Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Buttercup pries her eyes open and clutches her head.

‘Damn, what time is it,’ she wonders. Looking to her right, she frowns. Her alarm is about to go off in four minutes. Four minutes of wonderful sleep have been robbed from her. She shuts her eyes. Like hell it has. She’s gonna make these four minutes count. Buttercup moves to turn on her side when she immediately realizes she can’t.

“What the—?”

Buttercup aggravatedly opens her eyes again and cranes her neck to see none other than Bubbles laid out over her chest, the two making an ‘X.’ She groans as her head reconnects with the pillow. Not again. She shakes the blonde’s shoulder.

Nothing.

She growls and shakes her sister once more. If you’re going to be the heaviest sleeper, then don’t sleep on your family members. “Bubbles.” Another period of silence. “Bubbles!”

“Huh?!” the younger woman holds her head and slowly rises. “Oh. Morning, BC,” she slurs.

“Don’t morning me,” she grumbles. “You’re gonna make me late.”

She rolls over to the other side of the bed. “Sorry~,” is her muffled reply.

Finally free from her trap, she glares at the clock beside her. Her four minutes have been whittled down to two—no point in wasting anymore time. Buttercup growls as she drags herself from her grey cotton sheets, and stumbles to her closet. She frowns, flipping through the formal wear. No t-shirts for today. Settling on a collared mint top, black, form-fitting slacks, and a cropped blazer, she runs a hand through her dark waves. Guess her hair didn’t dry as much as she wanted to last night. Ah, well.

The alarm goes off.

“Ah!”

The brunette sniggers as she lackadaisically shuts it off. “Serves you right, Bubs.”

Bubbles’ response is only a groggy groan, and Buttercup heads off to the bathroom to finish her bathroom routine. She glares at the drowsy viridescent eyes staring back at her. The hot splash of water and cool freshness of her toothpaste did nothing, but thankfully her having to focus on her light appliance of makeup will do the trick. This is the last time that she’s going to drink before bed. Okay, she knows she said that last week, but maybe this time, it’ll really stick.

Sprinting down the steps, the brunette says a quick goodbye to her elder sister sitting at the oak kitchen table before rushing toward the door.

“No hazelsing for you today?”

“Cutting it close; I’ll get some at work.”

“You think decaf will last you?”

Buttercup whips her head around. “Are you serious? Zella finished it again?!”

Her sister only responds with a knowing tilt of her head.

The brunette stomps over to pour herself a cup, grumbling about how the faerie should restock whenever she does so. “I swear when I see her, I’m telling her off.”

“Or we could suggest that whoever finishes it can restock,” Blossom offers. She watches her younger sibling screw the top tight. Maybe too tight. “I can propose it to the group and sign off on it.”

“Not doing it. She won’t fucking agree anyway.”

“Language.”

Narrowed lime orbs settle on Blossom. “Really? You’re still trying to keep that schtick up?” Her older sister opens her mouth to retort when Buttercup starts again. “Completely rhetorical.” She glances at her wrist and mockingly grimaces at her nonexistent watch. “Damn, sorry to cut this short, but duty calls,” she farewells, running toward the door.

“Just bring the idea up to the rest, okay,” Buttercup hears her sister call after her.

Slamming the door shut, the young woman swiftly locks the door, and speedwalks toward her bus stop.

The white bus whizzes past without even stopping at the designated sign.

She groans. Of course, he has to be working today. “Mitch, you fucking piece of shit,” she barks, her pace breaking into a run. “Get back here!”

As if hearing her, the bus sits patiently, but as soon as his freckled face comes into view in the side mirrors, it lurches forward.

“Dude!”

“Alright, alright,” he laughs, stopping the bus. “I was just having a bit of fun.”

"’I was just having fun,’" she playfully mocks as she jogs up the steps. "Shut up,” she snickers, lightly jabbing him in the shoulder. “You forget if you come in late one more time, you get fired?”

“Hey, man. Not in front of the passengers,” he finishes with a whisper.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Allowing a deep exhale as her back hits the leather back of the bus seat, she slouches and leans her head against the window. She made it—had to chase the bus down, but made it nonetheless. Eyes of jade scan the same view that they have been for she doesn’t even know how long now.

Brick houses, rows of leafy trees, and gaudy strip malls give way to the lightly busy highway, her workplace soon coming into view. Throughout all of the backroads, interstates, and railways all of them lead to there. The gothic hotel’s domed tops reach high beyond into the thin lemon and clementine-tinted clouds flooring the purple sky and stretches wide almost covering the horizon.

Big, grand, beautiful, and painfully consistent.

Buttercup takes a quick glance at the clock by the driver. And infuriatingly far.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The brunette swipes her punch card and jams it into the reader. The satisfying dull click rings in her ears as she releases a calming breath.

"You’re lucky they’re not going anywhere. The others are at their station already.”

Buttercup peers over her shoulder to see her friend raising a hairy white brow. His serpentine tail flicks good-naturedly, dark claws already clutched around his morning addiction.

“Fuck off, Erbine. I’m on time,” she smiles.

“Barely.”

Buttercup rolls her eyes. This banter is just delaying the shift that he claims should be oh-so-punctual. “How many do I have today?”

His grey claw brings the coveted drink to his scaly lips. “Do you really want to know?”

Not a great start. “That is why I asked.”

Slitted eyes roll. “Too early for sass,” he jokes. “Or late. I honestly can’t tell anymore.” He shakes his head and motions to the clipboard perched on the wall. “Five forty-eight.”

“Damn, really? I swear they load up when they see me on the schedule,” she growls. She swipes the list from its container and flips its pages. “Obviously, I’m ready to go.” An ebony brow raises as she side-eyes him. “Maybe you should start heading to your station. Don’t want to be late,” she quips.

He fails to hide his sharp-toothed smile. “I’m going, I’m going,” he says.

“Oh, hold on. Bloss wants to start some petition to stop Zella from drinking all the caffeinated hazelsing. We can tell Beaga and the others after we finish.”

“Honestly, maybe it’s good that she drinks all of it. Too much caffeine isn’t good for you.”

She narrows her eyes at his steaming cup. “And overloading on sugar is any better?”

“Crackle milk is not overloaded with just typical sugar. It has many benefits like-!”

Not this again. “Don’t care,” Buttercup lazily interrupts, turning on her heels. Ignoring his dissatisfied grumbling, she heads for the door.

Welp. Time for work. She opens the door to see a wall of black. She rolls her shoulders, shuts her eyes, and recounts the same spell she does for every shift.

“Aspectum da mihi.”

Her eyes open to only see differing hues of yellow, allowing her to see through the pitch darkness. People sit slumped over in their seats of the grand lobby. None stirring, completely motionless—as if one of the numerous fake plants sitting in their pastel pots. It’s peaceful. All is how it should be.

Hands in her pockets, she moseys toward her official workspace—the elevator. Who else is going to operate it? Her footsteps echo through the large open space. Ornately designed, gold doors open with flourish, the relieved carvings of balanced scales receding. She mentally retracts the spell, leaving her yet again in darkness but now with the soft golden glow from the Edison bulbs of the elevator to guide her.

Once inside, she jams the door close button, signaling to her other coworkers that she’s ready to start.

Impassive eyes scan the names on her clipboard. Five hundred and forty-eight today, huh? Probably will be doing overtime for this.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Buttercup looks down at her paper and lightly rocks on her heeled oxfords. She is ready for this shift to be over. Her ebony blazer is already discarded on the floor—has been since the fifth passenger. She uses the clipboard as a makeshift fan. So stuffy and this thing only has a max occupancy of two. Can’t they install a... what is it called? An air conditioner? Whatever. That’s a thought for another time. ‘Last one for today,’ she muses and draws a red checkmark next to the second to last name. She scowls. At least that man won’t be able to hurt anyone again. The elevator dings, and her gaze flicks up to see a blond standing before her. She presses her full lips together. He looks familiar.

Why the hell does he look familiar?

He jumps slightly when he sees her. “It’s you!” He smiles, the corners of his lapis eyes crinkling. “Which floor are we heading to?”

She gapes at him. “What?”

The corners of his mouth dip slightly. “You... don’t remember me?”

Of course, she doesn’t. Because that shouldn’t be fucking possible. Okay, wait. She’s getting ahead of herself. Maybe he was one of those rare ones that got those rare flashes of... what did Blossom say again? Snippets. Maybe he saw one and confused that for meeting her, but that doesn’t cull the impression that she’s seen him before. She crosses her arms, clipboard pressed against her side. “No. Why should I?”

He tilts his head. “I mean, it’s my second time being here... You never got a second visitor before?” He asks with a slanted smile.

“Second time?” No way. This has to be a mistake. Has to be.

“Yeah! The first we talked for a while, and then you just picked a floor.” He looks upwards in thought before expanding on his memory. “Hm... It was, uh... Five? No, four, I think.”

“Wait, wait, wait. That’s not—...” she shakes her head. “The only way to meet me is if you’re—”

“Dead,” he finishes. “Yeah, I know.”

She stares owlishly at him. Is he crazy? Dumb? How the fuck does he not see the problem? He's implying that he died and came back to life like it's not a big deal. Like it's not fucking impossible.

A mechanical whir interrupts her thoughts, and she turns to see a newly opened compartment in the elevator. In it holds a stack of papers held together with ivory twine. Of course! His anthology. This should clear up any confusion. She quickly leafs though the pages, chartreuse orbs scanning as fast as she can comprehend.

This makes no fucking sense.

The birth date is wrong. Almost comically so. She peers over at the young man beside her. Marigold curls crown his head, freshly cut toward the back. Lean muscular build from what she can tell through his navy dress shirt. The blond grins as he catches her eye, and her ears burn when she darts her gaze back to the ivory papers. He looks like he’s in his twenties and he isn’t bothered by the change at all. Though then again, his reaction (or lack of one) wouldn’t be the best way to tell, but still... The time span between his reported birth date and time of death is way too close for his appearance.

“When were you born?”

“Oh, uh, 25 May 1913.”

However, the glaringly inconsistent dates stare unwaveringly in her face.

BOOMER JOJO

DOB: 17 November 1929

TOD: 24 September 1935

“Hey, are you okay?”

Buttercup allows a humorless laugh. “I’m fine. Just trying to figure out what’s up with you.”

“I told you already: I died before.”

She runs a hand through her short, dark waves. “Okay, well how the fuck did you come back?”

He gives her a sheepish smile and shrugs. “Uh, can’t tell you? Sworn to secrecy. Sorry.”

“Sworn to—? Look, I’m a—,” What did the living call her again? Oh, right. “A Death Escort. If anything messes with, well, death, I need to know.”

He seems to sober at that. Hands in his black slacks, he sullenly shakes his head. “I definitely understand, but I can’t say anything.”

An enforced pact, huh? Those are rare. “Okay, fine.” Not fine. She needs to figure out what he did for this to happen. Should she just continue with everything as normal? Hold him here? Ask for help? No. Not the last one. She can handle this... somehow. Wait. Wait. She thinks she has a plan. Probably a shitty one, but a plan nonetheless.  “Can I see your hand?”

He moves to raise his right hand but stops and gives her his left.

She narrows her eyes. “Something on that one?”

“Hm? Oh, uhh, nope,” he assures. He unpockets his other, flipping it to display his palm and dorsum.

Funny. She indeed sees nothing, but she’s sure with that behavioral shift, he’s lying. No way to prove it right now though. “Stretch out your fingers,” she instructs, and he does so.

“Putting a spell on me?”

“Yup. Since you can’t tell me, I’ll have to figure out what you’re doing another way.”

He leans in. “Oh, really,” he wonders with intense curiosity. “What’s the diction? How does it work? Which element is it associated with?”

Buttercup takes a step back and flustered from her encroachment of space. She definitely wasn’t expecting... excitement. “Obviously I can’t tell you.” He could reverse engineer the spell and remove it. Or, from what she’s heard of Earth at this point in time, maybe not. This art seems to have been lost over the years, but then again, he’s somehow come back from the dead so...

He chuckles. “Uh, yeah. I guess that’s true.”

After she takes his pale hand, streams of ebony whirl around it. Swirling and churning as Buttercup forms the incantation in her mind. Just a little bit longer. A couple of tweaks to what she used back in the day, and it should work perfectly. She can feel his eyes on her, but she remains silent and the smokey wisps dissipate into charcoaled embers, lining his veins. She sharply retracts her hand, and the embers vanish—his left hand now back to normal.

“Trying to get rid of any traces,” he astutely observes.

A raven brow rises as she looks up at him. “Wouldn’t want to insult you and whoever you’re working with by underestimating you, right?” And judging by how he didn’t freak out about her casting a wordless spell, giving him as little information as possible was the way to go.

He grins. “Fair.”

“So, what’s the last thing you remember?” When all she gets in response is a confused look, she expands, “before you died.”

“Oh! That,” he pauses, head tilting to the side. “I was gathering intel for a story. I got a tip that some company was embezzling funds.”

Glancing down at his line for occupation, she motions for him to continue. A journalist. Makes sense.

“So, I decided to sneak in and investigate. I can’t write something based on word of mouth alone, y’know?”

She blinks at his cause of death. Unfortunately, it connects. “I’m guessing you didn’t have anyone on the inside with you?”

“Oh, uh... Nope.”

“... So, your bright idea was to go into some shady corporation without backup?”

He playfully grabs at his chest. “Ouch,” he grins. “It’s not like I didn’t have a plan.”

“Must have been a good one.”

His head lolls back as he laughs. “Do you talk shit to all of your passengers like this?”

A smirk tugs at her lips. “If they deserve it.” She flips though his anthology once more, really absorbing the words. He seems fine discussing his death so... “Why put your life at risk like that?”

“Why not? People should know when they’re being taken advantage of—and I get to let them know.”

His response was quick, natural, earnest, and after looking at some key points in his life it’s not surprising, but she still needs more. Footnotes, bullet points, asterisks, she likes to flesh all of it out during her evaluations. “Interesting... You think a lot of people would’ve paid any mind?”

“I would hope so. I think two cities other than mine are reading our articles at least.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t really care about that though. I just wish it got published, really.”

After quickly writing down her thoughts on the very last page of his anthology, she turns back toward the beginning. “And your city is...?”

“Townsville.”

And the trend of truth-telling continues. She asks him how it was growing up there, about his homelife, family, friends—anything to tease out any discrepancies from his personal accounts to the objective description on the papyrus pages. Some of his anecdotes spark recognition in her mind.  They’ve definitely talked before. He still has a penchant for self-expression through art and lending a helping hand. Even his likes and dislikes read déjà vu like...

“Forcing you to eat a bowl of bananas,” she finishes for him as he recounts yet another familial story of his time on Earth. Her lips upturn in a smirk. “Which you hate.”

He nods in agreement as he snorts. His head lightly hits the golden plates of the elevator and sighs. “Brothers...”

“Tell me about it.” She has no idea how she and her sisters haven’t driven each other mad.

“More? Sure. There was this other time where they-,”

“I didn’t mean literally.”

His hand rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, uh, right...”

A light snicker manages to escape her as she rolls her eyes. “I would have done the same.”

“Yeesh, you’re brutal,” he grins down at her.

A slow flashing button grabs her attention. She sucks her teeth. Time has run out already? There’s no way that they’ve been talking that long. Tapping her foot, she glances at the alarm button. Tempting, but no. She doesn’t need that—she’s made her decision.

“Hey, what’s your name?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Your name,” he repeats with an easy smile. “You never told me the first time we met either.”

She chuckles. “Why?”

“I mean, we’ve talked so much. And also... for next time? It’d be easier to chat if I knew your name.”

At that, her smile reverses into a frown, and she crosses her arms. “There’s not going to be a next time.” Forget the fact that he or whoever brought him back is literally defying how the universe works.  The human soul literally isn’t built for such volatile changes. The regrettable event happened so long ago is now obscured in myth. A deep exhale flows between her lips. It’s almost as if she can smell the acrid smoke from back then, hear the desperate screams. “I don’t want to see you back here.”

“Ow?”

“I’m serious.” He sobers; she continues. “Whatever is going on, quit while you’re ahead.” At his silence, she presses the button for floor three. After all she’s learned today, she’s made her decision. It’s supposed to be final. Irreversible. “Look, you’re... a good guy, okay? Just, take my word for it.”

“... That means a lot coming from you.”

Well, it is her job. “It should.” The elevator begins its smooth ascent. Maybe the past revival was a fluke? Or was it only possible under a crazy amount of circumstances—just like her own spell she just created? In actuality spells. She hopes that they won’t have to be used at all. The magic she favors tends to be... unpredictable.

The elevator doors soon open, and his cobalt orbs widen at the display the wide blue sky. It’s clouds wispy and full like soft pink and yellow balls of cotton connecting them from the elevator door to a seemingly boundless field of blades of lush grass. He walks to the threshold but instead of getting off on his designated floor, he just... stops—his midnight blue depths clouded over with... she’s not exactly sure.

Arms still crossed, Buttercup finally pushes herself from the wall to join him near the aperture. She breathes in the cool air. Onyx brows furrow. It smells faintly of ozone. “Look, I get it. Just... leaving everything unfinished seems... wrong, but... life is funny that way. Your brothers and friends will grieve, but... they’ll be okay.”

Boomer blinks, flaxen brows still scrunched. It takes a while for a soft smile to grace his features. “Thanks. You’re right. I know they’ll manage.” He turns to her. “Kind of more worried about the start of my... uh, afterlife, I guess?”

She waves a hand. “You’ll be fine. Just think of this as moving to a new city or whatever.”

“Never done that before.”

“I-I dunno. Use your imagination, man.”

Another laugh escapes him. “Alright, I’ll try. You have any tips for me? You seem like you’ve been places.”

Oh, he has no idea. “Not really.”

“Not really as in you haven’t been many places or not really you don’t have any tips?”

She scoffs and playfully holds up her hands, ignorant to the ghost of a smile on her lips. It doesn’t matter what she’ll say, the brunette has a feeling he’ll end up doing whatever pops into his mind anyway. Leaning back on the wall, she sighs. Her gaze lingers on lightly rustled wildflowers. It’s strange having someone else ask her questions in this space.  “... Buttercup.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my name.”

“It’s pretty.”

Viridescent pools widen. Hazel fay cheeks flush with rose as she opens her mouth to rebuff when he finally crosses the threshold. Black Brogues on the stone tiles, he shoots her one last bright smile over his shoulder. “I guess I should get going though. I’ll make sure to remember it.”

The doors draw close, resolutely blocking her view of his receding frame, and she tightens her left fist as it tingles.

All she can do now is wait.

Chapter Text

“Now boys. I need you to listen very closely to what I have to say. As in with both ears. With full attention. Full attention you must use with your utmost—”

“C’mon, dad. It’s too early for this and we have school soon.”

"No interruptions!”

When all the verdant monkey receives are blank, tired looks from his sons (and a loud yawn from Boomer), he takes that as his cue to continue. “Do not let anyone ever steer you form this main point—this concept of the upmost importance: magic is all about manipulation. That is, changing an elements state from one state to another. A state that can be directly opposed to its previous.” He stops pacing and stroking his purple tie to look his three boys in the eyes, making sure to take a meaningful look into depths of vermilion, lapis, and emerald. “Do whatever it is you want to with magic. Take it to its limits and back. Conventionalists will say that there may be certain things that magic shouldn’t do but forget them! They don’t understand magic at its core.”

Butch crosses his arms. “And you do?”

“Of course I do! And I vow to teach it to you. Because you boys have a gift. A talent. An aptitude. A—”

“Dad.”

His head whips to Brick. “I said no interruptions.”

A groan. Then more silence, and the magic monkey takes a deep breath. “You three are starting your first day of school. Many people will try to tell you different things about magic, but never forget this: Do whatever it is you want to do. Break the rules, experiment, disobey laws—anything to discover the limitless possibility that we have.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brick steadies his breath as he peruses his notes. Red ink mars the yellowing pages with the workings of a relatively new incantation. Scrawls of annotations line the margins in blue, and inappropriate drawings and comments in green. The papers crease and crinkle under greater pressure, only for them to smooth out again once he blinks and stabilizes himself. He can do this. Everything will be fine. Cerise eyes finally part from the parchment.

Before him lay his dead brother.

Eyes closed, lips chapped and blue, frost coating his brows, unnaturally still—no tapping of his fingers, no bopping of his head to some silent beat—nothing. He almost looked like he just took a nap somewhere a little too cold. If it weren’t for the now dried blood caked on his curls.

“This better fucking work again.”

Brick’s gaze slowly drifts up to see his other sibling. Forest eyes sullen, red, trained on their youngest brother. His green dress shirt is barely buttoned and half-tucked. An absolute mess. But the eldest knows he doesn’t look much better.

“It will work,” he assures. His voice is steady, measured, final. How it always sounds, but this time not how he feels. Carmine orbs scour the room. All is how it should be. Boomer’s body is down flat. The sienna radio is dialed off, doors locked, blinds drawn, and candles lit. But yet he still hears an incessant rustling—.

Brick shoots a glare at his living brother. “Butch.”

“What?”

“Try to control that tick,” he firmly instructs. It needs to be completely silent save for their voices to not distract the blond’s animus from returning to his body.

Immediately, his foot tapping stops, and Butch holds up his hands. “Shit, my bad.” His voice lacks its usual undertones of mischief.

The redhead sighs. “It’s fine. Are you ready?” The other affirms, and Brick instructs for the brunet to splay his hand on their lifeless brother’s chest. “A little to the left. Stop. Right there.” Exactly over his heart. Using his own two fingers, Brick presses down on Boomer’s cold, right hand on his biggest vein. It didn’t take long to find—his unnatural pallor helped elucidate.

He swallows before he takes a deep breath. Their following words that they utter need to be clear, concise, exactly how they wrote it on the page. The slightest deviation could render this spell useless at best and altered at worst. He and his brothers have studied the results of failed attempts of other magi-linguists’ pasts. No way in hell does he want to witness that. No one should.

He begins the awaited, silent countdown with his fingers.

Three, two, one.

“.... Stay, listen, to the beckoning from the living. Return, yes, return. Meld into one with your previous flesh, come and warm your cold bones to rise once from the grave and be reborn. Cells of quiescence reinvigorate. Shake off the dredges of eternal sleep. Awaken in your abode and open your eyes. Breathe our air again. Live again.

Come and take back your body, oh beloved animus. Come and recover your vitality!”

The two quickly remove their hands from his body, their breaths the only sound filling the room. There. It was perfect. Their brother should hear their call and then...

And then... silence.

It was loud, the silent ringing in his ears. Cerise meets pine, and Brick can only shrug when Butch’s face contorts in frenetic befuddlement. Why is nothing happening? Petulant ringing is soon conjoined with the fervent drumming in his chest. Brick swallows, mouth turning dry. Air struggles to enter his lungs. This doesn’t make any-... He doesn’t remember the revival taking this long. Was it not perfect? Did they mess something-?

Boomer gasps and lurches from the table. His body wracked with coughs as he catches his breath. Brick gawks as the blond’s chest heaves. Breathing. He’s breathing.

“Holy shit! You're really alive!" Butch attacks his now living brother with a bear hug, and an exuberant, yet strained laugh escapes Boomer.

"Thanks, but... if you don’t let me go, I think I might die again," he wheezes.

Butch immediately releases the blond. "Damn, sorry," he chuckles.

Brick also gives his brother a congenial hug. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

After being relinquished from his second embrace, Boomer looks down at his hands--they're trembling. "Off... More or less the same as the last time. So hopefully I should be one hundred percent by tomorrow." Fair brows furrow. "How did you guys find me?"

“Butch recognized you getting tossed out in an alleyway.”

“Shit, really?” He frantically pats his pockets on his chest and hips. “I-is that why I can’t find my pen? Fuck, man.”

“Does that really matter?”

“But that was my lucky pen...! We had s-so many adventures together.”

Brick can’t even bring himself to roll his eyes, but he still manages to quip, “Always the dramatics with you.”

“What happened t-to my... well, murderer, I guess?”

Ah, yes. Some hired thug from the company the blond was investigating. Brick pulls out a stool and regales the tale of using Butch’s and Abigail’s resources and connections from the shadier underbelly of Townsville to spin half-truths of how an innocent was killed within their walls and how they had tried and failed to cover it up. Well, not really half-truths as most were correct, but they made sure to keep the blond’s identity a secret.

A relieved sigh escapes Boomer's lungs. "Th-thanks, guys."

"Don’t sweat it,” Butch smiles. "What, you think we'd leave you dead?"

Boomer playfully looks away and purses his lips, and Brick can now roll his eyes.

“You sure you’re good?” Butch asks. “You’re still shaking.”

“I-I’m fine, really! Just... just a little cold,” he replies, teeth slightly chattering.

Shit. “Butch, get some blankets. I’ll put on the fireplace.” The brunet rushes off to do so, and the redhead motions for the journalist to sit on the floor before Brick’s quick mental spell coupled with his fierce glare sets the dry wood ablaze.

It should have felt more natural. Seeing Boomer sit on their cheap Persian rug, his back against the side of their brown leather chair. All three of them helped with this living room after all. Dark, mahogany shelves haphazardly yet familiarly cluttered with Brick’s numerous books and Boomer’s random knickknacks he’s found who-know-knows where flanking each side of the brick fireplace. Butch was never one for interior design. Well, other than the god-awful wallpaper that he picked. Orange and cream diamonds? Really?

Brick leans on the top of the fireplace. The blond’s shivers slightly lessen and then its frequency almost drops to zero after Butch hastily returns with a slew of blankets. The recently revived almost looks like a velvety black hill so much was dumped on him.

After the brunet settles next to him on the floor, the eldest decides now is a good time as any to orient him somewhat.

“Okay, Booms. Today is Sunday. The 27^th of September. You’ve only missed three days.”

“Three?” Boomer lightly scratches his head, his face growing contemplative, but doesn’t say anything more.

Brick pipes up to prevent his brother from staunchly retreating into his thoughts. “Ready to start work tomorrow?” When he gets no response, and his brother is still gazing at the flames, he sighs. “Boomer.”

“Huh?”

“Are you ready to go back to work?”

“I-... yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“... Okay.” He opens his mouth to say more, but Boomer’s flaxen brows scrunched in intense contemplation causes him to pause. Is he really? Are there still some repercussions of the spell? Or did something happen in the afterlife? Sure, the youngest would occasionally stare off into space, but his expression was always more-... Brick sighs and sits in front of the fire with his brothers. Flames of yellow and crimson dance in their eyes. “Hey, it’s... really good having you back.” He wishes he could say more, but somehow not even the sting of death could bring it out of him.

Butch nods in agreement and rests a hand on his shoulder. “Yeah, man.”

The youngest leans forward, a light, understanding smile on his face. “Thanks, guys.”

Depths of vermilion briefly meet azure before he nods and pats his brother’s back. “Don’t mention it.”

“Hey. You see all these blankets? You gotta pat him plenty rugged,” Butch offers giving hearty slaps to his back, and Boomer almost falls over. “Or else he can’t feel it.”

The blond swats his hand away. “I feel it fine! Fuck off!”

The brunet chuckles but retracts his hand. “Fine. So, how about we start our favorite past time?”

“No fucking way,” Boomer huffs.

“You can’t possibly be serious.”

“I’m always serious.”

Brick shoots him a deadpan glare. “It’s approaching ten. Time for bed.”

“Ten?! The night’s still young,” Butch protests. “And Booms hasn’t eaten anything in three days.”

“Don’t rope me into this! Can’t believe I just came back and you’re already trying to rob me,” the journalist grumbles leaning deeper into the side of the chair.

“The digestive tract takes longer to revitalize, remember? We can play later.”

“Aw, but I wanted to bet if Booms would fuck up tomorrow.”

“I will not!”

A sigh. “Whatever. Bed. Both of you.”

Butch groans, Boomer snickers, and Brick rubs his temples, ignorant to the tiny upturn of his lips.

Yup. He’s definitely back.

With Brick expertly removing his traces, and Butch forging a doctor's note, Boomer was ready to return to work the following morning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brick straightens his burgundy tie after taking a sip of black coffee. Normally, he doesn’t need it this early, but he set periodic alarms for himself to check on the recently revived. Sure, the first resurrection years ago worked wonders with little to no drawbacks, but one can never be too sure. Tired eyes blink at his watch. Minutes to seven-thirty. Still primed to be adequately early. He continues onward toward his hickory building.

The numerous vines ascending its frame almost blend in with its earthy color. Its high-reaching stone buttresses and large geometric windows make for that one would mistake for him walking into a cathedral. Reddening and purple leaves whirl past as a few students cruise past on their bikes. He wraps his ebony pea coat closer around him. This autumn is proving to be a chilly one.

“Oh, Mr. Jojo!”

The said redhead turns to see a middle-aged man, a bright smile on his round face. Long elven ears are tinged red from the cold. His tawny knit cardigan only covers half of his translucent wings. The corners of his blue eyes flanked by black sclera crinkle with mirth.

“Hello, Professor Mettle. Starting early in the laboratory again?”

“It’s like a second home to me. Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere like that in earnest?”

“Heading to mine right now.”

The older gentleman huffs, “Bah, that stuffy old building? You should come invest more time with us in the science hall.” His smile reappears. “You know, I could talk to the dean and pull some strings for you. It’s just... such a shame for you to be sequestered by the literature department.”

“Admire the offer, but I should focus on this part of my degree now. You’ll see more of me in two years.”

“I shall convince you yet, Mr. Jojo,” he laughs.

“If you somehow manage to succeed, I’d have to assume foul play,” Brick grins.

“Oh, heavens no! Ah, speaking of which...” The faerie steps off the sidewalk and beckons him closer, and after Brick leans down for per his request, he resumes his thought. “It appears the police are cracking down even harder on magic. Just my brother was interrogated last week. Try to keep a discerning eye.”

Oh, he has no idea. What he and his brothers are doing are one of the biggest taboos in magic. The redhead nods. “Understood. Thank you, Professor Mettle.”

He pats the graduate student’s back. “Of course. See you next week!” He farewells with a light wave.

Brick resumes his quickened pace into Murray Hall. His footsteps echo throughout the sparsely populated corridors before reaching the narrow entrance of his wide lecture hall. He jogs down the steep steps and settles in the side desk near the podium. Class should start in ninety minutes.

Now he finally has time to look at the script Butch provided for them. His ties to the black market have been fairly handy in their pursuit for the perfect spell... Not like Brick would tell him though. The graduate student takes out a random book from his bag and feels for the slight opening within its numerous pages. Opening it to the desired page, Brick eagerly removes the aged parchment paper, carefully opening it, he begins to read. It’s olde English, but not too difficult to understand... Wait.

He frowns. It’s contradictory, and from what he and his brothers in the past, revitalization spells should be anything but. He runs a hand through his auburn waves. This is useless. Sure, their spell seems okay for now, but they’ve been lucky. It’s too limiting. What if Butch wasn’t passing by, and they couldn’t find Boomer’s body in time? What if he was identified before they could get to him? What if they couldn’t even find him at all? It wouldn’t have worked. The image of his adoptive father flashes in his mind.

It won’t work for him.

He and his brothers made grand progress and annotations as needed, but these recent texts they’ve been investigating just aren’t enough... His carmine gaze darkens on his history textbook.

Other than their blatant goal, many of the incantations or their excerpts have had similarities. Like they’re all derived from something. So, what if he went straight to the source?

He almost jumps up from his chair. Phoenixes! He could research their texts. Sure, they’re in a completely different language that almost no one in the United Dominion knows, but he could find a way to learn. The primary issue is availability. Phoenixes have been rendered extinct. And their writings fare no better. Only a few of their poems and historical accounts have been preserved to this day.

But he has to try.

He quickly takes out his wallet to assure that he has change for the pay phone. He can tell Butch during his break. Boomer most likely will be engrossed in his office or out investigating. Tucking it back in his pocket, he exchanges it for a pen. He needs to make a list for all that they’ll need.

Approaching footsteps cause him to pause in his writing. He closes his recreational novel and glances at his watch. A bit late as usual, but when you’re in charge, you can make the rules.

“Morning, Professor Aborican.”

The dragon waves a clawed hand. “Good morning.” He nods his verdant snout toward Brick’s desk. “I see you have everything prepared on your end. Would you like to go over the lesson plan for today?”

“Of course.”

“Wonderful because some of these students simply are not understanding the difference between anaphora and anastrophe or soliloquy versus monologue!” He marches over to the chalkboard and begins writing the schedule for the day. “The first two aren’t even similar. Just look it up!”

“Told you.” The redhead quips.

The professor looks back over his shoulder pale green eyes tired. “I was hoping you were joking.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The graduate student opens his front door to be greeted by the familiar, umami scent of pork, chicken, and potatoes mixed with aromatics of rosemary. Boomer is already turning off the gas stove. His famous potato soup, huh? Bricksets his stuff down and leans on the counter.

“Hey. How was work?”

“Good! Will have to start looking into some info a whistle-blower gave us about a CEO. It looks promising!... and kinda damning if I'm being honest."

Brick nods his head. Honestly, he's surprised that Boomer's rag-tag journalist group hasn’t been a target of arson yet.

“No suspicions were raised?”

“Oh, no. People were more worried about my health than anything. You?”

That lines up from what he’d seen as he passed by his workplace. No fainting, no convulsions, or fevers. Absolutely no signs of rejection whatsoever. Brick pulls out a capped container. Alright, maybe he doesn't have to check on his brother so closely for the time being. The distress of his death was mitigated by the blond’s (living) presence. Hopefully, he can put more focus into his studies. It's not like his assignments stopped piling up. He still has classes to TA, papers to write, and lectures to attend.

The redhead shrugs. “Same old. Mettle is still trying to recruit me early, but I declined.” He stirs the beige liquid. “Speaking of which, have you got any new leads? I have some script ideas for research if not.” Brick doesn't mind keeping his head in the books—it's his fucking job—but what they’ve previously done isn’t the most efficient way to go about this. And why wouldn't one strive for maximum efficiency? “Butch’s so-called resurrection spell workup was a complete bust. A surprise to no one, honestly.”

Brick finishes portioning out the food for said other brother. He figures since he didn’t see him once he got home, he must be taking a nap before heading out again. Twisting his mouth, he shuts the tupperware with a resounding snap. Brick doesn’t try to understand the dark-haired man’s sleep schedule.

“Ah, no. But I'll keep looking. I think I saw something promising before I was murdered... May have to pay an old visit to that Morbucks company.”

The leader blinks. How the hell does he say stuff like that so casually? “You... should probably stay away from them for now.”

The blond looks up and tilts his head, fingers playing with the straps of his suspenders. “Oh. Yeah, that's true.”

Brick opens his mouth to say more about his nonchalance but decides against it. “Do you think you could limit your snooping for Phoenician texts only?”

“Phoenixes?! I mean... How-...?”

Brick completely understands his hesitation. “Look, I get that it’ll be difficult, but you have to admit, we haven’t gotten much good texts lately.” Brick notices the shift in his brother’s azure eyes and places a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got a good knack for snooping. This is nothing new.”

“There are other things I also wanted to-...” He stops and shakes his head. “Uhhh, gotcha. I’ll definitely see what I can find.”

“Wait, what was before that?”

“Hm? Before what?” Boomer wonders a little too innocently.

“Before agreeing,” the redhead irritably clarifies. “What else are you looking into other than wor-?”

“What’s up, drips?” Their rambunctious brother quips with a yawn.

Boomer perks up. “Butch, hey! I’m gonna do some work in my room. See ya!” And before either could say anything, the blond scampers off.

“... Should I chalk that up to normal Booms behavior?”

Brick sighs. He’ll deal with him later. “I was just catching him up with what we talked about earlier.”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll also keep an eye out.”

“You’re headed over there now, right? Here,” he says handing him the plastic bowl.

“Thanks, mommy dearest.”

Vermilion orbs flash to him. “Booms made it, but I made sure to put something extra special in your portion, don’t worry.”

Butch pales but says nothing more and heads for the door. It wouldn’t be the first time the eldest has “added something special” to his brothers’ meals.

“You actually gonna come back at a reasonable time?”

“Look, I’ll stay as long as Abi needs and wants me,” he finishes with a wink.

“So not long then.”

Butch frowns. “Please. I’m a huge asset to that business.” He pauses to look at the redhead before opening the door.  “And it’s not like we’ll get the best info through legal means anyway. Be happier about this side-hustle.”

Obviously, Brick is. He just wants the brunet to show some restraint. “I’ll be happier the moment you get more cautious.” They don’t need the fuzz knocking on their door.

“Yeah, yeah.” He opens the door and continues over his shoulder. “Later. Tell Boom Boom nighty night for me.”

“Tell him yourself.” The youngest has always stayed up to witching hours. Not as outlandish as Butch, but Brick has always been the first to bed. Someone has to be clear-headed in the mornings... or just in general. As the brunet waves a lackadaisical hand, Brick closes the door. He then retreats to his room, and pulls out a book from his briefcase. The synopsis on the inside of its cover already states that there are gaps in its contents due to ongoing discoveries. Before even reading it, the scholar is inclined to agree. It looked barely over two hundred pages. He turns the grey book over in his hands.

Fundamentals of the Etruscan Language.

He can do this.

Chapter Text

Blossom allows a calming sigh as she opens her white curtains. Bubbles must have closed them after Blossom fell asleep at her desk. The soft colors of sunrise (or sunset?) dimly light her room. White bookshelves sit flush against her pastel pink walls housing scrolls and books that she’s read so much the covers and rolls are beginning to wear, and she’s about to receive another. Visit days are a fierce contender for workdays solely because she can expand her makeshift personal library. Okay, not solely. Time with friends and family goes without saying. She pads over to one and chooses a novel at random. Flipping through the crisp pages, she thinks that maybe she could repair this one. She then lightly sniffs the pages and flops on her recently made bed. But why would she do that when they have this amazing old book smell?!

*Knock, knock*

She removes the book from her face and looks up to register Buttercup leaning on the door with a smirk.

Warmth floods Blossom’s cheeks.

“Mornin’. Are we going, or you want more time doing...?” She trails off with a light hand wave.

“No!... No,” Blossom repeats, calming down. “I’m ready.”

“Good.”

She quickly places the book in its rightful place and follows her younger sister out her room and down the steps. Slender fingers comb through her fiery tresses as she redoes her ponytail. “Not a word of this to anyone,” Blossom hisses.

“No promises.”

The eldest rolls her eyes. She should’ve expected an answer like that, but she bites her tongue. Blossom refuses to get into a petty argument over this—at least not this time.

They don’t bother with breakfast. They know that where they’re going there’ll be an elaborate meal enough for them three times over—even considering Buttercup’s picky habits. The sisters amble toward the train ticket station—buses are way less frequent after what she assumes is the “morning” bustle. As they pass tress full of mint green leaves and parks of freshly cut grass, the walk was a seamless an uneventful one.

Passing through the revolving glass door, Blossom begins rummaging through her purse when she spots the welcoming booth. “Any pertinent questions you want to ask them,” she questions, showing the ticket master her ID.

“Not really.”

She clicks her tongue. “You should. Earth’s customs have really changed these past few decades, and with all of these burgeoning countries, it could get pretty confusing.”

“It’s more or less the same: don’t kill.” After Buttercup receives the tickets from the clerk, she gives him a thumbs up, and stuffs them in her pocket.

“I know you’re joking, but even so, you could take your studying more seriously.”

Emerald irises roll as she leans back in exasperation. “To do what, Blossom? It all boils down to the Three Criteria of Judgement, we literally have forever, and also, I do. The Universals haven’t called me in for anything.”

The redhead crosses her arms. True, but just because your bosses haven’t called you in for bad behavior shouldn’t be your basis of a job well done. She should be getting called in for accolades. The increasing volume of the rumbling tracks and the drumming on the underside of her heels alert them that the locomotive is soon approaching. She settles to pause her response as the horn trumpets throughout the entire station as the glistening white and silver train rolls to a stop at their designated platform. Its steam billows to the domed glass ceiling.

She and the rest of the passengers lazily file in—no rush is needed. Wordlessly handing over their tickets over to the train clerks, they settle on one of the many open booths.

Blossom smooths her pink dress before settling on silver velvet. “Okay, but what if they did,” she wonders with a smile. “For adulation, I mean. To say that we’ve been the most accurate with our rulings, considering each and every detail.”

“Bloss, they have literally never done that.”

“But maybe we could be the first?” It wouldn’t be their first time making history. On Earth or in The Afterlife. She leans in toward the other. “And we could study together or something. It could be fun!” She can’t quite put her finger on it, but Buttercup has seen slightly more… Well, the eldest isn’t sure. Perky isn’t quite correct (and it wouldn’t really ever apply to her younger sister), but Buttercup does appear… less listless. Blossom isn’t sure about what has caused the change, but maybe it was work. Maybe she remembered about what makes their job so fulfilling.

The brunette heaves and gags.

“Oh, whatever,” the redhead huffs slumping back in her seat. She then perks back up. “Oh, I could bake us some cookies while we do!”

“Now you’re giving death threats?”

“No, I’m offering ways for us to keep our minds sharp.”

“After eating your cookies, my mind won’t be able to work at all. It would be too busy having its life flash before its eyes.”

Holy Universals this is going nowhere. She sighs and nurses the bridge between her nose. “Forget it. What did everyone say about my proposal concerning work snacks?”

“Unsurprisingly, Zella and Beaga were against it.”

The duo continues to chatter throughout the rest of the train ride. They decline the free lavish refreshments, awaiting their desired stop. Blossom can’t help but smile. It’s been quite some time since she’s seen their dad and Robin. The latter is particularly peculiar because she’s certain on some days that they’re no less than five meters apart, but both are confined to their workspaces. However, once work is on, there’s virtually no break. Blossom laughs at yet another joke Buttercup makes at their troublesome coworkers’ expense. It’s not like she needs breaks anyway. Souls need to be ushered to their floors and order needs to be kept.

Another horn blares twice in staccato—alerting its patrons that they’ve finally arrived at their stop. Hotel Quietus.

They jog down the steps and, through sheer muscle memory, move toward the gated employee only elevators. The enormous building has enough space so that the train can park directly within its walls. A lazy yet jaunty organ plays through the speakers soon followed by a clarinet, and their quickened steps contrast the rest of the slow-moving bodies. In the past, these elevators were only used for emergencies within floors, but now they’re mainly used as a means for Death Escorts to enter the first floor. Room service has it easy being able to just waltz through the main elevators.

“You have the key, right?”

“Of course I have the key. How else would we get in?” Blossom retorts, pulling it out and waving the obsidian key in the brunette’s face.

Buttercup scowls, mumbling that she only wanted to make sure. The eldest only smirks. Serves her right for being so difficult earlier. With the pale golden glow from the Edison bulbs from above, she easily unlocks it. This would be way more difficult if they were in the lobby. She sings along to the jazzy melody.

“You’re chipper,” Buttercup comments.

She glances down at how her sister leans her back against the wall, hands nestled in pastel green pants pockets. It almost amazes Blossom how someone so short can have such presence. “Of course! Plus, it’s a pretty cute song. You know what it’s called?”

“Jitterbug Waltz. It’s from Earth.”

She hums in acknowledgement. She could always count on Buttercup to keep her up to date with music. Blossom is still prone to tunes of what Earth considered was… the 1800s (?) if she remembers correctly. Calming breaths of the daegeum from the north and soothing strings from the south. Brows of tangerine furrow. Actually…

“Is your gramophone still working?”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, okay. It’s just that I haven’t heard you play any-”

*Ding*

The doors hastily recede, distracting her form her train of thought. They step out onto pale yellow cobblestone. As the two sisters walk along the rustic path lined with oil lanterns, Blossom takes a deep breath appreciating the salty air as it blows stray wisps of her hair from her visage. She’s visited the first floor many times over the years, and yet its sight causes her heart to swell every time. Half-spherical roofs of matte periwinkle, blush, and coral sit atop white Cycladic buildings resting on carved, weathered, peach stone. The golden infrastructure of a carousel peaks out from the village’s side-profile. As always, the sun is nowhere to be seen, stuck in the endless limbo between sunrise and sunset.

It’s peaceful. Exactly what these guests deserve.

The sisters easily spot their father’s residence—the only house with circular windows reflecting warm light—and start their trek upwards. They give quick hellos and goodbyes to the amicable residents up the worn path. Before long, they arrive, and with a hearty knock of their dad’s favorite ditty, mechanical whirrs and gears churn to reveal the foyer. Blossom narrows her eyes, and Buttercup quickly fans her face. Once the steam clears, of course. He was always more prone to science rather than magic.

As usual, they make sure to remove their shoes before stepping in. Blossom crouches down to remove her dress shoes, while Buttercup kicks off her boots with two resounding thuds. The redhead can only roll her eyes at the younger's carelessness.

“What's up, pops,” the brunette loudly greets.

“Hi, dad! We're here!”

A man rushes into the atrium. His dark hair is slightly in more disarray than he would normally allow, and his stovetop mittens are darkened with new scorch marks. But he appears to have no care for any of that as he locks eyes with his daughters. Dark depths shine with elation. “Girls!” He rushes toward them to greet them with a warm hug. “It's so nice to see you! I hope you two are in the mood for pancakes, waffles, fruit, manduguk, hazelsing, eggs, doenjang stew baekban, fi-!”

“Dad,” Blossom titters, “We're not starving at our place, okay? You know you don't have to make so much.”

“Well, you know I don’t like to be unprepared. Oh! And please make sure to carry some home for Bubbles. You know how she loves her waffles.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll start packing when we finish eating. I’m starving,” the shortest deadpans.

“For you to get to the food, you girls do know that you need to let go, right?” His dark brown eyes shine with cheer at his good-natured joke, and the redhead’s smile only grows.

Blossom giggles and gives the professor one last squeeze before walking further into the house. Fuchsia eyes catch on numerous wooden shelves filled with micropipettes, bottled buffer solutions, beakers, and test tubes neatly tucked away from Bunsen burners. She’s often joked that he’s made his entire house into a lab forget just the one room. She pauses at the portrait of him and their mother though—always kept pristine to keep her mirthful blue eyes and the glow of her fiery locks as if she were still in the room with them.

As she arrives in the kitchen, she almost gawks at the large spread before them. There’s so much food, she fears that some of the dishes will topple onto the seafoam tile floors. As one inevitably does, she quickly shoots her hand outward in time with her mental spell, imploring the air to push upward. She allows a sigh of relief.

“Maybe at second glance, this was a little too much,” the scientist sheepishly admits.

Buttercup shakes her head. “Guess I’ll get the plates…”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“We can continue working on our air propulsion experiments today. Or should we hold off and wait for when Bubbles comes next time?”

“Wait for Bubbles,” the two siblings say in sync.

“Okay,” John chuckles. “We’ll do entropy today then.”

Blossom sits up in her seat, thoroughly satisfied by the meal. “Great idea!”

“Butterbear?”

"Hell yeah.” He raises a brow at her, and she stares back, wide-eyed. “I’m an adult!” His look persists. “I mean, yes.”

The eldest chuckles, and the trickle of running water only serves to further relax Blossom as her dark-haired family members continue to wash the dirty plates. Gaze wandering over to the mountain high stack of glass containers, the red head sighs. She and Buttercup can only take home so much. Just what does he do with all the leftovers? Robin can’t eat all of this, and she doubts that he calls room service to dispose of them.

“The lantern festival will be later on the beach too,” John continues as he dries a plate. “I already have the paper. We can start making them in a bit.”

“Sounds like fun! I’ll have to head to the library before the actual event though.”

“You and your studies. I heard they have a new rotation coming in! More anecdotes and journal peer reviews rather than actual spellbooks though.”

Perfect!

Buttercup grins and finishes rinsing a ceramic bowl. “Oh, wow. You remembered to check.”

“Of course I did! Though I wish you all could take more of a break when you drop by…”

“This is our work, dad,” Blossom emphasizes. She walks over to him and places a soothing hand on his back. “How else are we supposed to judge if we don’t have an idea what life is like there?” They strictly compile all the stories and make notes solely for them to be better.

John looks at the two inquisitively but sighs. “Alright. I just don’t hear the other Lift Operators doing all this work.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Buttercup quips. Blossom moves to elbow the brunette, but she deftly moves out of the way. She sticks out her tongue.

“Judges, you are so obnoxious.”

“You’re so obnoxious,” she mocks with a nasal voice.

“You’re just proving my point!”

“Girls…” The professor warns.

Buttercup snaps her mouth shut, already open for another retort, and brings her attention back to the sink; Blossom sags her shoulders. “Sorry.” Her pride burning that she had relapsed into their childish bickering in front of their father, she picks up the dried dishes set aside to be placed in their respective white cabinets and shelves.

“About the library though,” Buttercup begins, “I’m gonna have to cut my time there short.”

“Really? Why’s that?”

Blossom whips her head to her. She hasn’t heard of this shift in plans.

“There’s just something else I gotta do. Don’t worry about it. There’s also a… very tiny chance I may miss out on part of the lantern festival.” Their father’s face goes crestfallen, and Buttercup quickly adds, “But I’ll try my best to make it back in time.” She examines pools of onyx. “Really, it’s nothing to worry about.”

“Ah, yes, sweetie. Take care of your duties, but I just hope you hurry back, okay?”

Blossom remains silent at the exchange. What is it that Buttercup could be doing to shorten her library time? To potentially miss out on part of the lantern festival? Diamond pink meets emerald, only for a flippant hand wave to follow. Jade orbs rest resolutely back to her task of drying her hands. Blossom closes the drawer. They need to discuss this.

“Sure thing, Pops. I’ll get the lantern paper then,” Buttercup offers.

Their father gives her a genteel smile, and she saunters toward his office.

Turning to Blossom, he asks, “do you know what’s going on?”

“Well, no, but… I’m sure everything is fine.”

She’ll just have to suggest more books for Buttercup to read later.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When done fiddling with her silk scarf, Blossom enters the office to see only two of her coworkers convening at the meeting table. The hanging plants to give the room more character are alive and well as they always are. Bubbles was so saddened to hear that the plants here don’t require any work at all. Blossom gives them a polite smile and settles her punch card into the reader.

Earlier, however, Bubbles appeared perky as usual—chattering about any interesting cases she saw at work, and knowing her, she’ll snuggle up next to Buttercup and will be even bubblier later on.

Buttercup thankfully hadn’t missed any of the festival but brushed off any of Blossom’s questions about cutting her own library time short. Perhaps she was just meeting an old friend or something. Regardless, when they returned back to their house, the brunette swiftly retreated to her room. At least she took the extra books. Whether she’ll actually read them is a while different affair. The redhead frowns. It honestly came off as standard Buttercup behavior. If she wants to talk, she’ll talk.

Maybe.

But now, it’s time for work.

“Hello, everyone!” When all she gets is a lukewarm response, she goes to pick up her clipboard. “Um… Is everyone okay?”

The purple monkey’s tail wilts. “I went home and ate four peaches and cream ice cream bars,” she bemoans.

“Ursula, what? Why?”

“Didn’t want to cook.”

The redhead gives the magic monkey a skeptical look. “You’re telling me you didn’t have anything healthier to eat?”

“All I cared about was convenience and taste!”

“That’s all you ever care about,” the lone faerie cuts in.

“Can it, Zella.”

“I’m just saying,” she proceeds with a shrug. “You should take some responsibility.”

“Me? Bloss, are you hearing this?”

Blossom keeps her eyes on the numerous names that are listed down the pages. “Any frustrations and feedback should be written down and given to me.”

Zella flicks her wrist to observe her snow-white hair in between her pale fingers, searching for split ends. “And I expect to see nothing but praise.” Thin purple lips stretch into a smile. “My light spell seems to be working quite well it seems.”

Ah, yes. Robin did complain about her own job became less stressful, yet more dull once that was implemented. That and having a bunch of unopen tissue boxes and unused handkerchiefs jammed under her desk. Blossom should have those addressed.

“I mean, imagine. Before we have not even thought about prerecording images. And now—it’s here!”

“It’s not like you came up with the concept,” Ursula sniffs, lightly brushing off her dress.

“Yeah, well, unfortunately a concept is only that unless you have a spell that can implement it. And I finished mine before you,” Zella sings.

Fur bristles as she sputters. “W-well, that wouldn’t have happened if—!”

“Enough please,” Blossom mollifies. “We’re due to start soon. Have any of you seen Mitsu?”

“She left to her station shortly after I came in,” Zella provides. “I don’t know why she always does that…”

Figures. The water dragon is quite pleasant but despises anything that messes with her flow.

"Alright, well. We should probably get going too then. I’ll see you all when the shift is over, okay?”

“Oh, but of course! I’ll see you lovely ladies later.” And with that, the faerie flutters out of the meeting room.

Ursula slumps her shoulders and cocks her head to give Blossom a disgruntled look.

“I know, I know.”

“It’s just… this is like the… I honestly lost count. How many times is she gonna bring that up?”

Blossom shrugs. “She’s just proud of herself,” she replies, keeping her more unsavory thoughts to herself.

“But like. That was ages ago? It’s time to move on.”

Whether or not it was truly ages could be debated. Though Blossom won’t touch on this considering their perception of time is extremely unreliable. “I’m inclined to agree. Hopefully when the proposition I proposed passes, she’ll calm down,” Blossom playfully grins. It’s also of note that she had some of her own addendums added. She’s praying for the best case scenario that Buttercup and the rest of her coworkers won’t be so aggravated by certain coworkers’ antics.

Hazel eyes wide, she replies, “Wait, it’s actually gonna pass?” Blossom quickly places a finger to her lips, and the magic monkey snickers. “Alright Bloss~. So glad I voted for you to be the new L.O. manager.”

"Whoever voted for who is meant to stay confidential!”

“And we’re back,” she giggles.

The redhead allows herself a small laugh. “Okay, okay. Thank you. Now come on before we’re late. Those souls aren’t going to judge themselves.”

With an exuberant, but discreet nod, Ursula retreats to her own lobby.

Blossom smiles and nestles her pen in between the board and the metal clamp. She readies herself and opens the door. “Aspectum da mihi.” Hopefully, this song and dance will pass, and she’ll go home, rest, and resume her satisfying yet critical job once again.

Chapter Text

“... Aaand two hundred and seventy. It’s all there.” Butch knocks the stack of twenties flush against the black and brown granite counter. “Will deposit this right away. Have a good one.”

A black cap rises and falls onto a head full of curled orange fur. “Thank you!”

As soon as the last patron is out of earshot, his coworker turns to him. “’Have a good one,’ huh? Look at you sounding all professional.”

“Harry, I am a banker. A financier. Would you expect me to be anything less,” he questions with a smug smile.

“It’s not a matter of expect anymore.”

“Yeah, well,” Butch begins rising from his leather chair. “I am expected somewhere at seven. So, I’ll see you later.”

“Alright. I’ll close for you this time, but you need to lock up the next few days.”

The tall brunet nods in acknowledgement and proceeds over gloss emerald tile floors out of Dominion Bank.

Unlike the quaint and quiet treasury, the street is full of talkative pedestrians and speeding cars. The sun has set giving rise to the rule of bright streetlamps, soft stark neon signs. In the open air hangs the scent of exhaust and petrichor of old afternoon showers. Butch’s silvan gaze is drawn to a worn, red baseball cap lightly waving in the air. After turning on his heels, he ambles over to its bearer. “What’s up, Abi?”

Her long, dark braid stops swishing after finishing her search, and russet depths go soft with relief and recognition. Abigail stuffs her hand in her navy peacoat. “Hey, Butch. Thanks for meeting up earlier. Hoags has this crazy ‘surprise’ he wants to show me. Which, I gotta say, I don’t understand why people preface something by saying it’s a surprise. Whatever you do, I won’t be as surprised because now I have an expectation there will be one.”

He cocks a dark brow. “Um, okay.”

She sighs and rubs her temples before putting her faded hat on. “Sorry.”

He grins. “No worries,” he pacifies. “I guess we should let others know that we’re gonna close up shop earlier though.”

“Yeah. What are you gonna do afterwards? Run off into another speakeasy again,” she wonders popping a lollipop in her mouth. “Booms should’ve never told you about those,” she finishes with a chuckle. It’s good he did. He swore he was going to lose it. First, they wanted to crackdown on magic, now they want his spirits too… Though the law hasn’t done much to restrain him in the past.

They resume their stroll toward Pickering Street, and as they do, the apartments’ paint fades—their wear aged like sour wine, and the neon lights grow dimmer and flicker. The pewter roads bear cracks enough for weeds and wildflowers to peek through. “No. I’m gonna be the responsible sibling and head home.” A dark brow raises at him, and Butch can’t hide his wolfish grin. “There’s a new ciggy bar up on Tredway, and I’m hoping to be a recurring customer.”

“Thought so.” She bobs her shoulders. “Just don’t do anything too crazy when you get there.”

“There’s no way in hell I’d uphold that promise,” he quips. “So, where are we headed now?”

“... Seriously? This is the third week in a row you haven’t solved any of the scripts.”

Butch throws an arm around his long-time friend. “Now why would I when I have you?”

“Well, you better start. Or I’m leaving you in the cold next week,” she retorts ducking from under his embrace.

“We’ll see about that.”

Depths of russet rolls before she responds with a sardonic, “Of course.” She picks up her pace and growls an order to follow over her shoulder of which Butch lazily follows. The two continue onward on the sidewalk only jaywalking as needed when the road is clear of vehicles. She voices a snarky comment of what Brick would say, which causes his usually unflappable frame to shiver.

No response for that one.

He tosses a few coins in a performer’s trumpet case, when white spectator pumps abruptly stop at an alleyway, Abigail turning towards its entrance.

Butch peeks his head inside before standing beside the capped young woman. The open space is largely obscured by shadow just like the others. Within the blackness he can only perceive rundown cobbled paths, a smattering of grimy dumpsters, and wilted plants squished by the two old brick buildings covered by a healthy amount of ivy. Even at this distance, the chatter and rustling of everyday life from loitering vendors and residents still clatter in his ears. He leans on the dilapidated structure.

“I take it this is the spot?”

“If you actually bothered to decipher, you would know.”

The young man laughs. “You really are in a mood today. How about I buy you some hot lips tomorrow.”

“Do that and crack the next encryption.”

“We’ll see. For this time, how about I help another way?” facing the open space again, Butch inhales. “Before me now of what stretches beyond, I command the unseen to be shown. May our eyes be opened anew, disenchanted by this hidden view.”

Before the pair is now a bustling passageway, its occupants and darkened stalls no longer blurred shadows. Their outlines grow clearer and crisper into living breathing shapes. Their forms gesticulate around each other, walk around, and dash from one stand to the next. The quaint yet smarmy bazaar is mainly composed of humans. Not like most faeries, dragons, or magic monkeys would be caught dead in a place like this. They have other… more exclusive and elite ways of skirting around stringent magic laws.

His eyes travel from the lively scene down to her blank stare. He smirks.

“Quit your gloating. I was just about to say it.”

“Yeah, well it’s faster and clearer when I do it,” Butch preens.

“Sure it is.”

“Hey, I did you a favor,” he says as they walk into the bustling alleyway. “You hate light magic.” It was a magic that favored trickery. A magic which his late adoptive father loved.

“Yeah, alright, alright.”

They proceed into the newly illuminated space, but not before Butch utters another spell to cover them in that same blackness to any outsider. Waving their hellos and nodding their greetings, Butch and Abigail soon settle behind their booth. He ducks behind the makeshift counter of wood, verdant gaze sweeping over the crates of spell books and tomes of literature and history.

“Damn, did Lloyd and Floyd help set up?”

“I think so. Also, Lloyd called and said he wanted to talk to you about something.”

Butch raises a brow but doesn’t press the matter. He’ll talk to him later. The brunet takes out a piece of paper with Boomer’s chicken scratch notes. A long sigh escapes his nose. And people think his penmanship is bad.

He’s gotten used to looking out for Phoenician history and their Etruscan texts. It has been a little over a year since Brick made that request, and more or less everything has fallen into lockstep since Boomer’s revival—almost as if it never happened. The journalist scouts out any leads that their leader reads about, and Butch uses those clues, and any artifacts the blond finds to ask around in the black market. Just like they always had—except with renewed focus. Sure, Abigail questioned him about why he was so distraught those three painful days, but he kept silent. No one can know their end goal, and that includes close friends. This a family business of sorts.

He leans over the counter to get more light on the weathered, crumpled paper.

Butch wrinkles his nose. Damn, accessories are needed for this shit? Well, it’s to be expected. This is ancient magic they’re messing with. Hmm... blessed beeswax isn’t necessarily hard to find, but they take a while to make. Most special made to order products are. He drops the paper and snaps his fingers with a quick mental incantation for the note’s combustion. Hands are pocketed as the object curls, stark white melting into ashen blackness.

Abigail fans her nose. “You can’t smoke with one of those nicely scented cigs?”

He stomps out the smoke to snuff out the smell and grumbles an apology. “Gonna go talk to the twins. Handle the fort until I get back?”

“Sure thing.”

It doesn’t take long for Butch to find the brothers’ stall. Floyd’s ruddy hands are carrying a cardboard box, dark brown cropped hair already glistening with sweat despite the cool spring air. Lloyd, however, stands still—his back turned, hands scribbling over a clipboard.

“Heya—"

“Yeah, yeah,” Lloyd interrupts, turning around, tossing his writing utensils on the counter. “Here for your Phoenician magic?”

“You know it.”

“I advise to stop hounding for it. Been a real crackdown on that sort of thing.”

Floyd emphasizes the older twin’s comment with his arms forming and emphatic ‘X’ with his forearms.

"I would hardly call a year recent, but whatever."

"Butch. I'm serious. If you keep searching for this, you're gonna attract the wrong kind of attention."

“And this won’t already?”

“You know what I mean. This,” the other brother helps emphasize Lloyd’s point making a motion around the market, “is only a step above everyday magic…. Y’know, helping the little guy out when they don’t have the cash for privatized services. But…” The two lean in, and his voice drops several decibels. “Phoenixes? They’re myths and if not, it’s bad news. Not to mention crazy hard to find. Not that there’s much a market for it either.”

What’s with this renewed vigilance? “We’ve been over this. Brick just wants more shit to add to his thesis. And you’re getting plenty compensation,” Butch argues.

“It’s not just about the money. You can never be too cautious with this business... There was another guy asking around for this stuff too just last week.”

“You’re kidding.”

Floyd and Lloyd reward him with a deadpan look.

“Well, what’d they want with it?”

He scoffs. “No clue. He was just some hired messenger, but I get the feeling the interest isn’t academic like Brick’s... Maybe he’s messing with some... taboo resurrection magic. I dunno.”

Perish the thought. Butch huffs and runs a hand through his raven locks. Who the hell else would be crazy enough to seek something out like this? Even when they were kids and magic use was more common, animus magic—magic dealing with the soul—was blacklisted millennia before that. “Fine. What about the other guy?”

“Ain’t getting squat. Don’t trust anyone I can’t see face-to-face. Y’know that. I’ll give you a heads up on if we can get anymore Etruscan scripts—cause this week we’re dry.” Butch refrains from remarking “again.” As if sensing his distress, he speaks back up. “Don’t want any agita about that from you or Booms either is he comes with again. It’s a supply issue.”

Butch merely puts up his hands in surrender. Brick is the one with the insane schedule. He understands that scripts of creatures that maybe existed are going to be hard to find. “I’m easy. Just let me know.”

“Aight.”

The banker turns to leave but a thought stops him. Oh, right. “Abi and I gotta leave early. Hoags is expecting her for something.”

“No problem.”

“Tell Hoagie and Abi I say hi.” Floyd this time.

Butch nods in verification and farewell and heads back to his station. When Abigail asks what the mini-meeting was about, he claims that it wasn’t anything much. Just his typical reminder to be careful spiel that he gives out every so often. She nods and returns her attention to her book on architecture, curiosity sated.

He zeroes in on his own form of entertainment until customers breach their countertop. The Townsville Herald. Ebony brows rise. Another ballsy takedown of his younger brother discussing the evidence and anecdotes of a corrupt officer Brikowski calling for his removal from the force. Front page, of course. They were everywhere on his way to work in the morning and being bought like doughnuts fresh out of the oven.

“Damn. Lil’ Booms is tearing him apart,” he cackles.

“Excuse, me!”

Viridian eyes flick up from his newspaper to see the red-faced patron. He inwardly groans. It’s Lenny. Again.

“Just what kind of business are you running here?!”

“An illegal one.”

“I-!” A pause to center himself and push up his bifocals. “Look, that tome you sold me was a fucking sham.”

Butch remains unimpressed. “Maybe you just lack the ability to use it.”

The man balks and after coming back from his disbelief, he scoffs. “I am more than capable of--!” He pauses and shakes his head. “Y’know, I expected to hear that from somewhere else but not from someone like us. You seriously believe that shit too?”

Green eyes narrow. He is so sick of that self-defeatist take. Humans are as good as other creatures when it comes to magic. “No. I don't. We’re just as capable as everyone else, but this has nothing to do with that. I personally test run all of my fucking spells. And guess what? It worked. " He thumbs over to a nonchalant Abigail engrossed in her book. “She tried it too, and surprise, surprise it worked. Looks like the common denominator is you. Go practice a bit before you come whining to me about a defective spell.”

“You completely lack any form of professionalism,” he growls.

“If you hate it so much then why keep coming back?”

“To complete my tome collection! Why else would I come to your stand?” He softens. “Uh, No offense to you Abigail.”

“None taken.”

“Sounds like you need to get to practicing,” Butch presses. “Make tracks.”

Lenny gives one last glare before turning on his heel and doing just that.

What the fuck was that? Butch makes a face and turns to face Abigail who’s trying to remain neutral. “Like, what the fuck was he gonna do?”

She only snickers and shrugs.

The rest of the day goes off without any complaints. Save for Lenny, customers were courteous and chatty as usual. As much as he’d hate to admit, this is what he loves most about his work. Interacting with Townsville’s “underbelly” to see how they fare while simultaneously giving a nonverbal “fuck you” to those in charge of these stupid extortionist laws. He doesn’t even realize it’s time for them to leave until Abigail pats his shoulder and taps on her watch.

“Sorry, Ms. Believe. We gotta head out. Say hi to the kids for me, and take good care of that book, okay?”

She clutches it like a lifeline and beams. “Absolutely. Thank you so much, Butch! Goodbye, Abi.”

The duo leave from the concealed alleyway opposite from where they came. Butch raises his arm to remove any traces but sees wisps of tan intermingling with usual white. More traces. On him and only him. He sets his jaw, and surveys his surroundings, catching the eye of a group of men (poorly) hiding in the shadows. “Someone’s following us.” He jerks his head forward. “Keep going. I’ll see you later.”

Abigail shoots him a deadpan stare. “You can’t be serious. If they’re dangerous, that’s all the more reason I need to—”

“Look, I am not about to catch shit from Hoagie if I let you stay. Just go on. They’re probably just some robbers or whatever. You know I can take care of those fine.” Like hell he’s going to let her get caught in whatever scrap this will turn out to be.

“And if it’s not just one? What if they’re armed?”

“Same result.” They both know it’s not his first time in a fight. Honestly, she, the twins, and his brothers would say he’s had too many.

Depths of mahogany roll. She shakes her head and mutters something about why she’s allowing this. “Fine. Alright, but be careful.” He only waves her off, and she hastens her pace to suddenly veer off around a corner.

Butch settles for hiding behind discarded blockers for construction. His heart thrums in his chest as he pops his joints and takes a deep breath. A grin threatens to surface while he stands hunched against the wall, ears primed and begging for any suspicious movement.

“Split up!”

Those who ask shall receive.

Footfalls thunder in his direction against the dirt path steadily rumbling louder.

Wait for it…

His face splits into a full-blown smile as he shoulder checks the unsuspecting pursuer against rough brick. When he crumples to the floor, Butch quickly stomps on the man’s side.

A cry of pain bursts through the air, and Butch quickly backsteps to avoid a fist shooting through towards him. The brunet throws out a well-formed right hook to his failed assailant, interlaces his fingers together over his head and smashes the man into the ground.

Butch turns just in time to see yet another rush at him to pin him against a wall. Before the banker can struggle out, pain flashes to the side of his head. A light laugh escapes the banker as he speedily returns with a punch of his own. He surges forward to reverse their positions.

Disregarding the pain in his busted lip, Butch thrusts the dark-haired assailant against the concrete wall. Unabashed fear is in the man’s eyes as Butch raises his fist. Oh? Is he smiling again? Is his right eye twitching with excitement?

“Oi, Brikowski! What are you-? Is that a-?”

As his fist connects with the other’s face, the banker turns to see a metallic flash.

Butch's eyes widen and he scrambles to get out of the way.

Shit!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Out of his brothers, Butch never had much aptitude for the “arcane arts.” He prefers to handle things head on—the good ol’ direct approach. It doesn’t mean that he can’t or won’t use cunning, but if he doesn’t need to, why bother?

Magic, as a concept, isn’t too fond of his ideology. It’s literally manipulation at its core—deception. But that suits him just fine. He only cares about it because it can make things interesting. Like now.

Even though his eyes are open, all he sees is black. But not just dark black or pitch black, but the black that’s all encompassing, swallowing any light that dares to peek through. Swirling and stirring around him—like something is watching him, but there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing but his own breath to entertain his noise-starved ears. Definitely not like any darkness that he’s experienced. This is a thrilling first. He wonders where he is to be experiencing such a—

Oh, right. He’s dead.

Makes perfect sense. Well, no it doesn’t. Does it? He shakes his head—doesn’t matter. It’s his first time. He wasn’t expecting such a weapon to make an entrance. They’re fucking illegal. How the hell did a bunch of thugs get their hands on something like that? Well, no point on harping on that now.

He looks down at his hand and sees, well, more black. He huffs. Guess the spell condition hasn’t been met yet. Might as well explore until it does. He technically has all of eternity after all.

He moves to get up, but he can’t.

Dark brows scrunch. ‘Um, what the fuck?’ He tries to move his arms, legs, anything. But except for his head, nothing responds. Just what the hell is-?

A subtle click is heard before lights flood his vision. He quickly shuts his eyes and blinks before his vision adjusts. Colors elucidate from vibrant blurs to distinct shapes. Patterns of slate grey and white crack and swirl on marble flooring resembling lazy, nimbus clouds... He squints... that are somehow actually moving. Pristine, white columns lined with gold fortify the ceilings and archways into other rooms. A check-in desk is fortified in the northwest wall peculiarly closed shut with metal doors that clash with the rest of the regal décor of this place.  Some sort of... lobby?

And the people.

There are so many. All somehow sleeping soundly in their mauve chairs with a few numbly turning their heads as they awaken to survey the room just as he did.

A peculiar sound rises throughout the air, causing everyone to look forward. Up ahead is a wide black... box? Soon a woman flashes upon it—completely monochrome. Slender fingers brush grey hair behind her pointed ears and her wings flitter behind her.

“Hello! I know you all may have pressing questions. Like, ‘Where am I?’ and ‘How did I get here?’ Well, there’s no need to worry! I’m here to let you know that you’re all dead!”

A series of shocked, frenzied murmurs, shrieks, and yelps ripple throughout the room. Most filled with disbelief... and horror. Can’t forget about that one.

“I know it’s a lot to absorb,” the monochrome video cheerily continues amidst the fervent chatter. “But simply take in your surroundings, yourself, and the other souls around you. Some of you may realize that you may even be years younger than you were from what seems like seconds ago to you.” The box then turns black with the white words of INTERMISSION displayed.

Butch scrunches his face in confusion and observes what he can of himself. His hand reaches his head to touch his dark, raven locks. Nothing new. Oh, hey. He can move now. His skin looks as good as it ever has. So, in short, amazing. Nah. Everything is still normal for—

“Oh! She’s right!”

He turns his head to his left and spots a woman grabbing at lustrous coils of what he assumes was previously wise silver. Others joined in as well, gaping at their previous youth, rubbing at their arms, patting their unwrinkled faces. And a few younger than he sat confused—eyes still glazed as if awakening from an all too familiar elementary nap.

“Thank you so much for your cooperation!” The excited murmurs and despondent sobs die down to form silence for the continuing video. Cheeks crinkle under black sclera. “To follow, we will have all of you look under your seats to find a number. That will be your place in the upcoming line that we would like for you all to form.” The faerie then proceeds to say that their exit to their designated floor is the elevator below her and to calmly line themselves up behind the gold and mauve rope barriers. “Thank you all so much again, and we hope that you all enjoy your stay with us,” she cheerily concludes with a bow.

Butch swiftly takes the aforementioned ticket from under the chair. 127 it reads. His eyes go wide and dark brows scrunch. “Fuuuck!” No. No way. That many people are in front of him? Is there anything to do other than read in this shit lobby? He needs to explore this place, a drink. Anything before he dies of boredom... Is that even possible here?

Butch moves toward a random archway, his sienna dress shoes would clatter, but the murmur of voices filling the room are too loud.

“Um, excuse me,” a voice calls out over the intercom.

He turns back to see a young woman with long, tawny hair tied up in a professional bun, sky blue gaze locked solely on him.

“The instructions were clear. Please form a line.”

Shrugging off the curious looks in his direction, he simply responds, “you guys got a bar?”

“For employees.”

“Could you make an exception?”

“Line, sir.”

He sucks his teeth, but nonetheless turns back. Not to claim his place in line but to continue exploring the lobby that seems to stretch way beyond the room that he awoke in. Whatever this establishment is, it’s fucking massive. After aimless walking and the long line of people, he squeezes in between numbers 126 and 128, now almost at the front of the line.

“Number 127.”

Finally. Butch pockets his hands and saunters up to the ornately decorated elevator doors. In its center is a grand relief of an unweighted balance scale, reset to its original equal state. Crowding the doors’ edges, peculiar flowers of different types. He isn’t well-versed enough in gardening to know any of them without the aid of color. Or even with it for that matter. They soon gradually open to reveal a young woman he would guess around his age.

Her long, straight sunset hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail held by a carmine bow. He raises his brows in appreciation. The rest of her is just as tidy as her hair. Her tall, yet shapely body is adorned with a pale, coral pink dress sweeping over her shins.

Depths of shimmering rose regard him. Firm but soft.

Silvan eyes narrow. Pink eyes, huh? Didn’t think those really existed.

The woman beckons him in the small space, and he wordlessly complies. The doors close. “Hello. I will be your escort for today. First and last name with date of birth please.”

“Butch Jojo. Born 25 May 1913. Yours?”

“Mine won’t be necessary,” she says with a light smile. “We’re focusing on you for now.”

Must be some weird afterlife rules, but he’ll play ball. “Shame. Wish I could learn more about you.”

A soft chuckle. “Right. So, do you remember how you died?”

“Was shot.”

The young woman widens her eyes. “What? I’m so sorry to hear that! Your country isn’t in a time of war, is it?”

“Nah. It was just a scuffle before all of that,” he brushes off. The redhead furrows her brows and scribbles something on her clipboard. A pang of pain sears through his chest, and Butch forces himself to speak to prevent her from inquiring more about it. “Next thing I know I awaken to some... void? And then I was here.”

She looks at him inquisitively and her smile takes a second to solidify. “Void?”

What? Has she never heard of it or was it something he wasn’t supposed to see?

“You must be mistaken.”

Okay. Something he wasn’t supposed to see, but he’ll play along.

“Well, I guess so.” A salacious grin slides onto his face. “So, how much alone time we got?”

Roseate eyes narrow before their gaze rests resolutely on her clipboard. She retrieves a stack of papers from an opening within golden walls. “For however long I need it to be.”

“Well, by all means, take your time.”

“I plan to. For however short it is.”

He playfully holds up his hands in placating surrender.

“I definitely understand you may not want to talk about your death anymore. So,” she looks up at him with a discerning eye. “How about your life? How did you grow up?”

“You want the glamorous version?”

“Absolutely not. No lying, no joking. You have to be completely honest with me.” She pauses to raise a bronze brow. “Because I have all of the objective answers,” she finishes, lightly waving his papers.

At her teasing tone, an equally amused grin tugs at his lips. A woman who takes charge. He shouldn’t have expected anything less. “Of course, gorgeous. You’ll only get the utmost honesty from me.”

“Gor-?” The operator stops herself and straightens her back after clearing her throat. Butch’s grin grows wider. “Well, I would most certainly hope so. Your afterlife depends on it.”

“Well alright then.”

He answers whatever she asks with little fuss, and as she requests with utmost honesty. He doesn’t even blush when she asks about his history of fighting. If she wants to know, then he’ll tell her. As she says, she has all the answers.

“I have to say you’re pretty… calm about all of this.”

“I mean, I’m dead. Not much else to it.”

Her lips part to respond, but they resolutely close again.

Butch sighs and lightly smiles. “You’re just used to seeing people sad and freaked out?”

“With your circumstances? Definitely.”

“Well, with all the people you must see, I’m touched that you care.”

“It’s only natural,” she touts, stunning eyes closed. “I care about all—well, most of my passengers.”

“Either way, I’m glad I made the cut.” His flirtatious grin is back in full force. As she shakes her head, Butch spies the slight upturn of her lips. “So, will I be seeing you around or…?”

The young woman’s smile vanishes. “Absolutely not. I am only here to help you to your resting place.”

“You telling me you won’t break a single rule for your oh-so-valued passenger?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” However, her professional mask slips as she flips to yet another page. “Did... Did something of note happen last year?”

He folds his arms. “Uh, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“The 27^th of September of 1935. Does it ring a bell?”

Boomer’s resurrection day. His lungs seize, but he tilts his head as if in thought. He can’t risk looking suspicious. “I mean... What exactly do you want to know about it?”

“I... Hm... nothing. I can’t make out-... Maybe the printer messed up,” she finishes under her breath. “Well, it’s nothing to worry about! I’ve made my decision.” She presses the number 4 on the elevator, and the golden box moves upward.

He can breathe again. “Evaluation’s over?”

“It has to end some time.”

The grand doors soon open archways made of cream and salmon bricks. Vines grow over their bowed apertures. A pathway with the same material interspersed with overgrowth of dandelions and grass. Sunlight spilling from overhead casts shadows of swaying branches. The elevator fills with the aroma of fresh leaves and flowers.

So, this is his final stop, huh?

Butch moves toward the open doors but turns back toward her with a dramatic brow. “The pleasure was all mine. Miss...?”

She chuckles with a knowing smile. “Enjoy your stay, Butch Jojo.”

He would to the fullest if she were around. “I’ll try my best.”

If it wasn’t for it hurting like hell and the overwhelming sense of doom and anxiety… dying doesn’t seem too terrible.

Chapter Text

Boomer’s head bobs to the beat of the small band below. This is the longest they’ve continued with their melody before a mistake broke their flow and passionately start back up again. The repetition of the bars eased him into productivity.

However, the break causes him to think about what Butch told him over the phone yesterday. Someone else is also looking into phoenixes. It’s odd that he hasn’t heard any whispers of this on the streets. No magical monkey, faerie, human, or dragon have uttered a single thing concerning resurrection.

Boomer’s eyes drift down… Buttercup, huh? He wonders if she would actually figure out how they’re doing it—if the death escort would even be able to stop it. Or, more importantly, would she like this song? His flaxen brow unconsciously rises to match the expression he attempts to capture on paper as he adjusts himself in his velvet seat. Who knows?

“Can you please stop running off in the mornings?”

Startled, Boomer’s pencil stops right above the parchment and looks up. An exasperated woman with two purple clips neatly holding back her straight obsidian locks marches over to him. “Oh, hey, Kim!”

“How are you so chipper after getting caught outside of the office?”

The blond tilts his head. “I mean, no one’s given me any tips today, and I just submitted a massive story. I think I deserve a half day,” he thoughtfully replies.

She sighs. “Pablo thinks otherwise.”

“Rude.”

“I just think it would be safer to ask before you go, y’know? And also... don’t play hooky almost every time you’re in?”

Boomer bashfully scratches his head. She has a point. He doesn’t mean to be disrespectful, but he loses focus staying in that stuffy office. Mindless chatter will catch his attention, play-by-plays of baseball rattling from the radio, the presses thrumming along in constant succession. Either the background noise lulls him to sleep, or three hours will pass just for him to realize he’s only written a sentence. “I mean, it’s this or I’m way less productive?”

A sigh. “Right… And this isn’t distracting,” she wonders waving her hand around as the swing band plays. “I knew you were quite the hep cat, but this is a little much.”

The blond’s attention is back at his desk, combing over the features of marked parchment. “I can try doing it your and Pablo’s way, but you guys won’t like the results,” he replies matter-of-factly. He twirls the pencil in his hands, partially dirtied by charcoal and eraser shavings.

“You truly are unbelievable,” she mutters, stepping closer to his makeshift workspace. To be fair, he did explain to them that his process isn't quite as typical as the other journalists, but he always manages to get the job done at least. She sidles in between the velvet chairs. “Oh? Who were you drawing,” she moves to pick up his notebook, when he swiftly shields her view with his arms and torso.

“Uhh… No one…?”

“Man, it is a miracle you have survived this long. You are such a bad liar.”

Turning away to hide the red forming underneath his cheeks, he closes the book and stuffs it in his satchel. “Hey! My job is just to find if other people are liars.” But truthfully, Kim is right. He sucks at it… A lot of things actually, but this is probably top of the list. Without the gag incantation he and his brothers placed on each other, he probably would have blabbed about their revitalization spell by now.

“Well, whoever you’re not drawing, she’s pretty.”

“She is.”

“Oh?”

His mouth runs dry. “I, uh... said that out loud, didn’t I?”

The unusual look of smugness on Kim’s face is his answer.

Desperate to change the topic, Boomer wonders, “So... is the only reason you came in here to drag me back to work?”

Kim smacks her forehead. “Oh, right! Sorry! No. Pablo said Brick called? Something about wanting you to call him back asap.”

"Brick?" Odd. The eldest practically ignored their existence during workhours unless... "When did he call," he wonders, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. He hastily wipes his darkened hands on his black trousers.

Kim leans against the back of one of the amphitheater chairs. "I think about 20 mins ago?"
The band below rises in crescendo. He needs to find a pay phone. He alerts his coworker as such while he strides toward the door.

With a brisk jog, it doesn’t take him long to reach the windowed dark brown box once outside the cylindrical wooden building. His fingers deftly spin the dial of their home phone number whilst Kim expectantly leans against the booth.

One ring.

Two.

“Hey.”

“What’s up?”

“Have you seen or heard from Butch? He didn’t come home last night.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He felt... off.

The blond snapped to attention. Were the markings on the tile floors... swirling? Or is that his head? His vision blurs. Everything hurt. He had no idea it was possible to feel such pain. Excruciating was an understatement, but his stomach.

His hands fly to his belly, and his eyes shortly follow.

No blood this time.

'Okay, okay. Calm down. Something isn't right.'

First of all, what the hell happened? He was… chased away by security, when he stumbled on a group of faeries and magic monkeys. Harsh words were said as he scrambled to get past. Did he somehow manage to make it out ali-

"You're all dead!"

He freezes. What?

“I know it’s a lot to absorb, but…”

Boomer’s time in the lobby is a foggy haze. The upbeat voice continues, muffled through static. Bodies jostle in front and behind him figuring out their place. How do you even know in which place you’re supposed to be? He moves through the line, azure eyes glassy. His mind refusing to take in all that took place. He’s dead? All that the Jojo brothers wanted to accomplish—all what he wanted to accomplish—gone. Like a rabbit in a top hat. How? Why? Why did they come after him?

He shudders as if the cold metal blade pierced through him again.

It’s not like he had any bad blood with anyone… at least not that he knew of. Oh, man. Is what he and his brothers cobbled together enough? Or is what they were working toward all for nothing—their adoptive father pointlessly taken away like everything else? Or… maybe he two could continue without him? And he’ll just wake up—the four of them united again?

“Hey.”

His head jerks up to see a brunette standing in a golden elevator, her arms folded.

“What you’re going through is tough, bud. Let’s get you in here, alright?”

“Oh, uh, no. I’m sorry.”

Her voice is… unique. Like a solid slab of smoke. Firm but with a soft, pliant edge. “Don’t apologize.”

The doors slowly close after he enters, and the young woman pulls out a book. What… is this place? As she flips through the pages, he swallows takes in the red velvet upholstered against the wall.

The young woman snaps her fingers to grab his attention. “Boomer, right?” He slowly nods his head, and she places a steadying hand on his shoulders. “Focus on me, bud.” He does just that. Her eyes are a mesmerizing jade. “You are dead. That’s not going to change, but that’s okay. I’m here to help you to the next part of your existence, yeah? But for me to do that, I need you to answer some questions.”

Not going to change? He opens his mouth to retaliate, but then suddenly the thought of doing so evaporates from his mind. His voice refuses to sound. Oh, right… The gag spell. If that’s still working then… “Okay… okay, yeah. Sorry—again.”

“Again, stop apologizing.”

He answers her questions accordingly. Throughout her interview, something about her blunt honesty and humor led for the tension loosen in his shoulders, the tightness to ease from his brow, and somehow recounting his life wasn’t as painful anymore. Except for when she recounted his untimely end. He presses his hand against his stomach.

A low sigh escapes her. “Only sixteen.” If he wasn’t so close to her, he would have missed the broken curse she mumbled under her breath.  “… You had plans.”

He allows a forlorn chuckle. She has no idea.

“I’m gonna be honest with you here. There’s no easy way to talk to someone who just died.”

He can’t help it. “Other than the obvious?”

“Are you gonna let me finish or be a wise ass?”

He weakly holds up his hands with a lopsided grin, and she continues.

“Look, I get it—believe me. Dying is scary at first. But eventually, you’ll come to terms with it. You’ll have a great stay here. You led a good life.”

“Did I?”

She closes her freshly printed book and resolutely nods her head. “Yeah, you did.” She presses the fourth button. “It just sucks that it was cut so short.”

“Y’know, I wouldn’t think people in the afterlife would be so… nice?” He notices her shoulders twitch, but not its significance. “What’s your name?”

“First off, I’m not nice.” He chuckles, and she lightly elbows him. “Second, don’t worry about it,” she answers leaning against the back of the wall. The doors open, and she nods her head toward the underpass of peach bricks and bright trees. She grins, and for some reason, Boomer can’t look away. “Meet some other spirits here. Have fun. Try not to get into too much trouble. I got this strange feeling you can adapt.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is his brother having a similar talk right now? Is someone easing his fears after he was shoved to the other side?

“A gunshot wound,” Brick laments. “How the hell is that even possible?!”

Boomer is fairly certain the academic is saying more but he can’t focus on anything else other than the perfectly round hole in his brother’s chest. Just because of that one piece of stupid metal---Butch is gone. In an instant. He’s not cracking obscene jokes, not groaning in irritation, not hollering in uproarious laughter. He’s just quiet.

So eerily quiet.

The black hole’s edges seem to blur. Actually, everything seems blurry—hazy. The room is much hotter. And there’s this terrible aching in his chest. Boomer shuts his eyes tight to unsuccessfully dam the fall of hot tears. He braces himself on the table. Shot. Butch was shot. This wasn’t an accident. Guns are not easy to come by. No random thug would just have one. Law enforcement can barely get their hands on any. The world spins, and he clutches his flaxen curls. Who could have done this?

“Someone... someone must have planned this...”

“My thoughts too,” Brick agrees, a warm hand on his shoulder. “And we need to figure out soon, but we also need to figure out if he truly targeted or if this was an accident?”

“He had to have been targeted.”

“I’m not disagreeing, but why? He doesn’t really have any ene-… Well, any enemies that would be able to kill him—with a gun no less.” The redhead turns away and leans over the sink. “Shit…”

He’s right. Butch has been in plenty of fights, but they’ve all been settled with fists. It was more against people that took their misplaced ire out on him rather than the Townsville Bank. Or the occasional tough guy wanting to push rank. No one with substantial financial power.

The journalist focuses on a random patch of orange and white wallpaper. “Maybe he knows?”

“What?”

“Butch could just tell us, right? We just need to get everything ready for the spell?”

“I think… I should get everything. You should stay here.”

Boomer’s eyes narrow at the odd hesitation in the eldest’s voice. “Uh, why?”

“You’ve done-…” Brick pries his eyes away from Boomer’s bloodied shirt. “I mean, it’s unlikely, but if anyone bargedin and saw him here we’d have a lot more issues on our hands. Just hold the fort.”

“… Okay.”

“Also, let’s make an exhaustive list of people we may have pissed off just to be on the safe side. We can’t afford to miss something like this.”

Boomer holds up his worn notepad. “On it.”

With a curt nod of his head, the academic then leaves their rowhouse.

He isn’t sure how much time has passed as he runs through names in his head. Surprisingly, under Butch’s name there weren’t that many—even less for Brick, but his… He groans as his back hits the wooden stile. Of course, he wanted to keep his real name on all of his articles—send a message. But it looks like it may have backfired on him. Fortunately though, the only need to focus on those with financial weight, which puts more pressure on Brick and his own list.

Speaking of whom… He looks up at the analog clock, and he curses. A whole hour has passed. Brick should have been back by now.

He immediately dashes outside.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He found him.

After running around the block, feet throbbing in his dress shoes, throat sore from yelling his name, he found him.

He found his brother crumpled against the curb, lazy rivers of carmine running down his temple.

Boomer’s head swims as he dares to walk closer, following the path of dark skid marks—to make sure—and he sinks to his knees. He can’t bring himself to look into his now dull eyes.

“This can’t be happening…”

The sun lowers behind the towers and apartments with indifference, and Boomer dusts off his infamous red cap.

“Officer, over here!”

‘Shit!´ Boomer quickly crouches closer to his brother and mentally casts an invisibility spell. A simple light spell that can be broken with the slightest movement.

A door slams, and a faerie flutters from their back porch. “Thank you so much for coming,” she breathes, voice tremulous. “I think there was a hit and run, and the poor boy was…” She slows to a stop.

The blond holds his breath.

“Miss? You were saying?”

“I-… He was… I saw-…”

He lowers his pen and notepad. “Miss. I need you to calm down. What did you see?”

“There… there was a young man on the ground… he was bleeding… I heard a loud screech before so, I thought…! That’s why I chased you down, sir. To get an ambulance! Or… I’m not quite sure.”

“You’re sure that the perpetrators were gone by the time you looked outside? You didn’t see anyone carry him off?”

“No, not at all! By the time I saw, I only saw white and smoke… and I think them hitting a fire hydrant on the way out,” she explains, pointing to the leaking city property. “I… couldn’t quite get the license plate, but I think they were drunk.”

“Thank you, miss. I’ll take it from here.” He turns toward his parked car and holds up his walkie talkie. “Hey, I’m gonna need an APB on any suspicious driving—especially on a white car. Stations near streets Doyle and Vaish stay vigilant. They couldn’t have gotten…” His voice fades as he jogs away, but Boomer stays still.

His gaze is still trained on the distraught faerie. She continues staring at what she thinks is an empty curb for a moment, and then slowly walks back toward her apartment.

The journalist then hoists up his brother and rushes back toward their rowhouse.

He slams the door closed with his foot, and hurries Brick next to Butch. After he makes sure they’re settled and completely flat, he wipes his forehead, vigorously washes his hands, and sinks into the wooden chair.

He covers his face with his hands before he grips his curls.

This can’t be happening, but it is.

Using the bag of supplies he found clutched in the academic's hand, he lays them equally around the two. Freshly tilled soil at their sides and makeshift candles near their heads. He ensures that everything is completely quiet. It has to be. He can’t risk getting distracted—can’t risk his brother’s souls doing so either.

Ignoring his tremors, Boomer swallows before opening Brick’s notebook. Tears threaten to fall, but he takes a shaky breath. His words can’t falter as he reads this. He needs to bring them back.

But can he?

Spells involving the animus require a lot of magical power in general, but a revival spell? He was lucky that when he passed that his brothers were okay, But now? Now, he doesn’t need to think about that. He has to do this. He has to try.

“Stop, hark, to the beckoning from the-…”

No. He needs to stop. It’s not commanding enough—not good enough.

Steeling himself, he takes a calming breath.

He has to adapt. He can do this. He will do this.

Chapter Text

Bubbles closes the door gently before she kicks off her shoes. She sighs as her soles hit the tile floors. She loves those heels but standing in them for hours on end is not the way to go. Welcoming the soothing tile’s chill on her feet, she wriggles her toes before meandering upstairs. It’s peculiar that no one is up right now, but she did stay out longer with Mitsu and Beaga longer than she had intended. She giggles at the recent memory. The water dragon playfully pickpocketing the faerie of various items went on way longer than should be expected.

She soon arrives at the of the stairs and pauses. Her gaze oscillates from the seafoam green door to the blush pink. Bubbles rubs the back of her aching heel with the dorsum of her foot.

Hmm… No, she should give them a break for now. She continues down the hallway and opens her own ice blue door entrance the hall next to Blossom’s. She blinks. Refamiliarizing her eyes with the area and the darkness, she shuffles on cream carpet to her white nightstand. The matches are right where she left them. As of now, she prefers the flickering candlelight as opposed to the steady oranges, purples, and pinks behind her opaque lavender curtain.

It takes her a couple of tries, but she manages to strike the match aflame. Carefully managing it over to the wick as to not singe her delicate fingers. Once the match has done its job, with a light puff, she blows it out and watches it fall into the trash. A lonesome charred stick. There’s nothing else in there—just how she left it.

Her bed is perfectly made with frilled light blue pillowcases, laced bedding, and teddy bears—just like she left it. Her room is practically a time capsule. Her favorite flowers adorn the four-walled space.  Blue hyacinths hang from the ceiling, pictures of her family—her complete family—populate the wall to the right of her bed. The thin spaces between their margins are filled by zinnias of numerous colors.

Her freshly polished fingers rove over a picture with her sisters and Medli, her beak open in a wide smile, downy cheeks smushed as the girls press into her for a hug. She was one of their best friends from their time before (besides Robin obviously). It was their first day on the first floor.

And last but not least, a vase of tickseed on her nightstand. Its sunny petals remain just as vibrant as when Blossom gifted them to her about… well, she’s not sure how long ago but at least ten years prior.

A sigh escapes her lips. Sometimes she’s not sure if she truly deserves that last flower.

Standing in her solely occupied, silent room, she wonders what to do next.

Well, she can definitely freshen up.

After finishing her shower, Bubbles runs her long tresses through her soft towel. She pauses in her house bunny slippers, when she hears a knock on her door. She swiftly opens it. "Oh! The house was so quiet, I assumed you guys were asleep." She pats on the spot next to her on the bed, and Blossom accepts her invitation with a sheepish smile.

“Nope. Was just jotting down some new boundaries that I think should be set for the office."

"Always the public servant," she observes as she picks up her pastel blue brush from her nightstand. She then runs it through her sister's fiery mane.

"Aren’t we all?"

A light giggle. "Yeah, that’s true, but you're the only one with legal experience."

"Not like I would have gotten there without you guys." Bubbles blinks but still brushes. She's not sure which position Blossom is talking about, but the consummate professional continues. "That goes for our shared position too." Her head turns slightly to give the blonde a warm smile.

"I get it," Bubbles replies returning her grin.

“So library hangout together?"

As if she even needed to ask. "Of course! I wish we could have Buttercup join us for one day at least though."

An exasperated sigh escapes Blossom's lips. "She's going to do what she wants to. She won't even give a straight answer on if she read what I gave her."

"Y'know she's a softie at heart. She read them."

"... She would destroy one of your plushies if she heard that."

Bubbles laughs. "Yeah, but just one I wouldn't care for."

"Who knew you were so callous?"

"Hey, there's a hierarchy for my plushies. Some are favorites... some not as much."

Shoulders shake with a soft chuckle. "If you say so." After a few moments of comfortable silence, the redhead moves her hair over her shoulder as Bubbles announces her completed work. A neat plait of copper. "Aw, thank you!"

"No problem. Return the favor after we wake up?" Blossom can make gorgeous hairstyles of her own.

"You got it." She rises from the bed and stretches. "I'll leave you to get some rest. See you later."

The blonde almost protests but bites her tongue. "Gotcha. See you." After getting situated in her covers, she blows out the candle and her room is engulfed in darkness. She closes her eyes and steadies her breathing. Choosing to focus on her sisters’ smiles and gratitude form the many souls she helps find peace, Bubbles unwittingly falls into a deep slumber.

To her surprise, she awakens to her sister leaning over her—hands on her hips with a knowing smile on her face.

“I don’t think the alarm is working for you,” Blossom jokes good naturedly.

The blonde’s arm falls over her eyes. “I think you’re right.”

The duo doesn’t take long—at least she doesn’t think that they do. After her sister wrangles her out of bed and expertly combs her hair into a lovely half up-do--Blossom is unrelentingly efficient—to complete their waking routine and arrive at their desired stop of the library. The two sisters step off the train, and Bubbles falls into step with the eldest as they near the spacious building. Its white and tawny brick walls supporting the gold crown barely scraping the scant lavender and rose clouds.

“Okay, so to recap,” Blossom begins as they near the entrance. “I’m going to research more about the implications of lobbying, and you the same for chemical runoff from farming?”

Playing into their strengths—like a true leader. “Sounds like a plan. Want to meet on the 21^st floor when we finish? There’s a cute reading nook there with cute light spells!”

The redhead smiles and nods in agreement before flashing her library card to the librarian at the front desk, and ambles toward one of the numerous history and civic sections—an easy grin bright on her freckled face.

Even though the library looks well sized for its exterior, Bubbles is sure the inside is exponentially bigger. She has no idea how the librarian’s keep track of so many books, scrolls, and leaflets. On almost every walkable surface held a compartment for information—except for the ground floor. Archways are hollowed out to hold tomes, the siding of stairs are used as bookshelves, and pillars are colored by spines of novels illuminated by the dreamy glow outside.

No wonder Blossom manages to get lost here almost every time they visit.

But the blonde knows her section by heart. She’s been drawn to the same area for practically millennia and she still hasn’t read all of the knowledge within their yellowed pages.

Bubbles also shows her library card badge, and turns to follow the sound of steady, bubbling water. The air is cool as she nears the fountain. Her waves fall from her shoulders as she cranes her neck to see where the diminutive waterfall begins. At first, she thought that water and books were not a good mix, but of course Blossom pointed out that they were laminated regularly.

“Aer ferus et liber, oro te: sustolle me ut aura tua sentiat.”

Bubbles smiles as the wind begins to form around her body, and gently lifts her off the ground. She implores it to push her upward. Higher and higher until the pool is a dot in her field of vision. Faeries and wind dragons either smile and wave, aware of her unique affinity or gawk at the sight of a human engaging so high off of the ground.

She soon lands at her destination, picks out unfamiliar titles of agriculture and reclines in a cream leather couch.

She turns one book over in her hands. Despite her obsession with the subject, she’s certain she’ll fall asleep without even finishing two chapters. Fortunately, a light tap causes her to look over her shoulder. “Hey, Blossy!”

“Hey!” She nods towards the stack of books. “Looks like you have a good collection there,” she grunts, and she places her large stack of books on the coffee table. Bubbles blinks at the newly formed tower.  There could at least be twice her stack. She joins her on the couch, and Bubbles’ shoulder tenderly presses into hers. With a light smile, the redhead surprisingly crosses her arms and chats with her seemingly about…  nothing. Not about office politics, not about how to make their judging process more efficient, not even plans for the next time they’re off—just nothing.

The act brings a genuine smile to her face.

“Zella has been so upset now that the office is no longer supplying hazelsing,” she chuckles.

“And she’s making it everyone’s problem,” the redhead supplies rubbing her temples. “My suggestion box has been overflowing with requests to bring it back. Please tell me Beaga didn’t bring it up when you last saw him.”

“Surprisingly, no.” Beaga has been Zella’s… advocate (as if she needed one) since they’ve met. Buttercup quipped if he’s ever had an original thought.

“Thank the Universals.”

“I’ve been wondering about Robin, actually,” the blue clad woman reports. “It’s been a while since we hung out with her… on the first floor, I mean.”

“I was thinking that same. We should definitely try to meet up sometime—for something not business related.” Strawberry locks fall over the back of the couch as she leans her head back. “I suggested she switch shifts with Mitch every so often.”

“What?!”

Blossom snorts. “I know, but since Zella created her moving light spell for the guests, her position has kind of been reduced mainly to security.”

And little to no tact is needed for that. “I guess that makes sense. You know, I think she’ll be happy—it’ll be a big change.”

“Right? She’s been itching to drive.”

“May be we can suggest some other changes too! Like… dad visiting us at our place?”

“You know the Universals are not going to agree to that.”

“I-… Yeah, that’s true.”

“Hey,” the taller reassuringly places her hand over Bubbles’ knee. “It’s a lot that we get to see him at all.”

“No, definitely! I just… miss having everyone together—Medli too.”

A light sigh. “Yeah, I miss her songs... It’s been forever.”

“It has been a while!” Bubbles claps her hands together. “I’ll go see her later!” Sure, she still has her sister and other friends, but a lot of her family has moved on. She leans back into the cushions. “It’d be nice just to say hi.”

“I should come with.”

Bubbles waves a hand. “Only if you want. I know you had a lot planned during our time off. ” Moving a lock behind her ear, Bubbles mentally chastises herself for complaining.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door opens to reveal a girl forever locked in her early twenties. The confusion on her face is quickly replaced with elation as the corners of her beak stretch out in a smile. “Bubbles!” The blonde can’t help but laugh as cream-colored feathers tickle her skin. Is this what it feels like to be happily swallowed in a down comforter? “How have you been?”

“Hey, Medli! I’m great! How about you? It’s been so long since I’ve last seen you!”

“Strong as a phoenix,” she smiles, using her people’s old saying. Her tone then turns apologetic. “Sorry, I know I’m always out. It’s quite fortunate that you guys have managed to get me twice so quickly.”

Bubbles follows her into the small house. It was made of pale yellow stone encompassing a wide, open space with minimal separations between each room—even between indoors and outdoors. Though most of the first floor is low, sandy, and briney with sea breeze, Medli’s lot is high up, crowded with woody trees filling the air with pine. It was minimally decorated with bold geometric décor—all hand crafted. It wasn’t quite a replica of her old room, but it came pretty close.

The blonde places the Tupperware she brought into the kitchen counter. “What do you mean?”

“Oh! Even more roasted broccolini? Thanks so much!”

“More?”

“Yes, BC was here the other day and brought me some.” She replies before munching on the cruciferous green.

“Aw~, That was sweet of her.”

“Very. Could never say that to her face,” she chuckles before her smile falters. “But… She seemed… out of sorts, I think.”

Hands clasp behind her collared pastel blue dress. “What do you mean?”

Medli places a tea kettle over the gas stove, whipping it to life with a snap of her feathered fingers. She takes a step back. “She started asking about that spell… And about our time when we were, um… alive,” She concludes, and Bubbles shifts her gaze from the flames lapping underneath the golden pot.

The usually cheerful lift operator places her hand on her friend’s shoulder and purses her lips. She misses it. She misses the sun on her skin, the smell of rain, the hot days, the cold days. She misses change, and she knows Medli misses it too. She chastises herself since it’s been so, so long, but she can’t help it. Bubbles has no idea how Buttercup and Blossom adjusted so easily. After the phoenix places her feathered hand over hers, she responds. “Oh… Did she say why?”

“Said she heard a passenger talking about it and was curious.” The whistling of the pot grows cacophonous, and Medli quickly removes the kettle to pour the boiling water into two cups.

That… is odd. She remembers Blossom telling them that True Resurrection was largely impossible and forbidden, and after what happened that day, it was not hard to imagine why.

After placing the teacup on a saucer, she holds it out for Bubbles before pouring a cup for herself.

“Well, maybe they were just curious? They also just passed. Maybe they were still coming to terms with it?”

“Hmm… Yes, that’s fair. It’s also not like anyone knows our Etruscan language anyway. It’s not possible without that.”

True. That language appeared to have died with the rest of her kind, and everyone knows that spells are not as effective as the first language it was formed in. Magic is extremely finnicky when it comes to original vs intended meanings. Plus, Buttercup hasn’t said anything about it, so probably best to leave it alone… Right? Or should she tell Blossom? Hm… No. Nothing has really come up from this, and if Buttercup heard it directly, then it was from a human. The only humans that could even attempt a spell like that was her and her sisters, and even then, that was more like a revitalization spell than complete resurrection.

So, everything should be fine.

“Sorry our talk got so grim,” Bubbles mollifies with a gentle smile. “Let’s forget about that. Tell me more about what else has been going on with you. Did room service ever come by and give you the charango and marimba you asked for?”

The phoenix immediately brightens. “Yes! BC and I played a little bit together.”

“She didn’t do well, did she?”

“Oh, she was dreadful,” the brunette giggles. “But as always, her dancing was beautiful.” She runs from the kitchen to soon return with a wooden, stringed instrument. “Would you like to try?”

“Absolutely!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bubbles swallows the acrid anger growing in her throat. It burns more than the heat emanating from this floor. She allows a calming breath as the doors steadily close, gaze now transfixed on golden doors rather than lava-cracked asphalt. The digitate heat marks on polished metal begin to fade. They always go so unwillingly—not that she can blame them. She takes another deep breath, gripping her clipboard as she listens to the seven dings before she is finally back on the ground floor.

To further calm herself down, she allows her mind to wander, and of course, her rambunctious sister pops into her head. She’s different somehow, and Medli alluded to as such. Not as curt as she was getting for a while, but not back to her usual pranks or dancing to her large collection of her gramophone. Oh, how she misses seeing her sister dance.

She knows she told Medli not to worry, but she can’t help but feel that something has been on Buttercup’s mind, but of course she’s not telling. The blonde leans the pen against the corner of her lips. Maybe Buttercup will crack and tell them within the next five years... Or she could get some alcohol in her, but that doesn’t always work—equally likely to make the situation worse. Bubbles pushes the pen harder until it clicks. Jeez, may the Universals help her. You’d think that after being with your family for millennia it’d be easier to get them to spill their troubles.

The elevator dings, and she sees her next passenger. Only a few more people and then her shift is over.

A man with a black formal vest overlaying an oxblood dress shirt and long, auburn hair steps in, but what really caught her attention were his eyes. She’s only seen people with red eyes only twice before. They’re piercing but also… pretty. Those cinnabar orbs scan the ornate exterior of the elevator before she gives him a genteel wave.

“Hi,” she warmly greets. “I’ll be your death escort for today. Can I please have your first and last name with date of birth?”

“Brick Jojo. 25 May 1913,” he states hands in his pants pockets.

“Thanks.”

“Sure. So, what, you just ask me questions and then determine if I get punishment or praise?”

“Good question,” Bubbles chirps. A familiar ding rings in her ears and she holds up a hand. “Ah, excuse me for a moment.” Perusing the series of pages, she purses her lips. Skimming over his profile, she notes that his name and birthday match up. The blonde blinks as her nail skims through basic passages. A peculiar case indeed. She frowns at his TOD. He was twenty-six. Pretty young. She figured when she saw him. His lack of surprise at his rejuvenated youth (or contemporary youth in his case) told her as much, but still... the confirmation stings. It always does. “It’s not quite that simple, but I can choose the floor with this,” she states, showcasing his anthology. The Afterlife was something that the living’s perception had shifted greatly since she was alive. Increased integration and sharing of cultures left the waters muddied on what they think happens after death.

“That my file or something?”

“Hmm... pretty much, yeah.”

“So… everything I’ve ever done is in there?”

“More or less.”

Carmine brows twitch. A blink and you miss it moment. “Any way I could look inside?”

Bubbles tilts her head and playfully hides it behind her back. What a weird question. “Nope,” she declines. “Employees only.”

Strong arms cross. “I would think that it’s only fair for someone to see their own profile.”

He has a point, but… “Death escort property. Sorry. Can’t break the rules,” she discloses with an apologetic smile. “But… is there anything that you’d like to address specifically?”

“Not really.”

“Oh…” That’s weird. Must have been her imagination.

“How’s this job though,” he questions, surprising her again. “This job seems like it would get boring after a while. Doing this day in and day out.”

“I-… Well…” She needs to change this topic quickly. “Time works differently here. We don’t really have ‘days.’ Plus, we do have times where we get to relax and do as we please around here.”

“Huh. But nothing memorable recently?”

She tilts her head to the side. This passenger certainly has a lot of questions. Her fingers drum against the spine of his file, itching to take a more thorough look inside. “Well… I hung out with my sister and got to visit a good friend of mine! It’s been almost a decade—to see my friend, I mean! Or at least I think so. We got to chat, cook… even played some of our favorite songs—like super old ones. Haven’t been played for a while in your time, I think. Actually, I’m not sure. Have you heard of- um…”

“… Okay.”

Shoot. Again? “Oh, sorry! I’m wasting our time! I should get started!” Bubbles thumbs to the pertinent chapters of his anthology. Well, his inquisitive nature definitely makes more sense—being a double major university student and having a free-thinking adoptive father. It was impressive. She can’t imagine staying in a classroom for so many years. She always yearned for the outdoors. There's an odd... misprint? But nothing he would no about. Maybe she'll ask Blossom and Erbine about it later.

She asked her usual: how they lived their life, any regrets, their true aspirations, how many lives they’ve touched, how they viewed the world around them. The questions were vague at face value, but specific in purpose. So many people would struggle with these—only having a clear idea of a few, but not all.

Except this passenger.

He had a clear, succinct answer for everything.

She never did and never will meet him, but she knows that his father would be proud.

“You know, you really have a way with words,” she compliments.

His expression minutely shifts to one of confusion.

“It’s like… you don’t use much, but I can perfectly understand what you’re saying!”

“Like it’s calculated?”

“No, like it’s… organized. Makes sense I guess.” She presses for floor 3.

“Well, if you’re not, mistakes are prone to happen.”

“I don’t know. Mistakes are going to happen regardless.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks away. Bubbles giggles. Though he’s in... or was in his 20s, he looks like an adorable, miffed schoolboy. “So that’s you should try your best to mitigate them.”

“You sound like my sister. Relax a little.”

“You sound like my brothers.”

“Maybe you should listen to them!”

He raises a brow. “Now that has got to be the worst advice I’ve ever heard.”

She laughs. “It sounds like you guys really got along!” The blonde’s face softens with melancholy. “I really hope you guys reunite here.” If they’re as good of a person as he is.

Brick’s mouth was open with a rebuttal—she was so sure, but after their eyes met, he simply shrugs. “Who knows?”

As the elevator dings and the doors open, she mirrors his motion. “Definitely not me. But that’s the beauty of it, I guess.”

He pauses as he takes in the wide expanse of rolling green hills and sky stitched with warm colored clouds. The light wind carrying the scent of earth into the industrial elevator. She can’t fault him. This is one of her favorite floors. “Of… what?”

“Not knowing everything.”

Seemingly coming back to his senses, he rolls his eyes and leans against the door frame. “Coming off a bit preachy, but I guess you know more about that as a death escort.”

She pouts. Preachy? Is it too late to change her verdict? “As a matter of fact, yes I would.”

He smirks, stepping backwards on the stone path. She will begrudgingly admit: it is cute. “We’ll see about that… what’s your name?”

No one… has ever asked her that before, but they were advised on what to do when that happens. “Sorry, but I can’t disclose that.”

Russet brows scrunch, and his look makes sense. She shared so much with him already. Why not simply her name? He nods his head in understanding, and with yet another apologetic smile, she gives a light wave as the golden doors close.

But those are the rules.