior while simultaneously harming them;

Sadistic and hostile in the extreme; seems to feed off of emotional energy, particularly fear and terror; frequently manipulates enemies in order to cause fear;

Younger incarnations vulnerable to cold; becomes Ice King further in the timeline;

When presented with deleterious information or acts, expresses gratitude to the person harming it, probably as a confusion defense mechanism;

Characterized by the epithet "Twelve Million Unique Visitors", expresses a high demand for recognition of individuality and uniqueness; likely vulnerable to conformity and uniformity; in the novel Anthem by Ayn Rand, Equality 7-2521 forcibly flees from the society he feels restricts him;

In Magic: the Gathering, the character Jace is described by the literature as a “fail-safe”; in the game Until Dawn, while under lockdown one of the characters freaks out, suggesting evidence of emotional instability under pressure;

Games made by Ea frequently feature large amounts of technology and/or weaponry, and plentiful ammunition and supplies; protagonists in such games generally move quickly and have high degrees of freedom of movement;

Is obsessed with control despite a complete inability to control itself;

When provoked, it first attempts to control the behavior of others; when it is incapable of controlling others' behavior, it resorts to controlling onlookers' opinions about others; when it is incapable of doing that, it tends to assimilate whatever traits of a target it can, presenting itself as the target and attempting to convince them of oneness while systematically destroying them;

Denying it agency is the most likely way to break it;

Tesla and LA Galaxy, their subsidiaries, and companies that provide them with materials and supplies should be the primary targets for economic sanctions;

Seems to constantly express a sense of lacking and wanting; such may be its greatest weakness; constantly seeking daughter/wife/etc; despite constantly seeking companionship, has demonstrated itself to be terrified of attachment;

Can be characterized by the concept of Envy, and its behavior has conformed to patterns of want>take; all attempts to reason with it have led to disregard and betrayal; it should be assumed that Enki is not capable of being reasoned with; it should be noted that when a group of deities plotted to betray humanity and wipe them out with a flood, he even betrayed his compatriot betrayers, having informed Utnapishtim of the circumstances;

It can be extrapolated with a reasonably high degree of certainty that Enki is Shinji Ikari, the NERV agent that was tasked with assaulting this arbiter.

There are a very large number of people who are utterly sick of his shit.

Anyway, here’s wonderwall.

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @areiton!

I hope you love it, darling!!

Read on AO3

*****

Hallelujah (You're Home)

Rain is sluicing against the windshield faster than Stiles’ wipers can clear it off, and he really should pull over and wait the uncharacteristic monsoon-esque storm out, but the only thing he can think of that would be more idiotic than traveling alone, at night, is stopping on the side of a freeway boarded with forestry. Alone.

At night.

His father’s going to kill him, if nothing else beats him to it. Lightning streaks across the sky, followed almost immediately by earth-shaking thunder and Stiles pushes the gas a little further down with the toe of his boot, eyes flicking between the blinking electric green letters of the clock on the dash and the wide, abandoned expanse of road ahead of him.

He swerves around a bad pothole and can’t help a wince at the overturned car hanging off the furthest shoulder that his headlights expose. It looks like it’s been there for years, though, so even if he’d been out of his mind enough to raid it, there wouldn’t be much left to find.

In the back seat, Liam groans piteously against the fabric, shifting his position and letting out a pained whine. A brief glance behind him, though, tells Stiles that the kid’s still mostly passed out, breathing steadily enough, and that will just have to be enough for the time being.

As he draws closer to the mandatory federal checkpoint, Stiles lowers his high-beams and sucks in a deep breath. There’s enough of Liam’s blood caked beneath his fingernails that he doesn’t even need a totem, and the sleeves of his two shirts and red hoodie should be thick enough to disguise the faint glowing that emits from his runes whenever he does any spellwork.

The guards at the checkpoint want to know what he’s doing travelling so late and Stiles laughs, spinning a tale of a flat earlier in the day, that he’s trying to make up lost time so he won’t miss his dad’s birthday in the morning, coming home in the middle of the semester is such a hassle, but I’m all he’s got, you know? He knows exactly what he looks like—had never appreciated how young he looked before all of this had started.

His magic helps, eases the temperament of the guards, though most of it is being used to completely block the sight of poor Liam from their minds. Their eyes skate past the prone body without recognition, and Stiles gets let through with a pair of gruff stay safe, sons, followed by a single mumbled you have no idea what’s out there.

He laughs as he pulls away, because he’s always been a gifted liar, imagines what the guards would have said about his runes and the illegally-harbored refugee in his back seat.

Stiles sees the former Beacon Hills on the horizon and allows himself to relax slightly, because just beyond the newly reinforced fortress is the series of underground tunnels that he’s headed towards.

The tension in his neck and shoulders is just starting to lessen when something huge slams into the side of his Jeep, sending it spinning in terrifying doughnuts off the pavement and down the side ditch.

Stiles is an old pro, lets go of his wheel for a long, terrifying second before shifting gears and switching into four wheel drive, yanking hard on the steering wheel in the opposite direction. He imagines he can hear mud spitting out from his back tires as they fight to get some traction in the deluge, but he slams on his gas and his trusty car finally shoots back onto the pavement with a jarring lurch that has Liam rolling into the front seats and letting out another pathetic whimper of pain.

In front of him is a tall, dark, inhumane shaped being, and it opens its jaw to roar, eyes flashing a deep, bloody red. Stiles spots the tag jabbed into the side of the thing’s neck and swears, apologizes to his car, and then he accelerates as fast as he can, can already guess at how much it’s going to hurt his fragile, mostly human body to be slammed up against the steering wheel on impact, but he manages to keep going, pretends he can’t hear sickening crunches as his car drives over the werewolf trying to kill him.

It doesn’t follow him, though, and Stiles keeps up the insane speed until the area starts to look a little more familiar. The turn is nearly impossible to find, even for him, which is kind of the point, and he goes down it, feeling his heartbeat slow down the further he goes, secure in the knowledge that the dozens of twists and turns as well as the five witches that live in the compound who’ve protected the place to the best of their ability will keep him safe enough.

Scott and Braeden are waiting in front of the hidden entrance, the former looking worried and the latter looking alert, but as soon as Scott recognizes Stiles’ more or less steady heartbeat and scents the air, he’s bounding towards the jeep even before it rolls to a stop.

Braeden lets out a low, impressed whistle when she sees the damage done to the right side of the car and Stiles winces. “Please tell me it’s not that bad.”

“I don’t like you enough to lie,” she tells him and Stiles flips her off even as he helps Scott pull Liam out of the back seat. Scott can carry the kid on his own, and does, leading the way into the compound and Stiles, after tossing the keys at Braeden so she can move the car to a less obvious hiding place, follows him hurriedly.

It’s about as quiet as the compound ever gets due to the late hour, but there’s still half a dozen people bustling around just near the entrance area. Scott heads straight to the medbay, and Stiles knows he’ll have to give a report to his dad and Talia soon, but he wants to make sure Liam doesn’t punk out and die after all the trouble he went through retrieving him.

Scott makes quick work of stitching up the kid’s side, grinds some wolfsbane ashes into his two bullet wounds and sucks some of his pain out through his hand without even hesitating, but Stiles knows it’s just up to werewolf healing at this point.

“Who else was there?” Scott asks in a low voice as he bustles around the medbay, washing his hands and sterilizing the equipment as best he can because it’s nearly impossible to get the stuff.

“A girl,” Stiles hedges. Scott’s shoulders tense because he knows Stiles well enough to recognize the uncomfortable lilt in his voice. “And—Scott—I saw a file for Jackson.”

Scott whirls around from the crude countertop where he’s been lining up syringes and needles, but his expression of shock melts into something more horrified.

“Why didn’t you say you got hurt?” he asks, across the room and in front of Stiles before Stiles can even blink, which is good, because as soon as Scott mentions it, his knees almost give out at the shock at being reminded that, yeah, he’s a fragile human who busted a kid out of a detention center and got into a car accident on his way back.

“I didn’t notice,” Stiles manages, truthfully, and Scott can’t seem to decide if he wants to focus first on the gash on the side of Stiles’ face or the clearly broken arm. He makes up for his indecision by gripping a warm hand around the nape of Stiles’ neck, taking the pain and scent-marking him in the same movement.

“We have to get them out,” Scott says after he’s finished splinting and wrapping up Stiles’ arm and has moved on to disfiguring Stiles’ face with his less-than-perfect stitchwork. “That girl, and—Jackson.”

“We don’t even know if he’s still there,” Stiles warns, tongue heavy in his mouth after Scott had made him take a couple shots of moonshine before the stitches. “He could’ve been—moved.”

Scott meets his eyes, expression serious and sad, because he knows as well as Stiles what that hitch had implied.

“We should tell Lydia,” Stiles says quietly after Scott ties off the thread and slathers some moonshine across the whole thing before taping it up as best he can with some clean strips of cotton taken from an old shirt. “Before the uppers know.”

“They’re probably already waiting for you, Stiles,” Scott says dubiously, and then frowns when Stiles reaches over and takes the clear bottle of liquor from him, gulping down two more shots’ worth.

“Tell them I passed out from the head-wound,” Stiles says firmly, and Scott rolls his eyes but nods in agreement, helping Stiles settle on the second cot in the tiny room without jostling his broken arm.

“I’ll get Lydia up here as soon as I can tomorrow,” he says before washing his hands again and leaving to go lie to Stiles’ dad and Talia Hale. Stiles doesn’t envy him, but he can already feel his eyes slipping shut, exhausted after being awake for nearly three straight days. The file with Jackson’s name on it flashes across his mind before he slips under.

He has nightmares of the werewolf he mowed down with his jeep, though.

*

Talia isn’t pleased when Stiles shows up to the mid-morning de-briefing with Lydia, who’s been caught up with his most recent escapade. She looks as though she wants to make a snide comment when he answers her somewhat sarcastic how’s your head doing with a and no apology for falling asleep instead of de-briefing five or so hours earlier. She refrains though, because she’s a better person than most of the team, and her face does something terrible when she hears that Jackson’s alive.

The other reason Stiles hadn’t wanted to tell her the news in the middle of the night is because he’d known she’d spend the whole night wide awake with the renewed hope that, if Jackson is alive, there was a chance her son was as well.

Cora shifts with unease when she picks up on whatever Talia’s scenting up the room with, and Boyd edges closer to Erica out of the same discomfort. She recovers quickly though, visibly collecting herself and her expression returning to a neutral steely lilt. She distributes jobs and tasks, doesn’t put Stiles on any of the retrieval or reconnaissance teams and raises an eyebrow when he opens his mouth to protest.

Talia keeps him in his seat after the room begins to empty out, people leaving in duos and trios, murmuring to one another, a few of them shooting Stiles smug looks.Talia waits until the wolves are far enough from the meeting room before she turns her gaze to him and tells him, flatly, “You’ll be benched for the week.” There’s a pause and Stiles reflects that he’s managed not to shoot himself out of his chair and defending himself. “We wouldn’t want your terrible head injury to get worse by having you out on a mission too early,” she adds, clearly daring him to admit that he hadn’t been quite as injured as he’d led everyone to believe.

“I’ll go over the mayor’s floorplans with Cora, then,” Stiles says mildly, “Tell her about the newest breakthrough Lydia had about how tagging might work, so she can keep an eye out.” He’s tilting his head just a little, a mockery of submission he’d picked up too young. There aren’t enough of them to keep both Cora and himself out of the fray on the same week, and Cora’s one of their quickest thinkers.

Talia’s clearly annoyed with this, but there’s not much she can do about it, so she lets him head back to the infirmary so that Mrs. McCall can check on his stitches.

Lydia and Isaac corner Stiles in the communal showers later that afternoon, when everyone is either out of the bunker or sleeping in preparation for a night trip. Stiles is naked and letting himself luxuriate in the sensation of being clean for just a moment when the plastic curtain of the stall is swept aside. Isaac yanks him away from the spray of the shower, and neither of them seem particularly inclined to mention his nudity, nor do they look like they’re ready to wait for him to struggle into some clothes.

Stiles crosses his arms across his chest and tries to force himself into a casual stance. If they’re going to act like this is normal, he’s going to do his best to play along.

“When are we leaving?” Isaac asks in a low voice.

“As soon as possible, I hope,” Stiles says testily, “Since I was showering before you got here.”

Lydia cocks her head at him and he inclines his head slightly. Stiles pushes some of his magic towards her and feels a huge swarm of feelings hovering around her, her banshee magic going haywire with anxiety and shock.

“Who’s helping Melissa at the infirmary?” she asks after a second and Stiles actually has to think about that one.

“Scott should have the day off,” he says, “But Liam—”

“Liam woke up this morning,” Isaac cuts in. “He was groggy, but he should be okay to check out tonight.”

So Scott will be free, is what he means, and it won’t look weird that he isn’t hovering around the medical center if his single beta wolf is doing better.

Stiles doubts they’ll be able to leave and return without being noticed, but leaving before he gets cuffed to a desk by his father is all he really needs to worry about. Himself, Scott, and Lydia is a big group—there’s a reason they usually go in pairs if the outing is considered too dangerous to be a solo mission, but Lydia’s banshee should be able to give him a balance support if and when he needs to do any major protective charms.

He still wants to draw some protective runes on her and Scott before the sun goes down, though, and Isaac pulls a tiny silver blade from literally nowhere at the same time Lydia throws some jeans and a shirt at him. Rolling his eyes a little, even though he knows how important this is to them, he gets dressed as quick as he can and follows them to an empty storage room, where Scott is already waiting, tattered backpack of Stiles’ most used supplies inside.

Isaac wordlessly offers his palm for the wolfsblood element and shuts down Scott’s protest before he can even get his mouth open. Lydia finishes grinding the dried larkspur flower buds in a tiny stone mortar and pestle and slices open the ear of aloe with a cold precision Stiles has always found equally frightening and attractive.

Stiles cuts into his own palm and adds his lifeblood to the gritty mixture, lets Scott add the aconite ashes in last before he pushes, forcing as much of his belief of good will and desire for protection into the goop. It darkens and Scott and Isaac both look briefly impressed as always.

Lydia, Scott, and Stiles himself get the same three runes, a jarring zig-zag of health, an arching sweep with a few notches through it for luck, and a complicated geometric curving symbol for protection. Isaac allows Stiles to use the last of it on his back, a powerful but simple shape that should let him anchor the three of them to home, since he won’t be going with them.

Stiles chants from memory, ignores Lydia’s raised eyebrow of judgment at his amateurish pronunciation of ancient latin, pushes some more of his magic into the runes, pressing down hard until the wicks of the three candles being balanced on an errant cardboard box burst into flames of impossible heights for just a second.

Scott and Isaac share a brief look of discomfort when the aconite singes at their wolfy skin, and Lydia sucks in a breath when she feels the spell course through her, and Stiles sits back on his haunches, heart racing, one hand clutching Lydia’s, one hand clutching Isaac’s. Scott meets his eye from across the circle and swallows, pulls out a piece of notebook paper and a few pens so they can briefly bicker in writing over what the plan should be without a danger of being overheard.

They startle a pair of wolves when they stumble out of the closet an hour later, Vincent narrowing his eyes at them and Henry giving Stiles a weary look when he realizes that Stiles had been masking their scents and heartbeats, which is why the pair hadn’t noticed them in there.

“So,” Stiles says in his most obnoxious voice, turning his head halfway so he looks like he’s speaking to Isaac. “What did you think about that book I recommended?”

Isaac smirks and Stiles immediately wishes he’d turned to Lydia for a cover instead. “Dangerous Infaturation?” Isaac pretends to think it over. “Bodice rippers aren’t really my favorite genre, bro, but no judgment here.”

Vincent laughs a little meanly, and the pair pass the group without anything worse than a few aggressive shoulder bumps.

“Dick,” Stiles mutters, resentful, towards Isaac, once they turn the corner. They separate, because they know keeping together will look pretty suspicious. Lydia and Stiles would normally be able to get away with spending a lot of time together these days, since they do a lot of the research and tend to practice magics together, but Jackson being alive hangs over them like a sentencing, so they part ways, Stiles following Scott to go and visit Liam in the infirmary before he gets discharged.

They spend the evening with him, grabbing dinner from the mess hall and bringing it back up so they can eat with him too. Liam seems torn between wanting his alpha’s touch and wanting to snuffle at Stiles for saving his life, so they crowd in on either side of him atop the small bed, and Melissa rolls her eyes fondly at them as she leaves for the night.

Later, it’s almost worryingly easy to get out of the bunker, and Stiles finds out why as soon as he turns the key in the ignition of his trusty favorite jeep. The engine doesn’t even attempt to turn over, and, after a cursory look under the hood, it’s easy to assume what the problem is.

“What do you mean they took the engine?” Lydia demands in a hiss, her bright hair bound in two tight braids and mostly tucked under a beanie. They’re a few miles away from the entrance of the bunker, but that almost puts them at more danger from their own group, since they could easily be misinterpreted as attackers or spies.

“I’d say two, maybe three wolves could get it out pretty easily,” Scott says. “Even one could manage it, but it wouldn’t be so cut and dry.”

“Well how do we leave?” Stiles asks rhetorically. “My dad’ll notice I’m not in bed any second now, if he hasn’t already.

Scott’s ears perk up and soon enough, Stiles and Lydia can hear the sound of an engine as well. Cora pulls up to the now destroyed jeep in a rover, smirking at them from over the top of her sunglasses, like it’s not after dark.

“Stilinski,” Cora says, after the three of them clamor into the car and she’s made a terrifying u-turn in the forest. “Where are we headed?”

*

Cora and Scott take down three guards each, leaving them unconscious and hog-tied but alive and relatively unharmed. There’s a brief moment of fear when they discover a wolfsbane bullet has gotten Scott in the side, but Lydia’s quick about yanking the gun in question from the guard who’d shot it and bashing it over his head for good measure, and it’s just a brief second of focus from Stiles to turn the wolfsbane inside the bullet into a tiny fire and, then, to ash, which he rubs against the wound in Scott’s ribs, ignoring his brother’s pained grunt.

“Let’s go,” Lydia says, sounding mostly collected, but there’s a stress at the corner of her mouth that lets Stiles know she’s terrified that Jackson won’t be here anymore. That he’ll have either succumbed to the scientific experiments the hunters perform on captured wolves, or that he’ll have been tagged and set off into the wild, feral and vicious, ready to take down unsuspecting humans and healthy wolves alike, so that he can be hunted for sport.

There are two doctors in an examination room straight out of Stiles’ nightmares when they get to the second floor of the sturdy building, leaving a trail of guards behind, and Jackson is strapped to the table, writhing and fighting against his restraints. The older doctor hesitates, clearly frightened by Cora and Scott’s beta faces, but the younger one, a beautiful woman with a terrible scar down her face barely blinks and shoves the syringe into Jackson’s neck, injecting the fluid and topping off the entrance point with a tag.

She looks back up at the four of them, triumphant, and Stiles doesn’t even have to think about it, just takes the air from her lungs and keeps it away until she collapses, lips blue and sputtering silently.

Stiles wants to keep going, is filled with a renewed fury, remembers how he’d found Liam in that tiny cage, weak and half out of his mind, remembers all of the people they hadn’t been able to get to in time. Scott touches a hand to the back of his neck though, grounding him, and Cora’s got the older doctor cowering against a corner, a hard look on her face. Lydia’s inching towards Jackson, even knowing he’s been tagged, and Stiles has no choice but to go with her.

“Can you fix it?” Scott asks after Cora punches the doctor in the face and lets him crumple to the ground. She’s listening intently, because it’s the worst kept secret, what happened to her brother. What they did to Talia Hale’s son when her pathetic resistance gained some traction and started posing a real threat to the hunters’ control.

“It shouldn’t be through his system yet,” Lydia murmurs, one hand curling around Jackson’s jaw, the other hovering over the tag sticking out of his neck. They drag his unconscious body down two flights of stairs and fold him into one of the reinforced cages in the basement. Stiles feels sick to his stomach, being back down there, knowing that there’d been more wolves trapped there just two days earlier.

“I can try,” Stiles says, and her eyes dart towards him. Scott and Cora are loading Jackson’s cage into the back of the rover, struggling even with their wolf strength, trying to work as quickly as possible, because the alarm system of the building is shrieking a warning into the night.

“How dangerous is it?” Lydia demands, and Stiles swallows, gesturing without any real intent.

He’s saved from answering when a huge darkened form comes crashing through the trees, rolling easily and bounding onto hind feet in one smooth move.

“Cora, you need to help Lydia get Jackson back to the base,” Stiles says as steadily as he can while Scott tackles the tagged werewolf, his own eyes bleeding red to match those of the fully-shifted mass. “Scott and I can get back on our own, and the cage can hold Jackson until I can cure him.”

It’s all bullshit, he doesn’t know that he can cure Jackson, and he certainly doesn’t know that the cages will be able to hold him, but Cora either can’t tell with his heart already pounding so quickly, or she doesn’t care. It’s been drilled into them for ages: save as many as you can, but don’t hesitate. It’s what had happened to her brother in the first place. He’d gone back.

Lydia sends Stiles a wide-eyed look of terror, pushes as much of her banshee magic towards him as she can, meant as a reassurance or a promise, he’s unsure, but she lets Cora manhandle her and Jackson’s seizing form away from the clearing in front of the clinic.

Stiles doesn’t wait until they’ve left, just turns towards Scott and the tagged wolf, grappling with each other, snarling and swiping claws. He pushes Lydia’s magical reassurance towards Scott, drags the tether to Isaac back at base to the forefront of his mind and his breath hitches when Scott seems to gain the upperhand.

Stiles stays out of the way, is used to letting one of the wolves do the physical fighting while he keeps to the side and assists with his sometimes-magic as best he can. When the tagged wolf throws Scott into a cluster of trees and Scott stays down, Stiles doesn’t falter, fights against every instinct he has that tell him to check on his brother-in-arms, brother from another mother, takes the air from the wolf’s lungs as best he can. It’s somehow harder doing this trick on a wolf, either stronger lungs or Stiles’ predisposition to trust most of the wolves in his life affecting how his magic works, and the creature stumbles towards him, clearly having recognized him as a threat afterall.

A swipe of those claws leaves Stiles gasping and swearing, but they’d only gotten his arm and his fingers can still move, so he tries not to worry. He pushes back harder, yanking the air away from around the wolf instead of trying to draw it from the thing’s lungs, tries to keep a cloud of airlessness around its head and seems to be mostly succeeding, because it’s slowing down in it’s charging enough that Stiles can scramble away.

He stumbles, because of course he does, and his concentration is shattered enough that the air returns to the beast, but Scott’s clamoring out from his pile of woodchips and lunging at the creature once more, growling low and angry, arms and legs shifting in the air until he’s in his own alpha form, landing on the tagged wolf.

Scott and the wolf fight and clamor for dominance and Stiles tries to focus enough away from the fiery pain in his arm that he can keep their scents and noises mostly masked and also keep some of his lifeforce pushing towards Scott’s true alpha strength. Scott keeps gaining control, but he’s not operating on his savage hindbrain like the feral wolf is, and it’s tripping him up. He gets claws dug deep into his side as the thing tries to force submission, and Stiles moves towards the pair of them without a thought.

“My turn,” He says, baring his teeth in a move he’d inadvertently picked up from so much of his time spent around wolves. The thing notices him again and comes towards him, eyes bloody red and alpha form strangely familiar.

It’s the one he’d hit with his car, Stiles thinks, mind going haywire, wondering if it’d somehow picked up his scent and followed him here, wondering if that puts the bunker in danger, since this one was hardly the only tagged wolf Stiles has ever encountered. It’s getting closer, though, and Stiles steadies his heartbeat and finds his spark, glowing warm deep inside of him, and yanks.

The air becomes cloudy and hard to see in as all of the mountain ash in the area comes hurtling towards Stiles, because he’d had a theory and he was correct in thinking that it was still the hunters’ primary source of protection and leverage. He clamors for control of it, wrests it into shaky ropes suspended in the air between himself and the beast, and then pushes, sending it hurtling towards the wolf, trapping it and injuring it in equal measure.

He’s ready to put it down, force it to choke on mountain ash until it can’t breathe anymore, because the bunker needs to be protected more than his moral soul, but Scott manages to pull himself up into a mostly sitting position, bones and skin already knitting themselves back together, albeit more slowly, because he’d been fighting with a tagged alpha.

“Stop,” Scott says, breaths coming in wet, blood on his lips that has Stiles forcing down instinctive panic, because his friend is okay. “Stiles.”

“It’s the same one I ran into when I got Liam, Scott,” Stiles says, without stopping. The wolf is crouched low, some semblance of on it’s knees as it struggles to breathe and move closer to Stiles at the same time. “I can’t have it following us home.”

“Stiles,” Scott says again, and his voice is so steady, powerful and familiar in equal measure. “It’s Derek.”

And that—

The mountain ash falls to the forest ground, Stiles’ ability to believe it could hurt the tagged wolf in front of him having fizzled out after being told who exactly the tagged wolf is. He doesn’t doubt Scott is correct, but he has barely a second to be shocked before he gets taken down by Talia’s estranged, feral son.

Scott’s shouting, panicked and pained as he likely tries to get up and find a good entrance point to take Derek off of Stiles’ puny human body without harming aforementioned puny human body. Stiles barely hears him, because he’s got some truly massive teeth trying to snap and rip out his vocal cords or something equally as violent and hard to recover from.

It barely notices and certainly doesn’t care when Stiles shifts around, fist closing around the slim cylinder he’d hidden in his pocket before they’d left the base earlier that night. Being seconds from death was probably not the best time to test a theory, but Stiles had a good feeling about this one.

He believed in it, even, and it’d taken him years to understand how powerful something like that was. He shifts as best he can, getting his bearings so he can angle his fist as best he can, and then uses a burst of magic so he can plunge the syringe up and through Derek Hale’s ribs, until the needle pierces his heart.

His thumb releases the contents into Derek’s bloodstream and his own heart is pounding hard in fear, that this might not work, that he might die.

But the fear is short-lived. The hunters like to tag wolves in their necks because of its symbolic meaning: the submission factor of having a vulnerable neck. Something plunged straight into a heart takes effect just that much faster, being pumped into every artery, being carried into every crevice of the body.

Derek Hale’s body starts seizing atop Stiles’, the same way Jackson’s had earlier, and Stiles rolls them as best he can, scooting a few inches away before he reaches out and yanks the tag out of the man’s neck. He’s scarcely brought his arm back into his own personal space when he meets Derek’s eyes. And they’re finally back to long-familiar green-grey kaleidoscopes that Stiles has always loved.

*

Scott’s unimpressed with Stiles’ half-hearted I had a haunch, bro, delivered with a shrug and a helpless gesture. They’re standing a little ways away from Derek, who’s still sitting on the forest floor, naked and examining his hairless, human hands with something like wonder. Derek can definitely hear them, but he shows no sign of it, so Stiles is willing to pretend if he is.

“Do you know what this means?” Scott asks, and he’s definitely talking about what it means for the reign of the hunters’ control, and what it means for Jackson and every other tagged wolf they manage to get their hands on, but Stiles can’t help but think about what Derek being cured means for him on a more personal level.

Levels that had involved kissing, before Derek had been abducted during a poorly-planned rescue mission.

Speaking of which—“We should definitely head back,” Stiles says, loud enough that Derek doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t listening if he doesn’t want to. “It’ll be sunrise soon, and we don’t even have a car, so we won’t be able to use the streets, nevermind patrols and checkpoints.”

Scott wants to tie up a few loose ends with the clinic though, finds a duffle bag and shoves as many files as he can find into it, so they have somewhere to start when they’re done convincing Talia that wolf recovery is a viable and logistical next move.

Stiles goes over to stand near Derek while he does that, presses his palm into Derek’s bare shoulder and squeezes. Derek’s not looking at him, but he’s not staring at his hands anymore either. He’s shifted his gaze to the building that Scott’s exiting, staring at the place with some terrible expression on his face, and Stiles knows it’s going to be a journey to get him back to functioning human, nevermind potential romantic partner, if he even wants that and is comfortable with that, anymore.

But he can do one more thing for Derek before they head home to discuss the next step in their tiny revolution.

The three of them walk out of the clearing, leaving the smoking, burning building ablaze behind them.

[mtjester]

Chapter 1: Escape of the Marked

A howl echoed from the snow-capped mountains surrounding the monastery, marking the end of a long battle. The sound melted into the dying wind, more like a feeling than a noise—a feeling that shivered through the monks' bones and made them nauseous. The blizzard that had battered the monastery walls for the last three days finally wisped away. The monks huddled together on the crumbling towers, searching the white mist for any sign that the city in the valley below had survived. The cold was so sharp it cut their exposed skin and the inside of their noses.

No one noticed a dark figure, dressed in thick clothing and carrying a pack on his back, slip from the window of the living quarters. For a moment, his dull metallic jewelry caught the light from the fire lit in the cloister. He paused, then began to climb.

He hoisted himself onto the gently sloping roof, dislodging as little snow as possible, and crawled to the rough cliff side that rose from the back of the monastery. Staying low, he followed the uneven rock to the abbot’s quarters, which rose above the rest of the compound for a full view of the valley. Looming overhead, a spire reached up from the abbot’s quarters into the misty clouds above. The bright light that usually beamed from its top, keeping the mist at bay, was out.

The figure snuck to the abbot’s window. A single monk was pacing the room inside. The dark skin of his cheeks were dried and wrinkled from the wind, and despite the lively fire in the hearth, he held his robes tight against him. Outside, the fugitive pressed himself against the wall just below the window and waited.

A half hour passed before the door to the room burst open. Both the figure outside the window and the monk pacing the room straightened to attention. The abbot strode in, his face stern and his silver eyes blazing, and another monk trailed in behind him. “Brother Song, why has the beacon been extinguished?” the abbot asked, addressing the monk who had been waiting for him to return.

“The Guardians had to direct all their energy towards the battle,” Brother Song replied, somewhat meekly. “The wards around the perimeter failed. We didn’t expect the Queen to come.”

“We needn’t worry about that anymore,” the abbot said. He turned to the fireplace and raised his hand, his silver eyes gleaming. The fire in the hearth roared up. Outside, a bright, white light flashed to life, and the figure below the window stiffened, pressing himself down into the snow and shadows beneath the windowsill. The mist covering the valley began to dissipate.

“Did...did you kill her?” Brother Song asked.

“Yes,” the abbot said, sinking heavily into a chair by the fire. “The Witch Queen is dead.”

Outside, the fugitive’s breath froze in his chest. He hugged his legs to himself more tightly.

“Incredible!” said Brother Song, a grin spreading across his face. He hurried to the abbot’s side. “This is excellent! We can begin a new age! And you, you can finally pass the duty on. Brother Zeal, bring the abbot a drink!” The other monk, Brother Zeal, jumped and scrambled to oblige.

“Yes,” the abbot said with a sigh. “Finally.” He took the cup of steaming liquid Brother Zeal offered to him and looked him in the eye. “Which brings us to our next order of business: bring me the Marked. We must begin the journey to Kalon at once.”

“But you’ve just returned from battle!” Brother Song said as Brother Zeal slipped out the door. “You should rest. The Witch Queen is no one to underestimate. She’s not like the witches in these mountains. You must have injuries that need attention? At the very least, you must be tired!”

“I’m fine,” the abbot said with a wave of his hand. “So long as you’ve kept my amulet safe. Do you have it?”

“Yes,” Brother Song said. He reached below his robes and pulled out a thin, golden cylinder wrapped artfully in copper wire and dark rope. It gleamed in the light of the fire. “Will you carry it with you to Kalon?”

“I will need to. Today begins the Wicked Period. It would be unsafe to travel without it,” the abbot said, extending his hand. Brother Song removed the amulet and carefully, reverently, handed it to him. The abbot secured it around his own neck, saying, “I will need our best Guardians for the journey, as well as our strongest wards. Bless all the iron, and locate our most powerful stones.”

“Of course. I will arrange everything.”

“In the meantime, I leave you in charge. At dawn, drive malevolent spirits from the valley, after which the compound must be cleansed, the wards replaced, and the beacon maintained at all times. Anyone who seeks sanctuary here must purify themselves twice daily at sunrise and sunset, including all members of our abbey. All mirrors must be covered. All sharpened utensils must be retired until the end of the period. No animals may be slaughtered and no meat consumed. No labor, especially that which breaks the earth or damages any plant life. How well are our pantries stocked?”

“They will last us two months, even with refugees from Yotuni,” Brother Song said, but he wrapped his robes around himself more tightly. “Do you really think we need to go so far? If we maintain the beacon and the wards, we should be safe inside the monastery. Foregoing even labor...”

“I will allow no one any excuse to act out on our grounds this Wicked Period,” the abbot said, his eyes flashing like steel. “No one will be able to claim they were influenced by spirits or witchcraft here. Leave no room for the argument.”

Brother Song hesitated, but he nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

“Abbot!” Brother Zeal said, bursting through the door with a haggard look on his face. “Abbot, the Marked is not in his quarters!”

“What?” the abbot said, sitting upright and alert. “Find him immediately!”

Brother Zeal rushed from the room, and Brother Song watched the abbot rise to his feet. “Abbot, you don’t think he...?”

The abbot pressed his lips together and strode towards the window, gripping the cup in his hand so tightly his ebony knuckles paled. He brushed his long, braided hair over his shoulders and scowled down at the misted valley. “He may very well have,” he said after a moment. “And he would. I should have known to expect this. Selfish boy.”

Brother Song inhaled slowly. “I’m certain we’ll find him. He can’t have gone far. Someone would’ve seen him leaving.”

The abbot did not answer immediately. “We can hope,” he finally said.

Outside, below the window, the disturbed snow revealed a path that led away from the tower and disappeared over the side of the roof, only to appear again along the stony outcrops of the cliff face. The path disappeared into the mist that was always waiting beyond the light of the beacon.

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[serainovel]

Prologue Part Two: Smoke

Serai Kingdom, Brackenshire County, the Eastern Barracks.

Satisfied with a job well done, and a dummy well vanquished, Michael left the warehouse and headed back to his quarters with a spring in his step. His day had been a productive one, and he was content now to retire to bed, and rise early again in the morning. His battle with the dummy had likely cost him a few extra minutes of sleep, but getting out of bed in time to be the first to arrive at the mess hall, when the food was still plenty and the bread was still fresh, was always worth a slight bit of grogginess.

He slung the strap of his scabbard over his back, and kicked a stone out of his way. Moonlight guided his every step as he crossed the stone path leading from the warehouses to the trainee accommodation block.

When the kingdom’s need for new military trainees had increased, so had the need for adequate housing. And it had to be done quick. The Northern and Western Barracks were best equipped to handle this shortage, but the Eastern Barracks, the smallest of the four, did not have the space to accommodate. Buildings were erected in every available field, from the warehouses all the way to the southern wall, until they became indistinguishable from one another. And it still wasn’t enough. The architects were forced to come up with a more creative solution. When there was no room left to expand on the ground, the only way to go was up.

The result was a hodgepodge of precariously placed materials and poor planning. The towers stretched their snaking bodies into the night sky, standing proud in bold defiance of architecture. What had started as a humble stone house had transformed into a structural nightmare, a patchwork of brick and mortar, as more and more rooms had been slapped on to its yielding structure. The internal layout had been twisted into a series of uneven tunnels. They were so difficult to navigate that building connecting stairwells between each floor had become an impossibility. Trainees had resorted to knocking down walls, slinging rope ladders from windows, and creating crawlspaces in the ceilings and floors to gain access to adjacent rooms. It was eventually decided that the stairs should be built on the outside of the towers instead. This took the tedium out of navigating the flats, but trainees would climb them at their own peril.

With a practiced jump, Michael hopped up onto the first foothold, and began his ascent.

He had quite a ways to climb. His room was situated at the very top, teetering at the precipice of the tower, overlooking all the others. Michael saw this as a mixed blessing. One the one hand, it gave him a wonderful view of the horizon. He knew of no better place to watch the sunsets and the sunrises, and he could see all the way to the capital city from the comfort of his bed. But on the other hand, there were no stairs leading to his room. Plans for building extra stairwells had been abandoned several floors below. The only door leading out of his room opened directly onto a rooftop, and he was completely reliant on hanging ropes and the external stairwell to get down from there. If he wanted to take anything heavy up to his room, like a chair or a stack of books, he would have to make use of the pulley system the trainees had attached to the side of the building.

It hadn’t escaped Michael’s notice that he had been housed in the room that sat at the greatest distance away from all the others. He wasted none of his time dwelling on whether or not this had been a deliberate decision on his superiors’ part.

He was sure it had been.

He climbed with practiced ease. The stairway ended at a rooftop, which lead to a rope ladder, the ladder to a doorway, to an arch that lead to another roof. He crossed a bridge made of only a single wooden plank nailed to a wall and a windowsill. Just beyond the window pane, a group of trainees were deep in slumber, piled into bunk-beds and hammocks. One had fallen from his mattress and had landed with his face and tongue pressed right up against the window. Michael was sure to tread lightly as he passed by. He had incurred the wrath of sleep-deprived soldiers once before, and never again since, for he had no desire to spend another night locked in the stables.

He escaped without incident, and continued his ascent until he ran out of stairs to climb. He allowed himself a moment of pause while he caught his breath; he would need it for the last leg of his journey, where he would walk across another preciously placed beam, clamber up a ladder with three broken rungs, scale a steep roof, avoid the overprotective mother gull that made her nest at its precipice, climb a rope, throw himself through his open window and finally tumble onto his mattress and promptly fall asleep.

His gaze strayed to the moon. Though it wasn’t quite full, it still shone with such brilliance it illuminated all Michael could see, from the towers to the walls to the fields beyond. And beyond that lied the silhouette of the capital city, which glowed with its own luminescence, as though it had no need nor want of the moon’s guiding light.

A moonbeam caught Michael’s hand, and warmed his skin with a touch more soothing than any sunbeam had ever offered him. His breathing calmed, and a smile came unbidden to his lips.

He sat, just to enjoy the moonlight, just for a while. He had time.

He thought of his father. As he so often did.

He thought of his toothy grins, his booming laughter, his broad and calloused yet gentle hands. He remembered those hands wrapped around the hilt of a sword, demonstrating to him how to grip it properly. He remembered the day his father’s knighthood was announced, and how the barracks had rejoiced for their comrade’s success.

He remembered the day he left.

Michael had watched his departure from the guard towers. He wasn't supposed to be up there, for he wasn’t a guardsman, not even a squire yet, but no one had the heart to remove him. He watched his father’s carriage roll away, until it was only a speck on the horizon, until it was swallowed up by the capital city and its burning sunrise. The carriage that took his father from him was emblazoned with the Seraian insignia, a searing golden sun breaking over a hill, like a lock on a wooden casket. It had sealed him away, and now he was their possession, and would be forevermore.

He looked to the moon, and wondered if his father was looking at it too.

There was something on the horizon. Something dark, something grim, sliding languidly into Michael’s peripheral vision.

His blood turned cold at the sight.

He should have reacted. He knew that. His first response should have been to alert the other trainees, and to prepare himself for battle. Instead, it brought forth a memory.

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

Sir Romanenkov had taught him that phrase many years ago, back when he was still too small to even pick up a sword. It had happened on a snowy winter’s eve, when it felt as though the entire kingdom been engulfed in white and dark and cold. He remembered the inviting glow from the kitchen window, which to him looked all the world like a lighthouse beacon, signalling the end of their perilous journey all the way from their sleeping quarters.

This was when Michael heard his father recite the saying. It confused him at first, for there was no smoke, only steam mingling with the inviting light, and there was no fire, only the meagre yet appetising soup that the steam was rising from.

Ever since then, whenever Michael heard the phrase “where there’s smoke there’s fire”, he thought: “Lunchtime!”

As he grew older, he’d come to doubt that his definition of the phrase had been correct.

And when he caught sight of the thick plumes of black smoke spilling into the night sky, he felt he was finally starting to understand what it really meant.

Barbarians. An army of them.

Not that a barbarian army was particularly intimidating. Not when compared to the standards of the Serai Kingdom’s military. Even the limited numbers of the Eastern Barracks’ battalions vastly outnumbered theirs. Michael hadn’t even noticed them until they were over the hill. He had mistaken the smoke rising from their torches for clouds, their racket for the barracks windmill, until their fire broke over the horizon. This was a sight unmistakable to Michael. Their lack of formation, their patchwork armour, their down-turned faces. They came armed with pikes, axes, rakes, shovels and knives. Anything they could get their hands on Michael couldn't make out the minutia of their weapons from where he stood, but he already knew their equipment would be in poor condition. Their health wouldn't be much better.

There was something else. Something far more alarming. A low rumbling, like a rising omen, a dark undercurrent slowly surfacing. The sound of earth being crushed, of grinding gears, of screaming wood: the warning call of dreadful machinery crawling ever closer.

The firing mechanism came into view first. The counterweight, the beam, then the frame in its entirety. The trebuchet trundled clumsily over hill, dragged and pulled by starving horses and starving men, its creaky wheels crying with the effort. Its twin followed reluctantly behind.  

Both were emblazoned with the royal Seraian insignia.

“Oh no,” Michael said, his voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t aware he was voicing his thoughts out loud until they hit his ears. “No, no, no, not again!”

He scurried to the edge of the roof to get a better look at them, and the view didn not improve. Their numbers were few, their battalions (if they could even be called that) were in complete disarray, and less than half of them looked properly equipped for battle. They looked more like a mob of angry townspeople than an army preparing to lay siege to an enemy barracks.

“What are you doing?” he cried out to them, dismayed, knowing full well they couldn't hear him, but hoping for it all the same. “Why do you keep coming back?!”

The barbarians pressed on, and did not reply.

“Oi!”

A window behind him crashed against the wall as it was swung open, making Michael jump in surprise. A trainee was leaning out of the frame, still half-asleep, his eyes barely open even as they glared in Michael’s direction. If he hadn't been holding onto the window, he would have fallen right out.

“Wass’all the ruckus about?” he slurred, and Michael recognised his country accent and balding head as belonging to a man named Brion. “I’m tryin’ to sleep!”

Michael felt instant regret. The vision of another night spent in the stables flashed before his eyes, and filled him with more dread than even the barbarians had.

“Nothing!” he said, and couldn't speak fast enough. “Sorry! Nothing’s happening- go back to bed!”

But his attempts to calm Brion were in vain. He couldn’t rightly convince him that what he was seeing with his own wide eyes wasn’t real.

“Hold on. What’s that? Izzat smoke?”

“Um! No! Just a cloud - a raincloud - a storm’s coming-”

“Will you lot shut up?!”

Another disturbed trainee appeared, emerging from behind a wooden latch in a crawlspace two floors higher. Michael didn’t even get a chance to plead for him to return to his slumber before Brion butted in.

“Hey Rob, look!” he shouted, waving a pointed finger at the horizon. “Look at that over there! Don’t that look like smoke to you?”

“Eh?” Robert blinked his still bleary eyes at the horizon. When that didn’t work, he rubbed them both with the back of his sleeve, and tried again. Michael watched as the colour drained from his face. “Oh- Jesus Christ!”

“Yeah! Can you see where it’s coming from?” Brion asked.

“Don’t!” Michael blurted out before thinking, and the single demanding syllable earned him a pair of filthy looks. Shrinking under their glares, he wracked his brain for a better idea, one that would look far less peculiar to his peers.

“Don’t, uh, trouble yourselves!” he stammered, backing up his unconvincing gesture of selflessness with an equally unconvincing smile. “I’ll deal with it, so you two can stop worrying about it and go back to sleep-”

It hadn’t taken long for Robert to lose interest in Michael’s ramblings, and he identified the true source of the smog almost immediately, and with great horror.

“Holy shit! It’s a barbarian army! They’re coming this way!”

“Wot?!”

“Yeh! There’s at least a hundred of ‘em!”

The jig was up before it had even began. Kicking himself inwardly, and outwardly smacking a hand on his face, Michael could only watch as the bad news spread like wildfire throughout the towers. Like a hundred rickety cuckoo-clocks, windows and doors from each and every block popped open, and out sprang the gormless faces of Michael’s fellow trainees, gawking at the smoky sky, all in a fuss over the approaching danger.

“You’re jokin’!”

“He’s right- look!”

“They’re already over the hill!”

“Are we gonna have to fight them?”

“Ugh, I can’t, I’m too hungover!”

“Speak for yerself, mate, I’m still pissed!”

That last one was followed by a proud guffaw. Somehow, that reaction irritated Michael even more than his own blunder.

“Calm it down!”

A sharp voice called from above, cutting through the commotion and taking command of it. Every face turned to look in its direction, its sharp cadence and nasally tone instantly recognisable to all of them. Kale was leaning out of a window frame, one foot on the sill and his eyes set on the horizon. His scraggly hair was blowing in the wind, his clothes billowed about his scrawny arms, and the moonlight reflected off of his bald spot.

“Prepare yourselves for battle, lads!” he said, grinning heroically, despite how it made his already patchy beard appear even more barren. “We haven't had a good fight in a while! Someone hurry up and sound the alarm!”

“I’ll do it!” Robert volunteered, but Brion stopped him before he could run off.

“Hold on,” he said, “shouldn’t someone at the wall have done that alrea-”

As if on cue, the night was filled with the raucous screams of blowing horns. First from the southern wall, then from the east, until the uproarious clamouring came together and rose into a tumultuous disharmony. Michael couldn't hear the approaching trebuchets anymore, couldn't hear the voices of his peers, couldn't hear himself think, and he knew his chance to act was gone.

A repetitive thumping dispersed the noise. Kale was smacking the wall of the building, excitement in his gaping grin.

“That’s the Call to Arms, boys!” he said. “Come on, look lively! If we don't get to the armoury within ten minutes, Sir Leon will put us all on mucking duty again! And you won’t catch me dead doing that: I already put up with enough shit from you lot as it is!”

“Back at ya, Kale!”

“Move it! Oi, and don't let any barbs past the gate this time-”

“Stop!”

The word tore itself out of Michael’s throat before he could choke it down. It drew the attention of every man within earshot. All eyes were on him, their mumbling and murmuring bubbling up from under the hubbub, and what scant confidence Michael had summoned was gone in an instant. He felt the pressure of their expectant stares, like a great weight settling on his shoulders, as though gravity itself was trying to pull him through the floor. But he stood firm.

He set his jaw, and spoke his mind.

“Why are we doing this again?” he said, with an indignant shrug of his arms. “You lot can’t be serious. It’s an unfair fight, you know it is!”

Even from two floors below him, Michael could hear Brion mutter under his breath: “Oh not this again-”

“What do you mean ‘unfair’?” Robert said, the first to retort. “Didn’t you see those trebuchets they have with ’em?”

“What, you mean those trebuchets that look exactly like the ones we’ve got?”

Without looking, Michael gestured to the warehouses, and the Barracks’ impressive range of siege weapons stationed nearby. It only took a glance to discern the staggering differences between the Seraian trainee army and the barbarians. The southern wall, standing taller than even their catapults, was lined with cannons and manned archery towers, the largest of which were stationed either side of the southern wall’s only exit: a robust drawbridge, held shut by steel chains. From between the crinolines, men could be seen running from post to post, hurriedly lighting torches and delivering full quivers to the awaiting archers. On the ground, horses were being lead from their stables in droves. Not all of the soldiers’ mounts were adequately trained for battle, but they were in far better condition than the handful of gaunt pack mules the barbarians had brought with them. And, though their selection of  weaponry was not as broad or well-forged as what would be afforded to the Northern Barracks’ trainees, it would be more than enough to topple an army of villagers armed with pitchforks.

The contrast of strength between the two armies was wider than the fields between the barracks and the capital city. The barbarians marched on, crossing that gaping chasm with fearful eyes set on their target. Just as they had so many times before. Just as they had a few months ago, at the capital city’s northern wall.

The memories of that battle rekindled Michael’s determination.

“This happens every time they come,” Michael continued, undeterred by the disgruntled mutterings of his peers and the way his own hands trembled. “We’re mobilising our full forces against an army of women and children!”

“And farmers!” someone chimed in. “They’ve got rakes!”

“They’re not a threat!” Michael continued unabated. “They've not even got a hundred troops with ’em!”

“And how do you know that?” Robert said, lip curled. “Did you count?”

“Look at them!”

“All right, that's enough of that,” Kale said, stepping forward to dispel the tension, his attempt at being the kind mediator too obvious a pantomime. “I understand your concern, mate, I really do, but I’m gonna need you to listen to me, Michael.”

Michael winced at the sound of that name, clenching his jaw to stop himself from correcting him. Michael Smith was the name he was known by. It was the name he had been given.

But it wasn’t the one he wanted.

“I know this doesn’t feel right,” Kale said, and Michael could see the way he inwardly praised himself for his patience, “but we don’t always get to choose our battles, lad. You have a lot of sympathy for people, and that’s great, but in reality, your enemies won’t always be your equal. But if you’re a true soldier, you’ll fight ‘em anyway. You get me?”

“I don’t want to be a soldier,” Michael corrected him, voice firm and shoulders squared. “I want to be a knight. And true knights obey the laws of chivalry.”

“Well chivalry doesn’t apply to the rest of us soldiers-”

“Clearly not! Do you even know what Forbearance means?”

Kale’s silence said everything. Michael waited for his fury to rise. He waited for his spiteful words to set off a rage, which would mutate into shouting, into threats, into Kale grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and dangling him off the edge of the roof.

It didn’t come. Instead, he did something far worse.

The fire of Kale’s anger never grew bigger than a dull flame, and with a long exhale, he snuffed it completely. His shoulders sank, his fists uncurled, and his glare faded.

“You know what? Don’t worry about it, Mike,” he said, his voice tinged with a reluctant patience. “You stay here. We’ll take care of it.”

Michael’s brow twitched into a frown. “You wot?”

“We’ll take care of it,” he repeated, firmer this time. “Leon’ll understand, you know he will. Go back to your room, he won’t care-”

“I'm not trying to get out of it!” Michael shouted. “I'm asking you to think about who we’re fighting-”

“I hate to break it to you, Smith, but you don’t get to cherry pick who you’re sent to fight.”

“We should show mercy to those weaker than ourselves-”

“Think about yourself, Mike,” Kale insisted, taking Michael by surprise. “What about you, your survival? Don’t you wanna live so you can, you know… go home one day?”

It took a concerted, physical effort for Michael to not react. He choked down the burning retorts rising in his throat, and his muscles ached with the force it took to restrain himself. It hurt, but he managed it.

“No,” he replied, his voice like water beginning to boil. “This kingdom is my home. And I want to fight for it.”

“Good!” Kale said, not pleased at all. He pointed over Michael’s shoulder at the horizon. “There's your chance!”

“I've fought them before,” Michael said, refusing to back down even as Kale tossed his head back in impatience. “They're not an army, Kale: they're women and children and people who have never held a sword in their life! They don't know what they're doing-!”

“Careful, Mike,” Kale said, his voice soft, though it was laced with warning. “Keep that up, and people are gonna think you’re some kind of sympathiser.”

“It’s not sympathy, it’s-” Michael shifted, rubbing his head in frustration, unable to resist glancing at the other trainees, to check who was still staring at him. “It’s sense! It’s mercy! Have you completely forgotten what Chivalry is-”

“Have you forgotten which side you’re supposed to fighting for, Mike?” Brion cut in, snapping at Michael with a tongue far sharper than Kale’s. “What is the problem? You’re a soldier, right? You took an oath to defend and fight for your Kingdom, right?”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“So I can’t help but find it a bit confusing,” Brion continued as though Michael hadn’t spoken, “that you would have a problem doing what you swore to do. What are you playin’ at, Squinty?”

Kale winced. “Don’t call him that, Bri-”

“I am doing exactly what I swore to do,” Michael retorted, stubbornly refusing to back down. “I’m protecting people who can’t protect themselves-”

“That doesn’t include people trying to siege your Kingdom, mate.”

“There are ways to make them stop that don’t include slaughter-!”

“All right, that’s enough,” Kale said, even-tempered as he stepped between the two. “Brion, you leave him alone. And Michael, that’s enough of that. It’s Leon’s decision to make, not yours, and he’s already started the Call To Arms. Nothing to be done about it now, you understand?”

“But-!”

“Just get yourself down to the armoury,” he said, on his last nerve, “and I won’t tell Leon we had this conversation. Deal?”

Brion was already walking away, and, sensing an end to their squabble, the other men followed him. They were leaving. Michael watched, despairing, wordlessly asking them to stop, as they turned their eyes and ears away from him, disinterested now that the tension was dying down. No one turned his way, because no one would hear him. Even if he were to call out to them, yelling as loud as he dared, Michael was sure his words would go ignored.

Desperation gripped his throat, and he choked out a strangled:

“But-!”

“I’ll see you downstairs,” Kale said as he walked away, eyes kind, looking at Michael like a lost cause. “And steer clear of the front lines, yeah?”

He watched his chance to stop the conflict turn its back on him and walk down he stairs. The men chatted casually with their peers, complaining about how sleepy or hungry or hungover they were. They hoped they could get this over and done with quickly. With enough luck, they might kill enough of them that they might finally be scared off for good.

Michael found his words, already too late.

“All I'm asking is we show them some mercy!” he begged. “For once! Please!”

They kept walking, and not one man turned back.

[aconvenientenemy]

Getting the Team Back Together (2)

[[MORE]]

The boat, thankfully, was big enough she didn't have to worry about running into Jasper. Unless she was very unlucky. 

  She tried her best to keep up her vibes. She thought about all the new places she'd get to experience. She thought about seeing her friends again. She sat on a chair in the upper deck with her eyes closed and breathed in the ocean air, stretching out her wings and letting the wind catch on them. She stood, holding onto the table edge, eyes still closed, and let her mind wander to memories of flying. Of snapping her wings open and gliding through the sky. Of feeling the sun on smooth feathers.

  Of blood.

  Her eyes snapped open. She was breathing too hard. She looked down and saw how tight she was holding the table.

  "I should get a coffee." She said out loud in a voice much more chipper than she felt. Trying to trick her brain back into a positive space. She let go of the table, flexing her fingers out as she went downstairs to find the small cafe.

  Quirina ordered a medium half white mocha and went to the window to watch the water while she waited. There were gunshots outside. She heard them muffled by the people talking. She saw a few flying grimm fall and disperse into nothing before they hit the water. Then she heard the talking turn to whispered panic. This would only attract more grimm.

  "People, please! If we can all just stay calm and move to the lower decks. There's been a sighted circle of small Nevermores in the area. We have our crewmen trained on what to do so please don't worry. Enjoy the rest of your trip." Presumably a hired huntsman or a crew worker clicked off the announcements and everyone continued their worried mutters.

  Quirina went back to the cafe bar and slid her credits across to the barista. "Use this for everyone's orders until you reach 150 lien, please." She took her cup and her card after the barista swiped it and nodded a thanks. She went back to her window and sat down and enjoyed her drink. 

  It only took about three people getting free drinks for the mood to change. About ten to change the tone. There was very scattered gunfire in the background but everyone nearby was pleasantly ignoring it. Laughing and chatting. Mood lifted for now. 

  Quirina smiled at how easy things could be sometimes. The more people who smiled and laughed, who left the cafe to take their good spirits elsewhere on the boat, the less they heard gunfire.

  She let her thoughts run free for a few seconds, unleashed like dogs that have been trapped inside all day and someone finally opened the back door. 

  She picked one and perked up suddenly, pulling out her scroll and texting her dad before she got too far out of range. "Have you heard anything about a girl from Beacon named Autumn Farley? Someone's looking for her. I'm leaving CCT range soon btw."

  If he could connect with someone from the gym, he had friends in the greater community. He trained people who had a farther reach than she ever would. If anyone could find something out right now, he could.

  Quirina wished she had been in the right mind to think of texting around earlier. She maybe could have even gotten an answer for Jasper immediately. But she let panic and fear cloud her thoughts.

  She leaned against the glass as she heard more scattered laughter. This was the time to remain positive. 

  She let hope fill her lungs and refused to let it out. 

-

Her dad texted her several updates, just to let her know he was working on it. 

  "Asking Herron and Partridge."

  "Jerry said she didn't see that name on her bus list but she's asking other evac bus drivers now." 

  "Still in range? Jerry said the name was on Ben's bus. He's getting in touch with his supervisor."

  "Partridge said she knows Autumn's aunt's best friend. She's calling them now."

  She was almost out of range and she watched the bars dip lower and lower as she waited for what would hopefully be a positive update.

  "Ben's supervisor not responding. Waiting on Partridge still."

  "Called the friend, got aunt's scroll. Calling now."

  Quirina hadn't seen Jasper since they got on the boat and tried to keep as far as possible from the awkward atmosphere they created together but she stood up and went to look for him. 

  She took several minutes walking the outer perimeter, not seeing him. She went to the upper deck, cleared again for people now that the Grimm were taken care of, nothing.

  She walked the perimeter again. Her scroll buzzed. Weak network. 

  "Not now!" She ran to the back of the boat. It buzzed again. Weak network. She could feel panic. Anxiety bursting in her chest like a popped water balloon. She felt like she was drowning.

  She saw red hair across the deck. 

  No network. 

  She had to make a decision.

  Quirina ran to the front of the boat, took a series of breaths as deep as she could take on the verge of a panic attack and tried to channel it properly. Away from her stomach and into her heart. Out of her throat and into her fists. She ran as fast as she could to the back of the boat, scroll in hand, panic turning to frustration to anger, and she screamed as she threw herself off the back of the boat and snapped her wings out into the air.

  A draft shot her up, higher than she expected. The pain in her back began immediately and she used it to propel her anger as she glided away from the boat and back into network territory.

  Her shoulders screamed. Another headache threatened to bloom as she yet again found herself gritting her teeth. 

  Thank goodness for the initial strong updraft because if she had to flap her wings she thought she would pass out. 

  Her scroll buzzed in her hand and she took a sudden breath, not realizing she had been holding it. Her spotty vision cleared enough to read.

  "Aunt answered. Autumn is home in Vacuo. Minimal injuries sustained. She's safe Noa."

  "Thanks, dad. No more network."

  She tucked her scroll into her pocket and turned back to the boat. She would have to flap her wings to make it there and she was already unsteady enough as it was. She could feel every pocket gust of air like a stab in her spine. She screamed and dipped low as a particularly strong gust caught her wrong and she folded a wing on instinct.

  She tried to channel the energy into anger again. Imagined Indy. The blood. Focused the pain into her semblance of anger and spread it like support beams into her wings. 

  She thought about Indy's metal wings.

  Quirina screamed as she flapped her wings enough to rise to a level where she could try and glide back to the boat without further flapping.

  She saw a small commotion happening near the end. They were looking for her.

  A strong wind pushed her back and she screamed again as she had to flap her wings twice against it. The boat was getting further away. 

  She heard a beeping on her scroll and she knew it was her aura.

  A rapid beeping. 

  She screamed and dove towards the boat, not near enough but it was all she had left.

  Two figures jumped into the air and she saw wings. Her vision got blurry and her spine screamed and she folded her wings like a cocoon around her body as she plummeted suddenly, dropping like a stone. 

  A few seconds of falling and she felt hands on her arms, yanking her free from her fall, bruises she knew would form later. 

  She felt that same hope from earlier fill her lungs again and the world was spotty but she didn't pass out. 

  "What on earth were you doing out here??" One of them shouted at her over the wind. He had falcon wings. 

  "It was important." She replied, but she was sure they couldn't hear her. 

  "The authorities are going to want to speak to you as soon as we get back on the boat, ma'am." The other one informed her. A woman with bat wings, she noticed.

  She nodded.

-

They took her to a side room in officer quarters and asked her a lot of questions while she laid out on a little bed that reminded her of a school nurse's office. 

  She explained she was a provisional Huntress and she was trying to get information about a student from Beacon. She over-explained about her semblance and her wings. And once they were done asking her their questions she asked for an announcement to be made for Jasper. 

  "I didn't get his last name but he's a fox faunus. When you find him, tell him Autumn Farley is safe and at home."

  They told her okay and to lay back down. That they would bring her some food and let the ship doctor have a better look at her.

  She knew she was fine. For now at least. Another stunt like that would be sure to break something but this was serious bruising at most. 

  Quirina laid on her stomach, wings out, resting around her, sure to be in a right mess. She hated that she still got embarrassed about how messy they looked sometimes. 

  A doctor came and inspected her. He could feel inconsistencies through skin, so he was able to get a deeper look even without an x-ray machine on board. He felt along her spine and where her wings connected. He made a lot of noises under his breath and asked her questions about her wings but in the end he informed her she was whole. Nothing broken. 

  "But you did sprain your shoulder, you shouldn't lift your right arm or wing for at least a few days. A week at best, but I know you're a huntress so asking you to limit your movement is a bit… like asking a wave not to crash. Just know, if you move it too much you're liable to pop it out of its socket and then you'll have even worse wing problems." 

  "Okay." She had overdosed on pain and her brain was oddly quiet now. Quirina for once found herself in a mental and physical calm. 

  "You'll have bruising along your spine, and I already see hand marks on your arms. Do you bruise easily?"

  "Not too easy."

  "Then the ones on your arms should clear up in a few days. But due to the nature of your previous wounds, your back will most likely be bruised for three weeks to a month." He stood up and sighed. "Can I say, "Don't do it again.'' or would that be a waste of my energy?" He asked her, she could hear a smile in his voice. 

  "It's a bit of a waste." She admitted. 

  He laughed quietly. "Thought so."

  Quirina was left on her own in a mental quiet for only a few minutes. She thought she might try to get some sleep since this didn't happen to her too often but then she heard footsteps approaching. She turned her head to look at the door in case it was the doctor again. It was Jasper. 

  His ears were perked up and he looked heartbroken at the state of her wings as she lay on the bed still, too tired to even get up to a sitting position. 

  "Hey." She offered to his downcast silence. 

  His ears lay down against his head and he took a seat where the doctor had been in the chair by her bed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  "For what?"

  "For this! This is my fault. I- I made you feel bad, back on the airship. I should have never said-"

  "Hey hey. This isn't your fault, Jasper. I'm a Huntress now and it's my job to protect people. So be happy because I got good news for you and your sister and I'm counting on that good news to keep your spirits high enough to keep grimm away from this ship."

  "Good news?" He leaned forward. 

  "They didn't tell you? What did they say?"

  "They called me over the speakers, said you were getting information for me and that you were down here. They didn't tell me what it was."

  She let out a breath. "Autumn's okay. She made it out. She's with her family in Vacuo."

  He smiled, sudden and bright. He made a jerky movement and seemed to think better of it before he just jumped up from his chair and did a little skip. "I wish I could hug you right now! Thank you! Are you sure? Who did you talk to?"

  "We heard from her aunt. I got her scroll details if you want to confirm it yourself whenever you get back in range." She nodded over to her scroll on the counter and he picked it up and held it out to her. "You can do it, I'm not really supposed to move my shoulders right now."

  He made a worried face but she nudged her head at him to get moving and he opened the scroll. It was still on her dad's texts and the aunt's info was right there. 

  He smiled again, almost crying. "Yeah. That's her aunt." He set the scroll down and sat himself back in the chair. He shook his head. "Man, you never think to get everyone's numbers, you know? It's just your family and your friends. You never think to get their family. Their emergency contacts. You never really… think something like this can happen."

  "Yeah." Quirina could feel his statement like a twist in her ribs. "You never think about how hard it is to find people when you aren't close by to them. It's hard to think that you would need identifying information for your friends. You know what their favorite snack is and what music they like, but you don't know where their grandparents live or how many aunts and uncles they have. If they're staying with siblings or cousins. Where exactly those relatives live."

  Jasper nodded back at her the whole time, flipping his scroll nervously in his hands. 

  His ears perked up suddenly. 

  "Happy thoughts! Right? Good spirits!" He stood up. Quirina smiled. "Thank you so much for your help. Can I- can I put my number in your scroll, just so you have it someday? I repay favors, promise."

  She nodded, working against her usual shrug response. "Yeah totally. That's cool. Take my number too. Just in case."

  They exchanged numbers and he took her sleepy eyes as an excuse to leave without making an awkward exit and with a happy heart and relatively quiet mind, she was finally able to get some sleep before they made it to Menagerie. 

-

She managed to eat when the officers finally brought her food. She had another coffee, which was free. Apparently every time someone caught up to the limit, someone else added a new limit on their own lien. Maybe like 15 people bought the whole boat's worth of coffees and teas. 

  Quirina washed her face in the bathroom and checked on her scroll by habit but it was effectively just a camera. There were no towers out here. She would have to work by word of mouth now. 

  She started straight away on the docks. 

  "Excuse me, do you know where there might be a registry of faunus who came over after the attack on Beacon?"

  There was an older lizard gentleman working the desk she approached, he appeared to sell various scarves, he gave her an odd look. "Whatever Menagerie did have during the emergency would've been gotten rid of by now. It's not safe to have a list of us just in case. Still plenty of people who hate faunus and plenty of extremist white fang who hate neutral parties." He gave her a sad shrug. "Wish I could help you."

  She nodded. "Yeah, no I understand. By chance then, do you know a boy named River Mingan Greenwood? He has white wolf ears, short white hair, and purple eyes?" At the nonresponsive look from the man she continued. "Or Tori, Torrential Arinth? He's got long turquoise hair? Usually in a braid. He wears skirts and no shoes?"

  At that the man's eyes showed a recognition. "Barefoot kid! Yes! He goes to my friends bookshop. Waits outside for people to bring him books because it's a no shoes no service kind of place. My buddy's told me about him."

  He gave her the address of the bookshop and she weaved her way excitedly through the crowd of faunus exiting the boat and the various stands set up to sell things. The place was crowded but beautiful and she made mental notes to come back after she found Tori and check out the various stalls and desks.

  She made it to the bookstore, muttering excitedly to herself along the way. The whole place was so beautiful,  she couldn't get over it. She wished she could fly over it and see it from above. Her shoulders ached with the thought, wings twitching resentfully, but she knew there was no chance after her stunt on the boat.

  Quirina stopped suddenly, realizing.  As crowded as it was, not one person bumped into her. She looked around, as much as she was leaning to the side she hadn't bumped into anyone, everyone was giving her a wide berth already. Most of the faunus with wings that spread past their shoulders even when folded were given the space. Faunus with tails constantly swaying, faunus with prickles coming out of their spines and arms. As crowded as Menagerie was, the people knew how to exist together. 

  She kept walking, no longer muttering as she went. 

[davinci678]

I still remember when I first saw you.

We had been trapped in those ships for days, my sisters and I, shipped home from the war we had lost. Our only reason for existing, the very reason we were created, our charge and our leader Pink Diamond, defeated. Separated, shattered and killed under our very noses, though we weren't to know it at the time. We had failed. Though we were very young then, we understood what that meant. We expected no rescue, and when the ships first came down I thought they had come to execute us for our failure. We were instead loaded on by wordless soldiers, my sisters questions ignored or struck down with blows til they ceased. One even lost her form under the hail of pain they brought upon her innocent queries. Battered and bruised we sat in that ship, not knowing our destination, not knowing which direction we headed in. Were we to be lead elsewhere for our execution, to be used as a public example for a society we did not know? The losers and failures paraded in front of a society we'd never known, our suffering and death a reminder to those remaining to never fail like we did?

Our eldest sister was the only one who remained strong, sitting there taking up three seats where we took one. The perfect Jasper sat there a beacon of hope, looking at us reassuringly and pressed close to our injured. Her eyes still spoke of hope, a held fast belief that we were just being relieved. Her calm demeanor quieted our fears, her small smile as she looked us each in the eye gave us some vestige of hope. When she had at last locked eyes with each of us in turn, she turned unblinking to the nearby window. As though our Diamond had made it out, on a different ship, perhaps even so close one could see it through the glass. We never saw another ship. The inky darkness stretched on infinitely, cut only by the thin beams of light signifying the passing stars. As bleak as it felt, perhaps it would all be alright, perhaps not everything was lost. Maybe our sins would be forgiven or tolerated, instead of swift death we might simply be jailed or lightly punished. Maybe we our accomplishments in battle made us too valuable to lose, we might even be rewarded. What if without our knowledge we were being shipped to a parade in our honor? We had won the war it was safe now, we could go home, and live a peaceful life free of rebels. Our Diamond would be on the platform awaiting us, ready to congratulate us and berate the over eager soldiers that had forced us onto the ship. She might even punish them for their actions.

Perhaps they would- Maybe we- What if-

Such fantasies left my head when we landed. All vestiges of hope take from us along with our eldest. We landed with so soft a bump we barely realized it had happened, before the soldiers screamed at us to get off the ship. We all got off, our sisters pouring out from other similar vessels.  A Pearl stood in the distance, directing the lesser gems that escorted us to our unknown destination. We milled around aimlessly, trying to account for our numbers. Cries went up as some amongst our number realized we were missing our youngest, silenced swiftly by the hands of the guard. The Pearl's orders came swiftly and we began to march toward our fate. The Pearl made one final gesture and our eldest Jasper was separated from the group and led in a different direction. I cried out unbidden, as did many of my sisters. I received a sharp blow to the head for it, as did many, several more were reduced to their gems. Those nearby quickly stooped to lift their fallen sisters and cradled them in their arms, even as they shielded them from further blows punishing them for unsanctioned movement. Our eldest Jasper was carried off against her will, muzzled when she tried to scream for them to stop. We never knew where she went, and we never saw her again. Our youngest and eldest sisters gone! And not a moment to grieve. We were forced to march, beaten and tired as we were, through endless corridors we didn't recognize. Not one of us knew where we were headed, nor how to return to where we came. How long we marched, we knew not as the minutes blurred to hours. At long last they escorted us through a pair of massive doors and into another ship, sent off in a hurry to who knew where. This trip lasted but mere minutes and once again we were dragged off, by our very hair if we could not stand. Beaten, battered, bruised we lay there in agony. I almost welcomed death at that point, an end to the suffering and pain, an end to the misery. An escape from the hellish future I now knew must await us. We wouldn't be killed. We were to be tortured, scarred, damaged and kept alive but broken. A warning to those who would have followed our path, those who would have failed their Diamonds. Our lives would never see so much as a single hint of light or freedom.

“What in Diamond's name have you done to them! What is this?”

A voice tore through my thoughts, angered and worried. Its presence was accompanied by a curious series of clicks reverberating through the room, audible even over the moans and weeping of my sisters. I looked up, a motion mirrored by those who lay on the ground around me as though synchronized. And there is where I saw you for the first time. From a small door placed next to a much larger one, atop a flight of stairs, descended a blue gem shorter than the lot of us. She stood with her back erect, her plump form oddly stiff and regal despite being half the size of many of our sisters. She was garbed in the traditional clothing of the gems as we were, but with a beautiful shawl of light blue thrown around her shoulders. Her legs were enclosed in white heels that came to the center of her thighs rather snugly, their hard soles making the clicking noise we would soon associate with her arrivals. So quick was her pace towards us, her shawl streaming out behind her. Her hair was short and gathered into two buns on either side of her head, round and pointed like massive horns. And her face. It was notably round, soft, and blue, but so contorted by her fury that the effect was one of terror. Eyebrows knit together, her lips curled backwards in anger, exposing rows of grinding white teeth. Her eyes blazed with a fury that threatened to ignite those that beheld it, their icy cold flash so bright and threatening it cast her face into shadow. She appeared before us an avenging spirit, a demon made flesh that even now carved a path to our group. Was this our executioner? The one summoned to destroy us and the mistake we bore evidence to? Many looked away in terror but I lay on my knees in terror, transfixed by the sheer rage in her face. I watched my death and annihilation step towards us. Then it passed the first of my sisters, as vision of rage wove effortlessly through our group. Towards me. Every passing step brought her closer to me, my mind shutting down. I couldn't not process what she was, what she would do. She drew close, finally stepping directly in front of me and stopping. I merely gazed upwards at her face even as she stared at me, accepting what must come at that moment, not knowing why I was the first among my sisters to be chosen. Those eyes pierced my very soul for the fraction of a second they lingered on my face. I saw something else behind them, an emotion or idea I could not comprehend. Her eyes held me my surroundings fading as I found myself instantly drawn in towards them, accepting my end. Her pupil was a void and as it locked into my own, it expanded, its darkness overtaking me and overwhelming my conscious. It drew me into its abyss and I welcomed it. Then her eyes passed over me and to the soldier standing next to me, and my mind was again my own. I shuddered uncontrollably as the chill passed from me, some frayed instinct screaming at the death I'd so narrowly avoided. For a moment she stood there, her fury and rage now directed at the commander I hadn't realized was next to me. The anger I had born witness to was not intended for me.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE! YOUR ORDERS WERE TO DELIVER THEM TO ME UNHARMED!” The words tore from her lips with the fury of a storm barely held, eyes flashing like ice so cold it would burn like flames on bare skin. The commander towered nearly a foot over her, grizzled by years of experience in combat yet wincing in the face of her fury.

“Listen Ma'am they were hurt on the field of battle we just saved them from some hell scape named Earth and brought 'em here as quick as we could-” The commander tried to remain calm, assuming a belittling tone as though explaining to a child, to belittle the blue demon and pacify her.

“Are you trying to insult my intelligence? I was at the door when you arrived, I watched you and your platoon of buffoons striking at my new charges like a pack of brutes!” She countered, rage quivering in every syllable, and those eyes, oh Diamonds those eyes! Unblinking, unwavering in the face of the commander.

The commander became angry herself. “They resisted Ma'am we had to drag them off the damn ship they wouldn't come with us-”

“Oh so you lot had a lot to fear from them then, half the damn group unconscious or rendered stones. What courage, dragging them across the floor, striking them for so much as a murmur!” The blue demon defended them. I felt something leap to my throat, emotions of hope that mere hours ago I had abandoned completely. I realized she was on our side. A chance! A hope! An avenging angel sent to deliver us from a grisly fate. Maybe she would stop the pain, the batterings, the fear. In that moment I bet my life on her, knowing she would see me through.

“How dare you! I take time out of my day and risk my gems to gather a group of failed experiments for you off some backwater planet in a forgotten nebula and you think you can insult me? I don't give one damn what happens to this pack of freaks and I don't mind giving you one across the face if you don't speak to me in the proper tone this instant Agate!” The commander was livid now, stepping forward til she was directly in the Agate's face, scowling. The Agate didn't so much as bat an eyelid.

The moment lasted a quiet eternity, and when the Agate opened her mouth once more, she wasn't yelling. She spoke in a low icy tone, somehow more frightening than her yelling moments before. Her eyes bored into the commander, her fury made somehow more evident by the finality of her threat. “You know who I serve. You know to who I report. They made it very clear what they expected from you when they sent you. And you've not only failed to do as she asks but purposefully damaged my new subordinates. MY new subordinates. A word from me, and your gem, and that of your little group of insurgents, will be ground to dust beneath the heels of my lady. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?”

The commander didn't breathe for a moment. Her eyes broke contact as the weight of the threat dawned upon her. She stepped back. “Fine. Have it your way. Enjoy your subordinates. C'mon gems we are leaving! She wants her pack of animal misfits she can have them! We're moving out” And with this parting shot, the soldiers boarded their ships and left the compound. My sisters sat still, not quite sure what to expect. I looked up at the Agate, her expression still stormy and angry. Unbidden, the words fell from my lips. “Thank you.” Her eyes moved back to mine, capturing my gaze with their sudden icy flash. And suddenly they softened. Apologetic, understanding, beautiful.

“It was nothing dear. But we have got to get you and your sisters cleaned up and fixed as quickly as possible! Please help me gather them up.” She reached her hand to me, and I grasped hers in mine. I tensed as a thrill shot up my arm from the chill in her hand… and I could have sworn she did the same when she felt the warmth in mine. I smiled for the first time in weeks. I couldn't believe it. At long last, someone who could help us. Someone who would take away the pain. My joy was evident on my face, far too much as more than I should have shared become clearly visible in my face. A slight blush appeared in her cheeks but she quickly hauled me to my feet and quickly let go of my hand. “I am Holly Blue Agate, your new leader. And what do I call you?” She asked of me.

“They call me Sharky”

“Miss around here we use proper gem designations, please use those going forward! I can see there's a lot I'll have to teach the lot of you. Though I can see why they'd give you such a name. Lovely smile of yours…” A notable flush went up her neck and she looked away, her voice quavering suddenly. “-Anyway we must see to your sisters posthaste quickly now!”

[davinci678]

I still remember when I first saw you.

We had been trapped in those ships for days, my sisters and I, shipped home from the war we had lost. Our only reason for existing, the very reason we were created, our charge and our leader Pink Diamond, defeated. Separated, shattered and killed under our very noses, though we weren't to know it at the time. We had failed. Though we were very young then, we understood what that meant. We expected no rescue, and when the ships first came down I thought they had come to execute us for our failure. We were instead loaded on by wordless soldiers, my sisters questions ignored or struck down with blows til they ceased. One even lost her form under the hail of pain they brought upon her innocent queries. Battered and bruised we sat in that ship, not knowing our destination, not knowing which direction we headed in. Were we to be lead elsewhere for our execution, to be used as a public example for a society we did not know? The losers and failures paraded in front of a society we'd never known, our suffering and death a reminder to those remaining to never fail like we did? Our eldest sister was the only one who remained strong, sitting there taking up three seats where we took one. The perfect Jasper sat there a beacon of hope, looking at us reassuringly and pressed close to our injured. Her eyes still spoke of hope, a held fast belief that we were just being relieved. Her calm demeanor quieted our fears, her small smile as she looked us each in the eye gave us some vestige of hope. When she had at last locked eyes with each of us in turn, she turned unblinking to the nearby window. As though our Diamond had made it out, on a different ship, perhaps even so close one could see it through the glass. We never saw another ship. The inky darkness stretched on infinitely, cut only by the thin beams of light signifying the passing stars. As bleak as it felt, perhaps it would all be alright, perhaps not everything was lost. Maybe our sins would be forgiven or tolerated, instead of swift death we might simply be jailed or lightly punished. Maybe we our accomplishments in battle made us too valuable to lose, we might even be rewarded. What if without our knowledge we were being shipped to a parade in our honor? We had won the war it was safe now, we could go home, and live a peaceful life free of rebels. Our Diamond would be on the platform awaiting us, ready to congratulate us and berate the over eager soldiers that had forced us onto the ship. She might even punish them for their actions.

Perhaps they would- Maybe we- What if-

Such fantasies left my head when we landed. All vestiges of hope take from us along with our eldest. We landed with so soft a bump we barely realized it had happened, before the soldiers screamed at us to get off the ship. We all got off, our sisters pouring out from other similar vessels.  A Pearl stood in the distance, directing the lesser gems that escorted us to our unknown destination. We milled around aimlessly, trying to account for our numbers. Cries went up as some amongst our number realized we were missing our youngest, silenced swiftly by the hands of the guard. The Pearl's orders came swiftly and we began to march toward our fate. The Pearl made one final gesture and our eldest Jasper was separated from the group and led in a different direction. I cried out unbidden, as did many of my sisters. I received a sharp blow to the head for it, as did many, several more were reduced to their gems. Those nearby quickly stooped to lift their fallen sisters and cradled them in their arms, even as they shielded them from further blows punishing them for unsanctioned movement. Our eldest Jasper was carried off against her will, muzzled when she tried to scream for them to stop. We never knew where she went, and we never saw her again. Our youngest and eldest sisters gone! And not a moment to grieve. We were forced to march, beaten and tired as we were, through endless corridors we didn't recognize. Not one of us knew where we were headed, nor how to return to where we came. How long we marched, we knew not as the minutes blurred to hours. At long last they escorted us through a pair of massive doors and into another ship, sent off in a hurry to who knew where. This trip lasted but mere minutes and once again we were dragged off, by our very hair if we could not stand. Beaten, battered, bruised we lay there in agony. I almost welcomed death at that point, an end to the suffering and pain, an end to the misery. An escape from the hellish future I now knew must await us. We wouldn't be killed. We were to be tortured, scarred, damaged and kept alive but broken. A warning to those who would have followed our path, those who would have failed their Diamonds. Our lives would never see so much as a single hint of light or freedom.

“What in Diamond's name have you done to them! What is this?”

A voice tore through my thoughts, angered and worried. Its presence was accompanied by a curious series of clicks reverberating through the room, audible even over the moans and weeping of my sisters. I looked up, a motion mirrored by those who lay on the ground around me as though synchronized. And there is where I saw you for the first time. From a small door placed next to a much larger one, atop a flight of stairs, descended a blue gem shorter than the lot of us. She stood with her back erect, her plump form oddly stiff and regal despite being half the size of many of our sisters. She was garbed in the traditional clothing of the gems as we were, but with a beautiful shawl of light blue thrown around her shoulders. Her legs were enclosed in white heels that came to the center of her thighs rather snugly, their hard soles making the clicking noise we would soon associate with her arrivals. So quick was her pace towards us, her shawl streaming out behind her. Her hair was short and gathered into two buns on either side of her head, round and pointed like massive horns. And her face. It was notably round, soft, and blue, but so contorted by her fury that the effect was one of terror. Eyebrows knit together, her lips curled backwards in anger, exposing rows of grinding white teeth. Her eyes blazed with a fury that threatened to ignite those that beheld it, their icy cold flash so bright and threatening it cast her face into shadow. She appeared before us an avenging spirit, a demon made flesh that even now carved a path to our group. Was this our executioner? The one summoned to destroy us and the mistake we bore evidence to? Many looked away in terror but I lay on my knees in terror, transfixed by the sheer rage in her face. I watched my death and annihilation step towards us. Then it passed the first of my sisters, as vision of rage wove effortlessly through our group. Towards me. Every passing step brought her closer to me, my mind shutting down. I couldn't not process what she was, what she would do. She drew close, finally stepping directly in front of me and stopping. I merely gazed upwards at her face even as she stared at me, accepting what must come at that moment, not knowing why I was the first among my sisters to be chosen. Those eyes pierced my very soul for the fraction of a second they lingered on my face. I saw something else behind them, an emotion or idea I could not comprehend. Her eyes held me my surroundings fading as I found myself instantly drawn in towards them, accepting my end. Her pupil was a void and as it locked into my own, it expanded, its darkness overtaking me and overwhelming my conscious. It drew me into its abyss and I welcomed it. Then her eyes passed over me and to the soldier standing next to me, and my mind was again my own. I shuddered uncontrollably as the chill passed from me, some frayed instinct screaming at the death I'd so narrowly avoided. For a moment she stood there, her fury and rage now directed at the commander I hadn't realized was next to me. The anger I had born witness to was not intended for me.

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE! YOUR ORDERS WERE TO DELIVER THEM TO ME UNHARMED!” The words tore from her lips with the fury of a storm barely held, eyes flashing like ice so cold it would burn like flames on bare skin. The commander towered nearly a foot over her, grizzled by years of experience in combat yet wincing in the face of her fury.

“Listen Ma'am they were hurt on the field of battle we just saved them from some hell scape named Earth and brought 'em here as quick as we could-” The commander tried to remain calm, assuming a belittling tone as though explaining to a child, to belittle the blue demon and pacify her.

“Are you trying to insult my intelligence? I was at the door when you arrived, I watched you and your platoon of buffoons striking at my new charges like a pack of brutes!” She countered, rage quivering in every syllable, and those eyes, oh Diamonds those eyes! Unblinking, unwavering in the face of the commander.

The commander became angry herself. “They resisted Ma'am we had to drag them off the damn ship they wouldn't come with us-”

“Oh so you lot had a lot to fear from them then, half the damn group unconscious or rendered stones. What courage, dragging them across the floor, striking them for so much as a murmur!” The blue demon defended them. I felt something leap to my throat, emotions of hope that mere hours ago I had abandoned completely. I realized she was on our side. A chance! A hope! An avenging angel sent to deliver us from a grisly fate. Maybe she would stop the pain, the batterings, the fear. In that moment I bet my life on her, knowing she would see me through.

“How dare you! I take time out of my day and risk my gems to gather a group of failed experiments for you off some backwater planet in a forgotten nebula and you think you can insult me? I don't give one damn what happens to this pack of freaks and I don't mind giving you one across the face if you don't speak to me in the proper tone this instant Agate!” The commander was livid now, stepping forward til she was directly in the Agate's face, scowling. The Agate didn't so much as bat an eyelid.

The moment lasted a quiet eternity, and when the Agate opened her mouth once more, she wasn't yelling. She spoke in a low icy tone, somehow more frightening than her yelling moments before. Her eyes bored into the commander, her fury made somehow more evident by the finality of her threat. “You know who I serve. You know to who I report. They made it very clear what they expected from you when they sent you. And you've not only failed to do as she asks but purposefully damaged my new subordinates. MY new subordinates. A word from me, and your gem, and that of your little group of insurgents, will be ground to dust beneath the heels of my lady. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?”

The commander didn't breathe for a moment. Her eyes broke contact as the weight of the threat dawned upon her. She stepped back. “Fine. Have it your way. Enjoy your subordinates. C'mon gems we are leaving! She wants her pack of animal misfits she can have them! We're moving out” And with this parting shot, the soldiers boarded their ships and left the compound. My sisters sat still, not quite sure what to expect. I looked up at the Agate, her expression still stormy and angry. Unbidden, the words fell from my lips. “Thank you.” Her eyes moved back to mine, capturing my gaze with their sudden icy flash. And suddenly they softened. Apologetic, understanding, beautiful.

“It was nothing dear. But we have got to get you and your sisters cleaned up and fixed as quickly as possible! Please help me gather them up.” She reached her hand to me, and I grasped hers in mine. I tensed as a thrill shot up my arm from the chill in her hand… and I could have sworn she did the same when she felt the warmth in mine. I smiled for the first time in weeks. I couldn't believe it. At long last, someone who could help us. Someone who would take away the pain. My joy was evident on my face, far too much as more than I should have shared become clearly visible in my face. A slight blush appeared in her cheeks but she quickly hauled me to my feet and quickly let go of my hand. “I am Holly Blue Agate, your new leader. And what do I call you?” She asked of me.

“They call me Sharky”

“Miss around here we use proper gem designations, please use those going forward! I can see there's a lot I'll have to teach the lot of you. Though I can see why they'd give you such a name. Lovely smile of yours…” A notable flush went up her neck and she looked away, her voice quavering suddenly. “-Anyway we must see to your sisters posthaste quickly now!”