#ehau

:D

The floor in the entrance hall creaked underfoot, and the walls seemed to turn away as they saw him- not who they’d been expecting, not worth their attention. That was fair. 

The house had three bedrooms and two floors- altogether a strange layout. Two of the bedrooms were downstairs, situated in a small hallway off the kitchen, and one was tucked into a little corner upstairs, where the only other rooms consisted of a bathroom and a large, carpeted playroom that was mostly empty now. Logan figured it would have been a favorite of the kids when they were smaller, but now the only furniture was a faux leather couch and a television, as well as a couple of out-of-place armchairs that had never gotten much human use from the look of their fur-covered seats.

With just him taking up the whole house, he hardly saw the point in using the upstairs bedroom. The house felt big already- rationally, it would be better to localize downstairs. All he really needed was his room, the kitchen, and the little living room next to the entrance. That was enough for him- in fact, even that was too silent. He missed the screams of his brothers as affectionately as anyone could- which honestly varied day to day. 

Today, he was disproportionately affectionate. 

It paired well with the fear.

Logan was just about ready to start tearing himself apart over the family members he’d left behind- the only ones that mattered- when the boy caught his eye.

The day had been gray and dreary, the trees heavy with the prospect of rain and the air cool enough to promise it, but it had only started drizzling in the few minutes since Logan had been inside. The sky had seemed to darken remarkably quickly, especially strange without the presence of thunder or even heavy rain, and in the middle of it all was a lanky figure who looked for all the world like a member of the fae.

He stood at the side of the road, looking in the house’s general direction- in Logan’s general direction, although he was sure the other wouldn’t be able to see through his windows. His face would’ve been hidden by the dark hair poking out from under his hood were he not so painfully pale, and his brown irises were visible to Logan only because of the piercing contrast of his skin. 

His jacket was oversized, but his beanpole frame managed to show through regardless. The rainwater gradually weighed it down until the boy looked almost a skeleton, Logan frozen watching him for what could have been minutes- and then the frame heaved in a breath and ambled stiffly away. 

Obviously Logan’s first worries had to do with an unhinged white male teenager breaking into his new house- the one he had full responsibility for and few precious savings to repair. It was irrational, he knew, but his second thought was that the boy hadn’t looked capable of any harm- or really of much at all. He looked weighed down, depressed, and Logan was sure that it wasn’t just the water soaking his sweatshirt. The boy had looked sad. 

And he continued to. Frighteningly often, the teenager appeared outside Logan’s house. Each time he looked quite the same: above average height but considerably shorter than Logan himself, skinny, and almost other-worldly in his strange mish-mash of dark eyes and pearly flesh. While Logan knew that his first sight of the boy had been strange in the sudden change of weather, he could- and completely intended to- count it as a coincidence of Florida’s strange climate.  

He settled into a sort of pattern, although the boy didn’t seem to follow one. Each time he saw the figure outside his house, he would take a break from his endless work. He’d make himself some tea, sit in the window, and wait for the boy to leave. This way, he told himself, if he tried anything, Logan would be there to intercept him. He chose not to think about the possibility of it happening at night or while he was away, and he kept far away from the crime shows he’d occasionally enjoyed in the past. This way, too, he could get a good look at his visitor each time. It was almost as though he was keeping tabs on him, and at the tail end of his fear came a strange protectiveness. 

It was after about a month of this- Logan looking for job applications and living off of his savings, edgewise- that Logan pulled into his driveway at one of the key moments of his life. The boy stood unsteadily at the side of the road, sweatshirt ever-present even in the heat. Logan got out of his car carefully, his heart in his throat- though, really, did any part of him think the boy capable of much at this point? 

He’d have expected the kid to run as soon as he’d pulled in, but when Logan looked him over he saw the boy studying him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. It struck Logan anew in their close proximity how thin he was.

Almost thoughtlessly, he started across the lawn towards the boy. He had to remind himself to uphold formalities- no matter how many times they’d stared at each other across the way, they’d never once spoken. He didn’t know this kid, not really- and now it occurred to him that the boy was more than a kid. He couldn’t be much younger than himself. Logan halted a few respectful steps from the boy, who eyed him strangely.

Close up… he looked, somehow, the same as he did from across the lawn. His features were simple, small mouth and nose easy to overlook for his huge, shadowed eyes. He really did remind one of a fairytale, or even- perhaps more accurately- a Tim Burton. 

Logan opened his mouth to speak, but paused for a moment. They watched each other.

“Would you like to come in for tea?” He finally inquired, the words escaping him overly familiar. The boy raised his eyebrows almost undetectably, seeming confused, and Logan caught himself almost leaning forward in anticipation of the other’s first words to him.

“You’re not Patton,” the boy said, voice just above a murmur and hoarse. Logan hesitated, confused, and studied the expression that would’ve been bored were it not for the slight tremble in his lips and a hint of surprise- Logan supposed neither of them had planned what had escaped their mouths. He reached up with a thin arm and brushed the back of his hand gently across his eyes. A spark of something strange flickered in Logan’s chest- this man was possibly not all there. He wracked his brain for labels- depression? Mild psychosis? Dissociation?

Either way, this was not someone he should invite into his house without more information- but as that regretfully occurred to him, the first drops of afternoon rain hit the tip of his noise. He wondered if the boy would stand out here after Logan went outside, and if so, for how long. 

“No, I’m not,” he found himself saying. “My name is Logan. It is raining- would you like to come in?”

He was exceedingly aware of the boy’s breathing as they stepped out of the rain, something that would normally drive him insane- somehow he didn’t mind this time. His presence was almost calming after weeks of bringing a break from Logan’s ceaseless work. It assured him that the ghostly pale man was real, which was never a problem he thought he’d be debating... but here was this skeleton-thin, strange-mannered man entering his house as though he’d been there a million times before.

He carefully slid his shoes off, paying close attention to the floor- and no attention to Logan. 

“I’ll make tea,” the latter found himself mumbling. “Do you want to come into the kitchen?”

“I’m gonna go upstairs,” the boy said. Logan blinked.

“I- you… this is my house?” He stuttered, trying to be assertive- surely that crossed a line? He’d never seen this kid before a month ago- but there he went, lugging himself up the stairs like he belonged there. O-kay. 

Logan backed into the drafty kitchen to put the kettle on.

Time to listen to his voice of reason, he decided. Clearly this boy had been in the house before- hopefully before Logan had moved in- and knew his way around. And clearly his mental state had some connection to the house- whether positive or negative, Logan couldn’t yet tell. So, he concluded, it’s possible that he had lived here before. The married couple that had sold him the house had mentioned a son, but they’d been moving out of town- how would the boy have made his way back almost daily? There was a bus line in the area... but who was Patton, and why had his absence been unexpected?

There was clearly missing information here, and thus the situation was theoretically dangerous. The logical thing to do would be to contact the authorities for more information- maybe the boy was a local that they were familiar with. If that were the case, they would know how to handle him. 

On the other hand… it was, put simply, a puzzle. Wasn’t it? Logan was smart; he was in online college and he was passing quite well. He had an A in psych so far. He just needed a few more minutes with the boy and he’d figure it out. He could help him... why else would he show up outside his house? 

He needed Logan.

There goes rational thought, Logan sighed as the kettle started to whistle, turning off the stovetop and moving the pot to the side. Something made him turn around- the boy was watching him from the doorway, looking almost more upset than usual. His wide eyes were watery, and as Logan hesitated he wiped an arm across his face again, expression turning to frustration. He avoided Logan’s gaze. “You said you were making tea?” He said, carefully controlled voice just above a whisper. Logan was startled out of his stupor by the boy’s coherence.

“I, um- yes! Yes, would you- what kind?”

“Earl grey? No sugar, just a bit of milk...” he carefully pulled a chair from the small table, slumping into it and reaching to fidget with the salt shaker. “Please.”

The boy’s words stirred Logan into movement and he grabbed two mugs out of the mostly barren cabinet before pulling a pre-packaged tea bag from the tea box on the counter. He unwrapped the tea and dropped one bag in each mug, pouring steaming water from the kettle into them with a satisfying noise. The warm humidity and pleasant smell caressed Logan’s face, and he took a moment to bask in it before returning to the present moment- if begrudgingly. As he set the empty kettle aside, the room quieted, the only sound the rain drizzling over the side of the roof. Logan crossed the space self-consciously to close the window. The boy’s eyes were pointedly focused on the table in front of him- Logan thought he felt more awkward this way than if the boy had been staring at him flat-out. Either way, he could feel his awareness of Logan like a thick fog. He snuck another look at the boy as he hovered beside a chair, unsure whether to sit opposite him. 

“My name is Logan,” he prompted, thoughts stumbling over each other to curse him for the repetition. 

“Thank you for the tea, Logan.”

...Well, at least that was something. His name sounded strange in the other boy’s hoarse, delicate voice- less mundane, somehow. He stood at the head of a table for one more moment that seemed to stretch out an eternity- the boy carefully spun the salt shaker around in his nimble fingers, swearing softly as some of the seasoning fell onto the table. Logan’s startled eyes studied the other’s flushed face.

And then his head caught up to him, and he shuttered into motion, rushing to the mostly empty fridge for milk and fetching the small bag of sugar he’d mercifully bought a few days before. 

“I... I’ve seen you around,” Logan’s mouth betrayed him again. That was creepy- although, looking at it objectively, it was much less creepy than being ‘around’ the way the boy had. The table behind was quiet for too long as he poured the milk. 

“...When’d you move in?” The voice was quiet and held a fragility that Logan hadn’t yet heard from the other. He was relieved to finally have an easy answer to one of the many questions he faced. And, indeed, his mouth finally obeyed him, even and direct.

“About a month ago.” He turned to face the table, the boy’s tea held stiffly between his hands. 

“Sorry,” he whispered as Logan set down the tea. “I knew someone’d moved in, but I guess… it was you.” The boy let out a hollow laugh, and Logan was swept with protectiveness once more.

“Don’t worry, I won’t alert the authorities.” Because that was the most comforting thing he could think of- he’d never been very tactful with delicate emotional situations. Predictably, the boy tensed. Logan decided it’d be advisable for him to move on. “What is your name, pray tell?”

Pray tell. Pray fucking tell? What was wrong with him? The boy cut him off before he could overthink the foot he’d just shoved in his mouth with the eloquence of an 1800s era schoolboy. 

“Patton.” A moment passed before a look of horror came over his face. “Or- no, I- it’s- Virgil! Virgil.”

Now- once again, logically- forgetting one's name was not a good sign. Of general coherence nor moral innocence. Logan knew this. 

Still, the boy looked uniquely upset by the mistake. 

Logan fetched his tea and sat down opposite him.

The other boy fidgeted incessantly, and Logan felt it fell on him to make Virgil more comfortable. He threw tact to the wind- it was tiresome anyway- in favor of distracting the other and himself from the strange fumble.

“Are you a local?”

He got a nod in response, Virgil holding the tea tightly between his hands. Logan couldn’t help but feel he’d made yet another mistake- obviously the boy wasn’t comfortable talking about himself, but was it worth Logan filling the silence with unprompted facts about himself? Would that bore Virgil? Was that rude? He let the gap in conversation rest for a moment before deciding he didn’t much care what was rude.

“This is my second year enrolled in online college- I skipped my senior year.”

The stupid non-sequitor sat in the middle of the table, sinking like a rock. Virgil managed to give him an incredulous look, even in the depths of... whatever it was that was affecting him. Logan panicked. 

Here are a few things about Logan Croft that were usually a given:

                  1. He often said things without regard to the effect they would have on others. 

                  2. He did not say things he didn’t believe to be true.

                  3. He did not readily employ personal information.

All of these rules had apparently been thrown out the window the second Virgil walked in his door. As soon as he realized this, he worked to reclaim them. “Virgil.”

The wind immediately blew out of his sails, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Speaking abrasively had never been difficult for him, and this was not the time to adopt a new weakness. “I need to know who you are. You have shown up outside of my house for the past month, and while the reasoning behind this is presumably personal and not necessarily critical for me to know, I will at least need you to tell me your full name. Against my better judgement, I will not contact the authorities about your incessant invasion of my privacy, because I don’t altogether mind it- but if you are to have regular access to my house, we can’t continue this one-sided conversation.” Regular access to his house? When had Logan considered that option? As soon as he asked himself the question, he knew the answer- the feeling of someone appearing in the doorway, seeking Logan’s company… it was something that he’d missed sorely. It was something he needed.

The boy looked startled and altogether terrified by the long stream of words. Logan, still working hard to recover his sense and new to the inclination of softening his words on the behalf of strangers, disregarded this as best he could as he waited for an answer. 

It didn’t look like he was going to get one.

Virgil opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, putting the salt shaker down on it’s side like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. Logan felt a tug in his stomach to right it, afraid he’d get more salt on his table, but now didn’t seem like the time. 

As the moment stretched forward, his attention was grabbed away anyways, trying to decipher Virgil’s expression. It didn’t look good. 

In fact, it made his heart drop.

The boy looked withdrawn, fearful- like a bird with an injured wing or a snared fox. Damn it, damn it, damn it- Logan’s split-second adopted mantra was less than helpful, but it showed no signs of tapering off to make room for useful thoughts. Virgil’s eyes squeezed shut, and the instincts left over from Logan’s career as an older brother took over. 

He rushed to Virgil’s side on blind autopilot, laying a warm hand over his bony back. The boy jumped at the unexpected touch- and then leaned into it, a choked sob tearing itself from his throat. Oh no. Oh god. Damn it. 

Logan didn’t consider himself good with emotions. He did his best to comfort his younger brothers- god knows they needed it- but strangers were a whole new situation and honestly he didn’t feel much better about this than he expected the boy did.

Nevertheless. 

“Hey, I-” he took a knee to lower himself to Virgil’s level, steadying himself against the table awkwardly. “Um-”

He choked on what to say, but his mind latched to the one thing he knew. Virgil had responded positively to touch- and with little further thought, Logan bundled the shivering boy into his arms.

Logan would’ve immediately taken back the show of affection by any means necessary if Virgil hadn’t melted into the touch so readily- Logan was reminded of an oversized cat. 

That being said, Logan was holding a sobbing stranger in his arms in his new house, alone. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

Logan had always been the kid at family gatherings who did everything in his power to ward off physical contact from his overbearing relatives. Although this situation was completely different and altogether impossible to plan for and avoid, he found himself reacting in somewhat of the same way- each place that Virgil’s thin, trembling body touched his screamed at him to recoil.

He did not.

He brought to mind his brothers- not that they’d ever been particularly physically affectionate with him. They’d always turned to each other, and he’d been left to himself. Understandably. But he imagined if they had seeked his reassurance, if they’d ever been as upset as this stranger was now. If they’d let him in. 

But now someone was leaning on him for comfort, and he was determined to provide for them. Imagine if Remus had come to him for help, he kept thinking. Imagine if it were Roman. 

And all of a sudden he had to hold back tears himself. He tensed, carefully leaning Virgill back onto his chair- Logan’s chair. Sensing the other’s discomfort, the boy came back to himself like a fire blazing across dry wood. 

“Fuck- fuck, I-I’m-” the boy was off at a rushed stutter, scrambling to right himself and wiping his eyes angrily. Logan shook his head, patting Virgil’s shoulder awkwardly. 

“Drink your tea,” Logan said stiffly. “It’s okay. I don’t- do you need something?” Good job, he thought sarcastically. Just pretend it never happened. Show him that, apologies, you seem to have made him think you’re an emotional resource. He was wrong, you’re actually a sociopath. Once again, sorry for any inconvenience. 

Logan’s thoughts stuttered and shouted as he tried to fix whatever he’d done. Virgil was quite obviously shaking, almost unable to hold his tea to his lips although he did make an effort, and Logan resorted back to psych class- maybe not a panic attack, but certainly an emotional breakdown and possibly an anxiety attack. “Do you have a history of generalized anxiety disorder?” Logan asked automatically, the place where he should have held a capacity for compassion currently void for whatever stupid reason. “Or even a suspected case?” The thunderstorm in his mind froze entirely as Virgil’s watery brown eyes focused on him. 

“...I guess,” he rasped quietly, eyes flickering back to his hands as they picked at each other violently. “I dunno.”

Logan let out a long breath, sliding furtively into the chair opposite Virgil. 

“If you’re having an anxiety attack, it could be caused by a persistent disorder or a recent traumatic event- although recent is a problematically inspecific measurement-” 

“Uh, then I- I dunno. Still. I guess…” He shrugged, looking away. “How recent is recently?”

Logan tried to hold back a sigh of relief at the comparatively simple question.

“Generally, anxiety attacks are caused by a buildup of unfinished tasks or other irritants, although there’s often an overarching problem or incident. A traumatic event can cause emotional turmoil for years after it occurs- or for the remainder of one’s life, depending on it’s nature- but in most to all cases, the effects lessen as time goes on.” Virgil nodded slowly. 

“And- and what are the symptoms? Of an anxiety attack?” He pulled his legs up to his chest, presumably placating the urge to make himself smaller. Logan rattled off the characteristics quickly.

“Shaking, a feeling of unease, impulsive thoughts, nausea, panic, the sensation of being trapped or cornered, restlessness, hyperventilation, trouble concentrating, dyspnea- shortness of breath, that is- am I making sense?” He wrapped his hands around the cooling cup of tea in front of him, feeling the need to steady himself. Virgil nodded again- it was apparent he was a man of few words. That worked out wonderfully, Logan thought, as he himself seemed so bent on talking as much as humanly possible. 

“Yeah,” Virgil muttered- then stood up abruptly. “Um- I should probably go. Sorry for… yeah.” Logan, decidedly more alarmed at the idea than he should’ve been, got to his feet as well.

“No- I mean, you don’t… have to. If you’d rather- but if you feel the need to go- I mean, I don’t want you to…” Logan paused, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to get his damn mouth under the control of his brain. Had he said something wrong? Well, obviously he’d said many things wrong in the past minutes, but… he thought over the conversation. He’d only been saying the facts- just what he knew. Was there something he should have kept to himself? Was any of it too personal? It was just facts, statistics, symptoms- he cursed himself mentally, although he couldn’t tell precisely what for.

While he’d been deliberating- not panicking, never panicking- Virgil had frozen in place. Right. The whole blazing trainwreck of words he’d let out for no apparent reason. Where the hell had that even come from? He’d known this kid for a month- five minutes face-to-face- and he was already being weird and nonsensical. It took considerable effort to bring the circumstances of their meeting to mind and even the playing field in his subconscious. If they were both creepy, did it even out? “I-I meant... you’re welcome here.” 

Logan could see the gears turning in Virgil’s head as he fell back into his chair. A weight slid off of his shoulders as the air between them settled- they were even. Or something. 

As much as he expected to regret his words, he was surprised at the lack of protest from his thoughts. It was, for once, blessedly quiet both inside his head and out. Logan sat back down warily. “You obviously have some- some connection to this house.” Like some sort of undead apparition, he thought- but he had the sense to keep that, at least, inside. “I can’t tell if it has a positive or negative effect on your mental state as I seem to be an uncalled for variable in your visit. I’m no psychological authority... I know you’ll come back either way, and I don’t like imagining you back out in the rain.” A shiver went through the boy like a roll of thunder, and he nodded. 

Still, a skirmish was less than preferable. They would be too evenly matched. She needed to find Ren, wherever the reckless man had gone, before the opposing duo found him first. Without moving an inch, she shifted her attention to her partner for the night. She didn’t have to look far before Ren’s image stared back at her from the water. His expression was as tense as False felt; he could see the enemy.

False was off, bow in hand, fast as she was able while keeping the sound of her feet splashing in the water to a minimum. She kept an eye on the scene through the mirrored surface of the swamp but she could only watch as Ren backed further into the underbrush and Iskall and Stress continued to draw closer. She passed a massive ravine; that, perhaps, would prove useful.

She slowed to a crouching crawl and then hid behind a tree once the duo came into her line of sight. Their backs were still to her, but it was colder now and the slimy swamp water covering her feet clung to her diamond boots. Across a wide—too wide—span of water and hidden within dense forest, False saw the barely-visible shine of Ren’s eyes glowing silver in the power of the full moon. Behind him, a massive ravine marred the terrain.

The night was still. The air was thick. The firm grasp of her element was familiar as she summoned a shield to encase her body.

Iskall and Stress attacked with not so much as a passing glance exchanged between them.

The speeding line of ice that Stress sent her way just barely grazed False’s feet as she leapt backward onto dry land. Instinctive reactions and years of training had her sending an arrow in Stress’ direction before she landed. Her boots were frosted over, but there was no time to think about how cold her toes were while Stress was sprinting towards her.

Get Ren. Stay out of the water.

Stress threw her hands out and False danced away from an array of ice spikes. Stress and Iskall were most powerful when they and their opponents were surrounded by water. False lunged forward and slashed at Stress with her sword. It didn’t make contact. Of course this had to happen in a swamp.

“Stay still, love,” Stress snarled at her as False dodged yet another attack. The biting cold might have affected her if it weren’t for her skin-like shield she kept up. In her peripheral vision, she could see Ren and Iskall battling it out, slightly closer to the bank where Ren had been hiding. She shot an arrow, quick as lightning, and felt more sick than happy when it met its target.

Stress cried out. The arrow stuck out from her thigh as False leapt back. Water splashed outward as Stress fell. False’s instincts, honed after years of battle, told her to go for the kill as Stress looked up at her in shock. Her opponent was on the ground, at her mercy.

False hesitated a second too long, because a blade met her stomach before she could make another move.

Iskall’s sword shattered her shimmering shield and the impact knocked her to the ground as well. Her sword was in hand and raised for a second strike despite her fall, but she only caught a glimpse of Iskall’s face twisted in rage before Ren’s body slammed into the one-eyed man and the pair fell flailing to the ground.

Ren’s growl matched the look in Iskall’s sole eye in intensity, but his next move was to lunge toward Stress rather than continue to engage Iskall. Determined to protect his friend, Iskall leapt to his feet to intervene, but False swung her blade and stepped between him and the pair.

Iskall was a force to be reckoned with under normal conditions but this, with the water freezing and slime sticking the soles of her feet to the ground, plus his own increased speed in the swamp, this was simply unfair. False found herself fighting to keep her sword in hand and a magic shield in front of her only for it to break with one swing of his blade. Iskall was angry and, she had to admit, that was almost as terrifying as Doc angry.

>Rendog fell from a high place

False felt her blood turn icy, and she knew it had nothing to do with the ice elemental in her vicinity. Stress and Ren must have reached the ravine. Of course he’d been the one to fall. False was on her own now, against Iskall and Stress.

Iskall knew, too. False stumbled, the intensity of the moment finally getting to her. The Swede before her lunged and she fell once again, flat on her back, drenched in murky water.

They weren’t even supposed to engage tonight.

Iskall stalked forward. Behind her, False felt the chilly presence of Stress approaching, but she never took her eyes off of the imminent threat before her.

A plan formed in her mind; risky, deadly, but a plan. There was little choice but to attempt it. She’d exhausted all other options.

Iskall’s sword was coming down and False felt the tell-tale cold of ice rushing toward her back. She formed a small shield behind his legs and moved, quick as a whip, rolling forward and kicking outward to trip him and leap forward onto dry land in one smooth motion.

Iskall fell face-first into a foot-deep puddle of water that froze over immediately.

“Iskall!” Stress rushed forward, icicle already in hand to chip away at the ice covering him, but False wasn’t about to stick around to figure out if it would work.

She darted off, back towards her home base where Ren had surely respawned, leaving the pair behind her. She was out of the swamp with Team STAR’s base in view when the death message announced the result.

>Iskall85 drowned

I made war on the peaks and became the stone

There was a razed path of destruction through the world, a gruesome scar cut from the battleground of the two bases straight to the sea. The sun was rising over the water in the distance, though the fires all around burned bright enough that it might as well be day already.

Cleo stayed back, and perhaps that was cowardly, but her powers worked best from a distance. Jevin and Tango played tank, engaging in brutal, direct combat with Wels and Impulse, respectively. Cleo could barely see Mumbo through his cloud of redstone on the opposite side of the battlefield, identifiable as the source of dusty red waves that spawned deadly machines and weapons that activated on their own. The landscape was a mess of fire and iron, torn up by redstone machinery and levitated terrain.

Cleo’s undead army of zombies and pigmen, amassed from days of concentration next to a portal and an enormous glass containment pen, didn’t seem to be doing much harm to any of their three enemies but they did make decent targets for Mumbo’s machines. She could feel the dull aches all over her body as her forces were cut down by arrows and pistons and lava and for the first time in the fight that was lasting hours, the impacts were too difficult for her weary body to ignore.

The sun finally rose from the water. Cleo felt the uncomfortably warm sensation of her hundreds of mobs catching flame; with control of so many, she couldn’t stop them from burning. Lucky for her, Mumbo was tiring too, his cloud of red dispersing and thinning to the point where she could see his form kneeling on the ground. His machines were weaker and more sparse.

Cleo turned her attention to the continued fight between Wels and Jevin. The slime was no longer exhausting energy on freezing Wels’ arrows and the edges of his physical form were beginning to warp. Wels had dropped the swords that once circled him and his armor was no longer changing in response to Jevin’s attacks; it was simply spiked. They were beginning to tire. Anyone would be; this had to be the longest, most exhausting battle she’d been part of. They were too evenly matched. The sun had set and now risen again and yet not an inch of ground had been given or taken. The only result of their fighting was a stain on the surface of the world.

And yet, in the center of it all, burning the terrible path, two beacons of scorching heat clashed with what felt like a bottomless well of energy. It seemed as if Tango and Impulse were incapable of exhaustion. Cleo couldn’t even imagine it.

It hurt to watch. Literally—the brilliant light they were emitting burned her retinas—but in more ways than just physical; they were best friends. The sight of the two of them at each other’s throats was a horrible testament to how far out of hand the war had gotten. Hands burning, bodies glowing, the pair pulled apart and then rushed back in, an endless cycle every time they came face-to-face now. Flames licked Impulse’s mouth every time he opened it and the whip of fire in his hand lashed like a snake with a mind of its own. Tango’s hands were ablaze and the ground around his feet glowed red-hot with every step he took. The identical looks in their eyes were nothing less than ferocious.

As the sun rose behind her, Cleo allowed herself to take a step back and witness the battle. Her body shook with the toil of it; her armies ablaze, Mumbo all but motionless on the ground, Wels and Jevin locked in exhausted combat, Tango and Impulse forging a hideous inferno.

Joe, in all his infinite kindness and wisdom, had told her this was a mistake. Maybe they all had known that the whole time. And yet, even he had chosen a side. Whatever had caused this, even he wasn’t immune. She turned around; she needed a moment to collect herself.

There was a figure silhouetted by the sun in the distance, standing atop the highest mountain surrounding the scorched, upturned valley. Cold terror shot through Cleo like an icy knife stabbing her spine. Friend, or foe? Come to help the G Team or STAR? She didn’t know which option she feared more. It didn’t matter, she supposed; either way, it meant the end of this grueling battle.

The figure didn’t move. The mountain rumbled.

It was then that Cleo realized who it was. Neither friend nor foe, it was the reclusive Tinfoil Chef, emerging from beneath the earth for the first time in months.

She didn’t even have time to process that thought before the world went black. Her body crumpled and her lungs filled with filth as the surrounding mountains collapsed and the dirt beneath her feet gave way. A tidal wave of earth filled the valley, crushing the six hermits battling there.

>ZombieCleo suffocated >Mumbo suffocated >Tango suffocated >Welsknight suffocated >iJevin suffocated >ImpulseSV suffocated

I made war on the heavens and became the sky

In the month since the war had begun, every hermit had come to recognize when Doc and Grian were fighting. It wasn’t particularly hard to tell; the moment the two were in proximity and aware of each others’ presence, it was as if the sky itself was at war, as if the heavens were being ripped apart. A storm would hover low overhead, bolts of lightning streaking in jagged, violent paths from the clouds to the ground, accompanied by the crack of thunder and the wind howling angry ramblings as it sent rain sideways and upwards.

Doc stood on the roof of the ghast tower, trident in hand, eyes locked on the sky, searching for Grian’s faint form swooping through the clouds.

“Show yourself!” he roared, and the sky flashed white as a bolt of lightning arced through the clouds to hit the earth in the center of no-man’s land.

A winged man was silhouetted in the brief light. Doc lifted his trident, feeling its weight in his hand. It buzzed with energy that danced between the prongs and sent static running along his body. He aimed at the figure, knowing Grian was long gone, and shot into the air.

The feathers on Grian’s wings stood on end as a bold of pure electricity passed by where he’d been mere seconds before. His hand gripped tightly around his sword, his knuckles pale, his heart giddy as the man below shouted to the heavens:

“Face me, coward!”

Grian’s snicker was carried enough by the wind that Doc could hear it from where he stood down below. He grit his teeth, trying not to channel too much energy into his trident. Fights with Grian were more often than not long and painful, and pacing was key, especially because the man he was facing had far more stamina than him. At times, it seemed like Grian lived in the air. There had once been a time when Doc found his endless flight charming, but now he only felt a desire to ground the man with a vicious bolt of electricity.

Even from high above its source, Grian could feel the air tingling with electrical energy. It smelled of ozone and rain, and there was a sort of giddy thrill about him that he recognized as his element; the air was normally benevolent, if slightly reckless. Something about this war, though—perhaps the power that went along with fighting everyone—made his element more excited than normal.

He could feel it start circling before he commanded it to, but he paid no mind, and simply urged the forming tornado along. The sky lit up with another bolt of Doc’s lighting and Grian allowed himself to be illuminated by the blast. Below, Doc was alight with crackling energy on the roof of STAR’s ghast tower. The wind howled as Grian began his descent.

It was foolish to assume that any singular battle would end this war. It almost felt, at this point, that the entire thing would never end. At times like these, though, when it was one-on-one, and the conflict felt all the more personal and all the more deadly, it was easier to fall into the misguided hope that taking out the leader would stop the war.

Doc’s trident lit up with electricity, crackling and sparking, the scent of ozone pungent in the air. Wind swirled around Grian, a miniature hurricane surrounding him as he gained speed. Doc took aim as Grian swooped down, gaining momentum.

Doc’s eyes widened. At the last second, he sidestepped, and Grian sped straight down past him, grazing his wing on the corner of the ghast tower. The sting caught him by surprise, but the noise he made was nothing compared to the scream Doc let out. He caught the slightest glimpse of the man’s body alight with crackling energy before he was gone. It was far too late for Grian to try and stop himself; he simply closed his eyes and waited for the inevitable crash into the ground.

The energy surging through Doc was agonizing and brilliant. His entire being was electrified. Grian’s personal tornado had yanked his trident from his hand just as he was about to shoot the menace, and his own lightning had backfired on him. He could feel himself burning from the inside out, though he could hardly say the sensation was unfamiliar. He caught one final look at Grian’s falling form, and was filled with a sense of cruel satisfaction, knowing the other man would soon be dead, too.

>Grian experienced kinetic energy >Docm77 was struck by lightning

@ab-artist