#questy writes stuff

Breathe.

In, out.

In... Out...

The rain makes it hard to think. Thmp-thmp-thmp in my ears.

Breathe again. C'mon, think.

Flexsteel windows are supposed to withstand acid rain and concussive wind blasts. The glass cutter in my hand might leave a scratch.

What do I do? What do I do?

Crackling comm in my ear tells me Zig is waiting to hear that I've gotten inside the building. Impatiently waiting. Use your brain, zadrota! Breathe!

My left hand digs around in the burglar's bag slung cross-ways over my chest. Where's the blin cutter? Blast it, it was just here--

"What's taking so long?"

I cut my finger on something sharp and I draw away my finger, glaring at the offending crimson drop at the tip.

"What's taking me so blasted long is fumbling with the stracking cutter!" My muffled voice echoes against the storm-coated flexsteel for a moment before it's choked by the murky air and hissing rain.

The only answer I get are the too-evenly-spaced words in too-cool-of-a-tone: "What was that?"

I almost swear. I could strangle him for all the help he is. I shove my hand back in the bag with a vengeance. When I yank out the streamlined cutter, feedback screeches its all-encompassing fury as if it were planned.

I fight the urge to scream abuse at the voice in my ear or to yank out the comm and throw it down to the ground 126 stories below. Instead, I seethe: "What the strack, Zig, you psikh?" If there was a growl or three in there, well... who could blame me? My ears are still ringing.

"You weren't responding to normal communication. I thought, perhaps, you were experiencing difficulty with the frequency of your comm." Yeah, and I thought you were experiencing difficulty being an insufferable-- "What is your status?"

I heave an inward sigh and turn my head upward, squinting in the mildly acrid downpour. It isn't dangerous... so long as you don't mind your outermost layer of skin peeling away. With little effort, I imagine Zig's face up at the top of the building. In my mind's eye he grudgingly manipulates the winch and pulley that lowered my agitated self to the 109th floor, wearing a smirk in place of his indomitable poker face. Probably laughing. Probably at my expense.

"My status is... complicated."

"Explain."

"Your intel," I reply, raising my voice over the crinkle-crackle of our comm-static and the cutting rain. "It's flawed." Silence fills the radio waves, and I would have laughed had it not been so devastating to our plan. Through the comms, he mutters something angry-sounding in French. "Zig, talk to me."

"Which part of the intel?"

"The glass isn't glass. It's flexsteel." I wait a moment and smack the flat edge of the glass cutter against my leg. Hard. "Ideas? Or are you going to stay silent?"

I can hear the weight behind Zig's sigh when he deigns to answer. "What grade is it? Can the cutter scratch it?" A quick bzzt with the cutter answers the question. A diagonal line a hairsbreadth wide bisects the flexsteel.

"Looks like B-grade. The cutter can scratch it, but just so."

"Score it with the cutter in an 'X.'" I murmur my assent and brace both feet against the bottom corners of the window. I stick a supporting hand on the window, gripping it best I can with nothing to grip. With only the slightest of grumbles, I begin cross-hatching the window. Scree... bzzt.... scree.... bzzt...

"That'll give you a point to aim for."

Whoa, whoa, whoa... I stop cutting, hand trembling with the effort. What was he saying...?

"What am I aiming at?" Another thought hits me and I give my rucksack a cursory glance. "And what am I aiming with?"

Silence for one wind gust... two wind gusts... Then Zig's reluctant voice: "After you score the window, kick off from the center. As you build momentum, your force will build also. You can split the faux-steel."

I steady myself on my cable, gripping it with only slight annoyance. I hook the cutter in a belt loop and massage my forehead until my Zig-related headache begins to subside. But only a bit. After prodding the dual-incision I'd begun to make with a healthy dose of skepticism, I heave a sigh. It gave a millimeter. Maybe two. "No way this works."

"If it does, I'm buying drinks." Oh. Well. That settles it then, doesn't it?

||

A half hour later, I'd hawed, hacked, sawed, sliced, and the 'X' mark began to wobble with barely enough motion to make me rethink this being a good idea - Oh wait! I didn't ever say this was a good idea!

I page Zig's comm to remind him thusly, but before I can, I am interrupted from above: "You should have penetrated the outer layer of flexsteel by now."

The rain dissipates along with my last remaining ounce of patience. I clench my fist hard enough to draw blood through my friction gloves. Adjusting my goggles, I plant both booted feet on the glass plating smack in the center. This is going to be messy.

Before I can taste the regret, or my annoyance, or the bitter resentment that I hadn't thought of the stupid idea first, I kick off the window plate and slam through the window.

Shattering sounds split the stagnant night air, as shards of acrylic fracture against the floor. I land inside a dark room. It's so dark that when I wave a hand in front of my face, I get the distinct imagery of being sucked into a black hole. I stifle long-dead feelings of claustrophobia and slip off the filtration mask to hook it to my belt.

Shaking like a dog, I edge forward in a crouch inch by inch as my eyes adjust. I reach out with both hands and brush against a door knob. Easing it open, I crawl in sans sound. Within a few moments, I can see I'm inside... not an office building. I also see I'm not in an empty room, either.

Military-style bunks line all four walls arranged in three rows, effectively blocking my view of half the room. Unfortunately, the room isn't empty - and neither are the beds.

I stand upright and almost collide forehead-to-chin with a guy wrapped in a towel from the waist down. His dark hair was dripping wet, like he'd just gotten out of the shower. Electric blue eyes shine back at me in shock. We both jerk, but only I do so effectively. He wheels back, lunging for his bunk. He comes up with a very nice-looking stun gun. The haloed 'A' on the hilt marks it as ArmaTech.

Towel-Guy takes aim, but I'm already moving away. I whip around the first row of bunks, merging with other shadowy forms milling about trying to find the intruder. The only difference distinguishing me from them is that I'm looking for a door.

Towel-Guy shouts: "Hey, stop!" and then everyone who wasn't already awake is up.

The shadows around me thrash as I push and pull; they don't yet realize that their ranks are infiltrated. Those that don't jump out of their beds with a gun or a knife have one within easy reach. One woman pulls out an impact slug rifle from the rack above hers and aims it - all without leaving her bunk. At least eight laser sights paint my chest red. About a dozen others range around the room, shifting from head to chest to leg before the guns' owners realize they had inadvertently target one of their own.

Regardless of their confusion, their reaction time is extremely impressive. I can't help the thought that maybe this wasn't the kind of resistance I was expecting, so I don't stick around.

The fact that no one has taken a shot at me tells me these are professionals. Any kind of shot would end with not just my own injury (or death), but two others, at least. The quarters are too close, but the moment someone decides hand-to-hand combat is the way to go, I'm sunk. I don't like the odds, so I duck under rifle butts and sig sauers and about twelve other types of firearms. There are a few knives in there too, though no one makes a move when they can't distinguish between friendly or hostile.

Unfortunately, Towel-Guy still tracks my movement. I can see his eyes squinting at me between racks, flickering in the black. I finally latch onto a doorknob and twist. The laser targets wink out of existence as I tumble into the hallway. It's gray like the rest of what I've seen of the building, but it's blissfully empty. I kick up and force myself to move. No one has made it outside the makeshift barracks yet, so I crouch to blend with shadow.

"Hey, what's happening? Are you still there?"  Zig's voice startles me and I hiss indignantly. I can't risk talking now, so I run in a half-crouched position down the next hall, shooting quick glances behind me. I see a dark head poking out from the room, but I whip around the next corner before it can make me out. Ducking into a stairwell, I take the steps up two at a time. Only once I make it past four flights into a group of cubicles do I stop to breathe.

My pulse is roaring and gulping in my ears. Adrenaline makes me feel cold and hot at the same time, a combination I'd be more okay with if it didn't mean sweating and shivering simultaneously.

I lean my head back against the wall and just breathe. Four big breaths, and I'm ready to speak. "Zig, I busted into a barracks packed full of armed security with inhuman reaction times. Wanna talk my way out of this one for me?"

The comm crackles in my ear for what I know must be minutes and minutes, but when I check my wrist, it's been 8.5 seconds. Blin.

"That's a problem," replies the enigmatic idiot atop the roof.

"Yeah, net neuzheli!" I growl back, silencing some choice words as I hear guards run past my floor.

He responds soon enough: "Firearms - what do they have and how skilled are they with them?"

I run through the long and short of it - the startled towel man, the excessive weaponry, and the fact that they are likely on my tail. He whistles softly when I finish and collects his thoughts far too slow for my liking. "The ArmaTech weapons are highly unusual. They aren't cheap, and only the best private security firms contract them. Ex-military carry them, too. You're dealing with professionals, here."

I groan and suppress an additional growl.

Zig continues as if I were sitting safely beside him, and definitely not hiding behind a secretary's desk where defensive measures consist of a stapler, 37 paper clips, and twenty reams of paper. "They can't be guarding the offices, or even the bank level. Either our package is worth more than we're getting paid, or there's something even bigger in there."

Footsteps echo dangerously close. I turn and skulk alongside the wall towards a fire exit. "What do I do, Zig?" I mumble into my wrist, muffling the noise in my sleeve. "Job on? Or abort?"

Silence for a solid second before Zig answers again: "Finish it out if you can. Make your way to the vault level. If you're compromised, abort." Silence for another few moments and I wonder if he's signed off. Then a hushed voice whispers so softly that I half think I've imagined it: "This is bigger than both of us."

I squint in suspicion upward, where I know Zig waits. What does that mean?

_

Her combat boots scraped against the gritty hangar floor. Dust and sand swept in with her, ushered by the arid wind.  She wasn't very big; standing only at middling height, it seemed her demeanor carried more weight than she likely did.

With a hardened leather pilot's vest covering the white linen shirt she wore, she looked a tough character. Her clothes had been patched several times, but still had the sturdy look to them that most flyboys possessed.

Added to that still, the hardware that hung at her hip, swaying in time to her step bespoke of her immutable attitude to get the job done. Her casual handling of the metallic piece showed she knew how to use it.

A sidearm wasn't the only thing a passerby would notice upon first glance. Despite being rugged, as most pilots were, Rosco's face was fair in complexion. Her gray-green eyes were set on a slightly tilted plane, proving that Nomadic blood was somewhere in her veins.

The rest of her features followed a similar pattern - thin, straight nose; a bow-shaped mouth that was permanently tilted upwards; high cheekbones and slanting eyebrows that were set in a daring expression.

The only mar on her face, unseen unless highly scrutinized, showed itself by twin raised lines a shade darker than the rest of her skin. The pair of scars carved from a centimeter above her upper lip to a centimeter below her lower one. They didn't seem to impair her speaking ability, even whilst being set squarely on her lips.

Flight goggles held residence in her hair, positioned above a red bandana that seemed to hold the majority of her short, flaming reddish-brown hair back from her face. A thin braid dangled from her left side, segmented in thirds by small, intricately carved beads.

A bronzed, bismuth helmet that boasted many augmentations over the years was held securely under her arm, as the unique young woman made her way down the cargo ramp of her small, yet sturdy airship.

Uninterested at first, the hangar's personnel ignored her until she began the task of unloading her cargo alone. Then, seeming to notice who the aerial interloper was, hovercarts were brought to her aid, and more hands moved to assist in the arduous task of carrying crates of varying content out into the sorting bay.

Though the young woman pulled her own weight in transporting equipment from her ship, she seemed to be just as interested in watching the workers around her, never missing a beat.

_

As Rosco dusted her hands off, she couldn't help but feel a bit satisfied. Her haul had paid off - she'd brought produce, tech, textiles, and building materials to last Tract 17 a good, long while... In addition to earning enough coinage to allow her to return home for a few weeks.

At least what served as her 'home,' if one could even call it that.

As she supervised the hangar workers loading back up the empty crates, the leather-clad aviatrix went to see to her payment.

Gathering her flyer's fee by way of signing a digital order, Rosco began the lengthy business of processing her ship and her new load of cargo to disembark.

Gotta talk to what’s-his-name, and I should be good to go, she sighed, smirking a bit. As she piloted the Stygian Hawk alone, she'd fallen to the perpetual practice of talking to herself.

It wasn’t necessarily socially acceptable to speak to oneself in the middle of a business transaction, but in all honesty, no one paid Rosco any undue attention, and that was how she liked it.

As was custom, the slightly built pilot migrated towards the small lift towards the back of the loading dock. The enormous hangar door was all the way open, serving as a conductor for the hot desert air, and the stinging, gritty sand that blew in.

Most of the loaders wore facemasks and protective clothing; Rosco wore the bare minimum in the heat. While the sand occasionally stung her face, she preferred that to the stifling protective clothing. Her particular brand of humanity didn’t tolerate heat very well.

As she entered the small, cramped lift, she hit the button that would take her to the lower levels of the compound. Level 12, the common floor for the higher-ups of a Precinct or Tract, was usually a first stop for pilots who brought in supplies. The documents had to be recorded, the leader of the compound informed… Here, in Tract 17, the authoritative figure was more responsible than most, if a bit eccentric.

Tibrus Harn, a young man in his late twenties, held office here. Unlike most Tractbound, Tibrus refused to stake claim to a second, more covert name. Instead, he preferred to use his own birth name to herald his arrival. He didn't seem overly worried about being found. That could have been a show of honesty and truthfulness… or it could have been simple arrogance. Upon looking at the tall figure, one might guess the latter.

Standing at an even 6’, Tibrus was slightly muscular, as many Tractbound were. However, unlike less fortunate Tracts, his had some self-proclaimed form of fashion sense. His clothes seemed to be themed black and orange. A stiff-looking, glossy black jacket with a high collar went from neck to knee. Toggles held it shut giving Tibrus a streamlined appearance. His pants were made with a leather material - probably of the skin of a mutated creature, given the odd scaley texture.

Grael, Rosco remembered instantly, taking in the slight sheen of the hide. She occasionally brought shipments of the creature to Tracts within the very limited fashion industry. It was a long, black lizard-esque creature with hooked fangs, prehensile spiked tail, and sensory sacs in its neck. A bit iguana looking in appearance, though many times bigger. Another product of the world that was unnatural, but unavoidable.

In fact, several crates of their hides had just been offloaded moments before. Her mind returned to the subject at hand, Rosco folded her hands behind her back as Tibrus came forward, a black earcom the focus of his attention: "Yes, our shipment just arrived! Captain J'osco's flight. Yes, I'll speak with Lady Syrenna once I've finished up here. Thank you, Administrator!"

As he finished, Tibrus had the grace to smile apologetically, tapping his com to end the conversation. Smoothing his spiked, gelled hair, he extended his hand to the young woman. "Welcome, Captain J'osco! It's an honor to be able to speak to you in person!"

They had met briefly once before, many months ago when Tibrus had taken over the leadership here - and subsequently, the shipping department. Obviously, the Argent didn't recall.

To boot, in almost every Tract, an intermediary would conduct the business between the transporter and the authorities of a Tract, whether it be an administrator, a council, a spokesman, or whatever they called themselves. Ostensibly, Tibrus had gotten it into his head to see who was the unseen face behind the supplies they received monthly.

With a barely noticeable nod, Rosco shook his hand firmly before responding in a concise tone: "Thank you, sir, but as I've told you before - I'm not a captain anymore... And my name is Rosco."

With a bemused smile, Tibrus recanted his previous statement: "Ah, my apologies, then. Although..." With a swift movement, the slick-haired administrator whisked out his data pad, the blue glow reflecting off of his oddly translucent hair. "It says right here in the transcript: Your name is R'iin J'osco. Is that untrue?"

His smile probably makes sunsoak worms never want to see the light of day again, the young pilot thought privately, reflecting on the glare of the man's teeth.

"The transcript's accurate, alright; that's my name," Rosco droned in a tone that sounded all too familiar with the particular thread of conversation. "But my people blend the first and last name together as one. So you can call me Rosco." As I've already told you about five times...

Blinking owlishly once or twice, Tibrus eventually nodded as if in understanding, giving the pilot a thin smile. "Ah, of course, Captain, I'll correct the records, then..." he replied hastily, as if forgetting what she had said only moments ago.

As the inept leader tapped away to "correct" his records, Rosco sighed, unsurprised. It was rare that one of her brand of humanity interacted with others unlike themselves, but the conversations still taxed her. She didn’t even care all that much for her society’s customs - but names were important to her.

Wrapping up, Tibrus flipped the data pad around to show Rosco: “Is this order form correct?” 

With a brief glance, she read the order. It included 30 crates of various equipment, each of which she’d signed for herself and supervised the packing of.

The inventory memorized, she nodded immediately. “That’s all of it, Argent,” the young pilot affirmed before tugging at one of her gloves. “Now, if that’s all, sir… I have other shipments to deliver.”

With the same odd smile, Tibrus nodded, bowing slightly. "Ah, it was a pleasure, then, Captain Rosco," she had to visibly suppress a grimace, “and please - call me Tibrus!" 

Rosco pressed her lips into a thin line and simply nodded as he finished: "I wish you well in your travels.”

Giving another brief nod, Rosco turned on her heel to march back towards the elevator, itching to get back to her ship. She dreaded the days the Tract Argents wanted to meet with her. She was just a pilot with a shipment and a destination - why bother with Tract politics?

Before she even made it 5 paces, Tibrus spoke up once more: “You’ll be flying over Tract 3 this evening, correct?”

Rosco stopped in her tracks, narrowing her eyes at the elevator. Meddling administrators… “Yes, sir. That’s what’s on the register,” she replied, referring to the flight log in her small ship.

Tibrus nodded shortly, waving a hand in dismissal. “Fine, then. The good Lady Syrenna wishes to speak with you, I’ve been told. Please see to it that she gets her supplies on time.” Without another word, he turned around and strode away, calling instructions to other men and women speaking on earcoms.

Turning again, Rosco completed her stiff journey to the elevator, glowering and fuming in the confines of her own mind. Muttering a few choice insults about the presumed ability to control smugglers, she boarded the lift and punched in her floor number - H1.

On the journey down, she had the bad grace to kick the side of the bronze carriage several times, growling to herself as she realized she’d bruised her toes even through the thick troughskin boots. She couldn’t help but loathe the way some of the Tract administrators held themselves - as if they were above everyone else in the Sweep!

“Glorified paper pusher!” she growled, kicking the shaft once more before slumping against the wall - just in time for the door to slide open, admitting a tall girl with curly brown hair drawn up into a sloppy sideswept ponytail.

The girl stopped, silver-green eyes widened slightly, her hand midway through the motion of pushing hair behind her ear. “Uh… Bad day?” the dry tone asked, the girl’s face rearranging into something reminiscent of a sympathetic expression.

Rosco, her foot still wedged in the lift’s supports, snapped her head up. Thinking back on the last few moments, she realized she hadn’t even noticed the carriage had stopped. Jerking her booted limb back once or twice, she gave a thin smile. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Metal screeched as Rosco wrenched her foot back and pivoted in a smooth motion to face the smirking girl. Seeming to examine each other for a few moments, each one took stock of the other.

Then, all at once, both stepped forward to hug each other tightly, Rosco careful of the heavy metal helmet swinging perilously close to the taller girl’s head.

Pulling away, the taller ivory-skinned girl smiled, crossing her arms across her heavy barrage jacket. The metallic plate that hung around her neck showed her ident:

'Signs. Go-Between Class: A Ident #: 2246'

“Been a long time, Rosco - how’s things?”

Giving a slight smirk, Rosco shrugged. "Same old runs, same old ship, same old crew," she replied shortly, dismissing any talk of their trades.

"As if you prefer it any other way," chortled the younger girl - her name, Signs - who was obviously getting a kick out of the conversation.

She stretched out an arm to punch in a floor number. As she drew her arm back, her sleeve hiked up on her arm, exposing lines and lines of black script in a variety of languages, tattooed into her skin.

"Yeah, well," Rosco replied with a slight edge to her voice, "I like it that way. No complications..." She trailed off a bit, glancing at the floor numbers, as if to distract from the topic. It had since stopped while Signs boarded the carriage.

"So what was all that name-calling about, huh?" Signs piped up, obviously curious about what was bothering her usually-calm friend.

Giving a pointed glare towards the elevator’s door, she squinted down her nose at the floor. “Tibrus. Thinks he can tell me how to fly my route.”

Snorting, Signs shook her head. "He should know better than to tell the Nation-Renowned flight Captain how to fly!"

Leveling her friend with a playful glare, she replied: "Yeah, except for the fact that I'm not a captain anymore, as I am constantly reminding you people."

Signs only laughed, the noise reminiscent of water flowing over river rocks.

Changing the subject, Rosco piped up again: "What about you, Signs? Still toting Grim around like yesterday’s lunch?”

Grim, the name of Signs' partner in crime, was rarely separated from her. He was slightly older than she, and had a permanently gloomy, sardonic disposition - hence the common name he had been assigned.

Signs let loose her lilting laugh, giving Rosco a playful punch on the shoulder. “Nah. Grim has his own speeder now. Which, and get this - he calls it the Splenetic Otter,” she answered with a mildly disgusted, yet unsurprised expression. “He thinks he’s being keen, but it’s just…” Throwing her arms up, she shook her head, dismissing the matter.

Rosco, chuckling, leaned against the lift - which was once again moving slowly back to Hangar One. “And you hang around him… why, exactly?”

Signs shook her head, forelock swishing from side to side. "Dunno, Ros'. We came here together. Might as well leave together. 'Together we’ll die,'" she said in a monotone, quoting Grim's constant motto. Her tone left a hint of sarcasm in the words.

With a raised eyebrow at the wistful statement, the spunky pilot settled her bronze-colored helmet on her hip. “Speaking of the Great Disappointment, where is Grim?”

Rosco watched as Signs shifted on her feet slightly, showing signs of mild exhaustion. “He’s meeting me in Tract 24 tonight. We’ll drop by Tract 3 tomorrow afternoon sometime before evening meal,” she answered, eyeballing the floor number. 07… 06… 05…

Rolling her shoulders to unclench the tight muscles, Signs pulled a pair of worn, battered protective goggles from her pocket, sliding them over her head. Riding a speeder bike through miles and miles of dusty terrain with only a shade canvas for protection required special measures. Goggles were one of them.

“Nice, then,” Rosco replied, nodding to the ivory-skinned motorist. “So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow sometime, huh?”

“Looks that way…” Signs turned slightly to watch Rosco as she fiddled with some straps inside of her helmet.

As they waited for the lift to halt they said nothing. Both knew as soon as the hanger stopped, they would have their own jobs to do.

Clearing her throat, Signs tugged at the hem of her sleeves, scuffing her boots against the metallic floor. "Did Tibrus tell you what Syrenna's news was, by chance?"

Rosco shook her head doggedly, her clear eyes showing signs of annoyance. "No. I'm dying to know,” came the dry response.

Signs lifted a shoulder in a shrug, watching as the floor number finally showed: HANGAR 1.

The door slid open with a clatter of metal and servos before the gritty, sandy ground level was once more in view. Rosco’s airship had been fully off-loaded and restocked. The Tract’s loading staff had seen to that. Nearby, in the next docking port, a long-bodied, canvassed speeder hovered in parking mode to the far left.

The two smiled at each other before striding towards their respective modes of transport.

“Good luck with Lady Syrenna’s surprise,” Signs farewelled, dipping her head to duck into her helmet, flipping the sun guard down to look her friend in the eyes.

"And good luck finding Grim,"" Rosco replied, smirking impishly as Signs rolled her cloudy eyes.

"I'm already grim! How can I get any grimmer?" the biker called with a teasing smile at the terrible joke. As she waved, she leapt over to her hovering speeder, landing squarely in the seat.

Chortling at the twisted words, Rosco waved her off. "Wind with you!" she shouted over the roar of Signs' engines.

Signs, face now concealed by the face guard, and her words torn away by the sound of shifting sand and gritty dust discharging from the bike's intake manifolds, shot off a rapid stream of sign language. 'Skies above!'

The departing ritual complete, Signs gunned the bike's engines. The compact speeder was a blip on the horizon long before the agitated sand had settled back to the desert floor.

Rosco, now aimless in her reason to stay, sighed heavily. It was rare to find a friend on a cargo run. Rarer still to speak for longer than a few minutes.

Gathering her helmet in her hands, she slipped it over ruffled ruddy hair. With the color-tinted metal gleaming in the sunlight, the young, gun-toting pilot made her way back to her air cruiser.

The Stygian Hawk almost didn't reflect the blinding sunlight, its hull was so dark. Hexagonal in shape, the airship reflected Rosco's preferences: functional, jacked up, and ready for a scrap should one come knocking. Though it looked unassuming, Rosco prided herself on keeping it upgraded with all the latest toys.

As she boarded the two-tier stair ramp to disembark, she tried to piece together what Lady Syrenna - the esteemed, if a bit old-fashioned - leader of Tract 3 had in store.

She had a good head on her shoulders, Rosco knew, but sometimes she could focus too much into helping every lost soul who wandered in from eastern realms.

A bounty hunter Rosco had known - a young Normal named Halo - had crossed the border with forty dusk hounds hot on the hunter's tail.

After a scrap that ended in blood and the loss of one eye and several fingers, Syrenna had found her. Without listening to her council, the Argent had elected to save the dying Halo. Cybernetics were a recent development in the last 50 or so years, and they would be able to save her life.

After special-ordering a smuggler - Rosco, as the case was - to procure some top of the line implants, Syrenna had gone out of her way to help the young delinquent back on her feet.

In the process, the good Lady had convinced the still-youthful Normal to turn from the bounty hunt and help the Tractbound.

Though Halo still retained her freedom, she occasionally lent a helping - if grudging - hand. All in all, Rosco thought, she'd rather it be another "special errand" than another charity case.

Though the young Aloran had no qualms against helping fellow men and women in need - why else become a smuggler after all? - she didn't like being drawn into long term projects.

Finding, giving, taking, moving on... That was easier. That wasn't hard. No ties. No loose ends. All compartmentalized.

Watching Shift and Switch was always something else. Two felines, one of which who could have easily been a world-class acrobat, had the tendency to swirl with the music, sway with the beat, and weave between crowds like no other couple.

To anyone watching, they would have been convinced that the couple had no idea anyone else was in the room with them. From the changing expressions on their faces, it was implied that they were communicating with their minds rather than their words.

Shift, wearing his tux as he did for every school dance, grinned down at the pink-and-blue-clad Switch. Unlike school dances, her cat parts were unhindered, her tail swaying with the beat and her ears pricked with interest.

Despite their unconcerned attitude with the world, somehow, every time the passed beneath a sprig of green and white, they paused, smiling to themselves. They would exchange a series of kisses - eyelids, cheeks, ears, nose, nothing escaped their attention. If it had been anywhere else, they probably would have been kicked out for PDA. At least, that’s what Galen had absently mumbled to Lucas on her way to the punch bowl.

Lucas had noticed - barely, what with all the snow and cake in abundance - that she tended to head for the punch, as if she could forget a dance was going on if she focused on the crimson liquid.

He didn’t really care about that, though. It was hard to when a diminutive blonde wielding a baseball bat was following him around demanding cake.

“Lucas! You have to share! C’mon! It’s not that hard, you dolt! Just give me some!”

Eyes narrowed, the blond boy levelled her with a stare: “I might! Just wait, to heck with it!”

Still tugging at his sleeve, she waved her bat around - ever present, even during a dance. “Share!”

“No! There’s more for you over there! Go eat that!”

“I want the cake you have!” came the protest.

The argument progressed for several more minutes. No one paid much attention, except for the two figures seated at a table exchanged money, murmuring about how the argument would turn out.

As the argument reached its height of disagreement, Lucas threw his arms up - and a bit of the cake, too - and growled loudly: “Fine! Take some of the danged cake!”

With that, he shoved the plate at her. In the process, Aiko had been working towards leaning up and snatching it. Somehow, without much of a warning, their mouths bumped.

Money exchanged hands behind them, the girl at the table repeatedly banging her head on the hard surface. The boy beside her snickered and laughed, counting his newly-acquired currency, sharing a light-hearted wish of condolence to his monetarily-lacking friend.

When the two blushing blondes pulled away, Lucas scowled, eyes narrowed. “NOW YOU HAVE YOUR CAKE, ARE YOU HAPPY?!” Shoving the plate into Aiko’s hands, he stalked off, shoulders hunched and face burning. He’d go outside to cool off. That’s where the snow was anyways.

After the outburst, the boy behind them slid a five dollar bill back to the girl. She in turn grasped it like she’d won a lottery.

As Aiko stood there, bat tucked under her arm, she glanced up at the mistletoe above their heads. It made her wonder whether or not the kiss had been accidental or not. Without much more thought, she scarfed down the cake, looking the picture of irritation.

She remained there until the young man with the purple hair came over. Ponytail swishing from side to side in what some would call a magnificent display of the use of hair product, Flak paused, staring up at the green spring.

Wary of the newcomer, Aiko squinted up at him - farther up than she had to look to see Lucas.

She was expecting some snide comment about two people meeting under the mistletoe. What she wasn’t expecting was what came out of his mouth: “Hmm… It makes excellent conditioner and skin moisturizer…”

She paused, mid-chew, and stared some more. His orange-and-red eyes met hers in confusion at her lack of response. “I said, it makes--”

“I heard what you said!” she snapped, turning catty-corner to him. “Don’t you know anything about mistletoe, you moron?!”

The dark-skinned lad tilted his head in puzzlement. “Yes… The berries I use for excellent conditioner and skin moisturizer…?” His eyes narrowed in warning, talon-tipped hands digging deep into rose-colored pockets.

“No, you idiot!” Here, Aiko deigned to brandish her bat as if to make a point. “You’re supposed to kiss someone under it!”

Eyebrows rising steadily, Flak nodded at the dangling greenery. “The conditioning plant?”

At this point, her patience utterly destroyed through combination of snarky ocelot boy and this purple-haired dunce, she swung her bat at his shoulder, irritated beyond reason.

It was as if Flak never moved at all when he caught the bat, bronze fingers wrapping around the weapon. When he spoke, his voice changed from the unassuming, cool murmur to a threatening growl. “No one… No one… is permitted to mess with my hair.” His eyes were blood-red slits, glowing as if from some deep source within.

Aiko, completely unabashed, shook her captured bat up and down, grimacing. “No, you idiot!” she retorted, “it means you have to kiss me!”

She didn’t even know the guy - nor did she necessarily want to kiss him. He seemed like a big jerk to her, in all honesty. The young heiress was simply flabbergasted by his defunct knowledge of traditions.

It was, naturally, at this time when Lucas chose to return to the scene of the crime. His eyes widened, then narrowed in suspicion. Who was this guy? What was Aiko saying? None of this made sense. He’d only been gone for a few minutes…

Letting go of the offending bat, Flak straightened up, brushing himself off. Staring down at the young girl, he narrowed his eyes into glowing slits. “I would not lower myself to kiss a being who tried to strike out at my hair.”

With a low growl, Aiko lunged at him, causing Lucas to grab both her arms in an attempt at keeping bloody noses to a minimum. “Come on, Aiko… Leave the weirdo alone. Let’s go find some different cake,” he muttered, dragging her behind him. Even as he did so, however, she still stuck her tongue out at the offended Flak, sneering at his oddness.

Flak watched her go, neither delighted nor bitter at their departure. He was often puzzled with the way humans acted. Perhaps it was simply the way he saw the world, he reflected, taking in the bright hues of the lights that swirled around the room.

His musing was interrupted by a dry, sarcastic voice: “Wow… That was either the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen, or the bravest.”

Without a hint that he’d been startled, the lavender-hued young man turned to face the newcomer. His eyes widened a bit at the stark white, stick-straight hair. He doubted he’d ever seen hair more glorious - aside from his own, of course. A completely pale girl - truly colorless, not simply lacking much pigment - was standing behind him, dressed in all black.

Quite the quandary, he thought to himself, why such a beautifully colorless person would choose to dress in a void of color. Especially when such magnificent spectrums of color existed in the world and in fabric. As he cogitated on color, the albino girl started nibbling on something just as white as she was.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice inflectionless.

The girl shrugged, glancing around. “No one of consequence. Just someone under the mistletoe, same as you.”

“Ah, yes, the conditioning plant,” he murmured silently to himself, thinking back on a conversation he’d only just had with a blonde girl minutes before. Mistletoe is for kissing, you idiot! he recalled her voice.

As if he had no qualms about it, he leaned down and pecked her square on the lips. A surprised, agitated squeak sprang from her mouth. Flak had only briefly touched her before he pulled back, a quizzical look on his face. “That is the proper use of mistletoe, is it not?” he queried, eyebrows raised.

Crystal, so rigid from shock and anger, simply stood frozen. Her mouth twisting in a grimace, she glared up at him, the hint of near-banter gone. “What did you do that for?!” she hissed between clenched teeth, magenta eyes focused in a daggerlike stare.

“According to human tradition, I was supposed to… and you didn’t insult my hair.” With a smile - one that more closely resembled a grimace than anything - Flak turned on his heel and strode off, as if proud he’d mastered one of the elusive human traditions.

Now it was Crystal’s turn to be left scowling after an individual. She wasn’t even sure of what his name was - but she knew that as of tonight, she hated him.

Her anger was about ready to spill over into little black sparkles of destruction when a female cackle split the air. A lower chuckle soon followed. Eyes slit, Crystal followed the sound to a nearby table. There, a short-haired blonde and a familiar dark presence sat.

Lee’s voice was the first one that addressed her: “That was something close to perfection,” she rasped between bouts of laughters, smirking but not quite smiling.

Rayk was similarly preoccupied, an uncharacteristic smile on his face. “Didn’t realize you and Grape-Hair of Wrath over there were a thing,” he smirked, eyebrows raised in amusement.

While he looked on, Crystal strode forward with something close to murderous intent in her eyes, only to be stopped when Lee stood up in front of Rayk. “Sorry, but you look pretty mad, huh? Maybe you wanna chill down a little before you go all ragnarok on him or something, eh?”

There was an edge to Crystal’s voice when she spoke: “I’m not gonna hurt him.”

“Well, we’re gonna go dirt biking tomorrow, so try to not break him, yeah?” Lee replied, hanging close by behind Rayk’s left shoulder.

“Yeah, don’t break me, Crystal, I have so much to live for,” came the snarky tone from Rayk’s corner of the table. Dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt, nothing had changed about his general appearance.

In the space of two seconds, the possibility of a civil conversation was killed brutally. The argument built up in moments, causing a very-argument-weary Lee to roll her eyes and receive the urge to repeatedly stab something - preferably in the face.

As she glanced over, she noticed something out of the ordinary - at least in everyday life. More of the nefarious green-white-berried plants. She couldn’t help letting loose a snorting laugh, snickering at the irony.

The raucous disagreement was interrupted by the intrusive, knife-wielding girl. “What?” came the dead-toned reply from Rayk, glaring daggers - daggers not intended for Lee.

“Heh. Just irony,” she replied easily, pointing at the mistletoe.

Crystal began hissing loudly, ranting about how it was everywhere, and who possibly could have done that?

Rayk, ever the sarcastic one, simply threw a Hershey’s Kiss at her face. She snatched it out of the air with a fair amount of grumpiness. “Here, this fixes everything,” he replied with an easy tone, leaning back in his chair like he was done with the discussion.

Nodding to herself, Crystal unwrapped her newfound treasure, stuffed it and a marshmallow in her mouth, and excused herself from the table and thereby the argument.

_ No one knew who had done it. No one knew where it all came from. They only knew it was everywhere. There was no escape. Everywhere one looked, they saw green leaves tied together with drops of white peeking between the foliage, all together tied with colorful ribbons. No one could avoid it. Not when the offending plant hung from nearly every doorframe, every chandelier, and every out-of-the-way corner that most introverts frequented.

It was December 23rd - the date of the annual Christmas party in the house. The local high school had one too, but unless Zahra decided all the students should attend, the majority of the residents tried to avoid it. Here at the house, however, the parties were good, and everyone - including the younger and older kids - enjoyed themselves.

Streamers were strung across the room, blue and silver balloons floated all over, and peppy Christmas music blasted from the 12-foot speakers on either side of the room, courtesy of the red-haired Xido, who was always front and center, spinning the turntables.

Every mutant - and human - in the room was either dancing to the beat, chatting on the sides, or chowing down at the refreshment tables. 75% of said mutants-and-humans were consciously avoiding the dangling plants of doom. A good 20% didn’t care one iota, and the other 5% were actively searching for mistletoe targets.

_

“Come on, Rivvy! You have to dance with at least one of us!” Jay - or was it Wren? - called to the dark-haired ophidian; the one who was cautiously staying square in between mistletoe bunches on either side of her.

It was decidedly Jay, Riven assured herself after a brief moment of mental focus. He was always the one with the distinct flavor of edginess and hard core destructiveness. That was how she thought of it, anyway.

“No. Dancing is out of the question. With either one of you,” she intoned, eyeballing both of the citrus-headed bean poles with varying degrees of suspicion. She knew what usually came next, but the thought of dancing - in public, with people, especially Jay-and-Wren people - was not a pleasant one.

Wren sighed, shaking his head as if he were regretful about something. A quick diving expedition into his mind told Riven he was anything but. “Well, then, Riv, we’re sorry…”

There wasn’t even a moment of pause before Jay picked up on his thread of thought and the two spoke in terrifying unison: “You’ll have to pay the penalty.”

Riven shouldn’t have been surprised when they picked her up by either arm and physically carried her beneath the dreaded dangling greenery. “I hate that plant,” the seemingly-emotionless girl growled. Fangs poked out over her lips, digging into the bluish-pale skin.

“Aw, why’s that, Rivvy?” Jay crooned, pulling her closer as if to make it better.

Riven didn’t even turn to look at him, glaring holes into the wall as Wren himself sidled beside her with a devilish grin. “Because it’s a parasite - just like the two of you,” with that, she stuck out her tongue at the nearest citrus head, slitting her eyes. “Hmm, I wonder…” started one of the two, slowly working Riven into a corner situated underneath the mistletoe.

“What’s that, Wrenny?” Riven questioned, standing shoulders hunched.

“What would happen,” Jay continued, “if all three of us are standing underneath the mistletoe?”

Looking up, Riven spotted the sprig. “Kiss yourselves and let me leave,” came the unbridled response, a dry look on her face.

“I don’t think so,” the two smirked, leaning down close. With thin fingers wrapped around both wrists, Riven squirmed enough to show she was getting ready to bolt.

“The penalty,” they whispered, “is doubled, since you tried to get out of it. You have to kiss us both.”

“Will you let me alone, then?” Riven growled, flinty eyes glaring. Her face was flushed in something between anger and embarrassment.

The identical brothers exchanged amused glances before smiling like a pair of chipper cheshire cats. “Maybe,” they purred in unison, eyes slitted with devious intentions.

Saying nothing, their person of interest vaguely made a roundabout gesture as if she couldn’t bear to say: ‘ahhh, get on with it.’

Both boys leaned down at once, grinning with more than a little malevolence in their gaze, and paused on either side. “Which one first?” they asked impishly, eyes flashing.

A red-faced Riven firmly belted out: “I don’t give a pacova guza!!”

Grinning, the two pressed closer - until one of the two began to turn her chin towards him--

“Wow… I feel like I should be surprised that both of you are ganging up on Riven, but… somehow? I’m not,” came an exceedingly dry voice, matching Riven’s for monotone, but succeeding her in sheer sarcasm. “That seems a little unfair, huh?”

Two heads turned towards the new voice; Riven tried to squirm away unsuccessfully.

“Ah, Ruin, you’re looking lovely this evening,” greeted two identical voices, smiling cattishly at the newly-arrived female.

For the festivities of the evening, a group of mutants had worked together to take all of her casual, androgynous wardrobe, leaving her with only a sparkly dress. She’d been whisked away by Cassidy - along with a fair number of other cantankerous females - for hair and makeup. Instead of the short, ponytail-in-a-bun-covered-with-a-beanie, Ruin’s hair had been styled in loose curls framing her face. The result was someone who looked almost nothing like Ruin - aside from the permanently-impassively expression.

“Thanks, I usually do,” came the scathing reply, deflating a bit of the twins’ mojo. She shot her reptilian counterpart a wry smile, crossing her arms in front of her nearly-nonexistent chest. Riven gave her a look that said: ‘These guys, huh?’

Jay and Wren exchanged disgruntled looks, unhappy their game was interrupted. Seizing a newfound opportunity, however, Wren detached himself from his brother and Riven, sauntering over towards the shorter Ruin.

“If you wanted to join our games, Ru, you should’ve just said so,” he purred, snaking an arm around her bare shoulders as if to steer her towards the shady corner.

Ruin, eyes now tilted upwards into gray slits, became dead weight, refusing to budge. Wren kept his shiny-two-bit smile, despite his attempt at moving her failing. “I wasn’t going to.”

“Well, you don’t have to,” Wren breathed, leaning down. Riven stifled a snorting laugh, causing Jay to look on with the slightest hint of concern. Usually females were more willing to go along with their games. “You’ll get your turn, too, you don’t have to worry.”

Ruin raised an eyebrow slightly, as if amused by the excessive flirting. “I wasn’t.”

“You look it. I know you are,” he replied, half-teasing, half-trying to regain the control of the game.

“Yeah, actually she isn’t,” Riven contributed, a smirk that showed a single protruding ivory fang.

Jay leaned down whispering with a smile: “Don’t interrupt; this is interesting.” A confused Riven shrugged, like she almost agreed, and leaned back against the wall.

The two watched on as Ruin was replying to Wren in a sincerely bothered tone: “I’m actually more concerned over where the strawberry bonbons keep disappearing to. I can’t find any anywhere, and Sam just set out a plate of them.”

Ruin was interrupted when Shift and Switch flounced by, giggling to themselves. Oblivious to the tryst going on, they stopped beneath the mistletoe, barely taking the time to look up at it. With zero warning, Shift twirled Switch, lowering her in an elaborate dip. Ruin turned her eyes away, uncomfortable with their proximity, as they kissed - both giggling like school children. Which they were.

As they departed, Wren’s grin grew wider. Refocusing on their conversation, he sidled closer to the girl, causing Ruin’s own mock-anxious expression to diminish a bit. Without saying a word, he reached his right hand into the pocket of his dress pants and pulled out a handful of the bonbons in question. “Oh… You mean… these?” he asked in a voice lower than a murmur, his grin widening as Ruin’s fell.

Gray eyes narrowed again and glared up at Wren with the force of a contained tsunami. “You… are…” she dropped away, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

“A butt,” supplied Riven, grinning. “He is a bu--” she was interrupted when Jay’s bony fingers wrapped over her face, stifling her comments. A murmured ‘shut up or else’ came from their corner and then silence once again.

Ruin, still somewhere in her food-induced anger, snatched at the candy, looking on the verge of pouncing into battle. “Gimme those, you citrusy son of a motherless goat!!” she growled, only to be held back by a skinny arm.

“Ah, ah, ah, Ruin... “ the source of her distress murmured, smiling the whole while. While holding the bonbons high above her head, he pointed above her head at yet another sprig of green. “It’s going to cost you.”

Scowling, the dusty-haired girl turned back to the food table as if to scope out the possibility of there being any more of her candy over there. She was met with disappointment.

“What’s the all-mighty penalty this time, Wren?” came the accusing question, still glaring up at Wren’s extended hand. She had a feeling she already knew, and it was making her annoyed and apprehensive.

Assuming an innocent look - one that Ruin thought made him more devious in appearance than angelic, he leaned closer. “Well, we’re standing under the mistletoe, Ru, what did you think it would be?” he maintained.

Still hesitating, Wren saw he was losing her in his game. Quickly adapting, he chose one of the strawberry treats and held it close enough to Ruin’s face that it would quickly overwhelm her olfactory senses. Her eyes screwed up a bit, but it was more from the sudden motion than the smell itself.

“Here, look, I’ll even give you one, free of charge,” offered Wren, smiling in his own attempt at ‘kind.’ Ruin, eyeballing him with slightly less suspicion, snatched it away before he could renege his offer.

Grinning almost to himself, Wren leaned down before either of them could change their mind - and while Ruin was focused solely on her newfound candy.

“Rui--!!” Riven’s warning squeam was interrupted by Jay.

“I told you to hush,” whispered Jay. By the time Ruin looked up after chomping down on the bonbon, Riven’s mouth was preoccupied with something else - and Jay’s along with her.

“Whoa, wai--” it was her moment’s hesitation that cinched up her fate. Wren swooped down in time to catch her mid sentence, catching her lips in a butterfly-soft kiss. Pulling away before she could finish mumbling her grievance, Ruin was left spluttering. “Wrendall, that was unfair! I wasn’t expecting it” protested the unawares Ruin. She didn’t, however, argue against the punishment itself.

Her complaint was met with a firm tsk-tsk-tsk. “Ah, ah, ah,” chastised a regretful-sounding Wren, “two more for arguing.”

Before she could blurt out any negation, Wren was back at face-level, doling out a brief smooch, grazing the skin and then dumped the remainder of strawberry candies in her hands.

He then proceeded to bound off with a smirk. “Bye, Ruin… I’ll find you later for the last one,” he called with a wink, smoothing his hair as he wandered off elsewhere.

By the time Ruin had recovered, still flushed slightly, eyes narrowed to the point where they might as well have been closed, she turned to growl a threat to Jay. Instead, she found the other couple just pulling apart.

“Great! Now I have to deal with his royal Wrenniness alone. Thanks, guys - boy, you’re a comfort,” she growsed, striding over to thump Jay in the chest none too gently. If she couldn’t whack Wren into the next century, she’d settle for pretending his twin was just as good.

Riven snorted, nothing changed from her normal taciturn appearance apart from her pink-tinged face and the fact her breath came a little faster. “I tried to warn you,” she offered, shrugging sympathetically. She could see Ruin’s discomfort, annoyance, frustration, and every other feeling that roiled around in her skull. It couldn’t have been pleasant.

“Whatever,” Ruin grumped, turning to tuck the strawberry bonbons in a pocket - a pocket that she’d specifically said had to be there for her to wear the dress. “Just shove a spike somewhere unpleasant next time you see him,” she mumbled.

In less than a second, a startled Jay yelped in surprise and pain. Turning back, Ruin could see a new bleeding scratch mark alongside his jaw. Riven, an ivory spike just sliding back between layers of skin, looked surprisingly innocent, eyes wider than ever.

“What?” she asked innoxiously, spreading her hands. “I thought I saw Wren?” The phrase came almost as a question, and her usually-scowl-graced face was slowly upturning into a smile.

Jay, abnormally growly, grabbed Riven - carefully - by the wrist and dragged her towards the dance floor, declaring: “If you’re gonna be mean, then you have to dance with me! It’s the rules!”

Chuckling to herself, Ruin shook her head. Between her family, Riven’s, and the Twins, it was shocking they hadn’t all killed themselves yet.

“Ah!!! Ru!! I’ve been looking for you everywhere, where the crud have you been??!” An unsurprised Ruin turned to see a redheaded, tux-clad, red-heely’s-wearing Yuu come loping over towards her, carrying two and a half plates of snacks.

“Relax, Yuu, I’m fine. Everything is fine. We’re all fine,” Ruin rattled off, hunching her shoulders and glaring at nothing.

Yuu, eyebrows raised, shrugged and shoved a plate and a cup full of eggnog into her hands. “Here, take this, I made you a plate but I couldn’t find any of your bon bons.”

While Ruin glared across the room where she could see a tall, lone redhead, Yuu continued: “Oh, and hey! Spade said that if we couldn’t find them that she would go to the store for us, and--”

Ruin tuned him out as Wren turned to catch her gaze. A devilish smile etched over his face, As she watched, he waggled his fingers in a wave and raised his other hand to blow a swift kiss. Irked, Ruin stuck her tongue out at him and pointedly turned away. As she did, she could’ve sworn he was smiling to himself.

“RUIN, YOU DOLT ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING ME?! I AM TRYING TO HELP YOU HERE!!” Yuu was shouting in her left ear, making her lips press into a thin line. When she turned to give him a warning look, he grinned sheepishly. “Oop-- G-Gomenasai,” he murmured, eyes dropping. An angered Ruin was something to avoid indeed.

“Alright, whatever,” she replied, staring across the room at nothing. “Let’s go sit down or something, I’m starving.”

Acquiescing, Yuu followed her to a nearby table - the kind that had been set up for anyone not interested in dancing. Unfortunately… the tables were not void of dangling green plants, either.

The friends were halfway through their plates when something fell to their table. Ruin, curious, picked it up. “Huh…” she mused, finding a white berry that was very out of place.

Yuu squinted at it, just as puzzled - until he looked up where it had come from. “AHH!! NOPE NOPE NOPE!” he yelped, nearly falling out of his chair.

Ruin looked up to see a section of mistletoe hanging from the ceiling with a purple ribbon tied around it. “Huh. Weird that they’d put it there,” stated the girl who was clearly more focused on food than on another offensive holliday plant.

“B-But R-Ruin!!! Wh-what about th-the???” Ruin looked up to see Yuu fairly shaking and pointing at it. He looked like he was going to shake himself to death.

Shrugging, Ruin put her fork down. “Yuuexander, if you’re cool with skipping it, so am I. It’s been a long day, and two kisses are enough for me,” she scowled, obviously in a bad temper.

Seeming to be relieved for now, Yuu sank back in his chair, rubbing his temples. He muttered several choice lines in Japanese that Ruin was glad she couldn’t understand. Within a few seconds of foreign swearing, Yuu went back to eating, though he would shoot Ruin a strange look every once in awhile.

They continued in peace until the table they were eating on disappeared. It didn’t vanish, or melt; it simply was there one moment, and then was crashing into the nearest wall within the next. Both Yuu and Ru stood at the same moment, on their feet and standing next to each other before they themselves got sent flying.

What they didn’t see was the cause - a very skittish, nervous Track had leapt clear across the room from a chandelier to their table, slamming it aside and landing on his back on the floor. Neither of the observers saw him, instead looking around for an external force.

A stormy Robin was stalking towards them, smoke swirling from both hands and eyes constantly becoming gold and then green, and then gold again.

Yuu and Ruin exchanged nervous glances.

“Where is he?!” Robin roared, his voice coarse with anger.

“Where’s who?” the cohorts asked in sync, Ruin squinting at him and Yuu staring wide-eyed in pure and utter confusion.

“Track!” the curly-haired boy demanded, sweeping his arm around the dance floor. “I was about to ask someone to dance, and he ruined it! He rammed into me and sent me falling, and I fell into the punch bowl!” Yes, indeed, he had, according to the red stain square in the center of his shirt.

“Okay,” Ruin started, voice monotone once again, “I don’t see him here, but if you’ll take a little advice, you’d stop being a jerk, because no one’s gonna dance with you, hotshot, if you don’t chill it.”

“Ruin, no,” Yuu hissed, tugging at her wrist.

He was met with a quiet: “Ruin, yes,” hissed right back at him.

Robin’s eyes fairly glowed, his mouth twisted in a sneer. “Says the crossdresser who beats up the humies at school every other week?”

“Darn straight,” Ruin retorted, jaw set. Her fists clenched unobtrusively at her sides and Yuu began to shake his head slightly. If angering Ruin was dangerous, insulting and/or offending her was positively suicidal.

Chest thrust out aggressively, Robin strode forward and poked Ruin in the shoulder: “Well, maybe you’re out of your league this time. And maybe the little girl should run home before she gets hurt,” he sneered, smiling as Ruin shifted her weight, interpreting it as her becoming uncomfortable. He also conveniently looking over the fact that the two of them were already home.

“Don’t touch me, Robin,” Ruin warned, her voice not the usual monotone, but a variant sing-songy tone. She knew the way this was going down, he’d start swinging punches soon. And with the way his fingers were sparking, that wouldn’t be a good place in a room filled with helium balloons.

Another grinning snarl came from Robin’s face. “And who’s gonna stop me, huh?”

Ruin glanced around the room in a millisecond, ears tuned for Sam’s bubbly, laughing voice. She didn’t hear him. Screw it, she swore to herself, adding a few choice Serbian words to her mantra. As if to steel herself, she slowly turned her head to one side, eliciting a series of sharp crack!s

“Oh, boy,” Yuu breathed, planting his face squarely in his palm.

Robin shot a wary glance at Yuu but apparently completely missed Ruin’s cautionary stance. “What’s wrong with him?”

Ruin smiled - causing even Robin to watch her a little warily - and shrugged: “Oh, nothing. He’s just allergic to violence, is all.”

“Violence? Why would he be--?” Robin was interrupted when Ruin’s foot whipped up and around to nail him right in the jaw. In the same movement, as if he’d had practice, Yuu backed up three paces, allowing Robin’s unconscious body fall to the ground with an almighty thwump.

Watching through slitted eyes, Yuu stared at Ruin in a mixture of resignation and disbelief. “You just had to knock him out.”

Still shaking her foot like it hurt, Ruin smiled - a rare, genuine one this time. “Aw, c’mon, Yuuseph! What’s the fun of a party without a bully to whack?” Then, to herself under her breath: “But, dang, son… His face is harder than steel!”

A snort came from her flame-haired friend’s general direction. “Your shoe’s missing.”

“Yeah, I know. Do you see it? I’m trying to make sure my foot isn’t broken,” came the snarky reply. Despite the teasing in her tone, Ruin was truly examining her foot and wincing like the blow had hurt.

Yuu came forward, grousing to himself about the fact that every time this happened, Ruin always got hurt, and he always had to find whatever she’d lost. This time, however, his quarry was located merely three feet from where it had been lost.

Still muttering to himself his disgruntled complaints, he dutifully brought back her shoe. Reaching her hand up to nab it, neither were prepared when the unthinkable happened.

A flurry of black-and-blue motion, and then Ruin was being bludgeoned in an enormous, feline, cat-hair-covered hug. A voice mewled a loud: “Thank you, Rrrrrru!”

What Track didn’t account for was the extra weight in tandem with her awkward angle. As Track leapt onto her right side, she stumbled forward - towards Yuu. Trying in vain to backpedal, Yuu only fell to the floor, already seeing what was going to happen.

“No! No, no, no, not again-!!!” Ruin’s alarmed cry was cut short when Yuu’s face got in the way of hers.

Track fell down, very, very, very puzzled when he saw two people - who he thought were best friends? - kissing. Hm. The human race was very strange to him, he thought. Without another glance, he detached himself from Ruin and began pacing the floor in search of Camron.

As soon as she could, Ruin untangled herself from the insanely red-faced boy, she brushed herself off. In all honesty, she was more frustrated and feeling sorry for Yuu than anything else.

When she extended a hand to help him up, she stopped when she realized his eyes were shut. That wasn’t normal… He should’ve been up screaming in Japanese about how terrible it was. “Yuu? You can get up now.” She was too concerned to even laugh at her own ‘you/yuu’ joke.

Reaching down to try to rouse him, Ruin shook so hard he flopped over on his face. “Yuu?”

It took her about 0.2 seconds to realize he’d passed out. Sighing with the force of a hurricane, Ruin shook her head. She looked towards the dance floor where no one was the wiser. Growling, she struggled to pick up the body and take it somewhere where it couldn’t be stepped on.

Sagen and Fi were in the Dark with me. They were my friends. They couldn't handle the Dark as well as I could. They didn't like the cold. Or the silence. Or the darkness. But maybe I was just used to it.

Sound got swallowed up in here. You could make as much noise as you wanted, but the sound always vanished in seconds. Sometimes you would forget what was said, or who said it. Sometimes you could scream, and no one else in the Dark would notice. Fi always thought the Dark was alive; Sagen knew better. They were sort of 'trouble-makers' here in the labs, but all that really meant was that they didn't do as well in the tests as the scientists would have wanted.

There used to be more of us: me, Sagen, Fi, Zek, Ashes, Torpid, Phillipe, Scrayn... so many. Even though Fi was delirious half the time, she still noticed. First went Zek. Then Scrayn left us. Next was Phillipe, the poor boy, and then Torpid.

Fi would say they 'succumbed to the numb of the Darkness...' but I knew. I knew where they went. In a way, it was the Darkness that took Zek’s life... but a different kind of darkness.

Even though I'd been here - in the Dark Room - the longest, in and out over the course of... well, however long I've been here... the effects hurt me worse, and hurt me less.

I knew what was happening. What they did here. How they used air against us. I mean, we all have to breathe; if we didn't, we wouldn't be in here. Sometimes there would be hissing and loud spewing noises and then I knew that things were going to get worse because the air would be gone.

Because even though the big chambers were pitch-black sometimes, there was a soft glow. The glow gave me comfort. It was what made me not as scared. Shane would always tell me to focus on the light, to pretend that it was my life and that as long as it was on, I'd be okay.

But... when the hissing came? The light would go out.

And then I'd be alone. And the monsters would come. And then I believed Fi when she said the Darkness was alive, growling and shaking and flashing sometimes even, it just... I couldn't. I couldn't do it. Sagen was fine - he hated the Dark, and he hated to be separated from people, but he didn't mind the noise.

Fi would scream and then we could hear and they would echo so loud and I couldn't take it I just couldn't and then I'd cry make it stop because the sounds and the dark and the lights... Even thinking about it made my hands shake and my breath start to hitch.

But there was no gas today. Fi and Sagen had been here for - what the people in the white coats called 'dve nedelje' - two weeks. They were given bare minimum food and water to survive on. They made it by working together with their symbiosis. I don't know how they did it.

The longest I'd ever lasted was 3 days at a time... but they were so frequent, I... I don't know how many days I'd been in here for...

I say all of this because... well, because. Because why? Because we shouldn't be able to hear anything outside of the Dark Room. It was supposedly sound proofed. So that meant one of two things: 1, they were sounds caused by the air - the air they pumped into the room to make us crazy - or 2, something was so wrong, so unauthorized as they said, that even in the Dark, people were supposed to know how wrong it was.

Fi and Sagen hadn't moved for hours. Like I said. They were tired. So they slept. They didn't ever twitch a muscle. They hadn't spoken for days. And I mean, not even tried to speak - because even when they couldn't hear me, I could always hear them, constantly murmuring to themselves, whether they knew it or not.

I could see them now, in the absence of light everywhere, for they had extinguished the lights - even the floor light and the glow, the glow that was my life, and I was getting scared.

Marina, the doctor responsible for the wolf-men, usually sent Shane for me after my time was served... He was supposed to train to be a wolf-man someday. He had been in training for a long time.

Where was he?

I was scared, and what do I do if he doesn't come? Fi and Sagen aren't awake, and something's wrong so why isn't he coming?

While I was worrying, the sirens grew louder and then I shoved my hands over my ears but it didn't help and I could feel the tears coming because Shane -- where is he? --and the noise, it hurt, and the dark it was so dull and the air stunk but I don't know why and--

Through my tears, I stopped to listen and press my ear against the cold metal door that was thick so that no one was supposed to hear out of it, but I could, and I heard the footsteps. I could hear them. They were coming, they were wearing boots, whoever it was, and they were coming fast, marching, marching...

The round door handle that was fastened to a lock began to crank and I tried to move away from the door, but I couldn't, my arms wouldn't move and I was shaking because it was still cold in the Dark, and they hadn't fed us for awhile, and I couldn't move and the sirens were so loud--

"Aw, Brooke sweetie... C'mere," came the honey-smooth voice. The voice that washed away all fear and took care of my my worries and cut through the nightmares.

Then arms were around me and I could smell Shane's spicy scent, like the forest, and honey, and juniper, and pine needles. I loved his smell. It smelled like home.

"We have to hurry," he whispered softly, cradling me against his chest. I was shivering and couldn't respond. I could think fine, but after being in the Dark for so long…

“Wha’s goin’ on,” I mumbled into his shirt, eyes sliding shut after so long, so cold… His arms tightened around me, and he reached down to pick up a heavy pack.

“Something escaped. We have a chance to leave,” he whispered. He grunted quietly and swung it on his shoulder, switching the arm he held me with as he looped the other strap around his arm. I sniffled quietly and buried my face in his neck. I couldn’t help shivering, and his skin was so warm.

Even after he’d strapped on his bag of tricks, as he called it, he didn’t leave right away. He lifted up a flashlight and peered into the Dark room. With the arm he held me with, he kept a firm hand on my head, turning it away so I couldn’t see in the room.

I heard him sigh quietly, and when I tried to look at his face, all I could see was one half of it. His eyebrows arched upward, looking sad. His gold-colored-eyes that I loved were glimmering. His jaw kept knotting out of something-- fear? anger? worry?

A quiet shuddering noise forced its way out of Shane’s lungs and he shook his head softly, slowly closing the door on Fi and Sagen.

“Sh-Shane.”

“Yeah, Princess?” His voice was forced, sounding fake-cheerful as he turned his back to the door and started walking the other way, me in tow.

“What about Fi and Sagen?” I asked quietly, confused.

“They… Uh… They’ve gone, Brooke.” Why did he sound so sad?

“No,” I mumbled, shaking my head slowly making it ache and hurt. “They were just in there…”

Shane stopped and knelt in one smooth motion, dropped the bag he carried and pulled me away from his shoulder to look me in the eye. He looked so sad… I hated it when he was sad.

“Brooke, honey, you have to understand,” he whispered, looking torn as he frantically switched his gaze from me to the door to the glowing amber warning lights over our heads.

He fixed his eyes on me again: “Their… Their bodies are in there… but they are gone, Princess… I’m so sorry,” he whispered, reaching forward to plant a kiss on my forehead before frantically picking me back up again, hauling the bag up over his shoulder and scampering down the hallways as the wolf-mens' footsteps began to echo. He didn’t seem to notice them, but I flinched at the harsh sounds.

“N-No, they aren’t! They’re sleeping!” I protested quietly, covering one of my ears with one hand and clutching Shane with the other to hold on while he ran down the hall and ducked inside one of the storage rooms.

Shane let me cling to him with both legs and my arms while he began gathering supplies with both hands and stuffing in his bag - first food packs, then the medkits, then a case of fluid-filled injections I didn’t remember seeing before, and other things he moved too fast for me to see.

“They’re not asleep, Brooke… They… They’re gone the same way mom’s gone,” he said, his voice breaking so softly I don’t think he even noticed.

“I know what you mean, Shane,” I mumbled. “They aren’t dead.”

Shane zipped the bag shut with finality and looped it crossways over his chest, wrapping his arm around me again and looking me in the eye. He looked torn between confusion, disbelief, and anger… Was he angry with me?

My face must’ve changed, because he just hugged me tight and muttered an apology. I couldn’t tell if it was because he was sorry he doubted me, sorry that he looked mad, or sorry that I didn’t seem to understand.

Mommy died a long time ago. I knew what ‘gone’ meant. What I didn’t understand is how he didn’t hear their heartbeats, or their slow breathing, or the blood flowing in their veins and through their hearts. 

What would happen to them?

~

Moments later we were in one of the cell blocks. It was completely empty, and all the cages were left standing open. “What happened?” I mumbled, rubbing a hand across my face.

There were stains on the floor. They smelled sharp and acrid and like burning metal… like iron… blood. It was blood, and I wrinkled my nose and buried my face in Shane’s shoulder to hide from the smell.

“It’s okay,” he mumbled, but I could feel how tense he was and I knew he was breaking a lot of rules. “We just have to get through here and to the next set of doors… No one will be here, because they’re still chasing that experiment down,” he mumbled, almost as if to himself.

Shane risked a lot. He’d promised me forever that we’d get out, ever since we got here and they killed Mommy. He’d been a tester for as long as we’d been here, and he’d finally been accepted into some new thing.

They called it ‘Gumica Taktika Trening.’ Shane told me it meant ‘Eraser Tactics Training. It was supposed to help him get out, he said, but he looked scared whenever he talked about it. He was supposed to be shipped to a different country soon. And that made me scared.

I didn’t want to leave him, I couldn’t! I had to stay with him. We’re family, he always said, and family sticks together. But how could we stick together when we’re countries away?

“Brooke, are you okay?” he whispered in my ear, jolting me out of my train of thought. I blinked up at him, sniffling and nodding. He looked worried, so I braved a smile, which made him smile back a bit… and that was worth the act I had to put up.

“F-Fine. Cold,” I mumbled into his shirt sleeve, closing my eyes again.

I couldn’t tell him about the panic attacks. If I did, he’d freak out. He’d done it before, and I knew he just wanted to protect me, but something that the science people had done to him made him… different… when problems like mine came up. So it was best not to worry with it.

Besides, sometimes he didn’t freak out, like if he hadn’t been in for ‘tests.’ I just had to wait awhile. I could tell he’d been through some recently, because he had a dried line of blood on his arm, and his eyes were ringed with black. He had a new scar on his neck, and I cringed because it was fresh and bright red.

While I worried for him, Shane crouched down next to the only other entry point in the room. He was listening, so I listened too. We waited. For seconds, then a couple of minutes. Nothing.

“Hear anything?” Shane whispered, his voice almost unnoticed in my concentration. I shook my head silently. He nodded and stood, suddenly running smoothly for the door, hardly disrupting the grip I had around his shoulders.

He flung the door open and stepped through it in one smooth motion, just trying to cover as much ground as he could before he’d have to sneak around. Moving from one point of the shadows to the next, his movements were quick, precise, with no more motion than necessary. It was a side of him I didn’t think I’d ever seen before.

I tried to make myself as small as I could, to give him less to carry. If I hunkered down in his arms, I doubted he’d have to make very many extra movements, since he seemed to want to stay stealthy.

It took longer to go down this hall than it had the other one outside of the Dark room. It was longer, and it angled upward, like we were below ground. I was nervous about escaping. I’d heard from some of the other wolf-men that there were more guards outside than in, and that if anyone tried to escape, they’d… they’d be blown to bits by mines.

I’d asked Shane about it before, but he’d just set his jaw and told me not to worry about it. I still worried, though. How couldn’t I? Shane was the only one of that was semi-free. It scared me, to think that he was trying to escape in full view of the scientists and their attack dogs…

And what scared me more was that to escape, my big brother had to become one of their attack dogs.

~

The end of the hallway came up quicker than I would have thought. I was set on the ground, and I tried to keep up as Shane moved back and forth along the farthest wall. He kept running his hands up and down, first at the very top, then at the bottom, then along the sides, like he was looking for something.

I could see a small line of light in a rectangle-shape far along the left. Next to it, a square was set into the wall, so small that I doubted if Shane could see it.

I moved towards the wall, and towards the rectangle. He didn’t notice me until I was at the wall, pushing the button: “Brooke, what are you doing--?” He cut off his words when the door moved to the left, letting the sun shine in.

I squeaked and backed up, falling face down as the full light of day struck my eyes. “Oh! Oh, no…” That was Shane’s voice, running forward and falling on his knees as I frantically scrubbed at my eyes, trying to get the burning sun out of them, because it hurt, it hurt so bad! I wasn’t used to burning light, only the Dark, and why did it hurt? It didn’t used to burn so…

“Oh, Princess,” he mumbled, gathering me up in his arms and then I heard a rip! and then he was tying something over my eyes, and then the sun didn’t hurt so bad if I kept them shut tight. “How long has it been since you were outside?” came Shane’s voice. He sounded hurt, maybe broken. He kept stroking my hair and hugging me close as he walked forward.

“Long time,” I whimpered as a particularly bright beam of sun shone directly in my face. I face planted into his shoulder again, the added protection helping somewhat.

All he said in response was, “Aw, Brooke,” over and over and over until we’d gotten to the fence.

~

“Now. Outside this fence, there are land mines," Shane intoned once we'd gotten outside the gray building.

“What are those…?”

He explained quickly: “Land mines are like bombs underground. They should be buried not too far underground, but far enough that I can’t see them. There should be slightly-disturbed dirt, or maybe a small mound where they’ve been placed.”

“Why can’t you see them, Shane?” Didn't he know what small mounds of dirt looked like...?

“Because, my eyes aren’t as strong as yours are. You can probably see them--” Oh.

“Probably?”

“Definitely. I trust you, Brooke. We just have to get to the edge of the forest, and then we’re home free, okay? I already have a shelter picked out for us, sweetie. We just have to get there before the alarms are sounded.”

“But… won’t I have to take off my blindfold for that?”

“Yes, but the sun isn’t as strong over here. It’s already setting, and it’s behind the treeline, okay? Plus, it’s dark in the forest. Do you think you can make it?”

I nodded slowly. I could already tell that the light wasn’t as bright as it had been at first. I held Shane’s hand as he led me to the most shaded area before the mines.

“It’ll be quick, I promise,” he mumbled, before nodding slowly to the hard, rocky ground.

~

Two times the mines were set off, but both times they weren’t us.

I’d led us right to the forest, and there wasn’t any complications. Shane was right - they were easy to see for me, just like the door. But for the wolf-men who followed us… They didn’t last long.

Shane told me not to look back, but once I did, and the flash was so bright that I couldn’t go any further because my eyes burned. I was gathered up right before the forest’s edge. I protested quietly because there were still more mines, but all Shane said was: “Just tell me as best you can where they are, then I’ll figure the rest out myself!”

He had to shout to be heard over the explosions, and the chain reactions it set off. Howls echoed behind us, hurting my ears. “One three paces to the right, the other one in front,” I sobbed, feeling the heat wave from the mines flood over my face.

Shane hesitated for a moment before I heard him grit his teeth and leaping as high as he could. We were almost airborne for a few moments before the ground shuddered upon his impact with the ground. My teeth jarred and then Shane was running, and I could hear his bag hitting against his hip with every stride he took.

He grunted a couple times when branches slapped him in the face, but he kept running and running. Once we heard the sounds of a chase behind us, but they were lost quickly… I didn’t know how, but all I cared about was that we were free…