Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It felt like the world was spinning, around and around and around like a carousel.

The floor is swaying beneath him, leaving him unsteady and off-kilter, but he keeps his feet planted on the ground.  

He could barely hear her words through the ringing in his ears.

"Hi! My name's Emma. And you're... Isaac, right?" 

Emma is here. 

It really does feel like he's living in a circus, sometimes. Just another ball to juggle on the balancing act that his life has become, a performance for the universe to laugh at. All he can do is walk the tightrope and hope that he doesn't fall, but he's not sure how much more of this he can take. All the lights and colors and sounds are just too loud and too much for him to keep up with. 

What is Emma even doing here? She's not- she wasn't supposed to be here. 

The room is still spinning as his mind is desperately trying to connect the dots, to fill in the blanks. It doesn't take long for him to piece together the picture, but he doesn't like what it makes. It doesn't make sense in his mind. 

Emma left to go study abroad. That's why they broke up, because she didn't want to keep a long distance relationship, she was just too busy to keep it up.

He knew that was bullshit, could hear the lie behind the guilt in her voice, but he figured she just didn't love him anymore. She had her life ahead of her, and he was holding her back, and that was that.

She never mentioned anything about becoming a hero. Emma wouldn't have kept that from him. Right? 

Shit. Shit. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. 

"Uh...Isaac? Are you okay?"

Isaac. The name isn't familiar, but he knows it. That's him, isn't it? That's his name. That's who he is right now- who he's supposed to be. 

Emma is looking at him with a neutral expression, only the slightest furrow to her brows, but he sees the concern written on her face clear as day. He knows how to read her better than anyone. 

He's half-tempted to crack a joke about how he got lost in her eyes, but Isaac wouldn't say that. He can't risk fucking this up right out of the gate. He's already got his face, he just needs to sell the act.

Get it together. Isaac doesn't know Emma, so he would probably be polite, if a bit awkward.

He blinks, like he only just realized he'd been staring, and he keeps his gaze locked onto Emma's even though he wants to look literally anywhere else. 

"O-oh, yeah, I'm Isaac, that's me." He laughs, and he cringes a little inside at how fake it sounded. He clears his throat a bit, trying to project the air of an awkward introvert. He has no idea if he succeeded. "Sorry, zoned out a bit there." 

Emma's eyes soften, a sympathetic look on her face. That expression changes as she quirks an eyebrow, a familiar glint in her eyes as her voice takes on a teasing tone. "Hope you weren't thinking anything weird about me there." 

He bites back on the immediate urge to say something out of pocket, just to make her flustered. 

"W-what? No, no of course not!" Isaac fumbles, feigning shock. 

Emma laughs, and he hates how it sounds exactly the same as he remembered it. He felt ill.

"Don't worry, I'm just teasing you. You're the new guy, right?"

"Hey, you're the new girl, right?" 

"Gee, what gave it away?" she deadpanned, in her blatantly American accent. 

He laughed at that.  

The memories brought a bittersweet taste in his mouth, like poison on his tongue.

It felt like a lifetime ago since all that happened. Back when things were still alright. He doesn't know how everything could've changed so much since then. He didn't know it would turn out like this. 

That was a different time though. He can't go back, even if he wanted to. He chose to leave it all behind the moment he joined The Order, and there's no going back from that.

Not like there's much left for him to go back to, anyways. 

He takes in the all-too familiar face of his old friend - his best friend, his safety net. She lied to him, she left him behind and he's been falling falling falling ever since - unchanged and unblemished by time.

He holds onto his mask like a lifeline as he hides behind it, ignoring the nausea churning inside of him as he obscures every part of himself that Emma could see. He doesn't know this person. Isaac has never seen her before in his life. 

Isaac smiles, his expression only a little sheepish. He holds out his hand for the girl to take. 

"Yeah, that's me. It's nice to meet you, Emma."

Chapter Text

Rachel's used to getting hurt. 

It sounds a tad dramatic, but when you've been in competitive gymnastics for most of your life, getting hurt just comes with the territory. 

Rachel's dealt with all sorts of injuries over the years- from scraped hands and twisted ankles to bloodied knees and fractured ribs.

Progress isn't painless. Rachel is only able to do the things she does because she's put her body through the wringer enough times to adapt to the pressure, to break past her limits and grow stronger despite the pain. Rachel didn't get into nationals without the scars to show for it. She's well-acquainted with injury, and while it's  never pleasant, she's experienced enough to know what to expect from it.

This wasn't anything like that. She doesn't know what happened.

A sharp, sudden spike of pain shot through Rachel's chest just as she was wrapping up her routine. It was abrupt, and it startled Rachel enough to make her lose balance just as she was lowering herself from the aerial silks she was training with moments before. 

Rachel felt the wind getting knocked out of her chest as she fell onto the training mat. The landing was far from graceful, but she just barely caught herself before her head could hit the floor.

A ringing noise invaded Rachel's ears as she felt a sharp, tingling sensation start at her fingertips and creep slowly up her arms. A migraine started building up inside her skull, growing in intensity with each passing second as the ringing turned into a shrill whine. Her head was pounding with the pressure of something building up inside of it, begging to be let out. 

Rachel pressed her hands to the sides of her head, fingers grasping onto the tangled blonde curls as she squeezed her eyes tight. The ringing got louder, and louder, and louder-

And then it stopped.

It was quiet. The training room filled with nothing but the sound of Rachel's heavy breathing and the frantic beating of her own heart inside her chest. 

What the hell was that?

Shaken, Rachel slowly pushed herself up off the ground. 

She was half-expecting that spike of pain to hit her chest again, but it didn't come. There was no lingering pain, no nausea or that weird pins and needles sensation that she'd felt in her arms just seconds before. There was nothing. Like it never even happened. 

Rachel was alright for the most part, but she couldn't help but be a bit freaked out. She doesn't know what that was. Did she have a stroke or something? Nothing like this ever happened to her before.

She should tell her dad what happened. That pain wasn't normal. He's definitely on-duty right now, but there's a chance that him or one of her brothers might answer if she calls them. She could ask them to leave work early and take her to a doctor, just in case. 

Looking around for her phone, Rachel sees it on the floor by the wall where she'd left it plugged in to charge. She doesn't move to get it.

...Should she really be calling them right now? She doesn't want to ignore what just happened, but she also doesn't want to bother her family when they're at work. There might people out there with real emergencies that could be in need of heroes. She can't just distract her family from doing their job for a random health checkup. They're busy enough as it is, she shouldn't be bothering them over something like this. It's not like the doctors would be able to figure out what's going on when the pain is already gone, anyways.

Rachel stood there second-guessing whether she should call her family when pain suddenly exploded inside of her chest.

Rachel gasped as that spike of pain punctured her lungs once, twice, then again- sharp, repetitive pangs that left her out of breath. It felt like someone was driving an icepick straight through her chest, over and over and over again. The ringing in her ears came roaring back, drowning out all the noise around her and leaving her off-kilter. Nausea swept through Rachel like a tidal wave as her migraine came back in full-force. It was like someone took a hammer and started taking cracks at her bones and joints and skull. Rachel has never gotten a head injury before, but this somehow felt worse than any fall she could've had.

That strange pins and needles sensation she'd felt in her arms was back again, except now she felt it in her legs as well. It was stronger than before, sharper, more present, and more painful than the mild discomfort it had brought the first time. That cold, almost-electric sensation spread from her limbs through her chest and up her neck. 

It spread through all of her, until she couldn't feel anything but static. She couldn't feel the training mat anymore, couldn't feel her skin touching the cushioned floor. It was like having phantom limb syndrome for limbs that were still there. All she could feel was those pins and needles turning sharper, pushing in deeper, until it felt like she was being punctured with knives over every inch of her body. 

As Rachel looked down at her arms she realized that it wasn't just a feeling.

Something was happening to her body. She doesn't know how to describe it. It almost looked like she was glitching in and out in a video game. Her limbs kept distorting and disappearing, like she wasn't all there. Every flicker hurt more. It felt like she was turning into static, like every molecule that made her up was being distorted. 

Rachel doesn't know what's happening. She's felt pain before, but this wasn't like anything she's ever experienced. This pain was wrong, unnatural. It felt like her limbs and intestines were being warped and stretched somehow, compressed together and pulled apart simultaneously. Like she was being distorted and torn apart, molecule by molecule.  It was too much and too jarring and too painful to focus on any source. 

It was agony.

Rachel couldn't keep herself steady as she collapsed under the sudden pressure she felt on her body, unable to move as pain radiated through her. Every muscle and bone and fiber in her body screamed as she cried out along with it. 

"DAD!"

Rachel didn't recognize her own voice in the scream that tore out of her throat. She felt her vocal cords shredding as her voice pitched up to a point she didn't even know she could reach.

She needs help. She needs dad, or Alex, or Cassie. Anyone.

She needs it to stop.

"DAD PLEASE HELP!"

 The pain in her throat was nothing compared to the pain in her chest. It felt like her lungs had been punctured by her ribcage, like they were collapsing in on themselves. It hurt to breathe. 

Rachel opens her mouth to scream for Alex this time before she remembers that they're not here. They're at work, being heroes. She's alone in the house. 

She's alone.

Panic starts to set in as she realizes this, but Rachel forces herself to stay focused.

Okay, so her family isn't home. They won't be back until the end of the day, at best. At worst, they'll come back in the next two to three days. She doesn't have time. She needs- she needs to call for help. She needs to contact her family. 

Her phone.

It's still charging by the wall on the floor in front of her, far out of reach. She can't- she can't walk right now. It hurts too much to move her legs. She doesn't think she can stand up right now even if she tried, but she needs to make the phone call. She doesn't have time to wait for her family to come home. She can't risk it.

She needs to call them. Just one phone call, and they can take her to a hospital and figure out what's wrong. She just needs to make it to her phone. 

Rachel shifts her weight slightly, choking on a sob at the wave of sheer agony that comes over her at the movement. It hurts, but she can't think about it. She needs to do this.

Rachel grits her teeth and starts towards her phone. She has to move slowly, carefully crawling across the training mat towards the wall where her phone is. She tries not to move enough to cause too much pain, but it doesn't help. Every movement she makes just sends more pain shooting down her body, and it only gets worse as she drags herself off the training mat onto the cold tile floor. Her bones feel brittle against the hard floor, shifting like shards of broken glass against the paper máche of her too-thin skin. Everything hurts. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, oh god it hurts so fucking much- 

Rachel's body seizes up again, another wave of pain locking her joints and halting her progress. Tears sting at the corner of Rachel's eyes as her body trembles from exertion. She can't- she can't move. She can't keep going. It hurts too much. 

Rachel feels the panic start to set in at the realization. She needs to keep going, she needs to call for help but she can't. She can't do it. She can't fucking do it. Rachel locks her eyes on her phone, so close but still so far out of reach, and she feels fear rising in her chest. Desperately, Rachel reaches her hand out, and…

The world shifts around her, her vision distorting for a split-second as another wave of pain crashes against her skull. 

Rachel shuts her eyes tight, riding out the pain from the sudden intensity of her migraine. 

When she opens them again, the phone is within her reach. Rachel stares at it in confusion. 

How did she..?

Rachel pushes the thought aside as she sets on unlocking her phone and starts scrolling until she finds her father's contact. With trembling fingers, she slowly hits the dial and waits with pained, baited breath as Rachel listens to the phone as it rings…

And rings...

And rings.

Rachel hangs up before she can hear her dad's voicemail and calls him again. No response.

She calls Cassian. The phone rings out. No response.

She calls Alex next, but his phone doesn't even ring as she gets sent straight to voicemail.

Nobody answered. They didn't even read her texts from yesterday.

It hits Rachel, then, that she might actually die here. 

She's completely alone in the house, and her family isn't coming home anytime soon. She doesn't know if the neighbors can hear her, or if they're even around. She doesn't have anybody else she can call for help. She doesn't know if anybody will find her in time. She doesn't even know what's happening to her. 

Rachel is going to die here. She's going to die here, and nobody would know. The school would probably notice first, but it's not like they'd even be able to get a hold of her dad to ask what's going on. She doesn't have any friends from school to check up on her. If she dies here, how long would it take her family to notice? 

A family full of superheroes, and not a single one of them could save her. Poetic, really. 

She doesn't remember the last time she spoke with them. It wasn't too long ago, but it hasn't been anything worth remembering. Just a couple of words exchanged before they were gone again. 

They were never there when she needed them. She waited her whole life for them to show up, to just be part of her world.

The only time they'll ever be there for her is when she's dead. 

Rachel sobs harder at the thought. She gasps as her chest contracts with pain, the needles piercing through her lungs. Her body spasms, and Rachel's head smacks against the ground, sending another wave of agony shuddering through her.

Rachel bites her lip so hard it bleeds, the taste of iron coating her mouth as she tries not to make any more sudden movements. Her chest aches with every shuddering breath she takes. It hurts. It hurts, it hurts. She can't take this anymore.  

Rachel is scared. She's never been more afraid in her life. 

Helplessness bleeds in through the fear as Rachel feels what little strength she has left drain away. She feels her phone slip through her trembling fingers and her hope along with it as darkness starts to creep into her vision.

Rachel isn't a hero. She isn't good enough, isn't strong enough to even help herself. A small part of her wants to hope that her family is about to burst through those doors to save her in the nick of time, like in the movies she'd seen as a kid. But Rachel is hurting. She's been hurting for so many years now, and she's just too tired to hope for something so childish. She can't make a wish that she knows won't come true.

There are no heroes here. Not in this life. Not for her.

She held out for as long as she could, but she was tired, and her vision grew darker by the second. Everything feels fizzy and distant, like she was underwater. She could barely feel the pain anymore.

As she faded in and out of consciousness, Rachel heard noise, a muffled commotion and a sound that a distant part of her mind recognized as sirens.

The last thing Rachel hears before everything went dark was the sound of people breaking down her front door. 

Chapter Text

Hello Santa!

I'm writing my letter to you early so you have time to read it. I want to ask for something different this year instead of toys.

For Christmas I want my dad and my brothers to have the day off from work so they can spend the day with me. They are always very busy helping people (just like you!) but they always have to go fight bad guys (even on CHRISTMAS!!) and I miss them a lot.

Do you think you could make it so the bad guys stop being bad on Christmas please? I know its a lot to ask but it would mean a lot to me. I have been very good this year and my family is the best present to me. Thank you! -  Rachel Briar

The paper crumples in her grip as she reads the letter again. 

The handwriting is a neat but childish scrawl, the words faded and smudged from the years it's spent in the back of her closet, staining the tips of her fingers with lead as she holds it with shaking hands. 

Rachel remembers this letter. She doesn't know how it wound up in her closet, but she recognizes the words she'd written so long ago. 

She can feel the emotions stirring up from the depths of where she'd kept them buried beneath layers of ice, at the bottom of a lake that had long-since frozen over. She feels the ripples it sends into the water as the ice that covered the surface of the lake fractures just a bit.

Rachel must've been- what, eight years old when she wrote this? She barely even remembers, it's been so long.

Her memories of that time were vague, but she knows that her wish didn't come true. She would've remembered if her family had stuck around for the holidays when she was a kid. 

She knows she stopped believing in Santa after this letter. Even though she'd gotten an apology letter from "Santa" for not being able to make her wish come true (and giving her a bunch of dolls and frankly expensive gifts to make up for it) she'd stopped writing letters to him. Her family just assumed she'd grown out of it, but that wasn't the case.

Rachel still got gifts and notes, of course, but she never asked for anything after that. She already learned that Santa couldn't make miracles happen, after all, so there wasn't a point anymore. The magic was gone.

Rachel knows now, of course, that it was her family who wrote the letter. That they were the ones who read the letter she poured her heart into. She knows that sort of request obviously wasn't going to happen on such short-notice, especially when they're in the hero business. They were busy, and there just wasn't enough time. There was never enough time.

Her hands are shaking.

Rachel quickly wipes the mist from her eyes, forcing down the tangled knot of emotions that threatened to spill out from where she kept them in Pandora's box, sealing the lid back on tight. 

She's not going to cry right now. Not over this. Rachel's never been one to cry, and she's not about start now. Especially not after the day she's had. The anger she felt earlier is still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it's nothing but embers now. She'd used up all that fire in that argument, and it's left her burned out entirely.

The fight was the last thing she wanted to think about - the whole reason she'd started cleaning up her room in the first place - but now that she's acknowledged it, it's all that's on her mind- the memories of earlier today playing on loop in her head.

The letter crumples between her fingers, leaving ugly marks on the worn page.

It doesn't matter what they said to her. It doesn't matter if they think she's being unreasonable. It doesn't matter if their stupid hero complex refuses to accept the fact that what they were doing had hurt her- that all of them did. 

It doesn't matter.

Rachel crushes the letter into a ball, throwing it across the room as hard as she can. It hits the wall with a light thud , missing the bin and falling onto the carpet with far too much softness for the force she'd put behind it. Somehow, that only makes her more upset. 

Not for the first time, Rachel feels helpless.

It feels like everything she'd said to her brothers, everything she told dad about how she'd felt- it just went right over their heads. And Rachel feels terrible, because she knows that she can't fully fault them for it. Even with the anger simmering under her skin and tears stinging her eyes, she can't stop herself from looking at everything objectively. 

Rachel knew they were all having a rough day, even if they tried not to show it. They weren't expecting her to blow up at them from seemingly out of nowhere, even if it had only been a matter of time. They definitely weren't in the mood to deal with her outburst, and that's fair. As much as it upsets her, she understands that it wasn't the right time for her to break. 

But they also just… didn't understand. And how could they? They were never around to notice the signs, to notice Rachel's unhappiness. And it feels unfair, that she's the only one trying to see things from their perspective. She had a bad day too, but at least she's still trying to understand. 

Rachel knows whatever happened at their work today was bad. She knows that her family usually doesn't act the way they did- they're tired and irritable, sure, but never like that. Not with that sort of heaviness and exhaustion that seemed to be weighing them down like an anchor. 

Rachel knows she should've just kept her feelings to herself. Shouldn't have made what was clearly a bad day even worse for them. She saw their expressions for what it was, but she couldn't stop herself this time. She knows that on any other day, she might have acted different than the way she did. On any other day, maybe they would've listened. Not today.

Rachel knows that they still care, and she tries her best to remind herself of that fact, but it doesn't do anything to soften how she felt. How she still feels.

She's not going to count Cassian's attempt at being sympathetic, either. He completely ignored everything she'd been getting at by gently talking about how her outburst made them feel, because work had been rough today for them- and she gets it, she does - but that only made her more upset, and then it escalated into an argument because Alex got angry that she kept pushing the issue when her issues were the least of their problems today. 

And hearing that was what broke her.  

Rachel had known that, of course. She knows that she wasn't their priority. That she never was, and she never would be. But it still hurt to hear it. 

Her whole life, she just wanted them to try for her. She just wanted them to be a part of her life. And this is what all that waiting had led up to. Rachel sitting alone on her bedroom floor, trying not to cry over a stupid Christmas letter she found in her closet and thinking about an argument that ended hours ago.

Rachel is abruptly aware of the heaviness in her chest and tightness in her throat, years of anger and sadness and indignation all festering and boiling underneath her skin.

Rachel breath stutters in her chest as she desperately tries to fill her lungs with air without much success. Even through the stirrings of a potential panic attack, she refuses to make any sound. She doesn't want her family to hear her. 

It hurts to think back on everything that happened today, and her misery only brings back more bad memories - phantom pains, cold tile pressed against her face, screams for help that went unheard for hours - and Rachel can't breathe. 

She needs to leave. She can't- she can't stay here right now. She can't take another second in this house full of empty promises and empty memories.

She just wants to make it stop.

Rachel stood up abruptly, rushing over to her bedroom window and unlocking the latches on the sill before she could think twice about it.

A cool gust of wind hits Rachel's face as she opened the window, the distant sound of the city filtering in through it. 

It's dark outside, the sun having set hours ago, but Rachel can see the bright festive lights coming from the other houses down the street. 

Rachel can hear music coming from somewhere outside, a soft and festive melody she's heard a million times before.

"Oh the weather outside is frightful…"  

She imagines the notes dancing through the air like snowflakes, bringing a cheer that seems to fill every heart and home but hers.

"But the fire is so delightful…"

Rachel needs to go. She doesn't have a destination in mind- it's the middle of the night, and she doesn't have any friends to crash with, but it doesn't matter. She just needs to get away from here.

"And since we've no place to go…"

It's a two-story drop from the window to the ground below and over the fence. Rachel could make the jump easily, years of competitive gymnastics guiding her like second nature, but the real problem is the security system. Dad had installed cameras and motion sensors outside after the accident a few years back, to alert them in case she ever has an emergency where they're ever unable to check in with her again. 

It was a sign of how much her family cared about her. It was supposed to make her feel safe. 

Right now, she felt anything but that. 

"…is slowly dying-"

Rachel feels trapped. A songbird in a gilded cage, a moth pinned by its wings. A strangling fig wrapped around her lungs, slowly choking her with each breath she takes. 

She can't breathe.

"-and my dear, we're still goodbying-"

She needs to leave without getting caught on the cameras. There's only one way she knows how. She hasn't tried to use her Gift since the day it manifested. The memory of her agony had been enough to keep her from trying to use it, especially if she didn't know what her own limits were, but it was all she had. And Rachel was done playing it safe. She couldn't stay a second longer in this house.

"-But as long as you'd love me so,"

Rachel shut her eyes tight, focusing on that feeling she'd felt deep in her chest so long ago. 

Her vision shifts around her, the static spreading through her body. She feels the ground swaying beneath her feet as the world tilts and sways and she falls through, darkness overtaking her with a wave of vertigo as desperation finally pushes her to use the Gift she'd kept hidden for so long.

"Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!"

The moon is her only witness as Rachel, in the dead of night, disappears from her room without a trace.

Chapter Text

“DON'T TOUCH ME!”

Allen screamed, shoving Doug's hand off his shoulder and slamming into the lockers behind him.

Lucian and Doug both startled at the outburst, the jock stepping away from Allen and bumping into a group of freshmen that were walking past, nearly toppling some of them over. 

The chatter and bustle of students in the halls abruptly went silent at the sound of Allen's scream, students stopping what they were doing to look for the source of the commotion. 

Lucian swore under his breath as eyes landed on the three of them. A crowd started to form, murmurs and whispers coming from the other students as they all watched for a fight to break out like vultures eager to feast. 

Lucian couldn't help but feel vexed. He'd been trying to avoid any drama on Allen's first week back, but of course Doug just couldn't mind his own fucking business for once. 

Lucian glanced at Allen, trying to gauge his friend's reaction and hopefully deter him from trying anything stupid with the dozens of witnesses around them, but the avian wasn't even looking at the crowd.

Allen's chest was heaving, his fingers grasping his shirt tight as he fought for air. His eyes were glassy and unfocused as he stared out at nothing. Something dark clouded his gaze, like he wasn't all there. Like he was somewhere else. 

“Allen?” Lucian called out, and he felt a creeping sense of alarm when his friend didn't answer. 

Lucian caught a glimpse of the ruffled feathers peeking out from behind Allen's backpack and winced, noting the way his wings crumpled as he pushed himself against the lockers, the cold metal edge digging in uncomfortably between his shoulder blades. It looked painful, but there was nothing on the avian's face that showed he noticed it. 

“Uh.. you good, man?” Doug asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Lucian glared at him over his shoulder. 

“Shut the fuck up Doug,” Lucian hissed, “You started this.”

“I didn't fucking do anything!” Doug shot back.

Allen's gaze snapped to meet Doug's in the crowd, his eyes clear but sharper than before. His feathers bristled as if to make himself look larger, but his backpack kept his wings pinned against his back. 

Shit, this might get messy.

It would be so much easier for Lucian if he could just grab Allen by the collar and drag him away from this mess by force, the way he's always done whenever the birdbrain got into trouble. He gets the feeling that Allen won't react well to being grabbed right now, though, so he refrains from trying.

Lucian takes a tentative step closer to Allen, approaching him slowly with the same caution one would tread on thin ice.

“Ignore him Allen, he's a dick. Let's just go,” Lucian murmured, loud enough for just Allen to hear, but the avian doesn't answer. He doesn't break eye contact with Doug, the intensity of his gaze making the jock visibly uncomfortable.  

It's only then that Lucian looks at Allen, really looks at him. 

Allen's expression is carefully blank, but the look in his eyes is sharp, broken- like a shard of glass aimed right at Doug's throat. 

Lucian recognizes that look as anger, but it's nothing like anything he's seen from Allen. There's something vicious and barely restrained in his expression that doesn't belong anywhere on his friend's face. 

The tension in the air is electric, the hallway impossibly quiet for the amount of students that were gathered around. And with all the tact of a cattle prod ramming into an electrified fence, his friend shattered the silence. 

“You.” Allen growled, “You stay the fuck away from me”.

Allen's voice cracked near the end, betraying the fear in his voice. Something inside of Lucian's gut twists at the sound of it. But before Lucian could say anything, Allen turned away, shoving through the crowd and down the hall. 

Lucian just watched in shock as his friend rounded a corner and disappeared from view. 

Conversations started up again after that, students around them resuming what they were doing with murmured gossip about what had happened. Lucian overheard more than a few people's disappointment that there hadn't been a fight. Assholes.

He started to make his way after Allen, when a voice called out. 

“Hey, Sinclair. I want a word with you.”

Lucian turned, barely sparing a glance at the person behind him.

Doug stood there in the now-empty hallway, arms crossed and leaning against the locker that his friend had just slammed himself into minutes ago. 

“What do you want, Doug?” 

“Relax, princess,” Doug drawled, “We're just talking.”

“We don't talk.” 

Doug rolled his eyes at that. “Yeah, fucking wonder why.”

“What do you want?” Lucian asked again. He doesn't have time for this.

“I just said I wanted to talk with you.” Doug replied, a vaguely bored note in his voice, “You could try to fucking listen for once.”

Annoyance spiked through Lucian at the barb, and he felt his hands tingling with cold. 

Not the time, Lucian reminded himself. Doug was just trying to piss him off. He shouldn't let him get under his skin, he knows that, but it's easier said than done. He hates people like Doug more than anyone.

“Right.” Lucian replied, tone flat. “Like you talked with Allen just now?”

That didn't seem to have the reaction Lucian had been aiming for. Instead of shame or denial or whatever bullshit excuse he'd expected from the jock, Doug's expression darkened. The air around them shifted from casual to tense so fast that it left him off-balance.

Suddenly, Doug didn't seem so disinterested anymore. 

The jock's eyes narrowed as he looked down on him, and Lucian was promptly reminded of the fact that they were completely alone here. 

He wondered briefly if he was seriously about to get into a fucking fight while Allen was off having a panic attack somewhere. If he wasn't a shit friend before this, he definitely qualified now.

For an unsettling moment, Doug didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring at him with an indiscernible expression. 

Lucian wishes he knew what the jock was thinking, but he doesn't really know Doug well enough to read him. They've barely spoken to each other outside of the few classes they shared, besides the few times he'd caught the jock harassing Allen or Rags. It's not like Lucian grew up in the same district as them. He doesn't know Doug as well as the other two do. 

“There’s something wrong with him, you know.” Doug said, his tone serious in a way he'd never heard before.

Lucian blinked, completely thrown off. “What?”

Despite the sharpness in his gaze, Doug's voice kept that same bored, conversational note. “Something’s wrong with Allen.”

“...What do you mean?” 

“He's different.” Doug said, waving off-handedly. Like that clarified anything. 

Lucian just stared back at the jock, uncomprehending. “He was kidnapped for a fucking year.” 

Doug just cocked his head to the side at that, considering. He didn't even react to that reminder. Not a flicker of sympathy or shame for someone who had gone through so much, like he hadn't driven that same person to a panic attack moments ago. Like he hadn't given Allen countless bruises even before that.

Lucian slowly clenches his hands into fists at his side, trying to stop any frost from forming. He's not getting into a fight when Allen's on his own right now. He's not going to give Doug the satisfaction of a reaction. 

“Thought he didn't remember any of it?” Doug asked. His voice was deceptively even, almost teasing, but his eyes were sharp as they looked down on him. 

“Yeah. Because it was traumatic.” Lucian replied, incredulous. This wasn't at all what he was expecting from this conversation. 

“See, and that's the part I'm confused about,” Doug said, pushing himself off the lockers and sauntering towards him. 

Lucian felt his heart stop at the sudden movement, and instinctively the temperature dropped around them. 

Cold air suddenly permeated the space around them, the shift too drastic to be brushed off as a draft. Lucian hid a wince at the smirk that tugged on Doug's mouth for a second. He definitely noticed. Damnit. So much for keeping his emotions in check.

“‘Cause for someone who doesn't remember anything,” Doug continued, not commenting on the temperature drop, “He seemed pretty damn touchy about his wings.” 

Doug reached a hand out to Lucian's shoulder, the same way he'd done with Allen. Lucian quickly stepped back, more annoyed than unsettled. 

Doug moved away with his hands raised, something amused and vaguely sheepish in his expression. He didn't look sorry, though.

“That doesn't mean he's lying,” Lucian countered. “And it's none of your business anyway.”

“So what if it's not? I'll do what I want.” 

Lucian couldn't stop the frost from forming inside his clenched fists this time, the anger burning through him so much it froze. 

“So what?” Lucian snapped, “You fucking harassed him because you wanted to know if he was lying? Are you fucking serious?” 

Doug didn't react to the ice in his voice. Like always, the jock never seemed phased by anything Lucian said. 

“Me?” Doug raised an eyebrow, feigning shock at the accusation. “Nah, I don't really give a shit. He's a shit liar, anyways.” He shrugged. “I was just trying to ask him a question, but then birdbrain freaked the fuck out on me.”

For the first time in the conversation Doug actually sounded annoyed, frowning slightly as he seemed to think back on Allen's reaction.

Lucian hated to admit it, but he understood where Doug was coming from. Doug's probably been around Allen long enough to know what he's like. Hell, those two have been at each other's throats for longer than Lucian had even been friends with the avian. They both knew how unusual Allen's outburst was.

Doug sighed heavily, interrupting his thoughts. The jock dragged a hand down his face, almost deflating. When he looked up at Lucian, and he didn't look as smug as before. He just looked frustrated. 

“Look,” Doug started, not looking at him, “I tried asking Allen first 'cause I didn't wanna fucking pry, but I might as well ask you too, since I figure you might give me an actual answer.”

Doug stared at Lucian, seeming to look for something in his expression. Whatever it is, he seems to find it as he continues. “Why is Allen here?”

What? “...I'm not following.”

“How the fuck is he here?” Doug growled, genuine irritation flashing through for a second. “They had him for a fucking year and he just- what? Fucking pulled some Houdini shit and got away?” 

“Maybe they just let him go, Doug.” Lucian sighed, ignoring the way his heart started beating faster in his chest. 

Doug laughed, the sound harsh and disbelieving. “An exotic hybrid like him? Not a fucking chance.”

Lucian's mind slammed to a stop at his statement. 

Oh. Oh, god. He'd never even considered that Allen might have been trafficked. He'd known wherever his friend had been wasn't a good place, but he'd never thought about why it happened. The thought that he was a hybrid- that he was valuable - had never even crossed his mind.

Lucian felt sick at the thought of his friend being seen as something exotic.

Doug sobered up a little, averting his gaze from Lucian's stunned expression. “Look. It's a shit situation, but things aren't lining up. They wouldn't let him go without a reason. And it's not like he could hide with those wings.”  

A sinking feeling settled in Lucian's stomach, icy tendrils of dread creeping through. “What are you implying, Doug?”

“I think you know what I mean, Sinclair."

Silence.

“Fuck you.”

“Sinclair-” Doug started, but Lucian cut him off.

“No. No, I'm not fucking listening to this. If you think Allen would ever help a villain, then you clearly don't fucking know him. We're done here.”

Lucian sharply turned away, ignoring the ice he'd left behind on the tiled floor.

“Don't let him out of your sight, Sinclair!” Doug called out after him. Lucian doesn't look back, only gripping the straps of his backpack tighter.

“Fucking asshole, piece of shit” Lucian muttered under his breath. His hands have gone numb from the cold, the thin layer of frost having crept up all the way to his forearms during that brief loss of composure. He shook his arms out, trying to regain feeling in them again while they thawed. “Fuck him.”

He can't believe he wasted his time listening to that asshole. He knows Allen's been different, sure, but he didn't realize people that were already forming theories. Nausea crawled up his throat at the knowledge that people were already saying those kinds of things about his friend behind their back. 

He can't wrap his head around how Doug would come to that conclusion, though. The logic was there, but Allen's the furthest from a villain you can get. Since he'd met him, all he's ever talked about was becoming a hero. 

Lucian was never optimistic about his chances, sure - Giftless weren't really capable for hero work, not to mention his wings sort of killed any chance for secrecy - but Allen had heart. He had dreams.

Allen is a lot of things - reckless, stupid, impulsive - but he cares. He's always stood up for other people, always had those stars in his eyes whenever he talked about heroes. He isn't the type to screw other people over to help himself- he's taken enough beatings and detentions in Raggie's place for that to be abundantly clear. 

But that won't stop people from talking. Doug had actually known Allen, and he'd still made those assumptions of him. As much as he hates it, he knows that his friend will be the subject of gossip and misinformation for however long until public interest dies down. 

If Allen wanted to be a hero before, there's no chance he could be one now. Not with his face plastered on every news station. He wonders if Allen had realized that yet. (He wonders if Allen even wants to be a hero after this.)

Lucian can admit though, he was wrong about Doug. The jock might be brash and abrasive, but he's far from stupid. 

That was his mistake. He'd only ever seen the cocky, overconfident attitude from the guy and just assumed he was another douchebag with a strong Gift. 

Which he is, but he knows better now than to believe Doug is just a brute. He's sharp, perceptive. A shark who will go to whatever lengths to find blood in the water. He'll have to be more careful around him, for Allen's sake.

Lucian picked up the pace as he walked through the halls, trying to figure out where his friend went. It's usually not hard to pick the avian out from a crowd. 

Doug was right about that part, at least. Allen couldn't hide even if he wanted to. Being an avian wasn't the problem, but he's a macaw hybrid, which meant his massive fucking wings could stop traffic just from how bright they were. It always made sneaking out anywhere with him impossible, although it didn't stop them from trying. Allen was just made to draw attention, he supposed.

Lucian smiled to himself a little, thinking back on how much Allen would complain when he was forced to tuck his wings away at school. They were just too distracting, and Allen was way too expressive with them and kept smacking people when they got too close. It was after the fourth time that Allen sent someone to the nurse's office after getting their face smashed in by his wings that the school had deemed them a safety hazard and basically banned Allen - and only Allen - from having his wings out altogether. 

It was something they'd always teased Allen about, because of course he'd be the only avian in the school whose wings had a body count. Allen always made a point of complaining about how they were taking away his avian rights. Lucian agreed that it was kind of messed up, since his wings are literally a part of his body, but he understood why they did it. It didn't stop Allen from whining though.

Lucian's smile faded. Allen hadn't really made any comments about it, recently. Lucian doesn't think he's even seen Allen let his wings out at any point since he'd come back, even though the avian usually took any opportunity to stretch his wings. They were always just pinned behind his backpack, almost dragging behind him sometimes. 

Like dead weight.

Lucian ignores the unease that churns in his stomach at the thought. They don't know if Doug was right about what happened to Allen. The thought of a trafficking ring in a city this big, with this many heroes - it didn't seem likely. There's plenty of other reasons a villain would kidnap someone. And surely they would've noticed if hybrids had been going missing. 

Lucian stops at the entrance to the staff restroom, the one in the hallway by the labs. The boy’s restroom was closer, but more likely to be full, and Allen never cared about where he could or shouldn't go. His wings are too big for him to ditch school without being noticed either, so. Staff restroom. 

He can see the lights on from under the door, but it didn't sound like it was being used. He could see some movement from underneath, though. A very big, irregular shadow, and the slight rustling of feathers.

Lucian opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated.

There's something wrong with him, you know.

Lucian doesn't know if Allen remembers what happened in the last year. He doesn't know if Doug was right about where he'd been. 

He knows he's changed, though. He'd seen it in Allen's eyes, when he'd slammed into those lockers away from Doug. When he bared his teeth in a way that was so unlike the Allen he knew. There was danger written in his eyes, but there were cracks in the mask. 

He looked afraid. He looked feral. 

But this was Allen. This was still his best friend. And even though Allen hasn't talked about it yet, Lucian can't help but feel responsible for what happened. If they hadn't had that fight, hadn't let him storm off, then maybe everything would've been okay. But he can't change the past. All he can do is try not to make the same mistake. Allen deserves that much, at least. 

Lucian takes a breath, preparing himself. He's never been good at comforting people, and Allen doesn't really like to be comforted either, so this was gonna be really fucking awkward. But this was his friend. He knows he'd do the same for him.

Lucian raises his hand to the door, and knocks twice.

“Hey, Allen. Are you in there?” 

It doesn't matter if he's changed. He refuses to leave his best friend again.

Chapter Text

The light was blinding.

It illuminated the darkened streets of the city, the ground indiscernible from the night sky for a single, agonizing moment.

And then everything was dark.

His head throbbed even as the lights dimmed, the bright afterimage still lingering behind his eyelids. 

A groan bubbled out of him as something around him shifted, and his chest hurt. Slowly, he squinted his eyes open, wincing at the pain that shot through his skull at the motion.

The first thing he saw was the ground, and it took him a moment to realize he was lying face down on the street, cheek pressed against the pavement. The taste of blood and dirt lingered on his tongue, his throat scratchy and dry. His head throbbed with pain.

Why was he…?

He doesn't remember. Everything from before the light just felt blurred, out of reach.

A strange flapping sound came from above- wings, his brain told him - the sound familiar even through the pounding headache. And then that blinding light was back, touching down onto the ground in front of him. He winced against the harsh light, squeezing his eyes closed and trying to turn away, but his movement was restricted.

He coughed, choking on dust and smoke, and it only made everything hurt more. There was a crushing pressure on his chest, and it hurt so much to breathe.

Through half-lidded eyes, he squinted up against the harsh light. It took several seconds for his brain to catch up with what he was seeing.

The source of the light was a woman, with bright white wings. For a brief second, he wondered if he was dead, but- no, she's not an angel. His thoughts felt slow, like he was moving through molasses. He doesn't remember how, has never seen her before but - he recognized her. 

Seraphim, the name came unbidden. His brain finally recognized her telltale wings and angelic light. A hero, but not his.

The heroine hovered above him, blinding in her glory, pure white wings stretching out behind her as she descended. There was a moment where he thought of calling to her for help - heroes help people, don't they? - but he stopped himself. 

He… shouldn't do that. He's not sure why, but he knows that he can't.

As he watched the heroine land gracefully and fold her wings behind her, something on his back twitched in response.

His wings. He remembered with a sudden jolt, but when he tried to move them he nearly screamed at the agony that shot through the appendages. Why couldn't he move his wings?

It wasn't until that moment that his brain finally started to process what was going on. Warm blood dripped down his face and onto the pavement below. It took more effort than it should've to look over his shoulder, but he finally realized why he couldn't move. He was buried beneath rubble, hundreds of pounds of debris pressing down on him, crushing him beneath. 

The second thing he registered was the pain. All of it.

Every breath he took hurt, a sharp spiking pain in his lungs, and his legs felt worse. He could feel bits of concrete and shattered glass against his skin, small cuts littered around his arms. Something sharp and uncomfortable poked at his lungs when he breathed, and he thinks one of his ribs might be broken. 

None of that pain compared to the alarm he felt when he realized his wings were crushed as well, effectively useless. He could feel the concrete and metal grinding against feathers and bone, feathers bent and crumpled and torn. Tears stung his eyes at the realization, but he refused to let them fall. He was trapped.

Shit. He'd messed up, badly. His heart picked up speed as he realized that he didn't know how to salvage this. He barely stopped himself from flinching when the heroine suddenly started walking towards him. 

The heroine stood before him, the white and golden colors of her costume shining under the moonlight and making her look ethereal.

“Well,” Seraphim spoke, and he wasn't sure why he was surprised that she would speak. “This is unfortunate, isn't it?”

He frowned at the sense of deja vu that the voice brought him, something about it extremely familiar but.. off, somehow. Different. He couldn't figure it out though, his head pounding too hard to focus. Concussion, probably.

“You can't fight like this, much less fly away.” Seraphim continued in his silence, with a thoughtful hum. He could hardly hear her through the ringing in his ears.

He twitched one of his wings again, only to hiss at the pain that shot through it, radiating down his back.

“It’s broken.” the heroine informed, unhelpfully. If they weren't currently crushed beneath thousands of pounds of rubble, his feathers probably would've flared up at the comment. 

“Gee…you think?” he wheezed out, and yep, his ribs were definitely broken. Shit.

For some reason, he winced after the quip left his mouth, feeling like he'd crossed some kind of line. The heroine didn't react to the comment, though.

Seraphim sighed. “That means you've failed, Alecto.” 

Alecto. He blinked at the name, the puzzle piece sliding into place, the rest following suit. 

Despite the haze of exhaustion and pain and his concussion, his brain eventually caught onto the words that were spoken, and he couldn't stop the fear that spiked through his heart.

“N-no.” Alecto protested, and he knows he shouldn't argue but he can't, he can't fail this. “...‘m not..not dead yet.” 

“You're incapacitated.” they said, and it was final. “There's no point in continuing like this. If this was a real scenario, you'd already be dead.”

As Seraphim spoke, the city around them began to melt, like a chalk drawing being washed out in the rain. Alecto felt the pressure ease off his chest, bit by bit, and he found it a little easier to breathe, a little less painful. With each passing second, the agony of his broken wings slowly faded away into wisps of nothing.

The scene around them dissolved along with the debris, leaving only Alecto and Seraphim in the darkness. For a single, blissful moment, there was no pain, no crushed or shattered bones. Blood was no longer streaming down his face, and his skin was smooth and mostly unscarred. None of that mattered, though, compared to his wings.

Alecto brushed his hand against the obsidian feathers, no blood or grit between them, not crushed beneath concrete and metal. The feathers were messy and in desperate need of preening, but they weren't damaged. Only the faintest sense of discomfort lingered, phantom pains echoing through his body.

Alecto should feel relief that it was over, but all he felt in that moment was cold dread. Not even the feeling of his wings, unharmed and in-tact, calmed the anxiety that ran through him like a livewire. 

He flinched as Seraphim's light suddenly died out, her wings and body burning away into nothing. Skin and muscle and fat burned and bubbled down to bone and ash, but she did not scream. Alecto barely stopped himself from gagging as the smell of burning flesh hit him, so pungent he could taste it, but he did not look away.

It was like watching a star collapsing in on itself, although he doesn't remember ever seeing the sky. It felt like the right description, though. A tragedy in motion. 

All at once, it stopped.

Where Seraphim once stood, in brilliant white light and wings that stretched to the heavens, was a presence. Or maybe an absence. It formed out of the smoke and shadows around them, black upon black, only flickers of electric violet and the unnatural presence they held distinguished them from the rest of the void.

The figure was somehow darker than the abyss around them, with only a vague impression of a body and robes that melted into the surrounding void. The only remarkable feature was the mask. A black leather plague doctor mask with a symbol inscribed on it, the eyes of the mask glowing violet, looking down on him like spotlights. The smell of ozone was heavy in the air.

Alecto hurriedly knelt, muscle memory guiding him through the distinctive salute like second nature. 

“Melinoë,” Alecto greeted, suddenly nervous. His performance in this assessment had been the worst it's ever been, and it was always hard to predict how their mentor would react. Melinoë was a fickle being. They might not be as sadistic as the other instructors, but to Alecto their punishments were by far the worst, even if they never left any physical scars.

“Alecto,” Melinoë acknowledged. “You've improved a lot since our last session.”

Where Seraphim's voice was powerful and expressive, Melinoë spoke in a cold undertone. The faintest hint of static crackled through their words, as if they were talking through an old radio. It was extremely unnerving, but it was something Alecto had long since grown used to.

Alecto kept their gaze to the ground, although there wasn't really a ground. Just darkness. “I live to serve.”

Melinoë didn't answer, but Alecto felt their eyes on him. He did his best to ignore the weight of Melinoë's gaze as the sineater circled around him. It took every ounce of willpower he had to keep his feathers flat against his back. He didn't know what it was about Melinoë that made his instincts scream to get away, but he knows that Melinoë dislikes those displays. 

The silence was excruciating, but eventually Alecto heard a soft burst of static that sounded like a sigh. “Somehow I find that hard to believe, little Aleks.”

Alecto’s muscles strained to hold his pose as he fought the wave of relief that flooded him once he heard the nickname. Melinoë didn't often call him that, which meant they were in a good mood today. Or at least as close as Melinoë gets to anything resembling a good mood. "Alecto.”

Hearing the unspoken instruction, Alecto lifted his head to meet Melinoë's gaze. His breath hitched in his lungs, something instinctual making him freeze like a deer in headlights, but he did not look away.

“Tell me," Melinoë began, their voice as quiet as it always was, “What lesson did you neglect?” 

Alecto understood the question for what it was. What was your mistake? 

Alecto wracked his brain, replaying each scene of that fight in his mind, only to feel more and more hopeless as he realized just how thoroughly he'd messed up. He had failed in so many ways, it was impossible to know where to even start. His heart dropped as he realized there was no possible answer he could give that would appease their instructor. But he was given an order, and Alecto could not ignore an order.

“...I don't know, sir." Alecto answered, his voice wavering despite his attempt to hide it. The resulting silence was deafening, and Alecto's heart pounded in his chest.

“You don't know.” Melinoë repeated, nothing in their tone.

It took every ounce of control to keep himself together, but Alecto knew it wasn't enough. This was Melinoë's domain, and there was no hiding from them here.

“I-I-” Alecto started, but his throat closed up. He didn't know what he was going to say. There was nothing he could say. He had failed. 

Asphodel does not tolerate mistakes. The Pantheon has no place for sinners who cannot overcome their imperfections. There is no place for failure in a perfect world.

Melinoë had taken a risk by taking him as his charge. Asphodel had given him everything - a second chance, a clean slate, had bestowed him with powers beyond what was possible and a purpose greater than himself. Even though Alecto had barely met their standards, the sineater still saw his potential, still believed that he was capable of becoming something more. They'd given him so many chances when he didn't deserve it, and he'd still failed. Alecto would never be worthy of salvation. He wasn't even worth the air he breathed. 

Before he even realized it, a keen sounded out of his throat. Alecto froze, blood draining from his face as horror washed through him. He slammed his hand against his mouth in an effort to smother the sounds, but it was too late. Once the tears started pouring out of him, he couldn't stop. Alecto’s wings curled around himself, his eyes shut tight as he choked on the tears and the distressed chirps from the back of his throat that just wouldn't stop. 

Alecto didn't dare look up at Melinoë, couldn't bear to see what their mentor thought of his miserable display. He could have taken his failure with grace, but instead he was acting like a fledgling crying for his mother.

Don't show weakness. One of the simplest lessons that Melinoë had taught him, one essential to survive Asphodel's tests and trials. Vulnerability can and will be exploited - it is not a rule of Asphodel, but a simple fact of life. And he couldn't even do that one thing right.

He should be better than this. This sort of behavior was beneath him. But Alecto isn't good enough, has never been good enough, and he only started sobbing harder at the fact that he'd failed his mentor once again. 

Alecto knows that he should try to salvage what little dignity he has left and face his death with grace. He should feel honored for the chance he had been given, to cleanse his sins and be a part of something greater than himself. He should be grateful to have survived for this long, when the countless others that he'd sacrificed to get here could not say the same. Alecto was being selfish, childish even. But knowing that didn't soften how he felt, didn't stop the tears. Nothing would change the terror he felt in this moment.

Alecto doesn't want to die. Not now, not yet, not after everything. But he knows deep down that what he wants has never mattered, and how he feels changes nothing. Asphodel does not tolerate imperfection. Alecto will not be making it to his next assessment. 

“Calma, cotorro. You need to breathe.”

Melinoë’s voice broke through Alecto's spiraling thoughts, their voice firm but not harsh.

Alecto could only chirp a few miserable notes in response, only to flinch and press his hand harder against his mouth. He felt pathetic. He was supposed to be better than this. He couldn't help but flinch as he felt a hand press against the back of his head, slowly guiding him to lean against the other's shoulder.

Alecto froze at the gesture, instincts screaming at each other in contradictions of run-fly-getaway and need-hurt-longing before slowly, tentatively easing into it. 

There was no warmth in the embrace. If anything, it felt like Melinoë was draining the heat from him, rather than radiating it themselves. It was a cold sort of dread that seeped into his core and through the tips of his primaries, something inside him instinctively shying away from the threat. He doesn't really know what Melinoë is, but everything about them felt wrong. Still, Alecto couldn't help but lean into the hold, something desperate clawing inside of him as he tried to soak up as much comfort as he could. 

Alecto doesn't have any memories of being held like this. He knows it must have happened at some point before, but he's never felt touch without some form of pain, and part of him was still bracing to be hurt. The logical part of his brain kept screaming at him that this was just another trick, another test, and he'd made the wrong choice again. Asphodel had always been fond of mind games, and rarely was anything that Melinoë did ever not some kind of test. And maybe it was selfish and incredibly stupid, but he couldn't stop himself from taking that chance.

The embrace wasn't comforting. It wasn't warmth or safety or security, and Alecto knew nothing would truly change after it was done. But it was acceptance, acknowledgement of his pain and hurt and fear, and it was the closest thing to kindness he would ever have in this place.

He didn't want to let go of this, didn't want to lose this moment, but he knew it was all he could afford to take. He couldn't allow himself more than this moment of weakness. It took some effort, but eventually Alecto pushed away, stifling the chirps that wanted to escape his throat as tears finally ran out, leaving him feeling empty. 

He's certain Melinoë isn't supposed to offer any sort of comfort. Attachments are a weakness. Melinoë was already accepted by the Pantheon, and any pointless attachments - memories, emotions, desires - are left behind during their apotheosis. But Melinoë had shown him comfort, and for the life of him Alecto couldn't understand why. Melinoë has never struck him as the sentimental sort. Countless hours of being tortured, maimed, and killed in their simulations and being forced to relive the deaths of the other failures so Alecto would learn from their fatal mistakes told him otherwise.

Melinoë clearly had no issue with watching him break, and Alecto wouldn't expect them to. Asphodel has little tolerance for failure, and Melinoë especially didn't encourage any sort of weakness in their acolytes. They weren't here to coddle him, they were here to mold him in Asphodel's image. Pointless sympathy had no place in that.

Another test, then? Alecto had no idea. Few things with Melinoë weren't, but he had no idea why they would test him that way. It didn't make any sense, but Melinoë was a fickle being, and Alecto knows he wouldn't be able to find the answer to questions they didn't want answered, so he did not ask.

“..‘m sorry, sir." He rasped, his voice rough with tears. Weirdly enough, Alecto felt more embarrassed than anything. He was still nervous about the consequences if this really was a test, but he also felt embarrassed for crying in front of somebody else.

Melinoë did not acknowledge the apology. “You're still young,” they said instead. “But you will learn.”

Promise and threat and order all in one. Alecto wonders if he'll even live long enough for that to happen. Melinoë makes no comment on it either, but they seemed to know where his train of thought lead.

"You have failed, yes, but you've still made remarkable progress since our last session," Melinoë told him, gently brushing a blond strand away from Alecto's tear-streaked face. "You are still young. You are expected to make mistakes." 

Alecto knew what had been left unspoken. Do not make the same mistake again.

Melinoë continued. "Despite your inexperience, you did not hesitate to fight against an opponent stronger than you. You've adapted well to your new Gift, and that is not something that comes naturally to most.” Alecto shifted in place, hyper-aware of the wings that moved along with him. “But you neglected the myth of Icarus. Do you know what the lesson was?"

Alecto had never been very good at remembering the myths, but he thought back on his battle against Seraphim. How they'd both flown higher and higher into the skies, adrenaline flooding his veins and dodging her blasts with ease until his luck ran out. 

“Don't be cocky?” Alecto replied, but it came out sounding more like a question than he would have liked.

Melinoë hummed, although it sounded more like static than anything. Alecto realized that they had done the same thing as Seraphim. “You could relate it to that, yes," they conceded, "Icarus had flown with wings made of wax, and despite the warnings of his father he flew too close to the sun. The wax on his wings melted and he plummeted to the waters below. His recklessness was his own undoing.”

“But he was free,” Alecto said, unable to stop himself, and he instantly regretted it.

Silence. Alecto felt his heart beating faster in his chest, although he tried not to show it. Not that it would have made a difference. There was no hiding from Melinoë here.

“He was a fool.” Melinoë corrected, their voice distinctly colder than it had been, “He thought he was invulnerable to the dangers he was warned of, and it cost him everything. Don't make assumptions of what comes after, or even entertain the idea of an after. Death is not freedom, it is oblivion.”

“...My apologies, sir.” Alecto replied, slightly shaken. He'd overstepped his place, and whatever softness Melinoë had shown vanished as a result. “I just..admire the story of Icarus and Daedalus.” And he did.

A boy in a prison, a bird in a cage. He'd gotten his wings and he flew far away. He saw the ocean and the sky, felt the wind in his hair and the sun on his face. He flew when nobody thought it was possible. He was free.

“And he ended up dead in the bottom of the ocean.” Melinoë replied, their tone distinctly unimpressed. “Is that the kind of hero you want to be?”

“..No, sir.”

Melinoë stared at them for a moment. “You may live to serve, Alecto, but do try not to martyr yourself at every opportunity. The Pantheon has no use for a corpse.” 

…Was that sarcasm? There was almost a vague hint of humor in their mentor's voice. Alecto was so used to the image Melinoë presented themselves as that he sometimes forgot they were a person once too. They barely seemed human most of the time, hardly ever speaking during lessons and rarely showing any emotion, that those barest flickers of personality always caught him off guard.

Alecto wonders if the other sineaters were like that. If they still had that hint of humanity in them that their apotheosis didn't quite erase. Probably not. Alecto's only met Lethe, and while he doesn't really remember his sessions with the other sineater, something about her made him feel deeply unnerved. Lethe was more like a doll than a person. No matter how often he saw her, there was never any recognition in her eyes.

Alecto forced himself to focus back on Melinoë's words, understand the implications. He hadn't felt like he'd been particularly reckless during that simulation, but he wasn't the best judge of that. Icarus had ignored his father's warnings, had he ignored his own lessons while facing his trial? He'd been trying to do the impossible, fighting an opponent that completely outmatched him - flying too close to the sun - and because of that, he'd lost his wings. But wasn't that the point of the session? To fight against a difficult opponent?

Alecto's eyes widened with realization. "I wasn't meant to defeat Seraphim." It wasn't a question.

Melinoë wasn't an idiot. The real Seraphim had years of experience on Alecto. They would have known there was no way for Alecto to win against Seraphim, not at this point. Granted, it was only a simulation, but their mentor wouldn't have coddled him by making her easier to defeat. But maybe that was the point.  

"You wanted to know how I'd react in that situation. That was the real test, wasn't it?" Melinoë just wanted to see what he would do, when faced with a trial that would destroy him if he tried to complete it.

Alecto wasn't sure if that meant he'd failed or not, but Melinoë's silence was all the confirmation he needed.

"There are many ways one could have handled a situation where they are not the one in pursuit. Many try to win through sheer power, but most lose themselves to panic as soon as they realize the gravity of their situation. Most try to run until they exhaust themselves. Some have given up entirely." There was a weight to the words, an unspoken understanding that eased the pressure in Alecto's chest. He hadn't failed. He lost the trial, but he had not failed.

There was no instruction, but none was needed. Alecto stood on shaking knees, a spark of determination inside of him despite the exhaustion pulling at his limbs. The sineater had passed their judgment, and Alecto was deemed worthy of another chance. He wasn't going to fail again. He would prove to Melinoë that he could accomplish the impossible. 

Alecto might not stand a chance against Seraphim's power, but if he'd learned anything from the myths, it's that even the gods themselves could be outsmarted. Seraphim was just a hero. As long as he was careful, as long as he didn't get cocky, then Alecto still stood a chance. He wouldn't underestimate her again.

“I won't let you down, sir.” Alecto would make sure of it. The Pantheon had no place for false idols, after all.

He doesn't know what expression he was wearing, but Alecto could almost imagine the smile in their mentor's voice. "That's the spirit, little crow.”

Alecto smiled. He won't be the one buried beneath concrete this time around.

Chapter Text

Laughter fills the room, pre-recorded voices spilling out from the phone held in Lucian's hands as he lets the video play-

- An explosion. It rings out, loud and percussive as the camera jolts violently. He hears shrieks mixed with laughter and the voice of a teacher shouting over the commotion.

The camera shakes with sudden movement, focused on blurred ground and shoes pounding against pavement. 

A huge pair of wings takes up most of the frame - vibrant hues of reds, greens, and blues painting a kaleidoscope of color - attached to a boy with wild blond hair running ahead of him.

Lucian hears his own voice hissing, shouting at the other boy. "Damnit, Allen!"

The camera stops shaking, and for a moment there's only the sound of labored breathing.

Lucian's voice speaks up first. "One of these days, you're gonna get yourself killed-" a shaky inhale, "-and I'm gonna laugh at your feathered ass." 

The boy with the kaleidoscope wings doesn't respond, but his laughter rings out through the speakers- bright and unrepentant, on the verge of hysterics - right before the video cuts out.

Lucian stares at his phone, eyes fixated on the last frame of the video. The camera had caught Allen mid-cackle, bright green eyes scrunched up with mirth, shoulders hunched over with the force of his laughter. His hair was a mess, loose blond strands falling over his face and ends standing up like a bird's nest. Vibrant wings fluffed up behind his back, beautiful hues of color painted across his feathers.

The footage is blurred and out-of-focus, but he could still see Allen's smile, clear as day. Could almost hear his laughter still, echoes in the hallways of his memory.

Something in Lucian's chest clenches at the sight of it. A memory of laughter, tinged with nostalgia so bitter it was like poison on the back of his tongue.

It's a hollow ache, but one that he's grown softly familiar with over these last months. An empty numbness blanketing the stinging grief underneath his skin. Like frostbite sinking teeth into flesh, regret so deep it burns.

His best friend's smiling face stares back at him, frozen in time.

It was such a dumb video. Lucian honestly couldn't even remember what Allen had been trying to do in the first place. It was just another one of Allen's stupid ideas that he'd somehow managed to rope them into. The recording wasn't even a minute long, and the quality was shit for most of it, but-

Allen laughs, bright and completely unrepentant. Asshole.

Lucian glares at him from where he's doubled over, trying to catch his breath. Allen laughs again, but he's not much better off - his laugh comes out more like a wheeze than anything.

It takes the avian a moment to catch his breath enough to respond.

"Yeah? Well if I die, then it's your fault for not stopping me, Lu."

- Out of all the photos and videos he had of Allen, this was the one he always came back to. This was the one that stuck the most.

They managed to avoid getting caught by the teachers that day, although Eloise and Raggie hadn't been as lucky. They even ditched the school to hang out afterwards.

It was the first time Lucian got to explore the city at night, and one of the few times he got to hang out with just Allen.

Hot slices of pizza in their hands, the street lights flickering on one by one as the sun went down. Wandering aimlessly around the city for hours, talking about heroes and movies and latest Doomed updates. Allen's desperate insistence that the explosion hadn't been intentional. Laughter leaving them both breathless.

The memory was bittersweet, soured by everything that had happened since then.

Allen had turned himself in the day after that. Eloise and Raggie had covered for them, but Allen had refused to let someone else take the fall for him. 

He always had to be the hero. Always had to do the right thing, even when it made everything harder for himself. That's just who Allen was. Always too honest, too stubborn, too righteous to see that shit didn't just work out if you played nice. No matter how many times Lucian tried to tell him otherwise, that idiot never fucking listened. And now he's-

Because of him.

- If I die, then it's your fault for not stopping me.

Nothing had been the same since Allen went missing.

Raggie still refuses to talk to him. Eloise said she didn't blame him, but she doesn't really talk to him anymore either. Lucian couldn't hold it against them. They'd only been friends with him because of Allen, after all. Allen was the one who held their group together, and Lucian was the reason he was gone.

Lucian turned towards his bedroom window, half-expecting to see Allen's mischievous grin on the other side, tapping on the glass to let him in.

A few months before, Allen had taken to making it his personal mission to drag Lucian out of bed and get to school on time. He was the only morning person between the two, and he loved to make Lucian's life more difficult. It became an inside joke between the two of them.

"Rise and shine, Lu!" Allen shouted, sing-song. "Get your ass out of bed already. Early bird gets the worm, you know?" 

Lucian glared at Allen, who was somehow already dressed and bright-eyed at six in the goddamn morning. "I'm going to fucking kill you if you keep doing this."

Allen just laughed at that. "Are you gonna be my arch-nemesis, then?" he teased. "Is this your villain origin story?" 

He never thought he'd miss waking up at some ungodly hour of the morning. Allen was always just a part of his routine, always there on the dot, knocking on Lucian's bedroom window like the world's most obnoxious home intruder.

He never really thought about how Allen didn't even live in the same district as him, but that never seemed to stop the avian. Lucian wondered if Allen ever got into any trouble with the heroes on early patrols, but he pushes the thought aside. It's not like he could ask him.

Lucian still thinks about that night. Seeing the hurt in his best friend's eyes when he'd yelled at him to wake the fuck up, the betrayal written on his face when he had brought up Allen not having a Gift. The immediate regret, how he was too stubborn - too stupid - to take it back.

Allen had exploded on him for it, had rightfully given as good as he got. He hid it better than Lucian, but he had a temper of his own.

Cutting words laced with anger, eyes that couldn't glow but still gleamed with betrayal, feathers flared in an effort to distract Lucian from what he really felt.

"Out of everyone, I thought at least you'd have my back!"

He remembers the cold crawling up his arms as he watched Allen storm off, vibrant wings washed out under the darkness.

And then Allen was gone. Just like that.

Lucian wishes he'd apologized right then and there. He wishes he'd asked Allen to stay the night, instead of letting him run off alone. What was he thinking? He shouldn't have let him go. He clearly wasn't planning to go back to his house, so why didn't he-

It's your fault for not stopping me.

But he hadn't done any of those things.

Lucian had stopped himself from calling Allen after he'd left. He told himself that it was too soon, that he'd apologize to Allen in-person the next time he saw him. That it wasn't his fault Allen was too stubborn to listen to reason right now.

He hadn't known it would be the last time anyone would see Allen. He hadn't known that was going to be the last time he'd talk with his friend.

He should have called him. He should have let him know he was sorry.

But that was selfish, wasn't it? Allen didn't need an apology. He needed someone who believed in him. Lucian just wanted closure, but he didn't deserve that.

It was such a stupid fight. He was so stupid.

He wants to take it all back. He'll let Allen rant about heroes forever. He'll look him in the eyes and tell him that they were wrong about him, that it doesn't matter if he's powerless, that there was no one more suited than him to be a hero. Anything would have been better than-

His phone screen turns off. Smooth black glass stares back at him accusingly, and even with his fingerprints smudging the surface he could still see the guilt in his reflection, the shadows weighing him down like an anchor.

Sometimes he wondered what Allen would have done, if the roles had been reversed. If it had been him that went missing, instead of Allen. He wouldn't have known what to do any more than the rest of them, but he would've done something. He would've raised hell, asked questions. He wouldn't rest until his friend had been found, until everyone in New Haven knew who he was.

Allen wouldn't have been sitting around, waiting for someone else to fix the problem. He wouldn't have been going through the motions like Lucian was, pretending like nothing was wrong. Ignoring the empty spot at his window like a gaping wound.

But Lucian wasn't a hero, was he? That role belonged to Allen, not him. Allen knew how to fight for what he believed in. Lucian had always been a bystander. What did it matter if he had a strong Gift, if he was only ever made to watch?

It's all your fault, Lu.

“It should have been me.” Lucian mumbled softly, letting the words float in the privacy of his room. An empty confession, no one to hear it.

He shouldn't be thinking about this. Not now, not when tomorrow was a school day. He should be working on his homework right now, focusing on problems he can actually solve.

...He doesn't think he can focus on it right now. It's been months since he woke up for school early anyways, and it's not like there's anybody waiting on him to be on time. 

Lucian plays the video again.

Chapter Text

New Haven was overwhelming in the day.

Like most large cities, it's crawling with life; a living, breathing organism. People swarming in and out of buildings like ants, cars clogging the streets with traffic. Sluggish but frenzied. Blood clotting through a vascular system.

A thousand different hearts beat to their own rhythm, footsteps marching decidedly down unseen paths. Like cogs in a machine, but even that didn't really fit, too mechanical for something so disjointed and organic. There simply weren't any words to describe it. Nothing seemed to fit here; no function, rhyme or reason. Existence without a purpose. Chaotic.

The energy was electric. Loud. Overwhelming to be around; bright lights and harsh sounds grating against their senses. 

It was a whole different city at night.

The streets that crawled with life not a few hours ago were all but abandoned. Some stores or restaurants were still open, but there were few people to be seen still out on this side of the city, this late at night.Only the occasional drunk or partygoer stumbling to the nearest bar, or an exhausted blue collar walking home from a late shift. 

A rat scurries across the sidewalk in front of their shoes, vanishing into a nearby gutter. It looked far larger than it should've been.

This was one of the lower districts, going by the graffiti littering the walls of the older buildings. The worn-down bricks stood solemnly around them, boxing them in on all sides. Weeds grew out of the cracks in the pavement beneath their feet. Not very well taken care of. Or maybe they just don't have the funding for it.

Ashe doubted it. The upper districts always seemed to have plenty to spare, but that's just the way it is. Those with power thrive while the rest of them are left to fight for the scraps.

This part of the city felt dead. Festering but lifeless, a body in a shallow grave. 

There was an uneasy stillness around them. It's like everyone has gone into hiding, away from whatever prowls the streets at night. Even the crickets were silent, but the shadows felt restless. 

Ashe doesn't need to guess as to why. Cruelty takes all sorts of forms; wolves in sheep's clothing. A district like this makes for easy hunting grounds. Fewer heroes patrol these areas, after all. It's a prime location for those inclined to more...unsavory business outside of the law. They wouldn't be surprised if people around here have gone missing before.

The sole of Ashe's shoe scuffs against the pavement, but the quiet remains undisturbed. 

So that means the area has probably been marked. Great. Whether by a local gang or more organized crime, Ashe wouldn't know. But if the locals feel unsafe to wander, then they're probably dangerous. 

At least it's unlikely to be a villain zone. Those tend to stick to the nicer districts. As much as villains liked to claim they fight against a corrupt system, they were just as flashy and attention-seeking as their hero counterparts; the same self-righteous sides of the coin, both oblivious to the destruction they leave around them. Annoying, sure, but worse than that - they're dangerous. Powerful Gifts used recklessly, left to run rampant and do as they please without regard for the people around them.

That's not the kind of thing Ashe needs to get involved with. They can't afford that sort of attention on them at the moment.

Unfortunately for Ashe, even if this really was an active crime area, turning back isn't much of an option. No point, not when the only thing waiting back there is-

Ashe startles at a clattering sound from a nearby alley. They whirled around in an instant, instinct leading their movement, and felt his heart stop when their gaze met a pair of glowing eyes. Ashe froze, every muscle in their body stiffening in response. It takes a moment for the rest of their brain to catch up.

The eyes weren't glowing, just reflecting the dim light of a street lamp. An equally startled cat stares back at Ashe, matted black fur standing on end. He watches as it darts away further into the alley.

Ashe takes in a deep breath, ignoring the trembling in their hands. They press a hand against their heart, beating jack-rabbit quick. A shaky exhale, dizzy from the sudden surge of adrenaline. They are acutely aware of the emptiness in their stomach, the weakness in their knees. They push down the vertigo and keep walking.

The night is warm, heat still lingering from summer. The warmth is unbearable under the sleeves of their hoodie. Stifling. Sweat beads on the back of their neck. 

Ashe sighs as a cool breeze brushes past their face, relishing the slight reprieve from the sticky heat. Wishes for the promise of fall, for the comfort of the cold.

It was grounding, at least. A welcome distraction from their hunger, however brief. 

It was a hollow feeling, gnawing at them from the inside out. Impossible to overlook, with the way their hands shook. Their head pounded with each stumbling step, limbs heavy like lead. Every movement felt like treading through amber. 

Weak, something whispered in his mind. Ashe knew how dangerous it was, to be vulnerable. But they don't have any money, and begging would only attract the wrong kind of attention. It wasn't worth the risk.

It doesn't matter. They've dealt with worse, they can deal with going hungry for a while longer.

It takes a moment for Ashe to realize that they're no longer alone on the street. On the sidewalk up ahead stood a man dressed in a business suit. The man leaned against the wall of an older building, lit cigar in hand. The small flame cast the shadows on his face in an eerie light. Smoke curled from the man's lips, carrying with the breeze.

Ashe wrinkled their nose as the familiar smell hit them, acrid and heavy. The smell of burning.

They curled their hands into fists, letting the nails dig into the flesh of their palm. Breathing out slowly through their nose, pushing the smoke out of their lungs. Uncaring of the man watching them out of the corner of his eye.

In. 

Out.

It's not the same. 

A street light overhead sputters. The light is dim and flickering, barely illuminating the sidewalk.

It brings to mind an anglerfish; a single, fixed point in the darkness. A quiet lure for an unsuspecting victim.

Ashe avoids looking at the light. Dim as it was, it still feels harsh against their eyes. They push the smoke and embers out of their mind, slam the door shut. 

Instead they focus on the shadows casted around them, the darkness murmuring to them softly from the alley. Calling out with a quiet, familiar melody.

The man is still staring at them, they realize. Ashe jolts back into motion, resumes walking in quick, stuttering steps. Their vision sways with the sudden movement, and the glare of the street light overhead turns painful.

Ashe keeps their head down and keeps walking, hoping to pass the man by without provoking any questions. So distracted by the lead inside their skull, they barely noticed the prickle of attention in the back of their mind as the man slowly moved to put his cigarette out on the wall behind him. The man shifts, moving to stand directly in front of Ashe's path. 

Ashe barely has the time to register the movement as a pair of hands suddenly clamp over Ashe's mouth and grabs them from behind, dragging them into the darkness of the alley next to them.

A wave of nausea sweeps through Ashe as they're suddenly shoved up against the concrete, and they barely manage to swallow back the bile crawling up their throat. Calloused hands grab them by the shoulders roughly, pinning him there.

“Well, well, what do we have here?" an oily voice spoke. "Bit late for you to be out past curfew, kid." 

There was a broad-shouldered man stood before him, large hands curling around Ashe's biceps. His dark clothes blended into the shadows of the alley. It was hard to see the man's face in the dim light of the street lamp outside, but they could make out sharp features on an aged face. Mid-thirties, if Ashe had to guess. The man's eyes were narrowed as he loomed over Ashe with a sneer on his face. They can feel the smugness oozing off of him like slime. 

Chert. Of course this happens the second their mind wandered. His own fault, for being so uncharacteristically careless.

"I was just walking home," Ashe lied, shifting his accent to match the man's, "I didn't mean to cause any trouble."

The man looked Ashe over, seemingly taking him in. There wasn't much to see. They could have passed for a street rat at a glance, but up close their clothes were too clean, too in-tact. Still, it should be hard to tell in the shadows of the alley. They should have been an unappealing mark, but the man who'd been smoking might have just been waiting for anyone to walk by. Although, it is possible these men had more unsavory intentions for targeting a teenager.

Ashe wonders, briefly, if this city has a trafficking ring. They wouldn't have a way of confirming that, though, so the thought is irrelevant.

"Really? Don't think I've seen you around before. Think I'd recognize a face like yours," the man chuckled, as if he had said something funny. "Nasty burn you got on that face of yours. Get into trouble a lot, huh? I was the same, when I was your age. So what was it? House fire? Or did you piss off someone with a Gift?"

Ashe doesn't bother to respond to that. He doubts the man cares to hear the answer either way. They know his type; the kind of people who only care to hear the sound of their own voice.

In the corner of their vision, the man in the suit shifts to stand at the entrance of the alley, only half-angled towards the two of them. Keeping watch. Ashe doesn't sense much from him. Disinterest, maybe. He doesn't seem to think he needs to get involved just yet. He has an average build, slightly shorter than the other man. They could break past him, but in their current state they won't make it far. Ashe shifts their focus back to the man in front of him.

"-seem a little lost. You're not from this district, right? We can help you out, help you get where you're going safe and sound. 'Course, it'll cost you."

"I don't have any money." Ashe replied.

"How about your phone?"

Ashe paused. They don't own a smartphone. They aren't foolish enough to carry around something that could be traced so easily. The men would be unlikely to believe that, though. "I don't have it on me."

"Liar," the man hissed, and in the darkness of the alley Ashe could see the slight glow in the man's eyes. A greenish tint, almost chemically bright. Enhanced, then. That complicates things. "You kids always have your phones on you everywhere you go. Just hand it over, and we'll let you leave."

"I don't have it on me," Ashe repeats. "My mother took it-"

The grip on Ashe's shoulder tightens, and that's all the warning they get before the man in black grabs the front of their hoodie and slams them against the wall of the alley.

The throbbing in Ashe's head explodes into pain as their skull hits the concrete, their vision whiting out and shattering at the contact. 

Ashe hisses quietly, blinking back the stars from their vision.

“-lie to me, brat. Hand over the fucking phone.”

Ashe couldn't muster up the strength to answer. The man's voice sounded muffled, as if they were underwater. Ashe struggled to grasp the words in his mind, comprehend meaning. The back of their head throbs painfully from the point of impact. 

Truthfully, they were tired. Exhaustion pulled at their limbs, blood throbbing through their skull, uncomfortably hot. The alley reeked of garbage and cat piss. They were concussed and sore and so damn hungry. 

Ashe could feel the gnawing pit inside of them; a desperate, wild thing. Raking claws against the flesh and fibers of their ribcage, trying to pry their chest open. 

It stung. Hot coals against an open wound, flesh sizzling black and blood flowing from it like a river.

There was a flicker of annoyance from the man in front of him, quickly simmering into indignation the longer Ashe stayed quiet. 

The tension sparked and crackled between them like static; radio silence.

It's just them in this alley. There's no one else nearby. At least one of them has a Gift, but Ashe hasn't seen any hints as to what it might be. Still hasn't seen any weapons. They've dealt with worse odds.

But they might get hurt. 

They'll hurt him anyway. He knows it, can sense it in the man in front of him. Ashe could taste the spark of anger, the humiliation and eagerness threaded in it. Cigarette ash on the back of their tongue. 

Anger and fear are siblings. Both flames that burn bright, spiraling out of control as it grows. It would be so easy, with just the right push…

It's a bad idea. Reckless. They shouldn't be drawing any more attention to themselves in such a populated city, but right now Ashe can't find it in themselves to care.

Ashe is starving. Their stomach hurts, and their body aches. Their body is heavy, clumsy. Human.

The man in the business suit speaks up. "Just hurry up and knock the kid out already, Sanchez. We don't have all night.”  

The man in the suit still tasted like nothing. Dull and gray. Uncaring of what his partner was doing to them. If they cracked open that shell of apathy, what would they find? What would it taste like, beneath the gray?

Ashe laughs at that, a dry rasp. They can taste the frustration from the man in black spark into firecracker fury. Sizzling meat and cigarette smoke. 

Energy. They'll need energy, in one way or another. There's no point in staying under the radar if they keel over dead in a few days. Whatever happens, whatever comes next - they can't afford to be weak. It doesn't matter where they go, how far they run. That fact will never change. In this world, only the strong survive.

Ashe closes their eyes, finds comfort in the dark. They take in a deep, shaky breath before they exhale. The air fogs in front of the man's snarling face. Cold, despite the summer heat.

The darkness of the alley murmurs to them in the back of their mind, and this time Ashe listens. Relents to their call.

The shadows grow deeper as Ashe pulls them in, licking up the walls like flames. The men barely have a chance to react as it swallows the alley in an inky blackness. Void.

Ashe can taste the surprise in the two men, can feel their Gifts activating. Pinpricks of light in the dark.

They can't have that.

They reach out with inky tendrils, letting the dark snuff out the candlelight. Unease and alarm leaks into the air, and it tastes like blood in the water.

Ashe senses more than sees the man in the suit trying to turn tail out of the alley. Sharper instincts. He knows that something is wrong.

It doesn't matter. Ashe knows better than to leave loose ends. In an instant, the darkness swallows up their escape; a flytrap shutting closed.

“Who said you could go?” Ashe spoke, low and amused. Their voice felt rough from disuse. 

Ashe smiles at the first sweet drops of fear in the air. They stoke the flames, pulling the strings of their minds in discordant notes. Their hearts beat faster to match the rhythm. 

Ashe pushes their own energy into the air, turning it heavy and thick with dread. It leaks into the atmosphere around them, charged and electric like a brewing storm. The moment before lightning strikes true.

Something taut inside of Ashe loosens as the men's snarling wavers, turning into shouting, and then screams as the terror sinks in.

They aren't worried about attracting attention. This is a private performance; a melody and its conductor. Sound doesn't travel in a vacuum.

A sense of giddiness washes over Ashe. Anticipation. Excitement.

They feel the fear burn brighter as they drink it in. It soothes the unbearable, hollow ache inside of Ashe. Refreshing. A cold glass of water on a hot summer day.

Their desperation is a strong thing; a drowning man desperately trying to break the surface of the water. The darkness swallows up the sound of their screams. It's a pitiful sight.

Maybe Ashe should feel pity. It was almost too easy. But these men knew the game they were playing, knew the risks. It's not really Ashe's fault that they played it better. They would have done the same to him, after all. 

It's nothing personal, really. It was only a matter of time before a bigger fish made its way into the pond. And it's been so long since they've had a good meal. 

The shadows around them whisper and laugh, mocking and jeering at their prey. Voices crying out for an encore.

For the first time in weeks, Ashe feels alive. The pounding in their skull and the aches in their bones feels distant, soothed by the cold dread humming through them.

Somewhere in an empty street, the lights go out. A monster feeds.

Chapter Text

He remembers - a distant memory, a different lifetime - when he'd gone to the cinema with some friends.

It had been some cheesy spy movie, the latest release in a series he had never even heard of before then. It was just the movie that happened to be running at the time - they had ditched the school assembly right before, not wanting to stay another hour with some guest speaker droning on about the importance of power registration. 

His memories of that time are blurred, faded over the years. He couldn't tell you the name of the movie, or how it even ended. But he remembers the moments - making fun of the shitty CGI and corny dialogue, snickering and throwing popcorn at one another and making a mess. The movie sucked, but they'd all been breathless from laughter anyways.

There was one scene from the movie, though, that had stuck in his mind. It was the moment when the spy's best friend was revealed to be a traitor, and he'd rigged a chandelier strapped with dynamite to crash in the middle of a charity gala to kill the billionaire hosting the event. He couldn't remember why they'd done it - revenge or greed or whatever, but that had been the climax of the movie, the edge of the knife, the second right before the rollercoaster dropped.

Her gaze had been intense, on the edge of her seat, fully absorbed in the moment; he hadn't been as invested, too busy cracking up at his own jokes throughout most of it. But he remembers Emma's fond irritation, elbow bumped against ribcage, how she'd kept shushing him as she tried to get him to -

Focus.

An alarm blares throughout the building, out of place with the aged wood and marble interiors of his memories. It's wailing echoes down the corridors, the piercing sound ringing in his ears; a death knell meant for him.

This night couldn't get any fucking worse, could it? His cover's been blown right out of the water, his partner is fuck-knows where, and he's smack dab in the middle of enemy territory with no way of contacting The Order for backup, because god-forbid he breaks any of their precious equipment on a mission again. Great. Just fucking brilliant. 

He'd known, he'd known, he'd known from the start that there was something off about this assignment, but the mission went off the rails even faster than he could blink, At the very least, he has experience with this. He's improvised through life-or-death situations on assignments far too many times to be put down by it just yet. 

Shouting rings out from the stairwell, distant but getting closer; mad dogs on a frenzied hunt. He's been giving them the run-around so far, but he can only buy himself so much time when he's trapped in the lion's den without any hope of backup. Not when the only line of communication he had with OCTAVIA and The Order was currently sitting in the hands of the bastard that was supposed to be on his side.  

OCTAVIA really ought to do a better job of background checking their agents. Who knows, maybe they just needed better blackmail. The Order seemed rather fond of that tactic, and it seemed to work well enough for them. They had him here still, after all.

His thoughts snap back into focus as he finally catches sight of a bright red exit sign. His heart pounds like a war drum in his chest as he reaches the last steps, and without bothering to check if it's locked, slams his full body weight against the door. 

The door slams open with a force that makes his shoulder ache, instantly greeted by the warm air of the early summer night. He doesn't pause to assess his surroundings, doesn't wait for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He only pivots on his feet as he sprints across the rooftop and beelines it towards the edge of the building.

The adrenaline rushing through his veins is a familiar song; the burning in his lungs a welcome reprieve from the careful social maneuvering he'd been doing all evening. He doesn't need to look for social cues or read between the lines for intel- now he just needs to get the fuck out and not die in the process. Simple really, as far as plans go, but it's a little hard to come up with better when you're busy playing mouse in a house full of cats. But if there's one thing he's used to, it's this. Running for his life, making shit up as he goes, and pretending the bigger problem doesn't exist until he's forced to confront it head-on. It's so much easier to deal with a knife coming at him than to be stuck dancing on the edge of it, waiting for the moment his grasp on it finally slips.

He needs to find an exit that hasn't been blocked off yet, and he still doesn't know how he'd been compromised to begin with, but he's forced to push the thoughts aside for the time being. Time is short in the field; he can't afford to be distracted on top of it, not when there's nobody to back him up in case he fucks up. Not that there usually was, when it came to his assignments. 

If there's one thing he's used to, it's this. Running for his life, making shit up as he goes, and pretending the bigger problem doesn't exist until he's forced to confront it head-on. It's so much easier to deal with a knife coming at him than to be stuck dancing on the edge of it, waiting for the moment his grasp on it finally slips.

Like this, he isn't James Rothford, rich entrepreneur looking to satisfy his sadistic tastes through the service provided by Chimera Entertainment. He's not an agent of The Order, not the trained dog that bites when he is told. Here, he is only himself, wild and nameless and unknown; once again thrown into the lion's den to fend for himself, with yet another mission turned into an improvised act. 

His throat feels tight - a phantom noose around his neck. The walls seem to close in around him as he runs down hallways that never seem to end. 

Something doesn't feel right.

Rios should have called for extraction by now. The man hadn't been around when security tried to take him in for questioning, but even if his partner hadn't heard the commotion from the dining room, he should have heard of what had happened by now. He should trust that the bloke has decades of experience under his belt, but something in his gut churns with dread.

It’s only when he’s met with solid walls blocking his path and the sound of a gun cocking behind him that he’s forced to confront the truth.

"Hands where I can see them!"

Cautiously, he puts his hands in the air as he slowly turns to face the music. Any thoughts of twisting the odds in his favour to escape is quickly destroyed as several more guards soon turn the corner with weapons in hand, each of their eyes glinting with unnatural light. 

Behind the guards, his gaze locks with a familiar aged face, and his breath catches in his lungs.

Rios.

His partner stares back at him impassively, unharmed and completely at ease with the scene in front of him. Next to Rios is a man he recognizes from the briefing as one of Chimera’s main investors, although the name eludes his grasp. 

"Rios?"

The silence was damning.

And it hit him even though he didn't want it to: Rios knew.

It made sense. His cover being blown, the lack of solid information in the briefing, the lack of communication.

Rios had been the one to write the initial report in that briefing. It was Rios had been the one holding onto the communicator, refusing to let him have one because he claimed not to trust him with sensitive equipment. It was Rios who kept shooting him down at every point and turn during the mission, never letting him slink away to do his fucking job. 

The bitter taste of betrayal is an all-too familiar one. It pools in his mouth like blood, and he swallows his anger like poison down his throat.

"How long?" He doesn't bother to be any clearer. 

The air is stretched taut with tension - with silence. The heavy weight of accusation and all the words between them left unspoken, of answers he would never get to the questions he really wanted to say. There was nothing to say, really. They both knew Rios wasn't going to let him walk out of this alive. 

He should have seen this coming. Should have known from the start, with how sparse the briefing had been to begin with, how easy it had been to sneak in. He should have noticed how dodgy Rios has been acting - and he had, he'd seen the weird looks the man kept giving him, his reluctance to be partnered with him - but he'd simply written the man off as yet another grown adult taking it as a personal offense to being paired with someone so young in the field (and in life).

“He's just a child.” There was something more than just judgment in his voice, but he hadn't been able to place it. Still couldn't, even as he stared back at Rios with something almost like grief in his chest.

He didn’t even like Rios, really. He was a dick, dismissive and condescending since the moment they were assigned to work together and making his job a thousand times harder than it needed to be. Still, he had at least expected Rios to have his back. He’d trusted the man to at least do his damn job. And yet, here he was again - thrown to the wolves by the adults who were supposed to keep him safe.

The conflicting emotions inside of him warred together in his mind before they finally settled to indignation, and then fury.

“It must feel great, getting to line your pockets with all that blood money,” he spat out, “Did you know I don’t even get paid for this shit? You’ll get paid for the pleasure of being a fucking traitor, and I get to die for nothing.” The words came out raw, more emotional than he meant them to be. They tumbled out of his mouth and fell dead on the floor between them. 

Rios didn't say anything to that.

The heavy smoke of resignation seemed to choke out the flames that burned inside his chest, leaving nothing but the taste of ashes on his tongue.

...What was any of this for?

The Order didn’t care about him. They made that painfully clear the second they decided he was too valuable to let go. They would mourn the loss of an asset, and some part of him even felt vindicated at the fact. The Order’s greatest ace fumbled by their own incompetence. He could almost imagine the shock on Walker’s face, seeing his pet spy reduced to just another bloody corpse in the home of a man who built his fortune on the deaths of other people. It doesn’t matter how many times they speak of his potential, of how his powers have been a boon that The Order couldn’t do without. In the end, he’s nothing special. He'd only ever lasted this long due to his stubbornness and stupid, blind luck. 

Anita's words echo in the back of his mind, the pity in her gaze paired with something in her voice he couldn't quite identify at the time. “You're just a kid, Stoker.”  He hated her for that, pretending that she cared. Acting like they didn't do this to him. Like she didn't stand by and let it happen. He wondered how she'd react, if she ever found out what happened to him. Would she feel guilt, or would she have called it a necessary sacrifice? Would his death even mean anything to her? Did she even care enough to be upset?

Something inside him breaks at the thought, but he keeps it hidden. He's had enough practice wearing masks for it to be easy enough.

There was no one in his life who would come to look for him, nobody that knew him who hadn’t already left on their own accord. They would never know what happened to him, and they wouldn’t care enough to ask questions. He’d be lucky if they even noticed he was gone. He was going to die within these walls- and it wouldn’t even be quick. They would make it slow, painful, making sure to drag it out and humiliate him until they got whatever they needed. The Order would be disappointed at the loss of a valuable asset, but they wouldn’t grieve for him. They’d probably just erase any traces left of his existence, cover up the tracks of their own failure and wipe their hands clean of the mess. 

"Sorry to say kid, but the heroes don't always win."

He’s not the hero in this story. He knows that, has known it for however many years he's spent as Walker's pet. He's just a kid way in over his head, caught up in a game with stakes he couldn't even begin to comprehend, a pawn used by players he couldn't hope to fight against. They trained him like a dog just to watch him get put down like one, and he wouldn’t even have the decency of being mourned, of being known. Just another John Doe, faceless and unknown. Nobody would who he was, and nobody would ever look for him.

He wants to scream at the unfairness of it all. He wants to cry and mourn for the life he should have had. He wants to watch Walker and Rios and the rest of The Order break under his hands, make them bruise and bleed and hurt the same way they've done to him.

He doesn't voice any of those thoughts, doesn't let any glimpse of himself show in his face. "Alright then," he smiles, slow and easy, and spreads his arms out wide beside him. He ignores the shouts of the guards surrounding him, startled by his sudden movement. He only stares at Rios with a hardened gaze, a challenge in his eyes. 

"Kill me, then." He taunts, he pleads, he dares.

He was never meant to be here. The knowledge hurts inside his chest, but he's nothing if not stubborn. If he's going to be put down like a rabid dog, then the least he could do was give it his best shot. 

Maybe then, he'd at least leave a mark on someone else.