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skimmeh

May 12

stareaterau

Chapter 1 episode 6

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(special thanks to @shirahoshiumi for the cover for this episode!

Writers, editor and proof readers: @kairamuwu @skimmeh @scrambledlikeeggs @ruden404 )

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don't wander too far apart

CW: injury, description of pain, description of dead body, guns, knives

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Disclaimer!!!! the whole chapter couldn't fit on tumblr, you can read the whole thing on archive of our own!!

Early dawn rises over the rubble and ruins littering the desert landscape, casting long shadows. The dark blues and greys of the twisting metal stand out in stark contrast against the red sand and sky. Like remnants of the passing night.

A lone figure sits in the rusting doorway of a rounded ship. Deftly, he picks at the inner mechanisms of an old gun resting in his lap. Surrounding him, lain strewn across the ship floor, are countless wires and parts of gutted weapons and machines. Across the sand at his feet lie long wires with small, shimmering shards of metal haphazardly tied on at random intervals. The wires cover the ground in a twisting, labyrinthine pattern. Some have even been attached above the doorway, hanging low as they sway slightly in the breeze, small pieces of metal clinking together in a quiet, dulcet tune – like a junkyard beaded curtain that had gotten tangled up in a wind chime and was forced to be a rudimentary intruder alert.

Amongst the metal art projects, just above his head, hangs a small crystal. Its glow casting him in a soft blue hue.

With a click, the last piece of the gun snaps into place. He picks it up out of his lap, testing how comfortably it rests in his hands, before reaching behind him and pulling out a scrappy, worn strap. He clips it onto the gun, satisfied with his work.

With a groan, he rises off the ground, his joints cracking from lack of use. Ducking out of the way of the hanging makeshift bells, he heads into the ship and towards the dingy cockpit. The windshield that had once allowed the pilots an unobscured view of endless space is now covered in a thick layer of sand and dust. Only slivers of light peak their way through the top edge of the glass.

There, in the repurposed space, lie beaten canisters filled with old cans and preserved rations. Amongst them is a dented pot and bottled water resting against it. He walks further into the room, towards a bed – if you can even call it that – fashioned from two passenger chairs and another storage container that had been wedged between them, along with old rags that had been stuffed in the gaps to make it long enough to fit a person. It’s messily cobbled together, but it does the job. As is made evident by the man snoring loudly, one arm slung over his eyes and the other holding a knife close to his chest.

Etho thumps his boot against the closest chair, hard. Echoes of the sound of dust falling between the gaps in the metal ceiling reverberate down the ship, but the other man sleeps on, undisturbed. Only the slightest scrunch of his face indicates that he had heard. Etho rounds the makeshift bed till he’s stood by his companion's head. He narrows his eyes at the sleeping man and raises his newly fixed gun.

He whacks the sleeping man on the forehead with the hilt.

Joel sits up in an instant. He swings his distinctly deactivated blade wildly with a cry, before blinking the sleep from his eyes.

“What the hell, man?” Joel flops back down on the bed with a grumble, rubbing his forehead absently with his free hand.

Etho doesn't respond and just hits him again.

“I’M UP!” Joel barks as he pushes himself up and fully off the bed, and shoves Etho in the same movement. Etho, unphased, steps back around the chair to his side. Joel stumbles over to him, catching himself before he collides with a wall as he tries, and fails, to shake off his sleepy state.

“Blummin’ heck,” he complains, rubbing his head, “I don’t even know why you insist on getting up so early, man… ‘s not like we have a schedule.”

“The phantoms are gone, but the sun is still down,” Etho explains, for far from the first time, “Unless you’d rather we go patrolling the area when it’s hottest…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. You just don't gotta be so mean about it.”

“Ah… Well, would a mean person repair an old blaster for you?” Etho pulls out a second gun, just as patched together with scavenged parts as the one slung over his shoulder.

“OH! YOU DID IT?”

Joel’s head snaps towards Etho, eyes wide. The last remnants of sleepiness shed away in an instant.

“Yeah. While you were eating spiders in your sleep, I fixed a couple.”

Etho hands the gun over to Joel. The Glare snatching it up immediately.

“How did you even get the stuff for ammo?”

“Granted, it was hard and we don't have much, but these ruins are old…” Etho runs his finger across the ship's dusty console. “Did you know they just had whole intact crystals in them back in the day? It's insane how many resources they wasted,” he pauses, “No wonder your kind ran into crystal drought so often… so wasteful.”

Joel stares at him with a flat look, “My kind?”

“You know…” Etho gestures vaguely.

“Vindicators?”

“Right… yeah. Well, lucky for us!” He shows off his own gun.

“What the hell? Yours is so much bigger!”

“Yup,” Etho brushes past Joel and walks out of the cockpit. Behind him, the Glare sputters as he rushes to follow.

“Wait, wait, hold on… Let me put my boots on first!”

Joel kicks at the dirt. Small glints of eroded metal sparkle in the sand as he kicks up small clouds in his boredom.

Etho hushes him quickly, as he grabs him by the back of his shirt and pulls him down behind the cover of a fragmented storage container.

“What?”

“Look!”

Etho gestures ahead of them. Joel's gaze follows his direction, quickly finding what had caught Etho’s attention – a dark shape moving across the brightening sky. They watch as a figure in the distance glides towards them on long, bright wings.

“Is that a phantom? During the day?”

“No… Its shape and colours are all wrong.”

Etho raises his new gun to his face, looking through the scope.

“It's a person.”

“What?” Joel squints at the figure, the sun's harsh glare obscuring the necessary details Etho’s scope was able to discern, “What business does an Avian have here?”

“Dunno.”

Etho’s sure that the figure hasn’t spotted them. Their flight pattern seems aimless, flying in a way where they’re just gliding through the air slowly, watching the land, rather than heading to any particular location.

Suddenly, the figure jerks, hard. Their wings losing height as they tuck into themselves. The figure clutches its chest and tumbles through the air, before seeming to regain their senses just enough to catch a pathetic amount of air under their wings. Only slightly lessening their painful collision with the ground.

Etho and Joel watch on as a cloud of sand appears from where they landed, in silence.

“Did you just shoot it?” Etho turns to Joel after a moment.

“What?” Joel bristles at the accusation, “No, of course not! You would have heard the stupid gun.”

“Maybe,” Etho trails off, “Or maybe someone else did?”

“Should we help them?”

Before they have time to think about it, the figure kicks themselves off the sand. It’s shaky and a struggle, but they successfully beat their wings just enough to carry them back up into the sky and distinctly, back in the direction they came.

Seconds pass in silence before Etho breaks it, “I think we should follow them.”

–

Scar wakes with a shout. A sharp and disorientating pain grasps at his heart like it's trying to pull the organ from his ribcage. He leans forward with a gasp, curling in on himself. He finds that his hands are already balled up in his shirt, clutching the fabric that lays across his chest. The pain tears and claws at his mind leaving his head spinning. Scar isn’t sure if he has his eyes open or not, his vision instead is flooded with white hot pain as static buzzes in his head.

“Oh gosh! Are you okay!?” An unfamiliar voice calls for him, “Scar?” He feels a large hand gently grab the side of his arm.

Scar takes in a shaky breath as he realises he had stopped in his panic. He leans forward, resting his head on whoever's in front of him as he tries to count his breaths, desperately willing the spinning to stop.

In an attempt to ground himself, Scar feels the space around him. He feels sand sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He feels the slow rise and fall of the shoulder beneath his head. They smell like ocean water.

Opening his eyes, he sees his jacket loose over his lap. It’s inside out. He can’t remember why, but he knows he needs it to be.

His name is hand stitched onto the label facing up at him. He can clearly remember being scolded for having the name of the jacket’s previous owner still printed on the inside. He had scraped away the print and threaded over it in bright wool, hoping that was enough. It wasn’t. But his superiors had gotten tired of reprimanding him and it wasn't like the name on the inside was a stranger to him – literally his next of kin – so they let it go.

The threads are pulling apart now, his name slowly becoming unreadable with wear. Ironically, it’s only now, years later, that Scar realises why they had wanted it printed.

Distracted enough from the pain that pulls at his chest, Scar moves. He holds a gloved hand out, expecting to see it covered in blood, but there’s nothing but frayed edges, and the burning feeling doesn’t falter.

Jimmy, the man Scar remembers and happens to be leaning against, dips his head into Scar's line of sight.

“Scar, what's wrong?” he asks, his features softened with worry.

“My heart, it…”Scar bites down on his cheek as the pain spikes again. It’s a worryingly unfamiliar kind of pain. It feels like his core is outside of his body and being dragged across the sands. Like every single one of his nerves is set alight and in the wrong place. Scar doesn’t understand why or how, but it fills him with the need to run.

He places a knee under himself in an attempt to stand, but the moment he tries, he’s overwhelmed with the feeling of falling, the nausea keeping him firmly rooted on the ground. If Jimmy wasn’t already holding him, he most certainly would have eaten dirt… or sand.

Suddenly, his shoulder bursts with pain. Spikey nerves on the sides of his face and shoulder start to warm. He flinches, expecting to recoil like he's been punched, but there's no fist near his head.

Like the ping of a rubber band, Scar feels his heart slot back in place. Left raw, numb and exhausted from the whole experience.

Someone, he assumes Jimmy, brushes a tentative hand over Scar's bare shoulder. It stings.

“Where did that come from?” Jimmy asks. Scar looks up to see red on Jimmy’s fingertips. Blood, from a fresh scrape on Scar's arm.

He lets out a groan, choosing to ignore the question of how he had even gotten such a wound. His head far too scrambled for the mental strain of self-actualising wounds. Instead, he wraps his arms around himself – ignoring the aching in his shoulder, as he does – and curls in on himself, reeling from the slowly fading aftermath of the unexplained pain.

“Is there anything we can do?” A new voice utters from his other side. “Is he injured? What happened?” they ask Jimmy, quietly… Tango, Scar remembers.

The small Blaze kneels in the sand, leaning towards him, a concerned expression spread across his features. His long coat is draped over his shoulders, utilising it as a makeshift blanket. Lit by the flickering light of Tango's flame-like hair, Scar absently realises it’s still somewhat dark.

It can’t have been that long since Grian and he had fallen asleep.

Grian, Scar remembers the Glare. He looks around, expecting to see him curled up in his wings behind him.

But he’s not.

There’s a distinct lack of a heap of grumpy feathers. Only a few strays lay alone in the sand where he had once been sleeping.

“Would you like some water?” Jimmy pushes something into Scar's hands. Scar turns back to look at him, instead staring through him unfocused, his mind preoccupied with the missing Glare. He nudges whatever he’s being offered away. His pain is temporarily forgotten as he pushes Jimmy to the side with a hand on his shoulder, looking beyond him in a search for the missing bird.

“Where's Grian?” he chokes, recent memories catching up to him. The illusions. Their talk that only ended when they woke the others up to take over their shift. He glances around once more, hoping that the Glare had just found a dark, easy-to-miss corner to bundle up in. But the air is cold in the early morning light, and the shadows hide no bodies.

Jimmy looks past his shoulder and then deeper into the cave, confusion dawning on his face. “No, wait, where is he?” he stands up, immediately bumping his head on the low wall. He lets out a whiny hiss as Tango pats him on the thigh with a sympathetic laugh.

“You were supposed to be on the watch… Wh…” Scar shivers in the cool morning air. He pulls his jacket over his shoulders, he stumbles to the front of the overhang. Spinning on the spot, he looks frantically in every direction. “Grian!” yelling and coughing, as his voice catches.

“Shhh, Scar… You said there were phantoms!” Tango hisses, shuffling towards him, at the edge of the cave, with a hand outstretched.

“Come back under here, we can figure things out,” Jimmy beacons him, “You woke up with a yell, are you okay? Your shoulder…”

“I'm fine,” he mumbles. Their calmness is baffling. How aren’t they at all concerned about Grian vanishing? He stumbles back over to the overhang. Placing a hand on the roof of the cave, he leans towards them, speaking in a hushed voice, “We need to find him, he could be hurt.”

“I very much doubt that,” Tango scoffs. Jimmy thwacks him on the shoulder, aiming an unimpressed look at the Blaze. Tango whines with an unsure shrug.

He sits back down on the sandy ground and busies himself with folding the supplies that lie strewn on the ground, “Breakfast?”

“I…Tango?!” Jimmy hisses, giving Scar a hesitant look.

Scar coughs again, one hand still gripping his shirt. He sways, unsteady on his feet. Jimmy reaches out and catches him before he has a chance to fall over and hurt himself, instead bringing him down to sit on the ground. Blood rushes in his ears as he grounds himself on the shaded ground. He moved far too fast.

“Grian,” Scar breathes out, barely audible as he hangs his head down. Blinking repeatedly, he rubs at his forehead, trying to get his vision to stop spinning.

“Tango, you were the last one on watch. I uhhh… You let me nap,” Jimmy grimaces awkwardly, “Did you see anything?”

“About what?” Tango teases, bitterness evident in his tone.

Jimmy's mouth snaps shut tightly in a frown, frustrated at his lack of cooperation, before he splutters, “Grian, Tango!”

“Oh, that guy? Yeah, he left about an hour or two ago,” Scar sits up straight. He absentmindedly rubs at where he had been grasping his chest as he looks at Tango, dumbfounded.

“...What did he say?”

Tango sits back, abandoning organising the supplies in favour of pulling out some dried meat from a small bag, “Nothing. I pretended to be asleep. I could tell he was waiting for me to be.”

There’s a lapse in conversation as everyone falls silent. Scar breathes in heavily, trying his hardest not to throw up as this rude awakening mixes poorly with the nausea he was already fighting off. At his side, Jimmy, who’s still holding onto Scar with one arm, stares back at Tango, mouth agape.

“Why didn't you stop him?” he practically yells.

“I don't know. Hey, I'm not his babysitter,” Tango looks up at them, “He went out of his own discretion. Jumped up into the sky and everything,” he swings his piece of dried meat casually in the air, as if re-telling a funny story.

“We need to find him.”

“I don't think he wants to be found, bud, if I'm being honest.”

Scar shakes his head, his vision spinning slightly from the motion. Blindly, he feels around at his side until he finds Grian’s knife still tucked into his belt where he had put it. Pulling it out, he holds it up in a hopeless attempt at evidence that Grian’s coming back, “But …but he left his weapon.”

Tango just shrugs, not swayed by Scar’s argument.

Jimmy sighs at Scar’s side. He looks mournfully at Scar, concern written across his feathered features. He hands him his water pack once again, “You should drink, you look like you’re gonna faint.”

“He could have seen something… was protecting us and got taken…”

“Nah. I was on watch, I would’ve seen… Honestly, this is good. I never trusted the guy,” Tango counters, tapping his ration against his lip as he talks. He hands Scar and Jimmy their own portions, Jimmy taking both pieces as Scar makes no attempt to move. “And hey… free weapon,” the Blaze shrugs, a small smirk spreading across his face.

Jimmy grabs Scar's hand, turning it over and placing the chunk of dry meat in his palm.

“I don't believe… He wouldn't just… leave.”

No one says anything. Neither Tango nor Jimmy make any effort to agree or disagree. The silence stings.

“What if… I mean, you guys have that weird sort of magical connection, curse thing,” Scar argues desperately. The other two just look uncomfortably at each other, “That means whoever put us here knows that stuff. What if they also have the ability to make someone do something they don’t want to, like mind control?”

“The likelihood of that is pretty low…”

“It just doesn't make sense, we talked… he never mentioned the idea of leaving us,” Scar continues.

Tango just shrugs in response, “People lie.”

That, out of everything Tango’s said, stops Scar in his tracks – jolting with a horrible realisation. The sickening irony of that statement.

Jimmy pushes at the piece of food in his hand and manually folds Scar's fingers around it, “Please eat and drink. We'll figure it out once you’re steady.”

His hand brushes Scar's injured shoulder. It hurts. Somewhere in his mind he can feel grains of sand that aren’t even there irritating the sensitive skin.

“I suppose we don't have the gear to treat this, though,” Jimmy utters quietly, most likely not directed at Scar. “What happened? Did you scrape it on the overhang just now?” Jimmy turns to him.

Scar doesn’t even bother attempting to figure it out. Instead, taking a swig of the water as an excuse to remain silent, before handing it back to Jimmy.

“It looks like it’s just a scratch, he'll be fine. We should leave, though. It's starting to get bright out,” Tango mumbles as he chews on the tough piece of meat.

Scar’s own piece of meat feels heavy in his palm. He can’t help but stare at it, as Jimmy and Tango begin talking amongst themselves about something unimportant to Scar.

It looks small in his hands. They have been rationing the meat after all, the food intended for one person being stretched to sustain four, now three, people. Scar’s stomach growls ravenously, despite the sour taste that floods his mouth as he looks at the lifeline.

Strength slowly seeps back into his limbs, but the food remains heavy in his hands, taunting him. He furrows his brows as he turns it over in his palm, before tearing it in half and slipping one half into his pocket while the other two aren’t looking, far too engrossed in one another.

He chews on the remaining meat, staring at a lone feather in the sand. It’s white and fluffy, with a soft brown colour on the tip, and it’s distinctly not one of Jimmy’s.

People lie.

No, there had to be a reason. He isn’t about to give in to the idea that their deal meant nothing.

His hand drifts to the gun at his hip, his fingers drifting over the cold metal. Grian had left the gun as a promise to Scar that he was coming back for it; that is what Scar is choosing to believe.

–

Sunlight streams down through breaches in the metal wreckages overhead, lighting the otherwise dingy passage with patches of golden light. The mangled frameworks of once-grand-ships meet one another in a strange landscape of knotted hulls – like the looming, rotting skeleton of a great space beast. Metal arches and fragmented hulls meld together to create a tunnel-like structure hidden from the junkyard above, allowing Etho and Joel to traverse the rough terrain in the far cooler shade while remaining largely hidden from those with a birdseye view.

“It’s like following a white rabbit,” Etho breaks the silence. He keeps an eye on the sky – only glancing to the ground occasionally to watch his footing on the uneven ground – catching glimpses of their prey as they pass under breaks in the ruins.

“...No, it's like following a giant bird,” Joel retorts, deadpan.

“You're not one for metaphors, huh?”

“What if I metaphor your face into… As in I mean… I throw a punch. But it’s a metaphor…” Joel gestures wildly, punching his palm in some kind of violent mime as if it made his so-called metaphor make any more sense. “That came out bad. Like the punch is a metaphor… You know… I mean like…” he trails off, losing hope in his words.

“Or just words in general.”

Joel’s head snaps towards Etho, appalled by his comment – even after his poor display,

“Hey, no fair, this sticky heat is melting my brain. I don't have long appendages like you to dispel it,” Joel kicks at a bolt, sending it skittering across the uneven ground, clanking loudly against the metal.

“Hmm, clearly.”

They fall into an awkward silence. Only interrupted by the sound of their footsteps echoing off the metal and the gentle raining of disturbed sand.

Joel stretches, placing his hands behind his head.

“Do you think it's leading us to like… a test? Or an arena?”

“What, like we're going to have to fight, like gladiators?” Etho drags his eyes from where they’re locked onto the sky to look at Joel, an eyebrow quirked at the Glare.

“Seems a bit unfair to include an Avian,” Joel pouts.

“Hmm.”

Etho pauses, mulling over Joel's words. The theory would answer a few questions… but it raises far more.

“You've met an Avian before?”

“You could say that,” Joel grins, throwing Etho a cocky wink. He picks up his pace, walking ahead of Etho, refusing to elaborate even as Etho lets out a confused noise.

–

Tango and Jimmy chat loudly with one another. Laughing and gently shoving each other about as their voices ring out, bouncing off the canyon walls. Scar hasn’t been paying them much mind as they walk, keeping a few feet behind them in hopes they don’t remember that he’s there. In his solemn boredom he kicks at the ruddy sand, wincing as his braces let out an upsetting squeak at the movement. A squeak they had begun to develop throughout their journey across the sands, and an unfortunate sign of their decay. They won’t last forever in such conditions but they’re still doing their job so Scar shouldn’t complain too much.

“...If I was to make a cafe, my priority would definitely be efficiency and whatnot.”

They’ve been debating about a simple life. If Scar was in any other mood, he’d involve himself. Especially with their current subject being something that Scar is familiar with, having worked in food services himself. But he can’t quite bring himself to put on a friendly face, so he doesn’t interrupt them, instead just letting them fade into the background.

“Yeah, but what about the hospitality? Isn't that most of the fun with owning a small shop? You get to meet so many kinds of people,” Jimmy replies, brushing at the tassels on his trousers, “Like a saloon!”

“Naaahhhhh,” Tango stretches out his words dramatically, the most cheery Scar has ever heard him, “the point is to make the food. If it was up to me, everyone would be served by robots.”

“Oh, but that's no fun! What would I be doing if I worked there?” Jimmy huffs.

“Hanging out with me! That's fun, right?”

Scar continues to quietly lag behind.

He tries his best not to feel bitter about how nonchalant and cheerful the other two are acting. One of them could be lost or hurt. He’s trying even harder not to think about the other reasons for why he’s gone, all of which involve Grian choosing to leave Scar behind.

Scar barely knows the guy, but thinking about that makes him feel like even more of a stranger in his current company. He knows them even less. It all just culminates into just feeling lonely. And maybe that makes him feel a bit bitter that the others moved on already.

He looks up, watching as the sun slowly peeks over the top of the ravine, casting its walls in a golden orange glow. A colour that Scar adores. He watches sand billow and catch the light as the gentle wind lifts it off the top of the ravine, like golden waves. Further in the distance, a shape, painted over with the sun's golden light, emerges in the static sandy landscape. Its moving form stands out against the still backdrop as it races closer. Far faster than they’re walking.

Scar sucks in a breath. Tango and Jimmy turn to look at him.

“That's him!”

The sunlit shape grows, blue tipped feathers emerging from the haze as they beat through the air. It's almost impressive to watch how quickly the form of Grian becomes recognisable.

Tango and Jimmy turn back around to face the Glare that Scar has pointed out. Not having time to do much other than gawk at the bird.

Then Jimmy’s scrambling backwards, grasping Tango. “Whoa, whoa, he’s coming in too fast-” he’s cut off as Grian swoops over their heads, a wall of air hitting them. It’s weirdly quiet, Scar thinks, as he watches Grian land haphazardly behind them. His feet barely catch the ground, slipping in the sand to keep him upright, a huge cloud of dust kicking up around him as he rights himself. Scurrying on his feet, Grian quickly turns and runs to catch up with the others.

Tango and Jimmy don’t move from where they stand as Scar starts jogging towards Grian.

A smile spreads across his face so wide it almost hurts as he watches his small friend stride up to him, his relief only halting slightly as he notices the worried look on Grian’s face. Scar’s eyes scan his friend quickly. His shoulders are shaking, and his wings remain held open behind him in a frazzled manner.

“S-Scar,” Grian wheezes. His breath comes in fast, deep gasps.

“Why are you panting?” is the only thing Scar can think to say.

“Oh…” the bird gulps, taking two deep breaths between each word, “uh… just flying.”

Scar takes in the sight of his friend. His feathers are all blown out and fluffy and with his fringe windswept out of his face, Scar is greeted with the sight of a small white star-like marking in the feathers that decorate his forehead that he hadn’t been able to see before. The sight feels all too perfect, despite the others sweaty and disheveled appearance. He’s okay.

A heavy stone lifts from where it had rested in his gut. It takes all of Scar’s will not to grab Grian by his shoulders and hoist him into the air.

“But you weren't out of breath last time you flew?” Scar questions with a cheery lilt to his voice, hovering a hand over the bird's shoulder.

“Oh, well…” Grian brushes a hand through his hair, a nervous look crossing his face. He forces a small smile onto his face before, too quickly, replying, “I came back really fast… I uh,” he straightens his posture, “wanted to get to shade.”

His eyes catch sight of Scar’s hand, he grabs onto it, holding Scar up, completely misinterpreting the gesture for a desire for support.

“Are you okay?” he asks, a small part of Scar upset by the idea of being seen as weak. But he’s far from new to biting down feelings like that. Instead he lets the hurt be overcome with confusion.

Scar tilts his head, “Yeah I'm fine.” He, for once, is the one to pull out of the touch.

Grian doesn’t back away, instead holding his hand in front of Scar’s heart. “Your chest is alright?” he mutters quietly.

“Y-yeah,” Scar stammers, he'd almost completely forgotten about his rude awakening. Mostly because he was too preoccupied with… “how would you know that?”

“I… um,” Grian closes his open palm, his face turns red, and Scar can swear he hears him gulp.

Grian moves his hand an inch to the side and points, “I don't… I meant your shoulder.” Grian isn’t looking at him.

“Yeah. It’s fine…” Scar replies, confused by Grian’s peculiar behaviour.

“Couldn't have just stayed missing then?” Tango interrupts them, approaching from where he and Jimmy had been standing.

Taking the chance to redirect the conversation, Grian’s expression changes, shifting to something mischievous, the feathers on his head pointing upwards as he regards Tango.

“And rid you of my presence? Never,” Grian grins back, snidely. “You didn't hurt him, did you?” he returns to scanning Scar over and over, almost like he was expecting to find some kind of injury.

“Should have thought of that before you ran,” Tango grumbles. “No, we didn't hurt him. He's likeable, unlike you.”

They sneer at each other. Noses scrunched up ridiculously in a way that makes it hard for Scar to take either of their aggressiveness seriously.

“Where did you go?” Scar interposes, drawing Grian's gaze back to him.

He stares up at Scar with a blank expression, the illusion only broken by his still-heavy-breaths. It’s abruptly replaced when a deep look of shame takes over his face. He’s quick to hide this new expression behind his hand, coughing awkwardly, before struggling and saying, “I scouted up ahead.”

Grian trails off as Scar hops in place, turning to Tango in particular as he points at the Glare.

“Oh, oh! See, I knew he was just checking the area!” He looks back at Grian, still bouncing, albeit only with his heels now, “They thought you abandoned us!”

Grian's almost constant frown flickers slightly, his eyebrows betraying his flat expression. He grimaces slightly.

“Likely story,” Tango grumbles, his good hand on his hip.

Jimmy whacks him gently, leveling him with a look that can be clearly translated as saying ‘not now’. Tango returns his stare with a series of animated expressions, engaging Jimmy in a ping pong match of silent conversation as they compete on how high they can raise their eyebrows.

“What did you find?” Scar continues, ignoring them.

The Glare flexes his robotic fingers. He looks up at Scar hesitantly, like he’s debating whether or not to share with only Scar or not. Eventually, he turns around and leans back in a way that perfectly slots himself in right next to Scar. Scar can’t help but feel like he’s using him to maintain his composure. The bird folds his hands over his chest, brows frowning in a guarded way.

There’s a brief lull in the conversation, everyone waiting on a baited breath.

“There are ruins… It looks like a crash site. Could be hundreds, maybe more, of ships,” he stares between the others, his gaze unfocused and his voice even.

“Ships? Maybe there's people,” Jimmy mumbles mostly to himself, but still loud enough for the others to hear.

Grian shakes his head, “They're old and I'm pretty sure abandoned, but I didn't really get a chance to see them too well. I didn't want to land in case I disrupted anything.”

“You think they could have supplies?” Jimmy asks, glancing towards Tango.

“Maybe… There's really only one way to find out,” Grian replies.

“Well, that's alright. Our plan was already to head there,” Tango huffs.

They all move, ready to leave, but the Glare stays rooted in place. He holds himself still, the nervous flick of his tail betraying his emotions.

“What's wrong? You look constipated,” Tango frowns, noticing Grian’s hesitancy.

“Ah…” Grian bites back a shout, his mouth snapping shut. His nose twitches before he continues flatly, “If we're in a game, with traps, trials, and tribulation… It awfully feels like conveniently placed bait.”

“Nuh doy.”

“Well, what other choice do we really have,” Jimmy adds nervously.

“We don't, I just think we should be cautious. I don't like how easy it has been so far,” his ear feathers flatten as he gestures around anxiously to illustrate his point.

“You're just saying things we already agree on,” Tango taps Jimmy's arm, pulling him forward as he turns to walk, “Let's just get there already, this is such a pointless conversation.”

Scar glances at Grian, who remains stood still, his arms crossed. He takes a step, only to walk right into Scar’s outstretched hand,

Scar looks back to the others. Tango grumbles to himself with Jimmy following close behind, neither caring to look back as he watches them walk out of earshot.

He looks back down to Grian again, who almost jumps at the intensity of his stare. Judging by the tightening of his shoulders, the Glare doesn’t appreciate Scar holding him in place.

“What?” Grian sniffs, frowning impatiently. Scars hand remains in place, blocking his way.

“I just want to know if you’re okay?”

For a very brief moment, Scar catches a look of surprise. It floods Grian's deep eyes, only for him to blink and immediately replace it with annoyance.

He searches Scar's expression incredulously, before rolling his eyes and making a move to push past Scar. Not even bothering to indulge him.

Scar scrambles forward, “Hey, hey. Wait. I also have something for you!” He almost trips stepping in front of the bird, but he does his best to establish a healthy space between them in an attempt to minimise Grian’s discomfort as irritation radiates from him more and more.

The deep frown on his face lightens, his features betraying his excitement. It reminds Scar of something his cat would do, “Oh?” His voice pitches up slightly with intrigue.

Scar holds out the food he had saved from breakfast. The dried meat looks ridiculously small in the middle of Scar's palm.

“You must be hungry! Energy spent flying, right?” he stares at the Glare, wiggling his eyebrows.

Grian’s long, sharp talons unwrap slowly from his chest. He hesitates, looking up at Scar.

“You saved that for me?”

“Of course!” Scar nods, holding his hand out more. Grian carefully takes the meat.

“…Thanks.”

They begin to walk, Scar using their distance from the others as a chance to talk in private.

“When did you leave? Why didn't you just wake me up?“

Grian chews on the meat, staring ahead, rather than at his companion. He seems, to Scar, to be taking the opportunity to mull his answer over while he eats.

“I was losing light… It's easier for me to see at night here. Also, you needed sleep,” he shrugs, taking another bite.

Scar doesn't believe him in the slightest. He watches Grian, his face devoid of any expression that might indicate that he's lying. It’s easy for him. He carries his deception with a kind of coldness that Scar recognizes in his higher ups or even the particularly shady insurance providers Scar has unfortunately become familiar with. But there’s something else, he’s avoiding Scar’s eyes, like he’s trying to put a barrier up between them both – it reeks of shame.

He isn't going to tell Scar the truth, and Scar decides to accept that. So instead, he smiles, pooling all the softness at the edges of his grin. He'll figure out all his secrets in time.

“I'm glad you're back,” Scar says, he admits that is genuine.

They look at each other and Grian's tight shoulders begin to unwind. Scar’s giving him so much honest endearment it might drown him, he wants to break down the Glare’s walls.

Grian glances at Scar impassively, he licks at his teeth, his food now gone. He blinks before a smirk spreads across his face.

“You've literally only known me for a couple of days, you can't be that attached already,” his tone comes off with an amused lilt, but Scar clocks how he's only half joking in his voice.

Scar holds his hand to his chest, playing along in the drama, “Oh, but Grian… Our sand trading endeavor! We can't possibly jeopardise our business that easily.”

“Psshhhh, shut it,” the bird waves his talons at Scar, “No one actually believes that, you know?” He pokes a claw dangerously close to Scar's face, “You just have a stupid face that's hard to argue with.”

Scar beams, he flicks his braid over his ear theatrically, “Oh yeah? You think I'm pretty?”

Grian's mouth snaps closed in an audible click, a blank expression betrayed only by the red spreading across his face and the twitch of his nose. He recovers quickly, tapping his chin with a talon.

“Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't have flown back,” he opens his wings as if to take off dramatically. Scar whines sadly at the display.

Then he shoves Scar jokingly, tucking his wings back behind his back, “I think you're annoying, actually.”

“And handsome?”

“Like a splinter.”

“Charming?”

“Maybe even a whole tree branch worth of splinters.”

–

Etho is crouched in the sand, rooting in a pile of rubble, looking around for abandoned light crystals. They're finicky and keep slipping between his fingers and deeper into crevices. He would have lost them if they didn't give off a vivid glow.

There’s a pulse of pain buzzing in his veins and pulling at his ribs, which subdues briefly before coming back. It’s like a switch flicking on and off. Etho sighs and rolls his eyes.

He leans back to see Joel a good distance away from him. He was standing on one foot, making a show as he stepped further away, resulting in their tie pulling and warning them of their distance. He keeps hopping back and forth in cartoonishly way.

Unfortunately, the distance wasn't far enough that Etho couldn’t make out his impish grin.

In an almost childish response, Etho slowly stands up, taking his time, and he itches his ears and brushes at his trousers, ignoring the spikes of pain as his company pulls at their invisible tether like an impatient dog.

Etho catches up, adjusting his gun back into his hand, leaning it against his shoulder.

“Was that really necessary?”

“You were taking too long,” Joel huffs.

“So what, putting us in discomfort is justified?” Etho glances at Joel, narrowing his eyes.

“That's real cheap coming for you, Mr. Knives in the heart morning alarm,” Joel spins on his heels, standing in front of Etho and jabbing a finger into his chest with an accusatory scowl.

“It's not that painful,” Etho rolls his eyes. He hadn’t done anything to Joel that he couldn’t also feel himself. He didn’t feel like testing his own limits too. Besides, he’s sure the Glare can handle far more than what he’s dealt with so far.

“Then why are you complaining? Hmmm?”

Etho swipes Joel’s hand away and pushes past him. Ignoring Joel’s squawk of offence as he continues walking.

“Because I'm actually doing stuff, you're just sleeping in when I do it.”

“Oh... interesting dust, is it?” Joel jogs to catch up, gesturing wildly in the direction the Avian had flown, “The bird went that way – with rapid speed, may I add.”

“We're in no rush,” Etho answers, paying him little mind.

“Plan on sprouting wings?” Joel jeers.

Etho shakes his head, ignoring the obvious sarcasm in that remark.

“They don't know they're being followed.”

–

They finally reach what they have colloquially begun referring to as the ‘junk’. Literally walking into it as Scar barely avoids tripping over a piece of metal framing that has long been buried in sand, almost completely hidden. Rust and erosion from the sands removing any signature shine to warn him there was anything more than sand and rock ahead of him.

After that, more and more jagged shapes surround them, jutting out of the smooth sandy landscape. Most find themselves pushed up against rock walls or buried mostly in the ground after years upon years of sand storms and decay. None of the ruins are particularly identifiable to the four, but they’re definitely growing both in size and volume the further they travel.

It’s not until they make it to another split in the path that they come across something intact.

What looks like half of a ship is laid to rest in the sands, once spacefaring wings stretching out reaching for nothing.

They all come to a halt, curiosity leading them all to silently agree to rest under the shade of the wing. Tango and Jimmy practically fall onto each other as they lean heavily against each other as they sit down, both using the other for balance to accommodate for their functionless arms.

Grian doesn't sit, instead remaining standing. In fact, he doesn’t even look at the ship, choosing instead to stare out, down one of the passages.

Scar, however, is entranced by the ship. He runs his hand across the warm metal of the remaining ship. It looks to him that only the engines and tail of the ship have survived, no cockpit or cargo hold left over. It feels weirdly familiar to Scar – the style of the welding and the blue-grey colouration of the metal.

If he was to guess, It had probably been a smaller fighter ship, built far more for agility than durability. The kind of ship that would have spent most of its time nested inside the belly of a far bigger and more intimidating craft.

He notices decals painted on the side, covered in red sand that almost neutralises the colours underneath. Wiping off some of the grime with his, already stained, gloves; he reveals worn numbers and a blue patch that looks like it runs down the whole side of the ship.

“I know these ships,” he realises.

Scar steps back, taking in as much of the aircraft in front of him as he can, "They're an old class.” The others look at him inquisitively, asides from Grian, who continues staring out into open desert.

“Or not… These are very old.”

“You know about ships?” Jimmy questions.

Scar traces the painted numbers. It’s, in a weird way, nostalgic to him, “I… I knew an old family friend who had this book. These ships are long retired. Like, hundreds of years ago.”

Tango leans around Jimmy, squinting, “…A vindicator ship, right? As if the blue isn't a dead giveaway,” he leans back, a look of slight disgust on his face.

“Oh, um,” Scar falters, turning towards Grian. He completely forgot how he’s supposed to be hiding. Grian looks at him with an expression that, as always, is completely unreadable.

“Do you think this was a battlefield?” Jimmy asks, completely oblivious to Scar's hesitation. They all look around, investigating their surroundings like there could be some kind of big, obvious detail buried in the sands that could answer everything.

Strangely, it’s Grian who replies. He’s still standing apart from the others, half turned towards them, “Hmm, it's more likely the battlefield – if there even was one – would have been in space.”

There’s a lull in conversation. Largely from the shock that Grian decided to join in. Looking at the ground, the Glare crosses his arms, his tail swaying behind him. After a moment, he steps towards them and continues.

“It probably all got washed up here, so to speak. Pulled in by this planet's gravity and proximity.” He hums, “A Graveyard planet… um, as my friend, who’s a scraphunter, calls them," Grian talks, a restrained grin crossing his face, like he's almost embarrassed about enjoying the subject.

“So, it's all junk pulled from space and buried in the sand?”

“Yeah,” he confirms simply.

Jimmy pipes up, “Who do you think the battle was between?”

Scar doesn't say anything. He’s getting the creeping feeling that he might become very uncomfortable with the direction of this conversation. He can’t help but think about how there’s probably a mirror to this ship and conversion going on at home in a museum, just sanitized, in more than one sense of the word.

“Scar said the ships are old, what if it was between the Lost Faction?” Scar almost jumps when Tango says his name. It takes Scar a couple more seconds to even process what he said.

“What’s…” Scar instinctively starts to ask, before getting cut off by the feeling of cool metal wrapping around his wrist. Grian had gotten very close to him when he wasn't looking. He almost yells out of shock, but the Glare stares up and through him in a way that takes away all the words he had to say.

He shakes his head slowly, positioned behind him in a way where only Scar can see.

“A lost mystery…” Tango says weirdly wistfully, oblivious to Grian dropping Scar's hand.

Jimmy shuffles in the sand, his demeanor suddenly anxious, “So this location is some kind of threat? Are they just going to leave us here? Bury us in the sand?”

Tango rubs his back, “Maybe it's a clue? Something we have to find?” He tries to provide Jimmy some comfort with a flimsy smile.

Grian snorts and snidely adds, “Or maybe it's just ruins. You're putting too much thought into it.”

The Blaze shoots around to look at him, staring daggers, “Really, who made you this unfun?”

“A- I'm not …what? Are we supposed to be enjoying ourselves?” Grian barks at Tango, offended, “I'm actually so fun in different circumstances.”

“Oh, I bet you are,” Tango grumbles sarcastically.

He opens his mouth, presumably to continue digging into Grian, but is cut off by Scar speaking, “You know, actually,” Scar crosses his arms, one hand tapping at his chin, “Old ships like this actually still used…”

Both Tango and Grian expressions light up with realisation, “Whole pearls!”

They both push their way towards the ship, Tango immediately making his way to a maintenance panel on the side, as Grian wavers slightly. Almost as if he’s realising he doesn’t know where to look, instead he waits for Tango to find what he’s looking for. He peers over Tango's shoulder, the Blaze not having a free hand to push him back, resorting instead to nudging him hard with his elbow, to no avail.

There's a click and then a squabble. Scar assumes that means they both found it.

Grian dives in, opening his wings deliberately in Tango's face. The Blaze falls backwards, knocked off balance and is caught by Scar and Jimmy, who had joined the two during the ruckus.

“Hey!” Tango yells. Grian pulls at something, giggling.

They all look on expecting the Glare to pull out the precious item, flaunting it over them. But suddenly he falls very still. His feathers drooping and the enthusiasm draining out of his posture.

He turns around to face them. Sitting in the center of his palm is the distinct round shape of an ender pearl. The first thing Scar notices about the pearl is its uncharacteristically inky, dark center.

That's not what it's supposed to look like. He's only seen a few whole ender pearls before in his life. His closest friend being a scientist of sorts means he uses them a lot in his research. He had even let Scar mess with one before.

They were so very distinctive and beautiful, like mini galaxies trapped in small stones. Filled with the ability to take a soul anywhere, a raw form of teleportation magic. Its fragments are used a lot in travel, and an intact one is very rare and would be incredibly helpful in their predicament.

But this one doesn't glimmer. In fact, it almost sucks in all the light around it, dimming the bright world around them. It was still intact, but the shape bears no colours, just void.

They all stare at it.

“What's wrong with it?” Scar eventually asks.

“It's corrupted…” Grian answers, his voice distant.

Jimmy reaches out, but his hand is smacked away by Tango, “Don't touch it.”

Scar, confused, asks, “What? Why?”

Tango frowns at the small thing, “You’d get void poisoning.” There’s a deep disappointment caking his voice, “It's useless now.”

“How come he can hold it,” Jimmy questions, before Tango nudges him and points to Grain's metallic limbs, “Oh.”

Grian, in fact, doesn't acknowledge them at all. He looks lost, glaring into the gem’s centre, almost like it’s hypnotizing him. His expression painful and confused.

“Grian? Are you alright?” Scar quietly urges.

The Glare snaps out of it, staring up at Scar in response, ”What? …Yeah.” He looks back down at the pearl and startles, almost like he'd forgotten he was even holding it.

It drops into the sand. Not breaking – barely making much of a noise at all. It’s a little pathetic how uneventful it is.

Grian pushes his hands into his pockets, snorting, “Oh well. Couldn't have been that easy.”

Tango scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at Grian, “Yeah! And you were going to use it all up on yourself!”

“You snooze, you lose,” the Glare simply responds with a smirk.

Scar looks at him, concerned, his posture drooping slightly after the whole ordeal. He looks drained. Grian holds himself up as best he can, clearly wanting to avoid whatever feelings the empty pearl had stirred in him.

“You pushed me!” Tango shouts.

Grian sticks his tongue out at him.

–

Joel balances along the top of a half-buried shipwreck, a bored expression on his face. He declared a while ago that walking for so long across the sand was dull and that the sand in his shoes was ‘bloody irritating’, and resorted to clambering over just about every ship he could. Etho, however, decided to keep his feet firmly on the ground – even after Joel complained about him getting in the way of unlocking his ‘true trash climbing abilities’.

“Soo… Nether!” Joel announces from above Etho.

“What?”

“Are you from the Nether?”

“No, sorry,” Etho answers. The other has been trying to pry information about him for an hour now and he isn’t any closer to learning anything than he was at the start, “Guess again.”

Joel pauses, wracking his brain for a planet he hasn’t already named, “...Spawn?”

Etho laughs. That’s perhaps the worst option he’s come up with yet. He’d far sooner deal with the heat of the Nether than live in the Vindicator capital, “You're so far off.”

“WELL I DONT WANT TO ASSUME WRONG!” Joel barks, getting frustrated at his lack of success. His heavy footsteps reverberating across the degrading metal he’s been trusting with his weight.

“Then stop trying to guess.”

Joel falls silent for a moment with a huff. Etho knows better than to hope he’s done, he’s probably just trying to think of anywhere else he could possibly come from. It’s a pointless endeavor, there’s no way that Etho will tell him even if he does guess right. Joel’s just about the last person he trusts with that information

“Are you from a hermit settlement then? What, like 1? Or 6?”

Etho shakes his head, “Nah.”

“There's no way you're actually an Ender,” Joel looks at Etho, an incredulous look spreading across his face. Etho takes it back, that’s the worst one Joel’s suggested. What’s even worse is that Etho can see on his face the moment it crosses from a joking suggestion, to a serious consideration, “No, actually, maybe? You've got that whole sickeningly mysterious deal going on.”

Etho can’t even begin to think of a response to that, so he remains silent. Instead choosing to stare at the man with what he hopes comes across as judgement. It doesn’t even make Joel pause before continuing rattling off every place he can think of.

“Oh, maybe Keres!” Joel says, breaking the silence Etho wishes had lasted longer.

“Nope.”

“Can you at least give me a hint?”

“Oh, spilling secrets to a Vindicator, I'm smarter than that,” Etho scoffs, an amused tone bleeding into his voice.

“Then what's the point of me even guessing if you're just going to lie?”

Etho shrugs.

“Psshhh, it's not like you could be anyone important, anyway,” Joel snorts, seemingly amused by the idea. As offended at him underestimating him as Etho wants to feel, it’s far better than the alternative.

“You're probably right.”

“Hey, wait, what's that?” Joel trails off, stopping dead in his tracks, staring out towards the horizon. Etho turns to look at him, eyebrow raised at the other’s change in behaviour.

“Hmm?” Etho scans the desert ahead of them, trying to find anything aside from wrecks and sand. He’s greeted with nothing, but the harsh sun beating down on the land. Nothing moves aside from the occasional sandy cloud, picked up by the breeze.

“I thought I saw something orange,” Joel says, clambering down from his vantage point on the shipwreck, and returning to Etho’s side as he motions towards that same spot in the distance.

“The sand.”

Joel rolls his eyes, unamused by the Enderians unwillingness to work with him, “No. It was also blue.”

Etho, deciding to continue being unhelpful, turns his gaze to the sky, staring markedly at the cloudless blue above them. He’s rewarded with a strangled squawk and a punch to the shoulder, which, judging by the way Joel tries to subtly rub his own shoulder, he’d forgotten he’d also feel. Etho bites back a grin, even though it wouldn’t be seen behind his mask in the first place.

“Is there any way that thing could have noticed we're following it?”

Etho hums in thought, “I don't think so, it's pretty far away. It'll take a while for us to catch up at the speed it left.”

“That barely answers my question,” Joel huffs.

Etho shrugs again.

“You like doing that, shrug guy,” Joel jeers as he wanders away from Etho to, once again, hop up onto the rusted form of a half buried wreck. Unlike last time, though, it doesn’t quite go how he’d planned. The second his feet land loudly on the hollow hull, what looks like a family of mice scurry out of a crack in the metal, distressed at their home being invaded. Joel flails, yelling as they run under his legs and disappear into the depths of the wreckages, barely avoiding slipping off the metal, onto the sand below, “AH, THOSE DAMN MICE!”

Etho tries not to snort as he watches Joel quickly try to regain his composure and continue like nothing happened, “Is that where you’re from, shrug planet?”

–

They’ve been tracking further and further into the desert. The only relief that they’re heading in the right direction is the ruins slowly becoming so cluttered, that they’ve found themselves having to climb over or under most of it. Scar hadn’t realized how much he'd miss the plain sand. If it means he'll stop accidentally burning his bare arms against hot metal, he'll take it.

Conversation has long since all but stopped between the four of them. They’re all too occupied with watching their steps and saving their breath. Besides, there isn’t much more to talk about, especially between Scar, who is actively hiding who he is, a guy who obviously has put up the most emotional walls, someone who has spent a considerable amount of time in a cave before coming here, and a cowboy. There isn’t much to say.

Despite the fact that everyone is quietly somewhere else in their minds. Scar can't explain it, but he feels a foreboding feeling seeping into his bones, and an awful feeling like something bad is going to happen. As if answering that though, Scar spots something.

There, held on one of the withered fragments of metal framing, lays a limp form of something... Scar sucks in a sharp breath. His stomach dips despite his mind scrambling for any other kind of evidence that what he is looking at isn't what he thinks it is.

At first, it just looks like a forgotten jumpsuit and helmet, laid out to dry in the hot sun. The jagged shapes in the sleeves could believably be just metal wiring, ruin, balling up the fabric in a way that looks like…

"Is that… A person?"

Scar almost gets angry at the idea of someone dispelling his illusion. He turns, hoping to find Jimmy looking somewhere else, but his warm hazel eyes look past Scar to the empty jumpsuit. Empty.

"Oh shi-" Tango hisses from behind Scar. There's a pause in their steps, Scar assuming all four of them have spotted it now.

Jimmy suddenly jerks back, his hand finding Tango's shoulders as he pulls them both backwards, fear taking over his expression.

"Oh…Oh no. What happened here? We shouldn't stay," his eyes are still locked on the empty jumpsuit. He ducks his head, almost leaning it on Tango’s shoulder as he whispers, “Should we run!?"

Tango doesn't move, his hand quietly lays on top of Jimmy's and his mouth works for reassurement, but uneasiness takes his words away.

There’s only one that pointedly doesn’t look scared.

"I wouldn't be so worried, we're surrounded by ruins of ships, it was only a matter of time before we were to come across their pilots," Grian says. His face is hard to read as he walks ahead of the others, no fear, squints up and examining the empty jumpsuit.

"They're just bones, it's been a very long time since they weren't. If anything, we're lucky they aren't anything else," empty, but filled with bones. Scar looks away, looking instead at Grian as he talks. He can't look at them anymore. Those sharp shapes under the fiber aren't just ship ruins. They were people.

“That uniform…”

Though Scar was no longer looking, he didn't need to see. The image of a sun stained, sewn on ‘V’ patch fresh in his mind. Just like the ship earlier, it doesn't take a genius to guess what colour it used to be.

“Vindicator.”

Scar flicked his line of sight off the distance. He didn't even realise Grian had moved from where he was. The Glare is looking straight at Scar, and weirdly, he almost thinks the look was pity directed at him.

“At least they have the decency to go down with the ship,” Tango mutters from behind Scar.

A hot, uncomfortable feeling grows up the back of Scar's neck and throat. All he can think to do is bite his tongue and look at the ground, stopping himself from saying anything.

“Now that I think about it, we've only really seen one kind of ship,” Jimmy hums, considerably less worried than he was a moment ago.

Tango tuts from behind Scar, “Good riddance. The fewer Vindicators in the world, the better, I think.” It makes the hairs on the back of Scar’s neck stand. He could stare a hole into the sand with how intensely he was focusing on it.

“But don't you think it's odd? We haven't seen any other sign of any other factions?”

“Fighting an invisible fight?” Tango walks into Scar's peripheral, his demeanor so laid back, so unaffected after learning who those remains fought under.

Scar has his head still down. No one was paying him any mind, none of them had any reason to. Asides from one.

Scar can feel Grian watching him. Usually that feeling was something Scar took solace in. But this time it was like a burning fire, he didn't need to look towards him to feel its sharp warmth and Scar took no comfort in it this time. It felt like he was being monitored. Grian didn't want him to say the wrong thing despite how hurt Scar’s pride feels.

He doesn't like being governed, but he isn’t stupid, he knows why Grian is watching him.

Still, a part of Scar's mind won’t quiet until he says something.

“Don’t you feel bad for them? The… pilots?” Scar says. He does not look at Tango, he’s scared that he'd be wearing an expression that might give himself away.

That comment must have taken Tango by surprise, because he doesn't say anything for a considerable amount of time.

“...I mean, sure. But they sort of signed up for it.”

Scar looks at Tango, he holds his face as still as he could, “What if they didn't know?”

“Oh, wait guys,” Grian loudly interrupts them. Jimmy even flinches from the sudden volume.

They all look at the bird expectantly.

“Hold on,” Grian stands back, signalling for the others to move back, before he winds up to launch himself into the air, his wings catching him in an impressive swoop.

Haphazardly, he lands on the metal frame. It creaks, but holds his weight. His long tail fanning out, balancing him, and he reaches gently to a small device strapped to the jumpsuit.

“Oh! Does it work?” Tango calls up to the Glare, completely forgetting the one sided standoff with Scar.

Grian leans back, blows the dust and sand off the screen, squinting, before deciding to hop down out of the sun. Tango shuffles up to him and the small old box of hope, held in his hand. A communicator.

Suddenly, a snapping noise echoes across the ravines. The frame shakes with the aftermath of Grian jumping off. They all watch as the helmet from the jumpsuit thumps onto the ground like an apple.

It rolls in the sand and stops a step in front of Scar. Completely uneventful to the others, however, sickenly haunting to Scar. All he could do was fixate on the sad thing.

A helmet not very different from his own, if only a couple generations older.

Of course the others didn't pay it any mind, too focused on the com. Despite that, Scar still senses Grian's burning.

All Scar can feel is an overwhelming sense of dread. He tries to swallow it down hard, turning to the others and pretending he isn't close to throwing up.

“The com’s fried and looks like all the enderchests have been retrieved,” Grian mumbles, as Tango took the item from his grasp, not so politely.

Jimmy looks over Tango's shoulder, “By who?"

“Probably salvagers. Most likely… Vindicators themselves,” Grian muses. Scar picking up on how he hesitated at the faction name. He could tell the Glare desperately doesn't want them to talk about it for Scar's sake.

In defiance, Scar speaks, “...But ...Why wouldn't they retrieve the bodies as well,” he looks at Grian.

The Glare holds that same worry in his brow for a moment, before brushing his claws through his hair and putting on a neutral frown, “Hmmm, too much effort? It probably would take a lot of resources to move them, much easier to just take what's valuable and leave.”

“Spent like flies,” Tango, bored of the conversation, drops the com. It hit the ground with a clatter. He walked ahead, with Jimmy close behind, neither of them gave the jumpsuit a second look. The journey needed to be travelled.

Scar turns back to the now headless jumpsuit, it isn't easier to look at.

He feels Grian walk up next to him, his arm gently brushing Scar's, almost as if he was trying to comfort him. That realisation dampened the anger within him slightly. He doesn't want to be mad at Grian, he knows that was the irrational part of his mind when clearly Grian just wants him to be safe.

It still hurts.

“Should I bury them?” Scar whispers to the Glare.

Grian doesn't answer straight away. Scar could feel his tail loop subconsciously around Scar's leg, “... That's a sweet thought, but I don't think we have the time.”

There were actually far more reasons they couldn't, Scar knew.

“I don't know how to feel,” Scar murmurs in a small pathetic voice.

“You're allowed to feel angry, just, maybe not at Tango,” Grian's claws worry over the fabric of Scar's glove. Scar does not ignore how Grian doesn't mention himself.

He regards Scar, eyes so full of inky nothing that all Scar can look at is his own sad reflection in them, “There's a lot you don't know about, Scar, and I want you to come to your own conclusion at your own time,” Grian says far too tenderly.

“But you won't tell me now, because I'm not safe,” Scar says more flatly than he intends.

“I don't think any of us are… at this point of time,” Grian looks around anxiously. A nervous mock of a smile on his face.

Scar smiles back just as fraudulently, “For now we're just liars.”

“Yeah …for now.”

–

“You should really wear that strap properly,” Etho watches as Joel fiddles with the strap to his gun, holding the weapon in his hands, rather than attaching it securely to his body like Etho had initially instructed.

“Ugh. No, it's uncomfortable and it's hot and stop nagging me about it!” Joel barks, absently moving his fiddling to the gun itself, switching the safety off and on again, repeatedly.

Etho puts his hands up in a poor, half-serious attempt at calming him down, “I put it on that thing for a reason.”

“I KNOW,” he snaps, “I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a freaking Vindicator soldier. I've heard the whole spiel!” he finishes by slinging the gun over his shoulder, holding onto the strap by only a couple fingers, in what he probably intended to be a ‘cool move’.

“We're good, I'm good. I don't need to wear it right now.”

Etho lets silence fall over them. Deciding that there’s probably better hills to die on with this man.

After a moment more of walking quietly, he speaks up, “This place puts you on edge?”

Joel turns to Etho, eyebrows pinched in a confused frown. “What?”

“You know…” Etho begins, before immediately trailing off, unsure of how to word it. He doesn’t want to upset him by fumbling around the topic.

“It's ruins from your faction.”

Joel doesn’t miss a beat, “So?”

“Well, doesn't that bother you?” Etho asks, taken aback by his apparent indifference.

“Not really, it's just my job,” Joel responds, like it's obvious.

“It's a pretty big deal of a profession, though.”

“Do you want me to burst into tears? People die, as long as they ain't me, I couldn't really care,” Joel shrugs – Etho chooses not to turn Joel’s earlier jokes back on him, far too caught off guard by the answer to mirror the Glare’s antics.

He supposes it makes sense, even being a soldier is just a job to some, but Etho finds it hard to look at a Vindicator and just think about someone doing as they’re told for a paycheck. He certainly finds it hard to imagine not even caring if those you work with die, but he supposes that’s probably the difference between what they’re paid to do.

“What do you know?” Joel grins, “You probably just work in an office or some shut in nerd thing, whatever…”

–

Scar watches dust spill off the side of the old ship wing they all find themselves shading under, all of them sitting in an uncomfortably empty quiet. The sun is baking any meaningful conversation out of them. They are all hungry, grumbling in all senses.

Scar sits on a lump of metal, with one of his legs laying out In front of him, he fiddles with the screws on his leg brace, holding a scrap metal piece he tightens the brackets.

He faces away from the others, towards the graveyard of ruins, the cold metal littering the warm landscape like pools of reflections compared to the matte stone and sand surrounding them.

It's rather fitting, feeling like his whole concept of the world has fallen around him, while sat amongst fallen sky. A painful kind of irony dawns on him that he might be forgotten amongst these ruins. A skeleton that the Vindicators won't bother to bury.

Uncomfortably gloomy thoughts that Scar has been desperately trying to push down with the lack of distraction around them. The others weren't in a talking mood so instead he opted to focus on ‘fixing’ his braces.

There's a small scuttling that catches Scar’s attention, his lazy gaze drags to it, expecting it to just be something moving in the small breeze.

Instead, he locks eyes with two beady ones.

“Hm…” Scar stops his fiddling, freezes, completely not expecting the distinct familiarity of the tiny mouse creature staring at him. It scratches its nose, as if Scar's not losing his mind.

“Just to check I'm not… you know, seeing things.”

Scar chooses to not look away in case the mouse becomes a ghost when he looks back. He just hopes the others heard him.

“Do you guys see that small thing?”

There's a loud pause as all four of them turn to peer down at their new company. It grooms at its ear completely oblivious, or even completely aware, with how it relished their sight of four hungry beasts.

Scar flickers a glance to his company and catches Grian glaring at Jimmy who conveniently sits closest to the creature. Almost mirroring the mouse, Grian's own ears twitch before he throws himself forward.

Then chaos breaks loose.

Jimmy yells, being pushed over by a steady thump of Grian’s wings, he grabs at the sand scrambling to his feet, spluttering grains from his mouth between yells. They both grab at each other, pulling themselves forward off each other, and tripping over one another's tails in the process. The small creature dashing out into the sand, only to make the scramble more frantic and loud.

“A mouse!”

“FOOD!”

Tango watching Jimmy fall face into the sand, shakes out of his shock as he rubs at his nose and lunges to grab onto Grian's tail, and pull him away from Jimmy.

They all yell and scuffle in the sand, their prey taunting them by running loops around them, not even seeming concerned about being caught.

“Stop with the pushing.”

Watching the hubbub, Scar finds himself sitting comfortably. He laughs, observing the others' scrap. He swears he watches Jimmy trip over his own tail more times than any of the others. Amused by Tango’s high pitched shrieks and Grian's squabbles, as they push each other's faces into the dirt.

Scar lets them chase the mouse in circles. Laughing so deeply he almost falls backwards off the elevation he's sat on.

Blinking tears from his eyes, he watches Tango shove Grian to the side, Jimmy sprinting ahead on his long feet, ducking under a metal arch after the mouse.

Grian grumbles, shaking sand from his hair as he pushes himself up and meets Scar's eyes. A grimace taken over by the most mischievous grin Scar has ever seen.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Scar willingly pushes himself back off the platform this time, in fright as the bird runs in his direction. He shields his face, expecting to be pulled into the fight somehow. Instead, he peers through his fingers to see Grian sat, straddling him, his brow buried in concentration as he grabs for something at Scar’s waist.

Only when Grian holds the shiny blue blade up with triumph from Scar's belt does he realise what the Glare’s intentions are.

He hurriedly grabs Grian’s wrist, along with the bright blade, just as he's about to leg it to the others who find themselves badly trying to corner the small creature.

Scar stammers a “Wait!” Grian tugs at Scar’s grip, but doesn't leave.

“GUYS WAIT!” Scar yells over past him to the other two, scaring the mouse as it runs between Jimmy's legs. The tall man spinning and falling over for the hundredth time with an “oof”.

“WE ALMOST HAD IT! WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?” Tango yells back, huffing next to Jimmy, who was also out of breath and brushing sand from the side of his face.

“I think I might have a smarter idea than…. whatever you guys were doing,” Scar laughs and lets go of Grian.

“Gun?” the latter replies with a smug half smile.

Scar snorts, “No, I mean, the mouse had to survive off something.”

He watches the realization wash over the three in a comical manner.

“Ohhh.”

“Why would we even bother when the mouse is right here right now?” Jimmy tries, wiping the lost pride that is smudged all over his face.

“You really think we could all snack off that small thing? I bet you could burp the same weight as it,” Scar lightly points out with a laugh.

Grian giggled at Jimmy, “You were planning to eat that thing? What a stupid idea.”

Jimmy recoils in offence, quickly regaining himself and yelling back. “I don't know why you're making fun of me. You started the fight,” Jimmy notices the gun in Grian's grasp, “Since when did you get that?!?“

“I was going to make it fair, considering you made it two versus one.”

Tango huffs, rubbing his knee, “I only joined in cause I kept having to experience second hand being shoved.”

“You were going to shoot us?!?!?” Jimmy instead focuses on.

Grian blinks slowly. “...I mean, it could have been for the mouse,” he swings the weapon around.

“That would have turned the thing into dust!” Jimmy remarks.

“More importantly, why do you still have it?” Tango adds.

“Ugh,” Grian rolls his eyes, and makes an exaggerated movement as he pushes the gun into Scar's chest.

Scar catches it as Grian lets it go. He looks up at Tango who gives him a very pointed ‘don't let him get to it again’ look.

“Hm, as I was saying, we should follow the mouse,” Scar continues from earlier, “It might lead us to a slightly more sustainable food source.”

Tango looks nervously at Jimmy.

“That feels like it might take a while.”

“Well,” Scar taps his chin in thought.

“We could always eat your friend here,” he says, nodding with the biggest grin and running his fingers over the gun's surface in a comically villainous way.

He points it at Jimmy, who squabbles, “Me? Why me?”

“You’re the tallest! More meat on the bones,” Scar shrugs, Grian nodding next to him like it's a completely understandable conclusion to come to.

“...Right, so maybe let's avoid that.”

As if understanding the conversation, the mouse scuttles back from under the rubble, tauntingly digging at the dirt and cleaning itself in the sand.

After what feels like hours of following a small shimmering creature down small reviven passages, squeezing between husks of ships half buried in the wall, singing to them as sand rings the bartered surfaces, they finally come to fork in the path. Almost guarded by the spilling remains of a giant ship, the outer skin of the ship shining and standing tall above them at the top of the riven, with its insides spilling out in huge compartments barely being held by wires and cables.

It scuttles into a gap in an air lock door that’s connected to a corridor. Like a tube cut open, leading to larger units, completely reinforced, cables spilling out like roots.

“How can we really be sure there's food, aside from Mr. Dirt butt here,” Tango huffs. Jimmy awkwardly mutters, “We are talking about the mouse, right?”

“Who knows, maybe the mouse is a secret game maker, leading us to a trap,” Grian jokes sarcastically.

Scar walks up to the torn open hall, the walls have lines along it of different colours.

Before the air lock there seemed to be a white sign with the same colour as the line’s text. It reads ‘hall 3, food production: dry storage, plant cultivation, frozen storage, kitchen, cafeteria’.

All the other three peer over his shoulder, each at a different height and squinting.

“There's your answer, Tango,” Grian chuckles.

Tango grumbles, “Aren't we lucky Vindicators labeled everything.” He kicks at the air lock.

It's mostly closed, one half of the door knocked out of its place, wedged in a way it couldn't be moved. Jimmy shuffles over and gives the door a hefty push, to no avail. Yeah, no, it wasn't going to move easily.

“Maybe I could...”

The opening is narrow. Scar crouches down, leaning his head through, his shoulders are too broad even when he tries to wedge his arm in first. His leg braces slip against the metal floor as he tries to pull himself out, Jimmy helping him. “Nevermind,” Scar sighs.

“Hm,” both Scar and Jimmy looked to their shorter company.

The shorter two look back with the same gloomy expression, without even coordinating it. They both come to the same realization simultaneously.

“Not it,” Grian holds a hand up.

Tango looks around and gestures to himself with offence, “I am not going in there.”

The Blaze walks up to Grian, holding his hand at his height, comparing it to the Glare, “Why don't you go in? You're shorter than me,” he pushes his hand over Grian's ear tuffs to demonstrate to the others. The Glare shoves him away and holds his ear tuffs away, his cheeks slightly red.

He regains his composure, shaking his feathers and holding his wings out. “Can’t you see I got these big ol' wings,” he smiles.

“Yeah, but they fold, don't they? I have a broken arm,” Tango challenges, holding his own arm out, mirroring.

“In some situations that helps,” Grian mocks.

Tango squeaks angrily, “NOT THIS ONE!”

He pushes Grian, leading them to squabble. Jimmy and Scar, sharing an exasperated look.

“Why don't you both go, probably safer,” Jimmy suggests with a shrug.

“With him?!?” Tango exclaims, as he has Grian's face in his hand at arm length, Grian half-heartedly swatting at him.

“Yeah, I could break more bones if you need to get through any smaller gaps,“ he says, slightly muffled, before he pulls his head out of the grasp.

“Oh, you want to see broken bones,” Tango sneers at Grian when suddenly his stomach growls loudly. They all pause.

“…Fine, only because I'm hungry and mad about it,” Tango surrenders, rubbing his stomach.

With an eventual agreement, the rest let out a collective sigh.

Neither of them move.

Grian laughs to himself, nodding to Tango. A mischievous grin appearing, “Losers first.”

“Yeah, that's why I'm waiting.”

“GUYS, PLEASE! Literal starvation is happening,” Jimmy grumbles, completely frustrated by the two's back and forthing.

“Fine, fine,” Tango crawls through, closely followed by Grian, who only slightly struggles with his wings.

Scar and Jimmy pop their heads through. “Hm… Yell or something, if you're in trouble,” Scar tries with a wobbly smile. He's not completely sure how they could help from the outside, but the least they need is more stalling.

Tango scoffs. “Oh, I'll definitely yell, don't you worry,” he looks pointedly at Grian, who pretends to ignore him.

Upon entering the ship wreck, the heat halves, everything feels cold and dusty.

Grian taking a satisfied sigh at the low light.

Tango wasn't as at ease. He may be in a constant state of glowing, but that light only reached so far, less so now that he was exhausted and showing it. The dark gloomy tunnels could go on for years for all Tango knew. It certainly felt like they did.

Grian's talons echoed through the halls, sounding like chain rattling against the metal floor. It was setting Tango's nerves on edge as the sound bounced back like they weren't alone.

“Alright then, light the way, Tango.”

Tango doesn't turn to look at Grian, his gaze is fixed on parts he couldn't see, “You go first.”

“What? You don't trust me?” Grian didn't even try to hide the amusement in his voice.

Tango reluctantly looks at him to give him a grim expression he knows the Glare could see, “Yes, completely that.”

Grian snorts, “Psshhh, you already took my gun from me. What more do you want?” he waves his claws in front of Tango's face, “My nails filed?”

The Blaze takes a step back. He doesn't say anything, holding his ground with a stern look.

Grian's shoulders sag, bored of the standoff, “Alright, let's just get this over with.”

The halls are as eventful as the desert outside of it – old and untouched for years. They follow the discoloured lines across the walls that lead them to the storage, stepping over gaps in the flooring and under particularly caved in hallways.

Until finally they reach their saviour: a sad looking door with so much grime it was hard to even read the ‘storage’ sign printed above it.

“Looks like this is it.”

Grian grabs at the door frame, pressing buttons and kicking at the panel.

“Ugh… More doorsss,” Tango wanders up to him, head back in annoyance.

After scratching at the sides and pushing against the frame, Grian huffs, standing back and crossing his arms, “It's locked.”

“Do these mice have thumbs?” The Blaze throws his arm out.

“And we don't?” Grian snorts.

Tango simply makes a face.

The Glare laughs and rolls his eyes, before his attention is caught.

“Oh, no. Here!” Grian crouches down to a metal panel that has been dented at the corner, enough space for a mouse to fit through. He runs his metal fingers against the surface with an uncomfortable ringing.

“…Can you shrink?” Tango watches the Glare hook his hand through the gap, feeling the other side.

Grian responds, not looking at Tango, instead lowering his face to the floor, looking through, “Do I look like a Vex?” his voice echoes into the closed room, full of sarcasm.

Tango sucks in a breath, before pinching his forehead and grumbling, “Oh… oh, god dammit, why didn't we just ask Scar, he's a Vex, right? He could have just walked through all this stuff,” All the dust and creepy cramped spaces were for nothing.

“I don't think he can.”

Tango opens his eyes, the Glare off of the floor, staring at the wall. “What makes you say that?” he asks.

Grian frowns, shrugging, “I don't know… maybe he’d mention it, or he just gives off the vibes of not really knowing how to use magic.”

He shifts so he's sitting on the ground, knee pressed to his cheek as he maneuvers himself to pull at the bent metal plate.

Tango pauses, “ So you have met him before these games then?” he asks, as the Glare pulls on the metal. He scrapes his claws obnoxiously over the surface.

“Plus I would think a vindicator ship, of all spacecrafts, would have precautions against Vex magic,” Grian continues, ignoring Tango's comment. He strains, adjusting his grip and sliding his hand further into the gap, both his feet planted against the wall, “AGH! I think I could.”

Tango snorts as he watches the Glare struggle, the smooth metal providing not much traction, causing Grian to slip a couple times and thumb his head against the wall, or falling flat on his back, “I don't think you're getting through that.”

The Glare, too determined, picks himself back up. “Not with that attitude,” Grian replies, out of breath.

He pauses briefly before taking in a deep breath and pulling at the metal.

Surprisingly, despite its sturdy resistance, Grian pulls at its supports. There's cracking, screeching and Tango swears he hears hissing. Only then realising the mechanics of Grian's limbs are the ones also making noise.

The Glare rests, having pulled it a considerable amount from the wall, no longer mouse sized, maybe a small dog wide.

“Whoah,” Tango says without realising.

The Glare flexes his fingers, the small brackets and pistons moving across his exposed prosthetics simultaneous.

“I guess that's the perks of having arms made of metal worth several settlements.” Tango jokes. But the Glare ignores him, and Tango would have thought he simply didn't hear him, if it wasn't for the uncomfortable look that spread across Grian's face. His shoulders going tight, an awkward silence falling upon them as Grian prepares his footing to pull at the panel more.

Tango steps back with a sigh, bored. He looks at the door, it's not misshapen like all the other doors they've come across. Its frame unbent, the door sitting neatly within it. He pressed the button on the handle despite knowing it'll do nothing. Grian had vigorously pressed it upon seeing it first earlier.

It is old, made from rubber that was starting to flake away from age. Tango pulled at it, the small thing popping out into his hand. A glimmer catches Tango's attention, the space left behind the button is exposed wiring, uncovered gold, looking right back at Tango.

He stands back and regards the door again. It is painfully simple, no locking. It wasn't like the air lock earlier, there was no point installing another expensive door to another, the only reason they couldn't open it was the ship’s lack of power.

“…You know, I don't think we need to go through there,” Tango presses his fingers to the inner workings.

Grian didn't respond, in fact, when Tango looked at him, the Glare had his head into the wall as well as one foot, folded into himself like an awkward cat as he pulled himself through the small gap, “Yes! Head through!”

“Grian,” Tango tries, unheard.

A few feathers are caught on the frame, falling out and joining the dust and grime on the floor. Grian not caring, battling his way through with an unusual determination.

“HAH HAAA!” He declares loudly.

Tango exasperatedly knocks on the wall, raising his volume. “Hey, bird brain, I can open the door!”

“What?”

“I said… You know what, nevermind,” Tango gives up, the other clearly set on his method.

Tango watches him make it through, hearing a cough and shake of feathers on the other side of the wall.

Putting the tips of his fingers to the gold wiring, Tango starts to pool the energy from within himself to the ends of his digits. He barely spent any when there’s a click, the door immediately opening with a swoosh.

Grian stands on the other side, looking cartoonishly shocked and confused with Tango's achievement.

“Ah… wh-how?”

Tango grins wide. He wiggles his fingers, still glowing slightly at the ends, “Fizz, pop, BOOM!”

Grian's mouth stays agape, a couple feathers in his hair, wonky and messy, adding to his image of bewilderment.

Tango laughs, “Just… a Blaze thing, these doors are super old… they don't have the most elaborate mechanism. I could short circuit it with my fingies.”

The Glare’s face morphs into a frown, brushing at his hair in frustration, “…Well, you could have said.”

Tango laughs loudly. “You were pretty set on pushing your face through a wall,” he smirks.

Grian just stares at him, slightly red in the face and ears flicking absently.

He awkwardly coughs into his hand, “Right, so… food.”

Stepping into the room, the first thing Tango notices is the smell: it was stale and pungent. The source coming from a pile of empty and chewed perspectives can.

They both looked grimly at the sight. Most of the food had been knocked off the shelves and chewed up cardboard riddled all the corners. Sliverfish had definitely made the room a home. Tango even swore he could see them shift around at the corners of his eye, the light too dim, but the feeling of hundreds of little eyes on him didn't cease.

“Dang, not the only ones hungry,” Tango breathes.

The Glare shuffles ahead. He steps onto one the shelves, reaching for a large box. Whatever's in the box must be heavy, as he struggles to balance on and pull it off.

There's a sway from the frame, before the Glare bails and falls backwards. Tango subconsciously reaches out to catch him, only to get a mouthful of feathers. He staggers back, catching a shelf on the other side of the room, his own good arm taking the brunt of the force.

Tango groans, feeling bruised. The Glare is looking back at him, holding the box and completely fine from the fall. He has a confused look.

“What happened to you?”

Tango pulls himself up with a grumble. He spits out a feather and rubs at his face, “Oh, you know… an unexpected meal. You should really watch those things.”

The Glare looks under his arm, at his wings, and shivers.

“What's in the box, feathers?” Tango asks.

Grian places it on the floor and pulls at the tape, yellowed and barely tacky anymore. Inside laid out in neat rows are a fair amount of canned food, fruits, veggies and meats.

“Jackpot,” Grian gleefully says.

“Can we trust these?”

“Well, the box does say preservatives! And you've gotta trust the little guy on the package!” Grian holds a can up to Tango's face, a small cartoony Vex printed on the label, their thumbs are up, face winking. Tango frowns.

Imitating the image, Grian also winks at Tango. “Long lasting! Quality approved! Space mush!!” he said loudly in a dorky voice.

“That’s not reassuring...”

Grian giggles, satisfied with his reaction. He holds the can in his palm and squints at it, running his thumb pad over its surface.

“It looks like there's enchantments etched into the tin,” He chucks one to Tango, “If Vindicators are anything, they are resourceful… thankfully for us.”

Tango lets out a sigh of relief. He slides down to the floor, resting his head back against the shelf.

The air was stuffy inside the enclosed area, that realization only dawning on him now that he could convince himself he had been holding his breath this whole time. The ceiling looks blankly back at him, only loose wires and dented reinforced metal to stimulate his mind.

He stretches his arm out, unclenching his hand. When something sharp pokes Tango's hand, he looks down to see various utensils spread across the floor, all bunched up under the shelf.

They probably got knocked off the shelves when the shipping crashed all those years ago. All new and unused, and there, standing out amongst the spoons and forks, was a knife, longer and wide. If Tango knew anything about cooking, he would have guessed it would have been used to cut veggies or meat, Tango's own reflection staring back at him in it.

He looks back up at his company. Grian is too preoccupied with sorting the cans into a bag from the shelf. His tail swaying behind him, not paying attention to the Blaze in the slightest.

Tango slowly grabs the weapon and holds it behind his back, quietly moving to a stand. He can't help but frown to himself, a plan forming in his head.

Grian swings the bag over his shoulder, standing and wobbling as he adjusts his balance.

“Well! We better feed the tall ones,” he turns, interrupted by Tango pointing the weapon at him.

The Glare doesn't react much, just pushes his brows up before putting on the most unaffected grin, sharp teeth and dark eyes challenging the item.

“….What's this? Mugging me?” he says, unseriously.

“I want you to tell me who you are,” Tango stammers, his one free hand readjusting his grip.

Grian looks straight into Tango's eyes, his gaze flickering to the tremors in Tango's arm. “…Not scared of these claws anymore?” the Glare rings his metal digits together intentionally.

Tango adjusts his footing. “What is your deal?” he keeps his voice stern.

“Sand trading, apparently,” Grian says sarcastically.

Tango steps forward, and thankfully, Grian takes his own step backwards. He holds his hands up in response. The bag he was holding thumping to the ground, sound echoing through the halls.

“I don't know what you did to get a person like Scar to protect you so much. But I know it was a lie,” Tango hisses.

Grian's grin faulters at Scar's mention. “A person like Scar? You know him well?” he sneers.

“Maybe not… But there's something you two aren't telling us,” it was obvious. Tango noticed how much Grian would cling to Scar. The Glare was clearly not a very trusting person, he wanted to leave Jimmy and himself dead in the sand. But for some reason, Scar convinced him otherwise.

Scar was someone a person like Grian cared about.

Anyone could see they were sharing a secret.

Grian blinks, his nose twitches. “And you're going to …hurt me? Hold me prisoner?” he continues to smile sourly. It's like he can sense the uncertainty in Tango's resolve.

Tango huffs, moving more forward, feigning confidence, “Stop with your snide not-answers and witty comebacks!”

Grian doesn't move, the shelf behind him is already pushing against his back, he just tilts his head back further, knife being an inch from his nose.

“I've just come from one bad place to another, I can't afford to be taken advantage of, I don't trust you. I need to have control of what happens to me next, me and Jimmy,” Tango warns, grief in his voice as his glow flickers.

Grian's shoulders sag and weirdly he stops scowling and instead, gives Tango a sullen look.

“We have a lot more in common than you would want to believe.”

Tango almost laughs at that. “Then tell me! Stop lying and just tell me the truth,” he stabs forward, there is a clank as Grian's hands grab the edges of a shelf, desperately pushing himself out of the way of the knife.

“And does the blade know the difference?” Grian tittered, eyeing the kitchen wear.

“I will."

They both lapse into a lull. Tango keeps his ground, eyeing every small movement Grian makes in his uncomfortable position.

“What do you want me to say?” Grian defeatedly asks, his grasp slips on the shelf, adjusting his wings out of discomfort.

Tango leans back, giving the Glare some room to breathe. He keeps his gaze on the other, squinting in thought. Before he glances down to Grian's arms that hook the metal frames.

“…How did you get those robotics?”

When Tango looks back, almost spluttering at the haunting face the Glare is pulling. His mouth was thin and still, eyes looking right through Tango.

“No.”

“W-what?”

“Pick another question,” there was no amusement in Grian's voice.

Tango laughs nervously. “You can't just do that. I have this pointing at you,” he gestures to the weapon.

Grian looks away, and Tango swears he sees his chin quiver. “…Please,” he says in an uncharacteristically small voice.

“O-okay,” Tango falters, he looks around the room as if searching for another question, “Why did they put you in here?”

Grian scoffs.

“Like I know,” humour pools back into his voice.

“You do,” Tango wasn't falling for that for a second. He knew after Grian refused to tell the group, the other day, that the Glare had his own idea, that he just wasn't sharing.

“Ugh… alright,” Grian grumbles, he shifts his weight, basically sitting on the shelf behind him, “They were looking for me, you could say I was a wanted individual of theirs.”

“You must be a pretty important person then?”

“I wish I wasn't,” Grian says gravely.

Tango lets his arm drop, tired from holding it up, the blood flowing back into his veins. He notably doesn't let go of the blade, “Why did you run this morning?”

“I don't like being trapped.”

“No one does,” Tango refutes.

They both fall into a pause, neither daring to move, just soaking in the still air.

“Can I ask you a question?” Grian breaks the silence, he almost mutters the words, as if unsure he even wants to ask.

“...Okay?” Tango replies, mildly confused.

Grain doesn't ask immediately. He was looking off to an unimportant corner of the room, chewing on his lip. In fact, he doesn't ask for so long, Tango almost impatiently snaps at him. The Blaze’s words halt as Grian's eyes finally land back on him.

“Why didn't you run from them sooner?”

Out of all the questions he could have asked, he didn't expect that to be one of them. “I…” Tango stammers.

“You said you worked for them for almost a year. Why did it take you so long to walk away?” Grian repeats with the same level flat look. His expression doesn't waver in the slightest.

“I didn't know they were Enders!” Tango utters defensively.

“I'm not accusing you of anything, I just want to know,” Grain shakes his head.

Tango takes his own step back, only so he can lean his back against something for support. The question was so out of pocket, but it wasn't something he’d never thought about before. He collects himself, staring at the tin cans that have rolled out of the bag on the floor. He isn't even sure he has a concrete answer.

Tango looks up, expecting, or maybe hoping, Grian looks bored by Tango's stalling. Instead, the Glare’s eyes are fixed on him, creepy in the very low lighting.

“I… they were using me,” Tango swallows.

He fidgets with the knife in his hand subconsciously, “Feeding my unhealthy habits. I got so engrossed I didn't even realise it.”

“You were having fun,” Grian says in a strangely understanding tone.

Tango winches at his words, he doesn't like how they match the thoughts in his head. “It wasn't fun. I was making things to kill people!” he blurts out, he couldn't have been enjoying himself.

Grian doesn't respond. He, in fact, doesn't move; just stares at Tango with those deep judgey eyes. Mirrors of Tango's own fuzzy light ones.

Tango coughs out a forced laugh. “Is that how we're similar? You've killed people?” in a lapse he tries to turn it around on Grian. It feels bitter, pushing his own guilt onto him, maybe Grian just shouldn't have those eyes.

“You said you left before your creation could hurt anyone. You said you took the blueprints when you ran,” he doesn't fall for it. Once again Tango is faced with himself.

He looks down to the knife in his hand, it's clumsy and not meant for defence, yet it still could hurt, that's why Tango picked it up.

“That's not how guilt works, it was still close to being done. I may have not pulled the trigger, but I made the gun. I still feel that responsibility.”

Tango wasn't stupid, he knew it would be easy for them to find another overeager redstoner to finish his work. Taking the blueprints barely hindered anything, most of them had been physically made.

He knew that he mostly ran with them for his own sanity, something to tell himself he did after all he could to stop it from continuing when he snapped out of it. But he was too smart to fully indulge himself into the delusion.

If only he ran sooner, he thinks about all the chances he had. If he wasn't so enveloped by his work, if he wasn't so excited by his game.

“Did you know, Blazes don't need to sleep. We run on energy that can last us for days, all we need is fuel to burn... It's not healthy, to keep going till you're spent, a Blaze could die doing that!”

“I never stopped working, and when I ran out and collapsed, I’d wake up, filled with healing potions and keep going.”

He looks at Grian, breaking to take a shaky breath.

“And the worst thing is, I didn't even notice what was happening. You always think, when you hear of stories, that you yourself couldn't possibly let it get that bad, that you'd have the self preservation, the foresight to be better.”

“But I didn't notice… I was alone in that ice cave. None of my friends knew where I was or what I was doing, they couldn't have told me to stop...”

He looks away, then back at the knife in his hands. He knows he'd never have used it, not on a person, even a person like Grian. Tango's never been the one to get his hands dirty, it's always more entertaining to make the mechanics to do it for him, he guesses that’s ironic now. He places it on the shelf behind him.

“I'm not a bad person,” Tango says in a pathetic small voice, to no one in particular, maybe himself.

“I know,” the Glare at least has the decency to sound sympathetic.

They both lean back heavily on their respective shelves either side of the narrow room. Tango's emotional guts laid out like the cans on the floor. Neither of them reach to pick them up.

“How did they capture you?” Grian speaks out into the empty air.

“I don't remember,” Tango answers honestly, all that's left of those memories is panic and disorientating fuzz. “Do you?” he hands out the comment like it’s regular small talk.

There's a pause.

“...” Grian's tail flicks, probably an indication of consideration, the only indication. In fact, Tango feels like he hasn't blinked since he asked the question.

Tango doesn’t really expect an answer. He still waits patiently, even if he's 90% sure it's going to be vague.

“I was led by someone I thought I trusted into a trap,” Grian's gaze is fixed on the preserved food, a subtle scowl bunching up at his nose.

“A truth?” Tango asks.

Grian watches him and nods, “Yes.”

Tango lets his shoulders drop, his elbow knocks against the knife on the shelf, looking at the pathetic thing, “…You weren't really scared of me hurting you, were you?”

“Not really.”

Tango sighs, “Well, I thank you for at least making me feel like you were.”

Grian gives an unsure look, “You're welcome?” He groans, rolling his head back rubbing and his face in exhaustion, “This is literally why I wanted to avoid teaming with others.”

“People… politics, blaahhh,” he sticks his tongue out.

“Maybe you shouldn't have been walking around the desert with Mr. Charisma,” Tango suggests with a weak chuckle.

Grian hums in agreement, his hand reaches for his shoulder, rubbing at the fabric of his clothing, “Hmm, maybe, but he has his charms.”

Tango would be amiss if he didn't notice the faint fondness in his features. He felt an uncontrollable desire to challenge that.

“You know, he really cares for you. For some unexplainable reason, he lost his mind when you left, really believing you wouldn't just abandon him.”

Grian frowns, “I came back.”

“Psshhh… like that ever was what you intended to do. I saw that grim look on your face when you left,” Tango scoffs. He pins the Glare in place, relishing in how he squirms, shame radiating off of him.

But that feeling flees, he's tired of being mad, the Glare had given him his ear with no judgement, it doesn't feel right. He still doesn't like the guy, but maybe something like pity makes him let the Glare go from his stare.

“Maybe you wouldn't feel so much guilt if you didn't make stupid decisions.”

“What are you, my therapist?“ Grian replies.

“No, but like you said, we're similar.”

“Painfully so.”

That was it. Too alike, hating that reflection. Sat opposite inside the carcass of a ship, with two others waiting eagerly for their return.

“I still don't trust you,” Tango says, in case the other was getting any ideas.

Grian understands, “That's fine.”

There was nothing else to say.

Grian moves first, pushing himself off the shelf. “We should go,” he picks up the cans, pushing them back into his bag.

Tango just watches. He plans to head towards the door before Grian interrupts him.

“Honestly, you should keep that… you never know,” he nods to the knife behind Tango.

Tango brushes his fingers against its surface. “In case you need a hair cut?” he jokes.

Grian stands up, with the bag over his shoulders, back to where they were a few minutes ago. “Something like that,” he replies with a weak smile.

They leave, both through the door this time. Tango making a display to pat at the door frame, laughing at Grian's grumbling.

–

They sat outside, backs against the wall in the shade, and waited for Grian and Tango. They both look outwards at the horizon, outwardly guarding the area, but inwardly daydreaming wistfully.

It's peaceful for once, even if Scar keeps having to pull his mind out of dark places, instead counting how many silverfish mice he sees hiding in shadows.

“You mentioned yesterday that you were a baker?” Jimmy asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

Scar catches up with what he said, thinking back and remembering the smell, “Oh, yeah. I used to work in a small shop near a spaceship dock.”

“That sounds quaint and cosy!” Jimmy crosses his arms resting them against his knees.

“It was nice…” It was also very cosy, Scar has many fond memories of the place, it was what he thought of when he thought of home, “My favourite part was watching the people. I mean, obviously I enjoyed the cooking too.”

Jimmy hums lightly, “I can imagine you would get all sorts of people passing through, right? Sounds just like my town.”

“Yeah. So many pilots, adventurers and captains of old spacecrafts. Sometimes I would just drift behind a booth pretending to clean tables so I could hear the stories.”

He nods in recognition, urging Scar to continue.

“I used to imagine myself on my own adventures. I remember one day I promised myself that I'll see the stars, travel through them even! Just like all those pilots, be a hero,” he looks somberly out across the sands, fidgeting with his fingers.

Jimmy beams next to him, clueless to Scar's sorrow, “And you achieved it! You said you were a Mayor! I don't even know what that means, but it's gotta mean something good, right?” Jimmy nudges him playfully with his elbow, “I bet you're itching to get back.”

“…Yeah,” Scar looks at Jimmy with a small bittersweet smile, “maybe I embellished a little about being a Mayor,” he said, half truths were easier to hide behind.

“Hey, that's alright, same!” Jimmy laughs, “They call me Sheriff, but I'm more just the tallest guy in town that can reach all the top shelves.”

“The best duster,” Scar jokes.

“Yup!”

Scar doesn't laugh, his smile is too much of a burden as it is. Jimmy’s enthusiasm unintentionally painfully reminding Scar of a version of himself that he didn't even realise he had lost.

He kicks his boots together, and some of the screws on the leg braces catch against each other. Something he is long past being concerned about. They were never good to begin with and it was a miracle they were still working.

Jimmy's watching him. “Are those okay by the way?” he shoots a sad look down towards the things.

Scar lays his feet out, examines them, cleaning dust off the brackets like it would make a difference, “Yeaaaahh. Well, no. But there's not much we can do with them in this place.”

“You sure you don't want to take them off? Give yourself a rest,” Jimmy looks at him concerned.

“It's fine,” Scar staggers backwards into the wall to rest against, "In fact, it's safer for me to keep them on, in case we run into trouble. I can't risk being immobile until I get them on, which isn't a simple task.”

He closes his eyes and rocks his head side to side.

“Plus… I've got a feeling that if I disable them, they might never start working again.”

“Ah,” is all Jimmy says in reply. Scar can tell he's uncertain what to say to him. A lot of people act like it with the subject.

Jimmy shuffles awkwardly beside him. “Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help?” he asks with so much sweetness in his voice.

Scar opens one eye, smirking to him, “I'm so sure. Unless you have a secret ender chest.”

“Oh. What's in there?”

“My GOODS!” Scar puts a hand to his chest, proud, “I have so much!!! I have my wheelchair, a super cool bow crutch I designed! A series of VERY important costume changes.”

“How cool!!”Jimmy smiles widely, gesturing to Scar's braces, “Did you also design these?”

“Ah, no,” Scar tries not to sag so much visually, “…these are more like bad rentals that I can't seem to get rid of.” The Vindicators had given them to him so he could do his job better, or so they said.

He looks Jimmy up and down, desperately wanting to change the subject, hating how his throat feels now at the thought of his faction.

“What about you? You’re missing something? Maybe a very cool hat?” he points to Jimmy's messy, but stylish hair, imagining how he'd look with a cowboy hat on.

Jimmy gasps, “How could you tell?”

“Well, a dignified man such as yourself has got to have a very cool hat to finish the picture,” Scar pulls a lopsided smile, holding his finger up in a frame shape.

Jimmy feature’s flood with recognition. He pays the top of his head like grabbing for said hat, “You're so right. It's been killing me that I lost it, I don't even know where it could be.”

Scar pushes his shoulders, “You'll just have to get an even newer, even cooler one when we're free!” He winks at Jimmy.

“Definitely!”

–

Etho and Joel lay at the top of a ravine, they've tracked down their bird to surprisingly more, new people. Four of them.

It was embarrassingly easy for them to find the bird once they were in hearing distance. The group of people weren't quiet, their shouts echoing through the valleys.

“You'd don't think they're the people that put us here,” Joel asks, he peaks over Etho's shoulder, trying to steal a look through his scope.

“Those guys?”

Etho watches one of them struggle to open a tin can, the others laughing, then in frustration throwing it across the sand, hitting metal scrap with a clank. They couldn't be more clueless to the fact that they were being watched, Etho fully considers standing up just to stretch his back, not really worried about being noticed.

With how they act, Etho has a pretty good guess that they're probably as clueless about what's going on as him and Joel.

“I doubt that,” he replies.

Joel snorts. Shifting uncomfortably, he rises from the ground, sitting on his knees. No longer worried about being spotted.

“You'd think they'd be smart and look up. It's painfully too easy to spy on them,”

“I think smart is exactly not what they are.”

Joel smirks, “Sounds like someone I know.”

Adjusting his hold on the gun, Etho ignores that comment. He instead studies the details of the group. They all look pretty disheveled, two of them even have their arms in what looks like slings. They're not defenseless though, he notes, spying a blade on one's belt.

Joel, bored, pops his mouth, picking at his finger nails. “Should we jump down? Scare the hell outta them?” a wide grin growing across his face.

“No…” Etho ignores Joel's grouching. “Let's see what they do. They might lead us somewhere,” he concludes.

The group is still eating, completely oblivious. Joel scoffed at them.

“Pffft, likelihood it'll be off a cliff.”

–

They all had their supper for the day, the food hung heavy in their guts, old beans and preserved fruit. They stay for a long time after, mostly waiting for the sun to no longer be at its highest point. Talk is instead replaced by eating, and then silently laying back, too full to even talk.

They start to walk again, food digested and sun low. It would only be a couple of hours until the phantoms came out and they are hoping to find a ship wreck with enough shelter to protect them.

There is a nervous feeling swallowing them all. They have reached the landmark they were planning for, and it is as dead as where they started. No closer to anything, all they have is each other's company and small plans which are wishful thinking at best.

Tango throws around the idea of fixing up a com to contact the outside world and Jimmy suggests the idea of making a home amongst the ruins, pointing out the frequency of dry bushes between the metal cadaver. Talking about how to collect rain or use roots, whilst Tango prods at the ground with a metal rod he has pulled out of the ground.

They are all painfully optimistic about it all. Scar, for once, is hesitant. He has, in fact, not adopted that optimism, his mind far too preoccupied with cloudy thoughts. The Vindicators weren't going to look for him, that much was clear, almost spelled out to him by the ruins themselves. He still holds a small piece of hope that someone might start looking for him. But the universe is so big and he wouldn't even know if he left a trace when he was captured by whoever put him here.

Maybe it is a little mellow dramatic that all he can think about is how much stuff he didn't get to do, how a lot of his dreams were hindered by his blindness to see he had stopped moving towards them a very long time ago.

He doesn’t have anything to think or say. It is all too confusing, betrayal and denial fighting vigorously behind his eyes, leaving dust and rubble to cloud his acknowledgement around him.

He does feel a certain recognisable burning feeling though.

“Are you doing okay, buddy?” Grian has been following him like a shadow, maybe he's caught onto the fact Scar is battling his own conflicts inside his mind. Solace is not something Scar ever heard in his voice before, and by how Grian's voice is clipped, it is probably something Grian wasn't used to.

Scar sighs and wills enough of himself to reply, “I don't know… I think I have enough reasons to feel weird.”

“…Yeah.”

Scar isn't even looking at him, just feeling the Glare buzz. Scar could practically hear him thinking next to him about what to say, that sound of his feathers ruffling like tree leaves. If Scar was in any other mood, he would have pointed it out and made the bird squirm.

“For what it's worth, finding out that you've been working for a secretly evil corporation isn't as much of an exclusive experience in this weird group we've found ourselves in,” Grian chuckles halfheartedly.

“I'm not… evil.”

Grian hums, tilting his head to the side. “Yeah, that's part of the problem. You've got to separate yourself from your,” he catches on the wording, “…them.” He shuffles beside Scar, pushing his hands deep into his pockets, “That tends to give you a lot more clarity on the whole thing.”

Scar notes his almost reminiscent wording. “You've also been in a similar situation?” he asks, watching the Glare carefully. He meets Scar’s look, face snapped with a completely innocent, flat expression. He doesn't even blink, that mask glued on tight.

“…Tango talked about it,” he doesn't bite and Scar isn't as disappointed as he probably should be. He looks towards Tango with Grian, who continues, “In fact, we had an uncomfortably vulnerable conversation about it.”

Now that was surprising. Scar switches to him with a high eyebrow, “You and Tango talked?”

Grian smirks back, “I know, shocking, though it was sorta at knife point.”

“WHAT?!?”

He swats at Scar dismissively. “Don't worry, I dealt with it, I'm a big grown up,” he stumbles uncertainly, “…bird thing.” The Glare laughs at his own description before shaking his head,

“Ehh… We're getting off track.”

“What I'm saying is, doubt isn't a weakness.”

Scar smiles, and moves his head to the side, “That sounds familiar.”

“Yeah,” Grian trails off, before something sparks in his eyes, recognition. “I learnt it from a very strange fella, actually. Kept trying to sell me sand.”

Scar’s smile grows, he feels the murkiness behind his eyes fizzle away, replaced with a warmth. “Did he have massive abs and glistening pecks?” he jokes while playing along.

“Ah, I… I didn't notice,” Grian stammers, scratching at the feathers on his cheek.

They both start laughing, Tango and Jimmy spin around to look at them, confused. Turning back when the giggling teeters off.

Scar rubs at the cheeks on his face. They're sore from the sun and sand, but the pain from his smiling doesn't bother him.

There's a quiet pause.

Grian fiddles with his hands, eyes everted, “I just wish it wasn't like this…” he considers Scar with a sympathetic look, “That you had more people to talk to about it. There isn't much company when you're actively hiding this part of yourself.”

“I have you.”

Grian cringes. “...I suppose,” blinking sand out of his eyes.

“Though, I mostly just say hypocritical things and cause stinks,” he pushes his shoulders up and leans back to look at Scar with a grin.

“Don't forget, can't take any kind of compliment.”

“Yup, you know me too well."

They lightly laugh, with not as much energy as earlier.

Scar looks towards Jimmy and Tango, who walk up ahead, in their own conversation. He thinks about his conversation with Jimmy and how they chatter between each other, talking about optimistic ideas of escaping the planet. How they have their own huge lives that they left and can go back to, “Is it really that bad to tell them?”

“Yes, it's very dangerous,” Grian leaves no room to argue, stiff shoulders and flat look.

It makes Scar’s cheeks warm, in discomfort. He feels frustrated, maybe that's what it is. Staring ahead at the never ending horizon. He doesn't believe Grian, but he's had a lot of big revelations today and he isn't going to act on it.

If anything, he's scared. Everything he has seen today would make him snappy and antagonize himself in the eyes of the others. Grian was probably right. Scar just felt embarrassed at suggesting that it could be any different.

Weird, though, when he spares a glance to Grian he looks the same, squeamish and flustered. He pulls out an empty food can they have been carrying (the idea being if it ever rained they'd have something to catch it in), he turns it around in his hand, the enchantments on it have been broken once they opened it, the symbols cut it in half along the seal. His sharp talons pick at the label.

Grian throws up the can into the air and catches it, his metal hands ringing against the tin. “Hey…” he twists his head to Scar, with a small smirk.

“I dare you to throw this as high as you can into the sky,” he beacons Scar to hold his hand out and reaches over, placing the thing into Scar’s palm.

Scar looks at the item, “What? Why?”

Grian's smile spreads across his face. “I dare you,” he says, with a glint in his eyes, like he knows Scar can't refuse a dare.

“I'll catch it.”

“What?” Scar laughs, unsure what he's even implying.

He's cut off when Grian strides backwards and he pulls his wings out. Scar, for a brief second, gets mesmerized over the large limbs. They are always tucked away neatly behind Grian's back, he doesn't get many chances to examine the colour and span of them.

The Glare pushes himself off the ground, the large wings catching air rapidly as he pulls himself into the sky. Scar shields his face from the sand and dust.

He watches Grian make a circle in the air, gaining height.

Tango and Jimmy walk up to where Scar is standing, “...What is he doing?”

Scar shrugs, watches the bird take sweeps in the sky, waving his arms as he flies. Scar looks back down to the tin in his hand, the realization dawning on him, “Oh.”

He pulls his arm back in preparation as he lobs the can straight up into the space above him. Maybe this is a bad idea, and the projectile heads straight back down from him with the same intensity.

However, before it collides with him, sharp claws wrap around the metal cylinder in a flash, Grian’s yells of joy fading fast as he flies past.

“WOAH!” Jimmy hops in places. He almost loses balance from the movement combined with his head being craned backs, “Let me try! Let me try!”

Tango rolls his eyes, handing Jimmy a can from his own stash.

And with considerably less finesse than Scar, he overhand throws it at an angle. The Glare darts in the air, catching it before it hits the ground dangerously close, huge clumps of dust billowing.

“Oh, it's too easy for him,” Tango scoffs, he pulls out a next tin, playing with it in his grip, “let me even the field!”

The Glare hovers above them ready, Tango aims for the side, waiting for the bird to dip in preparation, only to fling the can right for the bird as he passes. It hits Grian at the side of his arm, the Glare spinning in the air, trying to grab at the tin before it leaves his reach and thumbs to the ground.

“Look out, bird!” Tango shouts with a satisfied grin.

“Hey, you can't just throw it at me,” Grian hangs in place, holding his hand to his mouth as he yells across the distance.

Tango replies, his voice barely a yell, “I'm giving you a challenge.”

“Ngg, my hair!” Jimmy cries as the Glare swoops past, ruffling his head in flight, fleeing before Jimmy's wide swatting arms could hit him.

Tango yells after Grian in Jimmy's defence.

Scar has a thought, watching the Glare tease the other two, and retrieving back into the sky before they could reach him.

He swings his hands up in the air as he watches the bird turn in the sky. Hopping in place and hoping he can convey the idea he has to Grian. The Glare in the sky hovers before spotting Scar and staring at him.

Scar hardly gets a chance to see Grian’s face before metal arms lock onto him and pull him into the sky.

The feeling of sudden weightlessness is filling his stomach with fuzzy giddiness. He watches the sand move fast under his feet.

He looks up to Grian, the bird is smiling and giggling to himself, that sound barely being heard against the air flowing through Scar's hair and Grian's feathers. Scar is also laughing, he feels adrenaline fizzle inside him, Grian's grip is uneasy as he keeps adjusting it. If anything, it adds to Scar’s fearful excitement fueling his laughter, metal claws hooking under his shoulders. They may be in the air, but weirdly, all Scar can think of is how this is the closest he's been to the Glare, his ear close enough to the Glare’s collar bone to faintly make out his fast heartbeat, or maybe that was Scar's.

Grian catches onto his gaze and for a brief moment he looks confused at Scar’s stares. “This is what you were gesturing for, right?” he says loudly over the wind, his voice slightly concerned.

Scar looks back to the ground. It's further away, Grian turning in the air to loop back,

“THIS IS AMAZING! YOU'RE AMAZING! AHAHA!”

He doesn't see Grian's face in response, more hears a squeak. Scar smiles to himself.

The ground is getting worryingly close, Scar feels a subtle fatigue in his arms under the strain. “You can land with another person safely, right?“ he asks in the air.

“Only one way to find out.”

Grian slows himself in the air, it's hard for Scar to see the land they're heading towards, as he's facing the other way but he feels dust hitting his feet, the loss in speed pulling them closer to the ground.

Scar braces himself to feel his feet hit the ground, but instead he feels Grian grab on his waist and shoulder. They turn in the air, the other protecting Scar from the fall, enveloping them in wings and rolling in the sand.

All things considered, their landing wasn't that bad. Both laugh as they tumble.

Scar opens his eyes, all he can see is feathers. He feels giggles rock his head and hears air through lungs. Looking up, he realizes he's placed on Grian's chest, the latter's cloaking them both from the sun. Grian still has his hold on Scar, but he doesn't seem to notice, too preoccupied by his chuckling, his cheeks are red and he has sand in his hair.

All Scar can do is take in the sight of him, he places his hand next to Grian's head, not wanting to pull at any of the feathers, and lifts himself up. His legs are still wobbly, even if he wanted to stand, Grian's wings and hands still hold Scar in place, maybe out of reflex from the fall.

Scar laughs, the adrenaline leaving him slightly loopy, “We didn't die!”

Grian kept giggling, until his eyes eventually opened, smiley creases slowly opening wide.

In this low light Scar can see the browns and purples in his eyes fully, no sun or other illumination to drown out his eyes in the reflection. Just an ambient glow between his feathers painting them in a warm hue.

The Glare goes silent, his grip drops, Scar leaning more forward on his arms above his head as result. He looks timidly down at Grian as the other stays frozen. His eyes are no longer marked by a smile, lost in thought.

“Urrh, G?” Scar anxiously tilts his head at him.

Grian's wings open, he shuffles out from under Scar with an awkward laugh. They both sit opposite each other on their knees. Grian shakes the sand from between his feathers.

“We lived!” Grian grabs Scar's shoulders and shakes them, smiling with so much enthusiasm that Scar can't help, but mirror him with a bright smile.

“I've been wanting to ask you, for soooooo long! I just thought it might be a little rude,” Scar admits.

“Pffft, trust me, I could sort of tell and you wouldn't be the first!” Grian gleefully laughs, knocking his head back with the motion.

“I've never really tried to pull someone into the air like that,” he looks back at Scar, thrilled, and shaking with energy, “…Gosh, that could have gone so wrong. You might be a horrible influence on me, Scar.”

Scar winks, “It's a pleasure!”

“That was sick!!” They both turn to see Jimmy and Tango catch up with them, Jimmy hops in place, “I wish I could do that!! What!”

Grian gives the man a weird look, but dispels it almost like he was choosing not to say something. He instead leans back, laying his wings out in the sand and stretching his legs.

“Sorry guys, the taxi is closed!”

Scar chuckles, shifting his feet to stand. The ground is weirdly smooth, he looks down to see an inconsistent surface under the sand that his boot had just revealed.

He looks at the ground around them, it all bears the same, even curved. He taps the surface and feels a weird echoing noise from under him, moving makes whatever panel they’re resting on bend. It feels like they're leaning on an unstable surface.

“Hm,” Scar starts, but gets interrupted by a gasp.

“T-there's people,” Grian stutters, looking past Jimmy and Tango. The two turn around to see that, in fact, far down one of the forking paths, are other people. Two of them.

They're too far away to see their features in any detail, but they hold items that concerningly bear the shapes of guns. And not only that, but the two figures have definitely spotted them, approaching with intent.

“No, no, no,” Grian crawls backwards, his claws dig into the ground, leaving marks in the metal.

That reminds Scar, he holds out his hands, “STOP! Don't come here!” he yells to Tango and Jimmy.

But it's too late, they’re both looking the other way and already taking a step towards Scar and Grian.

The ground below them warps with the added weight, and they all look down, as the floor gives out. Next thing, all four of them are airborne, falling with the sand.

–

Joel’s steady strides waver as he watches the group of people they're pursuing inexplicably disappear. “Where'd they go?!?” frustration fills his voice between breaths.

“I think they fell,” Etho jogs ahead of Joel, holding the strap of his gun, stopping it from swinging as he runs.

“Where!?”

Etho glances back at him with a shrug, “Down?”

“God’s sake, come on” Joel grumbles. He picks up his pace running ahead of Etho, “Well, at least they're cornered, I'm tired of running.”

Etho keeps his eyes on where their bird and friends had fallen. From afar it was obvious to see the shape of a huge ship's remains, covered in sand and fallen stone. He briefly imagines what the ship might have looked like, large and intimidating. Etho has to admit it's a little satisfying to see such a thing in ruin. He’s so preoccupied by the site he fails to notice Joel coming to a fast halt, swigging his arms out for balance.

“Wait, wait, it's a trap! ETHO!” He yells but it's too late, Etho’s long legs slip as he tries to stop, colliding into Joel. They both fall into the sand snagging the tripwire.

In a very fast movement, the two of them are pulled upwards in a net that was buried in the sand. Joel thrashes, panicked and tangled up in the rope and Etho's limbs.

They both hear a very distinct clatter, Etho looks to Joel who winces.

“Please don't tell me that was your gun.”

Joel yells out, kicking. Etho tries, and fails, to shield himself from the onslaught.

The Glare pauses to take heavy breaths, grumbling the whole time.

“Hey, I still have mine. It's only a little bad,” Etho tries to ease, struggling to pull the thing from behind his neck in their limited space.

He rolls over as much as he can, resting the barrel of the gun through the rope, looking around as they spin slowly. He gets no response, the other clearly not listening to him.

“AGH! AAHHHHH!” Joel goes back to struggling, trying to tear their binds. They swing more with the force.

“Stop squirming, I can't get a clear shot on someone if you keep wiggling,” Etho sighs.

The Glare moves more in retaliation, “I WANT OUT! GIVE ME THAT GUN!”

“You should have worn your strap properly, then you might not have dropped it,” Etho says slyly, holding his forearm up to protect himself from Joel's heavy boots.

“THAT’S REAL HELPFUL NOW!”

“Well, I did say it before,” he adds.

Joel, in fact, doesn't appreciate the advice, “NOT THE TIME, AGH!”

“Stop moving.”

“WHAT ARE YOU EVEN AIMING AT?” He stops his flinging only to shoot glares at Etho.

Etho gives him an obvious look, “Preferably whoever laid the trap.”

Joel's mouth hangs open for a brief moment, before a boiling anger overcomes him, “SHOOT THE DAMN ROPE, YOU IDIOT!”

“Oh.”

Etho, slightly embarrassed, turns back over, he aims to where all the rope culminates where they hang, the barrel and inch from them.

He flicks the trigger, instantly, the net splitting open. Both of them tumbling onto the ground, unfalteringly both face first.

Joel gets up first, shaking his head, and crawling across the floor to his dropped gun, “NGH!”

His fingers touch the strap, but a heavy boot lands on the gun. Suspiciously out of nowhere as small sparks of blue and orange rain down, fizzling out on the sand.

Etho and Joel both look up. The figure standing over them is draped in an array of bright colours. Bright teal hair with luminescent orange streaked curls hangs over mismatched eyes that stare down at them. A tufted Blaze tail sways behind them, sporting the same teal and orange, and a selection of chunky golden bangles. One of their arms is a clawed, robotic prosthetic, painted a deep blue with stars dotted across the surface, the edges of its segments scratched and worn, revealing the golden metal underneath. Their appearance feels so whimsical that it’s shocking how intimidating they look.

They pick the gun off the floor before the shock wears off Joel. He shuffles back, bumping into another person neither him nor Etho had noticed, their focus elsewhere.

This figure is far more fitting of the scary presence they command. Their outfit consists half of armour with spiked shoulder pads, and half a dark, sleek space suit and a long blue cloak tied on their waist. Bright fiery red hair is decorated with small golden snake brooches buried amongst the waves. No, not brooches, they’re moving. They’re alive. Bright blue cracks decorate their stoney skin. Weirdly, Etho feels like he's seen their face before.

Before Joel can act, they kick him to the ground, grabbing his arm and pulling it back in a hold. Joel yells, Etho feeling that uncomfortable feeling in his own arms.

He raises his gun at them, but there's a click to his side. A gun, now pointing at him, caught in a broken triangle.

“WHO THE HELL!” Joel's feet kick uselessly at the dirt beneath him.

Etho feels pressure on his back, anxiously looking at Joel on the ground, he glares at the one restraining him.

They glare back, before their face warps into recognition, Etho now remembering why they look so familiar.

“Etho…”

“Cleo.”

They adjust their footing, turning her head to the side. “Shouldn't you be running around Sanctuary or something?” she laughs.

“You're from Sanctuary?”Joel yells loudly in surprise, despite his position, pinned with his face in the dirt.

Cleo leans down, whispering loudly near Joel's ear. “Oh, he's more than from Sanctuary, mate.”

Joel splutters, “What does that mean?”

She laughs, twisting his arm more.

The pain pulses through Etho’s own arm in tandem, but he doesn't cry out like Joel. Instead, it motivates him to hold his gun back up, pointing it at Cleo who just smirks at him.

“Let him go!” he threatens.

The other person, still directing their gun at Etho, walks to Cleo's side, leaning towards them as they say, “Oh! I think they might also be paired.”

“Would make sense…” Cleo eyes them both.

Etho shakes his head quickly saying, “No, we're not…” he stutters, realising his mistake. “I mean… I don't know what you mean?” he tries instead.

Joel sighs, hitting his head softly against the ground and saying under his voice, “For god’s sake.”

“Pffft, you were never a good liar,” Cleo laughs.

Etho moves his shoulders, feeling Joel's strain in them. “What do you want with us?” he jerks his gun towards them in an attempt to look threatening.

“We want to win the game, nothing personal,” the other shrugs.

Joel cranes his head from the floor, “What game?”

Cleo and their company look at each other, then back to them.

“You don't know? You didn't get the memo?”

Cleo pushes her shoulder up, and adds “Better for us, I suppose, we got the upper hand.”

“I still have a gun,” Etho doesn't lower his hold.

The one with the gun changes their aim, instead pressing it to the side of Joel's head, the latter squirming in frustration, “Yeah, but what are you going to do… Can you shoot faster than I can?”

“And I have a pretty good idea that we can get two birds with one stone,” Cleo finishes.

They all hold each other's gaze in a stalemate, none of them daring to move; aside from Joel, who continues to try to break free, to no avail.

“What about another idea?” Etho reasons.

Cleo looks unconvinced already, “What?”

“We could leave this place, run?”

There's a pause, Cleo's companion snorting, “With what?”

With uncannily perfect timing, above them there's an ear-splitting noise. They all look up to watch something break through the atmosphere, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake as it loudly descends from the sky.

“…How about that?”

–

KEEP READING ON AO3

#missing Stareater hours #*grabs you by shoulders* I'm working on it lads I promise #every so often I get super inspired and work on it more #but then sometimes I have moments where I'm doubting if all the work I'm putting into the world and story is worth it #but the amount of fun I have when writing and thinking about the au AND all the lovely comments and occasional fanart I get MOTIVATES ME!!#we're working on maybe the next arc planned out in details to hopefully make it easier to get through! :D #send us luck!!!

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