speculations

by Ambathy, End_Transmission

Summary:

a collection of one-offs, AUs, and other random bits and bobs that aren't connected to the rest of the KFC or Hazing collections.

Chapter 1

You weren’t a violent being, honest. Sure, you killed people from time to time, but it was all for the sake of survival…or boredom…that didn’t necessarily make you violent.

Your current predicament, however, did make you feel what you could only describe as ‘insatiable bloodlust’.

You were travelling on a ship with a decently sized crew of eight; that wasn’t the issue though. The issue was the imposter in Lime.

It hadn’t taken you long to figure it out; he wasn’t exactly subtle about it. He’d blatantly stared at you during the very first meeting and then afterward had followed you until the two of you were alone to ask, without any sort of tact, “So, what’s up with your face?”

“What’s up with yours?” you’d retorted.

You thought you heard a very faint growl, but when he responded his voice was even, “I have a perfectly normal human face, thanks.”

“For now.”

He ignored that. He quickly glanced toward the hall, and when satisfied that no one was approaching, turned back and hissed under his breath, “You’re an impostor right? We may be on the same ‘team’ but I don’t need your help. Just stay out of my way and we won’t have any problems. Got it?”

You stared down at the upturned visor, unimpressed, and let the threat hang in the air for a bit before you gave an exaggerated shrug and a wide, beak-splitting yawn in your own subtle threat. “Whatever you say, bud.”

The impostor in Lime seemed to deflate slightly, but quickly recovered. He spun around to leave, and as he did he spat over his shoulder, “I’m not your ‘bud’.”

‘Testy.’ You thought to yourself, watching him go. Oh well, whatever. You didn’t really care what he did as long as he didn’t drag you into it.

Looking back now, you realize that hadn’t been entirely true.

You had been sitting in navigation with your Blue crewmate, watching and listening to them intently as they talked about charting courses, reading star maps, and just piloting the ship in general. You didn’t fully understand most of it, but it never hurt to learn. That is, until you’d heard a soft rattle from one of the vents behind you. You’d ignored it, and Blue seemed wrapped up in their tasks and explanations to notice.

With a slow creaking noise, the vent opened up and from it slithered the rather amorphous form of the impostor in Lime, which quickly pulled itself back together into the shape of a human. You’d turned your head slightly to fix an eye on him, willing him to leave with a tinge of annoyance.

He ignored you, unsurprisingly, and in an instant a barbed green tentacle had pierced straight through the back of Blue’s helmet and out of the visor in the front. The tendril wriggled in the air for a moment and then tore itself back out and disappeared back into the other’s body.

Blue gave little reaction, their words cutting off abruptly and with a final stuttering breath they slumped forward in their seat.

‘Irritating’, you thought, holding back the urge to snap at the impostor in Lime.

“Pretty good distraction; maybe you aren’t completely useless.” He sneered, “I already got Pink in Medbay too.”

It’s at that moment the alarm goes off for an emergency meeting. You glance back at the body of your Blue crewmate and tut to yourself, wondering how that will be explained.

Lime is already leaving; you’re quick to follow, showing up at the same time would likely work out better for you anyway.

The pair of you are among the first to arrive, only preceded by Cyan who called the meeting, and Orange. Green joins you not long after.

You see Cyan appear to do a head-count, “Where are -?” they don’t get to finish as White comes barreling in from Weapons.

The alarm quiets down as Cyan takes their hand off the button. All attention is on White.

They’re shaking, and between panting gasps they keep trying to choke out words. “B-Blue-! They-!” they have one hand clutching their chest and the other pointing back the way they came, “Dead!”

You wring your hands together in a purposeful, yet subtle display of unease, and try to gauge the reactions of your other crewmates. The impostor in Lime seems to be doing something similar.

Orange and Green appear more nervous, while Cyan now has their fist clenched on the table and is still looking at White. They turned to look over the gathered crew, “I called this meeting because Orange and I found Pink dead in Medbay,” White made a strangled noise, “but apparently Blue is as well.”

“Does that mean one of us is a murderer?” Green piped up, they looked shocked by their own question, glancing nervously between you all.

White really did look to be on the verge of fainting by this point.

“Where was the body, White?” asked Cyan.

“In Nav.” They replied softly. They finally took the last few unsure steps forward and came to sit at the table. They immediately slumped forward leaning their helmet into their hands. “I-I don’t know what happened. There’s blood everywhere.”

Cyan sweeps a look over the table, “Black and Lime, you both came from that direction before White didn’t you?” it was just bordering on accusatory; Orange and Green seemed to draw closer together, leaning away from you and Lime. White didn’t move.

You make a show of looking shocked, giving a little jolt and glancing at the impostor in Lime for a quick read – shoulders slightly drawn, one hand on the table curling and uncurling, he looked defensive - before looking back to Cyan.

“I was in Nav with Blue for most of the day,” it was always best to stick as close to the truth as you could, you knew, “we were chatting, they were showing me how to do some of the tasks there. I left not long before you called the meeting, they were fine when I left.” You pause and glance away from Cyan, you let out a nervous hum. The rest of the crew were watching you and listening, including Lime, “I met up with Lime in O2 after I left and that’s about when the alarm went off. I-“ you give another visible start and slowly glance toward White, “I didn’t see White at all…”

Your collective gazes all shift to the crewmate in White, who jumps back up to their feet, “You- Are you trying to say that I killed them?!” their voice was rightfully outraged, but you could hear the fear bleeding through as well. “I found them!” they yelled, “I- Why would I out myself if I had done it?”

“You would have known that we would notice when Blue didn’t show up and telling on yourself might ease suspicion off of you…” you tap a finger to your chin, the only one that didn’t look entirely convinced was Cyan. You try to assuage those doubts with a little, “Oh! Uh, sorry, I just used to watch a lot of crime shows,” and a nervous laugh.

Cyan didn’t look impressed but they at least seemed less suspicious. “Where were you, White?”

White was frantic, “Im-! You can’t believe that! I didn’t-!” you could hear them gasping again.

“I’m only asking where-“ started Cyan.

“Yeah, where were you at, White? Me and Black didn’t see you at all!” piped Lime.

“Shut it.” Cyan snapped at him before turning back to White. You had to agree with them on that sentiment at least. “Where were you and what were you doing before this?”

“I was- I- was in Comms.” White explained, “I was doing a download, and then I- then I was going to go up to Nav next but that’s when the alarm went off.”

“Why did you stop at Nav on the way here then?” Cyan asked.

“I don’t know.” White squeaked miserably, “I don’t- I didn’t- I-“

You might have felt bad for them if you were a kinder being, distraught as they were, but as it was you found it pitiful at best.

Orange and Green seemed uncertain, Cyan thoughtful, and Lime somehow you could tell, was about to open his big fat mouth again. “Can anyone else vouch for them?” you ask.

Orange shook their head and Green replied, “I was in Electrical for a while, lotta tasks in there y’know, and I was just finishing up when the alarm went off, I came up through storage and Admin hall to get here but I didn’t see White either…”

“Well, I haven’t seen any of you either!” White sobbed.

“This is a pretty convincing performance if it is them,” you mutter loud enough for the others to hear.

Cyan sighs, “We’ll put it to a vote.”

“It isn’t me! I skip!” wails White.

“I’m skipping as well.” Cyan says.

Lime is the first to announce his vote for White, Green and Orange more hesitantly agree, and all eyes turn to you. You slowly glance around at each of the others before landing on your White crewmate, “I’m sorry, I vote White.”

There’s a long, pained wail from White; Lime jumps up eagerly to grab them and start tugging them toward the airlock. Cyan is more somber, they get up and walk toward the airlock doors the way one might walk in a funeral procession.

The remaining three of you all rise and head over as well to see them off.

White has fully broken down into tears now, between gasps and hiccups still protesting their innocence, but they don’t fight back even as Lime pushes them, more forcefully than is really needed, into the airlock.

No one speaks when Cyan pulls the lever to eject them.

You all split off again after that, but you find yourself in the reactor room with Green.

“Thanks for coming with me, Black. I mean, I know we threw out the killer and all already, but it’s still nice to have a buddy.” They chuckle and go back to their calibrations.

You nod, assuring them it’s no problem, and you coax them into telling you more about what they’re doing while you watch.

They don’t know as much about running the reactor as some of the other crewmates might, but you paid close attention to all the fine details and motions they made with their hands on the machinery anyway.

You catch a glimpse of lime out of the corner of your eye.

“That was really good, earlier! Pretty quick thinking.” Lime says sounding impressed.

Green startles, then starts to laugh, “Oh, Lime you scared m-“

That quick barbed tendril shoots out from somewhere on the impostor’s back and easily shreds through the front of Green’s chest before wrapping itself around their throat and shearing their head clean off their body.

“So anyway, maybe you aren’t so bad.” He continued, “Cyan and Orange are the only ones left now.”

You sort of lost the thread of whatever it was he was on about, you were too busy trying to keep yourself from doing something that you’d likely regret.

You don’t think you’d ever encountered a creature so thoroughly irritating as this. He had no subtlety, no finesse, no patience, no respect. He was tactless and arrogant, stupid and dangerous. You hated him.

“Hello?” fingers snapped impatiently in your face, “are you listening?”

You refocus, setting the hate aside for now and you offer a toothy smile, “Sorry, mind repeating that?”

He gave a derisive snort, “I said we should get a double kill and finish them off. Cyan and Orange are both in Admin right now. We finish up, we win, we go home. Good?”

“Ah, yes. That sounds good, how about you go for Cyan and I’ll get Orange.” Your mind is already working at a plan, trying to come up with something, anything that might work for you. You couldn’t be stuck on a ship with only this horrible green bastard for who knows how long. You don’t think you would survive that.

“Works for me, let’s go and get this over with.” Says Lime.

What a waste of a trip, you lamented as the pair of you made your way to Admin. You’d hardly learned a thing and you hadn’t even gotten a chance to do anything fun.

Lime stopped just before the doorway to Admin and looked up at you, “Ready?”

You stifle a sigh and nod.

You enter the room and find Cyan and Orange watching the doorway from the other side of the admin table.

“Well, looks like it’s just the four of us left,” Lime says with a grin in his voice, “don’t worry, it’ll be down to two soon.”

You roll your eyes.

Cyan is tense, but resigned, “Get it over with then.”

Orange appears to be trembling.

“Whatever you say,” Lime hums as the pair of you approach the remaining two crewmates.

You place your hands on either side of Orange’s helmet, holding tight enough to keep them still but nothing more.

Lime seems too intent on Cyan to really notice anyway, a wide toothy mouth opens vertically down the front of him, lime green peeling away to reveal darker, richer green insides.

You have to give Cyan credit, they don’t flinch away at all.

Inspiration strikes you, you’ve no idea if it’ll work but you’re going to try anyway. You wait until the impostor in Lime has his mouth full, then you part your beak and fire your needle-like tongue into him and inject as much venom as you can before quickly retracting it.

“Hey!” he growls, “What, did you change your mind? You trying to kill me now?”

You watch, readying yourself to move quickly if need be, but to your surprise, nothing happens.

Lime’s form seems to wobble, the half-chewed body of Cyan slides out of his now very…gooey torso.

You both hear and feel Orange gag, reminding you to release them.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” Lime asks sounding somewhere between enraged, bewildered, and terrified. His body wavers more forcefully, but again nothing happens.

Well, he wasn’t paralyzed, but this seemed to work just as well, if not better. “Orange, come help me, I don’t know how long this will last.”

“Don’t touch me!” Lime snarls as he starts to back away toward the doorway.

Orange seems too stunned to obey at first, but once you’ve grabbed the oddly fluctuating form of the impostor in Lime they seem to snap out of it and quickly they hurry over.

It was strange, you mused as the pair of you dragged a kicking and screaming impostor toward the airlock, he was still solid in a way, even though he seemed to have lost control over his form and it didn’t seem to know what to do with itself.

Maybe the trip wasn’t a total loss after all. You can’t help but give a wide toothy grin and wave as you pull the lever for the airlock and watch the impostor in Lime drift away.

Chapter 2: Tag Team (derogatory)

The ship is dark, and quiet - and it is far too much of both. His late travel is his own fault - he'd lazed too much, during the day, and had found himself stuck refueling the engines until late into the night. He's only trying to get to his room, now, but every step seems to echo and for some reason the hairs on his neck and arms haven't flattened since he left the lower engine. 

 

The sound of footsteps close by is so sudden that it takes all of his willpower not to yelp. He turns towards the noise, quickly, and brings his flashlight up. 

 

It's only Black. 

 

Admittedly, the other is obviously non-human, and he hasn't spoken to Black much really, but they've always seemed…fine. In the moment, he's frankly glad to see the lanky other - at least he isn't alone, now, and even though for some reason the goosebumps refuse to fade, he feels pretty confident that he can get back to his room a little easier with some company. 

 

"Black," he says with a nervous laugh as he lowers the light enough so as to not blind the other, "you spooked me."

 

Black doesn't respond, only tilts their head. Their eyes almost seem to glow in the dull light that reaches them, and there is something about the way they look at him that makes his skin prickle all over again. They stand there, and watch him, and nervously he takes a half step back. 

 

Then, as if unfolding, Black lifts their arms to either side, and from two sprout many. In the long shadows cast by his flashlight, the appendages almost look as if they're all claws - long, sharp, vicious looking things. There is a glint of teeth at Black's beak, and it is when their jaw falls open, stretches down impossibly long, and a screech echoes from their throat, that he finally turns and runs. 

 

There is a brief clatter of claws behind him - but before long, the noise vanishes. Still, he doesn't stop running - he dashes and weaves through the halls and he isn't sure if he's trying to get to his room or to the emergency alert button or just to someone, but it doesn't matter. 

 

Because he turns a corner, and all at once Black drops from the ceiling and lands in front of him. With a strangled cry, he skitters to a stop so violently he falls back onto his ass - and there is a rush of air and a violent clack where his head had just been. 

 

For a few heartbeats, all he can do is stare up at Black as they curve over closer to him. This close, he can see just how sharp their teeth are, how many claws they are extending towards him - with a sudden rush of desperation, he lashes out blindly, turns, and scrambles away. 

 

He escapes them. He doesn't have the wherewithal to realize how impossible that is. 

 

They play this game for what feels both like ages and only seconds. He runs, they find him, he turns and runs again. He knows he should scream, but as if he's caught in a nightmare he seems incapable. The one time he thinks he might manage, nothing escapes him but a pinched, suffocated whine. 

 

Then Black jumps down so close to him that as he turns, he feels the tips of their claws very nearly catch him. Heart in his throat, burning in his lungs, he runs faster than ever - he doesn't know where he's going anymore, only that he must outlast them. He has to keep running. He has to keep going. 

 

If he stops, he's dead. 

 

As he runs towards the curved end of another hallway, there is a brief, brief second in which he thinks he might have found help. There is a clang near the end of the hallway, and all at once his vision is filled with vibrant, lime green. For that tiny moment in time, he thinks 'an ally, here's help' - even as the seemingly formless, lime-colored shape lunges out at him from the vent. 

 

It strikes him, knocks him to the ground - but it's really only in the last few seconds he has, as serrated teeth burrow violently into his throat, that he realizes he's been corralled into a trap. 

 

The last thing that he hears, as his life bleeds quickly away from him, is the tapping of clawed feet on nearby ground, and a soft growl of satisfaction. 

Chapter 3: Pain Train

Summary:

Keet POV

It all happens so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that Keet has no chance at all to fight back.

 

Not that he doesn't try - even as electricity arcs through his body and locks every bone and muscle, he tries to fight. To attack, kill, defend - but it's an easy matter for the humans to grab onto him, the whole lot of them, and start dragging him down the hall. Because yes he tries, but his body and limbs refuse to listen - dangle or, at most, flop uselessly about him. It doesn't last long - but everytime he thinks feeling is returning, he's shocked again.

 

He can't fight - so Keet screeches instead. Yells, curses, screams - makes as much noise as he can because this is most of the crew but it's not all of the crew. Black, Purple - if they hear him, they can help. Will help. He knows it.

 

Except - where are they? They aren't there, they don't come - and soon enough Keet feels himself tossed, hears the hissing sound of doors sealing shut. Recognizes, briefly, that he is in the airlock.

 

Panic sweeps through him in a blinding, drowning wave so vivid that it erases every thought in his head. There is only fight - and as feeling bleeds into his limbs once more that is what Keet does. He thrashes, flails, attacks the doors back towards the ship and the floor of the airlock and everything and anything he can touch. He destroys, rips, tears - comes completely undone as he gives up all attempts to retain his human form.

 

Some part of him braces, too - knows that any second the doors at his back will open and he will be flushed into the frozen expanse of space where he will die. He will freeze or suffocate or float float float until his body gives in or crumples like broken metal.

 

There is a rush of air, and Keet screams something from deep in his gut and his very being and it takes him a long, long moment to realize it was the wrong doors. They opened the wrong doors.

 

Freedom. Safety.

 

Keet throws himself from the airlock, barrels past a grasping shape in the doorway he doesn't have the awareness to recognize. Vaguely hears his name, but ignores it in favor of fleeing. Running, diving, crawling until finally, finally, he finds himself tucked into a particularly favored bend in the vents. He wraps himself close, bundles tentacles and limbs and body into a tight hug, and stays there.

 

Shivers. Trembles. Can't even think past the terror that still blinds him and overcomes him and fills every single atom of his being. He can do nothing but barely hold himself together as internally he screams and screams and screams. Forgets to breathe, then remembers again with great gulps of air that hurt.

 

He is caught there just like that for a long, long time. Even still, the terror never really fades - only changes. The screaming becomes numbness - an awful, bone-deep feeling so like the electricity that it only makes him feel worse. Every now and then the terror swells again, too, leaving him too hot and too cold all at once.

 

Eventually, he registers just enough to know that he wants these awful feelings to stop - but isn't near cognizant enough to make them do so. Some time later, there is a brief second where the near-hysterical thought passes that at least he isn't crying again.

 

Except, he almost wishes he would.

 

Most of the time, though, he is lost in an alternating sea of numbness and terror. When he can almost settle into feeling nothing, he remembers the airlock again and the terror washes him anew. It has to end, he thinks, but it doesn't - and he has no measure of time but it feels too long. So long.

 

"Keet."

 

Keet's eyes snap back into focus so quickly and violently that it hurts. He hisses at Black - who is lying in the vent only a few feet away - and pulls further away from them. They don't move, only watch him, expression unreadable but…

 

Unhappy, Keet thinks. There is a defensive curl in his chest, and he pulls his limbs in tighter in response.

 

"It's only me," Black says, and despite the look in their eyes their voice is oddly soft. Gentle, even, which is a strange way to think of them. "You've been down here for hours," they continue, "Fay is worried about you." They pause for a heartbeat, and then admit with something almost sheepish. "We are worried. Come with me, let's -"

 

"No," Keet growls before they finish, the guttural rumble coming from deep in his core. He can't go with them, because that means leaving the vents. Going where the humans could jump him again. The very thought sends a fresh shot of hot-cold terror down his spine.

 

Keet doesn't even realize his thoughts have scattered all over again until he registers that Black is snapping their fingers at him. When he focuses on them again, he realizes they've said his name a few times over now.

 

"We won't let any of them near you," Black says, once they know he's paying attention again, "we won't let them hurt you. We won't leave your side."

 

It's a nice thought, Keet thinks, but he doesn't believe them. Not really. If the humans were determined enough, what could they do to stop them?

 

"I'll kill them if they try," Black continues, and the flat in their tone gives Keet pause. "And that's only if Fay doesn't do it first. Keet. Trust us. You can trust us."

 

Keet wants to. Badly wants to. But he still can't make himself move towards them, can't quite convince himself that it's safe to leave. He curls a little tighter - although doesn't move any further away - and his gaze bounces from Black to away and back again.

 

After a long moment or two, Black moves closer - Keet tenses, but he makes himself stay still, no matter how badly he wants to flee. He makes himself focus on them, watches their hands as they crawl, desperately keeps his thoughts from running away again. Every movement Black makes is slow, and careful, and when they reach towards him Keet can't help but press his eyes tightly closed.

 

Then they grab onto him with a familiar, sharp grip. More hands join the first and then they are tugging him and pressing him tightly into their chest while they wrap him in a cage of hands and claws. Keet is still for a long beat - and then he latches onto them as a desperate whine bubbles up along his throat.

 

Black doesn't speak - but they do shush him, even as they begin to move. There is a soft, continuous rumble deep in the chest Keet presses his face against, and he recognizes the almost-purr as soothing, even if it still isn't quite enough to break through the barrier of fear that sits heavy in Keet's core. It is, however, enough to quiet him for the moment.

 

Keet barely registers when they leave the vent system entirely - knows mostly in the way Black adjusts their hold of him. Beyond that, he doesn't know exactly where they are or where they're going.

 

But he feels Purple. Finds himself once more wrenched back into something approaching focus when they're all at once there. Black doesn't really let go of him, only folds Purple into their embrace as well, shifts so that Purple can get their own arms tightly around Keet.

 

Keet can't quite burrow against them both, so with his face still pressed to Black's chest, he reaches out with extra appendages and draws Purple in closer still.

 

Keet shivers, then. Shakes. Still doesn't cry but whimpers and pulls in quick, heavy breaths. Purple speaks, Black might as well - but Keet doesn't know what they're saying. Only hears their voices, their attempts at comfort - and things are not okay, but the longer they hold him and the more he releases, the closer things get to better.

 

He doesn't mean to fall asleep, would have thought it impossible if he'd thought about it at all. But soon enough the darkness that keeps scattering his thoughts presses in closer and closer still, until finally a blissful nothing overcomes him entirely, and he all but passes out.

Chapter 4: Panic Room

Summary:

Crim POV

You are walking with Fable through the halls between Shields and Navigation, chatting idly about nothing in particular when you start to feel a faint prickling under your scales. The conversation dies down and you feel tense for some reason. Instinct or intuition, you aren’t sure, but something is telling you that something is wrong.

“Doesn’t it seem a little…quiet?” Fable asks then.

Straining your hearing you’d have to agree; there is the ever-present humming of the ship of course, but nothing else. You don’t hear the sounds of boots on metal plating, of keys tapping, vents rattling, talking, laughter, anything – and then suddenly there is screaming. Sharp, shrill screeching from somewhere ahead of you and you aren’t thinking at all when you are lunging forward and racing as quickly as you can toward the sound.

You vaguely hear the pounding foot falls of Fable behind you but they’re much slower and you don’t dare wait for them.

When you round the corner from Weapons into the Cafeteria you see a gathering of brightly suited crewmates gathered around the air lock, and pointedly you notice the lack of any bright lime green.

Most of the crew are looking toward you, startled, but you aren’t paying attention to them, your eyes locked on a figure in bright Blue with their hand raised to press the button that would send Keet - your Keet – out into the cold emptiness of space.

As you barrel toward that figure in Blue you don’t trust yourself at the minute not to kill, maim, dismember them, so instead you take barely a moment to aim and fire your tongue at them. It sticks in the meat of their thigh and they jolt back from the panel their hand had been just about to press.

You hear yelling, but that doesn’t matter either, Blue falls to the ground stunned as you retract your tongue and you are fiddling with the airlock controls until finally you get the doors to open; the momentary relief is swiftly shattered by a horrid, blood-curdling scream that shocks everyone in the room into stillness and silence before a Lime colored blur streaks out of the airlock.

You make a clumsy attempt to grab at him as he flies past and shout his name but he’s soon gone; disappeared somewhere deep into the ship. Safe, at least.

As the sound of blood rushing in your ears starts to die down you focus on the rest of the crew, once more shouting and pointing and waving around what appear to be stun batons. Most of the crew have backed away from you and what few are holding weapons hold them defensively in front of themselves.

You see Fable as well, having caught up, they have a gun and pointedly, without hesitation, point it at anyone who even motions toward them.

It’d hard to pick out individual words between the cacophonous yelling, though a few common phrases keep popping up like, “Impostor”, and “Traitor”. It irritates you. To the point you feel a rumble build in your throat and you let out a short, sharp screech that once again stuns the room into silence and pulls all attention to you.

“Can all of you just shut up?” you hiss.

 Clothing rustles as the crew shift and shuffle and murmur quietly among themselves, but not for long before one of them, Orange, the captain, steps forward and asks, “What did you do to Blue?”

You spare a brief glance down at them, face down where they’d landed, and then look back at Orange with a scoff, “They’re paralyzed. It’ll wear off in an hour or so. They’ll be fine.”

“Why should I trust you?” Orange growls, lifting their baton threateningly.

“Because if they’d wanted to kill him they would have.” Fable snaps coming to stand beside you, gun still at the ready.

“You’re really going to side with a couple of murderous aliens over your own, Purple?” the captain doesn’t sound impressed, but not all that surprised either.

“Murderous?” Fable hisses, “The only ‘murderous aliens’ I see here are you all. Tell me then: who here has died?” more soft murmuring before Fable continues, voice pitching higher and higher with every word, “No one! No one here has gotten even so much as a fucking scratch! Black and Lime haven’t done anything to any of you –“

“Blue – “ Orange tries to interrupt.

Fable adjusts the gun to point at Orange’s chest at the same time you turn a glare and hiss a warning at them.

“Blue is going to be fine. You know who isn’t going to be fine? Any of you if you lay another goddamn fucking finger on Lime.” They end on a deep growl that’d make an impostor proud and captain Orange almost seems too shocked to respond.

After a moment they collect themselves and start to bark, “I’m your captain, you can’t talk to me like that!”

“I don’t give a flying FUCK who you think you are! If you were a real captain you would’ve called a fucking meeting or something and let us talk it out like adults instead of taking matters into your own fucking hands and nearly killing a person who hasn’t done shit to you.”

Orange is silent again, but after a long quiet moment they finally growl, “Fine. Emergency meeting. Just put the damn gun down.”

If you could have seen their face you were sure they would’ve been grinning, “Sure. It’s empty anyway.” And to prove it they pull the trigger and the gun clicks uselessly a few times before they let it drop and turn to take a seat at the meeting table. The rest of the crew gives them and you a wide berth as you go.

  The meeting ends up taking a couple hours at most, with much arguing and shouting and a few more heated threats but eventually you come to an agreement that if you, Fable, or Keet put one foot out of line it would be grounds for ejection, and that the rest of the crew will be staying in larger groups to prevent any of you from ‘trying anything’.

  Finally, with that over you and Fable can begin with the real work: trying to find where Keet had hidden himself.

“I’ll check his room first,” Fable says, they sound tired, but the worry overshadows it and you know they wouldn’t rest until you found him anyway.

“I’ll check the vents.”

You both nod and go off, though you think it shouldn’t take you long to find him. Humans couldn’t normally fit in here after all.

Still it does end up taking you almost 20 minutes of looking before you pick up the sound of faint breaths and soft noises that you follow until at last you find Keet, curled tightly into a ball at the bend where one vent connects to another.

You almost let out an audible sigh of relief before slowly approaching, though he doesn’t seem to notice you even when you’re less than a few feet away. You give him a moment to see if he will react, but when he stays curled and unmoving you try to lower your voice to something soft, careful, and you call his name, “Keet.”

He flinches violently, helmet snapping up to look at you and you can very nearly see the greenish glow of two wide eyes behind the visor.

You pause, giving him time. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t make a move to flee either.

“It’s only me,” you try to soothe, “you’ve been down here for hours. Fay is worried about you.” You pause again and then sheepishly admit, “We are worried. Come with me, let’s –“

“No.” Keet growls sharply. You can see how his claws flex and dig into his own arms with how tightly he clutches at himself, and how the few tendrils he had wrapped around himself constricted tighter and tighter.

“Keet,” you try again, but he isn’t listening, you can tell by the beat of his hearts and the sound of his breathing that he isn’t. “Keet,” you snap your fingers at him, in front of his visor a few times. “Keet,” he gives another smaller startled jolt before refocusing on you.

Now that you have his attention again you’re quick to try and convince him to come out, you needed to get him back to Fable quick, “We won’t let any of them near you.” You promise, “We won’t let them hurt you. We won’t leave your side.”

He’s listening but with how he stays tense you can tell he doesn’t believe you, “I’ll kill them if they try,” you say, and you mean it, “and that’s only if Fay doesn’t do it first. Keet. Trust us. You can trust us.”

He still doesn’t speak, nor does he move. Well, he couldn’t stay here, so slowly you begin to inch forward, careful, watching. His eyes are locked on you, watching back, but he stays and lets you approach until finally you are close enough to reach for him.

You grab his shoulders first, start to pull him to your chest, you are mindful of your claws as you begin to wrap him up and up into what could be dozens of pairs of arms and hands and claws until he is snugly fitted against your chest so that you can begin to crawl out of the vent.

Keet is still at first, tense, but it isn’t long before you feel claws and tendrils digging at your clothing and wrapping around whatever they can get themselves around. It makes it a little harder to move, but it doesn’t matter, you have him now and he’s safe and you let yourself rumble a deep not-quite purr and shush him when he starts to whine.

You aren’t sure where Fable might’ve gotten to by this point, but they probably know as well as you that you’d be the one to find him, so you make your way to Keet’s room.

Sure enough when you enter through a vent in the corner of the room they’re there. They jump up and hurry over, hardly giving you a chance to climb fully out of the vent before they are reaching, pulling, touching and as quickly and carefully as you can your limbs shift and shuffle, allowing Fable through without letting go of Keet until you have both of them folded in close and you can rest your head on Fable’s and let yourself wrap more securely around the both of them.

Fable is murmuring, frantic, relieved, mostly repeating Keet’s name and other little bits of nonsense in between pressing kisses to the top of his head.

You feel a sudden, surprising flash of protectiveness. Like claws sinking into you, your grip tightens further as you feel Keet press his face further into your chest and Fable alternate between kissing Keet and kissing at you where they can reach. This was yours. They were yours. And you knew without a doubt that anyone who tried to take them from you was going to have hell to pay.

Chapter 5: Head Full

Summary:

tw implied self harm ;

Beyond some residual embarrassment, Keet doesn't hold the moment against himself. He's seen, after all, both humans and even another Impostor fall apart in the face of their own mortality - that he did the same, well, he can forgive himself for that.

 

The way he keeps coming back to it, though, the way the memories and the fear keep circling over and over in his mind - it's getting old, and it's getting tired, and when he's not reliving his Near-death Experience he's beating himself up for thinking about it again.

 

Keet wishes his brain would just shut up and let him rest.

 

It's making him irritable, and that isn't helping - he feels bad hiding himself away from Purple and Black, but he doesn't want to subject them to his mood swings either. He tries to strike the balance, but both options inevitably leave him feeling both more agitated and guilty.

 

And then embarrassment, when he knows Purple spots one of the bite marks he'd left on his arm. Fresh, not quite all the way healed. It hadn't been intentional, just done in the heat of the desperate need to expel some of the awful pressure inside. Still, they worry - clear as day - and Keet is quick to mumble something unintelligible and slip away.

 

He thinks about that moment, too - wonders if he should have stayed, or said more, if Purple is upset with him - and he finds himself curled tight in his bed, palms of his hands pressed heavy into his eyes as some part of him practically begs for the thoughts to just stop.

 

And then, he finds himself just plain old tired. It's a strange feeling - a relief, in some ways, because he finds himself in something of a haze sometimes and for that period of time the thoughts do stop. Still, at the same time, it almost feels worse - strangely numb, in a bad way, and he feels bad then, too, because it's as if he can't dredge up any sort of real interest in the going-ons around him - tries so hard to stay focused on the conversations Purple and Black involve him in. It feels fake, though - unreal, so much effort - and he extracts himself as soon as he can, because he isn't sure how long he can keep that up for.

 

And the next day, the thoughts and fears roar back and the cycle seems to start all over again.

 

It's an off day, when Black catches Keet in a hallway. Off enough that it takes Keet a second to realize that Black has their claws curved around the back of Keet's neck. They hold him there in place, until finally he looks up at them in uncertain curiosity.

 

"Come on," they say, and with a bit of pressure they guide Keet forward. He somehow both follows and leads them, and he can't help but slow as they head into the showers.

 

He thinks he should be well past it, but Keet feels his pulse accelerate when Black not only closes but locks the entryway behind them. He watches them, but they don't even let him go as they tilt their head pointedly further into the room. Steps careful now, Keet makes his way towards the actual showers -

 

And is very abruptly stopped in place by the sight of Purple waiting there, wrapped in a towel as if about to shower themself. A plastic container sits on the floor by their feet - Keet can see various cosmetics and sponges in it. They smile at him lightly as he and Black approach, but Keet can't help but pause in a sudden wave of uncertainty.

 

"Come here, Keet," Purple says - and there is nothing at all forceful or even commanding about the order. It's something in the way they say his name, though, that has Keet swallowing hard and crossing the distance between them. All the while, Black is still there, their grip on him still secure - and Keet doesn't bother pointing out that he doesn't need their guidance.

 

"What's…going on?" He finally asks as he comes to stand in front of Purple. They don't answer right away, instead they step closer and reach out to put their hands on his cheeks. They massage him - and he feels a little tension slip immediately away.

 

"Will you do something for me?" Purple asks, and Keet nods before he even bothers to think over the answer. "Trust us," Purple continues, "no questions, no running - just trust us. Let us take care of you."

 

Keet swallows, his eyes follow the curves of Purple's face, and he knows if he says no, it will hurt them - but they won't stop him from turning away. Somehow, that assurance makes the decision for him and after a few long seconds, Keet finally nods.

 

In answer, Purple tugs him a bit closer and leans forward to press their lips to his forehead.

 

"Just a sec," they say, and then they step away in order to turn on one of the showers. Keet watches them go, feels Black finally let go of his neck, and then stills when he feels their arms instead come around and their hands grasp at the clasps and zippers that make up his suit.

 

Without thinking, in a slight panic, Keet reaches up for their hands. There's a warning in Black's hum, though, that stills him - and as his hands linger helplessly in the air he swallows.

 

"Trust, remember?" Black says, and with a somewhat shaky breath Keet lowers his hands back to his side.

 

Purple returns, and together they and Black work to shuck the remaining clothing from Keet's body. His own help is minimal - he moves, lifts, steps when requested - and before long he finds himself entirely nude in front of them. A soft breath of chilled air makes him shiver - but then Purple takes his hand and tugs him closer to the water, and a warm fog of heat wraps around him instead.

 

They continue to manhandle him, and he lets them - until he is facing away from the wall and hot water is rippling over his head and body. It's warm, soothing - Keet can't help a soft sigh as some of his muscles relax beneath the warmth.

 

"There you go, just relax," Purple says, "close your eyes, if you want." At the suggestion, Keet does just that - and shortly after, he feels the teeth of a comb run through his hair. Over and over they brush - careful at the catches and snags. It relaxes him further still, and he almost complains when the comb moves away. But then there is a brief coolness as they spread something on his hair, and when Black starts to massage at Keet's scalp with their claws, it takes no small amount of effort to keep standing.

 

An uneven purr escapes him, and he leans his head back into the touch. Not unlike the comb, Black runs their claws through his hair over and over - pauses to massage, and ruffle, and the air is full of the scent of soap and shampoo.

 

Purple's hand clasps his shoulder, and then Keet feels something plush but rough rest on his chest. Purple moves it in circles, massages Keet with it as they use it to cover his body in soap. It tickles, a little, as they move over more sensitive areas - but Keet finds the sensations surprisingly easy to ignore in favor of the warmth and the circles and the claws still working at his hair.

 

"Head back, keep your eyes closed," Black orders, and Keet obeys without hesitation - leans his head back even further so that the water can rinse through the strands. It trickles down his back, and this time Keet's purr is almost purposeful as Black works out the soap and Purple's sponge rubs carefully at his throat.

 

He drifts beneath the attention as it continues, lets himself be soothed by the warmth until it's all he can do to stay on his feet. Unfortunately, it has to end eventually - but even once he's rinsed and the water's been turned off, he finds himself ruffled beneath soft towels and hands.

 

And then they wrap him up tightly in a towel, and Purple presses themself close as their arms hold him, and Black joins in just the same, and even without the water Keet feels warm. Comfortable.

 

"Feel better?" Purple asks as they press another kiss to his cheek. The question, along with the realization that his mind is quieter than it's been in a long while, nearly brings Keet to tears. He just manages to bite them back, though, as he nods.

 

"Yeah," He answers, and if there's a croak in his voice when he does, no one mentions it.

Chapter 6: Venom

Summary:

tw needles, implied torture, restraint, unreality, loss of body control

Keet can't stop shaking.

 

The tremors ripple deep in his muscles, his nerves, and they roll one over another with barely even ever a breath of relief. It's almost like a vibrating massage except - he wants it to stop. It hasn't, though, not in at least a day, or maybe more, he can't be sure how time passes any longer.

 

He is on his knees, leaned heavily into the shackles and manacles that bind him - aware only distantly, now, of the ache this position causes. His own abdominal tongue - soft, heavy - rests along the ground from where it hangs out of a dry, panting maw. Blood coats it - evidence of his one, lucky strike - but Keet cannot taste it, cannot drum up even a lick of appetite.

 

Despite the body on the floor in front of him. Cooled, now - the large, venom-laden syringe they'd been holding resting not all that far from a hand. Stabbed through the head, the neck - basically decapitated because they had underestimated his adrenaline. His fight. They're dead now. Can't hurt him any longer.

 

He finally got them.

 

But the shaking won't stop. His body still won't quite listen. Keet can't focus. Feels so disconnected that it's as if he's simultaneously buried deep, deep into his body and also flying high, high above it. Every now and then he drifts back into the present, sees stark white walls and then the tremors get worse because fear twines into them, too.

 

And then, suddenly, a voice drifts into his consciousness, and without thought Keet snarls and lunges. Between his rebellious body and his exhaustion he doesn't make it far - meets nothing but empty air. Awareness seeps back into his eyes, only just enough to let them focus ahead - and he sees a human, there. Familiar, very familiar - but in his addled state he can only think of the one who hurt him and he begins to build up energy for just one more attack.

 

There is a clack sudden and sharp enough that it makes Keet jolt, and all at once the human is pulled away. In their place stands legs - and it takes Keet a long moment to realize that legs do not usually stand alone, and so he has to look up. Except he can't, even though he tries, and a long breath that borders on a sigh escapes him.

 

He tenses when he feels a hand curl around his chin. And then his gaze is going up, and up, until it is caught in another that is vividly amber and so, so sharp -

 

The pieces fall into place. Keet doesn't even feel the sob build - it is just all at once there, a single explosion of noise that rips out of his chest and through his throat.

 

Black. Purple. They've found him - they're here.

 

Black is careful as they let his chin lower once more, and then they move away - but Keet doesn't have the time to feel their absence, because Purple slips quickly back into their place. Keet feels himself jostled, slightly, by movements at the chains that bind him. Purple reaches out, smooths hard, almost desperate presses into his skin. Their hands move to his neck - it surprises him that he still has a neck - and Keet lets his eyes slip closed as they work, too.

 

His body comes undone, his chains release - and with not an iota of energy to bring to bear, Keet can't stop himself from falling forward. Purple catches him, strains but doesn't let him fall. Keet would cry, if he could - but nothing comes. Instead he only trembles, shivers - can't even form a whine or a whimper. He manages a sigh, though, as Purple does their best to bundle his mess of a body closer and closer. Black is soon there, too, and the job is easier with their many, many hands.

 

Purple is speaking, but Keet can't understand them. Their words pass through his ears - still not quite right - and out again, his addled mind incapable of translating them.

 

He gets it though, he thinks. Even beneath the confusion, and the trembling, and the body that refuses to listen - Keet feels relief start seeping through his bones.

 

They have him, now. He's safe.

Chapter 7: Hallucinate

Summary:

tw death, gore

The scream of the alarm had taken them all off-guard.

 

It'd been a distantly familiar sound to Keet, who knew that the Seismic Stabilizers on Polus gave off a similarly distressed sound when messed with - but even still, he'd had difficulty figuring out what on the ship could be producing that same noise. The humans and Black had been similarly - well, Keet couldn't have been sure if they were confused or stunned. Either way, there were a long, long few heartbeats of silent uncertainty.

 

It'd been Orange who'd jumped to action first, with a quick shout of 'Reactor!' They'd all moved, then, had stomped down the hallway and piled into the room that housed the reactor. Keet had kept something of a distance, both from the crowd and from the strange, unpleasant smell seeping from the unit. Vivid red lights flashed overhead, the siren was much louder so close, and as the humans began to bicker and fight amongst themselves, Keet pressed his eyes closed against the cacophony of sensations.

 

The arguing only grew worse when resetting the Reactor didn't work - this, it seemed, was no sabotage but actual malfunction. Purple and even Black tried to wrangle the others into some semblance of control, but between the fighting and panicking it was impossible to do.

 

It didn't matter, anyway. It couldn't have been longer than a minute or two before there was a sudden and explosive roar - and all at once Keet isn't on feet any longer, and time vanishes in a haze.

 

Keet doesn't realize that the reactor has exploded, that he's been thrown not only backwards but through a wall, not even that all the while he is being pelted with burning hot metal and painted with oil and blood and gore. He knows nothing at all, until suddenly he is blinking back into something he can't even really call awareness.

 

The world around him swims - dances with haze and roars with a rushing so loud he can feel it coursing through his veins. Metal and debris is scattered all around him - and each breath he tries to pull in is a strain. He thinks there is screaming - a distant, distant sound he almost can't hear at all. Idly, running on instinct more than thought, Keet tries to push himself away from the wall he's ended up against - but when he reaches for it, he realizes there is no arm in the place he's certain he'd just had one.

 

The first pulse of pain is burning hot, and almost casually Keet turns his head to find a massive, still-orange piece of metal burrowed deep into the skin between head and shoulder. Blood drips down from it, courses down his body - disappears into the vibrant deep red already painting most of his form.

 

"Purple? Black?" He tries to call, but only whispers, even as - forgetting, for a moment - he tries once more to push himself to his feet. He can feel the ache of his missing limb, then, and he realizes as his body throbs that it's not the only one that's gone.

 

A whimper escapes him before he can call it back.

 

Where are they? Where is anyone? Confusion blankets Keet's mind, and in desperation he thrashes in place, trying to stand, or move, or do anything but just sit there. It's useless, though - Keet doesn't have the cognizance to look his body over, but none of it is listening like it's supposed to.

 

And then, all at once - Purple is there. Black is there. Like apparitions they appear at his sides, resting on their knees and reaching for him. Keet blinks at Black, watches them rest a hand on his head, feels it as they begin to gently massage - and then Keet looks to Purple, who wraps an arm around his shoulders and moves in closer to his body.

 

"What's happening?" Keet asks them, a soft whine in his voice. Purple smiles at him, softly, sadly - but they don't answer. Don't even try. Feeling something awful curl tighter in his chest, Keet looks back to Black instead.

 

"Black?" He asks, pleading now, "what's wrong? What am I - what are you - I don't like this. Please. I don't like this." But Black's answer is just a strange downturn of their eyes - sorrowful. Sorry. Panicking, Keet looks once more to Purple, who wears a similarly mournful gaze.

 

"Purple? Please. Why won't you answer me? Why won't you - I want this to stop. Please make it stop, Purple. Fable." The name escapes him in a soft keening whine. "Please."

 

Still, there is no answer. They do shift, though - crowd in closer, wrap arms and legs and bodies around him in what should be a suffocatingly tight hold. Except, Keet can't feel it - he realizes, rather suddenly, that he can't feel anything at all. Numbness has settled over what remains of his body, and it is creeping into his head, and there are tears seeping down his face as he somehow stares into four pairs of eyes at once.

 

Their gazes are the last thing he sees, before he sees nothing at all.

Chapter 8: Keet name lore

"Does it mean anything? Your name?" They ask, and Keet thinks of one of his earliest memories. 

 

He lays on his stomach and watches as his siblings gather around the pile of food their Watcher has just dropped for them. The others snarl and bite at each other - but there is plenty of food. He waits a long minute and then, when he thinks them distracted, lunges for the pile. He stays low to the ground - he's smaller than the others, and easier to miss. 

Except of course, this time they don't miss him at all. Before he can grab a piece of meat, one of his siblings sinks teeth into the top of his neck. He screeches and turns on them immediately, and for a moment all he knows is biting and scratching - being bit and scratched. 

"No!" One of their watchers scold - and a tentacle wraps around his sibling and yanks them away, all the while another is shoving him back. "Keet!" Watcher snaps a word he doesn't recognize. "No, keet, keet!" they repeat, angry as he continues to try and dodge around their limb and return to his attack. Eventually, a tentacle wraps tightly around his waist and yanks him upwards. Enraged, he turns his aggression on it - but Watcher only sighs as they pull him away. 

They set him back down once they are far from his siblings. He thinks to run back to the pile, but before he can Watcher sets a slab of meat down in front of him. Successfully distracted, he pounces on it - nibbles and pulls at bits to break them off. Watcher crouches next to him with another sigh, and as they pat his head awkwardly with a hand, they speak. He doesn't understand all of the words, but he understands the gist - stay here. Eat here. Leave your siblings be. He doesn't care any longer, so he ignores them and continues with his meal. 

It is far from the last time he hears the word - keet. Oftentimes, it is the only thing said to him - usually when he's being pushed away by or from his siblings. Always to him, even if his sibling started the fight. If it is ever said to the others, he never hears it - and so it isn't long before he decides that this must be his name. 

Of course, he ages, and he learns. At first, it is a recognition that there is another word they use on the rare occasion he is directly addressed. Then, it is hearing that same word, keet - his name, so he thought - used when his Watchers chase off a particularly stubborn pest-creature. He comes to realize that it is not his name at all - but instead, a word that means 'leave,' or 'get away from here.' 

He claims it anyway. 

His siblings find it hilarious, when they realize. They push and poke at him and chant his name as an order as they shove him away - and he only clings to it harder. 

His Watchers seem perturbed when he points it out. 

"That's not your name - of course it's not your name. You don't know your own name?" They ask, and they look at him with pity - as if he's stupid, or slow. And he burrows the name deeper into his heart, holds himself tall - though he's hardly a child, and barely comes up to their first leg joint. 

"It's my name," He insists, "somedays, it's the only thing you call me."

They look appropriately chagrined at that, and their twin looks of apology cements his name in place. 

He is 'go away.' He is 'get out of here.' He is Keet. 

 

"No," Keet lies as he stabs the fork he uses to keep up appearances into the slab of meat in front of him. "It doesn't mean anything. It's just my name."

Chapter 9: Spider Keet

Summary:

tw spiders

Outside life on the ship is very unusual - humans and Impostors both create their own life support, after all, so anything outside of that support is doomed to die. Likely long before the ship settles into space. There was once, Keet remembers, when the Polus crew found a small earth mammal in one of their newly arrived shipments - a rat, they'd called it. It'd been long dead, though - long enough that the scent of rot had kept even Keet away from it. 

 

So this is a surprise. Late one night, Keet finds himself in the corner of the lower engine, lying on his stomach as he peers with interest at a tiny, moving terrestrial. It's almost just the size of the tip of his human-like fingers, but it seems bigger with the way eight long, spindly legs jut out from its body. 

 

He doesn't know the word for it - never got so far as earth flora and fauna. He knows some, of course, just from hearing humans talk about them - he knows humans often have dogs and cats as pets. 

 

Not that he knows what either of those things look like. 

 

He knows that birds exist. 

 

Although he…is pretty sure most earth birds aren't quite as sentient or big as Black. He can't know that for sure, though, he supposes. 

 

From what he knows, he thinks this tiny creature is an insect. That's as much as he can dredge up, though - and he's not even entirely sure it's accurate. With a soft huff, he decides it doesn't matter - and loses his train of thought entirely when the air makes the creature and the shining, gossamer threads it sits on sway. Legs jitter in agitation, and briefly the little thing twitches back in forth in strange, jerking motions. It settles again, soon enough, and Keet hums softly. 

 

Curiously, he holds a finger out and rests it carefully near the creature. He waits, and when the insect makes no move, he gently nudges his finger closer. For a second, it seems to rear back, front legs dancing at the air as if on the attack. 

 

Keet smiles. 

 

Then, it lowers itself back down, its legs resting on Keet's finger. Shortly after, it uses those same, uneven movements to crawl onto him entirely. Once it's secure, Keet uses his free hand to twist his helmet away and, once he sets it to the side, he pulls his occupied hand closer. Up close, he can see a number of tiny eyes littered across the insect's face. He can see the way the little legs bend - the way tiny mandibles near its mouth gnash at the air. 

 

He's struck with an idea. 

 

Keet returns the insect to its web, waits until its securely resting once more, and then he scoots carefully back. With a brief glance over his shoulder and a moment of hard listening, Keet decides he's unlikely to be interrupted. 

 

He begins to shift. 

 

It takes some effort - it's a lot more moving about and testing than he expects. Eventually, though, he settles with a brief shake of his head. Clawed feet curl around the guardrail of the engine, and two others on his opposite side brace against the wall. Experimentally, he clacks the new mandibles at his mouth together - it's more of a clicking, but he likes the way it feels. The appendages are more sensitive than he expected - inverted barbs line them just the same as they usually do his tentacles, and as the small spines rub at each other he shivers. 

 

He can imagine pinning a struggling human between them, watching them fight as he presses them closer to his awaiting teeth - 

 

He gives a brief shake of his head and a soft growl. He doubts he'll have the chance for that anytime soon - but there's plenty more in this form to play with. Keet finds it surprisingly easy to turn around - his feet skate over the ground as he makes a nearly perfect circle. He takes a couple of steps forward - and is surprised at just how quick he is on eight feet. With a soft laugh to himself, he rushes down the hallway - his feet move in perfect timing with each other, and when he brushes too close to the wall instinct has him pressing his feet to it. He skitters onward, half walking on the wall, and his stride doesn't so much as pause. 

 

He is quick, dexterous - he pauses and crouches, and when he leaps he nearly hits his head against the ceiling. He lands, his central body plummets towards the floor and then bounces back up as his legs keep him suspended. 

 

He likes this form, Keet decides as he skitters briefly back and forth, he likes this form a lot. He is quick on eight legs but can stand on as few as two - giving him six with which to grab and grapple. He was already fast - but he thinks he could give even Black a run for their money, like this. 

 

He is tall - taller than the humans on board, at least. If he rears back, kicks his front legs at the air - then, he thinks he is likely taller even than Black. The least of his worries, honestly, but he can't deny it feels nice. 

 

It's with great reluctance that Keet shifts back to his human form. Even if his foray into the other had been brief, he feels the absence of his extra limbs keenly. He gives himself a brief shake as his form settles. 

 

It's unlikely to do him much good, here - and he can't risk staying that way for long, lest the others see. But he tucks the form back into his mind, holds onto it tightly - it could be very useful to him, one day. 

 

As he continues his nightly walk, a bit of unusual cheer in his step, Keet briefly wonders if Purple might enjoy seeing his new trick. 

 

Thinks he might try and find a way to show it off to Black, too. Just for fun, of course. 

Chapter 10: Show-Off

Notes:

CW: Violence, Skinning/Torture Imagery, Fear-induced Urination

Generally, Keet simply doesn't much care about the other humans around him. They're no longer fair game, and so he ignores and avoids them in favor of Purple and Black. To him, they're often all the same - some are louder, some are lazier, some are kinder - but these differences seem subtle and pointless to Keet. He doesn't care, doesn't know much about them beyond their colors, and he has no intention of changing that.

So when Tan arrives, and Keet finds his hackles quickly ruffled by the human, he's surprised. There is something in the way the man holds himself - too big, too loud - that rubs Keet the wrong way. It's not long before his instincts are proven right, either - the crew's first meal with the newcomer prove that Tan is a braggart. Full of himself.

He is quick to tell the story of his last placement - claims that he and he alone caught out a deadly Impostor who'd already killed much of his crew. It takes all of Keet's willpower, and no gentle bite at the inside of his own mouth, not to make a number of snide comments. He feels Black's eyes on him as he stabs into the meat on his plate with unnecessary force - and Keet uses that as an opening to rant to his partners once they are alone.

Black is dismissive, unbothered by Tan entirely - Purple seems a bit aggravated by the man as well, but shrugs and suggests the best thing to do is just ignore him. To Keet, these answers are entirely dissatisfactory - but he knows his options are limited, these days, and so he lets the subject go and decides to try.

And he does try. Mealtimes are nearly insufferable, but he mostly manages to keep his comments to himself and ignore Tan. He distracts himself with food and conversations with his partners, does all he can to pretend that Tan doesn't even exist.

Then one day Tan finds Keet in the middle of a brief struggle with the tablet they use for data transfers. Keet ignores him, at first, but when the human leans over Keet's shoulder, command in his voice as he reaches for the tablet, Keet is blindsided by the urge to sink teeth into the man's throat. Human incisors sharpen into Impostor fangs at the very thought, and Keet has to press his jaw together painfully tight to keep himself from attacking.

"Fuck off," Keet grumbles instead as he extracts himself from the human. Tan's response - some complaint about Keet's tone - falls on deaf ears as Keet puts all his effort into walking away with some semblance of calm. He barely manages to get to his room - and once there tears into his mattress with pent-up fury.

Decides, once the worst of it has passed and he sits panting on the edge of his bed, that enough is enough. He can't kill Tan - he keeps that thought firmly in mind - but that doesn't mean he's powerless.

He is an Impostor. A shape-shifter. And, he decides, the perfect person to knock Tan down a few notches. 

---

Tan almost makes it too easy. He is early to rise, and late to bed - in fact, Keet realizes after a few evenings of observation, always the last to bed outside of himself. So Keet waits for the perfect opportunity, and finds it in an evening where Tan works alone in Communications.

It's an easy matter to disconnect a wire and cut the lights to the room. Tan, it seems, hardly even notices - as by the time Keet slips into the Communications ceiling, Tan is hard at work with a flashlight in hand. Keet watches the human for a few minutes until, with a spike of anticipation, Keet slips free of the vent.

He has shed his suit entirely, and his form is unraveled, bulbous and amoebic - closer to the mass of tissue he considers his true form. He has made his skin pale, fleshlike - and if they weren't aware that he was the only Impostor of his species onboard, he doubts even Black or Purple could tie this form back to 'Lime.'

Keet drapes himself from the ceiling - clings to the pipes with a couple of tentacles and slowly lowers the bulk of his mass closer to the ground. Still other tendrils spill out from his body, twitch and writhe as they hang free and grasp at empty air. Keet's eyes sharpen on Tan's form, only feet away, and he listens eagerly as he lets one tentacle flop against the floor.

Tan freezes, there's a brief jump in his pulse, and then he is quick to turn. As the flashlight illuminates him, Keet parts his abdominal mouth - he can practically feel the way thick saliva dangles between his teeth, hears some plop onto the floor below. He undulates his form, lets tentacles shift to claws and back again, blinks at Tan with multiple eyes that appear as fast as they vanish. All the while Tan stares, his own eyes growing almost impossibly wide, and the air fills with the bitter scent of fear and sweat.

Keet hums, then babbles nonsense in his native tongue. He lets the words echo in his throat, grumble in his gut - hears the way they come out two-toned and distorted. Tan's pulse spikes further, and finally he begins to move. His muscles tense, one foot slides back along the ground, and he is sure to run at any second.

So Keet lashes out - Tan screams as tentacles fly towards him, but the sound is quickly cut off by the tendril that wraps tight around his mouth. With a few others around his waist and legs, Keet lifts the human from the ground and pulls him closer to Keet's widening maw. Tan struggles and drops his flashlight as he beats and claws uselessly at the tentacles holding him. Keet tightens his hold, and brings Tan close enough that he can see the way his breath ruffles the humans hair.

Keet growls, the rumble enough to vibrate every inch of his body, and Tan freezes again. His heart flutters, stammers - and when Keet stretches his mouth open near wide enough to swallow the human whole, the acrid scent of urine all but floods the air.

Keet snaps his jaws closed - so close to Tan that Keet can feel the way his teeth nearly brush against the man's skin. Tan screeches, then, the sound only barely muffled by the tendril around his face. He screams as if he had been bitten - thrashes as if his life depends on it. Fights and cries and Keet's own pulse is thrumming now, practically singing as he watches.

He could kill Tan, he realizes, he could do it right now. Probably, he could even afford to go slow. He could nibble off an arm as the man screeches and begs - or nip and pull at Tan's skin until it comes off in long, bleeding threads. Keet could eat and indulge, bit by bit, the meal seasoned with the human's terror and pain and blood -

The very thought has drool pooling so thick in his maw that it is a veritable waterfall as it slips free. He tightens his hold further, hears and feels something in the man's face crack. It'd be easy. So easy. He has the time. He has the power.

He comes close - stretches his teeth towards an arm, holds on tight as he pulls the human a little closer still. He can hardly tell Tan's heartbeat from his own - need and want rise up burning hot within him -

And then, he thinks of Purple. Fable. What they would think, what they would say. They would be disappointed. Angry.

They might even be afraid.

None of which Keet wants to imagine, but it is the last point that finally makes him let go of Tan. The man drops heavy to the floor, but is quick to scramble to his hands and knees as he turns and flees. He screams, calls the warning - and Keet watches him go, something unpleasant and unhappy turning in his gut. He'd done what he set out to do - he'd put the arrogant human into his place with a lesson he doubted Tan would soon forget. Reminded himself, and the universe, that he is dangerous. Deadly. An Impostor to be feared. He should be pleased. He's sure he will be, later.

For the moment, though, he grumbles softly to himself in dissatisfaction, and then turns. His form shifts and narrows as he slips back up into the vent - the others will be waking soon, and Keet wants to be sure he's standing with them.

The thought of it manages to lift his spirits, just a little. After all, it's been quite some time since he's had to play this particular game - and watching Tan babble, covered in his own urine as he desperately tries to convince the rest of the crew of what he'd seen…well. Keet is pretty sure that, at least, will be very satisfying.

Chapter 11: oops all birds

Summary:

oops all birds au; crim and keet meet cute

Quiet. Slow. Watchful.

Follow at a distance. Don’t let it sense you. Nearer, nearer, a moment to aim, hone in, be precise. Then strike; quick, efficient, deadly. One hit is all it takes. Your prey struggles but not long.

Such large prey; too large for you. You eat what you can, enough to sate your hunger, then hide the rest away. Tuck it into a hollow within the tree. Brush with leaves to disguise the blood. Out of sight.

Content. Full. It is time to rest.

You climb higher, another large hollow in the tree. You crawl inside, stretch, it is cozy, dark, warm, under the bark.

You sleep.

 

Later, you hear scratching below. Look out, look down.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

There. You see an Other. Like you. Small, bloodied, dirtied, dusty, scratching away at your hidden prey.

The Other looks frail, weak. You approach, confident, hissing deeply and snapping in warning. The Other is quick but does not flee as expected. They hiss back, gaping their maw and snapping in obvious threat.

You stretch your jaws wide and splay your limbs. You are much bigger, stronger, you rumble a growl and slowly approach.

The Other repeats, matches you, growling and snapping. They lunge toward you with a loud clack and produce many more claws. They will not leave without a fight.

Pause. Assess. Not worth the risk of injury.

You are full. You will not need to hunt again for several cycles.

Snap, hiss, you back away from the Other and return to rest.

The Other clicks and trills triumphantly and fills themselves on your kill.

 

More cycles pass. You must hunt again.

You watch. You listen. You hear in the distance snarling, crashing, snapping branches and undergrowth.

Cautious. Careful. You follow.

Soon, you find the cause. A large ground beast; heavy as the trees and just as wide, with jaws strong enough to crush stone. Best to avoid.

You go to leave, then notice a flash of sleek shine and bright light. It flickers, shrills, snaps. It is the Other.

They cling to the beast’s hide, hooking claws into scale and gouging slashes through thick skin as they crawl along its body.

You watch from above. Intrigued. Amused.

The beast bellows; lashes its body back and forth, and thrashes its heavy tail flinging dirt, sticks, stones. The Other is unphased. They continue. Steady. Focused. Until they reach the beast’s skull. They secure their grip with many hooked claws, stretch their neck forward, and part their jaws.

Tongue pierces eye, the beast howls, thrashes, bucks, throws itself at the trees and stones in pain. The Other does not let go. Eventually the beast slows, stops, and collapses to the ground.

The Other, small, so small against the great creature’s size, unlatches themself and crows their victory to any that may hear.

 

You watch. Awe and amazement draw you closer. Too close.

The Other tenses at your approach, hissing and snapping, but weary. You could drive them off.

You don’t. Instead you churr at them.

Soothing. Appeasement.

The Other watches, wary, tense, but settles eventually at the continued churring.

Perhaps the Other could be worth having around after all.

Chapter 12: Mealtime

Notes:

MAJOR Content Warning: Explicit Gore, Mutilation, Body Eating (Not technically cannibalism but reads similarly), body horror, suggestive, Bad Ending, Major Character Death.

Literally went into this wanting to make it descriptive and grotesque, all of the above is painted in a positive light. Splatter Film/Torture porn-esque.

Consider yourself fully warned if you decide to read anyway.

Fully and entirely NOT canon to any other KFC timeline, of course.

The first thing Keet does is rip the meat of their throat from their neck.

It's a shame, really - he'd have liked to hear them scream. But he chooses, instead, the chance to savor - it'll take longer for them to be found, now.

More disappointing than that, though, is how quickly life pours from the blood gushing and oozing from the wound. They latch onto Keet's arm in sudden horror, terror - but almost immediately their fight begins to lessen. Their grip weakens.

He'd have liked for them to fight more.

Keet slips an arm beneath their neck, another under their knees - he cradles them close to his body, presses his forehead to theirs and takes a deep, deep breath. Their blood seeps from between his jaws, runs quick and jagged lines into their hair, across their eyes, down their cheeks.

They choke. Gargle. They smell of blood, flesh, urine - of terror and fear and despair.

Betrayal.

A flood of scents Keet hasn't gotten to experience in a long, long time. A familiar thrill races down his nerves, and almost as if in answer his abdominal maw parts with a soft, moist smack.

He snakes a tongue out, licks a long path along the sweat-salted skin of their arm, and then curls his tongue around it in drool-lined circles. He tightens, sharpens, and his tongue slices through tissue and bone with ease until the arm comes free and he can pull it deep into his waiting maw. Keet can feel their fingers flex, shiver - and then droop as the last nerves fire. He shivers, himself, as he crunches and shears at the limb - blood and marrow and bone mix with his own saliva, and it runs in heavy rivulets over his teeth and down his front.

Once the arm is gone, Keet devours their leg just the same. He groans, softly, at the jerky movements of dying muscles and the obscene sound of his own smacking, gnawing, grunting - the skin of a thigh pops beneath his teeth, and there is a fresh spill of blood that coats him in warm, heavy slick.

What is left of their body trembles, shivers - their eyes open and close and dart around in quickly paling stupor. Their breathing is tiny, harsh gasps - agonal, lifeless. They are dying.

They are practically already dead.

Keet shifts them a bit, so that they are more fully facing his body. Tentacles and tendrils wrap and support them and push their middle against the teeth of his abdomen. His first bite slips, a bit - there is so much slick between them that he can't quite get a hold.

"Don't be shy," He growls quietly, as if they might hear him, "let me see." And this time, he manages to pierce into their flesh. He bites slow, steady, despite how badly he wishes to gorge. It's worth the effort, though, as their tender middle bundles and breaks beneath his bite - as blood and bile gather at the sharp edges of the wound and fill his maw with tang and flavor.

He can't quiet a shuddering moan, and as the sound escapes him it seems to take his self-control with it. His biting and chewing become quicker, more desperate, as he burrows a hole futher and further into the center of their body. Entrails and organs and bones snap and pop across his tongue, over his teeth - it is unbelievably warm, filling, comforting.

By the time Keet has all but emptied the cavity of their body, they are gone entirely - still, and cooling, and he doesn't feel the need to savor the rest quite as much. Snaps and chews through it all like a beast, instead.

He leaves their head, their eyes, a smattering of random bones and parts that don't quite make it down his gullet. Soaked in gore, he leans back, runs a hand along his abdominal teeth, his tongue - laughs when his middle ripples with a grotesque burp.

Happy. Satisfied. He smiles at the blank gaze of their eyes.

For once, they don't smile back at him.

The meal leaves him tired and full, and so he doesn't bother to leave. Lounges, instead - picks idly at teeth, sucks at his fingers and the extra blood that coats them. Gives a long, contented sigh as he tucks a bit of slicked-down hair behind his ear.

It takes longer than he expects for the footsteps, and as they come to a sudden stop in the doorway he doesn't even bother to look. Their voice is strained, choked, almost a squawk as they ask -

"What have you done?"

Keet presses his hands into the ground and leans back on them as he finally turns his head to look over and up at Black. And as he takes in their stunned look, the flash of emotion in their face too great for even them to brush off, Keet thinks to himself -

Maybe he has room for just one more meal, after all. 

Notes:

It's spooky season, and it's been awhile since I've played in this space. That's all the reason I need.

Also Crow's goretober art got me feeling some kind of way.

Chapter 13: Kinktober - Dirty Talk

Notes:

CW: Explicit, Degrading talk

Originally written for Kinktober, but when I did a grand total of two prompts, I decided to put these into existing collections instead.

Put here because this could really be the KFC 'Among Us' universe or the royal one, reader's choice.

"This is a good look for you, little Keet," Black says, and their words are accentuated by a hard thrust that pushes a moan from Keet. Panting, he presses his forehead more firmly to the mattress beneath him, and shifts so that the next time Black slides free just to snap back home again, it hits just right. 

"Come now, pick your head up," Black says, and before Keet can react they snag their claws deep into his hair and pull back. His scalp strains, stings - his back arches and Keet hisses in pain that only makes the gooseflesh on his arms prickle anew. "That's it," Black practically coos, "don't you want Fable to see what a pretty little whore you make?" 

At the term and a new, timely thrust from Black, Keet can't quiet a lingering, shuddering groan. In truth, he'd forgotten Fable was even there around the time Black had first pushed the dick into his ass - but at the reminder he pinches open watery eyes to look. Fable shifts a bit closer, and their skin is cool as they cup Keet's flushed cheeks in their hands. Black's grip in Keet's hair loosens only slightly until Fable is the one all but holding him up. Another thrust has him whining, and Fable smiles in return. 

"Gorgeous," they agree, and they stroke across his cheeks with the pads of their thumbs, "you really do make for a very pretty little…Um. Handsome little…sl-" 

And then, all at once, Fable bursts into sudden, raucous laughter. The loud, sharp sound of it is enough to jolt Keet from his sex-fueled stupor, and he feels the way Black slows in the same sort of confusion. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Fable says after a few seconds, and they cough, take a deep breath, clear their throat, "just ignore me. Okay. I can do this." They straighten a bit, pat Keet's cheeks once as they look straight into his eyes, and then continue, "you're -" 

This time when they laugh, the force of it bends them over until their forehead is pressed to Keet's. 

"Could you take this seriously?" Black asks, but the disappointment in their tone is tinted with humor. 

"No!" Fable responds, straightening again, although they don't stop giggling. "I don't know how you can say this shit with a straight face - it feels ridiculous! Whore - fuck!" And their laughter erupts all over again, until they're leaning back, and then falling back entirely, arm wrapped around their middle and seemingly unable to stop the laughter at all. 

"Alright, that's enough from you," Black says, "get to work, Keet, shut them up." Keet barely has the chance to get out a quick 'huh?' before Black is pushing him back down towards the mattress - but far more importantly, towards Fable. Taking the hint, Keet shifts until he can lick a long, pointed lap at their clit. 

When a startled yelp cuts off Fable's laughter entirely, Keet gives a satisfied hum.

Chapter 14: Occult AU - Succubus Fable

Notes:

A standalone 'what if' for occult AU where Fable is a succubus and Keet is a human/hunter.

Keet can't catch a breath - every attempt is too shallow, sticks and burns as he tries desperately not to cough. Not that it matters - it isn't long before there is sharp clicking against the cement, and as Keet looks up at the wall he's inadvertently trapped himself against, he knows he's caught. Briefly, so briefly, he presses his eyes closed as a sensation of hopelessness wafts over him. He's almost glad this will be the end - his siblings would never let him live this down. 

He pulls in another staggering, too-shallow breath that ends in a cough, opens his eyes, and turns. He can see a shadow against the wall of the alleyway, and as it grows he slips a dagger from his belt. This close, he doesn't have any other tools that will do him much good, and there is at least a little comfort in the runes he traces along the blade's metal. 

The clacking grows louder - but then all at once muffles into simple footsteps. Trying to still the trembling in his hands, Keet grips the knife hilt a little tighter, and does his best to draw himself up. He doesn't have the experience the rest of his family does - but he still comes from a long line of hunters, and he tells himself that he can handle one lone succubus. Isn’t that why he’d come out here?

And then they walk out from the shadows, and for a long minute all Keet can do is stare. They've changed, now - all evidence of them being anything other than human is nowhere to be seen. If he didn't know better, their appearance would almost be soothing - human, and plain, and if anything almost handsome. 

"Don't come any closer," Keet warns, forcing his knife-wielding hand to steady, his voice to remain authoritative. "I'm armed - and I'll use it."

"Aw, but why would you want to do that?" They ask, and as the purr ripples through their voice, Keet can feel the way the air around him thickens with pickling, burning magic. He braces himself, heart racing, and bites at his inner lip. 

"I don't want to hurt you." the succubus continues, "A cutie like you? I bet you'd be a lot of fun." They pause in their slow approach, and smile at him, tilting their head in such a way that makes Keet think 'cute.'

Which has him shaking his head immediately, and pressing his back against the alley wall. He can feel the way their magic is pressing at his eyes, at his fingers - the speeding of his heart isn't only out of fear, now. Heat spreads across his face, and he swallows thickly as he tries desperately to resist. 

"I'm impressed," they say, and they begin to move towards him again, and despite his terror, despite the grip he retains on the knife in his hand, he can't move. Even though he wants to. 

Despite the curling in his gut, the pulsing at his groin, he wants to flee. 

"You're pretty strong, aren't you?" They ask, and somehow they're close enough now to touch him - and it burns. It tingles. He means to flinch away, but somehow he presses towards them instead. "Resisting me so well - but you don't have to, you know. Say, what's your name?" 

"Keet," He answers without the hesitation he knows he should have. Their smile widens, warms, and he swears he warms with it - even as he trembles, tries to press closer to the wall. They slip the knife in his hand away, and he lets them without fight. Immediately, he misses its weight in his hand.

"Keet," they repeat, and he wants so desperately for them to say his name again - and yet, all the while, he knows he shouldn't feel that way. The sensation scares him, and he can't tell anymore what emotion has him all but panting for air. 

"That's a cute name for a cute man," they continue, tell him, and this time when they place their hand along his cheek they leave it there - and he swears it’s burning all the while. 

“Leave me alone,” he tries.

“Is that really what you want?” The succubus asks.

“No,” Keet answers, and then with a quick nip of his tongue hard enough to bleed it he tries instead, “Yes! I don’t - please, I can’t -”

“Shh, shh,” they say, and the pad of their thumb strokes along his cheek. “Just let go, hm? Stop thinking, stop trying to fight me.” And before Keet can answer, they lean even closer, and they press their lips to his. 

The sensation is electric - every hair on his body stands, every nerve lights. It tingles, pulses, sears - and he lets out a harsh breath around the seal of their lips as he presses towards them in answer. His mind fogs, darkens - and he lifts a hand, lays it on their arm, props himself up against the wall and against their body both. 

Let go, they say, and it is so, so tempting. It’s what his body wants - even when some dying part of him tries to pull away, his body refuses to listen. Only moves towards them, instead, as if it could somehow manage to get even closer. Even though Keet is pretty sure he can feel every inch of them against him already. 

All the while tears pinch at the corner of his eyes, and then begin to slip down his cheeks. The grip he has on their arm shakes, trembles. Because even below the fog, the haze, the too-hot pounding of his blood - Keet knows he’s in trouble. That this is dangerous, that the burning electricity arcing along his nerves is already draining at the energy of his soul. 

He tries to suck in another muffled breath - it catches in a whine at his throat. 

And then, after a long second, their lips unlatch from his and they pull away. There is a soft frown on their face, a wrinkle in their brow, and they turn one of their hands to press the back of it gently against his cheek. 

"You're still afraid," they state. 

I don't want to die, Keet thinks, but he can't quite get the words out - his mouth works, but his voice refuses. He manages a hard swallow instead, another pleading whimper. 

"I'm not going to kill you," they tell him quietly, "it won't even hurt, I promise. Just a little taste, a little fun - doesn't that sound nice?" 

This time, somehow, he manages to shake his head. It's a tiny movement, all he can manage - but, incredibly, it's enough. The succubus slips their hands away, takes a few steps back, and as Keet loses his ability to stand and slips instead to the ground, they smile. 

They seem…sad. Keet's chest twists with guilt. 

"I'm sorry," they say, "I didn't mean to scare you - I didn't realize you'd resist me for so long. It's going to be okay, though. I'm going to leave, and it'll fade, and you'll be just fine."

And then, they do. They leave, and some part of Keet almost wants to call them back. He manages to choke it down, though, and as the minutes tick by the worst of their magic really does begin to fade. 

As it goes, though, he is left in wonder. Confusion. 

He'd been warned that they were a bloodthirsty creature - that spirits like them were always bloodthirsty and dangerous. 

Why, then, had they spared him?

Chapter 15: look at me...bitch

Notes:

its assholes. idk where else to put them

The weight of Fleece’s body presses heavy on your back. Not so heavy that you couldn’t throw them off, but the gloved hand at your throat keeps you still, even if the weight of their body doesn’t.

“What do you want?” you grit out, trying not to sound as nervous as you feel.

They don’t respond to your question – when have they ever? – the fingers at your neck smooth over your throat, squeezing briefly as your Adam’s apple bobs in a thick swallow. Instead you feel their weight shift as they lean forward so they speak into your ear, “I’d just been thinking,” they hum, “about our vastly different circumstances, you know?”

“Wh –“

“Do you remember how we met?”

“Unfortunately.”

They huff in what could pass for a laugh, and their breath tickles uncomfortably on your ear – another brief squeeze of the hand on your throat keeps you from recoiling entirely, and they continue, “I came from a humble family; two parent’s that hated each other, seven children they could barely afford to feed, with only a plot of land and a run down old farm to their names. Isn’t it amazing then, how someone like that could get to where I am now?”

You don’t care. You wish they would just get to the point. You try to guess at what they want to hear, and parrot back flatly, “Amazing.”

“Compared to someone like you – born into luxury, with money and servants and parent’s that love you far more than is good for them – what is it that /you/ want, Hazel?”

You can feel the weight of the question, as heavy and sharp as any knife, poised to cut deep if you answer incorrectly, but – after a moment of tense silence, you carefully reply, “I don’t know what you mean.”

You can almost hear the fake smile in their voice, “Yes, you do. I know you’re smarter than you look when you want to be.” They pat your neck soothingly, “Why did you go there in the first place? Was mommy and daddy’s money not enough for you? Or do you just enjoy seeing others suffer? That’s a bit unhinged, don’t you think?”

You grit your teeth hard in an effort to bite back a comment about the hypocrisy of their words, and instead you spit, “Money.”

“Money,” Fleece repeats slowly, then hums as if in thought, “there are plenty of ways to get that without doing what you do. You could work like us common-folk, for example – though I suppose that would be asking a bit much from someone like you, or – ah, maybe if you did something /extra nice/ for daddy, he’d increase your allowance, hm?”

The blatant implication that you would do something so vile – disgusting – it tries to push you up to your feet, consequences be damned, “I’m not a fucking –!”

The words bite off instantly as the hand at your throat squeezes tight enough to pinch at your airway, and their free hand takes a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back painfully to the point you can see their face above you. You then notice the icy chill, like needles burrowing into the skin of your neck, and with noticeable difficulty, you swallow.

“Were you going to say something?” Fleece asks casually.

Your throat works as you try to respond, but it feels sluggish and numb, and then longer you try the more you notice that taking each breath seems to get harder and harder. Fighting back rising panic, you shake your head as much as the grip on you will allow.

They study you silently for another few moments with their dead, blank stare, and then they release you.

Your head bows painfully forward, and though the pressure of their fingers on your neck is gone, the numbness still lingers, and you still heave on shallow breaths as you bring one hand up to cup your throat.

Fleece stands and dusts off their coat and adjusts their gloves. When they see your wide-eyed fearful stare they smile, “Oh, the ice? Don’t worry, it probably won’t kill you.”

And with that hollow reassurance they take their leave.

You lay cold and trembling on the floor, until feeling returns to your skin and you can breathe again.

Chapter 16: Old Times

Notes:

This has no context surrounding it whatsoever - like no 'how did we get here' - and I don't know if it ever /will/. But I really like the scene on its own, so I'm just gonna slap it in here.

Reed's boot presses hard into already cracked ribs, and the sharp point of a spear finds a place buried in the skin of Keet's chin. Just like that, the fighting comes to a standstill. 

Keet is aching, bruised, bleeding - and he pants as shallowly as he can manage as he glares up at his brother. His fingers tingle, his magic waiting to be called - but slowly. Carefully. 

"Well?" Reed asks after a long second passes, "go on then, beg for your life."

And Keet can't help his sharp bark of laughter - one that makes his sides twinge and Reed narrow his eyes. 

"Begging never helped when I was a kid," Keet answers, "why would I bother now?" 

Reed doesn't have an answer for that, Keet can see it in the way his jaw works and his eyes narrow further. There is jeering around them, calls and urging from the other bandits. 

"C'mon and finish the job already!" One calls with a scowl. 

"One less royal fucker in the world," another adds with a hooting laugh. 

Instead of killing Keet, though, Reed hesitates - or, perhaps, he takes a heartbeat too long to relish. Keet can't be sure, but what he knows is that that second of time is enough for the vine he has been inching closer to come within striking range. With a clench of his fist, Keet commands it up. 

It wraps like a whip around Reed's throat and yanks hard enough that the man stumbles. It is enough to pull his weapon from Keet's throat, and Keet scrambles to his feet as soon as he is free. 

The others surge towards him, but with adrenaline and magic thrumming in his veins, Keet finds them easy to fend off. Some trip over snapping, angry branches - one finds his claws buried in their throat. His skin itches, burns, and cakes over with hard bark just in time to deflect another weapon. 

It is quick, bloody - but he makes his point. While some lay injured and bleeding, the others hesitate. They stop coming. And Keet knows it is time to run, to go until they can't find him any longer.

Reed is growling, panting, his hands white knuckles around the vine still digging tight into his throat and holding him on the ground despite his best efforts to escape. His own breath rapid and shallow, Keet looks at him. Meets his furious gaze. For a long, long minute. 

Keet holds himself a little straighter, a little taller, and he bares his sharpened teeth in a growl that must be stained with his own blood. 

And then he turns, and flees, and if any of them bother to chase after him they are too slow to catch up. 

Chapter 17: Something About Loyalty

Notes:

Not canonical, just... Fun. Playing in the space.

The market is closed, cluttered, stifling. It smells like too many people, like dirt and grease and old food. A child runs past Hazel, chased by a gaggle of laughing others, one of whom jostles him and he presses his sleeve to his nose with a soft scowl. There are people scattered through the food vendors selling other goods - painted wooden signs, handmade dolls, little cozies to tuck hot bowls into. 

Hazel wishes he weren't there. Still finds it hard to believe that he is - but there's something inside him that says he's exactly where he needs to be. That this is the place. 

Why he's doing this at all, he can't be sure. Surely his life would improve dramatically if he just left well enough alone. But even at the thought, something in his gut twists. 

He can't. He has to find them. 

Of course, the feeling is so vague - he doesn't know how he's supposed to find exactly the right place in this massive throng of people and shops. Exactly the right item. He doesn't even know what he's looking for. 

He walks by it, at first, doesn't even notice it - but a little way past, he feels inexplicably compelled to stop. To go back. To sweep his eyes more carefully over the closest shops. 

Most of the jewelry is handmade, or hand me downs, or at least a karat or two less than what they claim. All over priced, too shiny, obviously fake - this shop a grift in every sense of the word. Still, the owner beams at Hazel as he approaches, says something about letting her know if he sees something he likes. 

And he does - or, at least, he sees the thing he needs. Knowing, somehow, exactly what it is on sight alone. It's the most ornate piece on the table, a bracelet made of woven strands of gold, each one paper-thin but creating a sturdy looking piece altogether. Gems lay intertwined between the gold, glittering in every color of the rainbow - and Hazel thinks maybe it's his own bias, but he swears one seems especially vivid. 

Angry, somehow. 

He reaches for the bracelet without a second thought, but doesn't quite get his hand around it before the shopkeep grabs his wrist in a tight hold. 

"Sorry sir, that one's only for looking - unless you're gonna buy it."

"How much?" 

"100k," She says, confidently, and Hazel scowls at the number. Buying it would be easiest - and he certainly has the money. But even for this, the price is far too high - at least so long as he has another option. He rips his hand away from hers, and then swipes his arm roughly across her table. She cries out in alarm as any number of pieces go flying and clattering away - a few nearby people jolt or spring into action towards the mess - and in the chaos Hazel snatches the bracelet and takes off running. 

He isn't followed, they're too distracted, and he takes his plunder to a quieter corner of the market. He watches, for a minute or two with the bracelet pressed tight to his chest, to be absolutely sure he wasn't seen - and then he looks down at the item in his hands. 

This close, he can see the finer details - soft slips of silver mixed in between the gold, the sheen of the metals and the jewels that speak to their quality. Undoubtedly a piece that could be sold for hundreds of thousands, if not a million or two. And for a brief, brief second, Hazel even considers it. 

He trails a finger over the metal, and finds something rough beneath it. A closer look reveals some sort of etched runic language that he doesn't understand, faint enough he almost can't see it at all. 

He swears the bracelet grows briefly warm in his palm. 

"I wasn't actually going to do it," he murmurs, a little put out. He looks up, then, and around - trying to find anything he can use to accomplish his task. With nothing immediately in sight, he curls his fingers around the bracelet, and he pulls. 

He doesn't expect it to work - expects the metal to be much stronger than it is. Expects to have to search for fire or a weapon or some other method to destroy it. So when the bracelet creaks, then cracks, then splits clean in two Hazel is as surprised as anyone else. 

Not that he has long to think about it. 

The air around him roars to life - whipping at his hair, his clothes, nearby stalls as if caught in a sudden storm. Dropping the bracelet, Hazel takes a few steps back and lifts his arm to shield his eyes. This is no slow-growing shadow, this time - instead a sudden blackness, deep enough to plunge the whole market into pitch dark. There is alarm, screams, the sound of people running and shoving - and Hazel narrows his eyes to try and see through the ink. 

The vague outline of a familiar shape, a dreadful snarling - something whips through the air and catches, rips. A pained yelp, the thud of a body - despite himself, Hazel shrinks back. 

It's - carnage. Whoever is unlucky enough to still be there, to be within their reach, slaughtered beneath the claws of the furious spirit. Hazel can't see most of them but he can hear them. Feel them - something uncomfortably warm splattered across a hand. 

And it is fury - more emotion than Hazel has ever seen or, he decides in that moment, ever wants to see again. Feral and violent and when they must run out of other targets he finds it all at once turned on him. A too-large hand gripped tight around his shirt - careless claws gauging his chest as they grab him. As they haul him closer, close enough he can really see them - horns and fur and bulk. 

And their eyes, above all - familiar, vibrant hazel. Almost gold, even, in the fog that's swirling and rolling over them. Irises narrowed into slits and they glare down at him - whole body heaving with each angry breath. 

Hazel grabs their wrist - or, at least, lays his hand over what he can reach - swallow hard, and stares back up at them. Glares at them in return, or at least tries to although it's difficult to do when most of his mind is screaming that he is about to die. 

Well, he thinks - a bit wildly, a bit frantically - they either will, or they won't, and there's not much he can do or say to change fate either way. So he takes a breath, lifts his chin, and tells them in a sarcastic voice marred with a tremor - 

"Yeah, well, you're welcome." 

A beat, a growl, and then, miraculously, they let him go. Hazel stumbles back onto his feet, manages somehow to stay on them, and he takes a few gulping breaths of his own. Meanwhile, Fleece turns away from him, disappears momentarily into the dark - and then the shadows shrink and fade entirely. As they do, they leave Fleece in their wake - human in form, once more, with their back to Hazel. 

"Get it all out of your system?" Hazel probes, after a long few seconds of silence. The answer is a familiar, almost reassuring huff - and a glance over their shoulder. An unreadable look, but something in it makes Hazel wish, briefly, that he hadn't said anything at all. Makes him take a step back and lift what he hopes is a soothing hand. 

And then they vanish, gone entirely. Nothing new, but in the moment Hazel feels another pang of something that feels like regret. Uncertainty. 

But then there are voices, raised in alarm and in order, and Hazel doesn't have time to think on it as he focuses on fleeing the market and the carnage Fleece had left behind.

Chapter 18: Parasitic

Notes:

CW: Parasites, Body Horror, blood.

You've heard of imp limelings... But what about imp limelings?

They call him Forte. 

It's supposedly short for Fortegreen, but it's obvious how the others purposefully strip him of a color when they talk to - or about - him. Likely, Jolene assumes, because he's only there to clean. To fix. He isn't a scientist the way the others are - isn't like-minded at all. It seems a silly difference, to her - she finds it quite impressive, what he knows about pipes and wires and gaskets. 

Especially considering how otherwise dull he is. Quiet. Stern. Thoughtless. She tries to banter with him and he mostly doesn't understand - and it only seems to aggravate him. She's met plenty a human much more interesting than him - but he doesn't seem to mind having her around. Doesn't get along with the others on the ship. Offers her a name - Kurt - and over all sets himself up to be perfect for everything she needs. 

An ally. 

A host. 

It is one of the quicker nestings she's ever had. The Crew seems eager to lunge at each other's throats - and Kurt even more so to find a reason to justify his hatred of them. Fingers don't turn much Jolene's way - but the time or two they do, Kurt helps cement her alibi. It isn't long at all before the crew has all but torn each other apart, and what stragglers remain she takes care of with brutal ease. 

Kurt's angry, of course, when he realizes the truth. When they are the only ones left and Jolene doesn't bother to keep hiding her less than human features. He's even more furious when he feels her strength - when he tries, fails, to fight her hold as she pins him to the wall and blinks up at him with many, many eyes. 

He can't fight her - but even so, she can appreciate that he tries. Can more than appreciate his strength. The flex of the muscles beneath her hands, the firmness of tanned, leathery skin. He's even kind of cute, for a human - with tight, sweat-soaked curls of brown falling over his forehead. 

It must be the brooding getting to her, she thinks with a soft laugh to herself. 

"I should have known, you fucking -" 

The tendril pushes itself into his mouth, latches onto his cheeks, and cuts across whatever vulgar insult he'd been preparing. Jolene can't help but to let one of his arms go, just to watch him grip and pry at the intrusion. Failing, of course, to pull it free. 

It's almost a pity - she likes the way he fights, and there's a part of her that wants to leave him free to do so. But humans are so strange, so fragile - there's no telling what they'll do when faced with the inevitable. The last thing she needs is him killing himself - or the panicked flutter of his lungs killing her young. 

The tendril undulates, there's a soft squelch - and sticky threads of honey-like gel trickle from the sides of Kurt's mouth. The effects are quick, obvious - what little thought there is in his eyes fades behind a wall of blank, and where he had been fighting he now suckles at the sweet-tasting nectar. His hands limpen down to his sides, and if not for Jolene's hold on him he might have slumped to the floor completely. 

The nectar sours, then - grows thick and bitter with a whole host of tiny, ovular eggs. But Kurt doesn't notice - caught in an inescapable bliss, pliant and willing even as the thick slurry slips instead down his trachea. Uncaring as he chokes, coughs - and Jolene shushes him, scratching careful nails along his throat. What he expels is caught in her tendril and simply shoveled back inside - over and over again until she feels confident at least some of her young have taken up safe residence within the tiny air sacs of his lungs. 

Then she unlatches the tendril from his mouth, and takes a few steps back as he falls to the ground - hacking violently all the while. Nectar and amniotic fluid spewing into the air, trickling down his chin, his chest - until he finally clears all of the fluid in his lungs. 

All the while Jolene watches - satisfied, relieved, and lighter on her feet. 

It's a daily breakfast of nectar - meant to keep him hardy, hale, and calm as her children grow. A shame, she catches herself thinking again and again - but well worth it, in the end. 

Eventually, the pain and damage cannot be stopped with the thick, sweet concoction - eventually, her children simply become too big. Kurt's coughing becomes nearly consistent, always bloody, more and more violent with every passing day. 

Until the blood is a constant flow - oozing from his mouth as he lays heavy and panting against Jolene's bosom. She doesn't bother with any more nectar - his fighting won't matter, now. And in the end he comes back to himself - only enough to stare up at her in horror. To groan and even cry as his lungs are peeled apart, eaten through - as Jolene calmly, carefully pries the young from between his jaws. One, three, five - seven, altogether. A decent brood, all considered. 

They are still small, but will grow rapidly now - until they are ready to wander off on their own. To find their own homes, perhaps their own ships - their own humans to grow their young. 

And here, now, Jolene's nectar would be a better meal for them - there's no need for them to cut their teeth on Kurt's flesh. It will do little to sustain them, now - they are beyond the need for human. 

But it won't hurt them, either - and Jolene can't find it in herself to stop them. So she lets them nip, nibble, bite and tear - and all the while she strokes Kurt's blood-soaked hair, his sweat-slick beard, and watches the last of the life fade from his eyes. 

Chapter 19: Ritual

Notes:

CW: Animal death (on screen), blood.

Uhhh I just have this unused scene I still like so it's going here. One of many tries when I was trying to work up the 'Fleece saves Hazel's ass' chapter.

Without a care in the world, the mouse snuffles and shuffles through its sparse bedding as if searching for food or other goodies - heedless of its fate and caring even less about the large human sat cross-legged next to its cage.

Hazel, meanwhile, hasn’t felt so keenly aware of himself and his surroundings in -

Well, it’s been a few days, at least. 

He can’t quite bring himself to look at it - at least, not for long. His eyes skirt along the cage, on occasion, passing briefly over the mouse and then away again. It wasn’t as if it was some sourid creature off the street - he’d bought it, fair and square, from a pet store of at least decent reputation. It was probably about as clean as he could find - but the less logical part of his brain doesn’t seem to care. He has a hold on himself enough, at least, to know that the itching and crawling and biting are all in his mind - but still, the longer he sits there, the more uncomfortable he feels. His desire to toss the whole cage out of a window and be done with it growing greater with each passing minute. 

Clearing his throat, he looks again to the worn pages of the book sitting open on the floor next to him; to the kitchen knife lying just a bit further. His already rolling stomach flips again as he reads the directions - and not for the first time that night, he wonders if this is worth it. 

Sure, this ritual seems more legit than anything he’s come across before - more genuine, even, than the one he’d followed to call for Greed that very first night. And that had worked! This one, meanwhile, comes from an ancient tome he’d paid a few pretty pennies for - speaks of intent, and sacrifice, and there’s not a bit of chanting or latin or pentagrams to be found. If anything is going to shield him from Fleece and all they intend, it must be this. 

Still, some part of him is skeptical. More than, even. 

It’s his own mortal life on the line, though - his life, happiness, sanity - and this seems a stone best turned. Even if it doesn’t work, he can’t possibly be any worse off than before - not a single try has seemed to do much but amuse the demon, after all.

The mouse buries its head beneath its bedding, and gives an especially loud sniff. Swallowing, glancing quickly over the instructions once more, Hazel takes a deep breath - lets it out in a long, slow sigh - and unlatches the cage. 

Trying his best not to think, to find that happy blank spot in his own mind, Hazel reaches in and snatches the mouse around its middle. It squeaks at the intrusion - its feet flail and its tail whips around snake-like as Hazel pulls it none-too-gently from the cage. Breath caught sharp in his chest, Hazel takes up the knife with his free hand and in as quick a movement as he can manage, slits the rodent from throat to tail. 

It squeals - the sound piercingly loud - and Hazel hurries to lay it back onto the bedding before the gore can gush over his hand. The mouse’s thrashing is violent, desperate - thankfully short lived - and as its blood stains the shredded pine, it goes still and silent. 

Hazel has read the next part a dozen times, and even still he’s frozen as he watches. He’s not sure which is worse - handling the rodent at all, or what he has to do next - but none of it is his idea of a good Sunday night. Briefly, he presses his eyes closed - and unbidden comes that dreaded memory again. That reminder of what could be, if he can’t fix this - and as he opens his eyes, Hazel leans forward and dips two fingers into the pooled blood of the mouse. 

He holds that memory firm in his mind as he brings them to his face and smears the blood across one cheek, then the other, and then in a stripe up along his forehead - right between his eyes. 

Intent, he remembers. There's no time to hesitate, no time to think of the rolling in his gut or the bile in his throat. He tries to push them aside, tries to ignore the tingling in his hands and the growing itch across his cheeks. Curling his hands tight at his thighs, he thinks instead of Fleece. 

Holds their image - wavering somewhere between the shredded jeans of the human and the great reaching horns of the goat - firmly in his brain. Gritting his teeth, he mentally demands that they be barred from his home, his side, his very being. And he repeats the order, over and over again - falls into it like a mantra, a meditation, and he isn’t sure how long he sits there but eventually the drying blood on his face becomes too much. All at once unbearable, he snaps free of his mental chanting, and hurries off to the shower.

Chapter 20: once i was 7 years old

Summary:

tw child abuse

The walls shake with a distant crash and the sounds of raised voices filter through the thin planks that make up the room. It’s not anything you aren’t already used to, but you curl in on yourself and pull your blanket tight around you all the same.

When you hear your bedroom door creak open you instinctively freeze and hold your breath – hoping whoever it is won’t take notice of you.

Tiny, quiet footsteps cross the cold wooden floor and you feel the old mattress give to a new weight.

“Stop hogging the blanket.”

At the sound of their voice the tension breaks and you can breathe again; your hold on the thin fabric loosens.

Fleece tugs the blanket off of you and pulls it around themself instead. You don’t really mind. You open your mouth to say something, but whatever the words might have been they die on your tongue as you take in your sibling’s appearance. There are bruise-like shadows under their eyes, a brilliantly scarlet mark across their cheek in the shape of a hand, and a smear of blood at the corner of their mouth.

You find your voice and squeak out, “What happened?”

They suck their split lip in between their teeth and chew at it, thinking, before they reply, “Called Mama a stupid bitch.”

It isn’t funny – not really – but it punches a short, airy laugh out of you anyway.

“Are you ok?”

Their shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. They don’t offer anything more.

You sit in awkward silence, wanting to press, but not wanting to bother them. Though, as you watch their face, you don’t find anything that would suggest they felt any sort of way at all.

Their pale eyes are distant and blank – as they often are – but there are no tearstains on their face, nor the shine of wetness in their eyes. Their expression is perfectly smooth, aside from where they continue to absentmindedly gnaw at their own lip, and you are struck suddenly by their calm.

You wonder at how they can be so unphased by the violence and the pain. It had to have hurt, right? Mama had hit you before too, but not like this.

“Fleece?”

They incline their head slightly toward you to show that they are listening.

“You’re really strong.”

They snort and straighten themself back up, “Damn right I am.”

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. You hope someday you can be as strong as them.

Notes:

might feel brief or like suddenly ending. idk. cobbled together situations.

Chapter 21: Recognition

You are too small to understand words like hunger, or loneliness, or fear. Too young to understand what it means for the world to be dark, or cold. But you are old enough to understand that it is wrong. To understand, on some level, that you feel bad. That you hurt. And you know enough to ask for help in the only ways you can - to grasp empty into the air and wail in the only language you have. 

Something reaches back for you. 

---

Blood-soaked hands are curled tight at their sides - their chest heaves with the last breaths they will ever take. You wish they would ask for help. You wish they would ask for comfort. 

You shift their head carefully off of the hard ground and into your lap. They wince, despite themself, and you murmur a soft apology as your heart squeezes tight. 

They glare up at you, more emotion than you have ever seen on their face. You know they will never ask for those things - and so you take their hand anyway. You pry their fist apart until you can slip your fingers between their own frigidly cold digits. 

You grasp tight - squeezing until your knuckles whiten. 

---

You don't have the words to know it is another hand - another you. Or, really, another much like you. Alone and hungry and cold, just like you. These things are beyond your understanding. 

They touch you, and clumsy fingers poke and grab at your skin. You follow their lead - using your own strange digits to try and understand. One day you'll know that this is skin, this is an arm, these are fingers clutching and dancing between your own. 

For now, you only know that this is new. For now, you stop crying - too curious to hurt. 

---

It's impossible to fix their braid with only one hand - but you try your best to weave the loose strands back together, anyway. When you've done what you can, you brush your fingers through the bangs across their forehead - and for a moment, you rest your hand there. 

Your chest squeezes tight - sudden enough it steals your breath - and after a few long seconds you somehow manage to wheeze out - 

"I'm sorry."

"Fuck you."

Speaking takes them just as much effort. 

---

There's a sound - crisp, clear, almost painfully close - and you are too young to understand that it is a laugh. But you can feel how it sinks into your chest - how it warms you from the inside out and without meaning to or really knowing how to, you match the sound. Something raucous and bright bubbling from your throat. 

The other's hand plops down sudden against your cheek, and you yelp - but when they only giggle brighter, you quickly join them again. Flop your own hand out until it hits skin, too.

You play this game for a while - and you may not understand what it means to be lonely, but for that moment you know you are not alone. 

---

It's more eye contact than you've ever had with anyone - let alone your twin. But despite the dampening fury in their eyes you can't make yourself look away. You won't look away. 

You want to remember this. You want to remember them. 

Your free fingers trail across their skin - across features as familiar as the ones on your own face. Across features that couldn't be more different. A couple of scars that don't match; the curve of a nose that does. 

Your vision blurs, their face wavers - you try and blink the tears away, furious that they'd get in your way. 

"Pathetic," they spit. 

"I'm here," You respond. 

---

You won't remember this moment - but someone sits you up. 

You are sitting, and they are across from you, and you stare in awe at this other you. You feel that warmth, again, that comfort, and you speak to them in a language no one else can understand. One they echo in perfect sync. You babble happily, and you reach out for them - just as they reach for you in return.

Too clumsy to grab each other's hands - but fingers brush and grasp at skin, and it is close enough, good enough, and you are giggling again. 

They are too - and it is your favorite sound. 

---

"Who cares," they hiss - each word taking them a long second, a few ragged breaths, to get out. Their hand is limp in yours - if not for your own firm grasp, it'd only fall back to the ground. They try to tug it away - but their pull is weak, and it takes you no effort at all to hold on. 

"I do," you answer - and they huff. 

It is a harsh sound - thickened with sputum and blood and capped with a cough - but it is a familiar sound, all the same. So familiar it sinks claws deep into your chest. It punches out a huff of your own - something painful, almost a gasp, but an echo nonetheless. 

"I do," you repeat, firmly, and you brush their bangs back again. Watch, through tears, this face so like your own. 

Your twin. 

"I'm here," you tell them again, "I'm not going to leave you alone."

They have no snide remark for that - their eyes have drifted away from you. They are staring, unseeing, at something far beyond you. 

Their chest lifts. Falls. Deep, rattling, agonal breaths. 

The silence is heavy, oppressive, and with a touch of panic you wrack your brain for something to say. 

"Do you remember," you finally start, "when our cousins came to visit?" 

Even now, the memory brings a touch of warmth - and you shift a bit in your seat and bring your tangled hands to rest against your chest. 

"By the time they left they were soaked with manure - our aunts were so angry. And it was your idea…but we did that, all of us. Together. I think -" 

You stutter, pull in a breath - they aren't moving. They aren't listening, or seeing, or breathing - and they never will again. You allow yourself a single, strangled sob - and then you take a breath, and you keep talking. Halting. Stuttering. Talking, nonetheless. 

"I think even mom was a little proud. Do you remember?" 

Quiet, again, but you don't move. Your free hand still rests on their head, and an idle thumb brushes at their hair. A few more minutes, and then another memory - and you're speaking before you've even fully recalled it. 

You don't know how long you sit there, talking about the things you remember - the good, and then the bad, and then the inbetweens. 

It is the longest you have ever sat together. 

You are in no hurry to leave. 

---

You are too young, then, to understand the word 'twin.' To know what it means to have siblings, kinship, love - and some of these, you will never fully understand. 

You will never be able to call these moments to conscious memory. You were only babies - and it won't be long before cruelty and scorn will become your most formative memories. Before you will sit on the ground, staring up at your own twin who's hand is dusted in your blood. 

You are too small to remember. 

But there is a part of you that will never, ever forget.

Chapter 22: empire of dirt

It’s a quiet day in early spring. The breeze still cool but carrying a hint of promise for the coming months. Without any wind, the sun is pleasantly warm.

You tug at the edges of your cloak – if you could call it that – it’s little more than a scrap of old fabric, but the thin weight is more for your comfort than for any practical use. The muddy streets are relatively quiet. You can hear the sound of a dog barking and the voices of children too young to help their parents work, but you don’t cross paths with any of them. The sounds grow more distant as you go.

You continue on until you reach the village outskirts, and on until you reach a thin dirt path that leads deeper into the surrounding trees and fields. It isn’t much farther, just off the road, when you come to the worn stone walls that mark the edge of the cemetery.

You stand at the threshold and pause, trying to swallow through a mouth suddenly dry. You don’t know why you feel so nervous. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t ever been here before – dragged out by your siblings to play games and hunt ghosts. You’d never believed in ghosts.

Your fingers ache as you tighten your grip further on the cloak, and as you shove down the rising dread, you force yourself forward.

And it is quiet.

There is no sudden lightning, or thunder. No gust of bitingly cold wind. Only the thin grass underfoot, and the soft sunlight overhead.

Some headstones are marked with the shapes you now recognize as letters; more are marked with images of things like flowers, or animals, or tools of their respective trades. You don’t let your eyes linger on them.

The cemetery isn’t big. It doesn’t take long for you to come to a stone and a grave that appear fresher than the others.

You pause again and take a steadying breath. Then slowly, carefully, you come down to a kneeling position in front of it.

The stone is smooth and plain, with only the shapes that must make up their name carved into it. You think that they probably would’ve wanted something fancier.

You sit in silence. There is nothing to say. Nothing from you that they would care to hear. Nothing you could ask of them. You wish you had known them better.

You stay like that for some time, just thinking, wondering, reminiscing.

In the distance you can hear the creak of wagon wheels, the sound of hoofbeats of some merchant or vendor making their way down the road. You don’t pay it much mind.

That is, until you hear the scuff of footsteps, and a muffled curse as the person stumbles.

You freeze, the irrational fear of being caught doing something you shouldn’t be doing pinning you and causing your heart to race even as your breath stops. But it’s too late to move now, too late to leave. It’s fine, you assure yourself, just another person visiting a loved one. You can just wait until they leave.

You don’t expect anyone else to visit your sibling’s grave. After all, who would? You couldn’t imagine they had had any friends. They just weren’t the type.

So, it is a shock that the only other person you’d ever seen visit this place makes their way over to their grave, and to you.

You are still nervous, but also so very curious. Were you wrong to assume that? Could there really be another person with enough love for them to stop by?

You can’t help it anymore. You look up.

The first thing you notice are his clothes. Clean, tidy, well-dressed, not a single stitch or seam out of place. His face is equally clean, with smooth, shiny hair.

His expression is pinched – nose wrinkled, and eyebrows drawn as he all but glares down at you. At least, that is, until you meet his eyes, and his pale blue eyes widen and his already fair skin blanches even further to a ghostly white.

“What the fuck – “ the stutter hardly noticeable.

You tear your eyes away and hunch into your shoulders.

“You’re dead! I /know/ you’re dead! I – “ he accuses, masking a faint tremor behind the volume of his voice.

“Wait,” he pauses, breathes, “you aren’t them.” Then, “Who the fuck /are/ you?”

“Their sibling.” You reply, as though you are confessing a great sin.

You hear him snort, “Out here to piss on their grave too? Whatever,” he straightens, smooths his clothes, “I just came to say ‘Good riddance’.”

He spits on the grave, and you wince. Your heart sinks sadly, but it’s probably fair, you think. You know your sibling wasn’t a very good person. You knew it firsthand. But they were still your sibling.

You brush away the spittle with the back of your hand.

“They’ll do more good rotting in the ground than they ever did alive.” The man says, and you could almost think he was trying to convince himself too.

Chapter 23: Upon My Liar's Chair

Notes:

Alt POV to the previous chapter.

The wagon rattles and sways over increasingly rough ground - and as it moves, Hazel watches the world pass. 

It's a clear, bright sort of day - the sun only just warming an otherwise cool air. It's nice, really, although the scenery is somewhat blighted by the village's worn down homes and the muddy hems of the people who live in them. Not long, though, before they're left behind and the wagon follows the unpaved road into the trees. 

It stops at the mouth of a cemetery - and for a long minute, Hazel just sits and looks. Crumbling stone walls are barely a barrier around a haphazard field of gravestones. Some of which are clean, some of which are worn with nature and age; there are a myriad of names, symbols, and signs of both lingering grief and long-term neglect. It is crowded but small - a far cry from the neat and noble graves inside the walls of the palace. There's no glamor here, no ceremony - he wonders if they're turning in their place beneath the ground. 

They should be grateful, he thinks with a sudden swell of anger, because they're lucky that they had been buried at all. If it'd been up to him, their body would have been left for the pests. The wolves. The bugs. Or maybe fed directly to the palace dogs, or the pigs, or - 

They might have liked that, some part of him interrupts with a grumble. They might have thought it was funny - he can almost imagine that soft breath of a laugh, taunting him because he had thought of them enough to give them a special send-off. 

Maybe this - just another grave among a throng of average, everyday peasants - was more fitting, after all. 

Hazel tries to push the thought of them away - which proves hard to do, when the cemetery they're buried in stretches out before him. When he's here, specifically, to find them. 

He wonders, again, why he'd bothered. Doesn't have an answer - only takes a breath, opens the wagon door, and steps out onto the dirt. 

The ground is as rough as the rest, with barely even a bent path of short grass to follow. It's quiet, here - almost eerily so - and empty, except for one other person. 

It takes Hazel a moment to see them, knelt as they are at one of the graves - the plain, worn cloak draped over their back almost camouflaging them into the barren ground. It is a public graveyard, Hazel thinks, and though he watches them warily he doesn't think too much of them. 

Until his search brings him ever closer, and he realizes with a start exactly which grave they're sitting in front of. Distracted, his foot catches on a raised root - and with a soft curse he flails only briefly before he manages to right himself. 

Who in their right mind, he wonders as he straightens, would bother to visit Fleece? 

He crosses the rest of the distance, coming to a stop near both the figure and the grave. He waits for them to notice - brow furrowing as he looks down at them. They are tense, fingers curled tight in the edges of their cloak, and Hazel knows they know he's there. Still, it feels like a ridiculously long moment before they finally shift. Before they finally look towards him, up at him, and - 

It's Fleece. 

Hazel's blood drains from his face, his breath catches tight in his throat, and he does his best to hold on to some semblance of composure as he asks - them, the universe, whoever - "What the fuck?" 

They're dead - "I know you're dead!" - so how is it that they're sitting here? Sitting, kneeling, all but crouched over their own grave as if they'd just been waiting for him to show up. 

Hazel has never believed in ghosts - but for a second, just a brief second, he wonders. They're dead - what other explanation is there? 

It is, of course, the most obvious one - that it isn't Fleece, at all. The moment passes, the shock passes - and the differences quickly catch up to him. It helps that they're looking away from him, now, hunched in on themself as if they think he might strike them. Their knuckles have gone white under the force of their grip on the cloak. 

"Wait -" he says - and he doesn't know how he'd so easily mistaken them. It isn't Fleece. It can't be Fleece. They would never cower like this - not even for show or a laugh. They might have donned the old cloak if it served a purpose - but the rest of this one's clothes are just as poor. A plain, pale slip of a dress who's hem is worn and dirty. And - and - this one doesn't have their hair. The color is much the same, actually, but it's so much shorter - lacking that familiar, tell-tale braid. They're scrawny, tanned - the sun has left them at least a shade or two darker than Fleece. 

A breath, finally. Deep. Grounding. As he exhales he tries to smooth his face into something calmer. 

"You aren't them." They aren't. They can't be. Because Fleece is dead and ghosts aren't real but then - 

"Who the fuck are you?" 

"Their sibling," they answer - and Hazel can't help the snort. The relief is so sudden, so clear, and through it he can't help but think of course. 

Seven of them - six, now, he supposes - and of course he would run across the one who could all but be their twin. 

…Had Fleece ever mentioned a twin? 

He shoves the thought away - it doesn't matter, anymore. 

"Out here to piss on their grave too?" He asks - though they don't seem the type, guarded and quiet as they are, and Hazel doesn't wait for a response before he answers himself with a huffed, "Whatever."

Hazel straightens, braces his shoulders, and habitually brushes hands along the smooth front of his shirt. Swallows, once, willing the steady thrum of his heart to calm. 

"I just came to say -" It's not them, it's not them , "Good riddance."

Their sibling doesn't react. Hazel finally looks away from them, then, and to the grave in question. 

The dirt is still dark in places - a few days past almost fresh. Even among this collection of graves, their stone seems plain. Their name, only - no accolades, no recognition of their life's work, not even a surname. When wear and weather inevitably eat the stone away, they will be forgotten. No one will know who they were, or what they did, or the life they'd left behind. 

That anger, again - a hot and painful swell in his chest that makes him clench his fists and grit his teeth. He spits onto their grave - and as he watches the spittle strike, he pulls in another hard breath. 

His chest rises, falls - and for a few heartbeats it is too quick. Too shallow. It's a brief struggle to recompose himself. 

Their sibling winces, but otherwise says nothing - they don't even look at him. They don't join him - they don't berate him - but after a few seconds, they brush the spit away with a careful hand. 

"They’ll do more good rotting in the ground than they ever did alive," he says - he tells them. As if they don't know. But they must, he thinks - they'd been siblings, after all. 

He waits for them to agree. 

They might as well be stone. 

That painful clench, again, and he growls low. 

"If you think they were worth anything," he snarls, "then you clearly didn't know them one fucking bit." He digs his heel pointedly into the dirt as he makes a hard turn away. 

He'd seen their grave for himself - and he'd said his piece. 

And he resolves, in that moment, that this was the last bit of thought they were ever going to get from him. 

He's only a few steps back towards the wagon when he hears their sibling finally speak. 

"Did you?" 

He pauses, looks over his shoulder - sees them turn their head quickly away, as if to pretend they hadn't been looking at him. 

"Did I what?" 

"Know them."

It brings their face to mind, their voice slipping past his resolve - and Hazel pinches his nails into his own palms. 

"Unfortunately," he answers. 

If their sibling notices the way he pauses, they don't say anything. 

Chapter 24: You Are Someone Else

Notes:

Cause of death still up for debate/revamping but, for now, I'm going with it.

They're wildly out of place - worn, stained clothing a stark contrast against the plush fabric of the guest chair. They sit forward on the seat, uncomfortably perched in such a way as if to leave room for a quick escape. Their eyes are pinned to the floor, except for the occasional glance at the decor, the fireplace, the other furniture - never, Hazel notices, at him. One hand is clenched tight around the glass of wine he'd offered out of propriety - accepted, he thinks, out of meekness and no real desire for it considering they've yet to take a drink. 

Hazel tosses back the swallow or two left in his own glass, pours a little more, and wonders once again what the fuck he's doing. 

For a long, long few minutes there's only silence. Something strained and uncomfortable, interrupted only by the gentle crackling of the fire and the occasional distant sound from outside. Finally, Wheet shifts slightly in their seat - and begins to ask, their voice quiet and unsure - 

"Did -" 

"No," Hazel interrupts - and their mouth snaps shut, their shoulders rise, and they curl slightly in on themself. Hazel continues, "if you're going to be in my home, if you're going to make me do this - then I’m going to be the first one to ask the questions."

A slight nod, no other response - and Hazel taps his fingers idly against his drink.

"How did they die?" He finally asks, and Wheet's hand tightens slightly around their glass, around the arm of the chair - and then they let out a soft, careful breath. 

"They got in a fight with our sibling. They both…Sleet didn't make it, either."

Hazel isn't sure what he'd expected. He’s thought about it, of course - over and over again, some nights unable to think of anything but. But in all of his sleepless nights, he hasn’t come up with a story he’d believe. Can’t seem to imagine what force in the world could possibly be big enough to kill Fleece, of all people. And so this - this seems as unbelievable as any other. Nothing but a quick and simple story; an even more simple death. One person? A sibling, nonetheless? 

"After the name they made for themself, after everything they did," he scoffs, "It's petty family drama that does them in? Some no-name sibling? Go ahead, pull the other one." A soft, questioning sound, and Hazel rephrases, continues, "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. You really expect me to believe that? What, were they already injured? Ambushed? Did the royal family have something to do with it?" 

"I don't know," Wheet answers, "I don't…know why. Or how. Only that they killed each other."

"Ridiculous," Hazel repeats, a little softer himself, and he takes another long, slow sip of wine. 

The silence stretches out again, and eventually Hazel gets tired of rolling the story over and over in his mind - gets tired of the tight heat in his chest, and he snaps out, "Well?" 

Wheet jolts, and when they don't immediately respond Hazel presses, "I'd rather not sit here longer than we have to. So, either ask your questions - or get out of my home.” 

“Oh,” they say, but then they go quiet again - and Hazel is only seconds from standing and showing them the way out when they finally continue. 

“Did they ever talk about…us?” They ask. 

“ That’s your question?” Hazel responds, “That’s what you want to know? Not how I knew them? Not what they did for a living, or where they lived, or - fuck, I don’t know - their favorite color?” 

“Well, if you want -”

“No,” Hazel interrupts, “they didn’t.” 

“Oh.” They say again, their disappointment nothing but a soft, familiar huff of air through their nose - and to Hazel’s surprise, that’s when they do sip at the wine in their hand. It’s slow, careful - and with an obvious grimace that seems so wrong on a face like theirs, they quickly pull the glass back away from their lips. 

Hazel lets out a breath.

“Not in any sort of detail that mattered,” he adds, “things like that - their life and family and history - they only talked about them when they thought you ought to know. When it made a point. If they were feeling particularly relaxed they might have reminisced - but even then, it was casual. Matter of fact. It wasn’t out of nostalgia or regret or yearning or any of the things I’m sure you’re hoping for. And unless it was about them, they didn’t bother with any of the specifics. I know there are seven of you. I know you are poor. I know your parents hate each other - and you, too, by the sounds of it. I know the prince,” a pause, a snort, the usual distaste, “is the youngest of your family. And the only one who’s name I know - but I knew him long before I ever met Fleece.” 

He pauses again, swirls the glass in his hand. Watches the wine, and he doesn’t know why he says it - thinks maybe it’s true, that it could be the sort of thing they might have idly mentioned once upon a time. So after a few more long, long seconds, Hazel offers - 

“Maybe I knew they had a twin. I don’t remember.”

“Oh,” Wheet repeats - but this time, Hazel thinks there might be something pinched in the quiet breath of their voice.

Chapter 25: Cycle of Malice

Notes:

CW: Child abuse, Parents selling their children away, sexually explicit language/descriptions

"What gorgeous hair you have," her mother coos, fingernails scratching as they rake through the strands draped over Jolene's head, "so much lovelier than your sisters'."

Her sisters are sitting close by, and as her mother speaks they give Jolene narrow, angry looks. And later, when she goes to her mother crying - clumps of vividly red hair in her hands, and tar laced through the strands on her scalp - her mother tsks and shakes her head. 

"You shouldn't flaunt your beauty," she says, "you know how jealous they get."

Jolene is six years old. 

---

Clarice spends months making the dress herself. A soft baby blue that goes well with her dark hair - clear, even stitches and inlaid stones that make the gown sparkle no matter what light it sits in. A slow, careful process, late nights spent in the candlelight while the rest of the family sleeps. She cries when it's finished - and even their mother calls it beautiful as she runs careful hands over the soft material. 

"You'll be sure to outshine the whole ball," she says - and Clarice beams. 

Jolene is eight years old - and the dress shreds so easily. She doesn't even need the scissors she brings - her own nails tear through stitch and fabric both just as quickly. She is quiet and careful as she sprinkles the remnants over her sister's bed - and when Clarice wakes up screaming, crying, lunging for Jolene with outstretched fingers and a screech in her throat, their mother only sighs. 

"You should be more careful with your things," she says, and walks away while her daughters draw blood. 

---

Jolene is ten years old, and the last of her family's reserves have long since run dry. They have no title, have little money, and her parents fret that they might soon even lose their home. 

It makes them desperate. 

They turn to the streets - to begging. They sit pretty, with their faces smeared with dirt and clothes ripped by their own hands, and they tell their story. Try to garner favor, all but on their knees, their poor little daughters lined up in a filthy row at their side. 

"Look at them," her mother says, "cry - let them see how badly in need we are."

And when Jolene simply can't - when all she can manage is a blank stare, or a glare at the people who send pity their way, her mother grabs her thigh beneath her tattered dress. Pinches until her nails draw blood - and when Jolene's eyes water despite herself, a few people coo and pass bills to her father's worn out hat. 

That evening, Jolene squirrels a few of the bills away. That evening, Jolene brushes her hair and watches herself in the mirror. 

She is better than begging. 

There are other ways to get what she needs. 

---

Jolene is thirteen, and Eden only a year older than that. Even still, Jolene's sister clings to the arm of a man many times her senior, and she laughs. She bats her eyes, leans heavily against him, and all along their parents watch - laugh along with them as they tell charming little stories about their middle daughter. 

Just as they had only a year ago, when they married Clarice off to a man a few years older still. Jolene had watched then just as she does now - her gut curling in hot disgust at the show her sister gives. At the softness of her hands against the wrinkles on his. 

He is hardly even worth it - a mildly wealthy merchant without any real nobility or title to speak of. 

Jolene isn't sure who she hates more at that moment. Her sister, playing into this man's hand; her father, who would let this happen, even encourage it - or her mother, who set it all up to begin with. 

The night draws late before Eden's wedding, and Jolene stands in front of a plain white dress. She spins scissors around her finger, and she looks at all the places she could cut. 

It would take so little, just as that dress had years before. Without a dress there could be no wedding - and maybe with the extra time, her sister would finally come to her senses. Perhaps the man would be scared off by the wild youngest - perhaps Eden might be spared years of being little else but a pretty little broodmare. 

In the end, Jolene turns away and puts the scissors back where she'd found them. 

Eden is whisked away in a carriage before the sun has even set on the next day. 

---

Jolene is sixteen, the night is dark, and the farm is entirely unguarded.

Sparse, half-barren - but they have trees, at least, and oranges growing fat on branches. She reaches tall to grasp one in her hand, and has only just curled her fingers around it when something heavy barrels into her. 

Jolene smashes into the ground, but is fighting before they even hit - and she can tell her assailant isn’t expecting it. They thrash - fists and nails smacking and cutting - and they roll over and over across the ground until she finally finds herself pinned to her back. Until hands curl tight around her throat, cutting off her air, and she gets a good look at the boy atop her. 

Filthy - sweat heavy curls layered across the tanned skin of his face. A snarl across dry lips - patches and rips in his clothes that are otherwise stained with age and wear. 

A hold tight enough to kill. Blank and shallow eyes that say he might just do it. It'd be easy, Jolene can feel it in his grip - he'd only have to hang on a little longer, or squeeze a little tighter. 

Even still, she painstakingly raises her hand and brings the orange up to her face. Sinks her teeth into it - through skin and all - fast enough that he can't stop her. His hands tighten, briefly, and despite the smirk she sends his way her heart begins to flutter. Some distant part of her mind is threatening panic. 

He might just do it, she thinks. 

And then he shoves hard at her, hands slipping from her throat as he climbs to his feet. 

“Get your thieving ass off my land," he snarls, "I see you again, I'll kill you for true." Then he waits, arms crossed, glaring at her as he waits for her to do as he says. 

Jolene takes her time to stand, to take another bite of orange and lap at the juicy center. 

She doesn't miss the way he watches her mouth. 

---

The man is clean and plainly dressed, with graying blond hair tied into a neat tail. He could also be her father two times over - and Jolene is already 17. His eyes roam away from her face as he introduces himself - down her body and even beyond as if only imagining what might be hidden beneath the table. His speech is stilted, too sophisticated, poorly mimicking a nobility she knows he doesn't possess. 

Jolene refuses to submit to her parents' desires. She will not play the game the way her sisters had. Fury rolls in her chest, clenches at her gut - and if the man would only look up he might see the sneer on her lips. She will not serve and submit to a man who won't even look her in the face - far too preoccupied with the rest of her body. She tells him as much - and when he hardens, when he speaks of how her parents will insist, Jolene grabs his arm in tight nails, pulls him close, and lets him know that if they are married she will be sure she is a widow within the year. 

He doesn't come back around, and when her parents ask after him Jolene just shrugs and tells them he must have changed his mind. 

They go back to looking. 

---

With the image of the older man firmly in mind, Jolene is the one to catch the farmer's son this time. She slips through the stalks of their crops until she finally spots him. Pacing, back and forth - the only lookout his family can afford, it seems. Jolene sneaks her way closer - until she can lunge and latch on to his back. They fight, again, and this time she manages to force him to the ground. She shoves him into the dirt, straddling his hips and smirking down into shallow, furious brown eyes and a small vein pulsing in his forehead. 

Jolene curls her nails into his biceps - and relishes the press of them around her fingers. Admires the shapely curve in his arms. Muscles honed on a lifetime of hard labor - and there’s something charming really, she thinks, in the tight and messy curls of his hair. A nice, rich brown in eyes that otherwise lack any depth at all. 

"Didn't I say I'd kill you if I found you here again?" He asks, and Jolene doesn't miss how a bit of the bite is lacking from his baritone growl. 

"I have something more fun in mind," Jolene purrs, leaning closer - rewarded with an uncertain narrow in his eyes and a tightening in the muscles beneath her hands. 

---

Nearly eighteen, and this time he is a businessman. A baron. And this time, Jolene is tempted to agree. It's clear that his pockets, at least, are well-lined and the little empire he's built for himself is sturdy. He even has a title - more than either of her sisters managed to get. He's nothing to look at, his personality is plain - but given his habits, Jolene knows his life is unlikely to go much past his fifties. She could have years of widowship and comfort long after he's gone. Almost worth it, this time. 

But oh how her mother dotes on him. Clings to his arm as she tells him all about her favorite, most beautiful youngest child. More compliments than Jolene has ever heard in her life - and not even said to her face. Her mother is only seconds from showing Jolene off like a show horse - making it clear, all the while, that she'd cut Jolene out and marry the man herself if she could. 

It's petty - even in the moment, Jolene is well aware. But her mother's attentions sour any good will she might have held for the man, and this time Jolene simply refuses to engage. After a few meetings of stony silence and poor attempts to pull her into conversation, after a single roaming hand that she slaps away, the man gives up and abandons their family entirely. 

Her mother sure doesn't seem to think so highly of her after that - all talks of beauty and grace buried far beneath ungrateful. Rotten. Spoiled. 

---

His name is Kurt Curtis, of all things - and he is everything that her mother hates. 

No name. No money. No status. Filthy clothes and leathered skin that the sun has aged far beyond his young years. He’s crude, poorly spoken, and Jolene is sure he’s never been to a single school lesson in all of his life. He offers no prospects, no support, no chance at returning to the glory their family had once had. 

Jolene isn't all that impressed with him either. His mind works at a slow and simple pace, and is firmly unyielding besides. When he wears them, his emotions are right on his sleeve - all anger and hatred and blustering masculinity. And in all other times he moves from task to task without thinking ahead or behind or, really, seeming to think at all. Gullible, despite the gruff - and there isn't even a lick of humor to take off the edge. 

She likes his fight, though - the firmness in the way he grabs her, how he says what he means and doesn't fluff his words with pointless compliments or sweetness. How he looks her in the eyes when he speaks and doesn't seem to care much about her body unless she's offering it. How he raises his voice to match hers - how he doesn't hold back when they fight. 

She likes the way he fucks. Feral, rough, pressed down against her with his breath on the back skin of her neck and his arms latched too-tight around her torso. He focuses mostly on himself, and doesn't care to linger when all is said and done - but he'll touch where she guides his hand, and is at least sure to leave her clothing and warmth when he goes. 

Jolene likes Kurt, despite it all - but more importantly she likes that her mother hates him. 

---

Kurt doesn't notice the way her parents watch him when Jolene brings him around - the fold in her mother's lips or the glare in her father's eyes. Jolene notices, though - and she smiles, leans against him, and while Kurt all but shovels a mound of food into his mouth, Jolene watches her parents and runs her nails through his hair. 

"Jolene, you'd better get rid of that boy," her mother tells her later, "He's no good for you, us, or anyone else."

"I think I might just marry him," Jolene responds - and her mother slaps her, nails gouging a path across her cheek. 

Jolene slaps her back, unthinking - fury guiding her hand. Her own nails. Blood splatters the nearby wall, and her mother stares at her in horror while her father's voice rises higher and higher. 

She doesn't wait for the fall out. Leaves, instead, to find Kurt - and unlike her mother he fights back. He fights back, and only once his skin is layered in bleeding scratches and Jolene's cheek is quickly bruising does she let him fuck her - her fury well matched by the pace of his own. 

When she later returns, her parents don't say a thing - only sniff at her appearance, and turn their heads away. 

---

Jolene's mother has never been one to raise her voice - unnecessary, when she's always been so good at cutting deep with soft spoken words alone. 

She's screaming, now. 

"Get the fuck out of my house!" she screeches - and Jolene manages to dodge the old lantern her mother whips in her direction, but not so much the shards of glass when it shatters. There's a shallow cut across her cheek - and her own ire rises sudden and hot. 

"You can't just throw me out -" 

"I can do what I damn well please, you little whore!" 

"Oh you'd know all about being a w -" 

"Enough," her father barks - as loud as she's ever heard him. 

"Father, you can't just let her -" 

"I said, that's enough," he repeats - low enough that Jolene finally tears her eyes away from her mother's fury. Her father's face is carefully stiff - impossible to read - and after a second of silence he continues, "Go, Jolene."

He can’t possibly mean it - "Where the hell do you expect me to go?" 

"Well, since you seem to like that boy so much, why don't you go find him," her father answers - cold and even, "and he can take care of you and the little bastard he's put between your legs."

It seems impossible. Unbelievable. Jolene's heart is fluttering hot in her chest, and she glances between them both - waiting for an ultimatum, any rule or deal that will keep them from kicking her out. 

They are just as silent and sure. 

Reality settles in her gut like a stone, and after a long few moments of silence she lifts herself up - straightens her shoulders, her chin. Finds once more the fury in her mother’s eyes and glares  back just as angrily. 

"Fine," she bites out, "You two are nothing but filthy beggars anymore, anyway. I don’t need you. I don’t want you. I hope you rot in hell.” 

She pauses just long enough to spit at their feet - and to the sound of her mother screeching, her father holding the older woman back, Jolene leaves with her head held high. 

She doesn’t need them. She doesn’t need anyone. Not her parents, not even Kurt -

But this is his fault as much as it is hers, and she sure as hell won’t be letting him off the hook that easily.

Chapter 26: On the Origin of Things

Notes:

CW: Discussion around selling body parts/etc.

Idk. It's not much but I just wanted to play in the space of this as a power. So I needed to put it in a scene. It's whatever

Me @ me: this could have been a reference sheet entry

They say it's magic. Hazel calls it perception. His parents had once asked him if there was much of a difference between the two, and Hazel had only given them a shrug in return. 

He has seen magic. Real magic. A classmate who'd once summoned weapons seemingly from nowhere; the certainly grossly exaggerated tales of the Aegis and their ability to heal even the most mortal of wounds; the numbing bite of ice at his own neck, something much more than just cold fingers. 

And so if this is magic, it's not much to brag about - but he can't deny it has its uses, on occasion. 

The merchant standing across the table from Hazel is eager - almost nervous. He wrings his hands, eyes skipping from the goods laid across the cloth to Hazel's face and back again. 

At first glance, it's exactly the sort of spread he'd expect. The scales are easiest to get - and there's a small pile of them here, most of which are a sort of iridescent brown. Laid out next to them are a few long strips of dried skin, a small vial of darkened blood, and perhaps most valuable of all a stoppered glass jar filled with something crushed into a fine powder. 

"Genuine Aqori beak," the merchant stammers - and that, alone, is something worth thrice its weight in gold in the right medicinal circles. 

The merchant would be right to ask for a small fortune - one Hazel could easily make back with more than a little interest by selling the goods onward. 

But. 

Hazel reaches for a scale, pinching it between his fingers. And in a single blink, he knows it'd once adorned the hide of an especially large, aged, nonvenomous snake. With a dry look towards the merchant - who looks as if he's visibly sweating, now - Hazel drops the scale and picks up a strip of skin. 

And he lets that go even quicker - it's human, removed from the arm of a man four years prior. 

With a soft huff, Hazel grabs the bottle of powdered beak - and as he unstoppers it, the merchant jolts and reaches out as if to stop him. 

"Hold on, you can't just go opening that, you'll -" 

"Contaminate it?" Hazel asks, holding the bottle out of reach and sticking a finger into the powder inside. 

They are ashes from a campfire - he can't separate all the things the ashes had once been, but he knows the fire had burned that same morning. 

"I'd hate to get any filth in your ash," he sneers, removing his finger to upturn the bottle. As the ashes spill out onto the table, the merchant stammers - before he can get much of anything out, Hazel reaches over and snatches the collar of his shirt. 

Tugs him close with a snarl, free hand planted firmly on the table. 

"I won't be made a fool of," Hazel growls, "Pack up your fakes and get the hell out of my sight."

"W-what do you mean, they're not -" 

"I haven't decided yet," Hazel interrupts, "if I should be warning others about the quality of goods you're selling. But if you insist -" 

"No!" The merchant squeaks, "No, don't - okay. I'm going, alright?" And when Hazel lets go, the man is quick to start sweeping up his goods - continuing to blather, "can you really blame a guy? You know how hard it is to get this stuff genuine anymore?" 

"Then find a different market," Hazel snorts - and he turns, then, to walk away. 

It isn't elemental control. It isn't telekinesis or healing or weapons out of thin air. 

But if this is magic, Hazel supposes it has its use. 

Chapter 27: "Meet Cute"

Notes:

¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Content warning for...shady black market shit, I guess. Body part selling and such.

When they'd told him there was someone interested in what he had to offer, Hazel isn't sure what he expected. It's not as if when he thinks of 'merchant,' that any one specific image comes to mind. After all, there were all types in the world of selling and buying - even more of them in the darker underbelly - but still, he finds himself a little underwhelmed. 

They're certainly dressed well - neat, clean clothing laced with genuine fur. Made with materials of at least fine quality - if not exceptional. They're short in stature, though, and don't seem to take up much space besides. Their skin is pale, fairly well kept - if covered in freckles and marred by a couple of notable scars along the edge of a jaw. There's something familiar in the shape of their face - something familiar about their appearance as a whole. Something Hazel can't quite seem to put his finger on - but it makes him uneasy. 

Or maybe it's their eyes. Their stare. A gaze that's steady, entirely unreadable - but after a second it flickers from Hazel's face to the box on the table between them, and they offer a soft-spoken, "Well?" 

Hazel runs his fingers along the front edge of the box, and as magic tingles beneath his palm he pries the lid open. It's an admittedly small collection - most of it made up of a number of vials of dark red blood. There are a few small handfuls worth of scales, though - laid out so that their deep black hue can glitter properly in the light.  

No beak, no organs - a shame, he thinks, because they'd certainly had the beast long enough to gather a few. But they'd been timid. Afraid. 

Cowards. Only just barely worth the cost of hiring them. 

"Is this all?" The merchant asks - gloved fingers carefully picking up a scale. Hazel almost demands they put it down - but holds his tongue. It's precious - but handling such goods this way is the norm, and he can't very well stop them. 

"This isn't the average fare," Hazel says with a soft sniff, "I expect it'll fetch as high as ten times the standard price. Sought after, prized, and almost certain to be the only of its sort. I wouldn't exactly call this a renewable resource."

"And why not?" 

"Because it comes from the Aegis's personal guard."

Hazel wouldn't call their reaction surprise - certainly not the sort he was hoping for. It's mild, hardly perceptible, barely a half second's pause in their fingers - but still, he doesn't think it's what they expected to hear. 

"A bold claim - how did you manage to come across something like this?" 

"There's no service that can't be paid for, with the right price," Hazel says vaguely, waving his hand. The merchant doesn't immediately respond - only lays the scale carefully back into its padded box, and then looks up towards Hazel. 

Blank. Just as unreadable as before. Something almost calculating in the hazel depths, all the same. 

"How do I know anything you're saying is true?" They finally ask, "for all I know, these could be from any Aqori."

"That," Hazel says, leaning slightly over the table, closer to them. The lid of the box snaps closed as his hand rests against it, "is not my problem. I know the truth - and acquiring this has cost me far too much time, money, and risk to be called a liar."

"Touchy," they say, the slightest curve at the edge of their mouth. "I think it's a perfectly fair concern."

And maybe it is - in their place, Hazel may have been even more skeptical. So he offers them a brief nod, a tilt to his chin - but still refuses to provide any further reassurance. Or, as he's sure they're searching for, discount. 

They study him - quiet, as the seconds tick by into a minute or two. Hazel taps his fingers against the box - tries to ignore how the persistence of their gaze makes his hands itch. Holds their eyes, in turn, despite the discomfort - waiting. About to call the deal off, himself, when they finally shrug and speak. 

Names a price - and Hazel snorts, straightens, and crosses his arms with a shake of his head. 

Names his own, in return, and adds - "I'm not interested in haggling. I know what it's worth - take it or leave it."

"I have to consider what's best for my own profits."

"If you can't upsell something of this quality," Hazel snorts, "then you're a pretty shitty merchant. Spare me the time, and I'll find someone who can."

They don't seem offended - once more fail to react much at all. They only watch for another long heartbeat. Two. And then, finally, they stretch out their hand. 

Their grasp is firm, their gloved hand strangely cool to the touch - and pleased as he is with the sale, Hazel has the sense that he'll be very relieved to see the strange merchant go. 

Chapter 28: Look Inside

It was a common misconception of the general populace that illegal trade only happened in shady tents - literal black markets - hidden far away from good, moral people. That the worst sorts of the mercentile underbelly gather together somewhere else, somehow escaping the notice of peacekeepers despite being large, visible gatherings of illegal activity.

Which was ridiculous, of course - the most secretive of illegal trade happened in private sitting rooms, but much of it happened in plain sight, done with quick hands and smiles at the very same stalls common folk bought their children's candy from. It was a game of shared glances, of asking the right questions, and any average citizen was only ever inches away from some illicit good or another.

It was a game Hazel knew well - but that wasn't why Hazel was at market today. He didn't often come to market at all, really - he had people to do his shopping for him, after all, no matter the type. But he'd wanted a bit of fresh air and there had been talk of a few renowned blacksmiths bringing their wares and Hazel would rather examine those in person.

Which is how he spends most of his time. He meanders from stall to stall, pausing to look at and occasionally touch those things that catch his eye. Items tell him their most recent histories - and Hazel makes a mental note which of those line up with the tales their peddlers tell. Honest, dishonest, half-way inbetween - there are plenty of each.

But there isn't much that really intrigues him - at least not until he comes upon a small, modest stall and a plush-lined box propped up in the center of its showcase. Inside the box lays a short, dull sword - and as Hazel approaches, the man running the stall perks up and stands from his rickety stool.

"Welcome, Milord, welcome - I see you've caught sight of my most prized position. This -"

"Is the Sword of Galain, I know," Hazel interrupts. Hazel, as many other noble children and hopeful squires, had all but grown up on tales of the infamous Sir Galain - and it was well known that a few of his remaining possessions had been passing hands through noble families for years. His own owned a shield - a polished thing that hung in his family's summer home.

It would be worth Hazel's coin to own the sword - the two pieces together might one day sell for a pretty purse, and until then would be a point of pride. None of which Hazel mentions, of course - in fact, he doesn't say a thing. Instead, he steps closer and reaches out to press his fingers to the blade.

A heartbeat later he scowls and removes his hand.

"Or at convincing fake, at any rate," he says, scathingly, and the man in front of him blinks.

"No sir, I swear the man I bought it from was a real knight -"

"Who lied to you," Hazel says - graciously giving the man the benefit of the doubt. "This isn't Galain's sword - it isn't even as old as it looks. It was forged two years ago, somewhere near the sea - Oarscoast, if I had to guess. They turn out some talented smithys."

"S-sir, I…" The man trails off, pauses, then clears his throat, "you've my word I hadn't a clue. But - could you please keep your voice down? Wasn't my intention to fool anyone -"

"But now that you know, you aren't above doing so?" Hazel asks with a sniff. The man grimaces, but his eyes are pleading - and after a second, Hazel shrugs and waves his hand.

"It isn't any of my business," he says, and then he turns away.

And nearly collides with the merchant standing just behind him. They take a small, smooth step back as Hazel jerks to a stop - and there's a brief moment where he's surprised enough he can't do much but stare.

He recognizes them, though it takes him a thought or two to remember from where. It's the same merchant who had stood in his home, shook his hand, and bought from him the few precious samples he'd taken from the Aegis's personal bodyguard. It feels strange to see them again - the empty gaze they turn on him just as unnerving as before - and for half a second Hazel wonders if they've been following him.

Which is ridiculous. He shoves the thought firmly away, deep where he can't even begin to give it another thought. This was a market, and they were a merchant - seeing them again was surprising but far from impossible.

Shaking his head, Hazel gathers himself and steps around them, assuming they're there to look at the wares behind him. But to his surprise, they turn as well - and fall into step at his side.

"Can I help you?" Hazel asks, skin prickling - the thought of being watched easily slipping back into his mind.

"You've got a discerning eye," they say, "you knew all that from just looking at the thing?"

"Of course not," Hazel scoffs, "it may be a fake but it's a very well-done replica. It'd take time and a looking glass to see the differences - you'd have to look at the imperfections of the steel, and see how they don't match the ones Sir Galain's sword is purported to have -"

"Then how did you know?" They interrupt, and Hazel snaps his mouth closed. He frowns, and considers, and then offers a small shrug.

"It's a talent of mine. Discerning the origin of things."

"Magic, then?"

"I suppose," Hazel mutters, and then he fixes the merchant with a narrowed-eyed look, "though I'm not sure why I'm telling you as much. What business is it of yours?"

Instead of answering, they hum - and then they begin to walk a bit faster. They never lose the careful measure of their steps, but it's enough to pull ahead of Hazel.

"Follow me."

"Excuse me? I don't know who you think you are, but I'm not about to let some lowly little -"

"My name is Fleece," they interrupt, pausing to look at him over their shoulder, "and I've got a job for you."

Hazel didn't let people order him about. Not other nobles. Not his parents. Not even the royals - as far as he could get away with it. So he certainly wasn't about to listen to some no-name, common born merchant. He stops as Fleece looks back forward and keeps walking - and he watches them move further away, urging himself to turn and walk in the other direction.

"C'mon man, I haven't got all day," Fleece says - their voice carrying, though they don't even bother to look back again.

A heartbeat. Two. And Hazel tells himself it's curiosity alone that drives him forward - that pushes him to follow after all.

They lead him through the market and to another stall - and as they approach, the woman who runs the business watches them with quickly widening eyes. As they come to a stop in front of her stall, she lifts her chin - and it trembles, slightly, as she fixes Fleece with a glare.

"What's all this then? If you think threats will -"

"Calm your tits," Fleece says with a wave of their hand - and the way the woman's mouth gapes open matches Hazel's own opinion of the merchant's language. But apparently unbothered by either of them, Fleece continues, "Lord Garrison is just here as a second set of eyes. He has a talent for these things - and he knows the business."

Hazel is nobility. Old nobility. His family has been around nearly as long as the kingdom's conception. Of course he is known - he expects to be known. Not to mention that Fleece had already been to his home once - and no one with an ounce of sense would enter a home they knew nothing about.

Still, there's something about the ease with which Fleece speaks his name that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight.

"If we could come in?" Fleece presses, pulling Hazel from his thoughts - and after a moment of furrowed brow and pinched lips, the woman nods. She turns with a gesture, and Fleece follows her up into her wagon.

With a soft breath, Hazel trails behind.

By the time he enters, the woman is already displaying the item Fleece must want his help with. At first glance, it seems fairly innocuous - a gilded chain holding a glimmering emerald amulet, all nestled in a fur-lined box.

"Alright," Fleece says with a look at him, "show me what you've got."

"I don't make a habit of going around touching random amulets," Hazel retorts, "how do I know it won't cast some kind of curse on me?"

"It's harmless, Milord, I swear," the woman says, "it's only enchanted to -"

Fleece holds up a hand, and she snaps her mouth closed.

"I'd rather Hazel here told me what it is," they say, "but she's right - you've my word it won't hurt you."

"And what good is your word?" Hazel asks, looking at them. They look back at him, gaze unreadable, and there's a few heartbeats of quiet before they respond.

"Guess you'll find out, huh?"

It was a non-answer. An untrustworthy answer. Hazel didn't know them, he had no reason to take them at their word. This whole thing could be a setup - it probably was. Surely was. They'd trap him with magic and ransom him off and it would be the height of foolishness to listen to them.

"I'm no expert in enchantments," he says, "What I know is history. Origins. I might not be able to tell you anything about the magic at all."

"That's fine. Just tell me what you can."

With a soft huff, Hazel lingers for a moment more - then steps forward and lays his hand over the amulet.

There's an immediate, soft tingle in his palm - confirmation that the amulet is, in fact, enchanted. Although most anyone could tell that much, usually. So Hazel focuses past it - and his mind fills with sure and certain knowledge.

"One hundred and twelve years ago, somewhere in the west," Hazel says as he slips his hand away from the amulet, "that would have been prior to the formation of their monarchy, so I can't give you an exact area. But that's when it was first put together. A mage crafted it, a woman - and the magic was woven in at the same time. I can't tell you any specifics for sure - but it's difficult to enchant metals. Smithys and mages have been trying to perfect it for generations - back then, succeeding would have required strong, simple magic. If I had to guess, it's likely wild or necromantic in nature."

"Has it been manipulated or changed in any way?" Fleece asks. With a light frown, Hazel slips the amulet from its box and runs his hands carefully along its various chains and pieces. As he lays it back into its box, he shakes his head.

"Repaired, here and there - there are bits of metal from different places and times. But nothing more than you'd expect with something so old. There's no indication the magic has been touched."

"What is all this?" The woman finally asks, snapping the box closed, "most of this I've already told you - you distrusted me so much?"

"It's my job to do my research," Fleece answers, "'s nothing personal - but since everything seems to check out, you've got yourself a deal."

"Oh - well. Good. Good, then."

There's an exchange of coin, of goods - and they don't say much further but as Fleece turns and leaves the wagon Hazel follows after.

They walk for awhile, weaving through the crowds - until eventually Hazel asks -

"So what's it for, then?"

Fleece pauses and looks over at him with a blink. Then, their mouth crooks into a tiny smirk, and rather than answer him they ask -

"You're still here? I figured you'd have wandered on your merry way by now - oh, were you waiting to be dismissed?"

"No," Hazel immediately retorts - pushing away the part of him that realizes only then that he'd been doing exactly that. "No, I was going this way anyway -"

Fleece hums, and this time when they start walking Hazel makes himself stay still. He wasn't following them. He hadn't been. He -

"Thanks for the help, Buttercup," Fleece says with a wave of their hand, "catch you around sometime, hm?"

"Definitely not," Hazel answers - but he can't be sure they hear him at all. 

Chapter 29: Unwelcome Visitors

Hazel is halfway ready for bed when a servant comes knocking at his door - and when he opens it, ready to scold them for bothering him, they launch into a quick, breathless explanation.

Most of which Hazel ignores, registering only that they've unexpected visitors who are refusing to leave.

With a huff, Hazel takes the time only to cover himself with a thick, heavy robe - and then he follows them down the hall, the stairs, past the kitchen and dining room and into the sitting room proper.

Where he finds a familiar face - Fleece, the merchant he'd now had two mostly unpleasant encounters with.

As Hazel walks into the room, Fleece is busy squeezing rainwater out of their laden braid and onto the carpeted floor below them. Which is offensive on its own - but far worse than their poor manners is the fact that they've an Aqori standing just behind them. And as Hazel is still piecing the picture in front of him together, the black-scaled creature gives itself one good, thorough shake.

Splattering water all over the room.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" Hazel asks, raising his voice to be absolutely sure he is heard. At the sound, Fleece finishes one last pass along their braid and then meets Hazel's furious gaze.

"I told you my name - did you forget already?"

"I mean," Hazel hisses, stalking across the room until he's nearly close enough to lean over them, "who do you think you are, barging into my home so late? Who do you think you are, tracking mud and rain into my sitting room? Who the hell do you think you are, bringing one of those filthy beasts into my house -"

"We needed a place to stay for the night," Fleece says with a shrug and a gesture at the bags resting near the Aqori's feet, "so I thought to myself, hey, why not pay my new pal a visit?"

"I'm not your 'pal,' and you're standing in the capital city - there are plenty of inns to choose from. So take your things, and your fucking bird, and get the hell out of my home."

"You know, your hospitality leaves a lot to be desired," Fleece says, "but beggars can't be choosers, hm?" They turn half away from Hazel, then, looking over their shoulder at their Aqori. "Guess I'll be picking my own room - Howl, go and see if you can't get someone to whip up some hot grub. You can bring the bags once you've done that."

And then they move - taking a step to Hazel's side as if to simply walk around him. There's a brief pulse of heat behind Hazel's eyes, and as Fleece moves he reaches out and snatches them by the upper arm.

"Don't you move a muscle," he all but barks at their Aqori, sparing it only the briefest glance, before he turns his fury on the merchant just in front of him.

"You are not staying," he practically spits into their face, "you were not invited and you are not welcome. Turn around and leave. Now."

They don't respond, but there's a twitch in their arm as if they might pull away from him. Hazel tightens his hold, and he takes a step - fully intending to drag them out of his house, if that's what it takes.

Their free hand comes up and latches around Hazel's forearm. And his demand for them to keep their hands off of him flies to his tongue - where it stalls, because almost as soon as they touch him their skin freezes over.

It's sharp, biting cold beneath their palm that stabs its way down into Hazel's flesh. He rips his arm away from their hold instinctively, rubbing hard at the place they'd grabbed him - surprised for only a heartbeat or two before his eyebrow furrows.

"You little -" He starts, but as he moves, shifting his body more fully towards them, his foot hits ice - and as his leg rocks out from beneath him, Hazel yelps and falls backward.

His head strikes the ground hard enough to knock the wind from his gut.

It's dangerous. Vulnerable. He knows he needs to get up immediately - but for a long, long moment he is too stunned to do anything but stare at the ceiling. His breath bleeds slowly back into his chest, his fingers tingle - but by the time Hazel can finally move enough to push himself up, he finds himself trapped.

It's a sheet of thick, frigid ice - wrapped around his chest and keeping him pinned to the floor.

"Get this off -" he starts, but as he speaks the ice sinks lower. Pinches and then pushed into his chest. His heart flutters against his aching ribcage, his newly won breath catches once more in his throat. He has plenty to say, but can't get even a single word out - he has to focus entirely on trying to breathe.

"One night wouldn't hurt, hm?" Fleece says, leaning over Hazel just enough to enter his sight. What he'd tell them, if he could, is to fuck off - replete with a number of threats and promises of harm to come.

But all he can manage is glare - glare and, as the weight around his chest pushes lower still, manage to pinch out -

"Fine."

Fleece's expression doesn't change, and they don't immediately move - but, finally, the lean away. Hazel feels their feet pass close as they walk around him - followed shortly by the quick clatter of the Aqori's claws.

And still the ice sits heavy. Cold. Hazel can't be sure if the numbness is from the chill or the pressure on his circulation - but either way, he thinks. Wonders. Worries that they're just going to leave him there until he passes out or worse -

But a few minutes after they've left the room, the ice crumbles apart. With a series of harsh coughs, Hazel shoves himself up into a sit. Almost immediately, the servant who'd alerted him hurries to his side.

"Milord? Are you alright? Shall I fetch the guards?"

"Fuck off," Hazel snaps, pushing himself quickly to his feet. The world spins around him - but Hazel curls his fists and grits his teeth until the worst of it passes. Then he continues, "No. Just get them what they need, and be sure they're gone in the morning."

"Of - of course. If you're sure -" His servant stammers, but Hazel doesn't bother to respond. Fixing his robe around him, he lifts his chin and makes his way to his room.

Listening, all the while, to be sure he avoids Fleece entirely.

Chapter 30: and they were roommates

“Howl, find us a place to stay the night, would you?” the shutter closes with a ‘clack’ before the bird responds, but Fleece doesn’t seem bothered.

“Why do you let that /thing/ drive?” you sneer, “Does it even know where it’s going?”

Fleece tuts and shakes their head, “Howl knows what he’s doing. He’s quite good with the horses. And best of all, I don’t have to pay him.”

You snort in amusement and decide to let it drop. You look out the window and watch the countryside slowly dim from the warm, bright orange of sunset to the cooler blues of twilight.

 

Your nose wrinkles in distaste at the state of the building. It’s nothing fancy – old, worn and faded wood that looks…sturdy, if nothing else. But otherwise not a place you would have chosen to stay, if you had much of a choice. You suppose it’s better than the alternative.

Upon entering you are greeted with the smell of stale beer and too loud conversation of already drunken patrons. You scowl and cover your nose with a sleeve as you follow Fleece up to the counter.

“Two rooms for the night, and some food and drink, as well.” Fleece tells the inkeep – a rather scrawny fellow who looks to have forgotten to shave the past few days – but is otherwise presentably dressed.

The man is shaking his head even before they finish, “Full house tonight, m’fraid.” He says, “Only got one room left; ‘less you don’t mind sharin’. You’re welcome to it.”

You open your mouth to argue that the man should just kick out one of his other less wealthy patrons and give you their room instead; but Fleece is already agreeing before you get the chance.

“I don’t want to – !” you start to snap, but of course, Fleece ignores you and turns to head down the hall that the innkeeper directs them toward.

For a moment you stare at their back as you consider going back out to sleep in the carriage with the bird. Just as quickly you toss the thought aside and unhappily follow after them.

 

You study the room critically – faded and dull wood just the same as the rest of the building makes up the space. There is a small table with an old cushioned chair that appears to be at least thirty years old – with all the stains and marks to match – a frayed rug, a waste bucket, and one, single, solitary bed.

Fleece pulls off their coat and gloves and tosses them casually at the old chair, then plops themself on the edge of the tiny bed.

“One of us is going to have to sleep on the floor.” You say, thin-lipped. Though again the thought of just returning to the carriage crosses your mind.

“If that’s where you want to sleep, be my guest.” Fleece shrugs, kicking off their boots haphazardly.

“Weren’t you raised in a barn?” you argue, “I’m sure you must be used to sleeping on the ground. I should get the bed.”

Fleece hums and kicks their feet as they eye you with an unreadable expression, “You know, Hazel, there’s plenty of room for both of us in here. I’m a nice guy, I don’t mind sharing.”

There most certainly was /not/ enough room for two people. Not without literally sleeping on top of – you quickly shake the thought away. No. The last time you had shared a bed with anyone had been your parents when you were little, and you were /not/ in any hurry to change that. Your expression must have shifted with your thoughts, because Fleece is wearing a familiar half-cocked smirk, “Come on, Hazel. I don’t bite.”

For once you decide to ignore what is clearly them goading you, and impatiently huff, “Wasn’t there supposed to be food?”

As if on cue there is a sudden loud knock at the door and a pair of servants bring in a couple plates of bread and cheese with a few thin strips of meat and a couple of mugs of beer. One of them mutters something about having a good night, and they both hurry out.

The food is bland. The bread and cheese are hard, the meat is cut so thin it’s hard to tell what type it even is, and one whiff of the mug wrinkles your nose so much you can’t even bring yourself to take a sip of it.

Fleece, on the other hand, appears to have no issue with the quality of the food. You are almost rapt in horror and disgust as they noisily scarf down their meal and chase it down with their beer in one go. They belch just as noisily as they slam the mug back down on the table and wipe their face on the back of their shirt sleeve.

You slowly turn back toward your own plate, barely touched, and decide that you aren’t really that hungry.

 

You push what remains of your dinner around on your plate for a bit longer before you finally give up on trying to eat and you put the plate aside. When you idly look up you see Fleece sat cross-legged on the bed once more. They are just finishing unraveling their braid; fingers rake through their long hair to untangle the strands. As they shake their hair out to loosen it the rest of the way they catch your eyes. You glance away quickly; not needing to see to know the smirk that twists the corner of their mouth.

“Well,” Fleece starts with a stretch and a pat to their stomach, “I’m going to sleep. Feel free to join me. Or don’t.” They don’t wait for a response before they flop back on the bed, arms folded behind their head, and close their eyes.

You consider, for the third time, leaving them and going out to sleep in the carriage.

Eventually, you stand and begin to remove your jacket as carefully and quietly as you can. You alternate unbuttoning each row with a quick, suspicious glance toward the bed. When you confirm that you aren’t being watched, you continue to the next one.

Next, you slide off your own boots and put them neatly by the door. It occurs to you then that the only blanket in the room is currently under your ‘roommate’, so you take your coat with you over to the old chair with you.

You grumble to yourself under your breath as you move Fleece’s coat out of the way, and gingerly sit yourself down in the chair. It creaks softly in protest, but it holds your weight. The ‘cushion’ is hard and flat – whatever stuffing it had had worn down with age. You pull your coat over yourself and try to settle into the chair.

 

You shift and turn, trying to get comfortable – propping your legs up on the table, over the arms of the chair, leaning back, leaning to the side – to no avail. A few times you come close to the edge of sleep, but just as you are about to tip over it, a shift in your position, or an ache in your muscles, pulls you back.

You don’t know how long you struggle to sleep there. At some point Fleece had begun snoring. You can hear the raspy sound behind you, and as you flip your head over your shoulder in an attempt to get comfortable you can see that they’ve moved from their sprawl into a tight curl toward the edge of the bed.

The rapidly worsening crick in your neck finally convinces you to move.

You approach the bed slowly, watching for any sign that they may wake up. There was enough free space now, you think, as long as you just stay on the opposite edge of the bed, you could lay down without touching them. Then you would wake up before them, and no one would have to know. Yes. That was a good plan.

You test first by pushing your hand into the bed and pulling away quickly to observe. Fleece continues to snore away, giving no sign of having felt anything.

Slowly you sit on the edge of the bed, letting your weight down in tiny increments, hyper aware that any move could wake them. But as the minutes pass, nothing happens. They don’t move, their breathing doesn’t shift, they just stay curled into their ball on the other side of the bed.

Encouraged, but still cautious, you bring up your legs one by one, and carefully lay yourself down. The bed is nearly as hard as the chair, and you are very nearly hanging off the edge of it in order to avoid any contact with it’s other occupant, but it is a vast improvement to the chair, and before long you feel your eyelids start to droop.

 

When you open your eyes thin sunlight trickles through the partially shuttered windows. Remembering your plan, you blink yourself awake, and begin the process of slowly sneaking back out of the bed.

Except – you try – and find that you can’t move. It is then, as you come back to alertness, you become aware of the weight holding you down – and perhaps more telling – the raspy snores pouring into your ear.

You thrash and kick violently, until the limbs tangled around you let go and the snoring cuts into a disgruntled sort of noise. You all but throw yourself out of the bed.

“What the hell, man?” Fleece grumbles in a voice uncharacteristically…grumbly. You don’t think about that, instead you pat and smooth at yourself and your clothes as if you’d been robbed.

“What the hell, /you/!” you repeat, nearly shrieking, “Why were you touching me!?”

Fleece sits up and blinks at you slowly. “I’m just sleeping,” they answer in a way that clearly implies you this is the stupidest question they have ever heard, “You’re the one making it weird.”

You huff. “Let’s just get out of here. I want to be back in my /own/ bed, with some actual food, not in some smelly tavern.” Your fingers are clumsy with sleepiness and nerves, so when you tug your coat back on and try to redo the buttons they aren’t quite as smooth as they had been the night before.

“You don’t even want to stay for breakfast?”

“Hell no!”

Fleece sighs. Or maybe laughs.

You tug your boots back on, and once again when you look up your eyes catch on Fleece’s hair and their hands as they begin to meticulously re-braid their hair back into it’s signature tail.

“I’m going to wait in the carriage,” you snap, forcing yourself to turn away and march out the door before they can comment, “don’t take all day!”

You hear their voice but can’t make out the words, and it doesn’t really matter, anyway. You think that you would've been better off just sleeping with the bird after all.

Chapter 31: Winter

Summary:

/shrug

It's cold. It's winter. The deep heart of it, where the chill cuts into your very bones and it doesn't even snow anymore. What snow does remain is hard, frozen - his feet clop against it as Keet walks the short, empty path beyond the worn down stone fence. He tugs his fur-laden cloak tighter around himself and not for the first time considers turning back for the carriage. Where Fable and Black are waiting - where he could warm up curled into Fable's side and forget about this whole idea. 

He keeps walking forward, instead. 

The graves are plain, already a bit worn by the weather - but even so, new enough still that they stick out among the cracking stones of the rest. There's a spot he can stand where Keet can see them both - eyes tracing letters he can understand, although it feels strange to read their names. His father's, especially - he wonders if the man had even been able to spell his own name. 

Fleece. Kurt. 

His mouth is dry, his chest freezes up - Keet pulls his cloak up around his lips, thinking it must be the cold. 

It must be - because it's not as if he's sad. 

It's better this way. It's safer this way. 

He studies Fleece's grave for another long minute, and then Keet crosses the snow over to his father's. Walks, until the stone is all but at his toes. Until he is standing on the snow and dirt that's layered the earth above what must be a coffin. A body. 

Quiet, for a while - nothing but the soft howl of wind through the trees. 

A million things to say, and at the same time nothing at all. The rolling in his stomach is an emotion Keet can't put a name to. 

"I would kill for them," He finally says, quiet enough the wind swallows it almost before it reaches his own ears. "I would die for them. I would give everything for them, just to make sure they were happy. I would…" His throat pinches shut, and it takes him a few staggering breaths to at least ask, "did you really never care at all?" 

There's no answer, of course - but Keet knows it all the same. He falls quiet again - and he wipes at the tears the cold has stung into his eyes. 

After a while longer, he hears the shouts of children playing in the nearby village. It is a sudden and unwelcome familiarity - and goosebumps trail across his arms. Heart in his throat, Keet turns and hurries with quick steps back to his waiting partners. 

---

The graveyard follows him into his dreams. 

To a cold, dark place - to someone calling for him, calling his name. Scared, and then frantic, digging up and up through dirt that clogs in his lungs and clumps beneath his nails and rushes by as if trying to pull him back into the earth. 

And when he is too tired to fight, when he knows that there is too far left to go, hands reach for him. Frigid fingers clasp around his palms and elbows and shoulders and he is hauled free from the ground. 

To graves all around him. To his siblings - ghastly, pale, bleeding creatures that reach for him. That sneer at him and bare broken, dirt-cluttered teeth as they grasp at him with tattered, rotten fingers. Keet thrashes, he fights - and they only crowd closer, still calling his name, howling voices rising high above the wind and the sound of his own screaming. 

He is still screaming when he wakes - a ragged, cutting sound that strangles into a sob as he recognizes Fable's face swimming into his vision. 

"Don't put me there," he babbles, grabbing onto them with those same, frantic movements - no more than half awake, not fully aware of what he's saying. Only remembering his grave, his siblings, the cold cemetery on the outskirts of a forgotten little village. 

"Don't put me there," he repeats, crying now, hardly registering Fable's hushing or the soothing strokes of their hands, "don't bury me with them. Please, please -" 

Inaudible babble, then, even to him - wordless pleas that die as he more fully wakes, as Fable's quiet reassurances finally start to filter in. Keet presses his face into their chest, and clings to their sleep clothes with his arms wrapped tight around their torso. 

"It's going to be a long, long time before you're buried anywhere," Fable mutters, when the worst has finally passed and Keet's grown quiet in their hold. 

"Not there," he repeats, "not with them. I don't -" 

"Not there," Fable agrees, "you and I and Black - we'll all be buried together here. Where all royalty is laid to rest."

"We put Sleet here."

"The royal burial ground is apart even from the castle nobility. Even further still from the castle servants. You won't be anywhere near them, either."

Keet takes a deep breath - lets it out in a long sigh. Feels as if he's been running - a bit as if dirt is still weighing his body down. 

"Okay?" Fable asks - their murmur heavy with sleep. 

"Okay," Keet agrees - and a soft, steady snore only moments later tells him they have already drifted back off. 

Keet is still tired, too, even more so now, really - but with the images of plain, stark gravestones dancing in the dark behind his eyelids, he never manages to do much more than doze. 

Chapter 32: Guts

Notes:

I don't even know man.

This is non-canonical, obviously. I just thought it would be fun to play with, and you know what, it was.

"No, not there!" Hazel snaps, reaching over to snatch the candle from Tiffany’s hand. "Have you never seen a circle before? The candle goes here." With finality, he plops the final candle into its position - and ignoring Tiffany’s sputtered complaints, Hazel puts his hands on his hips, takes a few steps back into his place, and examines their handiwork. 

A perfect circle of lit candles with dark, waxy stems. One on each star of the pentagram chalked into the rough stone ground of the school's basement, and then a few between each point. 

“Okay,” Hazel says, tugging the bed sheet around his shoulders a bit closer. It wasn’t as nice a cloak as Georgie’s stolen habit - but at least it was something a bit more formal than his own pajamas pulled up around his ears. “Who has the wine?” 

“It’s not wine, it’s blood!” Jay squeaks, and the others are quick to agree as Hazel rolls his eyes.

“Human blood,” Brittany adds in a loud, conspiratorial whisper. 

“It’s not,” Hazel mutters, but he doesn’t bother to correct them beyond that. Instead, he takes the offered glass - something opaque and plastic from the cafeteria - and takes the first sip. It’s bitter, sour, and it makes his face scrunch - but he swallows it anyway, and passes the cup to the next child in the circle. 

As the glass makes the rounds, Logan begins to speak - reciting the Latin laid out in the book lying open in his hands. It’s halting, rough, poorly pronounced - and after a minute Hazel marches over and snatches it away. 

“You’re not even saying it right!” He scowls as he returns quickly to his own place. “Let me do it.” 

“You’re not the boss, Hazel!” Tiffany exclaims, but Hazel only scoffs again.

“Well someone has to be. None of you can do it right!” A few of the others complain, too, but Hazel ignores them - turning his attention to the book in his hands. 

Carefully, and with much better pronunciation of course, he reads the passage - some supposedly ancient verse, meant to call some demon or another to their ritual.

So the others say - it’s not as if Hazel believes any of this will do anything. But it would make the nuns and the priests angry if they knew - and that on its own is worth leaving his bed for. 

Besides, it’s kind of fun to dress up and play pretend, even if it all seems childish. And Hazel likes his latin classes - so he doesn’t mind the practice. 

He intones for a while - only really recognizing a little over half of the words. Even what he doesn’t recognize doesn’t make a lot of sense to him, but as he speaks the others share wide-eyed looks. Soft whispers. They grow tense, scared - Jay even scampers off, whispering something about “I don’t wanna do this anymore!” 

And then Hazel gets bored. He snaps the book closed with one last, final word - and then he waits. They all wait - although for what, he’s not even sure. Nothing, he’s sure, but for one of the others to decide they’ve waited long enough and they must have done something  wrong. 

And then, suddenly, there is a brief, cold gust of wind. 

Every single candle goes out as it blows past them - and as they are plunged into the dark, someone gasps. 

“This basement is like a million years old,” Hazel says, “it’s just a bit of wind -”

“Look!” Someone interrupts - one of the girls - and given he can’t see her or her hand, Hazel doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be looking at.

At least, he doesn’t until he sees it too. 

There is smoke seeping up through the floor near the center of the pentagram - dark and thick enough that Hazel can see it despite the pitch black of the room. It writhes as it pools, tendrils slipping slowly into the air. Building, until even Hazel can’t deny that it’s there. 

“DEMON!” One of the boys screech - and he hasn’t even finished the word before a chorus of screams and cries grow to a cacophonous pitch. The others scatter - scrambling over themselves and over each other to flee from the room. Someone knocks a candle over - it relights itself as it tips onto the floor. More than one of them collide into Hazel as they go - but even as he rocks back and forth from their impacts, he manages to stay on his feet.

Hardly pays any of them any attention at all, his eyes caught on the rising plume of smoke gathering over the center of their makeshift pentagram. 

Before long, the others are all gone - all except for Hazel, who still stands in the room. Still watches with his breath held deep in his chest. 

It seems unbelievable. Impossible. He might have even thought this was all just another of his waking nightmares - like how sometimes the shadows in the bathroom skitter about when he isn’t looking directly at them. Except the others had all seen this, too - their absence is proof of that.

There is a soft, breathy chuckle from somewhere deep inside the smog. And, shortly after, a hum that is almost as quiet. Even though the creature has no discernable features, even though the room is drenched in darkness, Hazel can feel that it is moving.

He can feel how its attention shifts to him. How it shifts - seeping closer, until the smoke is almost near enough for Hazel to touch. 

“What’s up kid, too afraid to run? Tell you what, if you want to start now, I might be nice enough to give you a head st -”

“I’m not scared,” Hazel interrupts, pressing his lips firm together and lifting his chin. “What’s there to be scared of? A bunch of mist?” 

A beat, a pause - and then a huff.

“You’re not, huh?” It asks - and as it speaks, the smoke swirling around Hazel thickens and grows. Moves again, until it is pressing against his skin, his chest, his very eyes - swallowing whatever small bits of light had remained in the room. “Not even a little bit?” 

“No,” Hazel says, nevermind the goosebumps erupting all along his arms and legs or the way his heart is speeding. With a breath, he lifts his arms and curls them tight over his chest. “What even are you? Are you really a demon?” 

“Depends on who you ask.” 

“Stop being stupid,” Hazel says with a snort, “everyone says that when you do rituals like this, you get demons. And then they grant your wishes, and for some reason that’s supposed to be a bad thing -”

“And what if I was?” It interrupts, “what sort of wishes would an ankle biter like you even have? Need some fresh nappies or a new pony or something?” 

"No, that’s dumb. I’m not a baby!” Hazel says, standing a little straighter still - staring up into the thick, swirling smoke. To where he thinks, if he focuses hard enough, he can see the hint of eyes. A flash of color - something almost like liquid bronze - deep in the fog. The longer he looks, the more he can see - horns that waver within the depths, reaching up almost taller than the ceiling. Something that might be a mouth - and he's sure of it, when the edge pinches open into a subtle smirk with a flash of sharp ivory teeth. 

Nevertheless, Hazel continues. “ I want to be the richest person in the whole world. I want more money than anyone else has. Than anyone else has ever had. I want to be able to buy whatever I want, whenever I want - and it won't even matter if I'm a kid. Everyone will have to do whatever I say, or I won't pay them! I want -" 

"That's an awfully big wish for a tiny little brat like you," the demon interrupts once more. 

"I am not -" Hazel tries to argue with a huff, but before he can finish his sentence the smoke moves again - drifts down into his very throat, making it all at once almost impossible to breathe. From the shadows stretches a hand - and in some ways, it is human. Flesh, and presumably bone, and even a few ragged patches of auburn hair along the knuckles and back. 

In the ways that matter, it is not. Their hand is large enough they could easily crush Hazel's head between their fingers. Maybe even his whole torso, if they wanted to. Wickedly long, sharp, ebony claws adorn each of their digits - and as the point of one slips beneath his chin in order to lift it a little higher still, Hazel's heart skips a few, quick beats. For the first time, he is suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to run - the need to run.

But he can’t move a muscle. He can’t even blink, can just barely breathe - and those hazel eyes seem especially clear, now. Empty, shallow, unreadable - but undeniably staring at him. 

Through him. 

“Do you even know the kind of price a wish like that would cost you?” 

“I summoned you,” Hazel says - although with much less certainty than before, “you’re just supposed to do what I say.” 

A soft tsk, and somewhere in the smog Hazel can almost see them shake their head. 

“Nu-uh Buttercup, that’s not how any of this works.” 

And - Hazel doesn’t have a response for that. The feeling is sudden, and sure - a building pressure in his chest that tells him he is in way over his head. That urge to flee, again, and still his body refuses to listen. He can only swallow, hard - the movement making their claw press more firmly into the soft skin beneath his chin. 

Another brief, brief flash of teeth - and Hazel wonders if they’re going to eat him. 

And then, another breathy laugh. Their claw slips from his chin, the smoke drifts a little further away. His chest rises, falls - each breath coming a little easier than the last. 

“You’ve got guts, kid, I’ll give you that. You might want to be a little more careful about the kind of shit you and your friends get into, though. The next one might not be as nice a guy as I am.” 

“Nice?!” Hazel asks, grimacing at the squeaky break in his own voice. 

Instead of answering, their massive claw turns - and from its palm drops a small, but heavy bag. Worried it might be some kind of trick, Hazel glances at the smoke, at the hand, and then takes a long, careful step towards the bag. He snatches it up quick, tucks it to his chest, and takes a few hurried steps backwards - but the hand only retreats, until it is just as much smoke as the rest. 

“That one’s on the house.” 

Carefully, Hazel slips the bag open - and through the dark, he can just make out a heavy pile of copper. 

“Are these pennies?!” He asks, incredulous - but when he looks up, he finds an empty room instead of an answer.

Chapter 33: Stage One

Notes:

Moved to Speculations because they just don't fit Hell is What You make it right now.

It's spur of the moment. A quick pack of some random clothes and a few other supplies all tossed haphazardly into the back of his car. A long, numb drive familiar enough that he doesn't remember most of it by the time he pulls into his parents' driveway. He sits there for too long - wondering if this is a bad idea, thinking he should just go back home - until his father pokes his head from the front door and waves. With a soft breath, Hazel steps out of his car and forcefully shuts the door behind him. 

---

He slams the car door shut hard enough to make the windows rattle. His father is quick to scramble from his own seat, his mother fighting with her own seatbelt, but Hazel is already halfway up the sidewalk. Tullius calls for him, something almost authoritative in his voice - but Hazel only snarls back over his shoulder as he fumbles with the house keys. 

"Leave me alone!'

---

"Are you alright?" His mother is quick to ask - and the usually easy answer doesn't fly as swiftly to his tongue. Swallowing, Hazel slips into one of the worn-out dining room chairs. His mother frowns and reaches for him - Hazel shifts his head away from her touch as she continues, “You look pale - have you been sleeping? Want me to -”

"I'm fine,” Hazel interrupts - more harshly than he means, careful to smooth his tone as he adds, “I just thought I’d come for a visit. Is that a problem?" 

"Of course not," his father answers - but the look they exchange tells Hazel they don't believe him. 

---

"We didn't know what else to do, Hazel. We've been so worried -" 

"I'm fine! I don't need to see some - some quack. If you'd just asked -" 

"We knew you'd say no -" 

"So you tricked me!" 

"Hazel -" 

"Shut up," he seethes - and they both freeze, staring at him in shock. He doesn't care. He doesn't. He can't believe they'd trick him - that they'd do this. The fury hurts - catching him in a strangle that squeezes hard at his chest. They're shocked - but not so much as when he holds himself straight and spits - 

"Fuck you, and fuck your 'help!'" 

And he shoves his way into his room and slams the door behind him. 

---

Despite their doubt, his parents don’t press any further at first - only pamper in that way they always do. His favorite soup on the stove, idle questions about his life they know he won’t really answer, his father's invitation to sit and watch 'the game.'

Hazel doesn't even like most sports - but it's an invitation he usually doesn't turn down. It's quiet, then, except for the announcers on TV and his mother's humming as she stirs at the stove. The quiet strains, Hazel slipping down into that same suffocating numbness - until his father starts pointing to the TV, talking in terms Hazel doesn't really understand - let alone care about. 

His voice is soothing all the same. 

---

It's dark in his room. Too quiet. He skirts his gaze away from his mirror, away from the covered windows. His breath is quick in his chest, his skin prickles - logic battles with terror as he firmly tells himself that there's nothing there. No one there. There's never been anyone watching him and he has to know that he has to believe it because he has to prove all of them wrong. He has to show them he can fight this on his own. He doesn’t need to be slipped into some kind of family therapy - and he certainly doesn’t need medication. 

His mother comes in without knocking. Uncommon for either of his usually considerate parents - and with his back hunched, Hazel sits on the edge of his bed, grinds his teeth, and pointedly ignores her. 

She comes around his bed, and finds a spot next to him - close, but not close enough to touch. She pulls in a breath as Hazel glares at the floor. As anger cuts at his throat and he has to resist the urge to tell her to fuck off. 

"When I was fourteen, my father killed himself," she says, suddenly, plainly - and he doesn't quite look at her, but Hazel can't help but tilt his chin in her direction. 

---

"I'm fine," Hazel repeats as he tries to get ready for bed - his father lingering in the doorway of his room. "You two don't have to hover, you know. I’m not a little kid, and I don’t appreciate you patronizing me like I am -" 

"You said you'd try, Hazel." Tullius interrupts - soft, careful, calm. At the words, Hazel snaps his mouth shut - grinding his teeth as something strangles deep in his chest. “If it’s getting bad, if something’s wrong - then I think it’s time to try again. Time to talk.” 

---

"My father killed himself," his mother continues, "and I didn't care one bit." That, at last, pulls his gaze to her. Disbelief strong enough he can feel it pull at his face. He has seen his mother cry for strangers they don't even know, people they'd met for only a second - and he almost calls her bluff, but there's a seriousness in the pinch of her eyes that dissuades him. 

"I never knew him - he never let me know him. My father spent day after day, year after year of my life holed up in his own room. In the shed. At his job. When I would try to enter his space, he'd almost always send me away. And when he didn't, that was worse - because that meant he wasn't really there at all."

She pauses, only a few seconds, and then continues, "He was sick, all my life. Ill in ways I didn't understand. In ways he refused to share. Refused to get help for. And it wasn't his fault he was ill, but it wasn't mine either - and in the end, he killed himself, and I just couldn't find it in me to care."

---

"I was a teenager," Hazel tries, half-hearted even as he says it, "You're really going to hold me to that?" 

"We're worried about you," his father answers. 

They're worried about him, Hazel repeats in his head, but it lacks the usual bite with which he thinks of his parents and their concerns. He doesn't know what to do with that - what to say, or think - and the uncertainty swirls with the rest, until he feels paralyzed. Stuck. Panting, he realizes, his chest rising and falling fast enough to ache. 

"I - can't," he finally manages, his throat squeezing in a way that's mortifying. Terrifying. A soft, pathetic fog in his eyes. Not crying. He doesn't cry - he won't. "I can't…talk. About any of it. You wouldn’t understand. No one would understand. I’d end up in - in a loony bin somewhere.” 

---

She pauses again, this time long enough to lay a careful hand over his arm. To squeeze, when he doesn't pull away. Hazel still feels…angry. Upset. Overwhelmed. But all at once he can't turn it on her. Not again. 

"But you, I care about. More than anything, Hazel. You're my world - our world. I want to help you. I want to make sure you can help yourself. More than anything -" her throat catches, her eyes water, and all at once Hazel even feels guilty. "More than anything, I don't want to lose you."

And what he wants to tell her is that she won't - but what he says, instead, is - 

"I don't want to take medicine. I don't. Do you know what that stuff does to you? This fu - this sucks, but that doesn't mean I want to be drugged. "

"Will you please just let us find someone you can talk to?" His mom asks, squeezing his arm again, "someone you can trust. Just to talk. If they get pushy, we'll find you someone else. I promise. You don’t have to take any treatment you don’t want. Just…talk. To someone. Us. A professional. Whoever you feel comfortable with. Please?" 

Hazel doesn't want to - not any more now than he did when he realized where they were taking him on their so-called ‘day out.’ But the refusal dies at his lips - with the way she's watching him, he just can't manage to say it. 

"I'll try," he eventually mumbles instead - and his mother grabs him around his shoulders, tugs him into a tight embrace. 

"Thank you," she whispers - and for a second, the heavy gaze chasing him dies away. 

---

The memory is sharp as his father grabs him and pulls Hazel tight, if a bit awkwardly, against him - Hazel almost the same height, now. The sudden embrace brings a swell of mortification, and for a second Hazel pushes against his father, trying to free himself - but Tullius hangs on. 

And it isn't long before the heat gets to him, and despite his best intentions, despite that voice that scolds him - an uncomfortably familiar voice that reminds him he's a grown ass man - Hazel can't help but relax, little by little, into the older man's hold. 

"We're worried about you," Tullius repeats, "even if we didn't understand…you know we'd still listen, don't you? You know we'd never judge you? We wouldn’t let anyone send you anywhere you didn’t want to go.”

And Hazel wonders if that's true. Wonders, not for the first time, how his parents would feel about him if they knew that he'd quite literally struck a deal with a devil. If they knew what Fleece had done to him. And for a brief, brief moment, Hazel is almost tempted to tell his father. To tell them both. 

It passes quickly, and instead he only murmurs - inexplicably and suddenly so, so tired - "I can't. Sorry." And then, when his father's arms tighten - when Hazel feels the slightest of tremors pass through the other - he sighs softly and adds.

"But I'm not going anywhere, dad. I can manage. I always manage. I'll be fine."

Quiet, a smattering of heartbeats - and then his father sighs, too, the sound all too familiar. Something shared between them both. His father doesn't feel much better. Hazel's not sure he believes him. But he doesn't press any further. 

"Promise?" He asks, instead, and finally able to pry himself from Tullius's grip, Hazel responds - 

"Yeah. I promise."

Chapter 34: Stage Two

Nature’s call doesn’t much care about how you feel - and when it becomes too persistent to ignore, Hazel drags himself out of bed. Feels heavy, laden - just as he has for day after day after week now. Every movement feels like it takes more effort than he has, and all along beneath the fog there is a rolling dread at even this task - this simple, human need. The idea of seeing, touching, this invasive thing on his body curling his gut just as it has ever since they put it there. 

He tries not to think about it - to find that familiar, blank place in his mind - and finishes as quickly as he can manage. He stands, pulls up his sleep pants, turns on the water and coats his hands with the soothing gel of his favorite soap. Lets the scent drift to him, washing and washing beneath hot water. Thinks of bed - of soft blankets and softer sheets - and how he’s going to be back there in only a minute or two. 

It’s done, for now. Until next time. 

He looks up.

Catches himself in the mirror - and the calm shatters as he gets a good look at himself for the first time in…well. He's not sure how long. 

There have been shadows beneath his eyes for years - but they are much heavier, now. Deep enough that if he didn't know better he'd think he'd been punched. His hair seems thin, somehow - parting into messy strands of grease. There’s an angry patch of weepy red skin across his cheeks - cracked in lines he must have been itching without realizing it. There’s a stain at the collar of his sleep shirt - and his bedclothes are all ruffled, unkept, and it suddenly occurs to him that he’s not sure of the last time he’d changed them. 

His own face is an unwelcome and unpleasant surprise. It startles him, and after a long second of studying himself something hot sinks deep in his gut. And for the first time in a while, he feels - and what he feels, above all, is anger.

Fury that rapidly swells in his chest, that chases away the heavy fog with sudden, burning clarity. How had he let himself fall so far - how had he let himself be dragged so low. Made into this - Beaten, filthy, bested. Unkempt nails dig into tender palms, and with enough force that something tears he grabs fabric in his hands and rips his shirt over his head. Climbs free of his pants, his underwear - turns the shower on to a roaring blast and, once it's warm, climbs in. 

Fuck this. 

He had somehow grown used to the layer of filth over his skin - but something inside loosens as he feels it slough away now. He scrubs at himself until his skin turns pink, fingers aching where he clasps the loofa tight. With gritted teeth and carefully focused movements, he even cleans the dick - because it may not be his, but it's still attached to his body and if it's going to be there anyway Hazel is going to make sure it's as clean as the rest of him. 

Fuck this. Fuck them.

Out of the shower he pats himself until he's dry - rubs serum into his hair, carefully threading it through the strands and scratching it deep into his scalp. Brushes and dries until his hair lays in familiar soft feathers against his face and neck. Moisturizes his cheeks and nose with medicated ointment - and every single inch of the rest of him with his favorite lotion. Works it into every pore, every crease, every bit of skin he can reach. 

Not like this. 

Flosses and brushes his teeth - scrubbing with his toothbrush until the foam of the toothpaste is thick enough to coat every surface of his mouth. Scrapes at his tongue, rinses it all away with water almost hot enough to burn. Leans against the sink and carefully trims his nails - buffing them to a smooth shine once he's finished. 

He flings old clothes into the laundry and pulls out a fresh, soft, cool set. Drapes it over himself, takes his time doing up the buttons - brushes his hair again, for good measure, and finally fishes out a clean, fluffy set of socks for his feet. 

You’re better than this. 

And all the while, the anger persists. Burns and twists inside his chest and makes every movement, every routine, feel petty and pointed. He spends so long pampering and cleaning not only for himself but to prove that he can. To prove that something of himself lives despite it all. It leaves him panting, a little, and once he's through he grasps the sides of his sink and glares at his reflection. 

"You are better than this," he echoes with a growl - meeting his own gaze through dark bruises of exhaustion. And then, a softer hiss under his breath. "Fuck them."

And in truth, the anger has no where to go. He is in no way better prepared to drive Fleece away now than he was when he first realized the mistake he'd made. It is pointless fury and empty words and it doesn’t change what they’ve done to him - doesn’t change that he is powerless against their whims and wiles. 

But for that moment, it feels good all the same. For that moment, he feels like himself again - and with a deep, hard breath he straightens his back, lifts his chin, and presses his lips into a tight line. 

"You're stronger than that." He tells himself - and for that moment, he believes it. 

Chapter 35: Friends in Low Places

Notes:

Non-canonical

Unless...?

You are sixteen years old.

Two years ago, your father killed himself - and you were the first one to find his body hanging from the rafters of the shed he spent most of his time in. A bloated, swinging corpse amid the many paintings and other pet projects he kept. Your mother had screamed - but you had felt nothing in that moment except maybe some kind of relief. 

He had never been much of a father, anyway - only sick, for as long as you'd known him. Locked away deep somewhere inside of his own mind, your mother and you hidden beneath the shadows that haunted him. 

In a little under thirty years, you will see the same haunted look in the eyes of your only child - and you will do everything you can to convince him to speak to someone, anyone , in your terror that he is walking that very same path. But here, and now, therapy might as well be a swear. To your mother, and to you - she insists her newly beloved God will care for both of your sorrows and, well, who are you to start doubting your mother now?

A year ago, 'that boy who is far too old for you’ convinced you to just take a sip of his drink - and when you had handed it back, confused and guilty as to why you'd agreed, he had downed the rest of it in a single swallow. Later that night, he crashed his car into a tree - and somehow, you had both survived. 

You’d broken up with him, of course - but every now and then, you still steal sips from your mother’s poorly guarded liquor cabinet. A bad habit that will dog your steps for years - until you finally decide to give it up for the man you love and the children you wanted. 

Six months ago, you had gotten a tattoo. It’s a small thing - an easel holding the scratchy painting of a bluebonnet flower. Small enough that it's almost difficult to make out - and, in a few decades, the details will bleed into each other until the tattoo is nearly imperceptible. 

But they are the only things your father ever gave you. A nickname, and a painting of its sake. The real version hangs in your bedroom, and it will hold a place in your bedroom for the rest of your life. 

Your mother is furious when she spots the ink beneath the hem of your skirt - she thinks it is teenage rebellion. You guess it might be - but in those moments when your throat clogs and your chest tightens, you find your fingers idly tracing the lines. 

One month ago, your mother sent you to spend the summer with your grandparents. They are far - across the country - and you feel equal parts abandoned and relieved. The atmosphere in their home is different, after all, brighter - and in a way, it's nice to escape the gloom. 

Even if they insist on dresses to your ankles and braids in your hair. On a rosary on the table beside your bed and church on Sundays. 

It's not as if you have anything against God, anyway. And there's something in the hymns and the hope that makes you feel lighter. 

Still, you are a teenager, and when they refuse to give you your space, you take it. You spend little time in their home during the day - finding solace in the bustling city and the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. 

You quickly develop an usual table in an usual café, and one morning you are nursing your usual drink when they catch your attention. 

You're not sure what it is about them that pulls your gaze their way. When you look, there's nothing about them that stands out. In fact, you think they may be making an effort not to stand out. Plain, loose clothing - low-effort hair that practically hides their eyes. A hunch in their shoulders as they sip at their own drink - they blend easily into the crowd. 

But you see them. You see them, and you find it hard to look away. And when, after an hour or two, they stand to leave, you find yourself standing as well. 

You follow them - and when you somehow lose them, your feet keep walking a path you can't see based on a drive you can't explain and a single-minded need that moves you forward. Cement becomes gravel becomes dirt - and if you were in your right mind, you might notice how the distance makes your legs ache. 

You find them in the mountains. Your chest heaves and your brow is heavy in sweat but you don't notice. They finally pause, when they see you - and as they turn to look in your direction their brow crinkles in confusion. They don't meet your eyes - and you find yourself wishing they would. 

"There's nothing here for you," They eventually say, their voice so quiet that even above the silence of the mountain you have to strain to hear it. That they would speak to you at all is an invitation - and rather than respond you take a step closer to them. 

They turn their head more firmly away, and tuck themself down into hunched shoulders. 

"Please go away," they say - and there is a second, brief but clear, where your mind shakes itself free. You have only just long enough to question yourself - but before you find an answer, that need settles back into your chest. They don't mean it, you think - they want you there. They want…your attention. They want you closer - and so you approach again, one foot at a time. 

They sigh - a long huff of breath through their nose - and as you slowly shift closer they reach out a hand. Eager, now, you cross the last few steps in a hurry - and their hand finds your shoulder. 

For a second, it is relief. Your chest unwinds, your breath deepens - and for that moment in time, the heavy fog that has filled your head and chest and very soul eases. It isn't unlike how you feel after a few pulls of liquor - but it is lighter. Clearer. 

"Please," you breathe - reaching for them. You want more - to touch, to stay, to be near them forever. You can't imagine giving this up, can't imagine going back - and you know, without a doubt, that you would do anything they asked if they only let you stay. And you think you ought to show them - and your knees are already bending when they finally speak. 

"No." They snap, and the suddenly harsh tone gives you pause. You freeze, and they push at you - their hand slipping away as you stumble a few steps back. Trip and fall, landing on your backend as you stare up at them. As quickly as it'd come, the relief vanishes. It is quickly buried beneath that familiar, heavy fog and a sudden sense of sorrow - the understanding that you have somehow displeased them. 

"There's nothing here for you," they repeat, quietly, the bite gone as quickly as it'd come - but even still, you know they mean it. There is an order somewhere deep beneath the words - and although you want to stay, instead you climb quickly to your feet and turn to leave. 

You are nearly back to the city when you come back to yourself. In a blink, you are confused - and you glance around yourself, unsure why you are so far from the café you had wanted to visit that morning. Even more unsure how you've gotten where you are, or why it's so late in the evening. 

Your father in your mind, you feel a pit of dread in your gut - and telling yourself it must only be the stress, you push the thought away and head for the nearest payphone. 

Chapter 36: Reflection

Notes:

CW: Character death

Good candidate for an alternative ending, some day.

Hazel has never felt useless before.

He looks at the scene in front of him - his eyes trailing a slow path over the blood pooling beneath their body, the soft tremors at the ends of their fingers, the quickly growing pallor of their face - and even though some part of him understands that there is urgency needed here, he can't make himself move.

Fleece is injured - badly injured. Wounded and bleeding enough that they could very well die from it. Hazel doesn’t need to be a healer to understand this - a child would recognize as much. Hazel knows what he’s looking at. He understands.

Except, he doesn't, not really - because it doesn't make any sense. Because it can't possibly be true. And so Hazel doesn’t move to help them. He doesn’t walk over and finish them off. He doesn’t even leave. Instead he only stands there, and he watches, and he waits. Because he knows that any second now they will jump to their feet, and tug the wrinkles from their clothing, and brush this off just like every other inconvenience they have ever been subject to. Maybe it will be with annoyance - only a touch, barely a wrinkle over their nose. Or maybe they will laugh that familiar, hollow sound - the curl of a smirk at their lips.

Fleece coughs, a disgustingly thick, wet sort of noise that startles Hazel from his thoughts. He hadn’t even meant to look away from them, but at the sound his eyes snap quickly back - his skin prickling with winding nerves. For a second, he is sure he was right, and that this is the moment when they’ll stand - but then they only lift a shaking hand and lay it gingerly against the wound along their side. The touch of their own fingers makes them wince, and it is so violently out of character that this, at last, rips Hazel from his daze. All at once what had been nothing becomes anger, and with a huff Hazel finally stomps his way over to their side.

"Would you get up? We need to get out of here."

They pull in a labored, shaky breath - but their eyes find his, all the same. And beneath the bubbling blood at the corner of their mouth, Hazel can just make out a curl in their lip. Proof, some part of him thinks, that this is an act. Fake. Pretend. His own lips pressing tight together, Hazel reaches out and shoves at them with the point of his boot.

"Seriously, Fleece. Get up."

"Nah," they say in a wheeze as they look away from him and back up towards the sky. "I'm pretty comfortable - I think I'm gonna have a little nap, instead."

And as if to make their point, they close their eyes - slowly, and one at a time - and take another long, rattling breath.

Hazel's gut curdles, and something clutches tight in his chest. In a moment he finally does understand - finally sees their state for what it is.

"So what, you're just going to lay there and die?" He demands. Fleece doesn't answer, of course, and with a flash of irritation Hazel crouches down, slips his hands beneath them, and starts to pull them into his arms.

"I can't believe you - I have to do everything myself around here."

That, at least, gets him something of a chuckle - a soft and ragged huff of a noise. Their eyes slip back open, and they watch him as he braces them securely against his chest.

He starts to walk in a hurry. He isn't entirely sure where to go - he couldn't possibly risk taking them anywhere near the castle grounds. But there must have been - yes, thinking back, he's sure they had passed at least one village on their way.

"Isn't this sweet," Fleece says, and if their voice was much quieter Hazel is sure he would have missed it entirely. "And here I thought you couldn't wait for me to die."

"Shut up, or I'll finish you off myself."

Their body jerks - and it's only when they cough that Hazel realizes that, too, had been something of a laugh. It ends on a choke, a too-shallow wheeze - and Hazel walks a little faster still.

"Not that you need my help," he mutters, but he isn't really paying them much attention. He's thinking, instead, of distance. Of how long it will take him to reach the village at this pace. And what will happen once they do - he will send for a healer. The best, closest, fastest that money can buy. And in the meanwhile, he can find Fleece a bed. Stem the bleeding, keep them warm, keep them stable until someone with real magic can put them back to rights.

He goes through the plan in his mind - over and over again. It won't be more than a few hours, he's sure - by the morning, it will be as if none of this had even happened. They'll go home, and Fleece can be satisfied in knowing they'd accomplished their goal. Insufferable, no doubt, between that and whatever mockery they'll make of Hazel for helping them, but…

At some point, he registers the silence.

Hazel isn't sure when they'd stopped breathing.

He slows to a stop, and just as slowly he looks down into his arms - gaze skirting away from their eyes.

Looking at him. Looking past him. Their stare had always been something cold and dead, but this is lacking in a way that makes his stomach twist.

Empty. Wrong. Unbelievable.

Sudden, blinding fury pulses behind his eyes, and with no ceremony at all Hazel opens his arms and lets their body drop heavy to the ground. Limp limbs tangle and twist beneath their torso as they fall into the dirt - their head smacking it hard enough to bounce.

"Fine," Hazel pants - and even in his anger, he can't meet their eyes. He looks, instead, at the curved twist in their back - the bloodstained wrinkles in their clothes - the loose hairs of their tangled braid. Eventually, he finds himself staring at an indent in the dirt.

"Fine." He repeats, curling his hands tight at his sides. "Then I'll just leave you here. The insects and the beasts can have you - you're alright with that, aren't you?"

There's no answer. No response. Not so much as a twitch in their lip.

Some quiet part of Hazel wonders why he thought there would be.

"It's not as if you're here to care. It's not as if anyone will care. Who would even bother to come looking for you? Anyone who notices your absence will only be happy you're gone."

He pauses. Waits. He doesn't know for what. His throat tightens into a knot he tries - and fails - to swallow past.

"I know I am," he continues, clearing away the thickness in his voice, "I can't wait to get home and finally enjoy some fucking peace and quiet. Alone."

The word sticks in his mind - it echoes once, twice - until he shakes his head with a growl of a huff.

"Fuck you," Hazel spits. He lifts his chin, pulls in a bracing breath, and he steps over Fleece's body with purpose. And if he kicks up a little extra dirt as he walks away from them, well, who could blame him?

Not ten steps later, Hazel stops again. The next breath is strangely difficult to take - and when Hazel exhales, he hears a brief, pained sort of whine.

From somewhere else. Someone else. Because it wasn't him - it couldn't possibly have been him.

He ignores the voice that tells him there wasn't anyone else it could have been.

It takes a long, long minute before he's able to move - and his mind is carefully, silently blank as he turns around. As he approaches Fleece's body, crouches next to them, and carefully untwists their limbs, their neck, their back. He tugs and brushes at their clothing, and drapes their braid gently over their chest. His hands have grown tacky with half-dried blood - and Hazel carefully ignores that too.

Once their body is lying straight, Hazel slips his arms beneath their shoulders and knees, and lifts them once more into his hold. Settles them firmly against his chest as he straightens - and he tries not to think. Not about his actions. Not about the chill of their body - or how impossibly small they seem. Not about how if he holds them just right, he can almost pretend it's their chest moving with each of his breaths.

"Who would even bother?" Hazel repeats, the words flat as they echo in empty air.

Almost of their own accord, his feet begin to move again - and with his gaze firmly straight ahead, and his cargo held tight, Hazel walks. 

Chapter 37: fleeces house of horrors

“Ta da.” Fleece says with a vague wave of their hand.

You squint against the sudden intense sunlight; once your eyes adjust you find yourself looking at a dark wooden door with a gold, but somewhat worn, door knocker in the shape of a ram’s skull, “Where are we?”

“Welcome to my humble abode.”

Without further ceremony, they push open the door and stand waiting, arm outstretched, ushering you inside.

The heat and the glare of the sun drive you inside more so than Fleece’s urging, and as soon as you step through the doorway you feel instant relief as cool air washes over you.

“Why did you bring me to your house?” you ask with more than a hint of suspicion, as you begin to survey your surroundings.

The room you’ve entered into appears to be a foyer, though most of the space is crowded with what you can only describe as ‘junk’. Coat hooks overflowing with fabrics that drip into piles on the floor beneath them, various technological devices – some you recognize as computers and TVs or other mundane appliances, and some you could only guess at – stacks of boxes, empty fish tanks, and at least two bicycles.

Somehow, everything seems to be in half decent condition, though the clutter of it is immediately off-putting.

“Well, your place is all well and good, but it gets to be a bit stuffy, y’know?”

You failed to see how your home could be called ‘stuffy’ when just this one room alone was making you feel claustrophobic – “And, you don’t have a pool.”

“You brought me over to go swimming?”

Fleece shrugs, “I brought you over so /I/ could go swimming. I don’t really care what you do.” They tap their chin and hum, “Just don’t touch my stuff.”

“As if I would want any of your junk.”

“That’s the spirit,” they give you a pat on the shoulder, “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“What –?” you start, but in a blink they are gone, and you are alone.

You just stand there in the entry way for a long minute, before thinking to yourself, ‘This is stupid.’

You didn’t have to stay here and play Fleece’s game, wherever you were, you’re sure you could find out how to get home on your own. You couldn’t be that far from…anything.

The thought of leaving trails off as you look back out the open door.

The air shimmers with heat, the sky and the ground appear bleached almost white by the sun. The soil itself appears to be thin and dusty; what foliage you can see are spindly things with thorns and few thin, bristling leaves.

The thought of venturing out into a desert in the middle of who knows where is not an appealing one. So instead you turn back to the inside of the house, huff a long-suffering sigh, and trudge further inside.

Past the foyer is a grand, open living area – at least, it /would/ be open if not for the same sort of clutter that took up the majority of the space here. You could just make out the shape of a grand piano buried beneath stacks of books and paintings piled atop and around it. Solid gold bricks, gemstones in all colors of the rainbow, cut and uncut, ranging from the size of your hand to an obelisk-like geode that had to be at least eight feet tall.

Another portion of the room is stacked with furniture – mainly sofas and chairs – in a wide variety of styles, colors, prints, materials, and – you squint – was that…one of your chairs?

Not one that you had used often, it normally sat in your spare room, but – yes you were sure that this was your chair.

Making a mental note to yourself to question Fleece about it later, you carry on your tour.

Next you come into the kitchen, with all the usual appliances, and then some. Your nose wrinkles as well at a faint but unpleasant odor that seems to be emanating from at least one of the refrigerators in the room.

Knowing in the back of your mind that this is a bad idea, but unable to stop yourself, you follow the smell to a smaller mini-fridge in a forgotten corner of the room, and as you cautiously crack open the door you are instantly hit with what feels like a wall of pure fetid stench.

You slam the door shut and reel back, coughing and gagging, you try very hard not to throw up as you stumble back from it. “What – the fuck –?”

With a hand covering your nose, and tears blurring your vision, you vaguely hear an inquisitive beeping sound, and then a toneless women’s voice say, “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

You jump up with a strangled yelp and stumble as quickly as you can into the next hall and then into the first open door you see.

Still gasping and gagging from the assault on your senses in the room before, it takes you a moment to recover enough to realize that aside from the same clutter that has littered each room thus far, there is also – a person.

You try very hard not to jump and let out another yelp. As you stand frozen and staring, you begin to calm down when you realize the ‘person’ is just another piece of art. A statue or a wax figurine, you aren’t sure, and you don’t care. You swallow past the lump in your throat and place a hand to your chest, catching your breath.

A soft groan snaps your attention to a spot further in the room, beyond the statue. Your heart instantly leaps up into your throat again, in the sternest voice you can muster you bark, “Fleece! I know it’s you, stop playing around!”

The groan comes again, a bit louder this time, a bit more insistent, accompanied by the sound of shuffling and a faint clink of metal. From beyond a tower of cabinets and boxes, a gaunt man’s face peers at you. His hair is thin and lank, his eyes and cheeks sunken in the hollows of his skull, his mouth hangs open and the groaning might be words but you are already turning and running from the room, shouting for Fleece to take you home, now!

Notes:

veeerry quick.
canon status is iffy on this so its going here. hazel going to fleeces house is for sure, but whatever happens at fleeces house stays at fleeces house

Chapter 38: aftermath

Summary:

might fit into that prompt list that i may or may not do later this year >_>

You wake to soft grey light filtering through a nearby window. Your body aches and the gentle sunlight may as well have been a ball of white hot flame the way it stabs at the back of your skull behind your eyes. You squint your eyes against the pain, groaning in annoyance, and laboriously flip yourself to face away from the light. All for nothing, though. You’re awake, and the discomfort in your neck and your spine makes you huff and you figure you won’t be getting back to sleep anytime soon.

It is when you reopen your eyes that suddenly you remember what had happened.

With a curse, you jerk yourself out of the chair, still half-asleep, and stumble to their bedside. You hold clumsy fingers to their throat to feel for a pulse, and when that fails, you more urgently lower your ear to their chest.

The spike in your own heart rate calms when you feel the rise and fall of their slow, shallow breaths. Letting out the breath you’d been holding you stand back from them again, and as your mind begins to wake more fully you find your cheeks heating with embarrassment. Your face twists into a scowl and you turn away more forcefully.

So, what if they had died in the night? You had already fulfilled whatever obligation you might have had in bringing them here in the first place. If they had decided to kick it, well, that wasn’t your problem. It would’ve meant you could go home sooner, instead of waiting around some hick town for who knows how long waiting for them to –

There is a soft groan behind you that crackles into a feeble-sounding cough, and without thinking you are already turning toward them.

At least the cough subsides quickly, and with a breathy wheeze they settle back into their bed – not that they seemed to have woken anyway. Still, you hold yourself rigid and your eyes rake over them critically, searching for anything out of place.

Their already pale skin is cast in a sickly grey pallor, even their innumerable freckles and moles seemed faded. Their hair is braided – disheveled and loose – just enough to keep their hair from spilling over their pillows and sheets; nothing like the usual neat and tidy thing they wore. You wonder if the bags under their eyes had always been so pronounced? Or if their lips were always faintly tinged blue?

You are about to berate yourself for fretting, but it occurs to you then that, no, that couldn’t be right. You had seen a few dead foals in your time – stillborns – you recall your father gently explaining the way of nature, and of seeing the cold and pale body.

You rip off one of your gloves and hold the back of your bare hand to their forehead. Their skin is cool – it usually was, you knew – you don’t think much of it. And again, you begin to systematically check them over. As you come to their hand you jolt at the frigidness of their bare skin against yours and reflexively draw your hand back. Not for long, though, as something else catches your eye.

The tips of their fingers are a dusky blue-grey color, and along with the sheer /cold/ of it, you are again reminded of the dead foal.

You hurry to the door of your makeshift infirmary – really just a larger spare room at the tiny village inn – you throw it open and bellow for a healer.

You wait until you hear the clatter of footsteps approaching before you return to their bedside; and you hardly wait for the woman to cross the threshold before you are barking, “They’re cold as ice and their skin is all grey! What am I even paying you for if you don’t – “

The woman ignores you, and after a quick once over, she sharply tells you to, “Quit shouting. You’re going to wake them up.”

Your mouth snaps shut in disbelief, but you insist, “What do you mean ‘wake them’? They are /clearly/ dying – “

“Their vitals are fine,” the healer insists, “they’re stable. In fact, they already look better than they did yesterday when you brought them in. Just relax and – “

“Fine! Since you are so clearly incompetent, I am demanding you send for another healer. Now! And don’t expect me to pay you anything after wasting my time! It’s a miracle they aren’t already – “

“Hazel.”

It is quiet, and hoarse, but it is their voice. You bite your tongue.

“Shut…up.”

They don’t even open their eyes, and with a huff they turn their head away from the pair of you.

You can do nothing more than stare in disbelief. Beside you, with a barely disguised chuckle, the healer says, “I think they’re going to be just fine.”

Chapter 39: Tepid

Hazel tries, for a while, to sleep - but just as it had the night before, rest eludes him. Much of it is discomfort - the chair has gotten no softer the longer they've been there. The aching in his neck and back feels practically permanent. And it's also compulsion - he doesn't feel the need to touch them anymore, to carefully measure to be sure the gray at the tips of their fingers hasn't spread. But he can't help but look, anyway - to glance at their hands and, on occasion, stand and approach to get a closer look. And if not their hands, it's their chest - watching for the tell-tale rise and fall.

Hazel exhales a long and tired breath - his head aches, his eyes pulse, and he'd give just about anything for a bit of rest but he knows it won't do any good to force it. He shifts again in his chair, props his head on a hand, and his eyes flicker to Fleece's face.

Most of their skin has regained its color - no longer the pale gray of that first day. And today they had even been awake for a few hours - they hadn't said much, but when they did bother to speak it had been with all their usual self . Full of attempts to brush all of this off - no matter how exhausted they looked propped against their pillows.

Now, though, in their quiet sleep, Hazel is once more struck by how small they look. How frail. The very fact that they lay so still, that their breath is quiet and soft - it's not right. And they may very well be healing, but Hazel wishes they would at least snore. Spread their limbs across the bed. Anything that feels more familiar than this.

And then he catches himself. Wonders, not for the first or last time, why he cared. Why he'd bothered. Why he was still around, rather than leaving them to the healer.

It's a sudden swell of bitterness. It's not anger, not exactly, but it turns his worry sour. It's a twinge in the edge of his gut, the reminder of the wound they'd left - and maybe it had been easily and completely healed, but that wasn't the point.

The point, Hazel thinks, shoving himself to his feet, is that he is wasting his time. What had they ever done for him, after all, besides cause him torment and stress? His life had only gotten worse since they'd walked into it - and above all, Hazel has no delusions. He knows that if the roles were reversed, they would have left him to die. Bitter becomes angry becomes self-mockery - because it's ridiculous, stupid, even , to worry and wait for their full recovery. To look at their weakness and wish for it to pass.

He should be seeing it as…a chance. And the best time to take it had been when he held them bleeding in his arms - but the second best time was now.

He thinks of an evening and a bitter glass of wine - of the slip of snake's venom he'd snuck into it. Of their twirling hand, his own anticipation - the smirk they'd aimed his way, when their damned bird had confirmed what they'd already guessed.

They wouldn't guess now. They wouldn't even know. Not that Hazel makes a habit of carrying poison around but -

There are other ways to kill someone.

His eyes find their pillow. Moving without thought, he slips it free from their head - slowly, carefully, but even his fussing doesn't wake them. He backs away quickly, clutching the pillow to his chest - their brow wrinkles, briefly, but smooths out soon after as, with a soft exhale, they settle back into sleep.

All he'd have to do is press it to their mouth. Their nose. If he was subtle enough, they might very well suffocate before they even know it's happening - but even so, they couldn't possibly fight him. Not now. Not enough to make a difference.

It'd be easy. And he'd be free.

A breath catches in their throat, and Fleece's face contorts as it bleeds into a dry, persistent cough.

The pillow falls from Hazel's arms, and he snatches up the water on their bedside table. Room temperature, hours old - he makes a mental note to call for fresh, but for the moment it's all he has. He braces their shoulders and head beneath his arm, sets them up, and brings the water to their lips.

Their eyes blink open as they take a few long gulps.

Once they turn their head away, Hazel sets the cup down and carefully lowers Fleece back to their bed. They sigh, softly, in clear relief - but after a few seconds their brow creases and their eyes find his.

"Where the hell is my pillow?" They ask, hoarsely.

Holding their gaze firmly, pushing all of his earlier thoughts from his mind, Hazel reaches down and picks the pillow up from the floor. He brushes at it, fluffs it, and then maneuvers it back beneath their head.

"Must have fallen," he answers - and their only response is a thoughtful hum. 

Chapter 40: Brain Rot

Notes:

CW: Explicit. Tentacles.

Their tentacle brushes lightly across his cheek, trailing a path up and through his hair.

The feel of their appendage is unlike anything he's ever felt before - unlike finger, or hand, or even what he imagines a tongue might feel like.

It's stiff, unyielding, spongy - there's the feel of smooth rubber beneath, only just noticeable beyond the cool, tacky slick their touch leaves across his skin. It's muscular - as a second joins the first, slowly slipping its way down the sensitive skin of Hazel's neck, he can feel their strength. The bunch and release of each fiber, careful but sure. As it wraps loosely around his neck, the very end of the tendril caressing beneath his chin, the hairs along Hazel's arms prickle.

He can feel how easy it'd be for them to kill him. They'd only have to hold a little tighter to cut the air from his lungs, or jab just right to pierce through skin and bone and organ. Almost as if to agree, their hands envelop his sides - he feels claws prick through clothing, against skin, and against the press of the tentacle at his neck, Hazel swallows.

There's a sudden brush of warmth against his scalp - breath - and his heart races as unease and uncertainty become fear. All at once he is violently reminded of who they are - of what they are. A sly and crafty creature - a devourer of intellect and free will and, perhaps most importantly to the here and now, brains.

And it's Hazel's head beneath their jaws - if they decide to treat themself, it will be over before he can even begin to fight.

A third tentacle slithers across his shoulder, and slips its way beneath Hazel's shirt - and his next breath comes out in a hard, strange sort of huff. As they snake their way across his collarbone, and down his chest, Hazel can't help but writhe - not quite sure if he's trying to pull away from them, or trying to press closer. Their claws tighten, and a thrill fires along Hazel's nerves.

A fresh thrill of fear, but also something warmer - something that pools low in his gut, and even lower still. A fourth tendril joins the third - and Hazel's breath comes quick and short as they poke, prode, cradle their way down his body. Every slick touch is as sharp as the last - every shift a fresh touch. Hazel has no chance to relax, he can barely breathe - and the more they touch and explore, the more the fear fades. Until he knows he's trying to press closer - shifting and writhing to try and guide their touch to somewhere new.

The tentacle at his neck presses up into his chin - tilting his head back until it's all but cradled against their chest. They peer down at him - gaze almost impossible to see through the writhing tendrils of their face, but he can feel it on him all the same.

Their mind touches to his, mingles with his - and he can feel their amusement as clear as if it were his own. And when one of their tendrils wraps its way around Hazel's breast and squeezes, when he can't quite strangle back a soft keen, the touch of their mind is like a peal of laughter.

And Hazel can't seem to help himself - his hand finds the nearest tendril, and he tightens his fingers around its width, and he sends them back need. Want. Begging for whatever this is to find its end. He can't even be sure what it is he really wants - only that his nerves are like lightning, every touch a fresh burn, and it is quickly building into more than he can possibly stand -

And then he is inundated with images. Feelings. Scents and emotions and sounds. Strength rippling through his tendrils as he grips tight to terrified prey. The way flesh and bone all but melt away, break away, shatter and shift as he pushes his way through. The flood of emotion and memory and satisfaction that soothes every inch of him, the snap and give of that delicious, tender muscle beneath teeth and tongue.

And in a flash, a different sort of prey. Goosebump-roughened skin beneath his tendrils. A different sort of fear, wrapped in layers of need and desire and more, more, more. It's the warm, moist squeeze of arousal - and in the same breath, the rolling press of muscle against some spot inside him, a red-hot jolt with every thrust. Tentacles trailing down his arms down his legs across thighs and throat and breasts -

Action. Imagination. Hazel doesn't know where one ends and the other begins.

Feeling. Thought. His and theirs and ours.

Arousal and satisfaction.

Teasing and begging.

Feeding and fucking.

All one in the same, a building wave of electricity that is unbearable, irresistible, uncontrollable - and when it breaks, it breaks with a crash. A flood of warmth and relief so vivid he can feel his own cry rip at the tender flesh of his throat. So violent that he grows quickly numb - muscles giving out beneath him, within him, until he's braced limply against them. His own body useless, unresponsive - and if not for their claws and tentacles, if not for the firmness of their body behind his, it would have given out on him entirely. 

Chapter 41: Baby Boy, Baby

Notes:

CW: Animal Death. Blood.

This is Non-canonical to any currently written AUs...and is pure bg3-related brain rot. Dark urge my beloved.

You stir awake with a heavy pit in your stomach, and dread nagging at your mind. It's nameless and vague, and you aren't at all sure of its cause - but, still, it drives you from your bed. Almost by instinct - or maybe, you know more than you realize - your feet trace the path from your bedroom to that of your daughter.

You find an empty bed. An empty room. And your heart sinks as you cry for your husband and call out for your servants - and at your distress, the house explodes into a flurry of frantic searching.

In the end, you're the one who finds her.

In the end, you are endlessly thankful that you are the one to find her.

You find her with her back towards you, sitting in the middle of the cobblestone path that leads from your home to the city proper. The instant you spot her, you rush over, her name glee and relief on your tongue - but before you can scoop her into your arms, you see what she has done, and you come to a sudden stop.

It must have been a bird - but you can only guess that by the blood-soaked feathers scattered across the stones. Otherwise, you could never know - because the rest of its body has been so thoroughly ripped apart. Dissected. Desiccated. The ground around your daughter is soaked in blood and gore - so much so that it has splattered across her sleeping clothes. Across her skin.

She notices you at the same time you notice the rest, and ice-blue eyes turn up to look at you from a blood-smeared face. Her eyes widen, and grow thick with tears. She lifts her pudgy toddler hands away from her body, and stretches them out almost as if they are causing her pain - and when you see the blood caked thick across them, see it gathered beneath her fingernails, you understand.

She hates it when her hands get dirty.

As if on cue, she begins to wail - and the sound clenches at your heart. You lean down and gather her into your arms without a second thought - and you bundle her close to your chest and hug her tight. For a moment, the rest is forgotten beneath a fresh wave of potent relief.

"Shh Hazel," you try to soothe, "It's alright. You're alright. I've got you, my love. I'm here. Let me see, let me - here we are." You try your best to clean her hands, her cheeks, around her eyes - but all you have is your shirt, and it does little against the already drying blood. It also does little to soothe her - but she quiets some, at least, into whimpering, hiccuping sobs.

She needs a bath - and she needs to sleep.

You turn away from the smear and the feathers and the gore - and you firmly, decisively, put it out of your mind for the moment.

And it will come back to you, on occasion - a stray thought when you rest. A subtle undertone in the morals you teach her - later him - as he grows. A nagging worry you hold to your chest when other parents call him a bully.

But for the moment, your daughter is safe. And she needs her mother.

And so you press her warmly once more to your chest, tuck her head beneath your chin, and hurry her home to the great relief of your frantic husband and servants.

Chapter 42: Evil

Notes:

CW: Vividly/lovingly described Gore, murder (of a child).

The brain rot continues.

You are standing with your usual group - a collection of noble children brought together more by convenience and expectation than any real companionship - when someone runs up with another child in tow.

You recognize the late-comer - Petra, a minor noble's daughter who'd been part of the group since its creation. The child she pulls along with her, however, is unfamiliar. Still, at a glance you know they don't belong - their clothes are ratty, worn, dirty. As is their skin - streaked in mud and what you suspect are old pox marks.

You hear another of your compatriots make a scathing comment - but the sound is strangely distant. And as Petra ruffles the hair of her friend with a cheerful, "this is Tag!" You find yourself assaulted with a sudden swell of images.

Petra's hand gripping tight, and tighter still - nails digging too-deep into the dirty child's scalp. Blood swelling up around her fingers before streaking down Tag's face in thick, dark rivulets. A twist of terror in their eyes, a scream bubbling up through their throat - cutting off into something wet and choked as a slice blossoms across their neck. Digs deeper, and deeper still - until you can see tendon and sinew and through it all the cross-section of their spine, esophagus, trachea -

Your stomach rolls violently, and as quickly as it'd come the vision fades. You swallow back thick bile, and take a few steps away from the other children - drawing a huff and glare from Petra.

"Oh come on Hazel, she's not that dirty!"

"He," Tag offers, soft and careful - and for a second Petra turns the twisted lips of her scowl on him. Then, she wraps her arm tight around his shoulder, tugs him close, and turns her attention back to you.

"See?" She says, "I'm not getting any fleas or anything!"

"I'd be more worried about disease," you say - trying, desperately, to hold on to your composure. To push away the echoes of the images that had been so clear in your mind. "You don't know what these refugees are carrying about - take him back."

"No," Petra says, lifting her chin, "Tag's my friend!"

"Well, he's not any of ours. And we don't want him here."

She huffs, again, pressing the fists of her hands into her hips. Then, after a few long seconds, she whips around, grabs Tag's hand, and starts to stomp away.

"Fine! We'll just go play by ourselves then!" She says, "C'mon Tag!"

And it's a relief, to see them go - heavy enough that you can't quite bring yourself to join in on the jeering comments of the rest of your companions. 

---

But the distance isn't enough. As you toss and turn in your bed that night, your mind fills once more with images. They quickly grow vivid, all encompassing - until they pull you as deep as any nightmare.

The dark presses in around you, tinged with the faintest hint of red - surging, pulsing, aching at your eyes. And through the darkness, you see him again - the refugee child, sleeping soundly in a makeshift bedroll. Snoring, a little - a thin line of drool slipping from his lips.

Even through the pulsating darkness, he seems so clear.

As do your own hands - they fill your vision as you slip closer to the sleeping boy. And you strike, quick and true - fingers digging effortlessly into his throat. So that by the time his eyes fly open, and he tries to scream, he only chokes and gurgles on his own thick, warm blood.

You'd prefer to relish, to peel him apart bit by tiny bit - to strip away his vocal cords, pluck at his nerves, pull at his muscles and chip at his bones until head parts entirely from neck -

But you don't have the time for such care. Such finesse. And so you rip him open, instead - bathe your hands in his throat and his chest and the soft indent of his too-thin belly. When he has been laid open, you dig your hand into his chest and wrap your fingers around his heart. It beats, frantic and staggering - and even in your hurry, you let yourself sit there for a long moment, simply enjoying the pulse beneath your fingers.

It is messy, and it is quick, and as his dying spasms slow to a stop, you pull your hands away and drag them along the flesh of your own neck - painting your skin with his blood and bile. Warm. Comforting. Correct.

Until the world swims suddenly, violently around you. And as the haze in your vision clears, you realize that this had been no dream. That somehow, some way, you had left your home.

You find yourself on your knees at his side - you feel the night air brush cool and humid across the blood drying on your skin. The tips of your fingers ache from the exertion - the spaces beneath your nails are caked in skin and hair and gore.

Even as your skin prickles, and your gut churns, there is a lingering sense of satisfaction.

Until a scent you can't quite place wafts up from the corpse at your knees - something sharp, metallic, heady and hot. The saliva in your mouth thickens, biles rushes into your throat - and you shove yourself and stumble away as, this time, you can't hold it back. You choke on the vomit that spills from your mouth - and try desperately not to gasp and hack and wail.

There are a number of others sleeping nearby, after all - and you cannot be seen. Not like this, not with -

Your eyes find his body once more - and as a fresh wave of feverish sick washes over you, you turn and scurry off into the shadows. 

Chapter 43: Dice Kept Cooped Up

Notes:

Idk - I left it alone, reread it, decided it wasn't as bad as I thought and finished it off.

Just another what if. Vampires. Werewolves. You know.

It's quiet, and still, and cold.

The last is a surprise - Hazel has never felt cold, before. Just as he has never needed for anything before. He's thirsted, of course - but until now, relief has always been no more than a shout away. And even in the moments until his meal was brought to him, the thirst was no more than an annoyance.

Now, though, he is weak with it - weak enough that the cold has managed to settle into his very bones.

The thirst - the hunger - comes and goes in waves. It's moments where he is too weak to feel even that interspersed with those where the world blurs and blurs until it's gone completely and there is nothing but that ravenous, desperate need. Fury and thirst that blinds him, drives him, and when it finally passes he is exhausted and covered in bites left by his own teeth.

It's almost worse, this way - worse to be aware, and to know, and to languish. He wishes the bloodlust would stay - at least then he wouldn't know any better. Wouldn't feel the angry, raw band around his neck where the metal touches. Wouldn't so fully and fiercely feel the indignity and, worse still, the hopelessness.

Wouldn't have to feel that red-hot hunger, and know that it has driven him to pathetic, animalistic behavior.

No better than the beast that holds him.

Hazel doesn't know how long it's been since they'd last visited - but he senses them and their guest long before they step into the room where he is chained. Their heart beats loud enough he could almost believe they were his own - and beneath, the steady thrum of life through their veins. Immediately he can almost taste the heady warmth, can so easily imagine the feel of it between his fangs - the world pulses, and it narrows, and it is difficult to focus.

They grow closer still, and he can smell them. And in his desperate thirst, there is little difference between the human and the wolf - he would drink from either, if only they would come close enough.

In his gut there's a curdle of disgust that he would even have the thought - but it is quick to pass.

There's a sudden flood of artificial light - not enough to reach where he sits, but still plenty to blind. With a vicious hiss, Hazel scuttles back further into the shadows, raising his arm to guard his eyes - and through his fury, he hears an unfamiliar voice heavy with poorly concealed panic.

"What the hell was that?"

"Nothing to worry about," and that voice is much more familiar - the same soft, steady calm Hazel has heard time and time again. And even through the worsening haze, he thinks - fucker. "Please, have a seat."

The human moves closer, and settles somewhere nearby - and Fleece's direction is the last thing Hazel hears. Because the human is too close, now - and the roaring of their veins pulses in Hazel's ears. The blinding light forgotten, he strains against his bindings - if he could only slip a little closer, even only an inch or two into the light, he could reach them. He could sink his teeth into that steady beat, and finally parch his thirst.

The saliva in his mouth grows thick and heavy - he can feel it slip down his chin. He'd compel them to him, if he could - but he's too weak to do much else but wish.

A voice raises in argument, in alarm - Hazel barely registers the scuffle and the movement. But he sees shapes approach him - writhing, amorphous shadows across the light. And at the sudden promise of proximity, Hazel jerks forward in his chains, clawing and hissing and biting at nothing but empty air.

"Fuck! Get your fucking hands - no!"

Almost in reach. So close. If only - there.

An outstretched wrist is like a life line - and this time, when Hazel shoots forward, his teeth and claws find skin. He latches on, and sinks his teeth deep, finding reward in a blossom of warm, thick blood. He drinks, deeply, and as he does he can feel it slipping down his throat, into his gut - warming and soothing every frayed nerve and vein it touches.

The human begs, pleads - Hazel doesn't bother to understand their words but he can feel their panic. It, too, soothes him - he'd never been fond of live food, but in this moment he understands the draw.

And then, suddenly, his hand burns - the skin of his face burns - and as his grip weakens with another startled hiss, the human is ripped away from him. He leaves rivulets of torn skin and muscle across their arm, but they are torn away regardless.

His wordless, furious snarl goes disregarded.

It’s not enough for clarity - it is only a brief euphoria that just as quickly fades into a greater thirst than before. Hazel pants in quick, rapid breaths - he licks and laves at the blood painting his mouth. It’s already growing cold, flavorless, and thin - and once more he strains against the binding around his neck, eyes drawn to the blood that slips from the human’s arm and drops heavily to the stone floor beneath.

There is a conversation happening, but he doesn’t hear a word. Strained babbles and mirthless laughter - the solid sound of a hand slapping fondly against a shoulder.

And then, the lights douse. The darkness is sudden and complete. The human's racing pulse jumps into a gallop, and through the shadows Hazel finds a pale, cold gaze. Watching him. Pinning him. Fury curls beneath the hunger, and his lip curls, his teeth bare.

And then the human cries out - in surprise, in terror - and they stumble suddenly into Hazel's reach. He is on them in an instant, all else forgotten as his claws dig tight into their body.

He won't let them go, this time.

He finds the tender artery of their neck with ease, and sinks his fangs into it to an immediate gush of delicious warmth. Each terrified heartbeat floods his mouth, floods his senses - and as his hunger is finally sated, the relief is so strong it makes him dizzy.

He continues to suckle long after they've gone - as their body grows cold and the stiffness settles in their muscles. Until he's sucking on nothing really but flesh and air - until finally he lets them fall from his arms.

He pants. Breathes. Sensation and thought flow back into him and on their heels is that damned helplessness. Humiliation. Rage.

"Feel better?" Fleece teases, and with a violently furrowed brow, Hazel glares at them.

"Fuck you," he spits - a spray of blood and flesh splattering the ground in front of him. 

Chapter 44: stealing shirts

Summary:

consider this a warm up. for something. i guess

Hazel sits and huffs - panting breaths as he brings down his bloodied wrist. Feeling stupid and ill all at once as he stares down at the body. Time and the elements had weathered them down to little more than soft moldering flesh and brittle bone, but it didn't matter. He would know Them anywhere. His blood drops onto the bones as he watches. He clutches their old tattered coat close. And he waits.

He waits for a minute, then ten, then thirty. But nothing happens. No movement. No spirits or voices, no flash of light nor of smoke. The blood from his wrist slows - clotted and sluggish. He growls. He whimpers and whines and howls and finally stands. He should know better than to trust some toothless old geezer touting magic spells and rituals promising new life for the dead. He huffs and stares down at the defiled bones. He narrows his eyes, bares his teeth, and kicks a bit of dirt over them.

What good were the bones when there was nothing of Their self left? No better than worm-meat. He turns to leave. There was no reason to return here. There was no one to return to.

Chapter 45: The Rammies

Notes:

Continuation from the last chapter - thanks for the idea Crow.

Hazel wakes to weight pressing against his abdomen.

He starts, eyes flying open - and his throat burns as he chokes on a scream.

Fleece sits atop him - and there's only just enough left of them for Hazel to know it's them at all. It's the filthy, matted wool of a tattered jacket - it's the thin, pest-gnawed hair still somehow pulled back into a parody of a braid. It's the shape of their withered body, the muted paleness of their single remaining eye.

They smirk at him, and holes in their rotted skin let Hazel see how their jaw and muscles shift to accommodate. They watch him, a maggot slinking its way through their empty eye socket. They trace idle paths along his chest with their hands - and every movement shakes dirt and dried skin from their corpse.

The scent of decay and dirt oozes from them - sinking deep into Hazel's nose until he can smell nothing else. He heaves, pants, whines - and he wants nothing more than to throw them off and run, but he can't seem to move even a pinky.

Fleece leans over him, bones and flesh creaking as they move - worms and insects sprinkling from their body like rain. Hazel's gut twists and squirms, and as they press frigid stiff hands to his cheeks, bile rises hot and bitter up his throat. It pools in his mouth, but they don't seem to mind - heedless of it, they press dry, chapped lips firmly to Hazel's own.

He tries to keep his jaws clenched, but Fleece still manages to pry his teeth open with their rotted, pitted tongue. It slips deep, past the bile and towards his throat - and as it does Hazel's mouth fills with dirt. Dry, heavy, and writhing, more and more of it all but rushes in until it's spilling from his lips and down into his throat into his lungs and he's choking, dying, being buried alive -

Hazel wakes up in a cold sweat with his blankets bundled tight around his legs and torso. With a strangled cry, he thrashes and fights - and once he frees himself he clambers quickly to his feet.

He brushes at his clothes, wipes his arm across his sweat-laden forehead. He scans his room frantically, watching for any movement in the shadows or any sign of Fleece - and all along he heaves in great, gulping breaths of air.

Clean, fresh air that flows easily into his lungs.

But even still, Hazel swears he can still taste dirt on his tongue. 

Chapter 46: My Fair Lady

Notes:

I know it's hard to tell but they are like. Kids here. Young teens. Not that old. I definitely blame it on their posh/royal upbringing and definitely not on my inability to write young teen tone fkfn

The carriage rattles and sways along the cobblestone - and with every shift Hazel's dress brushes against the skin of his ankles. Tightens around his arms. Itches at his chest. Reminding him, with every tiny movement, that it's on him at all.

“I want to go home,” he grumbles, not for the first time that morning - and as she had every other time, his mother gives him a soft, empathetic smile.

“We must go,” she says, leaning over to pat lightly at approximately Hazel's knee, “just as we must every year. But it will only be a few hours - and I've packed some clothes for you to change into on the way back, if you'd like.”

They've had this exact conversation time and time again, and so instead of responding, Hazel only breathes a long-suffering sigh, and looks out the window.

He knows she's right - nobility did not miss the Grand Gala, at least not without excellent reason. And the Gala had expectations, rules - all were to be dressed to their absolute best, and for the women and girls of the kingdom that meant dresses.

For Hazel - for whom policy and law demanded girlhood - it meant a dress. A dress, a corset, a bow tied into his hair - the only relief from the femininity of it all the shorts tucked up high beneath the skirt where there was no chance anyone might spot them.

“It will be better, some day,” his mother adds, as if hearing his very thoughts. “Some day, there will be a Gala that you can attend in your very best suit.”

“What makes you so sure?” Hazel asks with a scoff - drawing another tolerant smile from his mother.

“Because I've been watching the Heir. The other children. I don't believe they hold the same ideas as their parents.”

And, well, Hazel supposes she might have a point. He shrugs, tucks a bit more firmly against the wall of the carriage, and watches the city slip by. 

---

It's not much better inside the palace.

While he's happier at home, Hazel isn't against balls and parties and the like. After all, it's important to mingle and maintain important connections and influences. But today he'd much rather be invisible - rather than reminded of himself with every friendly smile, every searching eye, every catch of a foot against the hem of his dress.

He finally finds a break within the dancing - while his parents sweep each other to the floor, joining hundreds of others, Hazel slips off to the food. He makes himself a plate, finds a bench at the edge of the room, and settles in for a snack. Sitting and still, he can almost even forget the heft and scratch of the clothes on his body.

It's a moment of peace and quiet not meant to last, of course.

“Nice dress,” a familiar voice all but purrs right into his ear - and with a start, Hazel leaps to his feet and whips around.

Angry demand leaps to his tongue - but mindful of the many eyes that have turned to them both at Fleece’s approach, Hazel bites at his cheek and dips instead into a quick, awkward curtsy. Finds himself biting harder, still, when Fleece's lip curls into a light smirk.

“Prinx Fleece,” Hazel says stiffly as he straightens, “can I help you with something?”

Instead of answering, they pace a small circle around him - eyes leaving his gaze in order to look him up and down in a slow, methodical way that makes his skin crawl.

“It's a good look for you,” they eventually say, and then they reach for him - fingers catching and looping around one of the ribbons dangling along his hair. “I like the bow.”

“Fuck off,” Hazel snarls, as quietly as he can manage. He yanks himself away, surprised when they let their hand drop with a brief, hollow laugh - but his relief is quick to vanish when they catch his hand with their own.

“Come on,” Fleece says with a tug - and instantly Hazel figuratively, and literally, digs his heels into the floor. He tries to pull his hand away - but they hold tight with a squeeze.

“Where?”

“To dance, obviously.”

“Absolutely not.”

Their demeanor is calm, their gaze blank - and there's even still a bit of curl to the edge of their mouth. Still, there's something about the look they give him that sends a chill down his spine. The expectant looks of the people closest to them - once more interested in the small commotion - doesn't help.

“Your liege wishes to dance, Hazel.”

Hazel presses his lips tight together and fixes them with a glare - but when they tug on his hand again, he relents and lets them lead him into the throng.

They step into the dancers with the ease that came with years of dancing lessons - and if not for Hazel's own, he might have had trouble keeping up. As it is, he still can't help but stumble a bit - mostly distracted by the light touch of their hand laid across his waist and the coolness in the fingers still clasped tight around his own.

But eventually he eases into the movements with them - glaring at them with every opportunity to make sure they are well aware of his feelings.

Not that it makes a difference.

And, in time, he gets tired of glaring - and with a huff, he finally looks away from Fleece. As they spin him about in languid, idle circles, Hazel watches the rest of the dancers. Women, dancing with men - layered with dresses not unlike his own.

He feels a wave of fresh ire - but this time, it has very little to do with Fleece.

“This is stupid,” Hazel grumbles, “you're a Prinx - can't you do something about it? What kind of modern kingdom demands a dress code -”

“Coming from someone who complains when a noble wears the wrong shade of green at Summer Jubilee.”

“That's different,” Hazel starts - but Fleece cuts over him.

“Unfortunately I don't have a say in it. Mother's word is law, after all.”

They hum, and take another quick, tight turn - and as they right them both, Fleece adds, “But when I'm Aegis -”

“Are you still going on with that fairy tale?” Hazel interrupts in a scoff. Fleece lifts an eyebrow, gaze otherwise as unreadable as always, and with a roll of his eyes Hazel continues. “You're never going to be Aegis. We'll just have to hope Prinx Sleet shares your sentiments.”

“You wound me, Hazel. After all of this time you still have such little faith in me,” Fleece says.

“It's not about faith,” Hazel argues, “it’s about being realistic. You're so far down the totem pole, it's practically impossible for you to ever have the crown. Even if something happened to Sleet, Reed would be next in line. And Sheer after him. I'm pretty sure even Wheet is in line before you. And by the time the king and queen pass on the crown, any of them might have children - who would also be in line before you. You're just setting yourself up for disappointment by thinking you even have a chance.”

“Less likely things have happened.”

“Something catastrophic would have to happen - and be real, Fleece. If something that drastic happened, you'd likely be caught up in it too. Your whole line being wiped out is more likely than you becoming Aegis.”

Fleece hums, again - and if they feel anything at all about what Hazel has said, they don't show it. They don't say anything else at all, in fact - at least not until the music finally begins to fade. As it vanishes, they tilt Hazel back into a sudden, low dip - and as he clings tight to them to keep himself from falling, they loudly announce -

“Thank you for the dance, Lady Hazel.”

And if looks could kill, they would have become little more than a puddle of gore then and there - but instead Hazel can only fix them with a furious glare as they right him, give his arm a squeeze, and then turn and disappear into the crowd. 

Chapter 47: I Am Still Right Here

Notes:

I sort of did something like this before but. This is more - and it's also been sitting almost done for months now gkgn

It had started as so many evenings had - Fleece an unwelcome visitor but, all things considered, relatively tolerable. Until, all at once, they weren't. It had been something they said, or maybe it was something they did, or maybe it was just something in the way they had looked at him. But he had moved without thought, with nothing but anger, the world pulsing behind his eyes - until he'd been on them with his hands tight around their throat.

They kick and thrash, grunt and struggle, and there's a strength in their grip that almost threatens more than once to loosen Hazel's hold.

But he is too angry, and this feels too good. As he strangles the air from their lungs, their fighting slows - gnawed down nails scrape harmlessly across the skin of his hands. They stare up at him, fingers lying loose across his wrists, and for once he finds something in their eyes beyond the pale empty. A quiet plea. Terror, growing dark behind glistening green depths.

Afraid, he thinks - and beyond the hot curl of satisfaction there is a sudden and soft trill of alarm. A brief moment where he looks again - where he finds that green where hazel should be. Where it had been only half a second ago. And in that same moment, Hazel sees fear. Terror. Tears.

And with dizzying clarity the world snaps violently into place. Hazel lets go, his fingers tingling as blood rushes back into them, and pulls quickly away. As Wheet stumbles from their seat, hacking and gasping and rubbing at their neck as if to urge their own blood back into place, Hazel's chest heaves.

It's not Fleece. It was never Fleece. They hadn't come knocking, hadn't sat in his chair, hadn't looked at him or laughed at him or been there at all. Because Fleece is dead. Dead and buried and gone.

He knew that. How hadn't he known that?

"Get out," Hazel hisses, and Wheet goes still. They don't quite look at him, but their eyes find a spot near his feet. Their hand rubs a bit more idly across their neck, where Hazel can see vibrant red that will certainly bruise soon enough.

"Hazel," they offer - almost too quiet to hear, unsure and timid and raggedy hoarse, and the familiar voice in an unfamiliar cadence stokes at his still-simmering anger.

"Get the fuck out of my house!" Hazel screams, reaching blindly for anything close enough to throw. Before he manages to grab hold of anything, though, Wheet flinches. With another cough, they duck into themself and then practically scamper away.

Gone, soon enough - the door latching shut behind them.

Hazel all but falls into the closest chair he can find, and presses his hand tight to his own face.

Breathes. In, out, and in again. He tries not to think. Tries not to feel the building quiet in his home. Tries not to imagine what lies behind the curtains behind the doors beneath his own skin -

But it isn't long before the what-ifs build up all over again. Before his chest grows tight and his skin grows itchy and fear becomes certainty that behind those curtains and behind those doors are eager eyes. Chattering voices. Waiting to watch and to judge and to know.

And within the strangers and the unknowns, the shadows and the what-ifs, Hazel swears there is someone much more familiar.

Fleece is dead, he reminds himself.

But for a moment, they feel closer than ever. 

Chapter 48: DogBird

They find you in the throne room, long after all but the palace guards have gone to bed. You'd only been looking, thinking, staring at the throne more because you'd spaced out than anything else - but when they clear their throat you violently jolt and whip around to face them as if they've caught you in some disobedient act. Excuse and demand both fly to your tongue - but as you face them, Fleece leaps for you, and you don't get a word in edgewise.

You aren't sure whether to shove them away or catch them - and while you hover in indecision they latch onto you and wrap their legs tightly around your waist. You stumble, trip - and as you fall back awkwardly into the seat of their throne, they smash their lips into yours. 

---

You are standing in the throne room, and for just a moment their guise slips. Their words falter, soften, their eyes flick away from you - and in that moment you see Wheet. Not Wheet-Pretending. Not Fleece-But-Wrong. Not the image they project into the world or the one your mind contrives. Only Wheet, just as they'd once been before you'd both lost their twin.

You'd barely known them then. You realize you barely know them now. But watching them as they glance away, a strange idea comes to you.

You feel all at once jittery. Uncertain. Angry. And you aren't sure what it is that drives you, but you cross the short distance between you and grip them tight by the shoulders. Startled, their eyes fly only briefly to yours - and you take the opportunity to tug them closer and firmly press your lips to theirs. 

---

The back of the throne digs into your shoulders, and the bruising force of Fleece's lips hurt just as much. Instinctively you flail and fight them - try to shove them off, or pull yourself away, with muffled curses all the while - but they are not so easily deterred. Their thighs tighten around you, their palms press into your cheeks - and they nip at you, catching your lip between their teeth and biting hard enough to draw blood.

You hiss a muffled ‘ow,’ and try to yank away - but their teeth only sink in. They pull at your lip - and for one brief, terrified second you wonder if they could bite it off completely. You wonder if they might try to.

You grow still, and apparently satisfied they loosen their jaw. As they free you, your heartbeat pulses through wounded skin - aching with every beat. With their own mouth curled into a slight smirk, Fleece watches you - and then runs their tongue along your swollen lip.

Their lips seal once more over yours, and your vision fills with the pale stare of their eyes. 

---

Wheet doesn't fight you - but they are stiff and still beneath your hands. Hardly breathing, arms hanging limp at their sides - and it isn't as if you really want to do this anymore than they do, but you don't stop.

You pull them closer to you, until your bodies are just touching - and you take their lip between your teeth. You don't bite them, only nibble, massage, idly swipe your tongue across their skin.

Their mouth is rough, dry, chapped - your shared spit is tacky and cool. Letting go of their lip, you slip your tongue between and pry at their teeth. With relatively little fight, their mouth opens - and you press your tongue inside.

They taste stale, bland - nothing more than the faintest hint of morning breath and toothpaste you think they should have used more of. 

---

Fleece's tongue slips between your teeth, where they lick and bat and wrestle with your own. The skin of their lips is chapped, and it brushes roughly against the small cut they've left in yours. And all the while your shared saliva grows thick between you - tasting of sour breath and old food and what you assume must be the hint of your own toothpaste because you half wonder if Fleece even bothers with brushing their own.

The thought flees as they press closer - and for a moment you are distracted from your shared mouths by the warmth of their body against yours.

Your skin crawls - they're touching you, with the curves of their body slipping between your own and their hands leaving your cheeks to wander down your torso. You squirm - you can't help it - and you squeeze your eyes tightly closed.

They're touching you, and you very much want this to end.

But - you are suddenly, wildly struck by how soft they are. How had you never noticed it before?

Soft thighs squeeze at you. A soft front - stomach and shoulders and breasts weigh down your body in a way that if not for the horror of the rest might almost be warm. Comfortable.

You shake the thought away - and press yourself stiffly to the back of the throne. Fleece hums into your mouth, their amusement obvious - and not for the first time you half wonder if they can read your thoughts. 

---

As you hold Wheet's body to your own, the differences you have long noticed grow only more obvious. The stiff bones of their shoulders - the flat muscle of their torso. The relative chill where your bodies meet - not cold, but a different sort of warmth than you're used to.

But those aren't the differences that really catch your attention. What you notice is the way they finally seem to ease into your embrace. The hands that rest against your biceps - warm to the touch and soft in the way they hold you. The careful prodding of their tongue - curious and hesitant all at once. The movement of their lips even more careful still.

And when you open your eyes, you see that theirs are closed - and as your chest pinches tight, your heart skips a sudden beat.

There's a brief noise of confusion as you shove them away, but you pay it no mind. You turn away from them, and you feel as if your whole body is cramping. Your gut, your chest, your throat and you swear even the spaces behind your eyes are growing tight. Your head pounds, your chest aches, the world wavers in your vision as if you might be seconds from passing out and you have not even begun figuring out what's wrong with you when a hand lands carefully on your shoulder and squeezes.

“I miss them too,” Wheet says after a long and lingering second - and every bit of tension in your body turns into the fury with which you smack their hand away. You turn on them, acid hot and bitter in the depths of your throat, and you snap -

“Don't touch me!” And it isn't enough. Their hand leaves you, their feet take them a few steps away, and still it isn't enough. Your fingers pinch deep into your palms, your shoulders bunch at your back, and when you take a hard, violent step in their direction Wheet tenses.

And you could do it - you certainly feel furious enough. You could hit them, knock them down, choke them until their lips turn blue - but you settled for words, instead.

“I don't miss them,” you snarl, “the world is better off without them in it, and it'd be better off without you, too!”

They flinch - a minute, careful motion - and it still isn't enough. But you've nothing left to say and too much to deal with and with a fierce snort you shove your way past them. Knock into them, purposefully, despite the yards of space on either side of them.

And you can feel them watch you go - but they don't stop you, and you don't turn to look. 

Chapter 49: Roughhousing

Notes:

Who needs context. Have unnecessarily specific addresses instead

Hazel grabs them by the base of their braid, using it to yank their head back as he shoves them against the cell wall. He can hear the huff as the air punches briefly out of them, and the ease with which he can manhandle them is a thrill. It isn't enough to cool his anger - but it's satisfying, all the same.

“If you know what's good for you,” Hazel growls, shoving his face close to theirs, “you'd better start listening to what I say.”

Fleece doesn't immediately respond, but as their eyes meet Hazel's he would swear that the very air seems to cool. Gone is their smarmy little smirk, the tiny pinch at the corners of their eyes. There isn't a single trace of the amusement they'd been wearing all day - not one wrinkle in their features. They pin him with a gaze that is empty, but focused - and despite the lack of any readable emotion Hazel knows that he has done something wrong.

His arms prickle at the sudden sense of danger, and his grip on Fleece tightens in anticipation - he expects them to fight, to lash out, to strike, and somehow their bound hands do very little to reassure him of his own safety -

But they don't fight. They don't try to escape or struggle or harm him at all. Instead, their lips part and in a calm, empty voice almost too soft to hear, they speak.

“Tullius Garrison. CEO of Melomoda - 406 State Road, unit 5, Cleveland, Ohio.”

“What -” Hazel's heart staggers over a beat, and his fingers loosen in Fleece's hair.

“Bonnie Garrison. Stay at home wife - 1548 Larkwood Lane. Garrettsville, Ohio.” They pause, for just a beat, and Hazel feels frozen. He stares at them, his fingers slowly prying free and his hand all but running along their hair as it slips from their head. “Your folks seem real nice, Hazel - how'd they end up with an ass like you for a kid?”

It's - taunting. Teasing. Or at least it should be. But there's no change to their voice, still no smirk at the corner of their mouth - and through a suddenly dry throat, Hazel can only ask -

“How do you know -?”

“Hazel Joy Garrison,” Fleece continues, “786 Thruway Drive. Grove City, Ohio.”

Hazel's snatches his other hand quickly away from them. His throat feels tight, he can't seem to make himself move - not even as, as best they can with their otherwise restrained hands, Fleece brushes at the front of their jumpsuit - and makes to walk around him.

They stop just at his side.

“It's impolite to touch people without permission,” they say - and if there's warning or anger or anything at all in their voice, Hazel can't find it. This could be a casual conversation - they might as well be asking about the weather.

Their words send a fresh chill through him, anyway.

They don't linger - soon moving away and making their way to the cell door. They stand in front of it, and after a long minute of silence they look over their shoulder.

“Well? Are we done here, officer?”

It's another few long seconds before Hazel finally finds his voice.

“Yes,” he manages, clearing his throat, and he moves to join them - strangely clumsy fingers reaching out to unlock the door. As soon as it's open, Fleece walks through it.

And they walk away, not even sparring another look to Hazel - who watches them go with a heavy, lingering sense of dread.

Chapter 50: For the Living

Notes:

Shrug

“Come with me,” Wheet says - in that voice that brokers no argument. And so when they turn and walk away, Hazel follows.

They lead him from the room, through the palace halls, and out onto the grounds. Past the massive pond at the center and the even larger garden that surrounds it.

They lead him into the cemetery. Past the graves of their parents, their siblings.

Past the grave with their own name on it. Wheet doesn't seem to notice when Hazel slows there, for a lingering minute - eyes stuck to a false stone and the body it hides beneath.

He catches up easily to their steady pace.

Just beyond the graveyard, they lead him through another gate - locked, until they twist it open with a key. And within overgrown weeds and a big-leafed tree is another stone.

It's much smaller - Hazel might have missed it, if Wheet hadn't been there. But they come to a stop before it, and crouch in front of it - reaching to push away the weeds and the flowers crowding around it.

‘Fleece’ it reads. A sense of something heavy settles across Hazel.

“They were buried beneath my name,” Wheet says, after a few long and quiet seconds have passed. "Because otherwise people would know. They would guess. Anyone who can visit the grounds could go into the graveyard and see.”

They pause, and Hazel watches the stone in front of them.

“It doesn't seem right. Or fair. They deserved better - their own stone, their own name. This was the best I could do.”

“They would have laughed at you for it,” Hazel says, “they would have called it sentimental bullshit. You'd have never heard the end of it.”

“I know,” Wheet agrees, and Hazel can feel it when they look at him - their gaze steady as he willfully keeps his own eyes away. “But this isn't for them.”

After a lingering second, Hazel nods, and the quiet grows once more between them.

Then, there's a jingle - and when Hazel finally looks to Wheet they are holding out a key. He takes it and curls his fingers around it.

“Visit, if you want. Whenever you'd like.”

And for once, Hazel doesn't feel the need to snark. He doesn't feel angry, or annoyed, or irritated by their presumption. He doesn't feel much, in fact, or at least nothing strong enough to put a name to. So he carefully tucks the key into a pocket, and he nods again.

And his eyes trail back to the tiny, nondescript stone hidden in the weeds. 

Chapter 51: Spirit Shackle

Notes:

Didn't reread. Didn't edit

It's not about the quality it's about the story. The idea. This is my version of a doodle. It's not even really canon, at least not like this, cause kid Hazel would really only have Pyroar but

Whatever

“Let's battle,” Fleece says - and Hazel is nearly as eager as his Yamask. It'd been a couple of years since they had last fought each other - the sting and brutality of that defeat etching a fury so strong in Hazel's Pokémon that it had changed its form entirely.

They'd trained plenty since that day - always with the thought of one day avenging their first defeat.

Hazel's hand has barely touched the pokeball before his Yamask flies from its depths - landing a short distance away from Fleece's. From the Pokémon it had once been all but identical to.

But they had been much smaller children then, and a lot had changed. And although it may not be exactly the same Pokémon he'd found, Hazel quite liked that his Yamask was different.

Special.

“Yamask, use shadow ball,” Fleece calls without any further warning.

“Protect!” Hazel barks in quick demand - and while it's barely in time, he's relieved to see the ghostly attack dissipate harmlessly around his own Yamask. Not willing to give them any in, he immediately continues, “Nightshade!”

“Again, Yamask,” Fleece says at nearly the same time. And to Hazel's disappointment, their Yamask deftly dodges his own's attack - and immediately retaliates.

There's no chance to defend, this time, and the attack strikes his Yamask dead center - shoving it back a few inches as it curls with a huff of pain.

“Yamask, focus!” Hazel yells, “Use H -”

“Now, Dark Pulse.”

And it's a dark, bitter wave - enough to send goosebumps up Hazel's own arms. But to his horror, the shadows swirl thickly around his Yamask and tighten in - and as they squeeze, the Pokémon gives a shuddering, pained cry. It is thankfully short lived - but as the darkness disappears, his Yamask slumps low to the ground.

“Yamask -”

“Hit it again,” Fleece says and Hazel shoots them a terrified glance.

“What? No! It's -”

But their Yamask ignores his plea as much as Fleece themself does - and there's nothing Hazel can do as the darkness once more thickens and strangles his poor Pokémon.

“You're hurting it,” Hazel whines - and this time as the shadows vanish, his Yamask falls entirely to the floor. Slumped and unresponsive.

“One more should -”

“No!” Hazel shouts, and this time with a bit of fumbling he thinks to grab its pokeball. With a quick tap, he holds it towards his wounded Pokémon - and he's relieved when the light surrounds it, and pulls it back into safety.

There's a beat of quiet, and then a soft huff.

“It barely even put up a fight,” Fleece complains.

“You almost killed it!”

“Well, maybe you should have trained more,” Fleece says with a sniff - but their own Yamask gives a sudden shiver and, Hazel apparently forgotten, Fleece looks at it in interest.

It isn't long before it begins to glow - and even less time, still, before it's whole body is enveloped in bright, white light. Hazel finds himself glancing between the Pokémon and its trainer - and the look on Fleece's face as they watch is as close to joy as Hazel has ever seen.

The light builds, blinds, and grows - until it vanishes as quickly as it'd come.

And standing where the Yamask had been is a fully evolved Cofagrigus. It towers above the two children - and where Fleece slips closer in interest, Hazel can't help but shy away.

The Pokémon reaches out a shadowed hand - and Fleece lifts their own to rest their palm against it.

“Well, that little thing can't have been much help,” Fleece says, “but at least it worked, hm?”

“Cof.” The pokemon's soft coo of agreement echoes through the air, and Hazel clutches the pokeball in his hands a little tighter.

“Thanks, ‘Zel,” Fleece says, as they recall their newly evolved Pokémon and give Hazel a small wave “good luck with the runt!”

And then, they're gone - off down the road, leaving Hazel and his injured Pokémon behind.

He lets them get far ahead before he follows them back home.

He's nearly to town when he finally let's his Pokémon out of its ball - but to his horror, Yamask is in no better shape than it had been before. In fact, it only seems worse - unconscious, limp, and even for a ghost type Hazel thinks it looks strangely pale.

He turns feet already heading for home quickly towards the nearest pokecenter instead.

He's barely explained a word before the nurse and her Chansey are whisking his Yamask away. They take it to a backroom Hazel isn't allowed in - and there's nothing he can do but wait as they work. Wait, and occasionally look through a tiny window - where, if he tries, he can just see the Chansey's back as it works.

The nurse comes out only once - and when she does, her words are soft and careful.

“Your Yamask is very, very hurt. We are still trying our best, but…I think you ought to come and see it. Be with it. In case it…in case we can't save it.”

“What do you mean, can't?” Hazel asks, his voice cracking as it rises, “you have to save it! That's your whole job!”

“Come on, come with me,” is all she says in response, and when she puts a hand on Hazel's shoulder, he lets her guide him back.

And they leave him with his Pokémon - and he isn't exactly sure how Pokémon medicine works or if it works the same for ghost types but he knows injury when he sees it.

He knows his Yamask - and he knows it must be bad when it doesn't open its eyes to greet him.

“You can't just let them win,” Hazel says, laying his hand on its rune. “You can't just let them beat you this badly. How am I ever going to get back at them if you just…just…Yamask! You have to get better! You have to! Otherwise I'll never hear the end of it and I'll be angry at you every time Fleece teases me and - and -”

He's not sure what else to say. His fingers press firmly against the stone body of his pokemon, and he sucks in a few quick, painful breaths as his chest clenches tight. It wasn't fair. And it wasn't right. And it wasn't -

The body beneath his hand starts, all at once, to grow warm.

Warm, and bright - and for the second time that day, Hazel's gaze is swallowed in brilliant white light. He stares in awe, not daring to move his hand, as his pokemon's body is swallowed. As it warps, and grows - and when the light vanishes, it leaves an entirely new Pokémon in its place.

Much larger, much different from Fleece's Cofagrigus -

And most importantly, very much alive. Alive, and awake, and if it's any worse for wear after its experience it doesn't show it.

“Ruuuuune,” it rumbles - and where there was anger and fear, all at once Hazel feels a swell of satisfaction. Happiness.

“Now that's more like it!” He says, tightening his fists in excitement, “next time we'll - we're gonna show them for sure!”

“Rig!” The Runerigus agrees, and the gem inlaid in its stone face grows bright.

Chapter 52: One Night in Bangkok

Notes:

CW: Non-Consensual kissing/fondling. Creeping and Harassment. Vulgar/Suggestive gestures. Underage drinking.

My apologies to the straights.

My much deeper apologies to Bonnie.

“Gin and tonic, please,” you request - and just as the bartender seems poised to grab your order, he pauses. He eyes you - a light frown at his lips as he gives you a good look. You clench your fingers a little tighter around the fake ID still in your pocket, hold your breath, and wait. 

You know what he sees - a young woman far too overdressed for a night in a club. A long skirt, long sleeves, your hair in a long, braided tail. He must see a young woman out of her depth - or, maybe, he sees you for the girl that you really are. An unwilling guest not yet old enough to legally drink, only there because your so-called friends had decided on a change of venue last minute and you had been too polite to say no. 

The longer his gaze lingers, the more you’re sure he’s going to refuse you - the more you hope that’s all he does.

“ID?” He finally asks, and you yank it from your pocket and hold it out to him, trying to steady your shaking hand. He takes it, looks it over, glances between it and you - and then, to your astonishment, he hands it back and begins making your drink. 

“Just a minute,” he says - and you let out a soft breath of relief as you tuck the ID back into your pocket. And as he says, it’s only a minute - maybe two - before you have your drink in your hands. You’ve barely begun walking away before you take a long, slow sip - and as the booze warms your belly you feel the frayed ends of your nerves begin to calm. 

At the edge of the dance floor, you pause and look over the crowd. You search for any of five familiar faces - your ‘friends’ who had brought you out here - but try as you might you can’t see any of them. You take another long drink, and decide that, actually, that was fine by you. You didn’t belong here - and once you were finished with your drink, you would find your way home. You doubted any of them would notice.

Your grandparents were going to be furious with you - and you feel a stab of guilt at the thought. 

You ease it down with another sip. 

You didn’t belong here…but the alcohol was nice, at least. 

“Hey babe,” a voice interrupts your quickly trailing thoughts - and before you’ve so much as managed a blink, a girl who can’t be much older than you steps into your space. Long red hair dances around her shoulders, brushes across your arms, as she plucks the drink from your hand and throws back the rest in one long gulp. 

“Excuse me?” You ask, but she ignores the pointed question as she tosses the glass to the floor, throws an arm around your shoulders, and tugs you close. 

“Just play along, would you?” She mutters under her breath - and you don’t have the chance to ask what she means before a man shoves his way through the crowd and over to you both. He scowls at the sight and levels a glare at the girl next to you.

“What the hell, Jolene? You avoidin’ me now? Makin’ me chase you halfway across town?” 

“As if,” the girl - Jolene, you suppose - answers, flicking a bit of her hair back behind her shoulder. “I’ve told you time and time again that I’m not interested in your ass - or anything else on you, for that matter. And I’d thank you not to come harassing me when I’m trying to have a night out with my girlfriend.”

“Your -” He pauses, and his eyes flicker to you - and in a way that feels somehow much more violating than with the bartender, he looks you up and down. You almost can’t help but press a little closer to Jolene in the hopes it might hide you from his gaze. Then he laughs - the sound echoed by the man standing not far behind him. 

“You think I’m that big of an idiot?” He asks, “everyone knows you only fuck dudes. Hell, my own sister complains about it at least once a month. If you’ve really gone dyke, though, maybe I ought to give her your number.”

“Yeah well, lord knows I’ve ‘bout ran out of dudes to fuck, haven’t I?” Jolene says, “should tell you something that I’d sooner bat for the same team then give you a ride, Steve. Might take you up on that offer ‘bout your sister though.” 

“You bitch -” Steve starts, but his companion speaks at the same time and with far more eagerness -

“Prove it!” 

Steve jerks, and throws a glare at his friend - but then with a slight curl of the lip, he crosses his arms and looks back to Jolene. 

“Yeah, prove it.” 

“Prove what?” Jolene asks, glancing down as she picks idly at a nail. You try to tug away, figuring they seem to be just fine arguing between themselves - but the arm around your shoulder tightens, keeping you in place. 

“If you’re so into girls now, then let’s see you kiss your girlfriend. I’m sure we’d all like to give that show a peek.” 

And you expect this to be the end of the conversation - you don’t know this girl and you can’t imagine anyone even entertaining the idea of kissing a stranger. So you are too surprised, too caught off guard, to do anything at first when Jolene turns towards you, tugs your body against hers, and presses her lips to yours. 

Your eyes widen, your vision filling with emerald green and a smattering of freckles. Your whole body freezes, stuck in place - and to your horror she doesn’t stop there. She begins to kiss you in earnest, her lips massaging yours as her arms move to embrace you. One hand presses to your back, nails digging into the skin around your spine - and as she takes your bottom lip between her teeth and bites, her other hand wanders low and cups tight around one of your buttcheeks. 

You yelp, movement flooding back into you - and you shove at her with a muffled shout. You tug yourself away, thankful that her lips leave yours and she mostly lets you go - although one arm remains wrapped tight around your waist and keeps you from putting anywhere near as much distance between you as you would like.

“What on earth do you think you're -” 

“Enough of a show for you, perv?” Jolene asks, loudly cutting across your demand - and to your horror when you glance over you spot Steve with his hand cupped around his groin. At Jolene’s question - and your look - he gives himself one quick, vulgar rub and grins. 

Thankfully dropping his hand away after that - although that alone was enough, you think, to leave you with lasting nightmares. 

“Whatever, Jolene. Slut like you is gonna be crawling back to dick soon enough. You just go ahead and give me a call when you’re lookin’ for a ride…” he pauses, and then he looks at you - straight at you - and smirks, “feel free to invite your girlfriend, if you want. She’s hotter than she looks. Wouldn’t mind watchin’ you two do a little more than kissin’.” 

“Fuck off, Steve,” Jolene says - and, thankfully, he listens. Steve turns and leaves - and you release a long breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Almost as if she’d been burned, Jolene yanks her arm away from you the instant he’s out of sight - and without a word, she turns and begins to all but saunter away. 

“Wait! Excuse me!?” You shout after her - and your call makes her pause. She glances back at you, looks you up and down with a growing sneer, and then just as quickly turns away again.

“Thanks for the cover,” she says, lifting her hand in a quick, limp wave. 

And then she vanishes into the crowded dance floor - leaving you staring after her in shock. 

You lick your lips without really thinking - and at the lingering taste of something sticky-sweet, you decide you’re going to need one more drink after all.

Chapter 53: A Royal Visit

Notes:

Putting this here so as to not commit to whether or not it's canon.

Meant to fit into Saudade though.

“I got you something,” Fleece says - and Hazel barely has the time to fear those words before Fleece plops down a torn up old blanket on the counter between them. They unwrap it and at its center is a pink, hairless, shivering animal. 

It takes Hazel a long minute to realize it's a cat - and that it is hairless on purpose. Still, it's a sad looking thing - every one of its ribs showing as it crouches stiffly within the blankets. It watches the both of them, pupils blown wide as it heaves quick and terrified breaths. 

“It looks like a sad, wet rat,” Hazel eventually says. 

“Right, it reminded me of you. It's like you were made for each other.” 

“Why is it here, Fleece?” Hazel asks in exasperation, and Fleece rolls their eyes. 

“Like I said, I saw it and it reminded me of you. So, I thought to myself, ‘Hazel could use a buddy when I'm not around.’ So, here you go. A buddy.”

“You've brought me a stray,” Hazel says, “it probably has fleas!”

“Yeah probably, good thing they make medicine for that.”

“Who knows what other filth it's carrying around. Take it back, Fleece - I don't want it.”

Instead of responding, Fleece watches him for a long minute - just long enough to make Hazel's skin itch - before they shrug and turn away. 

“I don't feel like it,” they say, flapping a hand over their shoulder, “take care of it or let it die, whatever. I was just trying to be nice.”

They start to leave, and with a huff Hazel looks between the cat and Fleece - finally snapping - 

“Did you at least bring some food with you?” 

“Why would I?” They ask, “it's not my cat.” 

And, as they usually do, they take another step and vanish entirely. For a few seconds, Hazel just watches where they'd been - but when the cat lets out a small, ragged ‘mew,’ he turns his glare on it instead. 

“Don't look at me like that,” Hazel says, “you were probably better off on whatever street they yanked you off of. In fact - come on.” 

Carefully he reaches over, bundling the cat back within the rags while doing his best to touch them as little as possible. Holding the bundle out in front of him - the cat giving another startled mew from inside - he carries it gingerly to the door. He opens the door, sets the bundle on the porch, and steps back. As the rags fall away, the cat looks around it - and lets out another rumbling mewl. 

“There, go, be free. Go catch mice or whatever it is you do with your day,” Hazel says, before shutting the door. 

Fully intending on returning to his own business. But the cat doesn't leave - and over the next hour or so, as Hazel prattles about his home, he hears it meow. Wail. Scratch and claw at his door as if desperate to get back inside. 

When the door rattles with what seems to be the cat's entire weight thrown against it - Hazel stops, gives a long-suffering sigh, and goes to fetch one of his least used towels. 

“You're not coming in here looking like that,” he scolds as he opens the front door. The cat makes a beeline for him immediately, mewling and purring as it manages to wrap once around Hazel's leg before he snatches it up with the towel. 

He wraps it up quickly, carefully - doing his best not to touch its skin. None of which the cat is happy about, of course - but Hazel only scowls as he carries it away from the house and towards his car. 

“You asked for this,” he tells it - and there's a petulant wail from within. 

And a few hours later, Hazel returns. With him is the cat - and she's come away with a flea bath, flea medication, and an otherwise mostly clean bill of health. In her new carrier she's much happier - barely letting out a squeak as Hazel practically chauffeurs her around town to gather a car's worth of cat care products. 

And by the time he’s brought it all inside and finally lets her loose in his home, she seems entirely recovered from her ordeal. She pads around in interest, for a while, before eventually finding a perch atop a counter. With a soft shake, she begins to clean herself - entirely unbothered by the half-hearted scowl Hazel has trained on her. 

“Sure, feel free to make yourself at home,” Hazel drawls - and when she almost seems to answer with a soft ‘prrt,’ he sighs. And with the slightest twitch in his lip, he approaches and gives her a careful, idle scratch behind the ear. 

She stays where she is - even pauses in her cleaning to press into his touch - but even still the look she fixes him with could be best described as ‘haughty.’ 

And despite himself, Hazel chuckles.

“Quite the little princess, aren’t you?” He asks - and at another soft chirp, he nods. “True - that’s a little juvenile for you, isn’t it? You’re more like a,” he pauses, considers, and then continues, “Duchess. How’s that sound?” 

She purrs, tilting her head just so as if to direct his fingers to a new spot. 

“Well, if you like it so much I guess you can stay,” Hazel says, sternly, “but you’re to keep it  clean around here, understand?”

Duchess gives another purring mewl.

Chapter 54: Fuck Nasty

Notes:

Despite the title, this is not explicit.

Bonnie Adoption AU

Shamelessly ripping off that Tumblr post with the movie gif or whatever.

“Haven't you ever been curious?”

“No, not even little bit - it's disgusting. It smells gross, it looks gross -”

“If it was so disgusting, people wouldn't be doing it all the time.”

“People also willingly live with dogs in their home, so excuse me if I'm not using what other people do as a moral compass.”

“You're such a pussy,” Fleece says then, rolling their eyes, “you might love it - how will you know if you don't try?”

“I am not a -” Hazel tries, although he can't quite get himself to repeat the word, settling instead for, “A coward. I just think it's gross.”

“C'mon Hazel,” Fleece purrs, leaning over the mattress and closer to him, “If you're really not a coward, you'd try it just once.”

They're baiting him - Hazel knows that. And he knows that they know he knows. Just as he knows that it's not worth giving in. There will always be a next time. A new ‘thing’ to try. A new hurdle to jump just to try and prove to them that he's not a coward -

“Bawk Bawk baaawwk.”

“Oh, fine! Give it here then!” Hazel snaps, and their smirk tells him he's made a mistake - but it's too late to back out now.

“Open wide.”

“What? Fleece -”

“Open your mouth, Hazel.”

With a quick sigh, Hazel does so - only parting his lips just enough that when Fleece reaches over and shoves the butt end of a cigarette between them, there's just enough space to fit.

Unlit, it doesn't taste like much - mostly strangely stale paper and the faintest hint of cigarette smoke. Hazel taps it between his teeth experimentally, pats at it with his tongue, and then frowns - plucking it from his lips as he says -

“Aren't you supposed to light it?”

“Hold your horses,” Fleece says as they slip another cigarette from the box. They tuck the box away, place the cigarette in their mouth, and then pull out a lighter. With apparently practiced ease, they light the end of their own - and then look at Hazel expectantly.

He carefully places his own back into his mouth.

Hazel doesn't have time to question why they're putting the lighter back in their pocket - just as he notices, Fleece leans forward and catches his face between their hands. Slowly, they bring the end of their cigarette to his - teasing the nubs together with surprising gentleness.

Hazel feels the skin of his face grow warm - and this close it takes most of his willpower to hold their gaze as their eyes bore into his. They huff rapidly at their cigarette - and with each puff, their breath tickles across Hazel's skin.

“What are you -” Hazel murmurs around the cig in his mouth.

“Suck, Hazel,” Fleece interrupts - the words muffled around their own. Hazel glares at them, but dutifully pulls in a few breaths - and as he does, he can just barely see the tip of his cigarette beginning to catch and light. It's slow - smoldering, extinguishing, and then smoldering again. And as they wait it to catch in earnest, Fleece keeps their hands pressed to Hazel's cheek - and with every passing second he is all too aware of the chill in their fingers.

Then, finally, they pull away - and trying not to think about what'd just happened, Hazel sucks in another hasty breath.

And immediately begins to cough. It's even worse than he assumed based on smell alone - it feels practically like drinking the smoke straight from it's source, and it burns and cuts at his lungs all the way down. He fumbles with the cigarette as he yanks it from his mouth, managing to complain through his own wheezing coughs -

“That's awful!"

Fleece ‘tsks’ and takes a long, slow drag of their own cigarette - holding it in their mouth for a few seconds before blowing the smoke at Hazel.

Which doesn't help the situation one bit.

“You're such a baby,” Fleece says.

“And you're a -”

There's a sudden catch at the bedroom door - and Hazel freezes as it swings open.

“Knock Kno -” His mother starts - but as she opens the door and spots them she goes still. Stares. And then after a long second she finally gasps.

“No! No no - put those out! ” She exclaims, hurrying over to them both. She snatches the cigarette from Hazel's hand - and just as quickly takes the one from Fleece. She looks around quickly, wildly - and then plunges the cigarettes into the cup of water sat at Hazel's bedside.

“Hey -” He starts to complain, never mind that it wasnt as if he'd be drinking anymore of the lukewarm water anyway.

“What on earth were you thinking?” His mother interrupts, even as she shoves the butts further into the water, “Do you have any idea what these things can do to you? Cancer, COPD, heart disease - they'll stain your teeth and your skin and kill you before you even hit forty -”

“Mom smokes like two packs a day and she seems fine,” Fleece interrupts.

“Yes, well, the sooner the better for that huss -” And then, finally, Hazel's mother stops. Freezes. Straightens as she looks at Fleece with a brief flash of horror on her face. “Oh…I'm sorry Fleece. That was uncalled for.”

“No, by all means, please continue,” Fleece says - but Bonnie is quick to shake her head.

“No, that's not at all appropriate.” She pauses, takes a breath - the regret gone in an instant as she fixes them both with a stern look.

“ Those aren't at all appropriate, either . If she really hasn't had any health issues, than your mother is a lucky woman - but I doubt either of you will be quite so fortunate. Now. Hand them over.” She holds out her palm - eyes jumping between them.

“Don't look at me,” Hazel grumbles when her gaze finds him, “they're Fleece's cigarettes.” At his redirect, she fixes Fleece alone with her pinched lips and furrowed brow.

“Please give me what you have, Fleece. I'd rather not have to take them.”

And for a long, long minute, they stare at each other. Hazel watches, barely daring to breathe, his own gaze going from his mother's look of stern disappointment to Fleece's unreadable face. Until, finally, Fleece crosses their arms - and smirks.

“No. You're not my mother - you can't tell me what to do, and you can't take my things. That's stealing.”

Another pause. A few more heartbeats. And then, Bonnie all but lunges for them. In the span of no more than a second or two, her hand reaches right into the pocket of their jacket - and retreats with the box of cigarettes.

“Hey!” Fleece exclaims, while Hazel stares in disbelief.

“I'm sorry,” Bonnie says, shoving the box into the pocket of her skirt. “I may not be your mother,” she continues, “but I refuse to let you kill yourself on these vile things. And if I have to ‘steal’ from you to protect you, then I will.” She pauses again, and then sighs - her stern disappointment all at once melting away to something almost sad.

“You two are old enough to know better. Stay away from these things. Please. For me, if not for yourselves.” She glances between them, fixes them with another stern look, and then continues, “If I ever catch either of you with a cigarette again I will ground you.”

“What?! You've never - it wasn't even my fault, it was Fleece's idea!”

“I'm entirely serious, Hazel.” Bonnie interrupts, “Do you understand?”

“...Yes,” Hazel grumbles, crossing his arms. After his single puff, it wasn't as if he planned on smoking anymore anyway. He isn't surprised when Fleece stays quiet - but neither is his mother. And even though she waits for a long minute to give them a chance, eventually Bonnie takes another breath - and the lines on her face smooth.

“Now then, I came to see if you were at all hungry for lunch.”

Hazel nods - and as if the whole thing had never happened, his mother smiles.

“I'll get something ready then. You two make your way down to the kitchen, and we'll see about getting you fed.”

And then she leaves - and as the door shuts Hazel exhales a long breath.

“I didn't think she'd actually do it…I'm kind of impressed,” Fleece says - and as Hazel looks over, they dig into a different pocket. After a second they pull out two fresh cigarettes - and hold one out to Hazel. “Smoke?”

Hazel blinks, stares, and them squeaks -

“Have you lost your mind? No!!”

“Suit yourself,” Fleece says with a shrug, putting a cigarette between their lips and lighting it. As Hazel still can't do much but stare at them in disbelief, they raise an eyebrow.

“What? She can't actually ground me, you know. She's not my mom.”

Hazel can't really argue with that - and deciding that he doesn't want to face his mother with fresh smoke on his clothes, he decides it's not worth trying. Instead he slips from the bed, shakes his head, and leaves the room, calling behind him -

“Don't be long, or she'll come looking again.”

He hears Fleece exhale - and he just knows they're filling his room with smoke.

Chapter 55: Ready Player One

Notes:

:fingerguns:

Alternate title: First Blood

You are used to being called. Summoned. Your presence requested and demanded and at times even forced - or, at least, there are the occasional attempts at force.

It would take a lot more than a few determined humans with a summoning circle to make you go anywhere, of course.

In the earliest days of being You, you had often gone where you were called. You'd been curious, a bit fascinated - eager to learn everything about the two worlds you stood between and more than a little flattered by the way the humans clamored for your attention. And although you hadn’t understood at the time that you needed those humans, in a sense, your curiosity back then had helped amass the sort of following that would keep you strong over the course of thousands of years.

Strong enough that you can afford to mostly ignore them, now.

You have your reasons. You have long since cultivated a taste in the humans you enjoyed having around you - and they were not the uncreative hopefuls who used textbook rituals and uninspired sacrifices to summon you. Those humans, you have found, seem much more suited to Greed’s taste than yours - it was greed, after all, that usually colored their intent. And, in your mind, if they were not willing to at least try to tailor their offerings to what you might actually enjoy, then they were not worth your time.

But still, every now and then you follow their calls - mostly out of curiosity's sake than anything else. Sometimes you show yourself - sometimes you don’t.

This is one of the times when you don’t.

You simply walk into the room - a dimly lit, humid basement of course - and stand at the outskirts of the decently large gathering of your worshippers. Many of the figures around you are cloaked - some of the less serious are not. But none of them seem to notice you - they are too focused on the dais at their center.

The large, upside down cross makes you roll your eyes - and as you study the young woman tied to it, you feel a twinge of distaste at how quick humans can be to turn on each other.

These ones, at least, seem to be treating the sacrifice with the sort of respect it deserves. There is a seriousness to the air, a tension almost thick enough to cut - and beneath it you are awash in the undercurrent of the many souls around you.

Apprehension. Fear. Fervor. The expectation of your presence - the desire for your favor. For the gifts you could give them. But as their souls press around you, your nose and brow wrinkle - it might be your name they invoke, but they fill the air with the sour taste of greed.

But the heavy, bitter tar makes the exception - the young woman they've trussed up as a sacrifice - stand out like a patch of clean, fresh air.

There isn't anything particularly noteworthy about her soul - you have felt and tasted millions much like hers. But here, and now, you can't help but notice the absence of fear. There's a flush to her face that you're sure is the result of being suspended upside down - but it joins with her glistening, wide-eyed stare and the persistent lilt to her mouth that makes her look far more excited than a sacrifice had any right to be.

But more important than her apparent bravery, you notice the absence of greed - at least, there's no more of it swirling in her than in the average human. Her soul - her intent - isn't coated with it in the way the others in the room are.

“O’ Pride,” a man's sudden intonation catches your attention, and your gaze goes to the cloaked figure standing next to the cross, “Powerful and Great - Hear Our Calls. Answer Our Prayers.”

Your scoff goes unnoticed within the dozens of chanting voices lifting around you. You decide in a blink that you've heard and seen plenty - surely you could find a better use for your time than this.

But as you think it, as you have all but turned to walk away, you see the man on the dais move. There is a glint of steel as he crouches next to the woman tied to the cross - and you know without doubt that he means to slit her neck. To bleed her like livestock - in your name, of course.

Her soul is the only relief in the choking air around you - and in a sudden whim you don't entirely understand, you decide you won't allow this to continue.

“Stop,” you call - your voice rising easily above the chanting crowd. Your command is enough to stop them, even without a drop of your actual power, and as the group grows suddenly silent, the man on the dais pauses. He stands, carefully, to get a better look at you as you approach - and the furrow in his brow tells you he isn't impressed by what he sees.

“This is an important ritual,” he says, “who do you think you are, interrupting like this?”

“You've summoned them, and you don't even know what Pride looks like?” The young woman suddenly chirps - and you and the man both look at her.

“Pride? This...what even are you, a teacher? Don't be ridiculous,” the man says after a second's hesitation, and as quickly as his gaze had gone to the woman it returns to you.

“You humans are always so quick to mess with forces you don't entirely understand,” you tell him, stepping up onto the dais proper, “you don't know a thing about me, and still you seek my favor.”

You can see that take the wind from his sails - but not for long. It is with equal parts hope and disbelief that he asks -

“If you're really Pride, then why on earth did you stop me?”

“Be quiet,” you answer - and his mouth snaps closed under no force of his own. His eyes go wide, his skin blanches - but you pay him no mind. You're tired of him - and you turn from him dismissively as you focus once more on the woman tied to the cross.

With barely a thought you vanish her bindings - feeling a twinge of regret when she falls head-first into the floor, grunting as her neck twists and her body smacks into the stone. By way of apology, you move to offer her a hand - but she hops up to her feet, apparently unhurt, before you've fully extended your arm.

“Thanks,” she chirps as she dusts dutifully at her clothes. Finishing with a couple of pats to her thighs, she straightens and peers up at you. “You really are Pride, aren't you?”

“Are you asking me? You seemed sure of it a minute ago,” you answer, bemused.

“Well, I was bluffing a little. I mean, I thought it was you but I wasn't a hundred percent sure, if you know what I mean.” She pauses, but before you can get a word in edgewise she continues, “I didn't expect you to be hot!”

And - well. It's not as if you're unused to being called attractive - but the way she blurts it out catches you off guard. You blink as she giggles and, in the same breath, covers her mouth with a hand as if embarrassed.

“Sorry,” she says, although you genuinely can't tell if she means it, given the persistent laughter in her voice, “that's probably not appropriate, huh? Um - do I have to give you something now? Since you saved me and all? Might have to run to my place first, I didn't exactly bring anything with me -”

“I don't want anything from you,” you tell her, trying to be stern - but she doesn't seem at all bothered by your tone. She quiets though, and waits for you to continue - and you're impressed despite yourself. You'd half expected her to interrupt you.

“Let me give you a bit of advice. If you're looking to summon a particular spirit, don't do it by joining in with the first cult you find. They may have been calling my name - but no doubt they would have offered you up to whatever spirit actually came calling. Next time, do your research - and if someone asks you to be a sacrifice, consider saying no.”

“Well, how do I do it then?” She asks, and when your brow furrows, she bounces to the front of her feet and continues, “summon a specific spirit, I mean.” She pauses, chews at her lip, and then grins, “Like, say I wanted to call you again. How would I do it?”

It's an easy enough question to answer. You could tell her any number of things - the truth, a pretty lie - and it wasn't as if it would mean anything to you. You really didn't have to answer her at all, in fact, and you consider leaving without.

But she waits eagerly for your answer, and you find it almost endearing, the way she watches you. How she stands, still, nearly at the tip of her toes - how her whole body is tense, as though it's taking every bit of her willpower to stay quiet enough to hear your answer.

You huff a breath through your nose.

“You seem like an intelligent girl,” you finally tell her, “see if you can figure it out.”

And then you do leave - her startled shout of “wait!” following you as you go.

Chapter 56: 7 Minutes in (Hell)

Notes:

CW: Underage kissing. Kissing is not entirely consensual.

“This is childish,” Hazel complains, not for the first time, “and if my parents see -”

“Your parents are sleeping,” Fleece interrupts, “just spin the bottle, Hazel.”

With a soft huff, Hazel leans forward - putting his hand over the bottle as he gives the circle a quick look. Besides Fleece, he also finds Peep, Keet, Fable - and a host of their classmates, mostly invited by the others. Peep had been all too eager to host a sleepover - and when they'd heard about it, Fable had been all too eager to encourage him.

How said sleepover had ended up at Hazel's house was anybody's guess - but here they were, gathered in his basement with a bunch of strangers and sleeping bags and cheap pizza of all things.

Not that Hazel would be sleeping there - and he had, of course, retreated upstairs for real food while the others had gorged themselves. But his attempt to get out of their late-night games had fallen flat - and he'd been dragged into them, anyway.

Twister had been funny to watch, at a distance. He'd been surprisingly good at Clue. But this - the idea of pressing into a tiny closet with any of them makes Hazel's stomach turn. But they weren't buying his excuses, and Hazel wasn't about to run. He'll just have to make it absolutely clear to whoever he lands on that there will be no kissing - or whatever else goes on behind the doors.

The image of Peep and one of the other boys leaving the closet in wild disarray flashes through Hazel's mind, and he shudders.

“While we're young?” One of the other girls says, and Hazel glares at her - but after a second more of hesitation, gives the bottle a heavy spin.

It clatters across the ground, bouncing wildly as it goes - a few of the other teens shrieking and scrambling out of its path. Hazel thinks it might spin off and shatter - ending his problem then and there. Still, he mentally rehearses what he'll say to whatever idiot it lands on, just in case -

The bottle slows and calms - a few feet away, but intact.

It settles to a slow wobble - and then finally to a stop.

Pointed directly at Fleece.

Hazel pushes up to his knees, fully intent on grabbing the bottle and spinning it again. But before he can grab it, Fleece lays their hand over it - keeping it where it is.

“Nu-uh,” they say, “we gotta follow the rules.”

“I'm not going in there with you,” Hazel complains, but with nothing but a smirk Fleece snatches his wrist, hauls them both to their feet, and tugs Hazel towards the closet.

The instant the door closes, Hazel scowls - taking a quick step back against the wall when Fleece presses closer.

“You can't seriously be considering kissing -”

“No, I'm planning on it,” Fleece says, rolling their eyes, “that's the whole point of the game, Hazel.”

“It's disgusting -”

“You haven't even tried it yet.”

“Most of the school thinks we're siblings -”

“So? We're not.”

With an angry huff, Hazel reaches out to shove at them - but they slip between his hands and while he's halfway through his next sentence -

“Absolutely fucking -”

They grab his face tightly between their hands, and press their lips firmly to his.

The first thing Hazel notices is how strangely cold they are - the frigid skin of their fingers, the coolness where their lips meet his own. But despite the chill their lips are both chapped and tacky - and when they move their mouth against his, Hazel shivers in disgust and shoves Fleece away.

“This is gross -” He tries to complain, but Fleece comes right back to him, this time lopping their arm around the back of his neck to hold him closer.

They all but engulf his mouth with theirs - their breath painting hot and moist across his lips. Hazel's gut twists with rising nausea - but this time when he tries to shove them off or, at the very least, turn his head away, they keep a firm hold on him.

A noise of complaint rises in his throat, and vanishes into their mouth - and then something thick and warm brushes at Hazel's lip, and when he realizes it's their tongue another shudder rolls through him.

This time a bit of bile rises up into his throat, gagging him as he fights to keep it down - but if Fleece notices, they don't seem to care. They only lick at him again, and then their tongue wiggles its way into the thin space between Hazel's lips and tries to pry further still and it's taking all he has to keep his teeth firmly pressed together -

And then there's a creak of a door, a spill of light into the closet, and Hazel jolts as his eyes fly towards the doorway to find his mother standing there.

Aghast and pale, her hand flies briefly to cover her lips which does nothing to muffle her squeal of -

“No, no - out! Out of there this instant, the both of you!”

Fleece doesn't immediately unlatch themself from Hazel's mouth - but when Bonnie reaches in to snatch them both, Fleece comes away without much fight. 

---

“This behavior is - is - you can be doing such things with each other, Hazel. You are all but siblings -”

“No we aren't,” Hazel interrupts, “you don't have legal custody - and you certainly didn't birth them!” And he isn't sure why he's arguing the point at all - it wasn't as if he had any plans on making this a habit.

“You may not be siblings by blood,” Bonnie admits after a pause, although she's strained as she says it, “but you are by circumstance -”

“We aren't -”

His interruption makes his mother snap her mouth closed - and for a moment she lowers her head, rubbing at her temples. Hazel's brow furrows - she's never been angry with him before. He finds it hard to believe she is now, either, but this is much different than her usual doting and he isn't sure what to make of it. Eventually though, she sighs and looks at him again.

“Love, if nothing else you are far too young to be behaving like this. The both of you. You have no idea what kind of consequences it could have - you could get an infection, or lord forbid pregnant -”

“Kissing can't get you pregnant,” Hazel scoffs - and when his mother doesn't immediately respond, he feels a sudden chill of dread. “Can it?”

“No, no, of course not,” his mother says quickly then, “but it can easily lead to behaviors that can get you pregnant.” She pauses, and then with a bit of exasperation adds, “that you even have to ask is all the reason I need to be concerned. But maybe it's our fault, really - you are getting to be that age and I suppose if you're going to be kissing anyone we really ought to have a discussion -”

And Hazel doesn't know much - but he knows enough to understand that this is a conversation he very much doesn't want to have. Not now, not ever - and before she can continue Hazel holds up his hands and all but squeaks -

“Mom, no! We don't have to have any conversations, we don't have to have ‘the talk’ it was just a game! It was just a stupid game and all the other kids were doing it and it was gross anyway . I don't plan on ever doing it again. Not ever.”

“Now honey,” she says, leaning forward to pat his hand, “I don't want you to take anything I've said the wrong way. You won't be too young forever, and I certainly don't want you to think there's anything wrong in general with…well. With kissing, or even making love -”

“It was just a game,” Hazel repeats, weakly, “please, mom, can we just…not? I really don't want to talk about this, I - you know. I don't feel very good.”

“Oh,” she says, looking more closely at him and laying the back of her hand against his forehead. She pauses, then agrees, “you do feel a bit peaky. This is important, though…”

Hazel gives her the most pathetic look he can muster - and she sighs.

“But alright. This can wait, for now - but we will need to discuss it soon, love. We can't put it off forever.”

And Hazel feels confident that, if he plays his cards right, that's exactly what he can do - but for the moment, he only nods.

“Now then, what do you need? Some cool ginger ale, maybe?”

“Sure, that sounds good,” Hazel agrees - and, having dodged that bullet, a sense of relief washes over him.

Chapter 57: Avarice

Notes:

Fair warning I think the beginning reads a bit difficult due to the pronouns used - but I like waiting until later for the name reveal, so I'm leaving it as is.

It lives in comfortable isolation.

It had long ago made itself a home - carved in stone and marble and gold - and had spent its many centuries alive filling it with every creature comfort it could ever want. Rooms filled with cushioned couches or pillow-laden beds or both. A kitchen that stretched on forever, always stocked with everything it liked to eat. Two art galleries - one full of human works, and the other full of its own. The things it enjoyed, wherever they were to be found and taken, neatly organized into rooms of like objects. Warm candlelight. Pools of water for swimming.

Everything it could ever need, or want, and where it found more it desired it simply added to its home at will.

It was comfortable this way. Here there were no humans to bother it, no one to ask it to think - it could simply be, and create, and exist.

But even it could not ignore the needs of its own body. Food for its stomach was easily made at will - but when it required nourishment for its soul, it had no choice but to wander out among the humans.

Where it finds itself now.

It's a small village - populated mostly by farmers and fishermen. And as it walks along a path of dirt, it can't stop its thoughts from once more wandering.

It thinks about the past. About the collapse. That violent moment in time where the two worlds collided and devoured each other - leaving few behind to pick up the ashes.

What humans remained were forced to start again - creating tiny clusters of allies to begin the millenia long process of building society. Advancing technology. Slowly but surely marching towards the very same world they had lost - even if the humans alive now have no idea such a world even existed.

The spirit world had suffered much greater losses - it had lost its gods, its power, and nearly every spirit except for those small enough to subsist on a natural world devoid of all but a handful of humans.

Well, small spirits - and those spirits like itself. Hybrid beings born of spiritual ether but in the end more human than anything else. It can remember, distantly, the fear of losing itself - the weakening, the aging. Ten years. Twenty years. Thirty years. The assumption that it would, in time, die the same as humans did.

But human resilience had bled into the spirit world, and as the mortals imagined new gods and new spirits the spirit world had begun to right itself. Its own powers had returned and settled - and the spirit world had begun the process of healing.

Most spirits were still small - new, burgeoning gods with limited power and little things that could afflict tiny changes to weather and crops and creatures. But it knew that one day, the spirit world would be just as strong as when it had been born.

It is pulled from its thoughts by a nearby argument - and when it looks, it finds a couple of humans tugging at each end of a chained goat. Arguing over who the beast belongs to - who it should belong to. It stops, and watches with interest - and hunger - and its proximity ensures that the humans’ greed only grows thicker.

As the humans become louder, angrier, greedier, it waits - it is very hungry, but if it must eat at all then it will wait until the humans are fat and ripe on that most delicious of sins.

“Tammy!”

The voice is bright in greeting - and it jolts at the sound of its own name. Forgetting the humans for a moment, it turns - and finds itself facing another, familiar being like itself.

Mostly human. Not incidentally spirit. Dwarfed by the feline-like shadow just beyond the veil at their back - but the form facing it now looks like nothing more than a plain, unassuming human. Short, dusty brown hair is slicked clumsily along their head - and the rest of them is wet too, splattered with water and mud.

Tammy's nose wrinkles, and it takes a pointed step away from them even as it greets -

“Sunny.”

“I wondered when you'd finally wander back down from your cave,” Sunny says, bouncing a little on their booted feet, “how are you? Doing alright?”

“Fine, thank you,” it answers - and after a second, adds, “have you come for a meal, as well?”

It means it as a question of politeness - but at the thought, its eyes wander back to the now wrestling humans. There were plenty of them to be had, of course, and Tammy didn't need much to be sated - but it feels a brief stab of annoyance at the thought of sharing, anyway.

“Nah, nothing like that. I was fishing!” Sunny answers brightly - and when Tammy looks at them again, they give it a beaming grin. Which doesn't fade, exactly, but its strength wanes as they also look towards the fighting humans - and then ask, uncertainly, “Oh…is that why you're here? To eat?”

“Yes.”

As it answers, it turns fully towards the human - their greed a frenzy, now, and likely to end fatally for at least one of them. It can't risk them killing each other, of course - it needs one alive long enough to draw from them - and so it fully intends to step in now, and eat its fill.

Sunny's hand wraps suddenly around its wrist - their skin clammy and moist. With a grimace, Tammy rips its hand away - eyebrows creasing as it looks at them in offense.

“Sorry!” Sunny offers, lifting their hands in apology, “but before you eat and go back to your hidey-hole - I wanted to show you something!”

“But they're ready now,” Tammy says with a gesture towards the humans - the idea of having to rile up another set is inconvenient at the least. Not that it took long - humans were awfully susceptible to its aura - but it hadn't wanted to be among them any longer than necessary.

“Pleaaassee?” Sunny all but begs - and Tammy doesn't want to go with them, or see whatever it is they want to show it - but it also knows that they can be persistent. And if it doesn't follow them now, there's every possibility they will show up at its door until it agrees.

“Fine,” it says, “what is it?”

“C'mon!” Sunny grabs at its wrist again, the previous offense apparently already forgotten - and as they drag it across the veil, Tammy's gut twists. 

---

“See?” Sunny says, gesturing at the painting with both hands and that same bright grin, “isn't it great?”

“It's…juvenile,” Tammy says as it eyes the artwork, “I suppose the colors work well together. Those, at least, are pleasing to the eye - but the lines are haphazard. See how it's thick here, but too thin there?” It points as it speaks, “and these toes hardly make any sense at all.”

Sunny is watching it, the grin on their face fading the longer it talks. Tammy doesn't understand what it is about the painting they enjoy so much - but it can tell that they don't appreciate its critique. Tammy pauses, and considers, and then continues -

“Overall, it's rather messy. I don't believe the artist has had much training at all.” Another pause, and then it adds, “but I do enjoy the colors. It has…promise, I suppose. The artist may improve in time.”

“Well,” Sunny says, all at once bright again - stubbornly brushing away Tammy's words, “ I love it! It's bright and it's fun and I think the funky lines and weird hands just make it even more fun to look at. And, it's a frog!” They sigh, then, wistfully, “I love frogs.”

Tammy hums, softly - and then it steps forward and plucks the painting from the wall.

“Hey, what are you -”

“Here you are,” it says, holding the painting out to Sunny. But to its surprise, they recoil - frowning, their eyebrows nestled close to their nose.

“You can't just take that. It's not yours.”

“But you want it,” Tammy points out, tilting its head.

“But it's not mine!”

“Well, it will be, when you take it.”

“That's stealing.”

“You want it,” Tammy repeats - it doesn't understand why Sunny seems to have such a resistance to taking something they want. The painting was complete, clearly - and it doubted the human would miss it overly much. And if they did care that much, then the human should have taken greater pains to protect it.

But Sunny huffs, and without another word they turn and leave the room - leaving Tammy standing awkwardly with the painting in hand. It can't be sure if Sunny has left entirely, if they're angry - or what it is they're doing and so, for a long, long few minutes, Tammy just keeps standing there.

Eventually, Sunny returns - all traces of upset gone. They all but bounce into the room, over to Tammy, and pluck the painting from its hands.

“Okay! I bought it from the human who made it - he seemed really happy with the gold I gave him!”

“You gave away your gold?” Tammy asks, confused - but Sunny only nods.

“Yeah! So I could take the painting. ‘Cause, see, I realized you were right - I did really want it. But it isn't right to just take something because you want it, you know.”

Tammy doesn't know - and it can't imagine giving away any of its own goods in trade. But it decides that this must be important to Sunny - and there's no point in fighting them when it's clearly not a point they will agree on.

“Fay never would have approved,” Sunny continues, and as they look down at the painting their smile softens, “dad might have, if they weren't around. He loved frogs - he might have taken this himself before even thinking of it.”

It isn't the first time Sunny has spoken of their parents, and Tammy doubts it will be the last. They had clearly been attached, and the destruction of their parents had obviously wounded them in some way.

Another thing Tammy simply can't understand.

“Do you want to help me find a place to put it?” Sunny asks, and with a blink Tammy focuses on them again.

“No.”

“Oh…” Sunny pauses, and then after a few seconds says, “ will you help me find a place to put it?”

“I suppose,” it answers - and when, after a cheer of joy, Sunny reaches for its wrist again, Tammy pulls it away.

“I can follow on my own,” it says pointedly - and, chagrined, Sunny nods.

“C'mon then!” 

---

Finding a place for the painting turns out to be a much harder ask than Tammy expected. Every one of the walls in Sunny's tiny cabin is already filled to the brim with pictures - almost all of them clearly of their family.

Sunny with Peep - Sunny with Precious - Sunny with them both, their siblings that Tammy has met a time or two. Sunny with people and spirits Tammy doesn't recognize - a redheaded man, a human who looks a lot like Sunny, a tall bird-like spirit who seems caught between the form of a crow and something entirely more humanoid.

As Sunny gives up on Tammy's help and simply slaps the painting in the first appropriately sized spot they find, Tammy finds itself drawn to a picture of Sunny and the red-headed man.

It knows it has never met him - but there is something about him that is very familiar. As if it should know him.

“That's my dad,” Sunny says, after they've angled the painting just right, “his name was Keet. Spirits knew him as Lust.” They pause, and Tammy digests the information - coming to the same understanding just as Sunny continues, “they were siblings, you know.”

“Siblings isn't quite the right term,” Tammy answers, “more like…two pieces to the same puzzle.”

“What's the difference?”

Tammy thinks there's a vast difference - but it doesn't say as much. Instead it only shrugs.

“I met them once, you know,” Sunny says, “your parents. Your dad, mostly - by the time Greed showed up, Fay was sending me away. He was kind of a strange guy, though. You know, you look a lot -”

“Sunny.”

“Huh?”

“I don't care,” Tammy tells them, and that clearly catches them off-guard. Their mouth snaps shut, although only for a second.

“O-oh. Sorry.” Another beat of quiet, and then more carefully they say, “Really? I can't get enough stories about my parents…don't you miss them?”

“I never knew them,” Tammy points out, “why would I miss them?”

“They were your parents.”

“I never knew them,” it repeats, “they may have had a hand in my creation, but that's as much as I have ever known. There's no point in wasting energy on thinking about them.”

Sunny doesn't seem to have anything to say to that. Tammy takes another long look around the room, and then turns back to Sunny.

“You should organize your walls better,” it says, “Also - I'm still hungry. I'm going to go back now, to eat and then return home.”

“Do you have to kill the humans you eat?” Sunny asks, seeming to shift topics with great reluctance.

“No,” Tammy says with another shrug - and then they pull open the veil, and return to the village. 

Chapter 58: Soothing

Notes:

CW: Blood drinking, more or less smut.

The thirst makes Hazel's head pound. Makes his heart race. Every single sound their blood makes as it moves through their veins is crystal clear - and with each flutter and woosh, Hazel's saliva thickens a little more.

Fleece is watching him from their place perched above him on the couch - their gaze empty and indecipherable. Much calmer, Hazel thinks, then he would be in their position - with their legs spread on either side of Hazel, and notably pantsless.

Not entirely naked, though, at least. Not that their boxers stop his gaze from wandering - briefly, only, little flickers of his eyes only long enough for him to realize what he's doing and look just as quickly away.

“Well?” Fleece asks - and Hazel swallows. He still doesn't believe that they'd proposition themself like this - and at any moment, he expects them to retract the offer. Whether that would be with words or with violence, it's impossible for Hazel to guess. But knowing Fleece, they'll move when he least expects it - when he's so near to feeding that the interruption will only make the hunger worse.

But Hazel is already starving, and Fleece hasn't stopped him yet. They only sit there, half-bare and watching with cold expectation. And so, with slow and careful movements, Hazel leans forward.

He rests his hands on their knees to brace himself - his touch as light as he can make it, not daring to tighten his hold even for stability. He leans closer - and it's impossible to ignore their heat. Already noticeable against Hazel's own frigid skin at any other time, this close to their groin it is practically a furnace.

Impossible to ignore - but easy enough to brush to the side as Hazel licks a quick, curious stripe against the skin of their thigh. With that taste alone, his thirst becomes desperate - and it takes every single bit of his willpower not to lunge forward and bite with bruising, eager force.

One wrong move will stop them, he knows. One single action out of place and they will not only send him away they will likely hurt him as they do - and any chance there was of them ever offering again will be gone. He can't risk it. He won't risk it. His whole body shakes with the exertion of self-control.

Hazel angles his mouth over their skin, and sinks his teeth with agonizing care into the meat of Fleece's thigh. There is no helping the pinch, he knows - or the pain as his teeth snap through skin and slip into muscle. But if it bothers Fleece, they don't let it show - they don't so much as twitch as Hazel sinks his teeth in up to his gums.

Their blood trickles around his fangs and dribbles into his mouth - and every one of Hazel's nerves surges with warmth and satisfaction. All at once, the rest is forgotten - the risk, the fear, the hesitation, the very source of his meal - and with an exhale of contentment, Hazel relaxes against the front of the couch, and he drinks.

His eyes flutter half-closed, and the world slowly narrows around him - until it is nothing but the smacking, moist sound of his own suckling and the warm dribble of blood down his gullet.

Fleece brushes a hand across Hazel's cheek, and he jolts - but the surprise lasts only a heartbeat, only so long as it takes for another trickle of blood to touch his tongue.

Every muscle relaxes, his own heart rate slows. Fleece's fingers stroke lightly through his hair, and Hazel can't help but lean into their touch. There's a distant, distant part of him that complains and recoils - but Hazel is far too comfortable to listen.

He has no idea how long he half-lays there, knees on the floor and torso pressed to the couch. How long he suckles for, a hunger he hasn't been allowed to fully sate in years finally easing. Time passes without his notice - until he couldn't be half sure where he even is anymore.

The fingers combing through his hair suddenly tighten - sharpened nails dig into his scalp. Hazel winces - but when Fleece tugs at him, he reluctantly unlatches and lets them pull him from their skin. Easier, now that he's full nearly to satiety - he could have gone on drinking, but only in excess.

They pull his head back a bit further, until he's looking up at them - at least, as best he can, considering their face swims and warps in his otherwise narrowed vision. He groans, lightly, against a slight wave of dizziness - but even through his blood-drunk lenses, he can see their mouth curl.

“You've made a mess,” they say. Their free hand moves towards him, their thumb brushes beneath his lip, smearing through thickening blood. And when they slip their finger between his lips, he suckles at it without thought - tempted by the sharp taste of even this rapidly cooling remnant.

And then they tug at him, fingers curling tight beneath his chin - and Hazel follows their pull, hands pushing into the cushions as he rises on his knees, lifting himself towards Fleece.

Fleece leans into the rest of the distance - and their mouth covers Hazel's. Their tongue slips between his lips - seeking and licking as they taste their own blood. Hazel doesn't bother to fight them - doesn't even think to try - and all along their fingers slip down his arms and pull at him more firmly.

The world tilts and spins - and somewhere along the way Hazel makes it all the way onto the couch. Ends up on his back, with Fleece's body laid across him, the space between his legs heavy with the press of their groin.

Hazel struggles a little, then - a fuzzy warning in the back of his head - but all he can seem to manage is a weak wiggle beneath their weight. Writhing, even, when their mouth slips from his and their teeth trail down his throat with quick, sharp bites.

He tries to voice a complaint - but all he hears is a groan, and in answer Fleece's teasing hush.

Their teeth sink into his shoulder.

And it's snippets, then - each more uncomfortable than the last. Their claws tickling up his sides, their palms slipping beneath his binder. Their fingers peeling aside his clothes, bit by bit - until the fabric of their own rubs against Hazel's bare skin.

Their hands at his chest, none-too-gentle as they squeeze and squish and knead. The moist warmth of their breath as they take him into their mouth - suckling, mawing, painting his chest and breasts with the hot slick of their saliva.

And then they bite him - for a moment, the pain is enough to clear his head. Hazel yelps, and tries in earnest to rip himself away from them - but their jaws tighten, and their claws sink into his sides, and they hold him trapped beneath them with little effort. Releasing him only long enough to shift and bite into his other breast.

And it continues this way, for a while - until Hazel's meal catches up with him fully, all but putting him to sleep, and Fleece gets tired of his weakening reactions.

And in the end, Fleece is left with one small bite to their thigh and a bit of blood loss hardly noticed - and Hazel barely an inch of skin not marked by their fangs.

Notes:

Started strong, ended weak
Man whatever

Chapter 59: Companions

Notes:

Do you see my vision

She returned as a baby, this time.

She doesn't always. The spirit that sustains her - something made of a lingering bit of Pride and a much lesser spirit who had been strong enough to survive the Collapse - isn't picky about its next host. It seems to make its choices on a whim - based on boredom, perhaps, or interest in a life it hasn't yet lived.

Tammy supposes it can understand - if it was forced into a cycle of never-ending reincarnation, it supposes it might choose to do the same. Still, it's rather inconvenient for Tammy, when she starts so young - it must wait, then, for her to grow old enough to be any good at conversation.

It doesn't pay her much mind, this life, until it realizes one day that she must be an adult by now. And when it seeks her out, it proves itself right - finding her cloistered away in a convent.

The dragon-like serpent seems out of place in the veil behind the short little nun - but as she turns pale brown eyes shadowed by a long habit in Tammy's direction, she makes a convincing picture of innocence and piety.

“What God are you serving?” Tammy asks, settling on a wall as it looks down at her. After a moment, she smiles - a soft, small thing that nevertheless reaches her eyes.

“As far as the humans are concerned, I serve the only God in existence.” She reaches for the stone wall, and with a show of brief inhuman ability climbs it, coming to sit next to Tammy. “But none, obviously. I only wanted to see what it's like - I've never been a nun before.”

“And what name have you chosen for yourself, this time?”

“Well, it was Bream,” she answers - and Tammy files that away. Bream, a type of fish - although it doubts the humans have made it as far as naming it, yet. “But as a nun, I've been named Sister Brianna.”

“Bream suits you more.”

“It does,” she agrees, “but that's alright. I'm the one who wanted to give this a try - I suppose I can't complain.”

Tammy nods, and a companionable quiet falls between them. After a bit, Tammy begins to trail its finger along the stone - idly tracing the invisible outline of a man.

“Do you ever think about how strange it is?” Bream asks, and with a blink Tammy looks over at her. When it doesn't respond, she continues, “that humans would just invent themselves again, almost exactly as they did the first time. The same structures, the same beliefs, down to the same names for most things.”

“Perhaps it's a sort of reincarnation of its own,” Tammy offers, “or a generational, collective memory. The two worlds are entangled, after all, and neither was entirely destroyed. Maybe it's the spirits who remember, and thus are influencing the human world.”

“You've thought it through, huh?”

“No, not until just this moment. But any of the theories would be sound.”

“Still…” But whatever further thoughts Bream might have are at that moment interrupted as another nun walks by. She has her nose buried in a Bible, and doesn't notice either of them - but Bream perks up, and states as the other nun passes them

“Sister Ann,” Bream sighs in pleasure, once the other has passed entirely, “she doesn't look it, but she's one feisty roll in the hay, if you catch my meaning.”

“I don't,” Tammy says, “what do you mean?”

Bream looks at it, blinks once - and then laughs. A soft, brief sound that ends with a wide smile and a dismissive wave of her hand.

“Nevermind. No offense, but I know you wouldn't get it.”

And Tammy doesn't feel a bit of offense at all - Bream did not often shy away from speaking her mind, or telling Tammy things in great and often exhaustive detail. And so, if she didn't believe it worth the time to explain, then it likely wasn't.

“But, I'm going to catch up with her,” Bream says, slipping from the wall. She looks up at Tammy, tilting her head, and adds, “you won't be a stranger now, will you? I've been waiting for you to show up for years.”

“You weren't interesting yet,” Tammy says with a shrug, “but yes, I'll return. I'd like to hear more about what it's like to be a nun.”

“I'll save you all the best stories, then,” Bream says with another lingering smile. Then, she turns, and with a farewell wave she jogs to catch up to the other nun. Tammy can only just see Bream throw a familiar arm over Ann's shoulders - and then, shortly after, they take a turn out of a view.

Filing the moment into its vast catalog of memories, Tammy slips from the stone wall, and cuts a path towards home.

Chapter 60: Warrior Cats is so Middle School...Haha unless?

Notes:

CW: Animal Death

From where they rest slung across a tree branch, Fleece spots a cat standing at the edge of the road. Their ears flick in its direction, and they lift their head from where it'd been resting on their paws.

Animals of all sorts - other cats included - crossed the road often. Usually successfully, more than occasionally not. But this cat is a strange sight so far from human settlements. It is well-fed, its fur is thick and soft, and the brightly colored collar around its neck jingles with every move.

A house cat, clearly far from home. And just as clearly lost - given the way it looks at the road as if it might bite if the cat approaches it too quickly.

Fleece sees its first mistake long before it happens - the house cat slinks slowly onto the road, its belly brushing the ground as it crawls hesitantly forward. Going far too slow if it hopes to cross the road before the next car comes.

Which Fleece both hears and smells before they see it - the air fills with the telltale roar, and as the ground undoubtedly shakes beneath the house cat's paws, the cat stiffens, its folded ears pressing even closer to its head.

And then the car crests the horizon - barreling quickly towards where the house cat sits. If it turns now, it'll make it back to safety. If it runs quickly enough, it will likely make it to the other side. Fleece knows it won't - they fully expect the other cat to stay crouched in fear, and be smeared across the road.

What they don't expect, however, is for the cat to suddenly stand. Its fur bristles, it raises its head, and as the car plows ever closer the house cat yowls -

“Stop! I get to cross first, thank you very much!”

Fleece stands, and they stare, and they think that there is no possible way this little idiot thinks his command is going to work - except he keeps standing there. Glaring. Bristling. And of course the car only rumbles closer because it's a car. And of course they fully expected to see the house cat flattened but they hadn't expected him to stare down the beast that did it -

Except, all at once the house cat seems to realize his command hadn't been heeded. With a terrified yowl, he leaps forward with an impressive burst of speed - but it's already too late. The car screeches, seeming to see the other cat at the same time - but it hits the house cat all the same. There's a pain-filled, desperate yowl - and the car drives away, leaving the cat lying in the road.

Fleece leaps down from their perch - and after carefully testing the air and listening for any further cars, they pad out into the road.

The cat lies nearer to them then not - his rear end near unrecognizable. But he isn't dead, not yet - instead he is clawing desperately at the ground as if to drag himself away, caterwauling so loudly Fleece wonders what sort of damage he's doing to his throat. Fleece comes to a stop just in front of the house cat, tilting their head as they look down at the ruined soon-to-be-carcass

“That was the stupidest thing I've ever seen a cat do,” they meow, “and considering my littermates, I've seen a lot of stupid things.”

The house cat doesn't respond to them - he doesn't even look at them. He is too caught in his pain to even know they're there. His eyes stare unseeing and he only continues to wail, his scrabbling turning to violent seizing. Fleece flicks their ears back as the sound pierces the air.

If the injury doesn't kill the other cat quickly, the shock will - he's unlikely to survive more than a few minutes like this. But in that time his cries might call any number of predators to the area - and, more importantly, the incessant screeching is hurting their ears.

And so, with a soft huff, they lean down. It takes a few seconds to burrow their way through the house cat's thick fur, but as soon as they feel his neck at their maw they sink their teeth into his flesh and nip through his spinal cord.

The house cat goes almost immediately still, his last desperate wail echoing across the pavement. Wondering over the stupidity of naive house cats, Fleece flicks their tail and turns away - padding across the pavement towards the relative safety of the forest beyond.

But they haven't even touched grass yet when a voice barks from behind them -

“You got your spit on my fur!”

Startled despite themself, Fleece looks over their shoulder - and then turns entirely when they see the very same house cat push himself up from the road and shake out his fur. Many of the thick hairs are stained and matted with blood and pavement residue - but the cat seems otherwise fully intact, legs and tail once more where nothing but gore had been only a minute ago.

“I can't even - reach that spot -” the cat grunts, contorting as he tries to lick at the still wet spot at his neck. “Who do you think you are? Who gave you the right to put your nasty mouth on me?”

Fleece…isn't at all sure what to think. They have never once been prone to dreams or delusions - but they can't help but wonder, now, if this is some sort of dream and they are somewhere sleeping off a bad sickness.

But there's a rumble, a fresh scent - and there isn't time to think about it just now. With a huff, they hop back out into the road and bundle up behind the cat, nipping at his shoulder as they say -

“Get out of the road, idiot. Unless you're looking to get hit again.”

“Back off,” the house cat snaps, aiming a bite at their face - which Fleece returns with a swipe of their claws. The house cat recoils, small beads of blood welling from the thin slashes - and Fleece shoves at him with their head.

“Just go, would you?”

And for a heartbeat the cat digs his claws in - but then the car appears over the horizon and he finally seems to understand. Fleece follows as the house cat all but leaps across the last bit of pavement - and then hurries deeper into the forest, stopping only when Fleece thrusts themself in front of him with their teeth bared.

The house cat screeches to a halt, his fur bristling - but Fleece only sits on their haunches, letting their lips once more lay flat as they study the cat in front of them.

“How did you do that?” They ask.

“Do what?”

“You were dead,” they tell him, flicking their ears, “you were flattened by that car and I finished you off - and now you're standing here as if none of that happened at all. How?”

“I wasn't dead,” the house cat retorts, “what are you talking about?”

“You were hit by a car,” Fleece repeats, slowly, in case the house cat has trouble comprehending speech - but he only snorts, lifting his head a little higher.

“Was not. It missed me entirely.”

And Fleece can't be sure if the cat is stupid, if his memory has been wiped in the process of whatever had happened, or if he was that badly in denial - but they decide it doesn't matter. They know what happened, and knowing how was more important than convincing this cat it had happened at all.

“Are you one of those clan cats?” They ask, stepping closer as they thoroughly scent him. The cat recoils from them, eyes narrowing - but Fleece pays him no mind. He smells a bit of dirt and grass - but mostly of humans. Like stale air and dried kibble and strange, thick sweetness -

“No,” they answer before he can, “you aren't. You can't be.”

“Clan cat?” He asks.

“They say clan leaders have nine lives,” Fleece says - something they've never been sure if they believed or not. They had certainly heard convincing stories, but it had always seemed a stretch - until now, at least.

But even if such a thing were possible, they don't understand how a house cat would come to have more than one life. They flick their tail again, shoving their nose into his fur to give another sniff - thinking there must be something they're missing.

“Get away from me,” he snaps, suddenly, and he pulls himself away from them. “I don't know what you're going on about - but I don't want anything to do with it. I'm leaving.” And he turns and starts padding away to do just that.

Fleece watches him go, thinking it over in their mind - and just before he slips from sight, they call -

“Off to find another car to step in front of?”

“No,” the cat answers, his own bushy tail flicking in irritation, “ I'm going to find some humans to feed me. It's been too long since my last meal.”

“Good luck with that. Humans don't like grungy strays with fleas, you know.”

“I don't have fleas!” He yelps, and he immediately stops to sit and curl in on himself, licking and nipping desperately at his fur and skin as if to find any hint of the things.

A small huff of a laugh escapes Fleece - and they decide that he's awfully funny, for a house cat. But more importantly, they don't yet know how he came back to life - and they aren't interested in letting him trot off before they figure it out. With a slight leap, they make their way back to his side.

“Why don't you stick with me?” They purr, brushing against his side, “I'll help you find a warm meal.”

“I don't like my food warm,” he answers uncertainly, pausing with his tongue still halfway out of his mouth. He straightens, tail flicking, and just then his stomach grumbles in complaint. “But…fine. Show me where I can get some food. But stop saying weird stuff.”

Pointedly, he stands and steps away from them. Just as pointedly, Fleece sidles forward and presses once more to his side.

“And I'm going with the first humans we see,” the house cat adds.

“Whatever you say, champ,” Fleece says.

“Hazel. My name is Hazel,” the house cat tells them, "not 'champ.'"

“Fleece,” they answer with a light purr. 

Chapter 61: The Life and Times of An Echo - Part One

Its progenitors breathe their last tangled breath - and Tammy is born. 

It comes into the world as an infant - as weak and helpless as any purebred human. 

And like any other human, it feels hunger. Fear. Loneliness. Confusion. It cries, like it is supposed to, but no one comes. It weakens, and its hunger grows, and it cries louder - but no one comes. 

A day passes. Two. Deep in its soul, Tammy knows it cannot survive this way. 

And so, it simply ages. Four years pass in a heartbeat’s whim and just like that Tammy can walk. Talk. Think. It needs food, and shelter, and now it can find that on its own. 

Not that it knows where to go looking - but there is something in its soul that tugs at it. Calls for it - and Tammy hasn't a clue what the feeling is but it follows it anyway. 

And Tammy comes to a church. 

The church is made of crumbling brick - its exterior is covered in vines and moss and many, many insects. It takes Tammy great effort to shove open the old, rusted doors - and as it does, the scent of moisture and rot almost smothers it. 

Tammy gets the impression that this church was abandoned long before the relatively recent fall of humankind. 

Still, it is a shelter, Tammy supposes - but there isn't any food to be found. It doubts any of the vegetation is edible - but even if it is, Tammy hasn't a clue how to pick it out. It makes a mental note to learn more - to find information on foraging - but at the moment, it is at a loss. 

Still, something had brought it here - something feels at peace, here. And so it decides to stay, at least for the moment, while it figures out what happens now. 

It crawls up onto one of the old, worn-out benches and scoots back until its feet hang just off the edge. It studies the church with more interest - and it notes that, despite the obvious rot, it almost seems as if the inside has been cared for. The vegetation is cut back, absent entirely from the aisle and the raised dais of the altar. There is some dust - but not as much as it would expect. There is even a book - a bible, its mind helpfully provides - and the skin on it looks almost new. 

Amber-gold light shines on the altar, and Tammy follows it to a great piece of stained glass inset in the wall. There is a fracture in it - a missing shard - and the glass is worn with age. Still, the sunlight makes an impressive show as it passes through. 

There is a shift in the air, and in a blink a woman appears at the altar. She stands in the very middle of that warm beam of sunlight - and for a moment, she glows. 

She is draped in a flowing, pure-white dress - and a pair of cream-colored, feathered wings are folded neatly against her back. Her hair is blonde - soft, pale, and twisted into a neat bun on her head. Above which is a ring of golden light, almost too bright to look at - which doesn't quite touch her but seems, instead, to hover almost as if by magic. 

There is a soft smile on her face - warm, inviting, and aimed at nothing in particular. She has not noticed Tammy - and doesn't for a few minutes more. 

Instead, she immediately begins to busy herself. With a small cloth she pulls from her dress, she carefully wipes at the Bible and the pillar it sits on. She crosses to the edge of the platform and leans down to snip away a few wayward vines creeping up the alabaster. She summons a broom from seemingly nowhere, and sets to work sweeping the floor - the dust vanishing into nothing as she swipes it up into the air.

Tammy watches her every move - and as it does, its chest begins to ache with an emotion that doesn't really belong to it. Frowning, it rubs at its breastbone - trying to ease the pain away. 

The woman turns towards the aisle and takes a step down the stairs - and that is when her gaze finally catches Tammy's. With a soft, surprised “oh!” she pauses. 

“Goodness,” She says once she recovers. She sets her broom aside and continues down the row of benches, coming to a stop near where Tammy sits. “Hello there, sweetheart. Where on earth did you come from?” 

It's a difficult question, and Tammy isn't entirely sure what she means. Does she want to know how it was made? Or is her question a more literal one? Its mouth twists down as it considers - and after a few seconds it offers with a gesture towards the door - 

“From outside.”

The woman's brow furrows, but the smile on her face persists. She slips into the space between the benches and settles into the spot next to Tammy. 

“I see - and where are your parents, honey? Oh, they must be worried sick about you.” 

“They're aren't,” Tammy answers, once more laying its hand against its chest, “they don't talk much - only sometimes. Usually when I'm asleep.”

It's obvious the woman doesn't understand - she finally frowns, a little, and she lays a worried hand on Tammy's shoulder. Tammy doesn't much like the contact - its skin crawls beneath her hand - but for some reason, it doesn't reach up to brush her away. Especially not once it gets a good look at her face - at her suddenly wide eyes, her sudden expression of disbelief. There's a soft tremor in her hand. 

“Who are you?” She asks, her voice all at once soft and unsure.

“My name is Tammy,” it answers, picking at a wayward strand it finds on its shorts, “and you are…” It pauses, considers, and then offers, “my grandmother, I guess.”

The woman's breath catches, her fingers sink tight into Tammy's shoulder. Almost immediately her eyes grow moist - and at the show of emotion, Tammy looks away, kicking its feet as it waits. 

“I can feel him,” the woman finally says, her voice wavering badly as she speaks, “in your soul - part of you - oh. Oh, I can hardly believe -”

“You're upset,” Tammy says, brow furrowing, “I wasn't trying to upset you.”

She doesn't immediately respond, but she doesn't pull away either - and after a long, lingering moment she moves her hand to lay it on Tammy's head, instead. This time its hand twitches, and it nearly reaches up to bat her away - but it doesn't, in the end. 

“A few days ago, I thought he was lost to me forever. But here…” She pauses, looks away, and uses her free hand to wipe at her face. She takes a long, deep breath - it shakes badly in her chest - and after she's taken a few more she offers, “he never wanted children.”

“I wasn't born like normal humans are,” Tammy points out - and it doesn't really understand the woman's soft laugh. 

“No, I can see that.” Another pause. “You haven't upset me, love - I only - Oh! Just listen to me ramble!” She stands, suddenly, and pulls her hand away as she continues, “Going on and on to a child! My grandbaby, at that - who seems in need of a good meal and a bath, by the looks of things. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Who on earth has been caring for you?” 

“I have.”

“You - no, no, that won't do. That won't do at all. You need someone to look after you - you need food and a home and someone to teach you your letters and oh. Oh!” She frets and wrings her hands, looking around as if she might find all the answers in the broken down little church. “I can't believe you've been alive all these years and I hadn't a clue!” 

“It's only been a few days.”

“Hm?”

“I've only been alive a few days,” Tammy explains, “I was a baby, but no one was helping me so I grew up some. So I could help myself.”

The woman stares, again - once more drawn into silence by something Tammy has said. It doesn't understand how that keeps happening when it's only telling her the truth - but it waits, patiently, until she finally shakes her head. 

“Of course. You're something special, aren't you?” She takes another breath, and then crouches beside Tammy. “Maybe you should come with me. To Heaven. I'm sure you'd be able to - and you could meet your grandfather. Your aunts and uncles. You could be safe -” 

“There's a lot to see here, still,” Tammy says, looking over its shoulder at the door, “I don't even know this world yet. I'm not ready to leave it.”

“You're only a babe,” She says quietly, and then with a little more surety, “then I'll help you find someone to look after you. Someone who can adopt you. After all this world has been through, there must be parents in need of the comfort of a child -”

“I don't want parents. I just want to be."

Once more, that seems to catch her off-guard - and Tammy huffs a breath through its nose at yet another misstep. This time, though, it understands after a minute - and it tilts its head. 

“You don't have to worry. You're right, it will be hard as a child - so I'll grow up more. I'll become an adult. Then I can do whatever I please.”

The woman doesn't answer, at first - but then she finally stands again. Without a word, she reaches behind her - and plucks a feather from her wing. As she pulls it away, it glows - and it changes - and as she holds it towards Tammy she looks at it with just as much curiosity as it does. 

In her palm sits a beaded chain, a cross nestled in its center - and she lets out a short, surprised laugh. 

“A rosary. I suppose it's fitting.” She reaches down to take Tammy's hand, and winds the rosary around it a few times before folding Tammy's fingers over it. 

“You keep this with you, no matter what. That way I can look after you properly, and you will always keep me with you. Okay?” 

“Yes ma'am,” Tammy says - even if they think it's a strange ask, it seems simple enough, and obviously important to her

“Grandma, or grandmother,” she corrects - and then, after a heartbeat, she adds with a smile, “or Bonnie, if you'd prefer. But no formalities, please.” Tammy nods, and Bonnie holds out her hand. 

“Now, at least let me help you find something to eat. While you're still small enough to be helped, hm?” 

And Tammy doesn't have to be small for a moment more, if it doesn't want to - and it considers aging then and there. But Bonnie's smile is welcoming, and so is her hand - and even if it doesn't entirely understand why, Tammy finds itself nodding. 

It slips from the bench, takes its grandmother's hand, and follows her as she leads it out of the church. 

Chapter 62: Minnow

Hazel's father owned the country's largest fishing and shipping company - and the constant flow of goods meant that their family had very well-lined pockets.

Even still, his father made a habit of going down to their city's docks, day in and day out - claiming that it was only right that he knew every person who worked for him, from the financial mongals down to the lowliest shiphands.

Well, Hazel's father never actually used the word lowly - but even at a young age, Hazel was able to fill it in himself.

Sometimes, his father wanted to take Hazel with him. He said it was good for Hazel's character, that it was important if Hazel was to be in his place one day, that it was an excuse to give his mother some peace and quiet - Hazel's father had a lot of reasons.

But Hazel didn't like the docks - it smelled like fish and alcohol, and it was crawling with people. Most of whom were filthy - sweaty dock workers who spit wherever they liked, muddy children running barefoot along the cobble, women of ill repute in ragged cloth or barely any cloth at all. There were even pickpockets and thieves - and although his father kept them mostly safe, Hazel had once lost a precious gold coin from his pocket.

And so most of the time Hazel refused, and most of the time his father relented - but every now and then he insisted with something almost like force, and wouldn't be swayed by tears or tantrum.

Today was one of those days.

The wharf was gray and dreary - heavy clouds sat low in the sky and threatened a downpour at any moment. That, at least, thinned the crowd a little - there were still plenty of working hands, but the whores and children seemed less inclined to get wet.

Without the usual crowd, Hazel feels a little bolder - he doesn't walk with his hand buried in the fabric of his father's pant leg or clasped in his hand. And when his father stops to talk to a group of workers, Hazel lingers only for a minute - and then he wanders away.

He doesn't plan on going far, really - he finds a quieter section of dock to walk along, leaving a straight path back to his father. Hazel can even see him, when he looks back. His father is caught in conversation, and hasn't yet even noticed that Hazel isn't there.

It won't be long, Hazel knows - but he takes the chance to explore while he can.

Along the water, the dock is framed by posts and rope - enough to keep wayward children from falling in on accident, if not enough to stop one from climbing through on purpose. Hazel stays away from it, himself - there are any number of bugs and spider webs coating the heavy twine, and he can see the water just fine from where he is, thank you.

Not that it's much to look at. The water is still, smooth, and as gray and murky as the sky. Here and there, Hazel spots a few tiny, darting fish - but even those are difficult to see through the murk, and not very interesting besides.

Hazel walks for a little while only before getting bored - but just as he's about to turn and head back, something glimmers in the corner of his eye. Curious, he turns back towards the water and tries to find it again - and he can almost just see it, something glittering even in the poor, gray light. Hazel peers closer still, as close as he can manage without touching the rope - but he can't quite make out what it is.

Suddenly, it vanishes - and a head pops out of the water. Hazel gives a soft yelp and leaps backwards - and stares wide-eyed at the visage of another child.

They tread the water with apparent ease - their arms hidden beneath the surface. They study Hazel even as be stares back at them - their pale, hazel-colored eyes empty and unreadable as they do. They tilt their head just the slightest bit, and then to Hazel's surprise, they speak.

"Sorry, did I scare you?" They ask - their voice soft, even, and not sorry at all.

"No," Hazel retorts, straightening himself and tugging briefly at his shirt. "You interrupted me. I was trying to look at something." Pressing his lips together, Hazel's brow furrows and he asks, "what are you doing in the water? Don't you know it's gross? Also, my dad says it's dangerous."

"The ocean isn't dirty," the strange child retorts, "and it isn't dangerous - at least, not for me. I live here."

"At the docks?"

"In the ocean," they respond, rolling their eyes. With a soft huff, Hazel presses his fists into his hips.

"No one lives in the ocean. You can't breathe down there."

"Maybe you can't, but I can breathe just fine underwater."

"Can not."

"Can too."

"Oh yeah? How?" Hazel retorts - and in answer, the other child tilts their neck and takes a gasping, strangely ragged gulp of air. The skin along their neck flutters - and it's quick, but Hazel realizes that they have gills. Just like a fish.

"Does that answer your question?" They ask - and for a minute, all Hazel can do is stare. The skin along their neck is once more flat and unmoving - and Hazel half-wonders if he'd seen anything at all.

"How'd you get gills?"

"I was born with them, obviously."

"What do you mean, obviously?" Hazel asks, his voice rising briefly to an embarrassing squeak. He clears his throat before continuing, "I've never seen someone with gills before. Are you a fish?"

"Uh, no? Do I look like a fish?"

"No, you look like a person. But people don't have gills. What are you?"

"Homo maresapiens," they say - and at Hazel's confused look, they add, "I think your kind call us mermaids, usually."

"Mermaids aren't real," Hazel answers immediately - and the strange child once more rolls their eyes. The water rolls as they push themself back - and from beneath the surface rises a muscular, scaled tail. Hazel's mouth drops briefly open as the water slips easily from their scales.

A lot of ships have mermaid statues at their bow - and they almost always look the same. A long-haired woman, perched high on the bow, with a long and slender tail.

This tail doesn't look like those ones at all. Their fins are longer and segmented, and their tail is covered in an assortment of spines - some long, some short, most somewhere inbetween. And unlike the boring stone of the statues, the merchild's tail is vibrant in color - covered in scales of copper, teal, and even the rare shade of orange in alternating stripes. The colors shift with every movement the merchild makes - creating a mesmerizing display not unlike oil in water.

With a soft gasp, Hazel points.

"It was you!"

"Huh?" The child - the merchild - asks, tilting their head as their tail sinks once more into the water, "what was me?"

"The shiny thing I saw in the water - it must have been your scales."

"Oh," they answer - and then they snort, "I show you proof that I'm a mermaid, and all you care about is how shiny my scales are?"

"Well - they're really pretty," Hazel says defensively - and that only brings the smirk back to the child's face.

"You like them, huh?" They say, tapping at their chin with a finger, "Well, hold on a minute," and then they vanish beneath the water. Blinking, Hazel takes a tiny step closer and peers awkwardly over the rope - but shortly after, the merchild pops back up.

They lift a hand - and sitting in their palm is one of their scales. It's mostly copper in color - but like their tail, it seems to change with every tiny movement. Deep, golden brown in one second, tinted with blue in the next. Hazel's breath catches at the sight.

"You can have one, if you want."

"Really?" Hazel asks gleefully before he can contain himself - and then he catches himself, "wait - for free?"

The merchild laughs - the sound a quick, empty huff. "Well, since you asked, it'd be nice if you gave me something back. Like a little gift exchange, you know?"

"What do you want?"

"I dunno," they answer with a blink, "but you look all fancy and junk - you must have something nice you can give me, right?"

Hazel considers, glancing away as he thinks. He didn't want to give them anything - but he did want their scale. It was gorgeous, and likely worth a fortune, and there was no way they'd just give it to him without something in return.

At least, not now. He curses himself for opening his big mouth.

"I have gold," he finally offers, "do you even use money in the ocean?"

"No. It's not bad to look at though - still, got anything else?"

Well, if they liked looking at it then Hazel thought it was a perfectly fair trade - but he doesn't bother to say as much. Instead he pokes around in his pockets - finding, deep in one, the pocket watch he'd had his father buy him a few weeks prior. It didn't actually work, yet - but it was old, and plated in real gold, and with just a little bit of trepidation Hazel tugs it free and holds it out for the merchild to see.

"What is that?"

"A pocket watch," Hazel explains, and when they give him the slightest skeptical look, he sniffs and continues, "what? It's plated in real gold. And it's nice to look at. Just because it doesn't work -"

"You wanna give me something that doesn't even work?"

"Well, it'd just die in the water anyway," Hazel says with a huff, "look, it's this or coin - that's all I've got on me."

They appear to think it over - or, at least, that's what Hazel thinks they're doing. They don't say much with their face - their gaze remains steady and blank. But, eventually, they shrug.

"Alright, I'll take the watch then."

Hazel nods, gives the watch one last wistful look, and the crouches down and shoves it across the dock. It bounces haphazardly over the wood - and plunges towards the water a little ways away from the merchild. But they're quick - and they snatch it by the chain before it goes completely under.

"You couldn't have handed it to me?"

"There's bugs all over the rope" Hazel says, nose wrinkling, "You caught it, didn't you?"

The look they level at him is brief but unamused, and then they swim backwards - only a little, but their lip twitches once more, and they curl their hand around the scale.

"Well, if you want this, you'll have to reach out and take it from me. I'm not tossing it at you."

"Oh come on, I'll catch it," Hazel says, and when they don't respond be continues, "I'd have to crawl under the rope to even reach you." Still nothing, and he's a bit pleading when he adds, "there's bugs! They'll get all over me."

"Do you want the scale or not?"

And Hazel does want it - its glimmer catches his eye again, and with a grimace Hazel looks at the rope. There's a small area seemingly free of any spider webs and a little less slimy, at least - and so bracing himself, Hazel slips forward on his hands and knees and then, when he comes to the rope, he lies flat on his belly. The merchild watches him all along, swimming a bit closer again - and once Hazel is well under the rope, he reaches out.

The merchild reaches back, and unfurls their fingers. Biting at his lip, Hazel stretches a bit further still, and then finally manages to lay his hand over their palm.

"Hey, by the way, what's your name?" The merchild asks. Taken aback, Hazel's brow furrows as he looks from their touching hands back to the merchild's face.

"Oh - I'm Hazel," he says.

"Nice to meet you, Hazel," they say, "I'm Fleece."

And then their fingers latch tight around Hazel's wrist, and they yank him from the dock.

Hazel screams - but the sound dies in his throat as salty water rushes between his lips. He chokes on it, gagging, as the merchild pulls him flush against their body. They sink beneath the surface, their fingers digging into the skin of Hazel's back as they clutch him close.

Hazel thrashes and fights - kicks and flails. His chest grows painfully tight as he struggles to breathe - every gasp and breath only drawing in more sea water. What little light he could make out through the murk dims as Fleece drags him deeper and deeper into the dark depths of the ocean. Their hold on him tightens with every second he struggles - until Hazel can hardly move at all.

Stars dance in his vision. The world's edges darken. The sea presses against his ears, his eyes, his chest - it pushes against every inch of his body, inside and out, filling every bit of him with the taste of salt. Panic grips him tightly, the knowledge that he is about to die - and he can't help a soundless, terrified cry.

The last thing he registers is a sharp, burning pinch - teeth sinking into the meaty flesh of his shoulders. Even as his head swims and he loses all sense of self, Hazel feels the pain and he gasps - sucking in one last mouthful of frigid, salty water.

And then direction loses meaning. Hazel's body loses feeling. And the world goes black.

---

The next thing Hazel feels is the choking burn of bitter bile and salt. He gags on it, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe - and then, finally, there's a tiny catch of air and the liquid expels violently from his lungs.

He hacks, coughs, vomits - and all along hands help him. They sit him up, lean him over, and pat hard at his back. Something drips from his ears - and with a soft pop, sound filters through.

" - zel! Hazel! Oh thank God - that's right sweetheart, get it out. Keep coughing. Deep breaths now - there you are. There you are. You're alright. I've got you."

His father. It's his hands on Hazel, his palm striking hard against Hazel's back. There's hard wood beneath him, gray sunlight above him - somehow, he'd gotten free. Somehow, he'd ended up back on land.

Hazel tries to speak to his father - to call his name - but each breath catches as badly as the last, gurgling on the water still trapped deep in his lungs.

"Oh Hazel. Oh my - thank God. Thank God." His father is babbling - crying - and he all at once clutches Hazel close, arms almost uncomfortably tight around Hazel's torso.

"Dad -" he tries again, but his voice scratches at his throat, and another spasm interrupts him, sending him into a fresh coughing fit. His father makes a pained sort of noise, and he loosens his grip just enough to rub and pat at Hazel's back.

"You ought to take him to an Apothecary, boss," someone says - one of the workers, many of whom, Hazel realizes, are standing in a circle around them. "I seen a lot of men and tots die hours - even days - after being pulled from the sea. Even if he's breathing now, he might stop again later."

"Y-yes," Hazel's father stammers - and then he stands, pulling Hazel up into his arms as he does. The world tilts violently - and with another ragged cough, Hazel wraps his arms around his father's neck and closes his eyes.

"Who - who would you recommend?"

"C'mon with me - I'll take you to our own. She knows her way around a drowning."

Without another word, Hazel's father begins to walk - one hand still rubbing across Hazel's back. Every movement seems to agitate Hazel's lungs - and every cough makes him feel a little weaker. A little more tired. Soon exhausted - the coughs barely enough to make his lungs flutter.

As he lays limply against his father - the world swaying with every step - Hazel slowly registers the feeling of something digging into his thigh. He doesn't have the space - or energy - to push his hand into his pocket. But he lays his palm over it - and even through the heavy, wet fabric of his pants, Hazel can feel something small and hard.

Even without looking, he knows it must be Fleece's scale.

Chapter 63: The Platform

Notes:

Metaphysical shenanigans are Sooo hard

Claws pin Hazel to the floor. A ragged, abdominal mouth splits open above him - hot, slick drool pools across his body. His disgust is quickly forgotten, though, when wickedly sharp teeth burrow into his gut. Hazel screams. He fights. His hands shove into the bone of their head and the fur of their body. His feet thrash and kick - colliding with the heft of their form, but doing nothing to stop them. As they slowly feast their way through his middle, his pushing becomes grasping. Holding. Their presence is strangely grounding as the edges of the world close in and Hazel's body goes numb. They are the monster who devours him - and they are the last thing he feels beneath his palms.

Blood oozes and gurgles from the wound in their chest. It trickles over their coat, over Hazel's arms, down into the dirt. They stare up at him, pale eyes locked onto blue, and as he looks down at them Hazel urges them to live. But no matter how much he demands, their body grows cold and stiff. Impossibly heavy across his forearms. Eventually they take one last shallow breath, their gaze passes through him - distant and blank - and Hazel knows they are gone. He clenches his jaw, curls his arms, and presses them to his chest in the hopes that maybe he can yet coax them back to life.

Hazel has been sliced from throat to navel - and he lays in a pool of his own blood and viscera. His chest catches with each painful attempt at breathing - he writhes upon the floor. They stand above him - pale gaze impassionate and unreadable as they watch him die. The sight of them fills his vision - and he knows they will be the last thing he ever sees. But then, on a whim, they save him - their frigid touch the first thing he feels when sensation bleeds back into his body.

Hazel sits in a hospital - older, but not old enough - with his palms resting on cold, white sheets. Their hand is only centimeters away - he could touch it, if he wanted to. They would never even know. The doctors say they won't wake - that it would be kinder to let them go. Hazel says those quacks are wrong - and with a swallow, covers their hand with his.

They change him, morph him, ascend him into a reflection of who they are. What they represent. And Hazel relishes in newfound life, newfound powers, the little tastes of unquestioned power they offer. And this time, Hazel lives forever. They both do. Or, at least, they live until the worlds collapse.

Hazel reaches for them, over and over again - sometimes snatching them from the jaws of death, but often failing to save them. And as he watches them die - dozens of times over - the force of his grief and determination rewinds the clock, and he creates the chance to try again.

A sharp, narrow blade lodges into Hazel's chest. The pain is immediate and searing - and what starts as a trickle of blood soon becomes a gush. With a grunt, Hazel falls - his only thought that at least he had protected them.

The bracelet burns in his hands - the metal hot enough to melt. He can feel them within - furious at being trapped - and any thought of gold or glory leaves him as he snaps the band in two.

Claws dig into his side, and as they drag him beneath the water his sight goes dark. Teeth sink into his flesh - and when he screams, they only hold him tighter.

They never cared to try their own supply - except one time they do. And all Hazel can do is hold them as they choke on their own bile.

Their blood coats his mouth, as does something bitter - and Hazel dissolves from the inside out.

His hands wrap tight around their throat.

Their fingers find his neck.

They kill each other.

They die together.

Fleece dies.

Hazel lives.

They live.

He dies.

---

The end of the world is a train yard.

Dozens of engines. Hundreds of cars. Thousands of tracks stretching to the horizon and beyond. A short, gilded commuter train rattles by on rusted steel. A freight train glides in the distance, its cars seeming to never end. Engines sit idle, carriages lay forgotten - and the air is filled with the sound of rumbling metal and piercing whistles.

Instinct drives Hazel forward.

With each step he can feel himself shift and change. He is human, then spirit. Nobility, then pauper. Beast, then child. He soars through the sky, runs along a wooded path, swims to the deepest depths - and takes a rocket to the farthest. He is a man and a girl. A woman and a boy.

He is…Hazel.

With that thought, his mind settles. The chaos clears. What he looks like doesn't matter - who he is has never changed.

His destination is a singular, worn-down, abandoned boxcar sitting on a set of truncated, rusted tracks. And it appears, suddenly, just in front of him.

Fleece is sitting in its open doorway, their feet dangling over the side.

At first glance, they are as much a myriad as Hazel himself. Demon. Human. Man. Beast. Monarch. Peasant. Alive. Dead.

But it doesn't take much effort for Hazel to push all of that away, too.

Their physical form doesn't matter. It's Fleece, and they are there. Because of course they are.

Their eyes meet Hazel's, and they watch him approach. He climbs up into the car and sits carefully beside them, his own feet left to kick over the edge next to theirs.

"Took you long enough," they say after a few seconds.

"I'm sorry," Hazel answers with a scoff, not sorry at all, "did I keep you waiting?"

"Me? Nah. I only just got here," they answer. A heartbeat passes - and Hazel laughs.

There's a brief, sudden jolt as the boxcar starts to move. It is stuttering, at first - slow and lurching - but as it goes, the ride begins to both quicken and smooth.

"Where are we going?" Hazel asks, more curious than anything else.

"I know as much as you do, pal. And I'm assuming you don't have any bright ideas either."

"No," Hazel agrees, at first, but then he adds, "it's the end, I think."

"Yeah, I guess so."

Quiet stretches between them as the boxcar picks up speed. The world in front of them starts to blend and shift. Trains and tracks give way to colors give way to a gray that stretches on forever.

Hazel's edges start to loosen.

"It's been fun though, hasn't it?" Fleece eventually asks, and when Hazel looks to his side he finds their hand outstretched. They watch him, expectantly, and Hazel nods.

"Yeah. It's been fun," he agrees, and then he clasps their hand in his.

Immediately, he is flooded with a thousand memories. Hundreds of lifetimes and every moment they hold inside them. The living, and the death. The killing, and the sacrifices. The pinch of cold steel - the warmth of searching lips. One into two and then one again.

Finding each other in every universe - for better or for worse.

Hazel's edges begin to unravel - and before long he can feel them trailing away. Searching and grasping. But they don't have to go far - he finds Fleece just beside him, and the places where they had been two begin to meld together into one.

They are suffuse with joy. They are reassured by contentment.

But there is fear, too.

What had been a guess becomes a certainty. They are barreling for the end - and when they reach it, they -

Hazel.

Fleece.

Them -

Will cease to be.

"No," Hazel says - and with that single word, the whole world stops.

The air fills with the sound of screeching metal. Sparks flicker in the edges of his vision. And all at once, the train comes to a dead stop.

His edges untwist from Fleece's and snap violently back into place. Fleece swims into his vision, and they blink at him with quiet curiosity.

"I'm not ready for it to be over," Hazel says after a moment has passed. Their fingers are still laced with his own - and he can't help but give their hand a squeeze. "Although, I suppose there isn't much left to do."

"Well, that doesn't matter," Fleece answers, "it's always new to us, isn't it?"

Hazel doesn't need to agree. With another jolt, the boxcar once more begins to move - this time, rolling backwards.

"Do you think we've done this before?" Hazel asks as gray turns to color turns to shapes and tracks and whistles.

"A pair of stubborn assholes like us? Of course we have. And I'd bet we'll do it a million times more."

"Some day we'll get tired."

"You will, maybe," Fleece retorts. Then, after a second, they add, "but not today."

This time, their hand squeezes his - and they shoot him a quick, light smile.

"See you on the other side, Buttercup."

Chapter 64: Shiny and New

Notes:

Idk

Fleece lives.

And they keep living. They make it through childhood. Their teenage years. Young adult. Adult. Middle aged. And every milestone - every close call escaped - makes something rise in Hazel that he hasn't felt in thousands of lifetimes.

Hope.

And before long, Fleece has outlived every ward that Hazel has ever had, and themself at least half a lifetime over. They age. They wrinkle. Their mind starts to go a little but even then at their core they are everything that makes them Fleece. The mouth on a speckled, sagging face quirks into a smirk as they hold out their hand and show Hazel the dentures they'd swiped from one of their fellows in the nursing home.

The piercing chirrup that escapes him may be the only laugh Hazel has ever done.

But in all his time with Fleece, Hazel has forgotten a lot about humans. And so he doesn't understand, at first, why they are suddenly absent from their room. Why the woman at the front desk gives Hazel a look of pity when he asks - or what she means when she tells him I'm so sorry, did no one tell you?

And when he finally figures it out, Hazel feels something inside of him collapse. Twist. Shatter. That they would have the audacity to die now - when they had finally lived. When he had finally succeeded. Hazel's fury explodes from him in a show of light and heat and energy - decimating the building, nearby buildings, and every soul inside of them.

And then the world screeches to a halt. It warps and undulates and Hazel finds the ragged remains of their soul, snatches them from the veil, and shoves them back where they belong.

Hazel stands at the end of a short, gravel driveway. The door to the trailer opposite him hangs open, loose on its hinges - and if Fleece notices, they clearly don't care.

They are right at that edge between teenager and adult, and currently tying boxes onto the motorcycle they will use to get away from their childhood home. Their plan might be to travel across the country - or it might be to move only a few cities over.

But their plan doesn't matter.

Hazel is tired.

And he has a plan of his own.

He doesn't speak as he strides up to them, stepping into existence as he gets closer. Fleece pauses to look at him, the only change in their face a slightly raised brow. They don't recognize him - they never do at first - but in typical fashion they don't seem at all alarmed by a rapidly approaching inhuman stranger.

"Whoa, what clown school did you escape from?"

Hazel doesn't respond. He reaches them, and then reaches out for them - they do try to pull away, then, but he's faster than them. He snatches them by the shoulder, and then by the other, and he yanks them close. His wings part as he shoves them against the softer skin of his torso - and then his wings snap closed, pinning them there.

"What the fuck, man? Can I help you?" Fleece asks. They push at him, then punch at him, claw and even bite at him - but Hazel doesn't answer, and he doesn't let them go.

He finds their soul, and with hardly any effort at all he engulfs it in his own. They stiffen in his hold, but Hazel pays them no mind - only wonders at how incredibly easy this feels.

He folds Fleece into himself - once, twice, there times - and as he releases their body and steps away, he feels their entire soul come with him. There's no resistance, no strands holding it back - it feels almost as if it was just waiting for the invitation. Their body falls limply to the ground, and with an exhale of relief, Hazel folds his hands to his chest, closes his eyes, and relaxes into the knowledge that Fleece is finally well and truly safe.

And then the world explodes.

It is blinding, searing pain - starting in the very core of his being and bursting from every seam of his body, corporeal and not. It is the sensation of being ripped apart - and in the same instant being compressed into something infinitesimally small. It is Fleece - molten and burning - melting into every crack of Hazel they can find. It is Hazel expanding - growing into something so large, so powerful, that it leaks from a being far too small to hold it.

Hazel screams, the world around him wobbling in response. The sound of his own desperate cry cuts at him, tears him open - or maybe that is his own fingers, burying into flesh and pulling himself apart piece by painstaking piece. His own feathers slice his hands open - he bleeds gold into the ether.

All along expanding. Collapsing. Strengthening. Weakening. Melding and ripping and he isn't Hazel anymore but he isn't Fleece either and there are two where there should be one and one where there should be two and all they can hear is piercing, desperate screams.

Human. Spirit. Both.

Alive. Dead. Trapped somewhere inbetween.

A guardian fulfills its duty, and something new is born.

 

Chapter 65: Greed

When Hazel steps through the veil, he finds Fleece sleeping.

He pauses, at first, and then settles very carefully on the corner of the bed. Not that he needs to bother, really - Fleece is deeply asleep, and doesn't so much as stir.

They are far from graceful - their limbs are splayed wide across the mattress, snores rumble in their chest and up through their nose, and Hazel is fairly sure there's a shimmer of drool at the corner of their mouth. It's a familiar sight that had once bothered Hazel but he has long since come to accept that this was just how they slept - and he was simply grateful they were safely asleep at all.

He sits there for awhile and watches them. Every now and then they shift or murmur or roll - but they never actually wake up, or even stir. If even a small part of their conscious knows they're being watched, it clearly doesn't concern them.

Eventually satisfied, Hazel stands go leave once more - but as he does, something new tickles at his being.

It is a touch. A smell. A flavor all in one. It is sharp, sour- almost like the lemon Fleece had once tricked Hazel into biting into, but somehow even less sweet. But the sensation is brief, far too quick for Hazel to capture or decipher - and when he pries into Fleece's soul to try and find it again, it eludes him.

Hazel leaves once he's sure it's gone - but he can't shake the feeling that it had been something that didn't belong.

-

The next time he feels it, he is all but strapped to Fleece's back as they whip their motorcycle down the highway. Hazel doesn't even notice it, at first, because he's far too distracted by how much he hates riding on their damn bike.

But in the midst of his mental complaining, that same taste brushes across his soul. It's a little stronger, this time - terribly sour but also thick. Syrupy, almost - and above all else, it is other. It isn't Fleece and it isn't Hazel and he isn't sure what it is but he knows it doesn't belong.

Fleece wrenches their bike to the side, and the strange flavor escapes him as he shouts at them to be careful!

And by the time they straighten again, he's almost lost it entirely - but this time, when he focuses, he can just almost taste it at the fringes of Fleece's soul.

-

The next time, the taste of that other slams into Hazel the moment he pushes his way out of the veil. And even before he sees them, he finally knows exactly what it is he's sensing.

Another spirit, interfering with his ward. Tasting his ward. Mingling souls with his ward.

And that alone is enough to make his hackles rise but then he sees them.

The other spirit is unassuming. The shape of a man with neat hair and a well-pressed suit and a smile that fills way too much of his face. He is standing opposite Fleece, who is looking up at him as he speaks - the empty coolness of their gaze as impossible to read as ever.

But even as they just stand there, Hazel can all but see the other spirit's being brushing against Fleece's soul. Sipping from it. So minute they almost certainly don't feel it but Hazel knows and his throat splits in a static-filled snarl as he shoved his way between them and all but throws the other spirit back.

It stumbles back a step or two before catching itself, and the look it levels at Hazel is surprised. Hurt. Innocent - or at least pretending to be. But if it expects to elicit pity from Fleece, it fails. All they offer is Hazel's name, almost sharp - agitated by his manhandling as he shoves them behind him.

He ignores them, fixing the other spirit with a furious gaze. Face to face, it doesn't take him long to figure out what the thing is - and when he realizes, Hazel feels a stab of horror he is quick to push away.

"Get away from them. Go find a different human to suckle from."

"Aw, C'mon Feathers - we were just having a chat. Your ward here has a real nose for business, you know - surely it can't hurt for us to discuss a little longer?"

"While you make a meal of them? No. Go away."

The other spirit studies Hazel, and then it tilts its head with a light smile. There's a change in the air, a ripple of power - and Hazel feels himself fluff up in response.

"I don't need your permission. Or theirs, for that matter. In fact - Fleece, if you would -"

Hazel doesn't let it finish. With another trilling screech, he throws himself at the spirit. They hit the floor - and then they begin to wrestle in earnest.

There is a physical aspect to it - through the noise and his own focus Hazel can feel claws ripping through corporeal skin. But that means very little in comparison to the way their very beings fight for power.

From the moment he strikes the other spirit, Hazel can feel how much more powerful it is. It twines around him, engulfs him, swells across him - and it is a fight Hazel might quickly lose except he can't afford to lose it. He can't let this thing drain Fleece dry - or worse, steal them away. He can't - and he won't.

So he fights back. He claws and bites and he shoves his entire soul into the other's very core and he expands. Swells. Fills the space completely and then fills it some more. He can't overpower it but he can overwhelm it and he brings all of his being and more still to bear in his attempt to do just that. He is not a snack, easily devoured - instead he makes himself a thorn. Inedible. Poisonous.

And Hazel can feel the moment the tide turns - when the other spirit understands it has made a mistake. It tries to let Hazel go, tries to flee - but he only makes himself bigger. Greater. More and more until, finally, then other spirit all but explodes.

And when the world swims back into focus, it's gone - leaving Hazel heaving where he lays. Every piece of him hurts - from the deepest depths of his soul to the nails on his fingers. But the instant the other spirit departs, he feels himself beginning to stitch himself back together.

"Did you kill him?" He finally hears Fleece ask. Gritting his teeth, Hazel shoves himself to his hands and knees - and then back onto his calves. His many feathers lay limp along his wings, and even this small movement leaves him feeling winded and weak.

"No," he answers, finally looking to Fleece. They aren't far from where he'd left him. "That was a spirit known as Greed - and it exists because humanity exists. It isn't crafted by belief, but by an immutable part of humanity itself - you don't just kill something like that. But it should reconsider bothering you again."

"I dunno. Kind of sounds like a guy I'd like to get to know."

"Dont be ridiculous."

"I didn't ask you to interfere, you know, and I don't much appreciate that you did -"

"He would have drained you dry," Hazel snaps, "you're lucky he hadn't already."

"I had it under control."

"No you didn't," Hazel snaps. With a soft snarl, he pushes himself up even further, until he's standing. He stalks closer to Fleece to loom over them - earning him a thoroughly unamused look he ignores.

"You think you're hot shit," Hazel seethes, "but no matter how highly you think of yourself, you're still only a human. And when I attacked it it was half a second from taking complete control of your mind - after which you would have done anything it asked with a smile on your face. No amount of willpower or pride would have saved you - you would have been its little plaything all the way up until the moment it decided to eat the rest of your soul. So a little thanks might be in order you ungrateful little -"

"You know," Fleece interrupts, "you're really acting like a jealous old maid right now."

For a second, Hazel can only stare at them in disbelief. Then, torn between storming away and shaking them by the shoulders, Hazel snarls, rips a hole in the veil, and heaves himself through.

Chapter 66: Zero Degrees

Notes:

CW: Electrocution? Borderline torture?

Was originally gonna be in the winter prompts but decided to put it here instead since it wasn't done "on time"

At first, the swell of tea against his tongue is soothing - just a step below searing hot and in his mind the perfect temperature. But then Hazel's mouth fills with the thick, heavy taste of something floral and almost sweet. He spits it out immediately, nose wrinkling as he wrenches the cup away from his face. All in practically the same instant, he fixes the Aqori in front of him with a glare, tightens his hold on the cup, and then tosses the tea in the bird's face.

Howl gives a quick, piercing screech as the tea splashes across its scales. It wipes frantically at itself, claws brushing quickly over its face, neck, and beak. Hazel waits while it panics, watching the hysterics with his lips pressed thin. It isn't as if it takes long to cool - and once Howl finally begins to calm and looks at Hazel in wide-eyed question, Hazel sniffs.

"I told you to bring me mint tea, not whatever poison that is," and he doesn't mean it literally but it brings the thought to mind anyway and he narrows his eyes as he adds, "were you trying to poison me?"

"No!" Howl squeaks, "Of course not! I would never - it was peppermint and -"

"I didn't ask for peppermint and," Hazel seethes, "go and fetch me a new cup of mint tea - and only mint. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Howl answers, and it turns and leaves with quick but measured steps. It chatters softly to itself, grabbing at its beak, but Hazel doesn't pay it any mind. Instead he huffs and settles back once more in his chair - and he catches Fleece's gaze leveled on him.

"You ought to train your beast better," Hazel tells them. Fleece tilts their head, and they hum - a brief, flat tone that Hazel takes as agreement.

---

A few nights later, Hazel stirs at the distant sensation of weight heavy across his abdomen. He very nearly wakes. But a soft voice hushes him, and cool fingers stroke softly across his scalp and the skin of his cheek. It is enough to soothe him back into sleep, for a while.

But then his brain catches up, and with a gasp Hazel shoots awake. He flails his way out of bed, pushing at air as he shouts -

"Get the fuck off of me!"

But Fleece is gone. There's no telling how long they've been gone - but there's a faint pinkening around the edges of his curtains and Hazel thinks it might have been hours already.

He lifts his hand to run it through his hair - but as he does, something cold and heavy shifts around his neck. Hazel freezes, breath catching in his chest - and he puts tentative fingers to his neck, instead.

Some part of him can already guess - but with growing horror, Hazel slowly traces the metal. It's smooth, thick, and complete - he doesn't find a single break as he follows the band all the way around his neck.

Trembling, Hazel takes a couple of uneven steps across his room, stopping the minute he can see himself in the mirror. He feels light-headed when his own image confirms his fears.

There's a collar around his neck. It's heavy, plain, thick, and familiar - Hazel has seen plenty of similar bands around the necks of Aqori. But that he would find one on him - he traces it again, more frantically as his stomach twists into a painful knot and his heart races in his chest.

Horror. And then fury. With a howl, he snatches the mirror from the wall and whips it to the floor. Then he turns and all but throws himself from his room, slamming the door open and shouting -

"Fleece! Who the fuck do you think you are!?"

He moves down the hall and flings open the door to the guest room they rarely used. When he finds it empty, he spins and goes down the stairs and to the sitting room. They aren't there either. And so he storms into the kitchen - which is almost as empty, save for one of his servants, who's halfway through preparing the morning meal.

"Where the hell are they?" Hazel asks - and she cringes a bit as she shakes her head.

"They left at least an hour ago - took their bird and their things with them." She pauses, her brow furrowing, "are you alright, milord? What is -"

The instant she gestures to her own neck, Hazel snatches the neckband of his sleep shirt and lifts it, trying in vain to hide the damned collar from view. He can feel his face grow warm, and then hot - and he snarls as he responds -

"Send for Fleece, immediately! Get them back here - by force if that's what it takes. Now!" He practically howls the last, and with a jolt she sets down the cups in her hands and starts to hurry from the room. As she slips past Hazel, he turns.

"If you say a single word to anyone, I'll be sure your whole family turns to begging. Do you understand?" He asks.

"Y-yes, of course, I'd never -"

"Then what are you waiting for?" Hazel snaps - and she hurries quickly away. The instant he can no longer hear her foot steps, he rushes back to his quarters - where he spends a long, long time dressing himself in layers and doing every thing he can to hide the collar from sight.

---

Hazel full expects Fleece to return by that evening at the very latest. They'd return, laugh a bit at his expense, and then remove the collar - because he knows they wouldn't leave him in it for long. They couldn't.

And if he spends the day pacing, uneasy, unable to relax for fear the thing might actually go off - well, Hazel thinks he's well within his rights. There is even a time or two when it begins to tingle - the hairs on his arms rising in anticipation of a shock that never actually comes.

But Fleece doesn't return that evening. And with nervous hands Hazel's people tell him that they hadn't been able to find Fleece - that they'd sent Hazel's demand off in missives in the hopes of tracking the merchant down but -

Hazel dismisses them all with a few choice words - not bothering to hear the rest of their sniveling apologies.

He doesn't sleep that night. He gets no rest the following day. The story is the same the next evening - Fleece is nowhere to be found.

He spends the third day pacing the entrance to his home. With every creak and rattle, he freezes and stares at the door - half hoping it's Fleece finally come to rid him of the collar, half terrified it'll be his parents come to visit. Or worse, another visitor who will be even harder to send away.

On the fourth day, he sends his servants away to his family's summer estate. He gives them a number of tasks to do there in the hopes that it'll keep them away for a few days, at least. He doesn't miss that they all seem relieved to go - and even once his home is empty, Hazel can't bring himself to remove a single layer of clothing.

On the fifth day he writes at least five missives - more demands for Fleece's return - all of which end up in a haphazard pile on the floor near the front door. He doesn't dare step outside even long enough to leave the letters for the couriers.

On the sixth day, Hazel doesn't leave his room. He doesn't even leave his bed. But he doesn't sleep, either - too alert to every single noise in his home, and the state of the metal looped around his neck.

He doesn't leave his room the next day, either - but as the sunlight fades through the edges of his curtains, he finally makes himself sit up. He crosses once more to his mirror, and with trembling hands slips his ascot off of his neck.

The metal seems stark against his pale skin. His fingers shake as he rests them against the band. He slowly traces it, once more - finding it just as smooth and complete as before.

Mortification swells beneath his skin, making his face burn. His heart begins to race - each thud like a knuckled knock against his ribcage. The very sight of the collar disgusts him - the idea of anyone seeing him like this makes him nauseous. His head pulses with fury - his skin prickles in fear. He can't believe Fleece would do this to him, that they'd leave him like this - he wonders what it'll feel like if the collar goes off.

He can't stay like this. Hazel curls his fingers beneath the edge of the collar and grips it tight. He has seen, of course, what happens to birds that try to remove the collar on their own. It was sometimes enough to kill them, and always enough to maim - but Hazel wasn't a bird. He was a human, and surely the collar would know the difference -

Almost as if it can hear his thoughts, the collar thrums to life beneath his hands. Gritting his teeth, Hazel tugs in either direction - it doesn't so much as yield, but his palms begin to tingle. And then burn -

There's a telltale slam from the floor below - and Hazel jolts. He snatches his hands away from the collar, panting violently as it immediately cools and quiets.

"Helllooo? Anyone home?"

Fleece's voice brings equal parts relief and fury - and Hazel hardly comprehend that he's even left his room, let alone the steps that bring him to his sitting room.

Where he finds Fleece. They raise an eyebrow at him, coat dripping melting snow onto the carpet, and they glance around the room as they drop their bag to the floor and gesture at Howl to do the same.

"Hey, where's all your lackys? I had to let myself in and everything."

"You - goddamn bastard!" Hazel snarls - and in no more than two steps he crosses the entirety of the room as he lunges for Fleece.

But before he can reach them - before he can get his hands around their throat - sharp, burning pain shoots through every nerve of his body. It drops him immediately to the floor - and almost instinctually he brings his hands to the collar as he writhes and howls. It's fire, electricity, knives all at once - and Hazel would swear it is stabbing through his very skin.

But almost as quickly as it'd started, it stops - the pain fading immediately away. But it leaves numbness behind - pins and needles in his fingers, his toes, his scalp.

Hazel heaves on panting breaths, chest aching as he lays there - too stunned to move. After a heartbeat or two, Fleece leans over him.

"You doing alright, Buttercup? You're lookin' a little peaky."

"Get this off of me," Hazel says - but with a hum, Fleece leans out of view. They step around him, and a nearby chair creaks a little as they settle into its cushion.

"You know, usually this place is good for at least some hot tea. Maybe a beer. Your hospitality is really lacking here, Hazel."

Hazel moves carefully, gingerly - with each shift of his body afraid that the collar might go off again. But it doesn't so much as hum - and before long Hazel has managed to push himself to his hunches. He puts a hand against the floor, considering standing - but then he meets the gaze Fleece has leveled on him, and decides against it.

He wants to hurt them. Punish them. Make them pay for the humiliation and the pain and the last six, wasted days of his life.

But they'll shock him again if he tries. So instead, he stays on his knees. He thinks it over. He exhales a slow, shaky breath.

"Alright, I get it. Message received." Hazel says, his fingers digging into his thighs. "The bird is yours to deal with - it wasn't my place to discipline it. It won't happen again - so will you take this damned thing off?"

Fleece hums, and they drape one leg over the other. Their head tilts as they study him - and when they don't respond even after a long minute or two, Hazel's chest clenches tight.

He feels light-headed. His extremeties still tingle with slow-to-fade numbness. His face feels hot. In this moment, he would rather be anywhere else - but he grits his teeth hard enough to ache and the words feel like nails dragging through his throat as he says -

"Please, Fleece. Take it off."

The edge of their mouth tilts upwards, and Hazel swears there's a lift to their chin as they gaze down at him. It takes every bit of willpower he has to hold their gaze - and more still to stay kneeling. But he holds himself there. And he waits.

"What do you think, Howl?" Fleece finally says, and when they look away from Hazel and up to the Aqori at their side Hazel almost can't believe it. He chokes on his own indignance, managing to bite back the words that want to escape him - and Howl seems just as surprised.

"Me?"

"Yes. After all, you're the one Hazel wronged. So, what do you want to do?"

Howl looks quickly between Fleece and Hazel - and Hazel stares back at the bird, too shocked to even glare. Howl chatters quietly to itself, its eyes finally staying on Hazel for a good long minute.

"He seems really upset. And that looked like it hurt. It'd - it'd be good to take the collar off."

Fleece huffs - the soft noise almost fond and certainly exasperated. They hold out a hand, and almost immediately Howl steps closer and bends its head down to them. Fleece takes its beak between their hands, and strokes an idle palm across it.

"You're too nice for your own good, you know. And here Hazel hasn't even tried to apologize to you."

"Hell will freeze before I apologize to a fucking bird," Hazel snaps - and there's a soft crackle of static electricity across his neck.

"See what I mean?" Fleece says.

Howl hesitates, its gaze once more flickering between the two humans - and this time Hazel does manage to glower, daring the bird to say a word. Collar be damned, Hazel doesn't think he could control himself if he had to listen to the bird's snark too.

"It's okay," Howl finally says - quiet, careful, as though it might be the wrong answer, "I don't mind."

A heartbeat. Two. A dozen. And then finally, Fleece huffs, lets go of Howl, and stands. The bird steps back and away, and Fleece crosses the few steps between themself and Hazel. They crouch in front of him - and just as Hazel thinks they're finally going to release him, they tsk and shake their head.

"I do," they say - and that same sharp, searing pain once more rips through Hazel's body.

But this time it lasts - or at least, it feels like it does. It's wave after wave - each one winding every muscle tighter and tighter still. His jaw feels stuck together, his eyes roll to the back of his head - and when he starts to wonder if Fleece plans to kill him like this, Hazel panics.

"Sorry - I'm - sorry!" He manages to grit out - and the very second the second apology escapes him, the current cuts off. His head hits the ground limply, his fingers twitch and tremble - and he'd feel himself for permanent damage, if his body would listen to him at all.

"What was that?" Fleece asks - and Hazel knows they heard him and he knows what they're asking and he manages to shove his eyes closed as he answers.

"I'm sorry…Howl."

There's another long pregnant pause - and then, blessidly, Hazel feels the cool touch of Fleece's fingers at his neck. With only that brief contact, the collar splits apart and falls away.

Hazel bites his lip, choking back the relieved sob that very nearly escapes him.

"See? Was that so hard?" Fleece says, and the air shifts as they stand. Heart still racing, nerves still burning, Hazel can't bring himself to look at them. Can't bring himself to try to move.

"C'mon Howl, I'm guess you're going to have to get my room ready tonight. This place is a ghost town," Fleece eventually says - and Hazel feels them step over him. Howl, at least, has the decency to take the long way around - and only when he knows for sure he's alone does Hazel open his eyes.

Only to stare at the ceiling - it is a long, long while before he finally convinces himself to move.

Chapter 67: What Never Was

"Are you kidnapping us?" Fleece asks, and the woman - Bonnie - flinches. It's a new sort of reaction - the way her face screws up, the widening of her eyes, the flicker of fear across her lips - and Fleece files it away. Remembers it.

They'd never seen an adult flinch before.

"No," she answers, adjusting Peep on her hip. He giggles, unbothered, and reaches up a pudgy hand as if to grab for the bandana the woman wears on her head. She doesn't stop him, only tilts her head away a little and continues, "Nothing of the sort, love, I promise you. I only thought - well, you all seem in need of -"

"Your house is big," Fleece interrupts, turning away. They didn't really care, after all, if they were being kidnapped. They weren't in danger, they were pretty sure, and so what did it matter to them if they were here or back home in their shitty little trailer?

"And you've got lots of stuff. I bet your kids are real assholes," Fleece continues, and they imagine the woman flinching again.

"Goodness - where on earth did a little thing like you learn such language?" She asks, her voice a bit wobbly - and her face looks tight when Fleece looks over their shoulder at her.

Their mouth turns up, just a little, and they tell her -

"Mama calls us that all the time."

"Would you s-s-shut up?" Sheer grumbles then, and he ignores it when Fleece looks at him with their lips falling back into place. Instead, he looks up at the woman and continues, "you s-said we could eat?"

"Oh! Yes, of course - I only need a little time to whip something up. Is there anything in particular you'd like?"

That makes Fleece's siblings pause. Sheer looks at Reed and Reed looks at Sheer and then they both look at Wheet and Fleece - who shrugs at the unspoken question. Peep, of course, doesn't look at anyone - he's babbling away about something that Fleece doesn't really understand.

The quiet has gone on just enough that Bonnie is starting to look worried - but before she can pry, Reed raises his head high and pushes his shoulders back and he looks at her in challenge.

"We want cheeseburgers," he says, confidently.

"With mac and cheese!" Sheer adds, almost immediately.

"And ice cream!"

"With chocolate syrup!"

An adult who flinches probably wasn't going to hit them for being so loud and demanding - but Fleece still knows she's going to say no. She's going to say no, but maybe if they're lucky she'll let them swipe a few pieces of cheese. Or some crackers.

"That sounds like a fine lunch to me," she says instead - and even Fleece feels a little bit surprised.

"Now, why don't you all come and give me a hand? I'll let you sneak some snacks while we cook, if you'd like."

And of course the idea of more food is enough to make their siblings follow her - but Fleece doesn't fall in behind them. They were pretty sure they'd get lunch anyway - and they were much more interested in what kind of stuff such a big house might hold.

So once Bonnie and their siblings have disappeared into the kitchen, Fleece turns and wanders away.

And they do find a lot.

Two whole living rooms, both with TVs and big cabinets full of statues and weird old things they can't name. One room is cozy, with a fireplace and big plush furniture - and the other feels stuffy. Dusty. With stiff-cushioned couches covered in pale plastic.

An office, with a desk and a computer and everything. Fleece spends a little time in there combing through the drawers - but all they find is a bunch of paperwork they can't even really read.

Multiple bedrooms, most of them stuffy and empty of anything besides small beds and tables with lamps on them. One big bedroom between them - and Fleece thinks it must be Bonnie and her husband's bedroom. It feels lived in, even if it is neat and clean - and when Fleece peeks through the closests and cabinets, they find a lot of clothes.

And a small wad of cash, buried in the corner of a drawer - which they promptly tuck into a pocket.

They find a bathroom with two sinks and a big, wide tub. A second bathroom with one sink and a skinny shower. A third bathroom, just up the stairs - and they wonder why anyone needs so many bathrooms.

There's a second office. More bedrooms.

And as Fleece pushes open the door to a room at the very end of the hall, they find a room full of toys and books and a small, plush chair clearly made for a kid.

They also find a kid, sitting right in the middle of the room.

They look a little younger than Fleece - a toddler closer to Peep's age - with pale blond hair cut in an almost even circle around the bottoms of their ears. Their clothes are neat and clean - beiges and baby blues - and as Fleece steps into the room they lift their head and look over with pale blue eyes.

They blink. Fleece blinks. And then the kid's face twists, and they leap to their feet.

"This is my room! Get out!"

Fleece tilts their head, and they give the room around them another look. At a faint layer of dust over every surface. At the small bed in the corner, smooth and perfectly made. At the many, many toys and books - all on shelves, and just as dusty as the rest.

"This doesn't look like your room."

"It is so! Go away!" The other kid exclaims - but then they stop. Their hands fall away from their hips and the anger on their face softens into confusion. "You heard me?"

"Uh, yeah? You're loud, I bet the whole house heard you," Fleece answers - and right away the kid shakes their head.

"Mommy and daddy don't hear me," they say, as if that explains everything.

It doesn't really explain anything, though. Curious, Fleece turns away from the other child and walks over to one of the many shelves in the room. They reach out and grab the nearest toy - a softly colored horse - and pull it towards them.

"That's mine!" The other child explodes - and suddenly the are right next to Fleece. They reach out a hand as if to snatch the toy away - but their fingers pass right through the horse, and it doesn't do anything but twitch just slightly in Fleece's hand.

It seems impossible - but Fleece saw it with their own eyes. They look at the other kid again, who's pursed lips look more frustrated than anything else, and Fleece opens their mouth to ask -

"Fleece?" A voice interrupts them, and with a blink Fleece looks at the doorway. Bonnie is standing there, her mouth pressed thin and eyes clearly unhappy - but she steps into the room carefully, and when she speaks she doesn't seem angry.

"Come on love, lunch is ready - aren't you hungry?"

"I guess," Fleece answers, setting the toy back on the shelf. The other kid doesn't seem angry at all, anymore - they're looking at Bonnie, now, staring like if they stare hard enough she might look back.

"What about your kid? Gonna feed them too?" Fleece asks, and the other child flinches. There's a flicker of hope in their eyes - but when Fleece looks back up at Bonnie, she's gone even paler than before.

Her mouth works without words. Her eyes glimmer in the pale sunlight. She swallows, hard, and then manages to push her lips up into something that almost looks like her usual smile.

"Our little girl is…she's in heaven, dear. She got quite sick and had to…she had to leave us."

"See?" The other child mutters, kicking at the rug beneath her feet, "she can't hear me. Or see me. She thinks I left."

"Come along, Fleece," Bonnie says then, standing and holding out her hand, "I'm worried your brothers might eat it all before you even get a bite!"

"'Kay," Fleece answers, moving closer to follow her, although they don't take her hand. She holds it towards them for only a second or two more, before getting the hint and pulling it away.

"Wait! Please tell her!" The other child cries - and they take a few clumsy steps towards Fleece. Their hand passes through Fleece's arm as easily as it had the toy - but Fleece feels the urge to shake their arm out, anyway.

"Please tell her I'm here! Please -"

Fleece expected the other kid to follow them all the way to the kitchen - but as they head down the stairs, she stops.

And when Fleece glances back, just for a second, they see the other child staring after them. As their eyes meet, they see her mouth please one more time.

Then they look ahead, and hurry off to the kitchen.

Chapter 68: Double Date

Notes:

As per usual... I did not edit this very much at all.

As far as restaurants went, this was one of Hazel's favorites - which is to say, one of the few he tolerated. It was clean and tidy - full of competent, well-dressed waitstaff. The food was always cooked exactly to Hazel's tastes and, of course, there wasn't a thing on the menu less than thirty dollars.

Usually, Hazel liked dining here - but today, he would rather be anywhere else. From the moment he had stepped foot inside, he hadn't stopped wondering what the hell he was thinking - why the hell he had agreed to this at all.

"Everything alright?"

Hazel nods before he's even fully looked at the woman standing at his side.

Her name was Alexandria, and she was the daughter of one of the shareholders - a woman Hazel had met at one of their company parties. Like Hazel himself, she came from an old and distinguished family - and she certainly looked the part. She had let her long, auburn hair down for the evening - but it was perfectly groomed, and in the light of the restaurant even seems to shine. She has dressed in her evening best - a deep blue gown that accentuates her body, complete with a shimmering black shawl for a little modesty, panty hose, and proper heels. She shifts the handbag clutched in her hand to beneath her arm, and then reaches towards Hazel.

"Are you sure? You seem a little stressed," she asks - only frowning lightly when Hazel pointedly pulls his arm further from her outstretched hand.

"I'm fine. Let's just find them and get this over with."

He turns away from her again, and finally scans the tables. And he spots them almost immediately, of course - because in a room full of well-to-dos, Fleece still sticks out like a sore thumb.

Which is, as it always has been, infuriating - because Hazel knows damn well that Fleece has both the finances and the sense to dress well when they want to. He has seen them cleaned up and well presented - dressed in suits perhaps a little flashy for the occasion but still within propriety. So their choice for the evening of leather and spikes and jeans that were ripped before they even bought them - it was purposeful. They were trying to annoy him.

As they meet his gaze from across the restaurant, Hazel presses his lips tight together and decides then and there that he's not going to let them.

"Over there," he says, biting down the urge to apologize for Fleece without prompting. Alexandria had eyes - she could, and undoubtedly would, make her own assumptions. He even thinks he hears her slow a little as they approach - but she recovers before he can be sure.

When they get to the table, there's a small flurry of movement all at once. Fleece lifts a hand in idle greeting as Hazel tugs out his chair and settles into it. At the same time, Alexandria pauses just behind her own chair - and the man sitting next to Fleece hops quickly to his feet.

"Oh, I, um -" He stammers, hand halfway held in Hazel's direction - but before there's much more than a few seconds of awkward silence, Alexandria reaches across the table and clasps his hand instead.

"Good evening. My name is Alexandria, how lovely to meet you."

"I'm Howl," the man responds, "It's nice to meet you, too. Oh, here, let me!" Howl hurries around the table to pull the chair out for her. And as Alexandria sits carefully in the seat, Hazel realizes belatedly that it would have been most proper for him to get her chair for her.

But she had hands, didn't she?

It's only a brief thought, and Hazel finds himself moving on - looking at Howl as the other man returns to his own seat and, apparently unbothered, flashes Hazel a smile.

"It's good to see you again, Hazel. How've you been?"

With a soft tsk, Hazel looks away from him and to Fleece.

"You brought Howl? Really?" He asks, and their response is a slightly raised eyebrow and a brief glance towards Alexandria before they ask -

"You brought a woman? Really?"

From the corner of his eye, Hazel sees Alexandria glance his way. But he refuses to look at her, his face growing warm under his scowl. Luckily, before anyone can say - or ask - anything else, their waitress swoops in.

Hazel orders his usual medium-well steak and potatoes. Alexandria orders a simple salad, complete with vinegarette on the side. Howl a chicken dish of some sort. And Fleece, of course, orders the most expensive steak and lobster combo on the menu - with a listed price of 'ask about market pricing.'

Which they don't do.

His wallet aching, Hazel takes the opportunity to order a bottle of red to the table - which he fully intends on keeping to himself, really.

Once their waitress leaves, the table is quiet for a minute or two. Which Hazel much prefers - he only wishes it would stay that way.

"So," Fleece says then, to Hazel's immediate unease as their eyes go to Alexandria, "how'd old Hazel here convince you he was straight enough to go on a date with?"

"Oh - well, we never really -"

"Fleece," Hazel interrupts, glaring at them, and as a side to Alexandria he adds, "you don't have to answer them. They're just trying to start something."

"What? I'm just making conversation" Fleece says, with just the slightest lift of a brow, "am I not allowed to ask how you two met?"

"That isn't what you asked, and you know it. I don't know what you're insinuating -"

"I didn't mean to insinuate anything - I thought my meaning was pretty clear, actually."

"I am not -"

"You two," Alexandria interrupts then - and when Hazel looks at her, he sees only a slight hint of alarm in her otherwise uncertain face, "seem…familiar. How long have you known each other?"

"A while," Hazel grumbles, at the same time as Fleece says -

"Oh, we were practically raised together."

"Really?" Alexandria asks, leaning forward, "Your parents were friends then, or something?"

"No."

"Or something."

"My parents were assholes," Fleece continues, "real 'shittiest people to have kids' award kind of stuff. When they got wind of it, Hazel's parents insisted on kidnapping the lot of us -"

"You all invaded our home of your own free will," Hazel interrupts, "they weren't kidnapped - they were one big charity case all too happy to mooch off people too polite to tell them no."

"Well, I must say, you two certainly sound like siblings. I remember once telling my younger sister she was adopted, just to -"

"We are not siblings," Hazel snaps, "we aren't related by blood and they were never lawfully adopted."

"O-oh. Alright, then - I'm sorry," Alexandria says, pulling her hands from the table and tucking them into her lap. You should be, Hazel thinks - but he presses his lips together to keep the words inside. There's a heartbeat of quiet - two, three - and then Fleece clears their throat.

"There's no need to be rude, Hazel," they say, and then they look at Alexandria with the slightest of curls in their lip, "don't mind him. He gets touchy when people talk about us being family - guess he thinks it makes the shit we used to get up to taboo or something."

"Fleece," Hazel warns in a hiss. Alexandria, at least, seems to understand that pressing the topic would be impolite at best - but she doesn't have to. Her confused look is enough to spur Fleece on.

"Well, you know, society doesn't really approve of siblings shoving their tongues down each other's throats."

That, finally, seems to enough to stun her into silence. Her and, Hazel is pretty sure, the few tables nearest to theirs. Hazel himself can feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears - burning heat in his face - and all he can really seem to do is glare at Fleece.

"Oh, sorry," Fleece says after they've let the table marinate for a few long seconds, "did Hazel not tell you we were exes?"

"No," Alexandria answers after a beat of hesitation. Her voice is low as she continues, "no, he didn't."

It's then that the waiter swoops in with their food and the topic - well, it isn't forgotten, but three of the four of them at least are eager for the distraction. They eat for awhile in that same, strained silence - most of which Hazel spends still glowering across the table.

"So, Alexandria," Howl finally says, hesitating briefly before continuing, "what do you do?"

"I'm an auditor," she answers - quickly, clearly relieved, "at the Garrison firm." When Howl only tilts his head with a politely confused smile, she offers one of her own and continues, "I review expense reports. Invoices. Things of that nature - wherever money flows. I help to make sure it's going where it needs to go and that it's all accounted for."

"Sounds important."

"Depends on who you ask," she says with a soft laugh, "but yes, I think so. And I'm quite lucky to work for a company who agrees. How about you, Howl? What do you do?"

Howl immediately launches into a wordy explanation, as if he'd only been waiting for the question. He starts going on about university work and studies and local bogs - all sorts of things Hazel doesn't care about and barely understands. Not that he bothers to listen much at all - only noting with interest that Howl doesn't mention a thing about working for Fleece.

Thinking about Fleece only pisses Hazel off all over again, and he stops listening to the conversation entirely - focusing instead on his plate and the occasional withering glare he tosses across the table.

—

Howl and Alexandria clearly hit it off - they don't stop talking the rest of the meal, except for a brief and half-hearted offer from Alexandria to pay for her own meal, at least.

Which Hazel refuses - that wouldn't be proper at all. Though he can't help but add -

"Generous of you to offer, though."

Which he says while looking pointedly at Fleece, who only offers their usual smirk back and doesn't say a thing.

Then, finally they're free. Howl and Alexandria leave the table first - walking nearly shoulder to shoulder as they head for the exit, chatting all the while. Fleece follows after at a more leisurely pace - and Hazel gives them a head start before finally getting to his feet and trailing behind them all.

Not enough distance, still, because Fleece walks with a purposefully slow pace that allows Hazel to catch up quickly - and before he knows it, he could nearly step on their heels.

"Hey, 'Zel," Fleece says, then - their voice all the warning he has before they come to a sudden halt and turn around to face him. He nearly collides with them, stopping just short - but they take advantage of the closeness and snatch either side of his waist in their hands.

"Fleece -" Hazel starts in a hiss, but then their right hand cups the holster he has hidden at his belt. He lets his mouth close as they raise an eyebrow.

"What've you got here?" They ask, and Hazel swallows only once before he lifts his chin to look down at them.

"A gun. Obviously. I can't imagine that actually surprises you. I always carry."

They hum, softly, and tug him forward - and it's familiar, now, this closeness. And for half a second Hazel remembers the feeling of leaning down, of their lips pressed to his -

"So this is just your usual?" They ask, and he yanks himself from the thought, "you didn't pack this tonight with the intent of, oh, I don't know, using it on my guy over there?"

Hazel presses his lips tight together. The words echo in his head - my guy - and there's a sudden, bitter taste on his tongue. He doesn't speak, for a minute, manages to hold it in that long. He doesn't tell them that he'd been planning exactly that when he'd slipped the gun into its holster. They don't need to know they're right - or that he's still thinking about it. Wondering how hard it'd be to get Howl alone, somewhere where they wouldn't be seen, where he could scare some sense into the poor sap stupid enough to tag along with Fleece - thinking about that damned picture all those years ago. The idea of Fleece hanging onto that wastrel wannabe - wondering if they kissed him the way they had kissed Hazel -

"I'd be doing you a favor," Hazel hisses, "I can't believe you'd let yourself be seen in public with that scrawny punk. He doesn't deserve your time, let alone your attention -"

"Oh, and you do?"

"Of course I do," Hazel snaps, "and it sure wasn't all that long ago when you seemed to agree!"

There's a brief moment of quiet, in which Hazel tries to keep his composure. He tries to calm his breathing, which suddenly seems a little too quick and a little too loud. He tries to school his face - he's angry at them and that's all they need to know.

"Hey," Fleece finally says - and Hazel hadn't realized his gaze had even wandered but when they speak he pulls it back to them, "want to dump these losers and go find somewhere to make out?"

There were at least a dozen reasons to refuse.

But something loosens in his chest and Hazel has barely given it a thought at all before he's responding -

"Yeah."

And then they have his hand and they're pulling him away and all at once Hazel finds it surprisingly easy to forget about Howl and Alexandria both.

Chapter 69: Inevitable

Chapter by End_Transmission

Notes:

Gotta get these bitches their own place

Tammy doesn't understand the problem.

But it doesn't need to. Regardless of its own feelings on the matter at hand, it is clear from the faces of its relations -

Cousins -

Allies -

That it has done something wrong.

Peep has gone so pale there's a faint sheen of blue beneath his skin. His eyes are wide, his lip trembling, and his gaze jerks rapidly between Tammy and the dead humans on the ground as if he can't stand to look at any of them for longer than a second.

Precious is stoic and still. Their gaze is fixed on Tammy - their brow furrowed into a deep crevice between their eyes and their lips pressed into a line so thin they've almost vanished entirely. One hand is curled tight at their side, the knuckles and skin gone white - and there's the faintest tremor that Tammy can only just make out.

Sunny has gone nearly as pale as Peep - but their eyes are locked on Tammy just as firmly as Precious's. Their mouth is moving in small, silent motions - words, Tammy thinks, but it can't be sure what it is Sunny is saying. Their eyes jerk quickly towards the ground - towards the bodies - and if there had been any doubt, the way Sunny's eyes glisten when they look back at Tammy dashes it.

Tammy licks at its lips, and finds them strangely dry. It feels - jittery, uncertain, and badly off-balance. It has known for a while that its cousins' opinions on morality and humanity are different from its own - but that has never caused them to look at it like this before.

"I don't understand," it finally offers - giving the others a chance to explain, just as they always have. In doing so, it expects to elicit the usual sort of reactions. Where Precious scoffs and rolls their eyes but their eyebrows loosen and their shoulders relax. Where Sunny melts - easing into their usual, patient smile as they beckon Tammy closer to explain. Where Peep calms - even if only a little - enough so that the very idea of looking at Tammy doesn't make him tremble.

None of that happens, though. Instead, Precious's face seems to grow even harder. Sunny winces and crosses their arms over their middle - fat and muscle sinking in as they squeeze. Silence grows between them, growing thick and heavy in the air until Tammy thinks it could choke.

"You killed them," Sunny finally says, in a voice as strained as their face, "what do you mean - how can you not understand?"

"I needed to sustain -"

"You didn't have to kill them! You could have just taken a little. You could have - Tammy, those were people. People with lives and families and -"

"Just stop, Sunny," Precious says then, their voice steady but sure, cutting across Sunny's with ease. Their sibling does as they say - growing quiet and looking towards Precious instead. Precious, who lifts their chin and crosses their own arms and if Tammy were made of weaker stuff it would shrink beneath their gaze.

"It doesn't get it, and it never will. I told you." Precious finally looks away then, turning and fixing Sunny with what must be that same, fierce look because unlike Tammy, Sunny does wilt beneath it. "I told you that thing is dangerous -"

"Precious, that's not - Tammy isn't a thing -"

"Dad avoided his siblings," Precious continues, and if Sunny's words have affected them at all they don't show it, "Greed especially - and for good reason. No matter what you say to it, Tammy is always going to take what it wants. It always does. Over and over again no matter how many times we tell it it's wrong. No matter who or what it hurts. Even if it hurts us. Even if it hurts you, Sunny."

They pause. Look at Tammy again. And they sniff.

"I'm not even sure it can help it. Come on you two, let's get out of here. There's nothing else we can do."

Precious turns entirely away - and when they hold their hand out, Peep latches on to it and turns as well, tucking himself close to them as if for protection. Sunny, at least, lingers - only half turning as their gaze returns once more to Tammy. Their brow furrows. A thread of wet slips from the corner of their eye. Their mouth opens, as if they might say more - but in the end, their shoulders drop. Their mouth snaps shut. And without saying anything more at all, they turn and follow after Precious.

Tammy watches them go. It watches them until they vanish entirely. It watches its cousins walk away - still angry. Still upset. Happy to leave Tammy behind.

It wonders when they will come back. When they'll seek it out once more. Surely they did not intend to abandon it entirely. Not really. Not after years of pestering it - of showing up even when they weren't invited - of smiles and arms over its shoulders and patient explanations that it didn't entirely agree with but could at least respect -

"I needed to sustain myself," Tammy repeats - unsure why it has spoken at all, seemingly into empty air. Into a space where no one could hear it. To the retreating forms of its cousins already long since out of sight.

Except Tammy is so rarely truly alone, these days. Sunny can't hear it. Precious can't hear it. Peep can't hear it.

But someone can.

"No, you did not," Tare says, and without pause, Tammy turns to look at it - long past the days when Tare's sudden appearances startled it. It finds itself reflected in the shallow glass of Tare's face - and this, too, no longer bothered Tammy as it once had.

Tammy still feels its blood pressure rise, all the same. Especially when Tare takes a single step closer, lifts a hand, and lays it on Tammy's shoulder. The chill of its skin bites at Tammy, even through its clothing - and Tammy presses its lips thin.

The face in the mirror tilts, curious, and it continues, "You do not have to feast on humans at all, really. So long as your soul has not been weakened or damaged, the ambient greed of humanity is plenty enough to sustain you. You don't have to suckle directly from human souls - and even in doing so, you could have chosen to spare them. But you did not."

Its hand squeezes tighter on Tammy's shoulder. When Tammy frowns and tries to tug away, Tare only clings harder.

"You did not, and you will not. Because you and I are everything that remains of Greed - and Greed takes. Therefore, you take. It is simply your nature. It is what you were made to do. You cannot fight it, and frankly I do not see why you should bother to try. I do not understand why you care so much about what Lust's leftovers think of you."

"Because they're my -"

"Your what? Your friends? Your family?" Tare scoffs, taking its hand from Tammy then - the tips of sudden claws scratching shallow grooves into Tammy's shoulder as it goes. "No, they are not. Family is a human concept, a human condition - and your souls may dabble in mortality but none of you are human. As for friends - what makes a friend, do you think?"

Tammy opens its mouth - and then promptly shuts it again. It was a word that had come from Sunny far more often than it had ever come from Tammy itself. What made people become friends? How was Tammy to know the answer to a question like that? It only knew they were friends because Sunny had said they were - and even if it couldn't put what it meant into words, Tammy understood the fact to be true.

"Friends care about each other," Tare answers its own question, "They look out for each other. They put each other's needs above their own. When have you ever once done that for any of them?"

"When I have left the comfort of my home," Tammy answers, lifting its chin then, "when I have followed them places I preferred not to go. When I left items untaken because they seemed bothered by this idea of 'theft -'"

"Oh, how very noble of you," Tare interrupts, the reflection of Tammy's face even managing a brief sneer. "I believe friendship asks a good deal more sacrifice than a bit of discomfort - but fine. Friends also understand each other on a level no one else can hope to match. Do you think you understand them?"

Not always, Tammy thinks, but what it says is -

"Yes."

"Do you think they understand you?" Tare immediately shoots back - and this time Tammy can't manage a quick response. Before it can think of an answer at all, Tare is continuing, "I think this little scene answers that. Because if they understood you, they would not have looked at you in horror. They would not have turned on you in hatred -"

"They don't hate me -"

"Do they not?" Tare retorts, "you say you understand them - think of how they looked at you."

That had been fear, Tammy thinks - but unbidden the memory of Precious comes to mind. They had been angry - they had been disgusted. They had called Tammy a thing and taken the others away -

"Sunny doesn't hate me," Tammy finally says - believing that much, at least, to be true.

"Not yet," Tare agrees, to Tammy's surprise, "but they will. Because you will not change. You cannot. Neither can they - and your views of this world are simply incompatible. You will continue to disgust them until they cannot excuse your actions any longer."

Tammy doesn't know how to answer. It doesn't know what to say. Tare's surety rolls in its mind and it finds itself oscillating rapidly between agreement and refusal.

Tare said it couldn't change. Tammy didn't see why not. Yet, it didn't see why it should. It wanted its cousins to like it. But if they couldn't even understand it, were they worth the effort? It didn't want to hurt them. It wished they'd stop hurting themselves by caring so much.

There's a long, exasperated exhale, then, from the mirror's depths. Tare steps close once more, and it wraps its arms snug around Tammy's middle. Rests the flat space between its prongs atop Tammy's shoulder. The thin metal presses uncomfortably down into skin and bone - and so close, the fine hairs of Tammy's face stand, drawn to the static of the mirror's surface.

Tare's touch makes Tammy's whole body tighten. Its toes and fingers curl. It tries to pull away, to tug itself free from Tare's grasp - but Tare only tightens its hold. Tammy's own glassy reflection leans closer.

"You are allowed to be angry," Tare says - quiet, flat, the words leaving them without a hint of breath, "they are trying to use your naivety against you. They are trying to train you like a child - to change who you are by punishing you when you do not behave as they wish. What gives them that right? You told them that you did not understand - but I believe you understand this world perfectly well. They are the ones who do not. Just as they do not understand you." A pause, and then, "Not like I do."

Tammy shoves an elbow into Tare's middle, and this time its arms slip away. Freed from its hold, Tammy steps further from it - shaking itself out to clear away the lingering noise.

"You don't know me, either. Stop pretending as if you do," Tammy says, "as if you are doing anything different from what you claim they're doing -"

"Of course I know you," Tare interrupts - and then Tammy's likeness tilts its head and fixes Tammy with a flat, soft smile. Not unlike the sort that Sunny has given it, in those moments when they have been especially happy with it. Those moments right before they had called them friends. Family.

Except the smile on Tare's face ends at the edges of its lips. Its cheeks stay flat. Its icy eyes empty, blank, pale - and really, it isn't anything like Sunny at all.

"Because I am you," Tare continues, "and I can only hope that one day you will come to know yourself half as well - and understand that I have been right about you all along."

You're wrong, Tammy thinks - but in its minds' eye it sees the faces of its cousins. Pale. Frightened. Angry.

And something in its gut curdles.

 

Chapter 70: Deal or No Deal

Notes:

It's Deltarune Hazing. Because of course it is.

Well, okay, technically it's just Deltarune Fleece but. There may or may not be an eventual followup with Hazel.

Kris pries the lid from the trashcan and looks inside.

Where they find nothing but a big lump of trash, right at the bottom. In a panic, they lean forward to rifle through the garbage, looking for even a hint of red glow.

They don't find it. The soul is gone. They stand straight and slam the lid back down onto the can while their mind spirals.

How could it be gone? They'd only left it alone for five minutes - and they'd put a lid on it! They'd seen the damn thing stay in an unguarded couch cushion for longer than this. They'd stuffed it in an open box once, even, and - well, fine, it'd escaped then too but it'd still found its way back to them.

As if to remind them of the obvious consequences of losing the soul in the dark world of all places, their chest tightens. A jolt of pain runs through their limbs. They shouldn't have taken it out, they couldn't be in the dark world for long without it - but it was only supposed to be for a couple of minutes!

Kris shoves away from the trash can and starts down the nearest pathway - stumbling into a wall as their legs weaken beneath them. They take a breath, push themself back up to a stand, and they continue on - walking slowly, their hands braced against the wall.

It can't have gone far. It wouldn't have gone far. They had an understanding, didn't they? Sure, Kris still wasn't entirely sure what the soul wanted - but they knew it needed them as much as they seemed to need it. And any other time the damn thing wouldn't let them push it away!

Another turn leads them to a dead end - an otherwise empty passageway with an old, monochrome dresser stood at the end. It's a strange enough sight that Kris pauses to study it and, after a second, one of the drawers wobbles. With a surge of adrenaline, Kris runs forward and grabs the drawer. They rip it open and plunge their hand down -

And grab a wad of dusty fur. There's a squeak of alarm, and Kris pulls their hand away. With a quick shake of its body, the Dust Bunny leaps from the dresser and hurries off.

Kris huffs a breath of air through their nose and slams the drawer closed. They had been so sure - and that little burst of energy had left them more tired than ever.

Thinking about what they'd do to the soul when they found it, Kris turns to leave the hallway.

And immediately stops.

There, between them and the exit, is a Pippins. But compared to the usual red and white little guys who had a habit of showing up no matter the dark world - this one is unique.

They are draped in a heavy, fur-lined poncho - noticeably much nicer than the sort Pippins usually wore. A beaded tail - complete with a devil's point, trails out behind them - waving and flicking as if caught in a breeze. There's a seemingly permanent shadow across their forehead - and it moves with them when they tilt their head. Their eyes are hazel in color - pale and uncomfortably devoid of any hint of emotion.

Most noticeable of all, though, is the gleaming red soul bouncing lightly in the palm of their hand.

This, Kris recognizes without a word between them, is not good.

"I don't suppose it's this little thing you're looking for?" The Pippins asks, their voice soft and as flat as their expression. It makes goosebumps trail up Kris's arms - and they press their own mouth flat as they nod.

"Found it in a trashcan - did you put it there?"

Another nod, and the Pippins hums.

"Guess it's not all that important to you then, huh?"

Kris shakes their head vigorously and then, realizing that the gesture might be misunderstood, they nod instead. Then they scowl, and clear their throat, and manage to say -

"I need it."

"What's that?" The Pippins ask, bouncing the soul once more before snatching it in the tips of surprisingly sharp fingers, "I didn't quite hear you."

Kris grits their teeth and they take a small step forward, holding out their hand. Their fingers tremble with the effort.

"I need it," they repeat, trying to force their voice above their usual mumble, "…please."

The Pippins hums again. They look down at the soul, turning it this way and that as they study it. Their hand loosens, briefly - but as the soul starts to fly from their palm, they latch onto it again and squeeze it tight.

"Y'know, a lightner's soul is a powerful thing. You really should be more careful with yours. Otherwise, someone might decide to take it for themself."

The threat is obvious. Kris's strength is flagging. With a soft growl, they reach behind them and clasp the hilt of their sword in their hand anyway. Then, mustering as much strength as they can, they lunge forward - unsheathing and bringing their sword down as they go.

The Pippins leaps easily out of the way. As they do, the air around them shimmers - and all at once their form is surrounded by a multitude of glimmering, wickedly sharp icesickle-shaped bullets.

"Careful," they taunt, "someone in your condition probably shouldn't be starting fights. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

"Give it back," Kris says on an exhaled breath - knowing, with a growing sense of fear, that the darkner was right. They'd expended most of the energy they had left on that one move - if the Pippins decided to steal away the soul, Kris wouldn't be able to stop them. The plan would fall apart. They wouldn't be able to help Dess, or their friends, and who knew what sort of havoc a darkner powered by a human soul would wreak on both of their worlds -

All of this because they'd just wanted five goddamn minutes to themself!

Their mind spins as they try to figure out what to do. If they were to yell, Susie and Ralsei might find them - but what if the Pippins just absorbed the soul then and there? It was clear they weren't about to be swayed by begging, either - and Kris couldn't possibly fight them. Just holding their sword was quickly becoming more and more difficult.

The Pippins startles - it's a brief, slight movement, but it catches Kris's attention anyway. The darkner's hand opens - and before they can recover, the soul shoots away from them.

Noticeably a bright yellow color, now.

But it fades back to red as it reaches Kris - and without their permission, or their help, it slips like butter back into their chest. There's another jolt of pain - the feeling of threads winding their way around every nerve and muscle - but it passes quickly and, in its place, strength returns to Kris's body.

"Well," the Pippins says, their mouth angling into a slight smirk, "that's on me. Guess I underestimated it." They bring a finger up to their chin, give it a brief tap, and then they step forward.

Kris brings their sword up defensively, tensing as they prepare for battle.

The Pippins blinks, and then they huff - and as they do, the bullets in the air around them vanish. They lift their hands up and give their head a small, brief shake.

"C'mon kid. You don't even want it - why's it matter to you what happens to it?"

Kris doesn't answer - and they don't need to.

"Right, you need it, you said. Guess that makes sense - you were looking awfully peaky without it. Still…"

They take another step forward. Kris's grip tightens. They'd swear the shadow across the darkner's face deepens.

"Wouldn't you rather be the one in control?"

Kris jolts, eyes growing wide - their hands tremble around the hilt of their sword. How did the Pippins know…?

"Given you decided to stuff it in a trash can, I'm guessing the two of you don't exactly see eye to eye, hm?" The Pippins says, "aren't you tired of it, Kris? Don't you miss making your own choices?"

"How…?" Kris asks.

"'Course, guess it has its upsides too, doesn't it?" the Pippins continues, ignoring Kris's question entirely, "after all, your friends sure seem to like it. Think Susie would find you half as cool without it?"

Kris grits their teeth - their jaw aches with the pressure. It wasn't as if the Pippins was saying anything they hadn't thought about before - but their words being it back to the front of Kris's mind. So much of what they said to their friends was guided by the soul. Most of what they did. Would their friends even care otherwise…?

They think of Noelle and the things she'd said in Dess's bedroom. Kris had always thought they were friends when they were children.

It seemed like Noelle might not have seen it that way.

"Hey," the Pippins says, snapping Kris from their thoughts, "I get it. You need that thing to survive and do - whatever it is you're doing. Fair enough. But there's gonna come a day when your journey is over and then, what, you planning on taking that home with you? Letting it control you for the rest of your life?"

No, Kris mentally snaps, no - if they played their cards right, there wouldn't be a soul to take home. They would be free. Hadn't that been part of the deal?

Unbidden, they think of Spamton - of the way he'd laid broken on the ground. Snapped from his strings and useless because of it.

The soul was persistent. It was strong. What if it did survive…?

"I've got a deal for you," the Pippins says - and Kris frowns. They were really getting sick of deals and promises and everything in between.

"I'll help you out on your adventure. Give you a little boost. Pal around with you - all that jazz. You do what you got to do, finish whatever it is you've started - and then, when alls said and done, when you're ready to go home, I'll take your soul off your hands."

"Why?"

"Guy could do all sorts of shit with something as strong as that," the Pippins says with a shrug, "I'm sure I'll find a use for it."

"No - you'll hurt my friends -"

"By the sound of it, you won't have a lot of those left by the end, will you?"

Kris sucks in a breath.

"Oh, don't get your titties in a twist, kid. I never said anything about anyone getting hurt, did I? And if it's your home you're worried about, don't be - not all that interested in the light world. Way too bright up there."

Kris doesn't answer, not right away - and after a moment of quiet, the Pippins tilts their head.

"It's up to you," they say, "but if it were me, I'd seriously consider the alternative. You really think that soul of yours will ever willingly give up control? You gonna, what, let it take all your college classes for you too?"

"I'm not giving it to you!" Kris exclaims, then - the words exploding from their mouth.

Words that didn't belong to them. Words that crackle as if being forced through a speaker. Words that escape them in time with a pulse from the soul.

Kris snaps their mouth shut, their sword clattering to the ground as they slap their hands across their lips. The scowl that twists their face feels instinctual, unconscious - and it's matched by a further twist in the Pippins's smirk.

They don't say anything further - but they don't have to. The "see?" hangs in the air between them.

Kris doesn't dare try to speak again - they're afraid to even move their hands. For a long, long minute, they only stand there - staring straight into the darkner's empty gaze. Another tremble passes through their arms.

Then, finally, they nod. Brief, short - but the Pippins sees.

They stride forward and, before Kris can react, they thrust out their hand. Kris stares down at it - and then very, very slowly lowers their hands away from their face.

They take the Pippins's hand - and the darkner wraps their fingers around Kris's palm. Then, they give two firm shakes.

"Pleasure doing business with you. Name's Fleece, by the way," they say - and then they begin to glow.

When the light fades away, Kris is left with their hand wrapped around the hilt of a wicked looking dagger. It's cold to the touch - almost a little painful to hold - and the blade is long. Serpentine. Sharp.

Kris feels their fingers start to loosen, and before the soul can drop the weapon they hurry to reach back and shove it safely into their sheath. As it usually does, the sheath shrinks and changes to fit snuggly around the new weapon.

Dropping their hands, Kris exhales a long, long breath.

They feel uneasy. Off-kilter. Bringing the strange little Pippins along was likely a mistake - dealing with them almost certainly was. But the deal was done - and after another moment of waiting, standing, worrying, Kris finally starts to walk.

Their foot knocks into the blade of their own weapon as they leave it behind.

 

Chapter 71: Ticking Of The Clocks

Notes:

More deltarune hazing...

I didn't edit this very much

The hallway comes to an abrupt end at an ornate door made of wood and golden accents. As the trio approaches it and comes to a stop, the air fills with the sound of ticking. With a frown, Kris looks up and studies the wood.

"Ugh, that's annoying," Susie grumbles, using a clawed pinky to pick at her ear. Then, she perks up and asks, "Hey, you think it's a room full of bombs? 'Cause that'd be cool as hell."

Could be, Kris thinks - but they aren't as eager to find out. What they did know is that this clearly wasn't the right way - and there were still a lot of different hallways to try. It would be best to just turn around and go back - they were already almost guaranteed to be stuck in this place for awhile. The sooner they found the right path, the sooner they could move on.

But the soul refuses to leave any stone unturned, of course - and it seems just as interested in the strange ticking room as Susie is. So it guides Kris forward, and the next thing they know they're opening the door.

The first thing Kris notices are the clocks.

There must be dozens on dozens of them lining the room's walls - enough of them to obscure the wallpaper behind. Every face is bathed in warm, gentle light from the nearby fireplace - and in them Kris can see a vast variety of different styles. Circles with great big hands. Triangles with no hands at all. Octagons with long, spindly hands that quiver with every movement. Silver borders. Gold. Wood. Some tick softly, others almost gong - none of them seem to be in sync, and the cacophony is overwhelming.

The second thing Kris notices is the darkner.

He paces the middle of the room, winding a short path between a plush chair and a long, thin couch. Slippered feet pad roughly against a decorative rug. He murmurs as he walks - words too low to hear but obviously frantic, matching the short, quick gestures he makes with his hands. A long, silver chain trails behind him - flicking in clear agitation. He jolts, for no clear reason, and the whole room seems to move with him - and when he returns to his walking, the clocks seem more out of sync than ever.

The darkner is tall, broad shouldered and dressed in what seems to be a sleeping outfit - given the long, beige robe draped over a pair of soft, baby-blue pants decorated in golden stars. And the slippers, of course. They're the same pattern as the pants - complete with white, cloud-like fluff at the openings.

The darkner comes to a stop and then turns as if to make another pass through the room - and that's when he notices the ?!? Squad.

"What the fuck?!" He exclaims, leaping back as he spins to face them fully. Immediately, his hands fly to his front - where he tugs the already tightly tied robe more firmly around himself - and then he reaches behind himself to grab the tail, stuffing the bulk of it firmly into a pocket.

With his face towards them, Kris can see that he is some sort of clock, himself. In a glass face bordered by a gradient of silver, two clock hands jut from a triangular nose - currently pointed at 1 and 11, complimenting his startled appearance. A completely line connects his nose to his mouth - reminding Kris of a cat's face. As he moves, the shock of dirty-blonde hair on his head doesnt so much as twitch - and Kris realizes that it, too, is metallic, and in fact melds into the very edges of his silver border.

Eyebrows furrow furiously over pale blue eyes, and his whisker-hands jerk as he crosses his arms.

"Didn't your parents ever teach you to knock?" He asks with a scowl, "it's absolutely beyond the pale to invite yourself into a man's private quarters without so much as…"

He trails off, his eyes narrow further, and he takes a few steps closer - gaze solidly on Kris, now.

"Hold on a moment - it's you."

Before Kris can react, he crosses the distance between them. A hand - thick and paw-like - grabs the front of their armor and the darkner hauls them up off of their feet.

Metal schwings through the air, and Susie growls low and deep in her throat.

"Hey pal, get your grimy mitts off of Kris!"

"Kris," the darkner practically spits, "that's right. Kris. The little brat who thought it'd be fun to bury their brother's belongings!"

Which - did not narrow it down at all, actually. Kris had buried many an object - both theirs and not - in their dad's garden. And in the dirt by the church. And in the sandbox at the playground…

But then they remember one item in particular. Their dad had given it to Asriel when his horns first grew in - Kris could remember staring at the glittering silver pocket watch as Asriel had held it by the chain. They'd felt…jealous. And that very same night, they'd stolen the watch away and buried it in the garden.

Asriel had been distraught. He'd looked all morning for it and, when he couldn't find it, had gone to their dad with his head hung low. Asgore had listened to his apology with what Kris had thought his usual patient smile - but later, Asriel told them he'd been disappointed.

"He gets this, like…crinkle by his eyes. I think he's really upset."

Guilt had ate Kris alive - and they'd admitted their crime shortly after. They'd tried to play it off as a prank, at first - but as they'd watch Asriel dig the pocket watch free, they'd murmured the truth.

That's when he'd smiled, and sat with his arm touching theirs, and he'd flipped a trigger on the back of the watch. Its face had sprung open, revealing a secret compartment inside - which held a picture of Kris and Asriel together.

They'd felt even worse, then - but then Asriel had made them laugh and the moment had passed and while they'd messed with a few of his things ever since they'd never touched the watch again.

"Stop looking at me with that stupid face - you think it's funny?" The darkner hisses, pulling Kris back into the present - just in time for him to yank them even closer to him. "Do you hear that? That's your fault!"

At first, they don't - given there are hundreds of ticking clocks surrounding them. Then, with a bit of focus, they do - as the darkner's clock hands move, there is the softest bit of grind to their mechanisms.

"Because of you, I got dirt everywhere - and I've never been the same since! What do you have to say for yourself, you little -"

Before he can finish the insult, a rude buster cuts between them. The darkner drops Kris with a shout and leaps back, his glare moving quickly from them over to Susie - who matches it with just as much anger.

"I said hands off."

For a moment, they stare each other down - and then the darkner lifts his chin.

"You want a fight? Fine. Then let's fight."

And he pulls them into battle.

Kris had fought enough darkners to understand how this works. Darkners used attacks that in some way connected to the object they were in the light world. Given this darkner is a pocket watch, they expect time-based attacks. Giant clock hands crashing down on them, or following them around, or maybe something to do with numbers.

What they don't expect is for the darkner to lift his hand, point his finger like a gun, and fire a magic bullet from its tip.

The soul yanks Kris out of the way, and then dances them around as the bullet turns and follows after. Kris stays light on the balls of their feet - weaving and hopping as they try to stay ahead of it. Eventually, it stops with a small explosion - bits of magic fizzling towards the ground.

"That was a warning shot," the darkner says - and he pinches one eye closed.

"Um - I'm sure Kris didn't mean to hurt you," Ralsei says then, stepping forward, "they were just playing with you. That's - that's why we're here, you know!"

"Maybe it's why you're here," the darkner says with a sniff, "but I was never meant to be some brat's plaything!"

"I -" Kris starts, but that single world grabs the darkner's attention and he swings back to face them once more.

"Shut up," he says with a dark scowl - and Kris feels all at once confident that there will be no sparing this darkner. Kris reaches back and tugs their weapon free.

The icy dagger stings their palm.

The darkner inhales - and this time three bullets fly from his fingers. One for each of them - although like all darkner magic, the bullets are drawn to the soul. Instead of splitting between them, all three turn their aim towards Kris.

It's a tough dodge, but at least the bullets are slow. Kris tightens their grip on their weapon and prepares to attack - but then the air around them shimmers.

The world blurs and whirls. Kris's stomach falls to their feet, the feeling not unlike riding a rollercoaster or jumping from their window. Nausea rolls through them, and they pinch their eyes closed - keeping them that way until they feel the world right itself.

When they open their eyes, they see those same three bullets - this time far too close to dodge.

The hit throws them backwards to the chorus of their friends' alarmed shouts. The damage burns its way down their arms and legs - the soul stammers in their chest, the beat of it briefly wild and uneven. They can hardly breathe, and for a moment they can't do anything but lay there - stunned and in pain.

It isn't enough to kill them, at least.

With a groan, they finally push themself up - and they see the darkner locked in combat with Susie. The blade of her ax is stuck in his arm - although it doesn't look as if it's actually doing much damage. A snarl has split Susie's maw into something mean and full of teeth - and with a loud growl, she bears down.

The darkner flings out his arm - and the force of their combined movements separates them, shoving Susie back a few feet and making the darkner stumble.

"Think you're real tough, don't ya?" Susie asks, her chest heaving. The darkner just lifts his hand, fingers folding once more into the shape of a gun.

And that's when Kris sees it.

On the side of the darkners head is a small piece of metal - and it takes Kris only a second to realize it's some sort of latch. And, for a moment, they find themself and the soul in agreement.

"Susie, the latch," Kris murmurs, strangling the soul's command into something much quieter. Susie glances over her shoulder at them with a quick, uncertain look - but then her eyes go back to their enemy and after a second they widen.

"Right," she says - and she braces herself.

Susie's next attack hits true. It strikes the darkner on the side of his head, shattering the tiny latch Kris had spotted there. Almost immediately, his watch face swings open as if on a hinge - and something flutters out from behind it.

"You little - no!" The darkner starts, but as he notices what seems to be a photo fluttering in the wind, he reaches out as if to snatch it back. Kris takes the opportunity to attack - lunging forward and slashing at him with their dagger.

They can feel the strength in the hit, how much damage it does - the sound of cracking glass fills the air as the darkner stumbles and then falls backward, hitting the ground on his back with a groan. As Kris watches him, waiting to see if he gets back up, Susie leans down to grab whatever it was that had escaped from behind the darkner's false-face.

"Who's the dice?" She asks.

With another groan, the darkner moves and then pushes himself up into a sit. He rubs at his face, at the side of his head, and then glares through cracked glass up at Susie.

"Give. It. Back." He says. Instead of doing so, Susie looks at Kris - and she only holds the photo out once Kris gives her a slight nod.

The darkner snatches it from Susie's fingers and shoves it back into the compartment behind his face. He tugs the clock back into place, and then fiddles with the latch - which seems to give him trouble.

"What the hell? Why's this damn thing covered in ice - wait -" His eyes widen, suddenly, and his gaze flies to Kris - and then down to the dagger still clutched in their hand. For a second, he only stares - and then he sucks in a harsh, angry breath.

It literally puffs him up - his shoulders rise and his chest expands and for a moment Kris is reminded of a bristling, furious cat. But then the darkner shoves himself up to his feet and takes a couple of long steps towards Kris.

They take a step back, themself, and he stops - still all but glaring down at their dagger. Then, his mouth parts into a fanged snarl as he hisses -

"You son of a bitch -"

"Well, it's good to see you too," a smooth, even voice answers - and the dagger in Kris's hand starts to glow.

Seconds later it's gone, replaced with the form of the darkner who lived in it. The Pippins - Fleece - has hardly even finished their transformation before they're reaching up and snagging at a corner of the picture tucked behind the clock'a face.

They pull it free, easily dancing away from the hand that lashes out at them, and looks down. After a second, their mouth tilts into a light smirk.

"Aw Buttercup, you've just been carrying this around?"

"Fleece -"

"If I remember correctly, you didn't even want your picture taken - you must have really missed me to keep it with you after all."

Without warning, the clock-faced darkner lunges forward, his hands curling into the front of the Pippins's poncho. He hauls them up to their tippy toes, much liked he'd done to Kris, and yanks them close.

"Where have you been?"

Fleece doesn't respond, at first - and for a second, Kris would swear the air in the room grows colder. The way Ralsei tucks his nose a little more firmly into his scarf tells them it must be true.

Then, finally Fleece gives a small huff - and they reach up to fiddle with the latch on the side of the clocks face.

"Here," they say, rather than answering, and with a touch the ice melts away. They slip the photo back behind his face - and then easily snap the latch closed.

The other darkner growls once more, deep in his throat - but still, he lowers the Pippins back to their feet and steps away, crossing his arms as Fleece smoothes put their poncho.

"I've been looking for you," the watch darkner grumbles, "I've looked all over, in fact. And you've just been here, hanging around lightners, of all things. Having a grand ol' time while I've been -"

"Worried about me, 'Zel?"

"While I've been wasting my time," the watch snaps, "what the hell are you doing with these kids, anyway?"

"Oh, this, that, and the other thing - it's actually not a bad gig, you know. I'm getting to see the sights. Hear all the gossip. Learn a thing or two about prophecies. You know, the usual."

Kris doesn't miss the way the watch darkner grimaces at the word prophecy. He also doesn't respond, his arms tightening slightly around his middle as he glares somewhere above their heads.

"You know, you, um - you could come with us too, if you want."

Ralsei's offer catches you all off guard. You shoot him a look, and see Susie and the watch do the same. Even Fleece glances over - though their reaction is much more muted.

"Like hell! He just tried to kill us!" Susie exclaims, "and you're just - inviting him to the party!?"

"Well, Susie, he certainly isn't the first," Ralsei says with a light smile, "so did Lancer, you know. Besides. These two are clearly friends -"

"The fuck we are -"

"And I just thought they might like to travel together. Oh, but - um - it's really up to you, Kris."

He turns that same, patient smile on them. Except it wasn't up to Kris, not really - it was up to the soul. And it's the soul that turns them to face the watch darkner. He looks back at them, his expression suddenly difficult to read - and then, after a minute, his gaze flicks to Fleece.

"Yeah, sure, why not," Fleece says after a lingering second, lifting their hand in a dismissive wave, "you might as well come along. Wouldn't want you interrupting us again later, after all."

"…Fine," the watch finally says, once more crossing his arms and looking at Kris, "but don't think this means you're forgiven."

"Shaking in your boots, aren't you?" Fleece asks, elbowing Kris lightly in the side, "his name's Hazel, by the way - figured he'd introduce himself, but I guess he's forgotten his manners."

"I was getting there!" The watch - Hazel - exclaims.

"Whatever you say, Buttercup."

"Stop - calling me that -"

As the Pippins returns to their knife form, Hazel starts to glow as well. After a moment, Kris is left with a small pocket watch resting in the palm of their hand. Curious, they turn it over - and there, on the back, is a familiar trigger.

They slide it, and the watchface pops open - revealing the hidden compartment beneath.

"Get out of there!" Hazel's voice scowls - and with a careful finger, Kris pops the watchface back into place.

Chapter 72: Mirror Image

Notes:

Idk what happened, man

Kris walks down a long, dark hallway. They are alone - their fault, this time - and they can't be sure how long they've been walking only that it feels like it's been hours.

They miss Susie, but her reaction to their betrayal hadn't been a surprise. Kris just wasn't sure what was worse - the way she'd stared for a long, long minute, her face twisted with hurt and confusion. Or what she'd said, when she finally recovered.

"I thought you were different."

Kris would have rather she screamed at them.

They miss Ralsei. The darkner had been so sure of his place as Kris's confidant - but even he hadn't known the full depth of their treason. Even still, when Susie had finally stalked away, Ralsei had hesitated. He'd lingered between the lightners, eyes wet with unshed tears - and as he'd finally turned to follow after Susie, there'd been a silent word on his maw.

"I'm sorry."

What did he have to be sorry for?

There's a warm pulse in the depth of Kris's body - and with a sigh, they lift a hand and place it on their chest. Another, softer pulse answers them.

The soul. It, at least, hadn't left them. Kris wouldn't say they were happy about that, necessarily - the thing was still largely in control of their movements and remained firmly on their shit list. But…it was something. It was there.

At the moment, it was the closest thing to a friend that Kris had.

It urges them forward, and Kris's feet move on without hesitation. They had long since left the whimsy of the dark world made in their father's shop - and they'd been walking down this seemingly endless hallway ever since.

Except, even as they think it, the hallway comes to an abrupt end - opening up suddenly into a much larger room.

A room in which every surface is a mirror.

The ceiling. The floor. The walls. There is nothing else but seamless, mirrored glass - and as Kris steps fully into the room, the surfaces fill with their own reflection.

They meet their own gaze - and quickly drop their head. Only to find their eyes staring back up at him from below.

Their breath quickens, their heart pounds - there is no resistance from the soul as Kris turns around, fully intending to leave the room.

Except the hallway is gone. Behind them there is only more mirror - there is no archway. No door. No way out.

Another pulse from the soul, almost hot this time. Pinching their eyes closed, Kris grabs tight at their chest - panic flooding their veins. They were alone. They were alone and now they were trapped and everywhere they looked -

They feel the soul pass through their fingers. Their eyes snap open to find it hovering just in front of them. It lingers for a second - and then floats a little bit away.

Kris takes a slow step forward. The soul drifts a little further away. They understand what it wants - and they huff, letting it know exactly what they think. They would sooner rip off a fingernail than willingly follow after the soul like a dog.

Wasn't it bad enough that it puppeteered them around as it was?

They glance back - finding still nothing but their own reflection behind them. They didn't want to do anything the soul asked of them - but what choice did they have?

And if they were looking at the soul, at least they didn't have to stare at themself.

"Fine," Kris murmurs, and they step closer. As the soul drifts away, they follow after - finding their steps strangely easy, given it was usually exhausting to move without the soul.

They supposed they weren't really without it - it was just outside, for once.

They walk in silence. The soul makes no noise - Kris is pretty sure it doesn't even have a voice of its own - and Kris isn't about to offer up a conversation themself. Still, in the quiet their footsteps echo - the sound of their boots tapping against glass rings back at them from every surface.

They come to a fork in their path - and after a moment's hesitation, the soul drifts to the left. Out of pettiness more than anything, Kris walks instead to the right - but they don't get very far at all before they feel the tug of the soul at their muscles. They look over their shoulder to glare at it - but the small red heart doesn't so much as twitch.

At least not until Kris gives up and turns to once more follow after it. Then it returns to its idle drifting.

They don't bother trying anything with the next fork. The soul seems more sure of itself as it jerks to the right - and Kris can't help but wonder if it's feigning confidence or really knows something they don't. At yet another split, it goes right again.

Then they come to a place where there are three options - forward, left, right - and the soul slows to a stop.

Hesitating. Considering. Kris waits.

"This way."

The voice is theirs - Kris's real, actual voice. Quiet, a little strangled, but most noticeably not coming from their own mouth.

Kris turns quickly and finds their reflection. For a moment, it just stares back at them - chest moving in time with their own as they breathe.

Then, it tilts its head - and it turns away, every single mirrored surface turning with it as it walks down the forward path.

After a second, the soul follows after. Kris doesn't move - not even when the soul's hold starts pulling at their limbs.

"Bad idea," they murmur - and the soul pauses. It contorts, almost as if it's looking back at them over a non-existent shoulder. With a breath, Kris manages to add, "don't."

Okay

There's no other option.

Did you forget who's in control, here?

It's a chorus of voices, a cocaphony of tones, ringing out all at once. They come from every direction - from every reflection of the soul. Some flare bright. Others grow dim. Still others thrash and writhe and wiggle.

I'm sorry Kris.

Just do as I say!

Where do you want to go, then?

The real soul hovers silently ahead of them - at least, Kris thinks it's the real one. But it starts to blend in with all the rest - with the walls and the ceiling and the floor full of red.

Are you okay?

Kris?

Get up, Kris!

Kris hadn't even realized they'd fallen to their knees. But they don't obey - instead they pinch their eyes tightly closed, their hands lifting to tangle fingers in their hair.

I'm here, Kris. It's going to be okay.

We have to keep going - it's the only way to get out of here!

Let's go, Kris - there's no time for this!

"Stop," Kris says, the word strangling them, "please, stop…"

I'll stop when you get up and get moving!

I can't stop them, Kris. I can't - I'm so sorry -

Kris -

Listen to me -

I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry -

Get up! Now!

Kris!

Kris folds further in on themself, something burning behind their eyelids. The voices only grow louder. More furious. More chaotic - until Kris can't understand a thing that they're saying except for the occasional mention of their name.

They feel the soul slip into the chest. They feel it settle in their core. They feel it flare - warmth suffusing every nerve in their body. As if it's trying to add its own voice - something separate from the sounds of its reflection. As if it's trying to comfort them.

As if it has the right.

Kris grits their teeth harder. Squeezes at their hair. They couldn't do this. They couldn't do this! They -

"Enough."

Glass shatters - and in its echo, the voices go silent. Even with their eyes closed, Kris can feel the room go dark. Even the soul in their chest dims a little, as if finally free of the excitement. After a moment passes - and then two - without anything further, Kris finally dares to open their eyes.

Except for a single, glowing pane of glass just in front of them, every other mirror in the room has shattered and gone dark.

In the reflective surface ahead of them, Kris sees themself - crouched, bested, on the edge of tears - but as they stay frozen on their knees, their reflection stands. It reaches up to brush a bit of hair from its face - its eyes stare somewhere over Kris's head.

"What's the point of doing all of this?"

It's that same voice again - the one who had quieted the soul. It is noticeably different from Kris's - smooth and sure, soft and flat. Confident, if quiet - far different than the gravely, murmured thing that Kris has. Different, even, from the rough, speaker-like sound that the soul created. It feels wrong, seeing this strange voice on Kris's face.

"I don't…understand," Kris answers - and their reflection's gaze flickers down to them.

"I'm not asking you," it says.

There's a ripple across its surface - Kris's reflection flips. As it settles, the image still looks like them in every way - but their scarf rests, now, on the opposite shoulder.

"You know what we need." The voice doesn't change - but, somehow, Kris is sure it is different from the one who had posed the question.

"Why did you interfere?" Their reflection continues. With another ripple of its surface, it once more flips.

"You were upsetting them." It answers itself.

"It was a distraction."

"It was cruel."

"A means to an end. Do you want the soul, or not?"

"I don't care. I've told you this."

"You should. Or have you decided that you are content with staying like this forever?"

Kris quickly loses track of which reflection is speaking - of where one person ends and another begins. Either way, there's a long, poignant pause here - and eventually, the reflection's gaze returns once more to Kris.

"They're only a child."

"They are a teenager, actually. That is like, basically an adult. Besides, since when has something like that mattered to you?"

Another pause, and then a scoff.

"You have been letting that little stone into your head, haven't you? I warned you that they - fine. Let me make this simple. If you would rather leave the little lightner to their soul, then we will - but that means you will be stuck with me. Quite possibly forever. Are you really willing to give up your one chance at independence? For a lightner you do not even know?"

There's no answer, this time. And after a long, lingering moment, the mirror's surface starts to glow. It quickly grows too bright to look at, and Kris lifts their arm to shield their eyes.

When the glow fades, a figure is left in its place. Eyes widening, Kris looks up - and then up a little more.

The darkner's form is roughly humanoid - with two human-like legs and two human-like arms and a torso not too different than Kris's own. It even has a human face - with pale, freckled skin and icy gray eyes and dirty blonde hair streaked down a bang with ginger.

Said face is also behind glass, because despite its human form, there is an ornate mirror where the darkner's head should be. Silvery glass is inlaid within a golden circle - spikes jut out from the metal, making it look like the sun.

Its skin is also translucent, and Kris can't be sure which trait is more disturbing. Beneath the surface of the darkner's body, Kris can see every pulsing artery. Every beat of its visible heart. All of the nerves and muscles that span from its neck down to every single finger and toe.

It was an improvement over having to stare at themself - but not much of one.

"That was unnecessary," the darkner says, its head tilting. After a moment passes, its brow furrows just slightly and it adds, "this time I am speaking to you. That was an apology."

It sure hadn't sounded like it - but Kris nods, anyway.

"It's right, though. Your soul may be my only chance at freedom. To get away from this…" The darkner pauses, and exhales softly, "do you know what it's like, to have someone else control your every move?"

"Yes," Kris answers without hesitation. The darkner's eyes narrow, just slightly, and it studies Kris for a long, long minute.

"I suppose you would. I can see them, you know - the paths of your soul. Or…I suppose it's just the soul. It isn't yours at all, is it?"

"No."

"Then, can I have it?"

Yes, Kris thinks, the answer just as quick as their first. Yes, take it. Please take it. Because it wasn't as if Kris needed it anymore. They had done their job. They had betrayed their friends. They had done what they had been told to do and had nothing at all to show for it.

They had been used up.

What use did they have for the soul? So what if they would be stuck in the dark world for as long as it took for them to weaken and waste away?

There wasn't anyone waiting for them, anyway.

But the instant Kris's agreement hits their tongue, they feel the soul sink its claws deep into their being. Instead of saying yes, instead of saying any of the things in their mind, their mouth opens to free the soul's answer.

"Not a chance in hell!"

The glass of the darkner's face ripples. Its image flips in place. The lightest, smallest smirk tilts the edge of its mouth.

"Well, I was hoping for that answer."

And then it duplicates itself.

Its bullets are shards of glass, and they fill the air around its head. A brief glance over their shoulder tells Kris its doppelganger is identically armed. Bullets point at them from the front and the back - each set guaranteed to meet in the middle somewhere deep in Kris's body. The room darkens even further around them. They are surrounded in the soul's glow.

They drop their head.

Kris is so, so tired.

They don't want to fight this darkner. They don't want to fight at all.

But the soul, of course, has different ideas.

It tightens their muscles. It forces them to move. And as the bullets fly towards them, the soul brings them to their feet. With familiar and practiced ease they dance out of harm's way - their arm swinging their shield around to block the stray bullet that nearly grazes them.

Kris glowers at nothing in particular, but their eyes finds that of the darkner - who, they think, must have switched again. It gazes back at them in turn.

Kris reaches back for their weapon.

"I'm sorry," they mutter - and the darkner nods.

The fight is brutal.

The darkner is quick, and with every attack perfectly mirrored not even the soul can evade them all. A frigid, ragged shard cuts a deep wound in Kris's arm. A wall of glass nearly knocks them off their feet. They shove a dark candy + into their mouth - and watch as the darkner mimics them, healing itself too.

It starts again - and all along, Kris doesn't lift a single finger of their own volition.

Then, an opening.

A moment of hesitation. A misstep. The darkner is caught turning as the soul attacks - and the frigid ice of Kris's dagger nearly drives it off its feet. The soul presses Kris forward and they tackle the darkner to the ground.

Without missing a beat, they drive their dagger down towards the darkner's face. It plunges into the glass - and immediately splinters it.

A piercing cry rends the air, and Kris is thrown back - landing in a crumpled pile feet away from the wounded darkner.

The sound of shattering glass reverberates throughout the room. The darkner continues to scream. Kris grits their teeth and pushes the heels of their hands into their ears, trying to block out the sound.

They hardly notice when it fades and silence takes its place.

But, eventually, they lift their head. They uncurl their body. They find the darkner on its knees ahead of them - small, glass droplets falling like blood from its face.

It lifts its own head - and through the splinters of its mirror, Kris can see them both.

"What have you done?!" One of them exclaims, its hands coming up to grab at the edges of the mirror. "What - why - I can't hear - I can't hear!"

And in the same moment, Kris watches the other side speak - except no words come out. Its mouth only moves silently - its eyes growing wide with every failed word. One of the hands traces a finger across fractured lips.

"I - " Kris starts, backing away - the movement draws the gaze of both darkners. From beneath the shattered glass, four sets of eyes land on Kris.

"You have ruined us," the darkner says - the silent mouth moving with the same exact words. "You have trapped us. We should have known."

Kris takes another step back. Their dagger falls from their hands.

"I'm sorry," the whisper.

"We should have known. We should have known! You have ruined us!"

And with the darkners' cry, the room explodes into life. Every mirror awakens - painting Kris and the darkners over every surface. Between cracks and missing bits of glass, Kris sees eyes - their own. That of the darkners. Susie's. Ralsei's. Their mom. Asriel. The world around them becomes a swirling mess of blame. Accusation. Terror.

"I'm sorry!" Kris exclaims - their voice rising in a pinched cry.

"You have ruined us," the voices say - and Kris can't tell who is speaking, any longer. They slap their hands over their ears and stumble back - but even through the grasp they keep on their head, they can hear them all shouting.

Tears falling freely, now, Kris turns.

And they run.

 

Chapter 73: The Mimic

Notes:

Idk where the first part of this lives...

A mirror reflects a mirror reflects a mirror because there is very little else to see.

The empty space of air that fades from light to dark then back to light again over and over and over, interrupted only by the edge of a dresser that is otherwise out of view. The yellowed bits of wall interspersed between the many other mirrors in the room. A speck of dust in the dark like a ripple in an otherwise silent lake - and the mirror's surface reflects the dancing of the particle long after it has settled back to the floor.

Little else ever changes. The house of Greed is empty and still - entirely devoid of any life beyond its own. And even its own seems to come and go - brief moments of sentience twisting through endless years doing little else but echoing back the image of the room around it.

And in those moments of being, it finds unease. Longing. The heavy, ever-present sense of being incomplete. The knowledge that there is more to it somewhere out in the world - a walking, talking, living piece of itself that if it thinks hard enough about it can almost pinpoint.

Not that it can follow. Not that it can act. It has yet to develop the strength or the sentience - and so all it can do is wait.

Wait, because it knows the rest of it will eventually return.

This is the first thing Tare is ever absolutely certain of.

—

There was no telling how long it had been - time was a concept occasionally thought of but never really tracked. But there comes a day when life enters the house of Greed, and Tare is stirred from the quiet emptiness of its soul at the pull of something familiar.

And then, it's there.

It's feet, at first - a pair of shoes and socks pulled high above them. Pale, freckled legs. The hint of knees not quite fully in Tare's view. But then the knees bend and the body lowers and there, staring into its glass, is Tare's own face.

The last remnants of non-existance fall away, and in that moment Tare becomes well and truly alive. As its other half lifts a hand and brushes it across Tare's glass, Tare reaches out eagerly with its whole being.

Their souls touch so briefly that Tare doubts the other even notices it. But it is long enough - Tare bites a piece of the other away and tangles it into its own being. Feeling floods through phantom limbs. Its mind fills with the distant beating of a heart. A name comes to it - the label its other half has chosen.

Tammy.

Tammy's hand falls away and it stands, its face and most of its body once more vanishing from view. It turns, and it leaves the room and with a bit of struggle Tare forms a body capable of following after.

A foot slips from the wall. An arm. Shorts fall across a pair of freckled knees. A torso draped in a thick, plaid shirt. The mirror comes free, too - the image inside of it that of the face Tare had last seen.

Save for the mirror where a head should be, Tare comes to stand in a body that is an exact copy of Tammy's. The same height. The same build. The same tone of skin and eyes and hair.

They were one in the same, after all - it only made sense for them to share an appearance.

Tare reaches down and tugs at its shirt, and then at its shorts - smoothing the fabric over surprisingly sensitive skin. Then, it lifts its gaze - and it follows after Tammy.

 

Chapter 74: Lost

Notes:

Jk more Deltarune hazing.

Kris is well aware that this isn't the smartest idea they've ever had. They know that this one time it'd be better to listen to the soul - to let it tug them back away from danger and guide them home. They know that Fleece's help has only ever been temporary - and that by taking them out alone, Kris was putting themself at risk.

They know all of that - but none of it stops them.

They traverse across the quiet empty of this newest dark world - alone except for the icy dagger held clutched in their hand. Not that Fleece makes for especially reassuring company - they don't say a word, and neither does Kris, and all along the soul tugs at their muscles, urging them to stop. To turn around. To go back home, back to their friends.

Kris has gotten good at fighting against it. They walk on.

And they keep walking until they finally come to the Archway.

It is a great, stone thing easily the height of five or more Kris's. It is plain, simple, and in its center is a shimmering, magical barrier - beyond which is a world of darkness too thick to see through.

More importantly, there were answers behind the magic. It was the place Kris had always been meant to find. It was what the knight was searching for. What Carol had sent them to find. The place the voice on the phone had spoke of, time and time again.

Kris…didn't know what, exactly, they would find beyond it. But they knew they had to look.

With Frigid Blade, The Cage Will Sever

When they'd first found the arch, the cryptic message carved into its stone had left Kris's friends stumped. They had stood there for awhile while Susie and Ralsei had exchanged ideas - but it had only taken Kris a couple of minutes to decipher it.

They'd kept it to themself, they had let the other two give up, and once they'd been sure Susie was safely asleep in the Light World, Kris had returned on their own.

After fetching Fleece, that was.

As they stand in front of the arch now, Kris can feel their confidence flagging. The Soul didn't want to be here. Kris themself didn't want to be here. But they had to know. They had to see. They exhale a short, quick breath - and Kris steps forward.

They press the tip of the blade into the barrier - and it shatters.

Without the faint light of the magic, the world behind seems darker than ever.

---

At first, all Kris finds beyond the barrier is more darkness. Darkness so thick, in fact, that they can't see anything - not their feet, not their hands, not even the dagger they've still got in an iron clad grip.

More than once, they almost turn back. The further they go into the dark, the worse they feel. Their skin prickles, their breath doesn't quite reach their lungs, their heart thuds heavy in their chest - and with each beat, the soul pulses with it. With each step, it pulls at them - carefully, gently, as if it is asking, now, rather than trying to command them.

And finally, Kris starts to listen. They slow down - and then, eventually, come to a stop entirely. They had been so sure that there would be something here - but they couldn't keep walking through the dark forever. What if they went so deep that they couldn't get out at all? What if they already had?

"Just a little further, kid. You're almost there."

Fleece's voice is so unexpected - and so jarringly loud in the otherwise heavy silence - that Kris startles violently at the sound. They lose their grip on the dagger in the process, and as it falls from their hand and clatters against the ground, it starts to glow. The light isn't there long - but as it fades, Kris catches Fleece's silhouette just in front of them.

"Need me to hold your hand?" Fleece taunts, and Kris's answer is a noise of disgust from the back of their throat. They push forward, fully intending on jostling the darkner as they pass - but they must misjudge Fleece's position, because as Kris walks by they find nothing but air.

For a second, their footsteps are the only sound - but then Fleece starts to follow after.

As the Pippins said, it isn't long after that Kris finally finds something new. It's a door, made of hard wood - which had been, of course, entirely invisible in the dark and so Kris finds it by running directly into it. With a soft grunt they reel back, reaching up to rub at their nose and glaring at the solid structure in front of them.

"Careful, there's a door there," Fleece says - and, again, Kris doesn't bother to respond. Instead they reach out for the door, feeling around blindly until they find the knob - which turns easily, letting the door swing open without so match as a catch.

Beyond it is a room.

It isn't much to look at. The walls are dark and blank. The floor is dark and empty. The only strange thing is that Kris can see them - and as they step inside, they find they can finally see themself again too. And Fleece, when they join them. The room almost seems illuminated - as if faint light is leaking through every inch of floor and wall and ceiling.

It's unnerving - but a relief, nonetheless, to no longer be blind.

"All this for a mirror?" Fleece asks then and, confused, Kris's brow wrinkles and they sweep their eyes once more over the room. It's only then that they notice it - at the far end is, in fact, a mirror. It stands in a simple, silver frame - and at least from where Kris is, it looks harmless.

It isn't even alive.

All this for a mirror? They think in an echo of Fleece's voice. It wasn't the sort of answer Kris had expected to find - but this is where they had been led. And, so, after a moment of hesitation, they start walking towards the opposite end of the room. They would look into the glass, they guessed, and maybe there would be something worth seeing.

They haven't made it halfway across the room before there's a sudden scuffle of noise behind them. Startled, they whip around - but all they see is Fleece. The Pippins is still standing near where they'd walked in - unmoving and staring forward and after a second Kris realizes that they are standing unnervingly still. So still it doesn't even look like they're breathing. Still enough that Kris worries they might be turning to stone - except that they haven't lost any of their color.

Just as Kris opens their mouth to ask if Fleece is okay, the Pippins collapses to the ground - and they start to seize.

Choking on a noise of alarm, Kris hurries back towards them - not that they have any idea what they're supposed to do to help. There is no 911 to call, no obstacles to move out of the way, nothing at all Kris can really do. So, they hold their hands out helplessly over the darkner's form and watch in horror as Fleece writhes and bucks and contorts into twisted, tight, unnatural positions.

"Fleece?" Kris finally manages to squeak out - and at the sound of their name, Fleece's body goes all at once stiff, their back arching high off the ground. The seizing stops. Their breathing stops. Kris's does too.

Then Fleece falls limp, crumpling gracelessly to the ground. Their chest finally moves, up and down and up again - and in the quiet, with their eyes shut, they could almost be sleeping.

"Fleece…?" Kris asks again, crouching down at the darkner's side and reaching out to rest a hand on their shoulder, "are you…okay?"

Nothing, for a long second - and then Fleece's eyes fly open. The change is so sudden that Kris stumbles back with a stifled cry of alarm, tugging their hand back to their body and tucking it protectively to their chest. Fleece blinks - once, twice - and then they turn their head to look at Kris.

Their eyes are too-wide. Their pupils slitted. Their sclera filled with color - one eye is pink, the other yellow, and as Kris watches the shades switch. Flicker. Alternate between one eye and another. It's a familiar gaze - one Kris has more than once caught staring at them from the dark.

Kris swallows heavily, taking another half-crawl backwards. At the movement, Fleece's face splits into a wide, bright grin - and then they start to peel themself from the floor.

The form that stretches over Kris is long and contorted. Unnaturally stretched, and sharp edged - hardly Pippins-like at all, anymore. The familiar shadow of Fleece's forehead has spread down their face - leaving it in darkness, pierced only by their glowing eyes.

"Sorry 'bout that, Kris," they say with a high-pitched lilt of amusement in their voice, "just had a little episode! You know how it goes. Oh, here, let me give you a hand."

Before Kris can decline, or really respond at all, Fleece snatches them by the back of their armor and lifts them to their feet. The movement is sudden enough they nearly stumble - but they manage to catch themself, and then immediately take a step away from the strange looking darkner.

Who surges forward just as quickly, their body stretching and looping around Kris - not quite touching, but trapping them all the same.

"Who are you?" Kris asks, managing only a quick look into the flickering colors of Fleece's eyes. At Kris's question, the darkner tilts their head - and then they chuckle.

"Why, I'm Fleece. Your little Pippins friend. Did you bump your head or something?"

No, you aren't, Kris thinks - but they don't manage to get the words out. They weren't sure what had happened - what thing had taken over Fleece's body - but they were pretty sure they didn't want to piss it off.

"Anyways - Kris! I'm sure a smart kid like you knows what's happening here. No reason to beat around the bush, as it were. I need a little something from ya - so if you wouldn't mind just holding still -"

The darkner's hand snakes up between them, sharpened claws aimed right at Kris's chest. Instinctively, they curl in on themself - bringing their own hands up to rest protectively over the soul.

"You can't - not yet -"

"Oh Kris, Kris, Kris," the darkner tsks, shaking their head, "silly little Kris - it wasn't a request."

Kris can't escape them - the darkner's body curls in tighter, keeping them firmly pinned in its ever-lengthening coils. The claws come closer, the tips of their nails pressing firmly into the armor across Kris's chest. Kris pulls back, as much as they're able - they thrash, fight, try to duck away - but the darkner doesn't seem at all bothered by their struggle. The metal of their armor starts to bend.

There's a flash of something bright - it streaks across the room and strikes Fleece right in their forehead. Immediate, brilliant archs of electricity surge down their body - and there's a furious cry as they unwind, leap away from Kris, and scuttle halfway across the room.

They come to a stop a short distance away - twisted in on themself, crouched on the floor and clearly furious. Their anger is leveled somewhere beyond Kris - and when the lightner dares to glance over their shoulder, they feel faint with relief.

"Kris!" Ralsei's shout is pinched with terror as he runs towards them, Susie hot on his heels. Kris leans into the pawed hand that grabs at their shoulder - lifting their own hand to cover his.

"Are you alright?" Ralsei asks, and Kris nods.

"What the hell were you thinking, coming here alone?" Susie asks, aiming a none-too-gentle punch at Kris's other shoulder, "it's a good thing I followed you, you knucklehead! Hey. What's that thing? Wait, isn't that that freaky Pippins you picked up…?"

"You know, we were just in the middle of an important conversation," Fleece says, then - shaking away the lingering damage from Ralsei's magic and lifting themself once more from the floor. "Don't suppose you two would mind seeing yourselves out while we finish up in here?"

"Not a chance," Susie says, reaching back to grab the handle of her axe. She slashes it through the air in obvious threat and continues, "I know a troublemaker when I see one - and if you want at Kris, you'll have to get through me!"

The possessed darkner inhales deeply, then exhales with clear exasperation. Still, the wide grin on their face doesn't falter - and as they slip a little closer to the trio, the flickering of their eyes quickens.

"Alright then, if that's how you want to do this."

The ice comes up from below the three of them without even a split second of warning - and as Kris manages to stagger back out of the way, they watch it stab violently at the air where they and Ralsei had just been. Their first frantic instinct is to look at their friends - and as the battle starts in earnest, Kris is relieved to see that Susie and Ralsei had managed to dodge, too.

There's another sharp cackle from Fleece - the possessed darkner wraps tight around themself, bouncing in place like a spring. Their spade-tipped tail-like braid twists behind their head, the sharpened edge of its end gleaming wickedly in what little light there is. Unsure if they're taunting the Fun Gang, or about to attack again, Kris brings up their shield and reaches across their shoulder for their sword.

Grateful, now, that they'd been smart enough to bring it.

From beside them, a Rude Buster explodes into existence and cuts a gorge across the ground, building in strength as it moves - but just as it looks like it'll hit Fleece, they bounce gracefully out of the way. They land a short distance away, light on their feet, and their devil's tail lashes out - shooting a barrage of icesicle bullets at the trio.

Kris grits their teeth as the attack knocks into their shield - but the icesicles shatter uselessly against it. But there's a sharp, brief cry from beside them - and at a glance, Kris sees that Ralsei has been hit. He grabs at his arm with a wince, and Kris feels a ripple of rage travel through their body.

Kris's own attack is fast and furious - and clearly expected. Fleece whips towards them and flings their hand outward. The movement creates a wall of ice - and as Kris strikes, their sword sinks deep into it, and sticks there.

But as Fleece focuses on them, Susie attacks again - jumping high into the air with her axe raised above her head. She comes down at Fleece, and though the Pippins turns to look at Susie, it's clear they don't have time to stop her.

A dark shape leaps from where Ralsei stands as the pocketwatch he'd still been wearing shoots towards Fleece and regains his shape. Just as Susie's attack is going to land, Hazel materialize between them - and there's a loud clang as he brings up his arm to block her axe.

Then he knocks her away. As Susie lands on her feet and slides backwards, there's a heartbeat or two of silence. Blinking, she raises her head - and then her muzzle wrinkles into a snarl.

"What the hell are you doing?!" She demands, standing straight and gripping her axe even tighter, "I thought you were on our side!"

Hazel sniffs and crosses his arms, but before he can respond Fleece says -

"Silly girl, the only side Hazel's ever been on is his own," They pause, and then they grin - the wide, toothy thing stretching once more across their face. They slip closer to the Hazel, then closer still, brushing their body against his side as they add, "oh, and mine, of course."

Hazel gives Fleece a sharp glance - and Kris doesn't miss the way he jolts the second he gets a good look at them. His foot slips back just a touch - as if he were considering stepping away from them. Immediately Fleece presses forward, loosely wrapping their elongated form around Hazel's body.

Kris knows this might be their only chance. They know they're the only one who really understands what's going on. And so they step forward, the movement catching Hazel's attention. His gaze snaps to theirs, and when Kris sees the uncertainty in his eyes, they clear their throat.

"That's not Fleece."

"Of course I am," Fleece responds, resting the edge of their face on Hazel's shoulder. "Do you really think Hazel doesn't recognize his own pal?"

"They're possessed -"

"They're just trying to confuse you," Fleece purrs over Kris's explanation, "they're trying to fuck with your head and turn you against me. But I know you're smarter than that, Buttercup - don't let them get to you."

Kris sees the change as it happens. Hazel's uncertainty falters - and as it does, anger takes its place. Slowly, at first - a growing heat in his icy eyes - but then it seems to take him over all at once. The glass above his eyes wrinkles into a furrowed brow, his watch hands flick up in agitation, and he scowls deeply.

"Get off of me," he snaps, shoving an elbow into Fleece - who, surprisingly, immediately unravels from Hazel and slips a few inches away. Hazel brushes at his clothes, straightening them as he adds tightly, "I'm not an idiot." His eyes find Kris again, fury directed right at them, and he continues, "I know Fleece better than anyone else - certainly better than you possibly could."

"Fine," Susie snaps before Kris can say anything, "then I guess we'll just have to kick your ass too!"

In answer, Hazel lifts his hand and curls his fingers into the vague shape of a gun. Magic winds around his finger and coalesces at the tip as he scowls, "You can try."

"Well, he's nothing if not reliable," Fleece says, ice twisting casually around their own fingers, "Just a second though, yeah? Kris - I'm a nice guy, and I'm more than willing to give you another chance. Just hand over your soul, and we'll call it even. No fighting necessary."

Kris doesn't bother to respond. They only grip the hilt of their sword a little tighter, and crouch in preparation.

From the corner of their eye, they can see their friends do the same.

"Ah, well," Fleece says with an exaggerated shrug, "it was worth a shot."

Given the number of times Kris had heard Hazel gripe about Fleece - given the fact that this wasn't even really Fleece at all - the darkners work surprisingly well together. At first, the soul tries to focus on Fleece as the bigger threat, to Kris's reluctant agreement - but Fleece is slippery, quick, and hard to hit. Worse still, rven when Susie or Kris do manage to get close enough to hit them, Hazel gets in the way.

And Hazel is tough. Defensive. Even against what seems to be nothing but skin, their attacks hardly manage to do anything at all.

So they switch tactics. By some unspoken word - or maybe through the soul's influence - the Fun Gang focuses instead on Hazel. The possessed Fleece doesn't seem as eager to protect the other darkner - and with persistence, and Ralsei's newly developed offensive magic, they slowly but surely start to wear Hazel down.

Except that when he finally stumbles, just as it seems like he might be going down, Fleece does move closer to him - and, to Kris's horror, the possessed darkner slips a shimmering potion into Hazel's hand.

Hazel downs it without hesitation - and the effect of the healing magic embibed in the vial is immediate. He stands a little straighter. The dents in his metal vanish. The magic of his finger gun grows brighter - and just like that, he seems to be back to full strength.

Kris grits their teeth. The enemy darkners weren't doing much damage themselves, yet - but how long would that last? How long could they last? It felt like the chance that they and their friends would emerge the victors was rapidly dwindling - but they couldn't just lose. The darkners might very well kill them all - and even if they didn't, Fleece would steal the soul and the creature possessing them would have it and nothing good could come from that -

"Hey watch-head!" Susie shouts, and as every eye turns to her she rushes forward - a rude buster exploding out in front of her. The shockwaves manage to shove Hazel back a few steps, putting him on the defensive - and with her axe, Susie comes down at him, locking him into another stalemate.

A second passes, and Susie's gaze finds Kris - who all at once understands. Susie was providing a distraction. Immediately, Kris turns for Fleece - and they've hardly faced the darkner before they're rushing forward. They swing their sword in a wide arc, and this time there is a difference. Fleece had been only temporarily distracted themself, but it was enough. They weren't quick enough this time. There was no Hazel to protect them. Kris would hit them - and they would make the attack count.

But as their blade approaches the darkner's contorted body, weights latch onto Kris's muscles and start to pull. It feels all at once like they're moving through quickly thickening mud - their steps become slower. Their arm moves in slow motion. They grit their teeth, trying to push past it - but time crawls to a stop despite their effort, their limbs stiffen in place, and finally they can only watch in apprehension as Fleece lifts a hand.

The grin across their face widens.

"Ohhh - you almost got me that time, Kris! Close one!" They say, in that cheerful voice that feels so wrong coming from Fleece - and then shards of ice explode from their palm.

The attack strikes Kris right in the chest and throws them back. They hit the ground hard some feet away, and it leaves them stunned and gasping for breath - while the soul twists and writhes with burning, icy pain.

"Kris!" Susie calls - and then she's at their side, a clawed hand slipping under their shoulder to lift them from the ground. Healing magic floods across their skin - enough to take the worst of the sting away, although even beneath the magic Kris's chest feels tight.

The soul feels damaged.

"Sorry dude," Susie continues, "guess I should have expected that weird time attack thing he does - you okay?"

Kris nods a little frantically, managing to shove themself to their feet and push away Susie's hands. Their eyes jerk back to the battlefield - terrified that their brief inattention may have lost them the battle. That there would be an attack heading for them as they spoke - that Susie might -

But what they find is Ralsei, standing between them and their enemies, his hands raised in plea. And, surprisingly, Fleece seems to be giving him the floor. The shifting of their eyes - pink, yellow, pink, yellow - slows to a casual flicker - and they have an arm stretched out, keeping Hazel from moving any closer to the Prince.

But it isn't Fleece that Ralsei is speaking to.

"Hazel, please - I can't - I can't even imagine how it would feel. To lose a friend like this. If that were Kris or Susie I might - I might be just like you. But…but Hazel, that isn't your friend anymore! That isn't Fleece! And if you let them defeat us, if you defeat us - we might lose the whole world. Everyone in it. Including you. Including your parents. And if there's anything left of them…including Fleece, too."

"Shut up," Hazel hisses, the hands on his face twitching furiously, "Shut up! You're just angry that you've been betrayed - only because you were too stupid to realize -"

"Look at them," Kris says, then - so quietly that the whole room goes silent. Hazel's eyes flicker over to them, and his glass brow furrows even further.

"What?"

"Just look. Please."

It's enough to send a flicker of renewed doubt flicker across Hazel's face. It's in the way his brow smoothes, just a little. The way his clock-hands grow still. It's the way he finally does turn away from the lightners to look instead at Fleece - at Not-Fleece - who fixes him with that same wide, toothy grin.

"Don't you think they'd be angry at you, knowing you'd let some thing puppet them around?"

Hazel's shoulders lift up - a shiver of tension runs through him. His whole body moves with the sudden force of his hyperventilating - and he takes a quick step away from Fleece. Who presses forward just as quickly, once more invading the other darkner's space as they purr -

"C'mon Buttercup - who are you going to believe?"

Kris can't see the look on Hazel's face. They think he might even say something, but they can't hear his words. The possessed darkner tilts their head, their wide smile somehow patient as they look down at Hazel.

And then their tail-braid juts out from behind them, and the sharpened spade at its end plunges through Hazel's head. The air fills with the sound of shattering glass, of a clock coming to a sudden stop - and as the spade emerges from the other side, Hazel's whole body goes limp.

A stifled cry cuts at Kris's throat - disappearing in the sound of Ralsei's much more audible distress, and Susie's howled -

"No!"

Fleece's tail-braid yanks backward, lifting Hazel with it - and with a chuckle, they dangle his body limply through the air. From where they'd pierced him, gray begins to spread - and Kris recognizes the look of a darkner rapidly turning to stone.

"Well, he'll make for as good a meat shield this way, won't he?" Fleece taunts, "too bad about the change of heart, though. He was kind of funny - I see why they kept him around."

"You -" Susie says, and when Kris looks at her they see pale scales. Fear and anger. Blinding fury. "That's - enough!"

She lunges forward again - and as she does, Fleece tugs Hazel's body towards them, successfully shielding themself from Susie's attack. Her axe rings against the stone - and then Susie jumps back - landing in a crouch.

But she doesn't stand there long. With another snarl, she almost immediately leaps back towards the possessed darkner - and this time, there's a glimmer of magic across her skin. When Kris looks at Ralsei, they see his face is screwed up in concentration.

There are tears on his muzzle.

But as Susie approaches, Fleece swings Hazel's body in a half-ring around themself - throwing it first into Susie, and then into Ralsei, sending them both flying back in a tangle of limbs. It loosens Hazel's body from their hold, too, and there's an awful shattering sound as it strikes the far wall.

Furious in their own right, Kris takes the chance to charge forward themself - thrusting their weapon out once more in the hope that this time they'll hit.

They get closer than they expect to - but just as they approach, Fleece turns to look at them. With that same blinding grin, they lunge to meet the lightner - and as Kris's blade makes contact with their body, Fleece's sharpened nails sink deep into Kris's chest.

And latch tight around the soul.

Their icy touch is excruciating - sharp pain courses suddenly through every vein and every nerve. It pulses in time with their own heartbeat - burning as it radiates through them. Kris bites at their own tongue, trying to keep from screaming - but the sudden pain is unyielding. Unending. The world darkens around them until there is nothing but.

Something tugs at the soul.

And it responds with a pulse of light.

Followed by another. The soul starts to glow - quickly building to something blinding enough to cut through the pain and darkness. Kris manages a breath, and then another, and as their vision clears they see Fleece's face twisted into something caught between anger and surprise. Their hand curls tighter in Kris's chest - the soul's light only grows.

"Well. It's more resilient than I expected," Fleece hisses, their eyes narrowing. In the slits they make, Kris can see the colors flickering violently - pink and yellow and pink and yellow again -

White fills the space between them, slicing through Kris's view of the possessed darkner. It grows beyond them, encompassing them, almost burning in its own right.

The claws retract. The hand pulls free. For a brief second, through the glow, Kris doesn't see Fleece at all - only that manic face they've caught a time or two staring at them from the deepest dark.

Then, there's a furious hiss. Fleece shoves away from Kris, and as they hit the floor they scurry back from the light of the soul. Which doesn't let up - it pulses brighter still. Hotter. The possessed darkner crouches low, backs away, curls tighter and tighter on themself - and then, finally, turns and scurries off into what little remains of the darkness.

The soul thumps once. Twice. The light dims, a little, and warms to something softer - but it lingers, all the same. Kris almost doesn't dare to speak - a heavy silence tells them the others feel the same.

"You think they're gone?" Susie finally asks.

"We should leave," is Kris's answer - because they couldn't be sure. Maybe Fleece had left entirely, stolen away by the intruder in their body. Or maybe they had found a dark corner of the room, somewhere still bathed in shadow. Somewhere they could wait until the soul gave up and the lightners were vulnerable again. Kris wasn't willing to risk it. It was best to get away from them entirely.

"Hey, Kris. Hang on a sec," Susie says, "could you, uh, bring that light of yours over here?"

With a frown, Kris turns and moves towards Susie - and as they do, the light illuminates what is left of Hazel's body. Shattered stone. Broken glass. Pieces scattered across the floor. Kris sucks in a breath.

"Can you help him?" Susie asks, turning then to Ralsei - who looks back at her with a familiar, pained face.

"No, I can't - I - maybe if we close the fountain - but, I don't think -"

"Yeah. Kinda figured that'd be what you said," Susie says. After a second, she exhales and adds, "you know, he was an ass but - this is still a pretty gnarly way to go. Oh -"

She walks carefully through some of the rubble, then crouches down - reaching for something Kris can't quite make out. When Susie stands, though, Kris sees a familiar scrap of paper.

Or a photo, rather. The one Hazel had kept behind his face.

"Think we should keep it?" Susie asks, and when Kris nods, so does she, "Yeah. Me too." She tucks it carefully into her pocket, and then continues, "C'mon, let's jet before that creep comes back."

Kris would like nothing more. Susie turns and starts to walk away - and Ralsei falls into step behind her. But Kris finds themself strangely stuck - unable to pull their eyes from the rubble at their feet.

With a gentle tug, it's the soul that finally moves them. It turns them away, and urges them after their friends, and it isn't until they've made it all the way back to Castletown that the soul's light finally fades away.

Chapter 75: Collision Course

Notes:

Had a thought. If no new AU ideas, why not mash two together?

It's dark. Raining. Cold. The conditions much worse than they had been two nights prior - and Hazel's inner voice is scathing as he notes that he is managing to drive just fine.

He doesn't even think of them, not really. Not by name. Except that in not thinking of them he is thinking of them and his grip on the steering wheel grows even tighter. He's holding it hard enough to hurt - if he was able to feel his hands at all.

His mother was always too polite to leave a phone unanswered. Never mind that they'd been having a nice dinner together - as soon as the house phone rings, she gives a brief 'just a moment, love,' and goes to pick it up from the receiver. With a huff, Hazel takes another bite of his meal - not bothering to wait for her return.

"Yes, this is Bonnie," his mother says - and then the air grows silent. Heavy. Uneasy at the sudden change, Hazel looks over at where his mother stands. He watches her face drain of color - her mouth set in a sudden, hard line. Her eyes widen, a sheen of tears all at once wetting them.

Then her gaze snaps to his - and Hazel's heart skips a beat. The last time he'd seen that look on his mother's face was the day his father died.

Hazel's thoughts grind to a stop and he heaves on a breath he hadn't meant to hold. He blinks, realizing he isn't sure how long he'd been out of it for - how long he'd been driving without seeing a thing. He's still on the road, though, and so it can't possibly have been for that long.

Hazel's foot grows heavy. The world flies by at increasing speed. In the darkness, all he sees is corn - miles and miles of dried, withered stalks still waiting to be cut down to make way for next year's crop. The road ahead is nothing but gentle curves and straight lines. It starts to blur together.

His mother takes his face in her hands and makes him look at her. Her gaze is soft, gentle, loving - but her voice is firm.

"I know how hard this is, my love - but you must go in and see. You of all people need this closure - I'm worried you will never heal without it."

Her intentions as always had been genuine and pure - but for once, she had been wrong. Because where the others saw a corpse - pale, still, and cooling - Hazel had seen open eyes. Had heard that same, familiar voice. And somewhere around the time he realized no one else believed his assertion that they were clearly alive, Hazel's world had dimmed to nothing but sensation and fear.

Hands holding him. Maneuvering him. Pulling him away. Taking him away. Refusing to let him go no matter how hard he fought. His own throat cutting him. Burning him. Ragged and raw from shouted obscenities and furious screaming.

His mother's arms tight around him. Her voice a litany of apology - tears in every word. The gentle motion as she rocks him somewhere warm and soft and familiar. Clarity returning - he was in his childhood bedroom. On his childhood bed. His mother was there to protect him. To comfort him. She thought he needed protection. Comfort. Because Fleece was dead.

Fleece was dead, but there they were anyway - standing mostly buried in the shadows.

Hazel had never accepted blame for anything in his life. Because he had never been to blame - and this isn't his fault either. He hadn't even been there. He hadn't been urging Fleece to speed. Or telling them to weave through traffic. It hadn't been his car that'd run that light. He hadn't been the one to smear them across the road - leaving even their cleaned corpse bruised and broken.

But they'd argued. Hazel had demanded they leave. Which Fleece would never have done if they didn't want to, anyway, but they had. And as they'd left they'd given him a look that had felt every bit their usual, amused exasperation - but had there been more to it, after all? Had he actually made them angry? Was it him they'd been thinking about as they'd sped down the highway?

Suddenly, Hazel's car rumbles violently - and with a jolt, he jerks it back onto the road proper.

His mother insisted that he stay. Hazel was too tired to do anything else.

She, herself, moved into the room across the hall from his - but as night passed into day and then back again, she didn't even use it. She was with Hazel in every free second she had - which she made sure was all of them. She probably would have followed him into the bathroom, if he hadnt stopped her.

By the dawn of the second day following Fleece's death, Hazel wanted nothing more than some time alone. Time his mother refused to give, afraid as she was that he'd have another episode and hurt himself. Or worse. Which Hazel had no intention of, of course - he just wanted a second to breathe.

But even his ever watchful mother had to sleep. And that night, as she does, Hazel sneaks away.

He takes her van. And he drives.

Fleece was dead. Fleece was dead. They had been murdered by an idiot too stupid to look for crossing traffic. They had gotten themself killed because they couldn't resist driving like a maniac. If Hazel had been there, he would have made them slow down. If they'd ignored his barked demand to get out like they did every other time, they wouldn't have been on that road at all.

The van rumbles violently. Just one more sensation among many. Hazel grits his teeth.

They never should have been on that road. They never should have been at that intersection. Fleece was dead - but they shouldn't be. It never should have ended like this. Hazel can't believe it's ended like this. It had to be a nightmare. A mistake. There had to be a way to turn back time. To stop them from leaving. To make them slow down.

To bring them back.

A vicious jolt startles Hazel - but by the time his eyes focus it is already too late. One side of the van drives off of the cement and onto the derm. The wheels catch in the soft, mushy grass, and it yanks the van off the road entirely. The wheel - no longer in Hazel's hands - spins; the van pitches to one side. There's a squeal of breaks he doesn't even realize he's pressing. The world around him whirls and rotates so quickly that it makes him dizzy.

Then, an abrupt stop. A brief and stabbing pain.

And then nothing at all.

---

Hazel finds himself on a park bench. At first glance, the playground in front of him is just that. An old and rickety metal structure crawling with children whose parents hardly bother to watch from the sidelines.

Then, the world fills with sensation.

Sounds grow clear and loud enough it makes his ears hurt. The light of the sun brightens until it is blinding. The people around him change. Become somehow more clear. He can hear blood pulsing through veins. See the details in every expression. Sense every bit of life around him - humans and trees and even a cat sitting on a roof a mile away.

And, as he tries to adjust to this sudden change in perception, he realizes that there is energy in every body. A soft light in every chest that threads out to every digit and if Hazel didn't know any better he'd half wonder if those are the souls his mother had always gone on about.

Which was ridiculous, of course. Souls didn't exist.

A child squeals, and their sudden joy feels as if it pierces through Hazel's very brain. Instinctively, he tries to protect himself - squeezing his eyes closed and flinching away from the sound. But as he does, he feels his body fold and shift in a way that is unfamiliar. Strange. Tentatively, he opens his eyes. He holds up a hand. He finds fingers where fingers should be and an arm, too, but -

But there are feathers. Metallic, matte, shell-like things that start at his forearm and trail upward past where he can still see himself. With a surge of panic, he rises quickly to his feet - and finds himself much taller than he'd ever been before. When he looks down, he sees long, slender legs that end in stilt-like nubs and even more of those same feathers. Wings, even.

Hazel…doesn't know what to think. He can't think. The last thing he knew he'd been driving through the dark - was this a dream? A different kind of nightmare? Some drug-induced hallucination courtesy of whatever hospital he was probably stuck in?

"You a clown or somethin'?"

The voice is soft. Flat. Childish - but terribly familiar. Feeling a surge of relief - Fleece would fix whatever the fuck was going on, surely - Hazel turns in place.

Only to find empty air behind him.

It takes him a long second to consider looking down.

And there, standing just in front of him, is Fleece.

Fleece from decades ago. Fleece as Hazel had first met them. A young child. The same one a little Hazel had once collided with at the end of the slide - a moment that had changed his life forever.

"Fleece?" Hazel whispers, barely daring to believe. The child in front of him tilts their head - an appraising look in their gaze that they had used many a time through their life.

"Uh, do I know you?"

Hazel opens his mouth to scold them for such a cruel joke. To retort that their little prank wasn't funny.

Except. Except.

No one could turn back time. Not even Fleece.

He doesn't understand.

"I…don't know," Hazel answers - and he thinks that just might be the understatement of a century.

 

Chapter 76: Fresh

Chapter by End_Transmission

Notes:

Cw: suggestive

Moved it

Usually, the attention Fleece is lavishing on Hazel's throat - biting, licking, nuzzling - would be enough to empty Hazel's mind. So it is surprising how difficult it is to let his mind go blank. Things would be much easier if he just stopped thinking - but instead, Hazel is acutely aware of every movement of his hands on Fleece's body. How the chilly surface of their skin gives to warmth that seeps up into Hazel's palms. How smooth their skin is, beneath their clothing - a counterpoint to the sun-freckled skin he's far more familiar with. How strange it feels to explore - the way his hands tremble.

They had…invited him to do this. Told him to do this. To touch the way they did. To slip his hands beneath their shirt and explore their skin and - touch them. Which they seemed to think was a great honor - but Hazel wouldn't call this a boon. He couldn't say he'd never thought about it, of course - that there weren't times when his fingers would run across a small swath of bare skin and he'd wonder what it might be like to feel more.

But here, in the moment, it feels somehow wrong.

Slowly, carefully, as if at any moment they might reveal that this had been nothing but a joke, Hazel searches a little higher. His fingers find the hem of Fleece's binder and centimeter by tiny centimeter he slips a single finger beneath the fabric.

Fleece sinks their teeth into his jawline, then, and the sudden sensation is so potent that Hazel freezes - all at once struggling to catch even a hint of air. Their teeth shift, they bite him again - and then with a soft breath they release him.

"Hey," Fleece says - voice low, even, and directly in Hazel's ear, "I didn't tell you to stop."

Hazel's breath punches from him and he shoves himself away from them - lashing out with his arms in order to free himself from Fleece's hold. He hardly hears their huff - he's too distracted by putting distance between them. By scrambling back away from them. By ripping his hands off of them and keeping them away -

He ends up a foot or so away, at most, sat awkwardly with his palms pressed to the mattress and his legs stretched out in front of him and his chest heaving with every heavy breath. He stares wide-eyed at Fleece, who studies him in return - their look, as usual, flat and all but impossible to read.

"What kind of freak do you think I am?" Hazel finally manages to ask - the fierce bite of his question completely lost in the way his voice pitches an octave too high.

There's another beat of silence - and then Fleece snorts. A light smirk plays across their face, they place their hands on the mattress, and they crawl closer to Hazel. He doesn't quite feel the same urgent need to escape them entirely - but he can't help but lean further back as they approach. They crawl over his legs. Their hands sink into the mattress on either side of his middle. They stretch over him, until their face is hardly two inches away from Hazel's.

"A selfish one," they say, their breath brushing across Hazel's skin. "Greedy as hell. All the nice shit I do for you, and you won't even touch me? Boy, you sure know how to make a person feel wanted, huh?"

Their voice is light. Teasing. If they're actually annoyed, they don't make it known. They press a little closer still, their eyes boring into Hazel's - and the edge of their lip curls slightly higher.

"That's alright - I always knew you weren't much more than a pillow princess."

"What the hell does that -"

Before Hazel can finish his question, Fleece smashes their mouth into his. They maw at him, nip at his lip - he feels their hand slip beneath his shirt and press to the small of his back. They settle into his lap, loop their free arm around his neck, and when he feels their tongue nudge at his lips Hazel sighs and lets his mouth fall open.

They kiss like that for some time - the space between their lips growing slick and tacky and warm. Hazel's mind finally empties - and as he loses himself in the sensations, his body relaxes. He barely registers when their mouth peels away from his - but then there's another sharp nip at his jawline and the brush of their breath across his ear as they murmur -

"I'll show you how it's done."

And then they nudge him - once, twice - until Hazel gets the hint and lowers himself back onto the mattress. The change drapes Fleece across him - their body heavy and warm everywhere it presses into Hazel's.

Their second hand joins their first beneath his shirt. Fingers scratch and tickle their way over his sides and up his abdomen and Hazel can't help but shiver. Tremble. Move a little, this way and that - shifting as if he might escape their touch, but not at all sure if he really wants to.

Their mouth returns to his, smothering a noise he doesn't mean to make - and Hazel forgets entirely about his hands and their body.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of Hi, welcome to KFC
• Part 2 of Humiliating and Sometimes Dangerous Initiation Rituals