Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(Not in any particular order, to be added onto as ideas emerge.)

Angelus- angelic beings similar to the angels of Christianity 

Daemon- demonic beings similar to the demons of Christianity 

Nephilim- half human and half angelus

Cambion: half human and half daemon

Daemonelus- half daemon and half angelus

The Ark- the main world the au takes place in, giant technology based city built in a giant sphere shape (lol get it cause ark means box but it’s a sphere haha) that sits within a massive sea. The central ring of the sphere sits above the water like an island and is the only portion that actually has beaches. The rest of the upper rings are all above the island of Purgatorias and the lower rings of Infernus are sunken beneath the sea and into the earth below. The entire sphere is solid with heavy walls, even if the walls are transparent they do not open out to the outside. Don’t ask questions about how air circulates, it’s magic, don’t worry about it. Even the beaches in Purgatorias are sealed off, the only openings to the outside being grates where the water from the sea is allowed in to create semi-artificial beaches. 

Paradiso- the part of the city that is literally located above the middle and lower part, the higher rings of the structures that make up the city, living space for humans and Angelus, the main rings that can see out to the stars and sky.

Purgatorias- the central ring separating Paradiso and Infernus, populated by a mix of humans, Cambion, and Nephilim. A few Daemons and Angelus live there but it’s not considered common. The only ring with open access to the sea.

Infernus- lower rings of the Ark, basement structures that stretch under the ground, living space for daemons and humans. Half of the rings are submerged under the water of the sea while the lowest of those rings are built into the earth beneath the sea. 

The Arena(s)- the main fighting area(s) of duels and both televised/broadcasted fighting events and non broadcast fighting events, depending on the type of fight being held and what Arena is hosting it, can be in upper and lower city. 

Pope- Highest government official

Cardinal- Second highest government official(s)

Arch Bishop- Third highest government official(s)

Bishop- Fourth highest government official(s)

Priest- local government official(s)

Deacon- in training under the local government official(s)

Exorcist- Deacons or Priests who studied to become law enforcement

Evangelicals- Propagandists who travel across the rings of the Ark to remind people of the laws and announce the policies of potential elected leaders, are often paid for by those running for offices to speak in their favour to convince more people to support their running

Convent- Religious run school, usually with dormitory style living situations, occupied by students, teachers, and retired officials who now tend the grounds

Monastery- similar to convent but with no school attached, just a living set up for a group of retired officials

Chapter Text

.The world of CyberDemon is heavily inspired by Christian Mythos, particularly the more esoteric bits of Angelology and Demonology, as well as aesthetics and discussions like CyberPunk and religious trauma. In particular, it is a take on the dangers of total theocracy, though in a scifi/fantasy setting. 

.Within this world, Angelus (Angels) and Daemons (Demons) from the Christian Mythos live alongside humans in a futuristic, high tech setting.

. Aesthetics: 

Aesthetics include your typical cyberpunk, sort of retro sort of futuristic, type of world. But with lots of gothic cathedral-esque architecture. 

• Upper Rings of the Ark consist of the sleeker, clean looking, futuristic designs with lots of sky themed colours. Motifs of clouds, stars, constellations, the sun, and other celestial themes are often incorporated into the designs of the buildings, items, and even advertisements. Everything is kept pristine and “holy” feeling. Hard light structures are designed to look similar to stained glass windows of cathedrals and sky scrapers are basically just giant, gothic styled cathedrals but made of grey/white metal and concrete instead of hewn stone. The hard light structures that illuminate the upper levels reflect the colours of the sky throughout the day, creating warm glows of sunrise and sunset colours or brilliant hues of blues and white for noonday sunshine, and soft purples and silvers for twilight. Prosthetics in this area are neat and precise, made with utmost care and installed professionally in a sterile environment, seeking to make life easier for the sick and disabled (for a price) and to beautify those who are privileged enough to buy their own additional features.
• Lower Rings of the Ark embrace the more gritty, 80’s/retro aesthetic. Neon lights, graffiti, stacked shipping containers create crowded apartments, broken asphalt pavement and steam drift up from cracks in the ground as a near constant rain streaks through a plethora of electric hues and oil slick puddles. Whatever sense of cleanliness the upper Rings gave is tossed aside here as this place is the upper Rings’ dumping ground. Technology is ramshackled and hacked together within the crowded streets. Prosthetics are far more common here and even more commonly are clunky and garish. They get the job done sure, but don’t expect any care to have been taken with their installation or maintenance. Sickness is far more rampant and unfortunately there are many who would take advantage of it there.

Chapter Text

>History

About four generations prior to the events of the main plot, the Ark was only inhabited by humans whose government and belief system had been combined ages ago. The theocratic system they lived by, though not called Christianity, is heavily based on the more extreme versions of it. Initially, this theocracy intended to merely provide assistance for the poor and marginalized as well as supply medical systems and spiritual guidance for those who needed it. But, as many systems tend to do, they grew corrupted over time until their laws became incredibly restrictive to keep the elite within the elite status and the poor and marginalized calm and “in their place”. Sure it all maintained order, but that order came at the cost of lives and freedoms. 

This was only made  more complicated by the sudden opening of two portals, one in the upper city and one in the lower. With the respective portals suddenly leaving a plethora of angelic and demonic beings, very similar to their depictions within the theocracy’s religion, in their wake. 

While not at all the same things as what was depicted within the religion, beings wholly separate beings themselves (the demons and angels) who would mostly be akin to something we would consider entirely alien, their striking resemblances to the religious creatures of their namesakes ended up owning their identity the second they arrived on the plane of humanity. 

The reaction to the sudden appearance of the Angelus and Daemons was immediate, chaotic, and left death and destruction in its wake. 

Daemons, those that survived the reactive culling by the Priests and Exorcists, were confined to only the lowest of slums within the main city. While the Angelus were quickly venerated and offered status within courts and other ruling aspects of the city. 

This split many of the humans previously living there into various camps of thought. There were those who did not question their theocratic rulers and their decisions, seeing it as something divinely natural and therefore reasonable to continue with this way of life; that being the subjugation of the Daemons and any humans and incredibly rare Angelus (labelled as Fallen) who took their side. Then there were those who did not care one way or another about anything divine or hellish, as they were merely content with their way of life in the first place and did not seek to change it, falling into the camp of siding with the first vein of thought. 

Opposingly, there were those whose entire system of belief was shattered upon the arrival of the now very real and tangible Angelus and Daemons, who had no idea of their supposed holy war and religion that they were a part of. These opposing factions either saw the newcomers as a sign of the end of the need for a theocracy, or saw the newcomers as simply displaced people who were entangled in a pre existing belief system they had no knowledge of prior to being thrown into this new world. In either case, these ideas rejected that the Angelus were holy by nature or the Daemons evil and corrupt, seeing the entire theocratic state as taking advantage of the religion to keep the status quo intact by providing a scapegoat for everyone’s problems in the form of the Daemons and a “proof of divinity” in the form of the Angelus. 

Nevermind that both Daemon and Angelus were entirely mortal beings who could get injured or sick or even killed, even if it was incredibly difficult to perform the latter, through various propaganda they were still viewed as either divine or hellspawn either way. 

Chapter Text

Fuck, this was bad. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t breathe! 

The weight of the dead creature was crushing down on his chest, pinning his wings behind him, obscuring his vision under a layer of shimmery black blood. 

The taste of gold and copper mingled on his tongue as he felt his lungs compress painfully within his ribcage, he knew at least one of them had punctured. The telltale stabbing ache below his arm was clue enough that a bone had snapped and pierced his lung. If the taste of gold in his mouth wasn’t obvious of that fact at least. 

But one arm was still free, clawing weakly at the beast’s hide, metal talons clinking against one another as he scrabbled for any sense of purchase, any means of dragging himself out from under the corpse. 

Gods this had been a shit fight. 

A shit day. 

A shit week really, he’d been in no shape to be placed in the execution ring, not after five days of consecutive matches. 

He was exhausted. 

His body ached with bruised muscle and split skin, his wings stung from a lack of preening, too tired each night to bother caring for them. His prosthesis had hissed and spit sparks and oil in protest from his constant use of them, not a day had gone by where would have had time to maintain them. 

And now he was paying for it. 

Trapped under the massive demon he had just killed, the fight had gone on for far longer than he had hoped but what was he to do? It wasn’t his choice to be scheduled for today’s fight, nor the past week’s either, or any fight really if he thought about it. He’d been left too tired, too weak from it all, and had well and truly fucked up. 

Sure his job was completed, his opponent was dead, but he’d been thrown halfway across the arena in the process, one of his legs had given out, and his death blow had been made in a last attempt to keep himself alive rather than finishing his opponent. So now, he was trapped here. Slowly being crushed beneath the corpse of the demon above him. Losing blood, losing air, with each failed gasp for breath. 

Fuck, was this how he was going to die? 

Pathetic. He chided himself. 

What a shitty way to die. 

He took one last strained attempt at a breath, stabbing his talons into the hide that pinned him and pulled as hard as he could, before finally giving up as he felt his body slowly begin to burn from the lack of oxygen as his already blood soaked vision swam with static and-

A hand grabbed his metal claws. 

A hand of flesh, warm and firm gripped. 

And then another hand wrapped itself around his shoulder. 

Before pulling, yanking hard against him, attempting to pry him out from under the corpse of his opponent. 

His head swam as he tried to help whoever was dragging him, clawing his other arm free and prying his wings out from under his back. 

Slowly, but surely, and just in time he realised, he was freed. 

His chest heaved as he finally managed to take in his first proper breath in what felt like years, and then seized with a pained cry as he curled onto his side, clawing at his ribs that shifted and clicked angrily within him. His wings tucked around his shattered form, hiding himself from view of the arena crowd, their shrieks and jeers and cheers for blood and death buzzed in his skull. 

He didn’t bother to fight the pair of hands as they looped under his arms and began to drag him from sight of the crowd. Gods be damned, he was too exhausted from it all to try to see who it was that was hauling him off. Too tired, too hurt, at this point he wouldn’t care if they just dumped him on a cot and told him “good luck” if it meant he could get some semblance of rest. 

To his surprise though, even after the hands had dragged him from the arena and into the various holding rooms, they went past that. They were taking him to the med bay, he realised. 

Odd, but whatever, at least they were considerate. 

He was only more surprised however, upon the pair of hands staying with him, shutting the door to the room they had dragged him to before gently laying him onto a bench, keeping his wings from being squished under his back before propping up his head with a small pillow. 

He tried to wipe his eyes clean of the blood that had blinded him, barely able to make sense of what he was witnessing through a sheen of black and gold ichor, only to seize once more as pain lanced through his chest from the movement. 

For a long while, he only saw white, could only hear a high pitched ringing in his ears, could only feel his lungs pooling with blood and burning with each gasp. 

But then the ringing faded, the pain was reduced to a dull, thudding ache. And gradually, his vision began to return as something damp was wiped across his eyes. 

Soon enough he saw the one who had dragged him from the arena, the one who had taken him here, now standing beside the bench he’d been laid on and cleaning up the gold and black ichor from his face with a cloth. 

“Hey, you good there?” a voice as soft as the hands that cleaned his face, spoke. “You don’t have to speak if it hurts, just give me a nod if you can hear me okay?” 

He blinked, taking in the sight beside him. 

A black halo wreathed her dark hair, shimmering and glittering with sparks of gold and small rays of ever changing lengths, the light of which illuminated her equally black eyes. Deep and sparkling like the swirling galaxies and stars that hovered above the Ark. 

A series of eyes floated about the halo, closed, as they hovered in their perpetual circular motion above her head. 

Six wings, blacker than his own, with shifting hues of deep purples and golds, were mantled over her form. 

And also his. 

Shielding him from anyone who might enter the room. 

He realised with a start as to why, feeling his carer’s hand clean around the base of his horns….

“Shit!” his arms whirred as he smacked her hand away, covering the small pair of crystalline horns on his forehead, realising the bandage he’d kept covering them must have been knocked off at some point when he was freed from being crushed by his opponent-

“Don’t you smack me!” the Ophanim beside him chided, gripping his wrists with a glare. 

“Don’t touch my horns!” he countered with a hiss, wincing as he realised a picc line had been placed in his shoulder and was now pinching uncomfortably from his movement…

No organic wrists…  

“Oh hush, I saved your ass back there!” the Ophanim gripped his wrists, prying them away from his face. 

He hissed at her once more, wings bristling in contempt at…at…actually, why was he trying to fight her? 

She knew his secret now, there was no hiding that. And if she had bothered to care about it she’d have obviously done so by now. And, she hadn’t. 

Well, if anything she’d either just ignored the obvious set of jade green horns beneath a mangled, dark halo and decided to just to just patch him up anyways, or…or maybe there was no “or”. She’d seen his horns and…didn’t care. Didn’t report it, didn’t seem at all disgusted or afraid or angry or….

“Hey,” her fingers gently rubbed against the cold metal of his wrists, warm and alive and-and…and…

He fought the urge to lean into that touch. 

When was the last time anyone had been gentle with him? 

When was the last time he’d felt another being touch him without the intent of harm? 

Every piece of his mind was screaming at him to prepare for a strike, for claws, for teeth, for a weapon to burn into his skin. 

And yet every cell in the still organic parts of his wrecked body practically begged for the touch to continue, for the touch to spread into a caress, into a hug, into the sensation of his soul being crushed back into his body-

He gave up fighting it, letting his arms go limp in her hands. 

“I didn’t let anyone see.” she carefully lowered his arms, her thumbs still rubbing across his wrists, polishing the black metal with gentle motions. “Kept enough ichor over your hair and face for them to be hidden. Bit nasty but, what can ya do I guess?” 

He almost chuckled at the thought of her, an elegant and deadly Ophanim hastily rubbing a handful of demon blood across his face to hide his own set of horns as she dragged him out from under his opponent- 

Right, he’d nearly died. 

His lung had been punctured…

“How-how bad is it?” he tried to lean his head to see the extent of his injuries, cringing as the movement sent a dull ache through his bruised form. 

Gods his voice hurt!

“Nothing that’ll kill you,” the Ophanim assured, gesturing to her handiwork of the picc line in his shoulder and what looked to be a small tube held in place to his chest, seeping with a bit of gold at each breath he took. “Just need to let the air in your chest cavity out for the next couple of days. And then you should be resting for at least a month, gods who is in charge of your schedule? I have quite a few strong and nasty words I need to give them.” 

“And by words I mean a boot to the ass,” she added with a huff. 

He almost laughed at her expression.

“Seriously, I’ve seen you on the list all week and you’ve not had a day off in this whole time,” the Ophanim shook her head. “I’m surprised you didn’t say anything-” 

He raised a hand once more, indicating the sigil on each of his wrists. 

The same sigil that was tattooed between his wings. Embossed onto his prosthetics. Held above his head like a guillotine whenever he had fought his place here. 

He was the Arena’s , their Angel of Death, their executioner to do with as they pleased.  

The Ophanim’s eyes darkened. 

“I see.” she sighed, covering the sigil on his wrist with her hand. “I’m sorry.” 

I’m sorry.

The words made no sense. 

She wore the telltale silver coat of the Arena’s referee, crisped edges now rumpled and the once shimmery threads stained with a mix of black and gold from her having hauled him out from under a corpse. Aside from keeping him from dying, she had no reason to be here at all with him. Let alone feeling sorry. 

On top of that, she was an Ophanim. An Angelus of one of the highest orders. The fact she had stooped low for such a position as an Arena Ref was ridiculous enough, but to talk with him, apologise for his situation? 

He pulled his arms away from her once more, ears flattening with a hiss. 

“The fuck are you playing at?!” he snapped. 

“Why should you give a shit about who owns an Executioner?! You want something from me, is that it?!” 

The memory of fingers on his feathers still haunted him, burning grips on his throat as scalpels were taken to his skin, all while a sickeningly soothing voice hushed his cries and whispered promises of love and gentle touches. 

He wouldn’t be fooled so easily again. 

The Ophanim blinked. 

The eyes along her halo rippled in confusion. 

“I’m just a referee.” she stated. “I’m just doing my job.” 

“And then some!” he spat, droplets of gold slipped from the corners of his mouth. 

“Motherfucker- I haul your ass out from getting crushed to death by a HellHound corpse, put a stint in your lung, give you a transfusion, AND keep your horns from being seen and your first thought is ‘oh this bitch wants something’?!” her wings flared, swirling an angry red with the motion as her halo began to spin. “I don’t want shit from you! All I’m trying to do is keep you from kickin’ it before your next match!” 

He glared up at her from where he lay, teeth bared, uncertainty racing through his mind. 

“You don’t scare me.” he stated. 

“And you don’t scare me either.” she crossed her arms. “Now, you wanna keep being a bitey little bitch while I try to get you patched up? Or am I gonna have to knock you out for that? Cause I can’t unhook your prosthetics if you keep-” 

“DON’T!” he panicked, grabbing her hands as they gestured towards the attachment points of his arms. He couldn’t-he couldn’t bear the sensation of losing his autonomy like that. 

Not again.

 Never again. 

Please never again…

“Okay,” the Ophanim nodded. “Okay, not doing that, is there any other way you would like me to check for injuries at the sockets then?” 

Gods… she was serious wasn’t she, he realised as her eyes widened in sudden understanding. 

He took a moment to think. 

She…she didn’t seem to want anything from him. She didn’t ask what he was or how he existed. She’d made no effort to take blood from him or cut off a piece of hair or skin for samples. She’d…she’d listened to him, agreeing not to remove his arms or leg instead of just unhooking them from their sockets as she saw fit. 

Through it all, he realised, she’d kept a steady stream of holy light running through his picc line, numbing the worst of his wounds. 

And…she’d kept his horns hidden. 

He sighed. Finally giving up and slumping back against the pillow on the bench. 

“The-the shoulders have an armoured cap over them, like a pauldron but smaller.” he explained. “You can remove the cap and the padding but…please don’t-don’t take my arms-” 

“I won’t.” she took one metal hand within her own, lightly squeezing it in reassurance. “I promise I won’t.” 

He still couldn’t relax, he still felt himself tense when she briefly took note of the ruby coloured stone embedded in his sternum, though she said nothing about it. But slowly, the more she worked, stitching up cuts and placing a healing light over the bruises and broken bones, he felt himself…he felt…he wasn’t sure what the right word was. 

Give in? 

Perhaps. 

He hated to feel vulnerable, hated having someone else’s hands prod about his body, but, this wasn’t like that. 

This was gentle. 

Thought out and meticulous, each touch featherlight and careful, hesitant even until he said it was alright. 

It wasn’t something he had felt in years. 

Far too many years. 

And a piece of him began to crack from the treatment. He felt something tighten in his throat, something hot beginning to well up behind his eyes, something-

“Kristin.” 

He blinked, a few salty tears trickled down his face as he turned to the Ophanim. 

“Just figured you might want to know the name of the person who stuck a tube in your chest.” the Ophanim smiled, awkward but playful. “It’s Kristin.” 

He blinked again. 

He choked in confusion and a sudden bout of laughter at the comment. 

“Philza.” he replied.

Chapter Text

Caera shivered as he stared up at the sign. 

CyberKnife Workshop, the letters flickered neon blue across the concrete building, the lights reflected across the glass of the windows. 

Rain streaked the blue colour across the panes, and the plethora of brilliant shades of neighbouring signs that shimmered and hummed up and down the buildings of the narrow alleyway, reflecting in the oil slick puddles and bits of metal trash that lined the walkways. 

Electricity buzzed from the power lines that strung across each structure, lacing the buildings together into a chaotic formation, fingers pulling tight to block out the light from above. Now only a faint glow amidst the near black ceiling of the lowest ring of Infernum, cold and damp as the ever present rain of who knew what trickled down across the concrete jungle. 

He took another look at the address on the now soaked envelope, noting the number plate of the workshop door did indeed match what was listed. 

This was it. 

This was it…

He’d been chased across the upper Ark rings for hours, he’d been shot at by the Exorcists he’d once called brothers, he’d definitely broken his foot on the fall down to the lower rings, he’d nearly bled out from the bolt wound in his thigh…for this. 

This…hole in the wall workshop in the darkest corner of this district, practically buried under layers of concrete and trash and who knew what else at this point. If he’d had a say in the matter, he’d never have come in the first place. 

But his damned curiosity! 

That stupid sense that itched just out of sight of his mind until it became too much to bear, that frustrating urge to know, to discover, to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. 

If he’d not picked up the box left on his Bishop’s desk, labelled with his name. If he’d not opened it to discover keepsakes of his that he’d long thought to be lost. If he’d not seen the stack of letters bundled next to the little pile of trinkets, hadn’t seen the recorder chip fall out of the first envelope he’d opened, hadn’t heard the panicked voice of his mother explaining everything to him…

If he’d just kept his stupid fucking eyes shut, he wouldn’t even be here! 

But now, he was. 

He didn’t really have a choice anymore. 

He’d stolen classified documents from the Convent. From his Bishop. He’d fought his Exorcist Brethren tooth and nail when they came for him. He’d nearly died at least three times at this point. 

Where else could he go? 

The upper rings of Paradiso and Purgatorius would surely have his face plastered all across the screens on the roads by now, every communicator would have his name and details available for anyone wanting to cash in on his bounty. 

He was well and truly fucked if he ever went back to the upper rings of the Ark. 

And he knew next to nothing of Infernum. 

No places to hide, no people to rely on, no sense of direction or even a clue of what the culture or law was like down here. 

All he had was the name and address of the envelope. The letter inside that explained it all. And half of a locket around his neck. 

Caera gripped the charm of the locket with white knuckles as he eyed the door before him. Sheet metal with splotches of rust and neon graffiti with layers upon layers of dead bolts and chains holding it shut. If it weren’t for the soft yellow glow under the door frame, he’d have thought the place abandoned. 

He swallowed, still shivering as the rain seeped past his shirt and proceeded to thoroughly soak the feathers that lined his back, leaving both down and cloth clinging to his skin with an unpleasant chill. 

Well, not getting anywhere just standing here. He pressed a free hand tight against his wounded leg.

 Took a step forward. 

Released his grip on the locket around his neck. 

And knocked hesitantly on the door. 

For a moment there was silence. Only the sound of the rain pattering around him and the faint drip of gold blood leaking from between his fingers echoed faintly past his ears. 

And then the door rattled and screeched as the series of bolts and chains were undone from inside before being pried open. 

Lit by the yellow glow of light from within the workshop, a Cambion stared out at him. 

Two, faceted horns, like carved rubies, protruded from either sides of a head. A barbed tail swished behind them, a pair of leathery wings were half folded at their hips and a wicked set of glowing, slitted red eyes regarded Caera with a dark-circled tiredness. Features that could only be of Daemon heritage. Of course, who wouldn’t be on this ring of the Ark…

Although the Daemon features ended there. Being only a Cambion they still sported human legs, barefoot and covered in splatters of oil and soot with a rolled up set of pants. It was comical how built they were in such sharp contrast to their rather nerdy and half thrown together work outfit. 

But plenty of scars littered their form, some new and red against their freckled skin, many old and healed pink. Not too dissimilar to their hair colour, Caera noted the oddly rosey hued bun that was held in place by a pencil of all things. Like a librarian who’d spent too many hours researching the gilded tomes of the Convent, they even wore a set of glasses, taped up across the nose bridge and perched precariously on pointy ears that bore the knicks and holes of someone who had taken to modifying and piercing themself.

The nerdiness ended there, however. A deep scar ran diagonal across the Cambion’s face, across one eye and barely missing the lens of it with some miracle, leading down to where lips would have been. If they had any still. A reminder of a brutal and what should have been a fatal wound from some years ago, perhaps.

In place of a mouth, or lower jaw for that matter, was a mix of hollow gold and black metal. A socket, he realised with a start, a socket for a prosthetic jawbone and teeth that were at current, nowhere to be seen. 

He suddenly felt incredibly awkward at having seen what was in a sense the Cambion’s mouth and throat. It felt…wrong in a way. Like he had witnessed something private. 

The Cambion didn’t seem to care one way or another, narrowing their eyes and pressing two clawed fingers against a switch where their trachea would be. 

“Here to pick something up?” the tone was bored, the voice was synthetic and unnervingly deep. 

“No-uh- I-uh…” Caera stammered, glancing about, uncertain how to proceed. 

“Uh- Mister uh, Blade? Is it?” he finally choked out. 

The Cambion rolled their eyes. 

“There’s no Mister. Or Miss or Sir or Missus or Mx or Mz or whatever title ya usually use.” the synthetic voice rumbled flatly, as if they’d explained this many times. “It’s just Blade. Or Techno. Or Technoblade. Either one, doesn’t matter.” 

“Uh- oh…okay.” Caera fumbled. So it was him…possibly a ‘him’? Did it matter? Sounded like a ‘him’. The letters said ‘he’ so…might be best to go with that?

There was silence again. 

“You’re not picking up an order, are ya.” Technoblade stated. 

“No I-” 

“If you wanted to make an order the forms are on the web, you can find it on any of the terminals around here-” 

“I need to talk to you.” Caera finally blurted out. 

“Well, yer doing that.” The Cambion shrugged. “What about? I don’t got all night. I’ve got deliveries to make at stupid o’clock tomorrow.”

“I’m your brother.” 

Caera grit his teeth at the statement. 

Brilliant! Just brilliant! Idiot! Stupid! Way to ease into it!

Techno raised a brow. 

Released the switch on his throat. 

Closed the door- 

Caera slammed his foot between the gap, grabbing hold of the door and wedging his leg inside to keep it from closing. 

“You have to listen to me!” he tried to pry the door open. “Please! I didn’t know where else to go! The Exorcists are probably-” 

The door slammed open, nearly knocking him to the ground from the force of the impact. Techno beat physics to it, grabbing hold of Caera’s throat and shoving his back hard against the pavement, wings flaring and tail lashing angrily. 

“You brought the Exorcists here?!” his voice switch wavered beneath the fingers of his free hand. 

“No!” Caera choked. “No, they lost my trail hours ago! In the upper rings! I swear! They didn’t follow me! I promise! I swear on my life and-” 

“Get out!” the hand on his neck released. 

“Get out and don’t come back!” Techno turned towards the door. 

“They killed mom!” Caera scrambled back to his feet, wincing as his injured leg finally gave out and he stumbled to his knees, clawing at the wound in his thigh. “They killed Eve!” 

He saw the Cambion freeze in his tracks. 

“Please!” Caera begged, feeling the tears he’d kept at bay for who knew how long finally burst free. “Please! I didn’t know where else to go!” 

He saw Techno’s tail swish, slowly, his wings trembling for just a moment. His back still facing Caera, silent.

“It was a lie! It was all a lie!” Caera sobbed. “She never wanted me to join the Exorcist Convent, she never wanted- she- they killed her and said she did- they lied to me! They lied to everyone! Please!” 

“I can’t go back there.” he felt his head swim, whether from the crying or the blood loss or perhaps both, he wasn’t sure, he didn’t care. “I can’t- I won’t go back there. You can kill me if you want but please, don’t- don’t hand me over to them.” 

He felt his feathers curling around his shoulders as he sobbed. 

He really should’ve expected this, he told himself. A Cambion would want nothing to do with a Nephilim half brother, and reasonably so. But, the letters he’d read from his mother had painted a picture of a nerdy, soft hearted older brother…but it was stupid of him to think he’d be wanted by him-

He felt himself hauled to his feet by a clawed hand. 

“Eve’s…dead?” Techno’s eyes had grown narrow, the little black pupils slitted almost angrily as his voice shook. Or, sounded like it was shaking at least. It was difficult to tell his tone with the synthetic voice box. 

Caera nodded. “They said she’d died in an accident five years ago, when they took me to the Convent, said-said it was her last wish…”

“Should’ve guessed that was a lie…” his vision was getting blurry. “She always talked shit about the Exorcists-” 

“Get inside.” 

Caera blinked as Techno ushered him into the building.

Chapter Text

“Wha-” 

“Sit.” 

He was pushed into a chair before the Cambion turned back to the door, scanning outside for a moment before flicking the water from his wings and shutting the thing, sliding the various bolts and chains back into place. 

“What are you-” Caera gasped in pain as Techno shoved a rag over the wound in his thigh. 

“Hold that there, keep pressure on it.” Was the only instruction given before he saw the Cambion turn to the massive worktable within the room and begin digging through the piles of half finished projects. 

Gods was there any sense of order in the guy’s workspace?! Caera shook his head, dizzy as the shock and bloodloss began to finally settle in as the adrenaline of the day faded. Did that thought even matter? Apparently mentioning his…their…mother’s death was enough to convince the man to let him not bleed out in some alley way. Who was he to question how Techno organised his workspace…what even was the man’s job? What kind of workshop was this? 

His vision was still blurry from the tears, possibly from the blood loss now as well, but at least once he had settled a bit he could make out the interior of the shop. 

A far cry from the dingy, damp mess of outside, the place was rather…pleasant actually. If messy and haphazard. The lights were all a warm gold colour, solidly lit and incandescent rather than the flickering fluorescent and LED’s or neons of other places. The walls were still concrete and metal but they were lined with shelves of various tools and supplies, and little trinkets scattered about that made the place feel more like a house rather than just a workshop. The floor was even layered with tattered carpets and rugs, probably scrounged up from Purgatorius’s dumping grounds given the surprisingly decent pattern work and weaving within them. 

A generator hummed softly in the corner, warming the room to a gentle temperature and providing a centrepoint to the place. Like some ancient hearth that would’ve flickered with firelight in some ancient day long past. 

If those days had ever happened at all. 

For all he knew, for all anyone knew, there had never been a time before the eternal seas. And yet, there was still that old memory, perhaps seated deep within their subconscious, of wooden beams and thatched roofs and roaring fireplaces with the scent of woodsmoke and apples. 

Caera found himself biting his tongue once more as Techno’s hand on his wound scattered his pain laden thoughts. 

“Your knee is busted-” the cambion now had a - jaw?! When did- what?! Caera felt dizzy. 

The pink haired man kneeling before him now had what looked to be a metallic jaw, snapped in place where once there was none. Elegantly fashioned with craftsmanship only seen from Paradisio, with swirling flourettes of gold and ruby red gems and….a pair of wicked tusks, the edges sharpened like knives, protruding from where his lower canine teeth must’ve once resided. 

Demonic. 

“Oi,” Techno snapped his fingers in front of Caera’s face as the nephilim caught himself staring. “Can’t do this without your consent here, company policy, did you hear what I said or ya want me to list it off again?” 

“I-I didn’t. Sorry.” Caera tried to peer at the wound, only for his vision to spin. He vaguely felt the sensation of a hand steady him, pushing him back up in the chair. 

“S’all right.” Techno’s voice, metallic though it was, almost sounded gentle. Concerned. 

“I can’t salvage your knee,” the cambion explained. “If you want to be able to walk again you’ll need a prosthesis, I can do that, but I need to hear it from you first.” 

“Prosthesis?” Caera felt as if something was pressing on his eyelids. “...m’ tired- OW!” 

He yelped as red flashed across his vision, bolting upright as the cambion squeezed hard on his wrist. 

“Stay with me, Nephilim.” Techno definitely sounded concerned, Caera decided. 

“I need to remove what’s left of your leg.” 

Caera froze. The words seized his heart like an icy grip. 

“From just above the knee,” he vaguely heard Techno describing. “I can save your thigh for a prosthesis attachment but your knee is destroyed. I need to remove it.” 

Too many emotions flooded Caera’s already exhausted mind. 

He couldn’t, he wouldn’t lose his leg, there had to be another option…right? 

“You need to decide quickly there Feathers,” Techno stated. “We don’t have time, I need a yes or no, do you want me to remove it?” 

“Can’t-can’t you save it?” Caera trembled. 

He couldn’t-he couldn’t lose anything else. He’d lost so much, he’d lost so much already, and now…he would lose a physical piece of himself….

“I’m a back alley hack-smith, Feathers.” Techno stated. “I keep people from dying and outfit folks with augments, I’m not of them fancy Paradisio surgeons that can reattach limbs and fuse bones on a molecular level.” 

“Unless you want to go back-” 

“NO!” Caera snapped. 

He’d rather die than go back there…even if…even if…

The world was starting to flicker as grey spots flooded his vision. 

Techno squeezed his wrist again. 

“Yes or no, Feathers.” 

“What’s the alternative?” Caera struggled to keep his eyes open. 

His heart was beating too quickly…

“Sepsis most likely,” Techno explained. “Your knee is gone, even if it did heal, it’s going to be agony with every step you take. I can do my best to keep it but in all honesty, you’d be better off without it-” 

Better off without it.  

“Easy for…you to say….you’re all…used to losing…your bodies…” Caera grit his teeth as his leg began to throb. 

“You think we want to?” the cambion’s voice dropped. “I’m not offering this because I like hacking people’s limbs off and sticking em’ full of metal, Feathers.” 

“I’m offering this because the only choice you seem to have is a metal leg or an agonisingly dying one.” Techno hissed through the tusks of his jaw. 

“Those are the only choices you have with me. But unlike some,” he glared at the nephilim. “I’m at least letting you choose.” 

Caera flinched at the tone as the truth settled across him like a frigid weight. 

Letting you choose.  

He eyed the scars across the freckled face of the man before him, the metal jaw, the throat that no longer emitted any form of natural voice. The crimson eyes with dark circles beneath, the calloused fingers from years of shop-work, the tatters and holes within his ears and wings, the chipped horns…

“I’m sorry.” Caera grit his teeth, leaning back against the chair as he fought to keep from keeling over. “I can’t…” 

“I can’t do anything unless you give me a yes or no.” Techno’s voice returned to, what was presumably, his usual cadence. “Metal? Or try to keep it and live with the consequences?” 

Metal, a leg that would instantly identify him as having received help from someone in Infernus. A permanent scar, an identifier of who he was, how betrayed the Exorcists. Or…pain. Permanent pain at every step, if he even could take a step again. How would he live with that? Where would he go for any sort of medicine for it? Would he ever get it fixed again? 

He couldn’t just return to reattach anything or have it grown back…

He could never return…

There was nothing to return to, he decided. 

“Metal.” Caera winced. “I-I’ll take the metal.” 

He could swear he heard Techno sigh in relief. Before he felt the sudden pin prick of a needle against his skin-

“You don’t want to be awake for this.” Was the last thing he heard before the world went grey. 

___________

It was the staticy sound of an old speaker that woke him. 

Caera groaned at the noise, his head ached. His throat was so dry. 

At least his vision had returned, he was grateful for that, as he peeled his eyelids open with a grimace at the crust that had formed along the lashes. 

Ew…  

He was lying on a cot, he noticed. A makeshift one, probably just cushions and blankets piled on top of a table and a pillow that smelt vaguely of antifreeze beneath his head. 

But, he was warm. 

He was dry. 

And aside from the headache that decided to pulse through his skull at the sound of the speakers -some game show or whatever with an annoyingly screechy crowd- he was otherwise quite comfortable. 

Cautiously, he tried to sit up, noting that it took far more effort than it used to, and attempted to swing his legs to the edge of the bed-

He bit back a scream as pain erupted from his leg. Or rather….what remained of it. 

Bandaged tightly with layers of stained linens and strips of guaze, was a stump. Just above where his knee would have been. 

And he remembered. 

The chase, the Exorcists, the bolts flying past him and grazing skin, the fall, the exhaustion, the red eyes of the Cambion that the enveloped letter claimed was his brother….

Caera barely noticed he’d begun sobbing. 

He did notice, however, when a steady hand gently patted his shoulder. 

“I know, it…it takes a bit to get used to. Missing a piece of ya I mean.” 

He wanted to punch Techno at that. 

He decided against it, settling to just scowl at the cambion instead. 

The man had his hair in a half done braid, his fingers still holding it where he had left off. His other hand awkwardly patted at Caera’s shoulder. 

His metal jaw was in place. Moving as he spoke, as fluid as if it were still flesh and bone instead of gears and wires. 

“Fuck off.” Caera mumbled half heartedly. 

“I refilled your IV, put some of the good stuff in it,” Techno ignored him. “Just a little, I can’t afford to use it all on one person, but it should start kicking again soon.” 

“In the meantime,” the cambion gestured past a curtain that had been slung across the room, sectioning off the table Caera laid on and what looked to be the rest of the workspace. “Bathroom is to your right. Green door takes you to the hallway, you head down that and turn right at the last door. Toilet, sink, shower.” 

“Do not use the hot water.” Techno’s hand tightened on Caera’s shoulder. “I cannot stress this enough, hot or warm water on a wound like that is going to HURT. And it’ll probably induce more bleeding and melt off any scabbing you might have developed so please for the love of all that is holy, do NOT use the hot water.” 

The nephilim wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d been sobbing one minute, angry the next, and now confused at the instructions he’d just been issued. 

“You say that like you’ve done it before.” he settled on saying. 

“How do you think I know about it?” The cambion’s brow raised, as if he was attempting a knowing grin. 

“Anywho,” Techno stood, fidgeting with what Caera assumed was the IV bag beside his head. “I got work to do. Try to rest up if you can, if you need anything give me a shout, and uh, if you hear me talking to myself that’s normal.” 

“What about Eve?” Caera asked. “Don’t we wanna-” 

“After I’m done with work, Feathers.” Techno stated flatly. 

Caera couldn’t read the tone. Couldn’t read the cambion’s body language either, he realised. As if the man had just turned off everything that could lead to his emotions being read. 

I’m at least letting you choose. The words echoed hollowly within his skull as he watched Techno leave through the stained curtain.