Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Angus McDonald is a very fancy boy. He wears a nice hat and a small, fitted suit and shoes with low heels that click when he walks — it's an outfit that declares prestige.

The image of a boy walking alone on the streets of Neverwinter is hardly unusual. A boy in such nice material, though, t hat draws a few eyes. The folks here are used to seeing raggedy children, smudged, hunger-thinned cheeks and ill-fitting clothes. They have no problem turning their eyes away then. A young noble boy, though, they openly stare, heads following his path.

The stares are only temporary. There’s purpose in his step that sends them on their way, the fact that he is barely nine years old fading behind the fact that he obviously has some place to be.

Some place is a large building, stout and square in comparison to the slanted roofs that adorn the majority of the city. The headquarters of the Neverwinter Militia has seen his face a couple of times now. It appears the novelty hasn’t quite warn off, as the woman at the desk still has confusion flash across her face when he strides in, all four-foot- something of purpose and youthful determination.

“Young Master McDonald,” she greets him, lips pursing as she looks him up and down.

He gives her a polite smile and a nod, and then flashes the pin on his lapel. The insignia of the McDonald family is enough to make her wilt. One day it will be his own reputation that gets him into these places, but for now he’s willing to exploit his family name. It’s fair, because Angus knows the average boy his age has no business being in here. He just wishes people would wisen up and realize that he is the exception.

“If I could talk to the man you apprehended, ma’am,” Angus says, words clear and pronounced, “I would greatly appreciate it. I have some questions my father would like me to ask him!”

This is a lie. But he clutches a notebook full of neat, precise writing, and he keeps his voice steady and polite and a smile on his face, just large enough to be seen but not reflecting any real happiness — he does all this and the woman, Miss Maryam, sighs and holds out her hand.

Angus passes her his father’s stamp. A coating of ink pressed onto a form will be enough to make whoever reviews it tonight turn a blind eye. Then she lets him through, guides him down the stairs and right where he wants to be.

There’s a dragonborn man in the cell, red-scaled and largely built. It makes irritation flash in Angus’ mind. People take in his features and just assume he’s the criminal without putting in a proper investigation. Hanging a burly dragonborn — especially a red — will be more than enough to appease the people of Neverwinter.

He looks up when Angus gives a gentle rap on the bars. Confusion, as is usual for his clients, flashes in his eyes as he takes in the small child standing in front of his cell.

“Mister Corrhok?” He greets.

He tips his head. “That’s me,” he says, voice slow. “What can I do for you, kid?”

Angus smiles at him. This time it’s genuine, comforting. “Well, first, I just need to ask you one question. Did you — sir, did you commit the crime that you have been accused of?"

He can see the gears turning in Mister Corrhok’s head. Regarding him, confusion glinting into suspicion. And then he shrugs, settles back against the wall. “These militia men are employing some strange tactics," he murmurs, more to himself than Angus. A sigh slides from his mouth before he says, "No, kid, I did not.”

Angus nods, and then flips through his notebook, to the first of many, many pages of his own tight handwriting. “I understand that you’ve been framed for the murder of one Aldraxos Kavyre.” The dragonborn’s eyes widen, and Angus knows then that he’s got a bite. As Mister Corrhok gets to his feet, the boy extends a hand through the bars. “My name is Angus McDonald, sir,” he states, “and I believe I can help you prove your innocence.”

There’s an extra pile of clothes that Angus stores in the gardens. He wraps a towel around them so that they will not get dirty, and it is this bundle that he tugs out of hiding just past sunset. Dinner will be served shortly, and Angus will need to be presentable by then.

He dresses himself there in the gardens, folding his old clothes back into the towel, to be handed off directly to a maid with a few coins “forgotten” within the pockets. His mother will not hear about the soil on his clothing, gained from a good day of sleuthing. Freshly dressed, Angus slips back into his heeled shoes and trots inside. He’ll just need to smooth down his hair and clean up his face before dinner. Easy-peasy.

He can’t help but smile to himself, all but skipping up the steps to the great double doors. It was a good day. He has more than enough evidence gathered, statements from Mister Corrhok and his companions, an undeniable alibi from both friends and strangers alike. He just needs to present it all to the captain of the militia and his client’s name will be —

“ Oof!” Absorbed in his thoughts, Angus didn’t notice his mother turning the corner until he was crashing into her legs. He falls to the ground, eyes wide behind glasses knocked askew as he stares up at her.

“I — I’m sorry!” The cry leaves him before anything else has time to register. Then Angus is on his feet, body folded into a bow. “I’ll watch where I’m going next time, I’m so sorry —”

He flinches when she leans down and grabs his chin, forcing his head up. Angus straightens on instinct, body snapping into perfect, soldier-esque stiffness as she scrutinizes him. Cold eyes, a crisp blue, scan his face. His heart skips when they tighten, red lips pulling into a line.

“Where you out playing again, Angus?” She asks. There’s a sweetness to her voice that Angus has long since learned not to trust, candied words he knows will cut him if he bites.

So he swallows and keeps his gaze down and his voice the perfect measure between quiet and audible as he says, “I was in the garden, ma’am.”

There’s a smudge on his cheek, where he slipped on wet pavement and knocked his face off the dirty alley wall. It might be bruised, too. He hasn’t had time to check.

He counts his breaths as her silence holds, four seconds inhale, three seconds out. Don’t speak and don’t blink and don’t let his lib wobble, not even a twitch.

She cuffs the back of his head, hard enough to make him stagger and leave his skull feeling rattled. Still he holds himself still, head bowed, arms stiff at his sides. “Be careful,” she chides. “What if we had guests over. They’ll think we’re raising an animal, rolling around in the dirt. Get yourself clean.”

“Yes ma’am,” he squeaks out. He waits for the sound of her heeled shoes to fade before he unfreezes, sucking in a breath. Gratitude flickers in his chest. She let him go without trouble tonight, and it’s something that makes him smile against his racing heart.

It’s a good day.

There comes a point where people realize that the Angus is not simply carrying out his father’s will. Things like interrogating prisoners, and tracking down criminals, and showing up with binders full of evidence for an alibi suggest that this kid might not just be the messenger.  He and the captain have something of a deal going on, though, so they let it slide. The young master’s grandfather is a generous patron of the Neverwinter militia. So long as his money is keeping them stocked with crossbow bolts and armor, they’ll turn a blind eye to the literal child at the crime scene.

Angus loves his grandfather.

The best days are when his parents have left, traveling to Goldcliff and similar cities to do whatever it is that a duke and his wife would do with other nobles. Brag about their riches, he’s sure. Talk about how much of it stays in their pockets and how much is wasted on frivolous things and how not a single copper goes into impoverished hands.

That they’re aware of, anyway. They never notice when Angus pockets a few coins, and so will never know where he leaves them.

On these days, though, or the weeks or even months when they’re outside of Neverwinter, Angus lives with his grandfather. It’s a separate property, smaller, more suited for a single man and the select members of his staff — a staff which he lacks, in truth, so it's actually a little big for it's one or two occupants.

Angus isn’t really allowed to see his grandpa, but when both of his parents are gone, there’s no one to really enforce the rule. Before he was the son of the duke and duchess, he was the ward of Arby McDonald. It’s a time he remembers only sparsely, when he was so young that everything was just a blur of color and sensation. The memories of sitting on his grandfather’s lap, his creaky voice rolling out the words of books far beyond his age, they’re tinted with rose. Angus breathes in the dust and paper scent of his library and feels the tension wind out of his body.

He knows the man is not biologically his grandfather. He knows he is not biologically his parents’ son. It’s never been stated, and maybe another child his age would take longer to figure it out. Angus, though, Angus knows how genetics work, at least on their most basic level. He knows that when his father’s eyes are black and his mother’s are sapphire, his own have no right to be a blue-tinted silver. He knows that his freckles had to come from somewhere, even though his mother and father and grandfather all lack them. He knows he shouldn’t have hair in tight curls when his mother’s is straight and his father’s falls in waves.

He knows this, and he’s not completely okay with it. But it’s his life, and it’s a mystery Angus wouldn’t even know how to begin to solve it.

He loves his grandfather, though, so he’s willing to overlook it. To consider it a good thing, even, that he fell into the man’s care instead of remaining where he’d been born.

He does wish, sometimes, that he could have stayed there, reading his books and chattering on and on about his mysteries instead of being taught how to sit up straight and to address his betters as sir and ma’am and to always hold on tight to his coins when a tiefling walks by. Grandpa always asks about his cases. Sometimes he asks the same questions too many times. It's nice, though, that he's interested. That he cares. 

Sometimes he remarks that Angus is a bit too young for this business. “Why, you’re only seven,” he’d chuckle, and Angus would have to quietly remind him that no, grandpa, I’m nine.

He thinks he’s nine. Maybe he is seven. Or maybe he’s ten? There’s static in his head.

Nine. He’s almost certain that he is nine.

Angus dreams of fire, sometimes. Of a light that leaves him blinded, a heat that sears beneath his skin. He dreams of a disc of obsidian, a pinhole of darkness growing smaller as he’s carried far, far away.

When he wakes up, he’s already forgotten.

Angus has always loved his grandfather’s silverware. He’s not entirely certain why, but the polished metal always makes something inside of him thrum with satisfaction. He loves to turn it between his fingers and stroke the polished grooves, feeling the delicate skim of a butterknife’s teeth over the the pad of his thumb. Strong and sharp and shining, he thinks, these are all very good traits to have.

His grandfather lets him keep it, a gift given when he was six years old, just after his new guardians took him away. They’re grandpa’s children — or, they’re grandpa’s son and his daughter, which meant they were Angus’ parents. A woman accompanied the pair, having them sign a looping signature and stamp the paper just before she put a hand on Angus’ shoulder to guide him away.

He’s unfit as a guardian, according to the woman, who Angus decides at the time he doesn’t like very much. He definitely doesn’t like his parents , and the looks on their faces suggest they don’t much like him, either.

Grandpa is forgetful, yes. Sometimes he forgets to clean, or to wash Angus’ clothes. Sometimes he calls Angus by the wrong name entirely. Sometimes he calls him “ Sonny” and “ Lad" like he's just a lost kid he bumped into on the street . Sometimes he seems angry and cold for no reason and won’t speak no matter how long Angus calls for him, will push him away when he tries to sit with him in his armchair. Sometimes he goes into the library and stays there for hours and hours and hours, until the rising sun has gone down and Angus has to interrupt him because his stomach is aching too much to be ignored.

It doesn’t happen often, though. And Angus doesn’t want to leave. But grandpa says they don’t have a choice, and that he’ll be just down the street if he's needed. Then he gives Angus his case of silverware with a stern order for him to take care of it, right before he reminds him, “Don’t lie, don’t brag, and stay sharp, Angus.”

So Angus clutches the case to his chest. It’s as big as his own torso and heavy in his little arms, but he hangs onto it like it’s priceless as he’s guided out the door and to the carriage that will take him to his new home.

When he's ten years old, Angus' parents take him to Rockport. It's an interesting city. Not interesting enough that Angus wants to live there, though. He misses the steeply-sloped roofs of Neverwinter, the cobblestone and the early-morning fog. He misses knowing all the best places to hide and snoop, misses being able to trot down a ways to his grandfather’s manor, misses everything that he used to consider home.

Rockport is a city of innovation, though, and the McDonalds are seeking to expand. To sponsor and invest, so that when someone gets big, gets powerful, his parents will have them on a leash. So they move, and they take Angus with them, and he has to start all over again.

What he misses more than anything, he thinks, are his connections. In Neverwinter, his family’s emblem was enough to get him anywhere, the way paved by his grandfather’s coin. In Rockport, though, they don’t listen to Angus. They don’t crumple under his shiny pin, and they catch him before he can flit onto the scene, and when he wheedles and insists and tells them that he is useful, he’s smart and unassuming and a little boy like himself is perfect for investigation, they grab him by his scruff and load him into a carriage and drag him back to his family’s estate.

Suddenly Angus is singing a very different tune, but nothing stops them from knocking on the door and pushing him into his father’s grasp.

Angus is nursing bruises before dinner. He needs to look presentable for his mother.

Angus does what he’s always done best: he gets smart. If the Rockport city militia don’t want him investigating, he’ll just have to go around them.

He finds a clothing store — not too fancy, not too cheap. An average, middle-class boy is what he’ll become. He stores his hat into a bag and teaches himself to walk too close to strangers, to get under their feet and to not apologize, swallows his sirs and ma’ams and bites back words that are too big for a boy his age.

It’s not really a disguise. He’s just blending in, becoming one of something he is not.

The thing is, people don’t notice children. If Angus sits down with a book in his lap and a pen in his hand, he becomes invisible. They don’t listen, either, and this is a little bit less useful as a detective, but it’s something he’s learned to deal with a long time ago.

Angus does listen. He listens to the militia men discuss the state of a body, of a death by immolation. He strolls down the block, by a roped-off house, and hears nothing. Turns around, walks back up. Nothing. Repeats this nearly twelve times before another man comes out and he hears that a murderer has lifted every valuable item from the safe. An officer pauses to speak with his companion and leaves a carriage door held open, doesn’t notice as Angus scampers behind him to hunker down in the back seat.

It’s there, as he stays curled in hiding, that he gets two names: The Rockport Slayer, and that of the train he resolves to be take.

There’s a sense of victory in Angus’ mind as he sneaks back into his home. He keeps his new clothes folded in the bottom of his bag, knows he’ll have to wash them himself as soon as he gets the chance. There’s a new staff that came with the estate, and he can’t be certain they won’t blab.

Angus washes his face in the mirror. A bruise lingers on his cheekbone, yellow and purple and ugly. He finds a tube of dark cream that he smears over his skin, dusting it with a soft brush until it blends seamlessly with his complexion. There. A respectable, fancy boy. Angus McDonald: heir to the McDonald fortune, a young genius. And as far as the world is concerned, he’s been in his room studying all day long.

Which is why he’s confused first, and then alarmed when he finds his parents waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. Angus thinks for a moment to stall, to put off whatever they have waiting for just a few stolen moments longer. Then he tells himself that whatever is going to happen will happen, and putting it off will not improve it whatsoever. So he descends the stairs, one clicking footstep at a time, nausea in his stomach and rising to sicken his heart.

There’s a case next to his parents, resting just to the left of his father’s legs. It’s Angus’ silverware set.

And then his father speaks, and Angus goes numb for a little while. He nods, though, says “Yes, sir, I understand,” until the words lose meaning on his tongue. And then he sits at the table and doesn’t taste a single bite of the food he eats, even though he’s hungry — he’s always hungry — and he goes up to his room and sits on his bed and doesn’t sleep through the night.

His grandpa is dying.

Objectively, Angus thinks, it’s a little convenient. A convenient time to die. Because he needs to get on that train, so that he can catch the killer, because he is a detective. His parents have already bought him a ticket for The Rockport Limited, where he and several others will be storing their most valuable items for the trip between Rockport and Neverwinter. An ideal place for the Slayer to make his next move. It’s almost like fate is at work here, all the stars aligning for this case.

Angus swallows his grief. He’s a detective. There will be time for feelings after his job is done.

Chapter Text

The Rockport Limited is to leave at a quarter past ten. It has yet to depart the station, Angus just biding his time until the trip begins. If there’s anything he is certain of, it’s that the Slayer won’t make a peep until they’re well on their way to Neverwinter.

He sits in the passenger car, a blue-covered book open and waiting in his lap. Once in a while, it will warm beneath his skin, magic prickling through its pages as it steals a message from the air. Most are just reports, train stations announcing arrivals and departures, passenger problems, weather conditions, confirming the track is safe for travel. Every now and then, he’ll pick up a more personal message, reads curiously through it before sending it on its way.

He has another book, one full of names and notes: Hudson, Jess (the Beheader), Jenkins, and Graham. No suspicious activity as of yet.

A trio enters the train: the last of the passengers. Angus doesn’t have a chance to get their names, or even a good look at them, only making a note in the margins: ' elf, human, dwarf.'  Then, when none of them emerge for a good while, notes, ' extended time w/ Jenkins.'

'Jenkins appears angry/upset upon exit'.

'Jenkins moves to dining car.'

Investigating the newcomers is the obvious choice, as the train finally begins to move. It would be weird for a small boy to approach a bunch of strangers, though, at least when they're in their private car. Instead he scoots out of his chair and after Jenkins, buying a cup of cold tea as an excuse to be in there. The chances that anyone will be suspicious of a little kid are pretty slim, but it’s best to establish his alibi at all points in time. Also, he really is kind of thirsty, and his stomach feels achingly empty. Skipping breakfast was not the best way to go. 

Graham is in the car as well, Angus watching him and Jenkins curiously. He reaches for his notebook, eager for an opportunity to watch Jenkins channel his spell. It's pretty advanced magic, he knows that indisputably. It wasn’t an illusion of his grandpa’s library he’d stepped into, but the physical room. Dusty books and paper scent and all, all lacking the prickling of magic that meant a false scene was being drawn from his memories.

Graham stumbles when he comes back onto the train. Angus makes another note.

The investigation is... admittedly a little boring. It's like a stakeout, and stakeouts are the worst. You have to pay attention so you can't entertain yourself while you're just waiting and waiting for something to happen. He longs to get one of his Caleb Cleveland novels out, instead of making inane notes on the passengers. 

He writes down Graham's excitement. He notes his conversation with Jenkins. He writes when the trio enters the dining car, and Jenkins' reaction to seeing the three of them. 

‘Jenkins unhappy w/ E/H/D’ he writes. Then ‘E/H/D at fault?’

It’s likely not a case of threatening or blackmail . They seem more goofy than anything else, maybe even unpleasant. With their attention safely on Jenkins, he lets his gaze fix on them. A kid staring isn’t weird, anyway.

'Human: Scars, large build, muscular — fighter? Likely male.'

'Dwarf: Thick accent. Likely male.'

Not much else to note on the dwarf. He’ll need to keep an eye on that one. Angus taps his pencil against his lip before he lets his eyes flicker to the last one.

'Elf: Slight build, androgynous. Physical altercation unlikely. Inquired a/b P.C. (P.C. = Pleasure Chamber). Flirtatious? Flashy dresser.'

'All three wear matching bracers.'

As he writes, the three seem to be squabbling with Jenkins. He almost laughs, then feels bad about his amusement — the man  is just doing his job, and these three seem to be giving him a rough time.

Absorbed in his writing, Angus doesn’t completely notice when the three turn to approach him. He doesn't so much as glance up until an accented voice begins with, “You look like a fancy lad.”

Angus lifts his head in time to see the dwarf pulling out a book. A bible actually, which nearly makes his eyebrows shoot up. ‘Cleric’ he thinks, saving that tidbit into his memory. He’s disappointed in himself to say he’s surprised by the discovery. Making baseless assumptions is never a good thing for a detective.

“Uh, hello sir,” he greets. “Thank you for the evangelism, but I’m affiliated already and I appreciate it.” The next part is the absolute truth: “And my dad says that I sh — I’m not allowed to talk to people that worship pagan gods.”

It’s a back-and-forth game, Angus relenting after a moment, playing up ‘polite and somewhat shy’ as apart of his childish persona until he gets where he needs to be. He needs names. He needs details. 

“Just call me Brother Leeman,” the dwarf says, which sparks something in Angus’ brain. The name is familiar, and his fingers itch to flip through his notebook. The human is whispering to the elf, though, and he’s quick to interrupt them, suspicion glinting in his eyes. It takes more than a bit of prying to get the other two names: Diddly for the human, Justin for the elf. Which — he thinks, with a name like Justin, he’s safe to assume the elf is a man, even if he will keep his ears pricked for indications otherwise.

They seem equally interested in him, though he’s not certain if that’s a note of suspicion. People are nosey about kids’ lives — always asking him where he goes to school and what he wants to be when he grows up. It’s kind of annoying.

And then, in an irritatingly transparent move, the cleric tries to cast a spell on him. Doesn’t even disguise it, just lists off the name as he tries to catch Angus in his zone of truth. He feels that tingle in his skull, invasive magic trying to pry his secrets from his mouth. It's easy to shrug off the magic, though — perhaps he's no good at wielding it, but resisting? Angus has always been strangely adept.

They’re quick to leave after that and — yeah, yeah that is pretty suspect. You don't cast zone of truth as a party trick. He adds their names to the list, frowning to himself. They could easily be fake personas. And then there was the case of Leeman.

Flicking through the pages of his notebook, it takes him a few beats to find what he’s looking for. But it’s there, on a list of victims of The Rockport Slayer: Leeman Kesler. Murdered just the evening before, in fact.

Oh yeah. He is neck-deep in this mystery. Three suspects already on the list — he’ll need to keep an eye on them.

They don’t fit the part, though. The Slayer has always been a singular person, no evidence of outside aid. It’s not impossible but — unlikely, for sure. T aking the name of his victim, too, that seems unusual. Unless — unless they want to get the item that was on the train. But there are multiple items on the train, and dressing up as Leeman Kesler wouldn’t help him get to them so — so —

They’re talking a bit too far away for him to listen. Angus doesn’t think he’ll be able to move closer without getting their attention, not after throwing off their spell. He’s definitely made an impact — clumsy detective work, but it was his best option. Being on the receiving end of an interrogation defeated the whole purpose.  Instead he turns back to his interceptor book, dismissing the last few messages it had picked up in time: a letter between a mother and her son, a report from Neverwinter to Rockport, listing a shipment departure.

It’s all notes, speculations and observations. No theories yet, no evidence. He needs more dirt on Jess, her portion significantly blank. She’s been absent for the majority of the trip — but maybe that’s due to being something of a celebrity?

Angus glances up to observe again, as soon as the three men decide to test Jenkins’ Pleasure Chamber. Nothing out of the ordinary, just visiting a popular one — and apparently desecrating it, if Jenkins’ one-sided conversation through his gate is anything to judge by.

His book warms. Angus opens it, disinterestedly skimming whatever letter he’s snooping into this time.

‘Leeman Kessler and Co not who they say they are STOP

Charm magic spell performed at the station STOP

Hand over to authorities immediately upon arrival in Neverwinter STOP’

Angus rereads it twice before jerking the book closer to his face, abruptly and irrationally worried about its contents being seen. Just in time, too, at the three men slip back out from the Pleasure Chamber and over in his direction. 

He takes a look at them in that moment and decides that no, they couldn’t possibly be the killer he’s looking for. If asked, Angus wouldn’t be able to say why. He’s always been an intuitive boy, though, and perhaps these men don’t read as honest or innocent, but serial killers? He just knows it’s not the truth.

So he greets them and questions them, and decides that there’s no use in beating around the bush.

“And what are your guys’ names?” He asks. There’s a hint of amusement licking the inside of his chest at their confusion, as they hesitantly answer him. Fake names again. “No,” he says, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, what are your guys’ real names?” And it takes almost every ounce of his willpower not to grin as he sees the confusion shift into realization, to suspicion, to alarm. “What are the names that aren’t fake that you guys actually have?”

Gotcha.

He smirks as they whisper to each other. The elf, Not-Justin, he’s eying Angus over, murmuring something to the not-Diddly. Angus expects it when the human swipes for his book, amusement shifting immediately into irritation. Really? Is it because he’s ten? “Don’t do — Don’t try that again!” He snaps. “I need to know what your guys’ names are, right now!”

Or he’ll send the message to Neverwinter so these men will be arrested. Or he’ll scream so that help will come rushing. Or he’ll take the little crossbow out of his sleeve because he’s a little bit nervous, confronted with three men, one who’s built like a brick shithouse and a cleric and an elf that is probably some kind of magic user.

This time, he’s not fast enough when Not-Diddly grabs his book. Any satisfaction he’d been feeling evaporates, face going stormy. He tries to keep his voice light, but his teeth grit when his book is tossed over his head and to the elf, who opens his book, takes the one piece of leverage Angus had over them.

He hates being so powerless. He shouldn’t be at the mercy of others, he knows he is better than this, he knows he —

— he —

He shakes his head, hard. Angus McDonald is a resourceful boy. He’s always, always turned his weaknesses into advantages.

“How about: I’m a little boy who knows that you’re lying, and I can yell and yell and yell and get you in lots of trouble.” It comes out lightly but it’s bitten between his teeth, a threat he intends to make good on the moment he decides he’s done with these assholes.

It’s a surprise when the elf tosses his book back to him. Angus fumbles to catch it, clutching it possessively to his chest — it’s his, he hates when people take what’s his.

And finally, a real name: Taako. One truth among layers of falsehoods.

He takes the men back to his car, and he begins to explain.

Angus doesn’t like Magnus very much — steals his book and rolls his eyes and insists his deductions aren’t any good when he wasn’t even deducing shit at all. He’s reserved judgement on Merle for the time being, noting that he’s quick to threaten violence but so far hasn’t acted on it at all.

And then there’s Taako.

Angus can’t help the little glimmer of warmth. It’s something like relief, even gratitude, the first in this party to trust him and to actually tell the truth. Defending him, too, which makes him smile as the memory of Taako’s voice echoes in his head, “He wasn’t showboating.”

He’s a little less generous when Taako calls him a baby. Because he’s a perfectly good age, thank you he’s — he’s eight — he’s —

Angus is ten years old.

He wants to talk more about the three men and their job — a job which apparently they are physically incapable of talking about, a familiar static in place of words. It doesn’t actually project from their mouths, but clogs the insides of his ears, blocks the noise from getting in. That’s a mystery if he’s ever heard one, something so fantastical that he wouldn’t believe it if he weren’t sitting in front of them.

There’s no chance to dig any deeper, though, a shriek that splits out sending him rushing for the scene.

He’s cursing himself when he smells the blood, copper thick in the air. A puddle of blood has seeped out from beneath a door. It splashes quietly underfoot as he steps to the door, sliding it open and wincing at the sight immediately inside.

Well , he thinks, grim, Jenkins is off the suspect list.

He picks his way around the body, taking a glance at the severed points of the body. Clean cut at the head, messy at the wrists. Two different methods — why the hands? Lost in the battle? Why both of them?

He moves to the other body in the room, relieved to at least find that Graham is still breathing. That’s one life he didn’t fail to save today. Unconscious, but unharmed.

“Look over the body,” he commands, “as quick as you can before anybody else gets here.” Leaving them to it, Angus begins to pace the room, eyes scanning the area. Blood on the door, on the floor. Fresh body — Jenkins is still leaking blood from the stumps of his wrists and neck.

Why leave the body here? Why not throw it off the train? Why go through the trouble of cutting off his head and his hands — hands, the safe? But why, then, would they target Jenkins.

Taako and Merle and Magnus are off the list. Graham is the prime suspect, Jess following close behind. Hudson — maybe, Angus doesn’t know how the train runs, he’d need to get inside the cabin to see that, but his only way in is dead on the floor.

He’s not particularly interested when Magnus calls out to him, ignoring the man in favor of saying, “We need to get Graham to a, uh, a bed or something as quick as —”

His eyes flicker. Back and forth around the walls and then up. There’s — a disturbance. A shimmer in the air and when he squints he can — it’s almost an outline.

“Nobody move,” he says, flicking his crossbow into his hand and sending a bolt flying into the intruder.

And then there’s some kind of crab on the ceiling, and Angus yells for them to run, grabbing Graham by the robes and hauling him through the door. He nearly trips over himself, stunned with just how easily he dragged the man through.

He hears a call of, “I’m following Angus, I’ll see you all in hell!” Taako is the first one to bolt, and Angus isn’t sure if he’s grateful that somebody listened to him for once or if the cowardice is irritating. It’s no matter, he’s stopped to bicker with his companions, and if they get killed for stalling, it’s their own fault. Angus has done his part, dragging Graham into the passenger car—

And they’re literally  following him. Taako shoves him as he rushes through, Merle and Magnus rushing in after. “Shut the door!” He yelps, craning his head to watch as they yank it shut and brace against it just in time for the monster to slam against the other side.

“What’re you doing!” He yells, and he’s a little bit scared and a little bit frustrated. Nobody listens everybody always thinks they’re right. “I told you to run towards the back of the train! Sirs!”

“We wanted to protect you,” is what Magnus says.

“ I don’t need protecting!” The yelling is making his heart race. He’s not supposed to raise his voice, but his face is flushed and he can’t stop. “I need — uh — you know what a great thing to do to protect me would be? It would've been great if you had brought it in any other room except for the room that we’re in now!”

He keeps yelling, even over the sound the the crab bursting through the door, finally swallowing his ire to drag Graham away. Either the man is the victim or the perp, and either way Angus is going to save him.

He leaves the monster to the three of them — Merle has his holy symbol and Magnus is strong and Taako is — well Taako runs pretty fast so they’ll be fine.

Angus figures that adrenalin must be lending him strength as he gets Graham’s body to the passenger car. It’s more work to get him up on the benches, not due to lack of strength but lack of size, and really it’s a miracle he doesn’t wake up with how much his limbs are being dragged and tossed around to roll him up onto the seats.

And he waits there, warring with himself on whether or not to go help. His crossbow bolt hadn’t dealt any real damage — only made it angry. He has no other weapons, no magic, despite all his best efforts. So for once, Angus thinks it’s best if he stays out of the way.

It’s an absolute mess of an investigation. Definitely the most dangerous Angus has every encountered, between the crab monsters and the meat golems and Jenkins’ own prowess — which admittedly wasn’t as much as Angus hyped it up to be, getting smacked out of the train by his own lackey.

And then there’s the whole train-hurtling-towards-Neverwinter-at-full-speed problem, which isn’t something he can just solve. He’s eleven — he’s ten years old, and he hasn’t done nearly enough with his life, and this train is going to kill both them and all the people in Neverwinter’s train station and more.

It’s a shitty way to go out.

He’s willing to cling to any solution — getting pushed off the train is not what he’s expecting, though, his little body tucking itself instinctively into a ball that hits hard and rolls and rolls until he comes to a harsh stop, where he sits up and flashes the train a thumbs-up.

He watches the rest of them leap from the train, Magnus falling and not getting up — he’s breathing, though — and Jess touching the ground after a graceful lunge and then Graham and Merle and finally Taako —

Angus’ eyes are wide behind his broken glasses, watching Taako leap from the train, hitting the ground running. His image is small from how far he’s traveled, but Angus can see him turn, cast Jenkins’ wand forward and opening up a portal at the last possible moment. Angus sees a garden open up in the gate to Neverwinter Station, the train barreling through, leaving Taako's hair and robes settling from the wind. The moment it’s passed inside, the portal seals up, train gone, city safe, all of them alive and watching in awe.

Taako, he thinks, is a pretty amazing wizard.

Air gusts out of his lungs, suddenly aware his chest is full and aching around a stopped breath. He just breathes for a few moments, in and out, watching as everyone begins to pick themselves up. He’s the furthest away — he better start walking.

Conversing with the Neverwinter police is almost refreshing, explaining the situation to people that actually recognize him. People that listen to him.

He manages to catch the three before they can lose him, not quite wanting to let them go. Something inside of him feels almost a despair at the prospect of them just leaving. Like there are threads linked between them and they’re pulling them taut, until the distance stings and strains and inevitably snaps.

Magnus needs medical treatment, though, something greater than just a cleric’s spells. And Angus has no reason to follow them any longer. So he waves goodbye, feeling a chord stretch thin as they walked away, until it was only a line of spider silk and that, too, faded away.

He feels a little bit hollow inside. Angus clutches at the three forks Taako gave him, throat working with difficulty around a swallow. They weren’t good people. He doesn’t know why he already misses them.

Angus takes a moment to gather himself. He tucks the forks into his bed, already readying himself for the fallout of that one. He doesn’t think grandpa will believe him when he tries to explain.

The trip there is suffocating. He clutches at his bag, listening to the steady pace of the horses that draw the carriage to his grandfather’s estate. A handful of coins to the driver and Angus is hopping down, staring out at the manor with dread rising in his throat.

He’s never once been afraid to step inside. This time, he feels like his feet are encased in armor, trudging up the path, heart quickening with every step. It’s impossible to resign himself, just mounting dread when he pulls out his tarnished key to open the doors.

Angus finds his grandpa in the library. The afternoon light streams through a dusty window, illuminating the motes that drift through the air. He’s sitting in a faded armchair, a book open in his lap, glasses on his face. As Angus slides the door shut, his grandfather falls into a fit of coughing, the sound rough and grating. It makes him wince with fear, seeing his frail body shake.  When it’s over, the man is left struggling for breath.

Angus swallows, steeling himself before he steps forward. “Grandpa, I’m here,” he calls.

The man looks up. His eyes are clear today, lucid. He’s not sure if that’s a relief or not.

“Angus,” he greets, giving him a nod and beckoning him closer. His voice is little more than a croak.

The sound, the sight of him, it makes his insides feel shriveled. He really is dying, then. Couldn’t have more than a week left in him. “How are you feeling, Grandpa?” He asks, walking over to stand in front of his arm chair.

“I’ve been better.” Cracked lips spread in a smile. “But you know that. Angus.” He straightens up, heart thudding. “You brought my silverware?”

Angus is quiet. His silence says it all, and his grandpa leans forward. The smile has vanished from his face.

“I — I tried, sir,” he squeaks out. His arms are vice-tight around his bag. “There — there — on the train, there was a — a c-c-case, and…”

Words fail him. His jaw works, opening and closing, but his mind has gone blank. His grandfather’s face has gone stoney, leaving panic fluttering beneath his ribs. “Angus,” he says, voice low and thrumming with warning, “I gave you one task, my boy. You just needed to bring it back to me.”

“I — I know, and I’m so sorry. I —” It’s a last ditch effort, Angus reaching into his bag to pull the three pieces out, holding them out in a trembling fist.

His face contorts for a moment, and Angus fights the urge to reel back. His grandpa has never hurt him. He's mad, but he's not — it's not enough to cross that line, he knows it, he wouldn't —

“Angus.” He trembles. Grandpa's voice i s angry, it’s disappointed, and Angus squeezes his eyes shut tight as he folds his body into a quivering bow.

“I apologize, s-s-sir,” he stammers out, speaking to the floor. His broken glasses threaten to fall off his face.

A hand lands on his head. Angus flinches.

“Just… go put your stuff down, Angus.” The words are quieter, now, but no less irate. His eyes burn. He waits for his grandpa to let go of him before turning and walking out, doing all he can not to break into a run.

The sound of his grandpa’s coughing follows him as he fights the urge to sob.

Chapter Text

He wakes remembering only snatches of his dream. A hot layer of sweat coats his skin, breath coming harsh in his throat. Angus braces a hand at his neck, gulping in air that burns on its way to his aching lungs. He thinks he'd been screaming.

Someone had told him you can't feel pain in your dreams. Angus is certain that must be wrong, though, because he know his skin had been burning. The sensation still crawls over his arms, fire melting flesh from bone, razing the earth into obsidian, Angus prone at its center and —

The memory folds over and stretches in his mind. He hisses, tries to cling until his head begins to throb. A moment later, it's only static.

Angus snaps out of his trance.

He doesn't remember waking up, but he's sweaty and winded. A nightmare, undoubtedly. Another one. They've plagued him since Grandpa passed.

Angus shakes his head as he slips out from under the covers. Clothes are set out for him, a small uniform and high socks and heeled shoes that he steps into with every intention to remove the moment he's out of the house. Heels are no good for sneaking.

He cleans himself up, teeth brushed, face washed. His hair is beginning to grow out a bit more — his mother will likely have him shave it down soon. Then it's down the stairs to greet his parents with his eyes and voice low and take his seat to be served.

Breakfast is its usual quiet affair, silverware clinking against porcelain, words shared between his parents over the morning's paper as Angus stays properly silent. Everything is normal, up until Angus stands to leave the table.

His mother goes, "Angus," in a tone that makes his heart skip, his muscles tense.

"Yes, ma'am" He answers, and doesn't breathe back in after.

"We're taking you to a clinic tomorrow, see if we can get some potions for those dreams of yours." Her voice is clipped, eyes like chips of ice that stare at him from over the paper she's scouring.

Angus feels chilled. He only nods his head. "Yes, ma'am," he repeats, quieter. "I'll be heading to school, then." And then he turns and strides out of the dining room, steps timed and precise even though he couldn't possibly leave fast enough.

Angus doesn't go to school. He hides his shoes in the garden as planned and slips into something flat-soled and quiet, just in case. One never knows when a lead will appear, after all. Dressed suitably, he heads for the carriage that's waiting just outside the gate, handing the driver the gold for the ride and, more importantly, his silence.

The carriage takes him to the post office, Angus hopping out with a motion for the driver to wait for him. He fishes out the key he'd lifted from his parents' room to open their letter box, keeping his head down and offering no greeting to the man working the desk. He skims through the envelopes, most slipped cleanly back into place for his father to open later in the day. There's one, though, that he hangs onto, excitement flaring in his chest when he reads the sending address.

It's been longer than he'd hoped, but they've finally responded. He splits the letter open, chewing his lip as he pulls out the paper to read.

'Dear Mr. McDonald,

I would be more than happy to discuss this matter further in person. Assuming this reaches you in a timely manner, please use the ticket I have attached for the trip to Neverwinter. I will be awaiting you at the station, provided you are capable of making the journey.

— Nezznar Lee'

Attached to the letter, as promised, is a ticket to Neverwinter. Not via The Limited, thankfully, just your typical early-morning trip. It's scheduled only three days away.

He slips the ticket slowly into his bag, giddy euphoria making his heart beat quick. Only three days. He's come to a harsh standstill in his investigations, but this, this will finally get him back on his feet. It feels like ages away. 

Nezznar Lee is a drow. Gray skin, red eyes, and hair dyed a soft blue and tied into a braid, they're a fairly pretty elf. They glance about the platform, clearly looking for someone of much higher stature than Angus, not even noticing the boy up until he's standing directly in front of them.

"Hello, Mx. Lee?" He checks, and holds out his card between two fingers. "My name is Angus McDonald, and I'm here to investigate your missing persons report."

Nezznar stares at him for a good while. When they speak, it’s hesitant: “I was not… expecting…”

“A little boy?” Angus fills in. He smiles, indulgent. “I know I sound much older in my letters. But looks can be deceiving, xir! I promise, if you tell me what you know, I’ll be able to get to the bottom of this.”

Nezznar hesitates further. “Perhaps,” they say, “But I’m not sure how comfortable I am with… hiring a child. That certainly defies labor laws, aside from the obvious concern.”

“In my defense, xir,” Angus chirps, fighting the keep his voice from growing sharp, “you did file a missing persons report for someone you don’t remember, who may not even exist. I’m not sure who else will take this case at all.”

“There’s a beat where Nezznar just eyes him over, cautious, uncertain. Then they sigh, muttering, “Well, things might as well get weirder. Come on, then.”

He follows them into a carriage, the two exchanging pleasantries as they roll through the streets of Neverwinter. He feels a wave of nostalgia as they pass familiar neighborhoods, past his parents' old manor, past the building that used to be his grandfathers, until they reach Nezznar’s home.

It’s a nice looking building, windows tinted against the sunlit garden of petunias outside. Tidy, with polished stones paving the way to the door. The only exception to this cleanliness appears in the form of webs clinging in the porch overhang, ones Nezznar pauses to stare at. Their eyes grow distant. Then they blink and, as though nothing happened, and turn to unlock the door and allow Angus inside.

They make tea before anything else. It’s a spice he’s never tasted before, Angus tipping an extra spoon of sugar into his cup when Nezznar isn't looking.

“I’m not sure what this tea is,” They tell him, when he asks. “It’s just in my cupboard — loads of it. But I have no idea what it’s called, or when I bought it. I just know that I like it.

Angus nods. He sets his cup down with practised delicacy and folds his hands in his lap. “And these… discrepancies? You’re noticing more of them?” He pulls his notebook out, unpinning his pen from his breast pocket. “Describe them to me, please, xir.”

Nezznar pinches their nose, eyes falling shut. “Where do I begin?” They sigh. “My house is just full of them. There’s the tea and… these cups are a set, matching. I only have the two. There are clothes that don’t fit me, my bed has four pillows when I only use one, and I —” They take a sharp breath. “I don’t know if someone is missing or if I’m just… I don’t even know if this is real.”

Angus is quiet, bulleting the notes. Then he glances up to meet their eyes. “Xir,” he says, voice gentle, “I promise you, you’re not crazy, and this is real. You’re not the only one to be missing someone like this. There are several others that don’t remember people that should be there, and I think I'm safe in my assumption all these cases are connected.”

As soon as he says this, tension bleeds out of Nezznar, leaving them slumped back against their seat. “I just need to ask you something, xir,” Angus begins. “And please, take as long as you need to answer. Can you recall any hearing any static while people are talking? Or trying to think about or look at something, but it’s like you can’t focus?”

Nezznar doesn’t speak at first. Their eyes are contemplative, distant. Angus waits, just watching as they ponder. Their fingers come up, twisting a ring — wedding, or engagement, he can’t be certain. It’s black, glossy metal, a white gemstone embedded in its center. The bands on either side of it split into four branches, eight legs hugging their finger, like a —

— a —

—  b ͘l a̴ ͝c̵ k ̧s ͘p͏ ̧i ̶d͠ e̶ r.

“I think so, yes.” Nezznar’s voice breaks through the static. Angus blinks, refocusing on them as they rub their temples. “Even right now, trying to remember, I —” They cut of with a hiss, face pinching.

Angus leans forward, setting a hand on their leg. “Don’t push too hard,” he warns. “That’s all I needed to know. Thank you, xir. I just have one last question before I wrap this up." He waits for them to lower their hands, face relaxing as they nod for him to continue. "When did all this start seeming odd?”

It’s another moment of silence, stretching out before they say, “About… about… It was just over... two months ago, I think.”

Angus nods. “Alright, xir. That’s all I can do for you right now, but you’ve definitely supported one of my working theories here.”

“So you don’t —” They sigh, wilting in their seat.

“I’m closer than I’ve ever been,” Angus assures them. “Your timeframe corresponds with an event I’ve been looking into for some time now. It’s very likely they’re connected, so, so now I know where I need to be looking.”

His words do little to relieve Nezznar. Still, the drow only sighs and nods. “I suppose that’s more than I had before. You’ll — you’ll keep me updated?”

“Of course,” Angus answers, nodding. He stands, slipping his notebook back into his pocket and shaking Nezznar’s hand. “Thank you for your time, xir. I hope I’ll have news for you soon.”

“I do as well,” they say, a feeble smile on their face as they see Angus out.

He’s lost in thought as he takes the ride back to the train station. Not all these missing persons match the pattern, but there still is one. Some correlate with disaster — a city being turned into peppermint, the ocean rising to swallow a bay under its waves, an illusory army turned solid for a massacre, patch after patch of pure black glass standing where civilization once dwelled. All of these unspeakable catastrophes that no one actually seems to know about. 

And Angus is going to visit the most recent event: Phandalin.

Angus loses his breath when he sees it.

A disc. Pure, black glass. It’s a blight on the earth, perfect in its annihilation of the life that once stood there. A single flaw marks it: where a well was built, there is a perfect hole in the glass, dropping down a long ways into the now-dry tunnel.

His steps plink lightly underneath him, the black glass casting a double of himself beneath his feet. Angus can’t venture too deeply onto the obsidian, his chest constricting, his lungs burning as though full of smoke. He staggers backwards and safely onto plain earth.

There’s nothing to find here, he tells himself. It’s just glass. Nothing more. His time is wasted here. He should just leave. 

But why, presses his brain. What destroyed Phandalin?

It was a city those three men had mentioned to him — Taako, Merle, Magnus. Only in passing, quick to change the subject. Now he knows why.

Had they caused it? No. That’s why they were on the train, to get relics —

— to get items that cause this kind of disaster. To stop it from happening.

Just over two months ago, Nezznar realized they missed a person who wasn’t there. In the same time, Phandalin was wiped off the map. Angus meets three men on a train some weeks later, wearing bracers he cannot look at, their voices going to static when they speak — and maybe that’s why there’s been no panic. A disaster of this caliber should be considered an atrocity, and yet he only knows the city’s name from that odd trio.

He’s heard of curses to keep one from speaking, he’s never known one that could keep secrets from the world. Ones that could erase entire lives, just pluck them out of existence like one might a bug off a leaf.

A coincidence is Fate herself at work. Angus is not a reverent child, but he thinks Istus is sending him a sign. All the pieces are falling together, lining up before his eyes. She’ll lead him where he needs to go, help him fill the gaps. Angus McDonald is on the case.

He trails about the perimeter of the glass. For a long while, the scenery barely changes: trees, and grass, and dirt, and a plate of obsidian reflecting the sky.  Then he sees the scar.

It almost goes unnoticed, but Angus’ eyes are keen. He spots a line where the growth is new. Smaller, and younger than the surrounding vegetation. The patch stretches out from the edge of the glass and far into the distance, like a god came down with a great sword to cleave all life beneath its blade. The earth is only just recovering from whatever wretched it so terribly.

Angus chews his lip. He hurries back, finds the pony he’d bought for the day. There’s a lot of ground to cover if he’s to be home by dinner.

Even spurring his mount into a gallop, it’s a long ride. He stares out at the path, such a precise line of recovering decay. Fire, he knows, it the mostly likely candidate for whatever ruined this land. The thought makes his guts shiver, though, feeling sickened at the thought.

Angus does not like fire.

He reaches the path’s end at the mouth of a cave, the sun casting pink and gold over the peaks of the mountains, and Angus knows he will not be home in time. A fresh tremble wracks him at the thought of the welts his father will put on his back, but it’s too late to turn away now. And, Angus has yet to find a threat great enough to turn him away from a mystery. His mother calls him stubborn, but Angus himself likes to call it tenacity.

The trail carried him to the mouth of a cave, burrowing down into a tunnel. From it emanates the sound of the ocean. He thinks, at least. Angus has never been to the sea. But his grandpa used to describe the waves, and he believes they must sound like what is coming from this cave: a roll, and a crash, airy and fluid.

He can see the path has blazed into the cave — or perhaps from it. So, Angus thinks, slipping down from the pony’s back and onto the ground, he’s going in there as well.

Except, things tend to dwell in caves. Things that may not be deterred by a crossbow that fits up a little boy’s sleeve. Things that can rip him into scraps where he’ll never be found because nobody knows he’s here.

Angus shuts his eyes. For just a moment, he lets himself be angry. Angry that he’s too little to wield a sword and too stupid to teach himself magic. That no one will listen to him, will help him. That he’s always, suffocatingly alone.

He’s not supposed to be alone.

His pony gives a sudden whinny, Angus opening his eyes in time to see the creature turn and take off at a gallop. “Wait — no!” He calls after it, stumbling a few steps, then coming to a halt.

“Damn it,” he mutters, kicking a rock. It bounces, glittering when it passes out of the shadow and into the sunlight and —

Shadow. There hadn’t been a shadow before. Angus looks up.

There’s a sphere in the air. Just falling out of the sky, and as Angus calculates its trajectory, he realizes he only has seconds before it impacts the exact spot he’s standing in. Angus yelps, scampering out of the way. He stumbles behind an outcropping of rock, pressing himself low against its surface as he claps his hands over his ears, waiting for the crash of that orb hitting the ground.

It doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a gentle crunch, something heavy being settled down rather than dropped. He holds his breath, waiting, listening. Another thud, quieter. Then — footsteps.

He huddles flush against the stone, barely daring to breath. The steps come closer, to the mouth of this cave. Not towards him, though. They don’t know he’s there. So he stays perfectly still, breath shallow and slow, and listens as the steps turn sharper, passing from earth to stone, and then growing distant.

When he’s sure they’re out of his range, he chances breaking from his hiding spot. Angus clambers over the rocks, craning his head into the cave. There, he sees a person, someone he can only assume is a half-orc by the green tint to their skin. They have the largest crossbow he’s ever seen strapped to their back.

Powerful, he thinks. Prepared for whatever lurks in that cave. And therefore, dangerous.

He could tail them. And he will, no matter how big their crossbow is, no matter how strong they may be. He has a case to solve. But first, Angus turns to that sphere.

It’s resting on the ground where there should be a crater. That thing was falling at terminal velocity, and yet it hadn't made a mark. In fact, it seemed late in its landing, like it had slowed down just before touching the ground.

Angus glances once more between the cave and the sphere before approaching the latter. It’s just a glass ball, transparent, a metal band around its middle. Inside, he can see four seats, accessible through a high panel in the glass.

“Let’s start here, then,” Angus murmurs, hopping up. He grabs onto the edge of the open panel, straining to hoist himself inside. Nothing about it seems any different from what he could see. There’s a little lever attached to one of the seats — the front left, specifically. Aside from that, it’s just. A ball. With chairs. That fell from the sky.

Angus takes his notebook, scribbling down these details, hurried but efficient. He needs to write down as much as he can before he follows that half-orc. Thankfully or not, there’s not much to be seen here. It’s just some sort of transport, presumably.

It’s as he’s dotting the last of his notes that Angus hears something slide into place behind him. Namely, the panel that let him inside of this sphere.

“Oh, no,” Angus says. And then he staggers as the sphere begins to move, grabbing onto a chair to steady himself. It’s moving up, away from the ground, and Angus stares down at the glass beneath his feet, not quite believing what he’s seeing. But it’s there, no matter how hard he blinks. He’s moving into the sky.

His breath wheezes out of him. In seconds, the ground is too far away, a wave of dizziness hitting him as he watches himself get farther and farther away, higher and higher into the sky. So high that if he fell he would undoubtedly die.

Trapped several hundred feet in the air and headed for an unknown destination, Angus forces himself to take a very deep breath. It comes out as laughter, high-pitched and exhilarated. He wobbles around to pull himself into a chair, knowing he won’t be going anywhere soon. Might as well settle in for the ride.

The world below him is a stretch: green plains and black glass, cities growing bright on the horizon as the evening slips into darkness. He’s flying above it all. And humans — humans don’t fly. Not without powerful magic. And here Angus is, his chest full, the landscape below blurring over as tears brim in his eyes.

A laugh catches with a sob. He wiped the wetness away, his smile watery and awed.

He’s flying.

And finally, Angus sees where to. He keeps raising higher, not outward like he would expect. He looks up, and there he sees the moon. A lot closer than the moon should be, he thinks, though it makes his brain ache to do so.

It’s not a moon at all, he realizes. There’s an itching static over his mind. This thing, in the sky, it’s not a moon. Maybe they’ve never had two moons at all. He’s going to figure it out, though, undoubtedly, because fake moon or not, Angus is going inside of it.

A section of this strange pseudo-satellite slides open, letting the sphere travel inside and into darkness.

He’s in this darkness for a long time. He’s moving though, specifically he’s slowing down. Coming to a stop. Which means that Angus is going to be in a strange place and around strange people very, very quickly, and he has nowhere to hide in this perfectly transparent orb.

A light builds at the end of the passageway he’s traveling through. He slips his crossbow into his hand, switching the safety off with a click, and hides it back up his sleeve just as quickly.

He’s not ready in the least. He’s a little boy with a crossbow that only loads one bolt at a time. He’s in the sky, in a structure disguised as the moon, and he has no way to get back down. He can’t run, he can’t hide, he can’t fight.

Panic claws at his chest. His head is beginning to pound. He’s getting closer to the light, and Angus has no choice but to force himself into calm. There’s nowhere to move but forward.

He passes through the tunnel, and into a dome. It’s a spread out area, staggered panels lining the walls of this room. And inside, he sees people, all in blue and white uniforms, milling about. Some are approaching large cannons mounted through openings in the dome, some appear to just be talking, some are heading out through an open door at the end of a runway.

There. That’s where Angus needs to go. It’s hard to think with the pressure in his skull, but he knows an escape route when he sees one.

No one actually pays his sphere any mind as it settles on some kind of landing platform. He holds his breath, waiting for someone to just look. To see him, and shout. They don’t, though. They just go about their business, paying no mind to the child in the sphere.

Alright then. Angus frowns, hesitantly getting to his feet, touching the glass where the panel had been. It opens up without a problem, and after another beat he clambers down. Immediately, the panel closes behind him, the sphere lifting again, perhaps to be stored wherever these things are kept. And Angus is left there on the platform, looking down that little runway that leads to whatever outside might entail.

And no one has seen him just yet.

He steps forward. And then again, and then breaks into a light jog, hurried but not so fast it would attract an unfocused eye. The runway is empty, he can just slip out and find a place to hide until his migraine goes away and—

“Hey is that — is that a kid?”

Angus breaks into a sprint.

There’s an uproar behind him, only spurring Angus faster. He has a free shot through the exit, and out onto — grass?

He pauses mid-step, spins in a circle to take in the area. Domes, and grass, in a design like a quad. Three suited people rushing towards him. Even when he stops, the world keeps spinning, a groan working out of his throat as dizziness seizes him. This whole place makes him feel ill.  There’s grass, or turf, something green is under his feet and it makes him want to vomit. More and more of these domes are rising around the surface of this place, different sizes but —

— he doesn’t

Angus blinks hard, tears in his eyes once again. His head hurts and he’s sick and he’s scared, he’s allowed to cry. Later, though. He can cry when he’s safe.

Angus blinks back his tears, like he has a hundred times before, and he keeps running. Past the people milling about, ignoring the shouts that follow him —  ”Kid! Someone stop that kid!” — and as far as he can go. One of the domes, maybe — no, that will just put him in a smaller area, he needs to stay outside.

There’s a cluster of actual buildings, right down the main path through this quad. Not concealed by a sphere, it’s a setup that makes him think of university dormitories. There’s even a nice garden growing outside of it — a perfect place for a boy to hide.

Angus flicks his crossbow into his hands. He turns, firing a bolt into the ground, just in front of the man leading the chase. It’s a domino effect: the first man skids as he sees the crossbow, the next one crashes into him, the next one into him, and all three crash to the ground as Angus turns and runs.

There are onlookers, and that will be difficult to hide from. But for now, those gardens are his best bet. His chest aches, but he doesn’t stop, splitting off the path and onto the grass, past a couple lounging there, around the corner of the structure.

Perfect.

It’s quiet, unoccupied. Angus pants, turning in another stumbling loop. No one there, no one can see him.

He can’t just hide here, though. They’ll expect that. So he keeps looking, eyes landing on a small door, likely for faculty. Angus runs for it, a prayer in his throat as he reaches for the handle.

It opens. “Thank you,” he whispers. If Istus really is looking after him, he hopes she hears. Angus pulls the door quietly shut, and then turns to look around.

It’s just a corridor. Empty at the moment, lights off. He would be able to hear any footsteps coming, and Angus lets himself relax somewhat knowing that’s not an immediate danger. There are doors lining the corridor, little plaques dictating their room’s purpose: laundry, bathroom, magical item registry, such and so on. His breath comes in raspy pants as he staggers down this hallway.

He needs to rest. His head is killing him, and Angus doesn’t think he’ll be able to go much further at all.

There’s a door at the end of the hall. He hesitates, then pushes it open. None of the others hold much promise at all, and he needs a place to hide, sooner rather than later.

Angus nearly sobs when he realizes he’s stepped into a library. Tall shelves of books, and tables and cushy chairs, and it’s not home but as miserable as he feels, it’s close enough. He wanders slowly between the shelves, head spinning, sweat broken out over his skin. Then he blinks and he’s sitting down, leaning against a shelf, panting. Tears burn his eyes and drip down his cheeks, a hiccup finally hitching in his throat.

He doesn’t know what to do. Angus curls in on himself wrapping his arms around his head, face pressed into his knees, rocking himself back and forth. There’s nowhere to go. He’s going to be sick just sitting here, his head pounding so badly that lights are winking in front of his eyes, turning everything he sees into a buzzing muddle.

His parents don’t even know where he is. They’re probably furious. His dad probably has his belt in his hands, waiting by the front door for Angus to come inside. Even if he gets off this moonbase, that’s where he’ll go. One fire to the next, back and forth, again and again, back to fear and to pain and to hiding again and again and again and again.

He sobs, because he’s tired. He doesn’t want to have to hide. He doesn’t want to feel trapped, and uncertain. But he does, and it’s choking him, and Angus is a ten year old boy with a head full of static and nowhere to go so all he can do is cry.

He cries until he’s shaking, his pants dark with the dampness of his tears, face hot and eyes red.

He cries until a voice goes, “Davenport?”

It’s soft. Concerned. Angus jerks upright, and he sees a gnome man looking back at him, dressed in that blue and white suit, hands folded in front of his body. He’s not moving for Angus, just looking at him.

Angus hiccups. He goes, “Hello, sir,” with nothing else to say. Even if he tried to run, he'd just fall on his face. He's too dizzy to get on his feet in the first place.

The gnome extends a hand, stopping when Angus flinches. “Davenport?” He seems to ask, nodding to his own outstretched hand.

Angus frowns. “Okay. Um. G-go ahead, sir.”

He holds himself still as the hand sets on top of his head, patting his hair. “Davenport,” the man repeats.

Angus sniffs. It’s not a bad touch. It’s gentle, and comforting, and that makes it unfamiliar. But not bad. “Davenport?” he asks. “Is that your name?”

“Davenport,” the gnome nods.

“Mine’s A-Angus McDonald,” he tells him. He reaches up, wiping his eyes underneath his glasses. “Can — can you tell me what’s g-going on h-h-here?”

“Davenport,” the gnome says, one last time. He takes his hand from where it rests on Angus' head, only to hold it out, an offer.

And Angus, with nowhere else to go, takes it.

Chapter Text

The Director is an older looking woman. Lines that come from both stress and age frame her face, white hair buzzed close to her scalp, much like Angus’ own. In other circumstances, Angus would be sitting up straight, alert and polite and trying to give his best impression of being both mature and capable. Now, though, it’s all he can do to keep tears out of his eyes.

He’s never had a migraine before, but he’s read enough to think this is what one feels like. Lights wink in front of his eyes, drifting when his gaze shifts, marring the image of the office he sits in. Between the pressure in his skull and the nausea roiling in his belly, it’s a miracle he’s not doubled over. 

So Angus sits, huddled in a chair, eyes shut but sneaking open intermittently to watch the Director as she ponders across the desk. Closing his eyes helps just a little bit, hiding the image his brain seems to be rejecting

“Ma’am,” he croaks. He blinks his eyes open, catches her gaze refocusing on him, and then shuts them again. “I understand you need time to think this through, but is there any way to stop the enchantment you have on this place?”

He wants to look at her, to gauge her expression and body language and everything that gives him a hint as to what she’s actually thinking. Tone of voice is the easiest thing to fake, so he doesn’t trust the concern he hears when she says, “I’m sorry, Angus. We can’t do much of anything until I figure out how to handle this situation.”

“Okay,” he sighs, slumping back. It’s another stretch of painful silence, breathing deep and slow and trying to focus on anything but the sickness in his head.

He counts his heartbeats. Fifteen thump within his chest before there’s a quiet, almost reproachful sound of, “Davenport,” followed by an audible tapping of a shoe on the floor.

The Director’s tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth. “You seem to like this boy, Davenport,” she murmurs.

“ Davenport,” he says, far more amicable.

Angus likes the gnome. He only ever says his name, but he’s kind, and his face conveys what his words cannot. He's the only thing Angus has liked all day. The only source of comfort on this base. 

“What I still don’t understand is how you found this place,” The Director says, and Angus wants to cry, or yell, or do anything so she’ll just make this stop.

“I told you,” he says, voice strained, “I just found it. I was at Wave Echo Cave and the pod came down and I looked inside and now I’m here!”

“I understand that much, and we’ll certainly be having to form a safeguard against future incidents… but why were you at Wave Echo Cave? You’re an eleven year old boy — did someone send you there?”

Her voice sharpens: suspicion. Angus shakes his head, and then regrets it as another wave of dizziness takes him. It feels like his brain is rattling around in his skull, an ache that only stops when he goes perfectly still. He swallows around the taste of bile before answering, “No, ma’am. I’m a — I’m a detective, ma’am. And there have been many, many reports of people who don’t exist going missing. I was just following the clues, and they lead me here.”

"Damned by the gods," she hisses, Angus going tense. Irritation — that's bad. He needs to watch his words. "I mean," the Director adds. "Um. Darn. Don't repeat that, Angus."

“Yes, ma’am.” He peeks at her again, sees her face pinched in thought. “While we’re here I — is it? You guys? You’re the ones erasing people, aren’t you?” 

There’s a long stretch of silence that only acts as confirmation for Angus. He nods, a sense of satisfaction blooming underneath his discomfort. He found them. Angus McDonald found the people that don’t exist. There aren’t many — or any — detectives that could brag of such a feat.

He’d be smiling if he didn’t feel halfway to passing out on the spot.

There’s a breath. He watches through slitted eyes as the Director pulls out a notebook and a pen, setting them on her desk. “Alright, Angus," she starts, fixing her gaze on him. "This is very important: I need you to describe exactly how you found this place and everything you’ve done here in detail. Okay? Then we can see to removing the enchantment on you.”

Angus breathes out in relief. He starts to speak, describing it to her in slow, careful words. His memory is fuzzy in this room, drifting as though underneath a murky lake. It's difficult: recalling the first report he'd gotten, the correspondence with Nezznar, the trip to Phandalin. Angus drags the words from his tongue, his mouth working faster than his mind. It takes a good while for his brain to catch up. And then, he goes quiet.

Silent, in fact. He keeps his eyes shut, words stuck in his throat.

A chair creaks, the Director shifting in her seat. “Angus?” She prompts. “Are you alright?”

He’d been so eager to just stop hurting. It was a foolish mistake to make — he’d gone too far the moment he opened his mouth. Giving them his name was a mistake. Too much information. He should have thought. Trusting someone when he’s in pain, reaching for any hand extended out of desperation, he’s smarter than that, he should have known.

Angus’ breath comes fast in his chest. He slips his feet down, dropping to the floor and then backing away. His eyes are wide open now, vision blurring to watch the Director stand as well, advance on him.

“No,” he says. “You’re gonna — you’re gonna erase me.”

The Director frowns at him. “Angus," she says, soothing, trying to make him compliant and vulnerable. "I need you to calm down. That’s not what’s going on.”

His eyes flicker to her notepad. She was writing it down for a reason. She needs information to erase it, and she has his name and his life she’s going to erase him she’ll make him into nothing just like all the others. A victim of the very case he’s investigating, hubris of the greatest degree.

Angus makes a decision. He moves forward instead of back, lunging for the notebook — or he tries to. In reality, the world spins out underneath him, and he falls to his knees to the sound of two concerned shouts.

A small hand touches his arm. He gasps and flinches away, seeing Davenport watching him. “Angus,” he murmurs, the first time he’s said anything but his own name. “Won't hurt you.” And beyond him is the Director, kneeling down to his level, her shadow over him.

He shakes his head. “ Don’t,” he says. He sits on his knees, looking up at the Director. “Please don’t erase me, I can — I can be useful! I know how to find things. And people, I can — I can help.”

“Angus,” she says, voice soothing, “I promise nothing bad is going to happen to you.” She reaches out a hand, the metal of her bracer glinting. A familiar bracer, like that those three men wore —

Angus gasps, “You can ask them!” He clutches at his own arms, mouth trembling around his words. “T-taako and Magnus and Merle! They know I can help, p-p-please, just ask them!”

And the Director pauses. She says, slowly, “You know the three of them?”

Angus latches onto it like a lifeline. “Yes!” He nods his head. “I helped them — they were — on — on the train —”

“The Rockport Limited?” She fills in.

Angus's head bobs frantically. “On the Rockport Limited, there — there was a murder, and they were using f-f-fake names but we — they — they trusted me. They helped me catch a s-s-serial killer, and they told me they were collecting items like what, what happened in Phandalin." He swallows, pauses to catch his breath before whispering, "They’re doing good things so you’re — you’re not bad people, right?”

He feels minuscule compared to the Director. But his words are working. They’re his most potent tool, and it’s working. Her expression shifts, considering.

“You’re telling me you helped them recover —” Her voice goes to static, and Angus winces.

“If by that static, y-you mean some kind of, m-monocle?” He says this, and he prays, and he knows they’re answered when the Director’s face clears.

“That… certainly changes things,” she says. “But I’m pretty sure hiring a child breaks all kinds of rules — HR is going to be so far up my a — uh. They’re not gonna like that.”

Angus gives a breathless laugh. Now that his panic is subsiding, it leaves him exhausted. From morning to sunset he’s been investigating — adrenalin alone must be keeping him on his feet. “If it helps, ma’am,” he offers, “I’m going to be doing detective work no matter what. I might — I might as well help p-p-protect the world while I’m at it.”

The Director shuts her eyes, and lets out a breath. “Alright, Angus,” she says. “You're certain this is the route you want to take? There's no going back." When he nods, she sighs, "Then I suppose… we better get you inoculated.”

She gets to her feet, offering her hand to pull Angus up to his. He stumbles when he gets up. “I suppose I’ll walk you there,” she tells him, nudging him delicately to guide him out the door.

Angus lets himself grow unfocused, trusting the Director’s hand to propel him where he needs to go. Davenport flanks him, his presence a comforting one. He, at least, wouldn’t let any harm come to Angus.

He’s taken down to a chamber, opened by the Director’s bracer. Down an elevator and then out to an aquarium  of all things.

Beyond the glass of an enormous tank, Angus sees a jellyfish, larger than he’s ever known them to get, and made of stars. As with most things, it's difficult to keep his eyes upon its form, watching as it drifts in lazy circles through its tank with pulses of its bell. 

The Director approaches the tank, taking a vial off of a rack and holding it under a sort of tap. His expression turns to one of confusion when she fills the vial with tank water — it has to be full of all sorts of contaminants. But she's holding it, and she's offering it to Angus. He hesitates in reaching for the vial, giving it a suspicious once-over, still uncertain if he can trust this woman.

She says, perhaps sensing his hesitation, “That ichor will erase the barrier that keeps you from perceiving this base properly. The static you hear, the runes on my bracer, all that will become clear. But if you prefer, I can test it for you.”

At that, Angus's expression sharpens as he regards her a moment longer and then nods. The Director takes it without hesitation, drinking half of its contents and then grimacing. “Oh, that is gnarly stuff,” she says, shaking her head slightly. “Is that acceptable, Angus?”

He frowns, but holds out his hand to take the vial. This time Angus lifts it to his lips.

It tastes like brine. His nose wrinkles as he swallows it in a single gulp, then immediately wipes his tongue on his sleeve. It’s not as bad as the medicine his parents give him to make him sleep, but it's still hardly pleasant. It does the trick, though. The migraine begins to loosen its hold, pain fading, and gods he could cry just to feel functional again.

Then he staggers.

Distantly, he’s aware of Davenport, holding him up. Angus is captured, though, unable to perceive what’s around him as memories filter back into his brain, filling in the gaps he’d never known were there, wiping away static like grime from a window and finally allowing him to see what was beyond.

When it fades, his breath is shallow. Eyes shut, voices coming into focus.

“Angus,” the Director was saying, worry heavy in her tone. “Angus, are you alright?”

He opens his eyes, looking to her. An odd sense of calm has fallen over his mind, eyes clearer than they’ve been in years. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, breathing out. “I just — I guess I was having some things blocked.”

“That is... strange.” She frowns. “You said that you are ten years old? The voidfish has been at work since…. Well, before you were even born.”

Angus shrugs, smiling. “It — It effected my family. D-displaced them, I guess. The item that destroyed Phandalin, I mean.”

His hands are trembling at his sides. Angus slips them into his pockets before anyone can see.

“I suppose…” The Director looks troubled for a moment longer, then shakes her head. “Well, Angus. Ordinarily I’d give you the rundown of what happens here at the Bureau, and then our initiation test but… frankly, Angus, you look ready to drop.” 

He nods, head bobbing far longer than is necessary. “You’re probably correct in that assumption,” he says. “It’s been a very, very long day for me, ma’am.”

Her face gives way to sympathy. She reaches for him, hand slow, and when he doesn’t move away she settles it on top of his head. “Well, why don’t we get you settled for the night. Or — no, your parents will be worried about you won’t they?”

Angus freezes. His breath stills in his lungs. Then it gusts out of him in a hasty, “I don’t have parents, ma’am.”

Immediately, sympathy becomes pity. Angus hates it, but the truth is there's no better tool to exploit. Nothing gets adults to bend to his whims faster than some glossy eyes and a sad little fable to tell. It makes them feel good, he thinks, to give the homeless little kid a few coins or a ride to the library. Nothing more than that, though.  So as he always does, Angus uses this to his advantage as he continues in a quiet voice, “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Like he’d been pulling strings, the Director steps to the beat. “Well, you have a place here, now. Come on, I think we have a single room open right now. Can’t exactly bunk you with the other members.” There’s a small sigh as she murmurs, “Goodness, you remind me of him.”

She leads him away. Curious, though, Angus asks, “Who’s that, ma’am?”

She smiles. “An old friend of mine. He had a story quite similar to yours. Always on the road, trying to make himself useful. He wasn’t completely alone, though…” Her voice trails off, a little bit sad, and Angus figures that’s enough prying for the day.  

He’s taken into the large building, the one he’d identified earlier as a kind of dormitory. The Director guides him to an elevator, punching a button for the second-to-highest floor. “You’ll get quite a good view up here,” she says, a laugh in her voice. “These rooms are ordinarily reserved for our special personnel, but recently there’s been a… vacancy, may she rest in peace.”

Angus hums, giving her a comforting touch to the hand on his shoulder. The Director gives him a startled look, one he ignores. “No worries, though,” she continues, “Maureen did not… pass in that room, and it’s been completely cleaned ever since. It shouldn’t be weird.”

“Now that you’ve said that, it’s gonna be a little weird, ma’am.”

His words make her laugh as she walks him down the hall. She stops at the very last room, holding her bracer to a panel until the door pops open. As she holds it, the Director gives the bracer a contemplative glance, a frown on her face.. “We’ll have to fit you with one of these. Hm. You’ll be able to get out of the room without one, but getting back in…”

Angus shakes his head. “Believe me, ma’am, I’ll sleep through the night.”

It makes the Director smile, and nod at him. “Alright then. We’ll take care of everything else in the morning. You know how to find my office?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then I’ll see you then. Good night, Angus.”

“Good night, ma’am.”

He steps inside, the Director closing the door behind her.

Ordinarily, Angus would take the time to investigate, figure out what’s in this room, the best places to hide and escape routes to take. It's all apart of his typical routine. This night, though, all he does is stagger to the bed, hoist himself up, and lay down.

His body is sore, his brain slow. It's not even the pleasant sort of exhaustion from getting involved in a particularly tricky case — he's just tired. Too much has happened, and the prospect of being able to just sleep is a glorious one. So, naturally, Angus can't catch a wink.

Half an hour rolls by in the darkness. Laying in bed, eyes open and fixed on the ceiling, Angus feels an eternity pass before he gets the courage to sit upright. He reaches to the nightstand, fingers brushing the lamp to ignite the enchantment upon it. A low, blue illumination brightens the room, enough so Angus can stare down at his hands.

He turns them over examines his dirt-smudged nails, the lines of his palms. Magic has never come easily to him. Some are born with it. Some bargain for it. Some learn it. Angus has tried so many times, poured over books, bought a wand and components and tried again and again and again just to form a spark of light. Nothing has ever happened.

But now, Angus thinks he can feel something. A crack in a dam, just a trickle, buzzing in his blood. He clings to that new sensation, draws it out until it’s an itch on the backs of his hands.

Deeper. He digs in, jaw clenching as he drags it to the surface, a gasp sucking into his throat when it shifts from an itch to a burn.

He doesn’t let go. Not yet. Angus stares down at his hands and watches, eyes narrowed, breath harsh, as dry, silver scales rise to the surface of his skin.

The thread snaps. He whines in pain, flinching as the magic wrenches itself out of his hold. Angus doesn't try to resist it as the scales sink down, fading until they’re covered by smooth, dark skin once more.

The Director is waiting outside her office when Angus finds her in the morning. She smiles, giving him a wave in greeting as she strides across the quad towards him.

"Good morning, Madame Director!" Angus chirps. The two of them fall into step, Angus following her as she guides them back onto the paved pathways and towards one of the many domes that make up the areas of the base. 

“Good morning, Angus. I hope you rested well.” She smiles down at him. “You’re going to need your wits about you for your test.”

That would be for the Trials of Initiation. Angus thinks, now, that he should have asked around about that. There was an abundance of sources, and every last one of them were staring at him his whole way here. It's fair, children are hardly a common sight on the moon. Still, it's also rude to stare. 

Angus says none of this. Instead he nods, saying, “I’m feeling much better now. Also, am I allowed to ask what the test is?”

“Well,” she tells him, “ordinarily we have a very different ordeal set out for you. The original trial, the ones that Merle and Magnus and Taako took, that involved robots and ogres and all sorts of violent things. But I figure that would be a bit of an unfair test for you, Angus. Certainly deadly.”

“Oh, yeah, I would very much like to avoid the deadly part, thank you.” It gets his curiosity piqued, though, what the original test entailed. That could be something to ask those three men, once he saw them again.

“Excuse me, ma’am?” The Director looks at him, tipping her head in acknowledgement. “Are Taako and the others here?”

“Those three are currently in Goldcliff,” she tells him, smiling. It's a little sharper than her usual look, perhaps comparable to a grin of all things. “Actually, I believe they’re going to be doing something quite exciting. If you finish your test in time, you can join us in observing them.”

There’s a palpable fondness in her voice that has Angus smiling as well. Despite being their employer, the Director seems to care deeply for the three of them. “I see! They’re getting another one of those items?”

“The relics, yes,” she says. “Though their method is… unusual.” She huffs a laugh, both exasperated and amused. “It always is. But, yes, the reclaiming of these relics is their job. They’re our only three reclaimers, actually, as these relics have a certain thrall to them that most people are incapable of resisting." She trails off for a moment, her good mood slipping into something pensive. Then she shakes her head, looking to him again. "If you pass this trial, Angus, your job will be to aid them directly in locating these relics as well as providing live intel while they’re on their missions. Does that seem suitable?”

Listening to her, Angus feels his heart beat a bit quicker. “That sounds perfect, ma’am!” He says, his voice eager. “That — yes, ma’am, I believe I am more than qualified for those duties.”

She smiles at him, but her eyes flicker up to focus on another. Angus follows her gaze.

There's a dragonborn woman trotting across the lawn and towards them. At least, Angus assumes she is a dragonborn. She is far slighter than any of her kind that Angus has seen before, muscles built more for dexterity than strength that shows in the way she springs up the steps leading to their path.

“Good morning, Carey,” The Director greets. She waves one hand between the two of them, saying, “This is our newest recruit, Angus McDonald. Angus, this is Carey Fangbattle, one of our regulators — her job is to help deal with those people that seek to misuse the relics down on earth.”

Angus offers a hand, the dragonborn giving him a grin as she shakes it. “Nice to meet you, little man,” she says. “Dang, I thought Avi was just pulling my tail when he said there was a kid on base.”

All this attention for the fact that he's young. Angus does his best not to prickle, instead giving her a bright smile. “It’s nice to meet you too, ma’am,” he says.

Immediately, her nostrils flare a little, Carey making a disgruntled face. Angus tenses, his breath catching, an apology already on his tongue.

She says, “Just call me Carey, yeah? Ma’am sounds so formal. We’re coworkers now!”

Angus lets the air out of his lungs, nodding obediently. “Of course. I apologize ma — uh, Miss Carey.”

She laughs and rubs the top of his head, Angus forcing himself to bare it for just a second before he ducks away. “You’re a polite kid, Angus. We’ll see how long that lasts around these animals. So, Director!” She straightens up, addressing the Director once more. “You said I’m gonna be testing the kid?”

“That is correct.” The Director waves to Carey, saying, “Carey here specializes in rogue work. She is one of our best by far. You, Angus, have shown your own proficiency in uncovering mysteries, as well as remaining undetected. I reckon that without the Voidfish’s influence on you, it would have taken us far longer to track you down. Which… while a compliment to your skills, is more than a bit worrisome in regards to my own employees.”

She shakes her head, continuing, “To put it simply, we are now going to test exactly that. You, Angus, will be provided with a map of an area, as well as some clues to guide you towards a goal hidden in the area. As you do that, Carey here will be pursuing you. It is your job to locate this goal while also evading Miss Fangbattle. Does that seem fair?”

Angus listens carefully, then nods. “One question?” He waits for the Director to nod before asking, “Does Miss Carey know where I’m starting?”

The Director shakes her head. “No, Carey will be starting in a separate location from you, and she will not be informed of your position.”

That's likely to be as far as things will get in his advantage. Angus nods, a determined set to his face. “In that case, I believe that I’m ready to begin.”

With that, the Director motions both of them forward. They move through a door and into the large dome they'd been approaching, out to something of a library. There are two elevators, side by side: Angus is sent into one elevator, Carey in another.

He holds two papers in his hands as the elevator sinks down: a folded up map, and the first clue. The elevator travels a good way before it comes to a stop with a small ding.

Angus steps out to what looks like the front room of a mansion. An elegant staircase rises to a second story directly ahead of him, a carpeted sitting room before that with an expensive rug laid down. On either side of the staircase, there are two doors.

“Angus McDonald.” The Director’s voice rings into the room — some magical projection. “You have one minute to review your riddle as well as the map of this area, starting now.”

Angus takes the papers out immediately. He unfolds the map first, scanning, digesting. It’s a two story layout. Downstairs: Front room, dining room, kitchen, library. Upstairs: Master bedroom, guest bedroom, ballroom, study.

Next is the riddle. That one is only a slip of paper, one he holds close to his face to read:

‘Your first clue

Is where things are made

Cold materials

Unused, degrade’

It’s insultingly easy. Angus waits around, foot tapping, until he hears the Director’s voice project into the room once again.

“Angus McDonald and Carey Fangbattle,” the Director announces “the trial begins now.”

 Angus is on his feet immediately. As simple as the riddle is, staying undetected is the real challenge. His eyes sweep about the room. There are vents built into the area: one in the ceiling, rather high up, another down on the ground. Angus eyes the doors that frame the staircase. Dining room on one side, library on the other.

It's the left door he'll need to got through. Angus doesn't immediately head for it, instead turning to stand in front of one of the armchairs within this front room. Best to get an advantage while it’s easy. He braces his weight against the chair, rocking it on its back legs along and then against the wall, until it’s blocking the vent. Nothing will be getting out from there, at the very least.

That done, Angus turns to make his way over to the leftmost door, the one that will take him to the dining room. He pulls the door flush with its frame, keeping it nearly silent when he turns the handle, and holding it down until its back in place. With luck, there'll be no trace of the direction he's heading.

No, not luck. This, everything he's doing here, is all a testament to what he knows. Angus calls himself the world's greatest detective for a reason, and he's going to prove it to every last person here.

Moving quietly throughout a house is Angus’ specialty. He gives the dining room only a cursory glance before continuing, ducking under the swinging barrier that blocks off the kitchen. Inside, he spots an oven and stove, counters, drawers, cabinets, a fridge. It’s the last one that he pulls open — a delighted smile lights up his face when he finds it fully stocked. They put dedication into their creations, at least. Angus pushes its contents around until he finds what he’d been looking for: a note, taped to the bottom of one shelf. 

‘To make things clear

See through the haze

Go to where

The music plays.’

Angus grimaces. He’d been hoping to put off going upstairs for a while — it’s a stretch of exposure he does not want to risk. But the ballroom is up there, and he doesn’t have much choice but to follow the clues.

Angus eyes the surrounding kitchen. If the fridge was stocked, he thinks, there’s no reason the rest shouldn’t be.

He’s quick, pulling drawers and cabinets open as quietly as possible. A lighter fitted with conjuration magic makes its way into his pockets, a dish towel tied around his hand, a butter knife up his sleeve. After a beat of hesitation, Angus dives back for the pantry, scanning its contents and grinning when he finds what he needs: a jar of honey.

He makes a mess. It's intentional, layering it onto all the handles, pouring it on the floor, in front of the fridge, in the archway between the kitchen and the front room, like he’s trying to catch flies. Angus caps the jar, licking some of the residue off his fingertips. It’s as long as he’s willing to linger.

There’s been no sign of Carey — whether that’s good or bad is impossible to tell just yet. Those stairs will be where she’s going to find him. Unless, of course, he finds a way to mislead her. Making a noise is the only route he can think of, though it's far too obvious. Unless —

Angus chews his lip. He’s slow to creep back into the first room. Carefully, he tosses the towel out into the room, bunching it up to give it enough force. It unwraps and drifts soundlessly to the ground.

He’s quiet, listening. There’s not so much as a scrape of a nail. The vent in the ceiling is still in place. So Angus risks it — he pads out to retrieve his towel and wind it back around his arm, heartbeat quickened. Angus moves to the couch he’d shifted earlier, scooting it a way’s distance from the wall, enough that he could crouch in the space and fit his butterknife down low and against the screws that bolt the vent cover in place.

He works as quickly as he dares, loosening the screws with the knife and then undoing them by hand. Even the slightest tick of metal makes him wince and freeze, waiting again with bated breath for any indication he’s been heard. He gets it, though, setting the cover onto the carpet.

The room looks suspicious. The couch is too far from the wall — anyone would see a red flag at that. Any rogue worth their thieve's tools would come down to investigate. So Angus bites his lip as he takes the jar of honey, drizzling it onto the edge of the vent. Then he takes a copper from his pocket, and bounces it into the vent, the sound ricocheting through the metal.

He doesn’t waste time sneaking — Angus darts. He takes the stairs on all fours, palms and toes sinking into the carpet with barely a whisper. Or, threes, really. One hand is splayed at his side, pouring what remains in the jar of honey onto the steps as he climbs.

It’s a straight climb to the second story, but Angus could have been running for his life for how he feels when he reaches the top. His heart is pounding, and he doesn’t dare stop there, recalling the map as he shifts down the hall, passing one door but opening the second and slipping inside.

Angus only takes a quick check of the ballroom: golden tile, curtains around what he’s sure is only an illusion of a window, a stage with mounted instruments — there. He trots over and up onto the stage, pacing around the instruments. There’s a piano, a mounted viola, a mandolin, a conductor’s stand.

The stage floor is solid. He risks knocking on its surface, one ear pressed to the wood to check for hollow space. No secret doors, probably. A more thorough investigation can be postponed until after his first sweep.

He’s delicate around the piano, terrified as he skims his fingers over the keys. They all seem to be made of the same material, at least, nothing that stands out. The conductor’s stand is tall, but not strangely so. Mandolin, nondescript. Viola —

It’s a large instrument, the slits carved into either side of the strings near eye level. A flash of white catches his gaze, Angus leaning closer to peer inside. Oh, yeah. There is definitely a paper in there.

The slits are wide enough that he can jam his fingers between the wood, only to swallow a curse when he realizes he can’t reach the note. The tips of his fingers just brush over it, not nearly close enough to grip. He’ll need some kind of tool to get them out, a pair of tweezers or two wooden skewers or —

Unless.

Angus bites his lip. Then he shuts his eyes.

It hurts. Willing magic into his hands, scales to the surface of his skin, it makes his flesh itch and burn. What’s far worse is the lengthening of his nails into long, curved talons. The hand that’s still in a human shape digs into his knee, jaw clenched against a hiss as he scapes a talon around the paper and then nudges it closer.

His fingers close around it. The magic cuts off, scales and talons wiped from his body as he tugs the paper free. A grin spreads on his face as he unfolds the note, eyes scanning it with haste.

The smile fades almost immediately. The note — it’s not in Common. The language, if he’s correct in identifying the letters, is Elvish. And Angus McDonald never learned Elvish.

He shuts his eyes. They wouldn't give him an impossible puzzle. It has to be a hint in itself, or a way to translate. Yeah. That's it. There’s a library in here. One that, if the rest of this place is to be judged by, likely holds an actual stock of knowledge. A dictionary for Elvish would undoubtedly be down there.

Angus creeps out into the hall. He looks over the stairs, taking in the literal honey trail he’d left on the steps. It’s undisturbed all the way down. He knows Carey hasn’t taken the stairs, at least. So he creeps down, ears and eyes alert. The library is a straight shot, through the second door under the stairs, but — Angus has to check.

His heart pounds as he hastens his way back to the kitchen. He doesn’t even need to go inside — the moment the archway is in view, he knows Carey has been down here. The layer of honey he’d put down has been disturbed, smeared a few steps.

So. Carey is probably still here.

Wishing he hadn’t even checked, Angus turns to scamper back to the door to the library. His breaths come anxiously short, struggling to keep himself from gasping on his inhales. Slow and steady. He can’t afford to let nerves ruin this for him.

The library is, blessedly, an organized area. Signs are mounted on the shelves, fiction, non-fiction, biographies, technology, arcane studies, language, and so on. Angus creeps down the obvious row, scanning the titles. He sees books on Abyssal and beyond that Aquan — alphabetized, then. He continues down the row, a finger tracing the spines as he scans for what he needs.

The Elvish books are right between Dwarvish and Giant, and he’s hurried in scanning their spines. Not how to learn or commentaries on the language, he needs — yes. Angus yanks the book from its place: Common/Elvish Dictionary. He sits there against the shelf, book open in his lap, note in one hand while the other tries to match up the first letter. It’s going to take a long while. It’s not a long note, but he doesn’t even know the alphabet of this language — he’ll be matching it by picture alone.

It’s amid the soft scrape of pages that he hears another sound just above him: a low ‘Shk.’

Angus doesn’t look up. He clutches the book and the note and throws himself forward. Behind him, there’s a heavy thud, Angus seeing as he gets to his feet that it’s a net.

And on the top of a bookshelf, grinning at down him, is Carey Fangbattle. Her tail swishes in the air behind her, excitable, pupils large as they lock onto him.

“Almost had ya,” she announces, lifting one foot with another decided ‘Shk.’ It’s the honey, sticking to her toes.

His trap worked, then. A shame that Angus can’t feel very proud of that; he’s too busy running.

Angus can hear the thuds as she darts over the bookshelves in pursuit. Carey's abandoned a stealthy pursuit, giving chase from above. Outpacing a rogue is unlikely at best, but it's his only option. So Angus runs, book under one arm, note in his fist, his free hand plunging into his pocket to grope around until his fingers close around something small and metallic: the lighter.

Angus yanks the door open. The seconds it takes are precious, a thud sounding behind him as Carey hits the ground running. He pulls the towel from around his arm, throwing it carelessly behind himself as he runs. There’s a startled sound, and Angus slams the door shut behind him. It won’t slow her enough to count. What he’s planning, though, that might.

He makes for the kitchen, for the stove, spinning all four knobs so the hiss of gas fills the room, a metallic smell that Angus backs away. A finger skims over the lighter’s button to make a small flame spring into being. He holds the towel to it, jaw flexing anxiously. It’s such a tiny flame, it won’t catch easily.

Carey prowls into the kitchen. In her hands, there’s another weighted net. Nothing that could hurt him, but would certainly mark him as captured. Mission over, task failed. Not an option.

The flame snags the towel. It’s not a heavy burn, just a flare on the edge of blackening material. 

“Sorry kiddo,” Carey says. She moves closer, in front of the stove. “You can surrender, you know. Sometimes it’s your best option.”

And Angus sends one more prayer, winds back, and then chucks his burning, bundled-up rag. Carey ducks, the towel soaring harmlessly above her head and right onto the stove.

Angus has already turned to run. He hears the bellow of the gas igniting, an outward blast of heat that makes his hair stand on end and Carey cry out in shock. And Angus bolts, out of the kitchen, into the front room, up the stairs. As fast as his legs will carry him, muscles burning. He can only hope the ignition surprised her enough she won’t see which door he’s going into as he flees into the upstairs study.

There’s a chair at a desk, Angus letting everything he’s carrying spill from his arms as he grabs that instead. It fits neatly into place: back under the knob and against the door, legs planted on the wooden floor. Carey’s not coming in that way unless she breaks it down.

Angus drops onto the floor. He pages through the book, hasty. He has two words to translate, and nothing more.

Outside, Angus can hear Carey pounding up the steps, hears her open the first door in this corridor. His hands tremble faintly as he rakes through the pages.

There. That’s the first letter. He needs to find the next — yes. And the third gets him the first word: You. Informal/Young/Affectionate You.

Next one.

The knob rattles. The door pushes forward, and then stops, and Carey lets out a curse.

Angus backtracks — he saw that letter earlier on. A dash with three lines branching down, it was less than halfway through the book — not that far, though, go forward now, yes.

“Angus,” Carey calls. “Kid, you get away from the door, I’m gonna blast it open, you hear?”

Second letter, got it. Third letter, further down, he drags his finger along the paper. Next page, there.

“Three,” Carey calls.

He doesn’t see — the word is conjugated, he needs to find —

“Two!” Carey’s voice grows sharp.

—the notes are all in present tense, he needs to conjugate, present tense, informal you. Four letters at the end. The first three are —

“One!”

Angus throws himself under the desk. The door and the chair are both blasted apart, the air electrified as Carey’s draconic breath tears through the barrier. There's a clatter as debris hits the floor and walls, bouncing and rattling. Then quiet, and the sound of Carey stepping through the opening.

She spots him immediately, crouched under the desk. And Angus lets out his breath, crawling out of hiding. It's over, now. He gets to his feet, holding up the note. “You win,” he says.

Carey’s face turns sympathetic. “Sorry, kiddo,” she says, reaching to ruffle his hair. “You did damn good, though. That little trick with the stove was clever as hell." 

Before she can say another word, the Director’s voice sounds within the room. It's projected, but Angus swears he can hear a smile in her words.  “The test of initiation has ended. Congratulations, Angus McDonald.”

 At once, Carey’s expression turns to confusion, and Angus’s stretches into a grin. He shakes the note again. “That’s what it says,” he tells her. “You win.”

She blinks. And then she grins. And then she laughs, and Angus laughter joins hers as she scrubs at the top of his head. “Well sh — well —”

“You can curse in front of me, Miss Carey,” he says, still giggling, voice giddy.

“Well shit!” She crows. “Welcome aboard, kid!”

Suddenly dizzy with adrenalin, Angus gives no protest when she lifts him up onto her shoulders. He just grabs onto her horns, an ecstatic grin on his face as she parades him up and out of the testing arena. The Director is waiting for them outside, smiling at the two of them as she approaches.

“Well, that was quite a finish,” she says. “I do not encourage putting yourself at risk like that, Angus, but your tenacity is certainly admirable. And it pulled you through in the end, so — congratulations are well in order.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, a little breathless. “Um, Miss — Miss Carey? Could you put me down?”

“Oh-ho yeah,” Carey chuckles. She sets him back on his feet as requested, letting Angus stand at his own, considerably less impressive, height to face the Director. At least it’s more dignified than his previous position.

Maybe. Probably not.

The Director claps her hands together. “Alright. Well, Angus, the next step is getting your bracer, and getting you up to speed on all the goings-on. But that can be handled in time.” She stretches a hand down, an offer for Angus to shake.

“Welcome,” she says, “to the Bureau of Balance.”

Chapter Text

The director has a bit of a flair for the dramatic which — yeah, okay, Angus can appreciate that. It’s a little fun, actually, standing behind the door to her office with a new stone of farspeech in his hand, waiting patiently for the runes to light up.

He runs his fingers over the new bracer on his arm. It’s a nice silver, one that has satisfaction licking at his insides. Not too flashy but sleek and clean, a rune etched into its surface, a mark that he’s a member of this organization now. Apart of something.

The stone warms in his hand, low blue light glowing over its runes. His heart skips, excited as he chirps, “Hello sirs!”

Three gasps sound over the stone. It’s Magnus, he thinks, who recognizes him first as he pops the door open to reveal himself. A surprise: he doesn’t remember the man being particularly impressed with his abilities. Quite the opposite, actually.

He can see Magnus and Taako over the Director’s desk — Merle, he can only assume is present, too short for Angus to spot him.  Taako has — he thinks that’s a smile, maybe, as he says, “That’s my dude!” And it warms Angus inside, seeing the recognition, that flash of — something? It’s positive, he knows that, it’s bright in their faces as he strides around to face all three of them, posture straight, wearing the pressed blue-and-white uniform of the Bureau of Balance.

“That’s right,” he says, unable to keep a professional air. His smile is in every word. “I’m going to be working pretty closely with you guys from now on!”

And that’s something exciting. These three know him. They trust him, they understand that he’s fully capable despite his age, despite appearing to be a ten year old child. It’s a familiarity he hasn’t had since leaving Neverwinter, and it’s also something entirely new: he has a purpose .

The relics are bad news. He’s seen what they do, how they destroy lives as easily as pulling a scythe through wheat. And now he’s going to help the only three people capable of ending that.

There’s a tug on his arm: Magnus, trying to play keep-away with his bracer of all things. It sours his joy just a little bit, sighing, “Oh, we’re still doing this, huh?”

Magnus takes his hand away, still grinning. There’s no malice in his face — that’s the odd thing. So Angus tamps down his irritation as Taako speaks up again, “Angus, this is embarrassing, I thought —” He frowns down at Angus, a look that has discomfort twisting in his belly, “ — if you put a sword to my throat I woulda sworn you died.”

Which is not the reaction he’s hoping to get.

He lets the Director explain his presence, still mulling over Taako’s words. He — Taako certainly had pushed him off the train, so, he should have been aware that Angus survived. It’s sort of an instinctual thing, to want to know the results of one’s actions. To deal with or flee from the consequences.

But, Taako was a little bit odd. All three of them were, really, in a way he couldn’t quite place. They were off. There was something in the way Taako’s ears moved, something in the color of Magnus’ hair, in the drone to Merle’s speech, something that didn’t register as quite right.

The thought blurs over fast, distracted as Magnus starts up that game again, irritating but strangely lacking ill intent — these men are very strange. The sooner they start treating him as a coworker and not a kid, or a pet , the better it will be for all of them.

A little too soon, the three look ready to take their leave. But then, they had just gotten back from a mission. A pretty impressive one, by the looks of things. The absolute disaster that had been the Rockport Limited apparently was just an average day at work for these three — and that’s more than a little invigorating to think about. There’s adventure ahead.

Taako pauses as he slings his umbrella up on his shoulder. “And, you’re not dead, right? Just to double check.” He eyes Angus over, a curl to his mouth like he’s teasing but eyes distant, confused.

There’s no reason for him to assume Angus was dead. They’d spoken after that whole fiasco. Angus had given them his card and a bag of chips. But he just shakes his head, says, “Nope. Still… corporeal.”

They leave pretty quickly after that, Taako with a final glance over his shoulder, Magnus with a ruffle to the hair, Merle without a word. Then it’s just Angus and the Director in her office, standing quietly.

The Director clears her throat. “Well, that’s all taken care of, at least. I should let you know, Angus, we do not currently have any more leads on the relics we’re searching for. It’s entirely possible that you’ll have a good bit of freetime.”

Angus cocks his head, frowning. “Ma’am, I know I’m officially their consultant, but aren’t I supposed to be doing work as a seeker as well? If we haven’t found a relic yet then surely I should be helping out!”

The hesitance in her expression makes his heart drop. Of course. “Angus,” she says, words careful, like a teacher about to tell him to slow down: he shouldn’t know cursive until they teach it, he needs to stick to the books of their grade level, he needs to quit asking questions and just listen. “You understand that… I cannot just send a child to seek out the relics. One of our — one of our finest seekers, and founding members, he just lost his life. Captain Bane, the man I just sent those boys to give the Rights of Remembrance.”

The Director sighs, folding her hands on her desk. “You’re a very capable young man, but I will not be placing you in that sort of danger. I won’t stop you from doing research, but any actually seeking will be restricted to the base.”

A protest jumps to his lips. Angus bites it back, swallows a growl. Instead he bows his head, complacent. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles. Straightening up again, he waits a beat before asking, “Ma’am, may I ask you a question?”

She inclines her head to him, and Angus says, “Um, I thought it was weird that… You know, Mister Taako was pretty insistent that I had died back then. Is he… is there something going on with that?”

He watches the Director’s lips move, taking a moment to realize she’s mouthing ‘ Mister Taako’ to herself. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and then she sobers. She drums her fingers on the desk, eyes shifting from Angus’. “...I don’t have information on all of my employees,” she tells him. “So, I’m sorry, I don’t have an answer for you.”

Lie.

Angus smiles, and nods. “Okay. Thank you anyway, Madame Director!”

“Take care of yourself, Angus.”

Life at the Bureau isn’t as thrilling as he might have expected. The Director had meant it when she said they’d have downtime — he just didn’t think she meant there’d be nothing else but. Seeking, it turns out, isn’t something easily done from the moon. Most people of his class are down on the surface, talking to people, investigating strange phenomena, not scouring books without a single lead to go off of.

“It’s no big deal,” Carey tells him, clad in the light armor of a rogue as she heads down to the Icosahedron. “Reclaimers got the same gig — until trouble actually crops up, we don’t really have anything to do. And the relics are, yanno, hidden, so people don’t ‘xactly abuse them too often.”

It’s likely the problem that comes from wiping the relics from existence. Worth it, undoubtedly, to stop their mass destruction. When people don’t know what the relics are, though, when they only witness the aftermath — and by then the item is long gone — there isn’t much to go by.

Angus spends his days nosing through book and his own interceptor device, hoping to find something of interest. There’s an entire section in the very back of the library dedicated to articles that may be linked to relics — reports of a city abruptly vanishing into a forest, of glass circles, of living amethyst. All of it is outdated, going back as far as eleven, maybe twelve years ago.

He can tell exactly where the relics were erased. The earliest reports are blunt, talking of entire battles waged over these creations, giving them names — The Crimson Hand, The Knell, The Alchemist’s Prize. There’s a journal entry, a man who lost an arm trying to hold onto the Philosopher's Stone, describing the urge to die with it than to let his own son take it from him, and then the bloody aftermath.

Angus puts the reports aside at this point, stomach sick and a dizziness in his head. His own hands quake as he shuts his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths, focusing on the rhythm of his heart.

That man probably didn’t even remember he had a son today. Or if he did, did he remember how he —

No. Breathe in. And out.

Angus packs the papers away.

There’s something strange about the reports, he thinks. These items are called relics, but they’re not even twelve years old. A misnomer, perhaps. It would be easier to determine if the library held even a shred of information on the Red Robes.

The Bureau has many discrepancies, he notes, frowning. But then, it is a new organization, one run on the fact that people physically cannot know about its existence. The Director already has strict rules around the distribution of any magic items — the censorship of information about the ones they’re looking for makes a certain amount of sense. Paranoid and inconvenient, yes, but sensible all the same.

That’s how he spends the first few weeks: reading, taking notes, meeting the other members of the Bureau. His room goes nearly unlived in, used only for its bed and the bathroom attached. He picks up pretty quickly that he’s gotten far more ideal accommodations: those that live on the moon typically share smaller rooms, four people sharing a space, the bathrooms massive and meant for hosting dozens at one time.

He’s grateful for the privacy, feels hardly a lick of guilt. Maybe he should — he’s brand new, has done nothing except prove the skills he holds, nothing to earn this spot. He will though. Angus doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that he’ll do great things.

This is what he mulls over instead of reading the book open on the library table. Angus snaps out of it, finding his place on the page: it’s a book about the Silverfrost Mountains, where they rise far north of his old home in Neverwinter. At their peaks, they’re nearly always coated in snow, and play host to a community of Tabaxi with long coats for the bitter cold, aquatic creatures…

He blinks. His eyes are bleary. His stomach is growling. Angus takes his glasses off to rub his eyes, then goes back to reread that same line.

…  Tabaxi with long coats for the bitter cold, aquatic creatures that dwell within frigid depths, silver dragons and taiga-adapted trolls…

His stomach growls again. Angus puts a hand to his belly, frowning. He’d eaten earlier, there’s no reason he should be this hungry. A hand dips into his pocket, finding the old timepiece a client had given him in place of gold. It’s faulty, gets off track if he doesn’t wind it each morning, but Angus knows that today it will read accurately. And today it says a full twelve hours have passed since he had his last meal.

Oops.

Angus folds the book under his arm. The librarian is a kind-looking tiefling, who scans his bracer with the book and gives him a passing, “Get to bed, sweetie,” as he goes. He swallows irritation, just smiles back at her.

There are kitchens available for public use, but hardly anyone uses them. The cafeteria offers three servings each day at no cost to its patrons, and that’s where Angus and the overwhelming majority of the base goes to eat. So late in the night, though, most of the tables are empty. He spots some people slumped over the table, either sleepy or inebriated. Angus grants those with visible bottles on the table a wide berth. Not all people are dangerous when they’re drunk but. It’s not any risk Angus wants to take.

The food is thankfully still hot even this late, an accomodation for those with late shifts on the base. Here, too, the cafeteria workers give him longer looks than their other patrons, keep leaving little mentions that he’s a growing boy, he needs to get his rest. Angus smiles at every one of them, nods, says of course he’ll get to bed right after he eats, doesn’t say he’s got a new book that needs scouring before he gets even a wink of sleep.

At first, he just approaches an empty table, thankful for the peace and quiet the late hour will grant him. Taako, though, is a hard sight to miss: his eyes are drawn by the pointed hat atop his head, bursting with cool-toned flowers nestled in the ribbon about its base. He’s sitting at an empty table of his own, not eating despite the tray settled in front of him.

Angus hesitates, and then changes direction mid-step.

The clack of his tray on the table draws Taako out of whatever stupor he’s in. He blinks, startled, then confused, then acknowledging. “Angus,” he says, a statement to himself more than any kind of greeting.

“Good — good evening — hello, sir,” is what he settles on. It’s technically morning. “Did you have a job today? It’s very late.”

“Hm?” He blinks, slow, then lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Naw. Just — elf business.”

“Elf business,” he repeats.

“ E-yup.” He pops the ‘p’ with a tired-looking smirk. Taako picks up a fork, pushes the leaves of his salad around the tray a bit, spears a piece but doesn’t eat it. “How ‘bout you, kiddo? Don’t you need sleep to, like, not be short?”

Angus opens his mouth, breath freezing when he goes to speak. He clicks his teeth together, then says, “Detective business, sir.”

Taako snorts. He doesn’t say another word, just takes what looks to be the first bite of his dinner. Angus turns to his own tray in turn, the two of them eating in silence.

“Lotta meat on that plate, kid,” Taako says. It’s perfectly offhand, lacking the question or accusation he would expect.

Still, Angus seeks a way to explain himself. “I didn’t eat it much before,” he says, which is the truth. “It’s — I mean, I guess, I developed a taste for it recently.” It’s more that he developed a sudden realization his diet was entirely unsustaining of his needs — perhaps a reason he’s so small for his age.

“Mmmm.” Taako eyes him over, a familiar look. It’s calculating, almost, and Angus can practically see the lines going through his brain as he processes what he sees. “... Say, pumpkin, what’s the deal vis-a-vis the home sitch? You live up here on the moon, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” he says. It’s not wariness he feels, but maybe caution. Whatever Taako’s gearing for, Angus needs to watch his words. He has a story he needs to keep straight.

Taako reaches over, tugging on the bowtie. When Angus shifts away, a glare on his face that he’s hasty to wipe away. Taako doesn’t bat an eye, just lets go to prop his arm up on the table instead. “Looks like you’ve got a bit of an, uh — a nice gig going on here. Looked pretty — pretty ritzy back on the train.”

Angus glances down at his own outfit, realizing with a cringe the blatant message of affluence his clothes carried. Abandoned orphan boys don’t wear long jackets with lapels and shiney buttons. They don’t wear polished, heeled shoes.

There was no way, in other words, that he’d fooled The Director or anyone with that story. What conclusion they’d adopted instead, he couldn’t say. Too late to backtrack now. For whatever reason, despite his lies, no one was sending him away.

He’s quiet until Taako seems to decide he doesn’t care to wait for an answer. He takes another miniscule bite. The fork taps against his tray, and then pauses.

“Hey, kiddo,” Taako says, eyes scanning him all over again. Angus tenses. He’s no stranger to observation and judgement, but it’s another story being on the receiving end. Taako seems to chew on his words, then continues, “Is that the only outfit you own?”

Angus blinks at him, furrows his brow. “Um,” he says, “No, sir. I had, um, a uniform for the Bureau fitted for me —”

“Yeah, so that’s like two.” Taako’s knee bounces, the table shaking slightly with its movement. “Is that all you’ve got?”

A lie springs to his tongue. He swallows it immediately, sighing. “Yes, sir,” he says, and offers nothing else.

Taako’s scoff makes his shoulders jump to his ears. For whatever reason, his answer upset the elf, a look of irritation aimed down at the table as Taako taps his fork. “ Naturally,” he mutters. His ears have tipped back, twitching — expressive, for an elf. Angus hasn’t met too many, but most have displayed far more control than Taako.

“Alright,” Taako breathes. “Well, goodnight, Agnes.”

And with that, he’s on his feet, sweeping the food he’d barely eaten off the table and into the trash, striding his way out of the room before Angus has the chance to correct him.

He’s woken far too early by a knocking at his door.

Angus is up in an instant, heart leaping into a gallop. His suit is hung on the dresser and he lunges for it, pulling on blue and white without a thought, gasping out, “Sorry, I’m sorry, I’m getting dressed right now!”

His fingers are shaking over the buttons when a voice that doesn’t belong to either of his parents says, “ Uh. Don’t worry, The Director just wants to see you. Take your time.”

Angus goes still. Then, slowly, he buttons the white blazer that makes up his own uniform for the Bureau of Balance, calls a far quieter, “Okay. Thank you,” as he steps into his pants. No need to hurry. Nothing to be afraid of. It’s strange.

No one is waiting for him when he steps out of his bedroom — truly just a messenger, then. He breathes out, slow, and makes his way to the Director’s office.

It had been a short sleep — barely more than five hours. His own fault, he knows, but he’s more than used to shaking off exhaustion. Angus gives himself the time to yawn before he knocks to announce his entry.

The Director is there, as always, sitting behind her desk. What’s unusual is the person standing on the other side.

“Oh. Good morning, ma’am. Good morning, sir,” Angus says, uncertain why Taako is apparently also waiting on him.

He’s dressed far nicer than he’d been back in the cafeteria, changing from loose, comfortable clothes to a long skirt and lace-up boots, his umbrella and hat both enchanted to be matching shades of midnight blue. One boot taps on the ground, arms crossed, decidedly not looking at Angus as the boy turns his gaze to the Director.

“Angus,” she begins. There’s a slight tilt to her lips: a smile, amusement or joy, he can’t tell. Maybe both. “Taako has brought to my attention a fairly large misstep on my own part. He tells me that you’re currently experiencing a shortage in your wardrobe, is that correct?”

“Um.” His eyes are wide, looking between the two of them. “Yes — yes ma’am, but, um, that’s really not your fault.”

She rises, brushing off his comment with a wave of the hand. “No, no, it’s my job to ensure that all of my employees are in suitable conditions. As such, I will be allotting you some money with which you may purchase yourself clothing and whatever else you see fit. However, I can’t exactly drop you off on the surface alone, so… Well, given it was his idea, I believe Taako will be a suitable escort.”

Taako’s face pinches. “I’m not a babysitter,” he complains.

“And I don’t need one,” Angus snips back, mood crumbling in an instant.

The Director puts a hand up to her mouth, but it does nothing to hide the light in her eyes. “Well, that’s good because the two of you are coworkers. Taako, there’s a small amount for you as well.”

“Paying him to watch over me is definitely a babysitter,” Angus mutters, but neither of them pay him any mind.

Taako’s ears had perked at the promise of some extra gold in his pocket. He wheedles for only a moment longer, going, “Well I don’t know,” even as he’s already striding forward.

Any attempt to maintain her stoic demeanor seems to crumble. The Director’s face softens as she hands two sacks of coins to Taako.

She’s a beautiful woman by any standard, lines of age that are just beginning to show, her curls a moonlit white, but something about the way she smiles seems to take years away from her face.

“Angus, keep an eye on him.” She snaps back to her typical countenance, tapping the larger of the two bags. “ This one is for you. Don’t let him try to cheat.”

Taako scoffs as Angus smiles, says, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll know if he tries any funny business.”

Angus swears he hears a mutter of little snitch before Taako whirls around. He sets fingers to Angus’ shoulder, encouraging him to fall into step. “Keep up, kiddo, I’m not gonna wait for you.”

He tails after him, only pausing to call a, “Thank you, Madame Director!” before the door swings shut.

The two of them make their way to the first dome Angus had been in on the base: the launch room. A man he’d come to learn was named Avi greets them, punching in coordinates to a city Angus had never heard of and waving them on through.

“You ever been fired off before?” Avi asks him, offering a hand to help him up the step.

Angus doesn’t take it, climbing up on his own. “Um, no sir.” He gives the sphere a nervous once-over. They’re all identical: four seats, a little lever next to the one Taako flops into.

“Well, Taako has, so he’ll be taking care of the landing. I think you’ll like it, though!” Avi flashes him a grin and a thumb’s up, then lowers the panel down, which shifts almost seamlessly into place.

They’re shifted into darkness: the canon. Avi’s voice sounds, distant and tinny: “ Launch in three — two — one — enjoy your fli—!”

They’re out before he can finish the word. Breath sucks into Angus’ lungs, hands squeezing tight around anything they can latch onto as they’re rocketed into light and into the sky.

“Watch the nails, kiddo.” Taako’s voice breaks Angus back to himself, head twisting to stare at him. Taako shifts his arm, pulls Angus’ with it, and he realizes he’d gripped Taako’s wrist in his panic. When he retracts his hand, there are faint crescents where his nails dug in.

“Sorry!” He squeaks, clutching his hand to his chest in a horror.

Taako thumbs over the marks, lips pursed. He shrugs, “Hey, you didn’t draw blood. Just bring a teddy bear or something next time instead of clawing me up.”

Angus goes silent, grasping for words. Another apology, maybe, but — Taako had forgiven him. “Okay,” he mumbles, turning his eyes back to the world outside.

The sky is pale with early morning light. The sun is still low on the horizon, painting the fields below in gold. The clouds have been stained a pastel pink, stars still lingering at the dark edges of the sky. Behind them, the moonbase shrinks, appearing more and more to be the moon it’s disguised as as they fall down to earth.

A breath gusts out of him. This is the view he’d been meant to have his entire life. Being so high, the world so far beneath, he should have known this long time ago.

They’re still a ways from the ground. Angus rises from his seat. The enchantment on the sphere keeps his feet on the floor, letting him stride to push his hands against the glass walls and stare down, taking it in while he has the chance.

“You’re not afraid of heights at all, are you?” Angus turns his head, catches Taako giving him a bemused look. “Weird kid.”

Angus’ heart skips. “Um,” he says. “I just. I trust the, uh, whoever enchanted this did a good job, so I, I trust their ability.”

Taako doesn’t seem to care about his explanation, just shrugging and leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, alright.”

Angus takes his seat again, wary now that he knows Taako is watching him. “You don’t seem to be very impressed with this, sir.”

Taako shrugs. “I’ve taken the flight a couple of times. Seen it once, seen it a million times.”

“I guess so.” He’s quiet for another moment. Then, he murmurs, “Me, though, I think I’d give anything to be able to fly like this every day.”

He gets no response. Angus takes the hint, going quiet as they dip lower and lower in the sky. The peaks of a city soar beneath them, the sphere’s course suddenly shifting into more of a fall as they shoot towards the meadows that frame the area.

Taako pulls the lever. Immediately, their descent slows, decelerating into a pleasant glide until they touch upon the grass with just a bump.  

They climb out, the sphere lifting back into the air as Taako stretches. “So, where are we going?” Angus asks. The city is built tall, with towers that reach for the sky. It’s a decent hike away, distance required for discretion. Angus suddenly wishes he’d brought his more comfortable shoes, changing into the low heels out of habit.

“‘Called Sunridge,” Taako tells him, already making his way out. Angus stumbles behind, grimacing as his heels dig into the uneven ground. “Came here a while back when I, uh, came here a few years back and turns out they’ve got a great fashion district.”

Angus notes the stumble in his speech, a flicker of a grimace on the elf’s face. Concealing something, undoubtedly. Angus’s eyes sharpen. He takes in Taako’s form, the slight tension in his posture, the wide brim of his hat and the shadow it casts over his face, a cloak that conceals his shoulders, his arms, his chest. His hair is tied into a braid, pulled over his shoulder in a decidedly casual look, a far cry from the ostentatious style he prefers.

And then Angus takes in a faceful of grass as the heel of one shoe hits a divet in the ground and he tumbles forward.

There’s a shuffle of grass. “Hey now.” Taako’s voice sounds above him just as a hand flits over his arm, helping to pull up to kneel in the grass. Taako is crouching down in front of him, frowning. “You okay, pumpkin?”

“I’m fine,” Angus mumbles, heat flaring over his cheeks. He wipes them, brushing the dirt from his skin. His fingers skim his glasses, which fall from his face in two pieces. For a moment, Angus only stares at the two halves of his glasses, snapped at the bridge.

“Oh,” he murmurs. Dismay curdles in his stomach.

Taako plucks them out of the grass. “Hey, it’s no problem,” he says.

Angus fights back the urge to glare. “Sir, I need those to see —”

He blinks. The glasses Taako is holding out to him look perfect. Not two halves, but clean, solid frames. It’s blurry, but he can see the white of Taako’s teeth as he grins. “I am a simple idiot  wizard, but even I can cast mending, kiddo.”

“Oh,” he says again. Angus takes the frames, sliding them back up onto his nose. He tests the bridge. There’s a line that catches under his nail, a mark where they’d once been split, but beyond that they’re seamless. His chest feels tight. “Thank you, sir.”

Taako snorts. “That didn’t even cost me a spell slo — aw, dunk. I totally could have swindled you there.”

Angus laughs. “If you take more than your share I won’t tell the Director,” he promises. “Also, uh, I’m probably going to have to walk slower. My shoes aren’t really good for walking in the grass.”

Taako glances down at his heels, then rolls his eyes. “Yeah, no. It’s gonna take forever stumbling around in those and Taako is not the outdoorsy type. Just — ugh — I’ll give you a piggyback ride, it’ll be faster.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay sir —”

“Kid, either you take the piggyback ride or I cast levitate and carry you like a balloon.”

Angus takes the piggyback ride. It’s something he’s entirely too old for, embarrassed as he puts his arms around Taako’s neck and legs around his sides. He’s a burden on the elf, slowing him down, breaking his glasses, forcing him to literally carry his weight so they don’t take an hour to get to Sunridge.

But. It’s nothing Angus has ever done before. It’s kind of nice.

Taako sets him down once they reach a paved road, something that Angus can actually walk on. Sunridge city is even more impressive up close, the buildings reaching heights that are dizzying to see. The road cuts grids between the towers, and Taako guides him down one and to a small station. A few silvers buy them a ride on a trolley, shuttled off with citizens and visitors alike.

The fashion district is easily recognizable by the outdoor vendors. Entire racks of clothing are displayed under collapsible canopies, varying from simple cloaks and leather shoes to levels of glamor that even Taako wrinkles his nose at.

Shopping isn’t anything Angus has done before. He tags along behind Taako, watching the elf shuffle through racks, hold necklaces up in front of mirrors, tug a cloak out and then drop it with disgust when it’s revealed to be an awful, scratchy material. Within five minutes of arriving, he already has a bag on his arm: a scarf that is too light to serve any function beyond looking good.

The sun is high in the sky before Taako glances at Angus, raises his eyebrows, and says, “You know, you’re supposed to be shopping, too.”

Angus lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I, um. I don’t know… how.”

His clothes have been tailored for him his entire life. Taako’s ears flick, eyebrows raising eye on his face. Then he shakes his head, grabs Angus’ hand, and pulls him to the nearest shopkeeper. “Hey, where’s the best place to get clothes for this shortstack?”

It’s how they find themselves in a shop that looks terrifyingly expensive. Angus doesn’t miss the looks they get. Whether it’s due to Taako’s state of dress or the fact he’s an elf with a human child, their faces range from shock to disgust. He finds himself shifting defiantly closer to Taako’s side, chin lifting high.

And finally, there are clothes Angus can actually wear. He pieces delicately through jackets and button-ups his size, checking their tags to make sure he has enough. The Director had given them a hefty sum, clearly intending for Angus to have options when he dressed himself in the morning. With this, he won’t have much at all.

He says as much to Taako, who checks the tags himself, seems to run some numbers through his head. “Kiddo,” he says, “you don’t have to pick out full suits you know. If you like being fancy, hell yeah, just get a nice shirt with a good pair of pants. Your shoes will pull it together. Here, like this —”

When they exchange coins for Angus’ new wardrobe, his eyes are wide. There’s more color in these bags than in the collective armoires of his entire family. He’d been doubtful until Taako had shoved him into a dressing room with a lavender button up — and it looked good. Charming, and put together, but somehow lively as well.

Suddenly, Angus can’t stop looking. As they pace around, Taako not quite through with his own selection, Angus slows down at any section with clothing his own size. He lingers briefly over a navy skirt, remembering the one Taako himself is wearing. Embarrassment pulls him away before he can summon the courage to grab it. Boys don’t wear skirts. Taako is just weird.

He’s brave, too, and beautiful. But that’s not always good thing.

“Hey, Agnes!” Taako’s voice lilts through the small crowd also browsing the same store, a collection of handcrafted jewelry. “Check this out.”

He finds Taako looking in a mirror, holding two wrists up. Both are adorned with bracelets, the right side dons a band of gold adorned with rubies, the left a silver chain, charms embedded with polished black gems decorating the links. “Which one’s better?” he asks.

Angus immediately favors the silver: it’s more subtle, refined. But the gold and scarlet are stunning against the brown of Taako’s skin, so he points the the right. Taako nods, looking pleased with that result. “Hell yeah. Your fault I’m dumping this gold now.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Angus starts, but Taako only snickers and drops the silver bracelet into Angus’ hands.

“Put that back for me. I’m gonna buy this.” Taako sets fingers atop his head as he passes, a length to his stride that suggests he plans to barter with the shopkeeper instead of just taking the listed price. When Angus looks at the tag on the silver, he winces. If the gold is more expensive than this one… he wonders if the Director knows where her money is going.

She probably does. Almost certainly. Angus won’t tell if she doesn’t, though.

If he were less responsible, Angus would buy the bracelet for himself. He admires the delicate engraving on the gem-laden plates, a swirling design that he strokes with a thumb. He’s out of the gold, though, the majority already spent on clothes he actually needs.

“Angus!” Taako has a pleased look on his face that suggests he managed to get a good discount on his new accessory. “We’re going!”

“Yes, sir!” He scampers after the elf, and out of the shop. “We’re heading back now?”

“Yep. Unless you’ve got somewhere else to go. Taako’s good.” He hefts the bags he’s carrying.

“No, I think I have everything I need.” Angus reaches up, tugging on one of the bags, containing a pair of boots. “I’ll probably want to change shoes now.” Taako hands him the bag, Angus kneeling down to change into them. Thick soles and sturdy leather — they’ll last him a good while, if he doesn’t grow out of them first.

“Looking pretty slick th —” Taako halts midword. Then, slowly, a grin spreads across his cheeks. “Hey, kiddo. Didja pay for that?”

Angus’ eyes dip down where he’s pointing, to the silver bracelet still clutched in his hands. His eyes go wide.

A guffaw puffs out of Taako’s chest. “Holy shit. That’s some smooth work, kiddo —”

“ Hey! Elf! Stop there!” A shout, furious, breaks out behind them.

Taako’s ears flick. “Not smooth enough, though. Go, kid, go go go.” He grabs Angus by the wrist, breaking into a run to shove through the crowd.

“Wait, sir, I can give it back —!”

“Nope!”

They sprint. Angus’ new boots are perfect for running.

Chapter Text

A creature that is both radiant and necrotic in nature. It possesses constructed forms, shies away from a cleric’s magic despite its own makeup, possesses the intelligence of a humanoid but the strength of something far, far more dangerous.

Angus has heard of this before. He just needs to remember when.

It’s not the static he’s come to recognize as the Voidfish’s force — that is long gone, now, no longer clogs his thoughts, blurs them over until his focus finds something new. This is more like a gap. Something cleanly smoothed over. It’s a hole in the wall repaired with plaster and fresh paint, blending in perfectly until you look close enough to realize the blemish is there.

And then? You can’t stop thinking about it.

He thumbs through the index of his book — A Comprehensive Guide to Radiant Entities, Demigods, Aspects, and Other Beings of the Celestial Plane. He’s ruled out both fey and fiends — the former unlikely to inhabit something inorganic, the latter lacking any alignment to radiance. Whatever was stalking the reclaimers in Lucas’ lab, it had to be of celestial origin.

It would be easier if they would just give him more details. “He won’t bug us anymore,” Magnus had assured him, leaning down as though to ruffle his hair, then wincing and straightening his back with a cringeworthy snapping sound. Something had fallen on him during their mission, apparently — he was more than due for a healing treatment and a massage.  

Then Angus had noticed the state of Merle’s arm, and really he was too tired to remember to press for details after that whole fiasco.

The entire event had been just that: a fiasco. Suddenly, Angus is happy his job isn’t a particularly active one — doing that regularly would be just miserable. The emotional whiplash alone —

No, I’m a flesh boy, he’d told them, as regular human children are wont to do.

Angus pushes his fingers under his glasses, covering his face. Embarrassing. They seemed to shrug it off but — gods why had he said that.

Why had he done any of that, spouting nonsense and then just straight up bawling in front of The Director — he’s supposed to be mature, he’s supposed to be reliable, and now they’re going to think he’s just going to lose it the first time things get bad.

Angus sets his glasses on the table, rubbing the pads of his fingers against his forehead. A sigh puffs out of him. It’s okay. It’s okay. He’s going to figure this out, and he’s going to do better. He completely bungled his first job but it’s fine.

“Davenport?”

The voice makes him jump. He scrambles for his glasses, pushing them, crooked, up onto his nose. The gnome comes into focus, dressed in his Bureau suit, eyes fixed on Angus with a glint of concern.

“Oh. Hello sir.” Angus pushes the neighboring chair out, inviting him to hop up onto the seat. Davenport hits a lever that raises his cushion, adjusting it to a proper height to fold his arms on the table. As soon as he’s settled, Davenport turns to him and raises a nonchalant eyebrow.

Angus’ shoulders hunch up. He runs his fingers through his hair — proper curls, now, far longer than his parents would ever let it grow. “I’m fine, sir,” he tells him.

“ Davenport,” the man says, stern. It seems he’s only using his own name today.

And Angus wilts. “It’s nothing to be worried about, really. I just realized that, um, I really goofed up my first proper job here.” His voice gets smaller as he speaks, until he’s staring down at the table.

There’s a touch to his arm. Davenport squeezes, just above his bracer, his grip far firmer than Angus would expect. “ Dav enport,” he says.

Angus has long gotten the impression that the man says his name just to say something. It’s not another language, to be translated into Common words. For whatever reason, some days the man can speak in quiet fragments, some days he can only say his name. Some days, the worst days, the days when his tail and ears droop and his feet are sluggish and his eyes are glazed, he says nothing at all.

Being unable to speak, Angus thinks, would be terrifying. He needs his voice, needs to be heard — it’s difficult enough as is, just to get someone to listen.

So he gets it that Davenport needs to say something. And even though the repetition of his name has no meaning in itself, there’s a force behind it. The squeeze of his arm turns to a pat, brisk, both reassuring and almost authoritative . “Davenport,” he says again, but this time with a tone of finality.

Angus lowers his eyes. He smiles. “Thank you, sir,” he murmurs. “I’ll do my best next time.”

Davenport gives him a sharp grin, another firm pat. Approval, support. Angus feels his heart swell with appreciation for the man. He clears his throat, speaking in a clearer tone when he chirps, “By the way, sir, did you, um, did you read the book I gave you? Your Candlenights gift?”

Davenport nods, lifting his thumb and forefinger to hold them a small space apart. Angus cocks his head. “Does that mean you’ve only read a little, or you only have a little left?”

Two fingers — the second one. Angus beams. “I’m glad to hear that, sir! Honestly I was taking a guess at what kind of books everyone would enjoy. I mean, all of them are mysteries, of course, but, you know, there are other genres, too.” Like Magnus’ involved swashbuckling pirates, and Taako’s was all about an ancient curse, and Merle’s — well, he didn’t think Merle was going to read his at all, but it took place in a jungle so the thought was still there. “Um, what genre do you like, sir?” He asks.

Davenport taps a finger against his jaw for a moment. Then he beckons to Angus, hopping out of his chair to lead him between the library shelves. Eventually he rolls a stepstool over, hopping up to pull a book off the shelf to hand it to Angus.

It’s a stunningly dense read, hard-cover and well taken care of. From the synopsis on the inside cover, it seems to be a story about a half-elf who got lost at sea. Survival. Adventure. It’s not what he’d expect from Davenport one bit.

“I’ve never read books like this before,” Angus admits. He tucks the novel under his arm. “I think I’ll read it, just as soon as I finish rereading Caleb Cleveland: What Lies in the Deep. That one’s one of my favorites! The title is sort of a double-entendre, because it takes place near the ocean, but then you find out that Caleb’s client — huh?”

Davenport has a finger pressed to his lips. He shakes his head, and then points to himself. “Oh!” Angus gasps. “You want to read it, sir?”

A nod, a smile, a thumbs-up. Angus’ heart soars. “Oh, yes sir, this will be fantastic! It’s like — it’s like a book club! I can lend you my copy, and, and I’ll read this one here!”

The two of them amble back to their table, Angus having to hold his tongue from sheer excitement. Davenport takes another book down on his way, thumbing midway through the pages as though he’d memorized which number he’d left off on. It leaves Angus to work in quiet, the company of the dwarf beside him leaving a sense of warmth in his chest as he begins to skim through a new passage on ki-rin.

He has a page full of notes — mostly dead ends, a lingering note on paragons that was ultimately abandoned — when he hears a familiar set of footsteps. Click-tap-click-click-tap — heeled boots and a staff upon the floor . He knows it’s the Director before she even comes into view.

Angus keeps his head down a moment longer, scrawling down another line as he hears her approach come to a halt, and then putting down his pen to look at her. “Hello there, Madame Director,” he greets, voice at a library-appropriate whisper. He sees Davenport’s ears flick at his voice, the man looking up as well.

The Director watches the two of them. There’s a set to her face that Angus doesn’t recognize, a shadow in her eyes. Then she breaks out into a smile. “I was going to ask for Davenport’s assistance, but I can see the two of you are busy,” she says, immediately ceding her position as she shifts her staff back.

Angus feeds a ribbon through his book, flipping it shut. “Oh no, ma’am, that’s alright. I’m really not getting anywhere with my research today. If you need mister Davenport, don’t let me get in the way.”

“It’s Cap — mm.” She cuts herself off so fast Angus isn’t certain he heard it, tapping her lips with a finger. “No, no, it’s not that important. Davenport, whenever you’re available I was hoping you could look over some files with me. Some of our seekers haven’t been sending in their reports on time. But only once you’re finished here, please.”

“Davenport,” he says, giving her a quick-snapped salute.

The Director smiles at them. “You two enjoy your reading. Perhaps I’ll join you one day; it’s been a good long while since I’ve read a regular book.” She snorts, like the thought is unbelievable. “Well, I’ll get out of your hair.” And as she says this, she reaches down to give Angus —

A ruffle to his hair, probably, or a pat on the head or shoulder, something harmless, something careful. But Angus flinches, his chair dragging against the carpet at the first delicate touch of her nails.

There’s a long stretch of silence. Davenport’s eyes flicker between the two of them, sharp. The Director’s jaw has gone partially slack. And Angus’ heart is beating in his throat, harsh and heavy as his breath.

“S-s-s-sorry, ma’am,” he stutters out, lips suddenly trembling so terribly he can barely manage the apology. He remembers a sting to his cheek, a slap just light enough to make him stop crying, he remembers a slap hard enough to bruise, his his teeth made blood burst from his cheek, how he’d smear dark creams over purple splotches, how his breath would hitch, stop crying, Angus.

He keeps his eyes down, a flush of humiliation over the dragging seconds until the Director’s voice becomes curt and harsh. She’ll either leave now and not deign him a single word until he’s proven himself worthwhile or give him something to truly cry over.

His eyes burn. He won’t let the tears fall. He won’t . He stares down at the cover of his book, refusing to blink even as his vision blurs over.

When the Director moves, Angus flinches again. He shuts his eyes tight.

“Angus.”

Her voice is soft.

He opens his eyes.

The Director is kneeling on the floor. Her staff is in one hand, the other clasped over her chest. “Angus,” she says again. “Is this because of what I did on Candlenights?”

He doesn’t dare breathe a word. Her face his kind, her voice is gentle, but he can’t trust that. It’s fooled him before.

For a moment, it looks like the Director’s lip wobbles. Her eyes seem to become glossy. “Oh, Angus,” she sighs, the barest strain to her voice. “I’m so sorry.”

He lifts a hand, covering one eye. It won’t fool her — she’ll know a tear has slipped down. But she doesn’t have to see it, so he can preserve that much of his dignity. “What for?” He croaks.

“For what I… gods. I put my hand on you, Angus. I hurt you. I should have never done that, regardless of my reasoning, as both your boss and as a person that is completely unacceptable.” Her fingers curl into her lapel. “I won’t ask for your forgiveness, Angus, but I do promise I will never, ever do something like that again. Okay?”

What she’s saying doesn’t make sense. None at all. But Angus nods to her, dumbfounded, and she gives him a strained smile before she gets to her feet, bows her head, and turns to walk away.

A silence remains over their table. Davenport’s tail flicks in a distressed manner. Angus only sniffs, clears his throat, and reopens his book. And true to form, Davenport doesn’t say a word, just turns his own eyes back to his book and lets Angus gather himself in private.

The Icosahedron is a flexible training ring. It’s rigged up with a deep webbing of conjuration magic, allegedly, allowing whoever is in charge of the arena at the time to shape its terrain. He’s seen it altered into a swamp, tidepools, a dense forest, a city. He’s had it rigged up with targets for himself, just to make sure he hasn’t forgotten how to use his crossbow.

Today there are no enchantments upon it, a standard set of obstacles on a tapered floor. Two teams of three: Magnus, Merle, and Taako on one side, Carey, Killian, and their newest team member on the other. Noelle: another entity from Lucas’ lab. She’s a ghost, apparently, and that little tidbit had his brain just itching. The thing that had been stalking the boys through the lab, something about ghosts, something about death, about —

There’s a reverberating clang, a bolt from Killian’s crossbow deflected off of Magnus’ shield. In the same moment, he sees Noelle’s arm spin, dots of light blinking around its perimeter — charging the fireball spell etched inside of that canon. It trains itself on Taako, now left unguarded as Magnus is flanking Merle.

Angus bites back a warning. He watches Taako’s ears flick up, alarm, and then suddenly he’s somersaulting across the ground. Pops up onto one knee, umbrastaff cast outward, and a ray of frost coats the outer layer of Noelle’s chassis, forcing her arm still.

As always, Angus’ eyes go wide. His eyes drop down to his paper, pen settling on the lines. There’s nothing to write. He’s sketched crude illustrations of the different ways he’s seen magic users wield their focus, from Leon’s tense grip on his wand to Taako’s idle brandishing of his umbrella. His journal’s pages are full of runes for ritual spells, lists of components, even traced images of the somatic motions he’s found in spellbooks. It’s a store of knowledge to be proud of, but it’s done him little good.

Magic has always come with difficulty to Angus. He takes a glance up, making sure that attention is no longer on him. Then he looks down at his hands, and wills his scales to the surface.

They’re just as they always are: silver, shiny, but aching. It’s gotten easier to hold them in place, but inevitably his body prefers its human shape, wills itself back into its disguise. He wonders, now, if this could be why magic has evaded him until now.

Which means. Maybe, just maybe. If he can summon scales onto his skin, maybe he can summon magic from the end of a wand. He’ll need to get a focus, first. And then… well, then he’ll have to hope his notes are enough.

Without the Director’s supervision for the day, the session is quick to devolve from its purpose. Carey only taps Magnus’ shoulder instead of springing for him, pointing to Taako with a devious grin. Angus sets his book down in his lap, figuring he might as well watch the show.

Taako’s gotten distracted, gesticulating wildly at Killian, posture leaned forward with a grin on his face. By the tilt of his ears, it’s easy to say he’s perfectly unaware of Magnus slipping up behind him, a hand sneaking into the pocket of his cloak.

Magnus’ yell is muffled beyond the glass of Angus’ booth. “Damn it, Taako!” He yelps, shaking his hand while the rest dissolve into laughter.

Pocket pudding. Angus has been warned before. He turns back to his journal with a small smile, making a note on the page: is that a triggered conjuration spell, or does Taako actually just stuff his pockets with it? He can’t imagine the elf could stand the feeling, so surely…

The door creaks open. Angus glanced up, pen tip against his lip. Taako flicks him a peace sign with the hand still holding his umbrastaff, the other occupied by a juice pouch. “Sup, Agnes,” he says. His eyes flicker down to the journal in his lap, leatherbound and already halfway full. “You trying to write a novel there?”

“Oh, no. Well, maybe someday, sir!” he tells him. Angus sticks his pen between the binding. “I would love to make a published rendition of some of my adventures, but at the moment, no. Actually, it’s my job to observe the three of you and how your work together, so that I can better advise you in the field!”

“Oh, yeah?” Taako’s eyebrows raise. “Whatcha got on ol’ Taako, then?”

Angus pushes his glasses up his nose. “Well, sir, you don’t have any trouble staying out of range of harm, or nearby Magnus so he can protect you, and that’s very good. You’re not very big on actual teamwork, though, preferring to act on your own whims rather than through cooperation…”

He sees the grimace spreading on Taako’s face, clears his throat and changes tact. “Though admittedly, it does seem to be working well enough. Your spellcasting is very impressive! I especially liked when you did that thing where you disappeared and reappeared a lot. That’s not — it’s not a spell I can recognize!”

Taako gives him a look. “What, Blink?” He says.

Angus immediately reopens his book to write it down. “Blink! Is it, um, is it to much trouble to ask you for some details on that? Specifically what it does, and school of magic and the like!” He can’t help the excitement creep into his voice. Adults don’t always like his interest in these subjects — it’s just too interesting to ignore.

“Well I mean it’s transmutation,” Taako tells him, and Angus gives a soft oh! at that. That is his specific school, after all.

“...Hey kiddo,” Taako starts again. This time there’s a note of something almost hesitant. “You’re pretty, mmm, pretty interested in magic, aren’t you? You ever try to learn?”

Angus thumbs over the pages. When he was eight, he remembers one of the servants was a sorcerer. The man would do parlor tricks for him, bouncing a ball of light between his fingers. A few times, he’d tried to pass that light into Angus’ palms, to let him hold it, feel that magic warm over his skin. It fizzled out each time.

“I have tried, sir,” he answers, a sigh. “So far it hasn’t worked, though.”

Taako is quiet for a moment longer, taking another drink as he leans back. “Well,” he drawls, crumbling up the plastic. “You looking for a teacher?”

Angus puffs out a laugh. “That would be very nice, sir. But magic lessons are expensive, and apprenticeships are a big commitment — I’ve looked into it before!”

Taako touches fingers to the bridge of his nose, eyes shutting. “No, kid.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his legs, looking intently down at Angus. “I’m — I’m offering . No charge, beyond, like, might need you to be my alibi every once in a while.”

Angus stares at him. Jaw ajar, wide-eyed, staring. Under his gaze, Taako’s ears swivel back, eyes flickering to and from Angus’. “Hey you — you good? It’s not a big deal or anything ‘m just… need a way to pass the time anyway. Doesn’t make a difference to me.” His voice slips deeper and deeper into a mumble.

And then it becomes a yelp as Angus all but throws himself into Taako’s lap. “Thank you!” He gushes. “I mean, yes, sir, please! Thank you thank you thank you!”

Taako cranes his head up, a hand patting stiffly on top of Angus’ head. “Yeah, yeah, don’t strain yourself. How ‘bout you meet me in, uh, gimme like, three days to figure this shit out.”

By this point, Angus’ voice has died in his throat, just giving a muffled Mm-hmm as he nods against Taako’s shirt. He probably shouldn’t be acting so clingy, but Taako hasn’t pushed him off, and his shirt has the scent of rose clinging to it, and Angus really, really doesn’t want to let go.

A new voice breaks in behind them. “Whoa! I didn’t like, miss your birthday or something, did I?”

Angus lifts his head to see Magnus. He’s giving Taako an anxious look, his foot bouncing on the ground. “No, sir,” Angus tells him, flashing a smile that feels huge on his face. “Mister Taako’s going to give me magic lessons!”

Too late, Angus realizes Taako had been shushing him. He winces, a pang of discomfort as Taako gives a heavy sigh.

“Oh, shit,” Magnus breathes. “Taako’s gonna make you a wizard boy! You’ll be able to, like, fly and stuff!”

“I mean, in the future, yeah,” Taako huffs. “He’ll be starting with cantrips ‘n shit.”

“But still! We’ll have a flying Ango!” He breaks himself off, an excitable gasp. “Oh man, Taako, I just had an even better idea.”

“Oh, boy.”

“You know Lucretia’s rule about dogs?”

“None on the moon.”

“Cause they’ll fall off the edge!”

“Mags, I’m not making you —”

“What if you make me a flying dog!”

Angus laughs with them, but his brain is far away. It’s full of pages and pages of spellbooks that have never leant him their aid, it’s the prospect of finally, finally triumphing what has always evaded him. But first thing’s first: he’s going to need a wand.

Chapter Text

Taako manages to keep a schedule for magic lessons for about the first two sessions, and then it falls completely out of line. Lessons become Taako is in the same room as him and is struck by inspiration or the need to show off, and then suddenly Angus is getting a lesson at one AM, or in the laundry room, or Taako is pitching an apple at him in the quad to see if he can get a Mage Hand out in time to catch it.

“Hey, Ango, wanna learn how to blow shit up?” is how Taako drags him into the next one, catching him as he’s putting his tray up in the cafeteria. He’s left his hat behind for the day, long hair gathered up into a bun.

He’s also wearing a dress, which makes Angus pause. It’s the kind of thing he’d expect to see in Rockport, cut halfway down the thigh, bright colors swishing as he walks. Normally, of course, he’d see it on the young women, on their break from university during summer. And by normally he meant always. His parents hadn’t felt too kindly towards the sort of men who would wear skirts and dresses. They’d be horrified to see him now.

There’s a trickle of guilt in his throat. They gave him food, and clothes, and a home far grander than the average boy could brag of. And here he is, gallivanting on the moon with an elf that wears dresses.

“Angus?” He blinks, finds Taako looking down at him, feels the weight of his fingers on his shoulder. “We’re already on the moon, pumpkin, no use having your head in the clouds.”

And the elf that wears dresses has been teaching him magic, and Angus doesn’t think he’s ever been happier. He swallows the urge to pull away from his touch, and nods. “Sorry, sir, just got a little, um, lost in thought. You, um. You look very nice today.” It’s the truth — Angus doesn’t know the first thing about women’s fashion, but he doesn’t need to know such things to know what a pretty person looks like.

Taako snorts, rolls his eyes. “I look nice every day, first of all.” His ears are tilted upwards, though, so Angus knows he’s pleased. “Now do you want me to teach you how to blow shit up, or are you calling a sick day?”

Angus draws in a sharp breath. “Are you — are you going to show me evocation magic?” Excitement slips into his voice, making the words breathy. “I always — I’ve always wanted to learn how to do a proper magic duel! There was a very famous scene in my Caleb Cleveland books where he’s fighting on — on top of a bridge, and I’ve always wanted to do something like that…”

His voice trickles off, a hint of embarrassment darkening his cheeks. “I mean, um, it would be very useful for my detective work, I think.”

Taako snorts. “Hell yeah, be a kickass magic detective. This way if you manage to land yourself in the shitter, you can light some assholes up. C’mon, we’re heading to the icosa-fuckit so you don’t kill anyone.”

“I doubt I’d be strong enough to do that. I’m not the one who incinerated your macarons.” He lets a hint of a taunt enter his voice.

Taako puffs and nudges him off-balance with a foot. “I told you, brat, my umbrella went nuts.”

“Whatever you say, sir,” he laughs. Then, “Oh, did you figured anything out about L-U-P?”

Taako’s step falters. He comes to a halt, blinking, ears flicking. Shakes his head. “Sorry, didn’t catch ya there.”

“L-U-P,” he prompts again. “I’ve been trying to look into what it means, but so far I’m not seeing anything very likely.”

“Oh, right.” Taako’s voice is distracted. “Honestly, I’d forgotten about that, uh… well, no, nothing new. Just a regular umbrella again.” He looks down at his staff, lips pursed, eyes far away. His ears twitch. Then he blinks, shakes his head, goes, “Anyway, what were we doing?”

“...Magic lessons, sir.” Angus watches him. Makes a mental note, another tally on the weird things about Taako list.

The two of them trail outside, the cool evening air tugging at Angus’ hat. The sunset is an ocean from this angle, molten clouds casting their moon in gold. A breath swells his lungs, tasting a coming rain.

He wants to run. He wants to push himself from the edge and dive through the clouds, let the sun’s glow embrace his skin. He wants to learn the wind, he wants to know the sky, he wants so deeply that it’s a weight on his back, begging to be shrugged free.

Angus takes a fistful of Taako’s dress and holds on tight.

He catches, out of the top of his gaze, Taako glancing down at him. Neither of them say a word, though, just continue down the paved road to the Icosahedron.

They pause only to program it to a similar setup to the one Angus uses for his crossbow: a field of targets shuffles out of slots on the ground, a variance of distance and height. Taako lines them up only ten feet away from the nearest one, slinging his umbrella down from his shoulder with a flourish. Today it’s a delicate white, beads dangling off the prongs that surround the hilt.

“So kiddo, I figure you’ve got the textbook definition of evocation —”

“Yes, sir,” Angus answers, a proud smile on his face. “By accessing the four elemental planes, we’re able to summon and channel their magic, evoking their power. In that way it’s a little similar to —”

“— Transmutation, hell yeah. Difference being that instead of changing shit, you’re just gathering it up to throw it wherever your wand’s pointing.”  Taako swings his umbrella up in an arc, lifting it perpendicular to the ground. A blue glow builds at the tip, an orb of light that bursts outward into a disc as a ray shoots in a line towards their target and bathes its entirety in its glow. A thin layer of ice coats its surface once it fades.

Angus feels his spirits leap at that. Ice, he’s good with ice. Ray of Frost will be a piece of cake.

“Honestly, the, um, the hard part is getting a feel for it,” Taako tells him. “Cause you’re kind of reaching into a whole ‘nother plane and just like, pulling something out. Like, Mage Hand? That’s all you. That’s your magic. Evocation is borrowing from somewhere else. So I’m gonna help you get a hold of that one, and then I’m gonna show you fire bolt, alright?”

There’s a pause. Taako, expectant, Angus, confused. “Fire bolt?” he repeats. “I thought — weren’t we gonna do ray of frost?”

Taako shrugs. “I mean sure, if you want shit range and low impact. Fire bolt’s gonna be better, trust me.”

“But —”

“Angus.” Taako cuts him off, the sting of interruption making Angus’ jaw snap shut. “If you don’t want these magic lessons —”

“No sir!” He grasps his wand tight, a lump of fear in his throat. “It’s fine, I can do it.”

Taako gauges him a moment longer. The irritated angle to his ears seems to ease, drooping lower where they frame his face. His chin angles. Watching Angus, judging him. “If you really don’t want to —”

“I do! Sir, please, I promise! I’ll do it!” Taako’s ears press down lower at that, making panic flare in his chest.

The elf holds his hands out, palms and fingers flat, umbrella hooked on one thumb. “Chill — chill out, pumpkin. I’m not actually going to quit on you. This is Taako, have a little faith.” He kneels down in front of Angus. “Alright so I’m just gonna, uh — Here. Gimme your hand.”

Angus swallows the fear that had been rising in his throat, nodding as he offers his hand. Taako takes his wrist in a loose grip, his other hand held out. In the center of his palm, a single, minute flame sparks. Blue, dancing over his skin.

“It’s not hot,” Taako tells him, before he turns his hand over to clasp it with Angus’. The warmth of the flame licks over his fingers, a prickle of magic that isn’t his own. Taako’s feels bright, like starlight radiating into his veins. There’s an edge of something else within it, something wild, uncontrolled, the essence of the fire he’s summoned. Angus swallows, nerves crawling like ants up his spine. He reaches out with his own magic, Taako’s guiding him, the fire dripping from the elf’s grasp and into his own. His heart pounds in his throat.

“Got it?” Taako asks.

“I think so,” Angus breathes.

Taako pulls his hand back. Left behind, in Angus’ hold, there is a far smaller flame. It is an icy blue, nearly white, pulsing unnaturally in time with his thumping pulse.

“Hell yeah, little dude.” Taako grins at him. “So that’s, try to hold onto that feeling. Fire’s a loyal element, it — it’ll come when you call it. Why don’t you go ahead and snuff that out and give it a shot?”

The feeling isn’t terrible. Still, Angus holds it far away from his body, wary that it will crawl up his arms, to his heart, dig inside and eat him alive. He remembers heat, impacting him as surely as the back of his father’s hand, and now it’s sitting in his hold.

The fire flickers and dies. Banished, leaving a crawling discomfort over his flesh.

Taako clears his throat. “Right. So fire bolt has a verbal and a, uh, hand-wavey thingy. Technically there’s an incantation ‘n shit, but what’s the rule for magic?”

“Anything goes,” Angus murmurs back.

“Damn straight,” Taako grins. “So go ahead and remember what that fire felt like, spout some bullshit, wave that wand, and blow shit up!” On the last word, he twirls his umbrastaff, a blue flame shooting from its tip to impact the target, embers flaring out across its polished face.

“Your turn, Agnes.”

Angus swallows. His grip on his wand is tight, the handle digging into the bones of his fingers. The incantation comes to his lips, a twist of the wrist and a cast of the elbow, letting his magic course through his focus and out —

A light flares at the tip of his wand, and then goes dim.

“Hmmm,” Taako goes. “Not quite. Give it another shot.”

“Yes, sir,” he mumbles. His stomach is already tight, a feeling of nausea burning deep in his belly. But he does, casts his arm out again to get a simple spout of embers.

“Closer,” Taako says, as Angus is already trying it for a third time, for nothing. A fourth, a fifth. Heat flares in his cheeks, a mockery when he can’t summon it with his wand.

A hand lands on his shoulder. Angus tenses.

Taako lets his arm slip back to his side as he says, “Here, lemme, mmmm, lemme show you one more time.” And he walks him back through the steps, summoning that flame, transferring it into Angus’ hold, watches how his neat blue flare destabilizes the moment it touches Angus’ magic. It goes pale, pops and bubbles, the heat creeping into his skin to a degree just on the edge of pain. Angus’ hands shake as he snuffs it out.

“I think I’ve got it,” he whispers, because he can’t make his voice any louder. And he shuts his eyes, not even aiming this time, just willing the magic to do what he needs. To evoke the fire he held only moments ago, to remember that feeling and call it to himself, channel it into a force of destruction, to fight, to defend —

“Angus.”

He squeezes his eyes tighter. His jaw clenches tight, a sting of pain as his teeth catch his cheek.

“ Angus.”

He can do it. He can. He can. Just one little flame. He can’t disappoint Taako.

“Angus, that’s enough —”

He can’t —

Taako’s fingers take his wrist, pulling the wand from his grip. “You’re gonna give yourself callouses like that,” Taako tells him. He splays Angus’ fingers out, eyeing the angry red marks he’s dug into his knuckles. “...Right. Why don’t we call it a day.”

Angus can’t breathe. “I —” He sucks in a breath, swallows. One thing. Taako asked one thing of him. “I’m sorry.”

Taako frowns at him, disappointed, angry. Realizing, now, that Angus has been wasting his time. “Hey, we all — we all have our off days. You, uh, get to bed, okay? We’ll work on something different next time. Alright?”

Angus hunches his shoulders, nods silently. Best to get out of Taako’s face like he asked. “Yes, sir,” he rasps, dragging his feet out of the Icosahedron. He doesn’t remember the trip back to his bedroom, only that suddenly he’s curled in his bed, face buried in his pillow, sobs wracking his body.

He can’t lose this. He can’t. He can’t.

Angus McDonald has always been regarded to be a bright young man. To some of his teachers, he’d been a gift. To some, a menace. Neither changed the fact that he’s a fast learner: give him any book and enough time to parse it, and it’s a sure thing that he could tell you everything there is to know about a subject.

Magic shouldn’t be any different. He totes an armful of books to his room, reads and re-reads them, spell methodology, magical theory, a thesis from Neverwinter’s college on evocation. He reads about the differences in magic: from wizards to druids to warlocks and paladins, fey-aligned races and their natural affinity for magic, how even a drop of dragon’s blood can bear a sorcerer whose ancestry is decorated on their skin.

He pauses here. Thinks, does this mean he could cast a sorcerer’s spells? The line between them and wizards is slim and blurry, but there is one. Does it apply to him? If a draconic bloodline makes a sorcerer, what do you get with a pureblooded dragon?

Well. Exactly that, he supposes. He just wishes he knew what that means.

If he could theoretically cast a sorcerer’s spell, then where was the line drawn? His next pickup from the library is a stack of spell books, paging through them to find there’s a world slowly opening up in front of him. Could he heal? Use the same magic as a cleric, or a paladin? Or would he need a deity for that? That’s too ambitious, for now. He needs to test something small, something manageable. Wizards and sorcerers are nearly identical at their weakest, so that won’t do.

A druid, then. He could test a druid’s spells. And he thinks he’s found the perfect one.

It’s not evocation. He’ll need to figure that out someday, but maybe he can tackle it with an element he’s more suited to. Instead he’s back to conjuration: summoning and creation, transporting something from one place to another, or producing it from nothing — “nothing” being his own inherent magic. That’s what mage hand is. He already knows this field, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to do this.

He takes a deep breath. Shuts his eyes, turning his wand over in his fingers. He knows how to summon mage hand. This is his magic. It sits in his core, cooling and familiar, spreads like frost through his veins. He doesn’t want cold though. He needs it warm. He needs it to burn.

Angus opens his eyes. Nothing.

The disappointment weighs in his belly like a sack of rocks. It turns molten, frustration welling in his lungs, prickling up his airway to choke him. He drops his wand, clutches at his hair to pull at the roots, snarls, “Come on! Idiot, it’s just one spell! What’s wrong with you!” The words are frigid, each one a spike he might as well have driven into himself. The truth hurts, though.

He quiets, panting. That did nothing. Now his head hurts, and his eyes sting, and he’s made no progress. Good job, genius.

This time, when he opens his eyes, there’s a layer of ice on his floor. Angus blinks. Stares at it. Tentatively sets a shoe on top, and lets his weight down, the ice crunching under his sole. “Oh,” he says. “ Oh.”

He lifts his fingers to his mouth, puffing air out onto them. His breath is cold. A grin spreads across his face.

Angus gives a whoop, jumping into the air. He laughs, stumbling back until he hit the bed and falls back on the mattress. It’s not what he wanted, but it’s something brand new, and his eyes are shining with this discovery. And with that breath, it feels like something came unblocked inside of him, letting his magic flare brighter than before.

By the time Taako calls him down for his next lesson, he’s nearly sick with excitement and anxiety. He’s buzzing to the point that when Taako starts to talk he cuts in with, “Actually, sir, I — I wanted to show you a spell I’ve been working on!”

Taako looks affronted for a moment, then snorts and rolls his eyes. “It better blow my fucking socks off, pumpkin.”

A grin splits his face, still nervous, hands shaking at his sides. “You’ll want to hang onto them, then, sir!” And he touches his wand to his palm, pulling it away to leave a sizeable flame held in his hand. It’s still colored with his magic, but stabilized despite the trembling of his fingers. Angus stares up at Taako, beaming, waiting to see his teacher’s face light up with relief and pride, knowing now that his student isn’t a lost cause, knowing that Angus can take anything thrown at him.

It doesn’t come. Taako’s ears droop. “Oh, yeah. Nice work little man,” he says, but his voice sounds dulled. “Right, why don’t we put that out and I can start showing you ray of frost —”

“But I did it!” Angus cuts in, frowning. He lifts the fire, holding it far away from his face. “You — you wanted me to summon fire. I-I mean, I guess it’s not the exact spell, but…” The realization sets in. Taako didn’t want produce flame. Taako wanted fire bolt. Of course he’s not happy. Idiot. “But I bet I can do it now!”

Taako waves him off. “Seriously, kid, we’re doing ice magic today, okay? Just drop it.”

“But —”

“Do I need to remind you who the teacher here is?”

Angus grits his teeth. “Just let me show you,” he insists, extinguishing the flame to grab his wand again, the movement jerky. “I can do it, just watch —”

The end of his wand explodes. The wrong end, and Angus recoils with a shout and a gasp, clutching his hand to his chest as he staggers back.

Then Taako is lifting him up, a litany of curses muttered in his ear as the elf carries him out of the training ring, to the bathroom to sit him on top of the sink and shove his hand underneath a stream of water. It stings, Taako forcing him to keep his palm open, water sluicing over red, raw skin while Angus trembles.

“I-I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fear and humiliation alike making his voice tremble.

“It’s fine,” Taako mutters, but Angus knows it’s a lie, and he keeps apologizing until he’s sure he’s just making it worse, he’s just making Taako angrier. This time he really did it. His one chance to make up for his mistake, and he only made it worse.

When Taako picks him up again, Angus goes silent, biting his lip against his hitching breath. His hand still hurts, but he won’t complain. Instead he just hides his face in Taako’s shoulder — stupid, again. Clinging to Taako when he’s the one disappointed in him, when he’s going to show Angus exactly what evocation magic feels like —

Taako sets him down on the bed. Pushes his head down by his hair, snaps, “I’ll be right back, stay here,” and then leaves.

And Angus curls into his knees and begins to sob, again. He ruined it. He ruined everything. Everything Taako did for him, he threw away, just like he did to his parents, just like he will to the Director, and when they leave him on his own it will be of his own making.

He’s caught his breath by the time Taako returns. Stay quiet, keep his head down, let Taako deal his punishment and leave. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine.

Taako sits on the bed. Says, “Angus? Hey, pumpkin, how ya feeling?”

He risks glancing up at him, sees Taako watching him. He has something in his hand. Something small. And that’s strange, because all he needs is his umbrella; no matter how he uses it, it’ll hurt, it’ll do its job.

“Angus?” He prompts.

Angus swallows. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Didn’t ask if you were sorry, pumpkin, asked how you’re feeling.” He uncurls his fingers. It’s just a little tub, like for lotion. “Hand still hurting?”

“It’s fine —”

“Yeah, like hell it is.” Angus cringes away from the harsh note of his voice. When Taako speaks again, his tone is soft, quiet. “Sorry, kiddo, didn’t mean to snap. Can I see your hand?”

He hesitates, but holds out his hand. Watches as Taako takes the lid off the tub, swipes his fingers in some kind of translucent green jelly to smear it on Angus’ aching palm. It burns at first, and he hisses through his teeth. Steadily, though, the gel seems to sap the heat away, leaving a pleasant, cooling sensation on his skin.

“Merle says that should help it heal up,” Taako tells him. “It’s gonna look pretty grody though, apparently, so don’t get freaked.”

Angus turns his hand over, staring at the gloss of the gel over his skin. It blurs over as tears brim in his eyes, lip trembling.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow your roll,” Taako yelps. “Is it hurting? What?”

“No, it feels better I —” Angus sniffs, pulling off his glasses to wipe his eyes, only for more tears to spill down immediately. “ Thank you, I just — I — I don’t understand why you’re doing this. I don’t under stand.”

Taako’s ears are low — concerned, not disappointed. His brows are furrowed — worry, not anger. Angus sobs into his hand. “I messed up,” he says, his voice thick. “I couldn’t do your spell. I didn’t listen to you, and then I hurt myself. Why aren’t you mad?”

“Why would I be mad?” Taako shoots back, voice high. “You, what, you messed up one spell? And even if you messed up twenty spells I still wouldn’t be angry about it — who does that? Fuck!”

Angus shakes his head. “I don’t get it,” he repeats. “I don’t understand. My parents — everyone here is so different and it doesn’t — it doesn’t make sense , I don’t know w-w-what to do here, Taako, I — I don’t — I don’t understand, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t —”

A hand brushes his own. Angus clings to it, his fingers grasping Taako’s long ones, his chest heaving as he gasps. Hesitant fingers settle on top of his head, pushing through his curls in awkward, calculated motions.

When Angus clambers into his lap, Taako doesn’t push him away. When he wraps his arms around the elf’s neck and pushes his face into his shoulder, he curls a tentative arm around him. He’s perfectly silent, doesn’t murmur reassurances or sing a lullaby or rock him back and forth. He just sits there, and holds him, and Angus knows that’s all he knows how to do.

It’s enough. It’s too much. And he clings to him and cries until he can’t anymore.

When the sobs have quieted into sharp breaths, and those too have slowed, Taako finally stirs. He’s folded up on Angus’ bed, leaning back against the pillows, Angus’s face pressed into his chest, arms loose each other. He says, “Just to, um, clear the air. I didn’t make you do fire bolt cause it looked like it scared you, kiddo.”

Oh. Angus swallows. “I didn’t know,” he says.

“Yeah, probably shoulda, um, been a little more vocal on that. That one’s on Taako. But, like, for future reference… you don’t need to do anything you don’t want to. If you don’t like fire, we won’t use fire.”

He makes it sound so simple. “There are a lot of spells that use fire, though,” he whispers. “I don’t want t-to let it get in the w-way of my magic.”

“You don’t have to.” Again, it sounds too easy . Taako sighs. His hand rests on top of Angus’ hair, combing idly through his hair. “You remember those macarons I made? For, uh, Candlenights?”

He nods. “Yes — yes, sir. They were the — the very b-best I’ve ever had!”

“Damn straight.” Taako’s breath puffs out, his chest dropping under Angus. “That was probably the first time I’d been in a kitchen in, uhhhhhhh… six? Six years? After the, um. Well, I told you about that already.”

Glamour Springs. Angus had looked it up. Maybe he shouldn’t feel so safe like this, clinging to an elf who could accidentally kill so many people, so easily. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he does. And maybe there’s a reason for that.

Another mystery to solve.

“What I’m trying to say,” Taako sighs, “is that these things take time. If you want to use fire, sure, go crazy. But it might take a little while to get there is all.”

Angus shuts his eyes. He is still a fairly little boy, and he is very, very tired. And Taako, despite being long and a little more boney than he should be, is very comfortable. “Okay, sir,” he mumbles. Both of them are quiet after that, laying on his bed in the dark of his room. Nothing is keeping Taako there, but he stays, and Angus is happy.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

Chapter Text

The only good thing about Garfield the Deals Warlock is that he doesn’t ask questions. If you have gold, he’s willing to sell, and Angus is very pleased when he doesn’t seem to care what a little boy needs with a new set of crossbow bolts and a concealable knife.

The answer isn’t anything illicit, simply self protection. Neverwinter is a large city, and those places are not particularly safe for anybody, let alone Angus McDonald, Definitely A Ten Year Old Human Boy.

Taking the trip down alone is strange, so used to having the sphere bubbling with chatter on these travels. Taako has accompanied him on his last few ventures down, at first by the Director’s insistence and eventually by force of habit. When Magnus accompanies them, and sometimes Merle, the noise becomes rambunctious. It’s usually endearing, borders irritating — he’s snapped at Magnus before for trying to play keepaway with Davenport’s book, and the man only laughed before he could think to apologize.

He’s gotten used to that lighthearted air. So stepping out on the outskirts of Neverwinter is strange when there’s no laughter to peal out into the open air as the sphere’s door slides open. It’s an early, quiet morning, and Angus is left to his own thoughts as he treks to the city limits.

There’s a fairly large map in his hands, an outline of the city’s setup. He’s marked it with blue ink, a shop that is thankfully nearby the general market. Bustling areas are safer, as long as he keeps a hand on his gold. His fancy clothes don’t lend to an inconspicuous appearance, make him out to be the son of nobility who would likely get a slap on the wrist for losing his gold. A good target, in other words.

Such an assumption would not be entirely off-base. Once upon a time, losing his money would be little more than an inconvenience, so long as his parents did not find out. Now, it’s no longer a danger , but absolutely troublesome. The Director allots him so much per month, allegedly in exchange for his work, even though he’s fairly certain he’s done nothing to help in the quest for relics.

The shop he goes to is a small thing, potted plants spilling over onto the pavement. He can see why Merle likes this place. A bell tinkles as he pushes the door open, catching the attention of a purple-skinned tiefling who seems to be setting up stock for the day. Baskets of dried herbs, tubs of medication, brightly-colored potions, the apothecary is a quaint place.

“Good morning, sir,” he says, smiling.

The tiefling gives him a curious look. Angus can see exactly when understanding dawns on his face: it’s when his gaze reaches his bandaged hand. “Oh, hello there,” he greets. “Looking for some treatment?”

“Yes, sir,” Angus says. “I, um, I burned my hand. I’ve been using an ointment from this shop, but, um, it’s been a couple of weeks and it doesn’t really seem to be... healing. So I was actually going to look for something a bit stronger. It’s the, ummmm, superior healing cream?”

Eyebrows raise. Angus fiddles with his bowtie, foot tapping nervously. “That’s a pretty strong item,” the tiefling says, voice dubious. “It’s actually not a good idea to give it to children.”

“My cleric told me to get it!” He lies.

“Is he here?” The look on Angus’ face makes the tiefling sigh. “Listen, kid, I can’t like… morally sell that to you. It’s a lot of gold, for one, and it’s definitely not advised for kids. Let me take a look at that burn, I’m sure I have something that will work—”

“That’s okay!” Angus backs away as the tiefling steps forward, clutching his bandaged hand to his chest. “I’ll, um, let me… call my cleric. I’ll see, if... if he can come by.”

The tiefling regards him for a moment longer, then goes back to stocking his shelves. Angus’ stone of farspeech weighs at the bottom of his bag. He’s hesitant to grab it, the runes lighting with a dim glow upon his touch. There’s a reason he’s here alone. But there’s also a reason he’s here at all.

Angus bites his lip, checks that he’s not being watched, then slips his thumb underneath the bandages. It burns, skin still raw from the spell’s rebound, the ointment Taako had gotten from Merle seeming to do little to encourage the healing. Burns have never healed well for him, and this is sure to leave a mottled scar. Worse than that prospect, though, are the patchy scales that now cover his skin.

They’re still there. Small and dull gray in color, lifting in between the splotches of wet, blistering flesh. For once, he can’t put them away. Angus winces as he tugs the bandage back against his skin. Then he calls Taako.

Each rune on his stone is keyed in to a different frequency: The Director, Taako, Magnus, Merle (reluctantly), Carey, Avi. His thumb is pressed over his teacher’s sigil as the stone grows warm and vibrates in his hand, waiting for an answer.

It buzzes. Angus taps his foot, impatient. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

Angus releases the rune. Okay. Well, that’s out. Merle wouldn’t come down here for him. Magnus would ask questions, as would everyone else. He’s on his own, then.

He’s used to that, though, so it’s okay. There’s no reason for him to be swallowing a lump in his throat.

“No dice?” The shopkeeper asks, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

“...No, he must be busy,” Angus sighs. “I’ll, um, come back another day, I guess.” He shoves his stone back into his bag, trying not to let anger into the movement. He shouldn’t be so disappointed. Taako’s — Taako’s his teacher, his coworker. He’s not going to come for Angus at the drop of a hat.

“Sure thing,” the shopkeeper says, giving him a small wave with his tail. Then he pauses, adds, “Oh, be careful getting home. Make sure to use the main roads, yeah?”

If Angus didn’t have human ears, they’d be perking right up. “Oh, um, of course, sir,” he agrees, nodding. Then he tips his head, blinks his eyes behind his round glasses in an innocently curious manner. “Why’s that?”

The tiefling purses his lips. “Your parents haven’t told you?”

“I’m, um…” He falls back on an old excuse. “Visiting my grandpa. Is something going on?”

The hesitance is clear. There’s a mutter Angus can’t quite catch, before the shopkeeper sighs and says, “Guess it’s better to say something than nothing. But you didn’t hear it from me, okay kid? Don’t want your folks getting mad if I spook you.”

Angus has to fight to keep his smile from stretching into a smirk. He mimes zipping his lips, and the tiefling gives a little laugh. He sobers quickly, though, just another tick to make Angus’ interest pique. “There have been some… well, frankly, murders. Strings of ‘em over the last couple of months, everyone’s encouraged to be in before dark and travel with a partner, yadda yadda. You’ll be fine just so long as you stay in the busy areas, alright, kid?”

“Yes, sir!” He chirps. Probably a little too cheerful given the news but. He can’t help but be excited. The relics, the red robes, L.U.P., all of them are mysteries with a dozen threads and no connections. This is something solid. This is something he can solve. And he’s salivating like a hound dog to track down a good old fashioned murderer.

Serial murders. Angus can’t bite back his smile.

He scurries out of the shop, already plucking a notebook and a pen from his bag. He’s going to need to ask around for sure, get the names of the victims, a good description of the bodies, where they were found. If these are serial murders then there’s gotta be a pattern. Other than that, there’s the possibility of ritual murder, but that’s a whole ‘nother ballgame, as Taako would say. Gather evidence, then draw conclusions. Angus McDonald is on the case.

The walk home is made with aching feet and heavy legs. Still, there’s a pleased glint in Angus’ eyes as he tucks his notebook into his bag, the pages now full of bullet point lines. It’s amazing what a day of dedicated work can do.

It would be more productive, surely, if he could move up beyond cantrips. Spells like disguise self would work wonders — people aren’t exactly willing to give a child all the gorey details of each murder.

Prompting a conversation and then hiding within earshot is his main strategy, listening to gossip as people discuss the tragedy with relish. Bodies cut at the throat, nearly emptied of their blood. Something about it tickles his brain, something familiar. It’s on the tip of his tongue, an unbearable sensation, the same way the hunter in Lucas’ lab hovered just on the edges of his reach.

Necrotic and radiant magic. Five bodies so far, slit throats, drained of blood.

He’s seen this before. He just can’t remember when.

Angus shakes his head. It’s late, and he’s tired, and he needs to get to grandpa’s house before —

His steps come to an abrupt halt. Angus lifts his head, finally shaking through his haze of exhaustion to take a look at where he is. It’s a familiar setting, with tall buildings, each marked off by gates and elaborate gardens. He’s in his grandfather’s old neighborhood.

It’s deep in the city, and it’s late at night. Angus looks down at his bracer. Can’t call a sphere down — too public. He’ll need to get outside of Neverwinter if he wants to get up to the base — and that would be another hour at least, either to walk there or to find a carriage to take him at this hour.

For a moment, he considers breaking that rule. Even if someone did see it, would it be a big deal?

His fingers hover over the Bureau’s sigil. Then he sighs, drops his hand, and keeps walking. There’s one more option.

His grandfather’s house is almost exactly as he left it, the gardens overgrown by now. The same padlock that held the gate shut months ago is still mounted there, rusting away. Angus knows he still has the key, but it’s stored in some drawer on the moonbase.

Not that he needs keys anymore. He doesn't even need the lockpicks he has in his bag. Instead he takes a glance around the darkened streets, raises his wand, and coats the lock in ice. The metal is weakened by tarnish as is, so all he needs to do is load his crossbow with a normal bolt and —

The sound is a lot more than he’d calculated, between splitting ice and splintering metal and the chains that rattle and clash all the way down to the concrete. He shoves the gates open, unlatching the top with mage hand to rush up the walkway before he is seen.

The front door is also locked, and this time Angus does break out his lockpicks. It’s far nicer than the kit he used to own, this one gifted to him by Carey. “I wish I’d given you my original set,” she’d sighed, “Mags never uses it.” This one is newer than those Magnus uses, which is pleasing to Angus’ instincts. Shiny and pretty and well taken care of, that’s what he likes. Even better if it’s antiquated as well as in good condition.

His tired hands take a little longer than usual to get the lock open, but after a bit he hears the click and nudges the door open, stepping inside. The smell of dust greets him, drawing a sneeze from Angus’ sensitive nose. Given that the place hasn’t been sold to someone else, he can only assume his parents have bought the property. They’re not putting any effort into upkeep, it seems.

A ball of light blooms at the tip of his wand, tapering off like he was blowing bubbles to drift into the air. Two more join it, hovering around him as he ventures deeper into this familiar house.

It’s nearly exactly as it was left. The same furniture, the same books in the library, the same creaky stairs. Everything has been adorned with a layer of dust and a faint scent of mildew, like the house had died with his grandfather, is rotting in time with his corpse.

Suddenly the shadows seem much too large, too dark. A tremble works up his spine. Angus isn’t afraid of the dead, but wandering around in this empty house makes his heart beat much too fast.

No one is there to see him grasp his wand as he hurries to his old room, how he checks over his shoulder as though expecting to find something behind him. There’s never anything there, but he can’t calm down until he’s thrown the door of his bedroom shut, sealing his conjured demons out in the hallway.

Angus shuts his eyes. Afraid of fire, afraid of pain, those are understandable. Afraid of the dark? He’s supposed to have outgrown that.

A few cantrips clean the dust from the room, make it breathable. The same sheets are still on his bed, blue decorated with sparkling stars, and he squirms underneath the covers. It’s almost familiar, but he can’t trick himself into believing he’s in the past. His grandfather is dead, and Angus is alone in his abandoned, rotting house.

Angus wakes to a buzzing sound. It makes him sit upright, startled, glancing around for the source. By the time he’s kicked the sheets off and hopped out of bed, the sound has died, and it takes him a long moment to realize what it had been.

He kneels by his bag, fishing out his stone of farspeech. Two runes have a dim glow, marks of missed calls: one from Taako, and one from the Director. Angus winces at both, and sneaks the stone back into his bag to pretend he hadn’t seen that.

The next item he produces is the map of Neverwinter, and then his notebook. He lays both out on the floor, pinning the map down at the corners. There were five murders total, and he touches his wand to his best approximation of each location, leaving a bright red dot at each point. One in an alleyway beside the jailhouse, one in the sewers, one behind a jeweler’s shop, until he had five points stamped onto the map. Another spell draws lines between them.

It forms a perfect pentagon. Angus frowns, staring at it. It’s a complete shape. Each line is equidistant, and when he traces each point to their origin — the museum — they’re all the same. Definitely a ritual, but he’d been suspecting that from the start. It covers a relatively small area, but a heavily populated one.

He breathes out a huff. This is too easy. Something is whispering in the back of his head, there’s a piece missing. No one in the militia bothered to map out the murders, obviously, or they’d be holding a full stakeout and investigation at the museum.

This is what happens when he leaves Neverwinter for a few months. Absolutely fuckall.

Angus gives another irritated sigh as he rolls up the map and crams it into his bag. He’ll just visit the militia station himself, then, talk to the captain and point out what should have been obvious.

It’s such a familiar walk that he doesn’t even have to think about the direction, letting himself get lost in his pondering. His feet carry him right where he needs to be, and Angus steps into the militia station without a second thought.

There’s a different receptionist at the desk, a half-elf man instead of the woman he’d been expecting. A change in staffing isn’t exactly a shock, but it still makes Angus pause. Just another edit to his new concept of Neverwinter.

The receptionist glances up at him, an immediate glint of interest in his eyes as he leans forward to greet Angus. “Hello there, little one,” he greets, voice smooth and kindly. “What are you doing here?”

“Hello sir.” Angus straightens up, making sure to keep his voice crisp and clear. “Is the captain available? I have important information to discuss with him.”

Eyebrows raise, and an incredulous laugh puffs out of the half-elf’s mouth. Angus tries to fight down his dislike. It’s reasonable, he reminds himself. He doesn’t know that Angus is going to solve in two days what the militia couldn’t figure out in a month.

“I know that’s difficult to believe coming from a little boy,” he says, “but I promise you this is of the utmost importance. Talk to the captain, tell him it’s Angus McDonald. He’ll know who I am.”

“Uh-huh.” The receptionist gives him an indulgent smile. “Angus McDonald. How old would you be?”

“T...Ten,” he says. That’s what he told the reclaimers, isn’t it? What the Director believes? He needs to get that solid.

“Alrighty, Ango,” he smiles. Angus bristles at that. Magnus can call him that, Taako can call him that.

“It’s Angus,” he says, terse.

“Right, right.” The half-elf gives him a simpering smile. “Well, I’ll go speak to the captain, then. Give me just a moment.”

Angus huffs the moment he’s left the room, tapping his foot impatiently. Someday they’ll know to take him seriously but —

There’s a hurried patter of feet, far quicker than he’d been expecting. Angus glances up in time to see the captain hurry out of the back door, the man’s eyes falling on him and going wider than before. “Gods above,” he breathes. “It’s really you.”

“It’s been a while, sir,” Angus says, “But I don’t have time to say hello, unfortunately. My, um, my dad —”

“—Told me you’d gone missing!”

Angus’ blood goes cold. The captain continues, raking fingers through his hair, “I thought you were dead, boy! It was only a matter of time with all the trouble you get into but thank the gods you’re in one piece. Do your parents know about this?”

“Y-yes,” he lies, and jumps onto it. “I’m, um, I’m sorry sir. I… I ran away for a while. M-made it a month of so before I, um, came back? I guess they never, uh, told you guys.” And then he tacks on his cheesiest grin, hoping that the panic in his face will be taken as embarrassment.

The captain shakes his head, groaning. “And here I thought I’d killed you. I always knew I shouldn’t let a little boy go running around crime scenes, but of course your father…” Guilt works its way into the man’s expression.

Money is a powerful thing, and the McDonald family had funded the Neverwinter militia quite generously. The captain wouldn’t dare turn their son away.

“Well as you can see I’m perfectly healthy!” Angus says, though he can’t keep the tremble out of his voice. “Um, anyway, it was good to see you, sir, but I’ve, uh, I’ve gotta c-catch the train home! I’ll see you around!”

He all but flees the station, ignoring the call that chases him out, ignoring the half-elf’s crooning, “See you later!”

Okay. Well. Angus will just have to solve this one on his own, won’t he. And pray to every god he knows that the captain doesn’t call his parents.

He stops a block away from the station, leaning against a wall to catch his breath and calm his racing heart. Evidence, run through the evidence. What does he know about this case, that will help clear his mind.

Five murders, five points forming a perfectly calculated pentagon. By all accounts, they should be finished . If it’s a ritual, then they should have already done what they need. Each murder had been six days apart —

Unless.

Angus stops, yanking out his notebook. He scans through his description of each victim. Two dragonborn, a human, two half-orcs. The most recent victim young, aged sixteen, the very first a middle-aged dragonborn woman. Forty years old exactly.

Forty years. The second victim had been thirty-four. The third —

Angus’ heart thuds as he tears a clean page out, scribbling frantically as he lists out each victim, in order —

Dragonborn, female, age 40

Half-orc, male, age 34

Human, female, age 28

Dragonborn, male, age 22

Half-orc, female, age 16

It’s a pattern. Each victim was killed six days apart. Each victim is aged six years apart. There have been five victims — so far.

The map comes out. What day is it? The last murder — six days ago.

The moon had almost been full last night. Tonight is perfect for the completion of a ritual.

On his map, he’s already drawn a pentagon, marked off the center-point. But if they’re working with sixes, then —

A new pair of lines form, from the base of the pentagon to form a new, smaller triangle. Erases the extraneous line, leaving an open hexagon framed from the centerpoint of Neverwinter’s museum. There. If there’s a murder tonight — and there will be — that’s going to be the location.

He closes his notebook, stuffing it into his bag, right next to his stone of farspeech. The runes are still lit from the missed calls — he’ll get to them later. For now, he has a ritual to stop. Something deep in his heart tells him he’s seen this before , and that same something leaves him sick with terror at the thought of this coming through.

“Angus?”

He jumps. Spins around, his own glasses falling askew as he pivots to face the same half-elf from before. He’d followed him out of the station, apparently.

The man kneels down in front of him, tipping his head in a curious manner. “Are you alright there, kiddo?”

Angus swallows, then smiles. “Oh, yes. Sorry, I just, um, I think I figured something out.”

“Oh?” He blinks. There’s interest in his eyes, now. Maybe the captain had told him who Angus is, what he can do. It’s pleasing but, for once, not what he wants. “Do you want to come back to the station to tell us about it?”

It’s tempting, but Angus shakes his head. “No, that’s okay. I, um, I need to get home now.”

He gives the half-elf an awkward smile. “Have a good day, sir,” he says, and then turns around. Before he can take a step, though, a hand lands on his shoulder.

“No,” the man says, but there’s something different about his voice. It stops Angus in his tracks, blinking with a sudden dizziness. “I really think you should come with me. Don’t you, Angus?”

He blinks, shakes his head. There’s a pressure on his brain that he doesn’t like, he needs it gone.

“ Angus.” The voice is painful . If he just listens , the ache will go away.

But —

“Let’s go, Angus.”

And he finds himself nodding, and holds the offered hand, walking wherever the half-elf decides to take him.

Chapter Text

He’s following a man down through the streets of —

— Neverwinter —

— it doesn’t matter. He needs to follow this man. Across the street and down the block and through faceless, inconsequential crowds. Hand in hand, guiding him where he needs to be. The lingering exhaustion in his legs is gone, his panic is gone, his thoughts are gone, he just needs to follow this man.

Let’s go, Angus.

Through double doors. They pause for a beat, and Angus feels a pang of something, like light filtering through water. Then the steps resume and he’s tugged along and it drags him back under, let’s go let’s go, through several broad rooms and — down stairs and — a door closing — he’s not longer holding the man’s hand, he’s staring at him, swaying, he feels lighter, his ears are buzzing and his head is pounding.

Angus blinks. He can feel the Command unravel, gritting his teeth and pressing a palm against his left eye at the stab of pain behind it. A wave of nausea makes him take a step back before he shakes it off entirely, breaking through the fuzz in his brain.

How long has he been standing here — it’s a haze in his mind. The voidfish’s static, but oppressive and present, a gap in his mind he knows of but can’t fill and finds his heart pounding as he tries. Minutes or hours, he has no way to tell.

Angus draws in a deep breath. He’s in what was probably meant as a storage closet: tiny, dark, high ceilings. Big enough to hold any largely-built humanoid, though with significantly less space for someone of that size.

There’s only one door. His only way out, and when he tries it, it’s locked. He hadn’t expected anything else but… his lockpicks are in his bag, which the half-elf has stolen, so he’s trapped, and he’s —

Another deep breath sucks in through his nose. He counts the exhale, repeats this until his heart has stopped thumping against his ribs. He’s been in tighter spots before, literally and figuratively. He’s being underestimated, and that works to his advantage. He’ll be okay. He’ll figure it out. He always does.

Angus reaches behind himself, under his jacket. His knife is still in a sheath nestled against the small of his back, just over his waistband. A shift of the arm and he feels his wand press against his skin, tucked just under the armpit where the bulge in his sleeve is hidden against his side.

When his wand slips down into his hand, there’s an instant sense of comfort, settling around him like a blanket. Angus rubs his thumb over the handle as he has lights bloom into the air around him, dim enough that they won’t filter through the crack of the door.

He can’t see anything worthwhile; there’s not even a vent he can scramble up to. Angus folds himself onto the floor instead, trying to slot one ear close to the gap. Shuts his eyes, strains his senses, willing himself to hear something beyond the door.

A tingling sensation crawls over his skin, and noise filters in, sharpening. Two people beyond the door — a good distance away, likely guarding another exit rather than his own makeshift prison.

So, choices: he waits to be retrieved, or he breaks out on his own. Shuts his eyes, struggling to think. The spells he has under his belt won’t be of incredible use. Ray of frost isn’t forceful, it’ll just coat the door in ice. Prestidigitation — Taako had shown him that one, after the macaron incident. Could make a noise, could try to lure someone to him. But they might figure out it’s magic, and then he’s lost the element of surprise.

Unless.

It’s kind of a stupid plan. It’s the sort of grift that Taako would pull. But the last thing Angus wants is to wait for when they want him dead — which could easily be a matter of minutes.

He’s already laying on the floor. Angus rolls over so he’s on his side, pushes himself up on one arm to point his wand at the gap in the door. A breath sucks into his lungs.

He yelps, loud and sharp at the same time a bang rattles the air around him. Waits, holds his breath. And then a red, sluggishly-oozing puddle begins to trickle out from under the door.

From outside, there’s the muffled sound of “Gods above —”

Footsteps approach. Angus drops back down on his side, wand in hand but hidden behind his folded arm. He shuts his eyes, takes a deep, slow breath and holds it as the door swings open.

The urge is to pounce at them immediately. He forces himself to play dead, listening to them curse and gripe. “If he’s out, Thyz is gonna kill us.” A shuffle of clothing. A shadow cast over him: one of them kneeling down. He waits, waits, fingers tightening on the handle of his wand, magic chilling the tips of his fingers. Fire is a fickle thing, though Taako calls it loyal. Ice, though, comes to him readily.

Fingers press under his jaw, right over the carotid artery. And Angus’ eyes flash open, a twist of the wrist, a hiss of breath over his tongue, and a ray of frost nails a dragonborn in the chest. He rolls onto his feet, already snapping out another growl as he rounds on the person behind him: a broad-shouldered tiefling who takes ice shards to the face, keels over, and doesn’t move.

The first one reacts admirably fast, not aiming for Angus but snatching a stone of farspeech from their pocket. Angus directs another spell at the him, intending for a third ray of frost to put him down. Something deeper tugs in his chest.

Instead of a beam of chilled magic, it crystalizes into a shard of ice. The magic is still alive inside it, though, angry and unstable. Angus doesn’t see it hit its target — he hears the shout at the same moment he hits the floor, arms thrown over his head.

There’s a sound of shattering. A few pinpricks sting over his forearms, thankfully only ice. He’s had to pick glass shards out of his skin more than once, but these will simply melt.

Angus looks up. The shard he’d launched at the man had exploded on impact, larger chunks of ice scattered on the floor or sticking into the walls. The man himself — Angus winces — is bleeding in multiple places, most noticeably from the original wound in the stomach.

His fingers curl against his palm as he draws in a deep breath. It’s not the first time he’s had to defend himself. He’s seen blood. He’s dealt pain. But he’s never seen the results quite so severe.

The man would probably bleed out if left alone. He’s a murderer, Angus knows. He’s apart of a cult trying to kill him. The man would be hanged anyway, once Angus reports them all to the militia. Nothing about this isn’t justified. Still, his gut wrenches as he drags his eyes away and turns his back.

Big picture, Angus reminds himself. Get out, alert the militia, arrest the cult. No more deaths. This one life will save more.

He takes a glance around. The closet he’d been locked in opened up to a short corridor, a door at each end. Angus turns to the direction the guards had approached from, pressing his ear to the door check if the noise had attracted unwanted attention. His breath stills in his chest, slowing the pound of his heart.

Nothing?

Angus reaches for the doorknob, praying it won’t be locked. It turns in his hand. There’s a brief flare of triumph as he nudges the door open, hand grasping his wand right as he peeks through.

It’s an empty room. A table, some couches, a refrigerator, magazines. He’s looking into a break room, which makes Angus purse his lips. Cults don’t commit to the aesthetic any longer. The least they could do is have sconces lighting a darkened hallway.

He eases the door shut, taking slow, muffled steps across the room, towards the next door. There are two in total, but he thinks, he thinks he’d walked in a straight line after descending a flight of stairs. Angus presses on.

Still, his steps are cautious. It seems too easy. Eventually, he’s going to have to run into somebody, and he almost prefers it happen sooner rather than later. Anticipation makes blood pound in his ears, eyes flickering back and forth, There’s a familiar buzzing of energy around him, his nerves lit up and hyperaware.

Angus stops. He draws a deep breath, and the static becomes a prickle over his tongue, sharp and bitter. It’s not his nerves. It’s magic.

He’s back on the Rockport Limited, three men flanking him as he snaps his crossbow towards a distortion in the air. Angus turns and points, but this time he’s along as he looses another ray of frost towards an outline looming only steps to his left, hears a cry of shock and sees the invisibility drop, a human women unveiled where she’s left stunned on the floor.

Suddenly, the room is horribly crowded. Angus’ eyes go wide behind his glasses. Step back — no, there’s a body, can’t go to the sides, can he run? Dive between their legs and make a break for it? They’re magic users, they could slow him down, catch him, kill him —

Angus misses his shot, cut off as he’s forced to sidestep a grab for him, stumbling against a dragonborn’s legs and dropping his wand as suddenly there’s a burly arm around him, trapping him against their chest. He shouts, kicking in their grip, cramming his arm between his back and his captor’s belly until his fingers curl around the hilt of his knife.

The dragonborn howls. Angus hits the ground hard, barely keeping his grip on the hilt as he drops down to brace his free palm against the ground. Shoves himself up, fighting a prickling in his brain, a sleep spell that falls short of what it needs — they still think they’re fighting a ten year old child, and that works to Angus’ advantage as he springs for the one with a wand pointed at him, slipping between their legs instead of going for the attack they’d braced to catch.

He sprints, slamming full into the door as he grasps the knob, twisting, locked, gods, no.

Angus spins, presses his back against the door, braces his knife. A hand is already there, a half-elf, the one who’d brought him here, Thyz, he remembers, knocking the blade clattering to the ground and it’s just Angus, Angus with no wand and no weapons.

He shakes. His magic is drained, the small repository he’s built up empty after just one spell. There are hands around his arms, he’s too small, he’s too weak, and all he can do is kick and shout and feel tears burn his eyes as he’s dragged — “Moon’s up, let’s get started,” — through the other door, not locked he thinks, resentful and hysteric, into a room that finally matches the cult aesthetic at the worst possible time.

Ritual circle on the ground, freshly painted thanks to the copper-rust color that’s stained each layer, candles lit, components in neat little bowls, moonlight refracting through a window down onto the center of the room, where he’s to be dragged.

“It’s not going to work,” he gasps. “I’m not — just look —”

And he’s spun around, Thyz only giving a wicked grin, blinded in his thrill to the scales lifting on Angus’ hands. He opens his mouth, and then coughs out a wheeze.

There’s a blade curving out of his chest. Curved, long, and thin, it wrenches up from his torso up through his head, and he slumps. Angus reels back, afraid to be crushed by Thyz’s limp body, only for the handle of the blade to spin and knock his corpse aside.

And there stands Kravitz.

He looms tall and menacing, black sclera with scarlet irises raking over the room. As Angus stares at him, the dark skin of his face flickers, misting over to bare a clean skull underneath.

His scythe spins in his hand, the handle coming down on the floor with a resounding bang, a gust of wind breaking out over those watching this scene. The strength goes out of Angus’ knees, literally knocked over by the gust as he lands on his butt, still staring up at this spectre.

He blinks. Skin, again. Kravitz is glowering around the room, lips pulled back in a sneer. He clicks his tongue, raises a hand, and a scroll burns into being.

“ Ahem.” Kravitz lifts the scroll eyes skimming over it as he announces, in a booming voice, underlaid with the rasping of shadows, “By order of the Raven Queen, you have been found guilty of defying the natural order of life and death through means of ritual murder for necromantic purposes and conspiring to awaken an ancient dread god, consumer of souls… You get the picture.”

He drops the scroll, which burns before it can collapse to the ground. Kravitz leans against his scythe, almost lazy in his posture as he taps the toe of one polished shoe on the tile. Silence reigns around the room, not a single mortal daring to speak or even breathe before this being.

“Listen,” Kravitz says, all drawling, thick cockney accent. “I like to think I’m a pretty nice guy. Ordinarily I try to make this easy. I give you lot a chance, you know? Repent for your sins, and maybe I can negotiate a shorter sentence in the Eternal Stockade. Sometimes I’ll even let lesser offenders get a second chance, clean up their act and lead a clean, natural life. But you all are just… the worst. Like, I’m Death, right? You picked up on that by now?”

He goes quiet, as though waiting for some confirmation. When he gets none, he sighs. “Tough crowd. Right. Anyway. I’m the Grim Reaper, hello there. Take it from Death himself when I say that you are literally among the worst of the worst here. Like, murder is bad, don’t get me wrong, but killing a CHILD.”

His voice raises into a shout, the room collectively flinching, Angus the only exception. Kravitz throws a hand up, aghast as he snaps, “I mean, seriously, look at him! He’s barely wyrmling! What the fuck is wrong with you people, in what way could you ever think that’s an okay thing to do? You know what? Don’t answer that, you’re all going to hell.”

That seems to be the trigger that finally gets the room to unfreeze. There’s a stutter, a realization, and then suddenly a surge. Half the bodies raise wands, staffs, crystals, the other half make a scramble.

Kravitz is gone. Angus blinks, and he’s on the other side of the room, bringing his scythe in a wide arc. The blade sweeps through the torsos of three cultists, all collapsing to the floor as the life is quite literally cut from their bodies. Angus swears he can see wisps of light clinging to the scythe as Kravitz spins it, steps forward, vanishes, reappears as his shoe rolls heel-to toe down in front of a duo. Two wands lift, two bodies hit the ground.

It’s ruthless, but not violent. There’s no blood when these bodies should be halved at the waists, guts spilling out all over the floor. The scythe isn’t material, Angus concludes, watching it pass through another body and re-emerge spotless.

A figure shifts behind Kravitz as the reaper plants his scythe back at his side, giving the room a once-over. A light, and Angus yelps, “Sir, behind—”

Kravitz lets his scythe fall, stepping forward a beat after and into a rift the blade cut into the open air. It seals just as a new one opens up behind the last man, who stiffens and spins around as Kravitz swings.

Silence. With that, Angus is the last one breathing.

He pushes himself, unsteady, to his feet. Maybe he can just sort of creep away before —

“Angus McDonald.”

He winces, freezing. Kravitz’s eyes are fixed on a book, pen cap between his teeth as he scrawls something in the pages. He snaps it shut, and both the tome and the pen dissolve into smoke. Red eyes lift to fix on Angus, a frown etched on the reaper’s face.

“Angus,” he repeats, taking broad strides back towards him. “I thought you promised not to go messing around with necromancers.”

“I said I’d do my best,” he corrects. “It’s, um, really not my fault if I get kidnapped.”

“So what you’re saying is that if you hadn’t been foolishly selected as a sacrifice, I wouldn’t be seeing you here?” Kravitz raises his eyebrows as Angus drops his gaze. “Uh-huh, that’s what I thought. You pinky-swore, Angus.”

“In my defense, sir, you kind of hid that particular memory.” He gives a sheepish grin. “So it’s not like I did it on purpose.” It’s also not like it would have stopped him anyway, but Kravitz doesn’t need to know that.

It makes Kravitz pause, mulling it over. He sighs, saying, “Well, that’s fair enough.” He looks around the room, giving a snap of the fingers to make each corpse ignite into black flame. It gives off no light, just eats away at the bodies until not even dust remains. “Right. Well, I’ll need a statement from you. That little memory trick won’t work once you’re aware of it, so instead you’ll just be swearing all knowledge of reapers to secrecy.”

Angus frowns. “My teacher says I shouldn’t agree to any magical bindings, sir.”

“Oh, no, none of that.” Kravitz produces a scroll and a pen, handing it out to Angus. “It’s just a simple contract, says you won’t disclose the secrets of the Raven Queen, that you are aware the Raven Queen is the goddess of life and death and that you are aware breaking this contract will have consequences in regards to the placement of your immortal soul upon entry to the Astral Plane. Just sign at the bottom.”

Angus reads through the scroll, just making sure it’s exactly as Kravitz said before signing on the line. There’s a tug inside of him as he does so, making him wince.

“No worries, we use an imprint of your soul so we can identify you in the future,” Kravitz explains. “Names can be faked, signatures forged, but the soul is unique.” He takes the scroll from Angus, dissolving that much like everything else. “Well, that should be that. I can go ahead and bring you back to your, ah, grandfather’s? Or, no, he’s passed, hasn’t he. Where do you live, now?”

“I can get home on my own, sir,” Angus tells him, a hint of an edge to his voice.

Kravitz shrugs. “Less work for me. I suppose I’d better take care of the rest of —”

He’s cut off by a shriek. Or, something like it, distant but piercing into the room, a high-pitched ringing that makes Angus jerk his head. The next moment, he’s moving towards the sound, ignoring Kravitz’s call and then his sigh as the reaper strides after him.

“It looks bad if civilians get caught up while I’m on a job,” Kravitz huffs.

“You better make sure I’m not hurt, then,” Angus says.

There’s a scoff, a mutter. Then, louder, as they reach the door, “Do you at least want to fix your disguise first?”

It gets Angus to stop. He faces him, cocks his head. “My disguise, sir?”

“Yes, your…” Kravitz purses his lips. He holds out his hand to summon a new item, holding it up for Angus. It’s a mirror, he realizes, blinking at himself. Slitted eyes blink back.

Angus’ blood goes cold.

He sees the panic in his own gaze, pupils expanding like a cat’s, an audible gasp revealing two rows of sharp teeth. The hand that clasps over his mouth is coated in scales, sharp talons pricking his skin—

“Hey, hey now.” Kravitz banishes the mirror as he leans down, pulling Angus’ hand away from his face before he can puncture his cheek. “What’s gotten into you?”

“I — I can’t —” Angus stares at his hands, willing them to look normal, human again, panic setting in when the scales remain. “Oh, no, oh gods—”

“ Angus.” Kravitz squeezes his hands. “Calm down. Do you need me to fix it?”

He swallows, breaking into a heavy exhale. “Can — can you do that?”

Kravitz doesn’t respond. He hums instead, just a low little tune, and from where he’s gripping Angus’ hand, he can feel his magic push into his skin. Angus lets it, unnerved by the sensation — it’s undeniably necrotic, but there’s a burn of radiance within, the discomfort of taking a frost-chilled hand and immediately shoving it near a fire. It does what it needs to, though, the scales sinking back into his skin. He can feel it prickle over his face, his vision blur and then refocus, his teeth aching.

When it retreats, Kravitz gives him an inspecting once-over, then nods. “That should do it. Now, did you want to —”

There’s a shout, a heavy thump, the door rattling.

“— investigate?” Kravitz finishes, a sigh as Angus is already pulling it open.

For a moment, he wonders if they’ve stepped back into the original room. There are bodies strewn across the floor, except these ones aren’t dead. They’re still twitching, groaning, some trying to crawl away or towards disarmed weapons. One is trying to pat the fire out of their robes, yelping as it clings determinedly to the fabric.

In the middle of it all, the epicenter of the chaos, is exactly who Angus would expect.

“ Blessed be the Queen,” Kravitz curses.

Taako is a force of nature all his own. He’s the picture of cold fury, ears pinned back and teeth drawn in a snarl, the cyan light from a ring of blue fire flickering across his body as he says, low and steady, “I’m going to ask you one more time before you fellas get crispy fried. Where the fuck is—”

Angus shouts, “Taako!”

Taako’s ears flick up. He turns away from the two cultists he has trapped between the flames, eyes locking onto Angus. And then suddenly he’s bolting across the floor, the fire burning high to keep its prisoners within its walls.

Halfway across, Taako slows his pace, breaking unevenly into a casual stride. Still, his ears are twitching, an anxious up-and-down flutter. “ There you are.” He draws the words out. “You’re, uh…”

He stops, only a few paces away. His eyes fix on Kravitz, the carefully-neutral facade breaking into a disgruntled frown.

“Angus, you know this man?” Kravitz says, at the same moment Taako scoffs, “You know this clown?”

Kravitz sputters, and then Taako is stepping between the two of them, forcing both Angus and Kravitz apart. Taako’s back is to him, hand on a cocked hip, the other toying over the handle of the umbrastaff. “I’ve gotta say, boychik, you’ve got bad taste in company. How’s the bird mama treating you, Kev?”

“It’s Krav . No. It’s — it’s Kravitz.” He huffs, the feathers on his cloak lifting like a harried bird’s. “And honestly I can’t disagree, Angus does need to rethink his choice in company.”

Even from his place behind Taako, he can feel the animosity crackling between the two of them. “Um,” he says. “Have you two met? Oh!” Lucas’ lab, it clicks in his brain. Funny that when he can finally remember Kravitz, he forgets he’d even been looking for him.

“Figure it out?” Taako says, voice dry.

“Um, yes. Kravitz, sir?” Angus peeks out from behind the elf’s legs, giving a small wave to call his attention. “Taako’s my magic teacher. And Kravitz is… well, I guess I’m not allowed to say, now.”

“Oh, no, he already knows!” Kravitz’s voice is haughty. “And I have to say I really don’t like your proximity to all these necromancers, Taako.”

Taako scoffs. “Don’t even try to pull that shit, I will complain to Queeny’s humanoid resources department. I’m here for, like, daycare pickup I guess .” He steps to the side, blocking Angus’ view again and ignoring his protest.

Kravitz holds his hands up. “By all means! Don’t let me stop you.” He drops them with a puff. Says, “ Angus. Remember your promise.”

“I won’t intentionally seek out necromancers,” Angus calls back.

“There we go.” Kravitz takes his scythe in hand again, making his way over to the first, unconscious cultist. “Stay out of trouble — both of you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Taako makes a rude gesture at Kravitz’s back, giving a start when the reaper returns it without a backwards glance. “Ugh. Let’s go, Agnes.”

The way back, Taako is silent. He keeps looking over his shoulder, eyes finding Angus before his head turns straight again, only to repeat a minute later. It’s difficult to follow him, weary, he believes, from such heavy expulsion of magic.

At one point, when Taako glances back he just stops. Then sighs, says, “You’re slowing me down again, kiddo,” before he stoops down and sweeps Angus up in a single movement. He doesn’t protest, knowing Taako wouldn’t let him down, and that even if he did Angus would only fall behind.

The rhythm of his step is steady, soothing. Angus leans his head on Taako’s shoulders, eyes flickering. He lets them fall shut, just to rest them.

The next thing he knows, he’s being jostled awake. Angus’ eyes flash open, startled but not scared. When the day’s events come filtering back, he lifts his head, mumbling, “We here?”

“Uh-huh,” Taako says. “Woulda just let you doze but I get the feeling they’re gonna want to see you awake, judging by the cavalry.”

Angus turns to look. The Director is easiest to see, tall and taking up the front. Then there’s Magnus, broad-shouldered, his axe glinting on his back. Killian, Carey, a crossbow and knives, standing to attention as The Director speaks, up until Magnus spots them through the glass of the orb and points with a shout, “ Ango!”

Four pairs of eyes turn to him. Taako groans, “ Oh boy,” as Magnus rushes towards them, the Director taking a calmer but still hurried stride to meet them as they step onto the platform.

Angus’ feet have only just touched the ground before he’s lifted up again, yelping. Magnus holds him up, beaming, saying, “You’re okay! I was getting ready to chop some heads!” He hugs Angus against his chest with one arm, forcing him to wrap arms around his neck.

Taako snorts. “Ch’boy had it under control, what’s with the fuss?” His ears flick back as Magnus loops an arm around him and hugs him against his side. “Watch the merchandise, burn notice,” he grumbles, but noticeably sinks against him.

“The fuss,” the Director’s voice breaks in, huffing, “is that I specifically told you to report in once you located Angus. Your silence had me worried that both of you were in danger.”

Something clicks into place in his brain. “Oh,” Angus says. “Oh this — this is for me?” Magnus and Killian and Carey all armed, the Director herself, Taako. All sent out to find him.

“I wasn’t too concerned that you didn’t answer my call,” the Director tells him, “but when I asked Taako and he said the same thing I could only assume the worst.”

“You had us worried,” Carey tells him, but while her voice isn’t angry, it holds a bit too much breath . “Thought we’d lost our mascot — and my partner on team small but dangerous.”

Angus gives a feeble smile. The Director rubs the bridge of her nose, clearing her throat to draw his gaze. “Angus, I understand that you are a capable young man but… please, if you won’t take someone with you, then at least let us know where you’re going. Any of us. We had to track down the cannoneer that sent you out to check the logs and…”

“And I put too much fucking work into you for you to kick the bucket now,” Taako mumbles. His voice gets higher, “Do you have any idea how often I actually work? I’d have to drag you back to the material plane and, uh, you know how much trouble that’d be for Taako.”

“He means that he’s glad you’re okay,” Magnus tells him, laughing over Taako’s incredulous huff. And Angus smiles, leaning his head against the man’s collar to shut his eyes again. He listens to the conversation turn to chatter, gets several hair-rumples as one by one, they all head out, until it’s just him and Magnus.

Magnus, who hefts him up to take the majority of Angus’ weight. Says, “Let’s get you to bed, kiddo,” in a soft voice. It’s what tells him that he’s the one who carried him there, but Angus falls asleep before he’s even under the covers. It’s been too long of a day to do anything but.

Chapter Text

The sensation of lightning crawling over his fingers is almost ticklish. He watches the icy-blue volts spring between his fingers, a word and the drag of his thumb over his fingers imbuing his magic with electricity.

Taako watches him, face bored but ears perked to attention. “I thought it would be good to have something for close quarters,” Angus explains, watching how the lightning arcs between his fingers when he brings his hands close together, jumping between them as though between poles. “You don’t need a wand for cantrips, and if I was far away I wouldn’t have to worry about being disarmed. This way, as long as I can touch them…”

He turns to one of the dummies they have set up, and then slams his hands into its torso. The spell bites into the wood, leaving thin, smoldering burns forked over its surface, chips of wood falling to the floor. “See?” He says, smiling.

Taako’s face breaks into a crooked grin. “Hell yeah, fuck ‘em up.” He looks over the dummy with approval, eyebrows lifting a bit. “Looks like you’re getting stronger, kiddo.” He taps one of the lines with his umbrastaff, sending down another patter of crumbling wood. “The more, uh… there’s some fancy word for how much magic you’ve got. I call it storage.”

“Reserves, sir?” Angus provides, and Taako snaps his fingers.

“That’s the textbook word. I like to piss off the nerds but, uh, I guess you’re not about to betray your own kind.” He snorts out a laugh as Angus rolls his eyes. “Anyway, the more storage, reserves, whatever. The more spare you’ve got, the stronger this stuff’ll get even without a focus. ‘Course, most of that’s gonna go to actual material spells…”

And that reminds Angus. “Oh, yes, sir! Actually, I’ve been meaning to show you.” He grins, a proud smile stretching his face. “I think I cast a real spell when I was… well, you know.”

Taako’s face goes back to that blank state. Angus hurries to finish, “I meant to cast ray of frost but it, uh, solidified? It was like an icicle, and when it hit one of the, uh, cultists, it exploded. Left me feeling pretty tired, though.”

“Aw, dunk!” Taako sticks out his tongue. “I missed baby’s first spell, the fuck.”

“I’m not a baby, sir.”

“I’ve got over a century on you, boychik, you’re an infant in my eyes.”

“So, so you’re saying you’re afraid an infant can usurp you?” When Taako meets his eyes, his gaze daring, Angus grins. “That’s pretty sad, sir.”

There’s a flash of something dangerous in Taako’s eyes. Angus grabs his own wand as Taako spins the umbrastaff in his direction, the two facing off at a stalemate. Blue magic swirls around the length of their wands, Angus’ icy and spinning, Taako’s a cerulean dance.

“Take the fucking shot, Agne—” and then Taako yelps as a ray of frost hits him in the chest, leaving his front coated in snow. “Traitor!” He shrieks. “I always knew you’d stab me in the back!”

“That’s the front, sir!” He chirps, and then turns to run. He’s laughing, ducking between their field of targets as Taako gives chase, flinging conjured snowballs at his back. Another blast of magic leaves the floor coated in ice, Angus leaping over the patch. He glances over his shoulder in time to see Taako hit it.

The sole of his boot flying out and up as he yelps. He hits the floor in a bundle, hat rolling in loops until it comes to a halt near Taako’s splayed-out arm, leaving the elf still on his back.

Uh-oh. “Sir?!” He gasps, turning heel to rush back towards him —

Taako leaps to his feet and throws a blast of magic. It hits his hand, cold, only stinging a little as it knocks Angus’ wand into the air. “Gotcha!” Taako crows, and the two of them watch his wand spin in a high arc, coming down, down, and right into the open maw of Taako’s umbrella as it suddenly lurches in his grip.

There’s an airy whump. Taako shouts a curse as the prongs flap open and closed, and then invert themselves back into its standard position, perfectly still with Angus’ wand nowhere to be seen.

“... Shit,” Taako hisses, at the same time Angus gives an incredulous, “Sir!”

That’s his wand. His jaw is agape for a moment, but before he can say another word, Taako’s dropping a hand on his head. His eyes don’t meet Angus’. “It was a shitty wand anyway,” he mumbles. “You got it from Leon.”

“It was my wand, sir,” Angus says, voice quiet. “I don’t have the gold for a new one.”

Taako glances at him. Frowns, looks away, looks back. Heaves a sigh and, “ Alright. Come on.” He grabs Angus’ sleeve to give it a tug, beginning to stride out towards the door.

Angus blinks, then scampers after him. “Where are we going?”

“I’m getting you a new wand, obviously.” Taako rolls his eyes. “Something worth having, not some shitty hand-me-down. Get those legs moving, squirt.”

The slow-building upset evaporates in an instant. Angus breaks out into a wide smile, chirping a, “Okay, sir!” as he moves to walk at Taako’s side, the two of them heading for the cannons.

They arrive in Neverwinter by noon, the shopping district bustling at this hour. Taako takes his hand as they push through the crowd, towards the section specifically dedicated to the arcane. His eyes go round, taking in a shop full of spellbooks and texts for the nearby wizarding college, an apothecary, even just a clothing store full of appropriately dramatic garments. Taako passes it up with a scoff.

“Might wanna grab some components,” Taako mumbles, head turning towards the apothecary. “Your wand is able to make up the materials for most spells, but sometimes you really can’t find a way around it. I came across a spell that mighta been useful when good ol’ Kravy came a-knockin’, but it’s pricey as fuck.”

Angus is immediately interested, quizzing Taako as they strolled past some outdoor vendors bragging of enchanted trinkets, charms to enhance your beauty, curses for your enemies. One person brandishing pamphlets for a preparatory academy tries to grab onto Taako’s arm, who shakes him off with a roll of his eyes.

“Never fall for that shit,” Taako tells him. “It’ll just fuck you over. All those wizarding schools just wanna tell you what’s right and what’s wrong and the best way to swish and flick.” His voice took on a pretentious tone, dropped with a derisive snort.

Angus wrinkles his nose. He remembers the strictness of teachers, telling him not to write in script until he was older, telling him he shouldn’t read ahead, that he needed to show his work even when he could do it just fine in his head. “That sounds shitty,” he decides, getting a laugh from Taako. “Besides, I’ve got a good teacher. I really don’t feel like trading that in for a desk and, and tests.”

“Fuck the system, kiddo.” Taako grins down at him. Then his ears flick up and he pulls Angus out of their track, over to a small-looking shop. It’s clearly where they want to be, though, given the many, many cases that are brimming with every kind of arcane focus he could imagine. There’s a wall of staffs and rods, a case dedicated to crystals, dozens and dozens and dozens of wands.

“Most folks go for wands, but, uh, I dunno if that’s what you prefer,” Taako starts.

Angus shakes his head. “A wand is fine, sir. I’m used to them, and also, I know how to conceal those in my sleeve.”

“Fuck.” Taako feigns wiping an eye. “I’m so proud of you, pumpkin. If you ever want grifting lessons, we can add that to the curriculum.”

There’s a heavy cough. The two of them turn, seeing a kobold give them a pointed look. Taako breezes into character immediately, setting his hand on Angus’ shoulder as he says, “Hail and well met! We’re looking to get the kid a new wand.”

“Hmmm.” She hums, looking Angus over. “And what happened to the first one?”

“My umbrella ate it.” Taako gave his staff a twirl.

When the shopkeeper gave him an incredulous look, Angus cut in, “I’m not really sure how to pick a wand? My last one was given to me.”

Looking to him, her face broke into a smile. “Oh, well this will be exciting for you! First, any budget restrictions?”

Taako waves a hand, “I’ll let you know what’s off the table if he grabs it. And he will, kid’s got rich taste.”

Angus blushes, remembering the bracelet. “I’m not going to go crazy, sir,” he huffs, and the kobold laughs as she leads him away, unlocking a case of wands clearly built for smaller hands.

“Everyone has a different method of picking,” she tells him. “Some people go by aesthetics, some by comfort. Personally, I like to see which one responds to your magic best. The materials that make up a wand do make a difference, I say.”

With that in mind, Angus skims his fingers down the columns of wands. They really came in all materials, some plated in gold, some from crystal, from metal, from wood. Some were downright gaudy, others looked like they’d been snapped off a tree.

They had to be expensive, he thinks, a frown pulling at his lips. He picks one of the plainer choices, light polished wood with a simple handle. “Uh, this should be good —”

“ Gods, put that down .” Taako plucks it from his fingers. “I’ve got a new gig coming up, get what you want or you’ll be wasting my money.”

“You’ll be… wasting money by spending less money, sir?” Angus gave him a frown. “That sounds pretty facetious.”

Taako scoffs. “You spend ten silvers on a shirt you don’t want, or twenty on one you do. Which one is worth it? Now, what you’re definitely wasting is Taako’s time, so find a magic stick you like. ”

The shopkeeper’s face is bemused. Angus sighs, but finds he’s fighting back a smile. This time he really observes the case, picking one up on occasion to test its grip and weight in his hand.

By the end, he’s caught between two, one polished and black with golden threads twining around its length, the other a deep blue, its handle engraved with a silver-plated design.

“What do you think, sir?” He holds both of them in one hand, lifted for Taako to see.

Taako hums. “Think you need to see how well you cast,” he says, one ear flicking. His gaze lifts to regard the shopkeeper, “That’s cool, right?”

Her wariness is visible, so Angus adds, “No worries, ma’am. It’ll just be a bit of prestidigitation.”

That gets her to sigh, and then to say, “Alright, but if you break anything, your pops is buying it.”

Angus’s gaze fixes on Taako in time to catch how his ears go almost perpendicular to his skull. He blusters out a puff of air, waving a hand in Angus’ direction and then crossing his arms. “Try them out, pu — uhhhh, k-kid, Ango. Give it a whirl.”

He watches Taako until the elf turns his head away, then slowly refocuses on the task at hand. He switches the blue one into his left hand first, giving a twirl of the other to let light bloom at the tip of the wand. It’s perfectly functional, and he gives a satisfied nod.

The wands swap hands. When he does the same trick with the other one it feels… just a little bit different. Nothing too meaningful, but he finds he likes the way the handle fits his grip, that the flow of his magic comes a little bit smoother, the light beams a little bit brighter.

Angus smiles, and then puts the black wand back. “I think this one will work,” he says, rolling the sapphire-blue between his fingers.

“Hell yeah, little dude.” Taako is already reaching into his bag, counting out the amount the shopkeeper tells him — Angus winces at the price — to hand over.

They don’t go home immediately, browsing the apothecary before Taako guides them into the fashion district. He keeps Angus close, toting him between shops, moving quickly through areas that aren’t so crowded.

Angus is no longer surprised when Taako goes to look at dresses, just watches. Others watch, too, most just looking away — maybe because he’s an elf, maybe because they don’t care — but some lingering with pinched expressions. It’s how his parents would look at Taako, he’s sure, and that’s not a great thing to think about.

“Um.” He stops himself, but Taako is already glancing down at him.

“S’up, boychik?” His head tips, gaze straying to a dress that he runs a hand over, then wrinkles his nose and recoils. “Ugh. It looked soft.”

He smiles a bit, but it’s quick to drop. Feet shuffle. Either he asks or he doesn’t. Either he learns or he doesn’t.

“Why do you wear dresses, sir?”

It’s nerve-wracking, having those eyes fixed on him. Taako leans away from the rack, fully facing Angus. “Not sure what’cha mean. I look fucking good in them, why else?”

“But…” His brow furrows, teeth sinking into his lip. “You’re… well. You’re a, uh, a man, right?” He runs the pad of his thumb over his fingernails, focusing on the smooth feeling beneath his skin.

Taako doesn’t look mad, though. Just, maybe, tired. “First,” he says, “ Man isn’t the word I’d use. I’m a wizard and a chef. But even if I was one, I would give zero shits. I risk my life on the reg to get magical apocalypse accessories, if I want to wear a dress I’m gonna wear a fucking dress. Just not these trashy ones.” He looks at the rack with a curled lip.

Angus hums at that, mulling it over. On one hand, he’d grown up knowing the difference between men and women, and most people around him knew it, too. On the other hand, Taako makes a really good point. Why do people care.

Would wearing a dress make him less of a boy? What does that mean anyway — what does boy mean. Is it defined by his body, or his attitude, or his appearance? Would changing any of those things change him?

He doesn’t think it should. “Thank you, sir,” he says, “you’ve given me something good to think about.”

Taako only mumbles a, “Yeah, sure,” engrossed in digging through the different garments again. Angus gives a little laugh, gaze turning around the area as he waits for his teacher to finish up. It’s decorated with fancy blouses, gowns, skirts. He remembers the skirt back from the first time Taako had taken him shopping. Navy blue and looking like it would swish as he walked. It had been really pretty. He had kind of maybe wanted to try it on for a second there.

Maybe, he thinks, looking back at Taako, now holding up an emerald dress against himself. Maybe…

“Sir?”

Taako rolls his eyes, looking back at him. “What now?”

Angus fidgets, heel sliding back and forth over the floor. “Do you… would it be wrong if I ever wore something like that?”

Taako looks him over, at his tense, nervous frame. Something softens in his face. “Think for yourself, pumpkin. You wanna check out a shop?”

Angus hesitates. “No,” he says, and Taako looks like he’s about to speak. “Not today,” he adds, hasty. “Maybe… in the future.”

“Hell yeah.” Taako drops his hand on top of Angus’ head. “Let me know when, I’ll make sure you don’t pick something awful. Trust me, when you’re first branching into this shit you will go so, so wrong.”

Angus laughs, ducking out from under his hand. They leave fairly quickly after that, Taako complaining loudly about the shop’s shitty quality. He holds Angus’ hand all the way out of the city, where the two of them sit out on the grass and eat the steamed buns they’d picked up from a vendor as they wait for the sphere to come down.

Maybe it had been a rocky start, but it turned out to be a good day. Angus smiles to himself, watching the sunset as the sphere carries them back to the base. For once, the day went without any real trouble.

Taako stops him when they leave the hangar, the quad bathed in twilight from its place above the clouds. “By the way, kiddo,” he starts, voice slow and hesitant. His ears are downturned. “Wasn’t sure if you’ve seen this yet.”

Angus doesn’t inquire — Taako is reaching into his bag. He gives him a crumpled piece of paper, which Angus curiously unfolds. His heart freezes.

There’s a drawing of him . He’s depicted with much shorter hair, buzzed close to his skull instead of curling how it is not, and audacious clothes. What he wears today is still nice, but looking at his own image makes him wince with discomfort, tight collars and too many layers, all arranged and accessorized to make sure the world knew he was a distinguished young man. It’s black and white, but he knows if there were color, it would all be dark.

MISSING the poster states. ANGUS MCDONALD. There are more details, but he’s too sick to read them, crumpling it back in his fists and giving Taako a panicked look. This means his parents are looking for him. They want him back, and his heart is pounding so hard it’s painful.

Taako has his fingers splayed out in a placating gesture. “Cast chill touch on that one, Angus, I’m not gonna rat you out to the fuzz.”

Angus draws in a deep, shaky breath. “You’re — you’re not?” His voice breaks on the last word.

“Fuck no,” Taako snorts. “I know a thing or two about folks looking for you when you don’t want to be found. I’m just letting you know to keep your head down.”

He doesn’t manage so much as a yes sir. It takes him a good while to catch his breath, heart still racing from that fright. That Taako would — would —

Take him home? Take him back to his parents? That wasn’t scary. No. He just doesn’t want to give up this mystery, that’s all. He has important things to do up here, looking for the relics.

Two left he realizes. And then they’ll be done.

And then he’ll go home.

“Angus?”

His eyes lift. Taako is looking back at him. “You’re zonin’ again. I was tellin’ you to figure out what you wanna start practicing, vis-a-vis spells. ”

“Sorry, sir,” he murmurs. Shakes himself and pastes on a smile. “I’ll start looking at the spell book. Maybe… I’ve been thinking disguise self?”

He doubts Taako buys it, but he at least lets it go. Taako flashes a grin back at him. “Taking me up on those grifting lessons already. You really are trying to dethrone me, huh, backstabber?”

Angus gives a laugh. “Please, sir, when I do that I’ll be much more subtle.”

“Lil shit.”

Before he can retort, another voice breaks in, “Taako, please, don’t give HR another reason to get on my case.”

The Director is regarding the two of them with a little smile on her face. “And Angus, if you’re going to overthrow him, please wait until after all the relics are retrieved. I’ve only got three of these…” Her voice trails off, regarding Taako with a perturbed expression.

“These what, ma’am?” Angus asks.

She only tips her head in a slow nod. “These,” she repeats. “Yes. I only have three of them. Taako, if you would get your two compatriots and meet me in my office? It’s time we discuss your next task.”

“Oh thank fuck,” Taako groaned. “The kid swindled me today, I’m broke.”

“That’s a lie, ma’am,” he says, though he’s sure she already knows.

The Director snorts, making a shooing motion at Taako. “Go on, I expect the three of you in my office within the hour. Fully dressed this time.”

“Why are you telling me that? If I could get those savages to cover their asses I might actually get some sleep. Night terrors, ‘Cretia, they come from the darkest corners of the mind.” Taako flicks the two of them a salute and a, “Start practicing that spell, Agnes.”

The Director is smiling as he leaves, shaking her head. She looks to Angus, saying, “Sounds like those magic lessons are going well, then?”

He beams. “Yes, ma’am! I managed my first real spell recently, so Taako’s going to start teaching me more. Hopefully he won’t eat my wand this time.”

“Again?” Her voice is incredulous. She snorts, shakes her head. “I thought we’d be done with that after… anyway. He did get you a new one, right? Or will I need to take that out of his pay?”

Angus shakes his head, showing off his new wand. “He probably wasn’t lying when he said he’s a bit broke now,” he says, sheepish.

“That sounds like it’s his fault. He’s not going to learn from his mistakes, unfortunately.”

Taako’s umbrella is beginning to sound like more and more of a problem around the base. Eating wands, burning his macarons — oh, that’s twice now that he’s the victim, huh — and then the letters of L.U.P.

Angus perks. “Excuse me, Madame Director?” When she nods at him, he asks, “Do you know anything that L.U.P. would stand for?”

There’s a moment’s delay. Then the Director’s eyes go wide, her skin takes on an ashen pallor. She composes herself in a second, but it’s a second long enough for Angus to take a snapshot.

“No,” she says. “I’m sorry, that’s nothing I’ve heard of before.”

His eyes rake over her face. Then, he sighs, says, “Darn it. I was hoping you might have an idea. Thank you anyway, Madame Director!”

“Of course.” Her smile is strained.

Angus returns it. “I’m gonna get dinner. Have a good night!”

He hears her voice, just a murmur, “You too, Angus.”

And he knows this: the Director had lied. Not just a little lie. She knew exactly what he’d been asking about. It scared her.

Whatever L.U.P. meant, the Director didn’t want them finding out.

Chapter Text

Merle is pretty different with his kids.

It’s a thought that seems… strange, to Angus. Merle, with kids. Merle, a father. He’s an oddity of a parent, as far as Angus can tell: his son has almost no control, his daughter holds almost no respect. Merle himself does nothing to command either of these things from his kids, just lets Mookie climb all over him and Mavis bury her nose in a book and ignore him. The man who had advanced on him with a wrench is nowhere to be seen in this regretful, soft-eyed dwarf.

It’s startling, too, when Merle clears his throat to ask his daughter about the book she’s reading. She answers in short, clipped sentences, then slowly opens up more details as he prompts her — and Angus is left gawking at the two of them. Something wells up inside of him that he doesn’t like. Softer than anger, but sharper, too. Something that doesn’t make sense.

He doesn’t know why he’d ever feel jealous of Merle’s family.

He’s such a strange father, Angus thinks. Such a strange family. His stomach feels like something is curdling on the inside, so he pulls his own book out of his bag and sits a distance away. It’s apart of the series Davenport had recommended to him, and while he needs to look up a word on occasion, it’s good. The story has him riveted, and he’s not looking forward to knowing that he’ll be reaching the last published book soon. The author isn’t going to be releasing the next at least until next Candlenights.

“Um… hey.”

Angus looks up, startled. There he sees Mavis, fiddling with her own glasses. She holds her book with the pages closed around her index finger, marking her place. “Hello,” he greets, giving a nervous smile. “Your name is Mavis, right?”

“Yeah, it is.” She’s silent for a moment. Angus’ eyes flicker away, uncertain. “Um, what’s yours?” She prompts. “Merle never said.”

“Oh! It’s Angus Mc — it’s Angus.” He doesn’t know how often Mavis is in Neverwinter, if she might have spotted the posters that line the city. He looks at the book she holds, latching onto that for conversation. “What’re you reading?”

She turns the book over to show him. Path of the Familiar it reads. “It’s about a warlock’s familiar!” She tells him, a brighter note in her voice. “He’s a cat, and his master has a demon as a patron. His master is questing for this demon to find out what happened to his home, but the twist is… well, um, maybe I shouldn’t spoil it. Or, I guess you’re probably not gonna read it, so it doesn’t matter.” She stares down at the book for a bit, lips thinned out.

Angus hesitates. Then he says, “Actually, I might. Who’s it by? I might be able to find it in the library where I… live.” Not work. Because Mavis may be Merle’s daughter, but there’s no way she knows about the Bureau.

It makes Mavis smile. She sits down beside him, the two of them talking about their respective books, seated underneath a crepe myrtle tree. They talk until a movement catches their eyes, Angus’ head turning. He sees Merle on his feet, waving his arms in wide arcs as Mookie looks on, enraptured. Undoubtedly regaling him with hyperbolic tales, as he mimes taking a blow, staggering and bracing a hand to his chest. Angus gives a slight grin. He’s a liar, and he’s a strange, strange father. But he thinks he likes this Merle more than the one he knows.

“So, what were you doing with Merle?”

Angus looks to her, eyes curious. Mavis gestures over to her dad, saying, “I can’t really think of a reason you’d be walking around with him. What’s the story there?”

“Oh.” Angus hesitates. That is hard to explain. “Uh, you know your dad lives where he works, right?”

“Uh-huh.” She nods. “I wasn’t sure if that was a lie or not, but I guess it’s true. He’s told us a something different every time we ask about his job.” A scoff puffs out of her mouth.

Angus winces. “Uh, well, he sort of… looks for, and reclaims precious items? Things that don’t belong to the people who have them. And I work there, too!”

Mavis fixes him with a dubious look. “There’s no way you’re older than me.”

There is, actually. He is. But he doesn’t feel like he is, so, maybe not — the comparison between humans and dragons is difficult. “Special circumstances,” is all he tells her. “I’m sort of an informant? When he’s working with his team, they can call me up for help and advice!” A pit weighs in his stomach as he says this. They hadn’t really made much use of this task, between Hodge Podge and the barrier of Refuge. He hasn’t really been much use. “But, um. I noticed your dad sneaking around, and I am a detective, so I thought I’d figure out what he wasn’t telling us.”

He regrets the words immediately. Mavis looks irate, puffing a breath through his nose. “That’s what I thought,” she says, voice harsh.

“I don’t think it has anything to do with you two,” Angus tries, but the damage has been done. He lapses into a guilty silence as Mavis returns to her book. Some truths aren’t meant to be shared.

As the sun begins to set, Merle corrals all of them to their feet and out of the gardens, a walk around the city streets down to the docks before they part ways. It turns out to be deeper than Angus had expected. Merle is deeper than he’d expected. And, he doesn’t fully understand Merle’s plight, with his family, his children. But he’s sincere when he says, “I think you’re gonna be a good dad, from here on out.”

It’s maybe the first time Merle’s regarded him with anything but contempt in his eyes. He swears himself to secrecy and resigns himself to the threats, not really put off by Merle’s bluffs. It had frightened him, earlier, when the dwarven man advanced upon him. Left him stammering and shaking and ready to duck away from a blow. He thinks, though, that Merle wouldn’t really do that. Even if he’s still afraid, at least his logical brain knows that much.

Maybe it's not the big mystery he'd been hoping to unveil, but it's a good day. He knows something new, has the beginnings of a friend. They'll see the two off and then return home for a quiet, peaceful night.

But that's not what fate has in store. And what happens next happens so quickly that Angus almost misses him.

The cart, barreling along the docks. Mavis and Mookie, caught in the street, bickering and unaware. Him and Merle, too far away even as they break into a run, even as Merle grasps his bible and Angus his wand, mounting terror as he realizes he has nothing that is going to stop the events playing out in front of him.

Then the wagon lurches, and crashes, spilling over itself violently but safely, not a single soul harmed. Angus doesn’t slow his pace, skinning his knees as he drops down beside Mavis and Mookie, both of them collapsing in the shock. They’re safe, though, not even a splinter in their skin. And he lifts his head, looks around to find Merle, and that’s when he sees him.

It sends a bolt of fear, cold and all-consuming, into his racing heart. A red robe, volts of the same color sparking off his form. An arm outstretched, residual power crackling over his sleeve, in the direction of the cart. His hood, and the unfathomable darkness underneath it, turned towards Merle.

That hood dips, as though in a nod. And for a moment, he’s vanished. Then Angus’ vision shifts.

It’s the same sensation as when he saw the crab in the train car, as Kravitz in the cultists’ den. His view moves itself just a few degrees off and then slides back into place. When it settles, the red robe is there. He’s transparent, and nobody seems to notice him, but Angus can see him.

Merle is there suddenly, brushing past Angus to get to his kids. Angus lets himself be pushed aside, taking a few staggering steps. He doesn’t tear his gaze from the robed figure, who is turning away, drifting between the bodies that have frozen as they survey the scene.

A red robe. One of those who created the relics. A lich, though Angus hasn’t found much to explain what that means. Indisputably evil, insane and violent and unforgivable by nature. And he’s just saved Merle’s kids.

Angus hesitates. Merle has no eyes for him, Mavis and Mookie are huddled against his shaking form. No one sees as Angus slips away, steps uncertain and then suddenly precise, trotting after the red robe at a distance. No one reacts, no one sees, but for some reason Angus can track him all the way to the edge of the city, and then further.

The red robe never turns around, perfectly unaware of him. They hit a stretch of grass, leading into trees: the Felicity Wilds, Angus identifies. He lets himself drop further away, wary of being caught without any cover. He needs to ask Taako how he can expand his magical stores — an invisibility spell would be a blessing right now, assuming a lich couldn’t see right through it.

As the red robe gets closer to the treeline, Angus picks up his pace. He’s realized, too late, that he’ll be unable to track him from so far through the woods. His heart thuds in his chest, unwilling to run from the noise that would make, but needing to catch up. A hurried pace, wishing again for more magic — some kind of spell that would keep him silent as he rushes through the tall grass, biting back curses as the red robe breaks through the line first, too far ahead.

Angus presses onwards, unwilling to let up. He needs to find him. He needs to be able to track him down, his base, he can tell the Director and he can be useful. He can finally prove he’s worth something, a good enough detective to find their worst enemy, the reason the Bureau existed at all.

Please, he’s praying. Any god that will hear him, any force of fate. He needs to find the Red Robe.

He catches the barest flicker of red as he weaves through the first few tree trunks, trusting the natural ambiance of the forest to disguise what noise he makes. Angus is used to sneaking around, but it usually means snooping through an empty room without being caught, or following someone through a busy city. None of his usual excuses will work — regardless of the fact that he’s following the red robe through the forest, the fact he’s a lich means he’d never listen to reason.

For the first time, Angus thinks that maybe he shouldn’t be following the red robe. But, he’s come so far. He’s so close to proving himself. So he pushes the worried words and faces out of his brain and presses on, following that flicker of red and that sense of disquiet that lingers in its wake.

Until, suddenly, he realizes there’s nothing to follow. Angus blinks, head sweeping back and forth, eyes wide. He didn’t — he couldn’t have lost —

You shouldn’t be here.

It’s a cacophony of whispers. The forest goes silent and Angus is paralyzed, sweat breaking out down his back as his head is filled with a rasping voice. His eyes strain to the edges of his vision, dragging a haggard breath into his lungs. It’s behind him.

His voice turns into a croak in his lungs, tears springing to his eyes. He can feel it. It’s a frozen burn crackling over his skin, burrowing beneath flesh and scale and into his blood, necrosis rotting the air he breathes. He’s going to die. It’s going to kill him.

The red robe is abruptly in front of him. Its hood looms low, and Angus shakes, frozen in place, tears rolling down his cheeks. It seems to recoil from him, the figure sweeping backwards, putting space between them. And like that, Angus collapses, wheezing his breaths. He doesn’t dare look up at it, doesn’t want to see it.

In the peripherals of his vision, he can see it jerking, back and forth, deranged and uncertain as though it’s torn between directions. It brushes slightly forward. Angus’ heart pounds in his throat, suffocating.

Leave.

The whispers amalgamate again, a command. Angus shoves himself to his feet, turning to run to way he’d come. He can feel its presence nipping his heels, chasing him out through the woods, the very brambles recoiling from its force, the woods opening up in terror to let Angus flee.

It halts at the edges of the woods. Angus keeps running, ignoring how his lungs and legs burn, he runs until his legs give out and he collapses, body seizing with tremors and sobs as he curls in on himself in the grass. He feels like he is dying, wheezing every breath and sobbing it back out, barely able to breathe between the tears and mucous that wet his face.

He doesn’t know how long he’s there, only that his body won’t listen to him. He can’t stand when he wants to. He can’t reach for his bracer or his stone. He can only gasp and shake until his chest stops heaving, his breathing slows, and he goes limp in the grass. Laying there, just staring out at the distant treeline.

He swears he sees a flash of red looking back.

Angus reaches a trembling hand to his bracer, skimming the rune that will take him home.

There’s still a twitch in his fingers when he gets back on base. His feet carry him mechanically out to and across the quad, to the dome where the Director’s office is found. He thinks at one point Carey and Magnus call out to him, not even turning to look at them, striding right past the large man before he can drop a hand down on top of his head. The backwards look Magnus sends him goes ignored as well, just reaching with a shaking hand to open the door.

Davenport is sitting at a short desk, organizing papers into stacks. He glances up, the recognition in his eyes turning immediately to concern when he register’s Angus’ face. He tries to give him a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching and refusing to do much else. “I need to see the Director,” he croaks instead.

Davenport nods, slipping out of his chair. A hand braces on Angus’ arm, giving a tight, steadying squeeze. Then he heads to the door, rapping smartly on the wood with a call of “Davenport!”

He can hear the Director shifting around inside. Her voice is muffled as she says, “One moment!” The door opens a few beats later, her eyes landing first on Davenport and then on Angus. It’s the same shift, concern crossing her face the moment she sees Angus.

“I — I think I have something important to tell you,” Angus says, all in one hurried breath. She dips her head, stepping aside to let Angus move past her, taking the seat placed across from her desk.

There’s a crystal on her desk, likely for divination. He can see his own reflection, and realizes at once why the two of them had regarded him so seriously. His face is ashen, his eyes are red and puffy. There are little flecks of grass caught in the curls of his hair.

The Director doesn’t immediately come in. When she and Davenport arrive to sit down, she’s carrying a tray, cups of some kind of hot drink set out that she places on the desk.

His hands are shaking too badly to hold it with just one. He clutches his cup, focusing on the heat that seeps through the porcelain before lifting it to his lips to take a sip. Warm, and sweet, and spiced. Angus sets it back down on the desk, looks up at her as she takes a drink of her own. “What’s this?” He asks, voice a bit clearer this time.

“A mix of chai and apple cider,” the Director says. “An old friend taught me to add caramel and cinnamon sticks.”

“It’s good,” Angus mumbles, and drinks some more. They’re silent until he finishes his cup, Davenport nursing his own. When he sets it down for the last time, it’s with a resounding clink, and then silence. He looks up.

The Director had her chin resting on enlaced fingers. “Alright,” she says. “What happened, Angus?”

Angus swallows, heavy. “I was down with Merle, in, um, Neverwinter,” he says. “And…” he licks his lips. He can’t say anything about Merle’s kids, he’d promised. “Um. I. I saw a — a red robe.”

He jumps at her intake of breath. When he looks up at her again, her eyes are wide. “I followed him,” he admits.

“You what?” Angus flinches outright this time. Her voice is sharp, and she rises to her feet. “You followed him?”

“I just thought —”

“No. No you didn’t think, Angus.” The Director braces her hands down on her desk. Davenport is silent, nervous, watching her. “You followed a red robe. Do you know what he is? Do you know what he could do to you?”

Angus’s fingers tighten around his knees, “But I was trying —”

“—to get yourself killed!” He shrinks back in his chair. “I gave everyone one instruction if they encounter him: you run. I told Taako and Magnus and Merle to run, tell me why you thought you were above this rule?”

He shuts his mouth. If he’s quiet, he’ll be fine. She’ll just yell until she’s tired, and he’ll be fine. She wouldn’t hurt him.

“I thought you were smarter than that, Angus,” she snaps, and that stings. “I’m disappointed in you.”

“I just wanted to help,” he chokes out, and regrets it immediately. He ducks his head, blinking back fresh tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, I’m sorry.”

A sigh is heaved somewhere above him. “Just. Do not do that again, ever, Angus. I shouldn’t have raised my voice, and I’m sorry, but that red robe is a lich. He is — unstable and violent, he will not hesitate to kill you on sight. You’re lucky that you turned back before he caught you.”

And that gives Angus pause. Because he hadn’t turned back. The red robe had caught him. But he hadn’t raised a hand against him. Not even a flicker of a spark. Just a single command: to leave.

Angus steadies his breathing. He nods. “Okay,” he says. And then, he lies. “I won’t do that again.”

“Good.” When he looks at her, the Director is rubbing her thumb against the bridge of her nose. “Now, you’re okay? Do you need to see one of our clerics?”

“No, ma’am. I think I just need some sleep.”

“Get to bed, then.” She walks him to the door, Davenport joining them. “Thank you for telling me about this. Again, I’m sorry that I lost my temper with you.”

“That’s alright.” He gives her a thin smile. “I — I understand.”

He bids her a good night, making his way shakily down the hall.

A few days’ time see him practicing with Taako once again. He’s got disguise self down pat, now, and moving on towards more spells. They’re described as first level, consuming the lowest possible quantifiable unit of arcane energy — simply put, he’s A nerd by title, but only a novice nerd, kiddo.

Does that mean you’re a high class nerd? Angus had shot back, and got an outraged gasp in return.

Taako has him working on more offense — practicing his ice spell, a shard launched into the breast of one dummy to explode into needles that pierce all those surrounding. Privately, though, Angus is looking into other spells, spells that aren’t meant for wizards. Merle’s zone of truth had pinged his interest — how useful would that be, in his line of work. Bards can cast it, which means he shouldn’t need the help of any deity.

“Looks like you’ve built up three slots,” Taako muses. “Pretty fucking fast, pumpkin, nice job. You might be able to get second level spells pretty soon.”

“You think so?” Angus beams up at him. He’s tired, magical reserves already exhausted down to cantrips. “That’s great! The day of your reckoning draws even closer, sir!”

Taako squints at him. “I can’t fucking tell if that’s still a joke.”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out when it’s already too late.” Angus laughs as Taako squawks at him.

They call it a day, grabbing a pair of juice pouches from a cooler to sit down in the grass. It’s a more secluded space — less so because it’s out of the way and more because Taako accidentally singed Brad’s new-growing ponytail back of. He’s pretty sure it had been an accident, at least.

“So, Agnes,” Taako drawls. “The, uh, Mags mentioned that you looked a little uhhhh… shaken up yesterday.”

Angus winces. He’d… sort of been hoping that would just blow over. Taako doesn’t meet his eyes, just frowns at a point above his head as he continues, “So like, was someone tryin’ to steal your lunch money? And didja launch an icicle up their ass, is what I’m asking here.”

Angus sighs, resigning himself as he recounts his summary. This time, though, he doesn’t let Taako jump to conclusions — he tells him outright that the red robe had caught him, and let him go. Taako’s ears are slanted downwards when he finishes, eyes riveted on Angus. His fingers ball into tight fists.

“Sir,” Angus says, “is the red robe really dangerous?”

Taako is quiet for a moment. “Angus,” he says, and the sound of his proper name makes the boy go still and quiet. Taako kneels down, eye level. “The first time I saw that, uh, lich? I think?” He blinks, looking confused for a moment, then shakes his head. “Yeah, a lich. But, I met him after that, that battle wagon race. We had the sash and were meeting with Captain Captain Bane, and I guess that dipshit got thralled cause he was definitely trying to… poison us.”

Taako silences himself once again. “That’s kind of a fucking trend, huh,” he mumbles. “Uh. So this rando is trying to get us to drink fucking poison, and suddenly he’s smacking the glasses out of our hands and chugging one on his own cause the red robe possessed and fucking murdered him. And the next time we saw him he fucking screamed at me and burst into flames? What I’m saying is that the red robe is a lich, and at any moment he could fly off the fucking handle.”

Angus frowns. “But he didn’t. Sir he — he was right there. He was closer than you are to me right now, and all he did was make me turn around and leave. Why — why would he do that?”

“Like hell I’m supposed to know.” Taako’s ears are twitching, tipped low and back. “He’s supposed to be the dude that like, made a ton of weapons of mass destruction and killed thousands of people. He — he probably wanted to make you question this shit, Angus. But I’m gonna tell you right now: he’s dangerous. You cannot trust him.” There’s an intensity in Taako’s eyes that Angus doesn’t like, gaze breaking from his.

“I understand that you think that, sir,” Angus mumbles. “But I think there’s more going on here, and as a detective, I need to —”

“You are not going to look for the fucking red robe.” Taako’s voice is harsh. Angus’ head snaps up to him, and this time he does step back as Taako rises to his full height. “Angus, you’re fucking eight years old —”

“I’m eleven,” Angus corrects, glaring.

“I don’t give a shit!” Taako grips his umbrastaff tight. “It doesn’t make a difference, you’re a kid, and you’re going to get yourself killed by a god damn lich if you go looking for it. Don’t you dare go sticking your nose in this bullshit!”

“You don’t tell me what to do” Angus jerks a hand in his direction, leaning up instead of backing down for once. “There’s something weird going on, sir, and I’m going to find out what!”

Taako’s ears flatten. He’s never seen him like this, face twisted and posture tense and shaking. “Then — then no magic lessons. If you’re going to throw a fucking tantrum over being told no, guess what! I’m done. Taako is out. You still wanna go get yourself killed?”

Angus’ heart drops. Taako knows the kind of blow he’s landing. He knows Angus would do anything for his lessons.

But. Angus knows that there’s a truth being hidden from them. And he knows that he can dig it up — he just needs to find that red robe again.

“Fine.” He says, though not without a tremor in his voice. The anger drops off Taako’s face, ears flicking up in a shocked manner. He’d really believed he could win that way. “No more lessons. Thank you for what you’ve done for me so far.”

He turns, and he strides away. Not towards the cannons — he knows Taako would follow him, would stop him. He heads towards his room instead, intent on getting behind a closed door before he lets himself break down into tears.

Tonight, he tells himself. And even if Taako goes to the Director, or Avi, or anyone, Angus knows how to direct the cannons himself, now. Nothing and no one is going to stop him from finding the truth.

Chapter Text

The sphere touches down in the meadow outside the woods. Nighttime. The stars are out, bright. He can only see the real moon from this position, her shape halved and glowing pale gold.

Light blooms at the end of his wand to illuminate his surroundings. It it wise to be out here, in the darkness, alone? Not at all. But Angus already remembers the path he’d taken, and he follows it. He’d poured through his spellbooks before coming, ready to lend speed to his legs should he need to escape, but Angus doesn’t think he’s going to find a fight here.

Liches are unforgivably violent, indisputably insane. Angus met one, and left without a scratch on him. Magnus, Merle, Taako — they’ve seen it three times now, and have yet to be harmed.

All evidence points to this: the Red Robe has no desire to hurt them.

Then the question is this: what does it  want?

The light at the end of his wand casts long shadows, twitching as the wind curls between the trees. The outside is alive with sound, crickets chirping around him, a few falling silent as his boots crunch through the dirt but quickly pick up their song again. His feet remember the path, and Angus follows them, slower than he’d moved the first time through.

There’s another question: will he be able to find the red robe at all? Who’s to say that he’s stuck around this long? That Angus isn’t just chasing a memory, and that he’ll return to the moonbase, tired and cold and humiliated, a failure who gave up one of the only things that matters to him in a fit of anger and misguided judgement.

Angus swallows, hard. He just won’t come back until he finds it, then. There has to be a way to track. 

Angus bites his lip. There’s another spell he brushed up on, one he knows Taako likes to keep fresh in his mind. And if Angus does the ritual correctly, then he’s not wasting a spell. It’s sort of a shot in the dark but, then, isn’t everything he’s doing tonight?

The magical languages tend to fall into elvish, and draconic. The latter comes to his tongue, symbols that Taako had read to him, words that stirred something nestled deep in his memories. They roll out of his throat now, snarling lips, strings of hisses and growls intermittent with a click and a rattle. Human vocal cords struggle to wrap around the language of  dragons, but it comes easily to Angus’ tongue.

It takes a long while, but he feels the thread of magic catch. His vision brightens, the light at the end of his wand seeming to wrap around its entirety, now. Interestingly, he himself does not register under this ritual, despite knowing his body is…

Fake?

That’s a troublesome thought.

Angus turns his gaze forward. He keeps the chant steady, a repetitive string of words:  magic  and l ight  and  reveal. It’s really not about the word so much as the will, but magic certain languages beckon its favor, and it’s best to keep his intent in his mind. And so under that chant, and the magic he’s weaving into the air around him, he finds something different.

His wand lights up pure white — an amalgamate of the schools of magic, he’s sure. But there’s a stain in the air, a red so dark it’s nearly black. It’s thin, hardly a gossamer thread, but it’s present, and Angus chases it through the trees.

The Felicity Wilds are gorgeous, and if he weren’t on a case, he might want to linger. There’s no time to be enjoying nature, though. He treks until his legs are sore, his feet are aching, his throat is sore, and then he presses further. The trail seems to be growing more distinct. More recent, he hopes. The Red Robe didn’t get as far as Angus had feared.

With time, a long stretch of time in which the moon continues its arc across the sky, Angus' feet slow to a halt. Another break, Angus decides. He needs to take just a quick rest before confronting the Red Robe. The trail is almost opaque, now, a miasma that wafts through the trees. He couldn’t be far. So Angus pads his way to the roots of a tree and falls onto his bottom, slinging his back out to dig for his water and the Luna Bars he’d fished out of Magnus’ stuff.

A stirring of wind seems to drop the temperature by degrees. Angus shivers, and draws his jacket closer around him. He needs more practical wear — his boots are nice, good for hiking, but he’s dressed in a double blazer suit that matches his blue cap, and it doesn’t do much to stave off the cold.

Fire, he thinks, would be nice. Angus cups his palm, trying to remember what Taako showed him, remembering the invocation for produce flame. His heartbeat thuds. He still remembers the itch of the burns on his palms.

The words fall across his lips, and with a tap of his wand to the skin of his hand, an icy-blue flame lights. The warmth spreads over his skin at once, even as his throat feels tight. It doesn’t burn, but casts a sheer light around him, enshrouds him with comforting heat. It’s fine. This is fine. He has no need to be afraid of fire, and Angus’ hands tremble as he draws the flame closer to his chest.

It sputters and goes out, and Angus is thrown back into the dark and cold. He draws into himself, a tremor wracking his frame. It’s okay, he tells himself. He’ll be just fine. Just rest a minute longer and get back on track.

That’s when he hears the hiss. Curdling, stretching through the air, the chill that has overtaken the woods burrows into his veins. Angus feels the ping of danger before he throws himself forward, tumbling, his wand clutched in his fist. 

The world spins over twice before Angus halts on his back, rolling over to shove himself to his feet. And there he sees it.

The creature is something of a shadow, with cavernous voids where its eyes might be. Claws, disembodied from its spectral form, hover at its sides, one buried in the ground where Angus had been sitting just moments ago. It shudders, a crackling hiss streaming from its maw as jagged, gaseous teeth stretch wide. The roots where it scored its claws are beginning to wither and rot.

Angus has read up on wraiths, so the moment he recognizes what it is, he lobs a flame directly into the creature’s face.

It flares on impact, the creature shrieking as fire burns away some of its mass. It’s not enough to kill it, though, not nearly, and Angus is already running. He burns the slot that lends energy to his legs and suddenly it’s like he’s not tired at all, the ache stolen from his feet so he can run, the forest floor a blur underneath him, wand outstretched to light his path.

But despite the aid of his magic, the wraith is just as fast. He can feel the chill of its aura dig into his back, remembers with a spike of panic that it’s incorporeal, it has no need to dodge around the trees like Angus does. Run or fight — he couldn’t possibly defeat it —

The wraith picks for him. Pain laces down his back, and Angus is gasping. He falls, he tumbles, the new wounds stretching and burning and wetting his shirt as he lands on his hands and knees in the dirt. He scrambles for his wand, lets the tears run down his face as he launches an icicle into its mass, the shard bursting on impact.

It shrieks, again, so loud that Angus flinches, nearly drops his wand to cover his ears. It’s far from dead, though, it’s not cowed in the least, and before he can fumble for another spell its surging for him with its talons outstretched.

Red strikes it. Angus squints as light bursts before him, and this time he does cover his ears. The wraith is screaming its shrill agony as lightning drags over its form, digs into the shadow to tear it apart from the inside out. It's brutal, and merciless, and it dies with a rasp, its form rend into wisps of smoke that the red volts leap to consume, and then it is gone. Dead, its end so absolute that Angus feels sick to have played its witness. He feels dizzy, in fact. 

He’s not surprised in the least to find the Red Robe floating there, the lights of its gaze bright within the darkness.

The wyrmling returns.

It hisses. Angus shudders as its voice crawls into his skull.

I warned you once. Remove yourself from these woods, or I will rid myself of you.

Angus tries to move, his arms shaking as he means to push himself up. The wounds in his back burn, making him gasp. Black spots swim in front of his eyes as he falls back.

His gaze lifts. His glasses — where did those go? Everything is a blur without them but, no, they're on his nose, he lifts a hand to check. One of the lenses is cracked, but still on his face. 

Heat sluices down his spine, sticky and nauseating. He’s been hurt before, but never so badly, not to the point that crimson stains his skin and soaks through his clothes to turn the fine material to a sickly maroon. The lich’s scarlet whisper seeps through the crevices of his brain, the air choked to vermillion as it draws close — he lifts his head and his tongue wags, thick and clumsy in his mouth.

His vision goes red.

Chapter Text

There’s a long moment where all he feels is pain.

It’s consuming. Impossible to think. There is no such thing as Angus McDonald for that moment, there is only agony, and the desire to escape it.

Then he becomes aware that he has a beating heart, quick and painful. Then aware of the breaths, lungs and chest swelling, and a fresh dig of pain with each one.   Then he realizes he’s moving. His vision is blurred when he opens his eyes, but he catches darkness, he catches movement, he catches red. His voice swells in his throat and comes out as a sob.

The red shifts. There’s a sound, a whisper, but it’s gentle.

“Hey, it’s okay,” says a soothing voice, gravelly and soft. “You’re gonna be fine, just rest for now.”

And the voice takes him far away, and Angus goes willingly.

The next time he comes to himself, Angus is laying down on his side. It’s too hot, immediately, the burn in his flesh making him bolt upright, sure that there are flames licking at his skin. His stomach rolls. Nausea rises in his throat and Angus gags, his head swimming, vision that’s already distorted without his glasses now drowned with a fresh bout of tears.

He falls back down onto his stomach, face buried in a pillow, panting, shivering despite the heat. Everything aches. His back is the worst of all, but he can feel it in every muscle, in his joints, movement is misery, consciousness is a curse.

“Hey. Hey, kiddo.”

A soft voice. Angus lifts his head, expecting to see the Bureau’s infirmary. He sees the Red Robe instead.

It hovers at his bedside, blurry, but not so close as to be oppressive. “How ya feeling?” A voice says, emanating from under its hood.

Angus blinks. That’s not the Red Robe’s voice.

“Kid?” Its hood cocks. A — he thinks its a hand that waves. There’s a smear of white on top of its sleeve. “You with me?”

Angus swallows, his throat dry, and croaks, “Y-yeah.”

“Oh, good.” There’s relief in that voice. Relief? He’s hot, maybe feverish, maybe delirious. Another blur of red, but detached from the lich. It moves towards Angus, and he pushes himself up again, ignoring the pain and the sickness it brings him.

“Don’t do that,” the maybe-hallucinatory Red Robe pleads. “They’re just your glasses, okay?” Something taps the back of his hand, and Angus hesitantly turns his palm over. Sure enough, he closes his fingers on the frames of his glasses.  His hands shake as he struggles to line them back onto his face. The world comes into focus.

“Better?” The Red Robe prompts, and like this Angus can confirm that, yes, it is its voice. It sounds like a man’s voice, not even a hint of the harsh telepathic rasp from before. He gives a hesitant nod, not trusting himself to speak.

The Red Robe draws backwards. A sigh emits from it, before, “The hell were you thinking, kid? You woulda been killed out there. Don’t you know the wilds are chock full of dangerous things?"

“Like a lich?” Angus croaks. It stays quiet, seeming to regard him. He swallows, rough, and rasps, “You’re the most dangerous thing here, uh. Sir?”

“... Sir works.” The Red Robe says. It — he? — turns. Angus can see now that the red blur from before, the one that had grasped his glasses, is a mage hand. It shifts with the Red Robe’s own skeletal hand towards a shelf pushed up against a wall.

They’re in a cave , Angus realizes. He’s in the only bed, the rest of the area taken up by shelves and tables that are cluttered with supplies: jars and bottles and books and weapons and a variety of items he can only assume are enchanted in some way.

The Red Robe doesn’t speak, Angus watching him shift a few bottles around before the mage hand grabs onto one full of a red liquid. It carries it across the room, first towards the Red Robe and then to Angus, held out like an offering.

Angus doesn’t take it. He looks at him to say, voice cracking, “You’re dangerous,” he repeats. “Why am I here?”

“Because you got clawed up by a wraith and almost died,” he says, voice sounding flat. “Drink the potion, it’ll help you heal.”

“Why —”

“Kiddo, you’ve got severe lacerations, an infection, a fever that could give you permanent nervous damage if it gets any higher, and you’ve been unconscious for the last day while I tried to keep you alive. Drink the potion.”

Angus purses his lips. “Why don’t you just make me?”

“I will if you don’t. Five.”

Angus’ brow creases.

“Four,” the lich counts. “Three.”

“Sir, you’re not —”

“ Two.”

Angus takes the potion and drinks. It’s definitely healing, he can taste the sweetness of it. But, unfamiliarly, it comes with a wave of exhaustion. “What —” he mumbles, voice clearer now that he’s had something to drink, but newly slurred with sleep.

“It’s like cold medicine,” the Red Robe says, gentle again, reassuring. “The stronger stuff will put you to sleep. Instantaneously for magic.”

“But you —” Angus can’t keep himself from laying back down. His lips move, but no sound comes out. The mage hand plucks the glasses from his face, and then pulls the blankets up around him, and Angus wonders distantly why it is, or what he’s done to make the Director tell everyone that the Red Robe is evil.

He wakes up again, and this time Angus isn’t hurting.

The fever is still there, he assumes, because he’s soaked in sweat and his skin feels flushed. But when he rolls onto his back, unthinkingly, there’s only a moment of panic before he realizes nothing happened. No pain. He touches a finger to his skin and finds it’s smooth, raised lines where he assumes he’ll find scars but nothing open.

The scars make his stomach twist. He hopes they’ll heal.

Angus turns his head, searching for the Red Robe but just finding himself within this… cave. He slides out of the bed, a mattress that’s higher than he’s used to making him stumble when he drops to the ground. A hand braces against the bed to steady himself, shaking off another wave of dizziness.

He’s hungry, is Angus’ next observation. His stomach feels cavernous. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here, or when he last ate, but he’s pretty sure this is the longest he’s gone without food from how much it aches.

He tries to push the discomfort aside, turning his eyes upon the Red Robe’s lair. The area, he realizes now, is illuminated with a faint green light. It makes Angus’ brow furrow, and he turns to find the source.

The light comes from a tank. A large one, big enough that he’s sure Magnus could float inside of it. Angus draws closer, peering into the swirling green fluid, finding the color too opaque to be able to make out anything more than a shadow inside.

Angus steps away from it again, head tipped to one side. No matter how he looks at it, he can't see what's inside of the tank. He turns his head, wondering if he could find something that might clue him in to its contents. Nearest to the tank is a table, one Angus has to climb a chair to investigate. There isn't a journal, like he'd hoped, but rather, a map.

His heart skips. The Red Robe, he realizes, has known for a long, long time exactly what the Bureau is up to.

He finds pins marked into the map, red ones that he realizes are meant to demonstrate the Phoenix Fire Gauntlet when he sees one pinning a drawing of it on top of Phandolin. Orange for the Oculus, a string drawn out between Rockport and Neverwinter. Pink tracks the philosopher’s stone, a series of notes that first determine the Bureau has found it, and then tracking it to the Miller’s lab. Yellow impaling Refuge, the area encircled by golden ink. Black is stuck somewhere in the Felicity Wilds, and like the pin for the Temporal Chalice, it’s the only one marked.

The Animus Bell. Angus bites his lip. It would make sense that the relic for necromancy would be in the hands of a lich. It makes sense, and it might spell terrible things. He’s tracked the Bureau’s coordinates, too, alongside the Miller lab. Angus has no doubt that he’d be able to determine exactly where they are right now.

He wonders, with a cold drip of fear, if he’d been wrong about the Red Robe. This is the mark of someone obsessed. Genius, and meticulous, but indisputably obsessed. Maybe he’s stable, but it doesn’t mean he’s safe.

Angus takes another look around. No Red Robe, but —

He blinks, hard, and he can see in his reflection in the tank’s glass that his eyes have taken a reptilian slit to the pupils. Even with his truesight, he can’t see anyone in the cave. He’s truly alone, then.

A sigh leaves him. Angus tiptoes back towards the bed, where he sees a chest of drawers. Opening them doesn’t reveal much: some tomes, some clothes. A cotton shirt, a studded belt, a pair of bluejeans, and a ring. That one makes him pause. He plucks the ring up, admiring it. Gold isn’t his favorite, but it’s still appealing to the eye. Even moreso is the gemstone embedded inside it: a fire opal, reds and oranges that seem to glow when he casts a light upon them.

The moment is interrupted by the fizzle of magic, iron and dust on his tongue making Angus drop the ring and slam the drawer shut, spinning around in time to see a set of runes on the cave floor illuminate. There’s a flash of light, and the Red Robe is hovering in the middle of the circle. He’s holding a basket.

The light under the hood catches him immediately. There’s a beat of silence, and then his free hand gives a little, hesitant wave. “Good to see you up,” he says, drifting out of the circle. A wave of his hand and the runes crumble away, the teleportation circle destroyed, cutting this cave off once again.

“Um,” Angus starts, but then he catches the smell. Angus’ mouth waters at once. The Red Robe brought food.

Perhaps catching his attention on the basket, a small laugh sounds from under the hood. “I bet you’re starving,” he says, his mage hand floating the basket onto a table and beginning to clear the space. “Sorry to leave you alone but, uh, my friends used to say that good food’s the most important thing when you’re sick. I think it comes second to nutrition and bedrest and medical care but, uh, here you go.”

The moment permission is given, Angus is dragging a chair over to hop up and dig into the basket. It’s a container of soup, of course, smelling of chicken and spices. He pries the lid off and grabs for the spoon included in the basket to hurriedly ladle the broth into his mouth.

He gets a third of the way through before he stops to breathe, giving a sheepish, “Thank you.” The Red Robe turns his hood from where he’d been pouring through some journal — Angus wishes he’d found that before he came back — and just dips his hood in a nod.

Dangerous or not, Angus can’t tell, but he saved his life and healed his wounds and apparently traveled into town to get him food, so he can’t be evil.

Can he?

Angus has put murderers away who have families they love. Were they evil? They had a capacity to care, but the same to hurt. Who’s to say that the Red Robe couldn’t save him and craft the relics, set them upon the earth, watch the catastrophe they wrought with glee. Who’s to say this is good will at all. Who's to say it's not all just an act, a play put on to endear Angus to his plight. 

He puts his spoon down. He’s biased. Angus needs to clear his head. Caleb Cleveland is able to distance himself from personal connections — Angus can do the same.

“Sir,” he calls, and wills himself to stay calm. To not think of how easily the lich had eradicated a wraith. How easily he could kill Angus. Enchant him. Possess him. He’s abruptly sick with it, the realization that he’s put his body, mind, and soul in this lich’s hands just by walking within his view.

He swallows. “Sir,” he repeats, meeting the light underneath that red hood. “Why did you save me?”

It seems to give the Red Robe pause. But, really, he can’t figure anything out about him. Body language doesn’t translate to a lich in the same ways. He doesn’t have a tell. So, in other words, any and all answers he gets here could be lies. Everything up to now could be a lie.

“I wasn’t about to leave you to die, kiddo,” he sighs. “I don’t think there’s much of a why to be said about it.”

“But there is,” Angus insists. “It’s — sir, between the relics, and being a lich, you understand why it’s hard to believe you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart, don’t you?”

He thinks, he’s already gone too far. He can’t run. All he can do it hope the lich will let him go. Might as well see what answers he'll get here.

The Red Robe sighs again, hood swaying as though he were shaking his head. The light’s gone dim. “What’d she tell you?” He asks.

“She?”

“Lucretia.”

Angus goes still for a moment. Then, he swallows. “You know the Director’s name?”

“Sure do.” The Red Robe’s next words are a mutter, “Not that she calls me by mine.”

“What’s yours, then?” His heart thumps, a half-beat faster each time.

There’s a moment of silence, the Red Robe looking at him. Then, “I can’t tell you that. Sorry, kiddo, I’ve taken enough of a risk bringing you here. If you lead the Director back to me, I’m finished.”

“It looks like you’ve got the upper hand, though,” Angus points out, motioning to his map. “You know exactly where the Bureau is. Why haven’t you used that?”

A skeletal hand reaches up, into the hood. A man rubbing the back of his neck, maybe. Angus wonders what he was in life. “She’s known from the start I’d try to stop her," he says. "First thing she did when she realized I was around was find a way to keep me out.”

That. That did make sense. The Director has warned them against the Red Robes from the start, she’d known exactly what she was getting into. Angus wishes he had a notepad, now. “There are other Red Robes, aren’t there?” He asks, switching directions. 

“There, are. Not with me, though."

“Where are they, then?”

A vague motion of the hand. “Around. Out of my reach. Missing.”

“Are you looking for them?”

“...I am, yeah.” His voice grows quiet. Almost sad.

“Would you like some help?

The question hangs in the air. Then, the Red Robe says, “What are you playing at?”

“Nothing!” Angus insists, splaying his palms out. “But I am a very good detective, and —”

“ — and you want to investigate me, I gotcha.”

Angus winces. He hadn’t expected that to work, but he’d still hoped.

The Red Robe chuckles. “You don’t have any self preservation sense, do you? Maybe ask Taako to teach you that art, it’ll do ya good.”

“How’d you know —”

“I did my research.” He wears he can hear amusement in that voice. “A silver dragon disguised as a human, wearing the Bureau bracer and following the Red Robe out into the woods.” And there’s another curious thing, that mocking tone when he’s sure the Director had told him they called themselves Red Robes. "I had a few questions."

He extends a hand, a drawer opening and a paper flying out and into his grip. Or at least, held there by magic. Angus winces, again, seeing the poster, the one declaring him as missing. “Angus McDonald, heir to the McDonald fortune, you were declared missing several months ago. Initially adopted by Arby McDonald before he was determined an unsuitable guardian and you were placed in the care of his son and daughter in law. What I’m still not completely certain of is how a dragon got into a humanoid orphanage.”

“You don’t have any idea, sir?” Angus asks, a frown on his face. “Because that seems unlikely, with…” He looks to the map, the one tracking the relics.

There’s a beat, and then a sigh. “Gotcha. Yeah, in that case… I’m. I’m real sorry bud. That’s all I can say.”

Angus is quiet. There’s a note of misery in the Red Robe’s voice. Projected, or sincere? His brain and his heart are at war.

But he shrugs. That mystery is a closed case. “It’s been destroyed, so, it can’t happen again.” That’s a detective’s job, after all. They can’t change the past, but they can find the truth, and make sure that’s the end of it.

The Red Robe, though, cocks his head. “What’s destroyed?”

“The…” Angus’ brow furrows. “The relics. That’s why we’re collecting them.”

There’s a dry, harsh laugh. Angus jumps a little, watching how the Red Robe pulls into himself. “No,” he mutters, a grate to his voice. “That’s not what she’s doing.”

“But —”

“She lied.” His voice is a snarl. Angus steps back, watching the aura around the Red Robe brighten, coalesce into static. Then, as quickly as it happened, it dissipates. The lich flickers back, the pressure easing, prickles of nerves no longer scratching at his skin. His heart is still racing.

“Sorry,” the Red Robe murmurs. “That wasn’t right. I shouldn’t have gotten so angry.” It sounds like he’s berating himself as much as an apology.

Angus swallows, but nods. “So, you’re saying she’s not destroying the relics?” He checks, voice hesitant.

The hood dips, a nod. “They can’t be destroyed. Energy cannot be created nor destroyed, only transformed… and those relics are imbued with the most absolute form of energy known to existence. She can’t destroy them. Gods.” A hand disappears under the hood again. “I shouldn’t be saying this to a kid, regardless. C’mon, finish eating and then I’m gonna take you somewhere you can get home. You need a proper cleric to take care of that fever.”

Angus thinks to protest. But, then, this is the best outcome he could have hoped for.

"One more question," Angus presses. And the lich hesitates, then sighs, motioning for him to continue. "Do you have the Animus Bell?"

"No." The answer is immediate, and regretful. "The Director already knows where that is. Ask her if you don't believe me."

And somehow, Angus does believe him. So he nods, and he turns back to his soup — cooled now, but the Red Robe warms it for him with a spell, and he’s back to where he started.

If this lich is faking his care, he’s doing a very, very good job of it.

The Red Robe burns another teleportation circle onto the floor. He lets Angus gather up his stuff — his bag is long gone, but the lich did grab his wand, something Angus is infinitely grateful for. He has to assume this was all set up while he was still asleep.

The circle ports them back to the same field Angus had settled him, the night he went looking for the Red Robe. It's a jarring sensation, going from a cave to afternoon light and a brisk wind, the ground soft and uneven beneath his feet.

“I can’t say whether or not you trust me,” the Red Robe says, as Angus turns, uncertain how he should say goodbye. “But if you do, at all, then please don’t tell the Director what you saw back there. Don’t try to tell anyone that I’m good. I need them to believe I’m evil, but I can promise you, all that I’m trying to do right now is get my family back. None of us want to hurt anyone.”

“Why the relics, then?” Angus asks. He hasn’t touched his bracer just yet.

And the Red Robe sighs. “We didn’t know it would happen like this,” he says. “But even what did happen was better than… what would have. That’s all the detail I can give you, Angus.”

He purses his lips, wanting to protest, then sighs and nods. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I guess. Um, if I were to come back here —”

"Don't." The lich's voice is warning. Then, softer, "Seriously. I'm not going to be here all the time. What happened with you, and with Merle's kids, it's all just luck that I was in the area. You've got good people to rely on up there, kiddo, but I ain't one of them."

Angus hesitates, then nods. "Okay. Um, thanks for. Everything?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, no problem." A hand goes back to his hood. "I haven't had good company in a while, it was nice to have an intelligent conversation for once. Hey, and don't take Merle's shit, alright? And actually take an adult with you places, I get you're an independent young man but there are dangerous things out there. Doesn't matter how strong you are, it's better to work with someone than to work alone, trust me on that one."

"Okay, sir," he says, a bemused grin on his face. "Thanks for the life advice."

"I'm dead, kiddo, if you're gonna take life advice from anyone —"

"—It definitely shouldn't be you."

The Red Robe pauses, and then chuckles again, shaking his hood. "Yeah. Yeah, alright, that's fair. You act just like him, gods." 

And Angus' interest piques at once. "Like who?"

There’s a sound like fabric tearing. Angus takes a moment to understand, but the Red Robe is already moving.

A force pulls Angus by the collar, pulling him up off his feet and setting him back down, safe, on the grass. His eyes are wide, staggering as he watches the Red Robe hooking back, away from the scythe that sweeps for him and the reaper that holds it.

Then a presence drops down behind him. Angus jumps, trying to move away, only to find a hand he knows well at his shoulder. “Hey, pumpkin,” Taako says, a voice that should have been aloof sounding cracked and hoarse. “You sit tight, Krav’s gonna take care of that guy.”

Angus opens his mouth to protest, to call them off, and then stops. I need them to believe I’m evil, the lich had  said.

And he’s making a good show of it, lightning burning across the grass as he moves, Kravitz flitting between the bolts. He shoves close, scythe rearing back in an arc, swinging into a conjured shield. Sparks fly off it, radiant magic showering off the necrotic. Kravitz dips back, the Red Robe forward, and this time the electricity hits the reaper, red light punching through his chest and out his back.

Taako tenses.

The Red Robe is holding back, Angus can tell. He remembers the merciless fury he’d used to tear apart the wraith. Kravitz is far stronger than that, only staggering against that blow, already springing for him again. It seems to catch the lich off guard, Angus’ heart jumping. He dodges too slow, the scythe’s blade catching his robe, opening a rift in his form that crackles with energy.

He flickers, composure slipping for a moment. Then it snaps back into place, an outstretched hand sending a wall of fire to scream across the field, dissipated with frost that jumps from Kravitz’s feet. The grass is coated in white, his cloak holds lines of ice, the air around the reaper condensed into a vapor as frost creeps over his blade.

“Don’t make me kill you again, Kravitz!” The Red Robe calls to him, voice distorting.

Kravitz raises a hand, a mote of light glimmering in front of his palm. It shoots out as a ray, catching the Red Robe in its light. Terrifyingly, Angus can't see him for a solid moment, the sunbeam too bright, only the sound of a shriek tearing into the air. When it fades, the Red Robe is on the ground, as though collapsed, its form sparking and flicking, half of itself glitching outwards and then snapping back together.

Taako’s body winds tighter. He clutches at Angus’ arm. There’s a weight on his arm, and Angus looks down to find Taako’s fingers on the rune of his bracer.

Kravitz draws closer. Angus bites down on his tongue, eyes wide, staring at the lich. He holds his breath. Kravitz rears his scythe back. 

And the Red Robe's hood lifts, the glitches smoothing from his form, the bones of his hand lifting to point at the reaper.

Kill.

The word sends a jolt down Angus’ spine.

Kravitz dissolves. Scythe and bone, fading into wisps of shadow, leaving only a light behind. His soul hovers in the air, light pulsing once before it vanishes.

Taako’s gone rigid at his back. “Fuck,” he breathes.

The Red Robe turns to them. Angus’ heart is racing, his eyes wide.

"The reaper is fine."  The voice projects into his head, not the whisper, but the voice of a man. " He’s just returned to the Astral Plane to recover.

Angus relaxes, just that faintest bit. He can only assume that Taako hasn’t heard, though, because the elf is still there, tesne and frozen, breaths rasping out of his throat.

There’s a moment where everyone is still. Then the Red Robe draws towards them.

Abruptly, Taako is scrambling. He’s in front of Angus all of a sudden, umbrella in his hand, leveled at the Red Robe.

“Don’t you dare,” he breathes. He’s trembling, Angus can see, feet planted in the grass but shoulders shaking. “Come any closer and I swear to any bullshit god you fear, I will destroy you.”

“...Taako,” the Red Robe murmurs, and drifts that faintest bit closer.

A light, thin and green, fires at the lich. Taako misses though, his arm jumping, the ray hitting the grass instead. The blades wither and flake away, disintegrated on contact, while the Red Robe flickers.

“Shit,” Taako breathes again. He raises his voice, high pitched and angry and terrified. “See what happens!” He spits. “I fucking dare you! I’ve got a goddess and Death on my side, you think Taako’s fucking scared of anything? You’re gonna be stuck in a cage for fucking eternity if you don’t back. Off. ”

“Sir,” Angus whispers, getting to his feet. Taako shifts immediately, blocking him from the Red Robe’s view. He repeats, “Sir.”

I’m not here to hurt you. I am only ridding myself of your hound.

Angus peaks around Taako’s leg. The Red Robe has no face, only a light, but he swears he’s looking back at him.

Time is drawing short. At its end lies the consumption of all you know. You will need to be prepared. If you are still unable to face me by then, you, too, will succumb.

There’s a flash of red light, and then the Red Robe is gone.

Taako collapses. His knees hit the grass, falling back onto his bottom, head bowed, breath shaking out of him. His fingers pull through his hair, tight enough to snap strands of it.

Angus puts a hand on his arm, silent. Taako lifts his head, meets his eyes. They’re glossy, Angus realizes, and it gives him a start.

“You,” Taako says, voice shaking, “are in so much trouble.”

Then he hugs Angus, pulling him into his lap and holding him there until the Bureau’s glass sphere descends to take them home.

Chapter Text

Angus has seen this before.

He sits on one side of the table, his parents stand at the other. His hands are folded in his lap, his head is down, his pants are scuffed at the knees, his cheek is still stinging. His parents will expect the bruise to be covered up in the morning so he will fit their perfect family portrait once more.

The Director looks across her desk. Taako leans against the wall beside her. Davenport is holding a tray, puts four mugs down on the desk. The smell is sweet, but it makes Angus’ stomach curdle.

“Angus,” the Director says, but the voice he hears is sharp.

“What were you thinking?” Spits his mother.

His throat feels tight.

Angus is a disappointment. Angus isn’t worth the trouble he causes. He knows this.

“Angus?”

The Director is looking at him. Taako’s eyes are shaded by his hat, but they glimmer.

He blinks, and gives a slow shake of the head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, “what was the question?”

Taako breaks from his place on the wall. Angus tenses, holding still as the elf comes to his side, stooping down. There’s a murmur of, “Look at me, boychik,” and Angus is ready when fingers touch under his chin, turning his head. Taako meets his eyes, and his gaze is calculating. Angus tries not to shy away from him.

He taps Angus’ forehead, lips moving around a word. His eyes are brown, but a glimmer of blue sparks under his pupils. Angus recognizes the spell, knows Taako is looking for strings of magic on him.

“I’m fine, sir,” he says. “He — it didn’t cast anything on me.”

Taako frowns, the flick of his gaze still searching. But eventually he leans back, looks first to Davenport, pauses, and then turns to the Director. “There’s nothing,” he shrugs. “No, uh. Curses, enchantments, what-have-you. Kid’s clean.”

The Director’s posture gives, a long breath pushing out of her. She draws her chair out and takes a seat, and watching her, Angus thinks she just looks tired. Her thumb rubs between her eyes, quiet for a long moment.

“Were you hurt?” The Director asks.

Angus is quiet. Truth or a lie. There are gashes on his back that would give him away, healed to scars now, permanent on his body. Give it long enough, and they’ll never know it happened on the same day.

Angus lifts his eyes. The mugs on the table remain untouched. He says, “He, um. It. It wasn’t able to hurt me.”

“Okay.” The Director says. “Okay. Can you tell us what did happen?”

Angus already has a plan in his head. So he lowers his chin and stares at his knees, and he mumbles a story: an idiot kid getting lost in the woods and wandering around for a day, catching a cold before he managed to pick his way out to safety. And only then, when he wandered out of the woods, did he find the lich he’d gone hunting for.

“That’s when, um, Taako showed up.” He looks to Taako, handing the story off to him here.

The Director nods. Then she looks to Taako, motioning for him to pick up the story. Angus cracks, and reaches for one of the mugs. Hot chocolate, warming his hands, sweet on his tongue. It won't fix anything, but it's a comfort.

Taako’s hand goes to the back of his neck, eyes fixed up on the ceiling. He blows air out between his lips, fidgeting for a moment. “So,” he starts, steepling his fingers. “Do you remember how we brought Noelle in? You know, ghost from Lucas Humanman’s hell lab, robot body.”

“Yes?” The Director raised an eyebrow.

“And how, because she’s a ghost, she’s immune to the voidfish?”

“... Yes.” Her voice grew a hint more dull.

“Well. She’s not the only one.” Taako bounces the tip of his umbrella against the toe of his boot. “We, uhhhh. We did met the Grim Reaper.”

The Director’s face goes flat.

“And. I may have asked for his help. To track down the Red Robe. Which he did, because I guess he’s my boyfriend now?”

Angus’s head whips around to him. “You’re dating Mister Kravitz?” His jaw is agape, eyes round. Last he saw, the two of them were at each other's throats. "When did that happen?"

Taako’s ears are low, red, eyes turned towards the floor. “I mean, it’s not  — what’s it to you, anyway? Nosy brat.” He gives Angus a jab to the forehead, pushing him back in his chair as Angus grins. 

“Taako.” Both of them snap to attention, finding the Director’s face buried in her hands. “Please. Continue.”

“Right. Uh. So, Krav — Kravitz. That’s his name. He, uh, I guess he hasn’t been able to track this rando? But when he crawled out of whatever hole he’s hiding in, he popped up on the radar. Portaled out, grabbed my boy, Krav did his reaping business —”

“He killed him?” The Director straightens up, her eyes wide. Angus zeroes in immediately, taking in her expression and finding alarm. Fear?

“Nope.” Taako’s teeth grit. “He won that round. Krav got obliterated, I’m talking Power Word Kill. Krav’s, uh, you know, he’s fine, but that guy is fucking batshit . Spouted his usual freaky voice bullshit before we got outta there.”

The fear in the Directors face turns — s ad. She’s quiet for a moment, lips pursing, Her throat bobs around a swallow. And she nods, eyes falling shut. “I’m glad you both got out safely,” she murmurs. Her eyes flash open, gaze sharpening as it turns back on Angus. “And knowing that you’re safe, Angus, do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

Here it is. His shoulders hunch, head bowing. “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles.

“Speak clearly,” his mother snaps, and grabs him by the chin, nails biting into his jaw.

“I don’t think you do,” the Director says. Her hand is pressed over her eyes. “How many times do I need to say it — the Red Robe is dangerous. You’re lucky Taako and his — his boyfriend came when they did or who knows what would have happened to you!”

Nothing at all, Angus knows. He would have called the sphere down and came back to base safe and sound, better off than if he’d not found the Red Robe at all. His eyes search the Director’s face. He knows how she lies, he’s seen the twitch in her face and the tension of her posture, little deceptions about Taako, about L-U-P, given away to a gaze she didn’t know had been watching.

Now, though, as she swallows and steadies her voice, there’s no tell. The Director is honest as she says, “I am… terrified to think of what could have happened to you. Angus, please, I don’t know what will make you listen, but never seek out the Red Robe again. He is unstable, unpredictable. If I could safely remove him from the picture, I would have done it years ago. But it’s too late now.”

There’s a note of mourning in her voice.

Lucretia, the Red Robe had called her. Familiar. Betrayed. Almost as though he knew her. Almost as though they were —

The thought blurs over in his brain.

He refocuses to find the room quiet. The Director is rubbing her temples. Taako’s ears are pinned flat. Davenport’s tail flicks, a nervous bob.

The gnome clears his throat. His hands lift for a moment, and then drop. Mouth opens, a croak of noise. Then he seems to give up, muttering a single, “Davenport,” at the floor. A bad day for him, then. It’s been a while since Angus has heard him say anything but his name.

“Right,” the Director says, giving a shake of her head. “You meant to remind me.” Davenport inclines his head, and she looks to Angus again. She’s pulled her composure back together, sighing and giving a short nod. “Well. Angus, after Taako told us that he believed you were actively pursuing the Red Robe, I was forced to come to a rather difficult decision.”

Angus’ breath catches. His fingers tighten on his knees.

“From here on out, you are explicitly forbidden from leaving the base unsupervised. I will be alerting all our cannoneers that you must be accompanied by an adult, who will be signed off as responsible for you until both of you return.”

His immediate relief is countered by a spike of irritation. “Ma’am," he whispers, unable to raise his voice any louder, "you’re not my mother.”

“But I am the boss of you,” she quips back, unapologetic.

“What, did he sign a contract?”

“Not now, Taako.”

Angus’ jaw grits. His throat feels tight, nails dragging over the material of his pants. He’s silent, because he doesn’t trust his voice — too quiet, or too loud, or cracking in half, he doesn’t know what it will be, so it’s best to not find out.

“That should be all,” the Director sighs. “Get — get some medicine and go to bed, I guess. Thank you for bringing him back, Taako. We do need to talk about your new beau, of course, and the apparent breach of security —”

“Yeah, yeah.” Taako’s voice is flippant.

“And, one more thing,” the Director says, exasperated, as Angus pushes out of his chair to skulk out of the room. “We will be needing to up your training regimen. The last relic is going to be a considerable challenge to retrieve, so I’ll need the three of you to be ready.”

It gives him a moment of pause, right at the door.

"The Director already knows where that is. Ask her if you don't believe me."

So the Red Robe had been telling the truth. Angus licks his lips, and then opens the door.

There’s a strange air that hovers over the Bureau for the next few weeks. Angus grows bored of keeping to himself, the desire to sulk quickly kicked down by the need to do something. He races through the rest of the series Davenport likes. He tries to teach himself magic, but it’s sluggish, now, no one to show him how it’s done, no words to keep him going. He knows there are other wizards on the base, but the idea of asking any of them feels wrong.

He reads about himself, a little. About dragons, when he can find books that regards them as a people instead of beasts and monsters. He finds a tome in draconic, but it’s a language he never learned to read.

Taako knows draconic.

Angus thinks, turning it over in his hands, maybe he’ll ask Carey. Maybe.

He snags a ball from the Icosahedron, tapping it between his boots along the moon’s false grass. His old school had a soccer team, and Angus used to watch the older kids run through their drills, intrigued by the sport. Some of them had been able to bounce the ball like a hacky sack, on their shoes, their knees their heads.

He tries to scoop the ball up on his toe to push it into the air. It slips off and bounces along the turf, Angus trotting after it to kick it between his feet and try again. It's another miss, rolling further, and he gives chase, thinking maybe he just needs to put a little more force behind it, just push his toe under and kick up.

The ball launches. Angus gawks after it, eyes widening as he watches it bounce off the side of one dome to careen down towards the walkway, right where a burly man is striding carelessly along.

A burly man who turns and catches the ball. Magnus stares at it for a moment, then lifts his head to look around. His gaze falls on Angus, and even from that distance, he can see the grin that splits the man’s face as he lifts an arm to wave.

“Ango!” He hollers, and hoists the ball up into the air. “I got your ball! Want me to throw it?”

“No!” Angus yells back.

“Okay! Catch!”

He doesn’t throw it. Magnus kicks, and Angus hits the dirt, the ball whizzing over his head and then beyond, to the sound of something shattering.

There’s a beat. Angus lifts his head to stare. Then Magnus takes off at a run.

Angus is still for a second longer, and then he scrambles after him, racing down the hill and to the paved road that winds around the base, boots thumping on stone. He catches up with Magnus at the door to the cannon hangar, just as an aghast cry goes up from behind, and he two of them hurry inside.

“Well!” Magnus says, not even out of breath. “Good hustle, kiddo. But why’d you run?”

“Sir, if they see a soccer ball and broken glass and a little boy all on his own, what will they assume?”

“Oh.” Magnus grimaces. “Okay, yeah, I can see how that would be…”

“Incriminating?”

Angus’s lips twitch upward as Magnus grins and points to him. “We better lay low for a bit,” the man muses, giving the room a scoping glance. They both shift to the side as a lizardfolk man slipped past them and out onto the base.

Magnus begins to head down towards the loading deck. Avi isn’t on cannon duty today, an aarakocra in his usual place, a slim fellow with bright blue feathers and a long, emerald tail. They give Angus a glance and then reach to snag a clipboard off their desk, scratching a few things down before holding it out to Magnus. “Sign right there,” they chirp.

He goes, “Sure thing!” and scrawls a signature right down. Whether or not he knows what he’s signing for, Angus can’t tell, but he’s not going to say a word. The aarakocra plugs in the coordinates for Magnus’ destination and the two of them slip into the sphere.

“So where are we going?” Angus asks, as they’re shifted backwards and into the cannon. The sphere rotates, and then the cannon shifts, a loud whirring and a stomach-tugging sensation.

“Neverwinter’s market,” Magnus says. Angus immediately checks that he’s wearing his cap. He’s less and less recognizable from the boy on his missing posters, hair long enough that when he stretches it out of his tight curls, it comes a few inches out from his head. He’s never been able to grow it out this much before.

That and his new clothes, still nice but no longer so formal, leave him recognizable but visibly changed. People might not even associate the old Angus Mcdonald with this new boy, dressed in a white button-up with red suspenders hooked onto his shorts, a belt with a holster for his wand, sturdy boots instead of heeled shoes.

He looks more like the detective he wants to be. He is. Angus smiles to himself, right before he feels the sudden stillness that precedes launch.

They must be relatively close to Neverwinter, because the trip doesn’t take long. Magnus pulls the lever and they settle down a fair distance from the city limits, as usual, the two of them clambering out to hike the rest of the way.

“Oh, yeah!” Magnus breaks off his chatter pretty abruptly, a story Angus had heard before and was half-listening to again cut short. “You thinking of joining a soccer league? I used to coach, you know! Not soccer, though. I don’t actually know what I was coaching, now that I think about it.” His face turns bemused.

Angus studies him for a moment. There’s something else behind his expression. Something troubled.

“Sir?”

Magnus blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he’d been in. “What? Yeah! Uh. What was I saying?”

“You were talking about soccer, sir,” Angus reminds him. He wishes he could press deeper, but he doesn’t even know what he’d be looking for. “You asked if I was looking to join a team? Which, um, no. I’m not really a sports guy. I’m just very bored is all.”

“You’re not, uh, doing your detective business?” Magnus frowns. The two of them join the crowd pouring into Neverwinter, Angus shifting close to Magnus. His larger frame will draw attention away from Angus, at least.

“Um, no, sir. I’m not allowed to leave base without an adult, now.” His voice turns to a grumble.

“Oh. Oh! Right.” Magnus grimaces. “After the —”

“The Red Robe thing,” Angus sighs.

The two of them are quiet. Magnus peers down at him, looking, for once, hesitant. He says, voice slow, “Hey, Angus. What, uh. What happened with that guy?”

He sighs, and repeats the phrase he’s given to everyone who’s asked that for the last several weeks. “I got lost in the woods and when I got to a place to call a sphere, the Red Robe showed up and so did Taako. He said some spooky things it was very scary.” All of it is delivered in a deadpan. For others, he’ll pretend to not want to talk about it, and people leave out of either pity or discomfort with a crying child. Magnus won’t buy that act, though.

“That’s it?” Magnus asks. “He didn’t, I dunno, say anything in particular? Anything that stands out?”

Angus fixes him with a stare, watching the man as he rubs the back of his neck and looks away. “No,” Angus says, after a beat. “Nothing that made sense.”

And Magnus sighs, and nods. “Gotcha.”

Strange. But everything is, these days. A month ago, Angus could sleep easy with his faith in the Bureau, in the Director, knowing they're doing something good by destroying what the Red Robe created. Now he's not sure of anything at all.

Magnus takes him to the produce market. He has a little list that he follows, wandering around the area with the air of someone who has no idea where anything is. Not that Angus is any help; aside from never having to do this shopping, there are so many bodies in the area that he can barely see, just glad that Magnus sticks out so heavily. He ends up grabbing onto the end of his feathered curess to keep from getting separated.

Magnus glances down at the tug. Then he goes, “Oh! Here!” And Angus can’t even yelp, he’s just abruptly hauled up into the air, stomach swooping, and deposited on Magnus’ shoulders. “There we go! Don’t suppose you can spot some potatoes from up there?”

Angus takes a moment to regain his bearings. It’s… not bad, sitting up here. Just strange. No one else seems to think it’s strange, though. A few people glance over at Magnus, and then up at Angus, and they smile before walking on their way, so. Apparently this is normal.

Of course it’s normal, Angus shakes his head. He’s seen this before.

He casts his gaze out across the stalls, pointing out one with a sizable display of potatoes when he finds it. That’s how they go about the market, Magnus reading off his list and Angus pointing out each place.

Eventually, he begins to realize that some of this stuff isn’t exactly found on a common grocery list. They scour the area for some kind of fish paste and eventually are redirected towards the waterside area, heading there only after they pick up a sharp-smelling red powder.

“So what’s all this for?” Angus asks, as they head out, Magnus lugging all his paper bags on one arm.

“Cooking!” Magnus grins. “Taako offered to make dinner for us, but only if I got this stuff.” He bounces the bags, Angus wincing at the sound of glass clanking together.

Then he pauses. “Taako is cooking?” He repeats.

“Yeah!” Magnus is enthused, an extra little bounce in his step. “You should get some too, Taako’s an amazing chef. I think.”

Angus frowns. “I thought he didn’t cook anymore, though,” he murmurs, uncertain if Magnus knows the story.

But Magnus says, “He’s figuring himself out.” It’s a quieter tone, but warm. “Honestly I thought he’d told ya. It seemed right down your alley.”

The usual perk of interest he’d get is tempered by the overwhelming sense of loss. Angus folds his arms on top of Magnus’ head, sighing. “I haven’t talked to him in a while,” he mumbles. “He’s mad at me.”

“You don’t have your, uh, magic stuff?”

“Taako said he’d stop teaching me if I looked for the Red Robe.”

“Oh.”

Angus huffs a small laugh. He can hear the grimace in Magnus’ voice. His amusement withers fast, though, remembering now his trouble as he tried to cast Alter Self, wishing he had Taako’s to show him such basic transmutation.

It’s barely even that, he thinks, frowning at his hands. He’s not even really changing himself, just borrowing traits from his other body. At least, if he can learn that spell, maybe he won’t get stuck with scales on his hands again. He won’t know, though, because magic is the one thing Angus can’t learn out of a book.

“Did you talk to him about it?” Magnus asks.

Angus frowns. “No,” he says, “but, that’s what he said, and I did it anyway. So.”

“Yeah, but, have you asked him?” Magnus hops over a low curb, the movement jostling Angus. “Like, I thought he just stopped cause we’ve been busy! Lotsa training and all, I figured he was just putting it on hold until the Director gets off our asses.”

“He said no lessons if I look for the Red Robe,” Angus repeats, frustrated now. “I followed the Red Robe. That’s it!”

“Okay!” Magnus’ voice is airy. “I gotcha. Fair enough. You should still eat with us, though, it’s gonna be the best food you’ve ever had!”

“Have you had his cooking before?” Angus asks, leaning forward against Magnus' head.

“Naw, just those cookies,” Magnus says, as they pass back through the gates of Neverwinter and back on the path for home. “But I know it’s gonna be real good.”

Chapter Text

Angus decides to have dinner with the reclaimers.

Somehow, it still ends up a surprise when Taako accepts the bags the Magnus hands over. When had this changed, Angus wondered. When had Taako gone from handing out a single macaron to little-known coworkers, to cooking a meal for his friends. What Taako thinks of Angus, that’s — he’s pretty sure he’s somewhere in the cared about category. Taako had said so, though perhaps not in such blunt terms.

Taako’s tapping his feet with a nervous energy, ears flicking when his eyes land on Angus. There’s an expression that crosses his face, a pinch in his brow, a flicker in the eyes. Taako’s upset that he’s here. Taako's upset with Angus. His fingers tighten against his palms.

Taako doesn’t say a word about it, though, just bundles the bags into his arms to tote them the the kitchen adjoined to the common room. It’s the only room in the Bureau that has its own kitchen. Angus isn’t sure why, but he supposes it’s lucky that Taako ended up here.

Taako takes a breath and claps his hands together. “Okay, I need zero  distractions for the next hour,” he announces, “so you hooligans stay out of my kitchen and voices down if you don’t want me to accidentally transmute laxatives into the rice.”

“Gross, sir,” Angus wrinkles his nose.

And Taako rolls his eyes as he shoos them all away. “You’re like six, you don’t know what those are.”

They end up hanging around in the Common Room, Angus dozing for a catnap without anything to actually do. His thoughts weave in and out between Taako and the Red Robe and the Director and her secrets. They're all connected. The Director lies about the Red Robe, the Red Robe follows the reclaimers, he's fixated on Taako in particular, Taako with his umbrella, his umbrella with  L-U-P, what does it mean? He has a million threads but nowhere to tie them.

When he opens his eyes again, Merle’s nails are an audacious pink, and Magnus’ are red. His brow knits, watching such a large man paint strips of color onto his hands. He’s what Angus’ dad might have called a ruffian moreso than a man’s man, but still didn’t fit the sort that paint their nails. Those were — well. They were like Taako.

Magnus is there, though, painting his nails, and as he sets the delicate-looking bottle aside, he looks up and meets Angus’ eyes.

“Hey, Ango!” He calls, voice bright. “You want me to do yours?” And Magnus wiggles his fingers.

Angus hesitates. Then he slides off the couch, coming to sit by Magnus instead. There’s an entire case just brimming with different colors.

His mom would always get fake nails set on her fingers, the sort with the soft pink and the white tips. They stung when she dug them into his arm.

“Sir,” he begins, hesitant. “I, um. It’s — I know it’s not actually a big deal, but, um, you just. You don’t seem like the sort to paint your nails?” It comes out in a rushed breath.

“That’s what I thought!” Magnus is cheerful as he says it. “I used to say, well, I'm a man, I don't do that. My wife told me that was stupid, though, and then she painted my nails. What color do you want?”

He hadn’t known that Magnus had a wife. His eyes stray to his hands, finding one wedding band. There’s another strung around his neck.

Angus ends up picking blue, and then Magnus shows him topcoats and he picks one with glitter. It’s a little cold going on, and it takes a good while. The brush is minute between Magnus’ fingers, but he works with more delicacy than Angus could imagine he’s capable of.

“You gotta let them dry,” Magnus explains, as he has Angus splay one hand out on top of his leg. He lifts his fingers, admiring the way they sparkle. It’s pretty. He’s pretty, and that thought is viscerally pleasing. He thinks of what it would be like to wear that silver bracelet and glimmer all over.

He lets the nail polish dry as instructed, a beat to his heart that is nervous (what would his parents say if they saw?) and excited (who cares?) and guilty (he broke the rules) and ecstatic (he broke the rules!). Even now, he’s not sure if he’s okay with it. With all of it. He’s happy here, Angus thinks. He loves the Director, even as he wonders if everything they’ve done comes from a lie. He loves Davenport and the way he speaks without words, how much he can convey with the glint in his eyes. He loves these three boys and marvels at what they used to be, from stealing his book on a train to this, to sitting down with painted nails, waiting for dinner, a family.

But Angus has a family already. They raised him when he didn’t even belong to them, they gave him a comfortable bed and fancy clothes and sent him to a prestigious school and — and Angus owes them something for that, doesn’t he?

The scent of Taako’s cooking wafts into the room, something spicy and mouth-watering. The elf trounces back to them, his face set in a determined manner, shoulders stiff. His gaze pans over the three of them, and something falters in his expression.

Angus remembers that look. The hesitation, when he’d asked Taako to flavor his macarons.

He lifts his hands and says, “Magnus painted my nails for me, sir.”

Taako snaps out of it. His gaze refocuses on Angus, and then to his nails. He steps forward, taking Angus’ hand, tilting it this way and that under the light. His ear flicks. Angus’ heartbeat jumps, nervous.

“Good color, boychik,” he says, dropping his hand and rumpling his curls. Then Taako snorts as he tugs his hand free. “Gotta get that trimmed, you’re getting crazy split ends. There’s a way to grow out your hair.”

Angus steps back, frowning. “I don’t want to shave it,” he says. This is the first time he’s ever had it this long. He likes to run his fingers through it and pull his curls out to see just how long it’s really grown.

And Taako says, breezy, “I said trim it, Agnes. You gotta cut off the split ends, keep it healthy, otherwise your hair won’t grow right. Now move it, I didn’t make a whole dinner for you chucklefucks to let it get cold.”

He herds them to the table, leaving Angus to toy with his hair as he watches Taako flit about the kitchen. The table is already set, and Taako is placing serving dishes down. Magnus is reaching for the rice before they’re all seated, and when Taako drops into his chair, he’s tense.

Angus isn’t worried, though. He takes the dish from Magnus as the man passes it over, copying the mound of rice set onto his plate. Magnus gives a laugh, says, “Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, Ango.”

All he gets from Angus is a scowl, leaving the man to chuckle as he grabs the next item. Taako had cooked something that reminds Angus of a stew, pieces of potatoes and carrots and beef in a deep red sauce that Magnus spoons over his rice.

The first bite makes Angus’ eyes go wide. It’s hot, but perfectly so. Sweet but burning with spice, the meat is tender, the rice is just soft enough. He’d eaten Taako’s macarons, but this? This is an entire meal. And it’s incredible. The chefs his parents used to hire for handfuls of gold couldn’t compare, because Taako has put more love into his craft than gold could ever buy.

Around the table, he sees it reflected. Magnus is staring at his plate. Merle’s gaze is distant. Both of them have the same awe, but there’s something else in there, too, something deeper.

But Taako is stiff and nervous, his eyes wide as they flick between the three of them. Angus breaks the silence.

“This is amazing, sir,” he breathes, and then immediately digs in for more.

“Didn’t know you could do this,” Merle gawks. He points his fork to Taako, accusing, “You’ve been holding out on us!”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll cook more when you quit holding out on healing,” Taako sniffs. He relaxes as he looks to Magnus. “What about you, Burn Notice? You’ve eaten my cooking before, what’s with that look?”

Magnus is slow to respond. He's still staring down at his plate, and after a beat, he shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says, blinking. “I just — this is the third time now. Your cooking tastes like home.”

Angus watches him. It is good food. It’s very good food, the best he’s had by far. He just doesn’t know why Magnus looks downright misty-eyed as he takes another bite.

Taako eases back at last, reaching to load up his own plate. “Yeah?” He sounds pleased, his ears twitching. “It’s a Taako Original so I don’t know who the hell woulda fed you this.”

“That’s just the thing,” Magnus says. “It doesn’t taste like I’ve had it before. Just. I dunno. I feel happy? It feels… right? Just being able to sit down and eat this food with you guys, it feels like I’ve been missing this.”

The tips of Taako’s ears go red. He ducks his head low, his voice a little off as he mumbles, “Jeezy creezy, Mags, you don’t gotta get sappy about it.”

The moment comes and goes, and they settle back into comfort, Taako and Merle and Magnus and Angus chattering, smiling. The three of them are tired, he realizes, when he muses on how they’re a lot quieter than usual. It’s normally wild gesticulations and pitching voices, he’d have expected at least one broken dish. When he looks them over, he notices Magnus is keeping one hand lax on his thigh, Taako has a cut on the back of his neck, Merle’s voice is slow.

Reclaimer training has always looked intense, but he’s never seen them quite so beaten. It plays at his nerves in an unpleasant manner, wondering just what their last mission is going to hold in store for them.

For now, though, they have a meal to enjoy.

Angus does clear his plate, and grins when Magnus blusters over it. They help with cleanup, letting Taako head back to his room for the night with a distinctive, “Nobody bother me tonight. My payment for dinner will be solitude.” Merle washes, Angus dries, Magnus puts it all away, and they’re done in no time with the leftovers tucked into the fridge.

By all means, it’s time for Angus to head back to his room for the night. He’s reluctant to leave the warmth of this, though. It’s strange, but it’s pleasant, sitting at Magnus’ side and leaning into him while the man works on a new carving and Merle sets about watering his plants. He only wishes he had a book, he wishes Taako were there with them.

And Angus’ stomach drops there. A sigh puffs out of him.

Magnus shifts. “You good?” He asks, one brow cocked.

“Yeah,” Angus sighs.

“Whoof!” Merle’s voice chimes in, loud and offended. “Gods, Mags, you smell that? Smells like —”

“ Bullshit!” The two of them say it together.

Angus sits up, only to yelp as one of Magnus’ arms traps him back against his side. “Spill!” He says.

“Spill what?” Angus struggles to free himself, but he doesn’t even feel Magnus flexing. This is child’s play to him.

“The beans!” Merle chuckles. “If you’re gonna huff and puff like that, you gotta be ready to spill those beans. Better speak fast or Maggie is gonna choke you out.”

Magnus tightens his hold just to prove it, making it hard to breathe. Angus puffs and laughs and smacks a hand against his arm as he goes, “Okay okay okay!”

“You’re gonna tell?” Magnus checks.

“Yes!”

He lets go, and Angus wheezes. He takes a moment to catch his breath, patting his chest. “I just — I was thinking about my magic lessons," Angus says. "I've had a very nice night with everyone, and I — I remembered that we're not doing magic lessons anymore, and it's just a little bit disappointing."

“Did you talk to him yet?” Magnus asks, and Angus sighs.

“No, sir, I — hey!” He yelps as he’s hoisted up by the back of his shirt, legs kicking. “Sir! Magnus! Put me down!”

“Nope!” He can hear the grin in Magnus’ voice as he totes Angus across the common room. “You’re going to talk to him!” He plops Angus down in front of Taako’s door and giving it a heavy knock.

There’s an immediate shuffle inside. Angus stays hunched, but his interest is piqued. That didn’t sound like one pair of feet. The door cracks open, Taako’s irritated face peeking through with a, “What did I —”

“Ango has something to ask you!” Magnus declares, and then gives Angus an obvious wink and a thumbs up before he makes himself scarce.

Taako’s eyes dip down to Angus. His brows raise. “Yeah?”

And Angus feels frozen to the spot. His heart leaps in his throat. “I —” he starts, then gulps. There’s no way he can make such an outrageous demand. Consequences are consequences, Angus is old enough to know how to accept them. “I just, uh.”

“Spit it out.” Taako taps his foot.

And Angus drops his gaze, says it all in a rush, “I just wanted to talk to you about magic lessons.”

Taako is quiet for a moment. Then he groans. “Seriously? Can we do this later? I’m — ugh, never mind, come on in.” He opens the door all the way.

Angus gives him a look, but picks his way inside. The door shuts behind him.

Taako’s room defines organized chaos. The hamper is overflowing, the closet is open, the desks are cluttered. The bed is made, but only lazily, the sheets just thrown back into place. A necklace stand catches his eyes, all glittering gemstones. There's a jewelry box beside it, and Angus could drool thinking about what's inside of there. 

Then he looks back at the closet, and frowns. 

“Alright, what’s going on?” Taako crosses his arms, radiating impatience.

And Angus stumbles over his reply. “Uh,” he starts. His eyes are still fixed on the closet. “Um. Sir?”

“Yeah?”

“Is there someone in your closet?”

Taako blinks. He whips his head around, and finds what Angus is looking at — The arm and leg, finely clothed, that are just visible from behind the open closet door.

“Son of a bitch,” Taako sighs. He pinches his nose. “Yeah, okay. Really, Kravitz? You’re supposed to be some hunter of the night and you’re spotted by an eight year old —”

“— I’m almost eleven —”

“A seven year old.”

“— and age has nothing to do with my perception score.” Angus huffs.

“You’re a literal fuckin’ baby. Which like, kudos to the kid, but the grim fucking reaper can’t even hide in a closet!” Taako throws his hands up. Then, he pauses, and puts them down. “Actually, can’t blame ya for that one, Krav.”

Kravitz is picking his way around Taako’s shoes and back into the room. He looks somewhat abashed, giving Angus a wave that he returns eagerly. A smile is stretching across Angus’ lips. “Oh, right!” Angus chirps. “I forgot Mister Kravitz is your boyfriend now!”

Taako squeaks. Kravitz smiles, though, and the look is just. It’s soft. It’s a little funny, when he remembers the stark irritation on his face the last time he saw them together, but mostly? Angus just feels happy, looking at the two of them. They look right together.

More than expected, actually, Angus realizes. Taako likes to dress pretty, a lot of the time, bright colors and jewelry. Kravitz, by contrast, is pressed and proper, but still so decorated. His ears — half-elf — are pierced with ruby studs that match his eyes, the raven skull bindind his cloak opalescent. His hair is what really catches Angus’ eye, though, dreadlocks clamped with golden bands and jewels, shining and beautiful. He wonders if he can do the same.

“Er, yes, I suppose we are,” Kravitz muses. “How are you doing, Angus? Taako told me you were alright, but. Well, liches don’t often leave good things in their wake.”

“I’m fine, sir. You were the one who, um. What do you call dying when you’re dead?”

Kravitz shrugs. “Depends on the context. Obliterated, immolated, defenestrated. Given the spell that was used, killed should work. My soul was launched back to the Astral Plane, so, that’s basically death. I’m good as new though, as you can see.” And he does a little jig of a dance, tapping his shoes in a circle as he shows off his new body.

Angus laughs. “That’s good! I’m very happy you’re not dead. I mean. Not in the Astral Plane forever.”

Taako snorts. “Gods, you two are fucking nerds.” He strides over to the bed and perches on the end of it. “Seriously, look at yourselves! I’m surrounded by nerds in suits.”

“Birds of a feather?” Kravitz’s lips are twitching upwards.

And Angus full-on grins as he says, “Well, groups of ravens are called murders, right? You’ll always find me near one.”

Kravitz snorts as Taako groans. “That would be crows, actually, ravens are an unkindness, or a conspiracy —”

“Yeah, the kid is all over conspiracies too — no more bird jokes! I’ll kick both of you out I swear to the gods.” Taako covers his ears, a shared chuckle between Angus and Kravitz. The sound makes them look at one another, and then they dissolve into harder laughter while Taako gripes and groans, folding his arms over his face.

“I’m fucking outnumbered,” Taako complains. He sits up, watching the two of them, ears lax. As Angus calms down, grinning so widely his cheeks hurt, he notes the red tinge to Taako’s skin. The elf’s gaze meets his, brown eyes going wide and hurriedly flickering away.

“Anyway, uh, Agnes, what made you break my explicit request for no disturbances?” He rests his jaw on his knuckles.

The warmth is sapped from him immediately. Angus shrinks in on himself, looking between Taako and Kravitz. “Um. I. I told Magnus that there’s no point, but he’s not gonna get off my ass until I talk to you about magic lessons,” he mutters, voice turning into a grumble.

“Oh, yeah?” Taako tips his head to one side. “What about them?”

“Oh that’s right, you did say he’s teaching you,” Kravitz says, and Angus winces. “I have to admit, Taako, you didn’t seem like the teaching type.”

“That’s cause I’m not,” Taako drawls. “I am a simple idiot wizard and a chef, teacher is not in the repertoire.”

Angus says before thinking, “That’s just not true, sir.”

Both men look to him, and Angus falters for a moment before powering through. “I, um, I’m very good at learning things from books, sir. Caleb Cleveland taught me how to be a detective, and a book I found in a perp’s home taught me how to pick locks and be sneaky, but magic wasn’t something I could ever figure out no matter how hard I tried! Everything I can do now, I can do thanks to you, sir, and that’s just the truth.”

Taako is silent. His expression is strange, he won’t meet his eyes. Angus’ stomach twists a little tighter.

“And that’s why,” he says, voice breathy, “that’s why I wanted to ask you if you’ll keep teaching me. I — I’m trying, sir, I really am, but no matter how hard I try I’m just not very good. So please, I know that you said it’s over, and if you say no then that’s just that, but please, sir.”

He can hear Taako’s breath draw in. Kravitz is awkward, not looking at either of them as Taako rubs his temples.

“Angus,” he starts. “That was… a bluff.”

And Angus blinks. “Huh?”

“I was bluffing,” Taako repeats. “I didn’t mean it! I thought you knew that, you still left! Hachi machi , you really thought I was serious about that?”

Angus can’t find his voice all of a sudden, so he just nods. Then he shakes his head, blusters, “But — but we haven’t done anything since then!”

“Because — ugh, okay, I can see how that looked bad.” Taako sighs. “We’re just busy as hell, I think the Director’s trying to kill us. Maybe, like, if we die of exhaustion instead of in the field she doesn’t have to fork up the life insurance? Point is, tonight’s literally the first night I’ve had to myself in ages, and I used it to cook dinner. I’m thinking about it now and literally what the fuck was I thinking, I wasted my night off!”

Angus doesn’t pay much attention. He ambles over to the bed and hops up between Taako and Kravitz, staring down at his knees.

So magic lessons weren’t over. They never had been. He draws in is breath, and finds relief.

“So, what was tonight all about?” Angus finally asks.

And Taako gives a long sigh. He rubs the back of his neck, ears drooping. “Well, uh, long story short? That thing I told you about, where I fucked up and killed my whole audience? Wasn’t my fault. Ch’boi was framed for murder — hey, how’s that? My life’s one of your dumb Connor Whatsit books!”

“Caleb Cleveland,” he corrects, but it’s distant.

He could have figured that out. Framed for murder — that’s such a classic move. Angus could have solved that case months ago.

But he didn’t.

Guilt settles deep in his belly. Here Taako is giving him clothes and food and lessons and Angus does — what? Nothing. He’s useless, ungrateful. He’s doing to Taako the same thing he did to his parents, only this time Angus won’t be able to do him the favor of leaving.

At least, not yet.

Kravitz clears his throat. “Er, should I? Head out?” He asks, miming a swing of his scythe. “It sounds like the two of you have… a bit to talk about —”

“Naw, homie, we’re good,” Taako says, leaning into him. The move pushes Angus into Kravitz’s side as well, trapped between the two of them. “Or is there something else on your brain?”

Angus can’t shake his head, so he pipes up with, “No, that’s — that’s everything! Oh, well, actually —”

“What now?”

“This question is for Kravitz,” Angus says. And then, with a smirk, “Not everything is about you, Taako.”

Kravitz snorts as Taako gives a noise of outrage. “Alright, shoot,” he says. "Though I will say, anything involving the Astral Plane and reapers is confidential." 

"No, it's not about any of that this time," Angus assures him. It’s pretty comfortable, being tucked against him like this, but has to pull away. He squirms out from between the two of them so he can face Kravitz properly and says, “Um, how did you get your hair like that?”

Taako gives an interested hum. Kravitz looks caught for a moment, and then apologetic. “Oh,” he says, toying with one of his locs. “I’m going to be honest with you, Angus, I haven’t actually done my hair in… centuries. After I died, my body became a construct. I can change my appearance at will.”

Angus deflates. “Oh,” he says, soft, disappointed.

“But!” Kravitz says. “I’m sure I just need a little refresher! Just, uh, pop on down to… somewhere. I’ll figure it out. We could even start with braids if you prefer, because what I have takes a while to grow out naturally.”

Angus tries to picture himself with braids. They'd swing around his face, maybe he could even tie them back once his hair is long enough. It's such a polished look, very good for a professional detective. “Can I put stuff in them like you do?”

“Oh fuck yes,” Taako breaks in. “Holy shit, you get your nails painted for one hour and suddenly you’re a fucking fashionista? I’m digging it.”

Angus looks down at his nails, still pleased with how they glitter. “It just feels nice,” he mumbles.

“Hell yeah it does!”

Taako is intent on celebrating, while Kravitz smiles and promises in a softer voice that they can do it soon. And for a little bit, Angus’ worries are gone. They settle back down, Taako and Kravitz laying out on the bed, Angus tucked into Taako’s side, a hand toying with his hair. The movement is soothing, and he finds himself closing his eyes.

He wakes up maybe a few hours later. Lifts his head, finds Taako’s on Kravitz’s chest, his arm still around Angus. His glasses are off.

He lowers his head to go back to sleep.

Chapter Text

Angus thinks he can see the cause of the boys’ exhaustion, now.

He watches them from the Director’s usual observation point, a frown pulling at his lips. Down below, the three of them are in a back-to-back triangle, Taako edged a little closer to Magnus, Merle at the furthest point from both of them. He can see the larger forms of Noelle and Killian, advancing on them from opposite sides.

Carey is out of their line of sight, but within Angus’ view. He can see her perched up in the rafters, balanced on her toes with a dagger in each hand. Her tail is, for once, perfectly still, her ears perked up and forward. Everything in her posture pings as a hunter’s, and it makes his heart thump as he watches her stalk the reclaimers from above.

The Director’s eyes are fixed on them, too. Her mouth twists into a grimace, and Angus glances back to see the source of her ire: Magnus had rushed ahead, clashing with Noelle. In that same instant, Killian hefts her crossbow, an audible snap of the mechanism firing a bolt that looks closer to a spear. It goes over Merle, grazes Taako’s side. Angus’ fingers tighten on his knees as he watches him stagger.

The Director snaps, her voice magically bolstered, “Magnus, you need to defend your team!”

He looks up, mouth moving around a protest they can’t hear. Noelle takes the distraction, clubbing him across the midsection and knocking him to the ground. For the moment, Magnus is stunned, leaving the other two unprotected. Taako’s hand braces his side, and even from a distance, Angus can see the flash of red under his fingers. He shakes his head, flashes his umbrella, and Blinks out of view.

Carey hurls herself out of hiding. She drops, hitting Merle with the full force of her fall, one blade finding a spot under his armor, the other deflected. She’s a smear of blue as she rolls forward, out of the way of a flare of holy fire.

There’s a crash. Angus winces as Magnus rolls out of the way of Noelle’s arm, clanging against the floor as he springs up to his feet. His head whips from side to side, mouth clearly forming a shout: “Taako?” He gets his shield up just in time to catch the next of Noelle’s blows, slamming his axe into the metal of her body, wrenching it out and spinning to hit her again.

Angus steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. “You’re sure you’re not pushing too hard, ma’am?” He asks, voice quiet. Taako blinks back into place, sweeping an arc of three glowing lights above his head with his umbrella, each one beaming a ray of heat. One catches Killian, the other Noelle, Carey flipping clear over the third. Then Taako’s gone again, safe.

“They’re making it harder for themselves,” the Director mutters back. Her eyes don’t leave the scene. Della Reese shimmers into being, her blade sweeping clean across Carey’s form. She staggers against a flash of radiant light. “Noelle and Killian and Carey know how to work as a team.” And as she says this, Noelle switches gears, rotating around Magnus so the dragonborn can scamper to her back.

“And on the other hand, Magnus exposed the most vulnerable of his team, Taako didn’t bother telling them what he’s doing, and Merle’s left to fend for himself.”

Killian gets down on one knee, out of range of Della Reese to take a shot at Merle. This time Magnus reacts — he lurches, knocking the bolt aside with the full metal of his shield, staggering from the impact. He groups back with Merle, getting the dwarf back under his cover as Merle gets his hammer at the ready.

When Taako reappears, it’s midstep, long legs carrying him back in Magnus’ range. Angus doesn’t even see how he gestures to cast, the air around Noelle and Carey just mists over, and then erupts into a hailstorm. Merle pats Taako’s side, a flash of radiance under his fingers to alert them to the healing magic in the touch. The storm batters those caught within it, a mixture of frigid magic and blunt force putting Carey onto her knees, Noelle bracing over her to take the brunt of it. For the moment, they’re incapacitated

Angus looks back at the Director, smiling, expecting to find relief in her face. There’s a knit to her brow, though, a shadow that brings out the lines in her face. He’s always been fond of the crow’s feet that wrinkle at the corner of her eyes, but now they exhaust her.

She lifts her chin, magic amplifying her voice again as she says, “Alright, that’s enough sparring for today. Magnus, I want you and Killian to run defensive drills. Taako, you’ll be practicing evasion with Carey. Merle, you’ll be working on your spellcasting. Noelle, we’ll get to work on repairs for you.”

There’s no warmth in her voice. It’s stern, cold. Angus jolts. She sounds like his parents with that clipped tone to her words, and it leaves something heavy in his stomach.

She gets to her feet, using her staff to support herself. Angus glances back, watching as the reclaimers slink to their new tasks before he hops to his feet and scampers after her.

“Madame Director?” He calls. She doesn’t respond, just keeps striding forward. Frown setting over his mouth, Angus picks up his pace until he can reach the back of her suit jacket and tug.

The Director’s head flicks to the side, her gaze a bit wide. Her eyes find his, and then refocus. “Oh, Angus,” she breathes. “I’m sorry, I’d gotten… lost in thought.”

“I do that a lot.” He dips his head in understanding. “Um, are you feeling okay? To be frank, ma’am, you’re acting very weird.”

Her brows raise. Angus stiffens his resolve, standing up straight as he says, “You’re treating everyone very coldly, Madame Director. Your posture is stiff, and you’re leaning more on your staff than usual. I can only assume that you’re very, deeply concerned about something — all evidence would point to that being the upcoming relic mission. Due to that stress you’re more critical of your employees and generally treating people kind of like shit.”

He holds his breath, watching a myriad of emotions flicker across her face: surprise then irritation then amusement then realization, and finally considering. She studies him for a moment, and then sighs. “I can’t deny any of those claims, can I?”

“I don’t believe so, no.” Angus laughs. “I am very good at what I do.”

She breaks into a faint smile, shaking her head. “You certainly are. I’m very happy you’re on my side, Angus.” She smiles.

Angus feels a twinge of guilt as he grins right back.

“Well, you’re definitely correct about the reason,” she murmurs, shutting her eyes for a moment. Then she resumes walking, her staff clicking against the floor. “I don’t mean to scare you, Angus, but unfortunately the Animus Bell is by far the most dangerous to retrieve. Unfortunately it’s managed to fall into just about the worst possible hands.” She shakes her head, a mumble under her breath that Angus can’t catch.

“Who has it, then?” Angus asks, his interest sharpened to a fine point.

Lucretia hesitates, glancing down at him. Then she says, “I’m not certain. To — to explain, the Animus Bell was the reason I formed the Bureau. I’d managed to safely locate the abjuration relic —”

Angus scans her face. He’s learned the Director’s tells by now. It’s the truth.

“ — but unfortunately, pursuing the Animus Bell lead to… devastating consequences. I was unable to do it on my own. I could only form the Bureau and hope that I would find people with the capability I lacked.” She lets out a breath, shuddering, her hand clenching around her staff. “Of course, Taako and Magnus and Merle are the only ones who can even get near a relic. I have no choice but to send them in.” She shuts her eyes and draws a shaking breath.

“I mean…” Angus purses his lips. It’s been dangerous so far. They've lost an entire town. They've derailed a train. They’ve faced global annihilation. They’ve physically died pursuing the relics — in a note of irony, they’re only still alive because of that same relic.  How much worse could it get?

A pang of fear hits him. Maybe it could get worse. Maybe it could finally cross the point of no return.

He hesitates. Then he says, his voice small, “Do they have to get the bell?”

The Director looks down at him. Then she tips her head back up, gaze fixed ahead and her voice heavy as she says, “We crossed the point of no return a while back, Angus. Destroying the relics is imperative.”

The Director blinks, two, three four times through that sentence.

Lie.

Angus draws in a sharp breath. He looks away, a feeling of sickness rising in his throat. Okay. Okay.

“I’m sorry,” the Director breaks in. She’s watching him, he realizes, and his eyes go wide. Then she says, “I’m sure they’ll be fine, Angus. My experience is just skewing my judgement, I shouldn’t have scared you.”

He ducks his head in a nod, staring at the floor, collecting himself. “They’ll be okay,” he murmurs. “Besides, they can always call me on their stones of farspeech if they need me!”

“That’s true,” the Director says, a breath of a laugh in her voice. “They’re not alone, that’s true. That’ll make all the difference.”

As they walk away, Angus doesn’t miss how she clings to her staff.

The day comes too soon. It’s nearing midsummer as he listens to the Director addressing the reclaimers, detailing what they’ll be confronting for the final relic. He assures them, of course, that he’ll have his stone of farspeech the entire time, if they need help or support.

Anticipation stirs in his gut. He’s going to have one shot at this if when they come back, a piece of chalk in a pouch in his pocket. He’s already gotten the Director’s permission to watch the relic get destroyed, secured by a lie about wanting to see the finale of their good work.

When Taako prompts him, he’s only too eager to show off how his spells are coming along. They haven’t been able to continue magic lessons. Even when Taako forcibly takes a day off from training, guilt claws at Angus’ guts at the idea of making him work through his sparse breaks. They always end up roaming around to go shopping, or get lunch and sit in Neverwinter’s gardens for Taako to watch Angus practice.

The glow of Taako’s praise can’t last, though, the conversation shuffling onwards. He refocuses, listening intently to Magnus’ questions — “And they’ve all be evil?” he asks, about the Red Robe. Robes, plural, even though as far as Angus knows they’ve only ever encountered the one.

He stares at the Director, her gaze leveled with Magnus’ as she says, “Invariably.”

Lie. Angus’ fingers tighten.

The Red Robe isn’t evil, and the Director — does she know it? She does believe he’s dangerous, but not that he’s evil. That they’re evil, all of them? He doesn’t know. But she’s keeping secrets, she’s doing something with the relics that she’s not telling anyone.

Is she evil? Have they been on the wrong side this entire time?

She’s given him a place to stay and freedom. She scolds him when he puts himself at risk — or had she been more worried about him talking to the Red Robe? Finding out the truth? No, that was genuine worry — wasn’t it?

He doesn’t want the Director to be the villain.

When the reclaimers leave, off to run their errands, Angus goes after them. Or, after Taako, he doesn’t know where Magnus has slinked off to, and Merle’s just lounging until it’s time for departure. He catches Taako, though, on the way out of the room he shares with the others.

Angus has to stare at him for a moment. “You have a sword,” he says. And then, “You have Garfield’s sword.”

Taako scoffs. “Naw, boychik, this is all Taako’s now. Traded it fair and square.”

“I doubt that, sir,” Angus tells him, and manages a flash of a grin when Taako laughs. It can’t last, though. What the Director had said about where they were going, about this Wonderland, Angus knows this is a unique danger. It’s one he doesn’t want them to face.

And also? He doesn’t want to face his own struggle alone. He wants someone there. If he can’t trust the Director — then what? If she turns out to be the bad guy, what’s he even going to do?

“Angus?”

He jerks his head up. Taako is scrutinizing him, one eyebrow raising. “What’cha overthinking about?”

The Director is lying. The Red Robe isn’t evil. He doesn’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore.

“Um.” Angus finds, suddenly, that his throat is tight. He speaks softly so he doesn’t croak, “Does anything feel weird about all of this?”

Taako’s ears flick. “We’re on a fake moon base that ninety-nine percent of the population can’t even look at directly.”

He gives a quiet laugh. “I mean, yeah. But, like. Taako, nothing feels wrong? You don’t think we’re… missing something?”

For a moment, Taako’s face goes slack. His eyes are distant. His hand tightens on the grip of his umbrella. Then he snaps out of it, a shake of the head before he goes, “We — we’re doing good things, kiddo, what’s gotten into you? I — you’re just re-reading those detective books again, aren’t you? Real life ain’t full of conspiracies like that.”

Angus stares at him. “Sir, we’re the conspiracy.”

“Ugh — okay, yeah, real life does have conspiracies. But double conspiracies is a bit much, isn’t it?” Taako raised his eyebrows. “Like what — what d’you think is going on?”

And Angus doesn’t have an answer for that. It’s a handful of strings and gut-feelings. He doesn’t even have the truth yet. He doesn’t even know if his theory is correct. He doesn’t know anything.

Angus stares at the ground. Shakes his head. “I — nevermind, sir. I’ve just been feeling a little weird, that’s all. And this is the last relic, so —”

“Mm.” He glances up as Taako makes a noise. The elf is glancing back down at him, something contemplative in his expression. He kneels down, suddenly, putting a hand on top of Angus’ head. “Look, Angus… It’s uh, it’s hard to let go of a good thing. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna be homeless once this gig is up so, uh… we’re gonna figure it out. But right now it’s — it’s time to celebrate! We’re gonna get that shitty bell and we’re gonna get paid and I’ll, I don’t know, show you how to steal jewelry from pretentious stores with magic. How’s that sound?”

Angus huffs out a laugh, smiling. “That sounds perfect.”

He’s on his own for this one, then. By the time Magnus reappears, they’re all in too much of a hurry for Angus to get him alone. He and the Director see them off. And maybe Angus doesn’t know if he can trust what she’s doing, when he looks at her as they’re loading into the cannon, he thinks he sees his same concern reflected in her face.

She cares about them. She does. So he doesn’t know if she’s doing the right thing, but Angus thinks that she can’t be a bad person.

He manages to make it a few hours before he cracks. Angus pulls out his stone. “Sirs?” He calls. “Hello? It’s — it’s your friend, Angus McDonald. Sirs?”

They don’t reply. The Director looks unsurprised, as well as worried. He lets it fall on its chain, fingers squeezing his knees. Then he takes a breath, and reaches to put his hand on top of the Director’s across her desk.

“They’ll be okay,” he assures her.

And the Director’s shock fades, gives way to a smile. “We always are,” she nods.

They wait.

They day rolls by. Suddenly there’s a crackle, just a snatch of someone’s voice, like they’d accidentally bumped the stone, activated its runes for just a second. Both he and the Director bolt upright. Even Davenport, his gaze foggy and distant, perks his ears to alertness.

Angus scrambles for the stone. “Sirs? Sirs, are you there, you’ve been out of—sirs? You’ve, you’ve been offline for a while, are you there?”

They don’t respond. He keeps trying, “Sirs? Taako, Magnus, Merle? Please say something if you can hear me, we need to —”

There’s a crunch, and then the runes go dim. When he tries to call them, first Taako’s, then Magnus’, then, finally, Merle’s, there’s silent.

He looks up, meeting the Director and Davenport’s gazes. “Oh,” he says, and suddenly his voice is fragile, trembling. “That’s not a good thing, is it?”

Night falls. Angus can’t focus on the words in his book. The Director paces, back and forth, raking her fingers through her hair. Davenport’s tail twitches, lashes, he presses at his temples like his head hurts.

There’s nothing.

“I can go down to look for them,” he says, his voice hushed. “Ma’am, I can —”

“No, Angus.” Her voice is hard, final.

He shuts his eyes tight. He thumbs over a rune carved into his stone, the one Taako engraved there, a wink and a, “Just in case of emergencies.” It can reach through any plane, regardless of where he is, regardless of magical wards.

Kravitz doesn’t answer.

Angus wakes up, foggy. He thinks for a moment that it’s Taako, carrying him to bed again. Then he remembers Taako isn’t here.

His eyes slit open. “Mad'm D'rector?” He mumbles, recognizing the shock of white hair even without his glasses.

She hushes him. “It’s alright, Angus. You need to sleep.”

He’s too tired to argue, to even be worried. “Wake me up ‘f they cm’back.”

“I will.”

He’s drifting away before they reach his room.

Waking up on his own time is a disappointment. Angus remembers, immediately, what that means. Taako, Merle, Magnus? They’re still not home. There’s been no news.

Which means —

He doesn’t know what that means. Not yet.

The sky is strange, outside. A storm, he thinks, but there’s no wind, no rain. It’s just dark. The base is quiet, overhung with a sense of foreboding that digs into his bones. The few people who are out and about are lethargic, cast nervous glances to the sky. He hears snatches of conversation — “They’re still not back?” “No one’s seen ‘em.” “Director’s not saying anything.”

There’s a weakness to his limbs that says hunger, but his stomach rebels at the thought. He doubts he could keep water down right now.

What are they going to do, if the Reclaimers are gone? What is he going to —

“Guys, they’re back!” Avi’s call rings out across the quad. “They’re back — they’re — they’re all here!”  Heads perk up. He sees Killian and Carey already moving forward, Noelle splitting off towards the Director’s office.

Angus begins to make his way across the quad, his steps hurried. He watches as Noelle re-emerges, Davenport at her heels, flanked by two guards. He slips into step behind them, determination hardening his relief. This is it.

He doesn’t go to greet him, much as he wants to throw himself at them, wants to sob with relief. Angus hunkers down in the doorway, watching, listening. Taako and Merle, a wooden, humanoid thing. Carey bounding towards them, the excitement in her voice dying away as she comes to a sudden stop, her head turning between them. “Wait,” she says. “Where’s Magnus? What happened to Magnus?”

And Merle fumbles for a moment, Taako murmuring, “He didn’t…”

“He didn’t make it.”

Carey collapses as they go on, but the ground fails to fall out from under Angus’ feet. His heart doesn’t plummet. Tears don’t spring to his eyes. They’re fixed on Taako, on the way he plays with his ear as he speaks.

As he lies.

Angus takes a step back. He needs to get ready. Something is going on, now, something big. Because the Director is lying, and they have the last relic, and he knows beyond a semblance of a doubt, Magnus isn’t dead.

Chapter Text

This is what Angus knows:

Something is happening, and it’s something big. He knows that the Red Robe is not evil. He knows that Magnus is not dead. He knows that Taako and Merle are aware of the second, but not the first. Or maybe they are. There’s a lot he’s uncertain of, now. He knows that this is the last relic. He knows that he is running out of time.

A proper investigation takes the time to nose through each lead, to connect them together and track them to the source. Angus, though, Angus does not have time. Angus has snippets of an argument between Killian and Taako, over a — a mannequin they’d dragged up with them, and where did that fit into this puzzle? He has a handful of limp threads and sneaking suspicions and a few twitches that indicate lies, but where are the truths. Where are the answers.

His hands flex. He has a piece of chalk ready. Davenport is loading the bell into the lead sphere. This is his chance to finally, finally see what really happens. And interestingly enough? Taako seems to have the same thoughts. The elf asks to witness its destruction firsthand, and Angus listens as Davenport shoots him down, his voice regretful but firm. No one is allowed that close, and if the reclaimers are denied, there’s no chance Angus will get that permission. But that’s fine, He needs to start at square one and then work his way forward.

He falls back as Davenport comes out onto the quad, faltering for a moment. And where does Davenport fit into this? Does he know? Or is he just as ignorant as the rest of them, just following orders that he believes are truthful.

Angus lets out a breath. Then he moves to catch up with him. “Davenport,” he calls, the gnome stalling, his tail flagging behind him in an impatient manner. “I’m sorry, sir, I understand everyone wants to take care of this as soon as possible. The Director said I can watch with her as you guys destroy the bell, though! Can I walk with you?”

And Davenport doesn’t even blink. He just smiles, nods his head, a prompting, “Davenport,” to wave him along. Angus falls into step with him, silent as he eyes over the sphere.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, forcing him to stop again.

“Dav enport,” he urges, eyebrows raising.

“I know,” Angus says, apologetic. “But I’m just so curious: what is it about this that blocks the thrall? I know that lead can protect against most magic, but this is pretty strong. It just seems a little anticlimactic that it’s so easily nullified.” And as he speaks, he reaches out to put his hand on the sphere.

Davenport catches his wrist. His eyes are sharp, all of a sudden, a brief peek through the haze that has clouded his vision for so long now. He gives a shake of the head, and Angus pulls back his hand, his heart skipping.

“Sorry, sir,” he mumbles, hanging his head. There’s a beat where Davenport stares him down. And then, with a huff and a flick of the tail, he turns to continue on his way, toting the lead sphere along without seeing the new mark he’d chalked onto its surface.

Angus lets out a breath, and then follows.

The Director is pacing, back and then forth, her head bowed low. She lifts it when Davenport clears his throat, a pause before she refocuses and gives a nod. “The last relic?” She prompts, her voice breathy.

“Davenport!” He confirms. He sets towards the chamber, a heavy door that groans as it opens, for him to set it in its place. Angus strides up to the window, his eyes intent on the process. Some part of him still hopes against hope that what she’d been telling them this whole time really was the truth, they were destroying the relics and nothing was wrong. The weird weather, the dimness of the world — maybe it meant nothing. And maybe things would be okay.

He knew it wouldn’t, though.

Behind them, the door opened again. Two sets of footsteps enter, sounding empty without their third. He doesn’t look, though, he can’t take his eyes off of this for a second.

The Director does break her gaze, though she lingers by the window with him. “Taako, Merle,” she says, Angus listening with only half an ear. “My gods. I’m — I’m so sorry about Magnus.” There’s sadness. There’s regret. He can only choose to believe she means it.

They keep talking, Merle and Taako quickly edging into something tearful. It’s all bullshit, of course, but if the Director knows, she doesn’t call them on it. “Go wait in my office,” she tells them, and they take their leave. There’s a sigh, a sharp breath, and then the process begins.

Beams of light strike the sphere. It’s showy. Bright, flashy. He squints, he wills his vision to shift, blinks hard. He’d been able to see through the Red Robe’s invisibility, so surely he can do it again.

Too quickly, though, it’s over. Davenport retrieves the sphere. They peer inside, the Director giving a breath of relief when they find it empty. “There,” she murmurs. “Angus… are you alright? I’m sure you must be taking this all… very hard…”

Right. He’s supposed to be mourning. It’s too late to start crying, though, so Angus just makes his breath tremble when he draws it in. “I don’t know,” he murmurs. His eyes don’t leave the sphere. A mark. He’s just looking for a little white mark. “I’ve seen a lot of deaths, Madame Director. But I’m not sure what to make of this.”

He meets her eyes, because it’s the truth. And because he’d found what he was looking for — or didn’t, rather. The white mark he’d left is gone. This sphere is not the same one that went inside.

She gives him a feeble smile. “We all process these things differently. Angus. And. And once all this is over, we’ll all be here to support you, and each other. For now, why don’t you go catch up with the boys? I think it would be good if you’re around them right now.” Her eyes dart to the door.

He wants to press her. She wants him out, he wants to see what happens if he lingers. But Taako and Merle have the answers he needs, so he takes the escape. “Thank you, ma’am,” he murmurs.

And she sighs, patting his head. “You can call me Lucretia. Now go on.” And she nudges him towards the door. Ordinarily, that might mean something to him. Now he can’t take it for what it is. He needs to know he can trust her.

He waits for it to shut before he breaks into a run, hoping to recover the ground he’d lost. They definitely wanted to go into her office, and he makes a beeline for it, freeing his wand from his holster as he goes. He hesitates as he reaches for the door handle, then drops his hand and presses his ear to the wood instead. His eyes are shut, ears strained and listening.

And sure enough, he can hear their voices. It’s still just Taako and Merle, no Magnus. There’s a heavy thud and then a whine of pain — Taako. A smile flickers across his lips for the barest of moments.

He waits, listens as there’s a heavy clunk, the sound of hinges. A door being opened. Counts to five before he eases his own just wide enough to slip through. It’s unlocked — those two aren’t taking necessary precautions, then, not even an alarm spell set up to tip them off to when they’ll be followed. Not very well-versed in breaking and entering He loves the reclaimers dearly, but they really make some beginner mistakes.

The boys aren’t in her office any longer, though he can see the side door is open. And here Angus had been expecting some secret compartment behind the painting. Some things really are only in books, it seems.

He creeps for it, keeping his steps quiet and his stance low, ready to slip out of view in a moment’s notice. His hands are nearly on the ground from how he stalks towards the open door. The wide silhouette of Taako’s hat alerts him to their presence, and he watches as the two of them glance around the new area. It’s a hallway, fairly wide but ten times as long. Completely empty, too.

That says trap. And yet Angus isn’t surprised in the least when Taako and Merle step right forward. They drop down from the doorway and immediately collapse, and Angus curses as he rushes forward.

More importantly than the two fallen reclaimers, though, is the enormous bell they’d failed to notice. And three’s the alarm spell. Angus points his wand, a growl of draconic in his throat, silence. The hammer slams into the bell just as a field blooms around it, the area a shade dimmer than the rest without a sound to be heard.

His breath drags out of him. Angus keeps his wand stretched towards it. It’s hard to think and to maintain concentration on this spell at the same time, but he forces his gaze down towards the boys. Merle is making a fuss, now, while Taako seems to just be dead silent, curled in a fetal position. A trickle of cold worry spills over him.

It’s definitely an illusion — Merle’s wailing for his broom while Taako is unresponsive. Two different images, then, tailored to each victim. Will an illusion effect him if he’s aware of it? His concentration is fixed on the silencing spell, no way to spy the magic or find a way to dismiss it. There’s nothing else he can do.

Angus takes a breath and steps down.For a moment, his vision flicker. The floor around his feet, around Taako and Merle, it suddenly blooms into obsidian, an angry gloss reflecting off its surface as fire licks down the walls, towards them, reaching.

Then he blinks, and it’s gone, and he’s just in this hallway and Taako is beginning to stir.

He breathes slow, deep. Watches Taako sit up, a shudder wrack him. He looks over, sees Merle, an audible sigh puffs out of him. And then he places some band on the dwarf’s head, shouts, “It’s a trick, dummy!”

Merle jerks awake. He watches the two of them recover themselves, wondering what it was that they’d seen. Wonders why Taako had been so quiet while Merle screamed. They look at each other. Look at the bell. They turn around, and look at him, with his wand still stretched out towards the bell.

Taako beams. “Hell yeah! Nice magic, little man!”

Angus would have preened under that any other day, glow with pride and happiness. He’d been helpful, he’d been smart, that’s all he ever wanted. But now, there are far more pressing matters, far more sinister forces at work.

“Start talking,” he says. “I —” And he tries something new. He’d stolen a druidic spell before, there was no reason he couldn’t branch further. He didn’t follow any god, not like clerics and paladins, their divinity was beyond the grasp of even dragons. But they weren’t the only ones who could compel the truth. He imbues his voice with magic and will as he says, “I need to know what you know.”

And he feels it. It ripples out from his feet, a ring of enchantment. He’s pulling from deeper magic, now, the silence and the truth. It’s taxing, but he’s done it, and he’s proud.

They start laughing. Angus’ expression stiffens, the intensity of his eyes darkening. “That was adorable,” Taako says, as Merle chuckles, “Nice try kid.”

“He invented Zone of Truth, this guy!”

“I am Mister Zone of Truth!”

And Angus bites back a snarl. Leave it to the adults, they say, and walk into a trap and nearly bust their whole mission, and then laugh at him.

It’s not completely in vain, though, because there’s a third voice, now, rough and a bit distant and even a bit familiar, “ Ay, I'm hiding in this guy’s bag and I'm gettin’ kinda claustrophobic and also I'm not supposed to be up here!”

Taako curses. Angus’ brows creep up as a man just — climbs out of his bag, a space he shouldn’t be able to fit into. He’s a large man, shorter than Magnus but broad, scruffy brown hair on top of his head that looks like it hasn’t had a proper trim in a long, long time, blue eyes behind crooked glasses.

It’s a look he’s seen a few times before: grief. People stop taking care of themselves in the face of it. He’s seen widows with sallow faces and mourners with rumpled clothes and messy homes, breathing shallowly through his mouth so he doesn’t inhale the stench of a man who hasn’t bathed in a week because there’s no one to help him after his best friend passes. It’s a tragic thing, and he sees it lingering in this man.

Angus is distracted from him as Taako sighs, rolling his wrist and splaying a hand out towards him in a grandiose move, “Okay, Ango, you got me. I have to tell the truth. This is Barry, he lives in a bag. What else can I tell you?”

Angus’ eye twitches. He’s still withholding information. “Um, you can start with everything? What — what do you know, what’s going on here? Tell me — tell me now and Taako, I swear, don’t — don’t lie to me.” It’s almost a plea. “I'm the world’s greatest detective, you don’t think I know that something’s up?”

And still Taako tries to play along with his own game, “I can’t lie, you cast Zone of Truth on me!”

“We resisted, though,” says Merle, the first shred of honesty just a mistake.

They bicker for a brief moment before Taako huffs, rubbing his forehead. “So yeah, so we resisted. I was trying to lie, I'm sorry. My partner over here apparently has an internal Zone of Truth that’s always sort of just going for the gusto.”

“I am a holy man,” Merle chips in.

“Yeah, sure,” Taako rolls his eyes. He overrides the dwarf’s next comment, “No, okay. So here’s the deal, um… oh gosh , where to start. The Bureau of Balance is bad, we think? This guy in my bag says they’re bad,” he motions to Barry, though the man is just shaking his head, blinking hard. The illusion spell, right, they should have warned him. He’s thrown it off pretty easily, by the looks of it. “ Um…”

Angus looks him over for a moment. It doesn’t look like he’s lying but — after all of this? He’s not sure what to think. “What happened to Mag — what happened to Magnus, really?” He presses.

“Really?” Taako repeats. Another sigh, seeming to mull it over.

“Mago?” Merle starts. “Oh, no, what’s your name? Ango. I’m gonna cast Zone of Truth. I’m gonna cast it on Taako, and you’ll know he’s telling you the truth and that I'm telling you the truth.”

Taako looks like he’s going to protest for a moment. Then his ears droop. “You know what? Fine. Fine. I’m going to willingly submit to this. Hit me.”

There’s a scent like grass after the rain, a warmth in the soles of his feet. Angus shrugs it off like water sluicing over the shoulders, but he watches Taako, and he catches the divinity behind the elf’s dark eyes when their gazes meet.

There’s a beat of hesitation, but Taako holds his gaze. “Angus,” he says, “I trust you implicitly.” And Angus feels his heart swell.

“And here’s the exact one-hundo-percent truth as we understand it because if anybody can fuckin’ figure out what’s going on, it’s you. So hook me up.”

And Taako does explain. Tries to, at least. He starts with Wonderland, and Angus knows he’s redacting things, but this time he doesn’t press. There’s a catch in the elf’s voice as he speaks. Some mysteries he can wait to solve. But he hears about what the bell did to Magnus, ripping out his soul, possessed by a lich, two more liches . Taako and Merle pulling him back, but into a mannequin instead of his body, the body that was eradicated at the end of the fight. And the Red Robe present, invisible until the very end, guiding them and helping them and telling them that things are not what they seem.

“So I guess, you were right about that one?” Taako says, not sounding happy about it. “I’m still not fucking convinced, by the by, Barold.”

“Look, I have no idea what  — am I wearing a fucking red robe?” He gestures at himself, cotton T-shirt and bluejeans and all. The irritation drops as he staggers and shakes his head. “And can we move this on? I feel sick.”

And Angus blinks. “Wait are you saying, he’s…?” The thought refuses to connect in his brain, an implication without confirmation.

“I — it’s — yeah. Lich goes in, Barold comes out. He’s voidfished to shit now.” Taako raps a knuckle to his forehead. “Oh and get this? We’ve met him before. First relic we ever got, this guy got torched.”

Barry’s head jerks at that, eyes shut. “Fuck. How are you making that noise with your mouth?”

Taako gestures violently at the man, “You see what I mean?”

And Angus gives a smile, lowers his wand. Finally, some answers. Not the whole truth, maybe, but as much of it as they can provide. “Taako, thank you,” he murmurs. “You… I feel like you all have been keeping me at arm’s length for a while, but I promise you, I am — I’m good at this. Let me help.”

He sees their hesitation, and he continues, “I love the Bureau. I love the Director. She’s given me an — an enormous opportunity here, she gave me a — she gave me a home!” That’s what this place is. Who these people are. Home. He’s never had that before, he’s desperate not to let it go. “And s-s-so I don’t think she’s doing anything wrong,” doesn’t want to, at least. “But those spheres that Davenport takes into the relic disposal chamber? Well, they’re not the same spheres that come out.”

He tosses the piece of chalk to their feet, explains what he’d done. His hard evidence, backing their witness accounts, that the Bureau is not what it seems. “I feel like we’re — we don’t have the complete truth of what’s going on here. So if you say that you can find it, let me help you get there.”

“Well,” Merle says, pointing as he speaks, “it’s right down this hall, on the other side of that door.”

“But listen, Angus?” Taako kneels down. “You should know something. If you stick with us, you are… you’re kind of… you’re kind of a bad guy, too. This is not specifically, technically, something we’re supposed to be doing.”

Whatever dredges of anger remained, they vanish now. So that’s why Taako had been lying. Angus smiles, heading for the door as he says, “The ones lookin’ for the truth, well, they’re never the bad guys. I know that from my Caleb Cleveland novels.”

“Precious,” Taako murmurs, and Angus rolls his eyes. He makes his way for the door, giving it a once-over. No traps, just a pinpad.

He’ll let the boys handle that much. Merle pulls out his Nitpicker, and Angus listens to them bicker and Taako laugh as he wanders over to the bell he’d silenced. It was still clanging, nothing having disabled it just yet.

“Excuse me, sir? Uh, Mister Barry?”

The man looks nauseous. Angus winces. “Um, sorry. I know it feels really bad when you first get here. We… hopefully we’ll be able to fix that soon. Are you able to give me a boost? I need to turn off that alarm.”

“Um…” Barry shuts his eyes, holding a hand to his mouth for a brief moment. “Ugh. Sure. Yeah, sure.” He’s hesitant as he lifts Angus onto his shoulders, stiff. “So, uh… what’s a six year old doing… with all this bullshit? Crap. Bullcrap.”

“I’m eleven, sir,” Angus mumbles, reaching up into his own field of silence. “And I’m a detective.” There’s a wire that he tears off, and the hammer goes still. He waits for a bit before dismissing the spell, a breath of relief at not having a section of his brain dedicated to that concentration.

When he’s set back on the ground, Taako’s taken care of the door, his hole-thrower allowing them to pass right through.

They come in to an office. It’s a bit less than what he’d been expecting, but once he looks around, he’s curious. Two open journals, empty but clearly ready to be used. Some holy symbol, a map like the one the Red Robe — the one Barry used to track the relics, all much neater.

A voice fills the room, Angus blinks, turning as he hears Barry start to speak. The voice emanates from a coin, though, and static blares from it, making him wince each time. Taako and Merle are no better off, just grimacing at the coin as it continues to play and short out.

Then there’s a chime. Angus winces as an alarm he hadn’t notice is set off, a deafening sound. It’s braced above a tank, wailing their intrusion.

“Aw, dunk,” Taako says, but walks forward and dips his flask into the tank, his ears flattened against the noise. Merle silences it, the damage already done but at least no longer killing their ears, as they pass around the flask, Taako to Merle, who hands it back, Taako handing it to Angus. He takes a sip, the taste of brine unpleasant, hands it off to Barry to drink as the man dips his own flank in the tank as well.

His vision shifts. Angus blinks hard, stepping back, and stares at the tank. There’s a shape in it, indistinguishable at first, but slowly focusing.

“Angus, do you see this?” Merle prompts. “Your big hero? Lucretia? Has got this tank with you know what in it, right?”

“No, yeah, obviously something is wrong,” he shoots back, stepping closer to the tank again. And his eyes go wide as he finally notices what’s inside. “A baby voidfish!” He smiles, it’s adorable. And curiosity has him tapping the glass, smile broadening as it lefts thin tendrils to meet his finger.

There’s a groan behind him. Loud, pained. He turns, and sees Barry clutching at his skull, the man’s expression twisted in apparent pain. And Taako and Merle have the beginnings of some rising discomfort. There’s a moment of panic in Angus’ gut — poison? But he feels fine. He’s just fine.

“Boys, don’t —” Barry gasps, “— don’t try to remember too fast, it’s — it’s — it’ll take you out. M-Merle, can you do somethin’ about that holy symbol, please, before, before —”

Merle places his hand on his book but — nothing. There’s nothing. And the discomfort in the dwarf’s face turns to a pang of something like fear. Then it steels over and he walks to the strange disc, the Director’s holy symbol, and pulls it down.

Barry is still hunched over, looking exhausted but steady on his feet. Taako’s beginning to stagger, braces himself against a wall. “Boys, don’t put up a fight,” Barry says, waving a hand out, the other still folded over his eyes. “It’s—things are in motion now and we just kinda gotta go with the flow, but. You’re gonna start remembering soon, but just take it slow, please, I'm begging you. You gotta take it slow.”

“What are you talking about?” Angus asks, eyes flickering between the three of them. Something’s happening that he’d not apart of.

And before he can figure out what, the door swings open.