Sir Pentious

"That's not good enough!" Alastor railed in reply, suddenly uncaring who overheard him as his anger mingled with a hurt that clutched at his chest and refused to release him from its grasp. His heart hammered, and the blood that had been draining from his wound only thickened. But still, he did not acknowledge it, his antlers extended and sharp in his distress.

"You left me! Not even a second thought before you tossed yourself into a fight you couldn't win! For what?! What was so important that you decided to throw away your life and abandon me?"

Us, he should have said. He and the eggs. But selfishness kept his focus singular, fur still spiking in outrage as he realized that he did not have quite the control over his emotions as he would have liked to believe. The hot streak of his own tears began to trail down his face, but he carried on with stepping closer to that screen - as though he could throttle Pentious himself.

Any onlookers still remaining might have chosen then to give him a wider berth, having seen precisely what he'd been capable of in the row with Vox that had occurred not minutes before. No longer burdened by a staff that was broken, his fury could have easily leveled whatever remained of the plaza where they stood. It was only his hidden desire to not lose what small inkling of hope he had to see Pentious again that kept him from destroying everything around him.

Pen's own words were trapped in his throat as Alastor continued. His emotions were a mixture of anger, guilt and hurt, coasting through each of them until at the mention of Alastor's mother, they crescendoed into a full spike of disbelief and pain.

Pen begged to disagree.

In his opinion, she had gone up to Heaven because, in addition to being a decent person in general, she had decided to distance herself from everything Alastor did and start entirely anew.

But for Pentious, it was the opposite. He was in Heaven, because he loved Alastor. Because of their, connection, because of their bond. Because Pen loved someone, and cared about them enough to act, even when it didn't guarantee his own survival. That's how the Speaker had explained it, and he did not find it in himself to disagree.

But saying those things straight on would rub more salt into the wounds that his companion had and Pen could still see, even through his own tears.

Instead, he shook his head, and tried to gasp for air between sobs that rang out for all of Hell to hear. His anger fizzled out throughout his following words, until all that remained was his longing and the loneliness that had returned after such a long time of having Alastor to lean on, to cherish by his side.

"You! I did it all for you! Don't you see, you fool? When we lost sight of you, we couldn't know whether you were dead or hurt or captured, and not acting would have meant that we all would befall the same fate! I had to do something! I had to act, because-- I thought--- I thought if I did, there would be a chance that you would be safe, and not everything would be destroyed. I did not want to lose you, I did not want to lose any of you! But I couldn't stand by and wait! I had to do something... I wanted to see you again, I never wanted... I did not mean to... I did not mean to... I'm ssssorry."

He was virtually inconsolable at this point, tears falling so heavily that he felt them through his collar and shirt. Sera didn't console him out of the fear that if she moved from her spot, she would disturb the connection between the two realms. Pen's claws dug into his face as he covered his eyes with his hands, and his entire body shook with the weight of his sobs.

As much as he was capable of it, Alastor tried his utmost to stifle the interference which he knew was affecting the other's ability to see him. If asked, it was because he wanted Pentious to see his anger, the hot pinpricks of something forming at the corners of his eyes as he strode closer to the screen, one ear swiveled back to listen as Charlie and the others began to usher any lingering individuals away from the spectacle.

On instinct, Alastor flinched at the other's obvious and brazen expression of love. Even if they were now distant enough for most onlookers to not hear, the radio demon had spent enough weeks now trying to escape the feelings that he knew still lingered about Pentious. He had been grieving. And that hadn't even fully ran its course.

"You're supposed to be DEAD!" He hissed, a crackle of feedback lacing around the anger in his pitch. Blood continued to drip from his wounded arm, but he had stopped noticing the pain, secondary to what felt like a sucker punch straight to the gut as he gazed upon the other's large face in his view.

"Worried about me-" he repeated with disdain. "And yet you're elsewhere, looking oh so COMFORTABLE, aren't you?"

Perhaps there was some lingering venom that stemmed from the knowledge that now the only two people he had ever truly come to terms with loving were now far and out of his reach, having abandoned him for something greater.

And perhaps too, he was at a point of emotional turbulence in general, having been met face to face with Vox's obvious attempt to ferry them both into a final death if it meant resolving what had long since festered and rotted between them.

"What?!" Pentious retaliated, face contorting in clear distaste and shock. What was the other rambling about?!

"Comfortable?! Comfortable?! What do you think I've been doing all this time? I've been kept from seeing all of you for weeks! I've been bleached without permission, put on trial for trying to help you, and each of my attempts to reach back down there have been met with failure until now! Because of course there were attempts! I built a drill!"

Pen huffed and puffed, and the tears in his eyes still accumulated but did not fall. Each of his fervent hisses was accentuated with animated gestures by his hands and tail. His wings fluttered fervently, and, eventually, the serpent crossed his arms with a particularly strong pout. He let out his tongue to hiss at the other demon, glad that Alastor wouldn't be able to grab it, as he sometimes teasingly did.

Keeping apart from the other residents in their celebratory gatherings - even having noticed that Angel Dust was not among them - Alastor had paused to reach his opposite hand to press against the bite that still ached and stung. It needed addressing before he lost a bit too much of it, but his ears were suddenly in tune to the feedback that crackled and hissed, causing a bit of frustration in his already pounding head to broil and irritate further. He needed to retreat. To rest. To lick his wounds. To ease his still-too-warm ears from the claws that had raked them and sent electricity coursing through them. All he could think of was how bitter, sore, and tired he was, knowing full well that none of the other residents seemed to bother or care to seek him out even now.

(Perhaps he was not being especially fair. But when had he ever been?)

A voice, however, cut through the din of feeling sorry for himself, sending his ears stark upright in the midst of his slinking off towards the edge of the gathering. Alastor halted in his steps, eyes widening before he whirled around, as though something was about to leap upon him and attack him once again - but that was not the appropriate response to what he was seeing and hearing.

It was Pentious.

Looking larger than he'd ever seen him, plastered upon the screen which Alastor was now realizing as some sort of communication between Hell and Heaven - and now, he understood, that had been Charlie's plan from the start. To show proof. That Pentious had not experienced a final death, but a sudden entry into Heaven for his sacrifice; for his role as the ultimate martyr.

Steadily, Alastor took a few steps towards the screen, hesitation evident in every breath as he refused to make himself even more a spectacle in the midst of the lingering crowd, blood still spreading along the fabric of his sleeve. His wound was secondary, however, to how he stared at Pentious' face, jaw set in a grit of his pointed teeth.

The bastard!

Anger, first. Anger always first.

He'd been fine this entire time! He didn't even have the audacity to be dead, for good!

Fur spiking along the back of his neck, Alastor finally stepped into view of the screen itself, though quite aways back from where Charlie seemed to speak to Pentious on the other end, her hands and arms gesturing excitedly. (Perhaps there was something to be said about how Alastor might have discovered this himself had he remained around the hotel for longer than a few days before he was quick to rush into his own scheming, but he was not about to entertain such a thought.)

What Pentious might see on the other end was a jagged assortment of flickering pixels as the radio demon made himself evident, his chest heaving and eyes blazing in what could feasibly be construed as fury. He had words. He needed to speak to Pentious, but not in front of all these damned sinners.

So he stood a few yards from where Charlie did, looking for all of the world like an oncoming storm of indignation. As he uttered a few things to her, gathering her attention for a few brief seconds. His voice might have come from him oozing with its usual silver-tongued air, but it was difficult to mistake his expression as anything but very nearly hostile.

"Charlie, my dear," he said, darkly. "Would you mind if I asked our... former resident here a few questions? Preferably with a dismissal of the rabble."

How else could he cope with this evidence except by anger?

He did not know. But no conversation he was about to have would be in the company of a random crowd. He was only thankful that Charlie was slightly more observant than he would have liked to believe, and she gave a small nod or two, sparing a look at Vaggie and offering Alastor a sheepish grin before they both moved to head off the curious gathering of onlookers.

Alastor should have been thankful.

But all he could feel was frustration as he turned his gaze back to the screen, brow furrowed.

Pentious tried his best to not let embarrassment cloud over his elation. After all, although he had been late to the saving-all-of-afterlife business, he was finally able to communicate with his friends directly. What a relief it was to see familiar faces! How comforting it was to see the brimstone-paved streets and its colourful inhabitants! Pentious had already detected Charlie, and Vaggie, and a flat shape on the ground that resembled His Majesty, and-

Pentious gasped. Did he just see who he thought he saw?!

"Alastor!? Alastor, is that you?!"

The serpent's face immediately glued itself to the screen, his claws gripping the monitor and nearly ripping it out of its pedestal. What he saw was pixelated and corrupted and very red, but between the hazy shapes he could detect a true silhouette, one he knew and cherished above all. And most importantly, standing, alive and well!

Tears were already starting to accumulate in the corners of his gold and red eyes.

"Alastor!" the snake repeated, his small wings fluttering just as rapidly as his heart did. "Oh, I was so worried about you! Come closer, come! I can't fully make you out with that sssstatic on you! How are you, my love? Are you hurt?"

He had obviously forgotten anyone else in the near vicinity, in Heaven and Hell both.

A roll of his eyes for the poorly converted distance seemed to only further Alastor's ire as he hobbled forward, using his rifle as an impromptu crutch. He had doubts as to the other's sincerity, but that was nothing new, and nothing keeping him from eventually trailing after the stranger at a slow limp. Frustrated flared as he struggled to navigate some of the thicker brush, but he would be damned if he asked for any other help, finding his current situation to be embarassing enough.

One could consider him surprised when the magazine was offered back to him, and Alastor snagged it without thinking very hard about what he was sure was some sort of exchange of trust between them. He did not find the gesture to be very convincing of that either, but he would take it without complaint, slamming it back into the rifle but otherwise not making any moves that might seem instigating.

Besides. He still needed the gun for balance.

"I make no promises," he muttered, eyeing the other's crossbow with awareness for how quickly it could be turned on him, no matter how cowardly this other seemed.

"You have a name? Or should I just refer to you as the Brit?" Alastor grunted irritably. He did not often make a habit of making acquaintances out in the brush, but in this case, he presumed it would be fine.

His head turned, however, before he could get a response, stilling in his movements as another twig snapped nearby.

"...Eyes up."

"I'm-"

Pen was about to respond, but was cut off by the realisation that he and the stranger were no longer alone. His pale blue eyes turned towards the direction of the sound from the thick of the forest, and he lowered his stance, equally ready to stay put or to run.

Pen readied his crossbow, but of course, he kept his finger off the trigger until he was fully sure that he would have to shoot. If whatever was making that sound hadn't already called out to them, it likely meant that they didn't want to make friends. But they could have just been scared, too.

"Who goes there?" Pen hissed, the nerves accumulated during the morning festering into a burst of bravery. He wanted to be done with strange encounters for the day.

The rustles of the leaves and dry sticks grew more prominent at his vocal prompting, and a tall figure emerged from behind a tree. It dragged its feet in an uncanny fashion, as if puppeteered by something invisible. Pale, bloody, and blind-eyed. Its steps grew quicker as it detected the two men, and a painful, violent gurgle escaped its reddened mouth, a wet, foamy trail dripping down to what remained of its flower-patterned shirt.

One of the ill.

Pen aimed, and though his hands shook, he managed to hit the walking dead on its shoulder with his metal arrow, sending it staggering a few steps back, disoriented and slowed for a precious moment.

"I don't think anyone would have considered occupying the space above the city, true enough. Capitalizing on that unclaimed air was an intelligent move, especially if you are not sold on competing for land on the surface."

So he was capable of quite a bit, Alastor concluded as Pentious explained. Designing an entire small city to hover in the space above the Pentagram was no simple feat, and likely not something that the monarchy might have actually allowed, were they at all involved in the day to day minutiae of the Hell they had been placed in charge of. Otherwise, that city might have been laid low a lot sooner than now.

...Not that that was what he was planning.

Not unless Vox deemed it necessary.

Pointedly, Alastor's eyes avoided glancing out the windows. He felt better when he remained blessedly unaware of how high they were, sipping at his drink as though it were a comfort blanket to keep him from lashing out in any sort of panic. His calm expression betrayed nothing, though his grip on his glass did tighten incrementally at the suggestion.

Casually, the audio demon sipped, humming to himself as he considered the question.

"Oh, a few decades now. Our interests aligned quite well, in the end, though my initial agreement had been with the media demon prior to the other two joining us somewhere along the way." Which he'd reluctantly agreed to after much pleading. In the end, Alastor found himself quite comfortable with all of the other three - but it had taken him a bit to get there.

Sir Pentious nodded. Something similar he had understood. He still kept in contact with Baxter from time to time, and he provided casual updates about his own work when they talked. It just so happened that he worked for VoxTek, as did thousands of souls at this point. And speaking of the fish...

"Perhaps I wouldn't, with the right partner. But I haven't had one in decades. My former colleague wanted to remain on the ground. Understandable decision, really."

It could get quite secluded within the turf. Changing the scenery was doable, but still behind a long flight back to the surface. And that served the serpent Overlord perfectly. Pentious rarely left his town himself, and only out of necessity rather than pleasure.

But that meant that he mainly mingled with his subordinates. There weren't other prolific demons to meet upon his own streets. Or to build business with. And as thinly spread as Pentious already was, he knew that any sort of expansion would be impossible to accomplish without another Overlord by his side.

It seemed unlikely at the moment, but again. Perhaps at an opportune moment.

"A bit silly - but I won't fault you for it."

Alastor does not consider himself shy so much as careful, not staring too hard downwards and instead fixating himself on the continued attention to Simon's throat as he senses the release of the buckle of his belt and the subsequent discarding of it. He nibbles, slightly, against the pale flesh to try and see if he can give it a bit more color, but is distracted after a moment when he feels the whisk of air below, taking a moment to try and steel himself for the touch that follows soon after.

It's new. Not because he has never felt a touch there - but certainly because it has never been anyone but himself, a brief moment given to swallow back and slight anxiety that prickles at the back of his neck and threatens to ruin his otherwise cool demeanor. The blood has not rushed southwards just yet - but with the right attention, he knows that it will likely not be long before it does.

"...More than fine," he murmurs warmly, his own deep exhales cresting over Pen's jaw as he uses the excuse of his lingering kisses to somewhat hide the fact that his expression may give away his own inexperience. His ego tells him he cannot let himself falter in that way - a man, at the end of the day, and all that that entails.

"You have my... full attention."

Thighs shifting slightly, he reaches a hand up to redirect Simon's face back towards him, leaning to capture him in another kiss - this one heady and heated as his hands delve underneath the fabric of the other's outfit to brush up against his sides and towards his hips.

Pen feels encouraged by Alastor's words and his subsequent kisses. His own free hand wraps around his lover, holding onto him as their encounter grows deeper and more heated. When their kiss halts for a moment of air, he whispers again, forehead pressed against Alastor's like they often like to do.

"When we leave and live out of our pockets and our work... I do not think winters will be too cold. If I get to hold you like this at night."

He feels out the shape of Alastor's length with his soft palm, and then wraps his hand around it. His grip is very light at first, nervous he will hurt his friend. He knows he's touching somewhere very sensitive.

"You know... I am glad you are not a woman right now," he chuckles, flustered. "I wouldn't have a single idea what to do in that case." Now, at least, he knew what he would like in Alastor's shoes.

Stagtooth was much more open-minded, all things considered, than the clanborn cats. He himself was little more than an outsider playing at someone who could potentially belong, and he and Precious were not that different in those respects. The black tom had already shown that he was a quick learner - and there was something particular about him that seemed to mean that he was privy to something that even Starclan wanted to show him... for whatever reason. (If Stagtooth was to believe that much in the powers and abilities of the clan ancestors, anyway.) But there did not seem to be much other explanation for the odd happenstance of dreaming, and so he could not pose a better argument.

Maybe. He did not blame Precious for his hesitation, uncertain if he would have wanted to take much stock in it himself, if it were him.

His own gaze had drifted up towards where Morningstar and Swiftwing were speaking to the medicine cat who had emerged from his den to hold a conversation with them. Both seemed to peer a bit distantly at Precious, but Stagtooth made no mention of it if the other did not notice. He did not want to put any more awareness in the air to prickle at the other tom's pelt while he was here. It took Moonkit's little nibbles to bring his attention back down to playfully bat at him in turn.

Playful little things.

From the nursery, he could see the queen that had been nursing them watching from a distance, taking her job as surrogate rather seriously. It was likely that she did not trust Stagtooth very much, but he did his utmost to be as gentle with the kits as he could.

He did not need the fury of all the queens and Precious brought down upon him because he dared to play a bit rough with them.

His ear twitched at the other's question, and he tilted his head.

"I've never been. Most warriors make a visit before earning their warrior name... while they're apprentices. But... I suppose I was a bit odd in that respect. I earned my warrior name in battle. Not because I followed the typical route. I was never a 'paw." Stagtooth hummed for a moment, to himself, thinking through the possibilities.

"I don't really know what sort of insights it gives, if any. It could just be... a thing that the clan cats believe. But the Moonstone is where a leader earns their nine lives. And while I've never seen Morningstar lose a life..." The ginger tom's emerald gaze returned to the small, pale cat who was beginning to make his way over to them.

"Well. Maybe we'll get our answer now."

Shifting his paws, Stagtooth gave Moonkit a small nudge towards Precious as he stood, meeting Morningstar's gaze as the leader stopped in front of them.

"Our medicine cat tells me that you've had a dream," he said to Precious, his voice a bit low so as to not draw the attention of any of the other cats in the clearing. "And he's had the same one. Is that right?"

It was sweet to see the kits engage with Stagtooth, and vice versa. It gave the kittypet hope that the kits would retain happy memories from their time in the wild, and not remain too skittish and scared after their ordeal was over. He knew that two-legs preferred bold cats that did not hiss in fright and hide all day long.

Sir Precious nodded to Stagtooth's reply. It all sounded rather fantastical to him. Real nine lives, and a stone that allowed a direct link with the Starclan. He assumed it was something similar to the magic box that his two-legs had at home, which they used to see visions of other two-legs and animals. But they had never held secret messages for Precious before.

Precious stood up and bowed his head when Morningstar approached them, urging the kits to stay a bit behind with a whisk of his tail. Pebblekit whined a bit as he lost the warm pillow that his father had been, and Precious hushed him gently. He had explained many times that the small, light-coloured cat was the master here, but he was not sure that the kits would understand the respect that came with that just yet.

He'd set his mind to his scheme. While he avoided all else, except for the eggs, Alastor had been to visit Rosie - had tried to leverage himself to be released from his obligation and, failing that, a repair of his staff to return him to his previous level of power prior to the axe's blow. And still, the answer had been no. More frustration and fury prompted him to act somewhat recklessly, placing himself at the mercy of a certain television with full knowledge that he was risking it all to ensure that he could gain the upper hand later on.

What else did he have to lose, anyway?

Alastor had only been granted the foresight to leave the eggs in the company of Cherri Bomb and Husk, knowing that they - hopefully - would not be taken advantage of. Cherri had seemed to grow a bit more caring towards the little things, perhaps out of some semblance of guilt over Pentious' death, and Alastor remained unconcerned about their well being as long as Pen had been heralded as the hero that he was. Not a single other of the original residents and staff would permit the eggs to be taken advantage of.

They were the only things he missed, once he'd been trussed up and confined to Vee Tower, following the long, frustrating humiliation ritual which Vox saw fit to put him through.

And there, he would remain, unaware of the hotel residents' side of Vox's smear campaign, and uncaring - only relying so heavily on the fact that Charlie would retaliate in some way, shape, or form to preserve her capabilities that his freedom would be assured once Vox was challenged enough to set his sights on being the strongest - and Charlie was in a prime position to validate that belief.

Alastor cared nothing for anything else. Only his goal. He'd pushed the lingering grief out of his mind, as best as he could, frustrated at himself for permitting it to keep him for even a day or two from pursuing his own ends. How had he become so soft?

He would not permit it again.

Even at what promised to be Vox's grand hurrah, Alastor - still confined to the stupid chair - was hardly paying attention to Charlie or the seraphim, Emily's pleas to the agitated crowd, defending the prospect of redemption as real and provable. Alastor was unconcerned with that now, knowing that he was only the smallest of breaths from freedom, when finally, finally his chains were severed.

Not all. There was still one tying him inexplicably to Rosie, he knew. But at least two had been shattered by Vox's arrogance, and newly freed, it took very little to goad Alastor into a true battle between he and the infuriated, hyper-powered Vox, disregarding all else for his own personal grudge against the television demon, no matter what struggles the others were facing along the way. It was only when the stupid, massive shark was unleashed on him that Alastor was made to face his own mortality once again, a new wound for his own hubris bleeding openly from his arm and the massive weapon leveraged right at him, to which he met it with defiance.

But there was no time to parse that, as the Vees turned, the tide was shifted, Rosie's interference promised a mending of his staff, and the weapon - with Vox's hopes and dreams - were fully stifled.

It was in the aftermath that Alastor stood, still upright and stalwart as ever, no matter how his wound dribbled blood down the expanse of his sleeve and onto the concrete below. He refused to look as tired as he felt, standing tall as the Vees retreated and the rest of the hotel residents seemed to celebrate or otherwise breathe a sigh of relief.

Distracted, Alastor did not notice the massive screen, nor had he been entirely aware of Charlie's plan to showcase that her concept actually worked - and he was fully prepared to begin his slink back towards the hotel where the eggs had remained for their safety.

But something held him back.

Pentious tried his best to work through his fright and depression. He kept himself occupied by helping the small, far-too-out-of-their-depth council when he could, and by attending to the new, infantile eggs when he was not allowed to participate. He tried to lift the angels' morale, set in the knowledge that Charlie's plan had worked, and that a peaceful solution was possible, despite the Vees' meddling. He somehow found himself possessing more optimism than the Heavenly choir from time to time.

He supposed they were not used to things being difficult or going wrong. Ever.

Pentious saw glimpses through the portals he himself could not pass through, and prayed every day that a breakthrough between Heaven and Hell would finally occur, allowing him to return to his friends. Emily offered brief updates as she went back and forth between the realms, finally. He learned that the casualties from the Hotel had only included himself and Dazzle.

It meant that Alastor was alive, and that meant that Pentious was even more vehement about fixing things. To prevent further war and broken bonds. He would see him again. He would prevent the Vees from poisoning Pride with their lies. He would prevent Vox from hurting anyone. Hurting Alastor. He would hold him again.

When the tensions reached their peak, Baxter's sudden appearance allowed the Hotel put together a plan. The whole day had been a whirlwind of activity and work, the broadcast itself built and finished mere moments before Sera was to send in the troops. But it worked. Yes! It worked!

The speech had been prepared well in advance, and Pentious was confident in his capability to grip with his vocabulary. As soon as the cross-realm broadcast went live, he shook off any exhaustion from the inventing itself, and inhaled so he could speak, clearly and loudly.

"People of Hell, hear me!"

And he spoke. Wonderfully, in his opinion! The crowd was listening attentively, and even applauded his ascension. Perfect! The war would end before it even started, and everything would be-

Everything was already fine.

Oh.

Princess Charlie's enthusiasm was a sight for sore eyes, though Pentious did not know how to coherently respond. This was not a part of the script.

Alastor would have to pretend that Pentious did not just say that, not wanting to imagine the heinous scenario in which they did end up crashing to the ground. There was something to be said about the moderate faith the audio demon had in the serpent to not kamikaze them for the sake of the bit. Nervous or otherwise, he would give nothing away, watching as the little egg delivered the requested drink and releasing a small snuff of amusement at the goofy thing's honesty as to how he seemed to sus out the correct drinks.

That did not surprise him. They did not seem particularly smart, those eggs.

With his drink in hand, Alastor sipped at it to still whatever nerves about being so high up had broiled up in his gut, finding it easier to contend with as the warm bite of the liquor coated his throat and stomach, setting him more at ease.

"My health? You'd be the first to be so concerned about it," he replied with some wry amusement, but he lifted his own glass all the same in a gesture of mutual appreciation.

"I don't think we deviate from cheers very much. But tell me-" Alastor continued, not wanting to get carried away with too many pleasantries when he knew precisely where he was going and why. If he wanted to find out as much as he could about this territory he was going to, he would have to probe for more information beyond just what his eyes could perceive.

"How long have you held onto this city in the sky, as it were? Did you fashion it from the... cloud, up? Or has it been there prior to your arrival?"

"Before I arrived? No, no. The city was built and designed by me. Actually, we lived on the surface at the beginning of our settlement. But only for the while it took to make our initial engines," Pentious explained, happy to do so. He was well aware that it was an impressive feat to rise and stay even higher up than Sinners with wings did.

"We took flight in 1968, so we are approaching our sixtieth year above the clouds. Time fliessss." The pun was intended and much revelled in, followed by a chest-warming sip of whiskey.

The rumble of the engines told Pentious that the eggs had begun the lift-off protocols, and he leaned back in his seat to turn his eyes towards the large windows. He felt decidedly more relaxed when the ship lifted off and began its slow ascent towards his turf. But there would be quite a way until they would make it into the clouds.

"You might want to hold onto your glass," the serpent quipped. The rise was steady, but small objects could easily slide with the switches in altitude and angles. Pen smirked at his fellow Overlord, and the other memories that sparked upon recollection of the surface.

Not wanting to venture off to complete his errands right away, Alastor opted to stride alone, venturing out of the area's more populated spaces towards the wilderness where they had drifted to find his childhood home. He would not go towards it now, knowing that there was likely nothing left of it, but Alastor found a quiet solace at the edge of a murky looking river, staring down into it with muted contemplation.

Where did he go from here?

That was the question, wasn't it? His mother had all but entirely betrayed him - had moved on. Had forgotten him. And now, surely, she was in Heaven, living free and without consequence. His next step would have to be to get up to see her. To question her.

And if necessary...

To seek retribution.

In the bare reflection of himself in the water, he could see the hint of his own shadow, peering over his shoulder in a loom, its hollow gaze narrowing at him. A challenge. 'Should we?' it asked him.

Yes.

But not yet.

Alastor was still bound. Too bound. If he wanted to have the leverage and to ensure that Rosie held up her end of the bargain, he would have to play things carefully... and patiently.

His mother was going nowhere.

With that in mind, the radio demon stepped away from the water's edge and carried on, recalling what he had been tasked to do and finding some flowers and beignets to bring back to their meeting place. The flowers he'd elected were an assortment of magnolias and other, smaller and more colorful buds tucked in between. The pastries were still warm when he spied Pentious from afar, nestled in a marked bag that he offered to the other as soon as he came within arm's reach. Alastor did not look fully recovered from his melancholy, but with fresh determination in mind, he was not moping.

"Here we go," he said aloud. "Fresh. The line for them was a bit egregious. I'd not realized how popular they'd gotten as tourist treats."

And, as a brief thought that he did not want to pass up, he plucked one of the smaller, yellow flowers from the bundle he'd gathered and tucked it behind Pen's ear. He would not be able to maintain it that way for long, but it was cute while it lasted.

"My dear," Pentious greeted, visibly elated to see his companion return in one piece. He accepted the basket with open arms, inhaling the scent of the pastries with a wide smile on his lips. The grain and sugar of Earth had such a clean aroma, and could hardly be replicated. "Thank you for tolerating a queue for my sake."

His smile didn't diminish when Alastor decided to adorn him with a yellow flower, appreciating the special opportunity to do so. Pen would surely miss his visible ears.

"Almost. Just one more thing left," he said, placing the basket down on his suitcase so he could reach towards Alastor too, and gently bring his fingers towards his jaw.

"I want to remember your face. In case returning someday will be difficult."

Pen tilted Alastor's face a bit downwards so it faced his own straight on, and scanned through features that were only borrowed from the past right now. He ran his finger over Alastor's small earlobe, his untamed, dark curls, and fixed the position of his spectacles while he could.

One layer down, Alastor wastes little time in replacing his hand where the cinch had been before, drawing fingers up and along Pen's side while his other arm supports the other man's new positioning in his lap. The closeness between them is satisfying (though not nearly satisfying enough, he thinks), and he basks in it when Simon's lips find their way to his face, uttering his suggestive words that come with a dose of sobriety for the seriousness of this exchange.

Alastor has never given such intimate acts much thought. It's never been a priority for him in the way that perhaps Simon might now begin to feel. But if he is to pursue this path with anyone, then there are no other candidates than the one who is settled against him now, turning his head to nose against the side of Pen's face to reciprocate a bit of that affection.

"I am flattered and privileged that you've picked me then," he responds for lack of knowing what to say about his own desire (or lack thereof). It is a fitting enough reply, he thinks, before his attention is stolen down to his lower half, brows raising only slightly.

Pen is bolder than Alastor gives him credit for, and after only a few seconds of consideration, the young Hartfelt nods.

"Of course."

Under any other circumstances, he may be... nervous as to what he possesses and if it is of any real note. But in this scenario, Alastor does not believe Simon to be particularly... expectant of anything. And in that, he tries to take solace, leaning ever-so-slightly away so that he can provide a decent avenue for the other's hands to do the work that they need to.

"I feel so shy, even though it's you." Pendleton chuckles at himself in exasperation. "Isn't that silly?"

There is quite literally no inch of his best friend that he has not seen before. But their current circumstances have thrown everything into an entirely new concept, unknown and exhilarating. It's still a first, and a meaningful one at that.

Simon comforts his nerves by continuing his gentle quest, Alastor's heavy belt unbuckled and discarded with his careful hand. He swallows as his fingertips meet the swell still hidden beneath fabric, searching for the clasps on Alastor's trousers. His careful fumbling and cluelessness feel less severe when Alastor coats his neck in kisses, and Simon lets out a sigh that's audible enough for him to hold his breath for a moment thereafter.

But no one has heard, and nobody comes.

Finally, Pen releases Alastor from the constriction of the trousers, pale fingertips inching inwards to gently press against flesh. He knows enough to caress Alastor in his hand with steady, experimental slowness, lest he hurry or hurt him in any way.

Sensing the kittypet's hesitation at such a statement, Stagtooth made a mental note not to mention it again, especially given that Precious had not exactly given him much of a response to it. Perhaps it was silly to think that he might stay. Not when he had a warm bed inside a twoleg nest with food whenever he wanted it and safety for the kits, especially.

Why he was even considering that Precious might think about living as a wild cat was beyond him.

Occupying himself by reaching out with paws to lightly bat at the kits as they trounced around the pair of them, he listened to the other tom recount his conversation with the medicine cat, ears perked to pay attention and finding himself somewhat surprised that there seemed to be something to the dream.

"Really?" He asked, a bit baffled by that. "I've never heard of a kittypet being given dreams by Starclan..."

Absently, he gently smushed one of the kits under his big paw, watching as it rolled happily underneath the attention. Stagtooth thought through what that could possibly mean, but the dream's message did not make much more sense to him than it had when he'd first heard it. "But it must be important."

His ears tipped back, thinking through what that meant for Precious being there at all, coming to an eventual conclusion.

"Maybe it was on purpose that you were lost. Why else would you end up here specifically with our clan with a medicine cat who had the same dream? That can't just be a coincidence, can it...? I've never spoken to Starclan myself, but... The way the rest of the cats talk about them, they seem as though they're almost all-seeing. Maybe they see something in you that you do not even know about yet."

Stagtooth snuffed gently.

"But I'm no expert. I just know what I've been told."

He blinked once or twice in a sudden revelation.

"...Perhaps you should go to the Moonstone. The place where medicine cats and leaders go to commune with Starclan. Maybe there.... something might become more obvious...?"

It was a thought, but after a few seconds, the large ginger tom puffed out an exhale.

As concerning as the dream itself was, Precious had a sense of pride in managing to impress Stagtooth in some way. He now knew of the unfavourable image clan cats had of kittypets and their relatively easy lives, and was glad he could shake up the perception of his uselessness a little bit.

Though, as he reminded himself, Stagtooth had already seen and even approved of his hunting and the trick he used to evade the monsters on the thunderpath. Stagtooth didn't seem to think he was a useless kittypet. He treated him courteously and did not tell off the kits either.

Perhaps this dream actually proved something to Precious himself.

These thoughts paused only briefly as Stagtooth speculated, voicing something similar to what he dared to hope. Did this wonderful and wise Starclan have a plan for him? Did they think there was something more to him than to be a loyal two-leg companion?

"I'm... I'm just... Well. Maybe." Suddenly, the pride accumulated turned into a bit of embarrassment and coyness, and Precious quickly hid his nose behind a paw at the pretence of only giving himself a wash. "I want to make sure that the kits will be alright. If the Moonstone would help make sense of what to do next, it sounds like a good idea."

As horrible as it sounded to leave his kits for days. They had never been apart from Precious for such a long time. But if the Starclan saw him as favourable, maybe the clan would too, and Morningstar would openly invite him and the kits to stay and even help them back home... So many things to consider. Perhaps it would be something that would just have to be done.

He observed the way the kits danced around Stagtooth, and the patient way the larger tom handled them. It would be reassuring if Stagtooth joined him on such a long journey, but he'd be just as reassured if Stagtooth stayed back with the clan and near his boys instead.

Moonkit captured Stagtooth's large paw into his own claws, and bit it in a ravenous play-attack. Precious licked Pebblekit's black fur and allowed the smallest kit to press against his side and purr himself to sleep once more. Eggkit's attack on Precious' neck relented only as the older cat shook him off, urging him to jump on Stagtooth instead.

The amount of force required to lift a full person-sized... person was certainly enough to cause some harm. It had only been unfortunate that Alastor had not been an animal or one of the infected, as now he had to feel every agonizing pull of his muscle and bone with every attempt he made to stand. There was some surprise when the other finally handed him his weapon, but Alastor was not of a mind just then to take aim with it and fire, too preoccupied with trying to leverage it to get him back up to standing.

It was accomplished, but not comfortably, his twisted foot lifting from the ground. He tried not to wince, but there was no putting any significant weight on it, his brow beading with a bit of sweat whenever he made the effort.

But it was no good.

"Come to your camp," Alastor repeated with dull intonation. "Why, so you can break my other foot?"

His temper had not faded much, if any, but he knew better than to try and simply hobble off in a direction and hope he did not get picked off for his pride, a haggard and annoyed exhale leaving him as he leaned heavily upon his rifle.

"Oh, good." An utterance under his breath for the warning that this stranger seemed to give. But if he was warning him about the traps, then that likely meant he was not especially interested in killing him. Otherwise, it would have been far too easy to do so before now. Maybe he was just going to be robbed.

But what choice did he have, in the end? In the distance, his relatively keen senses picked up on shuffling further along in the brush, and Alastor was not about to be caught in the midst of the clearing without a quick escape if a few of the shambling sick made their way over.

"Fine," he hissed, turning to glare at the other.

"Where is it?"

Surely it could not be far. But it had to be safe enough for this man to find confidence in it, right?

"I wouldn't!" Pen objected. His lips were already pursed in worry after causing an injury accidentally, he would never hurt someone just stumbling his way in such a manner on purpose.

But he understood that it would be hard to convince the stranger of that without any proof. Eventually, the severity of his injury seemed to win the man over, and Pendleton gestured towards the treeline and a thicker part of the forest.

"It's only around a hundred metres from here. That is, uh-"

Pen paused to think about the conversion, briefly fiddling with his hands and tapping his fingers to help the calculation. "Zero, point....um- Well, one block away, approximately. Not far at all. I'll show you the way."

And as he began to lead Alastor through the path he knew and warning about the traps they passed, he too registered the sounds from somewhere not far enough. Damn it all to Hell, he thought, glancing at his hurt acquaintance and his very capable firearm, even as it was utilised as a crutch for now.

"Here," Pen said, handing back the rifle magazine from his pocket. Trust for trust, he supposed. "Please don't make me regret giving it back to you."

Stagtooth, at first, did not budge. But when his ears detected the kits in close proximity, showing off the 'moves' they'd begun to pick up from the other, older kits and no doubt the apprentices, the ginger tom opened an eye to peer at them with some amusement. With a small grunt, he rolled over onto his side, seemingly unbothered as the kits clambered up and down on his much larger body.

He was growing accustomed to it, it seemed. That alone, though it went unnoticed by Stagtooth himself, drew a few eyes from some of the other warriors and the queens, to boot. Not once had they seen him engage in such a way with kits before. A novel experience, by all accounts.

But the ginger tom was not paying much attention to that, glancing up at Precious who had come along with them, and he gave a small nod at the names that had been granted.

"Perfectly suitable for clan cats," Stagtooth agreed. "They'll be Eggkit, Moonkit, and Pebblekit. And-" He paused, as though considering what he wanted to say before he carried on.

"Well. If they decide to stay. Or if you do... they will have the opportunity to earn their warrior names."

Though it was not just up to Precious, Stagtooth remembered, rolling back onto his belly so that he could sit up, sparing a glance over at Morningstar who had paused to also observe the kits in their afternoon revelry. The clan's leader, however, gave nothing away in his expression.

He took in a breath and released it before turning his own emerald gaze back towards the kittypet.

Sir Precious' eyes widened in surprise at Stagtooth's proposition. Stay? Staying had never been a possibility that Precious would have willingly followed. It was a fleeting hypothetical in the case that they wouldn't be able to return. But... they could, right?

He glanced down at his kits and could imagine them wanting to stay. With them thriving in the fresh air and so much socialisation with other cats. And of course, young and excitable as they were, they found the life of a wildcat exhilarating.

But just as soon as Precious considered all that, he recalled their first day in the wilderness. Cold, soaked in rain, running away from a badger, and suspected by all cats they came across.

And their lives only spared because they were lucky enough to meet Stagtooth and no one else.

The kits were Presh's responsibility. He had to give them their best chance of survival. And that was at home with warmth, an abundance of food and medication, and their loyal two-legs. Not here. They would have to return. As soon as... perhaps four moons had passed, when the kits were strong enough to make the long journey.

Sir Precious was glad Stagtooth changed the subject, bringing up the topic of his dream instead.

"My dream... yes," the kittypet said, lowering upon his paws and scooting closer to the other tom. What he was about to say next was highly confidential, which was evident in how quietly he meowed. The kits were busy at play, and wouldn't understand a word. It was fine that they were present.

"He thinks there is merit to it. He knows, in fact. Apparently, an ancestor visited him and told him the same exact thing I was told."

The kittypet let his words sink in for a moment. He had been explicitly told that Starclan only confined in clans, making the recent developments completely unprecedented. The medicine cat had been shocked, to say the least.

His ear flicked as Egg-kit climbed over his back and bit at the nape of his neck.