“Hey, Dream Girl, how’s your day going?”

Aurora’s eyes instantly went wide as she beheld the sorry state that Lorcán was in, his eye practically swollen shut underneath the now dripping ice pack held over it. She didn’t hesitate to drop her tray on an empty table and rush over, her expression shifting from surprise to concern as she reached for his face, fingers hovering just above the skin starting to bruise.

“Oh my god,” She looked over her shoulder at one of her coworkers behind the counter, a sweet older woman with hair the color of moonlight. “Deb, can you get some ice for this, please? There should be some plastic bags in the back.” The redhead sat down at the barstool next to her boyfriend and inspected him for any other bumps or bruises- it may have been busy, but her tables could wait.

“What the hell happened?”

Behind Lorcán the drone of a TV echoed through the diner.

“... the wreckage of a civilian craft was discovered today along with the bodies of several identified Hyperhumans. The Coast Guard is working alongside the RCMP to account for the bodies and the wreckage. At this time, foul play is suspected and police are pursuing leads into a motivated hate crime.”

Lorcán turned his attention back to Aurora who was waiting on bated breath for a reply.

“Oh, just the usual.” He smiled, trying to hide the wince caused by the movement of his face muscles. “Just someone thought I was a Hype and didn’t take no for an answer.” Lorcán rubbed his eyes, dropping his voice before whispering to Aurora.

“Though I’d kill to be able to take these contacts out.” He smiled as he sat back up, rubbing his faux baby blues again.

“I think when I didn’t fight back, he’s satisfied for now, but I’m going to have to be careful…” His voice trailed off as his eyes suddenly widened at the television screen.

“... are alive today thanks to the heroics of one local firefighter…”

Lorcán’s cheeks went beet-red as all eyes in the diner were first drawn to the television set and then to the pair at the counter. He rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, downplaying the applause before weakly smiling at Aurora.

“Really careful.”

The redhead sighed.

“I wouldn’t exactly call running into a burning building being careful, Lor,” She said under her breath, knowing that they still held the attention of those around them.

“Here you go, honey.” Deb reappeared from the back with the makeshift ice pack wrapped in a paper towel and passed it over the counter, “I’ll cover your tables, give you two a few minutes,” She offered a warm smile on her aging face, “Seems you’ve got quite the hero on your hands.”

Aurora’s eyes shifted back to her boyfriend, and her face softened as she met his gaze.

“Sure do,” She concurred, a small half smile pulling her lips upwards and a warmth blooming in her chest. “Thanks, Deb.” As the older woman walked away to take care of her section, Aurora took the ice pack and held it up to Lorcán’s swollen eye gingerly, not wanting to cause him any additional discomfort.

“Look, it goes without saying that I’m proud of you, you saved those people,” She began to tell him, her tone genuine, “But you can’t be so reckless like that, next time you might not be as lucky.” Aurora leaned in closer, her voice dropping into a whisper, “And I’m not just talking about keeping a low profile, I don’t know how you did that without going into Hype-Psy, it’s dangerous.” She lifted the ice pack for a moment, examining the injury, wincing at how painful it looked.

“Who did this to you? Someone at the station?”

“It was more passive anyways,” Lorcán replied dismissively, opting to negate mentioning his earlier bloody nose. He gave Aurora enough reasons to worry, she shouldn’t have to worry about hyperpsychosis on top of it all.

“And yeah, just a guy from the station. Nothing to worry about, just typical guys being guys. Probably was some more hazing.” He continued to downplay. He knew Aurora, he knew she’d want to give Miller an earful. There was something about Miller’s tattoo that still didn’t sit right with him, he needed to check with his Dad, maybe it was something he had told Lorcán about previously.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had to stop those dudes from taking a razor to my hair.” He laughed, pressing the paper towel-wrapped ice to his face and discarding his old one.

“Just the reality of this new life.” He stated before looking down at his phone. The chances of Gil actually reaching out at this point felt slim, Gil had been on a warpath his last night at P.R.C.U. and while Lorcán earnestly wanted to help, he could only imagine that if it was Aurora in Amma’s position, he’d charge in headfirst by himself too.

“He’ll call,” Lorcán said more to himself than towards Aurora before placing his phone face down on the counter.

“I’m famished, have you had a meal yet today?”

Aurora frowned. Lorcán’s words still incited worry even though he was attempting to do the opposite. She’d been to the station once or twice since he started working there and had met a few of the guys - they seemed welcoming and kind, not the type to pick a fight for fun - so her hunch told her that this was more than just a standard initiation ritual. But she didn’t want to come off as overbearing, so she simply nodded and bit her tongue, choosing not to push the issue further. Her sapphire eyes watched as her boyfriend checked his phone, again, a tic that had become frequent over the last few weeks.

“Give him time, Lor,” She reassured, knowing who he was referring to without him needing to explain. The redhead sincerely hoped Gil would reach out, but part of her wondered if he ever would.

“I had a little snack earlier, so I’m not that hungry.” Aurora replied, “But I’ll ask James to make you something, what do you want?” She inclined her head towards the kitchen, where the fry cook worked diligently on the orders that continued to come in.

“Burger, fries, orange soda,” Lorcán beamed, rhyming off his usual while James echoed the words from behind the counter, the fry cook having heard Aurora ask.

“And no-”

“Mustard, I know,” James smiled, “Good burgers don’t need mustard.”

“So he can be taught,” Lorcán wiggled his eyebrows at Aurora while James rolled his eyes.

“Careful, or you’ll be cooking your own food!” James shouted back as Lorcán flashed a wry smile.

“Have you heard from any of Blac-, uh, our friends lately?” Lorcán asked Aurora before shoving his phone back in his pocket to avoid checking it again.

The redhead couldn’t help but laugh to herself at the exchange, but upon hearing his next question, her expression fell once more. She shook her head.

“No,” Aurora replied, pulling out her own phone to find no new notifications since she started her shift. Her lock screen image was her and Lorcán, but when she swiped up, the image changed to one of her and Harper, taken at the end of the previous year. “I’ve sent a few texts but… haven’t heard anything back.”

“Guess everyone really did move on then,” Lorcán replied, doing his best to control his facial expressions. He felt a little defeated after spending so many years with the others that none of them had reached out or even replied. It made Lorcán wonder if perhaps he hadn’t been as good of a friend as he could have been.

Maybe he should have been more supportive of Haven and Rory, maybe he should have tried to encourage Cass more with Harper. He knew he had drawn the line in the sand with Katja, but they all had. There was no trusting her after the truth had come out. Calliope was dead, Amma was also dead and Gil was off who knows where. Lorcán had never taken the opportunity to get to know Cleo, Lucas or Manny.

And that was everyone that he could think of.

Part of him had considered reaching out to Ryan, seeing where she ended up. But he honestly could see her using her connections to Priest Jr. to land a teaching gig with the Foundation. Ryan always had a way of landing on her feet, probably the only positive trait passed along by her father.

He barely registered his food being placed in front of him. His hand brushed against the cold glass before he took a long solemn sip.

“Eh, probably better that they can focus on the Foundation I guess.” He muttered before taking a bite of his burger. His usual zeal for food seemed absent as he slowly chewed the mouthful of meat and bun.

Aurora placed her hand on Lorcán’s shoulder comfortingly, seeing how visibly disappointed he was about how things had ended up. They both were. There were times throughout her years at P.R.C.U. that she definitely took their group for granted, rolled her eyes at their antics, but now, she wished for just one more chaotic adventure with her friends.

Rising to her feet, she looked down at Lorcán lovingly before pressing a kiss to his head.

“I should get back to work,” The redhead found Deb across the diner and waved, signaling she’d take over her tables again. “I’ll be done in an hour or so, I don’t have to close tonight.” She reached into her pocket and grabbed her pad of paper and pen.

“Stay and eat though, then we’ll go home, okay?”

“Sounds good, Dream Girl,” Lorcán smiled, “I’ll be right here.”

His mind, on the other hand, was anywhere but.

The cab from Portsmouth felt unusually long as Lorcán and Aurora watched the foreign yet somehow familiar Eastern Coastline fly by as the car made its way into Crestwood Hollow. The flight from Vancouver to Portsmouth had gone smoothly. Lorcán had opted to put on costume contact lenses to disguise his eyes, while the pair had managed to go undetected as Hyperhumans and avoid any incidents.

He couldn’t abide the thought of being forced to wear a dampener let alone an inhibitor. Though his wandering mind suddenly likened it to a chastity belt, a shiver travelled Lorcán’s spine as he realized there were Hyperhumans out there that probably used the devices for their indulgences.

As the cab entered the Orlaith Valley, Lorcán felt like he was coming home. He had been to Crestwood Hollow more times than anywhere else on the mainland, and the smell of the orchards in fall was one of his favourite scents. The dense forests of oak and maple beyond the valley were turning colour and decorated the horizon in beautiful hues of orange, red and yellow.

Crestwood Hollow was divided across its North and South into two sections by train tracks, the Beau to the North, the rough side of the city while the Southern half was known as the Belle. His father had grown up in the Beau but his Aunt lived in the Belle while the infamous Mather Memorial basically straddled the line allowing for a mingling of students from all over the city.

It’s how a Roth had fallen for a Bordeaux.

As the cab came to a stop, Lorcán held the door for Aurora, helping her out before moving to the trunk to fetch the luggage while Aurora took care of paying the driver. His parents had entrusted their funds with Aurora as opposed to Lorcán for entirely justified reasons.

Standing in front of the house of his Aunt and Uncle, Lorcán flashed a smile at Aurora.

“Ready to see where Cass and Ripley grew up?”

The redhead had been quiet for most of the cab ride, in fact, for the majority of their journey she’d been wrapped in her own thoughts, lost in a steady churn of feelings she didn’t know how to voice. Starting in Vancouver had been one thing- she’d been a handful of times throughout her years and it felt familiar enough- but traveling across the country to a town she’d never step foot in was entirely another. Each mile that took them further from P.R.C.U. left her feeling untethered, like she was leaving something behind.

It was only when they reached the Orlaith Valley, the dense clusters of trees with their changing leaves pressing close to the winding roads, that she felt the faintest glimmer of something other than grief. She’d never seen a fall like this before, the reds and oranges were so vibrant they almost looked unreal. On the Island the seasons shifted more subtly, a quiet transition from warm to cool, but here, fall was loud and brilliant, blazing with colors that seemed to set the landscape on fire.

Aurora took a deep breath as she got out of the car, her eyes sweeping over the three-story home that lay before them, painted a light blue-toned grey with white trim. The house exuded character, the front porch scattered with autumn leaves that had drifted down from the towering oak in the front yard.

“Yeah,” She nodded, still taking it all in, “Ready.”

The room was lit only by the warm hues of the flickering candlelight.

A fragrant incense burned in the corner, masking the smell of freshly spilled blood. The source of the blood sat on a simple wooden stool whilst drawing a thread made by binding together five long hairs from atop her head. The veiled maiden then took the hair and slowly tied it around a thin needle that had been painstakingly carved from the bones of her pre-deceased predecessors.

Copper hair spilled over the shoulders of the younger woman sitting directly across from the one carrying out a sacred and ancient duty. From beside Aurora, Lorcán gently squeezed the redhead’s right hand reassuringly, as the pair watched the woman drag the newly woven thread through the untainted crimson ichor.

“Breathe, this next part will hurt.” She instructed and Lorcán squeezed a little harder as the needle penetrated the first few layers of Aurora’s palm.

Aurora inhaled deeply as directed, trying to remain calm, but her exhale quickly turned into a loud shriek.

The pain was sharp and intense, unlike anything she had ever felt before, and her grip on her boyfriend’s hand became crushing as the maiden navigated the needle through her skin, each movement hurting more than the last.

“Ow, ow!” She exclaimed, sapphire eyes watering as the agonizing sensation radiated from her palm up her arm.

“I will finish sooner if you remain still.” The veiled woman stated as Lorcán did his best to steady Aurora, his other hand balling into a fist at his girlfriend’s pain. He hated that she had to be subjected to this, but if Ellara was right, without this ward their souls would be ripped to shreds.

“Is there no way to like, numb the pain?” Lorcán pleaded.

“No, the pain is part of the Path.”

The redhead took a shuddering breath, nodding before clamping her eyes tightly shut as tears trailed down her cheeks. It was excruciating, the stabbing evolving into something that felt akin to burning, but she knew it was necessary if they were to continue on their journey. Another breath, and she directed all her focus to cease the trembling in her hand and arm, trying to remain still as instructed.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek as the veiled woman continued, a metallic taste coating her tongue as she attempted to quiet her whimpers of pain.

Withdrawing the needle with the last pass, Lorcán’s eyes widened as he watched the rune begin to glow. He had just experienced it himself, he knew the next part was going to be the worst for Aurora and he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight, feeling the heat shoot through her body.

But not even Lorcán’s strong embrace could comfort her as the burning sensation overtook. Aurora leaned into him, burying her head into the crook of his neck and cried, desperate for any relief from this torment. Her body felt ablaze, like it was being set on fire from the inside.

And then as quickly as the pain had come on, it disappeared.

Breathing heavily and a sheen of sweat dotting her brow, Aurora cautiously sat upright and gazed down at her hand, at the coal-black symbol that now covered the fair skin of her palm. Swallowing, she looked between the veiled maiden and Lorcán, a few final stray tears slipping down her face.

“Is that the last of you now?”

“Yes,” Came Ellara’s reply as Gil waited anxiously nearby for the ritual to be completed, “Just the three of them, thank you again, Sister.”

“This is the Path I walk.”

She had tried to brave-face the branding; she did.

Stephen had battled at her side to step before her, to be the first, he stressed, held back by officials donned in resilient armor-like clothing as soon as they noticed him. Psionic waves of pinkish anger dashed across his accosted limbs as Scylla was thrust forward, hand out and inserted with little ceremony and tears to map through the freckles speckled over cheeks flushed with pain and pinched tight. It had been instantaneous, but no less damning, the variated lines of thickness and numbers spelled across her skin, a peculiar glow nestled below and held up to the light to gauge efficiency before she was herded along, Stephen calling for her through a sea of haunting white cloth.

This was nothing compared to P.R.C.U: no splotches of color, regaled beasts, or charmingly sculpted castle-like exteriors. It was all fine lines and rigid composure, spartan, military. Imprisonment, frigid, nary a source of warmth, and all submitted under aseptic bright light. Forged into a line of procession, Scylla was nearly bowled over by the urgency spun through them, a myriad of famished gazes raking through her pale hair, meeting her green eyes and wide-drawn expressions with sneers and appetence she could feel coursing through every link of nerve that fired away betwixt her ears as warning signals. Eyes of a grey so dark they glimmered as onyx stones beheld her, he pointedly looked down, gesturing off-handedly nearly, so nonchalantly that she paused as if to regard him before she saw it: the banner of Amma Cahors – Tiamat, as it displayed. Emblazoned in such a fashion that Scylla was taken back for the woman so proudly presented was nothing like the woman she saw on the dancefloor, nor the one she encountered daily so consumed by her bitter rage and sorrow. She hardly had time to discern it properly before a familiar hand clasped her own, fingers woven to lift her now branded wrist to amber eyes slightly brightened with worry.

“I’m sorry, I tried-” Concern creased his brow, soft hands to wipe away her lingering tears as he cursed them all.

“There was nothing to be done, Steph.” She carefully inspected his own in a whisper, delicate nails tracing around the ten-digit number before she ghosted her lips against it, her attempt in branding to dispel the pain before she dropped their intertwined hands to follow the rest of their remaining peers. Those onyx eyes still tracked her; she could feel as much, a hunger purring through the space of the commons, a voice that teased and plucked against the trembling fringes of her mind that uttered:

You know the dragon too, huh?

Scylla ducked her head and shored up the walls within, fortified with the similar violet hues that Stephen commanded. She locked onto those shields with electric barbs to lance against the voice festering there, the only sign now a ghost of laughter that coiled its way down her spine, gone taut and strained.

“Are you okay?” Stephen uttered, pulling her close, barely noticing the banners suspended above them, eyes only for her as she nodded slowly, her opposite gesture coming up to her throat, their necklaces handed over reluctantly when they received their new clothes. She felt incomplete without it, her only solace and remembrance of Raindance and all that was left behind. He noticed, for of course he did, and whispered that he’d get them back for her. Even in The Foundation, there would always be Raindance, and nothing could change that otherwise.

Though she appreciated his sentiments and let him know such with a grateful smile, Scylla could not dismiss the doubt that bunched just underneath her skin, for then they were so rudely torn apart, thrust across opposite sides of a long hallway, his anguished face the last thing she saw before the door was shut with such a drone of finality that immediate panic fled through her limbs. Her breath came in harsh and quick, near pants that faltered from her trembling lips as sudden darkness descended and enveloped her in its gloom. Scylla floundered, the confining space triggering a near-hyperventilated flutter of her lungs that quivered with every inhale, not enough breath to expand- not enough space even to move. She remembers then the tiny confessions of a raven-haired woman, the same one so regaled onto a banner, raised for all of them to see. A woman celebrated in a place that was devoid of any sort of hope—a woman who cursed their very mention.

I don’t like the dark, she once heard her say. A rare occurrence in House Gulo where Amma would linger in the common area, eyes cast off into shadow and lashes panned down low, lost somewhere in a toiling memory. Once, Scylla had braved to inquire why.

The answer given shook her then just as it shook her now, down to the very marrow, arms curled around her middle to stifle the clamoring frenzy of her sudden fears.

Because that is where they made me.

All her tears had dried by the time Haven entered Rory’s room for the final time. As she slowly shut the door behind her she took the time to look over the room. It was littered with things neither could carry, and missing most of what they both cherished. All of his pictures had been taken down and packed away. The clothes he couldn’t make room for still sat in his hamper or on the floor of his open closet. Some of her own were mixed in with it. His father’s suitcase, of course, sat on his desk ready for transport.

She stood holding her favorite Jansport by the strap. A newer pair of sneakers were stuffed deep inside, surrounded by the clothes she considered practical for their journey ahead. Bathroom essentials, two pairs of pants, a few basic tops, layers for warmth, and her favorite tee’s she’d taken from the abandoned cabins she once called home. She held a coat in her other hand, with a pair of boots dangling by their strings. The worn sneakers on her feet would be left behind with the rest.

The backpack was stuffed full, and yet she’d still made space for her father’s sketchbook. Any photos she had of her time on the island had been carefully tucked between the first sketch and the cover. It had been hard to look at the team photos when she packed them. Rory had told her of his suspicions by that time, and while she believed him she still found it hard to comprehend.

Each photo with Katja made the ache in her chest worsen, and yet she still kept each one of them.

“Do you need help packing anything else?” She asked softly, although she knew he didn’t need it. The words were empty, more like a verbal olive branch before she said what was really on her mind.

Rory had planted himself near the window, which had remained locked since the incident with Haven. The scattered mess was a reminder of his years spent on the island. Equipment he had never returned, borrowed and purchased clothing that he had worn ragged over the years. On his desk rested his old high school letterman jacket, which he had managed to snag out from beneath a pile of old hoodies in the little closet space he had. But what he needed remained secured in his suitcase and in a duffel stuffed underneath the bed. He turned his tired gaze towards his partner and shook his head.

”Can’t use most of this stuff anymore. It made packing easier.” His voice shook, as if it were hollowed out and reverberated an exhaustion that had been building. There was something about the air between them that he could tell was wrong, and he could hazard a guess as to what it was. But putting a name to it and ushering it out was too much for him. If a storm was coming, it would come.

Haven could only nod in response. While she’d never needed anything to take flight but her sneakers, she could only imagine what it felt like for Rory to even look at his Hyperball equipment now. Although she wasn’t sure if she understood exactly how he was feeling after his outburst on the beach.

She walked over to the bed to rest her Jansport and boots at the foot of it, in the place she’d placed it’s empty form not too long ago. Her coat was laid over the end of the bed. She slipped off her worn sneakers and tucked them close together, before turning to face him.

“Rory,” she began, hesitant about what she would say to him for the first time in their short relationship. “What happened earlier… Are you alright?”

Rory’s expression darkened for a moment. He moved his hands into his lap from their positions on the armrests. ”They needed to know.” He refused to look Haven in the eyes as he continued to stare out the window, wringing his hands. His voice was more firm this time. ”I’m fine.”

“I know you’re not fine.” She rebutted, her back muscles tensing with a mixture of frustration and worry. Maybe she didn’t have the energy to argue with Harper, but she wasn’t about to let Rory lie to her. Not when she could see how much he was hurting.

“I know it hurts you more than the rest of us. Of course it does. You were best friends.”

”Were we?” There was a sudden and almost desperate fervor In that question. He finally turned his head towards Haven, his eyes still red and puffy from earlier. ”Or was I just a mission for her?” He shook his head, the remnants of the rage he felt earlier that day beginning to boil in his chest. ”She was never one of us.”

“She was in the beginning, Rory.” Haven kept her tone soft. Her sympathy for his heartache was keeping her own anger at bay, for now. “She was broken when she came here, like most of us were. If her life before was anything like what you told me she went through in the trial… I don’t think she had any reason to doubt the sweet lies Hyperion whispered to us.”

She thought of the way Katja’s anger had dissipated the moment those blue eyes met her own. How her heart had cracked just a little more as she recognized sympathy in her expression. It hurt that Katja had lied to them for so long, and yet it was worse that Katja still cared for them after all this time.

“I’m not trying to justify what she’s done. I don’t want to forgive her for it.” Her tone was bitter and heartbroken as she spoke, but her eyes soon fell to the floor as she gathered the courage to speak her mind.

When she finally lifted her eyes to meet his sky blues, her tone was firm despite the concern in her eyes. “I don’t think she deserved what you said to her, though. It was cruel. You weren’t acting like yourself, Rory.”

“Please tell me you didn’t mean it.”

”What if I did?” It was less of a question and more of a statement as his tone and expression hardened. His eyes lacked the usual light and spark, instead dull orbs that seemed to look past Haven.

”I don't care if she was lied to, Haven. She betrayed us. She trusted terrorists who attacked us, and she would have never come clean about it. You and Harper can defend her all you want, but she is not your friend.” Rory’s hands gripped each other tightly in his lap, a pained sneer forming on his lips. ”She was the monster, not Amma.”

“I’m not defending her.” The words came out a bit faster than she intended. She didn’t know if they were right, but she at least didn’t mean to be defending someone who had betrayed them this way.

“Amma was never a monster, either. Tiamat was the monster underneath. The Foundation created that part of her. Dae-... he made her that.”

Her stress was returning in the way her hands began to shake at her sides. Again, this was a side to Rory that she had never seen before. A side that she knew came from the pain he held within himself. A pain that she wasn’t sure she could comfort.

“Katja meant it, when she said that she never intended to hurt us. When she said that she didn’t know about the trial.” She continued as the frustration of it began to simmer in her stomach. “It’s all so fucked up.”

”Kruger's friends nearly killed you, Haven.” His tone seemed desperate and pleading, underneath the pure disdain with which he spoke Katja's name. ”She should have known. After what Hyperion did, after everything… she's not an idiot. She just didn't care.” Rory turned his gaze away from Haven, looking out the window as if he would catch a glimpse of the person they talked about.

”If she was sorry, she would have confessed after the Trial. But no… she continued to lie to us and pretend like she had nothing to do with them. And now she says exactly what you wanted to hear, and you're willing to believe her?” Rory looked back towards Haven, an anger in his eyes that dissipated the second he saw her shaking hands. His brow stitched together in a mixture of confusion and concern. His tone grew limp. ”I… don't believe her, Haven. And even if I did, I will never trust her again.”

Haven exhaled as she saw the anger leave his eyes. Relief and heartache consumed her as he seemed to become less hostile about it all, just because of her. She tucked her hands into the pocket of his hoodie to hide them.

“I just… I can’t believe she lied for so long. She did care for us, in some twisted way.”

”She had a funny way of showing it.” There was no smile or jest in Rory’s words, and it stung with the faintest remnant of anger. But he took a moment to breathe, letting out his anger. His voice was calm and resolute. ”I stand by what I said to her, Haven. She needed to hear it.”

“I think what you were feeling at that moment was right, Rory. I really do. I’m angry, and I’m also just heartbroken.” She wrung her hands together where they were hidden from view now and watched him through her lashes. It was hard to say it directly to his face, and yet she gathered the courage to tilt her chin up and meet his gaze. “But I can’t stand by how you said it.”

“I hope that’s okay with you.”

Rory's face screwed in temporary discomfort. He opened his mouth to respond, before biting his lip to stop himself. He turned his gaze away, taking the moment to recenter his thoughts. This only amplified his disappointment. ”I would have stood by you punching the shoulders kid. Or going after Torres.” He looked back towards Haven, confusion knitting his brows. ”But Katja… she lied to us for years. Stood by an actual terrorist that actually hurt people like us. Said nothing and didn't help find the others who nearly killed you, and you can't stand calling her out?”

The fire was lit behind his eyes as he lifted a hand to roll his wheels, slowly spinning himself to fully face Haven. ”Was I supposed to say please and thank you when she stabbed us in the back, or ask her to do it again? Or should I just stay quiet and see which one of us she helps kill next?” Rory's nostrils flared in indignation, and his cheeks burned with a rage that refused to continue eating away inside. His eyes refused to get the memo, still bearing the sad pain he had since the dance.

Haven’s cheeks turned pink to match his, in the way that they always did, but this time it was a result of her frustration. Her own brows had furrowed in response to his accusations, and his last words had sent a shiver up her spine that made the muscles on her back ache. Another muscle in her neck ticked as she quickly rebutted.

“That’s not what I mean, Rory.” Her voice was louder this time, laced with hurt that he’d even assumed that she didn’t want Katja to know how much pain she had caused. “I was ready to back you up if nobody believed you, and if Katja denied it, I was going to be the one to call her out next.”

“But you said that no one loved her, and then you used Amma against her like she hadn’t just been dragged into hell with that thing. Katja was clearly torn up about Amma, and you twisted the knife. You cut deeper than you needed to, Rory. I don’t know if it’s because of how you’re hurting, or if you’re still hung up about how you used to feel about her, but I know you didn’t get any pleasure out of it. Even if you smiled when you said it.”

She shook her head as she took a breath.

“It wasn’t you, Rory.”

Rory nodded, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he took in Haven’s words. Her frustration was finally clicking into place in his head. His eyes shifted down towards the ground for a moment, before he simply shook his head. ”Being me hasn’t done us much good, has it?” He let the words settle for a moment before he looked up again. Tears formed in the corner of his eyes, as his voice grew borderline desperate. ”Didn’t help you, didn’t help the team, and it didn’t help Amma either. Being me got me in this fucking chair!” His eyes shifted to his seat, and he slammed a fist onto his arm rest, wincing slightly from the pain of it.

But that only wound Rory up more.

”I didn’t enjoy it, but at least I hurt her, Haven. Not because I liked her, not because she was our friend, but because she hurt us! I couldn’t hurt Hyperion, I couldn’t hurt the monster, but I knew how to hurt her.” The tears flowed freely at this point, his fists clenched so tightly blood laced his fingernails. ”We’ve lost everything without even a chance to fight back. So I hit her where I could, where it would hurt, where she would feel for even a second what I do because we can’t even touch the others. And we never will.” His voice had crescendoed into a booming shriek, that was almost immediately snuffed out by a sudden exhale of tension as Rory was hunched forward, almost doubled over.

His voice grew quiet, as if he had used up what little energy he had left on the tirade. He still refused to look at Haven, barely able to see the ground as what few tears he had left clouded his sight. ”I needed to do something. Anything.”

He heard a few soft steps, and then suddenly Haven was kneeling before him. Through his blurred vision he could see her hands reaching for his. They carefully peeled back his fingers where his nails had dug into his palm, and slid themselves into his open gestures to press against the self-inflicted wounds.

“Being you brought us together.” She began, her voice shaking with sorrow. “Being you got me through all of this. I don’t know how I could have survived it alone.”

“You’re all I have left, Rory. You’re all I want.” She squeezed his hands as she looked over his defeated expression. “It was all out of our hands from the start, and I’m just… I’m so glad you’re still here.”

A few of her own tears slid down her cheeks.

“Tell me what I can do to help you through this. You’re not alone. We’ll get through this together.”

Rory squeezed Haven's hands back, and his shoulders sagged with exhaustion. What little anger had seeped out of him, leaving just the shell. He shook his head. ”I don't know, Dove. I don't know.” He lifted his head to look about the room and the assorted mess.

”For now, I just need help getting to bed. We've got a long day ahead of us.”

Haven took a breath as if she had more to say, but her eyes fell to their intertwined hands and she just nodded in response. Slowly, she rose to stand and wiped off her face with the back of her sleeve. Her hands then tucked her stray hairs behind her ears as she moved around to the back of his wheelchair.

She pushed him over to the side of the bed, beginning their nighttime routine they’d only had a few nights to act out. Except this time there were no little jokes to make light of their situation. Haven knelt down to remove his shoes, placing them in front of where his duffel was tucked under the bed. She stood again and moved to his side, placing a single kiss against his temple as she waited for his arm to sling across her shoulders. Her own arm slid around his back, and then the other under his knees.

She lifted him out of the chair with ease. The center of her back ached with the movement, but it had become a normal pain over the last week. A bearable pain. She didn’t mention it as she rested him on the bed. As she released her hold on him, her arms moved then to carefully position his legs with a pillow underneath his knees.

“Is that comfortable? Do you want your shirt off?” She asked, moving up to his torso where she adjusted his pillow under his head although she knew he could do it himself.

He always felt so useless at this part. The tenderness with which Haven always helped him was the only thing that kept him from losing his mind. But he still needed to do what he could. He sat himself upright in bed. ”Can you please shove this in my bag?” He lifted his arms to his back and yanked his shirt up over his head, before holding it out towards Haven. His exhausted face tried to contort itself into the facsimile of a pleading smile.

Haven nodded as she took his shirt from him, eyes lingering on his for a second before she knelt down to fold his shirt into his duffel. She took a breath as she stood, preparing herself for her own display of what she’d been left with following the dance. Slowly, she pulled his hoodie off of her back to reveal the tank top she’d been wearing underneath. She faced him for as long as she could as she folded it over her arm, and only turned her back to him to take it and her coat to a chair nearby.

What remained of her wings twitched as she moved, while normally her wings would have shifted behind her. The pin feathers that covered the healed skin were growing faster than she expected. The openings at the top of the pins already revealed soft, downy feathers that made the nubs look like freshly hatched chicks. They were still itchy, but as her arm bent behind her back to scratch at them she just couldn’t find the right angle. She huffed and swallowed down the frustration of it before turning back to the bed.

Soon she had crawled over Rory to take her place next to him. She sat upright for a moment to tie her hair back, and then toss her dirty socks into the hamper across the room. As she laid down, she still found it strange how large the bed felt now. She no longer needed to cling to Rory’s side to give her wings space. After their argument, their first fight, she left a bit of that extra space between them as she turned to lay on her stomach to give them some breathing room. With her head on the pillow, she finally looked across at Rory’s head where it laid on his pillow.

“Do you think you’ll sleep soon?” She wasn’t sure when she’d fall asleep, herself.

Rory had watched Haven undress, watching her movements carefully. As she revealed her back, he felt another wave of pain and regret. She was healing better than expected… but the grim reminder of what she lost made his tirade feel immature. He watched her try to stretch near her wings, before she gave up. He instinctively reached down below himself to lift himself up, before a small shot of pain in his right leg reminded him of his own situation.

He scooted himself over slightly as Haven went to lie down, staring up at the ceiling with a hand over his stomach. The distance between them felt deeply uncomfortable. Her question cut through the air between them. Rory shook his head, turning over to look at Haven. ”I doubt it.” He paused for a moment, before he took a breath. The movement was quick, and punctuated with a small grunt of discomfort, as he lifted himself up onto his side. ”Do you need help with those?” He motioned towards the nubs on Haven's back with his free hand, as one arm kept him propped up on his side.

Haven’s brows rose with hesitation, unsure how she would feel about another’s touch on such a sensitive spot, before she thought of the relief it would bring and nodded. With a sigh, she shifted herself closer to him. The kind gesture closing the distance that their fight had created.

“Can you just… scratch between the feathers? Gently, please.” Her voice was soft, carrying a tone of apprehension that came with letting anyone near her back like this. She hoped he wouldn’t be hurt by it.

Rory gave a small nod, lifting a hand up and placing it on Haven’s back. He slowly rubbed the area near her joints first, his fingers massaging her skin in an effort to help her relax. He then hesitantly moved his hand to the closest one, hesitating the moment his finger glanced feather. His brow was knit together as he focused on being slow and gentle, his fingers softly scratching at her direction. ”Like this?”

She’d melted like butter the moment he massaged her aching muscles. Her eyes fluttered before they closed, and she allowed herself to relax under his care. Even as his fingers neared the center, the only thought she had was that she wished she’d asked for this sooner. A bitter pang of regret made her breath catch in her throat before his fingers began to move between her pins. It was bittersweet relief.

This moment should have been the first time he touched her wings.

“That’s perfect.” She murmured, a hint of her sorrow in her tone. “It might even put me to sleep.”

Rory nodded, moving his hand to the farther set. ”Then get some rest, Dove.” He continued with the small, gentle movements, doing what he could to soothe his partner. He lost the hesitation in his touch, growing more comfortable the more Haven relaxed.

His confident ministrations soothed her discomfort far faster than either expected. Her breathing soon became slow, deep pulls of air into her lungs. Her mind went quiet, focused solely on the feeling of his fingers.

“Thank you.” She managed to slur out as her exhaustion began to settle into her bones. She gave him one last, sleepy blink his way as a smile crept onto her lips, before her eyes closed again and she was lost to sleep.

Rory continued to gently massage Haven's back until he was certain she had drifted to sleep. He looked at her face for a moment, his own exhaustion wearing on his face. But he leaned forward, brushing his lips against Haven's cheek as he extended himself as over. As his head was near hers, and the swarm of feelings that bloomed inside his chest ceased their fighting, he whispered softly to her. His words were tender, clear, and deliberate. They felt natural as she rested near him.

_{”I love you, Haven.”}

Rory turned away, repositioning himself onto his back to stare at the ceiling. His cheeks burned, and his head swam with the day's events.

Sleep would not come for him that night.

Manny’s answer made Lucas grin, and he waved in absentminded farewell to their fireside company before they both followed after Cleo. If there’d ever been a time to offer each other support, now was it. Now was always it, but this was definitely one of the more emphatic nows, when words didn’t come easy but feeling alone came too easy. Didn’t want that for anyone, but he didn’t know how to help anyone else. Still, his concern was short-lived as they waded through soft sand and away from the other flickering fires, his eyes lighting up as he crouched to gather a few shells and smirked to himself at the reflective pieces he’d found. “Ha, missing more than one, right? Yeah, I like that, okay…”

He stood up fast, hurrying to catch up with his taller friend and rolling the smooth pieces between his fingers until they caught sight of Cleo, paused by a picnic table and trying to pull herself back together. Far enough away no one else could bother her, but easy enough to find if anyone went looking like they were. He grinned, waving. “Sorry, okay, sorry… Cleo. Hey! Cleo!” Warning given maybe a little too close to the shout he was warning Manny about, Lucas kept waving until Cleo looked their way, then he hauled him forward until they were close enough to talk quieter, alternating between frowning concern and twitching lips excitement, not sure if he’d thought of a good idea or a bad one or how she was managing.

Cleo sat at the table, the darkness folding over her like a thick shroud. The distant glow of a campfire illuminating her with its thin light, barely touching her face. Her foot bounced up and down rapidly against the sand, and she stared at her hands - what little she could make out of them and the outline of her fingers. She moved them individually, precise movements that formed small colours between her palms. Vague and quickly disappearing shimmers that fizzled and fell away into the dark night and away from her.

She gnawed at her lip, feeling Rory's visceral anger still haunt and linger like a phantom. Gil's grief still flowing under her skin. The weight of Blackjack pressed into her consciousness, a black river pulling her under, where all their fears and emotions floated like souls drifting along the Styx, ferrying to nowhere.

"I'm sorry,” she spoke out as Lucas and Manny approached. Her shoulders curled inwards. "It all came over me, out from my tongue.” Cleo twitched and shuddered, placing her failing hands against the side of her head. "I'll be okay... It just... Just needs to leave,” she muttered, blinking through the sharp throb of pain pulsing behind her eyes. "Too much,” she said, a strained chuckle escaping her lips.

”It’s fine… Yeah, you both are fine. I get it, It’s all been too much. This week’s been too much, this night’s been too much. There ain’t been no place on this island without a sob, not a second without a sniffle. And Blackjack, God knows what they’ve been through. So loud, so full of anger.” For naught but a moment he shuddered at their voices, the soft and unsteady chants likened to shouts upon the darkened nightly expanse as the words crossed the bounds of his ears. Splintered fragments of despondent whispers uttered with tones laced with malice slipped sparse lapses in his concentration. Words that marked a betrayal of the good days. An exsanguination of the crimson blood of love of the carcass of memories passed upon the land in which such times were forged.

“Hi. Carrying all that stuff’s heavy, huh? That’s okay. We’re opening doors, all right? You said you’re going—and I’m going with you—but they didn’t say now or never, did they? Just now or not our problem. . . . Can we find more homes to miss before we go?”

As he reached the source of his excitement, finally blurting out the question after a moment’s deep breath hesitation, Lucas held out his hand, showing off the new sea glass he’d found that had given him the notion. They were all missing people, and if they had to leave, why not find a few of them, at the very least, before taking the Foundation up on their offer of a place to stay?

Immanuel’s eyes lingered on the likes of sea glass grouped together within Lucas’ hand. A group. A mass of stones so tightly knit upon the bounds of his skin. Each stone, a testament to life, formed under the pressure of the ocean and tossed beneath its waves. Crashed, cracked, and parts torn asunder against rocks and stones laden throughout its undeterminable path. But their paths led them to one place, smoothed upon the sand and standing upon the beach. His hand brushed against the sea glass tied on his own wrist. The intricacies and memories embedded within the accessory were but one of the final remembrances of his own group. Their own group. Breaking away from the sight of the stones within his palm he looked upon Lucas’ wrist, then upon Cleo’s own. Memories. Their home. Was it coming to an end?

"Hi…” Cleo answered, forcing a small smile in their direction finally. “I think my… My walls are a bit crumbled since..." she said as one hand moved to grip her leg to stop it from shaking underneath the table. "It'll just be a moment,” she said, half looking in their direction, catching the glow of Lucas’ piece of seaglass. “N-new homes?” she asked, blinking again.

“Yeah. New spaces, familiar faces… All right? And no screaming.” He hoped. Lucas’ enthusiasm dimmed quickly in the face of confusion, but he didn’t let it go, just left it out to stop skipping steps. He hadn’t explained his idea yet, had he? And he nodded slow, slipping around the table so Manny’s steadier head was closer to her as he heard her words again, second-time around less blurred by his own excitement. Walls falling down… “Walls sit heavy and it hurts when they fall, okay? It’s bad when you don’t know what’s in them. Cracks only get bigger if you put more weight on top. But Manny has walls he knows, and you have walls you know and I have walls, too.” He paused for a moment before setting the bits of smoothed glass down on the table. “Daisy and Violet, Steve, Amir, Gladys… All of them.” He gestured expansively. “They have walls too, right? Their homes. And they aren’t here and… I like that now… but I want to see them again. And I… I don’t want to go home by myself.”

Cleo turned to look at Lucas in the dark, “A-Amir.” Quietly, quickly she spoke, saying nothing else, looking then to Manny.

Immanuel slid his body upon the surface of the bench as Lucas moved away from his side. For there were but few moments his ears didn’t perceive it all, he listened as Cleo’s words fell from her mouth. An utterance that with the ears he possessed he could tell was low, defeated in her tone. They’ve all bore loads, loads which were laid upon their shoulders and were saddled upon their backs. People who carry a crushing weight that splintered their bones and strained the muscles that held it, a load that couldn’t be described. How could one describe all the sounds the world creates? How could one describe seeing the past like the present in but every object they touch? How could one describe feeling the brunt force of the emotions of others? As the weight grows the cracks form. A wall is only made bear to so much. ”That… It would be nice. We could use a break, we deserve a break. From all the angst, the sadness. I miss them all. Glady’s little crafts, Whitney’s snarky attitude, Steve being Steve.”

His fingers traced the cracks in the picnic table, forged beneath the weathering of nature, a natural stress. They all had cracks, ones so deep they forgot the cracks had even formed. When a wall comes down, the only thing left to do is to rebuild from the rubble. Rome wasn’t rebuilt in a day, and certainly not alone. ”I think we should do it. Go out. See our friends again. Hell, I’d say those people are like family. Y’all are like family. Before we go to the Foundation, let's make the most of it.”

All the empath between them could do for the moment was nod. Their names spelled colours in her mind that formed in plumes against the shadows that circled, swam, and floated. Whitney’s snarky attitude was a burst of bright pink, the taste of raspberries lingered around it too. “I'd like to see Whit,” Cleo said, her tone softening the sharp edges down now. “As many as we can visit.”

She released the grip from her own clothing now, placing her hands gently on the table surface. “Chaney always has the best jokes… Ezra the best music.”

From their faces, grown more thoughtful the more words he said, Lucas’ gaze shifted back to the glass and then to their hands. Cleo’s still, finding their place, settling down, and Manny’s moving steady and slow, like a shiver down his spine, tracing old, worn wood, but it was warm instead of cold and they weren’t saying no… He grinned. ”Okay! Who’s first? Darla’s BC, right?” She was probably the closest.

“You wanted to meet?”

Maya stood barely illuminated by the moon above the trees, tablet in hand as she turned to the source of the voice. She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, before flashing a shy smile at the man before her. His brassy baritone voice was recognizable anywhere, even without his trademark armoured suit.

Tight silver curls stood out starkly contrasted against the darker hues of his complexion as James Robert King towered over Maya Eve Almassian.

“We could have chosen a better location, perhaps one with more visibility.” James stated as Maya sheepishly smiled back.

“Sorry, Steel Shell, Sir, I just know how those H.E.L.P. types are about their technology.”

“There really isn’t a H.E.L.P. to be concerned with is there?” James replied with dry amusement, “It’s more the government we have to contend with.”

“What do you make of H.E.L.P. using anti-Hype technology though?”

“Frankly, it should be destroyed before it can be used against any of us.” The older man motioned for Maya to follow him. “My abilities allowed me to build a suit that augments my physical state to rival that of my teammates. I don’t employ weapons that make anyone less than what they are. Nothing sporting about that.”

“I thought all was fair in love and in war?” Maya retorted while looking down at her tablet.

“Last I checked, we were neither in love nor in war.” James replied before spinning around on Maya and ripping the tablet from her hands. His eyes widened at the correspondence he read on the screen before words seethed through his teeth.

“You treacherous witch.” He waved the tablet in Maya’s face, “Who are you corresponding with? I am not a bargaining chip to be bought nor sold!” Indignation and rage were laden in his tone as he took a step towards Maya.

“You will not touch me,” Maya replied defiantly, “You have no idea what’s coming, first they’ll take you so-called heroes and show the world you bleed, then they’re coming for all these insolent brats you’ve conveniently gathered together in one easy target.”

“Your ignorance blinds you, you’re as Hyperhuman as I,” James retorted, “They’ll come for you all the sa-” His words were cut short as a bolt flew from the darkness, burying itself in his chest. James dropped to one knee, reaching to his belt only to stop as the bolt suddenly expanded before spinning and burying itself deeper.

His anguished cry fell upon deaf ears as the armoured pair stepped into the limited light. Maya felt her stomach turn as her eyes were drawn to the glowing lights on both sets of pauldrons. Waves of nausea washing over her as the power inhibitors built into the suits nullified both her and James’ abilities.

“My debt is paid, I have delivered as promised.” Maya stood tall, doing her best to appear fearless in the presence of the pair of knights. The one holding the crossbow turned his helm’s visor towards her and nodded slowly. She turned to leave before the other raised his hand and stopped her.

“But your allegiance is so easily bought,” The filtered voice stated, “Was it not merely weeks ago you sold students to the one known as Daedalus?”

“I-” Maya stammered, “That was different.”

“It led to the creation of that beast, Hyperhumans are already an affront to what is pure, and your actions directly led to further monstrosities. You are not to be trusted.”

“No, I am loyal to you, I can bring you more like him, please I-”

Her words hung in the air, only seemingly dissipating as her head hit the ground with a dull thud before her body crumpled alongside it. The steady hum of the glowing blade danced until the moon’s pale light before the two knights turned back to the former Steel Shell.

“Get. It. Over. With.” He growled as the one holding the sword raised the blade above his head.

“As you wish.”

His head rolled along the ground, coming to a stop beside Maya’s before the pair looked to one another and then towards the abandoned compound left behind by H.E.L.P.

“Secure the weapons, the Grand Master’s plans will surely be accelerated by this quantity.”

“Help me..” A faint voice suddenly interrupted the pair as they looked between the two deceased bodies before locating the source in the bush surrounding them. Branches snapped and leaves crunched before the frame of a young girl came into view. She looked up at them with weary eyes before they glowed red. Salvia began to drip from her mouth, her jaw unhinging as her yellowed teeth gave way to a maw full of long, piercing fangs.

“Delicious.”

And then she pounced.

“...the Bordeaux Estate?”

Lorcán stood in disbelief at the house in front of him that dwarfed the Administrative Building back on Dundas Island. A wall ran the outside perimeter, splotches of newer paint covering obvious graffiti from a time when the ‘hype’-hunt blamed all the Hyperhumans in the town on Vanessa following her murder and had strived to drive the remaining members of the Bordeaux family out of Crestwood Hollow.

Still, the Estate and the family endured, with Viktor and his wife; Sarina or ‘Sally’ as she was more commonly referred to, collecting the majority of their weather from the Bordeaux Orchard and Vineyard that was situated behind the Estate and stretched into the fertile Orlaith Valley.

“I guess we just hit the intercom?” Lorcán suggested approaching the gate while Cass sized up the perimeter wall.

“Could always jump it and knock on the front door.” He replied dryly before watching as Lorcán took a hold of the wall. Realizing his sarcasm had been missed, he moved quickly to pull his young cousin off the wall before giving him a light cuff to the back of the head.

“Just hit the intercom button.”

Lorcán offered a sheepish smile before approaching the small black box and holding down the red button. Above them, a blinking light appeared on the camera as Lorcán took a step back and eagerly waved while Cass did his best to look unassociated with the long-haired surfer.

“What have I done to deserve a Roth darkening my doorstop?” The irritated voice asked from the otherside of the intercom.

“Uh, well we’re here to ask about Mather Memorial,” Lorcán stated, “Specifically the deed?”

A long sigh could be heard from the otherside of the intercom before an electronic buzz echoed. The gate slowly swung open before the intercom crackled to life again.

“Come in.”

Lorcán clenched his side, grimacing at the long shallow cut that had managed to penetrate his borrowed armour. In the fray, he had been separated from the others, their party attacked. Lorcán had managed to fend for himself, but he was hopelessly lost now.

They had come here, to this accursed place to save Amma, to rescue her. But now he was in need of rescuing and more than ever, he was worried about Aurora. What if those things had gotten her? If Ellara could be caught off guard here, then were any of them truly safe?

The crimson light of the eternal hunter’s moon bathed everything in a sanguine glow. He looked at the damp glove, the dark ichor that stained it was his own blood. He wasn’t used to seeing it, not like this. A warm wind whistled down his spine sending every hair on his body on edge, the scent of his own blood wafting past his nose and sending this damned place into a hungered frenzy.

Lorcán may as well have just rung the feeding bell.

The underbrush shocked, the trampling of leaves accented by snapping twigs as something moved towards him. Lorcán gripped the gun firmly between his hands, leveling it before it was quickly dashed out of his hands.

The familiar odour of death filled his nostrils, threatening to gag him as the corpse-like creature came towards him. A vorpal sword from his hip arched in front of him, as Lorcán reacted on pure instinct, the iridescent blade went snicker-snack before Lorcán pulled it back. Then one and two, followed by through and through and the beast toppled like a sack.

Scrambling for the fallen firearm, Lorcán heard the Wendigo rise again. The scream the creature made threatened to turn the blood in his veins to ice. His hand trembled, fear forced upon him by his foe. His hand began to loosen, despite Lorcán inwardly protested, his body surrendering to its seemingly inevitable fate.

Then in a blur of black and white the beast was driven back.

From the brush, Rothschild struck, led to Lorcán by a fiery ball of light. The brilliant glow cut through the darkness, pushing back the vermillion lunar glow. The border collie struck, its form malleable and morphing as it became humanoid. Saliva dripped from his angry maw, before teeth dug into the Wendigo’s neck and piercing claws penetrated its ribs. Innards spilled atop the native flora as Rothschild’s lupine form ripped the Wendigo apart, and pushed it further into the darkness before the screams and growls were replaced by a deafening silence.

A cold sweat clung to the back of Lorcán’s neck before his knees suddenly buckled. Catching himself, he slowly moved backwards as Rothschild happily trotted out of the underbrush.

Pausing, he sat in front of Lorcán before speaking.

“Boy are you lucky I showed up.” Rothschild laughed as Lorcán stared back at the dog, “Good thing your guardian sister called me.”

Lorcán’s eyes widened as the dog continued to speak, the word sister barely registering before his eyes were drawn upwards, the brush parting before another spoke.

“Come, brother,” A female voice emitted from the orange ball of light as he returned, hovering between the boy and his familiar.

“There will be more if we linger.”

“You’re having twins.”

Aiden gasped with surprise before squeezing Tori’s hand as he leaned over and kissed her belly. His heart felt like it would jump out of his throat at any second, the overwhelming happiness caused tears to well up in the corners of his eyes as he turned, beaming towards his wife.

“Oh no you don’t,” She cautioned, her voice cracking as she tried to disguise it with a laugh, “If you cry, then I’m going to sob, don’t you do that to me, Roth!”

“I’m just so happy, Tori,” Aiden replied, leaning in as the couple shared a quick, tender kiss, “Can you tell us the sex?” He asked, looking to Tori, who nodded her agreement before the doctor continued.

“Now, this is never a hundred percent accurate, and the little ones have to cooperate,” The doctor warned before continuing the ultrasound, “But it looks like you have a daughter…” His voice trailed off as he tried to find the other twin.

“And… another…” He paused, quickly correcting himself, “No, I apologize, you have a daughter and a son.”

“Fraternal twins,” Tori exclaimed as Aiden’s eyes widened happily, a wry smile crossing his face before Tori shot him a look.

“Don’t you say it, Roth.”

“C’mon,” Aiden pleaded, “How can we have fraternal twins and not name them Luke and Leia?”

“Because last I checked, I didn’t take the name ‘Skywalker’ when I married you.”

“Then we’ll name him ‘Kenneth’ after your maiden name.” Aiden offered, “And name her ‘Kendall’.”

“Those are both terrible,” Tori laughed, “Thankfully we have time to think of some actual good name, personally I’ve always liked Gaelic names like yours.”

“I’m not opposed.” Aiden smiled as he helped Tori to his feet, “We could even-”

“We’re not giving him the middle name ‘Buchanan’.”

Wake up!

“What?”

“Your father, he’s coming, don’t you remember?” A sweet voice chastised, delicate intonations of French slightly dampened under English practice. It plucked at the fringes of her mind where a filtering haze had blanketed her in fog, ministrations stilling as she lowered dainty hands from her mane of hair and beheld their smooth gestures- she had scars here, once, ones harshly shadowed under swirls of black ink.

Right?

“Ammaranthe?” Her gaze flashed and snapped up through oblique lashes, a shadow cast in memorial of a name unspoken and unknown but felt through the leagues of unbidden tremors as she beheld her mother before her, garbed in a cream sweater that offset the warm undertone of her skin and hair tucked and braided with delicate curls against the high set of her flushed cheeks.

She looked so motherly. Maternal. And yet… Misplaced.

Charlotte Cahors was always different, spoken as an oddity on the island, with hair spun of midnight likeness, bright blue eyes, and donned in precious jewels that glimmered with peculiar lights therein of rough cut crystals and gems. A relatively young mother but endearing nonetheless to the residents and locale with brief excursions onto campus. She tended to the greenhouse occasionally, plots of roses tended to by her delicate hands, beset with allium with their dainty white petals, sea holly, and yarrow nestled beside. Other plots of marigolds and wormwood and then draping scarlet blooms of amaranth– the everlasting, the immortal meaning concealed behind the conceptual eternalism of love-lies-bleeding.

Jonas… He brought them here. A letter sent to her mother after the cathedral in Rouen was set ablaze, a series of mysterious fires devoid of pattern or reason through France, just rumored vandalism and theft to shadowed misdeeds of a darkened past.

Her father… A fuzzy profile, dark hair, dark eyes, a perpetual stain marring the impression that came and went with a stuttering sigh. She couldn’t remember. Even the kitchen where she stood wavered in and out of familiarity as if a painting illustrated in all the wrong colors, mutilated shadows, and shades of peculiar hues that fluttered as moth wings at the edge of her vision. She studied the cabinetry, the marble countertops, the lines marking through the tiles at her feet; it was all relatively quaint and mundane trimmings, all the comforts of a home that fell askew through her fanning lashes as she glanced back to her mother. Comforting hands brushed against her brow, the gesture so consoling that it set her back with immediate tension willing away through her arms as subtle contingents fell into place.

She had only ever wanted to go home.
A place to call her own.
This was her home.

“You’ve been so out of it lately. It’s your Senior year très cher, attention à la dentelle.”

“A lot has happened, been happening. The Trials-”Amma cut off, paused, and continued. “The dance, too. I just can’t…” She laughed.

Remember.

“I know there are numerous expectations with H.E.A.T and all,” Charlotte sympathized, stepping back to address the potted plants set aside, tiny buds decorating lax branches tied off in pale ribbons of blue. “Your father thought it best to return to help with the training. There has been unsettling news and developments on the mainland.” She busied herself next with an arrangement, binding sunset lilies together with green twine.

“I’m heading to the school today; I promised Luce I’d help her with the hydrangeas. The loveliest redhead has been coming by, a sweet girl, though incredibly sad. You’re welcome to join me, as always. ”

Voices muttered at the back of her mind, pulling together memories done in an overcast haze.

“Maybe next time, I know, I think, I’m waiting on someone…”

Charlotte hummed quietly, a telltale smile curling over her face with a flicker of knowing in her bright eyes. She moved carefully to gather her arrangements, and a peculiar ring on her finger flickered red in the sunlight with twisted bronze and gold, capturing her attention with the way it gleamed with a hidden flame. It struck Amma with a sensation of loss, of knowing, but she could not place the furor as her mother glanced a kiss upon her cheek and whispered:

“Just don’t let him singe the curtains again. There are only so many times I can replace them; your father has begun to notice.”

“It’s supposed to be unseasonably warm today, ma chérie. I’ll see you later.”

Voices carried on yonder outside, followed quickly by light laughter and a deepened voice that thrummed at a hidden string of yearning. She twisted threads of black around her finger, the charms adorned through her locks with red and silver twinkling on the suspended breath she withheld. She was beholden to the immediate influence that slunk and flitted to her across the threshold, melding entirely with her own in playful flutters of flame.

A towering figure loomed in the doorway, clothed in black, a wealth of sweltering heat tangibly felt from every corded muscle and lit through eyes marveling in resplendence. Golden hues that sparked as fireworks through the gloom of shadows, an unraveling of strength undiluted through shades of vermillion, bisected onto one side with a vicious scar. Despite all manners of severity and impression, a smile still fell with the filtering sunlight of dawn, a darling embellishment of adoration that softened rigid expressions as soon as they marked her given profile.



“Hey, Heartbreaker.”

Oh, I remember now…

“My hero,” she rejoined with a feigned swoon, inspiring a darling, belle voice that twittered between them, heightened into a peel of laughter as arms banded around her waist and lifted her, pulled her in tight where immediate warmth bloomed and fled through the entire room on risen waves of heat that glistened over her pale skin. Amma immediately draped her arms over those broad shoulders as he balanced her on the counter, hardly mindful of what remained there, clattering dishes shoved aside immediately for braced palms. Their heights matched as he leaned in just that much closer to decipher the smoldering glimmer in those eternal eyes of blue that swelled like waves against a shoreline.

“I told him, one more touch and he would be-”

“Burned,” Amma finished on a purring trill, tongue against her pout and muttered against his chin; he smirked, a harsh grin that chiseled through and was punctuated with his teeth that snapped close to her mouth.

“I may like to watch you flirt with others, but when they go to touch what is mine…” Hot breath blew over the perch of her lips, every spindling cord of vermillion and scarlet alighted through their shared gaze as she leaned back, palms on his shoulders and spine curved, pushing herself nearly off the counter to hook her thighs on the arch of his hips pressed close.

“And what about these mundane warriors trying to invade the island? They’re determined to end us. They almost succeeded last time.”

“I’ll burn them all too. Send them away to the bottom of the ocean where The Foundation lies, where Daedalus rots. Raze everyone to the ground that dares to threaten you.” He swore with fingers purchased on the revealing span of skin above her waist. She shook, lips parted around the gasp that spun up from her belly, and whispered:

“You can’t just raze everyone. Everything.” She breathed.

“Maybe, but I can certainly try.”

Whatever response was to be had immediately became stolen, sweet breath and fire lancing through their intertwined cores, lips met on harsh gasps and mewling whimpers with an urgency eternally felt and nourished on shared breath through heaving lungs. Calloused palms scorched over pallid thighs that cinched tight against quivering muscles, near bruising force lifting her up with her ankles suddenly crossed at his back. Fire, hot and heavy and ravenous, suddenly burned through her clothes and wreathed through her hair, singeing away threads of black and Canis red; tiny sparks of silver ignited there, too, dancing through the crystalline light of her eyes as she gazed into his –

Strange, she thought; she could’ve sworn her lover’s eyes were –





“Lorcàn?” She inquired, but his heated pants fell against the line of her pale neck, no answer to proffer as she shuddered with open-mouthed kisses descending to devour her rapid pulse. Her gaze dropped to the mirror hung on the opposite wall draped in curling vines of ivy, her body suddenly aglow with scarlet coils as every ounce of power spiraled into a manifest of crackling streaks and ribbons as she looked upon the reflection of…

… herself lying in the dark, bloodied, bruised, and broken. A void of nothingness, a void of death that reigned as truth, even with Lorcán’s voracious appetite against the slick lines of her lithe frame, his clothing burning away on her cries as he pulled her against his flushed body, wed their flesh as one, sensational whorls of red now fled down the muscled lines of his back where faded marks fell under the purchase of her scarlet nails. She met the eyes of her despairing reflection who met her gaze with one of sorrow and immense pain, her expression stricken as those eyes flashed –



– they were as one as she had been once upon a time as a reign of true self unknown and sought, realization alighting there as barriers and veils thinned and meshed, as fibers of dawning acknowledgment collided through the mirror of mirrors, of the very fabrics of this world and the next. With outstretched hands, scarred palms of muddled lines of heart, fate, and love–reaching in powerless claims for threads of scarlet that fled onto the vestiges of time eternal through the fabrics of severed realities.

Within and without.

It's time to wake up, my dearest.

An indeterminate amount of time passed that could have been anywhere from hours to days before the doors to the cells finally opened. Pungent smells erupted into the narrow hallway of soiled clothing, vomit and other bodily excretions. The white uniforms did nothing to hide the shame of those who hadn’t been able to hold out and a hose was dragged up and down the hallway before the students were stripped and sprayed down.

Those who had endured the time in the chamber with no incidents were handed a new set of clothing and permitted to use the facilities to change. Of the students from Pacific Royal, those who endured were primarily upperclassmen, the younger students having suffered the humiliation and degradation. The white uniforms were taken away from those who had been sprayed down by the hose, and in their place, they were given tan-coloured clothing. Those who had permitted temporary leave instead were given new black uniforms that were far more flattering. While the previous outfits and even the tan-coloured ones were more akin to scrubs, the black uniforms aligned more with those worn by the students who had leered at them prior to their solitary.

These black uniforms proudly bore a ‘Φ’ atop the right breast, while the tan uniforms were denoted with a ‘Δ’ on the left bicep. The groups were segregated into two lines, attendants walking between the students and aligned them into two single file lines.

Marched through another series of maze-like hallways, they exited one pod, walking over the temporary connection point as it bounced above the waves before entering into another series of connected pods and emerging into a large dining hall amidst welcoming cheers.

Or more aptly, welcoming jeers as the existing student body recognized the arrival of tonight’s entertainment.

Like sharks circling, the students recognized fresh blood in the water. The pounding of silverware against tables echoed around the former Pacific Royal students as they were marched to a series of elevated tables, placed at the head of the room. Those who had the privilege of being adorned in the black uniforms were given the highest seats, overlooking the tan-adorned students who were seated in cascading rows beneath them.

Every eye in the room was on the new students and the doors to the kitchen were suddenly flung open overwhelming the otherwise sterile room with enticing aromas of freshly prepared food.

Their attention was suddenly diverted as the main doors at the opposite end were opened by the attendants and a lone figure entered. A mane of silver hair perfectly matched the well groomed beard that shaped his jaw line into a fine point as piercing eyes studied every student in the room. He was dressed in a fine three piece suit, leaning heavily on a cane while taking his deliberate steps forward. Despite the implied frailty, fear fell over the room at the sight of Dr. William Montgomery.

He came to a stop in the center of the room, shifting his weight before tucking his cane under his arm and lifting his hands. His palms came together, the echo of his clap reverberating through the room before the other students followed his lead as he applauded towards the Pacific Royal transfers.

“Welcome to our humble abode,” Montgomery called, his eyes moving from one transfer to the next until he had personally laid eyes on each and every new student.

“I understand, it’s not quite the lavish lifestyle you’ve all grown comfortable with.” He smiled towards those adorned in the black uniforms, his eyes only just glancing over the rest.

“My name is Dr. William Montgomery,” He introduced himself, “I am the ‘Mind’ behind the Foundation Institute, its curriculum and the strategic advancements of the Foundation. Unlike what you’re used to, I’m sure you’d consider my methods to be cold, cruel even, but I’m afraid they get results and they get results quickly. Mr. Nakamura himself has personally approved each and every one of my methods.”

“Those of you currently bearing your ‘Phi’ proudly are off to a great start and are on the path towards becoming a ‘Force’ to be reckoned with.” He smiled again towards the students in black, “The rest of you, have a lot more to overcome.” Montgomery added, addressing those in Tan before turning to the room.

“That said, we have newcomers and that calls for a feast!” He shouted as the banging of silver resumed until Montgomery waved his hand, immediately stilling the noise.

“Due in part to a generous donation from the incoming P.R.C.U. students, our chefs were able to prepare you a delicious and fresh meal. A completely authentic Polpette di Cavallo con Salmoriglio.”

Plates of noodles topped with tantalizing meatballs were brought forth and placed in front of every student while fizzling flutes of sparkling juice selected to be paired with the meal were sat down alongside the dish.

“Naturally, it is up to our esteemed guests of honour to have the first taste after which the rest of you can eat.” Montgomery stated, lifting a flute of sparkling juice from a nearby waiter before turning to the Pacific Royal students. “I do hope that the food is prepared to your liking, it would be a shame to cast a cloud over such a momentous occasion. The Foundation and Pacific Royal, finally together.”

“But first, a toast to new beginnings.” He raised his glass, waiting for the room to follow suit before tipping it back to his lips.

“Now, then, you all must be starving,” Montgomery smiled, “Please, enjoy and let the rest of us know if our chefs prepared an adequate meal.”

Scylla stood trembling, naked and wet, with tears streaming down her face from green eyes peeled wide—afraid and ashamed. Within her curled palms, she clutched at tan cloth, nails bitterly snatching against the fabric, feeling the ply scratch and irritate her drenched skin. It was a test (because, of course, it was!); it was all a test, from the branding to those who faced it without flinching, fear, or reservations of self to those who shuddered, cried, and hesitated. To be forced into quarantine and to endure the endless dark with eternal silence that rang and pulsated with sobs and whispers, intermingling with quieted screams of those that fractured in the thick shadows. The banging, the pounding of fists into shattered whispers that pleaded. Had it been hours or days, only minutes perhaps since doors had been shut?

How did they endure it? How did she survive it? If she had been molded and crafted in the black of unknown uncertainty, then what was to become of them? What shred of humanity was to be left when she had to crouch in the corner, barely able to bend her legs, and palmed her hand against her quivering lips with mortification coloring her face in crimson splotches as she struggled to relieve herself from suffocating fear. Humiliation settled further in her bones, stripped unceremoniously, arms banded over her breasts, body hunched to conceal the lines of her body from the rush of water targeted at the most sensitive positions of her skin. From across the sterile hall, Stephen called for her, face flush with rage, pinkish-hued arcs igniting across his trembling limbs, and violet wrath wreathed through his eyes, black cloth shoved finally into his hands, displaying such accumulation of power before more armed officials pushed him into the line of others too bequeathed with black.

Whatever this was, Scylla knew she had ultimately failed.

She wept still, but her brow sundered harshly over her eyes, mute glimmers of her shame captured on quivering lashes that bespoke of a silent rage. Her frame was on display as she stood before a reflective surface that illustrated her utterly drenched figure before she pulled her arms through the tan fabric and spilled into ill-fitting trousers that hung awkwardly on her hips and shoulders, a uniform sort of medical scrub that ballooned in peculiar cuts and haphazard stitching that irritated her joints as she was herded into another procession. Lambs, she thought, as Amma herself had once uttered in cruel whispers that whipped through her mind and compelled her to stare down at her feet and the linoleum below that was hued yellow and brown and green from their accumulated miseries and indignities. To be nearly forced to trudge through it was another notch onto the demented and harsh intention to assault their ignominy– to be faced with the injustice they saw as a curtailing to luxuries they once possessed.

Scylla’s nails sliced stinging figures into her palms.

You chose this, a voice slunk across her mind, fixated on the corners of her consciousness, and brewed there, just as everyone who has ever walked through these halls.

You chose this.
Just as she did.

The pounding of fists and clanking of silverware immediately pulled Scylla from her thoughts, her uniform damp still in some areas, her white-blonde hair tangled in its braid down her back; she felt bruised and exhausted, unable to dispel the weight that had settled through her body. Crude remarks lanced down her spine, cackling laughter that heightened her sensitivity and anger; they were to be treated as lesser, little more than fodder, shuffled into place and fitted as bait for their peers who did not hesitate to haze their inauguration. Such an initiation found Scylla staring up at Stephen, who was seated high above her, fitted in a uniform that was far more flattering to him, the black of his hair and the black of the threads that conformed to his muscled frame blending him into the backdrop of other students that seated themselves in formality—a ceremony, she thought, similar in some ways they had been inducted through P.R.C.U with the ochre emblem of House Gulo. No wolverine proudly stood before a shield here, just monochromatic refinement shorn under the distilled quiet of their shared gaze, separated with her as the fallen and he as the risen.

She feels almost betrayed. Stephen would’ve fought to be at her side. Instead, he seated himself and looked away.

Perhaps the following procession, she told herself, captured his attention and stole it away from her. It is a placating story she convinces herself of, trembling in the wrought accumulation of shame, regret, and anger, bisected by the quakes of fear that continuously rob her of warmth no matter how hard she might rub her palms together or over her shaking arms. Everything fell into the background, muddled together into a swarm of blackened words and tan-hued lashes of regret, all crushed under the suffocating weight of their new reality and acceptance of the fate revealed in the mocking praises of Dr. William Montgomery himself, false platitudes to the degradation of their individuality. To be mindless faces in swarms of black and white, greyed shadows on the canvas of power.

The rest of you, have a lot more to overcome.

Mindlessly, almost robotic and instinctual, Scylla twirls her fork through the noodles, catching pieces of meat that crumble under the pressure of her utensils, slicing through the meatballs to spear on the tines before she takes a bite. She did not participate in the toast, eyeing the flute of sparkling liquid, chewing thoroughly, and savoring the flavors that settled over her tongue. Near famished, she attempted to place the texture of the meat, the lemon sauce settled against her teeth that she ran her finger against, oil-drenched noodles, the lingering taste of garlic that accentuated the dish with garnishments of some green herb she could not place.

It’s on her third bite, and finally, a sip of juice to wash some of it down, that she noticed some are purposely not eating and staring mindlessly down at their plated food with abject horror and disdain. Others had pushed their plates to the side whilst their companions ate still; Scylla glanced up, finding Stephen eating almost as mindlessly as she had been, his amber gaze meeting her own with a glimpse of yearning that caused her to look away this time. The person to her right was one of those refusing to eat, and she couldn’t help but ponder if this, too, was some degree of a test, another level to gauge their reception to food and drink, to be easily appeased after hours and hours locked within a room no better than a cell.

“It’s horse meat.” They whispered, finally, almost indiscernible above the clamor of conversation that spiraled from those dressed in black. Scylla blanched. “What?”

“It’s horse meat,” they emphasized, raising their voices a few increments higher, silencing those chattering amongst themselves. Forks and knives halted and scraped against China as a result.

“So?” Another launched back after a momentary silence, resuming their meal with enthusiasm. Scylla did not follow suit, unable to decide between repulsion and intrigue. The flute in her grasp trembled under the pressure of her fingers pinched around the crystal stem. Her eyes studied the remainder of the meat and noodles, the citrus aroma continuing to spiral up to tempt her hunger despite the truth of its recipe.

“Where do you think they got the meat for it? ‘Due in part to a generous donation from the incoming P.R.C.U’?” They mocked.

“I don’t exactly expect them to keep horses out in the middle of the fucking ocean.”

Just one horse. A familiar voice clarified, tinged in humor, laced with luring notations where onyx eyes flashed in her mind, his voice carrying on unhurried and unbothered as it sluiced through membrane and nerves and settled as a blanketing barb of shadow.

One of the students thought of trying to bring their precious pony.



Scylla turned, heaved, and fought to contain the bile that suddenly burned through her throat; saliva pooled in her mouth and spread past her lips that she gated her hand against. She breathed through her nose, body bowed up with another retch that tore through her stomach and swallowed, churned sickness coiling down to the pit of her insides that burned as acid against the back of her teeth and brought fresh tears to her eyes that welled and fell. If she lost her composure here for the second time, she would not be surprised if they dragged them back to those cells to hose them down again as animals, no more than dogs leashed and sprayed and to be caged away on their festering temperaments.

From above, Stephen watched her, his own plate half-eaten and flute drained to smother the disgust he felt at having actually enjoyed the meal despite knowing what it consisted of. He could see how it tormented her, and there was nothing that could be done, a divide formed in the garb of black and tan that pried them apart. He swore to find a way back to her side, but eyes fell onto them and watched and observed, indeed a test of sorts to further nurture the separation of their peers from the ‘Force’ and the lesser that, from this seating arrangement, forced them to look down upon them. In his hand, the stem snapped and arced with violet and pink, and he merely dusted off the shards, earning a low whistle from above. He could do little in the means of acknowledgment as he witnessed Scylla continue to eat, with more strength than necessary, her fork beheld so stiffly as she speared into the mess of sauce, noodles, and meat and ate great mouthfuls around the tears that bedeviled her expression as she quite literally forced herself to eat.

She gagged, the texture settled on her tongue repulsive, but she swallowed nonetheless and gasped around the finality of this derangement and tossed back the sparkling juice with little ceremony and wiped her shaking hand against her lips. Another heave worked through her stomach, gone cramped and pained, but she bit down against the burning sensation that clamored up her throat. Scylla swallowed back saliva and bile and trembled with the tremendous effort to contain what little composure remained. Be it a test of will, fortitude, and compliance, she cared little for it and glared up at those all donned in leagues of black, ignoring the laughter and the conspiring whispers that cloaked her– for whatever it was, Scylla would pass it, she would.

If she could do it, then so could they.

Right?