Chapter Text
A ponytail-full of pale purple hair whipped behind Cito's partner, her shoes thudding loudly down the attic pull-down staircase. Her shaking hands gripped the firearm, holding it as steady as possible in front of her. There was no time for stealth. Cito couldn't afford for her to be stealthy. Stealth would-
She silenced her thoughts with a blink and light shake of her head. Focus. Cito didn’t have time for her to worry herself into a corner. He could -and would have to- handle himself for just a few minutes.
She took a deep breath, in and out to help steel her raging nerves.
After reaching the garage floor, she booked it into the door. But she instantly slowed her pace upon stepping into what she guessed was the laundry room, though it had no appliances to prove her right. Or wrong. Her shoes quietly padded briskly in a near-silent walk against the rough ceramic tile of the room.
"(If anyone else is here, show yourself! Your partner’s dead!)" Her voice brazenly challenged into the silence of the house, anger and stress flaring up in her tone. Her voice echoes loud and sharp, undoubtedly destroying any element of surprise she had.
Her partner wasn't dead.
No response, so onward she carried into the kitchen.
Just like the first time she looked through the kitchen, her shoulder-mounted flashlight illuminated the barren expanse of the room. Her non-dominant hand shifted to stabilize the weapon held by her other, the shaking ceasing slightly. For every other step she took, she pivoted lightly on one foot to swivel her shoulders and reveal the rest of the room a direct path would not illuminate. Despite this house being freshly abandoned like the others around it from threats from the Natapa (na-ta-pa), it looked like no one had ever even lived here. While the first three houses on the street they'd cleared out felt a little messy and empty, they were not lacking personal belongings forgotten or cast aside in the hurry to flee.
This room was just...vacant.The cabinets and drawers she opened to peer into momentarily revealed nothing at all. No bowls, silverware, plates, no decor on the walls or curtains hung over the window, no pictures or magnets or notes tacked to the refrigerator door.
Just...nothing. It was unsettling how barren it was.
And nothing had changed since she saw it just a minute or two ago.
Eight more jogging steps and she crossed the threshold dividing the tiled kitchen and the wooden tile floor of the den. This room gave her no relief from the bleakness of the previous room. From the mantel hanging over the fireplace to the entrance of the hallway, nothing but a single couch existed in the room, positioned against the opposite wall of the empty hallway and bare fireplace.
No pillows lay on the couch. No rugs on the floor. No picture frames on the mantel or walls. No curtains. No quirky decor. The walls lay a boring white, the carpet a soulless pale beige with not a single stain or sign of wear visible anywhere. She scrunched her nose in a blend of confusion, only offering the room a single, sweeping gaze before moving down the hall and pushing the first door open forcefully. She used her shoulder to wipe the few teardrops that she couldn't hold back. An empty closet, barren of anything except dust.
A sharp click and static sounded on her radio, drawing her out of her trained glare down of the house.
"(Assistance is on its way, arrival time is about twenty minutes.)" Ecstatic relief washed over her entire being and a beaming smile came over her face.
They were going to be okay.
Cito crawled over to the nearest object he could prop himself up on the moment the sound of thudding steps on wood ceased. He knew the red, even with fading eyesight--maybe he could just--just rest his eyes--just a minute or two- His head slumped down and he saw it, just before his eyes shut.
Blood...blood,
all over his hands,
his jacket,
his shirt,
the...floor...
“(Mom, Dad, I’m home from school! Sorry for being a little late, I was walking home with Tawhet!)” A young, pale redheaded lad shouted to the front porch of his home, directed to the people who were always inside waiting for him, since their work ended before his schooling ended. He was pretty sure they wouldn’t mind it too much, just a few minutes from his normal arrival time was alright. And he could practically hear his mother’s-
The door was ajar. The boy stopped for a moment and stared, before nudging the door open gently. Why was-
blood-mangled bodies-hours or maybe minutes-a numb embrace-sirens-interviews-and-and--MOM, DAD-
WAKE UP-!
"AH-ghh!" The fainted redhead lunged forward from his position against a piece of furniture with a strangled, gasping breath as the fragmented stills of what he remembered after that moment jolted up his spine and ripped him back into the land of the living. He-he hadn't remembered those moments before! The man nearly fell forward onto his face, shooting his arm not occupied with maintaining pressure darting out to catch him, lest he falls onto his face and gives himself a concussion or break his nose. He couldn't talk very effectively, either.
Was that--some kind of defense mechanism!?
That didn't matter right now.
Breathing. Erratic, shaky rises and falls of his chest.
In and out, he told himself. Chest goes up, air goes in, chest goes down, air goes out. Simple process. Just breathe.
The more panicked he was the faster his heart would beat, the faster his blood flowed.
...The faster he bled out.
Cito's mind was still sound, unlike his body. He could still think.
Think. What could he do? The garotte had merely pierced into his left carotid artery with one barb, rather than having ripped into it, given by the amount of blood draining down his throat and staining his shirt. That means he has at least three minutes, more if he stopped the bleeding with pressure. What could he do to extend that time, even if just a little?
The man was somewhat tempted to try and look at it to assess the damage and go from there, but did he have the time and ability to concentrate that much?
He didn't have any water on him, and he was still training with water healing. Plain water probably would not do much either way.
He raised his -shaking, twitching, erratically moving- free hand slowly up to his line of sight and sighed softly out his nose. There was no way... he could keep his hands steady enough at this point, never mind the blinding pain to come.
Perhaps a flash heal? No. The drop in magical energy/the stuff helping keep him alive could kill him. One at half strength, maybe? It would not be perfect, but it would keep him alive long enough.
The redhead took a few breaths in his nose, out his mouth, never laxing in harsh pressure on his throat in efforts to stop or slow the blood flow. Though honestly, he was just running on pure trained instinct now, he probably-no. Don't, not now. If he let himself calculate his odds of survival at this point, then the likelihood or lack thereof would shatter his resolve and he would give in to death. He had promises to honor, people to live for-an inspirational, wonderful woman to get to know.
He took yet another breath before concentrating on all the magic in his body, minus what was in his reserves. He could feel the flowing, if panicked pulses, and began to push it all into his trembling hand. Out his other limbs, through his chest, down his arm, into his hand, and finally reaching his fingertips.
All the while, the magical chargers stopping just short of the bottom of his upper arm began to glow a faint white or gray color. It even seemed as if his eyes and blood vessels were starting to barely glow as well in the darkness of the attic, only the veins and arteries nearest the skin making any visible change.
Cito winced and quickly removed the blood-soaked cloth away from his wound. He quickly replaced the pressure of the cloth with his glowing hand. The sudden pressure of flesh on liquid made a gross squelching noise and he winced at the feeling of his hand pressing hard against the area of his mangled wound. Mental note- he must control his grip strength.
Okay, here he goes…
Three. Two. One!
The entire room erupted in light for a few moments, all coming from his hand and the chargers running down parts of his body. He forced his eyes shut and pushed all the energy in his hand into his throat. But with that came a staggering amount of pain bolting up his neurons. Despite the sudden jolt of his body wanting to throw itself and writhe in pain, all but his right hand held fast. His right arm launched itself up, drew into a fist, and slammed into the floor with fervor. His body knew it's capabilities enough to not cause damage in his hand, but the bottom of it would be bruised for some time.
Magic was something he was extremely grateful of, being given the wonderful gift of almost having sensation in his hands again for a few moments. He felt the pads of his fingers pressed up against the skin of his neck. He could feel the skin of his open wound growing and sealing and the blood drying up, just barely detectable under the pain of the sudden spend of energy exploding in his brain. But he could also feel the adrenaline burst drying out, soon to leave him in pain and tired.
"hah...haha" He let out an exhausted breath, smiling from the sudden weariness that overcame him. A numbness began to creep up in his upper arm and shoulder. And he'd soon get a headache. But he was alright-he was alive. He placed both hands on the back of his neck, one above the other to brace his neck and avoid tearing the fragile, new layer of skin currently serving as the only protection from him bleeding out. The blood-covered redhead let himself lay back on his chosen object and began to focus on his breathing again. He was stable, but not safe.
Had he not chosen to heal himself when he did, the wound would have killed him quicker than he assumed.
There lay another door a few steps from the first though on the opposite side of the hallway. Inside existed a toilet, sink, two cabinets, and a bathtub with a showerhead. Nothing rested in the available space on the sink's counter, the toilet's back, the bathtub, or even in what was visible of the slightly ajar cabinets resting above the toilet.
Her light aimed first at the mirror and sink, firing back blinding rays of yellow light into her line of sight. She jammed her eyes shut and whipped her torso to face away from the reflective surface to peer further into the room. She furrowed her brows. The emptiness of this house felt incorrect.
The young woman bent over slightly to peer into the bathtub, mostly to humor herself.
She knew from reading the purchase records that a pair of people bought this house. The names were not Rhitav native if she remembered right. All of her thoughts wandered, trying to wrap her head around the situation.
As she left the room, she pulled it completely shut. She spun around on one heel and turned into the next room' open doorway, flashing her weapon even with the flow of her shoulder-mounted light, eyes tracking the room. It too was void of life, with only a plain wooden dresser and bare queen mattress on a box spring. Again her face twisted to confusion. There was hardly any dust on the floors or the poor excuse for furniture in this place, so people were here recently. The files didn't say the buyers were moving or otherwise planning to sell.
Judging from the size, this room was the master bedroom. She checked first under the bed and then nudged the closet door open. To her surprise, there was, in fact, something inside. A single black coat, made up of thick wool material and slate gray buttons, with a pair of breast pockets.
She took a full step into the closet and pulled the jacket forward by the front to slide a hand in the left pocket-nothing. But once she reached into the semi-deep right pocket her fingers brushed against something! Paper! Two of her fingers pulled it out and she moved her other hand to unfold the parchment but stopped and slid it into the pocket on the underside of her tactical vest. It would have to wait. She pulled the coat off its hanger and tossed it onto her unoccupied shoulder before clearing the room once again. It was plenty dark outside the glass window, though it wasn't as if that would change in five minutes. One last room. She swiveled around and took steps toward the door, pulling the closet door shut with her non-dominant hand and then the bedroom door, gun hand trained enough to always remain raised even when not properly supported by her other hand. Back into the hallway she stepped, light shining against a partially ajar door of the final room within the one-story house.
This room put her off. Perhaps the eerie shadow the door cast bothered her, or the fact that this was the last room and this house was so barren-maybe she wanted solace.
Something moved! A single, minute shift of a shadow, barely a fraction of any semblance of movement underneath the door frame-her instincts kicked into top gear, and so did some of her anger for her comrade leak into her drive. This was no cowering child or random stranger-no civilian was trained to hide their presence so well, their breath, control their body so well to barely need a shift for more visibility. No time for a drawn-out brawl or firefight. She took some diagonal strides to press up against the wall next to the door's hinges. She pressed a hand to the lowest part of the door she could reach without squatting and pushed out a hard breath as quietly as possible, shutting her eyes.
Her soft gray orange eyes shot open, now vibrantly shone as a passionate, fire shade of orange. She uttered a single phrase-
"NATACIN ORMETXO! (1)" and the door lit up before the hinges suddenly ripped from their bindings to the wall. The door, spurred by the rocketing metal once holding it, burst out of its stationary position and smacked into whoever hid behind it with vigor. The assailant's body crashed into the far wall, being thrown by the door, the actual object of force. She whipped into action, raising her gun once again and shooting across the room. Her free hand grabbed the slightly splintered door by the highest point she could reach, and with all the strength she had shoved the door away from the stranger. It creaked and groaned at the sudden force and clattered to the floor.
Cito stirred from the realm of dissociation and shock slumped against...a couch, or something similar at the sudden bursting and thud sounds.
Where was he...?
Was...this, an attic? He glanced around in the dark, barely shifting
Didn't he fall asleep in his truck, or on the couch next to-
That sounded like an explosion.
...
He'd just nearly been murdered. His blood -that's still in his body, mind you- turned to ice. Where-where was-
The scramble-brained redhead half-tried to roll over onto his hand and out of his sprawled position, only for pain to explode through his entire body. From his usually numb legs to his brain. He immediately went limp and one shoulder hit the floor hard. Everything went pure white in his vision, starkly contrasted to the darkness he awoke from. He screwed his eyes shut.
Though that compared to the other was precisely like comparing feeling the most painful thing possible for the rest of your life without the ability to die versus a sneeze.
Both hands shot up to grasp his temples mid-fall and his breathing picked up. A noise started to shred its way up to his throat and came out as a strangled yowl. This feeling-soreness yet a burning sensation...he knew it...
A flash heal.
Cito took a hard breath through his nose, propping himself up on his elbows and removing his hands from crushing his head for a moment to re-stabilize himself. He slowly sat up onto his knees, moving only by the rise of his torso and not his neck, lest he rip the skin and bleed out. How much blood did he have left in his system, anyway? He turned his body over to face the open window, tilting his shoulder to shine the light on the floor between him and the place his attacker had fallen from.
A pool of dark liquid against the lighter wood where he'd been assaulted, a smaller amount a short distance away, a handprint then nothing. Again he rotated, grateful for the fabric covering his knees and protecting them from splinters or other damage. Where was his flannel? That would tell him how much blood he'd lost.
"(Hands up!)" She demanded, taking a step back into a wide stance, both arms out in front of her with the front of the gun trained on her opponent. This person was in all dark clothes, along with a hood covering their hair and a visor over their eyes. How dare they pervert mythos and Rhitav culture like that! If they had any knowledge of it, that is. She instinctively repeated the phrase in the other language she knew. Even if this stranger didn't understand her, they would get the idea. Surrender or get shot.
This room was like the guest bedroom, though the king boxspring lay directly on the ground instead of on a wooden frame. The same type of closet and a dusty, empty shelf.
But the person did not move. The speed the person's chest rose and fell was too slow and too steady for someone who was just hit by an entire (though lighter than she’d thought) door. Maybe they passed out or were knocked out by the door.
Regardless of an initial sign of life, she habitually squatted down and pressed two fingers to the pulse detection point on their throat.
Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump.
Along with that, their body gave off a faint but detectable magical signature in contrast to the lifelessness of the house's structure and the normal traces of the air and natural life. Probably a non-native. With a sweeping motion, she brushed the small cluster of bangs out of her face with one hand and used the other to free the handcuffs clipped to her belt. She let the handcuffs rest loosely on her hand as she gripped their far shoulder and drag-rolled them onto their back. Once they thumped lightly onto the floor, face first, she cinched the enchanted handcuffs around the person's wrists.
Immediately after the assailant was restrained, she rose back up, the weight shifting from the balls of her feet onto the entirety of her feet before wheeling around to inspect the closet. Nothing except a single, pocketless white tee shirt lay inside the closet, hung on the dusty pole inside. Other than dust on the floor, this room was empty.
Despite the cloth bins tucked inside the cubic, meter high or so wooden storage unit was desolate...like everything else.
She took one more hard look around the room and nudged the person's side lightly to see if a small amount of force would wake them. The person didn't move any, minus rocking slightly from the force she used. The house was secure.
Quickly she left the room and proceeded to shut the door of every room in the house that had a door, speed walking the remaining distance to outside the garage. A body was slumped on the ground a short distance from where the garage ended, enveloped by a spray of the shattered remains of the attic window. The body was flat on their back, arms and legs limp and somewhat sprawled out around the torso. Around the body lay a steadily growing pool of blood, from three bullet holes and one stab wound in the person's torso. The blood had already seeped through the outfit the person had on and was easily staining the concrete driveway. No part of the body was properly exposed to the night air, no organs visible in the small caliber bullet entry wounds and a single stab wound. Just a lot of blood.
Something had thrown their hood back some, revealing the typical haircut of someone who already had short hair and ended up in the military.
She leaned down to inspect their body, grasping her shoulder-mounted flashlight just below the head of the light and gently angling it downward to better shine on the corpse. Uck.
It wasn't that grizzly of a sight, exactly. She'd seen worse, but it was still revolting. And she was still human.
But she stooped down and pressed two fingers to the side of their throat, only to stop once something fully caught her attention. This person had pale blue hair.
Pale.
Hair.
Were they-?
It didn't matter now anyway. Her fingers pressed against the Rhitav native's throat fully but felt nothing. No pulse, but their skin was still somewhat warm. Fxena stood back up and looked around the barren street, flashlight following her as she inspected the empty neighborhood.
Just like the house.
Immediately, she turned on her heel and sprinted at full speed at the pull-down stairs and stomped up them. Screw stealth. She made it up into the room faster than anyone should be able to run up a creaky, foldable wooden flight of stairs without smashing or at least cracking them.
Cito had returned to his spot with his back perched against what he now knew was a chaise lounge. It was in good condition from what he saw upon first entering the room. And that meant he was directly parallel to the pull-down attic staircase. He was alive, though not completely conscious or awake.
His eyes locked on the entrance to the attic the very moment he heard a door shut-or rather a break in the soft ambiance and the shutting of a door. The tattoos running down his arm began to glow a soft white and his open hand shifted, tucking his ring finger into his palm and straightening his pinkie, middle and index finger. His thumb flattened against the side of his hand. It did not matter how 'out of it' he was at the moment. His training was in his blood. Instinct.
He could not exactly see a large amount from the corner of his eye and refrained from turning his head, but patiently he stared. The longer the person took to walk up the stairs, the brighter his tattoos and eyes began to glow. His fist flexed a few times, lightning gently crackling amongst his fingertips.
He almost rotated his body to better face the entrance, only for thundering steps and a voice of a woman he cares for dearly to ring out, sharp and panicked. "(Cito, I'm-I'm coming up!)" Instantly the energy in his body dissipated, as if he were holding his breath in anticipation previously and finally let the lungful of air out.
Said woman crashed up the staircase with fervor. She reached the top step and planted on foot on the attic floor, looking left then right for Cito, only stopping once the light shone in his eyes.
Cito grunted in displeasure, covering his eyes with an arm at the same moment Fxena's brain processed the information that Cito was alive and in front of her.
"(You-you're alive! Are you-are you alright? Or at least stable?)" She kneeled next to him and placed a hand over her flashlight to keep it from further blinding him. "(Ah, sorry.)" With her other hand, she gently pressed a hand to his throat, fingertips barely even brushing against the paper-thin, new skin to see if it was real. Her face visibly winced at the sight.
The wounded young adult did not respond to her verbally. He merely made a noise akin to an 'mmmhmmm' with a gentle thumbs up in both their faces. He was so tired, so ready to...just fall apart.
The lavenderette moved to grab the bloody flannel near the two of them and took the clean sleeve in one somewhat shaking hand, biting her lip as several negative emotions started to overflow in her chest. She gently, gingerly pushed the very end of the sleeve to Cito's chest, where his collarbone met with the bottom of his neck and let the cloth absorb the liquid. She met eyes with him, for the first time, alert greenish-brown locking with Cito's partially foggy ones. Her head tilted to the left some and her brow furrowed.
Despite his entire body screaming in sore protest, Cito raised his left arm up and gently grasped his partner's smaller hand in his own. Her hands were smooth and somewhat bony, a strong, firm grip holding the cloth as she pulled it back slightly to fold the end over. In contrast, his quivering hand was cool to the touch, the temperature reflected by how cold the blood drenching his palm and the lower ends of his fingers felt. The grip he had on her hand was merely his hand resting gently overtop hers, too weak and skin too slick with blood for anything stronger.
"(At least your beautiful face is clean.)" She was right; even though his hands and some of his torso nearly drowned in blood from his wound his face was completely void of it.
Cito snorted softly, a toothy grin rising on his lips. His mouth was just as free of blood as his face.
"(Your teeth too! I called for backup, they'll arrive soon.)" She beamed just like him, though the duration of her smile was quite hollow and very forced.
The redhead gave her a reassuring nod of his head, hearing her words though not entirely processing them. She shifted again and moved the cloth away, realizing that there was too much on him and already on the flannel for her attempts to do any good, finally opting to just sit next to him. Their hands stayed connected, from one resting atop the other to intertwining. This time Cito's grip was firmer and more aware, his hand scrambling to stay close to hers and lock fingers in a desperate attempt to maintain physical contact with her (even though he couldn't feel the contact). Her back gently sat against the side of the lounge just like his, her hand staying locked to his.
"(How-bad?)" He suddenly asked, his voice soft and raspy. It broke through the night. Though he made no gesture to refer to what he wished to know the state of.
She looked over at him, eyes taking in the grotesque wound and the rest of his body. Her soft gaze lingered on his eyes and she sighed.
"(Not good.)" She then quickly looked away once her eyes passed his throat wound again, squeezing his hand reassuringly and casting her sight out the window. A torrent of emotions swelled with the deep inhales they both took, the two desperately trying to fight the explosive overflow trying to overwhelm them with even deeper exhales.
Two minutes of an anxious wait but comfortable silence.
Both their breathing patterns had hit a calm, even pace. Clean inhale, clean exhale.
"(I...I'm so tired.)" A whisper.
Fxena's soft breathing hitched. Did he just...? He never did that on his own, never without serious pressure and never ever in a serious situation. His voice completely shattered the almost calm silence settled in the air. It was much smoother, but she could hear the pain and exhaustion in his words. Tears started to pour down Cito's face, the room raising a few degrees in temperature.
"(I am too.)" She realized aloud, looking over and laxing in her grip holding his hands. Her entire arm bent and she wrapped her arms around his left one, resting her head on his shoulder without putting much weight on it.
His body started to jolt ever so slightly with every silent sob that shook his body. The tears bleeding down his cheeks fell from his chin to his collarbone, blending with the mess of red covering his chest and clothing and watering it down. In tune with the weeping jolts of his body, the energy in his body would jump.
The lavenderette raised her head and looked at her confidant with a pleading, terrified expression. Tears, and tear stains on his cheeks.
"Cito? (Why didn't you say anything?)" She asked, bringing a hand up to gingerly wipe away some of the tears draining from his tear ducts. Her hand stayed softly pressed against his cheek. She was here for him. He wasn't alone and wasn't going to suffer in silence.
She felt tears flowing down her face, the meaning of his words finally reaching her words.
His tiredness wasn't from his injuries, the bomb threats, today, the stress of tension of the current war situation or even the invasion that caused all this.
It was everything, so fast and so harsh and so much all at once.
"(I understand now. I'm tired too. We will survive this.)" She could not promise him it would be okay. Nor would he dare lie. But they would make it through this, okay or not. He hiccuped with a very slight nod of his head.
Cito was still crying, the trails on his face shimmering faintly in the moonlight cast by the open hole of a window. His eyes looked softer, closer to his usual look. No matter how old he would get, regardless of how long it had been-he still missed his parents. He couldn't make peace with it without remembering what he wanted to make peace with, and what tore him up, to begin with.
"(I know that, Fxena. But I just want it to end. All of this.)" He managed to choke out, wrapping his arm around hers. The blood on his hands started to smudge onto both his face and Fxena's hand. Maybe he'd never be able to make peace with it. But he could move forward anyways. Or he could try.
"(And I will do whatever I can to end all of this.)"
"(We will. Me, you, Mahyet, and everyone else.)" She again rested her head on his shoulder and let her eyes shut slowly, squeezing her partner's arm.
They were still young. They shouldn't have to experience this, to have to grow up in this and their childhoods stripped from them.