Chapter Text
It takes them days to make it out of Gralea, even travelling by air Aranea just can’t settle. The capital is in worse shape than she can ever have imagined, the horrors she unearthed with Prompto cranked up to eleven and then some. They lost a lot for their efforts—time, resources, resilience—but gained something too. Just one thing.
Aranea can’t stop staring at it, small and unobtrusive, looking for all the world like nothing more than a bundle of blankets they’ve discarded against their one cot to be used later when one of them gets tired enough to finally give in to sleep.
“Setting down in Lestallum?”
Aranea hums her affirmation. They made the plan when they first took off; there’s nowhere else really left to go. Lucis might be the only safe haven left, and there’s not counting how long it will hold. The capital is out of bounds so now Lestallum will have to do, be the basis for which they try to make a go of a world a few hours off perpetual darkness. So Lestallum is where Aranea needs to be, right in the thick of it, using the only skills she has any faith in.
Aranea jerks at the unexpected touch on her arm, scowling up at Biggs to cover up her embarrassment at being startled aboard her own ship. Biggs is a little less well kept than usual but he’s otherwise unchanged by their recent hardships.
“What?” she demands.
“Are you sure about this?” Wedge asks her—again.
Aranea uses the excuse to look again, watches until the bundle moves slightly and something tight in her chest gives way just a touch. If only it were just a bundle of blankets and not the living, breathing child Aranea has haphazardly taken into her care.
“No,” Aranea admits. “But what choice do we have?”
From the console Biggs calls, “We could leave her with someone else.”
Might even be for the best in a lot of ways. There are probably dozens of people in Lucis desperate for a child, families that are prepared and ready for such a task. Biggs and Wedge must have been talking about it while she’s been distracted, during the three-hour catnap she grabbed yesterday when the child crawled into her lap and refused to move.
“Might be for the best,” Biggs echoes her thoughts.
Aranea hasn’t spent serious time with children since she was one herself. Being responsible for one has never been on her radar, the idea of family had been beyond her for years now. Her adulthood has made her more than content with the limited company she keeps.
Passing the kid off to someone else isn’t just the easy option, it’s probably the best one.
Aranea made a promise though. Loqi is a dick—was a dick—but Aranea promised him. He passed the child over into her arms that she would be the one to get her out of Gralea, to keep her alive, to keep her safe. Aranea doesn’t have many scruples left, she’ll be damned if she breaks a promise and gives up another one.
“We’re taking care of her,” Aranea says, forcing a confidence she doesn’t feel. Wedge nods, just one incline of his head and only just loud enough to heard Biggs adds—
“As you like, Lady A.”
“Fifteen minutes to landing,” Wedge lets her know. He squeezes her arm again and she shakes him off, like she always does, trying to pretend she feels normal. “Might be best to wake her up.”
“Got it,” Aranea agrees.
Her boots click as she crosses the metal floor, but the engine rumbles almost loudly enough to drown it out. At the edge of the cot, Aranea kneels down and carefully begins to peel back the layers. In the dark like this her hair seems inky black, spread out in disarray from the ways she’d fidgeted and turned over for three whole hours before managing to fall asleep.
As gently as she can, Aranea untangles some of that hair, stroking it back into place then tapping her fingers softly against a round cheek.
“Sol,” Aranea whispers. “Come on, we’re almost home.”
— —
Solara is bribed to stay back on the ship with the last three sticks of their jerky and Biggs to keep her company. There are less people around than Aranea remembers for Lestallum, yet she still asks Wedge to stay outside on guard.
The clock reads two in the afternoon but if Aranea was trusting her eye she would call it closer to eight pm, the sun so low in the sky it’s just a faint glow on the horizon.
Lucis isn’t as far gone as Niflheim, but it won’t be long now.
“Aranea!”
Watching Prompto rush over to her is such a relief she doesn’t even mind when he barrels right into her, wrapping his arms up over her shoulder and crushing her against him. He starts babbling before he’s pulled away, but Aranea got used to this, while making their way together in Niflheim. Now, the chatter is kind of soothing—if Prompto has it in him to ramble, everything can’t be that bad.
Though, the more he talks the more frantic he seems, cutting himself off and glancing his shoulder with every other step they take together. The shadows under his eyes are intense, days or weeks of deprivation but she is more concerned about the badly healed slash across his nose, remnants of a deep gash too old now to be healed without a scar.
Why didn’t they heal it up straight away?
He’s saying something, talking more with his hands than normal, but she talks over him, cuts him off mid-sentence.
There’s something frantic about him, deep shadows under his eyes and a poorly healed gash over his nose. Odd they didn’t heal it, that they didn’t stick a potion over it before it could linger long enough to leave a scar. Even more than normal he’s talking with his hands, gesturing this way and that while his mouth runs but he says even less than he normally does.
“You good?”
Prompto’s jaw clicks as his mouth clamps shut. More honestly than she’s anticipating he shakes his head but barrels on without telling her anything.
“We didn’t know you were coming back to Lucis. Not so soon.”
“As good a place as any,” Aranea evades. Prompto must know it’s the last place left, Accordo as good as dead along with Niflheim, there’s no point in rubbing salt into fresh wounds by saying it aloud. “Where are your boys?”
It’s a sidestep even more obvious than the one he made but blessed Prompto doesn’t call her out on it. Wordlessly he keeps them moving, slowly picking their way into town.
“Ignis was talking to someone about fortifications,” Prompto explains. “They sent me to get food.”
But they bypass the food stands anyway, Aranea following Prompto as he turns down a side street and steps around a few crates discarded outside a dark store front. Aranea visited Lestallum a few times though she never spent very much time in the town. She flies around in an Imperial airship, used to have a banner displayed on the side of her ship not proudly, but certainly brazenly. It’s no wonder she wasn’t particularly welcome. That’s never bothered her exactly, she’s never been paid to pick fights with civilians.
Ignis and Gladio step out of the hotel while Prompto and Aranea are still a dozen paces away. Prompto gets through a single word greeting before Ignis is talking over him—all business as usual though with distinctly less grace.
“We’ve been asked to do a supply run to Hammerhead,” Ignis explains. “Cindy has offered to make additional lights. They’re going to organise a truck for us.”
It’s hard to see Ignis’ exhaustion as plainly as Prompto’s what with the dark glasses covering his eyes, but the big guy looks a little sallow at his side, mouth pinched like there’s something sour stuck under his tongue.
Even more business first than normal. Impossible to tell if he’s as sleep deprived as Prompto under the dark tint of his glasses but the big guys look almost sallow, mouth pinched like he’s sucking on something sour.
Noctis is missing.
It could be nothing, but the set of Prompto’s mouth suggests it’s anything but.
“I can take you,” Aranea offers. Faster and easier for them and, selfishly, Aranea needs to start earning favours she can cash in.
“Commodore,” Ignis says politely. “Apologies, I didn’t know you were there.”
Lightly, he touches the edge of glasses and Aranea looks away, even though there’s no way he can know she’s watching him.
“No matter,” Aranea says. “Do you need to go right away?”
She came to Lestallum to make contacts, to find something to do, some way to be useful and secure her place in the world. If she’s forging bonds with anyone, these are the men she’s happiest to do it with. Might as well start with the only people in Lucis she’s sure she trusts.
“The sooner the better,” Gladio says—it sounds like he’s been in the habit of swallowing gravel since they last spoke. “If that’s okay.”
Aranea nods, remembering to say, “sure,” before it’s too late.
Gladio leaves without another word and Ignis’s head turns, following the sound of his walking away.
“Did you find food?” Ignis asks.
“Sorry,” Prompto blurts, backing away a few steps. “I’ll go now—I’ll be fast.”
“It’s my fault,” Aranea says, feeling something about the way Prompto’s voice breaks, just a little. “I’ll go with you.”
“You don’t—”
“I should feed mine too,” Aranea cuts off his protest. Besides, if she's going to tell anyone first, she chooses Prompto. “You guys sort out whatever you need ferrying to Hammerhead, and we’ll meet back at the ship. You can’t miss it.”
Prompto glances at her as they tread back the same way together, though his mouth stays tightly shut. Too tightly, like he’s holding himself back, like there’s a tension beyond even the obvious holding him together. They stop at an open vendor just as their last customer is stepping away.
“Gil or barter?” Prompto asks.
Aranea hasn’t been gone that long, and yet already Lucians have learnt to offer favours instead of coins. Usually, it takes people a little longer to adapt, but the slow creep of constant night must have kicked them into gear. Lucis has suffered one disaster after another, it’s remarkable how its people keep on getting up over and over.
The vendor looks him over and Aranea bites back a smile at the way Prompto pulls back his shoulders.
“You’re one of them royal hunters?”
Prompto flushes and it says something he still has it in him to react this way. In the low light you can barely see it, a faint ruddiness over his freckles.
“Yes, sir,” Prompto mumbles.
The vendor nods, “I’ll feed you boys up, don’t you worry.”
“Thank you,” Prompto says. “’Nea?”
“I need enough for four,” Aranea puts in and pointedly ignores the way Prompto’s face creases with confusion. She can almost hear him thinking, counting over her, Biggs and Wedge, time and time again, trying to make three times one equal four.
“I have money,” Aranea tells the vendor, so she’s doing something and has a reason to keep ignoring Prompto. “Or I can do something for you, if you want.” She makes the offer clumsily, but as earnestly as she can. Normally Aranea’s prerogative is to ask for more, more, more, while offering as little in return as possible. This new leaf is going to be hard to turn over, but in her post—Empire existence, she has to try.
“You a hunter too?” the man asks, squinting at her. Normally a man’s eyes washing over her with such rapt attention makes her bristle, but for once it’s just as likely he’s taking in her leathers and the poorly concealed knife strapped to her thigh rather than her other assets.
Hunter is a good of a job title as any, certainly one of the tasks she takes on as a mercenary. Maybe the only thing she’s really qualified for nowadays.
“Looks like it,” she drawls.
The vendor slaps another row of skewers down onto his grill and says, “You can owe me one.”
They step to one side when another customer approaches and Prompto bumps his shoulder into hers. Idiot, he’s lucky Aranea’s switched almost exclusively over to wearing her padded leather coat. The armour would have ripped his bare arms right open.
“So, extra hungry today?”
“I need to tell you something,” Aranea says quickly, words flying out before she can overthink it.
“There’s a lot of that going around,” Prompto sighs.
Aranea blinks, tilts her head up for another long look at him. It’ll take some time to get used to him with that scar across his nose and sooner or later she wants to know how he got it.
“You can go first,” Aranea offers.
Prompto swallows, but his voice still cracks when he says, “He’s gone.”
“I figured,” Aranea says. Whatever is going on between Prompto and his best-friend is more intense than any relationship Aranea’s ever experienced, even with the extra decade she has on them. Losing him will be a permanent ache that Prompto might not really get over. Not ever. Apologies are empty platitudes and dismal comfort, but Aranea has nothing else to offer. “I’m—”
“He’s coming back.”
Aranea believes him without explanation—believes he believes it. Which is enough.
“Good,” Aranea says, thumping Prompto gently in the chest. “Would be a shame for us to have all the fun.”
Prompto’s smile wobbles, so Aranea does him the favour of looking away, pretending to read a sign hanging across the way while he takes a few deep breaths. There’s a curfew now, apparently, suggested but not yet enforced.
“Your turn,” Prompto urges, his voice steady again.
For a brief second, Aranea grinds her teeth, then spits out, “There’s a kid in my ship.”
Prompto visibly flounders for a few seconds.
“Did you—steal it?”
“No, I did not steal it—her. Her. She’s an eight-year girl,” Aranea stresses.
“Well, that’s something,” Prompto offers. It almost sounds like a question.
“You really think I’d steal a kid?” Aranea demands.
The vendor glances over and Aranea’s been around the block enough times that she isn’t embarrassed, so much as she’s annoyed about letting her guard down enough, she’s already forgetting to be careful.
“I think you’d do a lot of things I wouldn’t do,” Prompto mutters. He darts away before she can respond—which is astute of him—collecting the thick, wrapped bundle of food from the vendor and thanking him at least three too many times. When he returns to her side, he won’t let her carry them and she is both annoyed and charmed by his sweetness.
People aren’t often nice to her just because; it’s usually because they’re afraid.
“I found her,” Aranea says, picking up their conversation as they fall into a matching stride towards the ship. “She was probably the only person alive in Gralea when we left.”
“Shit,” Prompto curses. “Not surprising, it looked pretty dicey when we were getting the fuck out of there.”
When they have the time, Aranea wants to hear more about that, too.
Prompto glances at her sideways, giving her a funny look.
“What?” she wonders.
“Who’s going to look after her?” Prompto asks, nonchalance so forced she almost laughs.
“Me,” Aranea says.
Prompto’s eyes widen. He doesn’t exactly grimace, but his mouth definitely does something weird that Aranea can’t say fills her with confidence.
“Sure, okay,” he says. “Uh—let us know if you need help?” Definitely a request this time.
Prompto was always going to be the easiest to tell. He is always going to assume the best of her, to assume she can do anything she sets her mind on. It still calms her to see him so easily accept this; if he lost it, Aranea’s struggling calm would have crumbled into dust.
“Um,” Prompto says, pulling up short with a genuine grimace now. “You probably should have warned the guys.”
Aranea didn’t think for a second that Ignis and Gladio would beat them back to the ship. Wedge is busy guiding townspeople up and down the ramp so they can deposit their crates inside. Gladio is nowhere to be seen but Ignis stands, arms crossed over his chest, just a few steps away from the ramp. Waiting for them.
“Shit,” Aranea grits out. She lengthens her stride, trying to beat Prompto over.
It didn’t feel necessary to say don’t let anyone see her to Biggs and Wedge when she left, assuming that was a given, but it looks like she should have taken the time.
“Aranea,” Ignis says, tone cold enough to make her suppress a shiver.
“In a minute,” Aranea snaps.
She storms past him, racing up the ramp and skids to a halt just two steps inside the ship.
Too long legs folded beneath him, Gladio sits on the ground with Solara standing in front of him. She looks shy, but curious, fiddling with the decorative chains off Gladio’s uniform where he has them laid over his palm.
“Hey, kid,” Aranea says.
Solara looks up to offer her a smile, but Gladio draws her attention even immediately just by being there.
“This is Sol,” Aranea tells Gladio. “She’s—an orphan from Gralea.”
“Sol,” Gladio repeats. "Nice to meet you. How old are you? Seven?”
“Eight,” she says. “Nine—in a while.”
Prompto touches her arm, approaching carefully from behind then leans close to whisper, “Gladio has a kid sister.
Solara must be small for her age.
Gladio tucks his chains away and Solara stares at him, annoyance completely unmasked but Gladio just smiles, and her annoyance gives way faster than it came.
“I’m Gladio,” he tells her, holding out his now empty hand. Solara stares at it before wrapping it in both of hers and holding on gently. Slowly, Gladio shakes their joined hands up and down. “Iggy, Prompto—come say hello.”
Prompto basically skips around her, dropping into a crouch at their side. Solara is confronted with another hand thrust her direction and she takes Prompto’s in a similar fashion, letting herself be led not-quite-correctly through these greetings.
“Hey,” Prompto says cheerfully. “I’m Prompto.”
“Hello,” Solara chirps.
A little too stiff and formal, but Solara has been that way on and off since Aranea took hold of her. Aranea can’t imagine there was much fun in her upbringing nor did the general air of secrecy around her existence probably allow for her to meet people all that often.
Now, she seems a little shy, watching Ignis finish his approach with slightly wide eyes, curious and perhaps a little concerned about the way Prompto drops her hold to reach for his friend, encouraging Ignis to bend down a little so Solara can reach his hand too.
Ignis’ mouth curls up in something of a smile, prolonging their strange facsimile of a handshake.
“Charmed,” Ignis tells Solara. “Welcome to Lucis.”
“Lucis,” she parrots back. Quickly she looks over at Aranea, startled and perhaps a little confused.
“It’s okay,” Aranea says. “You’re okay—I was taking you somewhere safe. This is that place.” Or as good as—it’s not likely anywhere is safe now.
“Like you promised,” Solara says. “I remember.”
“Yeah, like that,” Aranea mumbles.
“Can I go see?” Solara asks, immediately trying to step around the circle of men she’s gathered. She forgets—or doesn’t want—to let go of Ignis’ hand as she does, dragging him around with her. Instead of shaking her off, he just lets her pull him to and fro, adjusting his cane against the ground when she takes a broader step that might pull him off balance.
“Not today, little miss,” Biggs tells her, intercepting her progress and halting her with a gentle hand atop her head. “We have a delivery to make. But we’ll come back another day.”
“We’re leaving?” Solara cries in disbelief. “Already?”
“Not going far,” Aranea says.
Suddenly overcome, she strides into the ship, scooping Solara up under the armpits and finally dislodging her hold on Ignis. It’s easy, but still not quite natural, to hold Solara against her hip and close to her torso—the entire reason Aranea is forgoing her much sturdier armour for her current garb. “Just a little trip to take some stuff to a—uh, friend.”
“She’s our friend,” Gladio grumbles, wincing as he unfolds himself from the floor. Maybe they’re all hurt right now. “So that works.”
“’Kay,” Solara says, like she has the deciding vote. She settles her cheek down on Aranea’s shoulder and seems to relax when Aranea smooths a hand over the back of her head.
Prompto watches her and Aranea pointedly turns away.
“You guys ready?” Aranea barks, escaping to the console.
“Whenever you are,” Ignis promises. “Thank you for your help.”
Solara’s really too big for it, probably too old, but Aranea keeps her in her arms through the entire flight up to Hammerhead.
—
Cindy Aurum is a stranger, in practice, but Aranea knows of her. More times than she can count, Aranea has bought supplies for her ship only to be told it comes with the Cindy seal of approval, or that it’s straight out of Hammerhead. Aranea is not a local, but she is not an idiot, either, Hammerhead means something to these people, despite it being nothing more than a gas station, a shop, and a restaurant, with just enough housing that the employees of these places don’t have to sleep on the streets.
Aranea has set down nearby before now, even eaten with the boys at camp just a stones throwaway on one memorable occasion. This is the first time she’s ever instructed Wedge to set the ship down within the perimeter of the outpost. It’s also the first time she’s set eyes on the mechanic in person and it’s only the weight of Solara in her arms which prevents Aranea from saying fuck me out loud.
Prompto clears his throat and when she catches his eye, he arches one eyebrow in such mocking disdain she almost feels flustered. The words must have been all over her face anyway.
“Shut up,” Aranea grumbles and Solara leans around to see who she’s addressing. “Down you go,” Aranea says to her this time, stomach churning when Solara immediately goes to race off into the settlement. “Wait—hold my hand.”
Solara does, though doesn’t seem overly happy about it. Aranea can’t with this kid. Just an hour ago she went silent and shy, now she’s trying to race off unattended into the unknown. Maybe Aranea isn’t cut out for this.
“Y’all were fast,” Cindy says. The low heel of her boots clicks against the concrete as she approaches, apparently completely unbothered by the Imperial looking dropship taking up the entirety of her forecourt.
“Someone kindly offered us assistance,” Ignis tells her.
Aranea doesn’t remember being particularly kind about it.
Cindy steps close to Ignis, offers him her hand before taking his when he obviously doesn’t realise. It’s hard to see in the light and with Cindy’s cap pulled low, but her face seems to fold into itself, filled with a grief Aranea wasn’t expecting to bear witness to with no warning.
“I heard,” Cindy says quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Hard to know if she’s apologising for his injury, or the fact only three familiar men disembarked the airship. Doesn’t matter, not really. Aranea doesn’t need to be close with Ignis to understand which one hurts him more.
Ignis shakes his head. “It’s no matter.”
“Hollar if you need anythin’,” Cindy says. There’s a pause, where she waves at Prompto and Gladio in turn—the latter already busy unloading the cargo with Biggs and Wedge—and she lets a look linger over Aranea standing on the sidelines. In a breath, Cindy forces a smile so brittle a strong breeze might shatter it. “So, it’s not just me asking for favours.”
Prompto stumbles off the ramp, his attention fully on Cindy.
“What’s wrong?”
“Something else is amiss,” Ignis says.
“Sorry,” Cindy mumbles. “The minute we got off the phone the power cut out. We got the back-up generator on before anythin’ got in, but—”
“A problem on the power line?” Prompto guesses.
Cindy nods, “We sent a scout, then a hunting party but they had to retreat real fast.”
“Daemons or monsters?” Aranea calls. Again, a lingering look, this time followed by a nod.
“Daemons. A lot of them,” Cindy says. “I don’t want to put y’all at risk…”
“How long will the generators last?” Ignis asks.
Cindy shrugs. “Never had to use them for more than a few hours before,” she explains. “Two days, maybe. If we’re lucky.”
“Shit,” Prompto hisses.
“Language,” Ignis and Cindy say at once.
Solara laughs. Prompto snorts, coming over to crouch at Solara’s side again.
“Do me a favour kid, and do as I say, not as I do?” Prompto barters. “So, your, uh—” he looks up, then back down, “So your Aranea doesn’t murder me, alright?”
He holds up his hand, for a high-five, and Solara adorably and awkwardly puts her hand gently against his palm.
“I’ll teach you to high-five after we’ve saved the day,” Prompto promises. “Later, okay?”
“Okay,” Solara responds. She tugs on Aranea’s hand and when Solara is sure she has Aranea’s full attention, she says, “Safe?”
“You are,” Aranea says. “I have to go, for a bit, to make sure we stay that way.”
“I’ll come,” Solara says.
“No.”
Solara’s grip tightens, crushing Aranea’s fingers together.
“I want to,” Solara insists. A beat later, she adds, “Please.”
“Well, you can’t,” Aranea snaps. Gladio—she thinks—clears his throat and Aranea takes a deep breath, forces herself into something like calm. “It’s not safe, you need to stay here. Biggs or Wedge will stay too.”
“No,” Solara hisses.
“Sol,” Aranea says. “Please—sweetheart. Stay where it’s safe.”
Aranea can make her stay, Solara is not strong enough to fight her way out of Biggs’ hold, but they’ve made it this far without a tantrum, without any drama which isn’t solely located in Aranea’s mind. It would be nice to keep that going for as long as possible.
Solara starts shaking her head and Aranea starts to crouch low, even though she has no idea how to convince—
“Actually, I could use a hand if everyone is up and leaving me.”
Solara blinks, her expression clearing. She turns to peer curiously down the ramp at Cindy.
“Help?” Solara says.
“Uh huh,” Cindy says, and she managed to sound genuinely forlorn. “And you look like you have perfect hands for the job.”
Solara tugs herself free and stares down at her hands, flexing her little fingers. Using her distraction, Aranea looks to Cindy—to this person she doesn’t technically know—only to be met with the sight of her mouthing this okay? Aranea could laugh she’s so relieved. She settles for mouthing back thank you and Cindy breaks into a smile.
“Sol, was it?” Cindy says.
Solara gives her a look, asking for permission and Aranea nods to give it, gently urging her away down the ramp. Cindy takes hold of Solara’s hand, even as she’s turning to Prompto, talking a mile a minute.
“Take lights—there’s four in the garage,” Cindy says. “It looks like they chewed up the cable from the ground, but it’s too close to the control panel. If this keeps happening, we’re doomed. You can wire them into—”
“Cindy,” Prompto interrupts.
She stops, pressing her lips together so hard they turn white.
“You know what you’re doin’,” Cindy breathes. Not a question, a reminder.
“I’ve got this,” Prompto says, lightly slapping his own chest. “You hold down the fort here.”
They high-five, Solara watching with unfettered interest, then Prompto is trotting away, grabbing Gladio on the way past so they both dip into the covered garage at the same time.
“Lady A?”
Biggs and Wedge are ready, like always, so it’s with some guilt that she turns to Wedge and instructs, “Stay here.”
“As you wish,” Wedge allows. He doesn’t put up a fuss about being side-lined and for that she’s grateful. Biggs is the closest their trio has to a people person, if Aranea is tossing either of them into combat with an unfamiliar team, he’s the better choice.
There’s no reason for Aranea to storm down the ramp and crack her knees against the concrete so she can pull Solara into a one-armed hug, but she does it anyway. She has to, just to really hammer it home in her head that Solara is safe, that she’s staying away from the fight and Aranea will definitely be back to have dinner with her in an hour or so.
“Behave,” Aranea says softly, pleading for cooperation. “Please.”
Solara’s mouth twitches but she gives in with a nod and Aranea stands herself up again, setting a hand atop Solara’s head, musing the soft strands of her hair.
“Thank you,” Aranea tells Cindy again, out loud this time.
“Good luck,” Cindy tells her. “Be safe.”
—
Aranea’s never seen Ignis take a hit before.
In the quick flurry of loading the ship back up and getting everyone into their gear it briefly escapes her that he’s blind. It’s not until she sees him suffer through an easily dodged swipe from a bussemand that she even thinks to question whether he should have come with them at all.
The blow winds him, but Aranea is too far away to help get him to his feet herself. Prompto is there, before she can even call out, dragging him out of harm’s way and clear the path for Gladio to deliver a swift retribution by cleaving the daemon clear in two. It dissolves into twin pools of glistening miasma at their feet. Aranea spears an imp on the end of her lance, flicking it off again with the same move she uses to spin around and slam the heel of her boot into a horror that comes at her from behind.
The fight is relentless, though no daemon is anything particularly special. There’s just so many of them.
“You guys okay?” Aranea yells as soon as she has breath to do so.
No way Aranea could have handled this fight alone, good that there’s five of them, even if she left Biggs at the ship to pick off outliers with his rifle and ensure the ship doesn’t get incapacitated.
“All good,” Prompto yells back and everything else is drowned out by gunfire for a few moments.
It goes on and on, with no way to catch a break. As soon as they take down five, ten erupt from the ground. Gladio slams his shield down to guard Aranea and Ignis from a blast of noxious fumes and, outside their hiding spot, Prompto swears more viciously than she’s ever previously had the privilege of hearing. It peters off, into a kind of terrifying delirious laugh that makes her blood go cold.
“Prompto, are—”
“Stay back there!” he yells before something explodes.
The world bursts into sunlight, so bright Aranea ducks her head into the crook of her arm.
“Gods,” Ignis mutters. “I see he made some improvements.”
“He said he was,” Gladio grunts back.
During their time together in Niflheim Prompto showed her his Starshell shots, used them to good effect even, but they pale in comparison to what he’s doing now. They used to be a single shot, fired off into a corner and useful for making a daemon or tow flinch or cower away and give them back some space. This lingers. The light dims a little as the seconds pass and the blistering sound of it exploding and expanding quietens enough they start to hear the daemons hiss and splinter as they dissolve under the light.
When Aranea gives into the urge to peek out she sees blood spatter all up Prompto’s arms. Except, no—blisters and broken skin ooze the blood from within his body; the force of his artificial sun rebounding against him.
“That needs some work,” Gladio mutters, swapping his shield for his sword in a whoosh of blue light which still catches Aranea off guard. He races off to deal with the perimeter where daemons are pushing against the diminishing border of Prompto’s save, but he makes sure to clap Prompto on the shoulder as he storms by.
Prompto winces, shaking out his arms, and squints up at where his light is burning away.
“You guys hold the area and I’ll get the lights up,” Prompto tells them, disappearing back towards the ship before Aranea can decide between scolding or praising him.
It’s simpler then. The daemons can’t come at them from all sides the same way and make themselves easy pickings by lining up for their inevitable slaughter in single file. Slowly the light retreats and they go with it, keeping safe within the boundary. They’re winning now though, clearing through the daemons without more immediately coming in to take their place. Ignis picks off a section with daggers, flinging them away with enough accuracy that he always hits, even if it’s not an immediate kill like he would have managed a few months ago.
Prompto gets the lights on, one by one, two up before Prompto’s saving grace blips out for good and the other two buzzing to life before they can be surrounded again. Cindy’s bulbs are almost as bright as the infrequent sun and Aranea stands over Prompto as he fiddles with the wiring just in case anything else pops up from the ground. Hoarsely, Prompto instructs Gladio on where to set the lamps, and how to shore them up on each side with the sandbags Biggs helps carry off the ship.
“Potion,” Gladio barks, when Prompto steps back from his work.
“Just a sec,” Prompto says, ducking under Gladio’s outstretched arm and racing up to the ship, popping back out just a few seconds later with hands full all over again.
The lights are wired in at the unit a few paces away from where the power cable is half unearthed from the ground, chewed up and damaged by either daemons or some other kind of monster. Prompto drops down onto his knees right by it, wiping his palms against his filthy jeans.
“Uh, let’s hope I remembered how to isolate properly,” Prompto laughs. Sweat drips from his hairline.
“Prompto,” Ignis warns. “If you’re not sure, don’t risk it.”
“I’m sure, I’m sure,” Prompto says. “Just—hands are shaking.”
“Let me help,” Aranea says. She jams her lance into the ground and jogs over to Prompto in time to watch him cleave straight through the jumble of wires with a sharp knife.
Her heart stops.
Prompto whistles, laughing again as he ducks his head, using the sleeve of his t-shirt to mop across his forehead.
“Dumbass,” Aranea mutters.
“You say that,” Prompto says. “Yet here I am, doing the smart person's job.”
It takes him a while, trimming and re-affixes the wires with trembling fingers then wrapping over all the joins. Aranea scoops away the dirt for him—the only job she feels equipped to do—so he can lay the bundle down into the ground again, then holds the new metal plate down as he screws it into place.
“Test it for me,” Prompto instructs. “The black knob, with the little—” he points up and Gladio huffs, going over to the unit. “—twist it two notches clockwise.”
Nothing explodes, nothing crackles or hisses. Nothing happens at all.
Ignis’ phone jingles in his pocket and they all watch, half holding their breath as he raises the phone to his ear.
“Yes?” Ignis says. “Ah—wonderful. We’ll return at once.”
Prompto drops back onto his ass then, after a second, lets himself collapse all the way onto his back, staring up at the inky black sky.
Aranea claps him on the knee. Her hands are shaking too, she hopes no one notices.
“Good job, kid.”
—
Hammerhead is more brightly lit when Biggs lands the ship in the same spot they took off from an hour ago. Over by the still open store someone has the radio playing, static filled music beamed straight to them from three decades ago.
Biggs follows her off the airship and there’s no outward reaction or greeting between him and Wedge when they meet halfway across the concrete, but she’s learnt to expect that from them. It takes her a second to find Solara, is drawn in her direction by laughter of all things, Solara’s little giggle with the sound of Cindy’s humour underneath it.
They’re hidden behind the open bonnet of a car, which Aranea rounds quickly to find them poking around in the engine. Cindy is smudged over her arms and one particularly charming streak across her cheek, but Solara seems to be oil black all the way up to her elbows.
The dress probably isn’t salvageable, Aranea certainly doesn’t know how to get it clean. She struggles enough with getting blood out, it’s part of why she never conformed to Imperial white dress.
“Aranea!” Solara cries, hopping up from her perch so abruptly she only avoids cracking her head against the bonnet because Cindy quickly covers the edge of it with her palm.
“Hey,” Aranea says, and Solara is suddenly upon her, grubby arms sticky against Aranea’s skin but the weight of her is comforting and stabilising. “You have fun?”
How long have they really been together? A week now—more? Less?
Solara is almost alone in a strange world, isolated even before said world went to shit around her. Aranea, Biggs and Wedge—they’re all she has left of the home Aranea has no way to know if she loved or not.
“Miss Cindy needed me to pull something out of a pipe,” Solara announces proudly and Aranea takes that to mean yes, she had fun.
“She was a great help,” Cindy confirms. “You guys get on okay?”
“Prompto saved our asses,” Aranea says.
Cindy’s eyes flicker over Solara and Aranea really has to get her swearing under control before Solara grows up with the world’s most abrasive potty mouth.
“Are you hurt?” Solara asks, muffled from where she’s hiding in Aranea’s shoulder.
“Not even a scratch,” Aranea assures her. It’s true, though she and Biggs are the only ones.
In the ship Gladio forced Prompto to sit on the edge of the cot, hissing behind his teeth while a potion knits the skin of his hands and arms back together. Gladio took a blow when she wasn’t looking but shrugged off his own need for a healing magic and strong-armed Ignis into taking it instead to deal with a nasty bruise slowly blooming across his chest.
“Sorry about the mess,” Cindy apologises, gesturing vaguely at Solara. “She’ll clean right up; y’all can use my bathroom upstairs. Plenty of hot water as you guys did such a good job. I can get her started if you want to grab her a change of clothes.”
Aranea freezes. She would hand that right over, if only she had one.
“What is it?” Cindy asks.
“This is all she has,” Aranea admits, and it is suddenly quite impossible to meet Cindy’s eye.
“Well, that’s alright,” Cindy says, overly chipper, her accent more pronounced than before. “I have some old things the little lady can borrow.”
“No, it’s—you shouldn’t have to,” Aranea tries.
“Don’t be silly,” Cindy says and when she lightly touches Solara’s back the kid unfurls in Aranea’s grip to peer back at her. “It’s not like I’m using them anymore. You want to come on up for a bath, Sol?”
“Thank you,” Aranea says quietly, setting Solara onto the ground. “Thank you—I’ll pay you back.”
Cindy waves her off and Solara waves too, as Cindy leads her off deeper into the garage. Aranea mostly has herself back in order when Prompto skids around the corner into view.
“Do you want—woah. What’s with that face?”
Maybe not as in order as she thought.
“What face?” Aranea snaps.
Prompto waves his hand in front of her and pulls his own expression into an over-the-top grimace.
“I’m not making a face,” Aranea argues. Prompto looks at her and looks at her. She sighs. “Fine—okay. Sol doesn’t have a spare change of clothes. And I did not realise that would be a problem until now.”
“I’m sure Cindy has something she can borrow,” Prompto offers.
“She does, but—”
“So, it doesn’t matter,” Prompto says. There’s a beat of silence, then, “Could you not pack her a bag before you left?”
“No. We couldn’t,” Aranea says. She may have made it out of that fight unscathed but now a headache is starting to prickle at her temple. She needs something to eat and a drink—or four.
“We’ve got the caravan, if you want to come shower or just sit down,” Prompto offers. “No home cooked, five-star meals right now, but Takka’s still going strong.”
Aranea wants both of those things, but she wants to follow after Solara and Cindy more. Just to be on the safe side.
She still doesn’t really know Cindy.
“Or I can take you upstairs,” Prompto guesses. “If you would prefer.”
Aranea sighs, aware of her own ridiculousness but unable to do anything about it.
“The latter,” Aranea says. “Please.”
—
Prompto almost immediately abandons her alone upstairs with Cindy and she tries, really tries to make the conversation pleasant despite running a complete deficit right now. Together, they hover outside Cindy’s bathroom to give Solara some privacy. They’re alone for maybe ten minutes when Prompto comes storming back up the stairs beaming the kind of smile Aranea hasn’t seen for a while.
“I got this,” Prompto cries, thrusting a small bundle into Aranea’s hand. “For Sol.”
Solara has worn nothing but fine clothes her entire life, probably had drawers and drawers filled with silk and velvet. Yet when Aranea gives her the small, tourist t-shirt emblazoned with Hammerhead right across the chest, she lights up as though she’s never been given a gift before.
“For me?” Solara checks, and again. “This is for me?” She’s drowning in the folds of Cindy’s terry-cloth bathrobe, the first thing Cindy could think to put her in so she can stay warm.
“Just for you,” Aranea promises. “Make sure you thank Prompto, okay?”
Cindy passes Aranea a small towel before slipping from the bathroom in search of more Solara suitable clothes. It takes Aranea perhaps too long to realise she’s supposed to be drying Solara’s hair with it.
The t-shirt is too big for her, but not enough that she can’t wear it. Cindy manages to dig out a pair of jeans so old that while clean they are not fresh. Solara hardly seems to notice, or care, pulling on the cotton and denim, cuffs folded over three times, before clambering up onto Cindy’s sink to try and get a good look at herself. Already she looks different, Aranea can’t tell if she actually is thinner or if her mind is playing tricks on her. Solara’s been eating and while the food isn’t good, it definitely exists.
“There we go, much better,” Cindy says, from where she’s leaning in the doorway. “I have something I need to—”
“Sh—six, we’ve been up here for ages.”
“—do, but I’ll join you downstairs as soon as I’m done.”
Aranea bites down too hard on her tongue, just to stop herself from saying anything.
Gently, she nudges Solara and instructs, “Say thank you.”
“Thank you,” Solara says immediately.
“You’re welcome,” Cindy says. Her eyes flicker from Aranea to Solara and back again. “Take as long as you need. There’s no rush.”
Solara waves as Cindy leaves the bathroom again and Aranea goes back to watching her in the mirror.
“Hungry?” Aranea asks and Solara nods, catching Aranea’s eye in the reflection. “Okay, we’re going to eat with the boys from earlier.” Solara nods again and Aranea lifts her under the armpits to set her back down on the ground. “And you probably shouldn’t climb up like that—on furniture and stuff.”
“Why?”
“It’s not safe,” Aranea says. “Or polite.”
“But I didn’t fall,” Solara argues.
“I know, just—don’t, okay?”
Solara doesn’t verbally agree, but nor does she argue, so Aranea chalks that up as a win. For now.
Prompto’s waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs, and he grins when they come into view, shooting Solara exceptionally dorky finger guns.
“Looking cool,” Prompto drawls. “You like it?”
“Yes,” Solara chirps.
Aranea ruffles her almost dry hair and prods, “This is Prompto—remember?”
Solara gasps, clapping her hands together once.
“Thank you for my t-shirt,” Solara says.
“No biggie,” Prompto dismisses, but his smile goes fond. “We already sorted the food,” Prompto tells her. “And two of us showered already so it doesn’t even smell that bad over there.”
Aranea needs to shower too, but it can wait. She’s been washing up in a basin, getting Solara to do the same. It’s better if she doesn’t dwell on the thought of hot, running water right now.
She waves to Wedge as they cross the concrete and he salutes back, so she assumes he debriefed with his partner. There are extra chairs set up around the caravan, and someone has commandeered a bench where Biggs has already claimed a seat and a bowl of whatever is on offer.
“I owe you,” Aranea tells Gladio as she dishes up a serving for Solara.
Owes a lot of people a lot of things, already. She’s not unaccustomed to paying off a debt, it’s just been a long while since she landed herself with one that keeps mounting and mounting every time she moves.
“Don’t think on it,” Ignis insists.
Aranea helps Solara up onto the bench by Biggs and checks she’s well set up with a spoon and a glass of water before she even thinks about going off to get some of her own.
“You look dead on your feet,” Gladio muses when Aranea drifts back over to him.
“Charming,” Aranea says archly. Gladio just rolls his eyes. She’s sure at some point he was a little warier of her.
Prompto prevents her from rushing back over to Solara’s side by taking the leftover space on the bench, showing Biggs one of his guns while Solara eats between them. Biggs, to his credit, looks interested, talking and gesturing as Prompto slides some part or another of it free.
“Does he still have the bazooka?” Aranea asks without thinking.
“The—what?” Ignis asks.
“Nothing,” Aranea laughs. “Never mind.”
“Damn,” Gladio mutters unexpectedly, cutting over Ignis who definitely was not planning on dropping it if Aranea has any skill at reading his expression. “She’s really spoiling us today.”
Aranea follows his eye to see Cindy over by the airship, thrusting a box into Wedge’s hands who, after a second, bows deeply in his gratitude. Cindy stoops again, before continuing her way towards them, raising up with two six-packs balanced in her arms.
“Thought y’all deserved these,” Cindy announces happily.
The bottles are passed around, bottle caps removed with ingenuity and enthusiasm when the caravan proves devoid of the correct tool. After a few minutes Aranea finds herself half-comfortable in one of the little plastic chairs, a warm bowl of stew on the table in front of her and a cold beer in her left hand.
Aranea is left alone only briefly, safe to observe in peace and shovel in food more quickly than is sensible. When her solitude is interrupted, she doesn’t mind, not when it’s Cindy dragging out the empty chair and falling into it with a breathless sigh. She leans close, right in so she goes from near to all up in Aranea’s personal space in three inches flat.
Still, somehow, Aranea doesn’t really mind.
“We were never actually introduced,” Cindy says.
“And yet I’ve pissed in your toilet,” Aranea mutters.
Cindy snorts, inelegant and charming.
“I’m Cindy,” she says, holding up her beer bottle. Aranea clinks her own against it.
“I know; people around here talk,” Aranea says, but offers her own name in turn.
“I probably have you at a disadvantage,” Cindy announces, pausing to take a long draw from her drink. “Prompto talked about you a lot, even before. And just now, in fact.”
“All good things, I hope,” Aranea laughs.
“The best; he might be your biggest fan,” Cindy says. “Thanks for keepin’ him safe. And for today.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
Keeping people safe is really all Aranea has ever done. Sure, she used to do it for a pay-check, but it’s still what she’s best at doing.
Over on the bench Solara has fallen asleep sprawled across Biggs’ lap with her little feet kicked up onto Prompto’s thigh and heedless of whatever conversation they are having above her.
It’s terrifying, thinking about keeping her safe specifically. But then—what’s one more?