Twenty Five 18+ Stuff Here. Kids Beware

The forest hushed, or it seemed to. You stilled on your perch on the bough of the sturdiest tree, fingers twitching as they halted sparks of a spell. For a second, not even a breath permeated the air.

Your hat tilted, a flash of the smile that'd frozen on your lips over the dipped rim of the accessory, “My, did the Black Tide finally get to you?”

You knew as well as he did that that was not the case, but at the moment, it was the only response you managed to give without laughing in disbelief.

You threw another appraising glance over the hero, as if anticipating his face to contort into the mischief you were more familiar with. But he looks entirely too sober, holding your gaze with cyan aflame with all the graveness in the world.

Have you finally lost it? Is what you want to ask, but you will yourself to focus on the more rational one, “And why should I believe a word from the Family's loyal lap-dog?”

Phainon's shoulders slump (a bewildering feat) as a sigh forces past his lips, as if he'd predicted this.

“I know it sounds ridiculous. But just hear me out, alright?”

You lean back, “Uh huh,” eyes sweeping over your nails with all the time in Amphoreus.

A vein in Phainon's hand twitches against his grip on Dawnmaker's hilt, “This isn't about my pride, nor am I affected by anything right now. This is about the citizens of Okhema... and beyond, who've lost their lives in the aimless slaughter the Family has orchestrated over the past centuries in the name of the Ordinance.”

That gets your attention.

“And what makes you think the Family is in the wrong?”

Phainon suppresses a flinch, the mockery in your words not lost on him. “I can see the reality. If witches are the reason for all the misery of this continent, then how come the Black Tide can be systematically repelled through certain technologies, which have no connection to Xipe's powers?”

You tilt your head down, that look that Phainon would never admit titillates his nerves taking over your visage. You rest your cheek against your knuckles, apparitions of cogs churning flickering in your eyes set unblinkingly on his.

Phainon blinks as you suddenly vanish, gripping Dawnmaker as though to strike.

“For centuries you've burned innocent women, left children to starve by deserted fields all while singing praises to THEM.” your whisper is low, deadly calm against his ear. “And now, you're saying you finally see it?”

Phainon inhales sharply at the incredulity in your tone. His hand clenches, once, twice, before relaxing against the hilt of Dawnmaker.

He meets your gaze head on, “Trust me. I know better than anyone how it feels to see everything you once treasured crumble right before your eyes, all while you can do nothing but watch.”

You weave around his form slightly, only the hem of your clothes touching the forest ground from where you float. “Oh? Do you now?”

One of your brows quirks at the unwavering flicker of determination that paints him at the topic at hand, “You can always test me. Verify whether I really mean it or not.” he offers smoothly instead of answering the jab.

A thin veil of fog forms between you from the proximity of your breaths. A cricket dares to buzz in the otherwise weighted silence.

And then, you smile, breaking the unofficial staring contest.

“Follow me.”

—

Phainon blinks owlishly, in utter disbelief of where he stands. Dawnmaker momentarily set aside.

You brush past him, even humming a little tune. A snap of your fingers and the lanterns flicker to life, illuminating the interior of what he now knows is your cottage.

You turn back to his gaping form as if remembering his existence, “If you stay still any longer, you might just become a furniture.”

Phainon can't decide whether you have the survival instincts of a newborn or if you really have no care about the fact that you invited your arch-nemesis to your home.

Phainon clears his throat, though he does not offer a rebuttal, suddenly very interested in the blackened flame flickering in the hearth.

You were having none of it though, a startled yelp left Phainon as he scrambled to catch the object thrown his way.

“What is—?” he's not given the chance to finish as the scroll unravels in a smooth wave from his hand, sliding all the way down and halting right before your foot.

His face scrunches as his brain processes the words scribbled on the parchment : Prepare tea by sundown, dust the shelves, pick exactly six angel's trumpets—

“You wanted a test, didn't you? There it is. Complete the tasks listed on this scroll throughout the following week flawlessly, and I'll take you on my team.” your smile turns sickeningly sweet as Phainon's eyes flit to-and-fro over the words in increasing panic.

His lips part with the beginnings of what can only be assumed is an incredulous retort but you're already a step into a portal glimmering like the night sky (when did you make that?).

“Wait! You're just going to leave me here? All alone? In your home??”

You pause your dramatic escape at his exclamation. Hair shifting as you turned to address him—

Only to be halted at the soft pitter patter of steps coming from the inner hallway.

Phainon goes still, clearly not having expected to have company besides you in your home. (And his mind immediately chimes, wait that sounds weird.)

“You have a... roommate?” Phainon says, very uncertain about the choice of word.

To his confusion, your smile softens with the traces of something genuine. The realization horrifies him even more.

“Ah yes yes, meet the true master of this house, the most gentlemanly of all—”

The hero finds himself holding his breath by instinct, clutching the scroll like a lifeline now. His brows furrow as he scrutinizes the direction of the approaching footsteps, leaning ever-so-slightly closer as a shadow given feline form struts into the room.

... Huh?

“Mr. Whiskers!” Phainon jumps as you all but leap ahead to meet the cat, allegedly Mr. Whiskers' happy pounce.

“Did you miss me, my little demonnnn?” a trill fills the air as ‘Mr. Whiskers’ rubs his little face against your cheek, his way of affirming.

The breath Phainon was holding onto heaves out of him. It's just a cat, just a cat. It must've been too loud though, as your eyes flicker back to him.

“My darling Mr. Whiskers here will be your examiner and judge. Consider yourself lucky!”

Cyan eyes sweep over the addressed feline, a twinkle appearing in them as he sees the distinguished red bow tied around Mr. Whiskers' neck and the monocle now slightly askew over his left eye. Cute, he can't help but think.

A chuckle tumbles out of him before he can hold it back, “The honor is all mine.” he shifts the scroll onto his other hand to free one hand, extending it towards Mr. Whiskers for a greeting.

And promptly regrets it as a vehement hiss pierces the air. All of Mr. Whiskers' dark fur spiked comically to deliver the message that he did not appreciate Phainon's presence, at all.

Your lips form an ‘O’, the hand not holding the cat rising to press against the smirk now blooming on your lips.

“Ahh, I seemed to have forgotten to mention, Mr. Whiskers... really doesn't like dogs.”

The Black Tide gave birth to many such creatures of the night. Some knew how to wield its powers, some could only suffer from its affliction and others relied on it for sustenance. Anaxagoras of the Grove of Epiphany traverses the pages of history, seeking the truth of all things. Among generations that came and crumbled within a blink he's lived, unsuspecting, searching the answer to the question of what he truly is. Between his audacity to challenge the faith of the Family and to parade around under the open sun, one and one thing alone aided him onward — an apparent lack of bloodlust.

“Boo.”

The Sage watched with a face more blank than the sheet of paper spread on the table, the fingers of exasperation already creeping up his spine as you dangled upside down from seemingly nowhere a mere breath away from his face.

His visible eye caught the purse of your lips at his utter lack of reaction and a hypothetical chain of events were already being illustrated in his mind : you'd vanish for two whole seconds, muttering something about him being ‘as fun as a boulder’ before appearing again, this time perched right atop his desk, the heel of your shoe resting snugly on his thigh.

And that's exactly what happened.

The aqua of his eyes caught the dim lantern light as it swept over the scene, “Did you come here just to get on my nerves again?”

The rim of your hat tilts back as you cross your legs, increasing pressure on the heel just to spite him and your lips twitch upon noticing how he still made no attempt to pull away.

“You have such little faith in me. As much as I'd love to play with you—” a futile flash of warning in those magenta pupils, “I've come to inform you that I did it since you're on your monthly reclusive phase again. Your beloved student is now cleaning my cat's litter box, exactly as I said he would.”

Anaxa had a hunch that that was case, but that still didn't make it any less of a feat. Keep the true Holy Knight distanced from Okhema long enough until he's completely ridden of the brainwashing of the Family, so that he'd join you by his own volition. You were worth every stubborn promise you made. The scholar didn't let the surprise show though, crossing his arms, “And you just left him alone in your home like that? You aren't worried he might set a trap?”

You tutted, wagging a finger, “Oh please, he has a soft spot for animals. He wouldn't dare try anything with Mr. Whiskers there.”

(Anaxa didn't argue with that.)

“But that's not exactly why I'm here.” you looked directly at him now, suddenly devoid of mischief. “According to my estimates, he should've approached me two days later.”

A corner of Anaxa's lips twitched, of course you'd catch up, before being smothered by the firm grip you had on his chin.

“You gave him a little push, didn't you? ...Why?”

His lashes fluttered as he looked down at the way the nails of your thumb and index fingers dug ever so slightly on his skin, before settling pointedly at the pulse that thudded at the juncture of your wrist. It was so close, if he just leaned in towards that titillating scent, he could bury his fangs into the flesh.

You noticed his point of interest, grinning as you realized.

“Pity,” your thumb swiped over his bottom lip, bringing your wrist closer for just a millisecond, “I was actually planning on offering you a taste today. But you've disappointed me.”

With that, you withdrew, settling back with a sudden reasonable distance with deliberate poise. It never ceased to dizzy Anaxa how easily your moods swung.

He cleared his throat, turning his head away almost petulantly, “Do not flatter yourself. I don't offer you my valuable help for sustenance. I'm only interested because you swore that you knew the truth behind my origins.”

You twirled a lock of your hair, “And that, I do.” your words are almost sing-song as you note the traces of fluster in his otherwise unflappable countenance.

“But, I'm not going to tell you~” Anaxa turns to you so quickly that you almost get whiplash, the lock of hair you were twirling falls back, “Until you perform the ritual to bring the Holy City's barrier down, that is!”

That relaxes him and you're more than glad to see that flash of pure murderous intent no longer in his eye, “You keep on telling me that, but have you forgotten that an alchemical ritual of that scale will require a sizable sacrifice?”

That brings a wicked gleam in your eyes, you lazily sweep a look over the various sketches of dromases littered everywhere on Anaxa's desk, leaning your weight on one arm.

“No need to buzz like a mosquito yet,” you graciously ignore his scowl, “The sacrifice for that ritual, will be the Herald of Xipe.”

—

Phainon stares at the cauldron of water boiling over the fire for the past twenty minutes. Your home, still littered with traces of the Black Tide, caliginous in its glow, seems to be oddly lively now. He could faintly hear a muffled hoot from the owl (who he definitely did not discover while exploring for escape routes) that guards the backdoor— Ms. Hoot — as he later came to know. Phainon would've laughed at how witchy your cottage was, if he wasn't in as much disbelief as he had been.

“Uhm... I have a question.” his voice is almost pushed aside by the crackles of the water.

You hum, brows furrowed in comical concentration as Phainon shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “How... did you live through more than two centuries without ever learning how to crack an egg properly?”

A splat echoes as the 7th egg meets its demise in an ugly splatter over the kitchen counter, all because Phainon made the mistake of throwing the challenge that he was a better baker.

You muttered a curse at the increasing mess, “Magic, obviously.”

Mr. Whiskers decided to hop on the counter and cast his judgement on the scene, taking one small sniff of the splattered remains of unborn chickens before turning his head away in disgust, trotting away with his fluffy tail held high.

“And what about before you learned the magic on how to crack an egg?”

You shrugged, reaching for your eighth victim, “I had other people do it for me.”

The knight straightens up in alarm, “Stop!” completely unwilling to let you waste more food.

He takes a step closer, big mistake, as his foot slides on the massacred egg that'd fallen on the floor in the third attempt and which he completely forgot about. His reflexes kicked in and he reached an arm out to prevent himqself from crashing, a sound echoed as his hand braced against the counter right beside your waist, trapping you between him and the wood without intention.

And the door swings open right then, an exclamation of Ta-da! resounds, making you both freeze in place.

The footsteps halt abruptly and Phainon turns his head slowly slowly slowly, halting as startled cyan meet with pink-blue hues painted in equal alarm.

The uncrowned king of the seas, whose ships glimmer even from a distance from the hoards of gold weighing on them. They say he's traded his life in exchange of eternal reign over the ocean, but only a handful know that once a upon a time, even this king was forced to kneel. You first met the man on your way back to Okhema after two centuries of self-imposed banishment, and since the stars clearly love you so much, the ship you were on fell prey to pirates.

You had been in the middle of an experiment in your chamber when the commotion on deck reached you, the clashes of steel and the passengers' panicked screams had you immediately scrambling for your broom. But the pirates had reached your door too fast and you ended up misspelling a word ; resulting in you getting trapped in a fallen stone as all went dark.

When you came to, the first thing you noticed through your now green tinted world was the hunched figure of another person right next to you.

It took a considerable effort to make the details out of the person through the absence of light, but one look at the shackles around the person's wrists and their tattered clothes told you all you needed to know.

“Hey! Psst!”

The person jolted, dirty blond hair ruffling as they whipped their head around in search of the voice.

“Over here!!” you called again. After some more searching, at last, the person's eyes fell on the stone beside them half-covered by your fallen hat.

You felt your world tilt as the person lifted the stone up in their palm, “Yes yes! I'm here!” you affirmed again, the person blinked in incredulity.

“A... talking stone...?” by the timbre of the voice, hoarse from disuse, you could make out that it belonged to a man.

“Not a talking stone! I'm a— uhhhh, a magician!” you tried not to let how much you despised saying that show, “I accidentally got trapped in this stone!”

The man observed the stone with an odd look, most likely questioning his sense of reality. Fearing that he might just throw you aside as a hallucination, you rushed to add, “Those pirates took over this ship, right?! And you're one of their hostages, aren't you? If you free me from here, I'll take them down!”

A flicker of interest passed by his eyes and you held you breath. Gotcha, the thought echoed in your mind. The nameless hostage held onto the stone for a bit longer. There was no reflection matching the voice coming from within it, but an undenial weight of something he could feel from it as he furrowed his brows.

“No, tell me how I can take them down instead.”

You could feel your smile falling as you processed his refusal, the concept of a prisoner denying an easy way out to freedom shaking you off. “W-what? You?”

“Yes, me.”

“And what makes you think you can go against those hulking men?? They'll slice your throat before you can even blink!”

His shoulders tensed slightly at that before straightening again, “If you can take them down by yourself, as you say, then you can teach me how to do it as well.”

“Still no!”

He tilts his head back, loosening his hold on the stone, “Then consider yourself forever sealed here.”

Panic seized you at that, “Wait wait wait!”

He listened to your desperate call, halting from whatever he was about to do with the stone. You let out a long suffering sigh, “Look, it really is too dangerous for you, kid. I can feel it, they have weapons imbued with traces of the Black Tide.”

A silence takes root at your words, it's difficult to gauge if he understood the meaning of your words through the shadows covering his eyes.

“... I have a personal grudge to settle against them. They took my sister from me.”

The words are said in a whisper, but they weigh on the air with the bitter fury simmering just beneath them. It's your turn to fall silent.

After what seemed like an eternity but could've easily been half a minute, “... There's an ‘empty’ vial in the satchel over there. It's a type of poison that only has to be inhaled. If you can get them all in one room and uncork it, they'll drop like flies without any trace of what had happened.”

And against all odds, he'd succeeded. The agonized screams of the pirates still echo in your mind when you brush by the edge of the sea now.

When all was said and done, you returned from the stoned prison to the waking world once more, more than ready to leap out of the cursed ship, you'd paused as the nameless youth called.

He looked at his hands, like how one would seeking penance, or reveling in the chaos they'd caused, likely both. “What do I do now...?”

You tightened your grip on your broom for a bit, “I don't know? You have a whole ship to yourself now. Make do with this however you'd like.”

An exhale that sounded like a ‘huh’ left the blonde's lips, you were already muttering the spell to get yourself out of there when he noticed.

“Wait! Just a moment.” you tried your best to not let your irritation show, tilting your head to acknowledge him.

“At least tell me the name of the stone you were trapped in.”

Confusion crept in your eyes, of all things, he asks this? You do one last once-over to see if he's just taunting you, which ends in a sigh as his very serious pink-blue eyes stare back at you.

“Aventurine.”

—

You hold a piece of polished ruby to the lantern light, eyes narrowed in clinical observation, “Are these all you have for me this time?” the tip of your shoe brushes by the medium sized wooden chest on the floor, filled with gems and gold coins. “Are you getting stingy, or poor?”

Aventurine laughs at your tease, “Please, do you know how difficult it is to find you? I had to bribe lady Bonajade first, then that murder of crows by the southern post.”

You hummed, tossing the agate back into the chest. “Besides,” the pirate drawls, “It's not as if you are going to indulge in these. I know you spend everything for the Black Cat Sanctuary instead.”

By the kitchen, Phainon whisked batter in a bowl, pretending not to listen to the conversation taking place between you and the pirate he'd thought only existed in exaggerated tales.

Aventurine's visible eye flickers back to Phainon upon feeling his pointed stare, “I must say, I wasn't aware that baking skills were essential to be blessed by Xipe.”

His lips curl in a smile, which Phainon eagerly reciprocates, you raise a brow at the flash of vitriol passing by through the exchange.

“You'd be surprised. Baking is quite effective in developing skills such as skewering, mixing, measuring... and of course, learning how to maintain harmony.” Phainon chimes, every beat hit perfectly.

Aventurine drawls a very curious ‘ah’ sound, a muscle twitching on his forehead. You interrupt him before he can get a response out, not at all interested in a passive-aggressive quarrel, “Report on the situation on your end?”

The pirate turns to you, the glow of the lantern light intenerates his expression, “Everything is set. My crew already have the list you gave me memorized. Worry that pretty head of yours less, alright?”

You blink in surprise as Aventurine taps your nose, “The ocean will be your dance floor on the day of the Charmony Festival.”

Once upon a time, you too dreamed of shining princes who could sweep one off their feet in a flurry of courage and chivalry. When the days were simpler and fairytales seemed reachable, when your mother still hummed berceuse tunes to coax the restless young you to sleep. Somewhere along your journey away from the Holy City approximately one hundred and eighty years ago, you encountered one such prince. Though by then, you were far too disillusioned to the lies you were fed at the tender age of ten and he, Mydeimos, the Undying was the farthest thing from the dreamy princes in the stories.

Grappling with the loss of a happier childhood and the struggle to form a Resistance, you two found common ground to exchange thoughts before brewing battlefields and conspiracies, unexpectedly. Per your request, it was never written in the Kremnoan textbooks that the dethroning of the tyrant king Eurypon by the Kremnoan Detachment was aided by a witch — in exchange for Mydeimos letting you experiment with his body. The fruits of those experiments would later be used to prolong Mr. Whiskers' lifespan and any sillage of feelings crossing the bounds of friendly transaction would be buried in the past.

He'd asked once, when his mind was riddled with caution, “Why do you seem so intent on helping us?”

And that was the only time in your life where you're certain you used all your brainpower to form a response, brushing past ‘I just feel like it’, shoving aside ‘I just want a sample of your life force’, ducking under ‘You'll be useful to me in the far far future’ before finally settling on something even more ridiculous.

“Because... I harbor affections for you, my dearest axolotl!”

And the issue is, Mydeimos took it seriously.

Phainon stood as still as a statue beside you, you tsk-ed at the trails of blood painting rivulets on the grass of your backyard. His widened eyes flitted to and fro over the heap of unmoving flesh, a flash of light reflected from golden armor told him what exactly he was seeing here.

Soldiers. Fallen in the latest conflict that was subdued by Castrum Kremnos.

“Looks like he found out my hideout again. I thought I made it clear last time that I no longer need human bodies for experiments!” you huffed.

Slowly, Phainon turned to face you, his bewildered expression in place. “You... what? Who? What is— what are you going to do about this?” he sputtered, questions eager to tumble out all at once.

You shrugged, “Feed it to the crocodiles of the lake, I guess.” and your fingers were already moving to cast the spell.

It's not that Phainon was unacquainted with the sight of dead bodies, it's the fact that you were treating this as though Mr. Whiskers had brought you a dead mice instead of being offered fallen war soldiers as tribute which unnerved him.

“Wait!”

You halted, raising a brow, “Do you have a better proposal?”

Phainon took a deep breath, “These are soldiers, not ordinary men. Don't you think... that they deserve a proper burial at least?”

A most curious look took over your face, you tapped your cheek with a finger. “Have you... ‘properly buried’ every soldier you've killed?”

Phainon's mouth opened and closed the next second, a brief stretch of silence followed. Not even Ms. Hoot who was perched right by the nearest tree made a sound.

That was all you needed, “I thought so.”

“Answer me this at least,” a muscle just at the dip of your jaw ticked at being interrupted again, “Who sent you... this?”

You let out a long-suffering sigh, contemplating and inevitably deciding that there was no point in gatekeeping this fact. “That King of Castrum Kremnos.”

If Phainon had a gold coin for every shock he's gotten since he joined your side, he'd be able to buy an entire house. “You mean Mydeimos? He's in on this too?”

You waved a hand quickly and Phainon could've sworn you were flustered back there, “No no no no. He's not in on it— well, not exactly... ugh, it's complicated, alright? Don't ask.”

A snap of your fingers cut through the air, only the blood soaked earth stood testament to what had previously been laid out on it. You turned on your heels and rushed inside with an uncharacteristic hurry, leaving Phainon to ponder alone the weight of this discovery.

The passage of the Ordinance has seen many interesting turn of events. Once a man dared to oppose the witch trial and was crushed under the weight of his own defiance. At one point, an idiot came and wrote a book with the catchy title of ‘The Hammer of Witches’ and contrary to its name, it was not talking about your fondness for hammers at all. Though later, the book was debunked by one scholar, which was then buried by the concerned gentlemen of the Family. The marvels of society, really. Trouble began to stir again when the same scholar singlehandedly repelled the epidemic that'd seized thousands of life. That kindled the mass's disillusionment towards the Family, though the famed Doctor who can heal the dead remained a mystery.

You gingerly made your way to the backdoor to investigate the knocks, outside, winds stirred the beginnings of a storm.

The hinges of the door groaned as you swung it open and a bolt lighting descended close by just then ; setting the tall figure of the person standing still alight, shadows flickering over the ridges of pointy beaked mask.

You just barely managed to suppress a flinch, “Doctor! How many times have I told you stop wearing that hideous mask?!”

The figure's boot thumped heavily against your floor as he steps inside, shutting the storm behind him. Droplets of water from a distant rainfall cling to his coat, a gloved hand raises to pull the mask away just enough for sunset dyed eyes to lock with yours.

“And how many times have I told you that it is not ‘hideous’, but efficient?”

You scoff, crossing your arms, “Efficient in spiking my blood pressure, you mean.”

His fingers sweep off some rain-water from his shoulder, without missing a beat, “A taste of your own medicine, I would say. Consider it... a part of the treatment.”

—

You watch from where you reclined against the headboard of your bed as Dr. Ratio goes over the routine check-up, lips pursed in displeasure because he still has that offending, ugly bird-mask perched on one side of his head.

Your thoughts drift to other things to distract yourself from how much you want to yank that thing away, like how Phainon is completely passed out in the room adjacent to this, defenses crumbled against one cold wind and cozy blankets.

“Pulse is stable, the flow of Black Tide is tempered within... or at least, that's how it appears to be on the outside.” Ratio breaks the silence, you tense ever-so-slightly.

“Can't hide it from you, huh?” you jest by instinct.

“Obviously.” he states simply, eyes fixing on you with sudden clinical precision. “What did you expect to happen in the proximity of that man?”

The question is rhetorical, belying the subtlest condescension. Your fingers fist against the bedsheets for a second, “It's not him, Ratio. This has been going on for longer than he was born. You know that.”

Ratio blinks, and you wonder if you imagined his surprise in that gesture. Because he's just as quick to recover, clearing his throat.

“Of course. I was merely... proposing hypotheticals.”

You hum, folding your hands atop your lap calmly. Your eyes follow as Ratio reaches for the familiar vial of medicine in his suitcase that usually mitigates your aches, only for a shadow to dart between the vial and Ratio's outstretched hand.

Mr. Whiskers stands, fur poofed up as his hiss of indignation echoes through the air. For once, the cat's eyes are open, heated golden meeting with the sunset orange of Ratio's.

Right. There's that, too.

“Well well, it appears that your feline is happy to see me again.” Ratio mutters dryly.

You reach out to take Mr. Whiskers off the table before his claws can strike the man. For some reason, Mr. Whiskers absolutely hates the doctor. You think it's because of the time the doctor gave him a shot, not worrying too much, considering that the cat's list of tolerated humans was very short to begin with. The only problem is that it creates awkward moments like this.

“Sorry...” you offer, shifting a bit further away from the doctor with a very disgruntled Mr. Whiskers cradled against your chest. “I think it's because he doesn't recognize your scent. It has been a long time since you last visited.”

It's Ratio's turn to hum like he isn't convinced but won't voice it out either, strands of purple swaying as he tilts his head.

“Well, in any case, my work here is done.” he smoothly puts the vial in the drawer beside your bed, getting up from his seat.

The click of his suitcase closing shut mixes in with Mr. Whiskers' muffled meows. You also rise to walk Ratio towards the door, maintaining careful distance for the sake of Mr. Whiskers.

Suddenly, “I do hope you know the gravity of what you're getting yourself into.” he says without turning back at you.

You slow down your steps and even Mr. Whiskers falls quiet, as if sensing the shift in the air. You don't need elaboration to understand what exactly he's hinting towards.

Though he may never say it outright, Ratio has always cared, enough to listen to the plea of the ghost of your mother, enough to remind you to reconsider your rebellion against the Family without fail each time he visited.

The corners of your lips pull, tiptoeing the border of a smile.

“Thank you for the reminder, but let me make something clear one last time, Ratio. This rebellion isn't just about the Witch Hunting Ordinance anymore. Everyone has woken up, they're conscious of all the atrocities committed by Gopher Wood and his underlings and they will not stop until THEY have been dethroned.”

Ratio pauses right in front of the door, a gloved hand resting on the knob.

“... In that case, I offer you my best wishes instead.”

He doesn't turn all the way, merely shifts his head enough to catch the smirk now rooted firmly in place on your lips.

“Do stay alive... doctor. We will need you in the Age of Enlightenment.”

Oftentimes, you have a dream. Of days when it was alright to be ignorant, to not know about the slumbering malice hidden deep in the human heart, to think of the Black Tide as the single most terrifying curse cast upon the earth. Running through the halls of the Marmoreal Palace, chasing apparitions of those who you once called friends and having the privilege to crash into the arms of your family should you stumble along the way. When the most pressing concern in your mind had been how many more sweets you could hoard with Robin, or which performance you'd pick for the upcoming social season.

But alas, dreams woven by the strings of Xipe are so often fragile.

It's been a little more than a week since Phainon ‘betrayed’ the Family and joined your side. Well, ‘joined’ might be a stretch considering that he's still undergoing his trial.

Throughout the past week, Phainon has diligently completed every test you've given him. Your shelves are sparkling, your tea time is not disturbed, Mr. Whiskers' meals are provided sharply on time and he's even figured out a way to pick angel's trumpets without having an aneurysm all while keeping his sanity in tact.

Yet, there is not a trace of your so-called ‘master plan’ taking place besides that blonde pirate that came and went away. Not to mention, there isn't much acknowledgment from your end for his efforts, Mr. Whiskers still slaps him when he's passing by in the hallway and more concerning than that is how accustomed he's getting to your peculiar way of life with each passing day.

“The plan? It's quite simple, really.”

Phainon leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he watched you twirl without a care in the world. It took him days of hyping himself up to ask the question, and here you are, answering it like it isn't supposed to be state-secret level information.

A graceful step back, “On the eve before the Charmony Festival, you will resign officially from the Family. Every other knight and soldier will follow after you, save for a couple of die-hard brainwashed fools.” the skeleton's bony fingers almost slipped off from yours before you caught it back with a giggle.

“Anaxa will cast the alchemical circle to bring down the barrier that protects the Holy City.” cyan eyes traced the strands of your hair thrown in tune with the next twirl, “And then, the Kremnoans will ambush Okhema, which I'll leave to Aglaea to settle.”

Your body moved as though you've done this a hundred times before, steps tracing the memory of a song echoing only in your mind. “Aventurine will be waiting with his crew by the docks, ready to capture the fleeing Family members.”

“And I,” Phainon let go of a breath as the dance came to an end, “Will be there to collect Gopher Wood's head.” the skeleton's skull tilted to the side as you dipped it, as though signaling the finale of a symphony.

The plan did seem simple enough, at least from how you said it. But there was another question that Phainon has wondered since he found out your true motives of overthrowing the Family from the Holy City, that which you have avoided tactfully every time he'd asked.

“Can I ask another question?” you hummed, putting the skeleton back in a closet with exaggerated care. “Is making Gopher Wood pay... your only objective behind this rebellion?”

Phainon knew and he knew that you knew as well, there is no reason for a person to wait two hundred years with the utmost patience, only to see the downfall of one person who you could've easily killed in other, easier ways.

You went quiet, and it was the longest silence you've ever taken to form a rebuttal throughout the twenty years he's chased you.

“No, there's... something else.” you pressed your fingers atop your heart, or where should be a heart, “There is someone who betrayed me a long time ago, and... he needs to feel the same pain as I did all those years ago.”

A chill trails down from the nape of his neck to the ends of Phainon's spine. Not because there's fury in your eyes, but because there's a genuine, humane flash of hurt simmering just beneath the rage reflected in your eyes.

It reminds Phainon of a memory, one he now wonders how he hadn't remembered sooner.

Years ago, before Phainon embarked on his campaign to capture the Last Witch, the Herald of Xipe himself had called for him in his chamber to bless his journey.

Back then, because Phainon has never quite succeeded in stomping down his curiosity and since the Holy Emissary's benevolence had been apparent, he had asked.

“Is there... a specific reason behind your determination to eradicate the Witches this fiercely, Your Holiness?”

Sunlight filtered through the stained glass of his chambers, making silver feathers shimmer. The Emissary's golden eyes seemed to be fixated on the painting in betwixt the two large windows right behind his grand oak desk, the one that was always half covered.

The fingers of the hand that was clasped behind his back twitched in contemplation, the ivorine fabric stretching with the motion. At last, Sunday spoke, words fragile.

“I fight the Witches not because they're envoys of the Black Tide — though, there is no lie in that fact, but because they took someone I treasured from me. Someone I had a promise with.”

A breeze waltzes by just then, as if by divine decree or premonition, stirring the curtain aside just a little more.

Cyan eyes widened.

For the winds swept the veil, revealing measured brush strokes taking the shape of your eyes and smile.

Sensing your eyes on him, his fingers wind tightly around his fork, the muscles in his neck bunching as he resists the urge to lift his head and catch you in the act. It’s pointless, anyway. The moment he swings his gaze in your direction, Zanka knows exactly what he’ll see - nothing but the brim of your hat and the bottom of your chin, your face expertly hidden away as it’s been the last three times he’s checked.

Next to him, Riyo snorts, her shoulder bumping against his. Zanka tosses her a glance and frowns at the mischievous gleam in her eye. 

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Riyo murmurs airily, popping a still-steaming morsel of something soft and flaky into her mouth. Zanka’s stomach rumbles loudly at the sight of it and her lips stretch into a grin. “Aren’t you going to eat? Rudo might finish it all if you’re not quick about it.”

Zanka scowls at the aforementioned Sphereite, though Rudo is entirely too distracted by his own plate to notice. He’s already on his second helping and quickly gaining ground toward his third; just to be safe, Zanka tugs his plate out of the boy’s orbit and spears a morsel of spiced meat with his fork, determined to enjoy his damn meal regardless of the weight of your gaze upon him. 

He nearly sighs at the first burst of flavor across his tongue, tender and earthy and damn near the most decadent thing he’s ever tasted with how hungry he is. He can feel the tension leeching from his frame as he chews, all thoughts of trash beasts and hawk-eyed Supporters fleeing from his mind. There really isn’t anything a good meal won’t fix, is there? Even the pain from his bruises seems dulled, and as Zanka’s teeth drag along the tines of his fork, he feels his lips begin to curl, all of his problems blissfully fading away. Already eager for his next bite, his eyes flutter open -

- and catch on yours. 

Startled, Zanka swallows instinctively and nearly chokes as the too-large bite gets caught in his throat, coughing raucously and slapping the meat of his palm against his chest to help clear his airway. By the time he’s able to peel his eyes open, lashes clumped together with tears of exertion, you’ve vanished, the taut line of your back disappearing out the front entrance with Tomme and Follo trailing closely behind. The plate of food you’d left on the table, Zanka can’t help but notice, is still half full.

Next to him, Riyo snorts, making a show of patting him gently on the back as he sucks in air through his nose.

“What - ” Zanka snaps, wincing at the rasp in his voice. For a moment he wonders how Rudo can stand stuffing so much down his gullet at a time. “What’s so funny?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Riyo purrs, pillowing her chin in the bowl of her palm and regarding him with pitying eyes.

Zanka’s hackles rise. He hates feeling like he’s the butt of some joke. “Stop speakin’ in riddles.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Riyo reaches across the table and taps Rudo’s glove. 

“Rudo,” she prompts him, the sound of her voice immediately rousing the boy’s interest. “Have you ever had a crush on someone?”

Zanka can see the moment Rudo’s brain disconnects, crimson eyes flitting from Riyo’s face to her fingers tucked against his glove before his cheeks flood with warmth.

“A crush?” he mutters, a shadow passing over his face. “Why d’you want to know?”

“Just humor me, okay?” Riyo coaxes him, though Zanka notices how swiftly her tone has gentled. She’d seen the shadow too, then. “How did you act around that person?”

Rudo swallows, thumbing away a stray crumb from his lower lip. He can’t quite meet their eyes. “Stupid,” he huffs, a tinge of bittersweet nostalgia in his voice. “Reckless. I wanted to make them smile. Give them things.”

Riyo nods along, though she’s looking more at Zanka than at Rudo, her crimson brows drawing up high over twinkling eyes. “Did they know?”

Rudo’s fingers twitch around his fork. “I don’t know. It didn’t really matter, after - ” He trails off, lips settling into a thin line before he sighs, the shadows leeching from his face, if only a little. “Regto noticed, though.”

“Oh?” Riyo hums, tilting her head. “How so?”

Rudo shrugs his shoulder, a self-conscious slant to his smile. “Guess I wasn’t subtle about it. Always seeking them out, you know? Starin’.”

Zanka’s fork scrapes discordantly across his plate. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Riyo’s grin growing, stretching broadly - knowingly - across her face. 

The rest of their conversation fades into white noise as Zanka stares at your empty seat, the memory of your gaze fixed upon him suddenly carrying far more weight than he was prepared to acknowledge on an empty stomach and in a room full of his peers.

He knows what Riyo’s implying, of course. She had all but spelled it out for him, hadn’t she, that conversation with Rudo carried out purely for his benefit and with all the subtlety of a brick to the head. 

Ridiculous. It’s the first word that springs to Zanka’s mind. Utterly ridiculous, in fact, though some small part of him is forced to acknowledge that it would certainly explain a few things. Your constant staring, for one. 

He frowns. Now that the thought has been planted in his mind, he can think of little else. Just your gaze, warm and fleeting wherever you think him unaware.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Zanka rises to his feet, refusing to look at Riyo or the meal he’d been so intent on enjoying a few short moments earlier. He’ll never get any peace - from Riyo, chiefly, but also from himself - if he doesn’t lay these suspicions to rest.

As he reaches for his staff, he vaguely hears Enjin’s voice rising above the din to herd the rest of the team out to the truck, but Zanka is already a few steps ahead, a determination in his footsteps that serves to clear the rest of the patrons from his path. 

You’re nearly to the truck when he steps outside, trailing balefully behind the other Supporters with the notepad you often use to scribble your trash beast findings tucked under your arm. The sight of your bowed shoulders hurries Zanka’s feet, his Lovely Assistaff clutched between fingers that are decidedly not clammy; even so, he makes a point to swipe them clean on his robes and plant a placid expression on his face before he reaches the truck, forearm shooting out to prevent Follo from following you into the backseat.

“Oh, uh - ” Zanka just smiles pleasantly at Follo’s stumbling, settling into his seat and tucking his staff against his shoulder without giving anyone else in the vehicle - including you, now sitting stiffly by his side - a second look.

He pillows his cheek against his staff as the others pile in and the truck lurches into motion, Gris at the wheel ensuring a smooth ride back to Cleaner HQ and plenty of time to test whether Riyo’s suspicions are true. But how?

You’ve yet to fully relax beside him, the curve of your shoulder stiff against his own and your hands clasped tightly together in your lap. Sneaking a glance at your profile doesn’t give him much, your face carefully blank and your eyes pointed straight ahead, and Zanka purses his lips. Is that lovesickness upon your face, as Riyo would have him believe? He wouldn’t know. If anything, you just look shell-shocked. 

An idea forms in his mind; Zanka makes a show of yawning into his hand and allows his arm to brush against yours, shoulders pressing firmly together for a split second, two, three, before he retreats. You breathe out harshly through your nose at the contact, your gaze frozen on the windshield ahead. Well, he thinks wryly, that’s something.

Emboldened, Zanka allows his knee to press against yours;  his pulse leaps as you suck in a breath and nearly choke on it, the sound neatly swallowed by the rumble of heavy wheels over uneven ground.

“Are you alright?” he can hear Tomme question from your other side.

“Just a tickle in my throat,” you murmur back, your tone even and your face fixed in the facsimile of a smile. Even as Zanka studies you, however, the expression cracks the moment Tomme glances away. In your lap, your fingers have curled into fists.

Zanka swallows roughly. You’re wound as tightly as a spring, he marvels, and all for what? Because he’d dared to sit beside you? Press his shoulder to yours? Just a touch had affected you that much?

Had Riyo been right after all?

The thought brings a warm flush to Zanka’s cheeks. It’s ridiculous, he thinks. Based on your reactions to his presence alone, you were just as likely to despise him as hold some sort of torch for him. The former was so much more believable, in fact, that he nearly gives up on the whole venture, seconds away from cramming himself as close to the window as possible in an attempt to give you space when you startle him by moving yourself - not away from him, as he had predicted, but enough to flatten out your notepad across your lap, pen scratching along the surface as you begin to map out a drawing of the trash beasts you’d all faced hours before.

Zanka finds himself fixated on your fingers, watching them skitter across the page and leave swaths of dark ink in their wake, lines and curves and angles eventually forming the body of one of the beasts they had dispatched, a nasty amalgamation of horns and hooves with a mouthful of sharp, crooked teeth.

It doesn’t take long for the gentle scritching of your pen and Gris’ impeccable driving to coax him into a bit of a fugue state, eyelids growing heavy and body slumping into his seat.

He doesn’t intend to fall asleep, nor to encroach upon your space any more than he already has for fear that you might actually fling yourself out of the car if he tries, but he also doesn’t bother to slow his descent whenever his body begins to tip, inching slowly but surely into your orbit until his cheek nudges against your shoulder and settles there.

Your reaction is immediate, your breath hitching and your pen jerking to a stop atop your note pad. You’ve scratched a jagged line through your trash beast, Zanka notices absently, and feels his lips curl into a smile. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs sleepily, tilting his head to catch your eye. The sensation of his breath fanning across your throat seems to send a jolt through you, your body twitching beneath his cheek. 

“It’s alright,” you breathe, throat bobbing on a swallow. You don’t seem to know where to fix your gaze. “Long day, huh?”

Zanka suppresses a grin at your forced composure. This close, he can hear your heartbeat fluttering at the base of your throat, quick and light. He wonders if it had raced half as fast while in the midst of those trash beasts.

“ I can always - ” he trails off meaningfully, preparing to lift his head from the warmth of your shoulder.

“No!” you protest, so quickly and so sharply it seems to shock you both. Zanka can practically feel the heat rolling off of your skin as you flush heavily beneath his gaze, but you’re not a Supporter for nothing, and it only takes a moment for you to find your mettle, catching his eye and, for the first time all day, holding it taut. “I mean. You don’t have to move. I don’t mind.”

His lips twitch. “Good to know,” he huffs, taking pity on you and allowing his eyes to flutter closed once more. He doesn’t actually sleep, although between the eventual resurgence of your pen quietly rasping across paper and Gris’ driving, it’s a near thing. He simply listens - to the soft huff of your breaths as you jot down your findings, to the shift of your clothing as you switch positions, always cognizant of his cheek pillowed on your shoulder, to the flutter of your pulse, steady and strong, and showing no signs of slowing.

"enjin, you're overreacting, i can heal myself." you muttered as he continued carried you.

"you and i both know healing yourself while you're injured causes an unnecessary strain on your body. alice is gonna take a look at ya, okay?"

and you knew he was serious so you shut up and just let him carry you, the cut did sting a bit anyway...

as alice looked over you, enjin stayed one step behind her the whole time, annoying the shit out of her.

"enjin... back up! I cant look over her when you're standing right behind me."

he wanted to protest, but he knew she was right, so he went to sit on the rolling stool in the back. but his eyes never left yours.

"well i think she'll be all right. i'll clean it and give her some ointment so it doesn't get infected."

you nod and look to enjin who was still staring at you with an unreadable look.

back at headquarters the first thing he did upon arriving was tell semiu to not send you out on any missions.

enjin wasn't her superior by any means, and in any other case she'd rip him a new one, but she didn't need her vital instrument to tell that he was worried.

"sure thing, enjin." was all she said as carried you up to the room.

"enjin, we need to talk about this." you said as he set you down on the bed, "i understand you're concerned but you can't treat me like i'm fragile."

he lit a cigarette and took a few hits before responding.

"fuck, i know. you're right. it's just i don't handle my friends getting injured well, especially when it's one i love as much as i love you." he typically wasn't sappy like this. most of his pet names were said with love, but in a joking manner. you knew he loved you, as you did him but this was the first time you'd ever seen him so worried.

all this over a little cut.

"i know, and i'll be more careful next time."

this caught him off guard, and he hesitated before taking another puff of his cigarette.

he was surprised you understood him.

but you always would, he was the love of your life after all.

CHAPTER I

At night, the sounds of the city were even more enjoyable. The last time you had enjoyed all these sounds, you had lost everything you could possibly own.

"Time to go," he said, adjusting the hood over his head. You nodded and stood up, taking one last look at the city lights. It wasn't as if you’d never see them again, but when you were working, those small details often went unnoticed.

The night was a reminder of how ephemeral everything seemed to you. Only a few months ago, you were locked up with hundreds of people and all you could see was loneliness and darkness; now, that darkness was gone. But even you didn't know just how fleeting life could be.

"Master," you said, quickening your pace, "where are we going now?"

"We're staying in the city, but our mission lies on the outskirts."

"Can we eat sweets when we're finished?"

"Only if you finish the job the way I taught you."

A spark lit up in your eyes. Nothing motivated you more than being able to eat some sweets after a job well done. Perhaps it was something ridiculous to others, but for a girl who had never tasted the sweetness of the world, a candy could motivate her more than any amount of money.

Your job was simple: eliminate the local wrongdoers. The Master would observe you from the shadows and evaluate your work; if things got difficult, he would intervene to help, but that rarely happened. You were good at your job... too good, in fact. Anyone would say you had been doing this kind of work since childhood, when in reality, you had only been in the trade for a few weeks.

"You go in, finish everyone off, and come out. Simple, right?" the man commented, looking at you over his shoulder.

"Yes, Master."

The Master was a tall man with a dark complexion. His build was quite sturdy for someone his age. Gray hair covered his head completely, and his beard only made him look older. But when his eyes gleamed upon activating his Vital Instrument, it was like watching a God perform his finest work. Untrained eyes could never match his speed, Jinki or not. Closed minds would probably criticize his actions, but who cared about that? He was the best at his job, and you aspired to be just like him.

You entered the building stealthily. It was falling apart, and the smell was similar to the forbidden zone of the Ground, but instead of garbage, the place was surrounded by human remains. You couldn't get distracted by trifles; a sweet reward awaited you, and perhaps, finally, your master's approval.

You moved like a cat, swift and silent. You couldn't skip a single step to reach your goal.

"Step one," you thought, "Enter cautiously. Done." You pressed an ear to each door, searching for any sound. "Step two, listen to your surroundings. Done." It wasn't that you were looking for a conversation; in reality, you were seeking those heartbeats you could only hear when you truly concentrated. You stopped before the last door, which was half-open; a faint light peeked through the small opening.

"Look how much money we've made," a high-pitched voice said. "I told you selling Spherites was a better idea." He let out a mocking laugh, shaking the bills in his hand.

"Selling fake Spherites, you mean," said the man beside him. Both looked skin and bones. They were the kind of people you loathed; not only had they made money selling people, but they even consumed them. Consuming people was perhaps the worst crime in the Ground.

They weren't Givers, that much was obvious. They were just poor devils taking advantage of others. You took one of your blades and threw it at the man with the bills. There was no need to open the door further; that small slit was wide enough for you to do your job. The blade landed right between his eyes. The man fell backward onto the sofa where he sat, the bills flying from his hand and falling like confetti.

You took the opportunity and burst into the room, pushing the door open. The other man, still alive, jumped from his seat, grabbed the weapon on the side table, and aimed it at you.

A shot, and then another, before you could completely neutralize him.

"Damn it," you muttered. You gathered the blades you used, pulling them from the lifeless bodies on the floor. Using your cloak, you wiped the blood from each one and began to inspect the room. There was no relevant information; at least this room smelled a bit better than the rest of the building, which was a relief. Cockroaches and rats scurried away from every piece of furniture you moved in search of at least some useful paper, but there was nothing.

After five minutes, you left the building and found your master on the roof of the opposite building, observing a black crow, perhaps even chatting with it. As soon as he saw you, the crow flew away, and your master stopped a stopwatch on his wrist.

"8 minutes. Your best time," he said, patting your head in congratulation.

"I didn't find any relevant information, just some human remains, but they confirmed they sell people by lying and saying they are Spherites."

The Master grimaced but said nothing more. Instead, he tossed you a package that you caught in mid-air.

"Your reward," he smiled. You looked at the package and smiled back, it was one of your favorite chocolates, filled with caramel, but your smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

"I don't deserve it, Master." You threw it back to him. "I didn't realize they had a weapon, and they almost blew my head off." Your eyes looked down at your boot laces, now stained with blood. The Master offered not just the same chocolate back, but now two bars.

"Making mistakes is part of the process," he said. You looked at him with wide eyes. "You made an error, but you were able to resolve it. That’s what people do. Now you just need to perfect your training." You took both sweets and nodded firmly.

"Yes, Master."

On the other side of the city, the Cleaners were doing the same job as always: defeating trash beasts. Every time they returned from a mission, Zanka would approach Semiu's desk to read the newspaper, looking for news related to his family or the Hell Guard, though he was really tracking them just to stay away from them. During his reading, something else caught his attention.

"Semiu," he said, showing the girl the paper. "Human consumption has increased in the Ground" Semiu looked away from her magazine for a moment and quickly read the paper. With a sigh, she said:

"The Boss and I just noticed it. Not only has consumption increased, but so have the murders of scavengers." Zanka swallowed hard and read the newspaper again.

"You don't think the Hell Guard is behind those murders, do you?" His hands were shaking slightly, but Semiu noticed.

"I don't think so. After all," she closed the magazine and tucked it into one of the desk drawers, "there are many people in here we still don't know. Givers who harbor immense power."

Those words resonated in Zanka's mind for a few minutes. The more he read the newspaper, the more nauseous he felt. People who ate human flesh and people who finished off those kinds of people... what kind of place of horror was the Ground?

I've been thinking about this history for a long time and I've finally decided to post it, hope you like it. There will be a bit of everything in this story and I hope you're willing to accept it💖

ENJIN’S ‘BABY’

Enji has nothing but white hot ice flowing in his veins as he taps his foot impatiently. Out of all the times he has to be on a last minute mission! Of course- OF COURSE! It would be the same day you went into labor. He’s practically rattling the entire jeep with how hard he’s shaking his leg in the passenger seat. Gris insisted he be the one to drive, with how reckless Enjin was with the news and how urgently he wanted to leave; they all knew it was the only safe option. Enjin huffed and glared forward trying to remain calm and not rip anyone’s head off if they so much as breathed right now.

The car, aside from the outside noise and leg tapping, was eerily silent. They’d all heard your scream cut through the line. They’re all immensely worried about you, birth in itself is no easy thing. Birth on the ground? It’s one missed step and bye bye mom. It was a silent grimness that hung in the air and made the car ten times stuffier, but still one one dared breath a word. Enjin just can’t believe it, all because he didn’t want to have a kid attached to him all day and now it’s possible he’s gonna be missing out on his other kid being born.

“Gris! Can’t you drive the hunk of junk any faster?!” He snaps impatiently. Gris didn’t bother glancing over and just pressing harder on the pedal.

“Hold on everyone! We’re taking a short cut!” Gris yells to the rest of the car as he veers off road to cut across the open area. The others immediately scramble to hand onto something as the terrain gets a lot rougher. If he cuts across the suspension is gonna suffer for sure but it’s worth it if they can get to you faster. Enjin doesn’t bother thanking him, just leans closer to the windshield waiting for a glimpse of the edge of town. Once it does peak just into view he’s gripping his seatbelt trying to suppress the urge to rip it out of place and jump out of the car.

~~~

On the other side of things you’re sweating and huffing between contractions. You're gripping the bedding so hard you’re sure you’re tearing the mattress underneath. The amount of pain and pressure in your lower body is immense, even with what little pain management Alice could provide you still feel like you’re being torn in half. Groaning out you try to push with another contraction but only manage to push half of the amount needed before needing to stop. While this came on fast and hard you’re really struggling to get the baby out.

“DONT GIVE UP ON ME NOW! JUST A FEW MORE BIG ONES AND THE HEAD WILL BE THROUGH!” Alice instructs loudly, trying to offer some encouragement. You sob out a whine and try to brace yourself to push again. You manage one more good push before you become a bit distracted by the loud screeching and banging outside. You don’t get to think about it before another harsh contraction plows into you and you have to push again. You shout and grit your teeth as you try desperately to push as hard as you can. Just a few more she said… a few more and you’ll be done….

Seconds later the curtain draws quickly. Blinking over you start full blown hysterical crying with how grateful you are to see your idiot. “Enjin!” You are so relieved you barely register the build of another contraction before its barreling through. You flinch and groan out as you again try to grip the bed like your life depends on it. Enjin is quickly at your side and pulling your hand into his. He leans his upper body in and wraps an arm around you like Eishia told him he should. He helps keep you propped up as you continue pushing.

“I’m so sorry I'm late Baby!” He kisses your sweat covered forehead. “I got you now though! I’m not going anywhere!” He’s trying to provide a really good face of confidence but inside he’s a total wreck. Watching the love of his life struggle in pain is in his top 3 worst case scenarios so this is incredibly hard to whiteness. Still he has to stay strong, you need him and he owes it to you to be level headed and calm.

You death grip his hand through another push. “I-I’m just happy you didn’t miss it!” You cry out trying to offer Enjin a smile, as watery eyed and sweaty as you are you still want him not to feel guilty. He presses another kiss to your forehead before touching his to yours.

“Don’t worry about me right now Baby, just focus on getting through this… More kids other than this baby need their mom around.” He leans back again just in time for Alice to start yelling.

“THATS ALL CUTE AND SHIT BUT WE STILL NEED TO GET THE BABY OUT YA MORONS!” She gripes as she turns back to her work. “ONE MORE BIG PUSH SHOULD DO IT!” She catches your eye as you brace for hopefully the last big strain. The last push is also the longest, you push your body well past its threshold of effort in this moment, you just want this damn thing out!

With a final shout and with help from Alice your baby finally enters the world with a loud audible cry. Once you hear it you immediately relax into Enjin’s arms, finally…

Alice is quick to wrap the baby and bring it to you for skin to skin. The small warm body of your baby resting on your chest is an overwhelming feeling. Something this small caused all this trouble? It almost makes you laugh… as a matter of fact you do laugh into Enjin’s neck as you place your hands over the baby and grip it gently to your chest. Your laugh quickly dissolves into more crying and you feel Enjin rubbing your back as you break down. You’re so so happy and so relieved it ended up okay. You just can’t help it.

Enjin runs his fingers through your hair as he whispers to you what a good job you did, how proud of you he is, and how strong of a woman you are. His voice breaks as he thanks you over and over again while hugging you and your child close. Just when you think the moment couldn’t be more perfect you are hit with a strong and painful contraction. You groan and hiss at the feeling. Eishia told you passing the placenta would be far less uncomfortable than the birth so why does this hurt so fucking bad?!

You barely have time to hand the baby over to Enjin before another hits and you groan out loudly and grip the bed again. Alice is quick to readjust you into a better position and take another look.

“WELL LOOKS LIKE EISHIA’S HUNCH WAS RIGHT.” She readies herself again between your legs. “SHE SAID YOU WERE PRESENTING WITH SYMPTOMS MORE IN LINE WITH A MULTIFETAL PREGNANCY!” She finishes. You groan out and try hard to push through another contraction despite already being so exhausted.

“She didn’t think to mention that to me?!” You grit out as you push with as much force as you can muster. To be honest if you were able to think right now you’d have been able to reflect on the signs. You were very large and you also noticed how far apart some kicks were between rounds, you just figured they were doing flips in there or something! You cry out as you push as hard as you can, next thing you know you feel the second head pass through. Alice immediately inspects the baby and takes a moment to really look at it. There’s no crying with this one. Your head drops instantly, what’s wrong?

“Is it okay?” You manage through weak breaths. Alice doesn’t respond right away, just begins sternum rubbing the baby's chest. She mumbles to herself a low ‘come on… come on.’

“Alice!” Enjin sternly pipes in while holding the other baby to his chest.

You’re fretting the absolute worst in that half minute of silence.

Then a quiet cough and then a smaller cry kicks up from the baby in Alice’s arms. Your shoulders instantly relax as you let your body fall back again. Your hands come up to rub the tears in your eyes, thank god! Thank god it’s okay…

Alice once again wraps your second baby and places it on your chest. You watch them closely as they fuss against your skin, red faced and wriggly. If you weren’t so utterly exhausted you’d laugh again. This must have been the really active one. You slowly rub a hand on the baby's back as you marvel at the wonder you and Enjin created. You turn your eyes to take another look at your first baby sleeping constantly, and then to Enjin. You blink as you see Enjin actually crying, lip wobble and all as he looks at you with so much love.

“Two babies… you gave me two babies.” He sobs out as he leans in to press his forehead into yours again. His tears pelt your face and shoulder and you soothe him with your voice.

~~~

Hours later you’re recovering well after passing the placenta, even joked about making sure there’s a third baby up there. Alice laughs and pats your knee offering you congratulations and praise for your hard work before leaving you and Enjin alone.

“Two babies…man you owe me bigtime. The deal was one baby and I really overperformed.” You laugh as you smile down at your nursing son. Enjin snorts as he rocks your already full girl in his arms.

Your little moment is interrupted by Gris clearing his throat from behind the curtain. “The uh… the kids are getting a little impatient outside. I wanna give you guys space but I think Riyo is gonna bust the door down any minute if they don’t hear from you guys.” He relays warily. You laugh again and pull your now sleeping son away and readjust your shirt back into place.

“Yeah they can come in Gris, why don't you say hi first though before it gets too hectic.” You warmly invite, Enjin is quick to pull the curtain out of the way for him. Gris steps in and can’t help the soft smile that graces his features. He leans down and takes a look at both their faces. He chuckles as he stands straight again.

“They look just like you.” He comments smiling at you. You nod with a wide grin obviously very proud of your mini mes.

“I know right? Enjin’s genetics didn’t stand a chance!” You boast playfully while pointing a thumb at yourself. Enjin laughs at that and smiles down at your daughter. Though her eyes are closed now when he saw her awake she very clearly had his eyes. And he’s pretty sure your son has his nose and will likely inherit his dimples. Still there’s no denying they have a lot of your features already. Your hair color, your ears, your cheeks. He can’t help but feel like this is the perfect outcome. His perfect little family.

~~~

When the kids finally get to enter the room Riyo is the first to run up and hug you. Listening to all your yells and screams was terrible for her. Despite her background she really couldn’t think of anything worse than hearing you in pain. Her eyes are pricked with tears as she frets over you and you have to pet her back soothingly and reassure her you’re okay now.

Zanka watches from further away, keeping a bit of distance hoping not to crowd you but you can tell he’s also been worried by the unkept state of his hair and his restless sway of his weight from one foot to the other repeatedly. Enjin calls him closer and casually hands your daughter over with no words before making Zanka take his seat as he pulls up a chair on the other side of your bed to lean more into you and wrap an arm around you. You snicker at Zanka’s immediate nervous stuttering and awkward position of hands. Gris has to show him how to support the baby’s neck but Zanka still looks as stiff as a board.

Rudo comes up to your bed and just kind of stares at the wrinkly blob in your arms. He’s never seen a newborn before. You offer to let him hold your son but he just shakes his head. “What is it?” He asks simply while looking at you.

“A boy,” you smile back at him and then point at the baby in Zanka’s arms. “And that’s a girl.” You note. He nods slowly letting the information sink in. You take one of Rudo’s gloved hands in yours and tug the glove off. He flinches at the dark rough skin being exposed so closely to a pink squishy fresh baby, like if he were to be too close he’d infect them with it somehow. You gently take his hand in yours again and press his fingers to your son’s chubby cheek. The baby squirms a bit but relaxes almost immediately. “See… it’s okay.” You nod at Rudo before slowly handing your son over to him. He still seems very hesitant but he takes the baby anyway and allows you to adjust his hold. Despite his hands chronic pain he does notice how the baby doesn’t seem to agitate the sensitive skin. He caresses the same chubby cheek in silent wonder.

After a bit you are able to introduce the babies to Riyo, she doesn’t hold them, not yet. But she does pet their soft curls and asks you gently if she can do their first haircut when they’re old enough. You smile and nod as you take her hand in yours. She is anxious about her past when it comes to handling fragile things but you know she’ll catch on easily in time. “Got any names picked out yet?” She asks as she curls next to you on the bed, leaning her head on your shoulder. You shake your head.

“I couldn’t think of any first names.” You laugh. “Just middle ones.” You shrug as you glance between both sleeping babies.

“What are their middle names?” Zanka pipes in from his chair.

“We already knew if we were having a girl she’d carry Riyo’s name as a middle name.” You feel Riyo tense next to you but she melts soon after and grips your hand a little tighter. You’ll just pretend you don’t feel her getting misty eyed next to you, she’d hate for you to call attention to her softness. You settle for glancing at Enjin so he can finish for you. He glances back at his son now resting against his chest.

“And we thought Gob would be good for a boy’s middle name…” he rubbed the baby’s back as he fussed a bit in his hold. “Glad we got to use both.” He catches your eyes again with a smile. You have so much love for this man it’s insane. You think as you rest you head on Riyo’s and relax.

Eventually you’ll have to return to HQ and get crowded by everyone who wants to meet the new additions but for now a soft moment is all you could ever want. You have an amazing family that you couldn't be more proud of.

———————

The infirmary was dim. 

The light that caught on the window and the bed frames threw long, unsteady shadows across the walls. Somewhere down the hall, someone was leaving on a mission, another just returning. 

Somewhere closer, Zanka breathed. It was ragged and uneven, like his lungs hadn’t agreed yet on whether to keep going.  His face looked wrong in rest, stripped of its usual sharpness. 

You sat there with your back against the wall, knees drawn up, and your arms folded tight as if that might keep you alert. You’d been there long enough to stop counting the hours, long enough for the room to feel smaller when you stood, as if it noticed your absence. 

It didn’t matter because he was still out.

He was still, in the way that only came after violence, when the body finally surrendered to whatever it needed to do to keep living. Bandages wrapped his torso, his arm slung awkwardly across his chest, skin sallow beneath the grime that no amount of scrubbing would fully remove. You learned in the past few hours—days—that’s how poison clung. It took the color out of people and left them hollow. 

You told yourself you were watching for complications, helping Eishia handle the mess that returned from The Border. She had warned you about the fever, about the way it might spike without warning, about the way poisoned bodies didn’t always follow rules. 

Someone needed to be there in case he stopped breathing, or started convulsing, or—

His fingers twitched. 

You straightened instantly, attention snapping sharp. It was nothing, just a reflex. Still, you didn’t look away. You waited through the next breath. And the next. Staring didn’t fix anything. It didn’t make bodies heal faster, or mistakes undo themselves. His face looked wrong in rest, stripped of its usual sharpness. 

Then, Zanka’s brow creased, jaw tightening like he was bracing for a hit that never came. Sweat had gathered along his hairline, dampening the dark strands that clung to his forehead.

You shifted onto your knees, reaching for the cup of water on the stool beside the cot. He didn’t wake when you pressed the rim lightly to his lips, but he swallowed on instinct, throat working sluggishly before stilling again.

You set the cup back and wiped your hands on your pants, grounding yourself in the familiar roughness of the fabric. Outside the infirmary, someone laughed, a short, sharp sound, the sound of adrenaline bleeding off too quickly. Life went on. It always did.

Zanka stirred again.

This time, his hand moved, fingers curling and uncurling like he was reaching for something just out of grasp. You hesitated only a second before catching his hand, steadying the movement so he wouldn’t tear at the bandages.

“Easy.” You spoke reflexively.

His grip tightened. Not hard. Not enough to hurt. Yet, just enough to anchor.

You froze, eyes dropping to where his fingers had closed around yours, warm and clumsy and undeniably deliberate. For a moment, you considered pulling free. You should’ve. There was no reason to let him cling to you like that, no reason to indulge unconscious habits.

People grabbed onto whatever they could when they were drifting. You knew that. You’d seen it before. So you stayed still, afraid he’d slip. 

However, his breathing evened, shoulders loosening as if some unseen tension had finally released its hold. The crease in his brow smoothed. The sound he made this time was softer, almost content, and that—

You cut the thought off immediately as Zanka woke. It was slow, like it was a heavy burden to drag him back. Not gently. Not all at once. 

Pain came first, something white hot and spreading, crawling through his ribs and down his arm like it was looking for somewhere to settle. His breath hitched, sharp enough to pull a sound from his throat before he could stop it.

The room swam—the light above blurred into halos. The ceiling swayed, unfamiliar, wrong. His body refused to move the way he expected it to; every attempt met with a heavy, useless resistance.

“—Mmmf—” The sound was barely there. His own voice, fractured.

You felt it before you heard it; that tension in his grip changed, tightened, then faltered. Consciousness, finally. You didn’t wait to see his eyes open, so you pulled your hand free.

His hand closed on air, fingers curling uselessly before his arm sent a spike of pain up his side that stole his breath.

“—wait—” The word barely made it past his teeth. He tried again, throat burning. “W—”

A cough tore through him instead, brutal enough to make his vision spark. His chest screamed in protest, breath coming shallow and fast as he fought it down. Talking hurt. Moving hurt. Everything felt too heavy, too wrong.

“Don’t.” The word barely held together.

Zanka’s voice scraped out of him like it had to fight for the right to exist. He shifted on the cot and paid for it immediately, breath hitching, jaw tightening as pain flared through his side.

“I should get Eishia.” You hesitated. Just long enough for him to notice. “She’s been waiting for you to wake up.”

“How long?”

“Two days.” 

“That bad, huh?” 

“I’ll get Eisha…” You ignored his ill-timed joke. “You need—”

“I know what I need.” He grunted, wincing hard enough that his fingers curled into the sheets. He rode it out in silence, breathing shallow until it passed. When he spoke again, it was slower. Measured. “Not yet.”

You stayed where you were, hand still hovering near the door frame. “You almost tore your stitches earlier.”

“Didn’t.” He muttered.

“Because I stopped you.”

That earned you a glance, sharp despite the haze, something alert flickering behind it. He took you in properly then: the set of your shoulders, the way you hadn’t actually moved to leave.

“…How bad was it?” He asked, “…are the others…”

You didn’t answer right away. You crossed back to his bed instead, sitting on another bed, just short of where you’d been before. Close enough to be honest. Far enough to keep your distance.

“Banged up.” You answered. “Annoying about it. Already back on rotation.”

He exhaled through his nose, something bitter and familiar creeping into his expression. “So I really was the problem.”

“You were the one who got unlucky.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s not.”

“Easy to say from the outside.” He scoffed quietly. 

“Easy to say from anywhere.” You corrected. “You didn’t fail. You got hit by something—someone—nasty.”

“Ain’t that a nice way of dressing it up?”

“You don’t get to turn bad luck into a character flaw.” You put it bluntly. 

Zanka studied your face, searching for something—pity, maybe. Reassurance. He didn’t find it. Instead, he found something steadier. Something that didn’t flinch. You watched him spiral in place, jaw set like he could grind the thought down if he tried hard enough.

Then, you spoke again. “Say it was me…”

You didn’t raise your voice. Didn’t soften it, either. Just leveled it at him, steady as you always were when things mattered.

“If it were me in that bed.” You had continued, “What would you be saying right now?”

His gaze snapped back to you. “That’s not—”

“If I’d taken the hit.” You pressed. “What would you tell me?” 

The room felt smaller all at once. He opened his mouth, and nothing came out. You waited. Let him sit in it. Let the question do its work.

Zanka’s jaw tightened. His fingers curled against the sheets, slow and deliberate. Because it was different. Because the thought of you lying there—broken, pale, blaming yourself—made something sharp and ugly twist in his chest.

He wouldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t stand by. Wouldn’t let you talk yourself into hating your own survival. Something warm crawled up his neck, sudden and uncontrollable. Heat rushed to his face, ears burning, chest tight for reasons that had nothing to do with injury.

Zanka huffed a breath, sharp, then crooked his mouth into something almost like a smile. “…You look rough.”

You blinked. “What?”

He tipped his head, studying you in that infuriatingly casual way, like he hadn’t just been cornered by your question. Like his heart wasn’t still tripping over itself.

“Eyes are all red…” He went on. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost sleep over me.”

There it was. The insult was light, almost playful, but aimed with intent. A probe. A test to see how far you were willing to push back. 

Your spine straightened immediately. You opened your mouth, then stopped. Reset. Your guard was sliding back into place piece by piece.

“You’re one to talk.” You crossed your arms. “You look like death warmed over.”

He scoffed. “Wow. One little poisoning, and suddenly I’m unrecognizable.”

“Severely poisoned.” You corrected. “And beaten.”

“Details.”

The word came out rougher than intended.

Zanka’s breath hitched halfway through the next inhale. He tried to cover it with another huff of a laugh—but it caught, sharp and dry, turning into a cough he couldn’t swallow back down.

Once. Twice.

He bent forward instinctively, hand fisting in the blanket as his shoulders jerked. The sound tore through the room, raw and ugly, like it scraped on the way out.

“Hey—” You were at his side before you thought better of it, hand drawn to him. “Don’t—don’t push.”

“I’m—” 

Zanka tried to wave you off, but the motion set it off again. Another cough, deeper this time. Wet. The color drained from his face as fast as it had come. Reality settled back in a heavy and unforgiving way. 

“I’m fine.” His voice was hoarse. He leaned back against the pillows, breathing unevenly, eyes unfocused for half a second longer than they should’ve been. “Just—”

“I’m getting Eishia.” You cut in, sharper now. “You don’t get to joke through this part.”

“Don’t.”  His hand closed around yours, not hard, not pleading. Just enough to stop you. “She’ll freak out.”

“She’s supposed to freak out.” You snapped.  “That’s literally her job.”

“…I just woke up.” His grip loosened as another cough threatened, his throat working as he swallowed it back with visible effort.“Give me a minute.”

“Your soldier's minute is up,” you said, already stepping away. 

When you left, the room felt colder. Zanka let out a weak breath, half laugh, half surrender.

Zanka stared at the spot where you’d been sitting, chest still aching, heart doing something stupid and painful that had nothing to do with broken ribs.

He stared at the ceiling, the faint cracks in the stone blurring as his breathing finally caught up with him. Each inhale was dragged. Each exhale burned. His body ached in that deep, hollow way that came from being pushed too far and asked to pretend it hadn’t mattered.

He let his head fall back into the pillow.

When it happened, when Jabber had closed in, when the poison had started crawling through his veins, he hadn’t been afraid. Not really.

There had been a moment, somewhere between the blow that knocked the wind out of him and the cold that followed, where he’d stopped caring whether he stood back up. Not because he wanted to die, but because it felt easier not to fight it.

He’d thought, If this is it, fine. Thought maybe being average, being late, being just a little too slow, that maybe it all added up to something he’d earned.

No one had been there in that moment. No one he could see, all dealing with their own injustices. 

The idea that someone had been watching over him while he slept, had chosen to sit through the long, quiet hours when he couldn’t even prove he was still worth it, had never crossed his mind.

He swallowed, throat tight.

The door opened again, softer this time. Zanka didn’t look over. He didn’t want to see the pity.

“…Zanka?” Eishia’s voice was small. It was careful, like she was always afraid of being too loud in a world that already hurt. Always mindful of others around her. 

“Yeah…” He responded, forcing calmness. “Still breathing.”

She hesitated. He could hear her shuffling closer, the rustle of fabric, the clink of something metal she was probably clutching too tightly. She checked his vitals in silence for a moment, movements gentle, almost reverent. When she spoke again, it wasn’t about numbers.

“They wouldn’t leave.” She spoke up again. 

Zanka frowned, not responding. His chest felt wrong. Too full. Too empty. He couldn’t decide. 

“They kept saying they would.” Eishia’s words tumbled out now, soft but earnest. “Said they were just stepping out. Or that they’d be back in an hour. Or after a mission.”

Eishia wasn’t looking at him. She was staring at the floor, cheeks pink, hands twisting together.

“They talked to you.” She added everything quickly, like she was afraid she’d said too much already. “When you were out. Not like—just…everything. About patrols. About nothing. About how annoying you are.”

A faint, surprised huff escaped him before he could stop it. Zanka squeezed his eyes shut. He’d thought no one would notice if he didn’t wake up. Had been so sure of it.

Eishia cleared her throat. She risked a glance at him then. Small. Brave. “They were just… worried.”

The word hit harder than any punch.

Zanka was staring at the wall again, but his hands were clenched in the sheets now, knuckles white, chest aching for a reason he finally understood.  He didn’t know how to face you yet. But for the first time since the raid, he knew one thing for certain: he wanted to live.

When you came back, Eishia was already at Zanka’s bedside.

She startled a little when she noticed you, her shoulders jumping before she smoothed herself out. Her eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again, measuring something you hadn’t realized was visible.

Zanka felt more awake. Too awake. Staring at the wall like he was trying not to look at either of you.

You stopped just inside the doorway. “How is he?”

“Stable.” Eishia cleared her throat.  Then, after a beat, “But not ready.”

Zanka turned his head sharply. “I’m fine.”

You didn’t look at him.

Eishia adjusted the chart in her hands, careful, deliberate. “Your vitals are still inconsistent. Breathing’s shallow due to—

“I can move.” Zanka bit. “That’s what matters.”

She nodded, as if considering it seriously. 

“You can. You shouldn’t.” She nodded again. Her gaze flicked to you again, quick, almost apologetic, before settling somewhere neutral. “I’m recommending another day. Two, if I have the authority.”

Zanka opened his mouth to argue.

“She does.” You put your foot down for her, which Zanka clearly didn’t appreciate. 

“This isn’t just about the injuries,” Eishia added, carefully. “Your body went through a lot. Poison recovery isn’t linear. Pushing too soon could cause setbacks.”

You crossed your arms, relief and concern tangling in your chest. “That makes sense.”

“And,” she added, still not looking at either of you, “it’s better for recovery if someone familiar is nearby. You know, just in case.”

Your breath caught. Zanka froze.

Eishia finally glanced up then, cheeks pink, expression carefully blank, as if she hadn’t just placed something fragile and dangerous directly between you.

“You don’t have to.” She was always polite, always soft. “But it helps.”

You nodded once. “I can stay.”

Zanka swallowed.

“I’ll check on you later.” Eishia scribbled the note quickly, decisively, then stepped back. “Try to rest.”

When the door closed behind her, the room felt different.

Quieter. Safer.

You moved back to the chair without a word, settling into it like you had so many times before, like it was nothing. Like it didn’t mean anything at all.

Zanka watched you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask you to stay. Yet, when you sat down, his shoulders finally loosened, breath easing just a little, as if his body had been waiting for confirmation it didn’t have to fight alone.

—

By the time another night settled in,  Zanka had lost track of how many times he’d woken up.

Sleep came in pieces now. Thin, shallow things that broke apart the moment he shifted or breathed too deeply. Each time his eyes opened, the room was a little different, light slanting in at a new angle, shadows rearranged, the air cooler.

You were always still there.

Others drifted in and out. Short visits. Awkward ones. People who didn’t quite know what to say to someone who’d nearly died and didn’t want to talk about it.

You stayed through all of it.

Sometimes you spoke, small corrections, dry comments, reminders to lower their voices. Mostly, you didn’t. You just existed in the room like a constant, unmoving thing.

By the time the infirmary lights dimmed for the night, the chair had become yours in a way that felt permanent. Zanka woke again to the sound of fabric shifting.

You were rubbing at your eyes, head tipped forward, hair falling into your face. Your shoulders slumped in a way he hadn’t seen before, guard down, exhaustion finally winning.

“You should go.” 

You looked up, startled. “…I’m fine.”

“You’ve been sayin’ that all day. I’m tired of you bein’ tired.” He tilted his head. Zanka shifted, wincing, then settled again. “You don’t have to stay.”

“Don’t read into it.” You exhaled through your nose, annoyed at being caught. He watched you stand, stretch stiffly, then wave a hand at him like you were brushing something off. “Besides, I have something for you…”

You reached into the corner where the infirmary stored personal effects, fingers closing around something longer than the med kits, heavier than the spare blankets.

Zanka frowned. “If that’s another lecture—”

You ignored him.

When you turned back, his breath caught. His assistaff rested across your palms.

Cleaned. Polished where the metal had been dulled by grit and blood. The grip had been rewrapped with care, the bindings neat, deliberate — not flashy, just right. The fracture near the joint, the one he’d pretended wasn’t there until it nearly cost him everything, had been reinforced. Not erased. Strengthened.

Something in his chest snapped.

He scoffed, short and sharp. “What, you got something you need?”

You stopped. “What?”

He pushed himself up a fraction, pain flaring, but he didn’t care. His jaw set hard, eyes flicking over the careful repairs like they offended him.

“Let me guess…” He went on. “This is the part where I say thanks and you get to feel good about helpin’ the cripple, right?”

The word hit the room like a thrown blade. Your expression didn’t change, but the air around you did.

“Why are you doing this?” His laugh was bitter.  “Nothing’s ever free, is it? So what is it. Favor? Leverage? You want me owin’ you something?”

“You almost died.” You were cold in delivery. “I did this—”

“Because you pity me.” Zanka cut in, harsh. “Because I got sloppy and paid for it and now everyone’s hovering like I’m some kind of lesson.” He looked at the staff again, jaw clenched.  “I don’t need you coddling me. I need to get stronger.”

The word stronger came out like a vow. Or a punishment.

Silence.

Then you laughed. Not loud. Not amused. You were past humor and irony. He was right, you were tired. 

“You really think this is how it works? That someone does something decent and it has to be a transaction?” You stepped closer instead, voice low now.  “I wasn’t taught that care comes with strings attached.”

Zanka stared at you, something raw flickering behind his eyes, shame, anger, confusion , all tangled together.

“You forgot…” You put it as simply as you learned it. “That some of us help because that’s the only reason we survived.”

The words cut cleaner than any insult. You set the assistaff down on the table beside his bed. Not gently. Not roughly.

“Use it.” You instructed. “Or don’t.”

You didn’t argue.

That was the part he didn’t expect.

You didn’t snap back, didn’t raise your voice, didn’t defend yourself past what you’d already said. You just looked at him for a long moment, expression unreadable, like you were deciding whether something was worth the cost.

Then, you walked past the chair. Past the bed. Past the assistaff you’d left behind. The door closed softly behind you.

The next time he saw the infirmary doors open, he half-expected, stupidly, for you to be there.Instead,  Eishia handed him his release papers without comment, eyes careful, and polite. 

“You’re cleared.” She confirmed. “Take it slow.”

Zanka nodded, staff in hand, the repaired weight unfamiliar now. He waited anyway. Counted breaths. Watched the doorway like it might change its mind. Nothing.

When he stepped outside, the compound felt…off.

People glanced at him, looked away too quickly, or didn’t look at all. Conversations dipped when he passed, then resumed just a beat too late. Zanka told himself it was in his head. That everyone always stared at someone who’d nearly died.

Rudo gave him a thumbs-up from afar, trying. Someone else clapped him on his good shoulder and said Good to have you back.

No one mentioned you and that was worse.

Zanka caught his reflection in a pane of metal as he walked; he was gaunt, pale, eyes too sharp. He looked like someone who’d been talked about. Like someone people were careful around. As if they knew. As if they’d seen the way you’d left.

Zanka tightened his grip on the assistaff. You should’ve been there. Not because you owed him anything, but because you always were.

The realization settled heavy in his chest as he crossed the yard alone: whatever he’d said in that room hadn’t stayed there. It had followed him out. And this time, there was no chair waiting beside his bed. No quiet presence anchoring him. Just space.