Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

End Town, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 296

The sun is getting low… he should be getting home by now. Papa said to be home before dark. Cause it’s a Tuesday. And Tuesday is the “inspection” day for their town. Virgil never really understood why it’s called an inspection, when it’s really just a bunch of people in suits breaking all of their stuff and taking their money. 

It’s a euphemism, is what Patton had said. Something that doesn’t sound as true as the actual word so that it doesn’t seem so bad. If it’s not true, then it’s just lying and everyone is being stupid, in his opinion. But Patton says it’s just better to go with things as they are. The logic is sound, he knows, acting up never causes anything good to happen, but it feels wrong nothing, too.

There’s a change in the air, just as he’s bending down to grab another bottle cap off the ground. (Good for melting, or making pretty things. Pretty things can be sold, and that’s the whole point. He just wants a few more before he goes home…) It’s suddenly a bit colder and smells like mint, but even sharper. 

A daemon is following him. It looks like a cat but too thin and the eyes are a bit too large. He offers them the crackers he’d been saving for a snack because they look hungry. It’s the right thing to do. Always be nice to daemons, because then they will be nice too. And it’s good to make friends with them, when possible.

The daemon is hesitant but accepts the gift gracefully. 

“...You are kind, child. What is your name?”

“I’m Virgil! It’s nice to meet you.”

“I will repay your selflessness with a Gift, little Virgil.”

“Oh- that’s okay! You don’t have to. Gifts are a big deal, momma says. I just gave you some sweets...”

They quirked their head in a telltale sign of curiosity. “A big deal, you say? Hmmm… I had not thought that was the human’s perspective on the matter.”

“Yeah, it’s supposed to be super special, because… I don’t remember exactly how momma said it… uhm. Because… our gifts to you are for… tolerance? Of us taking up your ter-it-tory. In the war.”

“Humble creatures, you are. Very well; if our Gifts to you are such a “big deal,” then I think I should give you something truly precious, for the sake of balance. There is no such thing as paying to be tolerated, little Virgil.”

“I mean- thank you so much! You really don’t have to if you’re busy...”

“I will give you the abilities of the creature I inhabit. You will always land on your feet. You will see the path ahead of you even in near pitch-darkness. You will have nine chances at life.”

“Woah! That is a big Gift!”

The daemon nodded and seemed like they were going to talk again, before there was a bunch of shouting and loud noises from around the corner, and they fled. 

Virgil didn’t actually feel much different, but he trusted the daemon to be honest and that the Gifts were true. But for now, it was time to run, because now he knows that there would be no more bottle caps today. It's a Tuesday, and the “inspectors” are here. He only hopes that maybe some of the agileness of a cat had been given to him as well, so that he could get home unseen, or at least quickly.

...That was not to be, he recalls, but this is where the details become fuzzy and not quite graspable. It’s all water slipping through his hands, even trying to remember it just the next morning. 

What he does know is that there was someone in a white suit, (Was it white? Or just a very light grey?) and that they were angry. Their white (Yes, it was definitely white) pant cuffs had turned red with blood that day (His blood?) and Virgil had experienced the worst headache he’d ever felt in his life. There was a skull-splitting, ear-ringing pain all through his head, and then darkness. 

Virgil woke up when the moon was high, in a puddle of blood and dirt, but he had no visible injuries. That’s why he was never quite able to remember if the blood was his, because there was nowhere that he’d been hurt.

He made his way home quickly, and when his parents had calmed down and stopped crying because they thought he was gone forever, he went to sleep. He went to sleep and dreamed of light, bright and blinding, with a crowd of disappointed people shouting that he had wasted a chance. Eight, eight, eight. Eight more left, stupid little boy!

Virgil felt like that was important for some reason, but couldn’t quite make the connection in wakefulness. He asked his parents what it might mean, but they said it was just a nightmare. He asked the curious little cat daemon the next time they crossed paths, and they gladly explained in exchange for a dish of milk. 

“You saw death, child. It is different for everybody, but that is no doubt what you experienced. I suppose it is rather lucky that we met that day, then. You lost a life within hours of gaining several. Do not waste the chances you have been given. At the very least, make your deaths meaningful, and perhaps the spirits will not be so angered.”

“So… is that what’s gonna happen when I die for real? All bright and awful with people screaming at me?”

“...I am unsure. Not many have had the opportunity to die more than once. It may very well be different next time.”

“Okay. That makes sense, I guess… well, not really, but thank you for the advice anyway.”

“And thank you for the milk, little Virgil. I have a feeling that we could be very good friends.”

“Me too!”

Chapter Text

The junkyard, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 306

Run. Keep running. Fast, fast, and faster. Feel the muscles of his legs begin to burn and the breath in his lungs become less and less plentiful. He’s used to running, that’s how you survive the junkyard.

Something glass crunches under his foot, and not for the first time Virgil is grateful for his combat boots that protect much more than converse or sandals ever did. He’s already gotten past the first gate, there’s only one more until he’s out. It’s just brick; not as easy to climb as the chainlink of the first, but not at all difficult for him. At least, not when the sky is clear like today. Rain poses some difficulties. 

His pack is full of metal scraps and some of the least-rotted wood he could find. Nothing special today, really. There were some leather wallets that he took, just because his sister knows how to fix them up for selling - or make them into boots if there’s enough. She’s always been better with the fine crafts than him.

A leap, some scuffling, and he’s over the second wall. Practically home free, and yet still in a worse position than before. From here it isn’t a far run to the Skytrain tracks, but it’s always a gamble as to whether it’ll arrive on time or not. A delay could have him stuck out here for who knows how long... He climbs the supports of the elevated railway anyways, eyeing the eastern bend intently. 

Seven more minutes…

Four...

Two…

There it is!

It’s fast. Much faster than trains used to be, according to his dad. But he can make it. He has time and time again. It’s all about timing; jumping at just the right moment. The jump isn’t what terrifies him each time, though. Taking the leap hasn’t scared him for years now, it’s the anticipation.

After all, he always lands on his feet.

He counts the seconds in his head, knows that he needs to move when the train is just a few feet away; he can’t let it rush by him, but if he jumps too soon he’ll fall right under the wheels and that would be game over.

Now!

For a moment, he is weightless, and then he’s clinging to the side of a train that’s easily going two-hundred miles an hour, and the wind would be blinding if he were to open his eyes. As it is, he knows roughly where the emergency door is that always opens, even when the train is moving at top speed, and he fumbles to unlock and pull it open with one hand. He collapses once inside and closes the door only after taking a minute to catch his breath.

No one’s in the car, but then again, so few people ever take the lines going west these days that it isn’t very surprising. It’s what he’d been counting on, actually.

Virgil sits down heavily in one of the seats and pulls out his handheld radio. He probably won’t be able to contact his family from where he is, but he doesn’t need to since he’s right on schedule. In the meantime, there’s plenty of frequencies to browse for anything interesting. There are a few sports commentaries that he doesn’t care to listen to, and the only news you can trust is never free, so he settles on a channel playing some weird pop music. He can already see the train station by the time he’s landed on that decision, however.

It’s always a bit strange to get home in just five or six minutes on the train when it had taken him two and a half hours to walk to the junkyard earlier the same day. The only reason he was allowed to make these trips in the first place instead of helping his parents make and sell trinkets was that he could do it in half the time anyone else could; he really couldn’t imagine taking five or six hours to make the twenty-mile trip like his parents said was normal. 

...He makes a note to give Callidus some more honey crackers when he gets home. Or tuna, if there’s any in the market on the way.

///

Virgil actually spends very little time at home once he's finished dropping off and sorting through everything that had been shoved into his backpack rather carelessly in his rush to grab as much as he could. He does take the time to leave a small dish of honey crackers on the back porch for Callidus when they visit, but afterward, he decided that he could use some time alone.

Well, not exactly alone, but the company he was seeking was decidedly not human.

Daemons were about as common to see as a scorpion or tarantula. Some people never saw one in person their whole lives; others might see several a day, or once every few days. Virgil happened to be of the latter group; daemons knocked on his door and tripped him up from under his feet every day. Or night, rather. Their presence was most noticeable (most powerful) when the sun was down. Many believed that the “monsters” lost all sanity upon the full moon, but he could attest otherwise.

The otherworldly creatures weren’t nearly as intimidating as rumors would lead one to believe, and as long as you treated them with as much respect as you would a parent or person of some authority, they would not be offended. The only time one had to worry about encountering a daemon was if they acted rude or acted harshly in the face of their fears. Virgil had been leaving small treats and trinkets for his (arguably most sensible) friends of the night since he was old enough to carry a bowl of milk and make bracelets out of twine and light metals. Both his mother and father had encouraged him to do so and strongly discouraged any ill-mannered gossip.

It was not a one-sided relationship, however. The daemons would give small gifts in return, just much less… physical things. A bit of good luck for the day. A chance for a wonderful opportunity. Some sincere advice. 

And then there was Callidus. They were the only daemon to have ever given Virgil their name before - or at least, something ike a name. He’d been made privy to the knowledge that daemons don’t use names or labels for themselves in the same way humans do. 

“It’s unnecessary,” Callidus had said. “There is only one of me and only one of every other daemon to exist. Why would we need to give ourselves a name if we know who we are?”

It didn’t completely make sense, but he’s pretty sure he got the gist of it. 

Callidus was different in other ways, too. They would touch him, something that was not strictly forbidden, not exactly; but it was an understood thing to all those who knew the word “daemon” that it was a taboo to make physical contact without the clearest and most straight-forward consent. Callidus didn’t seem to give a damn about this rule, and would frequently ask to ride on Virgil’s shoulders or be pet.

Whether or not this was because they chose to manifest in the shape of a cat was unclear.

What Virgil did know was that, according to his little friend, their friendliness and complete lack of formality with him was mostly related to the Gift they had given him. It was quite a large Gift, big enough to form a bond between the two of them, apparently. But they were still undoubtedly different from other daemons in personality and a few other abstract ways that he couldn’t quite place.

Maybe they were just well-adjusted to humanity. It wouldn’t be so hard to believe, with how many nights they’ve spent at his side for the past nine years.

///

“Oh, hey Virge! How was the run?”

“It was okay. I think the dogs must have been asleep.”

“Aww! That would be so much cuter if, you know…” Patton waved his left hand a little, as if it was really hard to notice in the first place, “I had all ten left to pet them with.”

“I think that’s what landed you with nine in the first place, Pat.”

“No, I was trying to feed them, not pet them! Guess they got a little too excited. Anyway, you bring anything special today?”

“Not really. Got a lot of bronze, I think, and some copper wire. I was wondering what you’d charge for those brass knuckles, or what you need to make em’.”

“Still working on the mold for that, unfortunately, but if you’ve got copper I can make it half the usual price. You want them engraved or anything?”

“No thanks. You sure you don’t need me to look for anything in particular?”

“Well I doubt you’ll find a whole lot of raw zinc in the junkyard, but anything steel would be appreciated!”

“I’ll keep that in mind. I’m gonna go drop off the wood with Roman, then.”

“Okay, Virge! I’ll see you tomorrow. Say hi to Ro for me?”

“ ‘Course. See ya.”

///

Roman’s place always smells like mint, which is weird, considering that ve doesn’t have any mint plants, and don’t cook with it often. And Ve’s never given a direct answer, so Virgil is content to leave it be. 

The home is small and incredibly crowded with piles of scrapped material and half-made birdhouses and tables, all signs that Roman hasn’t been out of the house in a while and is probably absorbed in vis most recent work, whatever it is. Ve’s always been a little too invested in vis work, and in Virgil's opinion there should have been some sort of town vote before ve was allowed to live alone. Especially when the really delicate projects like rings and bracelets tend to keep vem inside for days on end.

“Ro? I’ve got like half a table stuffed in my bag, if you don’t take a break soon I’m using it as kindling!”

“What!? You would not dare-”

“You know I will!”

“Fine, fine- I’m- fuck!” There was a crash from the other room, as if a large stack of things had come crashing down at once.

“...Roman?”

“I’m okay, just- gotta get over this stupid- ah! There we are!” 

With that, Roman was now skirting around the many shelves and stacks of wood and tools, finally coming to stand right in front of him. Ve looked way too proud of vemself right now, but this was just a delivery run. Virgil didn’t get paid to lecture people for being hoarders. But he did like to remind his friends to not run themselves into the ground.

“Alright, like I said- I’ve got a lot in my bag. I don’t know exactly what kind it is, but you said you were looking for darker woods, right? And some screws?”

“Yes! Daemon-walker, you are a godsend!”

“Yeah. I wasn’t messing around though, you look awful. Come get some snacks from the market with me, take a nap, and then get back to work?”

“...Sure. Yeah, I should probably slow down a little anyway, I’m in a bit of a ah... “

“Slump?”

“No, I don’t get into a slump, I’m just feeling a little burnt out, is all! So many great constructions in so little time! I deserve a break! Did you check the rice on your way here?”

“Yeah. There’s actually been a bit of a mark-down on yellow rice, but white is still kinda pricey. We could probably pool for it if you want, but I don’t think it’s worth it.”

“Ah well. Yellow is fine, I suppose. And with a little chicken, we’ll have a splendid meal on the way, Daemon-walker!”

“Let’s go, then. On a bit of a schedule here.” 

/// 

Virgil really enjoys the full moon. It’s bright and makes it seem less weird when he can navigate through the woods without tripping. Because the full and new moon are always when he goes into the forest, as it’s Callidus’s favorite time of the month.

“Why are you so obsessed with the changing of the moon?”

“Because she is beautiful, little Virgil! All daemons take pleasure in watching her transform. The times when she is red or blue are truly the most spectacular, though.”

“I guess. Are you going to participate in the circle tonight?”

“If you do not mind.”

“I don’t. It’s pretty fun to watch, actually.”

“...I suppose it is, isn’t it?”

The circle is fun to see happen if you know what’s going on. The gathered daemons all sit in a circle and speak in a language he can’t really understand, but it sounds like bells ringing. Callidus says it’s to affirm their bonds of friendship, whatever that means.

Virgil enters a clearing in the woods, a nearly perfect circle where the trees simply do not grow. There’s grass and flowers and moss, even, but the trees are respectful and keep the space clear enough. He finds a place to sit along the edge of the clearing - he’s allowed in, but it isn’t his place to sit in the middle. 

There are two wolves, a fox, seven birds of various types, a bear, three cats (including Callidus) and ten rats. Twenty-four in total. That’s two less than last month, but he doesn’t ask where they are now.

They’re all touching in one way or another, usually just barely; by a tail or one claw, but they are all touching. 

When the moon can’t rise any higher, they begin to speak. It sounds like a song, almost, with sounds ranging from the deep, gong-like ringing of the bear to the triangle-tinks of the rats. He remembers crying the first few times he got to hear it, but he’s more or less accustomed to the beauty of it. The sudden surge of powerful, indistinct feelings that fight to overwhelm him.

Virgil tries to distinguish which one is Callidus. He always does, but it’s difficult. He knows it will be lighter and less powerful than the bear, probably on par with the fox, but deeper and louder than the birds and rats.

He can’t tell, but he’s pretty sure he knows, at the very least, which three are the cats. Maybe he could ask Callidus to speak to him in the strange tongue sometime, so he'll be able to pick it out in a crowd. That might be rude, but there’s little formality between them as it is.  

The moon eventually leaves its zenith, but the conversation continues well beyond that, until it’s nearly left the sky entirely. Virgil has nodded off a few times, but he sticks around. He wants to see it to the ends, but more so he doesn’t want to offend anyone by leaving. If he were to interrupt them, that could ruin the entire night. There is time to sleep in tomorrow, at least, and Callidus will be happy that he stayed. That’s what this is all about, for him - being there to support his friend. 

...Maybe he’ll bring along a thermos of coffee for the new moon, though.

Chapter Text

Somewhere, 17XX. Years since the human-daemon war: -1

Sometimes they wish that they had chosen a different form. As far as habitable creatures in this world went, this one was very small. With four legs and sharp teeth, it was more than adept at catching the prey it would normally need, but was poorly suited for long pursuit. Supposedly it had the ability to revive itself from death eight times, but that was only a rumor they had heard spoken from the other dominant species of Earth.

They looked like tall monkeys with the only fur on top of their heads and lightly spread across their body. Their ankles and feet were no longer suitable for climbing, and yet they did anyway. Tools and machinery replaced claws and tails, and they used the skins of other animals with fur to keep themselves warm. 

There was no doubt they were intelligent, perhaps even on par with daemons. They had complex languages and education. Even if they were still incredibly violent as a species, Callidus could commend them.

At first, it had been simple curiosity that led them to interact with the humans - they didn’t understand the language they were speaking, but the sounds native to their vessel seemed to gain the attention of humans well enough. The smaller ones cooed and offered small treats of meat or bread, the large humans seemed weary and only relaxed when Callidus would allow them to gently stroke their fur and scratch behind their ears without complaint. It was a pleasant sensation, and they took care to Gift each of these humans good luck and a clean harvest. 

Much of their time was spent like this; some humans were less pleased to see them approach, but as long as they were careful and made that rumble-hum sound native to their vessel the humans were often kind and good company.

While it was unnecessary for them to eat, the food offered to them was appreciated and rather tasty. Some of it was in metal containers that required opposable thumbs to be opened, or even a special tool, other times it was from a bag or shiny wrapping. All of it was accepted gratefully and repaid with small wishes and heaps of blessings and good luck. Callidus may be a bit more carefree about giving Gifts than most daemons, but they were always of the opinion that kindness should be repaid with kindness, and save for a few outliers, the humans had given them nothing but kindness for months now.

That is, until they started acting weird. They could tell that the humans were actively trying to communicate now, making frequent eye-contact and annunciating words more clearly and simply. There had never been an effort to speak to each other before, so why now? Perhaps the humans were simply curious as to if they were being understood or not.

Some things Callidus was able to maintain. “Hello” and “Hi” are greetings. “Too-nah” is what they called the meat sealed in those metal containers. “Shoo” is probably something to say goodbye, or go away. They were often called a “kitty” or “kitty-cat” which was either a name or the animal they were inhabiting. 

One day, experimentally, they tried out how the language felt on their tongue.

“Helloooo. Heelllloooo. Too-nah. Too-nah! Hellooo!”

The words were awkward in their mouth, but manageable. The humans seemed very upset when they began saying these things out loud, however. Had they misunderstood? Were the words actually offensive things, or were they saying them incorrectly?

“It is a daemon!”

“Begone, daemon!”

“Mama, mama look! The kitty is a daemon! It’s talking!”

“Daemon!”

“It’s going to kill us! The daemon!”

Daemon, daemon, daemon. What did that mean?

///

Daemon was a death sentence, apparently. 

Their brothers and sisters told them so. “Daemon” was how the humans pronounced the name of their species. It sounded much harsher and less elegant in the human tongue. 

Many were dead already. Shot, with human weapons. Fast projectiles that pierced and ripped ruthlessly. There was an attempt to fight, but even the larger daemon were unable to stop more than a few at a time. Callidus wants to know what happend. Why the humans had suddenly turned on them, for no reason. 

They have a set of firm beliefs based off of a storybook. They call it religion. The name “daemon” is prophesied to bring them harm and great destruction. So instead they bring death and pain upon us so that they will never suffer it.

The daemon who spoke was in a form similar to Callidus, only much larger and with a yellowish-brown color fur. She is a very large kitty-cat, indeed. 

But that is absurd!

It is. But all we can do now is try to survive.

...I suppose.

///

They miss tuna. And cheese. The humans were excellent at crafting meals if nothing else. Callidus would never go so far as to steal anything, though. They are not desperate. It is simply an idle wish.

It is still difficult to approach humans, even several years after the war against the daemons had ceased. There is too much pain and fear still residing within them; as well as anger. If they were to see a human carrying one of those barbaric projectile weapons they might not be able to stop themselves from lashing out. 

As it is they will send waves of bad luck whenever they pass through an inhabited area. Rumors are surrounding them, they know. The most common language in the area, English, comes naturally to their ears if not their mouth. When the black cat crosses your path, bad luck will come your way. Indeed, although Callidus is not limited by needing to walk directly in front of a human. 

Some children try to throw rocks or pull their tail, to pick them up and stuff them in bags or other awful things. The adults shoo them away with brooms and awful-smelling plants and oils.

Other humans - the very old ones or just the lonely kind, leave them small dishes of milk, offer pets and scratches like they used to. It is rare, but restores some of their hope in human nature regardless. They are violent and stupid and yet way too smart for their own good, and make assumptions about things they have no knowledge of, but some of them learn. And as long as they can learn, they can change and be better.

///

Over time, (granted, a rather long time by human standards) it seems as though the humans have completely forgotten the war they had waged, the awful things that occurred just one or two generations ago. They ask the daemons for help, for wishes to be granted in times of desperation. Children will leave a plate of crackers or a bowl of drink, praying for good luck. Their parents will leave trinkets and crystals in windows, asking for an illness to be cured, or for the wellness of a baby-to-come.

Callidus is happy, of course, and takes great pride in collecting a small horde of shiny things in exchange for a little magic. They are ecstatic to receive treats again, especially the sweet ones. Other daemons are… less happy. 

They are asked, over and over, why they would give Gifts to such “despicable beings.”

But… these ones were not responsible. The humans who hurt us are many years dead. Why should I make their children, and children’s children suffer?

There is no response to that. Callidus continues to make exchanges and even interact with humans a little, when they are caught eating or collecting items. The humans do ask questions, they make sure to restate their wish or ask if their offering is enough. But speaking has gotten enough daemons in trouble already.

“You’re a daemon, then?”

Callidus blinks, slowly. They tip their head in a near imperceptible nod. 

“Enjoy the candy. I uh… I’ll see you later, then.”

There is no need for words on their part. Besides, english is a hard language to speak with the shape of their voice box and tongue, anyway. Confirming that the gift was received and that they had given the appropriate Gift in return was all that should be necessary. 

....That is, until well over three human generations had passed since the war, Callidus meets a small boy. He is kind, and offers sweets with no expectation of a Gift whatsoever. He reminds them of a time long passed, when the same treatment was common. They give him a very special gift, indeed.

///

“You know, it’s kinda rude to enter someone’s house without asking first.”

“But your mother invited me. She is cooking ham.”

“...huh. It’s probably not real pig, you know. Most of the meat around here isn’t really what it says it is.”

“That is no matter. She is sharing a meal with me and for that I am grateful.”

Callidus wished that Virgil would pet them. They miss that sort of physical affection from others. Of course, there is plenty of it in the bonding circle and whenever they happen to encounter another daemon in general, but the warm, gentle hands of a bored human are rather comforting. They chose to take the initiative and set themself down on his lap when he sat down. 

Virgil was noticeably surprised and seemed wary of setting his hands down anywhere. Callidus stretched their head up high to bump his hand and rub against it softly. He seemed to get the hint. At least, and gently stroked their fur and scratched just behind the ears, and- oh yes, they had missed this quite a lot.

“...I thought it was a taboo?”

“Hmmm?”

“To touch a daemon.”

“Not if they want you to. We’re really quite tactile in nature, actually.”

“Oh.”

All was quiet, following that. Callidus wasn’t even conscious that they had begun replicating that rumble-hum sound (purring?) until it had been going on for a while, apparently. It made an interesting vibration in their voice box that felt rather unique.

The ham, if indeed it really was ham, was tasty and worthy of many Gifts in their opinion, but Virgil’s mother, Andromeda, would only accept one. They gave her eyes to see through the fake-kindness of others, so that her kindness would never be spent poorly, on someone who was undeserving or was going to turn around and abandon her afterward.

She was grateful, if not especially enthused. It was already more than she deserved, in her opinion. Callidus told her to think of it as a payment for raising her boy to be so kind, as well as for the meal. That seemed to make her happy. 

///

It’s truly astounding to watch humans grow, Callidus muses. Not only do they get bigger, but the way that they get bigger can vary so wildly. Andromeda is very tall, almost enough to have her head touching the ceiling if she doesn’t slouch, and is thus rather thin. Virgil takes after her, but also retains a lot of the broadness that his father has. Morton, who is much shorter than his wife and child, makes up for it with muscle and general… wide-ness? The other child, who is not home very often and is much harder to observe, looks more like her father. At least, she is not very tall, and her arms are strong. They must have heard her name sometime, but cannot remember it.

Of course, while they all seem to eat enough to sustain themselves, even the most heavy-set humans in this city can’t be much more than twelve to thirteen stone. It reminds Callidus of a python. Feed it enough to live without allowing it to grow too big for it’s container. No matter how much money you have in End Town, there would never be enough to truly “stockpile”, just to get by. And yet Virgil’s family always finds a way to feed whatever daemons come passing through, or any friends who visit. Astounding kindness, it is.

They greatly look forward to observing in what other ways humans can grow, besides the obvious physical ones. Little Virgil is still not yet an adult, even. This will be fun.

Chapter Text

The junkyard, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 306

While he doesn’t actually hate running, it’s definitely one of Virgil’s least favorite activities. Yeah, he’s pretty fast, and his endurance seems to never bother him, it always makes him paranoid about what might be chasing him. Some small part of his brain can never fully understand that sometimes people run just to get to places faster, and insists that if he is running, then there must be something frightening pursuing him.

Okay, so something is pursuing him this time, but that’s not the point. He’s outrun the dogs that guard the junkyard dozens of times before; it’s still scary as fuck to be chased around by them, but he’s long past feeling threatened by them. This is a familiar, easy routine that Virgil is tired of the niggling thoughts constantly telling him something bad will happen, no matter what he does. Something will happen. It’s all going to go wrong. I’m going to wake up on lucky number seven tomorrow. Honey will be pissed, mom will cry, dad will blame himself.

Patton says that he’s just a habitual worrier, and Roman thinks that always accounting for what could go wrong makes it impossible to think about what could go right. Except that he almost never thinks about what could go right, because his brain shuts down most positive thinking like it’s the plague. He doesn’t choose to think like that. He just does.

The dogs gave up the chase, either too bored or because they lost his scent. 

They’re right around the corner, just waiting for him to relax so they can tear him apart- 

They’re just lazy, overfed dogs who don’t care about chasing something that won’t just roll over and die immediately. He gets to searching the immediate area, keeping an eye out for anything shiny or not in too many pieces. 

Virgil spots a lot of screws that either fell from something or were easy enough to remove from their place; he can mostly tell which ones are stainless steel and which ones aren’t, though that really just changes which pocket they go in. Nothing special catches his eye, until the sun reflects just right on something to shine right in his eye from a few feet away. He has to strain his eyes pretty hard, but it glimmers again and he pulls whatever the thing is loose from a large pile of garbage.

It’s a ring. By the looks of it, it could be real gold, but chances are it’s actually just a cheap metal lightly coated in gold to look fancy. Still, Virgil pockets it and continues searching. His pack steadily fills with more steel products, (he could never deny a request from Patton) and there’s a torn-up music box with the part that makes music still inside. There’s no crank, so he can’t check to see if it still works, but he makes a note to show it to Roman anyway. Ve makes so many bases for music boxes, but it’s pretty hard to come across something as delicate as a music drum and comb.

The garbage trucks can’t have stopped by more than a few hours ago, considering how much of the place seems to be untouched so far, but that means he’s going to have company sooner rather than later, in all likelihood. End Town isn’t the closest to this junkyard, but with his speed, it might as well be. It just sucks that he doesn’t have a watch, just the sun, and his own internal clock. 

Virgil hears the person approach before he sees them, they make plenty of noise climbing down the chain-link fence, and besides that the footsteps are quiet but careless, disturbing the less-than-flat ground beneath them easily.

...Time to go, then. He didn’t get to grab as much as he would have liked, but he could always come back. There’s no way he’s going to deal with a total stranger, especially one that would likely try to steal what he did manage to collect.

He turns to run in the opposite direction of where the footsteps are coming from, but they must have been moving faster than he thought because he’s barely within twenty feet of the fence when someone is calling after him.

“Hey! You- in the leather jacket! You from Ko-”

“Shut up! Do you want to get eaten by dogs?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever, you from Kosher Town?”

“No, and I’m leaving now, so go away!”

“Aw, c’mon- you’ve gotta know someone from there, then! There’s only two places on this half of the continent that make leather that good, and End Town has gotta be ashes by now.”

Virgil could understand that thought process. Cattle are hard to maintain in the west, and considering the Easterner’s view on the End Lands, most people assume that End Town was destroyed years ago to seize those goods and place a border. That’s half-true, because there is a border, but it was placed a few miles past End Town so that if anything bad happened, there would be a “buffer” before it could get anywhere near the Eastern cities.

“I’ve never been to Kosher, and I don’t know anyone from there, that I can remember. End Town is still alive, ass.”

“...You’re kidding me.”

He was already about four feet up the fence, and was getting ready to throw his pack up and over it so he could get over more easily, but the stranger was determined to ruin his day, apparently. 

“Wait! C’mon, don’t go! Look, we can be friends, you know? We could help each other out!”

“With what? I don’t need anything from you.”

“No, seriously- I’ve been here a million times before, but I can show you where the real deal is! There are better places to loot than some garbage pile halfway to the End Lands!”

“Then why are you here?”

They sputtered at that. Obviously they were trying to trick him into making some shitty deal at best or get him close enough to knock out and rob at worst. There’s no way Virgil is going anywhere near them, or listening to their demands, but somehow he feels compelled to pull apart their plan and expose it for what it is before he leaves. 

“Wh- well, you see, I’m not exactly the strongest person, and the place I’m talking about is pretty… uh... rough.”

“...So what? You want me to just willingly follow you to somewhere you just admitted to being too scared to visit yourself?”

“I mean… you look tough! I guess I just thought you were made of sterner stuff, but if you don’t wanna check out the veritable goldmine just a little south of here, then…”

No, no he is not going to fall for the obvious trap right in front of him. There’s no way he’s going to go anywhere with this person he’s known for all of two minutes , but if there’s even a scrap of truth to what they’re saying, maybe he can check it out on his own some other time.

Maybe. Dangerous isn’t really his thing, but Honey is always up for a challenge, and she’s scary when she goes too long without some sort of adrenaline rush, so if there’s some sort of… illegal betting ring, or whatever this person is talking about, and Virgil can find it… it would be a nice way to spend the day together, potentially. 

“Look. I’m not going anywhere with you, got that? I don’t even know you.”

“Oh! That is kinda rude huh? Approaching someone and not even offering my name- I’m Wedle! Wedle Casban!”

“...Good for you.”

“What? Not gonna give me your name too?”

“Nope.”

This was a waste of time. At the top of the fence, Virgil let himself hang as low as he could before pushing off to fall the last few feet. Picking up his back, he turned to run at the outer wall, picking up momentum to make the jump and grasp the ledge. 

For whatever godforsaken reason, the stranger (Wedle? What a weird name…) followed him, and just barely managed to grab him by the ankle and drag him down. For someone who claimed to not be very strong, their grip was like iron, and the ease with which they pulled his full bodyweight made Virgil uneasy. 

“What the hell?!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to- I just wanted to stop you from going over the wall- You can’t leave! Please, I’m begging you here- I need an escort to All Dome and I know you’re a daemon-walker!”

 So that’s why they were so persistent. He’s never been fond of the nickname, but pretty much anyone who can say they’ve talked to a daemon and lived to tell the tale is held in high regard if you aren’t from the east. Or at least, they’re feared enough for others to treat them like something special. 

Roman calling him “daemon-walker” was just in good fun, considering ve met him when he was walking with Callidus. Ve never meant any hard by it, or considered Virgil to be dangerous; not once Patton vouched for him, anyway.

But hearing someone else say it - calling him “daemon-walker” because they wanted his help, because they were trying to… suck up to him? It made his blood boil. Suddenly it made him feel wrong, like it wasn’t just some stupid name. It was a title. One that made others fearful and reverent, and made him feel sick. 

“...Get the hell away from me. I said I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t even want to know how you figured out who I am, just go.”

“They have my cousin in there, dude! Look, if you want me to pay you, or whatever, I will but- there’s no way I can get in alone! Please, you can do it, you’re a dae-”

“If you say daemon-walker one more time I’m going to sock you in the face. Why should I believe a word of what you’re saying?”

Wedle reached into their hoodie and untied something around their neck, pulling out a simple silver locket. Clicking it open, there was a small picture of them and someone with very similar features, if much darker hair and more tanned skin.

“Her name’s Az. What will it take for you to help me get her back?”

“...Maybe tell me who has her, and why? Are you guys just idiots who didn’t pay back a debt or something?”

“Or something. We have something they want, and wouldn’t just give it up, so they took her and set it as ransom.”

“That’s totally not vague and suspicious at all.”

They sighed and put the locket away. Virgil would feel bad if this Az really was just unfortunate enough to possess coveted valuables in this half of the country, but the way Wedle was phrasing it seemed like they really didn’t want to give the full story. And if he doesn’t have the full story, he could end up risking his life for some dumbass with a drug problem or any other careless criminal from other, more dangerous criminals.

“Yeah. I guess it is. But if I tell you what we have, how do I know you won’t turn around and put us back in the same situation?”

“I guess that’s fair. But if you can’t at least put me in the ballpark, I can’t help you. Not just about what they want, but who the guys are that took your cousin, and how strong they are.”

“It’s in the precious metals and stones category. And they’re like… an old-school biker gang, minus the bikes. Guns, though, they have plenty of. I don’t know how many there are, or if they’re any good at short-range combat, I just know I need to get Az back, no matter what it takes.”

Well. Virgil would have to think about it, for sure. And he definitely wasn’t going anywhere dangerous just two days after the full moon, his internal clock was still fucked up and he was almost too tired to make this run today.

“Okay. I’m not saying I trust you, or believe you for that matter, but maybe I’ll help you. Maybe. For now, I need to drop this stuff-” he gestured to his bag, “-off at home, and I’m not in a condition to fight anyone or go on some stealth mission tonight. At the least, I can get some of my friends to give you an ocean of good luck to get her back on your own if you come with. But if you do even one thing that I find too suspicious on the way, I’ll knock you out cold and leave you for the coyotes.”

“Thank you- really, thank you so much. But you live in End Town though, right? That’s going to be a twelve-hour round trip from here, and I can’t wait that long.”

“Not if we can catch the Skytrain. It’ll be here in about twenty minutes I think, and that will only be ten minutes to home. And trust me, it won’t take six hours to get back here if I go with you. Though I’m still thinking about that one.”

“The Skytrain!? Seriously? There’s no way we can catch that thing, there’s no stop for miles!”

“Guess you’ll have to walk then, ‘cause I’m taking the train.” And with that, Virgil walked back a few feet and ran at the brick wall again. This time, he made it over unhindered. 

“Wait! Augh- fine! We’ll take the train! I guess it’s my only choice, huh?”

“Pretty much.”

“I still don’t see how we’re supposed to get on it.” Wedle made their way over the wall too, if with a little less grace.

“We jump on. Duh.”

“But- it literally moves at two-hundred miles an hour!”

“It does. Either you can figure it out or walk. It’s really all about timing, you have to wait until it’s within ten or twenty feet, depending on how quickly you can jump.”

“You’re insane.”

“Probably. You got anything to pass the time? It won’t be hard to spot once it’s near, I don’t feel like just sitting and watching for twenty minutes.”

“...I have some cards, I guess.”

“Great. You know go-fish?”

Chapter Text

Outside the junkyard, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 306

Virgil wasn’t actually cruel enough to make someone try to attempt the same death-defying stunt he does almost every day without any help, but it was fun to watch Wedle sweat over it for a bit.. When he could feel the very faint shaking in the metal they sat on, he told them to clean up the cards and get ready. This wasn’t going to be easy, but… well at least Wedle wasn’t a very big person.

“Take my bag and get on my back. Think you can hold on? Because I’m not going to be able to help you there.”

“Wh- what? I thought we were gonna jump?”

“I am. You aren’t. Can’t have you falling off if you do manage to get on the thing in the first place. Now hurry up, we have four minutes max.”

It was an awkward position, but thankfully he’d been right in his assumptions, and Wedle wasn’t very heavy. They had a tight grip and might end up strangling him along the way, but he’d prefer that to having them fall off with his stuff on their back. 

Once inside, Virgil made sure to keep towards the front of the car, to be ready to disembark quickly. The less he’s seen dragging around someone who’s obviously from out of town, the better. Shopkeepers and street vendors tend to get a little… pushy… with people who’s financial status is unknown.

Actually arriving at the station and disembarking was a simple process - so was making the short trek to Patton’s place. It was only just before turning the final corner that he realized that Wedle was still with him. Does he really want them to meet any of his friends? If any of this goes south, they could make it back to here any time and-

No. Even if he asked them to stay back, there’s nothing to stop Wedle from following him, and he specifically wanted them in End Town for as long as possible, anyway. He just needs to make these trips quickly and pray that this isn’t some elaborate plan to lead Virgil into a huge trap with a bunch of people waiting to rob him blind and kill him.

“Oh- Vee! You’re back already? I thought- and who’s this with you?”

“Hey Patton. This is… someone I met at the junkyard. They were interested in getting some leather boots or something, and wanted a quick way over. Showed ‘em the train.”

“Well that’s nice of you! So what have you got for me today? I Finally finished the mold for your brass knuckles, by the way, and the zinc has been ordered…”

And that was as far as Patton questioned Wedle’s presence. And thankfully, they were quiet most of the time; it was almost like they weren’t there in the first place. Almost.

Next up was Roman’s, but he had a feeling that ve might not be so… oblivious. Virgil doesn’t just make friends, especially not ones from out of town. 

“So… are you and that guy friends? You seem kinda friendly with him, Vee.”

“Okay, first off - you don’t get to call me that. It’s a nickname, and a stupid one at that. Second, we’ve got an arrangement going on. I bring him stuff from the junkyard and he gives me huge discounts. Same for the other person I’m visiting, but I’m not interested in any of the things ve makes. Vis garden has ginger, though.”

“I see. Still seems like more than that to me, but I guess you wouldn’t tell me if it was.”

“I would not.”

“Can I at least get something to call you? It doesn’t have to be your name, exactly.”

...What could Virgil say that he would actually respond to? There’s only so many nicknames he has. If he makes something up on the spot, there’s a good chance he’ll forget later if Wedle doesn’t use it consistently.

Well… his surname could work. No one calls him by it, but he would remember it. Practically perfect, unless someone calls him by his first name, and then Wedle will know his full name. Considering how long he’s taking to respond, he’ll just call it a problem for later.

“Strosser.”

“Strosser, huh? That’s derivative from the second language, right?”

“I wouldn’t know. I only speak first and a little of the fifth.”

“Ah. Well, I’m pretty sure it is, because Strosser definitely sounds like something from Jaied.”

“Have you been there?”

“Not recently, but yeah. It’s where I’m from, actually.”

“Damn. That can’t be easy.”

“What do you mean? It’s really not as rough a place as the books make it sound, you know.”

“No, I mean - you’re not that old, right? And the ban on international travel was like twenty years ago. It must be hard never being allowed to see your home again, after having lived in it for such a small part of your life.”

“I mean… I guess. Yeah, I was seven when we came here. But it was never really home, because of how young I was. Embry-Fir will always be home to me.”

Before he knew it, they were at Roman’s home and place of work. He’d never really paid much mind to the short ceilings and cluttered floors once he’d gotten used to the place, but he realized he should probably warn Wedle a few moments too late. As in, he only remembered after they tripped over a discarded hatchet and almost hit their head on the corner of a table.

“Daemon-walker? That’s you right? I don’t have to come kick a stranger’s ass for breaking something?”

“Yeah, it’s me! I don’t think anything’s broken, Wedle just… fell.”

“Wedle? Who’s- oh. Hello there.”

Roman stepped into (what once was) the living room, stopping short as ve noticed Wedle, still picking themself up off the floor.

“Yeah. Hi. Is tomorrow cleaning day or something?”

“No! This is all very important- you know what nevermind. What have you got for me, little daemon-walker?”

“Right, I actually found something I think you’ll really like-” He took a moment to search his pockets, looking for the music drum and comb he’d found, “-here! Look.”

“Is that… what I think it is?”

“Yup.”

“Oh my gosh you are the best! I am going to make a dozen statues in your image, you beautiful- thank you!” Roman took the musical components with gentle hands, cradling it carefully to vis chest, despite how ve was jumping around excitedly.

“Glad you like it.”

“ Like it!? Virgil I love it, and I don’t even know what song it plays yet! I don’t know how this thing even survived getting scrapped, this is amazing!”

Virgil really needs to get home and rest a bit soon, so he and Wedle can get going before the moon is too high; otherwise, it would have been a waste to come back here at all. But it’s hard to disengage from his friends sometimes.

“Anyway, when are you planning on telling me who this is? They don’t look like someone I’ve seen around here before…”

“Yeah, like you’re outside often enough to know who does and doesn’t live here. But you’re right, they’re from out of town. I’m actually helping them out with… something. Tonight.”

“...are you not going to elaborate more? Because you being vague never means anything good, daemon-walker.”

“Oh so he gets to call you that, but when I do-”

“Yeah, ve does get to call me that. You don’t. I don’t have to give you a reason.”

“...Sorry. I uh- you know what I think I’m gonna wait for you outside.”

“You do that.”

“...I think that was the most awkward interaction I’ve ever been a part of.”

“More so than having to explain to Callidus that a daemon-walker is nothing at all like a dog walker?”

“You know what, it’s a close second.”

“Cool. You know, I think I’m just going to leave my bag here with you and go - I can pick it up later. Me and Wedle have… plans. And they’re kinda urgent, apparently.”

“I see… did you already tell Patton?”

“He doesn’t know. I just… I don't want him to worry is all. We’ll probably be back before tomorrow night if it all goes well.”

“Okay. I trust you. I mean, I expect full details when you get back, but if time is of the essence I won’t distract you. Shoo, now, daemon-walker - I’ll take good care of your bag.”

“...Thanks, Ro. I’ll see you, then.”

///

“I know you said you had to rest and everything, Strosser, but I would really appreciate us leaving before the sun comes up.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just going to eat and lie down for three hours or so, after I ask a little friend to make sure it’s… about as restful as it can get, I guess.”

“A daemon friend?”

“Mhm. And while I’m out, I guess you can do… whatever you need to in order to be ready to go once I’m up. As long as you don’t get in too much trouble or anything.”

“Fair enough. But I’ve been wondering about something, Strosser. If you don’t mind me picking your brain a little.”

“Asking is free. Can’t guarantee an answer, though.”

“About what I expected. So… how’d you get to be friends with daemons? I’ve seen you talking to them and touching one, of all things, that’s why I approached you in the first place - but how did that happen? ”

“...One of ‘em saved my life, a long time ago. Makes it hard to judge them the same way. Besides that, my family has always firmly believed in being kind to daemons… us humans ruined their lives, we should be glad they’re even willing to listen to our apologies.”

“I suppose that’s true. I was always just too terrified of the stories to try. ‘Cause you’re totally right - they should hate our guts. What’s to stop ‘em from taking their revenge any time they want?”

“...You really don’t know anything about them, do you?”

“I’m not the daemon-walker, am I? C’mon, let’s keep moving. I dunno where your place is but anywhere has got to be better than out on the street like this.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

///

Logan has never been one to concern himself with the strife of others. It’s not his problem, and frankly, he doesn’t have the time. Of course, he feels a vague sense of sympathy for the Western provinces that struggle to survive even meagerly in comparison to the Eastern coast, but there is little he could personally do about that. Everyone is expected to say that sort of thing in public, anyway; whether or not the feeling is true or if it’s simply ingrained into him is undeterminable. 

He is slightly envious, however, of the towns such as End, Kosher, and Arrow. They are the closest to the border of the End Lands, which are completely uncharted territory. There are no existing maps of the area, ave for a vague outline on most maps of the continent, and even those can only guess as to the exact shape and size of the Lands. No one is allowed into the End Lands, no one has been since the darkest war in history, but if any families were to have information passed down about the End Lands, they would be in one of those towns.

The reasons why no one is allowed in End Town have been long forgotten, or perhaps they were never properly recorded in the first place. It obviously has something to do with the daemons, but they were rendered to a mere fraction of their population, and have seemingly no way to reproduce. Surely if they were still considered that dangerous, there would be stricter laws to ensure their capture; besides, there is no proof that any daemons live in the End Lands at all. It’s possible that some sort of curse was laid upon the ground, but there are plenty of explorers who would be more than willing to take the risk to become the founders of unknown territory.

...Perhaps Logan should simply stop dwelling on it. No matter how curious he is, there is no way to change the law as it is, so thinking about a mystery he will ultimately be unable to solve will only hinder his focus. Father expects him to master the third tongue by the end of the month, after all. 

Yes, he should set aside his many copies of the continental map, and focus of the third tongue instead. It’s been much easier to understand than the second, but it is harder to pronounce correctly. He is to practice until he is perfect, and then continue until he is more than. As the son of a politician running for Chairman, he must set an example; he must not waver, he must never be a weak link in the chain.

He must, he must, he must.

///

Logan has seen symbols and numbers and paintings his whole life. Flashcards with pictures of simple words, when he was learning to speak. Oil paintings and musical instruments that Vater liked to bring home. The walls and walls of books that Father had collected over the years, and which were all available for Logan to read, as long as he returned them in pristine condition. 

Some will always be more recognizable than others. That’s simply how the human brian works - we are excellent at pattern recognition, and the more frequently one views a pattern the more familiar and easy to navigate it becomes.

But the most recognizable image to nearly every individual on this half of the continent was that of a large red “X” over the image of a lion with some sort of mist or magical aura surrounding it. The universal symbol for daemons, modeled after the first one to ever make contact with humans - a large, albino lion. The first daemon that humans ever killed. 

The message was clear: no daemons allowed in the capitol. While their presence was gently tolerated in most of the Eastern side, they absolutely were not allowed in the capitol, Star City. 

Why would they be? This was where all of the political families, and the ones of the greatest status, lived. It was a pristine city, resting above a stout plateau, inaccessible to anyone not born a citizen or with current employment within. They could not allow such trouble makers inside, lest they spread the awful bad luck in the West. 

The elendsviertel that consumed so much of the (previously habitable and unsoiled) land were inevitable, in a way. Regardless of their access to supplies and natural resources, the daemons had infected the land with curses and the worst luck imaginable for decades - perhaps even over a century. It essentially clung to the soil and grew awful roots all over. If the Eastern cities banded together, they might only marginally improve conditions for a short while, before all of the hard work would be reverted and then the effort would have been for naught. A complete waste of time and effort.

...Vater is going to be home early today, if he remembers correctly. There are more important things to be thinking about. 

///

Ridiculous. Completely absurd. He is acting so- so unprofessionally, over being corrected by some of his father’s associates. 

“You’re too emotional, Logan. Why do you defend the cities down South, in the face of what they’ve done?”

“I- I simply believe that it is… a noble effort, to attempt to study the daemons further. They could have so much-”

“So you agree with them, then? Mr. Fuchs, I know your son is young and dull still, but I would have thought you and your husband would have taught him better by now. He’s nearly eighteen!”

“N-No! I don’t- I simply-”

“Logan, I believe it would be best for you to retire early for the night. We may discuss this when we do not have guests.”

“I- Of course, father. Will vater-”

“Do not make me repeat myself.”

...Logan has never felt so humiliated. The Southern cities have been attempting to communicate and for political relationships with the daemons recently, and it had been a genuinely interesting idea to him. They could know so much that the humans don’t! Each of them is older than a dozen generations of people, they could even know about the End Lands!

No. He is being foolish. There- it is wrong to make contact with daemons. They are… they- every recorded documentation of interactions with them paint an image of- savage, powerful creatures who don’t give a damn about the human race one way or another, save for the ones still spiteful for losing the greatest war. 

Every text stored within father’s library confirms this, over and over again; audio recordings, as well. And father has the most complete library of any building for miles. If there was evidence otherwise, he would surely have at least heard of it by now.

When he finally finds it in himself to set those thoughts aside and go to sleep, Logan’s nightmares are particularly awful that night. He’s always been able to recall them vividly for months following, which objectively should be rather curious and interesting. Instead it makes it nearly impossible to ever rest well, or rid himself of the horrific images by focusing on something else. He’s attempted every easily accessible cure he could find, and they are all temporary solutions at best; perhaps he should just be thankful no one else has discovered his ailment. 

Tonight, though - all he can think about is how to escape vague, bloody shapes with mouths full of sharp teeth and claws half the size of his body, which he will only realize do not exist when he is awake again.

Chapter Text

End Town, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 306

Callidus was willing to knock him out peacefully for a few hours in exchange for the knowledge of where they were going when Virgil asked. Part of him wanted to say he didn’t know - because really, he didn’t. Instead, he gave them the name and general location of the “All Dome.”

They didn’t seem to react drastically either way, which was nice. The deal was done, and indeed, upon waking he felt much more well-rested than he would have with a full night of sleep. Now all that was left to pack up and… leave. 

“Hey Wedle… how good are you at running? Like, general pace and endurance wise?”

“Uhh… I’m not sure, really. I can keep a decent pace for an hour or two before I have to stop, I suppose. Why?”

“Okay, but what’s a “decent pace” for you? Seven, eight miles an hour?”

“I have no clue. Again, why?”

Virgil did nothing to cover his sigh of frustration, but there wasn’t a point in keeping it a secret, anyway. 

“I guess the better question would be: would you rather jump out of a moving train, or run to the Dome? Because even my walking pace is going to surpass your average running speed in all likelihood, once we really get going, and I’m not going to slow down for you.” 

“...I think I can keep up the pace. I may be short, but-”

“By myself, with no distractions, my average walking speed is twelve miles an hour.”

“Oh. Right, daemon gifts galore… Not gonna lie, I really do not want to test my luck jumping out of that thing, after experiencing the jump on.”

“Fair enough. Hope you can keep up, then. I'm sure we can make it to the junkyard in two hours, even if you end up slowing down along the way. From there you can lead us to the Dome, and we can grab Az and get the fuck out. Problem solved, adventure over, and you are out of my life forever.”

“Sounds like a plan. Not a great one, but a plan. Let’s get going, shall we?”

“Nothing waiting for us but the mosquitoes.”

///

Wedle did keep up well enough, at least. They only started to get winded after a little over an hour had passed, but they pushed on and only asked to slow down when the junkyard was well within sight. The two of them took a short break under the scaffolding of the Skytrain railway. While they did, Wedle drew a small map of the All Dome in the dirt with a stick; while vague and not to any particular scale, it helped Virgil to discern the known entrances and exits. 

How they were going to get in was one of the main points they had yet to discuss, but Wedle kept insisting they had a plan. Virgil was starting to think he wouldn’t end up liking this plan, but pushing for details proved fruitless.

“...you know, Strosser… I feel like we could be friends. If you weren’t so keen to get rid of me. You seem like a good guy.”

“Do I?”

“I mean, you’re helping some random nut save their cousin because they were a persistent little shit, so yeah.”

“I’m helping because you insinuated there would be good shit to steal there. I’ll help you get her back but don’t think for one second I wouldn’t push you off a bridge to save a sack of gold or whatever.”

“Haha! If it makes you feel better to say that, then… sure. Throw me off a bridge, Strosser. I still think you’ve got a good heart.”

“Shut up.”

He would not admit to getting attached to some stupid, blond drifter in a tracksuit, just because they were kinda funny and seemed way younger than they pretended to be. Wedle is, realistically, probably not much more than five years older than him. But their attitude - no, their entire demeanor was more like that of an adventurous twelve-year-old. It makes Virgil think of when he was younger, skipping around cracks in the pavement to avoid breaking his mom’s back. Collecting the roundest and smoothest rocks for Callidus, because Callidus likes pretty rocks.

They probably aren’t a good person, at least not by standard use of the term. But they aren’t exactly bad either. Maybe they could have been friends. Some other time. If they had met anywhere else, on any other planet or in any other bodies. 

Maybe.

“So when we’re inside, do you have any idea where they’re holding your cousin, anyway?”

“Not exactly, but I know the general area. The dome itself isn’t very big, barely more than a mile radius, I think. She’s gonna be about-” they tapped an area of the wobbly sketch with the stick, around the edge of the south-eastern side, “-here. Maybe a little further west, actually…”

Well. At least they would have to search the entire place, probably. It was only at that moment, though, that it occurred to him to ask: “So it’s an actual dome, right? Big round building? Is it opaque?”

“Why? What does that have to do with anything?”

“I mean, are they going to be able to see us miles before we get there, or is it something other than some sort of glass?”

“...Oh. I mean, it isn’t all tempered glass, of course, but now that you mention there is a pretty good chance they could see us coming. But that isn’t a problem, in fact, it works pretty well for my plan.”

“Which you still aren’t going to tell me, right?”

“Nope. I just hope you’re not as slow to forgive and forget as you look.”

“That’s not worrying at all.”

“It’ll be fine, Strosser, you’ll see.”

“Sure…”

Eventually, they get moving again, and the All Dome really isn’t that far from the junkyard. As Wedle had said, it was maybe ten miles south, and they were there before the moon was even at the highest point in the sky. 

Virgil really did not like the way they seemed to be walking right for the front entrance, but he also knows that the only way that they’re going to get inside is through an actual door. There’s very little coverage anywhere, so even if there were some unguarded entrances, it would be almost impossible to sneak up to them. 

Speaking of guards, there actually aren’t any on the outside. He isn’t sure if he was expecting any, actually, but there isn’t anyone. Just a huge metal door, with no visible locks or any way of being opened from the outside at all. Wedle walks up and fucking knocks on it, which is grounds for Virgil to either deck them or fall over in cardiac arrest, but his body chooses “freeze” over “fight or flight.”

“Wedle what in the actual-”

“Hush, Strosser. Trust me.”

Oh they did not just tell him to- 

And just like that, the ground suddenly feels like a tier five earthquake is happening as the huge dorr just fucking opens. He’s going to die. Virgil is going to die, either by sheer shock, or whatever was hiding behind that door (that he is now certain must be at least two tons,) is going to come out and kill him. 

This is supposed to be the base for many dangerous, armed criminals who kidnap and extort people, why the hell would their gates open for any dumbass who comes up and knocks politely?

“C’mon, Strosser! This is a rescue mission, not a picnic!”

“Wha- why- what the fuck Wedle.”

“Hmm? Oh! Yeah, security isn’t super tight around here ‘cause they think no one would bother breaking in - considering they’re about the last group in the west with real, semi-automatic guns.”

...He could grudgingly admit that that made sense, in a way. No one would put a fence around a tank. Though it brought the question of why he agreed to do this back to the front of his mind - if anything he has an even clearer idea of his own mortality than most people do of theirs, having already seen the after.

Wedle’s already walking through the entrance though, so he doesn’t have time to argue. Something really does not feel right, but no matter how many times he runs the whole situation through his head, from the very first moment he saw Wedle, nothing seems… particularly suspicious. There seems to be an explanation for everything, which is what Virgil decides is the most unsettling. Everything seems right, every detail snuggly in place.

Then why does he feel like he’s missing something here?

Inside, the dome looks… a lot different than he’d been expecting. While the outside was mostly tempered glass along the northern front, with some other sleek, grey material covering the southern side starting a little more than halfway across, the inside was… impossibly green. Of course, he’d seen the trees and vines and other various flora through the glass, but it was so dark outside and he’d been so distracted by the door that it hadn’t registered properly. The whole inside looked like a jungle, with small wooden and brick constructions scattered almost as an afterthought. How could this be some gang’s base? It was more like a greenhouse you could live inside. 

“Okay, Strosser, from here on we need to be real quiet, so if you got somethin’ to say… just don’t. Get my attention some other way.”

“Got it. Lead the way.”

This would be fine. Whatever’s making him worry so much is probably just a subconscious thing. He’s always thinking of the worst possible scenarios, he just… needs to shut it out. Think positive, like Roman says. They can probably be in and out of here in an hour, if Az is where Wedle thinks, as long as she isn’t heavily guarded or anything. He really hopes the two of them have somewhere safe to hide after this, less the same thing happens all over again. 

Or, more likely, they’d both be killed. Him too, but the worst-case scenario then would see him walking away on number seven, and never interacting with these psychos again.

...He might be able to live with that. (Haha.) But he also would prefer they all get out of this alive and continue to stay that way, even if Wedle’s cousin turns out to be a complete ass. 

Suddenly Wedle runs forward, diving behind the trunk of a thick tree, and motions for him to get down as well. Virgil panics momentarily, but finds refuge in a cluster of thick bushes that seem like they haven’t been cut or otherwise maintained in years.

More than just a few thorns get him, and it’s so uncomfortable, his clothes are getting torn up all over and so is his skin, but if he moves more than an inch in any direction he’s going to make way too much noise. Biting down on part of his sleeve, Virgil resolves to not move or say anything until he sees Wedle get up first, though how much of them he can see right now is limited. He’s fairly sure he’d notice them getting up at least, only because their light grey clothes contrast pretty heavily with their surroundings.

It’s at least a full minute until he finds out why Wedle had suddenly insisted they hide. Four voices, approaching at a leisurely pace. Maybe thirty feet away, thirty five? Either way they weren’t exactly being quiet, so even if they were all a hundred feet away he would probably still hear them. How he hadn’t noticed them at the same time he was unsure, though - maybe it’s just nerves. 

“I’m serious, I heard the northern gate open!”

“Hughes, even if someone did come through, it was probably just some of the crew returning early. Or late. The point is I don’t give a damn if you think someone’s snuck in, because if there were a couple of rats in here, all we’ll need is a little bit of this-” Virgil heard the cocking of a gun. While not exactly a familiar sound, he could recognize it. “-to put ‘em in their place. You feel me?”

“Yeah… I guess I’m just a little jumpy with what that stupid kid did to Bor yesterday. Didn’t think someone with their hands tied up could put up such a fight.”

“It’s just one girl, man! Who cares if she gets a couple of blows in or even almost kills someone! She’s still a hostage, and we can be rid of her as soon as the other one shows up with the goods.”

“How much you wanna bet they don’t show up at all?”

“Ha! I dunno. I’ll put twenty bullets they do, sniveling and beggin’ for their little friend’s life.”

“Alright, then I’ll put twenty that they’ve run and hidden away with the gems in hopes we won’t find them!” 

Gems, huh? Well that answers one question. The continent has a tone of abandoned mines that were specifically made for finding precious metals and stones. About ninety percent of those goods now reside in the eastern coast, so if someone this far west managed to get a hold of even just a handful of rubies or something, that would be more than enough for them to be killed on the spot. The fact that Wedle was lucky enough to be given the chance to bargain suggests either major stupidity on the gang’s part or… 

Or there was never going to be a trade in the first place. Wedle wasn’t a complete idiot, and knew that they would probably just be killed, no matter if they complied with demands or not. So they went looking for someone strong enough to take back their cousin and run. Someone like a daemon-walker. 

Well, now Virgil feels like a complete ass. He can apologize later though, once they’re out of this place. 

The lackeys, (or whoever they are,) pass by after just a few minutes. It feels like an hour while they’re waiting, but as soon as they’re out of earshot he feels like they won’t be far enough away if he waits ten hours. 

He rises with Wedle anyway, and the two of them keep moving. It’s not long before the greenery starts to thin out, presumably chopped and torn away to make room for the much thicker cluster of buildings in this quarter of the dome. He wants to ask where exactly Az is, if Wedle knows if she’s hidden inside a shack or if she’ll be in plain view, but there isn’t enough time to play that game of charades.

He just has to be patient now, and hope that if they do run into trouble, it isn’t after midnight.

///

Wedle’s never felt simultaneously so exhausted and jittery. Every step forward feels like it might cause them to collapse, and yet they also feel like they could run halfway across the continent. Maybe they should have taken a longer break by junkyard, or… 

No. No, Az has been trapped with these bastards for almost a week as it is. They can’t delay this any longer. No matter how sorry they feel, the only thing that can make up for it now is getting her out of here as quickly as possible. 

Strosser trails behind them, practically silent and much less visible despite being nearly a foot taller. Then again, he’s wearing all black and dark brown, whereas they are in a light grey tracksuit. Maybe they should have changed, but one doesn’t usually bring a spare change of clothes when you have to suddenly run for your life, miles and miles away from anywhere that could even remotely be called “home.”

...Suddenly they are faced with a choice that pulls them from their thoughts. Strosser might not see it yet, but suddenly the maze of buildings and hastily-removed foliage has ended. Well, paused more like. There’s a pathway, just wide enough to be considered a trail, maybe. It seems to stretch across half the dome going right, and bends around another shack about a hundred feet to the left. Just across from it the maze continues. (They have to be where people are sleeping, or possibly even where supplies are stored. There’s no other reason so many trailer-sized buildings are pushed together like this.)

Right or left. 

Right… or left. 

Strosser almost runs them over as they’re deciding. Neither of them say a word, but he takes a look at what had made Wedle pause. After a moment, they seem to both agree, somehow - 

Chapter Text

End Town, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 306

Patton worries about people a lot. Maybe not everyone, but his friends and family are always his top priority. Did dad remember to eat breakfast this morning? Is Roman spending too much time alone again? Did Virgil look like he was hurt after his last run and hiding it like always?

Ths point is that, while he likes to look on the bright side of things most of the time, he can’t quite stop himself from worrying about his loved ones. He’s actually developed a bit of a sense for it, for when someone is hurting and either won’t tell anyone or thinks it doesn’t matter. Somehow he always knows when Vee is going to need some bandaging up when he comes to stop by, or when Roman really needs to talk to someone but doesn’t want to be a bother by bringing it up first. No matter how far away they are, he can feel when something is wrong, even if it’s just a persistent thought like where are they? What is ve doing right now? What is he thinking about?

And Patton has had a really, really bad feeling all night. So much worry and nerves and other, less describable feelings bundled up into his head, which isn’t possibly big enough for all of them at once. 

A part of him desperately needs to see Virgil, to run all the way to his home and bang on the doors until he or someone comes to the door wondering what’s wrong, just so he can see that he’s alright.

...But he can’t do that. Not only would it be super rude, but he needs to rest. There will be tons of work tomorrow, and Patton knows from experience that it just won’t be doable if he doesn’t get at least a few hours of solid, uninterrupted sleep tonight.

So no matter how badly his chest aches, no matter how much his mind just won’t let him stop thinking about whether or not Virgil is okay or not, he ignores it. He tosses and turns and does his best to get to sleep because he can always go see in the morning. There’s always tomorrow. 

He just needs… to stop thinking about it. He just… 

Patton’s thoughts turn into an incoherent mess, and soon enough he is too exhausted to remain conscious. 

/// 

They go left. 

Virgil doesn’t know why that felt like the right way to go, why they both agreed on it. But regardless, they follow the pathway left, and round the bend. Something tells him that, while nothing is outwardly suspicious about this building - (It’s nearly identical to all of the others, a mish-mash of bricks and various types of wood) that this is where they need to go. 

Wedle has the same thought, apparently, as by the time he’s made it to the door, they’re already picking it. They make almost no sound, and he finds himself a little jealous of their kit. The handles of each tool are engraved wood, he thinks the other material is lapis. Maybe. Not that he’s seen much of the stuff in his lifetime, but it’s a shiny dark blue something that can be engraved into wood, so he’s fairly certain.

They open the door carefully, and Virgil steps to the side, just enough to be out of view of anyone inside. When Wedle practically flies inside just a moment later, he follows, keeping more of an eye on the door than what’s inside. 

A girl, one that looks just like the picture he had seen earlier that day, if a little beat-up, is unconscious (maybe just sleeping, remember, think positively ) inside. Her hands are bound, but Wedle is working on that. Seeing them side-by-side, he is once again reminded of their resemblance. They could be siblings, rather than cousins, honestly. Their faces are very similar, and while Az is almost completely brunette, there is some of the same shade of blonde in the tips of her hair as Wedle’s.

Once free, Az doesn’t move a muscle. She’s breathing just fine, but even as Wedle shakes her by the shoulders, her eyes don’t even flutter. 

Virgil moves close enough so that he can whisper: “Want me to carry her?”

Wedle shakes their head. “I can do it. Let’s go.”

True to their word, Wedle picks up their cousin in an almost effortless fireman-carry. Virgil doesn’t really know the proper way to carry an unconscious person, but as long as they can still move at a decent pace and not drop her, it’s not a problem.

The easiest way to leave would just be going the way that they came, so that’s what they do. Closing the door behind them and praying that no one will try to go inside anytime soon, Wedle silently takes the lead as they head back towards the path. 

...He should have known their luck would run out eventually. 

///

Wedle is stronger than they look. Much stronger. It had always been a bit harder for them when it came to fighting, since they were often much smaller than their opponent, so they spent a lot of time training their body to make up the difference. As long as they were strong, it wouldn’t matter how tall or heavy they were.

Right now they are especially thankful for their own dedication, because carrying Az is about the same as carrying a full back - uncomfortable, but not a problem as long as you aren’t climbing a mountain or crossing a river.

So when Wedle is suddenly faced with four heavily armed members of whatever off-brand biker gang (seriously, they didn’t even have an original symbol on their jackets, it was skull on fire. So lame.) heading down the path way, looking directly at them, it didn’t offset their balance too badly when they stopped dead in their tracks. 

Luckily Strosser hadn’t revealed himself yet, there might be some time to make a distraction, or surprise attack. Wedle tried to subtly tell Strosser to stop for the love of god and stay behind that building before they kill us all - and thankfully he seemed to get the idea. 

“Uh.. heya fellas! Lovely night for a walk, isn’t it?”

Stupid, stupid, why does their mouth always move before their brain-

“...You know what, Hughes... let’s just say we both lose the bet and the forty can go to buying’ a couple rounds of drinks after this, eh?”

“Seems fair. What do you think though - we just going to tie ‘em both up until the boss can hear about this, or…”

They gestured to the rifle on their back, and the two who’d yet to say anything both chuckled. All four of them had at least half a dozen weapons on them, easily, and Wedle was very quickly losing all faith in their chances of getting out of this un-maimed. Or even alive.

Indeed, that’s what it looked like when they saw four barrels pointed at them. Dammit, why didn’t they let Strosser carry Az, then this wouldn’t be happening, he could run away with her and Wedle wouldn’t care as long as those two got away!

After what felt like both an eternity and no time at all, Wedle heard four shots ring out. They can’t process what’s happened, they feel themself falling sideways (weren’t they supposed to fall to their knees dramatically, or even on their back?) as pain erupted on their side and shoulder. Somehow it felt nothing at all like the pain of being shot, they knew that pain well - and then they blinked themself into awareness, laying on the ground in the space between two buildings. 

Az had fallen off their shoulders, but not very far ahead of them. Scrambling up to their knees, Wedle checked their side and shoulder - no blood, but his arm could very well be dislocated. Turning back, they realized almost instantly what had happened. 

Strosser had pushed them out of the way, and was kneeling in the dirt, trying to stand up or just not fall over, Wedle couldn’t tell. He was obviously bleeding, he might have taken every one of those shots, even-

But they know a chance when they see one. Sitting there like an idiot and letting his sacrifice go to waste would be pointless and disrespectful, so they gathered Az into their arms (no time to put her over their shoulders) and ran as fast as they could, back the way they had come in. Maybe, just maybe- they could get out of this with no more than one casualty tonight. 

///

Virgil hopes no one will ever ask him why he did it. He has no answers. He’d just peeked around the corner to see all of those guns aimed at Wedle and Az, and he’d panicked. 

Just three steps was all it took to reach them and shove them out of the way, as he felt hot, burning pain explode in several places at once. His chest, mainly, but he’s almost certain they got him in at least one of his legs as well. He collapses onto his hands and knees almost immediately, but tries to get back up anyway - Wedle needs to get away, he needs to give them time- 

Virgil can barely manage to kneel, he needs some other way to distract these people, but as he feels his shirt become warm and wet, clinging to however many places he knows he’s bleeding from, he can’t think of anything else he can do. 

What can he do, now?

Turning his eyes to the sky, Virgil is relieved to see that the moon isn’t at its highest point yet. There’s two hours until midnight, maybe one if he’s that disoriented. 

Everything looks blurry, he can’t quite focus on the people standing before him, but he knows what their faces probably look like, regardless. Shock. Anger. Confusion. 

For some godforsaken reason, his brain thinks it’s appropriate to smile. No, not just smile - Virgil grins like a mad man on inspection day. Like those crazy people who think they can take down something impossibly stronger than them, or perhaps they just want to die trying. 

“Fuck. I really liked this shirt, you know. I dunno the band or anything, but it’s pretty much the nicest one I owned up ‘til now, and now it’s got a bunch of holes in it…”

“You’re insane, kid. But I guess if getting is no big deal for you…”

There’s blood in his mouth. He can feel it rising up his throat, and he has just enough spite left in him to spit it in the general direction of his probably soon-to-be-killers. That’s the last thing he remembers actually doing of his own accord, but at some point he must have tackled someone, because he can feel their nose crunching under his fist, and the pain he’s in is both excruciating and completely nominal. 

Virgil really, really hopes Wedle got themself and Az away safely, but if not this is one hell of a night he’s having, at least.

///

It takes a lot of last-second dodging around corners and hiding in uncomfortable places, but just as Wedle had thought - not even knowing there were intruders was enough to make these guys anxious and lock the doors. That, or no one else knew yet, which would say a lot about Strosser’s determination. 

Outside, the moon is just about at its zenith, and though they aren’t great at guessing the time, they’d say midnight is approaching fast, if not already here. No earlier than 11:30, for sure. 

More than enough darkness left to get them out of here, and somewhere Az can get some medical attention. Her wounds all look pretty superficial, but the fact that she’s still out means she could have a concussion. End Town may not be the best place for that, but they feel sort of… obligated to tell Strosser’s family what happened. Or at least pass on the news to his friends, if it turns out they can’t remember where his home was. 

...The trek is much more difficult while carrying someone else the whole way, it turns out. They have to take frequent breaks, and by the time they’re at End it’s about mid-morning, which is still pretty good time considering they slept for about two hours once they’d made it back to the junkyard. It wasn’t the most dangerous place to do so, and they honestly couldn’t get back up and keep going after just the twenty-minute break they’d initially planned.

The closest thing Wedle could find to a doctor was a nice old lady you claimed she used to be a nurse, and was willing to look Az over for free - though she would charge for any actual work or medical supplies. They paid for her to clean up and bandage the wounds while they went out to look for Strosser’s home. They were just there the other day… though it felt like that was weeks ago, now. 

They stumble upon the place fairly early into their search, actually. It’s only one story, unlike most of the buildings around here, which look like three or four houses stacked on top of each other after having run out of space anywhere else. Gathering what courage they can, Wedle knocks on the door. 

The one Wedle recognizes as being Strosser’s mother is who finally answers, “Oh! It’s you - Vee’s friend from the other day! If you’re looking for him, I’m afraid he’s out right now…”

“Uh.. yes, that’s me! That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, you see, me and-”

“Oh, wait just a moment, I think - yep! That’s him coming now, he must be done with Pat already - guess you don't need to come wait inside after all... Sorry, dear, I interrupted you, what was that?”

“I… what?” Turning in the direction she’d been pointing, Wedle feels ice in their veins. Because there he is - Strosser, looking just fine, not a scratch on him.

“Hey Wedle! Where’s Az? She doing okay now?”

“Ah… she’s fine, I guess. I- you- what the hell happened?! I don’t even- you’re here, and probably before me, at that!”

Strosser seemed uncomfortable at this question, which is so absurd and ridiculous they don’t even know what to think of it. 

“Ah… yeah. Wanna come take a walk with me?”

“...Sure. We can’t go far though. I need to check in on Az soon.”

“Yeah, that’s fine. Just… come on.”

They do, following him behind and around his house, into the start of the nearby woods. A part of them wonders if this is some sort of trick - if a daemon who was Strosser’s friend found out they had abandoned him and was now pretending to be him to lure Wedle away and kill them-

Well. They’d just have to find out, wouldn’t they?

/// 

Virgil is still a bit tired and disoriented from his visit to the other side, but thankfully this one had been much shorter than the one he experienced as a child. From what he can remember, this one was a lot different. The spirits weren’t so angry as they were desolate and sad. They had asked him why, why, why- over and over again. But that’s fine. He’s fine now. The number seven is essentially burned into his retinas, and it will stay that way for a little while, but he’s okay. 

He had awoken to find that his body had been rather clumsily thrown outside the dome, but thankfully nothing seemed out of place. There had been blood, and his clothes were still ruined, but that was an easy fix with a quick shower and a change of attire. The only hard part had been sneaking inside to use the shower so that no one would see - but it had gone without a hitch, surprisingly. Callidus had watched on from the windowsill, not saying a word. 

He wonders if they’re mad. Had he been too careless? It’s not like Wedle or Az have multiple lives, so it was worth it, right? Virgil hopes so. Maybe he should ask what they think, though; if nothing else Callidus always appreciated being listened to. 

Right now he has a different, more pressing issue to deal with: explaining things to Wedle. He doesn’t have all day to do it, and they would probably appreciate a more concise answer anyways. They aren’t the type to be able to sit around for the hours it would take him to explain the story in its entirety. So about a half a mile into the forest, he stops and turns to face them.

“So...”

“So?”

“I’m alive.”

“I can see that.”

“I survived getting shot multiple times, without medical assistance, and made an almost twenty-five mile trip in just over two hours following that.”

“That’s certainly what it looks like.”

“Uhm… I have a Gift. From a daemon.”

“A magical, immortality-related Gift?”

“Not exactly immortal, but yeah.”

“...What do you mean “not exactly”?”

“There’s… a limit. To how many times I can come back. But that doesn’t really matter right now. I’m… glad you guys got out okay.”

Wedle pauses at that. They seem contemplative, and a bit… regretful? “Strosser… what’s the limit?”

Oh. Yeah, they would probably wanna know that, huh? Well, it isn’t a huge deal - seven lives is still way more than everybody else, so...

“Nine times. I can, uh… revive myself nine times. That was the deal, anyway. Now I’m down to seven.”

“...It still hurt though, right? Dying? Even if you have more chances, you were… just from what little I saw, you-”

“Yeah, I’m not gonna lie and say it was fun getting shot over and over or anything. But I’m not going to blame anyone for it, either. Let’s just go check on Az and forget about last night, alright? It’s done now.”

“I… okay, Strosser. Let’s go.”

As Wedle turned away from him, Virgil was faced with an internal conflict. There was something else he wanted to say, but… well, he’s already taken a metric fuck ton of stupid risks in the past twenty-four hours. What’s one more?

“Virgil. My name is Virgil.”

They stop in their tracks, but don’t turn around.

“Huh. You know what, it suits you, Strosser.”

“...Thanks.”

Chapter Text

I'm a mess. That's it, that's the update. Idk if this is what burning out feels like but whatever it is is awful and I can't muster the creative energy to write more than 100 words at a time and they're all terrible. I'll be back in a week from today no matter what, even if I don't really want to cause yall are important to me. Unless a sudden spark of inspiration hits me, in which case it'll be sooner. Love you guys, this is BlooBlu signing out for a bit.

Chapter Text

End Town, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 306

The first thought Patton has upon waking is that it is way too early for him to be up right now because the sun isn’t even up yet. He would know if it was because his curtains are made of a really thin material he got mostly for its floral pattern. The second thought he has is:

“-oly shhhhhheese and crackers!” 

His back feels like it’s been snapped in two a couple times and shoved together with little remorse. It’s- well, it’s not as bad as it could be, he’s strained himself worse before, but an ocean full of positive thoughts is not going to make this any more bearable. 

Maybe Patton should have just let dad hire someone else to help keep their humble smithy going, but… but there were so many reasons he couldn’t, like Remy, and his home, and helping keep Ro going when ve went into a spiral and couldn’t work for days or weeks on end, struggling just to keep vis head in one place- 

And oh gosh, turning on his side did not help at all, no, it made it worse, actually- 

The closet, if I can just- but medicine is for emergencies! It- this is- 

...Not an emergency. He isn’t sick, he’s not going to die or get an infection, he just can’t move too much. If he’s careful he’ll probably even be able to work again in a day! 

Maybe two days, Patton thinks, as he rolls over to lie flat on his back again. The brief, excruciating spike of pain that comes with the movement soon settles back into the unbearable ache he’d woken to. 

His head can’t settle on one thought for more than a few moments, flashing between coherent and pain, pain, pain. 

Right, he’s not going to be able to work today, he doubts that even getting out of bed will be possible. Was there- hurts hurts oh god why him, why now- what did he do for his back to flare up so much now? It hasn’t been this bad since he fell- ow ow ow ow please stop ow ow go away please please-  was it the crates? He only had to lift a few yesterday, and they weren’t that heavy! Barely sixty pounds, maybe seventy! Please please stop go away please ow ow ow what can I- turn turn, move! No don’t move, MOVE!

Eventually, though he doesn’t realize it, the sun rises. And with it, End Town prepares itself. Today is Monday. The inspection begins in just twenty-four hours; perhaps closer to thirty if they are lucky. 

And it is going to be so much worse this time - though none of them know it yet. 

. . .

Virgil doesn’t have a lot of “friends”, really. He just knows a lot of people, and there’s some pretty cool people to know in End Town if you’re looking in the right places; and of all the ones he can remember off the top of his head, about half a dozen come to mind as “friends.” 

Patton, Roman, Elliot, Remy, and Jenny.  

Pat and Ro are pretty simple - all of them met when they were younger and just stuck together ever since, developing more professional relationships alongside their personal ones as they grew up. Elliot and Remy are both friends of Patton who don’t go outside all that much - not when the sun is up, anyway. And Jenny owns one of the only thriving non-citrus trees for miles around. The area just doesn’t get cold enough for peaches most of the time, but somehow hers bears dozens of good fruit each season. Virgil likes to think it’s because plants just tend to do well with her, but his family isn’t the only one who’s made friends with the local daemons. 

...And now there’s Wedle and Az, (which he’s recently learned is short for “Azazel,” named after an old friend of their mom, apparently) who he’s known for less than a week, but somehow feel like very close friends anyway. Life or death situations tend to do that, he supposes. (More like life, death, life, haha…)

Speaking of friends, he’s actually on his way to see Patton at the moment. It’s Monday, and almost noon, so he’s probably busy working by now, but whatever. Pat needs to take a lunch break every now and then before that forge works him to death. 

Virgil hadn’t been expecting there to be so much… silence when he arrived. Not that the area itself was very quiet, but there was none of the usual clanging and crackle of fire that he’s accustomed to. Noone’s in the building, not even Pat’s dad, who’s never left the little smithy unattended for longer than it took him to eat, sleep, and walk between the place and his home. 

Well… if they aren’t here, the only other place he can think of to look is their home. It’s not very far from the smithy, technically, but the crowds are thick today with everyone preparing to stay inside all day tomorrow. 

The inspection of End Town used to happen closer towards the end of the day, rarely before sunset, as they’re the last town anyone wants to come to. But over the years, many other towns have simply given up trying to rebuild after each week’s destruction and everyone moved on to other places; now the bastards might arrive as early as noon, which means most of the day’s work that can’t be done inside is lost. 

No matter how much the residents might not appreciate it, Virgil knows that about ninety percent of the rooftops in the area can hold his weight long enough for him to run across and hop to the next building. So rather than pushing through easily a hundred people all carrying armfuls of supplies they’d defend with their lives, and children who could take your watch while you’re staring right at it without you feeling a thing, he takes a shortcut. An admittedly very fun shortcut. 

So he likes roof hopping, it’s not a big deal. It’s usually more exciting when the roofs are higher up, though. Despite the looming dread over the possibility of falling, his feet are always sure of their steps and the few times he has slipped, (even from many many stories up,) he landed lightly on his feet without so much as a twisted ankle. Something about terminal velocity, Remy had said once. The guy was surprisingly good at doing crazy calculations in his head in just seconds, somehow. Virgil hadn’t said anything about his Gift, but had mentioned a passing curiosity about how far a human could fall without being injured.

“It’s pretty simple, babe. You’d be falling at the fastest possible rate you could at, I dunno, 1500 feet? Depends on how much you weigh and what you’re wearing and all that but that doesn’t really matter - anyway, some people can fall hundreds of feet, or hell, thousands, if you had a way to get that high up- and whether or not they survive is all about how they land, and how far they had to go. If you fell from… you said four stories? And came out fine, then I’d say it’s because you landed on your feet and bent your knees just right, somehow.”

That would make sense if Virgil had actually fallen just forty feet or so, but… at eight stories he’s wondering if it had something to do with his Gift. Cats can completely flip over while they’re falling in order to land on their feet, so maybe it’s just another weird thing about getting “all the abilities of a cat” that Callidus either didn’t realize or tactfully forgot to mention. 

It took a lot longer for anyone to answer the door than normal. He swears he heard a low conversation from somewhere within, but he can’t make out any specific words. Pat’s dad is the one who finally answers. 

“Oh- Virgil! I’m not sure who I was expecting, to be honest…”

“...You and Pat taking the day off or something? Is it some sort of holiday orrr..” 

“Ah, ‘fraid it’s nothing quite so pleasant. Patton’s back is acting up again, and Remy insists he can take care of it, but…”

“Yeah. I know what you mean. It’s pretty rough to see someone like Pat hurting, I wouldn’t want to leave him either. But, if you have work to do… you know I can hold down the fort here for a day.”

“You really are too kind for your own good sometimes, Virgil.”

“Sure. I’m gonna go see how he’s doing if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, come on in! You know where his room is...:”

Yes, Virgil does. And if today follows the same pattern as most of Patton’s bad pain days, this is going to be a long day. 

. . .

He’s found which position is the least uncomfortable for now, which is just laying on his belly to avoid putting any pressure on his back. Dad was insistent that he take at least one tablet of the mild painkillers they have, and Patton agreed on the condition that he could still help board up the smithy early tomorrow morning. 

...He’s really glad Remy had come over. As one of his best friends, (and distant cousin, if the wild tales of Rem’s nana were to be believed) he’s always been welcome to come over, but he almost never visits during the day. Then again, he’s pretty much never awake during the day, considering he and Elliot are total night owls. 

Patton isn’t sure why he had expected Elliot to have better sleeping habits than Remy when he met them, but if anything they were even worse. Rem at least gets a solid eight hours, even if not at the usual time, but he’s not sure if Elliot sleeps at all. He’s never seen them not awake, at least.

Getting off track again, isn’t he? Anyway! It was really nice to see him coming in through the window, (as always… he’s given up on locking it to encourage using the door because that just led to a lot of broken locks) and now they were playing go-fish, which is fun! Even if the deck is actually a mish-mash of three or four incomplete decks in the hopes of making a full one. There’s still only forty-nine cards… and six aces. 

“ ‘Kay… babe, got any threes?”

“Nope! Go fishing!”

“Go fish. ”

“What? But you’re the one who has to draw!”

“You’re killin’ me, Patty-cakes.”

“With fun?”

“...with something, alright. C’mon, it’s your turn.”

“Oh, right! Uhh… got any sevens?”

“Dang, how do you always know!?”

“Guess I’m psychic!”

“Babe, I’m the psychic one, don’t steal my brand.”

“Too bad those fancy Gifts don’t work in go-fish, huh?”

“...Got any kings?”

...They were just cleaning up the cards to be shuffled for another round when there was knocking at the door. Could it be someone who was looking for them because no one was at the shop right now?

“Rem?”

Remy was silent for a moment, staring through the half-open door from Patton’s room into the small living area just beyond. Specifically at Patton’s dad, who had been busy with something or another, but was now looking back and Remy, waiting for his answer. Even the older folks that are still suspicious of magic know to listen to someone with a Talent, most of the time.

“...’S just Virge. Go ahead, Mr. Debenzel.”

He always knows. No one asks how he does, at least not anymore; there’s never a good answer. Maybe it’s a Gift, maybe just sharp instincts. But Remy always knows exactly what he wants to know - whether it’s something small like “who’s behind that door”, or… bigger things. Things Patton likes to forget that his friend knows about.

Maybe Virgil will have his deck of cards with him? The numbers are written in forth, but the symbols are similar enough to the second that they can all manage. Then they could play poker or old maid!

. . .

...Evidently, Virgil wasn’t the only one who had noticed Patton’s absence, which he did kinda expect, but he was surprised when Roman popped in for a visit. The only way ve would know what’s happening would be if ve had been by the smithy, so something must have pulled vim from vis work… 

Whatever. All he really cares about right now is keeping Patton on the bed so he doesn’t hurt himself, (again) and beating Remy at blackjack for once. 

The odds weren't looking too good for his second goal, but Pat was thankfully content to lay around for the day and just have fun. They played more card games than Virgil knew could be played with only one complete deck, and Roman had made them all tea with what little honey ve had left at home. 

As the sun fell below the horizon, none of them seemed to lose their energy, but as the moon began to rise they knew they all had to get some rest before the next morning. There would be plenty of work to do tomorrow. 

Roman left for home, while Remy offered to stay the night in case Patton wasn’t feeling better by morning. Virgil said he would keep them both company until they were asleep or Mr. Debenzel came back. 

...Pat was out like a light once everything had settled down, and Virgil couldn’t help but wonder what was supposed to come next. What he was supposed to do, if anything at all.

“Ba- I. Virgil. I think we need to talk.”

“Hmm… about what?”

“Callidus. And… someone else.”

That made his blood run cold, and while he tried to keep it under control, his heart rate picked up immediately. 

“...You know their name?”

“It’s not hard to learn if you just ask. Most people don’t bother to.”

“Who else?”

“Fortus. Possessed a hawk the last time I saw them, but they were an eagle the first time we met.”

“Did you… never mind. Sure, let’s talk.”

“I don’t know the full extent of it, but you’ve got some pretty powerful Gifts, right?”

“You could say that. You?”

“The same. I wouldn’t call it much of a “gift” though. Feels like I was cursed, old folk-tale daemon style.”

“I get it. Can I ask what it is? I know you have foresight, but that always seemed more like a genetic thing.”

“...Yes and no, babe. I have the genetic kind, sure, I can see some stuff through dreams and water divination works for me, but the kind of predictions I usually make are part of a Gift.”

“So… what’s the Gift, exactly?”

“Let’s just call it a pretty unique kind of prediction. I got it for a silver ring. Your turn.”

It’s not like he cares about who knows… it’s just better when a potential enemy doesn’t know you can revive yourself with the power of the rising moon. But Remy… isn’t that. Maybe not a best friend or anything, but never an enemy.

“Multiple lives, and some enhanced physical stuff. There’s probably more but… while the cat’s tongue is loose it isn’t always sharp.”

“And the price?”

“...You mean what I gave, or the drawbacks?”

“Either or babe. This is just an exchange of info since I might not be back for a while after this. Wanted to get this box checked beforehand.”

“I really didn’t give them much. They said it was for my kindness, which I’m inclined to believe over their appreciation for some honey crackers.”

“Huh. That’s some real bull, but alright. They’re finicky creatures.”

“Yeah. They really are…” 

The moon continues to rise, and eventually, Mr. Debenzel arrives home after hours of trying to make up the work he and Patton couldn’t do today. 

Virgil doesn’t go home. The moon’s only in its first quarter, so there won’t be any gathering; but spending the night in the forest amongst many animals, possessed or not, seemed much more comforting than getting in his own bed right now.

Chapter Text

Wedle really hadn’t meant to stay in End for a full week, but Az had a little more than a concussion to deal with when she’d woken up. They didn’t bother listening much past the old woman’s advice of “no intense labor or extraneous activities for several days at least.”

Considering the Skytrain wasn’t selling tickets to anywhere they wanted to be for a little while as well, it had just made sense to pay for a room to stay in until Az could travel. Mrs. They-already-forgot-her-name was happy to oblige, with some room to spare and being in no position to deny extra cash. No one on the west coat is. 

But the other night she had been insistent that they couldn’t stay here for the inspection, having more people in here would only endanger herself and she had family that was going to stay- but Wedle had no idea if they’d be able to get a room anywhere else. No amount of bribery or haggling helped, and before they knew it, Az was awake and they were rushing for the train station. It didn’t matter where they ended up now - anywhere but here. They only regret that they couldn’t get to give a proper goodbye to Virgil. 

It’s only about ten in the morning though, maybe half-past; if the locals were to be believed they had at least another hour before anyone would be shoving a customized, probably bejeweled pistol in their face…

. . .

Virgil awoke to a tiny clawed hand swatting his face. Callidus, no doubt. 

“Go awayyy… it’s too early! Bad kitty!”

“Actually, it’s nearly eleven am. Perhaps you should have fallen asleep sooner.”

Consciousness hit him in the face like a brick through a window, and Virgil shot up into a sitting position before he’d finished blinking the blurriness out of his eyes. 

  Shit. Eleven am? Seriously? God, I need to stop sleeping on the ground… 

Callidus casually moved from their spot on the ground to drape themself over his shoulders, before swatting at his face again. 

“Ugh, what is it? You hungry or something?”

“Yes, but that is not the reason. You’ve got grass stuck to your face. It is cute, but not practical.”

Wiping his face with the back of a sleeve, Virgil stood up to stretch. He should be hurrying back home, but he can’t be that far out in the woods anyway. He’ll be back in time, but maybe he should take a quick glance around town first. Make sure everything is ready, and maybe get a glimpse of how many “inspectors” they’ll be seeing today. If he doesn’t see them by noon, all the better.

...A quick glance around town showed pretty much everyone was inside, or getting there. Most buildings had all of their windows covered, and the doors were all (hopefully) bolted or boarded up from the inside. Nothing out of the blue there. What he did not expect to see was Wedle and Az running through the streets like the obviously very lost outsiders they were. At least Az was well enough to run. 

“You guys going anywhere in particular? Not a good day to be wandering!”

“Wh- oh! Strosser! Yeah, I know that, but we were kinda kicked out of our previous sleeping arrangements last minute. I thought the train station was this way…”

“Eh, you’re only a little ways off. But I wouldn’t recommend that. Soonest train you’re going to see is at noon, and I don’t know if they guard it or not. Wouldn’t be surprised if they do, but no one’s ever really checked and come back…”

“Well where should we go then? Unless you’re saying we should just stand around and wait to die.”

“...They don’t tend to check the woods. The daemons keep up a pretty intimidating presence when they know there’s guns in the area. Not like I blame them.” 

“I guess that works. Wanna lead the way to any spot in particular?”

“Sure. I’ll probably have to leave you guys out there as soon as we arrive, though.”

“Couldn’t ask for more.”

. . .

Moving quickly is sort of Virgil’s thing, so constantly slowing down for Az’s sake (she was getting tired pretty quickly, and looked pretty out of it) was getting kind of annoying, to the point where he offered to just carry her.

“Wh- what? No no, you don’t have to do that, I can-”

“Just get on my back, we’re not too far now but time is a bit short right now.”

“...If you say so.”

Carrying an extra one hundred and seventy-odd pounds made it easier for Wedle to keep pace with him, without hindering their overall speed too much. They were certainly moving faster now, and it wouldn’t be long before- 

Move move move, to your left, hide hide move MOVE HIDE NOW- 

Virgil hopes he didn’t hurt Az when he went from mostly vertical to horizontal in the dirt with just milliseconds to spare, but whatever that feeling was hasn’t quite left, so he isn’t keen to get up again just yet and check. She’s still mostly on his back, which he’ll take as a good sign. 

“Wedle, down! ”

“What’s-”

“Just get down and hide, dammit!”

Maybe stage-whispering isn’t actually all that much better than talking at regular volume, but actually whispering would mean Wedle probably wouldn’t hear him clearly, and yelling would be an awful idea, (for some reason…) so for his own comfort he tries to pretend that no one heard him. 

Warm, warmer, even warmer. That’s what sticks out to him most at the moment. A bunch of horror stories describe fear as something cold and biting, it makes shivers run down your spine - but all he can feel is a blistering heat that doesn’t seep any deeper than his skin. It’s like he’s on fire but his insides are refusing to compute that feeling. 

Hot, hot, blindingly hot- and then nothing. 

His heart is still beating a mile a minute and every inch of skin feels sunburned, but the dangerous presence that had been looming over them was gone now; leaving only lingering warmth and pain. 

“What the hell was that!”

“Yeah Strosser- what was that? How did you know that was gonna happen?!”

“I… don’t know. I didn’t know what was going to happen exactly, I just…”

His instincts took over. Really, that’s all there was to it at the end of the day. Something in his gut told him to hide, so he did. And maybe he’s only still alive and in once piece because of that. Maybe it didn’t matter at all. All he cares about now is getting back on his feet and bringing Az and Wedle to the clearing, where a few daemons can keep an eye over them for the next six to ten hours.

Then he could… go home? Or something. 

Yeah. Something. 

. . .

???, XXXX. Years since the human-daemon war: ???

Who… 

Who who who… 

Black. Boy in black. And his friend(s?)

Running. 

Where? Where where where- 

Away. 

Running… away?

Away from- 

Away. 

From who? 

From me. 

From us?

Me. 

Away, away from me. 

Why? Why does he run? 

Why Why Why- 

Gone. Boy in black is gone. And friend(s?)

Where? 

Can’t see- 

Where? Where? Where Where Where-

Gone gone gone he is- 

Gone. 

Leaving now? 

Leaving. Away. We go now. We go. 

Go? Where? Go where? 

...away.

. . .

Idiot, idiot, he’s such a fucking idiot.

He’d convinced himself it was a good idea, thought that if he could just get an idea of how far away the train was by stopping by the train station for just a moment. The schedules were posted and updated daily, it would just take a minute to see if there were any delays or malfunctions- 

Virgil had never even considered that the inspectors might already be there.

White. Many of them, (not all, but a pretty good majority) wore bright white suits, with gold and silver accessories. Of course, they need to flaunt their wealth while they make sure no one but them has so much as a coin to their name. 

Mom says that the inspections used to be only twice a year when her mother was little. And then quarterly. Monthly. Until Virgil’s generation, where the poor towns were becoming few but their populations were only growing. While the east coast has (supposedly) one house for every five on the west side, their population remains just barely below half of that of the west’s.

They’re scared. Scared of how these conditions have only served to make his people work harder, become stronger, if not necessarily better off. The boiling water only hardens the egg. He’s not yet sure if they’re just going to be salted and eaten, but if so he’ll make sure the bastards choke along the way.

...Right now his main priority is keeping them busy, though. If he’s got their attention he might as well make good use of it - there’s at least three chasing him, and if he can get them to waste another dozen bullets trying to take him down, that’s another dozen bullets they can’t use on someone else.

They’ll give up eventually; Virgil’s endurance and speed just isn’t beatable for someone ordinary. But as he ducks around another house and makes his way in the direction he’s pretty sure is south, the shouting voices behind him seem to become less furious and more taunting. There’s no way those idiots think that he’s actually going to stop and wait for them to catch up, right? Or maybe- 

That feeling again. 

Much less oppressive this time, it came in as a steady trickle rather than a great roar, but the urgent need to run run hide run, and that burning surface-level heat was building. The interruption in his thoughts was just enough to make him stumble. Not fall, mind you; he never falls, or at least when he does he always lands perfectly, it was just a small trip. He didn’t pinwheel his arms and faceplant, he only slowed down for the barest moment and took another two or three to get back to his previous pace. 

It was enough.

Virgil isn’t sure if it’s a good thing that being shot still hurts just as much as the first time; he feels like maybe he should have built up some sort of resistance by now, especially after what went down in the dome, but hey. That’s just his opinion. At least his nerves still work properly, and all that… 

God, he really hopes they didn’t hit an organ. There’s nowhere to get the kind of surgery to survive that, (nowhere that he could afford) and he would really prefer not to lose two lives in just over a week. No matter how much he “makes this one count” he’ll receive an earful from those shadowy bastards on the other side if he’s that stupid.

He can feel that it passed clean through, at the very least. He still doesn’t fall, but running suddenly got a lot more unpleasant. 

Sorry. Gonna have to just ditch em’ now. I hope the time I have everyone was worth it. 

. . .

There!

What?

There! Boy in black! Running again, running running- 

Why? Why does he run still?

Being chased. Hurt. Boy is hurt, hurt.

Can it be fixed?

Yes. Not here. Not now. But yes.

We follow?

I will follow.

Talk to him?

No. Just follow.

. . .

“You know, you could be a little gentler- ow! Dammit, Honey, I know you’re mad but-”

“Just shut up and let me work. Not my fault you got yourself shot like a dumbass.”

“Yeah, but still, you’re messing around very close to my spine, so pardon the hell out of me for asking you to be carfu- ffuck!”

“Shut up or you’ll come out of this with more metal in places it shouldn't be than when you came in!”

Honey isn’t just good with small crafts like woodworking and filigree, she’s great at most things that require precision and a steady hand. So she was definitely the first person to come to if he was worried about bullet shards getting stuck somewhere, but she’s also… temperamental. 

Quicker to anger than he or mom ever are, and slower to forgive than anyone Virgil’s ever met. She’s always just been a little different in personality than the rest of the family, but… well. The same water that hardens the egg will soften the potato. Maybe she was just built off different stuff in the end, and that’s all there is to it. 

“...we’re going to need more alcohol soon.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for it. You know you can just use water for me, right?”

“Just because you can survive some pretty nasty infections doesn’t mean you should, Vee.”  

“...Okay.”

The silence is almost too much to handle, but they have to be quiet now. It’s not like the boards are what’s actually keeping anyone from bashing the doors in - it’s a slight deterrent at best. What’s keeping them all safe right now is the fact that their home doesn’t stand out from any other, besides in shape. Just another quiet building, presumably full of terrified, law-abiding citizens. (Are they even that now? Is anyone in End Town really recognized as “human” anymore? Or are they all just as bad as daemons as far as the eastern capitals are concerned?)

“Alright, it’s all done. We don’t have a lot of tape left so I’m just going to wrap it up normally. I know you hate the restriction, but-”

“It’s fine. At least it’s not on any joints.”

“...You know, you could just-”

“I can’t stay home to let it heal, Honey. Tomorrow we’ll need new supplies more than ever, and-”

“I should have known. Nevermind, just forget it. Callidus is waiting in your room, by the way.”

“Wait, I’m sorry, it’s just- you know what I mean! Not everyone can be useful and sit inside all day like you! I’m not-”

“Just get out, Virgil. You should rest in your own room.”

“Whatever. Okay. See you later, then.”

Virgil doesn’t hear any response by the time the door shuts behind him, but maybe that’s for the best.

Chapter Text

Star City, 20XX. Years since human-daemon war: 307

It is late. Very late. The sun has been setting for quite some time now, and in approximately twenty minutes it will have disappeared below the horizon completely. He hadn’t meant to stay out so late, truly, but he also will not deny having made a few… slight alterations in his course. It felt as though someone was watching him, (ridiculous, but he still feels unnerved and it is best to err on the side of caution) so he was attempting to… lose whoever may be tailing him while still getting home in a timely manner. 

Logan had already egregiously failed the latter task, so he may as well be absolutely certain that no thug or… otherwise unsavory persons manage to follow him home. Vater will.... most likely not have noticed his absence in the first place, and Father will have to acknowledge his existence in order to punish him, which does not seem to be happening any time soon. He should be fairly safe from any punishment for this. 

Taking an alley would be a considerably unadvisable action in this scenario, but the streets are too wide and currently empty to lose a stalker in. So he decides to take the backstreets around just a few buildings before resurfacing on a different road from the one he is on now. 

If that does not suffice… he will simply return home using the same path he would normally. It’s not like Logan is particularly worried that anyone would try to break into the house of Fuchs, but one must never underestimate the potential idiocy or naive brevity of one’s opponent. Always prepare for them to do something very, very stupid, and to get several people hurt anyways. 

“Expect the unexpected.”

He’s just about to turn back out of the alleyway and onto the normal street when a hand seizes him by the collar from behind. He is then thrown, not at all unlike one would throw a sack of potatoes, to the ground, and met with the face of his enemy at last.

...Logan will not be able to recall very much about what happened next when later questioned by the authorities, but he does remember one thing. It’s insignificant enough that he does not bother to inform them anyway, but it is… impossible for him to forget.

The villain's eyes. While their face was a vague blur of half-human and half distinctly non-human features, the eyes are what stood out to him. One a shimmering green, the last slivers of sunlight just barely catching it the right way to make it shimmer. The other was a deep brown, or perhaps black - a very dark color that somehow managed to seem warm, despite the situation..  

Those eyes were not the eyes of someone who is doing something they enjoy. The attacker said no words, never once gave Logan any concrete clues as to any semblance of their personality, and yet he knew.without a doubt that this crime was not one committed out of malice, but necessity. He hadn’t thought anyone in this city could be so desperate as to have to go so far, and yet… 

Well, he is not in any way joyful for the sizable lump on the side of his head, or any of the other various minimal injuries he received, but something about what Vater said did not sit right with him; and so he tried to give as little information as possible whilst remaining compliant with the law. Something in him just did not want that… person, whoever they are, to be caught. Not after hearing Vater’s thoughts on the matter. 

“This is why we have borders and policemen, no? So then why did this happen? Those sorts of Abschaum are not supposed to be within miles of the city walls, so why is it that one of them was able to lay their drekig hands on my SON?”

Vater always expresses his discontent in a… quiet medium. Whether it is taking on the problem directly or any number of more subtle methods, he never… rages. That is something Logan would typically associate with father. 

If Vater was disgruntled enough to shout and stomp his foot like some sort of fussing toddler, Logan can only shudder to think what retribution he must be seeking. Certainly not something he’d wish even on his worst enemy. 

...He is quite relieved when the officers decide they are finished accosting him on the matter, and he can return to his room to relax and finally rest. Not sleep, because if he falls asleep now there is no way he will wake at a reasonable time; instead, Logan relaxes on one of the least comfortable chairs in his private quarters and settles in for a few hours of light reading and work until the sun rises. Whereupon he will “start” the day with several mugs of coffee. He only needs to last until seven or eight pm - while it is quite earlier than he normally would retire for the night, it’s still a perfectly acceptable time to do so when there is not much work to do. 

Newton knows he would like to actually be busy these days, but not much of the business he is up to recently is anything of real importance. Menial tasks from Vater to “keep him out of the way,” and nothing from father at all. 

...Perhaps he should pick up a hobby.

. . .

They say you can tell a daemon from its eyes, well before it ever talks to you. 

A plain, every-day crow carries itself as if it knows more than you do because that is simply their nature, but a daemon possessing a crow will not only have an air of eeriness about it that is nearly suffocating, but its eyes will be distinctly whatever color is it not meant to be. 

It’s not any form of aposematism - it’s not really meant to scare you away, or warn of the dangers within; real life is never quite so dramatic. A daemon’s eyes are just so fundamentally different from any other creature’s that it even changes the form of whatever they possess. 

A dog with eyes to match a tomato, a boar’s black marbles becoming a vivid shade of purple, a lioness with eyes a glimmering gold so magnificent even some of the cruelest humans were sad to see them go.

...Why is he thinking about this? 

No particular reason. 

Yes, he is aware that there are far better uses of his time and brainpower, but he finds himself with a considerable amount of free time today. Not that he had ever been especially busy his entire life, mostly he is just a drifter with no true purpose. 

He makes up “meaningful” tasks to keep himself going- get to this town, try that kind of food, capture this many of that animal. 

Of course there are the basic things he needs to do to survive, but besides refilling his canteen occasionally and making sure he doesn’t go more than three weeks without eating, there’s nothing so difficult that it requires any amount of devoted attention. And so he becomes bored and begins thinking of frivolous things to pass the time. Oh, how mysterious is the human mind, indeed.

“You’re thinking too hard again, Janny. I can feel it.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Aww, why not Janny? It’s a fun name, if still a little too human-sounding.”

“Yes, because “Impius” is so much better than Janus.”

“It really is! Thank you for agreeing with me.”

“...You know for a king cobra you really are such a brat.”

“Hey!”

Janus chose to tune out the rest of whatever squabbling was coming not quite from Impius’s mouth, and resume his thoughts. Whatever they had been about. His short-term memory is not particularly sharp.

On reflex, he reaches up to scratch his neck as he often does when he is contemplating unimportant things, and only barely catches himself when he realizes he was about to do so with his left hand. On the left side of his neck. Claws do not agree with skin that is not yet due to shed in his experience, and he is glad to have not made that mistake again. 

...He gives up on scratching at all. That entire train of thought has left him feeling sour. Again. Thinking about his scales tends to do that. 

It’s not that he doesn’t like them - they’re quite smooth and pretty, especially after a shed, but they can make it… difficult to travel. Whether or not you know much about daemons, it’s obvious that he’s been… affected by one. No one cares if it was a willing transformation or not, because consortium with any daemon at all is as good as a sentence for death or extreme exile. 

Not to mention this isn’t exactly what he signed up for when he agreed to the Gift Impius wanted to give him. “The traits of my form” could have been anything! Perhaps he was foolish to think that he’d get away with just the abilities of a snake without some sort of drawback, but in all fairness he had been quite young at the time.

“Haha! Look, it’s hissing at us! You think it’ll actually bite?”

“Naw, c’mon! It’s just a stupid snake! If it comes near I’ll wack it again!”

...Children can be devilish little creatures. Worse than whatever stories you’ve heard about daemons crawling up from under your bed and eating you, or chasing you through the woods like a wolf after a rabbit. 

Because children will do wrong and not even need a reason for it.

“Hey! What are you guys doing!? Leave it alone!”

“What? No way, I’m gonna get my ma to make this sucker into a nice pair of boots! Or maybe-”

“But it didn’t do anything to you!” 

“Nope, but I’m gonna do something to it! Just wait and see.”

Sticks and stones will break your bones, but fangs will puncture and leave venom in your veins. 

“AHH! Stupid thing bit me!” 

“Let’s just go! This freak can play with his snake, I’m outta here!”

In retrospect, the wounds hadn’t been so severe, just painful. He would be bruised all over for a couple of days but ultimately be fine, but in the moment he’d be convinced he was about to die.  

Janus had thought that, as he lied in the dirt and watched that cobra continue hissing after the fleeing children, that he was never going to get up from that spot again because he had decided to help an animal over getting home to help his nana make bread. 

...Dramatic to a fault, even then. His sixth birthday in just a month would be spent alone. Or, almost, anyway; Impius was there, and they were very happy to have a new friend to spend their days with. Having been chased out of town for his new… features, Janus felt no real desire to go back, but he did miss his nana and ‘mere. So what if they hated him because he looks weird? He still misses them. So far they’d done a lot more nice things for him than mean things. 

He really misses making bread. It’s a lot better fresh, and nana was really good at it. Grand-’mere kinda sucked at cooking, but that’s why she doesn’t make bread. She makes chairs and stuff. Big furniture. It’s always pretty and full of really cool designs - sometimes she even lets him help paint one, when it’s for at-home, and no one’s gonna buy it!

Janus won’t ever forgive them for what they did, how they chose to side with the people wanting to get rid of him, but a part of his heart will never stop missing them. Sometimes he considers visiting Kosher town, just to see if they’re still around, but… he knows it won’t do him any good either way, so he doesn’t.

Shaking his head, Janus indulges in the brief fantasy that that’s all it takes to dispel such thoughts from one’s mind. 

Well, there’s got to be something entertaining to see in Star City tonight. Something, or maybe even some one. The night has yet to begin, but there’s no reason he should need to wait until the sun is down. After all, if nothing else, he is very good at finding… interesting things. 

. . .

“Janny, did you know your eyes change colors all the time?”

“...What do you mean? They’re always brown and green.”

“No, I mean- well yes, they are those colors, but the brown one sometimes looks almost golden in the light! And other times it’s so dark it’s almost pitch black!”

“That’s just the light, Em.”

“No, it’s gotta be more than that! Don’t even get me started on your left eye, it’s not even just green - it’s like green, blue and yellow all at once all the time!”

“That makes no sense.”

“Then you just need to look at your own eyes more- wow that was a funny sentence, huh?”

“Most of the things you say are funny.”

“But good funny, right? I could be a comedian someday!”

“More like coo-coo funny. And you’re too nice to be someone famous, the hecklers would crush you.”

“Who says I’d be famous? Maybe I’ll just be your personal jester as we traverse the magical lands!”

“You’ve got to stop calling the Dust Wedge that. There’s nothing magical about the place.”

“You just lack imagination, Janny!”

“Jeez, stop calling me that. It’s so… childish.”

“But you call me Em!”

“That’s just a shortening of your name, I don’t call you “Emmy”.”

“You can, if you want.”

“...Seriously?”

“If it means I can keep calling you Janny, then yessir!”

“Why Janny, of all things, though?”

“...I dunno. It just sounds nice. You’re my best friend ever Janny, it feels kinda weird to just call you what everyone else does.”

“Whatever. Sure, keep calling me Janny. But if you think I’m going to start calling you “Emmy”, I really worry for your marbles.”

“Because I keep losing them?”

“Yup. Pretty sure you don’t have any left, in fact.”

“Well, then what does that say about you?”

“...Nevermind. Come on, we should hurry up, it’s almost noon.”

“Sure thing, Janny.”

Chapter Text

End Town, 20XX. Years since human-daemon war: 307

“Hey! Strosser!"

“Wedle? I thought you guys had left already.”

“Without saying goodbye? No way!”

“Yeah, who do you take us for? ‘Sides, we wanted to give you something.”

He wasn’t exactly in a rush - the sun had barely come up an hour ago. But something inside him tells Virgil that he should get going sooner rather than later. 

“Sure… okay, what is it?”

The two of them shared a conspiratorial, (dare he say mischievous) look, before Az held out a closed fist, and while a tiny portion of him was screaming that it could be a baby scorpion or something, he held out his hand to receive it anyways. She let it fall into his outstretched palm and turned to leave almost immediately. 

“Okay, see you in the next circle of hell, dude!”

“Wait- what? You guys can’t be serious, I can’t just-”

“Sure you can. No take-backsies, haha!”

“Consider it a “thanks for saving our lives” gift, Strosser!”

The cut of- whatever kind of crystal it was, something kinda purple and kinda blue, was about the size of a large marble, and would probably be worth more than anything he’d ever seen before. 

...He couldn’t just have this, right? It’s way too- and they’re gone. The pair already disappeared, probably off to give someone else a heart-attack.

What the hell do I even do with this? Literally everyone within a mile radius could try to stab me in the face for this thing- 

That train of thought suddenly makes him a lot more aware of the weight in his hand, and he swiftly hides the gem in one of his inner hoodie pockets. This is a problem for later, he decides. Something he can deal with when he gets back home… whenever he does today. 

And with that thought, Virgil figures that maybe today he can do a little running, just to get the existential dread and lingering terror out of his system.

. . .

Janus had never cared much for the Dust Wedge. It’s basically just a large desert that’s more dirt than sand after people started collecting the stuff for concrete-making. There’s nothing to see and even less to do; the place is inhabitable due to a lack of water sources, there’s no good ground for planting, and any attempt at making a road would take way too long to reach even half-way across the area. It’s like no man's land but without the threat of being shot to death. 

Most of the time. 

But unless he’s up for some serious hiking to get through the mountains that essentially surround the Wedge, there’s not much choice. 

There’s still one more choice to make before he gets anywhere, though. Either had can walk for a few days and he’ll hit one of the small settlements around the edges of the Wedge, just miles away from the End Lands, or he can take the Skytrain to… the exact same place. That would be expensive if he chose to pay, and dangerous if he just snuck on. He doesn’t exactly have a face people tend to forget. 

“You could stay around here. Have more fun pushing around snobs like you did last night.”

“No, Impius, I can’t stay. If he’s already told the flics about me it’s just a matter of time before-”

“You’re caught? And Then I break you out and we… ssskeedaddle?”

“...Just because you can make everyone just magically not notice me a few hours doesn’t mean it’s going to keep working. They’re going to figure it out eventually.”

“And do what? Start throwing salt around-”

“And shooting every animal this side of the continent that even blinks for too long?”

“...whatever.”

It’s not like he’s going to use it for much else; it’s the only paper money he’s had in years, and most of it came from the rich boy he messed with the other day. Currency is so much more arbitrary on the west side, if he does end up needing to buy something he should be fine. 

...The tickets are made of such an annoying material. Janus is rather thankful for his gloves at the moment, because the shiny-but dry… whatever it is would be hell to handle with his bare hands, not even considering his claws. They’re like if the sound of cardboard-rubbing-against-cardboard had a baby with laminated paper, two downright infuriating sources of sensory torture. 

“Stay still Impius!”

“But your cape is so silky! It’s fun to rub against.”

“I don’t need a wriggly noodle in my clothes. I could just put you in my bag, you know.”

“You’re no fun, Janny!”

“Just find one position and stick to it, please.”

He wonders briefly which town he should get off at. The ticket will get him all the way to End, but he doesn’t necessarily need to go that far. As far as he knew the place was probably rubble by now, but there was no way to confirm that either way; except going there himself, of course. 

Maybe he’ll go have some fun in the supposed “daemon capital of the world.” It should be entertaining if nothing else. 

. . .

Tac. Tac. Tac. 

Logan isn’t entirely certain when the noise began, but he’s not so interested in that as to draw his attention from the source of it. 

It was very obviously something hitting his window, either very gently or the subject just was not very large. Which, once again, begs the question of just what is doing so; his quarters are approximately five stories from ground level, and there are no trees with branches near enough to knock against the side of the house. He might consider the possibility of someone throwing objects if the persistent tac tac tacs weren’t so light and the time in between each one so brief. 

The fact that it was too dark both outside and inside to make out any clear shapes was doubly infuriating and left him with the options of either 1) opening the window, or 2) turning his back to the window in order to go and turn the lights on. 

Something about the second option put him off, despite being the more logical solution. There was some small inkling of… (Anxiety? Fear? Absolute terror?) trepidation that made the thought of turning away from whatever was making that sound… decidedly unappealing. 

And so Logan chose the first option and climbed out of bed carefully. He barely breathed as he pulled the curtains fully open so that he could look through every corner of the window. There was nothing he could immediately see, and the likelihood of something clinging to the wall just beside or below it was infinitesimal. The outer walls weren’t completely smooth, but they also weren’t made with anything that provided a great many footholds, either. 

It was only when he considered just flinging the window open to sate his one curiosity that he realized the noise has ceased. Sometime between now and when he’d resolved to investigate, the soft tac tac tacs had stopped, or perhaps merely paused. Was it because he was closer now? Had whatever had been making the sound fled at the possibility of being discovered?

With a vague hypothesis forming in the recedes of his mind, Logan left the curtains as they were, but took several steps back towards his bed, just enough to be out of view for anyone looking through the window. 

After what he counted to be just under three minutes, the sound resumed. 

Tac tac tac… tac tac tac… tac tac tac…

Surging forward with a sudden feeling of urgency, Logan swiftly flipped the window’s lock open and pushed it open. At first, he saw nothing, before catching a glimpse of something small and… furry scurrying across his windowsill. In a perhaps unusual display of reflexes, he caught it just before it could leap away. 

The thing scratched as his hands fervently and squealed for several minutes. His heart was pounding quite painfully, and he’d never considered breathing to be such a laborious task before, but now it seemed the entire situation was catching up with him. Logan let the creature - whatever it was - drop to the floor and quickly orient itself, before scurrying under his bed.

“...what on earth? Did a rat manage to scale the building?”

“Who are you calling a rat!?”

...Yes, Logan could admit that he does not exactly get the recommended amount of sleep for someone his age, and he consumes an amount of caffeine not at all proportional to his bodyweight, but he does not hallucinate. So either someone else entirely had entered his room without alerting him to their doing so, or… 

Or…

...or.

“...I have let a daemon into my room, haven’t I?”

“I think this is where you say “aw rats!” Though I’m actually a field mouse, I think the joke is still-”

“I have let a daemon not just into the house, but my bedroom. I could quite literally be killed for this.”

“...Yeah. If it helps at all, I’m sorry I had to approach you like this.”

If Vater even suspects that something like this happened, Logan does not want to imagine what his life would be like from now on. He needs to get this thing out of the house immediately, but he is nothing if not realistic. The chances of him catching the creature again are slim, but it seems amiable to conversation. Perhaps he could convince it to leave? At the very least he could make some sort of... deal.

“May I ask… why you approached me at all? Or why I did not see you the first time I looked through the window?”

“Hey, don’t blame me for your observational skills. And I’m here because you recently met someone I’ve been looking for.”

Who could he have possibly met that any daemon would have an interest in? Someone that they, evidently, couldn’t find themself? Who- oh. 

“...the person with snake-like features?”

“Yup! Well, their daemon friend actually, but neither is usually far from the other.”

“I have no idea where they are now, I apologize. The circumstances of our meeting were… not such that I’d have asked.”

“Oh I know that! But they hit you pretty good, yeah?”

“Yes. But I don’t see how that is-”

“Then that’ll be enough! All I need is for you to make an exchange with me.”

...Something about that phrasing did not make Logan feel any better about the situation. First of all, none of what this daemon was saying made any sense, and even though he could hear their voice clearly, something about not being able to see who he was talking to made it even more unsettling. Not that he would stoop so low as to lay on the floor in order to look under the bed frame and stare at them.

“An exchange?”

“Yep! It doesn’t have to be anything big, or even anything physical! Just choose something of yours, however abstract, to give me, and I’ll give you something proportional.” 

“Abstract? You mean… you could take, say, a memory? Or feeling?”

“Well, it’s not called magic for nothing, Mr. Fuchs.”

“Please do not call me that. Logan is fine for now.”

“Alright, Logan it is! Got anything in mind yet, or do you want some more time to think about it?”

...Just what could he give? What exactly is the purpose of all this? Is there anything he has that couldn’t be put to sinister uses by this daemon? If he could give anything, truly anything, then could he request anything in return?

So many questions. Virtually no answers. He is at the disadvantage here as far as knowledge goes, and the fear that he may be being tricked or exploited was not an idle one. 

“I am… open to suggestions. I must admit I am not quite at the functionality to be creative at the moment.”

“Hmm. I guess it is kinda hard to be put on the spot like that… okay! Do you have gumdrops?”

“...Like the candy?”

“Mhm!”

“...Perhaps. I wouldn’t know as I don’t consume sweets very often, but it is possible there are some in the kitchens.”

It would be a simple task to go downstairs under the pretense of getting water, if indeed anyone was around to ask at all. Father likes to keep all sorts of candies in and around the kitchen for his own tastes and for guests, and gumdrops are nowhere near exotic.

“Alrighty, then! Let’s go!”

The daemon finally emerged from its hiding place, and quicker than Logan could react, it had made its way up his clothes and onto his shoulder.

Conspicuous and highly suspicious; Logan has no logical reason to even be carrying an everyday rodent. But taking them downstairs with him would be much simpler - as soon as they got what they were after he could open the nearest window and never see them again. 

“...yes. Let’s.”

...There are gumdrops, in a cupboard full of other treats in various wrappings. He grabs a handful of mints for himself while he’s there, and hands the daemon a small pile of gumdrops about as large as the mouse itself. On a napkin on the counter, of course. 

After making their way down his arm and to the pile, the daemon spoke again

“Yknow, I just realized I never introduced myself! Kinda rude, huh? You can call me Wheaty!”

“That… does not sound like a daemon name. No offense intended, of course-”

“Oh, it’s fine. You’re right, anyways! Wheaty isn’t really my name, and I never said it was! I just said that’s what you can call me.”

“Right.”

“Hmm… so what were you thinking?”

“...About what?”

“Well, I got what I want, but to complete the exchange I need to give you something. We both know gumdrops aren’t exactly a fortune, but I don’t see why you can’t make a request, as long as it’s nothing huge.”

“Would it suffice to ask that you never tell anyone of this meeting?”

“Hmm… I guess so. But that’s a little boring, isn’t it? Is there nothing you want?”

For this night to have never happened. To wake up and not remember any of this.

“...Perhaps you could tell me your real name?”

“That’s way bigger than gumdrop-dollars, friend. Nice try, though.”

“Ah. Then… how about undoing this?” 

As he spoke, Logan held up his hands, palms facing Wheaty. There were still numerous claw marks, some of which bled lightly. It would be easier to fix them this way that to risk Vater asking questions during his next piano lesson… 

“Oh! Yeah, I can do that! Haha, maybe next time you’ll think twice before grabbing someone with no warning.”

“I’m sure I will.”

With a curious little sweep of their tail across the countertop, the vague sting Logan had been feeling vanished, and the skin became smooth and unaffected once more. (Save for what was already there before tonight, of course.)

“Alright, I guess we’re all- ooh. Huh. End Town? Interesting…”

“...Is that where they are?”

“It’s where they’re going. At least, I’m pretty sure… whelp! Looks like this is where I take my leave, Logan! Thanks for the gumdrops!”

“You are welcome. Do you need me to open a door for you?”

“I’d sure appreciate it!”

...Even after Wheaty was long gone, Logan felt no particular urge to return to bed. Stopping by the library on his way up the winding stairs, he noticed that the moon was almost full - the light carried across the room, though not particularly bright this night... He already knew that of course, he has the moon cycles marked on his calendar, but… it’s not quite the same as viewing it with his own eyes.

The changing of the moon is rather symbolic in many cultures, both as a celestial body and something that shines some measure of light when it is otherwise pitch black out. It would be silly to put any sort of faith into those folktales and rumors about what it means for the moon to be full or new, but he’s done a great number of silly things tonight already. What harm could indulging just one more whimsey do, alone as he was?

Chapter Text

End Town, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 307

It had taken him a few days to decide on just what to do with the gem, (a moonstone, according to Patton) and in the end it wasn’t even his idea. It had been Roman’s suggestion to make it into a necklace, and admittedly it was both practical and looked cool. He could tuck the leather cord under his shirt easily enough, and with his hoodie zipped up there wasn’t any obvious outline. 

For some reason he hadn’t really cared for the idea of putting a hole in the gem to put the cord through, so Virgil kindly asked (read: bribed) Honey to make a metal pendant to hold the moonstone, with a small loop the cord could go through instead. The weight was comforting around his neck, if a little awkward to get used to at first. 

Callidus found this all very amusing, somehow. While technically a cat shouldn’t be able to grin like a person would, they found a way to (very smugly) do so, and didn’t seem in any hurry to explain the joke. Annoying, but probably none of his business anyway. 

“You mean you’re going to wear it? Every day?”

“...Yeah?”

Virgil did not care for the way they just laughed at him for that response, even if it didn’t seem mean-spirited. 

When they weren’t being a little shit, though, Callidus seemed antsy. Not in the way that they were just before a full moon, (because holy shit, that’s tomorrow, right-) but something more… subdued. It wasn’t the barely-suppressed excitement and anxiety that he’d watched them experience a thousand times over, it was just… just… 

He couldn’t exactly put a name to it. It was just different. Not in a good way, but not exactly bad either. They were just as forthcoming with their reasons for that as they were about their reactions to the necklace, however. 

It was only when the sun is setting and he is preparing to get a little rest before the circle tonight that they say anything. 

“There’s going to be two more in the circle tonight.”

“Really? That’s new…”

“One of them is... human.”

“What.”

“There’s going to be-”

“Why?”

“They are like you. They were invited on behalf of a daemon. An… unpopular one, but we respect the judgment of our own.”

“Okay. Okay I- well I guess I have no place to judge. It’s not like I wanna gatekeep the “Humans-with-daemon-friends” community or anything… it’s just weird.”

“I can imagine.”

“Thanks for telling me that right before I was about to try and sleep, though. Now I’m going to be too worried about fucking up when I introduce myself to them.”

“...Would you have honestly preferred me to tell you on the way there?”

“I would have preferred a warning like, eight hours ago.”

“I was not able to confirm the presence of another human until this afternoon. But I’’ try to be a better psychic in the future, little Virgil.”

“Yeah yeah, just let me get what rest I can, now.”

. . .

“Impius! Settle down or I swear-”

“Then move faster, Janny! I can hear them already, I-”

“I could go a lot faster without some dumbass almost falling off my shoulders every thirty seconds!”

The arguing was nothing new, but Janus had never seen Impius so antsy before. They were like a child trying to drag their mother down the street to their favorite candy vendor. If the child had no arms and was actually many hundreds of thousands of years old. 

Despite their insistence that Janus was moving as slow as any human could move, (they weren’t, in fact, they had set a pretty reasonable jogging pace, and would have gone faster if the ground wasn’t so uneven,) the clearing came into view just a few minutes later. 

It was about what they had expected. A large, open circle already occupied by about half a dozen daemons, barred off from the rest of the forest by the trees that graciously did not grow over the line. If one were to dig underground, Janus was positive they would even find the tree roots stopping just short of the circle’s boundary. Nature is nothing if not respectful, when given the same courtesy. 

Indeed, not a hair was out of place. Except one thing… 

Another human, sitting just inside of the circle. Obviously not unheard of, considering Janus themself was standing inside the bounds, but very unexpected. Though they didn’t doubt that this was exactly the sort of detail Impius would have conveniently left out when inviting him to tonight’s circle.  

Might as well introduce myself, then.

The other human didn’t even seem to notice them until they sat down just a few feet away. Close enough to be able to speak quietly, but not near enough to be intrusive. 

“You’re the other one, then?”

“I suppose so. You knew I was coming, then?”

A nod. 

“...This doesn’t have to be awkward, you know. I don’t see any reason why we can’t be friends.”

“Me neither. I just… dunno what to say, I guess.”

“Why don’t you start with your name, then?”

“I- Virgil. My name’s Virgil.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Virgil. I’m Janus.”

“Who’re you with?”

“The king cobra. A bit of a brat for supposed royalty… and you?”

“The cat- uhm. The black one. I think they all act like little kids, sometimes. Who would want to act like an adult all the time, with a lifespan like theirs?”

“True enough. I’m not even sure if they ever stop being children. Has anyone figured out their rate of maturation?”

Virgil shrugs at that, but Janus can see the just barely suppressed smile on his face. 

“Nope. And I don’t want to know, if I’m honest. I think it’s… better when we know less about them.”

“Really? I find it frustrating that they won’t tell us more.”

It’s not that they were trying to pick a fight - they really just wanted Virgil’s honest opinion on the matter. In a matter of just a few minutes, Janus found themself rather… captivated by him. Virgil was different, and not just because he was friends with a daemon. They wanted to really get to know him, to keep him talking no matter how strange or controversial the subject. 

“I get that. But I feel like… I’m not sure how to describe it, actually. I just don’t think… that we’re supposed to know much about them. Like, something bad will happen if we try to put all the pieces together.”

“Bad for us… or for them?”

“No idea.”

...They decide to leave the conversation at that. It won’t be long before the ringing starts, after all.

. . .

Somewhere in the End Lands, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 307

“Get the hell out of here, Mincieli!”

“Aww, no need to be so affectionate, Gregsy! But if you wanna put your hands all over me-”

“If I ever see your ugly mug in the bar again-”

“Yeah yeah, gorey dismemberment and feeding me to Rik, I get it. See ya in the next life! Or maybe not.”

Remus doesn’t really visit bars for the drinks, or even the thick atmosphere of “everyone is just about ten seconds away from homicide,” but rather for the people. There’s always someone interesting to meet, (or annoy the shit out of) and even slow nights usually have at least one dark broody character he can “liven up” the day of.

Gregory had kept a pretty good hold on his temper all week so far, but once Remus had stopped buying drinks in favor of being himself, the barkeep had gotten a lot less… patient. 

“Huh. Moon sure is bright tonight! Maybe there’ll be some nice spooky daemons to fuck!”

...No one answered, but he hadn’t really been expecting anyone to anyways. Still, it would have been nice.

“Hmm… I think this was the last one! Yup- ol’ Greg's keep was the last one in Leeow! Guess It’s time to move on…”

But where now? He’s been traveling through the ‘Lands for the past couple of weeks, and had gotten himself bodily thrown out of pretty much every public (and private) building he could. Leeow was the last one on the map, and the closest to the border.

The border… 

Now that’s a fun idea. 

The huge ass cement wall separating him and every other sucker this side of the map from… whatever remained of society on the other end. It probably wasn’t much better than here, and really all he knew for sure was that most of the daemons were on this side. The living ones, anyways. 

Plenty of rotting daemon bodies under the feet of the idiots that build the wall in the first place.

No one guarded the perimeter of anything - in fact, the only reason no one has gotten over the thing so far is because of just how fuckin’ huge it is. Three-hundred and fifty miles long, and a quarter of a mile high. Not exactly anywhere to climb or pass through, and it goes coast-to-coast; so unless you wanna swim in the toxic garbage surrounding Embry-Fir, you were royally fucked. 

Does swimming in the toxic garbage water surrounding the continent sound fun and probably really funny? Hell yeah. Is he stupid enough to try, even without a swimsuit? Also yes! But there’s no way he could bring his morning star with him that way, so it’s a no-go.

Stinky red ocean water aside, there’s gotta be a way to climb the thing. Or, he could go badger-style and go under it, shovel or no. 

“What if I run up the wall like a ninja!?!”

New goal set in mind, Remus started running. No time to waste! He could probably be at the border by tomorrow night, and then he had the rest of his measly lifespan to figure out a way to get past the wall. Or die horribly trying!

. . .

Virgil couldn’t really give someone his honest opinion about Janus if he tried, because he didn’t have one. They were friendly and respected daemons, (if no more than they would respect any decent human,) and were a good conversationalist. But none of that really said much about who they were as a person; everything they said was seemingly very open and honest, but a part of him didn’t believe that. Didn’t believe that someone could be so… normal? (Snake face aside, anyway…)

They said they were going to be hanging around End for a while, so he offered to show them around. They talk idly for hours, picking up easily after several hours of comfortable silence not very long ago. It was like as soon as the daemons had finished their conversation, Virgl and Janus just picked up the torch. Most of it wasn’t even meaningful: what sort of food do you like? Who sells the least bitter-tasting water around here? Been near the coast recently?

“So… are the scales hereditary?”

“Ha ha, very funny. No, they were a Gift.”

“Not to offend or anything but… why would you accept that sort of Gift?”

“I didn’t know that this-” they gestured a little flippantly to their left side, “-was what “the abilities of a snake” would entail!”

“...”The abilities of a snake”, huh? Interesting.”

“Penny for your thoughts?”

“They’re worth a little more than that, but fine. I was given the same Gift- or at least a similar one. The abilities of a cat. But I didn’t sprout fur and claws, so…”

“Really? I suppose I drew the short straw, then. Or maybe not - cats are a little boring.”

Virgil huffed. The two had had relative privacy for some time now, as they took the least busy streets and generally just kept to themselves, but he wasn’t going to tell Janus just how wrong they were in public. Or maybe ever. 

He doesn’t mind most of the daemon talk, and he’s genuinely very curious now that he’s met someone who apparently was cut the same deal he was - but. No matter how nice the other player seem, one can’t show all their cards on the first turn. That just isn’t how the game is played. 

“You’d be surprised - but yeah, as far as animals go they aren’t very exotic.”

“Tell me, what happens when you smell catnip?”

He would have been just fine with not answering that question; but after just a moment too long of silence, Janus gave him this… look , and Virgil could not let that level of smugness stand.

“Oh come on, I don’t go crazy over it or anything- no more than you would if I started waving a dead rat in your face!”

“I’ll have you know I do not eat dead rats, that would take all the fun out of-”

“So you do eat rats?”

“Wait- no! I mean- occasionally-”

“Oh my god- yeah that’s- do you like, unhinge your jaw?”

The effort it took to ask that question through the fit of hysterical giggles he just couldn’t seem to stop was worth it; Janus actually looked a little embarrassed, and it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen- (wait, what?)

“...Yes. I can. But it’s not exactly a pretty sight.”

“Holy crap. You have to show me.”

...Janus was right. He may not be completely sure about them yet, but there wasn’t any reason the two of them couldn’t be friends. At least, until one of them had to stab the other in the back. That’s how most friendships work anyway.

Chapter Text

Star City. Years since the human-daemon war: 307

Is Embry-Fir on the brink of chemical warfare?

It isn’t often that a news article actually manages to garner much of Logan’s interest, but with a title as ludicrous as that on the front page? How could he possibly resist?

Just days ago, inspectors Merriweather, Gomez, and Rosero engaged in active pursuit of a “suspicious individual” during a routine inspection of a small town far west. None of them retained serious injuries, and not one of them could recall encountering any materials that seemed hazardous. And yet, just 48 hours later, all three inspectors began showing feverish symptoms, and were pronounced dead yesterday morning at approximately 8:35 am; only 4 days after this encounter. 

Was it simply a common virus spread amongst the western slums, or was it something more deliberate? 

The article went on to describe how coroners hadn’t been able to identify the illness that had killed the inspectors, and apparently half the country was already in a panic over the possibility that this was all on purpose. 

...Logan chose to reserve judgment for the time being. Surely there was a simpler, far less absurd explanation. They simply did not have all of the information yet.

. . .

Roman doesn’t usually sit down to have breakfast - there’s no time for that sort of thing. (Not at all because he tends to wake up around noon after having stayed up into the early morning hours.) But on the occasion that the daemon-walker stops by to ask for some tea leaves early in the day, and ve insists on just making the tea vimself for him to take home, the two will usually sit down and have an approximation of breakfast together.

Today, said “breakfast” was half a plate of rice each and some orange slices from Jenny. Daemon-walker had even grabbed a couple pages of today’s newspaper. That couldn’t have come cheap, and ve appreciated the effort. Most of it wasn’t very interesting, but there isn’t exactly a surplus of reading material around here, so they try to make it interesting. Reading passages in silly voices, mocking the council, etcetera etcetera.

“Hmm. Says here they think we’re trying to start a revolution or something.”

“Oh. I had no idea, must have missed the meeting. Where are the pitchforks?”

“Nah, not like that. Some fuckers got sick and they’re trying to blame it on “western terrorists”. Ha.”

“Let me see that-” ve took a few moments to read the article vimself, and was a little shocked at the description of the events. “-damn. That’s… actually a little freaky. What do you think happened?”

“No idea. But I’m pretty sure I was the “suspicious individual” they were talking about.”

“...seriously?”

“Yeah. They chased me around a bit, I guess because I was roof-hopping? Or because I was the only one around and they can smell fear. Anyway, none of them tripped on a bag labeled “hazardous waste”, so I have no clue what’s up.”

“Guess we’ll either find out or we won’t. I can’t think of anyone to even ask about this, can you?”

“Not really. End isn’t really known for its doctors and chemists, you know. I could try Arrow, though, if you really wanna know.”

“That’s fine. I… I don’t think you should be running around too much right now, anyway.”

If demon-walker was being chased and it’s in the papers, there’s a good chance that his description got around to at least a few people before those inspectors died. He may not necessarily stand out in a crowd; with dark hair and pale skin typical of most living west of the mountains, but you can never be too careful. 

“I know. But I do have to get going - Patton’s got something he wants to show me, apparently.”

“Ooo- don’t let me keep you then, I’d never want to get in the way of-”

Now, ve’s been hit in the face with a lot of things before, but a fresh orange slice was never one of them. Ve might have been mad, if Virgil didn’t immediately break down into a fit of giggles, like a toddler who’d just heard someone say “fuck” for the first time. It took everything not to immediately follow suit, and in the end Roman only holds out for about thirty seconds. 

. . . 

Virgil’s not particularly interested in what the news has to say. He never has been, and never will be - even if today’s paper happens to involve him in some way. He’ll keep an eye out for the sake of his own safety, just in case anyone with legal authority is actually looking for him, but otherwise, life continues as normal for the rest of the day.

Patton’s “surprise” had been the discovery of some steel stud earrings, (he didn’t say where from, but Virgil had been a little too caught up in the moment to ask) sanitized and ready if he wanted them. Which, of fucking course he did, even if he needed to shove a copper wire through his own ears to do it because these things were the coolest shit he’d seen in weeks.  

You can’t just get piercings where he lives. Any real metal and plastic are used for more useful things, and besides the possibility for infection (or worse, a long enough decoration could be grabbed in desperation, should a fight turn nasty) was often a great deterrent. But never let it be said that Virgil Strosser said no to a piece of jewelry, one that was a gift from Patton , no less.

His ears do kind of ache for a while, but it’s manageable; hell knows they’re probably going to be even sorer by tomorrow. But his more recent death put pain into a bit of a different perspective for him. 

“If you’re not dead, anything else can be fixed later.”

“Even death is not necessarily an immovable object, but I see your point.”

And besides, he’s got two bored daemons and one (mostly) human who’s always ready to talk and talk until everything else seems to fade away. 

“Y’know it’s only been a day, and somehow you look like you know your way around better than I do.”

“I’m a fast learner.”

“Or you’ve been here before.”

“Maybe I have. Maybe I just look more confident than you do.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“If you look confident, and talk like you know what you’re doing, even if you don’t, no one will question whether or not you belong there. It’s about the presence.” 

“...Something tells me that if I saw someone walking around in a chicken costume I’d probably question them, no matter how confident they seemed.”

“How do you know? Have you ever met someone in a chicken suit?”

“Fair point, I guess.”

An intellectual discussion might not be the term for it, exactly. It’s a conversation between two people who essentially just met, but bounce back and forth like they’ve known each other for years.

“You know, I’m beginning to wonder, after what we talked about the other day. Why didn’t you gain more physical attributes of a cat when you received your Gift? It seems odd that such similar phrasing could result in such contrasting ways.”

“No idea. You wanna explain yourself on this one?” The second half of his statement Virgil had directed at Callidus, who was draped rather lazily across his shoulders, but it was the cobra who answered first.

“I thought if this brat was going to go around sticking their neck out for people who really don’t need help, they might as well look scary enough to pull it off, haha!”

...That made sense. Obviously he didn’t have all the pieces of the puzzle yet, but such an irregular Gift would have come from irregular circumstances. A human saving a daemon’s life… Virgil almost feels like he cheated, now.

“I suppose I made my choice for similar reasons, if with the opposite intent. Little Virgil was kind to me, and I wanted him to be able to continue being kind to others - the thought of making him stand out in such a way physically had never even crossed my mind.”

Callidus’s response also makes sense, but he finds himself feeling increasingly embarrassed at the revelation that he and Janus had essentially both been given the same “thank-you”, for saving a life versus sparing some crackers. He’s relieved when the topic seems to pass with much more thought, and soon enough Janus departs to go do… whatever they’re planning to do at three in the afternoon.

Apparently five pound brats with the ability to beg food out of ninety percent of the populous have better things to do than ride on his shoulders all day, because soon enough he finds himself alone, with nothing planned or in urgent need of his attention. Maybe he could take a nap in the woods, near the river. It’s been a while since Virgil was ever really alone, so he might as well get the most out of it while he can. Even if he’d rather be in someone’s company right now, he’s gone through his decidedly rather short list of friends pretty quickly. 

“Wonder when Remy’ll be back in town…”

. . .

“So, are we leaving any time soon?”

“I’m not sure yet, Impius. I’m still thinking about it.”

“You like him, yeah? Smells a little… bloody for your tastes.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Well, they do - about the smell. Virgil does give off the scent of something dangerous. That being said, it’s been a long time since Janus has met anyone who isn’t dangerous, and they’ve only known him for the better part of twenty-four hours, so whether or not there is an immediate threat is still anyone’s guess

“Well, I suppose it’s none of my business. I’m following you wherever you end up, Janny.”

“Of course you are.” 

“Hmm… you think there are any eggs around here?”

“I’m certain I smelled chickens, and where there are chickens…”

“There’s eggs! C’mon, c’mon, we gotta find them, Janny! Janny, hurry up!”

“Oh- wait, Imp- dammit!” 

For how supposedly “lucky” daemons can be, Janus knows this was doomed to happen some time or another. Thankfully, Impius doesn’t seem too disgruntled with falling the five feet from their shoulders to the ground; quite the opposite, they quickly surged ahead with no problem, in search of treats. It’s still not fun to watch though, and they’ve spooked a few passersby in the process.

Perhaps it’s time to figure out where they’ll be sleeping tonight - the woods wasn’t exactly their first choice , last night. 

. . .

One, two, three, 

“Daughter of a fuckin’ bastard-”

Four, five, six, 

“Can’t even think of a good dick joke about this bullshit, that’s how much this fucking sucks.”

Remus is all for blood and gore and bending things that aren’t normally meant to be bent that way, and honestly chipped fingernails aren’t exactly new for him, but it’s just a teensy bit harder to climb an already vertical surface when the tips of his fingers are bleeding enough to paint them and his toes with. 

He’d given the jumping-at-the-wall-and-running-up-the-side plan a couple of tries, before figuring out that it probably wasn’t gonna work. Then he tried a few more times, just because it was funny and an awesome idea anyways. There weren’t a ton of foot or hand-holds, considering it was a concrete wall, but through a lot of determination and some creativity on his part, Remus had managed to get about twenty feet up. Just like, another thousand to go! 

“There’s gotta be a less lame way to do this…”

If he had like, some super sticky shit on the bottom of his boots he could walk right up the thing, probably! Or some climbing gear? Would an ice-pick go through this shit? 

“You could ask for help.”

“I could ask for help! Yeah, but who would- waaaait a second. That didn’t sound like a hallucination, or the demons in my shoebox, is someone-”

He didn’t immediately register that he’d started falling, but once he did it felt like he was falling for way longer than he should have. Landing on his back didn’t even really feel like landing, it felt like he’d just laid down there. It would have been funny as shit if he’d broken a leg or something, but weird, maybe magic-related events are cool too. 

Sitting up and turning to face where Remus thought the speaking had come from, but nothing was there. Maybe the spooky ghosts were getting louder or something… 

“Might want to look a little lower.”

Of course, he usually does that anyway once he sees a person, but in this case, there was very much not a person talking to him. 

It was a honeybadger, with a rather unreadable expression on its face. On their face, actually. He’s met plenty of daemons before, enough to know that they don’t give a shit about pronouns or what you call ‘em most of the time, but it’s better not to call living things an it unless they tell you to, really. 

“You know badgers will basically eat anything? And I mean anything! That’s a pretty funky choice of vessel.”

“Indeed, it is. Why were you trying to climb this wall?”

“To get to the other side! Like that chicken, and the road, ‘cept this is a wall, I guess. It could be a road if you’re brave enough.”

“That’s as good a reason as any, but I suppose I meant to ask what’s on the other side that you want so much.”

“Adventure, sex, booze, who knows! I’ve got no fucking clue, that’s why I’m going! To find out!”

He could swear the daemon nodded at him, but it could also have been looking at something shiny on the ground really quickly or something. Remus does the same thing all the time, but usually, he’ll pick up the shiny thing, too - glass or no. 

“Indeed… then I suppose you’d be pleased to get past it no matter the method, then? This isn’t a quest to conquer the wall?”

“Pretty much, I couldn’t give two shits about the wall! Unless of course, it found a way to be interesting, but walls are almost always boring until they’re destroyed.”

“Very well. If you would be kind enough to allow me to join you for this…. Adventure, I’d be happy to get you to the other side.”

Shrugging, Remus couldn’t really find a reason to say no. “I mean, I’m not gonna tell you what to do with your life.”

Yeah, he did not mistake the nod this time. Somehow the badger’s face was very expressive, for something with no visible eyebrows and a mouth that didn’t even move when they talked.

“Then let us be on our way.”

And with those words, suddenly everything went dark. Which was a little weird, he thought, considering it was like, midday.

Chapter Text

Remus has experienced many levels of darkness before - there’s the “I blinked a little too long and noticed just how dark it gets back there” darkness, “Just waked inside during a really bright day and now I’m fucking blind” darkness, and many other kinds too. 

But the sort of darkness he felt when that daemon activated it’s… weird, magic-ey wall-crossing powers was different than any other dark he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t complete pitch darkness, it was kinda like closing your eyes in a lit room, but it was somehow more suffocating - like even opening his eyes and shoving a flashlight right into the sockets wouldn’t get him away from it. And the pressure, too, it was like the kinda ache you feel after being awake for sixty-two hours and you’re not even sure if your eyes can close anymore, or if maybe they’ll just pop right out of their sockets like apples off a tree. 

And then, just as suddenly as it had come, the darkness was gone. He was still facing the wall, but something felt fundamentally different about where he was standing now.

“Oh. Trees. There’s a fuck ton of trees here!”

“It seems there are. One might even call it a forest, I believe.” 

“Damn, it has been a while since I got to go apeshit and pretend to be a horny grizzly bear in the woods!”

“Sounds riveting… I apologize - I never asked your name?”

He didn’t really see why that was something to apologize for, he forgets to ask shit all the time! Usually things a bit more important than names. “You can call me Remus! Remus Mincieli, the better half!”

“...half?”

“Uh- I dunno why I said that. C’mon, badger buddy! We’ve got places to be, woodlands to explore!”

“Yes… I believe we do.”

. . .

Continent of Jaied, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 284

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned. It has been nearly five years since my last confession.” 

Rhea Mincieli had abandoned all hope of penance when her children were born, but after what that seer had said… she can only hope that she and her wife will finally be able to find peace, with their sacrifice. 

“I was blessed with twins, just weeks after my last confession. One of them was prophesied to be possessed by a demon, you see. I’m afraid I was too swept up in the joy of finally being able to bear children at all that I ignored the signs. They were happy, innocent boys. I couldn’t bear to look for the signs of possession in them. I was willfully ignorant. But their fifth birthday has just passed, and my wife and I had to take action.”

She has no regret for what has happened. If anything, she can only find it in her heart to be thankful that Remus, her remaining son, will grow up pure and away from a possessed brother.

“Remus is rowdy and playful like most boys his age, but Roman was always encouraging the worst behavior. Over time it became easy to see that he was constantly causing problems and lying about them, going so far as to blame his brother and other children, at times. Of course, Gianna and I would never bring harm to one of our children, doomed or not, but we have sent him away. May we be forgiven for abandoning our own blood, father.”

Maybe, even after all these years, they may be accepted back into the arms of the church. She can only have faith in her choices now, either way.

 . . .

Remus misses his brother a lot. 

Momma says Roman had to go away, for being “doomed” or something, and Mom has been really quiet ever since he went away. 

Someone said that Ro went over the seas and far, far away, but now the details of that memory are getting fuzzy. He really wants to see his brother again, even though Momma really doesn’t want him to. Maybe he could find a boat and just go look for his brother really quickly? He’d only be gone a couple of days, and then he could come back home with Roman, and Mom will talk to him again, maybe!

All he needs is a boat, he can get on a boat! The docks that smell all stinky with fish and salt have tons of huge boats, or is it ships? Which one is the big version? Is a boat a huge ship or is a ship a huge boat?

He’ll ask someone later if he doesn’t forget it like most things. 

It’s pretty easy to just walk onto one of the (boats? Ships? He’s gonna call ‘em shoats until he knows) shoats, and it’s like no one even sees him! Or they just don’t care. Remus is at the docks a lot, for the smells and sounds. But even when it feels like someone is gonna stop him any second, or ask him where Momma is, because he isn’t supposed to go anywhere without Momma, they just pass right on by. Must be his awesome sneaky ninja skills. 

...They do find him, eventually. But they can’t go back, because it would make the trip too long, so they ask him if his parents know where he is, or what he’s doing there in the first place, so they can “file a report.” 

A report sounds really bad, and he really really really doesn’t want Mom or Momma to be mad at him, so he just says the first lie that he can think of.

“I don’t have any parents.”

. . .

The funny thing about international travel being banned is that it never really seems like anyone is listening to the law. At least, Remus has met at least a dozen pirate crews in the past two years alone - (not the ones with cutlasses and peg-legs like in the stories, no, just hungry or bored men at sea with guns. Some of them do have missing eyes or teeth, though.) -and frankly the number of people who’ve tried to bribe his own crew for passage to another island is too many to even keep track of at this point.

He’s still got no idea where Roman was ‘sent away’ to, and these days it’s hard not to think of the possibility that his mothers lied and Ro was dead a long time ago. Why he’s even still looking… well, he doesn’t have a clear answer. Eight years is a long time to be missing. 

Maybe Remus would call his crew family, or at least an approximation of one, but there’s never been anything too homey about the atmosphere without booze involved; and as the closest thing they have to a rookie, there’s always a fair share of… hazing going on that makes it pretty hard to get attached. 

Got a shitty job you don’t wanna do? Need someone to take the blame for a fuck-up? Just need some entertainment in the form of pushing around someone barely in the double-digits and roughly ninety pounds? Ol’ Remus is there! 

Good news though, he’s going to be thirteen soon! Which is supposed to be some sort of big deal, becoming a teenager and all. At least, he’s pretty sure that his birthday was June fourth, but who the hell knows? So he’s going to just stick with the day he thinks his birthday is and try to swipe some candles to stick in a frosted bagel or something tomorrow.

...Maybe Roman’s sitting out there, somewhere, getting ready to do something similar. Maybe they’ll even be staring at the moon at the same time.

. . .

“You’ve heard about daemons before, right?”

“Duh, everyone has. What’s your point?”

“Well, do you know about demons?”

“...What’s the difference? I thought that was just a… language thingie.”

“Nope, they’re two different things entirely!”

“Fucking fine, I’ll bite. What’s the difference?”

Remy has always had a weird way of telling stories. He never likes to get straight to the point, he’ll keep you hanging on his words for as long as possible unless you cut the bullshit out yourself - or just ignore him. Still, it’s not often that Remus gets to stay in one country for so long, and almost five months in Embry-Fir has made him bored and antsy. Enough to listen to bullshit stories from the fucker who tried to stowaway on his ship, apparently. 

“Well, a demon is a spirit. Kind of- metaphysical, you know? You can’t ever really see them or touch them, but some people can like… feel their presence, somehow. Like an instinctual thing or whatever.”

“So why are the names so similar?”

“I’m getting to that, babe, hold your horses. Y’see, daemons are what happens when a demon possesses something. Something fundamental changes about them after the first possession - they become like, more coherent or something. Sometimes that makes them less violent, sometimes more.”

“But you said we can’t touch them, so how are they violent? I mean, don’t get me wrong, creepy-crawly ghosties we can’t see or touch are already pretty exciting, but if you can’t interact with ‘em, how do you know they’re violent?”

“Daemons can remember their time as a demon, usually; I’ve talked to a few about it. Since they aren’t physically there, all that’s making them up is emotions and shit. Those emotions can get extreme and potent over time, making them violent. They send out a bunch of bad vibes and shit.”

Remus couldn’t even call this shit boring per se, just a ton of information that he didn’t really care about. It’s an interesting concept, and he’s already thought of about six ways to try and fuck something that doesn’t really exist - but what the fuck does he care about some spirit’s problems?

“So… you ever meet a demon before?”

“Not that I know of, babe.”

“Hmmm… know of a fucker named Roman Mincieli?”

“Nope. Someone I should look out for?”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. This country is pretty big… I might come back here some time.”

“I hope so. I mean, what ever would I do without your goofy mustache plaguing my life every day?”

“Oh, you love it and you know it! I’m trying to grow it into an imperial, what do you think?”

“With the curly sides like a cartoon villain? Babe, you can do so much better.”

“Nah, actually I think I don’t give a shit about your opinion anyway.”

“Come on, you’re- what’d you say, twenty-two? That’s too young to throw away your life like that!”

“Pretty sure I just said I don’t give a shit what you think, pretty boy.”

“Oh, so I’m pretty now?”

“In the asshole sort of way, yeah.”

So maybe he doesn’t have a clue what he’s doing anymore, and as far as he can tell Embry-Fir is a piece of shit wasteland everywhere more than 100 miles or so from the east coast - no reason not to sit down, drink, and be merry for a while. Asshole company or no. 

. . . 

“So, little badger buddy, where do you think we should go, huh? Maybe south? Smell some juicy ass up north? We just keep goin’ straight like a dick, or what? Come on, if I’m making all the decisions I don’t have the chance to complain about yours!”

“I have no strong inclination for any direction.”

“Booooring! We’re gonna skip you, then. Anyone else?”

...After several moments of silence, he sorta gives up on any ghosties from wherever the fuck in his imagination coming to give their opinions. They’re finicky like that - never coming when he wants them to, and never leaving when he’s gotten sick of them. At least it’s been a while since it was Roman, or anyone Remus had ever cared about. They’re just strangers now, sometimes acquaintances. He’s met a lot of people he doesn’t fully remember in his near thirty years of life; how many of them are actually dead is probably a lot fewer than the number of ones haunting him. 

“...fucking go fish. Alright, well I’m gonna go find a squirrel or something, you can… do whatever, I guess.”

To be honest he might not even eat whatever he ends up catching - oddly enough, Remus hasn’t felt hungry in a couple of days. Considering what his metabolism usually is, it’s either a goddamn miracle or he’s dying. Either would be cool, maybe, but right now it’s just weird and he doesn’t really like not knowing. Not knowing is frustrating, especially when he’s so blatantly obvious with people; the universe could show a little common courtesy, if not any decency. Him asking someone to be decent would be pretty much the most hypocritical thing anyone has ever said. 

The world has taught him a lot of lessons, and even though recognizing your own faults is something that most people don’t learn without it being beaten into their bloody corpse with a baseball bat full of nails and spikes, Remus has managed to gain some self-awareness over the years.

He doesn’t keep track of how far he’s traveled, not in miles or anything at least. But he does keep track of the time. Not that he’s known what day or exact time it is in years, but he can remember how many hours and minutes have passed with decent accuracy if he’s actively paying attention - at least, no one’s ever tried to contradict his judgment of time before. 

Before long it’s getting to be late, and he’s tired as fuck, so he finds thhe tree with the most ants crawling up it and makes his way to one of the wider branches to lay down on. It’s not about being off the ground, Remus just likes to be able to see the stars, and there’s too much leaf coverage to see anything from down there. He can’t even remember the last time he’d slept under a roof, and there’s no reason to start now. 

The daemon makes their way to him, some time when the moon is high and he’s just about ready to pass out. They don’t make any sound or try to get his attention, they just carefully climb onto his chest and presumably fall asleep. That, or they’re waiting for him to let his guard down in order to claw his eyes out. What reasons does he have to try and stop them, either way? A bitch could use a cuddle every now and then, and their tiny, crushable face is adorable to look at, so he’s not going to make them move if it kills him.

Chapter Text

You know, I never bring anyone with me for these things. It feels weird.”

“Yeah? Seems a bit dangerous to do runs on your own all the time.”

“I mean, the first dozen or so I went with my dad, but after that, I could take care of myself. It wasn’t worth it to send two or more people on a job when there wouldn’t be any extra profit from it.”

“I suppose it is pretty rare that one finds themself needing a larger bag, these days.”

Whatever had possessed Virgil to let Janus come along to the junkyard- (well, not the junkyard, he hasn’t been to that old spot ever since the dome, taking detours to the southern landfill instead) - but regardless, they’re with him now. And that means the cobra is with them as well, wrapped around the rim of the bowler hat that doesn’t fit with any of the rest of Janus’s outfit. 

Seriously, yellow with black was bad enough, but bright yellow travelling robes and a black cape have got to make it impossibly warm. Maybe they inherited the cold-bloodedness as well? Or they don’t give a damn about heatstroke. Either way, it’s not really his place to judge when he only took off his own hoodie to tie around his waist once the sun had gotten to be all the way up. 

Somehow the heat of the dust wedge just barely doesn’t reach End Town - it could be a comfortable seventy back home, but someone could probably cook bacon just by laying it on the dirt of the path they’re taking.

“...I’m pretty sure there’s only another mile to go, now.”

“Ah, yes, you know I almost wasn’t sure, I those towering gates in the distance might have been surrounding a fortune teller’s booth.”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve seen.”

“Really? What have you seen that’s more odd?”

“I dunno, I thought meeting someone half covered in scales with a forked tongue was pretty weird.”

Almost falling on his ass from the resulting shove was totally worth it, in his opinion. 

“Jaaannnyyy…. Quit moving so much. Tryn’a nap up here.”

...Right. The snake. He’d almost forgotten it was there, actually - from the corner of his eyes, Virgil could swear it looked like a green and tan ribbon wrapped around Janus’s hat. 

Maybe his brain just has a really fucked up “word association” function, but something about that thought brought up memories he’d really rather not think about. But now he’s thinking about them, and it’s super hard to not think about a thought, and he’s reeling too much to think of anything else to divert his attention to. 

“-ear you to ribbons, you hear me? If I find you anywhere near this town again, you’ll be a smear on the pavement, kid!”

Except no, he’s never- he doesn’t remember that, because no one’s ever said that to him before, but he can hear the words so clearly-

“We don’t tolerate thieves, you hear?”

“Yes ma’am! I’m sorry, I didn’t-”

“-gil? Virgil? You know, I’m starting to think you might just be ignoring me-”

“What? Sorry, I was… lost in thought, I guess. What were you saying?”

“I was asking what your plan is. Your gloves are fingerless, you can’t seriously be thinking of climbing the chain link fence in this heat, essentially barehanded?”

“Right. I uh- I guess so? I mean, it’s not a big deal. If I need to, I have rags-”

“Not a big deal? You’re telling me stealing a silver necklace is no big deal?”

“It- it’s just jewelry, though! I didn’t want to, but-”

“But you’d rather live the life of a thief than work hard like we’ve done this whole time? Like I’ve done?”

Virgil is sitting on the ground, with no recollection of getting there. Is he still Virgil though? What if he’s- who? Who was that just now, getting yelled at? He barely registers the heat below him, almost burning even through his pants, because suddenly everything feels like it’s on fire. Not like it was before, though, this searing heat is only surface level; encasing him, but not burning from the inside out like a fever or anything. It’s just like- like- 

“Shit! Virgil, are you alright? Can you hear me?”

“I… I can. Hear you. I think I’m dying, though.”

Janus smiles at him in what’s probably supposed to be a reassuring way, but everything is starting to look fuzzy. 

“We should get you out of the sun. C’mon- the landfill isn’t much, but there’s bound to be shade somewhere. No dying until we have you sitting and less delirious, got it?”

“Aye aye, captain. Lead the way, I think I can- well I can try to walk.”

“Come on, keep walking E͘͜҉̵͎̟̜̱͔͎̤͓̣̳̲m̛̞̼̮̻̦͎͎̖̩͇͔͉m҉̴̳͖̤̺͓͚͖̞̞̝̝͓͇͝y̸̵̧̯͎̟̭͕͓͈͓̠͠!̴̛͔̰̲̟̮̯̰̫͢”

“I’m coming, just admiring the view, is all!”

He tries to work with Janus, really- he forces his legs to move when he can remember that they’re there, that he has legs at all, (which is a weird thing to forget, but Virgil doesn’t dwell on that for very long) but most of the time he’s too caught up in… remembering? Learning? He knows that what he’s seeing are memories, but they can’t be his. There’s no way, because- because these things have never happened to him. 

But now he gets to remember them happening, anyways. Eventually, he’s just too exhausted, and Virgil falls into darkness and the echo of voices both familiar and completely new.

. . .

Considering the last few “towns” he’d visited were Leeow and Karma, Remus had kinda forgotten that settlements, even poor ones, could actually look and smell nice. Well, in a way - fish guts and gunpowder smell nice because of how awful they are, but flowers and baking bread and tea smell nice because they’re… softer, and bring forth and image of what “home” should be.

Arrow, because that’s the name of this place apparently, doesn’t look like ti was at all planned out; some houses and shops are spaced out along the planes, and slowly became more compact and smushed together as they approached the riverbank - where they would no doubt have run out of space until someone made the bridge now connecting the two halves of Kosher. It looked weird and that made it his favorite so far. 

Of course, Remus wouldn’t stay for long, even if there was anything more interesting than a deer corpse he’d found on a road leading into the place. (Looked like the work of wolves, or maybe some very brave foxes.) The whole point of being here was to explore, really, which means no getting tied down!

“So is that how you’re excusing your insufficient funds to rent a room for yourself?”

“What? No! I hate sleeping inside, and even if I did java and sorta cash on be it would go towards food or booze or some shit. Not a room full of fleas and roaches I could just as easily find outside to squish!”

“That is fair.”

None of those things were even at the front of his mind at the moment, honestly. He’d been a bit more preoccupied with how little anyone seemed to care that he was walking around with a badger in his arms, (there were so many people, Remus didn’t want them to get fuckin’ lost or anything) and he was holding a not-so-one-sided conversation with it. 

Maybe the End Lands were just more superstitious or some shit, but Remus had barely mentioned the word “daemon” before he was kicked out of Karma; and this side apparently made the wall to keep them out, so he’d expected at least a dozen pitchforks and some rotten tomatoes. But here he was, completely unmolested, and people are barely even looking at him! Forget what he said about liking this place, it’s boring and he’s not even sure if streaking with deer guts wrapped around his neck would get the right amount of attention.

...That being said, he does get some attention, but not for any reasons he’d want to; this place is full of pasty motherfuckers, and he’s seen maybe three people with hair any lighter than a may bug’s back. But here he is, walking around in skin naturally inclined to tan and has with years of sailing, and hair almost bleached from all of the saltwater and sun exposure. (He thinks it may have been a light brown, years and years ago, but his memory is a bit selective when thinking about things that far back.)

So yeah, it’s like being the last m&m in the popcorn bowl - except no one’s fighting over him and there weren’t ever any other m&m’s. 

Remus eventually finds himself walking through the market area, and by the time he’s made it to the end of the block, his pockets are full of whatever palm-sized snacks he could get ahold of. He’s still not particularly hungry, but it’s become a habit at this point - stealing for the sake of it, really. Because where’s the fun in just buying things all civil-like? 

““Thou shalt not steal,” my ass,” he mumbles, more to himself than at anyone.

“Is that a common saying? I’ve not heard it before.”

“Eh, not really a saying, it’s just religious bullshit - though most places do have laws about stealing, I guess.”

“I see. Do you not agree with those laws, then?”

“Nope! Couldn’t give less shits, actually.”

His little badger buddy doesn’t say anything more, so Remus figures the conversation is over. Daemons probably don’t know or care too much about laws and commandments and all that, and he wished he could forget them. Well maybe not, but only because it’s more fun to break rules when you know you’re breaking them, but the headspace could be used for much more fun things! Like how many bones are in a turtle, or if sharks ever accidentally bite themselves and get attacked by other sharks when they smell the blood.

...Yeah, if he has the time to stay on one train of thought this long he really needs to get moving. 

. . .

"̷̴̱̲̘͈̠̭E̴̸͇͉̫̞͈͖̳̞̹̣̥͘̕͜ͅm̫̱͚̮̗̟̥͓̪̺͢͡m̶̧̥͙̰͍̻̱͇̟̺̰͈̻͉̣̝̘̕͝y̧̲̱̖͖͍̫͍̹̭͎̖̻?̷̧͙̲͎̫̰̲̞͎̣̳̳̟̹̝̕̕ ҉҉̤̘̻͕͔̤͎̩̩̝͖̮͉͕ͅE̴͇̘̦̪͚̬̻̞̦̪̮͇̼̻̯̮͓̕͞m̶̥̝̦̯̠̗͡͝m̴̤͙̼͉̭̱͈͘͟͢͝y҉̧̲̙̩̼͕̬̞̠̺̩̥̹̥̺̻̰,̷̬͎̝̙̜͉̗͇͉͢͢where did you go?”

"̶̴̢͖̝͚̼̣̻͇͈͎͇̙̥̟̟̘͖͇͜ͅI̢̺̦̖̜̣̠̫̭̞̗͙͈̫͟͜ͅ'͚̩̙̳̰̥̩̬̕͟ͅm͏͈̦̞̟̤̫̠̝͈ ̰͖͉͕͠r͜҉͏̳̮̤̰̙͕͉̟̝̻̻̳̖̠̳̤̠͖̗i̕҉̹͍̰̜̙̞̟̖͉͙̲͎͙̣̼̙̙̫ͅg̡̟̗̖̜̗̹̱̣̥͕̝̫̕͞h̡̛̜̖͔͍̗̞̮̮͚̯͉̣͉͔̱͢͝ͅṭ̴̯̠̩̕͢ ͏̸͇̣͔͍̖͈̹͖͜͡ḩ̶̨҉͉̲͉̝͔͕̙̠͖͉͙͓̮͙e̡̡͘҉͕̙͔͍̙͓̻͔̻̼̞r̵̨̧҉̜͙͔̦̤̺̪̖̝̗͚e̴̙̟͈̲̗̦̰̹̮͜͝,̵̟̭̗̦͎ͅ ̧͈̦͈͈͓̺͍̫̻͓̻̜͍̟̬̲͙̣̱͡J̛҉̷̴͔͚͚͖̙͖͔̹͎͡a̴̶͕͎̜͉̗͚̭̥̲̣̪͢͟n̯̥̥͇͙͙͍̝̭̭̤̹̲̪͔͟͜n̡̧͈̮̖̦̹͙̦͕̗̰̻͎̟͟͜ͅy̶̢͉͓̗̥͎̝̺̰̦̭̝̤͎̹͘͟ͅ!̸̢̣̭̰̣̬͉̞̦̖͇̖͓̳̣̫͓͜"̷̧̯̹͓̞̭͘

"̣̬͖̦̜͞͡ͅĘ̵̷̵̧̹͇̖̩̣̗̝̻͇̲͇͈̖m͝҉̱̯̫̹̠͈̻̲̯̻ͅm̢̛̥̝̲̝͙̠̘̯y҉̦͚̫̥̮̭͖̖̳͙̭̹̯͚̫̫̱̬?̨̧̪̜̜͕͓̯̖̲͕̳̣̯͟͟ͅ ̡̖̥̻̙͇̫͜ͅCome on, this isn’t funny! Where are you?”

"̴̵̰̦̹̬͙̦͚̠͔̣̪̗̭͙̳̠͎͡ͅB̶̛̟̩͙̺̟u̵̴͍̖̬̟͡t̨͏̹͔̬̳̠̦̤ͅ ̶͖͉̝̠̬͢͢I҉͏̖̺̯̪͇̦͍̱̳̜̻̩̰̥'͟͜҉̡͈̬̙̞̭͓͍͕̗̣͖̼̭͈m҉̴̧̝͉̗̦̜̖͉̙͕̪̩͕͚̫͍̹̘͘ ̴̢͈̻͓̦̩̩͕̩r̡͉̖̞͖͔̹͜i̢̢͏̗̟͇̘̪̤̹̭̰̟͢ͅg̡͓̣̪̤̘͈̪̗̫͉̪̹͖̺͇͎̖͈h̴̝͎̟͕̱͙̹̙̤͎͈̜̤̠͍̝͢t͞͏̛͔̙̮̜-̡̤̯͔̣̹͔̺̱̬̫̞͍"̷̨̢̛̫̩̟̜̻̼͍͓̤̩̬͕̜̭̙͓̣͜

“Virgil? Are you still with me?”

Virgil doesn’t know where he is, exactly, but they’re moving. He’s moving? No, he’s sitting down, it’s more like the whole world is spinning around him. Someone is holding his hands, or at least something is - because it feels too leathery to be hands, but they’re shaped a lot like hands, from what he can feel. 

Maybe he should try and look, but most of his vision is colored with black spots, and the only thing that he can see is one of his boots and the ground underneath it.  Oh, and the ants he’s disturbing with each involuntary scuff of his foot - is he shaking? 

“Virgil!”

“Jan’s?”

“Yeah, it’s me. What the hell is happening to you? If this is going to be a regular thing, I might reconsider sticking around End Town with you, you know.”

It hurts to laugh, but he does it anyway. It comes out sounding rough and wheezy, but that’s probably the least of Virgil’s worries at this point.

“I d’nno. ‘ere are we?”

“Do you not remember?”

Shaking his head is almost more painful than speaking, and for once he thanks his irregular eating schedule. If he’d had anything in him that could come up that hadn’t by now, that would have done it. Maybe closing his eyes would help with the burning, pulsing migraine he’s feeling - but something about going into the dark for even just a few moments is too terrifying to even consider. 

He remembers what he saw during the time he wasn’t conscious - and none of it was very pretty. The words escape him, and for the life of him he can’t remember the names on the tip of his tongue, and that infuriates him to no end. 

“We’re just outside of town. You seemed lucid enough to walk just a few minutes ago, then you dropped like someone got you behind the ear with a bat!”

Was he? Had he really walked all the way back somehow? Did he just not remember, or… 

Well, what else could it have been? He’s gotta be sick or something, to be this off. Oh, he’s dying! That must be it! Whatever killed those assholes that chased him was coming for him now! He’s going to die, horribly and painfully, and maybe they won’t even bother digging a grave for him, maybe they’ll just leave him in the street, kick him off to the side somewhere- 

"̴̵̛͓̹͙̭̳͕̖̬͔͖̙̘̗̪̥̦W̶͍͓͙̬͓͓̱̺ͅh̵̬̙͕̦̩͟e҉̶̮̻̺̯̪̜͇͔̟̦͙̤͉͈̮̗͞ŗ̴̧̪̬̱͔̮̬̲ḙ̴͇̩̘̰͖̹̝̱̫͙͉̙̖͠͞ͅ ҉̶̡̖͔̗̘̩͙̺̫͝ͅa̖̜͍̼̪̫̳͕̭̣̰̤͘͝m̶̴̮̫̘̠͈̣̞̳̲̬͙͘͟͞ ̢̻̗͓̠̲͉͇͚̗͔͜I͉̤̖͉̝͉̰̖͇̩̥͓͠͠?͖͓͉̲͔͢ ̙̤̩͍͟Į̹̥̙̼̫͠ ̶͕̠̥̖͙͉͚̺̫͓̮͇̦͇̭̩͘͠͡ͅç̛͝͏͎̲̮̙̞͎͚͇͕͚̗̲͓a̴͓̮̭̱͉͓̣̹͍͟͝͠n͖͓͍̙͍̱͇̝̤t̢̛̯̬͕̲͓̬̠̺̦̙̰̯̹̳͖̪͍͜͜ͅ ̸͍͔͍͙̟f̶̡̦͍̼̦̲̺̹͖͖̹̱͍̼̰͍͢͝ͅe̴̝̹͚̟͎̻͉͙̝̹̯̘̻̫̱̺͢l̵̷̵͖̪̺̜̙̙͔̭̣̦̪̪̜͠ͅļ̺̬̙͔͕̬̬͍̭̦̦̙͡ ̷̸͇̱͚̖̞̰͚̰̖ͅm̵͢͞҉͇͉̺̘͇̲͉͚͕͍͈̣̹̰ͅͅy̡̖̬̜͝ ͟͏̗̮̺͕̹̣̜̻͙͖̙͔̠̦̟̝͈͞͝͠ͅͅh̷̘̮̭͍̭̥̘ͅa͏̧͙̠̣͕ṇ̵̞̩̮̼̪͖̥̣͉͉̲̖̱͈͞͡d͝͏͕͍̫͔̹͉͈͙̖̜̕͞ͅs̶҉̴̘̥̘̘̪͕͍̹̟̘̼͈̘̺̯͓ͅ,̷͏͇̱͉̯͈̫̯ ̸̧̼͙͖̖̖͢͢͞I̵̝͇̟̜̹̻͞ ̨̦̲̮͓̙͇̱̟̟̤͘͞͝ͅc̵͎̟͈̪̪̹̜̠͠͡͠͞ą̛͚̲̻͉̤̺̫̯̦̲͈͚̭͜n҉̛͍͇̖̙̯̫̮̮͈͠͡'҉̢̛͕͖͉͍̝̪̖̙̣̝̰͖̤̙t҉̷̡̹͇̪̪̬̯͉̩̮͈͡ͅ ̻̱̩̰̘̣͟͝͡b̸͏̶̨͖͓̟̟̣͖̗̩͍͖̠͓̙̦͔r̢̛̜̘̰̱̟͉̠̞̰̝͈͚͜͢͟"̨̤͉̰͇͕͉͉̠̞̬͚̞̫̲̻̰̱͉͝

“Breathe! Virgil, breathe with me-” he takes in a shuddering breath, and it just barely eases the burning in his lungs, “- in, that’s right, just like that, now hold for a moment, and out. And again…”

For some reason, all he can think about now is about how bad the taste in his mouth is, and how cold his insides feel compared to his burning skin. 

Virgil breathes, and he tries not to imagine inhaling ash. Because that’s all he can taste, now.

Chapter Text

“Names are weird, I think.”

Remy’s always preferred having company over being alone when he’s in a position to make that choice. Having someone to talk to about whatever he’s thinking, or any other meaningless topic. But sometimes there are things he just can’t tell anyone else, so he makes do with speaking them to himself, in the early hours of the morning or very late at night. 

“Like, first we all had a name to identify ourselves because it’s easier to get someone’s attention when there’s a specific word they’ve been trained to answer to. But like, that wasn’t enough, apparently. Because there are only so many names we could think of, so we gave ourselves a second name to tell people which family we’re from.”

He pauses for a moment to breathe and collect his thoughts. To put the words in the right order before he speaks them, because saying things without thinking them through - even just to himself - is disrespectful. 

“And then there’s a third name secretly stuck in between those first two because giving your full name supposedly gives someone power over you. So we have three names, two to identify ourselves, and one to keep secret. But I think most folks gave up on that belief or something, because sometimes they’ll just tell you if you ask - they won’t offer it outright, but they won’t protect it so much anymore. I remember when asking for someone’s middle name was like announcing to the whole town “hey, come burn me at the stake, bitches!”

...Yeah, maybe he’s overgeneralizing a bit. He only has one name, after all. Because even if you’re given a name it’s up to you to accept it, and he’s only ever let himself have the one he was born with, even if he doesn’t use it often. Technically “Remy” could be considered a second name, probably, but it’s just easier to say than “Interfectorem.” 

Sometimes he wishes that he didn’t believe in prophecies and the meaning behind names, but he’s not that stupid. Technically, it’s possible that he may have already fulfilled his purpose, that all that’s left for him is to watch and wait for the sun to go out and the world to start anew - for the next initium. 

But if that were true, he would be asleep by now. If he’s still conscious, and his vessel is holding up, then that means he still has work to do. And no one’s going to tell him who, or when, or even how. 

Remy must wait, and wait, and wait, forced to stay ever vigilant - an ironic punishment for his supposed laziness in the first few centuries, no doubt. 

“Don’t suppose anyone wants to trade?”

Silence answers him. Of course, he hadn’t been talking to anyone else in the first place. 

“...yeah. That’s about what I expected.”

. . .

Remus would happily be the first to admit that he has an absolutely terrible sense of smell, and just as bad (if not worse) hearing - in no small part due to all of the crazy shit he’s done over the years, but it could also be a genetic thing; he wouldn’t remember if that was the case. And while the rumors about the other senses becoming enhanced when others are dulled or taken away is complete bullshit, he has developed a pretty keen instinct for danger, in lieu of other ways of noticing it. Though he doesn’t really listen to that sense unless there’s a specific reason he doesn’t want to fuck with some Big Bad at the moment, or on the very rare occasion, the frightened and anxious chunk of his psyche is too much to ignore. 

So imagine his surprise when, before he’s even within the unofficial borders of End, every inch of his body screams at him to not go any further. It feels like being on the losing end of a fight with a bear, (and not in a sexy way) but where his body would usually demand that he fight, always fight, keep pushing forward because like hell he’s gonna let some fucking bear stop him- 

All there is is terror. The awful, knee-wobbling and gut-wrenching kind of terror that Remus hasn’t experienced since he was half as tall as he is now. Adrenaline doesn’t even give him the choice to run, instead, all of his joints lock up and he bites down so forcefully on his own teeth that the pain manages to distract him for the briefest moment.

“...you sense them as well, I take it?”

For all that he tries, his teeth remain glued together like gum to a wall after several years, because no one wanted to be the one to have to remove it. So he nods, not really sure if his daemon friend even sees it, until they respond. 

“A demon, no doubt. Though I am surprised to find one so near to such a large number of humans.”

It feels like forever before he finds the strength to move any part of his body, and even longer before he manages to take more than a single shuffling step in any direction. Once he can move, though, it seems to get easier and easier until all that remains of whatever the fuck that just was is a soreness in his jaw. Which is totally manageable, and not something he’s unaccustomed to, but he hates it anyway. 

Because if he can feel it, that means all that shit actually happened and wasn’t some freaky hallucination that he could brush off like all the others. Of course, he’s going to act like none of that shit affected him to the best of his ability and get on with the rest of his life, but it would have been nice if the feelings could be genuine.

He’s no liar, it’s just that sometimes there’s more important shit than dwelling on his own messed up head and feelings. 

Maybe the choice of whether or not continue on the same path would have been harder for other people, but after a few moments deliberation, Remus decides that a nonphysical being isn’t going to stop him from exploring; emotional manipulation or not, he’s not the kind of guy who’s afraid of things. (Not anything tangible, anyways…)

“Wonder if these fuckers also look like vampires.”

“Those creatures are supposedly fictitious. How are you so sure of what a vampire should look like?”

“It’s pretty simple: pale skin, a set of pointy fangs and dark hair! No garlic, which would honestly make me want to jump off a cliff - well, more than usual, anyway - no crosses or wooden stakes, and lots of blood-sucking. The universal factors of a vampire!”

“Universal? I hardly think anyone living outside of this planet would be aware of vampires, let alone outside of this galaxy.”

“What? No- there’s totally space vampires!”

. . . 

It’s been almost a month since he was in End, and it hasn’t changed a bit. Well, there’s the problem of the angry and volatile demon hovering between the woods and western edge of town, but other than that nothing looks different. 

Remy takes a moment to observe the barely-visible movements of the demon - a thin orange mist is all that he can clearly see, but his other senses tell him it’s human-shaped. Which means the only vessel that will sate it is a human, and probably one that lives nearby. 

...Humans, at least the religious ones, have always been so freaked out over whether or not something will try to possess them at some point, but in reality, it’s super rare for a demon to be destined to take a human form. All demons have a predetermined shape, but for some reason, every person he’s ever talked to about possession seems to think it’s a voluntary choice or something. 

Sure, sometimes it’s necessary to take up a body that isn’t meant for you in order to stay stable until your body is born, but who in their right mind would possess a human unless they absolutely had to? He remembers all of the years he spent waiting for the human soul inside of his vessel to die so that he could finally do anything. All that worrying over whether or not they could be possessed, that none of them bothered to think that maybe their souls were just too damn stubborn to give over any autonomy.

Whatever. He’s tired of thinking - he’s had a full month to do nothing but that, really. Today, Remy has some pals to catch up with, and maybe a demon to take care of if it gets too rowdy. 

. . . 

“You know… I don’t remember telling you where I live.”

“Who said you told me?”

It’s been a sucky couple of hours, but Virgil doesn’t feel as shitty as he did this morning, so that’s a plus. Mom and dad are out, but Honey is there to verbally harass him for all of them. Honestly, if he’d know that he was going to pass out half a dozen times from a fever he doesn’t know the source of, he wouldn’t have gotten out of bed today. But hindsight is irrelevant to his baby sister, and Janus as well apparently. 

“...fair enough. Can I at least get up and stretch a bit?”

“I don’t know, are you going to fall over and make me drag your ass back into bed?” As unforgiving as ever. Really, he doesn’t know if she’s still mad about what he said a few weeks ago, or just today.

“Probably not?”

“If you can say that like an answer and not a question, I’ll give you exactly five minutes.”

“I probably won’t fall over and make you drag me back into bed.”

She nods, and even has the grace to leave the room as she says: “Clock’s ticking, Virge! Five minutes.”

It’s enough to spring him into action - Honey can match a watch tick for tick when she’s feeling like it, and five minutes really isn't a lot. Spots dance across his vision for a minute when he stands, and Janus’s hand on his arm is the only thing that keeps him from face-planting. He did say maybe. There isn’t a whole lot he can do in the twenty-square-feet space, but Virgil tries to move around as much as he can anyway - slowly. 

“I didn’t think you were being so serious when you called her… what was it?”

“The family dictator. Yeah, though it’s usually just stress I think. She only gets this way when she’s worried about someone, or if she’s pissed off. Honey’s just…”

“Passionate? Hard-headed?”

“Yeah. Thanks for bringing me here… I don’t think I said that yet.”

“Oh yes, because I was so close to leaving a friend to die or be robbed in the streets while he was convulsing on the ground.”

“I mean… a lot of people would. Some would have done the robbing themselves. So… thanks, for helping me. Even if it’s kinda creepy that you know which house is mine.”

They both laugh at that, though it’s a bit subdued.

“I… I didn’t follow you or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. An older lady was worried about you when she passed by, and I asked if she knew where you lived. I may be one for mystique and flair, but I don't’ stalk people. Not the ones I like, anyhow.”

“Good to know, I guess. And that was probably Jenny, she’s always ready to help people - especially ones who’re friends with daemons.” 

Either they had been waiting for a chance to speak or had impeccable timing, but the cobra (currently sitting around Janus’s shoulders) chose then to speak up. 

“A sensible human, then. Does she have chickens?”

Janus found that very amusing for some reason, and Virgil could only be confused. Jenny’s never kept animals of any kind, as far as he’s aware… 

He doesn’t get the chance to answer, however, before Honey is barging back into the room and shooing him into bed. It isn’t until his head hits the pillow that he realized just how tired he is, despite having only been conscious for a fraction of the day, and the world fades into warm, comfortable, heavy as he drifts off.

. . . 

Boy in black is near?

Yes, very near. 

We found him? We found us? 

We found him, we found him, we found him. 

Why isn’t he here then? Why are we still alone?

The sneaky cat sneaks him away from us. Says it is not time. 

Not time? Not time yet? But it has been so long, so long, how is it not time?

So long, yes so so long. They must be wrong.

Sneaky cat is wrong? Cat is hiding boy in black? 

Sneaky cat wants boy in black for for themself, we must take.

Take? We will take? 

Yes, soon, yes we will take.

Chapter Text

Logan understands well enough that it is nearly impossible for one to just not think about something, and that his time would be better spent by redirecting his thoughts elsewhere, but that doesn’t make the process any easier. The best way to assure that neither of his parents discovered that a daemon had been in their home was for Logan himself to forget it had happened - but nearly a full week of efforts to do so had proven fruitless. 

The worst part of the whole experience, truly, was that he found himself desiring Wheaty’s company; not for any discernible reason, he simply missed the creature’s presence and commentary. It had been… pleasant to speak with someone that was not his family or thrice his age, for once. (At the very least, Wheaty had not spoken at all like someone older than him - more like a peer who perhaps had more experience, but was willing to learn anyways.)

Of course, this is what Logan told himself every night that found himself leaving the windows open - only enough so that something palm-sized could squeeze through. And who could fault him for venturing into town to buy a bag of gumdrops, leaving them within plain sight of anyone who might peek through the window? No, he did not personally enjoy the treats, but no one needs to know that. 

...He should have expected that someone besides Wheaty might be interested in the less-than-subtle invitation. 

“You know, it isn’t very smart to leave these open when it’s raining.”

Logan doesn’t care for the small burst of excitement he feels at hearing the small, high pitched voice behind him, nor the great disappointment when he sees not a clever field mouse, but a marginally larger yellow bird shaking the water from its feathers. 

“...The floor isn’t carpeted, and there are no electrical outlets or devices nearby, so I don’t see why not.”

“Well, there’s also the fact that it makes it pretty easy for someone like me to get inside.”

“Perhaps that was the intention.”

“That’d be kinda weird considering we’ve never met before, but sure. Maybe you just really wanted to be visited by the local fauna - of which there are almost none, in this place.” 

Sarcasm isn’t exactly his forte, but he can understand when someone is making fun of his logic, or doesn’t really believe him, and is choosing to express those feelings in an… unconstructive manner. At the very least, this daemon didn’t show any signs of wanting to cause harm - in fact, he’s having trouble discerning what they want at all, if anything. Thankfully they seem content to continue the conversation without waiting for a response to their rhetorical non-question:

“Honestly, I almost didn’t come here, but someone special seems to think you need somebody to keep an eye on you, and you did leave a rather convenient open door for me, so here I am! Keeping an eye on you.”

“...Not one part of that statement made even remote sense.”

“Maybe not to you, but that’s not really my problem. So, you’re not dying or anything, right? You’re peachy-keen and I can be on my way now?”

“I suppose… who sent you, exactly?”

“Like I said! Someone special, who’s attention you don’t deserve at all in my humble opinion, but they’re kinda like that. Caring about people they shouldn’t.”

With that, the bird (a yellow warbler, by his guess) ducked out of the window and took off, leaving Logan alone in his room, with a partially wet floor and no idea if he had completely imagined the entire interaction. 

. . . 

...They aren’t entirely sure what they should have been expecting when someone started knocking on the front door, and frankly, Janus didn’t know what to make of… Remy even after he’d introduced himself. He and Virgil were clearly friends, and he didn’t seem threatening in any way besides the smell. It was hard to describe it besides being… contradicting and very very confusing.

Like if a years-rotten and maggot-infested piece of meat had honey dumped over it. Ugly and utterly unsavory on the inside, barely masked with a thin layer of sweetness that could only hope to trick those with complete anosmia for any length of time. Of course, that meant that no one but Janus and Impuis would detect it most likely- human senses could be so annoyingly dull, sometimes. (Though with their own less-than-functional eyesight, that might be a bit hypocritical to say.)

With how easily Virgil seemed to get along with the guy, though, then they could probably relax… for now. No matter how long you’re friends with someone, it never means that you know everything about them - about what they might be capable of. No, they aren’t worried for Virgil’s sake, if someone so rotten was around of course they have cause for alarm!

Impius, however, was not as patient and chose to get out immediately - and rather ungracefully. Wiggling around Janus’s shoulders and flopping onto the floor, taking only a moment to right themselves, their (arguably only) ally slithered away. How they planned to leave the house when the front door had already been shut was a small blip on Janus’s radar at the moment.

“Dang- I didn’t even see the snake, babe! Where were you hiding that little guy - where are they goin’?”

“...I wasn’t hiding them. You’re wearing sunglasses inside, at night.”

“For the aesthetic, hun! Who cares if I’m a little blind, it’s totally worth it.”

Virgil was either used to these antics or was too tired to really laugh, because he only smiled a little ruefully and shook his head. 

“Yeah, don’t bother arguing with Rem about fashion - he’ll never listen. No idea how he’s survived this long, honestly.”

“Rude! I can take care of myself and look fabulous doing it, thank you very much!”

Janus had never felt so out of the depth in their life; for years it had been a struggle just to be within a dozen feet of other people, let alone lively people. And while Virgil was at least mindful of conversing loudly in public or sharing any secrets that were too sensitive, he seemed to lose what reservation he had when Remy had arrived. 

The smell was steadily growing worse - or perhaps they were simply no longer fooled by the poor disguise. But while they would like nothing more than to make the first move, or simply flee altogether as Impius had - something told Janus they needed to stay put…

“-ey! You listening, babe? Her Majesty asked if you’re any good at poker.”

“I told you not to call me that-”

“No worse than you, I’d think.” There was no reason they couldn’t test this guy’s poker face and keep an eye on everyone inside at once until it felt safe to leave.

. . . 

Look, he’s totally of the mind that anyone can learn to do anything with enough time, and like, instructions from someone who knows how, but card games aren’t exactly something he’d ever focused a whole lot on. Besides the fact that he rarely had anything worth betting, he just didn’t spend too much time around humans - not ones who played poker, anyway. 

So it shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise to him when he sucked at blackjack, but even if Remy didn’t suck, he’s pretty sure that Honey would have screwed them all over anyways. It’s like- she didn’t even have a poker face! She made pretty obvious expressions, but then she’d use that against them - it wasn’t a poker face at all, it was just lying with facial expressions instead of words! 

He couldn’t feel as bad as Virge probably was at the moment - he’d laid down twenty, but as they say - the house always wins. The newcomer, Janus, scored themself a few rounds, but in a much quieter way. They had a true poker face - not giving any hints of feeling any particular emotion, besides a little smugness when they won a round.

And while the “smoke break” he was taking was partially out of frustration and the need for some fresh air, (he can’t even remember the last time he smoked, just that it had been an awful experience and he had no idea how this body had put up with it for so long) but also to get a read on the demon outside. It was much closer now, but obviously attempting to mask it’s presence now - all he knew was that it was close, but not how close. 

Outside it was dark - the moon was just barely visible enough through the clouds to light anything up, and his shades are meant to block out a lot of sunlight, but he’d have to be fucking blind to not notice the bright orange figure not five paces in front of him. They didn’t move yet, didn’t say anything, or even blink, but they didn't have to. It was pretty obvious what they were here for, now that Remy could make them out clearly; he wonders if he had ever looked so similar to his host, back then. 

From toe to tip, the demon standing before him glowed a faint tangerine color, both opaque and crystal clear at once, in a way human eyes would never have understood. He could see them, (him) at the same time that he could not - and what he saw was a mirror image of Virgil Strosser. He was here for his body, and Remy could feel in the air that there would be no stopping him - no prolonging the inevitable. 

All he could do was step aside, and try to stop his hands from trembling as the figure moved past and disappeared inside. It would be a shame when he would eventually have to see his friend being walked around in by a stranger, but hopeful that wouldn’t be for many decades yet. 

. . . 

Poker with Honey was always a lost cause, (especially with her as the dealer) but it was something to do - and he could tell Janus and Remy were both having fun, despite the rather exaggerated complaints and whining from the latter each time he lost. It was shaping up to be a decent night, and with the lunch plans he has with Patton and Roman tomorrow, he could even call it a pretty decent week! Tuesday would come and there was always more work to do, but he’d get through it. They all would. 

...When Remy stepped out for a break, that pretty much ended the card games, for now. Honey was putting things away under the pretense of being bored with the game, and Janus made themself comfy on the only armchair. Or, as comfy as one could get on that thing - he knew for sure that there was a broken spring on it, but they didn’t show any outward signs of being upset about it. 

He was about to follow them - ask if they were going to stay the night or leave to go sleep… wherever they had been this past week, when he felt the heat. It wasn’t as oppressive as it had been before, it didn’t immediately deprive him of oxygen and make him feel like he’d been set on fire, but it was recognizable enough. 

Virgil just managed to steady himself against the arm of the couch he’d just gotten up from before he fell over or something, but just a moment later it felt like all of the air had been forced out of him; someone, or something maybe- had run into him from behind and knocked him to the ground, and for the first time he could feel the radiant burn from the inside, too.

He’d been fine for most of the night so far - he’d felt so much better, so why? Why only now was it getting worse, and why, for the life of him, couldn’t he seem to make any part of his body work the way he wanted it to?

Someone was talking - he could understand that much. But who it was, or if they were speaking to him, specifically, he couldn’t be sure. Not that any of that mattered very much, Virgil thought, as the world faded to black. 

All that mattered was the bright, flashing 6 stuck behind his eyelids.

. . . 

Why are we still missing us? Boy in black is here, he is with us, so why are we still wrong?

I do not… we must be right. We have him, we must be complete. 

Complete… or even further from where you started?

No! We must be complete, we must be where we are meant to-

But we are WRONG! We are not complete! WE ARE NOT-

We are- 

WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WE ARE WRONG

You have all the pieces, but they do not fit together, yet…

What does that mean for us, what do we- 

You wait. We wait, I suppose… 

Wait? 

Wait? 

Wait. 

Chapter Text

Ahhhh fuck it. My hyperfocus has settled on HDLK for the moment so it's gonna be a few more days before I can get the next chapter of this out, while I work on editing the first two chapters and writing the third of Heroism. Love yall, see ya in a bit ;P

Chapter Text

End Town, 20XX. Years since the human-daemon war: 307

Spring has always been Patton’s favorite season - not that he really dislikes any of them, but spring will always be the best! The flowers are blooming and the trees get their leaves back, most anything planted is ready to be picked or uprooted - it’s just a very lovely time. And, since the weather is nice and people are relaxing, it’s a lot easier to convince his friends to take the day off and set up a picnic a little way into the woods! 

Roman’s in the middle of explaining how ve finally managed to shape the skirt of a ballerina figurine he’s been working on to look like real, flowing fabric when Virgil arrives, looking tired and pale as usual - and he has someone else with him, too! Patton doesn’t recognize them, which is saying something considering they have half a face of scales and a daemon wrapped around their neck! (Well, the snake may or may not be a daemon, but Patton’s never seen one with orange eyes before, so he’s going with his gut here.)

“Hey, Vee! Who’s this?”

“Hi Pat, Ro. This is Janus - they’re kinda new in town.”

Janus did an exaggerated curtsy, which he knew basically guaranteed Roman’s approval - really, he would say that’s what won him over too, but they’d gotten that Patton Debenzel seal-of-approval a few moments prior; just making Virgil smile wide enough to show teeth could be a chore, sometimes - someone who could make him laugh so openly and genuinely was just about the best person alive, as far as he was concerned. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you Janus! Are you coming with us?”

“I’m afraid not - I’m just here to be introduced, I have some things to attend to outside of town.”

“Oh! You’re not leaving so soon, are you?”

“No, no. Just a little day trip…”

Something about the way they spoke set him a little on edge, honestly, but there was nothing to worry about, really. Surely Janus knows how to take care of themselves, and while it wasn’t impossible, Patton didn’t really take Janus as they type to feel left out over something like a picnic between friends. Maybe he was just imagining things. 

“Well then, I believe it is time we were on our way! Daemon-walker, be sure to bring the snake charmer around more often.”

“...Snake charmer?”

“You have a scaly friend right around your neck!”

Yeah, Roman was in hook, line, and sinker. Thankfully no one asked him for the reason behind his (pretty obvious) amusement, and they were off into the woods with no more interruptions. 

. . . 

Just a small relapse, was all Honey had in way of an explanation for the other night. It happens when you’re sick, sometimes - you start to feel better and everything’s fine, and then suddenly the symptoms are back for seemingly no reason. He hasn’t told anyone yet, but he knows he died last night; if the fact that he suddenly was perfectly fine the next morning wasn’t an indicator, the whispers of six, six, six, and you fool, you let it consume you, your flesh is infected bone-deep, now were a red flag the size of a bus stuck on top of a forty-foot pole. 

But even that explanation didn’t quite sit right with him - he knew it was correct, it just felt like it wasn’t the whole truth. Like there was a puzzle, and Virgil had solved it, but there was a smaller, secret set of puzzle pieces still in the box that he’d missed before that would complete the image for real. All the while his skin buzzed and itched, his insides feeling too bloated to fit inside of him all at once, and the colors of the world around him felt dull. 

Part of his mind had simply refused to let him wear his usual outfit today- the pants and boots were the same, since he only had so many variations of each, but he was wearing an orange shirt he didn’t even remember having; his hoodie was tied around his waist instead of on his back, not needed for the current weather but it felt like a small piece of his soul was missing with the missing weight. But Virgil just hadn’t been able to make himself wear it, it made the itch turn into a burn and it felt just as wrong to have it on as it had to not wear it, so he compromised.

...He made sure to remove it before sitting in the grass with his friends, to avoid stains - laying it across his lap instead. Honestly he’s ruined enough clothes thinking that just because it wasn’t sitting directly on dirt that it would be safe, and the amount of water and soap needed to use a washing machine was something he could only hope of ever possessing. 

“Y’know, Roman, just because you tan instead of burning like me and Pat doesn’t mean sunscreen is optional.”

“Oh, please - you’re just jealous of my amazing golden tan and freckles, don’t lie.”

“Skin cancer isn’t a lie.”

“We’re under a tree! You know, in the shade. Stop trying to get that awful smelling mess on my perfect skin, you fiend!”

“He’s right, Ro! Just because we’re in the shade right now doesn’t mean we’re completely safe.”

“Not you too, Patton!” 

Maybe it would have been a more relaxing and humorous conversation any other day, but today Virgil found himself struggling to keep up with the conversation. He heard the words and replied easily, but his brain just couldn’t quite keep up with what he was saying. He’d gone into “autopilot mode” before, doing things and moving like he wasn’t even there, like it was someone else entirely, and this felt similar but… 

All of those times it hadn’t been his mind filing to catch up, he was aware of where he was and what he was doing, he just didn’t have to consciously put forth the effort to move and take action. This felt like he just couldn’t process any of the audio or visual input being fed into his brain, he hadn’t chosen to sit back and turn on auto mode, he’d been shoved aside for someone else to take the wheel. 

“Come on, it’s maybe a minute of unpleasantness and then you can’t even feel or see it - what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is that it smells like someone took a bath in chemicals made for cleaning your sink, and you can totally feel it after it’s rubbed in, it’s sticky and gross!”

“Well, last I checked, you’re still not immune to the sun, so…”

“Maybe not, but I’m a lot less threatened by it than you ashen amigos!” 

“Statistically, you’re the odd one out in this debate.”

“Oh who cares about statistics? This is simply a matter of principle, daemon-walker, I will not put that atrocious concoction on my skin!” 

Even if he had been fully in control of himself at the moment, Virgil wouldn’t have felt too strongly about winning this debate - he and Roman have had it at least a dozen times by now. Ve just doesn’t care for sunscreen, and so far ve hasn’t gotten any sunburns so Virgil’s been content to leave it be. There was no winning here, not when he’d already conceded every time before - it’d look weird to suddenly be so pushy about it. 

Sometimes he thought it was a little weird, how easily Roman tanned and how dark vis skin was, even after not leaving the house for several days in a row. Ve claims that ve was raised by royals and kidnapped as a child by pirates, like some sort of long-lost prince. A nice fantasy, but more likely Roman had just had parents that immigrated before the travel ban, or something similar. The only country that even still had a monarchy is Tiotet, and the royal family had very little influence over their military. 

...He doesn’t remember knowing that much about any of the countries outside of his own, considering he’s never had a reason to study them nor the means to, besides occasionally meeting older people who weren’t born in Embry-Fir. Maybe he’d picked it up somewhere and forgot until now, hell there’s a decent chance Virgil had made it up on the spot, simply believing it was right for no reason other than he didn’t have anyone who could tell him it wasn’t. But… no. He’s pretty confident, at least in the fact itself, and that’s not how he usually feels about facts he cannot reasonably confirm. 

Just throw that into the pile of shit that’s “to be dealt with maybe never” he thinks.

Dealt with? What is wrong? What must be dealt with?

Virgil would like his parents to think that he didn’t have as… wide of a vocabulary as he does, though he knows they’ve probably heard examples on occasion. Nothing he’s ever said before has ever matched the sudden short-circuit in his brain that causes the absolute mountain of garbage coming from his mouth, which maybe he should be thankful for. Patton likes to keep up pretenses of not swearing and discouraging others from it, but he’d learned quite a few new vocab words once when the blacksmith had dropped a very heavy box on his own foot. And Roman may not swear vimself, but ve’s never cared about anyone else cursing as long as it wasn’t at vim.

It’s safe to say that despite all of this, he startled both of them a lot - and his brain hasn’t even fully caught up to what he’d heard or said. After a moment, Virgil decides that he can wait a moment or two before answering his friend’s confused and worried expressions, if only so that he can get a solid response formulated besides “I’m so sorry but don’t worry it’s probably nothing haha.” 

Because it’s not. Nothing. That wasn’t some intrusive thought or half-formed passing thought. That was a fully-formed sentence, that he did not come up with on his own, inside his head. Now, unless he’s suddenly and uncontrollably developed the ability to read minds, and Roman or Patton are currently having some really weird trains-of-thought, then… well he doesn’t have an explanation. Was he hearing things? The voice hadn’t sounded like an outside voice, though, it fully felt like his own voice - if maybe a little higher. It was like he’d had the thought , just not of his own volition.

He’s going to have to ask Honey if any of the pain-killers she forced on him are hallucinogenic, and then he’ll have to revisit the “does my body retain drugs and food I’ve consumed after a death” debate because he hasn’t taken anything since last night. 

“Uh… Virge? You okay over there?”

“That was quite the display, daemon-walker…”

Right! Friends, probably disturbed and frightened ones, sitting not two feet away from him that he has to reassure! 

“I.. I think I’m. Fine? Sorry I don’t… I dunno what happened just then.” Perfect. Fucking amazing job, Virgil, you just solved exactly zero problems and now you’re playing dumb?

Was it playing dumb if he genuinely doesn’t know what happened, but still has more context than the others? Maybe. Probably. But he doesn’t have a better exit strategy besides deflecting over and over until his friends dropped the subject and he could have some time to figure out what the hell is wrong with him.

“Alrighty! If you’re sure, but just… you can tell us when something’s wrong, Virgil.”

“Indeed! We will be your enraptured audience for as long as you need.”

Oh. Right. Friends are supposed to trust each other to be honest and not attack one another over suspicious answers. Why would he ever doubt that? The only other friends he has have never acted differently, and the people who’ve overstepped or pressured him were never friends. He doesn’t have any other frame of reference, so what does he have to doubt? 

He knows these people. He trusts them, they trust him. Virgil would do anything for them, and he has. 

But have they done the same for us?

. . .

Remy doesn’t know what to do. Technically, he hasn’t known what to do for quite some time, but now he’s even more unsure. One of his friends has been possessed and is probably still dealing with the aftershocks of it without even fully understanding what’s happened. 

And he just ran away, like a goddamn coward, because he didn’t do anything to prevent or even stall it. He gave no explanations, no consoling words, he just avoided the problem altogether by fleeing. Some part of his brain tries to justify it - that cat daemon hadn’t been pleased with his presence, not because of what had transpired, but because they obviously recognized who he was. What he is. He can’t risk them saying anything, he can’t rock the boat, really he shouldn't have been hanging around these humans in the first place. 

Yeah, it’s better if Remy leaves without saying anything. They can all assume he died somewhere, or just abandoned them. It’d hurt, and not just them, but he’s too disappointed in himself to consider going back. 

Maybe it happens because he wasn’t paying attention, or marginally more likely it was just fated to happen, but on his way out of town, he runs into someone. Literally, they slam into him with the force of someone who’d been running from something, or someone, and they both end up on the ground. Remy on his back and them partly sprawled over him. 

They’d dropped something on his chest, and after a moment he realizes it’s moving- oh. A badger. A badger daemon, if the green shimmer of their eyes is any clue - though the lime green light shining off of them was already a pretty good clue, as well. And it’s then that he realizes that he can see the color green so brightly and clearly because his shades have been knocked off his face. Any other day he might have brought himself to care, but right now keeping up appearances and pretending to be something he’s so obviously not is just not important to him. 

The stranger (not from around here, Remy thinks. The skin is too dark, the hair too light, for them to be from this side of the continent, let alone Embry-Fir at all) doesn’t apologize, but rather stands up quickly, grabs Remy’s hand and pulls him off the ground, and proceeds to drag him into a nearby ally. 

“Not that I don’t like to be on top and all, but I was kinda in the middle of something. I guess I should say sorry for knocking you on your ass, but I’m really not.”

...A lot to take in at once, but also painfully simple and straightforward. Considering this person hasn’t really done anything wrong besides being generally clueless about their surroundings, Remy’s not keen on trying to argue with them right now.

“Right. You helped me up, anyway, so I guess there’s no need for an apology.”

“See, you get it! Name’s Remus, by the way!”

...Well shit. Not a stranger, then, but almost. 

He remembers Remus Mincieli, of course he does. The most interesting person he’d met in the last ten years, easily, and maybe it stings a little that the guy seemingly doesn’t recognize him. Remy’s body has barely even aged in the time since they last saw each other! Which begs the question: had Remus been here this entire time? And if so, why hadn’t Remy seen him in all this time? Maybe he’d hopped back on that glorified sailboat of his and returned after a couple of years, but that doesn’t feel right, somehow. 

“I’m Remy. Wanna tell me what’s up with the daemon you’re carrying like a baby around town?”

It seems they have a lot of catching up to do. Or, at least, he does.

Chapter Text

Remus’s memory is notoriously fuzzy and awful, but he does recall a decent portion of his life. At least, he’s got the cliff notes and it doesn’t bug him when he can’t remember the specific words someone said to him, or what he ate that day, or even the names and faces of who he’d been with. If he doesn’t remember, it obviously wasn’t that important to him. 

After all, even after all this time and… what happened that ye shall not speak of, he still remembers Roman. He remembers mom and momma’s faces. He still remembers the important things.

. . . 

It’s been well over a month since they first landed in Embry-Fir, and while he doesn’t really think that weeks and weeks on the ship with no escape route would be much better, he’s getting bored. They've never stayed in one place for so long, at least not since Remus can remember, besides a few outliers. Still, the crew is efficient and damn good at getting all of their shit sold and then restocked within two, three weeks at the most. He’s taken to spending a significant amount of his time drunk, because there isn’t any work to do and the captain hasn’t so much as breathed in his particular direction for going on two weeks now. No new chores, no need to be sober. 

It’s not like he’d expected to get in a fight. He never does, though it’s always welcome. Remus had stopped expecting things some time ago; well, that’s not entirely true. He just stopped expecting things from people, because he’d learned that that got people killed, in his line of work. You don’t expect good or bad things from anyone, you just go with the flow and if good things happen, be merry but alert. If bad things happen, beat whoever’s causing the problems until they can’t be a problem anymore, and be merry once it's resolved. Don’t linger on the details, and don’t ever feel guilty. 

Of course, that doesn’t mean one isn’t allowed to hold grudges and such, so long as it’s dealt with quickly and without too much fanfare. Someone wrongs you, you teach them not to do it again - you don’t stew in your anger for too long and don’t try to rope others into it. Either forget the slight or do something about it. Plain and simple. 

The point is when two members of the crew decide they want him dead - don’t ask him why, fuck knows Remus hadn’t been listening to their rants. Even if he had, he’d been piss drunk at the time and would barely be able to recount the details of the battle later. 

He’d been leaning over the starboard bow, staring into the inky depths of the ocean sometime around midnight. Definitely way too early to retire from any sort of party, but the bar had run out of good booze and fun things to do rather quickly once it had gotten crowded enough. The sound of a sword - two, actually - being unsheathed is what drew his attention. There hadn’t been much noise to cover it up, after all; the soft thumping of waves against the boat and faint creaking of planks beneath leather boots were both too familiar and too quiet to mask much of anything, for Remus. 

Now, he wasn’t afraid of the two cutlasses pointing in his direction, nor the idiots wielding them. The squat lady was pretty shit with a weapon, only good with her fists and a set of brass knuckles, and the tall guy with the unpronounceable northern name is decent with a sword but gets seasick more quickly than a baseball shatters glass. He knows this because Remus makes it his business to fight every member of the crew at least once or twice before deciding to care about them, and these two had both miserably failed. 

Once they realize he isn’t listening, they get angry and the guy lunges at him. With a side-step that’s actually more of a stumble that nearly lands him on his ass, Remus dodges and draws his own blade - a two-foot double-edged rapier. Normally he’d use something a little larger, like a hammer or even a morning star, but he doesn’t carry one of those on his hip at all times. Too heavy and fucking annoying if you don’t secure it right and it hits your leg all the time-

His train of thought is interrupted by the woman (whatever the fuck her name is, he’s gonna call her fuckface one, and the guy fuckface two) stepping in close with a clumsy thrust, which he doesn’t full dodge but doesn’t even need to. It barely grazes his forearm, and while it stings the alcohol is doing a good job of making sure he doesn’t feel it all too bad. With what he thinks is a pretty decent slash, Remus makes a pretty good line down her face, from the left eyebrow to a little below the right ear. 

Of course, this is all ruined by fuckface two fucking copying him, making a poorly-aimed but forceful vertical slash across his back - shoulder to hip. Fucking superb, if it wasn’t so goddamn annoying. He does feel a little proud of fuckface two though, at least he has the drive and passion, and he even says as much. 

They don’t take it too well. 

Fuckface one, apparently not too disturbed by the flush of blood pouring over her eyes and dripping down her chin, goes for another, fairly-similar thrust with her sword, which he attempts to parry, but just can’t resist the force behind her attack. His knees are weak and his hands would be trembling if they weren’t on his sword. Haha, that’s a good joke, right? Probably? Personally, Remus is of the mind that all dick jokes are funny, it’s just that some people have poor taste.

Neither of his companions laughs, and he chooses to believe it’s because he hadn’t actually said the joke out loud, rather than they wouldn’t have appreciated the humor. 

His musings leave him vulnerable once more, and fuckface two puts his blade right through Remus’s side. Which, ow that fucking hurts, but also hey! Blood! And it’s his, and he can see it! Also, it’s not like every day you get to see the business end of a cutlass coming out your front, so he’s having a unique and (obviously objectively) funny experience. Maybe if fuckface pulls the blade out soon, he’ll have enough time to stick his fingers through the hole before he loses consciousness. Probably forever. 

It’s always nice to dream, isn’t it? The reality is that he’ll vaguely remember putting his sword through fuckface one’s heart in retaliation before everything going dark, and waking up with little to no memory of the event and a considerable number of other things about his life, as well. Anoxia, from being dumped overboard and nearly drowning after presumably getting caught in a riptide and being carried miles away. That’s how Thomas explained it, at least, and Thomas is a pretty smart guy sometimes.

. . .

It’s not that Remus is uncomfortable waking up somewhere other than a bed - honestly, the only time he’s come to anywhere other than the floor (or the ceiling, that one week) was after a fight that left him unconscious long enough that some of the crew got tired of stepping over him and dragged him to the infirmary. So all things considered, the soft sandy beach is a pretty awesome place to wake up in, especially with the fresh sting of salt water in his wounds, but he’s kinda confused; the boat’s nowhere to be seen, and neither is the city they’d been docked at. Had he gone swimming in his sleep? Sitting up and feeling only marginally upset that his sword was no longer at his hip, Remus spun in a couple of lazy circles to see where he was at. 

“A beach, fuckin’ obviously.” Exactly. A beach. But not a beach he’s ever been on, and there’s no mountains in the distance like before. There’s a pretty decent cliff to the… northish? A little right of where the sun is right now, but without a clue what time it is that doesn’t really help him, so he’s just gonna call it north.

He’s hungry, which is the most prominent thing to him at the moment. Less importantly is the fact that he doesn’t have anything to stop him from bleeding out, though he’s not exactly gushing at the moment. As much as he loves to watch his guts through the hole in his side all day, he won’t be able to if he loses too much of the juice keeping him going. 

Remus settles for awkwardly tying the sash from his waist around his middle instead, but it doesn’t do a whole lot. With that settled, though, he figures now is about time to find something to eat, preferably something he has to kill first. 

...Crab meat is slimy and fun to have in his mouth, and about as fun to swallow, but it’s not as filling as he’d thought it would be, but he’s not interested enough in finding another one and trying to catch it, the fuckers are fast and he’s tired. 

It’d be easy enough to set up a fire and sleep the day away, but his curiosity is stronger than the blood loss so he sets out in the direction that feels right - onwards the cliff he saw earlier. It’s not far, and it’s very big, so he’s going to climb that shit and… do something when he gets to the top. He’ll figure it out when he gets there, alright? 

. . .

Thomas had never wanted a lavish life; not that he didn’t indulge in the fantasy every now and then. No, he’d only wanted to live quietly with the ones he loves, and so far he’s managed to do that pretty well. 

Joan and Talyn visit every week, and Leo at least twice a month. Those who can’t quite make the trip to his little home on the beach always send very nice letters and occasionally they can converse by radio. For all that his life isn’t very exciting, it’s at least fulfilling and much better than he could have ever hoped. He wonders if anyone from the other side of the wall had ever thought such a life would be possible over here - surely not, if they went to all the trouble to separate the End Lands from the rest of the country. 

None of this matters all that much, it’s simply what comes most to mind as he stares at the comatose stranger in his living room - his life had been so easy. Why should he disrupt it all with this? Of course, he couldn’t leave the guy lying face-down in the sand at the cliff’s summit, clearly wounded and exhausted, but the stranger has a dangerous look about them that makes him think maybe he could regret not doing so, in the future. 

Tanned skin of a kind that was never white to begin with, but has grown a little pale with blood loss, hair light and sun-bleached, with just a hint of chestnut brown at the roots. A rather tasteless and ungroomed mustache, and the unkempt beginnings of a beard. Scars a plenty, most small but fresh, with a few larger ones; he suspects the gash in his side will turn into quite a nasty one, as Thomas is no professional with a thread and needle. He knows enough, but nothing like a surgeon who could make such a wound look like no more than a kitten’s scratch after the fact. 

Obviously, no matter how much Thomas would hate to assume, this person is some sort of criminal, or someone tangled up in something much bigger and more awful than they had estimated. He’d be best off calling someone from town who could help them, who could take them in and find out what happened, but… after they wake up and have something to eat, at least. 

…If they wake up at all, that is. 

. . .

If Remus was asked to pick a favorite color, it’d probably be red. Not bright red, more like the shade of someone’s insides - though that actually wasn’t the reason it’s his favorite; he likes it because it was Roman’s favorite color, (at least it was the last time he’d asked, which had been quite a long time ago) and since then he just couldn’t really look at any other color the same way. Not that he’d had a favorite in the first place, or really prefers any color over another for more than a few moments, but… yeah, his favorite color is red.

So maybe it’s the exhaustion or the near-fatal injury speaking, but Thomas’s eyes are very pretty. At first, he’d thought they were brown, but when the guy had crouched down to check Remus’s head for fever or something, the light had caught them at just the right angle to reveal that they were actually an amazing shade of crimson. Other than that, he looked pretty normal - brown hair, pale skin and a nose that had definitely been broken at some point but had been fixed nice enough. He could even see some freckles if he squinted enough. 

“Maybe it’s a concussion after all?”

“What?” Oh, Thomas had been talking. It’s weird how some people just start saying things and expect him to listen, or even know that they’re talking right away. At least try to get his attention first, sheesh. 

“You’ve kinda just been… staring for a few minutes. I know you’ve barely been up an hour, but can you see and hear alright?”

Yeah, he’s already been up a whole hour, why are they still playing doctor? He’s fine, surely he can get up and hit the road soon, or whatever. Remus isn’t actually sure what he wants to do just yet, besides going back to find whoever did this shit to him and making them realize just how awful of an idea it was to try and kill him and not even get the job done. Remus isn’t a vengeful man, but he’s been alive too long to not realize that in this world you can’t leave loose ends. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine- don’t think that just because I’m not listening means I’ve suddenly gone deaf, dear ol’ Thomathy.”

“...Thomathy?”

Remus doesn’t know why that was the best he could come up with on the spot. Honestly, he’s made less shit nicknames when he was too drunk to remember where his nose was. 

“Yeah, you know… Tommy, Thomathy, Thomason, I could do this all day.”

Maybe he’d stick around and put off the gutting session he’d eventually have with fuckface just so he could see that stupid look on Thomas’s face a few more times. Honestly, you’d think he had just cut two apples in half and sewed the wrong pieces back together and thrown the whole mess into a woodchipper; that is to say, Thomathy looked confused and mildly perturbed. A good look for him, honestly. 

“...Lie down but try not to fall asleep. I’m going to find some painkillers for you. So just… stay here.”

“I don’t have a concussion, Thomathy!”

“Sure, bud.”

Chapter Text

Star City, 20XX. Y̶e̷a̴r̸̬̂s̸̺̾ ̵̠̾s̵̝̓i̵̗̚ṇ̷̀c̷̠͓͕̯͛̇͐̏̇͗̿͒̂͆̒̋͘͜ͅe̵̼̩̖̬̥͍͓͚͛͊͊͒̇̏̇͑̐ ̵̧̢͈̖͎̜͉͉̰͔̦̗͔̳̝̾͜t̴̖̗̣̖̼͘h̷̗̠̻̝̥̹̹̤̝̩͙͑̒̈́ͅe̶̥̘̳̩͙̼̐ͅ ̷̤̾͘̚Ḧ̸̨̜̱́̋͆̔͐̓ṳ̷̡͍̹̺̬̠̈̓̄̂͋̔̽̋͗̔̐̚͝m̷̢̢̢̨̢̡̧̨̛̛̛̜̞̻̮͕̠̝̗̝̻̟͓̬̩̳̮̞͔͎̣̬̺̗̪̳̮̣̜̬̺͎̠̠̰͔̞̩̭̫̤̤͔̙̣͈̼̔̽̌̃̀̄͌͗͌̓̓͋̄̐̉̀̄̐̌̂̎̇̓̎̂̍̕̕͘͜͜͠à̸̢̡̢̧̢̡̨̡̬͓̬̙̞̫̬̗̙͚̲̙̟͓̳̳̙͚̳̖͇̗̜̳͇̗̩͓̭̹͕̠̗̖̪̦̘͚͚̣̪̟͕̲̜̬̌̾̀̀̎͆̋̍̅͂̋͒̃̂̿̄̈̅̊͜͜͜ͅń̴̡̲̦̮͚͎̩̱̝̠͍̪̙̰̱̳͚̰͍͕͇̳͖͛͊̏͂̈́̈́͌̊̆̊̋̑̀̃̓̃̄͒͑͋͂̂̈́͆̓̈̈́̓̊̂̈́̇̆̋͑̂͒̈́͂̒̋̾̈́̌͋̕̚̚͘̚͘͜͠͝-̴̢̛̛̛̛̰̣͙̩͕̪̼̝̙̦̤͖̼̣̹̦̱̭̺̝̙͕̝̭͖͓͙̭̼̪͎̥͍͍͍̲̱̈́̍̄́̀̅͊̂̓̓̅͒̓̊̽̂̃̈͛̓͑̒͋̇̉̔̾̐̃̔͌̌̆͆͊̂̊̓̈́̿̆́̃̉̽̊̇̂͑̃̔̍̐̕̚̚͘̕̚͜͜͝͝͠͝͠ͅD̴̢̡̢̛̛̮͎͕̠̬͚̙̣̝͚̗̙̯̖̻͉̟̺̪̼͉̙͚̹͖̟̤̼̜̪͉̘͚̗͑̌͋͗͗́́̎͛̂̇̈́̂̂͐̏̔̍̀̃̓̈́̎́̿͒́̔͛̍̏̌͐͛̓̈́̐̆͌̏̈́̆͒̈̂͗̎̈̚̕̚̚͘̕͘͘͝͝͝͠ͅa̶̡̨̧̡̢̨̢̢̨̛̛̱͇͔̬̻̙͇̝̖̤̬̙̙͚̲̫͈̗̯̘̮̰͈̩͎̗͎̪͈̭̝̖̘̬̞̳̟͕̱̬̘̯̳̜̥̬̗̟̩̙̱̫̻̭̬̦̥̩̜͇͛̃̋̊̊̋̒͐̋͑̌̄͂̋͛͂̍̄̔̓͛̅͆̒͗͌̋̆͒̋̒̃͂̍̍̏̈́̃̾̀̈́̈̉͛̈͂̒̊̃̄̒̎̕͘̕͜͜͝͠ͅĕ̴̢̡̧̧̢̨̨̨̧̡̨̛͉͈̬̖͖̱̠̗̳͈̩͕̖͇̤͔̩̘̲̟̩̣͍̥̦̗̪̯̱͓̭̻̰͕̩͍̖̮̣͔̙͖̱͓̬̭͚͔̦̱͎̫̏̌̿̆̅̄̂̓͗͗̊̈́̐̄͑͆͗͑̍̇̋̈̈́͂̏͗̉̋̔͌̈̌͛͊́͋̂̇̏̉̀̎̎̀͆̐͌͑̒̔̈́̉̈́̄̊͒̕̕͘̕̕̕̚͘̕͝͠͝ͅm̴̝̰̣̌̅͗̈́͌̿̓̋̚͠o̶̢̡̭̖̱̭̙͓͕͖̘̳͇̩̫̪͚̫͉͖̭͖̰̹̦͖̹̝̝͍̮̟̜̖̪͍͍̝̲̦̗̪̝̬̣͍̹̺̙͔͔̪̥̞̙͖̳͖͎̬̙̺̗̹̘̤͖͕̼͔͈̗̻̳̥̗͈̥̙̳̘͖͔̦̱͕̫̪̞͂̈̐̌͆͑͜͜ň̴̡̧̡̨̛̛̛̛̰̺̤̩̮̦͕̻͔̖̲̯͓͉̪̖̘̼̟͍͉͙͎͖̼̟̞̩͈͔͔̜̓͌͋̆̂̒̉͑̏̓͌̋̀̍̒̓̉̓̄̅͌̂̽͒̾̋͋̏̽̈̆͋͂̔̿̾̅̾̓͂̾̄̀̂̈́̓̑͑̑͛͆̿̋̉͐̾̂̓̀̑͋̌͌̃̔̽̄̊̈́̇͒̔͋̐̈́̉̏͐̍͆̏̔̌̽͆͊̍̽̓̔̅̃͌͆͐̋̉̓̓͗̇̇͘̚͘͘̚̕̚̕͘͝͝͝͠ͅͅ ̵̨̢̨̧̡̨̡̢̧̡̢̧̧̨̡̨͍̜̘̜̜͉̗̫͇̼͕͚̘̣̲̹̱̺̞͚̻̦̯̰̫̯̙͇̮̭͍̻̞̤̯̯̲͓̬̗̟͚̻͓̠̤̗͙̮͇̻͖͍̳̠̙̗̣͇̘̳̝̭̳͇͖̜̪͎͎͍̫̰̪̯̺̝̟̹͓̪̥̘̣̣̜̖̪̠̣͚̝̗̻̼̝̞͚͎̰͖͓̟͎̩͉͚͓̪̩͇̯͙̗̟̞̼͚̜̤͇̝̝̬̘͎̝̲͇͔͓̿͊̃̿̀͌̓̐̑̒̇̈͑̏̇͊̿̐̋̒͊͂̌̈́̄̂͆͊̿̽̈́̌́̏̇̓̉̐̅̍̇̈́̈͋̊̀͑̓̉͊̌͂̈́̑̓̀̋̄͐̈́͌͆͒̎̃͋̑̑̈́̐̏̄̄̅̀͗̕̚͘̚̕̕̚͘͘̕̚̚͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅw̵̡̨̧̢̡̨̨̡̢̢̡̡̡̹̝͙͈̖̙̲̹̜̜̝̲͇͍̳̭̳͈̘̯̮͚͓̻͓̻͉̙̜̼͍͓͍̺̼̟̪̟̥̲̯͖͈̝̣̙̣͈̙͉͙̟͙̭̘̗̯̱̱̜̰̝͔̹̦̙̫̝̟̠̞̟̺͔̼͙̱̙̭̤̫͈̱̞̞̗̠̮͓̣͔͚͈͔͈͈͇̭͉̥̰̳̠̘͚̬͙̼̰̯̣̮̹͕͔̬̪̥̹̲̗̠̻̳̭̉̓̑̏̅́̆̃͘͘̚͘̕̕͜͝͠͝à̵̧̡̧̨̢̧̧̡̧̧̢̨̨̧̢̢̨̛̬̜̫͍̲̰͎̹͔͙͕̜̩͓͈̙̩͓̲̰̲̩̯̗̯̬͖͉̮͎̞̩̙̜̪͕̥̜̤̰͙̰̞̟̻̳͙̯̗̻͕̤̰̖̮͈̼͙̠̣͔̲̺͉̰̣͉̙͓̟͎̩̯̳̘̼̯̬̯̲̙̝̼̳̹͖̰̦̭̖̩̬̼̤͉̼̹̔͆̆͜ͅṙ̷̨̨̡̨̛̜̼͓̘̼̺̳̞̯̦̙̻͈̱͈̻͚̹̫̭̩̭͈̹̦̮̩̪͉̟̞̰͔̣̪̩̼̬̦͍͎͖͉̤͖̘͔͓̦̜̳̘̯̙̺̣̗͇̳̖͉̞͍̩̉̐͒̓̐̌̑̈̉̏̊̈́̈́̎̓̆̿̍̅̐͛́̿͂̽̄̓̏͆̐̿̆̌̾̇̄̽̇͗̄̓͆̄͑́͗̐͑̌͒͋̈́̆͗̌͑̒̄̅͑̑̑̃̆̅̎̏̈́̌̀̈͗̿̉́͌́̃̅͊̾̽̊͂͊̄̓̽̓͂̄̇̀̋̋͂̈́̉̅̾̇͌̒͐̊̂̽̈́̈́̕̕̕̚̚̚̕͘͘͜͜͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠͝ͅͅͅͅͅ:̷̢̧̨̧̡̡̧̧̧̧̢̨̛̹̲͙̜̹̼̖͈̙̥̙̱̞̱̰̙̫͓̯̝̜͓̟̘̟̙̺͖͕̲͔̪͕͓̖̗̬͔̮̗͙̠̗̣̳͔̫̬̦̹̰̪̥̫̖̯̺̻̞̠̻̭̯͕̲̹͙̹̼͔̠̺̮̥͉̯̫͓̱̳̘̗͈͎̥͚͎̖͖̯̟͇͙̬̤̠̮͎̝̬̙̦̼̖̲͎̫̣̩̮̣̲̗̲̦͕̯͙͙͕̯̥̤͎̲̩̬̟͕̮̗̌̐̔̈̓͋̈́͑̿͊̈́̃̎̿̅̈́͋͋̿̾̽͌͗̽̌͗̐͘͜͜͜͜͜͜͜͝͝ͅͅͅͅ?̵̡̢̧̧̨̧̢̢̡̧̢̨̛̛̛̛̛̛̝͍̗̩̤͔̟̫͔͍̥̘̫̝̝͇̝̜͓̰͕̙̲̙͍̣̲͕̻̼̗̭̻̮͍̜͓͓̰̱̤͇̦̹̦̼̤̙̙̫̺̼̰̩̝͉̝̫͙͚̩̰̭̝̹̪̫̻̘̮̘̥͖͓̪̝̼̲͖͖͕̪̣̟͓̥̗̩̦͉̙̝̱̝͙̹̦̖̔̂̾͆́͗̐̃͊͛̉̌̿̃̒̈́̽̂́̈͑̆̄̈́̈́̉̉̇̈́̑̎̏̈́̐͋͊͆́̏̅̎̀͊̿͊̍̎̎̓̓͂̇̆̈́̉͋̓̾̑̾͒̊̓̅̆̐̆̀̾̈̍̊̊̀̋̀̏̋͛͋̎̋̐̏̽̈̉̀̾̄̽̿͋͌͂͒̈́̈́͐̃̐̒́͋̅͐̒͒͗͗̋̆̅͌̇̋̈́͛̅̂͗͐̔̈́̆͌͑̓͂͌̃̂̀̃̈̌̾̂̿̇͐̆̾̈́̾̀̂̃̐̀̈́̑̒̓͊̓̈́̃̋̂̾̀͒̈́̒̈͗̌̔̑̒̐̇̈́̑͗͛̑̇̒̈́̃̑̂̓̂́̆̊͑̅͗̽́͛͌̊́͆͆̋̈́̓͌̌̊̍̂́̀̐̈̎͂̑͆̇͑̆͌̇̇̅͑͛̍̈́͘͘̚̚͘͘̚͘̚̚̕͘͘͘̚͘̕̚͘͘̚̕͜͜͠͝͠͝͝͠͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͝͠ͅ?̴̧̛̛͍̹̲͇͖̝̖̜̘̈́̐̈́̃̔͛̒̽̈́̔̽̍͐̌̎͊̍̿̐͒̌͛͐͊̓̇̓̓̆̀̊͐̾̑̓̈́̈́̈́̑̀͂̇͆̒͂̂̍͛͊͒̐̅͆̉͆͋͂̔̔̇̾̌͗̈̊͑͋͒̍̂̋͒̇̿̎̽̈́̚̕͘͘̚̚̕͝͝͝͠͝?̷̢̧̢̧̢̧̢̢̧̛̛̛̛̛̯̯̲̭̜̟̱̘̩̺̘̦̖͚͍͖̖͕̱̮̪͔̣͓̙͍̪̰̱̫̠̯̼̳̳͕͚̥̼̫͕͈̹̞͚͕̦̘͔̮͙̣͕͕̪̦̺̜̮̖̩̹͇͔͕̣̞̜̼͔̬̦̥̯̦͙̱͙̺̠̰͚̦̱̳͙̖͓͙̝͓͙̰̯͓̖͙̘̰̜͖͙̥̣̦̮͚̬̟̺̟̻̺͈̥̘͍͕̟̭̯̘̖͈̝͈̰̮̗̟̟̠̝͖̙̃̾͌̑̆̈͐̍̓͐̇͆̈͋̍̀̽͆͒̆̐͆̀̒̉͛̑̅̉̋̈̊͒̏̓͗̌̽̂̋͐͆̔͐̄̊͊̓̉̓͒̓̈́̏̋̂̽̀̎̈́͆̂͂̋̂̈́͒̽̐̄̓̾̒̍͛̈́̒̎̽̓̍̂͛̈́͒͑̈́̈́̇́̓̃͊͒̎̾̅͂̎̉͌̒̄͛͑̈́͗͐̔̑̿͒̐͛̌̇̐͑́̍̽̋̈͊̃̇̏͂̀͂̽̄̏̄̇̌͋̈̄̉̍̈̾͑̾̃͐̍̄̍̇̾̂͌̈́̀̾̈́̆̃̄̔̈̓͂̏͌̿̌̽̆̐̌͑̆̈́̔̔͆͂͐̈́̌̀̇́̑̐͛̄̊̃̍̿̃̃̔̍͒͆̓̑̑͊̅͋̈́̈́̾͐̏̈́̊̀̅̑̉̔̂́̚̚͘̕͘̚̕͘̚̕͘̕̕̚͜͜͜͜͜͠͝͝͠͠͠͠͝͝͝͝͠͝͝͠͝ͅ

He’s never been a very religious man, but as of late Logan has found himself praying to the powers that be to give him some peace. 

Vater has always personally ensured that he was invested in all of his lesions, and hardly gave him respite, but at least there were days off, occasionally. This past week, however, he has seen fit to work Logan (metaphorically) into the ground: doubling the hours of piano practice, waking him an hour earlier than usual and not letting him rest until the moon was high and bright, and coercing him into reading textbooks until he had a perpetual migraine. 

Whatever had worked him into such a fit had to have been recent - father is the one to lie in wait to plot revenge, Vater is swift and cruel, if not always direct. 

As the sun begins to set, Logan’s unsure how many times he’s reread the page he’s currently on, but more than twice means there is a problem. There isn’t going to be any more progress made today, so he decides to stop pretending to work and simply deal with the consequences later. It would be much more efficient to get some rest now, so that he might deal with his parents with some manner of a clear head. 

...While he did not expressly intend to nap for more than an hour or so, waking up to moonlight shining through his windows with no sign of Vater having stopped by was… relieving, to say the least. He was comfortable, warm, and still rather drowsy - truly, Logan couldn’t understand what had caused him to awaken in the first place. Something in his subconscious tells him not to roll over and go back to sleep, however.

And so, rather slowly and unwillingly, he adjusts himself until he is sitting upright, and then standing, then retrieving his glasses and searching for his coat. There’s nothing he can do to get rid of the wrinkles in his shirt now, but at the least he could step into the bathroom to fix his hair and attempt to look presentable. Vater may not have woken him up, but that by no means assured he would be free from punishment. He takes care to smooth down what he can and goes to open his door- 

Only to quickly retract his hand as the searing heat of the handle. It’s scalding, enough so to leave pink skin behind where he’d made only brief contact. Logan is still a bit groggy, but it takes him a moment to deduce what that means. There are only so many reasons for a handle to be hot, after all, and now that he takes a moment to investigate - 

Yes, the air does smell of smoke. Only faintly, but enough to permeate the air of his room through the door. 

But how on earth could there be a fire in his own home? Surely it was no cooking accident, father was very strict about who he hired for the kitchen staff - and every member of the help, for that matter. A knocked over candle, then? No, candles are to be extinguished if no one will be in the room to attend them, especially at night, no one could be that careless, unless… no. No, this was most likely not an accident of any kind, and Logan would be a fool to make that his prime suspicion. Arson isn’t exactly common in Star City, nor any of the eastern cities, but sabotage and assassination are merely tools of the political trade. 

Guilty until proven innocent, for an innocent man’s false accusation is rectifiable, but to let a criminal lose is unforgivable. 

...What is he doing? Leave the investigation to the professionals, for now he needs to get out of here. He could open the door if he really needed to, using his sleeves to cover his hand, but that would be unwise. If the handle is already hot, he isn’t going to make it anywhere near the stairs, let alone more than a few paces out of his room. That leaves the window, but he can’t possibly jump or climb down the entirely vertical surface. A rope, then. 

Not that he has rope in his quarters, but he has sheets and anyone can tie a square knot. The real issue will be finding something to secure the end to, but he can work and think at the same time. He can’t afford any delays.

He obviously doesn’t have the materials to make a full fifty feet of improvised rope, but falling from fifteen or twenty feet is much more preferable than the assured demise waiting for him if he lept from to full height of the building. Somewhere between tying the corner of the second sheet to the third and final one available, he comes to the conclusion that it would be easier to push his desk to the window as an anchor over his bed. Briefly he considers pushing his mattress out of the window as a cushion, but there simply isn’t time. Perhaps if he had help, but he is not so delusional as to think he could lift the one hundred and fifty pound slab more than a few inches at a time on his own - he may not even be able to lift it up to the window. 

Curse Vater for prioritizing Logan’s studies over any sort of physical discipline. 

Logan fumbles a bit when tying the sheets to a leg of his desk, and it’s a wonder considering his hands have been trembling the whole time. The only thing left to do is to open the windows, throw the rope out and pray that he doesn’t break a leg or his spine when he inevitably has to let go, still a ways from the ground. It’s mostly an afterthought, a sudden compulsion that he had no words to explain that causes him to retrieve the bag of gumdrops on his windowsill and stuff them into his pocket - just before he begins his descent. 

He’s only a few feet from the end of the rope when a feeling of dread settles heavily on his shoulders. The rope is slipping - not from his grasp, one of the knots is being undone. Of course, he can’t quite tell which one, but it hardly matters. One moment he is upright and clinging for dear life, and the next he is on his back, the wind knocked out of him and the corners of his vision filled with black spots. 

The good news is that nothing feels numb or broken, and frankly, the list of bad news is too long to list at this point. The entire night has been a constantly updating list of bad news, it seems. Nevertheless, Logan makes it to his feet and manages to stumble a ways into the street just before the final floor of his home erupts in flames; ash and crumbling foundation replace the air, and he knows he can’t stay here. Whether his family is alright, who did all this, all of it is pushed to the back of his mind in favor of his instincts screaming at him to go, run, get away from here and never come back. 

He wonders if the wet sensation running down his cheeks and neck are tears or blood, but figures it could well be both or neither and tries to direct his attention elsewhere. 

. . .

“You know, even you’re not usually this vague. Starting to worry me a little.”

“I have told you everything you need to know, little Virgil. We are going to where we are needed.”

“Okaay… needed how? What are we doing, and what the hell does it have to do with the skytrain?”

“We’re getting on, obviously. Mustn’t be late.”

“It’s two am, Cal.”

“Indeed.”

While Virgil doesn’t really care for being woken up in the middle of the night by a five-pound nightmare blocking his airways, if Callidus says it’s important, it’s probably pretty important. They don’t do things for no reason, even if the reason is “because I wanted to.” They also probably wouldn't lead him anywhere too dangerous - they’ve confided in not so many words that they hate it when he uses up one of his lives just as much as he does.

That doesn’t mean he’s any less anxious, just that his rational brain can keep somewhat of a hold on his fear for the moment. Of course, Virgil isn’t hyped about using the skytrain, or going anywhere that would require traveling two-hundred miles an hour to arrive on time at this time of night, but… here he is. Following his best friend to who-knows-where, to do who-knows-what, less than a week after his last death. His last visit to the other side. 

For whatever reason, this time hadn’t been as vivid as his previous two trips. He remembers it well, it’s not something he’d ever forget, but the words aren’t as clear and the shadows not so defined. The… spirits... that were berating him had been furious, though, and a lot of their complaints made no sense. Now that he was more coherent, at least for the time being, it was clear to him just how weird things had been lately. Maybe Virgil would have had more time to sit down and put the pieces together if Callidus hadn’t dragged him out tonight, but now he’s stuck thinking about it while he’s groggy, sleep-deprived and trying to keep track of his steps. 

The spirits. Some sort of “corruption”. The illness that had killed him? But they had made it sound like the infection was still there, and as far as he knows his body was reset after the fever killed him and the sickness should be completely gone. Then there were the voices he was hearing - only very occasionally, but clear and concise and definitely not hallucinations. Phantom sensations and dissociation, (he’d figured that out only by looking up the symptoms in a medical textbook bought for frankly way too high of a price for a bunch of paper and some shitty binding) all of it made up a… very odd and incomplete picture. 

He shakes his head as they arrive at the train station. Not to expel the thoughts, exactly, just to put them aside for the moment. There’s always time to debate the many things wrong with him, medically or otherwise, but Callidus needs him right now - to do… something. Seriously, they could at least give him a hint.

“Where are we going, then? I think the next train doesn’t leave til’ morning.”

“Go aboard, and you will see. I cannot say where we are going, just yet.”

“Why not? Come on, this is insane- you can’t tell me anything at all?”

“I already told you, little Virgil. We are needed - by someone rather important. I believe Janus and their… companion will be there as well, soon. All will be well, you only need to trust me.”

“I do! You’re just… making it a little hard not to get freaked out, right now.”

If a cat could sigh dramatically and roll their eyes like a brat, Callidus probably would have; as is, they only manage a rough approximation. They settle at his feet, tail swishing back and forth furiously as they seem to ponder something for a moment.

“I can tell you… a little more, I suppose. But you must not disclose this to anybody. Not a soul, human or otherwise. Understood, little Virgil?”

“Of course. I can keep a secret.”

They nod, and don’t speak for a moment. Gathering courage, or maybe just putting their thoughts together - they probably hadn’t intended to tell him anything until much later. 

“This… someone that needs our help. You do not know them, but others that you do know are familiar with them. They are somewhat of an… anomaly, but it is not my place to say how. I myself only met them recently - well, recently by my standards.”

“So like a hundred years ago?” 

Virgil catches a glimpse of amusement in their eyes. “No. Forty, maybe fifty years ago. Only I didn’t know they were special then - they were just someone who offered me treats and a sympathetic ear.”

“Right… so are they human?”

“...That is something I cannot say, little Virgil. You should ask them yourself when we arrive.”

“Okay, fair enough, I guess. Can you tell me anything about what they need help with?”

Callidus pauses for some time at that. After close to three full minutes of silence, he’s about ready to say something, when they finally answer: 

“I… I cannot. I’m sorry, but there is nothing more I can say. We must leave now.”

“...Should have expected that, honestly. The train still isn’t leaving for hours, though.”

“It will. It must. Get on the train, little Virgil.”

“Okay, Cal. I trust you.”

. . .

Logan doesn’t know where he is, exactly. Well, he knows he is in Star City, slumped against a shop on the corner of Clairmont and Danube, just a little ways out of the residential area. He knows where he is physically, as it would be pretty hard not to when Vater made him study intricate maps of this city and several others. 

But where is he really?

His home is gone, maybe his family too. He is alone, tired, bleeding and angry. The last one comes as a bit of a surprise, but he finds it no less true. Logan is furious. At himself, for not being better prepared. At Vater and father for being awful to him his whole life, even if they had thought they were doing right by him. (He knows they thought that they were helping, setting him up for a bright and successful future, but…) At whoever had the audacity to burn down his home, and with him inside, no less. 

Logan is so very angry, more that he has ever been in his life, and if he were to sit on that street corner wallowing for another minute he was sure it would consume him - he’d never feel anything else, no other feeling intense enough to dispel the anger. So he stands up, and he starts walking again. Not away from home, exactly, he’s not trying to run away from anything now, nor is he truly running towards anything, but he is running. 

He is exhausted, rather hungry now that he thinks about it, and his legs are burning - and yet he runs. Whether by luck or miracle, he never loses his footing and soon enough he finds himself in a part of the city that he has never set foot in before. Street names and certain buildings are still memorized in some small corner of his brain, however, so he pushes on. On and on, farther and farther from the comfortably small buble he’s survived (never quite lived, he now knows, only survived) in for eighteen years. Logan is not sure if he really wants to put space between himself and what was once home, but he doesn't have it in him to turn around or go any other direction, it seems. Only forward, wherever that lands him. 

. . .

Emile likes to think he has a decent number of friends, but that’s… a bit of a stretch of the truth. In all honesty, he hasn’t had a true friend - one that knew and accepted what he was, in quite some time. That’s just how it is, sometimes, when one lives on the thin line between two very different worlds. 

That isn’t to say he’s alone, of course; Siligo and Fastuosus are around often when they aren’t out on their own little adventures or delivering messages for him. It had been difficult for them to get along at first, the Hawk taking offence to Siligo's blatant disregard for their own name. Personally, Emile thought it was wonderful that someone was finally growing beyond their given name, and Siligo was, (in his humble opinion) much nicer than “Vindex.” They never really acted like friends, but the two were willing to be civil for his sake, which was appreciated.

And besides them, Remy was able to visit occasionally; and he’s more than lively enough to light up the entire place for days on end. For someone who constantly whines about how “boring and cliche” living in a cave is, he’s never had a problem making fun wherever he’s at, and Emile is eternally grateful for that. 

Despite all that, Emile does find himself alone quite a lot these days. Not lonely, and not without others around him, just… alone. He’s been alone since the beginning, it’s just been a lot more… apparent in recent years, he supposes. That child from Arrow had made things much clearer for him. No, they didn’t make him feel alone, quote the opposite in fact - Janny had been his best friend for a while and it had been the best time of his life, so far. But with their absence, (he abandoned them) the void felt so much bigger now. 

He tries to convince himself that the void is a friend. He’s known her for nearly as long as he’s existed, and if nothing else they are very familiar with one another, but she is… cold. Not unwelcome, (he couldn’t uninvite the void even if he wanted to) but also not the best houseguest and never patient with him. It’s frustrating because Emile is still learning, he is still young in many senses of the word. And yet she expects him to behave as if he was thrice his age, and ten times as mature. 

And now with the dawn of the next initium approaching, there’s so much to do and so many events to coordinate, Emile couldn’t possibly do it all on his own, especially on such short notice. And so he’s hired help. Some of them may not know just how important their roles will be yet, and he doesn’t expect them to; in fact he expects many questions and perhaps even a little obstinance when they arrive. They are all young, much younger than he is, at least, save for one or two of them, and are bound to be curious and wild Perhaps he should prepare a meal for them to arrive to? Food makes humans much more receptive, in his experience.

...Yes, he could make a decent breakfast for eight in time - he might even indulge in it a little bit himself. Food has always been a bit of a luxury, in his mind - something to be saved for special occasions so as to not ever grow bored of it. But this was a pretty big event to organize, and if all goes well he’d deserve a little treat. 

Were people still fond of potatoes with breakfast?

Chapter Text

Miraculously, (or maybe not, considering daemon magic was at work) the train starts when he boards. The doors aren’t locked and as soon as they close behind him, the emergency lights flicker on, and the vibrations underfoot give away the near-silent engine starting up. 

Virgil’s always ridden in empty cars of the skytrain, but it’s never felt so empty before. Like he’s the only left on this world, hidden from the void by a steel tube and nothing else. It would be suffocating, but the cool air of the cabin and even colder metal of the seat he doesn’t remember sitting on keep him somewhat grounded. Taking a moment to breathe and give himself a moment to feel and experience all the things around him for just a moment tells him that pretty much everything about the inside of the train is cold, save for the unnatural, feverish warmth of his skin in contrast. The world is frozen, and so he burns. 

Callidus flopping lazily onto his lap and begging for pets and scratches is a welcome distraction from those thoughts, at least.

It’s well known, or at least amongst those who know anything about daemons, that the eyes are the most reliable giveaway. A daemon’s eyes are never a natural color for their vessel - a dog with bright orange irises, a snake who’s eyes glint green rather than black, etcetera etcetera. Callidus’s eyes have always been a vivid purple with flecks of gold, as far as Virgil can remember. They’re cool, kinda… intimidating at times? Not that he’s ever been afraid of Cal, but occasionally it feels like he should be. 

Right now, Cal’s pupils are round and wide, adorable and the perfect picture of “dumbass cat.” What if the mysterious, obstinate side of them is the front they put up, and they’re actually just a cute, dumb cat? What if he’s been imagining all of the small hints at some sort of deeper, ancient intelligence? Because he knows that one of these parts is fake, one of them isn’t really Callidus. Who could possess such conflicting personalities at once and still be genuine? 

...Is he just thinking of these things to distract himself from the real issue here? Is he psychoanalyzing a daemon to avoid inevitably having to figure out just what’s wrong with him, and what the hell changed the night he died? That was no doubt the catalyst for all of this, he can’t think of anything else that could have done it.

Maybe he’s finally going insane. That’s why he’s hearing voices, feeling things that (probably) aren’t real. The voices are his own, he knows that, and maybe that’s the whole point - he’s trying to tell himself that it’s too late, he’s already gone. All of the traumatic dying and reanimating is finally getting to him, or just the impermanence of life is. He was a normal child, and then he wasn’t. He was alive and helping someone find their cousin, and then he wasn’t. He was surrounded by friends, albeit while terminally sick, and then he wasn’t. Isn’t. 

Would Roman and Patton even believe him if he told them the truth? Could Virgil stand to reveal the secret he’s been keeping for years from his best friends, that he revealed so easily to a complete stranger? He’s a horrible person, but could he stand to admit that to the few people who think he isn’t?

Breathe. Breathe, and let the cold seep in. You’re burning up, just let the ice surround you.

There’s the voice again. One of them, anyway. The other comes much less frequently, only when he’s alone in the middle of the night with no one to overhear the thoughts in his head. 

Breathe, boy in black, for we are whole now and mustn't burn up so soon.

Strangely enough, he listens. He breathes and focuses on the cold. A cold so intense that it burns, not merciful enough to simply leave him numb and empty. By the time he hasn himself under control again, shoving all errant thoughts away forcefully until they cease their attack, the train has stopped and Callidus is staring at him curiously. A little impatiently too, by the way they flick their tail back and forth rapidly. 

“Right, we should probably get going, then.”

“Yes we should, little Virgil,” if their response was a little icy, neither of them mentioned it.

. . .

Remy’s been to Emiles place enough times to be familiar with the layout, but somehow it always looks different anyways. The walls are in the same shape, of course, but all of the furniture gets rearranged and sometimes the color of the walls, too - he must get pretty bored. Granted, Remy would probably get a little stir crazy too, if he had to wait in the same, mostly-underground home for as long as Em has; at least he was given the freedom to wander and do whatever he wanted until the next inituim. Sometimes he wonders why Emile wasn’t given the same luxury, but everything’s for a reason, right?

While he’s visited the home as often as he feels comfortable with, it’s kinda rare that Emile would actually request his presence, especially at a time like this… there’s been a lot of activity going on all over the continent, and while it isn’t exactly his job to monitor them, it’s better that he does. Still, a summons from rex postero era can’t be ignored. Hell, he’d probably have come even if Emile wasn’t the king, because the guy’s one of his only friends that he can speak… openly with. 

It’s early, when he arrives - very, very early. The moon’s getting low, and the sun will be up in maybe an hour at most, so it’s probably not hard to imagine his surprise when the ground floor (the only one above ground, actually) is occupied when he walks in. There’s people. Several of them, in fact. One of them is Virgil fucking Strosser, who, maybe thankfully, hasn’t seen him yet. He’s sitting around the same table the rest are, looking uncomfortable but not particularly scared or pissed off, which is good. 

Beside him is someone wearing mostly black, with some yellow peeking out from under the cape. Maybe they’re a fan of bees, or just have awful fashion taste. Like Virgil, they have a daemon resting in their lap - a snake of some kind, who seems to be having the time of their life, unlike their human counterpart. Across the table from them is a rough-looking guy in clothes that betray that tonight probably isn’t the usual for him: most of a three-piece suit and glasses that are a far cry from the wire-and-tape things held together by nothing but determination that you’d see in the west. No one seems to be too bothered that he’s got blood running down his neck and half his face, but Remy wouldn’t want to have that talk either, honestly. Lastly, looking the most cheerful of the group, and who had gotten Remy’s attention almost as quickly as Virgil had, was Remus Micieli.

It’s Emile who acknowledges him first, stepping in just a moment after he had in such a way that meant he’d probably planned it that way. 

“Oh, our final guest is here! I’m so glad you made it, Remy, now we can begin!”

He doesn’t really pay attention to who says it, because it’s definitely what they were all thinking, by the looks on everyone’s faces at that remark. 

“Begin what?”

“The end, of course!”

. . .

Of all the possible locations Virgil had considered to possibly be their destination, a short one-story house in the middle of nowhere hadn’t been very high on the list. Hadn’t been on the list at all, actually, but here they are. Knocking on the front door of a house he hadn’t even known existed until a minute ago. 

It’s actually Janus who answers, which is unexpected, but not upsetting. Callidus had mentioned they’d be here as well. For a brief moment he considers that maybe , just maybe, this place could be Janus’s home, before discarding the thought just as quickly. That would make zero sense, for so many reasons. Stepping inside, Virgil finds a… pretty normal looking place, with two people sitting inside - a guy in a long black coat and boots with unnecessarily high heels with a badger in his lap, and someone across from him in a sweater vest and who basically embodied the word “harmless.” The pink bowtie really hammered in the point, when they finally turned around to greet their uh… guests? 

“Ah, Callidus! You brought your friend, I see. Virgil, right? I’m Emile! It’s wonderful to meet you!”

“Uhm… hi,” the offered hand is a little intimidating for whatever reason, but he takes it anyway for the most awkward handshake of his life. 

“I’m afraid not everyone is here yet, actually I was just about to address one small problem we might have - but! Feel free to sit down and make yourself comfortable for the moment.”

“Problem?” Thank god for half-snake people who are brave enough to ask the questions he isn’t.

“Yes, unfortunately Fastuosus was… a little vague in delivering instructions to one of our guests for tonight, so someone’s going to have to go and fetch him soon. But I don’t see that being a problem at all, he shouldn’t be too far away if all has gone well!”

No one has a response to that, though the guy still sitting on the other side of the room seems amused. 

“Ah, no volunteers? Very well, I suppose I could go myself - but I’d think at least one of you would be interested in a little adventure, right? Otherwise, I may have made a severe mistake in my choice of champions…” 

Champions? Maybe Virgil should have asked what Emilie meant by that, but the… thug? Whoever in the heeled boots piped up first. 

“Adventure, you say? Well, how hot is the little prince charming we’re after?”

Apparently their host found that to be answer enough, and didn’t bother to answer that question. That or he legitimately doesn’t know what the guy looks like, which could be either comforting or concerning. Like, did he know who they all are without knowing what they’d look like before, or does he know a lot more than he’s letting on? 

“He should be somewhere facing our general direction by now, but if not I’m sure you’ll find him. You’re looking for a Logan Fuchs - eighteen, yay big-” he gestured somewhere a little taller than Virgil himself, but not by much, “-and probably dressed sharply, though he might be in a bit of… disarray at the moment.” 

“Sounds like my kinda guy! Alright, you coming or what, fluffy?”

The daemon in his lap seemed to have been enjoying a nice nap moments ago and didn’t seem particularly pleased to be woken up. Still, they were polite and agreed, shuffling a little from the stranger’s lap to his shoulders. 

...And then there were three. Five, if you count the nonhuman visitors. Wait… Callidus had said something about asking Emile that question, right? Now that Virgil had seen him, he’d feel pretty stupid asking, but then again what you see isn’t always what you get. 

Ah, fuck it. 

“Hey, Emilie?” 

“Yes, Virgil? Any questions?” 

“Are you… I mean, you’re human, right?”

Emile takes way longer to answer than Virgil is strictly comfortable with, but nonetheless he responds, “Not as much as you’d think, Virgil. Not as much as you’d think…”

. . . 

Logan’s had quite the night, overall. After everything, he’s finally slowing down, both physically and mentally, and finally has the time to truly reflect on everything that’s happened. 

His house had been on fire and critically damaged when he left, and was most likely unsalvageable. Father and Vater may or may not have escaped in time, though he didn’t see them outside, so the chances of that are slimmer than he’d like. (If they had escaped, would they not have stayed near to ensure he got out safely as well? Or would they have fled as quick and senselessly as he had?) So at the moment, he didn’t have anywhere to be, certainly he didn’t have the motivation to move from his very comfortable place just outside the train station at the edge of the city. It was still very late, so no one was questioning him, and even if it had been broad daylight Logan isn’t sure anyone would want to approach him at the moment. 

He’d used what small clean patches left of his shirt sleeves there were to wipe away some of the mess, but without any actual cleaning supplies or water, it was a… lackluster job. Still, it was nice to notice that he’d stopped actively bleeding, and the dust and soot wasn’t nearly as much of a problem as he’d thought. Maybe it’s one of these things, or perhaps a combination thereof, that he was both surprised and grateful that someone came and sat next to him with no preamble and seemed genuinely happy to see him. 

“Hey, you look like you were just part of a gruesome murder! Your name Logan?”

...There can’t possibly be words in any language to properly respond to that, so instead he nods and takes a moment to wonder if he's met this man before. Surely not - he’d remember meeting someone so… clearly not native to the area. Appearances aside, the accent was atrocious and spoke First so quickly and likely in one breath. He’s not entirely sure, of course, but Logan would make the educated guess that this stranger is from Jaied. Of course, that would raise some questions as to how and when he arrived here, considering the travel ban; if he’d lived here for the past twenty years, the accent wouldn’t be so prominent, even if he was staying with family of similar origin. 

“Alrighty, mr silent treatment, we have got somewhere important to be, and while you look like a wreck, it’s kinda far and we’re gonna need to get moving if we wanna be there on time. I mean, you don’t look like you’ve got anywhere better to be anyway, right?”

“...Somewhere… important?”

“Yup! C’mon, up you go, up up up!” 

He wouldn’t say he’s a fan of the manhandling, but Logan is also fairly certain he wouldn’t have been able to stand without the help, either. 

“Where? Why me? How do you even know me?”

“Secret house in the middle of fuck-knows-where, because bowtie says you’re the guy, and I don’t!” 

“Bowtie?” 

“Yeah yeah, he wears a bowtie and I didn’t bother to remember his name, c’mon let’s goooo!” 

...Well. He really doesn’t have anywhere better to be; though he’s not a fan of walking however far it is to “the middle of fuck-knows-where.” 

“Alright, if we get going would you please stop yelling? I am sporting an uncomfortable concussion at the moment.” 

“Pffft, this isn’t yelling! You wanna hear yelling? ‘Cause I can-”

“Please do not.”

Chapter Text

I thought I'd only be gone for a couple of days to take a break from the internet, but now I have no idea when I'll be ready to come back to this story. I'm sorry, but I guess this is a,,, hiatus for now? I'm taking a break from writing in general til I can get my passion for it back. I love yall so much and I'll see yall... whenever I see you.

BlooBlu will be back, promise. <3

Chapter Text

Remy, a little reluctantly, takes a seat at the table. Virgil’s already flanked by Janus and Remus, so he sits in the only spot left - between Emile and the guy that looks like he just crawled out of hell. No one’s said anything in response to Emile’s words yet, but the man in question doesn’t seem upset about that in the least. In fact, he seems to pick off where he left off the moment Remy takes his seat. 

“Now, I know some of us at the table don’t quite understand what that means yet, and that’s just fine! All will be explained as you need to understand it - but first, why don’t we all introduce ourselves? I’m Emile, of course.”

Apparently everyone seemed to agree to go clockwise around the table, and while awkward, at least the introductions are over quickly enough. There’s Janus, the half-snake drifter who, like Emilie, provides no surname and seems content to leave it at that. Virgil gives his full name, which is a little surprising, but doesn’t give any details about himself. Remy doesn’t have the time to make up a life story, and half the people at the table wouldn’t believe it anyways, so he tells them his name and tries to seem as nonchalant as possible. Remus is enthusiastic, as he seems to always be, and only gets through a few unsavory details of his…”romantic history” before someone cuts him off. Lastly is Logan Fuchs, who actually apologizes for his appearance before introducing himself, but doesn’t give any explanations. 

Clapping like a toddler being offered a cookie, Emile takes over the conversation once again: “Wonderful! Now that we’re all introduced - well, I suppose most of us already knew each other one way or another - we can get started properly! Would our Daemon friends please leave the room for just a moment?”

Virgil’s only a little upset by the way Callidus springboards off his shoulders, Janus seems a bit uncomfortable at his friend moving away, and Remus gives zero fucks about the badger clawing its way down his back and onto the floor to move away. Remy isn’t surprised at the mouse and hawk that skitter and fly away respectively, but it seems no one else had noticed their presence previously, by the looks on their faces. 

“Why did you send them out?” Apparently Virgil has some guts tonight after all. 

“Oh, I just didn’t think they needed to be a part of this discussion. They aren’t going to be able to help you do your jobs anyway, so it’s really better that they don’t know what you’re up to in the first place. Avoiding temptation and all.”

It’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself to have hope, but… he’s also never seen Emile so serious about - well, anything, actually. They guy’s always been a bit of a goofball, and way too cheery for someone essentially under house arrest until the world ends. If this is it, though? If Remy’s really here because he’s supposed to be, not just because Em wanted to see him or show off whatever fun little “project” he’s working on with these humans, then… 

Well, he’s finally going to fulfil his namesake. And he has… no idea how to feel about that, actually. (Afraid is what he feels, but like hell he’s going to admit that - even to himself.)

. . .

While it’s been a few years since Emile has witnessed genuine human emotions, and has personally never experienced any powerful or lasting ones himself, he thinks he’s decent at spotting them in others. Especially in people he already knows - and isn’t it interesting that even after all that time, Janny’s have changed so little? Not that that makes them boring or anything, but their facial expressions are still so… reserved. They spend so much time trying to disguise any negative emotions that Emile isn’t sure they’ve ever fully enjoyed the positive ones - such a waste. 

Remy’s nervous, though Emile sadly wouldn’t have been able to tell from facial expressions alone - he had to take a bit of a closer look. Those sunglasses were a lazy attempt to keep others from seeing his eyes and reading the secrets they hide, but there’s only so much that tinted glass can conceal from someone like Emile. Not that there’s anyone else like him, he’s the one and only king with no subjects to rule over - utterly unique. Sometimes he wishes that he wasn’t so different, if only to put others a little more at ease. It’s not that he doesn’t care about them, in fact it’s his born purpose to draw out their full potential - but something underneath his skin went numb along the way and has never been the same. So he simply can’t feel and desire to sugarcoat things, not when the Fuchs child finally deigns to speak and offers such a wonderful segway into the next part of this discussion: 

“What temptations? Why would daemons want to help us in the first place?”

“Oh, I’m sure you have some… short-sighted opinions of them, Mr. Fuchs, but in reality demons are just as emotional as any human. They can form relationships, make connections, and feel protective instincts. And while they would understand why they cannot, I can’t guarantee none of our companions wouldn’t do something irrational in the face of the tasks ahead of us.” 

“...and those tasks would be?” Janny, always so practical. Well, most of the time. If they remembered him, he’s sure they would have many more, very logical questions. 

“No more delaying it, I suppose. Oh! Actually, I do need one small favor of you all before I tell you anything,” it only takes a moment of glancing over all their faces to realize they aren’t going to ask, simply wait for him to continue. So he does, “each of you must share a secret with the group. Nothing silly, like a crush or swiping candy from your mom’s purse as a child - something you’ve never told anyone. Or at least no one in this room.”

Emile expects them to protest, he really does. But while there are some hesitant looks, a go-around of “is he serious?” and the like, no one says a word. Not until they’re deciding who’s first, and giving each other all a few moments to decide on their answer. 

He grins. Truly, he’s picked wonderful champions.  

. . .

Remy wonders for a moment if Emile meant for him to join in as well, before resigning to the fact that of course he did. It isn’t too hard to think of what secrets he has, there are many to choose from. The problem is that he’s already told Emile most of them. Most. Anything he’s kept from arguably his best friend has been kept for good reason, even if those reasons were entirely for the sake of self-preservation. 

Before he can think much further, Remus-fucking-Minceili is going first, because of course he is. 

“I once went skinny-dipping in a river supposedly full of piranhas, and was very disappointed when none of them tried to bite me.” 

“The Pygocentrus nattereri is almost always non-lethal, contrary to what fairytales may try to convince you of.” Not what Remy expected that kid to say, especially since it was one of the few things he’s said at all so far, but a cool fact anyways. 

“Well, that’s dumb. Who’s next?”

“I suppose I might as well, though we’ll be going in counter-clockwise order.” No one protests that, though Remy kind of wants to. He needs more time to decide. He’ll just have to pick something on the spot, but at least he has a few ideas in mind already. 

“Very well. I let a daemon into my home while living in a city where they’re legally barred from. Not that they can exactly be held responsible in court…” A few look amused, but the rest don’t react to this information at all.

Logan nods to him, giving permission for him to go now or simply acknowledging that he had finished speaking. Remy takes a moment, and a silent deep breath before settling on his answer. 

“Someone proposed to me once, but I couldn’t remember who they were. They said we’d been dating for years, showed me photos, even, but I’d never seen them a day in my life.” Emile knows little about the life this body led before he inhabited it, because a lot of the struggles that came with essentially making a person disappear from their entire life were just too tiring and talk about most of the time. Remy remembers the day vividly, though. Waking up to the feeling of being compacted into flesh, the human having died in the middle of the night from an illness. That same morning, someone Remy had been aware of in this human’s life but had never paid attention to, asked him out on a lunch date, and pulled out a ring at the end of it. 

Trying to avoid a conversation about it, or really any questions at all, Remy gestures for the next person to go - Emile hadn’t said whether or not he was participating, but it only seems fair. Em chuckles. 

“I guess it would be pretty unfair of me to just skip my turn, wouldn’t it? Okay, hmm… let’s see…” it does seem like he’s genuinely thinking about the decision, which is nice. “You were all going to find out eventually, so here goes: I’m neither human nor daemon. I’m a combination of them, like… a fusion, you could say! The best of both worlds.” 

Isn’t that breaking the rules of the game, if Remy already knew that? Or is Emile just giving him a chance to pretend he doesn’t know anything? Everyone seems ready to fire off a dozen questions each, some more hesitant than others, but their host cuts them off before there’s even a chance: 

“Now now, we don’t have time for me to go into detail. Janus, why don’t you go ahead so we can wrap up this little game?”

They nod. Janus waits a moment before speaking, but it seems more for dramatic effect than out of hesitation or fear. 

“I’ve been within the eastern capital, with a daemon barely hidden under my cloak, and was never once caught.”

Logan squints at them from across the table, the action hindered a bit by a crack in his glasses but no less intimidating. He says nothing, but the expression on his face slowly morphs from suspicion to shock, then a sort of resigned anger. Virgil picks up the metaphorical talking stick and ends the “game” rather quickly. 

“I got sick and died a few days ago and no one noticed.” 

“You what.” Janus does not seem at all pleased with this revelation. Remy briefly wonders if it’s breaking the rules if someone already knows a secret, but through indirect means. Perhaps Emile had never planned to really enforce the rules at all. It wouldn’t surprise him. 

Virgil’s eyes betray his anxiety, but the rest of him seems determined to dismiss all worry. He shrugs at Janus’s (probably) rhetorical question as if to say “what can ya do?” Before the snakeface can escalate things, Emile claps as if to applaud all of them - just rapidly enough to not seem like a condescending slow-clap. 

“Well, now that that’s over, I think I can properly pair you all up for your assignments!”

“Partner up?” 

“Assignments?” 

“Oohh, are we going on a secret spy mission?? Do we get to snap guard’s necks from behind?”

...Figures some of the people in the room would probably have different priorities. Luckily, Emile seems content to answer all of their questions; Remy can’t deny that Em would be terrifying if he ever openly expressed his annoyance or frustration, but that calm, passively happy face he always bore was even more frightening. Because you could never know if you upset him, or what he might do if pushed. Not fully, anyways. Remy might have some idea, but only because he knows, physically, what Emile can do - but he could never claim to understand Em’s emotional and mental limits. 

“Yes, partners, yes assignments - I’m fairly certain we have covered that already in some capacity - and while I will not actively discourage you from following your dreams, I would strongly advise against any neck-snapping unless you are thoroughly prepared to deal with the consequences. Any further questions or may I proceed?” 

There’s a general murmur of assent for Emile to continue, though they’re probably just saving their questions for later. Personally, Remy can’t wait to hear who gets partnered with who, and if it will entail everything he thinks it will. 

“This land is sick. This whole planet is, for that matter. It needs to be cleaned, to be healed. And there’s only so many ways to do that, with the numbers we have. I’m sending you all to restore health to the land, but which method you choose will be entirely up to each team of course.

Scorched earth, or manual cleansing.”

Remy winces. He’s never met a daemon who wouldn’t choose scorched earth, but something tells him that humans - especially these ones - are going to choose the more difficult method. And he’s going to get stuck explaining to one of them why it would be nearly impossible to accomplish the latter within one of their lifetimes. 

Everyone looks at Emile questioningly, but it’s Logan who speaks first. 

“Ah, I assume you’re referring to methods of dealing with infestations and infections? Either you burn it all and restart from the beginning, which can be the only solution when the spread is too vast - or systematically clearing divided sections to attempt to avoid as much damage as possible. It would be easier to make a decision if you named the specific ailment we are attempting to cure?” 

“You’re quite right, Mr. Fuchs! Silly me, I didn’t elaborate enough, did I? You see, humans are the sickness, and I simply cannot have them continue to pollute my kingdom before I even sit upon my throne. I’m sure you can all sympathize - it’s like someone trashing your home after you bought it, but just before you move in!”

Emile must see the looks on their faces, because he continues a little hastily before anyone has the chance to voice their… protests. Remy takes a moment to breathe deeply and removes his shade for a moment, not entirely paying attention to what his friend says next. Every daemon and demon is born with knowledge of the king’s plans, afterall. 

“Now now, I know what you’re all thinking - and no, I am not… expressly telling you to kill anyone. I gave you your choices - either remove the - what did you call it, Mr. Fuchs? The infestation entirely, or you may attempt to reach a peaceful solution! Humans are capable of being reasoned with, I know, so if you could convince them to undo their messes and thoroughly clean up after themselves from now on, then I can work with that as well.”

Remus looks about ready to fall out of his seat, vibrating with excitement, which puts him at about the most agreeable parties at the table. The only one who comes anywhere near matching is Logan, who seems contemplative - balancing between dissent and contentedness with the situation. Virgil looks pale and not entirely present, and the snake-person beside him seems like they’re about to have a stroke with how hard they’re trying to maintain a neutral expression. 

...Two out of four is better than he could have hoped, honestly. It’s in their nature to not want to change their ways. What Remy can’t explain is the intrusive and entirely unprompted thought that comes to mind once all is quiet and he has a moment to think hard about the situation: 

Do we have to?

He really hopes it was just an intrusive thought, anyway. They’re going to have some serious problems if it isn’t.

Chapter Text

One:

"But why the hell would Emile want us to do something like this in the first place? Shouldn't he be making us do like the opposite? If he hates humans so much, you'd think he'd wanna make the world uninhabitable for us?" Virgil just couldn't wrap his head around it.

"You just don't get it, do you?" Remy huffs. "Alright, let's start at the beginning - where did all of the Daemons go?"

"What?" Patton startles.

"Yknow, after the war. Sure, a lotta them got separated from their bodies, but once they get a taste for having a physical form, they tend to not let go of that so easily. So, where'd they go?"

"Uhm, to other hosts?" Virgil asks.

"Right. But what *kind* of hosts? These days, most people in the city will still beat an animal to death in the street if it displays even a hint of intelligence. And Daemons are practically hard-wired to crave our attention for some reason. So, where would they go?"

Patton gasps, physically cringing away. "You can't actually mean..."

"Yep," Remy shrugs, "Almost all of them turned to human hosts. Mostly children and babies, so they wouldn't get caught not knowing anything about that person's life. No one would really question mood swings in children of war, would they?"

"So are bunch of us half-daemons after those guys all grew up and started fucking?" Remus interjects unhelpfully.

 Remy barks out a laugh. "Nah, don't work that way. I mean, Demons don't naturally have bodies, so they can't have kids - even if the body they posses can. Does that make sense?"

"Anyway, that's not really the point of this explanation - the point is that there's a good number of "humans" out there who are actually Daemons disguising as one. Hell, I think some of them even forget that they aren't actually human over time. And yall remember what Emmy is, yeah?"

"The king of Daemons," Logan says - his first contribution to the conversation in several minutes.

"Bingo. And what does a king do? He takes care of his subjects. And if a ton of your subjects happen to be in human bodies, then you'd want the planet to be habitable for humans, right? But the normal humans are fucking that up, hence your new little rag-tag group of... what's the opposite of eco-terrorists?"

"Enviournmentalists?" Janus shrugs

"Hippies?" The cobra on their shoulder hisses.

"TREE FUCKERS!" Remus cackles, Gus making a sniffing sound that might be the Badger equivalent of a laugh from his shoulder. 

[Information to insert at some point: The International Travel Ban caused most countries to loose access to critical resources, forcing them to find whatever ways possible to provide enough food, water, ect for their citizens. This led to a lot of corner-cutting, thus a lot of hazardous materials did not have a proper disposal plan in place when a lot of the new factories popped up. It turned the ocean from over-salinated, to acidic, to downright poisonous- putting a swift end to most marine life. A small percentage of specimens have been preserved over the world, and are constantly bred to maintain the limited stock. Freshwater fish is still somewhat common, but to be able to eat saltwater creatures is now considered a symbol of incredibly high status amd wealth.]

Two:

"Think about it, kid. What's the win condition?"

"What?" Patton frowns. What does she mean?

"It's simple," she sighs. "Before you can play the game, you have to decide what your win condition is."

He... doesn't know what that means. Is there some kind of prize at stake here?

"Seriously, you don't get it? I mean, what do you want to do? Are you happy with your life as it is now, or is there something more you want?"

The hound looms over him, sparkling faintly like a firework. He kinda wants to know what her fur feels like. It's all fluffy and white, like a cloud. 

"I... I don't know what I want. Can't I just be... happy?"

She bares her teeth at him, and he flinches back - hard. If he wasn't already on the ground, he defiantly would have fallen over. He knows that he's missing pieces now - ones that *those* teeth took from him. But wherever they are now, it doesn't seem like he's going to faint from bloodloss here. Some kind of magic, probably.

He glances back at the hound - and realizes that... she's smiling. That's what it is. Not a snarl - a little doggy grin.

"Yes, that is certainly possible. You can be... *happy*. Is that what you want?"

Why does it feel like there isn't a right answer to this question? He feels sick.

"Come now, a simple yes or no will do. I want to get this over with just as much as you. It's not my fault you humans bleed so easily."

"I - yes. I want to be happy. Please."

*Could you just leave me alone?* He thinks. *That would make me really happy right now.*

The void around them falls away. The hound's cherry-red eyes narrow.

"Then I believe our buisness here is done."