msbox

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At one point in time, Alastor could definitively say that he didn’t care what happened to his wife. 

You were… auxiliary at best and a nuisance at worst. A mess of naivety, youth, and a bumbling sense of goodness. Its truly a marvel how someone so seemingly innocent made her way down to the Pride Ring. But perhaps that was it. Pride. At least, that was his working hypothesis. He couldn’t say for certain what landed you eternal damnation, and perhaps it was none of his business anyway what with the way you kept it strictly under wraps. In another life, perhaps, Alastor would be curious, but time is wasted on flights of folly such as deducing the nature of his benefactor’s death. You had spiraling horns etched into your skull, so you were, in one way or another, just like the rest of them. 

It isn’t until he feels that tug that he realizes what he feels is nothing short of care. The phantom tugs at his chest, at his heart, a pitiful plea for help, but one that smells so familiarly sweet that he knows who it is and where its coming from.

And despite the way this growing humanity makes his fingers strain and curl, he dissolves into shadow and slithers toward your pull. 

---

Boredom is the worst part of Hell. 

Killing and eating can only be so much fun. After disposing of his… hmm, how many now? After disposing of his thousandth body, he finds that the appetite following the kill is nigh on nonexistent. He’s just… restless and bored. There are no turf wars around, no drama within the collective of Overlords, Hell, even Vox has been a doldrum of content lately- a stream of useless garbage that seems even more mind-numbing than the demon’s usual flare for juicy gossip and electric presentation. 

Deal-making is the same as it always has been, too. Alastor finds himself putting in all the work, all the fanciful and dandyish flare to impress his prey before ripping their autonomy right out of them with a handshake. And they’re all the same. Scared, hopeless, down on their luck. Reluctantly trustful of a smile before regretting it for eternity. When one owns thousands of souls… none of it feels… fulfilling anymore. The blood-red skies of Hell seem to fade to a miserable, dried brown- the same sky he’s been staring up at for the past century. 

God, he is so bored. 

This is the real torture. The real damnation. 

Rosie must see the apathy in his eyes and dullness in his smile because her face quickly contorts into something concerned the moment he enters her emporium.

“Alastor?” She would whisper with that soft concern the ladies in his life harbor for him. Even that has become dull to him. “You look all outta sorts, mister. What’s goin’ on, hah?”

And just like many of the concerned ladies in his life, Rosie is quick to offer a solution. He sits with his fingers steepled and his gaze far, far away as Rosie explains another deal opportunity to him. For once, Alastor doesn’t feel like being theatrical. Boredom has sucked the life out of this radio broadcast. Newcomer… Naive… Struggling in Hell, yada yada. 

“...I’ll consider it.” Is Alastor’s simple and placating reply. 

—

The first thing Alastor notices is that you know your way around a knife. Not necessarily how to fight, but you seem to have a keen eye for all the mortal points on a demon’s body- and when executed correctly…

“Impressive, my dear!”

The dandyish facade and wide smile return again like muscle memory- perhaps that’s what it is after decades of tricking demons into eternal bondage. Your eyes narrow suspiciously as the tall, creepy man in the red coat takes measured, clacking steps toward you. Soon enough, Alastor finds himself on the sharper end of your bloodied little pocket knife. Come to think of it, Rosie had said something about the demon being somewhat adept with a weapon… He’s sure there’s more information that his boredom has glossed over and tucked into his memory, never to be found.

“Alastor,” He says without so much as a flinch, taking the other end of the knife and shaking it as if it were your hand. “Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure.”

He pays no mind to the way his blood seeps around it. He’ll visit the tailor for new gloves later. And… perhaps a dry cleaning, what with the violent spray of demon blood that the little demoness incurred with your paltry knife skills and scarily surgical precision. But you seem to pick up on the fact that no amount of ferality and intent to kill can bridge the sloping gap in power between you. Your eyes narrow.

“Do you want something?”

Alastor hums, tapping a finger to his chin. His polished shoes clack with every circling step he takes around you, you and your tattered rags you call clothes.

“Want is a strong word, my dear.” He taps your head with his microphone, then points to the disgustingly garish Embassy as another day drops from its count. “Our annual cull is coming soon. You won’t want to be a street urchin when God’s little pests arrive.”

The mention of God seems to set you off in some way. Your shoulders square, your eyes widen, and there’s some kind of hunger in your black irises that catches him off-guard for a moment.

Interesting…

“I believe it would be in your best interests to seek protection… Shelter…” He circles you once more before arriving at your front. Alastor extends his hand, bending down to meet the sprightly thing eye to eye. Your scleras are pure, white… untainted. Something he hopes to rectify.

“Let’s make a deal.”

A blade narrowly misses the underside of his rib, and he only realizes that when he sees one of his blackened, eldtrich tendrils squeezing at your wrist, keeping it firmly steady while it hovers just before his coat. Alastor clicks his tongue, straightening his posture. He could kill you…  but that feels like a waste of resources.

“Calm yourself, dear, I haven’t even outlined the terms!”

The girl’s eyes narrow even more, if possible, your thin brows furrowing in a way that casts angry shadows over your features. This was going to be a hard sell. But… Alastor’s been known to play with words. His hand finds your straining wrist, replacing the hardness of his power with a gentle touch.

“Pledge yourself to me and I-.”

“No.”

Alastor can’t help the sharp feedback his microphone makes at your sudden dismissal. You will just not let him get a word in edgewise, hm? His jaw hangs open in shock before he quickly rectifies himself, smoothing down his suit. Okay. He can work with no. He’s walked this path many times before. They always come crawling back, one way or another. 

“Hm. I hope you keep this conversation in mind then.”

He hums a jaunty tune as he leaves the stubborn girl to the shadows.

Part. III

Kunikuzushi is startled awake at the sound of a resonant BANG.

“Are you awake yet?!” yells a feminine voice, ever so slightly muffled by the old wood of his door. More bangs ring throughout his drowsy mind as the door shakes, and he rockets himself off the floor, hurriedly attempting to formulate a sentence.

“You’re late for morning service! Archons help me, if I open this door and you’re not ready, there will be serious consequences!”

He’s naked–why is he naked?-- there’s bottles and wine puddles littering his floor, a knife… Archons, what had he been doing? He steps on something hard and dry and realizes it's coming from his cassock, which is strewn about on the floor, wrinkled in almost every possible crevice. In moving his foot, he discovers another memento from his wild night and… fuck.

He audibly curses himself for being such an imbecile as to not have cleaned it up, or at least shot his load in a corner– not on the uniform that he is absolutely, unequivocally required to don.

He runs to his nightstand, cassock in hand and vision still slightly bleary. The water carafe he holds nearly falls out of his panicked hands as he douses the affected area and scrubs with the might of a god.

“Kunikuzushi!”

“I’m coming!” He shouts, furiously beating the stain out of his clothes. When the white disappears, he slides the garment over his head and hastily fastens it as he runs back to the other side of his room for his shoes. He looks in the mirror. His hair is a mess. His decorative adornments are all askew. He’s pretty sure he’s wearing two different socks. But none of it matters when the High Priestess turns the door handle and he’s rushing over to obstruct her view of his quarters.

She appears furious with him, rightfully so, but her brows furrow upon taking in his… visage.

“What ever in Celestia’s name is on your shirt?”

“Uh–” He swallows thickly, mind racing and adrenaline pumping. “I spilled water on myself while I was getting ready this morning. My apologies.” He hopes she can’t see the splashes that dew his wall and nightstand.

He bows as a courtesy, but it does little to assuage both her rage and her confusion. She gives him a speculative once-over before turning on her heel. “Just make sure it’s dry by the offertory period.”

He receives perplexed stares from his peers for the remainder of morning service, and feels that an explanation to them is beneath him. So he sits, listening to Yae’s soulless prattling about how the Shogun will watch over every soul for the rest of eternity.

Fulfilling the duties of a glamorized altar boy calls to mind the mundanity of his life, and he lets out a sigh with the exasperation of a thousand lifetimes. His eyes dart between the dais and the pulpit and he wonders if accidentally tripping would ignite The High Priestess’ fury enough to be entertaining. But he dismisses that idea when the door to the chapel is opened, and behind it is you.

In an instant, all of his fantasies from the night prior return, and that tingling settles in his gut again when he sees that you’re wearing something just as, if not skimpier than what you wore the day prior and gods–

–No. No… What he did last night was wrong and misguided. You didn’t deserve that– to become the de facto object of his licentious whims. But that’s just it: a whim. Nothing more. In fact, hardly anything at all! He just… used you. Right. Used. Because what else has he? Even the dullest tradesman could surmise that a church would not keep anything unsavory within its walls. He’s just… stunted. And he’s fine with ogling for an ephemeral moment before returning to his normalcy…

…But Celestia above, he swears you’re doing it on purpose.

He drags down his face with his hand. Suddenly the touch of his tome against his lap is too much to bear. He shifts in his seat and bites his tongue, letting a hiss escape from between his teeth before he realizes that he is not the only one in the room anymore. One of his fellow attendants gives him a side-eye, but the glance lasts no longer than a few fleeting moments. Yae is still talking–remarkably– and he wonders just how much he could get away with.

Kunikuzushi lifts the tome and settles it upright on his lap, caging his bulging erection between a divot in the pages. He allows himself the freedom to buck his hips a little, and squeezes the book around him. He knows he’s not going to be able to get away with much else than furrowing his brows without raising suspicion, but another squeeze of the holy texts around his cock have him suppressing a slew of lewd noises.

When his vision begins to clear again, he glances up at you. He drinks in your innocent eyes, dutifully paying attention to the words of the High Priestess, contradicted by your plentiful cleavage accentuated by that flimsy sundress you decided to sport. He admires your boldness, coming into the spiritual home of Inazuma dressed like a harlot.

Maybe you are his new adventure.

He finds himself thrusting up into the book, pretending that it's your chest. He wants to defile that innocent face of yours just like he’s defiling the tome– to paint your unblemished skin in his seed and make you drink it from the sacrosanct sake chalice. Archons, he’s going to go insane if he can’t have his way with you. He hates you and your stupid autonomy, but he likes watching you use it. He doesn’t recall exactly when he’d become so lecherous, but he has not the time to ponder his morals when all he can think about is slotting himself between your tits and spilling all over your face.

A wet spot begins to form on the front of his uniform but he doesn’t have half a mind to care. His eyes meander between your eyes, your chest, and the texts that remain snug around his cock, pulsating in tandem with every squeeze harder and thrust deeper. The glances he receives from the other attendants serve only to turn him on more. 

Look at me. Look at how free I am compared to you hapless sheep. 

He staves off the urge to give them a knowing, drunken smirk. The tingling builds in his gut until it's coursing through his body in waves, making the shudders that wrack his form supremely difficult to conceal. He wishes he knew your name so that he could whisper it below his breath as he cums, and he somehow finds the mental aptitude to make a note to ask amidst his feverish pleasure.

With a few more squeezes around his cock, he’s cumming in his pants, eyes wound shut and cheeks so scalding hot he can feel their warmth in his ears and chest. All he can manage is a breathless, whimpering “fuck!” before slumping into the chair. He hopes he wasn’t too obvious. Being reported and chewed out by Yae was the last thing he needed right now.

When he lifts the book is when he realizes just how apparent the stain is. There’s a large, dark blemish spired by a healthy dollop of his cum that managed to seep through the fabric. He hurriedly crosses one leg over the other and inspects the book for any stray smears. He’ll throw the tainted book away later.

Part. II

Kunikuzushi lays in his bed and contemplates grabbing one of the kitchen knives and shredding his cossacks until the fabric can no longer be considered such. 

He’s careful not to step on the wine bottles that litter the floor of his private quarters as he makes his way, but the cold, wet feeling coating the ball of his foot suggests that he’s leaving a convictive trail. He doesn’t care– he doesn’t have the right amount of vestibular sense to care. He blinks once and a knife is in his hands, the wall is the only thing supporting him, and the storm of centuries of rage continues to swell and squall every bit of his mind until there’s nothing left behind but the color red. 

Duty was for those who meant something to the world. 

But the world did not know Kunikuzushi. 

If the day should come where it would, then he’d make himself scarce before the consequences could chain his ankles to Tenshukaku. 

He stumbles gracelessly through his entryway and absent-mindedly motions what he thinks to be closing the door behind him. He strips himself bare, decorating his floor in stray buttons and the color black. The white stripe on his collar stares back at him and he swears he can see it smiling. His vision vignettes and he almost passes out from his own fury. A collar. How sardonically apropos. He wants to destroy it, burn it… desecrate it– if not to curse his mother than to rid himself of her identity. He likes to believe that he once used to have the shell of a karakter before he became exactly like his mother– a captive of time. Even in the afterlife she continues to shove her presence down his throat until he chokes on it, never once allowing the mercy to clear his trachea. 

His mind quiets and he realizes he’s laughing. 

The world is coiling around him– the walls of his quarters ensnaring him as he realizes how desolate this cage has become. 

His hands find the knife again. He raises it. 

He thinks of you. 

He thinks of how he wishes he could be like you– free to do anything, go anywhere, spend time with anyone. That’s his oneiric fantasy. His yearning for freedom clenches in his chest so tight that he can almost feel a set of hands yanking a heart out from where it never was in the first place. His muscles relax, and his spine curves inward. 

Somewhere in the distance, amidst the plane of reality that he chose to detach from, the knife clatters to the floor, and his thoughts wander back to you.

You who entered his temple of your own free will. 

You who taunted him with your freedom, all while wearing those skimpy tatters of string you called clothes.

A searing, ticklish sensation makes its way up his groin and into his abdomen. In his palm, his cock is heavy and pulsating, radiating a desperate heat of its own that drags the sweat from his skin. He tugs and the sensation returns again with a vengeance, locking his body in a paralyzing shudder. He’s treading into dangerous territory, but for the sake of new adventures, indulgence is the first step. He keeps tugging, knees spread wide and splaying the fabric beneath him. His head lolls to the side, and in his ragged mirror he notices just how red his cheeks have become. 

Here and there he listens to his own needy, wanton noises as he strokes himself faster…harder… relishing in his rekindled autonomy that he wishes he could use to show you the true meaning of subjugation. 

He’s bitter, he’s angry, and you, in all your liberty, happen to be the perfect target for his woes. 

He wants nothing more than to see the look on your face when you realize that there can be moments where control has evaded you. What would you do? Would you cry? Scream? …Give in? Oh, how he hopes you would give in and let him have his way with you– let your freedom become his alone for a time. 

Kunikuzushi is grinding into his palm, playing out his fantasy behind closed lids while he attempts to picture what you’d look like beneath him… and what sounds you’d make. He nearly cums from the thought of you moaning his name, chest bouncing, gaze fogging, and begging him to let you orgasm. 

He wouldn’t let you though. He wants Yae and all the temple attendants to hear the power he has over you. 

He finds that his cock is leaking upon opening his eyes again, leaking onto a small puddle that has accrued on his garb. His groin only aches more– Archons, he’s so depraved, desecrating his holy garments so. But the debauchery leaves a sour, delectable aftertaste that has him rasping and moaning for more. He gathers some of his precum and coats his palm in it, resuming his stroking with a sinful squelch. He sets his hips down further, rubbing his spurting tip all over his wretched collar. His laugh is seasoned with a pinch of derangement while he watches himself grind into the blessed fabric, content with the feeling of the liberation dragging him further and further deep from the continental shelf of pomp and circumstance. His whimpers permeate the room alongside it, but it's hardly noticeable when his thoughts wander back to all the positions he’d like to fuck you in. 

An image of pounding you atop his mother’s altar flashes across his mind and he spills all over his clothes, groaning so loud he is almost sure Yae could hear. 

Part I.

Kunikuzushi is bound to his mother’s temple through no will of his own.

Five-hundred years ago, his mother died honorably in battle. The only reason he was notified was because a strange, pink-haired priestess somehow found herself at his doorstep and relayed the news. And with the news came the firm assertion that he was “bound by doctrine to serve the nation as the Raiden Shogun’s sole beneficiary.”

He explained to the vulpine woman that he had no idea how to run a nation.

“Then you will come with me,” she answered.

Now, in the present, he spends his days following a tried, true, helplessly boring routine. Wake up. Fasten cassock. Attend morning service. Clean around the shrine. Oversee offering period. Offer advice. Restock omamori. Speak with the high priestess. Go to bed.

And again.

Wake up. Fasten cassock. Attend morning service. Clean around the shrine. Oversee offering period. Offer advice. Restock omamori. Speak with the high priestess. Go to bed.

And again.

Wake up. Fasten cassock. Attend morning service. Clean around the shrine. Oversee offering period. Offer advice. Restock omamori. Speak with the high priestess. Go to bed.

And again…

A good routine can delineate the good from the great, but the bland motions he performs each day have him wondering if he’s been living the same day since he was forced there. At least while living the life of a wanderer for the past thousand or so years (he’s long since lost count; when one is comprised of crystal marrow instead of skin and bone, age is meaningless), he had the freedom to change his scenery whenever he grew tired of it.

However, in his mother’s temple, all is still and perfectly preserved in time, everlasting and never changing. He wonders if his mother had somehow imbued the last bits of her divinity into the stone before she died, for he has never once had to restore it  in all the time he’s spent wallowing away beside her gargantuan, marbleized presence.

So there he sits, in her temple of eterne, with a scowl that has now become muscle memory carved into the crease of his brow and the scrunch of his nose. He watches as the citizens of Inazuma pile their offerings at the altar below his mother’s feet, knowing that one or two of those wine bottles would conveniently find their way back to his private quarters later that night. If he’s deft, High Priestess Yae won’t catch him this time.

“Oh, this is such a lovely tribute to the shogun…”

Kunikuzushi straightens his posture at the sound of a voice. His eyes land on you– you whose hands are venerably folded and whose dreamy gaze almost reanimates the stone that he thought had been hollow for years. He makes himself known by clearing his throat. Whatever oneiric fantasy you had drifted off to seemed to interrupt at the sound of it.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” this part is truthful– he has memorized the faces of most of the regulars by now, even though they typically come to do their business and leave shortly thereafter to avoid his stinging gaze, “are you a visitor of Inazuma?”

You approach him. Physically. He almost forgets to listen– the only social interaction he has is with the High Priestess and whatever she has to say is certainly not worth listening to.

“...Yes, I’m staying in Inazuma for a few weeks before heading off to Natlan. I’ve heard a great many things about your late ruler during my travels, so I figured I should pay her a visit.”

His eyes rake over your body as any psychologically conventional person’s would, but his eyes halt their path at your torso. That’s a bold outfit to wear to a religious site. Your shirt is sliced at your midriff and your chest is healthily supported by the cups of the shirt, leaving little to the imagination. He only realizes he’s been staring too long when you cock your head at him in silent questioning. He assumes a more relaxed composure– crossing his arms, settling his shoulders, and leaning his side against the edge of the altar table. He only hopes that you buy his mimicry of dazedness.

“Is there anything in particular you’re praying for?” He continues, hoping to derail whatever unsavory trains of thought you may have had.

Your eyes unfocus for a moment, clearly deliberating your word choice.

“A new adventure, I suppose.”

“A new adventure…” Kunikuzushi does not share his emotions, but as of now he’s jealous of your freedom and he desperately craves it for himself. He, too, wants his own new adventure, something quite difficult to come by when he’s cooped up in his mother’s euthymic pantheon for the rest of eternity. He grinds his jaw, the jealousy and anger boiling scathing combinations of words in his mind that are just barely held back by his teeth. Your presence does nothing but remind him of the cage that he gnaws at, desperate for the metal to give–

A curt: “I’m envious.” is all he can muster before having to excuse himself.

“Ow! Ugh…” The battered first-year cradled his nose.

A group of three, likely upperclassmen, surrounded the poor boy, sneering at the milky-white liquid that deluged from his nostrils.

“What?” The tallest simpered. “You not gonna fight back, loser?”

He dug his hands into his pockets, churlishly towering over the quivering kid and relishing in the small pool of pellucid liquid that contrasted the dark black of his polished soles.

You pitied the boy.

The yellowed bruises that littered his stringy arms led you to believe that this was not the first time. Nor would it be the last.

Because your academy does not have the time to spare for such paltry matters as bullying.

They probably thought that no one saw how they picked the boy up by the scruff of his baggy polo at the end of the school day and dragged him by fistfuls of mangy hair into the small alleyway between two campus buildings. Or the way they reached into his tattered, blazer pockets and gypped his wallet for all it was worth.

But you did.

You liked to tell yourself that you were an average person; that the effulgent color that seeped from your knees when you tripped and fell the other day was a sign of your good-naturedness. It wasn’t hard, exactly— to be good. All you really had to do was avoid being “bad”. What you didn’t like was the fact that despite watching the kid get the light beat out of his amiable eyes for the past five minutes, you hadn’t stepped in to do a thing.

You wanted to.

But you supposed that your wallet was not nearly heavy enough to satiate their prodigality.

That, by all intents and purposes, was not good.

“Hey,” said a voice that made you jump. “Oh! I didn’t mean to scare you– my apologies.”

You shook your head, flashing a smile toward your confidant. “Don’t worry about it.”

In the corner of your eye, his head began to tilt. When he realized what you were looking at, his jaw wound tight.

“I’m going to go help him. Wait here.”

“Ah- Hey!” You reached a hand out to grab the frays of his peacoat, but the bullies had noticed him before you got the chance.

By the time you caught up to him, you caught the tail end of his abrupt introduction.

“What does the righteous ‘Detective Prince’ want with us?” The boy to the right of the tallest mocked, cracking his knuckles as if he were readying for a fight. “You gonna report us or something? Ha! You may care about ‘justice’ or whatever, but the administration sure as hell doesn’t.”

The detective remained calm, paying you no mind as you practically hovered over his shoulder.

“I am aware of our current administrative situation, and I assure you, where I will be reporting you is ‘sure as hell’ not them.”

The group faltered, the poor boy from before seemingly becoming an afterthought in the realization of what your friend had meant.

“Something like this would typically fall under ‘assault and battery’, which would mean, since all three of you are third-years, that you would no longer be tried as children.” A small, prescient smile decorated the detective's face. “I’m sure you know what I’m getting at.”

The tallest seethed between his teeth. “What do you know?! You think you’re so much better than everyone because you got a job with the police! I won’t take shit from pigs like you!”

The tallest lurched forward, fist brandished.

“Hrrk!”

Akechi stumbled back.

His briefcase took a tumble too, falling to the ground and cracking open at your feet. You rapidly crouched and collected the items– a pen, a pencil case, a wallet, and… a long, black, cylinder-shaped object?

You staved off your confusion, shoving all of his things back into the case and wobbling to your feet with it.

“Ah-!” You rushed to his side, peeking under the thick veil of his hair to see how bad the bruising on his cheek was. “Are you okay?”

The bullies made something of a snide comment that ultimately went in one ear and out the other. Akechi didn’t respond, but the steadying of himself on his feet was damning enough. It seemed the first-year had good enough sense to run away.

“Well–” he sighed, cradling his cheek, “I suppose I’ll have to add ‘assault of a law enforcement officer’ onto your growing list of crimes.”

The group snickered at his response, seemingly taking it as a joke before he whipped his phone out and began typing.

“Wait– you’re not–”

“I am.”

The tallest nearly choked on his own spit.

Once he finished typing on a screen you couldn’t read, Akechi tilted his head to the side, all twisted smiles and false innocuousness.

“Expect a visit from local law enforcement tonight,” he said, a pleasant edge to his tone that made a shiver run up your spine. “Your personal information is logged in my school registry and I’ve taken photo and video evidence of what has transpired here today. Not to mention that I could easily procure a warrant to check the security tapes.”

Akechi pocketed his device.

“If you have any sense left to spare, I’d be honest with the good officers.” He turned, waltzing away with a cockiness that he could barely hide. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be let off with an ankle monitor if you play nice.”

The bullies chose then to be smart and made no moves to even approach your friend following his venomous, foreboding, yet still somehow-amicable judgment.

Before they could do anything further, you raced to catch up with your friend. Tapping his hand, you gave him his briefcase.

“Well, that was…” Your mind ran through at least ten columns of adjectives. “Ominous.”

Akechi let out a soft laugh, utterly unbefitting the mood.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t actually report them.”

You made a small noise of confusion.

“Think of it as a mind game, of sorts,” he continued, “I pretended to report them so that they’d become paranoid of the idea of incarceration. A good trick, no? Besides, the Shibuya Police Department is far too busy with other matters than to deal with a couple of delinquents.”

“Trick” is putting it lightly.

“Though maybe I could gather a few officers and pay them off to do some rounds…”

“Yeah…” You let out a nervous laugh at the sadistic tendencies of your friend. “What of the boy though?”

“The boy?”

“The boy that was getting beaten. He was innocent, and once those boys realize that they’re not going to be arrested, they’ll probably gang up on him even harder.”

Akechi’s eyes, for the first time since you’d begun walking home, had met your own.

“How do you know he’s innocent?”

Here we go.

Exasperation choked your sigh. “Must you question everything, Akechi?”

He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “Such is my nature.”

You hummed incredulously, shaking your head.

“His blood was white, Akechi. Not gray, white. Whiter than probably yours– and that’s saying a lot.”

The detective’s chest bounced harder than it should have at your quip.

“And how do you know my blood is white, hm?”

Your retort lodged in your throat. It appeared as if he were joking, but you couldn’t help but linger on the weird look in his eyes. Shaking your head, your gaze focused on the sidewalk ahead.

“I mean, isn’t that the assumption?” Wow, you sounded super unsure of yourself. “You’re always talking about civil service and upholding justice… I think it's kind of a given.”

Even on the off-chance that Akechi wasn’t just trying to relish in the look of you second-guessing yourself, there were only a handful of crimes that could completely mire a person’s blood. You highly doubted that someone like your righteous detective friend had the capability of murder.

“I’m not so sure,” he teased, “investigative work does have a tendency to land me in some unfavorable positions from time to time.”

After seeing the heavy look of concern etched onto your features, he promptly assured you that he was only joking and that everyone in his precinct gets blood tests annually for that exact reason. To which you responded with softened shoulders and a content smile.

His brows furrowed, and he tilted his head questioningly. You felt the beginnings of a philosophical rant lick at your ears.

“But what is ‘justice’ anyway? How does one define such an abstract topic? I’ve seen some contend with the law because ‘justice is blind’, but is it really so black and white? My own justice is purely oriented from said legal perspective, but there are other definitions for ‘justice’, no?”

He was so cute when he verbally lost himself in his own head.

“All right, all right, Aristotle,” you giggled, giving a playful smack to his shoulder, “let’s patch that bruise up first and then deliberate the subjectivity of justice.”

“Well, this is certainly going to be difficult to cover up…”

Akechi hummed solemnly, pulling gingerly at the skin of his cheek and analyzing the vaguely knuckle-shaped mark.

You wrapped a bag of ice in a thin towelette. His face wasn’t too marred, but it was a tad swollen.

“I could always take you to get some concealer,” you answered, handing him the makeshift ice pack, “or you could try some of mine.”

He muttered a small “thanks” before daintily pressing the bundle on his face, then drawing his arm back and hissing at the touch. You leaned in closer to his side, inspecting the injury.

“Does it hurt?” With a small “oh!” you raced to your medicine cabinet. “Here, I’ll get you some painkillers.”

You snatched the small pill bottle and turned around. Then you saw his face.

“A-... Akechi?”

His nose was bleeding.

“Hmm?”

His nose was bleeding a thick, ichored black.

With confusion laden in his furrowed brow, he turned to the mirror and was horrified with what he saw. He gasped through his teeth, and scrambled for something to cover up with, the inky fluid already beginning to stain his palm.

You couldn’t even bring yourself to care that the ice had spilled all over the floor– not with the way your mind reeled. Should you run? Call someone?

—No, Akechi is your friend! He would never…

You gnawed your bottom lip. Maybe it was just the lighting?

You were promptly corrected by the blackened stains that sprinkled his white undershirt.

Your brain was teeming with words, flickering between different questions every nanosecond– but even then, the only thing you managed to stutter out was: “...How?”

His eyes raked over your form. You were unmoving– bullets of sweat burgeoned all across your body, you could feel your heartbeat in your ears, and your eyes began to sting from how long you’d forced them open. Akechi swiped his tongue over his lips, the gears in his head turning before realizing that he was, in fact, still bleeding and required a tissue.

His mired hand dropped uselessly at his side as the cloth muffled his words.

“I know I said I was joking earlier…” he mumbled, “b- but–”

“No!” Your screech caught you by surprise. “No, no… this doesn’t… make sense…”

The white tissue had begun to poison with the amount of blood it soaked up.

Black pants, black gloves… how could you not have seen it sooner? And…

“That was a silencer in your briefcase… wasn’t it?”

His bloodied hand shot up, doing a poor job of looking defensive. “Let me exp–”

“When you were hit, you dropped your briefcase,” you continued, posture straightening, “Some of your things fell out of it.”

Between tissues, Akechi’s eyes widened.

“That long, black thing was a silencer, I presume.” You really didn’t like where this revelation was headed toward. “Why on Earth do you have that in your briefcase, Akechi?”

Akechi’s adam’s apple bobbed, eyes finding more interest in the floor than you.

“So… the weird calls you’ve been getting… and the tendency you have to disappear at odd hours… and– and the bandages–”

You felt tears brimming on your waterline. “Oh my god!”

Akechi took a rapid step towards you, seizing your bicep in his muddied grip.

“You can’t tell anybody. Do you understand?”

His voice grew hoarse, growling after every syllable. The fear from before coursed through your nerves. You shrunk beneath him, knees weak and hands trembling. This was not your friend. Who had you been entertaining all this time?

…God, you don’t want to be alone again.

“Let– Let go of me!”

Monster.

His grip softened.

“Monster?” His voice trembled just above a whisper. Somewhere along the altercation, Akechi’s newest tissue had fallen to the ground, exposing the smudges of dried ichor beneath. He withdrew, head bowed and fringe hanging just below his eyelashes.

“Promise me,” he muttered, “Promise me you won’t tell a soul. I… I can’t…”

He wiped the dried blood away with his sleeve, adding to the already morbid miscellany of stains on his shirt.

The world seemed to hate you. Making friends was difficult enough. You found solace with Akechi for that precise reason. But of course. Of course, fate would do this to you. Of course, fate would reverse the order— flipping the Star only to reveal the Tower licking at its heels. Hope, followed by complete turmoil.

Of course, fate would have it that the only person in the world you could securely call a friend would be a murderer.

“We should… wash that…”

He looked at you oddly– disbelievingly. “What?”

You gestured at his shirt. “Your clothes– they’re-uh-.”

Stepping forward, your fingers laced in his tie, pulling it loose from his shirt. You weren’t sure if the noise that came from his mouth was a breath or a gasp, but he clearly wasn’t going to kill you… so long as you didn’t tell anyone, right? You could… do that. You could. He’s still your friend. He wouldn’t have poured so much of his apparently valuable time into hanging out with you if it didn’t mean he cared, right?

It’s not like anyone would believe you even if you did go to the authorities. The Detective Prince? Murdering people? Ha! What a farce. They’d laugh you out of the building before you could say another word.

Your hands stabilized themselves on his shoulders, then glided down to his chest. Your stare nearly burned a hole through the juncture of the bottom of his neck and his clavicle.

“I’ll try to find a shirt that fits you. Keep… icing your cheek.”

You left him in your bathroom, trusting– hoping that you wouldn’t end up on the other end of that silencer tonight. The search for clothes was mindless. You touched the fabrics, ran your fingers over the textures, but it felt like touching air. Your nerves had worked themselves into a slump.

In a blur, you ended up finding an old hoodie your father gave you, which had always been three sizes too big.

Akechi’s shirt was fully unbuttoned by the time you returned, and it seemed that you still had the nerve to fluster. He turned with a languid impetus, keeping his movements short and stiff as he let you place the shirt onto his hands. He was treating you like a skittish animal.

You felt his gaze on the tops of your eyelids, but you refused to make the connection, instead finding purchase in the small divot between his pectorals.

“I’m going to order some food,” you droned, dropping the weight of the fabric fully into his grip, “do you have any preferences?”

How silly– treating a criminal with such respect.

But he’s your friend! He’s not just some stranger!

He’s killed people. Why do you think his blood is so dark?

But he’s always been kind…

He lied to you.

Your face scrunched up at your internal polarization. How do you even go about this? You’ve already concluded that reporting him is a fruitless endeavor, so how do you navigate this mess? Maybe the best option was to completely cut him out of your life… but then you’d really have no one to turn to. You don’t even remember hearing of a serial killer on the news but–

Wait… who has he been killing then?

The tension sunk your features.

“Whatever you want is fine with me.”

If you weren’t so tired, maybe you’d have seen the saddened smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Exiting once again, you tapped listlessly at your phone, placing an order at a local ramen shop. You remembered eating at a ramen shop with Akechi once and being offered a drink by some sleazy patron whom Akechi quickly shut down with one of his witty remarks that he always seemed to have tucked into his back pocket.

You only realized you were smiling when your face sagged back into a frown.

The T.V. might be a nice distraction, you thought and found fleeting mental peace by listening to the pantomime characters and their juvenile drama.

A pleasantly wrong voice interrupted your trance. “I hope you don’t mind me using your laundry machine.”

“No,” you answered meekly, “go ahead.”

In the corner of your eye, Akechi lingered before slinking away with his bundle of tarnished clothing. The subtle hum of the machine nearly drowned out his tentative footsteps, making him almost undetectable until he appeared beside you and joined you on the sofa.

“For what it's worth,” he began, sounding a little too unsure of himself, “I did derive genuine enjoyment from our conversations in the courtyard.”

Your sight fell out of focus, and you couldn’t bring yourself to force it back to clarity.

“And the study sessions at the diner… and…” His voice trailed off at your silence.

“Why did you lie to me?”

Your head turned to face him, taking in his malaise.

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“That could mean many things.”

“It does.”

Whatever expression you gave made him visibly disconcerted, but he understood your silent plea for elaboration.

“At the most basic level, it means that I feared your reaction if I told you. Or that you’d get wrapped up in it somehow and I’d lose you that way.” He leaned on his forearms. “Truth be told, I’ve never gotten this close with anyone before… Can you really blame me for wanting to preserve what little I have?”

You huffed. “That’s rather oxymoronic.”

His eyes narrowed at the carpet. “It’s as I said before– I grew up lacking in a lot of areas. Money, safety, friendship… I thought that after my mother died I was fated to be alone. And… well, I figured if that was the case, then I’d at least make myself someone I, alone, would be proud of.”

You gnawed at the inside of your cheek. “So you’re proud of being a murderer?”

He made a small noise, apprehension pulling his limbs taut. He wiped his palms against his pants.

“It may sound a little morbid, but the murders themselves aren’t what I take pride in– but rather, what lies at the end of them.”

“So you have a goal then?”

He huffed, turning his gaze to meet yours. “Do you remember what I told you about my father? How he abandoned my mother?”

You nodded.

“All of it is to get revenge on him– to make him atone for raking my mother’s name through the mud so deep that she drowned in it.”

You could see the veins pumping fresh blood through the skin of his hand from how hard his fist had clenched. You didn’t have all the pieces to this puzzle, that you were sure of, but the memory of Akechi’s eyes stricken with a pain so deep, lips upturned in disgust, and knuckles so pronounced you could see his skin through his gloves back when he initially told you about his mother all those months ago gave credence to the idea of not getting in his way.

You didn’t agree with his methods, but abandonment seemed to follow you wherever you went. The feeling of your heart strings reaching out for a person who wasn’t there was something you were well acquainted with.

“If you’d like to stop being friends because you know the truth about me, I won’t be angry,” he finished, despondently sinking in on himself.

“I won’t”

His head snapped toward you.

“I can’t say I agree with what you’re doing… but I won’t stop being your friend.”

He outwardly appeared shocked, mouth hanging open and eyes wide, but his irises held the stars in them. They disappeared just as quickly as they appeared, much to your chagrin, when they spotted the bloodstain on your sleeve.

“Ah- I’m sorry for grabbing you like that earlier. I… panicked.” He rose to his feet, giving you a hand. “Cold water should do the trick. I’ll do my best to wash it off.”

You took his hand, wobbling to your feet and standing still for long enough that Akechi quirked a brow at you.

In a decision that never really crossed your mind to begin with, you wrapped your arms around his waist, nuzzling your head into his sternum. He still looked like your friend– felt like him too. And he smelled like he always did; like that–sometimes permeating– waft of absinthe and sandalwood with a note of marine. Comforting, soothing, usual.

You weren’t sure what you expected. Maybe you thought that something about him would change with this new information. Something about him that would make you want to hiss and reflex away like you’d put your hand into a boiling pot. But it didn’t. Akechi had not changed a bit between the time you didn’t know and the time you did. Maybe that was terrifying, or maybe that was assuaging.

The security you felt after his arms wrapped around you confirmed the latter.

Everything could go back to the way it was– no, nothing had changed at all to begin with. You wouldn’t be alone anymore. You could overlook a few things if that’s what it took. It wasn’t hard to be good. Just avoid being bad.

Upon pushing yourself away, you tried to search for the malice in his eyes, but the harder you looked the more empty-handed you came up. That familiar lidded, russet stare held your gaze softly, lightly twitching from place to place as he studied your own face.

A hand came up to cradle your jaw, ink still faintly nestled between the cracks of his palm. You’d only realized you were leaning completely on him when his grip around your back tightened to accommodate. Akechi’s thumb swiped across your bottom lip, fingertip settling in the middle of your lips and coaxing them open. His gaze had stilled.

You puckered your lips, giving the pad of his thumb a feather-light kiss and entangling your fingers with the hand that rested on your cheek in a silent affirmation of it’s okay. His eyes were so pretty up close.

Akechi sucked in a breath, physically wavering between wanting to push away or get closer. You pressed his stained hand harder onto your skin. His impulsivity would decide.

And it did.

You couldn’t see his eyes anymore, but his lips collided with yours– an equivalent exchange.

Your other hand traveled up the length of his shirt, settling on his nape and curling into his baby hairs. You closed your eyes for a better taste. Bubbling from his throat was a weak sound that made your nerves tingle. Your face grew warm under his palm, savoring the cloudy feeling of breathlessness between kisses. In fact, he hardly let you breathe at all. When you separated for a modicum of air, he grunted, angry that you were apart, and forced your lips together once more.

You groaned, tilting your head to the side and deepening the kiss. If you weren’t allowed to breathe, neither was he. You audibly smacked your lips together until the room began spinning and silently agreed that okay, maybe breathing is necessary to survive.

Akechi leaned his forehead on yours, heavy breathing filling the silence. Once your heart stopped beating the oxygen from your chest, he dove forward once more, ensnaring you in a searing, passionate–

Ding! Ding!

Ah.

Ding! Ding!

“The food. Right.” You reluctantly pulled away, praying that the delivery man wouldn’t notice the healthy rouge that tinted your face. Or the black bloodstain on your very white uniform shirt.

Shit.

You hid partially behind the door, accepting the bag with a dry smile. You flashed Akechi an even more awkward smile upon turning around. He seemed to reciprocate, so maybe it wasn’t as bad as you thought.

“I got you beef ramen. That’s what you got last time, right?”

He padded over to the kitchen. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, taking out the bowls and grabbing utensils.

You opened your bowl and took it to the sofa, lounging between the cushions and grabbing the remote. Akechi, meanwhile, appeared as if he weren’t sure where to put himself. You beckoned him over.

“C’mere. Let’s watch a movie.”

He wordlessly joined you, carefully placing his own bowl on the coffee table and hunching over to eat it. You mindlessly clicked through a sea of suggestions before picking a random romantic comedy that appeared decent enough to entertain. Neither of you said a word while you ate. The movie was a nice distraction from your thoughts.

Yes, you were going to shove this information down into the deepest parts of you so the darkness there could chew on it and spit it out, never to be brought back to the surface again unless it was impossible to avoid. Akechi very plainly stated that he didn’t want you involved, so “involved” you will not be. Simple.

Healthy? No. Neither was the ramen.

You slurped up the last of the broth and set your empty bowl on the table. The arm you extended reminded you of the fact that you were still wearing your soiled shirt, and cleaning a bloodstain from your couch cushions was not something you felt like doing. You thumbed at the buttons of your uniform, undoing them casually and untucking the bottom from your skirt. You also casually forgot that you were not the only person in your apartment. Looking over, Akechi’s gaze was dutifully averted, but the tips of his ears shone bright red, making you giggle. He cleared his throat awkwardly, unsure of where to direct his gaze as you handed him the shirt.

“You said you’d wash it. I hope you haven’t forgotten.”

A devious grin tugged at the corners of your mouth as you watched his eyes flicker nervously between your chest and your face. You wanted to tease him more– play it up a little. You leaned on your arms, biceps pushing the mounds of your chest closer together. The action made his blush crawl from his ears down to his neck.

Akechi gulped, nodding along as if he didn’t look like a chaste deer-in-the-headlights.

You leaned in with a sultry chuckle, giving his lips a short peck before skipping off to your room. The confused noise he made replayed in your mind as you pulled a sweatshirt over your head.

After you were comfortable, you returned to your living room, spotting Akechi hunched over the sink and scrubbing at the stain. You walked over, leaning into his side. The stain seemed to be mostly gone; the only evidence that it had existed in the first place was the small, grayed outline.

“Thank you, Goro,” you purred, taking the shirt and wringing it out, savoring his shocked expression in your peripherals.

You carried the damp shirt over to your dryer and haphazardly threw it in. You could see Ak– Goro’s reflection in the metal.

He spun you around, caging you against the machine. He dove down onto you, shoving his lips against yours with a hungry grunt. You kissed him back with a passionate fervor, fingers hooking around his belt loops and urging his body onto you. He groaned your given name into your mouth.

“Can I stay over?”

He gave you little time to respond before capturing your lips once more. Your fingers played with his belt, steadily undoing it until it came undone with a clank.

“Of course, Goro,” you whispered, breathing his air, “Just don’t forget your tie.”

For the longest time, it was easy to describe what he was feeling.

His AI was relatively simple: smiling meant happy, frowning meant sad, and everything in between was nothing that could avoid the scrutiny of his learning processes. It was easy, like a game of matching cards. Of course, Freddy was unfamiliar with the emotions themselves; ask him what happiness is and he could give you a sterling, textbook definition. Ask him what happiness feels like, however, and he might give you a glitch or two after citing some medical jargon. For him, it was empty. Not in a bad way, but it never sunk further than what his programming made room for. 

He was comfortable that way, in the hollowness. He had nothing to compare it to. Everything felt stable and rigid and routined. He was comfortable in his own state of robo-homeostasis. 

When you first walked into his life, he greeted you formally and usually, allowing his happy disposition to front. You shook his hand jubilantly and flashed your own smile at him– clearly you were happy too. His oculars processed your face, flashing green upon receiving the desired outcome. 

He remained in his unaltering world for a while in the time you spent together. You were the textbook definition of kind while working on him, making sure to take care of his fragile parts with a delicate hand. You were also the textbook definition of amiable; asking him how he was, how his shows went, and how he felt became an integral part of his daily life. And when he’d answer, you’d always flash him your smile, and subconsciously–or sub-programming…ly?-- he began to associate you with that lovely little green. 

Suddenly, everything was green to him. From the plants to the trees, to the salads sold at the food court, he wanted to see the color green. He looked everywhere for it, but only truly found it in just the right hex code when you stood in front of him, smiling like you always did. It…filled him in a certain way; every time he saw it, his fans stuttered, his language functions errored, and he felt like he’d burst at any given moment. But the feeling was addicting. He had no idea what it was, thinking that he must be in need of some long-overdue maintenance. All he knew was that you in particular made him feel that way. So light, so airy, like he was one hundred pounds lighter and floating on a cloud.

Freddy explored it a bit within himself, searching his own databases to try and define this foreign feeling. He scanned every article, blog post, and page about it, but one word remained constant: love. That’s when it clicked. What he was experiencing was love. 

He almost short-circuited when the realization hit him. For once in his life, he’d actually experienced a human emotion. For once in his life, a smile meant something deeper than a complete jumble of numbers and processes. For once in his life, the words he spoke felt real. 

For once in his life, the hollowness felt hollow. 

Then, even more emotions metaphorically slapped the metal of his face. Excitement, fear, worry, anxiousness, elatedness… For the first time ever, he’d genuinely craved something. A phantom force pulled him toward the feeling you gave him for no other reason than the fact that he wanted it. Is this what free will felt like? Is this what humans feel like? Is this what it means to be human? To love? Thoughts raced through his mind, flooding his processor, and eyes flurrying around his room and taking everything in with a new light. His whole world felt new. 

The next day he talked to you about his feelings, telling you all about his wonder and amazement and how he finally felt complete. You giggled; you were happy for him, but then, you delved into some of the more intricate parts of human relationships and emotions, with Freddy mentally jotting all of your information down to keep in his own human-emotion bible. You said something he didn’t quite understand when you finished your speech, but when you smiled at him, the color green doused his vision, and he forgot all about it. 

He never told you, but he enjoyed exploring these new feelings with you, growing increasingly impatient every time he knew you were coming to do work on him. His little crush on you grew with time, to the point where he had your work schedule, favorite color, favorite food, favorite song, and anything he could possibly soak up about your life memorized. It got to the point that he’d do anything just to see you, spotting little parts of you in various quirks around the plex and smiling to himself. 

“So…,” you began, screwing a miscellaneous bolt back into his thigh, “what emotion did you feel today?”

He let out a faux sigh, gleefully noting all the exciting parts of his day.

“...But I believe my favorite emotion is the one I feel when I am around you, superstar!”

Your laugh filled his room, delighting his ears while he watched your chest bounce and mouth stretch wide. He was happy that way, having these little moments with you where he could shed his robotic skin and let himself be. He was content with his life.

On another day, he skipped around the pizzaplex as he does when he is given time to roam after hours. He ran through his usual procedure but kept an eye out for your hex code. He walked around some more before your numbers appeared in his visual field, and that familiar glee flooded his receptors. He raced in their direction, ready to tell you all about his latest escapades all while feeling that subtle thrumming within him in your presence. He rounded a corner and halted. Your green was there, but it was aimed at another. Monty stood next to you, mumbling something unintelligible while your face flushed, smiling giddily.

Suddenly, another, new emotion crept up his metal spine.

Suddenly, the color green— your green filled him with jealousy. 

In one, doleful moment, suddenly, he didn’t want to see the color green anymore. 

But it was right there, right in front of him. At the one moment when he so desperately wanted to get away from it, green was all he could see. 

He paused, staring at the way Monty’s viridian arm snaked around you, pulling you ever closer to him while you giggled, covering your blushing cheeks. He supposed having human emotions came with its caveats. But if this vile, green envy was what he was set to feel, he wanted no part of it. 

It was uncomfortable, painful, twisting his wiring in ways that made him writhe and clench. Freddy searched his databases for the right word. Eventually, he found it. 

It was longing. 

With downtrodden eyes, he watched the two of you, caught up in your own world as if he wasn’t even there. To you, was he ever there? Truly? Was he ever there?  Freddy turned away, dragging his feet along the concrete of the floor back to his room. His newfound emotions stormed and boiled inside of his metal, evident by the fans that fruitlessly tried to cool him. He sat on his couch, brows furrowing with so much feeling. He glared unfocused at the floor, throttling himself into his own head. 

For the first time in his life, he wanted to be reset. He wanted to get rid of your memory. He wanted so badly to forget that green. 

It wasn’t the last time he’d witness the two of you either.

To Freddy’s envious dismay, for a while, you and Monty were all over each other. Monty would brag about you endlessly to the rest of the group, and when he wasn’t bragging about you, he’d be glued to your side, touching, poking, and cracking jokes, flooding Freddy’s visual field with pure viridian. 

After a while, Freddy thought that he’d slowly be able to purge the emotions and conflicting feelings within him. As dutifully as he could, he was mostly successful. Freddy had a job to do, and allowing you to dominate his mental storage would get him scrapped sooner than later. The emotions flowed uncomfortably within him for a while, but over time, they mellowed, only fronting again when he was alone with you. Once again, he was happy–as much as he could be– in the hollowness– in the familiarity. However, everything he’d worked so hard to forget resurfaced when he heard you gasping Monty’s name through the green room wall, your moans echoing and making Freddy shiver. He felt his eye twitch, brows harrowing against cold, unforgiving metal. The sound of his footsteps had noticeably fallen quiet upon hearing the noises, solidifying him in his place while he listened to everything Monty did to you; things that he wanted to do to you.

Freddy heard your nails scratch wantonly against Monty’s back, sounds of slapping skin resonating from the room. It was absolutely patronizing. Freddy felt his metal heat, wishing desperately that he was stuck in a sick dream and that he’d wake up to you at his side. Monty must have detected Freddy’s presence by then, deciding to taunt him cruelly. And worst of all, in the few minutes he stood there, a moan louder than the rest pierced him, and green filled his vision. 

Freddy stomped back to his room, seething beyond repair. Surely, reducing himself back to an emulating, metal husk was better than the hurricane that raged inside of him. It was so much– too much. It was horrible. He yearned and ached and fumed in complete silence, knowing that now he would never have you. He marinated in utter quiet that night, unmoving and unwilling to charge himself for the next day. There was no point anymore. 

Before he knew it, the morning dawned, and he hadn’t forgotten a thing. He grouped with his bandmates to perform, dragging his feet along the cement of the hallway. Freddy knew that his usual mien was terribly disrupted and discombobulated, but human emotions were so incredulously powerful that he gave himself a pass. Monty stood in front of him, tuning his guitar, and once again was he forced to see that wretched green. 

“Are you okay, Freddy?” asked Chica, peering at his intense glare from below, “You don’t look so good…”

He de-stressed his face, flashing her his usual, amicable grin, “I am fine, Chica, thank you,” and walked to the front of the lift, fiddling with his microphone and staring a hole into the wall. He felt choked by it. Everything was green. 

The crowd cheering fell deaf on his ears, gripping the microphone firmly as if to remind himself that he did have a responsibility to fulfill despite his inner turmoil. The shredding of guitar strings reverberated around him, lights, strobes, and lasers throwing him deeper into the fog. He ran to center stage, each step further assuming his innate design. For a second, only a second, your green appeared among the crowd. He focused on it; you were watching him. He felt his programming crack, filling his servos with a tingly, breathless feeling. 

The first few notes he sang came unnaturally as his anger further materialized with every lyric.

“Why you gotta be so blind?” 

It was comical, the choice of song. 

“Won’t you open up your eyes?”

His teeth ground against the metal of his inner jaw. Something deep and gravelly bubbled from behind his chest plate and into the metal of his throat. He hadn’t even noticed he practically growled the notes until he saw your awestruck face.

“He’s no good!”

Monty was no good for you, really. Freddy was. But you didn’t want that, did you? You didn’t want him. He couldn’t force you, but he sure as hell would make it insufferable for you to be with Monty, not while he was there. Freddy wasn’t a quitter, and he was not going to acquiesce to your precious green. His anger was on perfect display for you to see. The rush of emotions controlled his every move, forcing the deepest secrets from his mind through every note. He only hoped that it reached you too. 

The song was over before he even knew what happened. The crowd roared with applause but it felt empty. Everything felt empty. Freddy felt empty. His ferocity came and left like a strong gust of wind, leaving only the sadness, betrayal, and jealousy among the sea of happy faces. He tried scouring through the crowd for one more look at your face, but by then, you had disappeared as if you were only a figment of his imagination. 

After the performance, you tip-toed into his room, standing silently for a long moment. 

“Wow…” you gasped, staring at him like you’d seen a ghost, “That was an amazing performance, Freddy!”

Your hands flailed cutely while you walked towards him, carrying a wrench for his daily repairs. 

“The emotion, the flare, the song and dance… it was so cool, Freddy! I didn’t know your voice box had that much range!”

Any anger he had before immediately dissipated when he saw how starstruck you were. He wanted so desperately to smile, but the jealousy from before boiled beneath his hardware. He fought away the yearning thoughts, dusting his mind of all the things that could have been. 

“I am glad you enjoyed it, superstar…”

His eyes darted back to the carpet; he knew he looked sullen, hoping in the deepest, darkest parts of his machinery that you’d ask what was wrong. 

“Freddy?” you asked, perking his ears, “what’s going on? Another malfunction?”

His brows furrowed. He rose to his feet, staring down at you through determined eyes. He looked to the side for a moment. Was this… really the right thing to do? Would you hate him if he told you how he felt? Would you never come and see him again? His fingers found your empty hand, cradling your palm in his own delicately as if you were his. The determination washed away with every second he held on to you; now, all that was left was a broken heart, and, of course, a sight he hated to see. Your green morphed into a deep, depressing blue. 

“... Freddy?”

His eyes flickered dolefully between your hand and your eyes, his processor struggling aimlessly to piece together the right words. You peered at him with concern, only furthering his own maelstrom of confusion and sadness. He wanted the moment to last forever, with his hand in your own as if nothing were keeping the two of you apart. But maybe, for once, the right decision was to acquiesce. If he loved you, then maybe the best decision would be to let you live happily– with him or not. He let go of your hand, letting his own fall to his side. 

“It’s nothing, superstar…How about you do my repairs and I will let you go on your way? I bet Monty is just itching to see you.”

Your pupils dilated at the sound of Monty’s name, a faint pink dusting your cheeks as you looked away bashfully. 

“He probably is… That idiot,” you shook your head, bending down to fiddle with his parts, “I love him though.”

A knife felt like it slashed the surface of his chest. Freddy was never more grateful that he didn’t have tear ducts. He remained staunch in his unspoken promise to you, but god did it hurt. He wished he was the one you called an idiot. He wished he was the one who pleasured you until you couldn’t think straight. He wished he was the one to hold you and whisper in your ear. Freddy wished he was the one who could say “I love you”. 

But instead, you continued wordlessly on his body, picking, and prodding at all the misplaced metal as if everything were perfectly fine. When you were finished you muttered a quick goodbye, obviously eager to see another. The door shut way too loudly behind you.

___________________________________________________________

We begin with:

The nation of Khaenri’ah, the only nation in Teyvat WITHOUT a presiding God/Archon

Khaenri’ah, because of its godlessness, became known as a nation of human excellence

It can be deduced—also in part to the fact that many citizens of Teyvat do not know what a missile is— that Khaenri’ah, ESPECIALLY existing 500 yrs ago, was a very technologically advanced nation

It would also seem that much technology has been lost to Khaenri’ah’s destruction

I.E. ALBEDO. ← he has smth to do with it, he does not breathe (as seen in dragonspine, he is the only model that does not produce visible air), he has a star on his neck, he is not a human

Albedo may be a homonculus, made of chalk, a product of this human excellence !

Going off of historical analysis, Khaenri’ah may very well be modeled after Ancient Rome and the return of antiquity during the Renaissance

In Florence—500 years ago in our world— the ending of the plague brought a new wave of the ideas of Humanism, the celebration of the accomplishments of man; focused on the idea of human greatness

As we also know, historically, the Ancient Romans were also very technologically advanced for their time, building waterways, roads, and buildings that have been able to stand the tests of time for hundreds and hundreds of years

With humanism, however, came the idea that people would put themselves BEFORE God, an idea that had been previously deemed sacrilege

Seeing as many nations in Teyvat are modeled after real nations (i.e. Mondstadt → Germany, Snezhnaya → Russia, Liyue → China, Inazuma → Japan, etc.), it would make sense if Khaenri’ah is modeled after Italy, specifically during the formative ages of the Renaissance

It would also make sense that these people, seeing as they could achieve so many great things, would not see the need for a god or even denounce the gods as a whole, therefore representing that humanist line-of-thinking

This, understandably, would have angered the gods in Celestia because they might have felt that their authority was being questioned, therefore they had to eliminate the “threat”

The Destruction:

500 years before the beginning of the storyline, the Gods of Celestia strike down Khaenri’ah turning it into The Abyss.

✒️ Important Characters: Kaeya, Childe, the Tsaritsa, Dainsleif, and Lumine (written from perspective of an Aether player)

Overview:

Khaenri’ah, as a nation built and governed by its people, had become a target for the gods

The government—from what we know— was guarded by the 7 Protectors, strong, chosen warriors who dedicated their lives to fight for Khaenri’ah

The gods (presumably) did not like the humans having autonomy like the people of Khaenri’ah did

In a coordinated attack, the divine thrones destroyed Khaenri’ah, turning it into the abyss and cursing its people, either killing them or turning them into abyss monsters

There are a few Khaenri’ahn individuals who are separately affected by the curse however, including BUT NOT LIMITED TO: the Protectors and royalty

These individuals are most commonly cursed with immortality, but that may not be the only reprecussion

Characters:

Now, lets go over the most important characters who may have been directly or otherwise involved in the destruction.

Kaeya

-Kaeya’s personal story talks about how his father told him about the land of Khaenri’ah, where they were both from

-In his profile it states that he is also 22 years old.

-There are multiple ways to explain this but I am going to use the theory that he and his family were Khaenri’ahn royals (or a part of the Eclipse Dynasty family) who were cryogenically frozen for safekeeping during the destruction

-500~ years later, they woke up, and upon seeing the destruction cause around them, the family—including Kaeya— saw fit to leave

-Under normal circumstances, this theory would have no backing, but Kaeya says a line quite frequently in battle that may elude to the validity of this theory:

“This moment will be frozen in time!”

-Another user also pointed out that Kaeya’s elemental burst looks very similar to the cryo abyss mage’s shield reformation sequence wherein a bunch of diamond-shaped ice chunks rotate around it periodically until the shield is regenerated

-This further supports that Kaeya is involved with the Abyss, and by proxy, Khaenri’ah

-It has become common speculation that Kaeya is a spy, which makes sense seeing as everything about his demeanor screams “shady”

-From this standpoint, Logically, we can speculate that Kaeya may be a spy of some sort looking to restore the Khaenri’ahn monarchy

Lumine

-She and Aether canonically travel to Teyvat ~500 years ago where they witness firsthand the destruction of Khaenri’ah

-It is likely that the god who stopped them—the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles, I believe her title was— was a god who was involved in the destruction, and did not want humans meddling in Celestian territory at that time

-While the god’s motive for fighting the twins is still largely up to debate, the cubic cage that Aether gets sucked into may have put him to sleep, only for him to wake up 500 years later, thus leaving Lumine to face the destruction alone

-In the various game trailers, we see Lumine running through decrepit areas which sometimes look like Celestia, and another territory that is unfamilair

-If my thoughts are correct, this never-before-seen land may very well be a snapshot from Khaenri’ah itself during the destruction (edit: I’m pretty sure its Old Mondstadt)

-In these small scenes we see a block-like magic slowly chaining the world in very large pillars, which look much the same to the blocky magic the Sustainer used in the introductory scene

-Reasonably, after witnessing such destruction and conjuring a hatred of the gods, Lumine started the Abyss Order and became its princess, an order whose motives are still largely unknown at this point but seemingly want to interfere in the path of the traveler

-Though we still do not know the extent of the Abyssal hierarchy, because of the points of contingency in the goals of the Tsarista and Lumine, it may be logical that they are working together or are somehow related

-Lumine may have also been directly involved in dealing with the downfall of the Eclipse Dynasty and the destruction of Khaenri'ah because she seems to also have been cursed with immortality

-Due to the polarizing goals between Aether and Lumine up until this point, there may come a time during the game where Aether must choose between his sister and Teyvat

-A choice of this magnitude has already partially been revealed in leaks—if these leaks are to be correct, a lot hinges on them— and it would not be out of MiHoyo's wheelhouse to force us into such heavy situations (Honkai players I am looking at you)

-More about this decision theory will be explained under the Tsarista theory

Dainsleif

-Dainsleif, as revealed by Lumine, was a Royal Guard of the Eclipse Dynasty and was cursed with immortality upon the fall of Khaenri'ah

-Lumine also says that during the Destruction, Dainsleif failed whatever duty he had

-Logically, this would mean that Dainsleif failed to protect Khaenri'ah

-For reasons still unknown, Dainsleif hates the Abyss Order/The Abyss in general, and does not side with Lumine

-Though it is speculated that they were once traveling partners, and whatever happened to Lumine led Dainsleif to leave her side

Childe (godammit)

-Jesus Christ, where do I start with this magnet of chaos

-Childe—or Ajax at the time— left his home in Snezhnaya when he was 13-14

-On his journey, he fell into a crack in the ground, and fell into the Abyss

-He states in one of his quotes:

"I once ventured deep into the abyss and came face to face with an enormous beast. I don't know its name, all I know is the sight of it chilled me to the bone. But mark my words, one day I will march back in there and behead that beast, and you, comrade, will be my witness!"

-I believe at some point we will actually be fighting this beast, whether it be one of the final bosses of the Snezhnaya Chapter or one from the Khaenri'ah Chapter, I believe this beast will have something to do with either getting us to Khaenri'ah or it's somehow related to the Tsaritsa

-As he ventured further into the Abyss, he came across a brilliant swordswoman who taught him everything about fighting for 3 months

-However, when he came back from the Abyss, it had only been 3 days (MORE ABOUT THIS WILL BE EXPLAINED IN THE ABYSSAL THEORY SECTION)

-As we can see in his boss fight and in the fights with the Abyss Herald, a lot of Childe's fighting techniques seem alarmingly similar to the ones used by the Abyss Herald

-This leads me to believe that the swordswoman he trained with as a child was either an Abyss Herald herself or a Royal Guard from Khaenri'ah

-From what we also know, Childe is the only Harbinger who is able to wield BOTH a Vision and a Delusion simultaneously

The Tsaritsa

-Though the Tsaritsa was in power in Snezhnaya when the Destruction happened, it is very likely that she is related to Khaenri'ah based on the fact that she "was traumatized by it [The Destruction of Khaenri'ah]"

-Since she, herself, is seemingly still a human, it is reasonable to infer that the Tsaritsa was either: Eclipse Dynasty royalty or one of the Khaenri'ahn Royal Guards

-There is one line Dainsleif says where he tells the audience that she has no love for her people, neither to they harbor any for her

-Which makes sense since she is not originally from Snezhnaya

-While he is an incredibly biased source, Childe says something interesting about her:

"Her Royal Highness the Tsaritsa is actually a gentle soul. Too gentle, in fact, and that's why she had to harden herself. Likewise, she declared war against the whole world only because she dreams of peace. And because she made an enemy of the world, I had the chance to become acquainted with you."

-What is interesting here is that Childe uses the phrase "Her Royal Highness" to describe the Tsaritsa

-In common royal etiquette, based on our world, you address a queen or the highest monarchical power as "His/Her Majesty" whereas other members like princes and princesses are addressed as "His/Her Royal Highness"

-This would imply that the Tsaritsa is not the one in ultimate control, and that there may be someone above her

-Of course this is very reachy-y but Childe's wording here is interesting

-Additionally, the Tsaritsa, as described by this quote, has waged war against the world because she dreams of peace

-We can see her ambitions in action by her confiscating the gnoses of the current Archons of Teyvat

-The Tsaritsa is most likely siding with Lumine under the same goal; they wish to dismantle the divine thrones in Celestia

-Ultimately, this leads me to believe that a heavy decision will happen toward the end of the Sneznhaya Chapter, likely in the final boss fight (possibly against the Tsaritsa herself)

-And if Aether does have to fight her, that would mean that he is also fighting against his sister since they seemingly share the same goal

-The Tsaritsa wielding the power of the Abyss to create Delusions somehow fits in here somewhere I just don't know how

-But the Tsaritsa is another example of a person(?) who can wield both an elemental power (cryo) and the power of Delusions

Abyssal Theory

In this section, I will be discussing my theories about the Abyss, about how time works there and its relation to Teyvat.

Concerning Time:

So as we know, Childe fell into the Abyss and stayed there for three months, however, in the over world only three days had passed

This means that every 12 days in the over world = 1 year in the Abyss

That means that every year in Teyvat = appx. 30 years in the Abyss

Time moves much faster in the Abyss, which can explain why Lumine is so old, yet may not have been cursed with immortality

Rather, she’s just been spending a lot of time in the Abyss

Concerning Teyvat:

This is where it gets interesting

There is a theory circulating that the Teyvat we are exploring right now is an alternate dimension, or a “flipped” Teyvat

Where it gets interesting is—CONCERNING CHILDE AGAIN— he falls into the Abyss through a crack in the ground

...

He falls.

How is that possible? Isn’t it reasonable to assume that Childe, only having left home for a few hours, was still in Snezhnaya?

Isn’t the only known location of the Abyss in the fallen Kingdom of Khaenri’ah?

How could the Abyss be under Snezhnaya if the Abyss is in Khaenri’ah?

This leads me to believe that underneath our Teyvat is the ruins of Old Teyvat

The Old Teyvat that was ruined by the Destruction of Khaenri’ah

This would also make sense in the context of the directions not being accurate in-game

For example, the wolf of the north, located on the map, is most definitely NOT towards the north, and rather, located in the WEST

The gods, after destroying Khaenri’ah, expanded their destruction to the rest of the continent, and to start over, they created an alternate dimension underneath/on top of Old Teyvat and New Teyvat

New Teyvat being the world we are currently exploring

So, in conclusion, underneath OUR world is an alternate Teyvat that was destroyed by the gods, and the world that we originally came to in the opening scene

This may explain a lot of the places Lumine runs through in those cutscenes, she is running through Old Teyvat

Maybe the people of Teyvat had their memories wiped? This would make sense in the context of the 1.1 event with Scaramouche where he says that “the stars are a lie”, and people may be seeing the “real” Teyvat, or having their memories re-awakened

Concerning the Final Archon Quests:

I believe that the beginning of the Khaenri’ah Chapter will be the end of the Snezhnaya Chapter

By which I mean that whatever final boss we fight in the Snezhnaya Chapter is will ultimately be the one to take us to Khaenri’ah or the Abyss

How this happens, I’m not sure, maybe there is a device in the beast Childe saw that could take us to Khaenri’ah, like the eye of the First Field Tiller, but I believe that the S Chapter and the K Chapter are intertwined

This also makes sense since the Tsaritsa and Khaenri’ah have such strong ties

Maybe we, too, fall into a crack in the ground...?

__________________________________________________________________________________

New Timeline

> Archon War

~2000 yrs. BP; War over the Divine Thrones

> Divine Thrones Established

~2000-1500 yrs. BP; The gods establish Archonhood

> The Destruction of Khaenri’ah/Old Teyvat

~500 yrs. BP; The gods did not like the people of Khaenri'ah and destroyed the land

> The Creation of New Teyvat/Alternate Teyvat

~500 yrs. BP; The gods involved in the Destruction create a new Teyvat since the Old Teyvat has been completely destroyed

> Lumine Creates the Abyss Order

~500 yrs. BP; Abyss Order created to fight against the unfair treatment of the Archons; “Do not trust the gods”

> Fight Against the Archons

~500 yrs. BP → Present; The Tsaritsa and Lumine work together to dismantle the Divine Thrones of Celestia

> Aether Wakes Up

~3 mo. BP; Aether wakes up from his—presumably— 500 year slumber, this is the catalyst to the Archon Quests

Thank you for reading! If you’d like to expand on these theories or point out inconsistencies with the actual lore, please let me know!