Chapter Text
Rowden’s beaches are perfect this time of year.
He remembers reading that in the travel catalogue on the bus.
And yet there's no one here. Understandable, given what just happened in the city...what he did. Today hasn't exactly been a beach episode.
The sand was soft beneath Arlo’s feet as he stepped into the water, foamy waves lapping at the shore and the soles of his leather boots. His footsteps left tracks that were quickly washed away, a gradient fixed in his wake. It was nice. Last time he’d been here was with Remi, and…
(“WHY-?!”)
…That was a long time ago. (God, how long had it been since he was himself...?)
The sun was setting on the horizon, casting a warm glow over the sand and sea. Exhaling, Arlo took another step, shedding his coat, uncaring of where it landed. His hat had been lost some time ago, freeing matted golden locks against the gentle beach breeze. He doesn’t remember when or where and doesn’t particularly care anymore.
He toes off his shoes, too, and doesn't recoil at the difference in temperature as he treks on, his tattered, formerly starched white collared shirt barely hanging on against the elements.
The water was cold and calming as it washed the last of his aunt’s blood off of him, red mingling into blue.
—---
It had been (???) months since the Wellston raid. It felt like a lifetime, and might as well have been for how fragmented his recollection was, even now.
Months he’d spent paying the price for his mercy.
Months of working alongside the woman who irreparably damaged his psyche. Months of coffee and cubicles and plotting against his only friends because he’d been brainwashed into another person.
(A familiar person. Someone he would have been had it not been for…)
Months spent playing puppet on Farrah’s strings. Months groomed into what he wished he’d never become.
Arlo Montgomery’s world had been tainted by red in those months. A toxic drip into his veins. Rose-tinted, reddened, ruined by the color and dazzle of Fury’s Hypnosis.
Red ran in the streets, flooding like amps into the veins of people in places the Authorities didn’t care to protect. Lab rats, he’d once called them. (Sick. A sickening thought.)
Red ran down his fingers, nails sharpened to cruelty with Flame Claws and crackling with Lightning that was not his own. It would never be his.
Vigilante blood.
(Her blood. His blood. He can still hear their screams. Pleas for him to come to his senses. Kuyo’s fading smirk as Arlo skewered him, green eyes alight with defiance behind wild, loose blue locks.)
He can still feel the smirk he wore straining his lips. It’s enough to kill his smile for good.
And it was red, Fury red, that shrouded his vision, the dazzling, blinding pressure of her Hypnosis shattering his mind that day. Twisting him into this.
(His badge was in his coat. In gold, 'Officer Arlo Montgomery of the Bureau'. The Anti-Corruption division, as if every branch hadn't festered with the rot. The worthless scrap was scorched and misshapen.He couldn’t fully melt it in his grief-stricken grip, Flame Claws sputtering weakly against the metal. He chucked it…somewhere.)
And he’d thanked her for it. Oh, how he'd thanked her.
He’d thanked Farrah for her help in the raid, buying that sob story his aunt sold him about being pulled from the rubble thanks to worthless vigilantes. He’d thanked Valerie for staying with him as he recovered in the hospital post-raid, as if she hadn’t put him in there after scrambling his brain so bad he had to recover for weeks-
He’d thanked her for every “well done”, every pat on the shoulder and proud look after a report or mission or nightly patrol, a patrol where he’d dealt in drugs and death as EMBER Agent Arson.
Arson wore Volcan’s pride like a medal, not the iron brand it was. (he’d carved that brand into bodies on her words, with his very own hands, at the mere suggestion of praise. it was his job. he had been proud-)
And Fury, with her cat-slit eyes and covert control, had sunk her claws into his psyche. Batting him around like a toy. He wonders how she felt, watching him play intern again after the raid. Pride? Amusement? Or did she have a heart at all, the damn witch she was. (Farrah, Arlo does not regret. Not in the slightest. He didn't make the same mistake twice in sparing her. It's every other body on his roster that makes him sick.)
And he’d turned claws of his own against others on their orders. Against criminals (the Authorities’ favorite customers), innocents, and friends alike.
(He remembers Remi’s face, first seeing him in Branish that night. Eyes wide and betrayed. He remembers preparing to gouge those eyes out in the same heartbeat. Vigilante. Target. That’s all she’d been to him.)
It was red that doomed him. But it was also red that saved him in a flurry of fuzz.
He’s still not sure how Kassandra pulled it off. She hadn’t realized something was wrong with him for the longest time after he came back to work. And by then he had already...
The water's nice.
...He’s finally using up those vacation hours she’d been nagging him about. Taking a…beach trip, evidently.
He was filthy. He’d been standing there long enough that the residual red on him (was it his or hers, arson or volcan-) had dissolved into murky whisps in the water…fading into an almost pink color that matched the setting sun ahead of him.
Pink. Pinky.
…Remi. (He lost the right when she lost Kuyo to him.)
Last he saw her, her crimson eyes were red-rimmed and bloodstained-
(flesh makes the absolute worst noise when it singes, but the sizzle didn’t compare to her scream as she barely dodged his strike and ended up with a huge gash running vertically from her brow to cheek.
He remembers being disappointed over missing her eye.
Now he thanks whatever mercies the universe had left for him that he had.)
(don’t think about it, but don’t you dare forget it. traitor. let this be a reminder of why this must be done.)
He was waist-deep in the water now, almost floating upright…so he was quite far out from the shore, given his height. Had he been walking that long? He wasn't exactly paying attention, as much as he should be savoring these last moments. Arlo has never been the sentimental type.
It wouldn’t be long, then. Just a little more. His feet were nearly off the sea floor now. Just a bit further, and then he could rest repent.
For her. (Remi, rage ablaze with electricity, tears streaming down a face he was once so unused to seeing outside a smile. Dodging and weaving streaks of shock-pink lightning as she parried his clawed hands away from her, hands that once swore to shield her-)
For him. (Rei. “Look after her for me, will you?” For easy, unearned smiles aimed at him even though he never understood why, how, how is someone like him like this. Jokes and electricity crackling with life. Electricity that is now grafted onto Arlo’s own aura, flowing undeserved throughout his veins. He’d stop that soon.)
For everyone Arlo ever hurt, he had to- (“Hey, little Arlo, you can depend on Auntie to protect you from the bad guys-” no. no. not her not her not her. he can't forgive her.)
For…himself.
Arlo Montgomery is many things. A former king. A soldier, puppet, pawn.
Selfish is not one of them, arrogant as he once was.
He has never done anything truly for himself in his life, at least not so explicitly. Every action he’s taken, every move on the board. All the harm inflicted and people manipulated were in service of a higher purpose.
Order. Expectations. Family. Responsibility.
Hierarchy.
(he tries to stamp out the part of him that whispers “pleasure” as a reason as well. the part of him that easily strangled Rein just because he could, dragged John’s trauma out on a field long before farrah had even breathed in his direction. the sadism that had always existed in him, whether he dressed it up as necessary or hierarchical. and the true horror is that farrah did not rewrite him in the truest sense. she did not add nor alter what she didn’t have to. his character remained intact at its core. all she did was regress his memories. strip away everything he was because of others and leave the ugly, damning truth behind: he was never a good person. not as arson or king or arlo.)
Arlo has never done anything for himself in his life.
Is it really so wrong, so selfish, for him, with all he’s done at this point, to do this one last thing for himself?
…He tells himself the others will be fine.
In fact, Arlo knows the others will be fine. He’s already killedslaughteredbetrayed eliminated Fury and val. valerie. auntie. why. i’m sor- Volcan for them.
Kass saved Rein. (he lied and told her not to worry about him.)
Seraphina and John’s plans with Spectre are nearing fruition.
Remi has Kuyo Isen and Blyke, reunited at last, to back her up as well.
(Arlo at least had the sense to help them out on that end at the very least before coming here, sending the Lovun prison into chaos before he came here, Tarik be damned. It doesn’t make up for the fact that Blyke spent god knows how long in prison. He’d hardly bat an eye at the news before, in the Bureau. Heard what was being done and felt nothing-)
It goes to show that even now, Arlo is utilitarian as always. He's marked all his exits and checked on every piece in play before he dared to do this.
The strong smell of salt water just below him stings his nose, but the clean air is refreshing after spending so long in the city. If he closes his eyes, basks in the sun a moment longer, he can almost drift back to simpler times at this beach.
The pleasant sunlight warms his face and dances across the waves in dazzling glimmers like the sparklers and fireworks of that hot 4th of July night he’d spent with the Safe House so long ago. The setting sun casts the sky in melting shades of orange and pink. Beckoning. Beautiful.
As fine for last sight as any.
(he’s ready.)
So Arlo dives in.
The temperature shock doesn’t faze him, stark as it was. The water is cooling all around him, almost like it's smothering whatever smolders remain inside him. For all the fear and betrayal and pain, lots of it, he's endured since remembering this morning, since killing his Aunt and coworker in cold blood, he doesn’t feel an ounce of that hurt as the light gradually disappears into the waves.
(just like he will soon.)
He’s not scared.
This feels…peaceful.
It’s a happy ending of sorts, he's decided. There’s nothing left for him to do here.
He can’t unkill Kuyo. Can’t unspare Fury that day or bring her back just to bash her skull into a satisfying blend of blood on the ground again, either.
Arlo Montgomery is a utilitarian, and he has outlived his usefulness. A king cornered on the board now only fit to be discarded.
The game is over. It’s only the rational solution. What must be done.
A quiet exit for a traitor thrice over: Authorities, his friends, and the Authorities once more. Full circle.
(he wasn’t sure heights would do it, not with his passive and regeneration factor. Pills were subsequently a no-go as well.
Plus, he didn’t want Remi anyone seeing him like that. He’s not that selfish. He planned it out, calm and clinical as he abandoned Valerie’s corpse.
They’d all seen enough carnage. It’s carved into his eyelids even underwater.
he wants to wash everything away.)
Wait till everybody hears, though. His own hearing is muffled by the stifling rush of water into his ears, finally quieting his head.
The once indestructible Defense King of Wellston, felled by the sustainer of life: water.
Ha.
(Kuyo would have gotten a kick out of that. “If I’d known all it would take was some water, maybe I’d have lived,” or something equally obnoxious. he can only imagine now. he's already forgetting his voice.)
The hierarchy was once god to Arlo. The end-all be-all of power. What more was there to it? Ability was synonymous with strength; their world functioned on ability, worshipped its design like a deity, and what is that if not a god?
Humanity is mighty in the age of abilities. The Authorities, even more so in their arrogance, the gall to chase and consolidate power they already owned. EMBER was a result of that. The Regeneration stirring and struggling within him as well.
And yet nature triumphs.
Hopefully.
Because he planned this out. It doesn’t matter if he regenerates, if his nails set on fire, or if he had a stupid goddamn level 6.5 golden bubble to shield him.
Not underwater.
(he almost drowned once in their pool as a kid. his parents weren’t watching. valerie was the only one who noticed and she fished him out, hacking and spluttering chlorinated water as she patted his back coaxingly, but admonishing: “Barrier may make us strong on the outside, but our insides are sensitive, so you have to be more careful, Arlo.")
thank you, Auntie.
(he’s sorry. he’s not. she deserved it. she wasn't all bad. she was a murderer. she killed rei. but arlo killed, too.)
he wishes it hadn’t been him who watched the life leave her eyes, shock melting into wry acceptance that her baby nephew had surpassed her. surprised her enough to steal her life away.
“A family of giants,” Remi had balked, meeting Val for the first time in that cafe. It was true that his family was well above average in status, in power, in height. Yet Arlo has never felt so small.
(and his family is only shrinking at this rate. valerie, gone. him soon to join her. …Sorry, Mom. Dad.)
Hierarchy. The Authorities. Spectre.
The worries that had once carved bags under his eyes and scars on his brain almost seem to shrink with him and the ever-distant light…further and further from the surface, the sun, the sky, as his body drifts down, down, down into the depths where he belongs-
(he’s read before, in class, in books, that one’s life flashes before your eyes in the moments before death. something about the brain’s last-ditch attempt at helping you survive. he’d always thought it was a cliche, but he's seeing-)
The ocean water stings his eyes, blue as the sky he’s losing sight of as he sinks deeper, deeper, deep.
His lungs ache with a dull burn and yet he doesn’t feel like fighting. That spirit has long since fled his battered bones.
(he wouldn’t have expected it to hurt even a little, given his passive. and he’s not the laughing type but he would have had he the oxygen because it’s funny how simple water has bypassed god-tier passive body armor so easily and completely when valerie had struggled so much in his grasp before bleeding out-)
The rational choice. A quiet exit.
(he is so fucking tired. sleep pulls at him, lulling, sweet. rest at last. he is so very tired and the ocean is so very kind to let him rest.)
What’s a few more years for them without him when the real Arlo died in the raid?
(the burn recedes with his senses, only muddled, indistinct snippets as he drifts further down. he doesn’t fight. he embraces the water’s soothing shape pulling him lower, ever lower-)
earlier, the water had mixed with the sun’s rays above, turned pretty seafoam green just below the surface. but the ocean is so blue. waves tousle his hair like a friendly greeting. soft and slow like seaweed swaying.
a sword-calloused hand patting blonde waves, only to rile them up
“c’mon, asslo.” Mischievous emerald green. Kuyo.
Amber glistens in the darkening depths, barely discernible by his fading vision. Or perhaps it's a hallucination. He's read about those, too. Rei.
How cliche.
(this is taking longer than expected, or perhaps that’s just his perception, “time slows down against death”, but really it should be any moment now-)
he is. he’s coming. just a little longer, he promises.
promises. promise. he won’t go back on his word again. won't forget.
he’s protecting her now, just like he should have, because he promised and this is the only way he can now.
(he's never been particularly religious, but maybe now they can finally have their rematch---)
(kuyo. he’s so sorry. for all the times he wished him dead in high school, for the fucking fork thing, he never thought he’d go and do it. his very own hands. claws. fiery lightning in tow-)
it’s all so
b
l
u
e
(rei. he’d made a mockery of his ideals long before this bastardized ability was injected into his channels. he was supposed to protect her-)
h e ’s s o s le
epy.
(Red. Pink. Remi. God, Pinky. His one and only friend. And this is what he did to her. With her brother’s ability. He hopes they got her to a healer in time for her eye, she's never been pretty when she cries-)
tired.
so tired.
for so long.
(he's sorry-)
and fading eyes of ocean blue and salt water see no more.
(he’s cold. it stings his eyes and lungs and his failing, overtaxed aura.)
shallow, half-regenerated wounds smarting against salinity.
It’s all up to them now -----
. . .
.
.
.
—-- and the last ember fizzles out.