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a-romantics-guide-to-life · 2 months ago

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𝜗𝜚₊˚⊹ ᡣ𐭩 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓸𝓯 𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓪𝓷𝓾𝓼 𝔀𝓱𝓮𝓷 𝓱𝓮’𝓼 𝓫𝓾𝓼𝔂 ᡣ𐭩 ⊹˚₊𝜗𝜚

young politician coryo snow x wife fem reader

tags: softie coryo, coryo prioritizing work, babying, domestic fluff, loser coryo if you squint, coryo is very much motivated by different things aka canon divergence

our poll winner fic!! have had this in my drafts for so long here it is finally! hope you enjoy!

It was no question that Coriolanus was smart, calculating, and hard working. He worked hard to fundraise, worked hard to snag the presidential campaign, worked hard at the University which he attended with the support of the Plinths, and he worked hard to stretch his money (and subsequently his limits).

And he worked hard to please you.

He knew you disliked eating all alone. So, Coriolanus made sure to be home by seven o’clock on the dot every night to help you cook dinner. You always loved the hominess of it and so he made sure to schedule meetings for after dinner and turned down any and all calls (unless the country was burning down of course).

Coriolanus also made sure to always be in bed with you by 9 o’clock. He’d shower and drape his robe on before laying right next to where you sat on your shared bed, usually a book in hand. On special nights, ones where Coriolanus swears he would drop everything and leave the country from the horridness of it all, he’d kiss you extra gently, laying his curly head at the top of your belly. Sometimes, tears would cascade down his face as you swear to kill the entire of Panem for him. You’d kiss his head, running your fingers through his curls as Coriolanus would weep softly against your thighs.

You always made sure to treat him extra nicely the next day, even canceling his meetings in the morning just so he could rest and get away from it all.

“Mmmmm, darling.”

Coryo nuzzled his face further into you, his curls tickling your neck. The sun was up, its rays seeping into your dark bedroom. His hand entwined in yours, playing lightly with the precious red diamond ring on your finger.

You chuckle, kissing his head softly eliciting a groan from him. He lifts his head, pressing his mouth to yours. Soft lips meet your own as your hands run through his curls.

A loud ring breaks you two apart, Corio’s head falling forward to meet yours. His hands go to your hips as he groans, this one a different shade of agony, and gets up to pick it up.

You knew he wouldn’t pick up at night but morning was free territory for other greedy politicians and staff members to steal Coriolanus’ few minutes in heaven with you.

He stared outside the window, his once ocean blue eyes turning icy as his jaw locked. Your eyebrows crease in worry as you stand up walking over to where he silently nodded along to what the person on the line said. You approached him silently, wrapping your arms around his stiff body. He looked to you, his eyes softening before his free arm wrapped itself around your body. Coryo presses a kiss to your hairline before taking the phone and walking to his dresser, his voice tense as he responds to whatever the person on the line said.

He nearly yells into the phone for calling him over an ‘emergency funding meeting’ about his ‘campaign’. Coryo was no fool, he knew exactly what they wanted from him. Money. And he hated how you looked up at him all softly even knowing he was about to leave you yet again for the entire day. He hated how his chest constricted after you wrapped yourself around him to relieve his stress.

But, that wasn’t enough to get him to not put on his blood red suit, comb his curls into a neater style, and go to his office where his team called him. If he wanted to take over Panem and milk it for all it’s got to make you feel safe and secure, he had to go.

He may even have to break his promise with you, his darling gem.

And you knew that. In the nearly twenty-four hours that Coriolanus is gone, you knew that all he was doing was for all who he had lost along the way. His politician father whose name he wanted to live up to, his dear mother who he wanted to honor by taking care of you, his beloved wife. His Grandma’am who he wanted to honor by bringing her country back to its former glory, and most of all, yours and Coryo’s fallen friend Sejanus who Coryo wanted to honor by seizing control of all of Panem and lessening the burden of the Districts.

So, even as you sat all by yourself eating a dinner prepared in utter silence, you worried about Coryo. What he was doing, had he had dinner yet? Had he had any food in the last five-six hours? Had he been working restlessly to resolve whatever issues arose in the two hours he had spent with you?

You continued on with your routine, cleaning every dirty dish in the sink. Cleaning your room and organizing Coryo’s desk all before sitting down and opening your book.

Although, you couldn’t read a single word. Your mind kept torturing you. You knew Coriolanus was passionate and driven, so much so that once he has his mind set on something he’ll forget everything else.

So you shook your head as you placed your book back onto your nightstand, a delicate red ribbon bookmark gifted to you by Coriolanus sticking out of the page you had last read. Memories of Coriolanus’ soft yet powerful voice reading the page to you while you lay in between his arms and legs play in your mind as your body grows cold from the missing heat of your husband behind you.

You pull your legs to your chest, hoping the movement would warm you up until the sound of your creaky front door opening. You turn to face Coryo’s side, it couldn’t be Coryo. He would stay at his office instead of coming home this late.

The sound of feet moving closer to your bedroom had you standing up and running to the door. The familiar tug pulls you to open the door and immediately run into familiar arms.

Coryo stumbles a little from the force of you running to hug him. His eyes water at the sight of you, your cheek pressed firmly against this wrinkled shirt, the steady fall of tears slowly cascading from your eyes. His arms wrap around you, his nose pressing firmly into your strawberry scented hair. He loved the smell of you, the hominess and realness of it. He despised the other Capitol girls with their complicated scents which matched their equally vapid personalities.

You two stood in the hallways for moments, reveling in the time spent together. You look up at Coryo’s hydrangea eyes, pressing up onto your toes before kissing your husband like it was the first time again. His eyes closed at the feel of your warm velvety lips against his own chapped and dry ones. He had developed the nasty habit of biting on his lip when he was a peacekeeper which only ever seemed to come back whenever faced with mountain tons of stress that could make his snow blond hair whiter.

He started pushing you back into your warmly lit room, the lights turned down Coryo noted. Must’ve meant that you were just about to sleep. He left your lips to take off his shirt, your eyebrows raising at the indication. You had started to unbutton your nightgown when he pressed his palm into your hands.

“Darling, I have no intention of making love to you, yet. I fear I am just too tired and would rather we just sleep.”

You look at him, noticing how his face is sunken and how murky his eyes had become. You quickly nod, kissing Coryo’s cheek as you told him to take off his clothes so he could change, and walk to the closet to toss him something to wear to sleep. He thanks you before swiftly taking his suit off, climbing underneath the covers, and sliding to his spot right next to you. His arms wrap around your middle, pulling you closer to him.

His nose presses into your hair, soft snores following shortly after. You smile, wrapping your own arm around his which squeezed you just a little closer to him.

In the morning, Coryo couldn’t help but get up early. He still had so much to do after the shit that went down two days ago. One thing leads to another and before Coryo knows it, his entire campaign is falling apart, only held together by his unwavering conviction and ambition.

Coryo longed for nothing more than to stay in bed with you.

When you woke up, the sun was high in the sky while the space next to you was long vacant. You got up, stretching a bit before setting out to find Coryo. You wrap yourself in smooth silks and heavy velvets as you trek through the house, peeking into every room looking for your blonde husband.

Your feet start to ache at the cold flooring your feet walked on as you continue your grand search for the future president of Panem. Finally, you open the creaky door of Coryo’s office finding the curly man slumped over his desk. You smile at the boyish look Coryo has on his face, his eyes closed in peace as drool slightly escapes his upturned lips. You laugh as he whines and laughs in his sleep, his head falling further into his hand.

Your hands rise to cradle his face, using a pillow you took from the couch in the room, to catch his face. You kiss his forehead, closing the curtains behind him. You also organize the papers that were in his hands, capping his favorite fountain pen. You close the door softly behind you as you get ready to prepare some ford for Coryo when he wakes.

And when Coryo does wake, the first thing he notices is that his back hurts. In fact, how had he fallen asleep in his office? How had he gotten there? He stands, stretching his arms high above him, walking to open his curtains for the bright sun to flood the dark mahogany room.

“Oh, you’re awake darling.” You exclaim, walking to the coffee table to set down the tray in your hands.

“Mmm, how long have I been asleep, again.” Coryo smiles, walking to the couch, returning the pillow ushering you to take a seat next to him. As soon as you do, he leans in and kisses your soft cheek.

“Only two hours but I have a feeling you could use some more sleep.”

You arrange the tray, setting Coryo’s favorite coffee next to him, his favorite fruits and sweets on the table for him to choose from.

“What's all this for baby?”

“You silly.” You turn to Coryo, bringing your hand to his cheek, “I know you’ve been busy and stressed so I’ve taken the liberty of cancelling all your calls and meetings no matter the emergency because you’re sick.”

He softens at the gesture, hugging you. You smile into the embrace, kissing his neck softly. He chuckles, tightening his arms around you further.

“Thank you so much, I need this my love.” He rests his head on your own.

“Don’t even think of it darling, I love you and wanna take care of you. Besides I have all the relaxation covered, by the end of this day you’ll be one with our bed.”

“Of that, I have no doubt love.”

You smile back at him, tackling him in a bear hug.

#hes just a bit forgetful and stressed #but its okay bb #dont really like the ending but its finally done #thank you to all those who voted and I hope you enjoyed!#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #tbosas #coriolanus snow imagine #ballad of songbirds and snakes #tom blyth #tom blyth x reader #emi sanity

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rainbow-flavoured-skittles · 11 months ago

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Sensei Sharpens Student

this is just 4.5k words of Yang and Cole bonding. I don't know where I found the energy to do this. this was just my excuse to write Cole angst again and be self indulgent but it worked out well. cross posted to ao3 as well

tw for death mentions and mild violence

Yang stared down at the child’s body and sighed. So young… it was a shame his life had been cut short so quickly. Kind of. Yang couldn’t quite bring himself to feel grief over the child, especially not when it would all be remedied soon.

He picked up the body, careful to avoid damaging it further — those oni had really done a number on him — and brought it to the altar. The child would have looked serene if not for the ugly gashes marring his face. Falling from a skyscraper was a truly terrible way to go, all that shattered glass and broken bones and simply knowing that you would die and it could not be changed.

“Soon,” Yang whispered to the corpse. “It will all be better soon.” It might not be, if his plan failed, but it wouldn’t be much of a loss. The child couldn’t respond anyway.

He checked his hourglass — only ten minutes until the eclipse. Ten minutes until he’d see if this child could be resurrected. Ten minutes until the Rift could be summoned again for the first time in three centuries.

Yang picked up the Yin Blade and held it above the child‘s head. It was time. He slashed at the air, the blade ripping a hole in the very universe itself, and smiled.

The Rift glowed a radioactive, toxic green, not unlike the green of the Lazarus Pits. The colours in it swirled together in hypnotic patterns, seemingly alive. Yang picked up the child, less carefully than before, for any further damage wouldn’t matter soon, and threw him into the Rift. Perhaps that was a bit of a crude word, but it was accurate. The boy was not exactly heavy, and Yang had been a very strong man in life.

As soon as the body disappeared into the glowing green of the Rift, Yang dusted his hands off and waited. He did not know how long it would take for the child to come back out. He didn’t even know if the boy would be revived, or if he’d ever come out. If the boy was still dead, then it showed that humans could not be resurrected with the Rift. If he was alive, then Yang had his very own pet assassin. Yang would be unharmed either way.

A loud crack of thunder outside had Yang cursing and running to the door. It was the Rift, it must be. The portal on the inside of the temple had closed, but the green glow outside meant there was some degree of success.

He ran outside and found the body crumpled in a rose bush. It was jarringly similar to how Yang had first found the boy, all bones and too-cold skin, twisted in the way that only a dead body could be. Except this body was not dead. It was very much alive. Yang could see the boy’s shallow breathing. He pressed a finger to his wrist. There was a faint pulse, slow but still there. Yang would have let out a breath of relief if he could still breathe. The boy was alive. The Rift had worked. He now had proof that humans could be resurrected with it.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open. It was strange to see the small side effects of the Rift — Yang would have to jot them down. Where before his eyes had been a pale grey, like little pools of moonlight, the left one was now an unnatural green. The same colour as the Rift.

A jagged scar ran down the left side of his face as well, starting somewhere above his hairline and ending just above his chin. It was the same green as the Rift. Yang could find no logical reason for it. The boy’s eye changing colour made sense, the Pits did the same thing, but the scar was unexpected. Yang would have to study that further. He held out his hand and pulled the boy to his feet. He looked disoriented, not completely aware of his surroundings, but Yang smiled anyway.

“Welcome back,” he croaked to the child.

Everything was black until it wasn’t. Then it was green and pain and screaming and awakening to an unfamiliar place. The boy blinked his eyes at the old man in front of him. He was fairly sure he didn’t know this man. But the boy couldn’t remember much of anything at the moment, so he let the man drag him to his feet and lead him though a door.

“How are you feeling?” The old man asked the boy. They had settled down around a low table, sitting on silk cushions. A plate of cookies was set in front of them.

The boy did not know how to respond. “I don’t know,” he said. His voice was raspy and unfamiliar to him. That was scary — how could he not know his own voice?

The old man frowned. “What is your name?”

The boy blinked. He thought hard about what his name might be. “Cole,” he said. That sounded right.

“Cole,” the old man repeated. “I am Master Yang. I am the one who brought you back to life.”

Back to life? Wouldn’t that mean Cole had died? He tried to think about what may have happened and was immediately hit by feelings of pain and hopelessness and terror. However he had died hadn’t been peaceful. Cole shoved those feelings down and looked up at Yang.

“I died?”

“Yes,” Master Yang nodded. “I revived you with the Rift of Return.”

“Did you know me? Is that why you brought me back?”

Master Yang cringed at that. “I did not know you. I simply saw a child in need and helped.”

“Okay,” Cole said. He could tell that Yang wasn’t telling the truth, or at least not all of it, but he had saved Cole from death. That had to mean something.

“I want to train you,” Master Yang said. “In the ways of combat. So that you will not die again.”

“But everyone dies.”

“Yes, but I would still like to train you. So that you can be safe,” Yang fumbled his words, looking for an excuse.

Cole thought for a bit. No matter how hard he tried to remember, he could not think of anything from his past. Granted, he had only been revived for an hour or so, but it couldn’t be normal not to remember. And what if it was people from his past that had caused his death? Yang was offering him safety and training. It would be good to know how to fight, and maybe he could regain some memories.

“I’ll train with you,” Cole told Yang. It seemed like the best option.

“Excellent,” Master Yang smiled wickedly. “Your training will begin tomorrow. You may take one of the empty rooms upstairs.”

Cole nodded and went up the stairs. He opened the first door on the right and looked over the room. It was dusty, clearly having been uninhabited for quite some time. It was still shelter, though, and the bed looked comfortable.

He looked in the mirror. A reflection stared back at him, of a young boy with dark hair and skin. His eyes were strange — one grey, the other bright green. A large crack (scar?) ran down the side of his face. It glowed green as well. Cole shivered at it. The reflection didn’t seem like him, was wrong and unfamiliar. Of course, who even was Cole? How was he to know if this was what he’d always looked like? He couldn’t remember any family or friends, or what he might have done in his free time, or whether he had any goals for the future. It was terrifying to not know who he was.

Yang knocked on the door, shaking Cole out of his spiral. “Cole, I would suggest you go to bed. Your training begins early and I will not tolerate any whining of no sleep.”

“Yes, Master Yang,” Cole said. He shook the dust off of the bedsheets and pillow. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. His body shut down immediately, sending him into a cold dreamless sleep.

The knives came towards Cole at full speed, bright silver crescents that threatened to kill if he didn’t dodge. Cole did a backflip to the left and a handspring to the right, then a simple roll to the floor. Not a single one of the knives hit him.

“Good work,” Master Yang said approvingly. He pocketed one of the throwing knives. “But your backflip was sloppy. We’ll need to fix that.”

“But everything else was good?” Cole asked. He hoped he had done well — he’d trained for hours on the corkscrews.

“Yes.”

“Should I practice throwing them now?”

Yang hummed and stroked his beard. “Go to the armoury and get some throwing knives. Make sure they’re the ones with red leather grips. I don’t want you training with the good knives yet.”

“Yes, Master Yang,” Cole hurried off to go get the knives. He found the armoury, an ancient mahogany door leading to it, and stepped in. There were weapons everywhere, ranging from large battle axes to small daggers to deadly poisons in glass vials. He found the required throwing knives and was about to exit when he saw the scythe.

It was a beautiful piece of work, carefully engraved with runes and enchantments. The blade was polished to perfection, shining and gleaming and incredibly sharp. The handle was made of honey coloured wood, wrapped in black leather. All in all, a stunning ten-out-of-ten weapon.

Cole looked at it and went back down the hall to Yang. “Master Yang, I saw this scythe in the armoury, and I was wondering, maybe after the throwing knives, maybe I—“

“Just spit it out already, boy,” Yang spat.

“Could I train with the scythe, maybe?”

Yang frowned. “It is a difficult weapon,” he said. “Not many use it in combat. It’s much more for reaping crops than anything.”

“But could I learn it?”

“Hmmm,” Yang thought. He intended to have Cole master all the weapons he had, scythe included. It wouldn’t hurt to change his plans a bit and have him learn the scythe next. A perfect assassin should know how to use every weapon, after all.

“Very well then,” he said to Cole. “Once you’ve mastered the throwing knives, I will teach you how to use a scythe.”

Cole had stars in his eyes. “Really?”

“I just said you could, didn’t I?”

“Yes!” Cole pumped his fist in a rare display of childish enthusiasm. Yang smiled a bit at that, though he would deny it if asked.

Yang nodded in satisfaction at his pupil’s performance. Cole had finally mastered the throwing knives — and in an exceptionally short amount of time, too. He could be the world’s greatest assassin given a few more years.

“Did I pass?” Cole said.

“Yes,” Yang said. “You did well.”

Cole lit up at the praise. “So I can learn how to use the scythe now?”

Yang raised an eyebrow at the question. He had not expected Cole to still remember that promise — children had short attention spans, and he’d figured Cole had forgotten about it.

But a promise was a promise, and Yang was a man of his word. “Very well, then. You may start training.”

Yang made his way to the armoury and found the old scythe. He had not used it in many, many years. The blade would need sharpening, he thought idly.

“Take it,” he handed the weapon to Cole. “I will teach you the basics, and then we will spar.”

Cole took it gingerly and held it with practiced ease. “Isn’t the blade a bit dull?”

“It will suffice for this lesson.”

“Okay.”

Yang held up his own scythe. “I will teach you how to hold it properly, first. Adjust your hands so that— yes, exactly like that,” he said, confused as to how Cole would already know how to hold the weapon.

“Now, scythes are more for slashing than stabbing. You won’t be able to stab someone through the heart or anything. Remember that.”

Cole shifted nervously. “Master Yang, I think I’ve got it,” he said.

Hmm. That was strange. The boy held his weapon like he was already familiar with it.

“You seem to have the basics down,” Yang said. “We’ll move on to sparring now. Don’t hold back.”

A nod, and then getting into position. Yang looked the boy over and gave the signal. He was off immediately, going straight for Yang’s throat and slashing at it. If Yang weren’t already dead, he would have died.

Yang went at Cole with his own weapon as well, though he aimed to incapacitate, not kill. Cole clearly had no such qualms — mostly because Yang couldn’t be killed — slicing at his throat and stomach. He was nimble, moving in the same way a dancer might, doing unnecessary kicks and spins.

It was surprising. Not many used the scythe as a weapon — it was too inconvenient. But Cole used it like it was part of his body. Yang found himself once again wondering what the boy’s past was. He had training, of course, but from whom? Who would have trained such a young child to fight like that? Other than Yang, of course.

Cole took Yang’s distraction as an opportunity to drop kick him and end the match. “Sorry, Master,” he said apologetically. “But you said not to hold back.”

Yang sniffed and readjusted his robes. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I don’t know. I think it might be from my past? It’s all still so foggy, though…”

“I don’t believe you’ll need any more training with the scythe,” Yang shook his head. “You’re more than proficient.”

“But isn’t there always room for improvement?”

“A good fighter knows more than just two weapons. You will train with the bow and arrows next.”

Cole deflated a little. Yang found himself feeling guilty at that. Guilty! When had he started caring about the boy’s feelings? Hell, when had he started caring about the boy in general?

“You may train with the scythe in the afternoons,” Yang found himself saying. “As long as all your other exercises have been completed.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

Cole was crying. Yang knew this because of the faint sobs coming from his room. He knocked on the door. “Cole, why are you crying?” He asked.

The door swung open to Cole, eyes all red and puffy. The scar on his face glowed radioactive green. “Just stuff,” he mumbled.

Yang sighed and marched into the room. He gestured for Cole to sit next to him. “Explain yourself,” he said. Not the most sensitive of statements, but Cole seemed to do better without being coddled.

Cole wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I remembered something,” he said softly.

“Then why are you crying? Regaining memories is something to be celebrated.”

“I remembered someone important. I think he was my friend, or something. But I don’t know his name.”

Yang sighed. “But you remember what he looks like?”

“No,” Cole shook his head. “I just remember that he cared about me. I don’t know anything, just vague feelings…”

“Your memories will return with time,” Yang said. “And until then, you have me.”

“That’s so cheesy,” Cole laughed — a dry, broken, laugh, but still a laugh.

“It is true.”

“Thank you, Master Yang.”

“It is a guardian’s job to take care of their ward, no?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Then I’m just doing my job. There’s no need to thank me.”

Yang was repairing Cole’s robes when the boy walked up to him. He’d been thinking about how reckless children were, and if it was possible to get more durable clothing. He hadn’t been expecting Cole to be awake for several more hours.

“I want to be a vigilante,” Cole said. He looked at Yang in the face — not quite eye contact, the boy hated that, but close.

“A vigilante? Explain,” Yang frowned.

“They fight crime. I think I used to be one, and I want to do it again.”

Yang sighed and put down the sewing materials. He looked at Cole. “You remember your past?”

“Only some. It’s still really blurry, but I’m sure about this.”

“You fought crime. Illegally, I presume. And you want to do it again.”

“Yes.”

“You’re aware of how dangerous that would be?”

Cole shuffled a little, clearly finding the situation awkward. “Yes, but I’ve trained a lot. You said I was good enough to take out an army.”

That had been a bit of an exaggeration. Yang regretted speaking in such a way. “You are good, yes, but that was hyperbole. Nobody can fight hundreds of people at once and win.”

“But I’m still good at fighting. And staying hidden. And gathering information.”

Yang wondered again when he had gotten attached to the boy. He certainly hadn’t cared when he first found him. And now he was worried about the boy being in danger, of all things.

“Cole, when I first found you, you were dead.” Cole flinched at the reminder but nodded. “That was almost certainly because of your ‘vigilante gig,’ so to speak. And you want to go out again to put yourself in danger.”

“I’m trained now.”

“You were trained before,” Yang retorted.

“I’m trained more.”

“You are still a child.”

“But I want to help people!” Cole looked desperate now. “I can help. I have all this training and experience that others don’t and I can save people!”

“Why?”

Cole picked at his nails. “I made a promise to someone,” he said. “‘Always stand up to those who are cruel and unjust.’ I want to keep that promise.”

“There are people out there who would hurt you. They would want to study you like a specimen in a lab.”

“Then I’ll avoid them.”

“It’s not that simple, Cole.”

“Master Yang, please.” Cole wiped tears from his eyes. Yang pushed down the feeling of guilt.

“You are trained, but would have no backup. I would not be able to help you if you’re in trouble.”

“I want to keep that promise,” Cole repeated. He had a steely look in his eyes. This was not something he’d back down from.

Yang got up from the table. “You must defeat me in a spar. Neither of us will hold back. If you win, you can become a vigilante.”

Cole raised an eyebrow. “And if I don’t?” The boy knew how to read the fine print. That was good. It would be a useful skill in the outside world.

“Then you stay here with me.”

“I accept your terms.”

“Then come,” Yang said. “Whoever gets knocked down first will lose. Any weapons are allowed. Fight dirty if needed.”

Cole nodded and followed to the training room. He took his position opposite to Yang. “I’m ready,” he said. He held his signature scythe in one hand and a set of daggers in the other.

Yang attacked first, a series of blows and kicks meant to incapacitate an enemy. Cole dodged and returned his own attacks, a flurry of knives and sharp kicks. Months of training had honed his skills into something deadly, more fluid than the style he’d had when he first arrived.

A dodge, and then a parry from Cole’s scythe. Yang was careful not to aim for the throat or head, hitting the legs and stomach instead. His sword clashed with the scythe. Multiple knives were thrown at each other. A dagger embedded itself into the wall.

It took almost thirty minutes for Cole to knock Yang down. He used his earth powers to his advantage, creating stepping stones to jump off of and hit Yang in the chest. He fell against the wall without a sound.

“I did it!” Cole cheered. He rushed to help his mentor off the floor. “I won, right? You said we could fight dirty.”

Yang dusted off his robes, rather pointlessly considering that he was a ghost and could not get dirty. “Yes, you won. You may become a vigilante and help save people.”

“Yes!”

Yang smiled at the scene. And if he’d let Cole win on purpose, well, nobody needed to know.

“—and it should be black, so that I can blend in easily. But also a cape! And a full face mask, to protect my identity.”

“You should talk less and focus more on your designing,” Yang commented. He looked over Cole’s drafts for the vigilante uniform. They were hastily coloured and roughly sketched — nothing final, just good enough to get an idea of how it could look.

“It should have orange accents, too. And pockets,” Cole scribbled some more notes. His hands were stained with charcoal and ink.

“It is very dramatic.”

“That’s the point!”

“You are adding a… scar to the mask?” Yang gestured at the large zig-zag drawn on the design.

“It’s supposed to look like the one I have. But orange, so that it matches the theme.” Cole pointed at the large scar on his face. After so many months, Yang doubted it’d ever heal. Cole would have to conceal it for the rest of his life.

“That is a liability to your identity.”

“I don’t plan to take off the mask. No one will know.”

“If you insist,” Yang sighed. He was already thinking of how to get supplies for this project. It would be a pain to find proper metal for the armour.

“I’m going to have a mask underneath, too, if it makes you feel better.”

“Alright, then.”

“I’m also going to add a voice modulator. So that I can sound scarier. And more adult-like.”

“You are barely five feet tall. Hardly an adult.”

“Platforms exist for a reason,” Cole rolled his eyes. Yang tried not to laugh at that.

It was finally complete. After hours and hours of work and multiple injuries, Cole had finally finished his new costume. He was quite proud of it — the orange accents weren’t too bright, so that he could blend in easily, but they still stood out. And it had all the appropriate ‘cryptid assassin’ vibes, just as he’d intended.

“What do you think, Master?”

Yang stood over Cole, examining the newly completed uniform. “It is good,” he said. “You have a talent for designing things.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I’m sure you will strike fear into the hearts of many.”

“I’m not trying to scare people. I want to save them,” Cole said.

“Hmmm.”

“The scaring people is targeted at bad guys.”

Yang nodded thoughtfully. His pupil had grown so much from the scrawny little boy he’d first found. He was a true warrior, now — perhaps not the undefeatable assassin Yang had first sought out to make, but formidable all the same. He was proud of the boy.

“I’m almost ready, now. I think I’ll leave tomorrow.” Cole looked at Yang for permission, as if he had not made up his mind to leave weeks ago.

“Of course. Make sure to visit a lonely old man when you get the chance, yes?”

“I wouldn’t leave you, not forever. You’re my family,” Cole said.

Family? That was a word Yang hadn’t head in a long time. He certainly had never been called family before. It warmed him to know that Cole thought him a member of his family.

“I’m glad to hear that,” Yang said.

The next morning, Cole packed his bags and sat beside Yang on the porch. To passerby, they’d see only a young teenager sitting on his own, swinging his legs and looking nervous. To Yang, he saw a boy he’d grown to care for as a son. He didn’t want Cole to leave. It seemed like they’d barely spent a week together, though it had been nearly a year.

Was it selfish, to wish that Cole would stay with him? Yang had grown to care for the boy. He’d never had a family, not in life, but it felt like Cole was his family. Cole himself had said that Yang was his family, and Yang returned the sentiment. Would it be selfish to ask him to stay forever, as father and son, untouched by time or the outside world?

It would be, Yang thought. Cole was nearly sixteen, by his estimates — it was high time he leave to find his own way. Even if his way was to become an illegal crime fighter.

“I’m going to take a train to the main city,” Cole said, breaking the silence. “I’ll figure living arrangements out when I get there.”

“You have enough money? Clothes, food, all your weapons?” Yang asked. It never hurt to make sure, though he was sure Cole had prepared well.

“Yes, Master. I’ve got more than enough of everything,” Cole laughed.

“That is good,” Yang breathed. He turned to look at Cole properly. “I have a gift for you,” he said.

“A gift?”

“Yes,” Yang pulled out the dagger. It was an ornate thing, fragile but dangerously sharp. It had been carved from obsidian and inlayed with silver centuries ago. It had been passed down from mentor to mentor over many years. Yang himself had inherited it when he left his mentor. And now it was Cole’s to wield.

“It’s beautiful,” Cole said. He turned it, watching the blade reflect light and sparkle a million different colours.

“My mentor passed this down to me, years ago. And now it is yours.”

Cole held the dagger to his chest. “Thank you, Master Yang.”

“The blade is supposedly enchanted to protect its owner. I hope that it will bring you protection.”

“Thank you,” Cole repeated. He sheathed the dagger into one of his many hidden pockets.

“You should go, now. You will be late for your train.”

“Yeah, I should,” Cole said sadly. He picked up his duffle bag and threw it over his shoulder. The he hugged Yang.

Ghosts cannot be touched. That is a well known fact. But Cole hugged Yang anyway, simply because a boy touched by death like he was could.

“Goodbye, my pupil,” Yang pulled away from the hug.

“Goodbye, Master,” Cole said in return. He made his way down the path to civilisation and the city.

Cole ran down a dark alley, uncaring of the cockroaches and rubbish everywhere. He stuck to the shadows, barely making a sound. The man he was following continued talking on the phone, unaware of the boy behind him. Cole slammed him on the back of the head and twisted his arms.

“You’re going to go to the police station,” he said slowly, “and you’re going to confess to murdering your wife. If you don��t, I’ll know.”

“Who the hell are you?” The man spat. His eyes were full of terror and confusion.

“I’m the Talon, and you’re going to do as I say or face the consequences.”

“What is this, some sorta bad movie? I’m not doing—“ whatever the man meant to say was cut off as Cole knocked him out. A bit of blood trickled from his temple.

“Amateurs,” Cole rolled his eyes and picked the man’s wallet up. He’d drop the guy off with evidence and keep the money. There was enough to book himself a ticket to Ninjago City Central, at least. Shame that he hadn’t wanted to confess on his own, though. The justice system would be much harsher on him now.

He picked the body up and dragged it to the police station. Then he changed into civvies and went up to the bus stop. He looked at the ticket dispenser in the eyes, just as he’d practiced.

“One ticket, please,” Cole smiled. Yang had taught him to be charming, after all.

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