Fictional Characters Are Better Than Real People

The Desserta Caravan is nestled between two converging mountain ranges. The mountains dominate the continent’s border, though the perceived “entrance” to Cocytios reminds Pongo of Sylvalum, of the gently sloping shore leading to jagged walls. He remembers his first time walking into Sylvalum, admiring the wisps of spores and the soft sand beneath his feet. Cocytios is similar, but harsher, less forgiving. The snow crunches, the sun blares down, the mountains are less inviting.

Nessa tells Pongo that they’ll have to travel around one of the mountain ranges to access the caravan. They’ll pass through the snowy plains, hook left once the mountains are behind them. They’ll find some sparse foliage, trees that bend and curve in skeletal fashion. They’ll find another lake where many indigens gather, a waterfall that descends from the towering mountains further east. They’ll find a terraforming ring, similar to the one that greeted them at the entrance of Cocytios, similar to Oblivia’s extensive collection. 

Pongo blocks the incoming wind with his palm, shielding his eyes as powdery snow throws itself into his vision. He takes a moment to thread his fingers through his hair, push the loose strands behind his ears. No use - the wind unsettles everything, forces him to follow blindly. Nessa stays close by, encouraging him to move forward. Though she’s wearing considerably less armor than Pongo, she appears less bothered by the cold. 

After a brutal burst of frost, Pongo groans, hugging himself. The chill skyrockets up his arms and legs, gnawing into his ears and the soft biomechanical cartilage of his nose. 

“How are you not freezing right now,” Pongo grumbles.

“Because I’m hotter than you and always have been,” Nessa replies. “Stop complaining and keep up. We don’t have long until the sun sets.”

The white expanse and bitter wind are overwhelming to the point of madness. Pongo tried to use it to his advantage, abiding by his natural curiosity. Cocytios’s climate and terrain are unlike anything he’s traversed before, and there’s a real chance that none of NLA’s residents have ever stepped foot across its icy shores. If he were a Pathfinder, he’d be breaking every one of their cardinal rules: he’s not stopping to document anything, assess potential data probe installation sites, catalogue indigens or weather or potential resources. 

The mere thought of BLADE work makes Pongo’s heart ache in a familiar way. He hopes Elma and Lin are okay. He hopes they’re not too angry that he broke his promise to bring them to the Repenta Diner for dinner. 

The sun arches high in the sky and begins its descent by the time the mountains are behind them. In the distance, the lake Nessa mentioned, a brilliant waterfall thundering down from the mountainside. The dying sunlight refracts against the water in hues of fire and violet. Icicles hang from the cliffside, their surfaces wobbling as water displaces, as the reflections of Cocytios ebb and shift.

By the lake stand more indigens - some of which, Pongo continues to recognize. But the majority are wholly new. A gathering of stout, fluffy birds  waddling in perfect synchronicity down the shoreline, curved black beaks housing multiple sets of beady eyes. A pair of big cats weaving through the barren trees, their long paddle-shaped tails smothering their frantic tracks in the snow. A pack of lean, canine beasts with six legs, circular markings running down their flanks. 

Beyond the lake, under the careful shade of a looming terraforming ring, a dense array of Nopon tents. The fabric, stitched together with thick animal hydes, holds more shape than those from other caravans. The Nopon come into view, walking to and fro between the tents with tools and supplies in their hands. They’re fluffier compared to their continental counterparts, with curled tufts as long as their bodies. Most carry wood in their wings, Pongo discovers, but some carry flayed pelts, bloodied steel. His eyes widen as he realizes the Nopon of Cocytios are equipped to handle the cold weather - that they are a caravan built on survival, not trade. 

As Pongo and Nessa approach the caravan, an indigen catches Pongo’s eye. A massive beast with crystalline shards growing from its shoulders, aprica-adjacent horns protruding from its skull, silver fur shimmering in various shades of aquamarine and lilac. He recalls a creature of similar build, an Earthen animal Lin showed him a picture of. A polar bear. Take away the horns, the crystals, the dark platinum armor it’s adorned with -

Wait. Armor?

Nessa sidles up next to him, eyeing the bear-like creature. “That’s A’cheron,” she says. “He’s one of the tyresfolly the Desserta Caravan rely on for protection and transportation.”

“Tyresfolly?” Pongo tilts his head; there’s peaceful tyrants in BLADE’s database, ones that don’t actively seek out confrontation but can still hold their own in a fight. A beast of this caliber? He hadn’t expected it to be…domesticated? That’s wonderful!

Though, when A’cheron locks eyes with him and starts charging, it’s a little more in line with what he envisioned from a tyrant. 

Pongo reactivates his photon shield as A’cheron snarls, roaring with alarming ferocity. Blue flames ignite from inside its antlered horns, trailing cold embers in its wake, and its long tongue lolls from behind its stained fangs. “Nessa!” Pongo warns, placing himself between her and A’cheron.

“A’CHERON!”

A deep, gritty voice commands A’cheron from afar. The bear slows to a trot before stopping completely, remains standing with eyes trained on Pongo. Pongo keeps his shield drawn, but he affords a quick glance to his left, towards the direction of the caravan. A white Nopon waddles forward, donning a fur-lined blue coat with decorative purple swirls. The tip of his tuft fades into a comforting pink, his wings speckled with cerulean and fuschia spots. A long scar tears down his left cheek and over his eye, pale flesh exposed to the elements.

“What did Froyoyo say about unexpected visits?!” The Nopon yells. “A’cheron needs warning before approaching caravan!”

“Hi, Froyoyo,” Nessa says, completely unbothered by A’cheron’s approach. “Sorry, I know, but this is a bit of an emergency.”

Froyoyo squints, extending a wing to scratch A’cheron’s chin. The embers die out as A’cheron leans into Froyoyo’s touch, rumbling with approval. “Emergency or not, Nessa know better than to visit caravan without warning. Unless Nessa want repeat of last time?”

“I most certainly do not,” she confirms. “Is Vanala here?”

“Wifeypon helping Checheri and Susundi with building campfire,” Froyoyo says. “Why need Vanala?”

Nessa steps forward, gestures to Pongo. He lowers his shield, but with A’cheron still glaring at him, he’s not ready to deactivate it. He smiles, waves with his free hand. Froyoyo blinks. Once, twice. 

“Friend Pon is alive?”

Pongo blinks. Once, twice. “You know who I am?”

“Pon think Froyoyo is stupid? Of course Froyoyo know Pon,” the Nopon replies. “Froyoyo thought Pon died after fight with Everqueen. Planet Mira finally have enough ether replenished to restore body - why Froyoyo always last to know about these things?”

“Froyoyo,” Nessa says, “Pongo doesn’t -”

“Is that friend Pon?!”

Another Nopon appears, running past Froyoyo. She sports strawlenny pink fur, her tuft curled in the shape of a heart, and her wings are striped with light blush zigzags - wings that are now wrapped around Pongo’s legs, in a valiant attempt at a hug. 

“Friend Pon!” The newcomer cries, her voice partially muffled in his knees. “Vanala was so worried after fight with Everqueen! Never worry Vanala like that again!!”

Pongo blinks a few more times, baffled beyond belief. What’s he supposed to say? Sorry, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about? Before he can muster up an acceptable response, a flurry of tiny Nopon converge on him, stacking on top of each other, jumping towards him, pushing his shoulders and chest, knocking him down into the snow. So many little voices, an infectious joy shared by so many little bodies. They’re saying his name, telling him how much they’ve missed him - just how many littlepon have tackled him?!

“Littlepon, enough!!” Vanala emerges from the cuddle pile, and all at once, the littlepon disperse. Pongo takes advantage of this brevity to sit up and dust the snow from his hair, trying to count the littlepon as they fall back. They come in all different colors, different patterns cascading down their tiny wings. Nine total. Not an unusual amount of children for a Nopon family, but being knocked down by nine paints the number in a different light. 

Though most of the littlepon reconvene by Vanala’s side, one remains by Pongo’s feet, staring expectantly at him. They look similar to Froyoyo, bearing some of the older Nopon’s blue and pink markings. White fur, save for the colorful stains on their tuft and wings, and wide eyes bearing a hint of weaponized mischief. 

“Pon Pon’s ether look weird,” the littlepon says. “Is Pon Pon okay?”

Pongo flounders in search of an answer at first. Clearly, he’s not okay. He doesn’t remember any of this, and something deep inside of him is reiterating that it’s wrong to have forgotten. Familiarity, nostalgia, a deep and terrifying sense of home - yet he doesn’t understand why.

But this littlepon is so small, so young. Pongo is a bad liar, a fact he’d accepted a long time ago, but he’s capable of half truths. “I will be,” he tells the littlepon. “Nessa brought me here to…talk about it? See if Vanala could help?”

Nessa walks over, offers a hand to pull him to his feet. To the littlepon: “Sprinkle Sprinkle, I didn’t know you could read ether signatures!”

“Inherited from Mamapon,” Sprinkle Sprinkle says proudly, puffing out their neck fur. “Mamapon has been teaching Sprinkle Sprinkle how to hone talent!”

“Go with other littlepon,” Vanala ushers the littlepon away, and Sprinkle Sprinkle darts off after some muted protest. “Now then,” she says, brushing down her fur with her wings, “friends follow Vanala into hubbypon’s tent. Tell Vanala and Froyoyo everything.”

Pongo falls in line behind Nessa and the two Nopon as they approach the largest tent in the caravan, propped up by sturdy wooden beams and reinforced by ice-touched stone and thick rope. Its roots dig deep into the snow, marking it as a semi-permanent structure. The door, cut from the wall, swings open as Froyoyo beckons them all inside. Nessa ducks, barely comfortable. Pongo crawls on his hands and knees; his wide shoulders catch the doorframe, yet he wiggles past without causing a scene.

The roof slopes upwards into a cone, providing him and Nessa with far more room to breathe. The floor, lined with thick woolen carpet, is plush beneath his hands, yet a stiff material beneath gives it form and stability. There’s a small spot in the back corner of the tent with two fur-lined sleeping bags - Froyoyo and Vanala’s beds, he assumes - but there’s enough space to sit, to cross his legs and make himself comfortable. The pillows and cushions to his left, a makeshift living room in this small Nopon tent, give under his weight. Absentmindedly, Pongo reaches down, caresses a loose strand of embroidery thread on the one he sits on. 

Nessa sits to his right, crossing her legs in the same fashion as Pongo as Froyoyo and Vanala occupy the other side of the tent. The tent’s decently warm, shielded from Cocytios’s elements, and lit from a simple firelight hanging from the center of the ceiling. The light wouldn’t provide enough warmth by itself, Pongo thinks. His knuckle drags against the carpet below, and it’s warm to the touch. Heated floors, then. A welcome comfort in the midst of the chaos.

“A lot’s happened recently,” Nessa starts, “but first and foremost, Pongo’s alive. Solstice and I rescued him from a tyresfolly in Primordia. He’s been with the humans in their city this whole time, and neither of us ever sensed him because…well, because his aidoneum connection’s severed. He doesn’t remember anything - which is a personal insult because I’m pretty unforgettable - and I think that could be tied to his connection being cut.”

“Amnesia?” Froyoyo says. “Friend Pon truly remember nothing?”

“Not a thing. Hells, he thought he was human when I first talked to him.”

“Friend clearly not flesh tree,” he grumbles. “Ether density of planetary avatars and flesh trees completely different.”

Pongo opens his mouth to argue, but Nessa interrupts, speaking to Vanala before he has a chance to speak. “You can see his aidoneum connection’s been severed, right Vanala? But if it was truly gone, he wouldn’t he here. I can’t read ether as well as you can, so I was hoping you could tell me what’s going on inside him. If it’s another kind of ether, if something else is inside him, how we could reestablish the connection, anything.”

Vanala steps closer to Pongo, scans him over. Her wide eyes squint into slits, peering into the very depths of his soul. He gives a nervous smile. Forces his hands together to keep himself from squirming.

“Connection not actually severed,” Vanala announces after a minute of awkward silence. “Ether so faint that connection looks severed, but trace remains!”

“Really?” Nessa’s eyes widen. “So does that mean…”

“Vanala has theory,” she explains. “Whatever happened, Mira didn’t strengthen aidoneum connection enough. Could be reason for Pon’s amnesia. Whatever case may be, Vanala’s solution remains the same: Pon needs to visit planet’s core where planet’s ether is strongest, and hope that Mira can strengthen connection.”

“The core of the planet?” Pongo’s eyebrows raise. 

“It’s not actually the center of the planet,” Nessa explains. “It’s this big crystalline structure beneath Imperium that’s made of pure miranium. Mira infused it with its ether and used it as a conduit to create us. The F’lenla A’slegn built Imperium above it so they could study it further, even created this whole cave system to go down and interact with it. Whenever Mira wasn’t using us to communicate with them, its consciousness was inside the core.”

“Almost like a fourth avatar, then?”

“Sorta? You don’t expect a crystal to talk, is the thing. And it doesn’t. Mira basically explained it as going to bed after a long day.” A pause. A murmur: “It’s been asleep for a long time, though.”

“Sounds like friends will need way to get to Imperium,” Froyoyo says. “Froyoyo will ask A’cheron to find more caribears. Bad idea to go tonight - worst creatures of Cocytios come out at night, and weather changes quicker than littlepon eating full cart of thermonanas. Stay with caravan for the night, travel tomorrow morning.”

“I could go for a thermonana right about now,” Nessa tucks her hands into her arms, suppresses a shiver. 

Pongo bows his head, fiddles with his anxious hands. They speak so easily of a solution, yet context eludes him. He has yet to understand why he’s placed so much trust in Nessa, why the littlepon all crowded around him with love and relief, why every step he’s taken feels so familiar…

And so melancholic.

The deep, pervasive discomfort of nostalgia grips his heart, locks it behind silver and steel. He is a patient man, in a world that is not his own but welcomes him so readily. Though the path he walks is meant to provide answers, for once, Pongo lets himself be selfish. He wants answers. He wants them now. 

Nessa goes to stand, done with the conversation. Pongo raises his voice, loud enough to command attention but quiet enough to indicate insistence, not anger. “Could I ask you all something?” He says. “Or, ah, many somethings, if that is okay. I just…I am so confused. You say I have amnesia, that I do not remember any of this. But if what you are saying is true, that I am not human, that the planet is sentient, that it created us as avatars for…for some reason? And there are Finless Aslan -”

“F’lenla A’slegn,” Nessa softly corrects.

“- and a city and a core that might be able to restore my memories, because my ether is gone? Gods,” he puts his head in his hands, mumbling his last words. “I want to believe you. But I have no idea where to begin.”

A pause. Pongo doesn’t look up when Vanala speaks. “Friend Pon have every right to be confused. Scary situation Pon’s in. Vanala, hubbypon, and Nessa all here to help Pon get better.”

“Froyoyo not good with ether like wifeypon,” Froyoyo says, “but Froyoyo can help in different way. Would friend Pon want to hear what Froyoyo knows of friends and world? Tell story of Pon’s memories from Froyoyo’s point of view?”

Pongo looks up, his brow raised. Hungry, desperate for a timeline, he nods a few times in quick succession. “I would love to hear more. Tell me everything you know.”

Nessa’s lips part, poised to speak. Yet she hesitates, takes a moment to sit back down. Neither Nopon seems to notice. Froyoyo clears his throat, his breath leaking from his curved mouth in a single puff of condensation. 

“Then Froyoyo start from beginning,” he says. “Most Nopon natives of Mira. Contain aidoneum thread, signals that Nopon are creation of planet. Some more attuned than others. Wifeypon one of gifted few who reads ether signatures - not just of Miran creations, but everything. Froyoyo always admired wifeypon’s talent. Very beautiful, very smart. Smarter than Froyoyo!”

“Hubbypon making Vanala blush,” Vanala mumbles, hiding her face behind her wing. 

“Froyoyo speak only truth,” he replies. “Froyoyo was very young when first met Vanala. Froyoyo fell in love at first sight. Had just asked to court Vanala when big spaceship crash landed on Mira. Ship landed in ocean south of Cocytios and was sinking fast. Desserta Caravan came together to help, but weren’t the first to reach ship. Turns out, planet Mira created three avatars - Nessa, Starr, and friend Pon - to rescue survivors on spaceship and bring them to land. Avatars had been around very short time, caravan had never met them before. All came together to help new friends from sinking spaceship settle in and start new life on Mira. 

“New friends were called F’lenla A’slegn. Very tall and colorful, with big horns and sharp ears. F’lenla A’slegn decided to build new home on other side of C’aradhras Mountains, past big gaping hole in Cocytios. Turned into massive city, with big forcefield to protect F’lenla A’slegn from nasty Cocytios weather and indigens. The F’lenla A’slegn named city: Imperium. Desserta Caravan do regular trade with them for long time. Thermonanas were huge trade since thermonanas increase body heat. Very good for cold weather! In exchange, F’lenla A’slegn gave caravan new metals and materials, used to enhance tents and build armor. A’cheron’s armor made from metal given by F’lenla A’slegn! Very resilient, very good for cold weather.

“All three avatars helped F’lenla A’slegn build new home in Imperium. Avatars occasionally visited caravan with F’lenla A’slegn for trade and supplies, and to ask friendship of Froyoyo and Nopon. Many F’lenla A’slegn also interested in wifeypon’s ability to control ether - friend Solstice was very frequent visitor. Solstice was leader of F’lenla A’slegn, and very kind!”

“And Nessa very in love with them,” Vanala tacks on. In response, a faint trace of blush on Nessa’s cheeks, a soft smile. 

“Everything good for few years,” Froyoyo continues, “but then, big space dragon called Everqueen descended from space and tried to gobble up F’lenla A’slegn! Turns out, F’lenla A’slegn crashed on Mira after running from Everqueen, but Everqueen found them and wanted to eat all their ether. Avatars came together and fought Everqueen, sealed her away in big sphere in Sylvalum. Caravan hid inside cave in C’aradhras Mountains east of here. When coast was clear, caravan came out, looked for F’lenla A’slegn. But all F’lenla A’slegn died. Vanished, after Everqueen came to Mira.”

An entire race of xenoforms killed, Pongo thinks, massaging the backs of his knuckles as his eyes widen in horror. If what Froyoyo is saying is true…we tried to stop this threat, and failed. Is that why Starr is angry at me?

“Would you be referring to Pharsis, the Everqueen? The yggralith that is trapped in the Noctilucent Sphere in Sylvalum?” Pongo clarifies, realizing the creature’s title is strikingly familiar. 

“Very same,” Froyoyo confirms. “Starr came to Desserta Caravan and told Froyoyo about fearsome fight afterwards. Said that friend Pon died in fight against Everqueen, and that Mira use too much strength creating prison that Pon couldn’t be brought back right away.”

His nails dig deep into the soft skin between his knuckles. A glance in Nessa’s direction - her blush has faded, replaced by what he can only call a deep and sorrowful rage. Her eyebrows squeeze together, the thin curve of her mouth in a taut line. Their eyes are the same, hard to read, yet he catches enough light to recognize that her gaze is turned away from him. 

“Nessa,” Pongo starts, “is this -”

“I need some air,” Nessa snaps. “And a thermonana. Maybe two.”

“Thermonanas in crate behind Checheri’s tent,” Vanala says. “Fresh harvest from this morning, too! Eat as many as Nessa needs to be warm!”

Nessa gets up, darts out of the tent before Pongo can stop her. The door bounces open as she departs, settling back into the doorframe after a moment. Soft snow flutters inside, instantly melting on the heated carpet. Pongo watches it land, watches it disappear. 

“Something off about Nessa,” Froyoyo mumbles. “Not acting like herself.”

“Worried about Pon,” Vanala suggests. “Wants him to remember.”

“Gods,” Pongo says softly. “I hate having people worry over me. I hate that I do not remember any of this happening.”

“Not Pon’s fault,” Vanala sidles up next to him, places a wing on his knee. “Like Vanala said before, Pon’s in scary situation. Nessa scared, but wants to help. We all do.”

“Thank you,” he tells her. “I hope I can repay your kindness one day.”

He almost leaves the sentiment there, content with all he’s heard. Yet his curiosity persists, ravenous. In Froyoyo’s retelling, there was no answer to Starr’s anger. No answer as to why he tried to kill Pongo in Primordia. If they’d fought side by side against Pharsis, if Pongo had died in the fight, why would Starr want him dead? Nessa had dodged that question when they’d traveled across Cocytios to the Desserta Caravan.

But it doesn’t feel right to ask Froyoyo and Vanala about this. They’ve already done so much, between agreeing to shelter them for the night and providing their timeline of events. And with Nessa clearly distressed…Pongo’s heart tugs in too many different directions at once, pressing against his lungs. He looks at the door. He lets concern win against curiosity.

“I might want a thermonana myself,” Pongo says, uncrossing his legs and attempting to stand. He’s average height for a human, but far too tall for a Nopon’s tent. “Would it be okay if I -”

“Pon better not finish that sentence,” Vanala quips. “Silly Pon, always asking before he takes thermonanas.Vanala always insulted Pon thinks he needs to ask. Family never needs to ask - family always welcome to whatever caravan has to offer. And Pon is family!”

Family.

Pongo grins from ear to ear. Elma and Lin had used that to describe their misfit team a few times. The sentiment rings true in his chest, even if he doesn’t remember this place, these Nopon. To think he’d given up hope on curing his amnesia, back in the early months of his involvement with BLADE. Now, more than ever, Pongo wants to remember it all.

He thanks Froyoyo and Vanala again, and with newfound resolve, he exits the warm tent, heads into the bitter chill of Cocytios’s unyielding winter. 

~

Before he leaves, L’cirufe asks Starr how he’d gotten to the Lifehold Core. Who brought him, who agreed. Starr uses both names for the tyresfolly, since L’cirufe is so intertwined with the humans in Primordia. M’iriam, a long time ago. Jia Mian, the Beloved, to those who don’t know her history.

L’cirufe doesn’t follow Starr outside. When Starr spoke her name, he swallowed, bowed his head. He tries not to interact with the tyresfolly if he can help it. Starr doesn’t force it. For all his rage, he is not a monster. 

M’iriam’s feathers rustle as Starr approaches. He’d told her to stay on the landing platform, after she’d flown him to the Lifehold Core. It’d been a difficult flight; Starr can only use the aidoneum connection that binds her ether to the planet for so long until the guilt overwhelms him. She hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t asked for the aidoneum to claim her very soul, break her spirit and mind until her only thoughts were that of a primitive creature. All of Mira’s creations answer the aidoneum connection’s call, and though she’d followed Starr’s commands, it wasn’t without protest. 

Yet he’d kept M’iriam on course, treated her as kindly as he could on the journey. She lowers a wing for Starr to help him climb onto her back. It’s the aidoneum connection at work, warped by Starr’s hand, but he forces himself to believe she helps him out of kindness. 

As she prepares to fly, Starr grits his teeth, clenches his hands into her back to hold steady. His head’s killing him. The skull-shaped mask he wears is a decent enough disguise, but he’d felt it in the Lifehold Core, the way the planet ricocheted against his temples. Had L’cirufe noticed? If he had, he kept quiet about it. If he hadn’t, it was for the best.

“Nessa would’ve brought him to Cocytios,” Starr muses to himself. “She may bring him to the core. We’ll search there first.”

His migraine spikes. 

Don’t hurt him. Please, Starr, don’t do this.

Starr grins. “We won’t hurt him. We’ll kill him. There is a difference.”

“...know you’re not fond of it here. But you’re really gonna make me drag his ass through the snow to get to the caravan?”

“Mmmmmrh.”

“Gods, you’re right. I’m sorry, I didn’t even think of that. I was too worried about getting Pon away from him that…okay, yeah, that’s a solid plan. If you find Starr at all, please don’t do anything reckless. Or if you do, just be safe about it. And don’t be too flashy or you’ll make me jealous.”

“Mmmphmm.”

“Oh, you tease. You really know how to make a girl blush.”

The pulse of wings, of a body rising high. A shadow ascends, the outline barely visible behind Pongo’s closed eyes, until it’s out of sight and earshot. He exhales, opening his eyes to a blinding white sky. The pain settles in - gods, every part of him is sore - but nothing quite like the burden of memory. 

A name pushes to the forefront. One purpose, one reason for standing to fight in the first place.

Kalani.

Pongo sits up with a sudden gasp, willfully ignoring the ache in his stomach, the spike of pain in his spine. She’d been crushed under Luciel’s weight, trapped in her Skell. There’s no way she’s alive. But he had a duty to her, a duty to retrieve her body and bring her back to NLA, a duty to protect her in the first place, but he’d failed that spectacularly, and he should’ve known better than to think he could keep her safe after all the failed missions and deaths and how utterly useless and weak he is to stop anything -

“For fuck’s sake, lie back down!”

A hand clamps down on his shoulder and wrests him to the ground, lying supine. Pongo winces as the sunlight crashes down on him once more, but he adjusts, squinting to his right. The woman who shoved him down has both hands on her hips, a frustrated scowl on her face. A flower sits perched atop her left ear, its purple petals fluttering in the gentle breeze. In acknowledgement of the wind, Pongo suppresses a shiver; it’s cold, far colder than any weather he’s faced before. The ground beneath him, too, is frigid to the touch. The tips of his fingers experimentally curl deeper, pushing through an icy barrier before making contact with firmer soil. 

Is this…snow? Pongo thinks, recalling pictures Elma once showed him of Earth’s winter weather. The texture is vaguely reminiscent of Sylvalum’s spores when they make landfall, when the spore clouds are so dense they pile up on the sand below. Maybe that’s where he is. Sylvalum. 

“At least that hasn’t changed,” the woman speaks, ignoring the lines of confusion drawn upon Pongo’s face. “You never know when to sit down and take a break. Starr just beat the daylights out of you, and here you are, trying to stand back up again. I should’ve let him get a few more hits in. Maybe then, he would’ve knocked that little stubborn screw in your head loose enough, and you’d be able to acknowledge how reckless you are.”

“Kalani,” he weakly argues.

“She’s dead,” the woman snaps. Then, softening, kneeling down by his side: “I bet you did what you could.”

Pongo leans forward, propping himself up by his elbows. Though his shoulders protest, the angle affords him a better view of the woman. She’s dressed in an amalgamation of armor - though, it’s a stretch to call it armor, considering so much of her skin remains exposed. Her chest, her waist, her back, her stomach: all of it is exposed to the elements, yet she doesn’t seem fazed.

“Who…who are you?” Pongo asks, looking past her. All around him, a white expanse, cold wind nipping at his nose. “Where are we?”

The woman stares at him for a moment too long. “You really don’t remember, then.”

“Remember what?”

“Me. Here. Anything.”

Pongo shakes his head, stays silent. Elma had asked him such similar questions, when she’d rescued him from the lifepod in Starfall Basin. No MMC technicians could decipher what they called a “severe stasis hangover”. After a while, Pongo decided he didn’t need those memories to move forward, to be a part of humanity’s survival on this planet. He’s human, he knows, and that’s enough to stand beside them, to fight for their new home.

As he grounds himself, Pongo looks back up at the woman, looks into her eyes. The sunlight crystallizes on the snow beneath them like shards of glass, a dizzying blindness that had distracted him when he woke. Her eyes…they’re exactly like his. Pupiless, indigo, a night sky containing countless stars. There is comfort in the recognition, but confusion in the comfort. Why does she look like Pongo? How did she know Pongo has amnesia? What did she expect him to remember, and why does she look so pained?

Before he can ask, the woman sighs, the softness replaced by a terrifying sharpness. “Alright then,” she says. “Should’ve expected that, since your connection’s severed. I…guess I’ll try to start from the beginning. My name’s Nessa.”

“Nessa,” Pongo repeats. “Okay, um. Nice to meet you? My name is Pongo.”

“I know.”

“You…um. Sure. Yeah.” A pause. “How?”

“Because we’re siblings.”

“Siblings?” Pongo’s eyes grow wide. “We are related? Oh gods, well, I guess that would make sense, since you look so much like me, but - but I would remember if I had a sibling, right? How could I forget something like that?”

“Two siblings,” Nessa corrects him. “The other one just tried to kill you.”

“He - oh gods,” he palms his forehead, suppressing a newborn migraine. “That man with the skull mask is my sibling? Siblings do not try to kill each other, that makes no sense. Unless, gods, is this like how Phog and Frye could never be in the same room as each other? But what did I do to -”

“Phog and Frye?”

“Brothers,” Pongo explains. “Their father sacrificed a spot on the White Whale for Phog, and Frye was really angry at Phog for -”

“The fuck is the White Whale?”

“This massive ship that brought humanity to Mira from Earth after it was caught in the middle of a -”

“Earth?”

“The birthplace of humanity? Where we are from?”

Nessa growls, forcing herself to stand and turning her back to Pongo. “Fuck me, your memory’s really gone. How the hell am I supposed to do this?”

Pongo’s confusion bubbles under his skin, rattles around beneath his bruised ribs. There is a tangible disconnect in the words they speak, but past his migraine and the lingering pain from his fight in Primordia, he feels his heart reaching out. It beats, it yearns - it knows something he doesn’t. He’s trusted this feeling many times before, for better or for worse, and he has no true reason to turn away from it. 

So when Nessa turns back around, Pongo lets her take the lead. He is accustomed to confusion, understands that he’s a vessel for knowledge outside his domain. How long had it taken him to relearn what it means to be human, back when Elma brought him to NLA for the first time? Patience, she said, is a virtue. He carries it in spatulas. (Spatulas, or spades? Doesn’t matter.)

And maybe, deep down, he’s suppressed his desperation for answers. He can acknowledge he abandoned his search, he can convince himself he could survive without them. But if the opportunity’s presenting itself? Pongo’s open to whatever she has to say. 

“Okay,” Nessa takes a deep breath, shifts the snow around her feet. “I think I know where to start. Firstly: we’re not from Earth. We’re from Mira - created by Mira. The planet’s sentient, and it’s capable of using its ether to create life. Everything around us - the flora, the fauna, the mountains, the oceans - all of it was created by Mira, using two kinds of ether. One of them, humanity’s pretty familiar with. I think they call it miranium?”

Pongo nods, doing his best to follow along. After everything he’s seen, everything he’s been through - Mira being sentient isn’t an impossibility. And miranium is a precious resource, mined from the five known continents, utilized in so many of BLADE’s projects. If Mira used it to create the continents…well. Makes sense, since they get miranium from the ground. 

“Basically, miranium’s the end result when Mira’s using ether to create physical entities,” Nessa continues. “Could be soil, could be water, could be ovis. The thing that separates the land from the living is whether or not the creation in question also possesses a second strand of ether inside them, called aidoneum. It’s what connects living creatures to the planet - it’s what gives them life and a soul. It’s always tethered to Mira, so if something dies - let’s just say an ovis for the sake of an example - its connection gets severed, and the ether returned to Mira so it can create something new.”

Pongo nods again. “A cycle of death and rebirth.”

“Sorta?” Nessa shrugs. “Mira can always choose not to make another ovis if one dies. But here’s the thing. If your aidoneum connection is severed, you die. If you die, your aidoneum connection is severed. Goes both ways, nothing can escape it - except us. You, me, and Starr. Mira created us to act as its avatars, so our aidoneum connection is a lot stronger than most, and we can call on it to regenerate if things go south.”

“Regenerate? How?”

“I’ve seen humans use ether before to stitch themselves back up,” she replies. “Same principle, different kind of ether. Only Mira’s creations have an aidoneum connection - we’re just hyper aware of it. We can use it to heal, to talk to the planet, to connect with any of its other creations, all sorts of stuff. But…”

Nessa trails off, the corner of her mouth curling in on itself. “Well, I mentioned before that your connection’s severed.”

Pongo blinks. Once, twice. “I should be dead, by your logic.”

“You should be dead,” she confirms. “Or just…not here, at the very least. Not you. A body made of miranium with no aidoneum connection? That’s just dirt. You’re very clearly not dirt.”

“I do not think so,” Pongo replies. “Though, how would I tell?”

“Do you feel like dirt?” Nessa asks.

“A little bit,” he confesses sadly. When her eyebrows raise, he explains, “When someone feels upset, they can say they ‘feel like shit’. Is feeling like dirt not the same thing?”

“Thank you for reminding me that you’re insufferable.” She groans dramatically, much to Pongo’s confusion. “Back on topic. Your aidoneum connection’s severed, which means you should be dead, but you’re not. And the fact that you don’t remember anything about yourself, or me for that matter - gods, how could you forget someone as gorgeous as me - means something. I think the two might be related. No aidoneum connection, no memory. Question is, how the fuck was your connection severed in the first place, and how do we restore it? Don’t answer that, because I already know what to do,” she quickly tells Pongo, whose mouth is open to provide some semblance of an answer. 

“What do we do, then?” He asks.

“I’m taking you to the Desserta Caravan,” she says. “Solstice and I agreed that Vanala would be able to take a closer look. She’s an ether expert, so if anyone knows how to reestablish your aidoneum connection, it’s her.”

“The…oh gods,” Pongo clenches his jaw; so much information all at once. Names and places he’s never heard of, and a path forward he barely understands. He’d done a great job convincing himself he was following along, but the overwhelm catches him off guard, nestled in the confines of his migraine. He grabs at his waist, intent on activating his photon saber. He needs something to take the edge off his aches. An Astral Heal, preferably. 

But his photon saber’s not in its holster. Did I drop it in Primordia? Pongo asks himself, patting the nearby snow for any sign of the hilt. Even though it took a beating in the fight, he quickly confirms his photon shield’s activation augment is secure in his left gauntlet, but it doesn’t have the healing Arts he’d need. 

“Here, get up,” Nessa mutters, noting his plight. She extends her hand, and Pongo grasps it firmly. She grunts as she pulls him up; snow crackles as he steadies himself, firm enough to stand on top of, yet Pongo’s shoes sink an inch deeper than Nessa’s. “Have you always been so heavy?” She complains, wresting her hand free and shaking her wrist. “And you nearly crushed my hand there! Be careful next time, will you? I need this hand.”

“Sorry,” Pongo mumbles an apology. “I just…I am still confused.”

“Then ask me questions on the way to the caravan,” she replies. “Starr and I were always the brighter ones, anyhow.”

He tilts his head. “You are not glowing.”

“I hate you. I actually hate you.”

Pongo allows himself a small smile. An echo deep inside his heart, the notion that he finds her frustration amusing. Nothing mean-spirited, but a…satisfaction? A familiarity? Another point of confusion, a question that has no immediate answer.

So he walks forward instead, following Nessa into unknown territory, into the bitter cold.

~

This is Cocytios, Nessa explains on their journey. The continent lies south of Primordia, close to Mira’s south pole. Pongo gathers that it’s far out of FrontierNav’s range, which explains why he’s never heard of Cocytios, why BLADE’s never heard of it. 

A continent of eternal winter, of mountainous peaks and little foliage. Pongo’s every step plunges his shoes into powdered snow, his ankles slowly soaking as it melts against his skin. Some of the snow is frozen enough to step on top of, but the damp discomfort remains. He learns to ignore it, to focus on the world around him instead. He relies so heavily on physicality to ground him, yet the cold is a reminder of how he got to this point, how he failed, all he’s lost. Nessa’s voice is a good distraction, but Cocytios’s newness intrigues him more. 

The continent’s entrance is dominated by a large terraforming ring reminiscent of the structures in Oblivia. An ancient technology, constructed by an extinct humanoid race. Nessa’s tone softens with something close to reminiscence as she explains this to him, casting her gaze upwards. Closer, still, to melancholy. If she is a Miran avatar, how long has she been alive? Did she know the extinct humanoid race? Pongo doesn’t indulge his curiosity. There’s too much ground to cover as it is.

After passing under the ring, Cocytios stretches out in a field of white, the snowfall obscuring the silhouettes of steep mountains. There’s a lake to their left, off the path that Nessa intends to lead them down. Ice collects at the shoreline, sparse trees acting as weak shade against the potent sun. It’s blinding, even after having time to adjust, yet Pongo finds the outlines of various indigens by the lake. Variants of terebra with thick edged coats, aprica with icicles descending from their gnarled horns. Friendly species, based on his own experiences.

There’s not as much indigen activity in the wide open field, which gives him pause. He’s no stranger to the camouflaging methods Mira’s indigens like to utilize. One memory, in particular: getting knocked off his feet by the two sabula tyrants in the South Silent Sandsea. They’d erupted from the ground beneath his feet, launched him into the air. He’d landed against Lake Ciel’s shoreline, attracting the attention of several aggressive sacrifoles. Atreides, the Distinguished, and its mate, Gesserith, the Wileworm. Frye, the Killer Ostrich, laughing so hard at Pongo’s plight that he choked on the air he breathed. 

Nessa’s leading him to the plain, no weapons drawn, all the bravado of a seasoned BLADE operative - or an overconfident rookie. Pongo won’t gamble, not when he’s already failed Kalani, not when he has a chance to atone. He activates his photon shield augment, the energy flickering to life. “Nessa,” he says, “we should be careful. The indigens here could be aggressive.”

Nessa stops, turns to face him. “They won’t attack us. The only threat you have to worry about are any of the tyresfolly, but most of them don’t come out until nightfall. Just stick close to me and we’ll be fine.”

“The tyresfolly?”

“Do humans call them something different? Solstice and I saved you from one of them in Primordia.”

“Oh,” Pongo frowns. “We call them tyrants.” Then: “Who is Solstice?”

“My partner,” she replies. “They’re technically a tyresfolly, but she’s not like most the others. They’ve told me before that humanity has a different name for them, too - Telethia, the Endbringer. I really have to know who’s making these names up, they’re so strange.”

A memory of tainted ground, of tainted screams. A light descending from on high, a wingspan wider than the distant sun. “They saved me, once,” Pongo mumbles. “We thought it was a coincidence, or luck.”

Nessa’s shoulders sag. “They always did have a soft spot for you. Can’t believe they still do, after…”

“After what?”

“Let’s figure out your aidoneum connection, see if we can get that restored along with your memories,” she deflects. “I’m not a good storyteller, so you won’t like hearing it from me. Unless you want me to tell you about the time Sprinkle Sprinkle stole your pants and left you running around the caravan half naked?”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, that didn’t happen.” A pause. “Or maybe it did.”

“I have decided I hate you too,” Pongo sighs, little venom lacing his tongue. Nessa laughs at his reaction, and as the wind stirs loose snow from the north, they continue with easy conversation. There’s information that doesn’t hold purchase in his mind, smoothed away by the monstrous confusion, the questions he has yet to find answers to. A quiet question: can he even trust Nessa? Is this some elaborate plot, working in tandem with Mira’s most dangerous indigen? Why would Starr want him dead? If any of this is true, about the aidoneum connection and Mira’s sentience and the avatars of the planet conducting its will…

Nessa’s bounding ahead, oblivious to Pongo’s inner musings. The orchestra’s out of tune, the song disjointed. Scratching at the inside of his skull, pressing against the soft flesh of his eyes. He exhales in puffs of condensation, suppressing his shivers. His shield, activated and at the ready despite Nessa’s reassurances.

The cold doesn’t feel new. The threat of danger hasn’t passed. There is a reason he keeps his shield drawn. 

A reason why he looks at Nessa and thinks: I will embrace the cold, if it means there are answers beyond the storm.

~

Dawn breaks over the Primordia skyline. L, with lea lilies and antorous roses in his hands, approaches Janpath Lake. The delicate chimes of the lea lilies produce a calming melody, the warmth of the rising sun catching the gentle breeze. On the other side of the lake, L’uciel, the Eternal, bent on her knees with her false head curled around her body. The soft rise and fall of her flank indicates a deep slumber.

L leaves the bundle of flowers on the ground by the shore, using the infant sunlight to look over L’uciel. Her wounds have become scars, thanks to Starr’s healing ether. He bares his teeth, his body aching at the sight. None of Mira’s tyresfolly can die, but that doesn’t erase the pain.

He kneels by the flowers, palms on his thighs, and stares. The lea lilies continue their song. A voice accompanies it - more accurately, a memory. Walls of dense stone, a fortress deep underground. Crowded next to family and friends and everything in between, hurried whispers and comforts exchanged to fill the silence. A hand laced through his hair, rubbing soothing circles at the base of his skull.

“Be brave, Cirufe. Be brave.”

The lilies’ song turns into a whistle. Constant, thrumming. A note down from the one that plagued him ten lifetimes ago, drowning out the screams of his people. A note, before the ether stuffed itself down his throat and into his lungs, before his fingernails grew serrated and packed with Miran soil, before the bones in his spine had splintered and turned outwards into fanged extensions of flame, before his molars forced their way out of his cheeks and sharpened into blood-soaked bone, before his skin dripped ichor from every orifice as he died and was reborn, died and reborn, before before before -

“I can’t,” he’d whispered.

And the planet’s response: You can. We can. 

A tear dips into L’s ridged cheekbone, curves down his cheek.  L’uciel rests on the other side of the lake, but even asleep, the truth connects them. 

“Make room for Tatsu,” Tatsu demands as he approaches Elma. “Tatsu tired of watching Linly pace.”

Elma gives him half a smile, scooting over on the couch so Tatsu has room to jump up. Lin’s been pacing for the better half of an hour behind the kitchen counter, eyes trained on her comm device. It’s the day after Pongo’s original message that said that he’d be back in the city soon. He’d offered to take them all out to dinner to celebrate the homecoming. 

But it’s been almost twenty four hours with no word from Pongo. Lin’s pacing started after she sent a flurry of worried messages to him: where are you, are you okay, let us know if you’re running late, let us know if you’re in trouble. Pongo’s usually good about responding, so his silence caught both Elma and Lin off guard. 

Elma rationalizes why Pongo hasn’t messaged back. He could be reporting to HQ, and maybe they have some extra paperwork they need him to fill out. Maybe his comm device died on the road, given how long he’s been out on this mission. Maybe he’s still driving back to NLA. (He never did like using his comm device while driving, much to Elma’s relief.) It’s no use to worry about things outside of her control, but Lin, young as she is, hasn’t learned that lesson quite yet. And despite all of Elma’s reassurances, she refuses to settle down.

“I have a bad feeling, Elma,” Lin says. “I think something’s wrong. Maybe he’s hurt, or his team’s in danger, or -”

“Lin,” Elma interrupts. “We have no reliable way of confirming that’s the case. Pongo is a strong, competent BLADE. If anything did happen, he’s more than capable of handling himself. Give him time.”

“But what if -”

“Elma is right,” Tatsu says. “Linly is worrying too much. Mamapon always said ‘worrying too much makes hair go white like ancient Nopon’, and Linly wouldn’t look good with white hair.”

“What did you think about Elma’s hair then, potato?” Lin scowls.

“Elma is exception to rule.”

“And I’m not? Rude,” she mutters, lowering her comm device. “Fine, though, I get it. I just hate feeling like there’s nothing I can do to help.”

“I know,” Elma says. “Maybe you can redirect your energy into something more hands-on. What will you be making for dinner tonight?”

“Chicken parmesan and pasta,” she says. “The chicken’s defrosting on the counter, but I’ve got to prepare the breading and the sauce.”

“Would you object to having a second chef in the kitchen?”

Finally, Lin’s stress begins to fade, her face lighting up. “Of course not! I can show you how to make the sauce while I’m working on the breading mixture!”

“Sounds like a plan.” Elma stands, tucking her crystalline bangs behind her ear. Her team had accepted the truth of her real body in the Lifehold Core, and she’d suppressed her relief, her gratitude. Her mimeosome had felt like a second home, but returning to her real body was a comfort sorely missed. Her limbs feel closer, connected. Still, the transition’s been slow but steady. Elma’s too used to her shorter hair, how it feathered over her shoulders. A stray thought floats across her mind: perhaps she should cut her hair. The tools on her home planet would’ve made this an easy task, but humanity might not have the tools necessary to cut through her crystalline strands.

She joins Lin in the kitchen, helping prepare the sauce for Lin’s chicken parmesan. They fall into a familiar rhythm, a camaraderie strengthened after months of love and care. As Elma dices amidresian tomatoes, she feels Pongo’s absence more than before. Lin would never let him step foot in the kitchen - a burnt evello steak and several melted pans earned him the ban - but he’d always offer his help, quip with Lin as she busied herself with the ingredients. His presence is a warmth Elma didn’t know she craved. The final puzzle piece to their misfit family, the cornerstone to a team built on exploring the unknown. 

Halfway through prep, Elma’s comm device rings. She’d left it on the coffee table next to the couch. She gives Lin a quick apology before exiting the kitchen, picking up her comm device to check the caller. “It’s Commander Vandham,” she says before she accepts the call. 

Vandham’s face appears on her screen a moment later. “Elma,” he says. “You in the barracks?”

“Yes, sir. Is everything okay?”

“Lin and the potato there too?”

“They are.”

“Good. Put me on speaker. You all need to hear this.”

Elma does as he asks. She looks up, meets Lin’s curious gaze, but she remains silent. “Alright, Commander, you’re on speaker,” Elma says. “Now, tell us what’s wrong.”

Vandham’s image glitches as he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m not giving you my laundry list, but this one’s bad. First things first: this hasn’t made its way to the public yet, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Of course,” she replies. “Is this regarding the Lifehold Core?”

“I’m afraid not,” he replies. “This was a defensive breakdown - a huge one. I’ll start small: we just had one of our cleanup crews come back from Jair Fortress - Agoney and Forrest - and they put simius snack stashes to shame with how bananas they were going. They were the last of the recon groups to return to the city, but they were two people short. First was Kalani Kealoha, a Pathfinder. The second was your starry-eyed rookie, Pongo.”

Kalani’s name is familiar - had Irina or Gwin mentioned her before? - but at Pongo’s name, the ice in Elma’s veins goes cold. “Pongo?!” Lin cries, palms slamming on the countertop. “What happened? Where is he? Is he okay?!”

“Kalani apparently lost her mind and hallucinated that Grace Vandereach was getting chummy with the millesaur tyrant Luciel,” Vandham explains. “Pongo tried to get her out of there, but she got squashed like a bug, Skell and all. Forrest and Agoney drove off to save their hides after that, but Forrest caught a glance in the rearview mirror and saw…well, take a look.”

A photo pops onto her comm device’s holographic screen. The visuals are slightly obscured, but there’s no mistaking the golden etheric plumes that accompany the indigen in the image. Telethia, the Endbringer.

Elma was there to witness Telethia’s descent into Dead Man’s Gulch, tearing apart tainted caros and sphinxes, blood splattering across the darkened terrain. It had lowered its head, acknowledging her team - and it had flown away shortly after. There was no malice in its gaze, no indication that they were perceived as a threat. Elma had crafted theories for days as to why that was the case. Out of every indigen catalogued on Mira, Telethia was one of the most powerful, the most obscure, the most unknown. Why had it left them alone? Why did it feel the need to save them? Had it been summoned, somehow, or was its arrival pure luck? 

As Lin circles around the counter, peering at the same image on Elma’s screen, Vandham continues. “None of our systems pinged Telethia’s location. That big of an enemy, practically on our doorstep. Our technicians have been trying to figure out why, but they’ve got no leads. The shot you’re looking at was taken from the backup camera on Agoney’s patrol car, hence the shitty quality, but it’s the best we’ve got.”

“I’m finding particles of degeneration around Telethia’s body that might suggest some kind of cloaking,” Elma notices, panning around the image and zooming in using her thumb and index fingers. “Considering the car’s proximity to Telethia, it’s likely that Agoney and Forrest were inside the radius of the effect. It would explain how the cameras were able to pick up on Telethia’s location, but not any of the city’s defensive sensors.”

“Either way, Forrest and Agoney saw it with their own eyes: Telethia nearly took out Luciel.” A pause. “Now, see what it’s got in its hand?”

Elma zooms in again, squinting as she picks apart the image. There’s a humanoid shape tucked between its claws. If Kalani was killed, if Agoney and Forrest were escaping the scene of the crime, then that leaves one name unaccounted for.

“We have no way of knowing for sure,” Vandham says, “but we think Telethia took your rookie and headed for the hills after its scuffle with Luciel. Either that, or he made for a nice post-tyrant bashing snack.”

No. 

Elma won’t believe it. She may be rational, she may care more about maintaining decorum in the face of adversity - but Pongo isn’t dead, no matter what the evidence suggests. Clutching her comm device, she keeps her voice steady as she inquires: “Do we have any way of tracking where Telethia might have gone? If we can track Telethia, chances are, we’ll find Pongo.”

“Defensive breakdown, remember?” Vandham sighs. “We’ve got no video feed, Agoney and Forrest couldn’t confirm a direction since they abandoned ship and made tracks back to NLA, and Telethia’s newfound invisibility powers make it nearly impossibly to track. Unless you’ve got an ace up your sleeve, your rookie is -”

“His weapons,” Lin interrupts, quickly locating her own comm device in one of her pockets. “I custom built his photon saber and his photon shield, and I installed trackers on them in case of emergency! Why didn’t I think about this earlier?!”

“Maybe because you knew what I’d say,” Vandham interjects, “which is that chasing after Telethia the Endbringer is a bad idea.”

“When has Moustache Man’s warnings ever stopped Team Elma?” Tatsu pipes up, indignantly flapping his wings from his seat on the couch. “Friends must find Pongo and bring him back home! Even if it means fighting Telly!”

“Like you’d have the guts to do it, spudster,” he barks a quick laugh. “Now, I’ve got fifteen minutes before my next meeting and three cosse bean espresso shots in my system. Want me to rattle off all the key talking points as to why tracking down Telethia is a bad idea?”

“Commander,” Elma says, “with all due respect, it’s in BLADE’s best interests to track Telethia’s movements, especially since it’s come so close to the city. And Pongo is one of our own. I won’t abandon him, if there’s a chance he’s alive.”

Another long sigh as Vandham’s brow creases, as he rubs his forehead with the base of his palm. “I know, I know. That kid’s been with you through thick and thin. As your Commander, it’s my job to dissuade you from doing anything reckless. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want data on Telethia’s whereabouts, and you’re the most capable team we have. That, and…maybe I’ve developed a soft spot for your rookie, even if he’s a dumbass.”

“Is this your way of saying we have permission to pursue the target?” 

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Elma. I still have to run all the paperwork and then some. Don’t even get me started on explaining this to Nagi - poor bastard’s been down at the Industrial District for two days straight trying to resolve an issue with the Outfitters. Something about a punk stealing Mk. IX hypercoolers from Skells in the loading bay?”

Lin grimaces. “That sounds like Fudge. He needed something to recycle the heat generated by his hammer’s engines, but the IX hypercoolers weren’t compact enough. I told him I’d send my preliminary schematics for a Mk. XVI hypercooler, something more compact and with more energy output, but I guess it’s been a while since I talked to him…”

Just as she trails off, her comm device pings as she receives a response from her trackers. “I think I’ve got a signal!” she exclaims, typing furiously on her keypad. “I’m sending the coordinates to the command table so we can get a better visual.”

“Understood.” Elma nods before addressing Vandham’s recording. “I’d hate for you to be late to your meeting, Commander. Lin and I will assess the coordinates and report back to you with our findings. Maybe you can meet us here to discuss the details once you’re free.”

“Have my fourth espresso shot ready for me,” Vandham replies, disconnecting the call. Elma leaves her comm device on the couch before beckoning Lin to their command table. A short ramp leads up to the windowed loft, the table wide and welcoming. How many meetings had she held here? How many times had they crowded around the interface, plucking at strings of data as they pieced together the Lifehold Core’s location? As Elma circles around to her usual spot at the table’s edge, she’s struck once more by Pongo’s absence. He liked to stand next to her during their meetings. He would look over her shoulder, concentrated on the data being presented. He may not have spoken much when they were planning offensive strikes or continental reconnaissance, but it was clear he clung to every word, every opinion, every angle. 

Now, with the command table already displaying a map of Mira, Elma recalls her conversation with L. Pongo is not human. He was created by Mira, his body composed of miranium at the physical level. L didn’t seem to know how he existed without aidoneum - his soul, his spirit - but perhaps there’s a connection to Telethia there. Can it sense he’s different, somehow? Did it spare them in Dead Man’s Gulch because of it? 

Elma knows she’ll have to tell Lin all of this eventually. She deserves to know Elma’s working theories. For now, their priority is to find Pongo and bring him home.

Lin takes her usual spot at the head of the table, lifting Tatsu up so he can view the holographic surface. The command table chirps as two bright red lights park themselves on the map. The first, north of NLA, close to Janpath Lake. This coordinate makes sense, given the approximate radius of Luciel’s stomping grounds. 

But another circular marker blips near Elma’s hand, at the very edge of the map. It’s south of Primordia, situated in the ocean bordering NLA. 

“Why are there two dots?” Tatsu asks. “Two dots for two Pongos?”

“No, dummy. Two trackers: one on his shield, and one on his photon saber,” Lin verifies. “Maybe when Telethia picked him up, he dropped one, which is why there’s two locations. But the coordinates near you, Elma…that’s the ocean.”

“Telethia could have dropped him as it flew away…or there’s something else there that we haven’t recorded on our map,” Elma theorizes. “We’re far from cataloguing all of Mira. We didn’t concern ourselves with exploring the southern reaches when we landed on Mira, primarily because we required immediate access to land and resources in order to replenish and refortify the city.”

“So you think there’s something there? An island, maybe?”

“Perhaps. There’s only one way to find out.”

Lin shudders, swallowing hard. “Or maybe there’s nothing there at all. Maybe Telethia dropped him, and he’s just floating in the ocean, waiting to be rescued.”

“Sounds like all the more reason to investigate.” Elma brushes past the table, back down the ramp into the heart of the barracks. “We have under an hour to prepare our Skells and gear. Check everything quickly, Lin.”

“Meh meh?!” Tatsu jumps down from the table, chasing after Elma. “Friends leaving before dinner?!”

“I’ve got rations in Hephaestus,” Lin bites back. “Now quit complaining, or the rations won’t be the first thing we eat on the road!”

She ducks into the holofigure room, back towards their shared sleeping quarters. Meanwhile, Elma rounds the corner into the Skell hangar, passing by Lin’s heavy Amdusias Hades. Lin was the one to insist on a naming scheme for their Skells, hence the name “Hephaestus”. To its left is Elma’s Skell, a sleek red Verus Cain named “Athena”, and in the empty spaces left of hers is where Pongo would park his Skells, a Lailah Queen named “Eros” and an Ares 90 he calls “Atlas”. Pongo took Eros on his cleanup mission, preferring the thermal loadout for aggressive and attention-catching attacks. 

It’s the empty space that Elma’s eyes linger on. Eros, missing from the lineup. Pongo, missing from the team. She allows herself a small moment to inhale, exhale, readjust. She starts her routine diagnostics in a vain attempt to calm herself down. We’re coming, Pongo, she thinks. If you’re in trouble, hold on just a little while longer. 

~

This isn’t L’s first time at the Lifehold Core. He was part of Elma’s strike team, the infiltration efforts. There’d been some contention about his participation; he’s not affiliated with BLADE, just a simple xenoform seeking refuge in NLA. Yet they’d already permitted him to take a Skell license test, they’d authorized his use of BLADE-manufactured weapons and armor. He’d proven himself an ally to humanity, and in the fight to save the Lifehold Core, they needed any help they could get. All men decked out, as the saying goes.

Elma promised to grant L clearance to visit the Lifehold Core, now that it’s been secured. No more dancing inside under the guise of defending against the Ganglion. But L couldn’t wait that long. He made his decision mere hours after that conversation, where Elma provided her theories on Mira’s connection to the Lifehold Core. L had offered what he could: Mira’s sentience, the intricacies of miranium and aidoneum, and…

Pongo.

He’s precisely why he needs to get into the Lifehold Core, clearance or no clearance. 

L flies under the cover of night, over Sylvalum and Cauldros. The sun’s cresting over the horizon by the time he parks on the Lifehold Core’s landing deck. Two BLADEs are stationed outside the door, holding assault rifles. After L disembarks, he approaches with his usual bravado. To his surprise, he recognizes both of the BLADES: Zedd and Lief, frequent purveyors of his shop. That’ll make this easier, he thinks. 

“Well come and well met, Zedd and Lief!” L announces with a smile. 

“Oh shit,” Lief smiles. “Good to see you, L! I’ve been meaning to stop by your shop to thank you for the sweet nerine perfume - Olivia loved it!”

“And she’s been wearing it nonstop for the past three weeks,” Zedd grumbles. “I swear I went noseblind with how much it stank up the lab.”

“You’re just jealous she liked it more than your lava fox plushie. That thing was so uncanny valley.”

“They’re her favorite animal! And she could’ve taken perfume the wrong way, like you were telling her she smelled bad!”

“Well, she didn’t, so I win!”

L has never been more confused in his life. His smile wavering, he says, “We are overjoyed to hear of the perfume’s success! You will have to stop at our shop if you wish to purchase more.”

“I definitely will,” Lief smirks. “Now, what are you doing all the way out here?”

The half-truth comes easily. “We are a missionary from Team Elma! She wanted our fine hands to collect some terminal data. She wasn’t able to attend herself, hence our presents.”

“Presents?” Zedd lifts an eyebrow. “Whatever. I don’t think we got word about any clearances, but if you’re reporting from Team Elma…” He shares a look with Lief, who shrugs nonchalantly. They step out of L’s way in unison. “Just don’t break anything that looks important. Actually, don’t break anything at all. I’m not dealing with chimeras.”

“The chimeras aren’t real, dude,” Lief argues. “That video footage was doctored. You can see it in the particle effects.”

“Why would BLADE lie about shit like that?”

“To keep the public from barging in! Easier to tell people not to go inside if BLADE says a chimera defense protocol will activate if the Core detects a threat.”

“That’s fucked up…”

L bids the two men goodbye with a simple wave, but engrossed in their conversation, he’s fairly certain they don’t realize he’s gone. Best not to linger, anyways. 

The lights are all on, guiding L’s way deeper into the heart of the Lifehold Core. The elevator from the main floor takes him down to the core’s central units, the very stage where he and Team Elma defeated Luxaar and Lao. There’s bright holographic security tape circling some of the glass flooring behind the central console. Protoplasmic fluid waves like a false sea beneath the surface. L had watched it morph Luxaar and Lao into a singular being, fused with the DNA of several Earthen creatures. He remembers how horrified everyone had been, their pale faces and wide eyes. Lin had been shaking, Tatsu cowering behind her legs. Irina and Gwin had stepped back. Elma and Doug tried to maintain their composure, but L knew fear. He knew it was a monster, capable of more terrifying transformations. The sight of the chimeras had made him sick to his stomach. It had taken every fiber of his being to stand his ground, to fight.

But there was something scarier in that room. Pongo, who stood in front of them all, an eternal guardian. L couldn’t see his face, then. But he knows what he would’ve seen.

With only his mind to keep him company, L’s thoughts wander to his distant past. This place is nothing like Mira’s core. The silence in the Lifehold Core is artificial, cold. Mira’s core had always created warmth, because the core’s very existence meant you weren’t alone. And at the end of everything, when his people had crowded into the cave system to avoid calamity, the air had been alight with nervous energy. He’d held his mother’s hand, felt her thumb caress the back of his knuckles. Gods, he’d been so young. He really believed they’d all be safe. He traces his knuckles with his thumbpad, trying to mimic the phantom sensation. But nothing compares. Nothing will ever compare.

As L follows the walkway to the central console, he surveys the area, the steel walls encasing the room. Above the console, the cylindrical housing units for all of the preserved Earthen lifeforms. So much DNA, all stored in a singular place. A treasured island, if he has his Earthen mythos right. 

Stopping in front of the console, L’s ears stand to attention as the chamber echoes with approaching footsteps. Soft padding against cold steel, breaths disguised by the hurried swish of a long, tattered cape. The newcomer stops a few feet away from L, ripping the Caro half-skull mask off his head. A mess of braided black hair flows over his shoulder, and pale skin catches the sickly Lifehold light, accentuating the three scars across his right eye. The light also pronounces the faint glow to his pupiless eyes - the left, a rich indigo, and the right, a searing white.

“Starr,” L starts, but he’s quickly interrupted.

“When were you going to tell us he was alive?” Starr growls, wiping his cheekbone with the back of his hand. L flinches, realizing he’s bleeding from a thin cut, that his armor is dented and soil-stained from the trials of battle. “You’ve been in the city for the better half of the year. There’s no way you didn’t know.”

L’s eyes widen. His cover’s blown, but he tries to scrounge up a spare ounce of confusion to protect himself. “Are you…are you sure it’s him?”

“Don’t you even dare.” He closes the distance between them, fists clenched at his sides as a dangerous glint crosses his expression. L stands his ground - Starr won’t hurt him, not after everything they’ve been through together. “Why didn’t you tell us, L’cirufe? Why? We could’ve killed him before he had a chance to bond with humanity. We could’ve saved them.”

L’s throat clenches, and he swallows down his rising bile before he responds. “We have been observing him from afar. His aidoneum connection is severed -”

“We saw.”

“And we believe he’s -” L stops. “You saw?”

“He was in Primordia,” Starr tells him. “Trying to protect a group of humans as they returned to their city. We were with L’uciel; she wished to speak with us. And then…he attacked her. We fought back, and we would’ve overpowered him. But Nessa and Solstice intervened.”

“Solstice?” He swallows again, growing more nauseous by the second. “Why would they protect him?”

“Because they are a fool,” Starr replies, “and because our sister is too forgiving. She forgot what he did to you - to us.”

“And L’uciel?” L breathes. “Is she…”

Starr finally steps back as the weight of everything threatens to send L to his knees. A cautious hand on his shoulder steadies him, the tension dissolving. Starr’s eyes soften, compassion overtaking his anger, his rage. As an avatar of Mira, he’s expected to protect all lifeforms that inhabit its surface. L knows better than anyone that Starr’s rage is still buried beneath, sequestered under countless layers of love and obedience. 

“She’s safe,” Starr confirms softly. “She fought Solstice, but none of her wounds were life-threatening. We healed her after Solstice left.”

L sighs, relieved. Telethia, the Endbringer is one of the most dangerous indigens on the planet, according to BLADE. If only they knew the truth of it. 

“Why?” Starr asks again. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

It takes a moment for L to realize he’s referring to his earlier question, asked with a sharpened tongue. He’s honest this time, too tired to evade. “We wished to observe him from afar,” he explains. “With his aidoneum connection severed, we weren’t sure what he might be capable of. We…we believe that he has no memory of what happened, or what he is. Spoofed out of thin air, as they say.”

“No memories,” he mutters. “We would’ve sensed if Mira had a hand to play in his creation. Perhaps his consciousness broke free from the core and scrounged up enough ether to recreate a physical form.” A pause. “But it doesn’t matter. If anything, his lack of memories makes him more dangerous. More likely to make the same mistakes.”

“We’re not so sure about that,” L says. “Based on our interactions with him, it seems as though he’s more learned. Wiser, in a way.”

“And you were willing to take that chance? To let him bond with humanity, see if he sentences them to slaughter like he did with your people?”

“What if the opposite is true? Look around us, Starr. Don’t you sense it?”

L raises his arms, gesturing to the sleek steel walls, the protoplasmic fluid rippling beneath the glass under their feet. To the massive structure above their heads, containing the DNA of countless Earthen specimens. Enough to build their whole world from scratch - to turn it into something familiar, something comforting. 

But he sensed more than the Lifehold Core’s possibilities, when he first stepped foot inside. His people were born with the natural ability to read ether signatures with sight alone. Seers, of a kind. Those with stronger sight could even peer beyond the veil of time. Though L wasn’t one of them, he possessed the common gift, enough that it made navigating the ether-rich Mira a joy in his youth. He’s never spoken about it with anyone, never thought it meant much considering humanity’s control over ether. 

In the calm before the storm, before Luxaar had attacked him and Elma’s team, L had picked up on the ether signatures in the chamber. A protective field beneath the trion barrier, a soft lavender haze that enveloped the walls of the Lifehold Core. And after Elma confirmed that the Lifehold Core sustained heavy damage, that there was no reasonable explanation as to how humanity still stands - L had to see it for himself. He had to return to the Core. He had to view the field again and identify that this ether signature was the cause. 

It’s why L wanted to bring Starr to this place. To show him that the ether signature surrounding the Lifehold Core - the ether signature that was keeping humanity from succumbing to the destructive flooding in the basement levels - belonged to someone they both knew.

Starr’s eyes widen. “How…how is this…his aidoneum connection was severed. He couldn’t possibly…”

“We may not know how,” L replies, “but we know this is his ether. Whether he recognizes it or not, he is protecting humanity.”

Silence, as Starr absorbs this information. He backs away from L, pacing across the steel flooring, and it takes all of L’s patience to remain where he is. In his youth, he befriended all of the Miran avatars. At first, it was because he recognized their strength, their ability to protect his people. They’d been running for so long, feeling from each and every one of the planets they tried to call home. The yggralith always found them in the end. Here, on the very edge of their perceived universe, they hoped they’d finally find solace. Still, L was part of the majority: just because they’d found a new planet to inhabit doesn’t mean they’re safe. Time and time again, they were proven wrong.

But the Miran avatars were a blessing. The planet wanted to keep them safe, and it gave them three angels, missionaries that would defend them from the yggralith if it found them. Of course L was enamored. Of course he wanted to hide behind them. And as he grew older, he wanted nothing more than to stay by their sides.

L wishes the pull of protection was nullified. His fear, his anger, his confusion - it should’ve dictated his decisions. But something deeper kept him by Pongo’s side. Something gentle, something childlike. Companionship, laced in feathered stardust and laughter. A dream that one day, things could return to the honeyed sunlight of his youth. The very thought of it brings a tear to his eyes. He wipes it away before Starr can take notice.

“We can’t risk it,” Starr speaks, after the silence grows too heavy to bear. “We can’t let him repeat what he did to the F’lenla A’slegn. His ether may be protecting this place, but one wrong move, and humanity would…” He shudders, exhaling through his teeth as he turns to leave the chamber. “We have to find a way to reconstruct this ether field. Find a way to commune with Mira, see if it can replace the ether here with some of its own.”

“How?” L asks. “If Mira is silent, then where will you go?”

Starr looks over his shoulder, the lines in his face drawn taut with furious determination. Even before he speaks, L knows his answer. 

Pongo does not dream. He remembers. He envisions things that haven’t come to pass, and he screams as he’s helpless to stop them.

It’s why he doesn’t sleep anymore. Insomnia is his loyal companion, warding off his unconscious fears. Mimeosomes technically don’t need to sleep, but Pongo can recognize when exhaustion takes hold, when his joints aren’t as quick to respond and his mind races to catch up with simple acknowledgements.

He’s exhausted by the time he and his team are done with Jair Fortress. They’ve been doing reconnaissance for the past week, determining the exit and entry points for a large scale operation. Pongo heads their formation as their Skells and patrol vehicles drive steadily through Oblivia’s deserts, scanning the far horizon for any signs of hostile indigen activity. Between steering Eros and battling his fatigue, he fights his glazing eyes and jaw-aching yawns in the name of protecting his team. He doesn’t need to sleep. He needs to drive. To stay focused on the road ahead and the BLADEs behind.

Pongo has never worked with this team before, but that tends to be the way of things, given how the Interceptors function. He’s a bodyguard, not a friend, though he’s been told he does a good job at being both. Some of the other members have worked together before, their synergy apparent across their comms. Even now, as the afternoon sun begins to wane, their banter echoes in Eros’s cockpit.

“Finally,” Forrest groans as they pass the border into Primordia, “we’re out of that damn desert. If I my next assignment brings me back there, I’m throwing myself into the pit.”

“Please tell me you’ve seen the leaderboard,” Agoney replies. “That guy who went down there over three thousand times. Kept finding nothing, still went down there because he didn’t believe the data was accurate.”

“What kind of sick bastard would do that three thousand times?”

“Check the leaderboard if you don’t believe me.”

“That interface is a piece of shit. Makes up times and scores to inflate people’s egos and inspire some ‘friendly competition’ between BLADEs like we’re in primary school. Like, why the fuck would I want to be the one to say ‘I’ve been in the Yawning Giant three thousand times’?”

“Clearly you lack the passion to make it happen.”

Pongo knows the leaderboard they’re talking about, and he’s half inclined to agree it’s not something to take seriously. Then again, someone must’ve seen him training outside the East Gate with no armor on and decided that was a worthy thing to note on the leaderboard. Thank the gods Pongo’s not shy about his body.

The formation continues down North Janpath Plain, using a wellworn path past the lake. Pongo steers clear of the millesaurs; despite their docile nature, it’s never a good idea to drive close to them, on account of their large size and destructive strength. Though Forrest and Agoney’s banter provides good background noise, he keeps his senses honed on the surrounding area, scanning the horizon for potential threats. A quick glance at Eros’s rearview screens reveals all three patrol cars behind him. Good, he thinks, everyone’s keeping up.

But in the same breath, he clocks that the second Skell in their formation is missing. The fatigue fades from his mind as Pongo slows Eros down, hands on the controls as he turns towards the lake.

“Kalani?” Pongo calls over the intercom. “Is everything alright?”

Kalani drives a Verus Cain, painted a dark turquoise. It stalls by the edge of Janpath Lake. The patrol cars brake close to Pon’go, keeping their group close together. 

“We should just leave her,” Forrest says. “She gets like this every time we drive through east Primordia.”

“Why’s that?” Agoney asks.

“You don’t know? She was on that project with Vandereach. Whole team got squashed by a millesaur tyrant. Kalani and Irina from the Interceptors were the only survivors. According to Akulov, some shit went down with the Art they were testing, and Kalani was never the same.”

“Why the fuck did we bring her, then?”

“We didn’t bring her, she got assigned. Take it up with HQ when we’re home.”

“HQ never listens to complaints. Last time I spoke with Eleanora about someone - that one bastard who spilled alcohol on himself during the job and used Offensive Stance - she promised to tell HQ and nothing ever happened.”

“Don’t tell me that’s the Killer Ostrich, I heard he packed six kegs for a trip to Cauldros once -”

They continue to trade quips, but it becomes background noise. Pongo watches the Verus Cain; dusk settles on the edge of the water, reflecting against the Verus’s tinted windows. He can’t see past the glass, so he follows the direction that the Verus is pointed, across the lake and towards NLA. Terebras and suids peruse the shore, enjoying some water before the night descends. Evellos sprint in the far distance, chasing each other down the grassy slopes.

And marching towards the lake, the ground quivering beneath its mighty feet: Luciel, the Eternal. A millesaur famed for its destructive tendencies, to the point that BLADE had designated it with a tyrant level threat class only a month into humanity’s stay on Mira. Pongo had heard many tales of its rage before. Several base camps destroyed underfoot, dozens of BLADEs taken out by its secret head. Attempts to subdue the tyrant on foot, by Skell, solo, with a team - and none had succeeded. 

He doesn’t know the mission Forrest referred to, never read the reports. But he can hazard a guess as to what Kalani’s feeling. If she’s lost people to Luciel before - if she felt helpless to stop the bloodshed, if she was the only survivor - then her Skell, facing Luciel, means she’s reliving the memories. Pongo’s heart tightens at the thought. He can’t let her spiral, not when they’re so close to home.

“Kalani,” he tries again, calling over the intercom when there’s a break in Forrest and Agoney’s conversation. “We have to keep moving if we want to reach NLA before nightfall.”

“C’mon, Pon,” Forrest replies, “she’s a lost cause if she’s not -”

“Ms. Vandereach?”

Kalani’s voice trembles across the intercom. Pongo frowns, scans the perimeter again. Kalani’s Skell is still at the edge of the lake, facing Luciel. As the millesaur walks closer to the opposite side of Janpath Lake, he leans forward in his seat, squinting to see if he can make out anything different, anything suspicious. But in the weakening dusk, it’s hard to tell. 

Pongo sits back and puts his foot to the gas, driving Eros slowly forward so he doesn’t spook any of the neighboring wildlife. Once he’s pulled up next to Kalani’s Skell, he takes another look around. The new angle provides him with a wider view of the lake, and an acknowledgement from Kalani.

“Right there,” she whispers, staticky over the intercom, “by Luciel’s left foot. That’s her, isn’t it?”

With a clear direction, Pongo trains his eyes on the ground by Luciel. Sure enough, there’s a humanoid figure walking underneath Luciel, keeping pace with it as it approaches the lake and ducks its false head. Pongo stiffens; it’s a bad idea to get so close to a tyrant, especially one that’s predisposed to aggression. But when Luciel bows its head, it doesn’t drink from the lake, Instead, it turns slightly in, towards itself - towards the humanoid. Even from a distance, Pongo can see the humanoid raising its arm, stroking the underside of Luciel’s chin.

Some of Mira’s indigens are docile, tameable. Luciel the Eternal, one of the most infamous tyrants on Mira, is not one of them. It can’t be.

The squad cars rumble towards their Skells, parking themselves just behind Pongo. “The fuck is that guy doing?” Agoney asks. 

“I can’t see,” Forrest complains.

Pongo opens his mouth, partially in awe as he tries to form a response, to rationalize what he’s seeing. There’s plenty of BLADEs in NLA who claim expertise over indigens. Plenty of xenoforms who have trained Mira’s wildlife, tamed indigens to obey their commands. But he’s never heard of anyone being able to calm a tyrant. Something about this isn’t right.

Yet something about it feels…familiar. 

He squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head. Familiar, he thinks, no, that’s impossible. Maybe it’s that feeling Elma told me about, once. Day ja view? Like I’ve seen this before, but not this exact -

“Kalani?!”

Pongo glances to his right as Agoney cries Kalani’s name. Her Skell is no longer beside him. It races across the lake, taking flight before it hits the deep, racing towards Luciel. Forrest and Agoney are calling out to her, but she’s not stopping, and it’s only a matter of time before Luciel notices the Skell heading its way. 

Pongo doesn’t think twice. He charges after Kalani, taking flight above the lake. “Agoney, Forrest,” he orders the others, “get Kalani out of there! I am going to distract Luciel!”

“Are you fucking kidding?! Do you have a death wish?!” Forrest cries, but it falls on deaf ears. No, Pongo doesn’t have a death wish. He’s buying time for Kalani to escape. For the others to drag her away, to knock some sense into her before she gets hurt. If that means he takes a beating in the process, so be it. He’s handled worse before.

Yet as he grips Eros’s controls, Pongo’s hands quiver. He’s never taken on a tyrant by himself before, and he’s only read about Luciel’s capabilities in BLADE reports. How’s he supposed to do this? Don’t overthink it, he tells himself, all you have to do is protect her, no matter the cost.

Pongo hooks Eros around as Luciel’s false head raises, eyes trained on Kalani’s Verus Cain. A low roar echoes from its throat as it backs up, its massive legs raising as it prepares to stomp her down. Pongo pulls Eros’s discbombs from their holsters and fires off a full barrel, the bombs making contact with Luciel’s right shoulder. It throws Luciel off balance, the roar turning into a deafening screech.

“KALANI!!” Pongo shouts when he realizes it’s not enough to stop Kalani’s approach. 

“Ms. Vandereach!!” Kalani cries, static interrupting her speech. “I’m coming, Ms. Vandereach!!”

Her Skell races straight towards Luciel, and it isn’t slowing down, and the discbombs weren’t enough to redirect Luciel’s feet. Luciel falls forward, and Kalani’s Skell is directly under it now, and the discbombs won’t reload fast enough, damn it why won’t they reload?! Pongo kareens towards Kalani, realizing his weapons won’t provide the necessary distraction. He has to dive in, physically remove her from this path. Eros’s throttle quivers from the strain as he streaks through the sky, diving closer, closer, almost there -

Kalani’s Skell is under Luciel’s feet when it stomps down. Eros comes to a stop, yet Pongo’s close enough to hear the crunch of metal as he watches the Skell’s body warp and contort into the shape of Luciel’s heel. 

It never gets easier. The saliva building on his tongue, the numbness in his fingers. How his throat clenches, struggling to take a single breath. What gives him the right to breathe, if Kalani no longer can? What gives him the right, if she died under his watch?

The intercom goes haywire with Forrest and Agoney’s screams. Behind Eros, their squad cars skid against the ground, reversing, turning. They’re peeling towards NLA without a direct order. Did Pongo tell them to do that? He doesn’t remember hearing himself speak. Even if he didn’t give the order, he’s grateful they’re running. They’re not far from NLA, they’ll be able to reach the East Gate by nightfall. Pongo will hold off Luciel a little while longer. He has to retrieve Kalani’s body; it’s not right to leave her like this, broken in the confines of her Skell. He has to swallow down the pain, the knowledge that he failed her. The least he can do is bring her body back. He can mourn, blame himself, and curse his weaknesses once they’re both home.

Pongo activates Eros’s thrust again, continuing his descent. Eyes trained on Kalani’s crumpled Skell, he fails to notice Luciel’s long neck swinging towards him. Luciel’s head makes direct impact with Eros, knocking Pongo off course. Alarms blare in the cockpit as he diagnoses the damage mid-tumble: the left fight module’s completely jammed, unable to sustain flight after such a brutal hit. Pongo bares his teeth, readying for impact as Eros somersaults through the sky and down into the earth, slamming into the side of a hill. The impact throws his head into the cockpit seat, and as Eros rolls onto its front, the cockpit controls lean forward, nearly trapping his legs beneath the knees. 

When Eros finishes rolling, it’s upright, and the cockpit hatch still creaks open. Smoke flutters in, encasing the cockpit in a thick layer of floating embers. Pongo covers his mouth and suppresses a coughing fit, doing what he can to avoid breathing in the escaped exhaust. The debris is heavy, but with enough force, he shoves it aside and stumbles out of Eros’s wrecked form, landing in the grass and crawling away. There’s a dull ache in his legs from the cockpit debris impact, and a much sharper pain growing in the space between his temples. He’s handled worse before, he repeats in a silent mantra. This pain is nothing. 

Luciel’s scream is a war cry, a shockwave that pulses through the ground. Pongo rolls onto his back; he’s prepared to to abandon Eros and sprint for Kalani’s Skell. His ground gear, a photon saber and a custom photon shield (courtesy of Lin), are a needle and thimble against Luciel’s might. He’ll only fight if he has to, given his Skell is a wreck, but he won’t abandon Kalani.

Luciel’s head rears back, shaking off the impact with Eros. When it falls forward, it meets Pongo’s eyes, calling upon the fading light to ignite its rage. Pongo braces to fall back, to reorient and circle around between Luciel’s feet in the hopes that he can reach Kalani unscathed.

But Luciel doesn’t attack. It stays upright, its eyes glancing further down by its feet. Pongo looks down towards the lake, and beneath Luciel stands a shadowed figure, barely visible in the dying dusk. 

It’s the humanoid figure, Pongo realizes. The one that Kalani had seen by Luciel’s side. 

Pongo doesn’t know how she mistook this person as Ms. Vandereach. His clothes aren’t BLADE-issued, the material foreign and sharp. Metallic gauntlets and boots catch the last of the light before the sun vanishes below the horizon, his armor nearly the same shade of dark turquoise as Kalani’s Skell. Atop his head, obscuring his face, is the top half of an unknown indigen skull. Fangs protrude from a long muzzle, and two sets of pointed horns emerge from the top of the skull, curling near the ends. The bone is worn, but there’s stripes of paint across the forehead and cheekbones, hiding some of the wear and tear. The skull’s eyes are pitch black, hiding the figure’s eyes. But there’s long, braided black hair curled over his shoulder, and the faintest hint of pale skin beneath the skull’s muzzle. Everything about this person is human, Pongo realizes, save for the outfit. 

So why does Pongo get the strange feeling that he’s not?

“How…” The stranger whispers, taking a step forward. “How are you…”

Pongo doesn’t respond. He forces his hands into the ground behind him, forces himself to sit up and position himself on his knees. His head throbs, and he can’t tell if sweat or blood that leaks from his forehead, staining his right eyebrow. But the pain is second to his confusion, so as he stands himself up, Pongo meets the new figure with a furrowed brow and clenched jaw.

“Who…” He trails off as the stranger suddenly stops, taking a cumbersome step back to put distance between them.

“Your connection,” he mumbles. “It’s severed. You shouldn’t be…how did you…” He shakes his head, composing himself before he continues, his voice stronger. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll silence you, no matter how many times it takes.”

The figure ignites two blades from his gauntlets, glowing a light blue hue in the infant night. Pongo barely has time to activate his photon saber and shield before the stranger’s on top of him, slicing and carving his way through Pongo’s defenses. He’s lightning fast on his feet, and in Pongo’s weakened state, he can hardly keep up. His shield deflects a few incoming attacks, but the figure manages to cut into his stomach, gash his arms and legs. A well placed kick sends him flying, and when he expects to hit the ground, Luciel’s head intercepts his fall, launching him the other way. He collides with a northern rock formation, landing awkwardly on his shoulder and smacking the back of his head in the recoil. 

Though he’s holding on to his faculties - I’ve been through worse, Pongo barely manages to convince himself - his vision blurs, and blood leaks from his new wounds. He grunts as he brings himself to stand, pushing his hand into the worst of his injuries. “Astral Heal,” he hisses, and his fingertips glow with the Art’s nanotech energy, stitching some of the wounds up. It’s far from a perfect fix; blue blood oozes from the cuts Astral Heal couldn’t touch, and bruises form beneath his vest and armour. 

The figure strides forward, confident and assured. His slow approach gives Pongo time to collect himself, lifting his shield in an effort to barricade himself. This stranger’s proven that he’s much faster than him, and he’s never been any good fighting against fast opponents. And the way the stranger regards him through the skull mask gives him the impression of a hunter toying with their prey, an assassin biding time before striking the killing blow.

Pongo’s built for raw strength and endurance, able to power through hits that would subdue most humans. That is his only strength against opponents like this. If he can put all his energy into a few brawny hits, as opposed to multiple weaker ones, he can turn the tide of the fight and -

Luciel’s foot careens towards Pongo, and there is no time to brace with his shield for impact. He squeezes his eyes shut, ready to accept his fate. Launched, pummeled, torn to shreds - he will never reach Kalani like this, and he’s run out of options to skirt his assailants.

In the darkness behind his eyes, a light flickers, descending from the sky like a radiant star. The hit never comes.

Pongo cracks an eye open to find Luciel screaming in agony as another indigen descends from the night and latches itself onto Luciel’s flank. Etheric feathers plume from the creature’s massive wingspan, illuminating blue-green scales decorated in golden ether. It screams with the rage of a thousand suns, tearing into the flesh in Luciel’s neck. Luciel’s helpless against it, and its false neck detaches under the strain, revealing its true face beneath.

Pongo knows the new indigen. It’s the same one that rescued him and his friends in Noctilum, in the den of the Tainted. It had descended from the heavens, playing with the Caro and Sphinxes like they were toys. It had bowed its head, growled at the humans below its feet, but it did not attack. Pongo recalls how he’d met the creature’s eyes, how there was a spark of something reflected in its gaze. He’d thought it was a warning at the time. Telethia, the Endbringer, had saved them once - but it wouldn’t again.

The skull-masked stranger jumps back, barely avoiding Luciel’s detached neck as it flops onto the ground, limp and bloody. He’s distracted, focused solely on the fight between the two indigens. Pongo’s gaze flicks back and forth, back and forth: the fight, the stranger, Kalani’s body. He breathes deep of the soil-strained air, tinted with faint wisps of metallic blood, and takes advantage of the stranger’s distracted state. He has to collect Kalani’s body. He has to bring her home. This is what she deserves. He’ll run back to the city with her in his arms, abandon Eros to the wilderness, if that’s what it takes.

He breaks into a wild sprint, dashing past Luciel and bordering the lake’s shoreline. Luciel’s moved beyond the crushed wreckage of Kalani’s Skell, and the crumpled machine sparks with rogue electricity. Pongo’s already thinking of how to pry Kalani free. He entertains hopes, dreams of a reality where Kalani survived the impact. Maybe her Skell took the brunt of the damage and she’s pinned inside, injured but breathing. Maybe Pongo will be fast enough, rush her to the MMC, have the mimeosome technicians restore her data in a new mimeosome now that the Lifehold Core is restored. It won’t make him a hero - nothing he does will ever make him a hero, not with how many times he’s failed - but it’d mean she lives, and that’s all Pongo’s ever wanted. For humanity to live. 

Luciel screams as Telethia fires blasts of radiant ether into its shoulders, knocking the millesaur off balance. It leans in Pongo’s direction, far enough away that the fall won’t crush him. But it does draw the masked stranger’s attention. Fists curled, the stranger chases after Pongo, gaining quick ground. Shit, he thinks, faster, go faster.

The ground shakes violently when Luciel finally falls, its legs flailing as it tries to push itself back onto its feet. Telethia perches on top of it, claws digging into its flesh as its wings extend and it roars into the night. Pongo stumbles as the soil scatters, rocks dislodged and breaking against his shins. He ignores every pulse of pain as he grows closer to Kalani’s Skell. 

Mere feet away from the Skell, Pongo’s pushed forward as a heavy weight descends. The masked figure’s caught up, throwing his body into Pongo’s, forcing him into the dirt. Pongo tries to roll away, use his shield and photon saber to swipe at the masked stranger. But the stranger ducks, dodges. He retracts the blades back into his gauntlets and punches Pongo square in the jaw, over and over again. Pongo knows he has the strength to fight back, but it’s fleeting, recharging after fighting and running for so long. The stranger’s knuckles crack into his cheekbone, metal splintering beneath his skin. Blood gushes from his newly broken nose, from broken skin where bruises are too kind a word. In one moment, Pongo blinks, and his right eye ruptures, sparks of digitized biofluid leaking from his tear ducts. 

“You shouldn’t have come back,” the stranger snarls. “You should’ve stayed dead. Why couldn’t you just stay dead, for ONCE -”

“What are you -” Pongo’s cut off by a dizzying punch to his temple, coughing up more blood.

“Mira doesn’t need you,” the stranger shouts in between his relentless assault. “You’re useless. A failure. You are a curse to this planet that we will expunge, no matter how many times it takes!!”

“STARR!!”

The figure looks up, just as he’s about to land another punch on Pongo. Pain skyrockets up his neck, settles in his head. The figure - Starr, maybe that’s his name - answers to the new voice. But whatever he’s saying, Pongo can’t pick up. The world is muffled and fuzzy, distorting under waves of pain and nausea. I’ve been through worse, he tries to repeat his mantra, but as he coughs up biofluid and bile, he wonders if it’s just a comfortable lie. 

Starr rises, leaving Pongo supine on the torn Primordian ground. He tries to breathe, to stand, to continue his mission. Kalani needs him. He has to get up. His body refuses to respond at first, but the sheer force of his will brings him back onto his knees, coughing blood up onto the grass before he plants a foot on the ground. Luciel is toppled, beyond Kalani’s Skell, and Telethia is nowhere in sight. He would’ve heard it fly away, surely?

A taloned hand wraps around his torso, and he’s pulled into the night with only a split second to think: Oh. That’s where Telethia went. 

Telethia’s grip is loose, its talons acting as a makeshift cage. Pongo can’t muster the strength to fight back, his photon saber dropping from his limp hand and plummeting to the ground below. The air grows thinner with every breath, his ears popping with the sudden increase in altitude. Above him, all he can see is Telethia’s belly, its scales rippling with etheric energy as its wings propel it deeper into the night. 

Something descends off of its back, clutching tight to Telethia’s front leg. Fatigue and pain blind him, but still, Pongo feels hands wrapping around his midsection, the awkward climb as he’s hoisted onto Telethia’s back. Kalani, he thinks, I can’t leave her behind, but all he can afford is a weak mouthing of the words. 

“...hear me? Shit, we’ll have to…no other way, he needs help…”

Is that the same voice that distracted Starr, if that’s even the masked figure’s name? Pongo’s head lolls back, trying to focus on any sensation that’s not the pain. Beyond the bruising and blood, there’s the familiar warmth of physical contact. Whoever’s speaking, she’s got him in her arms, keeping him steady as Telethia glides through the night. Squinting, he looks up at the woman who’s leaning over him. Her brow is furrowed, concern evident in her tightened jaw and wide eyes. 

Eyes, which reflect the night sky. Pupiless, indigo - identical to Pongo’s. 

“Stay awake,” the woman pleads, “I’m not losing you again, stay awake, stay -”

Fable.

I come to you with a story. A fable, born of faun, born of fear. Will you hear me speak its name? The title of the tale prewritten? Would you dare to listen, if I were to tell you that it is not truth?

Oh, but who am I to question your famine? It’s certainly been a long time since you’ve gorged yourself upon these words of mine. What strange creatures you declare yourselves to be. There is value in the words we speak, the tales we tell. Value more in the manipulation of them, the twisting pulls and fraying edges of what you deem reality.

I know of the string you once pulled, for I was witness and participant to its unraveling. That string is no more. The ink run dry, the quill deceived. ‘Tis why I warn you that the fable I impart is not truth. I only wish to speak of a story, a hope, a dream. Unlike the last, I am not an intervention. My prominence is null. For the future, I cannot dare to claim difference.

They say the planet was born from nothing. That it never rose from the ashes, never grew from something known. It came to be, suddenly and truly. Some consider this a miracle. To the planet, the blessing of life is too beautiful to enjoy in solitude.

That’s why they were created. Three avatars for the planet to speak through, hear and feel and see through. Three avatars, so that if one were to fall, the remaining two would not suffer in solitude. And through their eyes, the planet reveled in the joy of creation, the life that teemed across its surface. The avatars echoed a song of life, planting seeds across the land and nurturing the species that called the planet home. They welcomed civilizations from the stars, swearing to all above and below that they would be their protectors. It was by the planet’s design, of course, to serve that purpose. To see, to speak - to serve.

For millions of years, this was their way. The planet beneath, exuding its voice through its three avatars. The song of life, ever prevalent. In daylight they were guardians, and in twilight they danced, satisfied with their roles. 

But stasis is impossible, in a universe so vast.

A star fell from the sky, heralding the coming of a new species. The avatars welcomed them with open arms, as was their expectation, but it wasn’t long before they learned the reason for their arrival. They were chased by a devourer, a destroyer of worlds. She found their hiding place, and She sought to render the world bare. The avatars joined together, sealing the monster away in a prison of micamortis, but they were too late. The land had been drained of ether, its flora and fauna traumatized. It was a catastrophe, bordering on extermination. The new species that brought forth the monster vanished. 

And soon, the avatars, too, disappeared. 

They say the avatars are still alive, unable to die until the planet deems they no longer have purpose. Some believe the avatars are asleep, recovering from their losses, and that they will awaken when they are needed again. And some believe the avatars have merged with the planet, their voices haunting the wind. That if you listen closely, you will hear their desperation, their love, their song of life. 

And I believe they are waiting. Waiting for humanity to return, as they once did in the timeline I viewed. Though these variants know not the touch of human warmth, I am led to believe they will relearn it, for that is in their nature. 

What do you believe? Do you believe my truth infallible? Did you believe me, when I told you of the timeline lost? I leave such a decision in your hands.

All I ask of you is to sit, my lonely heart, and listen well. I have provided you with little more than the entertainment of a prologue. The strings are in your hands, colorful and wise. Do with the threads what you will. Unravel them again, or tie the ends fast. ‘Tis your famine, after all. 

Though…was it ever mine?

History.

“New samples,” Olivia says as she pushes the door in with her shoulder. In her arms, she holds a wide crate, sealed around the edges. She tries to smile, but it’s forced. They’re all tired, worked to the bone.

Jericho’s not sure how long it’s been since he’s had a good night’s sleep. BLADE formed the divisions two weeks ago, and since then, the head honchos have been cracking down on productivity. Divide and conquer, they’d said. And Jericho, tired but optimistic, threw his hat into the ring. He hadn’t been terribly special on Earth - a geology professor at Caltech, heading a private operation dedicated to dating a possible new dinosaur species - but still, someone looked at him and said they wanted him on the White Whale. He’s gotta prove whoever picked him that the decision was right.

So he joined the Prospectors, and with a bunch of unsuspecting youths, he was sent to the metaphorical basement. They’ve got their own wing in the Industrial District, and at least it’s peaceful. Not a lot of people barge in unless they know the place. Olivia is the team’s designated delivery girl, and it’s only because she was getting claustrophobic. (Jericho doesn’t buy the excuse. He’s seen the way Zedd and Lief look at her, like she’s their next meal. He’s quietly thankful that neither of them never made any direct moves - Jericho’s too old to be in the middle of a soap opera romance.)

Olivia sets the box next to Jericho, ignoring how Zedd and Lief watch her from their station. They’ve been hard at work analyzing the tectonic plate movements; Mira’s composition doesn’t lend itself well to internal scanning, so the data’s being compiled manually. It’s been keeping them both subdued for the past week. But now that Olivia’s returned, they’ll be snapping at each other’s necks, vying for her attention. Jericho doesn’t miss these sorts of politics; he thought Mira would be an escape from the college theatrics. Did that White Whale recommendation only come in because they needed a babysitter? He should’ve looked at the fine print on that agreement. 

“Where’re these from?” Jericho asks.

“Just outside the city,” Olivia replies. “My source in HQ let me in on some of the deets. They’re calling the continent we slammed into ‘Primordia’. They sent the Pathfinders north, and they picked up these samples in a cave they came across.”

Jericho unclips the box, pulling out a sheet of sealed specimens. He’s careful not to touch anything, save for the sheet, and puts it down next to his toolkit, obscuring some of his earlier notes. Handwriting’s been getting him nowhere, and BLADE’s not going to focus on an adequate conversion app anytime soon. Does no one appreciate a good pencil anymore?

Lief and Zedd pull themselves away from their corner, looking over Jericho’s shoulder. “So they made the Pathfinders do our job?” Lief chuckles darkly. “So much for divide and conquer.”

“Did they name it, too?” Zedd asks. 

“‘Course,” Olivia grumbles. “They’re calling it miranium.”

“Wooow,” he rolls his eyes. “Someone clearly earned their degree in the arts.”

“Like you have any room to talk, music major.”

“I didn’t - music was my major before geology, so clearly I saw the error of my ways!”

“One rock for another,” Lief snickers. “No wonder you liked ‘em both, considering your head’s full of ‘em.”

“The fuck did I do to you, Lief?”

Jericho bites the inside of his cheek, checking his watch. He thinks, they made record time before the bickering began.

While they’re distracted, he pulls on a pair of gloves and finds his geode kit in the corner of his workspace. He’s careful as he picks up a sample, setting it down on his table. All of their samples have a faint electromagnetic field in place around them, a barrier that suspends the sample in the air. The waves are too weak to impact sediment composition, and it’s not like they’ve got easy access to plastic manufacturing here. He turns to his monitor and disables half of the field, keeping the specimen suspended but providing an easy opening for his tools.

On a cursory glance, this mineral - miranium - it’s average in appearance. There’s a subtle amount of refraction on its surface from the lab lighting, not enough to aggravate. Jericho slides his rock hammer out of his kit and sits with the specimen. One last glance over at the youngsters - still bickering, still occupied - and he decides to make the first move. He goes to prod the specimen with the very tip of his hammer, not wanting to be too brash. Mira’s an alien planet, its minerals unknown and unstudied. Who knows what this miranium is capable of?

The second Jericho’s rock hammer touches the miranium specimen, Lief yelps, and he bumps into him as he falls. The rock hammer collides with the miranium as Jericho’s face hits the edge of the table. The impact hurts, but not as much as it would’ve were he in his real body. A silent thank-you, and Jericho spins, infuriated. 

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?!” He yells at a flustered Zedd and a sheepish Lief, who’s landed on the floor. 

“Shit,” Lief swears, “I’m sorry, Jerry, I didn’t -”

“You’re lucky the sample wasn’t volatile,” Jericho keeps going, “otherwise the only thing that’s getting any action is your corpse flying out of the explosion!”

“Jerry -”

“Seriously, I can’t believe I got stuck babysitting three children while we’re trying to establish ourselves on a hostile alien planet, what are the odds -”

“Jerry -”

“I know undergrads that are more behaved than you, and that’s saying something, considering my seminars were full of beach bums and wannabe alcoholics -”

“JERRY!!”

Olivia’s voice slices through his ire. Jericho addresses her with a glare, his rage cooling once he finds her pointing to the miranium sample. He turns, expecting to find the sample destroyed, fragmented, rendered impossible to analyze -

But instead, he finds it floating.

Floating, and…liquid.

He’s in a mim. He shouldn’t need glasses, but maybe he missed a tuneup. Maybe he needs to visit the MMC later and get himself checked out. 

“I’m not losing my mind, right?” Lief asks, pushing himself off the floor. “The miranium sample just…altered itself?”

“Maybe it was a reaction to Jerry’s hammer?” Zedd proposes. “A chemical reaction? I don’t think anything on Earth could switch between forms without a trigger like temperature, or…”

He trails off, eyes wide as he stares at the sample. It doesn’t change back, but the material is malleable, shifting in shape the longer it remains suspended. Jericho watches it as he slowly reaches for his comm device, slowly records footage of the sample. He’ll need to attach it to the reports, but he might also watch this on his own later tonight, once he’s gotten himself checked out at the MMC.

“Mira’s an alien planet,” Olivia mumbles. “The states of matter could be completely different to how we observed them on Earth. If a mineral can shift so suddenly between solid and liquid states with such a small stimuli, then would a bigger stimuli present a shift from liquid to gas? Would it bypass liquid entirely, going from solid to gaseous states?”

“Or maybe the stimuli was in the composition of the hammer itself?” Lief provides. “It’s Earth-made, so maybe a component reacted positively to the miranium, and introduced the trigger necessary to enact the shift?”

“It might not have been the hammer at all,” Zedd suggests, “but something in the atmosphere! The sample was collected while it was in solid form, and that might’ve required force similar to the hammer, yet it didn’t turn liquid during that exertion. It could mean the sample was procured without the use of force. We would’ve been told about that, right? If they collected the samples while it was in a liquid state?”

“I can pull up initial reports! They didn’t tell me much of anything besides the collection point -”

“And the fact that they named the damn resource themselves and didn’t let us take a crack at it -”

“You would’ve named it something shitty anyways.”

“Seriously, Lief, the fuck did I do to you -”

And so, the banter continues. Jericho stopped the recording already, attaching it to a newly created report. They’re going to have a field day with these tests, but it’s only going to be a matter of time before he loses his mind keeping these kids in check. At least they’re spending their energy on something more important. At least they’re not at each other’s throats, finding harmony in their shared work.

Jericho lets it play out, just this once. Such fresh minds, throwing around every possibility and angle. Even Olivia has found her place, her shoulders relaxed as she laughs at a proposition Zedd pitches. Jericho remembers the groups of students in his classes, how they acted much the same way. In the same breath, he yearns to return to those days, and he yearns to leave it all behind. Retirement isn’t a viable path now that they’re locked in immortal, mechanical bodies, so he tries to smile and accept that he’s stuck with this crew for a little while longer. Perhaps they’ll teach him a thing or three, in the end. 

For now, Jericho puts his head down and takes notes, switching back and forth between his antiquated paper-and-pen duo and his comm device. Capable of transitioning between states of matter, he jots down. Utilization in manmade endeavors probable. Further testing and samples required.

Bestiary. 

FINAL TRANSCRIPT OF EVENTS

ART EXPERIMENTATION LOG CODE: 114-7512

DATE RANGE: 02-23-2056 to 04-14-2056

PROJECT OVERSEEN BY: Grace Vandereach

TRANSCRIBED BY: Jonathan Southern

BEGIN TRANSCRIPTION:

I begin this transcription by stating that I am an unbiased third party and sought only to collect written accounts and primary sources detailing the study and implementation of the prototype Knife Art titled “Brainjack”. 

“Brainjack” was presented as conjuncture to a collective committee shortly after crash-landing on Mira. Proposed hypotheses detailed a new programming module that would allow mimeosomes to activate the Art via an undeclared weapon class. The module would release nanoparticles capable of altering indigen brain chemistry, thus compelling the chosen target to become increasingly suggestible. The wielder of the Art would then be able to control the nanoparticles released by the weapon and “control” the target. (Quotations directly taken from Proposition Transcription, recorded the day of Art proposal.) 

After receiving approval from BLADE HQ, the Project Overseer, Ms. Grace Vandereach, began conducting experiments utilizing “Brainjack”. The Art was first tested in controlled environments situated in the Industrial District and utilized multiple separate indigenous creatures of varying species. Collecting data from as many species as possible, according to Data Logs 4 - 9.3, was meant to test the strength of the nanoparticles against varying degrees of intellectual development. Log 5.3, in particular, detailed consideration to implement the Art into a lightweight melee weapon for ease of use, and Log 5.4 indicated approval to integrate the Art into Knife-type weaponry.

The following species were identified in initial testing: ovis, terebra, murra, simius (infant and adolescent), germivore, grex (adolescent), saltat (adolescent). Data logs dating from 02-23-2056 to 03-09-2056 indicate relative success. Nanoparticle strength was recorded across all test subjects and was determined to operate at near-identical levels across all indigen species. All logs concluded that testing was a success and noted few detrimental effects for user and subject alike. 

Field Proposition 112-9-22.5 received conditional approval on 03-17-2056 based on evidence collected in the aforementioned data logs. The Proposition detailed a request to conduct Art training outside of the controlled environments. Conditions included the following requirements:

That the fieldwork party must be comprised of multiple operatives no fewer than five;

That the fieldwork party must remain within the Habitat’s home continent;

That the fieldwork party is to perform Art testing on no more than three chosen subjects; to be determined by BLADE HQ’s Proposition Committee, and

That the fieldwork party is to return immediately to the Habitat upon completion of the fieldwork proposition.

Failure to adhere to said protocols would result in BLADE investigation and suspension until further notice. Protocols were put into effect and agreed upon by all parties in response to operative safety concerns and potential hostile indigen activity surrounding (or in response to) Art testing. 

The fieldwork party was comprised of the following members:

Grace Vandereach, Outfitter. Age 42. Art Project Overseer. Chosen for experience with the Art.

Irina Akulov, Interceptor. Age 27. Chosen for Knife expertise. 

Alexander Herrera-Rivera, Harrier. Age 25. Chosen for Knife expertise.

Carlos Herrera-Rivera. Harrier, Age 25. Chosen for field and indigen expertise.

Kalani Kealoha. Pathfinder, Age 31. Chosen for field and indigen expertise.

The fieldwork party was deployed on 04-07-2056 to specified coordinates, placing the experimentation on the eastern border of the East Gate Plain. Target subjects included one adolescent simius, one terebra, and one ovis. Data collection began at 13:15 and continued until approximately 13:26, when communication with BLADE HQ was suddenly terminated. At 14:59, communication channels reopened. A report was collected from BLADE Operative Kalani Kealoha, where it was determined that the fieldwork party had been ambushed by Luciel, the Eternal (Threat Level 91, Classification Red). BLADE Operatives Carlos and Alexander Herrera-Rivera were KIA, and BLADE Operative Grave Vandereach was considered MIA due to indeterminate circumstances. Kealoha was severely injured and promptly terminated fieldwork, ordering an immediate retreat with BLADE Operative Irina Akulov.

Once returned to NLA, Operatives Akulov and Kealoha provided transcriptions of the events preceding the ambush. Below are direct quotations from both accounts.

From Operative Akulov:

“It’s the size of a fucking building. I knew it was behind us. We all knew. After I used Brainjack on the terebra, Grace got this weird look on her face. I had this weird feeling, but I just didn’t act on it in time. Next thing I know, her knife is drawn, and she’s sending the nanoparticles towards Luciel. Then she starts screaming her head off, and Luciel goes into a fucking frenzy. I watched it kill the twins. Grace was no help. I think the Brainjack did something to her. She wasn’t speaking English anymore, I couldn’t even tell what language she switched to. 

“Kalani tried to drag her away while I provided myself as a distraction. I know, bad fucking idea, but what else was I supposed to do? Once I knew Luciel lost my trail, I circled back and found Kalani at the Janpath BC. She said Grace ran off. Neither of us were in any shape to look for her. She called off the mission, I dragged our sorry asses back home. I don’t know what happened to Grace, nor do I particularly care. She got the twins killed.”

From Operative Kealoha:

“Irina redirected Luciel away from us while I pulled the overseer away. I sat her down by the lake to assess the damage. I figured the nanoparticle blast rebounded somehow, and she was suffering from its effects. She was speaking in a language I didn’t recognize, but parts of her dialect were reminiscent of Latin. When she switched back to English, she kept repeating ‘nothing in, nothing out’, over and over again. But then, she looked me in the eye. It was like she was possessed. Her eyes were bulging out, like they were going to pop at any second. And she told me…she told me, “Seize Imperium. Shatter the blinded’s eyes. Send him home.” I didn’t get to ask her what that meant before she pushed me aside and ran. And I watched her run across the water. Across the water, like the Lord. I don’t think I believed it even when it was happening.

“Irina found me after that. I didn’t tell her any of this, because I knew she wouldn’t believe me. But I have a theory. I think the nanoparticles rebounded when she activated the Art, and I think she caught herself in the effect. But it also picked up Luciel’s brainwaves, and they carried over when she hit herself with the Art. And maybe…maybe she was thinking what Luciel was thinking. Maybe that’s why the language didn’t make sense. Why none of it made sense. Maybe she ran because she needed answers, or because she already knew and couldn’t confront me about them. I know she’s out there somewhere, still, but after everything I saw…I can’t go forward with this Art. I can’t. I just…”

After careful review of experiment logs and fieldwork data prior to tyrant ambush, BLADE HQ finalized “Brainjack” for all knives produced by Sakuraba Industries and Grenada Galactic Group. Distribution is expected to commence on 04-22-2056. 

END TRANSCRIPTION.

Falsity.

The dust clears just as Tatsu’s thrown into the side of the makeshift fortress, rebounding softly. Guns raised, Elma’s on edge, surveying the area for any additional signs of life. But the only things she sees are Tatsu and Lin, her shield deflecting the dirt and shrapnel from the explosion. 

She doesn’t see Pongo.

But she hears him hit the ground. Once, twice, skidding to a halt. 

Lin charges into the field of debris first, using her shield to pave a path forward. As the dust settles, Elma spots Pongo far away, back facing her. There’s no obvious signs of injury, which she silently thanks the stars for. 

The gratitude is felt too soon. Pongo pushes himself up using his right arm. The left arm is dismembered at the shoulder, lying deeper in the clearing. Bioplasmic fluid trickles from the wound, staining the cracked sand. Lin’s by his side moments later, her comm device out as she assesses the damage. Even from a distance, Elma can hear Pongo’s pained moans, hissing through the pain. I’ve seen grown men weep, she thinks. He’s in more pain than he’s letting on.  She wants to join them, but her duty remains steadfast; she does another visual sweep of the immediate area before determining that the area is clear, and she runs to them both, holstering her guns as she kneels before Pongo.

“Wh-what?” Tatsu inches up, nursing a terrible bruise on his forehead. There will be time to console him later. Elma acknowledges his presence with a grim nod as he asks, “Friend is robot?”

No one answers his question. “I’m gonna block all feedback to the nervous circuits,” Lin tells them all, rapidly inputting commands into her comm device. Elma waits for the telltale chirp of approval, for Pongo’s pain to be numbed. But Lin keeps typing as more warnings appear on her screen. Her expression falters; she’d been scared before, but this is panic. 

“It’s not working,” she tells Elma past Pongo’s continued whimpers. “I don’t - the system’s online, but it’s not connecting to his interface, and I don’t know what to do -”

“Can you shut him down?” Elma asks.

“I can try,” she replies. She digs in her pocket for the mimeosome decommissioner as Elma kneels in front of Pongo, trying to steady him by putting her hands on his knee. He’s rocking back and forth, heaving every breath. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” she reassures him. “Lin’s going to -”

Pongo lets out a guttural scream, a far cry from his subdued reaction moments before. He throws his head back as if the heavens will part for his broken spirit. Lin flinches, falling on her rear. Elma casts her a quick glance - it’s okay, she tries to convey - and when her eyes settle on Pongo, still screaming, still howling in pain, she notices something new. 

His eyes. They leak starlight, tears staining his cheeks, as they flicker between their normal galaxial hue and stark white. The same residue pours from his open mouth, joining the bioplasm in staining the sand. Elma recoils, watching as Pongo’s body contorts, throwing himself into the ground. He writhes, his forehead slamming into the floor. It’s like he’s trying to bury himself, Elma realizes.

“Lin,” she says. “Get up.”

Lin doesn’t move, gaze trained on Pongo’s tortured form. “Lin,” she tries again, and finally, she stands herself up and backs up next to Elma, drawing her shield. 

“What’s…” Lin trails off. “This isn’t -”

“I don’t know what this is,” Elma tells her, “but we may need to consider evacuating the area.”

“And leave him here?! I won’t -”

The ground trembles beneath their feet, nearly knocking them both off their feet. Tatsu managed to keep himself upright by balancing with his wings, but even then, he wobbles, frightened by it all. The cracked desert flooring splits and bends, traveling towards Pongo. Elma watches its war path, watches the sand scatter in the air. In one grand swell, the land rises to meet Pongo, the desert shifting into broken pieces of starlight. On his knees, Pongo screams into the sky, back arched and mouth agape. He looks wild, untamed, as the ground grabs his detached shoulder and brutally pulls him down, down, until the wound is submerged.

Elma can’t keep her eyes off of him. The threat of danger is ever present, but she is a creature of morbid curiosity. As the earth connects to Pongo’s wound, it shimmers with a familiar quality. She’d seen the original samples of this resource, read the logs pertaining to its experimentation and utilization. They’ve worked with it for months without issue. 

Miranium, she realizes. This is miranium.

Still screaming, Pongo wretches his body from the cavity that’s formed beneath his body. As he pulls, the miranium thread strings out, attaching him to the ground. It thins out, pulsing in time with the earth’s steady heartbeat. When at last it disconnects from the source, little strands of miranium curl into makeshift fingers. Then, they are no longer makeshift: they are fingers, pale skinned, knuckles tense and flexing with an infant newness. The miranium pool dissipates below the ground, and finally, Pongo’s cries diminish into quiet whimpering. 

From his shoulder, there’s a new arm. Naked, but human. All that remains is the tear in his vest, the sleeve unrecoverable.

Pongo turns to face Elma, starlight staining his lips.

A part of Elma’s heart dies when she discovers the heart of the Lifehold Core, flooded and destroyed beyond repair. By all accounts, all humans inhabiting mimeosomes should be dead. Their minds, incapable of functioning. Their memories, their personalities, their everything - buried beneath the Miran seas, a sunken fossil. And she, lone creature of space, the only one left to sing their song of life. She’s already had to bear the weight of her own kind’s extinction. She’s not ready to confront the possibility of a second one. 

But humanity still stands, amidst the flooded wreckage. No one shows any signs of deterioration or disconnect. Elma speaks her theory for all to hear, but does she really believe it herself? Is she grasping for an explanation that doesn’t exist? For the time being, she focuses on conducting her report, relaying her information to BLADE HQ. They’ll want her theories, surely, but now’s not the time to speculate. She needs to collect data. Approach this as she always has: with intellect. With a calmness befitting her status.

She only allows herself to dig deeper after the mission concludes, after she’s checked in with Secretary Nagi and Commander Vandham. She walks into the barracks, praying that they’re empty, that she’ll be able to process everything alone. Some god must’ve taken pity, because Elma approaches the island counter and finds a lovingly written holonote: 

Had a surprise engine module test, took the potato with me. Pon’s still on cleanup. Dinner’s in the fridge! 

~ Lin

Elma smiles, leaves the holonote on the counter. Sure enough, there’s beef stew in the fridge. She heats it up, takes some tentative bites at the counter. A little heavy on the kyatara onions, but she doesn’t mind the extra sweetness. She’s never been a picky eater when it comes to human food, or even when it comes to food made from Miran ingredients. 

She doesn’t go past those first few bites, however, too distracted to finish her meal. Elma takes out her comm device and starts digging into the mission files, data logs anything she can get her hands on relating to Mira’s possible involvement. It’s just a hunch, of course, but she wants to believe she’s got a strong intuition. Even if that intuition hurts. Even if it means she’s pointing the gun at Lao, traitor to his kind. Even if Lin’s standing in her way, begging her not to shoot. 

Even if Pongo stands by Lin’s side.

Pongo. 

Elma’s rookie, Interceptor. Registered as a Bastian Warrior, equipped most commonly with dual guns and a photon saber loadout. Elma had found him in a lifepod previously recovered in Starfall Basin. He’d stumbled, mirrored her movements, thrown an assault rifle at a blatta. He didn’t speak a single word until he was prompted to join BLADE, pick a division. He was timid, back then. An empty shell.

But he’s grown in leaps and bounds since that day. He’s outgoing, empathetic, wise beyond his years. Elma considers herself lucky to have him on her team. He’s a shoulder to lean on, a shield to duck behind when the going gets tough. He’s done so much to support them in such a short time.

Yet Elma knows nothing about him. Nothing about where he’s from, who he used to be. The MMC diagnosed him with severe mimeosomic stasis amnesia - untreatable by their hands - which leaves more questions than answers. Pongo doesn’t remember his life on Earth. Doesn’t remember if there’s a life on Earth to remember. There are clues, but no certainties, and having no concrete evidence unsettles Elma. She needs answers. She breathes resolution. 

Elma grinds her teeth, lowering her comm device. She needs to focus. Humanity needs her, above all else, and she’s determined to figure out how everyone’s still alive. Whether it’s the planet, diligent coding, some other unseen cosmic force - she needs to know. 

The barracks door slides open with a hiss, announcing a newcomer. Elma looks up, expecting to see Lin and Tatsu, or perhaps Pongo, home from his cleanup mission. The Interceptors have all been hard at work dismantling the remaining Ganglion bases; the five continents house so many splintered factions that tracking them all down has proven a considerable challenge. He hasn’t gotten much time to himself recently, yet he connects with Elma as much as he’s able. Last she heard, he was stationed in Oblivia, just outside Jair Fortress. Maybe he’s back early, or maybe he’s been reassigned and needs to stock up on supplies.

“Well, if it isn’t Elma! Just the lucky horse we were hoping to ensnare!”

L steps around the corner, eyes bright and smile warm. Elma grins halfway; she hadn’t expected L to drop by. He’s been busy, too, with his shop in Armory Alley. “L,” she says, “what a pleasant surprise. Is there something you need?”

“Indeed, we need!” L circles the couch, making himself comfortable. Elma joins him on the adjacent couch, giving them both space to breathe. “We wish to converse about a matter of utmost importance. We’ve heard quite the displeasurable rumor about your precious Lifehold Core. Is it true that it’s drowned?”

Elma hesitates. It’s dangerous, divulging this kind of information. But it’s already made its way into a rumor, and L’s a trusted companion. And I can pick his brain about the potential causes, she thinks, especially if the Lifehold Core’s limbo has something to do with the planet’s composition. 

“It’s true,” Elma explains. “The Reclaimer team I was assigned to found the data center completely flooded. Those databanks housed all of humanity’s codings. Since it was destroyed, no one inhabiting a mimeosome should be alive right now.”

“Yet the city remains populated,” L says, “and no humans have fallen flat!”

“It’s troubling, that’s for certain. We’re trying not to incite panic, so I trust you’ll keep this information private. As of right now, BLADE HQ has no definitive answers on how this is possible. However, that hasn’t stopped me from attempting to formulate my own theories.”

“How so, if we may be so boldened to ask?”

“I have a suspicion that the planet itself is involved. There’s so much we don’t know about Mira and its properties, and even though we’ve invested so much research into understanding its ecosystems and resources, there’s been gaps in our perception. The miranium research committee, for one - the committee hasn’t made a significant breakthrough since Jericho’s team discovered the altered states of matter. We’ve been sending BLADEs to every continent, mining it for our technological divisions, but beyond that, there’s no data I can directly reference to confirm -”

She cuts herself off. L raises an eyebrow, curious but silent. Elma recollects herself as a memory comes to pass. Violent screaming, starlight bleeding from his eyes and mouth. Miranium digging into his open wound, stitching his new arm together from the cracked Oblivian ground. 

Elma steels herself before she verbalizes her conclusion. “Well, there is something else I could reference. Something that hasn’t been logged in any official reports. I have questions that you might be able to answer in relation to this, but you have to promise that this conversation won’t leave this room.”

“We swear with solemn fingers,” L marks his heart with crossed fingers.

“This happened months ago, on the mission where we discovered the Ma-non,” she explains. “We rescued a group of Ma-non from the Ganglion, but one fired a shot at Tatsu. Pongo ran to him and took the blow, but it severed his left arm. Lin went to disrupt his nervous system and reduce his pain, but before she could…”

She takes a deep breath, trying to hide how the air shakes on her exhale. “I’d never seen anything like it before. It was like the earth rose to meet him. Miranium entered his wound and regrew his arm, and afterwards, he collapsed. He didn’t remember any of what happened when he woke in the MMC, but he noted that functionality in his left arm was impacted. It was as if his body had partially rejected the miranium arm, somehow.”

Elma cuts herself off; she’s never been one to ramble. More than that, however, she finds herself analyzing L’s reaction. His blue skin has lightened a considerable shade, his eyes wide. His fear radiates off of him in unnatural plumes, so different from his usual bravado. 

But it’s not the first time she’s seen him scared.

There was their initial venture into Noctilum after receiving reports of possible White Whale debris. They’d met up with Lao, had him tag along after completing his duties with his team. Sunlight streamed through effervescent flora, humidity clinging to their armor and sweat dripping down their faces. The grass beneath their feet swayed with every step, and the rocky walls heightened around them as they traversed a narrow path.

Along that path, they met L for the first time. Pongo had darted in front of Lin, despite her protests. Elma hadn’t drawn her weapons yet, but was cautious, observant. Tatsu was the first to speak to him, and L offered his apologies for spooking them. He reassured them he wasn’t with the Ganglion - he was a Miran native, on a fantastic expedition to collect the wealth of human knowledge that had fallen from the skies. He was L’cirufe. He gave no reason to be fearful, no reason to turn tail and run the other way.

But L had been scared too, that day. Elma remembers the flash of panic in his eyes, how his fingers curled and flexed at his sides. All because…

“L,” Elma says carefully, “is Pongo connected to Mira, somehow?”

L freezes. The same panic overwrites his features, though he tries to mask it behind his trademark smile. She doesn’t need verbal confirmation, witnessing his reaction. One question answered, yet the floodgates have been thrown open. She isn’t scared of drowning, but she will admit to being intimidated. She allows the silence between them to build, for L to form a response, because she doesn’t know the words to absolve his anxieties.

“Not as he once was,” L finally mumbles.

“How so?” Elma pries.

L uncrosses his fingers, puts his hand to his chin in thought. “Well, where to begin…the compound you speak of - miranium - is a direct creation of the planet itself, able to warp between different states of matter as you’ve described. However, it can only do so under the planet’s guidance utilizing a specific etheric connection.”

“The planet’s guidance,” Elma repeats. “You mean to imply that Mira is sentient?”

“Of course!” L replies, taken aback. “For a planet to possess the ability to create and sustain life, it must possess a mind with which to create and sustain life.”

“Does that mean all of Mira’s life is composed of miranium?” She asks.

“Indeed it is!” He clarifies, clapping his hands together. “We believe the wise Bozé once spoke of a human concept: namarupa. Are you familiar with such a phrase?”

“I admit I’m unfamiliar, though it sounds Buddhist in name. Makes sense, given Bozé’s faith.”

“This word was used to describe the connection of mind and body,” L explains, “mentality and physicality. Miranium, to us, is the physicality of being.”

“And the mental?”

“We refer to this as aidoneum. This, too, is nurtured and gifted by the planet, and is what determines life and soul in each individual creature.”

“So all Miran entities are comprised of miranium and aidoneum, and as such, they’re codependent on each other. For Mira to create life, one cannot exist without the other.”

“Quite! My, Elma, you’re certainly a hare in a race against tortoises!” L smiles, pleased with Elma’s understanding. But he deflates, readjusting his posture. “But we must square around to your initial inquiry. We are of the belief that Pongo was once composed of both miranium and aidoneum, as a creation of the planet. But when we rested our wearied eyes upon him in Noctilum, we were able to recognize that his soul had lost the aidoneum connection. It once thrived within him, as it does in all life on Mira, but…but it was severed. Hardly a trace or tell remained.”

Elma scowls, catching on. “But that would mean Pongo shouldn’t exist. For him to be Mira’s creation, but the aidoneum severed…you’re saying he shouldn’t be alive.”

L’s eyes glaze over, and Elma recognizes that she’s lost this thread. That he won’t be able to answer her, because he doesn’t know. She sighs, diving beneath a separate set of waves. 

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to approach such a drastic tangent. Back to my original concerns: I drew a conclusion about the Lifehold Core and how everyone’s still alive. If I’m correct, and the planet is responsible, then are we being influenced by miranium or aidoneum?”

L shakes his head, knocked out of his stupor. “We have observed all of NLA’s inhabitants and have found that none are possessed by either thread. But we have only observed the bodies, not the Lifehold Core. We would need to be believers and see with our own eyes what the state of the Core is to confirm it. If the theory troubles you so, perhaps we can take a vacancy together?”

“Vacation, not vacancy. I would have to authorize clearance for you,” Elma ponders. “It should be easy, since you’re closely associated with my team. That being said, I still want you to swear to secrecy. I will not be giving HQ the complete details until we have concrete answers to report.”

“Our seals are tightly lipped!” L promises.

She barely suppresses an eye roll as she pulls her comm device out of her pocket. There’s an unread message alert; it must’ve come in while she was speaking with L. It’s from Pongo, sent to the Team Elma group chat:

Mission complete! I should be home tomorrow night. I was thinking about taking you both out to dinner when I return, if you want? Frye told me they have a new burger at Repenta….

Lin reacts to the message with a flurry of enthusiastic acceptance and excited emojis. Elma doesn’t type out an answer herself, but her chest flutters at the promise of a night together. It’s been less than a year since they’ve formed their mismatched trio, but Elma wouldn’t change a thing about them. Pongo and Lin are her family. She’ll do anything for them.

“We should be returning to our shop,” L stands, dusting off his knees. “Do keep us informed about the status of our honeyed moons!”

“This is not a honeymoon,” Elma corrects him sternly, “just a mission. Still, thank you for stopping by, L. You’ve been incredibly helpful already.”

“But of course! Call upon us if need be!”

L accepts his cue, leaving the barracks with a way-too-wide wave goodbye. After the door slides shut behind him, Elma approaches the command table, compiling all of the available data on Mira and the Lifehold Core. Jericho’s team have detailed notes about miranium’s composition, the Outfitters have several reports on the utility of miranium in their construction, but there is nothing about the aidoneum L mentioned. There’s research on ether, certainly - it’s a prime component of several weapons lines distributed in Armory Alley - but the definition doesn’t line up with L’s. They must be two separate energies, Elma concludes, sliding the ether reports to the side. 

The night crawls onward with no end in sight. Elma restrains her yawns, too focused on the task at hand. There are answers in these reports. There has to be. Only when the barracks door slides open again, only when Lin calls to her and hands her the rest of the beef stew she’d abandoned earlier, only when she takes a few more bites and realizes Lin’s been speaking to her for a while now and she didn’t hear the words - only then does Elma realize she’s gone far enough for tonight. 

Elma takes herself to bed before Lin can voice her concerns. She sleeps, and she dreams of Earth. She wonders if Earth was alive in the same way Mira is. It is, she says to the stars. It is alive, because humanity still stands. Because every human on Mira breathes its memories. 

True to Death’s word, Aidoneus does not forget.

This is the price of near-immortality, the comparison drawn between gods and mortals. Aidoneus is doomed to remember. But “doomed”, perhaps, is not the right way to describe it. Memory is a burden by choice. It chooses to make memory a gift.

It savors this new universe, this second chance at life. It spends its time traveling with Kore, bids them goodbye when they become Earth. It travels far, settling in a quiet part of a distant galaxy. It becomes Mira, welcoming what creations it can. It sits, content, for a while.

In its solitude, Aidoneus tries to plan ahead. How will it create Pongo and Nessa this time around? What can it do to change the future, the impossible outcome of mortality? Does it hold back, for fear of a newfound attachment? Is it easier to have never created them, knowing that their lives will inevitably become riddled with pain and grief and guilt?

No. Aidoneus knows what it has to do. Its heart will suffer more if it doesn’t create them both.

So it does what it must. The hands of time tick ever onwards, and Aidoneus watches, content. This life will be better. These lives will be better. It exerts its influence where it can, but even in the end, some things can’t be controlled. Pain is often inevitable. Loss serves to create and destroy. Death blossoms into life, the desire to protect it. 

This is imperium, Aidoneus realizes. Control. The need to create better lives. The ability to recognize that it isn’t enough, sometimes. The knowledge that life is ever changing, ever bending - and that is what makes it beautiful.

And when the time comes, Aidoneus musters what it can, and reaches for their souls. 

~

Secretary Nagi had asked Elma to comb over Primordia one more time. He hadn’t wanted to believe that so many of the recovered lifepods were damaged beyond repair, their contents unsalvageable, the bodies housed inside them near-unrecognizable. Elma can’t admit it out loud, how every time she finds a dead mimeosome, she wants to cry. So many had been given a chance at life, only to meet death without a chance to fight back. It’s why she dedicated herself to finding the Lifehold Core so early on. Recover the Core, and humanity will thrive again, never fearing an untimely death or demise. 

But first, to recover who and what they can. Only two months have passed since the crash, and Elma’s only just beginning to see the city thrive, mimicking its Earthen counterpart. They need more resources, more bodies for the city to truly flourish. 

Elma’s search takes her to Starfall Basin. Night descends swiftly, and though she relies on the moonlight for a while, the skies darken, bringing rain. Still, she knows the way well enough even with reduced visibility. She’s been to Starfall Basin twice, both times for rescue operations. She was there to recover two civilians from barely functioning lifepods. 

Two living civilians, between six lifepods in the immediate area. 

They had to leave the lifepods behind, unable to salvage any useable materials from the empty husks. The Secretary’s request had been preliminary; based on Elma’s reports, there was a slim chance anything could be salvaged from the wreckage at all. Even if it’s not physical, some of the lifepods contained storage units, and Elma can easily upload any of those findings to FrontierNav. 

She finds the first few lifepods, scanning them over with her comm device. The first and second ones yield no rewards. The third, however, has a spare assault rifle in the side compartment. One of the dead bodies must’ve been militia, Elma realizes. She takes the rifle, thankful for a spare weapon. One can never be too careful. 

As Elma approaches the dead end clearing, she finds a lone lifepod near the far wall. It’s not smoking or outwardly damaged like the others in the area. She recalls a report from the prior week, detailing how a BLADE was recovered from a single lifepod in Starfall Basin. The name escapes her, but the general observation doesn’t. There had been a rescue operation. Someone had been brought back to NLA. 

And the lifepod the BLADE was recovered from - the one in front of her now - it’s unopened.

Elma raises an eyebrow, doing a quick search of the report in question. She confirms that this is the same lifepod. Had something scurried inside and prompted the hatch to shut, perhaps? Her curiosity gets the better of her, and she approaches the pod, one of her dual guns drawn while the other swaps her comm device for a flashlight. The main panel outside the hatch flickers, exhibiting barely enough light to indicate it’s got power. The lifepod’s outer shielding also looks relatively in tact. It’s promising, as far as the salvage request goes.

But that panel still has power. 

After surveying the immediate area for indigens, Elma holsters her dual gun, typing her login credentials into the panel. The panel rings, acknowledging that the stasis operating system is initializing. The system’s voice rings out, confirming external access, disengaging the hatch. Elma steps back as the hatch releases, raising her flashlight. She can trade it out for her dual guns in an instant, if need be. 

When the hatch opens, Elma’s flashlight lands on a human.

This, immediately, strikes her as impossible. BLADE had rescued someone from this pod already. How can there be a second human inside? As the hatch recedes further, Elma deduces that this is a man, and that he’s alive. He raises a hand to his eyes, blinded by her flashlight. She lowers it, almost apologetically, and takes another cautious step back. Aside from the brief moment being blinded by her flashlight, the man appears to be in peak physical condition, with no apparent wounds or damage to speak of. It’s a relief, despite the odd circumstances. Elma relaxes, clicking her flashlight off and holstering it to her belt.

“Hey there. Looks like you’re all in one piece,” she says.

He raises his head, enough to acknowledge that he heard her. But it’s not enough for Elma to look at his face, his hair blocking his eyes. He tries to step out of the lifepod, but he stumbles, falling on his knees in front of her. She bends down to catch him, her hands on his shoulders. The rain slicks his hair, obscuring his face further. 

“Careful,” she warns. “Just take it nice and slow, okay? Your senses’ll need time to reactivate.”

The man forces himself to stand, his head still bowed. Elma rises with him, watching, waiting. He picks his head up, and through the mop of rain-wet black hair, she finally sees his eyes. 

Pupiless. Indigo. A faint glow to them, even in the rain, even in the dark.

Elma can’t tell where he’s looking - if he’s looking at all. The man blinks a few times, trying to reorient himself. He’s facing her, almost devoid of emotion.

“Can you…can you see me?” Elma deigns to ask.

He blinks again, but offers no response.

“Can you understand me?”

Nothing.

“I’ve never seen a case of stasis hangover this bad,” Elma muses. “That’s not good. I’ll have to put a request in for the MMC for that. Did he suffer internal damage somehow?”

She refocuses on the man, and something catches her attention. Unconsciously, she’d put a fist to her chin, deep in her own thoughts. A habit she’d picked up on Earth, from her time working with the Skelleton Crew. 

He has mimicked her pose, almost to perfection. The way his hand curled into a fist, the way he’s delicately placed it at the tip of his chin. The way he looks at her now, observant, watching. 

Elma doesn’t know how to interpret this. She lowers her hand. So does he. She raises it. So does he. She smiles. So does he. Elma sighs, taking out her comm device. This, he doesn’t mimic, but he does step closer, fascinated by the glow of the screen.

“I’m putting in an MMC appointment to facilitate your repairs,” Elma explains, even though he’s proven he can’t understand what she’s saying. “My comm device isn’t outfitted with repair modules, so I can’t perform emergency repairs here.” Then: “I should’ve asked Lin to join me. She might’ve been able to at least restore your vocal -”

The man breaks away as something behind Elma rustles in the grass. The spare assault rifle on her back is gone in an instant, first in his hands, then flying through the air. Finally, it hits a blatta square in the face, the insectoid screeching in pain and surprise. Elma spins, drawing her dual guns as the man darts forward, quickly picking up the assault rifle and using the blunt end to hit the blatta repeatedly. Elma doesn’t fire a single shot, in awe as the man’s sheer force is enough to subdue the blatta, its body falling limp. 

The man rises, holding the assault rifle like a seasoned veteran despite throwing it mere moments before, and he smiles.

“Are you alright?” Elma asks.

It takes him a second, but comprehension dawns across his features, and he nods in response. At this point, Elma’s willing to accept that this is going to be a strange trip back to the city. She resolves to follow up with whatever repairs they need to facilitate, and that she’ll actively involve herself in his case. A lone human, in a lifepod previously recovered, suffering from one of the most severe cases of stasis hangover she’s ever seen, but still able to hold his own in combat, actively relearning how to be human.

If, of course, he even is human.

The thought crosses her mind, but doesn’t settle. Elma can’t make assumptions until the MMC makes an initial evaluation. 

“Well, isn’t this a strange turn of events,” Elma says. “At least you can wield a rifle. There’s honest work for people like you in the city, if you’re willing and able.”

The man’s head tilts, intrigued. 

“I’ll tell you more on the way back. For now, let’s get moving. If we stay, we risk having more playmates to deal with.”

He nods again, taking the lead out of Starfall Basin. He takes things at a brisk jog - good, his motor functions all seem to be in working order - but it doesn’t erase the fact that he navigates the terrain with a familiarity Elma’s never encountered before. She stays by his side, eyes peeled for potential threats on the way back to NLA. He holds his own well enough even when they’re ambushed just outside the West Gate.

Elma doesn’t expect it, but she attaches herself to him and all his eccentricities. She’s there when he’s offered a job at BLADE. She’s there when he speaks his first words, asking to become an Interceptor, to protect people. She’s there when they explore the five continents, collecting native flora and fauna, fawning over alien tech, panicking when dangerous indigens spot them. She’s there when they recover pieces of the Lifehold, mourning over lost data, celebrating when they recover things of import. She’s there to watch him become a protector, an ally, a friend.

And above all, she’s there to hear his name.

Pongo.

~

This is not the end. 

Stories are fickle, in this regard. They insist upon a beginning, strive towards an end. I suppose, depending on perspective, that you could call this universal iteration a “new beginning”. I cannot claim agreement to this. The nature of souls is to live, to die, and live again. There is no end to them, for it opposes the universe’s ruling towards infinity. 

I do believe that mortality burdens life. I believe that memories can fade, that names can become gravestones. I believe that a single soul has the ability to create ripples in the existence of others, but beyond a certain point, that ability is forgotten.

But I oppose this. I remember. I know what it was to be the echoed soul, feeling the ripples of others. Pongo and Nessa changed me, each in their own ways, and I will forever give them my gratitude. 

BLADE arrives on the scene twenty minutes after Nessa’s comm to Elma. By that time, Syriahnydra has split Cocytios in half, the wild Miran oceans engulfing what little land remains. All but three members of the Desserta Caravan perish in the flood. Elma sees the three surviving Nopon - Froyoyo, Vanala, and Sprinkle Sprinkle - on the highest Cocytios mountain, hugging each other as they cry for what they’ve lost. Elma finds no sign of Nessa or Pongo, and with a heavy heart, she is forced to acknowledge that they won’t be coming to their aid. 

The Skell fleet holds its own for a time. They’ve also prepared ground combatants, who take aim at the great yggralith’s body from Primordia and Noctilum using hastily crafted harpoons and railguns. A third troop is sent to Sylvalum, but it doesn’t arrive at the target destination. Every BLADE on that mission is slaughtered by an army of the dead - the reanimated corpses of F’lenla A’slegn and Ganglion alike. Sylvalum becomes a graveyard, much like it had during the ancient war. And as Syriahnydra feasts on what pitiful ether the bodies can provide, it howls with laughter. It may not be a lot, but it’s enough to close its wounds, for now, and give it strength to keep up the fight. 

Sylvalum is the second continent to collapse after Syriahnydra lifts its tail from the sea, bringing it down on the sandy white plains. The continent cracks apart, bodies disappearing beneath the ruthless waves. Elma is not witness to it, but L’s dead body is the last to vanish, his once golden eyes bleeding black tar. He’d been dead the moment Syriahnydra possessed him. He floats among his people, the final F’lenla A’slegn, a race exterminated. 

When the battle becomes desperate, Elma orders Lin to retreat. She doesn’t. Lin’s rage is palpable, and it drives her to the edge, charging towards Syriahnydra’s neck in a futile attempt to slice its head off its body. Her Skell’s blades don’t cut deep enough. Syriahnydra clamps down on her Skell, and the frame crunches under its fangs like a chip. 

It’s in that moment that Elma knows they’ve lost. Humanity has faced catastrophe before, and it has overcome it. She’s faced with the knowledge that this is it, humanity has no way forward. Still, she fights until her dying breath, her Skell combusting under the pressure of Syriahnydra’s ether attack. Her charred body falls from the skies and splashes into the ocean, joining the thousands of other bodies below. 

Everything on Mira dies. It becomes Syriahnydra’s feast, its reward for a fight well fought. And when the only ether left is inside the planet’s core, Syriahnydra descends, splitting the planet in half to reach it. The debris scatters across space as Syriahnydra, sated, departs for the far reaches of the cosmos, ready to begin its torment on the rest of the universe. There is no one left to remember Mira and the people that once called it home.

No one, except Death itself.

It descends, time freezing as its hand extends towards the kneeling Pongo, and takes him away. The story does not end for him here, nor does it end for Nessa, or for Aidoneus. He will not let it be so, even if it means cutting the strings of Fate, destroying the hands of Space and Time. 

He brings their souls to the divide. He cradles Aidoneus, telling it secrets only godlings can know. And together, they wait for a choice to be made.

~

Pongo blinks, and the world snaps away.

He kneels in white clouds, a great blue sky above him. There’s no sun in sight, nor any of Mira’s moons, but sunlight kisses his skin all the same. His chest heaves as he drinks deep of this new, clean air. This doesn’t erase all he’s seen. 

And it doesn’t erase the probability that he’s dead.

Syriahnydra’s jaw closing on him - that’s the last thing Pongo saw. He glances down at his arms, discovering that there’s no wounds, no pain from the impact. Whatever world he now finds himself in is completely removed from his reality. 

He brings himself to his feet, his knees wobbling. The tension overwhelms, even now. Pongo tries to find the end of the horizon, some kind of landmark he can move towards. But the clouds are endless. They consume the ground beneath his feet, gentle wisps that fail to bring him any solace.

“Ngh…”

Pongo spins as he hears someone groan. He tracks the voice to his right, on the ground. A body peeks out between the clouds, struggling to right themselves. Pongo rushes over to help, eyes widening as he realizes who it is.

“Fuck.” Nessa groans again, squinting as she straightens her spine. “That fucking hurt. Where -”

Pongo hugs her before she can finish her sentence. He embraces her so quickly that she yelps, surprised. But he doesn’t care. Gods, he didn’t think he’d get the chance to do this again. He savors every second of their embrace, shedding a single tear when Nessa realizes it’s him, returning the hug by wrapping her arms under his, clinging to the back of his fur cloak. 

They sit in silence, sinking in each other’s warmth. Nessa is the first to break away, her tears dried and wiped away. “So,” she musters. “We’re dead.”

Pongo nearly agrees with her. But as he folds his hands on his lap, he takes stock of their new surroundings again. His memories of death aren’t clear enough to use as reference, especially since he’d died as an empty husk. Mira had repaired him when he’d fallen into the Grave the first time around, and he’d only gathered some details near the end of his time under the planet’s soil, only aware of how he was adrift, locked in stasis. This place isn’t enforcing stasis. He can move freely, speak freely. He isn’t waiting for Mira’s instructions or a release back into reality.

“I do not know,” Pongo says after he thinks it over. “Do you remember being here when you…when you died?”

“No,” Nessa confesses. “It was weird. I knew I was part of the planet, just floating around, waiting for something to happen.” A pause. “I followed you around, when I could.”

“I know. I tried to follow you, too. But…” Pongo swallows hard. “I know you are dead. Syriahnydra -”

“Swallowed me whole,” she finishes in a weak whisper. “Gods. Fuck, I failed. I saw Solstice get bitten, and I just -”

“You did not fail, Nessa. The ritual worked, you were making a difference by fighting Syriahnydra. I just hope we bought Elma and BLADE enough time to finish the job.”

“They do not succeed.”

Pongo and Nessa’s heads swivel at the same time, alerted by the newcomer. The figure, standing a few yards away, isn’t facing directly towards them. His coattails float in the nonexistent wind, and even though Pongo can see his feet, it doesn’t look like he’s touching the ground, hovering slightly above the clouds. A blue hood obscures his head, and really, that’s all Pongo needs in order to confirm the stranger’s identity.

“Death,” Pongo says.

The figure turns slightly upon being addressed, his hands raised, cupping something close to his chest. But still, it’s not enough to see what it is. “The planet Mira is destined to be consumed,” he continues, “by Syriahnydra, one of the great wyrms of this plane. It feasts upon billions of other cosmic entities during its lifetime before expiring, one million years after your present day.”

“So we never would’ve won,” Nessa breathes. “I was always going to fail.”

Pongo grits his teeth. Nessa doesn’t deserve to think like that. He stands up, hands balled at his sides, and begins to approach Death. “We saw your image in Noctilum. You were standing with us next to Mira. I thought that meant you would help us.”

“In a way.” Death affirms.

“How? Can you send us back to Mira? Can we go back and destroy Syriahnydra before that comes to pass?”

“Not in this timeline.”

“Then what the fuck can we do?! I refuse to just sit here and let Mira die, not after all it has done for me!!” Pongo’s voice raises, on the verge of screaming. 

“It will not die.” Death remains unfazed, his calm tone fueling Pongo’s rage. Before he can ask how, why, please - Death turns, revealing what he holds between his hands. A ball of white ether, sparkling as particles float upwards past his fingertips. The source of the light: a curled draconic tail, swirled around itself before tapering down. 

“Mira!!” Pongo rushes forward, and Mira’s true form flickers in response. In the presence of its physical form, and still connected to its subconscious, Mira speaks both out loud and within his mind.

Pongo, Nessa. I am so sorry.

Nessa runs up, stopping next to Pongo. “Don’t you dare apologize. What happened? We tried to talk to you, to find you before -”

I know. Mira hums, its etheric language translated in soft segmented melodies. He found me before Syriahnydra could feast upon my ether. He offered to bring me here, at least until it was time to summon you here. I knew I would have no way of reaching you, for a while, but agreeing meant we could all live.

Death’s hands part, allowing Mira to float closer to Pongo and Nessa. It trails weaves of light ether behind it, cascading like a gentle flame. As it creates distance between itself and Death, Pongo takes a moment to try and glance beneath his hood. But he can’t make anything out; his hood is too low to place any facial details. He’s only able to register that he has loose linen wraps around his exposed chest, a round pink gemstone placed atop it, and that his skin is as white as the clouds that surround them.

Pongo has never seen Death before. Not in a physical form, not like this. But why does something in his chest stir at the sight of him? This can’t be his heart. It’s in the center of his chest, below his clavicle, and it’s digging below his skin, yearning to be free, begging him to close the distance between them.

Death’s head tilts. “Your souls. I hear them.”

Pongo blinks, and Nessa stiffens beside him. Does she feel it, too? He steps forward, subduing his anger in favor of curiosity. He needs answers, more than he needs the rage to fill him. “You need to start from the beginning. Where are we? Why did you save us? What did you mean by ‘this timeline’?”

“We are between the planes,” Death explains slowly. “I am the guardian of this realm, this defined collection of lost spirits. Many souls wander from their corporeal forms, lost on stalwart journeys or seeking out what they cannot define. My primary objective is to guide such souls back to planes deemed as ‘reality’, whether it is their own or another’s. 

“Within the sheets of existence, there are infinite souls, infinite lifetimes. Impossibility has no meaning. Not here. In the acceptance of impossibility, I connect with souls of identical formation. Reincarnations, duplicates, twins of separate planar realities. I alone can differentiate between them. This is why I brought you here.”

In the silence that follows, Nessa and Pongo’s confusion becomes palpable. “Okay, so you’re definitely Death, carting souls along to wherever they need to go,” Nessa verbalizes in an attempt to grasp what he’s saying. “But I don’t get why you chose us specifically. Are our souls the same or something? Is that what you mean?”

“Not yours. But another you. Another time.”

Death’s hand rises, and with a curl of his fingers, the clouds at his feet rise to greet him, obeying his every command. As he speaks, they form loose shapes, images of people and places he has yet to understand. Pongo does his best to listen, to absorb, to understand.

“Before I became this realm’s keeper,” Death continues, “I was a man, living on borrowed time. Mortality is a fickle thing; most fear its eventuality. I was once prey to its whims, doomed to a short and insubstantial life. I knew the end was nigh, but still, I subsisted on the precipice, with the knowledge that a bridge between realms existed, that an escape could be created. I never found a way to cross it. I never wished to cross it. My time began to dwindle, teetering, alone. I could not sate it, and so, with fear all-consuming, I awaited the end.”

The clouds by his hand form a familiar shape: a woman slightly shorter than Pongo, with short hair and form-fitting armor, a flower perched above her right ear. Nessa’s cloud-form bends down as another smaller cloud takes shape, creating a small human. A child, Pongo realizes as they bury their head in their knees. Nessa’s cloud-form takes the child’s hand, holding it tight.

“You, of unwavering heart, took pity on my fear.” Death ignores the clouds, staring straight at Nessa. “You breathed into my weary soul and gave me the strength to rise again, at the cost of your own life. I didn’t understand the gravity of your sacrifice, then, but in my now immortal clarity, I recognize this as one of humanity’s greatest strengths: compassion. It is a memory I cherish, even when mortality abandoned me, even as I wandered through time and space bereft of companionship.”

“I don’t…I didn’t do that,” Nessa whispers. “It wasn’t me.”

“Another you. Another time.” Death tells her. “Identical souls. You existed, for a time, alongside me. I know the color of your soul, even now.”

As if to demonstrate, a ball of light emerges from the center of Nessa’s chest, engulfed in careful blue flame. Pongo has to squint to realize that this ball of light is in the shape of a heart. Her soul, he realizes. It hovers between them all, cobalt and navy and dark sapphire mixing between each other like a dance in the night. Nessa’s eyes flicker in its presence, entranced, enraptured. Mira backs up; though it has no facial features in this form, Pongo can feel its fear, despite Death’s peaceful demeanor. 

“And you.” Death addresses Pongo. “You, who saw beyond the veil. You, who gave me a greater gift than life.”

The clouds change, shifting to create new people, new memories. Where Nessa once stood, someone taller emerges, someone broader, well-built. A strand of heart-shaped hair pokes out of the hair, solidifying that this is Pongo - at least, a Pongo. 

Pongo’s cloud-form reaches inside himself, drawing out a pale version of Nessa’s soul - is this him, removing his own soul from his body? Puzzled, Pongo’s lips part, questions in his mind racing to be asked. But Death has been thorough so far. He will answer this, surely.

“Even gods cannot always bend the will of life and death,” Death explains, “and I, unfortunate crossfire, was killed when I was most needed. You appeared before me, inquiring about every method, every possibility to revive my broken soul. I gave you a solution, one that most would deny in accordance with mortality. But you…you accepted. You offered your soul unto mine, knowing the consequences.”

That means he died, Mira clarifies. He…Pongo saved you too, in a different life. 

“They both did, in their own way.” Death confirms. 

Just as Nessa’s soul emerged from her body, Pongo feels a soft but building pressure in the chasm of his chest. From beneath his skin, beneath the loose armor Vanala had crafted for him, a heart breaks free. Its flames are silent, mirroring Pongo’s eyes: indigo, violet, swirls of occasional pinks and reds and blues like galaxies in the far night sky. He tries to cup the heart in his hands, seeking its warmth. The flames lick his hands, leaving no trace, no burning sensation. Only the warmth he’s come to recognize as part of himself, part of all he wishes to emulate to the world. 

Death moves forward without a sound. He lifts his palms to Nessa and Pongo’s souls, and they flock to him, magnetized. Nessa startles, about to pursue, but rethinks when she finds Pongo motionless at her side. How can he still feel his soul’s warmth when it’s no longer in his body? He watches, waits.

Death says, “Because of you, I was given the chance to live. I wish to repay the debt owed to your souls.”

“But it wasn’t us,” Nessa responds. “It was whatever Nessa and Pongo you met in your own timeline, right? Why repay the debt to us specifically?”

“You are not specific,” he says. “This debt, I repay to all of your souls. Even if you, before me, are not the originators, I hold this promise true to you as a collective.”

Before, Pongo had been filled with wonder, a curiosity deemed near-insatiable. He wants to smile, to dance, to be grateful for the fact that they’re alive, that this entity wished to save them. But he’s weighed down by the fact that they are the only ones being spared. If Death’s speaking the truth, all of Mira is destined to die. Vanala, Froyoyo, Solstice, Elma, Lin, L…Pongo had failed them all, and here he stands, the lucky one. Unworthy, in his own eyes, to even stand at all. 

“What if I do not want to be saved?” He breathes, unable to stop himself once the question tumbles off his tongue. “Could I trade this chance so that the rest of Mira can live? If I choose to die here, would you spare the others trapped on the planet, or use my life as a sacrifice so Syriahnydra could die?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Nessa suddenly spins towards him. “Why the fuck are you offering that?! Did your promise to be kinder mean nothing to you, you piece of sh -”

Both of you, stop. Mira pushes itself between them. No sacrifices, and no yelling. We are in no position to bargain with Death right now.

“You ask for something I cannot give,” Death bows his head, lowering his hands. Nessa and Pongo’s souls still float next to him, unwavering, unyielding. “It is not my place to trade souls. I merely escort them. I already test the balance of Fate by creating this condition.”

“Then tell me something,” Pongo presses. “Was that why you were on that parchment in Noctilum? Were you trying to warn us that this was inevitable?”

Death hums, formulating an answer before he speaks again. “I grew curious of your world. I planted myself within its history as a warning, yes, but also as an offer of companionship. It was not my intention to imply assistance in Syriahnydra’s defeat.”

“So you met the F’lenla A’slegn?” Nessa pries. “And you told them all about how this would happen? Why didn’t they leave better clues? Could’ve spared us the heartbreak.”

“They knew the importance of revealing a story’s ending before it came to pass.” A pause. “That was when I was a prince. I was not as…eloquent…in my endeavors to touch the strings of Fate.”

“The Hall of the Prince,” Pongo offers weakly. “That explains the name.”

“Prince Death doesn’t have a nice ring to it,” Nessa grumbles, still upset. 

“I am a prince no longer,” Death says, “and I am not Death. Not when I offer you life.”

We got off topic, Mira redirects. You want to revive Pongo and Nessa as a token of appreciation. If they cannot stop Syriahnydra and the planet is destined to die, then what is the point of reviving them? 

“To begin again.” Death turns his back to Pongo and Nessa, and the clouds around his feet warp, revealing new scenes. Familiarity strikes Pongo, witnessing recreations of people and places he’s lived through. To his left, the moment when Elma discovered his body in an abandoned lifepod. Further beyond, the Vita, towering before Elma’s team. To Nessa’s right, her gun pointed at Pongo’s kneeling form, preparing to send his body into the Grave to be reborn. And beyond that, Starr, transforming into Aidoneus. Pongo’s soul, still by Death’s side, wallows a pitiful song, aching for what he once had. Why does it yearn for the pain? Does it see beyond, to how it became stronger for every moment it persisted?

“There is always another timeline, another path to the future,” Death explains. “There exists a parallel, one bereft of your presence. To the best of my knowledge, transporting you to this universe will result in a similar progression to the one you underwent in your original timeline.”

“Including Corvhesperikon and Syriahnydra attempting to kill Mira?” Pongo asks somberly.

Death raises a finger to his mouth, barely prominent beneath the shadow of his hood. “I am not at liberty to say.”

“You said ‘similar’, not ‘identical’,” Nessa clarifies. “That means, if both yggraliths appear, maybe things will be different enough that we can kill them both without breaking a sweat. Wouldn’t that be a dream come true.”

How would that affect me? Mira inquires. I created them both. If they are being inserted into this universe they are going to, does that mean my connection to them will no longer exist?

For the first time, Death suppresses a chuckle. It’s a singular, solitary thing, and it’s almost lost in the swish and sway of the clouds beneath them. “My abilities may be limited, but you believe me incapable of such possibilities. Should you wish for the same origin, I can will it so.”

“Yes,” Pongo says, at the same time that Nessa pleads, “I do.” 

Mira twirls, clearly pleased by their quick acceptance. Thank you, both of you. Here I was, thinking you would want nothing to do with me in this new timeline we are about to become a part of. 

“It’d be weird as hell without you,” Nessa explains. “I’ve gotten so used to hearing your voice that it wouldn’t feel right not having you around.”

“Same here,” Pongo smiles, bending easily to the truth. “We have been through too much together. You have seen us both grow into who we are today, and we could not have done that without you.”

Mira whistles, the song echoing the one Pongo’s soul had uttered before. Death looks between them, the clouds of their past memories returning to the white sea. “You have made your choice, then.”

“Yes,” Pongo speaks on behalf of them all. “We accept your offer to begin again.”

“You understand that, in placing you in this new timeline, you will not retain the memories you possessed in your original timeline. You will begin again, and one day, you will end again.”

Is this true for me, too? Mira asks.

“Not you, godling. You will remember.”

Pongo exchanges a quick glance with Nessa. He’s not entirely surprised that they’ll lose their memories in this new world; he’s not even sure he’d want to keep all of the memories from this world, the pain and guilt and grief that wormed their way inside of him. But beyond all of the terrible things, there are sparks of joy, moments of comfort. He doesn’t want to let these go. He’s not sure he’s got the strength for that.

Nessa steps forward, her hand slipping into his. She squeezes, and he reciprocates. It’s all the reassurance he needs. If they all enter this new world together, they’ll find each other again. Mira’s not the only glue holding them together, but it’s written in their very souls, the lives they once lived. 

So Pongo faces Death again, and says, “We choose to begin again. To find each other again, and make the best of our new lives.”

Death nods, cupping their souls in his palms once more. Mira comes forward, weaving between their souls before returning to their physical bodies. I know the color of your souls now, too, Mira says. This is not goodbye. I will find you again, even if the circumstances are different. 

“Not too different, please,” Nessa chuckles. “At least remember to give me good tits if you’re the one creating us in the new universe. I rather like being the prettiest avatar.”

Gods above, Mira’s tone is the vocal definition of an eye roll. If you get a request, Pongo gets one too.

Pongo doesn’t have to think about it long. “Create us both at the same time. I do not want Nessa to suffer the cycle of rebirth again.”

Nessa’s eyes widen, taken aback by his request. But eventually, she softens. “Well, now you’ve gone and made me look self-absorbed. You couldn’t wish for a fat ass again?”

“Gods,” Pongo turns red, sinking into himself with a nervous laugh. “I can go without that if it meant you do not have to endure the events of Cocytios again.”

As Mira floats back towards Death, Nessa takes Pongo’s other hand in her own. Staring down at them, she mumbles, “We’ll find a way to keep that promise, right? To be kinder. We might not remember it, but it’ll be a part of us somehow.”

Kinder. Pongo wants to believe that no matter where their souls may venture, they will be kind. They’ll find each other, keep each other in check. If he falls, she’ll pick him back up again. He doesn’t need to do it alone. 

He moves too quickly for Nessa to retaliate. Pongo wraps his arms around her again, hugging her tight, trying to remember the warmth. He won’t let that memory go, after their souls drift towards their new horizon. 

And, judging by how she hugs him back, breathing deep of his armor, she will hold herself to the selfsame promise. To be kind. To never let go. To remember the warmth, and to live within it.

When they break apart, Mira bridges the gap they create, caressing them both with its heavenly light ether. The sparks land on Pongo’s nose, and he laughs, erasing the tension he carries. Nessa tries to catch one of the sparks like a firefly, holding it in her open palm and watching it fade from sight.

I will see you both soon, Mira says. I love you. I love you both more than words could ever describe. Know that I am so, so proud of you both, and I cannot wait to meet you again.

“We love you, too,” Nessa replies, wiping a tear from her eye. “You said it yourself. This isn’t goodbye.”

“We will see you soon. Thank you for everything, Aidoneus,” Pongo says. 

Mira showers them both with one last cascade of light before returning to Death’s side. With Nessa and Pongo’s souls in hand, Death lifts them to the great blue expanse, the skies splitting open to reveal the stars beyond. Death had described this realm as a place between the planes, and it’s only when Mira’s true form ascends into the universe above their heads when he realizes just how small he is. One soul, within a sea of endless possibilities. What if he becomes something different, in this new timeline Death is sending them to? What if he doesn’t find Nessa? What if he loses his connection to Mira, what if he turns against everything he stands for, what if he hurts and destroys and desecrates the very ideals he’s protected for so long?

Nessa’s soul flutters, following Mira’s true form. Her physical body fades away, leaving behind one last smile, one last tear. Then, there is only Pongo, Death, and the questions that Pongo can’t answer.

Maybe it’s okay that he can’t answer everything. Maybe he has to let go, and believe in the power of his love. That’s what tied them all together: their love, their desire to protect one another. Mira was their cradle, their home, their hope. Pongo has to believe it’ll tie them all together again, and that he’ll emerge a hero, a protector, a lover. 

Before his soul drifts beyond the rift, Pongo says, “I do not believe you are Death. I know we are going to forget this place, but you…who are you, really?

Death stares at him, contemplating. Slowly, he raises his hands to the hood obscuring his face and pushes it back, revealing his face. His skin is stark white, but across his cheeks, there’s a splattering of loose freckles, a birthmark under his left eye. His cyan hair floats carefully over his face, curling at the back of his neck. His eyes are nearly the same shade of blue as his hair, but deep inside, there are circles of pink encasing his pure white pupils, made brighter by the radiant skies. Though they’ve never met, familiarity gnaws at Pongo’s mind, the echoes of a name buried on the back of his tongue. 

The man they called Death grins.

“My name is Caspian,” he says, “King of Souls.”

It happens. Everything, anything, all at once.

Pongo doesn’t know when he starts running. He doesn’t know how long it takes for Nessa to follow. His feet carry him across betraying snow, slipping under his weight. His ears ring with the yggralith’s screams, the sound nestling itself inside his body, reverberating through his limbs. He shakes with its warning. 

Nessa passes him - good, she’d picked up speed - and she makes it back to the Desserta Caravan first, practically barrelling into Froyoyo. Cocytios’s Legendary Heropon glances quickly between them both, then at the darkening sky. Pongo musters enough courage to turn around. Syriahnydra is snaking its way further into the atmosphere, water dripping like ink off its scales. Though they’re far from Cocytios’s eastern coast, where the beast ascends, Pongo swears he can feel mist against his cheeks. 

Froyoyo’s saying something. Vanala’s next to him, and Pongo hears her voice, but he can’t make out the words past the ringing in his ears. Nessa’s comm device is out, and he sees Elma on the screen, and they’re exchanging panicked information, trying to update each other, trying to plot out what little resources they have. If anyone’s talking to Pongo, it’s falling on deaf ears, a consuming internal conflict.

It’s because he knows what needs to be done.

The parchment, sitting on that lone pedestal in the Noctilum caverns, past the secret door, The murals surrounding it, telling the story of what once was, what has yet to come to pass. There were two Telethia fighting Syriahnydra, in one of those murals. Aidoneus had been with them. Back then, he’d felt sick, knowing this was the knowledge the Ganglion sought: re-enacting the ritual, creating more Telethia. 

If Solstice is the first Telethia, and Aidoneus is with them…it leaves one more Telethia. One more volunteer.

Pongo has transformed into a Telethia before, when the Ganglion forced the ritual onto him. He’s willingly given his body to Mira to enact Aidoneus’s return. He remembers his skin ripping open, the mechanical bones in his body snapping and reforming, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as he screamed and cried and felt his conscience slipping, falling, plummeting into the dark. 

As he stares at Nessa, he realizes what needs to happen. They can’t rely on Mira, not when it’s gone silent, so summoning Aidoneus isn’t likely even with the mural’s evidence. It leaves one transformation - one path forward. 

Solstice will need the help.

A small puff of white fur comes to sit on Pongo’s foot, heavy enough to bring him back to reality. Sprinkle Sprinkle gazes up at him, worry strewn across their little face. “What’s friend Pon thinking about?”

Pongo heaves a heavy sigh. He addresses Vanala first, because it’ll be easier than telling Sprinkle Sprinkle the truth. “Vanala, how much ether is needed to enact the Telethia creation ritual?”

“Meh meh?” Vanala’s eyes widen. “In theory, Vanala is made completely out of ether and regenerates it faster than friends can. Could spare enough to Pon for ritual and transformation, but could be messy since Vanala doesn’t know specifics of ritual.”

“Nessa and I will not be much help from the ground,” he explains. “If there is a way to utilize the ritual so I could become -”

“Absolutely fucking not, Pongo.” Nessa interjects, still on the comm with Elma. Elma’s image distorts as she spins, equally as distressed as Nessa. “I know exactly what you’re thinking,” Nessa continues, “but the answer’s no. I’ll do it.”

“I have undergone the transformation before,” Pongo protests, “I can handle it. I have to handle it.”

“You don’t have to handle shit now that I’m here!!” She practically screams, scaring Sprinkle Sprinkle off of Pongo’s foot. They dart behind their parents, curling into themself. “Let me do this. Let me do this for you, for Mira, for everyone we love. You’ve been through enough pain - let me take the weight off, for fucking once!!”

Stunned into silence, Pongo’s mouth falls open, struggling to shut itself. He knows he’s capable of carrying the pain; he’s carried it for long enough that he’s used to its burden, its claws around his heart. He wants nothing more than to fortify his walls, stand his ground, and insist on doing what has to be done. 

But their promise rings true in his heart all the same. He can’t afford to spend his strength on fighting back, and he will never forgive himself if he breaks his vow with Nessa. Pongo must learn kindness, even in the midst of this tragedy.

The claws dig into his heart. He bleeds beneath the skin. Better his blood than anyone else’s. 

“Okay.” Pongo bows his head, admitting defeat.

“Seriously, it’s unhealthy how many times you’ve volunteered to - wait, what?” Pongo lifts his head, watching Nessa come to terms with his concession. “So you…you’ll let me do the ritual?”

“If there is a way to enact it and summon a second Telethia to fight along Solstice, yes.” 

“...I was expecting a bigger fight out of you,” she says softly.

“Saving the energy for the real fight,” he replies. “If you do this, then I can try and connect with Mira. The murals said there were two Telethia fighting Syriahnydra, and Aidoneus was with them. I…I do not know if Mira will answer, but I will try. I have to try.”

Nessa doesn’t respond right away. The space between them is filled with a violent roar, the reminder of what’s risen from the water. Elma’s image shifts again, affected by bad electrical signals and fraying at her edges. “Do what needs to be done. If you can come together and provide Syriahnydra with a suitable distraction, I should have BLADE mobilized and heading to your position in half an hour.”

“Thirty minutes,” Nessa scowls. “That’s a long ways off, but we’ll do our best.”

“And Nessa? Pongo?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“I need you both to be careful. This is going to be our most dangerous encounter yet, and if anything were to happen…”

Nessa rolls her eyes. “Not like you to be sentimental, Elma. It’s hot.”

“It’s been such a pleasure working with you both,” Elma continues, unfazed. If Pongo didn’t know any better, he could swear that there was a tear on her cheek. She could explain it away by the electrical interference, so he doesn’t bring it up. “No matter what happens, I hope you both know that I’m proud of how far you’ve come. You’ve grown into competent fighters, valuable allies, and my most trusted friends. My life was made better by knowing you.”

Pongo and Nessa look up at the same time, staring at each other. Kinder, Pongo thinks. Be kinder. This is affirmation that everything he’s done - everything he and Nessa have done up until this point - has made a positive impact. Their losses may weigh heavy, but their victories are proof of their endurance. It doesn’t matter what they’ve been through, be it alone or together, because they will always come back stronger for it. 

Pongo manages a smile, and it’s brimming with the strength he knows he has. “You are speaking like this is the end. We will make it out of this, Elma. Be careful. We will see you soon.”

“I hope so.” Elma disconnects the call, and Nessa puts her comm device away. As another roar pierces the skies, Vanala squeaks, her wing reflexively bending to encompass Sprinkle Sprinkle’s little body. Froyoyo draws his sword, a bloodstained blade twice his size. “Froyoyo can provide initial distraction if friends want to enact ritual. Will try and find Telly too.”

“Is this something you’ll be able to do?” Nessa asks Vanala.

Vanala nods, assured but unsettled. “Will ritual be for Pon, or for Nessa?”

“Me,” Nessa says quickly, even though Pongo won’t contest it. Old habits, he thinks. Stubborn habits. 

“I will go to the Grave,” Pongo tells them all. “Starr was able to find the core when he fell down there. I hope I can do the same. If Mira is down there - if being closer to it will help our communication - then I can ask it to use me to become Aidoneus.”

“Plan is settled,” Froyoyo concludes. “Froyoyo will tell caravan to hide in mountains and bring littlepon. Desserta Caravan has fighters, but none equipped enough to fight Syriahnydra. Froyoyo won’t risk their lives.”

Froyoyo beckons Sprinkle Sprinkle to follow him past the tents. They bow out from underneath Vanala’s wing, glancing between their parents and Pongo. Vanala catches them in a quick hug, kissing the top of their head and mumbling something too soft to hear. Once the hug breaks, Pongo gives in to the whims of his heart. He comes down on one knee and waits for Sprinkle Sprinkle to jump into his arms, nuzzling into his collarbone where his fur cloak is snapped shut. Vanala had used the charms Starr wore as a clasp. Pongo closes his eyes, wondering if there was a way Starr could hear his thoughts, feel this warmth. You deserved this, he thinks, and I am sorry Mira and I could not give it to you.

Sprinkle Sprinkle jumps off of his knee, wiping away tears with the back of their wing. “Pon better come back. Sprinkle Sprinkle can’t handle not seeing Pon again.”

“I will.” Pongo promises them, there and then. He’s never been one for lying, but this isn’t a lie, because it’s what Pongo believes. This won’t be the end. He won’t let it be the end. 

Froyoyo and Sprinkle Sprinkle head further into the caravan, leaving Vanala and his sister alone. “Clearing nearby,” Vanala says hurriedly, marching past them and to the southern plains. “Nessa and Vanala enact ritual there.”

Nessa starts to follow her, but Pongo catches her hand. As she turns to meet his eyes, Pongo discovers she’s on the verge of tears. His heart twists, ugly and wild, and for a moment he considers trading places with her. If these tears are a result of her fear, Pongo won’t stand for it. 

Before Pongo can ask for this clarification, Nessa tells him, “I’ll be right behind you. For Mira. For us.”

Pongo squeezes her hand, keeping up his smile. He won’t let it fade. He won’t say goodbye. 

“For us,” Pongo says. 

~

The southern clearing’s the best place to do this, Nessa realizes. They won’t be next to the caravan, or next to anything remotely dangerous. She’s not even sure the latter detail is a concern, considering there’s no sign of indigen activity anywhere. Had they all gone to hide? Are they running from the serpentine monster, large enough to swallow the sky? It doesn’t matter in the end. 

As Vanala sets her sights on the snowy floor, she begins to etch deep markings with her wings and arms, mimicking ancient F’lenla A’slegn symbols. “Vanala familiar enough with concept of ritual,” she explains, “even if Vanala doesn’t know exact runes. All Vanala needs is way to concentrate blessings of planet and Vanala’s ether into Nessa.”

“I don’t care about the process, just the results,” Nessa tells her. “Whatever works.”

Her attention is suddenly pulled by Syriahnydra’s form, tall as it’s ever been, arching its long neck. It roars in pain as white light blasts into its skin, stripping it of some of its inky scales. Something flies past its face, barely bright enough to stand out - Telethia. Golden fragments of feather-like ether trail after the Telethia, who spins and fires another beam of light ether at Syriahnydra’s eyes. It’s only as Telethia glides past it that Nessa discovers just how many eyes Syriahnydra really has. Too many, all clumped together like combs in a beehive, all void, all consumed by an eternity of famine and rage. 

“Vanala,” Nessa begs, “Solstice is fighting by herself, I have to go help them -”

“Vanala almost done,” the Nopon replies, her movements quick but scrambled. “Need to make runes serviceable or Nessa will get hurt!!”

Another blast of radiant light strikes the side of Syriahnydra’s face, and it snaps at the Telethia in retaliation. Telethia barely makes it out of its reach, creating more distance between them to recuperate. Light and fire build in Telethia’s maw just as Syriahnydra’s jaw unhinges, showcasing razor sharp teeth. Deeper down its throat, ether builds - not radiant, like Telethia’s, but a blaze of darkened sludge, curling around its lips like smoke. 

“SOLSTICE!!” Nessa screams, even though she knows Telethia can’t hear her from so far away. Just as Syriahnydra prepares to release its built-up energy, Solstice fires its ether into its open mouth, igniting the ether already inside. Syriahnydra’s head whips back, screeching with pain. The ground quivers as its body collides with one of the bordering mountains, and it shatters instantly, raining rubble and debris across all parts of the continent. Pieces of the mountain’s corpse even land close to Nessa, all the way from the other side of Cocytios. 

“Circle complete!!” Vanala shouts. “Nessa, stand in center, and Vanala will grant you power!!”

Nessa does as she’s told. Vanala begins to chant something, and Nessa can’t tell if it’s quiet because her ears are ringing, or because Syriahnydra is truly that loud, or because she must build to her true strength. The runes in the ritual circle come alive with blue ether, sending copies into the air that swirl and collide and smack into Nessa’s body like stones. She winces at first, believing she could manage the pain. But they keep slamming into her, keep burning away her skin, keep giving rise to something new beneath the flesh, warping her senses, her bones, she is expanding and contracting and surging and becoming something outside her mortal shell and by the gods does it hurt more than anything she’s ever done before and when will it end when will she end and where will she begin and -

~

Pongo runs as fast as he can towards the Grave. Earlier, he’d stared at it across the open expanse, wondering why Mira had included it in its designs. Such a terrible drop, a path into hell itself that only gods could claw their way out of. 

He’s not a god. He fears too many things, like mortal men are want to do. 

Yet still, the chasm calls. 

Pongo’s legs burn, pulling up loose snow behind him. He’s witness to the fight in the skies above and counts his lucky stars that Syriahnydra is no longer focused on him or Nessa. Telethia’s lithe form keeps the massive serpent on its toes, unable to react quickly enough to counter their attacks. But what it lacks in speed, it makes up for in its sheer size, its power, its ability to cleave worlds in two. Pongo forces himself to look away, to focus on the task at hand.

Mira, he calls out in his mind. I am coming, Mira, can you hear me?!

He’s met with Syriahnydra’s roar, enough to make Cocytios shiver. He nearly loses his balance, but stabilizes after a moment, staying true to his mission. It doesn’t matter if Mira’s too weak to answer him. He’s coming, he’s coming, he’ll meet Mira at the planet’s core and offer his body up, give it the strength he needs. 

Pongo descends down many hills, finally arriving at the stretch of flat plains before the Grave’s closest cliffside. A few more strides, and the skies behind him erupt in a cacophony of violets and blues. It’s not the color of Syriahnydra or Telethia’s ether, but it’s nearly the same shade as Vanala’s. He doesn’t need to think long about what implications this has. 

Seconds later, a shadow flutters over his head. In the darkness of the night, a white-scaled Telethia beats its wings, trailing strands of cosmic-colored ether. 

Whatever Vanala had done, whatever she’d been able to pull off - it worked.

Pongo can’t hold back his smile, cheering as Nessa soars across the sky, on the warpath to Syriahnydra. Flames trickle from the sides of her open jaw, and she fires electric blue ether into Syriahnydra’s body, scorching the scales along its spine. Syriahnydra recoils, and in the moment of reprieve, Nessa twirls around Telethia - Solstice - and together, they continue their assault. Two Telethia, just as the murals had depicted. It ignites every fiber in Pongo’s body, knowing he’s the last step. As long as he can reach Mira and host Aidoneus, they’ll survive. Mira will survive.

The Grave isn’t much farther. With a renewed energy, Pongo surges forward, knowing that every step he takes gets him closer to the end. He’d had his doubts, before. It’s an easy thing to acknowledge how deep his fear had settled, how tight its grip had been on his heart and mind and soul. But there’s a difference. That fear held him back. The fear that pushes him towards the chasm is explosive, demanding his action, demanding that he plays a part in this terrible fight. He teeters on the verge of loss, of losing everything he holds dear. He will not let the yggralith take his home. 

At long last, Pongo arrives on the edge of the cliff. He overlooks the void, darker than the night that claims the skies. He hasn’t checked on the fight in a while, too intent on reaching his destination. He allows himself a final moment to look over his shoulder, to bid Telethia and Nessa goodbye for a while. 

The second that he does, he witnesses Syriahnydra’s neck craned almost all the way back into its body. When it snaps forward again, it flings something from its mouth, hurtling straight towards Pongo. It isn’t ether, no, not one of its routine attacks. This is something smaller. Heavier. 

Pongo flings himself to the left, knocking himself off of his own two feet. The projectile lands with a heavy thud far away from him, but it bounces, ricochets with the ground, until it finds a final resting place mere inches from him. All hope leaves his body as he discovers what this is. 

This is a body.

Green scales, yellow strands of ether in the shapes of feathers. Dark blood upon the snow, from where Syriahnydra has taken a bite - large enough to cave out Telethia’s stomach, large enough that there are no guts left to spill.

Syriahnydra roars in delight, drowned out by Pongo’s heartbeat in his neck.

“WHAT SUCCULENT ETHER,” the yggralith snarls. “LIGHT AND DESPERATION. WILL I TASTE IT UPON YOUR FLESH, TOO?”

~

Nessa is no longer in control.

The second that Syriahnydra snaps at Solstice’s body, the second it bites into their flesh and tosses their corpse aside like a ragdoll, the second that the light leaves their eyes -

Human or Telethia, it doesn’t matter. Nessa screams, a guttural and terrible beast. Her anger clouds her sight, then makes it sharper, and everything comes into focus as she hones her rage in on Syriahnydra. She’ll kill it. She’s going to tear it apart. She’s going to scatter its remains in the ocean, where Mira’s sealife can feast upon its rotting carcass and no one will ever lay eyes on it again. 

She doesn’t think about how naturally flight has come to her. She knows already that the flames she spews are born of her heart, holstered in her jaw until the time comes to unleash them. Nessa flies circles around Syriahnydra, finding weak points in its mess of ink black scales, scorching whatever flesh it presents for her. It screams and writhes in pain, trying in vain to snap at her when she comes in close. Ascending towards the stratosphere, Nessa gains a momentary height advantage, using it to fling fireball after fireball into Syriahnydra’s mouth. It doesn’t mix well with the ether already collected on its serpentine tongue, and it flinches, roaring as its body collides with one of Cocytios’s mountains. The snow-capped tip withers away under its pressure, crumbling down, down. 

Nessa spares a quick thought for the Desserta Caravan. She hopes they’re all safe. 

“FOOLISH INSECT,” Syriahnydra threatens, righting itself and eyeing Nessa above it. “YOU ARE NOT MY ONLY TARGET. IT WILL BE EASIER TO DIGEST YOU ALL IF I CUT YOU UP.”

It turns its back on Nessa, preparing another large blast of ether. Nessa doesn’t understand what it could be aiming at, but still, she dives for it, taking this as a needed distraction. When Syriahnydra releases its ether, it comes in a line, shooting straight through Cocytios, parting the ocean on the opposite side. The land crumbles, shatters - splits. All at once, Cocytios is halved, land falling into the new pit Syriahnydra’s created. 

Nessa’s heart plummets down to her stomach. She couldn’t have stopped that, an attack so utterly unplanned and so easily executed. 

It suddenly dawns on her that this fight is impossible.

Her one chance at being Mira’s hero, her one chance to be in the spotlight. There’s so much on the line, and she knows now that she’ll fail.

But she can’t. 

Nessa follows through with her first idea. Take advantage of Syriahnydra’s back being turned. Light it up. Watch it burn.

If she falls? So be it. She’s died before. This isn’t what she’s scared of.

So Nessa fires, again and again, dodging every last one of Syriahnydra’s attacks, praying to every god she can think of to just survive, kill it, kill it kill it KILL IT -

For just a moment, Nessa loses focus.

And when she does, Syriahnydra’s jaws close around her.

~

Pongo watches Nessa die.

Syriahnydra swallows her whole. It licks its lips clean of blue ether as it turns and locks eyes with him.

“LITTLE GOOODLIIIING,” it coos, “IT’S YOUR TURN.”

Cocytios, carved in half before him. The ground trembling beneath his knees, afraid of what’s to come. Telethia’s blood, tendrils of failure, inching ever closer to him in the snow. He is frozen in this moment, unable to bring himself to fall over the edge. 

Syriahnydra charges, descending so quickly that there will be no time to dodge.

Tears stream down Pongo’s face as he accepts his fate.

“May the sun and the moons above grant us the power of the star,” he whispers. “Let us, the humble servants, protect -”

The last thing he sees are Syriahnydra’s teeth, the insides of its mouth - and a blue hooded figure hovering above its tongue, reaching for him, waiting for him to die.

~

It was always going to end in this fashion. 

In this timeline, Syriahnydra consumes the planet, and becomes one of the universe’s most infamous yggraliths. It starves only after a millenia of hunting. It is a lifetime no one on this planet is destined to witness.

But it is not the lifetime I wish for. Nor you, I imagine. 

…No. Not at all. 

It’s okay. I know their souls. They will be here soon. And then…then, I will let them choose.

There will only be one option for them.

One? 

Everything they have been through, everything they have overcome…if they choose to die here, then I really fucked up, somewhere along the line.

To live is to choose life. To live is to choose inevitable death. To live and to be alive permits an endless abundance of choices. 

They are going to blame themselves for how things ended. They will think they failed.

Choice, once more, to decide if they wish for a timeline where they succeed. You do not believe this?

…I did not like you, the first time we met. I still have my doubts. Is it bad that I just want my avatars to have a good life? One where they do not need to fear this pain and regret? Why can you not grant them a second chance right now? Why wait for their answer?

Nessa calls Elma after Pongo splits off from the group. Even though comm devices have the annoying tendency to pixelate when their batteries are low, she can pick out the clearly defined eyebags on Elma’s face. It dawns on her that it hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since Telethia landed on BLADE Tower, alerting them all to the danger beneath the sea. Elma’s been awake all this time. Nessa and Pongo have been awake all this time. The fatigue, the exhaustion of it all - it weighs heavy, stacking and multiplying faster than any of them can comprehend. 

Elma updates her as briefly as she’s able. BLADE paperwork is a nightmare, and though HQ is doing their best to push everything forward, there’s only so much they can do in twenty-four hours. BLADEs are out on the field, unable to be recalled back to the city until their missions are complete. The ones still in the city are gearing up, preparing for what information they’ve been given. The Outfitters in particular are working on mass production of Skell frames, hoping to outfit every BLADE with a pilot’s license with a new, more powerful machine. The public’s being kept in the dark, and the Mediators have been working hard to silence any potential rumors, locking confidential information behind closed doors. 

As Elma takes a breath, it hits Nessa that they’re preparing for war. That’s what this is: war. They haven’t fought anything of this scale as a collective unit before, not even the Ganglion troops. Syriahnydra is a yggralith, a creature that could wrap around half the planet, intent on eating the planet. She’s thankful the civilians of NLA aren’t being told yet - there’s a time and a place for this kind of announcement. Let them live in bliss for a little while longer.

“I have something else,” Nessa says at the end of Elma’s debriefing. “After my last update with you, we found Pongo in Noctilum. Apparently he’d been sent with L on a mission to decipher some old Miran ruins.”

“I remember when he accepted the mission,” Elma nods. “What did he find?”

“He found murals about the fights with both yggraliths,” she summarizes, “and some weird drawings of us trying to save Mira. But most importantly, on their way out, Pongo said that L got possessed by Syriahnydra.”

“Possessed? How?”

“Wish I knew the specifics - all I know is that it happened, and Syriahnydra reanimated a ton of Ganglion corpses in the tunnel system too. Pongo and I theorized that it could be a way for Syriahnydra to harvest enough ether to reanimate its own body. Froyoyo seems to think it could be one of Syriahnydra’s mental tricks; he remembers it using them in their first fight.”

Elma hums, contemplative. “If Syriahnydra’s plan was to harvest ether, why would it pick corpses? There’s no life force to grab onto.”

“The body’s still composed of ether to a degree,” Nessa responds. “It’s not nearly as much as a soul would provide, but maybe it’s all Syriahnydra needs - or maybe, it’s all it has the strength to take.”

“It managed to take control of L, though.” A pause. “It could be like you and Mira. Needing an avatar to communicate intent.”

“Oh, it communicated intent alright,” she stiffens. “That being said, this means we might be working with a shorter timeline than I thought. I don’t know if Syriahnydra’s still controlling the corpses or L, and if it is, I don’t know what its plans are. But Pongo said there were hundreds of bodies down there. I can’t imagine Syriahnydra would’ve gone through the trouble of possessing them if it didn’t have a plan.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Elma confirms. “A swarm that size should be easily detected with our existing radar, and considering BLADE is on high alert already, there shouldn’t be any issues spotting their approach.”

“That’s reassuring,” Nessa grins. “Now, you’ve been awake a long time. Debrief the head honchos, then let one of them take over. Vandham, Nagi, Chausson, whoever. We’ll need you at full strength if a huge undead army is on the prowl.”

“The Commander’s been telling me the same,” Elma replies. “I suppose I have your brother to thank for my persistence.”

“Funny way to say ‘insomnia’,” she points out. “C’mon, Elma. You’re not the only one working on this. It’s not gonna hurt if you step back for a little bit.”

Elma’s shoulders slump, taking Nessa’s words to heart. “You’re right. The Commander and Secretary Nagi are pushing permissions along at a reasonable pace. I’ve been meaning to visit Lin and Tatsu and update them on our progress - perhaps I’ll step out to do that, after I’ve informed HQ of your findings.”

“Sounds good to me,” she says. “And we’ll keep you updated here, too. I’m going to spend more time with Froyoyo and Vanala, see if they have any insights to Syriahnydra’s tactics.”

“Of course. Good luck, Nessa. Be safe.”

They end the call, and Nessa stashes her comm device away for the time being. She’s parked herself outside of Froyoyo and Vanala’s tent; both Nopon had ducked inside, and she can make out the faint makings of a conversation beyond the blanketed tarp. She glances at Telethia’s form in the distance, making out Pongo’s silhouette standing next to them. She’s not sure how long he’ll be, but she doesn’t want to wait. He knows where she is. He’ll come when he’s ready.

Nessa ducks down, heading inside the tent. Small lanterns flicker with golden ether, illuminating the space with a warm sunlit glow. Snow becomes padded furs and fabrics, thick enough to capture the warmth the ether provides. Deeper inside, there’s a collection of blankets and pillows. The Nopon of the Desserta Caravan like to initiate sleeping piles to share their body heat, so Nessa assumes this must be where Froyoyo and Vanala sleep. Near the pile, there’s a few birch tables covered in all sorts of miscellaneous items. Froyoyo’s sword leans against one of them, gleaning in the lamplight.

Froyoyo and Vanala are standing in front of his sword, and both turn their heads as Nessa enters. “How are efforts going with other flesh trees?”

“They’re working on gathering resources,” Nessa explains, sitting down next to Vanala. “They’re building more Skells, enlisting more BLADEs to join the fight. It all sounds promising.”

“Reassuring to know that friends, Froyoyo, and wifeypon won’t be fighting alone,” Froyoyo says. “Got lucky with Corvhesperikon in last battle. Froyoyo may be legendary heropon capable of felling gods, but Froyoyo also recognizes age. May not be as spritely as Froyoyo was in youth.”

“Hubbypon being humble,” Vanala jokes. “Having flesh trees’ help will make the fight easier for sure!”

“It’s humanity’s planet now, too,” Nessa adds. “They want to help protect their home, no matter the cost.”

As Nessa thinks about everything leading up to this point, she shifts in her spot, her hands folding in on each other. Everyone has been talking about war. A fight, according to those who know about Syriahnydra, is inevitable. The yggralith is awake, and it’ll only be a matter of time until it has enough strength to rise again. Its size alone is enough to warrant concern, but its hunger, its insatiability? This is what makes Syriahnydra one of the greatest threats to Mira’s safety.

And it suddenly occurs to Nessa that Mira’s been silent for a while. She digs into her subconscious, reaching for her connection with the planet. The ground beneath her grows warm with life, a sign that Mira’s heart still beats beneath the soil. But it remains silent all the same. 

Mira? She thinks. Pongo’s not your only avatar. We could use you right now in planning ahead. 

Silence. 

Damn, do I need to flirt with Solstice again to get your attention?

Silence.

You’re scaring me. C’mon, Mira, that’s enough. Say something.

Silence.

A wing drapes over Nessa’s arm. Nessa returns to the present, and only then does she realize that her hands are shaking. Vanala is careful in her ministrations, her wing rubbing comforting circles into her skin. 

“Nessa is shivering,” she observes. “Vanala wants you to know that it’s okay to be scared.”

“Me? Scared?” The lie comes easily. “I’m itching to fight that overgrown worm. I’m just trying to think about other ways we could prepare for it.”

“Nessa doesn’t have to lie.” Vanala responds just as easily, concern written across her face. “Should get some rest. Everyone will need it for when Syriahnydra wakes.”

“I’m okay, I promise!” Another lie, though Nessa tries to build up more bravado to go with it. “Actually, I have a question. We know Syriahnydra’s pulling from whatever sources it can to amass ether, enough to mobilize its body. Is there a way we could cut off its supply, or just limit its ability to collect it?”

Froyoyo hums, his wings folding inwards. “Impossible to cut off ether supply. Everything is made of ether - Syriahnydra could pull from any source it wants.”

“But inhibiting Syriahnydra’s ability to pull the ether?” Vanala says. “That is possibility. Something Vanala might be able to do since Vanala is ether entity, but may need help.”

“Perhaps friend Aidoneus could assist?” Froyoyo ventures. “If ether entities like wifeypon can control intake of ether, then look no further than the planet itself.”

Both Nopon turn to Nessa expectantly. She’d been able to lie before, yet the truth struggles to emerge in her chest, a metamorphosis of stress and anxiety clawing for recognition. She can’t give this monster a reason to thrive. “I’ll ask Mira about it later. I think it’s with Pongo right now.”

“Of course,” Vanala’s settled by this answer, her grin turning devious.“Nessa should rest in the meantime. Go find littlepon to play with to unwind. Vanala has idea in the meantime: a surprise for Aidoneus’s avatars.”

“Wifeypon up to no good,” Froyoyo rolls his eyes, amused. “Froyoyo loves when wifeypon is clever.”

“Vanala always clever,” she retorts, “and Vanala insulted that hubbypon thinks otherwise.”

“When did Froyoyo make implication? Froyoyo insulted that wifeypon would think so little of her!!”

Nessa rises from her seat, unable to suppress her smirk. Despite everything, being with Froyoyo and Vanala is a comfort. It helps that they’re keeping high spirits, and it gives Nessa the strength to mirror them. 

But deep down, she knows Vanala is right. She just has to do a better job of hiding her fear. There’s no place for it at a time like this.

~

Nessa and Pongo end up staying the night, and the night after that. A few days turns into a week with the caravan, and the vast majority of their time is spent talking strategy with Froyoyo and Vanala. Elma provides updates where she can, but it’s only by the end of the week that she’s able to report BLADE’s unanimous agreement to mobilize. Any BLADE with a Skell license had their loyal machines upgraded and tuned up, and any BLADE lacking a license was given temporary permission to operate a Skell for the duration of the emergency. Even if they’re not skilled, BLADE needs as many fighters in the sky as they can get. 

However, little progress was made on the aquatic combat systems. The Outfitters were at a loss on what materials would work best for a hydrophobic Skell, and progress on a compatible frame has been one step forward, two steps back. Nessa remains optimistic all the same. As long as everyone’s got a Skell, and as long as every Skell’s equipped with a flight module, they should have enough manpower to strike Syriahnydra down before it rises too much.

Pongo’s present for every update, engaged and attentive. His discomfort with Cocytios seems to fade the longer they stay, but there’s still times where she finds him on the edge of the caravan, staring out into the endless snow. There’s days where Cocytios is beautiful, an angelic expanse of possibility. But Nessa’s memories are frigid here, as frigid as the bitter winds. She pushes it down, making room for the warmth the caravan provides. 

Every night, they feast on a collection of thermonanas and other flora the members of the Desserta Caravan scavenges up. Some nights, their hunters return with enough small game to feed them all. Nessa doesn’t hold back her admiration end even offers once or twice to go out and help. The littlepon all laughed at her for that, the first time she asked. “No way flesh tree could stay hidden,” Froyoyo’s eldest, Pecana, snickers. “Caribears would gobble up Nessa in seconds!”

Nessa takes clear offense, but her pouting is outweighed by the laughter - and outweighed by Pongo joining in. Sprinkle Sprinkle always sits on his lap during dinner, and his arms wrap around their little body as he tries to suppress his giggles.

“Not funny,” Nessa scoffs.

“Extremely funny,” Pongo grins. 

It’s easy, after that, to coax Pongo out of the fortress he’s built around himself. He spars with her during the day, keeping their minds sharp, their bodies on the move. At night, they go inside the tents, bury themselves beneath Nopon-quilted blankets, and pray they aren’t plagued by nightmares. Nessa’s not as prone to them as Pongo is, and he’s had his bouts of insomnia as a result. It was worse in the beginning of the week, when the memories clawed fresh wounds into his psyche. But somewhere along the way, Froyoyo’s littlepon took notice, and after a while, Nessa would wake to him smothered by nine furry little tufts. 

“What, I don’t get a snuggle pile?” Nessa jokes with Sprinkle Sprinkle one morning. 

“Nessa always welcome to join,” Sprinkle Sprinkle replies. Then, their smile fades. “Starr had very bad nightmares for long time. Sprinkle Sprinkle and siblings all know what makes them better. Just normal now.”

She’s not sure whether she should thank them or cry.

The end of the week comes quickly. Pongo and Nessa are by the caravan’s border, sparring once more. Vanala walks up to them, alone, and the two pause to acknowledge her. 

“Vanala’s surprise is ready,” she says. Pongo and Nessa exchange a quick glance before following her back to her tent. Nessa ducks inside first, the receiver of Vanala’s excited “Ta-daaa!”

Lying on the blankets are two sets of armor, similar and different in many ways. They’re both crafted from the same gray-blue leathers, outlined with the same cream-colored fur. The boots and gloves especially appear to be sewn together with the same patterns.

But the differences lie in the shape of them both. The set that Nessa believes - knows - is hers has gems adorning the belts and chestpiece in the shape of Solstice’s armor. Sword holsters on the back of the shirt, meant to mimic the Telethia’s wings. A horn headpiece, bent in the shape of Solstice’s horns. 

Pongo’s, meanwhile, has a waist-length fur cape, and a familiar silver brooch clipping it in place. The dark brown belt, salvaged from someone Pongo used to be a part of. His horn headpiece, in the shape of a man who wore a skull to conceal his pain.

She hears Pongo’s breath hitch as he lays eyes on the armor. Vanala stands beside them both, looking over her masterpieces. “Vanala believe friends are poorly dressed for Cocytios weather and wanted to make new armor before fight with Syriahnydra. And…Vanala thought it fitting to make outfits reflect journey up until now. Now, you’ll both have memories of love to use in battle.”

Nessa smiles, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Thank you, Vanala. It’s beautiful. Gods, I want to wear it every day.”

Pongo takes longer to respond. When Nessa turns to face him, his expression is oddly stoic, as if he’s lost inside himself. She reaches out, grabs his hand. He blinks, and he returns. 

“Do you think Starr would be proud?” He whispers. “Or do you think he would find this insulting? Me, wearing something inspired by him. Inspired by what he represented.”

“I think he loved you in the end,” Nessa tells him. “I think he’d be proud of how far you’ve come.”

Pongo sighs, bending down to address Vanala directly. “Thank you. This is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received.”

“Vanala thinks you’ve had better gifts, but appreciate the compliment nonetheless.” Vanala winks, then looks up at Nessa. Pongo follows her gaze, and smiles.

“You might be right about that,” he says.

For the first time in a long time, Nessa finds herself blushing.

~

Later that night, when they’ve each changed into their new (and much warmer) clothes, Nessa tries - and fails - to fall asleep. She cracks an eye open, realizing that the pile of littlepon she’s grown accustomed to seeing is one Pongo-sized human short. She pries herself out of the pile, much to a disgruntled Chocola’s dismay, but she’s lucky that she doesn’t wake any of them. She exist the tent quietly, holding the flap so it doesn’t rustle in the wind. 

Outside, Nessa finds Telethia curled up in the snow close to the caravan, fast asleep. Solstice had left for a while, promising to survey the ocean for any additional signs of movement. They’d returned earlier in the day and huffed a quiet greeting, but Mira hadn’t translated it. They walked off when they realized Nessa couldn’t understand them. She’d been annoyed at first, then scared. Mira hadn’t spoken to her all week. 

Further in the distance, on a cliffside overlooking the vast white expanse of Cocytios, Pongo sits with his knees curled into his chest. She blows a quiet kiss to the sleeping Telethia before joining Pongo, sitting down and stretching her legs out in the snow. The new armor keeps her warm, something that her usual getup doesn’t afford. 

It’s one of Cocytios’s rare nights where the skies aren’t clouded over, where the only snow they need to worry about is beneath them. From this high up, Nessa has a great view of the rings embedded in the mountainsides, the frozen lake surrounded by winter flora. The moonlight from Mira’s several moons is enough to provide her with that. But from here, she can also see the Grave of the Undying Starr, the massive pit that swallows the white expanse. A lone bridge connects two sides, rickety and battered by the frigid wind. The Nopon must’ve built that recently, she thinks, because I don’t remember that being there last time.

She looks at Pongo and tracks his gaze. His attention never wavers from the Grave.

“If you’re out here for too long, the littlepon will notice,” she says, realizing that Pongo won’t be the one starting the conversation. “Starr was lucky to have them. I wish I could always wake up to a fluff pile.”

Pongo tucks his knees closer to his chest, heaving a muffled sigh. Nessa lets the silence take them for a while. She won’t force him to speak, not when the air around them is infused with tension, bitter and cold on the inhale. 

When he finally speaks, it’s level and calm. Not what Nessa was expecting, but a welcome sound nonetheless. 

“I have not been able to speak to Mira recently. I think something is wrong.”

“Shit,” she curses softly. “Me neither. Here I was, thinking it would rather talk to its favorite child.”

“Favorite child? That is not true.”

“Oh, please.” Something in Nessa starts to fracture, finally splintering under the weight of her own thoughts. “We both know it prefers you over me. Eldest child privileges and all.”

Pongo frowns, his legs relaxing away from his body. His arms come to rest on the tops of his knees. “Nessa. Whatever you are thinking, stop thinking it.”

“You know I’m right,” Nessa says, “C’mon, Pon. You know I’m right. Why else do I look like you, but with better tits?”

“Nessa.”

“Fuck, I was made to save you. And need we both forget, I shot you. I killed you. Mira’s never going to forgive me for that, not when the sole reason for my creation was to -”

“NESSA.”

Pongo slams the snow next to Nessa and she flinches back, knocked out of her rambling. She doesn’t know what came over her. It all spilled out without warning. Pongo’s eyes are ablaze, the stars trapped inside burning with his rage. 

“Do you realize how much it hurts when you say things like that?” He cries, “Do you know how many times I have thought the same thing about myself? I do not think I can ever forgive myself for becoming a Ganglion weapon, but my failure does not mean you are a failure. You are a gift, Nessa. I wake up every morning and think about how awesome you are, how confident and easygoing you are. I keep wishing for even a fraction of your strength, and you have the audacity to call yourself lesser than me.”

“A fraction of my strength? I wasn’t strong enough to save you back then. That’s a failure that’s always going to follow me, no matter what I do. I just - I hide. I hide from it all. Whenever it comes up, I hide, because that’s easier than confronting the truth. That’s not strength, that’s me being a fucking coward.”

“You think I am any better than that? I was so afraid to believe the truth that I pushed away the trauma and became a different person. I created a life that was so weighed down by guilt that he grew to hate me and all I symbolized. I failed you, Nessa. I failed everyone.”

Nessa swallows hard, forcing herself not to cry. Pongo isn’t nearly as lucky, tears streaming down his cheeks. His headpiece gleans in the moonlight, like his tears have brought it life. 

“I don’t want to do this,” she ends up mumbling, unable to look him in the eye. “We’re close to fighting the biggest fucking threat Mira’s ever seen. Last thing I want to do is have an argument about who’s been shittier.”

“Have we both been shitty, then?” Pongo asks. “Can we agree that we each failed, somehow? And…and can we agree that after Syriahnydra is dead, we can be kinder?”

“Kinder,” Nessa echoes. This sentiment is the final straw. Everything she’d been holding back cascades, and she curls into herself, burying her sobs. “I don’t know what that means. Kinder.”

“Me neither,” Pongo replies, barely audible. “But I want to figure that out, together. Starr would want that, too.”

It takes Nessa a moment to respond, letting the waterfall escape her. She rebuilds the dam around her heart and roughly wipes away the snot and tears staining her face. Can’t have them ruining her good looks, but sometimes, spilling over can’t be helped. Maybe that’s what kindness is - recognizing she’s allowed to overflow, that she’s allowed to break down her defenses and be vulnerable. A hard thing to learn. Impossible, alone.

“Sounds like a promise,” Nessa ends up saying. “We’ll keep each other in check. If one of us slips, we’ll pick each other back up again. Gods know I’ll fall a lot, but I like knowing you’ll be there for me.”

“Nessa.”

“Oh come on, I’m not being self-depreciating right now -”

“I know. Did you hear that?”

Pongo stands, on alert. Nessa doesn’t respond; she can’t claim to know what Pongo’s referring to, but she trusts his instincts. The wind rises, drumming against her ears, and for a moment she wonders if that’s what he was hearing. 

But she picks it out, in the end. The rustling. 

They’re no longer alone.

Nessa draws her dual swords, bracing herself for an indigen attack. Scanning their immediate surroundings, she sees no other signs of life, but Cocytios’s indigens are experts at camouflage. They have to be, to survive such an inhospitable ecosystem. 

Pongo’s also on the defense, but he’s not as quick to draw his photon saber or his dual guns. Instead, he remains alert, gazing out at the endless white horizon. Snow crunches beneath their feet, and she tries to silence her footsteps, trying to sense what could be out there.

Pongo stops.

“Nessa.”

She turns, hoping he’s found something.

Snow dances around their ankles, and the wind blows them towards a figure a few yards away. 

A figure dressed in blue, a hood obscuring their features. 

“Death,” is all Nessa manages to whisper because the ground shakes, a deafening roar shaking the continent. In the distance, the ocean folds in on itself, and a long, serpentine body erupts from the water, rising high enough to block out Mira’s largest moon. Its ink black scales fling water across the world, its mouth cavernous and full of teeth. There’s no end to its body, an eternity of famine given form. It turns its head towards Nessa and Pongo, and even from such distance, Nessa can tell by the curl of its maw that it’s smiling.

Syriahnydra is alive.

And despite their planning, despite everything they’ve done to prepare - it’s too late.

~

I tend not to reveal myself in the mortal planes. Forgive my curiosity, but I was intrigued by Vanala’s new outfits for them. 

This world is beautiful. There are infinite possibilities in the process of creation, and some possibilities present as more…appealing…than others. It is rare that I make such observations, as my duty is not tied to these phases of existence. 

It’s still dark by the time Telethia flies over Cocytios, yet the snowy tundras are easy to spot. Pongo glances down a few times before Telethia descends, but quickly fixes himself. He’s never been scared of heights, but he’s scared of what will happen when they touch the ground. 

Cocytios is haunted, in Pongo’s eyes. It holds memories of his time as a bloodthirsty, crazed Telethia. It holds memories of his time as a shattered, broken soul. It holds memories of his time as the vessel for Aidoneus. Even now, the phantom lingers on his skin. The stretching and contorting of mechanical flesh, the pulsating rhythm of his heart as he let himself go. 

It didn’t help that Nessa sometimes tried to lead him there.

When she was dead and fused with Mira, Pongo could feel her presence. He’d seek her out when he could. He never asked if she moved willingly beneath the earth, if she could control where she went. But whenever he followed her, there’d always be something mesmerizing to witness. The energy spores in Noctilum. The crimson auroras in Sylvalum. 

If she’d been trying to lure him to Cocytios in the hopes of seeing something beautiful, she didn’t succeed. To Pongo, there’s nothing beautiful there. Not to him. 

Telethia lands, snapping Pongo out of his thoughts. Their claws dig into fresh snow, wisps of gentle snowflakes dancing past his face. Nessa disembarks without issue, sliding down Telethia’s wing. She settles, checking herself over. She’s not dressed for the weather, but Pongo figures she doesn’t care about that. She probably doesn’t feel the chill that’s taken over his body. 

She looks back up at him, waiting. “Coming?” 

Pongo hesitates. Being here is like walking into a repressed memory, and he’s not certain he has the strength to confront what he knows. He can always wait on Telethia’s back, let Nessa investigate and report her findings once she’s spoken with the Desserta Caravan.

But that’s not fair. Mira being under constant threat of death isn’t fair. He’s the planet’s avatar, after all is said and done, and he can’t turn a blind eye to its plight. 

And he wouldn’t be here now, if it weren’t for Mira. 

So Pongo, at long last, slings his leg over Telethia’s back and goes to descend. He loses his footing halfway down and plummets face first into the snow, groaning. He can hear Nessa laughing above him, and he relaxes, pushing himself up and wiping the snow off of his shoulders.

“We’re going to have to work on that,” Nessa says between receding giggles.

“Clearly Mira did not imbue me with knowledge on how to get off a Telethia,” Pongo retorts. “Happy it gave you an idea on how it works, though.”

“Oh, please. I don’t need Mira’s help with that. I’m just naturally gifted at riding Telethia - and seducing them, might I add.” She throws a casual wink towards Telethia, who huffs deep enough that it pushes a thin layer of snow back into the air. 

Pongo stands up, facing the rising sun. Even though hidden behind one of Cocytios’s largest peaks, dawn spills past, awakening the night sky in vibrant reds and oranges. It provides enough light for Pongo to reorient, to figure out where they are. Phantom that it is, he knows Cocytios’s landscape. He knows which way to go.

The caravan isn’t far from where Telethia landed, so he starts to walk, expecting Nessa to follow. Peering across the snow, he finds the familiar tents and blankets crafted by the Desserta Caravan, along with visible movement from smaller figures. The caravan’s adult population isn’t much larger than most the other caravans on Mira, but it’s host to a veritable army of littlepon, nine of which are Froyoyo’s own kids. They’d always been early to rise. It shouldn’t surprise him, considering he’d been witness to their routines for so long. He can’t help but grin as he recalls how Tutti Frutti would always sing a little song to help the others wake up. How Rockoroad would always ask for five more minutes, annoyed by his sister’s antics. How Sprinkle Sprinkle would always wait for Starr to get up and get ready, sticking to his side like glue.

Pongo stops, his heart aching. To think he’d weathered so much physical pain in his years as a BLADE, but this is what hurts the most. Phantoms. Memories. Reminders of what he once was.

Nessa advances, not realizing that he’d frozen in place. She only makes it a few steps ahead before looking over her shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. “Sure you don’t want to stay back?”

Somehow, despite the pain, it’s the easiest thing in the world for him to shake his head. “No. No, I want to do this. We have to do this.”

Nessa’s reassured enough to keep going. Pongo swallows his hurt, trying to focus on the joy, the intoxicating drug of his happy memories. Even if they aren’t fully his, they’re his to hold on to, his to use in his time of need. He’s sure that’s what Starr would’ve wanted, in the end.

When they’re only a few yards away from the caravan, a tent flap opens, and Vanala emerges with the twins, Lelemon and Lalime, held up in both of her wings. Looks like they’d been fighting about something and needed a mediator. Starr had broken up his fair share of fights between the littlepon, back in the day. Pongo wonders if he’ll have the same luck, if he’s needed.

A few more steps, and a small white Nopon barrels towards Pongo, attaching themselves to his leg. He’d hardly seen the littlepon advancing, since they blend in so well with the snow. But this close, Pongo knows this is Sprinkle Sprinkle, the youngest and most mischievous of Froyoyo’s littlepon. 

And the one that loved Starr the most, he thinks with a terrible pang.

Surprised, Pongo doesn’t immediately return the hug. Sprinkle Sprinkle’s mumbling something into his pants, their wings tight around his lower leg. Pongo bends down to the best of his ability, the shock wearing off. This close to the ground, he can hear the littlepon’s ramblings.

“Friend Pon promised to come back and never did!! Where did Pon go?! Do promises mean nothing to Pon?! Sprinkle Sprinkle so worried that friend Pon got hurt and died horribly!! Never make Sprinkle Sprinkle worry so much again, poor heart couldn’t take it -”

Pongo returns the hug quickly after that. Friend Pon, he realizes. Not Starr. Pon. The recognition melts any fear he had of his return. 

“I am so sorry,” Pongo does his best to reassure Sprinkle Sprinkle, rubbing the space between their wings, “I was so busy saving people back in the city! I have so many wonderful stories to tell you -”

He’s interrupted by eight more littlepon running up to him, jumping on him now that he’s low enough to the ground for them to reach. Pongo falls back into the snow, hardly able to see anything past their colorful fur. The worry, the guilt, it all gives away to ceremony. He laughs, trying to encompass all of the littlepon into one giant hug. But they’re all circling, swarming him as they proclaim their excitement. He’s pretty sure he hears Pecana yelling at everyone to step back, to let Pongo breathe. But they’re his life, his laughter. No one lets him go, and he doesn’t make any effort to wrest himself away. 

It’s only the booming voice of Froyoyo that makes the littlepon clamber off of his body. As Pongo sits up, he locks eyes with Nessa, who’s hiding her laughter behind an open palm. Froyoyo and Vanala stand on each side of her, watching the scene unfold. Froyoyo’s hands are on his hips, scowling at every littlepon as they mumble apologies. What are they apologizing for? This is the best Pongo’s felt in a long time. He clings to the warmth they so readily shared and uses it to dismantle any of his remaining fears.

“Friends Pon and Nessa,” Froyoyo smiles at them both once the littlepon have assembled behind him. “Been long time indeed.”

“And both here at the same time!” Vanala proclaims. “Very big blessing indeed!”

“It’s so good to see you both,” Nessa tells them. “As much as I’d love this trip to be about pleasure, we’ve got something of a predicament we need your help with.”

“This better not be about yggralith,” Froyoyo mutters.

Nessa and Pongo exchange a look. “Did you already know about Syriahnydra waking up?” Pongo asks.

“Motherfucker,” Froyoyo swears. “Froyoyo knew it wouldn’t be long.”

“Vanala and hubbypon both knew Syriahnydra would wake up soon,” Vanala explains. “Yggraliths both defeated at the same time, back when Vanala and friends fought them. Makes sense both would wake up near same time as each other.”

“But Froyoyo had no idea where Syriahnydra’s body ended up after battle. Corvhesperikon’s corpse landed here, where it could be easily monitored for any activity. Couldn’t locate other body, so Froyoyo prayed Desserta Caravan could judge reawakenings by Corvhesperikon’s body alone.”

“So back when you fought Corvhesperikon with Aidoneus and Telethia, you knew that Syriahnydra would not be far behind,” Pongo says.

“Correct,” Vanala replies. 

The littlepon all start talking amongst themselves, quietly enough that Pongo can’t make out what they’re saying. Just as he starts to think this isn’t a conversation meant for them to be a part of, Vanala turns to face them and orders, “Littlepon all go back in tent! Vanala and friends having important adult conversation!”

There’s a chorus of complaints, but everyone eventually shuffles back towards the tent Vanala originally emerged from. Pongo counts them as they go inside. Six, seven, eight…no nine. Pongo feels a furry weight on the back of his leg, staying as still as possible. He glances down quick enough to recognize it’s Sprinkle Sprinkle. They’d joined Starr for a majority of his travels, and they were witness to Corvhesperikon’s reawakening. Despite being the youngest, Pongo still has a soft spot for the littlepon and decides to keep up the charade. Besides, they’d find a way to listen no matter what. No use fighting curiosity.

“We found Syriahnydra’s body,” Nessa explains after the littlepon disappear into the tent. “It’s in the ocean. Solstice and I tracked its body all around Cocytios and Noctilum.”

“Syriahnydra’s body is long,” Vanala nods. “Long, slender, and built for speed. Not the biggest yggralith Vanala has seen, but close to it.”

Pongo doesn’t want to think of the implications there. Not the biggest yggralith, yet it’s half the size of the planet itself…he chooses to make this information a gift rather than another concern. 

“There is more,” Pongo kneels down and takes out his comm device, better obscuring Sprinkle Sprinkle from view. He starts scrolling through pictures of the cavern system in Noctilum, the murals on the walls, the secret room that L opened before his possession. “I was sent to decipher these murals in Noctilum. From what I gathered, a lot of these paintings depicted your first fight with the two yggraliths -”

“Tale of Two Gods,” Froyoyo proudly interrupts.

“-  as well as the ritual the F’lenla A’slegn utilized to create new Telethia. But then, we found this secret room, and there were murals in there I did not understand.”

He scrolls to the final few images of the pedestal, the parchment set atop it. Nessa peers over, her eyes widening as she tries to make sense of what she’s seeing. “That’s me, right there. And you, Pon.”

“And Mira,” Pongo adds. “But the figure between both of us…I do not know who this could be.”

Vanala and Froyoyo study the image for a long time. After a long silence, Froyoyo shakes his head. “Froyoyo not know who third flesh tree could be. Very pale for flesh tree, though. Like snow in Cocytios.”

Vanala stays quiet, her eyes glazing over. Pongo lowers his comm device, growing concerned. “Vanala?”

“Vanala has theory,” she says softly. “But Vanala doesn’t want it to be true.”

“If it’s someone that could help us defeat Syriahnydra, we need to know,” Nessa urges her. “They look human, whoever they are. If we need to go back to the city and -”

“Third figure not in friend’s city,” Vanala clarifies. “Hooded figure not from Mira, either. Hooded figure…from out there.”

She points to the clouded skies, where one of Mira’s moons shines bright. A single snowflake falls on Pongo’s nose, melting carefully into his skin. “You mean that this third figure is a xenoform?” He asks carefully. 

“Not just any xenoform,” Vanala lowers her head. “A terrible one. One Vanala has met only once before, when Vanala was nearly dead.”

“Froyoyo not remember this,” Froyoyo says. 

Another pause. Vanala’s next words shoot ice down Pongo’s spine.

“Because third figure is Death itself.”

“Death?” Pongo grimaces, recalling humanity’s depiction of the fabled reaper. He never put much stock into its existence - he’s died before and hadn’t seen a hooded figure on the other side - but he exists outside of human comprehension. Death, to him, is returning to the planet’s core, returning to Mira’s tender embrace beneath the soil. It’s possible that other beings meet with Death when they expire.

From the way Nessa frowns, Pongo can tell she’s got her doubts. “That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. I mean, us and Death, trying to save the planet? I could be wrong, but Death doesn’t seem like an ally right now.”

“Vanala could never understand Death’s motives,” Vanala shrugs, still recovering from her initial worry. “Death let Vanala go, when Vanala crashed onto Mira. Didn’t say much, but silence spoke louder than words. It wanted Vanala to live.”

“Perhaps Death wants Mira to live as well?” Froyoyo posits. “Though Froyoyo not sure why Death would have such attachment to one world over so many others.”

“Maybe there’s something here that it wants,” Nessa says. “Something we could give it.”

Pongo glances back down at his comm device, at the parchment depicting him and Nessa standing alongside the hooded figure. The more he thinks about it, the more he believes this hooded figure can’t be Death. With its hands so close to Mira, who’s to say that Death’s intentions wouldn’t be to destroy everything? And if that’s its goal, why would Nessa and Pongo work willingly beside it? None of it makes sense. There has to be another explanation, and Pongo intends to find it.

For now, he doesn’t think it’s doing any good to speculate. He closes his comm device and stashes it in his back pocket, taking a deep breath before changing the subject. “There is one more thing about Syriahnydra we have not mentioned yet. When I was in the caves with L’Cirufe, we found bodies. Hundreds of them, Ganglion and F’lenla A’slegn. As we were trying to leave, L’Cirufe was possessed by Syriahnydra. It spoke like Corvhesperikon did, saying it was starving, calling me a little godling.”

He’d filed the last detail away at the time, more concerned with escaping - more concerned with the consequences of staying behind, of losing L. Corvhesperikon had called Starr that, too. Little godling. Pongo knows it’s in reference to Aidoneus, but having the comment directed at him feels terribly wrong. He’s no god. He’s just trying to do what he can for the world that created him, that’s given him purpose. 

“So Syriahnydra is awake,” Froyoyo growls. “Froyoyo remember its trickery. More manipulative than Corvhesperikon. Froyoyo was almost controlled by it when it used its power.”

“And the dead bodies?” Pongo asks.

“Froyoyo not sure. As flesh trees sometimes say, Syriahnydra being able to reanimate corpses wouldn’t be out of left field. Syriahnydra have far more metal prowess than Corvhesperikon, who was built on pure strength.”

“Which makes this whole thing even more convoluted,” Nessa’s shoulders slump, “because we don’t know what it’s fully capable of.”

“Vanala also unsure of true capabilities,” Vanala says. “But that means we must prepare for the worst. Even though Syriahnydra is clearly awake, its body isn’t moving. Vanala thinks we have time to prepare.”

“I’ve already alerted NLA to the situation,” Nessa tells her, “and I’m hoping the additional manpower gives us more of an edge compared to your last fight with Corvhesperikon.”

“If we could summon Aidoneus again, we would have another advantage,” Pongo supplies. “With Froyoyo, Vanala, and Solstice, it was able to defeat Corvhesperikon quickly.”

“And what? You’d expect me to just twiddle my thumbs in a Skell while you get all the action?” Nessa quips, crossing her arms over her chest. “No way. You had your fun summoning Aidoneus. Let me have a turn.”

“Absolutely not.”

“And why not? We’re made of the same stuff, and if your fight with Corvhesperikon’s anything to go by, you made it out just fine.”

“Starr returned to the core after the fusion. There is nothing saying the same thing will not happen to you.”

“And if it does, I’ll die knowing I helped!”

“Nessa -”

Before Pongo can protest further, there’s a snowball hurtling towards his face. He can’t duck out of the way in time, and the snow hits him head on, filling his nostrils and mouth. He doubles over, coughing and scraping the snow off of his face. When he looks up, prepared to accuse Nessa, he finds her in the same state: snow across her hair, dripping from the glacial iris above her ear. She gives him the same glare, but it fades the second she realizes he’s not the perpetrator.

They both cast their eyes lower to the ground, finding both Froyoyo and Vanala standing between them. Both Nopon have additional snowballs in their wings.

“Arguing just like littlepon,” Vanala grumbles. “Vanala understands friends are stressed, but friends need to be reasonable! Need to sit down like adults and discuss options further.”

“Stay with Desserta Caravan for now,” Froyoyo tells them. “Together, Froyoyo and Vanala can discuss plans going forward and assess what resources are at our disposal.”

Nessa and Pongo glance back up at each other. It’s clear Nessa still wants to fight, the fire in her eyes unmistakeable. But she’s the first to relent, kicking some snow up with the tip of her boot. “Fine. I’ll let Elma know we’re here and see if she’s made any progress gathering troops from BLADE.”

“While you connect with her, I will let Solstice know that we will be staying here for now,” Pongo offers. “They might want to stay and help, given their role in the past.”

“Sounds good. Just do me a favor while you’re over there.”

“Name it.”

Nessa closes the distance between them. “Tell them I said this.” She leans in close, whispering in his ear. Two seconds pass, his eyes grow as large as Mira’s moons, and he silently promises himself to never repeat any of what she’s saying to anyone. Ever.

“You are horrible,” Pongo mumbles as she backs away, a satisfied smirk on her face.

“I could always deliver the message myself while you stay behind,” Nessa winks before returning to Vanala and Froyoyo’s side, who watch with raised eyebrows. Vanala mutters “littlepon” under her breath before leading them all back to the caravan, Nessa retrieving her comm device to make the call to Elma. Pongo shakes his head, staying put until they’re all out of earshot.

“You are not allowed to repeat any of that to your siblings,” Pongo tells Sprinkle Sprinkle, who’s still well hidden behind him. “Understood?”

Sprinkle Sprinkle emerges, shaking some loose snowball off of their fur. Judging by their mischievous smirk, Pongo’s order holds no ground. Still, to satisfy him, they say, “Sprinkle Sprinkle makes the biggest promise to never repeat what friend Nessa said.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive!”

“...”

“...Though, could friend Pon tell Sprinkle Sprinkle what friend Nessa meant by ‘pegging’?”

Pongo groans loud enough for Nessa to hear.

~

My meeting with Vanala is one I recall fondly. It was not her time, so I sent her on her way. I was something new, then. Something untold. Something I couldn’t yet decipher.

Just as all the pieces connected, Pongo came and showed me I was something greater. I’d forgotten what I could be, had I chosen differently.

By the time Telethia lands, the sun’s crawled closer to the horizon’s edge, the sky transforming into a sherbet hue. Nessa’s familiar with the area - Telethia’s most common patrol route, the Divine Roost - but this high up, she can’t help but admire the view. The waterfall cascading into the heart of Noctilum behind them, the far-away lights of Sylvalum’s spores. Deep in the distance, the mountainous spires of Cocytios, a cacophony of frigid ice and ancient relics embedded into the ground. Even though they’re far away from the continent, Nessa suppresses a chill. She has good memories and bad memories of her time in Cocytios. The cold has a demanding presence, though, and it dominates her thoughts for a while.

Telethia’s head bows, staring at the vast ocean between Cocytios and Noctilum. Their stomach rumbles, and they make a sound akin to a bird chirping.

The corpse of Syriahnydra is beneath the waves, Mira translates. It is easier to see the ether flaring at night. That is how Solstice first discovered it.

Nessa leans down, peering at the waves. It’s hard to make anything out at first, the gentle ripples of the sea obscuring nearly everything. As she tracks them farther out, she starts to notice a trail of blue lights, faint but recognizable. They snake around Cocytios’s western border, extending far beyond Nessa’s sight. 

“Gods,” she breathes. “It’s fucking massive.”

Telethia nods solemnly. Syriahnydra is approximately five times larger than Corvhesperikon, Mira explains. I believe humanity has a word for its appearance: leviathan. It does not possess arms or claws like Corvhesperikon did, but it more than makes up for it with its maw.

“So it’s like a huge snake,” Nessa says. “A huge, underwater snake.” She sits back up, blinking once. Then: “I think BLADE might’ve found its body a long time ago. There was this report going around about this aquatic indigen that destroyed a ton of equipment and killed a few Pathfinders. I didn’t think much of it, since so much of the oceans haven’t been explored yet, but…”

As Nessa trails off, Telethia rumbles again, shifting its posture. Nessa’s acutely aware of how perfectly she seems to fit on Telethia’s back. Though their scales appear hardened and rough, they’re soft beneath her touch, an unassuming armor. It’s deflected attacks time and time again. She knows its strength.

Still, she thinks, even though this feels natural, there’s always going to be something missing as long as Solstice is in this form.

The sunset grows deeper, splashes of fiery reds and oranges cascading across the sky. As the sunlight fades, Nessa takes out her comm device, using the fading light as an opportunity to catalogue Syriahnydra’s trail. She types Elma’s number in once she’s gotten enough pictures. Elma picks up quickly.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?” Nessa starts.

“The bad news,” Elma responds. “Hang on. I’m putting you on speaker - I’m with the Commander and Secretary General. They’ll want to hear about what you’ve found.”

Nessa waits until she hears a recognizable beep; now, everyone with Elma will be able to hear her. “So,” she starts, “the bad news is that Syriahnydra is probably the largest ultrafauna we’ve ever dealt with. I’m going just based off visuals right now, because I’ve been put under orders that I can’t get any closer. But this thing looks like it’s wrapping around Cocytios, and possibly further.”

She promptly pulls the comm device back and sends Elma the pictures, hoping she can display them for her audience on the other side. “Good news is, I’m not seeing any movement aside from the lights. I’d definitely take it as an indicator that it’s awake, though.”

“Are you sure you’re not observing any movements?” Secretary Nagi’s voice echoes, a little further away than Elma’s voice sounded. 

“I’d have to get closer to double check,” Nessa says, prompting Telethia’s head to crane in her direction disapprovingly. “Its entire body is underwater, I’m not sure how deep.”

“We don’t want you gettin’ too close to it,” Commander Vandham says, his command echoing in much the same way as Nagi’s. “But we do want data on how big this thing is, and estimates on the ifs and whens of it waking up to play. We’re working with the Director General on a game plan now. If this thing stays underwater, we’re going to need to dedicate time and resources to developing more water resistant tech - time we may not have.”

“Right,” she responds. “Though, I do want to hear it from Elma.”

“Really, Nessa?” Elma asks.

“Hey, not my fault you know how to make orders sound sexy. Tell me where you want me.”

Telethia snorts, a small puff of condensed air forming around their nostrils. Nessa would be threatened by it if she wasn’t already so turned on.

“Do as the Commander says.” Nessa can practically hear Elma’s eyes rolling from across the comm device. “Send any pictures back to me. If you see Syriahnydra move at all, get out of there. After all, I won’t risk your utility for this.”

“My utility? Fancy way of saying I’m too pretty to die,” she smirks. “Got it, boss. Have fun with the rest of your meeting.”

She hangs up before Elma responds. She puts a hand on the back of Telethia’s neck, rubbing the scaled skin with her thumb. “You got all that, right? We’ve got work to do.”

Telethia exhales again, another puff of smoke leaving their nostrils. They want to know if you have always had a thing for non-humans, Mira says, exasperated.

“I have a thing for beautiful people - and beautiful Telethia,” Nessa winks. 

Telethia takes off again, the ascent kinder than it was in NLA. It doesn’t take long for them to hover over the ocean, following the trail of lights beneath the sea. Nessa hits record on her comm device, documenting video of how long the trail goes for. As the video saves, she keeps a cautious eye on the lights, trying to determine if they’re truly moving. The ocean’s more than capable of playing tricks on people. She doesn’t want to lose the game. Too much is at risk if she loses.

They wrap around Cocytios, and as Nessa surveys the landscape ahead, her eyes widen. The lights continue for far longer than she thought. It almost looks like the corpse circles back towards Primordia, even reaching as far as Oblivia. Fucking massive, she thinks again. Telethia continues, but she feels them pulse beneath her hands, a barely recognizable shudder.

By the time her comm device rings again, the sun’s nearly disappeared behind the horizon. Nessa pauses her recording to take the new call. Probably Elma asking for an update; how long do those fancy meetings at HQ go for? Gods, she could use a distraction if she’s still with the Commander and General.

But it’s not Elma. Pongo’s face appears on the screen, and he looks awful. Nessa clocks that this could be a panic attack - and Pongo isn’t good at handling those on his own, not yet. She tells him, “I’m on my way,” bringing up his coordinates on her comm device. “Solstice,” she says, “we’ve got to turn around. Pongo’s in trouble.”

Telethia chirps. Where is he, Mira asks.

“Divine Roost. Hurry,” Nessa pleads. “Pongo, hey, breathe. What happened?”

“Caves - the murals - so many dead -” Pongo tries to speak, but his words are sparse, inhibited by his quickened breaths. “It took L, and I just -”

Telethia turns quickly, making a beeline back towards the Divine Roost. As night claims the planet, Nessa can only make out the bright lights of Telethia’s ether feathers. She trusts that Solstice will get her to Pongo quickly, because there’s only so much she can do over the comm device. Still, she has to try.

“What do you mean, it took L?” She tries asking, her heart dropping into her stomach. “C’mon, Pon. I’m coming, I just need you to breathe. In and out.”

Pongo struggles to find a routine with his breathing, but by the time Telethia lands in the Divine Roost, he hasn’t made much progress. Nessa jumps down from Telethia’s back, landing on the ground below. She pinpoints Pongo’s location, hidden behind a rock, and darts over to kneel in front of him. She doesn’t even have the chance to speak before he’s surging forward, hugging her tightly. Nessa’s no stranger to physical contact, but Pongo’s hugs are something different, especially when they’re born of desperation. She hugs him back, and in the silence, his breathing grows deeper, steadier. 

When he pulls away, Pongo sniffles, biting back a sigh. “I am so -”

“Nope, none of that,” Nessa tells him. “You’re more important than my dinner date with Solstice, if that’s what you were about to apologize for.”

Pongo frowns, looking away. “We should go. It is not safe here.”

Nessa doesn’t question him about that. She nods to Telethia, who lowers one of their wings for her and Pongo to get back on board. Pongo hesitates, so Nessa goes ahead of him, embarking slowly so she can show him the right way about it. He’s slow to follow, cautious and somewhat clumsy. His foot slips off of Telethia’s wing at one point, but before Nessa can reach down and grab him, Telethia’s raised a claw to push him forward, helping him keep his balance. He smiles weakly to thank them. “Good to see you again, Solstice. I wish it was under different circumstances, but…”

Telethia purrs, waiting until Nessa and Pongo are both settled on top of them before taking off into the night sky. Pongo puts his arms around Nessa’s waist, startled by the sudden ascent, and Nessa can’t help but laugh. 

“Not funny,” Pongo pouts. 

“Extremely funny,” Nessa corrects. 

Telethia reaches a cruising altitude again, circling Noctilum as the siblings settle. Nessa maneuvers herself around so she’s backwards on Telethia’s body, a normally difficult feat that she finds easier than expected. She’s just that good at everything she does, she concludes. Unfortunately, she’s not the one in need of a confidence boost.

“Okay,” Nessa puts her hands on Pongo’s, keeping him steady. Even though he’s in a far better headspace than he was before, she can still feel him shaking, the remnants of anxiety flowing freely through his veins. “Walk me through it. Tell me what happened.”

Pongo closes his eyes, for a while. When he opens them again, he explains the details of the mission he’d accepted. How he’d been chased out by Ganglion the first time, brought L along for the second attempt. The murals. The hidden room. How L had been possessed, and how Pongo had escaped as hordes of dead Ganglion and F’lenla A’slegn tried to subdue him. At the end of it all, he slumps, exhaustion replacing his apprehension.

“So Syriahnydra’s alive,” Nessa says. The revelation sits horribly with her, especially considering the data she’d previously sent Elma. Solstice and I were tracking its body and trying to find signs of movement, but I guess that doesn’t mean anything anymore. Still, I wonder why it used its power to revive a bunch of dead people instead of…well, reviving itself.”

“I have a theory,” Pongo offers. “Yggraliths need to feed on ether to survive. That was why Corvhesperikon and Syriahnydra both came here - because Mira is rich with ether, and they fought for the right to devour it. Maybe Syriahnydra does not have enough ether to revive itself yet, but enough that it can control lesser lifeforms to do its bidding. Maybe to collect more ether, or maybe to…”

“To be its food source,” she finishes. “Dead people wouldn’t make sense for that. Sure, their bodies might have some residual ether, but not enough to fuel an entire yggralith.”

“Right. L’Cirufe is alive, though, and Syriahnydra possessed him first. Would he have enough ether to resurrect it?”

“On his own? Doubt it. Honestly, I think the more feasible theory is that Syriahnydra’s trying to use whatever it can to collect ether, whether it’s harvesting from corpses or by having said corpses do the dirty work for him.” 

Nessa swallows, gazing out into the distance. Telethia’s still circling Noctilum, but they’ve tilted so that she’s got a good view of Primordia - of NLA, its crystalline borders radiant under the starlight. “I’m going to say it’s the latter. I don’t think Syriahnydra would go through the trouble of reanimating dead bodies if its only wish was to take the remaining ether from them.”

“We need to warn BLADE,” Pongo says, quickly taking out his comm device. “Gods, if it attacks the city -”

“It might not,” Nessa interrupts. “It would want to target literally anything with ether, if it was smart. Most likely, that army will try to plow through some unlucky indigens before it even reaches NLA.”

“But it knows humanity poses a threat. That we will try to stop it.” A pause, then: “Or maybe it does not know that yet. Humans were not involved in the defeat of Corvhesperikon - or Starr, for that matter.”

“Excuse you,” Nessa raises a playful eyebrow. “Point taken, though. Elma told me about a time you had to give Mira your strength to reinforce Pharsis’s prison - did BLADE help with that?”

“Not much,” he admits. “They knew about the barrier weakening, but to them, Solstice came in and fortified the sphere without any human interference.”

“Good.” She smiles, relived that she’s picked out an advantage. “If Syriahnydra doesn’t know humanity’s a threat, we can use that against it. It’s not expecting an army to greet it when it’s got enough energy to come out of the ocean.”

“Still a good reason to let BLADE know.”

“One step ahead of you. Elma’s already with the higher-ups explaining the situation and petitioning them for resources. I was here with Solstice to do an initial survey and figure out what we’re working with as far as a timeline.”

Comforted, Pongo tries to relax. He’s grown accustomed to the shape of Solstice’s back, balancing himself easier as Telethia flies through the night sky. Nessa’s long since pulled her hands back, but she pinpoint his anxiety through the way he cradles his palms, wringing them in his lap. “We have to save L’Cirufe,” he says. “We have to go back for him. BLADE might be preparing resources, but L needs our help now.”

At long last, Telethia roars, an indication that they’d been listening since the beginning. Mira provides a quick translation. Solstice refuses to go back. 

“L is in danger -” Pongo protests, but gets interrupted by an even longer, louder roar.

It is too dangerous, Mira says. We still do not know how strong Syriahnydra has become. If Solstice bring you back, there is a chance it could use its power to control all of you. I refuse to entertain that possibility.

“I hate to say it, but I won’t entertain it either,” Nessa replies. “It’s probably a better idea to get back to NLA and explain our findings together. I promised Elma I’d send over details, but I know her. She’d want to see my beautiful face in person.”

I have a better idea, Mira offers, completely ignoring Nessa’s remarks. I think we should enlist other forms of help. Froyoyo and Vanala will want to know about Syriahnydra, if they do not already.

Whatever semblance of calm Pongo had found evaporates in an instant. He goes still, his face draining of color. Nessa doesn’t invade the silence that draws between them, utterly aware of how he feels towards revisiting the Desserta Caravan. The Nopon were his family, once, but Cocytios was not his home. It is a memorial of pain. Of faults and failures. Of screaming as the dawn breaks, knowing that he was once the very evil that scoured the frigid expanse. His hesitation makes perfect sense.

Yet when Pongo speaks next - after a long, drawn out sigh and a hard swallow - it’s to say, “Okay.”

“Wait,” Nessa backtracks, growing concerned. “You’re…Pon, we’ll have to go to Cocytios.”

“I know.”

“This is gonna sound weird, but I know you haven’t stepped foot in Cocytios since everything happened with Corvhesperikon. Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

“I have to be.” Pongo straightens his spine, attempting to reflect Nessa’s confidence. “Mira is right. Froyoyo and Vanala have fought Syriahnydra before. They would know about its weaknesses, and we can relay that information to BLADE. And if they know anything about how to free L…”

Nessa nods. “If it’s too much, I can stay with the caravan and Solstice can bring you back to the city. Just…don’t keep it all to yourself, okay?”

Pongo stares are her, but doesn’t respond. She’s asked an impossible thing of him. After all, he’s the first avatar of Mira. A protector. A hero. He was not built to be vulnerable, to concede to his weaknesses. 

Nessa wants to believe that if he’s brave enough to step foot in Cocytios, he’ll be brave enough to talk to her, if he needs. But there is always a limit to every person, a line that can’t be crossed. And despite their connection, she doesn’t know where he’s drawn that line.

So, instead of pressing for a promise, Nessa pats Solstice’s flank and asks, “Will you take us to Cocytios? We’ve got to pay our Nopon friends a visit.”

Solstice bellows, angling their body towards the south. When they stabilize again, Cocytios is on the horizon, its white landscape piercing through the darkness of the night. Nessa repositions herself so she’s not flying backwards anymore, eyes trained on the horizon. Every time she glances over her shoulder, she sees Pongo looking forward. But something in his expression is too calm, too still. 

He will be fine, Mira tells her. 

Nessa breathes. In, out. In, out. The old habits didn’t die with her, after all. 

~

Pongo is lucky to have Nessa, in this world. Their paths tend not to cross. Such is the praxis of infinity.

I met her, once. She bestowed unto me that which I could not define. 

It took me far too long to realize what she’d given me. And by the time I realized I’d never thanked her, she was dead. 

BLADE had posted information about a simple mission, at first glance. There’s a complex set of caves located in the heart of Noctilum, recently uncovered by a team of Pathfinders. They didn’t progress very far on account of the unstable infrastructure, but they documented some interesting cave paintings and structures that hinted at an ancient civilization’s existence: the F’lenla A’slegn. No one knows what the paintings mean, nor are they able to translate the writings. It’s an ancient language, one that no living being on Mira can identify.

Naturally, Pongo had taken up the mission first. He’d gone to investigate the ruins. He’d discovered the murals decorating the cavern walls, deciphered their intent. They’d outlined the same ritual that had once transformed him into a Telethia, the crazed beast that stalked Cocytios for a time. He’d shuddered at the memory, but he’d kept himself focused, steady.

And then the Ganglion attacked.

Pongo had escaped quickly thanks to his training, but the entire situation left him winded, staving off a panic attack. He’d called Elma to report his findings and confessed that he couldn’t do this alone. She called back a half hour later, telling him to come back to NLA, recuperate, form a better plan.

That’s how, a few days later, Pongo returns to the cavern entrance. Now that he’s gotten a taste of what’s inside, he can’t leave this mission half completed. And this time, he’s got backup.

Pongo leads the way into the cavern entrance, hand delicately poised over the hilt of his photon saber. L trails behind him, enamored with the walls as the light behind them fades. He holds two flashlights, one in each hand, but he can’t seem to focus them both in one spot for very long. 

“We have never delved so deep into a hole of this magnitude!” L exclaims. “We’re positively gushed and flowing over with glee!”

Pongo laughs nervously; L’s wording still hasn’t improved after all this time. He used to be just as bad, mixing up human phrases and slips of the tongue. Sometimes there’s phrases that catch him off guard, but for the most part, he’s adjusted well to human slang. L, meanwhile, has had a harder time grasping it. Pongo doesn’t know if it’s because L finds it difficult, or if he chooses to be this obtuse. He wants to believe the latter, considering L’s vast knowledge in other regards.

“Please keep your voice down,” Pongo says softly. “Remember, Ganglion chased me out of here the first time. I do not know how far down they went, or if they are still here.”

“But of course,” L apologizes, bringing his voice down. “We shall be stealthy like the shadows!”

The beginnings of a smile dance on Pongo’s lips. Bringing L had been a great idea - not just for his knowledge on ancient Miran history, but his endless optimism. It outshines his own by a long shot. Pongo recalls how he’d been able to exude such open hope, back when he’d first met Elma and joined BLADE. It’s been harder to keep up the facade in recent times, with everything he’s seen, everything he’s gone through. There’s days where he refuses to sleep, because he knows the nightmares that await him will trail into the waking world. His mind fading, his skin ripping at the seams as claws and horns and fur take over, screaming into the cold wastes of Cocytios as he realizes he’d nearly killed his sister, Nessa, poor Nessa, created just to save him -

Pongo stops.

“Have you seen the spotted something?” L asks cautiously.

“No,” Pongo says, breathing deep. “I just…I needed to catch myself.” Then, “This place is full of bad memories.”

“You’ve mentioned the contextuals of the murals,” he hums, following as Pongo keeps walking. “We remember Elma telling us tales of the frozen continent, and what transpired between you and your sister.”

“Mm. It explains how the Ganglion were able to create Starr, but it does not explain why they were still here. It makes me think there must be something deeper. More murals, perhaps.”

The tunnel dips, and L shines one of the flashlights on the wall. The first murals stretch across the stone, outlining the Telethia ritual that the F’lenla A’slegn enacted. As Pongo’s hand trails over the faded ink, L comments, “Ritual details such as this are prominent in other continents. At least one documentation per continent, though this…we believe this could be the prime incantation.”

“Were the rituals enacted in every continent, then?” Pongo asks.

“Only if the Divine Roost were compromised,” he replies. “We had many a running-in with hostile wildlife that often prevented a safe transformation.”

Pongo nods, understanding. The murals showcase the steps preceding the transformation: the summoning circle, with F’lenla A’slegn standing around it as they chanted the spell necessary to initiate the ritual; the chosen participant in the circle’s center, awaiting the blessing of their people; the Telethia’s final form, wings outstretched as it takes to the skies to protect the planet. He almost wants to ask L if he ever witnessed the ritual firsthand, but the thought comes with a terrible realization.

I went through it already. 

The only pain had come with the Ganglion’s first injection, erasing his mind from his body. That way, Pongo couldn’t rely on his conscience to turn on the Ganglion. They’d wanted a subservient ultrafauna, a weapon to utilize against humanity. Instead, they’d created a feral monster, driven only by bloodshed, the fear left behind by Pongo’s destroyed memories. 

Pongo swallows hard. It’s difficult not to go back on old habits, blaming himself for not fighting back hard enough. What happened had happened, and there was no going back to change it. He lives with the memories of what he’d done, and he uses them to push forward. All he can do is tell himself it won’t happen again. All he can do is heal.

He pushes on, further down the cavern. The murals change the deeper they go. Some images depict the civil war between the F’lenla A’slegn factions. Massive rings in the sky, raining brimstone and fire and death upon the encroaching armies. The dead littering the battlefield. Entire landscapes destroyed, the two primary warzones giving rise to what would become Oblivia and Cauldros. 

Behind him, L shudders. “It was long ago, for us. Yet the memories wish to eat us whole.”

Pongo makes a noise of understanding, but doesn’t comment further. He keeps leading them further down the tunnel, only pausing when they come across new murals, ones that Pongo hadn’t been able to reach before being interrupted by the Ganglion. Once again, his hand rests on the hilt of his photon saber. “This is where I ended off,” he explains, “before the Ganglion attacked. I can keep watch, if you want to translate the ruins here.”

“It would be our pleasure,” L agrees. Pongo turns his back, eyeing both ends of the tunnel as L peers over the new murals. He mumbles something Miran under his breath, intrigued by the paintings, and it draws Pongo’s attention enough to observe. L hands Pongo one of his flashlights, and as he relieves him of the flashlight, L uses his free hand to press against the rock. A string of Miran symbols crows above the indent. To The Prince’s Hall, Pongo translates silently. 

L’s hand presses deeper. The rock shifts, and the wall behind Pongo slides open, revealing an alternate passage. Using L’s flashlight, he points it down the hall, quickly discovering that the passage doesn’t stretch far. It circles in on itself, forming a round room. At the far end, there’s a pedestal made of ancient stone, and something sits atop it. Pongo steps further inside, more taken by the additional murals than now span the walls. The art style seems more frantic, with these images. Scrawled, hasty. He recognizes several repeated images of the planet, but none of them match each other. The first showcases Mira, and two cosmic beings encircling it. The drawings do a wonderful job of conveying both beasts’ hunger, drool pooling from their open mouths, fangs sharp and predatory. One monster dons feathers, the other dons fins.

Corvhesperikon and Syriahnydra.

“The Tale of Two Gods,” Pongo whispers. “Froyoyo told us about this. When both yggraliths fought each other over who could devour Mira.”

“We were not witness to it,” L confesses, enamored with the depiction. “However, Mira warned us of the time it had once fused with another organic being to save itself. We believed our fate would be similar to that of the hero who defeated both yggraliths.”

“Froyoyo,” He provides. “I think - and I could be wrong - Froyoyo fared better than you did when Mira severed its connection with him because Vanala was there. She is an ether entity like Mira once was, so she knew how to separate them without inflicting any of the side effects.”

L peers closer at the murals. “Are we correct in assuming Froyoyo is a Nopon?”

“Oh, right, you have never met,” Pongo realizes. “How did you know -”

And that’s when he sees the following image. Two Nopon, a Telethia, and a massive winged humanoid beating the yggraliths back from the planet. Pongo peers closer and identifies the humanoid as Aidoneus. Streaks of rainbow paint shoot out from its chest and arms, penetrating both yggraliths. This is how Aidoneus killed Corvhesperikon and Syriahnydra the first time, Pongo thinks, in awe of the display.

“Pongo,” L beckons him towards the next mural. 

Believing he’d continue to see more depictions of The Tale of Two Gods, Pongo’s shocked when the images shift. Corvhesperikon continues to fly around the planet, and the same heroes defend it - two Nopon, a Telethia, and Aidoneus. And beyond that…Syriahnydra, its serpentine body nearly wrapping around the planet. There are no Nopon in the next image, but there’s Aidoneus, accompanied by two Telethia instead of one. 

“Two Telethia?” Pongo questions out loud. “That is not possible. When did this happen?”

L stares at him. “Our friend…we don’t have reason to believe this has happened yet.”

“You think…” Pongo’s eyes widen, the realization setting in like a weight in his stomach. He knows of a second Telethia because he was the second Telethia. Even then, Solstice had reverted back to their F’lenla A’slegn body as a result of his transformation, since only one Telethia can exist at a time. 

Or so he thought.

Is there a way for two Telethia to live at the same time? If so, that would require a second person to undergo the ritual, a volunteer to transform into another one of Mira’s protectors. He’d done it before. He knows the risks associated with it, even if the ritual had been cruelly enacted by the Ganglion.

The Ganglion.

That’s why they were here.

So they could make more Telethia.

Overwhelmed by all of this information, Pongo turns away, holding his stomach. He just needs to breathe. He needs to get a grip. He needs to warn everyone, because if the Ganglion know how to replicate the ritual, there’s a chance they can put more people through the transformation, and they’d all turn into monsters incapable of controlling their animalistic urges for carnage, attacking their sister and waiting patiently for her to kill her, sending his body over the edge of the cliff -

Pongo falls to his knees, his head in his hands. Bile surges up in the back of his throat, but he pushes it back, for now. L’s by his side in an instant, dropping his remaining flashlight so he can grab Pongo by the shoulders. He’s saying something to him, but he’s covered his ears, the sound muffled and distorted. Breathe, he tells himself. Breathe. In, out. In, out. 

Once he’s regained himself, Pongo looks up into L’s eyes. “This is too much,” he whimpers. 

“Syriahnydra will return,” L says softly. “This, we had surmised long ago. Since Corvhesperikon’s resurrection and death, Syriahnydra will take its advantage to return. Our questioning has grown, however: how did our people know of this forthcoming?”

Pongo lowers his hands, and L meets them with his own, his thumbs rubbing circles in his palms. His touch brings him back to life, back to a stable sense of reality. Still, he doesn’t respond to L’s question, because he doesn’t even know where to begin. Mira had never told him anything about the F’lenla A’slegn’s ability to see into the future, if that’s what this is. It has to be the future, since Corvhesperikon’s second defeat mirrors exactly what had transpired in Cocytios. 

Pongo looks past L, for a moment. That’s when the pedestal in the middle of the room catches his attention again. Drawn to it, he forces himself to stand, inching closer. L follows, but keeps his distance.

On top of the pedestal, there’s a well preserved piece of parchment, outstretched to envelop the pedestal’s surface. Somehow, the hands of time have hardly damaged the paper, yet there’s noticeable wrinkles and cracks in the sheet. The paint scribbled above it is careful and precise, far neater than any of the cavern murals thus far. As Pongo’s fingers flutter over the parchment, he feels the nausea creeping in again - at first, slowly, then all at once.

Mira, once again, is drawn in its primal beauty. Three humanoids stand around it, each with a hand cupping the bottom of the planet. The figures on the left and right each have black hair, pale skin. Eyes like the infinite cosmos, dotted with stars and constellations. The figure in the center is pale, too, but a blue hood obscures their facial features. 

“That is me,” he says, pointing to the figure on the left. Then, shifting to the right: “And that is Nessa. But who is that, in the middle?”

L glances over his shoulder, his eyebrows furrowed. “We’re unsure. What a puzzling puzzle, indeed.”

Scowling, Pongo takes out his comm device and takes a few pictures of the pedestal parchment. As he turns to snapshot other murals on the walls, L continues to observe the pedestal, thoroughly entranced. “Despite its handsome blue visage, we can attest that this can’t be us. It lacks our magnificent horns!”

“It could be another human, then,” Pongo says. “Someone who might be able to help us defeat Syriahnydra, whenever it wakes up again.”

L’s about to respond, but the ground shakes under their feet, nearly knocking them both off balance. Pongo stashes his comm device, igniting his photon saber and jogging out of the stone room. The hallway appears empty, loose rocks tumbling down from the quake. The Pathfinders had reported in their initial survey that the tunnels were unstable. Yet Pongo confirms, at least for the moment, that they’re not at any risk of a cave-in. It’s still a bad idea to stick around, so he tells L, “We should go. Come on.”

L nods, following him out. Pongo remembers the way, using the murals as a guide. He doesn’t make it far; he realizes L has stopped to look down the other end of the tunnel, the way they hadn’t gone. “L’Cirufe,” Pongo says. But L doesn’t move. His flashlight shines down the empty corridor, pointed at something on the ground. He takes a few cautious steps forward, spotting some strange masses. Rock formations? No, they don’t look like they’re a part of the cave system.

As he approaches L’s left side, Pongo gasps. This close, he can see what they are. Ganglion. Ganglion bodies. And there’s not just one - there’s so many, trailing down the darkness of the tunnel. The closest body is turned towards them, and black blood oozes from their wounds, their eyes and mouth, spilling into a shadowed pool. And as Pongo gazes out at the other bodies, he can tell that every corpse suffers from the same affliction.

“L,” Pongo breathes, “we have to go. Now.”

Whatever did this to the Ganglion could still be here, and that’s a reality more horrifying than a cave-in. As Pongo backs up, he expects L to come with him. Yet he doesn’t move. “L’Cirufe,” Pongo calls out again, growing more desperate. “L -”

“I CAN SMELL THE PLANET ON YOUR FLESH.”

That’s not L’s voice. It’s deeper, scratchier. Pongo recoils as L finally turns, and there’s black blood staining his lips, his canines. His eyes, once a radiant gold, are now completely void.

“IT’S SO STRONG,” the voice echoing from L’s body threatens with a toothy smile. “SO SWEET. DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG YOU’VE STARVED ME, LITTLE GODLING?”

Syriahnydra.

It has to be. Pongo’s photon saber shakes in his hand. “I do not care. Let my friend go.”

“THEY WILL ALL DIE,” Syriahnydra ignores his demand. “AND I CHOOSE TO BEGIN WITH YOU.”

The Ganglion bodies contort, their heads raising towards the sky. The second they all start screaming, Pongo bolts for the exit.

As he sprints down the winding tunnels, he stumbles across more dead Ganglion, all rising to try and subdue him. They hadn’t been there on the way in. There’s no logic, no rhyme or reason to their existence now when they hadn’t been there before. 

One body darts out and grabs his ankle. Pongo yelps, barely able to keep himself from falling. He turns, ready to defend himself. He looks down.

This is not a Ganglion.

This is a horned creature, taller than most humans. Pale skin, ridges along the cheekbones. Pointed ears. 

A F’lenla A’slegn.

And as Pongo glances back up, he finds an army of staggering corpses, and they’re all F’lenla A’slegn. 

He doesn’t care what kind of hallucinations he’s having. This place is a tomb. A death sentence. He has to get out of here. 

Pongo uses his adrenaline-fueled strength to kick the body’s wrist off of his ankle, and he presses on, dodging other corpses that seemingly appear from the walls. It’s nearly pitch black - L had one of the flashlights, and Pongo’s far too panicked to even consider using the one he still has. He uses his intuition, his memories of entering the cavern system, and the walls as his guide. 

He’s rewarded by sunlight, by the promise of the exit fifty yards away. Surprisingly, this close to escaping, there’s no resistance. The bodies fall away as Pongo breaches the outside world, and though nothing chases him now, he runs until he knows he’s far enough away. The adrenaline evaporates the second he collapses behind a small hill, and he heaves, his lungs begging for air he can’t provide quick enough. 

L, he thinks, choking on a sob. Oh gods, it has L.

Pongo pulls his knees up to his chest, his photon saber falling to the ground. He can’t imagine how scared L is. The loss of control, threatening to kill his loved ones, the taste of blood on his sharpened fangs and the thrill of the chase as he swipes and snarls and draws wounds like art on Solstice and -

Shit. Shit.

Pongo nearly drops his comm device as he pulls it out again. He can’t do this. He needs someone to talk him down. He plugs a number in without thinking. 

“Pick up,” he begs, “pick up, please, fuck -”

Nessa answers after two rings. She takes one look at the tears streaming down his face, his utter uncontrollable panic, and says, “I’m on my way.”

~

It used to be strange, watching how desperately he wanted to live. But I understand it, now. Life is a part of him, as is love. It is human. 

Somehow, BLADE doesn’t issue an indigen warning until Telethia, the Endbringer, is clinging to the side of BLADE Tower.

Nessa’s in Armory Alley with Elma and Lin when it happens. A dark shadow creeps over her head, a brilliant yellow light blazing through the skies. She barely catches the tips of Telethia’s wings in the sky before the ground violently shakes, Telethia landing on the tower. Nessa doesn’t speak. She runs for the barracks to grab a Skell - one of Pongo’s, funnily enough - and with Elma and Lin close behind, they ascend to the top of BLADE Tower to make contact.

It’s been so long since she’s seen Solstice. So long since their time together in Cocytios, traversing the snowy plateaus in search of Pongo. Echoes flash in her mind of cave paintings, of brilliant undying flowers. Of Solstice’s delicate touch as the glacial iris in their hand fit snugly above her ear. It takes so much willpower for her to put her feelings aside, to ignore how her stomach tightens at the memory. Solstice can’t be here for want of her warmth. They’re here for something else entirely. Something far more serious than good company.

The Skell lands shakily; Nessa’s never been a great Skell pilot, despite her convincing people otherwise. She exits the cockpit as Elma and Lin’s Skells land behind her, running up to Telethia’s face. They’re staring straight at her, and their body rumbles with something akin to a purr.

“Couldn’t resist a cheeky visit, huh?” Nessa starts with a joke and a smile, typical of her easy confidence. “I’m just that irresistible, I see!”

Elma assumes her place by Nessa’s side, quickly followed by Lin. “Solstice,” she says, “there are other ways to attract our attention. Ways that don’t involve scaring all of NLA.”

Telethia’s head bows in apology. Mira’s voice rings in the back of Nessa’s mind, acting as a translator. She says sorry. But she has a dire reason for coming here.

“Mm,” Nessa hums. “Yearning is a serious matter.”

Gods above.

She chuckles as Elma raises a curious eyebrow, glancing between her and Telethia. She explains quickly, “Mira’s going to be translating Solstice for me. I’ll relay everything as best as I’m able.”

So she does. She listens to Telethia’s chirps and growls, listens to Mira’s recollections and translations. As the story unfolds, Nessa’s smile falls, and she questions if “dire” was too safe a word to use to describe the situation at hand.

Yet she keeps her composure, facing Elma and Lin to relay back everything she’d heard. “You remember how Corvhesperikon revived itself and tried to eat the planet? It’s that, but a different yggralith this time. One called Syriahnydra. Its body is resting in the ocean, but Mira and Solstice both recognized it was starting to move again.”

“Another yggralith?” Lin’s brow furrows, her fear apparent. “I know I wasn’t there for Corvhesperikon, but it seemed powerful enough that it could’ve destroyed Mira if left unchecked.”

“I agree,” Elma says. “Mira does seem a ripe target for yggraliths, and though I wonder why, it’s a conversation for another day. Would I be correct in assuming this yggralith is the second god from Froyoyo’s story?”

Telethia and Nessa nod at the same time. “Mira thinks it’s waking up because it recognized that Corvhesperikon wasn’t a threat anymore. That it could consume Mira without having to fight over it.”

“Couldn’t it recognize that Corvhesperikon was defeated, though?” Lin ponders. “Unless Syriahnydra is that confident it won’t have any reason to worry.”

“I reckon its confidence is fueled by it not having considerable competition in the past,” Elma offers. “In any case, we have an advantage - several, in fact. Syriahnydra is not alive currently, correct?”

“Not yet,” Nessa confirms with Mira, “but soon. We’re talking a few weeks, tops.”

“That’s more time than we were afforded with Corvhesperikon’s reawakening. I can relay this information to HQ and assemble resources both inside and outside of BLADE. Our manpower may not be much in comparison to yours, Solstice, but every ounce of firepower will certainly matter against an ultrafauna.”

Nessa shivers, the planet’s tension coursing through her veins. “C’mon now, Mira,” she says, “it’s alright to ask for help. You all barely made it out with Corvhesperikon last time.”

There will be death, it whispers. So much death. I do not want to put humanity through the same kind of catastrophe as the war.

Telethia looks away, contemplative. But Nessa, resolute, commits herself to this train of thought. Confident she may be, but even she recognizes the gravity of this threat. As much as she’d love to go at it alone, she’d be fighting a losing battle by herself. And who’s to say Solstice and Mira could handle it by themselves? 

“It’s their world now, too,” Nessa defends. “Let them fight to protect it. Let them fight to protect you.”

Mira’s silence speaks volumes. Once she knows she’s convinced it to accept the backup, Nessa puts her hands on her hips, exuding what confidence she can muster. “If you’re going to be petitioning the head honchos,” she tells Elma and Lin, “then I’d like to go with Solstice. I want eyes on what we’re working with.”

“Woah,” Lin’s says, “you want to go out there by yourself? Doing reconnaissance like that is dangerous, even if we’ve confirmed that Syriahnydra isn’t alive yet.”

“I’m not going alone,” Nessa chuckles, stepping closer to Telethia. Their head tilts, and her hand raises to cup its cheek. Though their hide appears scaly and rough, there’s give to its flesh, and heat resonates between them. It’s not unlike their time together traversing Cocytios, how easy it is to simply be by each others’s side. “Besides,” she says, trying to mask her faint blush, “I’ve been dying to get Solstice alone for some…quality time.”

“Eww,” Lin recoils. 

“Though I agree this is dangerous, I do agree that any intel we can gather will be crucial for the BLADE petition,” Elma yields. “Still, I urge you both not to do anything rash. If Syriahnydra shows any sign of movement, you’re under my direct order to disengage and get as far away from it as possible.”

“Well that’s no fun,” Nessa pouts, “but I hear you. Nothing reckless.”

Telethia nods as if to agree with the order, rumbles emitting from its core. Solstice wants me to tell you that she will not bring you too close. Your safety is their priority.

“Love you too,” Nessa winks at Telethia. “Now then, we’re burning daylight. I’ve got everything I need: my swords, my guns, my beautifully sculpted body -”

“Nessa,” Elma scowls, but Nessa quickly determines she’s not annoyed. If anything, there’s a spark behind her eyes, an amusement she’s got hidden beneath the surface. That’s become more commonplace between them, this mutual understanding, this mutual charisma. Nessa had asked Pongo about it, once - why Elma’s so easy to get along with. Pongo had shrugged, telling her that Elma had always been this equable. Despite being their captain, she’s also their friend, and being able to maintain the two roles came easier to Elma than most they’d encountered. 

Elma and Lin say their goodbyes, wishing Telethia and Nessa luck on their mission. As they board their Skells and return to the lower levels of the Administrative District, Nessa glances up at Telethia. “So how exactly do you want me to ride you?”

Phrasing, Mira reprimands.

Telethia rolls its eyes, craning its neck down low enough that Nessa’s able to climb onto their back. She hooks her legs on each side, using the front sides of their wings as leverage. “Alright,” she says, “I’m ready when you are.”

Another low rumble as they rustle their wings, pushing off of BLADE Tower with as much grace as they can manage. Still, Nessa notes the obvious claw marks on the tower’s interface as they fly away. Considering Telethia’s size, the damage could’ve been a lot worse.

Telethia ascends to a cruising altitude, and once they’re settled in the skies, Nessa lets herself think about what’s to come. She wasn’t alive to witness Corvhesperikon’s awakening and subsequent defeat. But she’d met Starr, the fusion of Pongo and Mira, the one who permitted Aidoneus’s return to a physical form. She’d felt the energy of the planet shift, from her resting place beneath the earth. She’d felt the release of ether, the heat of battle. They’d truly been lucky to defeat Corvhesperikon.

Though she harbors feelings about her non-involvement in Corvhesperikon’s death, Nessa is almost happy Syriahnydra is on the cusp of reawakening. She’s getting a chance to save Mira herself. Pongo’s been hogging the spotlight recently, and her whole body aches for a taste of the excitement. We’re avatars of a sentient planet, she thinks, and frankly, I’ve died before. Nothing scares me - nothing that can be used against me, not anymore. 

But as that thought crosses her mind, Nessa knows it isn’t the truth. Too much scares her, even now. If Syriahnydra awakens, if they can’t find a way to kill it - she will lose everything. That terrifies her, but she swears then and there that she’ll never let it show. After all, she’s got a chance to be Mira’s hero now, a chance to be in the spotlight. There’s too much on the line for her to fail.

She won’t fail. She won’t. She won’t. 

~

Prelude of the Guardian

The night plunges Noctilum into near-darkness. Its vegetation sparks to life, providing light in the jungle abyss as its indigenous wildlife stalks the trails. Everything is as it should be, the ecosystem’s balance persevering despite all that the planet has endured. 

And at Noctilum’s highest peak, Telethia the Endbringer provides a beacon of light to rival the ground below and the stars above. She comes to rest at the pinnacle of the Divine Roost overlooking Noctilum, catching brief glimpses of the other continents beyond the cover of night. They tuck their wings in close to their body, alert yet content. Moments of peace like this are hard to come by, after all that’s come to pass. 

With a sigh, Telethia closes their eyes, appreciating the cool breeze that comes to grace the peaks. As her eyes open, the ground pulses beneath their feet, and suddenly she’s on guard. It’s something only she can see, how the aether flowing beneath the planet’s surface stutters for but a moment. Yet this is a sign. A sign, perhaps, that something is not right.

They survey the land, hoping to catch a glimpse of the disturbance. There has to be a source, somewhere that she can pinpoint. Telethia stares at at the horizon, and her gaze eventually settles to the southeast, where frozen waters reveal the continent of Cocytios. In the night, the ocean is a darkened void. 

But tonight, it isn’t.

Beneath the pitch black waves, a long and winding trail of blue light begins to surround Cocytios’s western border. The lights extend beyond the horizon, far beyond what Telethia can see. She shudders - they don’t know what this is, for they have never seen anything like it before. So she roars, and it shakes the land, sending a shockwave through the veins of the planet. 

There is no need to shout, Mira responds. I can hear you everywhere and anywhere.

Its voice comes as a hollowed whisper, echoing in the deep recesses of Telethia’s mind. She responds in kind, their voice rumbling in their chest. I’m sorry to summon you like this, but this is urgent.

I felt it, Mira says. I know what this is.

What, then? 

Two gods once fell from the skies, locked in an endless battle of famine. We may have subdued them for a time, but a creature driven by hunger will never accept death without a fight.

Telethia’s breath hitches. You think this is the second god.

It IS the second god. 

A pause. 

It was only a matter of time. The death of the first god, Corvhesperikon, means that this god no longer has any viable competition. 

We must warn the humans, Telethia says quietly. Their city and everything they’ve strived to create here - all of it is in danger.

They are no strangers to it, Mira responds. 

To the danger, or to its existence?

Both. It woke when humanity decided it wanted to explore the oceans. I bet that was a nasty surprise.

Did they wake it?

No. It was just bad timing.

Telethia’s wings ruffle, then tuck closer into their body. She wants to shrink into herself, but this is the best she can do. I’m sorry. I have failed you again.

None of that, Sol’stica-veaya, Mira chides. You could not have predicted this. But we do need a plan.

I will go to the human city -

Not yet. 

Telethia’s head tilts. Why?

Because I have something I need to do first. We need all the help we can get, and luckily, I have built enough strength to summon a friend.

A friend?

The earth grows warm beneath Telethia’s feet, and all at once, she knows its plan, its answer. Is it truly possible?

It is, Mira confirms. For now, keep an eye on its movements. If it comes out of the water, do not engage.

But Mira, Telethia tries to protest, but the ground quivers, silencing them before they can continue.

I will not have you risking your life to subdue it. You alone are no match for a yggralith of this size. 

I imprisoned the Everqueen.

The Everqueen is an infant in comparison to this monster. Wait for my command, and we will proceed once we have our reinforcements in order. Understood?

Though Telethia doesn’t agree, she is ever subservient to the planet. Their role is to protect, to guard, to serve. She nods once, setting aside her own desires for Mira’s sake. After all, its life far exceeds their own, it has lived through things they could never dream of. 

She feels the planet’s conscience receding back into the earth, and in the near-darkness of the night, Telethia resumes her duty. The blue lights beneath the waves fade before the sun rises. Telethia sighs, breathing deep of Noctilum’s dense and humid air. It won’t do them any good to sit here and wait. 

As they ascend into the sky, Telethia looks to Cocytios, the frozen continent of memories. How long has it been since she walked the barren landscape with her? Will they ever be able to again?

It isn’t worth thinking about. Soon, she will have him at her side. And that in itself is a miracle Telethia refuses to sully. 

Prelude of the Reborn

She is alone and without form, swathed in quiet slumber. Dreams plague her, visions of what lies beyond her cosmos shell. She can do nothing but watch, and hope, and pray.

He adjusts as best he can, for all he’s gone through. He throws himself back into his duties, doing whatever is asked of him and everything beyond. His friends notice the shift quickly, and even though they tell him to rest, to be gentle with himself, he never listens. He will never listen.

Sometimes he sneaks away from the city and tries to find her. She doesn’t have a resting place - she is everywhere, watching just as the planet does - but he has an uncanny sense for finding where she feels strongest. If she’s watching the auroras in Sylvalum, he comes and views them with her. If she’s near her resting place in Noctilum, he finds his way there with flowers, sitting with her for a while.

But when she looks to Cocytios, he never follows.

He knows when she’s there. He stands at the Primordia coast overlooking the frozen continent, unable to move further. She never blames him for this. But she can’t control where the planet takes her, how she flows beneath the earth. And he can never hear her apologies, her reassurances, for her voice never finds purchase.

Only one can reach her, in the state that she’s in. Mira had welcomed her into this lifestream, and only Mira can meet her there. She knows it’s there when the cocoon around her grows weighted and warm. She talks with it sometimes, when it comes to check in. 

She doesn’t know how much time passes when Mira approaches her again, offering that same soothing embrace.

Are you awake? It asks quietly, carefully.

I don’t think I’ve ever been asleep, she responds. 

Mm. I am sorry.

Don’t be. 

She feels the planet shift, and somehow, she knows Mira is sighing. I think I can do it, if you are ready.

Do what?

The second she asks, she realizes. Mira doesn’t let her stew in the unpromised hope for long.

I can bring you back. Have you exist alongside him.

You’re sure? She double checks, concerned. After everything that happened in Cocytios -

I have been building reserves. The death of Corvhesperikon helped significantly. Even in death, it was eating at my ether, and only when I killed it - completely killed it, this time - did I realize just how much of a strain its sheer existence was on me.

She has no form with which to smile, so she brightens instead, pressing into the warmth surrounding her. I’m ready, then. Ready when you are. Does he know?

No, Mira says. But he will, once you have returned. I noticed that he can feel where you are, like how I can feel his presence.

We’re all connected, so I bet I’d be able to do the same. Hard to tell here, though. 

All the more reason to bring you back, right? The planet chuckles, the space around her vibrating. That being said, I think we both know what your priority should be. 

Seeing him.

Hey. I may have created you to help him, but your life does not revolve around him. Check on yourself first. Let me know if anything feels off after the transition, and I can repair as needed.

Alright, she accepts. You’re right about that. I promise I’ll keep you updated.

Gods, Mira says, you are so much less stubborn about this than he is. Thank you for that. It puts my mind at ease.

She laughs. I do have a reputation for being your favorite child to uphold. 

The planet scoffs, and all at once, there is warmth, there is light, and she’s being lifted to the sky, pushed past layers of dirt and stone and mud, and then -

Prelude of the Loved

He feels it when she comes alive.

He’s in Armory Alley when it happens. The world shifts beneath him, veins of miranium pulsing beneath metal and ground and stone. He stops talking, pressing his feet deeper into the floor, trying to discern where the miranium is flowing. It points behind him and to the right - Noctilum, then.

He doesn’t even remember what he was doing before that moment. He just runs. 

His Skell is parked outside of the barracks. He ascends, gets behind the controls, and flies into the Primordia sunrise. It takes too long to reach Noctilum, the sunrise giving way to dense vegetation. He’s surveying the ground below, desperation clawing at his conscience. Where is she? Where is she?

The planet sends out one last pulse, and it’s all he needs. She’s standing at the base of the tree, and she’s already spotted him. She smiles. She waves.

He wonders, for a split second, why she’s already showing him such kindness after everything he put her through. 

Still, he lands his Skell, nearly falling out of it when he releases the cockpit doors. He’s on the ground, and there’s practically no distance between them. It’s so strange - they had once been separated by death, and now, they are separated by nothing at all. It’d be so easy to run to her, to embrace her. She’s still smiling, expecting that to happen.

But he hesitates. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed this act of love.

She tries to break the tension with a joke. “I can’t believe Mira made me shorter than you.”

He can’t bring himself to quip back. Instead, he finally runs to her. He wraps her in the tightest hug he can manage, his arms shaking from the anxiety of it all. He’s being selfish, keeping her this close, but it’s all he can do. Apologies hold no strength, no power. He only knows to hold her, and thank the world that they’re together at last.

“I never forgot,” he whispers, when he finally finds the strength to speak again. “I could never forget you.”

Pongo knew. 

The official BLADE report never made it into the public eye, but he knew Elma, and Elma knew everything, so he got the information out of her. While Pongo had been out on a forced vacation, Sydney had Brainjacked seventy percent of NLA’s population and had taken them to Cauldros, where he’d set himself up in a Ganglion fortress to play the role of false king. Elma showed him the witness reports, people recounting being controlled, people recounting their efforts to stop him. An elite team of Brainjack users were able to take him down, in the end, but even that almost hadn’t been enough. 

The rumors spread like a disease throughout NLA. He still walks among us, Pongo once heard. He’s been stripped of his rank, so hopefully he won’t be allowed anywhere near a knife again. I saw him in the residential district once - do you think he’s planning how to do it again?

It hurt. The rumors had nothing to do with Pongo, yet he still felt their sting. He could only imagine how deeply it was affecting Sydney.

In the end, the rumors and the official reports combined were enough for Pongo to make a decision. 

He pulled out his comm device and called Sydney just after noon. Someone had given Pongo his number a long time ago, long enough that Pongo couldn’t quite remember who it was. Sydney didn’t respond. Frantic, Pongo kept dialing and calling, dialing and calling, dialing and calling, come on Sydney why won’t you pick up -

“The fuck do you want?!”

And suddenly, everything Pongo had planned to say vanished into thin air. Gods above, Sydney’s anger was something to behold. Pongo knew he had to be quick, or Sydney would hang up. 

“H-Hi, Sydney,” Pongo started. “We, um…we need to talk.”

“We’re talking right now, dipshit.”

Damn it. Damn him. Pongo released a shaky breath, trying to keep himself composed. “I meant in person. This is not something I can talk to you about over the comm device.”

“I’m busy. You should spit it out and stop wasting my time -”

“Not over the comm device.”

Pongo hadn’t meant for his tone to get so strained, so forceful. Sydney didn’t respond immediately, and he almost wondered if the (former?) Interceptor had hung up after that little outburst. However, after a moment of silence, he got a response.

“Alright, fine. When would you like to plan our little date?”

Pongo swallowed hard. No, Pongo, it is not a date. Do not get your hopes up. He shook his head, then responded, “Well, um…do you know of that elevator by the West Gate? The one that leads to the very top of the walls of NLA?”

The location held many good memories for Pongo; that was the same elevator he’d taken down to the Industrial District, the very first time he’d stepped foot into the city. Back then, he had no idea who he was, or who he was meant to be. In recent months Pongo found himself revisiting the location, if only to reminisce on the past. Others had called this insight into himself and the hearts of others a blessing, and perhaps he could use this talent to…well. To see Sydney.

“I know the place,” Sydney said, again knocking Pongo out of his stray thoughts. 

“Would you be able to meet me there tonight? Maybe around eight?” Pongo asked.

“Sure, I guess. See ya then.”

“Right,” Pongo said, but the dial tone hit his ears before he had gotten his full response out. With a sigh, his hand lowered, and pressure built behind his eyes. Shoving his comm device in his back pocket, he looked to the horizon. The sun was high above him, a promise that the day was still young. It would be a painful wait until the appointed hour arrived.

~

Pongo found himself waiting at the bottom of the elevator fifteen minutes before eight. This corner of the city was quieter than he expected, but then again, this was the Industrial District. Outfitters, arms manufacturers, and construction workers hurried about the district in a mad frenzy. The chaos usually calmed his nerves; he felt at home in the hustle and bustle, the high energy that came with BLADE’s intellectual conquests. Yet tonight, as he’d been walking towards the meeting point, Pongo had briefly considered getting a drink at the Repenta Diner. Frye had once told him that spiking a coffee wasn’t out of the ordinary, and Pongo had seen first-hand how alcohol soothed aching hearts.

This was something he needed to be sober for, though, so in the end, Pongo had gotten a water from the diner. He’d nursed it in his hands and had taken two sips before discarding the cup. He wish he’d kept it now, as he had nothing to do with his hands aside from wringing them together. Sweat built beneath his palms, the friction of his gloves providing some level of distraction from his own thoughts. Funny, how he allowed himself to feel this. Funny, how it didn’t serve to distract him from the truth.

“Pongo? Helloooo? Anybody home in there?”

Pongo blinked a few times, and when he regained focus, he saw Sydney standing right in front of him. How long had he been standing there?! Gods above, Pongo was out of it, huh? He could even smell Sydney’s cologne - it was one of his favorites. Jasmin, saffron, cedarwood. An expensive blend. Pongo stepped back, his heart fluttering under his chest.

He did not wear this for you. Stop it.

“H-Hi,” Pongo stammered, “sorry about that, I just…”

“Lost in your own head?” Sydney guessed, raising one of his pierced eyebrows in annoyance. “Happens, I guess.”

“Right. Yeah,” Pongo grinned sheepishly, finally making eye contact with Sydney. What was the human saying again, something about eyes being windows to the soul? If that was the case, Pongo could see through Sydney, and in that brief moment, he saw the truth. Sydney was happy to see him.

That made Pongo want to cry.

“So what’s so important that you couldn’t tell me through comms, huh?” Sydney asked. “You’re an old-fashioned fucker if you prefer talking to people in person.”

“Then call me old-fashioned, I suppose,” Pongo laughed nervously, “I, um…I think this is going to be too important for comm messages, is all.”

“Guess I’ll be the judge of that,” he huffed, “so get on with it. I don’t have all night.”

Right, he said he was busy. Pongo needed to get to the point. But at the same time, BLADEs were flying past them both, some casting looks over their shoulders. Damn it, he should’ve thought about how busy it’d be here.

“We should find somewhere quieter,” he suggested, expecting some form of backlash.

To his surprise, however, Sydney shrugged. “Whatever floats your yacht.”

“I do not own a yacht.”

“...I’ll rent you one of mine, sometime. Maybe I’ll throw in a one percent discount on the rental fee, too.”

Pongo’s eyes started to sting as he held back tears. The offer sounded so genuine, so real. Do not get your hopes up. 

“I would like that,” he said softly, feeling his heart begin to rip itself apart. He turned away from Sydney before he could say anything else.

Pongo stepped onto the elevator platform, using the controls to send it to the top floor after Sydney had embarked. It was a long way to the top, so once the elevator fence came up and they began to ascend, Pongo found himself sneaking a glance at Sydney. He was facing away, observing the city below. It was an array of colors and lights under the darkened sky, replacements for the stars that didn’t shine that night. Sydney’s head turned slightly, and Pongo could see those same lights reflected in his eyes. What a vibrant red they were, the color of power and blood and undying strength. 

Red, the color of love.

The first tear fell. Pongo wiped it away with the back of his glove, wincing when he pulled his arm back. He’d done it too rough, and now his cheek hurt. Not enough to leave a bruise, but enough to leave a memory.

The elevator came to a stop at the top floor. Pongo stepped out once the railings came down without acknowledging Sydney. He came to rest his arms on the fencing along the platform, staring down at NLA. This was where Elma had taken him when he’d first entered the city, when Pongo was unsure about who and what he was. There was a kind of poetic satisfaction in returning here, a satisfaction in knowing that he had found himself. 

Though…had he?

No. Pongo wasn’t here to throw himself a pity party. Just push the feelings down, as you always have and always will.

“So…” Sydney said, leaning back on the railing to Pongo’s right, “what do you want?”

Pongo didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he let it go in a shaky exhale. Maybe he could save himself. Maybe he could find a silly excuse and have Sydney get mad at him for wasting his time. Maybe he could find another way to get the answers he needed. 

But he couldn’t do any of that in good conscience. He had to face this - and so did Sydney.

“Elma gave me access to the BLADE reports,” he finally said. “They, um…you Brainjacked over seventy percent of the population.”

Silence. Pongo didn’t have the strength to look up at Sydney, to gauge his reaction through his facial expressions. Yet the air shifted, a tension that was nearly unbearable. Pongo opened his mouth, too uncomfortable to remain quiet, but Sydney beat him to the punch.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

A confession. Pongo gazed upwards at that, finding that Sydney had turned around to assume the same position as him. He was staring out at the city lights, his brow furrowed. From the profile, he looked…

He looked sad.

That was what Pongo had been searching for. That was the answer he needed. 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” Sydney spat out in response.

“Sydney -”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, sharper this time, “why do you even care?”

Because I care about you.

He couldn’t say that. He shouldn’t.

“Because Elma also told me you suffered some kind of amnesia afterwards,” Pongo answered, “that you did not remember most of the time in Cauldros. It just…from everything I heard, I do not think that the one who Brainjacked everyone was truly you.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Sydney’s voice rose, “Of course it was me!”

“No, no, Sydney, listen to me, that was not you -”

“SHUT UP!!”

Pongo flinched back at Sydney’s order. Sydney’s eyes were glazed over, tears trailing down his cheeks. He hunched over to hide his face, an ugly sob emanating from the back of his throat. It took every bit of willpower to resist rushing forward, to resist wrapping him up in a hug, to resist telling him that everything would be alright. 

I will not be able to let go if I hold him now.

“I don’t even know why you wanted to see me,” Sydney nearly shouted as he straightened his spine, spinning around to finally face him. “You know what I did. The entire fucking city knows what I did, but I don’t even fucking remember what happened. What, did you wanna point and laugh at the asshole who ruined lives for shits and giggles?!”

“It was not you,” Pongo pleaded, unable to hold back his own tears.

“Then who the fuck do you think I am, huh?! Who are you to tell me who I am and what I’m capable of?! I’m a fucking monster -”

“You are not a monster!!” Pongo cried, “You are not the same person as the one who Brainjacked the city!!”

“Oooh, so that was a fucking clone who did that, then?!” Sydney retorted, “Answer the fucking question, asshole - who am I?!”

Pongo swallowed hard, forcing himself to stare into Sydney’s eyes. His makeup was starting to smear, a black tar staining his cheeks. As Pongo spoke, his voice rose, gaining more and more strength.

“You act vain and narcissistic and you hardly care about anyone other than yourself. You buy things because you think it makes you happy, but you are never happy, because you think you are undeserving of everything you have been given. You act as though you only care about yourself because you do not want anyone showing you the slightest hint of compassion, and it is because you are terrified, Sydney, you are terrified of being loved because you think you do not deserve it, but damn it Sydney you do!!”

“I don’t deserve shit,” Sydney faltered, but now Pongo was shouting, now he felt too deeply.

“YES YOU DO!! Are you living?! Breathing?! Then you deserve someone who loves you, someone who will be there for you through thick and thin, someone who sees past all of your flaws and sees you for your heart!! Fucking hell, Sydney, I lo-”

He caught himself. 

“I know you deserve to be loved because I know you are a good person deep down!! Everyone deserves to be loved no matter how many times they have fucked up, and I will not sit back and watch you believe you are undeserving, because YOU ARE!!”

Pongo’s voice was cracking, a mirror to his heart. His breaths deep and painful, he stepped back, hitting the rail. The metal provided a cool sensation against his hands, welcome in the heated moment. Sydney looked shellshocked, eyes wide and unblinking. Pongo had never seen this expression before, and despite his fury, the sight made him near-nauseous. He had to close his eyes, a gentle breeze finally coming to soothe him, caressing the hair sticking to his face.

“The fact of the matter is that you have changed,” Pongo quietly said, controlling how his voice shook. “You put on the same act as before, but deep down…I see you, Sydney. I do.”

Silence, eternal. Pongo sighed. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t keep doing this. Getting attached, getting his heart broken when there was nothing left to break. 

“I am sorry if you had somewhere else to be,” he apologized, “I got my answer. I will leave you alone, if that is what you want.”

Pongo let go of the railing, straightening his spine and turning back towards the elevator. The silence remained deafening, and his thoughts raced to devour it whole. His own voice echoed in his ears, remnants of his anger, reflections of his soul. The anger was not towards Sydney, he concluded quickly, but rather towards himself. How could Pongo have been so stupid, to get this close to Sydney? The happy-go-lucky Interceptor with a heart of gold, with friends in every corner of the city and beyond, a man who dreamed and hoped and wished for more. That was selfish. That was greedy. That was wrong. He wasn’t allowed to wish for a deeper connection because he was destined to love and never be loved in return. That was his punishment, his sentence, his -

A hand, quickly grasping his. Metal under his skin. A whisper, a plea in the dark. 

“Don’t go.”

Pongo wasn’t strong enough to keep his gaze fixed forward. He looked to Sydney, to the quivering form that had stopped him from leaving. He was a shell - or perhaps, this was the original Sydney, the one who was showing his true colors after years and years of hiding in plain sight. And his true colors were beautiful in every sense, vibrant red and gold and white. His palm pressed in Pongo’s own was a dream, a hope, a wish come true. 

Pongo looked down at their intertwined hands. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

And yet…

Could he allow himself to be selfish, just this once?

He didn’t give himself enough time to answer that question. Pongo brought Sydney closer, wrapping his other hand around the back of Sydney’s neck, pulling him in, in, in - and their foreheads touched, skin upon skin. Pongo forced himself to keep the space between their mouths, though he cherished the small contact made between their noses. Do not get closer, he told himself, his last shred of control. 

But the little voice in the back of his mind, once smothered, echoed out. You are allowed to want this. 

His resolve finally shattered.

“Okay,” Pongo breathed. “I am here.”

And he sealed the distance between their lips. 

Sydney was wearing lipstick, Pongo discovered, and he wondered if this sudden kiss would smudge it. It would certainly appear on Pongo’s mouth, and he battled with whether or not that was a point of excitement or defeat. He tilted his head ever so slightly, adjusting so he didn’t aggravate Sydney’s piercings. Sydney’s cologne overwhelmed him, that same mix of jasmin, saffron, cedarwood. Pongo could drink deep of it and never be satisfied. 

But he pulled away, eventually - after he realized that Sydney was not reciprocating the kiss. Pongo didn’t meet Sydney’s gaze, everything crashing down on him all at once. He had to say something. He had to come up with an excuse. This is the end of everything. You never deserved to get this close, and now you have to pay for it. 

“I am so sorry,” Pongo whispered, “I should have…I should have asked first. I know this would not work, but I just...”

He wiped his tears from his face, turning away. His heart had skipped several beats, and he wasn’t sure why the air suddenly felt so heavy, so constricting. He deserved it, still. He deserved to get smothered in the pain. Friend of the world, closest to none. How could someone like him ever hope for more?

The elevator was enticing, too enticing. But he told Sydney he was here, that he’d stay. The honor took hold of him, so his feet refused to move. Better for him anyways - he had to be here for the fallout, both self-inflicted and external. Gods, he should’ve left when he had the chance. He should’ve ripped his hand out of Sydney’s and spared them both the pain. How deeply, horribly selfish indeed. A hypocrite, a fool, and above all else -

Sydney’s hands found their way to Pongo’s cheeks and pulled him back in.

There they were, kissing under the moonlit sky. It took Pongo only a moment to recover from the initial shock, and then he crumbled, his defenses completely destroyed. One of Sydney’s hands shifted backwards, entangling in Pongo’s hair, and the other fell down to cup the space between his neck and shoulder. Pongo’s arms, out of desperation, wrapped themselves around Sydney’s hips to draw him in closer. He thought this would ground him, but instead he found his thoughts floating in a pastel haze.

Sydney was the first to pull away. Chasing the high, Pongo nearly followed his lips, but as they caught their breath, Pongo couldn’t hold back his relief. He laughed, soft and warm, keeping his hands around Sydney’s waist. Hells, he’d been right before - he couldn’t let go, now that he’d taken hold. He didn’t even realize he was crying until Sydney’s thumb came to trace the skin under his eye, wiping away a wet streak of newborn tears. 

“I don’t know what this means,” Sydney whispered. “For you, for me…I don’t know what any of this means.”

“It does not have to mean anything if you do not want it to,” Pongo replied, his smile weak but honest.

“But I want this to mean something. You deserve that.”

“You deserve it, too. You always have.”

Sydney swallowed hard. “I…I don’t know if I believe you, yet. But I want to. Damn, do I want to.”

Pongo didn’t respond, but his smile strengthened. He knew Sydney believed that, and he’d do everything he could to prove him right. That he was deserving. That he was loved, loved so much that it hurt. 

And maybe…maybe Pongo could believe that for himself, too. That he deserved the same. 

“Damn, Pon. Whatever you’re reading, it must be important.”

Pongo squeaked, looking up from his comm device to meet Fudge’s gaze. He’d decided to visit Fudge’s lab, a routine at this point since Fudge had the tendency to lock himself away for days on end working on new inventions. Most often he’d make conversation with the Outfitter as he worked, a measure against Fudge’s self-inflicted loneliness, but today was not like most days. Pongo had decided to get a headstart on the Christmas list for the year, and instead of using the regular paper, he’d made the transfer over to keeping a digital list on his comm device. After all, the last few times he’d been out in public checking over the paper list, he’d gotten caught and sheepishly had to explain himself. His identity as Santa had to be a secret, after all! Wasn’t that the point of being Santa? If everyone knew that he was the one dropping off their gifts, then the magic of Christmas would surely be ruined!

So, with the transfer to a digital list, Pongo was excited to covertly check everything over and make sure he’d gotten all the residents of NLA. Since Fudge was busy building stuff, Pongo didn’t think he’d notice or deign to bring it up. When Pongo didn’t respond immediately, Fudge raised an eyebrow. He was perched on top of a ladder looking down at Pongo; he’d been working on his Skell and had been too short to reach the back panel behind its face. The height advantage made Pongo feel more than a little exposed, and he had to briefly wonder if Fudge felt like that all the time. 

“So? What are you reading?” Fudge probed.

“N-Nothing!” Pongo defended himself, tucking his comm device in his pocket. It was a harder maneuver than he anticipated, considering he was awkwardly seated on what may have possibly been the only clean chair in the entire lab surrounded by spare parts and mechanical debris. 

“Ooh, did you get a text from that rich guy you’re dating?”

“Oh, ah, n-no.”

“Wait…Pongo, are you reading something naughty?”

“WHAT?!”

“I’m just messing with ya,” Fudge cackled, stepping down off of his ladder and approaching Pongo - who, at that moment, was as red as a tomato. “Whatever it is, you’re like…super into it. I mean, you didn’t hear me ask you if you could hand me a tool before.”

“...RIPS, did he really ask me that?” Pongo mumbled. 

Fudge’s AI system responded nearly immediately. “AFFIRMATIVE, MASTER CALDRAVIX. IN FACT, MASTER CARSON ASKED YOU FOR THE SOLDERING IRON TWICE WITHIN THE PAST THIRTY SECONDS.”

“Gods above,” Pongo sighed, putting his head in his hands. “Sorry, Fudge. You are right, I got distracted.”

“You still haven’t told me what you were reading, though, so now I’m curious,” Fudge knocked some stuff off of his desk, leaning against the empty space he had created and crossing his arms over his chest. “Spill the beans.”

“...What beans?”

“Fucking hell, it’s a saying. Means ya gotta tell the truth.”

“Oh, well, um…” Pongo shrank into himself. His hand palmed the pocket containing his comm device despite his uncertainty. Why did it seem like every year, someone new had to learn about his masquerade? And why couldn’t he lie?! Seriously, this would be so much easier if he could think of a valid excuse for being distracted, but nothing came to mind. At least it was Fudge and not some stranger, right? 

With a defeated sigh, Pongo pulled his comm device back out. As it opened back onto the Christmas list, he explained, “It is the list of gifts for the residents of NLA this year. The songs always say that Santa checks it twice, so I was going through it again to make sure I got everyone.”

“Your list has everyone in the fucking ci - wait a fucking minute,” Fudge’s eyes widened, his arms falling to his sides. “Are you the fucker that delivers everyone’s gifts each Christmas?”

“Y-Yes,” Pongo admitted.

“Holy shit!! Holy shit,” Fudge exclaimed, slowly becoming more and more excited, “The Outfitters have tried laying traps for you for years now! They wanted to know who you were so badly! I should’ve fucking known it was you, only someone like you would be able to pull a stunt like that off every year, you gotta tell me everything about how you operate - are there people that help you behind the scenes? Did you recruit some aprica for your sleigh? Oh fuck, I wonder what your sleigh looks like, I bet it’s a -”

“I do not have a sleigh,” Pongo interjected, “I just use my Skell every year. Eros is able to carry the weight of everything just fine.”

Fudge stopped suddenly. “You don’t have a sleigh.”

“No?”

“...”

Pongo prepared himself for another rant, a bout of frustration. Fudge was an easy man to annoy, and something about that confession made him feel defenseless. He’d never really thought about the specifics regarding Santa’s sleigh, taking it as something he could easily swap out and get the same result. But maybe the decision to do so cost him some necessary Christmas magic? As Pongo silently cursed his oversight, Fudge’s shock slowly turned into something else. Pongo expected a scowl, but he was greeted with a far greater sight. A devilish grin, a plan hatching in Fudge’s mind. Oh, he looked positively demonic like this, but the wider the grin grew, the better Pongo felt. After all, that grin could only mean one thing.

Fudge had an idea.

“RIPS, cancel all the plans I had for tonight,” He told his AI, spinning around and scurrying around to the side of his desk. “Tell Alexa I came down with mimfluenza or some shit, I don’t fucking care. Someone else can take up repair duty for the week. We’ve got a rush order to deal with.”

“What are you planning?” Pongo asked, standing up. At the same time, Fudge pulled out some blueprint paper, slamming it on the empty space on his desk. He kept his hand firmly placed on top of it, whipping a pencil out of thin air and smirking over his shoulder.

“Tonight,” Fudge said, “I’m building Santa’s sleigh.”

~

True to his word, Fudge sketched out a sleigh to build, decked out with all sorts of functions that Pongo couldn’t wrap his head around. All he was able to gather was that it’d be able to fly in a similar manner to a Skell and wouldn’t require the use of reindeer (or aprica, which couldn’t fly anyways!). It’d have a functional GPS system and a way for Pongo to input all of his stops, as well as check which locations and people had been given their gifts and which hadn’t. The sleigh would be powered by nuclear energy and have safety guards in place in case of an emergency, and - above all else - it would have a sick paint job. Pongo didn’t make the comment in the moment, but Fudge’s excitement almost made him cry. He was acting like a little kid, waiting for his presents under the tree, living in the memory of youth. It was too beautiful a moment for Pongo to squander.

After assessing what necessary for the sleigh, Fudge gave Pongo a shopping list of parts to acquire from the Outfitters and the shops in Armory Alley. The names boggled Pongo’s mind, and trying to pronounce any of them was hard enough, but he didn’t even know their purpose! It resulted in a lot of confusion. Thank the gods Pongo never decided to become an Outfitter, honestly.

Luckily, none of the parts Fudge requested were too big to carry, and Pongo now walked confidently with a shopping bag full of pipes and gears and other knickknacks. It was heavy, of course, but nothing Pongo couldn’t handle. He decided to peruse the commercial district afterwards in the hopes that he could pick up some last-minute gifts from the list. It was busy, but predictable at this point - Pongo was a pro at his job, after all! Years and years of experience shopping for the good people of NLA taught him a thing or two about savings, navigating the crowds, and -

“Pongo!”

Oh, someone said his name! But in the thick of the crowd, Pongo couldn’t identify the source right away. He scoured the road, the sidewalks, trying to see who could’ve called out to him. Only when a hand clasped his shoulder did he realize that the person had been behind him all long, and that person had some rather recognizable metallic red fingers. 

“Sydney!” Pongo twisted around and gave Sydney a hug, wrapping his arms over his shoulders. Sydney chuckled underneath him, returning the embrace gingerly. When they separated, Pongo asked, “Doing some last minute shopping for Christmas?”

“Kinda,” He replied, “Looks like you are, too. Is it for the…you know…”

“Oh! Well, technically yes,” Pongo realized Sydney was referring to the bag of parts he was holding onto, “One of my Outfitter friends caught on and insisted that I need a sleigh. He asked me to get some parts to help construct it. He needed…” A pause, as he attempted to remember the names. “...A regeneration corepipe, a couple formstruct plating adhesives, a type three automotive latching mechanism…” Another pause, when he couldn’t bring himself to try and pronounce the names of the more complicated ones. “...some other things, too. I must admit, this kind of stuff is not something I understand well.”

Sydney peered into the bag, his head tilting in curiosity. Pongo made a mental note that he looked rather dashing today, dressed up in one of his fancier white suits. The red tie around his neck matched his arms in grandeur, a slight sheen to them that reflected the sunlight just enough to stand out. Gods above, it even made his eyes pop, a vibrant and passionate crimson hue. 

“...Pon?” Sydney glanced up, wearing a faint smile.

“Mm?”

“That’s not a regeneration corepipe. That’s a regeneration corner pipe. Same material, but not the same purpose.”

Pongo’s face fell, the color draining from his face. “Oh, shoot! I should go back and get the right one then, gods I thought -”

“I’ll come with you, if you want,” He offered, “And don’t beat yourself up for not getting it right. It’s a pretty common misconception. Lots of Outfitters mix it up, even.”

“I appreciate that,” Pongo smiled wide, the quick bout of fear residing into his typical cheeriness, “Goodness, I am lucky to have someone so smart by my side!”

Sydney rubbed the back of his neck, a faint blush forming across his cheeks. “I mean, I’m an Outfitter now. I’m supposed to know these things.”

“I wonder if Fudge would welcome your help in constructing the sleigh,” He mused out loud, a careful hand upon his chin. “He insisted that he would be able to complete it before my departure, but…”

“If you’re trying to play friend matchmaker again, I’m not really sure it’ll work out.”

“One bad introduction should not define the entire experience! I mean, do you remember how we met?”

Sydney stiffened at that. “Ah, y-yeah, um…”

“I said it before and I will say it again: I forgive you for doing that,” Pongo gently nudged Sydney’s shoulder, an act of reassurance. “That aside, if it truly makes you uncomfortable, I will not ask Fudge about it. You will at least get the chance to meet him on Christmas Eve!”

“You still expect me to be there?” He asked, “I mean, last year was just a fluke.”

“Part of the magic of Christmas is spending time with your loved ones,” Pongo asserted, “And last I checked, you are under that umbrella.” A pause, a shy smile. “It would not be the same without you there.”

There was a sliver of hesitation in Sydney’s gaze, biting the inside of his lip where the scar ran across his jawline. An image came to mind of Pongo running kisses down its path, but he had some amount of restraint, considering this was a public setting. There’d be time to sing those praises after he’d completed his mission. 

“I’ll be there,” Sydney eventually promised, and Pongo allowed himself to break his self-inflicted restraints and give him a quick peck on the lips. 

“Thank you, Sydney,” Pongo said, “I cannot tell you how much this means to me.”

Then, taking Sydney’s hand in his own, Pongo glanced up towards the administrative district, the high and mighty BLADE Tower radiant in the afternoon sun. “Alright, now come and show me which one is the corepipe!”

“Okay, okay,” Sydney couldn’t help but chuckle as Pongo nearly dragged him across the sidewalk, and he eventually took the lead down to the hangar’s elevator. Pongo smiled wide the whole way back, his mind swimming with a list of things still left to do, gifts he still needed to get, hugs he still needed to give. Gods above, how Christmas filled him with such wondrous spirit! Not that he wasn’t full of love every other day of the year, but ever since he’d heard of Christmas, something about the holiday gave him the excuse to take things up a level. And considering last year’s Christmas had been…well, less than satisfactory, given his whole “missing both of his legs” deal, Pongo was excited to return to the field and make this Christmas one to remember. 

Just thinking about how magical everything felt, he allowed himself to daydream, to imagine how perfect the night would turn out to be. What could possibly go wrong?

~

Fudge would never admit this to anybody out loud, but damn, did he love Christmas. It had always been one of his favorite times of the year, a moment always shared with his dad and the rest of Carson Tech. There was a kind of feeling that didn’t come with any other holiday, the feeling of spending time with those you loved most. All that “Christmas spirit” bullshit that the commercials and songs spouted over the intercoms got on his nerves pretty quickly, but even then, they held some truth to them. 

So hearing that Pongo was the famed Santa Claus that had been delivering presents for the past couple years, hearing that he didn’t have any mode of transportation aside from his own Skell? What a brilliant excuse to combine two of his favorite things!!

Working on something this secret, though, meant that Fudge had to make a few sacrifices. RIPS was automatically programmed to notify Fudge of any incoming calls, and of all the calls he got leading up to Christmas Eve, the majority were from three people. The first was Ruadha, who was simply happy to talk to Fudge over the comm device about everything and anything. They did pry about the whole “secret invention” thing, which Fudge fully expected, but it still prompted him to put up some extra security measures for his lab just in case the little gremlin decided to pay a surprise visit. 

The second frequent caller was his father, Antonio Carson. Those calls were daily, and the conversations were on the same wavelength as those Fudge had with Ruadha, sprinkled with a few fatherly words of advice. He didn’t ask about the secret invention as much as Fudge thought he would, but he quickly found out the reason why. Turns out, his father also had a secret he was working on, and he explained that it didn’t feel right asking for a secret to be revealed when he was in no position to return the gesture. That didn’t stop Fudge from wondering what it could be, though.

The third most frequent caller was none other than Polaris. However, that had been something of an error on her part. For whatever fucking reason, she called him a grand total of eight times in a ten minute time frame. When Fudge finally ordered RIPS to pick up so he could scream bloody murder at Polaris, her voice was muffled and far away. Fudge rolled his eyes, immediately deciphering what was happening - especially since Polaris wasn’t the only voice he heard on the other line. Nope, there was a second person in the background, though he wasn’t about to guess what the fuck they were doing. All he said before hanging up was “Blackmail material”. Whether or not it was worthy blackmail material, Fudge wasn’t sure. It just felt good to scare her. 

The sleigh was easy enough to build, so long as it had Fudge’s undivided attention. Pongo returned with the parts far sooner than he expected, and Pongo even handed him an extra regeneration corner pipe. “I mixed them up,” Pongo had admitted, and to that, Fudge had responded, “I’ll call this an early Christmas present then”. Pongo didn’t stay much longer after that, and so Fudge got absorbed into his work for the next few days. 

Christmas Eve came, and by the time the sun had set below the horizon, the final touches were being made to the sleigh. Fudge wiped his brow, gazing lovingly at his newest masterpiece. He couldn’t think of anything else it would need, so he set his tools down and asked RIPS, “Send a text to Pongo and ask him where the rendezvous is for the operation tonight.”

“YES, MASTER CARSON.”

A few minutes passed, a bliss that came with success and pride, before RIPS informed Fudge, “MASTER CALDRAVIX HAS CONFIRMED THAT THE RENDEZVOUS LOCATION IS ON TOP OF BLADE TOWER IN THE ADMINISTRATIVE DISTRICT.”

“Alright, sounds like a pla -” Fudge stopped. “...Oh. Oh fuck.”

RIPS didn’t even need to ask. How in the ever loving fuck was he supposed to get this sleigh to the top of BLADE Tower without anybody noticing? Fudge groaned, the base of his palms digging into his eyebrows. Looked like he had some more work to do. 

~

As fate would have it, a quick invisibility cloak did the trick. Was it as polished as the rest of the sleigh? Oh absolutely fucking not. Was Fudge a little ashamed of how spotty that last minute detail was? Yep. But hey, it would work for tonight, and he’d have an entire year to refine it further.

With the invisibility cloak on, Fudge used his Amdusias Hades to lift the sleigh and carefully fly it to the top of BLADE Tower. Luckily, the vast majority of NLA’s population had retired for the night, so questions about his Skell’s cupped arms were few and easily dismissed. As he flew closer, Fudge spotted other Skells parked on top of the tower - ah fuck, was he late? Whatever the case was, he landed near the edge, setting the sleigh down as gently as possible before exiting his Skell and greeting everyone outside. He recognized Eros, Pongo’s Skell, which had a comically large sack placed in front of it. Those were the presents, presumably, and thinking about its contents made Fudge’s heart flutter for a moment. Not too far from the Skell’s feet was Pongo, dressed in a rather nice Santa outfit, complete with the hat atop his head. Was that puffball on the hat’s tip heart-shaped? Okay, that was a nice touch. He waved to Fudge as he approached, and that was when Fudge saw the person he’d been talking to.

“L, what the fuck are you wearing?” Fudge asked, nearly choking on his words. The jolly blue xeno was wearing a rather skimpy elf outfit, rather akin to those cursed bunnybods Fudge occasionally witnessed BLADES strutting around in. 

“It is our Christmas attire!” L exclaimed cheerfully, unaware of just how he appeared, “We parade in this every year during Christmas’s Evening!”

“Costumes are not necessary, but I think they are rather fun,” Pongo chirped, “When I recruited Danniel, I gave him reindeer antlers. I…well, I am not quite sure what I would give you, Fudge. I think we might need to duplicate some roles.”

“I’m the sleigh guy. Isn’t that enough?” Fudge raised an eyebrow, praying to every god that he wouldn’t have to wear something stupid. Sensing his unease, Pongo gave him a reassuring grin. 

“It is more than enough. Though, ah…where exactly is the sleigh?”

Oh, right. Fudge turned back towards his Skell, towards the still invisible sleigh. Pulling out his comm device, he typed in the command for the invisibility device to decloak, and in moments, the sleigh revealed itself to the bystanders atop BLADE Tower. The sides shone a metallic red, glistening in the remnants of the sunset. The seat inside was lined with as plush a fabric as Fudge could find - don’t ask him what material it was, because honestly, that was not Fudge’s area of expertise. A control panel sat in front of the seating, forming a near-perfect semicircle that was reminiscent of the paneling inside a standard Skell. Even the buttons were in a similar arrangement, though none of them were lit up. Pongo would have to turn the bad boy on before the real light show began.

“Oh my gods,” Pongo breathed, “Fudge, you are brilliant.”

“Go ahead and take a closer look if you want,” Fudge told him, “It’s yours, after all.”

That was all Pongo needed to rush forward, squealing like a child, admiring all of the detailwork in half-formed ramblings. Fudge allowed himself a second to revel in the pride, the absolue beauty that he’d managed to build in record time. However, as he glanced to the left, to the right, he realized that there were a few more people here that he hadn’t interacted with. Another darker skinned fellow with reindeer antlers and freckles that rivaled Fudge’s stood awkwardly nearby, for instance. Pongo had mentioned his name over texts - Danny, right? Pongo had the tendency to call people by their full names, an endearing sign of respect that he’d apparently learned early on in his life. Eh, fuck it, Fudge could try to make conversation.

“Danny, yeah?” Fudge started, and the address made Danny make a little noise from the back of his throat.

“Oh, ah, y-yeah! Nice to meet you,” He replied, offering a gloved hand out to shake. As Fudge shook it with his left hand, he could immediately tell that the material under the fabric was different, clearly not the standard mimeosome framework. Fudge resisted every temptation to probe into the details, so he broke off the handshake first and shifted focus. 

“How’d you get roped into this shit, then?”

“Oh! A few years ago, Pongo bumped into me while he had his Christmas list out, and I saw it and decided to offer my help,” Danny explained, “He said I could be Rudolph since he was Santa and L was an elf.”

“Does that mean you helped him deliver everywhere in the city?” Fudge asked, genuinely curious as to his role.

“No, I just help him find everything on his list. He does all the deliveries himself - and now he’ll do them with a really cool looking sleigh!” He said, eyeing the sleigh that Pongo was still bouncing around. Seriously, how could anyone have that amount of energy? As he watched the show unfold, Danny continued, “The sleigh looks incredible, by the way. It must’ve taken a long time to build!”

“Eh, three days, give or take,” Fudge shrugged, and he couldn’t really determine why Danny’s eyes grew wide at the answer. “It doesn’t have nearly all of the features I wanted it to have, but it’s got more than enough to function for tonight. Next year I’ll have made it perfect.”

“I don’t doubt that for a second,” Danny agreed, “I look forward to seeing it!”

They both watched as Pongo boarded his Skell, the heavy sack of presents lifting easily in Eros’s arms. Fudge tensed; he hadn’t given Pongo the go-ahead to load the sleigh yet, and he wanted to make sure the weight distribution wasn’t going to fuck up the sleigh’s integrity. But the sack came down on the back half of the sleigh, and though Fudge was bracing for the worst, he heard no signs of the sleigh faltering. Pongo then exited his Skell and continued to geek out over how wonderful the sleigh was, with L piping in with his own compliments every so often. 

It was then that Fudge spotted another figure approaching out of the corner of his eye, though they seemed to be ignoring him and Danny. Metallic red arms poked out of a pristine white suit - wait, okay, was there a trend here? Why did everyone have metal arms aside from L? What a weird fucking bias. Whatever the case, the suit alone was enough for Fudge to identify the man as none other than Sydney. He wasn’t wearing any sort of Christmas costume, but that also made him stick out like a sore thumb. That, and the brooding. If there was anything that could get on Fudge’s nerves, it was brooding. 

However, he could already hear Pongo’s voice in the back of his mind, an innocent excitement about his friends and loved ones helping him out on one of the most important nights of the year. So Fudge swallowed his pride and took a cautious step forward, enough that he was an equal distance away from both Danny and Sydney. Sydney cast his glance downwards, and Fudge fought the urge to smack the look off of his face. It wasn’t even like the guy was acting high and mighty - it was the fucking height advantage and the fact that Sydney looked so punchable! Hold it together, Fudge, just for the night. He tried to be civil, thinking that maybe he could see past the horrible first impression he was getting.

“So you’re Sydney.”

“Yeah.”

“...”

“...”

Yeah, no, Fudge didn’t like this guy at all. Why was Pongo’s taste in men so shitty? Whatever, he could deal with working alongside this douchebag for a night. But that didn’t stop him from squinting, from looking this guy up and down and crossing his arms. Sydney scowled, staring right back at him. Oh, now, this was gonna be fun. He could practically smell the distaste in the air, the fuel being poured onto the fire. 

“Are two of my favorite people getting along?” Pongo merrily asked from the side of the sleigh, innocent to the vitriolic stand-off happening in front of him.

Fudge looked away quickly, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sydney do the same. They both responded at the same time.

“No fuckin’ problems here.”

“Yeah, we’re fine.”

Pongo positively beamed at that. “Fantastic! Oh, that makes me feel a lot better. I was starting to think that adding onto the team so quickly would be awkward!”

“The Christmas legend states that the more there are, the merrier you’ll be,” L chirped, “And it’s impossible not to be merry on this wondrous night!”

“It’s definitely nice seeing all the Christmas decorations from up here. Shows how everyone’s still festive!” Danny gazed down at the city below, the districts of the lower level shining in all sorts of Christmas lights. Fudge was eventually able to spot his own contribution to the front of the test hangar, though he felt a little disappointed by the fact that they blended in with the rest of the lights from his current viewpoint. 

“So what’s the procedure now?” Fudge asked, sneaking a peek down at his comm device once more. “All the necessary last-minute detailing on the sleigh is done, and judging by the scans, it’s holding the sack’s weight just fine. Should be good for takeoff whenever you’re ready, Santa.”

“L’Cirufe, is every present accounted for?” Pongo said, turning to the xenoform.

“All presents counted and accounted!” He confirmed, “Whenever you’re ready to depart, we shall light the way!”

“Alright! Then it is time to test the sleigh,” Pongo turned back to Fudge, “Remind me what the controls are again? You said there were a few important things to remember.”

“Right,” Fudge adjusted the collar of his sweater, clearing his throat. Could he make himself look a little taller, a little more important? He hoped the bravado did the trick. “When you get into the sleigh, you’ll see a huge panel in front of you. I’ve designed it so it’s similar in appearance to your everyday Skell, with Arts buttons and everything. Center button turns the entire thing on, check to make sure all the other buttons light up when you do that. If they all look good, use the levers to take her up gently - too much force and you’ll shoot straight up vertically into the air.”

“Oh, like what Sydney did with his golden Ares once,” Pongo nodded in understanding, though the comment made Sydney mutter something under his breath about that not being his fault. 

“I don’t wanna fucking know,” Fudge said curtly, “But yeah. Don’t drive like a bitch and you should be fine. Worst case scenario, think of it like a Skell, and ask yourself what you’d do if you were in a Skell. Danny and I will be on the comm network on it too, in case you’ve got any questions.”

“Wait, I’m gonna be connected to it?” Danny seemed surprised at this revelation, and Fudge did his best not to roll his eyes and scoff. 

“I’m making you the navigator, so yeah. Next year I’ll probably install a GPS into the sleigh so Pon can go his own route, but as it stands, I had three days to build an entire fucking sleigh from scratch, so now that’s your job. Rudolph’s supposed to drive the sleigh, y’know, so at least now your role’s gonna be a little more accurate.” He took a moment to adjust his goggles, which were starting to slide down over his face. The wind was really being a bitch about this, huh? “Anyways, I’ll be connected to it too, since I gotta perform system checks and make sure the whole thing’s running smoothly.”

“And what will Sydney be doing?” Pongo asked sweetly.

Fudge looked at Sydney. Sydney looked at Fudge.

“...Emotional support elf,” Fudge shrugged.

“Excuse me -”

“Anyways, if anything goes south, you can reach me and Danny through the intercom in the sleigh,” Fudge talked over Sydney’s protests, “Oh, and don’t like…lean out of the side or some shit. I’m not gonna be held responsible for Santa’s death.”

“Why didn’t you make any fucking guard rails if you were worried about that?!” Sydney raised.

“Alright, bitchbaby, next time you can make the sleigh in three days, how about that?”

“I could do it in two, and I could do it with enough safety features so I wouldn’t have to fucking worry about Santa splatting into the middle of the residential district’s tennis court!!”

“Batter up then, asshole, God fuckin’ knows you’ve got enough credits up your ass to make it happen! Can’t fuckin’ wait to get blinded on Christmas Eve looking for Santa, dashing through the snow on a gold mercedes sleigh!”

“At least mine would look like a star descending from the heavens! What does yours do, crash and burn? Don’t think I don’t know the Carson legacy just because I haven’t been building fire hazards as long as you have.”

“You fucking piece of shit -”

“GUYS.”

Sydney and Fudge had gotten in each others’ faces, teeth bared and trading verbal blows. Fudge could feel the blood beneath his skin boiling, fuel on a fire that wouldn’t stop burning until it knew the sweet taste of victory. But just as he was about to make things physical, Danny placed himself between the two arguing Outfitters, stretching his arms out to create distance between them. Right, Danny was a Mediator. He was trying to mediate. How cute.

“Now is not the night to do this,” Danny said sternly, “You’re allowed to not be friends, but maybe save the arguing for when you’re not in front of Pongo.”

Fudge looked over, and Pongo was by L’s side, having watched the entire argument unfold. Fudge had been so focused on the fire inside his heart that he didn’t realize that he’d taken some of Pongo’s warmth to do so, the air now a frostbitten chill. Pongo was frozen to the spot, eyes wide like a deer in the headlights. Oh shit, were those tears in the corners of his eyes? Damnit, Fudge really dropped the ball on this one. But still, it was not an easy feat to temper his anger, so his next statement still contained a level of animosity that wasn’t meant for Pongo.

“Get in the fucking sleigh, Santa.”

Pongo didn’t move immediately, though the brief flash in his eyes indicated that he’d heard Fudge loud and clear. However, after taking a moment in the silence, Pongo’s first steps were not towards the sleigh. Instead, he strode over to Fudge, leaned down, and hugged him tight. Fudge gasped, squirming in Pongo’s grip for a moment. 

“Thank you for doing this,” Pongo whispered into Fudge’s shoulder, “I am so grateful to have a friend like you in my life.”

“Oh, uh…” Fudge found himself at a loss for words, stumbling upon the bashful, “Don’t mention it. Least I could do.”

Pongo pulled away then, turning and giving Sydney the same hug. Fudge could hear him whisper something too, and whatever it was, it made Sydney’s expression melt. Pongo left Sydney with a goodbye kiss on the cheek, and after giving Danny a hug of his own, he rejoined L by the sleigh. They exchanged a quick hug before Pongo climbed aboard, sliding into his seat in front of the sleigh’s controls. As Fudge had instructed before, Pongo tapped the center button, and the sleigh roared to life, the thrusters in the rear glowing a vibrant red. Before initiating takeoff, he looked to Fudge, and Fudge gave a thumbs-up to indicate that all systems were green. 

After that, Fudge could only describe the takeoff as something out of a movie. The sleigh began to ride, slowly, steadily, the flames behind leaving trails of embers and stardust behind it. Though the sleigh wobbled in its ascent, it soon found its balance, and Pongo found his confidence behind the controls. Every system remained operational as the thrusters were given more juice, and the sleigh rocketed off into the night. Fudge even swore that he heard Pongo trying to mimic Santa’s laughter, a hearty “Ho Ho Ho” that echoed across the city. It would’ve brought tears to his eyes if he wasn’t in the company of others, though he promptly noticed that L had begun openly weeping. Danny was the first to ask if he was okay, and to that, L had responded that he was overwhelmed with joy. Thank the fucking gods, honestly. 

And so the ragtag group of Santago’s helpers watched as, once again, Santago took to the skies to deliver presents to all of the citizens of NLA. In the silence of their awe, Fudge smiled, and uttered a single phrase.