ã€ŠPLANESWALKERã€‹


 hallows eve night, or: the day life gets weird

    Pyhra stumbles outside, the music from the party behind him thumping in his chest. The gaudy, orange-and-purple shift he¡¯s wearing is beginning to chafe, and the matching pumps are making his ankles ache. He has his witches hat in one hand, thrown over his shoulder. It smells like booze and vaguely like the candy they dumped all over the dancefloor at the Hallow¡¯s Eve party. His pumps are digging into the soft dirt, and he glares at them as he puts one foot in front of the other.

    ¡°Pyhra!¡± Remy slurs at him, across the slim dirt road. Stella fusses over them, an arm around their waist, giving them a long-suffering glance.

    It¡¯s what Stella had said back at the party¡ª how do you put up with them when they''re like this?

    Pyhra had been sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair, legs crossed, with about two hundred pounds of muscle draped over his lap. Said two hundred pounds of muscle had their arms wrapped around his middle and was pressing their wet nose into his stomach, mumbling incoherently. Or, like, if it was coherent, it was just slurred enough and Pyhra was just drunk enough that it all sounded like nonsense.

    ¡°Easily,¡± Pyhra had said, half-lying, because Remy''s boneless flop onto his lap had been painful, and their constant weight was making his legs turn numb. He brushed a hand through Remy¡¯s hair, though, who was the picture of contentment. ¡°We used to drink after a job well done, so I¡¯m used to it. He and Crow are hilarious when they''re wasted together, by the way.¡±

    And then he got an idea for a joke, and wasted no time putting it into action; hand still buried in Remy''s hair, Pyhra closed his eyes, conjuring Remy''s face in his mind. Pale skin, chiseled jaw, large, upturned brown eyes that smile even when they aren''t actually smiling. He thought of their wild brown hair, long and yet capable of sticking up in the oddest of directions, high in the air. Pyhra thought of their face and decided that for a bit, their face would be his face.

    He opened his eyes, wearing Remy''s face, and grinned in the way that Remy does: wide, toothy, revealing the glittering of sharp fangs hidden behind their lips. He tilted his head in that distinctly dog-like way, and let a giggle fall from his lips that he knew was a perfect impersonation. And he said, "Crow gets all loopy and loose, and sometimes, I can even get her to pet me!" And then Pyhra tipped his head back and laughed, full-bodied, full-bellied. It''s not at all how Pyhra laughs, but its how Remy laughs.

    Stella merely raised her eyebrow, chuckling, used to his antics. "Really?"

    Pyhra shifted back to the face he''d been wearing earlier that night, the one he shows in public most often. Soft, but masculine features of someone in their mid-twenties, straw blonde hair pulled into a half-ponytail, eyes a dull green. Red-undertoned light skin covered in freckles and beauty marks, body slim but visibly male. It''s the face everyone knows him to have, none of them any wiser that it''s not the face he was born with. "Yep."

    Remy lifted their head to warble, ¡°Where¡¯s Crow?¡±

    ¡°Crow went home, wolfie.¡±

    ¡°I wanna see her,¡± Remy let out a long, pathetic whine.

    ¡°You can see her tomorrow.¡±

    Dejected, Remy had flopped their face back against Pyhra¡¯s stomach. Stella gave the back of Remy¡¯s head a flat look. ¡°The worst part about this is that you¡¯re just as drunk as them, aren¡¯t you.¡±

    ¡°Somewhere in that vicinity.¡± Pyhra flapped a hand. His tolerance isn¡¯t actually that good, despite what people say. No, he¡¯s just really good at acting sober when he is really not. But he wasn''t about to tell Stella that, not when she was giving him that severe, unimpressed expression. No, better to let her think that his reputation of being able to stomach more alcohol than an ox and still be sober precede him, as untrue as it was.

    ¡°There¡¯s something wrong with you, genuinely.¡±

    Pyhra laughed. And then he scratched the spot behind Remy¡¯s ear, their favorite, just to punctuate the moment. They went boneless. ¡°Hey, can you do me a favor?¡±

    ¡°Sure,¡±

    ¡°Can you get this guy home?¡± Pyhra affectionately patted their shoulder, half eyeing all the other drunk people in gaudy costumes figuring out how they were getting home and with who. One upside to not being in the city, they could all walk. One down to not being in the city, they all had to walk.

    ¡°Sure,¡± Stella repeated, eyes going soft as she looked upon Remy burrowing farther into Pyhra. ¡°But why can¡¯t you do it yourself?¡±

    ¡°Pretty girl,¡± Pyhra grinned. ¡°I am drunk. And I have a little brother I have to make sure didn¡¯t get himself killed, and if I go home with wolfie here, I am going to stay there all night.¡±

    She rolled her eyes. ¡°Don¡¯t call me that.¡±

    So she¡¯d taken Remy, and now they were stumbling off towards Remy¡¯s place on the edge of the woods. Pyhra had helped build that place, with his own two hands and wood they cut down from those woods. He remembers that when it was finished, Remy dragged him and Crow up to the roof at the asscrack of dawn. "Just watch," they''d whispered. And the three of them had watched, awe-struck, as the sun blinked over the trees in rivers of orange and yellow and red. It was the first time Pyhra remembers looking at this life they were building and realizing, breathlessly, that it was worth it.

    Pyhra takes a swig from the beer in his hand. He¡¯s never liked the taste of beer, but being drunk is a convenient way to pretend his head isn''t full of thoughts, all the time. But if he''s honest, being drunk hasn''t done that for him since he was a teenager; the thoughts persist, more uncontrolled then they are sober. But that momentary, chemical rush of dopamine you get as the alcohol hits is a drug he isn''t willing to let go of.

    Just as he¡¯s turning off from the Center Hall, he¡¯s slammed into by something hard and going very, very fast. Pyhra nearly eats shit, but drops the beer and the hat to throw his arms out in front of him for balance. Both fall to the dirt, the beer cracking, spilling the foamy drink all over the hat.

    Sol stumbles back, before straightening abruptly. She¡¯s got her hands clenched in front of her, eyes wide with unshed tears. She¡¯s dressed in a shiny, glittery fairy costume, complete with metallic wings strapped to her back. He doesn''t know what she''s doing here, when the kids should be off doing whatever it is normal kids do on Hallow''s Eve, trick-or-treating and trading candy and laughing, his foggy memories of childhood provide. Taking in her terrified stance, eyes wide and tears beginning to drip down her cheeks, his stomach drops to his feet. She gasps, ¡°Pyhra!¡±

    ¡°Sol,¡± he manages, head rushing. He pulls himself back upright, trying to make his vision stop swimming. Everything is very bright, all of a sudden¡ª but then it''s grainy instead, dark along the edges.

    ¡°It¡¯s Sky! And Lune! They¡¯re¡ª I told them I didn¡¯t want to go but they wouldn¡¯t listen, so we¡ª¡°

    ¡°Back up,¡± Pyhra¡®s gut is jumping, and he''s breathing very carefully, until his vision is returning to it''s normal state.

    ¡°We were trick-or-treating,¡± her voice is watery. ¡°But they wanted to go into the woods to look for monsters. And then¡ª¡°

    ¡°I get it,¡± Pyhra interrupts again, urgency overcoming him. ¡°Take me to them.¡±

    Of course, of course Lune decided to run off and do stupid shit the night he knew Pyhra would be off getting wasted at the party. Either Pyhra was too predictable or this kid was way too crafty, and Pyhra is gonna have to do something about it either way. Lune and Sky''s Abilities aren''t anywhere near battle ready, much to the boys'' frustration. He guesses being the little brothers of Pyhra and Crow will have that effect on a kid.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe they keep doing this,¡± Sol says, panting from exertion. ¡°They treat me like I¡¯m childish! And then they turn around and do this?¡±

    ¡°They what?¡± Pyhra asks, running to match step with her.

    ¡°They keep telling me to get lost! Because they¡¯re practicing fighting, and I¡¯m not any good at fighting. And then they¡ª¡°

    He makes a mental note.

    Pyhra follows Sol past the treeline, the two of them sprinting, into the woods and past their last outpost. As they go, the trees get more gnarled, the bushes thicker, thorns reaching across the path. There¡¯s movement all around them, and Pyhra gets the distinct feeling of being watched. They¡¯d chosen the spot they did because of these woods, and the danger they posed to anyone inside. But the idea was to keep other people away from them, not for them to go running inside!

    And Lune had just walked in. On purpose.

    They come to a clearing, where Lune and Sky are standing in loose, trembling battle stances. Sky has his club in his hands, and Lune has shadows dancing around his shaking fists.

    A monster is hovering over them, dark and grinning. It¡¯s got to be around ten feet tall, tendrils of shadow blowing out from underneath it, curling in the air.

    Sol crouches behind a bush. Pyhra gets an idea.

    He changes his face first, makes it small and feminine and round, turns his eyes into soft, doe-eyes. Then he shrinks his body, shortens his hair, turns it scarlet, just like Sol¡¯s. The outfit is last: he closes his eyes and remembers her costume, the foil and the metallic wings. And, simply, he decides that anyone who looks at him will think he¡¯s wearing that outfit, too.

    She stares at him, wide-eyed. He grins, and presses a finger to his lips. This is what he''s good at, and he''ll get revenge for her too, in the process.

    He bursts into the clearing. ¡°Sky! Lune! Please stop this! We need to run!¡± He says with her voice.

    Lune looks back at him, then towards the monster, then back at him. ¡°Sol, you idiot! You need to get out of here!¡±

    ¡°Yeah, now!¡± Sky agrees, though his voice is trembling.

    "No, you two really should run, instead." Pyhra mocks, pulling the gun from his belt. He knows that, in the illusion, they must have only seen his arm move, and his gun appear. Well. And it¡¯s obviously not Sol¡¯s gun. Given that Sol is a fourteen year old girl, and does not carry a gun. Because they aren''t raising these kids to be battle-ready like they are, because being battle-ready at fourteen is not all Lune and Sky think it''s cracked up to be.

    Watch and learn, Pyhra thinks, stepping past the two boys. Their cries of protest are lost as he approaches the shadow. It hunches, gnarled white face tilting in curiosity. It sniffs surreptitiously at the air, clearly sensing an easy meal. That¡¯s what he was counting on, that split-second of this monster being so cocky as to think he¡¯d be an easy meal.

    Pyhra does not give it one. It¡¯s leaving itself wide open, just like he hoped. He jams the gun between its eyes and unloads the clip. It screams in pain, bucking. Pyhra jumps back, light on his feet. He slams another clip into the gun¡ªhidden in his waistband¡ªand shoots at the monster''s joints, the places he knows it''s weakest. It starts to go wild, and Pyhra jumps into the air, feeling the cool autumn wind nip past his skin. Finally, he lands on the monster''s back, unloading another clip directly into it''s neck. It gurgles in pain, but by the time it can think to move, it¡¯s far too late. It¡¯s curling up dead on the ground, the gun smoking.

    The smell kind of makes him want to throw up, and his vision abruptly blurs, but he stays steadfast. He¡¯s got a lot of practice, after all. He clumsily slides down the monster''s back, nearly falling onto his ass when his feet meet the leaf-covered ground. He leans heavily, hands on his knees, breathing harshly. Everything is moving, moving, moving, whirling in ways he''s pretty sure it''s not supposed to. Is he drunker than he thought?

    ¡°Pyhra.¡± Lune surmises, accurately. Both boys lower their weapons and their stances.

    Pyhra drops the costume illusion, and shifts back to his favorite face, the one he''d had on at the party. ¡°I suppose you two dipshits think you¡¯re real smart, huh?¡±

    Lune immediately puffs up defensively. Sky wilts like a flower. Pyhra ignores them both, grips them by the shoulders, and begins tugging them back toward the village. ¡°I am bringing you home.¡± He says to Sky, who hunches.

    Sol trails behind them, hands clasped in front of her. Pyhra ignores all three teenagers, dragging them along behind him as he marches towards Crow¡¯s house. It¡¯s a small building, made of wood and stucco. Pyhra remembers building this one, too. The feeling of the mud against his hands as he spread it along the frame. When they''d finished building it, they''d spent their first night on the couch in the living room, drinking wine like they were rich or something, and laughing like nothing in the world could touch them.

    He knocks twice, harshly, on the front door. Crow kicks it open from the other side. She leans one muscled arm against the doorframe and the other against the door. She¡¯s looking down at the four of them from her considerable height, gray eyes narrowed, like she knows what¡¯s happened. It''s probably obvious, with a pissed-off Pyhra standing over three nervous teenagers like a wraith. He wonders if the effect of the image is ruined at all by the dress he''s wearing.

    ¡°I found your kid brother trying his hand with a Beast,¡± Pyhra says without preamble. ¡°Alone. Without telling anyone.¡±

    Crow raises her eyebrows, and then narrows them at Sky. Truly, they look nearly exactly the same in physical appearance; they have the same bow-lips and pointy nose and dark brown hair. It¡¯s just that Sky¡¯s stuck up at odd, erratic angles, and Crow¡¯s is pulled into a neat and tidy braid. And somehow, despite having the same features, Sky manages to look effortlessly naive, eyes wide and innocent and silly. Whereas Crow, with her dark-circles and frown lines and stern face paint a very different picture of a person.

    ¡°I assume this was another competition with Lune?¡± She says, deceptively lightly.

    Sky shakes his head. ¡°No, we were working together to¡ª¡±

    Crow holds up a hand. Sky goes silent. She gestures once, towards the kitchen. The three teenagers trail after her. Pyhra just watches them go, and then steps inside. It¡¯s dark, save for the candles lit in the windows. The house is cozy, with a rug thrown over the floorboards and the furniture all slightly weathered with age. Pyhra makes his way to the back porch, flicking his cigarette case open and setting one into his mouth. He digs around in his pocket for a lighter, but abruptly remembers he slipped it into his shoes. Lighter acquired, he flicks it on the end of the cigarette, and takes a drag.

    It warms him from the inside out, in stark contrast to the briskness of the air. It tastes familiar, like an old friend, and he blows the smoke out into the night as his muscles untense. He needs it, with the way his hands are trembling, the way he''s trying not to close his eyes, lest he imagine a world in which that encounter went very different¡ªone where Pyhra didn''t make it in time, and instead of barging in on Lune and Sky in shaky battle stances, he stumbles in on them dead and bleeding out on the forest floor, eyes open and milkily unseeing, the monster gorging itself on their¡ª

    There¡¯s the click of a door, and then Crow is at his shoulder. She lifts up the hem of his stupid, skimpy dress and pulls his cigarette box from its place tucked into the waistband of his tights. Her movements are easy, casual, and without hesitation. The coldness of her hands and the warmth of her body pull him from his reverie, leaning a little towards her to accommodate her theft. She pulls a cigarette out, returns the box, sets it in her mouth and waits patiently. Pyhra rolls his eyes, but leans forward, lighting her cigarette with the end of his.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    They face outward, shoulder to shoulder, forearms braced on the railing. They blow the smoke into the air near in sync, and they''re touching from their shoulders all the way down their biceps, sapping each other''s warmth. It''s familiar. It''s easy.

    ¡°Lune seemed pretty upset,¡± Crow remarks.

    ¡°Probably because he knows I¡¯m gonna rip him to shreds.¡±

    ¡°Haven¡¯t already?¡±

    ¡°Not yet.¡± Pyhra takes a drag, ignoring how his hands shake. ¡°Trying to calm down first.¡±

    Crow hums. ¡°Remarkably thoughtful of you.¡±

    Pyhra smiles, and it¡¯s not really a kind one. ¡°How¡¯d Sky take it?¡±

    ¡°I sicced Cid on him.¡±

    Pyhra nods. ¡°And how¡¯d Cid take it?¡±

    ¡°Not well.¡±

    ¡°Figures,¡±

    Crow sighs. ¡°They¡¯re good kids, just¡­¡±

    ¡°Misguided.¡±

    Pyhra means it as a joke, self-deprecating and bitter, but Crow just nods sadly. ¡°Were we like that at their age?¡± She muses, tapping her cigarette on the railing.

    ¡°Girl, we were worse.¡±

    And it¡¯s the truth; at fourteen, Pyhra and Crow and Remy were living like rats in the sewers of the precious Crystal City, poisoning the waters and burning down whatever they could when they managed to get their hands on fire. At fourteen, Lune and Sky were disobeying their older siblings to rush off and play stupid games.

    Pyhra reminds himself that that was always the point.

    ¡°Do you miss it? Before?¡± He asks abruptly. He¡¯s unsure of where the question came from, but he can¡¯t take the words back.

    Crow looks at him out of the corner of her eye. ¡°Sometimes. Do you?¡±

    What an answer. Exceedingly simple, and yet so complex he has no idea what she means, all the same. Sometimes. Does she think about it, too? Does she lay awake at night, doing nothing but remembering, turning the memories of their youth over and over in her mind until they''re smooth? Or does she truly mean it when she says it, that it only occurs to her once in a blue-moon, sudden and sharp. It wasn''t even that long ago that they lived that life in the fire. Is Pyhra really the only one who can''t blink without seeing it?

    He shifts into her face, her sharp eyes and olive skin and long, black braid. He does it as a joke, but she isn''t laughing as she turns to watch him shift, face impassive. "Sometimes," he mimics her flat intonation, her thick, low voice, the way she tossed her head a little as she said it to shift her braid. He can mimic her and Remy like he can no one else, and he does it often. As a joke, except nobody''s laughing right now, not even him.

    "Do you?" She repeats.

    Pyhra shifts back into his favorite face, frowning.

    ¡°Sometimes.¡± He lies.

    ¡°¡­Why?¡±

    Pyhra remembers watching his childhood home go down in flames, covered in sticky blood and clutching his baby brother to his chest. He remembers looking up at their Crystal Palace, and wishing glass could burn.

    ¡°We couldn¡¯t fight them,¡± Pyhra takes a long drag, contemplative. ¡°No matter how strong we were. We lost a lot in a pointless fight, with enemies we couldn''t possibly win against. But we cut our teeth on that pointless fight.¡± He flicks the cigarette for emphasis, some of the ash darting off of it in the process. The breeze takes it, floating it through the air until it falls harmlessly to the grass below. ¡°Sometimes it feels like it¡¯s all I know how to do.¡±

    Crow is silent for a long, long moment. Then, she says, ¡°I can¡¯t say I relate, but I can see where you¡¯re coming from. But, I think¡­ we always have a choice. And we can choose to be more than that fight.¡±

    ¡°Well said,¡± Pyhra says, pressing the butt of his cigarette to the railing until all that¡¯s left is hot ash and embers. ¡°It''s a good thing the simple life is so much better. Because any pushing, and I''d go back to that fight." It''s the truth, maybe his first one of the night.

    She doesn''t admonish him, though. Doesn''t scold him for finding this hard. She simply smiles, her first of the night, withered and sad, and he knows she understands. ¡°Well said.¡±

    He brushes her shoulders as he goes, skin against skin, sturdy and muscles against callused palms. She doesn¡¯t watch as he leaves, still watching the moon rise.She doesn''t call for him to stay, either. She let''s him go, touch feather-light in both goodbye and apology for his admission, steps silent as a ghost.

    He steps back into the house and calls for Lune, who walks up to him like he¡¯s on a funeral procession. They walk to their own house in silence. Vincent isn¡¯t there when they step into the living room, which means he¡¯s probably off having his own Hallow¡¯s Eve fun, which means they won''t have their usual buffer. Pyhra whirls on Lune. ¡°What were you thinking?¡±

    ¡°I¡ª I just wanted to use my Ability,¡± Lune says, and from the reddening of his face Pyhra can tell it¡¯s the truth.

    ¡°You wanted to use your Ability,¡± Pyhra echoes. ¡°Are the training dummies we have for that exact purpose not enough?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± Lune is visibly frustrated, face turning red. ¡°No, they¡¯re not. They¡¯re nothing like the real thing!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the point.¡±

    ¡°What¡¯s the point of training if it won¡¯t prepare me for the real thing?¡±

    ¡°Because. You¡¯ll get good at hitting the dummies, and then someone will catch a beast for you to fight while the whole fucking village watches, ready to jump in if you¡¯re over your head.¡±

    ¡°And how long will that take?!¡±

    ¡°However long it takes!¡±

    ¡°Oh, and you get to decide that? Because you¡¯re so goddamn wise?¡±

    Lune is breathing heavily, face red with anger. Something in Pyhra is twirling itself into knots, twisting and twisting around until it¡¯s squeezing his insides.

    But if he won¡¯t listen to him, maybe he¡¯ll listen to, ¡°Vinny thinks so too.¡±

    ¡°Because you guys are so responsible,¡± Lune spits. ¡°Yeah fucking right.¡±

    All goes quiet, in Pyhra¡¯s mind. ¡°Yeah fucking right, what?¡±

    ¡°When you were my age, you were doing crazy shit! I¡¯m not stupid, Pyhra, I know what you did when you went off with Crow and Remus!¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s different,¡± spills from Pyhra¡¯s mouth.

    ¡°How is it different! Why is it okay for you to do dumb, crazy shit as a teenager but it¡¯s not okay for me to want to be able to fight beasts?! You can-- hurt people, but when I want to protect the village, I''m irresponsible? That¡¯s just not fair!¡±

    ¡°Not fair,¡± Pyhra echoes. ¡°Not fair?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s not fair,¡± Lune seethes. ¡°And I¡¯m tired of pretending it is. Because we¡¯re all just here, pretending to be normal. Faking like we¡¯re normal rural villagers instead of¡ª of¡ª what we are! Like it¡¯s all goddamn fine, like our childhoods spent¡­ struggling, just,¡± he smacks his palms on his thighs for emphasis, giving Pyhra a winning, mocking smile. ¡°Didn¡¯t happen!¡±

    Pyhra inhales, and exhales, trying to get his growing anger under control. ¡°Nobody¡¯s pretending anything.¡±

    ¡°Oh, shut up.¡± Lune points at him. ¡°You¡¯re lying most of all! Putting us up in this house like our old one didn¡¯t get burned down! Pretending to be my dad¡ª¡°

    ¡°You have no idea what you¡¯re talking about!¡± Pyhra explodes, rage dancing hot along his skin. ¡°No fucking idea! We built this place for you! We stopped fighting for you! So that you could have an easier life!"

    Lune¡¯s eyes are wide, but then they narrow. ¡°I never asked for that¡ª¡°

    ¡°So that you¡ª¡° Pyhra darts forward, gripping his shoulders in a vice grip. ¡°¡ªdon¡¯t have to spill blood just to make enough cash to make sure your little brother eats¡ª!¡± The last word comes out gnarled, gravelly and harsh. Pyhra¡¯s throat hurts. He shakes Lune once, hard, so hard his hair shudders.

    There are tears in his brother¡¯s eyes. He seems dumbstruck, staring up at Pyhra through wide, glassy eyes. He looks so young. Face still round with baby fat, eyes too big for his face. Abruptly, Pyhra releases him, stepping back. Guilt lodges itself into his stomach, cold and hot all at the same time. It digs its sharp edges into his organs.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t this nostalgic,¡± lilts a familiar voice, and the brothers whirl around. Vincent is standing in the doorway, leaned against the frame, arms crossed. His black hair is obscuring his expression, but Pyhra can imagine the raised eyebrow, the scowl. ¡°Would either of you care to explain?¡±

    Pyhra does the explaining. Lune is wiping his eyes, trying to contain his tears. It doesn¡¯t work, because everytime he wipes them away his lips tremble again and more fill his eyes. Vincent approaches Pyhra once it¡¯s all in the air, black eyes peering down at him. ¡°You¡¯re drunk,¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡±

    Lune shoots him a betrayed expression. Vincent kneels in front of the kid, taking one of his hands in his own. He isn¡¯t wearing his gloves, and the hand beneath is visibly soft from disuse.

    ¡°Your brother has been through a lot,¡± Vincent whispers, and Pyhra miserably slams down onto the couch, back first. It makes his head rush, but he just closes his eyes. ¡°A lot of things he doesn¡¯t like to talk about. Because he loves you. When we built this place, we wanted to create a safe haven. For you, and for him, and me. But it means that Pyhra gets scared when you fight recklessly. Because he fought recklessly, and it¡­ didn¡¯t lead to good things. He¡¯s just scared, Lune.¡±

    There¡¯s a silence, and then Lune says, ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, too.¡± Pyhra says. ¡°It should never be your burden to know what happened when we were young.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ sorry. That you had to support m¡ª¡°

    Pyhra sits up, grabbing Lune by the shoulders again. He flinches, but after a moment, stills. ¡°Don¡¯t say that. Don¡¯t ever say that. Don¡¯t ever feel bad for what I had to do. Okay? It¡¯s not your fault. It never will be.¡± Pyhra forces out, his easy lies tasting bitter. But Lune¡¯s staring up at him as if for the first time, and Pyhra remembers. Remembers holding him as an infant and watching his little eyes blink open, slowly, as if it took all the effort in the world.

    ¡°But¡ª¡°

    ¡°I would do it all again,¡± Pyhra whispers, squeezing his shoulders. ¡°And it would still be worth it.¡±

    It''s a lie. Pyhra hates telling the truth. Hates looking his own existence in the eye, hates letting the rotten, molten core of his existence be spoken out loud. But It''s not, which is why he can say it, why it falls from his lips, so pretty, so easy, so simple. The contradiction is making his hands tremble again, and he just hopes Lune can''t feel his fallibility. Pyhra has already failed him enough. He doesn''t want to fail him this way, too.

    Lune nods, miserably. Pyhra feels like there¡¯s more he should say, more he should try to tell him; but it all dies on his tongue as Vinny ushers him upstairs to his room, leaving Pyhra all alone. It smells like cigarettes and booze, and, not for the first time, Pyhra sees that he¡¯s a godawful influence.

    Lune is lucky he has Vinny; he would¡¯ve been more lucky if it wasn¡¯t Pyhra that carried him out of that house, but¡ª

    ¡°He¡¯s dead,¡± Pyhra mutters to himself, trying to make the words stick, trying to make them mean something. ¡°He¡¯s dead, he¡¯s dead, stop thinking about it, he¡¯s dead.¡± He can see him, in his mind¡¯s eye, frozen at fourteen and smiling in the soft sunlight of their home, backlit so bad that his features are bathed in shadows.

    Mostly, Pyhra thinks, Lune is lucky because he doesn¡¯t remember much of him.

    Pyhra stumbles up the stairs, ankle nearly rolling from a poorly placed step. He braces himself on the wall. Muttering under his breath, he leans down to yank his pumps off. When he shoves the half-jammed door to his bedroom open, he tosses the shoes on the nearest available surface¡ª his desk chair¡ª and collapses, face first, on the bed. He falls asleep worrying about the scolding he''s gonna get from Vinny later, for going off on Lune like that. Pyhra will deserve it. But that doesn''t mean he wants their surrogate father''s ire. Sleep is fitful, and restless, but welcomed.

    He dreams of a great tear in the night sky, like someone had taken a seam ripper to the surface of fabric. Gnarled and raggedy and filled with baring threads desperately trying to hang on to the fraying edges. It''s framed by stars, though there''s no moon in sight.

    Behind the tear, something pulses. Like the veins of a heartbeat, red and heavy. A starburst of color, pumping again and again, as if organic. As if it breathes.

    Something is reaching through the tear. He can feel it, in his stomach and in the rapid beating of his heart. Something is reaching, fingers reaching, reaching, reaching.

    Whatever it is, it brushes it''s fingertips against his chest, just over his heart. It''s electrifying, like he''s been jabbed with a livewire, and suddenly--

    Something is staring at him, through the tear. Two identical eyes of a bright, neon, alien blue.

    Pyhra wakes to the sound of the windows rattling.

    He sits up gasping, mouth dry as a desert. Outside, wind is raging, rattling the windows and doors and making the house sway gently. It''s so loud he can hear it whistling, can hear it slamming things open and wrenching them apart. He can hear the way the house is creaking under the strain. It''s leaking in through where his window is cracked, so strong his hair is blowing around his shoulders.

    He doesn¡¯t have time to dig for his boots, he decides, and shoves on last night¡¯s pumps. And then he¡¯s outside, adrenaline spurring his hungover body past its normal limits. Wind whips against his skin, bitingly cold. His hair is yanked behind him with the force of it, unkindly pulled from the ponytail it was already falling out of. He turns, and sees Remy running towards him. Their own hair is blowing violently, framing them in a raging black frame. They stop short in front of him, one large hand closing around his bicep, as if to steady him. ¡°Are you okay?¡±

    ¡°Fine. Do you know what¡¯s going on?¡±

    ¡°No idea,¡± they say. ¡°I woke up and it was like this.¡±

    No more words are required, and they take off towards where the wind is blowing from. This clearly isn¡¯t a normal wind, and whatever¡¯s causing it, it¡¯s blowing at their village dead-on. Which is suspicious as fuck, given their collective pasts. He doesn''t know of anyone with a wind Ability, but he wouldn''t put it past the King and his stupid brute squad to send one to confuse them, and then ambush.

    It¡¯s as he thinks this that an arm shoots out to grab him by the forearm. He nearly eats shit, but Remy catches him with a hand on the small of his back and the other on his shoulder. Remy manhandles him with ease, picking him back up and setting him down again on his feet. It''s casual, instinctual; they''d probably done something similar a million times before.

    Sol is gripping his forearm, scowling something intense. Her face is red with anger, eyebrows turned in with a sharpness unmatched. He¡¯s never seen her so mad; she¡¯s normally a sweet kid, always smiling.

    ¡°It¡¯s Lune and Sky,¡± she says, and Pyhra is falling, falling, falling. ¡°They ran towards it.¡±

    Pyhra is running before he knows what¡¯s happening. Remy is calling his name, running after him, but he¡¯s faster than Remy is. Pyhra always was faster; perks of being friends with two beefcakes is that you have to learn to get fast to pick up the slack. It was something he learned the hard way, how to move his feet like a bat outta hell, and he puts it to good use now.

    He runs past the other houses, the village square, the hall. The others are gathered there, arms held up against the wind, squinting. He runs past Crow, who exclaims in surprise and calls out after him. But he¡¯s going, going, gone. He¡¯s bursting into the treeline, cutting through the wind like butter. Flying through the wind that stopped everyone else at the edge of the village. He doesn''t have time to examine the strangeness of that, not when the world is tilting on it''s metaphorical axis.

    He can smell the beast before he gets there, the stench putrid. It¡¯s bigger than the last one the two kids had fought before. Pyhra¡¯s in full crisis mode now; body slipping back into old instincts. He raises a hand and says, ¡°I¡¯m a wraith,¡±

    He comes bursting into another clearing. All movements halt to stare at him¡ª or rather, to stare just over his head. They¡¯re staring at nothing, but they don¡¯t know it: from their perspective, great black wings are springing from his back, clawed arms hanging in the air beside them, a shadowy face full of teeth above it all.

    The beast is a furry thing, staring up at the wraith¡¯s face. Behind him, Lune and Sky stare, dumbstruck, again in those half formed battle stances. Lune is bleeding.

    Pyhra sees red.

    Pyhra pulls the gun from the waistband of his tights and shoots at the monster''s head. The bullet doesn¡¯t bounce, exactly. But it does sort of fizzle out. And then the monster is whirling around to stare at him, and he lets the illusion fall. The beast swipes at him, and he ducks to avoid it. Then he¡¯s dodging left, right, jumping back. The monster is missing with every swipe of its bloodied claws.

    Something is wrong here, he knows; this beast isn¡¯t causing the wind. It was probably agitated because of the wind, and found Lune and Sky, assumed they were its cause. Pyhra shoots at it again, and the bullets connect. The beast wails in pain but hardly stops, instead redoubling its efforts. If there''s an Ability User around here, he needs to kill this thing and fast, before they get the jump on all three of them.

    Pyhra gets off another shot into its shoulder, and it cries out, momentarily halted. Pyhra sets his foot on its injured shoulder, digging into the wound with the heel of the pump. It cries out again. I¡¯m a shadow, Pyhra thinks. And then the monster is staring up, it¡¯s eyes glazing over with something like terror. Lune and Sky are staring at the open air, too.

    What they¡¯re seeing is this: a shadow, in perfect silhouette of Pyhra, ten feet tall. Bathed in black shadows, eyes and teeth a harsh, pearly white against the blackness. It grins down at the monster, digging it¡¯s boot into the beast the same way the real Pyhra is. When Pyhra laughs a little, flicking his hair over his shoulder, the shadow mimics him.

    But when Pyhra sets the gun between the monster¡¯s eyes, the shadow mimics this too, pointing a shadow gun at the monster¡¯s forehead. And when Pyhra pulls the trigger, the shadow says, ¡°Bam,¡± in a many layered, booming voice.

    The monster falls dead. Pyhra lets the illusion melt away. Lune faints.

    Sky is on his knees in a second flat, sitting beside Lune. The wind has gotten worse, swirling around them. It whips against his face and hair and clothes, making them snap against his skin painfully. He sways in place, trying to keep his balance in the heels.

    Pyhra sees the tear form.

    The one from his dream; he hears the air rip, watches as it ripples and yanks itself apart, leaving nothing from a fraying tear in the air and a void behind it. The air around it warps, swirling with colors and shapes and nonsense. The tear itself is threaded, just like the one from his dream, as if parts of it are just barely clutching to itself, trying to both stay open and pull itself back together.

    It pulses. The ground shakes. The pulsing is red starbursting of light, spilling forth. It pulses, the ground shaking to punctuate it, like a heart beating.

    Pyhra knows he can¡¯t fight this; knows it in his bones, in his breath and his own heartbeat. Pyhra can fight almost anything. Almost anyone on the planet can''t even begin to stand a chance against his Ability. But, this. There''s nothing he can do in the face of power that is so far beyond him. It''s inhuman; it''s like it barely exists, sitting there, pulsing. He stumbles around, back to the tear, as if to run, and feels the air begin to suck.

    All the wind is now flying towards the tear, being yanked into it and pulling leaves and tree branches with it. He digs his feet into the dirt, but the wind becomes harsher, pulling him towards the tear. It''s almost like a giant vacuum, he thinks hysterically, falling to his knees and digging his hands into the dirt as he''s inched ever further away. He pulls himself to a stop a few feet from the tear, making terrified eye-contact with Sky.

    Lune stirs. Blinking his eyes open, slowly, as if its taking all the effort in the world.

    ¡°Listen to me!¡± He screams, over the wind. ¡°You¡¯re right to want to be able to fight! But you can¡¯t fight right now! Not without someone at your shoulder!¡± He¡¯s yanked another foot back, fingers aching from the strain, digging little trenches into the dirt. Lune and Sky are watching him in horror, clutching each other. ¡°We¡¯ve worked to give you a simple life! Please,¡± tears fill his voice. ¡°Please be grateful for that! It¡¯s a gift!¡± It''s harder than it looks, he doesn''t say. I''m sorry for lying, for pretending, he doesn''t say. I don''t know how to do anything else.

    He breathes out. The tear is pulling him into it. It¡¯s at his back, ice cold and thick, like molasses. ¡°Take him to Stella!¡± He says to Sky. And to Lune, he shouts, ¡°And next time, remember to set your stance, idiot¡ª!¡±

    And then, with finality, he¡¯s yanked through.

    It¡¯s darkness, and freezing. It¡¯s emptiness. Except, a pulsing blue thinness, like tiny little threads, hang in the air. They go in all directions, like a chaotic spiderweb of connection. They pulse once, nearly blinding him with their brightness, and then everything is dark. He¡¯s falling.

    He¡¯s falling, and it¡¯s dark. Perfect emptiness, perfect nothingness. There¡¯s nothing like it, he realizes. Nothing like this absolute pitchness, and the feeling of knowing there is nothing. Floating in an endless sea of the absence of existence.

    ¡°Pyhra,¡± a voice says, achingly familiar. Older and so more weary than he remembers, but still familiar. ¡°Pyhra,¡± he says again. ¡°It¡¯s not a gift.¡±

    There¡¯s a flash of blue, a light, a long line of sparkling through the darkness. Thin and tenuous and yet he''s drawn to it, reaching towards that one tangible thing in this nothingness. "Take it," the voice says, and it''s been so long since Pyhra has heard that voice that he obeys without thought.

    He''s tumbling, body twisting around itself as he falls through the nothingness like a stone out of a plane. He let''s off a sudden, cut-off scream, and watches as the blue thread pulses, again.

    He wakes to the feeling of being poked.

 beginnings

    His body doesn¡¯t return to him at first; it¡¯s more of a fuzziness, the general idea of a body that moves and breathes and exists. The second sensation that returns to him is pain¡ª the dryness of his mouth, the ache of his limbs, the pounding in his skull.

    Then comes the poking.

    He pries his eyes open, immediately squinting in pain against the bright sunlight. His back is on something warm and hard, and bumpy. It¡¯s digging into his shoulders and the small of his back.

    Someone above him says, ¡°I think she¡¯s waking up!¡± In an excited whisper.

    He forces his eyes open and forces them to stay open. The world is blurry for a few moments. Someone else says, ¡°Did you hit your head?¡±

    He focuses his eyes. Three figures come into view.

    One is a woman with brown, short cropped hair and the reddest eyes he¡¯s ever seen. She¡¯s staring down at him balefully, glaring in obvious distrust. They¡¯re the color of fresh blood, of cherries, and of the worst kind of fire.

    There¡¯s a man to her left with skin pale like snow and long, orange hair. His eyes match his hair, except they¡¯re strange¡ª the color seems to swirl around his irises. He¡¯s smiling down at him, wide¡ª too wide, with a few teeth too many.

    To their right is another woman, with dark skin and box braids pulled into a ponytail with a blue hair tie, who¡¯s frowning thoughtfully. She looks¡­ normal, though there¡¯s an aura about her¡ª one of quiet confidence. It¡¯s in the set of her shoulders. But her eyes are gentle and her frown is not accusing.

    It¡¯s the one with the red eyes who¡¯s holding the stick. She pokes him again, on the shoulder.

    ¡°I¡¯m not a woman,¡± he snaps. His voice comes out garbled and wrecked.

    ¡°You¡¯re wearing a dress.¡± She points out.

    ¡°And what are you gonna do about it?¡±

    ¡°Nothing. Listen. You go and tell your friends that if you want to do all this nonsense, do it away from our shop. It¡¯s neutral ground.¡±

    She says the words like they¡¯re important, like they¡¯re supposed to mean something profound. She¡¯s also sort of scolding him, like he knows what those words mean in this context, and he¡¯s been stupid for forgetting something just so obvious.

    ¡°What nonsense?¡±

    She rolls her eyes. ¡°Like you don¡¯t know.¡±

    Pyhra groans in frustration, letting his head thump against the asphalt beneath him. It turns out to be a mistake, as pain goes shooting through his skull. ¡°I really don¡¯t,¡± he groans.

    She¡¯s properly pissed now, and jabs him once in the ribs. ¡°I will not have vampires leaving their half-dead friends at my goddamn shop!¡±

    Oh, this day is taking a turn. ¡°Vampires?¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think he knows,¡± Blue on the right says.

    The orange one on the left hums. ¡°I dunno, he does look like a vampire, though¡­¡±

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯re wearing a costume three weeks before Halloween,¡± the woman points out, with the exact same tone of voice she¡¯d used to point out that he¡¯s wearing a dress. Like it¡¯s obvious. Because it is. Except he doesn¡¯t know what ¡°Halloween¡± is, and he doesn¡¯t know where he is, or what¡¯s going on.

    ¡°Okay, give me a hand here,¡± Pyhra abruptly runs out of patience. ¡°What the fuck is a vampire?¡±

    ¡°Oh, goddammit!¡± Orange smacks a hand against his forehead. ¡°He¡¯s a normie, and you just told him¡ª¡°

    ¡°It¡¯s Larp,¡± Red interjects. ¡°They¡¯re Larping. I¡¯m annoyed at a bunch of Larpers.¡±

    Listen, Pyhra¡¯s lied enough in his life to know that this woman is feeding him bullshit. But he doesn¡¯t have enough context to know how or why, and anyway, she¡¯s not even trying to hide the lie, her voice is so flat.

    ¡°What the fuck is Larp?!¡±

    ¡°Live-action roleplay,¡± Blue explains.

    ¡°Word salad, bro,¡± Pyhra says, making eye contact with Blue. ¡°Word. Salad.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s all calm down,¡± Orange says, holding up a hand. ¡°First things first, are you alright?¡±

    Pyhra is laying on hot asphalt in a city he doesn¡¯t recognize. His head is pounding like someone¡¯s taking a hammer to the inside of his skull. His mouth tastes like blood and booze. All he has on him are the clothes he was wearing last night, which is a skimpy shift made to look vaguely Hallow¡¯s Eve costume, and a pair of heels. He doesn¡¯t even have the stupid witch¡¯s hat anymore; he¡¯d dropped it in the mad dash to get to Lune before he got himself killed.

    ¡°Gonna be honest. I¡¯ve been better.¡±

    ¡°I would hope so,¡± Red says, and Pyhra resists the urge to claw at her stupid, stupid eyes.

    ¡°Can one of you just tell me where I am?¡±

    ¡°Johnstown,¡± the Blue one supplies.

    Pyhra gives him a blank look.

    ¡°Maryland?¡±

    ¡°The US?¡±

    ¡°None of these words mean anything to me!¡± Pyhra snaps. ¡°God, just get out of my face so I can get off the fucking road, will you?¡±

    Blue disappears immediately, Orange following a second later. Red sends him one last distrustful look before pulling away. Pyhra sits up, head rushing. He presses a hand to his forehead, attempting to get his vision to clear.

    He¡¯s in a neighborhood full of houses, he assumes, though they¡¯re unlike any he¡¯s ever seen before. The Capital is full of sleek, metal buildings, high-rises and glass and crystal, smooth metal and dark concrete. In opposition, more rural areas¡ª Pyhra and co¡¯s secret little commune included¡ª are usually collections of wooden buildings, sometimes made with stucco.

    These are all built with wood, painted and faded and old, and have¡ª some sort of rock inset into them. Red and rectangular. It throws him so much that he stares long and hard at it, and doesn¡¯t notice the leaf until it smacks into his nose.

    He spits and throws it off, glaring harshly at the offending plant. It¡¯s orange, and so is every other leaf in the vicinity. Autumn seems to be in full swing here, judging by the piles of leaves and air nipping at his shoulders.

    ¡°Let¡¯s try this again,¡± Blue says, holding out her hand. ¡°I¡¯m Lilith, though you can call me Lily.¡±

    He stares blankly at her hand, uncomprehending. After a moment, she awkwardly takes it back, mouth somewhere between a grimace and a smile. He stutters, ¡°Was that some sort of¡ª greeting?¡± He holds his own hand out limply, confused. Her smile returns, brilliant and wide. She takes his hand in her¡¯s and moves them up and down.

    ¡°Do you not have handshakes where you¡¯re from?¡± Red asks.

    ¡°Is that what that¡¯s called? Sun above. No. No, we don¡¯t.¡±

    Orange tilts his head. ¡°How do you greet people?¡±

    Since this has apparently become a culture shock moment for them all, Pyha grips Orange¡¯s forearm, squeezing gently. ¡°Now do it back.¡± Orange seems a little confused, but returns the gesture. ¡°My name is Pyhra.¡±

    Orange smiles. ¡°That¡¯s a pretty name. Mine is Asseya.¡±

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    ¡°Thanks for telling me.¡± Pyhra replies, automatically.

    Asseya looks rather confused, and says, ¡°Uh, no problem? It¡¯s nice to meet you.¡±

    The phrase is not one Pyhra¡¯s heard, but he gets the general meaning. All three of them look to Red, still holding her stick like it¡¯s a weapon. She huffs, tossing her head back. ¡°Clay.¡±

    ¡°Thanks for telling me,¡± Pyhra repeats, just to be polite. Then, he undermines it, ¡°Now, does one of you wanna tell me what the hell a vampire is?¡±

    ¡°Dude, do you live under a rock?¡± Clay says, gesturing with her stick.

    ¡°Okay, you know what!¡± Pyhra feels his patience cracking. ¡°I have just had a very difficult day, I¡¯m fucking hungover, and I get into a weird fight with a monster and wake up here! And you act like I¡¯m inconveniencing you?¡±

    Clay bristles, but Asseya interjects before she can say anything. ¡°What happened directly before you woke up here?¡± He¡¯s been smiles this whole time, but he¡¯s suddenly serious, swirling eyes boring into him uncomfortably.

    ¡°There was a tear in the air. It sucked me in.¡±

    ¡°A tear?¡±

    They¡¯re like, not nearly as surprised as they should be. They should be grilling Pyhra for details, or asking if he¡¯s been off any medications lately. But instead they¡¯re all trading considering glances, flicking their eyes back to him, thoughtfully.

    ¡°What was in the tear?¡± Asseya asks.

    ¡°Nothing.¡± Pyhra tells him. ¡°Nothing, except for¡ª threads.¡±

    ¡°Threads, like roads leading to somewhere else?¡± He sounds remarkably grim.

    ¡°Yeah¡­¡± Pyhra takes him in anew. ¡°Exactly like that.¡±

    Asseya turns to Clay. ¡°He hasn¡¯t been living under a rock. He¡¯s just not from here.¡± He begins twisting his fingers around each other, twisting and twisting. ¡°He¡¯s from another plane.¡±

    The three of them share identical expressions. Hard expressions, like the kind you share before delving into battle. Expressions like stone, like immovable fire, like knowing you¡¯re going to have to spill blood and you don¡¯t have time to feel bad about it.

    Pyhra goes numb all over, from the tips of his feet to the top of his head. Numb, except for a tingling in the tips of his fingers and the sudden racing of his heart. He can see, now, that he¡¯s far from anything he¡¯s ever known. It¡¯s in the reddish stone of this place, in the way they talk and greet new people and look at each other. He¡¯s far from home, far from anyone that can help him, and all he has are the clothes on his back.

    Pyhra has faced much, but never like this. Never¡­ alone. Never without Crow and Remy at his back, or Lune waiting for him to come home. Except maybe Lune is at home, waiting for him to come back, and so are Crow and Remy, and Pyhra¡¯s heart is racing in his ears.

    He tries to shift. Tries to tell himself, to tell the air around him that he¡¯s disappearing. Tries to tell the expressions on these people¡¯s faces that they can¡¯t see him anymore, that he¡¯s nothing at all; no one except a specter for them to remember. But it¡¯s not working. It¡¯s not working.

    Pyhra faints.

    ¡­

    When Remy finally fights their way to the clearing, they find Lune collapsed in the dirt, bleeding and sobbing uncontrollably. Sky is kneeled over him, staunching the bleeding with their sweatshirt, trying and failing to contain his own tears.

    The wind has stopped. There¡¯s a beast corpse to one side and a set of feet prints dragged through the dirt. Remy shakes off the obvious question of where¡¯s Pyhra and whirls around to go get Stella; they have good timing, because Stella is approaching quickly. Remy points to where Lune is, and she sets to work, pressing her hands to the wound on his chest. They glow green from her Ability, and the wound begins knitting itself back together.

    Crow catches up a second later, as does Sol. Sol goes tearing past them, straight to Sky and Lune, and hugs them ferociously. Crow, by contrast, slows to a stop beside Remy. She overlooks the scene, and then turns to them and voices both of their thoughts: ¡°Where¡¯s Pyhra?¡±

    The question sends Lune into even more hysterics. Sky and Stella rush to calm him. Dread pools in Remy¡¯s gut.

    Remy crouches in front of the boy. His face is red and blotchy, from a distress different from the wound that¡¯s slowly closing itself. It¡¯s mostly surface level, and though Lune had probably never been hurt that badly before, Remy can tell this is from something else; something to do with Pyhra.

    ¡°Hey, kid.¡± Remy says, as soothingly as they can. ¡°You get a little banged up there?¡±

    Lune inhales deeply, trying to stop the tears and failing. He nods wordlessly.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, bud. It was that beast over there, yeah?¡± They tilt their head toward said beast. Lune nods. ¡°And who killed it?¡± Silence.

    ¡°It was Pyhra,¡± Sky warbles out, sitting back on his haunches and wiping his face. ¡°He was¡ª¡± a deep inhale, then an exhale. ¡°Amazing. I¡¯d never seen him fight like that.¡±

    Trust that kid to gush about a good fight in these circumstances. Ah, well. Not like Remy¡¯s any better, and definitely wasn¡¯t at his age. ¡°Okay. What happened after Pyhra killed the beast?¡±

    ¡°The sky opened up,¡± Lune whispers, so quiet Remy barely hears it. He raises his eyes to meet Remy¡¯s. ¡°It opened up, and swallowed him whole.¡±

    Remy¡¯s stomach bottoms out, dropping not just through their feet but into the dirt and down, down, into the center of the world. Remy¡¯s a gentle guy, gentler than they used to be, but they¡¯re barely restraining the urge to do something very, very stupid. ¡°Swallowed him whole?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s the truth,¡± Sky says, as if anyone thought Lune was lying. ¡°It sucked him in. Dragged him away.¡±

    Remy¡¯s eyes land on the trenches dug into the soil. They press the back of their hand to their mouth to fight off the sudden oncoming nausea, squeezing their eyes shut to make the world less sharp. ¡°Oh, sun.¡±

    Raggedly, Lune starts crying again. Crow sets a hand on the kid¡¯s shoulder, but addresses Stella. ¡°Can you¡ª¡±

    ¡°Already on it,¡± Stella interjects, raising her hands. Stella¡¯s Ability is one he¡¯s so, so glad for. Life.

    Light springs from her hands, swirling around them. In the light, there¡¯s a million tiny threads, twirling and knotting around each other. Stella delves a hand into the fray, searching. Usually this process doesn¡¯t take long; when Stella knows someone well, it¡¯s easy for her to pick out the thread of their life from the crowd. Sometimes she has difficulty in really densely populated areas, or if there¡¯s a lot of chaos, but it shouldn¡¯t take long to find Pyhra¡¯s. They¡¯re good friends. She knows him.

    Ten seconds pass. Then thirty. Then a minute. Then another.

    ¡°Stella,¡± Crow says, a plea.

    ¡°I¡ª just give me a minute,¡± she hisses, redoubling her efforts.

    Another minute. Lune is sobbing into Sol¡¯s shoulder, both her and Sky¡¯s arms around him.

    ¡°Can someone call Cid? Or Vincent? Sun above, a real fucking adult?¡± Crow snaps.

    Stella says nothing. Remy says it, because someone has to: ¡°He¡¯s not there, is he.¡±

    Stella searches for a moment more, desperate and terrified. Finally, she lets the ability drop, throwing her arms out helplessly. ¡°I can¡¯t find him.¡±

    Remy¡¯s knees are going weak. Crow, for her part, actually collapses. Onto her ass in the dirt, legs sprawled out in front of her. Remy leans hard on the nearest tree, trying to get their breathing under control. For all that nothing¡¯s wrong with them physically, it feels like the world is whiting out. Like all the intensity in existence kicked back in and is sending them into overdrive, trying to¡ª what? Save Pyhra? Some old-young part of them is yowling, insisting they go save him, rescue him from the deep darkness and whisk him away until he¡¯s safe from everything that might hurt him.

    The funniest part, the funniest part, is how the part of Remy that¡¯s shuddering in grief is crying out to go to Pyhra, to bury their face in his neck and cry awhile while they pet their back until it all feels better, as they sometimes do. But Pyhra isn¡¯t here. They can¡¯t go to Pyhra because Pyhra¡¯s dead, and they¡¯re mourning him.

    ¡°You didn¡¯t even get to show them the picture,¡± Crow whispers, numbly.

    See, usually this was the part where Pyhra takes a shuddering breath and herds them all home. Sets them up with blankets and warm drinks and they all have a good cry on each other¡¯s shoulders. And then they fall asleep in a heap, as close to each other as they can manage. But Pyhra isn¡¯t here.

    Crow looks up at them, eyes shattered. ¡°We won¡¯t get to take anymore pictures,¡±

    ¡°Stop,¡± Remy breathes, digging their nails into the side of their head.

    Stella is consoling an absolutely hysterical Lune, herding him and the other kids home. Out of the clearing they go, leaving Crow and Remy alone, a three-headed being missing a limb. Crow tilts her head. ¡°It¡¯s true, though. Do you think we can take pictures without him?¡±

    ¡°Stop!¡± Remy shouts, their ability buzzing at the air. ¡°I don¡¯t want to think about it!¡±

    Crow blinks a few times, then looks down at her hands. ¡°I saw him just last night.¡±

    Remy doesn¡¯t even remember most of it. Remember¡¯s crying, maybe, and the smells. Of booze, and the plastic-y fabric of Pyhra¡¯s dress, and the distinct smell of Pyhra. They remember burying their nose closer to him, trying to make their whole world nothing but that smell.

    They remember when they first met Pyhra, wearing a face that wasn¡¯t his own and saying, I know what you¡¯re doing, and I want in.

    And Crow, twelve and impossibly young, crossing her arms and snapping back, and why should we?

    And Pyhra, in a snap, taking Crow¡¯s face and clothes and hair and crossing his own arms. In a near perfect impression of a girl he just met, he replied with, because I have something you need.

    And he did. So they let him in.

    Crow tilts her head. There¡¯s something in her eyes; a burning flame that Remy hadn¡¯t seen in a long time. It ignites something in Remy, twin flames burning beneath the surface of their skin. A lifetime spent tearing the world apart is coming back up to the surface, like vomit in their throats, and no matter how much they swallow, it still burns.

    ¡°Pyhra told me,¡± Crow begins, pulling herself to her feet. She isn¡¯t shaking anymore. ¡°That if our life here fell apart, he¡¯d burn the Crystal City to the ground.¡±

    Remy knows where she¡¯s going with this. They grin, toothy and wide, anticipation dancing in their chest. The flame is burning brighter, hotter, wilder. It makes their fingers itch, their limbs burn with the urge to unleash every violent impulse they''d squashed.

    ¡°Pyhra wouldn¡¯t want a funeral,¡± Remy continues for her. ¡°He¡¯d want a party. A rager.¡±

    She smiles faintly. ¡°Then let¡¯s bring the party to them, shall we?¡±

 deceit, freedom, control

    Pyhra wakes up on an incredibly uncomfortable couch. It¡¯s ribbed and made of some stiff, harsh fabric that leaves red lines on his skin. It smells like people he doesn¡¯t recognize, and faintly of sage.

    ¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± Clay says, sitting in a plush armchair across from him. She¡¯s got one leg crossed over the other, red eyes boring into him. There¡¯s a wooden baseball bat leaned against the legs of the chair.

    They¡¯re in some sort of living room. It has a coffee table in the center that¡¯s covered in a liberal amount of paper mess, and there¡¯s some sort of plastic box across from where Clay is sitting, one with a panel of glass in the front. There¡¯s a couple of framed photographs on the walls, mostly of the three people he recognizes, but a few of some more. A man who looks like a lot like Clay, and a woman who looks like none of them, with pale skin and black hair.

    ¡°Unfortunately,¡± Pyhra quips, rubbing at his eyes. ¡°Was kind of hoping this was all a really weird dream.¡±

    ¡°That would be too easy.¡± She pauses, considering him. ¡°I guess you¡¯d want an explanation.¡±

    ¡°That would be nice,¡± he grouches. ¡°Since you guys seem to know more about this than I do.¡±

    ¡°I only know it secondhand; you need to talk to Asseya.¡±

    As if summoned by the mentioning of his name, Asseya appears in the doorway. He gives Pyhra a winning smile and a jaunty wave as he walks in the room proper. He sets a steady, comforting hand on Clay¡¯s shoulder, who doesn¡¯t visibly react; her shoulders do untense, though.

    ¡°I believe you¡¯re from another plane. Sort of like,¡± he taps his chin thoughtfully. ¡°Another universe. Or another dimension.¡±

    Pyhra tries to process this. It doesn¡¯t work. ¡°Okay.¡±

    ¡°I think this because I¡¯m also from another plane!¡± Asseya says cheerfully, smiling brightly. ¡°I came here through a rift.¡±

    ¡°¡­A rift.¡±

    Asseya smoothly sits on another plush chair, folding his hands in his lap. ¡°Planes are connected by threads. It¡¯s hard to explain¡­ very theoretical. But my home plane and this one were connected by a particularly strong thread, so when my sister and I accidentally opened the rift, and I went into it, I followed the threads here.¡±

    ¡°The sky opened up,¡± Clay adds. ¡°He fell from it.¡±

    ¡°Yep!¡± Asseya shoots her a happy expression. ¡°A rift is a tear, of sorts, in the reality that separates the physical world,¡± he gestures to the room around them. ¡°from the Void, where all the threads are.¡±

    Pyhra is getting a feel for this, actually. It makes no sense but it also makes a ton of sense. The tear in the air, the pulsing, the skinny lines stretching on infinitely. ¡°And you think I was pulled into a rift and brought here.¡±

    ¡°It would explain why everything is so different from what you know. You said you saw something like that¡ª a tear?¡±

    ¡°I did.¡± Pyhra says, feeling numb, thinking of Lune¡¯s anguished face as he was dragged further and further away. ¡°It sucked me through.¡±

    Asseya¡¯s brow crunches in confusion. ¡°Sucked you through?¡±

    ¡°Yeah, me and half the woods. I¡¯ve never seen wind so violent!¡±

    Asseya frowns. It looks foreign on his face, which has been pulled into a smile so often. ¡°Weird.¡±

    Clay leans forward. ¡°What is it, Asseya?¡±

    ¡°When my sister and I opened the rift¡­ it wasn¡¯t like that. It was¡­ stable, I guess. I had to walk into it to get here.¡±

    Pyhra thinks again of Lune, bleeding and despairing. ¡°How do you make a rift?¡±

    Asseya shakes his head.

    Pyhra bristles. ¡°Didn¡¯t you just say¡ª¡°

    ¡°My sister and I were children playing with things that no one should play with. I have no idea how we did it, nor do I think I could replicate it.¡±

    ¡°So you have no idea?¡±

    Asseya sighs. ¡°My sister¡­ she can make the impossible, possible. The unlikely, likely. When I was brought back to my plane as a teenager, I enlisted her help to open another rift.¡±

    ¡°¡­how?¡±

    Asseya smiles sadly. ¡°A complex set of machinery, a kind of fuel that doesn¡¯t exist in this plane, and my sister¡¯s powers.¡±

    Something in Pyhra is shriveling. ¡°If I got here, there must be a way back.¡±

    ¡°Nothing is impossible,¡± Asseya agrees. ¡°Even if we could open a rift, though, I¡¯m not sure you would be able to make it home. The threads¡­ aren¡¯t for us mere mortals to understand, nor could we if we tried.¡±

    Pyhra leans back against the sofa, pitching his face towards the ceiling. ¡°So I¡¯m fucked.¡±

    ¡°Nothing is impossible. But if there¡¯s a way for you to get back, I don¡¯t know it. I¡¯m happy to help, though!¡±

    Pyhra pinches the bridge of his nose. Panic is starting to spark through him, and he leans forward in an attempt to shake it off. It doesn¡¯t work. ¡°What am I even gonna do? I don¡¯t know how this world¡ª plane¡ª whatever works. Do you use currency? If you do, I totally don¡¯t have any of it. Where the fuck am I gonna live¡ª?¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll stay with us,¡± comes the voice of Lilith. She glides into the room with a bowl of something that smells deliciously savory. She sets it on the coffee table in front of him. ¡°We¡¯re connoisseurs of the weird and unexpected. We have a habit of adopting strays anyway. If you get your feet under you and decide you want to leave, that¡¯s fine too. But you¡¯re free to stay with us while you figure this all out. We have an extra room; we discussed it while you were asleep.¡±

    That is kind of them. Pyhra is not used to kind people.

    ¡°Really? No strings attached? That¡¯s awfully trusting of you.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll work in the shop,¡± Clay interjects. ¡°In exchange for free meals and a place to sleep. You¡¯ll help with chores. And no illegal drugs in my house. I don¡¯t care what you do outside of here, but if you get caught with that shit here, I get in trouble.¡±

    ¡°Okay.¡± Pyhra accepts this all easily enough. It¡¯s a more than fair arrangement. If anything, it¡¯s the kindest thing anyones ever done for him. It¡¯s making him a little nauseous, so he says, ¡°How do you know I¡¯m not like, a serial killer or something?¡±

    Clay points to the baseball bat. ¡°Then you get to meet my friend, here.¡±

    He raises an eyebrow. ¡°You¡¯re that confident?¡±

    She smirks faintly. ¡°More than.¡±

    Pyhra did not manage to land himself a Capital Bounty just for this bitch to smirk at him like that. Pyhra¡¯s abilities are second only to Stella¡¯s. He can crush anyone he wants underneath his bootheel like a bug.

    He¡¯s not gonna do anything bad; just startle her a bit. His favorite joke would work perfectly for this, he decides. He lets a small smile curl on his lips as he leans back on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other in a perfect mirror of her. He shifts his face to match hers, red eyes and all. Then it¡¯s his body, giving himself broad shoulders and defined muscles and breasts. Finally, he casts an illusion ability over his clothes, making his a perfect mirror of hers; black cargo pants, a jean jacket with a fur lined collar, and thick brown work boots. ¡°That so?¡± He says, raising an eyebrow just like she is.

    She doesn¡¯t react. None of them do.

    Pyhra let¡¯s the act drop and sits forward, confused. He shifts back into the face he¡¯d been wearing when he came here, except¡ª

    Nothing happens. He can feel it, the lack of change, now that he¡¯s paying attention. He tries Crow¡¯s face, and nothing. Remy¡¯s is more of the same. Then he tries some of his favorite personas; Abigail, with red hair and redder lips; Jean, with a bob and thick glasses; Jack, the most milquetoast man he can do. None of it does anything. His face does not change.

    He staggers up from the couch, gasping out, ¡°Bathroom?¡± They have mirrors in their bathrooms in this stupid place, don¡¯t they?

    Lilith points him in the direction and he scurries away. He slams into the room, small and tiled. He rests his hands on the sink, staring into his own reflection.

    This face is his favorite to wear. Quicksilver, he¡¯d named it so many years ago. Pale skin that turns red easily, covered in freckles and sunmarks and a few scars here and there. His hair is a snarled mess, frizzed ends curling around his jaw and shoulders, and his eyes are sunken, his skin pale. He looks wrecked.

    He tries to summon an image of his actual face, the one he was born with. Long silver hair and bright green eyes and sharp chin. All sharp edges, Crow had described it once, letting her knuckles brush over the bell of his cheek fondly. Pretty, is what Remy calls it, always with that dopey smile on their face. All Pyhra can see when he looks at that face is a man with too many pale, hairline scars for comfort and deep, purple bruises underneath his eyes. He summons that image and demands to become him.

    Nothing happens.

    Pyhra has been able to shift since he was ten years old. Since he walked out of that house, covered in ash and blood and a lifetime¡¯s worth of confusion, Lune¡¯s hand clutched in his own. He remembers it vividly, how he¡¯d changed his face for the first time, smiling down at Lune and saying, it¡¯ll all be okay.

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    It was a lie. Because that was what Pyhra did, what his soul was made for, what his core is. What his Ability is built around.

    ¡°It¡¯s deception,¡± Crow had said once, wording it much more kindly than Pyhra ever had. ¡°Not just lies. It¡¯s lies with a purpose.¡±

    Pyhra had always taken point in their heists. Turning himself into anyone the three of them could dream up. He would go in, play distraction or frontman or sneak in; whatever he needed to do. Crow was the one who worked behind the scenes, hacking into their tech and hijacking their magic. And then Remy was who they sent in when they needed everything to burn.

    He¡¯d tricked too many people to count. Had turned his face into that of a million people who didn¡¯t exist until he donned their skin like a pretty costume, smiling all charming and grifting the elite of everything they held dear. It was as easy as breathing.

    And now he¡¯s standing in the bathroom mirror of an unfamiliar house surrounded by unfamiliar people and he can¡¯t shift. He¡¯s been in so many situations that were dangerous and terrifying and chaotic and hellish, but it was always¡ª

    As someone else.

    Now he¡¯s just himself. Except that he¡¯s not just himself, he¡¯s Quicksilver, his oldest and most precious persona. It feels like more of a lie than it ever had before.

    He leaves the bathroom feeling worse than he entered it. He¡¯s pressing a hand to his forehead as he stumbles back into the living room, bracing his other hand on the doorway to fight against the sudden dizziness that¡¯s come over him. ¡°My Ability doesn¡¯t work,¡±

    Three blank expressions face him. Then, Lilith asks, ¡°Are you alright?¡±

    ¡°No!¡± He shouts. ¡°My¡ª I can¡¯t shift.¡± He sounds desperate, pathetic.

    ¡°Shift?¡± Asseya cocks his head.

    ¡°What¡¯s an ¡®ability¡¯?¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s¡ª it¡¯s your core. It¡¯s who you are, and¡ª and what you can do because of it.¡± He struggles for words. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ it¡¯s everything.¡±

    ¡°Calm down,¡± Clay says matter-of-factly, and something about the way she says it so simply, like she knows he will calm down, is actually calming him down. ¡°We have no frame of reference; sit down and explain it to us, as blunt as you can.¡±

    He obeys. He isn¡¯t sure why; there isn¡¯t an authority on the godforsaken planet that has made Pyhra do much of anything, before. ¡°Everyone has one, in¡ª in my world, even if they don¡¯t¡­ activate it, or anything. It¡¯s just¡­ something you¡¯re connected to. You use it to¡­ translate.¡±

    ¡°Translate what?¡±

    ¡°Translate energy into action.¡± Pyhra says, breathing through his nose, feeling himself tremble. ¡°Like, my friend¡¯s Ability is freedom.¡±

    Clay and Lilith are frowning, but Asseya hums thoughtfully. ¡°So if freedom is the energy, then what¡¯s the action?¡±

    ¡°Um, they can turn into predator animals. They can¡­ summon discord. They can break most locks with just their intent.¡± And Sun above, hadn¡¯t that come in handy.

    Clay raises her eyebrows in interest. ¡°So, what¡¯s yours?¡±

    The words are out before he can remember to hide out: ¡°Tricks. Lies. D¡­ deceit.¡±

    Lilith pipes up, ¡°Oh, so when you said shifting¡ª¡±

    ¡°¡ªHe meant literally, shifting his appearance.¡± Clay turns to him. ¡°Is that right?¡±

    He nods.

    ¡°That¡¯s pretty amazing.¡±

    ¡°Nothing anyone around here can do.¡±

    ¡°So,¡± Asseya tilts his head. ¡°You can¡¯t do these Abilities here. I wonder why. What fuels them? How do you create the energy?¡±

    ¡°For everyone, it¡¯s something different. For me, it¡¯s¡­ how much fun I have doing it.¡±

    ¡°Fun¡­¡±

    ¡°So earlier,¡± Clay says. ¡°You tried to turn into me. As a joke?¡±

    ¡°Yeah. But. I couldn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°Hm.¡±

    ¡°Wait,¡± Pyhra speaks, remembering something he¡¯d been taught what felt like a lifetime ago. His only foray into the world of public school, being taught things they all knew about things that they all dealt with every day. Teacher with thick-rimmed glasses pointing at the chalkboard with a single word on it¡ª belief. ¡°The Abilities only work because we believe that they¡¯ll work. That the person casting and the person being casted on believe in them. But they¡¯re so commonplace¡­ of course everyone believes.¡±

    ¡°Oh!¡± Asseya brightens. ¡°And so it didn¡¯t, because of course we couldn¡¯t believe in something we didn¡¯t know existed. But, hey, what about now? We all believe you, don¡¯t we?¡±

    The other two nodded. Clay said, ¡°So show us.¡±

    Pyhra closes his eyes, summoning the most vivid image he can of Remy. Remus No-Last-Name, with a bright, sharp, toothy grin and eyes too bright for their face. With wild, windswept hair and scars dotting their skin. Pyhra has traced every scar, memorized every mark, slotted himself into every line and hollow of their body. Pyhra can become Remy and Crow quicker than he can become any other real person. He thinks about how fun it would be to wear Remy¡¯s face, even if just for a moment; like he¡¯s summoning their energy from beyond the pale, to push them forward. It¡¯s always fun looking like Remy.

    He opens his eyes. The lack of response says it all.

    ¡°Fuck,¡± he bites at the side of his palm, frustrated.

    ¡°Maybe it just doesn¡¯t work here?¡± Lilith asks nervously.

    ¡°It would make sense.¡± Asseya sighs. ¡°I can do magic from my home world, but, well¡­¡±

    ¡°Extenuating circumstances.¡± Clay finishes grimly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Pyhra.¡±

    Pyhra lets out a breezy, chittering laugh. ¡°Oh, me? I¡¯m fine. Never been better! I love finding out my skills are completely and entirely useless, especially when I¡¯m trapped in an unfamiliar place and very far away from everyone I love.¡± He claps excitedly, wiggling in place. ¡°It¡¯s my favorite!¡±

    Silence. The sarcasm did not get rid of the way his heart is hammering in his chest. It never does.

    ¡°I hate him.¡± Clay announces.

    Lilith sends her a disparaging look. ¡°No, you don¡¯t!¡±

    ¡°He reminds me of this guy I met in my plane,¡± Asseya says.

    ¡°What guy?¡±

    ¡°He could go really fast, but it made him crazy.¡± Asseya explains, one hand pawing at his hair as he swivels his gaze to the ceiling, spacey. ¡°But he liked being crazy, so he kept trying to go faster.¡± Asseya sways in place, gently. ¡°Anyway, eventually he went so fast he collided with the side of the realm and blew himself up.¡±

    ¡°Wow! That is really fucking comforting!¡± Pyhra slams his palms on his thighs defiantly. ¡°Nobody is blowing themself up! If I¡¯m blowing anyone up, it¡¯s other people!¡±

    Asseya pumps a fist in the air. ¡°Yeah! That¡¯s the spirit!¡±

    Lilith shouts, ¡°Nobody is blowing anyone up!¡±

    ¡°Spoilsport.¡±

    Pyhra tugs at his hair, a habit he thought he¡¯d broken years ago. He picks the soup up from where it¡¯d been left on the coffee table, taking a tentative sip. It¡¯s delicious, meaty and warm. He hadn¡¯t told them the entire truth. Pyhra¡¯s fuel is fun, sure, but like most high-skill Ability users, it¡¯s a million other things, too. It¡¯s the safety he feels having it at his fingertips, the confidence it gives him to be anyone he wants. Abilities¡ª for as much as they¡¯re human¡¯s power to wield¡ª are beyond them. Cosmic, strange. At first, you need that fuel, need to feel it in every way every time you want to get even a small spell off.

    But it¡¯s like a muscle, and the better you get at your Ability, the closer you get to that cosmic strangeness from which all Abilities come. Your fuel stops being what you set it as and becomes just the fact that you¡¯re powerful, and the greedy feeling of craving more of it. If you get lost in that¡­ it¡¯s not pretty. Pyhra remembers watching one of the ADF succumb to their fuel, taking down an entire city block in flames, the animals they specialized in summoning running rampant. When Pyhra and Crow had snuck past him, he¡¯d been kneeled on the asphalt, screaming his lungs out about creating something from nothing! It¡¯s not summoning! Creating something from nothing! Nothingness! Absence! And then he¡¯d vomited on the asphalt, and his sick had trembled and swirled until it came alive, turning into a large snake that slithered off deeper into the city.

    Everyone has a limit. And it¡¯s every Ability user¡¯s job to never find that limit. You can feel it in you, when you¡¯re brushing the edges of reality, when you¡¯re staring too far into that cosmic strangeness. You can feel it in the buzzing of your skin and the dread that pools in your gut, accompanied with that frenzied lust for more power. They¡¯d had a close call with Remy, once, when Remy had tried to bind themself. A core of freedom didn¡¯t mesh with that, all that well. Crow had held them down as they clawed at their own face, while Pyhra cut the bindings.

    Pyhra¡¯s only closest call was when he was fourteen or so, sitting on a curb somewhere deep in the city, wearing the face of someone who didn¡¯t exist and wishing so desperately that it was his face. Wishing, and thinking, mind racing, that maybe he could make it his face. If it was a lie¡­ then he could just, make it true¡­

    And then he¡¯d jerked himself forward, hands dug into his hair and tugging to ground himself. The thought of making lies true makes his mouth taste like copper and his skin prickle with imagined terror.

    Pyhra shakes off the memories, focusing again on the present. He has one more pressing question for his new friends.  ¡°Hey¡­ why did you think I was a¡­ vampire?¡± The syllables make little sense to him, but he says them anyway, gauging their reactions.

    ¡°You¡¯re wearing a little black goth dress a month and a half before Halloween.¡± Clay says, in that matter-of-fact tone of voice.

    ¡°What¡¯s Halloween?¡±

    Lilith¡¯s face twists in confusion. ¡°You don¡¯t have it? But your outfit is so¡­¡±

    ¡°We have Hallow¡¯s Eve. And Hollow Day, afterwards.¡±

    ¡°Sounds pretty similar. Basically, people dress up and give out candy and go to parties.¡±

    ¡°Yeah,¡± Pyhra says, thinking of the pile of candy on the dancefloor the night before, and Remy tearing through half of it with abandon. ¡°That¡¯s about it.¡± But then he remembers something else from that classroom, the memory faded in sepia. ¡°Except it¡¯s also when the barrier between¡­ the physical and the¡­¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s when the barrier when the physical and metaphysical is at its thinnest?¡± Asseya finishes.

    Pyhra meets his eyes, meaningfully. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Well, that does explain your appearance. If the barriers between our worlds got thin at the same time¡­¡±

    ¡°It still doesn¡¯t explain what opened the Rift,¡± Clay argues. ¡°We¡¯ve only heard of them being opened deliberately. It¡¯s not impossible it was a coincidence, but¡­¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think it was,¡± Pyhra whispers, fisting his hands in his jeans. ¡°I¡¯m not exactly¡­ the most popular guy back home, heh. None of us are.¡± Understatement of the century.

    ¡°An attack? Could your enemies have done that?¡±

    Pyhra shakes his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m not exactly up-to-date on what they¡¯re doing either, though.¡±

    ¡°Well, we¡¯re not going to figure it out by talking about it.¡± Lilith announces. ¡°Did you like the soup?¡±

    He almost withers under her smile, so bright and genuine and expectant, spoon halfway to his face. ¡°Yeah.¡±

    ¡°Good!¡± Asseya chirps. ¡°I¡¯ll show you our guest room. Worry about working tomorrow, okay? You¡¯ve gone through a lot today.¡±

    Understatement of the century, again.

    But Pyhra sets the bowl down, stumbling after him. This world is weird, but he¡¯s dealt with weird things before. This may take the cake, but Pyhra isn¡¯t going to let some bullshit like this kill him. It¡¯s gonna take more than that to do him in.

    The bed is soft and the blankets a little threadbare, but he cherishes it for the kindness it is.

 the death of an era

    Remy watches as Crow pulls on her gloves with a snap. She¡¯s dressed in a thick leather jacket, cargo pants with a million pockets for her little devices, and combat boots. Remy is dressed in faded old fatigues with all identifying patches ripped off and replaced with handmade ones, proclaiming their¡ª Remy, Crow and Pyhra¡¯s¡ª superiority over the king.

    Neither of them have been dressed like this since before they formed the village. Something in Remy is howling.

    Crow has a bag thrown over her shoulder. It looks unassuming, old white canvas and leather, except for the cord sticking out one side. Remy reaches over and tucks it back inside, smoothing the canvas over.

    Her eyes trace the movement, all the way until their arm is back at their side. ¡°He wouldn¡¯t approve.¡±

    ¡°He loved how you look in that jacket, though.¡±

    She smacks him lightly on the arm, smiling. Then, she sobers. ¡°Really, though.¡±

    Remy frowns. ¡°Has that been bothering you?¡±

    ¡°A little.¡±

    Remy chews this over. ¡°Well, he¡¯s not here to approve or disapprove.¡± She flinches. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s okay. You¡¯re right.¡±

    They lick their lips nervously. ¡°If he were alive, he wouldn¡¯t like it. But we wouldn¡¯t be doing this if he were alive.¡±

    Crow¡¯s shoulders untense a little. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡±

    ¡°And if it were one of us?¡± Remy adds, catching her gaze. ¡°He¡¯d have already be driving down there.¡±

    Her lips quirk. ¡°True. The city would already be nothing but ash.¡±

    ¡°Ash and mounds of melted glass, heh.¡±

    ¡°And shards of shattered rock.¡±

    ¡°And the crystal all stained red.¡±

    ¡°And the pavement all torn up.¡±

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    ¡°Then let¡¯s stop wasting time,¡± Remy jerks his head towards the truck. She rolls her eyes, flicking him affectionately on the ear as she passes.

    She tosses the bag in the back, and then swings the door shut. She leans on the truck, arms crossed. ¡°You tell the others?¡±

    ¡°¡®Course not, girl.¡± Remy grins, swinging into the driver¡¯s seat. Crow settles into the passenger side a second later. ¡°Don¡¯t want them following us.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t want them talking us out of it, you mean.¡±

    Remy turns the car on, throwing it into gear. ¡°That too.¡± They really don¡¯t doubt that Lune would insist on coming with, though. Which is why they¡¯re leaving in the dead of night, in Remy¡¯s hummer with fake plates and a cacophony of illegal electrical equipment in the back. Crow has a point, though; Stella¡¯s startling ability to live life normally was starting to get through to Remy, and while they usually enjoy it, right now?

    They need this. It¡¯s not really about Pyhra, and they aren¡¯t pretending it is. It¡¯s about this feeling, this grief clawing at Remy¡¯s insides. It¡¯s revenge, plain and simple, and they tighten their grip on the steering wheel in anticipation. Revenge for the three of them, young and scared and alone on the streets, marked for death for crimes they didn¡¯t commit. Marked for death by a king who¡¯d rather kill kids than risk his own skin.

    It¡¯s revenge for Pyhra, and the hollowed out way his cheeks looked that day, begging them to leave the hard life behind. It¡¯d been Pyhra¡¯s idea, the village; not just his idea, but his dream. A life of peace, laying down their weapons and resting for the first time in their lives. Remy can¡¯t go back, now. Can¡¯t spend their days living in Pyhra¡¯s dream while Pyhra rots in the ground somewhere.

    Remy may be energy, but Pyhra was movement. Change and movement, like dancing, streams of words that can sing in the air. Pyhra always looked beyond, past the horizon, while they and Crow were stuck in the dismal drudgery of the present. Which is maybe why this makes such perfect sense, now that he¡¯s gone: Pyhra looked beyond making the world burn, but now¡­ What else is there to do but burn it in recompense?

    It¡¯s revenge for themself, too, if they¡¯re honest with themself. For those sterile hallways they see when they close their eyes. Revenge for the smell of antiseptic mixing with blood. It¡¯s a revenge they¡¯ve been chasing after all their life, fingers reaching for that catharsis and always missing it anyway. They know they won¡¯t find it this time, just like they never found it before. But they¡¯ll still chase it like they might just be able to capture it in the red shadows burned into the back of their eyelids.

    It¡¯s revenge for Crow too, and the way she crushes everything she doesn¡¯t understand before it can get too close. The way she covers the cracks in her life with mortar and pretends they aren¡¯t there, because she so desperately believes in Pyhra¡¯s dream.

    Remy lets their eyes fall on her, black hair pulled into a long, severe braid. It makes her stony eyes seem bright, in the moonlight. Believed in. Past tense.

    She meets their eyes. ¡°Let¡¯s mosey,¡± she says, as they pull onto the highway. Remy laughs, tipping their face towards the sky. They only get an eyeful of the carpeted car ceiling.