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Chapter Text

In the battle of Imperia, Fluixon is slain in the Capital by a nameless soldier’s axe, cleaved through his chest.   

Life drains from him, and he feels a strange sensation as the pain ebbs away, then begins anew tenfold as if every atom in his body is being torn apart and stitched back together in the wrong places. 

For a moment, he blacks out. 

When he wakes up, the concrete structures and fluorescent lights of the Capital have disappeared from view, replaced with a tropical beach and a blood-orange sunset.

Before him stands a solitary gravestone made of mudbricks and dripstone. The name on it is his own. 

Fluixon

Goodbye, friend.

He doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing at first. 

But then he notices the faint translucent appearance of his hands, and that his feet do not feel the ground beneath him. 

He really is dead. 

Fluixon turns around to observe his surroundings, and he sees someone walking up a long wooden staircase built into the side of a massive hill, their back turned to him. They are dressed in simple white fabrics that match their white hair, their spotless cloak swaying with every step they take. 

If this is an angel, Fluixon thinks, they’re doing an awfully terrible job of greeting me to the afterlife. 

Moving his ghostly body the way he wants is instinctual. He floats up the stairs until he’s just a few steps behind the white-cloaked figure. They don’t even notice him. 

“Hello?” Fluixon says. 

The white-cloaked figure stops. They turn around, and their eyes widen in shock. Their jaw drops without a sound. 

The surprise and relief that wash over Fluixon as he recognizes who stands before him bring a smile to his face. 

“Saps. You really are here!”

“No. How…?” 

Fluixon hesitates at the tremor in Saparata’s voice. Perhaps an explanation was an appropriate way to greet a fellow dead man. “The battle against Imperia was today, I dunno if you’ve heard already. I was killed by some guard.” 

Saparata’s expression doesn’t change for the better. Instead, something heavy and discerning seems to churn in his mind. The sight is rather unsettling.  

“I had to do something,” Fluixon continues, and the words tumble out of his mouth from there. “As if I was going to just stand by after—after what they did to you. I joined a group from our district, and we all tried to escape—not everyone made it, but I was able to fight back in the end. Imperia is going to fall. They deserve what’s coming for them.” 

For too long, Saparata stares him up and down. 

It makes Fluixon falter. 

“You alright? Saps?” 

“You’re not him.”  

Fluixon freezes. “What are you talking about?” 

Slowly, Saparata lifts his pale hand, pauses midway, then passes it right through Fluixon’s arm. It’s only then that Fluixon realizes Saparata is not a translucent ghost like him, and is rather very much alive. 

“You’re not him,” Saparata repeats, this time with cold certainty. “Do me a favor, Flux, and go back to wherever the hell it is you came from.” 

Fluixon doesn’t move as he watches Saparata turn around and continue up the stairs. 

“What…? What’s going on? Saps!” 

But Saparata doesn’t look back. 

***

In the battle of Infernus, Fluixon is slain in the Colosseum by Saparata’s sword, pierced through his lungs. 

For a moment, all he can feel is pain. 

When he wakes up, he doesn’t immediately register the floating islands and clouds in the sky, or the absence of gravity lifting him higher and higher, or that he’s wearing a cape made of black feathered wings. 

He grasps at his chest with a trembling fist, and the phantom pain finally fades.

The island he sets foot on is covered in ice and snow. Far off in the blue horizon, he can see the climate of the other islands transition to an evergreen forest. 

Nobody else is in sight. 

Fluixon takes a step back. And another. And another, until he sits down, and half-collapses on the snow. He doesn’t feel the cold—or rather, it’s not as cold as snow should be. He doesn’t really feel anything at all. 

It’s the first time he has ever felt like doing nothing. 

He sits there, the final moments of his life running vividly through his mind. He knows Infernus lost; he saw their Queen fall. He recalls Thomas staying by his side, being the last of his men to survive. He remembers looking Saparata in the eyes from the stands of the Colosseum, nothing but cold calculation reflected back at him.  

He doesn’t know how long it’s been until he finally decides to test his wing-cape and explore. Like a newborn bird leaving its nest for the first time, he learns how to catch the wind and travel from island to island. Even when he makes a hard landing on his ankle and knee, he feels almost no pain at all. When he flies to the top of the tallest tree he can find, the view is nothing short of divine. 

Still, Fluixon thinks, this can’t be heaven. He wouldn’t be here if it were. 

And when he arrives at what must undoubtedly be the center of it all, the utter chaos he finds drives another point to his theory. 

From the top of a forested hill, he watches hundreds of people with wings of different colors and sizes gathering on a large platform around a strange aquamarine structure, composed of four staircases leading to a raised dais with arches. The crowd shouts and chants things Fluixon can’t make out from his position. 

Distantly, he hears someone approaching him from behind. 

“Yo, Flux, is that you?” 

Calmly, Fluixon turns around to see a complete stranger. It’s a man wearing a brown wool jacket, his hands tucked casually in his pockets. His cape of rust-red wings is folded behind his back, and he appears to be unarmed. 

“Oh shit, man, it really is you. Were you fighting in the battle against Imperia?” 

Imperia? 

“Yeah,” says Fluixon, because it feels like the right lie to say. He’s good at lying. 

“Sorry about that,” the man says. “Though you made it quite far, all things considered. Stupid lava in the walls really got me back there. Heard you made it out with nothing but ladders. Is that true?” 

Fluixon shrugs. “Who can say?” Perfectly vague and interpretable. 

The man laughs. “Maybe I should’ve done that if I’d known the guards were slacking.” 

Fluixon huffs out a laugh with him. Each new piece of information slots neatly into a folder somewhere in his brain. 

He glances over at the mass of people surrounding the strange dais. “What’s going on down there?” 

“Ah, that… They’re all trying to revive themselves, but I’m not really sure it’s all that effective.”

“Seems that way,” Fluixon agrees, judging from the angry shouts coming from the platform. 

“Personally, I don’t mind missing out on a war. Why go back to the place where you died trying to escape only to go back there and die again?” 

“Sounds ridiculous.”

“You get what I mean.” 

There’s a pause as they both watch the chaos below. Fluixon takes a brief moment to survey the modest structures people must have built after they died, wooden cabins and bridges scattered and disorganized. To his left, a small ship floats in the air, and all around, waterfalls cascade into the endless sky beneath the clouds. The laws of physics don’t seem to apply here. 

“This place…”  

“It’s a lot to take in at first,” the man says. “Don’t think there’s an underworld of any sort, if you can believe it. Everyone comes here. Murderers. Thieves. Farmers and miners who did nothing wrong. Citizens and government officials.” 

That may be the most surprising thing Fluixon has heard so far. He shudders to think of what would happen if he and Cass had to coexist in life after death. 

“I’m guessing not too many people are happy about that,” he mutters. 

“Well… That’s not really the case,” the man says as he scratches his chin. “For one, we can’t kill each other here, since we’re already dead. Some people still have their biases, but most of us have kind of… accepted it. We don’t want any further conflict.” 

In the back of his mind, Fluixon remembers a similar conversation with a diplomat from Yggdrasil, of when he was told the Covenant was supposedly the only faction against peace. 

“What’s that you’re wearing, by the way?” the man asks, interrupting his thoughts. 

Fluixon glances down at his dark overcoat and its gold-crested buttons, trying to think of an explanation that would fit within the limited information he had. 

“I picked it up for disguise,” he says eventually. 

The man tilts his head to the side. “Doesn’t look very convincing to me.” 

Worth a try, Fluixon figures, suppressing an eye roll before changing the subject. “Anyone else here that we know?” 

“Some of the other Bifrost members are settling to the south from here. I’m probably gonna head back there now. You should come join us when you get the chance.” 

“Maybe,” Fluixon says, hiding the doubt he feels. 

“Don’t be a stranger.” The man turns to leave, but then hesitates, looking over his shoulder. “Oh, I forgot to mention. Your buddy Saps has his tower up on that cloud over there,” he says, pointing to said structure in the sky. 

Fluixon’s expression shutters. “Oh. Thanks.” The words taste like rot in his mouth. 

With that, the man spreads his wings and takes off. 

Fluixon gazes up at the tower rising from the clouds. Apart from its blue-green roof, it looks nearly identical to the one he scouted in the snow on Yggdrasil during his stay at Infernus. 

Briefly, he wonders if the Saps of this world would figure out he doesn’t belong here. If he were able to see through his lies.  

He quickly buries his curiosity and decides he doesn’t want to know. 

He takes off, flying as far away from the tower as possible to look for another way out. 

***

“Well, this is messed up.” 

Lengo sighs as they watch the wrong Fluixon fly off into the horizon. “We should probably tell Ish.” 

Beside them, K.K. raises an eyebrow with a sense of sick, twisted dry humor. “And pass up an opportunity like this?” 

Lengo narrows their eyes. “...You’re serious, aren’t you?” 

A smirk breaks out across K.K.’s face. “Maybe accidents are what make the best kind of experiments.”

Chapter Text

Fluixon searches for a way out of the afterlife. He dives as far below the islands as he can go, hoping to see the living world come into focus. A powerful wind draft pushes him back up, refusing to let him pass through. 

As he spends more time searching the outer islands, he realizes that the sun barely moves in the sky. He never gets hungry, nor does he feel any exhaustion from flying. 

Hours have gone by since he mistakenly first arrived here. He misjudges the distance between him and an island upon landing, causing him to crash through the canopy of trees and into the ground with a force that should break his bones. As the dust clears, he staggers to his knees, more from shock than injury, twigs and leaves sticking out of his feathered cape. 

Fingernails dig into the dirt. He screams, and pours all of his anger into it—anger at the world—anger at himself. 

No one hears him.

It takes far too long to clear his mind. He slumps against the trunk of a shady tree as he overlooks the vast sky of the afterlife, letting the last of his anger cool to a simmer. 

He thinks over what the man from earlier told him. People hate the government, for one. Some people think there’s a way to bring themselves back to life. There’s only one afterlife you can go to. Saparata is here. And Fluixon is still well-liked in this world, whether the alternate version of himself deserves it or not. 

The more Fluixon thinks about it all, the more he wishes he could be buried and put to rest for good. 

He closes his eyes for what feels like minutes, until he’s alerted by the sound of footsteps in the grass. 

He opens his eyes and looks up, keeping his expression guarded. 

“Sorry. I don’t mean to intrude.” It’s Zekor. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Fluixon says with boredom in his tone. 

“What is your name?” Zekor asks. 

He doesn’t know me. “Fluixon. Most people call me Flux.”

Zekor pauses. “I remember seeing you in the snow district. I’m… truly sorry about my actions as a commander.” 

Fluixon gives a small shrug. “We’re all dead anyway.” 

He never had the highest respect for the Commonwealth. Seeing its chief diplomat in an alternate world apologizing for something he doesn’t know about feels not far out of place. 

“Mind if I ask when you got here?” Zekor asks. 

“Recently. You?”

“A while ago. You didn’t hear about my execution?” 

That grabs Fluixon’s attention. He reminds himself to never ask a question he should already know the answer to. 

“I had… better things to do.” 

Zekor laughs dryly. “I don’t blame you.” 

Fluixon doesn’t respond. He continues gazing at the infinite horizon past the clouds and floating islands as Zekor disappears somewhere behind him.

A moment passes before he hears something being unearthed from the dirt. 

Slowly, Fluixon stands up and walks over to see what Zekor is up to. Only then does he notice the small clearing in the forest that has a few dozen wooden signs planted in crooked rows in the grass. Zekor is seated on a rock, carving into his own sign with a small knife in his lap, the tips of his blue-gray winged cape reaching the grass behind him. 

Fluixon makes his way past Zekor to get a closer look at the signs and sees that they’re makeshift gravestones with people’s names carved into them. 

“I found some spare signs over there,” Zekor says from behind him. 

Fluixon turns to where Zekor is pointing to the left, and sees the small pile of extra signs lying in the shade of a tree. 

“I don’t have anything to write with.” 

“I might have a spare knife,” Zekor replies as he resumes his work. 

“I’m trying to look for a way out,” Fluixon says. 

Zekor glances up at him. “There is no way out.” 

“There must be something out there.” 

“People have already tried. You’d best be lucky if someone who isn’t with Imperia has your head. I’ve heard a few have already been revived under their control.” 

Wood chips fall in the grass by Zekor’s feet as he carves into his sign. 

Fluixon opens his mouth to say something. Not a sound comes out. 

He’s stuck. Stuck in a world he doesn’t belong in. Perhaps this world’s version of him is still alive out there, or erased from existence entirely. He wonders what would happen if they were to cross paths and the chaos it would cause. Would his alternate self understand his actions to unite Pandora? Or would he be met with hatred all the same? 

“Have you heard what they’re trying to do in the center?” Zekor asks to break the silence. 

“I heard it’s not working,” Fluixon says. “Could the citizens in the living world… take over the machine the government has under their control?” 

“There are two machines. Although it is possible. Or maybe they’ll just destroy them instead.” 

Fluixon stands there for a while. Eventually, he glances over at the pile of spare signs and goes to pick one up, dusting some dirt off it. He walks back to sit down in the grass not far from Zekor, who passes him a spare stone knife, the blade slightly chipped in some places. 

As he carves his name into his sign, he tries to remember when he saw Zekor from his world. The first few times were in passing. Occasionally, there were business meetings, since The Commonwealth and Luminara were located relatively close to each other. The last time Fluixon saw him was in the castle of Infernus talking with Sitzkrieg before the final battle. He doesn’t know if Zekor survived or not. 

He does know Zekor was perhaps the closest to capturing Saparata before the world realized the truth. 

“Saparata confronted me when I got here,” Zekor says, as if by some ironic twist of fate. “Did he tell you already?” 

Fluixon’s hand stills, then continues working on the x in his name. “I haven’t seen him yet. What did you two talk about?” 

“I told him that, at the time of his execution, my decision was fully intentional. But I’ve now come to regret that decision.” 

Nothing could have prepared Fluixon to hear those words. It takes everything in him to keep the knife from slipping. 

“Maybe it was the experience of getting executed myself that changed things, but Saparata was rightfully concerned about the mining conditions in the districts. I gave him and the others here information about Imperia to help confirm what was happening, although I know that doesn’t make up for everything.” 

“Surely he… didn’t forgive you for executing him?” 

“He didn’t. I don’t expect him to. But we parted ways in peace. We haven’t spoken outside the meetings he helps to mediate.” 

Fluixon slowly glances over. “He’s… mediating meetings?” 

“He and my aide cooperate. Although it’s been a while since they’ve held a proper meeting, with everything that’s been happening lately.” 

“Who’s your aide?” 

“Meagon. She’s a kind soul. I saw her sign next to Saparata’s.” 

Fluixon can’t remember anyone he knows by the name of Meagon. Another stranger, like the man from earlier. 

“Are you almost done?” Zekor asks. 

“Yeah,” Fluixon says as he looks down at his sign. It’s crude, but finished. 

He stands up and returns the borrowed knife to Zekor, and they both make their way over to the rows of signs. Zekor plants his sign a few spots to the right of Meagon’s. 

In the back of the field, Fluixon marks his grave at the end of the last row, knowing full well not a single soul from his world would mourn him.  

***

A few months have passed since Saparata’s victory in an almost empty Colosseum. 

A few minutes have passed since he saw a dead man practically on his doorstep, calling out for him like nothing had happened. Like something different had happened. 

Now, that same dead man is hovering at the entrance of his home, the home that was once turned into a death trap, now refurbished with tables, a bar, and a fountain for social gatherings. 

Saparata makes a silent prayer to the god Ish to fix this mess, though he also wonders if this is all the god’s fault to begin with. 

“Did you make that grave?” Fluixon asks, staying one step outside the Pantheon. 

“You don’t belong here,” Saparata says in lieu of an answer. 

“I can tell,” Fluixon replies. “Because the Saps I know isn’t an asshole.”

Saparata laughs bitterly. That was rich, coming from the man who betrayed him. 

But then he stops. Reconsiders. This isn’t the Flux who betrayed him. This Flux had smiled at him at the bottom of the stairs. Not the guarded smile Saparata should’ve seen through, the day before the trap went off—but a genuine, open smile of a friend who thought they were reunited after death. 

Saparata studies him from a distance. He didn’t immediately notice Fluixon’s ghostly form until the moment right before he passed his hand through the other’s arm. Now, it’s plainly obvious under the warm glow of the Pantheon’s lanterns. 

There’s still color to Fluixon’s form, but he looks faded and slightly fuzzy around the edges. No shadows are cast beneath him. His clothes still have his signature royal-purple, but they’re designed for the harsh cold, not Pandora’s perfect sunny climate. 

“You said you died,” Saparata says. “Did you think I was dead, too?” 

“I heard there was an afterlife.” 

“There’s not one in this world.” 

Fluixon seems to accept this truth quickly. He was always a fast thinker. 

“Did you make that grave with my name on it or not?” he asks again. 

Saparata sighs. “I did.” 

There’s a moment of silence as the answer hangs in the air. 

For some reason, it seems to give Fluixon the courage to enter the open space of the Pantheon, though he keeps his arms crossed over his chest. 

“I helped build yours back where I came from, too.” 

Saparata stares at him. “My grave?”  

“Uh… Did you want the full story?” 

Saparata glances around the Pantheon. The sun had just dipped below the sea, leaving only lanterns and torchlight to illuminate the open space. He doubts any visitors would show up during this time, other than the chorus of crickets and frogs emerging at night. 

Still, he can never be too careful. 

“Follow me first,” Saparata says. 

He leads Fluixon up to the second floor, which was built shortly after the final battle ended. Wooden shelves and cabinets line the walls, storing his personal tools and materials. The interior is dimly lit, making Fluixon appear slightly more opaque than he actually is. 

Saparata sits down at a table in the center of the room and gestures for Fluixon to take a seat across from him. 

“Give me the abridged version if it’s gonna be long,” Saparata says.  

Fluixon hesitates before reaching for the chair, only for his hand to pass right through it. Awkwardly, he opts to hover beside it, as if his feet are planted on the floor.

Saparata has to admit that a private meeting in this location, with this person—even if he isn’t the right one—is tragically hilarious. 

“So…” Fluixon begins. “The government. Imperia. They’re in charge of three citizen districts. We were—the other Saps and I were in the snow district. Saps… openly criticized Imperia for something in which he was completely in the right. They jailed and publicly executed him.” 

Saparata listens with one elbow on the table, chin in his palm. “How’d they execute the other me? Decapitation? Dripstone, maybe?” 

A part of him feels bad when he sees Fluixon attempt to hide the hurt on his face. But it can’t be helped. 

“Firing squad,” Fluixon mutters. 

“Yikes,” says Saparata plainly. 

“It’s not funny.” 

“I’m not laughing. So you and I were both citizens.” 

“Yes.” 

“And you’re sure I was the one who criticized the government?” 

“Yes.” 

“You didn’t do it yourself and then blame it on me?” 

“I—why would I do that?” 

Saparata raises his hands in mock apology. “I had to ask.” 

“Look, I don’t know what your beef with the other me was like, but you'd better start taking this seriously. Do you even care at all about what I have to say?” 

Saparata doesn’t know whether he should be comforted by the fact that both Fluixons displayed their anger in the same way: hands curling into fists as if restraining himself from doing something rashly violent. Saparata hopes Schpood’s rage-baiting habits aren’t rubbing off on him. 

“Alright, I’m sorry. So I criticized the government. A firing squad seems kind of overkill to me.” 

Fluixon scoffed. “Yeah, that’s what happens when you criticize a corrupt government.” He pauses. “You also threw a snowball at the President’s face.” 

“Now you’re the one being unserious,” Saparata says incredulously. 

“You weren’t the only one, apparently.” 

“Oh? Did they get executed, too?” 

“A few, yeah. Though not on the same scale.” 

“Aww. Sounds like it was just a friendly snowball fight.” 

Fluixon scoffs again, though this time there’s less bite to it. Like he’s trying not to laugh at a bad joke. “The other Saps said the same thing.” 

A moment of stillness falls upon the room. It’s quiet, apart from the chirping crickets and the ocean waves distantly washing up on the shore. 

Saparata’s wooden chair creaks as he leans back in it. “So, you said you escaped?” 

“Yeah. The districts are all walled off to keep citizens inside, and guards on the ramparts monitor everything that’s happening down in the districts. Not everyone survived the escape attempts, though a few of us did manage to get out.” 

“What sort of cunning trickery did you use to get through?” Saparata asks. 

Fluixon doesn’t seem to pick up the jab. “I built a ladder.” 

“Oh,” Saparata says. “Well, obviously.” 

“Anyways,” Fluixon continues. “Imperia has some sort of ‘revival machine’ that requires the deceased person’s head in order to bring them back to life. So whenever someone dies, the government retrieves that person’s head so they have full control of whether that person gets revived under their influence.” 

“Like, mind control?” Saparata asks, grimacing. 

“I’m… not sure. Most of the citizens who managed to escape regrouped to break into the Capital and destroy the machine. I don’t know if they succeeded or not.”

“Because you died.”

“Yeah.” 

“So… if the government executed me, does that mean they have my head?” 

“They don’t have it anymore.”

Saparata makes a face. “Don’t tell me you have it.” 

“I—well, at one point I may have had it, but all you need to know is that it’s now with a small group of scientists who are building a new machine outside of Imperia’s control.” Fluixon pauses, then adds, “I’m sure your head is safe with them.” 

“Gross,” Saparata says. “Who are the scientists?”

Fluixon shifts in place. “I don’t think I can tell you that.” 

“Uh, yeah, you can. What am I going to do about it? I’m not from the same dimension, or whatever.” 

At that, Fluixon seems to consider his point. “Well, a few of them are defectors, like Thomas, and—”  

“Thomas?” Saparata says a little too loudly, now sitting upright in his seat. 

“Uh, yeah. What, is he in this world, too?” 

“Um.” Saparata clears his throat. “Was. He’s dead now.” 

“Oh.” 

A flash of disappointment flashes across Fluixon’s face. Saparata doesn’t know how to feel about the parallels. 

Eventually, Fluixon sighs. “Alright, you have a go now. How did I die? The other me?” 

“That’s…” 

Saparata looks away from Fluixon and stops mid-sentence. 

And then he gets out of his chair so quickly that it scrapes the floor, his eyes widening as they land on Cass, who’s standing on the top step of the spiral staircase in the corner of the room, her hand reaching for the hilt of her sword.