Ah-hah. Yes, I see you there, sir, already edging toward the door. Minister...Tadasu, was it? I quite enjoyed your theories on our star’s ‘astral vents’ and their purported effects upon the fauna of the Ruby Sea. No, no; go on. I simply wished to express my admiration for your contributions to the field of science before you scuttled away. Yes, goodbye.

Now that the cowards are gone. Good afternoon, everyone. My name is Sarangerel of the Kogane Khotgor, daughter of the Nameless Tribes. I see some of your looks from up here; please, spare me your empty apologies. I am well aware of what you think of me and my kind. Let us do something productive and fruitful in the time we have together, shall we? So, on the topic of my presentation: 

The Void. The Dark Star. The world beyond the wall, from which -- if you listen closely -- you may just hear the faintest scratching. Our star, as we all know, is a warped and twisted thing, but it continues its hurtling path throughout the greater void of the cosmos in relative peace despite the scars we and those before us have inflicted upon it. Aetherochemically speaking, our star is remarkably well-balanced in aspect and intensity: barring some few gouges within the landscape, typically sites of previous calamities, all elemental aspects are reflected within the breath of our world. Passive and active, umbral and astral, all energies are accounted for and can be found, sensed, or channeled in nearly any environment. Constant transformation and adaptation help to maintain this balance, and by any measurable definition, our star’s aether has remained almost entirely unchanged throughout recorded history. 

Not so for her shadow, the Void. I need not regale you all with the tales of the creatures who, on occasion, tear their way through the fabric that separates us when it is made flimsy. You have heard plenty, I am sure. Ghost stories, tales of monsters and demons and wrathful, infectious phenomena that appear with little warning. Some of you may be wondering why a biologist is not speaking on these topics -- and why I bother to mention them at all -- but to answer the first question, that is because these creatures belong beneath the umbrella of aetherochemical stratification. Voidkin, as we know them, are almost entirely composed of the aether that saturates and swells their star. Very few of them have an observable physical form, and even those are simply the cloaks they wrap themselves in to walk our star and enact their dark works. A comfortable set of boots and gloves, if you will, spun from the raw energies of creation that they *bathe* in behind their wall.

The Void, you see, is a bloated tumor of umbral energies. It swells with power, condensed and chaotic, and it is always growing. Always...spreading. Metastasizing. Like an illness. Voidkin are the natural spawn of such an affliction, and they spread out from their point of origin on the hunt for greater sources of aether from which to feed. You have heard tales, I expect, of the voracity of the monsters from another world. They are drawn to places with riotous energy, cataclysmic events, horrible catastrophes, and when they emerge as wet and howling newborns into our world, their first instinct is to feed. 

Why do they feed? No known Voidkin exhibits a digestive process, not such as we have seen. Most have no true physical or biological needs; they can survive almost indefinitely without air, water, or nourishment. They feed, you see, to steal the aether of another star and bring it back. Back to their own festering plane. 

The most basic properties of aether manipulation dictate that aether can be neither created nor destroyed; it can only be changed. From one aspect to another, from one polarity to its opposite, aether is a constant and only its form is mutable. For this reason I posit that the monsters of the Void hunger merely to feed their star’s insatiable growth, and to further weaken our own. 

Professors Bolkot and Itagaki, if you would be so kind as to escort your colleague out. Please, it is no trouble. I am certain that he is simply unwell; too long from that bracing Hannish air, no doubt. Thank you. 

Our crowd thins and still we grow no closer to the solution to what is a growing problem. The threat posed by the Void is difficult to grasp, but its effects can be seen. Felt. Like a poison, it saps our world of its heart. That is a poor analogy, excuse me. It is like a disease. A parasite. As it feeds, it grows stronger, and its growth comes at the direct cost of our health. So, to the only solution we are afforded: how are we, those few proud souls who might aspire to act as our star’s immune system, supposed to protect this world from a threat so great and terrible?

Ask any chirurgeon in attendance, my friends. How best do you treat a cancer?

It must be cut out.

The first time was an accident.

Baitsakhan didn’t really mean to walk into a coffee shop that wasn’t Starbucks, it just kind of happened.  His legs kind of just… carried him away from the Starbucks nearest to his house, and since he couldn’t be bothered to walk an extra block to the second closest Starbucks, he decided to try out that shady looking “Endgame” cafe.  Edgy name, Baitsakhan thought absent-mindedly.  Well, technically he did have reason, and it wasn’t really an accident, but hey, he can’t just say he didn’t want to go back to the Starbucks because he was pissed at the cashier.  That Hilal something, who was all about niceness and world peace and all that other nonsensical bull.  It just pissed him off, how people could be so cheery and kind.  The Incident last week, involving at least a dozen pamphlets on saving the environment and using Baitsakhan as a bulletin board, was the final straw.  He couldn’t go back to Starbucks after that, and what right did the world have to take away coffee from a poor, sleep-deprived, coffee-needing teenager, right?

A text lit his phone just when he was about halfway across the street.  He ignored the faint vibration.  Really, it could only be three people: Jalair, his very over-protective brother who wouldn’t let him do anything remotely fun (“Baitsakhan, what are you doing to that poor kitten?” “Oh, I don’t know, maybe just cutting off his tail with a butter knife if you suddenly went blind today.” “How could you do that to poor Muffin??!!”), his horribly awesomely social sister Sarangerel who had a bajillion times more friends than Baitsakhan (“A bajillion times zero is still zero Baits.” “That’s not my point.”), or his Chinese friend (read: only friend) An Liu (contrary to popular belief, Baitsakhan did have one friend, though even he didn’t care to admit it).  Turns out, curiousity got the better of him, and after another five or six continuous obnoxious buzzes (by now he was sure it was Sarangerel), Baitsakhan whipped out his phone angrily, prepared to type out a biting lecture about why friends and family should not double text and annoy the hell out of him in the process, when he realised –– with a frown –– that the number displayed on his phone was an unfamiliar one, labelled neither “Mother-Hen”, nor “Social Butterfly”, nor “Asian Hacker Lovebird”.  In fact, the area code displayed it wasn’t even from the area.

And all of them, every single text, was the same thing: bring me the goddamned ice cream.  A final: ais ik ur redin these txts topped it off.

The atrocious grammar pissed him off.  So did the fact that this person called him freaking Ais.  What kind of name was that, anyways?  Typing furiously, a long paragraph was added to the message: F off, I’m not Ais.  You’ve got the wrong number idiot.  Besides, who would give ice cream to you??  Loser.  By the way, don’t text me back.  Like ever again.  Delete this message immediately, or my weird hacker friend will be out to get you and possibly put a bullet through your head with a drone if you don’t.  Have a nice life!

Feeling pleased with his impeccable grammar, and his nice little response, Baitsakhan continued along towards the coffee shop.  The a hidden speaker above the door emitted a faint ringing noise, which was, too be honest, quite annoying.  He didn’t understand how anyone could stand hearing that sound hundreds of times a day.  For once, he kind of felt bad for the baristas.

The coffee shop was surprisingly quite crowded, at least compared to what Baitsakhan’s expectations would be.  In the far corner, a sturdy-looking dark-skinned girl sat opposite of another one, except slim and of Indian heritage.  Closer to the entrance sat a woman, hijab covering half her head, alone, sipping a cup of coffee with an icy expression on her face.  Near the cashier, three people were chatting animatedly, a guy with a scar on his face holding hands with a blond girl, sitting across from a pretty Native-American girl.

Baitsakhan made a face.  He really should have just sucked it up and settled with Starbucks.  All these annoying people… at least the Starbucks was relatively quiet.  Sighing, he made a mental note not to come back again, before begrudgingly trudging up to the counter.

The boy standing at the counter was presumably in his late teens, his hair honey colored with streaks of something darker tied up into a short ponytail, displaying a set of silver earrings that contrasted nicely with his immaculate jet-black suit, though steaks of it were already coming loose.  It suited him nicely, Baitsakhan couldn’t help but notice.  His electric blue eyes, wary like that of a predator’s, flashed eagerly at having another customer, perhaps saving him from his endless boredom.  A nonchalant expression crossed his face, followed by a knowing smirk, and then was once again replaced by a mockingly polite look as he called out,

“How may I help you?”

Baitsakhan stared unabashedly at the guy, unamused.

“I thought this was a coffee shop.  Get me some goddamned coffee.”

Something akin to surprise appeared in the cashier’s eyes, but like every other emotion quickly disappeared.  He probably didn’t get rude comments like this often.  Serves him right, thought Baitsakhan, trying to ignore the boy’s undeniable hotness as a feral grin spread across the guy’s face.  The name Maccabee was written on a pin proudly hung from the guy’s breast pocket.  Baitsakhan duly noted this, for no reason at all.  He had no reason to store away this kind of information.  He totally wasn’t planning on coming back again.

“Okayyy then,” he drawled, every word unnecessarily lengthened, “How would you like your coffee?”

“Hot, dark, strong.” Baitsakhan had no time for this nonsense.

“Just like me then,” Maccabee said, waggling his eyebrows.

Baitsakhan stared, unimpressed,

“Do you flirt with everything that walks on two legs?”

Again, the guy looks surprised.  Probably hasn’t had a pick-up line thrown back at his face before, Baitsakhan thinks with a smirk.

“Nope, just cute ones.”

The barista turned to make the coffee, and thank God he turned to make the coffee, because Baitsakhan has chosen just the right time to have his face turn completely red.

Ugh.

He really should have just gone to Starbucks.

A/N: 

cringey title, cringey chapter title, cringey everything… sounds about right

i should have mentioned before, YES I TOTALLY SHIP AN AND BAITS AS A BROTP EVEN THO ITS SUPER WEIRD AND THEY PROB HATE EACH OTHER CANON BUT WHO CARES.

also, sorry about the non-typical depiction of maccabee, i kinda just imagined him with long hair one day and it… kinda spiralled off into the void?? idk.  i kinda like it.

ALSO, i sorta maybe incorporated a wrong number!au into this also. sue me, i was playing around with thing and it got outta hand, ok