#alt 12

The Shinra Building slept uneasily.

Metal groaned somewhere above, the sound carrying down seventy floors of glass and steel like the breath of a restless beast. A low hum threaded through the air: the steady thrum of mako conduits deep within the walls, alive and pulsing, a heartbeat for the empire that fed upon it. Sephiroth stood in the dim corridor of the executive wing, as he always did. His silhouette tall against the faint green glow that seeped through the vents.

The building was on lockdown. Red warning lights burned intermittently along the walls, flickering like slow, uncertain flames.

Somewhere beyond, alarms muttered in soft tones: restrained, almost polite. The intruder was still contained in the lower levels, yet the tension in the air coiled tight, like the instant before lightning strikes.

His hand wrapped around the hilt of the Masamune. The steel was cold, yet comforting; a promise of control amid chaos. He listened. His breath slow as he closed his eyes for a moment.

The vibrations in the floor, the subtle flicker in the power grid, even the change in the air pressure. All of it spoke to him. But beneath those physical currents was another, more intimate pulse: the Red String of Fate.

It tugged warmly and faintly against his wrist. Its presence was something that he grew familiar with long ago, as it had always been there.

Bianca.

Her presence shimmered against the edge of his awareness like candlelight through fog. Her emotions were muted but tangible: fatigue, discomfort, and the steady rhythm of her breath strained by something unspoken. The tug deepened: a whisper that felt less like pain and more like the body’s plea for gentleness.

He frowned slightly.

She was strong: stronger than any humans and many gods. Yet through their bond, something fragile pressed through tonight. The Red Thread pulsed once, tightening, and Sephiroth turned sharply. His long coat whispered behind him as he moved and searched for his wayward wife. They had married the previous week in a ceremony that was for Shinra and not themselves.

He found her two corridors down, in one of the narrow auxiliary passageways used by high-ranking SOLDIERs. The lights here flickered faintly, as green merging with sterile white.

Bianca stood braced against the wall, one hand resting just below her ribs, and her other pressed to the cool metal panel beside her.

Her wings folded close and shivered faintly with each breath.

She wore her crimson turtleneck, the Shinra insignia glinting faintly beneath the harsh lights, her brown suspenders strapped horizontally across her torso. She did not wear them like he did, crossed over his chest.

Her skirt brushed her thighs with each slow movement, and the black leather of her boots gleamed faintly with reflected emergency light. Strands of her dark hair had escaped their ribbon, curling damply against her cheek.

When she looked up, her indigo eyes met his. Her pupils narrowed to slits, as he stood there: tall and imposing amidst the pulsing green light.

“I’ll be fine,” she murmured softly, her voice steady but tired. “Just . . .tired.”

Sephiroth’s gaze traced her face: the pallor beneath her makeup, the faint tremor in her hand. There was a sheen of sweat at her temple. She bit her lower lip unconsciously, a nervous habit he recognized, and his chest tightened in response to it.

More than tiredness, he thought.

He stepped closer, the soles of his boots silent against the floor. “You are pale,” he observed, tone even but weighted. "Again."

She exhaled, a shaky little laugh. “Long day.”

The faintest flicker of nausea rippled through their bond, brushing against his chest like static. It wasn’t sharp enough to incapacitate her, but it was there.

Beneath it, something warmer, heavier: a subtle ache low in her body that translated through the thread as a pressure against his ribs. He masked the flicker of concern, shifting slightly to position himself between her and the end of the corridor.

The smell of disinfectant hung heavy in the air, mixing with the bitter aroma of brewed coffee wafting from an open office down the hall.

Bianca wrinkled her nose. The motion so small that most would have missed it. But Sephiroth noticed. He always noticed. Her wings twitched once, feathers rustling, and her expression pinched as though the scent itself scraped across her nerves.

“You dislike the smell,” he said quietly.

Her lips twitched. “You could say that.”

The Red Thread pulsed faintly in agreement. Warmth bloomed where it touched his skin.

A low tone interrupted them: an alert chiming in Sephiroth’s earpiece.

“Containment breach detected,” the robotic voice announced. “Specimen. Unidentified. Sector sixty-seven. All personnel to designated lockdown zones.”

Bianca’s breath hitched. The faint glow of the alarm light bled over her face, tinting her features scarlet. Sephiroth turned his head toward the direction of the alert. His mind already calculating distance and response, yet that tug from the thread persisted: a faint pulse of distress from her side.

“Stay behind me,” he said, not a command but a quiet certainty.

She arched a brow. “You know I don’t—”

“Bianca.” His tone softened just enough to silence her.

For a moment, she looked as though she might argue. Then she pressed her lips together and nodded once, shifting closer. The warmth of her aura brushed faintly against his, a quiet shimmer of celestial and infernal energies intertwined. He could feel the tremor in her frame—subtle but there—her breath quickening slightly as they moved toward the elevator access.

The freight lift to Hojo’s laboratory creaked open when Sephiroth keyed in the override. The metallic scent grew stronger as they descended, mingled with the hum of mako tanks and ozone. Bianca’s expression tightened. She pressed her knuckles briefly against her mouth as though steadying herself but concealing the small, gagging sounds she made.

When the lift stopped, a dense silence met them.

Floor 66. Hojo’s laboratory.

The lights flickered overhead, casting long, shifting shadows over the glass containment pods lining the corridor. Each held its own quiet horror: shapes that had once been animals, now suspended in pale fluid. Wires threaded through translucent skin. The smell of sterilization fluid and burnt ozone was thick enough to taste.

Bianca’s breath came shallow. “Something’s wrong,” she whispered.

Sephiroth didn’t need to be told. He could feel it. The air was alive with an unfamiliar vibration, a frequency that made the mako conduits tremble. Somewhere down the hall, a metallic crash echoed. It was followed by a low, wet growl that didn’t belong to anything human.

When it came into view, even Sephiroth paused.

The creature was a grotesque fusion of flesh and shadow: humanoid only in the vaguest outline. Its body shimmered with iridescent veins of glowing, emerald mako and something darker. Black fluid seeped from cracks in its hide and puddled onto the floor.

Multiple eyes blinked across its shoulders and back: some glowing blue, others red, each focused on a different direction. Never blinking. From its spine unfurled a pair of fetid wings. They were not feathered like Bianca's but slick with residue. Each movement accompanied by a stench like burning chemicals.

The scent hit Bianca first. She inhaled sharply. Her own wings twitched, as she almost backed away.

"Stay close," Sephiroth ordered.

"That thing,” she whispered, as her voice cracked like thunder breaking the calm. “It carries the same blood. Mine. But mixed with something else.”

The creature’s head snapped toward them, and it howled.

The sound tore through the corridor like a blade through glass: raw, metallic, resonant enough to make the mako conduits shudder and pause. The vibration crawled down Sephiroth’s spine, a low buzz blooming behind his temples.

His enhanced senses reeled under the assault. Even the Masamune’s metal hummed faintly, sympathetic to the frequency. Bianca flinched. She folded slightly. Her hand pressed to her abdomen as the howl raked through the air again. Higher, shriller, wrong.

Sephiroth caught her before she could stumble. His arm circled her waist with the ease of instinct. Her breath trembled against his chest for a heartbeat before he spoke, calmly, steady, and a still point in the chaos. “I’ve got you.”

The Red String burned faintly around his wrist, carrying the pulse of her distress through him. Then he released her with deliberate precision, stepping forward as the lights flickered overhead. His voice dropped into command-channel calm.

“All lower-ranked SOLDIER units failed containment,” he said into the comm. “I, Sephiroth, am engaging.”

The howl came again closer this time, shattering glass along the corridor. Sephiroth raised his blade, the Masamune gleaming with reflected mako light near the left side of his face and shoulder.

“Stay back,” he told Bianca. “It reacts to movement.”

Then he moved: fluid, lethal, a whisper of silver and shadow. The creature lunged. Claws dripped with black ichor. Its fetid wings battered the air. Each step it took reverberated through the metal flooring. Its eyes pulsed like dying stars. Each resembled Bianca and his eyes.

Sephiroth met it head-on.

He blurred forward in a flash of motion, striking quickly. Eight slashes fell in rapid succession. Each so fast that the very air itself seemed to tear.

The creature shrieked and howled at once. Its cry rose into a psychic pitch that sent sparks across the walls and static through Sephiroth’s mind. For a heartbeat his vision fractured. The world reduced to pulsing color, and Bianca’s aura a faint glimmer in the haze. He forced focus through sheer will, driving a booted heel into the floor to anchor himself.

“Enough.”

His palm turned upward. A circle of red materia flared at his belt. Heat rippled through the air as a fireball hovered over his palm, growing in strength and size. The fire burst forth in a precise, searing arc, engulfing the creature in a tide of molten light.

It screamed: a sound that shifted instantly back into that same, bone-shaking howl. Its flesh slouched off, blackening and charring like burnt chicken skin. The burnt stench wafted between the creature and them.

The psychic frequency slammed into him again and was sharper this time, buzzing like hornets under his skull. He gritted his teeth, pushing through the distortion. He’d endured worse in the mako chambers and Professor Hojo during training. He would not falter now.

Behind him, he felt Bianca’s aura flicker with nausea. Her breath caught audibly. He adjusted his stance instinctively to shield her from the worst of the reverberations, angling his blade to reflect the blast of heat and sound. His hair whipped around his face and against his back and shoulders, as the Masamune bent the sound around them.

The creature lurched forward. Its half-melted wings flapped weakly, and its body dripped with smoldering residue. Sephiroth moved again. Smooth and as quick as an exhale: one clean arc of motion. Silver sliced through the vibrating dark. The blade cleaved deep, meeting flesh, muscle, and bone, cutting through core and shadow alike.

Its final howl was deafening: an unholy wail that rolled through the floor and up the walls, making every glass cylinder shiver.

Bianca’s wings flared reflexively. Her feathers rattled, as her hand pressed hard to her lower ribs as if steadying herself against the invisible pressure.

Then the sound broke.

The creature collapsed in on itself. Black fluid hissed as it met the floor. The lights overhead steadied. The psychic buzz faded from Sephiroth’s mind, leaving only the quiet hum of mako and the faint rasp of Bianca’s uneven breathing behind him.

Through the Red Thread, he felt it again. Her nausea sharpened, and her pulse uneven: a illness he had felt since Angeal's Day of Remembrance a month ago.

He forced his movements to remain precise despite the awareness clawing at his focus. He ended the monster with one clean strike now. The blade tore through core. The body split with a wet, final sound before collapsing in a heap of hissing flesh.

For a long moment, the only sound was the distant hum of the mako tanks. Then the sirens dimmed. The air, though still thick with iron and ozone, began to settle, as its body started to fade out into tiny motes of green light.

Sephiroth turned.

Bianca stood against the wall. One hand pressed to her chest, and the other resting low on her abdomen. Her wings trembled faintly, feathers ruffled. Her eyes found his: dazed but aware.

“It’s over,” he said quietly, as he dismissed the Masamune. The blade slowly disappeared when purple mist moved along its form.

She nodded, but her response was delayed.

“That. . .thing. . . ” She swallowed hard, as the color drained from her cheeks. “It was part of Project N, wasn’t it? Part of us.”

He didn’t answer.

Her body swayed slightly, and before thought could intervene, he was beside her again. One arm steadied her by the shoulders. She tensed briefly, then exhaled, and leaned into the contact just enough for him to feel the minute tremor running through her frame.

“I’m fine,” she murmured again, but her voice had softened, unraveling at the edges.

“You are not,” he said simply.

Her lips parted to argue, then closed. Instead, she let him guide her away from the laboratory, through the silent hallways and up the freight lift toward the quieter executive floors.

Each level they descended seemed to leach a little of the tension from her body, though he could still feel the strain humming faintly through their connection: an ache, a fatigue that refused to fade.

When they stepped into one of the smaller rest quarters near the 59th floor, the sudden stillness enveloped them. The room was modest by Shinra’s standards: a small couch, a table, and soft light filtering through glass panels.

Outside, the city shimmered beneath a dark sky. Midgar's reactors glowed faintly with emerald light, a beacon against the night.

Bianca sank onto the couch, exhaling. Her wings folded tightly around her. The feathers dimmed to a dusky hue.

Sephiroth remained standing for a moment. After a pause that might have been hesitation, he knelt before her.

Her hands were clasped together in her lap. Her knuckles were pale. He reached out, the leather of his gloves creaked faintly as his fingers brushed her wrist. The Red Thread glowed faintly between them beneath his glove and around her flesh, warmth radiating in the space where string met skin.

“You are trembling,” he said quietly: a bit too quiet.

“I’m tired.” Her tone was soft, but something beneath it carried a note of vulnerability she rarely allowed anyone to hear. These were moments only Sephiroth witnessed.

“It’s been a long day, and my body’s just—”

She stopped, grimacing faintly as another wave of discomfort rippled through her. Her hand shifted instinctively toward her lower abdomen. “It’s nothing serious.”

Through the bond, he felt it again: not pain, exactly, but heaviness. It was a quiet, deep strain that seemed to draw energy from her very bones.

He studied her face: the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the pallor at her lips, and the way her breathing caught just slightly after each exhale. He had seen her after illnesses, after torture, but he had never seen her like this.

“You have overexerted yourself,” he said.

Bianca smiled faintly, the curve of it weary but sincere. “You sound like Zack.”

He didn’t return the smile. “Zack does not carry command authority quite like I do.”

That earned a soft chuckle from her, but it quickly faded as she leaned back, eyes closing. A lock of her black-and-indigo hair fell forward. He reached without thinking, brushing it aside with the backs of his fingers. Her scent lingered faintly in the air—something like pumpkin spice—threading with the faint chemical sweetness of mako.

Her breathing evened out gradually, but he could still sense the discomfort underneath. Through the Red String, it pressed against him like a low hum. He found himself matching her slow and delibrate rhythm, until the pulse of the thread steadied.

Minutes passed in silence. The only sound was the faint whir of the building’s systems and the occasional creak of the wind against the windows.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, almost drowsy. “You shouldn’t worry so much.”

“I do not,” he said automatically.

Her lips curved again, just barely. “Liar.”

He said nothing.

She opened her eyes then, and their indigo depths reflected the faint green light filtering from the city below.

“You always try to carry everything alone,” she whispered. “Even me.”

He met her gaze, expression unreadable. “You are not a burden.”

Her fingers brushed against his, the contact feather-light. “Then stop treating me like glass.”

He did not withdraw.

“You are not glass,” he said quietly, “but you are breakable.”

The words hung between them. It was just the unadorned truth. Bianca looked at him for a long time, something unreadable flickering behind her tired eyes. Then she leaned forward, resting her forehead briefly against his shoulder. It was a gesture so small, so tentative, that he might have missed it had he not felt the surge through the Red Thread: the warmth, the ache, the quiet gratitude.

His hand lifted slightly, hovering just above her back. Then he allowed it to rest there, a careful weight, steady and grounding. Her wings relaxed beneath his palm, as the feathers rustled softly.

Outside, another storm began to gather over Midgar. It seemed to rain wherever Bianca was. Distant thunder rolled across the skyline, the scent of ozone filtering in through the vents. Bianca’s breathing deepened, and her body finally loosened the last of its tension.

Sephiroth watched her in silence. Her pallor remained, and the faint sheen of exhaustion clung to her, but there was a softness in her expression now: a quiet peace that made something in his chest ease. The Red String pulsed once more. Slow and certain.

Even when she had morning sickness and weakness from their previous failed pregnancies, Sephiroth did not understand what had unsettled her body tonight. Whether it was stress, exhaustion, or something quieter and deeper blooming remained unseen. But he knew one thing. Whatever it was, he would not allow it to break her.

His gaze lingered on her profile, as the faint color returned to her cheeks and the way her lashes trembled. She drifted near sleep. For a moment, the chaos of Shinra and the horrors of Hojo’s work faded to insignificance. There was only this room, the quiet surrounding them, and the heartbeat tethered to his own.

When she stirred, murmuring something too soft to catch, he whispered the same words he had spoken in the lab, softer this time, meant only for her, as he had grown much softer this last month. “I’ve got you.”

The Red Thread glowed faintly in reply.

And though he would never name what he felt—not yet but soon—the warmth that lingered in his chest as the storm gathered outside was proof enough that it was real.

Whatever this was, he thought as he watched her hand unconsciously press to her abdomen, her lips parted in a sigh of relief.

Whatever this is, he continued his thought, I will not let it break her. Not now. Not ever.

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Thus, Tobirama stayed put and leaned his head against the counter behind him. He closed his eyes, hoping for calm, but before his inner eye, Izuna’s startled face and the look in Madara’s eyes took turns. While he could not remember every single word he had said, he knew enough that he could never show his face again. There was something about Madara that made him so enraged that he lost control of himself, and apparently also over his mouth. That in itself was dangerous, especially for someone whose strength lay in his composure and calm demeanor.  But Madara was the one surefire way to break Tobirama’s defense and leave him feeling vulnerable and raw which was a horrible feeling.

Tobirama sighed and buried his face in his hands. He had no idea what had happened over in the living room but somewhere deep within, he knew he had fucked up. He had said things out loud he never even knew existed in his mind. And Madara had heard enough of it that he would never respect Tobirama again, if he ever had in the first place. Even worse, he would interpret it as a sign of weakness, and Madara held striking resemblance to a hawk that aimed for the weak spots when going in for the kill.

His whole body tensed up at the thought and suddenly, the cold tiles did not feel like a safe haven anymore. But the bottles looming on another counter above him glistened enticingly and even though Tobirama felt nauseous already, the thought of drowning his mind in another bottle seemed quite inviting. Thus, he struggled to his feet, grabbing the corner of the counter to stabilize himself before his legs could give in, his eyes already scanning the array of bottles for the one that promised the most oblivion.

His eyes had already settled on one when his brain finally piped up, asking in a small voice whether this really was a good idea. But while Tobirama still pondered on that question, his hand already reached for and grabbed the largest bottle, the glass reassuringly smooth under his fingers.

“Shut up,” he growled to no one in particular while struggling with the bottle cap. His fingers slipped over the metal several times before he finally managed to get a firm hold. And with each twist of his hand, the voice of reason drowned a bit more in his desire to forget, if only for a few heavenly hours. Then, the bottle cap came undone with a last scraping sound and Tobirama carelessly dropped it on the counter. As far as he was concerned, he would not need it.

The golden liquid sparkled mesmerizingly in the dim light of the kitchen and Tobirama lost himself in the sight. Almost without noticing, he stumbled backwards and sank down at the wall, his treasured poison carefully burrowed in his arms. When he was sitting, his wobbly back supported by the wall, he grabbed the bottle with both hands and lifted it to his mouth. And after a moment of hesitation, he took the first gulp.

Madara took a deep breath and relished the cold air. Now that the rain had let up, it was almost more comfortable outside than inside. The living room had quickly heated up while the other three spiraled in their drinking, one by one getting more inebriated than they should. While Madara was no stranger to alcohol, he had not been in the right mind space to let himself go and thus had stuck to wine, and in a very reasonable amount as well. Usually, Izuna’s house was the only other place except for his own home where he felt entirely comfortable, but today was different. During the night, he had asked himself why but the only new factor in this equation was a certain ghostly pale shinobi that had occupied the couch next to him.

Well, not so pale anymore, Madara thought to himself with a grin. He had never seen Tobirama’s face so red as it was the moment he realized that Madara had overheard his drunk rant. For a fact, he had thought for a moment that Tobirama would explode right then and there. But instead of just dropping dead in embarrassment, Tobirama had quickly fled for the bathroom, leaving an also fiercely drunk Izuna behind who now hovered somewhere between shame and amusement. Madara had left it to Izuna to explain to Hashirama what had happened as he had only come back in when Tobirama had already made a run for it.

Madara himself had gone back outside, alone this time, to gather his thoughts. He curiously noticed that his heart was beating a bit faster than usual. Due to the cold, surely. Though that would not quite explain why his skin tingled. With a shrug, he pushed the thought aside. Tobirama’s tirade had indeed been very interesting. While Madara knew of their mutual feud and, of course, that he was beautiful, he had not known that Tobirama thought of their feud in terms of hate.

Madara leaned back, his back against the wall, and stared out into the dark. Did they really hate each other? He thought about it for a while. Of course, Tobirama was difficult and even insufferable at times. His oh so composed demeanor was nothing less than a feeling of superiority and his character was at best snarky and hardheaded, at worst downright obnoxious. But he was also strong, intelligent, and reliable. And sometimes, when he thought nobody was looking, his face softened and gave way to a curious, open expression.

No, he thought to himself, he did not hate Tobirama. He did not even despise him, though he would never have admitted that to anyone. In fact, their constant ribbing was something he was looking forward to. No one other than himself had a sharper tongue than Tobirama and thus, no one was better at giving as good as he got than him. And in sparring, nobody was more entertaining to fight against, not even Hashirama or Izuna. While they also were formidable opponents, Tobirama had a fierce fury to him that ignited Madara’s own fire. He would not back down until Madara pinned him to the ground, holding a kunai to his throat, and this ferocity was exactly what Madara craved.

A cold breeze ripped Madara from his thoughts and he took a deep breath when a warm shiver ran down his spine. His whole body felt strange, almost as if someone or something had set his nerves on fire, a dangerous yet delicious fire. He shook his head, trying to shake the odd feeling off.

To distract himself, he turned his head to the side and glanced into the living room. Izuna was still looking slightly shaken yet excited while he was besieged by a decidedly giddy Hashirama. As it seemed, alcohol only enhanced Hashirama’s bubbly personality and increased the danger of a random hug or a true waterfall of chattering. To his luck, Hashirama was entirely focused on Izuna who now slowly seemed to relax again while he spoke. Madara did not like the expressions on their faces when they both turned around at the same moment, their hazy eyes trying to pierce the darkness of the garden. He had a good idea of what they were looking out for, but from inside the illuminated living room, their chances of spotting him here in the dark were pretty low.

With a sigh, he leaned back again and tried to think of nothing. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, but time and time again Tobirama’s face when he had turned around appeared before his inner eye. Minutes passed and the image would not let up. And then, suddenly, he realized what had been missing in the living room. His eyes flew open and he looked back through the glass. He saw Izuna yawning heartily and Hashirama settling into the corner of the sofa with a blanket, a content expression on his face when he rested his head against the backrest. He saw the half dozen of almost empty glass bottles and the ravaged remains of the snacks. And he saw the other, empty couch where Tobirama had been sitting only an hour ago.

Now that Madara thought about it, one hour was an awfully long time for someone to use the bathroom, even if they were severely drunk. His heart skipped a beat and he glanced at Izuna and Hashirama but neither of them seemed to have noticed Tobirama’s absence. Instead, they were now both prepped with blankets and pillows and Izuna even lazily turned the light a bit down.

“Shit,” Madara muttered to himself. Of course, there was a chance that Tobirama had left without telling anyone. But an hour ago, he had already been so drunk that Madara heavily doubted he would make it back home in one piece. And Hashirama and Izuna did not look like they would be capable of making sure Tobirama was still alive any time soon.

Madara sighed deeply when he realized that left only one person. He grimaced and pushed himself off the wall. When he opened the door to the living room, neither of their brothers reacted. Izuna did not even look up and Hashirama only buried himself deeper in his blanket when a gust of wind came in. Madara shook his head and closed the door behind him. Then, he headed for the hallway where the downstairs bathroom was located.

The hallway was dark. Madara squinted and tried to make out a hint of light from where the bathroom door was, but he could not see anything. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he switched the light in the hallway on and walked over to the bathroom. He knocked once, waited a moment, then knocked a bit harder. When he heard no response, he took a deep breath and carefully opened the door.

“Anyone in here?” he asked but even before he had finished the question, he knew that the room was empty. It also did not look like anyone had used it in the past hour as the sink was clean and dry. The knot in his stomach grew when he closed the door behind him again and pensively looked at the front door. Had Tobirama really made a run for it? If so, he knew he had no choice but to follow him to make sure he had not passed out somewhere in a ditch.

Madara still struggled with himself when he suddenly heard a faint sound that did not come from the living room. It almost sounded like a glass bottle hitting the floor and his head shot in the direction of the sound. And then, he noticed that the door to the kitchen at the end of the hallway was not fully closed.

“There you are,” he muttered to himself, both relieved and at the same time strangely concerned about what he would find in the kitchen. He took a deep breath and braced himself. Then, he walked to the kitchen.

When he entered the room, the first thing he saw was … tidiness. A warm light glowed from a corner, illuminating the shelf Izuna was so proud of. On a counter was a collection of still full bottles and even some clean glasses next to them. Instinctively, Madara asked himself whether Izuna had planned on killing the four of them with the amount of alcohol in this room alone. But what he did not see was Tobirama or the source of the sound. His eyebrows furled in confusion and he started questioning himself when he suddenly noticed the ever so faint breathing from somewhere at the other end of the room. Madara tilted his head and contemplated pretending he had not heard anything, but then he reluctantly walked over.

And behind a different counter, halfway sprawled on the floor, he found both Tobirama and the enormous glass bottle that now lay on the ground right next to his pale hand.

“Fuck,” Madara cursed under his breath. He knelt down and reached for Tobirama. He paused for only a heartbeat before he carefully placed two fingers on Tobirama’s neck. He held his breath and closed his eyes, listening carefully. Tobirama’s breathing was so faint that it made Madara’s skin feel cold, but when he felt a strong pulse under his fingers, he sighed in relief. Out cold, apparently, but not in any immediate danger.

Only when his own heartbeat did not thunder in his chest anymore, Madara surveyed the situation. He examined the almost empty bottle that spilled a golden liquid onto the floor and set it back upright. He sniffed the bottle and read the label, shaking his head. “You fool,” he whispered when he looked at Tobirama.

If he had indeed emptied the bottle alone, it was a wonder he was not in an even worse shape. Even now, it looked like he had been struck by an invisible force. He was half sitting against the wall, half laying on the floor. His head bent in an uncomfortable angle and his face was deadly pale. His hair was messy and some of the longer strands fell down to his closed eyes. The red markings on his face looked like blood.

Madara watched himself stunned as he lifted his hand and carefully set Tobirama’s head in an upright position. His skin felt cold under Madara’s fingers and when he let go of him, he immediately slumped back. Madara groaned exasperated and moved a bit closer. He grabbed Tobirama’s shoulders and moved him back into a sitting position. But even now, he knew he could not leave him here, not like this. And since Hashirama and Izuna were wasted as well, they were of no help.

“Looks like it’s up to me then,” Madara said quietly and looked at Tobirama. With his eyes closed and his face relaxed, he looked very young. Madara sighed softly. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you home safely, little Senju.”

This is chapter 3 of a story. Read more at:

Malon sipped her drink and glanced around the little café. It was a quaint place, and practically full of jovial patrons. She didn’t recognize anyone, considering she lived outside of Kakariko Village, but she could tell that many of them were regulars from the easy way they called each other’s names and conversed with the waitstaff.

Malon rested her chin on her hand, one eye on the door. Link should be here soon. It had only been a few minutes since the time they had planned on meeting, but she didn’t want to order food without him, and her stomach was growling.

As she took another sip, she felt a hand fall on the back of her chair, brushing against her back. She jumped and glanced back to see an older man, probably her father’s age, grinning at her. She gave a weak smile, shifting forward in her seat. “Hello.”

“Hi, darling,” he said. “I haven’t seen you around here before. I would remember your face, I think.” He gave a raspy chuckle and moved around to stand in front of her. Malon tensed; her back was practically to a wall and now this man was in front of her only way out. “Hey, darling, you mind if I sit down?”

“A-actually, I’m waiting for someone,” Malon said.

“Oh, that’s all right. She won’t mind me keeping you company while you wait.”

“He’s a he, and I think he will mind.” The man ignored her and sat down in the chair across from her. Malon glanced around the café; where was a waitress? Where was Link?

“Such pretty red hair,” he said with a stare that bored into her soul. “You look like one of those Gerudo women in the desert.” The following silence was ripe with expectation of a reply.

“I’m half-Gerudo,” she said. Despite her irritation, it was difficult for her to ever ignore anyone—that just seemed so rude.

His eyebrows raised. “Half-Gerudo, you say? Boy, your daddy is a lucky man. I sure would like to meet one of those desert girls.” The look that crossed his face as he thought of the Gerudo was one that Malon didn’t much like. She gripped her skirt nervously under the table. “Is it true that they have to sleep with any man that can best them in battle?”

“Uhhh, did you actually need something, sir?” Malon asked, trying to shift his attention away from her apparently arousing heritage.

Instead, he chuckled. “Yeah, honey, I need something. And you seem like a smart girl, I bet you can figure out what it is.” His hand crept across the table, reaching out for her, and she recoiled. Her heart was pounding against her ribs and her only thought was Get him away.

“Look, old man, you really need to—”

“What’s going on here?”

Malon looked up to see Link stalking up to the table with murder in his eyes. She breathed a small sigh of relief, and the man glared up at him. “We were just having a nice, friendly chat,” he said. He didn’t even get out of his seat.

Link grabbed his shoulder and pulled him to his feet. The older man was taller than Link, but Link made up for it in muscle mass. Malon could swear he was actually flexing, muscles tensing as the two men stared each other down. “It didn’t look like she was carrying much of the conversation,” he said, his voice quiet, calm, but deadly.

“If that’s what you want to think, then fine. I was simply trying to talk with a lovely young lady in a restaurant. Is that a crime?”

Link’s jaw clenched, muscles in his neck jumping. “You know exactly what you were doing, old man. So does she, and so do I. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave. Now.”

He sneered. “Oh? And who are you to make demands of me?”

Link’s hand rose to the hilt of his sword behind his back, eyes narrowing. “Now,” he repeated. His quiet voice was so venomous that Malon was surprised the man didn’t drop dead on the spot. Instead, he slunk away, throwing a petulant glare in Malon’s direction as if she were the one who had driven him off. She and Link both watched him leave, and Link’s hand didn’t leave his sword until the door had shut behind him.

When he was gone, Link bent down to cup Malon’s face, pretty blue eyes roaming over her face with concern. “Are you okay, Malon?”

She smiled, even though her heart was still pounding. “Yes,” she said, bringing a hand up to meet his own. “Thank you.”

“He didn’t hurt you at all?”

“No, he didn’t. Just… shook me up a little.”

“Okay.” Link kissed the top of her head. “I’m so sorry I’m late, sweetheart. Got wrapped up in another meeting at the castle.”

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you got here when you did.”

Link sat down across from her, reaching over to take her hand in his. She gave it a squeeze, feeling the familiar pattern of callouses from years of swordfighting. She was grateful for him; they both knew she was able to look after herself, especially after years of working at the ranch, but it was nice to be reassured that Link would be there for her. This wasn’t even the first time Link had had to guard her from an overly friendly man, and she had a feeling that it wouldn’t be the last.

“Have you ordered yet?” he asked.

She blinked. “Hmm? Oh, no, I haven’t”

His expression turned back to concern. “You sure you’re all right, sweetheart?”

“Yes.” She smiled softly. “I’m just thinking about how grateful I am for you. How happy I am to have you in my life.”

Link smiled in return. He raised her hand to his lips to kiss the back of it. “I don’t deserve your love. But I’m glad to be here for you. I’ll always be here. You know that, right?”

“I do.”

“I wish I could be with you all the time, and someday, I will. I’ll be relieved of my duties with the royal family and we’ll move down south and start that new ranch we’ve always talked about. Away from everyone.” His fingers played over hers. “But for now, I swear to be there to protect you. Always.”

His words went straight to her heart, lighting up little sparks inside of it. “Thank you, my green knight,” she said, half teasing. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Link leaned across the table to kiss her forehead; then he reached for her drink and took a sip.

“Hey!” she laughed.

聞言，那人走向巷子更深處。梓彥拋棄行李跟了過去，「蘇念？你怎麼在這裡？」

蘇念沒有回應，只是低頭繼續走著。他似乎試圖加快腳步，步伐卻有些不穩。

「你怎麼走路一拐一拐的？」梓彥問，接著倒抽了一口氣。「等等，難道剛才那個是你？」

蘇念依然沒有回答。他就覺得剛才那聲呼喚有些耳熟……

「是誰欺負你？」一股熟悉的怒意湧上心頭，「告訴我，我去給他好看。」

對方只是嘆了口氣，繼續走著。

梓彥索性快步站到他面前。「回答我。」

「梓彥。」似乎是對他感到厭煩，蘇念抬頭瞪著他。「這跟你一點關係都沒有。」

梓彥也有些惱怒，「什麼叫沒有關係？你是我朋友，你被欺負了跟我沒有半點關係？」

蘇念試圖繞過他離開，卻一再被梓彥擋住。他無語的看著梓彥。

「你就這麼不相信我嗎？我只是想保護你，不行嗎？」

依然淡然的目光。「你講完了沒。」

一時被反常的冷淡震撼，梓彥愣在原地。蘇念將他推開，離開了。

「等等！」梓彥看著對方跛著腳的背影，「至少……至少讓我扶你回去吧。」

「不用了。」蘇念頭也不回的走著。