Archive of Our Own

It’s not the Golden Theatre, Serval thinks, but we’ll see how she sings.

In one hand, between forefinger and thumb capped with black polish, she pinches a midnight blue plectrum. Her other is wrapped around the neck of a guitar, fingers curled and spread across the strings. The instrument sizzles with wild, vivid electricity; a pair of batteries are attached to the underside, pulsing blue, pink, and purple light in an inscrutable rhythm. The rocker’s heart thuds in erratic time with it. The pick-holding hand is poised like a viper, ready to plunge down, to bite into the silence, to inject noise into the gargantuan hollow that is Belobog’s Underworld.

The place doesn’t know it yet. In truth, it hasn’t known noise – true noise, true sound and vibration – in centuries. The last symphony played here was destructive, explosive. This one will be electrifying.

She takes in her surroundings, the Old Weapon Testing Ground, as she waits for the go-ahead. She stands on a huge, circular platform, a disk suspended who-knows-how-far above a warmly glowing abyss. It’s as if a comet had come from the stars, plummeting through the Underworld’s roof, down into the earth for miles, and Belobog’s first instinct was to slap a lid over the crater. Large speakers surround her position on the stage, all of them pointing outwards, buzzing lowly in anticipation. Behind her, a gigantic screen, currently inactive. She bathes in the glow of downturned lights. All around, there are the sheer faces of stone pillars. Carved and bolted into them are alcoves and stands for a future audience.

She can see them now, in her mind’s eye. Stomping and sweating. Cheering, roaring, singing along, crowded in the perimeter as they gaze down on her band. Waving lights, like the stars after a drink too many. Even the thought is intoxicating. There’s an itch in her plectrum.

“C’mon, c’mon,” the rocker says, sotto voce.

Her eyes have landed on the cliff face in front of her. High enough that she has to crane her neck to see, her drummer is perched up there with a full set of sound equipment, and a few technicians of the relevant pedigree. They fiddle with dials, sliders, plugs and jacks. She knows that at least a few of those wires and cords terminate in the speakers near her; her guitar is plugged into them as well, closing the ‘circuit’ in a mentally pleasing way. Surely, through that humming connection, Pela can feel the restlessness, the impatience, the thunderous shred that yearns to be unleashed.

It's an imagined transference, Serval knows, but when Pela meets her gaze and throws a thumbs-up, she can’t help but let herself be a little superstitious.

She grins, wide and unrestrained, and lets her hand strike down on the strings like a bolt of lightning, and the speakers roar in an applauding imitation of the chromatic scale. It booms outward, shakes the dust from the stage, rolls and rumbles over stone, and echoes across the old, derelict buildings of Rivet Town.

Up there, on the deck, Serval sees Pela cover her ears – along with a few other technicians – and lunge for a dial, spurred on as if whipped. She twists it, and the sound is subdued a little. The echo remains, the rumble continues, but the wicked growl fades quickly. Once the chord ceases (on its own; there is simply no way Serval is cutting that beautiful noise short after so long), the bespectacled drummer leans over towards a small, button-toggled microphone. Serval hears her tiny voice over the venue’s P.A system.

She says one word: “Serval.” It’s tinged with exasperation.

Serval only grins wider, and takes her own mic in hand, leaning the stand on an angle as she pulls it closer to her face. She raises her brow, a playful little challenge. “Yeah, Pela?” She responds, feigning obliviousness.

A sigh comes through the P.A. “…Never mind. We’re good here, now,” Pela finally drones, two fingers massaging the spot beneath each of her ears. “Good… good sound check, everyone.”

Serval’s guitar buzzes happily in her hand. Or, is that just Serval’s hand shaking with excitement? Same difference, she figures. Either way, unplugging her instrument takes a few tries because of it. She switches off her mic, satisfied, and does the same to her guitar. The batteries still pulse, but lightning no longer dances across the strings, and it no longer purrs. It is asleep now – at rest. Gathering strength for what’s to come.

The rocker’s work here is done for today, too. What awaits her now is the task of locking up her workshop, a hot shower, and a warm bed. It was already midday when Serval took the cable car down into Jarilo-VI’s bowels, and the process of checking and adjusting the venue’s acoustics has felt like hours of work. The sun could already be setting by now.

Of course, the workload wasn’t hers alone; that gargantuan corporate conglomerate, the IPC, had lent their aid in transforming the Testing Ground into a venue suitable for musical performances. The location is largely unchanged from its time as an arena for the much-lauded ‘Aetherium Wars’ game, save for alterations of iconography. Posters and banners have been stripped from the place, now replaced with coloured lights, and flyers with the names of bands – some from Belobog, others unknown to her – printed all over, in neat, eye-catching fonts. But aside from the invisible, terrifying hand of immense capital, Belobog had smaller names to thank.

Pela, of course, had been labouring tirelessly to ensure that the venue’s acoustics were up to snuff; it wouldn’t do to have each act’s performances reduced to clamorous noise without any instrumental separation, nor disallow the music’s reach through poor volume control. The Silvermane Guard of the Overworld and the Underworld’s own Wildfire faction were in charge of keeping wanderers away from the site’s construction, and advertising it in equal measure. Despite the Testing Ground’s abandoned status, it was also necessary to seek consent from the neighbouring subterranean towns, who would undoubtedly be subjected to noise – both industrial and musical. Wildfire members petitioned from door to door for this purpose, to a surprising majority of consenters.

It was only right that the question was put to the Underworld residents. While Underworld acts were among the lineup, the entire idea for the event came from up above: it was the result of deliberation between the Supreme Guardian and… whatever corporate stooge the IPC had chosen for the job. Serval’s iffy on the details. All she knows is that Bronya has been as hard at work making sure it all comes together as anybody below ground.

Serval rides the elevator to the top of the Testing Ground, tiredly rubbing the bridge of her nose – because perhaps it is time to clock out after all – when a trifecta of grey spirals rupture her reverie. Bronya Rand, the Supreme Guardian, is waiting for her at the pinnacle, clutching a clipboard with a sheaf of papers attached, shadowed unsubtly by Wildfire’s own Seele. The latter is less familiar to Serval, only known to her through brief meetings and anecdotes from the mouth of Bronya. It doesn’t matter, either way, since the Supreme Guardian greets her first, with a professional smile and a warm tone.

“Serval, hi!”

The eldest Landau is reminded that involuntary smiles are the sweetest kind as she mimics a dramatic bow of deference. “Supreme Guardian!” She proclaims, impishly. When Bronya rolls her eyes and tries to suppress that creeping curl on her mouth, Serval snickers and straightens herself out. “Bronya! How have you been?”

“Very busy,” She admits through a sigh. “But otherwise, I’ve been well. How about yourself?”

Serval clicks her tongue. “You know me. Glad to have an excuse to rock again.”

“Is the new one working for you?” Bronya nods towards the sleeping instrument slung over Serval’s shoulder.

For a beat, Serval’s lax grin fades to a thoughtful pout.

She remembers the last guitar – a gift from Cocolia Rand, Bronya’s mother, and Serval’s… well, maybe it was too complicated to neatly package the dynamic with a single word. She remembers the sweet times, the rough times, and the bleaker ones, the most recent. She remembers hurling her entire body into a downward swing, watching that guitar shatter, her throat going raw with the scream – the violence of detaching oneself from the past.

She also remembers an idea in lonely hours, once the grieving was done. She drew up her own diagrams and blueprints, ran her own calculations, readied her own tools. The moon watched through a window as she tinkered with the instrument’s corpse, as she breathed new, electric life into it.

“…It’s better,” Serval responds at last, the easy grin coming back to her. “It’s nice to have one that belongs to me, entirely.”

The two share a knowing, sympathetic nod.

“I’m glad for that.” Bronya’s voice is soft.

Serval huffs through her nose, short and fond. “So… you’re busy, but made time to come see me?”

“Ah, right.” The clipboard receives the Supreme Guardian’s attentive gaze. “I have your band’s performance schedule for the festival here.” She plucks a paper leaf from the bush of documents, and hands it to Serval.

It’s a single page of copy paper, an orderly sequence of gridded rows and columns in a stark white snowfield; it’s reminiscent of a Silvermane marching formation. The spreadsheet’s top is labeled with the days of the week, and the left lists abstract combinations of words. After some perusing, Serval finds ‘Mechanical Fever’ among them, wedged firmly above ‘Naught But Scoundrels’ and below ‘Macrokill’. Bands, artists, her fellow performers for the event to come. Below each name, in smaller font, are the planets each act represents – Jarilo-VI, Taikiyan, Oceton, Edo Star, Penacony, Mendasia, and many more are present on the list. Large swaths of these names are completely outside of Serval’s ken.

Each row and column is spattered by coloured rectangles – green to confirm the day as a scheduled appearance, and blue to denote otherwise. Serval spies four green boxes beside Mechanical Fever, each separated by a day; the opening day belongs to her, as does the third, fifth, and seventh.

“Our work is cut out for us.” She raises an eyebrow at Bronya, who is now thumbing through the remaining pages, counting silently.

“Mechanical Fever is Belobog’s musical pride, wouldn’t you agree?” She offers a warm smile. “We’d be remiss not to lead with our strongest act.”

“Should I be flattered or scared? That’s a lot of pressure.”

“If it makes you feel better, you won’t be providing the introduction speech,” Bronya assures.

“Is that your honour?”

Bronya half-laughs. “No, no. The IPC have arranged a… I suppose an emissary?” One corner of her mouth scrunches up. “One of the artists, a star very well-known to the universe outside.”

Serval mouths an ‘ah’ in realisation. “And that’ll entice visitors from other planets – more tourists, more revenue…”

“And more reason for the IPC to have sponsored the festival. But, if I’m honest,” Bronya says, “I’m more interested in visitors seeing what we’re capable of. In getting Belobog’s name out there. This could be a big opportunity for us; this is our entrance to the galactic stage.”

Serval turns perpendicular to her friend, and casts her eyes out over the festival grounds. It seems an odd place for her home to offer for judgement. First impressions matter, and the sight of the rocky, industrial, bombed-out Testing Ground instils some brief anxiety. Even coated in the paraphernalia and gadgetry of a concert, it’s still an easily scratchable paint. Look past the veneer, and you could see, with clarity, the scorch marks and splinters of history.

Serval supposes that you could see the flaws of history anywhere in Belobog. The Underworld entire reeks of abandonment and strife. The winds in the snowfields whisper of homes and lives lost to tragedy. Even the kempt, orderly streets of the Administrative District have a view of Qlipoth Fort, where the previous Supreme Guardian…

Did her best, given the circumstances, Serval reminds herself. She always has to remind herself.

But nobody would know the circumstances. Only a chosen few would be aware of Cocolia’s illness, and the voices the Stellaron jammed into her head. Of the war she fought – and lost – in silence for years. Likewise, nobody would know how she hurt Serval.

Is that selfish to think? She wonders. I’m over it by now.

In the descending list of historical wrongs, the messy break up and spat between the two would barely qualify as a footnote, so why does it occur to her now? Why, after so much time has passed, does the most outwardly benign sight of Qlipoth Fort remind her of it with such urgency?

She shakes her head to banish the thought. It’s that easy, these days.

Bronya obviously sees it. “Oh, I apologise. That probably didn’t help to say.” She mistakes Serval’s body language for trepidation at her previous statement. “If it’s of any value, I believe Mechanical Fever is up to the task. ‘Make the world clamour’, right?” She echoes a lyric, one of Serval’s credos.

It does bring a tug to the edge of the rocker’s mouth, however misaimed the sentiment is. “Of course. Just like always.” She flashes an easy grin, the sparkle back in her eyes.

“One more thing, as well…” Bronya twists her head to peer back at her azure shadow, and beckons her forward.

An eyebrow on Seele’s face raises, and she points to herself in silent questioning. When Bronya nods, she hesitantly steps forward.

“So, I know Mechanical Fever hasn’t had a bassist for some time,” Bronya continues, “and that you’ve been playing the bass parts yourself on recent albums. But, I’m afraid a pre-recorded bassline won’t cut it this time. So…”

Seele almost shrieks. “Wha- Bronya!”

“Seele can play bass! She’s rather good at it, too,” Bronya offers, ignoring her butterfly’s hectic flapping as best she can. “Perhaps she could be of some help?”

A hidden talent! Or perhaps not so hidden; Serval rarely makes the time to visit the Underworld, so it’s entirely possible that Seele’s capacity as a bassist is something well exhibited. Regardless, it seems like a fantastic idea to partner with her for the festival. Mechanical Fever has only ever consisted of Overworlders, but the festival is set beneath ground. Likewise, it’s meant to represent Belobog – all of Belobog – and the Underworld is as much a part of that as the snow is, as the cold is, as its history is. Put Seele on stage; extend that hand downward – geographically speaking, of course – and show the universe how the turmoil has united a once disparate people. Perhaps that’s precisely what Bronya had in mind.

Whatever the case, Serval’s worked with worse, and with less time. The new addition just means that tomorrow’s rehearsals would be a little more stringent. She’ll have to collate the sheets for their songs’ bass parts, and run through them with Seele.

It’s settled, then! Serval beams at them both; at Bronya’s hopeful expectance, and Seele’s flushed irritation. “I’d be glad to have you on board!” She announces, extending a hand.

Seele looks from Serval to her hand, to Bronya, then back to the hand. She sighs, closing her eyes with the exhale, and gives it a quick, loose shake. “…Sure. I’ll… do my best.”

The Supreme Guardian looks on, satisfied. “Alright, that’s sorted,” she concludes. “We’ll let you get some rest now, Serval.”

***

When you exhaust yourself, rest comes easily. Serval slept soundly, serenely, folded beneath layer upon layer of sheet and blanket, warmed by the soft glow of a geomarrow radiator. However, the drawback of deep sleep is that it takes you that much longer to climb from the silent nocturne. Two alarms had already attempted to shake her into the world, and only the third managed the task. Thank goodness, Serval thinks, that she spared the contingency a thought before laying her head down.

Still, she hauls herself up out of bed – out of the sheets, and into her clothes. She braves the cold walk to the kitchenette to brew herself some coffee, sends her bandmates a message via group chat, and almost spits a mouthful out when Lynx points out the time.

After that, it’s a whirlwind; she prepares herself, gathers her things – guitar slung over her shoulder, song notes tucked in a manilla folder – and rushes through the door.

Impetus spares her from the Jarilo star’s failure to keep her planet warm as she hurriedly navigates the streets towards the Neverwinter Workshop. There’s a connected building big enough to host a moderate crowd, and ever since gaining ownership of it, Mechanical Fever has used it as both rehearsal stage and performance venue. Today is no different.

As she clings to a rail aboard a rumbling tram, her phone pings. Seele announces her arrival in a curt manner, newly added to the group chat as of the previous night.

‘Neverwitner Workshop, right? I’m here.’

Serval chuckles at the typo, and deftly taps a response.

‘Go on in, I think the others are inside already. I’m coming up on it, too.’

Indeed, it’s in sight, and so is the back of Seele, bass guitar in hand. Even from the distant bearing of the tram, Serval notices the scratched varnish on the body, like little sandy islands amongst a glistening navy ocean. How very loved the instrument must be. In the distance, Seele tries the door, and vanishes into the building’s maw. Serval’s transport slows, allowing her to drop onto the pavement – waving a quick thank-you to the operator – and begin a jog towards the same entrance.

When she enters and winds through a short corridor, Serval comes upon a modest stage, with Pela and Lynx already set up, chatting idly as they wait. Drums and keyboard stand at the ready, loyal and eager, while Seele prepares her bass. The group are flanked by speakers that give off an elated hum, occasionally whining when the Underworlder fiddles with a plug. When Serval leaps onto stage from the front, her bandmates – old and new – divert their attention to her. Well, sort of; Lynx and Pela wave, but Seele only spares a short glance as she continues to struggle with some cords.

“Hey,” she says, a smile-shaped greeting. She takes a few steps towards Seele. “Need some help?”

“No… no, I’m fine,” She all but snaps. Serval flinches a little, and after a beat, Seele sighs and speaks again. “…Sorry. I’m just focused. Don’t wanna mess this up.”

“The set-up, or the festival?”

“The, uh,” Still focused, she tries to respond. “Both, I guess.”

Serval gives her a gentle clap on the shoulder. “You’ll do great, Seele. Here’s the sheet, when you’re ready,” She says, resting the folder full of musical notation atop the speaker which the bassist is fighting a losing war against. “We’ll start with ‘Make the World Clamour’, ‘kay? Take your time.”

She passes the time abuzz in conversation with her sister and Pela, the triad sharing their hopes and fears for the upcoming festival. The pervasive nervousness instilled by a fully televised interplanetary event is only dwarfed by the promise of reward for success. Not only do they carry the name of Belobog on their shoulders, they also represent their band. If Mechanical Fever can get off-world… imagine the signal boost. Imagine how many new ears would open to their call, to their message.

In time, Seele wrangles her instrument’s clearly stubborn nature – a reflection of its owner, Serval wonders – and begins to peruse the folder, flipping through the sheaves of paper in search of ‘Make the World Clamour’. She finds it, and Serval sees a relenting expression crease her chin.

“It was one of our first. Pretty simple bassline, admittedly,” Serval calls across the stage.

“Works for me, looks doable,” Seele responds, not looking up. “…Yeah. I got this.”

Wildfire’s emissary takes her bass in hand, and plucks the opening sequence in perfect rhythm. Should Serval be surprised? Bronya had recommended her personally, of course she would be adequately proficient. Even so, it’s quite the thing to witness. Seele could come across as brutish and powerful, giant scythe in hand and her brows downturned seriously, as if they secured her entire face to her head. But right now, seeing the way her fingers dance across the neck of the guitar, the precision with which she plucks the strings along the body, and the bob of her own head, she looks downright graceful.

Serval only notices the gleeful stretch on her own mouth once Seele pauses her solitary performance to look up and give the rest of the band an affirming nod.

I can do this, it says.

Serval addresses the confidence obliquely. “Shall we get right into it, then?” She turns to Pela, at the ready behind her drums, and winks.

Pela nods back, pushing her glasses further up onto the bridge of her nose, and twirling a stick between her fingers. A short series of taps against the other, and she begins the cacophony.

Seele’s eyes go wide for the briefest of seconds before her hands fly back to the correct positions, caught off guard by the sudden thump of drums. Perhaps not remarkably, she keeps time with the song perfectly.

Rushing synth fills the air as Lynx presses a chord into her keyboard. Serval takes the center stage, left hand already placed for the first chord of her own. Her other hand clasps the microphone in a full fist. She closes her eyes, her larynx contorts to facilitate the first, soaring vocal note, and she pours it out across the empty room.

Only, when she opens her eyes, lungs heaving from the held note, the room isn’t as empty. Mechanical Fever has an audience.

Two people – one familiar, the other, foreign – both stand at the very rear of the room, looking on from whatever dim light the stage casts that far.

Bronya Rand’s silhouette is iconic; Serval notices her presence with ease. Her face wears a respectful smile, but something about it seems almost… apologetic? Beside her is an unknown figure: feminine, bedecked in large, fur-lined winter clothes draped in bright colours; purple, white, light blues, and silvers all adorn her ensemble. This alone marks her as an off-worlder, since Belobog’s inhabitants had long since grown accustomed to the wintry winds of their home. The fur collar puffs up above her neck, nesting her chin snugly. Her nose is red from the cold, and even in here, she rubs her arms for warmth.

Well, even in a rehearsal, the show must go on. It’s not so bad that someone gets an early showing, Serval reasons, flashing teeth and launching into the first verse. Her guitar whines happily, all too eager to oblige.

The song goes by with a rush of adrenaline. Each member executes their pieces flawlessly, even the newcomer – especially the newcomer. Maybe it’s the presence of the Supreme Guardian that spurs her on, that urges her to prove herself. Serval knows she doesn’t have to, but it certainly lights a fire under Seele. She plays like a woman possessed.

All the while, the figure in furs rolls her head and taps her foot to the beat. It’s entrancing.

Serval almost loses track of where she is in the song until the cue she’s become so sensitive to pulls her back into focus – Pela likes to give her drums a little harder of a thrashing on the final beats, almost as if to punctuate the track. The elder Landau hears it, and signs off her own part in the song with a flourishing chord that leaves purple static in the air.

The woman accompanying Bronya yelps in surprise and begins to clap, fervently.

Adoring applause, Serval muses with a smirk, I’ve still got it.

As the last echoes lose their acoustic momentum and fade away, the mystery guest begins to step forward. Bronya, seemingly startled by the approach, follows closely behind. Never one to shirk hospitality, Serval lowers herself off the edge of the stage, leaving her guitar behind.

When she turns to welcome the guest, she’s caught immediately off guard. Details hidden by shadows make themselves clearer by the stage’s lights: crystalline green eyes; fluffy, silver-blue hair; most remarkable of all, a brass halo hovers above her head – a flower-adorned crown.

Definitely an off-worlder, Serval re-affirms.

Bronya speaks first, spurred on by self-imposed responsibility and decorum. “This is Serval Landau, lead guitarist and vocalist of Mechanical Fever, not to mention proprietor of the Neverwinter Workshop,” She gives Serval a little wave while her guest’s eyes are locked forward, “And Serval, this is Miss Robin Wood, an artist from Penacony, Planet of Festivities. She’ll be addressing the audience tomorrow, and performing during the festival.”

Robin extends a gloved hand in polite greeting, speaking in light and airy tones. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Landau! Your performance was truly incredible, I can’t wait to see you on stage during the festival.”

Serval doesn’t quite know why – maybe it’s the way the drums are still thumping inside her chest, in time with the heart that still struggles to slow, or perhaps it’s just an instinct of hers that surges forward when faced with a beautiful woman – but she takes Robin’s hand in her own, gently clasped between her fingers, bows, and ever-so-slightly brushes the crest of her lips against the middle knuckle.

She makes out the tiniest shape of an ‘oh my’ from Robin’s parted lips. Still got it, indeed.

“The pleasure’s mine, Miss Robin,” Serval refutes. “What brings you to our humble little corner?” She can hear Lynx scoff quietly behind her, still behind her keyboard.

Robin casts a guilty glance at Bronya, who clears her throat before speaking. “I was just giving Miss Robin a tour of the administrative district on our way to the venue in the underworld.”

“I-I’m so sorry!” Robin replies sheepishly. She retracts her hand from Serval’s, and tucks them together at her chest. “I heard your song starting, and couldn’t help myself but to have a peek!”

Serval must have left the door unlocked. Not to worry, in any case. “And what did you think?”

“Of the song?” Robin’s countenance shifts entirely from guilt to elation. “The energy is infectious, to be honest. It’s loud, and thrashy, and electric, but entirely harmonious. And your vocals, Miss Landau – are you classically trained?”

As Robin speaks, Serval spies a rustling amongst the fur forest upon her collar. Are those…? Yes! Serval sees a tiny pair of white-feathered wings fluttering excitedly amongst the strands! Distracted as she is at the discovery, she still – somehow – manages a reply.

“C-Classically? No,” Serval stammers, “No, self-taught. Mostly. A lot of what I know comes from ancient records of rock n’ roll.”

“Ancient?” Robin tilts her head, flashing a playful smile. “Well, you’ll be glad to know the genre is still quite popular in the wider universe!”

“Is that so?”

“I’m sure they’ll love Belobog’s unique mutation of the classic, though. It comes through in your music, you know? The history, the evolution.”

Serval can’t help but beam. After all, isn’t this what she wanted? To revive the old sound, to make it her own? She’s at the forefront of what could very well be considered a completely unparalleled genre of its own, nascent and scrappy.

Robin continues, some spark lit inside her from the topic. “Your experiences with this planet – with your home – colour your verses, and the melodies. I can feel your love for the people that make this place what it is; it’s written in the hopeful ascents, and the lyricism. ‘Don’t make your heart as cold as this concrete jungle’,” She parrots, a line from the song’s bridge.

“That’s very high praise, Miss Robin, thank you. I wish I could offer some in turn, but…”

“I-It’s okay! I don’t expect everyone to know about me.” Her wings flutter as she splays and shakes her hands in kind dismissal. “I suppose you’ll have a chance to hear for yourself soon, though! I’ll be on right after your band tomorrow.”

“Really?” Serval scrambles for her pockets, hoping she’d stashed away her folded and crumpled copy of the festival schedule, but it’s nowhere to be found.

The back of someone’s hand gently strikes her elbow, and she turns to see Pela offering up her own slip of paper. It looks like the rest of Mechanical Fever has come down from the stage to say their greetings.

She takes Pela’s schedule and unfolds it, deftly scanning the boxes. “Oh, look at that. We’ll be able to catch it from backstage, I think,” She confirms, shooting another debonair grin at Robin. “Can’t wait!”

***

She doesn’t have to wait long. The rest of the day passes along with the following night, and Serval finds herself on center stage again. This time, it is no rehearsal. This time, there are thousands of eyes upon her – not counting the viewers tuning into the televised element of the festival. This time is for real. She shakes it off, letting her arms go loose for a second, rolling her neck and shoulders, kicking her legs limply.

The movement stirs up some air, and she feels it cooling her limbs through the fishnets of a new ensemble. The Underworld is a little warmer than topside, especially this corner, so Serval figured she’d adapt appropriately. A little extra fabric here, a little less there, and she ended up with a breezy but fashionable set that was sure to be a knockout – really make a statement.

Show ‘em all what you’re made of.

Her band – and Seele – stand fast behind her, instruments at the ready. Pela’s leg already thumps against the floor, miming some phantom kick-drum, drowned out by the din of a settling crowd. Lynx’s hands tap idly against the sides of her keyboard as she looks up and around at the gathering audience. Seele is already sweating bullets, even as her fingers press expertly against the strings along the neck of her bass. She’s clearly not used to the spotlight.

Admittedly, Serval’s rusty on that front too. After she found closure and resolution by destroying Cocolia’s gift to her, the band took a necessary hiatus. This isn’t the first performance they’d put on since then, but it certainly was the first of this… density. At times like this, Serval wishes she could just begin, get lost in the setlist, and forget the pressure – tear off the bandage. But there’s a lot of people, and they are trickling in very slowly. So the pressure mounts.

This isn’t even to mention the fact that the festival hasn’t even truly begun yet; the ‘emissary’ Bronya mentioned – whomever that might be – has yet to take the stage and do the honours of introduction.

To have Mechanical Fever already on stage was a calculated measure. Belobogians who saw them would drive up interest and excitement amongst surrounding foreign comers, and it saved the crew a bit of set-up time without being under pressure to keep things moving. Of course, as with anything, the waiting is always the worst part, much more so when one has to be in the dead centre of everyone’s notice. Thousands of keen, expectant voyeurs are on standby around the band, and Serval is sure she has never been more witnessed in her life.

Amongst the loud murmurs, she hears a few pleased cheers go up, no doubt from committed fans. She smiles awkwardly as she tries to hold on to those few perspectives, making them the centre of her attention instead of the sprawling mass in the stands.

It feels like hours before the crowd settles down, and the lights dim. The overwhelming racket fades slowly, morphing into a comfortable but suspenseful hum. The show is about to begin, and Serval swallows a lump. But first, the soft clack of heels across the stage, echoing from her right side.

It’s Robin. Her unmistakable silhouette gracefully strides towards the mic, and Serval yields her position to allow the floor. Her halo bobs, her wings furtively flex. She’s dressed in a knee-length dress of majestic whites, purples, and blues, with wing-shaped ornamentation around the waistline. A golden pin in the shape of a treble clef clings to her midsection, and a pearl bracelet hugs her wrist. There is a delicate magenta ribbon wrapped snugly around her neck, accented with a gold clasp. Her exposed skin is fair and soft-looking, her make-up is perfect to the millimetre; this is a woman whose entire appearance is measured and exact.

She’s beautiful. Serval can’t help but stare.

Robin gives Serval a smile and a wink as she takes the microphone, still attached to the stand, in both hands.

“People of Jarilo-VI, and those from without, I welcome you to Belobog’s first Inter-Planetary Music Festival!” She announces, throwing a hand up into the air.

It is met with a chorus of cheers, whistles, and applause. It immediately dwarfs any clamour conjured by Mechanical Fever. It’s uproarious, like surfing an avalanche, and it was all because of a few words and a gesticulation. It vibrates the whole stage so thoroughly that Serval isn’t sure if her voice is among the cacophony or not; with the way her throat has tightened, she’s sure her larynx is contorted and poised to join in with the cheers. Jubilation is infectious like that.

It’s impressive how, despite a crowd of thousands – notwithstanding remote viewers – Robin is able to bring them all to life without a single word in song. It’s as if her presence commands that kind of rapture.

“My name is Robin, and during this festival I’ll be singing on behalf of Penacony, the Planet of Festivities! Behind me right now is Belobog’s very own Mechanical Fever, but before I hand the stage over to these incredible musicians, I’d like to say a few words,” Robin continues. Her wide smile reduces to a tamer one, a softer one. “My own home has seen its fair share of hardship, as have the planets of many of our acts for the coming week. However, we have all come forth from the tribulations stronger, kinder, and with our spirits unextinguished. Jarilo-VI’s people are no different. Through centuries of strife and isolation, you persevered against all odds and crises to become the proud and resilient city that you are today.”

Another round of cheers and whistles, this time directed at themselves. Serval allows her head to roll forward, hiding a satisfied smile. It’s heartwarming to know that Belobog’s citizens can see how far they’ve come through adversity, and celebrate it.

Robin raises her voice again, after the noise eases. “That’s what we hope to celebrate during this time. Your entrance to the galactic stage is a momentous occasion, and deserves to be marked by song and revelry! Please, allow us visitors from beyond the stars to sing back to you in welcome!”

Serval feels it coming to a close. Part of her could keep watching, keep listening to the deft and honest way Robin addresses Belobog, the true and genuine adoration of a place she’s never been to before – but the high and loud tone she uses now feels like a lead-in, and Serval isn’t keen to miss it. She readies her guitar and signals Pela to count them into their first song.

“I have been Robin, this is Mechanical Fever – please enjoy the music!”

Pela’s drumsticks clash four times in rhythm, and Serval’s instrument roars at the crowd.

***

Mechanical Fever is scheduled for three songs to open before passing the torch to the next act. The first two go by just fine – the atmosphere is reminiscent and comfortable once Serval loses herself in the music. It’s electric, as promised. Her band plays with practised proficiency; Seele keeps time as if she’s been with them her whole life. The butterfly’s stage presence is perhaps smaller than the rest – Pela flourishes her sticks around her fingers, Lynx head-bangs between parts, and Serval conjures small, fizzling trails of purple lightning during chords, but Seele mostly occupies her own space, head nodding with the beat but eyes locked to her strings.

Serval can’t rightly blame her; it’s Seele’s first performance of this size – perhaps her first ever – and the pressure is probably weighing on her like a lead hat. Additionally, the third song choice for their time this evening is rather complex. ‘Halogen, Hold Me’. Serval put so much work into this particular piece, straining her own talent. After all, she wrote it for…

…For…

The memory invades her mind as perception thins to a needle’s width. The crowd goes silent in her ears, and her fingers upon the instrument fail to bring any melody. She still strums and plucks as the stage falls away from under her, and she sees it in full colour.

It’s a room she shared with Cocolia: modest enough, but decorated with paraphernalia related to Serval’s art. Band posters patch the walls at crooked angles; albums of all mediums sit in lovingly discordant piles, bereft of categorical organisation; there is an unmade bed, upon which lays her guitar. The familiarity of the scene is bittersweet. She recognises the angle of afternoon light filtering in from between the half-drawn curtains; Cocolia will walk through the door soon, and find Serval with a pen in her hand, scribing musical notation onto one leaf of paper, and lyrics so sweet they may as well have come straight from the cane on another.

This is Cocolia’s song. It came from Serval’s hands, her heart, her head, yes – but it belongs to Cocolia. She haunts it. The lyrics paint her in her entirety. All Serval has done is parade to everybody the canvas that should have laid dusty in her proverbial attic.

It puts a creeping chill into her, which seeps downward: from her spiralling mind to her arms, causing them to stiffen. Then her hands, her fingers – they begin to lose time, to flounder inexpertly against the strings.

A chord where it shouldn’t be struck, a string that needn’t be plucked, too light a press upon the neck of her guitar – all these mistakes make the instrument burble hideously. Serval’s breathing has quickened, and sweat forms upon her brow.

And everybody can see it. Belobogians, Penaconians, Xianzhou visitors – whomever is in the crowd, Serval is certain that they bear keen witness to her pathetically undone state.

Fortunately, she recalls a way out – a precautionary measure meant for all manner of on-stage crises. She hopes this is no exception. She whips around, still trying her best to continue her part, to face both her sister and drummer. They lock eyes, and mercifully register the steepled, panicked brows on Serval’s face. She’s sure she’s become several shades paler, too.

There is a brief moment of recognition, acceptance, and intention as the two bandmates share a glance. Pela’s rhythm switches up to bring the song to a close, ahead of its time, but not so out of pace that it jars the rest of them. Lynx follows suit, progressing her melody in the same fashion. Serval does her best to recall the outro without likewise conjuring the face that kissed her after writing it.

It's a messy blur, but with their practice, the dismount is saved from being totally unbalanced and cacophonous. The performance comes to a close, and a heaving Serval quickly unloops her guitar strap from around her shoulders and steps off stage, disappearing into the wings of the Testing Ground.

Behind her, she hears Lynx take the microphone in her stead: “We have been Mechanical Fever, thank you all for being here!”

***

Her breathing hasn’t slowed in the time it took to find somewhere private in the backstage labyrinth. Tears well in her eyes, stinging in the cold subterranean draft, as she fumbles with the handle on a steel door with shaking hands.

It opens into a large room, previously used for machining parts – most likely for weapons – but every automated machine has been unbolted from the ground, and long since turned to scrap for other purposes. The room was mostly barren until the festival heads decided to convert it into a lobby of sorts. Other bands and acts wait here for their turns on stage, warming up, tuning instruments, or partaking of some last-minute refreshments. Their activities cast a din over the whole area, allowing Serval to slip in and find a solitary seat unnoticed.

She plops down onto the faux leather couch, tucked in a booth-like alcove, and finds that she can hold the tears back no more. She tries to steady her arrhythmic panting, but it, too, is untamed. She devolves into a huffing, sobbing mess, just in time for her band to catch up and witness the shame.

Lynx comes to her side first – why wouldn’t she? She is her sister. The young girl slides up next to her and wraps her arms around Serval’s bicep, letting her head rest against the shoulder.

“It’s okay,” is all Serval hears her whisper.

It only deepens the disgrace she feels. She’s the eldest Landau – the pillar upon which her siblings can lean. She should be rock-stable, open-armed, and sensitive to their needs. Here she is instead, weeping over her own affairs – affairs long-passed, long-buried – and being gently consoled by her youngest sibling. Maybe she shouldn’t feel embarrassed over it, but there is a needling, insistent sense of selfishness.

Serval should have thought about this, putting that song on the setlist. She should have known the weight it still carried in her mind. She took her deepest ache and put it on display when this festival was never about her.

She begins to sob between haggard breaths, and so she hides her tears by pressing her face to Lynx’ hair. The others are at a loss, so they simply stand there, eyes lowered respectfully, dour expressions all around. Serval doesn’t see this, of course, because her eyes are squeezed shut as she hyperventilates, gripping the fabric of her sister’s clothes.

She senses movement in front of her, and reflexively opens her eyes to see Seele sheepishly lowering herself into a crouch. She places a hand on Serval’s knee, equally timid in motion, but the rocker barely feels it through everything else – the thrumming heartbeat, the tightness of her airways, the crushing pressure in her lungs, the stinging sensation behind her eyes.

“Uhm,” Seele begins. Then she swallows, patting the knee once, awkwardly. “I know it’s probably hard right now, but try to slow your breaths.”

But where can she start? Her lungs are already running away from her, filtering air out like it’s the last few pumps of oxygen she’ll ever get.

Lynx catches on. “Focus, Serval… in through your nose…”

She tries. By Qlipoth she tries. It draws in shaky and sharp; the entire inside of her face feels caustic and salty. But she tries – anything to be rid of this. Serval closes her eyes again and attempts to pry control of herself back from whatever has its hands around her neck, to attune herself to her own rhythm rather than this chaotic one.

Bit by bit, she feels it start to work. Under Seele’s guidance, she begins to reassert herself.

“This happens to Bronya too, sometimes,” the butterfly explains, “The pressure of leadership, I think. Having eyes on you.”

Serval sees the genuine curl in Seele’s brows – she’s seen this enough times to know how to tame it. Her advice is the product of trial. In the back of her mind – the quiet part, the part that still has itself in hand – Serval is thankful for the direction.

From the corner of her eye, though: a glimmer. Behind Pela, amongst the blurred edges of her vision, pronounced against the crowds of other musicians in the room. A hazy streak of white, purple, and gold. She doesn’t need to blink away the tears to know who it is, and so the shame comes creeping back. When the halo inches closer, Serval squeezes her eyes shut again. Debonaire one day, despondent the next. What must Miss Robin think?

Between the cracks in her own exhalations, she hears hushed exchanges amongst her bandmates and the Penaconian emissary. The murmurs are so quiet that she can’t pick up on the words, but the tone is… well, is it sympathy? Or is it pity? Her mind is too loud to discern the two. Whatever it is, it’s lengthy – Serval knows this despite how time feels distorted through the panic.

Serval jolts again as weight hits the space on the couch to her left. She hopes it isn’t Robin.

Her heart sinks when she hears that melodious voice. “Miss Landau? I see that you’re struggling, and… I may have some expertise that will help you through this.” Robin is audible now, her voice pushing against the sensory hell imposed upon Serval. “But it may be disorienting, at first. I’d like your consent, okay?”

Serval is a proud person; she’s proud of who she is and what she’s accomplished, and she’s well within her right to be. However, she isn’t so proud as to become stubborn. She knows she’s at the bottom of a pit, and scrabbling at the sides on her own won’t help hoist herself out of it. Still, the guilt simmers. She’s in this hole because of a mistake on her part, and now she may have to rely on a visiting guest’s altruism.

Still, she nods, because her throat has only constricted further. Anything to make this end.

“Then, could you please turn towards me? I need to have your attention for this to work properly,” Robin coos.

Anything at all.

Serval gingerly twists herself to face Robin. It’s an uncharacteristic shyness – she can’t remember the last time vulnerability had felt this knife-keen. She sees the star’s hands extended, upturned. Offering. Reluctantly, Serval rests her hands atop those soft, fair palms, and feels the fingers delicately constrict. It’s difficult to maintain eye contact, as messy as she must look, but… Robin needs her attention. So she consolidates it as best as she can, and matches emerald green with her ice blue.

“That’s good,” Robin assures. “It’s going to be alright.”

It’s unlike anything Serval has ever felt, the next instant. The edges of her vision flare with colour. Vivid golds, reds, blues, pinks, and purples. It’s strange and wondrous at once, concerning and enthralling. A dance of hues, twirling around in the corners. Stranger still is the sense of speechless clarity. It’s like the heavy shroud has been thrown back, all the weight and tightness and sorrow stripped from her mind with a steady, careful peel. Slowly, the clamour inside her fades into silence.

Finally, silence.

“Please, Miss Landau, breathe.”

Serval hadn’t even noticed that she’d stopped after the initial cavalcade of colours had caused her breath to hitch. She recalls Seele’s similar advice, and puts it into practice once more. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slower and slower. The numbness in her extremities subsides, that acidic sensation in her sinuses abates, and the sickening pounding in her chest starts to relent.

And all the while, her mind turns over the circumstance with abject laconism.

Okay, it says to her, it’s clear that you’re still a bit out-of-sorts when it comes to Cocolia. And while it’s true that you wrote that song for her, nobody else would know that. Only Lynx knows. The crowd doesn’t. You didn’t put anything ‘on display’, Serval. Relax.

It’s her own voice – of course, it’s her own brain – but it feels so far removed from how she felt only minutes ago that she almost chuckles at the absurdity. However, that monologue is totally right. Whatever the lyric Serval once penned for Cocolia, it was between those two women and them alone. To everyone else, it’s just another song. Tonight, out there on stage, it was just another song.

Her internal guide pipes up again: And for the record – There’s no way Miss Robin is judging you for this. She’s the one helping you, remember?

Serval’s vision focuses again, bereft of tears or those strange, alien colours. Sitting centre-frame, holding both of her hands, smiling at her with brows steepled in an expression of caring regard, is Robin.

***

The next day, Serval is afforded rest, to set right her troubled mind. Truth be told, though, the trouble had passed. Robin’s ‘tuning’ had seen to that. Tuning. Serval chuckles at the word. How fitting. Serval was no broken instrument, but un-tuned – just needing minor adjustment. A small moment to tighten her strings and hear herself. She’s grateful to Robin for her intervention.

However, a small issue still lingers. That of past loves and songs owed.

On that day, Serval visits a cemetery inside Belobog’s walls, in a quiet part of the city, far from hissing steam pipes and chugging engines. She stops in front of a small plot where the previous supreme guardian, Cocolia Rand, isn’t buried.

I thought I was done with you, she thinks, not unkindly.

For a long while, she was. Cocolia was gone, for better or worse, and Serval picked up the pieces as she had always done. A full-throated roar into the frigid wind, a shattered guitar, and then she moved on. But there is a drawer filled with graph paper covered in scribbled lyrics of admiration in her workshop, and she remembered them as she returned home last night.

None of them were complete songs, of course – just vague notions and flowery metaphors: the stuff of a bad poet trying to woo someone – but the fact remained that Serval wrote them for Cocolia. She used her music to fuel… whatever was between them. Even if she’s gone, that connection still stands. Neural pathways clinging to her ghost, bridging the gap between a few notes and a hole in the shape of a woman.

When Bronya unexpectedly strolls up beside her, she feels a mite awkward.

“Oh, Bronya, hi,” She greets, pulled from her recollective rigor. “I can go, if you want some solitude.”

“Please, Serval, it’s fine. You’re a family friend,” Bronya responds, squeezing Serval’s shoulder. “I actually came looking for you.”

“Oh?”

“I heard from Seele about what happened yesterday, after your performance. I thought it strange, until she told me which song ended your set…” She almost looks at Serval apologetically. “I couldn’t find you at your workshop, so I took a guess. Here you are.”

Bronya knows too? Well, it was a shame. Serval always preferred to present herself as durable and dependable to the young heiress, but now even Bronya knows she isn’t invincible. It’s more than likely she already knew, but the recency of the episode puts a pang to the situation.

“Ah, yeah.” Serval nods, ashamed. “I’ll steer clear from using ‘Halogen, Hold Me’ again. And a few others…”

“You shouldn’t have to.” It comes from Bronya’s mouth abrupt, and she knows it. She casts the tombstone a guilty glance, and shifts it back to the mechanic. “I mean… you wrote it. You have every right to perform it, and every right to feel…” She pauses, drawing in a long, contemplative breath. “To feel safe while performing it.”

Serval musters up a weak smile. “Bronya, I wrote it for her. It belongs to her. It was a gift.”

“Yes, you wrote it for her. It’s still your voice, your words. Your message,” Bronya rebukes swiftly, closing the distance between them by just a step. “She can no longer hear it. It’s not… it’s not about her, Serval.”

“What do you-”

“It’s about you, and the fact that you loved someone,” The supreme guardian asserts.

***

Adjustments are made for Mechanical Fever’s second performance. Bronya puts the idea forth to the band initially: their set will be left for the later hours of the day, once the crowd is thinner, so as to ease the tension of mass perception. She’s still worried about Serval. The rocker accepts both the sentiment and the compromise.

The band spends most of the time rehearsing backstage, watching acts perform through a wall-mounted television monitor, receiving the live broadcast on the IPC network. Every now and then, between practices, they take a break to listen to an off-world act, gathered around the screen. All have merit, though Serval would admit that some of the Edo Star electronica isn’t to her taste if pressed. Before long, their number is called. The currently performing artist is reaching the end of their set, and Mechanical Fever are up next. There’s no more time to rehearse – their preparations would have to be good enough for now.

Tension winds up inside Serval – that static, eager to be unleashed and nervous to be perceived at the same time – but she shakes it off and diverts her attention to the television again to still her heart and steel her nerves. The current singer is centre frame, belting their heart out on some upbeat pop-rock track. All things considered, it’s a catchy tune, and the vibe is just as contagious. She strums a flourish, and Serval is given the image of the performer’s face as her hair flips with the motion.

It's… Robin.

She’s dressed in rocker-chic: wide-hole fishnets, a jacket that clings more to her forearms than her shoulders, and a top showing as much collarbone as midriff. It’s a far cry from her previous appearances – her last on-stage ensemble was an elegant and colourful dress, and before then, she was decked fully in the thick, fluffy regalia of an unaccustomed tourist. Now, however, it seems the cold bothers her none. In fact, Serval can see even through the screen that Robin is working up a sweat.

The music, too, is a surprise. It’s energetic, up-tempo, and oh-so rock. Serval never would have guessed that the genre was within the star’s repertoire. Then she hears it: the steady, mechanical ticking amongst the music. Serval knows that sound all too well – through long nights of mixing, days of trying to make the sound just so, and the weeks afterwards of trying to get that damnably repetitive noise out of her head.

Robin has sampled one of Serval’s songs. That ticking is from The Cusp of Ignition.

Serval finds herself wandering through the backstage halls, guitar in hand, until she comes to rest in the wings, with a clear view of Robin on stage, in profile. Her halo sways and bobs with her body’s rhythm, the wings flapping with each beat. Architects, it’s mesmerising. Serval sways with her, idly, without meaning to.

Soon, it’s over. Robin waves to the crowd, blows a few kisses, gathers her guitar, and walks off stage. Towards the still-hypnotised Serval. They lock eyes for a moment, and the Belobogian’s face feels hot. Robin smiles bashfully.

“So… I take it you noticed, huh?” She asks.

Serval’s lips part, but she only nods.

“…In the larger universe, sampling is quite common,” Robin explains, preempting, clearly expecting disapproval. “I hope it doesn’t seem nefarious.”

Serval sees Robin’s wings droop a little, and it pulls her from the flattered stupor. “Oh! No, not at all! I-It’s…” She stammers. “…But, why my song? Why Ignition?”

The pair of fluffy wings rise once more, splaying out pridefully. Robin’s eyes twinkle. “I’ve had some time to look through Belobog’s history, and I wanted… I wanted to give you and Mechanical Fever a tribute. Something to say: ‘I see you, and everything you’ve accomplished’, in spite of Belobog’s adversity.” She replies excitedly. It reminds Serval of when she met Robin, how eager she seemed to chat about the art. “Sound is a city’s beating heart, Miss Landau. Your music beats loud and fast.”

***

Serval doesn’t sleep that night, after her set. Instead, she is plagued by the most thorough of insomnia-inducing phenomena: inspiration. She toils over pen and notepad while pacing around the room. Her possessed body jots down rhymes and melodies, all to the ticking of a clock that acts as an unwitting metronome. On occasion, she’ll let out a satisfied ‘aha!’ and stride for her guitar to pluck a short progression. The moon once more bears witness to creation.

Robin may have said that Mechanical Fever beats like Belobog’s heart, but what of Serval’s heart? It beat faster on hearing that praise, that insight – and like a heart, she intends to pump that kindness back into the world, to reciprocate it using the same arterial intention. Sadly, Serval knows none of Robin’s songs; an original tribute would have to do.

By midnight, she has lyrics. By three, her guitar knows its lines. By six, she has a sheaf of musical notation for her bandmates to learn in the span of a day. She loads her tired body up on caffeine, squints into the sunlit outdoors, and sets out for the studio.

Lynx’s brow raises when she reads the fruit of Serval’s labor. “Snow Angel?”

“You think she’ll like it?”

“Serval, I barely know her. But,” the youngest Landau sighs, “It has merit. Lyrically, it’s solid, if a little conspicuous.” She offers the papers back to her sister – all but her own part. It’s a tacit acceptance of the song; she’s willing to try it.

Serval takes the bundle and chuckles. “I hope it’s conspicuous. I want her to know that it’s a tribute to her. A ‘thank you’.”

She watches as Lynx and Pela exchange dubious glances, and Seele – who, so far, has been sitting with her legs hanging off the practice stage, reading through the song on her own – snickers at some untold joke.

The girls look back towards their singer, wearing a mix of trepidation and pity on their faces. “Serval… this song reads more like-”

“You want her so bad!” Seele calls out from across the room, bursting into laughter so potent she has to clutch her stomach. “You wrote a love song!”

Serval feels her face grow hot. Her eyes go wide, and her jaw slackens. “W-what? N-no! It’s- It’s-”

“Does the halo melt the snow that falls on it?” Seele recites, in her best smitten poet voice, “If I wanted you to melt me, would you want it?”

“No, Seele, that’s about…” A blushing Serval takes several rushed steps towards Seele, half intending to rip the sheet from her hands. “It’s about how she, like, ‘melted’ the panic attack I was having. It’s- It’s about how she’s warm and kind!”

Seele ignores her, and continues with her teasing. “You’re an imprint on the alabaster, I’ll lay inside forever after…”

“She left an impression on me! On all of us, right? On Belobog?”

“You want her so badly!” Seele repeats. “Look at you!”

The heat spreads downwards, over the back of Serval’s neck and across her chest, and she surges forward to snatch the paper from Seele’s grasp. The butterfly relinquishes it with no resistance, and throws her hands up defensively, still wearing an impish smirk.

It infuriates Serval. It’s like Seele sees something that she doesn’t, like she knows something that she doesn’t. How would she know better? She isn’t in Serval’s head, she doesn’t know her thoughts on Robin. Yes, Serval will yield that Robin is beautiful, kind, gentle, and awe-inspiring on stage, but she barely knows this intergalactic star; it wouldn’t be smart or appropriate to let herself fall for her, especially not when she’ll likely be leaving after the festival.

And yet, it occurs to her that she would be letting herself fall. Allowing. The thought of Robin leaving likewise gives way to a pang of uncertainty in her, like a dull ache in her chest. This sensation washes over her, the feeling of time running out, like she’s going to miss something she wants to be present for, like hearing people party through the wall of your apartment. She’s experienced enough to know the feelings mingling inside her intimately, she knows their names, where they come from, what they latch to. Once, they belonged to a woman of high esteem.

And now, it seems the pattern is unbroken.

Serval is about to grapple with it, to accept that she’s overstepped her bounds with the yearning lyricism, when she hears Seele speak again, a smile still playing on her lips. “Y’know, I don’t blame you. I’m only making fun because I know this stuff,” She says. “Sometimes the only way is to just… say it.”

Serval turns towards her, hesitantly. “...Say it?”

“I think it’s good that you’re being… explicit with it?” She cocks her head to one side. “Bronya wasn’t sure what to call us until I was direct about it, so… Maybe there’s something to be said for the openness of it.” The slightest pink has formed on Seele’s cheeks. There are memories being stirred up behind those eyes.

Serval musters a weak smile. “I really didn’t mean it to be, though.”

“So? Who cares? The words are there, and they came from you. And you do like her.”

“What if she-”

“The ‘what-ifs’ are for her to think through. You can only express it.” Seele bluntly interrupts her.

What would change? If Serval performed Snow Angel on stage tomorrow, and Robin saw it, what, truly, would change? The best case scenario is obvious: Robin picks up on the intention, they talk, they agree to meet for a date, and things roll on from there. The worst possible scenario is an ugly, uncomfortable confrontation about Serval’s lyrics – although Serval can’t imagine Robin being that unkind. Perhaps a polite refusal, which is much more bearable. In either case, very little is lost. Seele speaks with a strange kind of simple wisdom. How Robin reacts is Robin’s choice. There’s no need to compensate for what hasn’t yet happened.

And Serval does like Robin, even if ‘like’ is somewhat of an understatement. She caught herself staring both times the songstress was on stage, and she can’t get the moment of tuning on the first night out of her head. Even now, the name conjures the face – the fluffy hair, the emerald eyes, the fluttering wings, and the soft-looking lips pulled into a considerate smile.

“...You’re right.” Serval says, her voice cracking. “You’re totally right. I want her to know how I feel. Maybe it’s crazy because I haven’t known her that long, but if I don’t let her know soon… I’ll miss the chance.”

Seele nods approvingly.

Serval pivots towards her sister and Pela, and continues, “Will you all help me take that chance? This is the only way I know how, and I can’t do it without you guys.”

***

The song starts slow, with an isolated guitar riff. Short chords in a low staccato. Serval plays it with her eyes closed, feeling the music flow out of her more than simply conjuring it with her instrument. It’s soft and melancholy, but rises into a key that provokes a sense of longing in her. Notes that sound forlorn.

Pela’s cymbals hiss and tinkle with her gentle entry into the soundscape, with a cadence resembling the first few snowflakes of an approaching storm. Seele and Lynx come in next, with the bassline breathing life into Serval’s melody.

Serval takes a deep breath, steps up to the microphone, and opens her mouth to sing about all the things she feels and thinks when looking at this angel from outer space.

The time flies.

By the time the song is over, she is hot, covered in sweat, out of breath, and even her calloused fingertips are aching. She outdid herself with Snow Angel; the instrumentation is more technically advanced than her previous compositions, and her hands feel it. The audience loved it, too, thrashing about and cheering when Serval managed to pull off an impressive solo. It’s probably the loudest the Underworld has ever been.

Not all of her state is from overexertion, however – like a child confessing to her first crush, Serval is coated with that anxiety. Whether or not Robin heard it is not in contention, but her reaction remains to be seen. The performance was for the people, but the words, the message behind them? They were for her alone. Serval can only hope she deciphers it.

She wonders about the outcome as her band traverses the Underworld en route to the surface elevator. The winding streets are busier than usual, with festival goers returning to their lodgings for the night, and Underworlders growling frustrated obscenities at the tourism spike. Even the Goethe, the Underworld’s counterpart to the hotel of the same name above ground, has gaggles of people crowding around it from every angle. More than there could possibly host, surely. It’s a sign of success, Serval guesses. Success of the festival’s mission to draw eyes to Jarilo-VI. Bronya had it all in hand, it seems.

She continues to think this, until she sees both Silvermane Guards and Wildfire peacekeepers convening in Boulder Town’s main avenue. She overhears the word ‘collapse’, and that old sense of duty kicks in.

“What’s this about a collapse?”

One of the uniformed Silvermanes whips their head around and quickly looks her up and down. “Oh, Miss Landau, it’s you.” They sound almost relieved – perhaps the citizenry have been causing headaches? “It’s nothing to worry about, ma’am. A few tenements finally gave out in the north side of town. A few injuries, but everyone’s fine.”

“Any plans for the unhoused?”

“We’re trying to talk with local inns and hotels to see if there are any rooms left, but the crowds are making it difficult.”

“Serval,” Seele pipes up from behind, “I think I need to be here.”

True enough, Serval is eyeing the cluster of frustrated, scared people, and realising that there is tension building. She doesn’t know what could happen, but if Wildfire is here, they deem it necessary.

“Do your thing,” She says, nodding to the butterfly, who swiftly approaches the nearest member of her faction. Then, Serval addresses the Guard once more. “How’s access to the surface? Has anyone asked Grand Goethe?”

“We only just got here, but it looks like the crowd did too. If you hurry…”

“It should still be easy to get a ride up there, and I’ll let the hotel know what’s going on.”

Serval can’t see under the helmet, but she knows it’s a face of gratitude when the Guard’s shoulders relax. “That would be a huge help ma’am.”

Serval smiles at Pela and Lynx. “Up for a jog?”

With good pace, they make it to the elevator before the panicked masses do. Serval explains the situation to the operators, and they allow the car to ascend before schedule. On the way, the three girls make a plan: Lynx and Pela will head home, and Serval will visit the Grand Goethe Hotel to seek some kind of arrangement for those suffering from the collapse. The young girls shouldn’t be put in danger, and to be fair, there is very little they can actually do in this circumstance. They acquiesce without resistance, thankfully.

Once the elevator stops, and moonlight is in view, they split up, and Serval rushes over pavement towards the looming architecture of her destination. She pushes open the doors, and sees something that stops her in her tracks.

There are many people here already. Groups occupy standing space, and the foyer lounges. They lean against the counter and sit on the staircases. Dozens of people. Some sport tall, fox-like ears, others have metal skin, and more are run-of-the-mill humans. But there’s only one that catches her eye immediately. Only one with a halo, and a pair of bright, fluffy wings. And she is so close.

In fact, she almost bumps straight into Serval, head-on. She squeaks an ‘ah!’ and reflexively shuffles back a few steps. She’s dressed in the same coat she wore when they met – that big, puffy number with all the fur. She’s on her way out.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going! Please, allow me to-” Robin apologises profusely, stepping to the side to allow passage before her eyes finally meet her would-be collision victim. “M-Miss Landau! I’m very sorry.”

Serval feels that same familiar heat creep up her cheeks again. “No, no, you’re okay!” Serval rushes in and holds the door open for Robin.

The superstar smiles bashfully as she passes through the threshold, into the cold night air. She carries a bag by a strap slung over a shoulder, letting it fall to a hand to adjust her fur-collared coat tighter around herself. Serval finds herself staring at her shrinking silhouette again, slowly becoming lost in the first falling snows of the night. Something urges her to hurry, a hidden compulsion. She takes hold of it, and lets it carry her.

She surges through the crowd, to the counter, where an overtired manager is fielding questions and complaints. She delivers her missive from the Silvermane Guards, and the manager nods wearily

“We’re aware of the collapse, and are trying to make space for those who need it, ma’am,” he responds, “a few have yielded their rooms, thanks to that generous Halovian lady. I ought to arrange a thanks of some kind…” He mumbles the last part under his breath, already turning to respond to the next worried guest.

It seems Robin had already warned the establishment of the oncoming tide, which is a load off Serval’s back. That’s precisely the selflessness she’s come to admire. It begs the question, though, why did Robin leave? Serval gasps under her breath, and races back towards the door, flinging it open. Before she even sees the full night sky, she calls out.

“Miss Robin! Hold up a sec!”

A few stray eyes turn towards the loud noise, but only one person stops in their stride, and turns on a heel to answer her.

She isn’t gone yet. Thank Qlipoth.

Her figure is set against streetlight and snow, her wings nestled warmly under the fur collar of her coat. She gives Serval a polite smile as the guitarist jogs up to meet her.

“Miss Robin, wait…” Serval huffs, exerted from her pace. “I thought… I thought you were staying at the Grand Goethe?”

“Oh, that… I gave up my room to a family from the building that fell in the Underworld.”

“Where are you going to stay?” Serval blurts out without thinking. “O-Oh, I mean, like, do you have plans? Will you be okay tonight?”

“...I kind of did it without thinking, actually…” Robin admits, averting her gaze shyly. “Perhaps I could head back to the craft I came to this planet on. It’s not very comfortable, but it might have to do.”

“The spaceport is pretty far out, and it’s cold and dark… you could crash at my place? Might be safer?”

Serval’s heart skips a beat as Robin brings her vision back up to match her own. There’s a glimmer of welcome surprise in there. “I wouldn’t want to impose…” Robin’s thumb brushes timidly against the shoulder-strap of her bag.

“I offered; you wouldn’t be imposing at all.”

Robin smiles warmly, and Serval could swear the sun had already risen.

***

They come in from the night air, shivering as frost forms on the windows in fractal patterns. They inhale with a cold, sharp sting, and exhale vapour into their quiet surroundings. Serval’s modest den is dark, and only marginally cosier than the unforgiving outdoor snowfall. The front door opens to a small living area, rife with signs of the elder Landau’s presence. The coffee table is strewn with schematics, loose mechanical parts, and the most recent addition, scrap musical notation upon lined paper. The couch is draped loosely with a woollen throw blanket, used on a late night weeks ago and untouched since. In short, it’s a home – lived in and well-loved.

Serval can feel Robin’s eyes wandering the room, pacing the lengths of the walls and scanning over surfaces. She’s never been nervous about bringing a woman to her place before, but the scrutiny from this new arrival seems to cause a subtle tension to spike in her. A home is where the soul of an individual resides, shown through the debris and décor accumulated. As the idol relinquishes her huddling grip on herself, taking in the sight, Serval knows that she is looking into her soul; she is seeing what Serval is.

Serval hopes that the creature painted in the clutter is appealing. Yet, Robin offers no protest, and Serval almost chuckles at her own needless worrying.

“I’ll go ahead and put some clean sheets on the bed for you,” Serval offers, surging ahead. “I’ll take the couch.”

Robin flutters forward and grabs Serval by the elbow, gently. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly…”

“Please. A pretty thing like you deserves her beauty sleep,” Serval assuages, patting the hand clutching her arm, and flashing a wink.

Truth be told, she planned neither of those motions. It’s not a conscious effort to woo, it’s just instinct. Her body knows what it wants, even if her brain is a mess thinking about it – about her. The furtive shade of pink that dawns on Robin’s cheeks is enough to send her spiralling further. It takes effort to remind herself that the idol being here is a declaration of trust – to treat it as any kind of fortuitous ‘opportunity’ would be… uncomfortable.

Just be normal, girl. Serval imposes the rule upon herself, as if she were a lovelorn teenager and not, in fact, a middle-aged woman with full control over herself, and extensive experience in ‘being normal’. Robin just… brings it out of her, she guesses.

Her bed is dressed with crisp, clean sheets, new pillowcases, and a thicker blanket to accommodate for Robin’s obvious aversion to the climate; all the while, the idol avails herself of the shower at Serval’s cordial offering. Afterwards, she sets to work making the couch an affable bedfellow.

Sinking onto the cushions is not an unfamiliar feeling, with her pillow tucked under her head, bundled up under the blanket pulled from her bed. To fit onto the comparatively thinner surface, the duvet is somewhat scrunched laterally, now resembling tall, rolling woollen dunes. Serval dons a loose-fitting shirt as an extra layer against the cold that she knows is coming with the cresting moon. Mechanical Fever merchandise never really took off, but she’s always been glad to have kept a few of the first batch of graphic tees.

It strikes Serval at that moment, as she hears the sound of Robin’s shower cease, that the angel is far from her cloud; does she have her robes, or must she borrow something more earthly? She throws the blanket aside, and strides towards the bathroom. Without really knowing it, the steps she takes are agile and unobtrusive, as if to diminish her presence – not predatorily, of course, but as if making noise would cause offense, in her own home. She raises her hand to give the door three loose raps, but it swings open abruptly, and Serval is reminded of the Grand Goethe’s doors earlier this evening. It’s even complete with a familiar, startled squeak from Robin.

“O-Oh! M-Miss Landau!”

Serval takes a hurried step back, her heart jumping from the surprise bestowed by her timing. “Sorry! Sorry, I just- I was just wondering if you needed to borrow something to sleep in? From my wardrobe?”

The question leaves her lips before her eyes can stop her from making a fool of herself. Before her, Robin stands – not wrapped in a towel, but bedecked in a large, fluffy, sky blue bathrobe. Her hair falls down her shoulders in wet ropes; she hasn’t even had time to wrap it up in a towel. A sweet scent wafts through the door, the telltale fragrance of washed and perfumed cotton, the likes of which Serval’s home had never before known. Behind Robin, atop the sink-side vanity, is the bag she carried with her. Even from here, Serval can make out toiletries, shower essentials, and bundled clothing.

“I’m okay,” Robin says, huffing an entertained laugh. “I had the foresight to pack my own before I left the hotel.”

Serval shakes her head at her own lack of foresight. “Right, right. Obviously,” She mutters, embarrassedly.

It’s a small bag, that one with Robin’s belongings, so Serval figures it’s filled with only essentials; It wouldn’t fit the ensembles and outfits the idol has been wearing on stage over the week. It’s more likely that her ‘stage clothes’ are kept in a wardrobe somewhere to be changed into right before a performance.

Even though it’s nothing compared to those outfits, the bathrobe is suitably extravagant-looking. The cotton looks silky soft, it is devoid of wrinkles, and the stitches and seams are completely unnoticeable. Serval’s eyes almost begin to roam across it in fascination, but she catches herself, knowing how it would look. Regardless, Robin could not be living more of a foreign lifestyle. Alien not only in planetary position, but also in wealth and glamour – and despite it all, somehow very down-to-earth and compassionate.

“I should have let you know, sorry. I made you worry for nothing.”

There’s that compassion again. Robin hasn’t done anything wrong, but she considers Serval’s feelings anyway.

Robin, you sweet, silly birdie...

“Not at all!” Serval almost vocalises the impromptu nickname conjured in her thoughts, managing to halt it in the nick of time. “But, if you need anything while you’re here, please let me know. Even if I’m asleep. Okay?” She beams at Robin. It’s easy to.

***

Later that night, she stares at the ceiling, lost in paralysing thought. Her eyes are wide as she listens to the baritone hum of the geomarrow heater in her living room. The afternoon’s performance is still on her mind – that colossal confession of adoration echoing through the Underworld, backed by instrumentation dreamt up and laced together by a woman who says things best set to music, a woman who doesn’t want to take any chances, doesn’t want to get it wrong.

Did she? Robin hasn’t brought it up. Did she hear the song? Was she simply unable to decipher Serval’s intent? Or, worst of all possibilities, did she hear it, and find it lacking or undesirable? Has Serval made a fool of herself by flinging herself headlong into a yearning so sudden and ill-advised? It keeps her up as she races through scenarios, each crueller than the last. She forgets, for a moment, that Robin isn’t so cruel. She forgets that those words belong to Cocolia.

In the dark, she sighs, and hauls herself onto her side, pulling the blanket close under her chin.

She is quickly denied any continued effort to sleep, however. There, by the door; a shift in the shadows.

“-What…” The half-formed question is soporific in its delivery. A mumbled affectation somewhere between wariness and confusion.

Whatever is stalking in the darkness, it stops still, without a sound.

Serval knows it’s still there. Her pulse quickens, and she lifts herself onto an elbow, squinting into the black. “Hello?”

“Oh, you are awake…” A high and hushed tone drifts from the dark. It is unmistakably Robin’s voice.

Serval moves her elbow and allows herself to recline again, sighing with relief into her pillow. The tension dissipates, and her heartbeat begins to settle. Flipping the switch to a lamp upon a short bookcase by the end of the couch, she illuminates the room, and sees Robin all dressed up for the cold, in the same clothes she wore when she arrived. Her coat is wrapped around herself tightly, and tied at the waist.

Why?

The runaway angel’s wings begin to flap shyly, low and slow. “I-I’m sorry, Miss Landau, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Serval holds a hand up, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head. “You didn’t,” She manages to slur. “Is something the matter?”

Have I been too forward by inviting you here? Did I make you uncomfortable? She wonders. She’s had a lot of practice in stopping herself from jumping the gun – voicing her conclusions – over the past few days. It serves her well.

Robin sheepishly looks away, back towards the door, like an animal seeking a means of escape. The notion hurts Serval; it puts a shard of ice into her chest. Regret overcomes her.

“You… You can go if you want, but…” she starts, choking on her sentence, “let me at least walk you to where you’re going. Just to be safe?”

Robin’s wings droop, her eyes widen, and her lips part. Her brows steeple worriedly, and she shakes her head. “Oh, no, I- I was going to come back. I promise. I just…” She stammers, gingerly stepping forward and folding her hands before her, politely. As if she’s expecting chastisement, as if she were misbehaving, or had somehow insulted Serval in her own home. “...There’s a window in your room. I woke up not long ago, and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I pulled the curtains open and… the stars on Jarilo-VI are so beautiful. The night sky is clear, and the snowfall almost makes it look like some of the stars are falling to the ground. The moon’s light is radiant and full. I just… wanted to get a closer look.”

In the lamplight, Serval sees a twinkle in Robin’s eyes, and a smile forming on her lips. She knows from how her eyes have glazed over that she is no longer seeing Serval herself, but is instead envisioning the sights she witnessed through glass once more.

She can relate. Once, for her, the stars were a sight shared with someone special. Serval liked to believe that they only shined – really shined – for the two of them. For others, they were just faint lights, shy and bashful – but when she and Cocolia were laying out in the snowfields, under a canopy of glinting specks, they were resplendent and excited. Not so much, anymore. It became harder over time to believe that. Especially when the two of them became… just her. Now the stars are just that: stars. Gas. Debris. Heat. Scrutable and mundane.

But who was she to deny this birdie, with her head held to the sky, the gift of flight?

Serval yawns, pulling herself into a sit. “Go on outside, I’ll grab some chairs.”

“Chairs?”

“We’ll stargaze. I can’t sleep either.”

It is frigid and stinging outside. Even bundled under thick layers, Serval has to rub her arms to keep warm. Robin, too, is struggling with the cold, but is making an admittedly valiant effort to ignore it in favour of focusing all of her attention on the celestial vista above. Serval lets her own eyes leave the idol, and traces her line of sight up into the beyond.

She would be lying if she said it was the same as ever. Every word Robin uttered inside was evocatively true. When she exhales, warm mist coils up around her view of the moon, and the silver glow highlights each particle of moisture in the breath. It’s almost like headlights in thin fog. The stars too, are done justice by Robin’s description – they twinkle, they shimmer, they flicker and shine against a near-vantablack backdrop.

Something more catches her attention, though. Something closer, more earthly. Just out of the corner of her eye. It is Robin’s wide, satisfied, enthralled smile, and the ethereal light of the moon reflected in her eyes, and glinting off her halo. She bathes in that ghostly radiance.

Ever since Cocolia left her life, the night sky was just… space. Scientific and apathetic. Robin, with her strange, whimsical aura, injects a new perspective: she is draped in the starlight. It dresses her in itself. All of a sudden, to Serval, the glow is the gown of an angel.

She’ll have to remember to write that down.

“Thank you, Serval.” Robin’s words might as well be the tiny squeak of a mouse for how quiet they are, but she hears them all the same. The halovian looks towards her, elated smile turning soft and fond. “For this.”

Serval is by no means an expert in the cardiological, but she swears her heartbeat doubles its tempo. She can feel it in her throat, thumping like a kickdrum. If Robin weren’t here – if Serval didn’t know exactly why it’s happening – she would probably think she were dying.

The bodily reaction is all but understandable; it is the first time Robin has said her first name out loud, and it is in tones of sincere gratitude, under the most beautiful night sky in memory. Serval reckons with the fact that she is hopelessly enamoured.

It isn’t the first time she’s felt this way, either.

Work with what you know, right? An idea comes to her, dusty and unused.

“You know… there’s a place with a way better view. The buildings across the street are tall, and take up more of the sky than you’d think.” She starts, quietly.

Robin eyebrows tug upward, curiously. “Oh?”

“It’s a bit of a hike,” She admits, “but it’s worth it, I think.”

“Well… I’m still not tired, and I don’t have a performance tomorrow…” Robin plays into the suggestion with a mischievous grin.

Serval, on instinct, reaches out and pats Robin’s forearm. “Lemme grab something,” she says, standing and beginning to lope towards her door.

When Robin nods politely, she enters, grabs her guitar case, and slings it across her back.

***

“A-Are you sure?”

Serval leans back in from around the corner, and faces Robin. “Yeah, it should be fine. I’ve done this before.”

Robin stifles an uncertain giggle. “Of that, I’m sure, but wouldn’t security be… more liberal, with the festival ongoing?”

Well, yes, Serval admits, only to herself, but Geppie will understand.

She’s not so convinced of that last part.

Still, this is the only way to that spot: through the Restricted Zone, adjacent to the snowfields. Usually, it’s crawling with Silvermane Guards, but the shift change occurs around this time, and none of the patrols are at their best – either just woken up or dying to go to sleep. Besides, it’s not like Serval’s forgotten the route.

She pokes her head back around the corner. “We’re clear, c’mon,” she whispers, waving for Robin to follow.

“Wait, Serval, this feels wrong,” the angel blurts. “The Guards are just trying to do their jobs, isn’t it bad to interrupt them?”

“We’re not interrupting them if we don’t get caught,” Serval posits, flashing her best picaresque smirk. “...Robin, can I ask you something?”

Her unwitting accomplice raises an eyebrow in confusion. “...I suppose?”

“Your stage clothes weren’t in your bag, because you have people to look after your outfits. You came to Jarilo-VI on your own spacecraft. You introduced the entire festival because your name holds that much notoriety.” Serval counts on three fingers. “Forgive me for saying this, but you clearly come from prestige and money.”

“...None of those were questions…”

“Prestige and money have to act good. Your appearance in the public eye is very important, I’m assuming?”

“Well, yes? Where is this-?”

“There’s no public eye here.” Serval gestures with a shrug, making a show of scanning her surroundings. “Don’t you wanna do something… a little bad?”

Serval has the rare honour of watching it happen.

Robin opens her mouth to object, probably reflexively. She frowns like she’s offended by the suggestion. But something holds the words back, makes them dissipate in her throat. Serval’s a machine woman, so she recognises the turning of gearwheels when she sees it. She even sees the prim and proper persona Robin wears slough from her shoulders, as her posture relaxes.

“Ha…” Robin laughs under her breath. “You’re a terrible influence, Miss Serval.”

The two of them weave through the labyrinthine backstreets of long-abandoned neighbourhoods, alleys and streets lost to the fragmentum, all the while avoiding the pulse-pounding sounds of footsteps and Guardsman chatter. They giggle and duck into side paths, they bump into each other as they retreat and retrace their steps, they stop to catch their breath amidst laughter after running from a particularly vigilant Silvermane. All the while, their destination slowly becomes closer.

The end of one path breaks cleanly into what may once have been a large botanical garden, but is now buried under tonnes of snow. The only sign at all that there was anything there at all is the path preceding it, a collection of long-dead trees stripped of leaves, and the conical apex of a stone fountain peeking from underneath the alabaster mass.

At this time, after the detours necessary to evade detection, the moon is low. What was once a dark sky is beginning to lighten with the rising sun, even as it remains obscured below the horizon. Serval, breath still heaving from the escapade, slumps down onto the piled-high snow, sitting with her hands on her knees. She looks up into the sky, and sees that the twinkling lights are beginning to fade, slowly. Some burn with fury against the light of the Jarilo star, but she knows that they will be dwarfed with time.

Robin lowers herself down next to Serval, a smile reaching her eyes. She gives the rocker a brief, unexpected nudge with her shoulder to pry her from her skyward reverie.

“Thank you,” Robin says, quietly.

“I couldn’t get us here in time. Look,” Serval replies, flicking her chin up to the sky.

Robin meets the fading twilight, and the white radiance that is beginning to flare across the lower hemisphere, reflected by the snow. She takes in what few stars remain, defiantly holding their pinprick place on space’s canvas. She stares in wonder at the black-to-blue gradient that the hour has made.

“It is a shame…” She sighs, bringing her eyes back down to a less celestial domain. Then, she turns to Serval, her brows steepled. “But I didn’t follow you out here just for the stars.”

Serval casts her a quick glance, unable to hold it for too long. She’s brighter than the sun on snow. “A little trouble is good. Plus, you got to see more of the city!” She yields. At least some good has come of this excursion. She would hate to take up Robin’s time needlessly.

She notes that it takes a second for Robin to respond. “...Well, yes, but…”

Serval has no way of knowing what comes next. She could never imagine that Robin’s following words would be so piercing, so utterly stinging, with so profound an impact.

Robin sighs, and turns her whole body towards Serval. “I saw your performance yesterday.”

Yet despite the figurative injury of bluntness, Serval is thankful for the candour. She is thankful that she never has to ask about it herself, never has to face the humiliation of asking in a clumsy, melody-bereft tongue. She’s glad Robin picked up on it in Serval’s preferred language. She’s also thrilled to have the question she stewed over last night answered.

“You did, huh?”

“Snow Angel,” Robin sings. “I admit, for a moment, I wasn’t sure what the meaning of the song was. Somewhere near the end of the second verse, though, it clicked. I’ve seen people perform love songs before. I know what that sweet desperation looks like, feels like. It’s like… screaming into a canyon, begging anyone to hear it. That’s why we make music, right? To be heard. To get our feelings into the universe, and hope that someone else sings it back to assure us that we’re not alone in our emotions.”

Then she says, lower and quieter: “You’re not alone in your feelings, Serval… but I can’t do what your song asks. I don’t want to ‘melt’ you.”

Serval can avert her eyes no more. Her vision darts to scan Robin’s face, seeking meaning in the gaps between her words, in the subtle contortions of her expression. ‘I don’t want to’ hurts.

“You’re a sculpture to me. A beautiful ice sculpture, worn into shape by the many experiences and adversities you’ve faced,” Robin speaks with patient sincerity; the whisper of sacred confession. These words could not be said if anyone else were present. “Please, don’t change yourself for me. Don’t let me change you. Because… I like the Serval I see here, in front of me.”

“...You like me? This me?”

If this were a cartoon, this is surely the part where a tiny devil would perch itself on Serval’s shoulder, and whisper, “Lean in, take her face in your hands, and kiss her. With tongue. Put your hands on her, and confirm what she already knows – what you both know.”

The angel upon the opposite shoulder, however… what would she say? No, Robin is the only angel here. And she says:

“You’re kind, and considerate. You don’t conform to popular fashion in Belobog, from what I’ve seen, which means you’re happy with your own style. You’re unapologetic in your expressiveness,” Robin tilts her head, looking up as she strings her words together. “And you’re… ‘a little bad’,” She giggles.

She should join in on the joke, but Serval’s too occupied processing the reciprocation. Her machine’s gears are clogged. Robin’s compliments are too grand to parse fully – it’s like the idol has driven a spigot right into Serval’s chest to taste what her heart is made of. Robin drank from the cup, and approved. Serval’s heart swells, and weightlessness grips her as she hears her own words spring forth unbidden.

“You’re beautiful. Gentle. And selfless,” Serval begins, her voice barely a murmur, though it rises as her confidence grows. She needs to get this out like she needs oxygen. “You make everyone around you smile with just a few words, including me. You… you saved me, Robin. On the first night of the festival, I couldn’t see a way out of the spiral, but you got me back to myself.”

Robin blushes, and Serval is sure you could see it from orbit; it’s the only red on endless white snow. “You saved yourself, cutie. I just held back the noise.”

“It was still you, Robin…” Serval feels her face soften. “It was still you. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. And… you’re not going to be here for much longer.”

A moment passes in silence, save for the whistling of wind across the gardens, and the creaking of frozen tree branches. The two women sit there, eyeing the space between them in the snow, waiting for each other to speak, to reach out, to do anything. For Serval, that moment is interminable. She wants so badly to extend a hand to Robin’s shoulder, a finger to her hand, her lips to wherever they would find purchase.

Robin beats her to it. The idol’s mouth comes to rest delicately on Serval’s cheek, while the feathered wings adorning either side brush ticklishly against her neck. She realises that Robin is curling them around both of their faces, as if to shyly hide them from onlookers. Her lips are so much softer than Serval ever imagined.

After a brief instant of wondering whether she should tilt her head and lean into the kiss, pulling Robin in deeper by the back of her head, the angel pulls away slowly. Her eyes flicker up to meet Serval’s.

“I’m here now.”

Irrefutable truth has a way of providing the most endearing comfort and assurance. In this instance, it erodes any inhibition Serval might have been held back by. It spurs her to action with what is implied within the truth – Robin is here now, but only now. She refuses to let the opportunity lapse just yet. She is here. The stage is set, and she would be a fool to miss the performance.

She drifts forward, curling her fingers around Robin’s nape, and quietly insisting upon contact with its pressure. When she feels Robin’s palm, cool against her cheek, she closes her eyes and parts her lips, praying that the angel matches her course. She does. There is the faintest tickle of breath on Serval’s upper lip, and the lightest giggle crosses her ears. Immediately after, the tips of Robin’s wing-feathers caress her jaw as she allows Serval to taste her. It’s more than a moment.

Serval cannot see the sun rising in the morning twilight – she is lost inside Robin’s spontaneous affection, and cannot mark the passage of time. She only knows that when she at last manages to pry her mouth away from the angel’s sweet invitation, sunlight plays across their faces – a band of gold light, wrapping across the upper hemisphere of their faces blindingly. The women must squint to see one another. However, through her eyelashes, Serval is blessed with the sight of that same solar light gleaming across Robin’s halo – radiant and heavenly.

This is it. This is what her song was about.

Robin blinks and shifts her posture to avoid the glare. She’s beaming, and a giggle bubbles up from in her chest – Serval can see how it physically overcomes her.

“Sorry,” she says, finally. “It’s just… Do you remember the day we met?”

Serval nods fondly. “You drifted in from the street to listen to our rehearsal.”

“And you kissed my hand in introduction,” Robin finishes, tilting her head amidst reminiscence. “That was so…”

“Debonair?”

“I was going to say forward,” Robin snickers. “But that moment is when something stirred in me for you. I won’t say that I fell, but… I kept thinking about that moment, and the way you looked at me.”

The corner of Serval’s mouth curls mischievously as her next words form nigh-instantly. “I hope I get to do it again. And again, and again.”

The third ‘again’ leaves her lips, and she is struck with a sense of incongruence. There are not enough squares on the calendar to hold that promise – only two days remain. What then? Will this spontaneous romance fizzle out, forgotten like a fling? Then, Robin says it – four words that ignite a small, defiant flame in Serval’s heart; four words that spark the vaguest notion of optimism.

“I hope so too.”

Serval, like so many musicians, is a dreamer. It’s not unusual for aspirations to flood her head, whether high-minded or humble – visions of futures yet to pass, attainable with just the right amount of belief, or effort, or smarts. However, it has been a long, long time since she allowed herself to have longings of the romantic persuasion pass through without doubt or sabotage. She would choke them down, numbing herself to the memory of affection, lest it conjure a certain woman’s face to wound her. Now, though, they flood her unabated.

Robin and herself stargazing, Robin and herself waking together in the morning, Robin and herself finding warmth between each other on a cold, cold planet.

Robin and her…
She dares not complete her last thought, an expert at managing expectations. Instead, she voices it.

“Robin,” She starts, swallowing hard, “Tell me if this is… crazy. But…”

***

Five scrunched balls of paper, two energy drinks, a text message, and a dulled pencil later, Robin, Serval, and Bronya Rand are gathered in the small rehearsal stage adjacent to the Neverwinter workshop, pouring over a sheaf of musical notation. The chords and lyrics are already familiar to Serval; it is her song, written – as Bronya so succinctly put it – in homage to having loved someone.

“You’re sure about this?” Bronya asks from under steepled brows. Concern is written in the way her forehead creases. “Last time…”

“It won’t be like last time. I promise,” Serval urges. “I have to do this, I think. And there’s nobody I’d rather face it with than the person who gave me the strength to try.” She glances at Robin, who smiles back, sweetly.

“I see. This is okay with you, as well, Miss Robin? With so little time to prepare?”

Her eyes flick from Serval to the Supreme Guardian. “Absolutely! I’ve had shorter deadlines, I assure you.”

“… I suppose I’d better get in touch with the other acts to adjust their times, then.”

“We really appreciate this, Bronya,” Serval says apologetically. She knows she is leaning on the young woman’s generosity again, but the yearning in her chest insists that this must be done, and it can only be done with Bronya’s help.

Bronya pulls her phone from a coat pocket, flicks it on, and then addresses Robin again. “Will your people take issue to this adjustment?”

“I believe not. I’ve already gotten in touch with them, in fact!” The idol assures in honeyed tones.

Bronya nods. “Alright. Ten o’clock, tomorrow night, then.”

***

At 9:55pm, the stage is still bathed in darkness as the silhouettes of Mechanical Fever hold their places. Their instruments are set, the crowd waits amidst anxious murmurs, and Serval taps her foot to a suspenseful drum loop conjured up spontaneously by Pela. Cymbals hiss quietly, interspersed between rhythmic percussive strikes in adagio. The singer’s eyes are closed, but she reads the lyrics of the song from an archived memory. Some lines cause her heart to swell and ache, while others excite it with visions of future promise – an idyllic dream where love is hers again, rather than a wounding edge.

The object of those feelings is not present, however. A creeping anxiety works its way up Serval’s spine as the appointed time draws closer. A large screen situated towards the rear of the stage, crowd-facing, shows the time in a white seven-segment display: 9:57pm. Where could the bird be?

Hurried thumping from offstage grasps her attention, and she whirls around to see a breathless Robin arrive in rushed fashion.

“Sorry, Serval, I…” She tries to apologise, between laboured breaths. Even with her arrival seemingly the result of a mad dash, her makeup is impeccable, and her attire – the same flashy, inspired ensemble from a few days ago – looks no worse for wear. “I got caught up.”

“Hey, breathe, girl,” Serval coos, with a grin involuntary. “What happened?”

“Do you remember yesterday? When I said I’d contacted and cleared the idea with my representation?”

Serval nods, an eyebrow lifting curiously.

“I, uhm. Lied.” Robin cracks a sheepish smirk of her own.

A feigned gasp from Serval. “Why Miss Robin, that sounds…”

“A ‘little bad’?” The idol finishes for her. “Alas, the plan is already made, and I’m already here. I’m sure I’ll get a stern talking to later, but they can’t stop us at this point.”

Robin’s indignation overcomes Serval with a magnetic sensation, something that pulls her to close the distance between them. Decorum and process took a backseat to what Robin truly wanted, and seeing the bars of the bird’s cage bend even a little fills Serval with a wicked pride. It’s an attractive quality to see in Robin; the wherewithal to do as she likes regardless of advisory or permission.

Before Serval can take the Halovian in hand and kiss her again, Pela adds a flourish to her drum loop for half a bar – a question in percussive form. It’ll have to wait. Serval answers her drummer’s inquiry with a nod and a thumbs up: all is ready, now. What remains is to wait for the clock to show three zeroes, and for the veil of darkness to lift. To have everyone thrust into the light, and the noise, and the attention. Robin beams at her, and takes a place behind a microphone on a stand, at the very front. Serval slings her guitar, caressing the strings until her fingers find the right chord. Then they wait, to the persistent, lulling repetition of Pela’s drums.

When the light flashes on in a sterile, attention-grabbing white, Pela is creative enough to end her loop with another flourish, just so that the last rattling clash of her cymbal fades slowly into silence as the band and their guest are revealed. Serval can’t help but praise the showmanship internally. In the silence that follows, she and Robin share a glance – just a fleeting moment, but she understands everything Robin implies with it.

It’s time. You can do it. Set the pace.

But the weight of it finally dawns on her, starts to crush her again. Her hand trembles on the neck of the guitar, and her breathing grows erratic, in familiar horror. She’s staring out over the crowd, but all she sees is a dark pit that echoes Cocolia’s voice. The things she said about the song. How different those words were after everything ended between them. She is parading her hurt again, like a circus lion.

No. That song exists because you loved. You still love. Perhaps hurt is contained within it, but… you can’t judge a machine by a single component.

It isn’t her voice. Nor is it Cocolia’s.

It’s Robin’s, clear as day, cutting through the violence of anxiety with soulful candour.

‘Halogen, Hold Me’ is your song, to be shared with who you wish. She was not the light. It was yours, reflecting. You showed me, in the snowfields, that it still shines.

Serval does not know how the words are reaching her. Is she conjuring them herself? An assurance from within, using the only voice she knows she can never ignore? Or is there more to the Halovian than meets the eye? She has no time to ponder further, as Robin opens her mouth before her microphone.

“Greetings once again, people from both within Belobog, and from places without! I am Robin, and beginning tonight’s reverie we have Jarilo VI’s own Mechanical Fever!” She announces, to a chorus of roaring cheers. It is impossible to tell which name garners more applause. Once it dies down on its own – it takes a while – Robin continues: “I’m afraid this will be the last time I speak with you all for this event… but it’s been a genuine pleasure to be hosted by such a kind and resilient city! Every day this week has been filled with new sights, wonderful people, and incredible music!”

More fervent cheers. Serval can’t help but chuckle at how easily Robin works the crowd. She looks behind her, and sees her younger sister limbering up her hands, shaking the stiffness off. Seele stands at the ready, tapping a heel on the ground in anticipation. Pela is spinning her sticks. Even further beyond, the large screen has finally ticked over to 10pm, and now displays a gargantuan live broadcast of Robin’s opening speech.

“Tonight, we intend to give you all the ending this festival deserves, and we plan to do that in two ways: first, our lineup for this evening is practised and ready to give their all for their final sets. And secondly…” She flashes a smirk back at Serval. “Mechanical Fever and I have decided to come together for a song that fans should know very well.”

Without further ado…

Robin’s voice drifts into Serval’s head again in soothing monophony. It’s as good a cue as any, even if the white stage lights hadn’t faded into cool, darker colours – blue and violet hues. With the mood set, Serval draws in a deep breath and steps forward, tucking her plectrum into the corner of her lips; it isn’t the correct tool just yet. Her fingers are tight against the strings, and her strumming hand is poised to pluck notes. Her approach quiets the crowd slowly, but before long, she is surrounded in silence. Silence, barring the hum of her guitar’s capacitors, and the flow of a deep breath from her nose.

‘Halogen, Hold Me’ is a power ballad – at least to start with. It begins with four bars of electric melody – a soulful, solitary riff that Serval could play with her eyes closed. She does. It’s the only way she can play it, in truth. It was written to be more of a feeling than exact sheet music. It turns out just a little different, every time, and this time is no exception. Serval lets her guitar wail joyfully at the last note, rolling her fingertip on the neck to add a vibrato. She knows the lyrics come next, and she opens her mouth, forgetting that there is no microphone in front of her.

Instead, Robin’s voice, clear as day, rings out over the stadium. It soars as it leaves her, and disperses through the speakers. She clasps the mic with one hand, while her other palm rests on her chest.

“Halogen, hold me / as I roam under the glow of street lights / with you I’m less lonely / the hour has dressed you in silver and white...”

Serval is immediately glad that there is no onus to perform vocally, this time. The words make her throat constrict, and she swallows the lump. Even so, her fingers unerringly find their new marks, and she plays a lower, more reverberate melody of tremolo chords after plucking the plectrum from her mouth. A nice canvas for Robin to paint on. Likewise, she hears Seele play her part, a bassy undertone for a little extra punch.

“Baby, you know me / you can hollow me out if you’re cold, it’s alright / halogen, hold me / I don’t think I’d mind if you blind me tonight...”

Drums impact the soundscape with tremendous import. Now the song has a beat, insistent and heavy. Another rolling tremolo takes over Serval’s part amongst the percussion’s first, wild cacophony. Now, her guitar is free to switch to a second, more central melody, mimicking – but not overshadowing, never overshadowing – the lyricist’s rises and falls.

Serval’s larynx moves with it, even though she has no voice projecting. Her instrument is a part of her, in this moment; her vocal chords imitate the shapes of the sounds, while the strings sing for her. She dares to open her eyes for just a moment, and sees a thousand little stars waving back and forth amongst the stands – phone lights, glow sticks, lighters. It’s mesmerising. Never before has Mechanical Fever had an audience like this – both in size, and in retention. Everyone in this vast, vast room is part of the one movement, in this moment. A collective soul, feeling as one.

Serval shifts her gaze to the back of Robin’s periwinkle head. She couldn’t have known that at that precise moment, the first verse would end, and Robin would turn to meet her sight during the vocal break. The guitarist almost falters. Almost. Instead, Robin beams a smile at her, and she returns it.

The idol sings the words beautifully. So beautifully, in fact, that Serval could easily forget that they were her own words. Robin breathes new life into them.

You can too.

Another telepathic tickle. Robin takes a step back from the mic, a silent invitation. Even though it isn’t framed as insistence, Serval feels a magnetic pull towards centre stage. The lumps in her throat abate, and she hums to feel the vibration throughout her neck. It’s like massaging a sleeping limb.

She finds her voice in time for the chorus.

“I’m a deer in your headlights / the shade on a dark street / darling, you shine so bright / Oh, halogen, hold me…”

Cymbals clatter in a rattling drumroll, a rising crescendo, until they abruptly stop, and the echo begins to fade. Each instrument dies slowly alongside them, giving way once more to silence.

Then, in the new quiet following this emotional, slow-waltzing love song, Serval grins to herself. She shakes her left hand, before situating it back upon the neck of the guitar. She sets a new tempo. The song resurrects with a faster time signature, but still recognisably bearing the same melodies. From the corner of her eye, she sees Robin begin to bob her head in time, absorbing the new, faster-paced rock vibe. The next few bars pass in fevered rapture, with every member of Mechanical Fever expertly matching the new time signature. Even Seele, with far less experience – though with a brow dappled in sweat – keeps pace.

Serval’s heart thrums in her ears as Robin launches into the next verse. Her hands are not her own, and they play furiously while she struggles to take her eyes away from the idol. Robin has unmounted the microphone from its stand, and carries it as she empties her lungs in sonorous perfection, wandering the stage. Serval’s own feet develop a wanderlust of their own – after all, her entire upper body is moving, why not her legs too? It feels, in the moment, like a balance thing. It feels natural. The two weave around each other again and again, crossing from one side of the stage to another, and back again. Serval props a boot up on a small amplifier as she plucks her way through another flourish, before she feels Robin’s hand softly caress her back, urging her to keep moving. The passing sensation is almost like a conduit passing a charge; it spurs her to action – puts energy into her – with immediacy.

Amongst the riotous sound, Serval notices that alongside the song, a dance is occurring. Of a sort, anyway. Despite melodic cacophony, much of the noise is filtered out in Serval’s head as she and Robin pass each other over and over again. With only her heartbeat in her ears, she is afforded a kind of clarity. Each time they pass, Robin’s entire body is turned to face her. Each time, those green eyes are seeking hers. On the fourth pass, Serval is sure: she is running out of space as they lap each other – she is being slowly pushed towards the front of the stage. Robin has – whether knowingly or not – always taken the line furthest from the edge, forcing Serval to remain at the front.

Robin’s song has a smile, now; the curve of her lips plays on every word.

She feels as though she has an idea why – and it is given credence when Robin mounts the microphone again as they gravitate towards one another again. They lock eyes, and Serval understands the game being played. At that point, it’s a matter of instinct. The time for the final lyric is approaching, and Robin has once again offered Serval the honour.

“Oh baby, you’d scold me / if I let myself say this less boldly-”

It is not her voice alone. Harmonising in perfect pitch, inches from her, is Robin. Her hand is upon Serval’s shoulder, the other reaching out as if to grab the very moment from the air. She is so close to her, and the warmth reminds her of the kiss on the snowy hill – Even her fragrance is the same. A wing brushes the back of her neck, and it takes all her strength not to lean into it in front of every soul present.

“Oh, halogen, hold me / halogen, hold me / halogen, want me / ‘cause I can’t hide that I want you too...”

Piece by piece, the band’s parts come to a finale. Notes from Lynx’s keyboard trend upward in pitch before ending with an assuring chord. Pela’s drums roll and flaunt. Robin and Serval allow their held vocals to end, and Serval caps the song with a decisive, forceful strike through every string on her guitar. She throws her arm in a wide circle, and holds a fist to the sky. Her chest is heaving, her fingertips are sore, and her legs are shaking. This time, though, it isn’t anxiety. It’s effort, well-spent.

The last reverberation fades into nothing. A beat goes by, and then the crowd begins to roar, and clap, and stomp. The ruckus is tremendous, a wall of commotion unlike anything Belobog has seen this Amber Era.

Serval hears none of it. Her attention is settled solely on the happily flapping wings of the girl next to her, whose smile radiates out at the crowd, blowing kisses and waving. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen after the lengthy final note; maybe it’s the exhaustion of a fear overcome; could be plain old desire – Regardless of the cause, Robin has her full attention.

She unslings her guitar, and grasps the neck in her left hand. Her right ever-so-gently comes to rest under the idol’s elbow. When Robin turns, surprised, Serval says the only thing that comes to mind: “Do you wanna do one last ‘bad’ thing?”

Emerald eyes stare up at her, surrounded by an expression of bewilderment. It recedes as Serval’s intent sinks in, thankfully. Robin blushes, letting her eyes fall to the side, shyly. “I can’t hide that I want you too, right?”

Serval’s knuckles delicately brush against Robin’s chin, lifting her gaze from the stage. Their eyes meet again, and the guitarist feels that same inexplicable lure begin to tug at her. Robin pushes herself up onto her toes to meet Serval halfway. The moment of contact, only heartbeats after both women close their eyes, is like stepping into another plane. Everything around them falls away; all the noise, all the fanfare – it all yields to this one moment of soft passion, and the warmth between their teeth. Serval’s lips move against Robin’s, in slow, rhythmic motions, causing the angel to relinquish a tiny murmur. There are thousands of eyes on them at this very instant, but Serval couldn’t care less, flooded as she is by euphoric impulse.

She would have stood there and kissed Robin forever, had the latter not pulled away slowly, peppering her with four or five more kisses that felt as though bearing the intention of being ‘the last one’.

Robin sighs. “My representation won’t like that, either.”

“Did you?” Serval asks.

“...I did,” the idol replies coquettishly. Then, after a second, “One more?”

***

The night passes, and Belobog finds itself amidst a day of farewells. Personal and corporate spacecrafts depart Belobog, entering and breaking through the atmosphere, disappearing beyond the baby blue veil of a cloud-dappled sky. Various artists and group acts are simply faces among crowds, now, dressed for casual sensibility rather than the heavy onus of an audience’s enthused attention. Most are unrecognisable, simply people among dozens. The spaceport – a wide, barren expanse of concrete and steel, set into sectioned landing zones by a huge grid laid in flaking paint – is alive with the din of chatter. Goodbyes, headcounts, and inventory checks play out, marking the ending of the most recent chapter of so many stories.

One such ending occurs before the boarding ramp of a silver Penaconian vessel.

Robin, idol, advocate, and chordmaster, pulls the fur collar of her coat in closer as she watches the ship’s minders load her belongings aboard. Seven days, and she has still not acclimated to the crisp, bone-deep chill of Jarilo-VI’s mornings. Her breath rolls out as mist, and she shivers despite being clad neck-to-toe in the appropriate winter clothing. Her coat is rather puffy, and makes her look like a very round bird, with her tiny wings poking from the top of her neckline.

It must look quite silly to an outsider that this portly-looking avian is locked in genuine conversation with the officiously-garbed Bronya Rand.

“We all truly appreciate your appearance,” the Supreme Guardian says, “and, of course, your assistance in making the festival happen.”

“Miss Bronya, the feeling is mutual,” Robin replies, affably smiling. “Your home is so very beautiful, and its people are welcoming and resilient. It’s my own honour to be allowed such a stage.”

She speaks genuinely, of course. She’d read of the Belobogian struggle, prior to accepting her role as festival host, but to see the physical manifestation of the stories – the places, the faces, and the intangible echoes of history that paint mundane life here – it reinforced her admiration tenfold. Bronya’s rise to leadership, fraught with intrigue and the fight to pierce a long-set border; Wildfire’s plight, and resolve to protect and care for the Underworld’s people; and even one woman’s relentless path of self-expression amidst persistent tragedy.

Oh, Serval. Robin knows. When she calmed her mind – forced out the voices of anxiety and self-flagellation – Robin witnessed a secret that only a privileged few are privy to. That the previous Supreme Guardian is not the selfless saviour that most of Belobog sees her as, and instead was as lost as any other; a woman driven by the survival of her people, and misled by a seed of calamity. Not only that, but also once Serval’s lover. How deep it must have stung, to be cast aside so callously, set to the backdrop of a catastrophe greater than her own feelings, and know that it was never Cocolia’s fault. Serval was hurt, with nobody to blame. A lonely fate.

And yet she persisted, and struggled through. Clawed at the shredded pieces of herself, the things that made her Serval Landau, and survived to reclaim it all. Maybe that’s when Robin truly fell for her.

Quite the woman, Robin wonders. Strong, and self-respecting, deep down. Anyone would be lucky to have her.

Robin thought that she had her, for a moment. The idol had made her admiration clear through song, action, and dialogue. She had given the nascent, furtive love all the care she could in so short a time – the kiss, the earnest talks, the reclamation of ‘Halogen, Hold Me’…

Robin casts a wide scan over the spaceport.

...And Serval is nowhere to be seen before her departure.

It wounds her. Robin could make any manner of excuse for her – she is lost, she is tired from last night’s performance and remains in bed, she is rightfully celebrating the conclusion of the festival with her family – but nothing stops the sting. The kiss on stage, where they held each other so close, so breathlessly – it tastes bitter in retrospect.

She adds a salve to the wound by remembering that flings happen. Passions rise in condensed time-frames, becoming artificially urgent. She knows she can live without Serval, and she knows that Serval will feel the same. Perhaps she already does. All she can do is keep her head high, and wish the two of them the best.

A voice rings from behind her, mercifully pulling her from the morose ponderings, “Miss Robin, we’re cleared for departure.”

She whirls around, conjuring her easy smile once more. “Just a moment!”

Bronya offers her hand for a shake, which Robin takes earnestly.

“Once again, on behalf of Belobog, thank you. We all hope to see you again.” Bronya’s words are practised and particular, yes, but Robin can sense the authentic sentiment behind them.

“I hope to return! Good luck with everything, Miss Bronya.”

With that, the Supreme Guardian nods graciously, and begins to walk back to her vast, isolated city. As her figure grows fainter and smaller, becoming lost among crowds, Robin exhales as if deflating – a deep sigh. She rids herself of the last of Belobog’s air before stepping onto her ship’s boarding ramp.

She hears something as she reaches the top that refills her lungs with a gasp.

“Robin! Wait up!” The voice is preceded by the steady thump of thick sole on concrete, growing in volume.

Robin dares not look. It cannot be. She cannot blast back into the picture after Robin had already rationalised their parting.

Serval Landau, lead vocalist and guitarist of Mechanical Fever, proprietor of the Neverwinter Workshop, and the one woman on all the snowy surface of Jarilo-VI who had easily, deftly, and completely captivated the cosmos’ idol, Robin, climbs the ramp to meet her. She is taking heaving breaths, and even in the cold, she is sweating from exertion.

“Robin… wait, wait, wait…” She huffs, bending to steady herself on her knees, “hold on…”

“Serval?” Robin’s voice is gentle, barely there.

“I gotta…” Serval lets out a ‘whoof’, following a deeper breath. “I gotta get your number. I slept in, alarm didn’t go off… I’m really sorry.”

The halovian’s eyes widen.

Serval’s absence wasn’t intentional, not at all. Robin’s wings flap and flutter, her heart soaring to know that she ran all the way here, just to solidify their… romance? What is it really?

Robin smirks, wondering after the future. Time will tell, she thinks to herself, plucking her phone from a pocket.

“Of course! Though,” Robin posits, “it feels like we’re going about things… somewhat backwards?”

Serval finally catches her breath, no longer using her knees for support. “Backwards?”

“It’s common practice to share contact information before kissing each other in front of thousands of onlookers.”

“Millions. It was an interplanetary stream, remember?” Serval jokes, as if the kiss in question won’t be reverberating through the universe for months. “Besides, what if it’s a Belobog thing? To dive headfirst?”

“Is it?”

“...Nah. Just our thing.”

Robin giggles. Serval’s charm is effortless – and effective besides. She has Robin chuckling like a schoolgirl. “I think I like our thing.”

The two women exchange contacts, and bid each other a soft, hopeful goodbye. Robin cups Serval’s cheeks, and the rocker’s hands find her waist. Robin guides Serval into yet another kiss, and neither mark the passage of time during. It is only them, the warmth of one another, and the looming certainty that they have to, eventually, pull away. They fight it for just a moment longer. Another moment longer. Just one more moment. Eventually, Serval silently begs for oxygen, and the two allow their foreheads to rest against one another.

“...I’ll miss you,” Serval whispers.

“All you have to do is turn on a radio,” Robin offers, cheekily. “Or call me. I’ll answer.”

“You’ll miss me too, yeah?”

“Of course.”

When the ramp folds up into the chassis of the ship, and the airlock door seals, Robin watches from a porthole as Serval walks backwards, waving goodbye, with the saddest pair of puppy-dog eyes she has ever seen. It gets under her skin so easily, she would never hesitate to admit it.

Robin looks down at her phone, opens her messenger application, and scrolls to Serval’s name, where a pure, empty chat log awaits. Like a barren snowfield. In time, the alabaster screen will hold the imprint of their love. She sends a big red heart emoji, and witnesses, through the porthole, Serval hurriedly and clumsily producing her own phone. Even from so far away, the halovian can see the subtle curve of her lips.

Robin can’t help but laugh joyously when her screen lights up with a second heart emoji.