Chapter Text
“This sucks,” Wemmbu decides in a whisper. He hears Parrot snort quietly, pressed between the wall and the tiny ledge they’re balanced on.
Wemmbu barely even dares to move. The cold night wind is whipping his hair into Parrot’s face, but Parrot doesn’t complain.
Beneath them stalks a full patrol of LAW soldiers, headed by a figure that strides with so much authority they must be a deputy. Crisp yellow uniforms catch the streetlights, burning sickly daffodil.
Wemmbu and Parrot are precariously gripping a window ledge, clinging onto the shadowed side of a building. It’s not like Wemmbu has a fear of heights, but this is ridiculous.
The strip of brick they’re standing on is maybe twice the width of his shoe. Every so often a strong wind threatens to knock them both off, and Wemmbu’s legs are burning with the effort of keeping his body flush against the freezing side of the building.
To be honest, Wemmbu’s still reeling. He’s sick and exhausted and confused, because an hour ago he was sitting with his friends in a sushi shop and now he’s somehow here.
In truth, he’s still not sure he trusts Parrot at all.
Yeah, Parrot has some freaky ability like his. But that fact alone makes Wemmbu more suspicious than anything.
He didn’t even know there were other people with abilities like his.
(He’s only ever known one other person like him, one person who understood him, one person who slotted against him like the other half of his soul and like comfort–)
Wemmbu shakes it away. He bites on his lip until it bleeds, starbursts of pain chasing away the scream that’s threatening to build in his head again.
Where was he? Oh yeah. Wemmbu doesn’t trust Parrot, and he certainly doesn’t trust the weird “underground faction” Parrot’s about to ship him to.
But it’s not really like Wemmbu has much of a choice. The other option is to go home, and as appealing as it sounds, Parrot could be telling the truth about the LAWmen.
If they’re after him, Wemmbu would much rather face the underground cult than be dragged back to the LAW headquarters, kicking and screaming.
So, okay. He’ll comply with what Parrot says- for now.
But Wemmbu’s done watching people get hurt.
He’s done with the LAW. He’s so sick of them, it makes his stomach twist in revulsion to have to see their forces everyday throughout the city.
He’s done trying so hard, fighting back so fiercely.
Wemmbu’s tired, and he’s done being involved and bleeding and watching other people bleed in a sickening cycle.
There’s no way he’s joining Parrot’s cult, and the decision just feels right in his mind.
For now, he’ll daydream about hot showers and cling to the side of a building like a sad cat.
…
They watch until the patrol has turned the corner. They wait some more. Wemmbu suppresses a sneeze. Parrot checks a watch around his wrist nervously.
“Okay,” Parrot whispers at long last, “I think the coast is clear.”
It’s probably the stupidest thing he’s ever done, and Wemmbu has to fight back borderline hysterical giggles as they shuffle-scoot- across the wall and to a metal drainpipe. This is dumb. This is so dumb, and it’s hitting him all at once, and he’s forcing himself to not have a mental breakdown. He bites his lip, tasting copper as he forces himself not to start laughing.
Parrot shimmies down like a firefighter and motions for Wemmbu to follow once he’s reached the ground.
Wemmbu sort of does the same, minus the fluidity or the speed and plus a whole lot of banging and cursing.
Parrot hurries ahead, the only sound the swish of fabric and the dull thump of their shoes on stone streets.
They move swiftly, crossing multiple blocks and darting into dark alleyways multiple times to avoid a LAW patrol.
Wemmbu finds himself looking over his shoulder after every turn, reminiscent of his days on the streets.
It could be paranoia or muscle memory, but he draws his ability tight around his fingers. There’s almost a phantom weight in his grip, comfortingly taut and supple.
Eventually Parrot and Wemmbu slow down, stopping in front of an abandoned clearing. Wemmbu halts, catching his breath and looking around.
There’s nothing except for a few worn buildings and a rickety water tower.
Wemmbu blinks at the intent gleaming in Parrot’s eyes. “So. The ‘western HQ’ is–”
“Yeah.” Parrot motions for Wemmbu to follow. “Come on.”
Trudging to the base of the water tower, Parrot walks a slow circle around the base of the central pole. He’s muttering to himself in a way that is incredibly un-reassuring.
Eventually Parrot stops in front of a graffiti word that reads “FACTiON”. The “i” is the only letter uncapitalized.
“If I remember correctly…” Parrot taps a finger to the chin of his mask. He reaches forward and presses his index finger firmly against the stylized dot on the “i”.
Wemmbu stares as it sinks in. Parrot keeps going, pushing his whole arm in and frowning slightly.
He looks kind of ridiculous, with an arm in a magic water tower and chilling like it’s any other normal Thursday.
Parrot eventually nods approvingly, pulling his arm back. “Yeah, we should be fine. You go ahead.”
Wemmbu’s still gaping. “And– how do I do that, exactly?”
Parrot shrugs. “Platform 9 ¾. Start with your finger on the “i” like I just did.”
Wemmbu shakes his head in disbelief. He cautiously puts the pad of his index finger against the graffiti “i”, forcing himself not to cringe back at the strange sensation of some kind of fluid barrier and cold space behind it.
“Platform 9 ¾?”
He can’t see Parrot’s face, but he can hear a grin in Parrot’s voice. “Yeah. Ever read Harry Potter?”
Wemmbu rolls his eyes and presses his arm in. Then half his torso.
He feels like he wants to balk when it’s time to press the rest of his head and body in, but Parrot just nods at him encouragingly.
“I’ll be right behind you. Don’t talk to anyone until I come through, alright? I trust them, but they can be… a lot.”
Wemmbu gives Parrot a weak mock-salute and pulls the rest of his body through.
…
There’s an immediate bang. Someone’s banged their fist on the table obnoxiously loud.
Wemmbu squints at the sudden brightness, taken aback.
He’s in a room with couches and lamps. It’s a little run-down, but clearly still in use.
At the end of the room is a table. There are a number of people circled around it, all wearing identical white masks, glaring at each other with conviction.
They don’t seem to have noticed him, pressed against the corner.
A figure with an iridescent bandana stands up. They’re wearing a black hoodie and black sweats, shoulders tense with annoyance.
Their chair scrapes as they stand up, and the guy smacks the table again as if trying to prove a point.
“Yeah, yeah, the assasination failed. Whatever! What’s more important is that the assassination failed, and then Spyglass just happens to wind up missing!” Their voice changer is absurdly deep, words coming out as a low crackle.
Another figure stands up, fists clenched, straw-blonde hair spilling over their face. “Spyglass is resourceful,” they grit out. “He won’t just lay down and die or hand over our identities to the LAW. If he misses a meeting, he misses a meeting. There’s a difference between him being here and him being in trouble, so we should just–”
Parrot pushes through the wall beside Wemmbu. He stands up and brushes off his jacket.
“Hey guys, sorry I’m late.” Parrot’s voice is suddenly sheepish as he walks towards the table.
Half a dozen heads whip around in his direction, and suddenly everyone is speaking over each other.
“Syglass–” “Idiot–” “Where the hell–” “Thought you were a goner–” “--assassination?”
Parrot winces at the commotion. He lifts his hands in a gesture that’s more awkward than reassuring. “Yeah, sorry about that. I, uh, ran into some trouble on the way.”
A figure in a worn bomber jacket and yellow gloves stalks forward, poking Parrot hard in the chest. “You. Didn’t. Even. Signal. Flare. Any. Of. Us. We thought you died, Parrot! We thought maybe you were already halfway to ‘brainwashed LAW deputy status’--”
“I’m not,” Parrot interrupted loudly. Then softer: “And I’m, uh, sorry for worrying you guys. I had to pick up a new recruit.”
It’s as if these words suddenly make Wemmbu visible to the others. Everyone suddenly tilts their faces to him, and Wemmbu can feel the weight of their stares even through the masks.
Bomber-jacket-guy visibly deflates, as if someone had just punched the air out of him. The people at the table blink in stunned silence.
Then it’s chaos again. “Never told us–” “where’d they come from–” “ability–” “--dude looks like they’re fifteen, tops.”
Wemmbu gives up on impulse control and snorts. Any apprehension he felt talking to these weird people melts away in the face of his indignation. “Screw off. I’m sixteen.”
Sort of true. He’s sixteen in two months. Practically sixteen, really.
The voice changer flattens out his words, pitching them up and adding a cynical sort of humor to them. He decides that as far as voice changers go, this one’s pretty good.
That actually gets a laugh out of a few of them. They regard him less like a bacteria on a petri dish and with more restrained curiosity.
Parrot brings Wemmbu over to the table. “So. Introduce yourselves, guys. Stop acting like social outcasts.”
Bomber jacket guy shoots Parrot one last dirty look before settling back down in his place at the table. “This isn’t over,” he warns darkly. “Don’t think you can deflect away from this conversation.”
Rainbow bandana guy laughs, the sound a deep bark. “Rude.” He nods at Wemmbu. “Hey, kid, I’m Void. My ability has to do with space. I hide all of our HQs.”
“Don’t listen to him, he just hides this one and the Northern HQ,” the guy next to him huffs. “He thinks that somehow gives him the right to steal snacks from the community pantry.”
The kid is wearing a simple red hoodie. They look more like they’ve just crawled out of bed than like they’re attending an illegal underground meeting.
“I’m Map. My ability lets me track people.” He tips his chin at Parrot. “Did you take the newbie to see my pool table?”
Parrot shrugs lightly. “I mean, yeah, but–”
“We don’t have all night, guys,” the shorter blonde standing next to Map clears their throat in clear annoyance. Wemmbu remembers that they were the one arguing with Void earlier. “Some of us have calculus homework to do.”
They turn towards Wemmbu. “I’m Sun,” they mutter. “I’m sorry these idiots are making you think we collectively share a singular brain cell.”
“It’s ‘cause we do,” another voice chirps cheerfully. They’re wearing an orange jersey, fiddling with the string of their voice changer. “I’m Spear.”
The next guy is slouched backwards, messy locs and workout tee screaming he would rather be anywhere but here. “Match,” he mutters. “If these idiots would just shut up for one second–”
“I’m Thief,” the shorter kid next to him cuts in cheekily. “I take my name pretty seriously.” They’re wearing a full-on naval uniform, complete with navy lapels and gold buttons.
“Lore,” introduces the guy in a full-on suit. “And this is Snow.”
The shorter girl next to him waves cheerfully.
Bomber-jacket guy crosses his arms behind Parrot, stiff posture emanating a scowl even without his face. “I’m Minecart. And we all know this is Parrot, but we call him Spyglass.”
Wemmbu nods slowly. From what he gathers, he needs to come up with a name that has something to do with his ability.
“You don’t have to,” Parrot says, almost as if he had been reading Wemmbu’s thoughts. Creepy. “Choose a codename that has something to do with your ability, I mean. Some of us chose a name for other reasons.”
Wemmbu thinks for a moment. He could introduce himself with a name that has to do with his memory ability, but something about that makes him feel wrong, the same way the ability sometimes does. He decides on something that’s more– that’s more like him.
“I, uh, I guess I’m Orbital.”
They nod in acceptance, unquestioning.
The silence that follows is almost nervous. Wemmbu realizes for the first time that that weird goosebumps-and-deja vu feeling is back, stronger than it’s been all week.
It’s coming from them, he realizes belatedly. Like– like “spidey senses”, or whatever. Hooray for Spider-Man.
It’s perhaps this more than anything that makes Wemmbu uncomfortable. Like, yeah, the cosmic universe is telling him that he belongs in this shady anti-LAW cult.
Well, screw you, universe.
He isn’t even given a moment to peacefully question all of his life choices before the life in question decides to throw more bombshells his way.
Parrot startles into action suddenly. “Hey, let’s take the newbie on a patrol.”
__________
Thief gathers them together outside. He holds out his arms wide, a little melodramatically, and…
Nothing really seems to happen.
Wemmbu blinks. “Did it… work? What was that, um, supposed to do?”
Void throws back his head and laughs. Thief huffs in annoyance. “Yeah, actually, it did. My ability just made you all invisible.”
Wemmbu’s eyes widen. He inspects his own gloved hand, bringing it up to his face to scrunitize. It doesn’t look any different, but when he moves too quickly, the air around his hand seems to ripple like a mirage.
Spear laughs, easy and delighted. “Quit flexing, Thief. You’re literally using the newbie to inflate your ego.”
Thief punches Spear’s shoulder and they’re both cackling at each other.
“Chop chop, kids, let’s go,” Void calls.
There’s a chorus of “shut up”s, and a single “No one likes you, Void, do us all a service and collapse in a ditch” (Sun).
For an anti-LAW resistance faction, these kids sure spend a lot of time squabbling. Wemmbu can’t help but watch with some degree of amusement as Parrot’s sanity unravels.
“Guys. Guys, we have a lot of ground to cover.” Parrot’s trying to rein them in, but things have escalated fast.
Spear and Thief are somehow in an intense one-on-one wrestling match. Lore, Snow and Match are crouched together on the ground, cheering as Match lights a few poor ants on fire. Sun has tackled Void to the ground, Map is alternating between rooting for Void and Sun, and Minecart is trying to separate them without much success.
How half of that even happened, Wemmbu doesn’t really know. It feels like he blinked and opened his eyelids again to a dumpster fire.
Things are starting to get violent. Spear is trying to judo-flip Thief over one shoulder. Match has created a small bonfire of ant corpses and Lore and Snow occcasionally lean over to scrape live insect offerings onto the pyre. Sun and Void have started to throw punches, and with Map dancing in gleeful circles around them, it’s impossible to tell who - if anyone - is winning.
Above the chaos a shoe somehow goes flying. It hits Wemmbu on the head.
“Ow,” Wemmbu mutters. He picks up the shoe and flings it back into the fray.
A lot of things happen. The shoe bounces off Void’s shoulder. Void seizes and starts beating the living daylight out of Sun with it.
Sun yelps, raising their hands to cover their head and in the process releasing Void.
Minecart releases them in surprise, stumbling backwards and knocking Map over. Map screeches like he’s being mauled and topples straight into the neat pile of burning ants Match has carefully amassed.
Match curses and stalks over to the sneaker that Void’s still brandishing. He wrenches it from Void’s grip and tosses it back at Wemmbu.
Wemmbu tries to explain, “It’s not my sh–”
“Mine!” Void yelps, lurching towards the shoe.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Wemmbu snaps. He tosses the shoe high over Void’s head and watches as Snow catches it just barely by the laces.
The real owner of the shoe, evidently Spear, stops tussling with Thief as he suddenly discovers the loss of his shoe. He releases a choked wail of loss and grief, head whipping around as he tries to pin down its location.
Snow lobs it cheerfully in Map’s direction. “Heads up!” Too late.
It hits Map square in the back of the head and he curses loudly. He snatches it off the ground and hurls it at Wemmbu again.
“FOR THE LAST TIME, IT’S NOT MY–” Wemmbu’s indignant response is choked off as Spear fly-tackles him to the ground.
The shoe flies from Wemmbu’s slack grip as if in slow motion.
It bounces once, twice, then, as if out of pure spite, defying the laws of physics and gravity, slides at an impossible angle and falls down a thin gutter.
Deafening silence.
Parrot drags a slow hand down his face.
“I think I need to sit down.”
…
Void digs his hand around in midair, grimacing. It looks seriously weird, as if the fabric of space has greedily sucked up his arm and taken a bite out of it.
Eventually he pulls his hand out, grinning. “Told you I had one somewhere!”
It’s a fluffy pink slipper, complete with a dopey brown bear stitched into the front. It practically exudes hot-pink misery and the leftovers of a clothing donation drive.
Spear balks. “I’d rather go barefoot. I’d rather risk a thousand splinters. Void, I– I have to maintain my aura, dude, I–”
“--am going to wear the slipper,” Parrot finishes for him calmly.
They stare each other down. Thief suppresses a snicker, morphing it into a well-timed cough.
Spear lifts the slipper up to his masked face. Even though Wemmbu can’t see it, Spear’s expression is probably horrified and stricken.
He shuffles awkwardly, feeling just a smidge guilty.
“Uh.” Everyone turns to look at him and he flushes. “It’s, um, kinda my fault Spear lost his shoe. If– if you want, dude, I can swap a shoe with you. It’s fine. I’m willing to wear the slipper, or whatever.”
Spear stares at him for a moment. “...you’re, like, nicer than everyone else here put together.”
Wemmbu resists an eye roll. “Either take it or leave it, man.” Oh god, he’s already regretting saying anything at all. Void’s still dangling that god-awful slipper between thumb and forefinger, barely suppressing giggles of what can only be described as malicious glee.
Spear shrugs. “I feel bad taking advantage of your generosity, but if you’re willing to…”
…
And now he’s plodding behind everyone else, an awkward shuffle-step as he tries to keep the oversized slipper from falling off his foot.
It’s an atrocious article of clothing, really. He can’t help but resent it more with every labored step he takes.
Hot pink and molting neon fluff, the bear’s cheerful cartoon eyes mock him from the toes.
Honestly, though, Spear’s not faring much better. Wemmbu’s black Converse looks ridiculously tiny on his huge foot, forcing half his heel to stick out.
They only walk for another half mile before Spear admits defeat.
“Void,” Spear sighs, “was this planned? That slipper really looks like my foot size.”
“I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Void says breezily from the front. “I’m not omnipotent, dear. I just like to… come prepared.”
Spear sighs in defeat. He stops. “Hey, Orbital, thanks for offering. But you can have your shoe back.”
Thank the freaking lord. Wemmbu shrugs and swaps shoes.
And really, as much as Spear whines and bemoans his “loss of aura”, they really do move much faster after the shoe swap.
When they get closer to the center of the city, Wemmbu can almost tangibly feel the shift between silly and serious.
The group clusters tighter together, bodies a fraction tenser and heads turning at every little sound.
Wemmbu begins to feel his pulse pick up pace, and he walks a little faster to match the speed of the group.
Eventually, a gold tower rises almost ethereally from above the buildings. A banner flies from the steeple, a gold sun on a white canvas sheet.
LAW headquarters. Wemmbu swallows.
Parrot falls into pace beside him, tone quiet but explanatory. “When we patrol, we’re just picking out targets. We choose like a dozen or so low-to-middle ranked officials, and over the course of the week we assign members to them.”
Wemmbu blinks. He feels his eyes blow wide, and he almost stops in surprise. “So– like, you’re, like, assassins?”
Parrot laughs. “Bro. What did you think we were, black market smugglers or something? We’re the anti-LAW assassin group in the city, yeah.”
Pieces fall into place with sudden clarity. Wemmbu wants to smack himself in the forehead.
Wow. When Egg mentioned assassins, Wemmbu wasn’t exactly thinking of a ragtag group of magic high schoolers.
But if what Egg said was true, these kids are a lot more powerful than they look. And at least in the past year, it seems like they’ve been pretty successful, as well.
Wemmbu really isn’t sure what to do now. There’s no easy escape– no good way to back out, no good opening to slip away and run back to the dorms.
He’s mentally debating a diversion when Parrot brings them to a stop. His body is now tenser, finger to his lips in a reminder to be quiet.
“Split into pairs. Map, give each group a tracker. Report back here when you’re done.”
He glances at Wemmbu, who’s completely lost. “Someone show the newbie around.”
Map tosses a shiny gold disk at Match, who quickly slinks away. He snorts and explains to Wemmbu, “Match works solo. Thinks it makes him edgier, or something.”
Void bounds over to Map. Spear and Thief stand together. Lore and Snow grab a disk and disappear.
Soon the alley is empty expect for Void, Map, Wemmbu, and Sun, slouched in the corner.
Map whistles low. “I feel bad for you in advance.”
Wemmbu stares at Sun, whose voice drips with annoyance. “Great. I’m on newbie duty.”
“They’re a piece of work,” Void quips conversationally. “I recommend defending yourself with health insurance before they seriously take a couple years off your lifespan.” Sun lobs a piece of rubble at him.
Map tosses a disk at them and Wemmbu manages to catch it. “Uh.” Wemmbu feels kinda awkward asking, but he needs some context. “What– what are we doing with this thing?”
Map shrugs. “Press it to their body. We’re invisible, so it should be pretty easy. Once you’ve tagged one, come back.”
Void laughs. “Just don’t get caught, ‘kay? It’s a whole friggin’ hassle to kill some random chungie and hide the evidence. I really don’t feel like stashing murder evidence tonight.”
It’s the casual way they reference stashing a body that makes Wemmbu truly lose faith in the world. He faintly wonders what they would do if he had a hysterical psychiatric breakdown.
He misses his dorm so badly it feels like a physical ache. The thought of Egg sends a guilty pang through his chest.
Void and Map start walking away, still muttering quietly about the ethics of stashing and selling a body on the black market. Their voices and footsteps slowly fade away down the street.
Sun turns, walking halfway down the alleyway before spinning around and regarding them with a huff. “Newbie. You gonna stand around all day?” they snap, and Wemmbu hurries after them.
They walk in silence. Sun’s arms are folded tightly against their chest, gold hemmed cape wrapped close around their shoulders.
“You just gonna ignore me the whole time?” Wemmbu finds the courage to ask.
“Oh, great,” Sun mumbles. “A talkative one.”
“Dude, I’m making an effort,” Wemmbu shoots back. “You, like, seriously hate all people. I bet–” he almost trips over the words, mouth moving faster than his brain can catch up, “I bet you hate sunshine and puppies too, or something.”
And wow. That hurts. He shouldn’t have said that, because that seriously hurts, like something is caving in his chest, like there’s a person-shaped hole being carved roughly from his center all over again.
Wemmbu grits his teeth, arms wrapping around his torso like he’s trying to hold his fractured frame together.
Sun clearly doesn’t notice. They walk faster, retort clipped and flat: “I don’t hate all people. I only hate hateable people.”
The insinuation is rude, but it’s safe. It lessens the brutal sting and Wemmbu latches onto it.
“Huh. That sounds like a conversation for the therapy couch. Any deep-seated trauma behind your aversion to hateable people? You wanna talk it out?”
Sun groans long-sufferingly. “I can already feel it. Spyglass recruited another dimwit.”
Wemmbu grins under his mask. This banter is sort of fun, and although it’s mean, he wonders how much farther he can push Sun.
Before he can really get into it though, Sun presses him against the wall warningly.
“Crouch,” they hiss. Wemmbu complies, peering over Sun’s shoulder.
A good couple of feet away, there’s a LAW soldier walking across the deserted street. He’s shoudering a gun, steps echoing through the darkness.
Wemmbu knows, logically, that the soldier can’t see them. All the same, he shrinks further into the darkness.
Sun clearly has no such qualms. They tug on Wemmbu’s coat. “Come on,” they whisper, barely a breath in the stillness.
Wemmbu stands and they walk slowly down the street.
It’s a terrible, heart-stopping feeling. Wemmbu feels uncomfortably naked and stupid, waltzing in front of the LAW official in plain sight.
But the official doesn’t even glance in their direction. Their face and body are angled straight ahead, passing them as if they weren’t even nearby.
As the guard draws closer, Wemmbu does his best to match Sun’s creepily noiseless steps. They walk as if someone pressed a “mute” button on their feet, padding as noiselessly as a cat on a grassy lawn.
Wemmbu has no such luck. The best he can do is try to time his steps with the LAWman’s, wincing every time the rubber heel of his Converses makes a dull click against the stone.
Sun saunters closer, so casually they may as well have been approaching a friend. They extend a hand, light as air– disk reaching towards the armor, poised like a poker chip– a hair’s breadth of space away from the guard–
The edge of the disk flattens itself against the guard’s armor. They keep walking, evidently having felt nothing.
Wemmbu feels tension he doesn’t even remember building up leak from his frame. He carefully treads behind Sun, but once again he forgets an important detail.
The universe is a cruel, cruel fiend.
Wemmbu needs to start remembering that nothing good ever comes this way. He’s destined and cursed, fated for bad luck, possibly the worst luck anyone can have, and the sooner he realizes that the better off he’s going to be.
But as it is, Wemmbu freaking. Trips. On a upturned stone tile.
Loudly.
He catches himself a step later, the heavy footfall echoing across the deserted street, but not before cursing under his breath.
The guard pivots slowly, facing where Sun and Wemmbu have both frozen mid-step and mid-fall.
Sun quietly presses a hand to their forehead in exasperation and panic.
The guard strides back down the alleyway. Sun grabs Wemmbu’s wrists and pulls them into the shadowed corner, but it’s a dead end.
They release a curse of their own, maybe a prayer. It’s a puff of breath that starts with a swear word and ends in something suspiciously close to ‘Orbital’.
Neither of them even dare breathe.
The guard inches closer and they practically meld themselves against the wall. Wemmbu can literally smell stale breath and he wrinkles his nose.
The guard reaches out a hand, head tilted in curiosity.
Sun tries to flinch away. Too slow. The guard’s palm strikes against the side of her arm and she yelps in surprise and pain.
Instantly the guard’s other arm lurches towards his sword. He takes a blind strike at the wall, but both Wemmbu and Sun lurch away.
The guard’s head whips from side to side. He eventually chooses a corner and advances on Sun.
Sun looks exactly like a cornered feline; teeth bared and dull, eyes flashing with irritable hostility. Their body is coiled like they’re ready to pounce, hissing and lashing out furiously.
Wemmbu’s mind spikes sharp and hot with panic, watching as the guard raises his sword above Sun’s head.
He sprints across the distance between them, hand reaching out and clamping around the guard’s wrists, poised above their heads.
The guard spins around.
Wemmbu knows that the guard cannot see him, but he stares at the wide, dark pupils through the eye slits in the mask.
“Forget,” Wemmbu gasps out.
Electric tension snaps like a rubber band from the forefront of his mind. He presses every ounce of his desperation and tension and fear into that snap, shooting it forwards and shoving it at the guard.
Their eyes flicker dark, then solid gold.
They stand stock-still, swaying for an endless moment. The energy and brutal strength to their movements seems to leech out of their frame.
A sword clatters to the ground and the guard collapses in a dull clang of armor hitting stone.
Silence. Wemmbu’s chest is heaving. There’s a soft ringing in his ears, dulled only by his own voice screaming.
He shakes away the sound of his own agony and turns towards Sun.
They’re still frozen in place, eyes flickering between the guard and Wemmbu.
Then they’re a blur of movement, seizing Wemmbu’s hand and yanking him along. “Go, go, go, go,” they’re muttering, low and wild.
Deja vu, Wemmbu can’t help but think wryly. Maybe everyone in this assassin legion plans to drag him along like a suitcase at some point. Maybe he’s going crazy.
His hair whips wildly behind them as they run. They don’t stop once, not until Sun seems to deem the distance between them and the guard sufficient.
Wemmbu catches his breath, wheezing with his hands on his knees.
“Why– why didn’t we kill them back there?” Wemmbu pants.
Sun scoffs, their own breaths labored. “That’s– not how we– function. We mark them like– like ants, and send them back to the colony. The idea is to put on a show. We try to– kill them in the flashiest way possible.”
As soon as they’ve partially recovered, Sun is rounding on him, eyes flashing through the mask like flinty slivers of copper fury.
“You– are– the stupidest– the most pigeon-brained– most reckless, turd-witted fool I have ever–”
Wemmbu knows, objectively speaking, that now’s really not the time. But–
He smirks and snickers quietly. “Dude, you sound scarily similar to my mom right now. Don’t put me in time-out, please.”
Sun looks like steam is about to start spiraling from their ears, cartoon-style. They let out a choked sound of helpless fury.
“God, I hate you,” they settle for, groaning and dragging a hand down the smooth plate of their mask.
Wemmbu laughs breathlessly. This is probably a coping mechanism, but he’s gonna save the PTSD for later. Right now, taking stabs at Sun’s sanity is a whole lot easier than addressing what happened with the guard.
Sun grumbles to themself for another couple of seconds. They exhale. “So. You used your… ability on them. And I’m assuming they’re gonna wake up– with no memory of what happened?”
Wemmbu nods. He pops his knuckles nervously. “I can wipe up to two or three days of memory.” He looks up at Sun, whose arms are crossed and head tilted in silent deliberation. “I’m gonna be honest, I’m not awesome at controlling it. So, I, uh, have no idea how much that guy remembers.”
Sun nods to themselves slowly. “...okay. I think it’s fine if we just head back, then. If the guard doesn’t remember anything, we’re probably still good. He’s as good as dead in a week, anyway.”
Their voice is flippant and suddenly sure, as if they’ve made up their mind. Taking a deep breath, they push off the wall and motion for Wemmbu to follow.
“Let’s head back and meet up with the others. We’ve taken too long already with that unnecessary confrontation.”
The words are a jab, but there’s no real irritation behind Sun’s words. They sound more resigned than anything.
Wemmbu gets the feeling.
He sprints behind Sun, shoving his hands in his trench coat pockets to hide their subtle tremor.
…
“We kind of… ran into some trouble on the way.”
Sun’s scratching at the back of her neck, avoiding the obvious glares from everyone else.
Wemmbu nods slightly, continuing, “It’s sort of a long story, but, uh, we got it handled. All that matters is that the guy is marked, right? No harm done.”
“Except that we’ve been waiting for an hour.” Thief’s tone is somehow flat, but it carries barbed edges like twisted metal.
Sun visibly winces. “Yeah… it took a little while to find a guy.”
Wemmbu hesitates. “Then we had a skirmish.”
“Then we had to have a conversation about the whole ‘memory wipe’ thing.”
“Yeah– and then we took a couple wrong turns, got lost on the way back–”
“I get it,” Parrot interrupts.
Sun and Wemmbu stare at him. “You do?” they chorus, and immediately exchange a glare.
Parrot heaves a deep sigh. “Yeah. Just– just, next time, send the disc signal or something.”
Wemmbu thinks that he’s getting really freaking good at reading expressions. The masks betray nothing, but body language and voices alone are way more expressive when you’re watching carefully. For example, right now, Wemmbu can just tell that Sun’s scowling heavily at Parrot.
“We were in an active confrontation. With a LAWman,” Sun deadpans. “And you wanted me to send a signal.”
“Well, the alternative is assuming you were captured,” Parrot argues.
Sun throws up their hands. “We thought you had gone missing, like, literally three hours ago. You cannot be talking–”
“Let’s go home,” Lore interrupts firmly. “I don’t know about you guys, but that homework load is starting to feel radioactive. I still plan to sleep a little tonight, you know.”
Wemmbu tilts his head at Lore. It’s that feeling again. Something about their stance, their dry way of speaking, the faint inflection in their voice–
Oh, but Lore is so totally right. Wemmbu mentally cringes away from the thought of that dissective analysis on poetry meter in the 18th century.
It’s the sobering thought of homework, more than assassination coups, more than the threat of capture, more than hatred of the LAW, that unites them once more.
The bedraggled group turns and begins the depressing hike back to the water tower.
Spear clears his throat uncomfortably as they set out. Everyone shoots a pointed glare in his direction.
“I, uh, lost the bear slipper,” he mumbles.
They look down, and sure enough, Spear’s gait is mismatched as he steps with one sneakered foot and tiptoes with one incredibly dirty sock.
“Good riddance,” Void eventually mutters into the silence. “That thing was starting to creep me out anyways.”
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