Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Mark Winters was a very simple man. He had a routine, and he followed it closely.

Each morning, he rose with the sun. He brewed himself a shitty cup of black coffee on a barely-functioning stove that hissed and sputtered in protest. While getting dressed, he drank it and dropped the mug in his dirty sink to take care of later, shrugging on a coat and sliding on his boots on his way to the door.

Then, when he stepped out of the old, decrepit house with creaky floorboards and a desperate need for repair, he'd always wrap his face in bandages to conceal the smattering of green scales stretched over his left cheekbone and eyelid. He left enough visible so those who needed to recognize him would, but, more importantly, those who didn't need to recognize him couldn't.

And then, Mark went to work.

His job wasn't quite a normal one, neither supervised by WATCH nor recognized by it. Its operation, to put it lightly, toed the boundary of the law more often than not. But it paid well enough, and, in easy honesty, was far more bearable than staying cooped up inside the New Haven Safe Zone til he croaked, easier than joining everyone else in pretending there was some way out of the shit the world hd fallen into.

His job was the predictable, repetitive clockwork that kept his life ticking, on and on, with each order he got and every shipment that he took in and out of the safe zone.

That was all he did. Deliver smuggled cargo. He'd travel through rugged countryside and crumbling city ruins alike, receiving a handsome financial reward for the task of asking no questions. With little left to care for outside of it, anyways, the task was beyond simple; even preferable.

New Haven wasn't really a home. Not quite. Not anymore. It was simply a place for Mark to stay between jobs. A place to survive, somewhere to exist. Somewhere to collapse onto a dusty old couch and stare up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to take him. It was all he needed. Where else would he go?

Mark followed his routine rather closely, be it a morning on the road or a day in the house. He worked like a well-oiled machine, adapting to each shipment with ease, keeping his body running and his mind sound enough.

He stayed focused on it. His eyes never left the current task for any reason but the next one. He never looked back.

No matter the variety of his work, be it trips East or West, through rocky mountainsides or frozen forests, it all remained blindingly familiar. Again, it was easy. Only so much could come from twenty years of solitude; you could only dodge death or posession and stitch your own body back together so many times until it all evened out to a sort of white noise.

Today was playing out like every other day. The routine was set in place, Mark had been summoned for his next job, and the static was at full volume. He disappeared into the web of alleyways and hidden corners that dominated a little piece of New Haven, a typical place to go for commissions from the Overlord. He followed a masked figure into a red-brick building that he'd visited a few times before, lazily giving them a once-over to spot any threats or suspicious behavior.

Normal day. White noise. This shipment seemed like a larger one already, but that was nothing.

"We're gonna have you going pretty far this time— out to a more remote settlement, way past Freedom City. Think you're capable of that?"

Squinting to adjust to the lack of light, Mark scoffed dryly. "I know how to do my job, yeah."

The person guiding him removed their mask, seemingly feeling safe enough now that they were indoors. The disinterest remained on Mark's face even as tousled curls fell into the light, and the stranger shook their hair out before setting down the mask in favor of a key.

"From what I heard, it sounded like hundreds, maybe an odd thousand miles or so miles of travel," they spoke, voice clearer without the muffle of fabric. Gesturing for him to follow, they stalked down the hallway and up a thin set of stairs.

"That's what I fuckin' do," grumbled Mark as he followed. "Just give me a day or so t'prepare and I'm outta here."

The stranger glanced back for only a second, eyebrows slightly lowered. They didn't appreciate the way Mark spoke, but obviously had no authority nor power to do anything about it. He didn't have to ask to know that they were only another sorry soul the Overlord hired for a puppet, likely with some form of collateral held over their head making them incapable of refusing the work.

"Right," they continued as they reached the second floor. Up here, more trinkets and containers were littered about, cardboard boxes shoved in corners and smashed-in windows boarded up, a few stray beams of morning sun peeking through. "Well, you're going to a base that's pretty hidden. Meant to be. You'll need a map."

This time, Mark held his tongue, save for a non-commital grunt. Taking in more of the room, he noticed two men, likely guards, who stood to the far left and flanked an out-of-place metal door. They were so still that they might as well have blended in, faces also covered. A poor attempt had been made at hiding some kind of bulletproof armor beneath their bulky jackets.

Armor seemed a bit much for the occasion, but Mark remained silent.

Taking a small collection of papers the stranger held out to him, he looked through them only briefly. One was a large, folded-up map of Prime, red ink in the shape of a star marking his destination—

Harttawa Laboratory.

Don't ask questions.

The next paper was a file.

A grainy photo of a young boy, smiling wide with crooked teeth and messy hair, stared back at Mark. A general synopsis of the kid's medical history followed, but he paid it little mind, instead looking up at the stranger with creased eyebrows.

"Hell is this?" he muttered, making no move to hide the warning in his tone. "Y'give me the wrong paper, or something?"

The stranger shook their head, taking the paper from him and turning it over, revealing a slew of hastily-scribbled handwritten notes on the backside.

"Read it," they supplied plainly.

With only a second disgruntled look, Mark sighed, squinting to decipher the near-incomprehensible jumble of words.

And then, he paused.

He read the notes again.

And again, this time with a growing confusion, a perplexity just barely short of being offended.

"What the fuck?" he whispered, thought it came more like a snarl.

"You'll need to—"

"I don't got a clue what some random kid has to do with this job. I don't get why youre showin' me your fuckin'— theories." He spat the last word out like it pained him to say it, like the idea disgusted him greatly.

Presumably, because it did.

Mark had seen many things over the twenty or so years since the world had, for lack of a better term, ended. All kinds of escapist theories and batshit experiments, attempts to resolve the corruption that had taken so many. Countless fruitless endeavors had been made to save everyone posessed by chaos demons, and all of them had failed.

All of it derived from a hopeless hope for a "cure".

He wondered if this stranger, this specific puppet, knew anything about him when they were briefed. Knew anything about his situation.

Looking back up, he watched them nod placatingly, holding a palm out as though asking for Mark to let them speak.

"You see, this—"

The next sound to leave their throat was a choked cough of sorts as Mark shoved them backwards with his forearm, free hand moving out of pure habit. He retrieved a small blade on his hip and flicked it out with his thumb, pressing it over the stranger's neck.

Holding them against the wall with just enough force to prevent them from moving, or comfortably pulling in a breath, he silently watched an overwhelming fear cross their features— only for a brief moment. Even so, it was there, and it meant that Mark felt in control again.

He let himself be wrenched away from the stranger, let the guards clasp heavy hands over his shoulders and drag him back. Once he was far enough away, the stranger's expression twisted into something near-smug, even if no true attempt was made to restrain Mark; the guards seemed to pick up on the fact that he wouldn't actually kill them, and was only trying to psyche them out. Regardless, his right arm got held in an elbow lock of sorts, knife pried from his grasp.

The stranger took a second to steady themself, slouching, leaning on the wall for support. When they ran a hand over their hair, they obviously shook, despite how hard they tried to play it off.

When they found the courage to look back up at Mark, he shook his head.

"I am not," he hissed, "doing this job. Get another one of your guys t'do it."

His statement was only followed by silence. No protest, no attempts to convince him otherwise.

The poignant gaze of the stranger, of the puppet, finally told him what he needed to know after a second pause.

It was almost like he could see through them, find who really stood behind the curtain— their voice was their own, but their message was that of the Overlord. It was as though the man himself sat behind their eyes, operating them, giving them their instructions, their job, their assignment. Even if the puppet hadn't seen the full picture, the Overlord did, and that's what Mark was supposed to pick up on:

They knew. The stranger knew what he'd been through.

<CROSSOUT>What he'd lost.

Even if they didn't know the story in its entirety, they knew enough. They were supplied with information meant to delicately be used as ammo.

The Overlord had taken advantage of knowledge that few in Mark's life were privy to (most of whom were dead).

A strange sort of… anticipation, maybe, besides the paranoia and anger already there, began to rise in his gut as he finally recognized the merit of this job.

This had to be real, in some way or another.

Mark thought that those who still had hope, who still believed that a possessed soul could be freed through any means other than death, were fools. He thought that it was an idiotic thing to hold onto, an easy coping mechanism to escape facing the worst reality.

There was little knowledge pertaining to an origin of the horrible, gruesome age that'd sunk its claws into Prime, with little sign of ever leaving. But, of what knowledge did exist, the Overlord had almost all of it.

He had a first-hand witness working under him, after all.

The Overlord was one of the few people who knew so much about Mark, who was able to hold things such as this over his head.

Meaning, again, that this was a realer kind of hope. It wasn't just blind; it was opportunistic. It was an investment.

His mind blurred at the idea.

The white noise that had overtaken his life, washing over the shores of his mind and smoothing out the passage of time, stopped.

For just a second, everything laid still, silent. It sort of felt as if he were awake for the first time in years, like he had finally been hit with something so confusing and sudden that the machine which kept his life going got pulled to a reluctant, screeching stop.

Something laid broken and splintered, scattered in bits around him, for just a second. Layers of his self had been pulled back so far that emotions not felt in decades stirred themselves up, dredging together what remained and threatening to shatter the thin glass barrier, his last line of defense, that held it all together.

From the outside, Mark knew it was only a subtle shift in his expression, the smallest twitch of his eyebrow, but it may as well have been dropping his entire composure, letting his mask slip and crumble.

As he immediately recollected himself, the stranger's expression brightened, but they didn't quite smile— they didn't test their luck in such a fashion. They stepped forward, though, away from the wall and between the two guards (still watching Mark in a hawk-like fashion), and towards the metal door across the room.

"I don't know all of the science behind it. I'm just the messenger," they explained. "But I do know that enough's been done to have evidence of a, well…"

Another pause.

"Solution, let's say."

Mark clenched his jaw, picking up the last of his pieces and catching up to speed with the situation at hand. When he spoke again, his voice was gruff and steady, even if his insides weren't.

"What d'you mean, by 'solution'?"

"Well, the short explanation is that, with what's gathered on the current specimen, Overlord wants to see if it's not possible to sort of combine human DNA with that of the demons, on a large scale. Create a sort of biological resistance against them. Something that can be implemented, easily, for anyone. Sort of like— a vaccine."

Finally using the key they'd picked up earlier, the stranger slotted it into the lock of the metal door.

"It's worked before. On the current specimen— your cargo. He's immune to it, to being possessed. He's got that resistance, and Harttawa is where it could possibly be replicated."

They looked back pointedly.

"Some of the scientists even believe that reversing other possessions is possible," they murmured, words cutting through the tense air, taking stabs at Mark's mind despite the gentle delivery. They at least had the respect to be silent for another moment after, to feign kindness in any sense of the word.

Then, the stranger twisted the key with an "Anyways," allowing the door to unlatch. "Brace yourself."

"What d'you—"

Before the question was completed, a shock of movement burst through the room, knocking over whatever it could in its path. The stranger seemed prepared for this, leaping to the side the instant the door creaked open, but Mark was caught entirely off-guard, only assuming a defensive position when the red blur knocked against the side of his arm. It zipped past him, reaching the top stair, almost escaping—

and it wasn't til after the guards caught it by the arms, dragging it back and holding it in place, that Mark recognized:

it was a young boy.

He couldn't have been older than sixteen, face coated in dirt as he snarled violently, baring his teeth and thrashing. He did all that he could to be let go, even trying to drop his weight to the floor and catch his adversaries by surprise, but to no avail.

A glint of silver caught on the sparse sunlight, calling Mark's eye to it.

He had a power suppressor. A power suppressor was locked round his wrist, and two grown men were still struggling to hold him back.

Also, he was loud.

"GET OFF OF ME!" the kid shrieked, launching an elbow into one of the guards' gut (suddenly, the bulletproof vests made more sense). "YOU FUCKING VILLAINS! LET ME GO!"

Mark froze.

As the rest of the room continued to fight, he inched his hand back, retrieving the papers he'd been handed. A quick glance told him that this was, in fact, the same kid on the file. Looking at him now, the photo was certainly outdated, but it was him nonetheless.

The next wave of realization came with an overwhelming headache.

"This is my cargo?" His disgruntled surprise was harder to hide this time around. "That's a child. You want me to take a fuckin' kid?!"

Dodging the ordeal and taking a few cautious steps in his direction, the stranger nodded. "Yes, that's him."

The boy's resolve was almost impressive, in a sense; he hadn't relented yet, even after a usual person would've exhausted themselves and given up. Which was only more of a problem.

"I am not— what, you people kidnapped him, some shit like that?! You want me to transport someone else's—"

"No one's gonna come looking for him, if that helps."

After another minute or so of brawling between the "specimen", as they'd put it, and the guards, the boy finally seemed to catch sight of Mark. His face immediately went from a screwed-up scowl to a blank expression of curiosity, though not without his eyebrows still lowered in suspicion. He went somewhat slack in the arms restraining him, tilting his head as he examined him more.

It gave Mark an opportunity in turn to observe him, and he swore he felt new hairs turning grey from just looking at the kid.

A black fabric headband wrapped round his forehead in an attempt to push his hair back, but being overdue for a trim, it tumbled down into his face anyways. He wore an oversized flannel in a similar shade of red to his curls, and it looked pretty beat-up. In fact, his clothes in general looked old and worn, like he'd been given whatever was left. His entire appearance made it seem like he'd practically been pulled in off the street.

And, given the way he fought like one of those scared-shitless stray dogs, it was… not unlikely.

The boy opened his mouth to speak, voice hoarse from screaming. Despite how rough he sounded, though, there was still an obvious childish inflection as he asked,

"Why's your face look like that?"

Such a question broke the tension in the room for just a second, and Mark snapped himself out of his daze to snort.

Then, he folded his arms across his chest and glared at the stranger he'd spoken to earlier.

"Yeah, no. I'm not taking some fuckin' child with me. Find another way."

"But—"

"Who approved this? What kind of fuckin' ethics do you people think—"

The stranger barked out a laugh that died in their throat as they tried to suppress it, though with little success. "Are you, Wavelength— going to lecture me on ethics?"

Mark frowned. Hard.

Truthfully, he was the last person to be doing so. He was the last person to care about 'ethics', the last person to have any qualms about a job so long as it wouldn't certainly get him killed. He was a selfish man, and an awful one, too— he knew it and he lived with it. Let the title grow on him like a cancer.

But it felt like his mind itself had collided with some kind of brick wall, slamming to a halt. He'd regained a strange sort of lucidity after years spent zoned-out, just going through the motions, and it was making him feel strange.

Going through the motions; not living. Not feeling. Hardly even thinking.

Going through the motions; just eating, drinking, and sleeping. Walking or driving when needed, navigating maps and roadways. Refusing to look back.

Hitting that brick wall, all he could do was get back up and brush himself off. Look around at the wreckage that must have come with such a crash, and, well… all that was left was to look back.

Something resurged when he did so, and it made him hesitant, made him upset at the idea of some random kid being taken and shipped across Prime.

Yet, in some way, it also made him consider the impossible. He found his judgement being swayed by the words that'd danced around him, by the message that had sent between their lines.

"Some of the scientists even believe that reversing other possessions is possible."

That had been the most intentional display of the Overlord's hand, finding a bargaining chip that he knew would make Mark consider any deal, any mission.

And, Mark realized, as he dragged his hands over his eyes and down his face, that he was an idiot— because it was working. He was the most foolish man to exist, because to accept this was to throw away all that he believed in and entertain, in one way or another, the hope that he found most moronic. He was furious at himself for even considering it.

This proposition was a hellish one. A thousand miles of travel was an easy task to bear, but dragging along not just another mouth to feed, another body to protect, and that mouth and body being that of a petulant child?

It made Mark feel like hurling.

This was the worst offer he had ever even thought of agreeing to. It was a horrible thing, that he'd been attacked in such a way to make him consider it when the answer should've been an easy no.

That he was considering any possibility of saving—

He silenced the thought, but not before it could burrow deep in his chest like a parasite, attacking him and growing around his heart with enough force to hurt.

Taking in a long breath, holding it til he thought his lungs might burst, Mark finally dropped his hands away from his face with as heavy of a sigh as he could manage.

And he said the singular word that he regretted most.

"Fine."

"'Fine'?" the stranger parroted.

Reluctantly, Mark forced out another response through gritted teeth. "Fine. Okay. I'll take your stupid fuckin' job."

His statement hung over the air like a blanket, with a sort of finality to it that silenced everything else. The boy kept looking between Mark and the stranger with obvious confusion on his face, doing his best to keep up and comprehend— he definitely ran fast, but his mind didn't seem to work through things as quickly.

When he seemed to have finally garnered an understanding, though, the kid rounded on Mark with a sort of fury in his gaze.

"Are you a villain?!" he shouted.

Chapter Text

Virion was not experienced with magic.

Sure, he knew a spell or two. He could spark flames between his fingertips like it was nothing; could occasionally send little tendrils of purple light twirling through the air.

But it was not his strongest suit by any means, and, frankly, it was a field he rather lacked experience in.

And yet even he could determine that the situation he had found himself in was no natural phenomenon. This was not the kind of circumstance one stumbled into in without some kind of trickery involved.

Sunlight streamed in through a high-up window on the wall of this odd room he'd found himself in. That was the first sign of many that something was adrift, because usually, the sky was packed with clouds on Fauna, leaving only little gaps of sun, small euphoric moments of apricity.

Everything kind of hurt, too. It felt like Virion had taken a swan dive off of a cliff-- his lungs ached with every creaking breath in, the wind having been knocked violently out of them some time ago. His bones felt stiff and sore, and there was a dull throb of pain on the back of his left arm that would occasionally spike enough to keep him from slipping back into unconsciousness.

He was injured. Certainly.

It hurt terribly, but that, frankly, wasn't too alarming. He was sure that Min could take care of him with a quick healing spell if when he got back home.

As long as he kept, like, most of the blood in his body, he'd probably be fine. And given the way that it felt like a few... minutes? Hours?— since Virion had plummeted, hitting the ground and being left in a dazed state, he hadn't lost enough to kill him yet.

Okay, maybe that wasn't a very great way of looking at things.

Regardless, Virion had realistically faced worse.

What he had not faced before was a headache of such degrees.

It wasn't exactly the kind of migraine he was used to, an unfamiliar sort of ache. It felt as though his mind was tearing at the seams, like something was in there, trying to adjust. He found thoughts and emotions chorusing beside his own, all clamoring for the forefront of his brain.

Really, everything about Virion felt like it had been slightly shifted in the wrong direction. Like somebody had gone into his mother's cottage and rotated all the furniture onto its side, except they'd done that inside his body.

Also, Virion was lost. Incredibly so.

He had never seen a room like this before. Walls stretched high around him, with rows of square windows at the top— some broken and shattered, some boarded up, and some fogged over with dust. Everything was comprised of unfamiliar materials, and dirt and rubble sat in piles throughout the massive space.

The floor was wooden, but it was smoother than anything Virion had ever seen. Large, painted lines stretched across it, forming odd rectangles and half-circles that bewildered him.

And the air was dry. Bone-dry.

Virion had never been in such an environment before. His home was always swathed in humidity, and it reflected in the lush plant life and the mud-like consistency of the soil. He had only experienced similar airs a few times in his life, on the tops of mountains, during his rare outings with his father's adventuring party.

His father's adventuring party.

The Greats.

The thought made something rear to life inside of him. It felt like every fiber of his consciousness had snapped to alertness at the thought of the Greats.

Whispers came to Virion; several voices speaking at once, some inquisitive, some demanding, some worried.

And yet, none of them actually reached his earshot. His pointed ears flicked upwards, tilting this way and that in an attempt to catch any of them better, but he wasn't... hearing them at all.

He could distinguish different tones and inflections, could recognize the discrepancies between different voices, but he wasn't truly listening to them.

They were inside his head.

Appearing like normal thoughts, despite their spoken cadence. Whenever a specific statement or idea was poignant, it'd shove its way to the front of his mind, taking up his focus.

Sifting through the indecipherable jumble going on currently, Virion was able to glean one thing from all of this:

These voices sounded like the Greats.

And whatever the Greats were... thinking? Saying?— they were worried.

And if the Greats were worried?

Virion should be fucking terrified.

Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Well, more like elbow, because as soon as he tried to move his left arm, he felt a stinging jolt go up it and decided he'd rather not put weight on it.

Shifting awkwardly to be half-laying down and half-sitting, Virion titled his head to the side to assess the damage he'd taken.

It seemed that he'd actually fallen atop one of the piles of rubble, which explained whatever was digging into his back earlier.

A chipped and broken plank of wood was coated in a viscous red substance that Virion realized, with horror, was actually his own blood.

The sharp end sat buried in the back of his arm, having actually stabbed into it. Glass and other materials were littered around, but it seemed that... most of it had avoided further breaking his skin.

Oh, heavens. That's going to need a healing elixir.

"Fucking tell me about it," huffed Virion.

Then, he paused.

"Min?"

That was Min. That was, without a doubt, Min. She had said something, even if she wasn't in earshot or eyesight.

We'll ask questions later, yes? Try to, er, stem the bleeding? You're not supposed to remove something that's stabbed you, but... you should get up.

Despite not being true spoken words, the mage's accent lilted in the way Virion knew, and the breathy tone was exactly hers.

Ask questions later.

Virion could do that.

As alarming as it was to hear the voice of his father's friend inside of his mind, there came a minute sort of relief at the premise of somebody else telling him what to do. Guidance, in any sense of the word, was infinitely useful right now.

Slowly, painfully, he inched his way upwards until there was no choice but to pull the splintered plank of wood from his arm or remain stuck there.

It felt as though everybody— everybody?— everybody collectively drew a breath as he squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on the sleeve of his cloak and fastening his hand on the plank of wood.

With one final grimace, he pulled.

Virion sprung up from the floor as soon as he was able to drop the piece of debris, staggering backwards with a heavy grunt of pain as new blood, hot and burning, came gushing from the wound.

Curse the gods, curse whatever hellish situation Virion had ended up in; in fact, curse trees for the fact that such wood had been grown just to find its way embedded into his arm.

The pain was almost unbearable, and he could feel his fingers slipping against each other as red coated them. He had to consciously tilt his chin up so as not to catch sight of what blood was dripping onto the floor, because he already felt nauseous enough.

Everybody else— the Greats, because sure, why not, at this point— was saying so many things at once, churning violently into a mess of words and demands and directions that made absolutely no sense. He couldn't tell one thing from another in the moment, hardly coping with his confusion and fear atop the cacophony.

Anger was next to start rushing through him, a kind of frustration born from not understanding anything and not even being able to maneuver his own thoughts.

"Gods, would you all shut up?!" he shouted over the din, finally quieting the chorus down.

The Greats sat still for a second, silent and apprehensive, before Min's tone became clear once more.

The bleeding, Virion, the bleeding.

His previous resentment washed away quickly, replaced by a defeated state of helplessness.

He didn't know where he was. He didn't recognize the first thing about his environment. It nearly felt as though he'd ended up another dimension, some different world that was not his own.

And he was petrified.

It was like he was seven years of age again, stalking through the woods as the sparing light around him faded into dusk, crying out the name of anybody he knew to get no returning call. He'd wandered too far from the cottage that night, gotten turned around, and scared his family half to death.

But this was scarier. He hadn't the slightest clue about his surroundings; he only knew there was no possibility of him even being in the same region as his home.

The bleeding.

He had to take care of the bleeding. That first.

He could cry and freak out later.

"Yeah— yeah, okay," he creaked, finally, in response to Min.

Slowly, he shrugged off his cloak, cursing further as what little blood that dried made the fabric stick to his arm.

Watch that godless language, would you?

The heavy timbre of Alphonze, an esteemed paladin, reverberated through his skull. Virion paid him no mind-- if he was practically bleeding out, he'd curse all he wanted.

Give the kid a break, would you?

Ram. One of the Greats whom Virion was more favorable towards growing up. His drawl was only slightly calming to hear, though, because at the moment he was just another voice crammed in besides the others.

Virion kept his left arm tucked close to himself, instead just using his right hand and leveraging his foot over the fabric of his cloak to tear one of the sleeves off with a grimace.

His mother had sewn that cloak.

He prayed she wouldn't be too upset.

The process was arduous, but he did eventually find a way to stem the bleeding somewhat, with the help of Min's guidance (the others seemed to have enough respect to quiet down for her to be heard clearly). Blood still sluggishly flowed out of his arm, and he knew it was only a temporary fix, but... what else could he do?

At a certain point, Min had offered to do the task for him, as in... attempting to take over his body and cast a quick healing spell.

It was likely so much easier; would have solved the problem incredibly quickly, but Virion didn't know if he could handle a single further disorienting experience right now. He didn't want to know what repercussions would come from healing his arm in its current state, and he didn't want to have to sit still and painstakingly pick out splinters and glass. He wanted to hold onto what little reign he had left of his situation.

He wanted to get moving; wanted to get out of this room at the very least. Fresh air wouldn't help much, but it certainly couldn't hurt him any more.

Virion shook himself a bit, trying to pull himself together in any sense of the word. As stupid as it was, he really didn't want to cry in the Greats' presence, even if they almost certainly knew what his current emotional state was like.

A doorway sat in the far corner of the room, with its two doors knocked off the hinges-- one laying flat on the ground, the other sitting at a slanted angle, threatening to collapse any second.

The hallway beyond was dark and indecipherable.

But it was a way out.

Virion began walking, even as hushed whispers sang around his head once more, expressing worry and concern.

He staggered to the doorway, pausing to lean against it and peer through, seek any further hints of where to go. No sunlight made its way into the corridor, and so he had to squint, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. 

After a few moments, he was ready to give up and begin just walking in a random direction, until—

he spotted something.

His ears perked up, and he squinted at the distant silhouette of what certainly had to be another person, far down the hall.

They were sitting placidly on the floor, a little hunched over, but there nonetheless. It was hard to make out more than just their general shape, and they had their back turned to Virion, so he couldn't make out their expression. Still, their casual demeanor seemed friendly enough.

Relief rushed to him in a great wave.

He wasn't alone. They had to at least know something about where he ended up.

Virion stepped over another piece of rubble, holding his arm steady, and began approaching the distant figure.

---

The late-morning sky was overcast and grey, drowning out what little color still remained in New Haven and painting the world in strokes of soot and dirt. The thin alleyway that Mark had originally traveled down was starting to get more of its usual foot traffic, creating a small crowd that was easy enough to slip through.

Well, easy enough to slip through on most days.

He wasn't sure how this boy— a walking embodiment of a wild card— was going to act.

Mark had tuned out much of the conversation that took place between the kid and the stranger after agreeing to this job, but bits and pieces had reached him.

The stranger's voice had become laced with the slightest hint of barbs behind a false-friendly tone, the patronizing kind that one would use when speaking down on another. Words occasionally were caught by Mark; something about "that damn rooftop" and "people figuring out what you've done".

And though he mostly ignored it, it wasn't difficult to see the horrified, grief-stricken face of the boy, or the way he looked down at the floor as though ashamed of something terrible.

In another life, maybe Mark would've raised an eyebrow to it.

Maybe he would've found it in himself to feel a sort of concern for the boy.

But his steely composure had already been tested far too much today, and if he let his walls crumble any further, the gaping hole in his chest could surge up and consume him whole.

Plus, he had essentially forgotten how to care at this point.

It was easier, in every sense of the word, to brush it off. Honestly, probably best for the both of them. The kid likely didn't want anybody prying into his situation.

And Mark's job was to not ask questions.

So he didn't.

The boy was pretty quiet now, near-silent as he collected his belongings: a pair of wired headphones not connected to anything and a single, ratty backpack that he held close to his chest, but was now shrugging onto his back, still vehemently avoiding eye contact with Mark.

He seemed terribly unhappy to be doing this, as well, but there was at least some kind of motivator that pushed him forward, made him comply in some sense of the word.

Standing in the foyer, the kid twirled the headphone cord around his fingers now, constantly glancing over his shoulder as though he expected the stranger to return— it wasn't clear whether he thought it to be a good or bad thing.

"We're stopping at my place to get supplies for the road. We'll leave at night, when it's harder t'be spotted." Mark peered through the small window by the door, doing a quick sweep of the street before reaching for the doorknob. "Alright, kid?" he asked, hoping that his voice left no room for questions or protest.

The kid just shuffled his feet, glaring down at the floor like it personally wronged him.

"Alright, kid?"

This time, he got a reaction, which was a harsh scowl from the boy as he tilted his chin up, like he was trying to pierce straight through him with his yellow-hazel eyes.

He didn't respond verbally, though, remaining silent.

After another quiet second followed, Mark opened his mouth again. "Listen, I'm not putting up with—"

"I've got a name, y'know!" he blurted, teeth bared defiantly.

And Mark scoffed.

His grip on the doorknob loosened, and he turned around to face him, leaning back against the door and folding his arms.

Offhandedly, he examined the reaction it garnered— if intimidation would work on the kid; break his spirit or stoke the flame more. He knew he certainly didn't look like the friendliest guy, given that half his face was wrapped in bandages and what remained visible was scarred and weathered, deep frown lines etched into his skin.

It was crucial to figure out, as soon as possible, a method to make him cooperate besides simply dragging him along screaming. If scaring him had to be the way, then so be it.

"This is what you're gonna throw a tantrum about, kid?" he hissed, emphasizing that last word and making no attempt to soften the blow his words obviously had— the boy failed to suppress a slight flinch backwards.

Mark filed the information away.

"I—" he began, but this time, Mark interrupted him in turn.

"Yeah, no. Go on, tell me your fuckin' name!" he huffed.

He watched the boy's hands curl into fists, shaking with something that could easily be anger or anxiety. For a moment, Mark wondered if he was going to start punching, throwing a fit before they even made it out the door.

Part of what he gathered on the file he'd been handed told Mark that the kid was, in fact, superpowered, but that smooth metal cuff still sat on his wrist, keeping him at bay.

Super strength and speed, among other enhanced abilities, He had read. Something about biomechanical organs and surgeries and, quite frankly, a lot more science-y bullshit that he couldn't bring himself to care much for. He knew what he needed to know.

Still, it was like watching a flame spark to life, threatening to become a roaring blaze, before fading out in a pitiful little flicker. As quickly as they had clenched, the boy's fists loosened, and he went back to glowering downwards with a set jaw.

"D'kota," he mumbled, hardly intelligible.

"Speak up," Mark demanded. "I'm not dealing with this whiny bullshit."

"DAKOTA!"

His shout echoed through the small hallway, petering out quickly but still piercing Mark's ears.

Taking yet another of many deep breaths to steady himself, Mark ran through many scenarios in his mind.

He could just walk out on this kid. He could remain pessimistic, keep his walls up and keep himself safe. Hope was the most dangerous substance a man could get his hands on, and he was already criticizing himself for accepting a fool's mission.

He didn't have hope. This wasn't hope. Whatever kept him running for the last twenty years, strung up on a past that he buried and suppressed as much as possible— that wasn't hope. It wasn't hope that kept him glancing at the door, still sometimes convinced that somebody would come through it, set down a backpack and run into his arms.

The only reason why Mark persisted now was because a traitorous part of himself would never rest if he didn't entertain whatever possibility the Overlord saw in this mission.

So, he continued to persist.

He took a step forward, glaring down at the kid, who, despite the way he held himself, was actually rather short. if Mark had to take a guess at it, he wouldn't say more than five and a half feet.

"Listen, alright?" he muttered, clamping a hand over Dakota's shoulder, challenging him further to the impromptu staring contest they'd entered. "Whatever fuckin' situation you've gotten yourself into, you're stuck here. This shouldn't be my problem, but it is."

As Dakota opened his mouth to grumble something in dissent, Mark applied pressure, nails digging into the fabric of the younger's flannel, making him grimace with frustration. Still, he refused to show show any sign of fear or hesitation.

"You, Dakota," he continued gruffly, condescension spiking through his voice as he said the name, "Are not going to fuck this up. You're not gonna throw fits like this. You don't know what kind of business you've gotten caught up in. However much of an asshole you think I'm being right now?"

Pausing for emphasis, he straightened up slightly, grip loosening on Dakota’s shoulder.

"It could always be fuckin' worse. You hear me? There's thousands of people out there who'd want your skin for whatever bullshit 'immunity' business you've got going on."

Dakota jostled free of Mark's hand, finally breaking eye contact as he looked away again. He tried to hide it, but he’d obviously taken some kind of impact from the words.

It was all that could be asked for. 

Mark held his hand out in the air in an exaggerated fashion before curling his fingers in, pointing down at the boy.

"Don't think you're gonna make it through all these fuckin' months of travel if you're not gonna respect the only guy who's covering for your ass out there."

As soon as he finished grilling Dakota, he turned back around, reaching for the door again.

The tension in the room sat thick enough to choke out any further words, wrapping around both of their necks like a noose ready to pull at any moment.

And yet, despite it, Dakota spoke up one last time.

"You fucking villain," he spat.

The word was uttered with such vitriol, such hate. It was as though the title alone was the worst thing Dakota could think to call somebody.

There was background there. Something made him that way.

Mark didn't entertain it this time, deciding to hold his silence and let the kid get whatever last word he thought he could.

Finally reaching to open the door, he grabbed at the collar of Dakota's shirt, keeping a firm grasp on him this time even after he started to squirm.

"Stay close," Mark instructed. "You don't wanna get lost 'round here."

All he got in response was a further spew of mumbled insults, but it seemed that Mark had stamped out whatever sparks were left in Dakota, because the boy was no longer fighting back so strongly. He must've tired himself out earlier, what with all the screaming and brawling upstairs. Not to mention the effect a power suppressor was likely having on him.

The final thing that the stranger had done before sending him off was give Mark the code to unlock the power suppressor; a simple four digits that would unlatch it. Still, he'd been heavily advised against it, given the “chaotic and defiant” behavior.

Mark agreed. He would never remove that thing for as long as he was stuck with that boy.

Dakota eventually stopped trying to shake free of his grasp, realizing it was pointless.

So, that was that.

The door finally creaked open, revealing the white-grey blanket of clouds overhead. People continued walking as the two of them stepped out onto the doorstep, paying them no mind.

To the rest of New Haven, they probably looked like a usual parent and child passing through.

Nobody would pay attention to the iron grip that kept Dakota from bolting, or the way that Mark glanced down at him with nothing but disgust.

They simply disappeared into the crowd.

---

That was not a person that Virion saw.

He didn't know what it was. But he knew it was not a person.

The Greats had begun whispering their dissent when he had gotten within fifty feet or so of the stranger— they'd sensed something suspicious about them, but Virion still pushed on, desperate for any kind of external guidance. The Greats were doing their best, but they had no idea of their surroundings either.

Virion needed help.

It was what he tried to ask for once he'd gotten close enough to the odd figure to ask.

When they turned around to look up at him, they remained rather calm and still. Their hair, long overgrown strands that could've once been blonde, curtained their face and hid their gaze until they turned around fully.

But there was something about the way they met Virion's eyes that made his heart sink, made his breath hitch in his throat.

They were so hollow.

Nothing shone behind them. No glisten of recognition, not even a hint of sentience.

It was hard to place what exactly was wrong with them, besides everything. It was just so viscerally wrong that Virion found himself stumbling back, half-tripping into a run before he could think of what to do with himself.

It seemed to be the wrong reaction.

It got read as a prompt to give chase.

A ringing shriek echoed off the walls of the hallway, which, despite being decently sized, was still small enough for the sound to bounce and warp all around him.

Virion's feet were slipping, slipping, slipping as he only tried to run as fast as he could. All rational thoughts were thrown to the wind with reckless abandon as all his mind could push him to do was get away from that thing.

The Greats were silent. For just a moment, they were silent. Or maybe Virion couldn't hear them over the ringing dread that flooded through him, commandeering his body and pushing everything down, reducing him to just his survival instinct.

Sliding around a corner and narrowly avoiding crashing through the doors that he had just exited minutes ago, he pushed off of a banister to propel himself further, hearing it crack and crumble behind him, frame likely fragile due to years of rot.

A series of deafening crashes followed.

He didn't look back.

The ground shook with a heavy impact that had to be a piece of the ceiling falling.

He didn't look back.

Another guttural scream tore its way from the thing's chest, their rapid footsteps ringing louder and louder in his ears.

It sounded like they were only feet behind him.

The Greats were beginning to shout different commands. His mind was being pushed at; somebody was trying to take control, or something, but Virion was too horrified to do anything but push back and keep running.

But whatever that thing was, it— it must have been directly behind him.

With bile rising in his throat, Virion looked back.

For just a second.

Virion's skull met the ground.

His heart seemed ready to give out. His lungs had been set ablaze with fear and his blood had turned to ice with adrenaline.

His head was screaming. Screaming at him, screaming with him.

His foot must have caught on something when he glanced behind him for only a split second, and that was his undoing. He looked back. He looked back, and now he was dead.

Virion Sol was going to die in an unfamiliar environment, leagues away from home. Nobody would know where to look for him. He didn't even know where to look for him.

He'd torn the cloak his mother made him.

She put a lot of work into the thing.

He hoped she’d forgive him.

A jolt of pain wracked through him as something clambered onto his back before he could push himself up. A strained wheeze escaped him, ribs getting pushed into the floor and wreckage beneath him.

They were still shrieking.

Nothing Virion knew could ever make those sounds. Not even the Lich, a horror he'd only heard of in tales, could be as awful as this thing.

Virion was going to die. He was going to die, he was going to die, he was going to die, he was—

Oh, aethers above.

A flash of light emanated out, and for a moment, Virion believed wholeheartedly that it was a killing blow.

But his next breath still rushed through his chest with an aching terror, and the next, and the next, and Virion was on his feet. Virion was on his feet, and everything was swathed in blinding light.

He could hardly see, hardly think, and it took far longer than it should've for him to process that he was moving, but those movements weren't his own.

A gleaming beacon stretched through the dark hallway, focusing until it found its target.

Unholy beast, his thoughts chanted.

The words flooded him with fury, as though he were disgusted by this terrifying creature; as though he had taken an oath to vanquish such evils. 

Alphonze’s white-hot magic made the thing’s body fall apart as easily as a tree being cut down, hitting the ground with a wet thud. 

Keep running, Virion. Do not simply stand there.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He didn’t need to dissect how that was even possible, didn’t need to reel from the way his hands stung with the embers of that angelic light. 

He needed to keep running. That thing was dead, but there could be more.

Gods, there could be more. The thought made pinpricks of terror crawl up and down his neck, hairs standing on end. There could be more.

Virion kicked off, ready to begin sprinting again.

A flash of purple in the void before him made him instinctively hold his arms out, shielding his face and adopting a defensive position.

He collided with something new, shouting out in alarm and trying to push it back.

”What the hell are you doing?!”

A voice. 

A real voice. Outside of Virion’s mind.

He could’ve sobbed in relief.

Opening eyes that had been squeezed shut out of fear, Virion met a brilliant purple gaze.

She was looking beyond him, at the wreckage over his shoulder, down the hallway at the portion of the ceiling that had collapsed.

But light— life— sat behind her eyes, and, despite the way the lower half of her face sat covered beneath fabric, she was undoubtedly human.

A girl with deep brown skin stood before him, and when she finally looked up at him, she wore an odd expression, staring at him like he was the biggest fool she'd ever come across.

“You fucking idiot! You’ve attracted every single one for miles around!”

”Every single what?!”

The question seemed so absurd that she stopped panicking, instead pausing to just gawk.

She took a quick step back, looked him up and down, and pressed her eyebrows together in complete confusion.

”God, okay. Just—“

She stopped, eyes focusing on a point behind him again, and reached down to her belt, taking out a shining piece of metal and twirling it around in her hands.

Virion only recognized it to be a double-edged knife contraption of sorts when it was flying right past him, connecting with some kind of target in a sickening crunch.

A second one of those creatures sunk to the floor, skull pierced straight through with her weapon embedded in its eye socket. 

Virion hadn’t even heard it creep up. 

He sprung backwards with a yelp, receiving a swift punch in the arm from the girl. 

Glancing to her for some kind of guidance, she simply shook her head and reached down, hand clamping around his wrist. 

“Got a name, dumbass?” 

”I— er— Virion. Virion Sol.”

”Virion, get ready to fucking run.” 

“What’s—“

She tugged at him harshly, bolting at a pace that Virion was forced to either keep up with or be left behind. And to every god that he believed in, he prayed that he wouldn't be left behind.

Heart still racing with a blur of emotions strong enough to kill him, he started running after her, overlooking any premise of caution in favor of just getting out.

---

"What's your name?" Dakota asked curiously.

They were the first words he'd spoken since the two of them had their initial spat.

Thankfully, the boy had made no further protest as they maneuvered through the rest of New Haven, save for the occasional gripe beneath his breath. They currently stood in Mark's house, with Dakota poking around at random objects and Mark constantly slapping his hand away.

"What?" grumbled Mark.

"What's your name?"

Dakota's expression was... comparatively calm. By that, Mark meant that he wasn't screaming, or kicking, or shouting. He wasn't trying to throttle anybody or make a break for it (Mark still made sure to stand between him and the door, though, just in case he switched up).

He still obviously wasn't happy at all to be in his current situation, but his rampant anger had been temporarily replaced by an inquisitive look on his face.

And he wanted to know Mark's name.

"Why's it matter?" he muttered, piling various gadgets into his travel pack.

"We're stuck together. You said it." Dakota's tone flared with the slightest bit of defiance again. "We're saving the world together."

Mark paused, looking up with raised eyebrows and a disapproving expression. "'Saving the world'?"

"That's what this is. I'm saving the world because I'm a hero."

"You're saving the world?"

"It's my abilities that're gonna save everybody! I'm— you're— you're a villain, but I'm— I'll save the world! I'll be a hero!"

Silence reigned after that, as Mark only shot the kid a skeptic glance and continued gathering items for the road.

"So what's your name?" Dakota pushed again.

Giving him an answer seemed to be the only way to avoid another tantrum.

"People call me Wavelength when I'm on the clock like this."

Mark didn't even look up at him this time, only zipping the bag shut and setting it next to his backpack, peering at the map he'd been given and running down his usual mental list of stuff he needed for long journeys like this.

They only needed to make it to the outskirts of New Haven, since a checkpoint had been set up with an adequate vehicle and supplies. Due to that, he only grabbed rations for a short trip, but he did double them.

He also packed a few more extra bandages and restocked what he thought would be necessary of his first aid kit, simply because he was anticipating more frequent injuries with how much of a loose cannon this kid was.

"Wavelength's your supervillain name?" Dakota confirmed after a long silence.

Mark huffed. "Sure, kid."

"Well, what's your real name?"

"Does it matter?"

"I told you mine!"

"Yeah, you screamed it in my face."

After frowning for a moment, Dakota spoke up again. "Why does your face look like that?"

"Y'never seen bandages before?" came an increasingly frustrated and clipped tone in response.

"Why's half your face covered, though? Is it hurt?"

Mark sighed heavily. "No, it's not hurt." He began working with a mess of cords and gadgets. It was only noon, so they still had hours to burn before they departed, meaning that he couldn't go wrong getting an extra charge on things like his walkie-talkie.

"Then why?"

"Because."

”Are you like, really ugly under there?”

”Sure.” He finished plugging a few more devices in before doing one last sweep of his place, and, deciding that he hadn’t forgotten anything, flopping down onto the couch. 

Dakota froze, staring down at him like he had done something wildly imperceptible.

"What're you doing?" he frowned, head tilting.

"Killing time. I told you, we can't leave 'til nightfall."

"What?"

Mark closed his eyes, rubbing at his temples for a moment. "I'd usually leave at whatever time of day, but I don't trust you to not be spotted. At night, they're not gonna see you so easily."

"But— it's— what do I do til then?!"

"I dunno. Stay here, though. Don't think of runnin' off."

"Or what?" Dakota challenged.

"Or I'll drag your ass back here and you'll lose the few fuckin' privileges I've given you."

The boy opened his mouth in some sort of protest, making an indignant noise, but before he could launch into his complaints, Mark looked back up with a deadpanned glare. He wilted slightly, scowling back at him before heaving a dramatic sigh and going to sit on the floor against the counter— as far away from Mark as possible.

"I can't go anywhere?" he grumbled.

"Y'got this room."

"What about the other rooms?"

"Don't go in them."

"Why not?!"

"I said so."

Dakota rested his elbows on his knees, twirling the headphone wire around his hands again. It seemed to be a thing he did whenever he got emotional about something, which was rather often.

They sat in silence for about thirty seconds, and Mark was beginning to relax a bit. Still, he kept his ears alert for any sign of movement, any hint that the kid was gonna try to sneak out.

Instead—

"What's your name?"

Dakota still refused to drop the question.

"Call me Wavelength."

"But that's not your name."

Mark shook his head, willing the clock to move faster so he wasn't stuck with the bored pestering of such a nuisance.

When Dakota opened his mouth to bug him again, he leaned his head back, quickly cutting him off with a disinterested tone.

"How about," he started, "You stay quiet and still 'til we leave this place. You don't cause me any more problems, and then? I'll tell you my name."

He didn't even need to look over to know that the boy was narrowing his eyes at him. He obviously wasn't the most intelligent child, but even he could pick up on how irritated Mark was getting.

With a final dramatic grumble, Dakota murmured in some sort of agreement.

And silence followed.

Chapter Text

William was dead.

It was one of those absolute truths about the world:

Grass was green, skies were blue; nothing lasted forever, and William Wisp was dead.

A final ragged breath had come to him, his heart had thumped out its last pitiful beat, and then it had all stopped. No blood remained for his system to circulate. No more oxygen entered his lungs.

Dying was more painful than he'd hoped.

Well, maybe it had been painful at first. It was awful, and then it was numb. Numb on his fingertips and numb on the tip of his nose and numb on his ears. It spread like ink in water.

And William Wisp died.

He knew this. He was dead.

William's eyes were open.

The grass around him was yellow and overgrown.

His mind filed away the mundane fact easily, as though he were simply taking notice of his surroundings like he would on a normal day. The grass was yellow, and William's eyes were open.

The sky above him was a clouded-over grey, viewed through a gaping hole in the ceiling that certainly shouldn't have been there.

His bones felt stiff as he turned his head up to peer at said sky.

Stiff wasn't the right word— his bones felt as though they'd gone ages without use. They creaked and popped at the slightest movements, and a flash of pain shot down his spine.

William was dead. Of course his bones would hurt from that. Dying, he meant.

Because William Wisp was dead. He was supposed to be dead. Sure, he didn't want to be, but he knew he was dead.

And that, right now, was so much easier than accepting the fact that he wasn't.

But his eyes were open. And the sky was grey, and the grass was yellow.

William Wisp sat up.

It felt like uprooting delicate flowers that had made the ground their home; tearing their synapses from the earth and forcing them to move. It felt wrong.

Standing was even more difficult.

When he finally did find his footing, his knees threatened to buckle, and his head whirled with a dizzy feeling unlike anything he'd ever felt before. It felt like a thousand hands were dragging him down, yet, at the same time, he felt weightless. He staggered awkwardly in place for far longer than he'd ever admit to before finally gaining balance with an elbow propped up against a nearby pillar.

A second wave of pain crashed through him. He held a hand to his side, hissing in pain.

Everything in his body— and, frankly, outside of it, too— was wrong. His fingers pressed against the torn, weathered fabric of his hoodie, which was stained with an old, rust-colored substance that he knew used to be his blood. Back when he was alive.

William needed to figure out what the fuck was going on, but a thick fog covered his mind. The prospect of remembering anything felt hopeless.

He had to start with his surroundings.

Had to keep an eye out for the possessed.

Pausing, he caught that thought as it flew by, narrowing down on it.

The possessed, because...

He looked up, squinting at the empty remains around him.

William stood a few feet before the center of a shopping mall, with a circular plaza that broke off into its main four hallways. The pillar he leaned against was one of few left standing, giving that two of the halls had caved in. The balcony overhead that once formed the second floor had all but fallen apart, hanging palettes and shattered glass the only evidence that it ever existed.

the sky above him was still that overwhelming grey, but the clouds parted slightly to allow in a hint of blistering sunlight through the large glass ceiling that once made up the roof of the mall. Of course, it too had long shattered and been destroyed with the rest of the world, but...

Regardless.

The possessed. William knew what those were.

He carefully held his hand out, allowing the ray of sun that drifted into the empty plaza to catch on his fingers.

It sort of burnt, in a way he had grown unfamiliar to. Because William was fucking dead.

He'd died when—

when...

His head snapped to the side, and he whirled around in a circle, as though he would somehow find what— who— he was seeking. Instead, though, he simply stumbled and sank nearly all his weight into the pillar again to avoid collapsing.

William died. His heart stopped beating.

Because his brother left him.

Hi name formed on the tip of his tongue, the first syllable ghosting past his lips, but his throat scratched and tore from disuse. He only managed to creak out a vaguely human-sounding noise.

David.

He wanted to shout it. Instead, he whispered.

It wasn't even angry. It was a silent plead, a beg, as though it'd get him to return. As though it'd make David turn around and come back for him, refuse to leave the way he did. As though it'd erase that fear from his older brother's eyes, erase the way he looked over William's shoulder at the incomprehensible horror that approached.

As though it'd make the fear of losing William greater than his fear of such a monster.

The possessed, William thought, and he thought of claws tearing through his side, of a woman with a hissing fire behind her eyes. Her soul had been commandeered by one of those demons, and it had only taken mere seconds for her powers to be called upon and wreak havoc on the people seeking refuge in the mall.

The possessed, William thought, and...

he thought of Ashe.

God, he thought of Ashe.

Ashe, his best friend, who he'd been at the house of only that morning. The morning that he died, because, if it had to be said yet again, William was dead.

The two of them had been sitting on her bed, music blasting and papers scattered everywhere. Ashe's book, that otherworldly tome, sat opened on the mattress between them, and they were both poring over it, trying to understand what it all meant— trying to understand William.

It was a usual sort of pastime for them; use the freaky ghost book to figure out what the hell was going on with the freaky ghost boy.

Until...

A piece of William's memory finally dislodged itself, knocked free from his mind's fog.

With it, though, came all the pain and heartache of the final twelve hours of his life, returning to him in a great rush.

William remembered the end of the world.

He remembered it vividly.

He stood there at the root of it.

The image of his best friend, warped and twisted into something that certainly wasn't herself, was permanently etched onto the back of his eyelids. He could recall it in painstaking detail.

And he could remember the flayed skin of Ashe's mother, Caroline Winters, and the way her blood had splattered onto the sleeve of his hoodie, a haunting reminder of what he had done.

Most of all, William remembered running.

Regretfully, he had turned on his heel, bolting away like a coward.

He ran and he ran until he could slam his fists against the front door of his house and cry for his own parents. By then, the sky had darkened with a splitting hole in it, and more of those creatures were emerging, each more horrifying than the last.

His family's entire life was piled into an SUV in less than ten minutes. Much was left behind in favor of staying alive.

And then, William left with them. He trembled in the backseat of the car, keeled over with his head in his hands, unable to answer any questions his parents asked him— every time he opened his mouth, he only felt like vomiting.

William fleeing was the only reason why his family made it out before the interstate grew too crowded. And then, when it did, his father simply drove off the side of the highway and sped through grassy terrain until they found empty backroads. After that it was just a matter of getting as far away from New Haven as possible.

They drove as fast as they could until the car ran out of gas, and then they'd gotten out of the car to try and figure out some kind of plan.

But they hadn't been fast enough. Driving for hours at top speed still didn't allow them to outrun the chaos that sunk its claws into the world.

William remembered running. Again.

David had been kind enough in the moment to take his hand and drag him along with him. He didn't let William look back at their parents, only shouting at him to keep running.

And, despite it all, William found himself thinking traitorous thoughts; their parents could be dead, but for once, David seemed to care. For once, that odd level of separation, that thick layer of glass that kept them so estranged, like mere acquaintances instead of brothers, had dissipated. It had all been patched, because in that moment the only thing that mattered was getting away. And David let William run with him, made the hard choices to keep a little brother alive.

For the last hour of William Wisp's life, he hid in a mall with his brother and at least a hundred other people who sought shelter in there. He sat curled up against the side of David, who had done rather well at keeping calm and maintaining a steady composure.

William hadn't.

Because Ashe was gone, and the world had ended, and he didn't know where his parents were, and he was scared.

All he wanted to do was solve the mysteries of that book, and of himself.

And what seemed to be literal hell unfolding had sprouted from it.

What a selfish thing.

For the final thirty minutes of his life, David was his only lifeline.

Until he wasn't.

Until glass shattered and wooden barricades fell short, and William's foot got caught in falling rubble as he tried to flee.

Until his brother crouched down to help him, but the look in his eyes had slowly shifted from one of determination to one of fear, and...

David did the exact thing that William had done, the exact thing he hated himself for:

David ran.

And William Wisp died.

It was awful. Horrible. He died alone and afraid and helpless and in pain. But he died. He had the rest of his afterlife to cope with the fact.

And now, he was standing on his own two feet, gazing upon the faded wreckage of the mall.

Grass seeped up through cracks in the pavement, having reclaimed bits and pieces of the plaza, but much of it had dried and yellowed with time, much like the patch that William had... woken up?— in.

He'd thought that knowing what happened before his death could potentially made it easier to understand his current situation, but he only felt more overwhelmingly confused.

Was this part of his powers, maybe? He—

This wasn't his first time dying, but...

It had certainly felt much more permanent.

Yet now it wasn't.

And William was, well...

He was standing. He noticed that his lungs remained still with no need to draw in breath, and his skin was a chalky white that went beyond just pale, as though no blood was circulating through him to give him color.

Was he alive?

He couldn't even answer that question confidently.

Staring down at his hands again, he watched the way they moved as he willed them to, fingers twirling and bending under the sun.

He could be alive. A lot of evidence pointed towards that. But a lot of evidence also pointed towards the fact that he fucking died, and he wasn't breathing, and he couldn't feel his own heartbeat.

William closed his eyes, trying to process a single thing going on.

That turned out to be a bad idea, though, because all he could see was Ashe. At least, the thing that was Ashe. It used to be. It was Ashe's body and Ashe's face and Ashe's hands, but it wasn't her laugh; not her voice or her actions.

He saw David's eyes holding his own for a mere second before they looked away shamefully, a thousand apologies too useless to be spoken. No use laid in saying sorry to a dead boy.

His eyes snapped open.

His hands were still there. They were still caked with dust and dirt and soot from... however long William laid dead for.

But, behind his hands, this time, was something else.

It flickered in the distance on the other side of the plaza. It was a familiar, shining blue that reflected off the remaining marble tiles, beckoning him closer.

Looking up slowly, Williams eyes locked on the small blue flame, fifty or so feet away

A burning little wisp.

As soon as he gave it his attention, it did a little twirl in the air, as though acknowledging him in turn, and then flickered out into nothing.

Several feet to its left, another wisp popped up.

And another, and another, until they were slowly moving away from William, forming a vibrant azure trail to follow down the only other hallway that hadn't collapsed.

They wanted to show him something.

And he wanted to solve the mystery of his current circumstance.

"Wait—!" he rasped, voice still cracking and bending.

He finally pushed off of the pillar, limping in the direction of the glowing lights. Sure, maybe it wasn't too wise to follow those little things, given how mischievous they could be; especially the first time he'd ever seen them.

But it wasn't like they could kill him again, right? There were no cliffs for miles around. And maybe they knew something he didn't— as things always seemed to be.

William began following the ethereal, fluttering glow of those wisps, eyes never leaving the path illuminated for him.

---

"LET ME GO!"

Mark had unintentionally drifted off to sleep, a light nap of sorts. It was a usual habit of his whenever he planned for leaving on trips at night, since the extra energy was crucial to a smooth exit.

He'd forgotten about the additional cargo he had to drag with him this time, though.

When the door creaked open, it'd woken him up slightly. It took him about two seconds for his mind to process what was going on and remember the events of earlier, and another two for him to spring up from the couch and grab Dakota by the back of the collar, pulling him inside again.

"PUT ME DOWN! YOU FUCKING VILLAIN!"

Dakota flung an elbow blindly in Mark's direction, striking him square in the sternum and nearly causing him to let go with a shock of pain. His arm was already twisted at an odd angle, given that he didn't have much time to do anything but grab the boy, so he prioritized closing the door over keeping his hold on him, using his free hand to slam it shut and hold an arm over it.

Letting go of Dakota in order to push him back a foot or two, Mark maneuvered until he stood in such a manner that he blocked the exit entirely, glaring down with folded arms.

The boy seemed to accept defeat somewhat, taking another step away from Mark as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes still locked on the door. It was as if he were still waiting for any single opportunity to bolt, to shove past and yank the door open again. He held every characteristic of a bomb that needed defusing.

"Hell was that?!" Mark scolded. He ran a hand over his forehead quickly, trying to fully shake himself into altertness. 

Dakota remained silent, his rapid, angry breaths the only sound that filled the space between them for a long moment.

His expression was one of pure hatred and distrust when he looked up at Mark, but then, he looked away, off to the side, and his features melted into a kind of... disappointment, that, oddly enough, bordered closely on sorrow.

"I—" he grumbled, anger flooding his tone and filling his voice with gravel. "I was gonna come back."

"Yeah, sure you were."

"I was!" Dakota shouted defiantly. "I just— was—"

"Y'were gonna what? Go run off to your heroes? Come back with them?" Mark scowled.

The question's mocking tone seemed to strike a nerve, and the fuse began burning short again.

"I was g'nna—" the boy started, before his dejected attitude became more stubborn again, and he continued staring Mark down. "You have to let me say goodbye."

He phrased it like a demand, like some kind of inflexible condition. As if he had the power to make such calls. As if he had any power.

Mark raised his eyebrows, a blatant skepticism conveyed through the action.

"You have to!" Dakota yelled. "I won't go! I won't go if you don't let me say goodbye!"

"Thought you were savin' the world, kid."

"I am! I am saving the world, after I say goodbye!"

"Goodbye to who?"

Mark tried to keep his tone dry and flat as he asked the question, but there was, undoubtedly, the smallest flicker of curiosity. He didn't think this kid had anybody to say goodbye to, given his appearance and demeanor of a feral dog that'd been pulled from the street kicking and screaming.

If he did have somebody to say goodbye to, that meant he had somebody who would miss him.

And if he had somebody who would miss him, there was potential for things to get a lot harder.

Dakota wilted slightly at the question, avoiding Mark's eyes again as he answered.

"My aunt."

Aunt. The word carried a bit of weight to it, implying some kind of history that Mark took note of. Aunt. Not mother, or father. Aunt. It was spoken like a burden he shared, instead of a proud proclamation.

"She—“ Dakota cut himself off, and, oddly enough, sniffled. There almost seemed to be the a hint of tears, but the kid steeled himself quickly, hands curling into fists again. "She won't come after us, if that's what you're worried about. I just..."

A beat passed, and he took a step forward, shoulders squared.

"You have to let me say goodbye, or I'm not going."

Mark leaned back against the door, reprising the way he stood during the argument they'd had mere hours ago.

"Kid, d'you really think you're in the place to be makin' these demands?" he asked lowly. "Because, like it or not, you're going. I don't care if I have to pick you up and drag your ass to Harttawa."

Dakota didn't even flinch at that, simply shaking his head and holding his ground. "No. I'm saying goodbye to her. I'll fuckin'— I'll scream when we leave! They'll fuckin' catch you, they'll see you doing your villain shit and they'll arrest you!"

"That'll just get us both killed."

"Okay!" he exclaimed with an attempted note of finality. The slightest waver crept through, however— be it from the fear of death or the fear of causing somebody else to die, it was hard for Mark to tell. Knowing his type, though, it wouldn't have surprised him if Dakota was more upset by the prospect of killing a "villain" than dying himself.

The bluff was already beginning to fall short, but there was still no reassurance that Dakota wouldn't begin hollering at the top of his lungs when they tried to exit New Haven.

Mark seriously didn't want to cave, because he knew that bending to the will of such a little shit before they even started their journey would only lead to more problems down the road, but...

There'd be no road to go down at all if Mark got arrested.

There'd be no bullshit possibility of a "cure". No world for Mark to hold in his hands again. Sure, they could hire some other sorry soul to do the task, but, honestly, he didn't have the faith in a single other person on Prime to actually do things correctly. The only thing he'd learned from his last twenty years of life was how stupid, idiotic, and awful the remaining people in the world were. He was no exception, of course, but he was nothing if not selfish.

A headache was starting to form at his temples. He was already so overwhelmingly exhausted of putting up with Dakota, and it hadn't even been a full day.

He inhaled sharply, ready to spit out a no despite everything, because he'd be just another dumbass if he let the kid think he had any power here.

Instead, though—

"Where's your aunt live?" he griped.

It wasn't a yes. It wasn't even an inclination that he would allow it.

He was simply gathering more information about the situation, so that he could confirm that all connections were severed and all ties were cut when he took Dakota out of New Haven.

But Dakota's eyes still lit up, and the blazing, unpredictable hope that plagued him so strongly roared to life again.  

---

As the sun fell, the clouds finally gave way to rain, pooling in gutters and forming puddles on the street. Long reflections shone from flashlight beams up above, burning markers of where the wall around New Haven sat as guards perched atop it.

Mark's hand loosened from Dakota's collar with a firm look in his direction as he reached back for a small light of his own, keeping it pointed down and not yet turning it on. With where they currently stood, at the mouth of an alleyway right against the wall, the thing would be a glowing beacon that exposed their location to the guards up above if he flicked it on right now.

To Dakota's credit, he had remained silent as they treaded through the city streets on their way out, and he was just as quiet now, expression still bitter as he watched Mark. He wasn't screaming and kicking, though, which was, in all aspects of the word, remarkable.

He seriously seemed to think he was saving the world; becoming some kind of great hero.

Mark knew that last part especially well, because he'd heard the kid whisper it to his aunt only an hour or so ago— because he was an idiot and he had given into the kid's stupid fucking demands, simply so that he wouldn't be arrested on his way out. Sue him.

He'd reluctantly leaned against a wall for a good twenty minutes as Dakota pressed his hand to the glass of a little window, speaking as though the person behind it would ever hear him. Mark recognized the building to be one of the smaller hospitals that still ran in New Haven, one of the centers not technically approved by WATCH, mostly put together by regular people in the area, running on whatever supplies could be scrounged together.

When they approached it, Mark had held firm that he wouldn't let Dakota go inside, and, oddly enough, the boy had agreed. He simply climbed up the fire escape to look through that window on the second floor, which seemed to be a habit of sorts to him, and spoke quietly— as quietly as he could, being himself— for a while.

Like always, Mark tuned it out, simply not caring to hear what he said.

From what he gathered, though, the kid's aunt was asleep. Pretty heavily. That's how Dakota referred to it, which just seemed like a much gentler way of phrasing that she was comatose.

"I'm gonna—" he'd sniffled, voice lowered to avoid cracking. "I'm gonna come back, okay? I'll come back and— and we c'n go out again, you 'nd I. We'll go to the river again, if you feel up to it. Or anywhere y'wanna go when you wake up. I'll save the world, and you'll— you'll get to go wherever you want in it, 'kay?"

Mark shrugged the thought off, paying attention to the task at hand. The boy was complying, and that was all he cared about.

Stooping down to stand at Dakota's level, he pointed towards a small gap in the wall, bathed in shadow and covered by a thick, half-rotted panel of wood.

"Y'see that?" he whispered. "We're going through there. You'll go through first, n' I'll shine the flashlight so you can see where you're walkin'."

Looking up to face him, Dakota just glared silently.

"Alright, kid?" Mark hissed.

"I know how to walk."

"I'm not risking you fucking shit up."

The boy shoved him away slightly with his shoulder, but it seemed that he understood well enough. Mark straightened up, eyes now fixating on the closest guard stationed overhead.

He knew the patrol routine like clockwork by now. Every thirty seconds, the guards would rotate, shifting to watch inside the walls, and then to watch the outside and scout for any looming threats. It'd form an alternating pattern that allowed half of them to look inwards, and the other half to keep an eye on the perimeter.

It worked for big threats, sure, but it made slipping through and out of the safe zone incredibly simple as long as one knew how to hide in plain sight. Mark did this all the time when he left for trips during the day, simply disappearing beneath the cover of New Haven's wreckage like nothing. He didn't trust Dakota to be capable of such a thing, though— the kid was loud, even when he thought he wasn't being so.

At least the rain was there to cover their tracks and provide an extra distraction from their presence. If nothing, that was an extra failsafe.

And, truthfully, in the worst case scenario, Mark could handle it.

The final thing that he'd done before leaving was attach the only piece of his "supervillain suit", as Dakota had put it, that he needed.

His veins currently thrummed with electricity being held at bay, stemming from those pressure points in his back that the belt attached to. Of course, that had only sprung up a million questions from the kid about "do you have superpowers", and "how does that stuff work", but Mark much preferred putting up with them than ending up potentially needing to use his powers somewhere on their way out and not having his suit. It was possible, yes, in a truly dire circumstance, but using them without the enhancements hurt terribly.

Regardless. If worst came to worst, he'd simply knock some skulls together if need be.

The countdown ended, and the guard turned outwards, eyes now skimming over the outside terrain. Their little window of time had officially opened.

Mark bumped Dakota, gesturing upwards, at which he simply grumbled and made his way across the street like he'd been directed, standing next to the not-so-hidden gap in the wall. Rain soaked through his hair and onto his flannel, since he apparently didn't have a jacket and refused to wear a hat— vehemently holding onto that black fabric headband. 

Lumbering over, Mark closely counted the seconds since the last rotation. This was the part of the exit that he had to time carefully, otherwise it would mean an immediate failure.

Reaching down, he carefully shifted the plank of wood to the side, gesturing to Dakota where he was meant to walk through.

Twenty seconds remained until the next rotation.

He flicked his flashlight on, pointing it at the ground within the wall. There was a short gap allotted for respite, a couple feet's worth of space that stretched to the next hole on the other side of the wall.

Fifteen seconds.

Dakota looked up at Mark, eyebrows furrowed together with the ghost of his previous protests, of the complaints he'd been spouting all day.

In response, Mark simply pointed yet again at where the boy was meant to go, a deep frown etched into his face. He knew it wasn't the prettiest exit, but it was definitely the simplest for somebody like Dakota to go through. The inside of the wall was often out of repair, since WATCH had long ago stopped operating inside of it, so it was overgrown and had random fragments of wood and brick scattered all around. But it wasn't deadly.

"Come on, kid."

His red hair caught the faint glow of distant lights, highlighting the distrust behind his eyes. It seemed to have finally settled in for him now, that he was really working with a "villian", and would be for the next several months as soon as he stepped inside that wall.

Ten seconds.

Mark felt resentment beginning to burn in his chest again, recalling Dakota's threats of hollering as they left, of screaming and shouting until somebody noticed them so that they couldn't leave. Mark knew that, at best, his fate was simply being arrested, but that alone would completely foil this mission. Yes, it was an absolutely idiotic quest, a job so foolish that he still chastised himself now for taking it, but he had to get it done now— he'd already committed this much.

Nine.

Dakota's mouth opened, and he seemed to be highly considering sabotaging everything, even after getting what he wanted.

Eight.

The kid seemed to think himself a hero, and it was obvious right now that there were two opposing ideas fighting in his mind.

Seven.

It was pretty obvious that he had a rather black-and-white view of the world: "heroes" were good, and "villains" were bad.

Six.

Dakota wanted to be a hero, to fit the title as WATCH defined it.

Five.

But he also wanted to save the world, and that meant working outside of WATCH's supervision and power, because they'd never allow for an operation like this.

Four.

Something shifted. Dakota glanced away from Mark for just a second, and as he did, his gaze softened, as though any fraction of the world that wasn't the man before him was beautiful in some fashion; something worth saving.

Three.

The kid obviously hated the way through which he was, apparently, saving the world, but he seemed to hate the idea of not saving it far more.

Two.

Dakota stepped forward, slipping into the gap in the wall, with hardly a moment left to spare.

One.

Mark rushed in behind him, grimacing as he tried to put the panel of wood back in place quickly, making a hollow clink that sounded out in the night, yet seemed to die out quickly enough under the rain.

He kept his flashlight pointed down at the ground, leaving them unable to see each other's faces, but he still knew that Dakota was glowering at him, as always.

It didn't matter, though. The kid had made that leap of faith, no matter what aspect of this entire situation he'd placed his faith in (certainly not Mark). No matter what, he'd made the first step into a territory he couldn't return from.

There was no going back now. The two of them were locked in, committed to months worth of travel.

This was where it began, and where it ended.

Despite everything, the smallest, most minuscule moment of understanding passed between them, the heavy weight of both of their choices now bearing down on their shoulders. Mark didn't even hiss at Dakota for hesitating to step inside the wall, instead allowing for them both to take a short pause, to both stew in the knowledge of consequences in the future now to come.

"I'm saving the world," Dakota repeated one final time, just beneath his breath. It seemed to be more of an affirmation to himself more than anything; a reassurance that he was doing this as a means for greater good. Scrubbing the dirt from his hands, so to speak. Justifying his method to himself.

Essentially, a lot of hero-worshipping bullshit.

But it didn't matter.

Because now, Mark was going to be saving his world, too.

Chapter Text

Pulling into the driveway with a frown, Mark immediately pulled his keys from the ignition, feeling a twinge of guilt as he looked at the time.

It was eight twenty-three.

He had promised Ashe that he'd at least be home for dinner.

But an incident had happened at work, and it was eight twenty-three, and he was late. Awfully late, on his own kid's birthday.

Sighing heavily, he took a second to rest his forehead on the top of the steering wheel, rubbing at his temples.

It was okay. He could apologize, and make it up to her some other day. He could do that.

It wasn't all lost, right?

Stepping out into the brisk November air, he quickly walked around to the passenger side door. A large, cardboard box sat in the seat— he hadn't even wrapped her present— and he hoisted the thing up into one arm before whirling around towards the doorstep of their little home.

The distant echo of the television from the living room was the first thing to greet him as he stepped inside. He carefully set Ashe’s gift down on the table, which was empty and cleared off, meaning they’d already eaten dinner without him. With another regretful pang, he made his way down the hall, peering around the corner to see who was there. 

Some cheesy action movie, something about bees and zombies, was playing at a mild volume, casting the dark living room in shades of blue and red. Caroline, his wife, was leaned back on the couch, snoring gently with her brown locks cascading into her face, framing it beautifully and making Mark pause for just a second. 

Looking down at the floor in front of the TV, he saw Ashe sitting with her legs crossed, one hand resting atop her dog’s head as it leaned against her. The blurry lights and colors from the screen reflected off of her bleached-white hair, making her silhouette glow in an oddly ethereal way.

Quietly, Mark made his way over, grimacing as his knees popped when he tried to sit down next to her. Ashe didn’t even make a quip about him being an “old man” for that, eyes still fixated on the movie before her as a conflicted expression slowly sewed itself into her features.

It wasn’t hard to recognize the little sparks of anger and disappointment that joined her apprehensive posture. Mark gave her a remorseful smile, at which her eyes fell to the ground, still not looking up at him. 

“You’re late,” she murmured softly.

”I know, kid,” Mark admitted. “I'm sorry. I really didn’t mean to—“

”S’okay,” she cut him off quickly. Ashe’s voice was so small, but it quieted him easily, making him freeze in place so as not to miss a single word she spoke. 

He opened his mouth, trying to think of anything to say in response, but found himself lost.

It plunged them into silence for a short while. Ashe kept petting Dog, who wagged his tail happily without a care in the world. The film played on, with a poorly-made explosion effect onscreen— neither of them looked up at it. Ashe continued staring at the floor, and Mark continued staring at his daughter. 

Her hair was growing out again since the last time she dyed it, and he could catch hints of blonde in its roots, the same shade as his own. The image offhandedly hit him with a bittersweet memory, of a time when Ashe was smaller and had a head full of little golden curls, looking exactly like a mini version of her father. She grew to have her mother's nose and olive complexion, but her eyes were still that vibrant, observant green, also inherited from Mark.

The years had slipped through his fingers like sand, and now, she was so grown up; a whole sixteen years of age today. It didn't feel real. It felt as though he'd blinked, and Ashe had gone from taking her first steps to standing as tall as his shoulders. The years hadn't necessarily been easy, but they passed either way, and now she was getting older.

And Mark was late.

"Christ, Ashe," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I was close to getting off work in time, I was, but then some asshole hadn't done any of the shit that needed to be done by the deadline tomorrow, and—"

"I get it."

Her dejected tone held the slightest hint of spikes, her free hand curling into the carpet and her jaw clenching firmly. But then, she exhaled, and her anger melted away as quickly as it came. 

"I'll make it up, 'kay?" Mark leaned over, lightly bumping his shoulder into hers. "We can go to that restaurant your mother hates, you and I. You can order enough desserts to kill a man."

A small, wry smile curled into the corners of Ashe's mouth, and she seemed mildly convinced. "If it's an old man like you, I'll only need one."

"Yeah, okay," he scoffed. "I'm really not that old, kid."

"Okay," she parroted back in the same tone, finally looking up to face him. Her makeup was smudged and her hair was tousled, but the little grin on her face may as well have lit up the entire room with its shine.

It felt like a thousand words and conversations passed between them in those few seconds.

Mark wasn't the best man by any means; could hardly even be considered a good one, but something in his heart swelled with pride at just seeing Ashe. He hadn't done much right in his life, but he had raised her. That was probably the best thing he'd ever done, even if he rarely felt like a responsible, proper father.

"You won't be late next time, though, right?" Ashe questioned softly. Her voice held a hopeful tilt, but her expression was slightly steeled, like she was preparing for disappointment.

"I'll take the whole day off next year, I swear."

His response came in a heartbeat. He didn't even think about it. He could take one day off from that shitty job, even if it meant having to do double the work in the days that followed. It didn't matter. How could anything else matter?

Squinting distrustfully for a couple seconds, Ashe nodded when she finally seemed to believe him. Then, she leaned her weight onto Mark's shoulder, looking up at the TV with a more cheerful expression.

"Okay," she smiled.

"Okay," Mark agreed.

The movie was reaching some kind of plot culmination by now, with flashy scene transitions and random bullshit solutions for the "good guys" to save the day. It filled the silence more completely this time as they both watched it, still mindful of keeping the volume low so as not to wake Ashe's mother.

Mark tried to piece together what the hell was going on in the film, given that he hadn't been around for the first two hours of it, but eventually gave up, instead focusing on enjoying the moment with his daughter; hearing her soft laughter whenever a character made a funny quip or feeling the way her breathing rhythmically matched with his own.

Time continued to pass, the same way as it always did. Every second felt like a burning countdown, like a clock ticking over their heads. Today was Ashe's birthday. Next year she'd be seventeen, and then after that she'd be eighteen. What would she do then, when she was fully in control of her life? Would she want to leave? The outside world was terrifying, but there would be nothing he could do to stop her from venturing out into it. Would she move out? Would she move too far away? What if she decided Mark hadn't been a good enough father, and skipped town entirely, never to reach out again?

By the time the credits were rolling, Ashe was falling asleep, curled up against Mark. She was here now, at least. That quelled his worries somewhat, even if his back and knees ached from sitting on the floor for so long.

He nudged her gently. "Y'wanna open your gift tonight, or wait 'til tomorrow?" In case she really was fully asleep, the question was asked quietly.

Ashe shuffled for a couple seconds, shielding her eyes from the light of the screen. "C'n open it t'morrow or wh'tever. D'n' wanna wake up Mom."

"Yeah, that's fair." A pause. "You should go to bed, then."

She grumbled a bit, blindly trying to reach up and poke at his face. "C'n't move. Too tired."

Mark huffed. "Alright, kid. Let's get up. My knees are gonna kill me if I stay here all night."

"That's your problem."

Much to Ashe's protests, he slowly shuffled to his feet, wincing slightly. He knew he was aging, but he didn't expect his joints to hurt that much from just a half hour of sitting on carpet.

Dog sat up from where he had been laying down earlier, and so Ashe tried leaning on him, to little success. The sight was a funny thing, and Mark paused for just a second to capture the image perfectly in his memory; the way Ashe's hair stuck up in every direction, and how she swayed slightly in her drowsy state.

"Okay, come on," he said, leaning down to take her hands in his own and pull her up.

She moved slowly, gravitating towards him as she finally did stand up, sinking half her weight into him.

"M'still upset at you," Ashe murmured.

"Yeah, no, I get it, kid."

Mark hesitated, for just a moment, before curling his arms around his daughter's shoulders and pulling her into a hug.

It was a little awkward, given that he wasn't always sure how to express affection like a normal person. But it was the thought that counted, some lame bullshit like that.

Ashe stopped moving for a couple seconds, before she slowly reached up to return the embrace with feather-light touch.

And for a few seconds, it was... not okay, but manageable. Mark had fucked up immensely, but he could make things up to Ashe. He could be a better father— he wanted to be a better father. A better man.

And time continued its endless march on, churning the past into dust and memories as it went, but the moment was there.

Letting go of Ashe after what felt like a short eternity, Mark tapped her lightly. "Come on. You should really get to bed."

"M'kay," she whispered.

Guiding her out of the living room and down the hall, he reached over Ashe's head to open her bedroom door for her, allowing her to stumble in. She flopped down onto her mattress, rolling into the piles of blankets she had until she was practically buried beneath them, a single tuft of white hair the only evidence that she still remained. 

Mark leaned the side of his forehead against the door frame, for just a second.

He could definitely take the day off next year. Hell, he'd take the whole week off for Ashe. If that job didn't put food on the table, he would've never shown up to it ever again in favor of sticking around to watch his daughter grow up.

"Night, Ashe," he said eventually, pulling her door shut.

And he forgot to say it. He forgot to say "I love you". 

Mark blamed himself for a lot of things. For every single way that things went wrong the next day.

But most of all, he blamed himself for not telling Ashe that he loved her. That he was proud of her; that the door was always open when she did inevitably move out— but she never got to.

Telling her those simple three words was the easiest thing, the one thing he had control of amidst all of it.

And he never said them.

The memory faded away like glittering sand, crushed beneath time's boot like the rest of it all.

---

"Kid," Mark scolded for what felt like the hundredth time. "Stop wanderin' so far."

The inside of the New Haven Safe Zone was certainly restrictive, but it had open streets and plazas. Hell, nearly half of it was empty blocks worth of abandoned buildings, left dormant for fear of anything harbored within its walls. There was no lack of space; it wasn't a tiny settlement by any means. It was still incredibly suffocating, but Mark didn't think it warranted a reaction like this.

Dakota was sprinting in a zig-zag formation down the open street, ducking his head into every single alley and window he could find, curiously examining each inch of it. He mainly seemed enthralled by the amount of space he had, running for running's sake with little regard for the danger of being outside in the real world.

Most of the night had been spent moving at a slow pace, through a designated path of empty buildings which Mark knew were safe. That way, they stayed out of sight of New Haven's walls until they'd gone far enough to not be spotted in the first place. It was tedious, yes, but if it hadn't been established already, Mark's faith in Dakota to be stealthy was essentially nonexistent. Slower, safer travel was much more worth it when he had such an asset with him.

Lightning had flashed throughout the night as they trudged on, with thunder that boomed and echoed through empty stairwells and decrepit hallways. The noise wasn't all that intrusive, though, since the two of them mostly traveled in silence— nothing to talk about. Mark had absolutely nothing in common with Dakota, which was why he was so insufferable.

Now, the sky was mostly clear, and the deep purple of it was slowly getting taken over by a vibrant pink in the far East. Given the late spring season, Mark guessed that it was about five or six AM. He expected Dakota to tire out any minute and pester him to take a rest, but the kid was so excited to be zipping back and forth through the wreckage of New Haven City that he likely forgot entirely about sleep.

"I'm not playing games, kid. Get back here."

All he got from Dakota was a brief glare in his direction before the boy got distracted once more, ducking down to examine a pile of trash on the side of the road like it was something absolutely enchanting. It must have been, at least to him, because Mark actually managed to catch up within a minute or so, only walking at his average pace.

"Quit digging through the trash, would you?" huffed Mark, grimacing in disgust.

Dakota didn't even take notice of him, picking up a small rectangular object and holding it to the minimal light from the sky to observe it better.

"What's this?" he muttered, unclear if he was actually asking or simply wondering aloud.

A little digital camera sat in his hand, old and caked with dust, but surprisingly pristine otherwise. He was currently holding it on its side, poking at the lens as if it were a button of sorts.

"It's a camera. Now c'mon."

"Does it still work?"

"Does it look like it still works?"

Dakota leaned back, looking over his shoulder and up at Mark with a scowl. "Why d'you think I know?!"

"It's just a camera. Let's go."

"But--"

"Let's go. And leave that piece of garbage. That's fuckin' gross."

He began walking again as Dakota grumbled a few things out in protest before standing, brushing himself off, and jogging lightly to catch back up. A solid five feet of space still remained between them at all times, which honestly seemed preferable for the both of them.

To his relief, they walked in silence for a short bit, which finally allowed Mark to listen more closely to their surroundings.

The city ruins were quiet, a little suspiciously so, but nothing too threatening. Long morning shadows began stretching over the roads as the sun continued its ascent, and so he kept an eye carefully fixed on them, on the off chance that anything lurked within.

"Where are we going?" Dakota asked. "When am I saving the world?"

Mark shot a half-confused, half-irritated glance his way before answering. "Checkpoint on the outskirts of the city, far enough out so that WATCH doesn't know of it. They've got a car there that we're taking to Harttawa. They not tell you?"

"They hardly told me anything," he muttered.

"Yeah, figures."

"Hey!"

"Quiet," Mark snapped.

"Or what?"

"Or you'll get overheard and torn apart by one of those things out there. Y'never hear those bedtime stories they tell to scare kids like you off from goin' outside?"

Oddly enough, the question left Dakota silent for a few seconds, and a glance over told Mark that he was sulking at the pavement beneath him as they walked.

Only then did it click that the kid probably didn't have anybody to tell him bedtime stories. Mark prepared for another outburst or tantrum of sorts, but instead, Dakota just clenched his jaw briefly before returning to his upbeat demeanor.

"So what is your name?" he wondered aloud. "You never told me."

Allowing the change in subject to avoid an argument, Mark sighed audibly, squinting at the road ahead. "Does it really matter?"

"Kind of, if I'm gonna be saving the world with you."

That earned another scoff, at which Dakota seemed perplexed.

"What? I am saving the world! That's why I left!"

"Yeah, okay, kid."

"So what's your name?"

Another heavy sigh. "It's Mark. Don't wear it out."

Several wordless seconds passed between them, to the point where Mark turned back to check that Dakota wasn't digging through some pile of rubble again, but instead, the boy was just staring up at him with an absolutely baffled expression, slowly failing to suppress a smile that crept up on him.

"Mark?!" he snickered.

"What?"

"Your name is Mark?!" Dakota repeated loudly, dropping nearly all his disdain for him in pure awe of the name for whatever reason. His shout echoed off nearby buildings, making Mark wince.

"Keep it down."

"Your name is Mark?! You're a supervillain, named Mark?!"

"Yeah, now shut up and keep walking."

Dakota trotted quickly to catch back up again, having fallen behind from the apparent shock of hearing his name. "Is that why you didn't wanna tell me? 'Cause you have a dumb name?"

Deciding not to encourage him further with a response, Mark kept his mouth shut this time, glaring at the street ahead as gravel crunched beneath his feet.

He only had to put up with a good couple months of this. He only had to go practically all the way across Prime. He could do that, surely.

Maybe.

"What's that?" Dakota asked, stooping down to examine a new pile of debris.

It was just going to be the longest couple months of his life.

---

Mark was ready to strangle this kid.

The sun was directly overhead now, and they had made it only two-thirds of the way to the checkpoint.

He wanted to get through and out of New Haven City as quickly as possible, given how populated the area was before the world fell to shit. Most of the people had died off or fled, but the few remaining bodies intact in the area were, without a doubt, possessed. And they were worse at night— which was why they had to take that designated path earlier, and why he wanted to get out before sundown.

Dakota had been insistent on stopping to examine every little object that piqued his interest. Mark knew he was cooped up inside of the safe zone his entire life, but after a certain point, there was no way every single old newspaper with bullshit articles about superheroes was that interesting.

The boy had even stopped to look at stuff like old, beaten-down cars, as though they were foreign things to him. He spent a couple hours going on about stray animals, trying to see if any still remained in the city ruins, rambling about how he always wanted a dog.

Essentially, Dakota did not shut up. And for all his talk about "saving the world", he was hindering their progress significantly.

Sifting through his knowledge of New Haven's layout, Mark tried to think of any feasible ways he could cut the time down. They had to be out of the city and its suburbs by the time the sun was setting, no matter what, and that would take at least two or three hours to do with a car, considering that driving was slow with all the wreckage in the roads. If they kept walking on the current route, it'd be safer in the short term, but more dangerous in the long run if they didn't leave in time.

Mark needed a shortcut.

They had been winding through the city at a tedious pace, walking around certain blocks and streets that he hadn't cleared as safe yet. Could they try traveling by rooftop? Cutting through a few buildings?

"Dakota," Mark called, watching the kid stop in his tracks up ahead, having wandered a good thirty feet or so off.

"What?" he responded with a furrowed brow. "How long is this gonna take?"

"You're the one slowing us down."

"I've been running in front of you this whole time!"

Mark held an irritated hand out to silence him. "Just— shut the fuck up and give me a second to think about where we're going."

"Why? Are you lost?"

"No. Now be quiet."

With the current sect of the city they were traveling through, there was a large plaza that they were gonna have to travel around; the last time Mark went through it, he'd nearly gotten his head sliced off by one of the possessed. There could be multiple others in the buildings surrounding it.

But going around it would only add another twenty minutes to their journey, and that was without accounting for Dakota's wandering.

He knew a large museum made up the south end of the plaza. He'd only been through it a few times in earlier years while scrounging for things, but he hadn't ever met anything capable of killing him in there. It had a large, balcony-like platform that led to a straightforward series of rooftops, which he had used to get there in the first place all that time ago.

They could get through it in less than five minutes if they were careful.

If Dakota was careful.

Easier said than done.

---

"Stand back."

Twisting vines and moss sprouted up from under the doors to the musuem, leaving cracks in the concrete and warping the old infrastructure. The plants stretched between the old door handles, essentially locking the place off from the outside world.

Bad omens writing themselves, something like that.

Mark drew his knife from his belt, flicking out the blade and beginning to cut away at the webbing of greenery.

Dakota stood a small distance aways, leaning over to try and peer through a window. When he finally stepped back towards him, there was a slight defiant tilt to his attitude.

"What if there's bad guys in here?" he asked.

"Stay quiet and pray there's not."

"How much longer is this gonna take?"

"Even longer if you don't shut up."

"But what if—"

Shooting Dakota a sharp glare to make him shut his mouth, Mark finally got through the last of the plants obstructing the entrance, grabbing the right door and cautiously pulling it open, alert for anything suspicious inside.

The putrid scent of mold was the first thing to hit his senses, making him cough and turn away for a second. He grimaced when he did finally turn back, peering inside to see how poorly the museum had gone to shit.

Oddly enough, the smell didn't seem to bother Dakota as much, as he just wrinkled his nose slightly before stepping forward, ducking his head in and blocking Mark's view.

He grabbed him by the collar of his flannel, tugging him back.

"Stay behind me 'round here. You don't know your way around."

"I'm not gonna die from a little water."

The comment was confusing, until Mark looked inside again, squinting to make out the dark environment.

Sure enough, some pipe had broken or some other part of plumbing had fallen to ruin, leaving a good couple inches of murky water on the marble floor of the lobby below. That explained the mold, among other kinds of moss and vaguely similar-looking things that he probably didn't want to think too hard about.

Essentially: it was gross.

Maybe they could afford an extra half-hour or so of travel, even if it got them killed later in the night.

"Awesome!" Dakota exclaimed, shoving past him and into the building.

Or not.

Mark followed behind him with a heavy scowl, barely catching up in time to grab Dakota on the last couple steps down to the lobby, foot right above the water and ready to plunge into it.

"Slow the fuck down!" Mark hissed, still fervently observing their surroundings as he clung onto the boy's forearm to keep him from bolting. "Listen to me, or I swear to god—"

Dakota glared up at him, but for once, by some miracle, kept his mouth shut.

"I don't know if it's safe in here. You're gonna stay by me, or you can get fucking killed."

"They can't possess me, don't you remember?! It's how I'm saving everyone!"

He dug his nails into the kid's skin slightly, trying to get him to listen. "Not being possessed doesn't mean not being killed. Just 'cause you think they can't take you over doesn't mean they can't tear your head clean off."

The imagery made Dakota curl his lip up in disgust, and he yanked away from the man's grasp. "Whatever," he muttered angrily.

Straightening back up, Mark brandished his knife forward as he took the lead, this time holding onto Dakota by the top of his backpack to keep him close. He should've packed better weapons with him, but for what he thought was gonna be a short journey, he simply hadn't thought them to be worth weighing his bag down with— the checkpoint was said to have better stuff.

Trudging through the foul, murky waters was probably the worst part of all of this. Mark didn't consider himself much of a germaphobe, but that simple task of walking through the flooded lobby had him wanting to tear his skin off where his jeans got soaked through.

A yellowed, hazy beam of sunlight from an old, overhead window illuminated the dust particles in the air, and Dakota nearly stopped entirely to observe them, at which Mark tugged him on harshly, too grossed out to even chastise him for it.

Breathing a sigh of relief as they finally made it to the other side, he let go of Dakota to climb up the next staircase, observing the halls before them.

Old, faded exhibits greeted him, looking to be a geography-focused section of the building. Maps and other artifacts, gone with the rest of time, had all been weathered down into the same grey-brown shades as green flora blanketed them softly.

But it was empty, other than that. A few remains of what could've once been bodies laid in distant corridors, but they had long been turned to compost, with plants sprouting from their bones. They were now just pieces of the scenery, left to blend in like everything else.

A distant, once-glass doorway was at the end of the main hall, leading out onto the rooftop balcony Mark had been on once or twice before. It was only a couple hundred feet away— a cut and dry route.

"C'mon," Mark whispered harshly behind him to Dakota, who finally stopped staring at the ceiling and trotted up the stairs to stand a couple feet away.

"Did you use to live in New Haven before everything?" the kid asked, with virtually no attempt made at speaking softly.

"What part of 'quiet' did you not understand?"

"But there's no villains in here!" He objected. "Well, other than you."

"You don't know that, kid." Mark reached back yet again, tugging Dakota forward and through the old exhibits.

They passed by a globe of a planet that looked like it was once Earth, but a quarter of it had been shattered and the rest of it was caked with dust. Next was a slightly more intact model of Prime, but that too was reduced to just another piece of garbage among the wreckage.

The doorframe awaiting them was empty and long-shattered as they now stood about a hundred feet away from it, still trudging on when--

Somewhere in the distance, something shifted the smallest bit in the corner of Mark's eye.

It very well could've been a stray animal; a raccoon digging through whatever trash was left in the wake of the people before.

Except for the fact that the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, gut sinking like a stone, and he felt the overwhelming, pressing sensation that something was watching him.

He could imagine it clearly— a quieter one of the possessed, hunched over and silently approaching, using the crowded, overgrown environment to its advantage and blending in near-perfectly.

Mark knew it wasn't likely. This building hadn't proved itself to be dangerous yet, seemingly empty and forgotten.

But the stealthier possessed were the worst. They were stalkers; would often follow a person for minutes, even hours on ends to make them doubt that anything was nearby, lulling them into a false security of sorts. Affording them that benefit of the doubt had nearly killed him a few times before.

It would take them less than thirty seconds to make it to the door, but then they had to get across the gaping street below without falling, and if one of those things got in the way...

Dakota took notice of how Mark had froze in his tracks, beginning to whirl around to look for whatever had stopped him.

"What is it?" he questioned. "Are you—"

Before he could finish whatever he was asking, something leapt from the shadows.

Moving on pure instinct, Mark shoved Dakota out of the way, one arm outstretched to block whatever incoming attack was aimed for him, the other reeled back with his knife still in it.

His shoulder collided harshly with an old pillar as the creature slammed him backwards, nearly trapping him there if not for the way he quickly ducked when something came reaching for his eyes, harshly scraping against his cheekbone but mostly missing its target— however, the wrapping of bandages on half his face got considerably shifted. The white fabric began to unravel, but that was the least of his worries right now.

Swiveling quickly to try and grab the thing by its throat, he finally got a good look at the face of whoever this used to be.

They were once a young person, with a short stature and a round face, but their features now sat gaunt and their cheeks hollow, their gaze flooded with that void-like emptiness that was typical of demons.

And their hair was made of fucking snakes.

At first, seeing it made his heart sink, because of course a possessed person would have fucking Medusa-esque powers, given his luck, but thankfully, he didn't turn to stone.

They just had snakes for hair.

As one does. Normal things, apparently.

The snakes were hissing and gnashing their teeth, burning with the same chaotic energy. Their fangs looked sharp enough to tear through jugulars.

And they were all turned on Mark right now.

He didn't manage to grab the possessed, instead fumbling in his state of shock and only managing to push them slightly backwards instead. He began driving his knife forward, hoping to strike and get lucky, but instead—

they disappeared from his sight entirely, violently tackled to the floor by a red blur that he only realized, far too late, to be Dakota.

Dakota, who still had that silver power suppressor sitting on his wrist, meaning that he was just some kid up against a literal demon.

Dakota, who, in some god-forsaken way, was still fucking beating the shit out of them.

It felt as though it all happened in a singular split second, but the boy was pinning the possessed to the ground, throwing punch after punch at them, shouting angrily.

It wasn't even a toss-and-turn, no kind of fairly cut out battle. Snakes bit at him relentlessly, but very few actually made contact, most of them closing their jaws around empty air as he only drew his arms back for punch after punch.

In fact, it was almost disturbing to observe, only furthered by the fact that it was Dakota without his powers doing all of that.

Despite it all, before he could do any serious damage, the kid sat back instead of delivering some kind of final blow.

"Sorry," he rasped out, breathless, to the possessed. As if they were still a person, as if anybody was in there to hear it.

For some unknown reason, the sentiment made Mark feel ill; made a withering nausea grow in him. He could only stand there, frozen in place, like that first time he had been broken from the white noise and monotony of his life.

Something shifted in the possessed— the person's?— eyes, something so achingly close to being human that it was terrifying.

What was this? What was any of this?

Surely, there was no way. No way in hell that—

Their mouth creaked open, just slightly, like maybe they were going to breathe something in response, utter a single semblance of life.

But then their jaw unhinged entirely, and a piercing, echoing screech left their mouth.

They began clawing at the ground beneath them, violently attempting to push themselves back up.

It was Dakota's turn to freeze, seemingly perplexed by this turn of events, like he expected docility from them.

Mark, though, had finally been knocked from whatever stupor or daze he'd been flung into, surging forward and roughly clamping his hand around Dakota's shoulder, dragging him back and away from the creature, putting himself between it and the kid.

This was familiar, fighting the demons. This was familiar, unlike whatever he had just witnessed.

It launched him into the clockwork of movements that he was used to when handling these situations, no longer caught off-guard. He had seen that screeching move before; it was a call, a summoning of any nearby possessed to come running, like a hawk circling a carcass.

Essentially: they were fucked.

And they were both morons for the situation they'd ended up in.

They had to get out of here.

Lunging forward to truly strike with his knife this time, he felt it collide with some part of the creature, tearing through flesh and sinew, but he was knocked off-balance by something else hitting him in the back. Wrenching his weapon back, he half-expected to see another one of them attacking them, but instead—

Dakota was throwing punches at him, a determined anger set into his brow as he seemed to be trying to stop him.

"DON'T KILL THEM!" he screamed.

Don't kill them.

That thing had been clawing and biting for any chance to kill Dakota, or at least incapacitate him enough to try and call upon another demon to possess him.

And he was demanding that Mark not kill it.

The sentiment was wild, but he paid it no mind this time, too preoccupied with surviving.

He simply shoved Dakota away with his forearm, narrowly avoiding a blow from the possessed in the same fluid movement. 

They exchanged blow after blow for a little while longer until he gained enough footing to actually put an end to this.

Electricity crackled and burned beneath his skin, building up in his veins and flowing through his fists.

It'd been a short while since he last used his powers. He simply prayed that he wouldn't be too out of practice.

Burning red light shot out in chaotic patterns, rays of energy twisting and bending through the air before it collided with his attacker. Their leg crumbled out from beneath them, their knee having been violently struck.

Their abdomen followed, then their arm, as Mark struggled to get a square hit with everything going on— Dakota was still screaming, but he didn't tune into a single word he said.

Finally, though, when their body did lay singed on the ground, they were rendered just as unrecognizable as the other corpses that littered the halls of the museum, if much more recent. The scene was disgusting, not at all a neat and precise job like Mark was usually capable of (and favorable towards). 

His hands were blazing with the aftermath of his powers, the energy thrumming through him still vying for a way to get out, to push past what little control it felt like he had on them and to attack until nothing remained of him nor his enemy.

It was a conscious effort to push that force back, to dissipate it from his fingers as he reached out for Dakota, who reeled back violently, teeth bared.

"I SAID DON'T KILL THEM!" he cried, voice threatening to crack as he shouted up at Mark. He seemed genuinely distressed by the fact that a soulless thing died so that they both could live another day.

Mark didn't respond for a good few moments, getting ahold of Dakota and half-guiding, half-dragging him to the door, getting the boy outside to the balcony as he blocked the exit, looking inside only briefly for any more approaching threats.

"I saved your life, kid," he got out between heaving breaths. "Now come on. We've gotta run."

Dakota flung an aimless punch at him. “I'M NOT GONNA—"

"We are running, or you're getting fuckin' left behind to die in there!"

As if to emphasize his point, a distant crash sounded from inside, signaling further incoming danger.

Dakota's eyes welled with something that looked suspiciously like tears, but he snapped his mouth shut, jaw clenched hard enough to break bone. A light dusting of blood had splattered across his face, sickeningly close in hue to the color of his hair, but it wasn't his own, and that was all that mattered.

No further protests came from Dakota, even as he kept staring up at Mark like he'd done something unforgivable, with unbridled resentment and anger in his eyes.

So, that was that.

Mark dragged him forward once more, and they began running.

Chapter Text

Life had a tendency to twist and turn in unexpected directions for a man like Tide. Sure, he had his routines, his daily responsibilities and habits, but things were always bound to come out of left field for him.

It was something he did his best to stay optimistic about.

New opportunities, he called these changes.

It was a new opportunity— his first, in fact— to be recruited as part of a task force to defend the Rockfall Safe Zone from chaos demons.

It was a new opportunity when, after an incident, that task force had to alter its rhythm and the members had to operate on slightly more independent terms.

And it was a new opportunity when random children practically began showing up on his doorstep.

It was unexpected, but not uncommon to be summoned to take care of dangerous activity on the outskirts of Rockfall. Tide had simply absorbed as much information as he could from the report whilst suiting up, then headed out of the safe zone from the Northeast exit. Magma, Whirlwind, and a few other team members had left from different points, hoping to create a wide berth around the threat to defend against and neutralize it as fast as possible.

A superpowered individual, he'd been told. They seemed to be possessed, with an uncertain power set that seemed to follow little reason nor rhyme, but was horribly destructive nonetheless. 

Of course, hearing that was one thing, but seeing it was another.

After a hasty departure, Tide was the second to spot the threat in the small clearing it currently resided in in. They were half-keeled over and whirling around wildly, like they had just escaped a chase, looking as though they were fervently checking for danger.

A surge of sadness came from seeing that this possessed was only a teenager, with the color still in their skin and a semblance of life to their movements. So alive, and yet so dead at the same time-- those were always the worst ones. They were far more volatile, sure, but that didn't compare to the grief of knowing that somebody could be looking for them right now, worried sick, unbeknownst to the fact that they were not themself anymore.

Magma stood perched on the other side of the clearing, readying an attack. Somehow, the possessed still didn't seem to spot this, nor did they spot Tide, instead pausing with their back turned to look down at their hands, whispering something.

They truly did look so real, so human. Their speech hadn't devolved into screeches and hisses yet, and they tilted their head this way and that as though they were simply speaking to somebody. 

After a quick countdown, Magma took his attack.

A small, focused surge of fire rushed between the trees, aimed directly for the individual. The late-afternoon sky reeled back for just a moment as the flames burned bright, becoming their own sun for that fleeting second, casting the grass and trees in a vibrant orange glow.

He missed his target only slightly as, at the very last instant, the possessed leapt to the side in alarm, staggering back and nearly losing their balance entirely. They yelped as ash danced at their feet, the edges of their clothing getting singed.

Such a whiffed attack left a silence in the air for just a beat before a tree across the clearing blossomed into flames, leaves catching and stretching up to the sky as they burnt with smoke. Dried grass and branches were quick to follow, and Tide simply cursed under his breath at such a sight.

So much for subtle missions .

People within the walls would soon be whispering about the plumes of smoke stretching across the clouds, asking questions and raising suspicions.

The individual stumbled back from the impromptu bonfire, nearly falling over once more as they tripped over rocks and roots, mouth agape and--

and eyes alight.

Eyes, catching the blazing light and reflecting it back as they stared back in fear.

No deep shadows resided behind their gaze, no soulless void or even an uncanny glow.

Those eyes were undeniably alive.

And that face was young.

That was no possessed.

Silver irises flickered over, meeting Tide's stare, and the only thing that laid there was fear, fear, fear.

That was some random lost kid.

And they'd nearly killed him.

Tide quickly summoned an uprush of water, bright blue energy rising from the ground in a great wave, extinguishing the flames before they could spread too far. The remains of the tree were charred black and crumbling, but now the surrounding forest would remain. There was a reason why Tide worked best with Magma, due to the nature of his brother's powers and how he provided a steady balance to them.

After that, Tide ran.

The kid, poor thing, was already sprinting at full speed away from the glade, leaping over rocks and bushes alike in any desperate attempt to get away.

Magma shouted something that didn't quite catch Tide's ears, at which he simply shouted over his shoulder in response, "STAND BACK!"

That wasn't enough to communicate what he wanted to-- that this person was alive, that they weren't a demon nor a foe, but simply lost, likely confused, certainly terrified.

But it had to be enough.

Because holy shit, they could've died and nobody would've ever known that they were innocent.

A clamoring of voices began overlapping in his earpiece as other team members and even agents from inside Rockfall began saying different things, all boiling down to the same question: what the fuck are you doing?

Fumbling awkwardly to press a finger to his ear to respond, Tide huffed out a breathless, "They're alive! I'm headed after!"

Then, he quickly turned the dial down, silencing all their voices. He knew such a decision would surely bite him in the ass later, but he couldn't not go after this poor kid. Call him a bleeding heart, but that unbridled fear he saw in their eyes was so genuine and raw. He knew that such a thing would keep him up at night for the rest of his life if he didn't at least try to help.

Branches and grass melted into a rushing blur as he continued gunning it over the rocky landscape, in pursuit of that kid whilst also trying not to scare them any further.

And then, time passed.

First, it was a couple hours.

In one instant, he was running, and in the next, he was sitting at a kitchen table.

He smiled sympathetically as he slid a cup of tea over to the terrified boy sitting across from him, who's eyes constantly darted around the room in a blend of curiosity and fear.

It took about five minutes of silence on Tide's behalf, and some serious contemplation on the stranger's, as he whispered indecipherable things to himself.

But then, his fingers had delicately curled around the mug, and he had raised it to his lips, slow and suspicious. He took a few cautious sips, now staring directly at Tide like a deer in headlights before setting it down.

"Virion," he whispered, the first word he'd spoken to somebody else since showing up.

And then, it was a week.

The tension seeped away from Virion's shoulders with time. He wasn't quite relaxed, didn't quite feel safe, and Tide didn't blame him. But he accepted the aid he was offered, and he did his best to cooperate as Tide tried to figure out where he was from.

His answers to those questions, now, those were harder to understand.

He'd never even heard of Prime before. He seemed to possess an undeniable intelligence, but he couldn't comprehend half the things he saw before him-- he jumped when he saw a ceiling fan, for heaven's sake.

In fact, everything about Virion was just a little... odd. Foreign. His ears were pointed, and his teeth were sharp. His hair was bright purple, and it had an odd translucent quality to it that Tide couldn't quite place.

The simplest explanation, and what he gathered from the boy's timid recollections, was that he wasn't from around here.

As in, not from this world.

Because sure. Why not?

This was a new opportunity, Tide reminded himself.

Lacking understanding didn't mean he needed to lack compassion, and so he silently vowed to take care of Virion until further notice.

A new normal began to settle in. Tide would still wake up at the same time every morning, would go through the same required tasks and do his daily patrols of Rockfall to make sure all was well, and then he would return home and prepare two breakfasts instead of one. When he went out to train, he would take Virion with him, slowly explaining the ropes of life on Prime, teaching him the fundamentals of living in such a world.

Virion caught on quickly, learning the distinction between people and possessed, and recounting the story of his first run-in with one— seemingly omitting something as he suddenly stopped at a certain point in his story, appearing embarrassed by something.

And then, it was two weeks.

Tide began to adjust to the shift in routine, began forming new habits. It was no longer just Tide; it was Tide and Virion.

And then, there was William.

A strong sense of déjà vu hit Tide as he got summoned yet again to take care of a nearly identical-sounding threat outside of Rockfall. This time, the possessed-yet-actually-not still had dark eyes, a startling shade of brown so deep they were nearly black. But his gaze was alert and his demeanor undeniably human.

William was from this world.

That did not make him any less confusing.

The reason being, William Wisp was legally pronounced dead at the age of sixteen, during the initial fall of the world. Which was twenty years ago.

And, when finally coaxed back into the Rockfall safe zone and informed of this fact, he was wildly alarmed.

Unlike Virion, who Tide had asked a thousand things, William was the one asking question after question, speaking conversations into the ground as he tried to gather some kind of understanding of how much the world had changed. He was hard pressed to answer any queries himself, darting around saying much about what exactly had happened to him, or why he, quite literally, did not have a pulse, or anything else about the myriad of mysteries surrounding him.

Despite the similarities that both of these kids possessed, neither of their situations seemed to have any thread connecting them except for how closely they had shown up together. The only correlation besides that was no correlation at all.

A second new normal settled in. This time, Tide would wake up, go through his required tasks and his daily patrol, and return home to prepare three breakfasts. When training, he now took William and Virion with him, teaching one of them how the world worked and informing the other one of how the world had shifted.

This was a new opportunity.

At first, it was daunting, but then it was refreshing. Familiar.

It was Tide, Virion, and William.

William took even longer to warm up to everything, behavior reminiscent of a skittish street cat, but he did finally become more accepting of everything, more friendly towards Tide. Virion began to function within the rules and laws of Prime, catching onto more things every single day.

And the boys got along, most relieving of all. Virion was friendlier, and slightly calmer, than William, who seemed to grow anxious around him, but the wrinkles slowly got smoothed out and the roadbumps lessened along the way.

Of course, presenting this all to WATCH was a little more difficult. They had their own curiosities about the fact that Tide was trying to register into the system a kid who didn't exist previously, alongside another who was literally dead for two decades.

He didn't have many answers himself.

But he knew he'd grown somewhat attached to the awkward little teenagers that had somehow ended up under his wing. He'd only known them for a short time, and he was fully aware of the fact that they did not entirely trust him yet, but he was certain that he would do anything to keep them safe, and, hopefully, earn some of that trust.

William was clever, and witty, and when he wasn't so terrified, he was amazing to be around, fascinated by mysteries and motivated by knowledge.

Virion was a little rough around the edges, not wholly understanding a few concepts, but he did his best to be kind and gentle, pitching in to help Tide with his daily chores.

And that was the new normal. It wasn't normal, by any means, but it was comfortable and warm. It was Tide, Virion, and William.

Absolutely nothing could go wrong.

Well, it could. In so many ways. But if it did, Tide was confident in his abilities to handle it. Hopeful for the future, and determined to protect and mentor the other two.

---

The remnants of New Haven City woke up slowly, yet steadily, like an intricate web of roots that spread out and sprouted up from the ground, dozens of possessed rearing to life as though they'd finally found some kind of purpose. Echoing screeches grew more distant as they ran, but that didn't mean that the threat was lessening by any means.

It was dire, but manageable.

Manageable, because it had to be. Mark was no stranger to chases like this, in the rare few times he used to go on group outings, but he had always ditched and ran solo, making for a somewhat easy escape.

This time, he had Dakota with him.

Sometimes, they were running as fast as they could, sliding around turns and ducking under obstructions. And sometimes they were simply jogging, still keeping a watchful eye, but at all means, they did not stop moving.

Red brick house with a blue door.

That was what they were looking for, that was the checkpoint.

Dakota remained entirely silent for the hour or so that they spent fleeing, dashing across rooftops and leaping over alleys until they could no longer do so, taking to the streets and ducking into hidden corners or abandoned buildings when they needed cover. A new anger sat wired through the tension in his shoulders and the sharp clench of his jaw— he was no longer talking back, or asking incessant questions, or pestering Mark.

He was silent.

It was uncanny, for a kid like him.

An undeniable shift sat in the air between them, incredibly noticeable even after only knowing each other for a day. Mark had a feeling that his actions in the museum would create a permanent ripple effect for the rest of the (hopefully short) time he knew Dakota, but what the fuck else was he supposed to do? Stand back and let the boy die? Let his mission fall null before it even started?

As idiotic and dangerous as that shortcut was, at least they were traveling much faster now— simply because they had no choice but to run.

It was the exact kind of nightmare that Mark was trying to avoid. He could beat himself up for it later, though; all he remained focused on right now was fleeing and keeping Dakota alive.

Whenever he tried to grab the boy to direct him on their race to safety, he would vehemently slap away Mark's hands, staying as far away from him as possible and only following close enough to not get left behind in the rising city ruins.

Dakota was furious, but he was also terrified, given the fact that they were now moving through a waking forest of demons, like flies trying to escape a spider's web. Danger lurked around every corner, and every subtle shift of distant movements was an undeniable threat.

He was a brave kid, a stupidly brave kid, but even he seemed to understand that he would die to a city's worth of those things.

New Haven safe zone was decently empty of possessed, due to an eye-of-the-storm kind of phenomenon— an eerie sort of tranquil as the world got torn to shreds. But that meant that the surrounding city wreckage was the worst place to be caught in.

Very few people ventured outside of the safe zone because of it, leading many of the demons to lay sort of dormant after years of near-silence, with no new prey to sink their claws into.

The few who did leave were activating a deadly trap if they drew attention to themselves, essentially summoning slews of newly woken demons.

No matter how fast they ran, or how distant the screeches grew, nothing felt fast enough. Mark kept glancing over his shoulder, endlessly checking that nothing was following them too close. The sun stretched slightly further across the sky, counting down the seconds until evening, until they would without a doubt die.

When they finally did make it into the general neighborhood that he knew the checkpoint to be in, Mark's lungs were burning and his heartbeat was a repetitive, thrumming drum that echoed in his skull. He was far too old to be getting into shit like this.

Red brick house with a blue door.

It took another five or so minutes of jogging to scout it out. The entire time, he only grew more uncertain, more paranoid that he had missed something, messed up somehow. They couldn't fight their way out of New Haven, but what if it became the only option?

When he finally did spot the house, he breathed a quick, short-lived sigh of relief before rushing to the door, practically kicking it open and ushering Dakota inside quickly.

Slamming it shut and quickly moving moving to barricade the entrance with a nearby bookshelf (the rest of the building was specifically reinforced against the possessed, but he had weak trust in that door), the house was flung into darkness. The rapid shift from late-afternoon sunlight to the dingy dimness was jarring, but it spoke of safety and a place to fucking catch their breath.

Ears ringing, his surroundings now laid silent.

He only did a hurried pace of the house to double-check that they were really in the right spot before collapsing onto an old bench in the foyer. Plumes of dust flew up around him, but he didn't care, simply wiping sweat from his brow and placing his forehead in his hand, leaning over and sucking in deep breaths.

He was alive.

They were alive.

They were both absolute morons, but they were both alive.

It had been a while since he'd last slept well, given the fact that the entire night and morning had been spent traveling, and all that fatigue seemed to be vying to catch up to him at once, like hands reaching up to drag him down.

The only thing keeping him awake right now was that startling break in the white noise— since the altercation in the museum, Mark had slipped back into his habitual instincts to keep him and Dakota alive, but now, with nothing but humming silence all around, he could only recall that startling slip in his walls, how he'd nearly let them down, and...

how he'd frozen up.

How Dakota had flung himself into the fight like that, and he let such a thing halt him entirely.

Speaking of Dakota, the boy had slid directly to the floor, elbows on his knees as he sat with his forehead practically pressed to the ground. The only sign of life to his curled-up form was the heaving rise and fall of his chest. It was unclear whether that movement was shaking breaths or barely-contained cries. His hands shook as he buried them in his hair, palms over his ears.

Basically, he looked rough.

But they were both alive.

Soon, they'd be up and at it again, truly escaping New Haven and flooring it until buildings faded into trees and rolling hills. But now, they had this moment to process that simple fact: they were both alive, and they were both idiots, and the Sun continued inching across the sky.

---

It took them at least a half hour to get moving again. And by that, Mark meant that he was moving, and Dakota remained sitting there, trembling in the foyer.

He decided not to bother him, other than occasionally checking in just to make sure he was still there.

A thick metal door sat at the back of the house, with a little keypad— coincidentally, the same code to unlock it was also the same one for Dakota's power suppressor. Behind it was a garage, with a dusty black SUV inside that appeared to be in surprisingly good shape. A variety of supplies were laid out, with a nondescript note from yet another one of the Overlord's puppets that essentially told him to take what he needed, but be mindful.

Like clockwork, he began loading the vehicle with different items they'd need for their travel, taking grateful note of the containers of gas already sitting in the trunk. Gasoline wasn't nearly as good as it used to be in the old world, given the way it oxidized and waned over the years, but it was infinitely better than nothing.

It was simple, making the mundane choices of what rations to pack and the extra clothing or blankets they may need. Mark let the familiarity wash over him like a calming wave, listing and counting and listing again until he could finally pretend that he wasn't fucking terrified of everything that had happened earlier.

Dakota was stupid. That was expected. But Mark's response had been slow and idiotic, and— 

that person had looked alive, for just a second. Maybe it was just a ruse, a fluke, but god damn it, it was terrifying.

And Dakota seemed to truly think that they were alive. It was unclear what exactly he thought he was dying, but he didn't want Mark to kill them. 

It caused a thousand thoughts and doubts to pile up, barely suppressed by the constantly ongoing machine of his mind. This time, he was determined not to look back, to get caught up in the old wounds waiting to reopen. Burning question after burning question was waiting to be asked, but he simply counted rolls of gauze instead to quell them.

He grabbed a third sleeping bag, just in case, and ignored the way his hands shook the slightest bit as he did so.

By the time he was mostly packed, with just a few duffel bags' worth of supplies still sitting on the workbench, he finally stalked back to where Dakota sat.

Now, the kid was staring straight ahead, still eerily silent, but with a steady, piercing glare burning holes into the wall before him. His eyes were still red-rimmed and he would occasionally sniffle, but it seemed that he'd gained most of his composure back.

Mark allowed himself one more second of not-quite-peace before speaking up.

"Kid," he said flatly. "S'about time to go. Grab your shit."

Dakota didn't even look over in his direction, hardly deigning him with any sort of acknowledgement at all.

After a brief pause to clench his jaw tightly and sigh, he slowly got to his feet, backpack resting on one shoulder. His gaze remained firmly on the ground, fury still radiating off of him as he shoved his way past Mark and into the garage.

Shutting the door behind him as he followed, Mark offhandedly nodded towards the car before walking back over to the workbench, picking up a duffel bag and walking to the back of the car to load it in.

He leaned over to adjust a couple things and make extra space, and for about thirty seconds, the room remained rather quiet and still as he did so. Dakota just stood there noncommittally, rocking from foot to foot until— 

A shuffle of movement, followed by a rattle of a doorknob made Mark perk up, peering around to see Dakota pushing against the door, seemingly trying to make some break for it. The door had automatically locked when it shut, though, and he clearly didn't know the code. Still, he planted his feet and attempted to shove through anyways.

"Let me out!"

He tried this for about three more seconds before growing frustrated, slamming a fist into the door.

He threw one punch, then another, and another.

The fire in Dakota roared back to life suddenly as he pounded his knuckles against the door repetitively, hitting it hard enough to shake the structure of the entire house, yet failing to make it budge. A growing exasperation leaked into his actions, and his failure to get through only fueled his rage.

He began growling and shouting relentlessly, making an awful ruckus until— 

Dakota stopped altogether for a second, fists falling away from the door as he took a step back.

Then, he reeled his right wrist back, slamming it into the door, metal clanging against metal with painful, ringing noises as his power suppressor collided with it again and again.

He was raging, seething; maniacal.

A familiar kind of fury sat just behind what little of the boy's composure maintained; something powered by grief and regret. His teeth were bared and his expression crazed as he seemed to be trying to break that metal bracelet in two.

Despite his outraged front, though, tears began streaming from the corners of his eyes, tracing lines through the dirt and grime acquired on his face. It seemed that he was equally upset by the prospect of not being able to leave and the fact that he didn't have his powers, which only fed into the former.

The tantrum was awfully noisy, certainly attracting more threats for miles around.

And yet, Mark let him tire himself out.

As long as he floored it out of city ruins and maneuvered wisely, most of the possessed could be feasibly avoided this time.

Dakota was the most unstable variable in this entire situation. Demons were chaotic, but they did have some vague form of pattern and strategy— that kid was an absolute wild card, an unpredictable flurry of emotions with legs.

That silver power suppressor did not bend nor break against the door.

When it finally seemed to get through Dakota's head that it wouldn't, he threw one final, ire-filled fist at the door before grunting in pain and staggering back, cradling his arms close to himself with a pained expression.

The adrenaline must have been short-lived, already beginning to wane as his shoulders dropped and Dakota stared daggers at the ground, defeated. He still shook with barely-contained resentment, but he was back to being silent once more.

For somebody so young, there seemed to be an unreasonable amount of anger bottled up inside of him.

And much of it was directed at Mark.

The sentiment wasn't one he cared much for, but it did certainly add to the headache; the kid would never cooperate at this rate if he hated Mark so much.

When deafening silence did eventually overtake the room for a few minutes, Mark stepped around towards the driver's side of the car, looking over it at Dakota.

"Hell did you think you were going?" he asked lowly, doing his best to at least not make his tone an antagonizing one, which turned out to be more difficult than he thought.

"I was— " Dakota started, voice cracking immediately. He shook his head, steeling himself purely out of an apparent refusal to cry in front of the man. "I was g'nna go. To the lab. On my own, without you."

Mark shook his head in mild disbelief, turning back to pick up the second-to-last bag from the bench.

"With what directions, kid? You'll get fucking lost out there, minute you're on the road."

"I'd find a way!" Dakota cried, hand now held over the wrist with the power suppressor on it. The smallest twitch in his eyebrow let on that he was in some kind of pain from the outburst.

Mark made a note to check on him later to make sure that he wasn't seriously injured; he doubted anything was broken, but the kid was definitely banged up from all of that, and it was clear that even he was beginning to realize the consequences he was facing from such a tantrum.

"I'd find— find a fucking way, and I'd save everybody! Without you, you fucking villain!"

Taking a long couple minutes before deigning him with a response this time, Mark loaded the last few items into the car before shutting the trunk, then walking around to the front of the car where Dakota still stood.

"Tell me," he muttered. "Do you really think those people at Harttawa are any further above all that shit you call bein' a 'villain'?"

"They're trying to save the world, too." Dakota's voice grew smaller with each response. This time, it sounded like he was trying to affirm the sentiment to himself instead of actually argue back.

"Yeah, sure, they're 'saving the world'. But that doesn't mean they're some fuckin' heroes like the ones you worship."

Dakota curled his lip up at Mark, shooting one final defiant glare.

He seemed to simply be seething quietly at the man until— 

"Y'know," he grumbled. "For a man meant to be saving everybody with me, you don't seem to care much about humanity."

Mark simply scoffed.

"Guess I dont," he responded. "Now get in the car."

Dakota wiped at his face, returning to staring at the ground, deep in thought.

Admittedly, the boy had been put between a rock and a hard place. He had been since Mark accepted that job, but it was only much more pressing now. He either had to travel with Mark, who he clearly utterly despised for the crime of saving his life, or be ditched in the center of New Haven's wreckage as sunset threatened its descent in a few hours.

"You can't kill anybody else," shook Dakota, in some attempt of a demanding tone.

"I can't promise you that."

“But—“

"When we're out there, if it's you or one of those things, I'm killing those demons. Every single time, kid. What, d'you— " He stopped, a bitter sneer ghosting at the edge of his mouth. "D'you think you can just hug those things back to life? Stop them from tearin' your head off 'cause you've been kind to them?"

Dakota opened his mouth to retort, but Mark cut him off before he started.

"Consider every single possessed you see out there as dead, kid. 'Cause they are, until I get you to that lab."

"I— "

"Do you hear me?!" Mark hissed, tone leaving no room for arguments.

The boy's posture remained defensive and his shoulders tense, but a slight defeat began bleeding through, tears still tracking down his confused, conflicted face.

Finally,

"I hate you."

Three simple words.

Whispered, barely audible, yet landing with considerable weight and sincerity.

I hate you.

Mark shook his head. "You're not the first, and you're not the last. Get in the car, I'm not askin' this time."

Finally, Dakota complied, dragging his feet as he did so, hands still shaking violently with rage.

He crawled into the passenger side of the backseat, as far away from Mark as possible, practically pressed up against the door with his eyes directed out the window. His backpack sat on his lap, acting as a shield of sorts, yet another barrier between them.

Something stirred in the hollow, static-filled void in Mark's chest, reminding him yet again of that initial, unplaceable emotion he'd felt when first meeting Dakota and learning of the task he'd been assigned. It was different from that not-quite-hope that got him here in this first place, but it was familiar in a way that left a sour taste in his mouth. It reminded him of looking back, of recalling what he spent so long trying to bury and repress.

It wasn't guilt.

He couldn't let it be.

Double and triple-checking everything one final time, he quickly steeled himself before setting off.

Springs and hinges rattled as he pushed the garage door up and open, climbing into the driver's seat and finding the key, turning it in the ignition.

He flicked the rearview mirror down to adjust it, glancing momentarily at Dakota, who was now sitting with his legs hugged to his chest, chin resting on his knees.

Pulling the gear into reverse, he began backing out, only noticing when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the side mirrors— 

his face coverings had fallen off at some point, meaning that the previously hidden half of his face was entirely visible, and had been for most of the last couple hours. Green scales caught the sunlight, smudged with blood from the small gash he'd taken earlier.

He didn't dwell on it.

Quickly getting out to slam the garage door shut, he put the vehicle in drive and planted his hands on the steering wheel, veering off onto the road.

The inside of the car remained dead silent for the next couple hours that passed, as tall buildings melted into houses, and warehouses faded into farms. Trees became more and more common as they peppered the landscape, clean-paved roads transitioning to the occasional gravel or dirt.

By the time that golden evening light was beginning to shine through the windows, Mark finally was able to breathe a true sigh of relief, confident that they were finally far enough outside of New Haven.

It had only been a day and a half, and it had all already gone to shit.

Things could only go up from here.

Chapter Text

"You're hurt."

The car engine continued to thrum beneath them, constantly chugging forward as grassy fields and towering trees rushed by in blurs of color. The occasional bump in the road or turn of the wheel would jostle them slightly, but other than that, silence had been the only thing between Mark and Dakota for the last several hours.

Dakota wasn't quite awake, but certainly not asleep. He was still curled up against the door, putting as much distance between him and Mark as possible. He'd spent most of the last few hours with one leg curled up to his chest, arms wrapped around it and chin resting atop his knee, staring out the window.

And Mark was glancing up at him in the rear-view mirror now, which made for an uncanny sight on account of the fact that one of his eyes was bright fucking gold.

Not to say that was abnormal— His eyes were like that, too, but Mark's eye was surrounding by a scattered assortment of vibrant green scales, like that of... a lizard, or something. Dakota hadn't actually seen many animals during his life in New Haven, but he'd seen documentaries and photos from before everything, of species that existed in the world outside the safe zone. And that man looked like a lizard.

Dakota had a thousand questions.

He didn't ask a single one.

He didn't ask him anything, in fact. He didn't even speak to Mark, and he wasn't sure he ever could, not again.

He didn't want to travel with a murderer.

But Dakota didn't want to be alone. He wanted to save everybody, and help create a world that was safer. Once that cure was made and he went back home, he wanted Aunt Alaska to be able to see that river she spoke of from her childhood. She hadn't seen in it years, not since demons had begun taking people over, and not since she got... sick.

He was saving everybody, but he'd already failed at the beginning of their journey. That person in the museum was so close to being freed, he knew it, but he'd let them down.

Dakota Cole didn't let people down.

It wasn't what he did.

But it was what he kept doing.

And the only way to not let all of Prime down was to work with a supervillain. In fact, Mark was probably the worst one, regardless of what he'd told Dakota.

And he was the one who finally broke the silence.

The sun was currently setting, the sky in the East darkening quickly. As the city had faded out, suburbs had come and gone, and now they were practically in the middle of nowhere.

"Kid, you're g—"

"M'not hurt."

Dakota winced, hearing how hoarse his voice had gotten. It was hardly anything but a raspy whisper, with the slightest hint of what his voice used to be.

His throat hurt.

His body and lungs hurt.

And his wrist hurt. Bad.

"You've been keeping your arm out of sight this entire time, but you're holding it close. So either you're hurt, or you're hiding something."

Dakota slouched down in his seat, chin resting against the headphones round his neck. "Why's it matter?" he grumbled.

Mark shot him another glare through the mirror, eyes off the road for a much longer period than they probably should’ve been.

He didn't answer him, though, not for a while.

He simply kept driving.

Another couple minutes had passed by the time he turned the wheel sharply, pulling directly off the road and into a field of long grass, splitting the sea of golden blades as the car pushed through them.

Dakota shot up, whirling around to look out the windows and figure out why he was doing such a thing.

"We're stoppin' for the night," Mark explained in a gruff tone. "You can calm down. We just had to get off the road."

"Why? Are there bad guys out here? Demons?"

"Bad guys, sure. Not as many demons, not this far out." He narrowly navigated the vehicle between two trees, plunging them into darkness under the web of leaves overhead as they disappeared into the forest.

"Villains?" Dakota glowered.

Mark scoffed, but there was little humor in it. "Yeah. Villains. Sure, kid."

They fell silent for another couple minutes again. Dakota sat with his hands balled up into fists as he kept trying to summon that anger again, or even, at the very least, figure out who he was the most angry at; if it was really Mark or if it was just himself.

But he was... tired.

He hadn't quite been able to fall asleep, because every time his eyes shut, he only saw that person in the museum, that look of shock on their face as they appeared to be truly seeing again for the first time.

And he saw their body, torn to bits and laid out on the tile floor.

It'd been so long since he last slept. He was persistent, and stubborn to a fault, but even he needed rest sometimes— Aunt Alaska had told him such things before.

Dakota didn't realize the car had stopped until Mark was pulling the keys out, killing the engine and tilting the rear-view mirror down to scowl at him more persistently.

"Listen to me, kid," he muttered, disdain clear in every word he spoke. "You don't have to approve of my methods, but you and I both know that I saved our lives back there. Saved your life."

"You didn't save anybody."

Dakota didn't have the energy left to yell, just resting his elbows on his knees and holding his hands over his head now.

"You killed them."

"They were gonna tear your throat out."

"I could've helped them."

Could he have helped them? He'd been startled when they began screaming, instead of...

He could've saved them. Surely.

If he just had a few more seconds.

Mark didn't respond this time, seemingly cutting off the argument before it even started.

Instead, he changed the topic.

"How bad is the injury?" he frowned.

"Fine."

"Then why're you shaking?"

"Fuck off."

Another wordless minute or so passed before Mark just sighed heavily, muttering something angrily under his breath before opening the door, getting out of the car, and slamming it shut. After that, the trunk opened, and Dakota heard the sound of stuff being shuffled around and pulled out.

Mark was probably setting up camp for the night.

Dakota didn't ask about it.

He just tapped patterns onto the back of his head with his fingers, trying to focus on anything else, but that wasn't enough.

He sat up and rocked himself slightly from side to side, then drummed his feet against the floor to make even more patterns.

He closed his eyes and scrunched up his face as hard as he could.

Nothing was enough.

Nothing was enough to distract him from the fact that he wasn't enough.

Dakota reached for his headphones, pulling them up and over his ears. His left hand found the cord, which wasn't plugged into anything, and began twirling it aimlessly with his fingers.

And he didn't look at his right hand, or the stupid fucking power suppressor on his wrist, or the dried blood that was stemming from the point where said power suppressor was quite literally attached to him. He didn't pay attention to the sting of pain every time he moved his arm, or the way that both of his hands ached, with knuckles that were split from the previous brawl in the museum, now scabbed over and forming into scars that were ready to disappear with time. Just like everything else.

Just like...

---

The moon shone down on the streets of New Haven safe zone, hazy and slightly blurred behind a film of smog, but there nonetheless.

It was the only thing guiding Dakota as he squinted through the dark, gravel crunching underfoot.

He wasn't supposed to be out here. He was supposed to be abiding by "mandatory curfew" and staying cooped up in a building all night for safety's sake.

Now, he did follow most of WATCH's rules, but he frankly thought that one was kind of stupid. He was going to be seventeen at the end of the year, and then he'd be allowed to roam freely at night anyways— plus, Dakota Damascus knew the streets of New Haven better than anybody.

Whatever. It'd be fine. It wasn't like he was doing anything villainous.

In fact, one could argue it was quite the opposite.

Smiling to himself when he finally caught sight of the apartment building on Atlas street, he dropped his backpack on the sidewalk and began hoisting himself up onto the old, rusted fire escape.

Katori's bedroom window was on the second floor.

The fire escape wasn't quite next to it, and so Dakota had to lean over awkwardly, one hand on the side of the ladder, to be able to reach.

Tap tap.

He knocked twice on her window, then counted to three before tapping again— Katori made him follow that recognizable pattern; it was the one they had agreed on in the past. She said it helped her to be less startled, since she had a tendency to be wary of random noises in the night.

It didn't really make sense, but if it made her feel safer, he was happy to do it.

Katori's silhouette slowly approached from where she'd sat up on her bed, padding over with socked feet until she could push the window up.

Resting her elbows on the sill and leaning out, she shot Dakota a grin.

Her hair, black and sleek, shone in the minimal moonlight, smoother and straighter than his could ever be. Her skin was a stark contrast to that, a milky pale shade disrupted by the occasional mole or birthmark.

And her eyes glittered as she stated wryly, "It is eleven P.M."

With a toothy grin, Dakota haphazardly tried to rest his elbow on the windowsill and appear just as casual. It didn't work that well, though, given that he was still half-dangling off the ladder.

"Is it?" he asked.

"You ass, you know it is!" Katori laughed, before quickly cutting herself off and glancing over her shoulder, double-checking that nobody else in the apartment was awake before looking back. "I've got school tomorrow," she spoke in a much lower tone this time.

"You say that like I don't!"

"Well, I don't have your endless energy, Damascus."

Dakota shrugged. "I think you're just not trying hard enough."

A beat passed where Katori raised her eyebrows skeptically, and he snickered, watching her face light up with its own smile.

"C'mon, Tori," he pestered. "Let's go out tonight. It's been, like, a week since last time!"

"It's been two days."

"Same thing!"

Katori giggled. "You're acting like you're gonna die if I don't go with you."

"Maybe I will. And it'll be all your fault, just 'cause you wanted to go to school tomorrow. Like a loser."

"The horror," she whispered dramatically.

Dakota pulled himself back onto the ladder entirely, resting his forearms on one of the rungs and leaning his cheek against them. He shot Katori a pleading look, trying to hold back little laughs as he did so; he wasn't very good at acting serious.

"Oh, c'mon," Katori tilted her head. "Don't do that."

"Do what?" he asked, failing to hide the smile in his voice.

"You're trying to look at me all sad, so I wanna go with you."

"Is it working?"

She rolled her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, beginning to lean back into her room.

"Tori, come on!" Dakota whined. "Do you really wanna stay in there all night?"

A moment or two passed, where Katori paused, then glanced away from him.

Her gaze found the moon instead, looking up at it with a thoughtful expression of sorts. Her eyes, sharp and blue, flitted back inside for only a second, appearing hesitant, spelling out her thought process to Dakota.

"Please?" he begged. "There's a new building I wanna explore, and I can't go exploring if my best friend's not with me."

"I thought Doug was your best friend?"

"I can have two best friends!"

Another few more seconds passed.

"Please, Tori?"

Katori dropped her head, a mildly amused expression visible on her face even when she tried to hide it behind her hair.

"Fuck, I'll be exhausted tomorrow."

Dakota perked up, nearly falling over and off the ladder as he beamed.

"Give me five minutes."

"Okay!" He exclaimed, before wincing as it echoed down the alley, and lowering his voice to a whisper. "I mean— okay. I can wait."

Katori's window slid shut with a gentle click, and Dakota jumped down from the fire escape, landing on the pavement and picking up his backpack.

And then he waited.

Rocking back and forth on his feet, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

And kept waiting.

It was actually pretty hard.

Waiting wasn't easy for him. In fact, Dakota hated waiting. It was probably the worst thing in the world, right behind villains.

But he'd do it. He'd wait for Kat. 

In fact, he'd probably wait, like, a million years. Maybe even a billion, or a gazillion. But only cause she'd do the same for him.

Right?

When her window finally slid open again, he tried not to seem too excited, whirling around from where he'd been observing some overgrown plants on a distant wall. It failed, obviously, because Katori raised an eyebrow and smirked before placing her knee on the windowsill, climbing out and holding onto the wall as she reached for the ladder.

Out of pure habit, Dakota stepped closer, watching carefully, hands ready to catch her just in case she fell. It'd only happened a few times before, but it had happened— Katori was pretty clumsy.

She clamped her fist around the side of the ladder, doing an awkward half-jump half-fall from her window, latching onto the rungs a couple feet from the ground with a little yelp. After clinging onto the thing for dear life for a few moments, she hopped down, smoothing out her clothes and trying to appear casual.

Her hair was tied back now, and a smaller bag hung from her shoulder. It only had a couple things in it, like snacks and band-aids, since she was, in her words, "the only sane one".

A black pair of wired headphones sat around her neck, not connected to anything. Dakota had asked her about them before, and she'd answered that she would wear them sometimes to block out small noises when she was scared. She said they were often scarier than big ones, since it let the mind wander, guess at what they were. She would also whack him with the headphone cord whenever he said something stupid.

In fact, she did it now, even though he hadn't said anything.

Dakota just smiled.

"Oh, shut up," she grumbled. "Also, I wanna be home by midnight."

"Okay!" he agreed. "We'll just have to hurry then!"

Katori groaned dramatically, but the grin on her face was evident when Dakota glanced back, having already started to run ahead.

"Come on!" he urged. "It's not gonna be nighttime forever!"

"Yeah, I'm coming," she murmured.

Growing impatient, Dakota jogged back, reaching for her hand and taking it in his.

For a second, Katori seemed startled, and he nearly drew his hand back with an apology, but then she held on tighter, intertwining their fingers together.

The smallest of moments passed, where Dakota just looked down at their hands with a bit of confusion and just a little too much softness in his gaze.

And then, he shook himself back to life, so to speak, and nodded.

"Okay! Let's go!"

---

"Wait, wait— " Katori blurted, looking up at the chain link fence in front of them. "East End?"

Tall buildings arched overhead, most of them boarded up and empty. Broken fragments of glass windows glittered in the night, catching the lights of the sleeping district below. It was wholly silent, a little eerily so, but there was no longer a risk of being spotted by WATCH agents, since this part of the safe zone was mostly sealed off. Clearing it out for more civilians to live in was an eventual goal, it was just... taking some time for WATCH to get there.

"Oh, c'mon," Dakota reasoned. "It's not like there's any rules against going in there."

"It hasn't been cleared yet!"

"They wouldn't let it be this close to the people if it had bad guys in it!" he argued, gesturing down the road to support his point—  his aunt's apartment was only a couple blocks away, in a complex where, as WATCH put it, less fortunate families stayed.

Of course, that apartment had been empty for a little bit, since Aunt Alaska was getting help for how sick she was.

Dakota never lied about it to WATCH, he simply just... didn't mention it. He didn't wanna take up the heroes' time, not when he was fully capable of taking care of himself. They had big things to focus on; villains to fight. Dakota could care about that kind of stuff when he himself became a hero, just like them.

Regardless.

East End was almost certainly, probably, maybe entirely safe.

Katori still seemed hesitant, eyebrows pressed together as she glanced up at the rows of buildings. With her free hand, she twirled the headphone wire around, seemingly lost in thought for a bit.

Dakota bumped his shoulder against hers. "Don't you trust me?" he murmured. "I'll keep you safe, okay?"

"You and what powers?"

"I don't need 'em!" he grinned, lifting up an arm and striking a ridiculous pose as he flexed. "I'm just that strong!"

Katori snorted, looking from Dakota, to the buildings, and then back at Dakota. Her eyes flickered down towards their hands, still connected, for the smallest of instants before she looked him in the eyes again and nodded.

"Okay," she whispered.

"Okay!" Dakota exclaimed. "C'mon, c'mon!"

And then, they were scampering over the fence, with Katori fumbling slightly and nearly falling again. She really was pretty clumsy, but that didn't mean her movements lacked grace. She could probably fall flat on her face and still look great doing it.

Not that it mattered, though. Dakota didn't care about things like that.

Why would he?

---

"See? Nothing scary."

Finally letting go of Katori's hand, Dakota peered through the old, fogged-over window of the metal door at the top of the stairwell. It seemed to lead out to a rooftop, at which he smiled, reaching down to push it open.

"You're right. I think—" she huffed, "I think the thousand fucking flights of stairs was— much scarier than any demons could be."

"Whatever! It wasn't even that bad!"

"We are above the entire city."

"I know! Isn't it sick?!" he exclaimed, shoving through the door and reaching back to hold it open, being hit by a rush of cool night air as he stepped out. The hinges creaked and groaned loudly, like they hadn't been used in twenty years, which... was actually pretty likely.

The building they stood atop was one of four that used to be different WATCH bases that were arranged together near the center of New Haven, towering over everything else. A long time ago, a highway-like bridge of sorts had stretched between them all in a great circle, making it the stunning focal point of the city. That had been destroyed rather quickly during all the turmoil, though.

The North, South, and West bases were still fully intact, having survived the chaos outbreak, but the East one had been run over by demons and evacuated.

Today, it was mostly if not entirely empty.

That was why WATCH planned on returning to it, after all.

But for now, it was fucking awesome. Not only was the inside cool, with abandoned desks full of old employee equipment and faded photos of superheroes under shattered frames, but the view from the rooftop was amazing, too.

A thick cloud of smog and smoke constantly hung over New Haven safe zone, clinging mostly to the air on the ground level. That, combined with a decent bit of light pollution from watchtowers, guard patrol lights, and the general life of the district, meant that the stars weren't always fully visible. A good few of them were, but not all of them— Katori had told Dakota such, comparing the night sky to the one in her book and pointing out how much of it was obscured.

She seemed to have this undying need to see the night sky, with no disturbances or obstructions.

Dakota couldn't take her outside of the safe zone to see them, because that was too dangerous, but he could bring her above it.

"Isn't it cool?" he asked, turning back to watch Katori's reaction as she stepped out, head tilted back to look at the sky.

A thousand little specks twinkled down at them. She'd told him before that they were all burning, living stars, millions of miles away. In fact, some of them were planets, and a few were even whole entire galaxies, distant and yet still brilliant. Something about "spectral bodies larger than you and I could ever comprehend", and the way Katori had smiled when she spoke about them.

Dakota saw every single one of those stars as they reflected out of Katori's eyes, the piercing blue joined with the multiple shades and colors of the surrounding night, meeting them halfway, performing a synchronized song and dance as she observed each blinding light. It was as if they were made for each other, Katori and space itself.

This was why Dakota wanted to be a hero, he thought.

He wanted to find a way to help everyone, including the possessed. He wanted there to be a world where no safe zone walls had to exist, so that as many people could see the stars as they wanted. He wanted to travel the world with Katori, show her the sky in a thousand different places on Prime. He sucked at math and inventing and shit, but he wanted to build her a spaceship so she could see the stars. Or maybe just help make a world where she could build the spaceship. She seemed passionate about all that science stuff.

"It's beautiful," whispered Katori, after an uncertain amount of time. She still seemed breathless, and it was unclear whether that was from climbing many flights of stairs, or being met with the stunning view.

"Yeah," Dakota agreed, shuffling his feet sheepishly. "It is."

---

"How did you know this building was gonna be safe?"

When Katori had finally finished gazing at the stars in awe, the two of them had found a nice place to sit down by the edge of the rooftop. Dakota's legs hung over the side as he kicked them back and forth, while Katori leaned back against the wall by the door, legs remaining comfortably away from the edge.

"Oh, y'know," Dakota started. "I... checked."

He was an awful liar.

Mainly because he hated lying. And liars. He could excuse anything, but not lies. Lies made him feel like he wasn't trusted, like the person telling the lie didn't think he was strong enough to handle the truth.

Dakota didn't wanna lie. He immediately backtracked.

"Okay, no, I didn't check it out, but I have been down in this area before!"

"'Kota!"

"I told you it's safe! And it is!"

"You didn't know that!"

"But I still protected you, right?!"

A beat of silence followed, and a little creak sounded out in the distance, simply sounding like the building settling a bit.

Katori glanced around nervously, before looking back at him with apprehension as she gently pulled her headphones over her ears and fidgeted with the wire.

Dakota frowned, speaking softer this time. "M'sorry, Kat. But I wouldn't bring you here if I didn't think it was safe, I'd never— never do something like that."

"What if there's something we haven't seen? What if—"

"I'll keep you safe."

"What if there's a— a demon, and— and it comes after us, or we—"

"Tori," Dakota urged, scooting closer and placing a hand on her knee, some attempt at comforting her. "It's okay. I'd never let anything happen to you. I promise. They'd have to go through me first."

Katori squeezed her eyes shut for a second, one hand fidgeting with the headphone wire while the other tapped out little patterns on the rooftop below.

When she finally looked back up, she seemed to have calmed down, only doing one more sweep of their surroundings before nodding, and, gingerly, reaching out to place her hand atop where Dakota's sat.

"Yeah," she smiled. "They'd have to get through the Dakota Damascus."

"Nothing ever could!" Dakota shouted. "I'd beat them up a thousand times first!"

"A thousand times?"

"A thousand and one. The extra one's to scare them off, so they don't come back."

"A thousand and one," Katori repeated back gently, beaming at Dakota before her eyes turned to the stars again, which seemed to soothe her further.

Silence lapsed down upon them, but it was a very comfortable one. They weren't talking, but it still felt like they were communicating a million different ideas by being in each other's presence. Dakota knew it was probably gonna be midnight soon, and so they'd have to leave, but surely he could convince her into coming back up here in the future. He knew he wanted to, if just to see once again how happy she was to view the night sky so clearly.

Another similar creaking noise sounded out, but it didn't seem to reach Katori's ears now that she had her headphones on. Dakota didn't look back at it, since he knew it was probably nothing— if he looked back, she'd see him do so, and she'd get nervous again.

He just continued kicking his feet back and forth, heels hitting the concrete a little harder, making little thump-thumps.

"You're gonna knock your shoes off if you keep doing that, and it's gonna be so funny."

"No I won't!" Dakota snickered. "And no, it wouldn't be!"

A distant thud sounded out this time. Well, not quite distant. It actually sounded a lot closer this time.

But it was okay.

"Y'know," Katori said gently. "I know you said you can have two best friends, but I don't think you'd take Doug up here."

Tilting his head, Dakota looked over at her, a little puzzled. Her eyes were still on the stars, but a more pensive expression had taken over her features now.

"What d'you mean?" he asked. "I mean, yeah, I probably wouldn't, 'cause Doug likes basketball and shit. He wouldn't wanna stay up late doing stuff like this. And also— he doesn't like the stars! Not like you do! He doesn't—  doesn't get them, or whatever."

By the time he finished saying that, Katori had fixed her gaze back on him, grinning softly.

"Like, don't get me wrong, Doug's a pretty cool guy, but he's just not like you! Not that—  not that you're, like, different or anything—  well, you are different! But in a good way! And you're just—"

Sputtering awkwardly, Dakota racked his brain, trying to search for the right words. Nothing seemed to fit right, though; he didn't have an amazing vocabulary, and it wasn't like any words could fully describe Katori.

"I don't know, you're just—"

"'Kota?" she whispered, cutting him off immediately as he turned to face her, eyes alert and focused. Katori tilted her head with a wry smile, seemingly finding some kind of endearment in the action. "It's okay. I get it. I was just... messing with you."

"Oh," Dakota responded, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands or his feet or his face or—

Thud.

The noise sounded even closer this time, but he wasn't sure whether or not he imagined it, given that his heartbeat was echoing pretty loudly in his ears alongside everything else.

"'Kota?"

"Katori?"

Katori glanced down, taking in a deep breath. She seemed to be steeling herself, or building up courage, or something.

Dakota suddenly felt very nervous, even though he knew the tower they were atop was entirely safe. If it wasn't, then they would've come across some kind of danger by now.

Everything was fine.

"I—" she began.

A shadowy figure shifted in the distance, catching Dakota's eye as it lumbered forward. A sickening dragging sound followed with every movement, reminiscent of a limping, wounded creature.

Everything was fine.

"I think I— "

They were safe.

The odd shape inched ever closer, knocking over old soda cans and other pieces of trash with its lopsided gait. Dakota clenched his jaw, curling his hands around the side of the building and pressing the concrete into his palms.

Surely not.

Dakota's eyes shifted over towards the thing. He knew he had to look. Katori seemed confused by him doing this, but slowly stopped talking; she had been saying something important, but he hadn't heard any of it.

"What?" she breathed shakily.

"Shh."

Dakota squinted into the darkness. He searched for what he prayed wouldn't be in it, because he had promised. He had promised Katori that she would be safe, and if something, anything was out there, then he would've lied to her.

Staring back at him was an empty pair of eyes.

And by empty, Dakota meant empty.

In fact, no eyes remained in their skull, with only empty sockets left, blindly facing him. Their face was gaunt and thin, their skin grey and sagging. They were stooped over, their leg broken and bent at an awful angle as they hobbled forward on their other one.

"Tori," breathed Dakota.

"What is it?!" she responded, fear laced into her voice, into every fiber of her being.

The possessed, although incapable of seeing, seemed to be able to hear perfectly.

It tilted its head one way, and then another, pivoting to face Katori head-on.

And then, it lunged.

"NO!" Dakota screamed, scrambling to his feet and leaping for the thing before it could lay a finger on her, rushing for them and tackling to the ground. Cans and boxes scattered to the floor as he pushed the possessed into a pile of old junk, falling with them and grunting slightly as his knees hit the pavement, scraping against it.

He didn't know what the hell to do in this kind of situation.

But he couldn't let anything happen to his best friend.

She wanted to be back by midnight.

The not-quite-person began to push themself up, trying to attack Dakota now, but he quickly threw a punch at their skull, knocking them back and dazing them slightly. He winced as he did so, uncertain if he should be doing so or not.

He knew the possessed were people, or at least they used to be, but this one seemed to be so... gone. They closely toed the boundary between being alive and dead, their clothing worn to rags and looking old enough to have been one of the first possessed, at the root of everything all those years ago.

Dakota Damascus wasn't a murderer, but he didn't break his promises.

He was going to keep Katori safe.

In his moment of hesitation, the possessed was able to leap up and forward, sending Dakota careening back and nearly hitting his head against the concrete below as they tried to climb over him.

Katori screamed somewhere in the distance.

The person-creature snapped their head up, empty eye sockets searching for the source of the noise.

"HEY!" Dakota shrieked, flinging a fist up from the pavement, hitting them in the jaw and knocking them off-balance to the side. A breathless groan escaped them as they fell with their limbs strewn out, which allowed him to scurry back up and whirl around, looking for Katori.

She was on her feet now, too, reaching for the door and pulling on it repeatedly, trying desperately to open it. For some reason, though, it didn't seem to budge.

"It's locked!" she yelled, banging a hand against it. "Dakota, what— what do we do?!"

"IT'S OKAY!" cried Dakota, throwing a punch back at the demon as they rose again. "FIND— FIND SOMETHING! FIND A WAY DOWN!"

"What about you?!"

"I'M FINE!" He exchanged another desperate blow with his opponent, earning a scrape to the collarbone from their overgrown nails before he planted his foot on their chest, kicking them back. "JUST— LOOK!"

A heavy pause laid in the air for a second as the possessed stumbled, drawing in a rasping breath, before their body went sort of limp. They sprawled out, their own limbs falling out from under them, and collapsed with a note of finality.

It sounded like Katori was crying, somewhere over his shoulder, but he didn't look over at her, eyes still fixed on that shell of a person. He stood alert and ready to move again at a moment's notice, in case they tried to get up once more.

They weren't dead, but they surely weren't alive. They seemed to be sort of out of it now, kind of dormant.

Dakota didn't know what to do.

He didn't know what to do, and he'd broken his promise to Katori, and they weren't safe anymore, and he didn't know how they were gonna get home.

"Look—" he squeaked. "Look for a way down, Kat."

Katori took in a shaking breath, sniffling for a couple seconds before replying in a small voice, "Okay. Yeah."

An unknown amount of time passed after that. It could've been a couple minutes, or maybe it was an entire hour, seconds dragging on painfully as Dakota just stared down at that... person?— below him, hands shaking.

He felt blood slowly dripping down and off the tip of his knuckle, little droplets splattering onto his jeans.

He was injured. He knew his knees were pretty banged up, too. He didn't examine either of those things, though, eyes fixed only on the threat at hand.

"'Kota?" Katori called out.

"Yeah?"

"'Kota?!" she repeated, alarm in her tone. 

Dakota glanced back in concern, trying to figure out what had her so fearful.

Katori was standing near the edge of the rooftop, having shifted a smaller storage container slightly to the side as part of her search for a way down. Something lurked just behind it, seemingly caught under a piece of rubble and trying to claw its way out.

"DAKOTA!" she screamed, trying to step back and away from it.

Dakota whirled around to face her fully, beginning to rush over to the second possessed, hoping to stand between them and Katori.

Katori, who—

Her foot landed on empty space, having overestimated the rooftop's length, and she lost her balance.

Katori's hands shot out, flailing in an attempt to catch herself or prevent her fall, but it was too late.

In a blur of light, caught between the glow of the stars above and the ambience of the safe zone below, Katori fell backwards, plummeting hundreds of stories down.

"NO!" Dakota wailed, dropping everything, throwing caution to the wind, and running after her.

Without putting any thought into the action, he planted his feet before leaping off. He didn't know why he did that, or why he thought he could do anything about it, but his heart ached and thumped with the need to save her.

Save everybody.

Be a hero.

But Dakota Damascus couldn't do anything except fall with his best friend.

So, Dakota broke his promise.

Chapter Text

"So, what's the deal with it all?”

The old, cracked plastic of a bus stop window stared back at Dakota— he only knew it was such a thing because of the sign next to it on the road, rusted over and barely staying upright, but still legible. Half of the bench had rotted away, weeds and grass poking through the wooden planks. Still, it was intact enough to give him an impression of what it would've looked like in the old world.

On the ground, Dakota recognized what looked like a shattered, old digital camera.

He didn't pick it up or ask any questions about it this time.

After a pause, he squinted over his shoulder at Mark, habitually taking a step back even though he already stood on the other side of the road from him. Thinking about whether or not to respond for a few seconds, he kicked at a pebble before mumbling something out:

"It's a bus stop."

Mark sighed, flooding the air with tension and making Dakota furrow his eyebrows, shoulders hunching. "No," he responded after another beat, "I mean, what's up with your whole... immunity bullshit?"

He still spoke the word "immunity" as though it was something disgusting and insulting to him personally, like the mere idea of it had wronged him in some way.

Dakota felt a little sting from the scab still surrounding his power suppressor. He curled his hands tighter around where they were clinging onto his backpack straps in an attempt to stop them from shaking.

His wrist was wrapped with gauze now, which made a little rustling sound against the fabric. He frowned down at it, entirely ignoring Mark in favor of beginning to pick at the bandage.

It had been a couple days Mark had killed that person, and conversations still weren't coming easy to them. This was the most Dakota had said to him since that hadn't just been an angry, defiant shout or a blistering insult.

And that was really saying something.

Here, where they had stopped to refuel the car, Dakota was still unable to look at him without his jaw clenching and his hands balling up into fists.

"Kid," Mark pressed, putting away the red canister of gasoline (the stuff that made a lot of engines and shit work in the old world) and slamming the trunk shut. "Are you gonna answer me?"

"Why's it matter?" he grumbled, turning away even further.

"It matters," Mark spoke slowly, as though Dakota was too dense to get what he was saying, "Because I should know what I'm getting into with all your shit. If it's even real."

"Why would I be here if it wasn't real?!" Dakota bit back, shooting a glare over his shoulder.

As always, his words seemed to be of little real importance to the man as he ignored his response, simply continuing, "Why did you think you could save that thing back there?"

Thing.

The possessed.

The person.

It'd been three full days since then.

Three full days of anger and bitterness and resentment and regret. Of Dakota playing that moment over and over in his head and thinking of ways he'd be different. Be better, if he could’ve just gotten a second chance.

It all boiled down to simply not hesitating the way he did, of jumping in and then stopping at the last second.

Mark seemed to have picked up on Dakota's scowl at the choice of words he used, and he shook his head, rubbing his temples, before rephrasing.

"Okay," he relented. "Why did you think you could save... them?"

Dakota scrubbed at his face, as though it could stop any emotion from showing up on it. His aunt always told him that he was very easy to read.

"Because I can save them," he said lowly.

Mark shook his head, half caught in a scoff before he paused. "Well, you haven't saved any before."

He phrased it like a statement, but it was obvious that it was some kind of question. A stupid fucking one. Why would Dakota willingly stay with Mark if he hadn't saved anybody before? If somebody hadn't taken notice of such potential and took advantage of it, and if those people didn't put him in a stupid power suppressor and—

Dakota bit the inside of his cheek, trying to think of the simplest way to explain it. He didn't actually understand his powers that well himself, since he wasn’t born with them. When he got them, nobody ever seemed to address him directly or even care about how he felt. And he never really paid attention in school, either, so he was lost on all the fancy big words and terms that were used whenever the scientists responsible for him being this way spoke to each other.

Realistically, Dakota didn't have to answer Mark.

And honestly, he didn't even want to.

Picking at the gauze wrapped around his right wrist again, he huffed dramatically through his nose before turning on his heel, facing him fully. 

Mark seemed to be making no attempt to hide those shiny, lizard-like scales on his face anymore; he still stood with the left side of his face slightly out of view, leaning back against the car, but that yellow, reptilian eye stared back at him now, like a challenge. Beckoning for Dakota to comment on it, to start another fight that he was bound to lose.

Dakota thought of the river, just outside of New Haven’s walls. He thought of his aunt’s stories about it, and of the faded photos of his parents. He thought of a single blurred memory, that of dark brown skin and vibrant red curls, of smiles brighter than the sun that he could barely recall. 

And he swallowed his anger, for just a moment.

“I— my powers, they…” he kicked again at the scattering of pebbles among the side of the road, staring at the distant trees, the swaths of grass, any piece of this middle-of-nowhere scene that wasn’t Mark. “My body can— can ‘process and withstand things that others cannot’, something like that.”

”Yeah, that super strength shit. I skimmed over your file.” 

Mark stood in the middle of the road now, making a small gesture with his arm, a beckon for him to get back in the SUV (and a threat, if he still tried to make a break for it). 

“Come on, explain it in the car. We shouldn’t stay out in the open for long.”

They were probably miles away from the nearest person or demon. Nothing but distant crowing birds and the occasional rustle of a small animal filled the overwhelming silence. Regardless, Dakota didn’t push, knowing that there was no point in doing so right now.

He still dragged his feet on the way back to the SUV, though. 

“I mean— yeah, super strength, but also—“

”Other enhanced abilities. I know what your powers are, kid. S’part of the reason you’re still wearing that suppressor. It’d be a nightmare if you weren’t.”

Huffing angrily at being cut off, Dakota curled his fingers around the handle of the door and squinted up at the sun and the clear sky. He sucked in a breath of air like it’d be his last time outside ever again. It practically felt like it, knowing that he was going to be cooped up in the same car as Mark for another million hours.

Dakota always dreamed of venturing outside the walls of New Haven, but now that he was actually doing so, he was stuck with the worst man he could think of.

Once the second half of Mark’s comment— the part about the power suppressor— finally processed, a sour expression overtook Dakota’s face. He wrenched open the door with far more force than he probably should’ve, slamming it shut behind him with enough force to shake the car and make his ears hurt. 

He hated that fucking bracelet. And he hated how bitchy Mark was about it— about everything. And he hated the fact that Mark was named Mark . It was such a stupid, normal name for an incredibly evil guy like him.

Given the sudden outburst, Mark seemed to know not to press Dakota for a bit, and was evidently somewhat pissed off himself, because he just sunk into the driver’s seat with a clenched jaw and jammed his keys into the ignition. He fixed the rearview mirror solely on Dakota, shooting a sharp glance at him, a reminder to behave.

”Let me know if you need that arm to be re-wrapped soon. Should be mostly healed by now.”

The change of subject was abrupt, but welcome. A wordless “we’ll-come-back-to-it-later when-you’re-not-gonna-bite-my-head-off” kind of agreement.

Their conversation was a bust on both ends, but at least Mark hadn't killed an innocent person again or something. That was some sort of victory.

Dakota hadn’t seen many of those lately.

---

A scorching flame echoed and whispered, clawing its way at Dakota’s ribcage, screaming to get out.

Sucking in a heavy, determined breath, he shoved it down, choking back bitter memories as he did so.

The car kept moving. 

The world kept spinning.

The flame kept burning.

Nothing paused. Everything kept trekking onwards. 

He twirled the headphone wire around his fingers. 

---

With a muffled screech of tires against pavement, Dakota’s body jolted forward as Mark slammed on the brakes. He braced himself with an elbow, pushing himself back into his seat and staring up at the man with utter confusion.

Those mismatched eyes glared back at him before Mark yanked the keys out, killing the engine. 

“Something wrong?” asked Dakota, ditching his usual anger in favor of making sure nothing was amiss, eyes already raking over the land.

They’d stopped abruptly in the middle of a paved road, in the skeleton of a small town— not quite civilization as he knew it, but no longer the middle of nowhere. It was just enough for the street to be more than dirt and gravel, but potholes and giant cracks still stretched over the cement. 

There were only two rows of old, decrepit buildings that were squished together on each side of the road. It looked like a smaller parody of one of those “Western towns” that Dakota had learned of vaguely in school during history class. 

This place seemed to belong more in a museum or a slideshow than it did right before his eyes.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Mark grunted, the smallest hint of an expression on his face that wasn’t a frown for once. He reached over towards the passenger seat, picking up a duffel bag. 

“Then why’d you stop so fast?!” 

Looking back up in the rearview, Mark shrugged. “Gotta stay on your toes.” 

“You were just being an asshole!” 

“Might’ve been.” The faintest upward tilt of his mouth (maybe it wasn’t even a smile, maybe he just wasn’t frowning for once) made it obvious that he, in fact, was doing just that.

And then, for an instant…

The smallest, most minuscule shift occurred in the air between them.

The overwhelming, suffocating presence that made Dakota’s jaw clench and Mark’s fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel lessened, if only for a second. 

It wasn’t a joke that Mark had just told. And this wasn’t friendliness, one couldn’t even really call it allyship. 

It just… was.

Then, it was like the oxygen got sucked from the air again, and tensions were back to normal. Normal, of course, being unbearable. Barbed wire and bared teeth replaced whatever had been there before.

“Stay in the car,” Mark directed. “I’m just stopping for a moment.” 

“What for? And— no! This place is sick as hell!” 

Mark did a sweeping glance of the surrounding area with raised eyebrows.

Dakota rolled his eyes.

“This place isn’t safe, kid.” 

“It’s an empty town!”

“It’s a checkpoint.”

“That means it’s even safer!”

Mark’s expression greyed. “Not quite. This isn’t one of my people’s checkpoints.”

“Then why are we stopping?!” 

“This road’s the quickest way through this area. That doesn’t mean it’s without a fee.” 

With a snort, Dakota sunk down in his seat. “What, you’ve gotta pay the ghosts money or something?” 

The lack of a response made him look back up ahead, where he saw Mark leaning over the dashboard, eyes focused on the empty buildings surrounding them. 

He glanced back at Dakota with a firmness in his gaze, before making a small gesture with his arm, pointing subtly up at the empty window frame of a dusty, faded-blue building.

“Sniper up there.” 

He moved his wrist only slightly, pointedly looking away now. His eyes were facing right, but he was evidently meaning to call attention to the old, brown, cabin-like structure on the left side of the car. 

“Somebody’s lurking in there. They’ve got a melee weapon, probably a tire slasher.”

Another flick of his hand.

“Whole group of them up ahead, trying to hide between those two walls. Waiting on whatever dumbass tries to skip through here without payin’.” 

His eyes continued to search the scene for a second or two longer, but he didn’t mention any other people, even though the steel in his expression clearly spoke: there were more. 

Dakota tried not to wince when he caught his gaze one last time in the rearview mirror, suddenly a lot more on edge than he had been before. He couldn’t see a single person that Mark had spotted in the area around them, but he felt the pressing weight of eyes on him, eyes that he couldn’t locate, people that he couldn’t fight.

“Villains?” he whispered.

“Bandits,” Mark corrected. “This is just their territory. It's not dangerous to get through if you're not a fuckin' idiot. There's just a fee."

"How do you know?"

He scoffed, as though the question was stupid. "I've been through here a few times before. It's my job to travel, kid."

"Travel?"

"Deliver cargo." Mark turned back in his seat this time, directing a stern look Dakota's way.

Right. 

Dakota was the cargo.

"I've been sitting still for too long, they're gonna get suspicious. Stay in here 'til I get back, or I swear to God."

With a note of finality, Mark heaved his duffel bag up and onto his shoulder, stepping out of the car in one fluid motion. The door slammed shut harshly behind him, making Dakota flinch.

Out on the road, he openly held an arm up, the hand around the strap of his bag loose and casual, a clear effort to appear friendly. Of course, being Mark, it was hard to look inviting at all, but Dakota supposed he at least could appear somewhat… non-threatening to the people out there.

As his arms lifted up, Dakota caught sight of the metal belt that attached to his torso, the same one that seemed to be a part of his superpowers— or maybe their source.

He was going in there empty-handed, but still armed.

Dakota tasted blood in his mouth at the memory of what those superpowers could do.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, clearing his head and trying to distract himself as Mark greeted a stranger on the street (who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere) and stepped into that creaky, brown building that he'd talked about moments ago.

And then the world around him grew silent.

Dakota glanced at his car door. The "child lock" was on— he’d never been in a car before this, but he learned what that was almost immediately, for obvious reasons.

However, the front doors were free game. They were also locked, but from watching Mark during their last few days on the road, he knew that they were pretty easy to open from the inside.

A part of him wanted to disobey, to vault over the center console and jump out of the car, to escape, to run and run until... until something. 

He wasn't sure.

But those eyes still rested heavy on the back of his neck, making him feel small. It was like being pinned down and observed, with lights flashing in his face and different doctors all peering down at him like he was nothing more than a bug under a microscope, except this time, he couldn't see anyone. There were people out there, and they could see him, but he had no clue where they were.

He didn't know what had him so scared. He was the Dakota Cole. He always wanted to be a hero, to bash and punch and beat up villains and bring them to justice.

Maybe it was the fact that he didn't have his powers this time. 

And, although he would never fucking say it, he was actually rather on edge to be left alone in the car, in unpredictable territory, without Mark.

He hated Mark. Mark was hard to read, and a terrible person, and the worst supervillain he knew, but at least Mark was dedicated to keeping Dakota alive, getting him to Harttowa and getting whatever payment he was being offered. He'd kill other people, but he wouldn't kill Dakota. And, as horribly selfish and un-heroic as that thought was, it was somewhat... reassuring?

Seconds and minutes began dragging on, slow enough to be lapped by a snail’s pace. 

After the wait grew unbearable, Dakota had half a mind to jump out and find Mark himself— he was a bad guy, but that didn’t mean he deserved to die or whatever. 

And Mark knew his way around the area.

Dakota did not.

The idea of what could happen if he was left stranded out here was not a pleasant one.

What would these invisible people think if they found out about his powers?

Trying to keep himself distracted, he stared and stared at the surrounding scenery. He stared at distant, dry bushes scattered across cracked desert planes and distant mountains that loomed on the horizon.

He wondered if he’d ever get to see those mountains up close once he saved the world. Maybe that’s what he and Aunt Alaska would do— go on a trip across all of Prime once it was safe, and once she got better.

Despite growing bored, he continued to watch the leaves of sparse plants rustle as the smallest breeze flew through them, growing accustomed to the mostly still landscape until—

Until something moved.

Something that wasn’t a branch or a cloud of dust.

Dakota quickly slid over to the left side of the car so that he could peer through the window at the thing, eyes wide as he searched for it again. 

It was on the outskirts of this little town, next to the very first building back behind the SUV. 

First it was a flash of blue fabric, and then it was an entire arm sticking out from around the corner. 

As a figure came into view, their face was obscured, but it was obvious that their other arm was stuck, and they were trying to fight their way out of whatever was holding them. The nails of their free hand were scrabbling for freedom, and their head whirled around wildly, black hair flicking back and forth, and the way their shoulders curled up towards their ears, it was easy to tell they were scared.

Dakofa felt his muscles tense up.

He tried to back up and give the situation a rational thought. Tried to justify what was going on— they probably were a resident here, and maybe they were trying to pick up something heavy. Maybe they were one of the bandits, and they were trying to steal from their own home? Or a different kind of bandit? Stealing from these bandits?

Dakota realized that he wasn’t very good at thinking things through rationally.

All he could think of was the worst-case scenario. 

All he could think of was the stranger’s dark hair that blew around in the slight wind. Of dark hair that obscured his best friend’s face as she fell. 

Maybe this person was a villain.

But maybe they were injured, and maybe the people here wouldn’t be kind once they spotted them, and—

Dakota was done hesitating.

Vaulting over the center console like he’d thought of before, he awkwardly scrambled to flick the lock on the driver’s side door and staggered out, stopping only to double-check that Mark hadn’t come back yet before jogging off.

Like moths drawn to a flame, eyes pressed down on his back, and he knew that he was being watched , but his vision tunneled and his heart thumped, aching at the prospect of saving somebody in need. Hurting at the memory of failing to save others before.

Maybe he could do things right for once.

“Hello—?” Dakota called cautiously, suddenly noticing that the figure was entirely obscured behind the wall.

Worst case scenario after worst case scenario flooded his brain. 

He shoved it all down, finally rounding the corner.

“Are you okay? My name’s—“

A girl with warm brown skin and thick, long hair that had half-fallen out of her ponytail stared back at him. She was far taller than Dakota, but she seemed to be about the same age, if maybe a year or so older. 

And she stood stock still.

Dakota didn’t even think to assess what was wrong anymore, instead trapped and paralyzed as he could only look up at her eyes, wide open in an expression of mock fear. 

Her gaze was hollow.

The shock settled in a moment too late.

And then, Dakota was weightless.

It didn’t last long. His skull whacked against tufts of dead grass, only barely missing the pavement as the possessed girl tackled him to the ground.

In that split second it took for him to sent flying to the dirt, his mind had managed to kick into overdrive. 

Stars scattered across his vision and the air left his lungs in one great rush. He tucked his head under his hand and rolled to the side, narrowly escaping a vitriolic punch to the eye, grimacing at the sight of long nails that might’ve been claws. 

An angry, determined grunt left the possessed’s mouth, and he felt his heart skip a beat as he pushed to his feet. 

Their movements still had a hint of humanity to them, and though their eyes were empty and distant, teeth bared in a way beyond animalistic, they still had hints . Hints of themself, of who they used to be before their body was ripped from them, an evil spirit surging through their body and replacing their previous identity. 

They were newly possessed.

It meant that they were more unpredictable. 

But it also meant that maybe, the chance of saving them was even greater.

As Dakota processed all of this, he also distantly took note of some excited, taunting whoops in the distance— like a crowd watching a dog fight, or a hunter watching game fall into its trap.

There must have been some more sinister reason behind this girl being right here.

A thousand implications and worries flashed through his mind.

But Dakota didn’t pause to think things through this time.

He planted his feet and lunged.

The possessed girl had serious height on him, but he was stockier with a stronger build, and so she went down like a house of cards, knees buckling and arms flailing as she hit the dirt.

“I’m really sorry!” Dakota shouted over her angry growls. “I’m trying to save you! I swear!”

Her expression remained empty, that distant fog leaving her eyes blank as ever. He didn’t even know if she even heard him, given the predatory curl to her lip and the way her teeth were still exposed to the air, jaw snapping once or twice like a threat. 

It was horrible, seeing posessed. Especially newer ones, like these— looking at somebody and knowing that only days or even mere hours ago, they were human. They were themself.

Dakota had watched people lose themselves before. He’d watched the spark in his aunt’s gaze slowly fade over the years as illness took hold of her, as her fingers wrapped loosely around bottles and cigarette lighters, trying to find any way to cope. 

But he’d never seen anyone lose themselves as quickly as they did when they were possessed. 

It was like snuffing out a person’s initial flame, and slowly smothering the remaining embers and smoke until nothing was left. 

Dakota didn’t know if he could help somebody once they stopped burning entirely.

He just prayed he could relight this flame in time before either one of them died.

The girl rushed to her feet, legs creaking slightly as they bent in an odd fashion, like a bad imitation of being human. She tried to claw for Dakota’s face again, but stopped just short as her body jostled backwards, her other shoulder jerking awkwardly as if trapped in place. 

And Dakota finally spotted what had her stuck.

A thick, rusty chain was attached to one of the outer walls of the house, with about five feet’s worth of length.

Enough to reach nearby bystanders and tear at their skin, ward off newcomers; but not to reach the center of the road, or even disturb any person who knew their way around. 

A quick glance to the other side of the street told Dakota that there were several other of these chains plastered to the walls, all empty currently, but resembling some sort of… shield? 

Bile rose in the back of his throat.

These people were using posessed people as shields . As weapons. Chaining them up like dogs and siccing them on people who didn’t pay whatever toll they charged.

The already-haunting atmosphere of this town suddenly felt much more terrifying.

Dakota was just an idiot who had taken the bait.

Those distant eyes, those strangers stationed in the windows, all latched onto his every movement. They shouted and jeered, clearly expecting a good show from this— it wasn’t every day that a fool just stumbled upon their pet demons. 

Dakota was being observed again. 

Whether it was the scope of a rifle or a one-way mirror in a sterile white room, he was being watched.

It seemed that he would just never escape it.

For all it mattered, he could be back in New Haven. And not the part of it he wanted to be in. 

Dakota gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t focus on that.

He was hesitating again. 

With only a second longer to curse the power suppressor a thousandth time, Dakota launched himself back into the fight. 

Flurries of punches and shrieks accompanied scratches across the surface of his skin. All of it blurred together into a chaotic symphony, a tempo he had grown used to. Duck one way, throw a punch as you do so, narrowly avoid a scratch at your eyes, feint left and go right, hit their pressure points but avoid being lethal.

It was all just a familiar dance.

It was like he was made for this— in a way, he was.

And it disgusted him this time. He was trying to save this stranger and it was being turned into a show for the entertainment of others.

He was a spectacle. A one-trick pony.

By the time he had finally gained an upper hand and mostly defeated the demon (thank God this one didn’t have superpowers), pinning the possessed person to the ground and holding a fist up in a threatening manner, his eyes stung with tears and anger boiled beneath his skin. 

He was saving somebody, finally, but it didn’t feel good.

Regardless, he clenched his jaw hard enough to hurt and continued to exchange blows, a final resounding message to the demon in this person’s body: you can’t win.

The first time that Dakota had extracted a demon, he had been terrified and full of regret. He was unsure of anything in that moment, back pressed into the corner of a white examining room, looking from the crumpled form of a possessed stranger to the high-up windows on the wall. He knew that there were people behind those windows, but the one-way mirror only showed him his own reflection; his crazed eyes and the smear of blood across his face, droplets dotting his skin alongside freckles.

“Focus on your breathing,” the tinny voice of Doctor Shaw echoed in his mind. “It must know the vessel it’s in is not worth it.”

They must see you as the next best option, had gone unsaid.

Blinking back to the current moment, Dakota raised his fist again, hoping and praying against all odds that it hadn’t just been a fluke. 

The possessed’s face remained empty and soulless, head whipping from side to side as it tried to seek a way out. The girl’s arms pushed and struggled back, but it was to no avail. 

She was trapped.

The demon seemed to take notice of this, because in one moment, they were determined and calculating, and in another, their gaze focused back up on Dakota.

Something shifted there, just like that strangely lucid look the possessed person in the museum had given him. 

“Come on!” Dakota goaded. “Fucking do it!”

The girl opened her mouth, jaw creaking open in that eerie fashion, and for an instant, he faltered. 

Maybe they were going to shriek again, like the other one had. Maybe he was going to fail.

Maybe he really wasn’t that special, after all. Maybe it was all for nothing.

Hiss.

Chaotic, dark energy surged forward, appearing so suddenly that Dakota didn’t even get an opportunity to see where it came from. It leapt for him, and he scrambled away, crawling backwards on his hands, putting a safer distance between himself and the girl. 

The spirit hurt to look at directly. His eyes burned when he tried to focus on it, and it sparked and hissed at him, malevolent energy singing the edges of his hair and burning his skin.

It was a demon, in its truest form.

It seemed to think it had the advantage in this situation, taking its time to taunt its prey before it possessed him, obviously convinced it would turn him into its puppet.

This was all part of the plan.

Careening to the side and trying to peer around the sickening soul, Dakota’s eyes searched for the girl. 

She laid limp and unconscious on the ground, and though she was injured, her chest still rose and fell in jagged breaths that were beginning to even out.

And—

Several feet to the right, a tall silhouette stood on the edge of the road, burning orange energy whirling around their fists. They seemed to be frozen in absolute shock, expression the most emotional that Dakota had ever seen it, eyes wide in shock and plain fear.

Mark’s gaze met Dakota’s, and the look of pure horror that carved itself into his features almost made Dakota feel bad for the guy. 

No thick walls of tension and anymosity sat between them anymore. There were no arguments, no scowl directed his way, no unbridled hatred and loathing. 

Mark’s sole mission on the road was protecting Dakota and getting him to Harttawa Laboratory safely. 

Dakota, who was half-sprawled out on the ground with a literal demon advancing upon him, close enough for the chaotic whispers to flood his mind and make it scream in agony. 

Mark’s mouth opened, presumably to shout.

And maybe he did.

Dakota never found out.

In less than a second, the air was stolen from his lungs, ice-cold flooding his body and sending a chilling jolt down his spine. 

And then, it burned.

Recently, Dakota had learned that matches and gasoline were a deadly combo— of course, he didn’t get to see such a thing in action, but Mark had snapped at him that, apparently, gas practically exploded when it came into contact with fire.

That was probably a good metaphor right now.

Instead of snuffing out the flame that was Dakota’s soul, it was like dropping a lit match into a fuel tank.The blaze roared upwards, reaching for the skies as it grew and grew, leaping and rising into a scorching inferno. 

The demonic energy sank into his eyes, his ears, his nostrils, his mouth— his jaw practically unhinged as he opened it wide, half-screaming and half- whatever the hell being possessed by a demon was.

A beacon of energy poured into his body, swirling around and around until it found its way around his heart, encircling it and remaining trapped in his ribcage, now jolting for a way out as it realized what was going on.

Somebody was screaming.

It was probably Dakota.

He didn’t remember this part being as painful as it was. His very insides could’ve been getting torn apart and sewn back together for all he knew. 

It was like being consumed in a great storm, a hurricane of blistering pain and deafening screeches and chaos . He squeezed his eyes shut, but his vision still flooded with terrifying sights and shapes that he didn’t quite understand; views of a realm that, though he couldn’t explain why, he knew was waiting for him after death. 

Painful didn’t even begin to explain it.

It tore him apart, turning his body to ash and fusing it back together from the sheer determination of that mechanical tick, tick of his heartbeat.

The power suppressor may have made his powers impossible to use externally, but they still functioned perfectly well internally.

Still, it felt like Dakota was dying, and maybe he was. 

Maybe this really was it. 

It was the worst thing he had ever experienced. It was too much. It was everything.

And then, it was nothing. 

Just like that. 

Only ringing silence remained in the wake of it all. 

Dakota keeled forward, shaking arms barely catching him as he just sat there on his hands and knees, trembling terribly. He took deep, gulping breaths of uninterrupted air, only realizing now how choked of oxygen he had been.

He gagged, coughing and spluttering a few times as he watched blood spatter onto the cracked desert ground beneath him. Distantly, he tasted iron in his mouth; felt it pooling and spilling from his lips, a painful ichor as proof of what he had just done. 

Dakota’s head throbbed like it was going to cave in. His heart pounded and pounded like it was trying to get in its last few beats before giving out. 

But ultimately, he was alive.

He survived.

Dakota Cole had just eaten his second demon. 

His elbows gave out on him, and so he pushed himself backwards so that he sat on his heels. Wiping at his face in a pitiful attempt to clear the stinging red from it, he looked back up, unfocused vision searching his surroundings. 

It was dead silent.

The villains— bandits— whatever were no longer hiding, giving up on that in favor of leaning out windows and around corners to gawk at him, faces slack and eyes wide in clear, unadulterated shock.

They were all still, stationary, like statues carved from marble.

It seemed that nobody even dared to breathe. 

Dakota didn’t look to any of them, his eyes instead moving up, finding Mark amongst the figures. He was the closest one, and by far the easiest to make out. 

His face was still twisted into that absolute astonishment and fear, and his walls had dropped nearly entirely, that carefully curated composure gone. Yet, a sort of steel had fallen behind his eyes, his posture squared and defensive, ready for Dakota to lunge at him. 

Mark had also seen people get possessed before, that was pretty clear.

That meant he also knew that it usually didn’t look like this.

Because Dakota wasn’t possessed.

Still not trusting his knees to support him, Dakota spat out a sickening mouthful of blood, watching it form red blossoms as it seeped into the earth before looking Mark directly in the eye. 

This moment was too much. Mark looked too unlike himself. Real, unfiltered emotions bled through now that his guard had been dropped from the surprise, and they were too much.

Denial, maybe.

That was what Dakota thought he saw first. 

Alarm. Terror. Anger. Even curiosity.

They flashed across his face at rapid fire, but for the longest moment, he seemed to settle on… grief?

Grief. 

Grief, but not for Dakota. 

And for some reason, Dakota seemed to understand that.

Every layer, every minefield and wall and sharp, serrated fence came crumbling down, all of it peeled back to reveal something wholly unlike Mark.

It felt as thought Dakota was really seeing him for the first time.

This wasn’t the Mark he knew. This was somebody else. Somebody who Mark had tried to bury twenty years ago.

Another cough tore itself from Dakota’s chest, and he had to look away, but he still felt more shaken from seeing that than he felt from practically being burnt alive by that demon. 

“You wanted— fuck—“ He spat out a second mouthful of blood, biting back a whine of pain. “You wanted to know how my fuckin’ powers worked, huh?”

Pushing himself slowly to his knees, and then his feet, he held a hand to his abdomen to support himself, staring back up at Mark. He kind of felt like he was going to puke and keel over dead, and his chest burned, but he persisted.

Holding his arms out in a wide gesture despite the way pain surged through his system, Dakota gritted his teeth and pushed the last of his energy into squeezing his voice out, despite how hollow and hoarse it was.

“HERE YOU FUCKING GO!” he cried, hearing it echo across the empty terrain. 

And then, with an extra touch of spite he didn’t know he had in him, Dakota tacked on a quieter, more personal—

“That’s how my ‘bullshit’ works, Mark.”

Chapter Text

"M'not apologizing for what I did."

Mark only continued to stare forward as Dakota said it. The only sign that he'd even heard him came in the way his knuckles turned whiter against the steering wheel as his grip tightened, jaw clenched hard enough to shatter. 

They were the first words either of them had spoken since they'd left the town, breaking the silence in an odd fashion. It nearly blended into the surrounding atmosphere perfectly, just another chirp of a cricket or cry of a bird. The only thing that set it apart was the hoarse, chalky tone of Dakota's voice.

He sniffled, wiping away at the mess on his face, unsure whether it was blood, tears or snot at this point (and, frankly, a little grossed out by it). He swallowed, and when he did, his throat felt sore, his body aching with the dizzying combination of both rushing adrenaline and overwhelming fatigue.

His muscles were sore, but his heart was buzzing, ready to run a hundred marathons or fight a thousand villains.

Dakota was tired.

His powers were not.

His heartbeat was mechanical and steady, the only piece of him that even slightly resonated with Mark-- Mark was practiced, robotic movements and routine and instinct and habit.

Dakota was none of those things, if it hadn't been established before.

The car kept chugging forward. Mark was going a little too fast for comfort, bumping and jostling them whenever the wheels went over potholes or smaller debris in the street. They were back to the middle of nowhere, but trees were staring to multiply again as the desert climate faded out.

Mark's mismatched eyes scanned the horizon, both before and behind them; simultaneously searching for something and also looking out for a looming threat.

Just as Dakota thought they were going to continue their silence for the next few hours, his gaze flickered up towards the rearview mirror.

"You're gonna get us killed," Mark snapped, but it sounded hollow and unsure. A random jab in Dakota's direction, just to make it, even if he had no clue what to truly say.

If that man was ever sure of anything, it was how to insult Dakota.

Dakota didn't bite back in protest this time, and only partially because of how bad his throat hurt. Scrubbing at his face again, he avoided Mark's sudden glance in the rearview mirror, instead shifting his eyes down towards the third person in the car.

Her expression was blank and near-lifeless, but her chest rose and fell in steady breaths. Whenever Dakota checked, her heart still beat at a normal human pace, if only a little fast. Her unconscious face laid near his leg, her limbs awkwardly curled up from where Dakota had hurriedly placed her in the backseat, too focused on saving a civilian and getting out of there to really think about what he was doing.

Escaping that town was a miracle.

A miracle upon a miracle upon a miracle. It kind of made his head spin.

Once the people there had processed what happened, a few cowered away in some sort of fear (which was kind of doing a number on Dakota's ego right now), but most of them had crept forward in an odd sort of... curiosity?

Curiosity wasn't the right way to describe it. Not quite. Curiously was scientists and stethoscopes; flashing lights and graphs that made no sense to him as they spoke over his head.

But those people from the town still had a quality in common with those doctors from New Haven who treated Dakota like a circus animal.

They weren't curious, but they were still pragmatic.

Apparently, they didn't need to understand what Dakota was to understand that he had some kind of ability they found useful.

"Where'd you get him?!" one had shouted, looking to be the ringleader of that town. They'd approached and approached, weapon held in arm as it dragged against the dirt road below them, a wordless threat. Their tone was near-gleeful, fascinated in a way that only spelt danger.

By the time Dakota processed what they said, he nearly felt like throwing up again.

Where'd you get him?

Like he was some kind of dog pulled in off the street, some one-trick pony that existed purely for entertainment. Kept alive and kept around for his potential, his value.

By that time, Mark had finally came back to himself. The first thing he did was run for Dakota, hand circling his wrist, hoping to drag him back towards the car. He was still rather out of it, though, which allowed Dakota to wrench away, buying enough time to scoop the ex-possessed girl up and hoist her over his shoulder.

Mark was going to protest. He was going to stop Dakota, it was obvious.

But by the time they were moving, the rest of the town had started to bare its teeth and truly show the numbers they had hidden within those walls, and it was a split-second decision to make. Dakota could've practically heard the man's thought process at that point: The girl would slow them down, but telling Dakota to leave her would only bring them to a screeching halt, because he wouldn't budge.

And so, simply because his hand had been forced by the town, hoping to catch them in their jaws and pry Dakota apart for that cure, Mark did the unthinkable for once:

An actual good deed.

And now, a stranger was unconscious in the backseat of the car, and Mark was checking the rearview mirror every few seconds, looking either for people from the town who'd decided to trail them, or any hints of the girl waking up, maybe still being possessed.

Strangely enough, Dakota had a feeling that he almost wanted her to still be possessed, to have no chance of being saved. Even for a supervillian, that seemed weird.

Dakota watched Mark silently as he kept driving, suddenly having a hard time making the connection between the villain who killed an innocent person in that museum, and... whoever this was. It was still Mark, but something had shifted and been peeled back in that town for some reason, and though Mark's walls were back up, there was something different. Something closer to being human, even if those green scales still stretched across his cheek and his eyes still narrowed in that mechanical way.

All of this thinking only made Dakota's head hurt further. He'd never really ever been a smart kid, and even though he was pretty good at understanding people's emotions once he got to know them, he just couldn't understand Mark.

Things in New Haven were far from easy, but they were definitely simpler. WATCH and the heroes tried to figure things out and defend everybody, and Dakota would follow their rules and go to school and try to grow up.

He looked up to them, and he wanted to be  a hero some day-- even if he wasn't born with powers.

Staring down at the pair of headphones on the floor of the backseat, discarded when he had leapt out of the car, Dakota wondered when he would make it back to New Haven.

And, for some reason, he also wondered what Mark's life back in that city was like.

---

William wasn't brave.

He wanted, so desperately, to be. But he knew he wasn't. It was just another one of those objective facts; the sun rose in the East, set in the West, and William Wisp was a coward.

Sure, he had a knack for things that others would consider disturbing or scary, and would often disregard his own safety in favor of solving whatever mystery he'd uncovered in the tall reeds of Deadwood. He knew he could see things that others couldn't, knew that it was dangerous to pursue the paranormal. But that wasn't real bravery, it wasn't even close.

If anything, being able to peer through the veil that separated living and dead only made him more of a coward. It made him trust his own eyes less, made him wary of every small sound, of every figure just out of sight. There were only so many apparitions he could face, so many people he could tell without anyone believing him, before he grew fearful and nervous.

He knew he wasn’t brave, because when somebody died trying to help him with his ability, he ran.

When the world fell to shit, and he got another chance at living despite his cowardice, the first thing he did was lie about what he knew.

When showing up at the Rockfall safe zone, William was greeted by the sight of superheroes and guards armed to the teeth, constantly vigilant, wary of any hint to a chaos demon’s presence. He was still half-dazed at that point, and the first thing somebody had done upon catching sight of him was point their weapon down at him, making William stare up into the barrel of a shotgun, pleading silently for his life.

If you can’t tell, Tide’s smooth voice echoed in his mind. Check their eyes. Somebody who’s lost themselves won’t look the same way a living person does. 

Living. 

The use of that word meant that the world saw those who were possessed as dead. It meant that, despite the heroes and the organizations and the safe zones, hope wasn’t there. If someone was unlucky enough to be taken over, they were gone.

The first time the thought had made itself to William, he threw up. 

He didn’t tell Tide, didn’t tell him that he knew what had caused it all, knew where it started and why it did. 

Knew the former identity of the creature people would sometimes whisper about, tucked away in corners and huddled in silent clusters. 

William told himself he would come clean, the moment he felt safe in Rockfall. He told himself over and over, but then a week passed, and a month, and he found himself sickened by his reflection for more than just his half-rotted skin.

Tide seemed to be fond of William, taking him under his wing from the instant he showed up outside those walls. William had learned that it was usually standard practice for new arrivals to be examined, interviewed, and assigned a role and bed in Rockfall’s intricate machine, often within the week. That was originally the plan, it had seemed, but the thought of leaving Tide, his only anchor in the shattered version of the world he’d woken up in, had sent William into a spiral of sorts. Quickly, almost suspiciously so, strings were pulled, and it was easily arranged that both he and Virion were “heroes-in-training”. Essentially, it meant they got to shadow Tide all day, no longer required to leave his side if they didn’t want to.

That was all fine and well, until shit got real. Until William and Virion began to tentatively join Tide on patrols outside the walls, and training in actual hand-to-hand combat. Virion took to it almost immediately, picking up these skills and habits as easily as breathing— they seemed to be the only things slightly familiar to him in such a foreign world. 

William not only found Prime foreign now, but these jobs, this training, only seemed more alien to him. He traipsed around like a baby deer whenever Tide tried to teach him how to block attacks, and often tripped over his own two feet on patrol.

He didn’t know what Tide saw in him that made the man smile again and again, picking him up every time he fell with a clap on the back and words of encouragement. It had to have been something, though, because he and Virion were finally receiving their “permits”; essentially, solid on-paper confirmation that they were heroes in training.

In all honestly, William simply felt like he’d stumbled into the current moment, into his life in Rockfall. It was all so sudden and blurred together and so flooded with guiltguiltguilt that he hadn’t even stopped to think about what he would do if he ever became a hero. 

He hadn’t even seen one of those chaos demons, one of those “possessed” that everybody whispered about. He hadn’t gotten even a hint of them within Rockwall’s walls, but that was the thing— he was behind walls.

It seemed that people just lived behind great barricades and fences now, in shielded communities created by WATCH that made up most of the remaining civilization in Prime. Going outside of these barriers without explicit permission was apparently prohibited by law, which was just a wild thing for William to process the first time he heard it. He was used to spending his time amidst the thick grasses of the forests back in Deadwood, sometimes following David on hunting trips (not often, though, since he always felt a sort of sadness whenever the deer David shot fell limp).

But now, it was very possible he’d end up trekking beyond these walls on his own, guarding Rockfall, and maybe even pursuing threats near the area. Defending the people within the safe zone.

In all honestly, William thought often of leaving. Of grabbing his backpack and disappearing beneath the cover of night, taking what he needed from Tide’s belongings and disappearing without a trace. 

But something kept him here.

Something more than just Tide’s kindness and Virion’s companionship, the understanding between them that came from being unfamiliar with Prime. It was like his ankle was shackled to the walls of Rockfall by a great weight, waiting for just the right time, for something to happen. 

Blinking back to the current moment, William glanced over his shoulder at the far corner of the building which he stood in. 

A tall, shadowy figure stared back at him, tilting its head in a near-endearing fashion that made his skin crawl.

Looking at it directly for too long made his eyes hurt— like staring into the sun, but with a different, colder kind of ache to it. He brushed it off, or at least tried to, turning his gaze towards the window instead, watching flocks of crows swoop low over the street. It was just another pressing weight to ignore; he’d made it this far.

“Alright! Well, that should be most of the paperwork out of the way!” A tall, dark-haired woman clapped her hands together with a note of finality, smiling warmly at William and Virion. She sat behind a cluttered, yet charming desk, flipping through a small stack of papers as she simply double-checked everything that had been filled out within the last hour or so. “All that needs to happen now is the approval of your referrals, and then, William Wisp and Vyncent Sol will officially be heroes-in-training under WATCH!” 

William had woken up far too early this morning, simply so that he could sit in a plush chair next to Tide and Virion and fill out paperwork. It was real now; sheets of information had been filled out about him, and, admittedly, large amounts of it lacked truth. Explaining the whole dead-but-then-not thing, especially because he wasn’t exactly alive, would’ve been too difficult to put on paper, would’ve raised too many questions about how he died.

Another brick lay on the pile, another stone on his back that came as he lied and lied and lied again. 

William was frightened. Frightened of telling the truth, frightened of beginning to lie. Only Tide and Virion knew that he had died twenty years ago, and bits and pieces of the rest of it. They seemed to figure that William simply didn’t remember, and, to his shame, he’d simply gone with it. It wasn’t entirely off, given that a lot of what he remembered from his earlier (former?) life was still hazy and detached, like trying to recall a dream.

He didn’t listen to Tide and the woman sorting out the last few things, hardly paid attention when he was handed a paper slip with his general information, ID photo, and confirmation of his right to supervised heroism. The kind worker waved them goodbye, and he found himself aimlessly following Tide and Virion out, the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stand higher and higher.

In the hallway, as they began heading towards the elevator, Virion bumped William’s shoulder, even him being able to notice something was wrong. William dodged the silent question in his eyes, only continuing to drag his feet and stare at the floor, and so Virion sighed dejectedly before walking a little faster, catching up with Tide and rounding the corner.

As soon as they were out of sight, William stopped, listening closely to the fading pattern of their footsteps, only peering around the corner when he was sure they were nearly out of earshot.

When they finally seemed to be far enough away, he set his jaw, looking off to the side but not quite over his shoulder.

With a wisp of smoke to preface him, William heard the sickeningly familiar click, click of dress shoes on smooth carpeted floor.

He watched as the shadows beneath his feed seemed to expand, stifling out the golden rays of morning light and replacing them with something colder, something more lifeless.

A bony, pale hand rested on his shoulder as a tall, skeletal frame approached to stand beside him. From his periphery, William watched a smirk form on the lips of the man, and he finally looked down at William after a moment, a silent invitation to speak first.

”Mal,” whispered William in greeting, fighting off the chills shooting down his spine from the haunting energy of the not-quite-stranger.

”William,” Mal smiled back, squeezing the shoulder his hand remained on. “You’re doing well.”

”Why am I here?” William asked, near-begging. He knew it wouldn’t get him an answer, it hadn’t yet, but he couldn’t help trying.

”Why, you walked here.” 

“No, Mal, why am I alive?”

Mal’s flat, cheery expression dropped, and he lowered his head with a frown. “You know I can’t tell you that yet.”

”Why not?”

”Give it time. Soon, Wisperer, I promise you that.”

”How soon?”

The man lifted his hand from William’s shoulder, tilting his head in his direction. “Has anyone ever told you, you ask far too many questions?” His solemn expression seemed to dissipate, mouth twisting up into a grin again.

”You’re the only one who seems to have answers! Who seems to understand!” William whisper-shouted in response, hoping nobody was noticing this conversation. If they did, he knew they’d only see him talking to himself, and think him to be crazy. “You told me to go here, guided me yourself, and yet you won’t even tell me why!”

The first time that William had seen Mal, it was like laying eyes on the face of a distant family member, or a long-lost friend he hadn't spoken to in years. He was a wholly unfamiliar person, but there was something about the way his form flickered round the edges, and the way the shadows curled around him in a familiar fashion that reminded William of the wisps he'd seen in that mall, the same wisps that had guided him all the way to Rockfall and gotten him wrapped up in its inner workings in the first place.

It almost seemed intentional-- the fact that it was Tide who found him, and the fact that Virion had shown up only days before he had. But for the short time that William had known Mal, he hadn't gleaned a single cohesive answer from him.

”Patience is a virtue, Wisperer.”

”And why do you keep calling me—“

Before the name Wisperer could leave his lips, Mal stepped forward, form disappearing into shadow with a tuft of smoke, twisting into the pale blue form of a wisp before it faded— seemingly just to mock him. 

The light returned to the previously-dim hallway, rays of sun reaching in through the windows again, warming William’s perpetually cold skin. There was no evidence to prove that Mal had ever even been there in the first place. 

“Will?” Tide called up the hall, and William sighed, dragging his hands over his face before walking round the corner, doing an awkward half-jog to catch up with them. 

---

"She's not gonna hurt us!" Dakota protested, wading through the tall grass in the forest clearing they'd stopped in, about a quarter-mile off the road.

"You don't know that, kid." Mark turned on his heel back towards the SUV, popping open the trunk and rifling through the stockpile of supplies.

"Why would she?! I saved her!"

He seemed to think of snapping something harsh back at Dakota, but didn't, simply grunting and picking up a small canteen, shaking it to double-check there was water inside. He tossed it in the direction of the girl, who was still unconscious, but now laying against the trunk of a spruce tree where Mark had moved her to.

After a few more seconds, Mark drew out a few random cans, haphazardly rolling them in her direction. He finally grabbed a spare map and a pen, beginning to scribble down a vague message and mark with a star where they were. Essentially, he seemed to be sparing a sliver of their supplies, enough to maybe last a day or so, and sending her off on her way whenever she woke up. He hadn't spoken a single word to Dakota the entire time, not until Dakota caught onto what he was doing and tried to stop it.

When he seemed satisfied with what few rations he found sparable, Mark slammed the trunk shut, walking back round towards the driver's side door again.

"C'mon, Dakota," he called, wrenching the door open with a little more force than his forcibly-stoic demeanor betrayed. His expression had been schooled into something calm and uncaring, but his knuckles remained white, his fists tightly curled the entire time. It was obvious he was trying to revert back into habit, to be the stony, apathetic man he'd been at the start of their journey, but something fundamental had shifted; one of the load-bearing bricks of the walls he'd built was dissolving, slowly leaving the rest of the fortress to crumble away.

Dakota stared down at the girl in the grass, at her peaceful, slack face. Mark had left her with a grand total of one canteen of water and three cans of fruit, as well as a map that signified where she was, with a less-than-kind suggestion not to try to find them.

Generous by Mark's standards, and cruel by Dakota's.

"Dakota," Mark repeated, voice hinted with bristles.

"We can't just leave her!" Dakota cried, taking a step back towards the girl. "She doesn't even know what happened."

"She'll have to deal with it. Come on."

He stayed still, feet planted to the ground where he stood, and Mark sighed, running a hand over his forehead.

"Kid, I'm not gonna--"

"I saved her," Dakota murmured. "I saved her," he continued, tone swelling with emotion. "For once, I saved somebody, and you just wanna leave them! Y'wanna leave her out here to die!"

"I want to keep movin'. We don't have the damn time to save cats from trees, Dakota."

"She's not a cat in a tree! She's a person!"

"A person who's gonna slow us down. C'mon, Dakota."

A moment passed, and then two. Dakota didn't budge, feet planted to the ground where he stood. To further his conviction, he plopped down onto the grass, hands clasped together in front of his knees.

"Dakota!" Mark thundered, stomping away from the SUV and in his direction. "We are leaving. Move your ass before I move it for you!"

"What, y'gonna drag me away again?!" he snapped back, a stubborn edge to his voice. "Leave another person to die?! Kill someone else!?"

"That thing in the museum was going to kill you."

"I HAD IT UNDER CONTROL!" He shot up from his spot in the grass, fists curled defiantly at his side.

Mark snarled, glaring down at Dakota like he'd tasted something sour. "You didn't have shit under control."

"AND YOU DO?!"

"I'M THE ONE HERE KEEPIN' US ALIVE!"

Dakota couldn't quite suppress the flinch that came from hearing the boom of Mark's voice at full volume, the intensity of his sudden outburst. Something had begun festering from the moment Dakota had saved that girl back in the town, and now it had grown and boiled to the surface, betraying those widening fissures in Mark's composure.

"YOU'RE KILLING PEOPLE!" screamed Dakota.

Mark's lips split into a bitter scoff, and he rubbed at his temples with one hand, pacing back and forth a few steps. He snorted his way through a few heavy breaths, and Dakota could practically see the steam blowing out of his ears. The sight was honestly a frightening one to see, but he stood his ground, keeping his back straight and his shoulders squared.

Finally, after a long, heavy pause, Mark stalked back over, entirely silent save for the hiss of his breath. He clamped his hands over Dakota's shoulders, but it wasn't to try and steer him away from the girl or drag him towards the car. Instead, he stooped down, leveling himself so as to meet Dakota's eye.

"Kid, listen to me. And listen fuckin' good, because I'm not gonna say it again. You're going to get back in that car, and we're gonna keep moving. We're not going to stop again until tomorrow, and then we're gonna move again after that. We're not gonna 'stay' and 'save' anyone else. We're not going off on your little 'adventures', because that's not what I'm getting paid to do. I'm getting paid to keep you alive and get your ass to Harttawa, and then you can go off and do all the bullshit you want. But this?!" He leaned in closer, mismatched eyes burning a hole through Dakota, an attempt to stamp him out and reduce him to ash. "This isn't your priority, Ashe, because I'm not allowing it. Stop playing hero, and fucking cooperate before you actually get someone killed again. I'm keeping you alive, I'm keeping you safe. We're getting to Harttawa, and then I'm never seeing your sorry ass again. D'ya fucking get it?!"

Mark relinquished his steel grip on Dakota harshly, practically pushing him away as he stood up straight again, obviously poised to grab for him if he tried to make a run for it.

Every one of those words cut sharply through Dakota like a blade, driving the knife deeper and deeper beneath his skin, tugging at the vulnerable pieces of him, every open wound and every healing scar that Dakota had been carrying with him on the road. A lot of it wasn't so different from many of the things Mark had already been saying since the start of their journey, but there was something about the careless way he said it, something about how he was saying it now, when Dakota had not only saved somebody but proved his 'bullshit' to the man, gone the extra mile, that was like a stinging slap in the face, a wall of punches all aimed for his gut.

Dakota swallowed. Hard. He tried to push back the lump in his throat and see through the watery blur that began crowding his vision, tears springing from his eyes.

"Ashe," he creaked.

For some reason, Mark's face fell.

"You-- you called me Ashe."

If saving that possessed girl and proving his immunity had knocked down Mark's walls again, this disintegrated them.

Something raw and horrified flooded his expression, and he reeled back as if he'd been shot. Before he could fully fall apart, shattering into pieces, he turned his back to Dakota, head dropping and being hidden entirely behind his shoulders from Dakota's perspective.

A sharp, shuddering breath entered his lungs, and it wasn't quite the beginning of a sob, but it was closer than Dakota thought a guy like Mark  could get.

Mark dragged a hand over the back of his head, resting it on his neck for a few seconds as he drew in breath after breath. Dakota could've sworn he was watching the way the man pulled at the threads of his being with each breath in, crudely stitching every piece of himself back together, weaving together shattered part after shattered part. He wasn't fixing any of these parts, wasn't allowing himself the breathing room for these fragments to mend themselves. He just shoved them back together into some approximation of himself, something vaguely resembling the grey, uncaring person he was when Dakota met him only days ago. 

"You get one hour," he hissed, and it shook in a way that didn't seem right, didn't seem like Mark at all. It was a broken, scratchy version of his voice, but it didn't stop the man from trying to push all the force he could into it. "And then we're leaving, Dakota."

With that, Mark simply stalked off, disappearing back into the SUV and pretending to be busy with something.

Staring at where Mark had just stood with the shock washing over him in waves, Dakota blinked himself back to his surroundings and awkwardly shuffled towards a nearby tree, turning his back to Mark and sitting up against the trunk. He stared blankly at the girl's still form on the grass before him, knees curled up to his chest as he tried to figure out how he was supposed to feel.

Sniffling quietly, he used the bandage round his wrist with the power suppressor to wipe at the tears when they came.

He didn't even know why he was crying; he'd gotten his way, and everything Mark had said was true.

All they were doing was getting to Harttawa, and then they'd never have to see each other again. That last part was probably for the best.

Chapter Text

Back on the road, the surrounding terrain began to grow rocky. Mountains rose from the ground as the path they took led them past valleys and through canyons, jagged grey rock and lush evergreen trees scattered across the horizon.

Dakota twirled the headphone wire round his fingers as he watched the scenery rushing by, hoping to catch sight of a deer or a fox, something cool like that. He counted trees until his head hurt, rocking side to side in his seat, tapping his feet against the floor. 

Maybe Dakota Cole got scared sometimes.

Maybe he would, every once in a while, get nervous. 

Mark’s presence flooded the SUV with barbed wire, but this time, it wasn’t so sharp, not so pointed in Dakota’s direction. He seemed to just be frozen, still in shock as his glazed eyes drifted back and forth over the scene while he drove. 

They’d been driving again for a whole night at this point; Dakota had dozed on and off in the backseat the entire time, but Mark had seemed somewhat insistent on not stopping, not needing rest for himself. Every time Dakota woke up, he was still in the same position in the driver’s seat, shoulders hunched in on themselves and face dull and stony, trying to hide something more fragile.

It almost seemed like he was trying to drive more now, cover the most terrain in the least amount of time.

Get rid of Dakota faster.

Sifting through his memory of the last few hours, Dakota chewed on the inside of his cheek, staring up at Mark for a long minute. 

“We’re g’nna have to talk about it,” he mumbled. 

Just like last time, he thought he’d gone unheard until Mark huffed out a sharp breath, something not unlike a scoff. 

“Talk about what?” he grumbled, maneuvering the car round a wide bend. 

“What you said, back at the— back when we stopped.” Dakota picked at the bandage round his wrist. “What y’called m—“

“Ain’t shit to talk about.” 

“She was alive. I was right.” 

Mark glanced up at the rearview mirror, fixing him with one of those flat glares. 

“Go back to sleep,” he muttered, dodging the subject. “Makin’ a pit stop in a few hours.”

”But the car’s fine?” 

He shook his head, eyes leveling back on the road. “We’re low on supplies now. Your little charity move cost us a week’s worth of shit. S’better safe than sorry.”

Charity move. 

The phrase struck a bitter chord.

Right when Dakota had begun to lose hope back in that clearing, the girl had stirred, pushing herself up on her elbows and staring blankly at her surroundings. She’d woken up, injured and exhausted but alive. 

Dakota had been right.

”Hey!” he’d shouted, before wincing at her evident flinch. “Sorry, I mean— hi. I’m, uh, I’m Dakota! Dakota Cole! We’re not gonna hurt you, I was just—“

A can of fruit whirled past his head, clattering against a nearby tree with enough force to dent the aluminum.

Before he could move again, she had a second can in hand, poised behind her head and ready to attack. Dakota raised his hands in surrender as she took a few steps to the side, adapting a defensive position, before wincing, clutching at her side as she drew in a sharp breath. 

“You’re still injured,” Dakota nodded, with a sort of apology to it. “I’m sorry, I was—“

”Where the hell am I?” she rasped, kicking at the grass before flopping down again. Switching up quickly, she sat back on her heels and squinted at the can’s label. 

Blinking, he came to the realization then and there that he honestly didn’t know where they were; he’d just been relying on Mark’s sense of direction, too focused on the new sights he’d seen outside New Haven’s walls to really focus on location. 

“There’s, like, a map,” he said cautiously, before tilting his head in curiosity as he stepped closer. “Do you, um, remember anything?”

The girl paused from where she had begun prying open one of the cans from the ground, blinking a few times as she stared off into space. Her sudden change in demeanor had been really surprising— she’d instantly gone from being at Dakota’s throat to leaning back on the grass and talking coolly, like they knew each other. Now, though, that fear from just a few seconds ago pressed back down on her shoulders, and she shuddered as something seemed to come back to her. 

”Last I remember, I… was gonna die, I think,” she murmured, eyes foggy. “It was real messed up. I was— I’m on the way to New Haven, and I’m doing fine, right? But then… I come across this town, and…” 

As she trailed off, Dakota crouched down in the grass, tilting back to sit with his legs crossed.

”You were heading to New Haven?” he asked, still feeling a little bit of whiplash from her sudden switch-up but deciding to roll with it. 

“I still am. I’ve gotta be. I was, uh, I’m trying to get there. To join WATCH.”

He frowned. “WATCH is set up in other safe zones, right? Why’re you all the way out here? Where’d you come from?”

She sighed, prying open the can of fruit and examining the contents inside. “Freedom City.”

”Freedom— that’s so far away!”

Bringing the container to her lips, she took a long sip of the juice, staying quiet for a few seconds after. “I could’ve joined WATCH there. I know. Could’ve even gone to Rockfall. But Rockfall’s basically half the journey already, not as big as New Haven. I might as well go the full nine yards.” 

Staring at him for a long moment, the girl seemed to be trying to dissect him. 

“You’ve never been outside walls, have you?” she asked, and though the question felt like it should’ve been offensive, her tone was calm and understanding, like it was something she could empathize with. 

“No,” Dakota admitted. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but it was so refreshing to talk to someone his own age, someone who didn’t know who or what he was. What he’d done.

”How’re you staying alive out here, then? I— I mean, no offense, but you’re not exactly—“

“I’m strong!” Dakota blurted, ears turning red in defiance.

She smiled, exhaling sharply through her nose in a small laugh. The smile quickly turned a little sad, though, as her eyes darted away. 

“I’m sure you’re strong,” she spoke softly, fishing out a piece of apricot and popping it in her mouth. “But it’s not about strength out here. I mean, I’m still not sure what happened, but I ended up here, with you, and you didn’t even try to restrain me. I could’ve attacked you. You told me your name, gave me food. You don’t know whether or not I’m dangerous.” 

A pause, and then—

“How did I end up here, anyways? You kidnap me or something?” 

“No!” Dakota sputtered. “I’m not a villain!” 

“Kinda gathered that.” 

“It’s, just— well, you were possessed. And now you aren’t. But we had to get you out of the town we were in, because the people there were villains.”

”I was possessed?” 

Dakota fought back a slight wince, suddenly becoming very interested in the grass beneath him. 

“How am I— Dakota, how am I alive?” 

Her question was gentle, almost patient in its tone, like she was simply asking a friend for something small. She’d adjusted to the situation surprisingly fast, adopting a near-scary air of casualness from the second she’d sat down. 

“I helped you,” Dakota whispered. 

He was horrified of anyone else finding out, still found himself double-checking the horizon every few hours just to be sure nobody had followed them from earlier. Everybody who knew about his immunity had twisted it, used it against him in some fashion. 

Even people who Dakota thought to be friends. 

But, still, strangely enough, it was like the smallest of weights off his shoulders for Dakota to divulge such a secret without saying it outright. I helped you. I saved somebody. I did things right this time.

”You helped me?” the girl whispered, a bewilderment to her tone. 

“Nobody else can know that,” he quickly added on, pushing a bit of a scowl into his expression. “Not yet, okay?”

She nodded, splaying her hands out in mock surrender before going back to eating. 

They sat like that for a while, no words passing between them. It was silence, something that Dakota was quickly growing used to, but it was finally a comfortable one. She was even more of a stranger than Mark was, but already, she felt so much safer, so much more human. 

When she’d nearly finished the can, she looked back up at Dakota, expression more solemn as she seemed to grasp the gravity of her situation. 

“You being out here… does it have something to do with you saving me? Can you— can you do that?”

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Dakota nodded. “I can help people.” 

She sat back in evident shock, staring at the sky as she ran her fingers through her hair.

”You— you can—“ she creaked, awe flooding her voice. “You can reverse it? Save them?” 

Fidgeting with the leaves of a wildflower, Dakota nodded once, growing a little anxious at having told somebody so much. He felt a sharp sting from the scab round his power suppressor, as if to remind him of how serious this was, how Mark would skewer him alive if he knew Dakota was telling all this to a stranger. 

”I’m actually from New Haven,” he elaborated, picking at his bandaged wrist. “I’ll be going back there soon. But when I do, we won’t need walls anymore.” 

The girl didn’t speak once more, going through the next silent spell with a contemplative expression.

When she finally opened her mouth again, it came with a smile.

”My name’s Ruby.” She introduced herself with a small flick of her hand, bowing her head in a sarcastic, theatrical manner. “I’m, uh, trying to help, too. I wanna be a hero. It’s why I’m joining WATCH.”

Dakota grinned tentatively. “I’ll be a hero, too. Some day. Soon.”

Ruby shook her head. “You’re already a hero, aren’t you? You helped me, from what it sounds like.” 

For some reason, it came as a little icy stab to his heart. He had helped her, but what about the others? What about everyone else? What about Alaska, and Katori, and the person from the museum? 

After a beat, she continued. “Your secret’s gonna be safe with me, Dakota.” 

Awkwardly ducking his head, he pulled a little too hard on the flower he was fidgeting with, peeling a few petals off by accident. 

“I— uh, thanks. Thank you.” 

Ruby nodded. “You probably can’t tell me much else than that, can you? How you save people? If there’s any plan for helping others?” 

Dakota frowned. He wanted to tell her more, tell her everything— he’d only just met her, but Ruby was a friend. She wanted to be a hero, just like him.

But he stopped himself, biting his tongue and shaking his head. He couldn’t tell her anything more; couldn’t put her in danger. 

“I don’t— I don’t think I can. Sorry.” 

“I get it,” Ruby soothed. “You’ve told me a lot already.” 

“I would, but M— Wave— uh— Mark. Mark wouldn’t be happy, I don’t think.” 

“Wave-Mark?” 

Dakota grimaced. He didn’t wanna reveal Mark’s actual name, but realized halfway through saying the title Wavelength that the name Mark was, in fact, way more common than an alias like that.

“Just Mark. He’s, like, the one who took me out here. Outside walls. He drives and looks out for me and shit.” 

“Is he a hero?” 

Dakota bit the inside of his cheek. “I don’t know. Not really, but he’s— he’s capable of doing heroic things. I know he is.”

Ruby’s eyebrows furrowed as she thought what he said over, finishing the can of fruit and wiping at her mouth. “A vigilante?” 

Though it pained him slightly to do so, Dakota latched onto the suggestion so as to shut down that part of the conversation. He didn’t like lying, hated to hide the truth, but he knew it was necessary here, so he swallowed the guilt.

“Something like that.”  

Later, when Mark had finally emerged from the SUV again with a somber expression, he’d taken one look at Ruby, and it immediately seemed as though he was going to shatter again, fall apart irreparably this time with the final nail in the coffin, the final piece of evidence to prove Dakota’s abilities. But his brain quickly kicked into survival mode, and, upon seeing her upright, he shoved his way between her and Dakota.

”She’s not dangerous!” Dakota had protested, whacking Mark in the back a few times to try and catch his attention. It didn’t seem to do much, though; instead, Mark began interrogating Ruby, hands not-so-subtly crackling with hints of orange sparks. 

As Dakota had noticed before, she was insanely adaptive, using her mostly-casual attitude to negotiate. She seemed to catch onto Mark’s caginess about the entire situation, and so claimed that she didn’t know anything, had only woken up a few minutes earlier, and she and Dakota were just trying to decipher the map he’d left for her. The lie slid off her tongue as easily as anything else, and this time, Dakota felt a little more okay with bending the truth like this. 

Once the general “Who-the-hell-are-you”, “Why-the-hell-were-you-out-there”, and “Did-he-tell-you-anything” questions were out of the way, Mark’s shoulders dropped slightly, and he whirled around, taking Dakota by the back of the collar and starting to pull him back towards the car. 

“No, wait!” Wrenching away, Dakota had taken a few steps back in Ruby’s direction. “She’s heading to New Haven! That’s still a long way away, she needs more stuff than what you gave her!” 

“She can find it herself,” Mark rumbled, expectantly staring at Dakota, waiting for him to return to the car. 

“She’s alive!” he stressed, curling in on himself ever so slightly. He didn’t want a repeat of their previous conversation.

”Then she shouldn’t have any fuckin’ problem. C’mon, kid.” 

“Mark.” 

With a heavy sigh, Mark whirled around, rubbing at his temples.

”Dakota.” 

“Please.”

Dakota had never expected to be saying anything of that sort to the man. Wrapping his arms around himself and taking a few steps back, he took a bet on the fact Mark couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t try to run off again. 

It seemed to be the right one, because Mark muttered something angrily beneath his breath before turning back towards Ruby, who had been staring up at him in a sort of shock. 

Mark hadn’t worn those facial coverings ever since their second day, when they'd slipped off in the scuffle— the people from that checkpoint town seemed to have known of him enough for it not to be needed. But that meant he also wasn’t wearing them now, and his scattered green scales were glittering in the evening sun, undeniably there. No plausible deniability, no “trick of the light”. 

Cursing, Mark began to pace again, alternating between rubbing at his temples and the back of his neck. Dakota’s muscles tensed, and he got ready to act in case something drastic happened, but Mark eventually just stopped, staring over at Ruby.

”You didn’t see shit. You don’t know how you got here, and you’re not gonna try to find out. You’re not gonna say shit. Y’hear me?” 

Without missing a beat, Ruby nodded.

”Say it.” 

“I’ve got no clue how I ended up here. I never saw you, I never saw him. We’re both gonna keep going on our paths, and nobody’s gonna know about this. Nobody’s gotta.”

Seeming a little impressed by how quickly she caught onto the deal, Mark dipped his head for a second, before glancing back over at the SUV.

”Kid, go fetch her some shit. Make it quick.” 

That was when Dakota had realized he’d witnessed actual bribery occur right before his eyes. Mark was buying her silence with supplies for the road, tying up any possibility of her mentioning what happened here. 

“Did you just—“ he started, but Mark shot him a glare, and he blinked a few times, jogging off towards the car before the man could've changed his mind.

He quickly grabbed one of the few empty backpacks scattered across the trunk, filling it with stuff he knew was important: water, cans of food. A sharp pocketknife. A few changes of clothes.

For some reason, even though it was just him and Mark on the road, a third sleeping bag had been shoved into the stockpile. Dakota grabbed that, too, as well as more essentials— a flashlight, a handful of batteries, a tiny lighter. He didn’t exactly know what Ruby would need, he’d never traveled outside of New Haven alone before. So he grabbed a few extra things, just to be safe, before rushing back out to the clearing.

Coming back to their impromptu staring contest, he watched Mark bristle at how full the bag had been packed, but the man made no protest, frowning at the sun’s decline in the sky. They only had an hour of daylight left, if that, and trying to push back against what Dakota had picked would’ve been another roadblock; might have even stopped their journey right then and there if Dakota could’ve let it. 

So, with a few parting words and a hurried “Thank you” from Ruby, the supplies were exchanged and Mark pointed her in the general direction of New Haven before turning around sharply, not caring to utter a goodbye. 

Dakota lingered back for a sec, still conflicted about the entire thing, about all that had gone down in the last few minutes. Scratching his head, he watched Mark walk towards the back of the SUV to examine which exact supplies had been removed.

With the extra time, Dakota stepped forward and briefly hugged Ruby. 

“Stay safe out there,” he said quickly. “I’ll see you again! When the world’s okay. When we’re both heroes.”

“Yeah,” Ruby grinned, a bittersweet edge to it. “Good luck, Dakota.”

”You too!” he exclaimed, trotting away and towards Mark, waving as he did so. 

And then, Dakota had crawled back into the backseat, and Mark had slammed the trunk shut a little harder than necessary, but it was okay. 

For just a second, everything was okay. 

The yawning distance between him and Mark lessened for just a second, and it was like looking at somebody through a sheet of glass; still not meeting on the same path or set of morals, but for just a second, existing side by side.

The way Dakota saw it, he had to take whatever wins he could get out here. That meant that two good deeds coming from Mark, no matter how begrudged they were, was kind of monumental. The wounds from their earlier argument were still fresh, but the moment was like a band-aid, something to stem the bleeding for the next leg of their journey. 

As the car started up again, and Mark navigated it out of the woods and back onto the road, a strange thought occurred to Dakota:

“Y’know, you can do that more. Helping people.” 

It made Mark scoff and look out the window, about to bite back with something harsh before Dakota continued. 

“I mean— you’re helping people, now, you are! What I’m— what we’re doing is helping people. But, like, you can help people. All the time. When I save Prime, everyone’s gonna need to rebuild. You can be part of that, Mark.” 

It fell on seemingly deaf ears, because Mark just stared blankly forward, maneuvering around a fallen log in the street. It was unclear whether he was ignoring him, or truly didn’t hear it, still half-dazed from whatever had hit him earlier when he had accidentally spoken that name. 

“You‘ve done shitty shit,” Dakota murmured. “Lots of it. But you don’t have to be a shitty guy.” 

After a long silence, Mark grunted, clearly not taking a single one of those words to heart.

”Let’s focus on one pipe dream at a time, kid.”

They didn’t speak after that, and the sun set quickly afterwards, leaving the only light to be the faint glow of the clock on the dashboard and the glare from the headlights ahead. Dakota laid down across the backseat, wondering how far they were from Harttawa, and thinking again about how things would be once they got there. Once everything was solved, and Dakota got to go home. 

As he drifted off, he’d thought of Aunt Alaska once again; thought of how she’d be able to get more help in a safer world. She’d have a world to see, a wall to venture outside of freely.

Now, Dakota had stirred again to the fading glimmer of the stars above, morning sun creeping up from behind the horizon. And he’d told Mark they needed to talk about it, that Dakota was right, and Mark had entirely brushed him off. 

Taking a deep breath, he straightened up in his seat, asking the question that’d been buzzing around his brain ever since the name had been spoken.

Gingerly, he tried, ”Who’s Ashe?” 

The car rolled to a stop as Mark stepped harshly on the brake.

Given how fast he was going before, the momentum carried them a couple feet farther before dying out. It also made Dakota lurch forward, nearly face-planting into the headrest in front of him.

Mark took his hands entirely off the wheel, bowing his head. 

His face was obscured as he spoke, but the hint of venom did not go unheard. 

“If we’re gonna keep doing this, we’re gonna set some rules,” he grumbled, rubbing at his chin. “Okay, kid?”

Dakota started to nod, before stopping himself and responding with a strong “Okay.”

”Alright. Good. Rule one: you don’t ask me shit. You can ask me where we’re headed, what you’re supposed do, and how close we are to Harttawa. But you don’t get’ta ask me anything else. No personal shit.” 

The question had hit a sensitive nerve, leaving frayed ends everywhere that Mark was pulling back together as he talked. That didn’t stop his shoulders from being at his ears with tension, or his voice from being strained with something coarse.

Ashe was somebody important.

”I’m sure you don’t want me askin’ about your business either.”

Mark turned around in his seat, not quite meeting Dakota’s eye but still leveling him with his gaze, with a single sentence:

“I heard what that person told you, when I took this job. Said you did somethin’.” The words pulled at the corners of Mark’s mouth, twisted it into a mirthless smile. “You’re not just doin’ this to save the world, are you? You’re actin’ all high and mighty, but they’ve got shit on you. Got shit on everyone.”

The sharp observation practically knocked Dakota on his heels.

His mouth grew dry, and he began searching for something to retort with, but all he could manage was a heavy nausea that plucked at his throat, guilt settling in his stomach like a stone. 

Mark knew. He may not have known the full extent, but Mark knew.

Dakots grimaced, remembering the first time he had ever tried to break out of his power suppressor— seconds after waking up exactly where he didn’t want to be, where he knew he needed to get out of.

The suppressor hadn’t budged then, just like it didn’t budge a few days ago, but he’d put up a fight, screaming and kicking and lashing out at anybody who tried to come near him, kicking food trays under the door and breaking the few items that were still inside the familiar room. 

It was only when he’d tired himself out, hours later, and collapsed to the floor that somebody had finally approached, crouching before him with a menacing expression. Their voice was ice, attitude far too confident as they held him in place with their eyes, speaking clearly and clinically.

”Two weeks ago, Katori Blake fell from a multiple-story building in an uncleared sect of New Haven. She died upon impact, but you, Dakota Damascus, survived with no long-term injuries— of course, because of our help.”

Help. They called it ‘help’.

“But nobody knows that yet. All they know at the moment is that neither Katori nor Dakota have shown up at school for two weeks. So when Katori Blake inevitably turns up dead, and Dakota Damascus has nothing to show but a few flesh wounds and dislocations?”

They’d clicked their tongue with a tilt of their head, before returning to their feet, pivoting to leave. They had entered to deliver a warning, and only that. They weren’t going to chain Dakota down or restrain him further, because they must have known they wouldn’t need to. 

“It’d be a shame, it really would. Poor Alaska, hearing her nephew’s a killer? Why, it may just stop her heart then and there.”

”I didn’t kill her.”

”Nobody knows that, Dakota.”

”They wouldn’t believe that. Me and Kat— they wouldn’t— we’re friends! I love her!”

”All the more surprising, isn’t it? Always the sweet ones who end up being the worst monsters.”

From that moment onward, the power suppressor was no longer just a cage, something that put a limit on his strength and locked him inside his own body. It became a weight, a shackle, leaving him chained to the people who treated him like nothing but an animal, ripped him clean out of his previous life, separating him from the home he’d fought so hard to make a livable one.

Of course Mark knew.

He’d been in this business, whatever it was, for years. He didn’t know the full story, hardly even knew anything, but he still knew enough. 

He knew, and he was using that against Dakota. He was taking the knife he’d found and twisting it.

“Are you understandin’ me here, kid?” Mark asked calmly. 

Dakota just stared down at his hands, down at his bandaged wrist, down at the silver bracelet that sat beneath it, a constant physical reminder of what he meant to these people and what these people held over him. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to— he didn’t trust himself. Didn’t trust Mark.

For once, the silence was enough. Mark settled back into the driver’s chair, fingers tapping against the steering wheel now. 

“Good. Rule two, you stay by my side. You’re not gonna run off again. When I tell you to stay put, you stay put. It doesn’t matter if someone’s screamin’ and begging for your help. You go where you’re told to go, and you don’t leave until I tell you to.” 

Switching the car’s gear, Mark pressed down on the gas again, getting them moving once more. 

“Final rule, don’t get yourself killed. That’s your one fucking job out here, and the way you act, you’re tryin’ really hard to fail at it. Sort your shit out before I have to go coverin’ your ass again, and you go hatin’ me for it even more.” 

Dakota bit down on his tongue, hard enough to make himself wince. He leaned his forehead on the seat in front of him, hands on the back of his neck, and didn’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. 

Mark took it as confirmation enough.

---

About an hour after Dakota woke from his next nap, Mark pulled off to the side of the road, popping the door open and stepping out. He walked around towards the back of the trunk, and, oddly enough, began sliding things out. 

From over the back of his seat, Dakota watched, nearly opening his mouth to bombard him with questions before stopping himself, letting the words die in his throat. 

Mark seemed to catch on, though, because he faced him briefly, explaining, “I’m droppin’ shit off ‘fore we stop. Rockfall’s gonna check the car, so I’m dumping anything they’ll find illegal or suspicious.” 

“Rockfall?”

He grunted something vaguely affirmative, pulling out a shotgun, some shells, and a few random gadgets, a mess of wires and cords that looked important. All of this was taken a few hundred feet off the side of the road, far enough that Dakota couldn’t exactly see how he stashed what he’d taken— it seemed to be around the base of a rather nondescript tree, and vaguely, Dakota huffed at the thought of Mark potentially forgetting which one when he came back.

Returning to the car, Mark opened the passenger’s door, rifling through a few things he’d tossed in the seat next to him while driving. He pulled out a bulky, armor-like contraption, something Dakota knew was related to his powers, whatever they were. It attached around his torso like a belt, which he shrugged on under his coat, zipping it up to hide it from sight.

A just-in-case.

Recalling the orange sparks that flew from Mark’s hands, what destruction they could cause, Dakota bit back his disapproval, nerves pestering him as they did so.

It’d be alright. Nothing was gonna go down in Rockfall, as long as Dakota did what he was told and Mark wasn’t an asshole. He wasn’t actually gonna have to use his powers; nobody was gonna die.

Mark fixed the wrappings round his face again, hiding his scales from sight. He looked just like any other worn-down traveler, scraping by as some normal man instead of a deadly supervillain.

A few minutes later, he sank back into the driver’s seat and started the car up again, and as they rounded a corner, Dakota watched the forest break up to reveal a distant structure:

A tall, stone-brick wall, entirely pristine save for a few blemishes here and there.

A wide, upside-down-U shaped entrance sat square in the middle, with two rolling chainlink fences before it, serving as the gate into what could only be the Rockfall safe zone. 

Dakota had heard of Rockfall, multiple times throughout his life— it was only a third, maybe half of the size of New Haven, but some of the best heroes in Prime lived within its borders, closely involved with the community, taking up important positions and pitching in to keep things running, keep everyone safe.

Back when Dakota was a little kid, it was huge news when a special squad of heroes, the Elementals, formed in Rockfall. Something about “opening doors to specialized task forces”, a step forward for guarding the people of Prime. Even though the Elementals disbanded a few years back, four of the five heroes that made up the team were apparently still in commission to this day.

Dakota would’ve freaked out under any other circumstance to be right in front of Rockfall’s gates. He’d always desperately wanted to visit a place like it. New Haven was the hero central of the world, home to WATCH’s main headquarters before things fell apart, but because it was considered “ground zero”, the epicenter of it all, and there were so many people, issues had stuck around that nobody with authority had gotten the time to fix.

Dakota didn't blame New Haven's heroes for this— he really didn't. It was part of why he wanted to be a hero, because then he could help with these things, carry the weight where there was slack.

But he had always wondered what it was like behind these walls. Behind the walls of any other safe zone. He'd never seen anything but the chalky yellow-ish barriers that made up the perimeter of New Haven, the ruins of old sky highways above his head.

Sometimes, he thought of becoming an official hero, and getting stationed somewhere like this, somewhere where the stars were more clear at night. Somewhere she'd love.

The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the gates, and Mark rolled down the window, exchanging a few words with the guards. One of them nodded, stepping round towards the back of the car and opening the trunk, doing just what Mark had been talking about earlier. They shuffled around a few items, making sure to be gentle yet attentive, and seemed to deem it all fine.

They were just about to shut the trunk when they caught Dakota's eye, and, with a polite smile, they asked, "Long trip?"

A little startled at being addressed, Dakota blinked before answering with a small grin. "Yeah."

The guard chuckled, before gesturing ahead towards Mark. "He's your guardian?"

Technically, technically, that wasn't that far off from the truth.

Mark was responsible for Dakota out here. He was guarding him, even if he was doing a pretty shitty job of it in Dakota's opinion.

Watching Mark glare daggers at him from his periphery, Dakota nodded.

"Yep. He does, like, guarding shit for me."

His lackluster answer passed for a joke, and the guard shot him a thumbs up before shutting the trunk, engaging in a bit of conversation with their partner and Mark. They then whistled sharply and waved up towards a structure that looked to be a watchtower, sending an ‘all-clear’ signal. A silhouette up in the tower raised their arm in response, flicking a switch that kicked the front gates into action, opening them wide enough for Mark to drive through. 

"Stay close," Mark instructed, pulling the car off to the side and parking. "We're not going too far yet.”

“Why not?”

”More security shit. They’re really up your ass about it here.” He scratched his chin. “Part of the reason why I was tryin’ to skip past Rockfall.”

Dakota frowned, unbuckling his seatbelt and trying his door, before being stopped abruptly by the child lock. 

At Mark’s disapproving glance in the mirror, he muttered, “Wanted t’stretch my legs.” Settling back in his seat with a bit of a pout, he folded his arms over his lap and scowled at the headrest in front of him.

Before stepping of the car, Mark sighed, rubbing at his forehead.

Glowering back at Dakota, he pointed at him accusingly. “Put a single toe out of line, and you’re not leavin’ this car again ‘til we get to Harttawa.“

Despite his obvious reluctance, he pressed a button on the driver’s panel, and Dakota’s door unlocked with a click. 

Quickly, Dakota pushed it open with a smile, stepping out onto the cool Rockfall pavement. The air was more humid here, and bursts of rainclouds were scattered all around and above. The entrance road they’d stopped on seemed to tilt downwards into the rest of the safe zone, showing clusters of buildings with one significant tower at the center of a plaza in the middle— Rockfall’s WATCH headquarters. 

It took more restraint than Dakota knew he had not to go wandering off towards it, flooded with curiosity and wonder. 

Dragging his feet, he instead went to go stand at the back of the SUV across from Mark, who stood on the driver’s side next to the trunk. Yet another person approached them, dressed in a more casual attire that still closely imitated that of the guards outside. 

“Hi, welcome! You’ve just come through the East entrance of Rockfall safe zone. Purpose of visit?” They shook Mark’s hand with too much excitement, grinning brightly at Dakota. 

“Just stoppin’ to restock,” Mark answered flatly. It was the most polite Dakota had ever seen him act.

”Okay, great! Y’know, we do have an amazing shopping district here. I’ll have to give you a few recommendations. Unless you’ve already been here before. Ah, anyways! Where are you coming from?” 

As they spoke, Dakota quickly grew bored, trailing back and forth across the side of the car, counting how many steps it took to get from bumper to bumper. Then, he walked around towards the front, squatting and staring at all the bugs they’d hit on the drive, plastered to the windshield and hood. He collected a few random pebbles from off the pavement, trying to find cool shapes or a rock awesome enough to keep as a souvenir.

Mark was still talking to that person, and Dakota suddenly found himself thinking that maybe security was kind of stupid. If they wanted to deter villains, they’d done it— nobody would willingly put themselves through so much waiting just to come into Rockfall and do whatever villains did. They’d get bored and fall asleep at the entrance, and forget to commit crimes and blow shit up. 

Pacing around the car a few more times. Dakota decided his legs had been thoroughly stretched and trailed back to go stare at Mark and the stranger, praying they were close to being done by now. 

Instead, when he circled towards the back bumper again, Mark was nowhere in sight, and neither was the WATCH person. 

Turning slowly in a circle, Dakota realized, suddenly, that he actually couldn’t see anybody around him.

“Mark?” he asked after a beat, shoving his hands in his pockets.

He got no answer.

Walking a few yards down, he glanced at a couple random vehicles also parked on the entrance lot, reaching the end of the little sect and being met with an open fence that led into the rest of Rockfall. He peered around it, wondering if Mark had gone back there for some reason, but still found nobody. 

“Mark?” Dakota tried again, glancing back at the lot. 

He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t see anybody.

Nobody stood at the front gates anymore, nobody was standing by the SUV and interrogating. Nobody was in the watchtower.

”Mark?!” he repeated, trying not to betray the fear in his voice. Staring past the fence again, he squinted into an alley right beyond it, looking left then right. 

Dakota’s eyes landed on a figure in the alley with their back turned, which he recognized with a burst of relief to be Mark.

Mark was kind of a shithead, but that didn’t mean Dakota wanted to be stranded without him right now. Granted, if he were to get lost anywhere, Rockfall would be the best place, but—

Dakota approached him, kicking at loose pebbles as he did so, sending them skittering down the pavement.

When he was about ten feet away, he kicked a particularly large one in Mark’s direction, expecting it to bounce off his heel with mild annoyance from the man.

Instead, the rock seemed to phase right through his ankle, and Dakota heard it continue to clatter on down the street beyond him.

“Wh— Mark?” he whispered, reaching a hand out to shove him in the back.

His hand fell onto nothing, and suddenly, Mark’s image rippled like smoke, warping and curling into tufts of light before dissolving entirely. 

Okay.

Okay, maybe that wasn’t good. 

But it was probably normal. Dakota was probably just losing it a bit, being on the road for so long. 

“D’kota?” Mark called from what sounded to be around a corner before him, and Dakota stepped forward, breaking into a small jog as he followed the sound. 

He didn’t see him as he turned, met with only another empty street. 

“Kid, where the hell did you go? What’d I fuckin’ tell you?!” 

“I’m here!” Dakota cried back at the sound of his voice, spinning in a circle, trying to tell where it was coming from. He didn’t mean to break the rule of not running off, he seriously didn’t. He was trying to find Mark, stick by his side; wasn’t that exactly what he was supposed to be doing? 

He sprinted down a few yards, checking between buildings for where he could be. Each time, though, nothing turned up, and Dakota’s heart began speeding up, nerves going haywire with fear as he only found himself more and more lost with each step. 

And then—

A chill started on the very back of Dakota's neck, a little pinprick of something off. A single point of focus, as though thousands were observing him at just that one point.

Despite being used to having eyes on him, there was something about this that felt so distinctly and innately wrong. It pressed down heavily on his chest, weighing his heart down and straining it as it sped up further, a rapid tick-tick-tick that thrummed in his ears.

He was being watched.

And, even though it felt so unnatural, so terrifying—

It still felt familiar.

That was what scared Dakota the most.

He didn't know what this was— why did he almost recognize it? He hadn't felt this kind of dread before.

Bile crept up the back of his throat, and it felt like the same sickness he'd faced when the possessed person from the museum had lunged up at him unexpectedly, claws outstretched. It felt like the same bone-crushing, scalding energy that surged through his body when he consumed that second demon, blinding him into nothing but pain for a moment, like it was trying to force him to reconsider.

Something was bad. Something was wrong, wrongwrongwrong, and Dakota had run off, and Mark was nowhere to be seen, and the street before him remained stiflingly empty. It was as though the very air around him had shifted, the sky greying and the trees dulling. Everything fell still, like time itself was suddenly holding its breath for what was taking place.

Dakota knew he should've turned around. Somebody was probably trying to mess with him, or a villain was nearby, and he needed to defeat them and help anybody who'd gotten hurt. He needed to summon that same bravery that always kept him moving, the bravery that Mark would refer to as idiotic.

But Dakota couldn't find it in himself this time to be brave. And Mark was gone. Dakota had wandered off from him.

The only thing more bewildering than the uncanny change in the atmosphere was the fact that, somehow, he found himself wishing that Mark was here with him for once.

Dakota thought he hated Mark. Because he did. He hated Mark's frustrating overbearingness, the way he was consistently focused on keeping Dakota out of the way of physical harm, yet had a complete and total lack of care for his feelings or anybody else in the world. And he hated how confusing Mark was, how sometimes Dakota could fight and argue and protest his way into Mark actually doing something good, and show a kind of man that he didn't think a guy like Mark could ever be. And Dakota hated how whenever that happened, and it finally felt like they'd made a half-step forward, they'd suddenly be flung a mile back and blood would be on Mark's hands.

But Dakota wished that Mark was here right now.

He wanted to stop and wonder why. He wanted to be perplexed by it, to question himself for thinking something so insanely stupid, but he knew that, no matter what, it was true.

Dakota was scared, and he wanted Mark. In any other case, he'd be pissed about that.

The small pinprick of dread on the back of Dakota's neck began to spread, multiplying as if that ominous presence just over his shoulder was inching closer and closer.

Curling his hands into fists and clenching his jaw, Dakota slowly turned to look behind himself, ready to bare his teeth and lunge.

It walked with a sort of effortless glee.

Traipsing little steps hopped about on the cracked pavement. Torn fabric fluttered in the wind behind it, mangled layers of clothes hanging off its skeletal frame. A thick, rusted chain dangled from their hip, carrying what seemed to be a sort of book or tome.

Black feathers dragged against the street, hundreds of them weaving together to form large, inky black wings that arched up from their back, dwarfing their frame even as they were curled slightly inwards so as not to scrape against nearby buildings.

Their face was youthful. Blank. It was kind of like looking at the cold, yet blissful expression of a dead person, with glazed-over eyes and slightly parted lips. Really, they didn't look like they could be much older than Dakota, which only served to further the terror growing in his chest.

They were so close to being human, just like every other possessed person he'd seen before, but they were still so off.

Their skin was a stark, unnatural red.

It was red like the bright, vibrant flowers that grew on the borders of New Haven and it was red like the striking auburn color of Alaska's hair. It was red like ripe berries and messy acrylic paint that Dakota had smeared over his skateboard in an attempt to make racing stripes as a kid.

Dakota like to think that his favorite color was red. Red was a color frequently used against him; because red was also the color of blood drawn out in vials and of his own heart drawn out and labeled on a graph. Red was the color he was when taunted into anger, when goaded to attack and do exactly what those scientists in New Haven wanted of him.

But Dakota had persisted, and he found beauty in such a haunting color.

There was no beauty to be found in this shade of red.

As soon as Dakota turned, peering over his shoulder to see the figure that stood on the other end of the street, it was like they kicked to life, once-empty face animating suddenly and eerily. Their lips stretched wide into a toothy smile that made him want to run. Their eyes twinkled with delight, and their tilted their head to the side in an exaggerated manner, hands clasping behind their back as they leaned forward in childish glee, mattered long hair falling into their face that looked a familiar shade of blonde, but seemed to fade out into a paler white color at the ends.

Raising their eyebrows in a near-expectant manner, they closed their mouth, straightening back up into something resembling normal posture, and dipped their chin slightly so as to give the impression of looking at Dakota. Even if they stood at the opposite end of the street, Dakota could tell they were nearly as if not taller than Mark.

Breaking the tense silence with a tiny chirp of laughter, they covered their mouth with the back of their hand as Dakota flinched back violently as the minuscule noise.

Within seconds, they had broken into a full giggling fit, tittering little shrieks that stabbed through the air and into a more primal part of Dakota, a part that was telling him to either get that thing the fuck away from him or get the fuck away from it.

Conflicted for a long, long moment, Dakota weighed his fear against his convictions before he decided to turn on his heel and run.

The second his back was turned, though, something pulled at the back of the flannel he was wearing, bunching the fabric up in their chilling hand and stopping him in place. The death of his momentum yanked him back slightly, at which he was forced to come face-to-face with the— person? creature?— before him, hunched over and curled into themselves, expression twisted into a sorrowful one all of a sudden.

"Don't go!" they pleaded, eyebrows wrought together in distress. "Don't leave me!"

Lost for words, Dakota stared blankly up at them, heart hammering like it was trying to break out of his chest and run if he wasn't gonna.

The person-thing's face melted into something more placid, eyes going cold as they leaned forward just an inch or two further. "You can't go," they whispered, like a small child sharing a great secret. "You've gotta stay right here, Dakota."

Startling, Dakota wrenched back, pulling away from them, but their bony hand quickly caught around his bicep, clamping down painfully and digging long, claw-like nails into his skin. He cried out at the sudden shock of pain, and they released it quickly, eyes cartoonishly wide.

"Oh, no! Oh no, Oh no, I didn't mean to hurt you! I'm sorry! I don't wanna hurt anyone!"

Despite now being free, Dakota couldn't find it in himself to start running, to bolt away as fast as he could. It was like they had him pinned in place, sucking the air out of the alley in any other direction he could've gone, forcing his feet to stay planted on the ground where they were.

"How do you know my name?!" he demanded, trying to square his shoulders and look menacing. "Who the fuck are you?!"

They stared blankly at him, face reminding him of a mask. It was smooth, unbroken porcelain, and then it cracked and warped again, and they began laughing, doubled over again in snickers that shook their wings, creating little swooshing noises that echoed across the still air.

"I'm your friend!" they sang, stepping closer and closer and closer again. "We're friends, Dakota!"

Just as they were near enough again for Dakota to count their eyelashes, their expression darkened, suddenly far more solemn than it'd been earlier.

"It makes me so sad, what you're doing to the rest of my friends. You're taking them from me, Dakota. That's not what good friends do."

"I don't fucking know you!" he spat back, puffing up his metaphorical feathers, trying to appear bigger and stronger. Fear ebbed and chipped at his ribs, tapping against them and begging to be let in, begging to command him and send him into full-blown panic.

The stranger's voice dropped an octave, poisonous with something not unlike distaste.

"You know me," they insisted. "You know me. And you're trying to hurt me."

Dakota didn't know who they were. Didn't know what they were. Didn't know if they were even a human— they had the blank expression other chaos demons' victims had, but no other possessed Dakota had ever seen could speak— and none of them ever had wings.

The wings didn't seem to be a part of the person's powers, if or when they were ever their own person, because they pushed out of their back at an angle that looked painful, as though there was little care for the actual bones surrounding them. The rags that fell from their frame had holes torn through them that looked unnatural, like the appendages had burst through the decaying fabric forcefully.

"I know who you are," they stage-whispered, sharp teeth shown off to the low light of the alley as they sneered. "I've watched it! I know what you can do, Dakota!"

As if they knew he'd been looking at them, their wings spread in a great arc, finally able to stretch out to their full length now that the two of them stood in the alley length-wise. They could've been a whole twenty feet end-to-end, making Dakota feel closed-in, trapped.

He wished Mark was here.

Dakota didn't know where Mark was, didn't know where he was, and fear was crawling up his airways, making it harder and harder for him to breathe as the seconds inched on.

"And I know where you're going," they giggled. "You shouldn't! Shouldn't, shouldn't shouldn't! Shouldn't go there!"

They said it like it was a joke, repeated it in that sing-song tune.

"Why not?" Dakota creaked, sounding just as much like a little kid in that moment.

What did they know?

Their wings curled in ever further, slowly closing in on Dakota like a cage as they laughed and laughed.

"Secret!" they exclaimed, clapping their hands together.

The walls of black feathers were just short of encircling Dakota fully when they spoke again, switching abruptly to a more serious, somber expression. They were like a puppet, swaying from side to side as though they were drifting from floating strings, expressions exaggerated and sudden in their appearance.

"You're gonna die, Dakota. It'll make the old man so, so sad. And it makes me sad."

Upon seeing his eyes widen, they reared back in a sort of apprehension, waving their hands wildly.

"Oh, no! No, don't be scared! I'm not gonna kill you! I won't have to!"

Dakota wanted to shout back at them. Scream something in response. Defy what they were saying, stand up for himself against whatever this was.

But words refused to form, like somebody had reached into his mind and shut it off, numbing his thoughts and amplifying his senses.

The figure before them stared expectantly at Dakota with glee, clearly awaiting a reply. When they got none, their shoulders dropped, and their chin dipped again like they were pouting.

"Why won't you talk to me, 'Kota?"

The silence only continued as fear pressed down on his throat, choking him of his air, of any rational thought.

They blinked. Once, then twice. They rocked forward onto the balls of their feet, swaying back and forth a few times like that. Their wings had successfully blocked out the outside world, forcing Dakota to look at nothing but them as he tried to step back, tried to plant his shaky legs on the ground beneath him.

"TALK TO ME!" they shrieked suddenly, voice piercing in a headsplitting chorus, like multiple voices layered on top of each other, twisting together and surrounding Dakota, clawing at his ankles, trying to pull him down.

Dakota lurched to the side, plunging his fingers into the sea of feathers, grabbing a fistful of them and pulling as hard as he could.

The person?— howled, keeling over and stumbling several feet, spine curling inwards as their wings shot up and out of reach. It left an opening for Dakota to split, breaking into a desperate run that tore down the street, rocketing him away from whatever he'd seen as fast as he could physically go.

He needed to find Mark. Or he needed to stop this stranger. He needed to do something.

All Dakota's brain could muster, though, was a blaring alarm cry of run.

He didn't know how, didn't know where, but he ran, legs barely even touching the ground as he leapt through the air, just barely avoiding tripping and eating gravel with the momentum surging from every step propelling him forward.

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO LEAVE ME!"

The voice must have been right behind him, just inches out of reach. Dakota could practically see the outstretched claws, the fingers ready to curl around his throat in a vicious tackle and send him to the earth.

Dakota never found out whether or not that happened.

Something sharp and burning slammed into the back of his skull. Distantly, he heard a crack, and wondered if that came from the impact, if that was his own head snapping forward.

Stars flew across his vision, blotting it out in inky patches until all he saw was black.

And Dakota was gone.

Chapter Text

You’re losing sight of our mission, Virion.

Curled up against the armrest of the couch, Virion stared blankly ahead at the door, brushing off the stray thought from Alphonse. Over the weeks that’d passed in the new, unfamiliar world, he’d taught himself how to tune out the Greats to a certain amount– letting them speak as pure background noise, though it was still difficult to hear the outside world whenever they got into arguments with each other, or on occasions where they were upset with him.

Virion. Do not ignore me. You are acting a fool.

Glancing back towards a window spilling starlight onto the smooth, clean wood floor, Virion peered at the moon, at its rising position in the sky.

According to the device on the wall, and the measurements of time that Tide had taught him, it was half-past nine at night. And Tide wasn’t home yet.

On late nights, or when he had nocturnal patrols, he’d always let him and Will know beforehand. When he was stuck late at WATCH with something important, he’d never come home later than eight.

But it had been an hour and a half since then, and Virion couldn’t help the silent worry wringing his heart.

It wasn’t like he cared that much. Why would he? Tide was probably just working on something important, or had a night shift and forgot to tell them. Virion wasn’t worried.

It didn’t matter that Tide just so happened to be the only other person in the world who understood his situation. Who was trying to help him. Who Virion wasn’t afraid of. Who gave Virion a direction to follow, a rope to lead him through the new world he was blindly stumbling through.

You’ve grown too attached.

“I haven’t.”

His response came sharp, yet quiet, to the still night air.

You need to return home, Virion, that should be your focus! And yet, you play this role with these people? You become one of them? Join them in their ruses, their armies?

Grinding his teeth at Alphonse’s ire, he took a few seconds to think of a response, glaring at the empty air above him as if that’d convey something to the warrior. Like they were standing face-to-face in the real world, and weren’t currently sharing a brain, stuck together by a pure stroke of poor luck.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he whispered. “ I can’t get back home if this world’s all messed up, you know I can’t. There’s nothing else I can do.”

I could take care of it. I would save us all, I would find a way, if you would only stop following these people. These outsiders . You do not know them, Virion.

“If there was a way back home we would’ve already found it by now! This is all we know we have, for absolute certain, at the moment!”

That quieted the man for a bit, and they sat in an uncomfortable silence together. The rest of Virion’s brain shifted, like a few of the other Greats were floating in and out of a half-asleep state, but for the most part none of them paid much attention to their argument, not deeming it serious enough to butt in.

That ended up being how they sat for the next little block of time, as the seconds ticked on and on. Virion was left to his devices, staring nervously at the clock, wondering if anything had come up, or if Tide was in danger, or something bad was happening across all of Rockfall right now.

He sat that way for maybe another twenty or thirty minutes, judging by the hard-to-read clock. He was beginning to consider waking up Will, bugging him if only to have somebody to talk to, to distract him, to make it known to another person that Tide wasn’t home on time and that it was weird. He wasn’t crazy for thinking that it was weird, he knew he wasn’t, but it did sound nice to just have someone else to confirm that he really wasn’t crazy; someone else who knew a little more about this world and its customs, who may have more of an answer.

Just as Virion was ready to rip his hair out, the front door clicked, and he sighed with admitted relief as Tide finally stepped through.

“Oh– hey, Virion.”

His locs were tousled and pushed flat against his head, like he’d been running his hand over them. Heavy shadows creased below his eyes, and it was more than evident that he was tired and stressed, but his face still broke into a kind smile at seeing Virion. He set his things down by the door, approaching the couch.

“Why are you still up? Is everything alright?”

“I– yeah, sorry. Everything’s okay. But you’re late.”

Tide smiled sheepishly, sitting down next to him. “I’m very sorry about that, Virion. I didn’t mean to alarm you. There was just… an extenuating circumstance today.”

“‘Extenuating’?”

“Something big came up while I was heading out for patrol, it slowed a lot of my other work down. I needed several hours to sort it out for tonight, and there’s still a lot to be done.”

Virion blinked, trying to decipher what he meant by that.

"Something happened,” he stated, seeking confirmation from the man.

“Yes.” Tide ran a hand over Virion’s hair, ruffling it slightly and earning a disgruntled snort. “Something… rather serious.”

“Bad?”

“Not exactly. I’m not sure. Probably not, though.”

“Are you able t’tell me about it?”

Tide pressed his eyebrows together, in deep thought for several seconds. He seemed to be trying to find the best way to phrase his answer, in that way he always seemed to do when Virion asked him about “hero business”. He’d heard more and more of it lately, ever since becoming a trainee under their organization, but he knew Tide still often wouldn’t let him know the full picture of things, be it for his safety or for confidentiality purposes.

“I found somebody,” Tide explained slowly, like he was still choosing his words carefully. “who needed my help. Who needed WATCH’s help.”

A silence passed, and Virion nodded, assuming that he'd probably heard all that he was gonna hear about the situation tonight. He was simply just glad that Tide had returned home, and that it didn’t seem like anything too horrible or life-altering was at play.

A moment later, though–

“In fact, I may need your and William’s help. Later, of course, when things settle, but… I have a feeling you might be able to reach this person better than I can. We’ll have to see.”

Tilting his head, Virion’s ears flicked downwards in confusion, and he stared at Tide, waiting for the man to elaborate, but he didn’t.

“I’ll take you and Will into the tower tomorrow, just so you can get a bit of an idea about the whole thing, alright?” was all that he said before reaching out, gently squeezing Virion’s shoulder and hauling himself up onto his feet. “Now, c’mon. Go get some sleep, we’ve got morning patrol tomorrow.”

Nodding, Virion rose after him, walking past Tide towards the hallway.

He began heading down to his and William’s room, finally ready to head to sleep now that his anxieties had been soothed, until–

turning back, he took a few steps closer Tide's direction, before approaching and gingerly curling his arms around his torso, leaning his forehead against his collarbone.

Tide seemed a little confused, if only for a second, but quickly returned the hug, chin resting atop Virion’s head with a quiet huff of fond laughter.

“Thank you,” Virion whispered, staring at the floor. “For, like, taking care of me. Helping me.”

For a second, Tide paused with something almost sad, before squeezing him tighter.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

---

Dakota woke to soft, light blankets cast over his body, resting on a mattress plusher than anything he’d ever felt before– a clear sign that he’d woken up in the wrong place.

Blinking back to himself and pushing up onto his elbows had led to a too-familiar tug on the inside of his right arm, revealing tubes and needles stretching into his veins and out towards sterile bags of IV fluid clustered on his side.

A harsh pull and a sharp sting later, Dakota’s arm was now swathed in a thin sheen of blood, looking worse than he knew it really was. A heart monitor had been clamped onto his pointer finger, and he practically threw that off, too. He sprung up from the hospital bed in pure alarm, whirling around wildly, dribbling blood onto a boxy white gown, convinced for half a second that he’d ended back up in New Haven.

Figuring out that he wasn’t in New Haven wasn’t any more of a relief, though.

The room around him was fancy, simple. It was super futuristic, made of some dark gray material that seemed like marble or something. It was a minimalist box with a window for a fourth wall, looking down on clusters of buildings and trees below, all hugged by a great stone border. Some portraits and photos hung across from the bed, depicting important events, like the Resurgence and what looked to be the Elementals’ official debut to heroism.

Pacing over towards the window for just a second, he found himself staring down at all of Rockfall, right above the central plaza that all the entrance roads led down to. The safe zone branched out in four quarters, of which Dakota could only see two right now from this room.

Still, it was obvious that he was in the tallest building for miles.

It didn’t take rocket science for him to figure out that he’d somehow ended up in the WATCH tower, likely in some sort of medical wing.

And Mark was nowhere to be fucking found.

The second he thought of Mark again, Dakota’s throat surged with fire, with the worry and fear of not being able to find him when that-– when they showed up. Anger was the next emotion to come, as it was his only natural response to Mark, but he put it on the back burner for now. He was pissed at Mark, always would be, but he still needed to find him. They needed to get to Harttawa. There was no other way. Nothing else Dakota was gonna let happen.

When the grogginess of waking up had finally worn off, he curled his hands into nervous fists, ignoring the slickness of his right hand, the blood seeping over his power suppressor. The silver bracelet was pristine, unharmed from everything that’d gone down.

Dakota didn’t know where Mark was.

Didn’t know what happened after that person (thing?) he’d seen had shown up.

Bringing his hands to wring through his hair, he half-keeled over with a chorus of “Shit, shit, shit!” as he thought of every single way things could’ve gone wrong.

He’d run from that thing. He’d let them get away; they’d gotten into Rockfall and he’d let them get away, and it was very possible they were wreaking havoc on the safe zone right now.

A cursory glance out the window told him that wasn’t the case though-– all looked perfectly fine outside, which served to be the most confusing.

Plus, as much as he regretted it, Dakota couldn’t find himself to think or care much about Rockfall at the moment, not when he was in such an unfamiliar place, when Mark was gone and Dakota hadn’t seen him since he’d literally disappeared into thin air.

Was what he’d seen even real?

Who was that?

Where had everybody gone?

Straightening up, Dakota winced at a flick of hunger through his stomach, shrugging it off and approaching the bed again. He intentionally avoided touching it, shuddering at the sight of the white metal frame and the plastic bars on the side. Instead, he approached the bedside table, where his clothes had been laid in favor of the hospital gown.

It seemed as though somebody had washed and folded them; he shrugged his flannel on over the gown if only for the illusion of comfort, yanking open a few drawers before finding the headphones on the floor, likely having knocked them over when he’d shot out of bed.

Once he’d located his belongings, though, he just sort of stood blankly for a second.

Mark was gone.

Dakota was in a WATCH tower.

Mark was a supervillain.

If he’d ended up anywhere near WATCH—

“Oh— shit!”

The sudden appearance of an unfamiliar voice threw him off, and he turned around just in time to find the thin, pale face of a boy, outline fuzzy and practically see-through peeking through the door.

And Dakota didn’t mean he’d opened the door and was poking his head in; he was actually peeking through the door, like some kind of ghost or spirit.

His first thought had been what the fuck, and then it had been who the fuck, and then it had been why the fuck.

The boy disappeared back through the door with a twirl of smoke, and Dakota heard his voice, muffled from the hallway, evidently speaking to someone else.

“He’s awake, dude, I don’t— should we find Tide? We’re not s’pposed to—“

“HEY!” Dakota shouted, approaching the door and banging on it, trying to yank it open. It didn’t budge when he pulled nor pushed it, a lock clattering harshly against his efforts. “HEY, WHERE THE HELL AM I?! WHERE IS HE!?”

Outside was silence, and he tried the door again, groaning in frustration.

“I know you’re still out there! What the fuck’s going on, man?! Let me out! I’m not— I can’t be here!”

Someone had just used what Dakota assumed to be their superpowers, to phase into a room Dakota was locked in, and it didn’t seem like they expected him to be awake. So they were just fine watching him sleep like a weirdo, but didn’t wanna actually face him now.

“Hello?!" he tried, rattling the handle.

He slammed his arm into the surface, not too hard as he only meant to make noise, and got nothing in return. Against the shiny tile, though, Dakota could spot shadows in the crack below the door, could see where the light reflecting from outside warped around what looked like two pairs of feet.

Trying to open it again to be met with nothing, he admittedly started to panic. He felt like a trapped zoo animal, like somebody was gonna start coming in and poking at him, shining bright lights in his face and pricking at his veins to do tests on him.

With a sickening jolt, he realized that it was very possible that’d already happened, that maybe, somehow, somebody here knew and they were keeping him locked up in here, trying to use him. Just like the people from that town, like those scientists back home.

He didn’t know why he was thinking such scary things.

This was WATCH he was talking about. Heroes. He trusted heroes.

He was pretty sure he did.

The people beyond the door began whispering frantically between themselves, something Dakota couldn’t make out, and he felt frustrated, felt like nobody was fucking listening to him— he was trapped, and he needed to find Mark, but he was being held back by two sets of dirty sneakers on shiny floors.

“Please," he rasped, hearing the whispers stop. “I’ve gotta get out. I need to find Mark.”

A brief pause, and then—

The boy from earlier walked through the door. Again, not as in opening it, but literally walking through.

Dakota stepped back habitually, and they stood across from each other, both with eyes wide.

“Dude, you’re bleeding,” the ghost-boy said, gaping down at his arm, still not dropping the see-through form. He obviously didn’t trust Dakota enough not to leap at him the second he was tangible.

Glancing down for a second, Dakota shook his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. “That doesn’t matter. Where’s Mark?”

The boy blinked. “Who’s Mark?”

Honestly, that was a good question.

Dakota knew who Mark was, obviously, but he didn’t know how to answer that question-– it wasn’t just who Mark was, it was who Mark was to him.

“He’s, uh, my guardian?” he tried, sticking with the story they’d gone with at the entrance gate. The boy nodded slowly, evidently a little confused, but rolling with it.

“Oh, like, your parent?”

“No!” Dakota watched him wince slightly, and paused. “I- I mean, no. He’s just– he just takes care of me. Not my dad or anything.”

“Oh, yeah. I get that,” he responded, before awkwardly standing there, just staring at Dakota like he was waiting for answers. Like Dakota had any.

Getting a little frustrated, Dakota let out a big sigh, repeating for the hundredth time: “I need to find Mark. I can’t stay here. Where is he?”

“Mark?”

“Who else?!”

The boy stuttered for a second, before floating back towards the door. “I don’t– I can’t tell you. I haven’t heard of a ‘Mark’. I’m not s’pposed to be in here, uh, I can– I’ll go get Tide, he’s the one who found you, just–”

“NO, WAIT!”

By the time he’d shouted, the boy was gone, disappearing the same way he’d came, and hurrying down a hallway, this time joined by a second pair of footsteps. Dakota heard somebody distantly ask, “ What’s going on, Will?!” as they faded out of earshot, but he couldn’t make out the ensuing answer.

Trying the door one more time for good measure, he groaned and kicked it harshly.

Whirling around, furious, he buried his hands back into his hair, hard enough to make his eyes water. He paced a few feet before pacing a few feet back, trying to think of some way to kick the door down without his powers, before remembering the last time he’d tried to escape a room like this; the way blood had started to trickle down from round his power suppressor.

It wasn’t that long ago. When he and Mark were stuck in a garage together and Dakota wanted to escape, to get away, to find a hero and tell them what Mark had done.

And now Dakota was stuck somewhere unfamiliar again, and this time, he wanted Mark to be here. Even if it wasn’t about their journey to Harttawa, Mark was the only person who knew about Dakota’s powers, and he had used that against him, and Dakota hated him, but Dakota was lost and he was so far from home and he wished Mark was here. If only to have somebody who he actually knew.

He didn’t know when Mark had become a face he considered familiar.

Sifting through the rest of his stuff, he found a small bathroom and stepped inside to change back into the rest of his normal clothes, not wanting to be in the gown a second longer. He tried to rinse off the blood from ripping the IV out of his arm, managing to get most of it cleaned up before growing frustrated at the way the still-bleeding wound would just undo all of his progress every few seconds. He gave up and left it to scab.

Facing the fancy, massive mirror in front of him, Dakota stared at his face and his hair, cleaner than he’d seen them in a long time. His skin was still scratched up from the fight when he’d freed Ruby, but the myriad of little cuts and dents had almost entirely faded, showing him his freckles for the first time in a while.

How long had he been out?

How long had he and Mark been separated?

Tying his headband, a long black strip of fabric, through his hair again, Dakota jumped at a distant knock on the door.

Quickly fastening the knot, he stepped out of the bathroom, approaching the knocking, trying to gauge something about who was in the hall this time; not be caught off-guard by whoever it was.

“Hello?” a deeper voice, that of an adult, asked.

His heart dropped. It was a new stranger, a new person. Maybe one of the people in charge. One of the people who put him in here.

“William told me you woke up. Can I come in? I promise, nobody’s trying to hurt you. We’re here to help, okay?”

Weighing his options for a long, long moment, Dakota curled his arms around himself, stepping a few paces back from the door.

This was WATCH. He could trust WATCH, he could trust the heroes. Mark was dense, but he wasn’t a total idiot— he wouldn’t have gone out and let himself get caught by them.

But where the hell else could be he, then?

“I— come in,” Dakota called out flatly, walking back over towards the window. He stared out of it, down at Rockfall, and tried to think of where Mark would’ve ended up amongst its buildings.

With a sharp click, the door unlatched, and a man stepped through, motions slow and intentional in Dakota’s periphery. His hands were empty and raised out to his side, to show that he had nothing in them, and even though Dakota wasn’t looking at him, he knew he was probably smiling warmly.

“My name’s Tide, I’m an agent of WATCH. I promise you, nobody here’s trying to hurt you, and I’m sorry we gave you a scare. I let William and Vyncent shadow me sometimes, but they weren’t supposed to be in the medical wing right now. It’s just, well, you showed up, and… nobody knew what to do with you. They’re about the same age as you, it’s in their nature to be curious.”

Finally paying attention to the man’s words after a moment, Dakota’s head snapped over, jaw agape.

“Oh, shit, you’re Tide?! Like— like the fucking superhero?!”

Tide grinned, evidently a little proud of being recognized, but nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Dakota nearly launched into a bombardment of words, ready to talk about how fucking cool the guy was, how much he looked up to the Elementals, how he always wanted them to come to New Haven, or for New Haven to have a task force like them. He wanted to know how they’d all gotten their powers, and how they joined together in the first place, and if they’d ever met the Prime Force. He wanted an autograph to bring back home and show off to Alaska and his friends from school, wanted to meet the rest of the team, wanted to learn all he could from them.

It took every inch of restraint in his body to keep his mouth shut.

Dakota was quite literally meeting one of his childhood heroes, and he was so fucking psyched, but he knew that he probably shouldn’t say so much off the bat.

Still, he couldn’t help but stare at the guy in awe. Tide looked just like a normal dude at the minute, wearing khaki pants and a button-up Hawaiian shirt, but his face was the same one Dakota had seen in classes and newspapers and a few of those WATCH-made safety infographics. He had a head full of locs, tied back in a half-up style, dyed a vibrant blue at the ends. His posture was relaxed and friendly, and he sank into a chair by the door, a further display of passiveness.

It was hard not to trust him, at least a little bit. Dakota knew he was a hero, one of the big heroes, so he’d only want to help.

“Can I ask you what your name is?” Tide asked calmly, crossing one leg over his knee like they were just in casual conversation. He didn’t ask Dakota to come sit by him, or to stand any closer; he let him keep his distance, away by the window.

Still pretty flustered from meeting one of the Elementals, Dakota blinked a few times, before stuttering out, “I’m, uh, Dakota.”

“Good to meet you, Dakota. Do you have a last name?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, he tried to think of how to answer that question.

Dakota Damascus was missing.

Dakota Cole technically didn’t exist on any public records, as far as he knew.

Taking the silence as a hint with an “Okay,” Tide continued at the lack of an answer. “We can come back to that question later. Where are you from, Dakota?”

That question was way easier. “New Haven.”

Raising his eyebrows in evident surprise, Tide stammered a bit, “That’s— New Haven’s very far away. Did you come here with somebody?”

Dakota nodded, stepping a few feet closer, still keeping the hospital bed between them. “Mark, I came here with a guy named Mark. I need to find him. I can’t stay here, we’re— we’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Mark?” Tide frowned. “Nobody’s shown up here by that name, but I’m usually here in the tower or on patrols outside the walls. I can check with the entrance team, see if they’ll know where he went? But— Dakota, I don’t think it’s a very good idea for you to leave Rockfall yet. Not for a little while.”

“Why not?!” Dakota cried.

“You showed up near the inner border of the safe zone, unconscious and dehydrated, with a resting heart rate twice that of a normal person’s. You were on the verge of cardiac arrest. You’re not fit to travel.”

He stared at Tide blankly, before realizing that he didn’t know about his powers— meaning nobody did.

It was a huge flood of relief, but also a bit of a headache, because that meant he’d have to explain it super carefully. Once again, he wished Mark was here, because at least the asshole always seemed to know what and what not to tell people in these situations.

Fidgeting with his headphones, Dakota exclaimed, “Oh, no, that’s like, normal! It’s part of— I’ve got these powers, like, my heart— I’m super strong! I can do a lot of shit! It goes really fast, but it’s fine!”

Tide nodded, but strangely enough, that answer didn’t seem to satisfy him.

“Is there a reason for the… forgive me if it’s insensitive to ask, but… you’re wearing an intravenous power suppressor, Dakota.”

Dakota blinked. Suddenly, he did not want to be talking to Tide at all anymore.

“It’s, well,” the man continued, “Those are a very serious thing, and WATCH has been trying to phase them out for years. They’re sort of a ‘last-resort’ sort of tool, used only for the worst of the worst situations. And it’s very obvious that you’re not like that. You're just a kid.”

Swallowing nervously, Dakota shoved his hands in his pockets as Tide spoke, trying to hide the little silver bracelet from view. He hated the suppressor, would love to have it off, but that didn’t mean he just wanted to go talking about it to someone else, or was eager to answer any questions.

“We couldn’t even override yours. Otherwise, we would’ve taken it off and replaced it with a different one, only for the short time being. It’s been altered in some way that leaves it essentially irremovable without the code. Were you aware of this, Dakota?”

Tide kept repeating his name in a too-kind tone. It made him sound like a school counselor, talking Dakota down after he got in another fight or trying to show pity for him and his “troubled home life”.

He hadn’t known any of that, but it wasn’t that surprising— why slap a power suppressor round his wrist if they thought he could just run off to the nearest hero?

He decided to just dodge the bombardment of questions, sticking to what he'd been saying this entire time:

“I’ve gotta find Mark,” Dakota responded lowly.

“I understand, and we’re gonna find him for you, but I’m just trying to look out for you here. It’s not every day that we—“

A shout came from somewhere within the building, and Dakota froze, eyes flickering towards the door.

He approached it slowly, sidling up next to it and pressing his ear to the metal. It sounded too familiar to be true, but it didn’t come again, and so after several seconds, he paced away awkwardly, not as far as before, but enough to still give him a comfortable distance from Tide.

“I’m on a mission, m’trying to help people,” he mumbled, fidgeting with a few random trinkets on one of the bedside tables. Glancing at a digital clock that read 11:34 AM, he frowned. “How long was I, like, out?”

“About three days, if you count today,” Tide answered. “Found you Saturday afternoon. It’s Tuesday.”

Dakota’s heart sank. He opened his mouth, to say what— he didn’t know. Probably to just repeat for the millionth time that he needed to find Mark, that he couldn’t stay here. Three days was a long time, and the fact that Mark hadn’t found him by now was more than a little concerning.

Instead, though, the door burst open.

“Dakota?!”

Dakota whirled around, a little faster than he probably should’ve, and knocked the hospital bed a few inches askew, rushing to stand in front of the doorway, see who was there.

Three figures stood ahead— the ghost boy from earlier, looking more solid this time, and a tall, purple-haired boy over his shoulder, clearly wildly perplexed.

Dakota hardly registered them, though, because the third person—

Those bandages were still stretched over his face, obscuring half of it, but that perpetual frown, the constant furrow of his eyebrows, was unmistakable. He looked just the same as always, save for maybe a shower and a change of clothes.

Dakota knew it was too good to be true. More than a coincidence that he'd just so happened to find Dakota after waking up and meeting all these people. He knew it fucking was, and he knew there must've been some reason, but in that moment, it was all drowned out by his relief.

"MARK!"

By the time Dakota had shouted his name, Mark already crossed most of the room, and so he only had to take a step or two forward, meeting him in the middle.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ, kid, what the hell happened?!" he asked frantically.

It almost seemed like, for a second, he was reaching out to hug Dakota, but then he stopped, and his expression hardened-- the moment blew over, like it never happened. Instead, he placed a hand on Dakota's shoulder and another beneath his chin, tilting it from side to side, checking him for injuries. He stepped back slightly, giving him a quick once-over for any other wounds on his body, making sure nothing drastic had happened.

Dakota watched his face darken at the sight of blood on his forearm and hand, and he glanced back up at him, a questioning look in his eye.

It took Dakota a second to pick up on what he was asking—

Did they hurt you?

Mark’s expression was murderous, but for once, that anger wasn’t directed at him.

With a little shudder, Dakota realized that it was very possible that Mark was ready to kill the rest of the people in this room, all because of some little drops of blood.

With that, he quickly shook his head, rolling up his sleeve to show the spot where he’d ripped out the IV. Most of the bleeding had stopped by now, and the surrounding skin was pink, likely gonna leave a considerable bruise, but it wasn’t terrible.

“Just an IV,” he murmured. “I did that.”

And it wasn’t his first time doing it, either; he knew what the consequences were gonna be, but it had been far better than staying hooked up to a machine like that.

Mark sighed, nodding, hands resting back on his shoulders. It was almost comfortable, in the sense that he wasn’t squeezing harshly, wasn’t shouting at Dakota like he’d fucked up this time.

“What happened?” he repeated quietly, and it was clear that he was still pissed, but it was overshadowed by the fact that he’d found Dakota— and, admittedly, Dakota felt the same way. In any other circumstance, he would’ve recoiled from Mark, probably aimed a sharp punch up at his jaw.

Instead—

“I saw something,” he whispered, sounding and feeling like a scared little kid as he recalled it. “ I didn’t— I know you said not to run off, but it — it fuckin’ stole your voice, it made me see things, you disappeared!”

“Demon or somethin'?” Mark questioned.

Dakota nodded once. “Think so. Maybe. It was all fucked up. Worse than the other ones.”

That seemed to strike a chord for some reason, but Mark shrugged it off, like he’d thought of some out-there worst case scenario and quickly dismissed it.

“You must be Mark?” Tide attempted in a polite greeting, making himself known to the man.

Mark straightened up, turning around and intentionally placing himself between Dakota and the others, nearly blocking his view.

“Yeah,” he scoffed, “ Who the hell’re you people, ta’think that you can—“

Everybody in the room froze, for some reason, and the air grew thorns.

A sharp tension shot up, clawing for everybody's throats, and Dakota suddenly felt as though he was missing out on something very important. It seemed that the other shoe had finally dropped, and he peered around Mark, trying to figure out what exactly was so appalling; it certainly had something to do with how Mark had found him, but it still didn't give him an answer.

Mark was staring silently ahead at Tide. Both of their expressions were astonished, but it didn't seem to be in any good way.

When the shock that evidently hit wore off, Tide shot to his feet, glaring incredulously at Mark, starting several words before giving up on them, settling again for just gaping. He took a step closer, and Mark bristled, posture defensive, but he didn’t seem to be trying to approach Mark and Dakota more than he was trying to stand between them and the two boys, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

“How did he get in here?!” Tide hissed back at them, tone alarmed, but not cruel. “And why— I told you two to head straight back home! What—“

“I led him here,” the ghost-boy, William, answered sheepishly as he looked down in shame. “He— we were heading home, Tide, I swear, but— he saw me, and—“

“Saw you? But why would that matter? You're—“

“I know him.”

William covered his face with his hands, rubbing at his eyes, letting out a terrified sigh.

"Before, Tide. I knew him before."

Chapter Text

Dakota knew Mark was a villain, knew that he’d worked for some shitty people over the years. He had been a villain before they’d met, and would likely continue to be one when they eventually parted ways, if Dakota couldn’t convince him otherwise. 

It was an old fact at this point. He’d worked through the whole moral problem of working with somebody like Mark a long time ago, he’d thought. It wasn’t like he had much choice in the matter, anyways.

Still, he might’ve forgotten that Mark’s villainous actions didn’t exist in their own bubble. Obviously, Dakota knew that they didn’t, but there was a stark difference between knowing a fact and seeing it in action, seeing the actual impact of Mark’s choice in careers.

Mark was a supervillain— had a whole name to go with it and everything. 

Mark was Wavelength.

Of course Tide knew who he was.

The first thing he’d done upon recognizing Mark was turn William and Vyncent away; tell them to actually go home this time and that they’d talk later. He’d whispered something extra to Vyncent that Dakota couldn’t quite make out, and then he’d shut the door and stood to block it. With his arms crossed, he stared forward with a dark look in his eye, posture squared and defensive. 

“Wavelength,” he muttered lowly, voice cutting at him with a sharpness Dakota didn’t know it could have. “ What are you doing in Rockfall? And— why do you have a kid with you?!”

Dakota had tried to step out from behind Mark, to start talking or something, but Mark held an arm out, glaring back at him to instruct him to stay in place; like Tide was a threat, something to be shielded from. 

Dakota didn’t think Tide was a physical danger, but he still decided to remain in place for the time being, listening to Mark just this once.

“ C’n ask you the same,” Mark muttered. “ What, y’taking in strays, now?”

“William and Vyncent are not strays!” The man responded indignantly, clearly taking great offense at the idea.

Mark grunted. “One of them’s a stray, I’ll tell’ya that,” he spat with a less-than-subtle hint of bitterness. “Runs off at the first sign of trouble.” 

Tide worked his jaw for a few seconds, before deciding to drop the evident bait, focusing back on the current situation.

“Why are you in Rockfall, Wavelength?” 

“Was just passin’ through, ‘til you sorry fucks came in and tried to take the kid.” 

“How do you even know Dakota?! What kind of scheme is this, Wavelength?!”

“It’s not a scheme!” Dakota broke in, shoving his way under Mark’s arm this time. “We’re on a mission! We’re saving people! You don’t know what M— Wavelength is doing!” 

“Get back, kid.” Mark grabbed him by the collar, pulling him to his side. Dakota grumbled in defiance, swatting at his hand, but couldn’t break away; his grip was iron, like he knew he had to cling onto him as tightly as he could, or Dakota would disappear again. 

“Dakota, do you even know who Wavelength is? What he’s done?!” Tide’s voice swelled with anger, joined by something that almost sounded hurt.

“You don’t talk to him!” Mark threatened, arm acting as a shield again.

“What, why not?! Have you not told him about your crimes? The things you’ve done to other people?” 

“He knows enough.” 

“Enough? Enough?! What would a man like you ever consider enough?!”

Mark stayed silent for a long, blistering moment, eyes focused on Tide with a sort of hate that was palpable. Tide returned the gaze with just as much if not more fervor, and it nearly seemed as though they were going to stay locked in the stand-off forever, shooting daggers from their pupils, in constant wait of who was going to be the first to move next.

But the next minute passed, and a garbled rush of gibberish emanated from a radio clipped onto Tide’s belt, shattering the quiet atmosphere with a new wave of tension. 

Dakota couldn’t tell exactly what the person on the other end had said, but Tide reached down slowly and took the device, pressing down on the top button to reply.

“Understood. Give me only a few seconds, alright? Over.” 

That familiar, orange electric energy began to dance between Mark’s fingertips as he curled his hands into fists. 

“What the hell was—“ he started, lumbering forward like he was going to send a blow flying at Tide’s nose.

Instead, Tide shot out a hand, and a quick rush of blue water rocketed forward, hitting Mark square in the forehead with a harsh thwap of impact. His skull jerked back rather violently, and then in a blur of movement, he collapsed to the ground.

Taken down in two seconds flat.

"Whatever this is, it ends now, Wavelength," Tide muttered at the unconscious man, a bitter vindication in his voice.

Dakota's heart seemed to sink with Mark, and he reeled back in shock for a moment, before turning to face the hero, eyes wide, breaths shaky.

Tide's harsh expression melted into something kinder, more somber, and it almost seemed like he was going to say something; apologize or ask yet another question.

But the door behind him burst open, and a team of WATCH agents rushed in, pushing themselves between Dakota and Mark, flocking the man where he laid on the ground.

Taking him away.

"NO!" Dakota screamed, rushing forward, but the wall of people was impossible to break through, and he quickly realized there was nothing he could do but watch, not without making the situation worse for either of them.

Over the sea of movement, he fixed his eyes back on Tide, holding the hero's gaze as the only person Dakota knew out here was carried away.

Tide at least had the mind to appear sympathetic, even if the way he looked at him had fundamentally shifted— it contained a different, more cautious undertone now.

---

No matter what Dakota had tried to tell Tide, it was pretty impossible to convince the man that an established, decently-known supervillain was actually alright — at least alright enough for him to go free, and for the two of them to keep traveling outside of Rockfall. He tried everything just short of outright telling Tide what they were doing, that they were on their way to Harttawa to save the world. That’d lead to more questions, and it might mess things up even further if other people, ones in power, especially being heroes, found out what they were doing.

Not because Dakota was an accomplice or anything to Mark. He didn’t approve of Mark’s villainy in the slightest. Just, he knew that this mission was kind of secret, and heroes probably couldn’t know about it at any cost. If they could know, they likely would've been the ones running the mission. But that wasn't the case, and it was what they had to work with. Plus, he’d piss Mark off if he told anyone else about the mission, and while he still wanted to stick by Mark’s side, he didn’t think he trusted the man enough yet not to pull at the sensitive topic that he’d brought up earlier. 

They’ve got shit on you. Got shit on everyone.

With the extra time to think, Dakota had wondered if that Ashe person was part of the “shit” they had on Mark. He had no way of knowing, though; no way of asking.

Mark had been placed under arrest by the heroes of Rockfall, and was gonna be there “until further notice”.

So, essentially until somebody found out what to do with him, and then they were probably gonna charge him with whatever crimes he’d done before, move him to an actual prison— knowing Mark, it would likely be a maximum security type of place. 

He had found Dakota, he’d finally been glad to see him for once, and then he’d been taken away, and the brakes had been pulled harshly on their journey. Dakota almost wished that he hadn’t even found him at all, because it sort of stung worse that they’d been so close to just up and leaving Rockfall, restocking and getting back on the road with no further obstacles. They were there, and they could’ve been ready to leave, but Tide recognized Mark for the supervillain he was, and Tide did what heroes did: locked up villains. 

And it wasn’t even like Dakota could say he was in the wrong for it. He didn’t know what they were doing or where they were headed. As far as Tide knew, Mark was a villain, and he’d randomly shown up in Rockfall with a kid who was apparently wearing some special sort of fucked-up power suppressor. That raised enough eyebrows on its own. Tide was just working with what he knew, and he wasn’t able to see the full picture, didn’t have all the answers. 

Dakota proceeded not to give him any more, regardless.

He hadn’t been thrown in jail like Mark was, given the fact that he wasn’t a supervillain, but he wasn’t exactly free, either— he’d simply been relocated to one of the “guest rooms” in the WATCH tower, a tiny little unit that was even smaller than the apartments back in New Haven, despite the luxury. It had a grand total of four rooms: a minuscule, kitchen-like area with two compact armchairs and a coffee table, a bedroom with nothing more than a bed and a closet, a bathroom, and an office. 

It was a softer, kinder way for WATCH to keep him under their thumb, supervised and monitored while they did their best to act all sweet to him. They were just keeping him cooped up in here as a “guest” until he cracked and answered all their questions, and while he was technically allowed to leave his room and roam the tower, an agent or one of the heroes would always catch sight of him before he even made it down the hall, and they’d walk with him through the building, trying to make small talk, squeeze out any info they could get. 

And, despite the way it made him seethe, this went on for about a week.

A whole week, being not-quite trapped, constantly facing the choice of having multiple pairs of eyes on him, or being stuck staring at the same four walls. In any other situation, any other world , Dakota would’ve been thrilled to have seemingly endless time to be around heroes every day, meeting more in an hour than he’d ever seen before in his entire life . 

But he couldn’t find any joy or excitement in it— not when Mark was gone, when the entire world was at stake and he was being forced to sit and twiddle his thumbs about it. 

He was technically allowed to leave the tower, but it was the same as leaving his room; there was an unspoken rule of sorts that he needed to have somebody with him, to guarantee that he wouldn’t split the second he was out of sight.

Oddly enough, the main two people doing this kind of stuff ended up being Vyncent and William. 

Whenever Dakota would get sick of staring through the office window, he’d slip out the door, trying to catch some fresh air, or at least stretch his legs, and oftentimes run into the two boys. It kind of seemed like they were intentionally crossing paths with him at all times, and he wasn’t sure if it was because they had been assigned to do it by Tide, or because they were genuinely curious about him; wanted to know who he was.

Dakota would be hard-pressed to admit that he wasn’t curious, too. William very obviously had superpowers, and they seemed to have some sort of physical effect on his body, given that he was practically white as a ghost, skin pale and colorless at all times. Vyncent had long, shiny hair that he kept twisted back in an intricate braid, which was cool, but not too out-there. No, the most confusing part about him was the fact that his ears were large and pointy, a trait no normal person had, and he didn’t seem to understand anything about how Prime worked.

Regardless, the two boys were there around every corner, and they’d always have something to talk about. Even if Dakota didn’t respond, they’d tell him about their training— apparently, they were heroes in the making, just having recently started their apprenticeship under Tide— or something else, like funny things they’d heard other heroes say, or about the movie they’d watched the night before. Rockfall had a huge library that’d been preserved really well despite the world’s fall, they told him, and there was a huge collection of old DVDs that still worked to this day.

They kept inviting him every night to watch something with him. Dakota always turned them down. 

Being his age (apparently, William was sixteen, and Vyncent seventeen), they weren’t nearly as intimidating as Tide, but Dakota still didn’t know entirely if he trusted them— they were super fucking cool, he’d admit it, but there was always a heavy undercurrent to all of their interactions, a very persistent air between them that kept them just barely separated.

Still, after a while, he grew sick of being alone, sick of sitting in that empty little unit with everything he could’ve ever dreamed of, but nothing he actually needed or wanted anymore. 

So one day, he let Vyncent and William in.

They’d sat on the floor of the little kitchen area, since there were only two chairs, and William had suggested they play a board game. Dakota couldn’t hide the way he gaped when the boy just pulled one out of his backpack; they were something from the old world, and back at home, a lot of people in WATCH-supplied apartments didn’t have the time nor money to get luxuries like that, let alone actually play with them.

But William had pulled it out like it was nothing, and set up a game of Monopoly, divvying up a little stack of paper money. He’d explained the rules to the both of them, since apparently Vyncent didn’t know how to play either, and they’d gone through the first few rounds slowly, pausing every few seconds whenever one of them didn’t know what they were doing. Vyncent seemed to be even more lost than Dakota was, not even understanding the money at first— which was super weird, especially for a hero-in-training. 

Regardless, by the end of the night, Dakota was almost winning, until Vyncent had randomly dumped all his money on the remaining pink and blue properties on a whim, which entirely threw Dakota off. It led to a spiral effect of him eventually declaring bankruptcy, and he’d called Vyncent a fucking asshole, and Vyncent had snorted, and suddenly within the next couple minutes the three of them were throwing paper money and game pieces at each other, giggling and shouting insults across the room. 

The game had ended abruptly when William fell through the floor, accidentally kicking the board askew as he did so, flickering awkwardly between that weird transparent form and being solid until he’d plummeted.

At Dakota’s horrified face, Vyncent had doubled over in laughter, taking several minutes because of it to explain that it was actually a normal occurrence; going intangible was a part of William’s powers, which he still didn’t have great control over yet, and led to a lot of similar incidents.

William had walked back through the door afterwards, mortified and disheveled after having to re-climb two flights of stairs, accidentally having fallen into somebody's office and disrupting an ongoing meeting.

The entire ordeal was, admittedly, really funny, and since then, it became commonplace for the boys to just hang out in Dakota’s unit, bringing other board games, or cool trinkets they’d found, or stacks of comic books (they’d quickly discovered Dakota’s strong love and admiration for heroes, even if it was obviously confusing to them given his situation).

They weren’t really friends, but they weren’t exactly not friends either. They were a welcome company after a little while, and they helped him feel a little less crazy, but that still didn’t solve any of his actual problems.

It was like being stuck in a weird sort of limbo; constantly anxious and fearful about Mark, trying to think of any way out of this place, any way to convince the heroes to let them both go without revealing their mission, betraying his immunity— and being forced to play Monopoly and card games every day instead of doing anything.

William and Vyncent were really good people, Dakota could tell, and he didn’t hold anything against them for wanting to be heroes, for trying to distract him or cheer him up or do whatever they were doing. 

It just… sucked.

Dakota didn’t realize how off-balance he felt without Mark’s constant presence, without the man always just over his shoulder, or behind the wheel of a car, never truly out of reach. It wasn’t like the two of them spoke much, they never shared conversations that didn’t end in arguments, but it was like having his life flipped upside down again.

He’d been taken out of New Haven, and he didn’t wanna go, but he knew there was a purpose, a world that he did want to save. Here, in Rockfall, he was hundreds of miles from home, separated from the only person he actually knew out here, and trapped without purpose, with such an important objective dangling just out of reach, every single day. 

In all honestly, Dakota was scared without Mark. It was stupid, so fucking stupid, but he was scared and all he wanted was to be back on the road again, to make it to Harttawa and save the world. 

He wasn’t even against Mark ending up in jail, really, he just wished that it could’ve maybe waited for after the world got saved, so that he’d actually have a world to become a part of again after serving his time— because then Mark would actually get a full chance to be a good guy, in a good world.

But he was too scared to tell anybody else this, too scared that talking about the people Mark worked for would lead to the entire thing blowing up in their faces.

One night, Vyncent and William showed up at Dakota's door with dinner.

He'd mainly been eating whatever he could get around the tower for the last little bit, which honestly wasn't bad in the slightest. The WATCH base was at an unmatched level of wealth and organization he'd never seen firsthand before, with an open sort of cafeteria that he could come through at any time to grab random pieces of food from. Still, it felt weird sometimes, and it was kind of a nice idea to not have to go out and be around strangers tonight.

Not that Vyncent and William weren't strangers. They were. But they were slightly different strangers. Slightly more comfortable, if that even meant anything.

After a moment of consideration, Dakota pulled the door further open, stepping aside to let them in.

They decided to eat in the office, since the kitchen only had two seats, and the armchairs were at an awkward height with the coffee table. Dakota sat behind the desk, in a spinny chair, and stared vacantly down at the smooth wood. He watched William awkwardly place down a plate of beef stroganoff before taking one of the seats before the desk.

It looked kind of funny— like they were in a fancy interview or meeting, but really, they were just having dinner together. Like normal kids did.

At least, Dakota figured that's what it was.

Hoped it was.

"S'there a reason?" he finally asked, breaking the timid silence when it became clear neither of the other boys were going to. They were just sitting silently in their seats, and William was evidently anxious, but Vyncent seemed mostly unbothered as he tucked his feat beneath himself, balancing his plate in his lap. “For this, t’night. Why?”

“Tide sent us in here to interrogate you, ‘cause we’re the same age and he thinks you’ll trust us more,” Vyncent said plainly, taking a bite of his food.

William flushed, stammering. “N-No! He sent us— well, he asked us to bring you dinner, ‘cause you’ve gotta eat, obviously, but also to get to know you! Not— not interrogating. You’re not, like, a criminal. I mean, unless you are! That’s cool too. Well— it’s not, but...“

Dakota fidgeted with his headphone wire, staring blankly at the plate of beef stroganoff as William rambled (he seemed to have a habit of doing that. Dakota would’ve said the same of himself, maybe a few months ago).

He knew he probably should’ve said something in return, knew he could probably get along really well with the two boys if he tried.

Every time he shifted his focus to the present, though, all he saw was that pair of black wings closing in on him, choking out the air and the sunlight and shutting off what few rational thoughts he could've formed. He saw the haunting, youthful face, warped and twisted and pulled open in a wide, inhuman smile, and he heard that gravely, piercing voice. 

He saw Mark’s face, and he saw that look, that split-second where he was ready to kill for Dakota.

Doing his best to push through, if only so he could at least ask any questions in return if this was how things were gonna go down, Dakota nodded, pulling his plate towards himself slightly.

“I get it,” he muttered. “You wanna know how I know Mark.”

Taking a bite of the stroganoff, he was surprised to find that it actually tasted really good— granted, all food was good food to Dakota. He wasn’t a stranger to hunger, and he was pretty sure he’d take anything even slightly edible if somebody offered it to him freely. 

“I wanna know that about you, too.” 

William shrugged sheepishly, swapping a look with Vyncent. Vyncent squinted, looking between him and Dakota, before tilting his head to the side as if to tell the other boy to make up his mind.

This silent exchange went on for a solid thirty seconds more until they seemed to reach a sort of conclusion, all while Dakota stared blankly at them.

William cleared his throat. "I, uh, yeah. I do kinda wanna know that. I can tell you about me, too, though. It’s only fair, right?”

"What d’you have to tell?" he asked, leaning forward slightly. Throughout the last few minutes, he'd been rotating the chair from side to side, but he stopped, sitting still for just a second to devote his full attention to whatever William was gonna say—

Because William knew Mark. Or used to? Something strange like that.

It had been the one topic that he'd refused to bring up over the last few days since they’d met, and whenever Dakota did try to ask questions, he'd often change the subject quickly before disappearing, not returning again for another few hours. It was clearly something touchy.

And William was finally bringing it up.

His curiosity about Dakota's situation had finally outweighed whatever was keeping him from talking, apparently.

Dakota was suddenly far more attentive to their conversation.

“I— um, I showed up here in Rockfall, like, a little over a month ago. Vir— Vyncent, too.” William fidgeted with a few loose strands of hair as he spoke.

“From where?”

“I was born in a town called Deadwood. I moved to New Haven when I was, like, fourteen or fifteen, though. That’s where you’re from, right?” 

Dakota took a second before he answered, “Yeah. Born n’ raised.” 

“Does Mark still live in that old house? The one with the stove that looks like it’s gonna kill you?” 

Squinting, he tried to mull over the words in each question, make sure not to reveal more than he needed to. It was such an innocuous thing to bring up, but a small part of Dakota was so worried, so sure that any one topic was a trap waiting to spring, to twist what answer he'd give and use it against him.

For the millionth time, he wished he had Mark around.

“I mean, yeah, his house is all kinda falling apart, uh, it’s— he didn’t let me past the front room. Told me not to go anywhere. So I dunno." Dakota recalled that first day with Mark, something heavy pressing down on him as he did so. 

William frowned. “That… makes sense, actually.” 

The room fell quiet, and all that happened between them was the scrape of forks against plates as they all shoveled food into their mouths. After a certain point, it almost seemed to be a game of who was gonna break the silence first— William and Vyncent were both stealing glances at Dakota, having their little wordless conversations together, clearly trying to execute a game plan of sorts.

“How do you know that guy, though?” Vyncent asked, setting his empty plate on the desk and sitting back on his heels in the seat now, ears twitching up with curiosity. “Y’said he was your guardian, but how is that the case?”

“Long story,” Dakota tried. 

“We’ve all kinda got long stories.”

"My story's fuckin' crazy, though."

"And we’ve all got crazy fucking stories,” William broke in. “Hell, all I’ve seen lately is just— fucking crazy, dude. I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen normal.”

Dakota’s eyes darted between the two boys slowly. He looked at Vyncent a little longer, at the thin point of his ears and the sharpness of his features.

Vyncent tilted his head in evident confusion, glancing back in William’s direction, trying to gather understanding. 

William’s eyes stayed focused on Dakota for a second or two longer before he seemed to realize something, to pick up on a piece of Dakota’s curiosity, a question he was asking.

With that, he glanced over at Vyncent, making a small gesture with his hand, as though to tell him to say something. 

“I’m, uh, not from around here,” the taller boy admitted, twirling the ends of his braided hair. “I mean, none of us are from around here, but I’m not from around here, like, at all. As in, I’m— I’m like, from a whole different world. Prime isn’t my home.” 

The confession lingered in the air for several seconds.

Vyncent slid the metaphorical chess piece forward, leaving it out there for Dakota to respond to however he saw fit. The boy seemed to slouch slightly with what he said, staring down at the floor like he was reminiscing on something painful. 

The look was far too genuine to be a lie, but the story truly was an impossible one.

Dakota chewed on the inside of his cheek, squinting at Vyncent, trying to understand how anything like this could even work— he didn’t know science shit. Was this even science? There’s no way something like that was possible, right? 

Well, chaos demons crawling out of a portal to terrorize the people of Prime wasn’t possible, either.

Dakota had never known a world without them, without the destruction and the fear of possession always dangling above his head with strings ready to snap. But he knew a freer world had existed before, a different version of Prime where trips to the river were commonplace and nobody had to hide behind the walls of safe zones. It was why he was fighting so hard, why he had made it this far, even with somebody like Mark.

Maybe it wasn’t impossible that someone had fallen through another portal to get here. 

But then that begged the question—

“Is your world dangerous? Like, wherever the demons came from. Is it like that?”

“Not at all,” Vyncent responded softly. “It’s beautiful. Lots of open sky, lots of clouds. Big floating islands, huge mountains, nothing like anything you’d see here. There’s grass, like, as far as you can see, and moss is everywhere because of the river systems. My village, it’s nothing like Rockfall. My home is nothing like this.”

He spoke with a certain sadness, a recollection of a memory that clearly hurt him, a home he had been torn from. 

Dakota could sympathize with that, even if he hadn’t literally flip-flopped between worlds.

“You were the only one who made it through,” he said gently, phrasing it like a statement but really asking him a question. Vyncent seemed to be mostly slone, save for William and Tide, and surely he would’ve mentioned others if there were any. It was a pretty cut-and-dry answer, as far as Dakota was concerned.

Vyncent frowned. “That’s… hard to explain. Technically, no, but— I’m the only one who ended up here? Like this? Long story.”

He leaned back into his seat, and it seemed clear that the “long story” wasn’t one he was eager to tell, that he’d already told enough tonight. Dakota accepted it, not wanting to push any further, and stared down at his empty plate, an odd weight pulling at his heart. 

William’s eyes kept their hold on Vyncent’s for about a minute or so, before he sighed, leaning forward in his seat, a contrast to the boy next to him. Rubbing at the back of his neck, he began trying to speak, but stuttered through a few nonsensical starters before pursing his lips, clasping his hands together. 

“I… died,” he said plainly. 

Dakota’s eyes shot up, and he stared at William in utter confusion. 

“I died, um. Badly. But I died, I swear I did. A long time ago, before Prime was like this.”

“Before the demons?”

He winced. “No.”

William rubbed vacantly at his side, like something was poking him there. After a beat, he continued.

“I died to a demon. When things first fell apart.” 

“Oh, shit,” Dakota muttered. “M’sorry.”

“It’s cool,” William shrugged. “I’m over it. Well, I’m not, but— there’s nothing I can do about it. I was dead, and then I just… woke up, and I dunno why.” 

As he spoke, he glanced off to the side, almost as if he was looking at something specific in the corner, but considering how empty the room was, he was probably just avoiding eye contact.

“I’m sorry t’you, too,” Dakota said softly to Vyncent. “That sounds like it sucks. For both of you.” 

“S’okay,” Vyncent murmured.

William nodded. “We’re both, like, working through it together or something. Tide’s helped us a lot, we seriously probably wouldn’t be here without him.” 

The mention of Tide brought something slightly sour to Dakota’s mind, leaving his different feelings on everything to battle it out again; Tide was a good hero, a good person, but he’d locked up the only person Dakota needed in the world right now. 

Mulling over the incident in his head, Dakota looked up at William, staring intently. 

“You said you knew Mark. Before.” He twirled the headphone wire round his fingers, pushing together the puzzle pieces he had even though it hurt his head.

People were capable of just showing up from different realms or some shit. And also, other realms fucking existed. And people could also come back from the dead or something, and apparently one of those people was Mark.

“Before I died,” William nodded. “Before everything happened.” 

“How?”

The question was heavy, he knew it was, but their entire conversation so far had been heavy and Dakota needed these answers. 

William fixed him with a sad, slightly surprised look, like he was almost reluctant to answer a question like that. Still, he scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting away as he spoke again.

“Me n’Ashe, we were like, best friends.”  

Dakota felt the air leave his lungs in a short, silent rush.

William kept speaking, entirely oblivious to the shock on Dakota’s face, to the way his chest seized up like somebody had abruptly clamped down on his heart with a vice grip. 

“I was, um— I was over at her house. When it all happened. Was only gonna be there a few hours. She was a little upset,  ‘cause her dad, he’d missed her birthday the day before, caught at work with something stupid. I was trying to cheer her up.”

“Was—“

Dakota’s voice creaked with a hint of the emotion, the incredulity he felt at the moment.

“Was Ashe his daughter?”

Like a deer in headlights, William froze, mouth falling open slightly.

Somehow, that question was evidently the most out-of-left-field one tonight, and his expression cycled between shock, sadness, horror, and guilt in less than a second. 

Dakota’s stomach dropped.

Was Mark— 

Had be been a father before?

Was that Ashe person his kid?

William’s expression sobered a bit, and he dragged his hands down his face, palms covering his jaw-dropped mouth. With absolute shock written into every inch of his body language, he stared reproachfully at Dakota between the gaps in his fingers.

“You didn’t know.” 

Dakota felt like he was gonna be sick. 

Mark had been a dad before all of this. Before the world ended. 

Mark had a daughter and William was her friend, William had known her, and Mark had been a dad. 

The world flipped on its head for the hundredth time, but this time, it was a more irreversible change, a type of impact that sucker-punched Dakota in the gut and left him reeling. It was a swift, sharp blow, and then it was silence, and he was left to carry this heavy information, something that he was certain Mark intended to be a secret.  

Mark had been a father. 

It was very obvious he wasn’t one anymore, that he’d lost Ashe.

Shooting up out of his seat, Dakota sent his chair flying back with the momentum, hearing its dull impact against the wall. He buried his hands in his hair, taking a few aimless steps before leaving the office, not really sure why, but just needing to step out of that room, to be in a more open space.

It felt like the walls were closing in on him, the same way those inky black wings of the creature he’d seen had, and bile was rising in his throat just the same way, but it was a different type of terror this time.

Mark had been a father. 

He’d called Dakota “Ashe” on accident. 

“Dakota?!” William called, stepping out behind him with Vyncent on his heels. 

Cycling through a hundred different panic responses, clenching and unclenching his fists, pacing the length of the small kitchen wildly, Dakota paused at the end of the room, hands running wildly through his hair. 

“Ashe,” he breathed, staring fervently at the wall. “Was she possessed?” 

William stammered. “It’s— um, I— God, it’s—“

“Was she possessed?!” Dakota cried, whirling around to face them both.

After a tense, painful pause, William nodded.

Dakota began pacing again, trying to understand everything that was going on, understand that Mark had once been a fucking dad, how that so clearly explained certain things about the way he acted. He thought of their conversation in the car, of the way Mark had talked about the people he worked for “having shit on everyone”, and Dakota felt like he was going to scream.

Taking a deep, deep breath, he began piecing words together, addressing William and Vyncent again.

“Mark and I, we—“

Absolutely petrified, dreading the nightmare of what could happen this leap of faith went to shit, Dakota allowed himself a hint of hope in the two boys.

They’d shared their stories, and now he was placing the most tentative trust possible in their hands, unraveling a whole journey’s worth of hardship in a couple sentences.

“We came all the way out from New Haven, ‘cause me and him have gotta get to this place called Harttawa. We weren’t supposed to stop here, but something came up, and we were running low on supplies.” 

“‘Harttawa’?” Vyncent questioned.

“It’s, like, this super hidden lab. Really far away. I don’t know how to get there, but Mark does.”

Dakota stepped closer, holding the other two in place with his eyes, pleading with them, pleading with the universe, that they weren’t going to take the blade he was about to put in their hands and turn against him with it. 

“We’re trying to get out there because I’m immune. I can save people.”

He rolled his sleeve up, showing the power suppressor. The gleaming silver still made him nauseous, but he shrugged it off, trying as hard as he could to push his message across.

“We’re on a mission to save the world.”

Chapter Text

Moonlight spilled onto the smooth concrete floor, specks of dust waltzing with each other in the lit patches of air. Time lapsed for hours on end, not even a single sound to disturb the still atmosphere.

The long, empty hallway sat entirely dead to the world for most of the day, and the dust only ever stirred when a guard from WATCH would enter with a thin, flat tray of food, small enough to slide beneath the thick bars. Their steps would echo endlessly before they even reached the lone cell, and the clatter of plastic against metal would sound out for what felt like miles. 

Over the last six days in solitary confinement, Mark had exhausted much of his usual jailbreak tactics to no avail, growing antsy with every night further he spent locked away. The people monitoring him were big enough fools to show something like pity, telling him that Dakota was “safe”, but they never elaborated further, never let Mark see him.

On day three, Mark angrily stomped on the tray of food he was offered, sending pieces flying all over the room, demanding to be set free before he pulled off something drastic. He used a few choice words to get his message across, but of course, the only thing that happened was a slight increase in the security round his cell, and the subsequent collection of all the plastic shards.

All but one. 

The outburst had been nothing but a cover-up; an excuse to shatter the tray and palm a piece of it. The thing had quickly been whittled down over the next few hours until it reached a sharp enough point to break skin, and then Mark worked the thing a little more just for good measure.

After that, it was simply about waiting for a guard that looked right, one that would be foolish and untrained enough not to react swiftly to any sudden moves he made. When the time came, he’d attack through the bars with the makeshift shiv, steal a keycard, and finally free himself, find Dakota and get the fuck out of Rockfall.

He didn’t truly realize just how infrequently the guards came through here until he’d been trying to make his pick of one. Despite the everlasting stupidity of WATCH, Mark couldn’t help but commend them slightly for having actually competent security this time around— and this was only at the jailing level. They hadn’t even moved him to a true, long-term prison cell, which would only have even stronger reinforcements keeping him locked up.

Damn their stupid supplies, and Mark’s need to overpack, because now they weren’t only short everything he’d gathered for the road, but they were also likely out the SUV, too, and Mark was trapped, so his job lay incomplete and stagnant.

Worst of all, he had no true idea where Dakota was, or if WATCH was telling the truth about him. Of course, he knew the bleeding-heart type that ended up being volunteers and agents for the organization, knew that they’d never actually hurt the kid, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was alright; or that he hadn’t already run off again, leaving Rockfall without Mark. He was strong and stupid enough to pull something like that off, power suppressor be damned.

Mark rubbed at the silver cuff now round his own forearm, clunky and awkward. It was some sort of standard grade power suppressor, not too complicated, but rather bulky. It was sturdily built, too— he'd already tried his fair share of times to crack the thing off, or slip his way out, or pick open the locking mechanism with his shiv. He'd fought his way out of multiple different bracelets in the past, but this was a newer version, one he'd never seen before. Tide must have known that Mark could cheat through anything else given to him, and intentionally given him a newer or less widely-used build.

If he hadn't been given such a suppressor, he would've been free the instant somebody turned their back; probably would've made it all the way to Harttawa by now.

As he sat there fuming at the device, he frowned, wondering if this was anything near the frustration Dakota felt.

And, pointedly, he decided not to dive too far into that train of thought, lest he feel anything as stupid as regret or guilt. It didn’t matter. Dakota's situation was entirely out of his hands right now, anyways.

The last few days had been spent in a strange sort of fugue, not quite in the present moment, but still fully aware of his surroundings. It was similar to that grey-out state Mark had known for so many years at this point, turning off everything but his eyes and ears, letting days lapse by with hardly even a thought to spare other than when he'd eaten last, where he was, and where he was headed. It wasn't his first rodeo trapped in a jail cell; hell, wasn't even his first time being arrested by Tide. It should've been pretty easy to let the white noise just wash over him as he waited for the perfect moment to strike.

That was the thing though: it wasn't.

Thoughts kept floating to the surface, unpredicted and intrusive at a rate he hadn't known since before the world sank to shit. Stupid thoughts, worrisome thoughts that didn't mean anything. Things like if Dakota was okay or not, or if he was even still in Rockfall, or, worst of all, thoughts about what if his stupid fucking idolization of heroes had fucked their mission up, what if he'd decided to spill to them about the entire plan and wasn't going to travel with Mark anymore.

And, like that wasn't enough, traitorous thoughts. Thoughts about the past, thoughts about a face that haunted him every time he closed his eyes. Sorrowful thoughts about bleached-white hair and soft green eyes, about movie nights and birthdays missed because of something so trivial as a shift at work. 

It was like something had bent, broken. Something had shifted in the way Mark's brain worked, and it was impossible to tune the world out. Impossible to be deaf to his own thoughts, impossible to forget himself in favor of a solid brick wall.

Mark had changed.

The ringing silence of the hall was just the same as any night, to zero surprise, and he finally decided he was done staying awake out of spite, depriving himself of sleep just to feel some sort of break in the monotony. He sank down onto a metal cot bolted to the wall, the only thing between his creaking bones and the biting steel being a thick, cottony blanket and a lumpy pillow.

Admittedly, it was still the nicest bed he'd slept in for a good stretch of time.

Tucking the shiv under his pillow and lying on his side, he stared at the floor again, watching dust dance as his eyes grew heavy.

It was nothing but the silence and the pools of moonlight, nothing but his steady breathing and the faint glow beginning to emanate from—

from—

Shooting up in bed, suddenly painfully alert, Mark came eye-to-eye with the transparent face of somebody he hadn't expected, nor really wanted, to see ever again.

William froze, posture tense, staring forward at him like he wouldn't be spotted if he just remained still, even though he was quite literally glowing blue. 

His features were still youthful, wholly unchanged from when Mark had previously seen him twenty years ago, and he'd shown no other signs of aging when Mark stumbled upon him last. It was uncanny, in a sense, because he was the spitting image of a boy who used to spend hours on end at Mark's house in an older world, not a molecule out of place save for the extensive paleness of his skin now.

Upon recognizing what he saw, Mark lurched forward, fists curling round the bars of his cell tight enough to pop a blood vessel. He let out a straggling, terse breath, expression furious as he stared down wildly.

"Where is he?!" he hissed, just barely remembering to keep himself quiet so that no guards came running, "'Cause if I find out that any of ya hurt even a sorry fuckin' hair on his head—"

"D-Dakota? He's okay,"  William stuttered, wringing his hands. He was, very obviously, still that timid teenager Mark had known. "He's, uh, the one who... convinced us to come here?"

A long pause.

"Got any heroes with you?" Mark squinted.

William shook his head.

"Y'lying?"

"Come on, why would I lie about this? I'm not plotting a jailbreak for shits and giggles, man! Tide's already gonna kill me for this!"

Mark stared for another long moment, partially to scrutinize whether this was some sort of bait-and-switch, and partially just to make the boy squirm.

"That's what this is?" he scoffed. "'Jailbreak'?"

"Yeah. We're breaking you out. So a little cooperation wouldn't hurt here, Mr. Winters." 

The title slipped from William's mouth out of pure habit, and it made something scornful flare up in Mark, huffing out a short, mirthless laugh.

"Where's Dakota?" he deadpanned.

William stopped for a beat, before pointing up at the ceiling. "On the roof, with Vyncent, where I came in through. Phased through one of the windows.”

"Yeah, what's with this Casper bullshit, anyways?" Mark grunted.

"Long story. How does your cell door work?"

"Keycard. This is solitary confinement, 'm'in the second cell, pretty sure."

"Only three solitary cells in the building, I was able to verify that part. Worst case scenario, I grab all three." William glanced up and down the corridor, like he was trying to get a hint of which one this was. "Who's got the card, d'you know?"

"Whichever guards on duty, I'd think."

A long pause. Mark scratched his beard, wheels in his head beginning to turn at their proper rate again.

"D'kota plan this?"

William shook his head. "His idea, but I figured out the logistics of most of it. He's, uh, not as good with the layout of Rockfall and stuff, and neither is Vyncent, and, well, Dakota—"

"Kid's dumb as shit. I know." 

In evident surprise, William just nodded slowly, not really seeming to believe that, or at least thinking it was a bit of a harsh thing to say, but continued. "I'll go get the cards, just— stay here. Get anything you've got gathered."

Mark raised his eyebrows, jerking his head back slightly to refer to the cell behind him.

Wasn't shit to gather, and it was kind of obvious he wasn't going anywhere.

William shot him an awkward thumbs up, and began floating down the hall again, until—

"Hey."

He froze, whirling around like a deer in headlights.

"Know anything about how t'get this thing off?" Mark lightly clanked the power suppressor against one of the bars.

"Got a theory," William tried. "We'll figure that step out when we get there. Won't matter if you're still in that cell."

Mark couldn't help but agree and decided to stay silent, resigning himself to waiting for the boy to go get the keys or fail, careful not to get his hopes up.

He waited for him to disappear, but instead, William remained still for a long, quiet moment. His eyes examined Mark closely for a time before they drifted off towards the hallway, at where he was set to go next.

Twisting his fingers together nervously, he took a deep breath, opening his mouth, seeming stuck on what to say for a second.

"She—" William started, clearly fighting to keep his face level. "So she really didn't...?"

Upon realizing what he was asking, Mark's expression twisted into something foul, and he turned away from the barred wall.

His silence was a clear enough answer for the boy, who sat suspended in the slightest hint of disbelief until it sank in with a dejected "Oh."

With a faint sniffle, William seemed to compose himself again, and then a cold little breeze danced through the room, the shadowed floor before Mark catching the faint glow of the boy's powers before he twisted into an invisible form, disappearing beneath the night air.

Waiting for a few extra seconds until he was sure William was gone, Mark dragged his hands down his face, pacing a few aimless steps before sinking down onto the cot. He reached under the pillow, drawing out his shiv, and twisted it aimlessly between his fingers. His hands ached to move, to do something useful, but it seemed that this was simply gonna be a game of waiting for the time being.

---

"You suck at this!" Ashe laughed as flour spilled over the counter, a good chunk of it missing the measuring cup and coating Mark's forearm. 

"Yeah, yeah," he grunted, setting the cup down and reaching for the roll of paper towels. "You're the one throwin' eggshells all over the place." 

"It was one," she retorted, still wiping up shards of calcium from where she'd manage to practically explode an egg earlier, cracking it against the bowl too hard and sending yolk spewing everywhere. 

Mark raised his eyebrows in mock disapproval, using a hand to scoop the flour off the counter and throw it into the mixing bowl. 

"That's not sanitary," Ashe pointed out.

"It'll bake out," he shrugged. "Couple germs aren't g'nna kill ya, kid." 

"You don't know that."

"Probably still healthier than those energy drinks y'buy." 

Rolling her eyes, Ashe reached into the carton to grab another egg, having resigned herself to only cracking them into the bowl intermittently and doing little else, despite being the one to suggest they bake something in the first place. Easily, Mark had agreed when she brought it up, especially swayed by the fact he had been home so late on her birthday last night, but now he was doing essentially all the work. This was the fourth egg now, not counting the one still making a mess of the kitchen, and Mark looked up at her in confusion.

"Whole four eggs?" he asked. 

"We're not following a recipe," she argued. "I can add four eggs. What do you know about baking?"

"Jack shit, but I know I'm not made out of money." 

"Yeah, you're made of bones and stuff." She cracked the egg into the bowl, only leaving a tiny fleck of shell amidst the mixture this time, which she plucked out with two fingers.

"That's unsanitary," Mark parroted.

"It'll bake out."

He scoffed, pouring the flour that actually made it in the measuring cup into the bowl, reaching for the spatula. 

---

It didn't take more than five minutes or so for William to return with a small handful of keycards, back to a tangible form and very carefully rolling his footsteps as he trailed down the hall so as not to make noise. He fumbled with them for a few seconds as he faced Mark again, very pointedly avoiding eye contact.

"So, you were right, this is cell two, but I grabbed all three just in case to be safe, and also, like, maybe it'll throw them off a bit? I dunno?"

Mark's straight-faced glare in response made him wince, and he picked the original card out, guiding trembling hands towards a little pad on the opposite wall (likely intentionally out of reach so that it couldn't be broken from inside the cell).

"Could be a little kinder," he murmured. " First time breaking a guy out of jail, cut me a little slack here."

"Hurry up," Mark hissed. " Not g'nna be a jailbreak if we sit here talkin' all day."

William seemed to think of responding, but bit his tongue, shoulders hunched as he slid the keycard through. The cell door unlatched with a resounding click, which Mark held a hand over, silencing any echoes that rang through the metal.

He slipped between the opening in the bars, not pushing the door an inch further than he had to, quickly scanning the hall from left to right once he was out. The air was just as still as usual, but regardless, he paused, listening intently for any slight shift, any minute hint that a single step was out of place. 

After about ten seconds, he was satisfied, and glanced to the side at William expectantly. "What now?" 

"Now, we leave the building?" he wavered, like he wasn't entirely sure of the answer he'd given. "That’s the part I might’ve… forgotten t’tell you about. Vyncent and Dakota are on the roof to cause a distraction.” 

“So how am I leavin’?”

William winced, before sheepishly holding out the row of keycards.

“I’d say go for the courtyard, since it’s probably not going to be guarded this time of night?” 

Staring down at the stack of cards, Mark pressed his eyebrows together in confusion, making William shift his weight from foot to foot in evident worry. 

“I— um— the way that WATCH cards like this one work, is, like, it’ll grant you access to almost everything below its maximum level. I have my own, for general entry to WATCH buildings, so I sorta understand them. It’s not a very smart system for something like a jail block, but, well— Tide says we haven’t had many big criminals in the area ever since Rockfall Safe Zone was founded. Security like that was almost never a huge worry. You’re— like, y’know. An outlier.”

“A criminal?”

The boy sighed, grimacing up at him like he was begging not to have to answer that question. Mark scoffed, roughly grabbing the card used to open his cell, pocketing the other two just in case. 

“I’ll go send the signal. Head for the North end, ‘cause that’s where we’re gonna go camp out.”

Mark was about to harp on about how disorganized this plan was, and how there was an endless amount of flaws and holes to be poked through it, how they were lucky sons of bitches for even getting this far— how expecting him to break himself out with no powers and nothing to his name but a plastic shiv was frankly idiotic— but William's skin shifted into that strange blue color again, and he quickly jumped up, phasing through the ceiling before Mark could even get a clear thought spoken out.

A dull thud sounded against the building as William presumably landed atop the roof, and a series of nearly-imperceptible footsteps distantly tapped away towards Mark's right.

And then, he was left alone once more. 

If it weren’t for the fact that he was now outside of his cell, a moving, breathing figure among the swaths of dust, it would’ve seemed like nothing had even happened in the first place.

Dragging a hand over his face, curling the handle of the plastic shiv into the heel of his hand, Mark looked from left to right. Two doors lay at either end of the hall, both solid plates of steel with only a small square window to peer through. 

Whenever a guard entered to bring Mark food, they always entered through the right door, meaning that it likely was the one that led to the rest of the building— therefore, the left door was probably far more likely to lead out towards whatever courtyard William spoke of, though he’d never seen it before.

In fact, he was wholly unfamiliar with his environment. Maybe Mark needed to get arrested more often; he was clearly beginning to lose touch with the delicate process of breaking himself out.

Knowing there was little time to waste if this was truly how his night would go, he set off towards the left door with caution, body kicking back into its usual mechanical state as he reminded himself of the basics: task, location, sight, sound.

Sound was what he’d likely end up relying on, given the dark night and his complete blindness to the building’s layout.

Upon first waking up in this cell six days ago, he’d thought for a second that he’d ended up in the circular WATCH tower that dwarfed the rest of Rockfall, but given that this hall had windows on the ceiling, and the holding cells in the WATCH tower were basement level, that didn’t seem to be the case. 

They’d moved him to an entirely different building, likely a ruined prison from before the world’s end. It must have been repurposed for jailing people like him, in the short period of time before they got shipped out to a Supermax.

The change was throwing him off, but he supposed he understood the upgrade. He knew from personal experience that the basement cells in WATCH had security not even worth the compliment that “piss-poor” would be.

Maybe Rockfall really had gotten their asses together since the last time he’d stepped foot within the walls.

In all honesty, he still hadn’t been convinced yet.

The door on the far left end of the hallway opened to a large, square, balcony-like structure that formed a border round exactly what William had spoken of: a courtyard. It was simply a wide slab of yellowed grass beneath the moonlight, and the high walls around it clearly didn’t let in enough sunlight, given the sparse patches of still-melting snow from the earlier winter. A catwalk led across the top of it, connecting the three doors to solitary confinement with a row of doors that led to Christ-knew-what. 

With a click of his tongue, Mark noted that this placement likely meant that other solitary confinement inmates, if there ever were any, got time out in the courtyard. 

And they were keeping him locked up in that four-walled little box, the equivalent of a glass jar with holes poked in the top for air, twenty-four hours a day.

So much for being better than the villains. 

Shaking those thoughts off, Mark let his body slip fully back into “work mode”, sliding through the shadows of the courtyard’s border with ease, shiv still held at the ready on the off-chance anything was to go awry.

That was the thing though— upon reaching the end of this quarter of the balcony, Mark quickly realized there was nowhere else to go. The other two doors on this side of the yard led only to more solitary confinement cells, and he had no clue of the other doors across the catwalk, no wish to try them out. 

Cursing beneath his breath, he curled his fingers round the biting cold of the railing, trying to piece together his own escape route now that he was purely stranded.

He was able to determine from the moon’s placement in the sky that North was the same direction he’d just walked in, but that was really all that he could garner.

William had studied that damn map, and evidently forgotten to explain anything beyond “the courtyard”, and now Mark was simply standing out here, out of his cell with nowhere to go. If anything, this shoddy attempt at a jailbreak had only left him worse off. All it would take was an agent catching a single glimpse of his silhouette, and it'd be game over.

And the Overlord wondered why he was such a god-awful “team player”. 

Grumbling to himself for only a few more seconds, Mark kicked himself back into action. He started to piece together the logistics of climbing atop the thin railing, maybe hauling himself up onto the roof from there when—

CLANG.

The sudden jolt of sound cracked through the night like a whip, arriving from absolutely nowhere. It made his heart plummet for half a second, believing that it was some sort of trap or mechanism, or perhaps a malfunction in some sort of system, or a demonic invasion, or raiders, or any of the other thousand deadly threats Mark had to navigate in his day-to-day life.

But the sound echoed, traveling with a ring throughout the area, and Mark realized that it was almost certainly the "distraction"— a good few hundred feet away towards his left, likely far beyond the courtyard.

Meaning, it had come from the West end of the old prison.

He would never admit it to a soul on the decrepit planet he walked that it was actually a rather smart move to make.

Of course, the guards on the West quadrant were all going to be quickly alert to the situation, but with the heightened noise of the impact, agents would almost certainly rush in from the North and South ends as well. The East end would stay guarded, given that it was far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to reach any type of threat in time anyways, and, in the case of most distractions, it was typical for somebody to cause a problem on the exact opposite side of the enemy base they needed to be vulnerable. So the North and South were the best directions to move towards right now.

A move this intelligent certainly hadn’t come from Dakota. Mark knew that much. 

Hearing a distant thunder of footsteps begin to close in, he swore, realizing that he must have been closer to the West end than he thought. They must have been approaching the solitary confinement halls to use as a shortcut, cutting through the courtyard subsequently to reach the West as swiftly as possible.

Meaning Mark was fucked if he didn’t get his shit together and move in the next twenty or so seconds. 

Being no religious man, he huffed out some vague insult towards whatever lucky bastard would be the one to catch him tonight in lieu of a prayer.

Then, he took a few steps back and away from the North wall of the courtyard. 

The balcony railing turned at a sharp right corner that made for easier foot placement, but the balcony itself was a good six feet wide minimum. Meaning, Mark would have to not only jump a six foot gap, but he’d also be clearing a hefty vertical distance to reach the roof itself. 

With a thin, metal railing as a launchpad.

The things he was doing for that idiotic brat of a kid.

With no time to psyche himself out, Mark backstepped a few feet further to give himself a clear runway. He lined up the jump with a thousand thoughts racing through his head, fresh adrenaline coursing through his veins, muttering everything just short of a plea to some deity. 

The thundering chorus footsteps grew nearer and nearer— he only had a few seconds.

Quickly launching himself into action without a moment further of delay, he rushed forward, legs slamming against the ground.

His bones creaked in protest as he made a wobbly, half-baked jump onto the balcony railing, and his foot quickly left all solid ground after that as he took what advantage he could of the momentum he'd built.

For just a half-second, the briefest glimmer of time, he was weightless.

Then, the bottom of his ribcage slammed harshly against a freezing, metal edge, jarring the wind from his chest and making his body lock up, wanting to freeze and coil up in agony, catch its breath and recover from the shooting pain.

But, as Mark began falling, it quickly became clear that wasn’t an option.

Scrambling desperately to get a hold on the edge of the roof, he hooked an elbow up over his center of balance, then another, feeling a sharp, stabbing pain on the inside of his wrist. With a pained grunt, he pushed past it, exerting nearly all his strength as he swung his legs to one side, then the other, building enough force to throw one up over the edge. 

Nearly dry-heaving with the pure exertion it took, he finally hauled himself up and over the proverbial cliff.

He immediately rolled flat onto his back, collapsing with a groan, joints throbbing from the impromptu exercise. The moon swam above in his blurred vision, stars twinkling down on his disheveled form in a sense that felt near-mocking.

He was getting far too old for this fucking job.

A small swarm of guards came crashing through not even an instant later, probably missing Mark by less than a second. He coughed a few times as they hurried across the courtyard, reaching up to stifle the sound with the back of his hand.

There was no way in hell he’d get caught now, not after risking a good twenty feet's fall backwards with such a precarious jump.

As he raised his arm, he felt something wet coating the inside of it, felt it seep into the fabric of his sleeve. With a groan, he examined what he'd managed to fuck up this time.

Thick, red blood was flowing from a wound he’d managed to carve into his inner right forearm with the plastic shiv, having entirely forgotten its placement in his hand as he’d clambered up the roof. The blade had gotten stuck beneath the power suppressor, with nowhere else to go but through his skin.

The wound looked sickeningly familiar to one he'd seen before.

Cursing once more, he threw his other hand over his forehead, rubbing at his temples.

He’d never been part of a more poorly-organized jailbreak plan in his life. 

---

“MARK!”

It turned out, thankfully, that bruising the shit out of his ribs and damn near cutting his arm in half had been the most difficult part of the entire scheme. Everything else had passed by with relative ease, no different from the hundreds of other stealth missions Mark had executed.

Scaling his way down to the ground, he'd cut through a few rows of buildings until quickly finding the group of three tucked into the alleyway behind some sort of pizza joint. They were crouched and huddled together like a litter of kittens, likely trying to preserve heat against the cold night air, but the instant that Dakota had caught sight of Mark, he'd barreled forward without a thought in the world.

His face was a little cleaner, and nearly all of his usual scratches and bruises entirely gone, given the week of being within walls and his already-accelerated healing from his powers. His shout echoed out rather sharply, and Mark grimaced, but shrugged it off, figuring they'd be fine as long as they moved quickly.

Dakota’s expression sat suspended between a disbelieving smile and a hint of something sad, and Mark took it in, checking once again for injuries from where he stood before his eyes scanned over the distant Rockfall borders overhead, and he tried to figure out the best plan of action to take now that—

A red blur crashed into him, and Mark nearly found himself careening back and onto his ass as Dakota wrapped his arms around his torso, squeezing tight enough to squeeze the oxygen from his sore lungs.

Mark’s body froze, muscles tensing into stone as the kid hugged him, arms hanging uselessly at his sides as he stared down in utter perplexion and shock.

The gesture was so foreign that he nearly thought he was being attacked for a second, and when he realized he wasn’t, only further confusion crowded his mind. 

“You fuckin’ asshole!" Dakota cried. “I hate you!” 

Unable to do anything but just watch the kid in an utterly dumbfounded state, almost as if he were viewing his life distantly through a television screen, Mark took a second to coax his body out of fight or flight, force his mind to clear. He could notice the way William and Vyncent were staring at the two of them as Dakota rattled off insults to Mark beneath his breath, and it wasn’t difficult to catch the hint of a question in William’s eye. 

After a hopeless attempt of processing the embrace, he robotically moved a hand to rest on Dakota's upper back, uncertainty plaguing the move as he only barely tapped the back of his flannel. The kid practically melted into the touch, and Mark tried ever further to decipher why, to understand the meaning of this.

Dakota hated Mark.

Mark hated Dakota.

Their entire mission so far had been built on a fragile tolerance of each other.

But now, Dakota was here, and he was clinging onto Mark like a lifeline, and Mark was left to wonder just how far out that lifeline stretched— which one of them truly was the anchor.

After a few more seconds, Dakota stepped back, and his gaze hardened into something more like the not-quite-scowl he was used to getting from the kid. This time, it was flared with a little more determination as he turned back to the other two boys, who had both been awkwardly avoiding staring throughout the entire exchange.

"You guys sure y'wanna do this?" Dakota asked. "You've done a shit ton already. If this is all y'wanna do, it's cool."

William looked towards the boy next to him, Vyncent— the one with copper skin and purple hair twisted back into a braid. They had a silent conversation of sorts, exchanging looks and seeming to reach a consensus rather quickly.

"We've already agreed, haven't we?" Vyncent shrugged. "I'm in."

William seemed to be more hesitant, poignantly avoiding meeting Mark's eye as he responded to Dakota. "Me, too."

Forehead crinkling with curiosity, Mark frowned at Dakota. "What's goin' on?"

The kid looked up at him, with that same fire in his eyes that'd refused to extinguish the entire time they'd been out on the road, despite the trouble it got them into. He set his jaw before grinning, jerking his head in the direction of the two boys.

"They're comin' with us! They're gonna help us get to Harttawa."

A pause, and then— 

"We're saving the world, Mark. Together, now."

---

Mark knew he was a smart bastard for stashing that extra cache of items out past the Eastern border of Rockfall. Granted, it had been a rather great pain in the ass to not only steal and hotwire a car, get all three teenagers piled into it, and get it through the gates without raising any hairs, but it'd worked, miraculously, and they were back on the road again.

With significantly fewer supplies, and extra mouths to feed, extra asses to cover for.

But they were back on the road— about halfway to Harttawa from New Haven, if the route Mark had been following was right.

Nearly everything they'd had before the stop in Rockfall was confiscated— the car, everything stowed inside the trunk, his backpack, even his coat. William had managed to phase into the holding cell and smuggle out the backpack and coat, but apparently the boy couldn't find the keys and had no clue how the SUV model worked, despite the thing having only been manufactured in the last ten years or so, a vehicle originally stolen from WATCH by the Overlord's people.

Mark had settled for stealing a shitty sedan from the entrance lot at the East gate, hit with an odd wave of Déjà vu as he carefully navigated through the rows of newly-entered peoples' cars.

The place looked different in the dark, a little more menacing. It reminded him of an older Rockfall he'd once known, one with chaos wrought upon it, all from a culmination of problems on the inside. An apple that had eaten itself from the core out, forced to restart from near-rubble and build itself back up into what it was now, all whilst maintaining their picture-perfect image to the public.

Brushing aside old grievances for the moment, he'd scoffed at himself, stolen the vehicle, and they'd set back out on the road.

Vyncent had managed to get Mark's power suppressor off by sparking a small flame between his fingertips (because, apparently, he could just do that; it was such a negligible and casual act on his behalf that it left Mark wondering what the extent of his powers really were), and melting the metal cuff off. Supposedly, he'd been given a certain custom model that was reinforced against multiple things: blunt force, sharp objects, and even electricity, but fire hadn't been as much of a concern, not when Mark was meant to be stuck in a cold, empty cell with nothing to strike flame on.

The process of burning the thing off had been rather painful, especially given the still-fresh wound beneath the cuff, but he moved past it with relative ease, simply just glad to have his powers back. Even if it was difficult to use them without the presence of his gear, they were a constant fail-safe, something just the same as the comforting weight of a shotgun in his hands. 

Having grabbed the stash and navigated in a wide berth around the border of Rockfall, taking a liberal amount of detours for safety's sake, Mark finally pulled the car back onto the proper road towards Harttawa about an hour later. A small, digital clock on the dashboard read 2:19 AM in flashing green as he flicked on the windshield wipers, fighting against a fresh downpour that was tapping against the windshield.

William and Vyncent had decided to huddle together in the backseat, both of them passing out long ago. They were curled up and leaned against each other in the cramped space, their own backpacks shoved behind their headrests to make room for their legs. Every once in a while, their snores would travel up towards the front seat of the car, and Mark would be reminded of their presence with a slight start.

He knew he was going to be annoyed in due time, pissed off that they were a further responsibility he would have to shoulder, but for now, he could hardly bring himself to think about the extra weight now being dragged.

Instead, his thoughts kept spinning round the same few repetitive questions, the same few internal conflicts that nagged at the base of his skull, tapping on his temples and plaguing his every thought as he tried to navigate the road before them.

Dakota was dead silent in the passenger seat next to him, backpack on his lap, but he was still awake, staring ahead at the road, clearly in some sort of deep thought, too. He hadn't spoken since Mark's power suppressor had been removed, and he'd exclaimed in evident worry upon seeing the wound on the inside of his arm, insisting that he wrap it. He'd been, in all honesty, rather shit at it, so Mark simply cleaned and dressed the gash himself as Dakota watched, seemingly indecisive on whether to glare at Mark or look up at him like a kicked puppy. 

Now, they'd been sitting together in the quiet for the last hour or more. Even when the rain came, singing rhythmic patterns that seemed to call with sleep, Dakota had stayed awake. It nearly seemed as though he was trying to form a coherent idea in that hollow brain of his, which was the most surprising thing of all this evening (morning?).

Frowning as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, Mark opened his mouth to say something, to break the wordless atmosphere.

Instead, though, Dakota cut him off before he could even start.

"I know."

Mark's eyebrows shot up slightly, and though he kept his eyes on the road, he slightly turned his head in the kid's direction to show that he was listening this time.

"I ran off. Shouldn't've. S'my fault this all happened."

The confession came quietly, with a voice that seemed too small for someone like Dakota.

Mark thought of responding with something, of negating the blame, maybe, or shifting it towards himself, saying something actually kind for once. Something that didn't provoke anger and resentment, something that didn't break spirits and charge them both with hatred.

"You're an asshole. But I fucked shit up. Broke the rules. I wasn't bein' a hero."

That got him to respond, voice scratchy from disuse. "You're a child."

“But m’gonna be a hero.”

Dakota’s tone was charged with some sort of emotion, but it was the calmest Mark has ever heard it, barely above a mumble. He wasn’t quite arguing with him this time, wasn’t shouting insults like the belligerent kid he was.

Mark rubbed at his beard, quiet for a while as he navigated the car round a bend.

”For a sec,” he started, a little unsure of where he was going. “Got worried about’ya. Thought you’d gone off, left Rockfall alone. Tryin’ to get to Harttawa by yourself, gettin’ yourself killed.”

With a small nod, Dakota fidgeted with the headphone wire between his fingers, staring down at his lap. Neither of them spoke again for another lapse of time, and the silence between them was just short of comfortable. 

“Don’t know where m’going,” Dakota admitted. 

Mark huffed slightly. “Damn right you don’t. Got lost in a two-lane parking lot.” 

Strangely enough, the kid winced the smallest bit at that, and Mark wondered if it had something to do with that thing, that demon he said he’d seen. It wasn’t easy to tell whether that’d actually been a demon, or just his imagination playing tricks, because if it had been a demon, then surely Rockfall would’ve felt some sort of damage from it breaching its walls. Although, he knew some of them operated in strange, incomprehensible ways.

Especially—

“It’ll work, right?” 

Mark finally broke his focus on the road for just a second, glancing over at Dakota’s slouched form in the seat next to him. He was avoiding eye contact as he asked the question, but it was clear he was watching from his periphery for any hint of doubt in Mark.

“What’ll work?”

”The cure.”

Sighing, Mark opened his mouth, trying to find a few things to say before simply closing it, considering for a good few seconds. 

“Think it’s a little too late to be askin’ that now, kid.”

Seeming to take that answer with a lot more sincerity than Mark expected him to, Dakota curled his legs up to his chest, getting more comfortable in the seat. It was evident he’d grown drowsy, given the late hour and the stress from earlier (apparently, he and Vyncent had taken to pushing an office chair from the roof of the old prison, using it as a domino of sorts as they dropped it on top of a row of old palettes, creating a thunderous noise that’d woken up people for a few blocks around). 

Mark was exhausted, too, but he perpetually fought it off, not yet wanting to stop the car. 

“I’m doing the right thing?” Dakota tried to state, but the waver in his tone made it sound like a question more than anything.

That was certainly a harder dilemma to work through, a harder answer to give— Mark considered not giving one, resigning himself back to that stunted silence, pulling the walls back up and reverting to the stranger Dakota first met, the stranger he had been to himself.

”Shit’s for the ‘greater good’, whatever they say.”

”Even if we’re hurting people? Stealing? Lying to heroes?” 

A pause.

”I’m not a villain, right?” 

Mark snorted, before his expression grew serious again, and he looked back over at Dakota with a more sober gaze. 

“Kid, you’re too fuckin’ up your own ass about savin’ the world to be anything like me. I don’t think you’ve gotta worry about that.” 

“But are you even a villain?”

“That’s what you’ve been screamin’ at me this entire time.” 

The kid groaned slightly, pressing his forehead to his knees as though the discussion was hurting his brain— he was trying too hard to wrap his mind around the entire “moral dilemma” of their situation, understand it intricately, figure out the whys and the hows. Mark had been like that once, for only a short time after the fall of the world, but then he’d gotten further involved with his job, numbing himself to the outside world as he carried out menial tasks for two decades straight. 

“Well— like— you are a villain, and once we save the world, you’re totally going back to jail and shit. Or making up for your crimes somehow.” Dakota scrunched his face up in utter confusion. “But are y’gonna be a villain after that?”

Mark didn’t answer that question. He didn’t have an answer. At least, not one that would satisfy Dakota or make sense to him. 

In all truth, Mark had figured long ago that he was long-gone, and hadn’t really cared. And he was sure now that he didn’t care either, but the combination of his fatigue and Dakota’s onslaught of questions was letting a small root of doubt grow round his heart. 

In lieu of responding, he drove for about a quarter-mile more before maneuvering the car to the right and off the side of the road, parking in a dark alcove between two trees and switching the car into park.

”Are we stopping?” muttered Dakota.

Mark shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Somethin’ wrong?”

”No, no,” Mark whispered. 

He sat there for a long, long moment, contemplating something absolutely idiotic.

Something he would’ve thought unthinkable, deadly, only a few weeks ago.

Something that likely still very much was. 

When Dakota had disappeared in Rockfall, straying beyond Mark's reach, disappearing from eyesight and earshot, Mark had realized, with a dull horror, that the kid truly had nothing to his name, nothing he could use to protect himself. He had his will and his fists, a grating voice and a refusal to cave, but that could only get him so far— could only land him in insanely lucky circumstances so many times.

"Y'gotta be able to defend yourself out there," he murmured, staring straight ahead at the inky black night before them. The only light in the car came from the little clock on the dashboard and the faint illumination from the speedometer, making it hard to even see two feet in front of him. "If— if shit goes down again, and I'm not close by..."

Despite the darkness, he could practically see the way Dakota blinked in confusion before answering, "What, y'gonna give me a gun or something?"

Mark choked out something just short of a laugh. "Jesus fuckin'— no. No fuckin' way. You're not smart enough to actually use it on somebody. 'Least, not on purpose. You'd probably be an idiot, pop my arm off on accident."

"Well, what is it then?"

The question hung in the air for a short little eternity, suspended in disposition as Mark still went back and forth, even in this moment, on whether or not he was going to answer it. He rubbed at his forearm, at the still-slowly bleeding gash beneath the swath of bandages, grimacing slightly at the sting of pain that shot up his arm.

"If I do this," he instructed Dakota, "You've gotta promise not to be an ass. Not t'run off, not t'get yourself killed. Get me killed. Get anyone else killed, unless it's in self defense. You've gotta swear like your whole entire life fuckin' depends on it. 'Cause it very much could some day."

Opening his mouth like he was gonna answer, Dakota started with a sort of confidence, some sort of easy reply about of course he was gonna behave, and no, he wasn't gonna kill somebody because he wasn't a fuckin' villain.

But then, the realization seemed to sink in, stabbing through his skin, down and down until it reached his heart, weighing at his shoulders with the shock for a second as he snapped his head over in Mark's direction.

"Are you fuckin'—"

Reaching up, Mark flicked on the overhead light, bathing the inside of the car in a yellow-orange glow.

He glared at Dakota, or at least tried to— the permanent scowl on his face still remained, but it was rather toilsome to push a further venom into it this time, to face the kid with a withering hatred. How long had he gone without sleep, now?

Turning away slightly to conceal the way his eyes softened, Mark rubbed at his temples.

"Oh," Dakota whispered.

"If I take that suppressor off, you can't go off doin' dumb shit. Just 'cause you've got powers don't mean you're immune to bein' killed by other people. Y'can't get too confident and run into danger."

For the first time, possibly ever, Dakota was shocked into silence, and not because Mark had shouted at him. Not because he'd been discouraged and screamed at, not because some great misery had befallen them and slowed their journey down. Not because Mark had come in with a gut punch and brought up something fragile, tugging at whatever broken pieces of Dakota's past he could piece together, dislodging them further and dredging up the pain to quiet him down.

"M'sorry," Dakota breathed. "For asking you about— about that name."

That name.

Ashe.

The boy flinched back slightly, as though he were expecting Mark to flare up again at the mere mention of it, the simple thought of her. And, frankly, a part of him truly wanted to— a piece of Mark, a loud majority of his better mind, wanted to shut the conversation down, keep moving, hurry on to Harttawa as fast as possible and get rid of the nuisance in the passenger seat.

Yet, a smaller, more foolish part of him had been drawn out by the late hour and the events of before.

"I shouldn't've brought it up. Whatever shit they've got on ya. S'not my business."

It wasn't a "sorry". Not quite. It couldn't be, it just couldn't, he couldn't bring himself to utter the word, to fully admit it to himself and to Dakota.

But he was accepting that he was wrong. It was enough, because he wasn't sure what he'd do if it wasn't.

The not-quite-apology lingered in the air with Dakota's honest one. For another uncertain period of time, it just laid there, open and bare like a hand of cards spread flat on a table, a moment of vulnerability so near-true that it nearly made Mark physically recoil.

Dakota stared down at his wrist the entire time, at the thin little suppressor encircling it, a tiny silver bracelet that had dictated much of their journey up to this point.

“You know the code, right?” he asked distantly.

Mark raised his eyebrows, expression flat. “No, must’ve forgotten it when Water-Boy cracked me on the head.” 

Dakota’s expression surged with horror. “Seriously?!”

“No, kid. I’m fuckin’ with you. ‘Course I know it.” 

His shoulders sank, and he let out a heavier sigh of relief than Mark thought he would’ve. 

“Oh,” Dakota gazed at the bracelet for a second, before glaring back up at him. “Asshole.” 

“I was jokin’ around.”

“It wasn’t funny!” he protested, very obviously fighting down a slight smile.

“Yeah, fuck off,” Mark held a hand out over the center console, beckoning for Dakota to hold his out as well. “C’mon, we don’t have all night.”

Dakota stared up at him for a long, tense moment, as if he expected the whole thing to be a trap, for Mark to slap his hand away the second he offered it, bark with laughter at him believing in something so stupid to begin with. 

It made him frown, and he shoved down the bitter hint of regret that crept up around his ribcage. 

Slowly, cautiously placing his right hand forward, Dakota turned his palm to the sky, revealing the contraption.

It was far smaller than the suppressor Mark had been given, maybe only a centimeter or two thick. It was mostly just smooth metal, but it seemed to actually bend at two hinges round the sides, which worked as part of a snapping open-and-close mechanism. In small, even intervals round the circumference, little numbers were inscribed out, forming the buttons to press, the buttons responsible for inputting the code and releasing the suppressor.

The inner-wrist part of the suppressor seemed to end with a little gap, not quite completing a full circle. Instead, where the most prominent veins were beneath Dakota's skin, two minuscule needles were firmly stuck into them from each end, creating four little prongs that not only kept the suppressor in place, but likely delivered some form of substance, something responsible for keeping Dakota's powers at bay, trapped inside his skin by the smallest, most weightless of shackles.

With a grimace, Mark recalled the way Dakota had tried to break the suppressor against the unyielding garage door at the start of their journey. He'd thrown his wrist and the sharp little pieces of metal within it at the wall, certainly aware of how badly it would hurt, how dangerous it was to do so.

He'd been that desperate to get away from Mark.

The little wounds round the once-broken skin were practically invisible now, the flesh-deep injury having healed quickly— though he acknowledged, with shame, that it still seemed to sting as Dakota looked down at it with glassy eyes.

Gentler than he'd ever been before, Mark cautiously reached out, scooping Dakota's wrist up with one hand, rotating it to get a good look at the buttons scattered round. The thing was too small for an actual keypad, so the numbers one through five, as well as a button that read "DEL", were lined up on the left side of a little screen that, presumably, displayed the input, and on the right side were the numbers six through zero, the sequence completed by a button labeled "ENT".

Taking in a long, full breath, Mark avoided Dakota's poignant gaze and gingerly typed in the code:

4143

The mechanism popped open with a little click, and he carefully guided the needles away from the kid's skin— Dakota cooperated easily, keeping his wrist as still as he could, seeming a little detached as he watched the device that'd haunted and restrained him for so long removed in the simple blink of an eye, lifetimes' worth of anguish unfastened so clinically, so easily.

Mark held the thing between two fingers, squinting at it with a morbid sort of curiosity.

It was so tiny, so intricate and so detailed, so ornately constructed to keep Dakota at bay, and they'd given him the code. They'd trusted him to only use it in the case of absolute emergency, in a situation that would truly save their lives.

And, though it was certainly going to aid in their survival, Mark silently mused to himself that it was likely far more beneficial to their living.

As he lowered his arm, Dakota reached for the suppressor, taking it in his own hand now, looking down at it with an unreadable expression. He rested his now-free wrist on the center console, which he was still leaning on, rotating the bracelet slowly between his fingers.

His forehead pressed against Mark's shoulder as he sank some of his weight into the man, pensive as he watched the overhead light glimmering off the steel.

Somehow, this time, Mark didn't pull away, nor shove Dakota off.

Together they sat in the contemplative silence, having spoken a thousand conversations despite not uttering a single word.

---

EXIT REPORT

ROCKFALL SAFE ZONE

/ 06:15 / 12APR2167 /

- - -

AGENT: LAMBERT_03_VERSION:TIDE

PROJECTED LENGTH OF DEPARTURE: UNSPECIFIED

REASON FOR DEPARTURE: RETRIEVAL MISSION

DEPARTURE GROUP: SOLO/INDIVIDUAL (LBT03VTIDE)

AUXILIARY INFO: TAKING ONE OF THE VEHICLES FROM STORAGE CONTAINER D3, COLUMN 8. WISP_W AND SOL_V MISSING, PRESUMABLY TAKEN BY ESCAPED PRISONER WAVELENGTH. ALL THREE, PLUS DAKOTA (NEW ARRIVAL 3APR2177) TO BE RETURNED ALIVE AND SAFE. DO NOT FOLLOW OR SEND REINFORCEMENTS UNLESS OTHERWISE SPECIFIED, OR DISTRESS SIGNAL IS RECEIVED. STEALTH IS OF THE ESSENCE.

- - -

Chapter Text

“S’probably broken. Hairline, at least, so that’s good. Heals quickly.”

Xavier stretched a tight length of bandage over the palm of his left hand, pushing back a grimace as he pulled it over his bruised knuckles. Turned out that being resistant to skin-deep damage only made the actual injuries he suffered seem to hurt more. 

Glancing back up when he got no reply, he stared over at Jade’s still form, leaned up against a tree with her hands buried in the pockets of her trench coat. A few loose strands of hair floated delicately in the wind, but she was undisturbed by it, instead only staring down at the ground with a pensive expression.

The body of this demon had been newer— probably only at the few days’ mark, from what Xavier could determine. When they took it down, it hadn’t yet passed the threshold where possessed stopped resembling humans. It continually screeched and screamed out half-formed words, almost like it was trying to tell them something as it scratched for their throats, teeth bared with vicious intent.

Xavier had nearly taken it down earlier with a well-placed strike to the side with his blade, but then a desperate lunge from the thing, although lopsided, had knocked him to the forest floor. His katana flew from his grasp, and if Jade hadn’t kicked it over onto its back, he near-certainly would’ve still laid there; dead, or worse.

The mixture of desperation and adrenaline (something he, admittedly, was rather addicted to) led him to repeatedly slamming his fist into the possessed’s face once obtaining the upper hand, with little regard for the strain he’d been putting on his own body.

Jade was the one to slide a dagger through its temple after it stopped moving— a precaution, to make sure the thing was truly dead. Most people only made the mistake of not double-checking once, but once was more than enough to end up dead.

At her prolonged silence, Xavier hauled himself to his feet and stalked over, eyebrows raised at the aftermath of the fight. This one had gotten particularly fucked up, which he let a low whistle out at.

“Think that’s my best one yet. ‘Least, with no weapon, it is.” He nudged the dead demon’s head to the side with his foot, examining the damage. “Couldn’t get away with this shit back in Freedom”.

A further absence of response was the only thing Jade provided. 

Looking over at her, he saw that she was staring down at the body the same way he was, but there was a conflict in her expression, a furrow to her brow. 

Following her gaze more concisely, Xavier found her to be thoughtfully scowling at a chain round the demon’s neck, made of cheap, rusted silver. Hanging from it was a heart-shaped locket, which had busted open in the commotion to reveal the photo of yet another stranger, worn from time but still fairly intact. It wasn’t too difficult to make out the smiling features of some girl’s face, wholly unknown and lost to time.

Bumping his shoulder against Jade’s, Xavier smiled in an attempt at being comforting— given his habit of speaking too clinically, too casually, he wasn’t great at it, but maybe it was the thought that counted.

“Y’know, I’m sure she’s fine,” he muttered.

That broke Jade from her fugue, and she wrinkled her nose up, glaring at him.

“M’not worried about her. I don’t care,” she snapped. “Doesn’t matter. S’just some random girl.”

“Right,” Xavier clicked his tongue absentmindedly.

He hadn’t been talking about the girl in the locket, and he was sure that Jade knew it, too. 

They stood together in silence over the marred body. It was almost like a funeral of sorts, hosting a silent acknowledgement of whoever the demon could’ve been before it was possessed, before it transformed into a monster and tried to kill them. 

“Do you…” Jade started, before shaking her head and scoffing with no mirth, like she knew she was asking a stupid question, “Do you think it’s still them in there? When you turn? Like, is it still you or some shit?”

Xavier frowned.

“I mean, maybe,” he shrugged. “I kinda hope not, y’know? ‘Cause, like, it’d be really fucked up if we’ve just been beating sentient people up all this time. I couldn’t imagine doing that to somebody.” His tone took on a lilt of humor near the end, and Jade rolled her eyes with a snort.

“Okay,” she replied. “For the record, you’ve kicked way more asses than me.”

“Only cause I’ve had more time. You’ll get there eventually.”

“Man, what a brilliant life prospect.”

Crouching down to search the pockets of the dead stranger, Jade pulled out a few items— only taking a small knife and a lighter, deeming the rest of what they had on their person to be junk. 

“C’mon,” she said as she dropped them into her own pockets, tossing the rest of the now-nobody’s belongings to the earth. “I don’t know why we’ve been seeing more of them lately, but I don’t wanna stick around to find out.”

Nodding, Xavier held out an arm in a sarcastic manner, as though escorting Jade somewhere. She simply rolled her eyes again and trudged ahead, taking the front of their two-man party while Xavier made up the back. 

He rubbed his injured hand with a grimace before following, with the perfectly practiced distance of a few paces behind; close enough to hear each other, but far enough apart that any traps or attacks couldn’t take them both out at once. 

---

The fourth figure near the road today stood at a bent, painful-looking angle, its creaking frame of bones protruding from a sallow stretch of rotting skin and ragged old clothing. Though Mark had only a few seconds to look at their expression, it was that same hollow, lifeless one he’d seen from other possessed, and their eyes were entirely gone– having decomposed long ago.

Given such an appearance, that placed it around the five to ten year mark. The other ones he’d seen today had been at various stages of post-possession, but none of them looked truly… alive?

Mark never thought too hard about it all before, about the different “types” of demons, never cared about telling the difference between them if it wasn't just about determining how dangerous they were. He knew the discrepancies, knew how to tell a newer victim from a decade-old one; understood when they were important to sneak by and when it was better to drive a knife through their skull.

But, if Dakota’s abilities weren’t a fluke, then they could be freed– the demon could be removed from the body.

If that was the case, what would happen if Dakota tried to save a possessed like the one the car had just blown by? Surely there was some kind of turning point, some sort of catalyst where they were beyond saving. Would a body like that even hold out? Did the original person remain? Was it cruel to try to restore them after a certain amount of time?

Scoffing, Mark realized he’d begun to sound like one of those pretentious philosophy students once scattered round New Haven in the old world. The questions he was asking himself were too existential, too heavy. That sort of shit was best left to the scientists; and, anyways, the whole operation probably wasn’t about freeing the people already possessed, despite what they’d told him. It more likely was gonna be about preserving what little was left, maintaining society and rebuilding. The foolish hope in something like that. No matter what, it wasn’t his problem, not in the slightest.

A single question remained, though, one likely more relevant to their current situation–

How much could Dakota’s body take? How many people could he free, until it started to take a toll on him?

What if it already had? What if there was some kind of capacity?

What even happened when he freed people?

Twenty years ago, Mark had stood at the epicenter of the end of the world, watching everything he’d known unravel before his eyes. Being at ground zero, he’d watched the crowds of panicked people fall in swaths, bodies going limp before reanimating, nothing like themselves anymore.

From what he’d observed back in the desert town where Dakota freed that girl, the crackling spirit that swarmed Dakota had acted the exact same way as all the other malicious glowing sprites of energy. The demon had shot through him, and the kid had careened towards the earth, and Mark had swiftly been convinced, purely out of instinct and habit, that their journey was over.

But Dakota had gotten back up, and Mark still wasn’t sure if it was for better or for worse.

Saving the world was some noble objective, he understood that, and he’d obviously never wish death on Dakota, a nuisance as he was.

Even so, ever since he’d stood back up, spreading his arms wide in defiance to prove to Mark that he was alive, that his bullshit worked, Mark hadn’t known peace.

His mind had been just short of running haywire for so long, and though he’d reached a breaking point of sorts earlier, he still knew that frayed nerves were constantly running beneath his skin; knew that he hadn’t yet processed any of it fully.

He’d been lost, so lost, for years; working like a blind man, zoning out everything else in pursuit of just survival and work. And now, it was like something inside him was waking up, rearing its ugly head and demanding to be acknowledged.

He shoved it down each time, but that didn’t stop his knuckles from being white on the steering wheel, didn’t stop the way he grew plagued by traitorous thoughts during any moment of silence. 

Dakota hadn’t seen any of the possessed on or near the road today– most of them had been emerging from the treeline, muddled colors and faded skin blending in with the surrounding foliage. If Dakota wasn’t asleep, napping on and off, he wasn’t paying attention; wasn’t practiced enough to spot them. Mark’s eyes were trained to catch any hint of movement, though, and he’d seen them, seen them all, and never mentioned a single one as they drove past.

Regardless of the whole scientific issue about when the person inside was still salvageable, Mark knew the process of freeing a demon was a bloody one, a dangerous one. That girl from the town, although seemingly powerless, had still nearly ripped Dakota’s head off. And though he had his abilities back now, something protective surged up in Mark at the thought of the kid going after one of those creatures again. 

What if they’d he’d just gotten lucky the first couple of times? 

What if any more would tear Dakota’s body apart before they even got to Harttawa?

Mark’s largest concern at the minute was why they were seeing so many possessed all of a sudden. He’d only been this far out from New Haven a few times, but he’d never seen this many of them, not when out in the middle of nowhere like this. He knew they were coming up on Freedom City’s safe zone, would probably reach it in the next couple of hours, but surely the stragglers from there would still be more few and far between.

Compulsively, he found himself pressing harder and harder on the gas, pushing the car to higher speeds. It couldn’t have been good for their gas mileage, but he was, admittedly, eager to make it to Freedom City. Being a similar size to New Haven and constantly facing a myriad of similar problems, their security was far more lax on the individual level, which would mean keeping a better eye on Dakota (and the other two, he acknowledged with a heavy frown). It’d mean nobody else would run off or disappear, and he’d likely be able to find supplies for much cheaper, too– underground markets were not kind with their prices in Rockfall, given how difficult they were to keep hidden and running.

Over the last two days since Mark had escaped, they’d bummed out on fuel three times, and had needed to walk miles out towards nearby interstates or overpasses to siphon it from abandoned vehicles. This time, Mark was slightly more prepared, eyeing the road signs, keeping tabs on how far out they were from the freeway. He wanted to avoid it if possible, knowing it was best to steer clear of anything remotely dangerous or out in the open, but that wasn’t always an option.

Dakota sat curled up in the passenger seat, face buried in a comic book he must’ve found back in Rockfall. Mark vaguely recognized the edition, something ever-so-slightly from the Resurgence of heroes, an event that’d happened when he was just a kid, maybe a few years older than Dakota.

Now free of that silver bracelet, Dakota was using any excuse that arose to show off his powers, doing pointless things whenever they stopped such as lighting old car frames and running circles round the group in a small perimeter, still mindful of staying within Mark’s sight. It was a sudden night-and-day difference, watching his energy skyrocket and the sheer intensity of his personality increase at an exponential rate. The Dakota he’d known before had almost been like a muted, toned-down version of the boy next to him in the passenger seat now.

And yet, that defiant flare had also died out by a decent amount. 

It was strange; the instant that the cuff had been removed, Dakota practically deflated, going silent for the next few hours, stuck staring down at the power suppressor with a soft expression and slumped shoulders. He’d passed out soon after, which was understandable given the physical and emotional strain that night, but he’d woken up the brightest Mark had ever seen him. It almost made Mark want to be more rueful, more bitter, just to balance things out again.

The kid had also been on a constant up, gaining more momentum with each passing day. Given the construction of the suppressor and the fact that Dakota’s powers supposedly weren’t innate, Mark supposed that the entire thing had something to do with his blood. To subdue his powers, something must have been injected through his system, and was gradually making its way out.

Meaning, the full extent of his powers were still yet to be seen by Mark.

And, it seemed, Dakota had forgotten their true magnitude, too. With the way he acted, enthralled and nearly surprised by his own actions, it seemed as though he wasn’t very familiar with his abilities, either.

How recently had the kid’s life been turned upside down like this?

Adjusting to having two new people on the road with them had been less than easy. Given that nearly everything he’d gathered before Rockfall was gone, things such as finding food and water again quickly became an issue. The prospect of survival was never a complicated one in the past, but that had been when Mark was traveling solo, only needing to cover his own ass, knowing his body’s limits and how far he could take it. Now, he was not only scavenging for himself, but also stuck with three children at his feet while at it. 

William and Vyncent weren’t exactly dead weight– Vyncent was determined enough, and evidently had some combat experience, though slightly strange. With the way he acted, Mark half-suspected he could give the boy any weapon and he’d bear it like a sword, adapting the pose of a soldier from an old fantasy novel. Still, he was resourceful, and, strangely enough, proved to be the least troublesome of the bunch. He knew when to be quiet and seemed fine with hunting for his own food, even if his choices were utterly asinine. When they’d gathered a small assortment of cans from abandoned cars on the highway, stocked with what little people had packed when escaping the cities twenty years ago, Vyncent had taken a few bites of the food before passing it to William and Dakota, choosing instead to go out and hunt rats, of all game. How, where, and why he caught them was a complete mystery to Mark, but if it truly was his choice, he didn’t bother to question it.

Mark had exchanged as little conversation with William as possible. It was simply best for the both of them that way.

William clung most strongly to Vyncent, but he’d evidently built a friendship with Dakota, too. Why Dakota had gotten so close to the boys, Mark couldn’t imagine. They’d likely be splitting up after Harttawa, anyways, since Dakota seemed eager to return to New Haven and the other two had lives set up in Rockfall as heroes.

Well– maybe they did. Come to think of it, aiding someone like Mark in completing a mission for the Overlord might have ended up being a forfeit of their heroic futures. They were doing it for what they perceived to be a greater good, but Mark knew he had a… reputation in Rockfall, to put it lightly.

The strangest thing about William, other than the ghost-superpowers and the still being sixteen and the evident lack of understanding for the way the world was now– was how damn spacey the boy was. 

He would often stare off into nothing, drifting behind the group by several paces. He whispered things to himself as though he were having an argument, and consistently stared at Mark and the others when he thought they weren’t looking. His expression was always conflicted, and his behavior strange, but his powers had admittedly come in clutch a few times for reaching things in abandoned cars and scouting ahead wherever they stopped, given how damn good he was at being stealthy. 

Mark was still endlessly frustrated to have a whole two extra people to take care of, but at least they were all on the same page, all understood the same objective:

Dakota had to make it to Harttawa, no matter the cost. 

Their initial evening, stopping after their first actual day on the road, the four of them had sat huddled around a near-minuscule campfire (kept mostly down to embers so no unwanted guests would be able to see the smoke). Though summer was well on its way, they were heading rather far north, and the few remnants of winter clung to Prime with a vengeance. Mark had sat as far from William and Vyncent as possible, while Dakota sat sort of in the middle– far closer to Mark than the two boys, but still without leaving as wide of a distance. 

Sitting across from each other in such an awkward manner had given Mark a chance to get a good look at the two strangers, faces lit only by the faint glow of the fire. 

Of course, the examination had gone both ways, and he kept having to shoot dirty looks at William when the boy stared for too long, with an obvious question:

The scales. 

Twenty years ago, Mark had been an unassuming, human man. He knew the reptilian eye was going to bring up questions eventually, but he was fully committed to prolonging, or, even better, fully avoiding answering them. Vyncent didn’t seem to care much, likely dismissing it as some aspect of whatever powers he had, but William… well, he had known Mark before the world fell apart. If he wanted to ask questions, Mark resolutely decided that he would just respond with his own; question why and how the boy was still alive, the same person he’d been two decades prior.

It was after William and Vyncent had turned in for the night, actually, that the real questions came. 

Dakota scooted a few feet closer to Mark after the other two were gone, but he hadn’t steal my said anything after that, instead staring into the dying fire with a pensive expression. Funnily enough, with his new bursts of energy, Dakota had also been having far more quiet spells, either blankly gazing off into the distance or up at Mark– a pattern amongst the entire group, apparently. 

It was vaguely like all four of them each had a great question, or some kind of secret; maybe even both. Every stilted conversation was flooded with a wary tension, but if these conflicts weren’t dangerous to their travels, Mark honestly didn’t give two shits about any of it. 

Still, it was like something had changed since leaving Rockfall. Something beyond Dakota just having his powers back.

His attitude towards Mark was more… peaceful. It was almost reverent, in a way.

It had been strange to hear the kid apologize, first of all, for asking about her asking too many personal questions. And it had been even stranger that he somehow got Mark to admit he was wrong.

Having done far too much thinking for the night, Mark prepared to stand up and figure out his bedroll situation when Dakota spoke up. 

“Mark?” he murmured, looking over at him with knees curled up to his chest.

Mark didn’t respond, but he raised his eyebrows and didn’t turn his back on the kid, which was enough. 

“How…” Dakota paused, like he wasn’t sure if it was worth continuing whatever he had to say.

Mark watched from his periphery as he ran a hand over his forehead, fidgeting with the knot of the fabric headband upon it. 

“How many people have you killed?”

The question wasn’t accusatory. It wasn’t being asked for the purpose of starting a fight, or calling Mark a villain, accusing him of something terrible. Of course, Dakota still spoke with a mournful, heavy tone, which no doubt was due to the way he knew the weight of such a question; he seemed to place a priceless sort of value in the lives of people, no matter how guilty or far gone they were.

Mark scratched his beard. “I don’t think you want the answer to that one, kid.”

“Is it a lot?”

“Depends on who y’ask.”

Switching from watching the campfire to staring at his feet, Dakota fidgeted with his shoelaces. “Were any of them… not possessed?” 

A couple moments of silence passed between them. “I think you and I both know what I’m gonna say.” 

The kid nodded, albeit with a grimace. He was actually managing their conversation rather well, given how enraged he’d been at the loss of a singular possessed’s not-quite-life back at the start of their journey.

Then, he asked his next question, one that was rather out of place.

“Y’ever done it on accident? Killin’ somebody?”

It came slightly out of left field, and seemed to carry a little more poignancy to it— as though the answer would mean something more significant than its surface-level depth.

“Why’re you askin’ me this, Dakota?” Mark asked softly. He didn’t know his voice could carry something so non-hostile, something that close to being gentle. 

Dakota didn’t answer him this time. With such a reserved demeanor, he hadn’t really expected him to, anyways.

After the brief exchange, the two of them remained in silence together as the last of the fire’s embers died out. Choirs of crickets sprung to life, singing together in great harmony with nothing to impede their sound. They might have sat like that for another half hour— just Dakota, Mark, and the crickets; until Mark decided to actually get up and figure out his sleeping arrangement this time.

Of course, though, that was until he shifted and found a weight resting on the side of his right leg. 

He truly must not have been paying attention, or been crucially lacking sleep, because he hadn’t even noticed the way Dakota had curled up on the forest floor, essentially using Mark as a pillow as he leaned a good half of his weight against him. The kid had pulled himself into a little ball to preserve as much heat as possible, which was to be expected when sleeping out in the open like that. 

Mark considered waking him up, just jostling him harshly as he stood. It’d certainly make things easier for him, because it was no easy feat to shift yourself out from under a sleeping person without disturbing them. 

But, he told himself, it’d probably be best for the kid to get rest now so that he wouldn’t bitch while on the road the next day.

Other than that, it wasn’t really much of Mark’s worry whether or not the kid got proper rest. Why would it be? 

Why was he putting so much damn thought into it?

Sighing to himself with a cursory pinch of his nose bridge, Mark gingerly shoved his coat off, laying it over Dakota’s sleeping form as he cursed the biting cold air around him. The only reason for doing such a thing was so that he wouldn’t get sick from the chill and hinder their journey, Mark told himself. Dakota murmured something, and he wondered if the kid had woken up, but a quick glance told him that he was still out cold. 

He’d noticed that before; the whole talking-in-his-sleep thing. Of course, Mark never asked any questions, because he couldn’t have been assed to care, but a distant part of him wondered if it had any significance or meaning, any vague relation to the questions Dakota had been asking him earlier.

Dragging himself to his feet, Mark stalked over to the little sedan, yanking out the last of their thin blankets, substitutes for the sleeping bags they’d had before. He’d have to find more down the road when they stopped again– food and water didn’t mean shit if they froze to death through the night. 

Stalking back over to the fire, he kicked a few clumps of dirt at the smoldering ash of the fire, stamping out any potential sparks, flooding the air with the scent of smoke. 

He tossed a blanket out for Dakota to lie on if he woke up, so that the kid could move from sleeping on the cold earth beneath him. Then, he got to work setting up his own “bed”— a blanket spread out over the grass to lay on, with another one atop it to sleep under, and his backpack for a pillow. Not anywhere near the worst arrangement he’d had, admittedly.

And he’d been about to turn in for the night when he sighed heavily, turning around and staring down at Dakota, still snoring at his feet. Even with Mark’s coat, which dwarfed his frame due to the fashion he laid in, the faintest shiver still wracked his body every handful of seconds. 

“You’re fuckin’ kidding me,” Mark whispered angrily to himself before crouching down, carefully maneuvering his hands under Dakota until he could shift the kid’s body a few feet to the side, placing him atop the blanket laid out earlier. He worried understood the possibility that if he didn’t do that, the kid would wake up chattering.

Again, not that it truly mattered to him in any manner– it just likely wouldn’t be great if Dakota showed up to Harttawa with pneumonia.

Though a part of him compulsively wanted to stay up, tough the night out and take watch instead of the entire group being asleep, his eyes were growing heavier with each passing minute. He knew that even he had to rest, especially given the fact that he was the driver (no way in hell would he trust any of those little shits behind the wheel of a moving vehicle). 

Settling between his own blanket for the night, Mark spared one more glance Dakota’s direction to make sure he wouldn’t freeze to death in his sleep before staring up at the stars, eyes falling shut within seconds.

Chapter Text

Silver gleamed in the moonlight with a sickening blue tint to it, twisting back and forth before his eyes. The midnight gloom seemed to press down on every side, surrounding him, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up with the persistent feeling of being watched.

Caught in the reflection of the blade he held, suspended in-air behind him, was a little wisp of fire.

The wisp floated over William's shoulder in that hissing azure tone, and he watched as its gentle light fizzled out, leading instead to a dark trail of crimson. It danced in the air for a second until expanding into a full mass of shadow, outlining the silhouette of a face he was growing too familiar with.

When Mal stepped out onto the grass, it didn't crunch beneath his foot the way it would for anyone else. The environment around them seemed to take no heed of the fact that he was even there. His frame was simultaneously weightless and a pressing burden on William's shoulders, the mere presence making a piece of him want to shrivel up and hide away.

With a smile that suggested he found him endearing, Mal crouched down before him with a tilt of the chin. His eyebrows raised in an expectant manner, at which William swallowed and shook his head.

" I can't," he whispered, curling his fingers around the sharp end of the blade; nowhere near using the force needed to draw blood, but enough to dig into his skin and ground him in the moment, shove back his panic with the harsh sting.

Mal frowned, reaching out and unwinding William's hands, taking the delicate little knife and holding it between two fingers for a few moments. He'd taken it from Virion, an ornately constructed blade with a finely-carved wooden handle. Something from his home world, no doubt.

" What stops you?" Mal asked, twirling the knife with effortless grace. " You understand the weight of such a plan, do you not?"

Grimacing, William ran a hand over his forehead. " It's just— he's—" A pause, where he stole a timid breath. " There has to be another way, Mal."

The man froze, eyes sliding back over and pinning him in place with an eerie darkness behind them. His expression grew unreadable, the pitch-black of his irises only exaggerated by the shadows in the glen. It was almost difficult to make out his features; even moonlight seemed hesitant to touch him.

He fixed his grasp around the knife into more of a fist, rotating it as though to examine the sharpest edge.

"One life, William," he murmured. "One life at the root of it all. When you lost your life, we lost everything . The wisps scattered, dispersing across the globe, and it took years for them to recuperate, painstaking decades for me to stitch that power back together. One life changes so much. It can transform the world— more than one world. It can change realms. But you hesitate."

His words sliced through the air, dancing around William's skull and making him feel dizzy, making his stomach turn with nausea.

"I just—“ he started in response, holding a hand to the back of his neck. " He doesn't deserve this, Mal."

"And you think I do?" the man scowled. "You think we deserve this, Wisperer? Our home destroyed? Reduced to rubble? "

"That's not my home."

"Oh, but it could be, William. One life, and balance can be restored— do believe me, I'll find a way to achieve it. One life, and we could work together, fix it all. You and I, we'll rule the spirit realm together; exactly how things should be. Exactly how they were. No one would even have to suffer for it.”

“You know I don’t remember any of that.”

William stared up at Mal for a long, contemplative moment, hoping to pick his demeanor apart, find any gap that told him how the gears in his head turned. Nothing yielded, though, and when he sneered down at him, William realized he probably understood what he was trying to do. 

Sighing and running his hands over the grass, pulling out clumps to soothe himself, William nodded before letting his head drop, staring at his knees.

“Okay, yeah,” he whispered in relentment. “ Yeah, no, it’s fine. I get it. Maybe… we’re just thinking about it wrong.”

“ ‘Wrong’? Is preserving a vital balance between the realms wrong?”

William scrubbed at his eyes. “ No, no. It’s not, Mal. I just—“ 

A pause. He waited for Mal to interject, to cut him off with yet another monologue, for his words to be discarded and mostly ignored. Instead, though, the man was looking at him intently, expression very serious as though he were truly very focused on what he had to say.

Taking a deep breath, he glanced over the remnants of their makeshift firepit and let it out slowly.

“If we want to… fix things, we’ll have to do it another way. I can’t control this yet.” He held his hands out, as though to refer to his own powers. “I can’t go up against either of them if I fuck it up. I’m not strong enough. And…”

He took the knife from Mal again, holding it flat in his hands, feeling sick at the mere thought of bearing it as a weapon against someone else. Gently, he replaced it to where he’d first taken it from Virion’s side, then curled up into a ball with his arms round his knees.

“I know there’s an easier, smarter way. I can stop it, stop them, I swear. Just give me more time to think.”

Mal sat contemplatively for a long second, form eerily still— it didn’t even seem like he breathed, which William guessed made sense. His eyes still hurt whenever he tried to focus on the man’s silhouette for too long, like his subconscious knew he was out of place in such an environment, such a realm.

“I do have faith in you, Wisperer,” Mal muttered in vague agreement.

After a beat, he added:

 “Fine. Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I am thinking too harshly about it all. Why, that’s exactly the reason that I need you, William. To provide a second opinion; give my thought some challenge.”

Even though he was agreeing with him, providing the leeway that he’d just begged for, the words didn’t take any weight off of William’s chest. They felt more like a blade being twisted in the wound than anything. Mal’s speech wormed its way beneath his skin and made it crawl, made him wish he were far away from here, wish he were a normal human being with a pulse.

Made him wish his family was still around. 

God, had they even survived the downfall of everything? Would William want to see them if they did? Would they recognize him in this state? Had they grieved him when he died?

How quickly had his parents moved on?

How quickly had David moved on? 

Mal clicked his tongue, pulling William back into the present moment. 

“I know you’re capable of this, Wisperer. I’m not sure you truly understand just how powerful you are. This block you face is purely mental.”

He didn’t respond to that one, knowing he wasn’t an ounce as strong as Mal seemed to picture him.

Brushing his knees off despite them never touching the ground, Mal straightened up, standing tall amidst the skyline painted by trees. The angle at which he stood placed the moon directly to the side of his head, as though it were orbiting him as some strange companion. His gaze scanned the clearing, presumably double-checking that no eyes or ears had registered their conversation, before he turned his focus back on William for one last exchange.

“ If you do not follow through with this, simply tell me. I can take care of it myself, though it will be very difficult and burdensome. I’d like knowing before it grows too late.”

Leg shifting back, he prepared to turn on his heel and disappear into nothingness before William reached out, grabbing at the fabric of his dress pants near his calf.

Eyebrows lifting in mild shock, Mal fixed his gaze on William with a silent question in it. 

“ If— If we do figure it out, if everything goes to plan. Will—“

William gritted his teeth, steeling himself.

“ Will she be okay?”

Mal’s stare remained blank for an immeasurable length of time. 

“‘She’?” he questioned, apathetic in the delivery.

Biting the inside of his cheek, William glanced across the clearing until he could make out Mr Winters' Mark’s form, a few feet from Dakota’s; he slept closer to the perimeter of the clearing so as to act as a shield of sorts, and also likely so he could place as much distance between him and William as possible. Their recent interactions, sparing as they were, had not been pleasant.

Even after gaining a patchy understanding of Mark and Dakota’s situation, William found himself wondering what the hell was going on with them— neither seemed to like the other very much, but Dakota had relaxed exceptionally at being reunited with Mark. He claimed to hate him, but he was never more than fifty feet away from the man, stuck to his side even in his worst moods. Yet, he hadn’t seemed to know much about Mark. 

More specifically, he hadn’t known about Ashe.

But Mark was, surprisingly, putting in great effort to protect Dakota. He’d always been near-indifferent to others, even before the world’s fall; William never thought of him as the guy to care for anyone outside of his family. It really seemed that he tolerated William all those years ago for Ashe’s sake, exchanging a good five words of conversation in the time they’d known each other (although, Ashe had once told him, that was a good thing. A “new record”). 

Mark wasn’t much of a caring person, not for anyone but his wife and his kid.

But William had firsthand witnessed the man’s solace upon finding Dakota in the WATCH tower, alive and unharmed. 

And, though he didn’t know whether the others noticed, he saw that brief, wordless conversation they’d had. He wasn’t sure exactly what was conveyed, but it didn’t take a genius to notice how Mark fervently checked Dakota for any injuries before raising his eyebrows in question.

He’d been ready to exact whatever form of revenge he saw fit over the mere possibility of Dakota facing harm, which William personally thought was a little beyond “Just-taking-this-kid-across-Prime-and-getting-rid-of-him” behavior.

It made something painful slide beneath his ribs to watch it. Not just because William was rather sure there was nobody left on the planet who would do something like that for him, if there ever had been (and, the only person who might’ve, he’d ditched in Rockfall). 

Every time he watched Mark and Dakota stand with a slightly-too-far distance between them, flip-flopping between cold resentfulness and standing back-to-back in the face of any threat, William couldn’t help but be reminded of Ashe; of the gaping hole they’d torn through the world together.

Why William survived, and she hadn’t, only made it sting more. 

Ashe would’ve had someone to come back to.

Mal hummed as he seemed to finally understand William’s prolonged silence. He’d been examining Mark from across the clearing as well, and when realization finally dawned, he looked back down at William with a sort of… displeasure? 

“The Trickster is going to be an obstacle. Precisely, it’s the root of this problem, in a way.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

With a slight roll of the eye, as though the question were beneath him, Mal shook his head the smallest bit at William. “I’m sure you know what I will say. Still, if this truly is the hill you choose to die on, I… frankly do not have an answer for you. Regardless, she is one life, William.”

He wanted to retort, but his tongue felt like lead in his mouth as words all of a sudden began to fail him. 

After choking on air for a reason he couldn’t quite place, William squeaked out a whispered response, lacking any of the force he wanted to place behind it.

“She’s my best friend.”

Mal stepped back, ready to truly make his exit.

“Painful as it is, you don’t need her, Wisperer.”

That was the last thing to disrupt the night’s silence as he whirled around into nothingness, coat swishing with a gust of nonexistent air. His form rejoined the shadows, and the air seemed to grow less stifling. William sat plainly in the center of it all, only feeling more tense from their exchange, staring blankly at the undisturbed earth left in the not-quite-stranger’s wake.

—

Three more demons were scattered across the road— now all within the span of an hour.

Even Dakota, oblivious as he was, had noticed them. Each time they passed one, he glanced over at Mark, no doubt to check if he’d noticed it, and each time, Mark stared coldly forward, never heeding a single one of them beyond swerving out of their way. 

The first time it happened, Dakota had made an offended noise, opening his mouth to argue before Mark shook his head.

“ Can’t,” he muttered. “ S’not safe.”

“But I have my powers! I’m strong enough, I could—“

“You’d be leavin’ ‘em stranded.” Shooting a brief look his way, Mark jerked his head back in an attempt to refer to the near-empty trunk of the sedan. “Don’t got shit to give, and I’m not running a charity. Leave it to your heroes.”

Dakota grumbled in clear dissent, and the air in the car grew sharply reminiscent of how it’d been after Mark killed that first possessed. He half-expected Dakota to lash out, or try to make him double back anyways, but instead the kid just glared at his feet for the next portion of the ride.

When he saw the second demon, his reaction had been the same, though less urgent; less hopeful.

Upon noticing the third, he was visibly on edge. Despite his avid disagreement, even Dakota seemed to understand the strangeness of the situation, seemed to pick up on the way Mark drove faster and faster each time they showed up. One or two demons may have been just a coincidence, but three or four, all in such rapid succession, had to have some significance. There was no plainer way to spell out imminent trouble.

The other two in the backseat hadn’t spoken a single world to Mark, but they too were growing antsy at such numbers of possessed— William especially. It nearly felt as though something were lurking on the horizon, ready to pounce at the drop of a hat, and it led to the entire atmosphere being uneasy as the group stole glances at each other between encounters.

It quickly became an adopted habit for Mark to scan the treeline more frequently than he usually did. He began psyching himself out, walking a fine tightrope between his usual over-surveillance and a paranoid state of assuming every movement to be one of them, waiting for a demon to spring from the late-afternoon shadows and tear out the throat of everyone inside the car.

Fear was an emotion Mark had grown painstakingly used to, but it had also grown rather dull across the years as everything else hollowed out, too. He’d grown numb, and so he’d grown unafraid with it, to.

At least, that’s what he thought, but it didn’t stop his grip on the steering wheel from being tight enough to leave dents in his palms; didn’t stop his jaw from being clenched tightly enough to hurt.

Ironically enough, it might’ve been that very resurgence of fear that led him to act in such a delayed manner.

When it smacked against the asphalt with a harsh clink, sliding roughly to the center of the road in a flurry of sparks, Mark’s mind failed to register it for the smallest, most minuscule fraction of a second. 

But that was more than enough.

Thick black smoke spewed into the air, forming a curtain in mere seconds that was thick enough to obstruct his view of the road ahead. A lit frame crackled off like fireworks as it ate away at some sort of fuse, creating a deadly array of stars that ached to burn anything in its vicinity.

Bandits. Had to be.

Mark knew his fair share about makeshift explosives and other devices-- but even without his prior knowledge, it wasn't hard to deduce that, undoubtedly, shit was going to explode.

Cursing loudly, he yanked the steering wheel harshly to the left, trying to steer a clear path of the object or at least get as far away from it as possible. He feared that if he slammed on the brakes, it'd be exactly what was wanted of him, allowing whoever threw the explosive to run in, slash the tires, attack them while stationary.

He peeled the car towards the opposite side of the road of wherever the thing came from, not wanting to give the sorry fuck who'd thrown it any moment of vulnerability, any instant where they could get closer to the car, if only for a second.

The gamble he took seemed to backfire horrendously, though.

His attempt at maneuvering away proved pretty fucking useless when the road fell out beneath the left wheels, the little sedan having moved too far and too quickly, losing grasp on solid ground.

A sickening crunch whipped through the air.

Gravity flipped on its head once, then twice.

The invisible force threw Mark back into his seat with a scattering of stars across his vision before launching him forward, slamming his nose into the steering wheel. The impact reverberated through his skull, setting it alight with pain.

Something shattered. Something popped.

And then, ti was just the ringing of his ears, just the screeching high pitch and the hiss of air shooting from slashed tires.

Dakota was screaming something. William was yelling something in distress, rambling incomprehensibly. Vyncent was perched forward at an odd angle, trying to push himself forward and reach for the ceiling of the car.

In a disoriented haze, Mark desperately tried to determine which way was up, tried to get his body moving and claw his way from the rut, all while cursing himself for managing to fuck things up this miraculously bad. The people who had thrown that shit were nearby, likely bandits, and likely read to attack.

Ready to kill.

Mark lifted his arms through the blur, feeling detached from his heavy, sluggish body, finding blood filtering between the creases of his palms when he tried to use them.

The scene went orange.

A distant white hot light surged from what had to be the direction of the road.

A piercing blast tore the atmosphere in half, stabbing at Mark's eardrums as the ground shook.

His vision was overtaken by the stars crowded in the center, head flooding with a throbbing pain that made it feel as though he were underwater, drowning, and he was trying to keep himself atop the choppy waves to no avail.

The final wave of impact jerked his neck violently to the side, and as yet another head-splitting blow blossomed across his temple, Mark rapidly sank to the ocean floor.

---

Dakota's eyes cracked open to fire.

He was sprawled at a weird, painful angle, arm squished beneath his body, and he quickly wrenched it out with a pained grunt.

"Mark?!" he called out, trying to piece together what the hell had just gone down.

He pushed himself up onto his elbows, finding that he had been awkwardly thrown to the side, limbs buried beneath shattered glass that sprinkled across his skin like glitter. In a really fucked up way, it looked kind of pretty amidst the mess of fresh, red blood and sun-tanned skin. WIth a grimace, he noticed a few pieces had dug their so-called claws in, biting into his arms in a fashion he knew would sting like a bitch later.

But that wasn't important.

Villains, bad guys, must have attacked them, or something else must have gone seriously wrong. The impact of the crash had fazed him for a few seconds, making his head all light and fuzzy, but now it was like he'd been launched back into the current moment, suddenly burdened with far more weight and buzzing with pain that he'd simply have to ignore for the time being.

"MARK?!"

No response.

Dakota looked back.

A thin streak of blood stemmed from his nose, a wide cut on its bridge. Various little wounds were scattered across the rest of his face, with a particularly nasty one on his temple, a stray droplet of blood creeping down his closed eyelid.

Dakota had long ago learned his scowl was permanent, even in sleep, but his expression was an eerie sort of peaceful; a wholly unfamiliar type that made his heart drop.

"Mark, GET THE FUCK UP!" he repeated, with far more fervor this time. He twisted back, hand clamping harshly on the man's shoulder and shaking, all to no avail.

Mark was alive. Dakota knew it.

He just wished the old asshole would prove it.

After the third try to wake him resulted in yet no stir, Dakota gritted his teeth, looking back up towards the window. The car had seemingly flipped onto its left side, given that grass was now poking through the shattered pieces on Mark's side. Whatever he tried to do wouldn't mean anything if they were trapped, if the bad guys were still nearby and trying to hurt them.

He reached up to find the door handle, only to be met with a collection of gears and broken chunks of metal where it should be. The entire right half of the car seemed to have been burnt badly by whatever had hit them, and the windshield had shattered, leaving a gaping hole to Dakota's left-- it looked like something under the hood was on fire.

He wanted to panic. He was panicking.

Taking only a second to melt down, shaking out his hands and running his fingers over his forehead and hairline fervently, Dakota scrubbed at his face, trying to clear his head-- or at least unfocus it enough to get himself moving.

He could be scared later. Right now, he had to act.

That was what heroes did.

Positioning himself against the side of the driver's seat as a brace, he lined his leg up with the window, trying to fix a good angle to kick at.

"What do we do?!" William panicked, looking back and forth at the rest of the scene, legs held awkwardly in place by his seatbelt while the rest of his body was squished against Vyncent, who had tried to shift minutely to make room in the overturned car. Vyncent's eyes were glazed over and hollow, before regaining a type of lucidity that seemed a little off-- though everything was fucking off right now. They were packed together like sardines, and the air was suffocating with each second that passed, knowing that this was essentially a trap springing, closing in on them as they spoke.

"Can you cover Mark?" Dakota asked hoarsely, jerking his head in the direction of his window. "G'nna try to break out."

Vyncent stared blankly up at Dakota, but William blinked himself into some form of awareness, shoving off his jacket with shaking hands and tossing it in Mark's direction. Dakota was able to grab it and maneuver it in a slightly better fashion, covering as much as he could to shield him from the glass.

"Cover your faces, too!" he shouted, drawing his arms up over his eyes before pausing, only a second, and flinging his leg square into the imddle of the pane.

A piercing crunch sang out, but it took a second kick for the window to actually shatter, raining down in crystalline, show-like pieces that would've been stunning if not for how bad they stung when they scraped across his skin on the way down.

Launching himself up, Dakota hooked an elbow over the part of the window where the least stabby edges were.

"STAY PUT!" he shouted down at them as he muscled himself up into a half-standing position, head just barely poking out.

Deeming the coast to be clear (he couldn't be picky in this situation, anyways), he yanked himself out of the window fully, faced with a sudden rush of of white-hot air against his skin. A fire was blooming only ten or so feet from the car's back tire, likely from whatever had exploded right after the car tipped. Though the grass was lush and still covered with the remnants of earlier rainstorms, the gold blaze was still beginning to spread, tendrils of flame licking at the side of the road they'd rolled off of.

People were running around the scene, on the other side of the road, scattering in a wide berth round the car.

Bad guys.

Knowing he couldn't hesitate, Dakota hauled himself out of the car, carefully balancing on the door before hopping off and down, curling up against the bottom in an attempt to hide. Even with his effort to blend in, he only had a few seconds before the people caught sight of him amidst the chaos, and in that time, he'd have to find a way to get the others, get Mark out of the car.

He didn't know what to do.

He didn't know what to do, and Mark wasn't here to tell him right now.

The shadows dancing in the treeline flanked the car further, nearly enclosing them in all direction. The trap was closing in, digging into the flesh of its prey, and Dakota didn't know what to do.

There was going to be a fight. Almost certainly. They were gonna have to fight in one way or another to get out of this mess.

But to get out of this mess, everyone first had to get out of the car.

Without another thought, Dakota shot up, whirling around and hooking an arm through the passenger window, screaming involuntarily when the glass dug into the inside of his bicep. His other hand went for the top of the car, and, gritting his teeth against the pain, planting his feet with vigorous effort, he pulled.

Startled shouts rose from inside the car as he strained to pull it back into an upwards position. Metal creaked beneath his grasp, and he felt something hot running up his shoulder that he knew was probably blood, but he kept pulling. He kept desperately straining and hoping that they were gonna get out of this, that he was gonna be able to save everybody and finally do something right.

If Mark still lay unconscious in the driver's seat...

Dakota felt like vomiting just thinking about it.

Leaping out of the way just in time as the mass of steel and glass and rubber came crashing back down to eareth, Dakota grimaced at the way the ground shuddered beneath him, at the way the sound had to have put a giant glowing target on his back.

But what the hell else was he supposed to do?

"GET OUT OF THERE!" he shouted into the car. "GET HIM OUT, TOO! I'LL-- I'LL COVER YOU OR SOME SHIT! JUST-- GET HIM OUT!"

"HOW?!" a voice, William's, cried back.

"JUST FUCKIN' DO IT!" Dakota responded, before springing back into action.

He rushed over to the other side of the car, holding up to his promise to shield the others. He knew that just his body was not truly enough to protect them from any serious harm, but at least he would see anybody approaching, would be able to fuck them up before they got to the others.

Squinting through the orange glow, he tried to make out individual figures from where they hid, met with the all-too-familiar sensation of eyes on him, eyes which he could not place nor stare directly back at.

Perceived, watched, examined again.

From over his shoulder he heard William and Vyncent, who must have had more luck with the left-side doors, speaking amongst themselves. By the sounds of it, they were trying to wake Mark up and coax him into movement.

Mark was responding, albeit slurred and with many profanities.

But Mark was responding.

Sparing only a half-second to glance back, Dakota caught sight of William and Vyncent both supporting the man, helping him out of the car. They'd each taken one of his arms and hoisted it over their shoulders, the two of them needed to balance his frame.

"That way!" Vyncent called, but it wasn't quite his voice that carried it. Maybe it was the smoke, or the stress, or the fear. Or the billion other fucking things going wrong at the moment.

Dakota had half a mind to protest, to act what the hell he was saying when they were surrounding on all sides, but he couldn't think of a way to word it, couldn't think of any better plan than the half-assed one being thrown at his face. So, inching closer to the group, he ran in franic half-circles in front of them for a few feet, trying to keep an eye on anyone trying to approach.

The four of them approached some sort of break into the treeline, and Dakota worried of what could happen, knowing that the others had undoubtedly seen the bandits flickering between the bursts of flame-- and that they'd see them, too.

"THEY'RE GETTING AWAY!" somebody yelled, a quick confirmation of his fear.

The blurred figures of a few of the villains-- maybe two or three-- began surging towards them from their cover in the trees, and Dakota, without a thought, hurried forward to meet them first with blows to the gut.

Instead, though--

"DUCK!"

The command registered in Dakota's brain just barely on time, and he dove to the ground with only the ghost of something white-hot singing his clothes and hair. Shouts ensured from the blast, meaning that it had likely hit something, but not specifically somebody.

At least, not hard enough to kill them.

Rolling over onto his back before crawling back up to his feet, Dakota found hits of that spiraling white light dancing between Vyncent's fingers before it dissipated.

Because sure. Of course Vyncent just had magic fireball-throwing powers out of nowhere.

Why the hell not.

Mark seemed to be regaining his lucidity. Even he looked down at the boy in incredulity.

Everyone seemed to have desperate questions to ask, but the consensus was clear: that was something for later. They were still very much in a life-or-death situation, and it wasn't quite clear which way the scales were tipping yet.

"WHAT THE HELL, MAN?!" a different voice emanated from the still-faceless group.

"DROP ALL YOUR SHIT AND WE'LL THINK OF LETTING YOU LIVE!"

The tone of the first person.

A distant, minuscule click echoed through the clearing.

All fell silent for only a moment, until the near-imperceptible noise was followed up by a deafening, shrieking CRACK!

Dakota was kind of an idiot, but he wasn't stupid enough to miss that.

He knew what gunfire sounded like.

The headsplitting sound seemed to be the thing to jar Mark back to the real world, because he snapped to alertness, shoulders squaring back into their normal posture. Though he still swayed a bit on his feet, he straightened up, supporting his own weight fully. Out of a purely mechanical, habitual movement, he shoved both William and Vyncent to the ground, eyes searching the scene for the source of the bullet-- and if it had landed anywhere.

To Dakota's overwhelming relief, nobody seemed to have gotten hit; either that was a warning shot or these guys had really shitty aim. Both situations were still really fucking awful ones.

"DAKOTA, YOU GET BACK DOWN!" Mark ordered, voice more frantic than he'd ever heard it before. "YOU GET THE HELL DOWN AND YOU FUCKIN' FIND COVER, YOU HEAR ME?!"

Despite his gravelly shout, the way his bellowing voice cut through the air, something cracked beneath it and Dakota knew.

Mark was scared.

And, worst of all, that fear wasn't even for himself.

It was for Dakota.

Still, knowing that Mark, of all people, was scared, did nothing to soothe his fears.

"YOU'RE FUCKIN' CRAZY!" he cried back. "I'M NOT GONNA JUST SIT AND WATCH YOU GUYS DIE!"

Another gunshot split through the air, this time with a harsh clink as it bounced off the hood of the car. The strike was much closer this time, and it was moronic to think they were gonna get lucky again.

Mark opened his mouth to fight back, to bark another command, but as soon as it rang through the clearing, people began swarming in from all directions, and the scene broke out into utter pandemonium.

Dakota sprinted forward, closing the distance between him and Mark, standing back-to-back with his wobbling form as he held his fists out in wait.

If neither of them were gonna relent, then they were gonna fight these shitheads together.

---

"DROP THE WEAPONS!"

Whirling around, Dakota came face-to-face with one of the masked people. Their eyes were wide and green, with brows pressed together that they tried to twist into an intimidating scowl, only betrayed a sick kind of fear instead.

Regardless, their arm was outstretched, their wrist held tense as they white-knuckled a handgun, finger resting over the trigger as--

as they pointed it down at the side of Mark's skull.

Mark's hands shook, not from horror, but from the weakened state of his body, the injuries that he'd quickly garnered which were beginning to subdue him greatly. They'd gotten separated in the fight, given that Mark had repeatedly tried to rid himself of Dakota, tried to encourage him to find cover or run or otherwise protect himself. And now, he was looking even worse than he had previously, though he was nothing if not a determined bastard.

His fingertips crackled with orange electricity, but his expression was pained and his focus seemed to be waning, coming and going with each pained wince. He didn't seem to be hurt fatally, but he was still considerably shaken up, just like the rest of them, and having hit his head so hard, he couldn't have been faring too well in the clarity department.

"DID YOU HEAR ME?!" the stranger shouted, looking beyond him.

At which Dakota realized he was glaring at two new people.

The worst of the fire had been stifled out amongst the clearing; some of it had fizzled out, but crowding black smoke suggested that somebody had been running around putting the flames out, realizing the absolute stupidity of their actions. The lack of any eye-scorching glow let him get a pretty good look at the two.

The first of them was a brown-haired guy with a long, silver blade held to the base of somebody's neck.

He clearly wasn't on the side of the bandits; and not just due to the fact that he was holding a weapon to one of their throats. Dakota had seen their mostly-black attire and masks shoved on under hoods, and this guy was dressed in direct contrast to them. Despite the colors he wore still being dark, he wore significantly less to protect himself: only a pair of dark grey cargo pants adorned with multiple belts and chains, with two wide, clean-cut trips of brown fabric for a shirt that stretched over his chest in the symbol of an X. A leather vest had been thrown atop it haphazardly, but that only seemed to be aesthetic purposes.

Miraculously, though, despite how his lungs heaved from exertion, he was almost entirely unscathed. He stared forward apathetically, as though he were ready to respond with his own threat, until he caught Dakota's eye.

His eyes were brown, too, as though he'd built his color palette around them. There was something steely, unbothered in his gaze that simultaneously made Dakota want to recoil away from the stranger and calm down, take a breath. The way he looked back at him was kind of like meeting an acquaintance who simultaneously had the power to rip your head off without even a thought.

Dakota knew his expression must have been absolutely crazed as he entered a staring contest with the guy, but his silent pleading seemed to work on him. The stranger slowly lowered his katana, not releasing his grasp but letting the tip press into the grass instead of the bandit's flesh.

The person with a gun to Mark's temple relaxed minutely, but they still didn't relent.

"He should drop yours too, then." a second new voice entered the conversation with.

It came from a tall, broad-shouldered girl, spinning a tiny little throwing knife in her hand aimlessly as she sank her weight into one hip, gesturing towards the bandit kneeling at katana-guy's feet. A worn, patched trench coat draped from her shoulders, adorned with an array of patches and bottle-cap pins, complete with her own series of belts and chains. Dakota didn't doubt there were more daggers and blades stored on her person, and potentially other even more dangerous weapons. Her hair was cut into a choppy, vaguely punk-looking style, trimmed closely to the sides of her head except for two thick pieces in the front that joined with her bangs. Her face was also covered by a mask, but she had a similar vibe to that X guy, had an air of confidence that carried her voice more effortlessly than any shout could.

Worst of all, her face was achingly familiar, but Dakota couldn't quite place his finger on it.

The green-eyed bandit froze for a second, chest heaving, before they gritted their teeth, dipping their head towards their friend who still knelt.

"Drop your shit, man," they shook, still trying to push authority into their voice.

"And move slowly," the brown-haired boy (X, Dakota took to thinking of him as) said in a suave tone. "Your buddy may know you, but I don't know that guy he's got. We've got no stake in things here."

"What the fuck, you can't just let him die!" Dakota wailed.

X darted his eyes up towards Dakota for a second, the smallest glint in them before he directed his focus back on the bandit, fully brushing him off.

The hostage bandit took two fingers to slowly draw the gun from his holster and toss it a few feet off. Knife-girl strutted round and picked it up, tucking it into the back of her jeans before standing behind him, blocking the guy on two sides.

Mark continued to stare blankly forward, gaze hardened as he seemed entirely unfazed by being held at gunpoint. It was unclear whether the coldness was genuine, or just an act not to give the guy the satisfaction of his fear. He was looking everywhere but at Dakota, which set off multitudes of unease until he realized--

Even with his life on the line, Mark was scanning Dakota's perimeter, looking around him for any incoming danger.

He knew it meant nothing when he was still trapped by the threat of a bullet through the eye, but it still invoked a burst of spirit in Dakota, invigorated him with the smallest of strengths to speak up again.

"No one's gotta die!" he shouted. "Just-- let us go! Let him go!"

"What, so he can kill me and go back for the rest'a my friends?!"

"He's not gonna do that! Mark, tell him y'won't do that!" Dakota pleaded.

Mark frowned, expression flat. He remained silent for a long moment, gaze calculating as he finally met Dakota's eye, looking between him and the strangers before grunting out:

"I won't."

"No, he fuckin'-- he fuckin' said that weird!" the hostage bandit said frantically.

"It's just how he talks! He says shit weird, he's an asshole like that!" protested Dakota. "But he's not killing anybody."

"Think if he wanted you dead, you'd be that way already," Vyncent supplied, butting into the conversation with a strangely level voice. He stood at the far side of the conflict, a few feet behind X and knife-girl, and despite seeming bothered or confused by something, he still managed to relax the air around them the tiniest bit.

Mark didn't add onto that, scowling at the space before him, gears seemingly turning in his brain.

Dakota prayed that there was some sort of plan that he was coming up with as everyone fought around him, prayed that Mark would tell him what to do, give him some kind of direction to follow again.

Not because Dakota needed anyone to follow, and not because Dakota needed instructions from Mark of all people.

He simply just understood that they had to work together to survive and make it to Harttawa, and there was no "saving-the-world" plan if they both were shot down by a gang of villains at the halfway point.

And, even if Mark was a shitty person, he didn't deserve to die.

The green-eyed bandit's gaze darted from person to person to person. There were still far more bandits spread out around them, though not as many as earlier; some must have retreated or been knocked out.

Or killed, but Dakota tried to hold onto the foolish hope that nobody had been hurt too badly.

It was clear that, even with these two strangers seemingly joining the fight out of nowhere, they were still outnumbered by a good two of the peoples' worth. The only leverage they seemed to have at the moment was the fact that the person X was holding hostage was obviously valuable to them.

Holding a hand up in a peaceful gesture of sorts, the bandit slowly retracted their gun from the side of Mark's temple, eyes locked on their friend still kneeling.

"Oh, fuck off!" a member of the group called from where they stood a few yards away, clutching a wound in their side. William was trembling a few feet to their left, but they seemed to neither notice nor care about him much, given the way his form was fuzzy and hard to make out. "You're not just gonna let these bitches get away, man!"

"Can't we take this fuckin' loss?!" the green-eyed one bit back in return. "Let them go, nobody else gets hurt?!"

"Kyle's down because of this motherfucker! Could be dyin', for all we fucking know! And you just wanna let him go?!"

Dakota bit back a grimace.

Mark had joined the battle, and Mark had hurt people. He probably hadn't even hesitated to do it.

But he was trying to protect Dakota and the others, right? That was sort of heroic.

It had to be.

The moment of consideration settled heavy on all their shoulders, and the green-eyed bandit appeared to flip-flop between a million different outcomes, trying to make sense of the situation as their gun hovered in an odd disposition; no longer pointing at Mark, but nowhere near a resting position, still at the ready for any sudden moves.

"Man, let me tell you, I'm fuckin' sick of this shit."

The wounded member limped forward despite how it pained them, quickly drawing their own sidearm and lining it up with Mark's skull.

"NO!" Dakota screamed, lunging desperately towards them.

He didn't know what he was trying to do-- stop them, shield Mark, punch them in the jaw--

but he knew that he didn't wanna be alone out here.

He knew that he had no clue where he was going, knew that the way to Harttawa was still mostly a mystery to him.

Knew that, even though Mark was comprised of so many layers of shitty attitudes and flat brick walls, of pretending like he didn't give a shit about anything and turning a blind eye to whatever he could, Mark was capable of good.

Strangely, in that split second, Dakota was reminded of the most appalling, most head-spinning fact of all.

Mark had once been a father.

In a blur of motion, Mark shot up first, tackling the guy who'd brought their gun to fire at him.

A chorus of hollers danced around the clearing, and as the other shoe dropped, a second segment of the battle seemed to spring to life.

The green-eyed bandit staggered back in fear as the world broke around them again, but quickly regained their bearings, reprising their previous threat as they aimed back at Mark, who was currently brawling it out with the new person.

Before he could think, Dakota launched himself forward, leveraging his weight over the bandit, knocking the pistol from their hands. They both his the ground with a painful thud.

Clamping his hand tight around the arm that'd held the gun, he pressed a knee into their other elbow, laying a forearm over their throat as he held them down-- a wordless threat that he didn't fully intend to act on.

The gun only fell a foot or two out of reach, something the two of them evidently saw. Dakota wanted to throw it further away, curl his fingers over the cold, heavy mass of metal and toss it, but he feared that relenting in his hold for even a second would leave to the bandit, who was already thrashing wildly beneath him, lunging forward; either scrabbling for the gun or springing up at him with lethal force.

And Dakota knew it shouldn't have been an issue, because he had his powers now-- it should have been so easy.

Still, it was harder holding down a person who actually knew how to fight back. Who, unlike the demons and the kids who picked fight with Dakota had school, had a clear strategy and system to how they did things.

A person who truly wanted to kill him.

And, Dakota supposed, no matter how strong you were, it was still difficult to hold down somebody nearly twice your size.

The stranger's hand kept clawing at the grass, searching for the cold steel, ready to press the barrel to Dakota's temple without hesitation. When he tried applying more force, that only made their attempts more desperate. They scrambled and pushed back, kicking up at Dakota with the freedom their legs had and disorienting him enough to inch further along the dirt, nearing the gun with every second that passed.

Dakota knew he could stop them.

He knew he could fuck this guy up.

He didn't know why he was hesitating now, why he was letting somebody slow him down like this when people were in danger. When Mark was in danger, when William and Vyncent were in danger.

"Please stop," he croaked to the bandit, making no attempt to hide his desperation."Please, just-- stop. I don't wanna hurt you. I don't--" A cough. "I don't want anyone to die, man!"

That only seemed to fuel their fight further.

Maybe it was because they really were scared of him hurting them, or maybe Dakota was kidding himself. Maybe they saw him begging, despite being the one with an arm over their throat, as a sign of weakness.

Dakota pressed down, more than a little angered by the fact, and listened to a harsh wheeze escape their lungs, felt the way their chest tightened beneath him as they gasped for oxygen. He hadn't cut off their airway, but he'd certainly limited their flow of breath greatly, and he wanted them to get the message and fucking stop.

But they didn't.

They sent their knee flying into his back, trying to swing their legs over and throw them off, but Dakota held his position, determined to keep his upper hand for as long as he could.

They made another grab for the gun, only missing it by mere inches this time.

"Come on!" Dakota growled, adding a cursory punch to the jaw to emphasize his point. "I won't fucking hurt you! Just stop! No one's gotta die!"

"Tell your dad that, motherfucker!" the stranger swore through their struggling lungs.

Dakota's heart sank to his stomach, strangely enough, when he realized what they were saying.

This guy thought Mark was his dad. An entirely fucking bizarre idea. It made something in him shift, opened a weird piece of his brain that he knew would lead to a floodgate of meaningless thoughts later.

"He's not--"

Dakota was cut off by a harsh pull from the stranger's arm, wrenching their elbow down and towards themselves this time, instead of up in a reach for the gun.

The gun, which no longer lay in the grass just before him.

The instant the stranger gained their advantage, knocking Dakota off-balance, they launched themselves up, kicking Dakota over and sending him into a brief roll against the ground.

He landed on his back with a pained grunt, rough tree roots and rocks stabbing into the blades of his shoulders. It was something he quickly ignore, thought, shooting back up to rejoin the battle and--

and--

His thoughts faded away as he stared forward at the newest threat to face him.

Biting cold ate away at his skin, centralized at a single round point that dug into his forehead.

He couldn't see it directly, but the barrel of the gun hovering in his periphery was the most terror-inducing image he'd ever been faced with, something he knew was going to haunt him for the rest of his life; if he even made it out of this.

Pushing roughly with the pistol, the stranger jerked his head back further, a purely smug move, forcing him to look them in the eyes before they pulled the trigger.

Except, they never did.

The stranger's eyes were green. Not the kind of green like Mark's, but a more watery green, a softer, blueish sea-like color. Kind of like the shiny, reflective green of the puddles scattered across New Haven after it rained, shimmering with rippling images of warehouses and skyscrapers against the clouds.

The strangers eyes might've widened in fear or alarm. Or maybe Dakota imagined that.

Nonetheless.

Those eyes fell from his sight as their entire body careened to the side, going limp with a dull thud on the soil. Gone, like hteir previous battle had never happened.

In their void stood a new face, that man Dakota had briefly exchanged pleas with earlier-- X. He seemed to be a few years older than Dakota, but it was a little difficult to tell, given the brown fabric that covered the lower half of his face.

The mask proved its usage as the bandit's blood splattered over it in a great arc, just barely missing X's eye, freckling his skin with deadly crimson stars.

In his hand was that katana, which Dakota recognized as it lay sheathed and twisted through the neck of the bandit from behind, going clean through.

"NO!" Dakota bawled, watching X simply kick the dead bandit off his sword when their body got stuck, flicking his blade with a hint of nonchalant displeasure as they crumpled in the grass, splattering their blood-spurting frame with more of the gore he'd drawn from it.

The bandit's body sprawled out lifelessly at Dakota's side, convulsing for a few seconds until all motion ceased.

Dakota reeled back from it in horror, his eyes locked on their now-empty ones, vomit clawing its way up his throat.

From the corner of his vision, he watched the new stranger, X, move, watched him extend his non-weapon bearing hand in his direction-- maybe to offer a hand to help him up. Dakota shrunk away from the man like he'd burn him, clambering unevenly until he could find his feet despite how they shook beneath him.

He staggered back. His heart raced, pummeling sharply at his chest, dismantling where he stood and reducing him back to the very thing he had been trying to escape for so long, back to something that a part of him must have known he always was.

Dakota was just a terrified, guilty kid.

That bandit couldn't have been very old-- twenty, at the most. Another kid like him.

They lay flat out on the ground, dead. Dead.

Dead.

Because of Dakota.

Scrambling over his own limbs to get away, Dakota shoved through the last remaining strands of the chaos (it seemed that much of the battle had died out around him). He didn't know where he was going, or what he planned to fucking do, but it wasn't like he knew much of anything right now. Words were gone; his brain stopped processing anything, rational thought stopped coming to him. All he knew was that he needed to get away.

He needed to run, run until those broken pieces of himself, of that shattered mosaic, mended.

He needed to run until he stopped fucking up. Until he stopped getting people killed.

He needed to run until he could finally find somebody he could save.

He needed to run until he could find--

Somebody grabbed for Dakota's shoulders, and he thrashed around wildly, wailing in alarm and disgust. He spun around, throwing a fist into the villain's form as hard as he could, hitting them square in the gut as he heard a startled breath escape them.

"GET OFF!" he tried to howl, but the syllables blended together in his haze, coming out as more of a pained scream.

The villain that reached for Dakota held on tighter, hands clamping around his biceps, nails digging in the slightest bit. He fought back against it fervently, baring his teeth, ready to fucking bite his way out like a rabid animal if he really had to.

Dakota.

He didn't realize that this somebody was saying his name, didn't even recognize that they were speaking to him for a solid few seconds, so caught up in his desperation to break free.

"Dakota," they repeated, stabbing through the surface of the icy waters. It was like they had cast a rope out into the whipping tide, but whether it was fashioned to be a lifeline or a noose was still lost on him.

Dakota. His name.

They knew his name.

Were they one of the scientists from back home? Had they finally found him again? Were they ready to pick him apart and examine him and put him under tests and trials ‘til he gave out and sobbed? Had he finally come back to--

"Kid, open your eyes! I need to fuckin' know you're with me here!"

Despite the fear, despite the anguish and the regret and the fury and the guilt eating away at Dakota's mind; despite how badly he just wanted to run away from it all until that broken thing inside of him stopped hurting, Dakota held himself in place. He forced his feet to plant firmly on the ground (as much as they could, at least-- the figure in front of him was holding up a good third of his weight).

Swallowing back bile, as well as a fraction of the dazed panic that subdued his thoughts and cast the world in haunting shadow, Dakota opened his eyes.

Two mismatched eyes hovered before him: one unnaturally yellow, sort of like his own in a funny way, and the other green.

Mark's expression was twisted into a raw, unfamiliar type of worry as he reached up with one of his hands, freezing when Dakota flinched back. He reeled away slightly, too, as though he truly feared to hurt Dakota, as though it actually mattered to him that he was in so much fear, so much pain.

When Mark's hand approached again, far slower this time, it brushed against the side of his face with feather-light touch, coming away in a sickening shade of red as he wiped away a sheen of blood, blood that Dakota knew wasn't his.

Trapped in a petrified, frozen sort of state between fight and flight, he stared blankly back at Mark, at his wounded features, at the dried flecks of red on his own skin as the man did his best to clean Dakota's face of the gore smattered across it. There was only so much he could do with just a hand, even as he wiped it intermittently against the side of his pant leg.

The slowness and care of his motions suggested that there was no imminent threat, that nobody else was coming for them.

It probably meant that the people trying to hurt them were dead.

Dakota wanted to be disgusted by Mark, wanted to resent him and think him a supervillain, because he was, he was a villain and he was a horrible person and Dakota did hate him.

But the pain in Dakota's chest was beginning to loosen with each slower, more labored breath he took in Mark's presence, trying to match the man's pace through the shudders that wracked his body.

Mark frowned when it seemed that he'd done all he could to clean Dakota's face of the sickening scarlet hue-- Dakota didn't realize, until he gingerly took a thumb and swiped it under his eye, that he had been crying.

Face crumbling, Dakota surged forward and buried his face in the man's shirt, letting out an ugly, wounded sob from the bottom of his chest, feeling his entire body heave with the force of it.

He waited for Mark to shove him off, for him to lock up at the unfamiliar gesture again and pry him away, rid himself of Dakota in favor of whatever task they had to get to next. He waited for him to move on, to brush past this and keep trudging forward, stay adamant about reaching Harttawa as soon as they could despite the roadblocks, so that the two of them could part ways and never be disgruntled by the other's presence again.

Instead, though, this time when Dakota fell into Mark, he caught him.

He caught him and he wrapped his arms sturdily around him, leaning forward and curling over his frame like he was trying to shield it from the world, clinging onto Dakota nearly as desperately as Dakota clung onto Mark. One hand pressed over his shoulder and the other atop his head, tucking it beneath his chin, and he held on like Dakota actually meant something to him.

"I'm fuckin' sorry, kid," he whispered, the sound audibly creaking in his chest and almost shattering in his throat.

And, for just a second, Dakota let himself pretend he was somebody important to Mark; important to anyone. He closed his eyes against his chest and listened closely for a heartbeat, just to be reminded of the fact that it was still there.

Chapter Text

Day28 20:32 

gen. notes (on-scene), progress log 7

Dr. Shaw’s hypothesis has been proven recently on day24, when Specimen was able to extract a “chaos demon” from its victim without possession or significant physical harm/death. Given Specimen’s outstanding, albeit rare performance, research appears optimistic and Shaw believes in procuring the desired result within two weeks at most. 

Dakota sat curled up against the wall, only vaguely aware of the cold tile pressing into his cheek, of his matted hair falling in and around his face. 

Across the room, he took note of the demon-person staggering blindly around, taking in low, rattling breaths. He couldn't bring himself to do more than that; too exhausted, too numb.

Attempts are being made to replicate original experiment (note: tonight with “shrieker” subtype), but Specimen proves difficult to work with and often refuses to cooperate.

Just a couple weeks ago, the sight would’ve made his body tense up, made him fear for his own life nearly as much as he’d have feared for others. Maybe he would've ran off, tried to find a hero— or, no, bringing it further into town would’ve been dangerous, so maybe he would’ve tried to find a way to trap them, then found someone who could help. Maybe he would’ve been strong enough to take one down, if it meant keeping people safe.

He hadn’t been strong before, though.

After Specimen’s previous escape, measures have been taken to ensure that he does not get out again— which have been effective, but he still lacks incentive. Often displays behavior in two polarized states: either being hostile and outwardly violent or acting in a shut-down, somewhat docile manner. Both reactions are inoptimal for field research. Nearly impossible to approach in the first state without personnel suffering physical injury; will not respond properly to most external stimuli in second state, displays habits of dissociative tendencies. Continues to be main concern throughout the project, given that Specimen will be needed at least until definitive, well-tested cure can be consistently produced.

Likelihood of the procedure’s repeated success on a different subject is very low, due to Shaw’s improvisation for much of it and the state Specimen had first been discovered in.

Given its jarring lack of eyes, this one couldn’t see Dakota; it kept straining its ears, making little clicking or hissing sounds to try and find him, but he just rested his chin on his knees and stared up at its pitiful, shuffling form.   

He could feel the way that tension crackled through the air; a little hint of it, at first, but then the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and an abrasive, defensive state spread through his entire body. Stress carved though his veins, and he knew that the fear beginning to drag him down by the ankles was going to turn him into somebody he wasn’t. He knew that he was really just being used against himself, and he knew that the growing pressure of eyes on him wouldn’t relent until he did something. Until he moved.

But when the shambling figure in front of Dakota turned slowly to face him, he couldn’t find it in himself to lunge forward at them. He couldn’t muster up the strength against his spite.

Specimen’s vitals have remained abnormal, yet consistent during time spent monitored, and appear stable enough. Psychological effects are an obvious risk factor, but have not resulted in any direct harm yet— only significant delays to the process. Shaw has held that the project is a crucial one, and could not be halted or slowed for such concerns regardless. 

Risk factors still lie in Sp

[NOTES SUSPENDED MOMENTARILY]

Dakota curled his fingers into the soft, cold grass beneath him, staring into the low embers of the campfire until it stung his eyes and made them water. He did everything he could to ground himself in the moment, to wake himself up and stay alert.

He blinked away the sour memory, doing his best not to dwell too heavily on the lingering taste of blood it left in his mouth. He curled his arms tight round his legs like a shield, trying to recall what he’d been doing.

His eyes slid towards his left and he looked up at Mark, at the asshole’s unending scowl. By the firelight, strangely enough, it looked a little less hostile, a little more human. When Dakota started picturing what he might’ve looked like in a time before demons, he bit the inside of his cheek and steered himself back to what he’d been saying to the man.

Now avoiding eye contact, he found his words, fidgeting with the dirty laces on one of his shoes.

“Y’ever done it on accident?” he murmured. “Killin’ somebody?”

—-

Mark knew Dakota was out of it when he couldn’t even support his own weight. He had to hold the kid up by the arms, and when he tried to steer them back towards the rest of the group, he refused to move, legs wobbly and unbalanced. 

Mark knew Dakota was really out of it when he simply decided to stoop down and try to pick him up-– and he just obliged silently. He’d expected Dakota to swat him away, for the motion to bring him back to himself, have him yelling some shit about not being a baby.

But instead, his eyes had grown mostly blank, glazed over with the remnants of tears as he stared numbly forward. His expression was caught between dazed and terrified, and though he met Mark’s gaze, it appeared he was more looking through him than at him. His breaths were quick and shallow, even if they weren’t as dramatic or as pained as they’d been before, and his hands clamped tightly around Mark’s forearms with a vice grip.

Through his own fuzzy vision, Mark double-checked that Dakota hadn’t sustained any form of concussion, given such strange behavior. The kid had racked up some nasty injuries across his face and arms, jagged wounds cut from glass and shrapnel. Dirt and blood still lay smattered across his face where Mark couldn’t wipe it off, and he had a busted lip, but nothing to indicate any sort of head trauma.

A particularly harsh gash on the inside of his upper arm made Mark grimace simply looking at it— even with whatever pain resistance his powers gave him, it must’ve hurt like a bitch. It was barely on the cusp of potentially needing stitches, but their medical supplies were lackluster at best, given the rag-tag assortment of items they’d shoved into the back of the sedan— which was now certainly fucked. 

Staving off the panic of no longer having a vehicle (or any sort of transportation, for that matter), Mark focused on what he could change: the here and now. 

He curled an arm under Dakota’s legs and another round his torso, still waiting for him to swear and start thrashing, call him a bitch, aim a sharp punch at his side.

But nothing came, and his legs quickly gave out from under him when Mark started to hoist him up. 

He was eerily docile, in a fashion that made Mark’s stomach turn with some foreign sort of…

Of what?

Concern? Anger?

Out of pure instinct (at least, that’s what Mark decided to think of it as), Dakota hooked an arm around his neck, face buried in it as they began inching back towards the clearing. Outside of that, the kid remained mostly unresponsive.

He’d managed to run a good ways from the conflict, which Mark had somehow found the strength to diffuse even in his injured state— everyone who’d attacked them had either died or gotten pretty damn close to it, running off to a slightly more dignified end. It’d taken its toll on him, of course, and he knew he was going to crash pretty soon when the adrenaline wore off, but that was a problem for the future. Even in his active state, even with the electricity of his powers sparking through his veins, ready for their next use, agony still tore through each step he took, ate away at the fibers of his muscles and made it feel as though a hammer was slamming into the base of his skull.

Specifically— Mark had only managed to fight his way out of there without dying because he’d seen the way that Dakota had run into the fight, the complete and utter dumbass he was.

And he knew that Dakota wasn’t going to defend himself; knew that he wouldn’t kill somebody even if they stabbed him in the back.

Although, given the state Mark had found him in, the hollow in his eyes and the sheen of blood coating his features, that…

That may have changed, he realized.

He didn’t know why the idea tasted sour in his mouth. Killing was commonplace now, especially outside of safe zones. It had been that way ever since the first person was possessed, ever since demons began clawing at the throats of any sorry creature they could find, and the people who still stood fought over safety, over food, over water; and over trivial, meaningless things, too. Violence meant nothing to Mark outside of being a means to an end, a facet of everyday life that got him through his job.

So why was he so perturbed by Dakota’s faraway expression and the blood crusted under his fingernails?

Trailing back to the ragged shell of what used to be the car, Mark found William and Vyncent curled together a few yards from it at the base of a tree. William was doing his best to wrap up a cut on Vyncent’s forearm with a loose scrap of fabric, but his hands shook violently, and his form flickered between being solid and corporeal. His work ended up lackluster, leading to the other boy doing most of the work himself. 

As Mark approached, William fervently avoided meeting his eyes until his gaze landed on Dakota’s shaken form, and he looked up with a bleeding question in his eyes. 

And Mark, quite simply, just shook his head in a terse I don’t know.

He didn't even know what the question would've been, was unsure of what answers truly remained in the world to anything at all. He just... didn't know.

Gently depositing Dakota at the left of William and Vyncent, he clenched his jaw tight and dragged himself back together into what he had to be for the moment. Shooting them both a scowl that translated roughly to “keep an eye on him or may God help me”, he dusted off his knees, trying to stand up.

He was only stopped by Dakota’s arms, still curled around his neck, and the kid looked up at him hesitantly as though he were scared of Mark disappearing, scared that the second he could no longer see him that he’d be back in that burning car, left to fumble with their situation as Mark was, essentially, useless.

Using a soft, yet firm hold, he pried Dakota’s blood-flaked hands from his shoulders, holding them for just a second as he muttered, “‘Be right back, yeah?”

Dakota’s eyes were still unsettlingly blank. It was unsure whether he’d even heard him, if the words meant anything in his disoriented state. 

But regardless, he let go of Mark, instead reaching out for the next closest thing, that being William.

He curled into the other boy, arms latching on as he silently sank his weight onto him. William’s shoulders tensed up as he stared down in sheer perplexity and something not unlike terror, but after a moment, his shaking hands found their way around the kid’s back, and though he still trembled, his skin had ceased its rapid blue flickering.

Mark tore his eyes from the sight before he felt anything too bitter or mournful or, worst of all, concerned.

Dakota was none of his concern, not in any manner outside of getting him to that lab in one piece and dropping him there, finally being able to forget him and brush the last few hundred miles away as nothing but a bad memory.

But even that felt traitorous to think, for some odd reason Mark couldn’t place.

Or maybe he could, but simply refused to.

Pacing away, he finally got around to viewing the wreckage, assessing the damage and figuring the best plan from here. The flames had been stamped out by something, of which he didn’t know, but he only kept a tab on it for the time being. Bodies lay scattered in every direction, a good ten or so. Some were crumpled and mangled, forms blasted to gory pieces in a disorganized fashion— results Mark knew were from his powers, at which he winced. Was he really that out of it when he had been fighting? Was he beginning to lose control, or some shit like that?

Setting to work, he simply grabbed the nearest one by the ankles, rather detachedly, and began dragging them off into the forest until finding another decent gap between the trees, only about thirty feet away. He haphazardly tossed the human carcass into that general area, watching it roll only once as it scattered lifelessly on the grass.

And then, it was the next, this one having seemingly died from a wound to the side of the neck, only barely short of cleaving their head clean off. Mark struggled a bit more with this one, due to the corpse getting caught on each root and branch scattered across the forest floor.

He was about to just hoist the corpse over one shoulder until a pair of dark, slender hands curled around the sides of the skull, lifting it up from the soil and immensely speeding up the process of moving it.

Glancing up at the face those hands belonged to, Mark was met with the sight of Vyncent, expression mildly disturbed, yet incredibly well-composed as he merely glanced over the sea of death with a near-clinical demeanor.

“Y‘should go sit back down,” Mark muttered, admittedly confused by his attitude.

The boy placidly shrugged, before crouching down and clamping his hands around the calves of the next person, pulling them across the earth as though it were second nature, a practiced movement.

“Had to do this a lot at home,” he explained, up and tossing the body atop the small pile they were fixing.

Mark snorted. “Heroes got’ya on body duty back there?”

Vyncent looked at him like he was crazy, before realization washed over his face, quickly followed by a detached sort of… sadness, maybe.

“No,” he muttered, brows furrowed. “That’s not— not exactly my home.”

Purely disinterested, and easily catching the blazing sign not to press the question further, Mark grunted in response before reaching for the next corpse. Funnily enough, Vyncent had quickly proved himself the most tolerable of the other three by virtue of not asking nor answering any unnecessary questions, essentially keeping his mouth shut. Mark could only have prayed for something like that to come from Dakota.

Of course, though…

Looking back over towards Dakota only yielded that same blank stare in the kid’s eyes, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. William’s anxious state had taken to him picking at the glass burrowed into Dakota’s skin in a fucked-up sort of fidgeting, holding pressure over the laceration on the inside of his arm but not being able to do all that much since his limbs were clamped so tightly around him. 

The kid had turned into an entirely different person. That original, all-consuming fire that'd pestered him for so long was snuffed out as if it were nothing but a candle.

The blessing Mark took from it was the fact that, at the very least, Dakota currently wasn’t lucid enough to watch them drag the swarm of bodies away, or grow infuriated when he truly realized the extent of the destruction, the permeable lack of survivors.

Settling into the easy labor like it was nothing but clockwork, Mark continued lugging corpses off towards the nook. 

Strangely enough, he was next met with yet another pair of arms stooping down to help him, at which he did everything short of rolling his eyes, glaring up at the new stranger. 

He’d seen this one earlier— caught a long look at his face as he gambled with Mark’s very life as casually as anything else. 

Samurai-Guy shot him a quick smile that was more than a little smug at the realization he’d gotten his attention. Mark curled his lip up in evident distaste, but didn’t say anything, endlessly sick of talking to people and dealing with adverse strangers and defending himself and Dakota from every little threat on the road. 

If this guy was happy with helping him, then so be it. Still, it in no way mustered up any semblance of trust in Mark; he was persistently on edge as they cleared the next body together, ready to launch himself at the bastard the second he moved in any offensive manner. It didn’t matter if he had a giant, stupid sword, he still had a skull to be bashed in and a smirk to wipe off his face.

The stranger seemed to mostly be carrying the weight with his right hand, holding his left close against his chest when they weren’t dragging a corpse— an obvious indication of some form of injury despite his attitude and attempts to conceal it.

A poignant lack of his friend, that girl who’d been with him when fighting, only had Mark more paranoid. Overall, what personality the stranger had displayed so far hadn’t been too hostile towards him, but it wasn’t very pleasant either, and so very easily could’ve been a trap. Mark wasn’t ready to take any further risks, not when everything else had been so horribly fucked up. They’d gotten stupidly lucky when nobody died, and he wasn’t sure if fate had it in the cards for them again.

By the time that each body was finally stacked into a great lump, he was weighing the odds of just killing the two unknown people, leaving zero loose ends, nobody who would try to follow them or prove any other drag to their journey.

“Do we burn them?” the stranger asked coldly, casually as he rested a hand on his hip, staring down at the mass of dead bandits.

Distracted from his current musing about killing him, Mark looked over for a brief second before, strangely enough, he found himself shaking his head.

Burning bodies was common practice— a quick fashion of clearing the waste, preventing any infection from seizing the area— and he would’ve done it, if Dakota weren’t with him. Though it was such a trivial thing for him, he knew that the kid saw the world differently, and something inside of Mark bristled at the thought of Dakota having to taste the acrid stench of burning flesh on the air just after facing what he had.

“Nah,” he muttered, eyes trailing towards the distant figure still curled tightly against William’s side, face buried and eyes squeezed tightly shut.

The stranger hummed in vague compromise, standing silent for a few seconds himself. Then, he took only a step closer, gaze following Mark’s before he could look away again, landing on Dakota.

“He’s never been outside walls, has he?”

Mark’s jaw tightened, and he shot a wordless glare at the stranger, a threat that needed no spoken word to accompany it. Plain and simple, it was a message to fuck off.

With a low whistle that made Mark’s hands curl readily into fists, the stranger shrugged.

“Listen, man,” he replied placatingly, though not without a smug undertone. “We’re not here to hurt you guys, yeah? Thought that’d been made pretty obvious by now, but I guess not.” 

“What the hell d’you think is stoppin’ me from—“ Mark began verbalizing the only warning he’d given this guy, ready to knock him on his ass and let him join the pile.

The stranger cut him off with a too-confident scoff.

"Hey man. We saved you."

He felt his lip curl up at that. "I had it handled. Your sorry asses didn't do shit, besides makin' it more complicated and gettin' in my--"

"Your boy was gonna get shot."

Mark froze.

"You know that, right?" the stranger repeated when there was no swift response.

He was still itching to punch this guy's teeth out, but, undeniably, he heard the note of seriousness. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the premise of him missing out on some sort of vital information, at the stranger's too-friendly attitude and the quiet, confident assertion that he knew something Mark didn't.

“Hell d’you mean?” he hissed.

To his credit, the stranger’s expression did sober when asked to explain. 

“I watched it,” he said lowly, fingers drumming on the hilt of his katana, though it seemed more of an absentminded fidget than a scheme or threat. “Your boy, he was… just gonna let somebody shoot him. He was sayin’—“ 

He scoffed again, but this time it was more bitter, more… sympathetic?

“Sayin’ that  'nobody had to get hurt'. He was begging the fucker while they reached for their gun. He had the upper hand, had ‘em pinned to the ground and everything, but when they got back on their feet, he was just refusing to fight back. All they wanted was to kill him, and he did jack shit about it. Was gonna let himself die for virtue, seemed like.”

You’re bullshitting me.

That was what Mark wanted to say. Anything along those lines. 

He wanted to deny such an idiotic fucking claim, because, quite frankly, no normal, rational person would actually try to brave such a pointless, suicidal endeavor.

But Dakota wasn’t any normal or rational person.

Something withered in Mark’s chest at being reminded so strongly of it.

Dakota wasn’t the first of his kind. The foolish, naive, self-sacrificial heroes of the world weren’t hard to come across— they were scattered throughout WATCH’s rankings, and he’d fought battles with many of them, watched many of them fall to the same fates they were all asking for with that behavior. Hell, some of them were even scattered amidst those puppets beneath the Overlord, people who’d found a way to talk around and twist their morals enough to find solace in the terrible shit they did, believe they were fighting some sort of good fight.

Just… usually, those type of people were twice Dakota’s age. They had at least a glimpse of the previous world, a glimmer of hope fueled by nothing but brainless nostalgia.

And even they were level-headed enough not to stare blankly into the barrel of a gun, like it sounded Dakota had. Even they knew when their savior complexes had to end and self-preservation had to begin.

But not Dakota.

Something not unlike nausea rose in Mark’s throat, and he shot another dirty look at the stranger, who’s demeanor seemed a little more benevolent now.

It only made him want to sock the bastard in the jaw even more, but he settled for merely grunting angrily and storming off.

—-

The next hour or two ended up being a convoluted mess of stitching everybody back together. The second stranger, that girl, showed back up, but she was smart enough to keep her distance from the group, mask pulled firmly over her nose as she only shot them the occasional glare from over her shoulder. She and her friend just sat at the edge of the clearing, backs mostly turned in a way that was too confident.

Why the duo had decided to stick around was an absolute mystery— there wasn’t even shit to rob anybody of anymore, and if they did try to attack, Mark was already on edge— all he needed was his lucidity and the chance to land a good hit.

Although, his hands still shook violently while he pried the glass from Dakota’s skin, so maybe that wasn’t enough anymore.

It placed them in an odd limbo of sorts, a standoff that had everyone’s eyes dancing around the group. Mark was mostly concerned with just shaking the strangers off before they became a problem, but for now he only kept an eye on it, trying to find the best moment to tell them to fuck off.

In that time, he was given plenty to think about Dakota. More specifically, what he’d been told about him, about his actions earlier in battle. There was no way of facing it that didn’t plague Mark with something dreadful, something flickering between frustration and numb shock and something far too close to fear.

Worst of all; Mark knew he was gonna have to bring it up. Not necessarily to have some shitty heart-to-heart, but only to tell the kid to stop trying to get himself killed, that his actions were endangering more than just himself. Because it was true, and Mark wasn’t going to let all this headache and bloodshed be for naught. As much as he loathed it, he’d taken this job, and he was going to finish it, see it to its end.

No good moment arose for them to discuss it, though. There was no such thing as a “good moment”, not when everyone was still recovering from a near-death experience and Mark was wrestling with the headache of knowing their last few supplies were fucked (they were wrapping wounds with torn-up clothes and the last of their water, for Christ’s sake).

Taking note of this, too, William and Vyncent eventually trailed off in search of a running stream, or at least, that’s what they'd said. Mark had a sneaking suspicion that they just wanted to take a breath from the entire thing, or run off if they had any good sense left in them; especially considering the way that William kept shooting looks at him and Dakota like he was a kicked puppy— or maybe like he thought they were.

Either way, Mark simply shooed the two of them off with a snarl. It wasn’t ideal to have only him and Dakota against their new adversaries if they decided to make a move, especially considering the fact that Dakota was in no state to fight, but they did need fresh water, and so far, only two canteens had turned up out of the wreckage.

Of course, though, that meant that Dakota and Mark were finally outside the earshot of anybody else, so long as they weren’t shouting.

And, with their newfound moment of solitude he’d been dreading, Mark quickly found himself faced with a new problem: 

What the hell was he even supposed to say to Dakota?

If anything at all?

The kid was fine— physically, at least. He still stuck a little closer to Mark than normal— and by “a little”, he meant that Dakota hadn’t left his side for even a moment, curled in on himself but still leaning against Mark, constantly glancing up like he was double-checking he’d still be there. The fog had cleared from his gaze for the most part, but he was still a little out of it, was no longer cutting in with random exclamations and arguments or running around to show off his powers. He’d remained wordless as the bodies were cleared, as everyone cut their losses around him and Mark tried to judge the best way forward from here.

The assortment of scrapes, bruises, and cuts littered across Dakota’s skin were mostly too small to need any serious intervention; at least, not with the little they had. However, his mere acceptance of this much medical attention in the first place was a little worrying, only going to show just how dazed he was.

Under any other circumstance, he would've swatted Mark away and proclaimed that he was fine, but when Mark had taken a wet cloth to the kid's face to clean it more thoroughly of the blood and dirt that freckled it, there hadn't even been any protest until he was nearly done.

It seemed as though Dakota didn't even perceive it for a solid minute, eyes still focused on some undetermined point over Mark's shoulder. And, when he had finally taken notice, he wasn't even disgruntled or pissed-off. He only flinched away, which led to Mark recoiling as well, in anxious wait for him to kick or scream, or find some other issue at hand, drag a new problem into the light.

But Dakota's gaze just searched his face, before he craned his neck around the clearing, like he only needed to double-check his surroundings, be assured of who Mark was. He found his right wrist, turning his palm to the sky, and stared down at the bare skin, the lack of the power suppressor like he'd never seen such a thing before.

The strange moment seemed to make the world go silent. Silent beyond the persistent ringing in Mark's ears, beyond the rustling of wind and the creaking of his bones.

The gash on his arm was still worrying, and he’d already bled through two makeshift bandages in the last few hours; it’d finally slowed significantly with the third, but Mark still found himself concerned about the possibility of needing stitches— and their lack of supplies was worrying. It kept persistently resurfacing in his mind, wedging its way between any of the tasks he tried to execute.

If they could all stick it out to Freedom City, it’d likely be fine. He held onto that as he ripped up another one of the few extra shirts they salvaged from the wreck.

“Anythin’ else I need to worry about?” he muttered down at Dakota, half-expecting no response. “If you’re hurt anywhere else, you’re gonna have t’tell me. No martyr bullshit, we don’t have the time.”

That made the kid bristle, with obvious reason. Mark grimaced at the memory of his brief conversation with that stranger, of what he’d told him about Dakota’s pure… docility?— in the face of death.

“M’fine,” the kid grunted, tilting his head down to avoid eye contact. Then, as if he just needed to fill the empty space, he added, “Y’re good, too?”

Responding with just a half-shrug, Mark stayed quiet. He’d be fine, for the most part. This wasn’t the worst he’d ever been beaten, and likely wasn’t gonna be the last ass-kicking he’d take, either.

Speaking of ass-kickings—

“You‘ve gotta defend yourself.”

He decided to start there. Eyebrows pressed together, he sighed, trying to align the words in his head.

In absence of Dakota’s response, he continued.

“Got told y’were just gonna lie down and take a bullet through your skull. That’s not the kind of bullshit you got your powers back for, kid.”

At his side, Dakota inhaled sharply, and Mark feared that he’d been thrown back into that moment, flooded with terror, that the kid would grow unresponsive again and lose the ability to answer.

“S’not— I wasn’t gonna—“ Dakota curled one of his hands into a fist. “That’s not what happened.”

“It’s not?” Mark scoffed, admittedly more than a little bitter. “What happened, then?”

The kid stayed quiet for a long minute, and it seemed as though he was gonna just outright refuse the conversation, shut it down by not participating at all. A low anger had clearly begun to simmer beneath the surface of his attitude, but other than an ornery snort, he hadn’t yet retorted.

Trying to unclench his jaw, Mark started, “Kid, you can’t just—“

“I wasn’t gonna kill them.”

He sighed.

Of course, it had come back to this.

Before he could respond, Dakota continued.

“I’m not— I don’t do that, I— they were gonna shoot me, but I had it under control, if I could’ve just—“ He grabbed a shaky breath, words barely intelligible through his detached stammering. “But I don’t know, they— they fuckin’ died anyways. So maybe I did— did kill ‘em.”

Something clawed at Mark, wormed around his throat and stole the air.

Keeping his expression flat save for a twitch in his jaw, he shook his head.

“S’not what you did, Dakota.” He rubbed at his beard, fighting back an unfamiliar surge of emotion. “R’gardless of if you should’ve, y’didnt. Wasn’t your choice to make.”

The kid’s knuckles grew white from how tersely they were curled into fists. “You think I should’ve?” he hissed.

And, strangely enough, the word yes couldn’t make it past Mark’s lips.

“S’complicated,” he grumbled. “But you’re not gonna just— you can’t just let someone kill you for the sake of all your ‘hero’ bullshit.”

“But I’m—“

”This shit happens again, and you’re not gonna have any bullshit to prove t’me, to anyone. You’ll die.” 

His tone was flat as he cut Dakota off, and he dug the base of his hand into his forehead as he made the next cold slice with his voice.

”This is how you lose the few fuckin’ freedoms I gave ‘ya. You’re tryin’ to get yourself killed, and I can’t have that.”

“Why not?”

The question was small, near-reserved.

Mark’s brows lifted slightly, eyes sliding over. He found Dakota’s expression indignant and defiant, but something undeniably shattered lay beneath it, and he realized, with something sickening—

Whatever he was asking, it carried a lot more weight than its harsh delivery made it seem.

Trying to deduce what the hell it was, Mark pushed out another irritated scoff. 

“Why can’t you go and get yourself killed?” he mused in response, tone dancing with sarcasm.

”Hell’s it matter to you if I do die?” Dakota bit back, far too sudden.

And there it was.

That's what he was asking.

And, no matter how Mark tried to cut it, it was so clearly important to him.

Letting it sit in the air for far too long, he listened to the question as it danced around in his head, over and over, the tone being picked apart by his brain a thousand times in the wide span of only a single moment. Hell's it matter to you if I do die?

Mark wanted to say that he didn't know the answer. Because, truthfully, that'd be the easiest answer to give. The one that'd keep him most tightly composed, wound together by very little but still wound together. Still functioning the same way he'd been functioning for twenty years now.

But he knew the answer.

He knew it the instant the question left Dakota's mouth, and he knew it the instant Dakota had run into that fight, the instant he'd found Dakota stranded and scared and so terrifyingly blank, soaked in blood, so dazed that he'd tried to fight Mark off like he didn't recognize him. He'd known it the instant he'd wrapped his arms around the kid and, for just a flash, had remembered bleached-white hair and runny birthday cake batter as they had stood in the burning clearing, the stench of smoke a reminder of how small they truly were, how they were not untouchable just because they had a vital, world-defining goal. They were only ants upon a burning world, in the end.

Knowing the answer to his question, though, wasn't quite the same as being ready enough to divulge it, break that piece of himself off and give it so carelessly away.

Gaze flickering back to meet Dakota's, he simply stared back at him for a long moment, watching the kid's eyes search his face until some sort of realization washed over it, followed by something that might've been understanding, or disappointment; maybe even frustration. He dipped his head, staring down at the earth.

Mark felt his chest tighten with the strange urge to run a hand over the head of curls, or find a blanket and drape it round Dakota's shoulders in a way he hadn't done for someone in years. He disliked the nagging protectiveness he felt, the fact that he suddenly had grown such an urge to shield the kid from the ugly things of the world, to cover his eyes in front of stacks of bodies and the ugly sight of people choking on their own blood.

Funnily enough, it seemed that by the time he'd finally admitted to himself, even in the slightest, that he might've cared, was the time when he was failing greatest to protect Dakota.

If he'd been faster, more alert, if he was more conscious of the area they were traveling through, if he was a better fighter, if he just kept his head on his shoulders when that car hit the grass--

"I have," he muttered, shutting down the previous conversation and locking it away. When he was met by a pair of confused hazel eyes, he exhaled heavily and rubbed his eye. "Killed somebody on accident, I mean."

That original conversation, that first question Dakota had asked by the light of a dying fire, felt like so long ago.

Y'ever done it on accident? Killin' somebody?

The kid's expression grew solemn, more thoughtful, and he nodded, obviously still tense at any mention of murder. He remained silent, not yet fully recovered from that uncharacteristically wordless state, leaving room for Mark to talk.

And so, he did.

"'Was only the first month or so after... everythin'." He gestured at their surroundings, referencing the world at large. "People started goin' crazy. Killin' each other, turnin' into monsters. We still barely knew shit. They pulled some martial law shtick, the stuff that eventually turned into your safe zones."

"Like New Haven?"

A nod. "I w's just tryin' to sneak out, after curfew. 'Can't even remember what for, but I needed somethin' important, pretty sure. Maybe I was just losin' my mind from bein' locked up in that house by some 'hero' pricks."

Dakota took a sharp breath, but didn't comment on the derogatory use of the word 'hero'.

"Then, out of nowhere, this guy, he's shoutin' at me, pointin' a gun, and it'd actually never happened'ta' me before that."

The story was one he'd played over and over in his head a thousand times, one that he barely felt nothing about anymore. And yet, it still felt odd to disclose it to someone else. It felt too close, too emotional. Too human.

"So... what'd you do?" Dakota asked quietly.

The answer was simple, obvious. It was the reason behind it that was more complicated.

That guy hadn't been with WATCH, he remembered that much. He was only another citizen, a few years younger than Mark was at the time, hungry and scared; trembling something about drop all your shit or I'll fuckin' cap you n'take it anyways.

And Mark remembered the strange stupor he'd been in, the way he'd felt the gravity of a cold metal barrel but nearly craved its release instead of being wary or afraid.

He'd lost everything. A grimace surfaced on his face, his eyebrows twitching together, but he fought down the surge of grief, drowned it beneath the white noise like he always did.

The memory's poison had smoothed down with time, but still came with a harsh sting whenever he thought of the events only just before, the things that had led to the first smear of blood on his hands.

That stranger had something to lose. Mark didn't.

He had nothing. Was nothing.

And he was angry about it.

"Short answer," he finally continued, "We're both hungry. Pissin' our pants 'cause the world's gone crazy. I walk up t'him, he's bluffin'. Doesn't shoot. I bust his jaw, though, n'he starts fightin' back."

The adrenaline rush had been the first thing to make him feel alive since he'd held a broken, mangled body in his arms, watched his peaceful future, a carefully constructed life he'd fought so hard for, slip away before his eyes.

"The fucker gets my eye. Bad. Not seein' out of it anymore, typ'a bad. And I start losin' the fight."

Dakota curled forward, leaning on the base of his hands to get a better look at his face like he was double-checking Mark even had two eyes. He scoffed, only the slightest bit, in response. 

"I can see out of it now," he explained, remembering that the kid's strong suit wasn't intelligence. Grunting, he went on, "This asshole, he's cocky, pulls his gun back out, n'I'm basically fucked. So I'm jumpin' at him, knowin' I'll probably die but I wanna kick his shit before I do it. Gun goes off."

"You got shot?"

He glanced down at Dakota.

"No," he muttered. "Dunno how, but he managed'ta fuck up pretty badly. Rips a hole in his gut."

To his shock, Dakota stomached the words rather well, only screwing up his face at the unpleasant image, processing whatever emotions had bubbled up at the anecdote.

"He would've killed you, though."

A nod.

"Oh," a whisper left the kid, and he had a strange, faraway look on his face. "But then you wouldn't be here."

Staring off into the darkening woods, Mark dipped his chin once in agreement, checking back on the strangers-- who still hadn't moved much. It seemed that the sword guy truly did have some sort of injury on his left hand, since his accomplice was wrapping a tight stretch of bandage, or something, round it.

"But then we wouldn't be saving the world," Dakota cut back in. "You wouldn't— I'd—"

His face lit up, expression incredulous as he seemed to finally connect the dots. He cycled through surprise, then something not unlike anger, until he settled on a face of near-numbness.

"Oh," he whispered. "That's— that's why you're telling me this, 'cause—“

Mark leaned back, sight now fixed on the sky to keep his composure, not show any readable emotion. This conversation was already far too close, too vulnerable, and he could feel the weight of such a thing, the weight of a question like would you really care if I died?

And yet, despite how traitorous it was, he felt a small burden relieved from his shoulders at the prospect of Dakota's realization.

"My story's different," he shrugged. "You're nothin' like me, kid. You're fuckin' stupid, don't get me wrong, but you're not some fuckin' force of evil, just 'cause somebody killed someone else t'save your life."

"What're you saying?"

"I'm sayin," Mark sighed, "Stop tryin' to get yourself killed. Your hero bullshit means nothing if you're dead, yeah?"

Dakota scrubbed at his face, shoulders hunched.

"You wanna save everybody, yeah? 'Save the world'?" He tried to keep the lingering disdain for how annoying Dakota's sentiment had been at times out of his tone, tried to keep the fragile stability of their conversation.

"I'm gonna."

"Sure. But to save everybody, y'gotta realize, Dakota, you can't save everybody. Not along the way."

"But-- we've helped people before! Like, Ruby, she's--"

"You were gonna die then, too."

"But I didn't."

Mark groaned, face buried in his hands.

"Okay, okay!" Dakota grumbled. "I-- I get it."

"I wasn't around t'keep you safe this tme. The only thing I've gotta do is get your ass to that lab, alive."

"Stop scolding me."

"Then stay alive, kid."

He rolled his eyes at that last remark, but it was obvious that circling back to that point was bugging Dakota far more than he was letting on. Because Mark hadn't answered his original question, because he hadn't known that the answer would've really meant anything to him.

He didn't know that Dakota cared whether or not Mark, of all people, cared about him.

"It matters to you." It was a question, like always, but Dakota said it with the attempted confidence of a definitive statement. "That I'm alive."

Mark stared blankly ahead-- it was a response, even if it wasn't yes or no.

Shockingly enough, Dakota took it.

"Okay," he said gently, relaxing back into his original posture. "I, uh, promise not to try to die." 

"And to stop bein' stupid."

"And to stop bein' stupid."

The kid stuck his hand out, still scabbed and cut up, but held it firmly.

Mark stared at it with a bit of scowl, looking back up at him with a dry expression.

"Oh, come the fuck on!" Dakota protested. "Y'cant tell me to promise you something and then not shake on it!"

"I didn't tell'ya to promise me shit."

"Dude." He drew out the word, placing heavy emphasis on it.

Rubbing at his temples for a moment, Mark caved. "Fine. Whatever, kid. Fuckin' Christ."

He held out an equally injured hand, barely clasping Dakota's as the kid gripped his tightly, shaking it with excitement as though their situation weren't the heavy one they were in, as though he wasn't pledging to stop being self-destructive. To stop trying to die.

It didn't take much to deduce that the near-cheerful attitude was, in some part, an act, because his shoulders still shook every few seconds, and his eyes darted around, never holding Mark's for long, the fog returning to them whenever he thought he wasn't looking.

"I promise," Dakota repeated, like he, too, needed some form of assurance.