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[ From: Admiral Nemato Gnathi

To: Legate Eridan Ampora

Subject: URGENT! PLEASE READ AT ONCE.

Attachment: map_24045data.xml

Dear Legate Ampora,

I hope this email finds you well. Per the Grand Trierarchos' command, you and your fleet will be dispatched for a QRF mission at Third Fury, as early as tomorrow night. Once you’ve reviewed the attached strategy map, please begin packing. Our strategists estimate that this contingency may span several months, given rising hostilities at Third Fury. 

If you haven’t been apprised of the situation on Third Fury, please read the following paragraph transcribed by AI:

Third Fury, a military base on the planet Nazakeron, is currently under enemy siege by the indigenous Phylum Chilopoda. A savage and uncivilized species, at first, they resorted to rudimentary guerrilla warfare. Naturally, such primitive threats posed no obstacle to advanced Alternian technology. However, two days ago, one of the insurgent soldiers was captured, and it was discovered that he was carrying an Alternian ray gun. We believe there is an illegal channel stationed somewhere on Nazakeron by the Resistance supplying the locals with Alternian armaments.

Legate Ampora, despite your youth, you have accomplished a storied military career with honorable victories on both Seneke and Pitropoli. This is an opportunity for you to demonstrate the fruits of your labor. Should you be successful, the Grand Trierarchos himself will award you the Indomitus Crown.

Best,

Admiral Gnathi ]

A flurry of emotions stirs in his guts. Grand Trierarchos is a larger-than-life name that eclipses the bounds of digital space, or even the Capital itself. He’s weak at the knees. Simply imagining Grand Trierarchos deigning to look at him is surreal. Admiral Gnathi may as well announce he’s having dinner with the Condesce one-on-one next. But even the Empress herself doesn’t hold the same sway over him as the Grand Trierarchos. Nowadays, Her Imperious Condescension wasn’t nearly as active after acquiring an entourage of Subjugglators, Threshecutioners, and Laughsassins to do her bidding. She grew fat and lazy on her very large, tastelessly fuchsia throne while everyone else did the dirty work necessary to maintain her authority. The Grand Trierarchos, however, was a different story. A fellow violet, he was thousands of sweeps old and held the highest military rank in the Empire. If Eridan were a whit more zealous, he would pray to his effigy. As much as he had admired the orphaner as a wiggler, he couldn’t hold a candle to the supremacy of the Grand Trierarchos. No one could. He was just that grand.

He jumped to his feet, pacing back and forth across the room. Tavros’ horn lay angled on his desk, beside his husktop. It was already light outside, based on the streams of yellow light spilling through the cracks in the violet draperies. The disbudding wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. Upon his return, he had given one of the chambermaids a thorough switch-lashing to satiate the hunger that Tavros had exacerbated rather than quelled. Regalia stained in a slurry of bronze from both of tonight’s targets, Eridan decided to postpone a clothing change and shower to respond to Gnathi, who had been graciously clear about the urgency of the contingency mission. He flopped back into his chair, grinning. Legate Ampora, despite your youth, you have accomplished a storied military career. The email played on repeat in his pan like a broken record. He was getting a near-aphrodisiacal high from reading it. Finally, after years of hard work, he was being taken seriously as the master tactician he was. The Grand Trierarchos. The Indomitus Crown. Life was enriching again, as if he were a child reborn, experiencing the world anew. Everything glowed and dazzled under the promise of even greater military prestige. 

Dear Admiral Gnathi,

He leaned in close, the tip of his nose inches from the husktop screen. His eyes were feverishly wide. His smile loopy, like he’d eaten a serving of soper pie.  

I am beyond honored by this opportunity. As you know, I live and breathe for the Empire. I will bring victory to Her Name at any price necessary, even my life. To die for the Empire is the highest privilege. However, I have little concern about my safety in the hands of these fiends or their Resistance buddies. I will cull them all. I will raze Nazakeron and its barbaric society to the ground, although calling their Hadeian planet a “society” is quite generous on my part, leaving only Third Fury standing amidst a field of corpses. 

Eridan paused. Gnathi had mentioned a map. The rest of the email could wait. 

He clicked the little download icon next to the attachment and waited impatiently until the download bar filled. 

The map opened, a highly rendered, digitized version of Nazakeron’s topography. Eridan zoomed in on one of the coordinates. Then another. Before he knew it, he was hopping, impassioned, between the red blips, his mouse moving haphazardly across the map. 

Suddenly, a black text box blinked across the screen. 

the 2ort of deed2 a man doe2 are the 2ort that are done two hiim.

Then everything went dark. It happened so quickly, he didn’t even scream.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The steady, slow pulse of violet from his nose. 

It takes Eridan a few seconds to come to. He rises to his feet with a grunt, using the nearest surface as a support. Despite his emaciated appearance, he has a highblood’s sturdiness. He’s aware of the following: he can’t see, he can’t hear, and his face fucking hurts. Trembling, bony hands instinctively reach toward his glasses, but what’s left of them has been embedded in his visage. His pulchtritude, which had once earned him the attentions of court tale-tellers, who couldn’t help but ohh and ahh over what a handsome young man he was, and so accomplished too, was now in literal shreds. Flesh hung from bone in jerky-like tatters. The bottom-most half of his jaw was entirely without skin, exposing vivid violet muscle and lipless, white teeth. He fell to his hands and knees, and this time, he screamed, so guttural and loud, it was almost a roar that shook the manor-like hive’s footing. He saw and tasted white, as house staff rushed to his room. 

Sollux Captor. 

The name flashed in his mind as quickly as the surprise text box had flashed across his screen. 

Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. A hatred so black it makes it hard to breathe, burning through his chest like a fireball. It’s as if his ribs are being split by a dull meat slicer soaked in vinegar. It stings and it aches. And yet, the pain is secondary to the chemical loathing that dominates every other sensation. There is nothing left inside but bile, emptied of all things that made him a member of an ostensibly civilized race. 

His body moves before thought can catch up — slender fingers closing firmly around her lithe wrist. The echoing screeches of the undead below fade into static as his gaze locks onto her shoulder, where decay blooms. He hears it — sharp, unmistakable — the moment her muscles begin to wither.

She doesn’t stop. Doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t even flinch when her knee buckles or when her voice, sharp as shattered glass, tries to mask the tremble in her chest.

But Baekhyun's seen too much, lived too long, and her defiance smells too much like death.

"Don’t put on a facade with me," he says, low, leveled, but with the force of something ancient beneath it. "I can smell it, Rina. The rot. The venom. You’re bleeding lies and you think I won’t notice?" Her steps falter — a flicker of tension at the base of her neck. She still doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t expect her to.

"You’re dying," he says flatly, because no one else will. "And it’s going to be ugly. Venom is something not even I meddle with." Then the air splits.

A snarl — wet, guttural — rips down the stairwell as a blur of movement cuts across the smoke. The scent hits him first: burnt flesh, rusted blood, madness. Rogue vampires. Starved, untethered, drawn to the venom in her blood like carrion to rot. They drop from the rafters — three, maybe four — bone-thin and rapid, eyes glowing with something far beyond hunger.

Baekhyun doesn’t hesitate.

"Get down," he snaps, already moving.

He moves before the first creature fully breaches the landing — a blur of unnatural speed. His hand lashes out, claws tearing clean through its throat. It collapses in a heap before it ever makes a sound, ichor bubbling from its neck like oil.

Another one shrieks and charges from the smoke, leaping for Jimin — but Baekhyun's already there. He catches it mid-air by the jaw and slams it down spine-first onto the concrete, fist burying into its skull until the screaming stops.

The next two are faster. They come at him in tandem, but he twists into them like a storm — elbow driving into the first’s ribs, claws raking across its chest, tearing straight through bone. The second manages to catch his shoulder briefly before Baekhyun grabs it by the neck and rips. Flesh tears like fabric, and its body slumps to the floor twitching.

Blood coats his hands, dark and hot. It drips from his fingertips as he turns back to her, eyes glowing dimly in the dark — like a predator under moonlight. "You want to pretend you’re fine?" he says, breath steady, voice edged. "Then prove it." He steps closer, close enough that she can smell the iron on his skin.

"You want to play the tough guy? Fine. Show me you are not dying by the second as that venom eats you alive."

His gaze lingers on her shoulder, where poison pulses beneath the skin like something alive. "I’ve watched rot hollow out stronger bodies than yours," he adds, quieter now — not cruel, but cold with truth. "You want to outrun it, then stop lying to me and move smart."

He turns before she can answer, flexing his fingers once — the blood on his claws glinting wet in the dim light as he wipes it off with a handkerchief, already pacing up the stairs.

"Keep up, Rina."

This time, it's not a command.

the finest silks, draped in luxury upon the mannequins, greeted her touch. her gloves hand glided across their smooth surfaces, reverent & yearning, longing for the forbidden indulgence of bare skin against such magnificent fabric.

“i require something exquisite.” gaze roamed over each meticulous fold, every precise stitch, drinking in the artistry woven into every thread. the lingering scent of violet dye & something else clung to the atmosphere.

irritation  tugged  at  the  corners  of  her  expression  as  she  sank  her  weary  face  into  her  palms.  lashes  obscured  tired  eyes, which stared  sullenly  at  the  ground,  overcome  by  an  amalgam  of  defeat  &  disbelief.

“ ya  ever  just  get  the  feelin’  like  the  entire  world  is  makin’  money  off  your image  except   you ?  i'm  talkin’  t - shirts,  plushies,  those  creepy  bobblehead  thingies  where  my  eyes  seem  like  they’ve  seen  too  much   ―   &  not  one  cent  hits  my  account !   i  mean,  c’mon,  do  i  look  like  a  charity  case ?!  [ … ]   don’t  actually answer  that. ”

something  about  him  supplied  the  comfort  of  an  old  bond.  a  comforting  warmth  exuded  from  his  sole  presence  that  seemed  to  surround  her ;   it  made  it  easy  to  settle.

“ what  would  you  do ?   ‘cher  like,  miss  america  for  merchandising  rights.  bet  people  pay  just  to  bask  in  your  aura  or  whatever. ” 

Still, it had been a slow start to his day, which he didn’t mind too much. He’d even had coffee, but was still not completely sure he wasn’t still drunk. He was waiting on his best friend now at one of the booths at Breadstix. He hadn’t ordered yet, but thankfully one of the waitresses had brought him some water, which he was currently sipping from. He glanced at his watch, surprised to see how early he’d gotten here. 

Drumming his fingers along the tabletop, he glanced toward the door and grinned when he saw Blaine enter. He waved him over and before he could greet him, the waitress was back and setting a plate of food in front of him. Sam opened his mouth to protest, he hadn’t even ordered yet, but the woman spoke up first. “It’s from that guy over there, he said it was for a White Chocolate?” Instantly, he stilled and was almost afraid of what he would find when he looked toward wherever she had pointed.

He wasn’t sure what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t seeing him. Sam somehow managed to turn even stiller, blinking slowly and then rubbing at his eyes as if it would make the man smirking at him disappear. Without taking his eyes off of him because maybe then he would disappear, he kicked Blaine under the table. “Blaine… I need you to turn around. Don’t! Don’t make it obvious!” He whisper-shouted, still not glancing away from the other. “But I need you to do it and I need to know if you see him too. That dude like… five booths down on the left.”

He really wasn’t sure if he wanted him to be real or not. Wasn’t sure if it was hope blooming in his chest or fear causing it to beat double time. It couldn’t be, could it? Then again, maybe the man was simply back visiting his family again. But why was he here? Why was he here and… Sam glanced down at the plate of food and swallowed before quickly looking back up at Clint. Why was he here and ordering his favorite Breadstix dish for him? 

He wondered if he could send it back? Was that rude? Hopefully not for the wait staff, if it was rude to Clint, good. But he didn’t want the dish to go to waste, especially when he’d already planned on ordering it when Blaine showed up. “Please tell me it’s just my imagination, this can’t be happening right now…”