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Chapter Text

"If you're looking to read up on Leithania's economic history, I recommend Remarque."

The booming voice is both unfamiliar and unexpected, and Istina starts, almost dropping the book she's half-pulled off the shelf. Fingers still trailing the leather-bound spine, she turns warily to face the speaker.

If she was surprised before, she is even more surprised now.

The Feline standing at the other end of the aisle is huge. For a moment, he looks more like a wall than a person. Her gaze seems to trail upward for an inordinate amount of time before she finally finds a face to register. When she does, the graying scars criss-crossing one side are particularly eye-catching.

She remembers just in time not to stare, looking away as she utters a simple "I see." 

She's never seen him before, but that's not the strange thing. He might be one of Rhodes's newest operators, or he might be a visitor. She doesn't think she would miss a presence like his, if it had been around for a while.

The strange thing is meeting such a person in the library.

To say he looks out of place would be an understatement. With the spikes and chains (combat gear, she can reasonably assume) adorning every inch of his muscular frame, he would seem more at home in the training room than among books.

Still, Istina knows better than to judge from appearances. He did make the correct assumption, and the subject isn't one she's familiar with herself. Putting her doubt aside for the time being, she begins to search the shelves for the mentioned author.

Remarque, Remarque...

There it is, on a shelf right out of her reach.

She's only just begun to consider how to get up there when a deep shadow falls over her. An arm practically the width of her waist reaches up, and tapering claws gently pry the volume out. She looks up, straight up into faint blue eyes.

"Here," he says with an easy smile, "let me help."

Somewhere, in the back of her mind, it occurs to Istina that his fists are larger than her head.

He offers the book to her. As she takes it, she can't help but notice how small it is in his hand, like a toy—a piece from one of those miniature furniture sets she's seen children playing with.

"Thanks." She says stiffly.

He nods; and, briefly, she catches the amusement dancing across his features. "Happy reading."

Chapter Text

In front of W, Amiya is never entirely sure how to behave.

She knows they share a past, but she doesn't recall much of it. The old reports she's scrolled through, together with her hazy recollections, tell of a shared interest rather than a personal bond. The hand of fate might have moved them along back then; or some things might have simply been so meant to be that they would have happened regardless of anything or anyone's influence.

They were both drawn to the same person.

When Amiya looks through the fragments of memories she retains of W, she usually sees three things. Dancing silver hair, crimson horns, and an almost perpetual sneer. In that sense, W hasn't really changed at all. She hardly looks a day older. Even her fashion sense is the same as it was in the past, startling red against black and gray, deceptively cute frills that belie a venomous personality.

Amiya's the one who's changed.

Even if she's only taken on a few extra centimeters, she's grown taller. Her hair is longer too. She's changed physically, but she's matured even more mentally. A capable leader now stands in the place of the little girl that had peered out from behind the folds of Theresa's dress.

When they meet again, W recognizes her easily.

Long before Amiya even remembers W, the latter calls out in that familiar, mocking tone. "Little Bunny!" And in those brilliant red eyes are the flashes of a past few others remember.

W looks lonely to Amiya.

Most of Rhodes's operators would scoff at the thought. As if that demon (for that's what she calls herself)—that sociopath—could ever feel such emotion. But Amiya's always been able to see what no one else can.

She sees it in the emptiness of W's smiles; and in the rare quiet moments when W stares off into the distance, dazed. Most of all, she sees it whenever she catches W watching her from afar. At those times, W's soul is always a tangle of so many colours and emotions that Amiya doesn't think she could explain it to others even if she tried.

She knows W's never truly looking at her during those times.

She's looking past her, to the ghost of the woman Amiya's come to replace.

Chapter Text

"W." Amiya spoke her name one night, head on her shoulder, their backs against the dormitory wall. "Close your eyes."

The mercenary had been fiddling with a grenade—taking it apart, just to have something to do with her hands—but Amiya's words brought her to a pause. Raising an eyebrow, she turned to look into the small face angled up at her. It was hard to refuse anything when those bright eyes were directed her way, but she made a half-hearted attempt to stall. "Why?"

"You'll know in a bit." The girl smiled shyly. "And hold out your hand too."

Had W ever listened to her colleagues' similar requests, she would have died multiple times over by now. However, for Amiya, she did as instructed. Moments later, the weight of fabric brushed her palm.

"You can open your eyes now."

W did; and when she did, she stared. "What is this?" She asked, almost incredulously. There was a doll sitting on her palm.

A faint flush crossed Amiya's face in the dim lighting. "I asked Miss Bibeak to teach me." She mumbled. "I'm not very good, though..."

W could see that. The needlework was clumsily done, the stitches still evident. It was a rough product that would never grace the shelves of a professional store.

But that hadn't been what'd caught her eye. The doll had a very familiar appearance. Silver hair, a frilly black and red skirt... And then there were the lobster-like attachments on both sides of the lumpy head... As she turned the figure over in her hands, the similarity only became more obvious.

"Is this supposed to be me?" She asked.

"There might, uh, be some resemblance."

Amiya's expression was equal parts embarrassment and amusement. A breathy laugh slipped from her small frame as she shifted upright, away from W's shoulder. "I wanted to make you a charm." She explained. "But even though I tried again and again, this was the best I could manage." She smiled, apologetically. "I'll make you a better one next time."

So it was a present... A present? The king was giving her a present.

"There's no need."

"Huh?"

Amiya blinked in surprise, but W was already reaching for the gun she kept at arm's reach. She seldom used this one, so it was more of a token than anything. Once, twice. She looped the thin chain attached to the top of the doll around the barrel. Once she was satisfied that the doll was securely fastened, she let out a soft hum of approval.

She bared her fangs in a grin. "I like this one."

Chapter Text

"Huh, that's weird... It's still not working."

When the young Kuranta woman in the line ahead of Angelina utters those words for the sixth time, Angelina finally realizes she has to speak up.

The two of them are standing in front of the dormitory's one and only coffee machine, the coffee machine the Kuranta has been fighting a losing battle with for the past five minutes.

Usually, Angelina would be amused; but she's sleep-deprived from a night of chasing after lost letter recipients. In that state, she doesn't have many priorities apart from ingesting enough caffeine to survive her upcoming classes.

She taps the woman on the shoulder, clearing her throat. "Excuse me..."

The Kuranta turns around with a flustered expression.

(Her eyes are so green they're startling. Angelina blinks, and for a moment she has a vision of the forest's depths. She remembers her name now. Meteor, the archer from the woods.)

A weak smile crosses her lips. "You forgot to put the capsule in."

Chapter Text

The door to the activity room hisses open, and boots thump heavily in. Even without looking up from her book, Zima knows who the newcomer is. Leto slams her card down on the table at the same time that she declares, "Let's go to the arcade."

Zima turns the page. "I'm reading." She says. She doesn't even spare the other girl a glance, seemingly absorbed in said activity—until the book is abruptly snatched out of her hands. "Leto." At once, irritated blue eyes snap up to the girl before her. "Return it."

"The Death of Ilyich, the Suspect." Leto reads the title out loud. She stares blankly at the cover for a moment, seemingly processing the sight; before something seems to click, and recognition flashes across her features. "Hey, isn't this the kind of thing Istina likes to read? Could have sworn I saw her holding this exact book a few days ago too."

"I borrowed it from her." Zima says with a roll of her eyes.

"Huh." Leto drawls. Mostly curious, a little thoughtful, she scans the open pages. "It doesn't look like something that'd interest you."

"And what do you know about the stuff I read? If you're done gawking, give it back. Are you itching for a fight?" Zima's patience is quickly running out, but before she can truly snap at the girl, Leto once again slides the card towards her.

"Nuh-uh. Let's go to the arcade." She says.

Zima deadpans. "I told you I'm reading."

"But that's boring. Shura's out on an operation, Gummy's attending some cooking workshop, and Istina's seeing a movie with Her Worship. It's just the two of us left behind, and there's no way I'm leaving the landship in this heat."

"Sounds like a you problem." Zima raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on." The other girl groans.

There is a moment of silence in which the two of them stare each other down. Leto is still holding on to the book in her hand, agitation scrawled in the furrows of her brow, while Zima simply looks unimpressed. And then a slow grin breaks across the former's face. "We can make it a competition," she says, "just like old times.

"What do you think, General Winter? Think you can beat me, or have all those months of sitting around made you lose your fight?"

Chapter Text

Through one of the side doors tucked away in the depths of the library, there is a small open-air space with tables and benches that overlooks a view from the landship's heights. Few people bother to use it due to how out of the way it is; but for that exact reason, Frostleaf finds herself stepping through the entryway on that particular morning. She's greeted with a blast of chilly autumn air; and when she catches sight of the red-hooded figure already seated on one of the benches, her steps instinctively pick up.

"Red." She says, in lieu of greeting.

"You came." The hooded girl blinks. Projekt Red must have been aware of her presence even before the door had opened, but even now, with Frostleaf standing in front of her, she still looks mildly surprised. Her gray-tipped ears are perked up, her tail curling over the dusty ground. "You're early."

The Vulpo shrugs at that. "By a minute." She says. "You're much earlier."

"Red did not want to be late."

"I see." Frostleaf sinks down onto the bench beside her, and as she plops her bag onto the table, she minds the five centimeters rule between them. She'd never thought that her reticent classmate would ask her for help on their algebra assignment, but now that they're sitting side by side, it's starting to seem more and more real. "Hm, so." She considers what the best way to start off would be, only she can't think of much. It's the first time that she's ever had to teach anyone math, of all things. "What questions do you need help on?"

Projekt Red rustles in her jacket for a moment and then wordlessly slides a folded square of paper over. As expected, it's their algebra assignment. When Frostleaf unfolds it, she sees that the front page of multiple choice questions has already been done. She's just about to flip to the back when she takes a closer look. "Hey, Red?" She asks.

"It's the second page." The Lupo helpfully supplies.

"No... Why are the answers all 'C'?"

Projekt Red stares at the paper for a moment. There is a brief silence in which Frostleaf can only wait patiently, wondering at the thoughts going through the other girl's head; then her classmate finally says, "Ifrit said to do that. Are they incorrect?"

"Ah." It makes sense. As the Lupo tilts her head to the side, a question written on her impassive features, Frostleaf can only resign herself with a soft sigh.

It's probably going to be a long session. But then again, she isn't surprised.

Handing Red the stationery she'd prepared in advance, she lays a few blank pieces of paper down on the table. "All right," She says, "let's start from the beginning."

Chapter Text

"I don't understand how you do it." The logistics operator mutters.

It's the aftermath of an ambush during an escort mission, and Kroos sits cross-legged in the shadow of a Rhodes Island caravan as she waits for clean up procedures to end off. Beneath the freshly-applied bandage on her right arm, the graze left by a crossbow bolt has started to sting.

"Do what?" She asks the Zalak man sitting beside her. He has no injuries, but that's only because she'd pulled him out of the way just in time. One wrong step, and they'd both be skewered like meat on a barbeque right around now.

"You're still smiling." He says through gritted teeth.

Kroos just closes her eyes. "It'll hurt less if you laugh about it."

Chapter Text

Utage scares the living daylights out of Kirara.

The latter is once again gaming in a deserted room of the common rest area, having come to test out their newest console on an overdue day off. She's halfway through a vicious boss fight, mashing buttons and chaining combos, when the door slides open with a distinctive hiss. Her encounter with the strange kid from a while ago still lingers in the back of her mind; so, instead of turning around, she focuses on the more pressing issue that is winning the boss fight.

It isn't until the victory cutscene starts playing, and she's paused to catch her breath, that she suddenly realizes her visitor is not, in any way or form, just a curious kid poking about.

Utage asks, "Is that the new Res*dent Ev*l?"

And Kirara practically throws her controller.

Lightning-quick, a manicured hand snatches it from the air.

Utage plops the controller back into Kirara's grip as if it had not just been about to become to weapon of a violent crime, then grins lazily at the other girl. "That was a strong reaction." She says.

"U—Utage." A name from times past flits across Kirara's mind, but she remembers at the last moment that her former classmate has a codename now. Her brow furrows, and her voice takes on an almost petulant whine. "Don't... don't sneak up on me like that!"

"Sorry, sorry." Utage simpers. She does not sound sorry at all. "I thought you heard me come in." Dropping a cushion onto the floor beside Kirara, she then flops down onto it. The Aegir had made absolutely no plans for company; but, as usual, the other girl acts as naturally as if she were always meant to be there.

After a moment or two of unsuccessfully attempting the stink eye, Kirara reluctantly accepts her fate and turns back to the screen. They haven't talked much since reuniting at Rhodes Island, their social circles (more like Kirara's lack of one) and inclinations just naturally keeping them apart. Sitting here like this, however, it almost feels as if they're in middle school again.

It almost feels comfortable.

Just for one afternoon, Kirara supposes she can put up with it.

Chapter Text

Angelina remembers pretending to be a princess as a kid.

She was around five or six when her princess phase hit. The details are fuzzy in her mind now, but what she knows is that she used to love dressing up in puffy pink dresses and toy tiaras. She had stuffed toys that would act as her prince; and when the adventure ended, the prince having successfully rescued his princess, they lived happily ever after in pillow forts.

It wasn't long before she grew out of that phase. Part of growing even a few years older is coming to understand that few girls are actually born princesses. For the most part, the majority of people live incredibly ordinary lives.

Ordinary.

Once upon a time, that word might have bothered Angelina. Just as she grew out of her princess phase, however, she eventually came to accept that word's presence in her life. She was an ordinary girl, with an ordinary background and ordinary aspirations. She would never be anyone particularly special or well-known, but as long as she lived decently and had the simple joys to fill her life, that was just fine.

Really. She wasn't asking for much.

The day of the Incident, it was also a perfectly ordinary morning.

She was in a rush, having left the house a little later than she'd expected; and there was a car coming down the road in the opposite direction.

All it took was one moment of carelessness.

Now, Angelina understands that to be ordinary is a blessing in and of itself.

Chapter Text

It's not often that Gummy wakes before the others.

On that particular morning, the alarm has yet to ring, but already the gray-gold light of dawn is seeping from behind the curtains.

Nestled securely in the pretzel of bodies and limbs that take up the makeshift bed on the floor, Gummy squints sleepily at the clock on the far wall panel; and cracks a small grin when she sees there's another half hour to go.

In half an hour, she'll have to get out of bed and start getting ready for her shift in the cafeteria. Zima has morning training with Operator Nearl. And, Gummy recalls, Istina mentioned something about dropping by the library to return a book.

There's half an hour to go, but for now, she can continue to lie on the bed.

She doesn't think she could get up, even if she wanted to.

On Gummy's right, there's Istina clinging to her arm. The green-haired girl has a slightly-furrowed brow, as if she might be seeing something unpleasant in her dreams; but her breaths come and go in a steady pattern. On Gummy's left, there's Zima half-flung across her chest. Brown hair tickles the younger girl's chin, and a firm arm draped across her torso weighs her down.

Even on the floor, situated in the area between the two actual beds, the three of them take up a little more space than is ideal. It's cramped; and quite frankly, the cuddle pile is rather heavy. As Gummy lets her eyes flutter close again, however, it occurs to her that she wouldn't have it any other way.

One day, the younger girl thinks, before she drifts back to sleep, all of the Self-Governing Group should have a slumber party.

Chapter Text

"Please, Fiammetta? Pretty please?" Lemuen has her hands clasped in front of her chest. Her head is tilted slightly to the side, and wide, innocent eyes peer up from under fluttering eyelashes.

Her pleading face is a weapon of mass destruction, and there is no one in their squad it works on more effectively.

After a few long seconds, Fiammetta groans. "All right."

Lemuen and Mostima immediately high-five, while Andoain's quiet smile grows wider.

The Liberi has no idea what they're so excited about. The sweets café they're standing in front of looks like every other sweets café on this whole long street of sweets cafés. Still, if her squadmates are that insistent on going in...

She supposes a quick break won't kill anyone.

Chapter Text

Enforcer had miscalculated, and he had miscalculated gravely.

When it came to being abruptly dropped off in the middle of the Columbian wilderness, most people would think that the worst part was, well, being dropped off in the middle of the Columbian wilderness.

It was fairly inconvenient, yes, and of all the people to be going on a road trip with, he had never expected it to be this three.

A forced detour could always be framed as a chance to relax, however; and quiet company was better than unwanted company.

No, the worst part was that he had not packed extra instant coffee.

He had never been a big fan of it to begin with, plus good quality instant coffee was expensive. Thus, when he had been informed that the flight would take two days, he had brought exactly enough for two days.

It was currently the third day on their five day drive, a whole day away from the nearest Columbian town, and he could feel the headache throbbing behind his eyes.

As he gazed out of the window, watching stretch after stretch of sand speed by, he pressed his head against the glass window and groaned quietly to himself.

At this point, he didn't care what kind of coffee it was. He just hoped coffee shops existed in the upcoming town.

Chapter Text

Amiya wakes to the sound of the sky crashing down around her.

For one bone-chilling moment, she is back in Chernobog, standing in front of her scattered comrades in a square that feels much too open. The wind is tearing at her face, almost fierce enough to be the edge of a knife; fire lights up nothing but impenetrable clouds overhead; and the smell of ash and ozone is so thick she feels as if she's choking on the air itself.

She stares wildly into the darkness surrounding her until the visions of shattered buildings and dying men fade. Then she realizes belatedly that the indistinct silhouettes a short distance away are that of her closet and desk. She's in her room aboard the Rhodes Island; and she's just processing that fact when another bright flash of light flares through her window's thin curtains. An instant later, a thunderous boom resounds.

Amiya barely realizes how shaken she is, how tightly she's gripping her blanket, until a touch she vaguely registers as human makes contact with her arm, and she almost flies off the bed.

It's only thanks to swift hands seizing hold of her that she maintains her balance.

When she turns, she finds eerily-bright eyes and faintly-reflective silver hair. Right, she'd almost forgotten. Rosmontis is sleeping in her room tonight.

The Feline is concerned, if the way she doesn't let go of Amiya is anything to go by. But she doesn't say anything, opting to wait patiently for Amiya instead. Her silence is a question in and of itself.

The Cautus exhales shakily. "I'm all right, Rosmontis. Just—"

There's another clap of thunder beyond the windows, and her words are drowned in the sound.

This time, she's more awake, so she doesn't startle as badly, but her heart still pounds in her chest. Her breath catches in the back of her throat.

She makes a shaky grab for Rosmontis's hand.

The Feline seems to understand and, in reciprocation, firmly returns the grasp.

Amiya leans forward until her head rests against Rosmontis's shoulder, then she draws a shuddering breath. "I'm—I'll be fine in a bit." She forces out. She doesn't know if she believes that, but for the sake of her sanity, she wants to say it.

Rosmontis hums. "It's okay." With her free hand, she rubs slow circles on Amiya's back. "It's okay." She repeats again. "No one can hurt us here."

Amiya slowly releases her hold on the blanket and leans into the Feline's touch. She lets Rosmontis tug her slowly downwards, until they're once again lying on the bed. This time, she's curled up against the other girl, and she can feel the rise and fall of the other girl's slow breathing. She doesn't think she'll be going back to sleep anytime soon. Considering the amount of work left on her desk, however, she's not too keen on getting up either.

Another thunderclap booms outside. This time, past the thudding of her heart, she hears (feels?) the rumble of Rosmontis humming. She doesn't know what song the other girl is singing, but she holds on to it like a lifeline in the darkness.

At some point, the fierce lightning and thunder die away, and the only thing that remains of the storm is the quiet patter of raindrops on the glass.

Chapter Text

"Is something the matter, Mr. Greene?"

Operator Titanium snapped out of his daze at the sound of his name. "No, not at all." He said quickly. Scrounging through his memory, he reached for the last thing he recalled hearing. "You were saying I need to take an Arts aptitude test?"

"That's right." The HR operator gave him a curious look. "It's stated in your file that you have earth-related Arts. For us to figure out what role you would best be suited for, we need to do a test to ascertain the full range of your abilities. If you're feeling unwell, we can schedule the test for another day?"

"No, no, I'm just fine." Titanium insisted. Truth be told, he had been distracted. But he could not think of a polite way to explain that distraction to the HR operator.

He had been caught fairly off guard. Whatever he'd seen of Rhodes Islands' staff thus far, nothing had quite prepared him for the sight of an almost-seven-feet-tall muscle-bound Feline man sitting behind a desk, doing paperwork with a pen that seemed twig-like in his claws.

As he watched, not quite comprehending how the Feline could possibly fit into the little cubicle across from him, the HR operator expertly tapped something into his terminal. "All right, Mr. Greene." The HR operator smiled. "Please follow that hallway down to the room at the end, and my colleague will take you to the test venue."

Titanium supposed, Rhodes Island truly was a place for the unexpected.

Chapter Text

Rosmontis has a folder in her terminal in which she keeps notes on people. The red-colored notes are for people she's identified as enemies. The orange-colored notes are for people she's keeping an eye on. The blue-colored notes, the largest section, is for people she loves.

Near the top of the screen every time she clicks into the folder, there is a blue note marked with Amiya's name. In it, she keeps all the facts she's learned about Amiya over the years.

Here are just a few:

Amiya's favorite color is blue. She doesn't have a favorite shade. Rather, she likes all of them.

Her favorite time of the day is dawn, specifically 5:30 AM to 6:00 AM. That's the time she typically eats breakfast.

Her ringtone is a clip from a recording of a famous Leithanien violinist. She'd watched him live once, when the Rhodes Island had passed by Leithania, and the Doctor had taken her to see a concert.

She likes warmth better than cold.

She likes plushies large enough to hug and lose herself in.

Oversized jackets are her favourite piece of clothing.

One might wonder why Rosmontis bothers to record such mundane truths about Amiya. When it comes to the little Lord of Rhodes Island, surely there are more important facts, more earth-shattering revelations that would be better worth remembering. It's not like Rosmontis doesn't record those as well, but she always makes sure to jot down the small things.

It's simple, really.

Rosmontis writes these notes to remember Amiya. Not Amiya the leader of Rhodes Island, Amiya the successor of a legacy far too heavy for her slender shoulders, but Amiya the person. Amiya her friend.

In general, people are made more of the mundane than of the extraordinary.

Chapter Text

The first time Anna sees Natalya face to face, it's far from a grandiose meeting.

Count Rostov's eldest daughter and heir, student council president of #4 Secondary School, gazes coldly at Anna from across a dingy classroom. Even with the lack of lighting, it's not hard to see that the noble is in a ragged state.

Her uniform, which Anna knows must once have been white and pristine, is stained with dirt and mud, tattered in various places from scraping roughly against gravel. Thick, coppery blood mats her unkempt white hair, crusts down the side of her face, and dries languidly on her fingers.

So much for nobility. So much for grandeur.

Still, the girl's mismatched eyes are unwavering. They hold the same haughtiness they must have held since her birth. Tenseness in the lines of her face, along with the quivering of her shoulders, betray her fear. But the eyes scream that she has not come so far as to beg a commoner for mercy.

"What do you think, Anna?" Sonya's voice is rough but unsteady, as if the words are sticking in the back of her throat, and she has to choke them out. Her head is lowered. General Winter lets the shadows fall across her face, looking anywhere but into Anna's eyes.

Rada and Rosalind are silent, also waiting for Anna's response. Both of them have already made their opinions known. Sonya is their leader, but they're both aware that whatever Anna says will likely sway the final decision.

Rada's eyes are wide and pleading.

Anna casts another glance at Natalya. Personally, she agrees with Rosalind. She's not so magnanimous that she would welcome a noble with wide-open arms. Not after everything the nobility have done. Not after the plundering and the hoarding and the killing. As a Rostov, Natalya symbolizes everything Anna has come to hate in nobles.

But what is the alternative?

Killing Natalya won't change anything, neither will torturing her. It won't bring her classmates back. It won't restore the state of the school, and it won't reverse any of the cruelty that has taken place. Most importantly, it won't change what Anna has—what Anna has already—

Stop it, she tells herself. She's curled her hands into white-knuckled fists without realizing it.

"Let her join us." She forces out. "We might be able to make use of her knowledge."

Rosalind throws her hands up with a splutter of protest.

"All right." Sonya says brusquely. It's hard to read the expression on her face. Relief? Disappointment? Anna can only make out exhaustion. There's a flicker of some other emotion, but it's gone just as quickly as it appears. Turning on her heel, Sonya strides over to Natalya.

Rada breathes a sigh of relief, before wrapping her arms around Anna. A half-wince, half-smile crosses the latter's face. She almost wants to tell Rada that she's using too much force, but she swallows the words at the last moment and returns the hug with one arm.

In truth, Anna can guess why Sonya chose to save Natalya. Unless Anna asks (and Sonya doesn't look like she's in the mood to talk), she'll never know where Sonya went last night, or how the brunette managed to sling a squirming, struggling girl over her shoulder to carry her back. But they know each other well enough by now that certain things don't need to be conveyed through words.

The blood on their hands will last them a lifetime.