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Outside the thick glass dome of the busy port, brown mist roils and seethes. The atmosphere here on Eldin is mildly toxic after long exposure, which means that whoever lives here is either adapted to it or protected from it, ideally. The Goron culture here is rather insular due to how inaccessible the towns are to most other people.
Still, plenty of tourists and travelers and workers pass through the ports, though usually they don't stay for very long. It all makes Eldin an ideal place for a thriving criminal underground, so several Black-Blooded dens nest here.
And that makes Eldin an ideal location to attempt an infiltration mission.
“Banana colada,” Legend mutters to one of the bartenders under the echoing chatter of the touristy bar. The tender pauses at the order. “Extra coconut.”
Two ships exit the docks in the time it takes for the bartender to respond, the roar of the engines bouncing off the glass and warping the sound. Legend waits, sitting on a stool wearing a face that isn't his, too long with olive skin, and hair that could easily be mistaken for Gerudo’s. He looks like a transient, someone hired month-to-month, complete with caked dust in the folds of his gray suit and patches on his backpack.
It's an excellent disguise, especially since the entire crew of the Epona has been here for two weeks, allowing Legend to adopt different faces and hang around, getting information and figuring out how to best get into the Black-Blooded den here. He's ready to try it.
“I'll have that out for you at station B4,” the bartender says, poking something into his datapad. It looks like he's putting in an unremarkable drink order, but Legend knows that he's alerting the Black-Blooded to an unknown member asking for access. The bartender hands over a small square of metal engraved with the port’s geometric logo and a number, indistinguishable from all the others.
“Sands and sea, you took your time.” Legend takes the square, then slides off the stool and makes his calm way through the crowds to the long row of pickup stations. There's a short line at each, two or three people long, and they trade in their squares for their orders. It's a pretty normal system for a massive place serving a lot of food like this.
Station B4 doesn't technically exist. Legend instead heads for the plain door between B3 and C1, which is marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL and has a scanner a lot like the pickup stations.
Legend consciously shifts his usual gait to something that lopes, the walk of a confident person who knows exactly how tall they are. His baggy suit hides the muscle tone he's added, and the backpack—holding his disguise’s entire life, most of it purchased third- or fourth-hand offplanet—actually works to reduce his silhouette to something more unassuming. Only the plainclothes Black-Blooded monitor that sits in a nearby booth all day pays any attention to him.
Casually, Legend tosses his square in the air and catches it, a difficult feat that nobody will appreciate. Shifting his size by a few inches is easy, but adapting to the change is rather difficult. Half of a Sheikah’s training is spent figuring out how to match perception to body—hand-eye coordination of the highest degree.
Legend scans his square outside the door and drops it in the slot when the scanner lights up. The door slides open without a sound.
With a firm step, Legend enters the dim corridor, passing a few open passages to different parts of the bright, busy kitchen. He doesn't move for the poor Zora girl trying to navigate around him with a very full tray of colorful drinks in her hands. His determined walk forces her to retreat into one of the kitchen doors to let him pass. He mentally apologizes, but doesn't spare her a second glance.
His persona’s mission is very important, and, well, so is Legend’s. Whatever information he gains from this mission will be immensely valuable. Nobody's been able to get into this particular Black-Blooded den in a while, and it's run by a second-rank member. He could be planning something.
“You made it in,” says the little speaker hooked up to Time and Warriors, who are the only members of the Epona’s crew who know of Legend’s Sheikah heritage and abilities. The entire crew knows that he's attempting an infiltration and is prepared to help, but only those two know how well, and how badly, this could go.
Legend doesn't answer out loud. He holds up his hand and fans his fingers in an innocuous fidget, the predetermined sign for I'm fine. A few hours ago, he'd managed to embed a small comms device directly into his flesh, and it sits along his jawline where it won't be obscured by his hair or a mask. The device transmits sound and video back to Time and Warriors, and a special little speaker that Legend got into the walls of his ear canal lets Time and Warriors communicate with him. They're recording, so Legend is sure to turn his head from time to time, just to pick up as much data as possible.
After a flight of stairs headed down into the bowels of Eldin, Legend runs into his first actual challenge. A violet-suited bouncer leans against a pillar that stands somewhat awkwardly next to a door inscribed with corrupted Sheikah glyphs.
The bouncer doesn't say anything to him, just holds out her narrow hand.
Legend pulls out his Black-Blooded ID chip and snorts, confident. He doesn't hand the chip over, but offers it up for examination, balanced on two gloved fingers.
The bouncer hovers her own hand over the chip, and one of her rings pulses with blue light, scanning it and reading it. Legend can hear a response that sounds in the bouncer’s ear, someone on the inside giving her the green light. He knows what the chip reads: August Toten, fourth-rank member of the Black-Blooded, usually stationed on Rauru. The rank gives him a lot of weight to throw around, but there are dozens of fourth-rank members, so it's not likely that someone would know every single one, especially here in Eldin. The criminals here are wealthy and rather lazy. Their only job is to generate revenue for the Black-Blooded through theft and mining, which makes this particular group ideal for what Legend has in mind.
“Welcome, Master Toten,” the bouncer says, withdrawing her hand and knocking on the door with one lazy knuckle. The sound reverberates through the whole door, revealing its hollow construction.
“About time,” Legend snips, though there wasn't exactly a delay.
The door slides down, revealing a grand hall that slopes even farther downward. Legend heads right in, using his confident tall-person walk and holding his head high.
It's bright inside, which forces him to blink several times before his eyes adjust. Chandeliers decorated with colored glass throw rainbows on the white stone walls, which are decorated with lines of embedded gold in various patterns. The corrupted Sheikah glyphs continue, carved into the pink marble baseboards and crown moldings, which honestly just looks tacky. It's a gluttonous display of wealth, meant to intimidate those who don't belong, and comfort those that do with the knowledge that they're among the elites.
It's also hot. Eldin in general isn't a hospitable place for anyone not made of stone. This particular den seems to be striving to remind everyone here that they are only inches from death at any given moment. It smells like brimstone, which is doubtlessly a deliberate decision, since Legend can see the decorative air filters on the low, claustrophobic ceilings. He knows those can do a much better job than they’re doing right now, even down here under the planet’s surface.
“Stars, that's gaudy,” Warriors says. “Sometimes less is more, you know?”
Time interrupts. “Don't distract him with pointless comments ”
Legend rolls his eyes and responds with another fan of his fingers. I’m fine. In fact, he finds himself in total agreement with Wars.
Down here, the Black-Blooded are free to wear their uniforms and their masks, which they clearly do, if those scurrying about are any indication. Legend pulls out a mask of his own, inscribed with the false Sheikah eye. He doesn't have much cultural pride, seeing as the Sheikah are a closed culture, their history and rituals and even their members controlled by the Kingdom, but it grates on him just a little to keep seeing these inversions and bastardizations of things that perhaps meant something important to someone, long ago.
The mask is ill-fitting, but that's understandable, since it clearly isn't his own. August Toten’s real mask and uniform would be on Rauru, and not travel with him. This one could be claimed as a trophy of war, if he’s caught with it by anyone else.
A small, masked member, perhaps Deku, or just a very short Hylian, appears from an office to the side and does their best to keep up with Legend’s long strides.
“Sir!” they squeak. “Do you have an appointment? The Master here is very busy—”
“I know where I'm going,” Legend says without looking down, letting imperiousness bleed into his tone.
“Be that as it may, sir, you are hardly fit to enter their demesne—”
“Oh, is appearance suddenly the first creed?” Legend says, striding forward. “You lava-blooded disgust me. You care more about my dust than my message.”
“I must insist—”
“No,” Legend says, finally turning to the little ink-stained clerk. Definitely a Deku, now that he looks. “I must insist. My ship leaves in two hours. Is fourth-rank not enough for you? Would you like to hear the confidential message with your own little ears?”
“Don't make a scene,” Time mutters.
“Nah, he's acting,” Warriors says. “I wish I had a snack. You're doing great.”
“N-no,” the Deku squeaks. “I'll… let them know you're on your way.”
“Now that sounds useful. You must want off of Eldin if you’re suggesting things like that.” Legend waves a hand and continues down the hallway. He lets the Deku scurry off, and ignores the group of other Black-Blooded members gossipping in a corner. He's studied rather complete scans of this place, and does know where he's going, but the slight uncertainty drives a splinter into his chest.
One small mistake could wreck this entire delicate house of cards, which would give Legend far more than a papercut.
“How are you doing?” Warriors asks. “Obviously you're getting in there, but I'm asking about you, not the mission.”
I'm fine, Legend answers once again with a flourish of his fingers that looks like a bored fidget. He turns through a curtain-covered archway, flicking it out around him.
This corridor is lined in mirrors, which really emphasize the contrast between the luxury of this place and how roughly he’s dressed. Most of the Black-Blooded that Legend has seen headed in and out of this place over the last few weeks are dressed formally when they aren't in their uniforms, suits and dresses and wraps, often gem-colored and heavily decorated.
Legend’s plain, worn worker’s clothes are a statement: he doesn't need to match their level of luxury. He's important anyway.
Another curtained archway takes him out of the hall of mirrors. Legend marches right past the door that would take him to the boss’s office, ignoring the secretary that stands up from the desk and the guard that startles awake. He heads into the distribution warehouse instead, a massive natural cavern with lava flowing down a falls into a pool in one corner. This cavern is just as loud as the port above, with powered minecarts shrieking out into the tunnel network and massive machines moving around shipping containers. Artisans sit at an array of tables to one side, cutting gems and evaluating metal purities. One set of small carts constantly moves, shipping ore to the nearby refinery and back.
This isn't the Black-Blooded’s main source of raw metal and powerful gems, but it is a significant one. Beneath his mask, Legend grins.
“Mostly dodongos,” Time says as Legend sweeps his head around, giving them a good look at the cavern. “Goron artisans. A few Hylians or humans. As we suspected. Nothing too out of the ordinary.”
Legend weaves through the workers and tables and minecarts toward the lavafall on the far side, ignoring the workers’ looks and whispers. He considers the pool of rock for a moment, mesmerized by the soft orange glow that contrasts the cool floodlights built into the ceiling. This is a weak spot. He reaches into a mesh pocket on the side of his backpack, then tosses a single small charge into the pool. He turns away and walks back toward the door he came in.
“Master Toten,” a masked Hylian says, out of breath, the guard finally catching up to him. His words sound a little muffled, since Legend is purposely dulling his hearing for the moment. “We were informed of your arrival—”
His words cut off as Legend's small charge’s shell dissolves, exposing the innards to raw lava. The charge detonates with a deafening bang that bothers everyone except Legend, who's prepared. A burst of bright light highlights the new, unplanned lava pool expansion. Drops of molten rock fly around the corner, splattering on tracks and causing a fair amount of chaos as minecarts derail and stop and fall over. People scream and trip over each other to get away.
The guard stops talking, and Legend can only imagine his jaw hanging open.
Legend can't stop himself from laughing a little as he walks back into the other room. He allows the secretary to do the song-and-dance of awkwardly confirming his appointment and letting him into the Master’s office.
The office, compared to the rest of the facility, is very dim, lit in lava-like colors by pillars of glass filled with blobs of slowly circulating liquid. The furniture is plush, and so are the walls, and as Legend steps in, he notes a distinct difference of several degrees. It's cool here. The sweat on his brow begins to dry, further chilling him.
In half-shadow, the boss of this particular Black-Blooded den regards Legend. The light from his lamps glints on glittering gems set into gauche rings and necklaces, as well as one single eye in the middle of his forehead.
“You've caused a lot of trouble in ten minutes,” he says, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Master Caldera.” Legend bows appropriately. “My name is August Toten, and I am here by request of Mistress Nabooru.” He names the Sheikah’s best Black-Blooded contact, a second-rank woman who will corroborate his story. She did offer this mission to him when he asked for one, after all.
“I heard. You set off a bomb in my distribution center, Toten.”
Legend straightens and hooks his thumbs on his belts. “I was instructed to point out any weak spots I found in your infrastructure.”
“You could have done so without the loss of value.” Caldera’s eye blinks.
Hinox eyes are rumored to be magical, peering through disguises and fog with the ease of bright light. Legend knows those rumors are false—his conversation right now is blatant evidence—but that knowledge doesn't stop his palms from going clammy as that piercing yellow iris fixes on him.
“My message is going to repay you a dozen times over,” Legend says, lifting his chin. “Mistress Nabooru sent me specifically to warn you that the Death Mountain mines are about to suffer severe supply chain issues, and your services are shortly to be in high demand.”
Caldera sucks in and lets out a long, loud breath. “I see. Mistress Nabooru sent you to tell me this?”
Legend doesn't answer. He just said that.
“What other weak spots have you noticed?” Caldera continues. “If she trusts you to tell me this, she must trust you to accurately case my mines.”
“Well…” Legend draws out the word, stretching his hands out in front of him with the fingers locked, the symbol for begin the distraction. “Your entire security system for getting in here in the first place is weak. Death Mountain has another two layers of security.”
“Much more would slow us down.”
“They have it for a reason,” Legend shrugs. “I just visited them, and can confirm that their supply chain really is about to be disrupted. Two extra layers of security didn’t do much to stop me.”
He hadn't visited as he claimed, but this warning is real, right from Nabooru herself. She's always orchestrating things between the second-rank Black-Blooded, keeping the atmosphere tense.
Caldera’s eye narrows slightly. “I see. Tell me, August Toten, what is your real purpose in coming here and setting bombs in my distribution center?”
“I just told you.”
“You won't mind if I confirm with Mistress Nabooru that you are supposed to be here?” A green holoscreen bursts to life over his desk, and he begins to poke a message into it.
“My ship leaves in an hour and a half, Master Caldera, so as long as it takes less time than that,” Legend shrugs and makes his gesture again. Begin the distraction.
“Wind is setting off the grenades now,” Warriors says into Legend’s ear.
Caldera leaves Legend waiting in silence for several minutes while he attends to business. Legend isn’t particularly stressed. It's just a power play.
Finally, he speaks again. “Strange, Master Toten. You are nowhere in the database.”
Legend scoffs, though a cold drop of dread falls deep down his throat. Why had Caldera checked that? “I'm a ghost, Master Caldera. Off the records. Of course I'm not in the database. Ask Mistress Nabooru, she sent me.”
“Oh, she confirmed your presence almost immediately, and your message. But forgive me if I don't trust a ghost, much less one from her.”
“What are you going to do?” Legend challenges. “Mistress Nabooru sent you this message as a kindness. Will you throw it back at her face? You have confirmation from her.”
“Her actions have been… suspect, as of late,” Caldera sighs, as if regretful. “I'm afraid that I cannot trust her word right out. She will forgive me for holding you until said supply chain disruption.”
“Uh oh,” Time says into the speaker. “Legend, we can't stage a rescue down there, and I don't want to leave you in their clutches for so long if we can avoid it.”
Warriors hums. “He's suspicious of Nabooru. That isn't good.”
Legend’s shoulders relax, and he restructures his plan inside his head. Begin the distraction, he gestures, hoping that Warriors will understand his question.
“It’s general bedlam up here,” Warriors says immediately, answering. “People will be okay, but the dome is cracked and they're panicking. BBs are swarming the entrance in an effort to escape the air.”
Excellent.
“I'm afraid,” Legend says, “that my mission compels me to return to my mistress as soon as possible. If you insist on holding me, I will insist on escaping. All due respect, Master Caldera, but you do not know my talents nor my determination.”
Behind him, the door to the office opens, letting in hot air. “Master Caldera!” the secretary says, breathless. “The dome above cracked, agents are trying to get in at a reckless pace. It threatens our secrecy.”
“Idiots.” Caldera stands, and Legend turns around to keep his back to a wall instead of the door. “Where is Zala?”
The guard from before reappears, recognizable thanks to the blue eye on his mask, where most are red. “Here! Here, I have the—”
“Silence,” Caldera interrupts. “Just use it.”
“What does he have?” Warriors asks, and Legend turns.
Zala the guard must have some sort of speed-enhancing boots on, or be part-fairy, because Legend startles at the sight of him, right there, immediately. Something stings Legend’s arm.
“Hey!” Legend protests, then goes very, very cold, looking down at his arm in horror.
Zala has stabbed him with a needle, and the liquid inside is a damning bright cyan blue. He has about sixty seconds to get out of here.
“You must understand,” Caldera says, “Mistress Nabooru is ironclad. Even she, however, is not immune to finding Sheikah moles among her people, more and more lately. This is simply a precaution.”
In Legend’s ear, Warriors curses, and Time fills him in on what, exactly, the injection is: Yigaeye serum, a malicious chemical that either causes a Sheikah’s form to come undone, or temporarily paralyzes most Hylian and human people. Either Caldera gets his prisoner, or he roots out a Sheikah. It's very expensive, but Legend should have anticipated that Caldera is free enough with his money to waste a serum charge on a “test.” Most people with access to it wait until they're sure.
Legend has been stabbed by this stuff before, and he knows he's in for a rough few minutes.
“I believe your message,” Caldera says, “because I'm sure that you wish to remain in Mistress Nabooru’s good graces.”
Legend sneers and pushes Zala away, removing the needle from his arm for good. “How dare you. Not only is this a violation of basic decency, but the seventh creed.”
Fifty seconds.
Caldera just shrugs. “I'll be forgiven, I'm sure. I'm testing all of Nabooru’s minions for the time being, and I know several other second-ranks who are doing the same.”
“Noted,” Time says. “Passing that along to her.”
“I take my leave, sir,” Legend says, giving only a shallow bow and shoving past the guard and the secretary. More and more people run around outside, affected by the panic up above.
Caldera calls after him. “You know that your urgency to escape now is only confirmation!”
Forty-five seconds.
He needs somewhere to hide! No, he needs to get out of here. Right now.
Legend relies on his baggy suit to hide the way he shifts his muscle mass, channeling it into his legs to run faster. He skids on the nice marble tiles, leaving black streaks, and hears someone running after him. He doesn't take the time to look.
“Hyrule's the closest,” Time says. “Can he meet you in the bar?”
“Someone's gotta.” Legend doesn't want to lay this secret on Hyrule so soon, but he's all right with Hyrule, considering it all. He’s pretty sure that Hyrule suspects something like this about him, anyway.
Thirty seconds.
Legend drops several more charges as he runs, clicking their timers to random settings. One of them goes off almost immediately, propelling him along with a blast of scalding air that adds the smell of burnt plastic to the brimstone. Someone screams. His pursuer falls back. Legend rips the mask off his face to breathe, letting it fall to the shining ground with a flutter of burned strings.
Out the front door—more explosions to distract the bouncer—up the stairs—through the kitchen—out an employee door across the way. Legend leaves at least one toppled table in his wake, but doesn't have time to even shout an apology.
Twenty seconds.
The bar is, as Warriors had said, in shambles. The patrons rush all over, trying to get to their flights or whatever even as ringing alarms go off. The crowd is a seething mess.
“He's in the corner, by that ugly painting,” Warriors says, barely audible in Legend’s ears over the shouting and alarms.
Legend slows by necessity, then pushes past a few groups of people in what he hopes is a rather unremarkable way. He finally lays his eyes on Hyrule, who stands outside a secluded circular booth, one with a long black tablecloth over the table, scanning the crowd with his bright green eyes. Legend lets out a breath and beelines.
Ten seconds.
No recognition glimmers in Hyrule’s eyes when he sees Legend headed for him. His face hardens, and he adopts a defensive posture, one hand going for the weapon on his hip.
Right. Wrong face. Legend covers his face with both hands and does his best to force it back to his usual. By the startled expression that Hyrule bears when Legend pulls his hands away, he only partially succeeds.
“It’s me,” Legend says, glancing around. He doesn't think anyone followed him out, but he could be wrong.
Someone opens the B4 door, and smoke billows out. Whoops.
“Ledge—?” Hyrule begins, then stops, hand to the comm device on his ear. His horror falls to concern, and he uses his other hand to raise the edge of the tablecloth. “Wars says you need somewhere to hide.”
“What do you know about Yigaeye serum?” Legend says, stepping closer.
Hyrule's eyes are wide. “I… Time is filling me in. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Nah, it’s—” The first pains of the serum flash through Legend’s arm where he'd been injected, feeling like molten metal expanding over his bones.
He's grateful for the suit he wears, which hides the way his skin shivers and loosens. He ducks his head in an effort to hide from Hyrule.
“Get under!” Hyrule hisses, and Legend obeys as quickly as he can.
The plain floor beneath this table is sticky with spilled drinks and smells like stale bread, but it's dark, and Legend trusts Hyrule. It's safe. He's safe.
“Stay quiet,” Time tells him, and then the speaker falls from Legend’s ear, out of hearing range.
The molten metal feeling expands until all Legend can feel is heat. He's vaguely aware of his suit falling off of him as his form contracts. He can't see anything, his vision failing him. Well, his eyes are fine, but the connection between them and his brain snaps as things twist the wrong way.
It hurts. A lot.
Legend knows from experience that this whole thing will only last a few minutes, and that he'll return to his usual form as soon as it's over, sore but very much alive. But just because he knows that doesn't mean this doesn't burn enough to make him feel like he's dying.
Stay quiet, Time had said. It feels like an impossible task.
Legend shoves his fingers between his teeth in an effort to gag himself. He focuses on staying quiet while his skeleton convulses. The Yigaeye serum forces his skin to twist, his muscles to loosen. The connections between his systems, which Legend tends to keep tight hold and track of, tangle like wires in a blender. He can't see, he can't hear, he doesn't know if he's making any kind of noise. With any luck, his voice has stopped working, too. Hopefully nobody can hear him.
The agony lasts a good few minutes, not that Legend is very aware of the time passing.
It's even worse as the serum works its way out of him and his body begins to settle. While riding at the crest of the pain, at least Legend was lost in it all and unable to think. Now, he notices every twitch and feels every stinging sensation. It's like his body fell asleep, and now every inch of his skin burns with salt-and-pepper static as it comes back online.
When the serum is completely gone, Legend lays still on the disgusting ground, the secondhand suit twisted around him, his bones a mess inside his flesh. There's a distal phalange from his hand inside his mouth, like he accidentally bit off a finger, and he thinks one of his ribs is vertical. A lot of his joints are just out of place entirely. His half-attached face is wet against the floor, and his lips are dry. Honestly, it's a good sign that he even has lips.
Legend begins the slow process of putting himself back together. His misplaced bones are causing a lot of pain, so he works on those first. Getting back into a two-armed, two-legged shape is a good first step. He has to go against some muscle memory, though, since usually his dramatic shifts like this are from Hylian to rabbit. His body wants to fall into rabbit form, which is definitely not what he needs right now.
Once Legend’s bones are settled into their proper places, it's easier for his muscles to respond, and then even easier for his skin to tighten in the proper way in top of it all. Only once that's done does Legend begin to reconnect all of his senses, rearranging his nerves and hair and blood vessels and ligaments. It's complex work, but he's done it plenty of times before, and it’s simple for him after a point.
Legend pushes himself up onto his elbows, shaking, just to get off of the floor. He lifts his eyelids with effort. Once his eyes adjust to the darkness and he only sees a pair of boots, Hyrule’s, he focuses on what he can hear. The tablecloth muffles most of the sound, but he thinks the alarms have stopped. People chatter again, less panicked. Hyrule mutters a few words, perhaps to Warriors and Time in his ear. Some sort of tinny music plays nearby, too, not deep enough to come from the bar’s speakers, but loud enough that it's close. The stale bread smell hasn't gone away, and is now joined by the smell of meat, which might be Legend, or might be something Hyrule is eating. The floor is still sticky.
Legend notes and categorizes each sensation to make sure that everything is working the way it should: ears, eyes, touch, taste. He takes a deep breath and sits up.
Now to get back to normal. He kicks his way out of the baggy suit, digs into the backpack for a smaller suit in a brighter color, and pulls that on. He uses a small mirror from the backpack to double-check his face shape and his hair, which he turns pink again. Seeing pink bangs in his face makes him feel like himself again, which is one of the reasons he prefers the color.
Once Legend is certain that he's someone Hyrule will recognize (he won't ever admit it, but that moment of hostility had hurt), he reaches out to touch Hyrule’s knee.
Hyrule jerks, but doesn't panic. His hand appears below the table, and Legend grasps it with his own. He intends to just reassure Hyrule that he's okay, but Hyrule pulls, and Legend finds himself settling on the crimson-colored booth seat like any normal patron.
The alarms have stopped, and Hyrule’s datapad on the table plays popular Hylian music from the speaker. Hyrule reaches over to pause it, which turns their booth into an isolated, dim corner of silence, something that Legend very much appreciates.
He still clings to Hyrule’s hand.
“Hey,” Hyrule says, looking at him closely, as if examining him for inaccuracies. “How are you?”
Legend shrugs and uses his free hand to wipe the damp from his face. “Fine,” he croaks, voice dry. “Shaken. But fine.”
“You're trembling. I… it sounded…” Hyrule bites his lip, and his pinched expression tells Legend all he needs to know.
“You helped,” Legend assures him. “I knew I was safe with you right there. You found me a hiding spot close by and everything.”
Hyrule nods and squeezes Legend’s hand. “I'm glad you were out of there when that stuff started.”
“Yeah. Me too. Really glad. I don't want to think about what could've happened.” Legend leans his head back on the vinyl seat and closes his eyes. He feels like he needs to settle into his body again, like a riverbed stirred up into a cloud.
“I think they were looking for you,” Hyrule says after a few quiet moments. “Lifting up tablecloths, checking rooms, even some big suitcases.”
Legend lifts his head, frowning. “How did you stop them from finding me?”
“I… have a few tricks of my own,” Hyrule says. He turns to look more surely at Legend. “Now that I know—you really aren't what you seem, and I knew that, but now I know it—”
“Stop,” Legend says, holding up his free hand. “You don't owe me anything. So you know now, big deal. Congratulations on being a member of the club. Wars and Time—oh, stars, I lost my comms.” He raises his hand and feels along his jaw, but already knows that the device is gone. No way it survived that mess. “Anyway, I wanted to, um. Do you even know what the Sheikah are?”
“I know what Time and Wars have told me in the last half hour. They say that they're glad you're okay, too, by the way.”
Legend nods. “I'm feeling better. Wars, at least, knows a lot, so you probably have most of the information.”
“I do have a couple questions,” Hyrule says, then pauses, listening to voices in his ear. “Um, Time is asking if you're okay to walk back to the Lion. Almost everyone is back on the Epona, and we want to head out as soon as possible. We can walk and talk.”
“Yeah, let's walk.”
Hyrule slides out of the booth, grabbing his datapad, and Legend follows, leaving the backpack of junk behind. He feels somewhat shaky on his legs, but they continue out of the bar slowly, and Hyrule shifts his grip to hold onto Legend's elbow instead of his hand. The continued contact helps Legend feel grounded.
“So, questions?” Legend asks. “I don't really have much to hide about this now.”
Hyrule smiles a little. “Well, first off, do you even change your bones—”