[IC] Commencement: A Foundation Institute RP

[spicykvnt]

Two days after the incident at P.R.C.U., Callum Boyd arrived at Dundas Island, intent on retrieving his sister. He had never even left Scotland before, and now he found himself in this strange place, a place that could have stolen Cleo from him.

Unlike his sister, and unlike their mother, there wasn’t a trace of hyperhuman in him. He was just a man. No powers, no gifts—just a brother.

The rain fell like a punishment, relentless, the sky split open and his umbrella was a futile shield against it. He moved with purpose, each step heavy, burdened, through the grey haze, toward the Lutra dorms where they said she’d be. Everything felt sharp and apprehension clung to him the way the rain held to the fabric of his coat.

At the glass entrance, Callum paused, catching sight of his own reflection. A man in unfamiliar land stared back at him, the man unfamiliar too. A long peacoat, polished shoes, a beard trimmed with neat precision. It struck him then how far he had come from the wild youth he once was. The reckless boy who had wanted nothing more than to escape the suffocating walls of school, now grown into a teacher that he would have once despised. Made miserable with bad behaviour. Punished. Life’s cruel humor. He sighed, shaking off the rain from his umbrella, leaving it behind as he stepped into the building.

When he reached Cleo’s door, he pushed it open, bracing himself. But what greeted him was not the sight he expected. He had imagined her already packed, ready to leave. Instead, she was moving frantically around the room, her movements jittery and filled with a kind of restless energy. “Cleo?” His voice was barely a whisper, careful, as if afraid that speaking too loudly might shatter whatever fragile thing held her, barely upright.

At the sound of her brother’s voice, Cleo crossed the room in a breath, wrapping her arms tightly around him. There was no hesitation, just a flood of relief. She held on as though she’d been drowning, her breath hitching as tears broke free. “I can’t believe you’re here,” she said, the words trembling; interlaced with laughter and sorrow. There was a strange and small joy in her eyes. Bubbles rose from her shoulders, delicate, glowing, shimmering pink. A manifestation of the joy that had evaded her for days now.

“What’s all this?” Callum asked, wrapping his arm around her, holding her close as if to shield her from whatever storm still raged inside her. “I thought you’d be packing by now.”

“I…” She hesitated, her voice guarded as she pulled back. “I’m just meditating. On something,” she added, the words a fragile shield, paper thin. There was something more beneath it, something unspoken, but Callum did not immediately press. For now, they were together. And for now, that was enough.

Callum moved quietly around the room, his eyes scanning for any sign of packed boxes, but there was nothing. “Cleo…” He didn’t want to push her, didn’t want to dredge up to talk about whatever could have claimed her that night, but the relief he felt in seeing her alive was only half the battle. “Y’are… leaving, right?” His voice was tentative, as if he feared the answer. “You’re coming with me?”

She glanced away, biting her lip. “I don’t… I don’t think I’m ready,” she admitted, the words fragile, as if saying them aloud might break something between them. “There’s more I need to learn, Callum. Something... important.”

He frowned, his confusion clear. “Like what?”

Cleo hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “Something happened at the dance. I saw something—something I never imagined. And… I think it’s going to lead me to helping Mam.”

“What do you mean?” His voice hardened, the disbelief rising as he tried to understand.

“I saw… a hell.” Her eyes widened as the memory gripped her.

Callum sighed. His brow knitted and furrowed in frustration, he didn't understand.

“No, I didn’t see it,” she shook her head. “Not with my eyes, anyway.” Her hand moved to her chest. “I felt it,” she continued, her voice unsteady. Even to speak of it brought back its gravity to pull at her.

He did not jump to doubting her, instead, he softened his posture and let himself sit at the edge of her bed as she moved about the room again. She could rarely ever be still. He allowed her the space, giving her the moment and his safety. He was just a man, no powers as ethereal as hers. He was just her brother too. “You felt that, and it’s made you want to stay?”

“You don’t find it strange, Callum? Mam’s stories about other realms, creatures, demons—” She paused. “What if they weren’t made up? What if she was right? What if the answers to getting her back are here?”

“Cleo, no. I don’t find it strange.” Callum cut her off at last, shaking his head. His voice was suddenly hard, sharp with concern. “She wasnae in her right mind, and you know that. That’s what Eilidh said. Her psionic… Stuff, it, got to her.”

“But what if she was? What if what she saw was real?” Cleo’s voice crackled with desperation “What if I can find her, Callum? We don’t know the extent of her gifts, what if she’s out there?”

“No!” His voice rose, more forceful now, fear mingling with his own desperation. “We know where she is. She’s…” He sighed, standing up. Exasperated. “She’s not the same. And Da’ left. I’m not about to lose you too, not in some place that almost killed you already. I want you to come home. Please.”

Cleo shook her head, her eyes burning with her conviction that she just wished he could understand. “You don’t get it. I felt something, Callum. Something real, more real than we can comprehend, and I’ve been touched by it.”

“Cleo… Please don’t chase-” He started again, softer this time, but she wouldn’t let him finish.

“I’m supposed to know this, Callum. I have to learn more. This is part of me, part of what I’m meant to do.”

Callum stood still, the fight draining from him as he sighed, his eyes softening with the weight of his own helplessness “I could have lost you,” he whispered. “When I heard what happened, I thought I already had.” He stood still. Wrestling with his own helplessness. Was this how her trauma had manifested? Her curiosity reaching back into the dark unknown, seeking out something he could never understand? Alice and her White Rabbit. He stared beyond and into the middle distance of the room, wondering himself of these horrors that lingered just beyond the veil, the dark places his sister seemed determined upon; he couldn’t follow her there.

He was just a man, just her brother, and powerless against what held her.

---

_{Location: The Beach - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean}

Human #5.07: White Rabbit

---

_{Interaction(s): --}

Previously: I Know the End

Callum had taken whatever had brought her to smile back with him.

The Cleo that sat on the beach, in the bonfire circle, was a different Cleo. One who had been alone again. His visit had been brief. Too brief, and now she sat and stared at the flames. She had wrapped an oversized cardigan around herself; her hair sat in two messy space buns, stray strands dancing in the wind, her gaze fixed on the flames.

The bonfire crackled, but the warmth was distant as if it was meant for someone else. There was no joy here, no laughter. Whatever passed for happiness had long since left these shores. From every side of fire the heaviness was weighing her down, turning the very ground into something unsafe. Like it would open and suck her down into it. Nobody here was happy. Happiness didn’t live here.

Manny spoke first, his words and tone soft.

She had thought so much about her own. There was still so much she didn’t know. So much she had yet still to understand. The ocean of her own questions threatened to pull her under. She thought of Lucas, of Manny—familiar faces among the remains of what was left of Blackjack. They had been thrown together in the midst of the events, but they didn’t know each other. Those in Blackjack were bound to each other, just as she had been to Eclipse.

And yet, Cleo knew so much of Amma. The phantom that had lingered on the edges of each of her dreams since, waiting for her in the dark. As she let her eyes trail the wreckage of Blackjack, she felt the reflections of Amma in each of them. A stirring.

"I'm... going to join the Foundation," she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper against the crackling fire.

[Lord Wraith]

^{| The Black Forest, Germany - Several Weeks from Now}

“This will protect you.”

Lorcán grimaced as the needle hit his skin. Despite having the majority of his left arm tattooed, he wasn’t prepared for the pain that came with the skin stitching currently being used to inscribe the protection rune onto the palm of his hand. It was to his own detriment that he chose to watch as the young woman carefully weaved the blood-soaked thread through his skin with each pull of the bone-whittled needle.

At first, Lorcán only saw his blood mingling with the application, but as the rune became more and more complete, a glow began to emanate from the palm of his hand until it became a brilliant light as the symbol was completed. Burning unlike anything that Lorcán had ever felt suddenly shot through his arms, his veins glowing beneath the skin and then just as suddenly as the incredulous pain began, it was gone.

The symbol on his hand scorched onto his skin, tar black in colour and the flesh completely healed. The woman smiled beneath her veil at Lorcán before she spoke again.

“This one is ready, bring the next one to me.”

<sup>_{__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

| Vancouver, British Columbia - A Few Weeks from Now</sup>

Smoke flooded the sky as all days were drawn towards the screams from the top floor of the low rise apartment. The flame intensity had only increased, and all efforts to reduce them had been nearly wasted. The Vancouver Fire Rescue Services was doing the best they could now to contain the blaze, ensuring it didn’t spread further.

It wasn’t easy to get employed by the fire department. In fact, Aiden had needed to call in more than a few favors to get the documentation forged so Lorcán could present his qualifications. The whole family had needed to, even if they had been able to use H.E.L.P. as a referral, there was no telling the prejudice that Lorcán would have faced on the job as a known Hyperhuman.

Especially amidst an arson spree.

The timing was eerie, but along the same time Lorcán had begun working with the Vancouver Fire Rescue Services, the city seemingly had been laid siege to a series of suspicious fires. While British Columbia wasn’t immune to forest fires, and in fact was quite prone to them, October was hardly the time of year for such.

And forest fires were very different from building fires.

“HELP!”

The desperate scream brought Lorcán back to the present. An explosion shaking the building and surrounding sidewalk. He grit his teeth, looking between the squad while they steadied the hose. He couldn’t just stand here and idly let the people inside die.

Not again.

Lorcán suddenly pulled his mask over his face, securing his oxygen tanks before charging forward. Behind him came cries of protest, a hand tried to stop him, but Lorcán was among the fittest and fasted on the squad. His time spent surfing and the rigorous practical ability training under his father had made the young man into quite the athlete and he had more than aced the required physical examinations.

“ROOKIE!” The Captain yelled, “Stop! You’re going to get yourself killed!” But the Captain’s words fell on deaf ears. The smoke and debris around Lorcán only served as an encouragement to not allow history to repeat itself again. Laughter echoed in the flames as he pushed through the building, hastily climbing stairs that were thankfully built upon blocks lest they collapse beneath his weight. A horned silhouette was cast on the wall, the vision of what was described to him when the dust settled. Blue eyes filled with sudden fear before she was gone, dragged straight to a hell not meant for her.

Among the flames, Lorcán could see himself, his eyes and the adrenaline playing tricks on him as the doppelgänger ran alongside him. The flames responded to his movement, parting along his path, the heat subsiding around Lorcán as he bent it to his will.

But his own reflection watched him, taunting him to fail as ember hued eyes stared out through the inferno. Opting to ignore the voices, Lorcán took a breath, closing his eyes before continuing. By the time they opened again, the vision was gone and he was alone.

His insubordination would be reprimanded later. Lorcán realized he might even be risking his employment. Employment his family needed if they wanted to keep the roof over their head, employment he needed if he ever wanted to buy a ring worthy of Aurora.

But he couldn’t allow any more death.

“Roth!” The radio crackled to life, “Kenny! Are you there?”

“I’m here, Burdock,” Lorcán replied, he had opted to go by his middle name for work, the others primarily referring to him as ‘Roth’ while some called him ‘Ken’ or ‘Kenny’. To some extent, it felt like a fresh start, something he needed after all his friends left. Even Cass and Ripley had moved back to Crestwood Hollow on the other side of the country.

For the most part, Ken Roth lived and Lorcán had died with Pacific Royal.

“Chief is fuming, he’s going to kill you if you live.”

“I’ll live,” Lorcán replied, “I’ll expect Chief to take a strip off me, but I can’t just let them die.”

“You’re a fool and an idiot, but godspeed.”

The higher Lorcán climbed through the mid-rise, the more dense the smoke became. He wasn’t smoke proof and he knew that. Once his tank was empty, he was done. The screams for help became louder, the raspy voice of desperation echoing inside his mask as laughter filled the hallway again. Lorcán’s own gaze met the ember eyes of his failure, staring through the wall of fire, as his heart leapt into his throat.

This would not be a repeat of that night.

No one was losing anyone today.

Using his abilities to feel the heat from the flames, Lorcán pushed it back from the door before bursting in. Quickly moving to the mother and her children, Lorcán felt sweat beginning to form on his brow, a trickle of blood dripped from his nose onto his lip while he strain to push the heat and flames back from the room and hallway.

Guiding them through the building, he did everything he could to protect them before bursting forth onto the ground level, exiting the building just before a resounding crash echoed behind him as the upper floor began to cave in. Guiding the family towards the ambulance, Lorcán stumbled away in a haze, his ears deaf to the applause as his vision began to spin.

Never before had he strained his abilities like that.

“Whoa! Roth!” Burdock was suddenly beside Lorcán helping him to his feet. “Easy there, Swells, you’ve taken a lot of smoke, get some oxygen into you.” He insisted, handing a breathing mask to Lorcán.

“You’re a damned fool, but a brave soul.”

“Reckless.” Another voice spoke as Lorcán managed to look up, meeting the captain’s gaze.

“Damn reckless,” The captain repeated, “No sane man would have taken that risk. And admittedly lives would have been lost. There will be repercussions but,”

The captain paused.

“I’m proud of what you accomplished, but no more lone hero antics. This is a team, and team’s stick together.”

Lorcán nodded slowly, taking another deep breath before wiping the blood from his nose. A resentful thought echoed violently inside his head in response to the captain’s words.

Yeah, sure they do.

^{_{__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

“So how’d you do it, freak?”

The voice interrupted the rushing water that was falling on either side of Lorcán’s head, the smell of smoke seemingly wouldn’t wash off as he tried to find a moment of relaxation in the shower. Steam rising all around him, obscuring his vision so much that he didn’t see Miller enter the shared shower.

“How’d you survive in a fire where most people would have passed out by the second floor? You got to the fifth and back?” The angry man shouted, passing behind Lorcán who continued to ignore his tirade hoping he’d get bored and leave.

“Hey! I’m talkin’ to you, Kenny!” Miller roared, his hand shooting past Lorcán before turning the shower tap straight to cold. The sudden change in temperature caught Lorcán off guard and he didn’t react fast enough to stop the steam from rising off of his body as the frigid water splashed against his bare skin.

“I bet you started that damn fire to play hero,” Miller accused, poking Lorcán in the chest before shoving the younger man. “You come in here, lying about what you so obviously are, I bet you even came from that island of your kind. Even heard they shut you all down.”

A smug expression crossed the older man’s face.

“That’s right, I know all about it. The truth is out there if you know where to look.” It was only now that Lorcán noticed for the first time the red cross tattoo on the underside of Miller’s forearm.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t place where he had seen that mark before.

“Serves you lot right, you’re inhuman, genetic mistakes. What gives you the right to come in here and take a job from people who worked a whole lot harder to be where you are? Huh?!?”

Miller gave Lorcán another shove, the slick floor catching the younger man off balance as he tumbled backwards, managing to catch himself before his skull cracked against the hard floor. A boot met his ribs sending him onto his back, exposed and vulnerable.

“C’mon, freak, fight back. I know you want to. Show me what makes you so special.”

“There’s absolutely nothing special about me,” Lorcán groaned, fighting every instinct in his body. He wanted to fight back, he wanted to scare Miller, but he knew he couldn’t, if he did, they’d go for Aurora next and then his parents and it would just continue to ripple from there.

“This handy app on my phone says otherwise,” Miller retorted, holding up the device. The screen was one of the numerous apps that claimed to be able to detect Hyperhumans. It was of course false, cell phones didn’t contain that sort of technology. It was nothing more than a cheap way to cash in on paranoia.

“Shouldn’t you be wearing an inhibitor, freak?” Miller asked, before another kick caught Lorcán in the ribs.

“I’m not a fr-” His protest was cut short by a fist to his face, his eye almost immediately swelling shut. Lorcán had trained alongside the likes of Katja and he was still caught off guard with how hard a human could hit.

“Hey!” A shout came from outside the shower as Burdock ran in, pushing Miller off of Lorcán.

“What the hell?”

“He’s one of those Hypes!” Miller protested, “That’s how he survived, he’s taking our jobs!”

“You’re a moron, Miller, everyone knows those apps are fake.” Burdock snapped, “Get out of here,”

“The captain will hear about this!” Miller roared as Burdock nodded in reply.

“Yes, yes he will.” He stood his ground as Miller stormed off before tossing Lorcán a towel and helping the younger man to his feet.

“People are so paranoid these days, can’t do anything without being branded a damn Hyperhuman.” He stated, his eyes watching where Miller had left, “You could tell me though, if you were one.”

“Like I told Miller,” Lorcán replied through gritted teeth.

“There’s nothing special about me.”

^{_{__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

Holding a near melted ice pack over his eyes, Lorcán gingerly opened the door to the diner, the wafting aroma instantly making his stomach growl before he made his way to the front counter and took a seat on a nearby bar stool.

He winced as he bent his torso to sit, placing a hand to his bruised ribs before a mug slid his way, the fry cook calling a familial greeting towards his newest regular. Behind the counter, the staff moved about, the ever-busy diner keeping each of the wait staff on their toes as full tables alternated between waiting for food and enjoying the piping hot dishes placed in front of them.

There wasn’t anything particularly fancy on the menu, in fact it was surprising that the diner did as well as it did. Everything felt about fifty years in the past, an anachronism in the middle of the bustling city.

Maybe that was the appeal, a reminder of a slower time.

For Lorcán however, the draw was far nearer to his heart. She had a head of radiant red hair that spilled over his shoulders like a copper water fly while sapphire blue eyes illuminated the moment she saw him.

The classic outfit and the apron were cute on Aurora, Lorcán certainly couldn’t complain. As she turned around, he saw her eyes immediately go wide at the black eye before Lorcán managed one of his signature grins and greeted his girlfriend.

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

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: Pacific Royal Campus Beach - Dundas Island, Pacific Ocean}

Human #5.008: Nothing Special

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Aurora Mitchell - @Melissa}

Previously: Death Of A Bachelor

^{| Present}

It still felt like only moments ago that Lorcán and Aurora had been completely lost in blissful ignorance before returning to the aftermath of the Chernobog’s attack. The news of P.R.C.U. closing had been like a knife repeatedly stabbed in Lorcán’s chest before twisted and left there. All around him were faces he couldn’t be sure he’d ever see again.

His leg bounced nervously up and down, the sand surrounding his foot had been compressed into a crater while his nervous waves caused the fire to emit off waves of heat far hotter than it should have. His free hand tapped a beat against the thigh of his bouncing leg while his other gave Aurora’s hand a tight squeeze.

More than even Lorcán, Aurora was having a difficult time with the changes facing them. After everything with her home life, she had found a new home at P.R.C.U. and next to Lorcán himself, she had been there longer than any other gathered member of Blackjack or Eclipse.

They had discussed solutions, and while it was clear that Lorcán would not be going to the Foundation, it was not up to him to speak for Aurora either. There were just no words that could communicate what he was feeling, the turmoil inside of him as he looked between Gil and Rory realizing this may very well be the end of the ‘Wolfpack’.

In particular his eyes dwelled on Rory’s legs, bittersweet memories of running the Hyperball field together before realizing there would be no more of those memories to be made even if Rory fully healed. He looked to Haven next, and the absence of the shadow her wings would normally had cast, clothing covering her that didn’t need any modifications to accommodate the large wings only further drove the point home they were gone.

How envious Lorcán had once been to fly above the campus and soar like Haven had. Now that ability was taken from her and Lorcán could only wonder if such an outward ability was more curse than a gift.

How could Lorcán have been so selfish to abandon his team that night? If he and Aurora had stayed at the dance, maybe they could have made the difference. Maybe he and Amma could have teamed up, it wasn’t like Amma hadn’t boosted his powers before.

She could have boosted both of them, Aurora could have gotten people to safety while Lorcán cooked the Chernobog from the inside. How stupid he was to abandon them when he needed them most. Lorcán couldn’t blame any of them for wanting to leave.

He had failed them, he had let his friends suffer.

Cleo’s voice stirred him from his thoughts, Lorcán lifted his reddened eyes up to meet her gaze as she quietly spoke. Nodding his approval of her choice, he muttered a quiet reply of his own.

“You’ll be safe there.” The words were hollow, a half truth that he lied about to himself. Lorcán still didn’t trust the Foundation, but with Jim in custody and the grounds seized, there wasn’t a better place for young Hyperhumans. He had heard stories of the outside world. He had heard Amma’s warnings too.

Did that thing come from the Foundation? Or was it merely a repercussion for their actions? If the Foundation and H.E.L.P. had worked together all this time, wouldn’t they all have been safe?

“We’r-” He paused, reminding himself not to speak for Aurora but instead to give her room to tell her own story and revelations. “I’m,” He corrected before continuing to speak, “I’m going to Crestwood Hollow tomorrow to stay with Cass and Ripley.” Lorcán explained.

“My parents thought it best if I was aware from here while the dust settles and they get their affairs in order. They’re going to be trying to get jobs to keep the house in the village. If that doesn’t pan out,” His voice trailed off, his thoughts reminiscing on the first time he felt Amma through the fire and how odd it was that she wasn’t here with them now.

“I guess, we’ll all move to Crestwood Hollow and live with my Aunt and Uncle until something permanent works out.” He poked at the fire with a stick. Last time they were all sitting around a fire like this, Lorcán would have done anything to get off this island and see the world.

Now he’d give anything to be able to stay a little longer.

The hairs on the back of Lorcán’s neck stood on edge and his eyes darted around, expecting to find something watching him. Part of him expected the white stag to be looming from the nearby cliffs but beyond the circle, his eyes only found darkness. Not even a lightning bug illuminated the dark, cool, fall night.

It was only when Lorcán looked away that a pair of ember-hued eyes stared back.

<sup>_{__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

| Several Weeks from Now</sup>

The echoes of tormented souls and trapped monsters reverberated through Lorcán’s ears as he slowly opened his eyes, finding himself laying upon the damp sand of a shore. Fog with hues of pink and purple danced along the forest’s edge as the blood red moon overhead illuminated everything in its crimson light.

Lorcán had stood on this beach many times before, and yet there was something so distinctly unsettling about it. It bordered on the uncanny, and he could feel his heart throbbing inside his chest before looking at the faintly glowing rune on the palm of his hand.

Tapping his body, Lorcán ensured his armor was secured as a nearby howl turned the blood in his veins to ice. A gun was firmly holstered to his thigh while the pair of short swords sat strapped across the back of his waist.

The air somehow smelled fresher here, as though free of pollutants and the forest dotting the edge of the island was denser, less developed. But Lorcán no longer could feel any HZEs in the air, his powers seemingly were unresponsive as he tried to warm himself against the bitter cold of the night.

It may have looked like home.

But it was far from it.

[Rockette]

_{Location: The Beach - Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean.}

Human #5.009: the children of sorrow.

^{_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Interaction(s): blackjack & eclipse.}

Previously: her remains.

Stephen Anderson didn’t understand why Scylla was so determined to return the belongings of the dead, near-obsessive to obtain personal effects to sign and hand over to family members; answers met with acknowledged fear and hopeless truth; children sent across the ferry to learn, grow, to be safe in like-minded graces away from the world that would never understand them otherwise. When he asked, watching her turn that damned ring through her trembling fingers, she muttered with glassy-lined eyes of silver that she would want someone to do the same for her, to find the remains and allow them to be given a final rest for life undone. Peace, she breathed, that they once had here- it wasn’t always like this, she muttered and curled her palm around the ring once more, holding it close as if cherishing the discovery. He didn’t bother asking her again after that; he couldn’t really blame her for not recognizing that he would follow her onto whatever path and endeavor she forged, only desiring her safety above all else. He had family back on the mainland and offered her his home. His mother would welcome her happily, he said, but Scylla had merely shook her head and denied the comforts proffered; there is more I have to learn, she claimed, more that I can possibly do.

So Stephen decided to go to The Foundation, too; he would not allow her to go alone.

She took that ring and made inquiry attempts to Ryan about Amma’s family, which was met with an eerily drawn-out silence until she admitted quietly that she didn’t have any. All academic records of Amma Cahors had been taken and destroyed and were suddenly missing, plucked so carefully, and done so thoroughly. As if she did not exist, for someone had meticulously seen to extract any trace of her, her room in shambles, her belongings taken, and now any lead into her past suddenly not there. There was no next of kin, Ryan had explained, her mother’s whereabouts lost to time, her father unknown, only the mutterings of spires of a church in Rouen where she was born being the only knowledge they possessed. The Cahors name was so loosely spun through fate and was now suspended over the dregs of never-there and used-to-be—a chasm of both Charlotte and Amma, mystery and wavering shadows betwixt their shared likeness. Torres would’ve been the next person to ask, maybe the one to give such a sentiment to, but news of her death had spread fast, and Scylla (anyone really) didn’t know Amma Cahors well enough to look further into where she had come from.

Giving such to The Foundation just seemed wrong.

And perhaps that was why Stephen and Scylla found themselves on the beach, watching from the edges of browse and sand, the hazed figures of Blackjack and Eclipse set off into the distance with a smothering air of uncertainty and woe worn as a blackened cowl. There was enough chill that Stephen took his jacket and allowed Scylla to slip her trembling hands through and pull taut over her shoulders against the cold; her white-blonde hair pulled up high from her nape, green eyes bruised and troubled, and tired. He knew exhaustion pinched and buzzed through his own amber gaze, black hair crazed and shoved under a baseball cap. They would be leaving tomorrow, and various fires scattered down the beach revealed many who were also enjoying their last nights on the island. Somber music that plucked through the night, bittersweet laughter and cries, Scylla and Stephen had stood on this beach not long ago lost to sand and surf and sunlight. Team Raindance, 08, their brand as a simplified rendering of a water droplet that they wore as necklaces, given that day for all the years they had spent together.

Under the moon, such a once familiar tradition was bathed in the finalities of silver shadow, melancholy that writhed as lamented cloaks of loss attached to every figure she recognized as the infamous team of Blackjack. There were few left of their own team, a couple she spotted further down, waving them over. Most were returning to their homes, and she couldn’t blame them for such a choice, no matter if such wrought her heart through and through—she didn’t want to be alone.

In the pocket of her jeans, the ring weighed like a stone, and every step grew more and more cumbersome as she trekked, Stephen at her heels, an immediate shoring of his guard as she stumbled, listing to one side where the ring burned beneath the fabric and seemed to shudder in the presence of those gathered. The lingering pieces of conversation fell upon her ears as they came closer, Stephen carefully holding Scylla at his side, hand around her elbow, steadying her through the cumbersome sorrow she wore, courtesy of her powers, everything profoundly felt and doubled. His own abilities cried and sang in their electrifying summons, purple hues of energy with pinkish undertones shimmering through his eyes as Scylla greeted those gathered and said:

“We don’t mean to disturb you,” she began in a whisper. “I’m Scylla Fluerane, and this is Stephen Anderson from House Gulo.”

“Team Raindance,” he tacked on carefully, unable to keep himself from studying their profiles, the injuries sustained, and the pain they must’ve felt.

“I—we—I just want to say we don’t believe all the rumors. No one really knows what happened that night.” She shook and trembled but carried on with a soft sigh. “But that’s not why we are here. I’m leaving tomorrow for The Foundation. " Why she felt compelled to admit such, she did not know, but nonetheless, it was out there as a plunked stone.

“We are,” Stephen amended, holding her all the more, and nodded for her to continue even when shock lapsed through her speech– gazes held for a long moment before she returned her silver-lined eyes to the fire and those surrounding it.

“But we found something in the dorms, one last look through; I don’t know if any of you have been there, but everything is gone. I don’t know what happened. No one knows anything about her; there’s no next of kin, nothing that Ryan could find, and –”

“Scylla.”

“Right, I’m sorry. I know what it is like to be… unwanted—never seen. And I don’t want that for her. No one deserves that.” She carefully reached for the ring in her pocket. “It seemed only fair to give this to you, her teammates.” In her delicate fingers, the jewel of red centered there seemed to glow as it captured the light of the fire, flames reflecting and licking off the bronze and golds twisted there, shimmering in the malformed and curious make, such a mundane thing that swelled with the profoundness of its discovery, the only token that remained of the infamous girl taken that dreaded night. Scylla glanced at each member of Blackjack before her green eyes landed on Gil, the last person she witnessed with Amma at the dance– would he want such a thing? She pondered who else would accept such before approaching the celebrity and carefully dropping the ring into his palm; if anyone else had reservations about such an action, Scylla ignored them in favor of whispering.

“I’m sorry.”

“We also encountered something else, though I don’t even know how to describe what it exactly was,” Stephen carried on next, glancing down the shoreline where the remainders of their team beckoned. “Something evil; we assume that’s what maybe tore apart her room; they blocked most of it off, though. People are cruel.”

“It’s too bad The Foundation couldn’t find the deed; at least we’d be able to stay here. This place is a home to so many of us.” He carried on, offering his hand to Scylla next as she stepped away from Gil; her body lightened as soon as she passed the ring onto another, a sort of easy calm spread through her to know that those who knew her best would see to its safety now that she was no longer here.

“Maybe we’ll see each other around,” Scylla uttered with a soft farewell hung upon her words as she slid her hand into Stephen’s grasp, held tight, and allowed him to lead them down the shoreline one last time.

At least they’d be together from here on out- for now.

[Hound55]

Banjo avoided looking down at his high-mast trouser legs, trying to play it off.

Then he heard it. They all heard it.

The twisting of metal coming from what gave the group shelter above.

A blast of ice. It moved on leathery wings. It came for them.

Paisley. Hyperion. This.

As Banjo felt the accumulated warmth of the dance floor lift to the sky, diffusing to the cold air outside, he saw a rapidly closing window.

Whatever came next he'd need to have his wits about him. Leg be damned.

"Tell ya Mum I'm sorry, Zimmerman..."

He stepped forward into the vacant space as the crowd rushed away in search of escape.

"...I don't think ya suit's gonna make it."

There was no sun. Only the warm atmosphere. But that wasn't insignificant. People had been leaving to get air all night. The A.R.C was generally designed for training on a smaller scale, and while it could be used for larger events, this was a party with the entire senior class, catered by juniors, chaperoned by staff. People were close quarters in the dance floor, and there were crowds of huddled masses in other pinch points like the bar. A lot of bodies, a lot of heat.

The thing plummeted to the floor, it cracked a panel and was backlit by sparking circuitry from the damaged and glitching structural inner-working of the A.R.C.

It seemed distracted, looking for someone.

Paisley. Hyperion. This.

He took two steps forward. He'd need space for what came next.

"He--! _{mmm-mmm mmm?}"

A hand slapped over his mouth from behind.

_{"Shut. The Fuck. Up."} He felt a weight dragging him back. Big Steve didn't have any hyperhuman strength, and quite clearly had never set foot in a gym, but he did still have height and weight on the smaller Australian who was also far from his physical peak.

_{"I'm not dying because you draw its attention this way."} Banjo held out a hand at the night's sky. He could almost see the accumlated warmth frittering away, and the best possible window for getting back to his full self drifting off into the open air.

Big Steve pulled him back around a potted plant by the bathroom door.

"You're lucky I didn't freeze your bloody arms off..." He growled.

_{"Keep it down!}" The larger man hissed. _{"And it's still less than THAT thing would do."}

They watched as it froze students and blocked the exits with ice.

<sub>"True enough, I guess."

"So what... your plan is to just hide here? That's a terrible plan. Even if you don't care about anybody else, how long do you think it'll be until he thinks to look here?"</sub>

Things like that. Monsters. Whether Paisley or... whatever the fuck this thing was... they're like a force of nature. The cyclone, the tornado, maybe it doesn't hit your house today... but that's just today, and by it's own 'grace'. Whatever 'grace' you can attribute to a monster.

_{"It won't ever look this way if you Shut. The Fuck. Up."}

Big Steve seemed to huddle over focusing inwards.

None of that rang true to Banjo.

_{"Who--? Who the fuck are you, anyway..?"}

The large one next to him just rolled his eyes.

_{"You really do get dumber when you haven't powered up for a while."} He seemed exasperated, but not just by his behaviour. Which was the general Banjo effect. But as if he'd explained this too many times already.

_{"We've been through all of this before. For someone who's supposed to be smart, you really seem to be willing to think you were put in our dorm by coincedence..."}

---

Banjo had returned to the dorm. It was only the second time he'd been here. The first occasion he'd simply dumped his stuff in his new room - which was Zimmerman's old room, before he so swiftly relocated him - and left.

"But your name's not Steve..?"

"No."

"Explain again."

"Well, there's another Steve in Civics class..."

"You say 'Another Steve'. I notice you keep sayin' 'Another Steve', but your name isn't Steve. It's--"

"--Marcus!" Alex called out from the bathroom, brushing his teeth.

"Marcus. You keep sayin' 'Another Steve' but your name's Marcus."

"It's just easier."

Banjo squinted up at the taller boy. An otherwise perplexed look on his face.

"The other Steve is smaller. So they call me 'Big Steve'."

"But what-- possible connection do you have with this other kid called... 'Little Steve'?"

"No. They just call him 'Steve'. 'Steve' and 'Big Steve'.

Banjo rubbed his brow, things weren't getting clearer.

"But YOU'RE not a bloody Steve. He's--"

"I like it." He said. "Sounds good. It-- sticks with people."

"BUT YOU AREN'T STEVE. YOUR NAME IS--" Shit... it was gone again. What was it again? He knew he was bad with names, but this was--

"--Marcus!" Alex happily repeated, before continuing to rinse his mouth out.

"That! Your name is Marcus!"

"Don't you choose to go by 'Banjo'?"

"..."

"Fine. Whatever. You're Big Steve. Not--" He threw a hand up.

"Marcus."

---

"Come on... I told you mine."

"Yeah. Y'did. More fool you."

"Come ooooooon. I know it's something that makes you stronger. I heard."

"That's a gross oversimplification."

Alex sat there actively waiting for the expanded explanation.

"No. That's part of it. Yours is straightforward. Electromagnetism. Zzzzzzzap. Mine's more complicated. It takes too long to explain and confuses people." He lied. Trevor got it in seconds, and he hadn't exactly inspired him with his sparkling intelligence otherwise over the course of their time.

He just couldn't be bothered. All of this was too much effort for people. What's the point he was only--

--oh. Going to be stuck here for the next four or so years.

"I'm a blindspot." Spoke the other presence in the room, from the corner reading a comic book.

"Basically, I have a latent and active power that can eat away at people's memory of myself and has a... minor effect on telepaths on a psi-level." He turned the page.

"Not that powerful, though. If they're aware and focus, and have any kind of real power... well, I'm pretty weak with it."

"My parents had pictures up all around the house, I suspect, more to remind themselves that I existed and to keep checking on me, rather than for sentimental reasons. Both have my name tattooed on them as wells. There were more than a few calls from school to remind them to pick me up over the years as well."

His voice was flat and his delivery dry and matter-of-fact, as so frequently was his way.

"Is it harder to explain than that?"

---

She looked nervous, waiting for him outside of the dorm bloc.

It was cute and brought a smile to his face as pretty much everything about her did.

"There you are! Umm... we need to talk."

"Oh hu-llo. Don't know if I like the sound of that. An ambush?" He held his hands up in jest of surrender.

"Please Banjo, this is serious."

Not so serious that she'd use the other name yet, but he could still she was strained and getting that way in her plea.

"Then we'll get through it. We always do. What's the problem?"

"I know you've been treating the therapists you've had to see over the years as just-- well, you play your silly games..."

He bristled slightly at the description, but it wasn't enough to argue about.

"But as I've told you before a few time, I still feel that mine can do some good. So I'd like it if you could respect what I have to say next."

"Yeah, hun."

"Well, at our last session we've had some level of... new findings, which we identified. My therapist feels that if I'm to be honest with our relationship, I should let you know as well, now that it's become apparent to this point."

"New findings. Like a breakthrough?"

"I certainly wouldn't describe it that way, no. But I'm worried, Andrew. I don't want you to think less of me."

He straightened up.

"I told you. Anything it is, we'll get through it. That's what we do. I meant it."

And with some trepidation she told him, and at the end he held her. Still not sure what to make of what he'd heard. Because what else could he do?

^{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: The Beach, Dundas Islands, Pacific Ocean - Present}

Human #5.010: Ship of Fools

^{_{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): NPCs and Beach Blackjack, Raindance and Eclipse Crew}

Previously: High (trouserleg) Fashion

His options had dwindled.

He'd just come from the Legal Wing after a conversation with Professor Onassis.

Somehow his plans for earlier had leaked. He wound up in a 'spontaneous' conversation that happened to remind him that he was not in possession of a US work Visa, nor would he have an address that would fare him well for such an application to be made at this point.

True enough. He could imagine an immediate rubber stamp denial for any documentation with a 'Dundas Island' residential/mailing address.

And then was further reminded that even if he did get documentation approved, the United States might not be the safest place for him specifically if he were to travel there. The implication of him having a target on his back for anyone who may just want to get into the good graces of a certain US Senator, in a world where favours were currency.

In addition to this, he was only in Canada on Student Visa, and it was difficult to imagine any other institution across the entire country who would consider a transfer from that University with the Dundas Island address.

It was the first time he felt excluded because of what he was and a place he attended as opposed to the laundry list of things that he'd done or been suspected of doing.

If her were unable to transfer, and the term on his student Visa expired, deportation awaited him. And he suspected that could well be a death sentence if there was any truth to what he'd been told.

It would be a shame for him to not get his law degree at this point, he was told. And probably his best bet for finding a stable life later somewhere or other as well.

Banjo could barely muster enough care to mumble in response throughout. His mind had already been made up regardless, and it had nothing to do with a piece of paper which told him he was capable of something he already knew he could do.

Onassis imparted upon him that at times it had been one of his deepest dreads that Banjo might one day pass the BAR and fulfil his potential in advocacy. But that he must admit that whatever he thought of the youth he remained one of the most impressive natural legal minds he'd come across in his experience as an educator.

Banjo, seeing there was nothing more of value coming but meaningless sentiment, merely grunted and left the room.

---

It spoke.

Everyone was frozen now. Even those who weren't in blocks of ice.

"Hello, mothers."

There was almost a cold bitterness to the word. Their delivery to the two Blackjack women left all paralysed in the moment.

Banjo scratched and clawed through the fog to take what he could from the moment in his present state.

Big. Flies. Mentos freshmaker breath. Strong. Claws.

It had the augmented form of the one who'd been leading the construction on this year's Trials. Whatshisname. Not-my-supervisor.

But with wings. Wings and very, very large claws.

Katja. If he could run interference on the breath, she was their best bet. He couldn't see her in the crowd.

And then it spoke again and the fog consumed his train of thought, leaving him to try and make what he could of the new information.

“I’m afraid, I need you both to come with me.” It's speech was clear, prim and proper. Far from what you'd expect from a mindless beast.

“The father is expecting you both,” The paternal name not seeming to hold the same level of disdain or resentment.

“I’d be happy to dispatch any interlopers who dare challenge the Chernobog.”

Gil may well have been the actor, but Cassander Charon took it as a cue. He called out a quippy warcry and threw himself into a full frontal explosive attack.

And when the flash cleared, and the fog rised, the beast had him by the throat.

Big. Flies. Mentos Freshmaker Breath. Strong. Claws. Deceptively quick within it's range. Durable. Very durable. Out of my weight class even at my best.

He went from "Maybe Katja" to "Only Katja" very quickly. His mind not considering beyond blunt force in its present state.

Then Torres stepped forward, pleading to the man and not the beast. Her power loosening the grip on Cass' throat and dropping him to the floor.

The beast said the man was all well and good but didn't have claws like these. And demonstrated his point.

But her act opened up the opportunity of alternatives.

Something other than brute force?

"Mothers, come." The cold delivery once again returned. “Before I have to embarrass anymore of your… friends.” A mist of frigid air burst from its nostrils as it snorted in some kind of huff.

“I’m getting impatient.”

Something was off.

It seemed to identify Rory and openly challenge him.

Rory seemed to try and form a plan, co-ordinate and communicate it directly in front of the beast.

Surely he's not going to...

He openly tried to borrow Amma's power and tell Haven to run on his signal, and there's telegraphed playcalls and then there was this...

“There will be no running.”

“And there will be none of this.”

“If you run, I will break both your wings and your legs.”

“Like this.”

It almost seemed to revel in what it new it would be able to do to them. Dismantling them. Anticipating and responding.

And it was fast. For someone so big it seemed almost too fast. Faster than Katja, Banjo figured. Probably not faster than me if I was running at full steam... but I wouldn't want to coast or play with it.

Brute force seemed like less of an option with every passing minute.

“You think her to be your ally?” The beast gestured to Amma with its horns. “Perhaps the woman you knew here is, but Tiamat is not.” Its face slightly turned into a cruel smile.

It was playfully cruel. In ways he never saw from the form before the trials. It assured them that man was dead. Banjo believed it.

There was talk of names, which lost Banjo. He could barely keep his head around anyone's chosen name at the best of times. He spent the time spying his surroundings.

“Tiamat, you have a mission to resume.”

“And you’re coming with me, Dove.”

And that struck home. That was after the Trials. He felt convinced there was no more point appealing to the man. He was gone by then. He couldn't have known. He wasn't the one 'behind the wheel'. This beast. This monster. This Chernobog.

---

Banjo looked devastated. Quiet rage and vitriol pumped through his veins where warm-blooded humour once flowed.

He stood in front of the house on the Alumni village. A few moving vans scattered along the noticeably quiet street, that was so often bubbling with life, energy and a sense of community.

"Oh! G'Day, kiddo!" The older man called from his house.

"They run you out too?"

"I-- may have made a few trips to the mainland and came up with some money." The details of how exactly and why, left vague just as they had been back home when he'd disappear and did likewise. The exact marketable skill he possessed never spoken, but for whatever reason, whatever the amount, he seemed to be able to make it happen.

"It's too hot here now. I wouldn't be game to make anymore here as it is." He said more than he usually would, the leak perhaps coming because he viewed Banjo as old enough to have some sense of where it came from.

"That said, I went big enough and hard enough that I won't have to for a while..."

"Had to... since I can't exactly sell up, when I piss off. Trust me mate, you don't want to be known as one of the ones who stuck around from before, when the types who are looking to exploit a bargain get here."

Banjo kicked at the dirt. Everyone running again. He'd done it all of his life but for some reason it seemed distasteful now.

"Sold the boat though. Well... upgraded."

"Upgraded?"

"Yeah. Ripper boat but the 'Dawny Fraser' didn't seem fit for purpose so much anymore."

He turned and looked back down at the pier.

"See that big bastard there?"

"You mean behind that massive..."

"Nah mate, it is that massive one there. Say hello to the 'Thorpedo'."

Gracefully sauntering out of the house in a wide brimmed sunhat stepped Margot, greeting him with pomp and ceremony.

"Why Hellooooooo, isn't it a delightful day for an outing? Will you be joining our boating party?"

Banjo turned and glared at the older man. "Are you out of your--?"

"They were gonna put her in a home, mate... A lot of these people... Didn't have much better waitin' for them. So I managed to buy up an old smaller cruise vessel that's in decent nick. Or former cruise vessel. Regular humans aren't the only ones who can gouge a hype for a bargain from a forced Government sale..."

He shook his head thinking of the logistics behind what he was doing, as well meaning as it was.

"How many?"

"What?"

"How many nutbags are joinin' you on this Ship of Fools for your three hour tour."

"A doz--" "Three hour tour." Banjo interrupted.

"Are you done..? About a dozen and a half."

Banjo emitted a low long whistle.

"Twenty people. Including sweet Lady Dementia over there. Scurvy, rickets or a storm..? What's gona claim you first?"

"Don't call her that... So am I saving you a seat?"

For the first time in a while Banjo emitted a laugh. A growl of a cackle with almost no mirth, at the absurdity of the question.

"Ha ha ha haaaa... No bloody way. I'd have a better chance stickin' around here and waitin' for the lynch mob to arrive, only I'm not doin' that either."

"So what are you doin'? Or did you just come up here to laugh at my well-meaning efforts, mate?"

"Well, I know you said WE don't have boat money, or buy a home on the alumni village money, but that YOU have boat and alumni village money..."

"Aww here it comes..." The Butler straightened up, waiting for the younger man to cry poverty.

"I haven't asked you for much of anythin'... in about two decades."

Widening smirk crossed his long-suffering minder's face.

"Yeah, yeah... out with it. I think I see where this is goin'."

"I need to you to buy me somethin' and I know you're not goin' to want to, or even understand why I'm askin'..."

The Butler reached into his pocket.

"I think I'm way ahead of you on this one..."

The older man held out a phone in his palm.

Banjo looked surprised.

"The promise I made... was with the guy who used to run this place. To keep the kids who went here safe. Or... you know... the terrorist who was impersonating him. I guess I don't know exactly which one of them it was with in the end... Still my word's my word. But with the school gone belly up. I trust you at least know enough now to not get yourself into TOO much trouble doing anything even stupider with that?"

Banjo took the phone and weighed it in his hand. It felt lighter than he thought it ever would.

"Y'know... if you don't make me promise not to do anythin' stupid, then we really don't ever have to pretend to ever be disappointed..."

The older man side-eyed with a screwface.

"But yeah... I know well enough to leave THAT alone. Think I've got enough people out for my blood as it is without adding more to the party."

"I mean... thanks and everythin'." He said, quickly pocketing the device before he changed his mind.

"But that wasn't actually the request I had in mind..."

---

"Pity, I wish there were more of you."

It dispatched the Gils in seconds. As they fell by the way side his mind steeled through the fog once more to divine strategy from the chaos.

No blunt brute force. Another way...

The cables sparking with electricity, the floor panel glitching with presumably exposed wiring beneath.

Zimmerman.

You like heroes... Now's your chance. He thought to himself. Watching the beast's footwork and the glitching floor panel with a sharp focus.

<sub>"Don't you dare. I know what you're thinking."

"I juice... maybe the leg has enough in it. I hit the opening. Slam through the panel. Draw its ire. Zimmerman steps in and fries that prick with every volt this place has from behind."</sub>

The panel. It's feet. It turns to keep powered seniors in its sightlines. The larger man hissed back.

<sub>"And you said my plan was terrible. You don't know how your leg is going to be. You don't know if you could be quick enough, and you certainly don't know if Alex won't freeze up in the moment. If it goes bad you'll kill all three of us."

"It's killing people now. He's out in the open."</sub>

A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder. Banjo would have to freeze him to try, was the implication.

_{"I won't let you. Anyway... look."} Big Steve looked to distract him again. His focus was wondering and waning. He turned to keep up with events and got drawn back into watching.

And then two stepped to the fore.

---

"I'm in, but I've got a condition. Non-negotiable. You jokers are supposed to be all about respectin' personal flair, preference and caterin' to the individual. Time to put ya money where ya mouth is..."

His hollow grin grew into a wide leer, as he spoke to the recruiter.

"Well, I've... certainly never heard a request like that before. And I-- well, I can't imagine it'd be very good--"

"That's the condition. Run it up the flagpole. If ya can't do it, I'm not interested... But if you're claimin' that the Foundation caters to the individual, like you all always seem ever so proud to go sprukin'..."

He jogged back down the corridor and out to the day.

His leg was fine. The day after the incident at the dance he grew tired of waiting - tired of ruining his own life on a what if? - and juiced in the warmest part of the afternoon sun.

Now it was fine, and he was left wondering how long he could have done that and been fine. How if his mind was running at full capacity, his body at its peak capability, would things have played out the same way they did.

It was a fresh torture from the one he'd previously been experiencing after the trial, and one that thanks to his renewed focus, never gave him a moment's respite.

He skirted around the A.R.C complete with its tape and new skylight feature, as he jogged off to the farm.

He pushed on to the stable and pulled a handful of sugar cubes from his pocket.

"I've got good news and bad news. Good news is, old mate bought ya for me. Much as someone can own another. So you're stuck with me now."

The pony hoovered up the cubes, whilst Banjo rested his forehead on his namesake.

"Where that's gonna be, I guess we'll see."

"But I'm not leavin' you here in this foresaken place with these parasites of hyperhuman misery takin' over, that's for damn sure. I've seen how they treat places and things when their blood gets up, I'm not subjectin' you to that. No way, no how."

---

Alyssa and Luce stepped up to the moment. There was some sense of relief since he knew at least the pair of them likely had some kind of experience with something like what they were looking at.

_{"Yes! Get off of me, they're keeping it busy. There's a window!"}

The beast started to justify itself and spin. It had not chosen bloodshed it claimed, it defended itself when it was engaged in violence by others.

...clearly not addressing the hyperhuman popsicles in the room. It'd make a good lawyer with that attitude.

"I would dare say, this has been fun though."

There was a playfulness to its cadence. Cassander Charon leaped back into the fray, as ever was his wont. An outburst from the Chernobog.

Then Haven stepped forward to surrender herself, to end the violence.

“Take me and end this.” She offered gently, a tear diluting the blood on her cheek. “Please, no more suffering.”

Banjo ripped a shoulder through and broke free from Big Steve's grasp. Looking to make his move under the cover of the myriad distractions. He threw a hand up to signal to Zimmerman, but what came next glued his feet to the floor.

"Mother,"

"“It’s too late for that now.”

A winged girl was strapped to a surgical table in the middle column of the top row.
He recognised the sound of Haven’s own voice in her screams, and the sound of a bonesaw.
The angles didn’t provide the best view of the winged girl, but just how many winged girls did he know? – and the screams certainly confirmed it.

Banjo staggered, his chest churned and he felt he was about to vomit everywhere.

“Father only needs your blood.”

Another useless appeal to the man echoed from somewhere beyond Banjo's notice. He was lost within the moment.

“There is no Robert left,” A truth Banjo already knew. “Only Chernobog. You couldn’t save Robert, anymore than you could save any of those who left. Those who never made it home.” A laugh followed the cruel statement.

The cruel statement. The laugh. Playful cruelty. A darkness revelled in.

“She cried for him, you know? Her lover, her last breath, barely a whimper by the end as Father took the last of her life,”

A playful cruelty.

“‘Andrew!’ It was for ‘Andrew’, ‘Andrew, save me,’.”

His mouth fell open. The cadence.

"Banjo, I... hear a voice..."

"...hitting every insecurity I have."

"The voice of my anxieties. A depressive manifestation. She says it sounds like it may be dissociative..."

"The Trials."

“I can’t believe I was ever that weak.” “Really? A panic attack right now? Couldn't handle not being the center of attention could you, Princess.”

"It hates me. Hates my hapiness. Our happiness. It hates you, but still says that you'll find out horrible truths about me and that you'll leave. That I'll never be good enough."

"I have an idea!" "Look, twinsies!"

He turned the puzzle pieces in his head.

“She cried for him, you know? Her lover, her last breath, barely a whimper by the end as Father took the last of her life,”

“‘Andrew!’ It was for ‘Andrew’, ‘Andrew, save me,’.”

_{^"--Calli..?"}

“Go to Sheol,” A stark voice penetrated what seemed to be a moment of absolute silence and snapped him from his paralysis.

With a flick of her wrist, Alyssa hurled the disk like stone through the air, the object sticking the Chernobog, transferring the rune to the beast. Pushing herself, Alyssa scrambled to Haven’s fallen form, tackling the girl out of the way as the Chernobog began to glow.

A sphere of energy burst forth from the rune before a vacuum began to consume the creature.

"NO!" A scream. A roar. The desperation palpable. It scratched and clawed against the inevitable. Clutching at an existence, for what to Banjo, must have been a second time, and watching it get torn from a grasp which even claws could not cling to. It snatched at half of it's mission and dragged her off to wherever this 'Sheol' was.

The stark silence that followed was palpable. People were scared to break it. As a few tears penetrated in muffled moments it became clear that whatever that was, it was now over.

Now they just had to live with it. Those lucky enough to still be able.

---

His pony was tied to a post down the beach. He barely had the give-a-shit to hide it anymore, but then people had enough on their minds its presence never came up to require an explanation. Or rather there was pity over his loss. People seemed unwilling to broach, well, anything with him in the days since.

He leaned on two cartons of beer for personal use that the Speakeasy was all too willing to offload to a regular from the island and university. In the coming days all remaining assets would be seized regardless, better to see it go to a person they knew rather than the scavengers from the mainland.

He'd been chain-skulling beers throughout, and juicing periodically to keep the booze inside him with the rest of the poison.

Painful silences and teammates he could barely face.

He hadn't looked at Haven since. He visited her in the Hospital a few times before she regained consciousness, but all interest in doing that again dissipated the second he was informed that she had woken up.

His leg was fine now. How long could that have been the case, if he'd bothered to try? Even if he went to early and always had a limp, he still would have been using his power often enough to have the wherewithal to see through such an obvious ruse.

And it had been an obvious ruse, hadn't it?

Calli had been all too eager to believe her family might actually come together over a shared tragedy, but if his mind anywhere near as well as it usually did, that pragmatic cynicism of his would have shone right through the paper thin trap they set to see the pit beneath it.

His mind which wasn't working to capacity because he got lazy and stupid in the Trials.

How many died? How many maimed, because he didn't see what was right in front of him?

His short-handed team had joined numbers with another decimated team Eclipse. Brothers and sisters in Tragedy.

"Katja's coming this way."

A statement of the obvious, designed to breach the painful silence. But not as obvious in Banjo's case who hadn't noticed due to the fog he brought down over his own head under weight of beer.

He never spoke to her about Gil, Amma and his actions. What could be said? She had kind of withdrawn herself since then anyway, not that he could blame her or anybody for that. It's not like the sentiment wouldn't be understandable.

“I think… I think I miss my home.” Uttered one of Cleo's teammates.

Home.

Home was dead. He didn't have a home. Even if this place wasn't getting shuttered he still wouldn't have had one.

All he had was anger, guilt, and a laundry list of things to do and accounts to settle.

He opened another beer.

People looking to cling to people. It made sense. After all, if it didn't he wouldn't have asked for the pony down the shoreline. When tragedy strikes, people want to cling to the safety of the familiar and that which they still care about at all. He didn't know if he could say that about all of the present company, but enough of them he guessed.

“This was…is my home…” Baxter spoke up. Some weird shit had since happened to her eyes, but she wasn't exactly one of those he cared enough about to find out how or why. “It’s the only one I’ve known since my parents died. And I... I don’t think I’m ready to let that go.”

Baxter couldn't take the silence. Predictable, he figured. Looked like this was going to be the 'So what's everybody doing now' talk, presumably.

“Maybe I don’t know where I’m going next, but whatever that looks like…I don’t want to do it alone. I don’t want to lose my home.”

He pounded another beer, and spat on the sand. He was going to have to juice again soon or things could get messy. He clung to the fog a while longer.

Cleo picked up on the direction of the conversation as well. "I'm... going to join the Foundation,"

Mentally he made a note of there being someone he would be familiar with.

“You’ll be safe there.” Lorcán replied with a saccharine lie. Addressing the emotions of the person making the statement rather than the facts of what was said.

“We’r-” He hesitated. Cobbling together a thought, or questioning the truth of his first statement? Banjo thought. “I’m,” He corrected before continuing to speak, “I’m going to Crestwood Hollow tomorrow to stay with Cass and Ripley.” Referring to his family.

“My parents thought it best if I was aware from here while the dust settles and they get their affairs in order. They’re going to be trying to get jobs to keep the house in the village. If that doesn’t pan out,”

Banjo thought back to what the Butler had said about 'don't want to be known as one of the ones who stuck around from before, when the types who are looking to exploit a bargain get here.' But decided to keep his mouth shut.

“I guess, we’ll all move to Crestwood Hollow and live with my Aunt and Uncle until something permanent works out.”

Family. Must be nice.

"We don't mean to disturb you," Two people came over, seeking some kind of company, comraderie or likeminded sentiment. Banjo didn't have the stomach for it and peeled off. He wandered down to the shoreline to juice and piss into the sea. Not something he'd have done if Calliope were still in the picture, but that wasn't the case anymore.

When he came back he saw the girl handing Gil something small and metallic, as he caught a glint of a reflection.

Perhaps sensing his lack of desire to deal with them, they finished their conversation and bid them farewell.

He felt directed silence. It seemed they took his departure as less apathetic and more an aggressively sought absence. Or at least that was how he took it. A request for his thoughts.

Well, people didn't have to not-ask twice...

"Daedalus..." He spoke the unspoken name of the last few days.

"He's still out there, and there's only one lead left. The Foundation. He's known there. He's from there. We didn't even know about him until we had contact with there. The suffering he'd caused. And what little we've learned has mostly come from there."

"I can't promise you safety. But then, I pretty much feel anyone who claims they can promise safety to any of us at this point, anywhere, is lying to you. But that's the only place that holds anything even vaguely recognisable as justice."

He couldn't even bring himself to look in Haven and Rory's direction as he spoke.

"I know I've never had much of a prosecutorial side to me... But I'm gonna go to the Foundation. I'm gonna drag him out of whatever hole he's hidin' in, and throw him in a deeper one, so dark that he forgets what the sun looks like."

"And when that prick looks across the bench, after bein' told he doesn't get to breathe free for the rest of his natural life. He's gonna know it was ME. And he's gonna know exactly how and where he fucked up."

[Roman]

There was no moonlight confidant to weave nightmares into soft slumber this time.

---

G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D
G I L E M O R Y G A L A H A D

_{Location: The Beach - Dundas Island}

Human #5.011 Sinking, Burning

---

_{Interaction(s): Lorcán, @Lord Wraith}

Gil wasn't sure how he'd ended up here, on the beach, eerily reminiscent of but a few short weeks ago before everything had gotten fucked up. All he was sure of was the heat of the fire, the grittiness of the sand beneath his legs, and the feeling of the glass bottle in his remaining hand.

Ha, the left hand. The hand left. His right was a stump. Between crushing, laceration, and acute frostbite, it'd been shorn off by medical decree halfway up his forearm. No more watches! Gloves half price! And dressing himself was tricky now. H.E.L.P. had been none, but he'd been assured a prosthetic and further physical therapy to support it could be secured when he was back continent-side, provided his insurance was up to date. Provided his insurance was retained. With current hyperhuman sentiment reaching lows even beyond the wake of the Hyperion incident, there were those rallying and lobbying for further stripping away. He lifted the wine bottle to his lips with his left hand, the movement awkward and unfamiliar with his non-dominant arm, and pulled deeply of an earthy and spiced red.

He sat in sullen silence, physically present but mentally drifting. The options had been laid before them by the academy faculty, or at least what was left of it - Foundation or Fend For Yourself. Foundation or Figure It Out. Foundation or Fuck Off. Well, Gil would Fuck Off then. Having resigned only a few days ago - gods, another lifetime, how many had he lived through now in the last handful of short weeks? - he had no need for an 'acting degree' anymore, the value of such a 'degree' from either P.R.C.U. or the Foundation a dubious proposition at best regardless. What was left for him now? The others talked of 'moving on', of forging new futures and new lives for themselves. Lorcán and his picture-perfect engaged-to-be-engaged beau, the pair of them set apart from Blackjack by virtue of their absence of consequence, itself fuelled by their own absence at the dance, mentioned his safety net in Crestwood Hollow. Gods, just the name of the town ripped through Gil like a fresh spear, another reminder of a previous life long since torn away through both his own will and the forces of others acting upon him.

Gil himself had no real plan beyond finishing this bottle and starting another. There was the apartment in LA, rent quietly ticking over, and he supposed he'd return there to drink himself into oblivion or run out of money. Or run out of money by drinking himself into oblivion. And then he'd probably go back to England, back to mother and father. He'd probably end up an accountant like his dad. Bored out of his skull and mourning.

Katja was the only real surprise of the evening; Gil wasn't sure where she'd gone but she had been gone, and he'd considered her gone for good, possessed of the good sense to get away from the island before it became the inevitable death sentence, like it had become for so many others. He didn't look at her. Couldn't. Couldn't think about what she might have been able to do against the beast. Couldn't think about what had been done and lost in her place. Why had it been left to Cass the foolhardy, Torres the misguided, Rory the inept, Gil the inadequate? Instead of standing together as a team they'd each charged in alone, reckless and irresponsible, and they'd lost limbs and lives and entire persons as a result. Harper talked about 'Home', although Gil had no fucking idea what that concept was meant to stand for now, because it certainly didn't mean 'belonging' or 'safety' to him anymore, while Cleo - one of the few remnants of Eclipse, now among them as they sat not as teammates but survivors - and Banjo talked about the Foundation. He wasn't going to protest. If they, or anyone else, wanted to delude themselves into thinking that place would be any safer, go right ahead. Gil wasn't even convinced they weren't directly behind everything that had happened; their presence had been unwelcome and vaguely sinister from the start of the year, and now it seemed with PRCU's closure and seizure, the Alexandria Foundation stood poised to become the foremost - and indeed, only - authority on Hyperhumans across the globe. Even with Torres' untimely death, he couldn't imagine the upper leaders of the organisation to be unhappy with that outcome.

It was only when another pair arrived, both strangers to Gil, and mentioned Amma that he looked up. She held an ivory head of hair, and he held her hand with a fierce tenderness.

When she stepped forward to give him the ring, he initially, instinctively, raised his stump towards her; he faltered, awkward and inwardly cursing, before releasing the bottle and pushing his left hand out instead. She dropped a small ring into his waiting palm, and despite its small size it imparted a devastating weight upon him.

mend instead of sunder

Gil stood up suddenly, his own immediate fury surprising himself and overriding any feeling of drunkenness. Amma was all he had left. The only real connection left. What they'd shared at the dance...what he'd felt as they kissed...

He turned from the fire without a word, putting the shoreline behind him as he began to head back towards what remained of the PRCU ‘campus’.

Releasing his grip on Aurora, Lorcán’s eyes darted to Gil and he immediately gave chase.
“Dude, Gil!” Lorcán called as the pair rapidly departed earshot of the others. “Wait up! Where are you going?” He asked, desperately trying to get his friend’s attention, before finally taking hold of Gil’s right arm - right above where the rest of it used to be.

Gil reacted viscerally, yanking his stubbed arm from Lorcán’s heated grip with a violence unlike him; he whirled around, eyes ablaze. He pointed his stump in Lorcán’s face, accusatory, unavoidable.
“I’m going to find Alyssa. She sent that thing away, and condemned Amma to whatever Hell with it. She’s going to tell me what she did, and then she’s going to send me there too. Or I’ll find my own way. Or I’ll die trying. Or all damn three!”

He stepped back from Lorcán, disdain creeping in at the edges of his voice and corners of his mouth. “You leave with your bride-to-be. Crestwood Hollow’s supposed to be lovely this time of year. The rest of us didn’t make it out quite so tidily.”

Lorcán’s brow furled, the ambient temperature rising between the two. Something had changed in Gil; he had noticed it before the dance in the wake of the Trials, but now, the person who stood before him was a shell of the man that Lorcán had thought he knew. A broken soul, desperate for answers and resolutions.

“Like I knew what was going to happen that dance. You think I wanted to miss the fight, to be absent while friends were injured and others died? Had I known what was coming, I would have been there, and I would have made sure you weren’t.” Lorcán explained, minding his tone though an edge was still there. He was tired, his emotions were raw, and he was already blaming himself. One of Blackjack’s powerhouses - perhaps next to Amma herself - and the natural enemy of ice. Lorcán was more than aware that his presence could have tipped the tides in their favour.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there Gil; I’m sorry about your injuries; but if you’ve got a plan, let me help. Anything you need from me, it’s yours. But don’t storm the gates of Hell alone, because I...” He paused, gesturing back to the team. “We can’t lose anymore of our own, and you’re one of us now, whether you like it or not.”

“Now? I’m one of the team, now?” Gil scoffed. “Not when I joined Blackjack a year ago? Not when the Foundation came in to undermine the academy? Not when the Trials were sabotaged and we nearly died? But since I’ve watched half the senior year get slaughtered, Amma get dragged off the face of the earth, and lost my arm, now I’m ‘one of us’? Well, I didn’t know there were such prestigious entry requirements. Next time I’ll make sure my application gets lost in the mail.”

He breathed deep. He was drunk, and that wasn’t helping, but the simmering anger it fed off was very real.
“Do what you want, Lorcán. I can’t blame you for wanting to put everything that’s happened on this fucking island far behind you. Move to the other side of the continent, pretend it never existed in the first place. Find a job. Buy a ring. Settle down and raise a bunch of ginger hype kids. I wish it was that easy. Fuck, a couple of weeks ago it was that easy! Coast out the year, lay a few birds, sign some fucking yearbooks! Then a quick flight back to LA and my career was back on track. Now everything’s fucked. Robbed of its meaning. Amma…I don’t know how we connected but we did, christ I’ve never felt anything like it. I’ll do anything to feel it again. I’d die, if I can feel it again. So follow me if you want; but you said it yourself. We can’t lose anymore of our own.”

He stopped. His eyes were red and watery, but he refused to let a single tear fall. He just stared defiantly back at Lorcán, arms at his sides. The wine bottle hung loosely in his fingers, last remnants sloshing inside.

“You know that’s not what I meant.” Lorcán replied in a defeated tone, “I just…” He paused, his lower lip quivering slightly in the darkness.

“I had an unconventional friendship with Amma, but she was someone I called a friend.” He began. “If it wasn’t for Amma, like, I wouldn’t be standing here today, and it kills me I wasn’t there to return the favour. So yeah, I’d get it if you totally hated me, I’d get it if you never wanted to see me or this place ever again, but I owe her. I owe her more than anyone. If there’s a chance she’s alive, we- no, I need to see this out.”

Lorcán looked at his feet, sheepishly dragging his flip-flop clad feet through the loose sand.
“You’re one of my closest friends, Gil. I can’t begin to understand what you’re feeling, but I don’t want to lose you too.”

Gil moved to cock his head and put his hands on his hips, only to stumble when his right hand didn’t meet his pelvis - just the space where it used to be. He rubbed his eyes with his left instead, unconsciously holding his stub behind his back, out of sight.
“Then…I’ll call you. When I’ve found Alyssa, and she shows me how to go after Amma, I’ll call you. And then you can decide whether you really want to follow me or not.”
He tucked the wine under his armpit and held out his left arm, proffering his remaining hand to shake in agreement.

Lorcán extended a hand to complete the gesture, instinctually putting forth his right before doing a quick shuffle to his left. It was awkward and felt unintuitive to shake with his left, but they sealed the deal. The darkness hid the slight relief that appeared on Lorcán’s face after Gil agreed, and he hoped that meant the pair would stay in contact, and their friendship would persist.

Some of Gil’s words lingered in Lorcán’s head as he turned to walk back to the campfire, giving his friend one last look before he did.

Find a job. Buy a ring.

[Melissa]

All good things must come to an end.

And for Aurora Mitchell, more often than not, her dreams flowed directly into the nightmares that were left in their wake.

It was emotional whiplash, to say the least, going from the best night of her life to one of the worst in a matter of minutes. One moment she and Lorcán were still in their own little world, practically floating on cloud 9 as a couple. After years of friendship, quiet pining, and unspoken feelings, they’d taken that leap together, and walking hand in hand back from the beach, the world had felt infinite, like they could conquer anything.

But the next moment, they’d descended directly into chaos. The result of an attack on the ARC by a creature called the Chernobog, claiming the lives of several students and injuring plenty more.

Her friends had been there. Her teammates. And she hadn’t been.

Aurora stayed over at Lorcán’s dorm that night, though sleep didn’t come easily. She lay beside him, curled under his arm, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, but even his comforting presence couldn’t quiet the turmoil in her mind. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the faces of the injured students, the devastation.

The night had started so perfectly, and now it was nothing but a blur of guilt and regret.

After what seemed like hours of lying awake, she slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him, and wandered over to sit by the window. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a soft glow over the campus below. It looked so peaceful, but Aurora knew better. Beneath the surface, there was tension. Fear. Grief.

Part of her was thankful that they hadn’t been there, that she and Lorcán had been safe from the attack. But the thought felt selfish, like a betrayal of the people she cared about. How could she be grateful for her safety when so many others had suffered? Her friends, her teammates—they had faced the terror of the Chernobog while she had been wrapped up in her own happiness, blissfully unaware of the danger that loomed.

The guilt gnawed at her. She hated herself for even feeling relieved. What kind of person was she, counting her blessings when others had been hurt, when lives had been lost? Her mind flashed back to the faces she had seen when they returned, their haunted expressions and the eerie silence that had followed. Aurora couldn’t help but feel like she’d abandoned them, like she’d failed her friends when they needed her most. She should have been there, should have fought alongside them. Instead, she’d been dancing on the beach, lost in the euphoria of her new relationship with Lorcán.

She ran a hand through her hair, letting out a frustrated sigh. It wasn’t like she could go back and change what happened. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d let everyone down, including herself. The thought made her stomach twist.

Turning back to look at Lorcán’s sleeping form, she watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, the peacefulness in his expression that seemed so far removed from the unease swirling inside of her. They hadn’t planned for any of this to happen, of course, but knowing that didn’t make the guilt any easier to bear.

Aurora hugged her knees to her chest as a shiver racked her spine, her back having been pressed against the cold windowsill. Though she couldn’t escape the weight of her thoughts, the icy air only made her feel more alone. She tore her gaze away from the darkened landscape below and stood, returning to bed and slipping beneath the blankets with careful movements so as not to disturb Lorcán. As soon as she settled, he stirred slightly, instinctively pulling her close, his arms wrapping around her and his warmth taking away the chill.

She allowed herself to relax into him, and in his arms, the world felt smaller, the chaos a little less overwhelming. Burying her face in the curve of his neck, she inhaled the familiar citrus and smoke scent of him, finding comfort even though the heartache still lingered at the edges of her mind.

Tomorrow, they’d face what came next, but for now, she allowed herself this small moment of serenity, even when everything else seemed to be rapidly unraveling and falling apart.

^{_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

Pacific Royal Collegiate & University is closed.

Aurora froze.

Every word that followed was muffled, the only sound louder than the students around her was the deafening ringing in her ears. Her gaze drifted, unfocused, the moisture pooling in her eyes turning everything before her blurry and distorted. The closest thing she’d ever had to a home, slipping from her fingers, just like that.

It was happening all over again, a vicious cycle continued.

“I have nowhere else to go.” The redhead exhaled, rigid in her state of shock, “PRCU is the only place I have, Lorcán.” She whispered, her voice shaky, eyes wide with disbelief. “What am I going to do?” The hand that was intertwined with his grew limp. She felt completely and utterly numb.

“I don’t have another choice, I’m going to have to go to the Foundation,” The tears began to roll down her freckled cheeks as realization hit. “I-I don’t want to leave, I don’t want to go.” She continued, her voice cracking and her breath hitching, the panic beginning to set in.

Lorcán pulled her in tightly against his chest, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing to try and force some of the tension from his girlfriend’s body. He gave her a minute to catch her breath before speaking.

“You’re not going anywhere, you’re staying right here with me.” He replied in a low voice, his tone comforting. “The house has another bedroom and my parents already see you as part of our family. No one is letting you go to the Foundation,” He added, emitting a slight warm glow from his body to help her calm.

“This is our home, we’re staying right here. We’ll make this work, I promise.”

Aurora felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he held her tightly and attempted to match the rhythm of his breathing, warmth radiating from his body and wrapping around her soothingly. But she still was sent reeling.

“No, I-I-I couldn’t,” She sputtered, immediately pushing back on his statement. “Your parents already have enough to worry about,” The redhead knew that her staying with the Roth’s meant she was another mouth to feed, another person to concern themselves with. The last thing she wanted was to be a burden. “I’d never put them in that position, I can’t.”

“I’m insisting, firstly as your friend, secondly as your boyfriend,” Lorcán implored, “I’m not taking ‘no’ as an answer, I’ll get a job to help out. It’ll be fine, we’ll make this work.” He continued, “I’m not losing you to the Foundation too.”

Her pulse was racing, but something within her settled at his unwavering resolve, even though her mind continued to spin out and the tears streamed down her face. Maybe it was because she felt safest with him, and deep down she knew that so long as they were together, she’d be okay. But later, as she sat on the porch of the Roth homestead while Lorcán spoke with his parents inside, something occurred to her.

He was home.

PRCU had only been a place, Lorcán had been the one to make it mean something more. It didn’t matter where they were physically - on Dundas Island, on the mainland, somewhere else - wherever he was, was where she was meant to be.

She wouldn't let him slip through her fingers too.

^{__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

_{Location: The Beach - Pacific Royal Campus}

Human #5.012: Where Do I Go?

^{_{________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}}

_{Interaction(s): Lorcán @Lord Wraith & Rory @webboysurf}

Previously: Death of a Bachelor

Aurora stood waiting at the edge of the path to the beach, the point in which the trees opened up to greet wide open space and where rough gravel met soft sand. Her sapphire eyes watched the waves crash onto the shoreline, entranced, as if she were examining the intricacies of their ebb and flow.

The bags under her eyes were noticeable and her fair skin was far paler than usual, the last few days having sucked her effervescent demeanor dry. At this rate, she had no more tears left to cry, having practically exhausted herself with the endless questions that had no answers and the overwhelming changes which left her aimless.

The end was imminent and the unknown awaited.

The sound of gravel crunching under wheels cut through the air, coming in spurts of energy. He was no longer sporting casts on his legs, but his hunched body language and grimaced expression were not a comforting view when he rolled to a stop near his teammate. His eyes glanced in Aurora's direction, but he didn't seem to focus on her. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only sound that came out was a raspy exhale. He cleared his throat for a moment, shaking his head a little. He didn't even know what to say to her. Or any of them, for that matter.

The words he did settle on were simple, sincere, and empty. His voice lacked the usual warmth, instead echoing with sorrow and frustration.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. It's… I'm not used to this.”

Aurora didn’t look at Rory as he spoke, anxiously tucking her hair behind her ears, her dull copper locks lacking their normally vibrant hue. She was hesitant to shift her gaze towards him- down at him. She hadn’t seen him since the day after the attack, when she and Lorcán had gone together to visit both him and Haven in the infirmary, but at that point he was still resting in bed, legs covered with bandages and blankets.

Knowing that he was confined to a chair increased the guilt she felt for not being there, and facing it now was a tangible reminder that she had failed her teammates, her friends. Tentatively, she glanced at him, and that familiar pang of regret hit her like a truck, but yet her expression remained stoic, empty.

“I know.” The redhead sympathized, recognizing he was still navigating this new normal. “I haven’t been standing here long, besides, I’m enjoying the view.” She assured him, motioning out to the endless sea ahead of them. “How are you feeling today?” She asked, hoping it would come off as sincere although her voice wavered.

The corners of Rory's lips turned upwards in the faintest and saddest impression of a smile.

“Not jumping for joy.” He glanced up at Aurora, finally taking in her expression and posture. He turned his gaze back towards the beach. His words remained cold and stoic in a way that was alien to him.

“It would have killed you. And him.”

“You don’t know that.” She was quick to reply, not wasting a breath on words that weren’t truthful as her eyes drifted out to the horizon, the sky painted in shades of orange and pink. “I could have teleported you guys out, Lorcán could have thawed the ice and distracted the Chernobog long enough for Alyssa and Luce to finish it.” Aurora could feel the lump forming in the back of her throat.

“We should’ve been there. Things would have been different”

Rory shook his head.

“Maybe. Or maybe there would be more gravestones.” His breathing was deep and heavy, his eyes shifting to the sea. “It doesn't matter now. We can't change what happened.”

A heavy silence hung between the pair, Aurora not quite sure of what else she could say in response. Rory was right—they couldn’t change what had happened—but that didn’t stop the constant, gnawing question of what if. Her jaw tightened as she fought against the surge of emotions bubbling beneath the surface, the loss weighing on her chest, threatening to spill over.

“I know,” She whispered, her voice thick with the unspoken grief that lingered. “But that doesn't mean I’ll ever stop wishing we could.”

The redhead turned and took a step to the side, positioning herself behind Rory’s wheelchair, palms coming to rest on the hand grips. She took a deep breath, mentally preparing herself to teleport not only her friend but his wheelchair as well.

“Ready whenever you are.”

Rory simply nodded, unable to utter a single word. He wanted to reach up and offer some sort of support, but he didn't have the energy. He simply hunched over in his seat, readying himself for that weightless sensation while gripping the armrests tight.

Aurora closed her eyes, and in an instant, they were gone.

The action felt more strenuous than it normally did, the weakness in her legs evident when her knees wobbled upon their arrival on the beach. But she steadied herself before anyone could notice, bracing against the chair for a moment while she readjusted to the sinking sensation of the sand below her feet. With Rory now parked in the spot left intentionally vacant directly next to Haven, the redhead quickly found her place beside Lorcán. She wasn’t even seated for more than a few seconds before his hand drifted towards her, and she wordlessly interlaced her fingers with his.

They still hadn’t told the team officially of their relationship per their original agreement, but especially now, it didn’t seem right to share such positive news. The pair had been the only ones to gain something on a night that everyone else had lost, if anything it’d be tone deaf to express such sentiments. Nonetheless, she assumed that most of their friends had likely figured out by now that they were together.

Her sullen sapphires flitted around the campfire, gazing upon those gathered who remained. What once was a lively and tight-knit group now felt fractured, haunted by the events that had torn through their world just days ago. The circle was smaller now, empty seats reminding them of those who weren’t with them anymore. The mood was somber, heavy, and Aurora felt the weight of it press down on her shoulders. It wasn’t just the loss of people; it was the loss of what they once had together, that carefree camaraderie that had been shattered in an instant.

She glanced at the last members of Eclipse, who’s stories she would unfortunately never get the chance to know, just their names and abilities.

Haven, her gorgeous wings now a whisper of a memory, freedom now just out of her reach, and Rory, who had tried so hard to put the team first, save the girl by his side which ended in his own detriment.

Gil, the actor whose facade had finally cracked, unable to hide the grief that had consumed him, and Banjo, a man in mourning, lost without his love, which made her shift slightly closer to her boyfriend.

She couldn’t even bring herself to look at Harper who sat on her other side, her closest confidant, eyes the shade of snow. There’d be no more drawings, her precious sketches permanently erased with her gift having vanished.

Aurora squeezed Lorcán’s hand tighter, her grip almost desperate. She didn’t know how to fix any of this, didn’t know how to bridge the gaps that had now grown between them all. But her attention was pulled away by movement on the edge of her vision. Two figures stepped into her periphery, one of them—a white-haired girl—approaching Gil with something small and delicate in her hand.

The last known belonging of Amma Cahors. Ammaranthe she was told later on was her full name, the purest piece of herself which she had tried to reveal during the trials. The raven haired girl barely had the chance to show them who she really was. Aurora knew now that it was Amma who had saved Lorcán’s life - and she’d never get the chance to express her gratitude or repay that debt.

She knew she could have stopped this, all of this, or at the very least, she could have prevented this from happening. And she’d need to learn to live with that for the rest of her days.

The redhead’s hand suddenly went cold, and she turned her head to watch Lorcán’s retreating form that followed Gil down the beach. Her fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for the warmth that had just slipped away, and for a moment, she sat frozen. The crackling of the fire was the only sound that broke the silence which had fallen over them once again, the light and shadow the flames cast flickering across the somber faces of her friends, their eyes heavy with grief and exhaustion.

Exhaling audibly, she spoke for the first time.

“I’m going with Lorcán to Crestwood Hollow.” She revealed, although she doubted it came as much of a surprise to the rest of the group. “After that...” Her voice faltered, and she glanced around the circle, meeting each of their eyes for a brief moment before her gaze dropped to the ground.

“We’ll figure it out,” She added quietly, though the uncertainty in her tone betrayed her. The words felt like a promise she wasn’t sure she could keep, and she let them hang in the air for a moment.

“I hope.”

^{_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

^{| Vancouver, British Columbia - A Few Weeks from Now}

Aurora stood in front of the payphone outside of the diner, the cool autumn air biting at her skin. Her fingers hovered over the keypad, trembling slightly, the slip of paper in her hand had grown soft from being folded and unfolded too many times, the ink barely legible. She’d gone over this moment in her head a thousand times, rehearsing the words, the question. But now, with the phone pressed to her ear, she contemplated if she really was about to do this.

She wasn’t ready. She doubted she'd ever be.

The faint ringing on the other end was steady, but with each tone, the knot in her stomach tightened.

"Hello?" Aurora swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

"Hi there, I'm, uh, calling about one of your employees... Sasha Mitchell?" The name felt foreign on her lips, like it didn’t belong to her anymore. It had been so long since she'd said it out loud. "Does she still work there?"

The woman on the other end paused for a moment, her voice softening.

"Oh, dear... no. She quit a few months ago, actually. And..." Her tone turned somber, hesitant. "No one's seen or heard from her since."

“May I… may I ask who’s calling?”

Aurora’s heart sank, the sharp ache of years of wondering, of hoping, surged through her. She tried to steady her voice, but it came out shaky.

"I- I'm just an old friend," She said, almost whispering the lie. The other end of the line went quiet. She could almost hear the woman weighing her next words, wondering who this "old friend" really was.

"Well, if you happen to find anything out, do let us know." The woman’s voice was laced with sorrow, her words slow and careful, as if she knew speaking them could break something fragile. "We miss her around here, you know. Between you and me..." She sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken history.

"I hope she finally left that no-good husband of hers and skipped town."

Aurora’s grip tightened around the phone, her knuckles white. The mention of her stepfather twisted something inside her- that familiar fear. Memories she continually tried to bury began to resurface, the same ones that haunted her nightmares, but she forced them back down, the distance between her and her mother feeling more insurmountable than ever.

The silence between them stretched, filled with unspoken questions, before the woman cleared her throat.

"Well... take care, dear."

"Yeah... you too." Aurora murmured, the phone slipping from her grasp as she hung up. She stood there, staring blankly at the receiver, one of her only leads vanishing into thin air.