Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Viole was quiet. This was something Jinsung had convinced himself he was prepared for—at the very least, he and Hwaryun knew it was bound to happen. There was only so much you could lose before convincing yourself talking wasn’t worth it. Jinsung didn’t blame him—nor did he necessarily try to poke the boy into speaking more, but his silence was noticeable and Jinsung wasn’t sure what to do about it. Especially recently—Viole was rarely saying a word during their training sessions, simply going through the motions, displaying his frustration in the form of angered gasps and harsh movements—then they’d take their break, and he would just… disappear. Not physically, he'd sit down, hang his head down low, and just be silent.

               Jinsung didn’t know what to do about it. He was under strict rules to train Viole, not grow all buddy-buddy with him—but that was the thing, Jinsung already had. When he looked at Viole, he did not see an assassin—a king killer, a to-be destroyer of all structure and balance or whatever FUG wanted him to be, all Jinsung saw was a child. A child that had been betrayed by his closest friend, had been taking in by strangers—had worked himself bruised and bloodied with death hanging over his head. There was no joy to be found there, and Jinsung did not want to take whatever he had left—and that put him in quite a peculiar position. He could figure out the source of Viole’s problem, or, he could just let Viole sit and fester in it. Grow, change, adapt, like the Elders wanted him to do.

               He didn’t want to admit which path he was leaning toward, but it was undeniable when he sat directly beside Viole for lunch—not taking his usual spot a few feet away. He had slid Viole’s food in front of him and, somehow, Viole was even quieter. The only noise he had made today was when Jinsung had gotten him right in the bend of his ribs, the hit ricocheting hard and leaving Viole a coughing mess. Jinsung had to avert his eyes when he saw a dribble of blood.

               He was quiet when picking at his lunch, too. Curiously running his finger across the bread of the sandwich Jinsung had brought him and ripping off piece after piece. Jinsung wasn’t sure if that meant Viole hated it or not—and honestly, he wasn’t feeling particularly inclined to ask. Instead, he just mustered up the will to ask a different question, leaving his own meal untouched in front of him as Viole continued nibbling through his. Apparently, he had been staring for too long because he didn’t ask the question first.

               “Are you alright, Mr. Jinsung?” Viole’s voice was fragile, suspended in the silence between them. Jinsung paused for only a moment, blinking emptily at Viole until understanding grew. He lifted his hand, waving Viole’s concerns off.

               “Right, sorry. I’m fine. I just had a question I wanted to ask you.” Viole set his sandwich down, careful not to wipe his hands on his clothes as he rested his palms on his knees. He looked at Jinsung expectantly.

               “Yes?”

               Jinsung tried not to frown, but his expression shifted either way when he asked—mirroring Viole’s delicate tone from before.

               “Are you alright, Viole?” Viole visibly paused, and Jinsung let himself freeze too. The silence grew heavier, Viole’s fingers twitching as he thought. Then, slowly, his mouth opened.

               “Yes.” He looked away. Jinsung’s frown deepened.

               “I don’t believe that, kid.” Viole’s second glance his direction was deeply unamused.

               “It’s the truth. I’m fine.” The words were forced out, and the barely visible furrow in Viole’s brows was just further proof of that.

               “Look, Viole,” Jinsung turned, facing him. Viole copied the movement. If it had been anyone else, maybe it would have felt more challenging—but Viole was a boy that gave the whole of his attention, and Jinsung knew it would be best for him to properly appreciate it. “I get it. I do. You don’t like it here.” Viole made a soft sound, and Jinsung leaned forward. “You don’t like it here. That’s fine—you and I both know you can’t go anywhere, so,” Jinsung splayed both of his hands out in front of him. “Let’s make it more tolerable. Are you alright?” He asked it one more time, watching as Viole stared blearily at him—expression downcast.

               “I don’t like it.”

               “Like what?” If he said everything, then there was nothing Jinsung could do—but if it was more specific, just maybe—.

               “Being called slayer.” Viole’s voice was nearly silent. “It’s an ugly word. I don’t like it.”

               Jinsung’s hands fell.

               Silence dropped right after, weighing over them like a blanket as Jinsung fought to find the right words. There as nothing that could be done about that—that would be Viole’s legacy. He would be the slayer—Jue Viole Grace, the most terrifying man in the Tower. It was a necessity for his future.

               But he didn’t like it, and so, Jinsung didn’t like it much either. So, what could they do?

               Jinsung took a long moment to think before opening his mouth again, one hand lifting to clamp heavy on Viole’s shoulder.

               “You’re going to be known as a slayer, whether you like it or not.” Viole flinched, but he nodded—not leaning away from the contact, but not leaning into it either. “But,” and Viole stilled, “You aren’t just the Slayer. There’s something else you have to be before that. Know what that is?” Viole glanced from Jinsung’s hand to his face.

               “…No?”

               “A student.” and Jinsung offered a small smile, wishing for a cigarette between his lips. “Before you become any type of slayer, or any kind of God, you have to be my student first. Isn’t that right?” Viole stared at him, eyes as big as saucers.

               “Your… student?”

               “That’s what you are, right? You’re my student, through and through. The rest of FUG doesn’t even have a hand in here—or a say in what I teach you, just that you get taught. So you’re just my student, a discipline, whatever word you want to use.” Viole was silent as he processed, a distant look in his eyes. Maybe he was remembering someone else—something else, who really knows, but he came back to it eventually, eyes flicking back to Jinsung.

               His hair was getting long. Jinsung would need to start bringing hair ties.

               He smiled—a brief thing, barely even an upturn of the lips, but Jinsung would take what he could get—and this was considerable progress compared to the past couple of days.

               “Is that better?” Viole nodded instantly, the hesitation that had been haunting him wiped clean.

               “Yes. Thank you, Master.”

               Jinsung grinned something large and encompassing, muscles he’d well forgotten about shifting in his cheeks. He squeezed Viole’s shoulder, shaking him in the process.

               “Sure, kid. Now keep on eating, I want to see your progress with the stone doll.”

               Viole was quick to oblige and Jinsung followed suit shortly, smiling all the while.

               It was nice to have another student.

Chapter Text

Yura doesn’t know if she’d call herself particularly jealous—or even if she’d say she’s vain. Others certainly would, as that’s what happens when you’re an idol, but personally she would never use such words for herself. Selfish? Maybe. Driven? Oh, most definitely—but jealousy doesn’t come to mind. She has things she desires, sure, but far more desire what she has—too many to count. Therefore, what is there to be jealous of? And yet, despite this, she has felt something growing under her skin. She doesn’t know what it is, or what she’d call it, but the very stars that supposedly light up the sky have been making her blood curdle.

               It’s been a slow growing process. She isn’t sure what started it, but she knew where she was when it began. Sitting beside Rachel, watching her slide her fingers across the lighthouse. She wasn’t doing anything, just lost in thought, and Yura wasn’t doing anything either. She was just watching. As she watched, she spied the way Rachel’s fingers curved and drew along the screen—the rough outline of a star appearing beneath the pad of her finger as she swiped it up, then down—left, right, down again. It was like she had memorized the motions of it, and Yura was entranced just watching. Then Rachel sighed, glanced up at the ceiling, and stated she had trouble waiting. She was growing impatient for her dream—and Yura had frowned. She wasn’t angry with Rachel, no, but there was something else there—an irritating buzz in her ears as Rachel went back to tracing her stars. Yura had barely forced out a reassurance, opting for staring at her knees instead of at Rachel’s hands.

               The second instance was during a meeting. It had gone fine, everything was going according to plan, but Rachel made a comment in the last stretch about the stars, how they were getting closer, how Rachel was pleased to take them all up with her. Something in Yura had screamed, But I’m a star too, aren’t I? And Yura, for all her self-confidence, had retreated to her room for the night—spending it in isolation.

               It had only erupted from there. After every meeting, Yura had to go out for air. It was worse in the train, when there was no air to be found, and Yura could only sit there with her hands resting on her knees and her head aching harder than it ever had before. Again, Yura had never truly been jealous—she’s just had dreams. This felt different. This wasn’t desire for a different life, it wasn’t the usual longing for less fame, and less concerts, and less eyes—this was a yearning for something else entirely. A want for a person, not a crowd—and not a break. It was wanting eyes on her, but a specific pair—the ones always cast to the sky.

               Once she had realized what it was, she was… embarrassed. It’s one thing to be embarrassed by a person, or perhaps a reputation—or, really, anything but the stars. They didn’t do anything but glow, and Yura had always glowed just like them, and yet, despite that, she was not enough. She was not the star that Rachel wanted.

               Apparently, this had a greater impact on her than she was expecting.

               It wasn’t until after a meeting that Yura recognized her avoidance wasn’t as discreet as she believed. She was laying in her bed, eyes cast to the ceiling—and she had been resting there for the past hour. She hadn’t gone to dinner, she just left, and sat, and eventually rested her head to the pillow and stayed. There was a knock at her door, and she had replied with little hesitation.

               “Come in.”

               The door swung open, and Rachel stepped through, letting it click shut behind her. Her hair was down, spilling across her shoulders and freshly wet. She walked to the side of the bed and sat, not asking, and simply stared at Yura for a moment.

               “Feeling okay?” Yura pushed herself up onto her elbows, ignoring how Rachel angled closer.

               “Yeah,” Yura kept her words polite, smiling along with them. “Just tired—thought I’d eat later after resting.”

               “The food will be cold.”

               “That’s fine. I can heat it up.” She shrugged—normally she wasn’t one for leftovers, but extenuating circumstances had their changes. “Do you need anything?”

               “Not really,” Rachel adjusted how she was sitting. Apparently, she had no intention of standing anytime soon. “I have a question, though. Kind of part of what I asked earlier.” Yura squinted, but she nodded.

               “Shoot.”

               “Will you still climb the tower with me?”

               Yura buffered.

               She blinked at Rachel with an expression somewhere between astonishment and disbelief. She pushed herself up off her elbows, sitting up fully as she shifted closer to Rachel.

               “Yeah? Why wouldn’t I? I left everything for this, I’m in for the long haul.” Now it was Rachel’s turn to blink, and Yura couldn’t read the emotion that flashed through her eyes. Either way, it must have been good, because a relieved kind of smile spread across her face. Yura returned it instinctively.

               “Oh, good. I almost thought you were getting disinterested, or something. I’m glad to hear it, though.”

               Yura attempted to bite her tongue, but curiosity bested her once again.

               “Really?” She wasn’t sure why she wanted clarification—she had never bothered for attention before, but this was something new. A different kind of case.

               “Of course,” Rachel’s smile widened. “I’ve come up so far with you now—you’re indispensable. I don’t want you going anywhere.”

               Indispensable.

               If there was one thing Rachel never did, it was ally herself with those she couldn’t eventually rid herself of. Yura grinned, leaning closer and bumping her shoulder to hers.

               “Well, I get free lunch, free company—and about a million less ‘adoring’ fans when I’m here—so there’s no reason for me to leave.” Rachel laughed, getting to her feet in one clean motion.

               “Right, because that’s why you’re here.” Yura bit back a giggle, nodding solemnly.

               “I’m willing to do anything.” There was another flash of a smile as Rachel reached for the doorknob—clearly intending to leave Yura to do her so called ‘relaxing’. She took the opportunity, leaning back and setting her head back against the pillow.

               The door creaked open.

               “Rachel,” Rachel turned at the sound of Yura’s voice, glancing back into the room. “I’m going to get you to the stars.”

               Rachel’s smile was softer, now. Tinted with something Yura couldn’t name.

               “Just so long as you come with.” And then the door closed.

               Yura’s smile overtook her entire expression.

               On the other side of the door, Rachel flushed.

Chapter Text

Evan thinks there should be a rulebook for the position of ‘guide’. As a silver dwarf, it was fate—but hell if he had proper guidance, particularly with the person he ended up guiding. Becoming chief guide for the Jahad family was an astounding accomplishment in his life—but that didn’t change the fact that, well, his partner spent most her time off the rails and the rest of it fighting with him so again, a rulebook would be a good idea. Some kind of pamphlet. You want to spend your life helping someone achieve their fate? Sure, but here are a few warnings! He didn’t have that. If he wrote one himself, though, it would look a little like this.

• Rule Number One:

Despite ‘guide’ being your whole shtick, people will believe you are wrong. This is an inevitable fact, and one you had better just accept. You can fight, and fight, and fight some more—but people, no matter what, will look destiny in the eyes and say ‘no’. Sometimes, you just have to accept that could be destiny itself, and you have to go with it. It’ll be the most infuriating thing in the world, but generally, it can come out alright in the end.

• Rule Number Two:

Yes, your partner is your partner. No, unfortunately this does not mean they will listen to you. Take this from a man whose partner is a princess, and a stubborn one at that—you might know significantly more, but that doesn’t mean they will listen to you. Or that they will even work with you. In fact, chances are your partner might just walk off without you, leaving you to follow behind even though YOU are the guide. Then maybe they’ll get mad at you for falling behind and tell you that clearly, you aren’t a very good guide. You will have to endure this depending on your partner, so you might as well prepare. In full honesty here, any person that gets a guide will be a handful. The chances of being spared are dismally low.

• Rule Number Three:

Chances are, you are going to be putting your life in danger constantly. There will not be a moment spared where you genuinely believe you can sit back and relax. Maybe that’s just because of who my partner is, but again—fate has its way of chasing down any person that tries to fight, follow, trace it. You will go into every situation knowing the pathways, knowing what’s feasible—and truthfully, depending on what kind of guide you are, you’ll even know your death. Maybe that’ll be a comfort, maybe it’ll make everything worse. Either way, you’ve got to deal with it. So, my advice here, get better. Always get better. I’m not big on fighting, so I stick to the small things—but I can hold my own, and that’s what matters most.

• Rule Number Four:

You aren’t going to be paid. You’ll be stuck with someone and expected to deal with them for free. You won’t get monetary compensation, believe me, I have tried.

• Rule Number Five:

This is the most important part, so read closely and make sure you don’t miss a word. This is a partnership. You do everything you can when you’re a guide—because that is what you are. You aren’t in control, you aren’t meant to be any kind of boss or fucked up director—you are a guide. Your partner is your responsibility, and you need to make sure you get them as far as they can go. You can try to be as high and mighty as you want, but the brutal truth is that you are meant to work together. Through every gritty situation, and no matter the arguments, you stick with your partner, and they stick with you. Have your disputes, go your separate ways, but you that you will be together for every dire situation, and your life is in their hands as much as theirs is in yours. Take care of them. Watch them. Make sure that whatever they want to achieve, wherever they are entrusting you to get them to—you help them get there. That is your duty as a guide, and it doesn’t matter what kind of guide you are. You are to be loyal to each other, and if you are, you won’t regret it. It is a partnership. It always will be.

               Yeah. Evan would say something like that, with extra emphasis on the last point. Enough emphasis to really drive it home. He’d love to get the rules printed, or something—but for now, he has to tuck those thoughts away and focus on what really matters.

               Finding wherever the hell Ha Yuri Jahad disappeared to and give her a piece of his mind.

Chapter Text

               Hatz has a family.

               Had. Has. He isn’t sure which one to use anymore, but they’re out there. Probably.

               There isn’t—wasn’t? Anything particularly special about them. He had younger siblings and a potter for a father. They were not known for anything, and their home was tucked away into the countryside, meant for them and them alone. They worked on their own schedule, his father molding clay deep into the night and Hatz left with the task of tucking his siblings in and preparing them for the next day. They split the work evenly, or as evenly as possible—Hatz doing everything he could to hold his own. He would help weed the gardens, he would help prepare the dinners, and he would keep his mouth shut when his salt usage was met with quippy little comments. On the days where the sun was particularly high in the sky, his family would leave the confines of their home and venture into the light. When they did, Hatz would have a sword in his hands—one of true furnished steel—and his siblings would get their own wooden sticks. They would shriek and laugh while tousling with each other, wood clanking against wood as pieces would splinter and scatter across the grass. Hatz would pick it up later, surely. But that would be later.

               As they played, he would face his father. His father, despite being a potter—despite being a man content with living in the fields and nothing more—was a fighter. He had a ferocity to him, a pattern to his steps that had Hatz whirling as he attempted to combat him—their swords striking one after the other, metal striking against metal ringing through the air. It was something of a dance that could only be taught through blood, a twirl of a hilt and a slide of the left foot that was spurned by genetics and familiarity. They harnessed the ability to copy each other—then parry, then step, then strike, and each time it was a smooth rhythm.

               Hatz always lost, but he left the spar with something festering in his chest and sweat dripping down the back of his neck. It was an inevitable success despite his supposed failures, and he reveled in the weakness of his limbs. It was a continuous cycle, and one he did not mind.

               Maybe, someday, someone would jab at his life. Someone would look at his family and say ha, fool, you are nothing but a country boy. In their face, Hatz will stay resilient. He will not deny it, nor will he allow himself to be embarrassed. He is both warrior and farmer—and it is better to be a warrior on a farm than a farmer in a war. He learned that from his father, and better than either is being both. He was not from a grand family. His father had never left a staple in the world—he was simply a boy with two siblings and chores to do each morning. Simple.

               When Headon appeared—that promise in his smile—Hatz truly was not sure how to feel. He was not weak, nor was he a coward, but he loved his family. He liked his life and he liked being that simple country boy.

               But, also, he had been trained for this. He had been honed. He knew how the crevices of his sword hilt dug into his skin because he had it ingrained into his system. He knew, deeply, now the world turned around him each time he swung his blade through the air. He knew what it was like to have adrenaline pump through your veins. He knew.

               He was trained for this.

               He left his family.

               He left routine, and he left the comfort of his countryside—he turned away from tucking in his siblings, he left the sunny practice sessions behind—he walked toward danger. As he entered the Tower, he crept closer to his eventual doom—be it thousands of years later, or just a few. He had his swords in hand, he had his talent tucked neatly in his chest—that thing that had been flourishing for years. He was more than prepared, and yet, as he entered the first floor, something about it felt horribly out of place.

               He left them.

               He clashed with a girl that was up to his skill, likely better, and he came across a man older than him with no sense of preservation—but he had intelligent eyes. There was a distinct member of one of the ten families, a man who could never wake, and a peculiar boy with eyes gold as coins, round as saucers. There was wonder to be found in a weapon that had no limits—one that could whip around a room—he could see in colors how loyalties sway. How betrayal could be as easy as a chalk circle sketched into the ground.

               He saw it all.

               With each one, he remembered his family. He remembered peace, and his father’s honor—and then, his own honor. The one he held close to his heart, closer than his blades. His father was gone now, but what he had planted in Hatz’s chest had not left.

               Still, though. Sometimes, Hatz sits in his room, and he runs his cloth along the edge of his blade, and he stares at it with quiet regret. When he loses his sword, he cleans the metal pipe—and as he is left on his own, with his friends out doing something he’s never sure about—he remembers his family.

               He remembers he can't return.

Chapter Text

               Banquets had become more commonplace ever since Bam had taken on the name ‘Viole’. After the fiasco that was the name hunt station, his team tried harder to avoid pulling the identity back into use. Khun and Rak were always the hardest refusals, shutting down any plan that involved Bam putting that god forsaken wig on again. Usually, it was fine—people knew him as both Bam and Viole, regardless of the wig—but things got bad when they reached more isolated floors. People didn’t know that Bam’s appearance had changed—they knew him by the cloaks, by the hair, by the stance and the FUG symbols scattered across his legs.

               When they reached a floor inhabiting people who, literally, lived under a massive rock—Bam had a feeling he knew how it would go.

               He, Khun, and Rak had all been summoned into the meeting room. Their company for this little escapade was none other than Hwaryun, Shibisu, Hatz, and the forever following Anaak. Endorsi was, apparently, meant to arrive shortly as well. Whether she was going to bring Yuri or not was unknown, but no one was counting on it. A little place like this would go rabid with a ranker princess visiting. The plan was simple—surprisingly barebones for the mission at hand. They had to—what, steal something? It was another mission, this one given by Jinsung Ha. He has said something along the lines of how this was supposed to prove to him they would all work together well—that his little prodigy was truly in good hands. Bam knew there had to be something more, but Hwaryun only smiled at him when he tried to signal with his eyebrows.

               The real problem arose when Shibisu clasped his hands in front of himself, as if bracing. Khun immediately shifted in his seat, uncrossing his legs to lean forward. Bam knew something was about to be said that Khun didn’t like—and if Bam had to guess, he wouldn’t like it either.

               “Okay, Bam, hear us out here.” Shibisu set it out gently, slowly unfurling his hands as if preparing to placate them both. “We’re going to need Viole for th—”

               “No.” Khun cut him off, leaning back in the chair. He cut his hand through the air with finality, his smile hard and cruel. “That’s not happening, and you know it’s not. Don’t even try. We’ve left that far behind us.” Bam hovered awkwardly behind his shoulder, biting back a frown. Shibisu flailed, hands immediately falling as he stepped closer.

               “Khun, my love, I’m being serious here. We won’t be able to do this without Viole, and I know you both dislike it but—”

               “Of course we’ll be able to do it. Are you forgetting who you’re working with?” Khun replied hotly, recrossing his legs. “The idea we can’t find a way is shallow and boring, come on.”

               “Khun,” Shibisu repeated through gritted teeth, “yes, we could find another way, but chances are—it would take so much longer. I misspoke. This is the best course of action. Not the only one. It would make our lives so much easier,” he pressed a hand to his mouth. “My love.” He added, like that helped. Khun put his hands up like he’d won, smiling brilliantly, and turning the full force of it over to Bam.

               “See? He agrees. It’s possible, so we don’t have to worry.” Bam returned the smile weakly, and Khun’s diminished like he knew. He cocked his head curiously, and Bam took that moment to speak.

               “Mr. Shibisu,” Shibisu was quick to look directly at him, focused with an undivided attention. Bam smiled again. “Why is me being Viole so important?” When Shibisu smiled, it was subdued—sad. He clasped his hands together once more, leaning against the table to his side.

               “It gets us into the party.”

               “The party?” Khun and Bam both echoed.

               “Yeah. The whole thing with the weapon Jinsung wants us to grab is that its part of an auction. If we want to get there before the auction starts, then we go to the party scheduled to begin the night before. It’s this whole banquet celebrating the Floors success, or something. It’s a popular gig that pulls in a lot of people—it’s the only way this place gets any news. You being there means we get tickets. You being there means we get a free way in, and we can break the damn thing out. That, and Viole would be the perfect distraction. You’d be busy dealing with the crowd, but it would take the brunt off the rest of us. We could do our thing—maybe even, in the process, prove to Jinsung that we’re capable with you as a back-up plan too. Our secret weapon—that’s right in plain view.”

               Bam glanced over at Khun. He was frowning intensely, a wrinkle in his forehead. That meant the plan was good—and not only that, quick. He looked displeased and calculative. Bam sighed.

               “Okay.” Both Shibisu and Khun startled. Rak, who had been sitting to the side grumpily, was quick to grab onto Bam’s sleeve.

               “Black turtle, don’t be stupid! You don’t want to!” Bam rested his hand against Rak’s, patting it gently.

               “It’s going to be one night, and it’ll be more beneficial for us to do it. It’s better for everyone.”

               “But not you,” Khun said, curtly. Bam shrugged.

               “I’ll be fine. I’m used to it.”

               Khun’s frown grew more intense, but he huffed a sigh and stood. He shot Rak a look, and Rak looked similarly upset. Still, neither of them saying a word. Then, Khun got to his feet, gesturing for Shibisu to follow him. Shibisu did so very hesitantly. Then, Khun cut a sharp look across the room. He stared at Hatz for a moment, looking him up and down, then addressed Hwaryun directly.

               “Everyone is going to need new wardrobes. Can you help them find proper dress?” Hatz sputtered and Hwaryun was quick to smile, holding her hand out to Bam with a quiet, my God? Jinsung surely had something packed for him. He followed her without complaint, watching Khun disappear into the other room. he had to fight back biting his lip, willing—maybe hoping—for the best.

               Bam knew the whole thing was going to be fancy, but he had hoped it wouldn’t call for the whole outfit. Jinsung had, indeed, packed something for him to wear—a sharp suit, pressed from head to toe, tailored specifically to his measurements. He had a decorated band to wrap around his (new) fake hair, a FUG pin to place on his lapel, and glossy shoes equipped with a hardened sole, surely meant for fighting. He also had his choice of jewelry, but decided anything greater than a single ring would be too excessive. He felt too done up, his hair without tangles and bangs once more covering his eyes. After he had left FUG behind, he thought he had left all of this behind too. Apparently not.

               He was also, of course, the last one left at their temporary apartment. Rak and Hwaryun were going to be his escorts, all the others already waiting at the banquet. He sat quietly as Hwaryun redid his pin, tucking it into its proper place before she waved for Rak to open the door. Bam was back to feeling like a celebrity—in the worst of ways. He slid into the miniature transporter they had provided to them without complaint—Hwaryun being the one to tussle with the controls, while Rak sat by Bam’s other side. The transporter lifted, and Bam wiped his sweaty hands across his thighs. Rak side eyed him, nudging him hard in the shoulder.

               “Not too late to turn around, turtle.” Bam huffed a weak laugh.

“Yes, it is. It’s fine, Mr. Rak. The others will be quick with the mission. It’ll be easier this way.” He repeated this to himself like a mantra, running the words through his mind again and again. Rak made a disbelieving noise that Bam decided to ignore, watching as the floating island above the city came closer and closer, Suspendium glinting. Khun was up there. With him, there would be ‘Viole’.

               The plan was simple, still. ‘Viole’, Khun, and Endorsi would stay mingling with the party. Both of them were, apparently, under certain guises—Khun still being part of the infamous Khun family, but Endorsi removing herself from Jahad. Apparently, that name was dangerous to fling around. The others, Hatz, Shibisu, Anaak, and Rak—they would all occupy themselves with finding the weapon, communicating with Khun who could keep up his own façade better than anyone else around. Hwaryun had her own plans which she did not share—and no one bothered to ask. Viole, Khun, and Endorsi were expected to serve as the distraction, with Khun and Endorsi having several plans concerning crashing the party and Viole always being the one to end each one. Hopefully, they wouldn’t need to go through with any of them.

               He was barely able to snap out of his head when the transporter landed, only coming to his senses when the door slid open and Rak clambered out—a flash of blue visible on the other side.

               Bam was drawn to it like a magnet.

               He couldn’t see Khun—but he did see the hand that reached for him as he shifted out of the transporter, hands decorated with rings and nails flecked with gold. Bam felt foolish slipping his fingers into that brilliant grip, thin fingers closing around his as Khun heaved him out the final step. He continued holding Bam’s fingers as Bam brushed off his clothes with his other hand, still avoiding looking at him and far more focused on the frosty feeling sinking into his skin. He did have to look eventually, though, and when he did—he, well, he couldn’t remember how he reacted. All he knew was that his thought process had come to a screeching stop, vision filling with blue, and white, and arching eyeliner—and a soft smile. It took him several blinks blessedly hidden by his bangs for him to properly focus.

               Where he had thought he was overly dressed, Khun clearly blew him out of the water. His suit was meticulously crafted, an icy blue that complimented his hair and white accents sewn over the sleeves and up the seams. The patterns resembling ice—exploding out in tiny particles that were reminiscent of both frost and lightning. His shoes were similarly decorated, with symbols etched into the soles and across the front flap. There were several accessories hanging off him—a pin on his lapel bearing the Khun family symbol, and adornments on his neck and fingers. His ears were fit with a new pair of earrings—one side with a longer chain, the other a short stud with a chain linking up to his helix. Then there was his hair—the sides of it carefully braided back, the loose strands along with the braids pulled into one of those classic ponytails Khun always seemed to favor—revealing the decorations in his ears in all their glory. He had a tie like Bam’s keeping his hair back—the colors more similar to Bam than they were to Khun. Then, the makeup. He hadn’t overdone it—certainly not—but his lips were noticeably glossy as Bam stood close and there was white eyeliner drawn across his lid, arching into a small swoop as it cut outwards. If Bam were better with poetics, he would call Khun ethereal.

               Unfortunately, he was absolutely floored, and could only muster a few words.

               “You look nice.” He said, Viole’s voice already too comfortable on his tongue. Khun smiled, those shiny lips parting as he laughed.

               “You do too, Bam.” Bam ignored the warm thrum in his chest, beating back his smile with an appreciative nod. It was only when Khun let go that Bam realized they had been holding hands the entire time. Hatz and Shibisu—who were both standing in the entrance, looked wholly unamused. At least Hatz did—Shibisu was grinning ear to ear. Endorsi emerged from inside the venue and smiled similarly, hopping down in a clean motion to join Khun and Bam. She kissed them both on the cheek, Khun making some noise of complaint while Bam only returned it.

               “You two ready? I’m excited. This is totally my kind of party.” Endorsi looped her arms through theirs, pulling them toward the stairs while Hatz and Shibisu disappeared. “They’re going to love me.”

               “They won’t really know who you are, though.” Bam pointed out, and Endorsi proceeded to check him with her hip.

               “Are you implying my status is the only reason why I have friends?”

               “Not at all!” Bam was quick to remedy the cut, but Khun’s malicious laughter helped neither party—and Bam could feel when he got hip-checked too. When they reached the top step, Endorsi dropped Bam’s arm, and Bam tried not to sigh. He knew what that meant.

               He hardened the soft crinkle around his eyes. He straightened his back. He put himself behind Endorsi and Khun as they entered, and as he followed, he forced an uncomfortable power into each step—letting himself imagine shinsu seeping into the floor as he moved, trailing him like a bad omen.

               Clearly, it had some kind of effect, as the whole party fell dead silent as they entered. Each member turned and stared, and Bam felt discomfort prickling under his skin—but he did not let himself give into it, forcing his exhale to be inhumanly silent. Khun and Endorsi both embraced the silence—Khun arching his arm around Endorsi’s back and Endorsi leaning against Khun’s side, her own arm settling around his shoulders. She was dressed exquisitely, wearing a suit and a pair of impressive heels. Her suit jacket barely covered the skin her cropped top did not. Her hair was delicately braided, much like Khun’s—and hiding her horn. Her earrings were boisterous—the lipstick she was wearing even more so, but it all slotted together beautifully. She was stunning—and her and Khun both appeared to mesmerize the entire room. It was only when Endorsi scoffed, muttering something to Khun just loud enough for people to catch every other word—something about how this place was boring her already—that the party came back to life. Khun and Endorsi both smirked at each other as they delved deeper into the party, and as Bam moved to join them, the lights dimmed, and a speaker clicked to life.

               “Those two beautiful people were our very own Khun Hachuling and Eurasia Bloom!” the voice called from above, a light sweeping to shine right over Khun and Endorsi’s heads. Endorsi was casting Khun a quizzical look, and Khun was only smirking—pointedly glancing over his shoulder at Bam. Right. Of course he’d drag his deadbeat brother into this. Bam had to force the urge to smile down as the light trailed his way, and he kept his posture picture-perfect as the attention rolled onto him.

               “And then, of course, joining us tonight—Jue Viole Grace! The new and rising Slayer candidate for FUG! We are truly, truly honored to have such a man with us tonight! Everyone give him a round of applause.”

               Silence.

               Good. That was what Bam had always expecte—

               A whistle.

               A clap.

               Bam blinked, shifting his head to catch a proper glimpse of Khun starting a rambunctious applause—Endorsi joining soon after, and the whole room lighting up after that.

               “Remember to be civil, everyone!” The call was lost to the crowd as it picked up conversation once more—several people trying to approach Bam, and each one of them failing as he offered the cold shoulder. Somehow, that impressed them more, and instead of causing insult—they were all whispering and giggling amongst themselves as they walked away. He would take what he could get.

               The evening delved into him stalking through the main room, accepting a glass of… something that was offered to him and taking hesitant sips from it every couple of minutes or so. It was disgusting, so he had no intentions to drink lots of it—but he didn’t want to look stranger than he already did. He repeatedly had to turn down conversation when people grew too immersed—and if it felt like the mood was beginning to dip, or perhaps the enthusiasm was starting to fizzle out—he would hear Endorsi shriek with laughter across the room, rowdy cackles of other partygoers following shortly after.

               He lost Khun quickly.

               He wasn’t worried—he trusted Khun knew what he was doing. As much as Endorsi promised this was her element, he knew it was Khun’s birthright. This was what he had been crafted to embrace—business, riches, and prestigious assholes. Bam knew. Still, though, something scratched at the back of his mind. He hadn’t even seen a glimpse of Khun’s blue suit—and he was sure, at this point, they would have needed to cross paths. He knew Endorsi was purposefully avoiding him—but Khun? Would Khun do that? Wouldn’t he want to check on Bam?

               Okay. Maybe Bam was a little worried.

               He finished off the final sip of his drink, setting in on the nearest surface. He let his hands rest emptily at his sides as he began to traverse the crowd—moving with intention as he weaved between people, eyes searching, searching, searching. He still couldn’t see Khun. He heard a sharp laugh and looked over his shoulder, catching Endorsi’s eye. She jerked her head to one side, and Viole made a beeline to follow the direction. He turned a corner—unaware the party continued—and entered a hallway with a far sparser crowd and more workers. He had to scan for only a moment to notice the glint of white to one side—and as he shifted past another group of people all collected in the middle of the hall—he spotted him. He had company, too.

               Khun was still pretty. He hardly looked disheveled, although an hour at least must have passed—and he was mid-conversation with a man Bam didn’t recognize. He was dressed sharply, dark hair spilling over his shoulders and a scar cut across his face. He and Khun were engaging in a conversation that Bam could only call ‘animated’. The other man had a drink, too—sipping from it idly as Khun spoke about—well, Bam couldn’t tell, but he looked excited. His eyes had a certain shine to them, and his free hand moved breezily in front of him. He looked fully immersed in the conversation, and when he took a break in his speech, lifting his glass to his lips—still glossy, Bam noted—the other man took a chance to speak.

               Bam could hear the low rumble of his voice from where he stood, and something in his muscles itched with the urge to interrupt. He didn’t, though, he just stayed back, wondering if he should grab a glass too.

               He was about to leave for another one when a shift caught his eye. Khun had reached up, his hand hovering over the other mans shoulder as he leaned in to say something. The man burst out into sharp laughter, and Khun’s own head tilted back as he cackled.

               Bam’s legs itched again, but he didn’t move. Something was strange. Khun didn’t laugh like that—not with Bam, not with Rak, not with Shibisu—not even with Hatz. There was something else. Bam took a step back to the wall, keeping Khun and his ‘company’ in view as he hid himself behind a couple. He watched with sharp eyes as Khun continued the conversation, tracing the strange mans movements as he raised his hand to cut Khun off—Khun didn’t even blink, smiling with ease. Bam’s eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows furrowed further as the man grabbed Khun by the shoulder. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was sudden—and while Khun didn’t react, there was something strange in his smile.

               Bam hated it. He didn’t know why. It wasn’t that he wanted his hand on Khun—well, he did, but that wasn’t it. He just wanted the other guy to get his hand off, and by the looks of it, Khun wanted something similar.

               Bam stepped from his spot against the wall.

               Khun, for a second, looked his way—and Bam saw it. There was a downturn to his smile and something in his eyes. He couldn’t name it, but as Khun looked back at his company—Bam could identify it with ease. Discomfort. The man laughed again, and when Khun followed suit, it was too sharp. It was a Khun laugh, not an Aguero laugh. It wasn’t a soft exhale—it wasn’t a sudden cackle, dissolving into something sweet like honey when he tried to work air back into his lungs—it was loud, and it hurt Bam’s ears, and his head, and Bam didn’t like it. Khun smiled again—it was strained, the lines around his mouth folding in a way that begged Khun to frown instead. Bam twitched. Khun looked at him again, a casual slide of the eyes.

               Bam was moving before he could stop himself. If the man wasn’t going to slide that hand off—then Bam would simply make it happen through his own means. He approached silent as a shadow, the only sound he made was the echo of his fist punching the wall—right between Khun and the other mans faces. His arm separated them—and Khun did not move an inch, but the man flinched visibly. The sound of his fist making an impact was loud enough for the surrounding parties to turn and stare, but Bam did not pay attention to them. Instead, he glanced at Khun.

               “Eurasia Bloom is looking for you. Hurry. I believe she may get in a spat, Mr. Khun.” He said, voice dangerously low. Khun was staring at him—eyes widened a modicum. He wasn’t smiling—but the discomfort was wiped clean from his face. Still, though, he paused.

               “I will go with you, Sir Viole. How about that?” He said smoothly, placing his glass to the side. Bam only nodded. Then, he glanced over his shoulder, facing the man for a long moment.

               “Keep your distance.” He said, voice cold. The man buffered, but Bam was already resting his hand on Khun’s shoulder and directing him away long before he could say a word. Khun did not pull away from the contact, settling close to Bam’s side.

               “He’s obsessed with my father,” Khun muttered as they walked, tone dropping to something Bam could easily recognize as ‘exhaustion’. “If I had to laugh about the misfortune of my mother one more time, I would have lost it.” Bam made a low sound in the back of his throat; half tempted to turn and go back. Khun caught his elbow with a hand. “I had a feeling you’d come find me,” he said, voice lowering further. “I knew you’d interrupt too but—thanks, Bam.” Bam glanced toward him, expression morphing to something more concerned.

               “Of course. I’ll always be there.”

               “I know,” Khun replied with a smile.

               Endorsi met them midway, and Khun reached up to brush his fingers across his ear, tilting his head as he listened to something. Then, he turned to the both of them with a smile.

               “They’ve got it. It’s time for our exit now, don’t you think?” With a wild grin, he reached for the nearest drink—plucking it from a guests hand. Then, with one fluid moment, he threw it across Endorsi—drenching her shirt with a thick scented wine.

               Bam could practically see the timer begin to tick as she processed. Khun ran for the door and Endorsi screeched a second later, Bam needing to reach out and restrain her as she tried to blast out after him. He kept his arms tight around her as Khun vanished out the door—and it was only when he saw Hatz sneaking around the edge of the room that he let Endorsi escape his grip. As she charged forward, he was quick to follow—letting Hatz tuck in beside him. He had something tucked under his jacket, and Bam bit back a victorious smile.

               When they made it outside, one of their transporters was gone—Khun missing along with it. There were several exasperated sighs—but they couldn’t say much, as the machine had whirled back into view with a window down.

               “Bam!” Khun called. Bam ran to follow—still drawn to him—as he leapt upward without hesitation. Khun’s hand found his and he pulled him up successfully, dragging him into the passenger seat. With matching giggles, they rolled the window back up and zipped down below the island. Khun’s eyes glowed with something familiar, and as they glanced at each other from the corners of their eyes—Bam felt glee soothe over the lingering irritation under his skin.

               “You going to want help with that wig once we’re back?” Khun asked, casually.

               “Yeah. I’m not used to them anymore.” Bam replied, finally letting himself grin. He tried to ignore the way Khun beamed in response, picking up speed as they soared back toward the city.

               He had a feeling he would be sleeping well tonight—and another feeling that, hopefully, this would be the last time ‘Viole’ had to make his presence known.

Chapter Text

Aguero is part of a highly particular family. Their name is known far and wide—in every crevice of the Tower, able to be found in even the smallest of floors. Outside of the Tower, too, their name is known. The ‘Khun’ family has a legacy—it has a powerful leader, and it is respected among peers for its conniving blood and talent on the battlefield. Most famously, it is home to some of the strongest spear bearers ever seen.

               Aguero is not a spear bearer.

               Everyone would disagree—after the hidden floor, he found it difficult to fight the point himself, but he knew he was no spear bearer. He was not meant to hold a hilt like that—he was not meant to swing it above his head, force it to come crashing down and watch blood splatter. He was meant to be in control, with a knife under his sleeve and a razor for a smile. That was what he was good at, that was what he had been training for—but spears were undeniably in his blood. It was an indisputable fact that he had somewhat come to terms with after Bam’s insistence, but that didn’t really mean he liked it.

               He didn’t like how well the spear fit in his hands. He didn’t like how pretty he found the ice that crawled across it. He didn’t like the way he could balance it instinctively in his palm—and, most of all, he didn’t like how much stronger he was with it.

               Well, that wasn’t true. He would never turn down power, not when he earned it—but it was strange, and he was, frankly, concerned that if he delved into it—the lighthouse keys would not feel the same. He’d settle into the seat he’d grown so familiar with and find himself at a loss, no longer as comfortable in front of those screens as he used to be. He’d turn into a one-trick pony.

               Bam didn’t need another spear bearer; he needed a lightbearer.

               This was the turmoil Aguero was trapped in, sitting quietly on his bed shortly after waking from his coma—they’d taken a rest outside of the train, holed up on a floor Aguero wasn’t entirely familiar with. There was a spear resting against the wall across from him—less of a spear, more of a fashioned stick. He didn’t want to touch it, but his hands itched for the chance to swing it just once. It was an endless cycle, Aguero pulling his eyes away, then glancing back, then shifting, then firmly sitting back on his hands, and staring at the floor. Trying to break out of it was nearly impossible. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go, as he was still ‘recovering’ and the others weren’t allowing him out of their sights. He was just stuck in his room taunted by a spear and left with questions he couldn’t answer himself.

               The next time he looked away from the floor, it wasn’t at the spear—it was instead toward the empty space beside his head.

               “Pocket,” he muttered, hearing a faint buzz, “visible mode.” The small orb materialized beside him, and he flopped backward, letting his head thunk against his bed.

               “Call Lero Ro, please.” He shut his eyes tight, listening to it ring. It picked up after a couple of seconds, which Aguero knew it would, but the voice calling out from the other side still surprised him.

               “Ranker Lero Ro speaking. What is it you need?” There was a rustle of paper on the other side, and Aguero vaguely remembered he didn’t know what time it was over there. He could only hope it wasn’t sometime bad.

               “Lero Ro,” Aguero said, and he heard a hum on the other end of the line. “It’s Khun.”

               “I know.” Lero Ro replied smoothly, the rustle of paper growing stronger. “What is it you need?” He repeated—likely understanding that Aguero was one to cut to business. Aguero could appreciate that.

               “You’re an administrator, right?”

               “Well, I was a test administrator, yes.” Lero Ro huffed, and Aguero heard another movement as he assumed Lero Ro had found a place to sit. “What does that have to do with anything?”

               “You led the placement tests, right?”

               “No. Only the one for the lightbearers—the other teachers handled their own categories, and Hansung oversaw each one.”

               “So, you chose me, then?” There was a soft hum.

               “Yes, Khun, yes I did.”

               Silence hung between them as Aguero tried to find his words. Lero Ro said nothing, simply rustling his paper again.

               “Did you,” Aguero started, trying to phrase his question in a way that wouldn’t make him sound like an overthinking mess. “Ever think I could be something else?”

               “Certainly. You are a Khun, you know. The obvious placement would have been spear bearer. Yu Bok-Dol even fought me on it.” A pause. “He, clearly, wasn’t very convincing.” Aguero could hear him sip something, humming again. “Why do you ask?”

               “Why did I become a lightbearer, then?” Aguero asked abruptly, leaving Lero Ro’s question unanswered. Lero Ro said nothing, only humming once more.

               “Well,” Lero Ro started, papers crinkling as he moved. “Every Khun can be a spear bearer—but, in my experience, not every Khun can be a lightbearer. You have to think about it like this—yes, you could have been put down as a spear bearer, but what would that do? It wouldn’t be anything new. I’m sure the tests would come easily to you—it would have been boring. That—and, well, you wouldn’t have liked it.” Aguero blinked.

               “I wouldn’t have liked it?” He echoed, pulling his knees up to his chest. “What the hell is that supposed to mean.”

               “Language,” Lero Ro laughed from the other side. “It’s as simple as it sounds. You would have hated being a spear bearer. Lightbearer is where you thrive—I knew it as soon as I saw you, nothing else would have fit. Yes, lightbearer was easy for you—but it was easy and exciting. Being in control is where you excel, we both know that. Putting you anywhere else would have been unbefitting. Sure, you have spears in your blood—but more importantly, you have the brain and heart of a lightbearer. That’s all that matters in the long run. That’s why I made sure you were with me.”

               Aguero was silent as he digested this, sighing hard through his next question.

               “Do you think I could do both?”

               Aguero hadn’t spoken to his teacher properly in a long, long time. They were both busy—and Aguero was preoccupied learning from new people. Evan, Bam, even the copy of his own father. They weren’t like Lero Ro, though. Evan was highly intellectual, Bam was… Bam… and Eduan was the pinnacle of power. Lero Ro was just a ranker. He was something achievable, someone always within reach. Aguero did not like to be childish—he was against the idea entirely—but there was something about talking to his first teacher in the Tower that appealed to him. He waited for Lero Ro’s answer, which only took a moment to come.

               “Without a doubt,” Aguero could hear a smile in his voice, “You’re a powerhouse, Khun. Honing your lightbearing skills was the best first step—but now you’re in a much better position to broaden your horizons. Honestly, I had faith it would happen someday. You’d grow past your barriers and master something new—I knew it all along. So yes, Khun. You can do both, and I am sure you’ll do them both well enough to blow us all away.”

               Aguero grinned.

               It wasn’t that he needed to hear it—he could handle himself and his ego just fine, but he wanted to. He let his eyes slip shut, and as silence lapsed between them, Lero Ro let it hang. There was the occasional sip from Lero Ro’s mysterious drink, but generally, they went uninterrupted. Then,

               “Was I your favorite student?” Aguero asked, a smile playing on his lips. Lero Ro snorted.

               “No, Khun. Bam was my favorite. You were a close second, though.”

               Aguero grinned a little wider.

               “That’s fine. I don’t mind being second if its him. So long as it’s not alligator, or something.” Lero Ro made a non-committal noise, and Aguero let out a final heavy sigh.

               “Okay. That’s all I had. Thank you for your time, Mr. Lero Ro.”

               “Of course, Khun. Call me again if you need anything and remember to take care. I’d like to see you and your group at the end of all this.”

               “Okay. We’ll see you again.” He promised, letting Lero Ro cancel the call on his end.

               Aguero sat there quietly for several more minutes. Then, slowly, he clambered to his feet. He walked toward the wall.

               Instead of grabbing his spear, however, he brushed his fingers across the surface of one of his lighthouses, sighing with the familiar feel of it. Then, he let it flick on. The flash of screens was a comfort, and he ducked inside of it without hesitation.

               He was a lightbearer first, Bam’s strategist second—and a spear wielding son of Khun third.

               He could be happy with that.

Chapter Text

Bam always thought he understood loneliness. Not just that, the concept of it was intricately entwined with his person. It was part of his beginning, it stole away his past, it corrupts his present—and it is sure to place its dirty hands all over his future. He knows loneliness like he knows his own mind—he knows it like one would know their oldest friend, because to him, that was exactly what it was. More than Rachel, more than Team Bam—More than Bam himself—loneliness was his longest companion, and after years, he found he did not mind. It wasn’t that he liked it, but he’d grown not to mind, as slow of a process as that was. It reminded him he had something to lose, after all.

               This connection with his loneliness, however, made him question why the gap between him and Beta was so vast. He wasn’t really sure when he had noticed, but Beta got along much better with Wangnan than he ever did Bam—despite Bam’s continuous attempts to reach out. At the very least, he wanted them to trust each other.

               Yet, Beta wouldn’t give in. He was painfully distant, though he did everything they asked of him—and when they piled upon question after question, he was quick to answer. He still didn’t talk to them, though. Not more than that. He never spoke to Khun—only glancing his way when spoken to and responding as needed. He never spoke to Bam more than was necessary, and there, he approached Bam first—saying his piece short and fast before disappearing off again. The only time he stayed in one place was when he was with Horyang—or when Ran, Novick, or Wangnan called for him. It was a strange display of bias. Horyang made sense—that was Beta’s brother. Ran and Novick too, they would be his future team. Bam couldn’t begin to puzzle out Wangnan, but it wasn’t who Beta chose that confused him—it was who he left out.

               Frankly, he thought he understood Beta well. They had similar stars, at least that Bam could remember—that deep seed of loneliness. The only difference was that Bam had found people to fill that hole—but did that make him so different? Clearly, Beta had connections too. He wasn’t sure how to ask him, either. Every approach resulted in a failure, a cold shoulder, a brush off. It felt impossible.

               He only got lucky when Beta came to him first.

               Bam was curled up on one of the couches, still adjusting to the new length of his hair—running his fingers through the short strands again, and again, and again. He let the feeling soothe him, repetitive motions relaxing him further into the cushions. He wasn’t sure what suddenly made him stiffen—the feeling crawling up his spine—but when Beta rounded the final corner into the living room, it made more sense. It wasn’t that Beta creeped him out, or even that Bam disliked him—it was just a feeling he got every time, without fail. Bam didn’t smile as Beta came to stand directly in front of him, but he did glance up, attention undivided.

               “So?” Beta started; hands pushed comfortably into his pockets. “What is it?”

               Bam blinked.

               “What do you mean?”

               “I know you have a question, so you might as well ask it. I’m tired of your staring, it’s getting uncomfortable.”

               Bam blinked again, slowly lowering his hand from his hair.

               “Right, sorry. I do have a question.”

               “Ask it then.”

               “Why…” Bam paused, working up the nerve. It was an odd question, and he knew it was. “Why do we not get along?” He tried. Beta stared at him for a long moment, eyebrows raising.

               “’Cause you think I’m like you. Nothings going to work out with a mindset like that.”

               Bam frowned.

               “We talked about this before—”

               “Barely. You told me to stay away from your shit, that’s not the same thing.”

               “But why?” Bam pressed, sitting up properly. “Why aren’t we the same thing? We have a lot in common, Mr. Beta.”

               It was Beta’s turn to pause—but he was quick to shake his head.

               “No, we don’t. You think we might, but we don’t.”

               “Want to explain why?”

               “Gladly.” Beta took one hand out of his pocket, pointing directly at Bam. “What are you?”

               Bam blinked, buffering.

               “An—an ignition weap—”

               “The other thing.” Beta waved him off with one hand, steadily growing less amused.

               “…An Irregular?” Bam tried, and then Beta smiled.

               “Yeah, you’re an irregular. Would you say that sets you apart from the rest?”

               “Yeah…?” Bam said, fidgeting. He didn’t like to think about it.

               “Right. But you’re not the only Irregular. I mean, you’ve even met another one—and before you ask me how I know, how about you don’t worry about it?” Beta leaned in, eyes glinting. “You are one Irregular, not the Irregular. You might not be like your closest friends, but you’re still like someone, aren’t you? Isn’t that lucky? Then your first point, you’re an Ignition weapon, are you?” Beta’s nose crinkled. “You are the completed one. You’re more than just an Ignition weapon, you have a use. A goal. They want to do something with you—they wanted to, at least… and you know what? They could have—and that, completed one, is what makes us so different.”

               “But—” Bam tried, leaning forward. Beta leaned away. “That doesn’t mean we don’t have things in common. I mean—”

               “Completed one,” Beta cut him off. “I am nothing other than an ignition weapon. I am not a person, I am not a regular—I am not an irregular—I am not a perfect weapon, I am not a completed one.” Beta’s tone was firm—to the point where Bam could not even pity him. “There is no one in this godforsaken tower that is like me. This does not come from any kind of complex; it is simply the facts. I am an experiment. No part two of me, or part three of me, will come out like me. I am the only one.” The look he gave Bam was twisted between scathing and bored. “We will never be alike. Your loneliness is not like mine, and mine will never be like yours. You can try to get along with me all you’d like—but you made the point yourself. You have things that are yours. I do not. That, too, is a reason why we will never be alike. Do you get it now?”

               Bam stared at him blankly, eyes wide. It wasn’t like he still didn’t understand—it was clicking, it was clicking just fine—but it was a curious feeling. Bam had always known loneliness like he knew the smell of blood or the telltale glow of power in his gut. Here, though, he felt like he was at a loss. Bam had lost his loneliness when he met his friends—it had come back for him, but he scared it away like always. Yet, here he was again—faced with one he didn’t know. A loneliness that could never leave.

               Bam sank back into the couch.

               “I get it now, sorry.”

               Beta huffed, shoving his hand back into his pocket.

               “Don’t say shit like that, it’s weird. Go find one of those friends that you have.” He turned on his heel, shrugging as he went. “You have them for a reason. Might as well use them.” He walked for the doorway, slipping through it. Bam’s sudden voice being the only thing drawing him back.

               “Beta,” he stuck his head through the doorway, staring at Bam quizzically. “…you and Wangnan are… getting along, yeah?”

               Beta was silent for a few moments, tilting his head like he was thinking, but then he nodded.

               “Yeah. Getting along just fine.”

               Bam offered a weak smile.

               “I can see you two having a lot in common.”

               Beta looked away.

               “Yeah, me too.”

               And then he walked out the door—footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

Chapter Text

               Jinsung has never been one to admit when ‘things got bad’, but he always had a place he visited when they did. He slid open the door with one hand, hushed music beginning to roll out into the open air as he slipped inside, letting the door lock with a click behind him. There was the soothing lilt of a saxophone droning across the walls and meeting Jinsung’s ears, accompanied by the hum of a trumpet as the sounds danced around each other. Jinsung followed the melody down the hall, past shadowed doors, and shaded entrances. There were soft words that could be heard from each one, private boots filled with no good outcasts that didn’t know what to do with themselves or friends just freshly reunited, needing a place to rest as the night fluttered on by.

               Jinsung was there for neither reason, as he always went alone.

               The lollipop was sweet in his mouth as he rolled it between his teeth, still strong with a flavor of butterscotch that distracted him well from the urge of smoky cigarettes and a promised coughing fit. Wangnan, the fool, was still purchasing them for him. He wasn’t sure why, because he hadn’t asked—but the boy showed no signs of stopping, and Jinsung decided he didn’t mind long ago. It was just something people did when associated with Viole. Jinsung couldn’t not be fond of it.

               The room he entered was at the end of the hall, the music getting louder as he approached. He pushed the thin frame of the door with one hand, letting it open and allowing the dim lights from the lit bar to wash over him. The sight in front of him never failed to amaze.

               Despite this corner of the city—one of the highest floors—being tucked away and near invisible to any visiting person, this particular bar thrived. With reasons unknown, it was one of the most decorated venues one could visit. The stages floated above the tables, Suspendium glinting on the underside of each surface as the instrumentalists performed above. The band was large, with each person carrying a different instrument, or maybe two, and playing in time with each other as they leaned this way and that. The view was undeniable, the stages rocking with the movements of their riders and gliding throughout the large domed room they were kept within. As one performer lifted their instrument up, the Suspendium raised with them, the sound of the saxophone taking control of the acoustics as the other instruments mellowed out.

               Filling each wall was an assortment of lights—each one dimmed to the lowest hum, brightening each table directly placed in front of them. They glowed with the music, increasing, or decreasing with the thrum of a cello as it turned by. The center of the seating area was relatively empty, aside from the people curled up within each other’s arms and dancing. The sound of voices was near silent, everyone focused more on the romantic moves each pair made on the dance floor. Each dip and sway spurned another cheer, and every joyous laugh caused an envious glint to be seen in the audience.

               Jinsung was there for none of it.

               His focus was on something in the back of the room, hidden in shadow. The lights there were even less, the entire countertop caught in darkness. Jinsung moved to it silently, hands tucked into his pockets. The music was louder over here, almost as if it was pointedly directed. He slid into a barstool, hearing the music crescendo with the addition of piano, each and every clunk of the keys making its way across the room. He was alone for several beats until a glass was placed in front of him, a large hand holding it. Jinsung looked up, recognizing a familiar face.

               The man was dressed in clothes Jinsung could only describe as ‘truly proper’. His vest and shirt were well fitting, showing off the figure of a tank and the shoulders of a wall. The man was intimidating in stature, to say the least—with a strong, square face and a large cigar hanging from his lips, unlit. He had a gemstone resting in the color of his shirt, engraved with a symbol Jinsung was only partially familiar with.

               Wolhaiksong.

               The absence of his right arm only truly became noticeable when he stepped further into the light, the sleeve on that side respectfully tied up with intricate sewing and blossoming designs of intricate silver. Most of his outfit was daunted with silver—from the sheen of his dress to the streaks of it through dark hair—long enough to be braided carefully over one shoulder. There was a scar etched across the left side of his face, arching from his temple all the way down to his chin—almost like a crescent moon. He had an unfriendly expression on him, but Jinsung knew him well enough not to care. Instead, Jinsung offered a grim smile.

               “Mr. Sjofin,” Jinsung tapped the glass in front of him. “The usual.”

               Sjofin’s hand shifted forward, gripping the glass.

               “Magic word, Jinsung Ha. Else you’re not getting shit.”

               “Please.”

               Sjofin smiled something dark and disappeared back into the shadow, Jinsung hearing nothing but the drawl of music thick in the air. It took only a second for the glass to reappear in front of him, filled to the brim with a liquid he didn’t recognize.

               “This isn’t my usual.”

               Sjofin snorted.

               “I don’t do usuals. Drink.”

               Well, Jinsung was never one to complain.

               It clearly was non-alcoholic, and Jinsung wasn’t sure if he was angry about that or if he appreciated it. What he was grateful for, though, was the way Sjofin moved away from the counter after that. He disappeared to god knows where, but it meant he was paying his usual respects and was leaving Jinsung alone.

               He knew what today was.

               Jinsung sipped at his drink idly.

               He has been in love once in his life. A woman he promised to never forget, and yet her name still took a breath or two to properly recall.

               Even now, he does not speak it in his mind.

               He has been in love once in his life, and unfortunately, this love of his has been long since dead. Truthfully, the anniversary of her death was not this day—it was a week earlier, but he could not be expected to go anywhere the day of. He always had some kind of excuse. This was just the place he went to when he had to work through the aftershocks—allow his body to go through the motions of something easy on the body and mind.

               Smooth jazz and a non-alcoholic drink were, apparently, the way to go.

               This was when he always started thinking, though. Thoughts he couldn’t properly describe with anything other than a short sad, and he didn’t particularly enjoy calling himself sad. It was always a dismal thing.

               And yet, here he was, undeniably sad.

               The woman he loved was dead.

               He hung his head low over his drink, letting his eyes slide shut.

               Jinsung has been angry often in his life. It wasn’t an emotion that was foreign to him—he could get irritated over anything; he just had the tendency to keep his head. That day was different, though. He was furious. It had taken him like a storm and in that instant, his love had morphed into hatred, and it blew out him like a hurricane. All encompassing, visceral, and dark.

               That day, he had spilt blood that sunk deep into each etch of stone, into each crevice of the rocks and most importantly—into the folds of his clothes and across the hands of his love. When he had picked her up that day—when he had cradled her in his arms, his fury drained out of him not too dissimilar to the way her warmth began to abandon her—spilling out into him and into the cavern floors. It was just them, then, and the stench of iron thick and choking. He had barely heard her through the thunder in his ears—but, simultaneously, the memory of her was clear as water.

               Don’t forget me.

               Jinsung Ha has only been in love once in his life.

               Every day, he remembers how she used to smile at him, unlike any other person. Every day, he remembers her laugh, and how it would ring sweeter than the prettiest clarinet in the Tower. Every day, he would recall the perfect way her hand could slot in his—his violent, powerful hands. He felt delicate in those moments. Like the world was holding him, not the other way around.

               Every day, he remembers the feel of her cold skin against his. The way she was limp as he attempted to maneuver her, whispering reassurances upon dead ears.

               He had been careful then.

               More careful than he had ever been before.

               She still scratched her hand, blood blowing from the red little cut like it would on any living person.

               The only difference was that she had shown no reaction to the injury. Her hand had just hung there.

               Every day, he remembers her. Even if he wishes he didn’t. He made a promise, and he has stayed true.

               He did not notice he had drunk his entire glass until Sjofin returned with a full one, having slipped the old glass out from under Jinsung’s nose long ago. Jinsung took the glass into his hands, exhaling heavily as he did.

               There was a clink on the counter in front of him. When Jinsung looked up, he saw a lollipop, unopened. A cigarette next to it.

               Jinsung picked up the lollipop.

               He blinked; the cigarette was gone. Then, there was a heavy hand on his shoulder.

               “You’ll be alright.”

               Jinsung shut his eyes, a body appearing in the corners of his blurred memories.

               “Yeah,” he replied, unconvincingly.

               He fell silent, letting the music sweep him away. It was a gentle, swaying sound.

               It reminded him, vaguely, of the way she had said goodbye to him.

               Soft. Lovely. Memorable.

               It made his chest hurt.

               He was glad he had kept his eyes shut, otherwise, the tear very well may have slipped out.