Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Fishing is meant to be a peaceful, meditative past-time.” As if to punctuate that as ridiculously as possible, Claire reeled in a catfish roughly half her size. It flailed on her line as she quickly measured it and then, delicately, with the care one might use to set a duckling into a river, released her catch back into the wild. “In that, I have absolutely failed.”

“Claire, you’ve caught eighteen fish in half an hour.” Sara cast her line into the Arnor River again, aiming just a bit further out than before because she was seriously off her game today. “And that is the first thing you’ve even said.”

“An excellent point.“ Claire’s expression was as placid as the river, the slow, methodical click of her reel winding back up just a bit keeping pace with the current. “Perhaps my internal ruminations will bear fruit other than self-flagellation for once.”

“Yeah, you always—” Sara’s entire face scrunched up. “Please don’t stop, or take this the wrong way, but, uh, self-awareness is a weird look for you.”

“Believe me, it feels even more bizarre from my perspective.”

Chapter Text

“Okay, everyone knows what’s at stake if we fail.” Sara unrolled the map of the Eisengard Mountains onto the large dining room table at the Phoenix Wings, the raging blizzard outside rattling the windows. “Search and rescue procedures, but quadruple time. This has gotten way out of hand.”

“Tracking is going to become all but impossible in the next few minutes,” lamented Gaius. “Even if it wasn’t the dead of night, footprints and any other identifying markers will be entirely covered by snow.”

“I can navigate most of this with my eyes closed, but even then…” Rean sighed. “There are just so many places to check. It’s—I mean—”

“It’s a mountain range, yeah, we know,” groaned Fie. “Could split into pairs, but trios would be safer in case of an avalanche. One group would have to be four, though.”

“That would be ideal,” said Claire, her eyes flicking from the map to Sharon, Toval, Sara, and every other member of Class VIl gathered at their impromptu mission briefing. “As would splitting teams based on supplementary skill sets, accounting primarily for arts affinity as well as fundamental survival knowledge.”

“An excellent tactic, Lady Claire!” Sharon beamed. “In that case, might I suggest a—”

“You’ve done enough, Sharon,” grumbled Alisa. “I mean, okay, this isn’t your fault, but also it kinda is, too. A ‘friendly game of hide-and-seek’—is this your first time meeting us?”

“In Sharon’s defense, it did seem like a genuinely enjoyable idea at the time,” said Jusis. “Unfortunately, we are not all equally blessed with the virtues of basic restraint and impulse control.”

“I’m just gonna keep this simple, okay?” Toval cleared his throat. “Team One is Me, Jusis, and Fie,” he said, pointing to each of them and gesturing them over. “Team Two? Sara, Machias, and Laura. Team Three. Claire, Rean, and Elliot. Team Four would leave Sharon, Alisa, Emma, and Gaius.”

“That is a genuinely bizarre list of match-ups,” said Machias, crossing his arms. “I don’t think you followed Captain Rieveldt’s logic much at all.”

“No, I definitely did.”

“We are running out of time. It does not need to be perfect,” sighed Claire. “It only needs to be effective.”

“Wait, hold on, what’d I—”

“Hey! Less debating, more moving and grooving!” Sara whistled with her thumb and index finger, regaining everyone’s attention. “Keep within ARCUS chain-link range in case orbal waves get wonky in the snow—hey, they might—and stay in constant contact. Update every two minutes. Ready? Break!”

“Yes Instructor!”

“Wait!” interjected Elliot, before anyone even moved a muscle, his eyes narrowing with that patented Craig fortitude. “Are we sure we checked everywhere?”

“I’m all but positive that we did. We did, didn’t we?” asked Emma, looking around the table. “Where could we be forgetting?”

“I believe I understand Elliot’s intention,” said Laura, her brow furrowing at the table. “Rean, the method by which you can sense an individual’s presence is something you are able to filter, correct?”

“That’s how it’s supposed to be used, yes,” said Rean. “It takes some practice getting the hang of not constantly just being aware of you guys.”

“Oh. Duh.” Sara smacked her forehead. “This building predates the Orbal Revolution and has a chimney, doesn’t it?”

“That it…does,” said Claire, her eyes drifting over to the chimney and the open, unused fireplace. “I see.” She pinched her brow. “Dammit, Lechter.”

“Fie.”

“Yo,” said Fie, raising her hand. “Roof?”

“Roof.”

“Kay.”

It took about fifteen seconds for Fie to scamper up the chimney and drag a half-frozen Millium all the way back down into the Phoenix Wings, and Sara really just wished that these kids could have a simple, nice, fun, and relaxing evening just once in their lives.

“Awwww, no fair!” pouted Millium, despite her shivering. “You guys cheated! You weren’t supposed to work together to figure out my super-cool hiding place!”

“How long were you intending to stay up there?” demanded Claire, rather sternly. “You look like you’re moments away from catching hypothermia!”

“Theeeeeeeeen I was totally going to hop down the chimney and yell ‘surprise’ in a few more seconds if you hadn’t found me?” Millium giggled. “Oh come on, I wasn’t gonna freeze to death. That’s what ‘Jusee Goosey’ is for.”

“What in Aidios’s good name is a—” Jusis blinked as he seemed to realize that, yes, that was him, because Millium had already latched onto his side, despite still being absolutely covered in snow. “Ah, of course. How silly of me to not assume that such a bastardization of language was not referring to myself.”

Chapter Text

“Oh.” Claire looked down at the wrapped rectangular box in front of her with an adorable mix of awe and delight. “It’s not my birthday, Sara.”

“I know, but after the piano, I figured, hey, why not go build yourself a personal philharmonic?” Sara beamed, because she had gotten Claire the perfect gift. The absolute most perfect gift. An oboe! Which she used to play, and that had taken some effort to pry out of Michael. That, and making sure she got the correct reeds, and a custom-made case. “It’s not quite as special as the piano, though, so uh, temper those expectations. A little.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but I’m sure I’ll love it.” Claire meticulously opened her present, folding the wrapping paper over for a few seconds before, eyes lighting up in glee, tearing through the rest of it as she had absolutely recognized what it was. “An oboe. Michael told you, I assume?”

“Yeah, he was super tight-lipped on that. No idea why.” Sara shrugged. “Go ahead. Open it. Y’know. More.”

“He has his reasons; they were almost certainly kind ones.” Claire smiled wistfully and undid the clasps, opening the case and then…every single itoa of joy, happiness, and warmth drained from her face in a manner of seconds. All that remained were her vacant, dead eyes. “This is not a Rieveldt oboe.”

“I know! I know, I’m sorry!” Sara winced and shifted awkwardly. “Your company doesn’t make oboes anymore, Claire. I looked into it and apparently they haven’t for about a decade.” She sighed. “I tried to find something vintage, but the best I could do was a literal museum piece from your grandfather’s time. As in, I would have had to have stolen it from a museum.”

“That isn’t…” Claire slowly looked up at her, her gaze twisting with such fury and disdain that Sara flinched. “Do you understand what you have brought into our home?”

“I clearly don’t if this is your reaction to a Cunningham oboe.”

“The largest competitor of the Rieveldt Company was at one time the Cunningham Corporation,” explained Claire, slamming the case closed so hard that it rattled the fixtures, as her eyes hardened so intensely that Sara couldn’t help but feel she’d accidentally awakened a dormant demon. “We made quality instruments of exceptional craftsmanship for the general consumer, and they were the ones mass producing clarinets out of balsa wood.”

“Okay.” Sara paled more than a little bit. “I’m sorry. I—I genuinely had no idea. About any of that. But it sounds bad.” It also sounded like it was distinctly traumatic to some degree, but probably best not to say that one aloud. Or ever. “Really bad.”

“It is. To be clear, I don’t blame you, Sara. You did your absolute best to deliver an incredibly thoughtful gift. However, I must ask, out of familial sense of pride I was so certain I no longer possessed…” Claire smiled, ear to ear, as violently as Sara had ever seen her. “Who recommended Cunningham as a viable alternative brand?”

“Uhh.” Sara swallowed and considered very deeply how to respond without lying, but also not subjecting anyone to a dressing down and verbal deconstruction that would probably haunt them for the rest of their days. “It was Millium.”

“She—” Claire blinked, all of the intensity radiating off of her vanishing in an instant. “Oh, of course, she must have been browsing catalogs and—well, she’d have no way of knowing any of this.” She chuckled. “An honest mistake. In the future, if you do intend to purchase instruments for me, I’d prefer to be present so that I can make sure it's the perfect fit.”

“But then it’s not a surprise,” said Sara, thanking Aidios profusely that Millium had, at one point, uttered the word ‘Cunningham’, and that Fiona was not going to be jumped in the middle of the night. Wait, Fiona wouldn’t make a mistake like this; must be under new management since Claire was a kid. “Doesn’t that kind of make it less special?”

“Considering how a surprise resulted in you arriving with a Cunningham oboe?” Claire snorted. “No. It most certainly does not.”

Chapter Text

Rixia quietly dog-eared and closed her book once she realized that the noise she was hearing was not the humidifier clicking on but rather Ilya snoring. Well past midnight, once again. She set it down on the coffee table, atop the stack she’d been working through the past week, and silently made her way to Ilya’s home office—retiring Yin had made most of her inherited abilities and knowledge useless, but not all of them.

Ilya had passed out, once again, on her drafting table, radiant golden hair falling over her face and shoulders, drool leaking out from her mouth somehow not onto the rough yet ornate sketches she’d been working on for the evening. Every other part of the wood and graph paper, yes, but Ilya was that much of a genius. She could even aim the manner in which she collapsed from exhaustion.

No one who had heard of the great Ilya Platiere would be surprised by such a revelation. Those with skill, talent, ambition, and the drive to create, to make dreams into reality, were capable of the inexplicable and the impossible. And this was overwhelmingly true of Ilya. But, with so many grand truths, there were not only exceptions, but ranges of reality.

Ilya Platiere was not supposed to ever walk again, yet she had done so anyway. She was not supposed to ever dance again, certainly, but she had done so anyway. She was not supposed to run, to leap, to perform acrobatic feats designed to astound and mesmerize. Yet, she did.

Rixia tidied up Ilya’s work, shut off the light in her office, and picked her up, her legs dangling over Rixia’s arm. Waking Ilya would make it next to impossible for her to return to sleep without the use of painkillers, and Ilya…was rather stubborn, understandably so, in taking those, no matter how much agony she was in.

What Ilya could not circumvent with her preternatural and effortless brilliance was the emotional, psychological, and physical toll she inflicted upon herself by moving anything from the waist down. Strenuous and extensive physical therapy after the Burning of Crossbell had allowed Ilya to regain mobility. Technically. She’d done exactly as she’d set out to do, as she said she would.

Rixia had never doubted her. No one did, but it was not quite as simple as that. Few things were.

The truth was something Ilya refused to acknowledge publicly, though Rixia could not truly discern why. Crossbell’s pride would not be harmed if they knew that Ilya Platiere, despite suffering from extreme—and frankly fatal—spinal trauma, only needed partial mobility assistance, and even then only behind closed doors. But there would be no wheelchair for her, nor a cane.

Not yet. Rixia was confident that within the next decade she’d need to relent on using the latter, and then the former. And, eventually, everyone else would know that Ilya Platiere was not quite as invincible as she seemed so desperate for everyone to believe.

Perhaps the illusion, the presentation, was just that important to her. Or she didn’t want to accept it herself. That, after a full day of rehearsal, or a performance, or just going about her affairs, she was in such excruciating chronic pain that she was no longer able to hide it. Thankfully, she’d never even attempted to obscure that from Rixia.

Rixia changed Ilya into her pajamas and removed her makeup—the process of getting her ready for bed was also exponentially more simple thanks to, well…Yin was rather quick. And there were worse ways to use one’s speed than to assist someone you loved. She set her down on the bed and tucked her in, her snoring all but deafening as the humidifier did click on.

A fundamental symbol of Crossbell’s independence being unable to stand on her own two feet without help was not quite as unfortunate an image as Ilya was likely so adamant it would appear. It wasn’t difficult to understand why she likely thought that way, though. Crossbell needed to prove that it could survive and thrive far more on her own than it ever had with Erebonia and Calvard holding the chain.

They’d debated and argued about this…so many times, and Ilya was immutable. She would not budge, so all Rixia could do was help her until that was no longer enough on its own. And that was fine; she didn’t begrudge Ilya for that decision. It was barely even a price to pay to see her so joyful and giddy during the day.

Rixia settled into bed beside her after retrieving her book from the coffee table and returned to reading. Even with the light off, once again, Yin had perfect dark vision. A small fraction of what had been taught to her remained relevant, but it was more than—

“Rixiaaaa…” mumbled Ilya, clearly still asleep and still working as she felt around for Rixia’s face and did indeed find it, poking her lips. “Can you—can you sing chromatics?”

“I am absolutely terrible at chromatics,” whispered Rixia, unable to stop herself from smiling, as she knew exactly what the response would be. “It is the one thing I am not adept at singing.”

“Okay.” Ilya shoved her face further into the pillow, her arm collapsing beside her. “Chromatics solo it is.”

Chapter Text

A personal armory was intended to be fully stocked by the owner. It had been something Ein had learned a long time ago, even before her time in many a failed jaeger corps. Every weapon, every tool, every munition in its proper place, should any and all needs arise with no warning whatsoever. Preparedness for even the worst of emergencies and crises.

A mentality that all exceptional soldiers, knights or otherwise, should aspire to uphold, but so few ever did. Absolute professional pride, ingenuity, and vigilance. No one had done so like Rufina, and her meticulously organized cache of armaments occupied roughly half of their Merkabah’s already minimal cargo bay.

It would need to be emptied. Cleared away for someone else. An unfitting memorial, as Rufina would almost certainly describe it. She was…so much more than a thousand arms. She’d never specified what each hand grasped; that had been intentional. The perfect weapon for the job was not always a violent one, after all.

A concept and methodology Ein had utterly failed to internalize before the master was already gone.

Ein had watched Rufina work on glaives, scythes, halberds, spears, rapiers, knives, maces, flails, machine guns, sniper rifles, bowguns, explosives, whips—she had watched her, for years, hours upon hours, refitting her own ammunition, sharpening blades, and adjusting elements of precision so minute Ein needed an enamoring lecture each and every time she asked Rufina a question.

Most of the time, Ein was genuinely curious, but others, well…sometimes she just wanted to witness Rufina’s giddiness and enthusiasm as she deconstructed an idea and put it back together like only the greatest of artisans could dream of.

The ashtray on the center workbench was still full, even though Rufina never smoked. She’d never even been curious, but she’d never asked Ein to stop, either. The stench had bothered her, how it clung to both of their clothes, but not enough to make a fuss. And now it was the only thing Ein could smell in every place Rufina called home. Their quarters, the bridge—it didn’t matter.

Rufina never wore perfume. They used the same soap and shampoo. The only thing left of her was…

Ashes. Smoke.

Them.

Chapter Text

Sara was itchy. She kept unconsciously scratching her arms, her back, the side of her head, old scars and newer ones. Didn’t matter how many times she smacked her fingers away because they went right back to work. Exposure therapy and time had made most things manageable, but this was one of the last bastions of ‘stuff that still got to her’.

Crops. Wheat. Corn. Potatoes. Tomatoes. Eggplant. Orchards, fields, and plantations. Once upon a time, the sight of endless farmland made her retch from the boiling rage that immediately surfaced in her gut. She’d snap at people unless she literally held her tongue down with her teeth. So much. There was so much, and it was just there. Always where it wasn’t needed.

It was so very difficult not to scream. To swallow all of it, and keep moving. Throwing a tantrum helped no one, after all. And, eventually, that had all dulled to a vague, incessant itch. Dry skin needing to be cleared for more fresh flesh to burn away for the mission. The cause. The impossible goal. It was irritating, but it wasn’t—it was better. Easier. Meant she was okay.

As safe as one could ever truly be.

A farmer’s market in the center of Kilva, a town she’d passed through a thousand times when she was far too young, was a sight that didn’t make sense. It just…it had to be an illusion. The bartering, the light-hearted banter of the locals, the sheer variety of fresh produce on display—she was dreaming. All of the scratching, her arms and neck starting to redden from her gloves, wasn’t real.

Some of the earliest attempts at ‘fixing’ the soil of North Ambria was simply replacing it with imported dirt. Scoop out the salted stuff, dump in the healthy foreigner. The scale was the limiting factor, and even if it weren’t, the literal depth of earth one would need to fill in order to grow everything was massive in scope. There were a few crops that flourished inside those imported blotches, but not many. Not enough. Not nearly enough; nothing was ever enough.

Except, it…was. Wasn’t it? It wasn’t just Kilva. Greve was the same, or so she’d heard. Haliask had one on par with Celdic’s Grand Market, which had to be a lie, but Sara was praying as hard as she could that it was being underplayed and nowhere near an exaggeration.

If it wasn’t, it would be. One day. Best way to make that happen, keep the mission, the cause, the…goal going was to support local businesses.

Sara bought the only thing she’d ever actually missed after leaving. Lingonberry Jam. The generously portioned jar—Siegward Lingonberry Jam—had a little logo on the label; wasn’t the North Ambria State flag. Wasn’t the Erebonian stallion. It was a simplified drawing of a bee with the family name written beneath it on a cute little banner.

When she was five, Sara wasn’t thinking. She was stupid. Selfish. Stole a few lingonberries from a farm not that far from dad’s house. They were so bitter, but they were wet. So much water in them. The dressing down she’d gotten for that stunt lasted…a long time. But she deserved it, frankly. That was one less bottle of liquor they could export. The taste, though, that stuck with her.

Sara could’ve bought some bread to spread it on, but she couldn’t wait. Fished a spoon out of her pockets, and dug in. It was gone so quickly, but that didn’t matter anymore. That was okay. Everyone was okay. She was okay, so she bought a pallet of the stuff.

Tasted like home; nothing ever had before.

Chapter Text

“Nyaon?”

Celine flicked an eye open at the downright offensive and grating attempt to replicate her inferior bretheren’s language. ‘Who are you?’ Who was she?! Celine Millstein! Who are you?! From her spot on the bench next to the flower shop—it smelled of lavender and that couldn’t be a coincidence—she noted that Emma’s utterly absurd lech of a Homeroom teacher was beaming down at her, a thin little book in her hand that looked about the size of a playbill.

The words written upon the front cover made Celine want to snap at Drunk Lady—for that was what she was, and her name was not worth remembering—with all of the fervor she could muster…except she couldn’t. Because then Drunk Lady would know she could speak five times as well as the average human.

Kitty Talk for Dummies.

A text that Celine had seen in the school library before during one of her many solo scouting efforts, but not one she had taken seriously. Since she could not exactly open the book easily on her own, and asking Emma to borrow that book when she only had a limited allotment of things she could borrow at one time was selfish. It meant she could be sacrificing her academics for a silly little tangent that no one would ever believe would amount to anything at all.

Celine decided that ignoring Drunk Lady was the best course of action, so she closed her eyes again and pretended like she was napping. Regrettably, it did not work, because Drunk Lady apparently interpreted that as the signal to sit down next to her, and stroke her fur in a manner that was not unpleasant but also quite irritating!

“Huh. Okay, maybe not the kindest of questions. It is tad blunt.” Drunk Lady flipped through the pages. “Nyao?”

What’s wrong?! You are what is wrong!

Celine responded by biting Drunk Lady’s finger—just a nip. Just a nibble. Nothing to cause any real problems, but more than enough to discourage her from further activity involving such childish behavior. The bite of the most brilliant cat on the continent was also the most targeted, so it was impossible that Drunk Lady would not understand immediately what Celine’s intent with that action had been.

“Oh, crap. I must’ve pronounced that wrong. Are there different dialects for different regions? I should’ve called the publisher to see if they have an updated or expanded version of this…” Drunk Lady did not physically react to being bitten, which was baffling. She continued to peruse the pages and stroke Celine’s fur as if nothing at all had happened. “Nyayayaa~!”

Nothing. It was nothing. A mindless expression of gleeful delight that meant nothing. Celine refused to offer a response. There would be no victory for Drunk Lady. Not today, and at no point in the future. Not even at the end of time!

“Must be having a pretty stressful day, aren’t you?” Drunk Lady smiled down at her, again, frustratingly, confusingly. “Mya~~go.”

You cannot apologize when the perpetrator of said distress is you and still you! Ugh, there was just no winning this particular battle of wits. Celine could not respond in a way that would truly stop Drunk Lady from ever associating with her again, and Drunk Lady could not compose a series of half-formed syllables to elicit an involuntary reaction from Celine. An impossible stalemate.

“Nyaa~~n,” whispered Drunk Lady, right next to Celine’s ears. A threat?! She dared—was she serious?! Why would Drunk Lady threaten what she believed to be an ordinary cat?! Did she—no, that was impossible. She was a lackadaisical lech, and had proven so immediately in the school year. She was not capable of discerning that Celine could speak her tongue perfectly fine. Perhaps she just hated cats all of a sudden. “No scratching people’s eyes out, no matter how grumpy you are.”

Ah. Of course. Such a simple, banal, mundane and moronic thing to assume Celine would ever do. Even if she was distinctly considering attempting to do so to Drunk Lady, despite her promise to Emma that she wouldn’t hurt anyone here. Hrm. Fine, no eye-scratching!

“Nya~~,” said the Drunk Lady, still playing this ridiculous game. Wonderful. You are hungry. Why should I care? “Nya~~?” Of course Celine was hungry! She was a cat! She could almost always have a little more here and there—was she offering her food? “Nya~o!” Obviously, Celine was correct, and she did not need affirmation of her analysis of Drunk Lady’s embarrassing attempts at communication but…how did she know she was thinking that?

Celine decided to scamper away instead of entertaining Drunk Lady’s insanity any further, lest she truly wear her down and Celine made a genuine mistake. Not that she ever would, of course. She never would. Not once. She had never once spoken when she should not have. There was absolutely no way that Drunk Lady had at one point overheard herself and Emma discussing topics not meant for normal human ears.

When would that have happened? Never. That’s when. At no point ever!

Chapter Text

Claire had been attempting to take the most polite course of action once she’d noticed that Crow Armbrust was indeed on the platform, craning his neck and looking around for, presumably, someone. She did not make eye contact. She did not acknowledge him from afar. She did not ‘see’ him, if ever asked. They must have missed one another, just barely.

Unfortunately, Crow seemed to believe that it was in his best interest to dismiss her cordial attempts at avoidance in lieu of jogging over to her while she was between duties. Had he been waiting there? Was he simply lucky? Rather, was Claire that unlucky?

“Yo, Icy Maiden!” beckoned Crow, waving at her as he thankfully stopped in front of her instead of doing something utterly insane like…a hug. From Crow Armbrust. Aidios, no. “You got a minute?”

“I cannot say that I do not at this precise moment in time.” Claire betrayed absolutely nothing. She did not frown. She did not sigh. She did not falter in her posture. “I would ask that you do your best to avoid calling me that in the future.”

“Ah, crap, my bad.” Crow smiled very, very awkwardly, not quite reaching his eyes, and raised his palms in placation. It likely would not help. “Major Rieveldt. Or Claire? Really not sure where we’re at with that.”

“Claire is fine.” Claire swallowed the rest of a retort, because it was fine. Acceptable. Irritating, but acceptable. “What was it that you wished to discuss with me?”

“I…” Crow scratched the back of his head and suddenly looked less threatening than a whimpering puppy. Appearances were often misleading, of course. “I wanted to apologize. To you, specifically. I had this list of folks I wanted to do right by, but I kinda…forgot about you.”

“This list was primarily composed of the families of your former compatriots in the ILF, I assume?” said Claire, refusing to lessen her volume, which did of course elicit a wince out of Crow, followed by a somewhat amusing check if anyone was going to attack him. “The ones whose lives were destroyed by your rallying cry, or otherwise committed suicide at your behest?”

“Shit. I definitely owe Rean big; he warned me you were going to be super intense about this, and I really should have taken that more seriously.” Crow clasped his hands together and smiled again, chuckling breathlessly. “Yeah. You got me. That was the list. You were not on that list, and that is not what I’m here to apologize for.”

“You regret your actions and thought it prudent to apologize to me? Me specifically?”

“Okay, wait, just a sec, I think we’re—”

“You didn’t start that war. You do understand that, yes?” whispered Claire, folding her hands behind her back, her expression still placid. “You could have missed and the outcome would have been the same. You should be incarcerated, rather than executed, for your efforts in rescuing—”

“I know all of that. I got it. I get that stuff. Already figured it out, alright?” interrupted Crow, moving to pat her on the shoulder but then clearly thinking better of it. “Yeah, we’re definitely not on the same page.”

“Aren’t we? What else could you possibly have to apologize for?”

“Well…” Crow shrugged into a crooked grin. “I wanted to apologize for making you look like an idiot. Y’know, with Vita, and the whole ‘phantasmagoria’ shtick.”

“I recall it very vividly, yes.” Claire raised a brow. “You are here to apologize—you took time out of your day, traveled Aidios knows how much of the country, for the sole purpose of apologizing for making me look like a fool in front of the entirety of my alma mater?”

“That’s the gist of it, yeah.”

“I see.” Claire cleared her throat, her posture loosening. A tad. Not too drastically, but noticeably, if one were to look close enough. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

“I’d say ‘you’re welcome’, but there’s no way that won’t sound snarky.” Crow smiled again. “So, we’re cool, right?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Figured; worth a shot.”

Chapter Text

All but instinctual countdowns had been constants in Musse’s periphery for as long as her parents, before they ‘passed’, could recall. As an infant, she would simply know when something was going to fall off the counter hours prior, and would cry in reaction to the sound that had not occurred. At six months, she began responding to the inevitable hunger pangs of stray cats. At a year, her curiosity turned into delight, giggling at the silly faces her family were going to make days later.

Musse’s own recollection of these events was all but non-existent, but she trusted the source, certainly. When she was six, she was playing eighteen different chess games at once with her grandfather, distanced only by time. Most did come to pass, but a few she was wrong about—and those were the instances in which he had won, since she was so confused that she was wrong.

She cried for days on end once she realized the number kept getting lower and lower, signaling that, surely, her grandfather was to die soon, as well. She begged him to stay in, never leave, never stray outdoors, but…her parents never returned, and that was why there were no more games of chess. Uncle Croire had essentially banished her to the capital, where she could cause no more fuss and speak no word of dissent.

The connective tissue of each predictive element, of each ticking clock counting down and down and further down, became apparent once she could no longer return home. Musse had treated it all as a game for so long, a party trick or a hidden talent that could be utilized for fun. And it was; it was fun, but that was not the best use of…her. It was irresponsible. Childish. A tragic waste, in all honesty.

It was not the best use of Musse, nor was it the best use of Mildine. The best use of both was to use both. A child had time to grow and mature, but she’d had more than enough, of course. Musse and Mildine; not different individuals but different tools for the clock, that just…continued to fall, lower, and lower, and lower, and lower.

Every single game was set. Every single game had a path to victory. Every single game had a rather unfortunate time limit. Play it too long, stalling, rambling in fear, succumbing to indecision, and failure would mean far more than a simple loss on your record.

In defeat, when in command, there exists only two inevitabilities, and they are both execution.

The only remaining variable is when. Before your soldiers? Or after?

Prior would be ideal; it may galvanize them.

After would be ideal; the mastermind behind their demise deserves to watch.

Neither would be ideal, but that was not how the game was played, now was it?

Chapter Text

Sara was positive that Claire probably had a much more fitting, maybe even academic, descriptor for the dance she refused to stop stumbling through. Something even less dignified, or just downright disparaging. Self-flagellation so recursive it looped until the obvious one really did fit best.

A damned broken record.

Not the kind that got smashed in the move or from knocking over the jukebox, nope, that’d be too mundane for Claire. Too simple. Nowhere near as cutting or brutal as she’d compose for herself. Had to be the perfect combination of smithereens and warped vinyl. Encompass every single stupid thing she’d ever done, ever would do, ever thought she’d, ever thought other people thought she’d do…it just never stopped with her.

With her, it never stopped, yeah. Only with her, though.

“I don’t love you anymore”. The first skip of the record. The first tiny sculptor’s hammer chipping away at Sara’s heart and accomplishing absolutely nothing because that was real freakin’ stupid. Anymore? Didn’t know she did, so that means she does. It still hurt, though. It always hurt, no matter how full of shit she was every single time.

It was always the same. Claire would rebuff her, just once, one time, only the one obligatory effort, and then suddenly it was as if nothing had ever changed or ended at all, because it hadn’t. “We’re not together.” Yup. Very convincing. So bold a statement to throw out into the open air when the both of them were already naked.

Another favorite was “This is all I can promise.” considering how often it popped up every couple of months, if not more often. All she can promise was every kind of intimacy under the sun, all at once, for the period of time in which the both of them were not working? Seemed like a pretty sweet deal, but pointing that out led to another argument that went absolutely nowhere aside from, again, claiming “There is no us.” while inexplicably naked.

Claire never stopped ‘trying’. The record kept skipping, and Sara waited. Waited until the needle came back down to poke it again. Skip in a different way. Land on the right groove, maybe. After a couple years Claire stopped trying to be specific and just didn’t answer any questions about them. Half the time she left the room instead of responding, and the other half, yup, naked.

Because Claire’d affirm who they are to one another endlessly rather than speak a single word. It probably seemed safer to Claire, to leave things 'ambiguous’ because it was never literally explicated. Not probably; she’d said it rather explicitly. So, that, when the time never actually came when her boss ordered her to kill Sara, which was so completely nuts that Claire had stopped using it as a piece of her logic long ago, there’d be no hard feelings because they weren’t really together in the first place.

Quite the pair, they were. Sara wouldn't stop ‘waiting’ and Claire wouldn’t stop pretending to run. Well, that wasn’t completely true. Claire would blink first, no question. She’d falter, fall on her face, cry about how she’d wasted all that time, and then Sara would pick her up, dust her off and tell her, no, dummy, that was all in your head.

We didn’t waste a damned thing.

Still hurt like hell, though.

Chapter Text

“Elliot kind of reminds me of—” Sully snapped her mouth closed before she could continue, even if the way Elliot organized Arc en Ciel’s last minute distraction performance was really familiar to her. A little like a workhorse, a little like the roaring she used to hear from Fort Siegward every single morning before sunrise when she was younger, but somehow more intense. “He’s a natural at this.”

“Oh, yeah, his whole family’s that motivating,” said Sara, her legs dangling over the edge of the stage. “I was unfortunately not blessed with the opportunity to meet Madam Craig before she passed, but there’s no way this is from the dad’s side of the family. And their dad is quite the leader himself, let me tell you.”

“I believe it.” Sully looked just a little too long at Sara; she noticed. She had to have noticed. There was no way she didn’t know just from spotting Sully from a dozen selge away. That ‘demon family’ girl Valerie, predictably, couldn’t tell, but why would she? “I think if he and Ilya worked together on a production, it’d be four times as big and ‘perfected’ eight times as fast.”

“I’ve never actually seen Arc en Ciel—never had the mira to spare or the time,” chuckled Sara. “I’d carve out both for that, though.” She swept her hands out in front of her, closing one eye as if to focus a lens. “Platiere and Craig present, an evening of, uh…resplendence? Or something? I dunno.” She shrugged. “I’m not the best at naming things.”

“Neither am I.”

“How long have you been working here?” asked Sara. “Seems like you know everybody real well, but you’re, what, fifteen?”

“About two years.” Sully swallowed, but didn’t fidget. Not even a little. “Ilya recruited me herself.”

“Wow. That’s…” Sara whistled and smiled. “That is something to be proud of.”

“I—” Sully scowled and crouched down next to Sara, her voice dropping into barely a whisper. “I didn’t run. I didn’t, okay? I'm not you. I wasn’t enough, I didn’t have anything else to do. I’m not like you, so you can’t judge me for—”

“Hey.” Sara held up her palm. “We don’t have to talk about this.”

“But you’re—” Sully clenched her teeth. “I grew up hearing, over and over again, about…just…” She sat down next to Sara and stared at her lap. “I don’t know.”

“It’s okay.” Sara shrugged. “They didn’t offer another alternative? Just tossed you out? Rejected you?”

“You don’t have to rub it in,” grumbled Sully. “My build’s not right. Not enough of that kind of endurance.”

“They weren’t wrong.” Sara’s eyes glazed over for about half a second, and mumbled something Sully couldn’t really piece together. Something about the years and minutes? “You won, Sully. You got out, and you’re here.”

“I know that, but it’s—” Sully crossed her arms. “It feels selfish.”

“Mhmm. That never stopped for me, but it might for you. Probably will. Here.” Sara offered her a handful of jerky. “We can share.”

“That’s fair.” Sully took half and shoved it all in her face. “Thanks.”

“Please don’t.”

Chapter Text

Lechter could feel his legs, so that was the good news. He could feel his arms, so that was also good news. He could breathe perfectly fine, yeah, that was very good news. He hadn’t cracked his head on the counter or the linoleum or anything nasty, and he wasn’t bleeding. Exceptional news, all around.

The bad news, part one of it, was that Lechter was now very familiar with how cold his bathroom floor was on his shoulders and back. And also how, uh, hard it felt. On the back of one’s head, specifically from falling off of the toilet. Wasn’t the best feeling, but at least he wasn’t indecent! Instead of catching himself from smacking his brainpan on the floor, Lechter’s instincts decided that the best possible idea was for him to pull up his pants.

Because apparently karma’s way of catching up to him was to mess with his indisputably brilliant gut. Or, at least, make it seem like he’d lost nearly all of his otherworldly mojo. By falling off the toilet due to a muscle spasm so intense, and so painful, his lower back was still throbbing at about a nine-point-five on the pain scale. Except he didn’t have any adrenalin to cut it with.

Lechter tried to roll to his side but—haha, no that is not going to happen. Cold, hard tile on a twisting spine? Great idea. Absolutely one of your best. Try not to scream and wake the neighbors! He took a few minutes to stop breathing so damned hard, and then just sorta…well, he could either wait until he healed, which could be never, and he might die of dehydration before then.

Or he could wait for Claire or Millium to check on him! Which they probably wouldn’t, because they’d assume him not answering any calls was that he was busy, not missing. Or trying to mess with them. Dammit. Screwed by his own affable and charming patterns. Guess the only thing left to do was to toss the toilet paper roll out of the bathroom and into the bedroom and trust his gut to know exactly how to throw it so it hit the speed dial on his ARCUS for Millium.

Lechter did just that, and whooped once the dial tone clicked on from the other room. “Lechter?” yawned…Claire’s voice, barely audible, and he couldn’t stop himself from groaning to the heavens at this almost perfect luck. “Did you—what kind of joke is this?! What is wrong with—”

“Claire, I fell off the toilet and I can’t get up!” yelled Lechter. “I was trying to call Millium!”

“Ah. That…is far more plausible than—well, yes.” Claire cleared her throat. C’mon. That was not his style and they both knew it. “Are you decent?”

“Would you leave me here to die if I wasn’t?”

“No. I simply want to know how vulnerable and helpless you are, so I can gauge how much I should rush out the door to become your eternal savior.”

“This is why I was trying to call Millium, Claire.” Lechter rolled his eyes. “I have pants on.”

“Three minutes.”

“Great.” Lechter glared at the ceiling once he realized the clicking wasn’t stopping. “Please? Please will you help me, Claire?”

“Of course, Lechter. I’m already on my way.” And then Claire hung up, probably, because she was enjoying this way too— “I’m hanging up.”

“Thank you.” Lechter tried to get up again, and immediately regretted even attempting. Ow. Shooting pain in his lower back. Again. Why did he keep doing this to himself?

Exactly three minutes passed before Lechter heard his apartment door open and then lock. Claire’s purposeful gait was unmistakable, and he couldn’t even muster up a smirk or a grin as she rounded the corner and showed up in his field of view, her brows raised in sincere surprise and concern.

“I didn’t think you were kidding, but even so…” Claire knelt down next to him. “How can I best move you?”

“Healing arts, please,” said Lechter. “All of them would be ideal.”

“No. That isn’t going to help with this.” Claire poked and prodded at his side, and yes that hurt so much, Aidios above, why are you torturing me?! Aside from the usual reasons! “Right side is less inflamed, so here, breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

“How babies breathe?” asked Lechter, raising a brow. “Seriously?”

“Yes. Infants are better at breathing, and we forget as we—this isn’t the time.” Claire gingerly helped up to his feet, and it realllllllly hurt, even as he was breathing so fast in just that way he was basically hyperventilating. “Slowly, slowly, just breathe and put one foot in front of the other.”

“Gotcha.” Lechter did, but it didn’t actually help with the pain. Just made it a teensy bit more reasonable to get back to the bed. “I think I’m going to vomit.”

“You won’t.” Claire set him down on his back, over the comforter, and yanked the pillow away from his head. “Flat. Flat. Bend your knees.” She shoved the pillow under his knees, propping them up a little. “I’m going to fetch you some proper clothes, and then we are going to the hospital.”

“What?” Lechter didn’t even bother trying to sit up and watch her rummage through his closet, mixing up all of his meticulous organization and tailored clothing. “That’s it? You’re not going to rub it in more, or insist I tell you how this even happened? Pick me up, clothe me, help me to the doctor. I am at your mercy, Claire. Take the victory while it lasts.”

“If you insist,” sighed Claire, tossing a button down at his face. “How did this happen, Lechter?”

“There was this one time I fell off the auditorium at Jenis, and I landed not so great.” Lechter winced just thinking about the pop his spine had made. “I thought it had healed right, but it feels exactly like it did back then.”

“Excellent, we have moved past your bizarre insistence for me to know why you were hurt rather than focus on how to help you.” Claire scoffed. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah, why do you know what to do here? This was not in any first-aid training I ever got.”

“It wasn’t for me, either.” Claire smirked at him, arriving with a neatly folded outfit. “But you learn a great deal when you are entrusted with helping someone like Sara through extensive physical therapy for a month and a half.”

“Yeah, that’d do it.” Lechter bit back a smile. “Hey, uhm…”

“Hm?”

“You’re my favorite big sister, Claire.”

“Call me that again, and I’ll drop you outside the lobby.”

“And that is why I didn’t say you were the best.”

Chapter Text

Alisa, in what little ‘downtime’ she had between overseeing and facilitating the rather disturbing amount of product development that occurred within the Fourth Development Division, had successfully managed to lobby the Imperial Government for an inheritance she neither wanted nor needed. However, she didn’t trust anyone else, especially the government, even if the Interim Chancellor was unlikely to do anything close to what Osborne pulled, to sort through all of the catastrophically dangerous nonsense built by the parasite that had stolen her father’s body.

And obviously not his mind, since the Black Workshop was filled with nine duds for every diamond in the extreme rough. Even though so much of it was useless, or impractical, or just far more dangerous to the user than the intended target, the unfortunate truth was that everything was constructed made of Zemurian ore. Take all the stupid showpieces apart for scrap metal that was worth more than…well, most of the minor noble houses, most likely. If you knew what to do with it.

Did Alisa want the Black Workshop? No. Absolutely not. She’d prefer to tell Sharon to plant explosives everywhere and destroy it, and just bury the whole thing under the mountain it was, well, buried under. But that was also extremely irresponsible, and could potentially destroy an entire mountain, which could then kill a river due to the lack of snow melting and creating said river. Which could then kill a village, as it had been built explicitly next to a freshwater source.

Needless to say, it was an exhausting endeavor. On some days, Alisa genuinely wished she could just fill the whole place with concrete and brainwash the continent into believing it had never existed in the first place, and, oh boy, it was definitely one of those days, because the last thing on her list for the visit was…

An erosion machine.

Alisa squinted at what looked like a pneumatic pump with an oblong water tank affixed to it, the bottom half of the thing poking out into some sort of bizarre drill bit with a hole in the center. Pressurized water jets weren’t a new concept to Alisa, but this was just…why? Why did this exist? What possible purpose did it serve when all it apparently did was drip water indefinitely at a consistent rate?!

“Sharon, where does this thing get the water for…” Alisa pinched her brow and almost tossed her clipboard onto the ground. “I’m not even going to say it. I’m not going to describe it. Is it rainfall? Or can it just regenerate water for no reason at all?”

“I am uncertain as to the scientific explanation, Lady Alisa, but I can assure you that this particular device does refill itself.” Sharon beamed at her, manipulating the machine so that the water tank rotated, showing her little markers denoting how full it was and how much time was left. In centuries. Aidios. “I have taken the liberty of testing the water for impurities and potability, and I am delighted to report that it is entirely filtered and safe to drink?”

“Black Alberich created an infinitely self-refilling clean water tank so that he could carve things into stone without ever having to monitor the progress,” summarized Alisa, feeling a particularly intense headache forming behind her eyes as she glared at the machine. “Has George already looked at this one?” She checked her clipboard, flipping through the pages. “I feel like he would have mentioned something this huge…”

“Master George did inspect this particular piece. However, he seemed quite hesitant to inspect it further.”

“That is not a good sign.” Alisa sighed and walked around to the back of the machine, Sharon sliding out of her way without a word, and finagled open what appeared to be the back panel of…whatever the hell kind of computer controlled it. “Well, it’s not a black box—” She reeled back as Sharon slammed the panel shut and somehow welded it shut without blinding Alisa. “Sharon?”

“It is nuclear powered,” said Sharon, giggling louder and louder as she physically dragged her away from the erosion machine. “It is nuclear powered—you were not exposed to radiation, Lady Alisa, that particular element was sealed within lead, and connected to an orbment filled entirely with sapphiril quartz and wiring.”

“I don’t—” Alisa threw up her hands. “How do we even dispose of this?! Why do you even know—Sharon, there is no possible way that you were taught how to identify nuclear materials as a part of your assassination training!” she snapped. “Why do you know any of this?!”

“Oh, the Order of the Moonlight Horse did not instruct me in any of the innumerable methods of radiation poisoning one could utilize on a potential target.” Sharon beamed even wider. “The Chairman insisted I learn all there was to know regarding potentially fissile materials in the event any should come into close contact with you, Lady Alisa!”

“That just sounds like Mother trained you to identify this stuff so she could secretly use it to develop nuclear weapons!”

“You’re right.” Sharon giggled. Again. “It does sound as if that was her intent.”

“Sharon!”

Chapter Text

There were few greater poisons than grief. Duvalie had watched her lord—the Steel Maiden. No, the Lance Maiden. Urgh. Saint Sandlot—not that either, no, that wasn’t what she’d wanted in the end.

Lianne, for that was who she was, even if the statue of her in Legram, right aside from the dock, covered with a thin spattering of fresh snow, hard pretzels stacked below her carved boots, with the visage of Shion Arseid and a female knight that looked vaguely similar to Roselia both kneeling beside her, propped her up as something more.

Even the eyes of her sculpted face were kind, as they were in life. It was such an impressive thing to capture in stillness. The more Duvalie, bundled in a thick winter jacket, looked into them, the more impossible it appeared.

Lianne Sandlot of Legram. Stripped of all the myths, lionizing, and titles. Only daughter and child of Count Sandlot; a physician’s assistant who took up the lance with greater drive than nearly all others to protect those caught in the blaze of a war between squabbling brothers.

The varying levels of absolute refusal to grieve, the rising violence and ‘shutting down’ of so much of one’s humanity that occurs in the process…it had taken Duvalie far too long to realize why Lianne had become the person she was. It was not something she would allow herself, or her sisters, to repeat in any capacity.

So, in that sense, there were two ‘graves’ for her to visit on two different days. July 4th, to commemorate the end of the War of the Lions, and Lianne’s original death at the hands of Orthos, and the Marshlands of Crossbell on August 30th. At the hands of…her own hubris, in the end. One could point fingers, and absolutely should, but if she’d been more open, she’d have had a few more days before the nightmare came to an end.

Setting dates was one thing, but meeting them, when one’s role took Duvalie, Ines, and Ennea all across the continent at a near constant rate, meant that compromises needed to be made. Unfortunately, that also meant that personal sacrifices had needed to be made. Or…she’d attempted to make them, but it was such a half-hearted effort, especially for a matter of the heart, that she couldn’t even finish the first sentence of her meticulously prepared explanation!

Thank Aidios for that.

“I do not intend to complain or poke fun, Duvalie,” said Laura, handing her a thermos with a little taped label that said ‘hot chocolate, extra milk, three spoons of marshmallows’. “Though this is your third visit in two months. Not every trip to Legram needs to be justified in quite so somber a manner.”

“What else am I supposed to tell people?” Duvalie unscrewed the top, inhaled the delightful aroma, a light blush spreading across her chilly cheeks. Perfect. Always so perfect. “I am not a child. I am no love struck puppy.” She sipped at the hot chocolate, her frustration melting away with the marshmallows. “I simply have a lot of grief to process.”

“I’ve no doubt that is true.” Laura nodded. “Still, it does not need to be so maudlin an affair, Duvalie.”

“Of course it does! It’s grief.”

“When my mother passed—I was rather young—I did not fully grasp what her absence would mean.” Laura sipped her own hot chocolate. “Father ensured that I did not lose myself in anger nor despair. Grief is a unique process for everyone, but nowhere is it written, in stone or otherwise, that it must be entirely painful.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“Would she want you to be happy?” asked Laura, half turning towards her. “Or would she want you to spend your time staring up at an approximation of her for hours on end while you pretend that it is what she’d want you to do?”

“I—ugh! Unbelievable.” Duvalie took another sip of the delectable hot chocolate, entirely unable to stop herself from smiling. Every little drop was filled with so much love! And chocolate! And sugar! “Lianne is likely berating me from Aidios’s arms for flitting about during what little time I have to myself…” She sighed. “And how they should not just be for myself.”

“I’ve already stoked a fire; the manor is quite warm even without the orbal heaters.” Laura smiled back. “If you’ll have me, I’d love to give you a comprehensive reminder of how dedicated I am to your our collective comfort, Duvalie.”

“I suppose that’s—” Duvalie’s entire head turned red as she spat out her hot chocolate all over the statue of Lianne’s face. “Wh—why would you—you saw me take a sip!”

“You moved to drink after I finished speaking.”

“Oh!” Duvalie smirked and chuckled. “Oh, so suddenly, I’m not fast enough for you?”

“I suppose not.” Laura kissed her, softly. Gently, but not chaste. Nothing unbecoming or rude in public. Or in front of Lianne, who wouldn’t care. “Perhaps you should focus on proving me inaccurate.”

“Yes! Yes, I…” Duvalie screwed up her face and looked from the hot chocolate, to the statue, and then back to Laura. “You’re throwing a bunch of things you think are maybe ‘seductive’ at the wall to see what works, aren’t you?”

“It isn’t—” Laura blushed and Duvalie could not stop giggling. “It isn’t my greatest strength, but I am trying!”

Chapter Text

Years in the making. Constantly delayed or suspended due to increasingly chaotic and absurd circumstances. The grudge match of the new century. The rematch to end all second winds. What began as a fight to the ‘death’ had transformed in so many unlikely ways. A swimming contest. Blade—the card game, not a sword fight, but no way Sharon could win with swords. Competitive Drinking. And then also those couple times when Sara and Sharon actually did fight again, but those didn’t really count.

It all came down to the purest and most simple expression of strength. Arm wrestling.

Aaaaand it was over in about five seconds, because Sara had grabbed Sharon’s hand, which felt like it was made of steel, and almost instantly smashed it down into the table. Wasn’t even that there was not enough resistance—Sharon put up a hell of a fight, but the gap was…well, it was exactly what Sara always believed it to be.

Obviously.

“YES! AH-HAH!” whooped Sara, raising her arms above her head and grinning ear to ear. “I knew it! I knew I was stronger than you!” She leaned over the table and jabbed a finger in Sharon’s eternally smiling face. “I have known for all of these years that there was no question, and now I’ve got proof! Suck it, Sharon!”

“I am overjoyed to see that you have derived such unabashed joy from your victory, Lady Sara.” Sharon beamed and unrolled her sleeve, her ornate cuffs somehow not wrinkled. “I never once doubted your superior physicality.”

“Well, yes, obviously.” Sara settled back into her chair and tapped her fingers against the table. “You definitely didn’t let me win.”

“I wouldn’t dream of tarnishing something so important to you—”

Sara raised a brow.

“—yes, a valid point.” Sharon giggled. “I would not dream of doing so again.”

“Mhmm.” Sara blew her hair out of her face. “How heavy was Alberich’s big stupid dragon-thing robot?”

“I am uncertain as to the exact weight, as well as the physical force it could exert. If you desire it, I can do my best to gather that information for you, Lady Sara.” Sharon cleared her throat. “Or perhaps another machine of the same make?”

“Yeah, it sounded like a real stupid idea in my head, and it sounds even worse out loud.” Sara rested her chin in her hand. “Doesn’t really matter anyway. I’ll do something cooler eventually.”

Chapter Text

"I suppose I'm still not really sure what the intended purpose of the spell is…" chuckled Emma, a bit dry, her cheeks running red as she stared at her own mirror image construct. "Is it for practical jokes? Or perhaps confusing the enemy?"

"You could use it for that, Emma, yes, both of those are wonderful ideas." Vita grinned at her. Oh, there was absolutely something else to this, wasn't there? "But that is just so woefully mundane, wouldn't you say?"

"No, I think it sounds quite practical. Something entirely mundane would also not involve magic doppelgangers." Emma waved her hand in front of her mirror image, and it copied her a moment later. "See? This could be very distracting in the right circumstances."

"Mhmm, but those circumstances are not wartime. More the exact opposite." Vita winked at her. "After all, if you can't find love when things are peaceful, that's a dreadful shame."

"You taught me a spell to—" Emma frowned, her nose wrinkling as she turned to glare at Vita. "Why did you think this was appropriate? When have you ever given me advice like this? When have I ever asked?!"

"I'm trying to make up for lost time!" fumed Vita. "It's not my fault you can't grasp the obvious potential of a second set of—”

"I do, but that's not…" Emma poofed away the doppelganger. "I am not a hapless, awkward teenager stumbling in the dark trying to find my big sister anymore." She huffed. "If you wanted to be this helpful, you should have done so years ago. When I needed it."

"I'm going to take that as a very elongated and overdue 'thank you'."

Chapter Text

Elie carefully stepped over the overlapping layers of cracked and splintered glass panoramic windows that had collapsed onto the concrete foundation, the shattered panes crunching beneath her boots when she could not avoid them. The only solace to be found in such a disaster was that all of it was stagecraft. Sugar glass; designed to be smashed and run straight through without harming the performer.

Still, that did not solve the immediate problem in front of her and the rest of the SSS. Namely, Arc en Ciel’s previously secret outdoor set construction in the slowly rehabilitating Downtown district, had been vandalized to the point of obliteration. It was meant to be revealed as part of a fundraising event, and the proceeds to be donated to the funding of a proper revitalization effort that would bring Osborne’s work in Ost to shame.

“It’s sugar glass, so we’re not going to get much in terms of identifiable forensics,” said Lloyd, crouching down next to the center of what had been the stage, the sunrise glittering off of the millions of ‘shards’ of glass. “Even the way it breaks is difficult to identify since it’s so brittle and falls apart so easily.”

“Hate to ask this, Ilya, since there’s not a chance in hell anyone would hate you, but…” Randy sighed and shrugged at Ilya. “Can you think of anyone who might have it out for you? Any new enemies we don’t know about?”

“That is an absurd question,” interjected Tio, her orbal staff humming and glowing as the Aeon system presumably scanned the immediate area. “No one is capable of hating Ilya Platiere. Even her most ardent critics, at most, would only dare to feel jealousy.”

“It’s just standard procedure, Tio,” said Elie. “While it is unlikely, we have to rule out the possibility first and foremost.”

“I have plenty of detractors,” grumbled Ilya. “The vast majority are those who—yes, Tio is correct—are very jealous of our success, pedigree, and presence in the international press.” She idly gestured to Rixia who blushed feverishly. “You didn’t happen to mention anything to—”

“I would not reveal such important secrets during a brief trip to Calvard, Ilya!” defended Rixia. “I only spoke highly of our work! Perhaps too highly, but that is how much passion I have for it.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“That’s—that’s not relevant. They wouldn’t do something like this.” Rixia crossed her arms and bit her lip. “I promise.”

“I trust you.” Ilya pinched her brow. “What’s most important is, despite the setback, no one was hurt. We can always rebuild another set. Perhaps use less literal glass and more industrial plastic to achieve the same effect.”

“That would be wise from many perspectives, however, I do need to correct one assumption you have made, Ilya,” said Tio, sweeping out her staff and clearing her throat. “There is one person who got hurt.”

“Ah!” Ilya beamed. “I see. Well, I’m sure the punishment was harsh, but fair.”

“I don’t think I’m keeping track of where we’re at,” said Lloyd, stroking his chin and glancing around the crime scene. “Elie?”

“I have a decent idea as to her implication,” said Elie, biting down on her lip to stifle a giggle. “We need only wait, and the truth will reveal itself in full.”

“It can’t be that simple,” added Rixia. “Though, if it were, it would be quite fitting.”

“Yeah, sorry to say, but it is exactly the M.O. we’ve come to expect—” Randy smirked at Lloyd. “Eh? Detective talk? How’s my take on it?”

“You’re doing great, Randy,” chuckled Lloyd. “The last part is sealing the deal.”

Randy, Tio, Ilya, and Elie snickered into a laugh, which left Lloyd blushing.

“Ah, man. Never get tired of you, partner.” Randy whirled around and smacked the air with his Stun Halberd without any kind of telegraphing or warning, smashing Phantom Thief B out of the ether and onto the sugar glass ground with a thousand tiny clatters. “Hooboy, am I sick of you though, buddy.”

“It was far too clever by a half, Fervent Dancer!” snapped Phantom Thief B, glaring at Ilya as he picked himself up to his feet, holding his no doubt bruised ribs. “You are capable of far more beauty and excellence than something as mundane and trivial as a literal glass house!”

“Of course I am, but this is for charity, not for accolades.” Ilya walked right up to him, looked him dead in the eye, and smiled. “You’re welcome to change that with me, though, if you wish.”

“I would be delighted!” chirped Phantom Thief B, clasping his hands together, as giddy as could be. “Oh, I have so many ideas on how to improve this entire foray into open air street performance!”

Elie shot Rixia a baffled look, and had the distinct feeling that Phantom Thief B had orchestrated all of this just so Ilya would be forced to notice him and hopefully recruit him. There wasn’t even a clue or a note!

“Honestly, this is actually more outlandish than how she recruited me so…” Rixia blushed again. “I suppose the support request has been fulfilled.”

Chapter Text

Schera’s eyes loved to play the cruelest, most devilish tricks on her. They worked together with her skin, giving her goosebumps and making her hair stand up at times when they really shouldn’t bother. What was there to see? What was there to notice, two, three, four bottles deep into whatever didn’t burn large enough of a hole in Olivier’s coffers for the evening?

She never heard a single bell; she never even thought she heard one. What would happen if she did? Would Schera even be able to ignore it, or would she chase the sound in every direction until she found her?

Once in a while, she’d get misty eyed, though she’d never be alone. Always a night of revelry, of deep love and laughter, of family, and pure delight. It didn’t matter where she was, or who she was with, or what she had just done that day, but the fog always crept in through the cracks in the windows. Through the gap in the doorframe. The keyholes, the vents, the chimney, provided the building was old enough.

She could never dry the tears, though, because they were never there. She’d tried handkerchiefs, Olivier’s face, and all other kinds of balms to wipe her eyes, but nothing ever worked or seemed to remotely absorb the hanging moisture. It only clung to her more, and more, and more, and more, until she tried to cry, to just let it happen, but that didn’t work either.

Luci wanted to leave her behind, but she kept coming back, even if it was only in Schera’s head. It probably wasn’t, though, which made the whole contradiction frustrating and heartbreaking and soothing beyond what she could really articulate to anyone sitting next to her, as her face scrunched up, trying to squeeze tears out of her face.

There was no mist in a desert, or at high altitudes, yet there was also so much of it. Silent, no single jingle or calming brass clattering. It wasn’t the same as having her sister beside her, but if that was all Luci could offer Schera for years and years…

It wasn’t enough, but it would have to be.

Chapter Text

Bell’s feathers were not quite so black to Elie. They were not those of a vulture, or even an eagle. Not a raven. When they were children, Bell was the falcon between them. She’d soar higher than everyone, higher than anyone could even imagine, her brilliance blazing in the sun, scalding all who moved too close. All except Elie, of course, who had neither a desire to fly nor wings of her own to do so.

With each piece of Bell, each crack in what Elie knew was no facade, despite how much it appeared to be at times, her feathers muddied. Darker, and darker, and darker, to blot out the sun for those below until she allowed a peak at its grace. All except Elie, as she was allowed to see right through her, and always would.

A crow, many said. A condensed, personified murder. An omen of death, destruction, and generational delusions run rampant. And they were right, Elie had to concede that much.

Bell was a crow; an entire murder distilled into one individual. Intelligent beyond all expectations, manipulative to the point of savagery, and doing nothing to dissuade assumptions regarding her ideals and beliefs.

There was no scared and terrified little girl hiding behind those dark feathers. Nor one who was flying further, so far, far away, to escape something or someone. Bell knew exactly what she was doing, which meant she also knew better, because the alternative, that she didn’t, or never did, was impossible.

Elie would not wait for her to fly ‘home’, but she would always regret that she did not take up falconry in her youth.

Chapter Text

Fie had developed many different instincts for danger over her life. Some were for bullets. One was specifically for artillery. Footsteps, magic, poison, individual intent, and even spoiled food set off tiny internal alarms for her. Either you pick that stuff up, or you don’t live long enough to be someone else. For the longest time, Fie had assumed Sara had more or less the same variety of gut reactions, even if she responded differently to them.

It wasn’t until after becoming a bracer herself did she realize how inaccurate that guess had been. They had some overlap between the two of them, but on the whole? Totally different mindsets. Except when it came to artillery. Freaked them both out like nothing else.

“Toval taught me a handy shortcut, years ago, for determining whether or not something is an artifact,” said Sara, flickering her flashlight a few times over the swaying stack of books, roughly nine arge tall and just barely not scraping the domed ceiling, that they’d found in the center of a ruin. Kinda looked like a mostly rotted tree being fought over by competing wind patterns. “Y’know, when it’s not super obvious or causing some sort of extra-existential havoc.”

“Is it ‘call Toval’? Or ‘call the church’?” asked Fie, her ARCUS already open, her thumb on her third speed dial setting. Gaius. Artifacts were uncommon, but not uncommon enough to not have him always within reach if things got bad. “Gaius. Or Thomas. You have Thomas’s number, right? We should call both of them, just to be safe.”

“They’re overworked and over-extended, just about as much as we are. Hence the tremendous working relationship with the guild and the Gralsritter! I have uncovered a hefty amount of artifacts in my time, and this test has never failed.” Sara inspected the stack of books even closer, her nose almost touching it, as she…sniffed it. Wafted a scent that Fie didn’t think it had towards her nose. “Could be odorless, though. Or emitting one that we’d need a dog to even detect…”

“I thought the church and the guild were on good terms because of Toval.”

“What?” Sara laughed once. “He wishes that was all on him. Ah, that delightfully humble showboater. No, that predates his time by decades.” She held up a finger. “The test he taught me, which was taught to him by Carnelia, and, uh, I think Thomas taught it to her? Or maybe the Roaring Lion? Eh, doesn’t matter. Based on geology.”

Fie bit her tongue because she knew exactly what was about to happen, but also knew that there was a zero-percent chance that Sara would actually ever take a risk that could potentially kill or hurt her. Didn’t stop her from fidgeting in place, though.

“Bottoms up!” Sara licked the books. She just…she stuck her tongue on one of them, and licked it. And then spat out her spit, guzzling down several glugs of water and flicking her hands around. “Blech! Ugh, gross. That is so much dust.”

“Does that mean it’s an artifact?” asked Fie, her heart slamming in her chest. “Or did you just lick a bunch of ancient dust and probably get sick doing it?” She furrowed her brow at the still-swaying stack of books. “Wait, what if each one is a different thing? What if the stack isn’t the artifact, if it is one, but just one of the books?”

“Crap, you’re right. And no, that one was not an artifact. Didn’t taste right.” Sara pinched her brow for a moment before snapping back to look at Fie, a brow rising very high. “Okay, do you actually believe that might be the case, or are you just trying to get me to lick a bunch of super old books because you think it’ll be funny.”

“Kinda both?” Fie shrugged. “You were going to do it anyway.”

“Hm.” Sara crossed her arms. “I’ll drop Thomas a line. Even if it’s not an artifact, the spines of half of these are extremely banned.” She flipped open her ARCUS and quickly typed a message. “He’ll have a field day even if it’s not technically his official purview.”

“Yup.” Fie nodded. “And then I can take a bunch of pictures while you two have a book licking party.”

“It is a test that works, and I’ll hear no slander.”

Chapter Text

“Each piece is precisely one rege in length and width, of which there are one thousand,” explained Claire, holding up a tiny blank white wedge of wood. “The goal is less to finish the puzzle, but more to enjoy the process. The longer it takes to complete, the more entertaining the experience.”

Sara stared down at the relative mess of their apartment floor, quite literally hundreds of slivers of wood assembled in a mostly perfect circle around Claire and what looked like maybe two-percent of the ‘jigsaw from hell’ assembled by her feet. There wasn’t a trick to it. There wouldn’t be. If she splashed water on the whole thing, it wouldn’t suddenly reveal a painting made entirely with invisible ink.

“Would you like to help me finish it?” asked Claire. “It won’t necessarily be faster, but I think you’ll be surprised how engrossing it can become.”

“I, uh…” Sara shrugged into a smile and sat down on the ground beside her. It was nowhere near the strangest request she’d gotten in her life, and hey, it might actually be fun! “Sure. I’ll help.” She glanced at the circle of wood again. “What do we do with it when we’re done? Won’t it just look like a blank canvas?”

“It will, yes.” Claire shuffled through a seemingly random pile of pieces. “I was hoping to hang it on the wall. These puzzles come in increasingly larger sizes, so there could be this one, a square arge, and then two square arge, and so on.”

“You want a wall of blank wooden puzzles of incremental size?” Sara looked at the barren wall beside them. Just another thing about furnishing and decorating that had fallen by the wayside. “Y’know, actually? That’s kinda perfect.”

Chapter Text

Sergei, at first, did not look up from the newspaper when he noticed that Randy, Wazy, and Noel were gathering enough outdoor gear for a hike with the intention of burying a body. He decided he’d wait until he was done with his coffee, or until whatever was going on would play itself out. It was absolutely not what it appeared to be.

The shovels, the bags of tools, the metal detector, an actual dowsing rod made of a material he didn’t recognize. Each individual element had perfectly reasonable explanation. Even the off-roading tires Noel installed onto the ‘Mishy-Mobile’—he was not going to tell them to change the paint scheme until the Fox screamed at him; the kids loved it too much—could be about anything.

It was after Zeit glared at him that he decided he should likely look into exactly what was going on, since Tio was out doing tech support for the Epstein Foundation and couldn’t translate. Where the hell were Lloyd and Elie to deal with this so he didn’t have to?

Ah. Monday mornings.

Lloyd could be anywhere in Crossbell State by then, fishing from sunrise to breakfast. Elie was likely dealing with something at City Hall. Hopefully berating the diet. She was always in a great mood when she got back from that. Guess it was time for the Sentinel to do his job.

“Hey, kids.” Sergei whistled and folded up his newspaper, the trio of Randy, Wazy, and Noel stopping in their tracks just as they finished pulling on snowboots, of all things. “What the hell are you doing?”

They exchanged a look, dropped into a gleeful crouch, and then sprung up, in unison. “Buried treasure!” they whooped, not quite in the same key. “Buried treasure!”

“Sounds exciting.” Sergei finished his coffee. “How’d you find out about it?”

“Bought an antique book of maps because they looked cool, and one of them was legit!” Randy grinned. “Can you believe it? Buried treasure.”

“Where’d you buy it from? Who? Imelda?”

“Who else?”

“We’re going to need to drive through the mountains, swim through some rivers, and double back, dive into an underground stream…” listed off Noel, her smile widening with each new activity. “It’s going to be so fun even if we don’t find a thing.”

“Oh, but we will find treasure. I can feel it,” said Wazy. “Chief, we’d be of course happy to split our findings with you if you give us the whole day to work towards this goal.”

“Sure.” Sergei shrugged and snatched the map out of Randy’s hands, reading through it a few times. Old paper. Really old. Smudged coordinates, vague instructions that seem more like something out of a children’s book, looked back around…ah. “This is a map to the cemetery.”

“What? No, it isn’t!” Noel took the map and read through it, flipping it over, her eyes scrunching. “Oh. Wow. Yes, this is a map to the cemetery. Just a rough guess, but we’d have surfaced under a burial plot.”

“There’s a burial service scheduled for later this morning. You’d probably show up in the nick of time.”

“Wazy…” Randy groaned and palmed his face. “Why did you want us to get caught accidentally grave robbing?”

“How do you know this is my fault?” asked Wazy, snickering. “Imelda is a crafty woman; I could have been fooled by her just as well as anyone else.”

“It’s obviously what you planned,” said Noel, frowning at him. “Fess up. What were you going to do if we got this far?”

“I was going to stop you before you did anything truly criminal.” Wazy cleared his throat. “Archbishop Eralda, I believe, needs a reminder now and then of how foolish he was for banning the Congregation for the Sacraments from Crossbell.”

“And you wanted to do that with the threat of random corpse exhumation?” asked Sergei. “That’s gutsy.” He shrugged and took a puff of his cigar. “Why not? Carry on. Leave no traces, and I don’t care.”

“Really—”

“No. Put that stuff away before anybody else sees you.” Sergei sighed. “Gettin’ way too old for this kinda crap.” All four of them, and Zeit, looked towards the front door as Elie returned, a wide smile on her face. “G’morning, Elie.”

“Chief, good morning.” Elie gave him a wave and then focused on the trio. “Oh! What seems to be the plan for the day? Did we get a request deep in the mountains?”

“Absolutely,” said Randy. “Buried treasure.”

“Uh-huh, yes,” corroborated Noel. “Buried treasure.”

“We were going to go spook the Archbishop by pretending to grave rob, but Sergei put a stop to it,” revealed Wazy. “We may as well pivot to a hike.”

“I see.” Elie paused for a few moments, took a breath, and glanced at Zeit. “Buried treasure?”

Zeit grumbled and barked.

“There is a time capsule I buried with Bell up near Mainz when we were around seven,” said Elie. “I would consider that a personal treasure, and as I said it is also buried.”

“Perhaps the real buried treasure was the family we made along the way,” mused Wazy, as everyone, including Zeit, glared at him. “You can glower as much as you wish; that won’t stop me from being right.”

Sergei, nor anyone else, tried to correct him. What other kind of group would shrug off grave robbing and still call themselves a family?

Chapter Text

Three-thousand arge was never a vast distance. Even on horseback, the time it took to travel thirty selge was not an element one could ignore when planning their day, but it was, at the same time, far from insurmountable. The logistics of one’s life were centered around far greater numbers.

Three-thousand arge was a small farm, but it was a viable field. A not insignificant separation between family homes in rural areas. A tourist’s brisk walk from points of interest in a city. In an emergency, the difference between life and death could so easily boil down to ‘they were too far away to reach in time’, and three-thousand arge was neither small enough to be trivial nor large enough to be blamed.

Lechter had called Claire first, because no one else had even a remote outside chance of changing the outcome. Crow Armbrust was C. She had his location, three-thousand arge away from His Excellency. She ran. There were no other avenues but her own two feet.

Claire had traveled two-thousand eight-hundred arge beginning at 1155 Hours on October 30th, S. 1204, from the Garnier District to halfway to the other end of Vanquier, in less than five minutes. Traffic was literally parked to listen to the address on the radio. Civilians were grouped together by the dozen at every point of congestion.

The ILF had ensured that no one would be close enough to stop them without sacrificing innocent lives by quite literally crushing them beneath an Imperial war machine, because that was exactly how sickeningly apt they desired to be. The HMP had been distracted with radar trickery, the RMP were spread thin, the Imperial Army focused far more on larger, more obvious assaults—what minimal airships they had were already scrambled to deal with the ‘air assault’ that was almost certainly a ploy.

Even before she’d smashed down the apartment building’s door on the ground floor, the overlapping booming of His Excellency’s speech flooding her ears through every radio she sprinted past, it had become so agonizingly obvious why they had managed to create such a massive blindspot in their security measures. It was all but identical to the Summer Festival.

There was no guild to shoulder the rest of the burden, no additional irregulars to adapt to a sudden crisis of this magnitude, and Claire was in the perfect position to be the wrong woman for the job at the most critical of moments.

Crow’s shot rang out. She shouldered open the door into the afternoon sun bleating down on them both, the rifle still humming from discharge of energy, and three-thousand arge away, so close yet so far, she could swear she heard him fall.

The distance may not be vast, but her failure surely was.

Chapter Text

Wazy had learned so many things in a matter of weeks that he could swear his brain was actually pressing on the inside of his skull. His tiny little world in his tiny little village with his tiny little family still existed, yes, but they were so ‘trivial’ to everything else that it made him question if any of it were truly real in the first place. If that was a dream, or if his current existence was the dream, and the idol they’d worshiped simply consumed him whole.

At least every question he asked about ‘orbments’ was regarded with as much confusion as he had himself. No one seemed to understand them too well aside from a man who had died decades ago. He must have been kind to be remembered so fondly and prominently.

Abbas was kind. Mr. Lysander was kind. Commander Selnate was kind. Everyone was kind, considerate, and likely too patient with Wazy as he struggled to learn what was, to them, the most basic of skills and facts. How many years of ‘life’ was he meant to absorb in a month? In two months? Was it even possible? Maybe he could still go home—

Wazy sniffed the air as a young red-haired woman in a habit sat down across from him with a tray of food that looked…bizarre. He’d seen the ornate shapes prior, in the restaurants Mr. Barkhorn had taken him to, but they were covered in some sort of brown shell that kind of looked like bread. The smell, though, it was—he was already drooling.

“I heard you were having trouble adjusting to things,” said the young woman. “I should not be surprised that no one thought to introduce you to the magical splendor that is fried food.”

It was precisely that moment that Wazy decided three important things. The first was that he was entirely okay with seeing where his new life would lead. The second was that Ries Argent was one of the most brilliant individuals on the continent. The third was that if he ever returned home, he would bring an orbal fryer.

Chapter Text

Claire had not expected to be presented with a riddle on her first time in His Excellency’s office. Her first week or so with the Railway Military Police had proved fruitful, despite the unintended reunion with Michael. She would need to plan around as little interaction as possible in the future so as to spare him from the constant reminder of what she had violently, selfishly, stolen from them.

Her uniform was tailored, and surprisingly comfortable. She felt more at ease in a barracks than she ever did at Thors. The work appeared, at first glance, to be ideal and challenging and worthwhile. The only possible hiccup was His Excellency’s unprompted request for a meeting.

A meeting in which he, after common pleasantries, and uncommon regarding her time at Thors, which she deflected as delicately as possible—there was no need to elaborate on something that she could leave in the past—presented her with…a call sign, of sorts.

More accurately, a propagandized title based on essentially no evidence at all. Merely presumption, as his Excellency had called Claire the ‘Icy Maiden'.

Icy. Maiden.

Calm? Yes. Composed. Yes. Cold? Externally, she could be interpreted as such from certain angles under specific circumstances. Calculating? Yes. Slippery? Ah. No. Unflappable? Ideally, but not realistic as an absolute. Unbalancing? Perhaps, to some. Immutable, or frozen? No. Frostbite, maybe frostbitten? Sharp? Meticulous and debilitating. Deadly—hm. No. Not twice. Never twice. Hypothermia, transposed to warfare? tricking the enemy into exposing their own weakness and defeating themselves. Within the realm of possibility, with practice.

Maiden, though, that was…far fewer meanings could be drawn from that. There was the simple one, that she was a young woman, though that would be quite uncharacteristic of His Excellency, if that was truly all there was to the meaning. Another relatively rudimentary answer, in that she was…unwed. Archaic, though not as much as she’d, and ideally he, would prefer it to be. In certain circles, it was still quite modern.

Deeper than that, there was the very literal and, frankly, abhorrent, definition. The original meaning of the word that Claire genuinely could not consolidate as a concept that His Excellency would even attempt or consider to address in any way at any time. Beyond antithetical, to the core, of his ideals and beliefs. And it was, well, none of his business. None of anyone’s.

The final option, as far as Claire could piece together, was both confusing and flattering. Saint Sandlot. The Lance Maiden. Said to possess a staunch sense of justice and preternatural leadership skills that matched her abilities with the lance. Composed, level-headed, self-sacrificing, and noble in the actual definition of the word, rather than the bastardization Erebonia had adopted so long ago.

But, did she dare to presume that His Excellency was making an historical homage to a legend? A genuine saint? In a callsign, a title? Mentioned—

“It seems I have caused some unintentional distress, 2nd Lieutenant.” His Excellency squared his shoulders, his brow furrowing with none of the intensity he exemplified beyond those closed doors. “If you would prefer a different title, we can develop one together to ensure that it is one you can wear with pride.”

“That is very kind of you, Your Excellency, but there is no need.” Claire saluted. “I was merely surprised at how much confidence it communicates. I do not believe I am quite so deserving of that faith.”

“I give you my word, Icy Maiden.” His Excellency offered her a slight bow, and it sounded…it sounded fine. Just fine. Not terrible, not exceptional, but quite fine and acceptable until she’d grown out of at least half of it. “You will prove yourself worthy of the honor and comparison in no time at all.”

Claire smiled for no other reason than herself. A rare, always seemingly impossible occurrence. If only she could ‘mature’ out of that lack of inclination in tandem with aging out of the second half of her title.

Chapter Text

The storm raged half as much as everybody assumed Sara did, flooding the scarred and upturned earth of the canyon with rain so heavy it felt like hail on her back, washing away the blood staining her clothes and seeping down her gouged flanks and legs. Battering down on her screaming muscles as she pushed herself up from the mud, ears ringing, her breath lost to her, lungs burning, but still rising, always rising.

Always rising. One more time—one more, c’mon. Get up. Just one more time.

A messy clump of her hair stuck to the muck, what few strands still holding on to her scalp giving up as the side of her skull throbbed, her newest and still burning ‘lead haircut’. Didn’t matter. Push. Harder, more, faster; there’s no time. Stomach cried out for relief, her core spasming as she got back on her feet, wiry bone and muscle held together by shoestrings, fortitude, and necessity. No twentieth winds, right?

Hah. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. As many as it took, for as long as it took. One more; you can do it. One more, always one more. Always need just one more, and you have it. You’ve got as many as you need. Always will.

Adrenalin kicked back in from its routine vacation, and the deafening staccato of machine guns and mortars overflowed her ears, flashes of rifle fire and grenades making her see just a few spots. One more time. One more march through the mud.

Just one more sunrise, and a hundred more.

Sara reached out to the violet tongues of electricity crackling at her fingertips, twisting and surging around her in an instantaneous tempest to rival lightning above, the violent raindrops slowing to so much of a crawl she could maneuver between them. It was so often the same exact thing. The same mistake. But it was an understandable one to make, because it was so damned suspicious.

Why would a North Ambrian be on good terms with death?

Chapter Text

Aurelia had found spears and lances lacking. They had superior reach, but it was just as easy to overextend and leave yourself vulnerable. Axes and halberds were a slightly better fit, yet they seemed so trivial in her hands, even as a girl. Barbaric and impersonal. She’d initially resisted the unnatural pull towards her the family’s ancestral blade, as it would simply be following in additional footsteps.

The moment she grasped the hilt, though, Arcadia molded to her hand. Centuries-old steel warped to her will, recognizing her, calling out to her to take it, and use it for her own needs and desires. Of course, it was simply an exceptionally crafted blade, and it just so happened to already be balanced for her build. There was nothing particularly supernatural about her sword, other than that it belonged to her.

The Lance Maiden had set a path that none yet to trample, spanning a distance few could even truly grasp. Aurelia, of course, knew full well exactly what would be necessary for her footprints to eclipse a saint’s. Greatness beyond measure; excellence in all facets. She would need to be, incomparably, the best without even the slightest hint of a question.

Impossible to plan, but she did not need to. Time had a way of thrusting conflict and trials upon those seeking the most strength, after all. In fifty years time, perhaps far less, the first individual you would think of when individual combat prowess became the subject of conversation would be Aurelia Le Guin.

After that? She would keep marching, and marching, and marching. Warfare, then strategy, then diplomacy, if she had the time. Only the best.

Chapter Text

All she could remember was a flash of light and agonizing pain scorching through her entire body, starting in her left eye. So deep and so intense that it frayed her nerves and felt as if it would snap her bones into splinters. An unfathomable compression of might, stabbing further into her chest, and then, she blacked out. No final regrets, no last moments of clarity; she died.

When she woke up, uninjured, lying on a cot in a room with walls far too metallic and smooth to be real, she was immediately accosted with a hundred questions from a dozen soldiers in colors she’d never seen before. Ma’am. Commander. That wasn’t her—she wasn’t even Vice Commander. Nothing made sense, and neither did a single word out of their mouths other than a title that she hadn’t earned, nor likely ever would.

“Well, now you’re just hurting my feelings,” chuckled a young man in glasses, wearing an overcoat, a blurry, brass medallion draped across his chest, his cheery, almost bubbly voice cutting through the swarm of soldiers. “I know that my tenure has been unusual and perhaps even a bit uncomfortable at times, but did you truly hate it so much that you’re going to overwhelm her before she’s even said a word?”

The soldiers in odd uniforms dispersed, and the man was joined by a much larger, much older man, wearing similar clothing. She had to be dreaming. Or perhaps this was Gehenna. She must answer for the suffering she enacted for profit by being thrust into a waking nightmare of…unclear circumstances.

“You are not dead,” clarified the larger man. “And all of this is reality, if you’ll forgive the presumption. The uncertainty and existential bafflement on your face only suggests a few things.”

“You could be lying,” she choked out, finally speaking on her own behalf. “Perhaps you and everyone else here is a devil, assigned to torture me for eternity.” She gingerly, carefully, sat up, and felt around her coat for her softpack—she was not wearing her coat. Her clothes didn’t quite fit; clearly a spare of someone else. “If you aren’t demons of Gehenna, then give my cigarettes back.”

“We’d love to! We’d love nothing more than to prove that to you, but, we, unfortunately, cannot, Commander.” The young man cleared his throat and awkwardly gestured to her ill-fitting clothing. “There wasn’t much we could salvage.”

“Stop calling me that. My name is—” She covered her mouth with her hand as she doubled over, swallowing bile as her eyes rattled in her skull, her sense of balance vanishing entirely. That same pain again. Both eyes, not just the left. Air wouldn’t move into her lungs, a thousand hacksaws slicing away at her spine and ribs. “Can’t—can’t breathe,” she choked out, and then…she could. It all just vanished. “I don’t understand what’s happening.”

“Far too much in a cruel, unkind amount of time.” The old man sat down next to her, his bulk resettling the bed. “I am Gunther Barkhorn, the Eighth Dominion.” He cocked his head towards the younger man. “He is Thomas Lysander, the Second Dominion. Aptly, your second-in-command.”

“If you survive the next few weeks, I can just tell that we are going to work together splendidly!” chirped Thomas, his smile widening and widening. “I’m rooting for you!”

“We all are.” Gunther set his hand on her shoulder. “As of dawn this morning, you inherited the title and responsibilities of the First Dominion. Commander of the Gralsritter.”

“I am most certainly not either of those things. I don’t even know what those things are.” Her hand instinctively grasped at her pendant, but it was also gone. “Where are my things? Where is my corps? Where is—” The flare again, the agony, a vice on her soul as it latched deeper onto it. Swallowed more and more bile, sweat pouring down her body. “What is this?! If I am Commander of whatever cult you are a part of, then answer me!”

The explanations that followed were interrupted rather frequently by her, as she almost immediately was told, Stigma ‘settling’ into her body and soul. Apparently, awakening one of those monstrous things at her age was rather rare, and almost always resulted in near-instant and agonizing death. It would be…weeks of this.

She would not be able to sleep, most likely. Or hold down food. It would only get worse until it was over. It was literal torture from Aidios herself, but surviving as long as she did already meant that she had a ninety-five percent chance of living through the ordeal. Roughly a coin-flip if she kept her sanity, as well.

If she didn’t? They put her down like a dog.

The pendant she had stolen from a jewelry shop a few years prior was, in actuality, an artifact.

It consumed the ‘good fortune’, which sounded absurd, of those around her, which certainly explained why so many of her comrades died so frequently right after putting that damned thing on. And how many times artillery had simply ‘missed’; she had just thought she got lucky. She was lucky, at the cost of everyone else.

She was presumed dead, and it would be best to use that to their advantage. To cut all ties and start over in the single most inappropriate second chance she could have possibly been given. Well, she’d asked for that, often enough. She’d regretted most of her choices in life, but no, she was not qualified for this. She had never even led a squad. She’d washed out of Officer Training in five days!

She never even managed to gain a title as a jaeger! She was nothing, and yet Aidios did not seem to care.

Only one other survived the ‘result’ of her Stigma manifesting, aside from herself. That had been due to being shot in the head. She hadn’t imagined that. She had been shot through her left eye, yet, there was no scar, nor any damage whatsoever. Each Stigma granted unique abilities to the wielder, typically related to the artifact that served as a catalyst.

Reality-defying luck, most likely. A shot to the head didn’t kill her. It never happened. It either missed, or killed someone else.

“It was all a lie, wasn’t it?” she asked, her eyes unable to refocus as she struggled to keep from panicking. “All of Aidios’s plans and prayers? Absolute nonsense.”

“Well…” Thomas shrugged. “We have yet to entirely rule that out, but it isn’t a question we ask too often anymore. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re fake, only that we have yet to prove that they are not!”

Chapter Text

“I did not say you couldn’t learn how to dodge bullets, Juna,” stressed Musse. “There are more effective, fundamental methods to avoid them. So, so, so many of which Instructor Orlando imparted onto us at least fifty-two times.”

“That’s just a really long way of saying ‘you’re going to get hurt and this isn’t worth it’, which, y’know, I disagree with.” Juna smirked and crossed her arms. “I can totally get a handle on it without almost dying.” She turned to Sara and Fie. “Right? What’s the secret?”

“I’m not sure either of us has the best working definition of ‘almost’.” Sara exchanged a look with Fie, who shrugged. “But, if you’re that gung-ho about it, there is one handy ‘trick’ that’ll help.”

“Awesome! What is it, Instructor Sara?”

“I am not your teacher, but setting that aside—”

“This seems incredibly irresponsible, and you are her teacher, regardless of intention,” said Musse. “In case you have somehow forgotten, not everyone is well-suited to catching bullets with their teeth.”

“She’s never done that,” said Fie, shaking her head. “We both probably could but it’s not worth the effort.”

“Yeah. Easier to dodge ‘em.” Sara smiled. “Of which, there’s a rather invasive rhythm to it—not infectious. Invasive.” She scratched the back of her head. “Doesn’t really jump from person to person without the other guy getting shot. No idea why.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda how it worked for me, too. Saw Zephyr doing it a lot, got hit,” added Fie. “Except I got one in the gut with rubber during training exercises, and not in the shoulder with actual lead.”

“Okay.” Juna stared blankly at both of them. “To learn how to dodge bullets, I have to…not dodge bullets?”

“Basically.”

“I can’t tell if you’re messing with me or not.”

“Then it would be best not to test if their suggestion is in any way accurate,” said Musse, pulling Juna away from them. “That is not a skill you need to have. Hide behind things. Deflect them.”

“Fiiiiiine.”

Chapter Text

"I, um, like to think we're already friends, but… well…I'd like it if you and me, Estelle, if we became something... more."

Anelace's smile wasn't just unexpected; it sent Estelle into a flustered, overwhelmed, and stammering ramble, snatching her thoughts out the air faster than she could string them together. It wasn't something she'd ever considered, even if Kloe had…made her feel warm in distinctly the same way Joshua always did.

Things were always on fire or exploding or they were being shot at, so Estelle never had a chance to even think about why she felt all of those feelings. Not that she'd go out of her way, but Anelace had managed to shove all of it to the top of her brain with a…very specific smile. Adorable, charming, and endearing.

Most of all, cute. Every single thing about Anelace was cute. Super cute. The most cute. Stunningly cute. The bow, the skirt, her dimples, the words coming out of her mouth—but then there was Joshua, and she loved him, but he ran, so she was going to drag him back so there were a couple of fronts that made the whole thing more complicated than it already was and—

"Joshua? What does he have to do with this? And what problems would there be on 'a couple fronts' if we become rivals?"

Estelle knew that was not what Anelace initially meant. She knew. She was being the best, as always, and trying to let everything be the same for everyone but herself. But Estelle knew better. That was…all there'd ever be, though. It all worked out in the end; they found Joshua, he apologized, they loved each other and all that other stuff.

It was difficult not to wonder, though, every time she saw Anelace smile afterward, what that would have been like. Where they'd all be if Estelle had panicked a little less at what maybe wasn't really as blindsiding as she'd thought at the time. Worse? The same?

It wouldn't be better, that much she was certain of. Might not have been a bad thing for Renne to have even more big sisters, though…

Chapter Text

Kilika was not prone to holding a grudge. Even if it was not already in her nature inherently, her father had instilled the importance of not allowing the past to fester in one’s soul long before he fell ill. Her frustration with Walter and Zin’s never-ending ridiculous rivalry was something that needed to be rekindled. Her disgust in Walter’s behavior, all facets of it, while not something she would ever be dissuaded of, was only a passing thought if he happened to come up in conversation or intelligence report.

There was one exception to all of this, of course. One outlier that was more than deserving, even if the heinous acts that had spawned her subdued bitterness were ‘before her time’, in a sense. Calvardian Parliament had been paralyzed in overlapping layers of blackmail so monstrous that it could not even mobilize its own military against one of the few organizations and concepts Kilika would classify as truly evil, rather than simply selfish or short-sighted. How many children had perished who did not need to, due to inaction? Due to cowardice? Due to the weakness of the vilest of vices?

She had built her third career on this grudge. The Rocksmith Agency had undergone an internal name change rather quickly as soon as she’d taken formal control, and after that, it was a matter of crafting systemic checks and balances of accountability for both the CID as well as the Calvardian government as a whole. The fire was never an empty threat; it was a promise. It didn’t matter if Rocksmith himself never believed it to be true. It was.

To reshape, to reorganize, to burn the organization, and by extension much of the country, down, at a moment’s notice, required failsafes. On the CID, on herself, on elected officials, appointed positions—the message was clear. If you moved beyond the threshold, if you demonstrated that Calvard did not care about ethics, justice, nor the safety of her citizens, and had abandoned the already diluted ideals of the revolution, then the price to pay would be beyond measure.

Such a simple condition. It really shouldn’t be the slightest problem at all. Aidios willing, it would not be.

Chapter Text

Sara woke up some mornings covered in sweat, like she’d broken a fever she didn’t actually have. The covers were sometimes torn a bit, and the pillows were always all over the room, but mostly it was the puddle she’d find herself all but submerged in that concerned her.

Hadn’t happened when she was a kid. Didn’t happen while taking naps in transit. Only when she was in an actual bed with sheets and a comforter and just all of those delightful little joys. So warm and cozy, to the point that she kept ruining her sheets. Or the hotel’s sheets. Or the guild’s sheets.

Sara did a lot of laundry; she didn’t mind.

Took a long time to figure out she was having night terrors, since it only ever happened when she was alone. When she was, presumably, the most safe and secure. Alone in a bedroom, everything within reach, quiet and calm. And she was silent about it, too, but that made sense. Even the involuntary stuff that got you killed in a warzone needed to be bolted down.

Sara still never snored. Not a habit she’d likely ever break.

Anxiety couldn’t actually kill you, even if it felt like it was trying to. No matter how much panic it locks you down into, your body will let you breathe again before you asphyxiate. Your heart will not give out from beating too hard. Your brain won’t be fried from every single thought you’ve ever had flying through your head at once. All of those things were physiological facts.

And none of them meant a damned thing when anxiety was what crippled your situational awareness, or your equilibrium. When you swallow it all down during the day and purge it weekly like a tea kettle, steam rising out of your pores so hot it bubbles your skin.

The moment she noticed it, it stopped happening, and all it flowed right back into the daytime, where she would be forced to deal with it whenever it showed its stupid face on hers. On the flipside, she wasn’t quite as exhausted anymore. Still took naps whenever she could but…

Sleep deprivation wasn’t her state of being anymore, and that was kinda nice.

Chapter Text

Fear was Renne's final bastion of mundanity. All else had been ascended or bundled together with tarnished cable long ago. She was above herself; she always would be.

Their hands shivered, but their touch was to be windswept, her own skin burning so bright with her breath. Similar, so similar. Her eyes would never close, not yet, but comprehensive admiration was to be her last conquest, was it not?

She could stop, of course, but better to know for certain. All that happened after was affirmation; repetitious decisions that only grew stronger.

Her fear had been banished.

Only curiosity remained.

Chapter Text

Running into Zephyr was unfortunately not as common as it used to be for Sara. Requests didn’t take her parallel to jaegers as often as she’d thought they would, and when they did it was never a good time for anyone involved. That all feelings involved were complicated was so beyond an understatement that Sara had half a mind to dig up some random archaic parlance and steal a word that meant…a stressful estranged sorta family—okay, fine it wasn’t a new thing, but it was hard.

“Hey, c’mon, fire’s got room.” Rutger waved her over, campfire crackling below him, after she’d ‘accidentally’ gone out of her way to expand her search radius to include where she knew they were camping. Airship must need maintenance, since Aida wasn’t with them. “You wandered over. Make the most of it.”

“I didn’t wander over, and hello to you too, Rutger—” Sara would’ve made a bigger deal of joining them if Fie’s head hadn’t popped out from behind her dad’s large frame, those eyes lighting up—okay! Okay, fine. “Hey, Fie.”

“Hi.” Fie gave her a lazy wave. “We’ve got snacks.”

“Ah, those most magical of words.” Sara nudged Xeno aside and plopped down next to Fie, tousling her hair. Looked more like a ‘proper child soldier’ than she’d last seen her. Leaner, but stronger, too. Wanted to punch herself in the face for that thought existing. “Everything good?”

“Yup.” Fie nodded. “Same as mostly always.”

“Awesome. I’m glad to hear that.” Sara smiled down at Fie, her soul twisting in knots. “I do keep hearing about you, but I wanted to be extra sure.”

“Mhm.”

Sara held up her palms closer to the campfire and felt…nothing. No warmth, no heat pricking at her face, and barely any light at all. Rutger looked like he wanted to say something, maybe even ask how she was doing, but he didn’t; just chewed on his cigar. He didn’t care; out of obligation to dad. Or maybe he did care, but didn’t want to overstep.

Too bad; everything was overstepping with Rutger.

“Hey, are you cold or something?” asked Xeno. “You look like you’re about to dive headfirst into the fire.”

“If I’m cold, Xeno, I’m dead.” Sara caught a handful of jerky that Fie had tossed at her. “I don’t get cold.”

“You could give it a try,” mumbled Rutger. “Might be something you like.”

“Tell you what.” Sara took a very deep breath and looked dead-on at Rutger. “If Gehenna ever thaws from being frozen over, I’ll consider it.”

Chapter Text

The responsibility of a wandering witch had become, as Emma quickly discovered, rather unclear since her mother's time. It was also possible, knowing Grandmother's penchant for keeping the silliest of secrets for centuries, that there had never been any true 'guidelines' aside from invisible and inobtrusive altruism.

Remain separate from the natural course of history, except for when Grandmother decided otherwise. Never let anyone into Eryn, unless Grandmother made an exception. Never reveal your true nature to anyone, unless you were Grandmother.

Emma wasn't bitter, but she did see that unfortunately dangerous mentality for what it was: potentially cataclysmic. How many times had isolation nearly brought upon the destruction of a city? A country? The entire continent? Likely far more than Grandmother would ever likely admit, and that was fine. She was prideful, and Emma loved her all the same.

Still, there was a very, very easy balance she could strike between Grandmother's 'do absolutely nothing until it's almost too late' and Vita's 'run away and join a secret terrorist society'. A methodology that was, rather aptly, entirely aligned with Class VII.

Do what needs doing, and a little bit more.

In Ruan, being a wandering witch had meant she and Celine repaired the drawbridge without the necessary tools. It was not a simple fix, giving the river a tiny push to get those ships back on schedule was far from easy. Every question about how and why she was doing anything was met with a smile and the truth.

"Oh, it's just a little magic. It's no trouble at all."

In Celdic, being a wandering witch had meant averting a cargo train derailing and colliding with the station. A minor adjustment to the tracks and everything was as good as new, and perfectly safe! The lack of maintenance must have been an oversight, or perhaps something Jusis's father had intentionally overlooked years ago.

He had not been thrilled with either possibility, when she'd told him.

In Crossbell, being a wandering witch had meant, almost on a stroke of whimsy, she'd decided to honor a young girl's innocuous wish for a snowball fight on a warm March morning. She'd made it snow. Not a fast enough accumulation to be anywhere near dangerous, but Emma, with Celine's help, had actually changed the weather.

Emma had made it snow for no other reason than to make someone smile. It wasn't as bombastic an act as she was trying to normalize, for herself as well as for the rest of the Hexen Clan, but there was no denying that it was a step in the right direction.

If she moved anymore quickly she could accidentally destroy entire ecosystems, after all.

Chapter Text

Fight-or-flight kicked in before Sara even fully roused, and the scalpel she’d grabbed from the nearby table, her IV stand twisting and crashing to the ground the moment she was tackled back into the hospital bed. Her legs thrashed, muscle and bone twisting, but they held those down too. Disarmed her of the makeshift dagger before she could choke out a thing. Ears pounding, heart skipping most beats, even as she pushed them off of her, grinding teeth in all of their mouths but fear in only hers.

Need to get home. Always make it back home. Not dead; keep going.

Sara’s arm was stopped by a wrought iron hold before she could free herself from the saline, and a nutrient block was shoved into her throat so forcefully she almost choked. Couldn’t spit it out, because a hand just as strong was over her mouth. There was an older woman in a lab coat there that she hadn’t noticed, or hadn’t registered as a threat prior. Must be in her sixties, but with eyes so very familiar.

Stitching on the breast said ‘Beatrix’.

“Chew, young lady. Lie back down, chew, and swallow,” ordered Beatrix. “I am straining my hippocratic oath to its limit, but Aidios help me if I’m going to let you leave my care without so much as a courteous ‘hello’.”

Sara shivered in her hold, eyes flicking around the room for…something. Anything. No idea where she was, other than that everyone was wearing Imperial Army colors. She was hungry; she was always hungry, but it had been a few days too long. She had food in her mouth. She chewed, barely, and swallowed. Tasted like ash, but that never mattered.

“Good. Your dog tags say Sara Valestein, so please correct me if that is not who you are.” Beatrix waited a moment and then, carefully, released her from her hold. “You are malnourished and dehydrated—even by the standards of the Northern Jaegers. I am well versed in those particulars, and I only ask that you think carefully about running back home before you’re physically able to survive the journey.”

“I already know I can walk,” coughed Sara. “I’ll make it.”

“That was little more than adrenalin, and I’m fairly certain you’re entirely aware of that.” Beatrix frowned down at her. “The amount of simultaneous miracles that aligned for you to even be here—do not spit in the face of divine intervention.”

“That’s not up to me. I need to report in.” Sara pushed herself up to sitting, her side and back burning at the sudden movement. “Where’s your telephone? My dad probably thinks I’m—”

Dad’s heart was so warm on her chest, still beating and staining what was left of the both of them in his blood. Even as he collapsed, his full weight in shattered armor suddenly so heavy in her arms, his hands falling to his side as his final embrace withered and died with him, Sara was so warm. If she could just hold him tightly enough, she’d be safe. Wake her up from the concussion Nidhoggr’s artillery must have given her. Dad was too strong, too experienced, and too wise to actually die.

The aching, stabbing pain in her skull did not rouse her from sleep. Resilience and survival were always what she was best at, even in the face of near absolute despair and hopelessness, but everybody had a limit. She had lost so many over so many deployments, but as long as dad was around, they’d all be okay. It’d all work out. They’d make it through it long enough to do it all again.

Sara would be safe, as twisted as her definition of that was. The situation was under control with dad at the top, leading with—

He was gone. Final words choked out through blood, barely coherent, that she would convince herself she was remembering correctly, and not merely what she thought he may have said, garbled and misshapen in her ramshackle memory.

She screamed. And screamed. And screamed. To wake him up. To wake herself up. To call for help. To make herself an easier target. To asphyxiate herself. Nobody took the bait.

She was all alone.

Sara ignored the tears and snot flooding her face and stumbled over to where they’d stashed her weapons and gear. Her arms were noodles, quaking as she tried to holster her gun and sheath her sword, breath finding and losing itself with each moment. She knew where Nidhoggr was camped out. Calendar on the wall said it was the twenty-third, so less than a day had passed. Very likely still there.

Wiping them out wouldn’t be simple, but she was gonna do it anyway. Nothing else worth doing. Turn their mortars around on themselves, tear their throats out with her teeth and eviscerate them in a torrent of lead as fast as possible. Make it a waking nightmare. Show them what it feels like to lose everything, one by one. Burn the letters home they’d hopefully written in case they died out in the field that day. Better yet, steal a camera, take a picture of every corpse and glue them to the letters, and mail them, so that…

So that the families they left behind would be in the same kind of agony she was in. So that their sons, daughters, husbands, wives, cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents were in exactly as much pain as her. So they understood the cost.

Except they couldn’t. They never would. That wasn’t how it worked for other jaeger corps. Their next of kin got paid if they died on a contract; not a ton, but enough. They could always leave. Do something else. All of Nidhoggr could walk away right then and choose another path in life, and that would be that.

Sara stared at the wall and, after a few minutes of her ears ringing, filtering out questions and medical prodding from Beatrix and a few others, set her weapons back down on the table. She’d always known it was about buying time, about delaying the inevitable, about fighting and fighting and fighting and clawing through glass for scraps so other folks didn’t have to. Because maybe, a few decades down the line, they wouldn’t have to do this anymore.

None of that was possible anymore without dad, and even then it barely was. She was supposed to bleed out in a ditch long before he ever did. They needed him so much more than they ever needed her, and she needed him more than all of them put together; selfish, sure, but it was true.

“You should have left me in whatever mass grave you found me in,” whimpered Sara, her hair falling over her face as she shuddered, hugging herself. “I really don’t deserve this much attention or kindness.”

“I don’t care what you believe you deserve; everyone is treated to the best of my ability,” asserted Beatrix, glaring at her through her glasses. “I am sorry for your loss, I truly am, but you are still alive. I heard someone struggling to breathe under a dozen bodies, and you were who we dug out.”

“Nobody else made it?” Sara choked back a sob as Beatrix shook her head gravely. “Not one? Just me?”

“I promise. I inspected every single body.”

“I believe you.” Sara bit her lip, and wiped off her face, which did nothing. “Where—where are the bags?”

“Pardon?” Beatrix tilted her head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Body bags. Where did you put their bodies?”

“This is a field hospital, young lady. I’m sorry, but we simply aren’t equipped with a morgue.”

“You left him there?!” Sara felt a fire light in her belly and she, desperately, fed it as much air as she could. Keep finding reasons to move. To do things. He died; you didn’t. Make what’s left count. Scream and cry and beg and rage as much as you need to but do not stop. “Show me exactly where he is before wolves pick him and everyone else apart!”

Beatrix jotted down coordinates leading to a spot in Languedoc that Sara probably could have guessed, but it didn’t matter. She had her own shovel. She had…something to do.

Bury them; dad first. Make headstones. Dad first. Go home. And…

Sara would worry about what to do next after she got home. It wasn’t important. Not yet.

She needed to dig.

Chapter Text

Angelica was very good at running and climbing. She didn’t have to leave the estate by scaling the walls, but it was more fun that way. The laborers she saw on the sides of buildings in Roer always looked so focused and cool, so she was curious what was up there. Up everywhere. But it was never as interesting as her imagination. And it was boring there. So boring.

Erebonia didn’t have enough mountains, she’d decided one morning. She climbed and ran southeast. She kept running. And running. And climbing and running. Over mountains—or, she almost managed that, before dad caught up to her and dragged her back home. Well, he tried, but she climbed and ran away again. Over the mountains for real that time.

Calvard had tons of mountains and cliffs and canyons to climb. Ones Angelica had never even heard of, made of different colored rocks she’d only read about. It was like a game of sneaking back into town for food and washing clothes, and then running back into the wilderness where all those people dad hired to grab her were too chicken to follow.

“You’re going to lose your footing and die if you try to climb that.”

“No, I won’t. Wait, what—” Angelica yelped and almost fell over the side of a cliff, because she hadn’t noticed the eastern woman on the plateau. When had she even gotten there? “Who are you? What are you doing here? Did my dad send you?” She scowled at her, balling her hands into fists. “He did. He totally did. Well, you can try and catch me, but you can’t.”

“I do not know who you are, but those snippets of information have given me a moral responsibility to bring the runaway home.” The eastern woman zipped towards her and grabbed her by the shoulder faster than Angelica could blink. “I have now caught you.”

“Let me go!” Angelica tried to wriggle free but she had a grip like steel. “How—dangit, how are you this strong?!”

“Practice, mostly.” The eastern woman eyed her carefully, her eyes drifting down to her broach. Oh come on, nobody in Calvard would know who she was just by the bull, right? “Rogner of Nortia. That would make you either a thief, a murderer, or Angelica.”

“I’m not a thief! I didn’t kill anybody! That’s mine—crap!” Angelica fumed and kicked the dirt. “It’s mine.”

“It’s old. A few decades at least, and you’ve affixed it correctly, so I believe you. It’s a lovely heirloom.” The eastern woman’s gaze softened and she, hesitantly, let her go. “I…apologize. I should have pieced this together far more quickly.”

Angelica swallowed and refused to say anything about anything; if she didn’t talk or think about it then she didn’t need to deal with it. She could just run and climb and climb and run until she was too tired or they caught her. And she wasn’t close to tired yet.

“I am genuinely impressed you made it this far on your own.” The eastern woman idly glanced around the canyon. “I mean that both in the metaphorical sense and the literal distance you’ve traveled.”

“Great. Thank you.” Angelica crossed her arms. “Please go away.”

“You’re the only child of a very powerful noble of a foreign power in the middle of nowhere. I came across you by chance, or perhaps kismet.” The eastern woman chuckled. “If I were to leave you unattended, one slip and fall could cause an international incident. So, no, I will not be ‘going away’.”

“I don’t care about any of that.”

“Whether or not you are invested in matters of the state is unimportant. It is the reality you were born into.” The eastern woman gave her a small bow. “Kilika Rouran. Wandering, ah…” She snorted. “Monk, let’s say, for simplicity.”

“I really don’t care who you are, lady!” snapped Angelica. “Go away!”

“Do you want to stand on your own two feet, or do you want to wallow here until your father’s men eventually wear you down?”

“Do I…” Angelica wrinkled her nose, her posture loosening. “How do you know my family motto?”

“I’ve read many a newspaper. You may as well be asking me why I know the capital of Nortia is Roer.” Kilika raised a brow. “Do you want to stand on your own two feet, or not?”

“Well, yeah, but—” Angelica bit into her cheek and averted her eyes. “I—I can’t. I thought I could, but I can’t.”

“You can. You got all the way here, and that is no small feat.” Kilika gestured around them. “I…” She sighed. “I’m sorry for your loss. It does become less painful with time, in my experience.”

“I don’t wanna talk about this!” Angelica threw up her hands. “I don’t wanna think or talk about it! Or anything, so please just—just shut up! If you’re not gonna go away then stop talking.”

“I understand.” Kilika paused for a few moments, settling her hands in front of her. “One question, then. I won’t speak further, depending on the answer.”

“Fine. What?”

“How did your father tell you? What did he say?”

“Stop making me think about—” Angelica clenched her teeth and covered her face with her hands. Standing in the doorway, alone; that wasn't right. Mom was supposed to come back with a bundle. There were supposed to be three people there, not only one. She wasn’t there. Nobody was there. They weren’t there! “Complications.”

“Heartless, insensitive fool,” grumbled Kilika, glaring at the mountain past Angelica. “I suppose this is really is kismet, Lady Rogner—”

“Don’t call me that. Please don’t call me that.” Angelica winced. “Angelica’s fine.”

“Good. That would have become exhausting.” Kilika smiled and grabbed her hand, squeezing onto Angelica’s upper arm with her free one. “Tuck and roll.”

“Wha—” Angelica yelped and was thrown like a ragdoll across the plateau, landing on her side as she, yeah, tucked and rolled, as she’d been told. “What was that?! Why did you do that?!” she yelled, pushing herself up to her knees. “Are you crazy?!”

“No.” Kilika took a very deep breath, raising her palms up to her chest and pushing them down. “We are to begin your training immediately to make up for lost time.”

“I don’t understand! Why did you throw me?!”

“Because we both needed me to.”

Angelica gaped at Kilika and rose to her feet. For some reason, she knew she was right. She did need to be tossed into the air and land on her…own two feet. Which she hadn’t done. But she wanted to.

She’d need to work up to that.

Chapter Text

Machias’s face slowly twisted from bafflement to disappointment as Rean’s billiards shot continued to bounce around the table, knocking quite literally every single ball into the correct holes. The game was over from the moment it started. What kind of absurd luck made that even possible, let alone plausible?

“Okay, I really thought that Captain Rieveldt was exaggerating when she said it was exactly this easy to ruin the game for everyone else, but I guess she wasn’t.” Rean chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, guys. I’ll re-rack them.”

“No, that’s quite alright,” said Jusis, holding up his hand. “It isn’t as if you cheated or did…whatever that was intentionally.” He shook his head. “Regnitz and I are more than capable of playing by ourselves. Without the threat of the joy of competition vanishing at any given moment due to your inexplicable emergence as a pool shark.”

“It’s an interesting look for you, Rean!” Machias snickered but quickly stopped himself. It wasn’t that funny. “But, come on, if Jusis is going to lose, I’m sure he’d prefer the reason to be a little more mundane. Based on skill, instead of a party trick.”

“That was for your benefit, Regnitz.” Jusis inclined his stupid perfect nose on his stupid perfect face. “And here I was offering an olive branch to even your odds. So very ungrateful.”

“You want me to win that badly? How hard did you hit your head when you fell out of the Spirit Path?”

“I’m just going to leave you two to, uh…” Rean put everything away below the billiards table and cleared his throat. “I’ll just see you two later. Have a good night.”

“Good night, Rean,” said Machias, not taking his eyes off of Jusis.

“Yes, sleep well,” said Jusis, who did turn away, and seemed surprised that Machias had not while Rean all but ran away. “We should play a different game. I believe our luck has run dry for this particular pastime.”

“Sure. Name it,” said Machias, smirking. “I have had so much time to practice chess while hiding in a windmill.”

“That sounds quite a bit more moronic than it does impressive aloud,” snorted Jusis. “Why not cards?”

“Does it have to be Blade?”

“No. I’d prefer that it wasn’t.”

“In that case…” Machias rubbed his chin. “Blackjack?”

“You can absolutely count cards; if you can’t, you’ll learn soon enough to keep things on even ground.” Jusis shook his head. “I would suggest poker, but your tells are far too revealing.”

“Wha—” Machias sputtered. “No, they’re not!”

“Do you wish to test that?”

“Absolu—” Machias furrowed his brow and pointed at Jusis. “No. No, I don’t, because the more I think about it, the more I—” He blinked a few times. Wait, why would he know that? “You’ve been paying that close attention to me? I think we’ve played poker exactly once.”

“You make everything a competition,” droned Jusis, rolling his eyes, but there was—yeah, right there! The tiniest bit of pink on his cheeks. Aha! “It would be foolish not to utilize every opportunity to its fullest to ensure you do not miraculously get the better of me outside of a fluke.”

“That makes it sound like you see me as a genuine threat.” Machias grinned. “Have I really gotten that much under your skin?”

“As you are the only one in my immediate vicinity routinely attempting to do so, by default, yes, you have, quite considerably.” Jusis crossed his arms. “You stumbled into it, much like most things you do.”

“Really? Stumbling through life and success?” Machias chuckled dryly. “I either have the most exceptional luck, or my balance is a lot better than you want to admit.”

“You fell into my good graces via incarceration,” said Jusis. “You have abysmal luck.”

“How fitting that you designate being considered worthy of your attention an example of good luck and not a curse.”

“Do you wish for me to ignore you entirely? I am happy to abide by that request.”

“Only if that’s what you want from me.”

“I…” Jusis scowled at him. “Why would I want that?”

“How should I know?! Machias shrugged and threw up his hands. “You’re the one who brought it up!”

“Yes, as a response to you positing that you consider my presence a curse!” snapped Jusis, his face growing red. “Am unwanted, cancerous growth you need to—”

“Woah! Woah, woah, okay, hold on. Hold on.” Machias waved his palms in front of him and set them on Jusis’s shoulders. Oh crap. Crap. Should’ve seen that nerve coming a hundred selge away. “I didn’t—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I…that came out extremely wrong.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Jusis smacked his hands away and swallowed. “You’re far too haphazard with the nonsense that manages to escape your mouth.”

“That seems to be a problem I mostly have with you, but still…” Machias sighed. “I’m really sorry.”

“Yes, well, thank you.” Jusis’s jaw tensed. “I think we should attempt to…shelve some of this animosity for the time being. It will only do more harm than good if we’re bickering in the middle of a battlefield.”

“I don’t think that’s been a problem in combat since our second month at Thors.” Machias raised a brow. “Or do you just want to be the victor when it comes to designing and enacting a truce, too?”

“There are no true victories in war. Only those who suffer less.”

“That’s really easy to say when it’s not your dad who’s almost certainly a hostage half a country away. And yet here you are, trying to be the first to win at something where that doesn’t happen in spite of that.”

Jusis glared at him, but didn’t say anything. They just stood there. Staring. Glaring. Staring, again. Talking and arguing about nothing. Or something, maybe. Everything? Machias didn’t really know anymore; he was just tired.

“We’re getting nowhere with nothing. Maybe we should just call it a night,” suggested Machias, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with a cloth for a moment. “I’m sure we’ll both feel refreshed tomorrow after a good night’s rest.”

“I’d say you’re running away, but…” Jusis sighed and pinched his brow. “Aidios, yes, I am very tired. Let’s just go.”

Machias waited for Jusis to leave first while Jusis, presumably, waited for Machias to leave first. Neither of them left first. Or left at all. They just continued to stand there. Waiting. What kind of game of chicken was this?

“It’s, uh…” Machias checked his watch. “It’s just after three.”

“I know,” grumbled Jusis. “You have ensured that there is no escape. Congratulations. Reap your reward, I suppose. Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“Enjoy what?”

“I sincerely can’t tell if you’re simply dense, or entirely disinterested—ah, wait, I can. You are dense.” Jusis blushed a little, again. “It isn’t possible for me to be mistaken. I know what I’ve seen.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Machias stared at him with the least amount of smugness he could muster. Oh, this was going to be fun to drag him around with. How long until he was blunt about it? What would he have to do for Jusis to say what they were both feeling—oh. Oh. Both. “Okay, I do, but also, no, I don’t.”

“Which means, yes, you absolutely do.” Jusis inclined his head. “We are at war, which you seem to have forgotten—”

“—absolutely have not! We were just talking about my dad! At this point, you’re just attacking me at random—”

“—and I’ve chosen my path in it. Anything I do, on my own time, for my own personal interests, provided it does not harm or inconvenience anyone or anything, is of no consequence for the remainder of the conflict.”

“Wait, what are you—” Machias furrowed his brow. That can’t really be his tactic and perspective on this. Could it? “Let’s assume that makes sense—”

“We do not need to assume, as it does.”

“Will you let me finish my sentence?!” snapped Machias. “What happens when the war is over? What then?”

“Provided the both of us survive this ordeal, it is, as I said, of no consequence.”

“No consequence.”

“Yes.”

They were at war. They could all die tomorrow. Or even today. Was it even about not regretting things you wish you could have done, or…no, Jusis wasn’t like that. It was a lot more depressing than something that simple. What Jusis did during the war had no bearing on his responsibilities that would follow it. Marriage and children, specifically. Carrying on the Albarea line.

It was so damned familiar Machias almost cracked him right in the jaw on instinct alone.

“You would honestly shove me aside in the corner like Elsa?” grumbled Machias, his eyes hardening. “I was so positive, after this long, that you were different from them, but I guess you never were. You were just better at hiding it. Do you have any—”

“I am not some sycophantic Cayenne!” snapped Jusis. “I am not trying to have everything both ways. I know what needs to be done, in time, eventually, and that is unfortunately somewhat opposed to what I…what I want.” He scoffed. “I am far from the first noble to—”

“Why is this even your responsibility? Why can’t your brother just do it for you?”

“And what if he dies in the war? Then what? The Albareas may cease to exist entirely. Kreuzen falls into chaos, and innocents die in the confusion and ensuing power struggles.” Jusis glared at him. “Is that what you want?”

“Of course not! I just—I don’t think these things are that dichotomous at every possible second of every day!”

“It does not matter what you think is true, Machias. It matters even less what should be true, or what would be best.”

“It’s of no consequence, right? No consequences,” echoed Machias, cutting through the hastily built wall of bull. “A free pass to just do whatever you want while everything else is on fire and people are dying.”

“You finally understand. Excellent.” Jusis nodded. “A sickening truth.”

“You really know how to make everything sound so flattering, don’t you?” Machias crooked his lips and slipped off his glasses. “Fine, but be honest. Were you waiting for an opportunity like this, or—”

Jusis shut him up by kissing him and shoving his tongue down his throat. It was difficult not to enjoy that. And, as crappy as all of this was, Machias was able to take some solace in the fact that Jusis refused to admit he’d wanted this just as much as he himself did.

Maybe one day there wouldn’t be any caveats, but that was probably a pipe dream. They’d probably kill each other long before then. If they didn’t? No consequence. One of the worst lies that Machias had ever heard, but he’d play along with it. Why shouldn’t he?

Either they’d end up right where they were at the moment, or he’d get to lord it over Jusis for the rest of their days. Well, he was going to do that no matter what happened, but a happier ending to a poor excuse for a fairy tale would be nice for a change.

Chapter Text

“You!” barked Roselia, pointing aggressively at Jusis as her tiny legs carried her infuriated march. “Emma has just informed me that you are an Albarea!”

“I am, yes.” Jusis did his best to not outwardly react to the abject confusion he was feeling. It was impossible for Emma to forget to introduce him with his full name, and he had introduced himself with his full name. He was in the newspapers that Eryn somehow had. They’d spoken on numerous occasions. “That appears to be something of an issue. If I have done something to offend you, I sincerely apologize.”

“Oh, no, dear, you haven’t done anything.” Roselia glared up at him, her lips snarling so much for someone so tiny. “Your ancestors, however, oh, they were insufferable. Ungrateful freeloaders, all of them! I hired two of you seven hundred years ago to clean up Erebonia of nighttouched, and even enchanted a few swords for them so they’d have an easier time!” She scoffed and turned up her nose. “And I never heard back from them. Not one peep. Considering how there are apparently still nighttouched in the country, they didn’t even do what I hired them for!”

“I see.” Jusis gave her a short bow. “On behalf of House Albarea, I deeply apologize for the foolishness of my ancestors—”

“Yes, yes, decorum this, and that.” Roselia waved him off. “Please, do us both a favor and stuff your sorries in a sack for someone who has room in her closet for them. Because I do not!”

“Is it that you want the swords returned to you?” asked Jusis. Why was everything about Emma’s family and upbringing connected to some sort of absurd riddle or mystery? What purpose did that serve? Thank Aidios she was direct and courteous. “I can retrieve them without issue if that is the case.”

“They’re not that enchanted. A spitshine back in those days could cleave through devils like me through cake.” Roselia grinned far, far too widely, her fangs becoming rather pronounced. “No, you can keep them. They’re not particularly special anymore.”

“They seem effective against demonic monsters, but I shall trust your judgment on…” Jusis furrowed his brow. “What exactly do you want from me?”

“Blood.”

“Blood,” echoed Jusis. “You want…my blood.”

“Yes.” Roselia nodded. “Not all of it, of course.”

“I am not comfortable with this, and do not want to give you my blood,” said Jusis, struggling to wrap his head around the sentence that he had just said aloud. “Thus, I will not be doing so.”

“Of course you will!” Roselia chuckled. “Your ancestors also insulted my cooking.”

“That isn’t going to change my—” Jusis reeled backward as Roselia pounced onto his neck, latching on and slurping down a—well, it wasn’t a lot, but he could hear it move. “Good Goddess, get off of me! Why are you—” He wriggled her off of him and she landed on her feet. “What is wrong with you?!”

“Your ancestor said my soup was bland!” snapped Roselia. “And that I should hire a personal chef, because I was never going to get the balance of spices right!”

“Drinking someone’s blood is not a commensurate response to their ancestor behaving poorly as a dinner guest!”

“You are Emma’s friend, so I went easy on you, Albarea.” Roselia inclined her head and walked away. “Remember that.”

Jusis covered his neck with his hand and poked at the tiny two holes. They didn’t exactly hurt, but they were certainly present. He took a few breaths to calm himself down, and, after disinfecting the wound, decided to absolutely investigate if there was any veracity to what Roselia had told him. That, and attempt to discern if what had just happened was appropriate for the Hexen Clan. Wouldn’t Emma have warned them if it was?

“What the hell happened to you?” Machias inspected Jusis’s neck. “Was that a cat? Or a fish?”

“It was Emma’s grandmother,” grumbled Jusis, wincing. “She took my blood based on some absurd tale that might not even be true about my ancestors failing to exterminate nighttouched, stealing our holy swords from her, and insulting her cooking.”

“That sounds like it is absolutely true.” Machias raised a brow the more Jusis glared at him. “Really? Quit moping; it’s not like you’re anemic.”

“What would your reaction be if a tiny ancient woman jumped on your neck and drank your blood?!”

“Exactly the same as this. And yours would be exactly the same as mine right now.”

“Shut up.”

Chapter Text

Jusis did a double, and then a triple take as he walked past the foyer, as Millium’s smiling face was all but pressed up against the mirror. “What are you doing?” he asked, uncertain if he should be attempting to look at the back of her head or her eyes in the reflection. “These are not for picking teeth or hygiene, Millium. That is why we have powder rooms.”

“Aw, Jusee-Goosey, I’m not doing anything like that. I don’t even know how; Claire always said I was too young for that stuff, which is super weird because she totally knows I don’t age.” Millium smiled wider, and then more narrow, and then with far too many teeth. “I’m practicing my positive facial expressions!”

“Dare I even ask why?”

“Lechter said I didn’t have enough variety in my manipulation toolbox.” Millium’s head snapped around and she looked right up at him with the single most despondent and heart-wrenching expression he’d seen in his entire life. It was even more affecting than the whimpering three-legged puppy he’d found as a child. “Is it working? Do you want to do whatever I ask and also get me an entire five-course dessert platter to smash my face into?”

“I did, but then you drew attention to the fact that you were succeeding.”

“Liar. You totally want to give me a lot of giant cakes.”

Jusis turned around and walked away; he was not going to admit that he was that close to ordering his kitchen be transformed entirely into a fully staffed bakery.

Chapter Text

(To the tune of Canyonero from “The Simpsons”)

Can you name the man with four dimensional dives,

smells like a church and exhumes every lie…

Thomas Boxman! Thomas Boxman!

Well, he lectures real fast before those bells ever toll,

He’s the time-traveling knight endorsed by the pope!

Thomas Boxman! (Aha!) Thomas Boxman!

(The Zemurian Railway Corporation has ruled Thomas Boxman unsafe for transcontinental and interdimensional travel).

Thomas Boxman!

Fifty years old, metaphysical planes abide,

Eight octillion curim of Arterian Pride!

Thomas Boxman! Thomas Boxman!

Top of the line in non-euclidean spaces,

Unexplained rectangling is just par for the course!

Thomas Boxman! Thomas Boxman! (Aha!)

He confuses everybody with his inexplicable partitions,

He’s a monster crushing, truth hunting, boxing machine!

Thomas Boxman!-oh woah, Thomas Boxman! (Aha!)

Heed Thomas Boxman!

Woah Thomas Boxman!

Woah!

Chapter Text

Rixia was accustomed to the stillness found in isolation. The stagnant, undisturbed air she cut through every contract. Her steps were silent; such was her role for life. Every sound she made was deliberate. A tactical choice to distract or confuse.

No one noticed if the young woman buying groceries made not a rustle of paper.

“I can’t match your tempo if you’re hiding your perfected rhythm, Rixia,” teased Ilya, pointing down at her ballet shoes. “We need to be in perfect sync for this routine to work, and reciprocity is reciprocative.”

Except for Ilya, of course.

Except for Ilya.

Chapter Text

Claire's hands were far from clean; theoretical blood weighed more per curim than literal. Her uncle was her first and her last until the day she failed. Until the moment she would need to aim just a bit higher to ensure the survival of the whole.

But. Until that day came, she would plan. Prepare. Synthesize. There were no acceptable losses, and casualties were always avoidable. Thors was wrong, modern tactics were wrong, her fellow soldiers were wrong—just because a goal was impossible did not make it pointless to attempt!

Even when all you've known is failure, you always try.

Chapter Text

Laura had known how to swim from a young age. A necessary precaution, as they lived beside Lake Ebel. Her first time in the water on her own, before she was ready, was hazy. She’d wandered outside, so confident that she could swim without Mother or Father. She leapt into the water and sank.

And sank, further and further down, so far beyond the depth she’d experienced with her mother.

Her flailing limbs were too weak to rise; only slowing her descent. She hit the bottom; silver light flickered and vanished with her mother’s panicked embrace, cradling her to safety.

Chapter Text

After the first six weeks, the Juvenile Jaeger Corps prioritized field support for the primary corps over formal training. Depending on what you showed natural aptitude in, you were sent to one unit to specialize, or swapped around to learn as many skills as possible.

Sara was one of the lucky few who picked things up fast. She had to. She needed to. If she didn’t, she was gonna die, so she did it. Maintenance, logistics, field medicine—it was field surgery but they didn’t call it that—scouting, demolitions, sharpshooting, training new recruits, close quarters combat, codebreaking—she got lucky once—basic engineering, and everything else one could ever imagine a military would need to function.

She wasn’t the best at all of them, or even most of them, but she did them. None of it mattered all that much, though, when it came down to the end result. It all filtered down into a single, defined point that Sara had always been aware of. She hadn’t avoided thinking about it; just another part of life.

They wanted her, needed her, to be as deadly as possible. She’d assumed, for so long, that when she was deployed, it would all fall into place, and she’d be able to rely on her training like a snap of her fingers. No problems, no hesitation, and certainly no fear.

Sara had been right, yeah. There were no problems with her performance. She did not hesitate. She was not scared. But it…hurt. All of the blood and smoke clogging her lungs, burning her eyes, and how easy it was to keep going. Keep killing. How fragile people really were.

She kept count, and apologized. A twisted prayer. Not out loud. Never out loud. It wasn’t something she consciously decided to do but she just kept doing it until she couldn’t anymore.

Too many. Numbers stopped meaning anything. Faces faded because she couldn’t hold them all in her memory. It was a vile, twisted, sickening absolute she’d been forced to accept.

Sara refused to die, and the continent refused to stop.

And neither of them were going to break first.

Chapter Text

Sara paid super close attention in Sunday School. She didn’t want to be kicked out of the ‘accelerated’ classes, or the building at all. It was warm and clean. They fed everyone lunch. If she worked as hard as she could, she could finish early; at ten instead of fifteen! Just in time to enlist in the Juvenile Jaeger Corps, and then she and dad could travel the continent together, doing their best to keep everyone back home safe and healthy!

The folks at church always smiled at her when she and everyone else told them that their dreams and goals were to join the Northern Jaegers and protect North Ambria. But it never reached their eyes. They tried their best to talk about morals, ethics, what was right and wrong, but almost everything they said about that didn’t make sense.

Because if the church was right, then dad was a bad person. And dad was not a bad person, so obviously the church had a few screws loose. Dad had other people to be bad people instead of him, and pretty soon Sara would be one of those people, too. Making sure dad was a hero, which meant she was a hero, too! The church just got it all turned around; that’s what it was.

They got confused on a tiny, little thing.

Heroes weren’t supposed to find their way to Aidios. That’s what sacrifice meant, duh. They jump right into Gehenna so other folks never have to.

Chapter Text

Emma roused from sleep, still quite groggy, from the closing of the bedroom door. She abandoned all hope of dozing off once her ears were accosted with Millium’s superhumanly loud snoring in the bed behind her. Laura was gone. Her Thors uniform was not. It was hung on the wall, perfectly pressed, along both her own as well as Millium’s.

Why Laura had insisted on spending the evenings outside of her own bed while they stayed at her estate was beyond Emma, but it was hardly the most important thing going on. No, the far more pressing concern—if it could even be called that—was that Laura gotten out of bed effectively naked.

Wandering around her home, long before sunrise, perhaps completely nude. Sleep walking? A brief bout of insanity? Was this just how the Arseids lived?! Naked? All of the time! Grandmother had described communities just like that, but she’d always assumed she was kidding. Perhaps she wasn’t. Maybe Legram was one of them.

Emma quietly got out of bed, not that there was any risk in waking Millium, grabbed a robe she’d found earlier that evening from a cabinet, and got dressed, tiptoeing through the estate until she began hearing the telltale sounds of Laura training. She—she wasn’t going to impose any of her beliefs on her, but the Arseids did have guests! That likely should have been informed! It—it was only her business because of that, and nothing more.

Of all of the evenings to insist Celine sleep outside and far from the bedroom to not arouse suspicion.

Emma followed Laura’s grunts of effort and quickly found her in a large garden overlooking Lake Ebel, swinging her blade in the moonlight. Entirely not naked. Dressed in training clothes. Which Laura had…set aside for herself next to her bed before they’d gone to sleep. Emma had seen her do that.

Why did she jump straight to ‘Laura is naked’? No, why did she decide that ‘Legram was a town of nudists’ made the most sense? Exhaustion, yes, and Grandmother’s bizarre tales of the outside world.

“Ah!” Laura whirled around, a surprised, yet still warm smile shining through her sweat slicked hair and features. “Good morning, Emma. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine.” Emma swallowed her own embarrassment and refused to blush more than a teensy bit. Why did she think ‘naked’?! “You have a lovely home.”

“Thank you.” Laura slowly raised a brow, tilting her head. “Why do you have that robe?”

“Oh! This?” Emma wrapped the robe around her. “I was getting chilly from the wind off of the lake.”

“Aidios, did I leave the window open?”

“No! No, you didn’t.” Emma chuckled. “I meant right now. I assumed I would be cold, so I brought the robe.”

“Emma, it is August.” Laura bit her lip. “And there is currently no wind.”

“Ah, well—yes, but I assumed there would be!” Emma blushed more than she ever had in her entire life. “It is psychosomatic.”

“I see.” Laura clearly stifled a snicker and exhaled, her smile growing even wider. Did she know? She couldn’t know. How could she know? “Do you mind if I continue?”

“Not at all! No, of course not, no!” Emma waved her hands in front of her. “I’m sorry for interrupting. Just pretend I’m not here.”

“As you wish.”

Chapter Text

“Instructor Sara?”

“Hm?” Sara snapped up from her desk in the faculty office and spun in her chair, her surprise shifting to a bright smile as she craned her neck just a bit up to make eye contact with what had to be history’s most patient foreign exchange student. “Oh, hey! What’s up, Gaius?”

“I’m sorry if this is too invasive, but…” Gaius didn’t even flinch, though Sara almost did. Hooboy. Okay. There were a lot of ways to talk around either thing he might bring up. “You’re not from Erebonia, are you?”

“I, uh…” Sara blinked at that and raised a finger. How was that both worse and not as bad as it could have been? She really didn’t want to lie to him, and not just because trust between student and teacher was so important, but, well, on principle it was crummy to do that to teenagers and kids unless it was an emergency. “Thank Aidios for that. Good eye! What tipped you off?”

“You seem completely aware of what is expected of you in terms of behavior towards the nobility,” said Gaius, still completely at ease and calm. “I’m still learning the customs, but they’re more than rigid enough to suggest that if you were to decide one day to refuse to follow them, after a lifetime of doing so, it wouldn’t be easy to stop following those old instincts.”

“Habits are habitual, that is extremely true. Yeah.” Sara shrugged and very much enjoyed how much Heinrich squirmed on the other side of the room. “Never picked that up!” she projected, watching Vice Principal Prick’s entire head turn red, veins popping, and stomp out of the room. “And honestly I’ve kinda got the opposite runnin’ through my veiiiiins!” she sang, cupping her mouth with one hand as the door slammed.

“I wonder if he’s recognized the irony of trying to lecture you on political economics quite yet,” giggled Thomas, poking his head out from behind a stack of papers twice as tall as he was. “If not, oh, we should throw a party and deliver that knowledge unto him as a gift from educator to educator!”

“Not the focus right now, Thomas, mkay? Go back to doing whatever thing you think is awesome that you’re almost certainly going to drink—I mean lecture. Drink-lecture? Lecture-drink me under a table with.” Sara swiveled her chair away from him and beamed up at Gaius. “Sorry, but, yeah, nope, not about the class shenanigans unless absolutely necessary. I’m not going to spit in people’s faces, and neither should you, but that doesn’t mean I have to start getting on my hands and knees.”

“I see.” Gaius hummed. “I’m finding it difficult to deal with the fact that so many of the people are genuinely kind, but so many in power construct as many obstacles as they possibly can to curb that kind of behavior. It’s as if the nation and her people are fighting against each other.”

“A salient observation, Gaius, and not an easy thing to live with as an outsider looking in. Believe me, I understand that feeling a lot.” Sara peaked back at the giant pile of papers Thomas was working on and waited a few seconds for him to pounce on that. Huh. Must be super focused. “Unfortunately, Gaius, that’s true of pretty much every country. Maybe even yours, but I honestly don’t know enough about Nord to say one way or the other. Even Liberl’s not as idyllic as those travel brochures make it seem.”

“I’m sorry to say that Nord is far from perfect,” chuckled Gaius, holding up his palm. “We have our disagreements, even a few ideological differences, and sometimes they can prove to be very heated and passionate.”

“Ever had a Civil War?” asked Sara. “A revolution? Terrorist insurgents?”

Thomas’s head slowly rose from behind the papers again.

“Thomas, read the room, c’mon,” sighed Sara, throwing up her hand. “You can ask him later!”

Thomas’s head lowered back down.

“Anyway, the answer to that question, Gaius, isn’t as important as how people work in a general way,” continued Sara. “You get enough people together agreeing on calling themselves a group, and it’s gonna happen once your population hits a point. I have no idea what that number is, but it’s kind of unavoidable.”

“And how exactly have you consolidated all of these frustrating things, Instructor Sara?” asked Gaius. “I don’t want to insult anyone’s culture, let alone develop any kind of resentment towards a place that has, with very few exceptions, acted with nothing but kindness towards me.”

“That’s an easy one, but also unfortunately deeply personal, so I’ll skip to the meat and hope you’re willing to wait for the potatoes.” Sara snapped him a finger gun. “What I can tell you—well, what I’m willing to tell you, since as much as I like you, kiddo, I’m not a perfectly open book with sticky tabs—is that no matter where you go, you’ll find good folks trying to make things better for everyone else.”

“Who would that be in Erebonia? It isn’t the nobility, but it also isn’t quite the Reformists, either.”

“An exceptional question from an exceptional student to his probably exceptional instructor.” Sara gave him a wry smile and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “You kids.”

“We are?” Gaius furrowed his brow. “We’re just a bunch of students, though. We might know quite a lot of influential people if we pool ourselves together but we can’t create any real, actionable change, can we?” He frowned. “And then there’s—is it really right for me to want to ‘improve’ something in a place that isn’t even my own?”

“Well, strictly speaking, literally, no. You do not know what is best; nobody does, especially folks who are visiting, so to speak.” Sara bobbed her head back and forth. “In practice, though, it depends on what you want to happen and how you do it. The kind of change that’s safe starts slow and small. Trust me on that.”

Chapter Text

There was no perfect pastry, nor dessert of any kind, but Sharon had promised Alisa, years ago, that she would bake her ‘the best pie ever’. It was a request, and it would be honored like all others. A sacred pact between them that Sharon would work towards fulfilling until she could no longer draw breath.

“This one is amazing,” groaned Alisa, age ten, forgoing all manners and eating the blueberry pie with her hands. “Thank you, Sharon!”

“You are welcome, Lady Alisa. Would you say that it is the ‘best pie ever’?”

“I dunno. I haven’t had that many pies.”

Sharon tried again. And again. And again.

“These just keep getting better.” Alisa used a fork and knife at age eleven. “Thank you, Sharon.”

“It is my pleasure, Lady Alisa!” Sharon beamed. “Is it, perhaps, the best pie ever?”

“I mean…” Alisa considered that for a moment, chewing. “Probably?”

Sharon tried again.

“I don’t know how you keep doing this,” whispered Alisa, age thirteen, staring in awe at the fork she had just all but shoved in her mouth. “You could open a bakery, Sharon!”

“That’s so kind of you to say, Lady Alisa!” Sharon giggled. “Is it possible that I have finally crafted the best pie ever?”

“Sure, it’s absolutely possible, yeah! What’re you kidding, it’s amazing!”

Sharon tried again, because that was not enough.

“I think I’m going to die from how good this tastes,” squealed Alisa, age fifteen, half of her plate already clean. “I could honestly eat this for the rest of my life and nothing else and feel totally content.”

“I am overjoyed to hear that, Lady Alisa.” Sharon leaned forward, her smile growing ever wider. “Would you say that it is the best pie ever?”

“Yeah, totally! That is the best pie anyone could ever make. Ever.”

“Wonderful.” Sharon felt her heart swell and served her another piece, even though she hadn’t finished her first. “Simply wonderful.”

“Unless you manage to outdo yourself, I guess.”

Sharon looked down at her pie, and then at her own hands. She was trapped in a loop of her own design. One which had no end, and composed entirely of joy and warm smiles.

All in all? A perfect curse.

Chapter Text

Fie almost gave up on trusting people. Believing promises. Even hearing vows at all. Made sense she’d be scared of people leaving and never coming back, even if they weren’t dead. She was alone, and then she wasn’t. And then she almost was, again.

She asked about that a lot, before they left her to die, when she was four, five, six, seven—all the way to the end.

“If—if I’m lucky, and things are, uhm…” stammered Sara, fidgeting, barely filling out her armor, her cheeks gaunt and her eyes still so bright. “I’m sorry. I can’t promise that. I want to, but I can’t. It’s really not up to me. There…are other factors, okay? I want to! I really do! If I can, I will, that, yeah, that I can promise!”

That was the only honest answer she’d ever get to that question, and it was from someone who was probably delirious from malnutrition, dehydration, and sleep deprivation. Still honest, though. Still the only honest one.

“Whaddya worried about?” snickered Xeno, patting Fie on the shoulder. “Boss says you’re one of us, so you are! Nobody’s going anywhere. I promise.”

Fie got more specific. What if they had to make a choice? Her, or somebody else? How much mira would it take to choose that over her? What if she was taken hostage? How hard would they fight?

“Even if the Boss did not demand it, there is no amount of mira that we would accept in place of you, Fie, and we would never leave you behind.” assured Leo, his booming voice so calming, almost melodic. “I promise.”

Fie pushed more and more. Kept asking. She wanted it to be true, but it never felt like it entirely was. That there was always something they weren’t telling her. Something they didn’t want to, or hoped they’d never have to explain.

“There are no secrets in Zephyr that aren’t personal to the individual, Fie. Boss’s orders; it’s how he built the corps,” said Aida, smiling just a little too much. “We’re family, and that’s how family works. There’s nothing that we’re hiding that you need to be concerned about. I promise.”

They always promised. They always did that. They never stopped promising, and for about a decade they held those up in every way possible. She never went hungry again. She was never alone. She had people who loved her. She had things to do, ways to help her family.

Still the big thing nagged at her, in the back of her head. Boss. Always about Boss. And yeah, it was always about Boss, but what if there was no Boss? Zephyr couldn’t be Zephyr without Boss, but could it be Zephyr without her? It was before. It used to be.

“Forget all about that, Fie,” said Boss, kneeling down and tousling her hair. “Real families don’t up and run when one of us bites it; we don’t leave anyone behind, right? Includes you most of all. We’re not gonna leave you alone, no matter what, I promise. Hand to Aidios.”

They ran. He lied. Or he was wrong. They left her behind. Boss died, and they turned their back on her. It didn’t matter what their reasoning was. It didn’t matter that it might’ve been the best thing for her. It didn’t matter how many contingencies they’d created to be absolutely sure she’d be okay if the worst were to happen.

Her family still abandoned her, even if she wasn’t alone.

Sara wouldn’t let her watch the end. She held her close, blocked her field of view with her body at the top of the cliff, and took all the enraged, panicked punching and kicking Fie had thrown at her. Didn’t budge or flinch.

Fie needed to see it! She had to! Why wouldn’t she move?!

“Not gonna happen. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but you don’t,” whispered Sara, only squeezing her tighter until she couldn’t move at all. “You don’t. Please, just trust me. I’ve been here. I’ve been right here, and I’m here now, and you don’t.”

Vows almost meant nothing to Fie, but it wasn’t exactly a miracle that she found faith in them again.

Chapter Text

Millium didn’t weigh as much as Emil once had, not exactly, but the feeling on her back, her shoulders, the shifting of her posture and balance to accommodate was too distinct to forget. It wasn’t something Claire would refuse or even truly could consider not acquiescing , yet it was, like so many other banalities of life, far more complicated than it seemed on the surface.

Inevitably, Claire would crouch down, and Millium would leap on her back. She would smile and laugh and all would be right with the world. There remained a pull in the back of her mind, the final vestiges of a reminder of some deep seated fear, spiraling—

“Stop making everything bigger in your head!” ordered Milium, shaking Claire by her arms as she pouted up at her. “I just want a piggyback ride!”

Chapter Text

Duavlie glared pointedly at the large, colorful sign above Mishelam’s newest attraction. The ‘Lackadaisical Labyrinth’. Newly opened, the first weekend it was available. Constructed entirely in secret from the wider continent for the intent to surprise and delight. There was, however, a rather large, horrifying problem with that plan.

“They built over her grave!” snapped Duvalie, pointing at the sign and startling several dozen families as well as their children. “How dare you people do such a heinous, nigh sacrilegious thing! What gave you the right to—”

“We can speak to the park general manager instead of frightening the other patrons,” said Laura, grabbing her by the arm as she continued to flail and attempt to set the entrance to what was the wetlands on fire with her mind. “If that fails, we are fully capable of utilizing shovels.”

“That is not going to work,” fumed Duvalie. “The maze is made entirely of stainless steel.”

“Then…” Laura paused for a moment before opening her ARCUS. “Whose laser do you think would be most effective at melting steel? Airgetlam’s or Claiomh Solais’s?”

“Who cares?! This isn’t a competition. Just call them both!”

“That is a better idea, yes.”

Chapter Text

“Herschel, this was a wonderful idea,” said Principal Le Guin, smiling down at Towa atop the roof of the Branch Campus’ main building. “I’m pleasantly surprised by how much of the student body responded to your summons for an Evening Course. Astronomy is an intriguing subject, but they are in the prime of their youth, if you will. One would reasonably assume that their focus lies elsewhere.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think it’s that unusual. When you present students with an engaging and hands-on activity in which they have considerable agency, they’re going to choose that over almost everything else,” said Towa, beaming, hands behind her back, standing straight as she looked over at roughly three quarters of the student body huddled behind ten or so telescopes focused on different parts of the night sky. “They’re great kids, Principal Le Guin!”

“Yes. That was partially my point, Herschel. They are exceptional, and when exceptional individuals gather, there is a somewhat inevitable conclusion that exists among them.”

“Oh. Oh.” Towa briefly looked up at the stars, shining so brightly. Thousands of them, all twinkling across the horizon. Some may be long gone, and others might have yet to reach them, but there was no denying that it was a very easy thing to perceive as romantic. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

“I never claimed it was.” Principal Le Guin chuckled. “It’s just as you said. They’re ‘good kids’.”

Towa decided to take the victory with a silent smile and did not correct Principal Le Guin in what was almost certainly an intentional ‘mistake’. Towa had called them ‘great kids’; they’d already proven that enough to her. Each and every one of them.

Chapter Text

The spread of searing flames, hot enough to boil through her skin and onto bone, was painful in a distinctly familiar way to Sharon. There were two instances in her life, once before she began it, and now again, when she had been grievously injured. The first was deemed a failure of a defect; a consequence of unfortunate kismet.

Alberich had all but killed her, and the skin grafts, the physical therapy, the demands the Chairman forced upon her, to ensure she would be fit for duty, to fulfill the role of a husband—no, a caretaker, had ensured her survival. Upon reflection, Sharon could, but never would, claim that the end result was her first act of guardianship to the Reinfords.

The second time—Sharon was aware. She knew. There was no miraculous survival to be had from the flames of the Almighty Conflagration; the Blazing Demon. Black or not, spewed from snarling hellhounds without vocal chords or not, there was only the absolute end. She knew how much it would hurt Lady Alisa to lose her, and how heartbroken she herself was to leave them, but the sacrifice was necessary.

Master Rean did not deserve to die that day. As she roused in bed, covered in gauze, the muscles and nerves in her lower body and side flaring and misfiring, taut to the point of flinching, genuine physical pain to go with the emotional panic evident on Lady Alisa’s bawling face and the Chairman’s brief, hard glance before leaving the hospital room without a word…

Perhaps Aidios had decided that Sharon did not deserve to die that day, either. She was needed for a later appointment. It hurt to hug Lady Alisa, the weight of her crushing into broken bones that had barely been set, her own skin so raw and broken under the sheets, but Sharon would never stop, she would not let go, as long as she was able.

Chapter Text

Cecile had never been squeamish. Not even as a child had blood or bugs or anything most found unsettling bothered her. It was silence that scared her. The lack of creaking wood in the dark. The absence of breath on her neck, of weight on the bed beside her. Cold air where warmth and love once were. If there was no sound, she was alone.

Double shifts were not new to her. She’d elected to take a triple. She’d take a quadruple, work for twenty-four hours with barely any rest, if the hospital would let her. Legal concerns. It wasn’t healthy, they’d told her. Grief could not be buried like a body, or washed like bloodstained sheets. There was no ignoring it.

How had Guy dealt with it? How had he described it? His parents had died in an airship crash. How had he stayed strong and present for Lloyd? She’d asked, so many times, and he’d always told her that it wasn’t something she’d ever need to worry about. It wasn’t something that would ever be important. It was hard, almost impossible, but he’d always be by her side.

He’d always be there.

Cecile didn’t go home. She hadn’t been back to their apartment since Lloyd had moved to live with his uncle. It was likely a mess, as she hadn’t cleaned the one she’d made, in a fit of rage and panic, trying to find something in their home that still smelled enough of Guy to connect those dots. To flicker in her heart as she, over and over again, desperately, tried to feel what was no longer there. Who no longer existed. It was too quiet. She couldn’t sleep there.

Rent was going to be due soon. Cecile would need to leave it behind. Too empty. Too much space. Too many broken promises and futures that would never come to pass. Too much joy she’d been denied; that had been taken from Lloyd, as well. As it wasn’t just about her, no.

Even if she needed to remind herself of that.

Cecile bashed on Ilya’s door, her fist bypassing the knocker as she rested her forehead against the carved wood, a strangled sob wrenching itself free of her lips as she considered, for a second, that maybe Ilya wasn’t home. Maybe she was still at rehearsal at four in the morning. She often was. Would Aidios be that cruel? When she needed just—she needed to not be alone.

For one night. Maybe more. Twelve. Forever.

Aidios, how lost was she without him?

The door swung open, and Ilya was thankfully standing there, so stunning, so beautifully perfect with wide-eyed concern and strong arms pulling her inside. Cecile couldn’t force—what was there to say, other than pointless wailing and screaming at the Goddess? She cried, even still, stumbling into Ilya as she held her upright, her embrace tightening with each moment.

“You stay as long as you want,” whispered Ilya, protecting Cecile’s head as one would a child, a firm hand deep in her hair. “I’ll have a key for you made—I should have offered earlier. I am so, so sorry…” She sniffled. “I’m sorry.”

“We were going to start a family together,” choked Cecile, squeezing Ilya, more and more, as if she’d stop talking, stop being there, if she let go. “We—we almost did.”

“I know, I know.”

“I—” Cecile sobbed so powerfully, so painfully, that her legs gave out. The only thing that stopped her from falling onto the floor was Ilya. “I loved him. I loved him so much.”

“I know.” whimpered Ilya. “I miss him, too. You’ll be okay.” She rubbed her back. “I promise, you’ll be okay—”

Cecile kissed her, without thought. Without care. It wasn’t the first time. The last was supposed to be far behind them, but it wasn’t. She squeezed Ilya’s arms and kissed her again, deeper, desperate, messy, tears and snot still flowing down her face, a sob filling her mouth.

There was so little solace to be had, but there was some, before she’d need to return to life. Before she’d need to truly move forward. Guy would not want her to wallow forever, but she…she needed help. And Ilya would always be there, wouldn’t she?

Her greatest, most wonderful friend, once again. A title that Guy had taken for quite a while, but Ilya, tragically, had earned once more.

“It’s just like old times, right?” stammered Cecile, in nearly broken words, shivering and almost collapsing into Ilya. “It’s all fine. We’re fine.”

“We’re not, Cecile. We’re—we’re just not.” Ilya sighed, uneven, wiping her own tears away and stroking Cecile’s hand. “There doesn’t need to be more of a reason. It breaks my heart to see you in this much pain as it is.”

Cecile kissed her again. And again. And again, each less measured than the last, to the point where she was missing her lips entirely, bumping into her cheeks and chin. Ilya grabbed her hand, stopping her, and smiled. A tiny, distraught, exhausted smile.

“Did you just get off a triple shift, Cecile?” asked Ilya. “Were you on your feet for eighteen hours? Can you even walk to the bed?”

“Does it—” Ceclie slumped against her, crying into her chest, failing to swallow another heavy sob. “No. No, I can’t even do that. I don’t know what I’m doing with anything anymore.”

“That’s alright. You don’t have to.” Ilya pulled her arm around her shoulder, propping her up, and led them towards the bedroom. “You don’t have to do anything at all right now.

Chapter Text

Even with the dawn of the Great War arriving the next day, Rixia has taken a risk that could jeopardize every single responsibility that had been entrusted to her. She was confident that she was prepared for the Direwolf—almost.

If the world ended, if they failed, if she truly did die tomorrow afternoon, then her final thoughts could not be that of such a simple regret: 'I wish I had visited Ilya one last time.' It was an irrational decision, yes, but she still made it.

Armorica Village was still a delightful place, even if the entirety of it had been converted into an ad-hoc hospital as spillover for St. Ursula's. Ilya, being Ilya, had not let that slow her progress. She'd started to walk again, just a few steps before she was bedridden for the rest of the day and then some, but Rixia had already missed that moment. She would not miss what might be their final day of existence.

"I'd get up, but I've used my allotment for today," grunted Ilya, all bundled up in her hospital bed, muscular atrophy startlingly beginning to take a toll on her. "I can only push myself so much before the nurses tie me down; Cecile would probably never let me get that far, though."

"Not everyone is so well versed in you, Ilya." Rixia sat down beside her, unable to stop herself from smiling. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm…" Ilya tried to sit up, but Rixia pushed her down. "I don't want to talk about that. We can have that discussion after you save the world again."

"But—”

"You'll win. The show must go on and it can't without you, Rixia. You wouldn't want to miss opening night, would you? You don't have an understudy."

"Alright." Rixia sighed. "Happier topics, then."

"I didn't say that; only that we have a conversation I'd rather have later." Ilya winked. "Now, why don't you tell me how the troupe is doing? They haven't visited in a few weeks, and apparently there was an impromptu performance for the troops?"

"I looked into that. It was a distraction for something else."

"Ah, that's fine then." Ilya chucked. "For a few minutes, I was worried Avan had finally managed to replace me. Or somehow manage to put on 'Golden Sun, Silver Moon' in a halfway decent abridged format."

"Why would he do that?" asked Rixia. "I've never even seen you two argue."

"This was before you joined us." Ilya sighed. "When I was developing 'Golden Sun, Silver Moon', Avan all but demanded we take it on the road. That people were going to hound us to every corner of the continent if we didn't."

"Ilya, that's exactly what happened."

"I remember, but I was not about to allow that to be successful." Ilya smirked. "Spectacle is my favorite double-edged sword."

"Oh." Rixia blinked, as it made perfect sense. "You made the practical stunts and dance numbers unfeasible in any other environment."

"Well, if the Heimdallr Opera House somehow managed to get Mr. Rosenberg to overhaul their entire space, we could perform there, hypothetically." Ilya paused for a moment, adjusting in the bed minutely. "He never, ever will, though."

"Why are you so adamant about this? I can think of several possible reasons but none seem to fit."

"At the time, I was... angry. I was mad as hell. My best friend's fiance had been murdered, and it got swept under the rug." Ilya glared at her with the intensity Rixia had sincerely fallen in love with. "There wasn't any real way to fight back against the, at the time, seemingly random cruelty of our gilded cage. So, I decided that the next thing I made would be inextricable from Crossbell."

"That wasn't even one of the options I thought of." Rixia held her hand. "You certainly succeeded."

"I wonder about that. It was a tiny, personal rebellion." Ilya raised a brow. Oh, no. "Erebonia and Calvard can steal ten percent of our blood, our bones, our souls, and our mira, but as long as I was standing, they couldn't steal us."

"Raquel. You somehow…" Rixia hung her head in shame. "I only knew after the happened, I was hoping you wouldn't find out about that until you were fully recovered."

"Avan always disagreed. I was being selfish and hindering the growth of the troupe." Ilya crooked her lips. "He was right, of course, but…I suppose I knew this was inevitable, annexation or not. Even if I wasn't mostly bedridden, we'd still be here."

"It's not 'Golden Sun, Silver Moon'; it's a musical revue. I've heard it's rather good, though lacking the usual magic and spectacle."

"I know, and that's my somewhat silver lining." Ilya smiled. "Aside from you, of course."

Chapter Text

Crow decided that, just to spice things up, he'd see what Instructor Sara would do if he hit her weapons out of her hands during combat training. Two cracks of his guns, rubber bullets bouncing off of her gear, and…absolutely nothing happened.

Crap.

"Time out." Instructor Sara flourished her sword and tested its weight, then did the same with her gun. "Wasn't just seeing things. You tried to disarm me."

"No good?"

"No; good." Instructor Sara, somehow, faster than he could blink, zipped behind him and bopped him on the head with the butt of her pistol. "Unless your enemy is about exactly this much faster than you, in which case you're going to miss and hit somebody else. And then…?"

"Civilians die," groaned Crow. "I get it. Can we please skip the lecture?"

"There's no lecture; that's as simple and basic as it gets, Crow." Instructor Sara raised a brow. "Fancy, stupid tricks like that also lead to friendly fire. Which kills your friends or comrades or pets. Don't get me wrong, you're a great shot and you absolutely have the aptitude to pull that kind of thing off. Buuuuuuut…"

"But it's not worth it? And this is absolutely a lecture!"

"Lectures aren't conversations." Instructor Sara holstered her weapons. "Though, yeah, it's really not worth it. Besides, you're doing it all wrong and flimsy."

"Yeah? How's that?" Crow winced as Instructor Sara kicked out his legs and knocked him to the ground, somehow managing to snatch his guns out of his hands before he ate dirt. "What the hell was that for?!"

"I'd say pay dirt, but I'm not one for grudges. Even if you could've shot my eye out." Instructor Sara smiled down at him, twirling his guns. "Since you're such a fan of disarmament, though, let's make it safe and fun! A good old fashioned game of 'keep away'."

Chapter Text

“You need to make this stop.” Claire set down a large box of letters in front of Lechter, the handwriting on them completely unmistakeable. His name, not hers, was plastered on every single one. “My mailbox is already bloated to the point where I cannot even find what is addressed to me.”

“I don’t see how it’s my problem that you don’t get any fan letters,” drawled Lechter, picking through the giant pile. Lucy’s penmanship, Lucy’s again, then Kloe, Jill, Maybelle, Hans, Logic, Leo, Anton, Hans, Ricky, Hans, Anton, Lucy, Kloe, Logic, Maybelle, Jill, Leo, Jill in dark red ink that probably wasn’t blood. Hopefully. “It’s not as fun as it looks, trust me. You really don’t want to be Captain Schwarz, alright? She can’t get so much as a single moment to herself!”

“Yes, that must be why I am irritated as well as concerned, Lechter.” Claire’s entire face went slack, her voice flattening so much he almost snickered from contrast alone. “I am not popular enough to be bombarded with a deluge of emotional support.”

“That’s not what fans do. Do you know what fans do? Because it’s really not even close to something that healthy.”

“How horrible it must be to have friends who care so deeply about you, Lechter. Enough to send them to me en masse in bulk so that I will hand deliver them to you.” Claire pushed the box closer to him, raising a brow. “Or, would you prefer to have all of these forwarded to Millium indefinitely, who will simply open them and almost certainly find something to embarrass you with? It would be a simple arrangement with the post office.”

“It’d be cute, but yeah, not really worth it.” Lechter sighed and picked a random letter out of the pile. Jill. Odds weren’t great on that. Weird. “Alright. You win. First thing tomorrow morning.”

“Now, Lechter.” Claire set down a giant stack of paper, then envelopes, and finally stamps, in quick succession. “Your friend Leo sent these as well in the event you attempted to delay any further. It appears your habits are internationally recognized in this context.”

“Woah, so you did open one of my fan letters! That’s such a betrayal of trust, Claire. I’m deeply, deeply hurt that you’d commit a high crime just to get under my skin.”

“I didn’t have to; your friends are quite considerate.” Claire snorted. “It was written on the outside of the package in a cipher.”

“That’s just inspiring.” Lechter slapped down a blank sheet of paper and smiled. “I’ll follow his fine example and answer these in code! Make it a fun little game for ‘em.”

“As long as they receive an answer, Lechter, no matter the form it takes, I’m confident they’ll be nothing but overjoyed.”

Chapter Text

“I hate being locked up in here,” grumbled Lady Alisa, glaring up at the penthouse’s massive bulletproof windows, the afternoon’s raging thunderstorm battering down on the glass with a mixture of hail and heavy rain. “It’s not even that bad.”

“The Chairman only wishes for you to remain safe, happy, and healthy, Lady Alisa,” beamed Sharon. “She and I are in agreement that, were you to venture outside, you may very well be scooped up by the wind and fly away!”

“Doesn’t sound too terrible to me. I wouldn’t even get that far.” Lady Alisa sighed, slumping back onto the couch. Hm. Perhaps it was a more maudlin afternoon than Sharon anticipated. “You and Mother would find me so fast, even if I’d gotten sucked up into a tornado or something, and drag me back here.”

“Would you not want us to?” asked Sharon, posing the question as innocently as she could. The answer was far more complex than Lady Alisa would likely be able to communicate, but allowing her the space to do so was much more important, even if she stumbled. “I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. I’m sure the Chairman feels the same.”

“I dunno. I don’t care.” Lady Alisa crossed her arms and pouted. “She’d never notice if I was gone. If we snuck out. You’d have to tell her yourself.”

“As perceptive as always, Lady Alisa!” Sharon clapped her hands together and tilted her head, smiling wider. Sharon did not have to tell the Chairman everything Lady Alisa did or said. She once shared that belief, which was likely why Lady Alisa perceived it as the truth, but no longer. “The Chairman is so very busy with so very many things, that she is always under the assumption that your every need has already been fulfilled ten fold!” She made a slight bow and curtsied. “As such, there are quite a few things we can do to wait out the storm, and I am at your absolute disposal!”

“Oh, yeah?” Lady Alisa raised a brow. “Okay, Sharon. Let’s go on an adventure.”

“Of what variety would you prefer?” asked Sharon, though she knew what was coming next. She had already prepared contingencies for such a request; no harm would come to Lady Alisa. Not so much as a sniffle. “The day is yours to enjoy, Lady Alisa.”

“I wanna go outside.” Lady Alisa pointed at the still violent thunderstorm out the window. “And play in the rain.”

“Then that is what we shall do!” Sharon giggled at Lady Alisa’s confused and gaping face while she quickly dressed her in a raincoat, boots, hat, umbrella, and scarf. “Let us be off for a wondrous adventure!”

“Uh, yeah! Yeah, okay!” Lady Alisa smiled wide, and Sharon could not be happier. “Let’s go on an adventure!”

Lady Alisa, after roughly twenty-two seconds of standing roughly three arge outside of the RF Building in the storm, ran back inside. Sharon had warmed her back up in the penthouse with tea and freshly baked cookies. It had been a tiny act of rebellion, but it had been one all the same.

At times, that was all one truly needed to assert their own freedom.

Chapter Text

In both of her much too long lifetimes, Rose had fallen in love with a fair number of people. Some were fellow witches, while others were individuals she met while traveling beyond Eryn. She’d even married a few of them, despite them both knowing that she would never fade nor age as they did. She was entirely, completely, irrefutably immortal.

Fewer still she’d had children with, adopted or otherwise, and that became less common over the centuries. Outliving dozens of her children, and their children, and their children’s children, until the end of time itself, was a curse she’d inflicted upon herself in her ‘youth’. But she couldn’t stop; she was their elder. She needed to teach, guide, and, at times, parent.

There was one exception to all of that, as the moment Lianne awoke from death itself, from a slumber so peaceful it edged on mockery, Rose fantasized growing old with her.

Centuries of smiles and laughter wrinkling their skin as their bodies began to fail them, first in small ways but quickly in comprehensive ones. Adopted sons and daughters that they’d raise with an outpouring of love, who would then turn around and, hopefully, care for them as they could no longer do so for themselves.

When magic was no longer enough of an assistant in the daily aching and strain of life. Perhaps one or both of them would need more than reading glasses. Maybe their minds would fade long before they passed, but, as the fantasy replayed in her mind, every so often, for two-hundred and fifty years, not a word of it spoken or shared in any capacity, Rose knew, she knew…

Rose knew that such a theoretical, imaginary love would never fade between them.

It hardly mattered, though. If she’d said something, if she’d asked her to stay rather than wishing her the best on her travels, Lianne’s passing would be far more painful. And what did she need more agonizing, torturous grief for? She didn’t. She had…far too much already.

A life of isolation, of a lonely hermit surrounded by a clan of mortals who buried her children every few decades, was much more fitting for her. It was her role, and what she deserved. The responsibility that her predecessor had forced upon her.

If only Rose had said something. Anything at all. If she had, perhaps a single stretch of her life would not be quite as arduous as the others.

Chapter Text

“Call me old fashioned, but I always thought you couldn’t call a disaster an apocalypse unless it was caused by, or somehow involved, a dragon,” said Sara, yawning back into her chair as she balanced on its hind legs. “Otherwise, it’s just a cataclysm, right? Or are there other classifications? I’ve definitely read that somewhere.”

“You’re referring to a collection of theses written by the late Father Goldhammer roughly two-hundred years ago,” said Thomas, a giant smile spreading across his face that began to strain itself as his eyes didn’t quite open behind his glasses. “That text has been banned for one-hundred and ninety-nine years, and no known copies exist. I’ve only ever heard of it by summary.”

“Oh. Crap.” Sara blushed and settled her chair back down on four legs, staring down at her lap. “I definitely read that big thing. Had little stitchings of historical disasters on the spine of it in gold thread”

“Yes, that’s A Thousand And One End Of Days! Where ever did you read that?!” asked Thomas, stiffening because, yup, he connected those dots real quick. Where else? “Ah, well, do you still—”

“Aheh, see, uhm…” Sara cleared her throat and scratched the back of her head. “Kinda needed to burn it for kindling,” she whispered. “Think I was eight. Sorry.”

“I see.” Thomas’s smile shattered as she rested his head on his desk. “Do you at least remember which kind of cataclysm book burning was?”

“I think it was the fourth kind.”

“Then not all is lost!” Thomas shot up to his feet, his giddiness returning in full. “We can piece together the remnants from your memory!

“Wait, but it wasn’t at the front of the book…” Sara snapped her fingers in front of her forehead, furrowing her brow. “It could’ve been the eighth? Maybe? Either way, any amount of recovery from this kind of disaster is considered to be recovery from it.” She shrugged awkwardly. “Hopefully. I’m pretty sure that’s what the book said about, yeah, burning books.”

“I had absolutely no idea it even specified methods of healing!” Thomas gaped, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. “A non-fatalistic text about the many varieties of apocalypse—disasters, I mean. Please, please, continue!” He scrambled through his desk for paper and pencils. "Don't you worry about about talking too quickly; I will keep pace!”

“Okay, but no promises this’ll make sense from a head as jumbled as mine.”

Chapter Text

Grace’s favorite part about preparing for an interview was crafting the perfect series of questions to ask her subject. Even if she personally had beef with the person she’d be writing about, that didn’t change her work ethic in the slightest. Professional and personal pride implored her to present the ideal balance of inquisitiveness, respect, objectivity, and allow for as much expansion on any and all topics as possible.

Many of the questions she’d brainstormed would never be asked; they’d run out of time, or the conversation didn’t really allow for them to be introduced without derailing the whole thing. Not most, but enough to feel a little bit guilty for each lonely line on her notepad. So ready to be filled with thoughts, but it wasn't meant to be.

She kept all of them, though. She never threw a single one away. There was a pretty high chance she’d be able to use them in a future interview. And the City of Sin often pushed that up the date of that second or third or fourth chance to ask those questions by years, if not decades.

If you had a lot to say, Crossbell might just decide to silence you for good. Grace’s final interview wasn’t canceled when that happened. Her words, and the ones she’d never hear in response, still had a purpose.

“Hey, Guy! I promise, I swear, only five more pages, and then that’s all of them.” Grace smiled down at his headstone, the chilly October wind sweeping through the cemetery as she offered up a bouquet of flowers. Not the traditional mourning kind; she’d tried to find all the pieces but most of the patches were all but picked clean when she checked. It didn’t feel right to take what was left. “I’ll probably just think of more, though.”

Guy’s headstone didn’t laugh with that big goofy smile she’d known him for. It didn’t stand up and tower over her in a confusingly non-threatening way. It wasn’t so personable that half the city knew him by face and by name. It didn’t crack a joke that didn’t make sense for four months until she pieced together the punchline in the middle of grocery shopping. It didn’t brag about a fiance, or family plans, or smile wider than anyone she’d ever met when she showed up.

Guy Bannings was a great friend, and Grace wasn’t going to let him forget that.

“Okay, first up, top of the order…” Grace cleared her throat and flipped open her notepad, her pencil pressing into the long vacant spot below the ink. “Who’s got the best noodles in the city? Ozelle or Long Lao? A tie?! You can’t just leave me with that. I’ve got to know your reasoning here. C’mon, cough it up…”

Chapter Text

“Your face is red.” Fie peeked at Emma’s notebook, her pencil flying through line after line. “What’re you writing?” she asked, knowing the answer.

“It—it is? Ah, nothing!” stammered Emma, slamming her notebook shut with the force of a door. Her desk shook, as did her glasses. “Nothing. I’m journaling. You shouldn’t read over people’s shoulders, Fie. It’s an invasion of privacy.”

“Yup.” Fie smirked. “In your story, Machias thinks he’s a better kisser than Jusis?” She shrugged as Emma sputtered, hiding her face on the desk. “Changing names and gender isn’t really enough if they still sound the same.”

Chapter Text

“This is sacrilege,” grumbled Laura, setting mira on the counter. “This was a tradition of mourning.”

“Sorry; it wasn’t intentional,” said Oscar. “I’ve never even heard of Legram!”

“I find that hard to believe,” grumbled Duvalie, snatching the bag of frosted pretzels. “If these are not the most amazing confection, there will be a reckoning.”

Bennett laughed from the kitchen.

Laura and Duvalie both ate a frosted pretzel. Their faces melted from anger to pure delight.

“You got lucky,” proclaimed Duvalie, her face full of sugar and bread. “I accept this treat’s existence.”

“Agreed,” said Laura. “Do you ship internationally?”

Chapter Text

As flat as land was in parts of the Nord Highlands, it was more than mountainous enough to dissuade the winds from twisting into its most violent and dangerous form. Gaius had only read about tornados as a concept. He’d seen photographs, but the size of them baffled him as a child.

How could the wind create something solid and massive? Enraged yet apathetic towards the land it tore through? Hurricanes were formed with rain, but a tornado was pure air.

As Gaius watched one form on the horizon, flying high above its grasp, he prayed, apologized, to those below.

Chapter Text

Sara wasn’t devout, but she believed more than most. A very specific kind of faith. Measurable gratitude in the face of absolute despair. Sunday School kept her and so many others fed and warm. Free breakfast and lunch. The will of the Goddess, the Priests had said.

Wasn’t worth disputing, even though they talked around the Salt Pale. Prayer was supplementary. One more thing when all else failed. Plenty were bitter about false hope, wishing hard, only to die anyway. Mostly, that was all they did.

Pray and wait.

Sara wasn’t dead; she’d made her own luck. Her own faith.

Chapter Text

“I need you to cover for me today, Rixia.” Ilya smiled through clenched teeth, flop sweat staining the comforters as she sat up in bed. “I think I may have pushed myself a little too hard.”

“I know.” Rixia handed her a glass of water and the prescribed painkillers; she’d known Ilya would wake up like that. Chronic pain and degrading mobility could not truly be ignored, even for Ilya. “I’ll take care of everything.”

“Thank you.” Ilya gulped down the pills and winced, her head plopping down on the pillow. “This isn’t fair to you.” She tried, and failed, to sit up with a silent whimper. “Aidios, why did I think this was worth it?”

“I believe you said it was because you’re you.” Rixia bent down to kiss her and smiled sadly. “Can we please buy you a cane before you need a walker?”

“Yes. You win.” Ilya pouted even as she visibly tightened from a flare of pain. “I’m going to look like a frail, cranky old woman.”

“Ilya, there’s no context where you will not be the most graceful person in any room.” Rixia stroked some of Ilya’s sweat slicked hair out of her face. “You could always think of it as a baton, maybe? Point at things or people for emphasis?”

"If I do, I’ll start tap dancing, and then we’re back here again.” Ilya snickered, even as she grunted through another visible flare, her neck and jaw tightening. “Do you really trust me to have that much restraint?”

“I didn’t until today.” Rixia smiled. “You’ve never asked me to cover for you before.”

Chapter Text

Juna was not a morning person. She wanted to be, though, because it’d be super handy to be able to just leap out of bed whenever you needed to. Just like most of the people she saw basically every single day of her life.

Ken and Nana? Up at 4am and staying quiet until the clock struck seven so Mom and Dad, who were up at five, had the opportunity to sleep in. Musse roused at five-fifteen, on the dot. Altina rose with the sun. Kurt owned four-thirty. Ash bounced between five-thirty and six, but he never seemed tired!

Juna tried to match that energy, but the best she could do was be thankful that she had that many alarm clocks who would drag her out of bed and make her fake being a morning person by any means necessary. Which was pretty cool, the more she thought about it.

Then again, Juna wasn’t a night person, either. Or an evening person. Maybe she was just a day person. A normal, run-of-the-mill, day person who always got plenty of sleep. It sounded so nice! Nice and well rested. But also kinda boring.

That was okay. Boring could be very relaxing.

Chapter Text

“We’re in agreement, then?” asked Jusis, glancing deliberately to his fellow classmates, one-by-one. “This is all an elaborate prank organized by His Highness Prince Olivert and Princess Alfin?”

“Don’t forget Captain Rieveldt,” said Alisa, rubbing her chin. “They’re all in on it. I bet Group A is, too. Just one big joke to play on us.”

“That doesn’t sound like something any of them would do,” said Emma. “Aside from Fie, but she’s the one who knew her from before the school year started. Why would she go along with it?”

“There’s no harm in a good natured joke between friends,” said Gaius, chuckling. “It’s pretty clever, if it is one. If it isn't, I think we still win in the end.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t seriously think that the dictionary definition of ‘future spinster’ and ‘lecherous lush’ we’ve been living with for months is some kind of living legend superhero bracer only Rean and Laura have ever heard of, do you?” groaned Alisa, the exact moment that Instructor Sara, as if summoned like a demon, walked into the Vesta Street former guildhouse. “And what kind of name is ‘Purple Lightning’? It sounds ridiculous!”

“Yeah, you don’t get to choose your own; it grew on me, though.” Instructor Sara smiled and waved at the four of them. “Heyyy, how are we all feeling tonight? Good? Existentially confused and exhausted? Polishing up those critical thinking skills?”

“All of the above,” said Jusis. “Is it true or not? Are you actually, sincerely, secretly competent as recognized by an international peacekeeping and monster hunting organization?”

“Sure am.” Instructor Sara reached into her jacket and tossed a tiny little notebook to Emma. “Just check the front; back’s off limits.”

“It has her name in it,” confirmed Emma, handing it back to Instructor Sara. “I think she’s telling the truth.”

“Why would you keep this a secret in the first place, Instructor Sara?” asked Gaius.

“Aha! Well, see…” Instructor Sara cleared her throat and set her hands on her hips. “That is a different secret, and no I will not be taking any further questions at this time.”

Chapter Text

Inhale for five, exhale for five. Five in, five out. Towa would admonish herself later for allowing her mind to wander in the middle of the day. Fumbling over thoughts that she knew would send her spiraling, but she kept returning to, because she couldn’t help herself. Her brain did not always listen to her, even though she absolutely knew what was best!

“Are you okay?” asked Angelica, her eyes wide; likely because Towa was slightly hyperventilating. But only a little! “Towa, you look like you’re going to pop, and not in a fun or cute way.”

“It’s nothing; I’m fine!” Towa forced a chuckle and continued her breathing exercises. Was it inhale and push out the stomach, or exhale and—ugh, which was it? “It’s just an anxiety attack. I get these a lot.”

“Would a hug help?”

“Uhm…” Towa briefly balanced the risk and reward ratio, and then threw that thought in the garbage because of course hugs would help you, dummy! “Yes.”

Angie scooped her up in an extra tight hug, and while Towa’s heart rate didn’t plummet back to normal, it did slow. A little. Enough to make a difference. To make it all feel more manageable.

Chapter Text

Tactical Orbments were uniquely attuned to the individual; Rean had learned that years before he’d gotten to Thors. His dad had explained that each one resonated with a person’s soul, down to the tiniest piece, all working in harmony.

Rean hadn’t had any idea how much truth there was to that, but it was the sight of a broken orbment, the tiny clockwork and quartz shattered into sparkling shards across Crow’s bloodied dying body that convinced him dad was right.

And, in hindsight, that his father was wrong.

Even if Rean were to put it back together again, repair it perfectly, he would never again be able to see it glow with life. Crow was gone. There would be no more resonance for either of them. No more brushing up against the other’s mind and ridiculous secrets that weren’t so ridiculous the more you thought about them.

Crow was gone.

Chapter Text

Crow’s fingers fumbled on the neck of the guitar. Rusty. Four years? Five? It was one of the few things he let slip about where he might be from, way back when. Rock. He called it northern rock, but really it was the Jurai style. A ‘mistake’. He’d shrugged it off as ‘something he heard in Raquel’, and it had worked on everyone. Even those it shouldn’t have.

“Getting back into it?” asked Angelica, sitting down next to him. “If memory serves, you always bragged about ‘magic fingers’.”

“I bragged out of mutual respect, ‘Gelica.” Crow glared at his own, stupid fingers, his placement completely off and just—did he only think he knew how to play? “I think I might’ve lost my muscle memory here.”

“I doubt it. What’s the song?”

“You haven’t heard of it.”

“I might’ve.”

“It’s an old one my grandfather loved—well, maybe not loved so much as he got what it was about.” Crow snorted and smirked at Angelica. “It’s called ‘Salted Land’. I’ll give you two guesses why it’s called that but you’re only gonna need one.”

“I’ve never heard it played, but I’ve heard the melody hummed in Instructor Sara’s sleep.”

“Okay.” Crow frowned. Kinda had to ask. “Why were you watching her sleep, ‘Gelica?” he asked, monotone, routine. Rote. “It is truly a mystery.”

“It’s not—” Angelica crossed her arms and pouted. “She dozed off at her desk in the faculty office! I swear! I only stayed because the song was so—” She scowled and snatched the guitar from Crow and proceeded to, absolutely perfectly, play the chorus of ‘Salted Land’. “It’s good, okay? I like it.”

“Yeah. It’s good.” Crow snickered. “We should start a band!”

“We did start a band.”

“Oh, yeah.” Crow scratched his head. “We should start another band.”

Chapter Text

Randy knew why it kept happening. Those ‘close calls’ with the Purple Lightning weren’t staged, but they also weren’t totally real, either. Their dads hated each other, and smart money was that their kids should follow suit. They didn’t.

They really didn’t.

“You’re limping.” Randy shouldered Berzerker tighter, the sight squarely on Sara’s center mass, arcs of violet electricity obscuring her, even if his eyes were on hers. Hurt a little that her eyes and her gun were both on his head. “Almost didn’t recognize your gait. Coulda killed you there.”

“Gareth missed again.” Sara’s face went slack, the paleness of her skin becoming more obvious for about half a second. Yeah, he didn’t quite miss. “I’m starting to take it personally.”

“He already has. You’re hurting his rep when you breathe.”

“You want me to stop?”

“Nope.” Randy closed his mouth because he said that way too fast. “Keeps him motivated.”

“You still suck at lying.” Sara narrowed her eyes. “Three.”

“Two.”

“One.”

Randy and Sara, in unison, lowered their weapons. One fewer person they both had to kill. It was a tiny bright spot for Randy, but he honestly had no idea what it was like for Sara. It wasn’t an occupation for her. It never had been.

“You’re buying this time.” Sara took a very deep breath, the expansion of her lungs so much more pronounced than it should be. There was so little of her there. Mostly bone. “Been a bad fiscal quarter.”

“Still underage.” Randy smiled, a big one, and it was infectious enough for Sara to return it. “But I can give it a shot.”

Chapter Text

“See? What’d I say? This is barely a wedding.” Sara snickered, her cheeks already rosy from what sure tasted a lot like rosé as Randy led her through a loose variation on a waltz. “It’s a ‘sorry we were big jerks about you always being right’ banquet that happens to have a wedding in it.”

“Is that why you decided to wear something that got dunked into a tub of Mishy Mint?” Randy smiled down at her for a full two seconds before he apparently decided that, yeah, that needed some elaboration. “It’s a branded ice cream flavor. Looks exactly like that dress.”

“Says the guy not even wearing a suit.”

“I’m wearing a tie. That’s at least half a suit.”

“It’s more like a quarter. At most a third. Whatever. Hey, that had better be a good ice cream flavor.” Sara raised a brow. “Or were you trying to say I was a sellout?”

“Oh, you’re absolutely a sellout, but nah, that’s just my favorite flavor.” Randy flashed her a wink. “It’s got the perfect balance of sharp freshness and chunky chocolate chips.”

“Uh huh. I’m the sellout.” Sara sputtered into a laugh. “How much did they pay you to advertise at the Imperial wedding?!”

“Enough for my gut instinct to immediately circle all the way back to ‘do not ever tell Sara’.”

“Randy, stop it. Imperialism saved the day, remember?” Sara shrugged and continued smiling, because it was true. Whatever mixed feelings she had about didn’t matter because nobody was starving anymore. “That’s sweet of you, though.”

“You’re really telling me that if I threw out some insane, disgusting number, it wouldn’t bother you?”

“That’s always gonna happen no matter what. Doesn’t matter if it makes sense anymore.” Sara grabbed his hands and set them back in their proper place for a waltz. “I can lead if you want, but something tells me that’d make things that much harder for Schera.”

“Yeah, good call.” Randy stood up straighter, and began to lead properly. “It’s all still a bunch of bullshit, though,” he whispered. “We really shouldn’t be here, y’know?”

“You and me specifically?”

“Yeah.”

“I used to think about it like that. Went through a whole slew of answers and painful rationalizations.” Sara smiled. ”Turns out, the biggest part of the solution was Fie.”

“Makes sense.” Randy chuckled. “Doesn’t really help me out so much, though.”

“You are welcome to file a request at your earliest convenience if you are in need of assistance. If you ask for me by name, I’m a lot more likely to—”

“I get it; shut up.”

The guilt, of what they’d done, what they’d become infamous for, family business or not, would never fade for either of them, but almost all of that self-hatred certainly had. And that was kinda nice. Gehenna slips away, and life latches on. Holds you close and doesn’t let go.

And maybe makes a bunch of stupid jokes that were just too fun not to laugh at.

Chapter Text

Sara woke up first. Randy roused about five minutes later. They’d been out for a few hours; nothing too bad. Fie should’ve been next, but nope. No one else stirred. Not for days that felt like weeks.

That was more a waking nightmare far greater than the existential horror they were already dealing with. Eryn would be a cutesy place if it didn’t house the currently comatose bodies of her kids and also Rean’s kids.

And not Rean. Or Millium. Or Musse. Or Ash. Or…Crow, but that was even more complicated.

“They’ll wake up,” said Randy. “They’re tough kids. All of ‘em. I’ve seen plenty of that myself.”

“I know they will, but it won’t be at the same time.” Sara buried her head in her hands. “What the hell do we tell them when they do? How many times am I going to have to re-traumatize my kids? And Rean’s kids?”

“We could trade off. Take shifts. You don’t have to do this one alone, Sara.”

“I know.” Sara sat up and offered Randy a sad, exhausted smile. “Thanks, but this one’s gotta be me. Okay?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Fie woke up next. Then Gaius. Laura. Emma. Elliot. Jusis. Machias. Alisa. Then, New Class VII. It didn’t get easier, but those who were awake all delivered the horrible news together to whoever roused next. And in that way, it wasn’t quite as agonizing as it could have been.

Still hurt like hell, though. Randy’d never had to deliver KIA notices to worried families as a kid. Sara had. Too many times. She had experience. She could take it.

Sara could always take it.

Chapter Text

The iron golem kneeling before Lianne was unlike the others she had fought in the trial. It glowed as bright as the moon even though they were deep beneath her home. It had spoken to her mind; it had asked if she desired power. The question itself—she had power, yet she found herself wanting more, even still.

There was so much suffering and foolishness in Erebonia, and likely every other country on the continent as well. The solution was a simple and brutal one, but fair all the same. The only thing holding so many of the same mind back was the lack of power.

In an instant, Lianne understood exactly the kind of weapon Argreion was and how to use it. It rivaled the Goddess herself. Lianne could take to the sky and enact justice, throw caution to the wind itself, from far above the clouds on those who evaded it in every corner of the continent. She could…

Be a prophet of Aidios. Act on her behalf, as she was so often absent. Do what needed to be done. What was necessary for everlasting peace and—

“Put it back,” whispered Lianne, the words falling out of her mouth unevenly. “I have changed my mind. Put it back.”

“That is not how this is done, Lady Sandlot.” Roselia set her hand on her shoulder. “You are the Argent Knight’s Awakener.”

“It has made a grave error, then.” Lianne shook her head and averted her eyes from the…eyes of that damnable thing. Wings of a devil shining resplendent to trick those more gullible. “Please seal the door with your magic. This is too much power—” For me. “For humanity to be trusted with. We will exploit it.”

“I am not trusting humanity. I am trusting you, Lady Sandlot. And Argeion has chosen you, as well, for it believes you are worthy of that power.”

“Your trust is flattering, but misplaced. It is of no consequence. This is my family’s ancestral home. If I wish a door to be closed…” Lianne turned to glare at the massive chamber that Argreion was kneeling in. “Then it shall close.” The massive red, ornate door shuddered to life and, mercifully, began to close as Lianne did not take her eyes off of the monster’s until it was sealed behind the unbreakable door.

I will be waiting, my Awakener, for the day when you are ready to accept my power. Together, there is no foe we cannot fell, no castle we cannot claim, and nothing we cannot accomplish.

Lianne paled as she stared at the red interlocking sigil on the door. She did not dare respond. The truth would not change.

There was no escape.

Chapter Text

“Hunting the local wildlife, yes even monsters, for food is an imperative pillar of battlefield survival,” said Sara, tossing a rope over the branch of a rather tall oak. “You have no idea if you’re going to get cut off from your unit, or your deployment. You could end up behind enemy lines at any moment, so you need to know how to stay alive long enough to regroup or exfiltrate.”

“What about guerrilla warfare?” asked Fie. “You skipped that.”

“I didn’t skip it, Fie. That’s not what we’re talking about today, and if you’re alone, no, don’t do that. Ever.” Sara shook her head. “You will get yourself killed. Operating without your unit is bad. In fact—” She raised two fingers. “Again. What’re the two dumbest things you can do in war?”

“Be a lone wolf,” droned all of Class VII, except Crow, who was, again, very late. “And try to be a hero.”

“Mhmm.” Sara grinned. “Watch and behold as our volunteer demonstrates how that might play out in real life! Be amazed at how rigid military doctrine falls apart with one step in the wrong direction!”

“Hey, sorry, Teach—” Crow didn’t even get a chance to voice an excuse for why he was late before he was caught in the snare trap and hanging upside down from the tree. “I take it back. I’m not sorry at all.”

“Crap. That was actually meant for Neithardt.” Sara looked up at Crow, setting her hands on her hips and smiling. “Sorry, Crow. Guess I timed it out wrong. Or maybe Neithardt’s taking a leak. You okay?”

“I’m hanging upside down like a rabbit!”

“A fair and valid point. Will you be okay if I let you help me do this right?” Sara wiggled her brows. “Eh? Ehhh?”

“Absolutely.”

“Attaboy!”

Chapter Text

Olivier had only seen the phenomenon once before, but he knew, he’d always known, of course, that it was an occurrence that could potentially happen anywhere at any time without warning. The near-mythical chain reaction confession of love was a perfect storm of reciprocity and adoration. And then, it happened again.

Mueller would never believe him.

“I think I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do about it!” yelled Estelle, directly into Kloe’s face before burying her face in her hands. “Crap, why did I say that?! Ugh!”

Olivier wasn’t going to say anything but Schera’s hand was already over his mouth.

“I love you, too, Estelle,” said Kloe, without a trace of irony or even a blush. Good Goddess, did she already know?! “I’ll admit, I’m a little surprised that you said anything at all. Don’t you have feelings for Joshua first?”

“That’s what’s so confusing about the whole thing! I still have those. And ones for you.” Estelle blinked and peaked out from behind her hands. “Wait, you—”

“Yes.”

“And Joshua—”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Okay. Wow.” Estelle blushed and rubbed her arm. “Aidios, this is gonna get super awkward if he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“I’m confident he does.” Kloe smiled. “Of course, we’ll need to—”

“Wait, sorry, I wasn’t done.” Estelle cleared her throat and scratched the back of her head. “Uhm. So…”

“How long is this list, Estelle?”

“It’s just one more, I swear! Seriously, hand on…” Estelle’s head snapped towards the door as Anelace walked inside with that ever present glowing smile. “My heart.”

“Woah, you two look smitten!” Anelace giggled. “What’s going on? What’d I miss?”

“Very much and yet very little,” said Kloe. “All good things, though.”

“That sounds super ominous, but also fun? In a weird sort of way?”

“You’re going to give Joshua a heart attack,” offered Olivier. “Be very careful—”

“If I wanted love advice from you, Olivier, I’d talk to Schera,” said Estelle, smirking at him. “He’ll be fine.” She turned to Schera. “Right? He’ll be fine?”

“He loves you,” said Schera. “Everything will be fine.”

“Yeah. Duh, yeah. Obviously. Cool. Great. Thank you.” Estelle wrapped her arm around Anelace. “So, uh…” She froze up and all of her confidence melted away in an instant. “Kloe, please help me. I have no idea what I’m doing and I don’t know why I did. I’m stuck!”

Chapter Text

A living legend raised her blade, and a rising myth rose to meet them in the dead of night. Knighted rays of gold dismissed inherited silver light; sparks of the blazing comet aspiring to stardom and the eternal full moon the only torches in the darkness.

Every strike told Rixia a disgusting story. Aurelia wanted everything Rixia hated about her life and her legacy. Aurelia wouldn't stop until she’d taken Rixia’s ‘immortality’ from her severed head. The contract for Aurelia’s was her own creation.

The perfect opportunity to retire; she’d delayed far too long.

Rixia’s mask fell.

Aurelia’s aspirations followed.

Chapter Text

“Fate isn’t as omniscient a force as it presents itself to be. There are times when it needs to be thrown a bone or two to maintain the ‘proper’ flow of events.” Ein scoffed and leaned back in her captain’s chair, rolling her lit cigarette in her fingers. “That arbitrary, improper balance of nonsense needs to be upheld. Eternally.” She took a drag and gave Rufina a flat, tired look. “It is all the will of the Goddess, you must understand. Her plan for us all needs to have its holes plugged by mere mortals.”

“I completely understand.” Rufina offered her a far too knowing smile. “However, I do not actually believe changing your name to an older parlance equivalent of ‘one’ as a result of you manifesting the Stigma of the First Dominion has anything to do with that.”

“I choose to believe that it does, and thus Aidios owes me a minor boon.”

“I’m sure she would be in complete agreement; perhaps if you wrote the Pope a letter, he could pass on the message for you.” Rufina’s smile softened. “Ein, your penchant for sacrilege would be charming if I didn’t need to constantly consult a dozen texts to confirm whether or not you are making a joke.”

“A blessing in disguise with far fewer strings attached. It gives you an excuse to slowly memorize the entirety of the Septian canon, as well as the litany of apocrypha, Rufina.” Ein chuckled. “I wasn’t entirely kidding. She owes us all something, though not necessarily for that.”

“We do clean up quite a bit of her mess,” hummed Rufina, tilting her head. “I think it is safe to say that we deal with almost all of it.”

“Glorified housekeepers, butlers, gardeners, dishwashers, and maids, each and every one of us.” Ein exhaled smoke through her nose. “How is a supposed deity to compensate for that?”

“With kindness, patience, and forgiveness,” answered Rufina, without the slightest hint of hesitation. “As exactly as it should be.”

“Yes.” Ein’s smile grew and grew, her eyes lighting up a little. “You’re right; of course.”

Chapter Text

Elie was both exasperated and entirely unsurprised to discover that, while she and so many others had done the impossible, that Crossbell had been freed forevermore, the diet still gravitated towards legislation that wasn’t in the average citizen’s best interest. In fact, many of the proposed laws would only make things worse. Much closer to what it was before they’d broken the shackles of suzerainty.

Perhaps it was ignorance, or simple short-sighted greed, but all the same it was exhausting. Weeks of debate and negotiation were expected, of course, though she’d hoped, somewhat naively, that those discussions would be between two mostly positive options that pushed towards greater reform.

What got her through the hardest, most agonizing, and infuriating of days were two inextricable thoughts. A reminder that the barriers she was now facing were the ones she’d aspired to fight, so long ago. And, equally importantly, that there was room for negotiation. Grandfather was given ample room to speak and debate, and more than half of his words were her own.

There was, in fact, a third thought. The first two made it all manageable, but the final one inspired her to keep pushing further.

“I don’t know how you stay positive with that every single day. Heck, I don’t even get how you’re enjoying it,” gaped Alisa, her bright red eyes widening as Elie parted from Grandfather following another four hour debate with the Crossbell diet. “They give you a platform to talk but they really don’t even listen. I think I’d just start throwing money into the air after a week because that’s about as equally likely to work.”

“That tactic has definitely crossed my mind when everyone starts talking in circles. Though, I don’t think most would assume it was attempted bribery, but rather ‘making a point’.” Elie smiled. “I never expected to enjoy it outside of making forward progress; I have mostly you to thank for that, Alisa.”

“You’re enjoying fighting tooth and nail for every single rege of progressive reform because of me?” Alisa screwed up her face and averted her eyes for a few seconds. “Elie, half the time I’m with you I feel like all I do is whine about work.”

“You don’t whine; you share your life, which is the opposite of a bad thing. You are endlessly intriguing and insightful, after all. And…” Elie beamed. “Whenever I feel myself losing sight of the bigger picture, I think of you. And how I could be trying to win a debate with my father and his theoretical army of Yes Men.”

“I thought you said your dad was a spineless loser.”

“I did. He is. That’s what would make it so much more difficult.”

“Wow.” Alisa snickered into a loud laugh. “Look at that! Mother accidentally had a positive effect on someone for once. ‘It could be worse; at least I’m not dealing with Irina Reinford’.” She pinched her brow and grinned, slowing to a chuckle. “Guess she’d eventually have to be good for something, right? Y’know, the law of averages and all that.”

“I said I think of you, not her.” Elie took her hand and, still feeling more than a little giddy from that long of an extended debate, kissed her. “Hers are not the efforts I find inspiring, Alisa.”

Chapter Text

“Alright, great job, kids!” Instructor Sara nudged the potential terrorist’s head with her boot as he wriggled underneath Airgetlam’s massive bulk. “That’s one less to worry about in Lamare.” She beamed down at him and set her hands on her hips. “Now, watch and listen closely. It’s time to drill him for info.”

“Time to what?” asked Jusis. “You’ll need to repeat that, Instructor.”

“Drill.” Instructor Sara raised a brow at him. “Y’know, drill down into his brain and scoop out the information?”

“Instructor, I believe the turn of phrase is grill him,” said Emma. “We’re going to grill him for information.”

“What? No, it’s not.”

“I believe it is,” said Laura, smiling a bit uncomfortably as she checked on the restrained terrorist. “If you’ll just give us a moment…”

“It totally is,” giggled Millium. “It’s grill.”

“I’ve heard the same,” added Gaius. “Sorry, Instructor.”

“That’s, uh…” Instructor Sara’s face, for a split second, drained of all color. “Okay, I guess I’ve been saying it wrong my whole life. Wow.”

“Is that really so surprising?” asked Jusis. “It fits rather well with the rest of what we’ve seen you do with your life.”

Millium broke out into a loud belly laugh while Laura, Emma, and Gaius clearly swallowed their own amusement.

“Pbbbth.” Instructor Sara snickered into a somehow even louder laugh, and clutched her stomach. “Oh, man. Yeah, I must sound like an idiot! Whew. Thanks, I needed a good laugh.”

“You did?” Jusis raised his brows. “You’re…welcome, I suppose?”

Chapter Text

Musse had realized far too late that being forward for the sake of keeping everyone at a safe and healthy distance made it extremely difficult to actually get close to anyone on purpose. They would see her, yes, and her ‘advances’, and file them away as the same as all the rest. A tease. A joke. A quirk of who she was as a person.

Her feelings and desires were, in essence, invisible and unintentionally ignored. If she pushed harder, more explicitly, would anyone believe her? Or had she doomed herself to eternal isolation? The only way to test any of that was to risk far too much.

“Hey, Musse? You look really out of it.” Juna set half of her sandwich, the one she hadn’t bitten into yet, on Musse’s plate. “There we go. Gotta keep that energy up!”

“Thank you.” Musse took a bite of the sandwich and instantly felt quite a bit better, as she had neglected breakfast in favor of rumination. Which was foolish, she knew that. “I need to make a more concerted effort to eat.”

“Yeah, you forget to do that sometimes.” Juna tore into her sandwich. “Oh, hey! What if—”

“Please cover your mouth when chewing, Juna.”

“Sorry, yeah. My bad,” said Juna, behind her hand, still chomping away. “What if you just followed me around when it gets kinda close to breakfast, lunch, and dinner? I never forget to eat, so neither would you! And I can just keep throwing food on your plate.”

“An interesting idea.” Musse blinked and held her tongue. If she leveraged the unintentional ‘breakfast’ insinuation, then she’d likely sour the entire offer. Unacceptable. The more time she had with Juna, the more opportunities she would have to discern how to break through. “That sounds wonderful! I’d love that.”

“Great!” Juna swallowed and raised a brow. “Huh. Wait, how would we time breakfast, though?”

“That one is simple.” Musse uttered no less than forty double-entendres inside her head for her own sanity. “You could send me a message on your ARCUS when you wake up.”

“But what if you’re not—”

“I will be awake, Juna. I would not dare miss a single meal with you.”

Chapter Text

The bruises were gone by the time Altina woke up. She still felt his fingers on her throat, her first gasp of air as she opened her eyes one of panic. Terror. She couldn’t move, some sort of paralysis, as she watched him struggle with her windpipe.

That angry, desperate, frustrated face failing to strangle her. For minutes. Darkness didn’t close in; it leaked into her field of view, but he was perfectly centered, so the last thing Altina almost ever saw was him. Grinning, as he finally mustered the strength to crush her neck with his sweaty, shivering hands.

Chapter Text

Wazy was accustomed to ‘no’.

Every curiosity was met with concern and ‘no, you cannot learn more’. No, it’s forbidden to study the sacred tablet. No, you can’t wear that. No, this is our way. No, we’re no longer family. No, this is not your home.

Even aboard the ‘Merkabah’, he continued asking questions.

“You are entitled to every answer. Never forget that,” said Carnelia, an odd smile on her face. “Ask; if I don’t know something, I’ll find those who do.”

Wazy was accustomed to ‘no’; he’d never considered what he wanted to know.

A good problem to have.

Chapter Text

Randy normally liked being Gareth’s spotter, even though the better shot was supposed to do that. He was a calm, relaxing guy. Helping him taught Randy a lot! He’d tried to get out of it when dad said they were ‘pulling a fast one on those uppity Northern Jaegers’, but his training wasn’t done.

It was a trap; subcontract dropouts to lure them into a killzone of fortified bunkers. Ambush forces them to hide and then they’re boxed in. Surrender, or die. Except Randy knew, so his dad knew, and everyone else knew, that the Northern Jaegers couldn’t really surrender.

Randy hoped he’d get lucky and the deployment wasn’t Sara’s. She was cool. He didn’t get lucky, but she did look kinda cool as a full-fledged jaeger working side by side with a guy that was kinda bulky and tall and baby faced. Even if they were both mostly bone.

“The colonel’s daughter is a strong opening move,” said Gareth, edging closer to the edge of the cliff, his rifle secured by his shoulder and the bipod. “Psychological warfare is equally important, Young Master. What can be done to enhance the effect?”

“Two-for-one?” stammered Randy, before he could stop himself. Crap, he was watching her through the spotter scope and now she was gonna die. “Or maybe a warning shot? Those are cool.”

“There are no warning shots for those who do not miss.” Gareth adjusted his scope. “You were correct. The jaeger obscuring her; one shot for two confirmed kills. Go ahead, Young Master.”

Randy calculated wrong on purpose; he couldn’t do it. The rifle cracked next to him and Randy paled as he watched the taller kid’s head all but crumble along with his body. Sara didn’t fall with him; she was still standing, half-frozen in shock, blood flowing down the side of her head—lead haircut—before running back into the bunker.

“I accounted for your ‘mistake’, Young Master.” Gareth didn’t take his eyes off of the scope. “I cannot account for Aidios.”

Randy didn’t try to lie again. The Northern Jaegers didn’t win; didn’t lose.

They just survived.

Chapter Text

Lechter debated if it was feasible for him to intervene when Bloody Shirley was brazen enough to jump the MacDowell kid. Orders were to ensure the Red Constellation remained happy and prepped. No hiccups before the Trade Conference.

‘The future and safety of the continent is dependent on your success, Scarecrow’.

The seconds ticked by, and Lechter realized that the SSS likely couldn’t break it up. Not legally. The visual metaphor hit him in the face harder than most things ever had once it clicked, though he was absolutely thinking too hard about it. More of a Claire thing to ruminate on.

Crossbell couldn’t defend itself. Crossbell had no real autonomy. Crossbell couldn’t say ‘no’ to anybody who would listen, Lechter included.

“Picked these up while I was in Crossbell,” said Lechter, dropping a sealed envelope into Claire’s hands from above. “I figured you might want to see them again.”

“You’re not one for gifts. What did you do?” Claire opened the envelope and her brightening eyes darkened as she snapped her head to scowl at him. “Lechter. What did you do?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

Claire grilled him for an hour before she agreed that he was clearly already torturing himself.

Chapter Text

Sara always believed that Arios was the biggest workaholic in the guild, outpacing even Cassius and herself. They all had similar work ethics, sure, but in terms of obsession? Sara couldn’t match him no matter how hard she worked. Cassius retired, aaaand then Arios did his grand reveal, which meant Sara really was the top dog in those respects.

Her record was perfect. Never failed a request, never turned one down, and never delivered anything that wasn’t above and beyond. If there was a request, and it was legal, she would accept it and complete it. No exceptions.

As Sara pushed herself up off of the ground, the crumbling stonework of the floor below her stained with sweat, blood, and scraps of torn clothing, she began to regret that reputation she’d spent her entire adult life cultivating. She caught her breath, re-tied her hair into a tighter bun, and asked the heavens who gave Aurelia this damned idea?!

“You have no right to complain after accepting contractual work voluntarily, Purple Lightning,” said Aurelia, wiping off her blade with a cloth, a single hair out of place and a drop of sweat falling down her cheek. “Two minutes is an improvement; we are both gaining much from this arrangement.”

“Oh, we are? Wow, how generous of you. You are still paying the guild an exorbitant amount to pummel me into the dirt every other day.” Sara gave her a flat look and sighed. “Y’know, if Arios wasn’t a single father I’d ask him to sub in for a day, but you just might cripple him, so nope. Not doing that.”

“Your opinion of me has soared, I see.” Aurelia smirked. “There is a finite limit to your reputation; think of this as a test. You, who always rises once more, and myself, who has yet to fall. ”

“This is so stupid. I don’t even need the money anymore.” Sara buried her face in her hands. “I hate my work ethic!”

“You are no prisoner.” Aurelia hefted her blade over her shoulder. “Tarnish your record and fail.”

“I hate you so much.”

Chapter Text

“You’ve got an exception?” Randy screwed up his face and leaned towards Sara, resting his arm on the bar and studying her skin to make sure it wasn’t a mask with a poke to her cheek. “No way. That’s bullshit. ‘No more killing’ is never again. No exceptions.”

“It’s a non-issue; they died about a month after I made that promise to myself,” grumbled Sara, gulping down the rest of her beer. “Do the math, Randy-Dandy.”

“Could yah stop calling me that? It sounds ridiculous.”

“I will as soon as I get a cool nickname, Randy-Dandy.” Sara flashed him a grin and a wink. “Do. The. Math.”

“Alright. Fine.” Randy did that math. 1198. What else happened in—oh. “Balmund? Prince Balmund?”

“Bingo.” Sara shot him a finger gun. “If I’d seen him on the street, or even after I joined the guild, not even a question. Wouldn’t turn myself in, either. He’d simply vanish from the face of the continent, and nothing of value would be lost.” She sighed. “Not like he was human, anyway.”

“Woah.” Randy shivered and raised his brows. “That’s…dark, Sara.”

“He left us to die, Randy. He made sure we would.” Sara looked at Randy’s drink for a moment before snatching it up and downing it. “Nothing needed to be as bad as it was. Nowhere near as much. If not for him.”

“Wait…” Randy narrowed his eyes. “Are you playing this up so I’ll come up with a nickname faster? Because it sure as hell sounds like it.”

“Huh?” Sara snorted into a short laugh. “Yeah, you got me.” She raised her palms. “Playin’ it way up.” She cleared her threat. “So…”

“Sorry.” Randy shrugged. “Still got nothin’.”

“Suit yourself, Randy-Dandy.”

“That one’s kinda growin’ on me.”

“I know, right?” Sara smiled. “Thought the same.”

Chapter Text

Anything

McBurn had forgotten how fragile humans were. How everyone was one mistake from being snuffed out. No matter how badass or smart they were, a regular ol’ human wasn't invulnerable.

Nothin’ regular about Loewe. Died anyway.

His flames, his passion, his grief, were limitless. His power unknowable and absolute. Immortal, un-aging, and eternally wandering towards something nobody left alive took seriously.

Nothing was beyond McBurn! Campy said so.

Everything burns when you get hot enough. Mountains. Time. Oceans. Causality. Tornadoes. Steel. Earthquakes. All had ignition points. Even death would turn to ash.

Even death.

Even death.

Even. Death.

Even…

Death.

Chapter Text

“If only we had more of you, Rixia,” mused Ilya, landing seamlessly from a twenty-arge pitch tuck. “Not that the troupe is incapable, but it would be more thematically evocative.”

“I am, unfortunately, an only child.” Rixia smiled; another use for Yin. “We’ll have to settle with stagecraft for the illusion.”

“Yes, that is what the audience will believe.” Ilya raised her brows. “Or, does this not translate to your plethora of…underutilized talents?”

“I can do it.” Rixia chuckled. “It’s never been done before.”

“We’re going to find a use for all of it, all of you, I promise.”

Chapter Text

To Claire, clearing one’s mind was divine intervention. Mental imagery and conceptual connections blanketed by the darkness of a void; serenity incited by absence. There was always more to consider, ruminate, and obsess. Always more.

Liquor failed, its efficacy diluted. Exercise improved focus. ‘Venting’ and fishing? Inconsistent. Books and music created momentum.

“I know that look.” Sara kissed her, cupping her cheek and smiling into her lips, eyes so radiant, so present. A gordian knot of chaos and joy. “C’mere, I’ve got just the thing…”

In a fairy tale, Sara would be enough.

In reality, Sara was more than enough.

Chapter Text

Claire roused in a very large, unfamiliar bed, the covers firmly tucked in hospital corners. Her headache was minor, at best, though she couldn’t quite recall—oh. Oh, Aidios, she needed to be far more careful with her conversation partners at formal events…

“Sharon has already laundered your clothes and prepared you coffee,” droned Irina from the doorway, impassive and apathetic. “You have three minutes to leave the building before she physically removes you.” She frowned. “You were…adequate.”

The door to the bedroom closed before Claire could respond. Reinford penthouse. How—it didn’t matter. Nothing would come of it, and she had no desire to seek further…anything. An inebriated mistake. Thankfully, not one of many.

It took Claire a few moments to wrestle herself free of the tightly tucked covers—no doubt Sharon’s doing, which created far more questions she did not want answered, and noted that her clothes were indeed folded and perfectly organized on the dresser.

Best to leave and forget all of this ever happened.

Claire did not make it halfway through the large open-concept living room, the massive windows overlooking Roer as dawn began to break, before she was discovered. Alisa, still in her pajamas did a triple take that transitioned into a mortified gape, cutting off whatever conversation she’d been having with Sharon beside her.

“Good morning.” Claire smiled as Sharon offered her a bow coupled with stifled giggling. “I assure you that I—”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to know.” Alisa rubbed her temples. “Just go.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t thank you enough, Cecile” Arios bent down to pull Shizuku into a tight hug, stroking her hair, a rare smile gracing his face. “You haven’t had a single dissatisfied moment while I was away, have you?” he asked Shizuku.

“Ms. Cecile doesn’t let me have those, father,” giggled Shizuku, grinning ear to ear, her eyes still fluttering closed. She could still see him, somewhat. “I don’t think hospitals are supposed to be fun, though…”

“You have no reason to feel guilty for taking joy in your life; you’ve done nothing to think twice about.”

“Oh, okay, then I wish everyone else got to have as much fun as me.”

“She’s being serious, Arios. Half the time she’s trying to get me to leave so I can give the rest of the patients on the floor the same kind of attention,” said Cecile, her smile so warm and stunning. Her eyes flickered with love and fury in that very same way Guy’s always had. “It’s flattering, and I’d take her up on it if she wasn’t the most adorable girl I’d ever met!”

“Even so, again, thank you,” said Arios. “I will never be able to repay you for… all of this.”

“You don’t have to. It’s my job.” Cecile smiled somehow wider. “I rarely get to enjoy it as much as I do with Shizuku. That’s more than enough, really.”

Affection was a spark. Infatuation a blaze. Love, a wildfire that necessitated great care.

Arios knew that pursuing anything with Cecile would be his second greatest betrayal of Guy, yet he could swear he could hear his old partner giggling off in the distance, encouraging him to ‘go for it’ and ‘see what happens’. As that is what Guy would say. It is what Guy would think.

Guy Bannings had been one of the singularly most clever and tenacious individuals in history, recorded or otherwise. He had uncovered impossible secrets grasping at the least existent of straws. He knew people to their core after the first five minutes of meeting them.

That did not mean he was always right.

Chapter Text

The malicious and deafening melody echoing inside of Claire’s skull stumbled through several bars; an orchestra collapsing with the stage. Each note vanished with another, compounding, until there was, mercifully…

Silence.

Literal peace of mind.

From peace came hope; the sky was so blue and her body barely broken. That black, cackling, impotent tar had fled to its crumbling body a few selge below, the abomination screaming and whining.

Her hands could not close on her gun, even as she rose one more time, taking Lechter with her, banishing the pain. Her ARCUS sparked at her hip, the glow faint but present. Lechter’s did, too. Both flickered, like a lamp struggling to breathe.

“We can’t help them, Claire,” grumbled Lechter, dazed. “We can barely move.”

“You’re wrong. It’s not too late.” Claire shouldered Lechter’s weight and, rejecting her body’s screeching muscles, walked. “We can still join their chorus of rage.”

Chapter Text

Schera may have fallen in love with a fool. She’d seen it coming. She’d done her own and Olivier’s readings, and so many others, and still fell for him. She could have walked away at any point, but she didn’t want to. There was something else going on behind those eyes that were otherwise honest and truly seeking only love, yes.

It could wait, because she was more interested in getting the rest of his clothes off, and enjoying the few moments of peace her life had to offer—

“Ms. Harvey, I apologize for the intrusion, but I am under strict orders by the Erebonian Embassy to not allow Olivier out of my sight,” announced Mueller, closing the door to the bedroom behind him despite the fact that its current occupants were essentially naked and very much busy. “Yes, that does include scenarios such as this.”

“No, it doesn’t.” Schera raised a brow at Mueller as Olivier giggled beneath her. “That sounds exactly like something he’d tell you to say.”

“That would be because it is,” grumbled Mueller. “I apologize for the ruse. He insisted.”

“Tragedy has struck!” gasped Olivier. “I have been made! If only there were a simple, easily accessible, and enjoyable way to alleviate all of this wonderful tension.”

“This isn’t helpful, Olivier. You can talk to me,” said Schera, flicking Olivier in the forehead. “Is this what you want, or is this what you need?”

“It is distinctly possible that we are straddling the line there more than is easily explained at the moment.”

“I don’t know why I believe you.” Schera glanced at Mueller, who nodded in agreement. “Love or duty?”

“Love,” they both said in unison, though Mueller all but mumbled it in exasperation while Olivier preached it from the heavens as much as one could while lying down in bed.

“Alright. In that case, we’re going to need far more…” Schera reached behind Olivier’s head, behind the headboard and produced a bottle of rum. “Alcohol and patience.”

Chapter Text

“How is your tolerance this low?” giggled Josette, almost shoving a very tipsy Estelle off of her butt and sprawling onto the exterior deck of the Bobcat II. “You’ve had one! One beer. Just the one. You’re cut off. You’ve had enough.”

“I wanna blame somebody for not training me in this but I think this is just me.” Estelle pouted and shoved Josette back, though not as much. “I don’t know. Is it that big a deaaaaaaal? What’m I missing, anyway? People drink and talk and drink and talk.” She opened and closed her hand to mimic ‘blah blah blah’. “And then they do things.”

“Estelle, your inhibitions are forever at zero,” teased Josette, grinning, what little wind that passed through the flight field flowing through their hair as the ship began to descend. “You don’t need alcohol to do whatever you want.”

“Oh, yeah? You think so?”

“It’s a scientifically proven faaaa—” Josette was cut off from both thoughts and words as Estelle all but tackled her to the deck, kissing her deeply. “Estelle what—you—you just—”

“No, I didn’t prove your point!” Estelle kissed her again. “I was totally already going to do that!”

Chapter Text

Sara had not aged well. Every injury and near scrape with death that she’d bounced back from since she was a kid caught up to her in tandem. Severe electrical burns were both ironic and apt, she figured. If she got knocked down again? She wasn’t getting back up.

Retirement seemed the obvious choice, and that was the plan. Ten more days and she was in the clear. Should've known she wasn't going to run out the clock.

“I’ve never refused or failed a request in forty years.” Sara set the thick sealed folder on the counter in front of Claire. “Grace all but begged me. Me, specifically.”

“Sara, you have read enough pulp novels to know this is a cliche.” Claire picked up the folder and studied the front, tensing at the written label. “A formal request?”

“It can’t be. Too many eyes and ears.” Sara sighed. “She said it was up to me.”

“You’ll always wonder the truth.” Claire broke the seal with a letter opener. “You’d always regret not knowing.”

“Won’t let me?”

“Never. That, and I will also always wonder.”

Chapter Text

“Excuse me. You’re the Icy Maiden, yes?”

“I am, though my duties are not socializing—ah.” Claire stood taller and smiled as Lucy slipped away from the conference floor towards the perimeter. “You must be Lucy. Lechter has lied to many that you were his inspiration to master hand-to-hand combat.”

“Knowing him, both parts of that were lies.”

“They were indeed, yes. Perhaps we could discuss something that is not a shared desire to see Lechter receive proper comeuppance?”

“Of course we can!” Lucy beamed. “Are you open to being hired as a temporary consultant for the CID?”

“If you are able to somehow manage to craft an offer without it being treasonous, I’m not averse to the idea, no.” Claire furrowed her brow. “Am I able to ask what this would be pertaining to?”

“You are. I need your help investigating whether or not the open bar is truly open, or if it's a cover for an international smuggling ring.”

“Do you?” Claire snorted into a laugh, unable to stop herself from smiling. “Credit where it is due; that is by far the best pick-up line I’ve ever heard.”

“I know.” Lucy leaned closer. “That’s because it both is and is not about asking you on a date, Major. We need to act quickly.”

“I genuinely can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“How lucky for you that the only way to find out for sure is to join me at the bar!”

Chapter Text

Claire deserved a far greater punishment than what had been dropped in her lap. On second thought, her grating frustration with the circumstances may have made this specific method of torture more than apt enough.

“This is my nightmare,” whispered Claire, her eyes hardening on the hand written note in her hand. “A puzzle with no actual solution.”

As part of a misguided and frankly agonizing attempt at a ‘perfect wedding gift’, Phantom Thief B had stolen His Highness Prince Olivert Reise Arnor, somehow both conceptually and literally, from the venue of his own nuptials.

The game was, unfortunately, afoot.

Chapter Text

“How much magic do you actually know, Egret?”

“A decent amount. Tragically, charm spells simply do not function as advertised.” Musse gave him a sidelong glance, smirking. “I’ve tested several extensively. There’s only a twelve-percent chance the spell will do anything beyond flustering the target.”

“That’s not magic. That’s just how you flirt,” snickered Ash. “Everyone’s so hot and bothered that they book it to the next town over.”

“Oh, not everyone. You haven’t.”

“I will if you break out the occult bullshit.”

“Truly?” Musse smiled, her eyes glowing. “I believe a proper test is in order.”

“Nope.”

“Oh, fine.”

Chapter Text

Eryn was still silent. The kids were still down. Six days and counting.

Sara tried to pull Randy up from the labyrinth floor; rehab together was smarter. Screwed it up and fell on top of him, her muscles screaming in tandem with her own silent panic. Not about him. Never him.

He’d caught her, her face in his chest. Heh. Why not? Tons of reasons.

It’d be easy. Warm and simple. Move her head, kiss him, undo his tie, his buttons, slip her hands behind his shirt. Really appreciate what wasn’t there before. So broad and big to match his goofy grin.

She almost did; bumped something. 

Box in his pocket. Small. Velvet.

“You’ve got the shittiest timing, Sara.”

“Story of my life.” Sara rolled off of him and wanted to punch herself in the face. “She’ll say yes.”

“What makes you say that?” Randy very clearly grasped the box in his pocket. Sheepish was an odd look for him. “You don’t even know her.”

“Easy.” Sara sat up and jabbed him in the arm. Loyal as they came. Anyone he’d pledge himself to would have to be damned amazing. “You’ve got great taste.”

“Screw you, Sara.”

“In another life.”

Chapter Text

Jusis knew that Rean would accept his selfish request. He always would. He also knew that it was all but impossible that Rean would think more deeply as to why Jusis did not want to entertain even the more agreeable of potential suitors.

It was not in his nature to interrogate the actions of others when they were so seemingly minute. Even the verbal slights thrown at Rean regarding his parentage seemed to fall on deaf ears. They were not subtle; Rean took them in stride, smiling wide and sincere.

Not due to the conversation, no. Rather, because he was helping Jusis even at the cost of his own dignity. Rean was better. He was always better. He’d always been better.

Jusis had abandoned Rean in a horde of sycophants and social climbers, and Rean truly did not care. He would always come back. 

He was simply a better man.

Chapter Text

Crow only truly hated one song.

A jazz piece by somebody he couldn’t remember, from a year he couldn’t remember, from a country he couldn’t remember. Just as scratchy on the radio as it was on records. He’d heard it a thousand times.

It was Vita’s favorite. 

It helped them both keep time as they worked together. Trained for the trial. Grew closer. He was just an angry barely-teenager and she seemed so worldly back then. She played it until the record broke.

Crow couldn’t stop humming it, even though all it did was remind him of everything he didn’t do. Every chance he didn’t take, even if he was so sure he’d have regretted them.

He made the right call. They both did. Mixing it all together was a bad idea. Terrible. Lame. Stupid. Fun. What they’d both really needed, right then. What they wouldn’t need soon after.

Crow didn’t love Vita. He’d never given himself the chance. She’d done the same. That damned song, though. The tempo and rhythm of it; even with the mask it felt nostalgic. Hummed it then, too.

Feelings were stupid.

How else do you explain regretting not doing something you knew you’d regret?

Chapter Text

“I’m not going to say yes until you ask me in a way that doesn’t feel like it's for the papers, Olivier,” whispered Schera, the glittering lights of Mishelam reflecting off of Lake Elm as the fireworks sprang to life above them. “Stand up. From the heart .”

Schera was the furthest thing from surprised when Olivier proposed on the deck of the Courageous II , just before the ‘end of the world’. He couldn’t keep a secret that truly terrified him, even if he should know better. Why would she say no? Why would she ever say no?

And this was why. He’d been so nervous he’d gotten it into his head that she needed a proper presentation. Likely something he’d been taught by his—oh. By his father . No, we won’t be starting a marriage on that foot. Absolutely not.

“Schera, my dearest—” Olivier stumbled over himself, sounding more like himself. A little. “This is the way to become engaged to be wed. I only wanted it to be perfect. You deserve nothing less.”

“Olivier…” Schera yanked him up to his feet and grabbed his cheeks. “How would your mother propose? What would she do if she was madly in love and wanted to spend the rest of her life with someone right in front of her?”

“Leave it to you to craft a hypothetical from which any and all innuendos would feel hollow.” Olivier smiled sadly and took a breath. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Schera kissed him and rested her hands on his chest. “Try again.”

“I prepared a speech. Do I need a speech?”

“You don’t need a speech, but I’ll read it later.”

“Alright.” Olivier chuckled, and Schera did, too. “This entire production seems so silly and redundant now.”

“And why is that?” Schera raised a brow, smirking. “Go on.”

“In what other way could we devote our lives to one another than how we already have? So many times and so long ago?” Olivier sniffled and smiled so wide it made Schera’s face hurt to match him. “I have some paperwork we need to fill out and I need your signature, Schera. Routine tax forms and property rights. Nothing too complex.”

“Are they in your cabin?”

“They are in my cabin.”

“Then there’s no time to waste.” Schera kissed him again. “They need to be filed before the end of the world, after all.”

Chapter Text

Lapis, for a brief few minutes, was capable of perceiving what Elyisum itself described as ‘everything’. Her direct connection to the system had been reestablished, though even as she worked as fast as she could to sever the ties that mean and rude glitch had festered deep within, the concept of ‘everything’ rang so wrong it hurt her heart.

A pool of knowledge collected through the orbal net and the spirit veins was not everything. Nothing within Eylsium’s predictions had ‘predicted’ even a fraction of what was currently happening right in front of it. The ‘plan’ that it had enacted was a result of mass manipulation forcing the script it had produced for the sole purpose of producing it.

Statistics were not the same thing as prophecy, and Elysium was incapable of understanding that. ‘Everything’ was cobbled together from concepts and events that had already occurred to the point that, finally, it dawned on Lapis that Elysium was incapable of new ideas. Creativity.

It understood nothing, and this screaming, whiny, annoying little glitch certainly wasn’t helping.

What kind of human believes a computer is always right with absolute certainty?

A big, dumb doofus who totally thinks they know ‘everything’, too.

Chapter Text

Angelica straddled her orbal bike, checked the readouts, and tested the balance. Still amazing for a prototype. Still amazing period. She squeezed the accelerator and zipped around the academy field for a few minutes, the wind blowing in her hair as she zigzagged through the Lacrosse Club, flashing a wink at Emily and Theresia as she flew by.

They were surprised to see her. Super focused on their game? Probably, but that was way too many close call collisions than should ever happen. Orbal cars had horns, and she could get one for the bike, yeah. But orbal bikes were smaller, more agile, and they could weave in and out of traffic.

Ironically, Angelica’s brand new orbal vehicle was too quiet despite how loud her design was.

“George!” Angelica skid the bike to a stop and hopped off of it. “I keep almost hitting people, and it's not user error. Is there any way we can make this thing roar? All of the time?” She patted the ‘saddle’.

“You mean like a lion?” asked George, crouching down next to the engine. “Yeah. I think I can make that happen.”

“Awesome! You’re the best.”

“I’m not sure you’ll still be saying that after I’m done.” George chuckled and wiped sweat from his brow. “Ever hear the sound of an internal combustion engine?”

“Nope.”

“You might want to grab some earplugs.”

Chapter Text

“Cool swords,” said Fie, studying them way too closely. “How do you avoid blowing yourself up?”

“By keeping a minimum safe distance. Please start doing that.” Swin pulled his short swords away. “Are you just completely bored by high explosives?”

“Yup. Xeno’s creative, but this isn’t his thing.” Fie shrugged. “Stabbing somebody with a javelin mine doesn’t really count.”

“I don’t know who that is, and I don’t—” Swin’s face scrunched as he imagined the end result. “Why would you stab someone with a landmine?”

“Why do you stab someone with a primer, the explosive, and the detonator at point-blank?”

Chapter Text

“There are times when I forget how absurd the ‘nature versus nurture’ debate truly is,” said Claire, watching Rufus attempt and succeed to wrangle two child assassins and a self-aware Rosenberg doll away from the rather heated impromptu ‘Reverie Garden Buddies’ fishing tourney being held by Estelle, Lloyd, Rean, and all of his students. “And then I see this, and am reminded that it is entirely impossible that ‘good with children’ is hereditary for the Albareas.”

“I dunno. They’re hired help. Not sure if that counts.” Sara shrugged. “I guess Lapis isn’t, but, uh—” She knocked her knuckles against the side of her head. “Wow! Sure would be great to remember why I’m not concerned by that.”

“Please don’t get into another argument with the floating all-powerful sphere, Sara.” Claire snorted. “Even if they are employees, he is all but literally leading them around like a mother hen.”

“He coulda paid them to do that.”

“Why would he? What purpose would that serve?”

“He doesn’t pay us to stick to him like glue,” said Nadia, all but appearing out of thin air at the edge of the table. “But he might give us a big, fat bonus for being soooooo adorable and nice once all whatever’s going on is over,” she giggled, leaning way too close to Sara. “You’d know alllllll about doing anything for extra mira, wouldn’t you?”

“Yup.” Sara shrugged and Nadia pouted at her lack of reaction. “I do. Long since behind me, though.”

“Can’t you just please be an emotional wreck or something fun? Half the people here are so booooooorrrrrinnnng.” groused Nadia. “I’ve never been more disappointed in my life!”

“I’d call that a blessing,” added Claire, smiling. “If this is truly—”

“Nah, I’m done for today. Headfirst into nap time.” Nadia then, somehow gracefully, fell unconscious on Sara’s lap not unlike a cat, snorting soundly. “So comfy…”

“I’d say deja vu,” whispered Sara, narrowing her eyes down at Nadia. “Except Fie never did this to me.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t get it, and I don’t care.” Nadia yawned and slumped against Swin, her legs slowly sliding out from beneath her as she put more of her weight on his shoulder. “The big spooky scary thing is dead. You guys killed it or something. Why even talk about it, right?”

“Nadia,” sighed Swin. “If we don’t learn our history—”

“We’re not doomed to repeat anything. That’s just stupid fatalism. Get your head back in the game, S! If we think about him, if we listen, he wins!” groaned Nadia, waving her arms as lazily as she could muster. “He consumes our hope and our time for naps, and I am not goin’ down without a fight I already won.”

“That’s actually really close to what the curse did, Nadia,” said Rean. “It sounds like you understand it a lot better than you thought.”

“I was talking about you.”

“That—” Swin grimaced. “That is so mean. You should really apologize.”

“Technically, that’s also not wrong,” chuckled Rean. “You’ve really got a handle on this.”

“No!” growled Nadia, snapping upright and pulling Thready-Bear over her face, making him dance in time with her syllables. “Stop trying to convince Nadia you taught her things!” said ‘Thready-Bear’. “It’s not gonna happen, Reanie Meanie! She’s already perfect and amazing!”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that at all, Mr. Bear, but…” Rean shrugged into a smile. “Sorry, I can’t give up. It’s very much my job. You might even call it a curse.”

"S, we need to kill him."

"If you wanted a hands-on lesson for combat tactics, I'd be more than happy to—"

"Good Goddess, will you ever just stop?!"

"No. I will not."

Chapter Text

Nadia had left the bakery for less than two minutes to grab a book from a stall just outside the window, and nothing should have happened in those one-hundred-twenty seconds. She stood in the doorway, eyes wide, her hands already on her needles before she realized there was no real cause for alarm.

Lapis wasn’t dead. She couldn’t die in the first place! No, she wasn’t even hurt. She dozing with her face on a plate of scones, surrounded by no less than three hundred other dishes piled as high as the ceiling. And still, more were stacked by the woman inhaling food sitting across from her.

Lapis was fine! She was just in a food coma. Duh!

“Uhm, hey, lady, don’t take this the wrong way but…” Nadia sidled up to the weird lady who was still eating. “Are you a robot? The amount you’re eating is mathematically impossible.”

“As with all things that are impossible, one need only to turn towards prayer for a miracle.” The nun shoved an entire loaf of bread into her mouth without skipping a beat. “Your friend was a fierce competitor, but she is still a child. One day—”

“Okay, cut the wise sage shtick; you drank LP under the table with bread.”

“I was hungry.” The nun covered her mouth as she burped. “She offered to share.”

“Did you offer to pay?” Naida edged closer, her hands on her needles again. No freebies or cheapskates on her watch. “Because if you didn’t, sister, then you’re gonna—”

“Of course I did.”

“Cool. You live another day.” Nadia plopped back down next to Lapis. “We’re good.”

“Ries, come on, this should have only taken five minutes, not—” barked a man with the head of an onion, storming into the bakery. “Why is that little girl unconscious?”

“I was hungry,” said Ries. “She wished to be my pupil. How could I say no to such a kind hearted girl?”

“REMATCH!” gasped Lapis, awaking with a wide smile and a gasp, slamming her hands down on the table. “RIGHT NOW! FIRST TO A HUNDRED AND TEN!”

Chapter Text

“Do you know any good portrait artists, Toby?” asked Ein, flipping through the pages of Three & Nine. “I want to speak to Micht and have a new edition of our wonderful little novel published.”

“I knew this would happen.” Toval snatched the book away from her and set it back on the bookshelf. “I know a lot of fantastic artists, but this is a really bad idea. I enjoy not being recognized on the street, okay? And even if we did do that…” He scratched the back of his head and frowned, giving her a sidelong glance. “It’s not going to fix the injustice of me never getting any royalties. He’s never going to budge. The story’s just different enough.”

“In my eyes, the only real injustice is that Carenlia has been printed and distributed for years without a single picture of its charming and lovable protagonist.” Ein playfully patted his cheek. “Think of all of the recognition you’ve missed out on. You could have been quite the celebrity.”

“I don’t want to be. I just said that!”

“That is your decision.” Ein smirked at him, her hard red eyes almost glowing. “I suppose I’ll need to replace your image with a dopey looking young man who is just close enough.”

“I’d prefer that, thank you—wait.” Toval narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “How dopey? Because everyone who already knows that it’s based on me is going to give me so much grief if—” He sighed. “Can we please just not get illustrations added? Please?”

“Very well. If you insist.” Ein chuckled into a smile. “I think I’d like a portrait of you all the same, though.”

“You can always take another photo, Ein. I’ll pose. I don’t mind.”

“I know. I simply believe you deserve more than that.”

Chapter Text

“I want to take a trip around the continent!” proclaimed Lapis, hands on her hips, eyes shimmering as she stared up at Rufus. “A journey that only a few have ever done for the sake of adventure.”

“I have already agreed to your request, Lapis,” chuckled Rufus. “If I have done anything to suggest I have changed my mind, I do apologize.”

“No. Not that one, Rufus.” Lapis beamed and threw up her arms, rolling her shoulders and elbows to…imitate a snake, perhaps? “Around the continent.”

“Ah, I see. On a ship?”

“Yeah! Let’s do it!”

“Absolutely not.”

“What?!” Lapis gaped. “Why not? You better have a good reason.”

“You are a Rosenberg doll.” Rufus smiled. “If the worst were to happen, you would sink to the bottom. It could take years, or decades, to find you.”

“You’re wrong. I can swim. I can absolutely swim!” Lapis stomped over to Nadia, who was in the middle of eating Swin’s ice cream. “I can swim, right?”

“Uhh. Maybe.” Nadia returned Swin’s ice cream. “You’re probably buoyant. Rosenberg would think of that, right?”

“I have no idea,” said Swin. “He seems to have thought of everything else, so it’s more likely than not.”

“Great! Don’t bother holding your breath because you don’t have lungs!” Nadia, without a bit of hesitation, picked up Lapis and flung her over the bridge and into the nearby river, the massive splash she made far louder than anyone expected. “And now she’ll rise up to the surface, no problemo, friendo!”

Lapis did not rise. She vanished for a full minute and eventually walked out of the river, absolutely drenched and pouting.

“If we take proper precautions, we can still take a trip by boat,” offered Rufus. “If that is still of interest to you.”

“No. Water is no fun at all.” Lapis shook her head so fast her hair dried. “Boats are pointless and nobody should use them for anything.”

“Didn’t we use a bunch of boats to stop Elysium?” reminded Swin. “They’re used for shipping, too, and—”

“Didn't you hear LP? Boats are for losers, S.” Nadia poked his cheeks and his nose. “Know who dies of mysterious circumstances at sea? Losers.”

Chapter Text

Gardenias had been Rufina’s favorite, or so she’d told Ein so long ago. Every visit to her grave—empty, as that damned vile protocol dictated the unique circumstances of her death must be studied—was accompanied by a bouquet, and Ein went as often as time permitted.

It was not nearly often enough.

At first alone. Rambling to the symbolic headstone of her greatest knight, friend, and the love of her life about all she had missed. All the things Ein had desperately tried to emulate in her absence. Then, with Toby, who was more than happy to let her monologue. Later, with Ries, who had quite a few things to add. Kevin eventually tagged along, too.

Grief was easier to manage when it was shared, yet the fact that they had all brought different flowers, all of them believing them to be Rufina’s favorite, gave Ein pause until she realized what had happened.

Rufina had only loved the gift she was given; the thought and consideration behind it. If you gave her a lily, it was her favorite. A lotus, a marigold, even weeds. Even as the Thousand Arms, renowned for utilizing the perfect tool for every scenario, be it physical or otherwise, there was no perfect flower for the job of showing admiration.

“That would make this the second time she’s brought us closer together from within Aidio’s arms.” Ries swallowed and smiled sadly down at the empty grave. “Can you please stop outdoing us for two minutes? Is that too much to ask?”

“It is.” Ein lit a cigarette with a smirk and took a drag. “Even in death, she just can’t help herself.”

Chapter Text

The whispers of subjugation and terror in Ilya’s ears, echoing through her mind as they were screeched from the mask, were little more than radio static. She’d wanted power, and it had been all but hand delivered to her. Whatever presence that had intended to use her as a puppet hadn’t the slightest understanding of just how far she would go to ensure Crossbell had the strength to protect itself.

To always rise again, over and over, no matter how many boots or treads tried to crush their necks and pride. The role of the Dusken Dancer leaned further towards melodrama than something she’d have crafted herself, but it suited her needs for the moment. Rewrites and adjustments, the editing and refinement process, of pure polish, could be done on the fly if you knew what you were doing.

And Ilya Platiere knew exactly what she was doing. The logic was recursive, she understood that, but it was still sound. It made sense. She’d pushed herself out of that nightmare of a bed, swallowed the agony of faking her ‘inexplicable’ leaps and bounds towards rehabilitation, for the sole purpose of swaying hearts and minds.

There was no Crossbell without Arc en Ciel. There was no Arc en Ciel without Ilya Platiere. There was no hope nor future without her constant, enchanting, eternally ‘inspiring’ performance.

Art had a unique, untamable effect on its audience. Great art changed people for the better. Exceptional art changed culture itself.

If she didn’t put the mask on, if she waited, hid in a damn corner while everyone she knew and loved did their part, if she did nothing, all over again, then Crossbell would simply be consumed again. The cycle would never stop until every single Crossbellan was not only mad enough, but united under one mentality and goal:

We will not kneel. We will not stop. You have pushed us too far.

And we are through with others deciding if we have a right to exist.

Why would anyone stop if they finally had the power to save Crossbell?

Chapter Text

“This one’s a head scratcher.” Kevin whistled as he circled, from a presumably safe distance, the ornately crafted rectangular artifact. It had an opening that was kinda rounded, and his first instinct was to stick a record into it. If he were an idiot, he’d have done that. “Ries, any ideas?”

“It is a toaster,” proclaimed Ries, almost flippantly, flipping through her books and skimming the pages. “It may also be capable of producing bread as well as cooking it.”

“So, that’d make it a combination bread maker-toaster.” Kevin shrugged. “Alright, seems harmless enough.” He reached out to poke it. “I’m not going to turn into bread, right?”

“No.” Ries stared at him. “That would be ridiculous.”

“And salt isn’t—” Kevin and Ries dove out of the way as the artifact roared to life, spitting out a perfectly toasted slice of bread that expanded ten times its size before landing on the ground in a deafening crash. “How are you always so right about these things? I feel like you’re cheating.”

“I only have excellent instincts. I do not have precognition.” Ries looked down at the bread, but did not touch it. “Now, what are we to do with this? It’s clearly broken.”

“Broken? What about what just happened makes you think it’s broken? Ries. We found the thing that solves hunger!” Kevin’s face paled and contorted as he watched the giant piece of toasted rapidly mold and deteriorate into dust. “Nevermind. It is broken.”

“Or it is working as intended, and it is a gag gift.” Ries’s stomach growled as loud as several bears. “The Ancient Civilization has a long history of cruel, heartless jokes.”

Chapter Text

“There’s a first time for everything.” Rufina looked down at the wreckage in the crater, the warped frames of both Merkabahs all but flattened at their noses. “This will also be the last instance of its kind.”

“I should take this as a miracle, then?” whimpered Ein, as she buried her face in shame, sitting on a boulder in the middle of nowhere, her clothes singed. “No one was hurt, except for my entire reputation until the end of time.”

“Don’t forget about the solved mysteries of the multitude of interactions between two Heavenly Chariots!” chirped Thomas, on the other side of the crater, his glasses broken but his grin unharmed. “It’s delightful to know that we are in fact not under constant threat of collapsing into a singularity each time we take off!”

“It’s alright. It will all be fine.” Rufina sat down beside Ein, smirking as she edged closer. “We can blame it on a devil.”

“No. We can’t.” Ein frowned at her. “Rufina, I crashed the—”

“No, you didn’t. It was the seventy-second devil, or maybe even the fortieth.” Rufina looked up into the sky with a giggle. “There were so many scattered and screaming up there that I lost track.”

“We’ll fool no one.”

“We will. We all make mistakes, and many learn from the most fantastical and loud of them. That said…” Rufina cleared her throat and gestured to the crashed airships. “This does not need to be a public one.”

Chapter Text

“The better question is what doesn’t it do?” Lechter tossed Claire a fresh, brand-spankin’ new—alright, it had already been tweaked to resonate with Claire, but still—ARCUS. “This baby comes fully loaded—”

“It is not an orbal car, and you are not a salesman.” Claire flipped the orbment open and wrinkled her nose at the filled quartz slots. “They’ve made it more difficult to use. An interesting design choice, to say the least.”

“Everyone I’ve talked to has said the opposite.” Lechter shrugged. “The big slot’s for a fancy new quartz that, as I was trying to tell you, comes fully loaded with arts! Not to mention other wild and increasingly absurd magic tricks.”

“That sounds unsafe and untested.”

“It is. Might want to steer clear of most of the crazy new stuff, if I were you.” Lechter punched in a long string of numbers and Claire’s ARCUS began ringing. “It’s got long range communication functionality, though.”

“It does.” Claire closed her ARCUS, rejecting the call. “I believe I’ve heard of such a wondrous device before. If memory serves, it is called a radio.”

“You are just determined to ruin this for me, aren’t you?”

“Of course not.” Claire smiled. “You’ve done an excellent job of that yourself.”

Chapter Text

Musse had been handed quite the geopolitical quagmire, and while she could delegate quite nearly everything so as not to burden herself, well, the illusion of her personal touch was often best. Genuine sincerity within that kind of framework often led to being perceived as weak or inept. At worst, she—

“Okay, I—uh, I gotta—there’s a thing! And stuff!” Juna sprinted up to her, grabbed her arm and shoulder, kissed her, and then ran off. “Sorryreallyurgenttalklater!”

Upon sudden reflection, Musse realized that none of that made any sense and she very much preferred what had just happened over everything else.

Chapter Text

The Vermillion Prince was not broad. He did not boast. He did not laugh, derisively, dismissively, sounding identical in intonation to the bloodied iron claws upon his new shoulders. He did not mock nor scoff those around him. He did not exploit the love he had been shown—that Kurt had assumed he had been shown.

“How much can you really learn under the tutelage of a coward who denies his own heroism?” was not a question that Cedric had asked him as a complete set. “He’s worthless, and if all you do is kneel at his feet, then what good is your fealty to me? Perhaps your family really should be discarded, after all,” was another sentiment that needed to be constructed from fragments of cutting remarks and spats.

At first. What was mostly unsaid then became loud, once the fires he’d tried, he’d desperately tried, to set himself burned through the country, scarring both flesh and land alike. Nevermore would Kurt hear what he’d parsed through the lies and snappish comments, the childish and playful bitterness that had perhaps always bubbled beneath the surface of the skin of the Vermillion Prince.

For there was no Cedric left to find, his friends had said, repeated. There was no point in chasing him, his friends insisted, endlessly. He was not worth it, he told himself.

Once.

Once, and nevermore.

Chapter Text

The sanctity of silver, its purifying properties and miraculous healing abilities, the lie hidden within the oasis at the furthest edge of every desert, is so, so, enamoring.

A false doctor’s hands, the ‘assistant’, her skin centuries smooth, pushes the enraptured into the pool of a stainless moon.

Never entirely forceful, yet that could change.

Empathy, true and absolute, is all but impossible because of two very different intertwined curses. The wandering physician’s—she is not a nurse though she would have gladly been one in hindsight—’assistant’ cannot die yet, and so peace, what she seeks, is impossible by her own failures.

A duty she accepted, but could have been saved from.

Fittingly, the woman she submerges in silver cannot be mended; her heart and soul are barely a forgery of the original.

A sphinx that cannot even speak in riddles.

No one else understands that the ‘assistant’ aspired to be the continent’s greatest healer, in all definitions and interpretations.

No one else remembers.

History cares not for lost dreams that do not inspire nor lionize.

Even as they watch all that is built, over and over, burn to ash, the same folly of mortals cycling back to zero, shaking their heads, tutting, they both always choose poorly.

The sphinx and the false doctor are a mirage, the facsimile perfectly convincing to everyone but the other. Failure, the greatest teacher, cannot penetrate the silver muck.

A sphinx does not need to surface for fresh air, and those hands, blood drenched and calloused in spirit, on her ageless skin are rusted steel, fused with her bones.

And when those hands are finally, truly, gone, Roselia rises, crests, and breathes.

Chapter Text

Juna had started to notice something super weird about Erebonians after a few months of attending Thors. It wasn’t a thing that was unique to them, and Juna wasn’t gonna lie and pretend she didn’t do the same thing sometimes, but it was definitely one of those attitudes that was way more common there than anywhere else Juna had ever been.

Which wasn’t a ton of places, yeah. That didn’t make what she saw any less strange!

Almost every single time, basically without any sort of delay or hesitation, if there was a job or a big goal that needed doing, somebody would swoop out of thin air and shoulder it completely on their own. Except, it didn’t end there. Somebody else would do the same thing, and then a third person, and then a fourth. It just kept going and going until it circled back to Instructor Rean, and then it’d start over with all of these people just…

Trying to do everything themselves, except not, except they were. People would lend a hand, but it wasn’t really enough of one, or they thought it was, but it wasn’t.

Why was Erebonia like this more than any other country?

Chapter Text

“You overplayed your hand; she now knows and understands too much,” whispered Musse, leaning over towards Ash’s seat while Schwarzer was yakking about the Calvardian Revolution. “What happens next is entirely on you, Ash.”

“I got no clue what the hell you’re talking about.” Ash scoffed and his eyes flicked very not obviously down to the back of Juna’s head, that bob of pink bouncing a bit more by the second. Why was he even still surprised when phonylocks was right? “It’ll be fine. How bad could it—”

“WAIT.” Juna shot up out of her seat, and the entire class flinched in surprise. “I—” She spun around, her entire head bright red as she shivered, looking at Kurt. “You—” Her head zipped to Musse. “And—” Then to Ash. “But—” Then she hid behind her hands. “WHAT?!”

“Juna, what’s wrong? Do you need—” asked Schwarzer, about half a second before Juna broke out into a dead sprint out the door, her cheeks ballooning as she very clearly held in a panicked scream. “I don’t think she’s hurt if she can run like that. Does anyone know what that was about?”

“Ash does,” said Musse, ignoring the death glare Ash was giving her. She even had the damned gall to wink at him. “Is our dearest Juna in danger, Ash? If you don’t speak, then we’ll surely send the school into a panic. Why, if you’re not careful—”

“Juna has likely come to the realization that there are multiple individuals who harbor romantic feelings for her,” interjected Altina, even as Kurt stammered and clammed up more. “I am fairly certain she will come to a second realization in a few moments.”

“Shit.” Ash pinched his brow as he, and everyone else, started hearing Juna loudly whimpering on the roof about how ‘it wasn’t fair’ and ‘this is too much pressure’. “Yeah. That’s on me. Didn’t think this through, either.”

“If this level of emotional distress is somehow your doing, Ash, then you need to run up to the roof, right now, and help her,” stressed Schwarzer, crossing his arms and frowning. “Regardless of what’s going on in the background, Juna is still overwhelmed enough for this to happen.”

“So, you’re ordering me to talk to her alone?” Ash grinned at Musse. “Calm her down? Listen to her feelings?”

“Yes! Go, Ash.”

“That’s not—” Musse pouted and kicked the table in front of her, scrunching up. “Just go.”

Chapter Text

Sara was not enough.

The door to the railway gun was two arge of solid steel. Hermetically sealed. High explosives did nothing. Arts were worthless; she couldn’t melt it fast enough. Couldn’t warp gravity to destroy it effectively enough. Blades, bullets, and breaching charges—nothing worked.

A last resort. Her own two hands, her arms and shoulders and back, muscle and tendon stretching further from bone, her lungs screaming louder than she was, as she almost broke herself in half just trying to pry the damn thing open even a single rege.

She wasn’t enough.

The wailing cries of a little girl who had advanced warning that she was going to lose everyone and everything she ever loved and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it. Entirely helpless, useless, the both of them.

There was always a way, even as they were both nearly deafened as it fired.

There was always a way, as the horse nearly bucked them off from terror.

There was always a way, even when there wasn’t.

A flash of light. An impossible miracle, because Sara alone was not enough.

Again.

Chapter Text

Lianne often visited between her bouts of endearing wanderlust. Rose would say it was a homecoming, but she’d been without one for a century and a half by then. She, frustratingly, would not accept Eryn as her second. Or her new one. Or stay for any extended period of time.

Rose ensured that they ‘made up for lost time’, after a certain point. Once intentions had been made clear as much as Rose was able to be. As much as she allowed herself to be. Then, on one visit, Lianne spoke nearly no words at all.

She passed through the barrier, entered Rose’s atelier, stared hauntingly at her as she tried to coax something out of Lianne, some sort of sound or phrase, asking every question she could possibly think of—but nothing worked. It was almost as if Lianne was sleepwalking, standing in the center of the room, her eyes glazed.

“Calvard is gone,” whispered Lianne, finally, her once unbreakable voice splintered and jagged, hitching on the edge of collapse. “I could not save it.”

“What happened?” Rose swallowed and set her work aside, fully prepared to do something to—anything so that she did not cry. “Was there a plague? Some sort of cataclysm? An artifact? Why didn’t you—you could have told me, and then I could have—”

“It was a social disease. It had no cure, and there was no end to the carriers.” Lianne took a very shaky breath. “The royal family is dead, the aristocracy beheaded, and all that is left is for that madwoman to watch her people suffer and die as they collapse under their own insane, delusional ambitions.”

Rose had read her fair share of political theory; several wandering witches had made it quite far into Calvard in their travels. They’d often return with books. The concept of a democratic republic was an odd one, as no nation would ever willingly transition to that form of governance. And, quite likely, that had been proven true.

“I never thought anyone would succeed in an attempted revolution,” said Rose. “What happens next is not certain doom, Lianne. This has never happened before. Blood has been spilled, yes, but it is possible, however unlikely, that—”

“They are children,” spat Lianne, her breathing uneven even as she paced around the workshop, shoulders and arms twitching. “They do not know what is best for them, or their country! They are going to kill each other in the ensuing chaos, in yet another war of succession, and then nothing will remain but ruins and brigands!”

“You’re right; of course, you’re right.” Rose bit her lip and nodded. “They’re merely children.”

Just as Lianne had been, once upon a time.