Remnants of the Earth

   “Adieu, fleur douce, ce monde n'était pas prêt pour toi.”

   “I mean for fuck’s sake I saw th’ thing an’ I just… I ain’t never cried over a clown before. I miss him so bad, Bell.”

   They always looked amazing when they tried to figure out just where he’d come from. Xande grinned all the wider as he watched his newest acquisition look back and forth, dropping just shy of meeting Xande’s gaze. It was all animal instinct, of course. Some base reaction that made it so even the most civilized person understood what it meant to lock eyes with a predator.

   It was never anything good.

   Xande enjoyed the minor deference for a moment, taking a sip of his tea while the young voidwalker felt against himself for… something. The voidsuit, probably, right about where the logo and accompanying regalia had been so carefully, robotically stitched. Perfect condition. It was really a beautiful thing, and the other bodies had been, too, resulting in one hell of a payday if Xande said so himself.

   Decades worth of tea, at the very least.

   His acquisition seemed to get a little bolder, though, unable to maintain eye contact but certainly able to try. And all to the tune of mild threats, no less! Unfortunately for the voidwalker, Xande wasn’t really interested much in talking, and nor did he really need the voidwalker awake. But, he also didn’t need to tell the guy that, and so gave a little acquiescing nod towards the collar itself.

   “Lead, babe. When the suit comes up TRIM, you’ve got a 50/50 shot of picking up someone a might bit special.” He sipped at his tea, slowly stepping a little closer to the bars, peering down through the gloom at the device in question. “So, bit of company policy to just tag ‘em all and not tempt fate any.”

   Xande grinned, giving a little shrug. “Bad luck is contagious and all. So yeah, you’ve got your standard monitoring chip, little gal-ps, lead dampeners, and won’t come unlocked until I enter the code. Spared no expense, and really, when it comes to your work tools, you should always go high quality whenever possible.”

   The shade shambled forward just in time for Xande to pass over his teacup, his newly freed hands wrapping around the bars just above his acquisition’s head. He swiveled his head, trying to catch the voidwalker’s eyes before they darted away again, the whole thing just too amusing for words.

   “Kinda goes for everything else, too, now that I think about it. Good quality ships don’t usually have decompression issues.” He narrowed his eyes a bit, tonguing at one canine before clicking it sharply. “But that’s not what happened, is it? TRIM doesn’t skimp on that sort of thing, either. Hm?”

   Quick as a shot, his hands slid through the gaps in the bars, grabbing the voidwalker’s wrists and yanking them forward, keeping the songbird right where he was. Xande stared down at him, at the way the guy’s pupils shrank and grew with alternating psychological responses, at the way he kept swallowing against the pressure of the collar, at the way the guy’s breathing picked up as his body prepared that good ol’ fight or flight response. Mm, fight or flight smelled so good.

   “You get to address me as Captain Veyn, tweety.” He gave a sharp, quick whistle to the tune of some very small spider and a spout, before his face split into a wide grin. “For as long as you make it, here. Don’t that sound just goddamn peachy?”

   It was hard to tell if it was because Cabal was his Resonance and thus would always sound good, or if it was because Cabal just sounded so good. The gasps, the groans, the subtle uptick in how he breathed, the way his strong chest rose and fell just that much quicker beneath Ren’s hands. Beneath his nails, because oh the way Cabal’s breath hitched, the sheer animal reaction of it, that was enough to have Ren all but vibrating in excitement.

   He shifted, pressed back against those hands at his hips, bit at his lip and utterly failed to stifle a groan as he pressed against Cabe’s hardon. Not that he was very far behind Cabe in that matter, because the second Ren’s stoned brain caught up with what Cabal was saying, well. The coiling heat from before turned into a veritable inferno, his own cock pressing painfully against his jeans.

   Because Cabal sounded especially good when he was making promises involving the floor.

   “Oh—” Ren started to say something, though he quickly lost track of what that something was as he was fondled out of his jeans, the pressure alleviated only for a moment before Cabe started toying with his piercings. The elf couldn’t help it, mewling loudly before surging forward to press his lips to the other Pilot’s pulse, the rest muffled but no less plaintive.

   Except, there was just that one problem, just as Cabe was so kind to point out. For a moment, Ren was too dizzy from the sensation of teeth on his lip, before once again the full weight of what Cabal said sunk in. And he had a point— in the growing heat of the elevator, Ren was becoming terribly aware of how much he was wearing. The fabric clung just enough to be  absolutely awful and in desperate need of removal.

   Though as much as Ren wanted to tear off every last bit of fabric that separated them, the opportunity was too much to pass up. There’d been plenty of weekends, plenty of practice, and it was no small amount of smugness that Ren sat up in Cabal’s lap.

   Smirking from ear to pointed ear, Ren raised one curious brow as if to ask the man ‘oh, really?’, before smoothly easing off his boots and tossing those flippantly to the side. Settling on his knees, Ren ran his nails over Cabe’s chest one last time, hands sliding from the man to the hem of his own shirt, slowly pulling it off and over his head before it too joined his boots in the far corner.

   He’d expected to be hit with a sudden chill, but instead just felt all the more on fire, hearts thumping wildly against his ribs. By some miracle he was able to keep his voice steady, though there was no helping just how breathless the words were as he gave another fangy grin. “Better…? Or more?”

   Not that he waited for a response, already thumbing at the waistband of his pants and slowly inching it down over his hips. But if he took his time with his shirt, Ren took a millenia with his jeans, slowly wiggling back and forth and just out of reach. When they reached his thighs, Ren shifted his legs, pushing Cabal’s knees apart to get between them.

   He crawled back, somehow keeping his breath slow and even while continued to move his hips, the pants kicked away at first opportunity and leaving only a lacy garter behind. The added bonus was, Ren  was in the enviable position of face to face with Cabe’s solar plexus, and another mischievous smirk was all the warning the human got before he dipped his head down to nip at the skin just above the man’s navel.

   Soothing the bite with a swipe of his tongue, Ren slid downward, switching between playful bites and lingering kisses as he went, until he was face to face with Cabe’s cock. Ren swallowed in anticipation, licked at his lips before pressing a light kiss to the head, working a teasing trail over the ridging just beneath while one hand wrapped around the base, giving the other man a gentle squeeze.

   “So… much… bold talk.” He said in between each kiss, unable to help a wide grin as the sheer elation of what was happening overwhelmed him, words peppered with a hint of soft song the more excited he became.

   Besides, if anyone was going to be okay with All That Sharp near him, it was gonna be Cabe. He had no gods to thank for his fortune, but he had to thank the gods for Cabal.

   Nico narrowed their eyes at Dash as the man moved to do as he was told, but not without his share of commentary over the fact. But Nico should’ve known that. Dashiell Feldspar wasn’t the sort to just do as he was told, no— there had to be a whole event about the thing, whatever it took to get a rise out of whoever he was with. He liked to poke the bear, and he liked to poke the bear as often as humanly possible.

   How many fights had been stoked back to life from that? Nico sighed, an old unnameable ache resurfacing somewhere in their chest at the sheer volumes of fights they’d been privy to. All the frustrations about Dashiell’s attitude, about how he always had to have the last word, how nothing was ever finished until he did.

   Dashiell followed orders, all right, but he never gave over full control. He remained his own man at his very core, even when a lack of concession made things so much worse. Nicodemo had seen plenty of his sort over the years: they tended to be the sorts that either died in the line of duty, or ended up frustrating their commanding officers to the point of being relegated to scrubbing latrines the rest of their miserable careers.

   And yet Dashiell was not elbow deep in a toilet. He had been put on leave for his more… violent outbursts as of late, but he’d never stopped being a key figure in the Libran military. Nico had never quite considered it, but, if Dashiell was so bad so much of the time, it should have reflected on his service record.

   But Dashiell was a Duo. Was now a Solo. Was now thoroughly not Sergeant of Shitters. There was something to be said about professional versus personal lives, but Nico had yet to meet someone who could thoroughly sever the difference between the two and live each life separately from one another. They doubted Dashiell was so conniving; brash and a complete asshole, but not the Machiavellian sort. The Machiavellian sort wouldn’t have stormed up to a person at a café and start a fistfight to get what he wanted. Or admit he was wrong to do it.

   As Dashiell pulled the wrapper off the blueberry muffin he’d selected and ate a part of the top off, Nico considered that maybe the reason so many of those fights had gotten to their ears because Reese had wanted them to. Dashiell was impossible to fully control.

   And that probably drove Reese bonkers more than any little shitty thing Dashiell had done that day.

   Nico touched at the mug of tea in front of them, fingers twitching where the temperature was just too hot, and then finally settling against the smoothness of the handle. They listened to the rest of what Dashiell had to say (because of course there was more to say), and blinked in surprise when Dashiell got to the part about making it up to them.

   About wanting to be an honorable man again.

   Nico touched at one canine with their tongue, before shifting in their seat to fully face Dashiell, staring into his face and considering everything they saw.

   “It doesn’t atone for it, you’re right. Being put on leave and community service for beating the shit out of another member of the military seems like a slap on the wrist. The fact that you let yourself behave like an animal, when I know you’ve been trained better than that, is inexcusable. It isn’t something that can be fixed, or swept, or whatever other kind of metaphor you want to apply to it.”

   Nico took a moment, lifted their mug, and took a cautious sip, wincing a bit when it was, in fact, still way too hot and they had to set the mug back down again.

   “But, if you’re keen on making me the starting point of your own personal little journey, then fine. I’ll tell you exactly how you can make it up to me: be an honorable man.”

   Finally, Nico reached into the box of pastries and lifted out their own muffin, screwing off the top and setting that to the side while they ate a piece of the bottom first.

   “Be better. Do that, and, well. I won’t be unhappy about it.”

…

INCIDENT LOG:

* 5318:19:24 - Pilot Cardinal Sashi Enu lose comms connection. MO similar to prior incidents, presumed MISSING until confirmation otherwise. Trace in progress.

[Warning for violence, blood, dismemberment and general gross things involving killing a buncha guys.]

   “—for too long! For too long those bastards have lived above us, poisoned everything they could get their stinking, filthy mitts on. For too long have they come out of their precious bubbles of mindless consumption to get their kicks, slaughtering whoever they feel like and experimenting on the rest!”

   Say what you will about the barbaric nature of the underlanders, when they created an orator, they created an orator. The crowd was worked up to a near frenzy, shouting back with every point made by the man standing on an ad hoc stage of several crates marked ‘danger’. It was rather ironic, really— being too busy opening your mouth to really pay attention to where you stepped.

   Brynjarr the Bear Paw was a passionate man. Big, broad, and holding all the fire of a miscreant who felt he was owed entirely more than he was given, he was just smart enough to know what to say to get people to go along with him, and just stupid enough to keep from saying the wrong things to the wrong people. Anyone could host a little anti-Aedolian hate rally down here below the surface of the earth, but Brynjarr the Bear Paw was not interested in being just anyone.

   And nor was he.

   He was careful, so very careful, to keep a leather cuff bound around both of his wrists, a series of mystical runes burned into the surface and kept stark against the wear and tear of time. It was the only viable way to hide the garish scar of some very slapshod home surgery, after all. The assumption was, whenever someone was stupid enough to go digging around in their arm, remove the chip and gain your absolute freedom.

   As if that was all there was to it. As if that was the utter extent to the arm of Aedolis, and once you broke out of the domes and left your chip behind, that was it! Nothing left but open skies and boundless opportunities!

   Ungrateful bastards. They wanted so much; food, shelter, safety, comfort, health, escape, entertainment, purpose, order, security— their every wish fulfilled and still the right to throw it all in your face the second you gave it over to them. And then, somehow, shocked to find that such behavior was not to be tolerated. Like Brynjarr himself, who had had a comfortable life in the domes. A wife, a family, a well paying job in the infrastructure of the city. Military pay. High level housing. The chance to seek out and grab whatever opportunity would pass him and his by, and the very real possibility to make it all his own.

   But of course, this wasn’t enough. His child had been psychic, a trait picked up during routine bioscans, and been drafted at fifteen. That had been several years ago, of course, and whatever the ultimate fate of the Bear Paw’s child, it apparently had been enough to seize Brynjarr himself with the sudden, inexplicable urge to rebel.

   As if he’d been the only one to have a child go through Candidacy. As if he’d been the only one who had to put aside ideas of futures and do their duty. As if it was such a steep price to pay for the continuation of life as they knew it. As if they didn’t owe so much more than one potential member of the military elite. As if only now, because it directly affected him, it was all suddenly so bad and terrible and wrong. And the worst of it all, still, was that Brynjarr believed himself to be in the right. To be safe. To be so far from anyone who could possibly discipline him, he could say or do anything he so pleased.

   Spare the rod, spoil the child.

   Hypocrite that Brynjarr was, he was happy to take everything he could from Aedolis, refuse to pay up, and then throw it all back as if he’d never wanted it in the first place. The military training had been a great asset, of course. One didn’t typically organize a group of saboteurs without knowing a thing or two about mission parameters and munitions expertise. It was such a waste, all that ability and all that promise flushed down the toilet because someone didn’t like the idea of their child not being wholly theirs.

   Erenys Dei was almost tempted to find out the Candidate and send them a fruit basket or some other kind of care package. His own birthgiver was not the “sharing” sort, and while they’d never had a fantastic relationship, it had decidedly cooled post Ren’s graduation. Greedy— as if Ren was somehow less for being part of so much more. But Reitrael didn’t like not being able to bark orders quite the same way as he’d grown accustomed to, and Ren had relished in that fact too much to really put their relationship on the mend.

   Yes, a care package was genuinely in order. “Sorry you have such a garbage sire, here’s a few treats to help ease the shame.”

   Assuming the kid had even made it that far. For all Ren knew, the spoiled attitude had spilled over to the next generation, and the would-be Candidate was long gone. That wasn’t what mattered, though. What mattered was right here, and what mattered was the right message was sent.

   ‘Don’t poke the dragon, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.’ Ren smiled at that one, his own thoughts passing against that constant line between himself and his partner of the past two hundred years.

   ‘Come now, don’t spoil your appetite on junk food.’ he telegraphed back, touching at the massive consciousness he’d been tethered to since he was young and only ninety-nine. Massive. Something bigger than himself. Something much more important than anything else he might have tried to do with his lifespan. A steady reminder that he still had much left to offer.

   Which was the whole idea behind the exercise, really. Some low level idiot like Brynjarr wouldn’t be a threat for more than a short while— eventually someone would get to him. But it had been decided that a two-birds-one-stone narrative better suited this particular problem. Brynjarr needed to be dealt with, of course, but the better plan was to make sure no one dared attempt to martyr the traitor after the fact. The fact that this particular mission would decide whether Erenys Dei was still a viable tool was an added bonus.

   His medical leave had been something of an odd issue. Pilots didn’t just “retire” without very good reason to do so, and even then, they never completely left the chain of command. There had been a right terror of a young girl, some decades ago… what had been her name? Nivera? Nevana? Nevena, that was right. The Bloody Baroness, a scourge to behold, and she’d retired to hand raise two more bloody heirs to her particular throne. Ren had the pleasure of working with her once, and if he remembered correctly the woman now spent much of her time devising training regimens for the ATC.

   Ren’s own absence from duty hadn’t been so easily explained. He didn’t have any two for one deals, but rather a failing of genetics. Two hundred years of service, and it all caught up with him in the span of a few short months, despair eating away at him no matter how much he’d tried to shut it out. It was the curse of his kind, and for a time Ren preferred that. Surviving resonance was a tricky game, and the only one tricky enough to live beyond the bond of resonance had been Ren’s birthgiver, and… and if surviving this meant he was like Reitrael Dei, well. Ren would have rather died with some integrity intact.

   That particular view had been skewed, of course. Plenty of people fell in love and existed outside of it, and it didn’t make them terrible people for not wasting away. Jain, sweet Jain, had been crucial to this realization. She was living testimonial, after all, and there was no universe under any star or sun that would make him lump Jain in with Reitrael. It was… an impossibility. Nonsensical to the highest degree, the kind of eldritch nightmare people loved to couch in vague language to better grasp the sheer madness of it all. It was thanks to Jain that Ren had gotten the courage to branch out again, to try and hold on again, to let fate be fate and let…

   Well. Let the coins fall where they would. Hah.

   Progress reports filed each week had shown an incline, and Ren had finally reached the point where it was time to test just how extensive the degradation to his abilities was. And so, he found himself here: on the outskirts of some lesser used tunnel of Teinar’s, tracking a traitor to his hideout where they sought to stockpile weapons and bombs and other such laughable ideas of overthrowing Aedolis with less than fifty men.

   As if Aedolis was that weak. Even with soldiers like Ren, Aedolis would never be that weak. Because even soldiers like Ren were leagues ahead of anyone else. And it was high time someone reminded Brynjarr the Bear Paw of exactly that.

   
   The mission was a delicate one. Eliminate the targets— Brynjarr and his associates, a thin lad aptly named Twig and a psychotic sonofabitch named Meino. The stipulation being that none of it could be traced back to Aedolis itself. There was the armistice to consider, after all, and any misstep on Ren’s account could bear the weight of an international crisis. It was why Arcturus wasn’t with him (aside from the fact that Arcturus was way too big to fit in the tunnels), it was why Ren’s flight suit had been exchanged for a void suit more common amongst interplanetary hitmen. It was why, instead of staring down the barrel of a rifle and waiting for the opportune moment to pull the trigger, Ren was at the back of the crowd, calling out “here, here”s in time with the rest of the crowd.

   The mission was a delicate one, and required a delicate touch. The rally had gathered quite the audience, just enough for there to be plenty on the sidelines looking suitably pensive about being quite so loud about their opinions of the country aboveground. Ren cast a sidelong glance at one such individual, a reedy old man with wide eyes and enough scars to know his life had not been an easy one.

   Touching his surface thoughts was almost too easy. A veteran of the war, he remembered what it was like with the full brunt of Aedolian hostility raining down on the daily. He remembered to fear blackened skies, rife with cover for silent wings and sudden death, the crackle of lightning or the slow, agonizing sensation of having your very blood boiled inside of you. He remembered the dragons, great and powerful and spewing torrents of fire from mechanical maws, titanium plated claws raking at the earth and taking enemy soldiers skywards before dropping them like one might brush flour from their hands after baking.

   It was only too easy to pull on those surface memories, to bring up the old fear, the deep, rattling unsettling knowledge that if this all were to succeed, if Brynjarr got his way, if this group was allowed to leave this little cave in the middle of nowhere—

   W͙͔̱e̝̺’̷͕l̮̘͕̙̣l̛̪̮̼ ̱͎͈̭̫̥͖͠ḓ́i̲͇̙͔͖e̶̠,̱͈̹̩ ͎͕̞ọ̖͙h͙̰͍͉ ̷͈̲͓̤̮g̛̞̙͍̤̞̤o̱̪̤͍̟d̩̻͎͝ w̴͕e̦̻͡’̷̯l̸̳̞̺͎̬͙l͈̝̲͖͓̕ ͖̥̯̰á̼̪͙ͅl͔̼̼̭̻l̘͓̘̞ ͟d̴͍i̩e͖̩̮͎͙̲,̝̤͖̞̟͍̮ ȩ̜͈̩̬̻v͎̠͓̞̥e̞͓r̼̹̮̞͎y̷̘̣͍o̱̖͍͠n̨̯̗̤͖͖ẹ̠͎̤ ̪̖ẖ̲̲̫e̩̱͍͉̻r͈͡e̞̻͝ ̹͍͖̹̼̗i̗̥̺̖͎̱͈͞s̨̙̫ g̗͙̝ͅo̴i҉̝n҉̲͇̥̤̰ͅg̝̳͟ͅ ̢̜̼̱͇̹ͅt̶o̬̖͚̜͎̻̭ ̲̻̀d̗̮̭̳͍͈̲͡i̮e҉̹,̜͉̟̤ ͟ṭ̡͎̪̼͉ͅh̺̙̬̭͜e̡̝̰̣̹y͙̟͚̝ͅ’̭r̘e̟ ̕g͖̜̤͖̼͈͞o͇̺̺̬̝̳i̮̘̭̬n͎͇̰͍g̱̟̜̹̬̘͙͝ ͕͓̣̜̝̲ṭ̗̬͓͓͓o̤̗̩ ̜̠̼̟̗͔̪k̜̣̭̟i̪l̟͉͕l̙̹̯̮̣ ͙͖͙͇̕u̝͕̞̩͉̭s҉̘̖̪̻͓̳ ̷͖̙͉̯̰̠̖a̶̗͓͚͖l̲̖̙̗ͅl̠̳̦͇̤ͅ,̰͕̤̤̀ͅ ̠̙t̻̤͈̙͙͓̞h̻̦͈̤e͔͙̦̥̕y̻̫̖̼ͅ’̞̘̠̼r̭͖͈̭̣̺̯͢ḙ̖̯͔͍̰͔ ͓͕̹g̷̫͎̗̮̜͓̖o͙̤̖̯̫̘͠iͅn̰̫̠̦g͓̘̱̼̝ ͈͇̟̖͜t͙̥̦̺o͕͉̦̲̬ ͍̠m͇̻u̝̗̺̰̩͘ŗ̭̻̻͚d҉͈̱̥ȩ͚͇̙͓̦r̻ ̫͈͚͘u͍͍̰̹s͠ ͙͕̦͓̼̟a̲̹͖̼̟̹l̺̰̻̲l̘ ̢a̜̣̯̹͞ͅn͏͖d͖̤ ̨̬͎̗̠̣t͙̠͖͉ͅh͎̺̱̻e̜̣̗̺̳y̮̝’͕̫̪̟̟r͏͇̬̙e̶̥̬̼͎̥̲ ͉̖̜͚̜̪̯g͓͍͍o͕̥̣̮͔̣i̪̮̯ng̼̭̼̱̯̰̝ ̶͎̖̮t̫̝̼o҉̯̣ ͏̱̰̜d̝o̦̖̖̺̼̕ ì̞͖̻̻t̴̗͉̟̯͈ ͏͎̯̤ş̫̣̹͍͎͈̜l̰̻̼̮o̮w,̶̘̯̘̰̤̤ t͕̩̲̖̀h̰̺̗͍̤̯͓́e͖͎̺̘y̱̤̮͝’̳͓̹͝r̢é̦ ̺͇̦͘ͅg̱o̩̯͈í͕ng̹̹ ̹͓̜̱t͚o͖͇͚̟͇̝͎ ͎̱͍d͍̗̱o̬͙̩ ̸i̟̦͖̗t̷̮̠͓͈ ̵̮͈͕̫s̥̰ơ̪̹̦̙̳̭ ͖̳we̳͇̣͚̥̞’͔̲͖r̰̻̮͎e̪͕̰͉̣͜ͅͅ ̲̦͎͖̬͎ͅs͙̲̞̭̜c̩̩͔̀r̭̬e̳̲̹̜̦̫ͅa̺m̱̯̫̫̝͉i҉̲̝̞̺̖̫̼n̦̬͓̞̩̟ͅg͏͔̮̝̲,̼́ ̹̖͔͓͠ạ̢̖̟͔͉l̸̝̣l̴̪̟̗̰̘̤̱ s͚̣̱̼̕ͅc̻̫͖̭̦͢r͏̫e̶̫̤a̦̻͎mi҉̜̼̖͚ͅͅn͚̼̣͕̞̣g̟͉̙̩͓̰̕,͙͔͜ ̰̮̞̖́e̯͚̗̞̙ͅv̤̪͉̟̘̭͘e̳̘̺͔͢r̷y̨̯̯͔o̲̗̻̬n͚̰͓͚͓e͖ ̦̩̼s͍̖̞̻͕͘c̻̲͇̟̬̮r̲̫̪͞e͙͇̗ͅa͉͖̟͈͎̯̙m̪̰͔i͕̺͇̣̯͓͜ng̺̥̹


   Once the flame was lit, it spread quickly. The reedy man jerked forward, trying to shout over the collective din of the crowd, and every time he caught someone’s attention, Ren pushed his influence just a little further. Let them feel what the old man was feeling, let them feel the cold grip against their heart at the idea that what they were doing, what was happening right this second, all of it spelled nothing but their doom. It was enough to set several into a panic, and as people tended to do when in a panic, they ran for any exit they could find, wild eyed and yet completely unseeing. It was crucial none of them saw it, the way several of those ‘danger’ crates had been pushed just close enough to nearby lamps, the way those lamps had just the right precarious positioning, the way there was just the right coil of rope at just the right height to be tripped up…

   Ren’s back was turned when the explosion hit, eyes fixed instead on where Brynjarr and his lackeys stood, dumbfounded as the initial shock wore off and the cloud of dust and dirt faded. Several bodies were piled up with the rubble of the main tunnel, and as people screamed and turned from the cut off exit, they were pressed back towards the secondary, smaller one. The one that led out into unsafe, unused tunnels. The one that Brynjarr and his were standing right in front of.

   No amount of shouting could be heard over the crowd, so desperate they were to get away from where the explosion had struck and the rock had cracked. Lamps swung wildly from their ropes, setting shadows moving against walls in sharp, threatening gestures. Gestures that soon twisted in every mind to be predatory faces, like any minute now would see each individual shade twist forms to reveal a Pilot there, armed and grinning and ready to take their revenge on those who dared to speak so many ills of paradise. The fear was frothing now; no one in the assembled group wasn’t dripping with it, and with every spike of terror and panic, Ren had all the more ammunition to use.

   T̲̞̝̠h̩̖e̫͙̺y̖̲̞'̦̙̟̬̰͖ͅr̬̙e̩͕̤͇͙͖̳ ͔̞̺͚̳h͓̱̥̫͔͈e̖͍̠̣̠r̫̺e̩͕̟̫̱̗͙̮ ̤͉t̺ͅh͓͓̹e̟̩̱̤ͅy̬̭͕͙͎̖'͔̣̯̝̘̦̺̗ṟ̯͖e͓͖̤̗ ̦h͕̘̰̭̮e̼͎̰̜̼͖͚̼r̝͔̞͔͕͈͙e̘͎̲̺̼̱͇̰̘ ͚̼t̤̙̺̠͚̺̜͇h̼e̼̯͉y̲̦'̭͓͈͕̠ͅr̤̥e̹̳̹̟͉̯̬̟̮ ̝͎̳͙H̻̤̦̺̺͍͖͚E̱̩͉̥̘Ṟ̙͓͉E̲͉̻̱̞͖͕̪̮ ̱̗̻Ṭ͔̟͓̗̞̦̟H͇E͕̩̣̬̰̰Y̪͇̣̺̖͇̳̥'̰̩͇̳̣R̫̳̖E̬͈̲̥͚͓̭ ̲̳͉̦H̫̥̭̬E̙̟̝R̺̠͔͉̗E̦̟͓͕ ̩̤͖̟͚̦͓ͅT͕̤͚H̗̩͈̘̤̭̪E͈̲̫Y̜̟͔̦̩'̻̮͍̘̰̳̗R̞̫͚͖̝͚E̮͖̻͙̣̦ ̲̗̠H̳̦̯̗̼̠̣͉E̘̲̰R͔̬̩̲E̥̙͚̭̺̲͙͓


   Nothing could have kept them from running. The stampede was inevitable, and it was all Brynjarr could do to get out of the way as the entirety of the camp spilled out into the darkened unknown tunnels, into the pitch black where the only thing they could feel was the scrape of rock against their hands and the pounding screams in their ears. Meino wasn’t nearly so lucky— he was caught in the flood of bodies before he could make it clear, yanked from where he had stood and pushed along into the tunnels, caught underfoot and then trampled in the crowd’s sheer desperation to ESCAPE.

   And then it was just Brynjarr and Twig left. The echoing shrieks still carried down the tunnel, spilling out into the little cave where the two humans and Ren still stood. At first it didn’t seem as if either had noticed him just yet, so far back against the wall as Ren was and them still in shock as to what had just happened. The lamps continued to flicker and sway, and it was only after one agonizingly long moment that Brynjarr turned and spotted him.

   It had only been a couple years, after all, since Brynjarr had last been a part of Aedolian culture and all the publicity it involved. And a couple years back had seen quite a number of squadron stunts following the games. And Ren was not exactly the sort you’d ever forget seeing.

   Twig was the first to recognize Ren, or at least he was the first to react, grabbing for his gun and spraying bullets wildly across the cave without really taking the care to aim. A rookie mistake from someone far too young and under-trained to know how to keep his cool, and a rookie mistake that cost both humans their benefit of sight as the lamps were hit and summarily extinguished.

   Ren hadn’t been expecting the sudden hailstorm of fire, however, and had ducked down to avoid catching lead in several vital points. The sudden blackness was jarring, but a forceful blink and Ren opened his eyes to the barest hint of vision— a black and white frame of reference with the brightness turned all the way down. Not detailed in any fashion, but certainly functional, and more than enough to catch sight of his targets in the gathered gloom.

   Brynjarr was fighting with Twig now, cussing wildly in the dark as he wrestled for the gun, trying to rip it from itchy trigger fingers and finding Twig was utterly unwilling to part with his only line of defense. Trapped in a dark cave with a monster, Ren could hardly blame the kid. And certainly not when Ren pulled at those deep dark fears that every human being possessed, the fear of the dark and the unknown, the fear of being unable to see a threat that you knew was there, and as Ren pulled the kid fought all the harder for control of the rifle, until Brynjarr lost his temper and slammed the butt of it into Twig’s head. The blow itself might not have killed him, but the crack from his landing spoke volumes, and Ren saw the much slighter body go limp even from where he crouched in the shadows.

   And then there was one.

   Brynjarr took deep, gulping breaths, and slowly began to ease back towards the far cave wall, and every step he took had Ren following at a slow, silent pace. The human’s breathing was ragged, harsh, full of adrenaline and sweat and hammering heartbeats as he struggled to reload while blind. But even a trained soldier like Brynjarr the Bear Paw couldn’t do it perfectly, not with zero light to be his guide and the edges of his own panic catching up to him. It made for clumsy mistakes, and those clumsy mistakes were all it took for Ren to cross over the ad hoc stage, over the prone body of little Twig, right up into Brynjarr’s face to deliver the blade of his combat knife to the human man’s throat.

   It wasn’t a quick death, nor a quiet one. The shock had Brynjarr gasping around the blood that was waterfalling in and out of his throat, choking and bubbling at the mouth as little air pockets fought to escape. The gun was dropped, clattering to the stony ground along with the magazine Brynjarr had been trying to load, both the human’s hands at his neck as if somehow that would keep him from suffocating on his own blood. But it didn’t, and after a few agonizing moments, he did, Brynjarr the Bear Paw passing with one final rattling gasp to a world that would never hear it.

   Ren let out a sigh, then, rolling his shoulders as he knelt down to collect his proof; Twig and Meino didn’t really require confirmation, but Brynjarr did, and fingerbones took quite a bit to get through even with specialized tools for the job. Ren plucked each one and settled them into a large plastic bag, rolling that all up and tucking it safely in his pack for easy transport back to the dome. He couldn’t wait for that— even this had left him feeling drained, the strain of twisting so many minds to their darkest thoughts catching up quick now that it was over. Besides that, he really needed to get out of here before the cave collapsed. He could hear the rattle of smaller rocks falling from where they had settled, more dust and dirt kicked up as the pebbles skittered across the ground and—

   In the completely wrong direction. Ren hissed, teeth bared just as something cracked and the cave was filled with a sudden blinding light, the flare thrown right into his face and stunning him for the barest moment. It was all the moment Twig needed, because next thing Ren knew, he was on his back, sharpened rock digging into his spine through his suit as the kid tackled him to the ground, another sharpened rock in his hand and eyes wide through a torrent of bright red blood. Ren brought his arms up just in time to catch Twig’s wrist before it got to finish the strike and cave Ren’s skull in, the impact shaking the rock from Twig’s grip and sending it slamming just shy of its mark.

   Ren howled as searing pain shot across his cheekbone, black blood welling up faster than he could manage while pinned down as he was. He struck upwards, hard and fast into Twig’s ribcage, striking at weakpoints to lessen Twig’s ability to keep him down. Finally, the kid seemed to cave, and Ren twisted his hips, hooking one long leg around Twig’s neck and snapping it hard towards the ground, rolling both men with it until Ren was on top. Using his height to his advantage, Ren put his hands around Twig’s throat and squeezed, wheezing hard through the kicked up dust and the blood that dripped into his mouth. Twig, like any animal caught in a predator’s grip, fought like hell. He scratched and hit and clawed at Ren’s face, and Ren bit down hard on one such offending hand even as the other found its mark, thumb hooking against the curve of Ren’s eyesocket and digging in hard.

   Both of them shrieked in agony, both of them muffled from their respective positions, but in the end there was no real contest. A man could live with his eye pulled out. A man could not live with his larynx crushed. Twig gave a pathetic little squeak beneath Ren’s hands, before a soft crunch finally ended it. Panting hard and clutching at his right eyesocket, Ren sat back in the inky blackness, fighting to get enough air into his own lungs as his hearts struggled to keep up with the sudden wash of activity. It took several minutes before he could even fathom looking around again, his one socket squeezed shut as he searched the dust for a telltale orb. Gently, so very gently, Ren retrieved his own eyeball, before staggering to his feet and making his way out the remaining tunnel.

   The screaming had died down somewhat, but the terrain was tricky— even without the trampled bodies underfoot, the passageway had only ever meant to be a means of emergency escape. Not that it mattered any, because there was simply no scenario imagined where at the other end of that emergency escape tunnel, a dragon’s maw stood open and waiting. Ren might not have been able to see so great, but he could smell it just fine— the tangy odor of burnt fat and seared flesh, the thick oiliness to the air as he grew closer to the surface.

   ‘Arcturus,’ Ren telegraphed, weariness sinking into every syllable of thought, ‘mission accomplished. I’m coming up.’

   ‘All parties confirmed neutralized?’

   ‘Affirmative. Targets down, Bear Paw collected.’

   The open air was a relief, even polluted and disgusting air as it was. Ren moved to where Arcturus stood waiting, and after a quick patch job for his eye, the elf pulled his flight helmet on over his head and hoisted himself into the saddle.

   ‘I take it from your general demeanour that medical attention is required.’ came a dry sort of comment, and Ren couldn’t help but laugh at the not so subtle quip.

   “Nah, I thought I’d just sleep it off, you know,” he said, lifting out a secondary bag and carefully scooping his vagrant eyeball into it. That nestled in with Brynjarr’s fingers, Ren took hold of the saddle, and braced for the takeoff that would get them home.

   And braced for whatever getting home would mean.


FINAL ASSESSMENT:

MEDICAL LEAVE SUSPENDED.

REINSTATEMENT INTO ACTIVE DUTY PERSONNEL SUBMITTED, REINSTATEMENT GRANTED.

ORDERS AS FOLLOWS:

PILOT NOBLE ERENYS DEI REPORT TO NEVERMORE HEADQUARTERS IN RYUN FOLLOWING MEDICAL TREATMENT FOR INJURIES SUSTAINED NO LATER THAN SEVEN (7) DAYS TIME. WILL REJOIN RYUN RAVENS SQUADRON IN PERMANENT PLACEMENT AS TACTICAL ADVISER AND MISSIONS SPECIALIST DIRECTLY UNDER PILOT ROYAL KEIKO ZOMU.

   Time had this funny, bipolar little habit— it turned five minutes into five years, and then turned a whole week into a single day. Not that Yavul was counting. It felt more like a continuous loop than anything else, a push to wake up, a moment to bite back his tears and then onto putting on some manner of human suit to face the day and get the job done. Even that wasn’t anything new— he’d been here before, in the day that never ended, but it felt more a struggle this time around than it ever had in all thirty five years of his life.

   Wait. No. He’d turned thirty six last year. Hadn’t he? Yes, he had, that had been his thirty sixth birthday and Dyna—

   Yavul tossed an empty beer can into the recycling bin, and ignored when it bounced right out from lack of space. He was too busy cracking open a new can, anyway.

   Thirty five or thirty six, the sensation remained. Get up, shower, uniform, office, equipment checks, inspection, drill, drill, drill, all the way until quitting time and then… and then that’s when time switched tactics again and made the whole thing drag until Yavul was sure he’d been pranked and someone had just installed tinted windows to make it seem like it was still evening.

   Harley helped. The little kulshedra Pilot had practically moved into Yavul’s living room floor. There were little bowls stacked up on the coffee table, empty save for the small pools of water from melted leftover ice. It wasn’t like there was anything in them, and so Yavul felt less pressed to get his shit in order and wash the bowls out. The last time he’d used a fork that wasn’t disposable it’d taken him ten minutes just to get it clean for how much he spaced out with the sink running.

   Takeout boxes were a saving grace, honestly. Bowl and a plate all in one and the only utensils needed were a set of chopsticks. Plus this way he could honestly say he hadn’t eaten at JJ’s in a week— and he really hadn’t. By the time he got home every day there was so little left. He couldn’t muster the same quick energy like usual, but he had to be there for his team. His duty. They all had a duty, he to his squad and his squad to Aedolis’ security and Grisham had a duty, has a duty, has not had—

   Yavul crushed the newly empty beer can in his hand and tried again to toss it to the top of the recycling bin, and gave a little fist-pump when it actually stuck the landing.

   “Ten points,” H said from somewhere over on the couch, picking at his own takeout box and yet, somehow, avoiding actually taking a bite. None that Yavul had seen, anyway. Which was way worse than his own, totally-having-eaten-at-least-a-quarter-of-it, box. But beer was filling, so at least he had an excuse. Yavul opened his mouth to say something equally snide, but was interrupted by a sudden dizzying sensation and the sound of his recycling bin cascading across the floor.

   “Fuckin’ shit,” Yavul grumbled, setting down his own takeout in order to deal with the sudden sea of beer cans that was formerly his kitchen. That’s what he got for holding off this long, he guessed, setting the bin back upright and scooping the cans into it with both arms. Only to have the bin fall over again as another, much more solid rumble hit. One enough to make Yavul reach out to the kitchen island to keep from toppling sideways and cracking his skull open.

   Even if it would be terribly beneficial. Maybe then he’d stop going into a panic every time his comm went off. Can’t freak out over standard memos and alerts if you’re in a coma! Even H flinched a bit when the rumble passed and Yavul’s comm gave an insistant, loud ding.

   “It’s just telling us it was a minor earthquake,” Harley said, too quickly for the assurance to be natural. Yavul’s stomach twisted in a way that had nothing to do with the beer, took a deep breath and pulled the comm close, flicking through notifications and alerts, none of which had to do with the rumble in the building. But, much to Yavul’s continual relief, it also had nothing telling him that a skiff had burned up on reentry, or had crashed, or, or, or—

   Taking a deep breath to steady himself and steer away from that particular black hole of a thought, Yavul pulled up the Pilot chat to see if it was just Solarta or if that had been a multidome occurrence. But it didn’t seem like anyone had felt anything at all. Or at least, that wasn’t the current stressor of the evening. Yavul furrowed his brows hard, thumbing up and down the conversation from where two other Pilots lost connection and then…
   

Havanah: It better be a fucking glitch
Cinna: Wasn't when mine did that.
Raz: Not helping.
Soba: I have tech running through surveillance. If it is, we'll have coding to comb through and you all get a shiny new update to your software.
Cinna: I'm not trying to help keep anyone calm. We're Pilots. We should be able to do that on our own.
Raz: I know that. Just....yeah. I'll be back, have some pacing to do. Later.
   

   Razzle Dazzle. That Heather Bannister had been his Candidate, hadn’t she? He was pretty sure. Or had that been someone else? Either way, it was clear Razican was upset as hell, and if Razican was upset as hell, and the only ones getting shook up was one very specific section of Pilot housing, well. Yavul might not have been the smartest bean in the barrel, but he was capable of putting basic puzzles together. He set his comm down onto the island again, and gave a nod towards H.

   “I’ll be back in a bit. Gonna check out what th’ shakin’s all about.” If it was what he was thinking, Yavul wasn’t terribly concerned, and aside from a few beer cans it wasn’t like any real damage had been done. “Actually eat some a’ that while I’m gone, how’s that sound?”

   “I have been eating it. See? There’s pieces missing.” H retorted, showing off how much the food had been mixed up as if that actually proved anything.

   “Eat.” Yavul said again, pointing at him even as he strode out the front door and headed for the elevators. Harley probably would just stir the box up again, Yavul was pretty sure, but right now he had a bigger meltdown to deal with and limited “Deal With” left to dole out. And if he couldn’t hold it together enough for his squad, then what fucking use was he?

   Yavul jammed at the elevator buttons for the floor he was sure he needed to get to (pretty sure), and tried not to think of just how much Grisham would be disappointed in this crap. They were soldiers, they needed to carry on no matter what, and if one soldier going off course— not missing not dead just off course, Dyna could fix off course— was enough to send Yavul in a spiral then what kind of commander was he? Certainly not one worth the title, and certainly not the sort of thing Dyna would be doing in his place.

   Yavul’s stomach twisted, and for the few seconds he was in the elevator, he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. Commander. Commander. Act like a commander. Another deep breath, and he straightened his back just as the elevator doors opened. It didn’t matter that he was still in his casual wear, flip flops slapping with every step, the point was body language, and at least pretending like he still had his life together. Especially when it seemed like one of his own didn’t. Adding his own weakness to this was a disaster waiting to happen.

   He reached the door he distantly remembered as belonging to Dazzle, and rapped his metal fist against the surface in a solid knock, before pushing the wall comm and speaking into it.

   “Open up, Pilot.”

«Aspects»...
Addiction; bondage; true freedom; animal nature; obsession

«Age»...
Always and Never

«Gender, sexuality»...
Male, All Day

«Species, Ethnicity»...
Eldritch extradimensional demigod. But he looks mostly human.

«Build»...
Tall, with lean muscle

«Occupation»...
Self-proclaimed Pirate King

«Residence»...
The Hybris, a large and incredibly ornate pirate battleship he plunders the galaxy with, scooping up enslaved crew as he goes.


«Physical Description»...
Tall and trim; XV is long and lean, and mostly leg. He has a good bit of musculature, but the kind of agile lean sort that makes for much easier close-quarters combat.

The life aquatic; Even for someone who spends 130% of his time out of direct sunlight, Xande is intensely pale. His skin is a light porcelain, to where you would almost swear it starts to turn gray-blue. Two darker grey dots sit beneath each eye, which are a vivid jade-teal. His hair is similarly oddly colored, a pale grey-green mass that moves as if suspended in water. He usually keeps it in a low tail to cut down on muss.

Suitably edgy; Everything Xande does is in black and in leather. His typical outfit consists of black leather pants tucked into tall boots modified with magnetic locks for zero gravity. He wears his tight black shirts tucked in and with a padded leather vest overtop. Any jewelry he wears is usually simple, like a series of silver rings and thick leather cuffs.

His standard equipment is a laser pistol he keeps in a thigh holster, and a sword made of a strange, jade-colored material.

«Personality»...
Analytical; Xande does not let things go idly. Everything he encounters he puts to the same scrutiny as anything else, and he relishes in picking apart puzzles to get to the base components behind every action.

Hedonistic; He is not a shy man about what he wants. He consumes everything he can get his hands on with an animal vigor, hard drugs, hard drinks, hard lays. He wants everything life has to offer, and he wants it all now.

Chaotic Good; At the end of the day, he wants everyone to reach their full potential. There is no higher vocation than pushing people to the limits of their self-imposed chains, and watching them finally break free of their tethers. But you have to do it for yourself, and if that means he has to play villain for you to achieve it, well. He can play villain.


Fun Facts!:

• Is high like, 24/7. The man is a high functioning junkie.
• If he’s not on his ship, he’s probably in a strip club. It’s the safest bet you’ll ever make.
• Rivals Rajah in sheer number of progeny produced. Sometimes they try to take a tally of it and see who’s winning but get distracted before they can finish.
• Plays the violin with a vengeance.

«Special Abilities»...
Can transport instantly from shadow to shadow, or water to water, and can move other objects through the same. He can also manipulate the shadows around him into rudimentary “crew” for his pirate ship to help keep the place running.

«Relationships»...
...His mother, the outer goddess Cade Hest Eratia and 21 other siblings.
...Whatever crew he’s happened to press-gang into service this century.

«Cosmology»...
TBD

   I promise this is the only thing I try to hide.

    Otto took in a deep breath, the air somehow more filling, more… he didn’t even have the word for how it felt when you took in oxygen and didn’t immediately feel out of breath for it. Like some vice had been released, and he wasn’t stuck sucking at thin air.

   It really wasn’t much. But then again, Otto didn’t need much, did he? All it had taken was an extra set of lab scrubs and a bedspring that one time, and this was hardly the same kind of horror story as that. This was Kirkley. The one who’d offered so much in return for the smallest kindnesses. The one that Otto wanted to trust more than anything. A promise wasn’t much, but Otto could work with a promise. He would work with a promise.

   The ex-Aedolian took another calming breath, and might’ve tried for something humorous before whatever train of thought he had was thrown off the rails. That tended to happen a lot whenever Kirkley kissed him, even feather-light ones like he was doing then— Otto’s brain blanked and everything in him seemed to get replaced with overwarm plush stuffing, like someone had taken pages of code and just… wiped it all clean.

   404: Otto not found.

   He ran his hands through Kirkley’s hair, toying with those wild curls for a few moments before continuing his way down. Otto wrapped his arms around Kirkley’s neck, pulled himself close and pressed soft little kisses of his own to Kirkley’s cheek. Along his jaw. Up to the soft shell of his ear.

   “Thank you. For everything. For trying with me.” He murmured back, nuzzling against the taller man and taking in deep breaths, tasting that familiar scent against his tongue and humming quietly in satisfaction. Quite literally, too, the boarders joining in on the content little collective song, a low buzz thrumming from his throat and against the side of Kirkley’s face.

   “Here,” Otto said, just as quietly, shifting again and urging Kirkley to lay down on his stomach, with Otto curled up against his side. Just enough of a shift for Otto to be able to reach around to Kirkley’s back, pressing into tense tissue and over thick muscle, moving in slow, easy circles over that strong expanse as he planted soft kisses to Kirkley’s shoulder.

   Kirkley deserved a gentle touch. He might not have thought so for himself, but the fact remained that out of everyone Otto knew, Kirkley deserved a moment of softness. It certainly didn’t seem like life was typically keen on dealing it out all that often, and so for the moment, Otto was only too happy to provide.

   After a moment, the massaging turned to gentle scratching, Otto trailing his nails up and down what he could reach of Kirkley’s back, snaking his hand back and forth in a languid serpentine over deep brown skin.

   “Yes?” he asked, even as he made to sit up, setting both hands to work over Kirkley’s shoulder blades. Otto moved back and forth, pressing into muscles and working the tension he found out, pulling back to light scratching before setting back to the prior massage.

   “…Query: Is this the weirdest thing that has ever happened, or is there much weirder? I am attempting to gauge how much weird I should prepare myself for these years together.” Otto quipped after a moment, full lips quirking into a smile as he shook his hair out of his face and pressed his thumbs against Kirkley’s spine.