Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

People called him many things.

 “Specimen J” was a favorite of the Men in White Coats.

It didn’t take long for him to find out why.

The people of this place called him “Boy” or “Child”, though there were exceptions.

 The first was the one that examined him upon his arrival, a tall willowy woman wearing a black mask with no features. She referred to him as “half-breed” throughout their interaction, however what the other half was exactly, he had no clue. She did not reveal who the people who picked him off that road or how they even knew about the facility, despite the countless questions he threw at her. It was as if he had been talking to a wall. In the end, she was only marginally better than the Men in White Coats. He felt relieved when she left, however her replacement, he learned, was far worse. 

Which brought him to the other exception: his jailor, a large portly man, who used to call him “Runt”, until the boy tore off his stupid mask and bit off one of his fingers, earning him the name “Son of a Bitch”.

None of them had any meaning to him.

The names were simply placeholders, hollow words with no substance.

He felt no attachment to them; he felt no attachment to anything.

Just emptiness.

Suffocating lonely emptiness.

His long ears twitched as the sound of footsteps approached his cell.

A rush of emotions ran through his mind: first, excitement, then, unease and fear. Was it his jailor? No, the footwork was different, lighter somehow. Then who? 

Quickly, he crouched down on all-fours, backing into the corner to protect his back. Flexing his claws, he waited, watching, holding himself as still as he could in hopes that his next visitor was not like the last.

The door opened; a tall man entered.

He looked different than his jailor, tall and thin. Unlike the others he wore no mask, his angular features emphasized by the dimness of his cell while his sharp hooked nose stood out against the long oval nature of his face. He held himself differently as well, exuding a calm pleasant demeanor. Looks can be deceiving however. His jailor had appeared jolly at first glance, until he showed his true colors when the boy refused to comply.

The child would not be tricked a second time.

He shifted his focus to the man’s hands, at the thin rectangular box grasped between. 

A delicious smell emanated from it.

“Hello, young one. Would you like something to eat?” The man gestured for him to come closer opening and presenting the box to the child like a gift. “I’ve got pizza.”

The boy approached, his curiosity outweighing his fear of the strange man.

Starving—ravenously so— the boy tore into the meal, devouring as much as he was able.

The child could recall what pizza was, like how to make it and how it tasted, however who and where he learned about it were still murky. To his relief the flavor matched his recollection.

He purred in delight. 

“Hungry little thing, aren’t you,” the man remarked. “I told those fools that regular old Troll food wouldn’t work, but did they listen to me? No, of course not. As always, it’s not until someone loses a body part that they come crying for me to fix it.”

He looked up at the larger male. Wiping his mouth with his hand, the boy said, “You talk a lot.”

The man blinked. “Pardon?”

“My other jailor didn’t talk with me very much. Just gave orders and said mean stuff.” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then another bite of pizza.

“I’m not . . .He wasn’t . . . is that how you saw him? As your jailor?”

“You speak funny too,” he added. 

“I . . . see.”

The boy looked up at the man. “What’s Troll food?”

Crossing his legs, the man leaned closer, hhis expression warm and inviting, at least to the boy. He started, “It’s food that Trolls eat, though I dare say the word ‘food’ is rather poor choice of term. I still cannot believe they tried to feed you bloody socks. What are we, heathens? Honestly. As much as I detest humans, they have far surpassed our race in that aspect.”

He cocked his head to the side, then asked, “What’s a Troll?”

“A species born underneath the earth, though my kind and I are different than the yellow-bellied denizens that exist there now. But that will change once Gunmar returns.”

“Gunmar? Who's that?”

“The true leader of us Trolls. He will talk back the surface from the humans.” He raised his chin up, chest out and his shoulders back, “I am his Second-in-Command.”

“You’re a Troll?” He asked, brows furrowed. “You look human.”

“Changeling, to be precise. But yes, I am a breed of Troll one could say. Vavatonem Troglodytam in Latin. We can change our appearance at will, like so.” He flashed between forms so quick the boy barely caught it.

He’s jaw dropped, amazement in his eyes. “Can all Trolls do that?”

“No, only us Changelings can.”

“Who’s us?”

He waved a hand around in the air, “Everyone in this facility. You too, are one of us, if only half.”

“Are there others who are half like me?”

The man shook his head, eyes cast downward. “No, you are the first of your kind that we’ve encountered.”

The man stood; the boy flinched, moving back.

Carefully, the taller male put his hands up in front of him, bending down so that he was to the child’s level. “It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you. Johnson has been punished severely and is being transferred, effective immediately, I should add.”

“H-he’s gone?”

Relief flooded the boy. His jailor had not been kind like this man was. He tried to force feed the boy.

He smirked at the memory of his jailor’s hallowing when he bit off the digit and spat it back in his face.

Of course, it resulted in an ugly bruise on his left cheek, but the consequences were well worth it.

“Yes,” the man stated as he gestured to the table. “Now, come. Sit down with me and finish your food. We shan’t let it go to waste.”

He approached cautiously, eyeing the larger all the while. Falling back into the chair, he returned to eating.

Fingers smoothed down his unruly hair. It was a strange sensation, though not an unwelcome one. The boy’s shoulders loosened, his head subconsciously leaning against the man’s warm hand.

The Changeling sniffed then frowned, though he did not stop his grooming of the boy. “Have you had a bath?”

“No. They only let me out to use the toilet.”

The man’s other hand came over his mouth. “I see.”

Finishing off the last of his meal, the younger male licked his greasy fingers in satisfaction, examining the elder with interest. “Who are you?”

“Someone who is very concerned about his people’s welfare. My human alias is Walter Strickler, but you make call me Stricklander. I am the head around here. And what might I call you, little one?”

He paused, thinking hard. “I don’t remember . . . before . . . The Men in White Coats named me ‘Specimen J’. I don’t like that name though. Your people call me ‘boy’, mostly.”

“Well, I’m certain we can a name for you soon, little one,” Stricklander sighed. “My child, I am terribly sorry for all this. I was under the impression that our people were treating you hospitably, however, apparently my information was incorrect. Allow me to rectify the problem immediately.”

It didn’t take long.

Within the span of an hour his jail was replaced with far better accommodations, consisting of a small cozy room with an adjoining bathroom.

 It wasn’t luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, however to boy, it was home, at least for the time being.

Anything was better than the cell.

Stricklander made sure he was too take a bath first and, loath as he was to admit it, he enjoyed getting all the grime and sweat off of his skin.

The other Changeling had disappeared soon after, though not without leaving a clean pair of clothes for him to wear. They were more fitted than the last and considerably softer, which he appreciated.

Straight out of his bath he began to explore every crook and crevice of his new abode in wonder. He looked through the bookcase, however found most of the books too advanced for his understanding or in a language he could not comprehend.

It was odd he could even read at all. His name and his past were gone, wiped from his memory. Still, he recognized things for what they were, though he could not recall from where or when. He understood the words in some of the books, but he didn’t remember who taught them to him. It irked the boy, this uneasiness. Everything was familiar, and yet, not.

He didn’t like to think about it too much. 

To keep busy, he threw a ball against the wall, catching it with one hand then repeating the process over and over. It wasn’t very entertaining, but it distracted him. There were other toys, games and the like, however it was hard to play by himself, and many of them were made for someone far younger than he.

At least the mirror had provided some entertainment, but, that too, soon bored him as well.

Though he knows he probably should, he didn’t recognize the boy in his reflection. Two horns on either side of head curved over his skull, arching upward at the ends like that antelope in the zoology book he found. Unlike the antelope though, his were thick and dark brown, only a few shades lighter than his hair.

He lacked the large off-colored nose that Stricklander’s Troll form possessed, his own simply being wide and hooked. His lower jaw held two tusks that peaked out over his lips, but other than two sharp canines on his upper mouth, the rest of his teeth were flat and human-like.

He had only seen a few Trolls so far, and he held no resemblance to any of them. Were there also Trolls out there who looked like him? He’d tried to look more like how he imagined a Troll should look, hissing at himself in the mirror. He practiced multiple expressions before he found the perfect one or, at least, perfect for him.

Two light knocks alerted the boy, snapping him out of his musings. His nostrils picked up the other’s familiar scent. He opened the door slowly, peeking up at his visitor.

“Care for some dinner?” Stricklander asked. "I don’t normally eat pizza, but you appeared to have enjoyed the last one.”

Walking past the smaller boy, he placed the food on one of the tables in the corner. The child helped himself to another slice, then, after a moments pause, picked up a piece and placed it in front of the man.

Stricklander gave him a bemused smile, accepting the gift. “Thank you, young man. How are you enjoying your new accommodations?”

Yawning, the boy nodded in affirmation. “S’okay.”

"Just okay?" He nudged the boy in the arm jokingly. 

The child laughed a bit, "Okay, I lied. It's better. Much better."

“I'm glad to hear it." Stricklander paused, then said, "I was told you haven’t slept in a few days.”

"Yeah," he mumbled under his breath. He crossed his arms. 

“Care to tell me why?” Stricklander asked, carefully separating a portion of the pizza and placing it in his mouth. 

He looked away, stuffing his face with more food. After a few chews, he responded, “Why does it matter?”

“Because the wellbeing of my people is important to me, especially our young ones. Our kind…do not have it easy in this world. I hope to change that.” Fingers brought together in a steeple, Stricklander leaned closer to the child. “Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

He shrugged, “Can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“Nightmares,” he grumbled.

“What kind of nightmares?”

The boy grimaced. “Bad ones. The Men in White Coats…”

Stricklander interrupted him, “The Men in White—the scientists, you mean.”

“Yeah,” He pulled his legs up close to his chest. “They hurt people. Lots of them. Made them cry until they didn’t cry anymore. I saw bad things. Terrible things. Blood and bodies and stuff. They tried to do the same to me, but I got lucky and escaped.”

The Changeling's eyes glowed yellow, irises red. "They're dead now. You'll never have to see them again. I made sure of that." 

"Thank you." He gave the other a half-smile.

The knowledge that they were gone relieved him, yet it didn't change the fact that whenever he tried to close his eyes, he would see the images again. 

“I’m sorry they hurt you, little one.” Stricklander said remorsefully, “however, you must get some sleep. How about. . .”

Stricklander rose, heading for the bookcase. Pursuing through the collection, he selected a colorful one; a beautiful woman riding a chariot of white horses adorned the cover. “Ah, now here's a good one: D’Aulaires’ Book of Greek Myths. My students seemed to enjoy it and I suspect you will too. Do you remember anything about Greek mythology, little one?”

“No,” he said, eyeing the object with poorly contained curiosity, “what’s it about?”

“Not it. They.” Stricklander corrected, “They are collection of myths, stories of people long dead and gone. Extraordinary people. Gods, Titans, and all sorts of heroes and villians.”

The boy shrugged, as if disinterested, though his gaze continued to flicker back on the book. “Sounds okay, I guess.”

“Would you like me to read it to you?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re just trying to get me to sleep. It won’t work.”

“So, you don’t want me to read it to you?”

Tilting his head at Stricklander, the child remarked, “I didn’t say that. All I’m saying is it won’t work. I don’t want to sleep. I can’t.”

“Then, you do want me to read it to you?” He asked, amusement in his gentle smile. “Is that it?”

The child sighed, exasperated with the man’s stupidity. “Fine.”

Stricklander guided the boy to the bed. He was didn’t protest the move; despite the boy’s earlier words, he was too exhausted to argue anymore. Laying flat a top the mattress, he pulled the covers over himself then turned over to Stricklander’s side, looking up at him expectantly.

“Well,” he said, “go on then.”

Slowly, the man began to read.

The soft tone of his voice comforted the boy. Like a warm blanket, it wrapped around him, quieting the cacophony of emotions and thoughts inside him mind. 

The child moved closer, his head directly under the man’s arm. It was warm and firm. Little claws inched out of the covering and somehow found their way holding onto sleeve of the man's sweater. 

His eyes drooped, his grip on the waking world disappearing.

And, for the first time since he awoke unto this strange new world, he went out into blissful, dark silence.

Chapter Text

All she wanted was some peace and goddamn quiet, but no, Nomura couldn’t even get a morning of respite before someone tried to screw with her.

Mucking Fundays.

She glared down at the offending creature eating her breakfast.

Of course, it was the half-breed. Shouldn’t he still be in quarantine or something?

Great, Nomura thought, just great.

Nomura growled, eyes glowing in righteous fury. She’d only been gone a few seconds to pick up some napkins, but already the boy had devoured her half of her omelet.

“You. Out of my chair.” She said, snapping impatiently. “Now, brat.”

He didn’t look up from his—no, her meal, his little claws not moving an iota from her ruined breakfast. “Kind of bland. Needs more salt.”

“I don’t care if its salty or not, it’s mine. Only mine. Not yours, so get.”

The half-breed finally graced her with his full attention, licking the stray piece of food off his upper lip. “I’m hungry.”

“Hi Hungry, I’m Pissed, nice to fucking meet you,” Nomura remarked in a monotone voice. “Go get your own omelet, brat.”

He pouted, “They wouldn’t give me any.”

“Who didn’t give you any?”

The child clenched his hands into fists, glaring down at her desecrated meal. “The cook. He said I’m not allowed.”

She massaged her temples. Nomura, despite her snuffy demeanor, felt for the brat. Being a Changeling was like getting the short straw of species picks. Now, she didn’t feel a lot of sympathy (because that was her breakfast, damn it), but she had enough to ask, “Well, what did Stricklander say?”

“That if I wanted I could get some food in the cafeteria,” he said.

She pressed her lips together.

It was six in the fucking morning. She had four hours of sleep and two hours before she had to give a presentation on some new leads to pieces of the Killahead Bridge.

Ugh, Nomura thought, Stricklander is gonna owe me big time.

Nomura, being the well-adjusted adult that she was, picked up the child by his collar, threw him over her shoulder, and carried him across the cafeteria floor.

Other Changelings watched with interest.

The boy struggled and growled (she almost snorted, because seriously, did he think he was threatening? This half-pint?), but the angle gave him no leverage to retaliate.

She caught sight of just the man she was looking for: Gabel, their so-called chef (a very loose interpretation of the word in Nomura’s opinion). He wasn’t a very impressive Changeling, but what he did, he did competently. It had taken him fifty years to secure his title as head cook at the Janus Order’s main base and he bragged about that fact to any open ear. He was short and stocky, with a mean shifty look in his eyes. He could have easily intimidated any human if he wasn’t such a pushover little bitch.

She deposited the boy on the ground next to the kitchen counter and leaned over, one hand on the desk with the other on her hip. “I need another omelet, Gabel. Also, feed this brat.”

Gable shook his head, disinterest clear. “Not my problem, Nomura.”

“Excuse me?” She said, “You talk to all your superior officers that way?”

“You’re not my superior, Nomura.” He ground out, smirking. “We’re the same rank. Otto said he’s not allowed in the cafeteria, and I’m pretty sure he’s higher up than you are, sweet cheeks.”

Oh. Oh hell no.

Nomura put a finger to her lip, then said, “now, unless I’ve been living under a rock, Otto was Stricklander’s subordinate, not the other way around.”

The other Changeling blenched, his cool mask of indifference fading.  “Well, yeah, but Otto said—“

“And I’m pretty sure Stricklander is the head of the Janus Order, right?”

“I—“

“So, if I’m correct, that would mean this brat is under Stricklander, not you, not me, and definitely not Otto. And whatever Stricklander says, goes.” She said, then turned to the child. “Brat, what did Stricklander say to you exactly?”

The boy crossed his arms, staring unblinkingly at the cook, then stated, “That I could eat in the cafeteria.”

She tapped a nail to her cheek, smiling all the while. “If that’s the case, then Otto’s orders don’t mean jack shit, Gaby”

The Changeling male flushed, then glared down at the boy and huffed, “Bah. I’m not paid enough to deal with this. Fine, the runt can have something.”

She looked over to the kid, who was already scanning the buffet, picking up an apple and examining it like it was some sort of ancient freaking pottery. Was he even listening? She flicked one of his horn’s, startling him. “Well? What do you want?”

“Huh?”

“What do you want to eat, brat?”

He squinted, looking over the selection with a bit of frustration. “I can have anything?”

She half-shrugged, “Sure, go nuts.”

The boy leaned over the counter, his little claws clicking against the topside as he focused his attention on the cook. “A quiche lorraine.”

Gable scoffed. “Ain’t got no quiche lorraines, half-breed.”

He looked up at Nomura. “I want a quiche lorraine.”

She shrugged. “Kid wants a quiche lorraine, Gaby. Give him a quiche lorraine.”

Smacking his disk towel against the counter, Gable threw up his arms in frustration. “I don’t got the recipe, okay? Look, Nomura, just go topside and get him one.”

“I’ve got a meeting in less than two hours. What makes you think I’ve got the time to go up and find someplace that makes them?” Nomura asked.

“If he can’t make it, I can,” the kid stated.

Nomura chuckled dryly. “Seriously? You can cook?”

The halfling nodded.

Well, well, well. The Omelet thief was a budding chef too.

Figures.

Suddenly, the brat jumped over the tabletop, sauntering around the kitchen like he fucking owned the place.

Nomura had to cover her mouth to hide the smirk developing on her face. This brat was something else. While she was still annoyed that he ate her breakfast, she hadn’t seen Gable flustered like this in years. If she was right (and she almost always was), then by noon the entire facility would know about Gable’s failure to stop a half-breed half his size. Changelings thrived on gossip and this would be no different.

“Woah, woah, woah, half-breed! Only the Chef’s allowed back here.” Gable said, trying to block the kid from the cabinets.

The kid looked back at Nomura again, gaze steady and confident. Nomura raised an eyebrow, her hand navigating to her hip.

“Kid says he can cook, Gaby. Let him cook.”

“No way, this is where I draw the line, Nomura. I don’t want that half-freak’s tainted fingers getting all over my equipment.” He thrust a finger in the child’s face, disgust painted on his features.

The boy flinched.

As Nomura was no stranger to racism in her Troll and human forms, she reacted accordingly.

She slid over the table like a dancer and grabbed the man’s shirt. Like a mirage, the human skin covering her arm vanished, replaced by dark pink stone. Slowly, she trailed a single claw up his abdomen, ripping the material along the way, relishing the rising fear in his eyes. She could feel his growing heartrate; sweat poured down his jaw. Her finger reached his neck.

“Gaby, you remember what happened to the last Troll that crossed me, right?”

He visibly gulped. “Y-yea?”

“And what happened to him, exactly?”

His eyes bulged, face as white as the underside of a fish. “H-he disappeared.”

Nomura flicked his nose with her transformed hand. “Exactly.”

Moseying around the kitchen, the woman found, to her surprise, that the boy was already putting together ingredients, skillfully throwing in ingredients and mixing them inside a bowl.

She stood over the kid, looking over his head to see what he was doing. “How long’s this gonna take?”

His ears wiggled; wearing a thoughtful look, he answered, “From scratch? About two hours, give or take.”

She groaned. “Ugh, that’s way too long. Why spend so much time cooking this when you can make an omelet or something?”

He shook his head. “I don’t want an omelet anymore. I want a quiche lorraine.”

“But why? How do you even know how make one anyway?”

“It’s tasty. It’s not that hard to make, just time consuming. But that woman, I remember she loved. . .” He paused, then began pulling two table knifes through the ingredients in opposite directions. “No. I don’t . . .don’t know. Who was it that I . . . who was she . . .”

“You don’t know? How can you not know?”

“I-I can’t remember.” He admitted softly. “Stricklander says I hurt my head before I woke up and all my memories got jumbled and stuff.”

The child’s shoulders hunched up, ears lowered. His eyes watered too, though he did not cry.

Oh shit, Nomura didn’t know how to deal with kids. What should she do?

Nomura patted his back, “You got amnesia? Truly? Huh. That sucks kid. Word of advice though: don’t let the other Changelings push you around like Gaby just did. You want something? Take it. Because this world doesn’t give a shit about you.”

“Thank you for such encouraging words.” He replied blandly, the tears now gone (thank Gunmar, Nomura didn’t do emotionally heavy shit, not even her own).

“There’s three rules you gotta know if you want to survive this place, brat.” She showed him her index finger. “Rule Number One: Avoid Bular at all costs, if possible.”

“Who’s Bular?”

“Oh ho, ho, You’ll know him when you meet him.” She threw up a second finger, “Rule Number Two: Watch your fellow Changelings backs and they might watch yours.”

“Might?”

“Eh, depends on which ones. Stricklander sometimes repays the favor as long as it doesn’t affect his status, but Changelings like Otto or Gaby-boy over there will stab you in the back the moment the opportunity presents itself. Learn to distinguish between the two. It might save your life”

“Noted.” The boy stopped his whisking, tilting his head back up to her. “Where do you fall, Nomura?”

She grinned. “Now you’re asking the important questions. Which brings us to Rule Number Three: Don’t fuck with Nomura. I’ll give you a pass this one time, since you didn’t know, but next time you try to eat my breakfast will be the last breakfast you’ll ever have. Got it?”

“Understood.”

“But, if you’d like to get in my good graces, making me a quick omelet might help.” She dipped her finger into the batter then licked it. “Throw in some of that Quiche for lunch too.”

He pushed her hand away, guarding the bowl protectively. “Then what will you do for me?”

Nomura smirked. She ruffled his hair, saying, “Spoken like a true Changeling.”

Chapter Text

Not even a week had passed since he’d moved the boy out of that cell and already the wolves were moving in on him, Otto in particular.

Most of their kind respected him. It had taken blood, sweat, and tears to obtain his position. Such a tragedy that the last Second-in-Command died under ‘mysterious’ circumstances, however he had been a boorish oaf, fearful of change and disruption. Stricklander changed all that. He saw change as a necessity. A Changeling was made to adapt to the world around them, not hide from it.

Which was why, whenever any challengers tried to upstage him, he had to put them in their place. 

The current little upstart to his regime was Otto, a visiting board member of the European branch who was looking to ‘expand’ his influence in Arcadia. The German Changeling was a fool at best and an annoyance at worst, but what do you expect from bureaucrats?

Still, he was a dangerous fellow. He'd gone right over Stricklander’s head and reported the situation to Bular, and knowing Bular, that meant only one thing.

Complications.

How lovely.

He added a sugar cube to his tea, then slowly swirled it around with a spoon, repeating the process twice, all the while loudly clicking the utensil against the sides. Once finished, he crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair, the drink cradled between his hands.

Otto coughed, the side of his fake little smile twitching in response to the head Changeling’s little dominance display.

Stricklander hid his developing smirk behind the beverage, savoring its richness and light floral undertones.

The third person in the room, Bular, appeared indifferent to the Changelings, too busy with sharpening his swords with, oh dear, one of Stricklander’s priceless Trojan artifact that—

No. He breathed in and out through his nostrils. Best not to push it.

Bular had little interest in the affairs of Changelings. If he played his cards right, the larger Troll wouldn’t pay either of them any mind.

 “What was it you were saying again, Otto?” He asked.

The shorter Changeling put his hands together, straightening his back.

“In summary, sir,” Otto started. “The boy has taken up so much of your time. Maybe it would be better if we assigned him to another facility, somewhere in South America, perhaps? You’ve been so busy. I would hate to see your work get any more disturbed.”

Stricklander bent forward, replying “Nonsense. He’s only been here a few days, Otto. Had your subordinates actually done their job I wouldn’t even be involved. It’s your incompetency that led to this.”

“Excuse me?”

“You treated a Changeling child like a prisoner,” he supplied in a monotone way, concealing the simmering anger beneath with the face he used with his students.

Otto smiled nervously, hands waving out in front of him as if to deny the fact. “No, no. He was never a prisoner, sir. Someone must have made a mistake. Besides, the boy is Half-Changeling, at best.”

“Half or Full doesn’t matter. He’s still one of us.”

“Oh, I’m not denying that, sir,” Otto said in that sweet apologetic tone of his that made always made him want to hurl, “but the boy’s a liability. He cannot transform—”

“Yet,” Stricklander interrupted. “He can still walk in Daylight and retains all the strength, speed, and durability of the rest of our kind. At this point, we cannot say for sure whether he lacks the ability, only that he does not remember how. I theorize that he is his own familiar, in a sense. So, until our scientists have run a full and complete diagnostic, we won’t know whether or not he can change.  I’m quite certain that once he regains his memories he will be just as good as any other Changeling in the Order.

“Well, while that may be, until he does, he’s stuck in one form. It would be better to put him someplace unseen.”

He took a long sip of his tea, then responded, “That does not mean he lacks value. He’s shown remarkable physical prowess for someone his age. He almost took down a full-grown changeling after all.”

“Johnson was caught off guard,” Otto tried to reason.

“Be that as it may, the boy has use. Sending him off will only damage the growth he’s made over the last week.”

Otto tilted his head to the side and squinted, then said, “It appears to me, sir, that you’ve grown quite fond of the boy.”

Stricklander waved him off, “Nonsense, Otto. I simply see an opportunity to expand Gunmar’s army. Nothing more.”

And in a way, it was partially true. Every Changeling had a purpose and they would find one for the boy as well soon enough. He would make a fine addition to their lord’s legion.

But, if he were to be truthful, he did feel some affection for the boy. He sympathized with the young one’s confusion, stuck in a world that fears and hates him for what he was and not the quality of his character.

In a way, Stricklander considered it as a favor to his younger self, who would have treasured having a role model such as he. Someone who could guide them around their society, show them the ropes as it were. The life of a Changeling was never an easy one. Few of his kind died of old age, if any. And if Stricklander was honest with himself it made him feel good whenever the boy looked up to him, hanging on his every word and taking them to heart. The boy had warmed up to him soon enough, just as all children did with him, and followed him around like a little duckling whenever he wasn’t in his bedroom.

It had been quite an adjustment at first, as he was not used to someone shadowing him for non-nefarious purposes, but to his surprise, he actually enjoyed it.

Why, yesterday, the boy had even brought him a cup of tea and, while a bit too sweet for his tastes, he downed it all the same. It was the thought counts after all.

But what Otto was implying was ridiculous. There were no feelings, only a healthy mutual respect between the two. The boy would find some sort of purpose; Stricklander was simply there to guide him towards that path. After that, they would likely go their separate ways, as all Changelings do.

He was only a mentor.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Because that was all he was allowed to be.

That is all he should be.

“Sir,” Otto started, only for Stricklander to throw up his index finger.

“Our kind number in only the hundreds, Otto,” he said. “Adding another to our ranks should be no issue at all.”

“What if he’s a spy? What if he’s not a Changeling at all, but something those scientists made? We know nothing about him, sir.”

While harrowing, the thought held little water. Otto was grasping at straws. The boy had a life before his capture by those humans, his ability to remember old recipes was one of many.

Frankly, Stricklander wasn’t even sure the boy had amnesia. More and more he was beginning to suspect that the boy had simply blocked his memories out, that whatever trauma he’d experienced had caused enough damage strip him of his identity. One day, the boy would have to face those memories.

But today was not that day.

Stricklander drank the last of his tea, setting the cup to the side, then said, “All the better to keep an eye on him then. If he’s a spy, then we’ll simply dispose of him.”

“Ha!” Bular began to chuckle menacingly, breaking the developing standoff between the two Changelings.

Gunmar’s son rose to his full height, chucking Strickler’s invaluable piece to the wall like it didn’t cost the pretty penny he had spent to acquire it, damn it, show some respect you little...

The Troll cracked his neck from side to side, annoyance in his stance and face.

“Just kill the damn runt,” Bular grunted. “He’s a perversive impure mutt, but what should I expect from impures.”

Both Changelings froze.

Otto recovered first, saying, “Sir, that seems a tad overboard. He’s just a runt as you said. He’s insignificant. Killing him would serve no purpose. It would be better to simply send him off to another place. Out of sight, out of mind as they say.”

It didn’t take much brain power for Stricklander to see what the other was doing. Otto, weasel he may be, was still a Changeling. If Bular was to kill the Half-Changeling, what would that mean for the rest of them?

It was a slippery slope that neither Changeling desired.

Bular loomed over the shorter man, the tall-tale signs of frustration beginning to rise in the Troll’s features. “Are you questioning my decision? No. The other impures need to see what happens when they try to mix with the enemy.”

The tension in the room was thick. They would need to navigate this carefully. Thankfully, Stricklander was a master at dealing with Bular.

Stricklander stood up from his seat, “Sir, I’m certain I can find something for the boy to do. Just as Otto said, killing him would be pointless. If anything, we’ll learn more about that human laboratory if we keep him alive. Perhaps we could jog some of his memories, see if he knows anything more."

"Those humans are dead. Keeping the boy alive is just an affront to Troll kind now," he spat on the ground. "If neither of you will do it, then I will."

His throat tightened. This was not going how he pictured. "Please, sir, the child’s speed and strength are already highly developed for his age. It would be a waste of potential. Besides, Gunmar can always do with more soldiers.”

“As if my father would allow this filth into our army,” Bular growled. "The runt is no warrior."

"I'm certain with time he will be able to prove himself, Bular," Stricklander urged. "If he was only given the chance. A test of some sort, to prove himself as one of us. If I were allowed to put together some sort of—"

"The short one is right, Stricklander. You are growing attached to the mutt." Bular remarked, red eyes gleaming with unspoken malice. "What was it you said, a test? How’s this then: if the runt lasts five minutes against me and lives, you can have him, or what's left of him.”

His blood ran cold. His mind flashed back to the boy’s sleeping face last night, young and innocent in a way only children could be.

“Oh, sir, you’re such a generous leader,” Otto gushed. “Such a genius! What a marvelous idea!”

“Yes,” Stricklander said after a moment’s pause, “of course, Bular. Whatever you say.”

Oh god. What have I done?

Chapter Text

When the older Changeling told the boy that he would fight Bular, he thought the man was joking.

He wasn’t.

“It’s going to be okay,” Stricklander said, half-bent over to face the boy. “Just keep your distance and whatever you do, don’t touch his horns. It will only be for five minutes. It will be over before you know it. Just, try to survive.”

The boy gulped. He wished this was a dream he could walk up from. Even the cell would be a better alternative to this. At least before, he had a chance at living.

Now? Not so much.

“I don’t want to do this.” He whispered. His claws dug into the makeshift armor Stricklander had put on him, a mixture of leather and metal made for someone far bigger than he. It wasn’t very thick, but it would prevent him from dying in one hit, if he was lucky.

The man sighed, then grasped the boy’s small shoulders. “Sometimes, we have to do things we don’t want to do.”

He bit down on his bottom lip, eyes downcast. “I’m afraid.”

“Good. Take that fear and use it. It just might keep you alive.” Using his index finger, he tilted the boy’s head up. “The life of a Changeling is not kind, and you have an even more difficult road ahead of you, young Atlas, as a member of two hated species.”

His eyes brightened in recognition. “Atlas? That’s the Greek god person from that book you read to me.”

“Titan, but yes.” He said. “Do you remember what he did?”

“He . . .” he paused, licking his lips as he tried to remember the story. “He betrayed the gods by siding with the Titans . . . and was sentenced to carry the world, right?”

“Such a smart lad,” he said while smiling, though it did not reach his eyes. “He carried a heavy load, as will you have to do. This is your Initiation into our world. Show them what you’re made of, little Atlas.”

I’m not made of anything, he thought, except blood and bones that’s about to get pummeled.

Around thirty or so people turned their attention to him at the same time, their eerie white masks sending shivers down his spine. Dimly aware of the hush that befell the Changelings, he walked to the center, his footsteps echoing off the walls. His heart pounded within his ears.

Unlike the other Trolls he’d met, Bular was on a whole different level. His horns framed his monstrous stone-flesh, emphasizing his glowing red eyes and sharp tusks. He was huge; a giant amongst them and his fierce presence only made it all the more terrifying.

When the boy looked into the eyes of the Troll, he saw no compassion, no pity, no sympathy; he saw nothing.

This was it.

“Any last words before I kill you, runt?” Bular asked, adjusting his belt of skulls, not even sparing the boy a glance.

The child swallowed, shaking his head. He had nothing to say to this monster.

Think. What’s his weakness?

He was large and strong; the boy was small and fast.

Hopefully, fast enough.

Bular cracked his knuckles, unsheathing his swords. “Have it your way then.”

The Troll moved first, hard and fast, his weapon cracking the concrete were the boy once stood.

“What the—?“ The monster growled. “Where did—?“

Eyes wide in terror, the boy slipped underneath the Troll’s legs, running to one of the walls. As long as he stayed away from being cornered by the monster, he might make it out alive.

But Bular jumped, landing in front of the boy, blocking his path. He had to veer sharply to not run into the Troll.

Pulling his sword out of the ground, Bular turned and steadily made his way to the boy. “Is that all you’ve got, Impure? Is running all you can do?”

Bular swiped at the boy again, who swerved to the side.

Unfortunately, the boy realized too late that it was a feint, though, when a punch slammed into his stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs.

He chocked, hands scrambling to push himself up as another swing came at him, this time cutting into through his armor.

Wincing at the pain, he put a hand to the wound. His heartbeat skyrocketed when it came away with blood. Not much, he would later find out, but it was enough to make him woozy.  

He backed away several yards, breathing hard. He couldn’t do this. He needed to escape, to find some sort of exit.

Even if he was quicker than the large Troll, he’d been wounded and would likely slow down soon enough.

The boy needed to think of a plan to get away.

Suddenly, a thought came to him.

If there was no defeating the monster, then what about tricking him?

After taking a few more gulps of painful air, he changed his stance. He charged with a roar like a bull (at least he hoped; it was probably more like the roar of an angry, terrified toddler to Bular).

“That’s it, runt.” Bular boomed, cruelty bleeding through his voice, striking his blades against each other. “Now you’re fighting like a real Troll!”

Bular lunged forward, nearly taking the boy’s head off.

The boy slipped past his legs once again, though this time, stayed directly behind Bular.

Furious at missing another time, the Troll moved just as the boy did behind him, matching his steps. Bular appeared to be scanning the area.

“Where did he go this time?” The Troll grumbled in annoyance.

He swerved right in a full circle, the boy barely keeping up with his footwork. He wouldn’t be able to keep up for long, the boy realized. The damage to his chest was worse than he thought; he struggled not to wheeze and draw attention to himself.

Too late. A painful raspy cough bubbled forth from his lips before he could cover his mouth.  

The large figure in front of him stiffened.

The jig was up.

“So that’s where you were hiding.”

Bular began to swerve, swords at the ready. With no other alternative, the boy jumped onto the Troll’s back, his little claws desperately trying to find something to grab onto, namely the monster’s hair. Bular bellowed in rage below him, trying to reach him with his own talons, but the half-breed narrowly avoided them.

It was then the Troll began to jump, trying to buck him off. Still, he held on, fingers so tightly wound in the creature’s thick mane that they began to numb. He could practically feel his brain bumping around in his head, the Troll’s movement making him nauseous.

The bucking stopped, however what came next was far worst. Bular backed up, quickly moving towards one of the walls.

Deciding he would rather not be smashed into a million pieces, the boy reluctantly released his hold just as the monster reached the structure, rolling to the floor as a loud crash resounded in the arena.

Dust blanketed the area. The half-breed wheezed, cradling two broken fingers. His roll had been less than perfect, most of the weight going to his hands and he paid for it.

A second passed. Then another.

Did . . . did the boy win?

A hand grasped one of his horns, pulling him up. No, he’d been mistaken. The boy screamed, both out of fear and pain. Bular smacked him against the ground, his claws large enough to envelope the child’s entire head. The taste of copper erupted within his mouth. His vision became clouded, though from the dust or tears he could not say. He tried to move away, but found himself immobilized by the beast.

He was going to die.

He was really going to die.

No, he thought. Not now. Not to this.

It was as if someone had lit a flame within him, his fear replaced with anger. He hadn’t asked for this. He hadn’t asked to be made, to be some sort of half-breed. He hadn’t asked to be saved from that lonely road. He’d escaped the lab and likely would have been just fine had the Changelings not come for him. But here he was, about to be killed, and for what? Because of his blood?

Adrenaline filled him. The boy grabbed onto the sides of the monster’s massive hand and started to push it away.

At first, there was no movement except the child’s own shaking limbs.

Then, slowly, the hand encasing his head moved, centimeter by centimeter, until even Bular looked surprised.

The boy smiled viciously, just as he had practiced in the mirror not so long ago, then spat on the monster’s claw.

Even broken, even defeated, he would not go down without a fight.

And if anyone was going to have the last laugh, it was him.

Bular bellowed darkly, “How dare you, impure whelp!”

A fist developed in his other hand to smite the boy.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow.

“Time!” A lone voice reverberated through the area. “Five minutes exactly, O great Bular.”

“What?” Bular glared at the individual.

Stricklander emerged from the crowd of Changelings, which had doubled over the past few minutes. “The deal, my lord. He lasted five minutes.”

“The runt spat at me. Little impure bastard. He doesn’t deserve mercy.” He punched the concrete next to the boy’s head, breaking it. “Trolls don’t give mercy.”

“My lord, be that as it may, you made an oath. If he survived five minutes against you, then you allow him to live, or did I not hear that correctly?”

“This is a fight.” He spat out. “I am well within my right to end this abomination.”

“Sir, did you or the boy challenge each other?”

The Troll hesitated, watching the man as he came forward. “No.”

“So then, did he truly fight you? Or was it simply a test of strength?” Stricklander noted, turning from them to the crowd of Changelings as he increased the volume of his voice.  “Did you not say that this would be but a test? After all, it is obvious to all of us here that the Great Bular wasn’t truly fighting the boy. The child is far too weak and you would have put him down in a second flat. You were simply ‘testing’ him, to see if he was a true Changeling, one who could be molded to our cause to free Gunmar. An Initiation, as they say, yes?”

Bular paused for a moment, then released his hold on the boy, who gasped, suddenly all too aware of the amount of pain he was in.

“ . . . Yes. Stricklander is right, for once. Congratulations, mutt. You’ve survived longer than most Trollhunters. Consider me sparing your life an honor and a humiliation. In real Troll society, you would be shunned and banished for such cowardice.” He grunted, picking up his swords.

“Thank you, my liege,” Stricklander bowed.

“He’s your problem now, Impure. Do what you want with him, just keep him away from me.” He turned away, stomping off. “Someone bring me something to eat. Now. The rest of you, leave.”

The boy breathed in and out, his mind trying to comprehend what just happened.

He’d . . . survived?

For some reason, he felt no relief. Only emptiness.

A warm firm palm came upon his shoulder.

“Can you stand?”

The boy lifted his head, grunting as things began to pop that shouldn’t.

“It’s okay,” Stricklander said. “Don’t push yourself. Would you allow me to carry you to our resident healer?”

The boy whispered, “Yes.”

Strong arms lifted him carefully, one behind his head and the other his legs. All of his injuries ached at the strange movement, but he was too far gone to care.

“You did well, little Atlas, though really, riding his horns?”

“What else was the kid supposed to do?” A female voice asked. “Let Bular tire him out then kill him? Good job at using his bulk against him, kid.”

Strickler turned his head. “Nomura? I thought you were returning to Japan.”

“And miss out on the fight of the century?” She said. “Do you know how many Changelings started coming through those doors the moment the fight passed the three-minute mark? It was like a stampede. There hasn’t been this much excitement at the Order in decades.”

“Lower your voice,” he ordered. “It was not a fight. It was an ‘Initiation’.”

“You know that’s not what people are going to think.”

“I don’t care what they think, I care about what Bular thinks. Sooner or later this little event will finish from their minds and Bular will forget about the boy.”

“Now, we both know that’s not true.” She appeared in front of the boy’s vision, giving him a catlike smile.

“Did I . . . pass? The . . . Initiation?” the boy groaned.

“Of course, you did.” Stricklander said warmly. “You passed with flying colors.”

“Not only did you pass, kid, but other Changelings saw it. You got Changeling-cred now. The weaker Changelings will think twice about trying to hurt you.”

He coughed, “And . . . the not . . . so weak?”

“Well, you can’t win them all.”

The boy bit down on his bottom lip, his eyebrows coming together.

If only he were stronger.

He lasted five minutes today. Who’s to say in a year or two he couldn’t do six or seven?

“One day . . . I’ll beat . . . him.”

“Bular?” Nomura laughed, “Sure you will, little Gynt.”

“Don’t encourage him, Nomura,” Stricklander chastised.

“Apologies, sir,” she said, though she did not sound very apologetic. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Take him to the healer. She might be able to find something that can work on a half-breed. If not, I suppose I’ll have to bandage himself.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I suppose . . . well, I’ve been meaning to get an assistant.”

“Aw, Stricklander’s got himself a pet.”

“He is not a pet, Nomura. He is a child.”

“Oh, is daddy-bear angry now?”

“Just go to your post, Nomura.”

Exhaustion gripped the boy. He buried his face into the man’s shoulder. Wetness began to spring forth from his eyes. It was over. Though rode ahead would be rough, but he’d passed the first hurdle.

The only way to go now was forward.