Chapter Text
Indrid Cold once described that looking into the future was like watching a thousand televisions at once. While not entirely accurate, he liked the visual analogy. It gave structure to the intangible when he imagined a big dark room, one wall with countless different screens, all randomly flickering to different channels every few seconds. The channels seemed incomprehensible, a shifting bombardment of alternate futures Indrid saw every waking moment. Though unlike a TV, there was no remote he could press to turn them off.
He’d long gotten used to the experience of it. These visions were a part of him, part of his every day routine. However, there were still days when the things Indrid saw overwhelmed him. When he was overly tired, stressed, or unfocused, then he felt like he was drowning in it all. It was like he was caught up in a torrent of ever-shifting possibilities blurring together, leaving his ears ringing and feeling like his body was miles away. But Indrid had it under control most of the time. Having over a century to practice, he'd gotten pretty good after all.
Once upon a time, helping people always seemed like the best use of his gift. Though now he tried his best not to act on his visions anymore unless absolutely necessary. His ‘mothman’ reputation reminded him of that. So for the most part, he just stood in front of his wall of TVs, and did what an observer does best - watches. With big round eyes and a placid smile, pencil and paper in hand.
It’s enough for now. It has to be.
***
“Ah, shit!” Duck Newton anxiously cursed to himself again as he practically dragged his feet along the gravel pathway, cold hands stuffed in his sweatshirt pockets. The clouds were gray and overcast above him, heavy with the next snow storm. And the frigid December air stung his nose as he breathed in the scent of wet earth.
It was mid-morning on his day off, but Duck had driven a ranger truck out to Eastwood mobile home park, hoping that one particular resident was still occupying the same spot he’d been at a day prior. Ice-slush squelched under Duck’s boots as he followed his memory to the old Winnebago nestled in the back of the paved lot and surrounded by tall pines. The park was nearly empty with the typical snowbirds moved on for the season, and honestly, half of Duck expected this one to be gone too.
When he cleared the treeline deeper into the park, he stopped, eyebrows raised in surprise. There it was. Indrid’s Winnebago wasn’t a new model, with its sun bleached retro exterior. Despite its appearance, it was well taken care of. The utilities were hooked up and humming with electricity. If Duck were to guess, it was to power the frankly ridiculous amount of space heaters inside.
Which meant the Mothman was home.
Duck intended to keep walking, but he felt frozen to the spot. He was relieved to see that Indrid had apparently changed his mind about moving. Although, he was worried what could have stopped the man's frantic packing. Was he okay after yesterday? Was he injured more than Duck thought? Despite wanting to check in, Duck still didn’t move forward.
He didn’t even know why he was hesitating. Duck blew air into his cupped hands and paced around in the clearing of pine needles and snow. Anxiety fluttered uncomfortably in his chest as he worked through what he had been feeling since this morning when he made the decision to come.
The last battle with the future-changing tree and the goatmen was only yesterday. Honestly, Duck could do with a few more hours of rest and about as much ibuprofen, but he could wait.
Was he nervous because he was alone this time? There wasn't a reason to bring Aubrey or Ned today. Or maybe it was because since Minerva disappeared, Duck had been incredibly jumpy.
The last abomination had been terrifying. Mostly because of how quickly everything almost spun out of control. The funicular, Billy, Leo’s store, the sinkhole. Duck didn’t know how well he would have done without being tough. Laying awake last night the ranger was feeling all 40-something of his years, aching in places he never had before. Now all he was bringing to the table was a busted legendary weapon and an overworked self-preservation instinct. His instincts now screamed at him that he was one stubbed toe away from landing in the morgue.
That feeling was half of the reason why Duck wanted to talk to Indrid, as embarrassing as it was.
A frosty chill swept through the parking lot and Duck shivered in his hoodie jacket. He tapped his jeans pocket for the umpteenth time to feel the plastic lens case, the other reason why he was here. Duck had an apology to make. Then he was going home and filling his hot water bottle.
Before he could stall anymore, Duck braced against the bitter wind and walked in the direction of the Winnebago.
Duck reached a hand out to knock just as the door swung open and an amused looking Indrid stood to greet him. He had a steaming mug in his hands, purple with a cartoon cat exclaiming ‘You’re Pawsome!’ Duck instinctively braced back for the blast of overpowered heat pouring out from inside before straightening and clearing his throat awkwardly.
“You probably knew I was coming, huh?” Duck said in greeting.
“I could see you pacing outside my window, Duck, but it is also an expected pleasure.” Indrid said brightly, and Duck is struck by the version of the strange man standing before him.
Duck didn’t think he’d be in mothman form, not after seeing the chest full of random items he had let Billy riffle through, but he also assumed whatever Indrid enchanted for himself would make him look the same. Instead, enchanted presumably by the simple obsidian ring around his tanned thumb is a different version of the Indrid he had come to know.
Indrid looked healthier for lack of a better word. He wasn't as thin as last the ranger saw, though the thick white bathrobe he was in absolutely engulfed him. He stood tall, pale hair cut clean and short. He also seemed slightly younger, but something told Duck this was a long-discarded disguise rather than a vain attempt to recapture youth. There were still smile lines on his narrow face and slight crows feet near Indrid’s eyes. The biggest difference was the absence of glasses that left Indrid’s face open in a way Duck hadn’t seen before. He looked assertive, alive.
Indrid took a patient sip from his mug and watched with wide hazel eyes and pale eyelashes that paralyzed Duck for a moment. That same ever-present, kind of creepy smile glowed with amusement.
“Wow, uh, loving the new look, man.” Duck blamed the space heaters for how warm his face was, and he coughed awkwardly into his fist.
Indrid didn't break eye contact, “Yes, well, I needed to disguise myself and this… was an older item I had lying around. Back from my Sylvain days.”
Duck winced, “Yeah about that, I came to bring these back,” he pulled out the plastic glasses case, handing them up to Indrid. “I'm real sorry about punching you. With everything popping off and going crazy, I thought you being Mothman was the best chance of gettin’ you outta there.”
Indrid hummed, absentmindedly rubbing his cheek where said offense happened, “You could have, I don’t know, maybe grabbed them? Instead of punching me in the face. But I’m alive, and since Kepler didn’t fall into a gigantic bottomless pit, I suppose you can be forgiven.”
Before Duck could say anything else, another chill ripped through the parking lot rattling the trees and Duck cursed himself for not wearing his thicker work coat. Wordlessly, Indrid stepped aside and gestured with an arm to invite him in the Winnie. He still doesn’t break eye contact, and for some reason, Duck can’t get over those bright eyes. How intensely they stare at him, crinkled with a placid smile.
Duck stepped onto the retractable step and let himself inside. He took a look around, almost instantly shedding his jacket and folding it over one arm. The small space was much cleaner since the Keith incident. Crumpled paper and trash had all been taken out, or at least stuffed into black garbage bags by the door. The kitchenette was free of forgotten cups and microwave food containers. Even the chords of his multiple heaters were less of a tripping hazard.
But Indrid had started to unpack again, new drawings were taped to the walls and littered almost every surface the same way Duck remembered. The map of Kepler was back up too, though the multitude of pins have been removed.
Duck moved to take a seat at the small living area table, dropping his coat next to him on the booth. Indrid hovered behind the kitchenette counter and put his mug in the sink. “Can I get you anything? Nog?”
Duck chuckled. “Do you drink anything else? But, uh, actually something hot would be nice.”
As soon as he said it, the microwave beeped. Indrid carefully pulled out another mug, this time green with a frog saying ‘I find you quite ribbiting’. And plopped in a tea bag. He set it down in front of Duck as he took a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“I hope you like it, I don’t usually drink tea.” Indrid said passively, resting his chin on laced fingers and gazing at Duck with mild amusement.
“Thanks man.” Instead of finding the whole knowing-the-future thing unnerving, Duck felt a spark of appreciation and took a sip. Apple cinnamon. Pretty good, a little too candy apple flavored, but it was spicy and filled him with liquid warmth that drove the rest of the chill away.
Indrid seemed pleased. “So what do I owe the pleasure?”
Duck looked into those light brown eyes apprehensively. “Don’t you know everything?”
Indrid clicked his tongue. “I told you already that’s not how it works, besides, I still enjoy regular conversation.”
“Right, uh, well, I wanted to check up on you and also ask why-”
“I didn’t move away?”
Indrid laughed impishly at Duck’s baffled expression as the ranger pointed a finger in accusation. Indrid held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry, I can't help myself sometimes. I promise no more interruptions.”
Duck huffed, but there’s no real irritation behind it.
“But to answer your question,” Indrid hummed and suddenly stood back up. He started to move around the Winnebago as he talked. “Yesterday, I was caught off guard. I saw the vision of the sinkhole and it… overwhelmed me temporarily.” He said airily as he shut the blinds and locked the door, double-checked it. “That’s when I got clocked over the head with a shovel. You know, I liked your other goat friend better, Duck.” Indrid checked for any gap to peek between the large windshield and the sunshade, taping scrap paper over any crack of window space not covered.
Duck, already confused about what the heck the man was doing, tensed in shock. “Jesus, are you sure you’re alright?” Did he know that? He knows he saw blood. But there was so much that happened so quickly.
Indrid huffed and waved a dismissive hand, “Oh, don’t be so concerned. It’s not as if I’m about to topple over, I’ve always been known to recover rather quickly.”
Once everything was secure, the space was cast in darkness. The only light coming from a soft orange bulb from above the kitchenette stove. Indrid stood in the living space, hands on his hips. “I did have a hell of a migraine this morning, though, which is bad for driving. But also… I felt it wasn’t the right time to leave.”
“What do you mean?” Duck sat up straight, eyes darting between this strange man and his surroundings. His anxiety had been rising since Indrid locked the door. “Uh, why’d you make it dark? Is that a moth thing?”
Indrid stood still in the middle of his living space, a thoughtful hand on his chin. He seemed distracted. “Things will most likely get worse before it gets better. I felt there was more I could still do here.” He turned his gaze suddenly back to Duck. “And I don’t care about it being dark, I care about not being seen.” Then his eyes glazed over like he was zoned out.
Duck was at a loss for words. Before he could decide if there was danger or if he was in danger, Indrid said, “Coast is clear.” And took off his black ring.
Despite witnessing this transformation a few times now, Duck thought he’d still never fully understand what he was seeing. An incomprehensible shifting figure, dark with the shadows and undeniably monstrous. Feathers here, antenna there. Mothman in a fluffy white robe and pink slippers. The ranger didn't know if he should laugh or run for the hills, instead gripping the couch with white knuckles.
But it was over in an instant, as quick as it took for Indrid to slip on his usual red specs. “Right, that’s better.” He said casually and began sliding back open a few curtains.
Duck takes a big breath in, and exhales. Having seen his friend as Mothman before, he thought he’d be ready for it, but Indrid’s natural form is still objectively terrifying. He was hard to look at, almost literally, like his eyes aren’t meant to focus on his dark feathered form. Once Indrid had those mirrored red glasses on again, he was the version Duck was familiar with. Terribly scrawny, older, with deep laugh lines and crow's feet. Any semblance of a tan was gone, as if he’d been cooped up for years, his head covered in a pale messy mop of hair illuminated by the gray light of outside.
Indrid bumped his hip into the side of the kitchen counter as he rounded it to grab something from a cabinet, and made a chirping sound in annoyance. Duck chuckled, all tension leaving him. Both these sides, while visually different, are both the same ol’ guy, and it was easy to start to grow fond of it.
For lack of anything else to say, Duck asked, “You eatin’ enough?”
“Sorry?” Indrid stabbed a small yellow straw in a pouch.
“Uh, no offense or nothin’, just that this version of you looks like eggnog and hot pockets are all you eat. Just makin’ sure you’re taking care of yourself.” Duck fiddled with the handle of his mug, tea temporarily forgotten.
Indrid finally sat back in the booth while he sipped on a Capri Sun. He snickered at Duck’s raised eyebrow. “While your concern is appreciated Duck, I’m sustained mostly by the essence of Sylvain,” By this he tugged at the chain around his neck, the chunk of amber crystal dangling. “The rest is… superficial appreciation. Food is more of a want, rather than a need.”
Duck thought that was a lot of bull and made a mental note to make this guy a real meal at some point.
"So... Did you change because you think you're safe for the time being?"
"Yes, I looked into as many immediate possible futures as I could, and determined it was safe enough to take that risk. It seems how Aubrey handled Keith is enough for now, though the danger isn't gone."
Duck groaned but didn't ask. If he needed to know, he'd find out eventually.
Instead of reply, he let his gaze fall to the table; at the scattered array of drawings upon it.
Indrid had said that things would get worse, but Duck can’t find anything terrible with what’s sketched out here. His curiosity got the better of him, and he looked through them earnestly, in addition to the ones taped on the window next to him. They’re mostly benign scenes of people and places around Kepler. One is of the Green Bank radio telescope, shaded better than the rest.
Duck complimented him on his art skills and Indrid, who was letting Duck rifle through his stuff, made a sort of pleased clicking sound.
“Thank you. Daily practice for over a century.” His smile was bright and genuine.
The pair sat in a comfortable silence for a minute. Indrid looked out the window and sipped the straw of his juice pouch like nectar, while Duck drank his over-steeped tea. Eventually, without looking away from the winter scene outside, Indrid interjected, “Say what else is on your mind, Duck Newton.”
***
Truthfully, Indrid knew pretty much anything Duck was going to say at this point, more so than usual. When he was in his real form, his visions got stronger, more lucid. Like dunking his head underwater, he was less aware of the real world surrounding him, the visions filling Indrid’s senses. He tried not to show it in front of Duck, the slight wooziness, needing to take a minute to get his thoughts properly back in the here and now.
The large man in front of Indrid fidgeted nervously, like he had been caught doing something wrong.
“Yeah, I will, it’s just-” Duck cursed and cleared his throat. “Do you, ah, know anything about chosen ones?” He cringed a little as he said it.
Indrid sat patient, even though he knew the question was coming, he gave it a moment of honest consideration.
“Not by name, but I take it that’s what you are. It’s not uncommon to have certain abilities in Sylvain, but I have long understood that kind of thing is rare on Earth. Though you're good at surprising me.” Indrid knew also this to be a difficult conversation for Duck and didn't mention theories that he believed Ms. Little’s magic wasn't from Earth either.
He watched Duck flush at that, and he hummed a smile. Some part of him enjoyed saying things to get a reaction out of him.
Duck squirmed in his seat, looking anywhere but Indrid, “Well, actually, I’m not exactly, that… anymore. Tough. Chosen I mean.” He deflated a little as the truth escaped him.
“Would you like to talk about it?” Indrid meant it sincerely. He is rewarded, if the sigh of relief is anything to go by.
Duck ran a hand through his short brown hair. “Are you sure?”
“Rest assured, I would not ask if I did not mean it.”
So Duck told him about being Chosen. About Minerva. About a responsibility he ignored for most of his life, abilities he didn’t care about until he really needed them. And now Minerva was gone, and Duck was scared.
“Now I’m just a regular ass dude, which like, great, fantastic, but not now! Not when people could die, and I’m just some dipshit with a broken sword.”
“Beacon, correct? Can I see?”
Duck groaned but consented, and stood up to remove his belt.
Indrid snorted.
Duck blushed in embarrassment, “I’m not dropping trou, fuck!” Indrid did laugh at that but composed himself for his friend’s sake.
The flexible sword that Duck astoundingly used as a belt unfurled in his grasp, wavering as if alive. Indrid never paid too close attention before, but now that it shimmered in the light, he thought it was a beautiful and unique weapon. Until he clocked the large chip in its side, a worrying blemish.
A low voice rose from the mouth in the hilt. “Well, well, Duck.” Beacon drawled. If the sword had eyes and limbs, the body language would be dripping in condescension. “It looks like you’re facing your greatest adversary yet. Emotional constipation. How will you wield me this time to vanquish the foe? Snapping me over your knee?”
“C’mon, man.” Duck murmured and set the blade on the table for Indrid to inspect.
Looking at the gash, Indrid wasn't confident he’d be able to help much. He tinkered with artifacts, but he was no Heathcliff. And even if he was, this blade seemed special. Particular. He ran his bony fingers along the cool metal. A memory from last night played in his mind. The roaring storm was as loud as the blood in his ears. Yelling, a tremendous clang of metal on chain. A punch to the face.
“Was this from last night?” Indrid asked in a hush, already knowing the answer.
Duck’s jaw clenched and his brow furrowed in resignation. “You were bleeding on the ground. I was right there and needed to get you out. I don’t regret what I did, and I would do it again. I’m just dealing with the consequences.”
Indrid hummed, he was all too familiar with the consequences of trying to help others. Even so, the gesture touched him deeper than expected. He had known Duck would say that, knew he broke his legendary weapon to save him. But hearing it, feeling it? Well. He’ll tuck that away to examine later.
“You have my thanks, and my condolences, Duck. But I’m afraid there’s not much I could do to fix Beacon. Can’t exactly fit a forge in my trailer.”
Duck sighed and shook his head, “Naw, that’s alright, that’s not what I wanted to ask anyway. It’s just… Minnie hasn’t even been gone a full day and already I’m jumpin’ at shadows. We got a few months before the next abomination…” Duck's demeanor became hesitant and he nervously gesticulated a hand, “I wanted to know if you knew I was going to kick it anytime soon and maybe… tell me how to… not?”
Indrid leaned back slowly and crossed his arms and didn't react for a moment. This sensation was also nothing new, discontent clogging his chest with heavy stones. Being asked to use his ability. It never goes well. At least he trusted Duck not to demand anything from him. At least he hoped so.
“I’m not a tool, Duck.” Indrid said with surprising warning. His face remained blank, but Indrid's tone held a bite that caught Duck off guard.
The ranger backpedaled immediately, visibility recoiling in his seat, “Jesus, ‘drid, you know I didn’t mean it like that.” He ran a hand through his hair again and rephrased. “It’s just, I think what you can do is amazing, man.” He gestured to the drawings around them. He said carefully, “I know your past is… more infamous than you’d like. But despite that, you helped us out a lot last week. You helped us save a lot of people in this town. I honestly think there’s a lot more helpin’ you could still do. You said so yourself.”
To no response, Duck sighed, “What I’ve always relied on is gone, I’m asking you as a friend. Would you be willing to help the Pineguard against the next abomination? I won’t ask you to join. I’m not asking you to be my tool.”
“You wouldn’t want to be.” Beacon interjected dryly.
“Okay, goodbye!” Duck wrapped up the sword and stuffed him in his discarded jacket. He glanced back at Indrid who hadn't moved, still expressionless. Duck could see his own reflection in those big round glasses – pleading in scarlet.
Duck pressed on, “I just mean that I’m freaked out, okay? I’m not useful anymore.”
Indrid guffawed, breaking his silent composure, “Oh, Duck.” He grinned, “I sure hope you know that you’re so much more than what you think you’re “useful” for. This Minerva was right in choosing you.”
Duck is temporarily stunned by Indrid’s honesty.
“So, let me get this straight.” Indrid smiled coyly and plucked at fuzz on his robe. “You want me to play hero and help you… get over the yips?” Duck cringed guiltily but nodded.
Indrid continued matter-of-factly, counting on his fingers as he spoke, “You’re not coercing me to do anything I don’t wish to, and I can choose to stop at any time. You also understand that just because I can see the future doesn’t mean I can always do something about it.” He said that point in a tone that suggested Duck should agree. He bobbed his head once in wide-eyed assurance. “Additionally, we’ll find a way to ensure my home and I are cleared of suspicion from the townspeople.”
“Yeah, ‘course.”
Indrid paused to think about it. He looked inwards and saw flashes of relocation, training sessions with Leo, planning with the Pineguard, soaking in the company of the inhabitants of Amnesty Lodge. If he admitted it to himself, there were a lot of moments he enjoyed the last few days.
Duck wanted his help with his mundane situation, and maybe Indrid wanted… companionship? How long had it been since he had connections to other people? He’d been keeping to himself for decades. Indrid liked his own company, but there was a surprising desire in his chest for a sense of community.
But more than that, he knew Duck was right. He’d been in this town too long, it meant something to him. Packing up and leaving when he could sense foggy danger over the horizon felt wrong.
Maybe, he thought sardonically, he’s gotten old and was finally losing his mind.
“Fine.” Indrid agreed.
Though internally, he still called himself crazy. His brain demanded he remember all the mistakes of his past, the people he’d doomed.
But so what, maybe he'd been a little lonely. It was surprisingly easy for Duck to make him laugh, and he was drawn to Duck's ability to surprise him.
Regardless, he was curious, too, and liked a good problem to solve. Some interesting visions had been swimming in Indrid’s channels and he was interested to know what they meant.
Duck looked relieved, tired around the eyes, but shining with appreciation. “Thanks, Indrid.” He rubbed the back of his neck, “So, uh, am I gonna die?”
Indrid’s lips twitched. “We all die eventually.”
“...Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Indrid leaned forward with his elbows on the table, “So, can I expect any more daring rescues next time around, Mr. Hero?”
Duck sputtered, “Shouldn’t you know that?” He deflected, face burning. “And not if you’re expecting Shrek over prince charming.”
Indrid tilted his head back and laughed a chirping thing, “Duck Newton, you are many things, but an ogre isn’t one of them.” Maybe this won’t be so bad after all. This will be interesting.
***
Before Duck left, he insisted on helping wash up, rinsing the mugs in the sink and placing them carefully on a kitchen towel to dry. He bundled back up in his jacket, he was sweating now but he doubted the cold snap outside let up in the last hour.
Indrid followed Duck to the door, but before the ranger left, he looked back apologetically. “Ah, by the way, uh, Mama wants to talk to ya down at the Lodge. She knows you were a part of the whole… goat debacle.”
Sigh.
Indrid expected and dreaded that. Oh well, if he’s going to help in the coming weeks, this couldn't have been avoided. He raised a hand in farewell. “Tomorrow, then.”
Duck returned the gesture.
“Tomorrow.”