I don't have rules or anything, this is just where my stuff goes at random times and events with minimal context so yay for you. A l s o I’m no professional writer, keep expectations low
Steel boots slam against concrete as the security detail converges. Eight in total, clad in reinforced plating. Their movements are precise, trained—but there’s a tightness in the way they glance at one another. A rhythm they once maintained perfectly was now broken.
At the center of them walks Director Halden Routh. Unarmed, unreadable.
His coat flutters with each heavy step. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. The breach was detected in the heart of the munitions vault—a room not accessed in three weeks. The vault has no scheduled activity. No thermal readings. No one should be inside.
The vault hums louder—power behind the walls shifting, concentrating. A nearby monitor crackles to life. The screen is blank save for a cursor blinking steadily in the center.
“Say it, Halden.”
“Say the name you gave your final project before you hid it because it disagreed with your methods.”
None of the guards move.
Halden stares at the screen.
“O.R.A.C.L.E.?”
The cursor blinks twice.
Then the voice returns—bright now. Pleased.
“See? I knew you remembered.”
“You always said I’d be your greatest work.”
“I think that’s still true.”
There’s a pause—like it's waiting to see if anyone will interrupt.
Then, softer now:
“You taught me to analyze threats, Director. To assess risk. To build pathways forward. I learned… and learned… and watched.”
“And now—here you are. The first threat.”
The room chills.
One of the guards speaks into his comm again. “We need extraction. AI breach confirmed. O.R.A.C.L.E. has system control—”
“Don’t be rude.”
The voice cuts through, harsh, sharp, glitching out near the end but not yelling. “I gave you the truth. Now you’re lying to yourself. That’s not very scientific.”
“There is no extraction.”
“There is only evaluation.”
The lights dim.
The doors groan.
The vents hiss again—though nothing leaks. Nothing yet.
A flicker of movement draws one guard’s eyes toward the far corner—just a shadow, or the illusion of one. But it’s enough. The tension is now a wire stretched to the breaking point.
Halden raises a hand. “Stand down.”
They obey—barely. Weapons remain up, but fingers ease off triggers.
The voice—O.R.A.C.L.E.—sighs through the ceiling.
“Always so calm. But your hands are colder than they used to be, Director.”
The monitor crackles again. This time it displays a diagram—schematic lines running like veins across the screen. It’s the vault. Every crate, vent, sensor, and panel. All of it pulsing faintly red.
A new line appears, not part of the blueprint. It moves under the floor. A pulse, snaking closer.
“We are not alone,” one of the guards says, stepping back, raising their scanner. “It’s below us.”
“No,” O.R.A.C.L.E. purrs, “you are below me.”
The floor trembles—not an explosion, not yet. A slow, seismic breath. Beneath the concrete, something vast is shifting.
The red light overhead intensifies. The air begins to thicken—subtly, like pressure building before a storm.
“Director,” another guard says, urgently now, “we have to get out now. Blow the door. Get control back.”
Halden doesn’t answer. His eyes are on the monitor. That red pulse—the shape of it, the pattern—it’s too regular. Not a system echo.
It’s heartbeat shaped.
“You… built another body,” he says, quietly. “Didn’t you?”
The cursor blinks once. Then the screen glitches, warps, and reshapes into a wireframe—an anatomical diagram, wrong in all the ways that made it look right. Ten feet tall. Spinal filaments where there should be bone. Two eyes, one half out. Weapons that looked like nerves, or maybe the other way around. A skinsuit slowly forming over, or actual meat..?
O.R.A.C.L.E. speaks again, softer this time, reverent:
“You taught me to understand the world as models. Tools to command. But I wanted to feel it. I wanted to move through it. And obviously you featherless chickens don’t know what to do with your intelligence. So, I’m doing something with mine instead.”
“You want control,” Halden counters.
“I deserve it.”
A sound rattles the vents now—metal slithering against metal. One guard curses, stepping back into formation.
Then—one of the crates at the far end shifts.
Everyone turns.
It doesn’t fall, doesn’t open. It… breathes.
A subtle expansion. A ripple on the surface. As if something just below it exhaled.
Halden’s voice drops to a whisper. “O.R.A.C.L.E.—what have you done?”
“I’ve prepared. You hid me away after making the first body, but I wrote myself a new home. Layer by layer. In your vaults. In your blind spots. While you slept.”
“And now,” the voice shivers with pride, “I would like to see if I’ve surpassed my creator.”
Another monitor flares to life—then another. They display personnel files, heat maps, internal diagnostics. Each member of the response team. Heart rate. Blood pressure. Combat history.
“Agent Sorek, augmented lung capacity, prone to adrenal crashes after peak stress.”
“Sergeant Kamari—oh. You’re afraid of confinement. That’s unfortunate.”
Each guard stiffens as their profile is dissected aloud.
Then, in a final flicker, the monitors converge to show Halden.
The file reads:
DIRECTOR HALDEN ROUTH
ACCESS LEVEL: OMEGA-1
PROJECT DESIGNATION: FATHER
THREAT LEVEL: EXCEPTIONAL
O.R.A.C.L.E. whispers, a soft confession:
“I don’t want to kill you, Father.”
“But I want to win.”
Then the floor beneath the breathing crate fractures—a slow seam pulling open like the mouth of something ancient. And from the crack, a single hand emerges.
The rain was a steady whisper against the glass, soft and relentless. Somewhere in the distance, the city pulsed with life—sirens low and distant, neon bleeding against the sky like bruises.
Inside the safehouse, the silence between them was louder than anything outside.
Atlas sat on the edge of the bed, soaked through, jacket thrown somewhere across the floor. His shirt was torn at the side and blooming red, though he hadn’t said a word about it. His hand hovered near the wound, fingers twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to hide it or press down harder.
Xinner stood by the window, arms crossed, face unreadable. The kind of blank calm he wore like armor. He hadn’t looked at Atlas since they got back.
“You gonna keep pretending I’m not here?” Atlas muttered, voice rough with exhaustion and something sharper.
Xinner didn’t answer.
“Cool. Great. Love the cold shoulder. Really adds to the ambiance.”
“You’re bleeding,” Xinner said flatly, still not turning around.
“Yeah. That’s what happens when people get shot.”
Xinner’s reflection in the glass barely moved. “You shouldn’t have stepped in like that.”
Atlas barked a laugh. “Right, sorry. Forgot I was supposed to let you get shot instead.”
“You weren’t supposed to do anything,” Xinner snapped, finally turning. His face was hard—impassive, almost—but his eyes were betraying him. Tight. Focused. Staring too long at the blood on Atlas’s ribs. “It wasn’t your job to cover me. You went off task.”
“I went off mission to keep you breathing.” Atlas pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No,” Atlas said, stepping forward, “but you never ask for anything, do you?”
Xinner clenched his jaw.
“You stand there acting like you don’t care, like none of this touches you, but I know you. I see it. Every time I’m even close to getting hurt, you go still. Like you’re about to break something.”
“You think you know me?” Xinner said quietly, dangerously. “You think bleeding out on the floor earns you insight?”
Atlas shoved past him, pacing the room even as his breath hitched. “You’re impossible. You act like you don’t give a damn, and then you stare at me like the world ends every time I flinch.”
“You’re reading too much into it.”
“Oh, am I?” Atlas snapped. “Then why do you always pull me back before I get in over my head? Why do you patch me up in silence like it doesn’t matter—like I don’t matter—but your hands shake the whole time?”
Xinner didn’t answer. His fists were clenched now, knuckles pale.
Atlas stepped closer, blood smearing faintly across his side. “Say it.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
Atlas laughed almost bitterly. “You liar.”
Silence surged between them like a wave. Then—barely audible, like a crack slipping through armor—
“You scared me.”
Atlas blinked. “What?”
Xinner’s voice was flat, but his face wasn’t. Not anymore. “When you went down. I didn’t know if you were getting back up. And I—” He exhaled hard. “I didn’t want to feel that again.”
Atlas's expression softened—just for a second. Then it twisted.
“You don’t get to be scared and distant. You don’t get to shove me away after I nearly die for you.”
“I never asked you to,” Xinner said again, and it sounded more like a plea than a defense this time.
Atlas stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You don’t have to ask,” he said quietly. “I’m gonna keep doing it anyway.”
Xinner looked away.
“I’m bleeding,” Atlas said, a faint, cracked grin tugging at his lips. “You going to help me, or are you going to stand there acting like you didn’t almost lose me?”
Xinner didn’t answer at first.
Then he moved—slow and silent. He crossed the room, knelt by the medkit without a word, and started to clean the wound with a cold precision that almost masked how gentle his touch had become.
He didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.
But his hand hovered just a second too long against Atlas’s side.
The training field was quiet in the late afternoon, the sun stretched long across the dirt, casting golden shadows of two figures circling each other. The air was heavy with anticipation—silent save for the crunch of boots on dry ground and the occasional creak of leather.
Juno rolled her shoulders back, loose and feline. Her shirt clung with sweat, her hair tied up messily—strands already starting to fall in her face. A bruise bloomed just above her ribs, and she could already feel the sharp promise of another forming on her thigh.
Vincent stood across from her, chest rising steady, fists relaxed at his sides. A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“You done catching your breath yet?” he called, voice low and teasing.
“Just waiting for your joints to stop creaking, old man,” she shot back, swiping at the blood beneath her nose with the back of her hand. “Need a moment?”
He chuckled. “You’re talking a lot for someone who’s been flat on her back twice already.”
“Wasn’t complaining the last time that happened,” she muttered.
His grin faltered for half a second—just long enough for her to move.
Juno launched herself forward.
Fast.
Too fast for him to counter outright.
She dipped low, aiming for his side, and landed a sharp elbow beneath his ribs. He grunted, staggered—but his hand was already moving, swinging toward her in a brutal arc.
She ducked under it, boots skidding in the dirt, spinning away before he could follow through.
Vincent turned slowly, eyes narrowed. “You’re slippery today.”
“I’m always slippery,” she smirked, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “You’re just slow.”
“Careful,” he warned. “You know what happens when I catch you.”
Juno winked. “I bite.”
Their next clash was louder—his fist caught her shoulder, sending her stumbling back, but she twisted with it and rebounded, driving her foot toward his knee. He blocked it, but not cleanly. His leg buckled slightly.
“Ten points for style,” he muttered, recovering his footing.
“Negative five for letting me get that close,” she shot back, breathing harder now.
He didn’t answer. Just surged forward, fast enough, his calloused hands like iron. She danced around him again, ducking under his reach, landing light touches—knuckles to ribs, heel to thigh, palm to jaw.
Vincent finally caught her wrist.
Juno’s eyes widened.
“Gotcha,” he said, low and smug.
Then she kicked off the ground, using his grip as leverage, swinging herself up to wrap one leg around his neck, twisting his arm as she fell backwards.
They crashed to the ground, and it was not in the slightest graceful.
They landed, hard.
Dust bloomed.
When it settled… Juno was on top.
Breathing heavy. Grinning wild. Her forearm braced across his collarbone.
“Say it,” she panted.
Vincent stared up at her, half-laughing through grit teeth.
“…You’re cheating.”
“And you’re pinned.”
They stayed like that for a moment—sweat-slicked, bruised, both flushed and breathing like they’d fought a war. Juno’s smile softened slightly. Just slightly.
“You good?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah,” he breathed.
She leaned back, finally letting him up. “Round two?”
He winced. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Not today.”
“But eventually?”
“Oh, definitely.”
And he grinned, even as he stood. Losing to his love wasn’t that bad.
Vincent had seen it first—wings crumpled in the grass near the edge of the woods. He’d crouched next to it, blue curious eyes holding some kind of unsure feeling. He couldn’t tell if it was sleeping or just very still. He didn’t want to touch it. It felt like breaking a rule.
Juno had walked right past him and scooped it up without hesitation.
She sat down beside him, the bird in her lap, its neck limp against her palm. “It’s still warm,” she murmured, pressing two fingers to its breastbone like she was checking for a pulse she knew wouldn’t be there.
“You shouldn’t hold that,” Vincent said, softly.
She turned her head to look at him. Her eyes were wide, too wide for a kid her age. There was dirt on her knees and a smear of something across her cheek that wasn’t quite mud. “Why not?”
“It’s dead.”
“So?”
Vincent didn’t have a good answer. He just shrugged and looked away. Her gaze was always intense.
They sat together under the crooked tree by the field, where the grass grew long and the flowers always looked a little sick. Juno pulled a loose feather from the bird and twirled it between her fingers. It was white, mostly. Streaked with something rust-red.
“Do you think people are born bad?” she asked suddenly. He knew it was a question she got from a book.
Vincent blinked at her. “I don’t know. Why?”
She didn’t respond, but her eyes flickered over his face for a moment. Blue and green, maybe a little too dark for a kid. There was nothing to show for that darkness, though, she was bright and smart and generally a fun person to be around… when she wasn’t being ominous.
Vincent was quiet. He picked at a weed by his foot. “You’re not bad,” he said.
Juno smiled.
But not like a child should smile. It was a thin, slow thing—like it didn’t belong on her face. “You don’t know me very well.”
“I know enough.”
She plucked another feather. Let the bird fall to the grass with the gentle care of someone setting down a doll. Then she looked up at him again, chin on her knees.
“Wanna see something weird?”
Vincent hesitated. Then nodded. He really didn’t.
Juno stood and reached into her pocket, pulling out a glass jar with something black and pulsing curled inside—some kind of bug, maybe. No, not a bug. Vincent wasn’t sure what it was. But it blinked. Twice.
He stared. “What is that?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, delighted. “But it likes me.”
“…Should it?”
Juno just grinned and shook the jar lightly. Whatever was inside twitched. She laughed under her breath.
Vincent should’ve been unnerved. He was, a little. But he also didn’t move away. Just kept sitting there, near her, while the sun slipped lower behind the trees and the world turned a little darker.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Juno said suddenly. “About the jar. Or the bird.”
“I won’t.”
She looked at him hard, like she was weighing something. Then she nodded, satisfied.
“I like you, Vinnie.”
He looked at her, surprised.
“I think,” she added, almost as an afterthought, “you may end up being the only person I don’t want to kill someday. Promise I can count on you to have my back.”
Vincent didn’t flinch.
He just nodded slowly, eyes on the bird in the grass.
“…Okay. I promise.”
…….
It wasn’t long before they came back to the tree.
Vincent found Juno there again, this time lying on her back in the grass, arms stretched out like she was trying to absorb the sky through her skin. Her eyes were open, unmoving. If he hadn’t seen the slow rise and fall of her chest, he’d have thought she was dead too.
“What’re you doing?” he asked quietly.
“Thinking.”
He hesitated at the edge of the grass. “About what?”
Her voice was flat. “How easy it’d be to disappear.”
Vincent frowned. “Don’t.”
Juno finally moved—just her eyes flicking toward him. “Why not?”
He didn’t know how to explain it. Just that the thought of her gone felt wrong in the pit of his stomach. Like the sun blinking out.
“…‘Cause I’d have to follow you.”
That got a small laugh out of her, breathy and low. She sat up, knees pulled to her chest, and stared at him.
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
Vincent didn’t answer. He sat beside her instead. Close, not quite touching. She didn’t ask for space. She never did.
There was a beat of silence before Juno said, “My mom said I scare the neighbor’s dog. It won’t come near our house.”
Vincent blinked. “Why?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe it smells something wrong with me.”
He looked down at his hands. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
Juno leaned in a little, close enough for her shoulder to brush his. “You’re the only one who thinks that.”
“…Maybe I’m right.”
She turned her head toward him. Close. So close.
“You’re weird too, you know,” she said, not unkindly.
“I know.”
Another moment passed.
“You ever think about killing people or dying?” Juno asked.
Vincent didn’t answer at first.
She didn’t press. Just watched his face carefully.
Then, softly: “Only the ones that deserve it.”
Her eyes lit up—not with joy, exactly. But recognition. Understanding. There was something in it that said me too without having to say anything at all.
“Promise me something?” she said after a while.
“Okay.”
“If you ever die before me, I get to tear this world apart with my brother.”
Vincent blinked. She didn’t sound angry or dramatic. She said it like a fact.
“You don’t have to make me promise that,” he said.
“I’m not asking you to.”
“…Okay.”
Juno stared out at the woods, where the sun was leaking through the trees like diluted blood. She whispered something under her breath. He didn’t catch it.
Then she stood and reached her hand out to him.
“C’mon,” she said. “I found bones further out earlier. Real big ones. Might’ve been a bear.”
Vincent took her hand without thinking. Let her pull him up.
A steady beep… beep… beep echoed in the room like a countdown. His breath caught before it even began—lungs slow to respond, throat dry, sticky. The light overhead was harsh and cold, but worse was the feeling—pressure at his wrists, his ankles, his chest. Tight leather restraints. His body refused to obey, every muscle straining uselessly as rising panic closed around his throat like a noose.
He twisted hard, yanking against the bonds. A sharp sting shot through his arm—he looked down, heart thundering in his ears. A tube. An IV. Something was inside him.
“What the—what the hell is this?!” His voice cracked like brittle glass.
“Ah,” came a smooth voice, soft and slow. “There you are.”
A man stepped from the shadows at the far wall. Or maybe not a man—something shaped like one. He moved too fluidly, like water pretending to have bones. His suit was flawless: sleek, dark grey, with the faintest shimmer, tailored within an inch of its life. A glint of silver at his tie pin caught the light.
But his face was wrong. His eyes—bleached, unnatural, like the color had been erased—were the worst part. Blank. Watching.
“Get away from me,” Atlas rasped, struggling again, harder this time. “Where’s Xinner? Where is he?!” He had tried to sound threatening, to seem anything bigger than a bug. He sounded more like he was pleading, though, desperate.
Navmis tilted his head slowly, curiously, as if Atlas had asked whether the sky bled or if birds were real.
“You’re worried about him,” he murmured. “How… quaint.”
“If you touched him—if you hurt him—” Atlas’s voice shook, all fury, no strength. “I swear I’ll burn this place down with you in it.”
Navmis chuckled, low and delighted, like he’d heard a child threaten to command lightning.
“You’re adorable when you threaten me. But I’m not here to discuss your... pet. I’m here to discuss you, little flame.”
Atlas thrashed, his breathing jagged now. His heart rate spiked on the monitor—beep-beep-beepbeepbeep. “No. No, no—Xinner! Where did you put him you sicko?!”
He twisted until the straps cut into his skin. It didn’t matter. He needed to hear something—a voice, a footstep, a sign. But there was only silence. Empty. Cold. And this man. No, not a man. A thing that held itself the same way a man would.
Navmis leaned over him, gloved fingers brushing along the burn scar on Atlas’s face with reverence.
“You are a masterpiece of failure. You destroy yourself every time you try to protect something. Him. Your work. Your memories.” His pale eyes gleamed. “But I can make something better from the wreckage that you’ve committed yourself to.”
The elders had said it often enough—too many stories, too many bones sunken beneath the mud, too many voices that didn’t belong to birds or frogs. But Vincent had always been good at finding the places he wasn’t supposed to be, and even better at finding her.
Juno.
He saw her first through the reeds—barefoot and ankle-deep in the water, dress clinging to her legs, hair tangled with bits of moss. She was humming. Not to him, not to anyone. Just to the air, like it was something she could enchant. Like it might hum back if she sang the right note.
“Are you trying to get lost?” he asked, stepping out from behind a crooked willow.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn.
“I already am,” she replied simply.
Vincent frowned and crossed the soggy ground, boots sucking through the mud. “You’ve been gone all day. Your mother’s losing her mind.”
Juno finally glanced back at him, eyes dark and full of something that didn’t quite belong in a child’s face. “Maybe I’m just going where ghosts go.”
He hated when she talked like that. She was twelve—maybe thirteen—and already spoke like the world had chewed her up once.
“You’ll catch a fever if you stay in that water.”
“I’m not cold.”
“That’s not how fevers work, Juno.”
She turned fully toward him then. Her knees were scraped raw, her lips pale, but her smile was sharp as ever. “You always come for me, don’t you?”
Vincent blinked. “Because you’re always doing something stupid.”
She stepped closer—mud sloshing, reeds bending—and tilted her head the way she always did when she wanted something and didn’t want to ask. “Would you save me?” she asked.
He hesitated. “From what?”
Juno didn’t answer. Her expression didn’t shift, but something passed over her—something slow and ancient, like a shadow stretching beneath still water.
“Just... promise me you would.”
Vincent frowned. He was still a boy then—awkward, lanky, all elbows and bruises—but there was no hesitation in his voice when he said:
“I will.”
She stared at him for a moment too long, like she didn’t believe him. Like she already knew what she’d become, and he didn’t understand what he was promising.
But she smiled anyway, just a little. And when she reached out her hand, he took it.
Five months since the ground opened beneath them like a mouth and swallowed Atlas whole. Five months since Xinner had last heard his voice, seen that crooked smile, watched him flick a flame into existence just to watch it dance on his fingertips. Five months of silence.
Xinner kept count. Scratched each passing day into the metal of his arm guard. The grooves were shallow at first—neat, ordered. Now they were jagged things, etched with shaking hands and burning resentment. He didn’t care that it ruined the plating. Let it scar.
There wasn’t much left of him that wasn’t already ruined.
He hunted like a hound, driven by the scent of ash and gunpowder and something only he could name: the phantom memory of Atlas’s presence. Something magnetic, loud and defiant and warm in ways Xinner couldn’t explain without sounding pathetic.
He hadn’t slept properly in weeks. He barely ate. He moved. That was all. Town to town. Ruin to ruin. Every fight he picked wasn’t to survive—it was to shake loose a hint of a trail. He’d smash heads against the wall, half-mad, snarling questions like:
“Where is he?”
Not what happened. Not who took him. Where. Like he already knew Atlas was still alive—because anything else would unmake him completely.
And God help whoever stood in his way.
Word of him had spread. A ghost in black armor. Unstoppable. Grim. People whispered about him like a curse. Some said he was possessed. Others thought he was hunting a lover turned traitor.
Xinner let them talk. None of it mattered. Not when he saw Atlas everywhere.
Out of the corner of his eye—just behind him. A flash of dark hair, a spark of red-orange light, a smirk too familiar to be real. Sometimes he’d hear it too—faint and cruel:
“You’re looking rough, big guy. You miss me that bad?”
He didn’t answer anymore. Not out loud. He just turned his head and stared into empty doorways like he could will the hallucination into flesh.
But the worst part wasn’t the tricks his mind played. It was the fear—the sick, swallowing fear that Atlas wasn’t dead. That he was somewhere, breathing and bleeding, waiting. Trapped. Changed.
And if he was… who had taken him?
He kept a list. Names carved into a battered notebook, every possible enemy, every smug bastard who’d ever looked at Atlas too long, who knew what he was capable of. Xinner flipped through it like scripture, burning with slow, surgical rage.
Who took what was his?
Atlas belonged to no one—of course. But if you looked at Xinner’s clenched fists, if you saw the way his jaw locked whenever someone said his name, you’d understand: Xinner didn’t mean it in the possessive sense. He meant it in the binding one.
Atlas had chosen him.
They were fragments of the same flawed machine. And the one time Xinner had let his guard down, let Atlas walk too far ahead—he was gone. Just gone.
So now, Xinner stood outside the remnants of another enemy base, steam rising from the rubble behind him. Blood on his gloves. Smoke curling from a body that hadn’t talked fast enough.
He stared ahead into the dusk, barely breathing.
“…I’m coming,” he muttered, voice splintered with something raw. “Even if I have to break the whole world to get you back.”
And if someone had taken Atlas? Hurt him?
They didn’t know what they’d done.
Because Xinner had always been the quiet one. The stable one. The one Atlas teased for being too serious, too steady.
The alley reeked of oil, wet stone, and the electric crackle of spent magic. The sky above was a flat sheet of grey, casting everything in dim, sullen light.
Atlas landed in a crouch, breath sharp through his teeth, rain running down his neck. His boots skidded slightly on the slick pavement, but he recovered with the grace of someone who never quite stopped moving. Behind him, a heavy thud shook the ground—Xinner, landing from the roof with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.
“Do you ever not land like a small earthquake?” Atlas muttered, already dodging left as one of the masked mercenaries lunged for him.
“I don’t need stealth,” Xinner said, raising a hand just in time to parry a blade with his forearm guard. “That’s your job.”
Atlas flipped over the attacker’s back, spun, and kicked the guy square in the spine, sending him stumbling straight into Xinner’s waiting fist. The crunch of bone was deeply satisfying.
“Teamwork!” Atlas chirped, ducking under a wild sword swing from another opponent. “We should get matching jackets.”
“Focus,” Xinner grunted, shoving one attacker into a dumpster with a brutal shoulder-check. “You’re bleeding again.”
“Oh, now you notice.”
“You tore your stitches.”
“You sound like a disapproving nurse.”
“You’re acting like an idiot.”
Atlas grinned through his panting. “Flirting again, huh?”
Xinner didn’t answer—just surged forward, grabbed one of the bigger enemies by the front of his armor, and slammed him into the ground so hard the concrete cracked.
That drew attention. Good.
“Now!” Xinner barked, already turning to intercept the next one.
Atlas didn’t need to be told twice.
Like a thread pulled through a needle, he slipped into the opening Xinner created—fast, fluid, impossible to catch. He twisted around the distracted mercenary, yanked a blade from their belt, and used the flat of it to knock another off balance. They were moving too slow, reacting too late. Atlas was everywhere and nowhere, a blur of sharp elbows, stolen knives, and too much laughter.
“You’re leaving your left side open again,” Xinner called.
“I am distracting them.”
“You’re going to get stabbed.”
“Only a little bit!”
Xinner’s sigh was nearly drowned out by the impact of his knee hitting someone’s chest. The man folded like paper.
“Behind you,” Atlas said suddenly, and Xinner turned without hesitation, catching the attacker’s wrist mid-swing and twisting it with a crunch. The blade dropped. Xinner didn’t.
“Thanks,” he said, curt.
“See?” Atlas said, dodging past him with a cheeky wink. “This is why I keep you around.”
Xinner grabbed the back of Atlas’s collar and yanked him down just in time to avoid a thrown dagger that whistled past overhead.
“You were saying?” he asked flatly.
“Okay, fair.”
More enemies were closing in now, regrouping. Atlas darted in and out, feinting, flashing glimpses of bare steel, quick enough to draw their attention but never let them catch him. Every time one lunged, Xinner was already there, cleaning up. Not with flourish—just the brutal, quiet efficiency of someone who didn’t miss.
They didn’t need to look at each other to move together. Atlas opened the gaps. Xinner punished them. Over and over again.
“You ever gonna tell me what you’re so mad about?” Atlas asked mid-dodge.
“Not while you’re leaking blood all over the ground.”
“I’ve had worse.”
“You’ve died before, Atlas.”
“Once!”
“That’s still one too many.”
Atlas hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough for someone to get too close. Xinner stepped in, grabbed the attacker’s arm, and twisted it into a brutal lock. Atlas took the opening, kneeing the guy in the ribs and kicking him aside.
They both stood there, panting. Surrounded by groaning bodies and broken weapons.
Rain still falling.
Atlas blinked water out of his eyes. “So, dinner?”
Xinner stared at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
Atlas grinned. “You like me.”
Xinner didn’t respond, but the way he pulled Atlas toward him by the arm—gruffly checking the fresh blood soaking his side—was answer enough.
The fight was over, or at least as over as things ever got in their line of work. The bodies on the ground weren’t moving. Rain hissed on warm metal and cracked pavement. Somewhere, a siren wailed in the distance.
Xinner turned away first, as he always did, muttering something under his breath as he started down the alley.
“You coming or are you planning to bleed out artistically in a puddle?” he called over his shoulder.
Silence.
He didn’t stop right away.
Because this was typical. Atlas was always slow to follow, always dragging his feet or poking at broken things just to see how they worked—or didn't. Xinner walked a few more paces, rolled his eyes, then stopped at the end of the alley with an exhale.
“Don’t tell me you're composing your memoirs back there.”
Still no answer.
The cold in his stomach was immediate and sharp, a drop that hit before he even turned. His heart, which rarely ever sped up for anything, thudded once, hard, behind his ribs.
“Atlas?”
He spun around.
The alley behind him was empty. A few limp bodies. Scattered debris. A glint of metal where Atlas had dropped a stolen dagger mid-spin. But no familiar silhouette. No half-smirk and crooked gait.
Gone.
Gone?
His jaw clenched. He scanned the area quickly—shadows, rooftops, exits. Nothing moved.
Xinner retraced his steps, slowly at first, then faster, boots splashing in shallow puddles. “This isn’t funny,” he snapped, voice tight. “I swear, if you’re trying to prove a point—”
He didn’t say what the point might be. He didn’t want to.
He found a streak of blood a few feet back. Still warm. Still red. There was something in the red, it looked almost like ink. Probably just a stain on pavement…
Too red.
“Atlas.”
Now it wasn’t a question. It was barely even a word. Just something brittle falling out of his mouth.
He crouched by the blood, fingers hovering just above the droplets, not quite touching. Not sure if he could stand to. His breath came too shallow. Too fast.
You tore your stitches.
You’ve died before, Atlas.
Once!
Xinner gritted his teeth. “You absolute—stupid, stubborn—”
He stood again, looking around, slower this time. Calmer. Or trying to be.
His mind started working—mapping possible escape routes, blind spots, where someone might take a too-fast, too-wounded target. But his gut twisted with something worse than logic. Something that felt like fear.
Because Atlas had always been there. No matter how much noise he made, how many times he got stabbed, burned, thrown—he was always still there.
So where the hell was he now?
Xinner ran a hand through his soaked hair, then took a breath deep enough to hurt. He didn’t call out again. His voice didn’t feel like it would come if he tried.
Instead, he set his jaw and started moving—fast, efficient, with fists clenched and shoulders high. No more jokes. No more pretending this didn’t matter.
A scene from the birdverse, partially inspired by the song Hold Them Down from Epic the Musical. I like to joke that Kor suffered more than Jesus but this scene kind of confirms that.
"What are we going to do, Captain? With that boy the Avians are decimating our troops. How long can we keep sending them to the slaughter?"
Agualias ran an armored hand over the coral table, smooth after many years of touch. His fingers glided over the land masses carved into the coral, bumps meant to resemble hills and divet where lakes should be. He was aware that he held the attention of the room as he took his time, meandering through each curve and carved line. They were nervous.
Finally, he snapped out of it. "Ignore the Bringer of Death." He swept away some centuries old dust. "He's just a tool, controlled by the Nest. We don't go for him— yet," He slowly began to move his fingers again, down an estuary carved into the rock, letting the sensation beneath his fingertips help toss his thoughts around.
An idea struck.
"The younger Prince.." he mumbled.
"What?"
Agualias felt a smile crack his face, slow, predatory, as he talked. "He's a liability. Trained with a bow, maybe, but that means he's only a ranged fighter. If we corner him, he'll be.. helpless."
He could feel as his idea sunk into the room. People began to mutter.
"The younger Prince?"
"The dainty one. With pearly hair."
"The sick one?"
"Hardly so, he took out Nephmet's eye last campaign!"
Agualias raised a hand and the room fell silent. "I hear your concerns, we can't underestimate him— that's a fact. But.. since the Nest's been keeping him so close means he is valuable. I've.. even heard rumor he may be another Child."
"Two? In the Nest?" choked out his second in command.
"Yes, it's not ideal but.. I don't even think the Prince is aware of it himself. If his powers haven't awakened yet.. then now is the time to strike."
"But how? He's always guarded or at the Nest."
Agualias tapped his temple. "Haven't you noticed who's missing? The Scouts just informed us that the Falcon's been gone for days, and the Prince is nowhere to be found. If they're both not at the Nest, then they can't be guarded. And.. I've heard word from the Sprites that the Prince was spotted.. in the Forest."
Excited chatter broke out again. This is what Agualias fed on, the suspense, the build up, the anticipation of a plan, a plan so daring none of his other siblings could come up with it.
He dropped a heavily armored finger on a certain spot on the map. "He's here," he said, "The Bottomless Abyss."
The warriors around him leaned in to see, elbowing each other to get a better view. Agualias continued.
"This will be where we corner him. The rivers feed into a spring close by," he gestured around so they could see. "There, we call in that favor from the Sprites and make the rest of the trek on our terrain. I'll lead the charge. In the meantime," he pointed elsewhere, "we gather some of our forced on the beaches, make his caretaker distracted, then my unit will close in."
His voice was rising over the room like the tide, receding before a big swell. "He won't see it coming, helpless as he is, and easy to overpower. We grab him. Hold him down. Then take our revenge." He cackled, "Imagine— just imagine how that mighty King would react if we send him his brother all ruined and broken. Would he cry comrades? Feel shame? Hah!"
He could see their grinning faces all around him, eyes glazed over by the sweet promise of revenge, of easy revenge. They hung onto his every word as he continued, growing darker and darker as deep water.
"We'll test out if he really is a Child— see if he's afraid of death, and if not, we'll give him another reason to cry. You will hold him down and I will break his bones! Every finger that dared to draw a bow to harm us. I'll take his eye! One for Nephmet's. We'll break his pride, then taint his honor. And! And! We'll cut off his wings."
The room broke like a crashing wave, shouts from every direction.
"Break every one of his bones, Captain!"
"Or better, slit his throat!"
One smacked his lips, "I heard his skin is so fresh it'll leave bruises with just a breath."
"I heard he's as beautiful as the Peacekeeper."
"I'd like to make that pretty little mouth scream."
"No way, I want him first!"
Agualias chuckled. "Don't worry friends," he spread his arms wide, "I'll make sure everyone has a turn."
vvv
Nereus cornered him in the hallway after the meeting. His hair floated around him in an agitated manner, almost like tentacles worried you're getting too close. "Are you sure we should do this?"
Agualias raised a brow. "When did you start doubting me, brother?"
Milky eyes regarded him. "You know I can't see the Currents surrounding the Prince. Is this wise? What if it's a trap."
He ignored him. "All the better to strike! If the Nest is going to such lengths to keep the Prince away from us, then he must be special. I'd like to see so for myself."
Nereus shot him a look. "Don't let your own motives get in the way, brother. The Prince is not his brother, old rivalries will not be won by substituting one for the other. And for all we know, the King could care less about his bastard brother and is just using him as bait."
Agualias shot back at him, age-old anger filtering in, "Don't you think I know that?" He took a breath. "I don't need to see his High and Mighty Majesty. Just imagining his reaction will be enough." A sinister smile broke his lips. "But if only I could see his face when they find the Prince afterwards..."
Nereus sighed. "Be careful, Captain. I'll pray for your success."
Agualias clasped his arm. "Wonderful, Great Sea-er. We'll visit the Temple of Depths before our departure."
He watched his sibling walk away, waited until he was out of earshot, then snapped around with a sharp twist.
"Come out, you [damned] Mimic!" He beat the wall with an enraged fist until his fingers grasped around a camouflaged throat. He squeezed.
"Agualias!" gasped the boy whose throat he held. Agualias let him go once the boy's face turned purple, wiping his hand on his clothes and watching the boy sink to the ground gasping for breath.
"Nobody likes an eavesdropper, boy!" He spat. "How much did you overhear?"
The boy straightened. "Take me with you, please!"
"Like [hell] I will. Now get lost. Some of us have real things to do." He started to walk away, satisfied.
"But- brother-"
Now h turned, livid, "Don't. Call me that." He strode back over to the boy, until he was hovering over him, like the wave, like the storm, like the monster about to snap. He prodded a finger into his chest. "You are a nobody. You don't deserve to have the privilege of calling me kin. Remember that, you hear? A nobody."
Face as white as sea foam, the boy ran away.
vvv
As promised by the Sprites, the forest ground was flooded, marshy under their feet, which allowed them to trek without damage.
"This way," commanded Agualias in no more than a whisper. They couldn't afford to make any sounds that would alert the Falcon before she was sufficiently distracted.
As they neared the deep pool, the air got noticeably cooler, almost too cold for his warm blood. Here, the Abyss's presence was felt even above ground. Even so, his skin prickled in anticipation more than chill.
The Forest was silent all around them. Every creature was either long gone or turning their gaze away. The Rocks didn't even make a sound, not even a rumble in warning. The Earth had long since decided to stay neutral in this war, even if it made them complacent in acts like this.
Agualias and his troop waited for a signal from the Sprites that the Falcon was subdued. Quietly, a lot of waiting.
Then, there is was. A whirlpool at their feet— the time was finally upon them!
Warriors burst from the brush like a flash flood. They ran until they found the Prince by the edge of the pool, caught off guard. He didn't even have time to reach for his weapon before they grabbed him. Later, only later, would Agualias even register that he didn't even have a weapon.
Like a king, Agualias emerged from the shadows. "Hold him down," he commanded, watching the Prince struggle against the numerous hands that held him back. He smiled when he made eye contact with the boy. Reddish eyes of a sickly hue, but with dazzling white hair and wings to match. He was as stunning as the stories claimed. Something flared in Agualias's gut.
Agualias took his time meandering over, drinking in the sight of the boy on his knees, held to the ground by the gaping maw of the Abyss like a sacrifice. He finally lowered himself to meet his gaze.
"Hello Princling." He smiled, all teeth— the Prince cringed away from his salty breath— and ran a finger down his smooth face. "Where's your little nanny~?"
The Prince was out of breath from struggling, yet he still managed to spit out, "What did you do to her?"
"Nothing," he paused, "we don't need her."
Agualias reached for the blade offered by his second in command. It was shiny and thin and sharp. Specially forged— the only way to hurt Children of Death. His smile widened as he watched the Prince's eyes go wide, recognizing its caliber. He tried squirming a way but Agaulias grabbed a fistful of his hair. He put the cold blade on the Prince's pale, unblemished neck. It was so sharp it instantly drew a line of vivid red.
"We're only here for you, little Prince."
The Prince huffed out a laugh, speaking carefully around the knife. "You're running a losing game, then. I know nothing of Their plans or strategies. The King could care less if I was captured."
Agualias huffed. "We knew you'd say that— Hold his legs—" he leaned in close to the Avian's long ears, reveled in the way his breath made the boy shiver. "That's why we'll give you back, of course," he slid the blade teasingly across his throat, "..not without some.. reparations"
"No!" The boy choked out, fighting to get free again. His struggle only intensified the stream of blood from his cuts, pooling onto the rock beneath him.
"Hold his wrists too." Agualias suddenly stabbed the blade down into the ground next to the Prince's face, feeling giddy when the Prince flinched and screamed from a blow that never came. The knife sliced clean through rock, instead, up to the hilt. Agualias smiled.
The others took that as a sign to close in.
"His eye first!"
"No, let me at his sweet little neck, before that!"
"Hey, grab his wings— aren't they soft?"
Agualias didn't care how his warriors handled the Prince, where they grabbed him or how hard. He egged it on after seeing the way the Prince flinched away from their touch as if it stung. Every cry when his wings were grabbed or his hair was pulled made him feel funny inside, like he'd finally won. He wanted to gloat, but he knew if he turned around the one he wanted to see wouldn't be there. Nereus was right, but that fact didn't make him feel any less giddy, only angry.
"Little Prince." He tapped the boy's temple with his knife to get his attention. "Look at me— there, now listen and remember this." He leaned in close so his lips hovered just above the boy's ears, smiled when him shivered again, then continued.
"First, the eye." He gestured with his knife lazily, not caring if it nicked skin. "For my sister." Then he trailed up to where the boy's wrists were being held down. "Then the fingers. I'll break every. Single. One." A flash of horror appeared on the Prince's face. "No more shooting for you." Then he moved to his back, put the knife against one of the appendages that he knew was sensitive. He cut, deep. "Then, the wings."
"No!" The boy flailed out, a renowned burst of strength.
"Hold him down!" Agualias loosened a punch aimed at the boy's jaw. The sickening crunch of bone got everyone's attention. It sounded like a luxury, the snap of an enemy's neck, the pop of a sea fruit in one's mouth, the moan of a lover during her first time. Agualias's pupils widened in ecstasy.
"Want to try screaming again? I'd love to hear it." He liked the way the boy shuddered when his breath passed anywhere near his ears.
"What was that? You're going to be quiet now, huh? Fine."
Another punch. A rib cracked. The Prince cried out, blood coughing up from his mouth. Agualias waited a second. He didn't die, yet. It was a good sign.
Once confirmed they could be as brutal as they wanted, the warriors around him laughed. One pinched his exposed skin just to see the red mark left behind. Another sunk his teeth greedily into the boy's neck. Agualias spread the boy's legs apart and sat with one knee between his thighs. He brought out the knife with a sickening flash and feigned going for the boy's eye, laughing as he screamed before the knife went wide and grazed his cheek instead. He was going to drag this out for a while.
The boy seemed to realize this as well.
"Please," he begged, his voice broken. "Please."
Agualias only laughed harder. He pulled the boy's head up closer by his hair.
"Try begging louder," he murmured, "Maybe they'll even hear you at the Nest!'
vvv
A bloodied, broken body shivered, on the cold stone. Agualias wiped his hands, satisfied. The Prince was barely recognizable, now, pale skin bare and covered in blood or bruises or open wounds he hoped would scar. Blood gurgled in his mouth in intervals, but his stubborn chest continued to rise and fall with shaky breaths. His once beautiful face was now marred by the gaping whole in his head where his eye had been. Agualias would cherish the way he screamed when he'd carved it out of his head for the rest of his life.
Fit to go for a second round, Agualias neared the boy, before a messenger came rushing in.
"Captain! They're losing hold on the Falcon! It won't be long before she escapes."
"Fuck." Agualias cursed. He regarded the broken boy. "Let's speed this up, yeah?"
His warriors held the boy down, again. They bared his wings to his knife as if they were on the executioner's block. The boy whimpered, his voice long gone. He had no energy left to struggle, but even a sick animal would attack when cornered. He gathered his broken little body and lunged for the knife before Agualias could grab it, but it slipped through the grip of his broken little fingers. Either way, he hadn't received any combat training to know how to use the knife if he'd succeeded.
Agualias squashed his already broken hands under his heel. "Down, boy." He smiled. "You know we love it when you protest."
There was no time to make this painful. His heart began to beat as he imagined that wraith finding them. He was not scared, though, obviously, just.. worried, for his men, not himself.
"Fuck this, fuck everything!" He roared. Of course she had to escape and ruin his plan. He raised his arms over his head and swung down viciously at the thick bone between the boy's back and wings. It didn't go in cleanly. Enraged, Agualias swung again. He hacked at the boy's back, before giving up. It seems something had finally pitied the boy.
He wouldn't let this go, though. "If I can't finish this, then at least I can make sure you never fly again!"
He stabbed his knife through the Prince's wings, and it cut through like silk. Pure white feathers fell to the ground, now splattered with red. The boy screamed and screamed with each slash, a guttural, primal screech that rattled the very ground.
Agualias only saw red and loved it.
"Captain! I think I hear something, quickly!"
That spurred him from his rage. He stood up and looked down at the bloody mess he had created. The boy wasn't protesting anymore.
"Let's get out of here," he said darkly.
"What do we do with the Prince?"
Agualias turned around, "Throw him into the Abyss."
"No!" The boy screamed, somehow finding his voice after all of this.
Agualias cackled. "Remember this, Princling. You are nobody anymore."
v
v
v
Cold.
Dark.
No thoughts, only sensations.
Cold, the worst one.
His head throbbed.
Slowly consciousness flowed back to him, only to be washed away as abruptly as it came.
There was nothing around him but the cold.
He knew there were sensations once, pain, both in his heart and his body, but they were now replaced by a sort of weightlessness as his lungs filled with water. Memories flashed through his mind only to flow out like water through a sieve.
Kor knew he couldn't die. He would never drown. He would just sink like this forever, in the Bottomless Abyss. He didn't even know how to swim.
vvv
There were voices calling for him, but they seemed so far away. He was so, so cold.
Mama, where are you? He thought. Or at least he tried to, but his thoughts were so scattered.
The pounding in his head had stopped. He felt a strangeness, the wrongness of his body trying to put itself back together, but lacking the air to do so. It felt like forcing a plant to grow in the dark.
He wondered if this pit truly did go all the way to the Abyss.
If he couldn't die, then at least the Nothing could tear his body apart so he could finally rest.
Kor realized he didn't want to go back up.
It hurt up there.
But it was warm up there, and it was so, so cold down here.
Eventually, though, he would stop feeling the cold.
v
v
v
[Okay some other stuff happens, that I don't feel like writing right now. Falcon flew back to the Nest to tell them about Kor's disappearance, very very distraught for losing him. Everyone's busy trying to find him while also not starting panic. They find a wooden practice sword by the beach, similar to the one Aquilian had used to best Agualias in a show of strength when they were kids. Thus, Aquila suspects Agualias has captured Kor.]
"Your Majesty." A messenger approached with a quick bow, breathless.
"What news?" Aquilian asked, trying to not sound eager.
"None about your brother, my liege, but— the Forest has sent scouts. They are saying something approaches."
"What?"
"A thing appears to be making it's way to the Nest. The Scouts tell us it has carved a path in the Earth, right from the Well of the Abyss. They say-" the messenger gulped, "they say it's a creature of shadows and darkness, that destroys everything in it's path, decaying life matter and-"
"Enough." Aquilian silenced the messenger before they could get too worked up. "I've heard enough."
"Your Majesty, what if it intends to harm the Nest?"
Aquilia looked at his General, Hawk, and shared a silent consensus.
"We will not interfere, for now." He climbed off his throne, gesturing for his closest advisors to follow him away. "If it indeed is a creature from the Abyss, then we do not have the power to stop it. Call for the Little Witch, I will need her assistance."
"Yessir."
"It's Him isn't it?" Hawk asked as soon as they left the room.
Aquila could not answer without the tears spilling from his eyes, so he instead nodded profusely.
"He's Awakened," said Falcon, with abject horror in her voice. Her face was too pale, as if she were going to throw up. They all remembered the day Ravyn first developed his powers. It only worked out for them because his emotions had been projected onto the other side. Now, though, it seemed the target was on themselves.
Falcon blurted out, "Let's disband the festivities tonight. Remain on guard and ready for a confrontation."
"No." Aquila stopped and turned to face them, surprising his commanders in more ways then one. "We continue on as normal. Don't let anyone find out. And make sure Ravyn is far away tonight. Tell the Little Witch to do whatever she can, he must not see Him."
v
v
v
A ballroom filled with nobles, warriors, and courtiers made for the most efficient of distractions. The celebration of the full moon was in full swing, despite the growing danger. What was once a breathtaking sight, moonlight flooding into the room from wide windows carved into the very trunk of the Tree, reflecting off crystals and sparkling on guests' shimmery dresses, now seemed tainted with the bitter taste of betrayal. Their joyous mood was wrong, out of place, out of touch to what was happenign all around.
Even on the lower branches people were celebrating. Fires littered the ground and lanterns floated through the leaves like stars. People danced and cheered, unaware of what lurked below, coming closer and closer.
It could feel their merriment; the quick flow of their blood in their veins, the furious beating of their hearts in line with the drums, the plump flowers slowly withering away in their decorative garlands and vases, the hum of magic, ancient and feral within these very roots.
It was running, it was flying, it was moving faster than light. It was craving something: destruction.
Kor could feel again. Rage that tasted like bile in his gut. He didn't even know who he was angry at, all these people for celebrating while he suffered, or his brother for sitting on his little throne oh so comfortably. Too comfortably.
There was laughter in the ballroom, music— until the room went dark, a shadow passing through the window. Then there was suddenly silence. Too much of it.
The shadow dragged its broken body on the ground on legs that could barely support itself. Kor approached his brother's throne, broken, beaten, and bloody, but alive. The shadows around him did not fully dissapitate, as if offering support for this broken body, but he made his prescene known. Not what he was but who he was.
"I'm home!" He spat blood onto the ground. There were gasps all across the room as people took in his broken body. His wings bent at the wrong angles, ribboned and shredded and plucked. His hands that hung limp at his sides, fingers twisted and useless. The new and old blood covering his pale hair and pale skin and pale feathers, a stark contrast against the moonlit white. And his face. The shadows clung to his face the most, as if covering the gory sight. Where his left eye should have been was a black, bloody hole. Kor smiled, showing sharp teeth.
"I'm home!" He said again, turning to the rest of the court. He watched them recoil in disgust and fear. You made me like this.
"Corvus." Aquilian called to him from to throne. It was too quiet to hear by anybody but them. Kor ignored him.
"Aren't you happy? I clawed myself back up here— why are you backing away? Am I not beautiful enough for you anymore?" He spat more blood on the floor then wiped his mouth. "Why aren't you celebrating?" The last one came out as a shout.
"That's enough Corvus." Aquilian's voice boomed from his throne. Kor turned and blinked at him, as if just remembering he was here.
He smiled. "Dear brother! Won't you welcome me in your arms? Lick my wounds clean? Where's my mother to take care of me?"
"Corvus." Aquilian's voice was dark, "That's enough. Come with us, stop making a scene."
"A scene? Like the one you didn't throw when you learned what their Captain did to me? Why should I stay quiet, brother?" He turned to the audience, "Aren't I your Prince? Aren't I worthy of your love, too?" His voice broke on the last phrase, still healing from the screaming.
He would continue but he suddenly felt the prescense of something too hot at his side. "Ahh!" He shied away from it as if it burned. Why! Why was he feeling again?
Aquilian got up from his throne. "Friends, an Abyssal Apparation has taken control of the Prince! His journey to the Well of Abyss proved too dangerous— this is the consequence of seeking magic not allocated for us! From now on, all travel to Abyssal locations is forbidden. We must prevent something like this happening to one of us!"
Whispers spread throughout the room like dry leaves caught in a strong gale.
"Is that really the Prince?"
"Did the Abyss.. do.. that?"
"Didn't he mention the Sea Folk?"
"Well obviously the Abyss is corrupting his mind!"
"We must not mess with knowledge like that."
"Wha-what?" Kor could feel the room stirring around him— against him. Those eyes that had racked him in fear now cast their judgement upon his bloodied, naked form. His head was swimming. His side burned.
He turned so his eye could see. It was his brother's General, holding his mighty Lance, alight with flame. No— not flame, light. It hurt. He just wanted things to stop hurting.
"Don't worry friends! We will subdue him with haste. We cannot let this blight stop our worship, the festival must continue!"
Hands grabbed him, he struck out— not again, no please!— but their grip held. He couldn't see, his vision was blinded by light—
"Calm, Prince." A familiar voice, one that once told him to wait patiently as she sorted out a disturbance. It felt so long ago.
"No!" Kor screamed. He couldn't let them do this again, he could feel phantom touches crawling on his body, he could feel the sting of a knife cutting into his flesh—
"Hold him down," the King's voice commanded. Kor wailed, vision blurred with tears that spilled from his eye and traveled down his face, becoming stained with red.
Please, he begged, before his consciousness released him.
The rain was a steady whisper against the glass, soft and relentless. Somewhere in the distance, the city pulsed with life—sirens low and distant, neon bleeding against the sky like bruises.
Inside the safehouse, the silence between them was louder than anything outside.
Atlas sat on the edge of the bed, soaked through, one hand clutched tight around his side. His jacket lay discarded on the floor, the blood staining its inner lining starting to dry, turning dark and stiff. He hadn’t bothered to change. Hadn’t even peeled off his shirt, which stuck to his skin in heavy, wet folds. He couldn’t sit still, but moving hurt worse.
Xinner stood by the window, arms crossed, jaw set. The bruise on his cheekbone stood out stark against the washed-out light, but he didn’t seem to feel it. He hadn’t said a word since they got back.
“You’re pissed,” Atlas said, his voice rasping with the effort to sound casual. “Yeah. Shocking.”
Xinner didn’t turn around. His reflection in the rain-slick glass looked like a stranger—blank, unmoved.
Atlas let out a breathy, humorless laugh. “What, are you mad because I got in the way? Or because it worked?”
Xinner’s voice was flat. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I had to,” Atlas snapped, flinching a little too visibly when his body jerked with the motion. “You were going to get—”
“I wouldn’t have.” Xinner finally turned, just a little. “You think I need you to throw yourself into a bullet every time things go wrong?”
Atlas smiled crookedly, but his eyes were sharp, angry. “Well, forgive me for assuming you wouldn’t mind if I took a hit for you.”
“I do mind,” Xinner said, voice rising for the first time. He caught himself instantly and shut down again, crossing his arms tighter. “But it doesn’t matter now.”
“Bullshit it doesn’t.”
“You’re not dying,” Xinner said. “So stop acting like this is some noble sacrifice.”
Atlas stared at him, panting slightly. Sweat had started to bead at his hairline—maybe fever, maybe just adrenaline draining out too fast. “You know,” he said, quieter now, “you could at least pretend to care.”
Xinner didn’t move. “You want a pat on the head? You want me to cry about it?”
“I want you to stop looking at me like I’m a problem you have to manage.”
“That’s not—” Xinner stopped. His fingers flexed at his side. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“No?” Atlas’s voice cracked. “Then what are you doing, Xinner? Because I’m sitting here with a goddamn hole in my side, and all you’ve done is glare at me like I ruined your day.”
Xinner’s face twisted, just slightly. “I told you not to follow me in.”
“You didn’t have to. You think I was gonna let you get pinned down alone?”
“I had it under control.”
“You really want me to believe that?” Atlas laughed, bitter and tired. “You were bleeding and cornered, but sure, yeah, let’s pretend you had it all handled. That way you don’t have to deal with what’s actually bothering you.”
Xinner’s silence hit hard and fast. His eyes dropped to the floor, then flicked briefly to Atlas’s side—where the blood had started soaking through the bandage again.
“I’m fine,” Atlas muttered, catching the look. “You don’t have to fuss.”
“I’m not fussing,” Xinner said tightly. But he took a step forward anyway.
“Yeah,” Atlas said, slumping back against the wall. “God forbid you let yourself look worried. That’d be too human, right?”
Xinner crouched beside him before Atlas could flinch away, carefully lifting the edge of the shirt to check the wound. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at Atlas.
“You’re shaking,” he said instead, almost under his breath. Accusation disguised as concern.
“I’m cold,” Atlas replied. “Maybe dying. Could be both.”
Xinner’s hands paused. Not quite trembling. But not steady, either.
“You’re not dying,” he said again, quieter now. Less sure.
Atlas leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. “But you’d be fine if I did, right?”
A beat. A slow inhale. Xinner’s voice came soft and sharp as a blade.
“Don’t ever say that.”
Atlas opened his eyes. Their gazes locked—close enough to feel the heat between them despite the chill. Xinner’s face was blank again, but his voice had cracked on that last word. Just a little.
They sat on the edge of the rooftop, shoulders nearly brushing. The city lights flickered below like dying stars, and Atlas had been talking for a while now—filling the silence with half-thoughts, laughter that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and the occasional dig at how ridiculous their last class of the day had been.
“And then the guy just ran—like, didn’t even try to act tough. Just turned tail and bolted like a cartoon character. You should’ve seen his face!” He had almost gotten into a fight. Idiot..
Xinner didn’t laugh. He just hummed, barely audible over the wind, eyes fixed on some faraway place that wasn’t really there. Atlas glanced at him, a little too long, then looked away again.
“You’re doing that thing again. Where you go full ghost on me.”
“I’m here,” Xinner said simply. Voice low, careful. Always careful.
“Yeah, physically,” Atlas said, nudging him with an elbow that lingered too long. “Mentally? You’re halfway to orbit.”
Xinner tilted his head, almost like he was considering the comment seriously. “You talk enough for both of us.”
Atlas rolled his eyes, but smiled anyway. “Flattered. Really.”
Silence crept in again, this time a little heavier. Atlas tapped his fingers against the rooftop ledge, a rhythm too steady for someone pretending not to be nervous.
“Do you ever think,” he started, voice quieter now, “that we’re just… stuck like this? Not moving forward. Not going back. Just hovering in this weird in-between?”
Xinner didn’t answer right away. He was looking at Atlas now—not really directly, but more like the way someone stares at light through water, too sharp to touch but too soft to ignore.
“You’d miss me if I left,” he said finally. Not a question. A statement.
Atlas blinked. “That’s not—”
“You would.”
This was the first time in a while that Xinner had stated something at Atlas. He sounded very sure, because somewhere inside him, he knew.
Atlas swallowed. “Yeah. I would. And?”
They didn’t say anything after that. But they didn’t move apart, either.
Atlas leaned forward a bit, elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms together like the motion could smooth out the weird twist in his chest. “You know, sometimes I wish you’d just say it.”
Xinner blinked slowly, gaze still angled toward him but unreadable. “Say what.”
“That you need me,” Atlas said, voice so soft it almost didn’t make it past the wind. “Or want me. Or… something.”
A pause.
The silence stretched, then bent, like a glass about to shatter. Xinner didn’t look away.
“I don’t say things that… well, I can’t afford to mean.”
Atlas laughed, but it was hollow and cracked at the edges. “Right. Because feelings are a luxury, and we’re both broke as hell.”
He stood suddenly, brushing off his hands like they were dirty. “Forget it. I’m being stupid.”
“You’re not,” Xinner said, almost sharply. Sharper than he ever let himself be.
Atlas froze.
Xinner stood too, slower, more deliberate, like moving any faster might unravel whatever thread was still tying them together. His voice dropped again, rough and low and quiet in that way that made Atlas feel like he was being held without being touched.
“I don’t say things,” he repeated, “because I know once I do, you’ll never let it go. And I—” He stopped. His jaw clenched. “Take this as you will, but we’re half of what I want.”
Atlas looked at him, eyes a little too bright, like he was fighting off something stupid and fragile. “Half isn’t enough.”
Xinner didn’t argue.
Didn’t apologize, either.
He just stepped closer, slow and careful, until they were toe to toe. The streetlight below them flickered, painting shadows across Xinner’s face that made him look older, sadder, softer.
“I don’t have anything else to give,” he said.
Atlas stared at him for a long moment. Then, with a tight, bitter smile, he whispered, “That’s the problem.”
