Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Grian woke to knocking on his door. 

It was the same way he was woken up every day, the sharp thump thump thump as annoying as any other alarm. Harsher, scarier, meant to intimidate, but still: annoying. 

Grian groaned, rolling over in his bed. His body felt weak and tired, but the insistent banging didn't relent. Frustration lapped at his tired mind and all he wanted was to roll over again and never get up. 

But he knew he couldn't.

He was smarter than that. 

So he pulled himself out of his excuse for a bed, shoving his lingering annoyance away. The knocking continued as he stood, an ever-constant reminder that he had to hurry. He had things to do, places to be, a false persona to dawn.

“Xelqua!” a deep voice outside the door yelled, and Grian cringed. The name felt like a brand across his skin, but he shoved the hurt away. 

“I'm up!” he snapped back, the anger hot on his tongue. But it faded immediately when the knocking stopped.

“What was that?” the voice outside asked, tone dropping dangerously low, and even though it was probably a petty guard, a small spark of panic lit Grian. 

Still, it was difficult to swallow back another harsh reply. He closed his eyes and forced out, through gritted, sharp teeth, “Nothing.” 

The guard sounded smug. “That's what I thought.” And the knocking restarted. 

Grian felt like ripping out his feathers, but he managed to quench the urge. He knew he'd messed up with the snappy reply, but come on. He was the Watchers’ top assassin, their best pet. He didn't need a guard wake-up-call every morning. 

But he didn't dare complain. He knew by now that talking back never helped.

In fact, it normally made everything significantly worse.

The consistent thumping from the door drew Grian back down to Earth, urging him to hurry up and get ready. 

So he did. His body felt sore from sleep, his wings even doubly so, but his room was far too small for him to stretch them out fully. In fact, the word ‘room’ was too generous. It was more like a glorified closet. The four white walls managed to contain a tiny bed and a dresser, but that was about the extent of it. It was bare and cold and came with one singular blanket. 

Still, despite its size, it was still a distinct upgrade from his last room. At least this room came with a bed. At least this floor wasn't freezing concrete. At least this room wasn't a cell.

Grian had learned to take what he could get. 

Still, the tiny space made getting ready particularly annoying. He always walked away with his wings itching, sore from sleep and needing to be preened and stretched.

Whatever. He told himself it didn’t matter. As long as he had a room, he was fine.

The never ending thumping got louder, and Grian stifled a groan. He thought about being stubborn, about refusing to dress, but decided against it. The needless rebellion would just make his already difficult life more difficult.

The banging cheered him on as he dragged himself to the dresser and changed into silk, black fabric that fit tight against his skin.

Stealth clothes. 

When he was dressed, he turned his attention to his hair. It wasn’t exactly long, but it wasn’t short like it used to be. He hated the awkward middle length it was, but he was only allowed to get it cut once every few months.

The Head Watchers didn't want him near anything sharp when he wasn't on a mission. Too dangerous, they said. 

Whether it was dangerous for them or for Grian, he could never be sure.

Either way, he shoved the resentment away. He knew there was no use for it. 

Nothing ever changed around here. 

So he sucked it up and used his fingers to brush through the tangled strands. When he was done, he pulled the longer pieces behind his ears and used a rubber band to tie a messy knot at the nape of his neck.

Good enough. 

Satisfied, he turned to his door. The knocking had yet to relent, and Grian made sure his taloned feet were silent as he crept towards the wood. Without so much as a warning, he threw the door open, relishing the momentary look of shock and fear on the guard’s face. For a moment, the Watcher in front of Grian looked stupid: his fist hanging suspended in the air, poised to bang again, his lips parted in surprise, his eyes wide. 

But then that moment passed and the guard’s face morphed into something far crueler. There was a sharp flash of anger in his eyes, which was the only warning Grian had before the man drew back his hand and–

Smack. 

The pain didn't register at first. It was just a tingling feeling across the right side of Grian's face, until that tingling mounted and mounted into a sharp feeling that had him cringing. 

He'd been slapped across the face. 

It wasn't anything new. In fact, it was almost as much part of his morning routine as the knocking was; Watcher guards loved to throw their weight around. And to them, that meant throwing hands, too. 

That didn’t change the fact that it hurt. 

At least…at least the guards were weak. The hit hadn't hurt that much; just enough to sting like harsh weather. 

Just enough to show Grian how little he was worth. 

The guard looked smug with his performance, a pleased grin tilting the edges of his lips. Grian could feel the resentment building inside of him as he stared at that look, the desire to hit back nearly overtaking him.  

Technically, he was a higher rank than the guards. He was an assassin, a pet that the Head Watchers had trained to do their killing for them. If anything, it was him who should be slapping the guard. 

But he knew rank didn't matter in this circumstance. Everyone in the Watcher group knew that Grian was just a glorified slave, beaten into submission, sharpened into something dangerous, but only outside these walls. 

Inside, he was just another dog. 

And dogs can be treated however you'd like. 

The only form of retaliation that Grian could do was reporting the guard to the Head Watchers. But everyone knew he would never do that. It would be like admitting how weak he was straight to the people who always called him weak. 

There wasn't really anything he could do. 

He was trapped.

So Grian didn't do anything. Instead, he forced his face into the blank, emotionless expression he had mastered over the years and pulled his shaky hands behind his back. He bowed slightly in proper Watcher greeting, as was expected of him. 

Better to be a good little soldier. Better to do as he was told than risk the punishment of disobedience. 

The guard didn’t bow back, as he was supposed to. Grian's face burned from the slap, but it was something more, something like humiliation that tinted his skin red. The relationship between the guard and him was, in theory, supposed to be a solid one, built out of mutual respect. 

But Grian wasn’t very respected. 

The guard placed his hands on his hips and looked down at Grian smugly. His eyes were lighted with pride, with arrogance, marveling at someone he perceived to be beneath him. He relished the moment for a few seconds before scoffing and turning down the hall. 

Grian closed his eyes, the hurt almost tangible, and counted to five. When he reached the number, he stood up straight, opened his eyes, and followed the guard. 

The hallway was dim and narrow. There were no windows, but the Watcher hideout operated under some sort of magic that allowed the walls to imitate outside lighting. When it was noon, they glowed bright. When it was midnight, the halls were practically pitch black. Today, they were a dull grey that washed blearily over the floor tiles, so Grian knew it was early in the morning. Probably around four, at the latest five. 

Typical. 

The guard continued to stomp his way down the hall, his footsteps heavy on the floor. Grian wrinkled his nose at the needless sound. He hated having a babysitter; he knew his way around the hideout better than almost anyone. After all, he’d been there for years, training in combat, growing in strength, and learning the best ways to kill someone. 

Honestly, the last thing he needed was a babysitter. 

Still, none of that changed the fact that Grian wasn’t very respected, let alone trusted. He hadn’t been born as a Watcher, which made him automatically an outsider. No amount of training or time could ever change that.

Grian didn't belong here. He was reminded of that daily, every time he looked in the mirror, every time he was punished for some stupid mistake he'd made.

He wasn't like the other Watchers, born and raised in the cult they called home. No, instead, he’d been taken when he was young, just a small child. Stolen from his parents, his sister, his cousin. 

Sometimes, he laid awake at night and thought about his family. Did they know what he had become? Did they know the monster he’d been morphed into? Did they know that the feared assassin Xelqua, the avian that hunted in the night and killed without mercy, was him?

He hoped not. 

He hoped they thought he was dead. That would be easier for all of them.

Even so, on other nights, he wondered if they ever looked for him. If they thought about him when they were trying to sleep, if his sister ever woke up gasping, feeling like she was missing a part of herself.

He would never know. He almost never wanted to find out. 

Pain was easier to carry alone.

Still, despite all the wrong doings the Watchers had inflicted on him, Grian spent a lot of time thinking up ways to gain more trust from them. More trust meant more freedom, and that was something Grian needed. 

He wanted it, craved it. Freedom was a drug and Grian was like every addict: hopelessly ensnared and captivated all at once. He wanted time to himself, he wanted to go outside. 

Even if it was just for a few moments, the outside world was something Grian sought every chance he could. His whole life was confined to the dreary, mockful walls of the Watcher hideout. The only time he ever even left was when he was sent on a mission. 

And those weren’t very pleasant. 

Grian could feel the memories crawling up his spine and he forced them away. He couldn’t afford to succumb to them, couldn't afford to get lost down that road. Not now, not ever, not if he wanted to avoid punishment. 

He just–he did his job. He killed who he was told to kill and he left all the blood outside the hideout. He didn’t carry any of it inside with him, didn't let it stain his hands until red was the only colour he could see.

Not anymore. 

He couldn’t afford to. 

The guard in front of him finally dipped into double doors on the left. Grian followed him into the large room where everyone took their meals. It was about half empty, with completely bare tables lining most of the room. Grian supposed it was a bit too early for most of the other Watchers to be awake, let alone eating.

The guard who had woken him up almost immediately disappeared into the crowd, going to dine with his friends. His job, to escort Grian to breakfast, was officially over, and he wasn’t doing one thing he didn’t have to. 

Grian tried not to be angry. He tried not to feel alone, tried not to feel like the black sheep he was. He knew that most of the avians here were here of their own free will, but that didn’t mean they never got punished, either. 

The guard was just–he was probably worried about breaking a rule, or something, so he went off as fast as possible. It wasn't personal. 

It was fine. 

So Grian screwed his face into the impassive, expressionless stare that was befitting of a good little soldier. He wasn’t hungry this early in the morning, but he made his way to the avian-safe table and filled a plate anyway. He knew no matter what that it was smart to eat whenever he could, in case that privilege was taken away. 

He could feel the eyes of the guards and other Watchers in the room settle on him as he sat at an empty table in the corner of the room. He hated the feeling of everyone looking at him, hated the way it made his skin crawl. He knew he stood out like a sore thumb, but still–couldn’t they at least act like they had some decency?  

But he didn’t say anything, didn’t give any indication that it bothered him at all. If he did, that would be taken as weakness, and weakness was absolutely off limits.

He was Xelqua, infamous assassin in all the land. Nothing bothered him, not even a slap to the face that was sure to show, delivered by a lowly guard.

Even so, Grian ate quickly. As expected, the early-morning food turned his stomach, but he shoved the nausea away. It wasn’t anything new. 

He knew he had training right after breakfast, so as soon as he was done, he stood up and left the room, feeling eyes on him the whole time. 

It was stupid to leave without his escort. That was definitely against the rules, and could result in punishment for both of them, but Grian didn’t really care. He just wanted to get away from all the prying eyes of the others, and the best way to do that was to flee down the hallway toward the training grounds. 

Training was one of the only things that could keep his demons at bay. Grian hated what training meant, hated that he was practising how to end someone’s life, but at least it took his mind off his own problems. When he was training, the only thing he was thinking about was how to shove a dagger into a person’s chest so he hit all the major organs, or how to strangle someone without leaving absurdly noticeable marks. He wasn’t thinking about his family, or his punishments, or the life he might have had if he never got taken. 

Just killing. 

So he found himself on the training grounds often. When he wasn’t on a mission to assassinate some poor political leader, or eating, or sleeping, he was here, practising with every weapon he could get his hands on. 

So that’s what he did. For hours, Grian stabbed and jabbed with a dagger, sparred with other Watchers, shot his bow and arrow. Everything he could to keep his skills sharp and his mind at bay. 

When lunch finally rolled around, Grian was a sweaty, gasping mess. A different guard from earlier came to escort him to the meal room, and this time, Grian followed like he was supposed to. He’d already broken the rules once today. No benefit in doing it again. 

He sat at the same empty table he had before, eating quickly, the way he’d been trained to. He was just standing up to go back to the training room when he felt a tap on his shoulder. 

Now, the thing about being a trained assassin is that your body reacts before your mind does. Your instincts are sharp, honed to detect even the slightest threat and to distinguish it immediately. You act first and ask questions sometimes. 

So when Grian felt the touch on his shoulder, he didn't think. He just instantly whipped around, his instincts taking over, possessing his body without any warning. His body moved without his permission and he reached out towards the person, grabbing their wrist and forearm with both hands and twisting. His vision was spotted with black, his ears ringing loudly, his heart thumping in his chest like a ​prisoner. He didn't care what he was doing, so long as the threat was eliminated.

But, slowly, his vision cleared and the ringing in his ears faded, only to be replaced by delicate, boyish screaming. 

Grian gasped and dropped the wrist he was holding, but it was too late. The guard who’d tapped him on the shoulder was a young boy with large, wide eyes. A new recruit. 

A new recruit with a now broken wrist. 

Grian stifled a flinch, the regret and shock heavy as it settled on his shoulders. For a moment, his hands almost reached toward the boy, to soothe him, to help, but he pulled them away like he’d been burned. 

He couldn't. If he let the whole room see that weakness, he was—he would be practically inviting punishment to his door.

So instead, Grian crossed his arms to hide the shakiness to his fingers. He watched the boy cry and sob and cradle his definitely snapped wrist, the tears fat as they raced down the pale face. He was making a scene, drawing the attention of everyone in the room, but he probably didn't know how to control his emotions any better. 

The kid couldn’t have been older than fourteen. 

Grian swallowed thickly, the sharp bout of guilt almost enough to break his facade. The only thing that held it together was the feeling of eyes on him, wondering how the dreaded assassin Xelqua would react to what he had done. 

Grian cringed and lifted his eyes slightly. He scanned the room, ignoring the crying boy in front of him. Finally, he spotted the group of teenage guard recruits, snickering in the corner. 

Ah. A dare. Those boys had dared the younger recruit to tap him on the shoulder. 

Grian could feel a feeling bubbling in his stomach, but he couldn’t name it. Rage. Annoyance. Guilt, humiliation. He was a potion of emotion, a tidal wave, a volcano on the verge of erupting, but he couldn’t show any of it.

Worst of all was the fear. That was the hardest emotion to hide. He could feel it sinking its sharp claws into him, ripping him apart, a reminder that he had definitely, one hundred percent broken the rules. 

You’re a soldier, he reminded himself, fighting to stop shaking, shoving everything aside. He turned back to the boy in front of him, his stomach dropping, just a little bit. Act like it. 

“What do you need?” he growled, lowly, crouching down to the boy’s height. 

The young guard flinched, and Grian’s heart just about broke. This kid was afraid of him. 

He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. 

Most children fear monsters. 

“I-I-” the guard stuttered, looking towards the group of older kids, tattle-telling with his eyes. But he didn’t give them away. “Nothing.”

Grian sighed, exhaustion and defeat catching up with him at once. “Sit down,” he told the boy. 

The kid immediately did as he was told. Everyone else in the room was still watching, engrossed in the story. Grian knew he should pretend to lose it, to be angry, to punish the boy. 

That was his reputation. The untameable Xelqua, fearless and feared assassin in all of the land. The only person who could cow him was death itself. 

Lies. All of it. Grian may be Xelqua, and he may be an assassin for the Watchers, but he was anything but fearless. 

And he was very easily cowed. 

Still, this was an opportunity to remind everyone who he was. He could strike fear into everyone around him, could punish this boy for even bothering to speak to him. By doing that, he'd be indirectly proving to the guards that they couldn't walk all over him. That he was still dangerous.

That was what he should do. 

But one look into the young guard’s tearful eyes and he knew he couldn’t. 

“Give me your hand,” he told the boy quietly. He could see the panic in the kid’s eyes, could see him debating the risk of disobeying. 

He must’ve thought better of it because slowly, very slowly, he offered his bent wrist to Grian. His face was screwed up, like he was bracing for impact. 

Grian swallowed thickly, suddenly aware, again, of the eyes on him. If he did this, it would surely get back to the Head Watchers. He’d definitely be punished. 

Sighing, surrendering to his fate, Grian grabbed the wrist as gently as he could. His heart hurt when the boy looked so surprised at the soft touch. 

“I’m sorry for hurting you” Grian whispered, quietly, so no one would hear him. “I know you just did this on a dare. So I'm going to heal it. When I do, I want you to scream, like you’re hurt really bad. Okay?”

The boy looked shocked, but he nodded hesitantly, leaning forward to catch all of Grian's words. 

Grian took a deep breath and closed his eyes. No going back now. 

Now, Grian wasn’t very well versed in Watcher magic, but he knew some, and healing was one of the easiest. Especially for an injury so small. 

Of course, he’d only ever learned how to heal people other than himself. The Head Watchers had made sure of that, so that he couldn't treat his own injuries. They wanted punishments to hurt for a long, long time. 

And they wanted those punishments to scar. 

Grian shoved the thoughts away and let the power pour out of him and into the boy’s hand. He knew it didn’t hurt, but the moment the power touched the boy, he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Grian flinched at the noise, face flushing, but he kept his eyes closed and concentrated. 

No one stepped in to try and help the wailing guard. Most of them were probably enjoying what they thought was an entertaining show. 

But Grian knew that some of them–particularly the senior guards–would recognise what he was really doing. They would know he was healing the kid.

And they would report him for it. 

Grian finished the process and opened his eyes, looking solely at the wrist, and tried to tell himself he didn’t care. So what if he was punished? He was used to it. 

“Done,” he whispered, after a moment, dropping the boy’s hand. “Act hurt.” 

The kid was a great actor. He groaned and cried and sobbed his way out of the room, cradling his hand like it was still broken. Grian knew it wasn’t, he knew it was probably a little sore but definitely leagues better than before. 

He let out a breath, telling himself there was no reason to feel regretful. He’d kept his reputation, at least to most in the room, and even though punishment was sure, he could–he could deal with it. 

He could. 

Grian swallowed thickly and worked to wipe all emotion from his face. The show wasn't over; he had to remain impassive, a blank slate, an expressionless canvas. 

He turned that gaze on the group of teenage guards. He debated going over there, knocking them around a bit, but he decided against it. He didn’t want to hurt anyone else, even if he did think they deserved a big smack on the head for what they had subjected that poor boy to.

Still, all he did was focus back on his meal, but he realised quickly that he wasn’t hungry anymore. He was hyperaware of every eye in the room still trained on him, some in fear, some in satisfaction. 

Others in knowing. 

And that was the part that was deterring his appetite so much. The dread, the fear. He was expecting the call from the Head Watchers any minute. Surely the senior guards who recognised what he was doing would have told on him by now.

It was only a matter of time. 

But shockingly, the minutes allotted for lunch slowly ticked by without any more incident. Everyone else went back to eating. No one came to summon Grian, no Head Watcher burst into the room. 

Lunch was just about to end, and Grian was actually feeling relieved. Maybe he’d been wrong; maybe the senior guards hadn’t understood what he was doing after all. Or maybe, more likely, they just didn’t care. 

Grian grabbed onto the possibility with both hands, like it would fade away if he didn't keep it close. He finished eating and stood, daring to hope, daring to feel the desperate joy that came with knowing he got away with something punishable. 

“Xelqua,” a voice said, and immediately the hope dropped, shattering like a broken glass on the floor. It was replaced by horrifying, knowing dread, but Grian shoved that emotion from his face and turned with blank eyes to the guard who had said his name. “You are needed in the throne room.” 

Grian nodded, once. The guard didn’t have any sort of reaction either, but Grian thought he saw the flash of satisfaction in the man’s eyes. He was glad that Grian was being punished. 

Whatever. It didn’t matter. 

Shakily, Grian made his way to the doors and slipped out without another word. As he started towards the throne room, he tried to tell himself that he’d known this was coming. He’d broken the rules, so of course it would get back to the Head Watchers. 

It always did. 

He continued down the hall almost robotically, like someone was tugging on his limbs, like he was being forced there. In a way, he guessed he was, and when he saw the pristine double doors, illuminated in a mocking attempt of afternoon sunlight, Grian could feel his heart beating in his ears. 

He didn’t want to go in there. He had no good memories in there, he didn’t want to, he didn’t–

But Grian forced himself to move.

Better to get it over with. Better to face it head on. 

So he pushed the doors open. 

The throne room wasn’t an actual throne room. That was just what everyone called it. In reality, it was a large, dimly lit space where the Head Watchers carried out affairs. They sat on a raised dais in the front of the room, all in large chairs, all wearing bright white robes. 

This was one of the only spaces in the entire hideout that wasn’t enchanted to imitate the outside world. The Head Watchers liked to keep it dark and ominous, imitating a cave-like space. For intimidation, Grian guessed. 

It worked. 

Grian forced himself not to shake as he made his way to the center of the too-quiet room. He stared straight ahead and dipped into a bow, not bothering to look at the Head Watchers. It was better if he didn’t see them. He knew that by now.  

“Xelqua,” one of the Watchers finally said, after what felt like a long time, voice echoing across the space. The single word was loud and Grian internally winced. Outwardly, he gave away nothing. “We have heard of your incident in the meal room.”

Grian stayed bowing. He let out a slow breath through his nose, the carbon dioxide shaky as it entered the air. He was trying to remain emotionless, like a statue, but he could feel the muscles in his wings tensing and untensing, anxious energy moving them. He wanted to twist his hands behind his back, his nervous habit, but he forced himself to keep them clasped in front of him. At least his face was pointed at the ground and the Head Watchers couldn’t see his expression. 

“You are our greatest creation,” a new voice started. It was a woman’s, but Grian wasn't sure whose; he'd never bothered to learn the Head Watchers’ names. It was better to think of them as faceless, fake people. Either way, her words were more delicate, gentle, but that almost made the word creation hurt more. “We can’t have you acting out and injuring our guards. And we certainly can’t have you healing them immediately after.”

Grian sank farther into his bow. It was an uncomfortable position, but it was the expected one. He knew he shouldn’t move until he was asked to speak. His heart was beating fast. 

“What kind of message does that send?” the woman continued. “What kind of reputation does that build? You are our Xelqua, our assassin. Our killer. Our monster. Act like it.” 

The last part was harsh and Grian stifled a flinch, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Rise,” the man from before finally commanded, and Grian opened his eyes and stood up straight. His back and wings hurt from the hunched position, but he almost preferred it to having to look up at the Head Watchers. 

“Under ordinary circumstances,” the man continued, eyes squinting at Grian cruelly, like he was some sort of bug, “you would be immediately punished.” 

“Sir?” Grian asked, the word jumping out, the surprise genuine on his tongue and tasting like blood. 

“Do not speak out of turn!” the woman yelled, her delicate voice gone, and this time, Grian couldn’t hide his flinch. 

Right. He’d forgotten. 

Heart thumping, he sank into another apologetic bow. The silence that settled in the room was almost worse than if he was getting punished. 

Grian just–he didn’t understand. He deserved to be punished. What did they mean he wasn't? Why? 

His mind raced through the possibilities, the reasons, trying to work it all out. He arrived at the conclusion at the same time that the man announced, “We have a new mission for you.” 

Grian slowly straightened out again. He wasn't supposed to, but the news had landed heavy in his gut and he couldn’t keep bowing. 

A new mission. 

A, a new target. 

It felt like all the life had been drained out of him. He didn’t feel scared anymore. 

Just numb. 

Grian lifted his eyes upwards to look at the Head Watchers. Five of them, but only two had spoken this entire meeting. Either way, they all looked smug. 

They knew this was worse than any punishment they could have given him. They knew that it was another life he would be responsible for. Another person he would end, another task he would complete like the dog he was. 

And they knew that would kill him. 

“It’s a week's journey, at least,” the spokesman continued, when the news had settled like cobwebs. “You’ll be traveling to Hermitville. It’s a far off village.”

“Who’s the target?” Grian said, but his words came out softly. 

“What was that, Xelqua?” the woman snapped. “Speak up, now.”

Grian swallowed. “Who’s the target?” he asked, louder, his words reverberating across the floor. 

The spokesman didn’t hesitate. He’d likely been expecting the question. “A well-known merchant.”

Grian could feel confusion rippling through him. Why was he being sent to kill a merchant? What was the point of that?

He didn’t get the chance to ask. The Watcher continued, “We have evidence that this particular merchant is part of a rebel group.”

Oh. 

Oh. 

Grian swallowed thickly. If this ‘evidence’ was true, then this merchant, whoever they were, was very dangerous to the Watchers. 

Technically, the Watchers themselves were a rebel group. Kind of like a cult, more or less, a secret organisation that carried out their own agenda. 

Except they weren’t really secret. Instead, they were the infamous and feared criminal group that wreaked havoc on the land with seemingly no real reason. The government was all but useless in catching them, but other rebel groups had risen up over the years to try and take them down. 

None had succeeded. Grian had been ordered to make sure of that. 

And here he was again, no longer Grian but Xelqua, being sent to assassinate yet another member of society. Someone innocent. 

At least, way more innocent than Grian could ever be. 

“What’s their name?” Grian asked, softly. He was speaking out of turn, but no one corrected him. 

Instead, silence settled sharply in the room, sliding in like a haunting ghost. Grian was expecting the answer to come from the main man who had been speaking, but instead it came from one of the other Head Watchers who had yet to talk. The woman all the way to the end. 

“His name,” she said, “is Scar Goodtimes.” 

Chapter Text

Scar Goodtimes sat in the uncomfortable, springy chair opposite Mayor Xisuma. 

Once upon a time, that chair would have been comfy. Now, the remnants of a once thick cushion slumped on hard wood, and armrests that were once sturdy clung on like dead leaves. Every time Scar found himself sitting in this chair, he shifted uncomfortably and said the same thing: “You need to replace this.”

Across from him, Xisuma let out a sigh and sat back in his own seat. An amused sort of glint flashed in his eyes, but he replied with the same rehearsed phrase he always used: “When that chair becomes more important than the rest of the town, I'll replace it.” 

Scar laughed lightly at the predictable, familiar response. “Fair enough,” he said, bringing his hands forward and resting them on the smooth wood that made up Xisuma's desk. He liked the way the cool material felt on his warm fingers. It helped ground him a little. Plus, it placed his hands in full view, which made it easier for him to resist the urge to steal something from Xisuma’s too-fancy-for-Hermitville office. Like that nice feathered pen Scar was eyeing. 

“It's about time you came to see me,” Xisuma told him, glaring slightly. “You've been in town for a week.”

Scar offered an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, I've been busy getting everything settled and cleaned back at my apartment. I promise I'll come by more often.” 

Xisuma's face melted into warmth, his mock glare fading as quick as it had come. “Well, we're glad to have you back in Hermitville for the winter.” As he was talking, he let his gaze drop down to Scar's patient hands, squinting his eyes at them. He knew the Vex had a back case of slippery fingers; some things just ended up in Scar's pockets without him even making the conscious decision to steal them.

“Glad to be back, Mayor,” Scar replied, an easy smile stretching across his lips. He lifted his gaze from the pen just in time to catch Xisuma's eyeroll. 

“Scar, you've known me for ages. Do not call me Mayor.” 

That triggered an eruption of laughter from Scar and he leaned backward, taking his thieving hands with him. “Fine then, Xisuma.” 

The words were layered in sarcasm, but it was in a friendly, unserious way, and the two exchanged warm smiles. The kind that can only be shared between close friends. 

“I hear you've been up to no good,” Xisuma finally continued, that content little grin residing on his face like it permanently lived there. Xisuma was a Voidwalker, so he wore a visor-like mask, but it was slightly transparent, enough for Scar to make out his permanent little smile lines. 

He could also see the stress. But he supposed that was bound to happen when you were mayor. 

“What else is new?” Scar shot back, quickly, a smirk lifting his lips. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked smugly at Xisuma, almost daring him to argue. 

Instead, Xisuma smiled and shook his head. “Never change, Scar.” 

“Don't plan to.” 

“So tell me, then,” Xisuma continued, shifting slightly in his chair, “What have you been up to in the past months?” 

So Scar told him. He settled into the easy conversion, the simple words flowing from his mouth without much thought. Things were like that, when you were around Xisuma. Everything just seemed more comfortable, more quiet. He had a way of easing even the wildest worries in your mind. It was part of the reason he was such a good mayor. 

He started with talking about his travels. Scar was a merchant, and he sold almost anything he could get his hands on, to just about anyone who was willing to pay for it. The job required a lot of hours on the road, almost all year long. He got to see places unlike anything else he’d ever laid eyes on, but traveling so much every year took a toll on him. 

So in the winter, he returned to his roots: Hermitville. The weather gave him an excuse (“I couldn’t possibly travel in such cold!”) but almost everyone knew the real reason he came back was because he missed his home. 

No matter where he went, Scar would always be a Hermit. 

“--and then I saw the most beautiful river,” he was saying, head tilted back in reminiscence. 

Xisuma’s voice carried a gentle smile. “That’s wonderful, Scar. It sounds like it’s been a good year.”

“Understatement!” Scar sang-song, pinning his gaze back on Xisuma. “I made more profit this year than the past two combined.” 

Xisuma’s eyes widened, but only slightly. “Wow.”

“I know, right? And I only broke the law a few times.”

The Voidwalker let out a sharp laugh, and Scar joined him, but they both knew it wasn’t a joke. 

Because before Scar had become a merchant, he’d been a different kind of liar: a thief. 

Really, the two weren’t that different. Fibbing, distraction, slight-of-hand, they were all crafts of both trades. It was just how you used them that decided the difference. 

For a long time, Scar had been on the other side of things. The illegal side. He’d been good at conning people out of their money, swindling them out of the very coats on their backs. He had a way with words, a convincing tone that he lathered onto every syllable. 

And it had worked. He’d made money, and he hadn’t felt guilty while doing it. Why should he stifle the urge to steal when they had more than enough to spare? It didn’t matter to him if it was fair, or if his target had earned their money honestly. 

Coin was coin. 

But one day he’d been too confident, and he was barely an adult when that arrogance had landed him straight in the Hermitville Jail. 

He’d expected to be there for a while, alone in that concrete room, but a miracle had stumbled right into his little unkempt life. 

The mayor had paid for his bail. 

It had come as a biting surprise, when the sheriff came to unlock his cell and let him back out onto the dirty streets, only for him to run directly into Xisuma himself.

Back then, Scar had been a spiteful, snarky kid. Xisuma had taken him to his office, sat him in that same old chair, and all the while Scar remained angry and rude and ungrateful. 

But Xisuma was patient. He gave Scar food. Talked to him. 

And after a while, Scar talked back. 

He told Xisuma, through gritted teeth, how his parents had died when he was just a kid. How he’d learned to steal to make ends meet, and how stealing had become kind of like a drug to him. 

And how he'd been stealing ever since, even though he didn't need to anymore. 

Despite it all, Xisuma didn’t judge him. He helped him. Offered him a job, and when Scar declined, he helped him discover how to use his less-than ideal skills in an actual career. He gave him a sharp shove in the right direction, set him directly on the path to becoming a merchant. 

Really, Scar owed everything to Xisuma. Had it not been for him taking a chance on the overconfident, arrogant kid in town, Scar would probably still be rotting in that tired cell down the road. 

Still, no matter what, Scar couldn’t keep everything legal. He may have given up his con life, but there was no stopping his slippery fingers when they saw something they wanted. 

Like that stupid pen. 

“I’m glad you’re doing well,” Xisuma said, softly, when he had stopped laughing. 

Scar breathed in deeply. “Me, too. It’s always nice to be back here.”

“That’s what a home is supposed to feel like,” Xisuma agreed. “Everyone’s thrilled you’re here, even if you've been busy settling in. Have you been to Tango's new diner, yet?”

Scar shook his head. “I’ve seen it, though. Hungry Hermits, was it?”

Xisuma cringed. “Yeah, that’s the one. He said the name was a work in progress.”

Scar chuckled. “I think it's great. I’ll have to check it out.”

“Definitely do.”

Their conversation settled into something quiet, the silence comfortable as it laid in the room. Scar lifted his hands and pressed them on the cool, smooth wood of the desk again. 

“I do have something I want to say,” Xisuma finally continued, looking at Scar's marked hands. His jovial, amused spirit had dropped slightly. 

Scar felt dread worm in his stomach. He thought he knew what his friend might say, and he didn’t want to hear it. 

That didn’t stop Xisuma, though. The Voidwalker leaned forward in his seat and placed his elbows on the table, intertwining his fingers together. Behind his visor, his eyes looked concerned. “You need to stop talking about the Watchers.”

Xisuma’s voice had dropped into a whisper, but Scar heard every syllable like an anthem. That last word, Watchers, sent a shiver down his spine. It was like by just speaking the name, the room had grown colder, darker, more sinister. 

Scar ran his fingers on the wood of the desk and looked away. Emotions swirled in his gut, but he couldn’t name them. “I don’t,” he whispered. 

Xisuma sighed, deflating. “Scar,” he said. 

“I don’t!” Scar snapped, yanking his hands from the table again. He shoved them in his pockets, but that felt too warm, so he gripped the armrests instead, his knuckles white from the force. “I don’t.”

Xisuma looked sad. His eyebrows were turned up, worried, looking at Scar like he was that same thieving kid he’d bailed out of jail all those years ago.

In a way, Scar supposed he was. 

“I know you’re lying,” Xisuma finally murmured. 

It was Scar’s turn to deflate, to sink back into his chair like the rope holding him upright had snapped. The fight practically drained out of him in waves. “How did you know?”

Xisuma shook his head. “It’s a small land, Scar. And it’s an even smaller village. People who keep in touch with you throughout the year hear whispers of the things you say. Word gets around and around until everyone knows you're openly speaking against them.” 

Frustration tinged the edges of Scar’s vision. He tried to think of who might have told. Jimmy. Mumbo, anxious as he was. 

He tried not to be upset with them. They were probably concerned, so they went to Xisuma.

Whatever. 

“Everything I say is true,” Scar finally managed through gritted teeth. He felt like a scolded child. “Besides, they’re an illegal organisation. I can say whatever I want about them.” 

Xisuma shook his head, almost sadly. “I know you think that, Scar, but that’s not true. The Watchers…they’re not some gang, or something. They’re dangerous. They go after people who speak against them.” 

“You mean their assassin?” Scar scoffed. “He doesn’t scare me.”

“He should,” Xisuma snapped, finally getting fed up with Scar’s old snarky attitude. “Xelqua has killed countless times, sometimes for seemingly no reason. That avian is someone to fear.”

Scar wrinkled his nose, the anger like lava where it touched his tongue. He hated hearing that name, hated it possibly more than anything else in the world. It left a bad taste in the air, a bad feeling creeping over Xisuma's office like darkness. 

Xelqua. 

The assassin was well known throughout all the towns in the land. Every person who knew anything knew that whispered name, the chills it brought, the fear it struck into people. Even the children were well aware of it, though most thought it was the name of a fictional monster.

They weren’t far off. Xelqua was the feared, dreaded killer that showed no mercy. What else is that, but a monster?

And Xisuma wasn’t lying, either. Xelqua had killed countless times, way too many to keep track. 

Sometimes, there was a clear reason for the murder: a political figure bent on ending the Watchers, an opposing rebel group leader. But other times, the murders seemed random. Authorities would find seemingly innocent people, shot through the heart or sliced through the neck, dead in their own homes, a Watcher eye scribbled onto their left shoulder, a little child left without their parents. 

If there was anybody to be afraid of, it was that avian. 

“He could come after you, Scar,” Xisuma said, as if reading Scar's mind, and it was impossible for Scar not to pick up on the fear in the Voidwalker’s voice. “He’s been close to you before.”

Another true statement. 

He had been close to Xelqua. Too close. 

He knew that. He also knew that Xisuma was right. Scar's preaching against the Watchers was reckless, even if everyone agreed with him. His blatant disrespect for them was dangerous.

But— “They’re horrible,” he said, to Xisuma, the anger hot on his words, “and they need to be stopped.”

“Scar,” Xisuma started, but Scar didn’t let him speak. 

“No, Xisuma, I can’t stop. I know it’s dangerous for me, but someone has to stand up against them. They can’t keep kidnapping and stealing and killing with no repercussions.”

“I agree,” Xisuma said, quickly. “You know I agree, Scar. We all do. But we can’t change it.” 

“We’ll never change it if we don’t try.” 

Xisuma shook his head again. He was disappointed, Scar could read it in the ways his eyes looked tired. “It’s not just dangerous for you,” he finally said, softly, not meeting Scar’s eyes. “It’s dangerous for all of us.”

Scar froze in his seat, the words reverberating in his mind. He didn’t let them settle, didn’t give them time to take root. Instead, he jumped to his feet and left the office, slamming the door behind him. The anger and fear that swarmed his mind threatened to overtake him, but Scar didn’t stop. He raced down the stairs, threw open the front doors and ran outside. 

It was evening, and the cold hit him like a slap in the face, but it felt good. It felt better than what Xisuma had been saying, that was for sure, and Scar started down the side of the street, breathing in the frozen air like a drunkard. 

He shoved his hands into his pockets, feeling the featured pen from Xisuma's desk buried in the fabric. He’d taken it the second time he’d had his hands on the desk, after Xisuma had already grown comfortable seeing them there the first time. He hadn’t noticed when Scar nabbed the pen, too caught up in the conversation. 

It was just—Xisuma didn’t–he didn’t understand. It was impossible for Scar not to speak out against the Watchers. It was just as much part of him as his thieving skills. 

And Xisuma didn't even know the full extent of his rebellion. 

Because Scar didn't just talk against the Watchers.

No, Scar was part of an underground group that actively worked to take them down. 

Gasping, he stumbled blindly down the road, his mind heavy as his thoughts swirled around. The wind picked up a bit and Scar shivered, pulling his coat tighter around himself. At least the dreary weather was enough to draw him back down to Earth, to ground him a bit. 

At least that. 

Still, his apartment was all the way across town. There was no way he would make it there in this weather without some sort of break. 

The thought made him lift his head and scan the shops lining the street. Most of them were already closed down for the night, but his eyes fell onto the one place that still had their lights on. 

Hungry Hermits. 

The irony didn’t escape him as Scar quickly crossed the street and made his way towards the restaurant. He didn’t give himself the chance to hesitate before he ducked inside. 

He was met with a blast of warm air and he sighed in relief, stomping his boots on the ground to shake the snow off before entering farther. 

The diner was pretty busy for the semi-late hour. It wasn’t anything fancy, nothing in Hermitville was, but it felt cozy as Scar stood there in the warmth. Yellow lights hung from the ceiling and nice, comfortable-looking booths lined the walls. 

“Hey!” a voice called from behind the counter, and Scar turned. 

“Skizz,” he said, his face melting into a smile as he met the other man’s eyes. The worry practically melted off of him at the sight of his friend. “How have you been, buddy?”

“Good, good. What, you’re finally visiting me?” Skizz called, moving from behind the counter. Without warning he threw his arms around Scar, greeting him like the old friends they were. He smelled like french fries and deep-fried chicken, and Scar loved it. 

“Sorry, it’s been a busy few days, moving everything back into my apartment,” Scar replied, pulling away. He gestured around the diner. “It looks great in here.”

“That was Tango,” Skizz replied, but his face was beaming, like the compliment applied to him, too. “I folded all the napkins on the tables, though!”

Scar turned to look. They were sloppy, but he could vaguely see they’d been meant to be swans. They didn't really match the rest of the decor. 

“I love them,” Scar replied earnestly. 

Skizz beamed some more. He was a hyper person, which took some getting used to, but he had a kind heart and kinder gestures. He’d helped Scar through plenty rough times in his life, and Scar had returned the favour. 

“Who’s all here?” Scar asked as Skizz led him towards the counter to order. 

“Let’s see,” Scar said, fiddling with a spare napkin, “Cub’s playing cards with Doc. Pearl and Gem are eating, and Mumbo’s working on a paper. I think that's everyone you know.” 

Scar nodded along, swiveling his head around to find the respective people. He hadn't been out in town much in the past week, and most of them he had yet to see. “In that case, let’s push some tables together.”

Skizz’s smile grew, if possible. “You got it.” 

And so they did. While Skizz worked to set everything up, Scar went around and greeted his old friends, wrapping them in hugs and catching up. Gem and Pearl told him about their respective pets, and the clients they saw at the nurse’s clinic they ran. Cub talked about fireworks he was working to perfect, and Doc was quick to mention how his latest invention was coming along. In turn, Scar told them all about his travels.  

When he got to Mumbo, he wrapped Scar in a tight hug and showed him the paper he was working on. Mumbo was an aspiring writer, working directly under Xisuma, and the job suited him well.

“It's going good,” he told Scar, showing the Vex his scribbled, barely intelligible fifty-word paper. Scar just offered a smile and decided not to comment. 

Talking with everyone was a bit awkward after so many months apart, but once the air was clear, the conversation flowed until they were all doubled over, laughing. 

When Skizz finished with the tables, they all took seats and without a word, Cub passed out cards and suddenly they were playing a game, as if they’d always belonged in this diner, around that table, with those cards. 

It just–it all felt natural. It felt like coming home, and that was the way it felt every year when Scar got back from his travels. He loved his job, but sometimes, he wished he didn’t have to leave his family. Those long days on the road could be beautiful, but they could also be something else: lonely. 

“Fries!” Skizz called out, placing a large platter in the middle, and Scar watched as everyone dug in. No one was worried about manners, not here. No one was worried about the way they were perceived because they were with like-minded, even companied people. 

That was another thing Scar loved so much about Hermitville: everyone was uniquely themselves. It didn’t matter what anyone wore, it didn’t matter how they acted or what they thought. They did what they wanted and everyone else rolled with it. It was a stark contrast to the types of people Scar sold to: stuffy, appearance-pleasing nobles who wouldn’t be caught dead inside a tavern like Hungry Hermits. 

When Scar was with those nobles, he was expected to act like them. And sometimes it took a while for him to break out of that false persona. 

But not tonight. 

No, tonight, he placed a large helping of fries on his plate and he laughed as loud as he wanted and he cheated at cards and he had a good time. He joked with Gem and threw fries at Cub and acted like himself. 

And it felt good. It felt right. 

But no matter what, he couldn’t shake the whisper of Xisuma’s voice. And somehow, sitting there, watching his friends, being with them, almost made the words worse: It’s not just dangerous for you.

Scar knew Xisuma was right. He knew that by constantly speaking out against the Watchers, by being part of a secret opposing rebel group, he was endangering the lives of his friends. 

His family. 

In any other circumstance, that would be enough to make Scar stop. To call it quits on everything, to slink into the quiet background of life and never speak out against anything else as long as he lived. If it was any other circumstance, Scar would do anything to keep that wretched demon Xelqua away from Hermitville.

But this wasn’t any other circumstance. This was regarding the Watchers. 

And Scar wanted, more than anything else, to take them down. Especially their little assassin. 

He had good reason, too.

After all, Xelqua had been the one to murder his parents. 

Chapter Text

Grian was five when he was taken.  

It had been his fault, mostly.

His family's carriage had rolled to a stop in a quiet Southern valley to give the horses a chance to rest. It was just past noon, and his mom had given him and his sister and his cousin lunch and told them to stay in the wagon while the adults talked.

But Grian hadn't listened. He'd always been stubborn, even as a little boy. 

So he'd done what came naturally to him: slid out of the car, his then colourful wings shaking happily against his back, his sticky hands leaving sage bread crumbs all over the ground. His sister and cousin told him not to, tried to call him back, but Grian told them he'd be fine as he turned to head into the forest.

The last thing he ever said to them was a lie. 

At the time, Grian hadn't planned to go far. Just a few steps in, to examine the plants and bugs and leaves. He always liked nature, and the hot Southern sun faded from his skin as he stepped into the cool shade, his mind exploding from the colours and textures of the forest. 

Distantly, he could hear his parents talking in quiet, hushed voices while they tended to the horses. Something about money being tight, but Grian didn't understand that. How could money be tight? It didn't make much sense, so he tuned them out and crouched to examine a cool spotted bug. 

Gingerly, he reached his small fingers toward the creature, but he must've scared it, because it suddenly jumped up and flew deeper into the woods. Grian laughed and followed, his footsteps crunching on the dried leaves, his mirth a foreshadowing of the events to come. 

He watched as the ladybug landed, gently, on a leaf. Grian's slowed and crept slowly towards it, reaching his hand out to catch it–

Then everything suddenly went dark. 

Some sort of bag had been shoved on his head. At the time, Grian hadn't understood what was going on, just that this wasn't right. He tried to scream, but he hardly got a breath out before a hand clamped over his mouth, the fabric roughly pressing against his lips. The grip was tight and Grian remembered it hurting, so he thrashed and kicked and swung, his mind reeling, his body feeling like it was pulled tight. But he was five and his attacker was big, and scary, and he was easily overpowered. His wings were crushed beneath him as someone threw him to the ground, the air squishing out of his lungs. 

He coughed and tried to take in oxygen, his tiny heart beating too fast in his chest, but he couldn’t seem to get a breath in. Shaking, he struggled to his feet again, hands on his knees and heaving, when a sickly sweet smell appeared under his nose. Grian breathed deeply before he realised he shouldn't. 

The drug took hold quickly. His body became weak, sluggish, tired. He collapsed back to the ground, feeling like he weighed a thousand pounds, like his head had been filled with cotton. The bag covering him shifted with the fall and Grian's blurry, wavering gaze turned to the edge of the forest. 

He wasn't that far out. He could make out the carriage, and his parents, still standing by the horses, still oblivious to what had happened. 

If Grian could just–just get there, he could get his mom, his dad…

But his vision faded to black before he could even try. 

Now, years later, the burning memory could still keep Grian up at night. What if he'd listened to his mother and never left the carriage? What if he hadn't chased that bug? Where would he be now? 

He knew he could torture himself with those thoughts every waking moment if he wasn't careful. They had a way of resurfacing every time he'd thought he'd finally buried them in the thick memories of his mind. 

His mother, his father. Did they even notice what had happened to him, or did they think he'd just wandered too deeply into the forest? Had the Watchers killed them so there were no witnesses, or let them live with the knowledge that their only son was dead or missing? 

Grian had no idea. He never asked, and no one ever told him. 

He tried to tell himself it was better that way. Those memories, those thoughts…they would tear him apart if he let them. 

So he couldn’t let them. Grian just–he had to accept the way things were. He was an assassin for the Watchers, and he would kill whoever they wanted him to kill, and that was that. 

There was nothing else. There was no other version to the story. 

He nodded his head to cement the mantra into his mind. He was at breakfast, shoving bland granola into his mouth, sitting at that same tired table he'd sat at yesterday. He took a deep breath and twisted his fingers in his lap, trying to draw himself back down to Earth.

Grian knew today was going to be a long day. He would have to train especially hard to prepare for the journey to Hermitville, not to mention the research he'd have to do on his target, Scar Goodtimes. 

He could absolutely not afford to be distracted by thoughts of his past. 

So he shoved them all aside and kept eating, mentally preparing himself for the day ahead. The minute breakfast ended, Grian was out the door and on his way to the training room. 

When he got there, he immediately jumped into training. He focused on specific killing methods, his rehearsed hands going through the motions of stabbing, of slitting throats, of firing arrows through hearts, all why his mind tried to forget what he was doing. He practised dropping poison into liquids and strangling people, and he drew eyes on sheets of paper, trying to perfect the mark he left on his victims. 

When lunch crept up on him, Grian decided against going to the meal room. He knew he should probably eat, but after spending all morning devising the best ways to murder someone, his appetite had kind of left. Instead, he headed to the library, ditching his guard escort around a corner. 

The library was a place Grian knew well. Over the years, as part of his training, he had been required to read many books on assassinations that had taken place in history. He'd long since exhausted the Watcher library, but sometimes he still referenced those stories, going over the mistakes made by past assassins that had gotten them caught. 

Despite his less than pleasant reading material, Grian took a sort of comfort in that room, surrounded by dusty books that no one else used. Of course, the Watchers screened every thing that was placed on those shelves (after all, they just couldn’t have anything that contradicted their beliefs) but it was still nice. A book was like a portal; Grian could use them to escape his reality if he needed to.

And he did need to. A lot. 

So Grian spent his lunch hour thumbing through ages, mostly skimming, but sometimes delving into the graphic murders. The explicit, unfiltered horrors would be far too much for the average person, but Grian had become numb to those types of things. It made sense; He'd been killing since he was twelve. After a while, the redness of blood stopped looking so shocking and started looking like a finished job. 

He was just pushing one of the more...vivid books back on the shelf when a timid voice sounded, “Sir?”

Grian jumped at the voice and whipped around, his heart slamming to a stop when he saw who it was.

Standing there, shifting on his small feet, was the young guard from yesterday. He was holding a thick stack of papers, his eyes anywhere but on Grian's face, his skin pale underneath his robe-like uniform. 

“Hello,” Grian replied, dumbfounded, the word sort of tumbling out. He couldn't believe the boy was here, in the library, or that he had had called Grian sir. 

“I, uh, I have some files for you…about Scar Goodtimes?” the boy started, his voice dropping lower and lower as the questioning sentence continued. Shakily, he held out the papers, his grip too-tight and crumbling them slightly. 

Grian blinked. The Head Watchers must’ve known where Grian had gone (they had a way of keeping tabs on him like that) and thought it would be a cruel joke to send the same kid he’d hurt to deliver his case files.

Whatever. Grian didn’t really care who gave him his files, so long as he got them.

The boy was still waiting patiently, a distinct shine of perspiration developing on his face. Something tugged at Grian and carefully, he reached out and took the papers slowly, gingerly. “Thank you,” he said, clearly, trying to rid his voice of the emotions he could feel threatening him. 

The boy nodded shakily. He looked nervous, but not scared like yesterday. Merely anxious about the situation. He opened his mouth to say something, thought for a moment, and then closed it again with an audible click that sounded extra loud in the quiet of the library. With a quick bow and not another word, he scurried off again. 

Weird.

Grian tried to shake the stray feelings away and went to open the files, but the clock in the room ticked loudly.

Ah. Lunch was over. 

He clutched the papers to his chest and hurried back to the training room. He was beginning to regret skipping lunch. A sort of gnawing, nauseous feeling had developed in his stomach and wouldn't go away. 

At least there weren't a lot of Watchers in the gym. Grian didn't have any more physical techniques to go over, but he made busy with his bow and arrow. He could have used the opportunity to read the files he'd been given, but he didn't want to open them when there could be prying eyes around. Plus, he knew he was supposed to wait for the privacy of his room, and he didn't need to get into any more trouble with the Head Watchers, thank you very much.

Still, while he practiced, the only thing on his mind was what could be written on those papers. Whenever he got files for his target, Grian was expected to read over all the information and know it like it was his own. Having all those facts stored in his brain made it easier to identify his target and track them, made it easier to know their routines, when they would be alone…

It made it easier to kill them. 

So finally, hours later, in the quiet of his room, after a bland salad that was supposed to be dinner, Grian cracked open the files. Normally he just skimmed them, but there was something about this case, something that ensnared him, begged him to know more. 

He listened. 

And he learned more than he wanted to. 

Scar Goodtimes was a man about Grian's age, and he was a Vex hybrid, complete with the marbled markings on his tan skin. He had wavy, silky brown hair that he kept tied away from his face. His ears were pointed, his smile bright in the photo that had captured him mid-laugh. 

He looked…happy. 

Grian swallowed thickly and moved on. Based on the short biography, Scar Goodtimes was a well-known merchant, just like the Head Watchers had said. He traveled frequently during the warm months to sell his goods to rich nobles who lived farther up North. He was decently wealthy, but his clothes were casual, if nice. He didn't seem to be the type to flaunt his riches, based on his personality traits. 

Since it was winter, that would mean Scar was residing in his hometown, Hermitville. He'd grown up there and always returned during the cold time when he couldn't travel. 

Hometown. 

Grian shifted at the word, feeling a strange sort of longing lodging in his throat, like the feeling you got when you were trying not to cry. Home. 

The word felt weird, incohesive with the rest of his mind. It had been a long time since Grian had had a home. 

Years, actually. Ever since the day the Watchers had taken him away from his family, had stripped him of all emotions and turned him into a monster on a leash. 

No, a home wasn't exactly something Grian had anymore. 

It was strange, feeling jealous over his own target. Grian was planning to kill this man, just because he was told to, and here he was wishing he could trade places with him.

How pathetic. 

He wrinkled his nose, disgusted with himself, and kept reading. 

Grian was surprised to find that there wasn’t a lot of information about Scar's family or early life, apart from the fact that his parents were deceased. And despite the Watcher's surety that Scar was part of an underground group, there wasn't actually a lot of evidence. The merchant was very vocal about his dislike for the Watchers, but still–nothing concrete. Nothing solid. 

Grian could be going to murder an innocent man. 

He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t a big deal. In fact, it probably wouldn't have been the first time. Out of all the people Grian had been forced to kill, some of them had to have been innocent. 

Not everyone was a monster like him. 

Still, he knew he couldn't afford to let himself think that way. If he did, he might hesitate, and if he did that, he'd be punished. 

The very idea was enough to make him close the file. Best not to read anymore and risk faltering. 

So he didn't. He dimmed his lights and climbed into bed, even though it was early, expecting to fall asleep quickly, the way his exhausted body normally did. 

But every time Grian closed his eyes, he saw Scar's smiling, innocent face. 

Could that man really be part of a rebel group? 

Grian was starting to doubt it. 

*****

The next day came way too fast and moved even quicker. 

He was woken up by the signature banging, but this time, Grian was ready. He'd slept in his training clothes and didn't waste any time before whipping his door open. 

He ate breakfast just as fast. He knew he was being fueled by nervous energy, the anticipation of what was to come, but he couldn't seem to calm down. 

After breakfast he headed to the training room, but it wasn't to train. 

No, he was gearing up.

Today, he’d be leaving. 

The idea came with a plethora of emotions. Excitement, fear, anxiety, guilt…they all swelled together to form a hurricane in his mind.

But Grian couldn’t be distracted. He had to focus, had to push everything away and pack and do his duty like he’d been taught to.

Since it was winter, Grian would need to wear layers. He changed out of his sticky, day old clothes, showered, and put on a brand new black suit. He pulled on a black shawl to cover his wings, a hat, and thick, heavy-duty boots. The fabric of his clothing was heavy and tight, recycling his body heat and keeping his skin warm. He packed a few more changes of clothes and extra socks and gloves. 

Then it was time for weapons. 

The first thing Grian grabbed was his old, familiar dagger. It was a small, dainty thing, with a thin purple blade, but he almost preferred his weapons to look that way. It helped when people underestimated them. 

He debated on bringing a sword, but ultimately decided against it. Swords were harder to maneuver when you killed someone in close quarters, especially if you were trying to be sneaky about it. Of course, they could get the job done, but they were messy, and Grian didn't like messy.

So he skipped over the sword and went straight for his favourite: the bow and arrow. They were his best weapon by far and the easiest for long-range killing. They provided the best stealth and the cleanest, most efficient results. Of course, there were times when the bow wasn't the best choice. He'd have to decide what to use on Scar when he got there. For his bags, he chose a simple, lightweight backpack and stuffed in dried foods and water. 

When Grian had his weapons and bags packed, he laid them in front of him and closed his eyes, tuning out the usual commotion of the training room. His weak Watcher power surged slightly and he drew on the magic, channeling it towards his luggage. His stomach dropped and his ears popped, but when he opened his eyes, his things had disappeared. 

It was an old trick. Grian's things were still readily accessible, but they were floating in the Void, untouchable unless he called them down again. They would stay hidden and out of sight. It made traveling much easier. 

After that, there wasn't much else to do. 

He was ready to go. 

Grian took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He would need to report to the throne room before he left, and he didn't know what to expect. A goodbye slap to the face? A kick to the guts, just to make sure he behaved? 

He didn't like the idea of either. All he wanted to do was slip out quietly, unseen, unnoticed. He wanted to leave. 

But, of course, that was unrealistic. 

So instead, he gathered as much courage as he could muster and started his way down the hall, his booted footsteps heavy on the linoleum floor. He morphed his face into the blank canvas that was befitting of a soldier, befitting of a monster, and when he got there, he pretended he didn't hesitate before pushing the doors open. 

The throne room felt colder than the hallway, even with all of Grian's gear. Still, he stumbled into a kneel, greeting the Head Watchers the way he'd been taught. 

“Xelqua,” one of them said, the spokesman from yesterday. It was a single word, but Grian could hear the threat behind it, the building animosity. He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. 

“Are you prepared to depart?” This question came from the woman, the loud one who didn't like it when Grian spoke out of turn. He didn't know her name, but her ice-blue wings made her seem like she was frozen in place. A snowstorm. 

Grian rose from his bow and nodded his head. It was best not to speak for as long as he could. He didn't want to anger them like yesterday. 

“We expect you back in a little over a month,” she continued. “Succeed, Xelqua.” 

There it was. The push, the shove towards completion, the distinct warning wrapped around those words. Succeed, or else. 

Grian nodded again. Opened his dry mouth. “Yes, ma'am.” 

And he meant it. Grian had made the mistake of failing enough times to know what happened when he came back empty handed. 

Beating. Locked in a cell. No food. No water. 

Punishment. 

He couldn't--he couldn't go through that. Not again. 

It didn't matter if Scar was guilty. It didn't even matter if he was innocent. 

Grian would kill him. 

Because that was what he'd been ordered to do. 

“You're dismissed,” the woman told him, her ice wings shifting slightly behind her. 

(Distantly, Grian was jealous of the colour; his own wings used to be a beautiful mix of red, yellow, and blue, but when he was taken, the Watchers had changed them to dark black. To help with stealth, they said. And to strip him of any dignity he'd hidden away.) 

Grian nodded and turned. He didn't want to stick around and wait for them to change their minds and punish him. He practically ran to the door and was almost free when the voice of the male avian called after him, almost gleefully, “Oh, and Xelqua?”

Grian froze and turned. Inwardly, his heart was thumping heavily and he could feel the start of panic and fear. Outwardly, he stared straight ahead. “Yes, sir?”

“You'll receive your punishment for the other day's incident with the guard when you get back. Dismissed.” 

The words hit him like thunder and Grian's shoulders dropped. He turned before the emotion showed on his face, his heart a wild beast. Quickly, he fled the throne room. His hands shook at his sides as he raced down the halls, the words replaying in his mind like a whispered prayer. He could feel himself checking out, shutting down, as he made his way down the stairs towards the lowest level of the hideout. 

His blood was loud in his ears, drowning everything else out, his vision narrowing as he rushed across the space. The basement was cold and unforgiving, and Grian knew that deeper in the shadows were the cells, the places where punishments happened, and he knew when he got back they would lock him down here and they would—they would—

Something like a scream built in his chest, but Grian shoved it back down, willing his body under control as he hurried down a hallway that branched from the main room. It was dark down there, unlit by the magic of the walls on the upper floors, and the space got narrower and narrower as he continued. Grian wasn't claustrophobic, but the small space wasn't exactly ideal, even for him. It felt like the walls were reaching out to snag him, to pull him back to the throne room.

All he wanted to do was collapse. But Grian knew he couldn’t stop.

After all, this was the only way to get in and out of the Watchers’ hideout. 

He knew the design was odd, but it made sense, in a strange sort of way. The hideout was located on the side of a mountain, way up in the North, built deep into the rock and dirt of nature. The cold climate provided a natural defence, and adding a single entrance allowed it to be guarded well. 

Grian kept at it, his feet thumping as he ran. It wasn't long before he finally reached it: the simple door that separated him from the outside world. He panted, placing his palm on the panel to the side, squinting his eyes when the door began to slide open and let in the outside light. He could feel the Watchers guarding the door looking at him strangely, but he hardly noticed they were there. 

The moment the door opened, Grian slipped out into the cold. Immediately, he opened his wings and launched into the air, not caring about the swirling snow around him. It was freezing, doubly so due to the high elevation of the hideout, but Grian hardly felt it. He just took off in the right direction and flew, so hard and so fast that everything became blurry around him. It was just him, the air, and the snow. 

When Grian's vision finally cleared and his breathing slowed, it was evening. The sun was going down and his wings were tired, almost useless. He'd flown more in the last hours than he had in the past month. 

He stopped in a tree. It was cold, but nothing he wasn't used to. He would have liked to travel through the night, but he was far too tired. He shouldn't have overexerted himself. 

Now, he felt stupid for his panic, foolish for the way he'd fled the hideout. How old was he, twelve? 

He needed to get over himself. He'd broken the rules; he was going to get punished. That was the way things worked, the way they had always worked. 

Grian repeated that to himself as he settled onto a branch, his back to the trunk. This is the way things work. 

He fell asleep to the mantra. 

He woke up stiffly the next morning. He pulled his bag from the Void and ate some dried fruit, then immediately got to traveling. His wings were sore from his flight yesterday, but it wasn't anything he couldn't handle. 

He was used to operating under pain. 

Despite all that, traveling on a mission was actually something Grian enjoyed, at least a little. It gave him a chance to admire the scenery: from way up high, he could see the mountains, the valleys, the villages down below. It was all beautiful, in a strange way, like looking outside through stained glass. Distant but there. 

Plus, he got to stretch his wings. It wasn't often that he was let outside to fly, and when he was, it wasn't typically good. More along the lines of locking him outside in the cold, mountain atmosphere until he learned his lesson. 

Not fun. 

But this was different. 

At least, that's what Grian told himself. 

Time passed. A day went by. Then two. Grian slept in the limbs of trees and drank from streams. He rationed his food from his pack as best he could and he kept the cold out with exercise and layering his clothes. The temperature was freezing, but he was used to it, and Watcher magic helped him regulate his body temperature. Plus, the farther he got from the snowy mountain the hideout resided on, the warmer it got. 

He continued that way. Flying all day, sleeping all night if he could. Eating a small meal and flying again. 

Rinse. Repeat. 

The cycle started to become tedious. Grian dreaded waking up, dreaded stretching his sore, bruised wings and launching into the air. He wasn't making good progress and he was starting to think that he'd never reach Hermitville. 

Maybe, if he were lucky, he would die out here. Quietly, in the snow, tucked away from everyone and everything. His body would probably never be found. 

That was fine with him. 

But even as he thought these things, he knew he couldn't stop. The pressure to succeed, to not fail, to never disappoint, was enough to keep him flying towards the village. 

He was a soldier. Soldiers didn't quit, even when they wanted to. Even when they were starting to think they would never make it. 

Because when you think you won't make it, when you think you're going to collapse from exhaustion and hypothermia, suddenly you see it: the lights of a distant village, breaking through the darkness. 

Grian had arrived at Hermitville.

Chapter Text

Hermitville was smaller than Grian thought it would be. 

Of course, he'd read in the files that the village wasn't particularly large, but actually being in the town felt different. The buildings seemed to creep up on you, fading out of the shadows of the night. Everything was crammed together in a hodgepodge attempt at order, and people freely walked the streets, waving to one another. 

That was another thing. Walking through town, it felt like intruding on some sort of family reunion. Everyone seemed to know each other, and you…you were just the outsider. 

Still, despite its size, it seemed…cozy. Grian had draped a large coat over himself, and as he padded down the streets, he couldn't help admiring the decorations. Everything looked warm and comforting, a sharp contrast to the hideout he’d come from. 

But he wasn't here for the atmosphere. 

Grian buried himself farther into his cloak. It was big, large enough to cover his wings. In a bigger town, an unfamiliar black-winged avian wouldn't draw much attention. But in a place as small as Hermitville, Grian needed to take every precaution he could. 

Besides adding a nice layer of disguise, the cloak also served to keep him warmer. As a Watcher, Grian was pretty fine in the cold weather, but after a week of traveling in the snow, it was finally starting to take its toll. He thought he felt the start of a cold coming in, which was the last thing he needed. Plus, his hands and feet were starting to feel numb. 

That was part of the reason he was actually in town, out in the open. In other circumstances, Grian would slink around in the shadows, stalking his target like predator to prey, waiting for the right opportunity. But the freezing weather was putting a damper on that. The fact that it was getting dark definitely didn't help matters. 

He had to get inside, fast. Just for a bit, just for a small bit of rest. 

So he walked the sides of the street, keeping his cloak tight around his shoulders, trying to avoid suspicion. The outskirts of Hermitville was sprinkled with houses and farms. As Grian  walked, those structures gave way to shops and apartment buildings. None of it looked very fancy, but they didn't look shabby, either. More like someone who didn’t particularly care what anyone thought had designed them. 

In town, most of the shops were closed. Grian spotted a hair salon open, but he hesitated. He didn't really want to go in there, not when he didn't have a good reason for it. Hanging out inside of a hair salon would definitely look suspicious. 

But there didn't seem to be many other options. Grian glanced up and down the street, hoping for something else, when his eyes finally settled on the only other shop with lights on: a diner. 

He practically fled from the hair salon towards the restaurant, his boots crunching in the snow beneath his feet. His breathing clouded in front of him as he skidded to a stop in front of the lively double doors. He lifted his eyes to read the glowing neon sign. 

Hungry Hermits! 

Grian cringed at the name, something like second-hand embarrassment rolling over him. It didn't exactly seem like a first-class diner. 

He leaned forward, squinting his eyes to look inside. He couldn't make out much, but the place looked mostly empty. There were a few stragglers, but no one noticeable from where he was. 

Maybe…maybe it wouldn't be so bad to go in. He was hungry, after all. And it looked warm…

Grian knew he shouldn't. If the Head Watchers found out, it would not be a very pleasant day for him. He wasn't supposed to make contact with anybody besides his target, and that was only when he was killing them. 

Going inside would be directly disobeying orders. 

But–but he was so cold. The wind was starting to pick up, and it kept sending frigid gasps down his spine. Grian needed to warm up, and–

And Hungry Hermits looked like the best place to do so. 

Grian took a deep, stuttering breath, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. He cast one last glance at the hair salon, debating with himself, warring. Maybe he should go there instead. It might be more low-profile. 

But just as he thought that, the lights in the salon suddenly went out. The front door started to open and Grian tensed, looking for a place to hide, but there was nowhere to go. 

A man stepped out from inside the hair salon. Or rather, an avian. He had blond hair and wings of the same colour, if a bit more yellow, and he was dressed in a puffy coat. 

He was just turning around when Grian gained enough sense to duck into the diner. His heart was beating fast, too fast to be comfortable, his mind reeling. In the split second that he had seen the other avian's face, he thought he'd seen–

He'd thought he'd seen Jimmy. 

But that was–that was impossible. 

Grian shook his head sharply, trying to dislodge the memories of his cousin that came rolling through his mind. Everything felt like it was crashing down around him. 

“Hello, Stranger!” a too-cheerful voice called, and Grian stifled a flinch. He felt out of touch with himself, but he shoved it all away, screwing his face into that blank look he occupied all the time. He turned to see a man in a sleeveless suit, scars running up and down his arm, his face sporting a massive, toothy grin. 

“Hi,” Grian replied, slightly out of breath, slightly unsure. The casual word felt wrong on his tongue. 

“What can I get for ya?” the man asked, pulling a pencil from behind his ear. Grian swallowed thickly and dropped his eyes to the man's name tag: Skizz. 

“Uh,” Grian breathed, glancing at the doors behind him. He felt like the room was spinning. He said the first food that came to mind. “Salad.” 

Skizz nodded, his thick black hair shifting with the movement as he scribbled the order on his notepad. “What type? Caesar?” 

Grian didn't even know there were different types of salads. He just ate whatever the Watchers put on the avian-safe table. “Uh, sure. Yeah.” 

Skizz looked a little perplexed at Grian's confusion, but his smile didn't waver. “Perfect. You can take a seat wherever you'd like.” 

Grian nodded, watching as Skizz headed behind the counter, but he didn't really register the information. He felt like he was drowning underwater. 

Jimmy couldn't be–there was no way– 

Grian stuttered in a breath, wrapping his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He staggered to the nearest seat and sat down, hard, mind spinning in circles. 

Jimmy had been his cousin, a long time ago. He'd traveled with Grian and his family through the long, winding roads of the southern lands, where the days were endless and the nights were full of fireflies. Their life had been simple, honest. They made what they couldn't buy and what they couldn't make they traded for. The short time Grian remembered of that life was full of laughter and sunshine and fresh baked sage bread. 

But then the Watchers attacked. 

The thought brought up flashbacks, dreaded memories Grian had long since buried, and he closed his eyes to shake them away. He tried to tell himself that it was impossible for Jimmy to be here, up in the North, so far away from their former home. Plus, after all this time, what was the likelihood of Grian recognising him? It was probably just an avian who looked like his cousin, that was all. 

That was all. 

Grian opened his eyes when the thought cemented. He took a deep breath to calm his racing heart and turned his gaze around the diner, scanning his surroundings like his training said he should have done when he walked in. 

All in all, the diner wasn't anything fancy. The booths were plush, and the napkins had been scrunched into something that was meant to resemble some sort of animal, but Grian couldn’t tell what it was. The place carried an air of a project that had been thrown together last minute. Not bad, just…messy. 

Still, Grian liked the colour of everything. Back at the hideout, everything was some shade of white or black, a neutral scale. It made the place look neat and tidy and like a medical lab. 

Grian hated it. 

At least here, there was colour. The lights gave off a warm yellow glow and the booths were deep red. Plus, all the customers had their own unique clothing on; it wasn't just the same boring robes copied and pasted to fit each person. 

There was variety. 

Grian took his time scanning each individual in the diner. Now that he was inside, he had a clear view of everybody, and no one else looked familiar. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief. 

He did not need any more panic tonight, thank you very much. 

Grian sank further into the cushioned seat. The diner was warm, and he was thankful for it. His fingers were starting to get life in them again, and he could feel his feathers thawing beneath his cloak. 

With the warmth came clarity. Something like regret lapped at Grian's stomach, he knew he shouldn't have come in here. It was definitely against the rules, and it had been a foolish decision anyway. 

But--but at least he was getting a meal. And at least he was warming up, and escaping the avian that looked so much like Jimmy–

“One Caesar salad,” a voice announced, peppily, and Grian lifted his dead eyes to see Skizz bouncing towards him. The waiter set a bowl on the table and Grian thanked him, turning his gaze down to the salad. It looked edible enough. 

He waited until Skizz wandered away to pick up his fork and take a tentative bite. It was good. Way better than the bland food the Watchers offered. 

A strange sort of longing filled Grian. Sometimes, that happened when he went on missions: he got a feeling of wanting. Wanting to stay, to keep away from the hideout, to never return. The temptation to run away was as constant as the guilt that accompanied him on these quests for murder.

But he never gave in to it. During his first few months as an assassin, he'd had another Watcher accompany him, to keep him in line, teach him the tricks of the trade that could only be learned on-field. That Watcher had explained exactly how they would track him down if he ever escaped, and exactly what they would do to him as punishment. 

In detail. 

So Grian never tried. It would be stupid to attempt something so dangerous. They would catch him, and when they did–

They would make him regret ever even thinking about it. 

Grian shook his head, trying to dislodge the desire. It was better for him to be with the Watchers. He knew that. 

He just had to–had to complete his mission. Maybe if he did a good job, they would forget to punish him when he got back. They would give him better clothes, a better room, better food. Like the Caesar salad he was eating. He wouldn't mind having that every once in a while. 

Of course, none of that would happen if Grian didn't complete his mission. 

He sighed, taking another bite of the salad, trying to think of the best way to kill Scar Goodtimes without arousing too much suspicion. It wasn't exactly a secret to anybody that Scar was against the Watchers, so that took care of motive. And Grian was required to draw an eye, the Watchers’ symbol, on the left shoulder of whoever he killed, so everyone would know it was Xelqua who had done it. 

The mark was a sort of brand, a way of claiming the victim as one of them. Grian himself had an eye tattooed on that same spot, as did most of the other Watchers. 

A mark of property. He remembered when he had gotten it. 

He wished he didn't. 

Either way, most of his job was already taken care of. Besides, of course, the actual method of killing. Grian still had his weapons hidden in the Void, but it was difficult to decide between the dagger or the bow and arrow. 

Each had their own advantages. The bow and arrow was better for stealth, but the dagger ensured a quick kill no matter what. Grian hated getting so close to his victims, but if it made it less painful for them… 

It didn't matter what he hated. He was ending a life, and he wanted to do it as dignified as possible. With the bow and arrow, there was always a chance of mistake: the target moved, Grian's aim was off. He could hit a shoulder blade instead of a lung. It had happened before. 

It was his job to make sure it never happened again. 

But…based on Scar's files, the man was pretty social. It might be difficult to get him alone and use the dagger. Plus, Grian wasn't sure how he would break in and out of Scar's apartment unnoticed. It was directly in the center of town, so it would be difficult to get to it. Plus…

Grian always felt bad for whoever would find the body, rotting away in that home. 

Grian lowered his eyes to his salad, but his stomach twisted. Plotting the perfect way to murder someone always took his appetite away. 

He pushed the bowl away, sticking out his tongue slightly. 

“Oh, no, is it not to your taste?” Skizz asked, and Grian turned to see the man standing there, somewhat awkwardly. He seemed to have materialised out of the air.

“Oh, no,” Grian started, fumbling over his words, grappling for an explanation. He swallowed and forced himself into an even tone. “It's excellent. I'm just not as hungry as I thought.” 

His tongue almost added ‘sir’ on the end, but he managed to hold it back. 

Skizz looked uncomfortable with the answer, shifting on his feet. He nodded and walked back behind the counter, casting another glance at the abandoned meal,  like he was genuinely devastated at the possibility that Grian might not be enjoying it. After what felt like a long moment, he opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of a bell dinging cut him off. His gaze snapped to the door and melted into excitement. 

“Hey!” Skizz called from behind the counter, and Grian heard a breathy laugh. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting to see a random town's person, but his heart clamored to a stop. 

Because there was–there was Scar Goodtimes.

Grian whipped his head forward, praying that Scar hadn't noticed him. For the second time that night, it felt like his world had been spun around like a top. 

“Skizz,” he heard the Vex say, a smile in his voice, “how have you been, buddy?” 

Skizz's reply was enthusiastic and lively as he rushed over to greet the man. He seemed to have forgotten all about Grian's lack of appetite, too enarmoured by Scar's sudden appearance. 

The two of them chattered their way back to the counter. Grian kept his head facing downward, his gaze pointed at the table, but he was listening to every word the pair exchanged. His heart was loud in his chest. 

“Who's all here?” Scar was asking. His voice was strange, almost melodic. Grian hadn’t hear anything quite like it before. 

Skizz replied with a long list of names that sounded like gibberish to Grian. He sank lower in his seat, listening more, his heart spiking to an alarming rate when Scar walked right past him. 

The panic spiked in him again and he dropped lower, then realized how ridiculous he must look and straightened up. He forced his face into something resembling normalcy, reaching out to pull his salad back toward him, trying to act completely absorbed in his meal. 

There was no way Scar knew who he was. He was just a nobody, eating at the diner for the night. Just another face. 

Blend in. Blend in. 

Grian took what he hoped was a casual bite of his food. The taste was still amazing, but it turned his stomach and he had to force himself to swallow. He counted to ten before shoving more into his mouth, holding his breath while he chewed. 

After a few more minutes of the torturous eating, he risked a look up. Scar was chatting with a mustached man, oblivious to anyone else in the diner. Grian swallowed thickly and turned in his chair, slightly, looking for Skizz. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the waiter pushing a bunch of tables together. After a moment, he started to call people over. 

Grian barely looked at the group as they gathered at the table, laughing and talking like old friends. He saw some guy in a stained lab coat pulling out a deck of cards like it was an extension of him, laying them around the table like he had done it a hundred times before. Grian could hear the group erupting into easy, second-nature laughter, and something twinged in his heart. 

He jumped to his feet, digging into his bag for money, his hands shaking slightly. He slapped more than enough on the table and fled the diner, the sudden cold air feeling refreshing on his flushed skin. 

He'd been--Scar had been right there. Grian had literally watched his target waltz into a restaurant and interact with his friends. 

The thought was enough to make him double over, gasping as he put his hands on his knees. It made–it made everything feel way more real. Suddenly Scar wasn't a dead man walking, he was a person, with friends and maybe a family and people he cared about. 

When Grian killed him, he would be hurting a lot of people. Maybe the whole village. 

That thought felt suffocating. He didn’t want to be–he couldn’t do that to someone. He couldn’t. 

But–but he had to. 

He straightened up and stumbled blindly down the street, his boots heavy as they crunched in the snow. The wind felt sharp against his face, but Grian welcomed it. It helped clear his mind; reminded him of nature, reminded him that the world was big and large and in a hundred years none of this would matter. 

He continued down the road, ducking into an alley and climbing the fire escape steps all the way to the roof. He always felt like he could think more clearly when he was up high, away from everything, all alone. 

It was colder up here, but Grian didn’t really notice. His mind was racing and he sat down, hard, his back to the ledge as he gasped and heaved and tried to breathe. 

Too many things had happened today. Too many. 

He’d arrived at Hermitville. He’d seen–he’d thought he’d seen Jimmy. He’d actually talked to one of the town’s folk, which was absolutely not okay, and then he’d almost interacted with the person he was there to kill. 

What was wrong with him? 

Grian tilted his head back, leaning it against the rough stone that made up the ledge. Snow was starting to fall again, and he welcomed it as he tried to regain control. 

He was acting ridiculous. He needed to get a grip, and fast. He was here to complete a mission, not get distracted chasing ghosts. 

At least–at least he had his answer of what weapon to use, now. There was no way Grian would be able to handle getting up close and personal with Scar to slit his throat, no way Grian could watch the life leave the jovial man’s eyes as he shuddered to the ground. 

Bow and arrow it was. He didn't like it, didn’t like that it made room for more errors, but–but at least he wouldn’t have to get so close. At least he wouldn’t have blood coating his hands, his mind replaying exactly what he had done over and over. 

Grian didn’t want to kill Scar. He wanted to jump off this roof and see if a fall from this height would kill him. He wanted to leave the Watchers without their precious little assassin, he wanted them to know it was their fault. 

But even as the thoughts entered his mind, he knew they were unrealistic. He would never do that. There was too much at stake, too much risk, too many chances for someone else to be taken and forced into this fate. 

Besides, he didn’t think he was up high enough for suicide. 

Grian sighed, slumping farther down. The cold was really starting to seep in, but he’d been through worse. He would survive. 

He was resilient like that. A weed, or something. 

His mind felt alive and buzzed, as if he’d been drugged, but Grian’s body was sluggish. It had been a long week and a half of traveling, and it was starting to catch up with him. His stomach was half-full of unfamiliar caesar salad, his mind was spinning in circles, he was perched on a literal roof out in the dead of winter night, and yet–he had never felt more tired. 

So he closed his eyes. Pushed himself down so he was laying directly on the cold cobble of the roof, his cloak as a blanket to keep the snowfall off. 

And he fell asleep.