Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paintbrush would say their life is… normal enough. Something like that, at any rate.

Sure, their roommate and girlfriend is a mad scientist incarnate who will gladly take anything near her apart without even thinking about it. They’ve gone through five remotes already since moving into their dorm last semester, and keeping them out of Test Tube’s reach is a futile effort. At least right now, she’s so busy with schoolwork that they don’t have to religiously guard it.

Right now, their biggest problem is that, well, they’re currently horribly late.

They rush around their dorm, loudly cursing as they try to get everything together for their morning class. Of course they had slept in, more preoccupied with cuddling their girlfriend instead of paying attention to the alarms they turned off. Setting five different alarms to ensure that they wake up in the morning means nothing if their mind is too stubborn to pay much attention to them.

Usually, they’re much more punctual. By the time their second alarm starts on their phone, they’re already up and at it, having more than enough time to do everything they need to and to not rush in the slightest, although they typically go fast anyway. But unfortunately for them, today is a Wednesday, the one day Test Tube doesn’t have any classes. Which means that she sleeps in, and as a consequence, Paintbrush sleeps in too.

Not to sound sappy, but they do love their girlfriend a lot. They’ve only been dating for a few months, but it’s going a lot better than their last relationship. They definitely got lucky, having Test Tube assigned as her dorm mate. They probably wouldn’t have met otherwise, since it’s not like they have any classes in common. Test Tube is full steam ahead when it comes to STEM, and Paintbrush is… an art major. (Not that they don’t have their own thoughts on that. Part of them wants to seriously rethink that decision, but they don’t have the time because they’re-)

“Late,” they hiss bitterly underneath their breath. “Damn it, where did I put that canvas?! I definitely need it for today’s assignment!”

“Have you tried checking underneath Diamond Crusher?” Test Tube calls, looking amused from her spot sitting at their dining table. She has a steaming mug of tea clenched in her hands, a smile twitching on the edges of her lips. “He has a habit of lying on your things,”

“Yeah, and it’s annoying,” they grumble in response, as if they don’t constantly coo over everything their cat does when in a better mood. Their… totally illegal cat. Yeah, the college dorms have a ban in place when it comes to having pets in them, but what were they supposed to do, just leave him back home? He would get lonely!

Not that they’re sappy, sentimental, or anything of the sort. It’s just common sense.

They pick up Diamond Crusher, the cat’s legs dangling in the air as he lets out an irritated meow. Unsurprisingly, there’s their canvas, bits of brown cat hair scattered about the pencil sketch. With an irritated huff, they brush the cat hair off before tucking the canvas underneath their arm before glancing toward Test Tube.

“I’m heading off to class,” they wearily announce. “I’ll be back in a few hours,”

“Don’t be gone for too long,” Test Tube teasingly replies as she produces a blueprint from somewhere and scans it, her brilliant green eyes narrowed as a finger traces lines of scrawled writing. They smile in exasperation as they leave, shaking Diamond Crusher off their heels as they do so.

Trudging through the courtyard, more than able to manage the somewhat lower temperatures, they move forward single mindedly, refusing to stop for anything. Even if they run into Marshmallow, who details new ways to break her neck, get suspended, or both, they won’t let themselves be distracted.

Just as they’re halfway to the building that hosts the majority of their classes, though, they stop, tilting their head. It sounds like there’s music playing, but not in the way where someone has their window open while blasting trashy pop or something. It only has one instrument in it, something that sounds stringed but definitely isn’t a guitar. It sounds like someone is playing an instrument live, but the orchestra hall is pretty soundproof.

In fact, the further they walk, the louder the music gets. Just as they turn a corner, they see the source of it: there’s a man with red hair, yellow on the underside of it, playing a stringed instrument that they don’t recognize. Behind him is a woman with tanned skin and wavy blonde hair, a sunny smile on her face as she bobs her head along to the beat. Judging by the relaxed, sunny expression on her face, the two seem to know each other pretty well.

Around them is a crowd that seems appreciative of the music. A red bowler hat with a yellow feather sticking out of it has been placed onto the floor with various wrinkled bills and shiny coins forming a thin layer in the hat. The hat is as old-timey as the two’s outfits. Maybe they’re costumes, then? The stringed instrument the man carries–they want to say it’s called a mandolin, even if they don’t have a clue if that’s right or not–definitely fits the vibe.

Ah, Paintbrush gets it. This is a performance art of some sort, different from just usual busking. They bet if they were to talk to either of the two, they would be in complete character as medieval folk, or something like that. Interesting, but not something that’s enough to make them stop for more than a moment. Maybe if they’re still here after class, they’ll sit down and listen to a few songs.

If nothing else, the energy in the air as the man plays his mandolin with a peaceful expression on his face is completely electric. It’s as if each note plucked lingers in the air, and each note compacts on the last, until the air is charged with energy. Something about it makes their breath stutter and their heart skip a beat.

Maybe that’s just the magnetic pull of live music. They’ve been to a few concerts, and they didn’t feel exactly like this, but the man obviously has some sort of skill. Since it’s enough to make them feel like this, they suppose there’s no harm in pulling out their wallet and throwing a spare five their way.

As the bill floats through the air and lands in the man’s hat, the woman turns to Paintbrush and offers them such a wide, dazzling smile that it makes their cheeks heat up. The woman kind of reminds them of the sun, in more ways than one.

They don’t say anything, though. They just cross their arms and shift in place for a moment, knowing that they should be rushing to class but feeling oddly reluctant about leaving. Finally, they manage to take a step forward, and as if the spell had been broken, they manage to move forward once more, breathing strained as they place one foot in front of the other.

Even as their class begins and their professor begins to lecture, they can’t get the performance out of their mind. They can’t get the blonde woman out of their mind, more specifically. They know that’s a bad thing to be thinking, considering they do have a girlfriend, but it’s hardly their fault that woman shined so bright.

Quickly after their first class ends, they have the next one, the one that required searching for their canvas with such energy. Luckily for them, this one doesn’t require having to pay attention to a lecture that quickly causes them to lose more and more interest. Instead, they just get to continue working on this sketch. Hopefully, if they’re inspired enough, they can start painting soon.

All around them is the sound of focused art students as they scribble on canvases of their own. One of them is even painting already. The assignment at the moment is to sketch out something with pencil before you start painting and compare it to a prior painting done without any sketching to see which one you prefer; sketching or just going head first into things.

Personally, Paintbrush already knows what they like. They’re aware enough of their flaws, including the fact that they’re a chronic overthinker. When they have a chance to undo things without consequence, they spend far too long trying to get something they’re happy with. When that comes to art, though, that doesn’t really exist. They’ll always find some kind of issue with things. They’d rather just throw bits of paint onto a canvas and be stuck with what they have as opposed to never getting anything done at all.

Squinting at the sketch they have on their canvas, they’re suddenly struck by how… inadequate it feels, they suppose. They’re much more partial to the idea of abstract art, especially over realism. They don’t care how it’s viewed in the art world; anyone can draw a landscape, but only they can draw something that’s personal to them.

What they have now is fine. If they just grabbed some paint and placed it onto the canvas without a thought for planning or neatness, they would probably even complete the painting. But the longer Paintbrush stares at their canvas, the less they want to fill out this sketch.

As they purse their lips, another idea suddenly bursts into their mind, bright and near fully formed as it swirls in their mind like a starburst of color. Their breathing stutters for a moment, before their eyes narrow and they begin to erase what they have already with determined vigor. They hardly feel bad about it, either. Abstract art is hard to sketch out, at least in their experience, and it’s not like it gets a good grade in college anyway.

Instead, they had gone with a landscape. Easy, generic, meaningless. They definitely wouldn’t go as far as to say they had wanted to paint it, but they weren’t against turning it in. With the idea that had popped into their mind, though, they were able to come up with something they had truly enjoyed and wanted to paint.

Now the question was, how were they supposed to sketch it out?

Chewing on the end of their pencil in exasperation, they know full well that the idea for what they want to paint will soon drop clean out of their mind if they spend too much time sitting here debating it. But sketching is part of the assignment. They have to do something.

Ultimately, Paintbrush decides to go with the easiest way out and sketch out only the big parts of the drawing. Smaller details and the background are things that they’ll get to when a paintbrush meets canvas, paint smeared across the off colored white to make something completely new. No need to try to make any decisions immediately.

So they sketch, determined to get everything done quickly so they can get to the part of the assignment they’re actually excited for. This class lasts for two hours, so if they spend half an hour sketching…

Things work out well in the end. They finish the sketch in twenty minutes, and it’s so sparse and simplistic that it’s hardly worth any sort of grade. That’s what paint is for, though. They create their palette consisting of bright and harsh colors, contrasting sharply against each other even in their plastic paint palette. Sitting down, they press their brush against the canvas and let out a shaky breath as the first streak of paint is brushed onto the canvas.

No going back now. All they can do is see what they can do with the decisions they’ve made.

Their idea had been based on the brief snippet of music they had heard as they walked across the courtyard, solid as each note took form into the air. It made it hard to breathe, the extra space in the air pressing against their chest. They know music is a form of art, and the point of art first and foremost is to elicit a reaction from an audience. But they hadn’t known that music could feel like that.

So they work off of that memory, sketching a formless, featureless person in the middle of the canvas, body twisted in motion as they’re surrounded by splattered bits of color and shapes meant to represent the weight of the music. It’s a work in progress, but they’re happy with how things are going at the moment. They’re positive the colors they use will bring it to life.

As they paint, their professor walks across the classroom, nodding and letting out thoughtful hums as he passes each student’s desk. Paintbrush is dreading him coming to a stop at their desk, but they try not to be daunted by it. They just continue to paint, not quite able to be completely focused on it.

His footsteps stop directly next to them, and as much as they try not to look up, they can see him looming out of the corner of their eye. Staring at their canvas? Most definitely. Judging them? Considering his tastes in art, they wouldn’t be surprised. Part of them is tempted to turn and snap at him, as if he was just one of the many people who watch artists work instead of a person in a position of authority over them.

Instead, they just try to paint, trying in vain to bottle up their anger and anxiety. Just don’t say anything, just don’t say anything…

Unfortunately, their luck can never be anything but shitty. “I thought you were doing a landscape,” their professor says, the scowl on his face audible in his words even if they don’t bother to look at his face.

“I was,” they say flatly, words coming out as an exasperated groan. “But I got new inspiration. So I changed what I was making.”

“Hm,” he doubtfully replies. “It’s hardly realistic.”

“That’s not the point,” they hiss.

“And you’ve barely sketched anything,” he adds. At least that criticism is in any way valid. “For this assignment, it would have been better to go with the landscape to show how sketching things out beforehand influences your work.”

“Well, I’ve already started painting,” they venomously reply. They’re trying their hardest to avoid looking up and meeting the man’s narrowed eyes, because they don’t want to see how obviously he’s doubting them and their work. “It would be a waste to change it now.”

Their professor scoffs quietly under his breath as he walks away. Distantly, they're aware of the way he stops at another desk and complements that student. When they furtively glance over their shoulder, bitter jealousy swirling in their gut, they see a realistic portrait on the canvas.

Of course. That’s the issue they’ve always had with art. When they were young, they would draw and draw, improving at a rapid rate. They were able to draw in a realistic art style by eleven, and after two years they had gotten shading down to a t. The issue was, always drawing in a realistic style grew brain meltingly dull after a while. They found themselves attracted to more abstract styles. Picasso was like their hero.

When they fully switched to abstract paintings, that’s about when the compliments dried up. It was discouraging, seeing the way people’s faces scrunched up as they looked at their art. Just because it didn’t make sense at first glance didn’t mean it made any of their art work immediately invalid! It just wasn’t fair.

Still, they did have a passion for art, and they didn’t have any clue of what else they would do with their life. And they figured, just maybe, college would be more accepting of the art they created. Instead, they get embittering scorn. It’s awful, and they’re more than a little tempted to drop out right here and now.

But without college, they wouldn’t have met Test Tube. They can’t say the same about their ex, that’s for sure. So all Paintbrush can do is weather the storm right now and try their hardest to fight for acceptance or… die trying, they suppose. What else are they supposed to do with their life, when the only thing they’ve ever received a scrap of praise for is their art?

In the end, they storm out of the class with a huff. If they run into any sort of inconvenience, they might just bite someone’s head off. They aren’t in the mood for anything after that. They just want to lay on their torn third-hand couch and get cat hair all over them while they rant and rave to a sympathetic Test Tube.

God, their girlfriend is so lucky. Innovation is a major tenet of science. When she does things no other has done before, she’s hailed as a hero, everyone excited to see what she’s done and try to build on it. When they think outside of the box and do things that other artists don’t, they receive doubt and scorn. They can’t help but be sick of it.

Paintbrush goes back across the same courtyard they had traversed hours ago. Instead of feeling nervous and rushed, they’re just frustrated, and they kick a nearby small rock and feel satisfied as it clatters across the sidewalk. As they continue to walk, they catch the eye of the performers they had passed in the morning. 

The man isn’t playing his instrument anymore, and the crowd has completely dispersed. Instead, the two are just chatting with one another, looking relaxed and at ease. Seeing them like that doesn’t help their already pissed off mood, and they try to trudge across the cracked concrete quickly, hoping the two won’t call out to them. Unfortunately, they can never be so lucky.

“Hey, you’re the person from earlier!” the woman announces, brandishing a finger at them as a goofy grin spreads across her face. “I could tell you were really enjoying our performance earlier, but you didn’t even wait for the song to finish before you disappeared into that building over there. Did we sound that bad?” She pouts, fainting dramatically into the man’s arms. He’s smaller than she is, but supports her weight with no complaints and a wide grin.

“No? I had class,” they flatly reply, raising an eyebrow.

“Class?” the man parrots, blinking. He and the woman seem to not be able to comprehend the concept. Their reaction is so suspicious that they can’t help but narrow their eyes, pressing their lips into a thin line.

“Do you guys even go to this university, or are you just sitting here begging for money?” they flatly ask, a hand on their hip. As they speak, they stroke their chin, feeling bemused by the scratchy stubble on it.

The woman grins, resting her elbows on the man’s head as she smiles sweetly at Paintbrush. “No comment,” she says sweetly. “Hey, since we’re here, we might as well introduce ourselves, right? I’m Lightbulb, and this goober is Fan! I’m the brains, he’s the brawn.” She sticks out her tongue as she says that. They can’t help but feel dubious at that declaration, given that Fan is scrawny and has hands made for deftly playing an instrument as opposed to punching people.

“Paintbrush,” they slowly reply, arms crossed over their chest. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meetcha, Painty,” Lightbulb replies, getting to her feet and bowing. “Are all of your classes done for the day? The two of us could serenade you for a bit.”

“Oh, sure, just volunteer me for this, why don’t you?” Fan huffs. Despite his words, though, he has a wry smile on his face, and his amusement is obvious. They hadn’t noticed it before, but he has a dimple on the side of his face that comes out when he smiles. “Alright, which song are you thinking?”

They aren’t quite sure how they managed to end up in this conversation to begin with. Lightbulb is so exuberant that she’s able to pull Paintbrush in without even trying, they suppose. “When I passed by, he was the only one doing any sort of quote-unquote serenading,” they point out, brandishing a finger at Fan. “What can you do?”

“Oh, I can sing!” she announces in response, grinning brilliantly. “I don’t do it all the time. Sometimes it’s better to let Fan’s music speak for itself.” She shrugs, and Paintbrush can’t muster the urge to disagree. “But you went through the trouble of stopping by. Might as well bring out the big guns, right?” She winks at them and offers them some finger gun.

Paintbrush doubts Lightbulb is actually flirting. She just seems really friendly, like a golden retriever. But her words are enough for their cheeks to dust pink, and they can’t help but scowl as they duck their head. Is that the kind of person they are, easily swayed by people who are even the slightest bit friendly to them? Or can they only last a few months in a relationship at most before getting bored?

Either way, they feel bad. As they readjust the bag slung over their shoulder, they glance back up, Lightbulb’s big brown eyes still staring hopefully at them. “I should be getting back to my dorm,” they mutter in response, rubbing at the back of their neck. “My cat and girlfriend are waiting on me.” They try not to put too much emphasis on the word girlfriend, but in the end they don’t have a clue whether their attempt at casualness works or if it feels too feigned.

“Aw, that’s a shame,” Lightbulb replies, puffing out her cheeks in disappointment. “We’ll probably hang around here for a while, though. So we’ll be around if you want to hear more songs!”

“Here as in the courtyard or the college campus?” they respond, eyes narrowed. They don’t actually care much about whether the two go to this school or not, but the two's behavior is so suspicious that they wouldn't mind some kind of explanation for it.

“Both are good,” she sagely replies. Paintbrush rolls their eyes and begins to walk away. As they do, they see the woman jumping up and down out of the corner of their ear. “Bye! See ya later!”

“Wait!” Fan squawks, shoving his mandolin into Lightbulb’s hands as he scrambles to his feet. He fumbles through the pockets of his baggy, leathery pants until he produces a yellowed paper with so many folds it’s definitely on the verge of tearing. He runs after them, stopping just to their right, and doubles over wheezing as he tries to catch his breath. They just raise a brow, unimpressed. They only took a few steps forward.

“What is it?” they reply, tilting their head.

“We’re actually looking for some people,” Fan explains. Lightbulb, who had walked forward as Paintbrush had spoken, nods sagely. “One of them is a friend of ours. We got separated when we ended up here. Her name is Apple, she has red hair and dark skin and freckles. She’s pretty short, kinda chubby, and has flowy red robes.”

“Okay,” they say slowly, drawing out the word. Their mind latches onto the word robes, because with how the two of them are dressed, they seem more like characters out of a fantasy book instead of the real world, and apparently their missing friend is the same. With Fan’s cropped cloak and leather vest alongside Lightbulb’s hood and oddly priest-esque robes, they stand out against Paintbrush with their gray headband and paint-stained apron. “Who’s the other?”

“She’s- hm,” Fan huffs, furrowing his brow as he thinks. “It’ll probably be better if I show you the poster, but-” As he speaks he glances down at the wrinkled paper grasped in his hand as he bites his cheek.

When Fan falters, Lightbulb interjects, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “She’s really short, would probably go up to only your waist,” she begins, miming her height. “She has mostly blonde hair and these really scary amber eyes. Has a strong accent, too. Her name is Taco, although you probably shouldn’t approach her if you see her?” Her voice rises at the end as she furrows her brow.

“Yeah, yeah!” Fan adds, rolling on his heels. “She’s pretty dangerous, although maybe that’s because she knows why we’re chasing her? I’ve heard she’s also pretty manipulative, too!”

“Bottom line, avoid her,” Lightbulb concludes with a nod. Paintbrush’s head is spinning from how quickly they bounced off one another, picking up where the other left off effortlessly. Not even they and Marshmallow are like that, and they’ve known each other since the end of middle school.

“Uh, why are you looking for her, exactly?” they say dryly. “She doesn’t sound the most pleasant.”

“Long story,” Lightbulb says, her smile remaining affixed to her face even as Fan sobers, the man staring at the cracked concrete. “Maybe we can tell you the whole story later?” She spreads her hands into the air as she speaks, looking excited by the concept. “It has drama, intrigue, magic! And Fan is as good at telling stories as he is at playing music.”

To be honest, Paintbrush doubts they’ll cross paths with the two of them again any time soon. It’s a big campus, after all, and since they doubt the two of them even attend this university, campus security will probably catch onto them at some point and kick them out. It’ll be the one time they’re even competent.

And yet, despite being keenly aware of that, they can’t help but smile ever so slightly. When Lightbulb says something like that, she’s not saying it as an offer or even a promise. She sincerely believes in her ability to find Paintbrush again and spin as many stories as she wants. They doubt things will work out that way, but what’s the harm in entertaining it?

“Sure,” they agree, tilting their head. “Next time.”

— — —

God, Nickel really can’t stand Balloon. Just where does he get off, being that unbearable?

He glares daggers at the other man as he awkwardly scuffs the concrete with the sole of his shoe. The two of them alongside Baseball and Suitcase were meant to meet up at this cafe both to hang out and for Suitcase to help them on the topics in which they struggled. She was the smartest out of the four of them, and he would freely admit that.

If nothing else, he’s glad he didn’t make a mistake befriending her. He had noticed her sitting alone in one of the classes he and Baseball shared and had decided to sit next to her on nothing more than a whim. Immediately, they hit it off. She was quiet and anxious, but also kind. It was obvious she didn’t have a lot of friends at the college, and he figured there was no harm in taking her under his wing. It was a decision he had yet to grow to regret.

Suitcase is great. The issue occurs with her taste in friends.

Case in point. Balloon glances over to him for a brief moment, sky blue eyes furrowed, and when Nickel responds by making a face at him he turns back to his phone quickly, an anxious expression flitting across his face. He has no clue what could have possessed Suitcase to befriend him in the first place, considering his lack of redeemable qualities, but now they're all suffering for it.

Nickel does understand why she’s friends with Balloon. But only on a conceptual level! He thinks he should clarify that before he gets weird looks. She doesn’t know to avoid him because he’s bad news, because she’s one of the out of state kids who didn’t attend high school here.

Balloon was a total asshole in high school. He was obnoxious, cruel, and totally manipulative. Nickel was able to smell trouble when it came to him from a mile away, and he avoided him like the plague so he wouldn’t get bit. Reportedly, he had tried to turn over a new leaf later on in high school, sometime in senior year, but it’s not like anyone had believed that sorry display. No one was that dumb. So he was ostracized, for good reason. No one likes jerks.

When he had told that story to Suitcase after he noticed her hanging around Balloon and had tried his hardest to nip that in the bud, he had received an odd look. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Nickel,” she had begun, soft voice wobbling as she spoke. “But aren’t you kind of a jerk too? I-I mean, you just insulted Silver Spoon as he was walking by.”

“Yeah, cuz he’s a pompous jerkwad. So what?” he had flatly retorted, drumming his fingers against the table.

“I know you haven’t known Nickel that long, but I’ve known him since middle school!” Baseball had added, a dopey smile on his face as he rubbed at the back of his head. “He can be blunt at times, but he has a good heart.” That had been so saccharinely sweet that he couldn’t help but elbow Baseball, grimacing.

“Point is, you shouldn’t be friends with that two-faced ass. He’s bad news,” Nickel had declared, crossing his arms with a huff.

Suitcase had just shook her head, eyes flashing with a glint of steely resolve she obtained when making a decision. It was what made him think there was more to her then met the eye, although if she was even aware of that fact was up in the air. “I think I can make my own decisions,” she had softly insisted.

At the time, he had relented. He hadn’t wanted to make a big deal out of it. She was right, after all. He didn’t want to be the sort of guy constantly criticizing the decisions of others. But maybe he should have pushed a bit more. He can be stubborn when he wants to be. But he had just left it!

Unfortunately, he was now the sorry idiot now stuck in prolonged contact with Balloon, because Suitcase had messaged their group chat to say that she would be running late, and Baseball is Baseball. As much as Nickel loves his friend, he doesn’t have much confidence when it comes to his ability to get to anywhere on time, especially since he had classes in the morning today and is probably currently napping.

That’s fine. Really. It’s just peachy except for the fact that he’s stuck with naive Suitcase, who sees the best in everyone even though it’ll inevitably get her bit, and Balloon. His sarcasm is usually better received when he has Baseball to bounce off of. When he’s with Suitcase and Balloon, though, all he gets is weird looks and uncomfortable mumbles. Honestly, his sense of humor is wasted on them.

Well, he would be stuck with Suitcase when she gets him. He’s already resigned himself to Baseball being the last to get here. Until then, though, their usual dynamic will be switched, and Nickel will be the one feeling like the outsider instead of Balloon. What has he done to deserve that, huh?

Vaguely, he recalls their friend group from the start of the year. The four of them had been there, of course, but it had initially been much bigger, to the point where this awkwardness could have been prevented to begin with. Knife, who he had known in high school, had hung around them for a few months while he figured out college, and still talks with them from time to time. He has a soft spot for Suitcase, not that anyone has the courage to point that out.

The other four members of their group were all from outside of the city and had only moved here for college. Soap, Microphone, Trophy, and Cheesy. Of the four, Soap had transferred out after her younger brother Tissues had become so ill he had to be hospitalized, Trophy had been kicked to the curb after he tried to blackmail Knife for being bi, and Cheesy stopped hanging around them after Microphone got so fed up with him she yelled at him for five minutes straight.

As for Microphone herself… To be honest, he doesn’t have a clue why she had ditched them so suddenly. But one day, a few weeks after Soap had transferred out, she had stopped showing up to their scheduled study-slash-hangout-sessions at the cafe Nickel was currently waiting at, and hadn’t sent any texts informing them that she would be late. Actually, she had just stopped texting at all.

Sure, it was strange, but if she decided she was better than them and didn’t need to hang around them anymore, well, she was free to do whatever she wanted. Things definitely got a lot quieter after she began to keep her distance, if nothing else.

Either way, it means that their friend group is a lot smaller nowadays. Which means that it’s far too easy to get trapped in situations like these. He can’t help but shift uncomfortably in place, shoulders squared. If Suitcase doesn’t get here soon, he thinks he might just lose his mind.-

“Psst. Hey, Nickel,” Balloon suddenly hisses, sounding tense.

Rolling his eyes, he glances up toward the other man. His puffy salmon hair tied back into a ponytail paired with a matching button-up, white polo, and a brown messenger bag never failed to irritate him. “What?” he flatly retorts, offering him a scowl. “Can’t you see I’m busy?” He had waved his phone in the air as he spoke, the motion irreverent and lazy.

“Oh, c’mon,” he scoffs, puffing out his cheeks. He’s as full of hot air as ever. “I wouldn’t be talking to you, of all people, if I didn’t have a good reason for it. Look across the street.” He gestures in front of him as he speaks, and Nickel follows his hand.

Across the street stands a woman, maybe a year older than the two of them. The first thing he registers about her is just how gorgeous she is; she has tanned skin with a smattering of freckles across her cheeks and dark, curly brown hair with two heart shaped buns atop her head. The rest of her hair falls to her shoulders. She wears an asymmetrical skirt that’s a lime green, shorter in the front and longer in the back. She wears a cream collared blouse with various ruffles on it that scream old-timey, and worn brown shoes with a strap over the front.

When he looks closer at her, though, he can’t help but hesitate, worry beginning to stir in his gut. Her big green eyes, wide and doe-like, have terror etched into them as her hands firmly grip the front of her skirt with a white knuckled grip. Sweat drips down her forehead as her head swivels back and forth, and her shoulders rise and fall in quick, labored motions.

From what he sees of the woman, he can’t help but get the distinct impression that she’s running from something. Or, even worse, some one. If the look he exchanges with Balloon is any indication, the other man definitely thinks the same. Still, though, hell will have to freeze over before he ever cuts Balloon any slack.

“So what? You think she needs help?” he says flatly. “Hate to break it to ya, pal, but you’re probably the last person she wants to see. You can’t even walk for fifteen minutes without having to sit down.”

Balloon’s face turns bright red, although it’s hard to tell whether it’s from anger or embarrassment. “S-Still!” he cries, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “I won’t be able to forgive myself if something happens to her because we weren’t there to stop it. If some guy is harassing her, we have strength in numbers, don’t we?”

As loath as he is to agree with Balloon, of all people, he can’t deny that the man is right. He’s a realist, as Baseball likes to say, and way too harsh, as Suitcase occasionally mutters, but he isn’t an outright asshole. And he knows enough about defense to know exactly where his foot should aim when dealing with a creep.

He sighs, rolling his shoulders. “C’mon, let’s get this over with,” he grumbles. “Maybe we can sit at a table with her, so there’s more eyes on her and whoever’s tailing her is less likely to try anything.”

“Good idea!” Balloon cries, snapping his fingers. His expression is stunned enough that it feels patronizing, as if he hadn’t thought Nickel capable of that. Noting that is enough to make him bristle; once an asshole, always an asshole, he supposes. “C’mon, let’s go!”

Reluctantly, he follows after the taller, wider man, hands in his baggy jeans pockets. He has to remind himself over and over that he’s doing this for the woman’s sake, not Balloon’s, despite the fact that the man is so horribly smug it makes Nickel want to bite him. He probably thinks of himself as a great hero for doing all of this, a knight in shining armor. Whatever, he’ll scold him later.

The two of them both stop in front of the woman, and she blinks at them slowly. They would probably look intimidating, if it weren’t for the fact that Nickel was lucky to be considered 4’11 and Balloon, despite his greater height in comparison, was curled in on himself and kept his arms firmly pressed to his sides. Making himself smaller wouldn’t change the sort of person he was, but it would make schmucks like Suitcase offer him pity.

“E-Excuse me?” Balloon stammers in his horrible, high pitched voice. As he speaks, he awkwardly fidgets with the strap of his messenger bag, shifting it back and forth in the air. Wow, really the picture of confidence right there. “We noticed that you look pretty stressed and winded. Are you okay? Do you need help?”

In response, the woman blinks at them a few times before she offers them a soft, pained smile. “I’m being chased by two people,” she murmurs. Her voice is high and soft. “I’ve done all I can to get them off my tail, even coming here, but they’re determined to chase me no matter what!” She begins to chew anxiously on her nails. “I-I really don’t know what they want with me, but I’m certain it’s nothing good.”

“Have you tried going to the police?” Nickel interjects. “I know they aren’t good for much of anything, but they can arrest those guys for you or at the very least guard you until they give up.”

“Police…?” the woman echoes, looking genuinely confused. It’s as if she never heard the word before. “Arrest… Guard… Oh! That also wouldn’t work,” she demures as she tucks one strand of hair behind her ear. “These people don’t hesitate to dispose of anyone who’s in their way. I’ve seen it for myself. And since I don’t belong here, that could cause trouble for me, too.”

Her odd words make Balloon and Nickel exchange a look. He shakes his head at the man; whatever’s going on here, it’s probably a hell of a lot more complicated than they should be just throwing themselves into all willy-nilly. But he just shrugs, turning back to the woman with determination shining in his eyes. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Do you think these people are going to hurt you if they catch up to you?”

“Yes!” she replies, nodding firmly as she presses her hands to her chest. “For now, they’ve been just trying to take me somewhere, but I don’t know what they’ll do with me when they get there.” She curls into herself as she speaks, eyes betraying just how terrified she is. “I’ve been getting lucky so far, but…” She doesn’t finish. Then again, she doesn’t need to.

Nickel lets out a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Even if things seem a hell of a lot more complicated in this scenario that he wouldn’t ever sign up for otherwise, he’s not just going to turn his back on her. Because then she’ll be left with Balloon, and that’s the worst hell anyone can be condemned to. “Right,” he says. “First, let’s start with this. What’s your name?”

“Oh!” she cries, a startled expression flitting across her face for a moment. “Well, I’m Clover.”

“That’s Balloon-” he jabs a finger into the man’s chest, causing his face to scrunch up. “-and I’m Nickel. It’s nice to meet you. How about the three of us grab a table at that cafe over there? Maybe you’ll be harder to notice in the building and crowd. Either way, we don’t mind keeping an eye out for you, since our friends are running late anyway.”

Clover doesn’t look entirely convinced by Nickel’s plan of genius. Instead, she chews on her cheek, expression dubious. But after a moment, she nods and offers him a sweet smile. “Alright!” she chirps, before her expression becomes more serious. “If anything happens, though, you should probably run. Don’t worry about me! I’d hate for you both to get hurt just because you were worried for me.” She clasps her hands together, so painfully earnest he can’t help but cringe for a moment.

Balloon looks more than a little bit daunted by all her talk of getting hurt, which is funny. He had been the one to want to stick his neck out for her in the first place, after all. But, well, him being a coward doesn’t come as much of a surprise to Nickel. After a moment, though, the man offers Clover his hand, his smile hesitant. “C’mon, we wouldn’t want you to get left behind,” he offers. In response, the woman takes his hand, laughing.

“Way to be condescending, Balloon,” Nickel says with a scoff and an eyeroll. He crosses the street without bothering to look both ways, considering any cars kind of have to stop for him, and the other two follow after him. They both grab a table in the middle of the cafe’s indoor seating, and Nickel kicks his feet in the air as he stares at the two.

“Do you want anything to eat?” Balloon prompts, throwing a sidelong glance over to Clover.

She taps her cheek as she thinks. “Is this place something like a bakery?” she murmurs. “What sort of stuff do they offer?”

“There’s a menu right in front of you, y’know,” Nickel can’t help but point out, rolling his eyes. Honestly, she treats all of this like it’s the first time she’s seen anything even close to this. When they were crossing the street, her head had swiveled around as fascination danced in her eyes. If she was here in the city, there’s no way any of this can come as a surprise to her. Maybe she’s just from a super rural area?

After the three decide what they want (a bagel with cream cheese for Clover, a croissant for Balloon, and a sandwich for Nickel), they approach the register. Just as Nickel opens his mouth, though, a flustered employee comes out of the back. “Management says we have to throw this batch of food out because they were slightly burnt!”

The cashier looks frustrated as they examine the tray of food the other employee is carrying. “Really?” they say with a sigh. “They’re only a little bit burnt. Definitely not worth throwing away. Ugh, it’s such a waste of food…” They shake their head, looking disappointed.

In response, the other employee casts their gaze over to the three of them, looking hopeful. “Would any of you like to have these before we have to toss them?” they prompt, a half-smile on their face. “They’re still perfectly edible!”

“Can’t say no to free food,” Nickel replies, a grin on his face as he reaches forward and grabs all of the pastries his hands can hold. To his left, Clover lets out an excited squeal as she grabs some of the bagels.

“Huh,” Balloon says, brow creased as he rotates a croissant in his hand. “Awfully lucky.” Clover flinches when she hears that, a frown on her face as she looks away from both of them.

Given that they now have more than enough food to split between the three of them, they return to their table. As Clover slathers cream cheese on her bagels, a pleased smile on her face, Nickel can’t help but pop one of the pastries in front of him in his mouth, only for his face to scrunch up in distaste. “These are fine,” he declares in frustration. “Honestly, what’s the point in wasting food like this?”

Balloon shrugs. “I guess it’s just how big corporations are?” he proposes, tone rueful. “Any excuse to have something to write off, I guess.” He takes a bite out of his croissant, letting out a pleased sound.

“Whatever,” Nickel scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Hey, save those donuts for Baseball!”

As the two of them begin to bicker, Clover just continues to eat her bagel, staring at it with an almost blank expression as she slowly chews. She looks… confused, almost. Balloon seems to pick up on it too as he asks her “What are you thinking about?”

“Just that this sort of thing always happens to me,” she replies with a sigh, cupping her cheek in her hand. “Bakeries always rush to offer me food that would have been thrown out otherwise. It feels like a pattern at this point.” She glances out a nearby window, her expression frustrated as she anxiously scans the streets.

“Eh, I think you’re just overthinking it,” Nickel says dismissively, waving a bit of half-eaten pastry in the air as he speaks. “It’s not like you can control whether the ovens burn food or not.”

“Yeah, that would be a seriously lame superpower,” Balloon agrees, snickering into his hand. He can’t help but roll his eyes at the other man. God, even his laughter is annoying.

“Still, I think-” Clover begins, her words forming the beginning of a protest before she just stops cold, her gaze still trained on a nearby window.

“What?” Nickel prompts, an eyebrow lazily raised. “Why’d you stop?”

“They found me,” she whispers, her words barely audible. Suddenly, she shoots to her feet, rosy tanned skin going pale as her eyes go wide with fear. “W-We have to get out of he-!”

Before she gets the chance to finish, the nearby wall suddenly shatters open, an explosion of dust and debris filling the air. Nickel begins to cough as he’s knocked onto the floor, and he hears Balloon let out a shriek as he ducks under a piece of debris flying through the air. Clover remains on her feet, any of the debris flying around her in near-perfect arcs. Huh. Awfully lucky.

It’s difficult to piece any thoughts together, especially when all the screaming starts. Patrons get to their feet and run out the doors in droves, and most employees seem to still be in shock from their positions behind the counter. Nickel’s aware of how sluggishly he’s moving as he raises a hand and presses it to his chest, blinking several times in succession as if it’ll erase the chaos in front of him.

Okay, okay. Obviously all of this is… super overwhelming, so he’ll start small. His eyes are watering from all of the dust in the air, and he rubs at them over and over, despite knowing how futile the motion is. His knees and palms are scraped from how he landed on the ground, and the gray beanie he usually wears had fallen off of his head in all of the chaos.

Somehow, his brain decides that looking for it should be the priority, and he blindly flails around, cutting himself on jagged bits of the wall and shattered grass as his hands blindly fumble in the air. Finally, he finds it, half submerged under a piece of debris, and he manages to pull it out just before he hears a loud scream.

“N-No!” Clover calls, tone pained. He can make out her silhouette through the cloud of dust in the air, and as it begins to clear, he can see her anguished expression as it stares at the hole in the cafe’s wall. “Stay away from me!”

“Jeez,” retorts an unfamiliar voice, sounding more annoyed than anything else. “Aren’t you tired of running? It’s getting real exhausting trying to chase you.” His voice is so bored and unbothered that it makes irritation flare up in Nickel. How the hell can anyone stay calm in the midst of all of this?

Well, he supposes the cause of all of this wouldn’t really be worried about any of it. But that creates a new issue. Are the people who are chasing Clover responsible for… all this? How is it something that any human could be capable of?

He was totally right, and he’ll be sure to rub it in Balloon’s face later. This whole situation is way above either of their pay grades.

“Whatever,” the voice continues with a groan. “Since you’re going to keep running, we’ll just have to catch you. MePad, grab her.”

Nickel finds the strength to scramble to his feet, heart thundering in his chest, just as a massive hulking silhouette walks through the hole in the wall. He knows immediately that the person he’s looking at right now is the person who had shattered the wall like it was made of glass to begin with, and their knuckles aren’t even bruised.

Except, calling them people doesn’t exactly feel like the right adjective to attach to them. The one giving all the orders looks human enough from a glance, except his bright blue eyes are glowing and are certainly not a shade people in real life have. His black hair is streaked with the same shade of blue, and that’s glowing too. It almost reminds him of magic, but he’s not dumb enough to claim magic is real no matter how scrambled his brain may be from adrenaline.

The other man is tall– no, gargantuan, double the height of his accomplice. His hair is blacked and streaked with color, except it’s a magenta that glows in the same way. His glowing magenta eyes are kind, almost, but that isn’t a fitting adjective for someone who just broke a massive hole in a stone wall and walks toward Clover with terrifying purpose.

Either way, he doesn’t have time to overthink this. As adrenaline swirls through his body, he sprints forward, grabbing Clover’s arm and running not toward the entrance, but to the employee area. The employees didn’t escape through the front door, but they definitely aren’t here anymore, so he’s taking an educated guess. If the labored gasps following close behind are any indication, Balloon is running too, not leaving either of their sides even though he’s surely bruised and battered.

Lucky for them, his hunch wound up being right, and as they run through the back area they discover an emergency exit door that’s wide open. Nickel pulls Clover into the alleyway, and they continue to run, trying their hardest to distance themselves from the cafe’s attackers.

“W-What’s going on?!” Balloon asks incredulously between gasps and pants, obviously winded. The idiot should know better than to waste his energy on a pointless question.

“Later!” Nickel barks in response, not even bothering to look over his shoulder as he replies. He hopes Balloon is smart enough to piece together what he means by that, although it really is a fifty-fifty.

Later, they can direct as many questions toward Clover as they want about what, exactly, they’ve gotten into. Later, they can ask if she has a clue about the magic goddamn powers her pursuers were obviously employing. Later, Nickel can interrogate her and squeeze out as much information as he can, because he’ll be damned if he’s going into all of this blind.

But that’s later, after they reach a safe place. After they get a chance to catch their breaths and patch up their wounds. After they lose the murderous, certainly not human duo that are still hot on their tails. After they push their bodies for all they’re worth.

And so, they run.

— — —

Marshmallow is in such a slump that it makes even the simplest things like breathing and blinking feel intolerable.

Agh, this is unbearable! She stares blankly at her empty document laid out on the computer in front of her. It’s been placed in the proper formatting, her name, the date, and the assignment’s title typed out in effortless Times New Roman. All she has to do… is figure out a good place to start.

Hesitantly, her hands hover over a key, typing the beginnings of a hesitant sentence. 

“In the beginning, things were…”

And then it stops, because she doesn’t have a damn clue how she’s meant to finish the sentence. Things were what? Good? Bad? Somewhere in-between? Why can’t she just say that instead of hesitantly staring at the blinking line to the right of the word “were”, deliberating to the point of agony about what she’ll write there?

No, this isn’t right at all. If this sentence was meant to be here, then the words would be flowing from her no problem, just as they do when she gets in the zone. Like she hasn’t been experiencing in the past month.

Frustrated, she stabs at the backspace key with intense frustration, the sound echoing throughout her cramped apartment. And then she’s left with a blank document once more, her pained expression staring at her from her laptop’s expression.

It’s just a simple assignment. One her classmates probably aren’t thinking twice about. Write a scene and start from the middle. Give no context, no build up, and no conclusion. Just a snippet of something, as if the reader were a passerby overhearing a snippet of a conversation. She loves to do narrative writing. For the life of her, she can’t imagine why the last month has been any different.

Well, she could probably come up with a few ideas. There’s Knife, sitting right next to her in her composition class, looking all for the world like he can’t imagine a single reason why she would be so bothered with his presence, as if he hadn’t spent half of high school ruthlessly bullying her. There’s her family, judging her choice in major even after a semester has passed. And there’s Paintbrush, constantly ditching her more often or not to go makeout with their girlfriend, or whatever they do in that dorm of theirs.

She feels like everyone is moving on at a dizzying pace. And it’s impossible to keep up with the speed the world turns at, for once she just wants it to stop, but she doesn’t get any reprieve. How is she expected to start from the middle of a scene when she can’t even imagine any sort of beginning? How is she expected to write a conversation, shifting and fluid, when the only sort of social interaction she’s had lately are her irritated huffs as she sprawls out on her second-hand couch?

Marshmallow gets to her feet and slams her laptop shut, feeling vindicated for all of two seconds before she lets out a sigh, shaking her head. Getting the empty document out of her sight doesn’t change the fact that her assignment is due in a few days, but it does make her feel better to not have the blank screen glaring accusatorily at her, as if judging her for her lack of progress.

Maybe she should take a walk. Not that it would clear her head, but she would prefer to be walking around and getting her blood pumping instead of just endlessly agonizing about this stupid writer’s block she’s unable to overcome no matter what she does.

As she walks over to her doorway, she catches her own eye in a nearby floor length mirror, and frowns as she absentmindedly pulls at the collar of her brown turtleneck, letting out a sigh as she pulls her hair in all sorts of directions.

“Roots are growing back,” she mumbles, the first coherent words she’s been able to muster in a while. Her mousy brown roots poke through the crown of her head like an accusation, standing out starkly against the dyed, snowy white she’s had her hair the color of since starting college. She had bleached and dyed her hair on a whim, and she liked the result enough to touch it up time and time again.

Shrugging on her slightly-oversized navy blue puffy jacket with the fluffy hood, slipping on her hat with flaps, tying her light blue scarf with snowflake patterns and placing her matching mittens on her hands feels a little bit extra, but in her defense, she’s always run cold. And anyway, it’s January. California or not, temperatures have a habit of dipping to the point where she likes nothing more than to curl up with a cup of cocoa and pretend like she’s a starry-eyed child again.

Instinctively, she shivers the instant she steps outside of the building that her dorm is in. Not because she’s cold, exactly, but because she’s so used to doing so the instant the brisk air meets what little exposed skin she has on her body that her body does it without thinking.

Looking around the college campus as she is feels more performative than anything. She already knows where she’s going to go. Swallowing, she sets a course for the abandoned building that resides on the edge of her college’s campus.

Okay, hang on. She should probably give a little bit of context here, although she doesn’t know exactly how she’s meant to put the way the building pulls at something at her core into words. Whenever she talks to Paintbrush about how she can’t help but explore it, they just roll their eyes, a scoff visible in their words as they speak.

“You know, if you keep going in there, I bet the ground will collapse beneath you and you’ll break your neck.” they’ve said more than once, their lazy tone not quite able to hide their worry. “That place has been condemned for ages now, Marsh. I don’t think it’s safe to treat it as a hangout spot.”

They aren’t wrong. Legend goes, the building used to be part of the main campus, where the majority of classes were held. Logical people would say that after the college obtained a grant to build new buildings for both classes and dorms, with fun things like working heating and state of the art technology that’s out of date now, the college neglected the building, causing it to fall into the state of disrepair it’s currently in.

But alongside that sort of logic that Paintbrush and their girlfriend would just love is another, more insidious rumor. It proposes that a horrible accident occurred in the building, and afterward no student or staff would step foot into it. Apparently it’s haunted, and hiding some rather unsavory secrets the college would like to keep hidden until the building is demolished early next year.

Marshmallow’s explored two floors fully so far, picking the locks on the few locked doors that remain. She’s seen nothing as thrilling as a ghost. Just a lot of cobwebs and ancient textbooks that smell of mildew that have their covers falling off. Somehow, she doubts their condition was any better when the building was first abandoned.

She wouldn’t have expected to find such a thrill in urban exploring. But it’s so different from the lifestyle she’s used to living, not to mention that it only adds to her pre-existing love of the paranormal. What if she does find something hidden in the building? What if she sees a ghost? It feels like she’s exploring uncharted waters, especially when she discovers a lock that has yet to be picked by the people who came before her.

And maybe, the light filtering through the windows exposing the particles of dust as they linger in the air will be just the thing she needs to regain her motivation. The image in her mind is so picturesque that she can’t help but smile slightly, already imagining the way she would describe it in a scene.

“Or maybe,” echoes Paintbrush’s voice in her mind, sounding flat and sarcastic. “You’ll get sick from all the asbestos in the wall and die prematurely.”

Hopping the fence surrounding the building is something that comes easy to her after all the times she’s slipped into the building. Technically, the place is off limits to unauthorized personnel, and a student getting caught can result in suspension or even expulsion. But considering that the building is slated for demolition, it’s not a policy most employees bother to enforce. Still, better safe than sorry, right?

It is a coincidence that her outfit covers up half her face and her hair, easily her two most distinctive qualities. But if nothing else, it’s a coincidence that makes her feel safer.

Without thinking twice about it, she makes a beeline to the third floor. Every thrillseeker on the campus has been on the first floor of the building at least once, and several people have left their marks on the walls to prove it. Large graffiti tags, the paint leaking down the walls from where they had been hurriedly applied, as well as markings engraved into the wall that read various things.

Marshmallow passes one of said markings left in the stairway, lingering in the same brief way she always does. She likes seeing things like this. It makes her feel less isolated, especially as she’s reassured by the knowledge that people have walked this path before her. The marking her fingers hover over reads “Liam and Owen 4ever” in permanent marker, each stroke purposeful. She wonders if that relationship really did last, or if all that’s left of it is this one bit of graffiti, marked on the wall on a whim.

That marking is just one of many pieces of history that will be destroyed when the building is taken down. Sure, it’s not the sort of thing most historians would deem worth preserving, but they’re still relics of the past regardless. People drew on the walls because they felt the urge to leave their mark. She’s going to do the same, when she gains the courage to reach the top floor. It’ll be akin to scaling Everest, just way less environmentally damaging.

Right now, though, she’s still beginning her exploration of the third floor after examining every nook and cranny on the first two. She doesn’t want to be too hasty as she looks through it, since she is heeding Paintbrush’s warnings, even if they are skeptical. This building is ancient, and the bits of plant life snaking on some of the walls just speak to how little it’s been maintained. If this is how she dies, she’s going to be so pissed off.

So she takes it slow. She explores each floor in multiple expeditions, each step slow and hesitant. No one has died in here before… at least, not after the university closed it off. But she won’t take that as explicit confirmation that this place is safe, given that the building has only had more time to fall into an increasingly dilapidated state as time goes on.

Exploring the third floor is no exception. She doesn’t bother to keep her steps light as she traipses down the main hallway, having made her way through it enough times to trust in its structural integrity. It’s when she explores the rooms hidden behind doors, some locked and some not, where she grows more wary.

Like with this one. She picks the lock on one of the doors, hidden around a few twists and turns. Probably not the sort of thing most people coming in just once to see what it was like in here would bother with. But of course, she always comes prepared. It’s to the point where she carries lockpicks around in her puffy winter jacket, although it’s in one of the pockets inside of the jacket.

With a satisfied huff, she twists the now-unlocked doorknob, and the door flies open with a loud creak that makes her cringe. Predictably, as she steps in, dust is stirred up, swirling around in the air. Not even raising her scarf up to her nose is enough to prevent her sneezes.

Unsurprisingly, the room doesn’t have much for her. When this place was abandoned in lieu of the newer, more modern buildings, any valuable things present were moved alongside the people. In other words, anything worthwhile an aspiring urban explorer would want to take as a souvenir.

But despite that challenge, Marshmallow’s found that she’s able to take interest in even the small things. She strides over to a desk that has a mug used as a penholder on top of it, “#1 Dad” printed in a gaudy font across a striped background.

“Can’t be that great, if he didn’t even bother to keep the mug,” she comments with a wry snort, tracing the dust that’s formed around the cup’s rim. After a moment, she takes out the scattered writing utensils from the mug and pockets it, feeling charmed by it. Yeah, she’s the kind of person who personifies inanimate objects, what of it?

The mug will go on her shelf alongside the rest of her pilfered items, a series of disconnected knick knacks that have no relation to each other save for the place they had been found in. They’re items that, for one reason or another, stuck out to her enough for her to decide to take them. She doesn’t like the term stealing, because that doesn’t really fit. Does a person taking a couch left on the curbside count as stealing?

Of course, that line of logic doesn’t stop Paintbrush from sighing and fondly shaking their head whenever they visit her dorm. “My best friend, the criminal,” they had said, tone dripping with amusement. “Try not to become too much of a kleptomaniac, will you?”

Honestly. Paintbrush could be so overbearing sometimes, even if she knew that they just wanted to protect the people they cared for. She doubts she’ll be caught here, because the amount of people suspended for sneaking into this building every year is so low there’s no point to it even being a statistic. It’s not that illegal. Just a nice little taste of breaking the rules, and then she’ll be satisfied. She doesn’t understand why Paintbrush has such an issue with it.

After exploring that room, finding nothing else that catches her interest, she moves onto the next. And the next. And the next. She’s already learned to not get her hopes too high when it comes to the already-unlocked doors; odds are, they had been forced open by the people who had explored this place before her, and if there had been anything interesting in there, they would have already taken it. In other words, a waste of time.

The more out of the way doors that remain locked are the things that pique her interest the most. Sometimes, she finds fascinating things. Her favorite find from this exploration venture has been discovering a Beanie Baby, tucked away in the back of a drawer. He was absolutely caked in dust and grime, but after giving him a good wash, he looked presentable enough to keep on her bedside table.

She named him Walmart. Obviously. Because Walmart is great, no matter how much Paintbrush pokes fun at her for her love of the store.

Today is not one of the days she’s made a great find, though, unfortunately for her. The mug is interesting enough, and she might be able to drink from it after cleaning it, but there’s nothing that immediately convinces her that she has to have it.

When she finishes looking through her fourth room, only having the mug in her pocket, she decides that she’s better off leaving for the day. She knows the longer she sticks around, the more likely it is that she’ll be caught. As dismissive as she is of Paintbrush’s worries, she has zero interest in being suspended or at worst, expelled. She can be impulsive at times, but she more than understands the value of being careful.

Passing through the main hallway, she makes a beeline for the main stairway, intending on leaving immediately, but the view she gets from a nearby window makes her draw to a stop without even realizing it, her steps slowing before ceasing entirely.

Marshmallow is in full control of her body, of course. She’s all too conscious of her breathing and blinking, each rise and fall of her chest deliberate. But despite knowing that she can force her body back into motion at any time, she just… doesn’t. Her body remains motionless as her eyes stare listlessly out the window. Absentmindedly, she begins to chew on her lip, the motion robotic and somewhat soothing.

As fascinating as all of this is, she knows that if she spends too much time in here, she’ll be caught eventually. It’s the downfall of all urban explorers; never get cocky. Still, though, she finds it difficult to pry her eyes away from the window, although she isn’t sure why. She can get this view from any other building on campus, just from a different angle.

Despite knowing that, she just continues to stand in place, hands pressed against the windowsill. Something about this feels so idyllic. The way the sun pokes out from between towering buildings, the gentle fluttering of the leaves in the breeze, and the dark gray clouds crowding the corners of the sky that don’t quite promise snow, with how sparse they are.

It would make a good scene. Unbidden, she thinks about how she could integrate it into her assignment, but she knows brainstorming is a fool’s errand when all she has is bits and pieces. She needs something concrete, a good jumping off point to scrawl down her stream of consciousness as her fingers fly across her keyboard.

Cupping her head with one of her gloved hands, she lets out a lofty sigh. It’s all pointless. She’s going to flunk out of college and go back to her parents with her tail tucked between her legs, and they’ll scold her relentlessly for her dreams of wanting to be an author when that doesn’t make money, and she’ll be-

“Hey! Hey, behind you!” calls a bored, feminine sounding voice. Heart in her throat, Marshmallow whirls around as she scrambles forward, wondering if she’s finally been caught. The woman there to greet her, though, is nothing like she had expected.

For one thing, she’s floating. That’s probably the most, um, attention grabbing aspect of her appearance. Instead of having legs, her lower half peters off into a wispy tail. Her pink hair is tied into two pigtails sticking out the sides of her head, and the wide grin on her face is toothy, with her teeth sharp and forming jagged fangs. Her entire body is surrounded by a glowing pink aura that lights the dim area up, and it only gets brighter as Marshmallow fully turns around, phone flashlight trained on her.

The woman is silent for a long moment. Then she smirks and throws her hands forward.

“Boo.”

Marshmallow can’t help it, she screams. Yeah, yeah, she gets it, she’s a big, walking cliche. The girl with a love of the paranormal immediately freaking out when faced with a ghost. But in her defense, she wasn’t expecting to actually see one! As much as she loves the idea of encountering a ghost, she had learned to temper her expectations, since they obviously weren’t real. Maybe it was just Paintbrush rubbing off on her, but, well, the idea just didn’t make sense!

And yet.

Her phone slips from her hands and clatters onto the floor as she staggers back, her jaw agape. “Wh- Wh-?!” she gasps, unable to fully form the word. Shock overwhelms her mind, making it near-impossible to think straight.

In response, the woman just cackles, the sound loud as it reverberates throughout the hallway. “Ah, man, good to know I’ve, like, still got it,” she says as she wipes tears from her eyes. Marshmallow hadn’t noticed it before, but her voice has an odd quality to it. It sounds like it has a reverb to it, a sort of echo-like filter attached to her words. “No one’s screamed at me like that for ages!”

The only thing Marshmallow does is stare blankly at the ghost. Her breathing is already fast and irregular. If she’s not careful, it’ll devolve into full-on hyperventilation. Maybe she’ll be launched into that state when the shock wears off and the fear currently resting at the back of her throat claims dominance of the rest of her body, but right now all she can do is gape, mouth opening and closing like a fish’s.

“Bow! Bow, get back here!” calls another voice, which sounds… human enough. It’s androgynous and doesn’t have the same reverb that the ghost’s does. Marshmallow doesn’t let her guard down, though. In all her time exploring this building, she’s never seen anyone else here. So the fact that she meets a ghost at the same time someone else comes rushing in is more than a little suspicious.

“Oh, great, the fun constable is here,” the ghost says with a huff, crossing her arms as she sticks out her lip in a pout.

After a moment, a blur of red turns the corner and comes to a stop in front of the ghost, arms pinwheeling in the air as she tries to cease all momentum. “Bow! You can’t just run off like that!” the woman hisses, her tanned face heating up. Whether it’s from exhaustion or sheepishness, Marshmallow can’t tell.

“What are you gonna do to stop me, huh?” the ghost prompts, spinning in the air as she rests her hands behind her head. “You were the one who told me that your magic was running low in the first place, which means that you can’t keep me under control anymore! Ha!” She wags a finger at the living woman, exuding smugness.

“No thanks to you,” she retorts, letting out a scoff as she crosses her arms. She looks stern for a moment, but the effect is immediately undercut by her muttering under her breath “...Whatever that means. You’re supposed to be the one giving me magic! That’s the whole point of our deal!”

“It’s not my fault! I’ve told you, the energy is weird here! I’m having a hard time replenishing my magic! Even keeping up a physical form is taxing enough.” The ghost grumbles to herself in irritation, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Marshmallow can’t help but blankly stare at the two of them. They argue like an old married couple, which would be less jarring if the ghost was… well…

Maybe she makes some kind of noise, or her breathing is just that heavy, because after a moment the woman turns to her, brow creased. Her hair is dark red, a few shades lighter than blood, and her tanned skin has a smattering of freckles going across it. Her green eyes are wide and shining. Slung across her shoulders is a tattered red cloak over a lighter red button up shirt with golden buttons and green suspenders holding up matching flowy pants. Bits of silver armor are situated all along her outfit. Overall, it’s very medieval, like the sort of thing she’d see at a ren faire.

The woman’s cheeks puff out in indignation after she gives Marshmallow a once-over, and she turns to the ghost, hands on her hips. “Bow! What did I say about scaring people?!” Without waiting for a response, she bounds forward, hand outstretched. “I’m so sorry about her, she’s been dead for a while and doesn’t understand basic manners, whatever that means. Are you okay?”

In response, Marshmallow screams as the weight of everything that’s happened overwhelms her at once. Promptly, she passes out.

— — —

Silver Spoon simply cannot handle such undignified acts like taking public transport and eating greasy fast food. Why, even the thought of it is enough to make him shudder!

And yet, here he is on the bus anyway, clenching his bag so tightly he’s worried his arms will fall clean off.

Most out-of-state college students usually don’t have cars with them, especially if they’re studying abroad from Britain. But Silver Spoon had prided himself on not being like “most out-of-state college students”. After all, he had gotten to Los Angeles months in advance, having graduated early and wanting to see the city he would spend the next several years of his life in.

That, and being with his parents for even a moment longer would be enough for him to tear his hair out, but that was unrelated.

The last thing he had expected was for his card to be declined when he tried to make a purchase, and at the most embarrassing time, too. He had been in a car dealership, intending to purchase a vehicle so he would be able to get around the sprawling city. But the purchase hadn’t gone through, and in a panic, he had called his mother, futilely trying to make his voice lower in the way he always did when talking to his family.

She had explained, without mincing a single word, that he had been cut off. “As long as you continue to live this reprehensible lifestyle, we refuse to funnel any of our money to you when we know how you’ll spend it,” she had said, voice low and frigid.

“B-But Mother!” he had cried, voice cracking. He had winced before continuing. “What about my housing? You can’t expect me to live on the streets!”

“We will fund your apartment, of course,” said the deep, cruel voice of his father, and a shiver had run up his spine when he realized the two of them had been waiting for him to call. It was an ambush. “No child of ours will be homeless, no matter what choices you make.” Disdain dripped from every word. “But any frivolous purchases you intend to make will have to be funded on your own.”

In a daze, he had stumbled back to his apartment complex and collapsed on his plush leather couch. It had taken too long for him to cry, and when he had, the sound had been all wrong, too high pitched and strangled. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t muster a single tear. In the end, he had just given up.

Living without the surplus of money he had grown up with was an adjustment, at any rate. Luckily for him, he had started squirreling away money of his own years ago after he realized the person he was and knew without even thinking about it that his parents wouldn’t approve of it. From there, it should have been the simple process of getting it converted from pounds to dollars, if not for the fact that the only currency exchange place nearby had been too far to walk and the bus driver had looked at him funny when he tried to pay the fare in pounds.

So overwhelmed by the idea that he was trapped in place, unable to go anywhere with money he couldn’t use, he had started to cry right there at the bus stop, with real tears this time. He supposed the idea of being trapped and helpless was far more overwhelming than the fact that his family had cut him off and cast him off to sea, free of guilt and worry for him.

Because he had already known his family wouldn’t ever accept him. He had known them all his life, after all. It would be foolish if he didn’t know the kind of people they were. As much as he wanted their love, he wouldn’t delude himself into thinking he would get it.

The first time he had cried (or tried to, at any rate), nobody had come. But the second time, an angel had parted the roaring tide of his grief and crouched in front of him, both in the eye of a hurricane. Water swirled all around them in a dizzying spiral, the sky completely gray with no silver lining in sight. But they still managed to sit down next to him on the bus stop’s bench and glance at him, brow furrowed.

“You alright?” they asked, tilting their head. The blonde hair that was held back by a silver headband moved along with their head. “It’s not often I see someone crying at a bus stop all alone.”

Like most humans seeing the might of a true angel for the first time, his first instinct was defensiveness. “I’m quite alright,” he had said with a sniff, raising his head.

“Are you sure?” they had teasingly replied, one leg neatly folded over the other. “If you need help, I can offer it to you. Not doing much else, at the moment.”

“I don’t take handouts,” he had grit, all of the conditioning he had gone through as a child kicking in with full force. If he was going to grow up with money, he would have to act regal and refined, above everyone else, because that was what his birth stated he should be.

But it had always been his parents who had firmly instated that viewpoint into him, pompous and stern. They wanted their child to be the best possible heir to their legacy; that meant taking his heart and ripping it from his body so he could never exhibit a single unhelpful emotion. It meant never doing anything disgraceful. But it was far too late for that, so why was he clinging to what he knew so long after his parents had cut him loose?

With a roll of their eyes, the other person had gotten to their feet, bulky boots clicking against the concrete. From here, Silver Spoon had two choices; allow them to leave, push away anyone and everyone who intends on lowering his walls, or to let them in close so he can feel the thrill of someone who actually cares for him.

Swallowing both the lump in his throat and his pride, he had cried out “Wait. I’m… s-s-sorry.” The other person had paused but they hadn’t walked back over to him fully, a hand on their hip as they impatiently glared at him. “It’s just that… my parents have stopped giving me any money. I knew it would happen eventually, so I stashed away some money. But it’s all in pounds, and I can’t even make my way to a place that will let me exchange it for your paltry American dollars!”

The longer he speaks, the less morose he grows and the more irritated he becomes. By the time he finished talking, he could stop himself from being blanketed by the weight of his numbness and actually feel something for once. It feels nice.

His words had been enough for the other person to crack a smile as they sat back down next to him. “So you’re a Brit, huh?” they say. “How do you like being across the pond?”

“It was more enjoyable before the only thing I had to my name was the small stash of savings my paranoid teenage self had hidden.”

“Better that than nothing at all.” They had smiled wryly as they produced a few dollar bills. “Here. For the fare.” He had stared blankly at the money in his lap for a moment, its presence completely foreign. His parents always said handouts were for beggars and the desperate, and his family were neither. But the act of charity made him feel warm. “What’s the deal with your parents, then? Were you caught doing drugs or something?”

“Nothing so low,” he had flatly replied, nose wrinkled in disdain. “It’s simply a matter of them raising me as a different person than I truly am. And now that I’m taking steps to become that person… they aren’t pleased by it.”

“Oh,” they had said blankly, before their face was nearly crushed by the weight of sharp, overwhelming empathy that had made his teeth rattle in his mouth. “Oh. Fuck. I’m so sorry. No one should have to…” They had swallowed, looking uncertain about what to say, before offering him their hand. “Well, I’m Paintbrush.”

“Silver Spoon,” he had wryly replied, taking their hand. It was obvious they had very little experience with handshakes, but the fact that someone could ever be so kind to him even knowing who he was, what he was, made him so grateful that he wouldn’t dare complain.

That conversation was the first time he had been acquainted with them, but it wouldn’t be the last. They had gone with him to exchange currency. “So you don’t get lost,” they had explained. Afterward, they had taken him around the city and snuck him into their room when he had explained how awkward it was for him to go home.

From there, they were seeing each other every day, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Paintbrush was tall, but thankfully not taller than Silver Spoon himself was, a fact he never hesitated to laud over them. Of course, he never fully said why he valued his height so much, but they had been able to guess. It was just one more thing that made him feel closer to the ideal self he wanted to be, as much as that’s something he struggles to visualize.

Their hair was wild and had a tendency to stick up whenever they grew angry, which was often. It was tamed only by the gray headband they often wore. On their chin, they had bits of scraggly blonde stubble growing, something they had often shaved the moment they saw it. That habit had grown less consistent as they began to go to college, although he couldn’t tell if that was because they disliked it less or because they didn’t have the time to get rid of it.

Back when he first met them, they usually wore a tight black crop top revealing bits of their stomach and their tanned arms and torn acid washed jeans, but as they made the transition to college they switched to a brown apron over a white button up with rolled up sleeves and darker brown pants rolled up to their knees.

Meeting them and becoming closer with them… now that was the greatest thing that had ever happened in his life. Without them… well, he wouldn’t know. Maybe he would have made it to the currency exchange, but then what? All he can think of is going crawling back to his parents, head ducked, as he sobs out that they can have their daughter back so long as they don’t cut him off entirely.

It sounds miserable. It sounds necessary. But the longer he spends in America, the more he regains his confident poise and bravado he had with him back home, the sort of thing that always made him raise his nose as he walked down the street and sneer at anyone he viewed as below him. Now, he can’t ever imagine crawling back to his parents. Good heavens, it would simply ruin his outfit! Ah, and swallowing his pride sounds awful too, of course.

Of course, the more he felt his bravado return to him, the feeling emboldening and empowering, the more haughty he became, and the more Paintbrush’s warmth turned into grumbled barbs. When they stopped talking to him altogether, he wasn’t surprised but was disappointed.

Now Paintbrush is gone, and Silver Spoon pays for the fare with his own damn money, just so he can go to the nearby library and not have to be stuck in the one thing his parents still give him. He hates his apartment as much as he’s relieved to have it; most of the time, he can’t help but be reminded of his parents whenever he looks at something at the wrong angle.

But Paintbrush being gone doesn’t mean he’s lonely, though! See, watch this! “Greetings, Cabatha,” he says haughtily as he passes by the front desk.

The woman grits her teeth as she readjusts her wheelchair. “It’s Cabby,” she grumbles as she flips through a notebook. After a moment, her eyes light up, and her voice carries a lot more warmth to it as she continues “Do you need help finding anything, Silver?”

“Nothing that would require you straining yourself so heavily, my dear,” he purrs, flipping his ponytail over his shoulder. “Of course, if your expertise is required, I shall inform you posthaste.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s fondness visible in them. He isn’t quite sure why, to be honest. He hasn’t allowed himself to become vulnerable with anyone since Paintbrush, first because of a loyalty to them and wanting them to be the one who bore his secrets, and then because it stung far too much when someone who knew so much about him could just look at him and decide that keeping him around wasn’t worth it.

“Sounds like a plan,” she says with a sigh, turning her attention back to her desktop computer and clattering away at it.

He sits down at a table a fair amount away from the front desk and lets out an airy, dramatic sigh as he rests his chin on his knuckles. He didn’t come to this library for any given reason; the college campus has one that works just as well. But he likes having a friendly face who calls after him as he walks in, continuing to be friendly to him even as he constantly grinds her gears.

Cabby is someone he’s not close with. At all. But they know each other’s names. They recognize each other’s faces (he thinks? Sometimes it takes a second for things to click, slotting into place behind her dark blue eyes). They banter teasingly with one another. They have rapport, for god’s sake!

Nothing like what he had with Paintbrush, of course. Their relationship was… different. But at least it’s some sort of companionship.

He tries to read a business book (his major, of course) but the words feel like they’re sliding off the page. Or maybe it’s his eyes glazing over. After a moment, he lets out a huff and slams his book shut, digging out his phone and brainlessly scrolling through social media. He knows it’s bad for him, but he finds his parent’s page on Instagram and begins to scroll it, chewing on his cheek.

Pictures of them being happy… pictures of them being happy… Luckily he doesn’t need the whole speech about how fake social media is, because he could have already guessed that from looking at his parent’s page. He’s never seen them this happy in his life. Maybe that’s because he’s been around them whenever he throws a glance at their faces? Maybe his presence would influence things. After all, he is a disappointment.

About five pictures in, though, the caption he reads makes him stop cold. “It’s been a few months since we tragically lost our daughter-” He forces himself to skip over the name. He doesn’t need to hurt himself any further. “-to the dangerous trend sweeping across our nation.” He likes how they say that, as if they’re an American company instead of a British one.

From there, the caption goes on and on about supporting them and their company, never saying anything outright bigoted but leaving plenty of space for people to fill in the gaps. Despite himself, he begins to scroll through the comments, and grimaces. Fill in the gaps they did, if any holes filled in with vitriolic hate are able to remain in any way stable.

Slowly, he tabs out of Instagram and looks up their company’s value on the stock market at the moment, only to groan when he sees that it’s gone up. He obviously doesn’t have access to the internal profit margins of the company anymore, but he can guess that they’re in the green. Not for pushing out a new product or whatever the hell, but because they’re using people’s rage of his very existence as fuel to push themselves further.

He just- this is- seriously? His parents are profiting out of cutting him out of their lives? He can’t believe this! It’s outrageous! It’s maddening! It’s… really overwhelming.

With grit teeth, he slams his phone down onto the table, the sound making a loud thunk as it makes contact with the wood. He thinks he hears Cabby call something scolding, but it’s difficult to hear much of anything over the ringing in his ears.

He presses his forehead firmly against the cool wood of the table as he wraps his arms tightly around his body, taking shuddering breaths as he tries frantically to get his breathing under control. It doesn’t really work, though. Each breath he takes is either too slow or too fast, and any of his attempts to get it under control just leaves it spiraling even further.

Silver Spoon is a mess. That’s indisputable. If his parents could see him now, they would raise their noses at him and call him shameful, a disgrace to their name. If he was capable of it, he would just laugh and reply that he was already a disgrace to their name, so why not go even further with it?

But whenever he’s placed in front of their sharp eyes and cutting glares, he just shrinks back, overwhelmed by fear. He's split by the fact that he’ll always be a disappointment to them by just existing as the man he wants to be, and by the fact that he always feels the urge to try to please them anyway, even as he knows that it’s pointless.

Approval is nice. And when his existence is inherently dis appointing, he has to find other ways to make up for it. With his actions, perhaps?

Whatever he does won’t earn his parent’s approval, though. Not now. Now that they know that his existence spells out dollar signs for them, why would they even try to entertain him? They can just continue to ignore him and leave him a continent away to fend for himself and never think twice about him.

It isn’t until the voice speaks up that he realizes he’s having a panic attack.

“There you go. Just breathe, in and out, in and out…”

Whoever is speaking to him, her voice is so soothing he can’t help but listen to it. For a bit, he struggles to stabilize his breathing. Each breath in is strangled and uneven, and each breath out is a choked gasp accompanied by several other breaths as his body tries to get more air into his lungs.

But when he feels the warm feeling of the woman’s hand tightly clasping his shoulder and giving him a reassuring squeeze, the physical touch is enough to ground him. Maybe he’s just touch starved. The only person who would ever dare get so physical with him is Pa- isn’t around anymore. Feeling someone get so close with him just for the sake of calming him down…

It’s nice. He won’t complain, at any rate.

For several minutes, he focuses on the woman’s calm, melodic voice, listening to each order she gives him without thinking twice about it. All thoughts of his parents and their cruelty have flown from his mind; he’s much more focused on whoever this mystery woman is and her firm, easy words.

Until finally, his breathing is relaxed and even. As even as it can be, at any rate. Sure, there’s still a slight rasp to it and every so often his breathing stutters uncertainly. But he can breathe again, his thundering heart calming down in his chest. And he has someone to thank for that.

“Remember your manners,” scolds his mother’s voice in his mind. “Always say thank you so long as that person isn’t below you.” Since it’s just him here, alone, he’s free to interpret that order that’s been drilled into his mind as he may. And he simply must thank the woman who stopped to help him. It would be disgraceful if he didn’t, even more so than his behavior up to this point.

Silver Spoon looks up at her the moment he’s capable of it, a blush creeping across his face as he does so. What he sees takes his breath away, which is a shame considering how much he just worked to stabilize it.

Her skin is dark, and her hair is a rich purple, bits of hair spilling over her face like candle wax. The rest of her hair spills over her shoulders and disappears behind her back. She wears a leather outfit, various pouches wrapped around her waist, as well as thick gloves and a blouse with flowy sleeves the same color as her hair. Despite her strange outfit, she carries herself with the same grace and poise anyone in high society would bear.

She smiles at him, the motion easy and faintly smug. “I see you seem to be feeling better,” she says, voice airy and detached. “What a relief. Whenever you find yourself growing overwhelmed, just remember how to breathe like I taught you. In and out.”

It’s impossible to say anything else when he finds himself getting lost in her eyes. They’re brown, objectively, but that doesn’t feel like the proper rate to describe them. They’re deep and pool deep within themselves, like layers of chocolate constantly spilling over each other. Occasionally, her eyes shift, and something brighter appears within them, as intense as lava. He could look into her eyes forever.

Before he can get too carried away, though, she just giggles into her hand, looking amused as she tilts her head. His face warms up again, but from embarrassment as opposed to… well, never mind. She waves at him, the motion slow and confident, before she walks away, heeled boots clicking against the tile floor with each step.

He stares blankly at the woman as she leaves, each stride she makes poised and purposeful. He only scrambles to his feet when she turns a corner and disappears behind a bookshelf, still breathing heavily. He hadn’t even gotten her name, for god's sake, and yet she hadn’t hesitated to help him! The only other person who had bothered to do anything like that for him before was…

Paintbrush.

Oh.

…He can’t let her leave without thanking her. Maybe not without introducing himself first, either. Maybe the two can exchange contact information, and they can…

What? They can what? He’s so caught up with trying to see the woman again that he doesn’t bother to pause and think about what will happen next, about what he’ll get from this. Does he want to emulate his relationship with Paintbrush with someone else? Would that be fair?

It doesn’t matter what’s fair or not. He wants to be happy again, and if the woman is his opportunity to do that he’ll gladly seize it. He has to find her. He has to-

Silver Spoon runs into the front area of the library and looks around hurriedly. The only person present is Cabby, who raises an eyebrow at him. “What-”

“Did you see a woman with purple hair pass this way?!” he interjects.

“Um, yes? She just went outside a minute-”

Before she finishes, he dashes outside, head swiveling left and right. But he doesn’t see hide nor hair of the woman. He knows if he tries to run around, he’ll only end up lost and tired, so, downtrodden, he treks back to the library.

Cabby changed from sitting to leaning against her desk, one hand propping up her head as she looks at him in amusement. “Well?” she prompts.

He doesn’t respond right away, instead walking over to her as he leans across the desk. “Cabigail-” he begins.

“Still not my name, Silver.”

“I think…” He lets out a shaky breath, not quite willing to say the word resting on his tongue aloud but desiring someone to talk to about the things he does have the courage to admit. “I think I hate my parents."

The woman raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting him to have blurted that. In the end though, she just nods encouragingly. “Oh? What for?”

Silver Spoon does the thing he expected the least; he actually talks to someone whose name doesn’t begin with P and ends with an aintbrush. Had it been the woman with her soothing voice and warm words that had spurred him into this.

He doesn’t know. But he yearns to find her again and find out.

— — —

Microphone’s day was normal enough before a massive otherworldly fucking portal opened smack dab in the middle of the sidewalk she was walking down and a woman half her height shot out from it like she had been launched through it.

Of course, her first instinct was to let out a scream and scramble back, heart rate doubling in less than a second as she tried her hardest to catch her breath. Her second instinct was to do a double take, because the scene in front of her is so bizarre she wouldn’t be surprised if it was lifted directly from some sci-fi or fantasy book.

The woman currently sprawled out on the sidewalk, portal still swirling in the air behind her, doesn’t show any signs of moving. Her eyes are open, although half-lidded, and the way her shoulders rise and fall makes it seem like she’s breathing heavily, as if she had just been running. But from what?

Maybe from the sort of person who can open portals in the air and transport people from who knows where to end up in front of a hapless pedestrian or two. Just a hypothetical, though.

After maybe a minute of Microphone just standing there and gaping, rubbing at her eyes as if it’ll make the scene in front of her make any more sense, the portal sputters to a close, sparks flying and dissipating as they land on the cracked concrete. The woman doesn’t seem like she’ll disappear any time soon, though. And since she seems… relatively real (honestly, what kind of person wears clothes like that? She looks like she just left some ren faire), it would be kind of shitty if she just left her on the sidewalk like a piece of roadkill.

Warily, she steps forward, crouching in front of the woman. “Uh, hello?” she says nervously, poking her cheek with her pointer finger. “Are you okay?”

Slowly, the woman pulls herself up, hands pressed against the concrete to support her weight until she can sit up. The expression on her face is one of complete exhaustion, one she can’t cover up no matter how hard she tries. Quickly, she gets to her feet fully, although she does sway in place as if she’s about to fall over again. Microphone moves to steady her, but just as quickly the woman shrugs her off, shooting her a dirty look as if she had just committed some grave sin.

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” she huffs, dusting off her lap as she speaks. Microphone can’t help but blink a few times in surprise as she hears the woman’s British accent. “Just a little bit disoriented.” She raises her hand to her mouth to stifle a yawn, looking irritated by it. Irritated for being tired?

“Yeah, you got spat out of a fucking portal, so no surprise there,” Microphone deadpans, crossing her arms defensively.

“Can you tell me what town I’m currently in?” she continues, looking ruffled by the disruption. Ruffled is probably the best way to describe someone so prim and proper. Annoyance feels distinctly below her.

“Uh, Los Angeles?” Microphone says, voice raising at the end like it does when she asks a question. She knows that probably doesn’t inspire confidence, but she’s so baffled she finds it difficult to keep her voice level.

The woman cocks an eyebrow, one hand on her hip as she stares up at her. “Are you asking or telling me?” she flatly retorts.

“T-Telling!” she stammers. “I know what city I live in, believe me. I’m just really confused, and your blaise attitude isn’t making things any better!” She throws her hands in the air in exasperation.

“Los Angeles?” the woman echoes, brow furrowed in what seems to be confusion. She pronounces it in such a strange way. Which is strange, because Microphone was under the impression that it was one of those big American cities that most people were aware of, even if they were from across the pond, as it were. “Odd. I’ve never heard of it before. But very well. Is it possible you could point me in the direction of the Kingdom of Inanimatia? I have to return there.”

“Number one,” Microphone retorts, counting on her fingers as she speaks. “You look practically dead on your feet, dude. I couldn’t in good conscience let you off on your own when you’d definitely end up collapsing in a ditch somewhere. Number two…” She lets her bafflement seep into her words as she continues. “What do you mean, kingdom? This isn’t the medieval times, you know. And anyway, I’ve never heard of a country called Inanimatia before. Are you sure that portal didn’t scramble your brain?”

In response, the woman lets out a dismissive scoff, waving her hand in the air. “Oh, please. It doesn’t matter how far I transported myself away from the kingdom, it’s the biggest in the realm. You must have heard of it, even if you do seem to be an uneducated plebeian.”

“Excuse me?!” Microphone can’t help but roar, bristling in indignation. Of course she stopped to help this stranger and got nothing but insulted for it. “I’m literally in college, you ass! Besides, we don’t even know each other’s names. What right do you have to judge me?!”

She half expects her words to slide off the woman with absolutely no confidence whatsoever. But oddly enough, they do seem to make some sort of impact, as she tilts her head and lets out a sigh a moment later. “Very well. You make a good point. My name is Taco. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She bows, the motion overdramatic. It definitely fits her outfit, at any rate.

Actually, Microphone doesn’t think she’s properly examined the other woman yet. She rectifies that now, looking her up and down before offering Taco her name. The woman in question is short, just barely going past Mic’s waist. She has blonde hair that goes just past her ears, and a braid across the top of her head with bits of red and green interwoven into it. The left side of her face is severely scarred, to the point where that amber eye, just as piercing as the other, is permanently half-lidded. What in the world could be severe enough to injure someone like that?

Her outfit is just as bizarre as the rest of her, to say the least. She wears dark robes streaked with yellow, red, and green. The sleeves on her arms are long and flowy, but the rest of her outfit remains close to her body. She wears old-looking brown flats, and underneath her robes are the barest traces of some sort of blouse, ruffled with a lace-up corset across her midsection. Bits of gray, shiny metal are dotted across her body, dented and scuffed. They look like armor.

Of course, on her head, she wears a massive, stereotypical witch’s hat, the top pointed as it flops over the back of her head. It casts a shadow over her face, making the glint in her amber eyes seem even more sharp and animalistic than they already do. She doesn’t quite know how to feel about the way Taco stares at her; part of her is rather unnerved by it, but another part of her can’t help but feel a sort of thrill at meeting her gaze.

Even without the hat, her outfit is distinctly atypical. Combined with the hat, she looks as if she just left some sort of convention or finished up a LARP session. But Microphone’s mind goes back to her eyes; the look in them proves that she’s deadly serious, no matter how strange her appearance is.

Swallowing, she replies “My name is Microphone, although most people just call me Mic.”

“Charmed,” Taco curtly replies, not bothering to hide the once-over she gives her. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to be judging her attire, which has gotten her more than a few strange looks from passersby. Although, to be fair, if she was judged by this woman, she would be rather upset.

Just as Mic is about to say something else, a car passes by on the nearby street. She rolls her eyes at how loud the motor is; she hates people with loud motors, because the walls of her shitty off-campus apartment are thin enough that the sound lingers for far too long. And she’s found that most people who drive cars like that are just as obnoxious as their motors are.

It’s common enough that she doesn’t bother to comment on it. But Taco lets out a startled cry, flinching back as she stares at the passing car with a faintly horrified expression. “What on earth was that?” she sputters, her eyes wide.

“Huh?” Microphone says blanky.

“That- That horrible metal monster!” she cries, waving her hands in the air in exasperation. “The one that made a truly unbearable noise as it roared by!”

“You mean a car?” she dryly replies, unimpressed. “Or, well, you’re British, so maybe you’d call it an automobile? Either way, it’s definitely not worth freaking out over.”

“But-!” Taco sputters, before her face goes blank and she folds her hands behind her back, regaining her composure in the blink of an eye. “Right. Of course. An… automobile.” She pronounces that word weirdly too, saying the word mobile like one would say mobile phone. Mic can’t help but squint at her, not even bothering to hide her suspicion. This woman seems far too composed to be on drugs, but to be honest, she won’t rule anything out.

“Alright, I’m probably gonna regret this, but…” she mutters, running a hand over her face. “Do you want to come back with me to my apartment until you get your bearings? You obviously seem confused.” She doesn’t know why she’s even suggesting this; she knows she’ll inevitably regret it later. But Taco obviously needs help, and she would be a bad person if she decided to turn her back on her, strange circumstances or not.

“Yes, I believe that is certainly for the best,” Taco curtly replies, absentmindedly tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she glances almost warily toward Microphone. “Do you have one of these cars, too? From what I can surmise, they seem best for faster, more efficient transportation.” Microphone decides not to comment on the fact that she had just obviously, inadvertently admitted to not knowing what a car does, although her guess was right.

“Nah,” she replies, grinning as she begins to walk down the sidewalk, picking up the bag of groceries that had fallen from her hands in all the panic. “Too broke for that. But my complex is just a block away. You can survive walking that far, right?”

In response, Taco huffs, looking rather affronted by the question. “Can I survive- Of course I can manage this, Microphone,” she says, tone scathing. She likes the way the other woman says her name. “I’ve trudged across great distances many times. Considering your own appearance, I doubt a block is a significant distance. I’ll be more than fine.”

“And now we’re back to the insults,” she says with a lofty sigh. Well, it was nice while it lasted.

The two walk down a few blocks in stony silence. When they stop in front of the gate of Microphone’s apartment complex, Taco cranes her neck up to stare at the towering stone buildings, eyes narrowed. “This is where you live?” she asks.

“Well, in one of the apartments inside one of the towers, but yes,” she replies, deciding to add more detail to her words than she usually would. It’s obvious that the other woman is clueless about all sorts of things that are just common sense to her, which is definitely eyebrow-raising at the very least. But she’ll badger Taco about it when she has the chance to sit down and properly rest; at the moment, she looks dead on her feet.

Taco lets out a hum at that, continuing to follow behind Microphone with uneasy, wobbling steps, not that she’s rude enough to comment on it. The two turn to the left as they enter, and after passing a building, Microphone leads Taco up the stairs of the next one, unlocking her lock and throwing open her door.

“Here’s the place,” she says, grinning as she sprawls her hands in the air. “Make yourself at home, yeah?”

“Yes,” Taco agrees, looking blankly around the apartment as she staggers to what Microphone considers the living room. Since it’s a one room apartment with only one college student living in it, it’s not exactly the lap of luxury. There’s three rooms with doors dividing them; the main room, housing the kitchen and living room, both of which are cramped, her small bedroom that her twin sized mattress takes up half the space in, and a bathroom that lets her touch the east and west wall with both hands no matter where she stands,

In other words, it’s way too small for her. But the rent is manageable for her to handle, considering she has no one she’d want to have as her roommate. During the first semester, she and Soap had shared a dorm at their college’s campus, but after she had transferred out…

Well, she told everyone that she couldn’t pay for it without a roommate, and she didn’t want to have to live with someone she wouldn’t know and would likely be an asshole anyway. But the truth was, without Soap, the dorm had felt overwhelming to Microphone, especially when she found some of the things the other woman had inadvertently left behind.

In the end, moving out had been easier.

As Taco sprawls on her couch, Microphone leans against the back of it, brows raised. “Alright,” she says flatly. “Spill. What the hell is your deal, huh?”

“I’m not quite sure what you mean,” the woman replies, voice muffled from where she has her head buried in a cushion.

“Don’t play dumb,” she says flatly, grabbing Taco by the collar of her shirt and yanking her up so they can meet one another’s eyes. She goes limp in Microphone’s arms, like a cat. “You came spilling out of a fucking portal, and act like you have no idea about any of the things you run into. Toddlers would know more than you.”

Taco sniffs, trying to look disdainful. Considering she’s still limp in Microphone’s arms, it’s a pointless endeavor. “I’m simply disoriented,” she says, matter-of-fact. “And the portal? You must be going insane. Those obviously aren’t real.” She would be the picture of confidence if it weren’t for the way her amber eyes darted to look at Mic, as if trying to gauge her reaction to the words.

“Obviously,” Microphone flatly retorts, hissing out the single word between her grit teeth. “But I know what I saw. Explain it or I’ll throw you out onto the streets.”

“Alright, alright!” she cries in exasperation, raising her hands defensively. “I’d much prefer to have somewhere to sleep, especially when I’m in the lap of luxury.”

“...Are you serious?”

“Only if that’s a normal thing to say,” Taco chirps, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “Although you cannot blame me for thinking that. After all, look at everything!” She gets up and begins to rifle through Microphone’s cabinets and fridge, face twisting every time she sees various food. “How can you even have this much food? Aren’t you worried it’ll go bad?”

“Yeah, that’s not really much of a problem?” Microphone replies, shoving the woman aside as she puts away her two bags of groceries. “I’ll answer any question you have as long as you answer mine. What the hell is your deal?”

“Hm,” she says, leaning against her counter as she narrows her eyes. “I doubt you’ll believe me.”

“I think we’re a little bit past that excuse.”

Taco lets out a pained sigh, running a hand over her face. “Not that this is anything more than a theory,” she says crisply. “But judging by my surroundings, the fact that we’re both doing things the other finds odd, the fact that I’m far more exhausted than I should be from a normal transportation spell…” She trails off into mumbles as her brow is furrowed.

“Stop mumbling and get to the point,” Microphone hisses in irritation.

“I believe I may have made a mistake with the spell I casted,” Taco relents, the expression on her face quite pained. Mic gets the sense that she doesn’t say the “m” word often. “That is to say, the portal you saw.”

“The one you fell out of,” she dryly adds, tapping her fingers against the coffee table as she leans forward, other hand cupping her head. “I get it.”

“Yes,” she grits out in response, cheeks briefly dusting pink with anger. To be honest, frustration is a cute look on a woman as small as her. “To make a long story short, I was fleeing from some… rather unsavory folk who viewed it as their duty to capture me. I intended to cast a transportation spell to get away, but in my panic, I must have gotten a few words mixed up.”

“What happened, then?” Microphone prompts. If she hadn’t seen the portal for herself, she wouldn’t be entertaining this, but she had. Either neither of them is crazy, or they both are. Either way, she has hardly anything to lose when it comes to entertaining this. “I mean, you were obviously transported.”

Taco rolls her amber eyes. “Yes, that’s obvious enough,” she flatly agrees, before she slowly looks around Microphone’s apartment with an unreadable expression. “I believe the spell I ended up casting was an extra dimensional transportation spell, though, as opposed to me simply being transported to another place in the world. Which is how I ended up here, in this strange place with technology leagues ahead of things I could have ever conceived.”

For a moment, she can’t do anything more than stare at the other woman blankly. “...You’re from another dimension,” she says hoarsely.

“Indeed. It’s the most likely explanation, at any rate,” she dismissively replies. “If the spell I cast was the one I had been intending, I wouldn’t be experiencing such heavy magical exhaustion. I am a powerful mage, but it takes incredible power to breach the space between dimensions. I have no idea how I could have made such an amateur mistake-” Her face scrunches up in distaste as she speaks. “-but until I regain my strength, I suppose I'll be stuck here for a while.”

She doesn’t exactly look thrilled by the idea. Microphone finds herself sympathizing with her. It must feel awful to feel like such a fish out of water, stuck in a completely foreign world. “How long will it take?”

“Normally, I’d say it would be about a week,” the woman huffs, brow furrowed. “But the energy of your dimension feels… strange. The air is certainly less magically charged. Does magic not exist here at all?”

“Only in fairy tales and TV shows of middling quality.”

“Hm. That does explain your reactions to things, but to think all of this could be achieved without the power magic affords…” She looks thoughtful for a second, before recentering herself. “Right. Due to the differing levels of magical energy in the air, it’ll likely take my body more time than usual. First to acclimate to the lower magic levels, and second to use what it can to recover its strength. At the moment, I doubt I can conjure more than a mere spark.”

Well, it isn’t an exact estimate, but Microphone likes to think she can fill in the blanks well enough. “Okay,” she says matter-of-factly, getting to her feet. “First, you should sleep. You can take my couch or my bed, whichever you prefer.”

“And then?” Taco prompts, raising an eyebrow.

“And then…” She just shrugs, smiling wryly. “I’ll help you get used to this place. You may be stuck here, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy it while you can. Otherwise, that spell would have just been a complete waste, right?”

Taco takes a moment to think about this, before nodding. “Very well,” she says sagely. “I accept your terms, Microphone.” She gets to her feet and bows. “I hope we can put our trust in one another.”

“Jeez, that’s so formal,” she says, grimacing. “But alright. It’s a deal. For the time being, though…” She trains a severe glare onto Taco. “Really, you should sleep. If you collapse on your feet, I am not looking forward to dragging you around.”

Taco rolls her eyes, but there’s still a ghost of a smile on her face.

Chapter Text

Against all of the odds, Lightbulb was right. Her promise of seeing Paintbrush again did come to fruition. Well, that’s what they tell Test Tube later, anyway.

Of course, she doesn’t have any clue about a promise, nor the odd people her partner met, not at this moment. Right now, she’s setting a path for the library, determined to study for her thesis. It’s a Thursday, and she has the time for it, her classes for today having been completed early on. Yes, she knows she’s a college freshman, but she’s also aiming for both a bachelors and masters degree by the time she graduates, and it never hurts to be prepared.

She’s confident in herself, her future, and her abilities. Maybe some would think of it to be to a dangerous degree, but she disagrees, personally. She’s brilliant, and she knows that. It’s not a boast, rather a fact.

Test Tube knows exactly what she’s going to do with herself when she graduates from college, discarding her cap and gown for a lab coat. She’s going to become an inventor and change the world. She knows Paintbrush is daunted a little bit, both for her firm, eerie confidence and her well-outlined plans for the future. They worry that they have no place with her after college, not when they spend most of their time nowadays second guessing their major.

Well, to be fair to them, she hadn’t been expecting to get together with anyone in college. Dating just never felt in the cards for her. Back in high school, she had always been known as a socially awkward nerd, more interested in rambling about her inventions than she is in friendship. It’s not exactly an incorrect label, but it made it difficult for her to talk to people when they already thought they knew all about her. Going to college out of state seemed like a good solution for that, the perfect addition to her well-outlined plan. It wasn’t as if she was leaving friends behind either way.

Unfortunately, there was one person who decided to attend the same college she was, and it wasn’t even someone she could tolerate. Instead, Test Tube was stuck on the same campus as Microphone, the music major. During the first semester, she was paranoid, worrying the woman would come out of nowhere and derail yet another of her experiments, barely even bothering to apologize to her before she left. Of all the people she had attended high school with, of course it had to be her mortal enemy who had ended up in the same college as her.

Luckily for her, though, Microphone seems to have caught onto her distaste long ago and deigned it pertinent to avoid Test Tube, which was great. She didn’t want to see even a flash of the other woman's dark skin and black hair even in the same building as the college’s lab.

“Wow, you really hold a grudge,” Paintbrush had said with a hum when she had explained just what it was she had against Microphone. They had been playing with one of her green-tipped dreadlocks as she outlined everything, a bit of casual intimacy that she couldn’t help but delight in.

“Of course I do,” she had responded with a scoff. “It doesn’t matter if it was something big or small. When it derailed me so much and had me having to redo days of work, I’m definitely going to be angry.”

“Fair. It’s not like I’m any better.”

Test Tube had reveled in the reminder that the two had more in common than they did at first glance. She was the high strung double major, engineering and chemistry, while Paintbrush was an art major. It would be a lie if she said they were go with the flow, considering the temper they had on them that seemed to flare up more and more lately. Their professors aren’t kind to them, and there’s only so much Test Tube can do to help. She just doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do when they get into one of their moods, snapping at everything and everyone as they contemplate whether the choices they’ve made are the right ones or not.

So she stays at their side and hopes it’s enough.

Like she said, she has no experience with relationships or romance or anything like that. Paintbrush… definitely does. They shit talk the last partner they have without remorse, seeming genuinely frustrated whenever they think about him. “He was just some stuck up rich kid,” they muttered time and time again. “No one worth thinking about.” And yet they disregarded their own advice.

It wasn’t like she was insecure or anything. From the way they view their ex, the last thing they would do is try to get back with him. It was just an embittering reminder about the lack of life experience she had. She spent so much of her time having her head buried in a book that she didn’t know what to do when faced with a problem she hadn’t read about. It made her wonder how successful her current project would end up being, but for now she would keep moving ahead for the time being. There wasn’t any use in hesitating, in dragging her feet. The future would wait for no one, so why bother with uncertainty?

Which is why she’s here in the library, flipping through books with intense focus as her eyes quickly scan lines of words. She’s able to sort the books into whether they’d be helpful to her goals or not just based on the excerpts she reads. She doesn’t usually stick around the library for long. She prefers to stay in her house, Diamond Crusher curled up on her lap as she uses him as a makeshift table to keep books propped up on. With Paintbrush around, and with the two getting along so well, it definitely reduced her needing to go outside and interact with people in a social manner.

As she studies the title of a book on its spine and reaches to grab it from the shelf, she hears a scandalized gasp. It sounds loud enough that it’s probably nearby, but quiet enough that it definitely wasn’t coming from the same row of shelves she was lingering in.

“I cannot believe this!” sputters a masculine voice in obvious dismay. “I-I mean- This is just- Of all the developments-!” Test Tube can’t help but turn, squinting through one of the gaps in the shelf left by a checked out book to glance at a nearby table where the noise originates. She spots a flash of red and yellow hair as the man presses his face against the table in obvious dismay.

Next to him, a blonde woman with tanned skin, a few shades darker than the man’s but not as dark as Test Tube’s rich brown skin, is flipping through a history book so rapidly she suspects she isn’t actually reading it at all. At his words, though, she glances up, looking amused. “How’s your book?”

“One of the main characters just got arrested for witchcraft and a background character ended up being the big bad,” the man groans in response, his voice muffled by the table and book as his head remains tightly pressed against them. “How do you think it is?”

“Aw, but you love crazy twists like that,” she responds, blinking. “You said it was a book about witches and magic, right? Any similarities to our world?”

“No,” the man mumbles, raising his head and adjusting the glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “It’s a lot of incantations, and every single spell requires ingredients. How about your book?”

The woman wrinkles her nose. “The history here is grizzly,” she mumbles. “But no magic mentioned anywhere. I don’t think it exists here.”

“Inconvenient,” he replies with a hum. “But we’ll work around it! We always do!”

With a start, Test Tube she was eavesdropping on the two. Flushing in embarrassment, she’s quick to get the books she intends to check out, reshelving the ones she had examined, before striding over to the librarian. He’s not as kind as the librarian who works at the library she occasionally goes to off campus, but she doesn’t need kindness. She just wants to head home and try to make small talk with Paintbrush.

“Wow, that’s a lot of books!” chirps a familiar female voice. She jumps and turns around, meeting the twinkling brown eyes of the woman she had just been eavesdropping on.

“I- ah- thanks?” she stutters. “I need them for my thesis.”

“Dunno what that is, but that’s cool!” she replies. “You’re the scholar type, aren’tcha?”

Test Tube begins to place the books into her over-the-shoulder bag as she slowly nods. “Yes, I am,” she admits, before catching the gaze of the red haired man, standing behind the woman as he pouts. On a whim, she asks “Did you enjoy your book?” before pausing, realizing that may come off as strange.

He lets out a long, drawn out sigh. “I didn’t get the chance to finish it before Lightbulb dragged me off, but I enjoyed what I read,” he says. He starts out as measured, but his energy is quick to shift as he continues. “It doesn’t help that I left off on that major twist, though! I mean, come on, finding out that a minor character was the big bad the entire time and could also use magic?! Ah, it’s just a masterclass of storytelling, really. And I only got halfway through the book! Maybe I can come back and see where it goes from here…?” He gives the woman a wide, pleading glance, one she seems immune to as she just shrugs, rubbing at her ear.

“Magic?” she parrots. “So that’s what you guys were talking about earlier, then. Your book.” She hadn’t understood what they had been talking about, but hearing that detail helps to conceptualize it for her.

The two freeze and shoot each other wide eyed looks, like they had been caught in something. “...Yyyyyyyyes.” the woman says after a long silence, drawing out the first letter like her life depends on it. After a moment, she clears her throat, sticking her hand forward. “I’m Lightbulb, and that’s Fan. Nice to meetcha!” she chirps.

Slowly, she reaches forward to shake it, taking care to make her grip strength just right. “Test Tube,” she returns, smiling hesitantly. “You too.” She doesn’t usually get as far as the whole exchanging pleasantries part. This is nice, even if it is untread ground. “I was going to have lunch with my partner on campus, but you two can tag along if you want.”

“Food?” Fan cries, eyes wide and excited. He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days, although this university is cushy enough to offer students free lunch in their cafeteria but not cushy enough to have said food actually be good. Test Tube isn’t fond of the on campus Panera Bread, mainly because it’s where her mortal enemy Microphone works, but at least it’s edible.

“Yeah. Sandwiches and soup and salad and stuff. It is Panera,” she replies with a hum and a shrug.

“We’ll come!” Lightbulb decides for the both of them. Test Tube nods, a bemused smile on her face. Things moved awfully quickly, but maybe that’s just how friendships are when you’re an adult?

The three walk off, the two naturally falling in line behind Test Tube with a sort of ease that gives her the sense that they’re used to this. Their destination isn’t far at all, and after a few brief minutes they reach it. Test Tube spots Paintbrush scrolling through their phone and stops in front of them, smiling sheepishly.

“I brought a few friends with me,” she begins, and that’s enough for Paintbrush to look up at her, looking bemused. “I hope you don’t-”

“Oh, hey, no way!” Lightbulb cries with a gasp. Paintbrush looks past her, and their expression shifts to one of surprise. “Heya, Painty! This is a coinkydink, isn’t it?”

Test Tube raises an eyebrow. “You know these two?” she asks.

“Met them busking in the courtyard yesterday,” they say shortly. “I guess you were right about us seeing each other again, huh?”

In response, Lightbulb grins, brilliantly bright. She really has a smile that can light up a room, doesn’t she? “Of course! I never break a promise!” she declares.

Paintbrush’s phone begins to go off, vibrating in their pocket, and they let out a sigh as they fish it out. “Oh, great, Knife’s calling me,” they groan, looking unimpressed.

“Someone from high school?” Test Tube guesses, feeling the same pang of loneliness she usually does when she remembers that Paintbrush knows plenty of people from their high school, even if the only one they bother to keep up with is Marshmallow. She can’t say the same. The only person here she knows from high school is Microphone, who is her mortal enemy, so that’s null and void.

“The person who used to bully Marsh back in the day,” they confirm, rolling their eyes. “I don’t even want to think about why he’s calling.” They glare at their phone as the call goes to voicemail, only to scoff when a second call begins. “Jesus, fine!” They pick up and press the phone to their ear, looking frustrated.

Lightbulb and Fan look pretty clueless. Well, more than they usually do, at any rate. Test Tube just tilts her head, feeling bemused. “Put it on speaker,” she suggests. She knows the other two are curious about what’s going on. Well, they will be if they manage to wrap their heads around what’s going on. And Test Tube, well, she’s just nosy.

Although Paintbrush doesn’t verbally respond to her, they oblige, lowering their phone and pressing a button. “What do you want?” they say, holding their phone in front of them as they bounce their leg in impatience.

“You know I wouldn’t call you if it was something important,” responds a deep, gruff voice. “It’s just- You know Suitcase, don’t you?”

“Short, pigtails, ribbons?” they rattle off. “Sure, a little bit. We’ve met, I mean. But we don’t know each other all that well. Why?”

“Ugh, of course,” the man groans. Knife, if what Paintbrush said is any indication. His contact is listed as “fucking jerk”, all lowercase, so she only has their words to go off of. “Well, you remember Baseball, right? And Balloon and Nickel?”

In response, they let out a hum. “Yeah. What, does this have something to do with their nightmare friend group? Did it finally collapse in a fiery blaze? Lasted longer than I thought it would.”

“No, but it does have something to do with that,” Knife retorts. “Balloon and Nickel were at a cafe earlier today, waiting for Suitcase. By the time she got there, though, the entire thing was collapsed, debris and glass and shit everywhere, and the two were nowhere to be seen.”

“What?” Paintbrush yells, lurching forward as their eyes widen practically to the size of dinner plates. “That’s- Holy shit, that’s insane. They’re just missing?”

“Yup. Search and rescue teams couldn’t find ‘em underneath the rubble or anything, which means that they’re out there somewhere. Or they were taken by whoever attacked the cafe, if it was a human responsible for it. I… really doubt that, though. You’re not here, so you won’t get what I mean, but…” He trails off, breathing heavily for a moment, before forcing himself to continue. “Either way, they’re nowhere to be seen, and the cops can’t find a trace of ‘em.”

“Jeez,” Paintbrush grouses, running a hand through their hair in exasperation. Test Tube has always liked it. It’s the color of straw, and as smooth as silk. “That’s crazy. So, what, did you call me just to let me know? That’s good to know, but I, ah, don’t really know what to do with any of that, y’know?”

“Let me finish,” Knife snaps. “Suitcase is really freaked out by all of it. Balloon’s not responding to her at all. She thinks he’s dead. So…” Test Tube hears shifting coming from the speaker before he continues. “She called. I came. You know how it is.”

“Uh huh. Where was this soft Knife in high school when you relentlessly bullied Marsh?”

“I’m not soft,” he grumbles in response, completely ignoring Paintbrush’s point. “Listen, to make a long story short, I promised I’d do all I can to look for the two of them. Which means calling up my friends to organize search parties.”

“We’re friends?” they reply, sounding baffled.

“Fine. Acquaintances.”

“That works, I guess.” Paintbrush leans forward, a steely glare on their face. “Don’t you dare call Marshmallow trying to get her to do this for you. You have no right. You know that, right?”

Knife scoffs. “Do you think I want to get yelled at? Just hurry up, if you can.”

“I never said I would come,” they point out, voice flat.

“Are you?”

Slowly, they raise their head, looking over toward Test Tube. A silent question dances in their brown eyes. She thinks on it for a second, before shrugging. Truly, she has no hypothesis in this paper. She doubts she’s even met Knife, although the description of Suitcase sounds vaguely familiar. Ultimately, it’s all up to Paintbrush as to how they spend their time. She’s just happy getting to be with them.

“Not for you,” they reply after a moment, lowering their head. “For Nickel and Baseball. We aren’t even friends, but we’ve worked together on group projects once or twice. Besides, at least they didn’t bully my best friend in high school.” Knife begins to irritatedly grumble something under his breath, and they raise their voice to speak over him. “Message me the address and I’ll be there in a bit. Is that all?”

“Yeah. See you in a bit, Paintbrush.” There’s an odd gap in the conversation, and she realizes that it’s the perfect place a “thank you” would neatly slot into. But Knife doesn’t offer it, and after a moment they roll their eyes and end the call without saying anything else.

“Jeez,” they grumble, stuffing their phone into the pocket of their beige paint-stained apron, looking frustrated. “I guess this is what we’re doing, huh? So, you coming with, Test Tube?”

“Only to prevent you from killing that, uh, Knife guy,” she awkwardly quips in response, grinning in relief when rewarded with Paintbrush’s snort. “Besides, it does sound like a pretty interesting situation. I have the free time to check it out.” Cautiously, she walks around the table, wrapping her hand around theirs. She feels relieved when they don’t pull away, although they have no reason to. Maybe she’s just paranoid.

“Hey, hey!” Lightbulb chirps, leaning forward as she waves a hand in the air. “Do you think we can tag along?”

“Uh… sure?” they slowly reply, a pinched expression on their face. They’re probably just imagining being seen in public with the two people who look as if they had just stepped out of medieval Europe and act like they’ve never seen half the things that are commonplace in today’s world. “Do you actually want to?”

Fan shrugs. “I mean, it does sound interesting, right?” he prompts. “Two people just… disappearing into thin air like that, and in such mysterious circumstances, too! If this was a story, it would be the perfect hook.” He says this so matter-of-factly, one hand on his hip as he talks about stories and narrative structure. Paintbrush looks tired, but Test Tube can’t help but laugh. The man has his head in the clouds more often than not, and she finds it endearing. If she hadn’t, she never would have struck up a conversation to begin with.

“Besides, we do have certain… skills,” Lightbulb adds, raising her brows up and down as she leans against the table. “We’re good at tracking people down. And our whole thing is that we help people who need it! You don’t even have to hire us, I’ll give you the friend discount. What do you say?”

Test Tube can tell Paintbrush is thinking about something, but they don’t say it, glancing over toward her before they visibly decide to not point it out. Is it something from their previous interaction with the two? “Four pairs of eyes are better than two,” they reply after a moment, although they don’t look the most convinced. Maybe they don’t think the two will take things the most seriously? “If you want to come, that’s your decision. But I’m not going to pay you.”

In response, the two both cheer, Lightbulb bouncing in place while Fan pumps a fist. Paintbrush’s expression morphs to one of exasperation, as if regretting their decision immediately. Test Tube is well aware of their partner’s short fuse. She knows if she spends enough time with the two, she’ll likely become frustrated with the way they act, but for now she’s just amused both by their behavior and the way they get under Paintbrush’s skin.

Paintbrush drives them to the nearby cafe and immediately runs off to chat with a man with jagged silver hair that could only be Knife. He glances over to the three of them with a flat, bemused expression before immediately launching into a conversation with Paintbrush, one that Test Tube wants to be there for. She turns to Lightbulb and Fan. “Don’t cause any trouble, okay?” she says pleadingly, not waiting for a response as she quickly walks forward to catch up with Paintbrush.

She reaches for their hand on instinct as she stops at their side, and they offer her a soft smile before turning to face an unimpressed Knife. “Right,” he deadpans. “What’s the deal with the gaggle of crazies you brought with you, PB?”

“That’s my girlfriend and the strays she picked up, thanks for asking,” they reply, tone just as dry as Knife’s is. “Dunno how helpful the two of them will be, but dealing with them is your penance for trying to get free labor from me.” Knife groans as the two begin to argue, although she knows Paintbrush well enough to recognize the conversation as banter.

As Test Tube glances around, letting the words wash over her, she catches the sharp brown eyes of someone familiar. She knew the description of Suitcase rang a bell; she shares a class with the other girl. Awkwardly, she raises a hand and sheepishly waves at her. The other woman looks at her, blinking slowly with glazed over eyes, before her gaze shifts back to the ground. She looks absolutely miserable. Knife was worried about her for good reason, if nothing else.

Slowly she disentangles herself from Paintbrush, although they hardly seem to notice save for a quick glance thrown her way, and comes to a stop next to Suitcase, hands clasped in front of her as she nervously glances at the shorter girl who doesn’t react to her presence at all. If she wants to talk to her, she’ll have to be the one to start the conversation, which is… nerve wracking. She pulls at the collar of her white lab coat for a minute or two before finally breaking, clearing her throat.

“I-I would ask if you’re doing alright, but that feels like a redundant question,” she begins, feeling uncertain as she stumbles over her words. “I know the two of us haven’t talked, erm, at all, but I’m always willing to be a shoulder to cry on if you need it. This is a stressful situation, and keeping your cool like you are is impressive on its own.”

After what feels like an eternity, Suitcase raises her head, looking haggard. “I’m more scared than I’ve ever been,” she whispers, her voice hardly above a whisper. “Why does this have to happen to me? I care about Balloon so much, so why are the police saying he’s missing, nowhere to be found? Why can’t he just be right here with me? Why can’t I just be right there with him, wherever he is? Why can’t I just know that wherever he is, he’s safe?”

Test Tube feels a bit of her heart shatter and break hearing how despondent the other woman sounds. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammers, feeling pained. Why did she decide to approach Suitcase in the first place? What on earth did she think she could do for the other woman? “If it’s any consolation, I’m certain he’s out there somewhere. He, ah, seems like a strong guy…?” She can’t stop her voice from rising at the end into a question. After all, she’s never met him. It’s frowned upon for a scientist to tell lies, but in times like this she thinks it’s for the greater good.

“I dunno,” Suitcase hollowly replies. Test Tube expects her to say more, but she stays silent, dark brown pigtails falling over her shoulders and obscuring her face. All she can do is swallow uncomfortably. She doesn’t think she made things better for the other woman at all. Oh, why on earth did she try to comfort her? It’s obvious she’s nowhere near socially aware enough for that. If she had allowed her theory to become a hypothesis, it would have fallen flat on its face in an instant.

She hurriedly walks back to Paintbrush’s side and glues herself to them, shame weighing her down. They glance over to her, looking worried, but she’s quick to shake her head. She was fine, just… embarrassed. “Do you have any clue where Lightbulb and Fan are?” they say instead. She prefers it to being worried after, although the question is a different sort of concerning.

“Last I saw them, they had been ducking under the police tape and poking around the cafe ruins.” she responds with a shrug, crossing her arms.

“And you didn’t stop them????” they sputter.

“I would’ve, but I was…” Against her will, her eyes dart to where Suitcase is standing, now with Knife at her side. He doesn’t look like he’s having much luck with her, either, but if nothing else she’s pressed tightly into his side. She hopes she gets some kind of reassurance from his touch, because God knows there’s nothing Test Tube can do to make her feel better.

“Ugh, where did those two go?” Paintbrush grumbles, running a hand over their face. “If I’m not babysitting them, who knows what trouble they’ll end up getting into.”

“They’re not children, Paintbrush,” she responds with a laugh. “If you’re so worried about them, you shouldn’t have brought them to a crime scene to begin with.”

“Quit being so logical.”

“Sorry, I can’t. That’s my whole thing.”

The two stare at each other for a moment before laughing, Test Tube reaches for their hand, feeling too sheepish to do anything else. Paintbrush, always the bolder between the two, presses their cheek against hers. She half expects them to kiss her. When they pull away, she can’t tell if she’s disappointed or relieved.

Paintbrush’s head begins to swivel around, eyes narrowed. “Do you hear… an instrument?” they say slowly, brow furrowed as a quizzical expression settles onto their face.

Straining her ears, she nods after a moment. “I do,” she confirms. “It sounds… stringed?”

For some reason, that’s enough for a firm expression to settle onto their face as they grab her wrist and begin to walk toward the noise. “Fan,” they grumble to themself, obviously frustrated.

The further they walk, the louder the noise grows, and Paintbrush moves to turn a corner before stopping cold. Test Tube tilts her head as she shifts to be at their side, only to pause as well. Right there behind the wall sit Lightbulb and Fan, but that’s not the surprising part. Fan is strumming on his lute, a peaceful expression on his face. Lightbulb is staring at the source of their surprise, a small pout on her face as she turns to look at it from different angles.

“It’s so weird,” she says in frustration. “That’s definitely a construct! Right, Fan?”

“Correctamundo!” the man chirps in reply. Despite his cheery response, he doesn’t lose the expression of intent focus on his face as he continues to strum. “The ruins reeked of construct magic, after all. Some mage must have made them and set them out. But they don’t have Taco’s magical signature attached to them.”

Lightbulb’s mouth opens into a perfect o, and she looks faintly baffled. “What?!” she cries, hands pressed against her cheeks. “But she’s the only mage here capable of casting them, isn’t she? Apple can’t make constructs, she’s a necromancer! And we definitely can’t. So who could’ve…?” She trails off, looking frustrated.

“No clue!” Fan says brightly, seeming unphased by Lightbulb’s bemusement. “But if it’s any consolation, the magic signature I’m picking up is one I’ve sensed before. It’s one I’ve found intertwined with Taco at points, so the mage who cast it must know her.”

“Oh, good shout!” Lightbulb replies, bouncing on her heels as she leans forward to closely examine the hologram twirling through the air in time with Fan’s strumming. On the hologram is a hulking beast of the man, and Test Tube watches as he destroys the wall of the cafe in a shower of debris. A woman is cowering on the floor as another man steps through the hole in the wall. Something about his appearance is… unnatural, although she couldn’t say why. The woman gets to her feet and begins to back up, eyes wide, before she’s suddenly yanked by the wrist and dragged away. The hologram shifts scenes, changing to an alleyway, but Lightbulb isn’t looking at it with as much attention anymore. “And that woman is the source of the other magical signature you found on the scene?” she prompts.

“Yup!” Fan agrees. “I don’t think she’s a mage or practices magic at all, but there’s an oddly potent magical signature coming from her. It feels uncontrolled, but as long as it’s not manifesting in ways that hurt people it’s fine.”

“Potent enough to be able to track her?” Lightbulb prompts, tilting her head. Her head of sunny blonde curls move in tandem with her as she stares at Fan, brown eyes sharp in a way Test Tube hadn’t thought her capable of.

“Sure,” Fan says readily. “It’s a lot stronger than Apple’s or even Taco’s at the moment, since this world has no magic in it, which means the reserves of magic users fill up slowly, which is actually its own kind of-” He shakes his head, purposefully cutting himself off. “Focus, Fan! Anyway, since she doesn’t seem like a magic user, her magical signature is something a good tracking spell could easily latch onto.”

“We’d find those two missing guys,” she muses with a hum, rubbing at her chin. “I mean, it’s no coincidence a bakery gets attacked by a construct targeting someone with untapped magical reserves, and the person in question gets dragged off by someone without a magical signature. They were probably with her when it happened, and had no choice but to run for it when things got bad. They probably don’t even have a clue what they’ve gotten themselves into, not that I have much of an idea either…” She trails off, grimacing as she rubs at her neck. “I mean, what are two constructs doing here, chasing someone randomly? How did they get here? How did she get here?”

“Lots of mysteries,” he replies, still strumming on his lute. It doesn’t seem like he needs to anymore, judging by the way he glances down at it as if trying to find a good place to stop, but he seems to find such an enjoyment in playing music that he continues anyway. “If we tracked her, I bet we’d get an answer to most of ‘em!”

“Definitely,” Lightbulb agrees, offering him a wink and finger guns. “Not arguing with you there. But like you said, this world has no magic. Even a small tracking spell that just nudges us in the right direction would take a lot out of you, and your spells are usually more involved. I think if those constructs continue to cause trouble, we can fight. Preferably with Apple and Bow in our party, but y’know.” She shrugs before continuing. “For now, though, I think treason and attempted murder is a bigger deal than property damage.”

“Alright! You’re the boss!”

After so long of watching the scene, Test Tube can’t help but let out a choked noise, staring at the conjured hologram with an agape mouth and wide eyes. It’s incredibly advanced, unreasonably so; she keeps track of all the latest innovations to see what can be utilized in her own work, and if anything like this existed or was feasible in any way she would have heard about it, surely.

And yet, here are Lightbulb and Fan, two people who for all respects and purposes have no interest in technology, wielding this incredibly advanced work without any fuss. It shouldn’t be possible!

As the noise leaves her throat, the two both whirl around. Fan’s eyes are wide and nervous as his hands stop plucking at his lute, causing the hologram to dissipate into whorls of light for whatever reason. Lightbulb just looks sheepish, a nervous smile settling onto her face. Neither of them have any explanation to offer. They just both look guilty, two kids found with their hands in the cookie jar.

In the silence that follows, Paintbrush is the one to say something, their voice firm if not somewhat nervous.

“I think you both owe us an explanation.”

— — —

Balloon runs until he can’t anymore, and then for a little bit more after that.

It’s not as if he has any choice in the matter. Whenever he even thinks about slowing down, Nickel trains his stormy gray eyes onto him and finds a way to yell out “This was your idea, asshole, don’t you dare back out now!” regardless of the fact that the words come out strained and breathy.

By the time they finally stop, they’re halfway across the city. Well, that’s what it feels like, anyway. Nickel had led them to a small park and slumped over on a bench, letting out a wheeze as he did so. Balloon had leaned against a tree as his legs buckled under him, knees resting against thick roots as he awkwardly fumbled for his phone.

Clover doesn’t look nearly as exhausted as either of them. Come to think of it, nearly the entire time they had been running, there had been a strong breeze pushing along her and only her that seemed to change direction every time they turned a corner so it would always be blowing against her back. Safe to say, that wasn’t really… how wind worked? But he could hardly be concerned about that when there were bigger things at play.

He can’t help but purse his lips as he stares at the flurry of freaked out texts from Suitcase. “Uh, Nickel?” he calls. “Not to freak you out or anything, but the whole, uh, cafe being blown up thing made the news.”

“What?!” the other man shrieks, sitting up with a start.

“Oh,” Clover says with a frown. “Well, that’s not right! It wasn’t blown up, the wall had been punched in!”

“Because that’s so much better,” Nickel scoffs, rolling his eyes as he awkwardly staggers toward Balloon. With every step, his face scrunches up slightly, as if walking forward is painful. Are his legs as sore as his are? “C’mon, let me see it,” he grumbles. Despite the fact that Balloon is sitting down, he doesn’t have to crouch to be at eye level with him, although he is a little bit taller.

He dutifully turns the phone around so Nickel can read the screen. Instead of just reading it, though, he reaches forward with a grumble, snatching Balloon’s phone from his hand as he irately scrolls through the article. Resigning himself to his phone being stolen, Balloon just turns toward Clover, brow furrowed. “So what was the deal with all of that, anyway?” he hesitantly asks. “Those weird, not really human guys and the fact that one of them was able to make a hole in the wall just by punching.”

“I-I don’t know, really!” she cries, a helpless expression creeping onto her face as she hunches her shoulders. “All I know is that they’ve been chasing me for a while.”

“But you know more than you’re letting on,” Nickel interjects, a snarl twitching at the edges of his lips as he drops Balloon’s phone back into his lap. “That’s easy enough to tell.”

“No, that’s not-!” she begins, before a more pained expression settles onto her face as her hands bunch into fists around the fabric of her skirt. “Well, yes, but it’s more complicated than that…” she weakly protests. Nickel opens his mouth, probably to fire off some witty retort. Since he would rather this conversation not spiral into a messy argument, he figures he should intervene.

“Uh, how was the article?” Balloon murmurs, not really expecting an answer. It’s not exactly a worthwhile question, after all, and when Nickel is irritated he isn’t the sort of person who lets his fury be redirected at a weak prompting. Trust him, he would know. All the long, painful afternoons of Suitcase’s frantic attempts to keep the peace reverberate around in his mind.

“Not exactly the most informative,” Nickel retorts. “Just the usual. Employees were interviewed, police are investigating, no major injuries, and three people are currently considered missing.” He gestures around the clearing, expression deadpan. “Wonder who they could be.”

“Yeah, uh…” He winces as he turns back to his phone, all of the notifications from Suitcase’s messages still lingering on his lock screen. “Suitcase is texting me a lot. She seems pretty freaked out. I don’t blame her, though. I mean, she was meant to meet us at the cafe. Imagine getting there and seeing the place in ruin, neither of us in sight…” The mental image makes him uncomfortably guilty, and he nervously shuffles in place.

“It’s the same for me with Baseball,” Nickel snaps, his eyes narrowed as he places one hand on his hip, the other waving his phone in the air. “It’s not like you’re better than me just because there’s one person wasting their time worrying over you.”

God, it would be so easy for Balloon to point out that he could say the same about Nickel. Instead, he just leaves the obvious unsaid. “I never tried to claim I was better than you,” he replies, rolling his eyes in frustration. “You’re always putting words in my mouth. Let me speak for myself for once.”

“What, so you can manipulate me?” the man replies, a derisive sneer on his face. “As if.”

“Please don’t fight,” Clover says softly, her voice strained and pained. Of course, the only thing that achieves is turning Nickel’s attention back on her. Balloon bites back a sigh. Now that the man’s gotten going, it’ll be impossible for him to stop until he wears himself out. He tried to help Clover…

“And you!” he yells, brandishing a finger at her, expression accusatory. “What the hell is your deal, huh? You just come out of nowhere and get us all attacked by those… those things! I don’t know what the hell they are, but they sure as hell aren’t human! Their eyes were fucking glowing! And now we’ve gotten ourselves involved in this because Balloon’s an idiot, and who knows what will happen to us now!”

Clover shrinks back as she’s exposed to the brunt of Nickel’s anger, her eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for this to-!” she plaintively begins.

“No!” he snaps. “Stop making excuses! Stop apologizing! Just explain what the hell is going on!” With those barked words, he falls silent, breathing heavily as he glares at Clover, frustration evident. Well, he’s fallen silent, so if nothing else Balloon can get a word in.

“Should I reply to Suitcase, or should I wait?” he asks, wincing slightly at how much of a non-sequitur his words are.

“No! Wait until Clover explains what the hell her deal is! And stop trying to distract me!” With his hands balled into fists at his side and his face all scrunched up, Nickel resembles a toddler throwing a temper tantrum as opposed to a college student with a debatable maturity level.

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes. “I was just trying to defuse the situation, jeez…”

After a moment, Clover raises her head, looking resigned. “You’re right… I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “You guys tried to help me. You deserve to know what you got yourselves into. I…” She trails off, before letting out a giggle. “I don’t really know where to start!”

“Um, how about telling us who those guys chasing you are?” Balloon says as he gets to his feet, nervously glancing over toward Nickel as he speaks. He half expects the other man to snap at him, but instead he continues to sullenly glare at Clover expectantly.

“Well, I don’t know their names, but I can guess what they are,” she says with a hum, pressing one finger against her cheek as her brows crease. “From what I’ve seen of them, it looks like they’re constructs.”

“Con-what?” Nickel says blankly, beginning to pace around her with narrowed eyes. He looks more than a little hostile, eyes narrowed as he keeps his hands on his hips. “If you’re going to lie to us, can you at least try to make it sound believable? This is just pathetic.”

“Huh?” Clover says, blinking as a faintly baffled look crosses her face. “Why would I lie to either of you? You both helped me, after all.” She pulls at the collar of her blouse, looking faintly uncomfortable as she shrinks into herself. “I guess neither of you would know what a construct is. That’s just a guess, based on what I’ve been, but it feels right. I mean, there’s plenty of things here that I don’t have any idea about, but it doesn’t seem like magic, although I guess I’m not the person to ask…”

She trails off into anxious mumbles, chewing on her nail absentmindedly. Nickel lets out a huff as he petulantly stomps his foot against the floor. “Stop mumbling and just tell us!” he snaps, looking frustrated. “You are right about us helping you, which means you owe us, got that? You can’t just expect us to blindly go along with all of this while you keep us in the dark.”

“Just because we helped her doesn’t mean she owes us anything, you know,” Balloon mutters with a scoff, rolling his eyes.

“Okay, first of all, I didn’t mean it like that,” he hisses, whirling around to glare at Nickel. Jeez, the other man can’t even break the five foot barrier, but when he has that enraged look in his eye, it’s kind of intimidating. He’s like a chihuahua. “Second of all, I know you’re just as curious as I am about all of this. Third of all, don’t act like you have any kind of moral high ground to stand on! You only wanted to help her so you could be viewed as some hero!” And then he just stands there, the expression on his face so confidently smug despite him being so horribly wrong.

“What?!” Balloon incredulously shrieks, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “What are you even talking about?! You always see the worst in me, and I’m tired of it! What have I ever done to you?”

“Please,” the other man says derisively, the scorn in his voice so cutting part of him is worried it’ll be enough to draw blood. “No one’s forgotten about what you were like in high school.”

“You didn’t even know me in high school! You always avoided me in the halls!”

“Because I have this little thing called common sense! Why would I waste my time with someone always insulting people and getting into arguments and muttering under his breath all the time! What would be the point of that?!” Nickel barks.

“Maybe because you get enough of that with yourself?” he mutters, only realizing he said that audibly when Nickel’s face twists in anger.

The man stutters for a moment, stumbling over his words as he tries to begin a sentence. “What- That was- You can’t just- It’s not like- You’re just- UGH!” Finally, he gives up, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. “How the hell was I unlucky enough to end up with someone as unbearable as you!” With that final jab toward Balloon, he storms off, grumbling under his breath in frustration.

“Um…” Clover says, her eyes wide and terrified as she watches him go.

“He’ll be back,” Balloon mumbles. “Even if he doesn’t come back, it’s not like we’re losing much of value.”

“Oh… Well, that’s awfully cruel,” Clover points out, frowning.

“Seriously? Were you not paying attention for the majority of the conversation?” he says flatly, arms crossed. “Every single word that comes out of his mouth is some kind of jab toward me. He’ll never respect me, whether I prove that I’ve changed or not. I’m tired of trying to make myself kind and small for someone who won’t care. I almost died today. Why should I be worried about what Nickel thinks of me?”

“Well, you make a good point…” she agrees, nodding slowly. “Why does he hate you so much anyway?”

“It’s because of how I acted back in high school,” he grumbles. “I’ll be the first to admit that I was a total jerk. I looked down on everyone and always got into arguments. But I only did that because I thought that was how high school worked, y’know? It was the way it was portrayed in all the movies. The worse you are, the more popular you are. But I guess to become popular, you have to have friends in the first place…” He rubs at the back of his neck, frustrated.

Clover doesn’t look like she’s following the conversation all that well, but she nods after a moment. “So? What changed?” she prompts.

“Realized how miserable I was,” he admits with a snort. “Turned over a leaf in senior year. It was too late for me to make any friends in high school, but now that I’m in college I’ve found a place where I can belong.” He raises his head, glaring at the approaching figure of Nickel. “Of course, he’s always the one trying to ruin that.”

“I’m back!” Nickel announces, cupping his hands around his mouth as he rejoins the conversation. Balloon glances at him for only a moment before rolling his eyes and looking away. Clover raises her head for a moment, before frowning and staring at the grass. “Aw, c’mon, why is no one paying attention to me?” he huffs in exasperation.

“You don’t need to announce your presence, we all know you’re here,” Balloon mutters under his breath. “You weren’t gone for very long.”

“Yeah, well…” He makes a “so-so” motion with his hands. “I realized that I still wanted to learn Clover’s whole deal, even if that means dealing with you.”

Balloon scoffs, rolling his eyes in frustration. As tempted as he is to rant and rave about how unfair all of this is, that he’s never even done anything to Nickel… He knows without even thinking about it that it wouldn’t do anything to help. If anything, it would only make things worse. So he just sighs and runs a hand over his face, trying his hardest to keep his frustration from spilling over.

“Oh, okay,” Clover says in response, blinking owlishly a few times as she chews on her lip. “Like I said, it’s really a long story.”

“We have time.” Balloon responds.

“We better!” Nickel adds, scowling. “We were running for so long! It would have sucked if that was all for nothing.”

She sighs, tilting her head forward. Bits of dark brown locks fall over her shoulder as she begins to run her hands through her curls, the motion repetitive as she seemingly tries to get all her thoughts in order. “I guess it’s only fair to start from the beginning,” she murmurs, letting out a thoughtful hum. “For this, it would be… Oh! My first encounter with the two of them!”

“Yeah, those, uh… what did you call them, constructs?” Balloon says slowly, sounding out the word uncertainly. “What is that, exactly?”

“Beings made from powerful magic,” she replies. “Usually they’re created from rocks and wood and things like that, although it’s not like I would really know. The two of them seem… kinda sorta human. Ish. They have the appearances of one, and they aren’t mindless monsters working to fulfill whatever order they were given… Whoever made them must be powerful. And I guess they have something against me, too.”

Nickel snorts, doubt flaring in his eyes like a fire erupting into being. “Magic? Monsters?” he says with a sneer. “Like I said, quit lying to us!”

“C’mon, just wait a sec!” Balloon protests. “This seems… awfully specific to come up with on the fly. Even if it is unbelievable.”

As he speaks, Clover offers him a thankful smile. “I think…” she begins, before shaking her head. “They attacked me at my village. I managed to get away–the building I was cornered in collapsed right on them, can you imagine?” She giggles into her hand. “After that, I was running for a while. I ended up in the woods, ducked behind a few trees. As I was catching my breath, I saw a group of four people running through it. The woman in the front, the one that was being chased, opened a portal and jumped into it! The other three followed her with no hesitation. And, well, I couldn’t help but…”

She trails off, a nervous expression on her face as she fidgets with her sleeves. Nickel seems to be tuning her out, hands behind his head. He’s already written her off as crazy. But Balloon… Well, it’s not like he knows anything for sure. But how amazing would it be if this ended up being real? “But?” he prompts, shooting her a smile he hopes is reassuring.

“I didn’t know where the portal would go,” she insists. “But those two constructs didn’t seem to give up, no matter what I did! I thought, if nothing else, going through that portal could help me get further from them. I lost consciousness as I went through it, but when I woke up, I was lying on cracked stone like this.” She gestures below her, frowning. “There were these horrible metal monsters rolling by, and buildings made out of strange materials and at heights I could never imagine!”

“Metal monsters? You mean cars?” Nickel deadpans, looking unimpressed.

“Well, if that’s what they’re called. I don’t think this place is anywhere in the kingdom of Inanimatia, so that portal…” She trails off, shaking her head. “I can’t even begin to guess. But if nothing else, I guess I’m pretty far from home.” She laughs uncomfortably. “And even worse, those two followed me! And now you’re both involved with this. I’m sorry…”

Of course, Nickel doesn’t hesitate to make his opinion on the matter known. “Bullshit,” he says flatly. “We weren’t born yesterday.”

“Um, Nickel?” Balloon pipes up, wincing slightly at the expression the man turns on him. “I know it sounds unbelievable, but how do you explain those two who had destroyed the cafe? We’re both in agreement that they weren’t human, right?”

For a moment, the man stammers awkwardly, as if the gears had stalled in his mind. After a moment he throws his hands in the air and yells “Fine!” Then he turns on his heel to glare sharply at Clover. “But don’t you think you’re going to be believed unflinchingly. Not until you have proof.”

“Okay!” she chirps, clasping her hands together as she earnestly smiles at Nickel. “I’ll try my hardest to earn your belief!” That seems to break his brain, as his cheeks flush red and he crosses his arms, turning away from her.

While Clover had been talking, Nickel had begun to walk down the park’s paved path, gesturing for the two to follow. By the time she finishes, the three of them are standing at a curb, the two men sandwiched between Clover. Just as Nickel opens his mouth to say something, a car goes roaring by, stirring up a puddle of water on the side of the road. Water flies through the air, soaking both Balloon and Nickel but leaving Clover completely dry. She blinks at the two of them as Balloon shrieks in alarm and scrambles back and Nickel wrings out his now-drenched beanie in frustration.

“Wow, are the two of you okay?” she cries.

“We’re fine,” Balloon replies, his smile wobbly. “Just a bit wet. Did you get hit at all?”

“Nope! I don’t think a single drop got on me!” she excitedly replies.

For some reason, that’s enough to set Nickel off. “Seriously?” he groans. “First you get free pastries for just existing, and now you manage to avoid getting wet even though you were between two people who did? With all your talk of magic, I’m beginning to think that you’re a witch!” He jabs his hand forward to point at her. Water droplets fly from his fingertips, but none hit Clover. It’s like she repels it.

“Huh?” she says, tilting her head. “No, I’ve never learned magic. My parents couldn’t really afford having me study it, even though I am capable of it.”

“But-!” Nickel sputters in frustration.

Ignoring Nickel’s frustration, Balloon’s mind can’t help but run wild as he imagines performing actual, real magic. He could be a wizard, or something like that. Whatever Clover’s deal is, she seems to have some knowledge about magic, so-! “Do you think I’d be able to learn magic?” he hopefully gasps, hands clasped together as he leans forward.

“As if,” Nickel says with a derisive scoff, immediately dashing his hopes. “I can’t believe you’re dumb enough to think that any of that is real.”

Clover, meanwhile, looks more thoughtful. “Well, I suppose it depends on the sort of magic you want to learn!” she chirps. “Back home, there are two types of people: those born with innate magic, and those without. Those without have to find a patron of some sorts to provide magic for them. Necromancers, for example, usually bind ghosts to them and use their magic to feed their spells. People not capable of necromancy usually have to resort to… other methods.”

“Like…?” Balloon prompts, blinking a few times. To be honest, he had been expecting to be told no and leave it there. The fact that Clover was actually entertaining it was reassuring.

“A deal with the devil, maybe?” Nickel sarcastically interjects, wiggling his fingers in the air with a smirk. “Face it, Balloon. You can’t learn magic, and I doubt you’d be good at it even if you could.”

“Well-” Clover begins, looking frustrated. “Sorry. I’m not a spellcaster, so I don’t know as much about this. It would be easier if there was something here to explain it to you…” She stares at the ground glumly.

Nickel scoffs. “As if that’ll happen.”

Just to prove him wrong, or maybe to assist Clover, a small, miniature portal appears in the air, spitting out a large wooden stick that hits Nickel in the head and a thick textbook that has the title “An Introduction to Magic” scrawled across the front of it.

Balloon excitedly gasps as he picks the two things up. “Wow!” he gasps excitedly, running his hand over the book’s thick spine giddily. “Thanks a lot, Clover!”

“Hm? I don’t really think I did anything…” She chews on her cheek for a second before smiling sunnily at him. “But of course!”

“How does she keep doing that?” Nickel grumbles, crossing his arms, before shaking his head. “Hey, nerd. You can read your textbook later. For now, we need to find somewhere to hunker down.”

“Fine,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “What do you suggest?”

“If we return to either of our dorms with Clover in tow, that means we’re getting Suitcase and Baseball involved in this. And I don’t really want that. Do you?” He glares at Balloon, eyes accusatory, as if he wants the wall of his dorm to get broken down in the same way the cafe’s wall had.

“Of course not! She’s my best friend, you know. It’s not like I want her to get hurt,” he retorts, scowling.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Nickel mutters, his laugh mocking.

“What’s that supposed to mean?! I care about my friends!”


“Please. It’s obvious you’re just manipulating Suitcase the same way you tried to manipulate everyone else in high school. She was just unlucky enough to fall for it,” Nickel dismissively replies, not even looking at Balloon as he begins to walk down the sidewalk. Clover looks anxious, but she slowly follows after the two anyway.

“Wh-?!” he sputters. “Oh, come on, Nickel! I know I was kind of a jerk in high school, but I’ve changed! I-I’m not like that anymore!”

“Say that all you want. I won’t believe it until I see it.”

Balloon grits his teeth. He never expected any better from Nickel. He’s never liked Balloon, and he’s never hesitated to make that dislike known. But god, talking to him is the equivalent of talking to a wall. He can explain and argue and plead as much as he wants, but it won’t change the fact that Nickel is stubborn and bullheaded and refuses to give Balloon even a second of grace.

“O-Okay guys, we don’t need to argue,” Clover interjects, voice strained. “We have bigger problems at the moment, problems that require us to come together! So, um… Where are we supposed to sleep?”

“Ugh…” Nickel grumbles, running a hand over his face. “Definitely something in the opposite direction from the cafe. We’ve lost those creeps for now, but I don’t know how long that will last.”

He can’t help but gasp as a realization comes to him. “Oh!” he cries, eyes wide. “Um…” He shifts uncomfortably for a moment as two expectant pairs of eyes turn to him, before carrying on. “I know there’s a homeless shelter in the opposite direction of the cafe. It’s a bit of a walk, but they’ll let us stay for at least a night, no questions asked.”

“I guess that’s our best bet,” Nickel reluctantly grumbles, looking like he had swallowed a lemon. Is it because he had agreed with Balloon? “Right. Let’s go.”

To be honest, he doesn’t know when Nickel had assumed the position of leader. He isn’t sure he likes it all that much, either. But Balloon has trouble taking charge at the best of times, and Clover prefers to go with the flow, so he supposes Nickel is the best candidate for the job for now. He hopes he doesn’t go mad with power…

After ages more of walking, they reach the shelter, and they’re able to crash there for at least a night. Bedding is provided, but this is Los Angeles, so they’ve obviously been filled up long before they arrived. Pillows are also provided, technically, but they’re stolen so routinely that there’s no point in restocking them. That’s what the worker Balloon talked to said, anyway.

Either way, they all find a way to adapt eventually. Nickel takes off the short sleeved shirt he wears over the long sleeved one and uses that as his pillow. Balloon does the same with the salon short sleeved button up he wears. And Clover… Well, she gets lucky. A pillow is quite literally dropped into her lap by someone supposedly leaving for the night. Her resulting smile was so bright that not even Nickel could complain, no matter how grumpy he could be.

The three of them all hunker down for the night, pressing their backs against a corner. They stuff anything of value into Balloon’s messenger bag and have him and Clover lay next to it, one arm resting around it. If anyone were to try and grab it, one of them would wake up and catch them in the act. That was the hope, anyway.

Despite being just as worn out as the other two are, Balloon doesn’t fall asleep as immediately as the two of them had. Instead, he flips through the spellbook, filled with a giddy excitement. He knows he’ll be useless if he’s so sleep deprived he can’t properly focus, and Nickel’s endless jabs won’t stop, but just a little bit of reading surely wouldn’t hurt.

“Chapter one,” he breathes out, finger tracing each word he reads. “The basics of magic.”

— — —

“C-Can you-? Sorry, it’s just- Would you mind explaining everything one more time?”

Marshmallow knows she’s testing the limits of the other two. Apple doesn’t seem to mind at all, as pleasant and agreeable as she’s been since she introduced herself, but Bow, the ghost, seems to be growing increasingly frustrated.

“What, do you not know the meaning of words? Is everyone in this world as dumb as Kumquat is?”

“Bow!” Apple hisses, turning to scold her with exasperation on her face. The two briefly bicker back and forth while Marshmallow just numbly stares at the both of them, still trying to wrap her head around all of this. She’s been conscious for a fair amount of time now, but her head still spins in a way that threatens to make her lose consciousness once more.

After she had woken up to a panicked Apple–“Oh my god, Bow, we killed her, whatever that means!”–and an irreverent Bow–“Well, it’s not my fault. If she can’t survive being scared once, it’s just natural selection.”–standing over her, she had begun to freak out all over again. Bow had rolled her eyes while Apple just looked relieved she wasn’t actually dead.

“What the heck is going on?!” she had hissed when her legs stopped feeling wobbly and she had been able to get to her feet.

“Have you, like, never seen a ghost before?” Bow had deadpanned as she studied her nails.

“Obviously not, Bow!” Apple had huffed, stomping her foot against the floor in exasperation. She had then turned to Marshmallow, looking apologetic. “I’m, uh, sorry. It’s my job to keep Bow in line, and because I failed, she was able to scare you like this.” Her green eyes were wide and apologetic as she grabbed onto Marshmallow, shaking her by the shoulders as she had a plaintive expression on her face. “Please accept my apology!!!”

Sputtering, she had managed to push the other woman off, dizzily stumbling for a moment before she got her bearings. “It’s… fine?” she had said, fear beginning to ebb when she realized that Bow wasn’t one of those malevolent ghosts featured in horror movies. “What do you mean, she’s your responsibility?”

“You didn’t even introduce yourself?” Bow had drawled, spinning around in the air as she stretched. Her expression was the definition of bored to the point where Marshmallow had felt frustrated over her clear lack of interest. “Talk about embarrassing…”

“Hey, I don’t know your name either, so you’re not much better!” she had retorted, frustration briefly allowing her to forget the fact that she was arguing with a ghost instead of just a jerkwad like Knife who thought they could shove her around because she was small. “And for the record, I’m Marshmallow.”

“Nice to meetcha!” Apple had cheered, hugging Marshmallow so tightly she had let out a choked noise. The woman was deceptively strong. After a moment, she had let go and backed up a bit. “I’m Apple! I’m a necromancer! Over there is Bow. She’s my ghost-slash-patron!”

“A necromancer,” Marshmallow had blankly echoed. If this were a situation where she had yet to meet Bow the actual ghost, she would definitely think Apple was insane. But the woman had not-quite living proof of her words, floating in the air beside her. Had these things–necromancers, ghosts, maybe magic and who knows what else–been real the entire time? “How does, uh, that work?”

“Oh,” Apple had cried, her enthusiasm dying down at the question. “You haven’t met a necromancer before…? I guess there aren’t a lot of us left, after everything. Well, basically it means that… uh… I’m no good at explaining it.” She had sheepishly rubbed at the back of her head.

“Fine, fine, I’ll handle it. Jeez, what would you do without me?” Bow had said, rolling her eyes as she floated close to Marshmallow. Taken by a sense of morbid curiosity, she couldn’t help but raise a finger and poke it through the ghost’s body, only to shudder when her hand went clean through her and caused a chill to run up the entirety of her arm. “Don’t do that,” the woman had flatly said, leveling a glare onto her.

“S-Sorry,” she had stammered, taking an anxious step backward. “Uh, you were saying?”

“Right! So, the deal with necromancers is that they’re the worst!” Beside her, Apple had let out an offended sound, but she hadn’t stopped. “They chain poor, innocent ghosts to themselves and siphon their power for their dark nefarious deeds when all we want is to be free! Oh, the cruelty-!”

Before she could say anything more, Apple had stuck her hand forward and waved it inside of Bow’s body, causing the ghost to dissipate with a shriek. For a moment, Marshmallow was stunned, wondering if Bow had just been killed again, but after a moment, she had reformed over Apple’s head, arms crossed and expression frustrated.

“That’s not true at all!” Apple had cried. “I have Bow as my patron because she would be too dangerous without me! When I first met her, she kept scaring people in the town we were staying in! I bound her to myself to keep people safe first and foremost, whatever that means…”

“Um, yeah, but you also enjoy the magical energy I offer you,” Bow had replied, her face deadpan and unimpressed. “It’s, like, the thing that fuels all of your spells.”

“Sure, but I wouldn’t be useless without you.”

“You’re useless with me! You rely on my magic energy and you can’t get a scrap of it because this world has like, no magical energy in the air! It’s impossible for me to recharge, much less provide you energy for your stupid spells.” she had said with a scoff, glaring at her nails on a wispy hand as frustration emanated from her in droves. Marshmallow could feel it as it hung in the air, palpable and just barely solid.

“This… world?” Marshmallow had slowly echoed, voice wobbling as it bordered on hoarse.

“Oh, that’s the other thing,” Apple had chirped, seeming rather unfazed about spilling everything about herself to a stranger she had just met. “We ended up here because we were chasing a dangerous criminal. She cast a spell and opened a portal, and me and my group didn’t think twice before following after her! Although we had thought it was just a normal transportation spell. Maybe if we had known it was an interdimensional portal, we wouldn’t have been so hasty…?” Her face scrunched in thought for a moment before she had shrugged. “Well, whatever. We kinda had to.”

“A… dangerous criminal,” Marshmallow had slowly echoed, her mind automatically disregarding the whole, uh, other dimension thing. It made sense, of course it did, but it was so ridiculous entertaining it made her feel like a gullible idiot. “Is she around here? How dangerous is dangerous?”

“We were working on looking for her, S’more. But you just had to go and interrupt us.” Bow had said with a scoff.

“...It’s Marshmallow. And you were the one who scared me, you know.”

“Yeah, and if I had known you’d be so annoying, I would have thought twice about it!”

Apple raised her hands as the two began to argue. “Calm down, you two!” she yelled, waving her arms in the air. “It’s our job to look for her, but when it’s just the two of us with barely any magic at our disposal, we’ll definitely get… a little bit beat up. So we’re trying to find the two other people we were with! Have you seen them?”

“I haven’t seen anyone like you lately, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she had dryly replied as she pointed a finger toward Apple, who had glumly deflated.

“Aw. Okay.” She looked downtrodden for a moment before perking up, a determined expression crossing her face. “Well, we’ll just have to keep looking!” she cried, pumping a fist.

“Why are you looking in here?” she had skeptically asked, gesturing around her. “It’s been abandoned for years. Not exactly fit for human habitation.”

“Exactly!” Apple had chirped, bouncing on her heels. “It seems like just the shady place people would loiter in, whatever that means! I mean, it’s creepy, abandoned, devoid of all human life… Either someone really shady would be here, or people who were looking for somewhere to stay would be here! Someone like my teammates!” The longer Apple had rambled, the flatter Marshmallow’s expression had gotten, and by the time she had finished, her face was a perfect deadpan. Somehow, Apple actually realized that, and had hastily amended “Oh, no offense! We know you aren’t like that!”

“Speak for yourself, Pomegranate.” Bow had grumbled. “Personally, I think this is just the sort of place where shady people like Graham Cracker would hang out.”

“It’s Marshmallow.” she had said, although she knew she was fighting a losing battle. “And I don’t live here. I was just exploring. And since you two are pretty much homeless…” She had hesitated, wondering if her curiosity for the paranormal would be enough to outweigh all her common sense. “You guys can crash at my place, if you like.”

“Crash? I wouldn’t want to break anything!” Apple had cried, wide eyed.

“Yeah, Chocolate Bar. We aren’t a carriage.” Bow had added.

“I meant…” She had pinched the bridge of her nose. Right, she had forgotten, they’re idiots. “You can sleep at my house for at least the night. Better there than here. I don’t think you want to deal with all this dust getting into your lungs.”

“Really? You’d do that?!” Apple had gasped, stars shining in her eyes as she burst forward to tightly hug Marshmallow, lifting her in the air slightly. Marshmallow had let out a wheeze of pain at the motion. “Thanks a bunch!”

“No… problem…” she had wheezed out. After being sat down, she had thrown the two a sidelong glance. “It’s just… Well… Would you mind-? C-Can you-? Sorry, it’s just- Would you mind explaining everything one more time?” At their blank expressions, she had hastily added “The whole “we’re from another dimension” thing. I don’t really get it.”

And that’s how she found herself in this situation, watching the two people from another world argue back and forth like they’re an old married couple who should have divorced decades ago. It’s pointless to try to drag this out any more than it’s already been. No matter what either of them say, her mind will be completely unable to comprehend the ridiculous truth laid out in front of her.

“Never mind,” Marshmallow mutters, sticking her hands in the pockets of her puffy jacket. “I think I get it as well as I can.”

“Super,” Bow retorts, a smirk on her face that reveals the rows of unnaturally sharp teeth in her mouth. Marshmallow swallows in discomfort and absentmindedly pulls at the scarf wrapped around her throat. “I hope you live in a castle. I’m tired of all the crummy inns covered in bugs and mysterious stains we’re always staying in. I deserve to be treated like a princess, after all the things I’ve done for Kiwi!” She dramatically presses a hand to her head as she speaks.

“If you complain, I’ll throw you out onto the street,” she grumbles in response as she begins to walk toward the building’s stairs, glancing over her shoulder to ensure the two of them are following. She obviously isn’t being serious, but she hopes the threat will keep the two in line.

Leading them across campus and to the dorms, all she can do is pray that Paintbrush isn’t around. Explaining this to them sounds like something out of her nightmares. Inherently a skeptic, they probably wouldn’t even acknowledge Bow’s existence, dismissing it as a trick or a hallucination. Worse yet, they’d accuse Apple of being crazy, and Marshmallow of being an idiot for going along with all of it!

…Okay, maybe she’s underestimating Paintbrush a little bit. She knows them well enough to know how they would really react. Stunned, a little bit hostile, but overall accepting. But she hopes she doesn’t run into them anyway. All of this is just so exciting, like her urban exploring habit dialed up tenfold. It feels like something that’s hers. She doesn’t want to share this with anyone else.

With a sigh, she unlocks her dorm’s door and throws it open, expecting them to say something about how small it is or the torn cushions on her couch. Instead, the two of them gasp, awed expressions crossing their faces.

“Wow,” Bow says. “Is all of this yours? You must have so much gold.”

“Uh… Well, it’s not all mine. The basic stuff belongs to the university. But yeah, most of the stuff you see belongs to me.”

“What’s this big black thing?” Apple cries, poking at her TV screen. “I can see my reflection in it, whatever that means!”

“What’s this big black thing?” Bow adds, waving a hand at her fridge. “Wait, is it hollow?” She phases her head through the fridge door, letting out a gasp a moment later. “Woah, there’s so much food in here!”

“Stop, stop, stop!” Marshmallow yells, waving her hands in the air to get the attention of the two. “Okay. Listen, you guys need to calm down. I get that all of this is new to you, but I don’t want you guys to be running around like idiots pressing buttons and messing with things you don’t understand. If you have a question, just ask. Don’t mess with things until you know what they do.”

“Aw, okay…” Apple mumbles, deflating.

“That,” she continues, brandishing a finger. “Is a television. You can watch things on it. Movies and- ugh, wait, you probably don’t even know what those are. You can watch… plays.” Apple and Bow nod in understanding. “That is a refrigerator. You use it to keep things cold so food will last longer.”

“Jeez,” Bow grumbles, reaching forward. Marshmallow expects her hand to go through the fridge’s handle, but oddly enough, it actually grabs onto it, and she begins to swing it open and closed, bursts of cool air sputtering out. “There’s no way you actually need this much food, right?”

“It’s better to be prepared,” Marshmallow hisses, slapping her arm. Or trying to slap her arm. Her hand just goes straight through it. Bow grins smugly, sharp teeth poking through her lips. She just rolls her eyes as she moves to slap her hand instead. She actually makes contact there, and Bow lets out a cry as she pulls her hand back. “And stop that.”

“If you have enough energy to make your hand corporal, you have enough energy to give me some magic!” Apple cries, glaring at her with an accusatory look in her eyes as she stands on the solid part of the backing of the couch. She has the height advantage for a brief moment before she loses her balance. She pinwheels her arms in the air, trying to regain her center of gravity, but when she inadvertently raises one foot in the air she knows it’s over for the other woman. She falls off the couch, landing on her side as she collides with the carpet.

“Jesus Christ, are you okay?!” Marshmallow cries, running over to her side. Apple raises her head, smiling sheepishly at her. She hadn’t noticed before, but the other woman has a small tooth gap, as well as a dimple on one cheek. They go well with the freckles splattered across her face like specks of paint- why are you looking at her face so much, Marshmallow?!

“I’m a-okay!” she chirps, easily getting to her feet as Marshmallow offers her a hand. “I’ve been through worse.”

“She really has,” Bow complains, floating over to them. “It’s the worst! Every time she and her stupid group get into a scrap against mercenaries or a dragon or a pack of wolves but she always makes it out alright! It’s that stupid healer, I know it! I can’t believe-” None of her words after that are audible, just frustrated grumbles as she paces back and forth in the air.

Marshmallow can’t help but shoot the ghost a sidelong glance. “Do you… want Apple to die?” she says slowly.

“Uh, yeah? Duh? I’m bound to her until she dies or until she releases me from her service, and one is a lot more likely than the other! But no matter what happens to her, she survives it like it’s no big deal! Ugh!” On the final cry of frustration, her form flickers as she briefly becomes much larger in size, pupils narrowing to slits as her hands become claws. The already torn and bloodstained dress she wears becomes even worse as her form changes, and her messy pink pigtails frame her face like horns.

As Bow takes on a much scarier appearance, Marshmallow can’t help but gape, staggering back. “Uh…” she says slowly, throwing a glance over toward Apple, who doesn’t look concerned.

Instead, she just mumbles something under her breath, something that doesn’t sound like English. On the final word, she thrusts her hand forward, energy appearing from her calloused palm. It circles around Bow and quickly brings her back to her initial appearance, the only difference being the sudden look of exhaustion on her face, floating closer to the ground as if it’s difficult for her to keep herself afloat.

“Ugh, you’re so… lame…” Bow groans, stifling a yawn.

Apple sways on her feet, leaning against the back of the couch. Still, though, she looks satisfied. “Now we’re both tired,” she declares. “So calm down before you stop being able to manifest in the real world.”

“Fine,” she huffs, drifting over to the couch and phasing half into the cushions.

“That was magic,” Marshmallow breathes out, stunned. She knows she shouldn’t be surprised by this, but it’s one thing to be aware of magic existing and another thing entirely to see it cast. “Wow. But, uh, are you two okay?”

“Don’t worry about us!” Apple says cheerily, offering Marshmallow a thumbs up. “It’s just magical exhaustion. Necromancers get their magic from the ghosts bound to them, so when we aren’t receiving that energy it doesn’t take much to tire us out. And when Bow is struggling to replenish her own energy, even doing something like changing her form takes a lot out of her. We just need some rest and we’ll bounce right back!”

“Reveal all of our weaknesses to her, okay…” Bow mumbles sleepily, studying her nails in disdain. “That won’t go wrong for us…” She lets out a yawn as she speaks, whining as she tries to bury her face in one of the throw pillows on her couch.

Well, the two of them are a lot less of a handful like this, if nothing else. Marshmallow lets out a quiet laugh. “Okay,” she says. “You two can settle down or take a look at everything, whatever you want. Just don’t cause too much trouble, all right?”

“Coolness!” Bow chirps, pumping a fist.

Marshmallow laughs, but as she walks around to the couch, she pauses, brow furrowing as a realization flits to the front of her mind. “Oh… Right…” she mutters, brow furrowed. “My assignment.” She glances over to Apple and Bow, before she realizes with a start that she knows exactly what she wants to write about.

Since the moment Bow had phased through a wall to scare her, she had been confused. The feeling of her confusion was both dizzying and disorienting, and it left her awkwardly staggering as she tried her hardest to wrap her mind around everything that was going on to no avail. No matter how many things were explained to her, she could never really understand it.

It’s the sort of situation that would work perfectly for an assignment where the entire point is to withhold context.

The decision settles over her shoulders, and she grins slightly as she glances over toward the two interdimensional travellers lying on her couch. She doesn’t have confidence in the two of them to not cause any chaos, god no, but she thinks she’ll be fine leaving the two of them on their own for a bit while she works. They may be new to everything in the world, but they aren’t toddlers. She doubts she’ll have to babysit the two of them.

Opening her laptop, she glares at her mostly blank document, before her face settles in a grin. Right. She can do this. She has to. Just one scene, no context given, alongside a reflection about what she learned during the duration of the assignment. Just a thousand words in total. No problem! She’s written so much more.

Chewing on her document, she takes a moment to mull over her words as they rush through her mind. Slowly, she glances over to where Apple and Bow are. The former catches her eye and beams widely at her, her green eyes shining. God, she’s adorable. Probably not something she should be thinking at the moment, though, Marshmallow. Focus.

As she types away on her keyboard, her ears are filled with the chatter of Apple and Bow as they bicker with each other back and forth. For the most part, she’s content to let their words wash over her, background noise that helps her focus but not teetering over to the side of distracting. Occasionally, though, when she spots one or both of them getting up to something in the reflection of her laptop, she has to get to her feet and scold them. 

At least they seem to be receptive to it, as much as Apple’s eyes go shiny and Bow pouts and grumbles and whines. They’re two halves of an extreme, if the extreme was a toddling child just getting used to being told no. Every time she has to explain something as simple to them as “No, Apple, you can’t swing on that overhead light, it can’t hold your weight” or “No, Bow, you can’t phase through any walls to leave my dorm. People will spot you, and then where will you be?” she wonders if letting them stay with her was a good idea in the first place.

But they don’t mean any harm. Apple is far too genuine for that, and she’s capable of reigning Bow in even if she has barely any magic available to her. For the most part, Marshmallow can trust them to figure things out on their own, and when they discover the TV they get a lot quieter, even if their appreciative gasps are a bit distracting.

Finally, after an hour of writing and half an hour of editing (which, for her, really just means squinting at the offending sentence as she bickers with herself whether it’s really necessary to include or not. The answer ends up being yes more times than not, even if the vast majority of editors would ultimately disagree with her), she turns in the assignment on her school’s webcampus.

The moment she gets the confirmation that it’s been turned in, she slumps over with relief on her desk. She was really cutting it close there, and waiting until she has enough inspiration to churn out an assignment is inevitably something that will lead to procrastination. This shouldn’t become a habit.

But staring at Bow and Apple, the former of which is yelling in dismay at the TV as a trashy rom com plays (at the moment, they’ve reached the apparently mandatory misunderstanding argument) while the latter stares at the screen, wide eyed and entranced, she doubts that’s an issue she’ll be grappling with often. With the two of them around, she has a near treasure trove of inspiration! The two of them are like her muses!

Hm. Maybe giving them free reign on her TV was one of her worse ideas. They’re the equivalent of Victorian peasants who can wield magic. Too much screen time will definitely fry their brains. But everything in moderation, right? She’ll let them finish this movie before kicking them off. It would do no good to find a way for them to go back to their dimension only to get them inadvertently addicted to trashy romance movies.

As the credits begin to roll, she slowly creeps over to the couch, only to huff out an amused laugh when she sees that the two of them are both asleep. Apple is half falling off the couch, tightly curled around a throw pillow, while Bow is half phased through a cushion, not breathing at all. She… obviously doesn’t have to, of course, but it creeps her out anyway.

She reaches for the remote, but as she does, her arm brushes Apple’s. The woman twitches but doesn’t wake up. Marshmallow lets herself sit on the couch for a moment, stretching her arms in the air as she stifles a yawn. She’s glad any classes she had to deal with were in the morning. Would she have gotten the chance to meet either of them if she was cooped up in a classroom all day?

Before she gets the chance to lower her hands, Apple shifts in place. She pauses, glancing over toward her, and after a moment the woman leans forward, arms releasing the pillow as they wrap around their new target instead.

Namely, Marshmallow.

Apple presses her head against her chest, mumbling something as she makes herself comfortable. Slowly, Marshmallow lowers her hands, eyes wide. Apple is decidedly still asleep, so it’s not like she can just ask her to move. And besides, she looked really exhausted. She would feel too bad trying to wake her up. It’s like when a cat curls up on your chest. It’s a scenario Paintbrush is all too familiar with.

Biting back a groan, she delicately shifts until her back is pressed against the back of the couch. Fine, fine, she’ll resign herself to her fate.

She lets Apple and Bow sleep. After enough time passes, she finds herself joining them.

— — —

Don’t get Silver Spoon wrong, his life is a perfectly happy one! He has hobbies, successful studies, is well-liked by his teachers, is happy with the person he is, that sort of thing.

The most astute of people may notice, however, that friends were mentioned nowhere on that list. Not that he’ll go as far as to admit that he’s lonely, exactly. Things were just better when Paintbrush was around, if nothing else. Their sharp tongue and even sharper wit made them feel worth his time in a way others simply weren’t. Plus, their kindness was always relieving to lean on after a long day.

Without them, though, what exactly does he have? He does well in his classes, and the work of a business major is fulfilling, but what is it he’s working toward? His parents will never let him get anywhere near his business other than wringing the idea of him completely dry for cash. He could always start his own business, but the odds of it doing well are… poor. He is no fool, and refuses to cling to unreasonable optimism. If he fails, then he fails. If he has to go crawling back to his parents… well, he supposes his only option is to repress everything until they shrivel up and die, but who knows how long that will be?

So in that sense, he supposes he’s answered his own question. Cabby’s too, of course, the one she asks him relentlessly every time he comes in these days, not that he’ll ever tell her that outright. Telling her that he’s so lonely he doesn’t know if there’s a single person he can consider a friend? She’d have a field day with that, he’s sure. Better to stay silent on the subject entirely, and practice the fascinating topic known as self restraint.

The question of why he’s chasing after this mystery woman with such verve, he means. It’s a question Cabby has asked him several times over each time he stumbles into the library and asks her if she’s seen any sign of the woman who had been here several days prior.

“Silver, why are you so obsessed with chasing after this girl?” she had asked with a sigh, adjusting the glasses that had a chain attached to them. “It’s kind of creeping me out.”

“Because I’m a gentleman, and a good gentleman always repays his debts,” he replied each time the question was asked, doing something refined like running a hand through his hair or adjusting the cravat tied around his neck and tucked into his vest.

“Truly, you’re a hero,” is Cabby’s usual response, flat and unimpressed. But she simply doesn’t understand. She doesn’t understand that him chasing after this woman is the only thing that’s distracting him from the stifling weight of everything.

Cabby doesn’t know everything about his parents. Well, she’s aware that he’s emancipated from them after a serious, unmitigable disagreement about his views and how he chooses to live his life. She’s aware that they’re taking advantage of him being cut off to advertise it to their customers to increase profits. She’s aware that he’s as relieved he’s free from them as he is terrified that he’s left alone.

The other things… well, he wasn’t as forthcoming about any of it, if that’s the question being posed. From his experience, it’s either something people react well to, or they don’t. He’s not exactly fond of the idea of trying his luck with the one person with any willingness to talk to him nowadays, so he stays mum about that part. It’s better this way.

Hanging around the off campus library when he doesn’t have classes is the easier option for him. For one thing, the odds of the woman returning there are high, considering she had been there once already. For another, it gives him an excuse to cling to Cabby’s companionship, something she willingly offers no matter how obviously he grates on her nerves.

Silver Spoon knows it won’t last. Paintbrush had gone from loving to cold in a blink of an eye, there one day and gone the next. He won’t get his hopes up when it comes to Cabby. But for now, he sticks around. Maybe there’s a difference here, considering the library is her job and she’s required to stick around, whereas Paintbrush chose to be at his side until they suddenly didn’t. But he’ll gladly conflate the two, because it had taken months for Paintbrush to grow weary of him, and their temper is notoriously short. Does that mean he has any kind of chance with Cabby and her friendship, considering she’s considerably more calm and measured?

At the moment, the two of them are hanging out in relative silence, the weight of it enough to make Silver Spoon feel antsy. The two of them make pleasant enough small talk, even though Cabby grows exasperated whenever he says some things, which makes him faintly baffled. Paintbrush was always the same way, and he doesn’t understand it at all. He doesn’t notice anything abnormal between the things that make her scowl and sigh and the things that don’t. To him, it’s all normal.

Scanning through a business book, he struggles to focus properly on it. There’s too many things weighing on his mind, from the actions of his parents to the lingering silence, draping over the two of them like a blanket the longer they remain in place, one scanning through a book as he leans against the desk while the other types at her computer with focus, occasionally reaching to scan a few books.

“I’ll be right back,” Cabby suddenly says with a hum. “I have to grab a book.” She rolls off with a well-practiced deftness, moving so quickly it’s like she’s hardly wheelchair-bound at all.

Silver Spoon watches her go, eyes following after her, but her exit is hardly even noticed by most of his mind. He’s more focused on the mysterious woman who he has yet to find, even after all of his searching. He’s mature enough to admit that his interest in her is due to more than just him wanting to find a way to thank her, but he’s grounded enough to refuse to think of the what ifs. He deals in facts and nothing else. And the fact is, he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of the woman. Not her eye-catching outfit, not her placid purple hair, and not her calm expression or lazy smile. He’s starting to think that he’ll never-

Ah. His thoughts careen to a stop as something catches his eye. Right there on the table is one of Cabby’s notebooks, the one with a blue cover that he sees her write in most often, left wide open. Normally, he wouldn’t have any sort of interest in the item; he has much better things to do than to steal the writings of others and muse over them. But when he sees his name written atop the page in pencil, he can’t help but be curious. It’s practically catnip to him!

He reaches forward, snatching the book off of the table and pressing it tightly to his chest. Haste is of essence here, considering how quickly Cabby gets around. She will likely be rather… perturbed when she returns and discovers him rifling through one of her personal effects like it’s a particularly juicy novel, but with his effortless charm he’s sure he can diffuse any situation. Moreover, he has no doubts that she won’t understand. After all, she’s practically asking for her notebook to be pilfered when one of the pages is dedicated to him.

Eagerly, he begins to scan the notebook. He expects showers of praise, of course, and nothing less. After all, with his refined upbringing and sharp mind, he’s the picture of elegance and refinement.

Quickly, though, the smile slides off his face, and he’s left frozen in place, as if he’s watching a car crash he’s incapable of looking away from. His eyes continue to scan over the page, as if in that moment he’s entirely sustained by morbid curiosity and nothing more.

He stares at the notebook for a long time, one that feels like an eternity but in reality is likely less than a minute, before he hears the squeak of wheels as they roll down the hallway and a strangled gasp. Slowly, he lowers the notebook to stare at Cabby dead on. Her blue eyes are wide and her mouth is open in a small o. Her dark hair that has a bluish tint to it shines in the fluorescent lights. She looks like her world is collapsing around her.

“What,” he begins, the word coming out as a furious growl. “On earth is this?” 

Cabby’s face looks as if it was carved from steel as she stares him down, her faint terror visible in the way she presses herself against the back of her wheelchair. Despite him being extremely tall and her being in a wheelchair, the two feel as if they’re on the same level, somehow. Is it the determined, steely, nervous look as it glints in her eyes, hidden behind her glasses attached by a chain? “How do you have that?” she whispers, voice intense.

“You left it on the table,” he responds stiffly. “When I saw my name atop the page, what else could I do except look?”

She lets out a choked, pained sound. “It’s mine,” she says firmly. “Y-You had no right to-”

“No right?” he barks, cutting her off. “No right?! When you write these- these preposterous things like-” He glances back down at the page, a scowl etched on his face. “Thinks he’s worthless-” His voice breaks on the last word. He refuses to admit to anything, of course, so he won’t dignify Cabby with a confirmation. “-I believe I have every right to look at this! How dare you have something like this? How dare you write things like this?!”

In response, she winces, rubbing at her head with a faintly terrified look about her. “You don’t understand,” she pleads.

He just raises his chin at her, letting out a huff. “No, I quite believe I do,” he snaps in response, before turning on his heel and storming out. Who on earth does she think she is, writing all of those things down, after he had trusted her with the knowledge of his parents? Who does she think she is, putting all of those negative bullet points next to his name, digging into his skin like knives, as if her words scrawled in neat handwriting could ever get close to describing who he is?

Truly, though, is that all he is? So easily observed and deciphered that anyone can see his flaws with ease? Do his actions give him away that thoroughly? If that’s the case, has always been the case, then it’s a miracle his parents didn’t find out who he truly was years and years ago. He knew that he wasn’t the darling little girl they expected him to be the moment they decided to force him into a dress, poofy and uncomfortably constricting. If he can be so easily read, is there any reason he hadn’t been discovered then and there? Was he just lucky?

Luck is so uncomfortably… Well, he’s not quite sure how to phrase it. When someone uses skill, uses knowledge, deploys their own intelligence to solve a problem in front of them, then it’s sheer brilliance, plain and simple. But when they don’t have to lift a finger, when the solution rolls over in front of them, free for taking, then it’s pure, unfettered luck. If everyone were to get lucky, what was the point in developing skills, in valuing intelligence? If he had gotten lucky, had the mask he wore around his parents that restricted his breathing just for the sake of hiding who he truly was all for nothing?

He’s figured it out. Luck is binding, tangling everyone around them in ropes restraining their movement. Restraining their freedom. Restraining any choice in the matter they could have had. He doesn’t want to get lucky. He wants to solve the problem for himself. He wants to puff out his chest and jut out his chin, filled with the comforting knowledge that he was better. That he had worth.

(Cabby’s handwriting in that notebook flits through his mind, each letter curling and swooping over itself. Thinks he’s worthless. She was right, of course, but the words dug into his skin and left him feeling so stung that he denied it just so he didn’t have to feel that pain.)

Silver Spoon thought himself a genius. His grades were always high. His teachers always showered him with praise. He earned his parent’s approval with his brains, for a time, before they realized he was something untenable, something unacceptable. But Cabby can read him like a book, so who’s to say everyone else can’t? Were they all just humoring him all along? Was he being strung along, pulled along like a marionette of sorts?

He begins to pull at his pale blonde hair frantically, causing the normally well-groomed look he has about him to fall into tatters as his carefully brushed hair begins to stick out at all ends. His ponytail comes undone from his hair tie, leaving his long hair to fall down his back. He’s never quite had the courage to cut it short, even after coming into himself as the man he’s always been. He’s worried it’ll look… unfortunate. Cutting it so short it can’t even brush against his neck anymore feels like an overwhelming change, one he’s too terrified to fully commit to even if he wants it.

Distracting himself worked for only a brief moment before he notices his mind drifting back to Cabby. Goodness, he cannot believe how foolish he was, placing his trust in her so completely. It got to the point where he actively changed his daily routine for her to… what? Prove that he wasn’t as miserably lonely as he truly was? Try to fill the gargantuan gap Paintbrush had left deep within himself? Was it all just a result of him deluding himself?

In the end, he staggers back to the campus in a daze, although he isn’t entirely sure why. He would be better off going back to his apartment. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be alone at the moment? Even if there’s no one around who will truly see him, even if the gazes of others will just brush right over his skin, he just wants to feel like he has company anyway.

Curling up on a bench, drawing his long, gangly legs tightly to his chest, he rests his chin atop his knees and watches the way people pass him by without looking twice at him. He tries to call Paintbrush on nothing more than a whim, driven by both his loneliness and how fervently he misses hearing their voice as they reassured him, but the call goes to voicemail instantly. He sends another wave of texts to them, but none of them show up as delivered.

He feels as bitter about it as he always has. There was no reason for Paintbrush to go completely nuclear as they broke up with him. For one thing, they had been the one to instigate the argument that had shattered their relationship. They had argued with him about his haughty attitude, about how he looked down upon others, about how the only person he treated with any kind of respect had been Paintbrush themselves. He had brushed them off, responding that they were the only one who deserved any of his respect. Everyone else were simply mouthbreathers who wasted his time.

That had set them off in a way that was even worse than the usual flare ups of their temper. They had yelled and ranted and raved for minutes on end, before stopping in a way that was both sudden and disorienting. Then they had let out a frustrated sigh before turning on their heel and storming away, not saying anything more. And still, they had been the one to get the last word in. Silver Spoon was so shocked that he couldn’t think of anything to yell after them.

It’s not like their relationship had been all sunshine and rainbows. That would be simply preposterous, considering it was between someone as hot headed as Paintbrush and someone as unerringly confident as Silver Spoon. There would be bumps in the road that caused them to stumble and lose their footing. But they would regain their balance eventually and act as if nothing had ever happened, right?

Apparently not. He had waited a day before trying to call them so they could talk. To his shock, the call went to voicemail over and over again. When he had tried to text them, none of his messages showed up as delivered. It took Google for him to discover what had happened; Paintbrush had blocked him.

So that had been the end of things. Not with a bang, not with an explosive argument on both sides that caused things to go up in a supernova, but a whimper. Things were over, and Silver Spoon couldn’t help but be nervous that he would be alone forever now that the one person who truly saw him for who he was had left and showed no interest in returning. Any replacements–Cabby, the mysterious woman–were just him trying desperately to recapture the magic of being with Paintbrush.

Not that it mattered. He couldn’t find a trace of the woman, no matter how hard he tried, and apparently Cabby had just been stringing him along this whole time, writing every bad thing about him in that little notebook of hers, a flourish on each letter. This was even worse than when Paintbrush had left. At least then, the sting of it had been new, novel, like a reassurance that it wouldn’t be something he would have to get used to. Feeling it again, just as painful as it was the first time, confirms that it’s something he’ll have to live with, forever.

Just as he tightly presses his back against the bench, eyes stinging, he hears a familiar voice that makes his head snap up. “Very good. As long as the two of you utilize mindful positioning at times where it’s necessary, you will find your lives to be much easier.”

“But we’re used to constantly switching whenever we want to,” points out a high pitched, accented voice in response. 

“Yeah,” adds a gruff voice, carrying the same accent. “I don’t wanna be a prisoner in Yin’s mind!”

The woman smiles, her expression kind. The crinkling of her eyes makes something in his chest flutter. Her hands are at her sides, but as she speaks she raises one of them, pressing the thumb and pointer together while the other three stick in the air. “Of course not,” she reassures. “It’s something you can use when you feel necessary. When one of you is better suited for something, all you need to do is use mindful positioning and switch the other around. Otherwise, you can switch as needed. Does that sound good to you?”

“Yeah!” replies the high pitched voice. Silver Spoon gets to his feet as he’s speaking, determined to get a better look at the conversation. At the woman who was kind enough to help him, and apparently does the same for others without even thinking about it. “Thanks very much for the help!”

“Quit being sappy,” grumbles the gruff voice.

“Oh, please, I can tell that you’re just as grateful to Candle as I am!” retorts the former. The two begin to argue in a way that begins to ring a bell for him, and when he finally manages to get a proper glance of the conversation as opposed to just being able to look at the side of the woman’s face, he recognizes the people she’s talking to. Or would person be more apt? He isn’t exactly sure on the proper phrasing.

Yin-Yang shares a class with Silver Spoon, but even outside of that, he’s notorious enough on campus that he thinks he would have heard of the man on his own. He has dissociative identity disorder, but he only has one known alter. Or are they both alters and the system’s host went dormant? No one’s confident enough to ask. Everyone just calls him Yin-Yang as a catch-all, because the two switch into front often enough that there’s little point in trying to make a proper distinction.

Yin is the alter Silver Spoon decidedly prefers. He’s goodhearted, rational, stern, and seems overall like the average sort just on his own. Not someone Silver Spoon would have much of an interest in if not for the man’s situation. Yang, meanwhile, is chaotic, impulsive, and excessively loud. In class, the two alternate between taking notes and politely asking questions to loudly arguing with themselves and others at random variables. The day where Yang had torn up half his notes and strewn them about the classroom only for Yin to front and profusely apologize a moment later had been exhausting for Silver Spoon.

It’s genuinely impossible to say which one is present more. It’s easy to distinguish between the two, Yang’s voice sounding like a growl. Even more than that, the two’s posture visibly changes whenever one of them is fronting. Yin is always sitting straight and attentive, motionless save for the rise and fall of his shoulders and the consistent scrawling of his pencil. Meanwhile, Yang usually slumps over in his seat, knee bouncing as he sullenly scrawls down a few words. He only causes a disturbance or two every class, despite fronting for about half of it.

Not that it’s something he consistently keeps track of. The two are just rather interesting to him, despite being uncivilized ruffians. He’s never met someone with dissociative identity disorder before, and the two… certainly aren’t the best model for it. The two get visibly frustrated when people boil down Yin to the “good alter” and Yang to the “evil alter”, and that’s a mistake Silver Spoon is clever enough not to make.

Physically, the two’s split nature is reflected even in how they dress. Their ear-length hair is split dyed, half white on the right and black on the left. Of course, the left half is messy while the right is well-groomed. They wear big round glasses. When Yang fronts, it’s easy to see his eyes, but when Yin fronts, the light catches on the lens, obscuring his face. His skin is dark and he’s chubby, a short-sleeved white button-up placed over a black t-shirt and jeans with one leg rolled up to the knee and the other going all the way down.

Overall, the man is a mess in a myriad of ways. He can’t imagine living in the manner he does, split down the middle physically and metaphorically. In most situations, he would have some respect for the two of them, but Yang’s tendency for chaos and destruction and Yin’s inability to keep him under control is a rather big turnoff.

Silver Spoon’s opinion of him is not the important part here, however. The important part is the fact that the woman he has been chasing after is right there, so tantalizingly close. She cuts the two off before they get too deep in the throes of an argument, clearing her throat. He has to stop himself from swooning. “There is no need to argue,” she says serenely. “So long as you both remember my words, you will find control like never before.”

And with that, she departs, parting the eternal crowd of people in the courtyard like Moses had parted the red sea. All he can do is stare after her numbly, allowing this chance to seek her out fall through his fingers once more.

Why on earth had she decided to approach Yin-Yang, of all people? The man who argues with himself constantly, whose impulse control is easily overridden in an instant? Why had she decided to approach them, but had left him all alone for him to have a mental breakdown on a bench, trying desperately to stave off all the feelings threatening to overwhelm him?

Of course, he’s not jealous. That’s an undignified emotion for peons and peasants. He is not jealous, because jealousy would require caring in the slightest. He is simply… disgruntled. Now there is something dignified. He’s disgruntled that he has to chase after this mystery woman, and yet others are graced by her presence effortlessly. He’s disgruntled that every time he sees her, he’s absolutely miserable.

Wait, could that be the secret? Is the only way he can see her is when he’s upset, consumed by a rush of turmoil? Is the only thing needed from him is misery?

Well, that shouldn’t be hard. After all, he’s always miserable.

Silver Spoon follows after the woman long after she had disappeared. All he’s doing is chasing ghosts, and yet the wasted time feels worthwhile, somehow. Finally, he comes to a stop and sighs, the motion more wistful than anything.

The longer he spends chasing after the woman, the less he has to think about things. It gives him something to do with himself as opposed to rotting away in his too-big apartment, keenly aware of the empty space Paintbrush had once taken up. The longer he stands still, the more time he’s giving everything to catch up with him.

So he grits his teeth and continues to move forward, regardless of if he’s even going anywhere or not. He supposes he’ll figure that out when he gets there.

— — —

Even though Taco is exhausted, she refuses to give into sleep just yet. The only thing she does is repeat her memory of opening the portal in her mind until it goes fuzzy and unfocused at the edges, her mind unable to properly focus on it with how exhausted she is. She knows she’ll drive herself crazy like this, but she needs to know how she could have made a mistake like that. Unfortunately, she has yet to find any sort of explanation for it.

Despite her promise to Microphone (well, she’d hardly call it a promise, there were no oaths or spells involved to ensure that she’d keep her word, not that the former means much to her anyway), she doesn’t end up going to sleep until she can’t delay it anymore. Sure, she can feel her head spinning and her body aching with exhaustion, but that’s… probably fine. It isn’t the first time she’s experienced magical exhaustion. Hardly anything to worry over.

So long as the worst case scenario doesn’t occur, she’ll hardly have any complaints. Sure, it would be rather annoying to be constantly exhausted, staving off the urge to sleep as her body frantically tries to produce energy when there’s none to be found. The last time she experienced magical exhaustion to this degree, she was split between the desire to sleep for an eon or so and the all-consuming desire to survive.

Prioritizing one over the other was unenjoyable. And although she isn’t a fool as to think that she can let her guard down without consequence, she’ll allow herself to give into sleep for the time being. After all, she is prepared for any scenario, worst case or not. She has a dagger or two hidden up her sleeve if that fool decides that she wants to betray her.

Of course, she sincerely doubts Microphone is capable of such a thing. She seems more baffled by Taco’s presence than anything else, and the longer the two talked the more exasperated she seemed to grow. Either way, not someone she has to worry about, even if the strange circumstances make her more wary. Even if she did try to stab Taco in the back, would she be able to sink the blade in fast enough?

Taco, who is rather fond of stabbing others before they get the chance to stab her, can’t help but wonder, as much as a morbid thought as it is.

As her brain tries to mull over all the possibilities, she feels it grow increasingly sluggish as her brain teeters on the edge of sleep. After a long time of trying to hold it back, she lets out a sigh as she finally gives into it. Delaying sleep will only hurt her in the long run, even if she doesn’t want to deal with all that it implies.

Sleeping means falling, at least to her. And fall she does, with dizzying speed as her brain finally shuts down. It’s dark and disorienting, the fall, and when she finally reaches the bottom, she’s faced with things she thought she left behind long ago.

Gritting her teeth, she tries to shy away from Pickle’s betrayed glare. Torturing herself with all of this will only hurt her, and she doesn’t have the resources to put herself back together again. Yes, brain, she understands the situation in front of her quite well. She made the decision to betray Pickle, and she can only acknowledge how cruel it was to do so deep in her subconscious, when she has far too much pride to admit it when she’s awake.

Control is something she values highly. But here, falling endlessly through the deep recesses of her mind, body and mind both too exhausted to put up a fight, things spiral far out of her grasp. She tries to scream, but her voice is swallowed up by the void. All she can see is the shock on everyone’s face, the watery glint of tears in Pickle’s eyes, the fury in OJ’s voice as he thrust his scepter forward and demanded her head-

It was all for the best. For her own sake, because no one else would ever fight for her. If she ever dare dreamed of something better, she would have to throw herself forward and take it herself. The world she fled from doesn’t care about growth or power or what have you, it cares about keeping things the same as they ever were for the sake of maintaining the status quo already put in place.

Taco with her magic and wit and brains were a threat to the way things are. And to that, she says good. She’s going to tear everything down the moment she gets the chance, no matter how betrayed poor little Pickle feels about it. But if she wants to start things, the first thing she has to do is free herself from the nauseating spiral of her dreams and subconscious as she forces herself to wake up.

When she does manage to fulfill that desire, long after she had endeavored to reach that goal, her body sits up in a rush as she breathes heavily, heart thundering in her chest as her brain goes from fuzzy to alert in an instant. Before she can even think twice about it, she reaches into her sleeve and produces a dagger, gripping it tightly in a white-knuckled grasp as her head swivels around for the threat.

She finds nothing, of course. Just a wide eyed Microphone who’s standing at her kitchen counter, a dripping eggshell cracked in half resting in her hands. “Uh, good morning?” she says, staring nervously at the dagger Taco holds. “I’m making eggs. Do you like those?”

Her brain doesn’t comprehend the words spoken by the other woman for a long moment until finally, it does. Her lips curl into a scowl as she stashes the dagger away once more, absentmindedly reaching to grip at her head as it swims at the movement. She feels oddly weak. As she notes that, she hears herself sniffle pitifully a few times, and dread curls in her gut. Oh no.

“Are you sick?” Microphone says, raising a brow. Taco lets out a hiss through grit teeth as she staggers to her feet and makes her way over to the other side of the counter, pulling herself onto one of the chairs and slumping over on it. “Woah, hey, if you have a cold, I don’t want it anywhere near me!”

“I do not have a cold,” she hisses, drawing out the word. “I’m not si… si… Aaa-choo!” She inadvertently cuts herself off as she sneezes and slumps over in her chair, feeling dazed. “Oh dear,” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“So you’re sick,” Microphone says with a roll of her eyes as she moves her spatula through her pan, moving around the scrambled eggs as they rest in her pan. “That’s fun. I’m guessing you know why, since you’re always so on top of things?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she responds with a huff, although the effect is quickly downplayed by her sniffles as she wipes at her nose in frustration. “Since my magic reserves are so low, my body’s been left in a weakened state. It makes it easy for any illness to make its way through my body without me being able to fight it.” As she speaks, she throws a sidelong glance to Microphone, trying to read her expression. Does she look like she wants to seize the opportunity to get rid of her while she’s weak? Does she look cunning or conniving?

“Hm.” She looks… kind of unimpressed, actually. That makes Taco more than a little defensive. She’s only doubting her because she has yet to see what she’s capable of. She has yet to know what she’s done. Actually, that’s probably for the better. Microphone looks like the sort to be judgmental. “Want some DayQuil?”

“I am not familiar with it,” she says dryly. “But if it’s a sort of medicine, then I’d rather abstain. I don’t know how it would affect me, considering my origins.”

“Right, the other dimension thing,” Microphone huffs. “I guess being cautious is for the better when it comes to this. From your reaction to everything, I doubt you have any kind of advanced tech back at your home.”

“It’s nothing that can’t be remedied with magic,” she haughtily replies, raising her head.

“Magic that you can’t use at the moment,” she reminds Taco, brandishing her spatula at her. She doesn’t look all too threatening like this, to be honest. Her getup yesterday had been more threatening, with the spikes adorning her neck. Right now, she wears baggy brown pants and a tank top, a stark contrast in comparison to her leather jacket with the collar raised up and the torn denim pants with odd tights below them, patterned in a way that reminded her of fish nets.

She supposes right now, the woman is dressed for comfort as opposed for what she wants other people to see her in. But it doesn’t matter what she wears, she’s pretty either way, as sheepish as she is to admit to the fact. With her dark, rich skin, and her black hair falling off her head in thick locs, although at the moment her hair is held in a pink bonnet.

It makes her feel self conscious about her own outfit. A thick cloak, the baggy sleeves spilling down her arms but stopping just after her elbow, exposing all the black staining her fingers and her wrist like ink. Except it isn’t ink, but rather the residue of the dark magic she practices. The dark magic residue marks the strongest mages in a way the law could only hope to do. Most wear gloves to hide them, which is a mark within itself, but Taco’s never bothered. With her face plastered across half the kingdom, what does she have to hide?

Beneath her robe is a simple tunic, a corset cinched across her waist. Of course, she had modified it to store various spell ingredients in small pockets sewn inside the leather, because practicality is something she values above all else. The tunic goes down just above her knees and trousers go down the rest of the way and simple brown flats rest on her feet, although they had been kicked off at the door.

Hardly a comfortable getup to sleep in, but she’s more than used to it. It’s not as if someone on the run has many options when it comes to storage, and she much prefers to travel compactly anyway.

Microphone throws her a sidelong look as she sets down a plate of scrambled eggs in front of her. “I didn’t realize how curly your hair was yesterday,” she comments with a hum as she grabs a container of something red and drizzles it over her own eggs. She doesn’t bother to sit down, probably because she just has the one chair and Taco’s commandeered it.

Taco reaches up to poke at her hair warily, brow furrowed. “...Ah,” she says after a moment. “Usually I use a spell to keep it slicked back and out of my face,” she explains with a sigh, pulling at her hair in frustration. She hates being reminded of… before. “But even something as small as that is something I can’t handle right now.”

“Jeez, you know I can just buy you some hair gel, right?” the other woman replies, rolling her eyes. Of course, Taco has no idea what that is, and she stares blankly at her until she relents and explains. “It’s a product that lets you hold hair in place, among other things. No magic required.”

“Fascinating. Truly, what will they think of next?” she deadpans, poking at the steaming plate of scrambled eggs in front of her. She’s not used to them being so bright a shade of yellow, and she can only guess what that red substance Microphone added to her dish is, but she doubts the meal is poisoned. With a shrug, she shovels a bit of food into her mouth, and blinks slowly.

“What? What’s with the look on your face?” Microphone grumbles around a mouthful of food, looking irate. “Do you hate it that much?”

“N-No,” she protests. “I was simply surprised. I wasn’t expecting it to be so good.”

“Okay. That’s worse. You see how that’s worse, right?”

“I don’t see why you’re so upset. It was a compliment, Microphone,” she replies with a scoff, rolling her eyes.

“Doesn’t feel like it, with how condescending you’re being,” says the other woman, letting out a hum. “And you can just call me Mic, by the way. That’s what everyone else does.” A wistful look flits across her face, as if she hasn’t heard from quote-unquote “everyone else” in a while. Is that why she decided to help out Taco? Because she was so lonely that someone appearing in front of her through a portal was interesting as opposed to suspicious? Because it distracted her from her loneliness.

“Moving a little fast, aren’t we, Mic?” she purrs in response, cocking a single brow.

“Jesus, don’t say it like that!” she cries, letting out a startled laugh. “It’s not like we’re dating or anything.” She flusters a little bit as she says that. “Shut up and eat your eggs.” She smirks as she stares down at her plate. As predictable as the other woman can be, she’s also rather fascinating. 

“If you say so,” she loftily replies, tilting up her head for a moment before grabbing another bite of the eggs. She doesn’t have the strongest appetite, which can likely be attributed to her illness, but there’s no point in wasting food.

The two of them eat in relative silence. When Taco finishes, Mic takes both of their plates and washes them off. Just as she begins to turn around, she decides to throw a question the woman’s way. “So, what do you intend to do to ensure I enjoy my stay here?” she prompts, tilting her head. She’s frustrated by the way curls fall into her eyes, though. God, if only casting that spell to pull her hair back wouldn’t make her feel even worse.

“Shouldn’t you focus on getting better first?” she replies, raising the slitted eyebrow that has a speck of metal affixed right above it. “I know you seem to be managing that sickness well enough at the moment, but it’s not like that’ll last forever. If your body is as worn out as you claim it to be, I have no doubts that you’ll be bedbound by the end of the day.” She smiles smugly as she delivers her thesis, as if taking satisfaction in being able to think ahead far greater than Taco could.

“Poppycock,” she retorts, rolling her eyes. Mic looks like she’s trying to stifle laughter. “I’m not surprised you would think that, of course. You don’t know me very well at all. However, I am far better than the sorts of people who succumb to their own illnesses. Even in my weakened state, I’m… ah…” She trails off as she forgets where she was going with this, pressing a hand to her head as a grimace spreads across her face.

“Knew it,” Mic cries, pumping a fist. “How’s that brain fog treating you, huh?”

“Bad,” she dryly replies. “Although that is a good term for it…”

“Do you want to lie down?” she proposes, and although she seems glad about being right she also seems relatively sympathetic, too.

“I’ll be just fine,” she bites out, getting to her feet only to stagger about, tumbling over her feet as she tries desperately to keep her balance. Her head feels like it’s swimming, and there’s the beginnings of a wave of heat preparing to sweep over her, prickling at her cheeks like a- like a-

Her mind isn’t able to complete the metaphor before her legs buckle underneath her and she collapses onto the grass. All she can do is stare blankly up at the ceiling for a moment before a blurry silhouette appears over her, one hand on her hip.

“Well, that was quick,” Mic says with a sigh. “Lucky for you you’re short enough for me to pick you up, right?”

“‘m not… short…” she tries to protest, but when she can barely string a sentence together the protest is nothing more than a token one. She lets out a mildly offended grumble as Mic scoops her up in her arms, cradling her like a baby before unceremoniously dumping her onto the couch. She lets out a startled cry at the feeling of impact, but after a moment, she shifts in place, burying her head into a pillow. It doesn’t make her head hurt any less, but it makes her feel like she’s doing something.

“Get some sleep, will you?” Mic calls as her voice grows further away. “It’ll help you fight off your sickness! And I’ll get started on a soup for us, too. You’re so lucky I just went shopping. I-” And then she says other things, too, but Taco struggles to set it apart. She keeps her head buried in the pillow, teetering on the edge of sleep but not quite allowing herself to give into it. She’s afraid of the sorts of things her mind will conjure when it’s like this.

As she dedicates the last vestiges of her strength to refusing sleep, her mind continues to wander in confusing and disorienting fashion, making her feel nauseous. She whines, tightly wrapping her arms around the pillow as she presses it into her upper chest. Pickle’s face won’t leave her mind, no matter how frantically she attempts to distract herself. It makes her feel awful in an entirely different way than she does right now.

Time passes in an agonizing crawl, each second clawing at her skin as they pass her by just so she’s aware of them. The one time she tries to lift her face from the pillow, she’s met with bright lights that stab at her brain, and she hisses as she lowers her head. Ugh, bright lights. That’s the same name those worthless mercenaries bear, the ones who chase after her.

Of course, they’re idiots, and overall incompetent. That necromancer of theirs spends more time arguing with her ghost and puzzling over the meaning of words than she does focused on her goal. That bard always has his head buried in a book, excitedly rambling about the plot or about which of the characters he thinks should get together. And of course, their foolish leader, who smiles like the sun and has nary a thought in her head. It’s like she’s incapable of taking anything seriously.

Despite that, though, they keep getting infuriatingly close to catching her. Is that why the king hired them? Did he know that despite their initial incompetence, they would be able to string something together? It grates on her, truly. She’s powerful, sharp, quick, and careful. And yet, somehow, a bunch of buffoons are on the same level as her, as if she could ever be on the same level as them.

She has no doubts that those mercenaries followed after her. If nothing else, they’re single minded, infuriatingly so. They won’t give up on her just because she disappeared through a portal. They would follow after her without a second thought, which was its own sort of foolishness. It would be easy to lead them into a trap with that, although it’s something she would have to plan ahead, she supposed.

If good luck was a thing that came naturally instead of having to be bestowed through a blessing, then she would be the only one to have travelled to this world. Those fools would have stopped in place, warily poking at the portal as they debated where it would go. And by the time they finally mustered the will to step through, the portal would have fizzled shut in a shower of sparks, leaving them on separate sides.

The idea would be enough to make her laugh, if she was able to make the sound leave her lips instead of having it just numbly rest on her tongue.

At the very least, staying here gives her a level of security that she wouldn’t have had if she hadn’t met Microphone. Otherwise, she would have to stay on the streets or hope that some inn would be kind enough to let her stay for free. That would be its own kind of risk, given how unfamiliar she is with the customs of this land. Things that are second nature to her back home could be things completely foreign to the residents of this place. After all, with a lack of magic, how would the development of a civilization differ?

Yes, she’s indebted to Microphone, as painful as it is for her to admit to that fact. She has no interest in owing anyone anything. The moment the woman turns to her and asks what she can do to pay her back is the moment Taco will depart, whether she’s in any state to survive on her own or not. Microphone took her in out of the goodness of her heart, supposedly, or maybe she was just seeking an adventure of some sort. Either way, there better not be any strings attached to any of this. Getting tangled up in them as she tries to move forward will certainly hinder her.

Suddenly, she feels a hand shake her shoulder insistently, as if trying to spur her into rising. She groans and stays in place, pressing the pillow tighter to her chest. But the hand doesn’t give up, continuing to roughly shake and jostle her. After a moment, she turns over, eyes flickering open as she blinks several times, trying to readjust to the light level, and meets the eyes of the person who had been so determined to rouse her.

In her feverish, disoriented state, it’s impossible for her to think straight. When she spots dark skin and black hair, even if the hair is missing bits of green braided into dreadlocks (actually, it’s missing dreadlocks to begin with, but how is she supposed to note that in her mind when her brain is so hazy?), her mind immediately jumps to the easy conclusion. How is she meant to remember the fact that she fled the palace half a year ago, her face already drawn in ink on yellowed paper?

“Pickle?” she groans, words slurred. Since he’s here, she has to play the role of an idiot, but how is she supposed to think every word over when she can barely form words to begin with?

“Um…” he replies, voice wobbly and unsure. “Yeah. Sure. I doubt my words mean much to you in this state anyway. C’mon, drink.” He raises a bowl to her lips, steam lifting from it. “It’s soup. It’s good, too, don’t worry. You have to eat something.”

Taco tries to say something, but it comes out as a dazed groan. “‘m I… s’ck?” she mumbles, reaching for a pillow as she buries his head into it.

“Yeah. Magical exhaustion, you said.” Pickle replies, his expression flat. “Not that I know how any of that stuff works, but you can’t fight off sickness on an empty stomach. Drink my stupid soup, Taco, jeez!”

His words make a jolt of fear stab through her, and she lurches, body spasming. “No,” she whines. “I c’n’t do m’gic,” she insists. 

“What do you mean? You told me so yourself,” he replies, sounding frustrated.

“I’m not- it’s meant to be-” The image of Pickle’s betrayed expression flits through her mind unbidden, and she lets out a choked sound as she lunges forward, burying her head in his chest. “Sorry,” she hoarsely gasps out. “I missed you. S’rry for hurting you. ‘m sorry. Sorry. I hurt you so you wouldn’t hurt me first. Please don’t turn me in to the k’ng…”

With a clink, Pickle sets down the bowl he was holding onto the nearby table. “Who the hell do you think I am?” he mutters to himself, sounding faintly worried, before letting out a sigh and wrapping his arms around Taco. She presses herself into the touch as firmly as she can. God, she missed how casually Pickle would touch her, slinging an arm over her shoulder or patting her on the head or hugging her ever so briefly. “L-Listen, I’ll forgive you if you drink the soup I made you, okay?”

“Okay,” she whines. “Please stay.” Her voice is wobbly, hitching on every other syllable as she tries to get them out.

“Not like I have anywhere else to go,” he mutters, grabbing the bowl again and lifting it to Taco’s lips. With shaky hands, she grabs it from him and scoops out bites of stock and broth, lifting it to her lips. Tastes like chicken and pasta. If the sidelong glances Pickle keeps shooting her are any indication, he probably made it himself.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, only the sound of utensils scooping across ceramic and their own breathing there to break it up, Taco sets down the bowl on the table, feeling too nauseous to eat any more. Pickle just squints at her like she’s a mystery he’s trying to piece together. Taco lurches forward, wrapping herself around Pickle firmly. “Stay?” she asks again, voice hopeful.

“Guess I have no choice,” he mumbles, sounding faintly amused. He pats the top of Taco’s head, and she lets out a contented sigh. It’s so much like what he would always do that it makes her feel faintly homesick, although what she had before was never much of a home at all. She became a squire knowing what she would have to do. Her friendship with Pickle was a matter of convenience, nothing more. But somehow, it became more than that. When she cast aside her mask and laughed, declaring him to be an idiot, it hurt unexpectedly horribly.

The look of pain and betrayal and hurt and anger his usually good natured and innocent brown eyes bore will be seared into her mind forever.

But right now, he doesn’t look like that at all. His face is wary yet faintly amused, and he smiles as he shifts the two of them in place, climbing onto the couch. “Your stupid fever better not be contagious,” he mutters to himself. “I still have classes.”

Taco doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, she drifts off, finally allowing herself to give into the pull of drowsiness that’s been trying so long to take and bury her. It feels like a relief, even though she feels faintly terrified. Taking the plunge into sleep is like diving headfirst into ice cold water, and she feels an odd pins and needles feeling traveling through her body as she closes her eyes and drifts.

Her dreams are blurry, hazed over with the heat of her fever. It’s nothing she remembers five minutes after she wakes up, but in the moment, it’s all so real and horrible that she flails and struggles within the dream, not quite having the foresight to realize that she needs to wake up but having the determination to escape.

The nightmares swirling around in her mind are vague and formless. She would have the strength to fight them off any other time… except for now, apparently. Her disoriented and feverish state are definitely a hindrance to her. The nightmares aren’t the worst part of drifting off to sleep, though. The real issue is the memories.

It hurts, being forced to think about this stuff long after she was supposed to have left it behind. She fled the castle dramatically, in a roar of smoke and fire, casting spell after spell just to cement it. Pickle never would have believed what she truly was if she wasn’t sure to cast a rapid fire burst of spells. How could he? He may have been a naive buffoon, friendly and cheerful toward everyone, but his fellow squire Taco, brainless and bumbling, someone who could barely hold a sword right, secretly being a brilliant mage who intended to take out the king?

She wouldn’t have believed it either, if things were switched around. Of course, she could never be as naive and as hopelessly innocent as Pickle always was. That was just how she grew up, learning to see treachery in each shadow and ulterior motives in each hand that reached out to her. Trust was a difficult resource to simply throw around unwittingly. But she found her act pretty genius, if she may pat herself on the back for a moment or two. Seeing it come unraveled from the perspective of someone who hadn’t had a clue… Why, she would never trust again.

That line of thought makes her feel a sting of guilt, even worse than what she normally feels when she thinks of Pickle. Logically, she knows she shouldn’t feel anything at all toward the man. Their friendship was a farce, a cloak she draped herself in to get all eyes off of her. She was never meant to care for him. And if she did, she truly was a fool. And yet, she feels awful about it anyway in a way she shouldn’t be capable of. She’s hardened, sharp, smart, quick witted… She has the strength to level buildings with a particularly well placed spell.

And still, her betrayal, her farce, her mask, feels like it’s digging into her face, and as she frantically claws at her face, trying to rip it off, she meets Pickle’s eyes. She can’t bear herself to look into them for too long, even though she knows all of this is her fault. For what reason, then, does she deign to feel guilt?

Even more than Pickle’s face lingering in her mind, the expression on his face pained and betrayed, there was more. Paper, the king’s loyal knight, staunchly guarding his throne night and day. Who had smiled in a friendly manner as she had ducked into the throne room, never once suspecting her even as she had froze, staring at him nervously. Even as she kept her hands buried behind her back, whispering the words to a spell between her cheery, ditzy ramblings, he had never thought of her as suspicious. Never thought to accuse her of anything, because what could she do?

The throne room had blown up that day, courtesy of her, a bit of debris crumbling from the ceiling and falling right onto the knight’s head, causing him to ;imply crumble to the floor. She had stared at him, wide eyed and more horrified than she should have been as she breathed heavily, and as more knights rushed into the room she had crouched at his side and rambled something about a mage clad in black appearing and blowing up the throne room.

She had succeeded in her goal, eliminating the king’s most steadfast protector. Better yet, she hadn’t even killed him. He was just bedbound, dazed and unable to remember how he had landed there to begin with. And still, he had never accused Taco of being his assailant. Was it that he had never thought her capable of it, that her mask was just that well placed? Or did he find the will to be kind, even then, and have the same faith in her that Pickle did? That she could never don?

Not to mention the king himself. Orange Juice, although he much preferred to go by OJ. The concept of him ground her gears; a haughty, holier-than-thou king, using his power to ensure the status quo remained in place. Brandishing his scepter, signing on papers without even looking twice at them. He was so full of himself, so confident that he was doing everything right that he never bothered to ensure whether that was true. How many mages had he condemned to death simply because of the baseless rumors from those who coveted their power?

Taco would be one of them, if he got his way. At least she would die for something, if she was ever sloppy enough to end up at the guillotine.

Sure, the concept of OJ was infuriating. But the reality was… different.

He was startlingly kind to most, even if his haughtiness always betrayed his noble upbringing. He raised his nose at people he viewed as below him and was naive about how life truly worked. All unsurprising. But there was also his kindness to her. Her cover story had her posing as a less fortunate child from the slums whose family had raised money for her to become a squire for the king. If nothing else, it was a good reason to play at being a bumbling idiot.

What had come as a surprise to her, above all else, was the consideration the man exhibited toward her. He always made sure to slow down and explain things he didn’t think she knew, as condescending as that could be at times. He always made sure to be patient with her, too, always correcting something whenever she did something wrong, which… also sounds condescending. Hm.

At the same time, it was different in the moment. He offered her kindness, more kindness than she ever thought possible for someone in his position. She thought he would look down on those viewed as lesser, just as all noblemen tended to do. And still, he was kind, even as she cursed him under her breath and planned his murder. And still, he was kind, even as she landed his boyfriend and most loyal knight in the infirmary. Until she showed her true self, of course. Then betrayal gave way to anger, and he had called for her head as she had fled.

The man’s actions, kind and condescending and so strange when they came from him, didn’t change anything in the end. She tried to kill him, creating a dragon woven from fire to ravage the palace halls just so she could take his head. She wouldn’t be the one to assume the throne after the fact. That would have gone to her… benefactor, as it were. But she would have all the things she yearned for, power and respect and an opportunity to stand still instead of having to run.

Now she can’t stop running. Maybe it’s her own damn fault for being so sloppy.

Why does she dwell on any of this? Why does it feel so painful? What on earth is the point?

If she feels guilt, that has to mean that she’s far more human than she had wanted to be. And when that humanity is nothing more than an obstacle in her way, she has to… Shouldn’t she…?

Ah. She can’t think straight.

Finally, she wakes up, body lurching as she breathes heavily. It takes her far too long to realize that she feels… fine, surprisingly. Wasn’t she sick? She groans, pressing one hand to her head, but the groan is a result of disorientation as opposed to sickness. Other than the usual dazedness she feels whenever she wakes up, she feels as sharp and keen as ever. Even her nose is no longer clogged up.

“Hm,” she says thoughtfully. It’s a struggle to remember anything from when she was deep in the throes of fever, everything from that time blurred in a haze of heat and disorientation. But she gets the sense that someone had taken care of her, and from the looks of it Microphone lives alone. So she supposes there’s the answer to her question.

Rising to her feet as she absentmindedly rubs at her eyes, she begins to walk listlessly around the apartment, cloak trailing behind her as it drags against the carpet. She glances over toward the rack of shoes by the front door, and noticing the lack of the thick, buckled combat boots on it, she comes to the conclusion that Microphone must have left. It’s hardly a surprise, of course. She likely has better things to do than hover over Taco’s shoulder constantly as she tries to fight off her fever. Still, though, her departure makes her feel somewhat disconcerted. She had been intending to ask if she had said or done anything during the worst of her fever.

It’s not something she would bother to ask normally, of course, but… she had dreamed of Pickle. Well, that’s no different from her normal dreams, she supposes. But it had been worse than it usually is, probably because of her illness. If her dreams translated to real life, and she mistook Microphone for Pickle… She can’t even finish the thought. She just shudders.

Spotting a note pinned onto the fridge, she maneuvers over to it and squints at it. The other woman’s handwriting is truly abysmal, but after a moment of puzzling she manages to decipher it.

“Hey, Taco. I’m leaving this note for you in case you wake up and walk around, although from what I saw of you I don’t know if you’ll be any better by the time I’m home. I have some classes I have to attend, plus a late night shift at work, so you’ll be on your own for a bit. There’s some leftover soup still on the stove, if you like that as much as you did when you were feverish. Please don’t do anything stupid and break anything, it’ll be a pain to replace it.”

She scoffs as she crosses her arms. Truly, who does she think she is? Some uncivilized ruffian who can’t be trusted on her own? Amusing, considering how much of her life she’s spent on her own. Honestly, she could laugh.

Instead, she ladles out a bit of soup and eats in silence.

Chapter Text

Lightbulb can’t help but nervously shrink back under the weight of Paintbrush’s and Test Tube’s piercing gazes. It’s always a lot of fun deciphering what had happened in an area as she pieces together Fan’s always helpful recollection spell, but maybe the two of them should have been… a little bit more careful this time.

Back home, there was never any harm in casting magic. Sure, there was always the stigma around the stereotypical mages, and she knows full well about the prejudice necromancers face. Her group has been denied service from a myriad of places just because Apple was a necromancer. But in terms of her and Fan, there was never anything to fear! As a cleric, her healing magic always came in handy, and she’s bartered it for some service or other a myriad of times. Fan’s magic isn’t the strongest, which is why he’s a bard. It’s the most he could have managed without making a deal with some patron or other.

Between a friendly cleric and a bard who makes whorls of light swirl through the air with each strum of his strings, there was never anything to fear between the two of them. In terms of all the magic that existed in the world, they were inoffensive at worst. That’s why it hurt so bad after Apple joined their party, and suddenly doors that were opened to them had closed. She knows that things shouldn’t be like that; people shouldn’t be barred from existing in public areas just because of the magic she practices. But her in with the king can only do so much.

Apple never seems bothered by any of it, which is a relief. Lightbulb is a ray of sunshine–her mercenary group isn’t called the Bright Lights for no reason–and Fan’s excitement about anything at all is infectious, but there’s only so much the two can do to cheer someone up when the issue is the world itself and their views toward her. No matter how many bad guys they catch, how many deliveries they make, how many vengeful ghosts Apple takes it upon herself to banish, public opinion never seems anywhere close to swaying.

Of course, the two of them have never asked whether she’s bothered by any of it or not. Despite the fact that they’ve slayed dragons, felled ogres, and done several exorcisms courtesy of Apple, neither of them have enough courage to ask her outright about whether all of the prejudice from the public about how necromancers are… uh… It really doesn’t feel right thinking any of that, knowing about the type of person Apple is. She winces guiltily whenever she compares what everyone says about necromancers compared to how they all are.

Either way, despite their inability to be able to truly comfort Apple, to ask her about all of the stereotypes about necromancers being pure evil and untrustworthy and that they practice the most unholy dark magicks in an effort to try distinguish what’s fact from fiction (personally, Lightbulb is betting on them all being fake, because she’s met Apple. There’s no way she could be the spawn of the god of death himself or whatever), they do smaller things. Nothing that has the weight of trying to truly understand why things are the way they are, but they try to make things easier for Apple regardless.

For instance, Fan has stopped reading literature that features necromancers in an antagonistic role. According to him, all books where necromancers are treated as evil just because they’re necromancers are a complete no go, and apparently if the depiction is bad enough he outright throws the offending book into the river. Considering their kingdom only has a few printing presses afforded to only the most wealthy, destroying a book is a big deal. Lightbulb isn’t really worried about the minor vandalism and destruction of public property. They’ve done so much good they might as well balance it out with some bad.

As for her, the intrepid leader, she’s taken it upon herself to launch to Apple’s defense whenever anyone tries to hassle her. She doesn’t hassle any business owners for turning them away, because Apple has made it clear she would rather just leave instead of causing a scene, but when random people in the streets start spewing out some garbage about necromancers, Lightbulb moves into defuse things. You can’t see it, but when she says defuse things, she wiggles her fingers all importantly.

Sometimes defusing things can mean redirecting them with a friendly conversation. She’s learnt that her grin is capable of defusing a lot of tension, which is always good to know. Sometimes defusing things can also mean punching someone in the face and then running away really fast. Apple doesn’t seem to be too bothered by any of that, if nothing else. The sound of her laughter, breathy and amused, always carries across the wind as they run, and it makes her feel relieved that if nothing else, she can still laugh like that.

Other days, though, she seems to be completely lacking in any sort of mirth. She’s quiet and thoughtful, face always scrunched up in the way it is whenever she’s trying to think really hard. Any time Bow picks a fight with her, her responses are quiet and snappish, and everyone knows to back off. They know, unspokenly, that whatever is on her mind, it’s a necromancer problem. Nothing they’d be able to fix on their own. It makes Lightbulb worry about how she was treated before joining their party, about what cruelty she was given.

Still, she’s grown used to certain things. Doors are only closed to them because of Apple. When it’s just her and Fan on their own, everything is business as usual. Which is cruel, and unfair, but she doesn’t know what else she can do other than stay at Apple’s side and be intolerant of any jerks trying to cause problems.

For once, it seems as if a door has been closed to them because of her and Fan. Decidedly a new experience, but they had been expecting this. That’s why they had tried to keep their magic on the downlow to begin with. Either way, staring at Paintbrush and Test Tube’s bewildered and faintly accusatory expressions, she swallows sheepishly, rubbing at the back of her neck.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she begins nervously, propping one arm on Fan’s shoulder. “Uh… come here often?”

“Don’t do that,” Paintbrush scolds, voice flat. “What the hell was that- that lightshow, huh?!” Well, if nothing else, it doesn’t look like them or their girlfriend fully understand what they had inadvertently spotted. With a little bit of smooth talking, they can easily-!

“Magic,” Fan blurts, expression blank and overwhelmed.

“Oh,” Lightbulb says, glancing at him with a frown. “We’re doing this now…?”

“Well, what else are we supposed to say?” Fan cries, letting out a whine as he does so. “It’s kind of hard to just write all of that off!”

“I could do it,” she says confidently. “Remember that one time? Oh, no, mister! Apple isn’t a necromancer at all! That’s just her emotional support ghost! Entirely unrelated.”

Fan laughs, eyes crinkling as he doubles over. “I forgot we got away with that!”

“Hey, hello? Pay attention,” Paintbrush says flatly, snapping a few times to pull their attention back to them. “Stop joking around and actually be serious.”

“We aren’t lying!” Fan protests, arms crossed.

“Magic isn’t real,” Test Tube muses, tone matter-of-fact. “And yet, what I saw… that sort of thing isn’t logistical with the tech that currently exists, although I would love to use it for myself.” A hungry look flickers in her vivid green eyes, and Fan lets out a squeak.

“From what we can tell, magic doesn’t exist here,” Lightbulb muses. “But that’s okay! That doesn’t matter for us, since we’re not from this dimension to begin with!” She spreads out her hands, and Fan strikes a pose. They’re kind of expecting bigger reactions. Instead, Paintbrush blinks slowly while Test Tube lets out a startled, choked noise.

After that, they go through the whole “from another dimension” spiel. Lightbulb won’t elaborate on it, because she gets the feeling it’s already been heard before, somehow… Either way, Paintbrush is dubious and disbelieving, while Test Tube seems in shock about all of it, but they don’t put up too much of a fight. There’s few ways to explain what they saw, considering Test Tube knows enough about this world’s technology to be able to call bull on any lie they attempt to conjure up.

“Fine,” Paintbrush says, skepticism dripping from them. “If you guys are supposedly magic, what kinds are you capable of? What can you do?”

“I’m a bard!” Fan cries in excitement, gripping his lute by the head before pressing it to his chest and giving it a fierce, drawn out strum. As his fingers graze the strings, bright light swirls around him, and he beams exuberantly even as Paintbrush and Test Tube stare owlishly at him.

“And I’m a cleric!” Lightbulb chirps, following his lead as she thrusts her hand forward, white light bursting forth from her palm. “I can do some offensive spells, but healing is my specialty. Pretty cool, right?”

“Right, so that's not exactly… clear,” Paintbrush says flatly, hands pressed firmly together. “I don’t really know what either of those mean. Put it in words I can understand, please.”

Fan sighs dramatically, one hand pressed to his forehead, but Lightbulb knows full well he’s chomping at the bit to explain his magic in the most flowery language possible. Like something out of a book, as he always cries. “As a bard, I make magic through music,” he declares. “I don’t exactly have a bottomless magical store, and I tire pretty quickly. I work better as a support, y’know? Tracking spells, recreation spells, maybe the occasional protection spell. I can cast offensive magic, just don’t expect me to do much.” He shrugs, expression bemused.

“Quitter’s attitude, if you ask me,” Lightbulb says with a shrug. “But as a cleric, I’m the team’s healer! I can heal wounds, buff strength and magic, and do some light magic, although it isn’t that strong. Apple and Bow are the brunt of our physical strength. But we’re getting off topic. So, Painty…” She slings an arm around their shoulder, and they shoot her an exasperated look. “What do you say to staying quiet about this, huh? I dunno how much trouble our dimension traveler status would cause, and personally I’d much rather focus on the things we came here for.” As she speaks, she lightly nudges them, shooting them conspiratorial grins.

“I…” Paintbrush pinches the bridge of their nose, groaning in exasperation. “I won’t tell anyone else about this, if nothing else. Mainly because no one would believe me.”

“Yay!” Lightbulb cries, running forward and tackling Paintbrush in a hug. Immediately, they sputter in dismay, but she pays it no mind. “Thanks so much, Painty! I really owe you one.”

Behind her, Fan hums out a sped up version of a tune he usually strums on his lute, before declaring “Paintbrush and Test Tube have joined the party!” He points one hand up at the sky as he says that, the other resting on his hip. “Hm, what role do you think they’ll play?” he muses, rubbing at his chin as he furrows his brow.

“Mm, I dunno,” Lightbulb mutters, squinting as she thinks. “Test Tube is smart enough to be an artificer, but they do magic… And I dunno about Painty, either… Maybe-?”

“Let’s say we figure this out later, alright?” Paintbrush interjects later, voice strained. “All of this is stressful enough without you trying to add us to your group or whatever. So… what now?”

“What now?” Fan parrots. “Well, um… That’s a question to ask to our fearless leader, of course!”

“You don’t know.” they correct, voice flat.

“Hang on, that’s not fair!” Lightbulb cries in offended dismay. “We’ve been trying to get our bearings and figure out how this place works! It’s been useful, too, because~!” Her voice trails off in a singsong as she spreads out her arms. “We found out you guys don’t have magic, but you’ve still done some…” Her shoulders slump as she remembers just what it is she read about in that history book. “Pretty bad things regardless.” she concludes, voice strained.

“Yeah, I could have told you that,” Paintbrush snaps impatiently, hands on their hips as they scowl. “Didn’t you tell me you were looking for two people the first day we met? Whatever happened to that?”

“It’s not like we stopped,” Lightbulb protests in offended dismay. “We just have to be smart about how we do it! Fan has tracking spells, but he’ll get tired out if we try to use any.”

“Looking for people?” Test Tube prompts, the first time she’s spoken up in a while. Her and Painty were chatting so much she supposed it hadn’t given the other woman much room to interject. Still, she has fun chatting with Painty! They're so much fun, even if they do get riled up awfully easily. “More people from, u-um…” She swallows, as if trying to accept something. “Your dimension, then?”

“That’s right!” Fan hollers, waving his hands in the air in clear excitement. He produces two posters from his pocket, unfurling them with a flourish. Lightbulb recognizes both of them, of course. Fan doesn’t hesitate to stick them in anyone’s face whenever the need arises, even if said need turns out to be unnecessary in the end. “Here. For your viewing pleasure,” he says airily, and the two reach out to take one each.

“The Bright Light mercenary group…?” Paintbrush begins, squinting as they scan the text. “I guess all that stuff about you being hired makes sense, then. But who’s that person in the middle?” The poster they’re holding is one of many advertisements Fan had created, spending all of their payment after they had completed their first job given to them by OJ. She’s not actually sure if the ad has given them any more jobs, but Fan always seems so proud of it that it’s hard to hold any of it against him. The poster boasts of their achievements, such as being the king’s preferred mercenary group, being able to exorcise spirits guaranteed, and being able to track anyone down so long as they gave off a magical signature. All of which is true. She would have added being able to light up any room to the list, but she’s happy with how the advertisement is as is.

“That’s our fearless, amazing, invaluable necromancer…” Lightbulb begins. “Apple!” she finishes, twirling as she does. “She’s our third member! When we got here, we woke up together, but I guess we were totally separated from her as we went through the portal…? Neither of us know how dimensional magic works, so I don’t think I could say why that is. So we’re keeping an eye out for her so our group can be complete again!”

“Technically, we’re looking for both her and Bow, but since Bow is a ghost and her patron, that means she can’t leave Apple’s side even if she wants to, which she does, so when we find one we’ll find the other,” Fan rambles, before concluding with a wide smile. Paintbrush just stares at him, face completely blank as they slowly blink. “I figure we’ll find them sooner or later, though! Bow is always one to cause trouble, and Apple struggles to reign her in a lot. Or maybe things would be easier for Apple since Bow’s magic stores are likely replenishing super slowly…? Hm, what would make for the best plot…?” He trails off, brow creased in thought as he shifts his weight. 

“Hey, um,” Test Tube interjects, voice strained as she speaks. “What’s this paper, then?” Paintbrush immediately turns and looks over her girlfriend’s shoulder, only to blanch. And, well, all of those startled expressions makes Lightbulb curious, so she tightly presses her cheek against Paintbrush’s so she can look at the paper, too!

“Ohhh, that’s Taco’s wanted poster!” she declares, hands clasped together as she backs up. “She’s the dangerous criminal the king hired us to track down and bring to him! She’s, uh, also the one who opened the portal and brought us to this dimension to begin with…” She trails off, smiling sheepishly. 

“Treason, attempted murder, foul magicks…” Paintbrush reads from the listed crimes below the woman’s drawing. Lightbulb will be the first to admit that it’s highly dramatized. Or maybe she just wouldn’t have expected Taco to be the sort to be capable of murder? Still, though, all the things she heard about the woman–summoning a dragon made from flame, sending Paper to the infirmary, telling Pickle she was just using him between peals of maniacal laughter–felt really out of character. Or maybe she just didn’t know Taco enough to know what was in character for her or not, just like how no one else truly did. “Jesus. She sounds… pleasant.”

Lightbulb shrugs. “I knew her, back when she was a squire,” she explains. “I was also a squire for a bit, but I didn’t stick around long enough to become a knight, ‘cause all of that was… kinda boring. But!” She claps her hands together. “Without that, I wouldn’t have met the king, and he’s our highest paying customer, you know! Anyway, the Taco I knew then was… pretty different from the one I’m chasing now. Pickle’s always said no one ever knew her at all, but I guess I don’t know either way.”

“Mmm,” Paintbrush replies, sounding faintly amused. “So that’s what you’re up to. Looking for that criminal and your missing teammate. Team mates…? Your explanation was kinda confusing. Anyway, is that your plan for ending up back in your dimension, then? Catching Taco and forcing her to open a portal back to her world.

Both Lightbulb and Fan still. “Uh…” the latter says, face scrunched up. “We hadn’t really-?”

Of course, Lightbulb’s an opportunist. She wouldn’t have thrived as a mercenary if she wasn’t. “Uh, yeah, that’s our plan, couldn’t you tell?” she interjects, throwing an arm around Fan’s shoulder as she grins. “It’s the exact sort of brilliant plan we would come up with, you know.”

“Right…” Paintbrush says, squinting at the two of them. For some reason, they don’t seem all that convinced.

“Hold that thought,” Test Tube interjects, voice firm. “I-I know I probably shouldn’t ask this of you, but do you think you’d be capable of tracking Nickel and Balloon down while you’re here?”

Paintbrush shoots their girlfriend a confused look. “Why do you care?” they ask. “I didn’t think you knew them.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t think I do,” she says with a shrug. “But it’s more for Suitcase’s sake than anything else. She seemed really shaken up by it, you know? I want to help her if I can.”

“You’re a saint,” Paintbrush says flatly. Despite the inherent complimentary tone their words carry, their tone is dry and flat, as if for some reason they don’t think that to be a good thing. “Well, fine. What say the two of you?” They turn to her and Fan, hand on their hip. They seem prepared for a rejection.

Fan squints. “Well, our base prices for tracking spells-” he begins.

“-are free for you two.” Lightbulb finishes, smiling pleasantly even as Fan sputters in dismay next to her. “C’mon, don’t make that face,” she pouts, elbowing him. “I mean, do you guys even use gold here?”

“Uh, no?” Paintbrush says slowly. “We have dollars and coins and stuff, like, uh, hang on…” They dig through their pockets before producing a leather object and unfolding it, grabbing a slip of green paper and offering it to the two of them. In the corner is the number one. “That’s our currency here.”

“It’s paper?” Fan cries in dismay, creasing the edges as his nose scrunches up. “How is this worth anything?”

“I guess paper is pretty rare…” Lightbulb concedes. “Maybe it’s worth something because in this world only the super rich have access to paper.

“But that library had so many books! And they were so big!” Fan protests.

“That’s not- okay,” Paintbrush says with a sigh, seemingly silently deciding to let whatever it is they were objecting to go. “So we don’t take the same currency. Even if we did pay you, you couldn’t do anything with it. So, a tracking spell?”

“Except this poster says the only way you can track someone is if they have a magical signature…” Test Tube murmurs, looking over Fan’s advertisement. “And Nickel and Balloon definitely don’t have one of those, even if I’m not quite certain what that is.”

Lightbulb perks up in excitement. Wow, it’s a lot of fun knowing things others don’t! “But here’s the thing!” she says brightly, before catching Fan’s eye. The man is vibrating in excitement just as much as Lightbulb herself is, and he is the expert when it comes to tracking spells. So with a flourish, she bows and says haughtily “Fan, take it away!”

“The cafe being destroyed was caused by magic!” he cries the moment she finishes, the words coming out in an explosion. “Whew, that felt good to get out. The moment I got here, I sensed magical residue lingering in the air and especially near that cafe’s ruins–I am pretty sensitive to that sort of thing–so I went over here to cast a recreation spell! Magical signatures can tell you a lot if you know the ways to get them to talk. I learnt that there are two constructs chasing someone with a super strong magical signature, although I couldn’t tell what kind of magic she actually, uh, had… And the woman being chased was dragged off by someone without a magical signature! Which means that your two missing friends got involved with the chase and helped out the woman, and now they’re all running away from the constructs together!”

When he finishes, Lightbulb glances at Paintbrush and Test Tube to take stock of how they’re feeling. They look… confused, mostly, although she doesn’t know why. She thought Fan was very clear about everything. “What’s a construct…?” the latter slowly asks, her brow furrowed.

“Oh, just a usually sentient being made from magic and a natural component,” Fan says dismissively. “Those guys seem very advanced, so whatever mage created them must be strong. Dunno who though.”

“And the woman with the strong magic, is she your missing teammate?” Paintbrush prompts, squinting at the two of them.

“Nope!” Fan says. “Apple’s magical signature is super distinct. Not like there are a lot of necromancers around. But I have no clue about that woman! Honestly, it’s hard to tell if her magic is innate or a blessing, y’know? It just feels super weird. But she doesn’t seem to be the one causing trouble, even though most strong mages do-”

“Like Taco,” Lightbulb helpfully supplies.

“So it seems fine for now,” Fan concludes. “I’m more worried about those two constructs and who they serve-”

“Plus how that woman got here in the first place!” Lightbulb adds, and Fan nods along.

“Right. At the same time, though, she seems capable of handling it on her own. With magic that strong, I doubt it’ll be a problem for her. Plus, those two missing guys are definitely with her, so that’s even more insurance, right?” Fan offers them a wide, toothy smile, and he’s given only dry, blank stares in response.

“It would be nice to give Suitcase a reassurance that her friends are okay, but at the same time, I don’t know how well she’d take it,” Test Tube murmurs, subdued. “This whole magic and other world thing is difficult for me to wrap my head around, and she’s more…” She trails off, looking somewhat guilty as she tries to find the word.

“I get what you mean,” Paintbrush mutters. “I have no idea how their magic system works, either, so I’d prefer we aren’t too hasty about everything. Fan, if you cast a spell to track them down, would it be hard?”

The man makes a so-so motion with his hand. “This place definitely doesn’t have magic,” he mumbles, staring at the ground. “Which means it’ll take forever to have my magic stores refilled! If I run on empty for too long, I’ll get sick. Blergh, I hate magical exhaustion fevers.”

“Yeah, they do suck,” Lightbulb agrees, letting out a groan as she does so. “It’s not fun seeing you get all feverish and unintelligible. If we have a choice here, I’d rather focus on Apple first and foremost, y’know? There’s a lot of trouble a necromancer and a wayward ghost can cause, especially on low magic stores.”

Paintbrush reaches for Test Tube’s hand and squeezes it tightly as they begin “I think-” But they’re cut off by a low, masculine voice calling out.

“So what are you guys talking about back here?” calls a man as he steps out from between a few bushes, his expression faintly frustrated. Oh, right, that’s the man that called them here to begin with. The call to adventure, as Fan would cheekily put it. Paintbrush doesn’t seem to like him all that much, but he doesn’t seem much like a dastardly villain. Just a bit… prickly.

In response, Paintbrush sputters and retorts “W-Well, what are you doing here?” they retort, sidestepping the question itself with relative grace.

“You guys were gone for a while, so I figured I’d check on you,” Knife says gruffly, arms crossed. There’s an odd expression on his face, and that combined with the way his eyes keep drifting toward Lightbulb and Fan makes her wonder just how much he overheard before speaking up. “Are you actually gonna help me, Paintbrush, or are you just gonna continue to chat with your weird friends?”

“Give us a second, will you?” they deadpan, hand on their hip as they level a glare onto him. “We’re chatting about our next move. You kind of forced us into this, remember? We need time to decide what we’re going to do.”

“If you say so,” he retorts with a scoff. He’s silent for a moment, expression appraising, before swallowing, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Listen, could I borrow those bits of paper you two are holding?”

“Huh?” Paintbrush says flatly. They squint down at the advertisement for the Bright Lights they’re still holding in their hand before glancing over the wanted poster Test Tube is pressing to her chest. “Uh. No????”

“Oh, it’s okay, I have extra,” Fan says. “If you’re so attached, Mr. Knife Guy, I can just give you some of those!”

“That’s not the problem here,” Paintbrush hisses between grit teeth, although Lightbulb has no idea why they seem so grumpy. “Knife, what do you even want them for? They’re just, uh…” They trail off as they try and fail to come up with an excuse, not that Lightbulb knows why they need an excuse to begin with.

“For their LARP thing! Yeah!” Test Tube cries, voice strained as she smiles so widely and nervously it looks more like a grimace.

“Seriously?” Paintbrush hisses.

“I didn’t see you coming up with anything!” she retorts, voice low and furtive.

“Let’s not act like your conversation was remotely quiet or private,” Knife deadpans, a scowl on his face. “And if you’re offering extras, Mr. Fan Boy, I’ll gladly take ‘em.” Fan preens as he presents the advertisement with a flourish, producing another wanted poster with significantly less flair a moment later. Behind him, Paintbrush facepalms. He doesn’t even look at the papers before pocketing them, crossing his arms. “See, that wasn’t hard, right? And since you two are more than capable of solving the current problem, well…” His glare feels as sharp as his name implies, and Lightbulb swallows as Fan lets out a squeak, pressing himself to her side. “We’ll be in touch.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks away, unbothered. Lightbulb offers the three of them a nervous grin as she shrugs. “W-Well, that could have been worse, right?” she prompts.

“It could have been better, too.” Paintbrush snaps in evident frustration.

“Is this something we have to be worried about?” Test Tube asks anxiously, pulling at her shirt’s collar in discomfort.

“No,” they relent, although they don’t look happy by the admission. “Knife is a lot of things, but he isn’t a gossip. If nothing else, he won’t run his mouth about any of this, which is the least we can ask for. Either way, our search for Nickel and Balloon is on the backburner for the time being, since he’s obviously gonna come back and ask for us to look for him whenever it’s most convenient for him. So!” They clap their hands together. “What do we do now?”

“Find Apple!” Fan immediately cheers, pumping a fist.

“Now that I like,” Lightbulb chirps. “All those in favor of that being our next course of action, say I!” Fan immediately replies with “I!” excitedly bouncing on his heels as he does so. Both Test Tube and Paintbrush mimic him a moment later, both more subdued. “It’s unanimous! Alright then, Bright Lights!” she calls, confidently throwing her hand forward as she grins brilliantly bright. “It’s time for our next adventure!”

“Are we being included in this?” Paintbrush mumbles dubiously underneath their breath.

“Of course, Painty!” she replies, reaching up to sling an arm over their shoulder. “As long as you’re willing to help, you’ll be honorary members! “Now come on!” she cries, bouncing forward and gesturing for the three to follow. “It’s time to find Apple, once and for all!”

— — —

Nickel has had a lot of shitty days throughout his life, but he thinks that this week will take the cake, judging by how it’s shaping up to be so far.

For one thing, the homeless shelter Balloon had led them all to? The opposite of comfortable. He had tossed and turned all night, feeling thankful that he had at least worn a long sleeve shirt today. Sure, they live in California, but it’s still January. Balloon himself, in his short sleeved t-shirt, was obviously super cold. Clover didn’t seem bothered by the low temperatures at all, despite the fact that her blouse could not be that warm. Lucky. Or suspicious, rather.

As he rubbed at his eyes, sitting up, he winced at how awful his back feels. Ugh, he feels like an old man saying that, but it’s also true. Sleeping on the cold concrete floor was the opposite of comfortable. “Fuck,” he mumbles, before throwing a glance toward Balloon and Clover, both of which are still asleep. Balloon is curled in on himself, face scrunched up even in his sleep, while Clover looks peaceful, hands clasped on her chest.

He leans over and shakes Balloon awake, and although the man grumpily slaps away his hand, he does sit up, rubbing at his eyes. When he turns to Clover, though, he notices her eyes have already opened, and she sits up as she stretches. She meets Nickel’s eyes and smiles, and Jesus, that’s the most excited someone has ever been to see him. “Morning!” she chirps brightly. A heavy contrast from both his and Balloon’s initial reactions to waking up.

“Morning,” he flatly echoes. “Come on, we have to go.” He’s thinking more in terms of what happened at the cafe yesterday more than anything else. As Clover sat there, her pursuers grew closer and closer, and she hadn’t even been there for a whole hour. However those two are tracking her, they’ve been here for way too long. He doesn’t want to have another building collapse on them, because there’s no way in hell they’ll get so lucky twice in a row.

“Y-Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Balloon blearily mumbles, stifling a yawn. He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and maneuvers his staff so that it’s at an angle so it stays in place on its own.

“What does that thing do?” Nickel prompts, squinting suspiciously at Balloon.

“Oh, it supplies magic I can cast with, since I obviously wasn’t born with any of my own.”

Got him. “Did you seriously stay up late reading that stupid book?!” he accuses.

His face turns as red as his hair as he shakes his head, raising his hands in front of him. “N-No! Well, yeah, but that isn’t- I mean- Um- I just thought it was the productive thing to do, since Clover isn’t an expert on magic. Besides, if we learned more about the people chasing us, maybe we could get an edge, y’know…?”

“Right,” Nickel says slowly, drawing out the word. That’s a good point, but he won’t just admit that. “So what did you learn?”

His face flushes all over again as he stares at his lap. “I didn’t get that far,” he mumbles in embarrassment.

“Of course,” he scoffs, hand on his hip. “Well, whatever. Like I said, can we get a move on? I don’t think we’ll make it out with only scratches and bruises if this building is punched so hard the wall breaks. Again.”

“It’s an adventure!” Clover cries with a gasp, eyes shining.

“Sure.” At least she’s in good spirits.

Balloon looks… slightly more dubious. “Are we going anywhere, or are we walking just to walk?” he says skeptically.

“I dunno. We’re just trying to get distance right now, aren’t we?”

After a moment, Balloon reluctantly nods, and that’s that. The group begin their aimless trek down the Los Angeles street, and he can’t help but feel somewhat disconcerted by how closely they’re huddled together. But he does feel safer being glued to Clover’s side, the woman sandwiched between him and Balloon as if that’s enough to protect her. He wishes it was. Maybe then he wouldn’t be so damn paranoid.

Inevitably, things come to a head. They come to a brief stop in a park, a different one from the one they had chatted in yesterday. To be honest, his head is still spinning when it comes to all this alternate dimension thing, but he’s trying his hardest to properly understand. With Clover’s head swiveling back and forth with paranoia, the moment her head stops as she stares anxiously at some spot on the horizon is the moment Nickel pauses, too.

“What?” he says sharply, his voice more harsh than what he means for it to be. “Do you see something?”

“I think-” she begins, before shaking her head. “N-No, I know- We have to-!”

Before she can finish, those two creeps burst onto the scene, and Nickel tenses, letting out a hiss through grit teeth. The unnerved feeling he had felt seeing them previously has bloomed into something more intense and unnerving. It’s nothing as childish as fear. More like… he’s anxious, and daunted by the fact that he’s standing in front of two things completely inhumane, and yet they’re trying to masquerade as one. That dark look in their eyes, the uncomfortable shine to the highlights in their otherwise dark hair… His body is screaming for him to get away now.

“Oh, great, the idiots are back,” he grumbles under his breath as he reaches for Clover’s hand on instinct. She looks startled for a moment, before beaming widely at him, prompting him to flush furiously. He doesn’t enjoy holding her hand, obviously! It’s just for the sake of being able to drag her off quickly if shit hits the fan, which it probably will.

“Cute,” the shorter of the two sneers, bright blue eyes eerie as they remain fixated on Clover. The hulking monster that can just barely pass for a man standing behind him has oddly soft vivid magenta eyes, but the resigned look about his stance shows that he’s willing to do anything regardless. “But you should know by now it’s hopeless to try to run.”

“Chasing after random women is actually considered creepy by most people, you know?” Nickel yells as he tries to run off with Clover in tow. He doesn’t worry about Balloon, knowing the man is more than capable of handling himself. But Clover’s steps are slow and uncertain as she stumbles after him, looking over her shoulder as her gaze remains fixated on the smaller of the two.

“Please, why are you chasing me?!” she cries, voice having a hysteric edge to it. “I don’t- Whatever mage made you, did I do something wrong? If there’s anything I can do to make you go away, I’ll do it! Please! I’m tired of running!”

In response, the man just chuckles, even as the larger man behind him startles and begins “MePhone, you should not-” in a surprisingly soft voice, especially in comparison to the smaller man’s cocky voice.

“It’s less about you, as a person, and what you’re capable of,” he replies, raising a hand. “Either way, we’ve been given our orders. We aren’t about to fail!” At the final word, he brings down his arm with a grunt of effort. As he does so, the ground explodes, dirt and stone billowing out through the air. The man waves his hand, and suddenly all the dirt and rock coalesces into one, and he brings it down with a grunt of effort right toward Clover.

And yet, despite the fact that by all perspectives, the clump of earth should have hit the woman right in the head, it suddenly drops a few inches lower. In other words, it becomes right in line with Nickel’s head. He tries to pull the two of them back, since it’s not like he’s the sort of idiot who freezes when his life is on the line, but he knows he won’t be fast enough. Just as he begins to pray that it won’t hit anything too important-

A ball of fire flies through the air, colliding with the ball of earth, and Nickel hisses as he lowers his head so nothing will fly into his eyes. Clover’s head remains raised, her eyes wide and panicked, and yet nothing hits her. No bits of dirt even land on her clothes or in her hair. Vaguely, he’s aware of the smaller man sputtering in confusion. “What-? Who-? How did-?”

Slowly, Nickel turns to look at the source of the fireball, and is startled when he locks eyes with Balloon, slumped against his staff, the tip of it still smoking, as he gasps for air. His shoulders are squared and his eyes are narrowed in furious determination, and in a whirl of realization Nickel wonders if he had underestimated him.

Unfortunately, the two constructs follow the fireball’s source two, and the shorter lets out an offended growl as his eyes narrow. “You,” he hisses, stalking forward in frustration. “What do you think you’re doing? What do either of you think you’re doing, trying to interfere like this? Just give us the damn girl and stop struggling already!”

In a sharp, rough movement, the man raises his hand again, and by now Nickel’s aware of what he’s about to do. “Balloon, he’s-!” he begins, but he’s cut off by the other man bowing his head, gripping onto the staff with a tight, white knuckled grip as he mutters something under his breath before thrusting the staff forward with a yell. Another fireball comes flying out, this one decidedly bigger, and it almost hits the shorter man before the bigger of the two yanks him out of the way by pulling him into the air like a misbehaving kitten.

He’s pretty sure it at the very least grazed him, but he stopped paying attention the moment that explosion of fire appeared from Balloon’s staff. He had grabbed Clover by the arm, and this time she was far more receptive to his attempt at getting them the fuck out of here, running just as fast. He made a detour to grab Balloon, because the man seemed so dazed and exhausted that he wasn’t even entirely sure he would notice the two hightailing it out of there.

Yeah, yeah, he knows. He actually cares about Balloon. What a surprise, right? But it’s less that and more an effort to pay back the debt he’s suddenly accrued. With that fireball, he could very well have saved Nickel’s life. Who knows what would have happened if he hadn’t done anything? Yeah, he doesn’t want to think about it.

Don’t get him wrong, he definitely doesn’t like Balloon! But there’s no way he’s just going to leave the man to die. He isn’t that cruel.

So he grabs him by the arm and yanks him forward. For a few seconds, he’s dragging along dead weight, but after a moment or two, the man lurches into motion, running just as desperately if not just as fast. Their pursuers seem more distracted by putting out the embers smoldering on the shorter man’s clothes, and Nickel figures they’ve lost them just by turning a few corners.

Although he would rather run just as far as they had last time, he doesn’t think Balloon will be able to last that long. Already, he can tell the man is flagging, exhaustion evident in each sluggish movement as he tries desperately to keep up. He would rather they duck into some alleyway and catch their breath instead of having the man collapse in the middle of their running, so that’s exactly what he does.

While Balloon slumps against the wall, Nickel turns his attention to Clover. “You okay?” he gruffly asks.

“I’m fine,” she replies with a nervous smile, seemingly only slightly winded. “I’m just… how do they keep finding us?” She stares at the ground anxiously.

“I think… I might know why,” Balloon pants, raising a hand to get their attention.

Nickel shoots him a glare as he scowls. “What do you mean?” he says slowly.

“Well, it says here in this book that all people who have magic, innate or not, give off a signature,” Balloon begins nervously as he reads off from the book that had come tumbling out of a portal yesterday.

“Wow, you’re really into this, aren’t you?” Nickel mutters under his breath, letting out a scoff as he does so.

With only a dirty look shot his way, Balloon continues. “And, uh, Clover, you said you were capable of magic, right?” She doesn’t reply, and when the two look over toward her, they see why. She’s staring at a butterfly with pink wings, her mouth open in a perfect o as it flutters in front of her face, as if it’ll land on her nose at any moment.

Annoyed, Nickel calls out “Hey, Clover! Stop chasing butterflies and pay attention! This is sorta life or death!”

Both she and the butterfly startle, and she looks over to them as the butterfly flies away. “Mhm!” she chirps in response. At least she didn’t ask Balloon to repeat himself. “I never learnt how to cast any spells, and I don’t even know what type of magic I can do, but I know I could do it! I think.”

“Just make your point, Balloon,” Nickel grumbles, already growing tired of this never ending back and forth that never leads anywhere.

“Well, uh, I think it would be better to show you,” he mumbles in reply, flipping a few pages rapidly as he raises his staff into the air. He mutters something in another language under his breath, each word slow and hesitant as he sounds them out. After a moment, a glow spreads through the staff in a spiral motion, coming to a rest at the top of it for a moment before billowing out in an explosion of light. It’s not blinding, more warm, like the sun, but Nickel can’t help but blink a few times in disorientation anyway.

When he refocuses, he’s able to see the problem immediately. There’s an explosion of… something around Clover, spilling out into the air around her. There’s a trail leading back from where they came from, too, abruptly petering out a few feet away. It’s the perfect thing someone could use to follow them. He wants to be angry, but he thinks he’s too in shock of all of this to be fully able to feel it.

“It’s very… green,” he mumbles.

“Like my eyes!” Clover says with a thrilled gasp, her hands clasped together.

“What does that mean, wizard boy?” he continues with a sigh, one hand on his hip.

“I-I, uh…” Balloon awkwardly stammers as he frantically flips through the book. “Well, it says that people have different color signatures depending on the type of magic they’re capable of. Clerics are yellow, bards are red, necromancers are black, things like that. I’m not seeing anything about a green aura, though…”

“You know what, fine, this isn’t important right now,” he grits out in frustration. “Let’s focus on something else. Since those guys are made of magic or whatever Clover said-”

“Constructs. Yeah, I read about those.” Balloon says with a hum.

“Of course you did. So they’re able to cast the same spell you did and follow the trail Clover gives off at pretty much any time?”

“Well, um, yeah….”

“So there’s basically no point in running, because they’ll be able to find her no matter where we go,” Nickel flatly concludes.

“Sounds right to me!” Clover chirps happily, before pausing, airheaded grin faltering. “Oh wait, no, that’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s bad!” he hisses, reaching up and shaking her by the shoulders. “You might as well be a beacon leading them right to us!”

“I-I can’t help it!” she cries, drawing back. “I can’t help the fact I was born with this magic! I don’t even use it for anything! I don’t know why…” She trails off, looking frustrated as her eyes follow the way her magical signature fills the air.

“Yeah, that doesn’t really matter,” Balloon says with a wince. “You have a signature if you have magic, full stop. Even my staff gives off a bit of a signature, see?” He waves it in the air, and white wisps of magic appear from the top, more difficult to spot than Clover’s bright green. “Because it’s essentially providing me with the magic needed for me to cast any spells, and… W-Well, anyway, there isn’t any way to make it less potent. Especially because your magical signature seems really powerful? But-”

“There is a way to fix this problem somehow, we get it, that’s what you’re building up to,” Nickel snaps, rolling his eyes. “Stop dragging this out and just explain already.”

Balloon puffs out his cheeks in evident frustration, but thankfully he doesn’t try to argue. He just moves his finger lower down the page. “There’s a spell right here that lets me cover up a magical signature. That’s what we need, I think.”

“Cool. Why haven’t you cast it yet?” he says flatly. Having that is way too convenient, way too lucky, and the fact that it has yet to be used even more so. “Do you need something stupid, like a dragon’s scale or a siren's tear?”

“No, spells don’t need ingredients unless you’re an alchemist,” Balloon replies, waving him off.

“Wow, so you’re an expert. What are you, then?”

His face is set in a determined expression as he stares intently at Nickel. “I’m a wizard,” he replies. “And I know I can do this, even if casting this spell is more than I’ve done before.”

“Oh, so there’s the catch. If you screw up, you’ll blow us up,” he scoffs, stretching his hands in the air in boredom.

“More like I’ll probably be tired for a while,” Ballon replies wearily, as if he’s too resigned to Nickel’s attitude to even bother arguing. “Some of the stuff in this book are things I don’t really get. Maybe it would make more sense if I grew up in a spellcasting environment? But I think since my staff is supplying me the magic needed for spellcasting, it’s an innate source of magic. Like Clover. The staff will probably have to replenish its magic, and if I take too much, it might take energy from me? That part wasn’t clear either…” He trails off, looking frustrated.

“Cool. Hey, Clover, do you know if that idiot over there might end up dying if the staff takes too much from him?” Nickel calls. Clover, whose eyes had been flitting anxiously between them, startles at the sound of her name.

“U-Um… I think the staff might take some energy from him, especially since it probably takes more time for its magic to recharge here…” she begins slowly, looking anxious. “But it shouldn’t kill him? Most people without innate magic use staffs if they want to be able to spellcast because it’s a lot safer than trying to find a patron. Most of the beings willing to make deals with humans aren’t exactly the kind of people you should put your trust in. That’s what a friend of mine always said, anyway.”

“Cool. Balloon, since it won’t kill you, cast the spell.” He waves his hand in the air as he says that, expecting for Balloon to nod and promptly begin to recite the incantation. He seems eager enough to do magic anyway. Even when he had been trying to show Clover their problem, there had been a sort of wide eyed excitement about him as he watched his staff light up. So why not just jump straight into it now that he knows it won’t kill him.

Instead, he looks skeptical, squinting at Nickel as he holds onto the staff tightly. “Since when were you worried about my safety?” he says dubiously. “I thought you wouldn’t have hesitated to cast the spell if it meant those guys wouldn’t be able to follow us anymore, regardless of what happened to me.”

He groans, pulling at his beanie in frustration. “Jesus Christ, I don’t like you, but I don’t want you dead!” he snaps in frustration. “And anyway…” He trails off, face red, before he mutters under his breath “You saved my life anyway, so…”

“What? I didn’t hear that,” Balloon says, blinking. Although he does look confused, Nickel knows it’s a front for the man’s insufferable smugness.

“I said you saved my life anyway, so I owe you this!” he snaps in response, teeth grit as his face turns bright red. “Is that what you wanted to hear! God!” He throws his hands in the air in exasperation as he begins to pace. “I don’t want to owe anyone anything, especially not you. So let’s just both agree to drop this and declare that we’re even, okay?!”

Balloon just blinks, shrinking back for a moment before his expression hardens and he scoffs. “I didn’t save you because I wanted you to owe me,” he mutters. “I saved you because it’s the right thing to do. I would have done it for anyone…” With a shake of his head, he turns his attention back down to his book. “Right. Are we all ready for me to do this?”

“Um, it won’t hurt, right?” Clover says sheepishly.

The other man just shakes his head. “No. It’ll just obscure your magical signature, so now no one can track us.”

“But if you’re casting a spell, won’t that have some kind of signature?” Nickel says, squinting.

“It can’t be helped. Besides, the staff’s signature isn’t nearly as strong as Clover’s is. See?” He holds it forward, and Nickel squints at the small, wispy bits of white gently floating from the top of the staff, swirling into the air. It seems to go up instead of out. If he had to compare it to Clover’s, he’d say that the staff is like a dripping faucet while she’s like a flood. In other words, a hell of a lot more noticeable.

“You’re right,” he concedes, and the annoyed twist in his chest as he does so isn’t as strong as it usually is whenever he finds himself agreeing with Balloon. “Okay, let’s go for it, and then hightail out of here as soon as we get the chance. If those idiots keep trying to track us, let’s lead them on a wild goose chase.” Clover giggles into her hand, and Balloon squares his shoulders, smiling softly.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “Here goes.” He stares down at the book and mutters the incantation under his breath, not sounding as uncertain as he had with the previous spell he cast, the one that revealed the surrounding magical signatures to begin with. His staff pulses with light, spreading out in the same spiral motion from the bottom to the top. There isn’t an explosion of light like there had been previously. Instead, a burst of white light just swirls around them, like a stronger version of the staff’s magical signature.

It swirls around Clover first and foremost, doing multiple laps around her as it glows bright white. She giggles as it rustles her hair, blowing it through the air like there’s a stray breeze passing through the air. Then the light drifts over to Balloon’s staff, and it does a single lap around it before settling back at the top where it had come from.

The moment the magic falls back into the staff, Balloon lets out a shaky sigh and leans tightly against his staff, looking as if he had just run a marathon or three. Considering how often they’ve been running the past two days, Nickel can’t tell if that makes his clear exhaustion more or less worrying.

“You okay?” he gruffly snaps.

“I’m fine,” he says, letting out a shaky sigh as he keeps a white knuckled grip on the staff. He looks like he’ll topple clean over if he has to let go. “More importantly, it worked. See?” He gestures to Clover with his head, who’s currently turning in fascination. The strong green aura billowing out from her, filling the air like smog in the mornings, has suddenly come to an abrupt stop, no new bits of green coming out from Clover. There’s a heavy white aura lingering in the area, probably a remnant of the spell, and the barest traces of white coming from the top of Balloon’s staff that he has to squint to notice.

In other words, probably not infallible. He doubts they’re safe, like, at all, and letting their guard down now would be stupid. But those two constructs are expecting to be able to follow Clover’s powerful signature, obvious and easily trackable. He hopes they’ll be led in circles for at least a day or so before catching onto them.

“What now?” Clover prompts, throwing him a sidelong look. She looks like she trusts him. It makes something in his stomach twist, although he can’t tell if it’s from discomfort or something else.

“For now? Let’s get away from here,” he replies, gesturing around the area, which is still swirling with the remnants of signatures. “Afterward, let’s find somewhere to rest. I dunno how long Balloon will last if we don’t.”

“Hey, c-c’mon!” he stammers, right before having to stifle a yawn. “I’m not that tired.”

“Maybe you aren’t, but I am,” Nickel retorts, stretching as he speaks. Tired of being hunted like a dog, more like. But if that excuse is enough to sway Balloon into lying the fuck down, than he make as much excuses as he needs to. Ugh, when did he start feeling pity for Balloon? This is awful. Can he stop making himself useful so Nickel doesn’t feel like he has to pay him back? “You can do what you want, but as for me, I’m just gonna lie down.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks off in the opposite way from which they came, and Clover follows him cheerily, humming something under her breath.

Balloon is quick to follow, even as his steps are heavy and uneven as he staggers around back and forth. The three walk across in relative silence, before the man suddenly perks up about forty-five minutes later, after they hop on and off a bus just for the sake of gaining some distance. “Oh, hey, I recognize that library,” he calls. “Me and Suitcase study there sometimes when the on-campus one is too crowded. If nothing else, it should be a good place to lie low and recuperate for a few hours. Maybe find where we should sleep for the night on the computers.”

“In other words, it’s a place a lot of college students frequent?” he says flatly, craning his neck up to look Balloon in the eye. “Like Suitcase and Baseball? Who we’ve already agreed we aren’t going to get involved in this?”

He turns bright red in response, sputtering for a moment before replying “W-Well, I don’t think we’ll be noticed, and we don’t have to stay there for long anyway. I’m just-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“Dead on your feet, yeah, that’s obvious,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes. “But how can you be so certain we won’t be noticed?”

“Because,” he softly replies. “Going unnoticed would be awfully lucky.” It takes Nickel a second to connect the dots in terms of what the man means, but when he does, he turns to look at Clover in tandem with Balloon. She stares at a butterfly in abject fascination, mouth open as it flies in circles around her. She quietly giggles under her breath as she slowly twirls in tandem to follow it with her eyes. With the sun catching on her hair and rich skin, she really is the definition of beautiful, not that he can think that for long without his face turning red.

“You’re going to rely on some bullshit luck?” he hisses quietly to Balloon as he turns back to him.

“Her magical signature is green! The book didn’t say what it meant, so maybe it’s uncommon, but maybe she has some sort of luck magic? Or a blessing, maybe? I-I dunno!” he mutters in reply. “I think it’s something we might be able to count on, though!”

“You’re insane,” he grumbles in retort, but is quick to relent. “Fine, fine. Let’s go into the damn library before you collapse. But if we get caught, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Before he has the time to think twice about it, he grabs both Balloon and Clover’s hands and drags them inside, herding them to the sitting area next to the rows of laptops. “You-” He points to Balloon. “-take a nap or something, Jesus Christ. You-” He points to Clover. “-stay out of trouble. Read a book or something. And I’ll… try to find a homeless shelter we can feasibly reach. Got it?”

“Aye aye!” Clover says excitedly, offering him a salute. Balloon doesn’t say anything, slumping over on the couch without complaint. Nickel just sighs and turns toward the computers, hoping that this almost protective feeling beginning to swirl to life within his chest is temporary.

— — —

Going back to the abandoned building on campus is either the worst or best idea Marshmallow’s had yet, depending on if her heart is capable of handling another scare or not.

Sure, Apple and Bow say that there’s no reason for any more ghosts to be prowling around, but honestly, who knows? She sure as hell wasn’t expecting a scare when she had explored it last time, at any rate. At this point, she’s accepted the reality of ghosts and magic and alternate realities that are only a spell away, and she has to steel herself to all of it, unreasonable or not.

It’s thrilling, now that the world has stopped spinning with dizzying force and leaving her overwhelmed. She feels as if she’s able to get a good handhold upon the world, and even if it continues to spin, she won’t be ruthlessly knocked around, slamming against walls and staggering over her feet in her bafflement. Sure, she would hesitate to say that any of this makes sense to her. Necromancers and ghosts that managed to pierce the veil of another world isn’t exactly something she can wrap her brain around in just a day.

But there’s only so much denial she can do about all of this. It’s real. It’s happening. And by virtue of outstretching her hand toward the two wayward dimension travelers, she’s managed to get herself involved in all of this, thrusting herself right there in the middle alongside the both of them.

At the moment, she’s having fun. It would be hard for her not to be. Ghosts are real, even if they’re not present in this dimension. How could the paranormal enthusiast in her not be thrilled by the information? She had asked Bow if she thought that ghosts could be real in this world, too. She was sort of the expert, after all. Her response had been… illuminating.

“Ehh, I doubt it,” she had said with a scoff, dismissively waving a transparent hand in the air. “Not to dash your hopes or anything, but you do know this world has no magic in it, right?”

“Of course I do,” she snapped in response, arms crossed. “You’ve only been complaining about it for hours on end.”

“Pfft,” she had replied, a quiet burst of laughter as she pressed a hand to her mouth. “No need to be so pissy,” she had continued, lazily flipping in the air. “Listen, I’m having a hard time keeping my physical form as is. I’m half tempted to just leap into Kiwi and sleep for a bit, maybe leech off of whatever she has left. So imagine dying here for a sec. To even be able to manifest, you have to have a lot of magical energy at your disposal. That’s why most ghosts you see wielded innate magic when they were alive. Their spirits can hold it far easier. Not that that’s a barrier that stops the more stubborn ghosts.” She looked smug at that fact, and although Marshmallow could figure out what she meant just based on her expression, she decided to focus more on what was being told to her for the time being.

“So ghosts aren’t real, not here,” she had concluded with a sigh, disappointed. It was an unfortunate thing to find out, although it was kind of funny getting that confirmation. Before meeting Bow, she would have confidently said that of course ghosts aren’t real. That didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t like life was some fantasy novel where anything went even if the author only had some crappy world building excuse for why something happened.

But as it turned out, life had a hell of a lot more surprises for her. That’s to say, the two interdimensional travelers currently staying in her dorm make sure to keep life interesting. So she had thought… well, she had gotten her hopes up, is all. Bow made for awfully definitive proof, or so she thought. Maybe she should go back to being a skeptic.

“Wait, wait, hang on, I never said that,” Bow had cried as she interjected, lazily waving one hand in the air as a frustrated expression settled onto her face. “I just said that ghosts here aren’t capable of manifesting physically. They can’t interact with anything, and they definitely can’t be seen by anyone. But that doesn’t mean that they aren’t still there.”

“Really?” Marshmallow had replied with a furrowed brow, feeling the sensation of whiplash burn across her skin. Being yanked around like this definitely wasn’t good for “the world keeps spinning so fast it feels like it’s trying to knock me off balance” issue she’s encountering, if nothing else.

“Sure. Before I had enough energy to manifest, I was still here. Except I was linked to where my body was buried, since I’m pretty sure my spirit was feeding off what magical energy it had, and I couldn’t go too far away,” she had explained, looking bored. “That’s why people think graveyards are haunted. Even if they don’t have innate magic, the energy in most graveyards is heavy enough to pick up on. Hell, now that you’re used to me, you can probably feel the ghosts hanging around a graveyard, too.”

“Were you in a graveyard before you manifested?” she had prompted.

“Oh. No. After I was killed, my body was dumped in a lake. No one ever found me.” she had explained, seeming completely unbothered by the actually horrifying story she had just laid out. “God, it was so boring there. I had a hard time manifesting, but I figured it out eventually. And now I have my tail!” She had gestured at the wisp her legs dissipated to at the end of her legs, preening proudly. “Of course, being a ghost was a lot more fun before Apple came along and bound me to her service, which means that I can’t do any of the things that made being dead worthwhile! I can’t even go too far away from her before I’m forcibly dragged back!” She had pouted in obvious dismay as she floated around Marshmallow in slow, lazy loops. She didn’t have a clue as to why the ghost was deciding to confide in her, but she supposed that’s fine too. She’s always curious to hear more about how ghosts work.

“What were the things you used to do?” she had asked with a hum.

“Oh, y’know, fun stuff,” Bow had dismissively replied. “Terrorizing villages, possessing people to ruin friendships, interrupting church services to show that their whole “holy place spiel” is a bunch of bullshit because the only thing that can expel a ghost is a necromancer… It was all so much fun! If only Pear didn’t have to swoop in and ruin it. Isn’t she the worst?” She had looked at Marshmallow expectantly, as if she was treating this as a vent session.

“Yeah. Sure.” she had replied with a sigh, once again thinking about her decision to let this actual menace into her house.

That's how she came to the decision to go back to the abandoned campus building. She could tell Bow was getting antsy, not allowed to phase through walls or do anything at her leisure. Apple seemed fine with anything, rolling with the punches without any struggle. Has the woman seriously been through things like this before, or is her life so ridiculous that she’s unphased by things like this?

Marshmallow makes her way up to the third floor, her two interdimensional roommates trailing behind her. Apple is evidently in good spirits, skipping along as she hums an unfamiliar tune under her breath. Bow just seems to be reveling in the regained ability to phase through walls, now that she’s in a place without Marshmallow’s strictly enforced rules. She does flips between floors and waves her hands through walls with a smirk, although like she said it’s impossible for her to get too far from Apple. All of her actions are done in front of Marshmallow, and every time her finger as much as grazes the wall, she throws a glance her way, as if trying to impress her. Well, that is kind of sweet, if nothing else.

Apple examines each room with wide, fascinated eyes, twirling pencils between her fingers like she’s never seen anything like it. Well, she tries to twirl the pencil between her fingers, but her lack of dexterity prompts it to slip between them and clatter against a nearby desk again and again. “They’re used for writing?” she echoes upon hearing Marshmallow’s explanation. “Wow! Back home we use ink and quills, whatever those are.”

She can’t help but laugh softly, pressing her fingers to her mouth as she tries to stifle a grin. God, the other woman is so adorable at times. “Back home…” she echoes. She doesn’t have a clue what it’s like, other than the fact that magic is real there and that things like TV and pencils don’t exist there. She’s kind of imagining it as being like medieval Europe. “Do you miss it at all?”

“Hm…” Apple takes a second to think. “I miss traveling with Lightbulb and Fan. They were always so sweet! But, uh, my home itself…? I dunno.” She looks glum for a moment, and Bow crosses her arms, an unreadable expression on her face. After a moment, Apple forces herself to cheer up, expression turning determined. “Besides, being here is like a big adventure! It’s a lot of fun! I guess I’ll have to go back home eventually… I can’t just leave my brother on his own. But for now, I’m enjoying being here with you!” 

The other woman’s wide, dazzling grin makes her face turn red. She’s silent for a moment, sputtering for a moment or two, before swallowing and forcing herself to continue, ignoring how flustered she is. “So what were things like for you back home, then?” Marshmallow can’t help but prompt. Bow shoots her a sidelong scolding look, but she doesn’t back down. She doesn’t think she’s capable of it. If nothing else, she has no interest in shying away from asking a question. “Good? Bad? I mean, if you don’t really mind being here, I guess I have my answer. Still, though, ending up in another dimension must feel lonely for you. Isn’t it all so, um, different?” She knows she’s rambling, but she’s just trying to distract herself from her sheepishness.

Apple takes a long time to answer, which is unexpected. She got the sense that the woman rattled off anything that was the first to come to mind. Thinking like this, especially for so long and so solemnly, is a surprise, but not necessarily a bad one. Finally, she swallows and says “Well, it’s not the first time our group has gotten ourselves into trouble,” she explains, pulling at the tattered sleeves of her red robe.

“Yeah,” Bow adds with a groan, spinning in the air before resting on her chest, back arched as she rests one hand on her cheek. “No matter what happens, those stupid mercenaries always bounce back! They were eaten by a dragon one time, and carved themselves out of his chest like nothing had even happened! Can’t they just roll over and die so I can be free?!” She pulls at her pigtails in obvious frustration, cheeks puffed out. Marshmallow can’t help but huff out a laugh. It’s not the first time she’s heard the ghost express her frustration toward Apple and her group, whoever they are, but wishing death upon her and her friends is a bit excessive, isn’t it?

“What did I say about wishing death upon us, Bow?” Apple scolds, waggling a finger at her with a frustrated expression. The ghost doesn’t say anything, she just scowls.

Marshmallow can’t help but tilt her head, absentmindedly pulling at the scarf wrapped around her throat. “I don’t really know how anything in your world works,” she begins sheepishly, a nervous preface to her next string of words. “But I was wondering, what do you do, back home? I-I know you’re a necromancer, you don’t have to explain to me all the nuances of that again, but is that a job, or…?”

“Oh, no!” she chirps, shaking her head. “Me and Bow are members of the Bright Light mercenary group! We travel across the kingdom taking all sorts of odd jobs and hiring ourselves out to anyone who needs us! We don’t usually have a lot of money… Lightbulb and Fan have a habit of throwing their money at anything that catches their interest…” She trails off, and Marshmallow can’t help but wonder if she’ll actually finish that sentence or not. She throws her a sidelong look, and after a moment, catching her eye, Apple straightens to attention, eyes going wide. “Oh, don’t worry! We’re great at bartering, if nothing else! Even if…”

This time, her trailing off feels less like she’s lost in thought and more… pained. Her face is all scrunched up as she grips tightly on the tied up knot on her cloak, and her shoulders are tightly bunched up. Marshmallow gets the sense that this isn’t something she should ask about. Even if that gut feeling wasn’t present, Bow’s frigid glare, pupils narrowed to slits would have been more than enough to make it obvious that this is something she should leave. But she’s gained nothing from shrinking away from things, so she asks anyway. “Even if what?” she prompts.

Bow groans, spinning through the air as she buries her face in her hands in mortification. Apple just sighs, turning away from the both of them as she squares her shoulders. It’s impossible to see the expression on her face from this angle. “I guess I shouldn’t assume things, whatever that means,” she mumbles, tucking a strand of russet red hair behind her ear as she rolls on her heels. “You guys don’t even have magic here, after all. So I was wondering… what does your world think of necromancers, if they’re a thing here?”

“Oh? Uh…” Marshmallow hadn’t been expecting the question, and she blinks hard several times in quick succession in an effort to refocus. “It’s definitely more of a fiction thing. It’s probably a class in DnD, not that I’ve ever played it? And, um-“ She cuts herself off by slapped herself on the cheeks, exasperated. “Sorry. That’s definitely not helpful. I mean, necromancers raise and control the dead and things like that. It’s not exactly something viewed as good or heroic. But at the same time… I think it all depends on how someone uses that sort of thing, y’know? It’s not the power itself that defines you, it’s what you do with it.”

Apple doesn’t say a word. She just remains in the dead center of the hallway, frozen and motionless as her arms wrap tightly around her chest. Bow sighs, floating over to Marshmallow with no small amount of exasperation. “Listen, Graham Cracker, she dismissively begins. “You don’t have a clue how magic works in our world, do you?”

“I know it exists at all?” she says nervously.

“Wow, amazing, truly the paragon of research over here,” the ghost scoffs in reply, mocking and dismissing. Marshmallow feels her cheeks heat as she looks away, embarrassed. “Fine, fine, listen up! Our world is divided into two categories. Either you have magic, or you don’t. If you’re born with the capability for magic, you can only ever specialize in the one type. Your body isn’t capable of learning anything else. The three idiots in that mercenary group all have innate magic. Kumquat’s a necromancer, Lamp’s a cleric, and Air Conditioning’s a bard. But me? I was born without any magic at all.”

Marshmallow can take a guess as to where this is going. When there are lines drawn, people will always use it as an excuse to consider themselves as being better. She can just imagine it, those with innate magic trying to put themselves above those without. “Okay,” she says to show that she’s listening. And then, not able to help herself, she hastily adds “Was that… unpleasant for you, being without something others have?”

“Ha!” Bow shrieks in reply, the sound echoing through the hallways and rooms with open doors. “Nah. Those born without magic are a lot more common. And the people who do have magic… Let’s just say the most notorious people in our kingdom were all mages in some form. It creates a stigma, y’know? If you have magic, you’ll become evil. So how do you think people treated necromancers, those who dealt with death? Exorcising ghosts and binding them to their service is an important part of their work, but it’s not the only thing they can do.”

“Can they raise the dead?” she asks, faintly fascinated by the macabre idea. She has no reason to be interested in it, of course. She hasn’t lost anyone dear to her. But imagining those who are supposed to be dead walking around like nothing had even happened… The power is as fascinating as it is dangerous.

“Nothing like that,” Apple insists, speaking up after minutes of silence. “Most mages are capable of making constructs. Drawing things from the environment around them to make a sentient servant. Depending on your power, the more… uh… human isn’t the right word, but it’s the only one I’ve got. Most mages use rocks and leaves and things like that, but necromancers use…” She swallows, looking ashamed. “They use skeletons. Obviously that’s not something people… like. I, um…” And then she trails off once more, fidgeting in pained discomfort. This time, she doesn’t gather the courage to finish. She just stands there, looking terribly guilty for something she would never obviously do.

But even if she did… “So what?” Marshmallow replies, voice sounding a bit more frustrated than she had intended. She hopes Apple can tell it isn’t directed at her. “Sure, some people may view it as wrong or whatever, but there’s nothing forcing you to use corpses as, uh…” Damn it, she’s already forgotten the word. “Servants or whatever. And even if you did, so what? Why should anyone other than you have a say in how you use your power? Do you find that fair?”

“Of course not!” Apple cries, hands pressed tightly against her chest as she stares at the floor. “None of it is fair. I didn’t ask to be born as a necromancer! But I was! Me and my brother are both-!” She swallows. It’s so strange seeing someone so usually upbeat now so angry, but Marshmallow shouldn’t be surprised. “And I spend so much of my time trying to be as helpful as possible, doing what I can to try to change how people view necromancers, one action at a time, but it’s never enough! I’m nice because I have to be, but I’m so tired of it!”

God, does Marshmallow empathize with that. Trying to make yourself as small and inoffensive as possible to try to redeem yourself to people who will hate you regardless, and the anger that bubbles under your skin more and more the longer you sacrifice parts of yourself for people who will never respect you as you are. God, high school was such a miserable nightmare, mostly because of Knife. The man’s never ending cruelty left its mark on her in more ways than one, and yet all the time she had tried to defend herself in high school were times she was treated as the bad guy. At least back then she had Paintbrush to rant and ramble to, but these days she’s lucky if they remember she exists. That's what it feels like, anyway.

And she feels bad for resenting Paintbrush in the slightest, and she feels even worse for not resenting Knife enough. But the anger that’s been running through her veins long enough for it to become a permanent fixture won’t be solved in a day, no matter how much leeway she’s given. And Apple, who has to fight against an inherent, systemic injustice has it far worse than she ever could. Marshmallow wishes she was capable of making things better in an instant, just so the typical wide, infectious smile could settle back onto Apple’s face and Marshmallow could find herself smiling as well, just because she was there, right next to her. 

For now, though, she can do this. She fumbles awkwardly until she manages to grab Apple’s hand. “I understand,” she insists. “Don’t feel bad for feeling angry. Don’t feel bad for feeling like you have to fight against the world, either! Because I know damn well that you aren’t like how others view you to be, and if any other necromancers fall into that stereotype, maybe your world was asking for it.” She lets out an annoyed scoff as she speaks, the injustice of it all enough to make her blood boil. How could anyone ever look at Apple, so innocent and kind, and act as if she was the devil herself just for having some sort of power over death? Why does any of it matter? 

Neither of them will be perfect victims. They won’t kneel under the weight of their suffering, giving into their own powerlessness as they wait for someone to come along and save them. They’ll fight, one way or another. Honestly, Apple is much braver than Marshmallow could ever hope to be.

From there, the two of them say nothing more, both falling silent as the Marshmallow anxiously shoots Apple silent glances, waiting to see if she’ll continue the conversation, if she said anything wrong. But the other woman doesn’t even look at her, humming a quiet tune as she skips down the hall. Bow settles at Marshmallow’s side, floating peacefully. Catching her eye, she spins one finger next to her head, expression derisive. Marshmallow just scoffs, looking away. Poking fun at Apple was hardly fair, not when she was so good and kind even with everything she had to put up with.

“Do you want to head back to my dorm?” she warily calls after Apple as the other woman comes to a stop in front of a stairwell, peering down it.

“Sounds good!” she chirps in response, giving her a mock salute as the two catch up and stop in front of her. “Hey, Marshmallow!” Apple calls as the two of them make their way down the stairwell, Bow trailing behind them. Marshmallow pauses, glancing over her shoulder as she leans against the railing snaking around the stairs. “Um… Thank you.” She’s sheepish and nervous as she stares at her lap, as if she’s afraid to meet her eyes. Her cheeks are dusted red, and the small smile on her face brings out her dimple in full force. She could probably stare at the other woman’s face forever, reveling in all the nuances she discovers within it, but she should probably try to think of a reply, shouldn’t she?

“For what?” she replies with a frown, tilting her head in bemusement. “I didn’t really do much. Except, um, make you uncomfortable.” She sheepishly pulls at the scarf wrapped around her neck.

“No, you didn’t!” Apple squawks, waving her hands in the air with determined vigor. “Look, I…” She lets out a sigh, rubbing at the back of her neck. “I love Lightbulb and Fan! It’s been amazing traveling with them! Sometimes it feels like they’re the only ones who will accept me. But they… I dunno. I guess they’re pretty clueless about how people treat necromancers? They never talk about it with me. I don’t think they notice it. And even if they do, I…” She scowls, chewing on the side of her cheek. “I guess they’re too scared to talk about it.”

Marshmallow can’t help but smile wryly, morbidly amused. “Part of the reason I explore this place to begin with is because I want to see proof that it’s haunted,” she replies, leaning against the railing. “And hey, I did get my wish.” She gestures toward Bow, who tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she grins wickedly wide. “If I’m not scared of something like ghosts, why would I be scared of talking about your life with you? Especially because you seemed like you wanted to talk about it.”

“Well, I guess not everyone is like that,” Apple huffs in response. “Some people are more worried about not hurting my feelings. But you’re honest, y’know? It doesn’t feel like you’re lying to me or anything! You’re willing to tackle things head on, whatever that means! So thanks! Really! I mean it.” She ducks her head, expression steely and unyielding. Marshmallow just sheepishly scratches at her cheek. She doesn’t think she deserves praise at all, but if Apple is so determined to offer her some, then she’ll shut up and accept it.

From there, they leave the building and trudge across the courtyard in silence, but the silence feels much less heavy now. Marshmallow can’t help but feel relieved. At least she managed to do something, hadn’t she? It was enough to make Apple turn and thank her, at any rate.

They continue to walk in this easy, weightless silence before a voice belonging to none of them currently making their way back to the dorms pierces the silence.

“Apple?” calls a feminine voice, sudden and unexpected. The woman in question jumps as she hears her name, head swiveling around slowly as she tries to find the source. 

Finally, Bow manifests, the temperature dropping several degrees, and rolls her eyes as she jumps into Apple’s body. The woman’s beautiful forest green eyes become rimmed with pink, and a disdainful expression settles onto her face that looks entirely foreign on Apple’s soft, friendly features. “Oh my God, Kumquat, she’s over there!” snaps Bow’s voice as Apple’s head snaps to the side. Right after the words leave her mouth, Bow drifts back up into the air, arms crossed as she silently steams.

For a moment, all Apple does is blink slowly, looking confused, but she straightens to attention as she spots someone. Judging by the expression of relief that settles on her face, Marshmallow supposes it’s someone familiar? “Thanks, Bow!” she chirps, grinning widely before running off like a maniac. The ghost lets out a startled yelp and is quick to trail after her, seemingly testing the bounds of her binding. It’s like when a child drags their feet because they’re mad at their parents. “Lightbulb!” she yells as she runs, before stopping right in front of her, skidding to such a hasty stop that they nearly fall over one another.

“Woah there!” the woman replies. Without anything else to do, Marshmallow follows after Bow, stopping right behind Apple. “Great seeing you again, Apps!” she chirps, a wide grin on her face. Between her sunny blonde locks curling into a vague afro, a small bun atop her head, dark sun kissed skin, and the way her eyes crinkle with such easy joy, Marshmallow can’t help but think that the woman is the sun incarnate. “How have you been?”

“Great, whatever that means!” Apple replies exuberantly, hands spread out as she grins. “Bow’s been causing some trouble, but it’s nothing I can’t handle! Did you find me with one of Fan’s tracking spells?”

In response, Lightbulb steps aside, revealing three people. One is a strange man with red hair and yellow highlights, staggering over his feet awkwardly as a decidedly familiar woman with dark skin and dreadlocks highlighted at the end reaches to steady him. “Worth it to find you, don’t worry,” he calls, sounding woozy.

“Ugh, what are we, team Magical Exhaustion?” Bow scoffs as she floats forward, hovering somewhere at Apple’s shoulder with an annoyed expression. “We’ll all be worthless if we deplete our magic stores faster than we can replenish them. That Fajita girl will get the jump on us in an instant, and then you’ll all be joining the afterlife with me!”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been saying you want for the past two hours?” Marshmallow can’t help but mutter, arms crossed.

Bow pauses to consider this, before lighting up. “Oh, yeah, you’re right! Carry on then,” she says dismissively, flipping through the air. The woman steadying Fan stares up at her, fascination dancing in her neon green eyes, so different from Apple’s. But the other person-

Ah. Shit. Just her luck, isn’t it? It’s not like she’s mad to see them, considering that the two of them are rather good friends, and there aren’t a lot of things that can make her feel outright disdainful toward them even if she can’t help but feel as if she’s being replaced by their shiny new girlfriend. She’s just grappling with her own shit, and is frustrated with them for never supporting her even though she never vocalized that she had needed help to begin with. It doesn’t make sense, but it was never supposed to, not when she’s in her slump.

Raising a hand in an awkward half-wave, she readies herself for ages of scolding. “Hey, Paintbrush,” she says with a sigh.

Paintbrush doesn’t do anything for a long moment, and for a moment she wonders if she’ll be able to get off scot free.

And then she hears a quiet intake of breath, and that’s her only indication of the storm before it comes to her in a rush of words.

— — —

Silver Spoon is beginning to think his hypothesis may be wrong.

If he had been correct about the woman appearing only when he finds himself in mental turmoil, shouldn’t she have reappeared already? So far, his time in America has consisted of nothing but travesty after travesty, that sadness occasionally neatly broken up by Paintbrush in fleeting yet relieving gaps only for them to leave permanently and leave his heart as nothing more than a shattered husk, twisted into pieces. He misses them desperately, but if nothing else the pain has faded to a dull ache by now, occasionally throbbing at his side to remind him of his grief.

He knows him being miserable is less a product of his time in America and more a product of his life in general. After all, his life in Britain hadn’t been much better either. Most of it consisted of keeping his head down, trying in vain to please his parents, and feeling the way his gut twisted into knots over his fear of what he truly was being discovered.

Things would have been fine if he had just kept his knowledge to himself. He knows he’s the only one who can be blamed for his parents outright, disgusted rejection, his relatively penniless existence (he works as a cashier in his free time! Truly ridiculous, desperately scrounging for money alongside the unwashed masses. He’s supposed to be better than that, as decreed by what he was born into). If he had just ducked his head and bit his tongue like he had done for nearly all of his life, aware of what he was even if he was scared to put it into words, then he would be living a prosperous life, with both independence for himself and support from his parents.

Unfortunately for him, the circumstances in which he had hastily blurted his true nature were… far from ideal. Of course, preferably, those circumstances wouldn’t have occurred at all, but even then, he knows better than to have lofty expectations. Because his parents are just as strong willed as he himself is (he had to get it from somewhere, in the end), and any arguments between the three of them are quick to devolve into using any sort of leverage they have at their disposal to get ahead.

Of course, this is far from uncommon in any of their lives. At their status, there are plenty of people who seek to tear them down, whether it be due to some petty personal grudge or due to them being at the same status and loathing competition as much as they themselves do. Showing the various trump cards in their hands is a fantastic way to quickly de-escalate any conflict, allowing for the fools who had challenged them to reevaluate their priorities and quickly decide to back down.

Even during petty family squabbles, all of them hang on to their pride. Losing, whether it be to a know-it-all parent or a bratty child, is a slight none of them would be willing to accept. So they fight and butt heads and do everything in their power to win, and they pull out everything they have to do so. Even with his stubbornness and his haughtiness, something as innate to him as his superiority to others, he knew better than to let that get ahead of his sanity.

He’s never won an argument against his parents. Of course he hasn’t. They’ve lived in a world where no one can be trusted and every person is a competitor out to get them, even those introduced as a family friend. They distrust so easily he wouldn’t be surprised if the opposite feeling was entirely foreign to them. And Silver Spoon… was naive. Is still naive. He had a trust in his parents they didn’t have for him, didn’t have for each other.

Sure, he kept his secret of what he was tucked close to his chest where no one would have to look upon it and shudder in distaste. Even without anyone to say it outright, he knew what he was… was something dirty. Wrong. Shame came just as easily as pride, but somehow the desire to become what he dreamed to be felt all the more disquieting.

By now, the argument itself is sand on the wind, fleeting and falling through his fingers even if he tries to reach for it. The contents of the argument don’t matter as much as what it had resulted in, anyway. He just gets the feeling that it was something petty and entirely pointless, and knowing that stings bitterly. Had trying to win against his parents been worth playing his hand overzealously like he had? Maybe he just didn’t want to feel so small compared to his towering giants of parents.

The argument had shifted from the original topic to that of his own independence. He had intended to graduate early, of course; it wouldn’t do to continue to ingratiate himself to foolish mouthbreathers who someone of his wealth and lineage should have nothing to do with. He would be off to study abroad, study different markets, accumulate degrees and return in prestige.

All of that had always been expected of him, of course. It was practically a family tradition at this point. They would not be fools, spurning education and trusting in their confidence to sustain them. They had a trust in their own abilities, of course, but they also valued the worth of knowledge and education, so away Silver Spoon would go to obtain a degree. When he returned, he would immediately be prepared to take over the business, learning all of the ins and outs before taking the reins in his early thirties. A successful, predictable path offered to him, and one he was always willing to walk with his head raised and stride confident.

Except for whatever reason, his parents were doubtful about him leaving to study abroad. They had been pushing for him to stay in England, to attend someplace like Cambridge or Oxford. Prestigious universities, of course, worthy of his family’s name, but to be honest, he had been hoping he would get to go somewhere out of his parents’ line of sight. For as long as he remained near them, he knew he would have to continue to live a lie, and he couldn’t do that. He just didn’t have the strength for it.

They had brought the topic up time and time again, growing more pushy each time. So, of course, it stood to reason that any argument would eventually devolve back into this topic eventually, especially given the length of their arguments once they got the chance to get going. Likely not something to boast about, but, well, it is a notable quality about their family, is it not?

Regardless, when the conversation turned to this topic with a weary inevitability he really should have accepted, he fought for his side with the fiery determination he always brought to any conversation. Many things could be said about him, but casting doubt on the strength of his convictions was something he would not accept.

“It’s ridiculous you intend to keep me here during my college years!” he had barked, bristling. “I will not cast shame on our family by forsaking our traditions, and studying abroad has always been one of them!”

“You can receive a much better education back home,” his father had said dismissively, not even looking up at him as he spoke. He had been filling out some paperwork, and the complete disinterest in Silver Spoon made him feel small. Then again, around his parents, that was nothing new. “Either way, your insistence on going to America is ridiculous. Surely you do not need to go so far away.”

He certainly did need to go so far away, although it’s not as if he could state his reasons why outright. He wanted to be free to live however he wanted, outside of his parents’ grasp. He could pull his hair back instead of having it spill over his shoulders! He could wear pants in public, and maybe they wouldn’t even be dress pants! He could hear the name he decided on years ago spoken aloud by people other than him! America felt like a playground to him. Land of the free, indeed, so long as the freedom entailed prying himself away from the controlling grasp of his parents and living the way he had always wanted to.

“I would like to go there because of the distance, Father,” he had said curtly, hands clasped together. “The markets there are entirely different, after all. It would be a good study to see how I could ensure our products sell better there.”

“You and I both know your father wants the best for you, sweetie,” his mother had cooed. “He’s just worrying how you’ll fare so far away.”

“I believe you’ll find I’ll do just fine,” he had snapped coldly, arms pressed tightly against his back.

“Is there a reason you’re so insistent on going to America, of all places?” his father had asked, finally looking up from his damned papers to glare at him sharply. His eyes were the same cold bluish-gray as Silver Spoon’s himself were, to the point where he found himself disconcerted whenever he looked in the mirror. It was as if he was stuck under his father’s thumb all over again. “You’re far too determined for this to be some whim of yours, and we both know that you don’t care about tradition.” He said that so matter-of-fact, as if he could see straight through Silver Spoon. He takes comfort in the fact that the man couldn’t, because otherwise his life would have been far worse.

“Because I want to live!” he had yelled, too driven by anger and single minded determination to be conscious of the words flying from his mouth. “I want to become the man I was born to be! And goddamn it, I’m tired of being forced into those damned frilly dresses!” After he had drawn to a stop, breathing heavily, he had been satisfied. Can you imagine? He had really thought he had done something there. But when he became fully aware of the words that he had thrown forward on nothing more than a whim, he had stopped cold.

There were a lot of things his parents could have said. Realistically, it was nothing good, but there was still an ember of hope flickering in his chest that they would be good and kind to him. He was still their child, surely they would at least consider acceptance? But the looks on their faces made him wary and hesitant. Then and there, he decided he wouldn’t wait to hear their judgment. He wasn’t willing for his hopes to be dashed, not yet. So he fled. No, that makes him sound cowardly. He made a tactical retreat.

Either way, when he had stormed up to his room, he had made a pile of pleated skirts and frilly dresses and ruffled blouses and all sorts of things that he had to be forced into by his parents in the past. If the truth was to be out there in the world, he might as well take advantage of it and discard all of the clothing in his wardrobe he has an abject distaste for, just to make things easier on himself.

Despite his parents and their passive-aggressive tendency to gift him things that will force him back to their ideal of respectable, well-bred young lady, he had no interest in allowing himself to be crammed into a box when he had already announced that he possessed a key, the perfect gift to allow him to finally taste freedom, sugary-sweet as it rests on his tongue.

And then he had fled to America, remaining in that house for any longer becoming unbearable, and his parents had cut him off, and he had found a reprieve in Paintbrush until he hadn’t, and now he’s here. Quite the tumultuous course of events, so it’s no surprise he’s miserable. For once, he had wanted that fact to work to his advantage so he would be able to meet the woman once more, but she’s so scarce he’s beginning to wonder if he had imagined his second encounter with her, as if she were nothing more than a mirage in the desert.

Beginning to lose hope, he begins to put together a plan. He knows very little about the woman. She’s gorgeous, with her rich purple hair and dark skin. Her outfit is strange, a leather vest, flowy vest, and a skirt that goes past her knees, loose enough to not constrain her movement at all. Easily the most noticeable part of her outfit is a belt with several small pouches attached to it, although who knows what’s in them. She also seems to have a penchant for helping people in need, judging by her helping Silver Spoon breathe for no other reason than him struggling.

That tendency didn’t just extend to him, though. After all, his last encounter with her had been her assisting Yin-Yang, just as much on a whim as it had been with him. They seemed to have some level of familiarity with her, or maybe they’re just the friendly type. So when all else fails and the woman disappears like a beautiful, ethereal specter, he decides to follow the few leads he does have.

He’s not particularly a fan of the idea of opening his parents' social media back up and spurring himself into another mental breakdown, nor does he want to go back into the library and start arguing again with Cabby. So he might as well use the tools he does have to his advantage to get ahead. Yet another lesson his parents had taught him, although that one was usually paired with the statement to do whatever it took for him to get ahead.

Yin-Yang will tell him about the woman and everything the two know about her, he vows. He won’t accept anything less. Luckily for him, they do share a class. Better yet, the two seem to be in a good mood. They weren’t disruptive in the slightest during instruction, not that it mattered. Focusing was a nightmare either way, not when he had so much on his mind.

Skulking around the door makes him feel awkward, like some untoward ne'er-do-well intending to ambush their next target. Swallowing, he holds himself as straight as he can, head raised, hoping that his noble lineage becomes evident to any observers. Finally, after some waiting, Yin-Yang exits the classroom, backpack hanging off one shoulder. It’s hard to see who’s currently fronting. All he can do is hope it’s their more sensible half.

“Excuse me!” he calls, stepping forward in the other man’s path. They come to a stop and stare up at Silver Spoon, with a distinctly unimpressed expression.

“Yes?” prompts a soft if not bored sounding voice. He recognizes it to be Yin’s polite tenor, the one that asks the professor questions whenever his hand raises. He would have expected the man to show more respect; he expected irreverence from Yang, of course, but isn’t Yin’s gaze refined enough to see his nobility? He stands up even straighter, wondering if he’s slouching too much for his refinement to become evident.

“My sincerest apologies for bothering you,” he says, pouring out each syllable earnestly. “It’s simply that I have reason to believe you know a woman I’ve been trying to talk to.” Yin doesn’t look interested, per say, but he shoots Silver Spoon a look that may as well say go on outright. “She has purple hair and dark skin. We do not share classes, which makes it difficult to talk to her, but I wanted-”

Before he can finish, Yin leans forward. As he does so, his glasses fall down the bridge of his nose, becoming perched on the edge. His eyes are now visible, and just as Silver Spoon meets them, the man grits his teeth, standing on the tips of his toes so the height disparity isn’t as evident. If anything, though, the motion makes it all the more obvious. His countenance has become aggressive in the blink of an eye. Ah, so there’s Yang. To be honest, he was hoping he wouldn’t have to deal with the man at all.

“We won’t let you do anything bad to Candle!” Yang growls, voice raspy. He seems to be on the verge of lunging forward and going for his throat. Silver Spoon swallows in discomfort and adjusts his jabot even as he knows the thin fabric won’t protect him from sharp teeth. Well, it can’t be said that he didn’t try.

“I have no interest in “d-doing anything”, as you put it!” he sputters in protest, hands raised defensively. “I simply wanted to discuss matters with her! To thank her, even! As a matter of fact, she helped me out, same as you! As I’m indebted to her, I want to at least try to repay her.” Yang doesn’t say anything, he just bares his teeth at Silver Spoon, which makes him squeak in dismay and quickly continue “Of course, if you’re not feeling particularly sociable, I’m sure I can figure things out on my own!”

For all of his planning, he certainly hadn’t been expecting Yin-Yang to be so… disagreeable. Or maybe Yang is the disagreeable one, but Yin certainly isn’t doing anything to reign him in. For as much as he would like to see the woman again, he certainly wouldn’t like it to be at the cost of his safety! How can he say that logically, neither of them are going to hurt him when all logic goes out the window with them?!

Yang growls before reaching up to his glasses and pushing them up the bridge of his nose. As they settle higher on his face, a glare flits over the lenses, making it difficult to make out his eyes. Yin, then. “Even if that was the truth,” he says flatly, arms crossed as he tilts his head. “Neither of us exactly like you. You’re pompous, smug, and are probably looking down on us right now.”

Silver Spoon sputters, trying to piece together a defense for himself, but before he does, Yin ducks his head, glasses sliding back down his nose. When his head raises, his eyes are wide and his teeth grit, fiery aggression as opposed to the previous apathetic distaste. “If you’re so confident, find her yourself!” Yang snaps. “What do you need us, uh…” He trails off, face scrunched up, before snapping to attention. “Us idiots for?!”

“I would hardly use such an undignified word!” he nervously sputters, running his hands through the folds of his pants. The sudden, sharp hostility is disorienting, and he has no clue how to combat it.

The man laughs, the sound explosive and unkind. The laughter abruptly cuts off as he pushes his glasses back up his nose, left with only Yin’s blank, unimpressed expression. “You’re right. You seem like the type to prefer using the word mouthbreathers to insult people.” he says flatly, readjusting his bag. “We’re leaving,” he announces a second later, and Silver Spoon has little will to try to stop him. As he trudges away, though, he glances over his shoulder, the slant of his eyebrows oddly pitying. “If you’re so desperate to find her, go somewhere quiet, surrounded by nature,” he mutters. “She’s not going to come to you if you hang around the places you like.”

And with that, he’s gone, turning a corner with a huff. Silver Spoon watches his one lead walk away, not even trying to chase after him. He finds himself far too daunted by the man to be able to muster the courage to endure Yang’s explosive verbal lashing and Yin’s unimpressed glare. But if nothing else, he was given a hint of sorts, a helpful suggestion that might just work out.

Somewhere quiet, surrounded by nature? Did Yin mean somewhere on campus, or in the city? He truly hopes it’s the latter, because Los Angeles is massive, far more overwhelming to him than London was. Maybe it has something to do with being raised in the latter, and having all his life to get used to the bustle. Not to mention the cultural differences. He still finds it so strange that Americans have to refrigerate their eggs.

That’s beside the point! Although it’s ridiculous to expect the woman to be confined to one area, he decides to limit his search to the campus for the time being. Just because the scale of it is less overwhelming and, well, actually doable. Quiet nature areas on campus… Most of it is paved paths and towering buildings. He doesn’t think there’s anywhere that’s truly quiet.

Except, wait a second! He straightens, eyes widening as he remembers the abandoned building tucked away at the edges of campus. It’s inconvenient for most to get to, and the surrounding greenery have become pretty overgrown with the lack of upkeep to the area. If there were any place that someone who enjoys quiet and nature would be, it would have to be around there! For as loud Yang was and as cold Yin was, the two managed to be helpful after all.

With a new spring to his step, he confidently strides across campus, head raised. As he does so, he spots… Paintbrush. Of all people. They’re holding the hand of a woman a bit shorter than they are, with dark skin and darker hair. The ends of her dreadlocks are dyed bright, piercing green, and her eyes, the same color, carry such a glint of intelligence that he feels inadequate.

Leading the way are two people. One a woman with curly blonde hair, and the other a man with red and yellow hair. They’re dressed just as strangely as the woman he’s doggedly searching for. Paintbrush looks irritated, calling out something that he struggles to make out. But then they turn and meet the eyes of the woman whose hand they’re holding, and their gaze goes soft in a way he’s been lucky to see directed at him.

Ah. He gets it. He’s been replaced.

…He can't let himself get distracted. He moves on and hopes he’s lucky enough to remain unspotted.

When he reaches the abandoned building, he begins to circle the perimeter, spotting a cluster of trees that look promising. They form a circle of sorts, a small boulder and a flat, grassy plain in the center of it. Sitting with her back to him, legs crossed and hands resting atop her knees, is the woman he’s been looking for.

Unable to help it, he takes a sharp intake of breath, finding himself stunned. The moment the sound leaves his mouth, the woman straightens, and she climbs to her feet. She waits a moment before turning to look over her shoulder, and when she does, her eyes are so kind, knowing, and piercing that he finds himself rooted to the spot.

The woman smiles serenely at him, and he finds himself tempted to reach forward and have his fingers graze her, just to feel her underneath his fingertips and prove to himself that she is indeed real. But he doesn’t do that, because that would be weird.

“I’ve heard you’ve been looking for me?” she prompts, voice lilting and musical as she raises a single eyebrow at him.

“Y-Yes! Well, I…” he awkwardly sputters. If his parents were here, they would have long dragged him out by the ear, scolding him under his breath. For all the times he had run through this conversation in his mind, he had always been calm and collected, eloquent and elegant with each word. But being placed in front of the woman’s rich, placid brown eyes as she stares politely at him is enough to make him tongue tied. “I hadn’t thanked you. When you helped me calm down. And that was unacceptable for a gentleman like myself, so I…”

He trails off, pulling in discomfort at the white frilly jabot he typically wears around his neck. For as many times as he’s reinforced the person he is in his mind, he still can’t help the twinge of guilt he feels twisting in his gut, sharp and uncomfortable as he tastes the word gentleman on his tongue. It’s haughty and sharp and distinguished, a long word that rolls effortlessly off the tongue and soaks up unimaginable attention as it’s spoken aloud into a room. He much prefers it to the alternatives he was labelled with as he grew up.

Gentleman is certainly the correct word to refer to someone of his lineage and upbringing. His parents would certainly disagree, but by now he’s come to understand that disregarding their opinions on things is rather vital for his continued survival. Regardless, calling himself a gentleman in isolation, testing the word on his tongue and shuddering at the thrill of euphoria he feels, is entirely different from claiming himself to be one to another. Half of him expects the woman to see right through him in an instant, calling him out for the liar he is.

Instead, she just smiles kindly, hands clasped in front of her. “I see,” she says liltingly. “That’s certainly kind of you. I do not help others because I expect thanks, nor did I expect you to go through these lengths to find me, but your effort is more than appreciated. My name is Candle.” She offers him her hand, and he’s quick to take it.

“Silver Spoon,” he says, realizing half way through his introduction that his voice is disquietingly high. He tries to drop it, but that just makes him sound terribly strange. As his cheeks flush in embarrassment, he coughs into his elbow, trying to pass it off as nothing more than something in his throat. “It’s, ah, a pleasure. I had intended to seek you out first and foremost to thank you, of course, but if you have no complaints, perhaps the two of us could spend some time together.”

He gets the distinct sensation that he’s–and pardon his language here– bungling this. He’s not sure why. Sure, his tone isn’t level and smooth, and his voice is rather pitchy, and when he had shook Candle’s hand his own was caked in sweat, which is simply unacceptable, but he has yet to do something that’s an affront to all the etiquette lessons that may as well be engraved into his brain by now.

Candle just smiles at him, hands clasped in front of her as she ever-so-slightly tilts her head. She has a spark of interest in her eyes, but her body language never gives away more than that. If it weren’t for her odd attire and hypnotically startling eyes, he would mistake her for being a member of high society just as he is. Maybe in the right clothes, he could bring her back to his parents, and they might-?

Ugh, this is a pointless train of thought. He knows he should give up on his goals of making his parents proud outright. As things are, it just isn’t in the cards. They’d be happy if he brought home a respectable young man and went back to being their daughter, seen but never heard, but that’s the only way they’d be happy. Even if he became a respectable young man himself, no, especially if he became a respectable young man, the only thing that would do is fuel his parents and their ire.

“Mmm,” the woman murmurs with a thoughtful hum as she begins to circle him. He swallows in discomfort as he straightens, hands clasped behind his back. He can’t help but shake the feeling that he’s being inspected. It’s not a feeling he’s unused to, per say. Every time his parents brought him with them to some upper class party as they rubbed elbows with people he had never met and will have never met again, they would shove him forward and introduce him, and they would look him over in a very similar way to how Candle was right now.

Except the look in her eyes is a lot more warm and thoughtful, as opposed to the sharp, typically judgmental looks he was branded with that became more piercing and disquieting as he grew up. Sometimes, he would think himself into circles, feeling on the verge of a breakdown as he hysterically wondered if they could see the secret he carried close to his breast with just one glance, not that his anxiety never showed on his face. He forced himself to be completely calm because any fear he showed would immediately cause him to be pounced on.

He’s nervous as he wonders what Candle is looking for from him. She looks at him with such intensity even as her expression remains calm and her eyes half lidded, circling him slowly as she brings a hand up to her chin. Finally, she comes to a stop right in front of him. His height, something he’s always prided himself over, feels like it means nothing as her eyes flit up to his face.

“Yes,” she concludes with a nod. “You’ll do quite nicely. Follow me.” She smiles at him as she walks forward, brushing against his arm as she does so. She begins to walk down the courtyard, rich purple hair catching in the light and having an angelic glint to it.

Because he spent so much time looking for her, and because he’s desperate to fill up this void in his chest, and maybe because he’s a fool who looks toward others to make him feel better about himself, he follows unflinchingly.

— — —

Microphone scuffs at the ground with the sole of her thick combat boot as she shoots Taco anxious glances, unsure how to feel around the woman. If nothing else, she isn’t sick anymore, so, uh, yay…? She didn’t really have a clue what to do with the loopy, feverish woman, so different from the cold, composed woman she had slowly begun to get used to. Not to mention her apparently mistaking her for a friend while in her disoriented state, which was awkward.

Taco had been guilty and clingy and desperate for her not to leave as she babbled out apologies underneath her breath, even as the words had long since faded to incoherent strings of sound. She had clung to Microphone’s chest like a baby koala for nearly an hour before finally drifting off to sleep, grip slackening as she settled herself in the crook of Microphone’s arm. When the time had finally come for her to leave, she had cautiously lifted and lowered the woman into a couch cushion, holding her breath and then letting it out in a relieved gasp of air when she had only shifted in place for a moment, not showing any signs of waking up.

She had spent her classes and closing shift at work distracted and antsy, lost in thought as she worried over Taco. She knew her concerns were stupid. She had just met Taco, and it was obvious that the woman had nothing but disdain for her. The only time that emotion ebbed was when she had mistaken her for someone else, and that had stung in an entirely different way.

From what she can tell, Taco is used to looking over her shoulder with every step she takes, scrutinizing each shadow with narrowed eyes and the beginnings of a snarl on her lips. She’s paranoid, and is used to running away from all sorts of things. She doesn’t have a clue what brought the woman to this dimension in the first place, but if the harrowed look in her eyes is anything to go by, she evidently doesn’t want to talk about it.

And, well, she won’t force it. That won’t help anything. She can be as morbidly curious as she likes, but it’s clear that not even admitting to what Taco had done during her worst and most feverish moments would probably just set her off. So lying to her when she had asked, although seemingly a nuclear option, had probably been for the better? Maybe? She’s no good at this whole “end justify the means” thing.

“Had I done anything… strange or out of sorts whilst I was in the throes of my fever?” Taco had prompted after she returned home from her closing shift. Her tone had probably–scratch that, definitely had been aiming for nonchalance, but her shoulders were far too tense to ever be convincing.

“Nothing that jumps out,” she had replied, deliberately not facing Taco so she didn’t have to see the pinched expression on her face as she crouched on the ground and unbuckled her boots. “You were, uh, mumbling things, but I couldn’t make most of it out.” Which was true, so she was able to look Taco in the eye as she said that one. The woman had relaxed, letting out a quiet breath as she ran a hand through her curly locks. She has yet to give an explanation for her black stained fingers, looking as if she had dipped them in ink.

Quickly, in an effort to stave off her own guilt, she had dug around her pockets and produced a container of hair gel. “I picked this up from the gas station on my way home,” she called, throwing it through the air and watching as Taco fumbled to catch it. “You can use it in your hair, if you like.”

The next morning, she had woken up to Taco, her hair slicked back in the same way it had been when she met her, and that had been that.

Despite the fact that she’s currently housing an interdimensional traveller, she doesn’t think her boss would think that to be a valid excuse to get off of work, meaning she still has to deal with that. The closing shift at the on-campus Panera Bread is dull, especially since she’s usually the only person there. Her brilliant idea to take Taco along with her had been more for the sake of not leaving her alone more than anything, but she seemed open to it, especially when she added that there were things she could flip through to find out more about the world she had crash landed into.

Magazines weren’t exactly the most… reliable methods of learning things, but it didn’t seem like either of them were complaining.

At the moment, Taco is sitting down on a stool facing the countertop, one hand absentmindedly poking at what’s left of her salad while the other flips through pages every three minutes or so. The included crotons have been left at the bottom of the bowl alongside small scraps of lettuce that don’t exactly lend well to being skewered by a fork. “So, what do you think?” Microphone prompts after a group of people finish eating and leave the restaurant. “About what you’ve learnt, I mean.”

“Your world is ridiculous and frivolous,” she replies with a scoff as she flips a page. “The only people in my world that have any level of renown are kings, gods, and those who do noteworthy deeds, whether good or not.” She looks a little uncomfortable as she says that. “But I’ve read through page after page of interviews and speculation about people whose deeds surely cannot be that great. Their skin is completely unblemished. Honestly, I doubt they’ve ever experienced any sort of hardship in their lives.”

“Is that how you judge if someone is worth respect? If their skin is clear or not?” she deadpans in response, arms crossed as she shifts her weight.

“Hardly. It’s just that knights who have slain dragons and vanquished enemies and things usually have some scars to prove it, or at least calloused hands that show you how they hold their weapon. But all of these people seem to be focused on being pretty.” She jabs at a page with her finger, the paper wrinkling under the force. “Ridiculous.”

“Well, if that’s how you judge people, you’re going to be sorely-” she begins. Midword, she hears the door open, and the moment the sound registers in her ears, the rest of her sentence dies on her tongue as she straightens, donning a plastic smile that makes her want to tear her face off. She knows that she’s lucky her manager isn’t strict about her piercings or jewelry or makeup, so she can still find ways to expression herself even in the bland uniform she’s stuck in, but having to constantly smile at every customer that comes her way feels like it chips away at her, surprisingly exhausting when she allows herself to properly acknowledge the feeling.

“Hello, welcome to Panera Bread, how can I-” She begins to rattle off her typical script, cursing all the assholes who decide to get fast food so late in the night, before coming to an abrupt stop when she recognizes the man standing in the doorway. Oh, thank god. If nothing else, he won’t give her a hard time. “Oh, hey Knife,” she says dryly, switching between personas on a dime. “You actually here to eat something, or just to lounge?” Usually patrons coming in and not ordering anything is discouraged, but Taco’s been here for the entirety of her shift with no food to speak of other than the freebies Microphone shoves her way, so it’s obvious she isn’t too strict about that.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead walking up to the counter and leaning against it, not moving to take a seat immediately. Seeing him always reminds her to straighten, since he’s only taller than her when she slouches. There’s a hard, faraway look in his eyes, but it becomes more centered as his eyes flick lazily toward Taco every so often. The motion makes her nervous, not that she can say why. There’s something sharp in his eyes, similar to the sensation of running your finger over the edge of a blade and trying not to cut yourself. She doesn’t want to know what’s on his mind, not if it concerns Taco.

Finally, he breaks the silence, absentmindedly running a hand through his slicked back silver hair as he does so. “Nickel and Balloon went missing this afternoon,” he says abruptly, and the content of the words themselves are enough to make her let out a choking sound. “Jeez, I really am the messenger boy for all of this, aren’t I? Pain in the ass… But I figured you should know, if nothing else, even if you’re not interested in talking with the two of them.”

Yeah, that’s one hell of an understatement. Still, though… “You can’t just tell me those two are missing and then not elaborate,” she sputters in dismay. “Don’t just leave me hanging.” So Knife explains, from everything to the blown up cafe to the fact that they weren’t found underneath the rubble once it was cleared out. Either they had been taken by someone or had left of their own volition. Either way, the police have had no luck finding them so far. Once Knife comes to a stop, she leans back, letting out a sigh. “Jeez,” she mutters, running a gloved hand over her face. “I don’t like Nickel, but I don’t want him to be dead in a ditch somewhere. I just hope the two of them aren’t together.”

“What, you don’t trust in their ability to get along?” Knife prompts, voice dripping in sarcasm that he had, as a matter of fact, unfortunately picked up from Nickel at some point along the way. “I thought they were just the best of friends.”

“If that cafe bomber or whatever the fuck happened there hadn’t killed the two of them, I think they’ll finish the job for them,” she wryly replies. Her time spent in Baseball’s friend group (although it should be considered Nickel’s friend group, more than anything. He has all the control in it, anyway) had been absolutely unbearable. Between constantly being shot annoyed looks for her occasional volume and told to calm down whenever she got excited about the things she liked, she always felt so stifled when with them. Cutting ties with them and staying on her own was the best decision she could have made, even if it gets lonely at times.

She had only hung around that group in the first place because of Soap. She had latched onto the other woman, sharing a good chunk of classes to the point where the two were destined to hit it off eventually. From there, she had brought her into the fold of the friend group she had found for herself in the first month of college. Trophy was awful and was thankfully cut off before his head could get any bigger, she had driven away Cheesy herself after blowing up at him (something she only kind of felt bad for) and Soap had… yeah. Baseball was more focused on keeping the peace, Nickel shoved around everyone he viewed as lesser, Suitcase was a sweetheart but was fighting a losing battle, and Balloon was treated like the devil for existing. Fun.

Even after Soap had transferred out, she had continued to hang around the group. The idea of branching out made her nervous, considering there was a very real chance she could end up only a few degrees of separation from Test Tube and have her life be a living nightmare for the next however long she kept that friendship up.

“Mmm,” he responds with a shrug. He keeps throwing sidelong glances at Taco, and although she tries to hide it, it’s obvious she’s glaring at him right back. “I got something pretty interesting while I was looking for the two of them with Suitcase. Found out something pretty interesting, too, but I think this is more important.” He produces a wadded up paper from his jacket paper and slides it across the counter for Microphone to see.

She readily takes it, expecting it to be a poster for a club she’d be interested in or something. The paper looks old and yellowed, but maybe that’s the aesthetic? As she picks it up, though, she feels her blood run cold when she sees the words “WANTED: TACO” written across the top in big lettering. “W-What is this?” she stammers, unable to keep the nervousness out of her voice as she raises her head.

Leaning forward to take it back, he shrugs. “It’s a wanted poster a bunch of crazies who looked like they were fresh out of some renaissance fair shoved in my face,” he says wryly, and in any other situation she would laugh. Unfortunately, she’s aware of a crazy person who looks like she’s out of a renaissance fair too, and she’s sitting right next to Knife. “What do you think?”

“I think it has nothing to do with me,” she mumbles in response, rubbing at the back of her neck as she looks away from him.

“Yeah? You sure?” Knife says, voice lazy and flat. “Because the woman you were talking to before I walked in here looks a hell of a lot like the one on this wanted poster.” He waves it in the air a bit for emphasis as his steely gaze remains locked on her, piercing and unnerving. She nervously swallows, absentmindedly pulling at the apron wrapped around her neck as she tries to not give anything away by glancing toward Taco with a wide eyed, nervous look.

“W-What do you mean?” she asks, although her words come out as an anxious squeak. She was never good at lying, voice always going high pitched with anxiety, but with all the pressure in this situation, her voice might as well be the equivalent to a tea kettle going off. “I mean, on that poster, her hair is super curly, but Ta- that customer, her hair is all flat. See?” She gestures over toward her for emphasis, and Knife follows her gaze. Taco seems unconcerned by the two wildly different pairs of eyes on her, tapping her fingers against the counter as she stares down at the magazine Microphone had offered her like it’s a fine novel.

“Sure, except I know hair gel when I see it, and the shitty lighting in here makes it super obvious that her hair is plastered in it,” he drawls in response, hand on his hip. “Besides, as dramatized as this poster is, they got the look in her eyes right.”

With a slow tilt of her head, Taco’s intense amber eyes become trained on Knife, and the man shifts in discomfort. He’s obviously as unnerved by the animalistic quality to her eyes as Microphone can be at times, but it’s obvious by his squared shoulders that he doesn’t see the other thing that makes her so fascinated by her eyes at times, a quality that she doesn’t think she’s capable of naming.

“I’m certain I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says haughtily, chin raised in disdain. It hardly has any effect, considering that Knife is taller than her even when she’s sitting on a raised stool, but there’s something about her eyes, like there always is, that makes her intimidating regardless. “As a matter of fact, I’m not even from this area. If that pitiful poster of yours was found here, I’m quite certain it means nothing of import. Good luck finding that Taco girl, though. She sounds like a menace.” Her accent is poured out like syrup, rich and hypnotic as she draws out the syllables of certain words. It adds to the cover story she’s trying to conjure, if nothing else.

“Funny,” Knife retorts, unphased by both her haughtiness and intent matter-of-factness. “The folks who gave me the poster didn’t look like they were from here, either. They look as baffled by everything as you do by that advertisement about a new car.” He gestures to the magazine she’s holding in her hands, which Microphone realizes with a start she hadn’t flipped the page on for several minutes now.

The other woman’s face turns a funny shade of red as she quickly flips through a few pages sharply. “It just seemed expensive, that’s all,” she mutters in obvious embarrassment. “Either way, it’s clear that this poster of yours has nothing to do with me. You were obviously accosted by performers of some sort and this poster is simply part of it. You do look like the sort of buffoon to think that whatever you’re shown is real unflinchingly.” Her words are punctuated with a sharp, dismissive scoff, disdain dripping from each word.

“Ta- I mean,” she begins to hiss, before remembering that, oh yeah, her name is written right there on top of that poster in faded ink. “Hey, c’mon, there’s no need to argue,” she corrects, her words strained. “U-Um, Knife, if you aren’t going to order anything, you should probably leave.”

“Weird, you never made me do that before,” he responds, arms crossed as he furrows his brow. “Does your sudden cagey behavior have anything to do with this stranger that’s appeared out of the blue? Because you seem awfully intent on directing my attention away from someone that should just be a customer.”

Microphone can’t help but groan in frustrated exasperation. She wishes Knife wasn’t so sharp, easily catching onto things. That, or maybe she just wishes she wasn’t god awful at lying. Hard to say. Meanwhile, Taco just kicks her legs in the air, trying and failing to have an unaffected air about her. The look in her eyes is far too harsh for that to ever be considered the truth, though. “Again, this is ridiculous,” she snaps. “Take your accusations elsewhere, brute. Some of us are trying to enjoy ourselves.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, raising his hands in the air as he turns back to Microphone. “But you know I warned you about all of this for a reason, right? Are you going to-?”

“I know,” she snaps in frustration. “Just- Just give me-” Suddenly, an idea occurs to her, and even if it pisses Taco off, she knows she can’t not act on it. “Since you’re leaving, can I keep the poster?” she says hopefully. “Um, maybe I can keep an eye out for that person, y’know? Hang it up on the bulletin board… Help you out a bit.”

Knife scoffs. “Like I said, I’m not the one looking for her, which is pretty lucky for you,” he says matter-of-factly, and she shifts in discomfort. “But maybe things will become a bit more sane around here when those two figure things out. None of the things going on are things I’m in the mood to deal with. Just be careful, Mic, please? I know you’re the sort of naturally curious type, but don’t get involved in things you’re not equipped to handle.” He shoves the poster across the countertop, air catching under the paper and causing it to billow in the air and she awkwardly fumbles to catch it. As she does so, he stuffs his hands in his pocket and storms out.

The moment Knife leaves, door swinging behind him, Taco whirls to her, her voice low and firm as she speaks. “Why did you ask to keep that poster, hm?” she prompts. There’s a certain amount of intimidation to her words that feels entirely different from her typical behavior. She sounds wary, on guard, ready to strike at any time. Microphone thought they left all of that behind when Taco was sick.

“Just wanted to see why he thought it was you,” she quietly replies as she stares down at it, grip tightening to the point where she wrinkles the edges of the paper without thinking about it. The caricature drawn at the center of paper in a smear of ink resembles Taco to a startling degree. Knife had been right about her eyes, but since Microphone had seen her without her hair slicked back, she’s able to say that the poster completely resembles her. Sure, her curly hair is more matted and resembles a bird’s nest in the picture, laying more flat against her head than it had in real life, but that can easily be resolved by waving it away as a difference of styling.

There’s no doubt about it, this poster is Taco. She isn’t much surprised by it. She had said she had ended up here because of a group of people chasing after her, if she remembers their words right. That reward, scrawled right there at the bottom of the poster, would make sense if the group were bounty hunters. That, combined with her shifty, suspicious behavior, made a lot of things make a lot of sense very quickly. But the crimes the poster lists out, right beneath the inked caricature with her teeth bared into a snarl… That feels like something else entirely, and she’s blindsided by all of it as she lets out a shaky breath and slams the poster down on the counter.

“Murder, treason, foul magicks…” She lists off the last word with a roll of her eyes, getting a sense that that crime was based on nothing but prejudice. “Didn’t know you had such an extensive list of crimes. That would have been nice to know before I took you in. If those bounty hunters chasing after you ransack the place, I’ll totally be fired, you know.” She’s trying to be calm about all of it, but on the inside she can’t help but freak out a little. Oh, god, she totally let a dangerous criminal into her house. And now her throat is going to be slit in her sleep. God, why the hell had she defended Taco against Knife?!

“They’re not bounty hunters, they’re mercenaries,” Taco immediately snaps back, before wincing. Microphone can’t help but smile even as her heart continues to jackhammer in her chest. She had been so focused on making sure that her grasp of the situation was correct she hadn’t even stopped to realize that her protest would just be confirming all of her suspicions. “Hired by the king,” she continues, words coming out as a hasty, sheepish mutter. “And if they did find me here, I’d at the very least lure them out. I fight much better outdoors, anyway.”

“Oh, because that’s so much better!” she snaps in response, voice taking on a hysterical edge as she throws her hands in the air. “You could have at least told me about the wanted criminal thing! Or even just the murder!”

“In my defense, I thought you would have come to that conclusion on your own!”

“You think I would have expected you to be a murderer?! Do you think I just look at people minding their own business in the streets and immediately jump to that conclusion???”

“Well, that charge is overblown,” Taco says with a disdainful sniff, dusting off her laugh. “It does say attempted murder on that poster, yes?” Warily, Microphone raises an edge of the paper, noting with an emotion she can’t decipher that she’s right. “Sure, yes, I did try to kill the king of Inanimatia-”

“The king?” she cries with a shriek.

“-hence the label of treason,” she continues, throwing Microphone a flat look. “But that fool of a king is trying to say that I intended to kill his most loyal knight and stupid boyfriend as well.” Frustration seeps from her as she impatiently taps her fingers against the countertop a few times. “As if. I only wanted to get him out of the way.”

“Okay. Can we get back to the trying to kill a king bit?”

“I’m getting to that,” she hisses. “But there’s hardly anything to say. I intended to kill him and have a… friend take the throne. I wouldn’t expect you to have any idea about the state of affairs back home, so I’ll keep this brief. Our society is rather prejudiced to those who practice magic they deem as unsavory. My own abilities are treated with suspicion due to my ability to practice several different types of magic, when even innate magic users are only born with the capacity for one. They think that I made a deal with the devil…” She trails off, eyes going unfocused as she scowls down at her lap. “Well, that’s unrelated. There was only one way to spark change, and that was to force it. So that’s what I did. Treat me as a villain and cast me aside if you must, but at the very least give me the chance to retrieve my belongings.”

Her chin is raised and her eyes are challenging. It’s obvious she has no interest in letting herself be beaten down by Microphone and her preconceived notions, which would be fine if not for the fact that said preconceived notions are murder and violence. Still, though, despite these disturbing revelations, she doesn’t want to kick Taco out just yet. Which is probably concerning and idiotic, she knows, but at the same time she can’t help but think back to when the other woman was sick.

She was so clingy, so terrified, so desperate to hold Microphone close to her. It made something in her chest hurt, seeing the night and day difference between those two versions of the other woman. Whoever she had mistaken for Microphone in her feverish stupor was someone she clearly cared for, and yet she’s made no indication that she has anyone she has to get back to back in her home dimension. She hasn’t made much indication she wants to go home at all, actually. It makes her suspicious enough to squint at Taco, even as she seems completely unaffected by the obvious suspicion.

“I’m not going to kick you out,” she says flatly, arms crossed. “Not for now, anyway.”

“Why not?” she immediately refutes, sitting up and raising her knees to press against the seat of the stool just to give her a few extra inches of height. For someone who claims to be such a powerful mage, shouldn’t she be… taller? There has to be a spell for that. “Me and my actions have affected your delicate sensibilities, have they not? You can’t support violence and murder and trite things like that, because you’re a good person. And before you get your hopes up, I refuse to throw myself at your feet and ask you to make me a better person, so you should know better than to ask.”

“Jesus,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “No, I’m not one of the sorts of people who’d have an interest in fixing you. Could you imagine? And I’m not going to act as if you haven’t done any of the things listed on this poster, either. It’s just a matter of you having nowhere to go and being clueless about how the world works, that’s all. I can’t just send you out into the world and not expect you to be dead within the day.”

“I can defend myself!” Taco snaps, offense dripping from her tone as easily as disdain does. “I’m not some hopeless child! If anyone were to try anything, I’d cast a spell or two and get them out of my way easily.” She sniffs, haughtily raising her nose.

“Yeah, except for the fact that you got sick from your magical exhaustion and became feverish and incomprehensible within the hour,” she points out flatly. “You’d deteriorate just as quickly and latch onto the first person you saw so long as your brain could trick you into thinking they were who you really wanted to see-” Taco flinches at that. “-and trust me, not everyone here is as nice as I am.”

She expects Taco to have a sharp, witty retort to that, because she has a sharp, witty retort to everything. But the woman just stares at her, trying and failing to hide how shaken she looks. “You said I didn’t do anything strange while I was sick,” she whispers.

“I lied! Anyone can do it!” she snaps in response. “You seemed pretty torn up about it, so I didn’t want to stress you out anymore than you already were! You’d pull out one of the knives you’re hiding in your sleeves or whatever!” Taco doesn’t say anything. She just blankly stares down at the countertop, expression blank as her shoulders slump more and more. Finally, her head snaps up, and her amber eyes don’t make her seem nearly as cutting, suddenly. She just seems young. God, she hadn’t actually thought about her age before, but she’s definitely only a year older than her, if that.

“Thank you very much for your generosity thus far, Microphone,” she says stiffly. “But I believe it’s time our collaboration came to an end.” She gets to her feet and storms out of the building so quickly Microphone doesn’t even have the time to rally and try to rally. By the time she recovers and calls out Taco’s name, the door is already closing.

“Ugh, damn it,” she mutters, running a hand over her face. “Way to be smooth, Microphone.” It’s not like she can exactly chase after her. She’s still on the clock for another hour, and she’ll be fired on the spot if she’s caught leaving the store unattended. Besides, it’s super late. If Taco had any sense, she wouldn’t try to find an alley to sleep in and would just make her way back to Microphone’s apartment to crash on her couch once more, which can hopefully give her the chance to talk to her when she gets back.

Is it bad that she actually wants Taco to stick around? She knows she would be better off if she wasn’t so focused on extending a hand to the actual wanted criminal, but… well, she doesn’t know. Maybe she’s trying to stave off her loneliness anyway she can, or maybe she has faith that the other woman is capable of more than she claims to be. Even if she’s done bad things, she can still change. It’s not like her crimes carry over to this dimension. Monarchies are stupid. And since she toppled out of that portal in front of Microphone, she can’t help but feel as if it’s her responsibility to help her.

Either way, when she returns to her apartment after clocking out, she notices the issue immediately. That is to say, Taco isn’t there. Worse yet, all of her things seem to have disappeared from the place, too. Not to mention, her door had been unlocked and wouldn’t lock again no matter what she did. Definitely magic shit. She frowns, feeling a bit of doubt creeping in, but decides it’s better to sleep on it. She could just as easily come crawling back in the middle of the night after almost being mugged or something like that.

Making the decision to sleep on it comes startlingly easy. That’s probably because she knows she’s going to go out and search for Taco the moment dawn breaks.

Chapter Text

Paintbrush scowls at Marshmallow, arms crossed and teeth grit, the sounds of surrounding conversation washing over them and becoming unintelligible as their attention drifts.

Logically, they know that they aren’t being the most fair, but they never claimed for their anger issues to be based out of logic or fairness. It just flares up at the worst of times. It’s not as if they’re completely in the wrong for being frustrated, although they would probably be in the wrong if they decided to explode.

Really, it’s just… Well, it’s complicated. Everything with Lightbulb and Fan had felt so heavy it was overwhelming, pressing against them with oppressive weight. Magic, other dimensions, vindictive criminals… It was a mess. They’re trying so hard to roll with the punches. After all, the two of them had sought out the two of them for help, and it would be cruel to just leave them there. Toddlers knew more about the world than them.

They would have expected more from Marshmallow, considering how long the two of them have been friends. Since the tail end of middle school, if they remember correctly. Of course the two had known of each other before that point. A little less than half the kids in Paintbrush’s graduating class had been people they had known since elementary school, knowing of them even if it wasn't exactly the same thing as knowing them.

Befriending them was an accident, funnily enough. She had always been the scrawny, lonely sort, and even if she had no qualms in sticking up for herself intensely and vocally, she was always easily overpowered. This was around the time Knife had started picking on her, too, a hell of a lot more dogged and personal than it had been compared to the other kids who had only passingly teased her.

Of course, Paintbrush, who had their passive anger issues combined with their all-encompassing anger at the world (they didn’t understand why everyone had to be shoved into two goddamn boxes! Their anger was wordless and aimless at the time, but looking back at it they realized it for what it was), saw the ruthless cruelty and didn’t hesitate to explode over it, defending someone they didn’t even know just because they were there and there wasn’t any harm in taking out their anger on someone they didn’t even know.

Knife had run off, daunted by the tall, stocky kid with anger in their eyes and fists perfectly posed to go flying in a heartbeat, but Marshmallow had stuck around. Maybe she hadn’t been scared of them, having a vindictive streak of her own, or maybe she had just enjoyed the protection they could offer her, but either way, they both ended up as the other’s first friend.

It wasn’t anything perfect. Paintbrush just got angrier and angrier all throughout high school, even if they eventually managed to find a word to encompass what they were feeling. It seemed like the world just got more and more rigid, pressing against them with oppressive weight and refusing to bend, and they could either get more and more angrier about it or find some way to find happiness regardless. The first three years were spent doing the former, while their senior year was filled with them begrudgingly doing the latter.

Majoring in art, as much as they find themselves chafing at the fact, was like their way of doing what they were supposed to do. Everyone had always told them just how much of a talent they had for art, showering them in praise that chafed at them more than anything. And yet when they found their own sort of passion in abstract art–once again going outside of the boundaries of what they were expected to be–things had stopped abruptly and dizzyingly, to the point where it made them want to explode. Why should they conform to the expectations of others in anything? 

Still, they were good at art. Realistic or abstract, it felt like what they were expected to do because they were good at it. It was a frantic attempt to regain the respect they had lost with their loud, vocal insistence on being what they knew themselves to be. They know they shouldn’t live their life based on what others want them to be, but if they can regain any of the happiness they used to feel whenever they do art, then shouldn’t this be worth it?

Marshmallow has the exact opposite problem. The thing she’s truly passionate about is the paranormal, but she can’t exactly major in that, so she settled on something she liked just as much: creative writing. She really is good with words, having written some short horror snippets for assignments here and there during school that had left Paintbrush at the edge of their seat, if nothing else. And while Paintbrush is the sort to settle for what they know they like instead of trying to push themselves further, Marshmallow is always hungry for more. It makes sense that this is the path she would pursue.

Of course, it was a path that was greeted with extreme resistance by her parents. They wanted her to do something easily profitable. Nursing, engineering, construction, anything that wasn’t in the creative fields. Marshmallow chafed against it as much as she chafed against everything else, and it seemed as if she didn’t feel much of anything at the idea of her parents not talking to her. She was the fiercely free spirit sort, no matter what it cost her. She did what she wanted. It’s as envying as it can be frustrating. Paintbrush wishes they were able to do the same without heavy repercussions.

For once, that tendency to do what she wants has backfired on them, because here she is. Surrounded by dimensional travelers, with her arms crossed as she glares at Paintbrush right back. She’s expecting a fight. It pisses them off that they’re going to conform to that expectation, but what else are they supposed to do?

“Marshmallow-” they begin, lurching forward at the same time they take a harsh intake of breath.

“Can we do this in one of our dorms, at the very least?” Marshmallow snaps, cutting them off. “Bow is really notable as something other. The rest of them can be passed off as roleplayers who are way too into it, but you can’t treat Bow as anything other than a ghost.” The woman in question does a lazy flip in the air, looking rather pleased by the fact that Marshmallow is talking about her. 

Her spine doesn’t come as much of a surprise, considering they know Marshmallow and have for years. She didn’t get relentlessly picked on by Knife for years because she was weak. It’s simply because she was strong, but not enough. Once, she had gotten so sick of him that she had lunged at him, slamming him into the lockers and getting a few punches off before he had realized what was going on and had immediately turned the tables. By playing up the helpless and innocent act, she had managed to get him suspended for a week while she got off scot free, even if every student knew what had happened. If nothing else, she was left alone for a few months.

“I’d beat up even more people, if the idiots at the front wouldn’t catch on after a while,” she had said, obviously relishing in the idea. Paintbrush had never thought that they would be included in the people she would like to beat up, but there she is, glaring at them sharply as she trails after them.

She’s obviously resentful, but over what? They were under the impression they were still friends. Their friendship had gone on for long enough that surely it wouldn’t be broken by Paintbrush being a bit frustrated by how tightly closed Marshmallow had kept her lips. It really would have helped if she had just told them about all of this sooner, so the group didn’t have to run around, using the strongest tracking spell Fan could manage so he didn’t end up passing out.

Either way, the moment they make it to their dorm, Paintbrush slams the door and trains an intense glare onto Marshmallow. “Spill,” they say firmly.

“Let me guess, you’re mad at me for not telling you about all of this as if you didn’t do the same,” she says flatly, sounding bored as she plays with one of the fuzzy flaps on her square hat. The disinterest stings, and they find themselves rushing to defend themselves.

“Because you guys weren’t running yourselves ragged looking for us, were you?!” they retort in frustration. “And because I’ve only known those two-” They gesture at Fan and Lightbulb, who both wave even if they appear daunted by Paintbrush’s sudden burst of anger. “-for as many days!”

“I thought it was only one?” Test Tube prompts, brow furrowed. “I guess you ran into them the day before, but we only properly talked to them and discovered what was going on yesterday. So one day, right?”

“I’m counting today, too,” they say dismissively. “What about you, Marsh?”

She doesn’t say anything right away. “Four days if you don’t count today,” she eventually says decisively. “Five if you do.”

“Five days!” they yell.

“Wait, I’m confused,” speaks up the woman with russet red hair and rich, dark skin, a frown on her face. Her eyes are green like Test Tube’s but are far darker, reminding them faintly of a forest. “You two know each other?” Given what they’ve been told, and considering the process of elimination, this must be Apple.

“Sure, for five years,” they retort with a derisive snort. “I didn’t tell you about all of this, Marsh, because I was busy wrangling those idiots-” They gesture at Fan and Lightbulb again, and they both wave again, looking a lot more energetic all of the sudden. “-ever since I met them. I would have if I thought you would believe me, but as much as you love the paranormal, you’re also a hell of a skeptic, and I didn’t exactly have something as evident as a ghost to show you as proof.”

“You just didn’t want to tell me because you forgot about me,” Marshmallow says dismissively, looking away from them as she removes her hat and begins to brush her messy hair with her fingers, using the TV as a mirror. “You always do when it comes to whatever person you started dating lately.”

“What?!” they yell, getting so angry at Marshmallow’s flat matter-of-fact words that their vision briefly goes red as they lurch forward. They’re struck out of it by both Apple and Bow moving in front of Marshmallow. The former has her arms spread out, eyes wide and panicked, while the latter just glowers at them, much more threatening than Apple is. Maybe it’s the piercing eyes or the fangs.

Either way, their worries are completely unfounded. Paintbrush wasn’t going to attack Marsh. Jesus Christ, their anger issues aren’t that bad… most of the time. They just grit their teeth and lean back, tucking a bit of straw blonde hair behind their ear as if they can make a claim to any level of composure. “It’s not like that, Marsh,” they snap, not bothering to hide the frustration pouring from their words. “Sorry. For yelling.”

They apologize not because… Well, they do mean it. But they apologize because they want to try to goad Marshmallow into an apology in turn. Are they naive to have thought that the friendship between the two was at a level where they were capable of telling anything to the other, no matter what it was? Were they being too pragmatic in wishing that Marshmallow would just tell them of her recent encounters outright just so the Bright Lights could persevere the few resources they had at hand?

All of this is dizzyingly complicated, and they know without knowing that things are going to be quick to get worse. There’s currently a ghost floating in lazy circles in their dorm, Diamond Crusher perched on one of the couch’s arms, his fur puffed up and hissing whenever Bow grows too close. As much as they like to think they understand all of this, there’s always going to be things that surprise them. They think they’ll draw the line somewhere if a dragon swoops in and burns their dorm to the ground, though.

With things so uncertain, they would like to fall back on what they know. They love Test Tube, of course, but it’s obvious all of this has frazzled her just as much as it has them, maybe even more. As a woman of science, all of this magic probably makes her want to ball her eyes shut and press her hands over her ears. That, or she wants to study it with all the energy she can muster. With her girlfriend just as dazed as they are, they find themselves turning to the few other things they have. Marshmallow is on that list, not that there’s much others to share that distinction.

Marshmallow just scoffs and doesn’t say anything, moving to lean against the wall with an uncomfortable expression on her face. It hurts, having their oldest friend turn away from them like that. They don’t usually argue like this. They don’t know what’s changed, other than the fact that being so aware of the fact that something is different is both disquieting and nerve wracking.

“Right,” Test Tube says tentatively, clearing her throat a few times. “I don’t think we’ve done proper introductions yet. I know all you dimensional travelers are familiar with each other, but you don’t know the ones who originate in this dimension. So, I’m Test Tube, and that’s my partner, Paintbrush, and…” She trails off, glancing at Marshmallow uncertainly. As far as they can remember, the two have always gotten along, but given how obvious Marshmallow’s resentment and frustration is, they doubt they should outright trust their memory on this sort of thing.

“Marshmallow,” the woman in question says, her tone terse and clipped. She’s quick to look away from them afterwards, frustrated expression softening as she catches Apple’s eye.

Test Tube just nods, running her hands over her white lab coat. She must have put it on at some point, probably for one of her morning classes. The two still have to deal with school, regardless of the fact that they’re currently housing a bunch of interdimensional travelers. As it turns out, that isn’t a valid reason to call out of class for the day. “And I know you’re Apple,” she begins, gesturing at the shorter woman. “But I’m not entirely sure about you,” she continues, turning to Bow, who bristles.

“Seriously?” she growls, turning an accusing glare onto Lightbulb and Fan. “Let me guess, those two idiots never mentioned me! Ugh, they’re such jerks.” She puffs her cheeks out, pouting.

“It’s easy to explain a living person, less so to explain a ghost,” Fan says, arms crossed as he lets out a huff.

“Besides, you’re always getting our names wrong and talking about how much you want us to get eaten by another dragon,” Lightbulb adds. “You really have to be a better team player if you want to be included in the team.”

“I am a part of the team, whether you include me or not!” she hisses. The gentle wisp of her tail grows firmer and more unstable, lashing back and forth in evident frustration. Her hands sharpen into claws as she leans forward. “Not that I had a choice in the matter to join it!”

“Bow,” Apple warns, stepping forward. The ghost eyes the necromancer, before eventually letting out a huff and drawing back. Paintbrush hadn’t realized she had grown bigger until she had drawn back, shrinking in the process.

“Fine, whatever, I get it,” she dismissively snaps. “No need to waste your magic on me and be even more annoying than you already are, Pomegranate.”

“Fascinating,” Test Tube murmurs, circling Bow with wide eyes. “What is it you’re capable of, as a ghost?”

“Don’t go too mad scientist on her, babe,” Paintbrush amusedly calls, smiling fondly. They don’t miss the faint irritation rippling over Marshmallow’s face, like a wave cresting the ocean’s shore. Normally, they would just let it go, but their already-present irritation prompts them to shoot a dirty look at her, one she just as easily returns.

Bow studies her nails. She couldn’t look more disinterested if she tried. “I’m Orange’s patron, technically,” she dismissively begins.

“For necromancers,” Apple begins, looking excited to explain even if there is a wary look about her. “We have innate magic, but it’s weak. When we bind a ghost to ourselves, we do so both to keep them out of trouble-” She tosses a significant glare toward Bow, who just rolls her eyes. “And to have someone feed our spells. When we have a ghost bound to us, we get much stronger. And back home, anyone who increases someone’s magic or gives them magic is known as a patron!”

“Yeah, that,” Bow scoffs. “Humans are their own beings, whether they have magic or not. Either way they aren’t dependent on it. But ghosts are made from magic. If too much magic is used, or if they aren’t replenishing magic fast enough, they can’t manifest in the real world. I guess they’re like an echo of the person they were in life, but I like to think of myself as the same Bow I was before I was stabbed a few times and had my body dumped in a lake.”

Paintbrush and Test Tube are horrified by the other woman’s blithe description of her death. Lightbulb and Fan both grimace in discomfort, but they seem used to it. Apple barely even acknowledges it. Marshmallow just stares at them and Test Tube, hand raised to her mouth to stifle her giggles.

“Are you capable of interacting with the real world at all?” Test Tube manages to ask a moment later, although her voice is still wobbling.

“Oh, sure!” she says brightly, swooping down and stopping in front of an empty glass on the coffee table. Her hand reaches forward, one finger pointed and jabbing against the glass. It falls down to the carpet from the force of her touch. “I just made my finger corporal, which normally doesn’t take a lot of strength, but your world sucks.” She glares at a spot on the wall, looking accusatory. “Even if I had all the magic in the world, though, I could never make myself fully corporal. One thing would have to still be all… ghosty, even if it’s just a finger.”

“I see,” Test Tube muses, stroking her chin in thought. “So it’s possible for you to mostly make yourself able to interact with the real world.”

“Sure. That’s just a hypothetical, though,” Bow says airily. She’s still low to the ground, but that doesn’t stop her from doing a lazy flip in the air, going straight through the coffee table. “I’m not the strongest ghost around ‘cause I didn’t have innate magic when I was alive, so I can barely make my whole arm corporal without feeling lightheaded. Metaphorically lightheaded, anyway.”

“You not being very powerful, whatever that means, didn’t stop you from causing trouble in all sorts of towns!” Apple accuses, jabbing a finger at Bow as she bristles in indignance.

“Oh my god, let it go already,” Bow groans, dragging out each word in her frustration. “I’ve done my time. I’ve had to deal with being dragged around by you and your stupid group for an eternity by now-”

“Five months,” Fan corrects, raising his hand and preening with the fact that he’s right. He’s certainly the opposite of humble, with so much confidence he basks in it.

“-so either let me go or quit bringing it up,” she frostily concludes, arms crossed as she glowers at everyone in the room. Paintbrush is quick to make a face right back, though.

“So you can interact with the real world, but can you possess things too?” Test Tube prompts, her neon eyes glinting with the prospect of possibility.

“Yup,” Bow says airily, popping the p. “Living and nonliving.” Her eyes go wide and mischievous as she laughs. “Here, watch this!” she calls, making a beeline toward Apple. The other woman tenses and moves to say something, but before she gets the chance, Bow has already rocketed into her.

“My name is Kumquat, and I’m a big mean necromancer who binds ghosts just trying to mind their own business,” says… definitely not Apple, each motion she makes stiff and almost robotic. It makes something animalistic in the back of Paintbrush’s brain freak out, clawing at the sides of the sides of their brain. It’s trying desperately to trigger their fight or flight, urging them to get away, but they settle with just lurching backward instead in violent discomfort.

“Alright, Bow, you’ve made your point,” Marshmallow says flatly, maybe picking up on the tense, uncomfortable feeling permeating the room. Apple’s face is twisted into a pout, but a moment later Bow flies up out of her body, arms crossed. As the ghost leaves the woman’s body, she lurches forward, looking dizzy and dazed as she grips at her head, but she manages to shake it off just a second later, shaking her head firmly.

“You know I hate it when you do that,” she complains.

“And I hate being dragged around by you and your stupid group, but you don’t see me complaining,” Bow scoffs.

“Yes you do!” Fan yells, spreading out his hands in dismay. “A lot!” Bow just waves him off, eyes closed. It’s as if none of the words he’s saying even matter to her. Paintbrush wonders what it must be like to be so wrapped up in your own head to the point where you ignore everyone else. It sounds disquieting.

“...Would you like to be fully corporal again?” Test Tube suddenly asks, sounding out each word tentatively as she forms them.

Bow cocks an eyebrow. “Sure. Doesn’t everyone?” she says dismissively.

“Since you can possess inanimate objects,” Test Tube begins, growing steadily more excited. “I think I have the perfect thing. You can test its movement functionality and be fully corporal at the same time! What do you think?” She looks eager as she leans forward, her hands folded in her lap.

“Whatever,” she scoffs. “I don’t care either way.” Despite her scathing, disinterested words, she isn’t able to fully bury the curiosity she carries, throwing a sidelong glance at Test Tube even as she intently studies her nails.

The cold, brusque dismissal seems to be good enough for Test Tube, as she gets to her feet and excitedly rushes to the corner of the room, where the project she’s been working on for as long as Paintbrush has known her–even longer than that, supposedly–is hidden beneath a cloth. With a flourish, she removes it, grinning widely. “Ta-da!” she boasts.

“...Is that a robot?” Marshmallow asks, sounding skeptical. Test Tube just nods, grinning.

“It looks a lot like a construct,” Lightbulb muses. “It’s definitely super artificial looking. You guys sure you don’t have magic here?”

“Nope!” Test Tube refutes, still grinning widely. “We have something even better; engineering! I’ve been working on this since high school,” she explains, resting a hand on its shoulder. Paintbrush is used to seeing it, but they can’t help but find it strange that Test Tube can manhandle something so human looking with zero resistance. “Since you can possess inanimate objects, I figure you can use this for yourself while testing it in the process.”

“I’m no one’s lab rat,” Bow hisses, looking indignant.

“That’s not what I mean. All I want you to do is use this to its fullest potential, okay?” Test Tube prompts, hiding a smile in her hand. “The more you use it, the more you test the movement mechanisms and how sturdy they are. I’d far rather something in it breaks down while you use it instead of while I’m trying to test other things. I’m not studying you. I’m studying how my robot reacts to continued use.”

Bow squints at Test Tube for a moment, looking hesitant. At the same time, though, she appears to be actually considering it. Paintbrush can’t blame her, truly. If they ended up as a ghost, no way to interact with the world around them without it affecting themselves, they would be desperate to find a solution, even if they’re the first to admit how sketchy Test Tube’s robot is.

“Well, I’ll try it,” she relents, running her hands through the ruffles and folds of her wide, puffy skirt, torn up and peppered with dark brown stains that they really hope is dirt and not dried blood. “It’s not going to trap me in there or anything, is it? This isn’t a scheme by Kiwi to get rid of me once and for all?” She glares at Apple, who petulantly sticks her tongue out at the ghost in response.

“No, there isn’t,” Test Tube replies, sounding more amused by the skepticism than anything. “I wouldn’t even know how to begin implementing something like that. I didn’t know anything about magic until yesterday, remember?”

Eventually, Bow relents, slowly drifting forward to tentatively poke at the robot. She hadn’t made her hand corporal, so her hand just drifts straight through it. A moment later, her eyes narrow, and she straightens, looking resolved. She throws herself into it without another word, and when she disappears from view a pink aura surrounds the robot, glowing in the same way Bow does.

Bow’s voice fills the room, having a muffled yet echo-y quality to it. “Woah, this is…” she begins but doesn’t finish, moving one of the arms up in the air. The moment starts out slow, tentative, and painfully stiff, and even as she briskly moves the wrist in sharp rotations, the movements never lose the stiff quality to them.

Everyone watches as the robot begins to make a slow lap around the room, each movement remaining as stiff as ever. Paintbrush can’t tell if it’s because of Bow growing used to being in the robot or something else. Either way, Test Tube is jotting down notes in a flurry of activity, her eyes wide yet determined.

A moment later, Bow jumps out of the robot, shivering. “Ugh, that was weird!” she complains, face scrunched up as she rubs at her arms. “I really didn’t like that.” She sticks out her tongue in distaste. As she leaves the robot, it slouches over, and Paintbrush moves over to stop it from falling entirely.

“Really?” Test Tube says, blinking as she leans forward. “What was wrong with it, if you’re willing to share? I made it to be as close to a human as possible, so I thought possessing it would have been similar to having a body again.”

Despite the conversation between human and ghost being comparatively more interesting by leaps and bounds, Paintbrush still finds themself staring at the robot, one hand propped up on their cheek. It’s a rather impressive design, isn’t it? Humanoid to an uncanny degree, even if it is rather short. Test Tube spent months on end just working on the physical design, and she estimates several more years until all the code she intends to implement is fully figured out and troubleshooted.

They love the look that appears in their girlfriend’s eye as she talks about her plans for the project, excited and eager. She wants to collaborate with as many different people as she can on the project, a triumph of engineering and coding both. Paintbrush doesn’t really understand the project beyond her wanting to create artificial intelligence. A real one, not just one that spits out the words of others. They just like watching her be so passionate.

With how intent they’re watching the robot, it makes sense that they’re the first to notice the screen meant to serve as eyes flicker on. The sight makes them squint warily, but they don’t move to say anything just yet. Maybe Bow’s possession knocked something loose in the robot and caused it to turn on, but considering that the thing is barely capable of moving, they don’t think it’s too much cause for alarm.

“It was just weird,” Bow groans, looking frustrated. “I dunno how to phrase it. When I moved around in it, it was stiff, and there was way too much resistance. That’s normal when I possess people, especially ones with strong wills, but it threw me off with that thing, because there wasn’t anything in there.”

As Bow speaks, Paintbrush watches in morbid fascination as two pairs of pupils begin to be displayed on the robot’s screen, thick pink ovals with an outline but no filling. It… blinks? Would blink be the right word? The robot’s pupils alternate between flat lines and the oval for a moment, as if it’s trying to get its bearings, before its pupils fly to Bow. The pupils begin to shake slightly, as if in fear. And that’s… probably cause for concern. “Uh-”

“Hmm,” Test Tube murmurs, tapping at her cheek in thought. “That’s definitely strange. I suppose all the time I’ve tested movement was with smaller movements, but it looked pretty smooth… But magic is a variable that makes things more complicated. Oh, jeez, what if you possessing it screwed something up?”

The robot winces, something so startlingly human that Paintbrush’s breath catches in their throat. This shouldn’t be happening. There’s something wrong. “Guys-” they begin.

“All of this sounds really complicated,” Lightbulb interjects, leaning forward. “Probably makes more sense to people from your dimension, I bet.” She glances over to Paintbrush and Marshmallow, and the latter shakes her head firmly. But they can’t take their eyes off of Test Tube’s robot. “But back home, I’ve seen some really smart people theorize if magic is capable of being used as an energy source. If your metal monster without wheels is turned on by electricity, maybe the energy from Bow’s magic did something to it.”

The entire body of the robot is trembling now, and its arms reach up to tightly wrap around itself, as if to bring itself comfort. It’s staring at Test Tube with unabashed terror, its entire body tensed as if it’s on the verge of running. “Guys, I think-!” Paintbrush tries again, raising their voice.

“Golly gee, you’re right!” Test Tube cries, eyes wide. “What kind of scientist am I, jumping into the experiment without even trying out a hypothesis?” She slaps her face, grimacing in frustration. “Whatever happened, I bet it’s nothing that isn’t fixable. I suppose I’ll have to take it apart and see-”

“No!” shrieks an unfamiliar voice, and it takes Paintbrush far too long to realize the yell came from the robot. All eyes turn to it as it flies to its feet, pressing itself against a wall as it breathes heavily, shoulders rising and falling in an uneven rhythm. “No,” it says again, voice quiet but just as firm. “Stay… Stay away from me!” As it speaks, it lurches forward, and everyone in the room throws themselves away from it automatically, save for Test Tube, who’s frozen in place in shock as it runs until the robot flies out of the door. Then she seems to remember herself and tries to run after it, only to be stopped by Paintbrush.

“I have to-!” she begins, turning a plaintive look onto them.

“You have to not do anything hasty,” they interject, cutting her off. “We don’t know- It could be-” They don’t know what they’re trying to say. More than anything, they’re just frustrated that they hadn’t been listened to when they had tried to get everyone’s attention in the first place. Maybe if their words had been paid any heed, none of them would have to deal with this to begin with.

Either way, they don’t finish, stammering over their own words as they struggle to vocalize what exactly had happened. With their abrupt halt, no one else moves to say a word either. The silence just lingers and lingers, to the point where it takes physical form and bears down tightly on their shoulders with oppressive weight. They find it’s a struggle to breathe properly, too daunted by what has happened.

Whatever may be the cause, Test Tube’s robot is now running loose. And that’s a problem they’ll have to solve as fast as they can, far more immediate than finding that Taco girl or figuring out a way to send their extradimensional visitors back home.

Paintbrush stifles a groan and resigns themselves to the extra work. They aren’t going to leave Test Tube behind regardless of the situation, so with that in mind shouldn’t their choice be obvious? They’re going to help her. They’ll just… have to figure out how, first.

— — —

Clover hums peacefully to herself as she flips through a book, glancing up every so often. Nickel and Balloon had begun a hushed conversation some time ago, and the way they keep glancing toward her, it’s probably about her. She’s not going to let herself be bothered by that, though! She finds herself in good spirits either way.

For one thing, Nickel and Balloon are just so sweet! They were fully willing to uproot their lives just for her, with the continued, unending reassurances that they would remain at her side until she was safe. And of course, she was so thankful for their actions she struggled to properly put the feeling into words, which is a new feeling for her! Usually she’s just happy or sad or angry, not that those last two happen often.

Back home, she was… well, she wasn’t lonely, per say! She got along with the other children in the village while she was young, and she gets along with them now that she’s as grown up as she’s going to get. But the closest person she had to a proper friend was Candle, and she hadn’t seen her in months after she had been… well, chased from the village.

She feels horribly guilty about not stepping up to do anything to help her. She had been declared a witch and a devil and a caster of the most foul magicks known to man, and when a riot had made its way through the village Clover had known with a deep ache in her bones that it would end with Candle dead. She spent so long in her and her parents house, thinking desperately about what she could do to help her that wouldn’t turn the attention of the mob onto her in turn.

By the time she had finally come to a decision, Candle had already disappeared from the village without a trace, her house left burning in her wake. She had asked all the villagers she could about whether they saw her leave the village or if she had been burnt alive in her house, and the response was both consistent and relieving. She had been sighted leaving the village. In other words, she was alive, at least for the time being. Besides, if anyone could survive in the forest, it would be Candle, she was certain!

Maybe she should have done something for her friend, but things seemed to work out well enough for her without Clover needing to step in. Besides, Candle was a brilliant alchemist, so smart and resourceful! So she was confident she would be fine. That she is fine. It’s all fine.

It’s not like she’s had much time to think about Candle lately anyway. She’s been busy fleeing from the constructs chasing her relentlessly. Even after ducking into this library and hiding in it for hours on end, she still remains paranoid about being found. She’s even more paranoid about Nickel and Balloon being hurt. She wishes she had received an understandable answer from the shorter, blue construct. If there was a way to get the two off her tail, she’d take it in a heartbeat.

She does sincerely hope that whatever Balloon did for her ends up working. He had seemed so confident in himself as he had cast that spell, and the way he had slumped over indicated to her that at the very least, something had happened. Something that required the staff to sap energy from him, the spell too heavy to draw from the stores the staff innately possessed.

Either way, she’s anxious about the chase beginning once more, and her head intently swivels around as she gets a sense of her surroundings. The three are leaving the library in a tight, bunched together group, and she wonders when they had felt comfortable getting so close to each other to begin with. Clover had already trusted them sincerely and earnestly the moment they had stepped in to help her, but Nickel makes his prickliness obvious and Balloon is the anxious type, even if he has an undercurrent of determined frustration running through him.

Of course, Nickel is quick to pick up on her anxiety, and he scowls. “What?” he says impatiently. “Are you worried about the idiots catching up to us?”

“They’re always found me before,” she points out, head ducked. “I don’t want you guys to be put in danger again because they don’t know how to give up.”

“If they would have come for us, they would have already,” Nickel scoffs, hands shoved in his pockets. “We were in that library for hours while Balloon slept.” Balloon’s ruddy face turns even redder, cheeks blazing with heat as he ducks his head. He seems embarrassed, but Clover doesn’t know why. He was so helpful!

“Yeah, but there’s the- I-I mean, remember what I said,” he stammers awkwardly in response, pulling at the stretchy bracelets wrapped around his wrists in discomfort.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Nickel groans in retort. Judging from Balloon’s wince, he was trying to be subtle about it, but Clover doesn’t know why. Is it for her sake? To be honest, she doesn’t really get it. “If it did, she wouldn’t be running from anything to begin with. So what’s your point?”

“Not unless it was why they’re chasing after her to begin with,” Balloon responds through grit teeth, looking like he would rather be anywhere else as opposed to having this conversation. “It’s like the blue guy said, it’s not about her, it’s about what she has. I don’t get how you can sit there and act as if none of this has anything to do with… Uh… A-Anything! Just because you’re a skeptic-”

“Because it’s fucking stupid!” Nickel hisses in reply, hands balled into fists as his shoulders raise to his ears and he stands as straight as he can manage. Clover supposes it’s an attempt to make himself look taller, but he’s so short it just makes him even more adorable. “How is it fair that someone gets everything handed to them because they’re lucky?! Seriously, Balloon, I don’t want to entertain this shit.”

“Um, what are you guys tal-?” she begins to ask, voice hitching nervously as she offers them a wobbly smile. She doesn’t know the two that well, considering they had met yesterday and were more preoccupied with escaping from the people chasing her as opposed to making small talk, but anyone could tell how little they got along. Any conversation with them could easily devolve to having their jaws at each other’s throats.

It makes her wonder how they became friends in the first place. They had been at that cafe together, after all, no one else in sight. She finds herself having to serve as a buffer more often than not to deflect from Nickel’s coldness and Balloon’s frustration, but she isn’t the best at it. Maybe someone else would work better in the role, like the friends the two occasionally mention with no small amount of wistfulness. But Clover has far more on her mind than trying to stop Nickel and Balloon from being at each other’s throats.

“You can view it however you want, but you can’t deny I know more than you do!” Balloon hisses in retort, chest puffed out. “Have you read this book cover to cover, because I have! And my guess would make sense!”

“Oh, yeah, the book that just randomly appeared from a portal, sure,” he scoffs dismissively.

“Yes! And you know why it appeared?! Because that would have been lucky!”

Clover grimaces as the back and forth blossoms into a full on argument. The two seem used to it, and it didn’t take much provoking at all for the two to get at each other’s throats… but oddly, there’s a strange amount of hesitance to them, Balloon occasionally glancing around as if he expects someone to step in. Clover just balls her hands on her skirt, frowning in discomfort. She could try to break them up… but she didn’t know if that would net her their ire. Maybe it would be better to let them tire each other out.

With a sigh, she looks away from them. She does truly enjoy the two of them, and she got lucky that they had been the ones to find her. But she wishes they would back off from each other’s throats at least occasionally. She hated how fervently the two could argue… As her attention begins to wander alongside her mind, she startles when her eyes meet a pink butterfly hovering a few feet away. Warily, she throws a glance over at Nickel and Balloon, whose argument doesn’t seem to be dying down any time soon.

A ghost of a smile on her face, she twirls over, skirt billowing out below her as she walks over to the butterfly, beaming brilliantly. “Hi, buddy,” she warmly coos. “What are you doing over here, huh?” As she speaks, the butterfly drifts down to land on her heart shaped buns tied from her curly hair, and she stifles a giggle with her hand. Maybe it thinks it’s a flower? After a moment, though, it takes flight, remaining in place a few paces in front of her.

Of course, that’s when it decides to flutter backwards. She blinks a few times in bemusement before taking another step forward, and the butterfly proceeds to dart away once more. She gets the sense it’s leading her somewhere, oddly enough, so she doesn’t try to draw back. She continues to follow after it. Maybe someone like Nickel would shoot her a glance and bark something out about how naive she’s being, but, well, butterflies have always been her friends! So really, what is there to worry about?

After about a minute or so, in which she went from a paved sidewalk to a more wooded area with scattered dirt, towering trees, and dense bushes, the butterfly abruptly came to a stop, resting against a leaf and slowly moving its wings back and forth, a rise and fall. Frowning, she crouches down to get a better look at it, wondering why it had stopped. As she does so, though, she spots a hint of something metal, catching in the sunlight.

Her mouth falls open into a small o. From what she can tell, there’s a lot of trash around here, caught in gutters and dumped on the streets. But this feels different from food packaging or butts of cigars. Just as she tilts her head to get a better look, the piece of metal scrambles back, receding further into the bush it had been burying into. The motion prompts the bush to shake, though, leaves rustling.

Smiling as warmly as she can, she remains crouched down. Whether there’s a person or an animal hiding in that bush, she likes to have confidence in her abilities to coax them out. “Hello?” she says kindly, head tilted. Her curls move down her head like a waterfall as she does so, tickling the middle of her neck where her hair comes to a stop. “Is there anyone there? Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt you! I just don’t think a bush is the most comfortable place to be curled up in, you know?”

Silence reigns for a long, uncomfortable moment. By now, the butterfly that had led her here had flown off, but she pays it no mind. Just as she frowns, though, she hears a shaky intake of breath. “W-Who are you?” asks the voice, weak and wobbly. “How do I know you won’t hurt me? C-Can I trust you?” They sound harrowed and paranoid, much like she’s been ever since those two constructs had begun to doggedly chase her.

“My name is Clover!” she says brightly. “It’s nice to meet you,” she cordially adds when it becomes obvious they aren’t going to offer their name in response. “I ended up here when I followed after a butterfly! I think they’re awfully pretty, and I like to think they like me as much as I like them! You know, it’s awfully nice to be able to walk around and be so surrounded by nature. I guess you’re also surrounded by nature, too, but the sky is super nice today! It would be a shame to not be able to see it!”

“Are you trying to coax me out?” the voice flatly interjects, a current of anxiety buried in it.

Clover just smiles, arms resting over her knees. “I don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to!” she says firmly. “I… know what it’s like to be paranoid about others. I have more than a few unsavory folk chasing after me right now, actually…” She frowns, tucking a loose curl gingerly behind her ear. “Well, that’s a long story. But you have my word I won’t do a thing to you. And where I’m from, verbal contracts are a big deal.”

For a moment, all she hears is shuffling and the following rustling of leaves and quiet sniffles, as if the person in the bush had been crying. “You have to promise not to freak out,” the voice whispers. “I… Um, my appearance isn’t exactly normal. I don’t want you to be all, uh… I don’t really know.”

In response, she straightens and places one hand over her heart, shoulders squared in determination. “I promise I won’t freak out!” she cries. “I’ve met all sorts of strange people, you know. Whatever you think may be wrong with you, I promise it’s nothing I’m not used to. You can trust me, so long as you feel you’re up to it.”

Hearing a strangled breath that has an edge of acceptance to it, Clover allows herself to get her hopes up. Well, more than her hopes are already up, anyway. She hopes that she’ll get to go home to her parents, she hopes that she won’t have to be constantly moving forward, she hopes that those two constructs chasing her realize that there’s been some horrible mistake and lets her live in peace. She likes to think she’s someone special, as special as everyone else in the world, but she’s happy to let that viewpoint go if it means they’ll stop chasing her.

After a moment, with an intense rustle, Clover spots the bit of metal poke back into view again. It’s followed by more metal, and then more metal, and by the time they stick their head out she sees why they had been so hesitant and paranoid. Considering the fact that they seem to be made entirely of metal, eyes a screen on their face that cycles through several emotions as they get to their feet and warily stare at her, she can see why some people might be caught off guard by them.

But, well, she likes to consider herself the go with the flow type. So she just smiles and runs her hands through the folds of her dress. “There we go,” she says, satisfied. “That’s a lot better, right? Sitting curled up in a bush can’t be comfortable. Trust me, I’d know! Not to mention the sky!” She twirls in a circle as she spreads her arms out, laughing breathily. “Well, what do you think?”

They pull awkwardly at their fingers as they fidget, their motions slightly jerky and strange, not that she particularly minds. “You’re right,” they say quietly. “It’s nicer than being in that bush, if nothing else.” The pink circles on the screen going across their face are definitely meant to represent eyes, but they seem to be trembling. Even now that they’re beneath the vast, open sky, they still seem to be seized by anxiety.

Well, that’s no good. As she begins to frown, a butterfly–maybe the one that had led her here to begin with–flits forward and hovers in front of their face, wings gracefully fluttering as it dances through the air. After a moment, it finds a spot to land near the top of their head, and they go completely frozen, mouth opened in a small, awed o. They’re completely, unnaturally still, with not even the rise and fall of their shoulders to indicate life, which she supposes makes sense. Would someone made of metal even need to breathe? Is there a person in there? She’s assuming they’re from this dimension, so they probably can’t be a construct. Still, it seems like a sensitive topic for them, so she won’t bring it up.

“I never got your name,” she says brightly. Her hands were folded behind her back, but as she speaks, she offers one forward, smiling readily at the other… person. Yes, person feels right. Regardless of their strange appearance, they feel real, no less human than anyone else.

“That was on purpose,” they mumble in response, arms reaching to tightly hug themselves as they swallow in discomfort. “B-Because… I don’t know it.”

Clover blinks as she leans forward. That’s pretty strange, too, but they seem to be just as bothered by their lack of name as they are about their strange appearance, and she definitely knows better than to try and push it. “Really?” she replies. “Well, do you want a name?” she prompts a moment later, not letting that question linger in the air for too long.

“Who wouldn’t?” they reply immediately, the first syllable coming from their mouth the moment Clover’s voice raises in a question. “It’s just that I’m… I’m not really…” They’re shaking as they hug themselves tighter and tighter, but it would be hard to feel comforted by cold metal, wouldn’t it? Slowly, she reaches forward and rests one hand on their shoulder, smiling encouragingly at them.

She isn’t expecting them to immediately turn and bury their head in her chest, but after a moment of her hands being raised, she lowers them, wrapping them around them comfortingly. They’re certainly very cold, but she likes to think that her arms being wrapped around them is enough to share her own warmth with them.

After a moment, they disentangle themselves from her, and with a start she realizes they’re smiling. She thinks that might just be the first time she’s ever seen them smile, and it’s certainly a nice one, soft and tentative as one hand rests on their chest and the other is behind their back. “Thank you,” they say, sounding overwhelmingly grateful. “I really needed that. I wasn’t expecting to find someone as kind as you today. I thought I’d just… have to spend my life running.” They don’t say anything for a moment, staring shyly at the ground, before glancing up. “I, um-”

“Clover! Are you around here?” calls Balloon’s voice, and she glances up, frowning.

“Clover!” adds Nickel’s voice, sounding frustrated. “You can’t just run off! Seriously, where’d you go?”

Aw, that’s so sweet! They’re worried about her! She presses a hand to her cheek as she giggles. But then her eyes catch on the other person, and she blinks before frowning. They look terrified, like they’re on the verge of bolting right back into the bush. Their eyes are wildly flitting about the clearing, as paranoid as she’s been, lately. That’s just all the more convincing that the two of them are kindred spirits. Clover would love to do what she can to protect them.

“It’s okay, it’s okay!” she tries to assure. “Those are just my friends! They’re super kind, don’t worry!” They don’t entirely look convinced by this, which she supposes is fair enough. “If you’re too worried,” she slowly continues. “I don’t have to call them over here. It can just be the two of us. But really, they’re not anyone you need to worry about. Whoever you may be running from…” She reaches forward and tightly clasps their hand, smiling softly. It’s reassuring that they don’t try to pull back. “They’re not anyone you need to be scared of. I promise.”

Tentatively, she lifts her free hand and raises her pinkie, and grins widely when after a moment they reach forward to take it, thankfully looking less afraid. “Okay,” they whisper. “I trust you.” There’s something else buried in their voice, something plaintively asking please don’t give me reasons not to. And she’s determined not to let them down!

She offers them the widest smile she can muster, hoping it manages to soothe what frayed nerves they have, before raising one hand to their mouth, the other remaining firmly clasped in their hand. “I’m over here!” she brightly calls, before faltering. “Uh, you have to promise you won’t freak out, okay?”

Nickel’s groan was loud, yes, but it also sounded pretty nearby. At her side, the other person freezes, free hand pressing tightly to their chest. She squeezes their hand once to offer reassurance, and a moment later they grip her hand so tight she worries about the possibility of it falling off. “Do I even want to know what the hell you’re doing over here?” he calls. Nearby, some bushes rustle, and it serves as a prelude to Balloon and Nickel stumbling through them a moment later.

“There you-!” Balloon begins, a relieved grin on his face, before he notices the person at her side and falters, brow furrowing. “Uh…?”

Nickel follows after Balloon, brushing leaves and twigs from his baggy, torn jeans with a grimace. A moment later, he glances up, and his face goes completely blank as the other person presses themselves to Clover’s side, as if trying to shield themselves from view. “Is that a robot?!” he hisses in baffled dismay.

“I don’t know what that is!” she cheerily replies.

“Uh, I guess it would be like our dimension’s equivalent of a construct?” Balloon says tentatively, feeling the word out as he watches her. “Except there’s less magic and more metal and coding involved.”

“Yeah, except that all robots that advanced-” Nickel makes a sweeping gesture to the other person, who scowls at him. “-are usually something straight out of some crappy science fiction show. I mean, from what I’ve seen from it so far, it can emote and can move pretty fluidly. Of course you’re the one always attracting weird stuff, huh?” His gaze feels accusatory as he trains it on her, and she responds with sticking out her tongue petulantly.

“I’m not an “it”,” grumbles the robot from where their head is partially buried in Clover’s side.

Nickel jumps. “Oh, it can talk!” he cries, looking startled. Balloon elbows him, and he winces before hastily amending “I mean… uh… hang on, which pronouns do you prefer?”

They shrug as they slowly move away from Clover. She hopes that means they’re getting more comfortable and aren’t going to bolt toward the bush. “I haven’t really thought about that,” they sheepishly admit. “But she or he don’t really feel right for me…”

“Think on it a little more,” Nickel says dismissively. “For now, we’ll just go with they. Okay, so what the hell is your deal, huh? It’s not every day people run into robots as advanced as you just running around. Where did you come from?”

“A college dorm,” they mutter in response, arms wrapped around their chest. Nickel makes a choked noise at that, while Balloon startles.

“Really?” sputters the latter. “Okay. That’s, uh, wild, but pretty much on par with the other crazy things we’ve experienced the past few days.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question of what you’re doing out here, though,” Nickel points out, squinting at them. “You have an explanation for that one, or did you just want to take a walk?” For a moment, they’re silent, staring forlornly at the ground. After a moment, though, they look up, something like determination visible in their squared shoulders.

“I woke up. Or… was powered on…? I’m not sure. I just knew that my body was moving, but I had no control over it. After a moment, I had control of myself again, but figuring out how to move took me a minute or two. I moved my fingers, my wrist, then my arm. By the time the people in the room realized I was on, I was already running.” They stare down at the ground, scuffing at the dirt with their foot. “I knew that I wasn’t a real person, but I was still… alive? Sentient? Conscious? And I was afraid of having that be taken away from me. M-My chest opened and my code rifled through and my mind shut off-”

They cut themselves off with a shaky breath, and Clover wraps an arm around them comfortingly. Nickel just frowns, though. “Sure, you’re a sentient robot,” he points out. “But someone would have had to make you like that. Why would they try to change that?”

“Because when I woke up, it was like this jolt of… something was running through me. It didn’t feel like electricity. It felt intoxicating. But all the previous times I had been powered on, I couldn’t feel anything at all, and I wasn’t capable of thought beyond my code. When the thing that had caused the jolt and had forced my body to move left, I checked my code to see it was changing in real time. It was pink, just like my eyes. But before then, they had been white.” They smile nervously. “Whatever had been in my body had caused my code to change. It was a complete accident, and my creator would probably want to fix that. But I like having sentience. If I can stop it from being taken away, then I will.”

Nickel groans, running a hand over his face. “Of course we have to deal with this in addition to all the other shit on our plate,” he grumbles in dismay.

“We can’t just leave them behind!” Balloon cries.

“When did I ever say that? No, we’ll take them with us. What’s another thing to run from, right?” He adjusts his beanie with a sigh. “But- Listen, what do you want, kid?” He addresses the question to the robot with a tilt of his head.

“I just want to live!” they cry, pupils shaky on their screen. “I’m no different from a human now, r-right? I can think and feel and love! I know I can never be a real human, I’ll always just be a robot, artificial and fake and emulating humanity at best, but I…” They stare down at their trembling hands. “I want to try anyway.”

Balloon offers them a comforting smile, and although Nickel looks less suspicious his expression hasn’t become any less cold as he shifts in place. “Well, do you have a name? Most humans have one of those.”

“No, but I want one. It’s… still a work in progress.” they say sheepishly.

“Well, we have to call you something,” Nickel deadpans, arms crossed.

“You shouldn’t rush them into anything!” Balloon protests. “They should be able to decide on their name whenever they’re ready!”

“If we’re going to be dragging them around with us, we need to have some way to refer to them,” he stubbornly insists. “Because from what I’ve seen so far, combat is chaotic as hell, and we get super separated super easily. What are we supposed to say to them if they end up stuck in the middle of something and are super dazed? Because I don’t think saying something like “Hey, you!” will cut it in that situation!”

Balloon looks like he wants to argue, but after a moment the other person steps up. “Not that I have much clue what you’re talking about,” they begin as a sort of prelude. “But I think you’re probably right. It’ll be hard to get my attention without anything…” They trail off, tapping their cheek as they think.

“Well, if you’re certain this is what you want, how about something like TBD?” Balloon prompts. “It stands for, uh, to be determined. It’s the sort of placeholder title I use on my po- er, projects before I decide on a name for them.”

“TBD…” they echo, trying out the name on their tongue. “Yeah, that’ll be fine for now, I think. It doesn’t feel right for me, but I definitely don’t mind it until we land on something better.” A moment later, they perk up, grinning. “Thanks for the help, both of you!”

In response, the two both sputter. Nickel awkwardly rubs at the back of his neck as he insists in low, near-inaudible mutters that he barely even did anything, while Balloon’s protests are louder, saying all he did was make a suggestion. That’s what Clover thinks they’re saying, at any rate. After a moment, their voices completely overlap one another, becoming a cacophony of noise.

TBD bursts out laughing, leaning forward as they hold their chest and laugh in loud, rapid barks of sound. Their shoulders shake with the movement. It’s something that anyone would do to express their joy, hardly artificial or fake at all. TBD is so bothered by the fact that they’re a robot, capable of doing nothing more than mimicking humans and never being one, but can’t they see they’re plenty human already?

Laughter is infectious, of course, and Clover finds herself joining in, giggling giddily. Nickel looks frustrated by it, snapping “Hey, what are you laughing at?!” as he tries frantically to make himself taller by puffing out his chest.

“You, obviously,” Balloon retorts, arms crossed as he tries to stifle laughter of his own.

“Wh-?! We were both talking, so they’d be laughing at you, too!” Nickel yells in response, rolling back and forth on his heels and occasionally standing on the edge of his toes. The top of Nickel’s head, slightly raised by his beanie, can only just reach the upper half of Balloon’s forearm when he tries to make himself taller. It’s so pointless that she and TBD start to laugh again as the two launch into an argument, Balloon trying to stifle his laughter with his hand.

“...Are they always like this?” TBD dubiously mumbles to Clover, electronic eyes squinting at the two of them.

“Like what?” Nickel barks, whirling around.

“You know what they’re talking about,” Balloon mutters, rolling his eyes.

Clover, for her part, just smiles. “Yup!” she enthusiastically agrees. “Don’t worry, you'll get used to it eventually!” For some reason, they don’t look convinced by that, but their smile has a distinctly wry edge to it as the two watch Nickel and Balloon go back and forth in their verbal sparring match.

After a moment, she reaches forward and wraps an arm around TBD, pressing them to her side. For a moment, they startle, but they’re quick to relax into the touch, letting out a contented sigh. She likes this feeling resting on her tongue. It tastes an awful lot like family, or at the very least friendship.

For now, she stifles a few giggles with her hands and thinks with wonder that she can get used to this.

— — —

No one says a word, silence lingering heavily in the air as everyone stares at the spot where Test Tube’s robot had been moments before it had scrambled to its feet and run off.

Of course, Marshmallow is the one to break the silence. Apple and Bow seem more confused than anything else, so they won’t be much help. Paintbrush seems to be more focused on wordlessly comforting Test Tube, too, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. Lightbulb and Fan seem nervous about pissing off Test Tube and especially Paintbrush, so they just shift and shuffle in place. And Test Tube… looks too shocked to say anything.

If no one else is willing to say something, Marshmallow definitely will. What does she have to be afraid of? “What the hell was that?” she says flatly, arms crossed. Her tone is dry and yet commanding enough to draw everyone’s attention to her. “That obviously wasn’t supposed to happen, right?”

“R-Right,” Test Tube nervously agrees, adjusting the goggles on her forehead anxiously. “I- That robot was still a work in progress. There’s no way it should have been capable of movement; I hadn’t coded it yet. Especially not movement like that. I- I don’t-” She cuts herself off abruptly as she reaches for a sheet of paper and begins to scrawl something on it in cramped, illegible handwriting.

Paintbrush shoots Marshmallow a frustrated look, and she shoots them an annoyed one right back. Why is she the one being treated as the villain here? What had she done to warrant that? She knows they have a temper on them; she’s seen others be subjected to it, a loud explosion of anger after so much time was spent bottling it up. She’s certainly not used to having it turned onto her. 

Honestly, though, she finds the frustrated annoyance she received to be far worse than an all-consuming explosion of anger. At least when they wear themselves out, she has the opportunity to try to reason with them. But this continuous stream of anger makes it so that she can never get a word in.

“Well?” she says impatiently, because she’s never been bothered by Knife’s attempts at intimidation. In what world is she going to be daunted by Paintbrush’s futile attempts to daunt her? “What are you going to do about it? Can you track the thing down?”

“Not exactly,” she replies, frazzled and absentminded as she rifles through her papers. “I put a tracker in it, but it’s rudimentary, intended to have been replaced later. If it goes anywhere without data, it’ll slip through my fingers entirely.”

“Then you should go after it,” Paintbrush says, muddy brown eyes glinting with determination. “Before it manages to get too far and goes somewhere you can’t follow.”

“Hey, I have an idea!” Lightbulb chirps, straightening to attention. “Bright Lights! We all have our own missions we currently need to attend to! Between finding Taco and tracking down Test Tube’s wayward construct-”

“Robot,” the woman in question flatly interjects.

“Yes, that. So, considering this, it would be best if we split up!” she continues.

“Really?” Fan asks, looking anxious. “But you always say we shouldn’t go on our own in case something happens.”

“You’re right! But we wouldn’t be on our own!” Lightbulb crows, looking rather pleased with herself. “Each of us would go off with a person from this world, who knows everything we could ever need to know!”

“Not everything-” Paintbrush begins to object, but Lightbulb isn’t done.

“Me and Painty will go off together!” they loudly declare, skipping over to Paintbrush and linking an arm with their own. They look unhappy but resigned to this. “Fan, you’ll help Test Tube find her robot!” The man salutes, a wide grin on his face. “And Apple, you and Bow can stick around with Marshmallow, since you all seem to get along well together!”

Apple beams so brilliantly bright, the dimple in her cheek becoming more evident than ever, and Marshmallow’s cheeks become so furiously red that she can’t help but look away, pulling at the scarf wrapped around her neck. “Yay!” she cheers, throwing her hands in the air in excitement.

Bow scoffs under her breath as she drifts toward Marshmallow, her arms crossed. “I guess we’re sticking together for a bit,” she says stiffly, although to be honest she doesn’t seem to mind it that much.

“All non-Test Tube groups will be looking for Taco,” Lightbulb declares, punching a fist into her palm. “And all Test Tube groups will be looking for that robot! Got it?” Fan, Apple, and even Bow all nod in sync, and she beams. “Sweet! Then let’s go for it!” Pulling Paintbrush along by the arm, the two disappear through the door. Paintbrush just has enough time to glance back at Marshmallow, expression blank, and then they’re gone.

Test Tube seems more preoccupied on scouring over her notes, and while Fan makes an admirable effort to keep up, it’s obvious he’s quickly growing confused. Sometimes Marshmallow wonders just what it is Paintbrush sees in Test Tube to begin with. Sure, she’s pretty, but when she gets so easily wrapped up in her own mind, what good is it? If nothing else, she’s better than their last partner. She really hated the way he looked at her, as if she was below him. Gross. It was a happy day when Paintbrush finally kicked him to the curb, at any rate.

“Uh…” Apple begins, face scrunched up as if she’s been thinking about this intensely. “How are we supposed to look for Taco, anyway? Fan’s the one that does all of our tracking spells.”

“Please don’t ask me to do another spell right now,” Fan groans, looking nauseous. “I exerted a bunch of energy trying to find you.”

“Oh.” Apple replies, frowning.

“Pretty smart of Lightbulb to be aware of that,” Marshmallow mumbles with a hum. “Guess the split of people makes sense.”

“But how are we supposed to track Taco now?” Bow groans, teeth grit as she grips the tattered fabric of her skirt.

“With our brains,” she replies calmly, tapping the side of her head to demonstrate. “You do still have one of those, right? It didn’t disappear when you died?” Apple presses a hand to her mouth in evident shock, her eyes wide, while Fan’s head snaps up and he makes chopping motions at his neck panickedly.

But Marshmallow just stands there, one hand on her hip, as she looks intently at Bow. She has no interest in backing down, not now. Even if it causes the ghost to lash out at her, it’s nothing she isn’t capable of handling. Bow stares at her for a moment, before letting out a huff. “I’ll show you just how smart I can be,” she promises, staring at her with intense, piercing pink eyes as she leans forward. Marshmallow just finds herself smiling.

“If you’re sure,” she replies curtly, tilting her head. “You’re fine to handle this on your own, Test Tube?” She doesn’t know the woman nearly well enough to have the same banter she easily has with Paintbrush, but she’s not planning to stick around too much around the woman anyway.

“She won’t be on her own! She has me!” Fan boasts, puffing out his chest.

Test Tube just chuckles and pats his arm. “Of course I do,” she agrees, pulling out a phone from a pocket of her lab coat and tapping at it for a moment or two. “Right, I have a location. You ready to go?”

“As ready as I can be!” Fan says, cheery and upbeat. “Oh, I’ll serenade you with my music as we walk! I’ve spent so much time glued to my lute I can practically play it in my sleep! And there’s this new song I’ve been workshopping…” His voice grows quieter as the two of them leave the dorm, following in Paintbrush and Lightbulb’s footsteps.

“Good luck!” Apple yells, hands cupped around her mouth. Marshmallow isn’t sure if the two can hear her anymore, but the effort is admirable. “You can do it!”

“What sorts of places do you think Taco will hang around?” Marshmallow prompts.

“I dunno, why don’t you use your brain?” Bow snips, prompting her to roll her eyes.

“Somewhere in the shadows, where she can plot and scheme!” Apple declares, wiggling her fingers as she smiles conspiratorially.

“Are there any kings around here she could try to kill?” Bow dryly adds.

“Not really. We don’t do the whole monarchy thing here,” she says dryly, shrugging. “Either way, let’s get out there and talk as we walk. I feel super awkward being in the dorm when neither of its owners are here.” The two follow after her as she leaves, watching as she deftly produces a key from under the mat and quickly locks the door.

“So who were those people, anyway?” Apple prompts, brow creased.

“Paintbrush and Test Tube. Did you not catch their names as they introduced themselves?”

“I did, but thanks for the reminder!” She smiles so earnestly that Marshmallow feels her face flush as she looks away. “I mean, that Paintbrush person was super angry, y’know. They kept yelling at you… Are the two of you enemies or something?”

“Huh?” she says blankly, before fully comprehending what she had asked. “No, we aren’t enemies. Kind of the opposite, actually. They’re just really easily set off. And they weren’t happy that I was keeping secrets from them, as if they were any better.” She scoffs under her breath, pulling at the collar of her puffy jacket. “It’s fine. We’ll get over it. We’ve been friends for too long to let that sort of thing destroy it.”

“Yeah, but there’s definitely something else bothering you,” Bow points out, leaning forward with narrowed eyes. She can’t help but startle at the accusation, craning her neck to stare up at Bow as she hovers in the air. She’s always above the two of them, as if she wants to be taller than them. If she had legs, she thinks she would somehow be shorter than she is, maybe even shorter than Nickel. 

“Says who?” she says flatly, not entirely willing to prove Bow right outright. She’d be so painfully smug about it that the only way to get her to quit would be waving her hand in her body until she dissolves.

“Says the fact that you were super cold and closed off the entire time we were there,” Bow concludes, predictably smug as she crosses her arms. By now the group has been walking for a while, having made it out of campus, and they stay in alleyways and cracked, mostly abandoned streets with tipped over dumpsters and scattered trash. “You have another reason for being angry at Paintbrush that you aren’t saying outright. I’m right, aren’t I?” She mimes the motion of flipping a spiky, wispy pigtail over her shoulder, but the only thing that achieves is prompting it to fade away.

“Shut up,” she grumbles, hands balled into fists at her side. “What would you know? Neither of you even know what those dumpsters are for, I bet, or even know what a dumpster is. Why should I take relationship advice on people as clueless as newborn toddlers?”

“That’s mean,” Apple protests.

“If you’re so bothered by it, tell your pet ghost to mind her own business,” she sneers in response.

Bow darts in front of Marshmallow, looking offended. “I’m no one’s pet!” she yells, looking angry. “I’m dead, but I’m still my own person, got that?”

“Crystal,” she mutters. “And you’re right. Sorry.”

Looking satisfied, Bow raises into the air slightly, leaning backward as she crosses her arms. “Right about you having some kind of bone to pick with Paintbrush?” she says smugly.

“Right about you not being a pet,” she corrects with an eye roll as she begins to move again, now unimpeded by Bow standing in front of her. She’s incorporeal, so hardly an obstacle at the best of times, but touching her makes a chill run through her. Besides, causing her to lose her form, however brief it may be, would just send Bow into a fit. “...And right about the other thing, too,” she reluctantly concedes after a moment, nose wrinkled.

“Knew it,” she says, looking satisfied. “So what’s your problem?”

“Mostly that I feel like they’re replacing me,” she snaps in exasperation as she storms down the sidewalk. “They live with their stupid girlfriend, so it’s so easy to hang out with her. But they have to make an effort to spend time with me. With how exhausting college is, why bother sticking around with the scrawny pipsqueak you had hung around back in high school when you can be with someone you actually care about, right?” She lets out an ugly, unimpressed laugh. “That’s how I view it, anyway. They haven’t said anything like that, but it’s only a matter of time, right?”

She swallows. Suddenly, she finds there’s a lot less satisfaction in discussing the topic when it makes her feel so awful, like everything is going to slip straight through her reach and fall between her fingers, leaving her all alone because she never bothered to make other friends beyond Paintbrush.

“If that’s really how they feel, then you shouldn’t waste your time on them,” Bow says matter-of-factly, one hand on her hip. She looks so confident, as if she’s convinced she’s the expert of relationships or something trite like that. “But maybe you should try talking to them. There’s a lot of things words are capable of doing. They can’t stop you from getting murdered, but y’know. They can be pretty useful sometimes.” She shrugs, looking disinterested.

“Murdered like you were? What’s the deal with that, by the way?” she says dryly, glancing over her shoulder to get a glimpse of that stark yet faded and slightly translucent pink hovering around her. Bow has one hand on her cheek, a small yet surprisingly soft smile on her face as she stares at her.

“You shouldn’t ask a ghost how they died. That’s super rude, Graham Cracker.”

“I know you know my name.” Bow just smirks at her, and she leaves it. By now, her using the wrong name for people is commonplace.

Apple’s been silent for a while, eyes flitting around the streets. Her gaze had been trained somewhere for the last minute or so, though, and when Marshmallow follows it, she sees that it leads to a nearby park, looking pretty abandoned at this time of day. “I thought all this world had were these big buildings, metal monsters, and smelly air,” she begins, wrinkling her nose. “But it’s good to know there’s still pockets of forest around.”

“That’s a park, and if you’re looking for forests, you’re in the wrong place,” she wryly replies. “But I guess cities as big as this are completely foreign to you, huh?”

“Yeah,” Bow sourly agrees, doing cartwheels in the air. “What’s the deal with the size? There’s no way this world can have that many people.”

“Not that much, just eight billion,” she flatly replies.

“Ha! You can’t fool us, we know that isn’t a real number!” Bow hollers, jabbing a finger at her accusingly. Marshmallow just stares at her, running a hand over her face a moment later to regain her focus.

“We can stop in that park if you want,” she offers, giving Apple a soft, tentative smile that the other woman returns tenfold, to the point where it feels kind of overwhelming. “I think you’d like it. Give us the chance to rest.”

“We’ve been looking for Taco for all of five minutes! C’mon, Kumquat, are you really that lazy?” Bow cajoles, a pout on her face.

“It was my idea,” Marshmallow points out, crossing her arms, although Bow is suspiciously quick to wave that tidbit off.

Either way, the group makes their way to the park. She feels a little bit guilty that they aren’t doing more to look for Taco, but what else can they do? If Paintbrush acts, she’ll say they did a lap around the less populated areas of the city just to sate them. When Apple sprawls out on the grass with a content sigh, tattered and threadbare robes spreading around her and framing her body, Marshmallow knows she made the right decision.

“The sky is nice during the day, but you can barely see the stars at night,” Apple says with a sigh, reaching a hand up to grip at the vast, cloudless blue sky. “How are you supposed to find your way when you’re lost?”

“That’s light pollution for you,” she wanly replies, elbows resting on her knees. “Besides, there’s no way you can actually use the stars to navigate. I won’t believe that one.”

“We can!” she insists. “Fan does it all the time!”

“Well, that's what he says he’s doing,” Bow flatly adds from her perch on a low-hanging branch on the tree Marshmallow’s leaning against. “But I think he’s just blindly fumbling around until things work out for him.”

“Bow!” Apple protests, but Marshmallow’s laughing. She can imagine the scene in her mind, Fan stubbornly leading the group through some remote forest, claiming he can use the stars to navigate, only to stumble upon a village by chance. Apple sits up to pout at the two of them, and she’s laughing harder even as she shifts to get closer to the other woman for completely innocent reasons, she promises! She just wants to be able to look at Apple’s face better as light peacefully filters through the leaves.

Marshmallow finds herself running her hands through Apple’s russet hair, the edges of it shaggy and uneven as it peters down to her shoulders. It’s somewhat greasy and knotted, but she wouldn’t expect her to have the best hair care methods. Back in her dimension, they have yet to figure out indoor plumbing. Explaining how showers worked between the thin veneer of the shower curtain, Apple occasionally sticking her head out to ask for clarification on something, was a stressful ordeal. She could see her dark, rich skin, going down below her neck, and although it was just her head and a bit of her shoulders, she could imagine what was even lower-

Safe to say, her face had been red for reasons completely unrelated to the steam hanging heavily in the air.

Still, though, despite the fact that she’s only started using shampoo and conditioner a day or two ago, her hair is all the better for it. There’s a nice sort of quality to it, not to mention the rich, darker red color. It’s nice, and as Marshmallow busies herself with playing with it, she finds herself absentmindedly murmuring “You know, I could braid this for you, if you want.”

Immediately, Apple straightens, causing her hands to fall through her hair. “Would you?” she says, looking over her shoulder. Her rich forest green eyes are so wide and earnest that Marshmallow finds herself staring down at her lap.

“Sure,” she says in response. “It’s long enough, if nothing else. And I barely get to practice anymore, because it’s hard for me to braid my own hair, and Paintbrush just prefers keeping theirs back with a headband nowadays. But you have to stay still, got it?”

“Got it!” Apple cheerily echoes, staring straight ahead as her hands rest atop her lap. Marshmallow digs a hair tie out from one of the pockets of her puffy coat and puts it around her wrist, eyes narrowed as she begins to work.

There’s something nice about the motion of braiding. It’s difficult enough that it requires focus, but easy enough that it doesn’t prompt irritation whenever something is done wrong. Either way, as she gently folds each bit of hair over the other, she can focus on it with a sort of intent single mindedness. She doesn’t have to think about how close she is to Apple, close enough that when she breathes the other woman feels it on her neck. She doesn’t think about how easily she could reach for the woman’s cheek and gently trace it, moving her face closer and closer to her own until-

God, she’s such a disaster. She’s been awfully resentful of Paintbrush lately, so focused on jumping into relationship after relationship that she can’t help but feel left behind. For all the things that could be said about their last boyfriend, at least they didn’t live with him, and they offered to hang out with her just as often as she made offers of her own. And now that she finds herself in prolonged proximity with a pretty, friendly woman, she finds herself falling immediately.

Is it just her trying to get back at Paintbrush for moving on from their friendship? She knows she’s so angry all the time, but she wants to think that anger isn’t the only source of this warm, fluttering feeling. It’s easy to love Apple, of course. She’s amazing. But actually being in a relationship with her makes something anxious twist tightly in her gut.

Yes, they’re from two different worlds. That’s the most obvious roadblock to their relationship, but there’s more to it than just that. Apple is going to have to return home eventually. Sure, she doesn’t hide her resentment at how her home treats her, but when she talks about home, there’s a bit of determination about her, too. She’s intent on changing things, one way or another. Marshmallow can certainly respect that.

Hadn’t she mentioned a brother, too? Yes, all in all, Apple had things that she certainly couldn’t leave behind, and stopping in her tracks just to get caught up in something completely untenable with Marshmallow would only hurt her. And god, the last thing she could ever want was to hurt Apple. If she had any sense at all, she would keep her distance from the other woman so she wouldn’t get too attached. It would be a mercy.

And yet, here she is anyway, braiding Apple’s hair with steady hands and a warm smile on her face. She realizes with a start that she couldn’t stay away from Apple if she forced herself. It’s like an urge pulling intensely at her, a desperate determination to keep herself close to Apple despite the inevitable heartbreak it’ll bring her, rushing forward and sweeping her up in it like a rushing wave.

Because, well, this is the first time she’s actually properly been in love with someone like this. It’s heavy and insistent and so thrilling that even being this close to Apple makes her heart rush and it’s a struggle to keep her hands steady. She hasn’t really felt this all-consuming romantic love, the closest she got to it being a few occasional fleeting conversations that never went much of anywhere. So of course, she’s never had a partner and never had a first kiss, even if a few times as a moody junior and a resigned senior she thought about asking Paintbrush just to get it out of the way.

It’s kind of funny what experiences she has and hadn’t had. She got bullied throughout most of high school, and even if Knife backed off throughout most of her senior year that didn’t erase her resentment toward him. She’s also, somehow, managed to do underage drinking and drug using, all that fun stuff. The drinking became a habit, spiked cherry fizz to help her keep the edge off, while the drug usage was ditched after a few too many bad highs.

Of course, she hasn’t told Paintbrush about that. They’re paranoid enough about her urban exploring kick. Doing something completely, outright illegal, with no asterisks or excuses she can use to worm herself out of whatever charge may be levelled upon her? Yeah, they’d flip their lid. But she’s not an idiot. She does it in the privacy of her own dorm, occasionally hitching a ride to parties she has no right being at, and doesn’t have a car to drunk drive in, thankfully. She’s as sensible about it as she is about her urban exploring.

Doesn’t stop Paintbrush from being relentlessly overprotective of her, of course. She had appreciated it in high school, enjoying how they had fended off Knife in the moments where he hadn’t been smart enough to approach her when he was alone. Their anger was so much worse in high school, loud and explosive and always on the verge of getting physical. She always enjoyed it, though, using it as a shield and draping it over her shoulders. Any time anyone poked fun at her for being short, scrawny, and always scrawling something in her journal, there would always be the threat of Paintbrush storming in and screaming at them.

But now they’ve mellowed out a lot, even if there are times their rage gets the better of them. Is it the life experience they’ve gotten from their two relationships to vastly different people? College? The general maturity one gains after freeing themselves from the hell of high school and living more or less on their own? There’s a lot of factors to it, but she doesn’t want to contemplate it for too long.

Paintbrush has changed. Inevitably, they’ll move on from her, getting swept up with their girlfriend and their new friends, forgetting all about stupid scrawny Marshmallow chasing dreams that will never pan out in more than one sense, and then what will she have left? People she’s acquainted with but only uses to get rides to parties? How is she supposed to branch out when Paintbrush is all she knows? They’re safe. Being with them means she never has to change.

Not even having Apple here makes her feel any better, because she’s even more temporary than Paintbrush is! At least they’d feel some pity about ditching Marshmallow outright, but Apple has no attachment, no obligation to her, and has so many things she has to return to that it would be selfish to cling to her for much longer. Marshmallow supposes she just likes being with her, thrilled by the sense of adventure the otherworldly necromancer and her accompanying ghost are all too happy to offer her.

It doesn’t take long at all to braid Apple’s hair, short enough that even starting the braid was a struggle. It’s short and scraggly, barely holding itself together as it curves up, but Marshmallow can’t help but smile as she ties it back. “Done,” she announces, leaning back.

Immediately, Apple gets to her feet and examines her reflection in Marshmallow’s phone, mouth opened in an awed, wide o as she tentatively pokes at her braid. “It looks so good!” she cries, her eyes wide with amazement.

She sheepishly chuckles, rubbing at the back of her neck. “It’s not that big of a deal,” she protests. “But it looks good on you.”

“Thank you!” Apple cries earnestly, leaning forward to tightly embrace Marshmallow. She freezes, cheeks heating, and ends up locking eyes with Bow, hands balled into fists at her sides, completely motionless save for the way her tail waves in the breeze. She looks incensed, not that she can imagine why. She doesn’t even like Apple.

A moment later, Apple disentangles herself from her, but grabs her hand, holding it tightly. Her hand is big and callused, easily swallowing up Marshmallow’s in her own. She feels her breath catch in her throat as her eyes become lost in Apple’s own. There’s just something so striking about her eyes, so warming about her overwhelmingly genuine smile. She thinks she can be happy just standing here forever if it means she gets even a moment longer to forget herself and just stare contentedly into her eyes.

Driven by something impulsive and tinted with desire, she finds herself jerking forward, leaning toward Apple’s face until their foreheads are touching and she can feel the other woman’s breath against her cheek. If even slight proximity made her heart pound, this is sending her into overdrive. Any second now, she expects to collapse, dead, from a stress-induced heart attack. And still, she continues to stand.

The words bubbling on the tip of her tongue, words tinged by desperate, heady want, don’t quite leave her mouth. All she has to do is ask, and yet she’s impeded by adrenaline as much as fear. It’s a struggle to force her mouth to open, and yet leaning her body forward? That takes no trouble at all.

Suddenly, her lips meet Apple’s with an awkward click of teeth, and she’s kissing her at an odd angle, just to the left of the center of her mouth. But still, she’s kissing Apple, and the other woman has yet to try to push her away. If anything, she’s leaning into the touch, eyes drifting closed in contentment as her hands become buried in Marshmallow’s hair. Suddenly, she wishes she wasn’t stuck wearing this damn hat so they could go deeper, gently massaging at her scalp.

Their kiss isn’t anything perfect. It’s her first, and she doubts Apple is much better. As much as she deserves to have people throwing themselves at her feet, the stigma of being a necromancer probably isn’t doing any favors for her love life. They’re both outcasts in their own way, she supposes. Is that why they’re so drawn to one another? Is that why she finds herself seized by this all-consuming need? Does she want to give to Apple what she always wished for as a lonely, bitter teenager? She doesn’t know, but she finds herself eager to find out.

Suddenly, though, Apple lurches back, the motion jerky and uneven as her eyes fly open. Marshmallow knows when to take a hint, so she leans back, automatically looking toward her forest green eyes. But with a start, as she stares into them, all she can see is bright, luminous pink, ringing around her pupils and irises and giving her eyes a glowing look. Okay, that definitely isn’t normal. The color reminds her of Bow, and she scans around the clearing nervously, trying to see where the ghost went. Trying not to act like she hadn’t just possessed Apple.

“Um-?” she begins nervously, but before she can say another word, Apple(?) crosses her arms, glaring at Marshmallow with disdain she hadn’t thought the other woman to be capable of.

“I can’t believe you did that!” she cries, voice having a stilted, high pitched edge to it. “Kissing me without even asking?! For shame, Gr-Marshmallow!”

“Right,” she says, narrowing her eyes as she leans forward. “Remind me what shame means?”

“Being embarrassed or guilty because of your actions?” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I thought you would have known that.”

Well, that seals it. “Get out of Apple’s body, Bow,” she says impatiently, watching as the other woman goes rigid. “What are you even doing? You can’t just-”

Before she can finish scolding the wayward Bow, though, Apple’s body tenses, and it springs into motion dizzyingly fast, moving away from her and running down the road. Marshmallow is so shocked by the suddenness that she just stands there blankly, before shaking her head and following after her.

Whatever she may be playing at, she isn’t going to let the ghost get away that easily. She’s bound to Apple to prevent her from causing trouble. With her possessing the other woman, who knows what she could get up to? She takes it upon herself to chase after Apple’s body, because it’s not like anyone else is going to.

(Did she really have to pick then of all times to possess Apple, though?!)

— — —

Candle would hesitate to say she’s the go with the flow type. Phrasing it like that makes someone think that she’s the sort to let the tide pull her away, no resistance from her involved. As if she’s a passive observer in her own life.

Unsurprisingly, that’s hardly true. Time and time again, she’s stepped forward to divert the stream of fate that courses and weaves through the lives of all living creatures, even if she knows there’s only so much she can do against the steady march of time. Sometimes, she finds herself just stepping into the stream, allowing the water to go up to her ankles, just to feel the forceful, rushing current that would sweep those weaker than her away.

She likes to think of herself as strong. Forget going with the flow. She’s going to stand straight and proud and be prepared to weather any blows that may try to level upon her. Strong enough to divert her own fate long after it’s been set in stone, however? That takes strength she can’t possess, not when her specialty is in the casting of spells first and foremost.

But when she had stumbled across a dimensional portal in the middle of the woods, crackling and flickering unstably and due to close at any moment, she second guessed that previous thought. Sure, she can’t change fate on her own, but the actions of others is enough to divert her path in any direction, wildly careening in ways she hadn’t previously thought possible. If she uses others' choices to her advantage just so, suddenly her life has changed in the blink of an eye.

And, well, throwing herself into another dimension is certainly one way to change her fate, is it not? She’s unsure how long she will remain in this world; it could take an entirety to find the mage responsible for the portal and ask them to send her back. At the moment, though, her current stay has been pleasant enough.

Just yesterday, she had introduced herself to a student known as Yin-Yang, although she had been quick to discover that the name was merely a shorthand to refer to both of the people present in the one body. She got the sense that wasn’t the norm in this dimension, given how poorly the two had been coping with it.

She would hesitate to say that her assistance had been significant to the two’s synergy, nor would she say that any time the two got along could all be accredited to her. Ultimately, all she had done was offer the two advice, and it was solely up to them how they would use and interpret it. From what she had glimpsed of them after that point, along with keeping an ear out for any gossip on the campus, which could be just as cruel and fast spreading as gossip from back home, they were doing much better than they had been before their intervention.

This has always been something she’s done. Back home, she would go around and speak with those who were experiencing struggles of some sort in their lives and attempt to help them move past it or come to some sort of conclusion regarding it. There were very few things her magic could do for those who were suffering; it all came to their own strength and whether they possessed any determination to overcome it.

Her advice to Yin-Yang was among the more personalized she offered. Their mind was split in two, if she understood the explanation of their condition well enough. (“Well, we have other alters, but none have fronted enough to make themselves that integrated in our daily lives,” Yin had explained when she had tentatively offered what she had managed to grasp. “Yeah!” Yang had added. “More often than not, it’s just the two of us!”)

All she had done was suggest that the two position themselves based on when they would be most needed. For instance, Yin did the best in their classes, alert, taking notes, and asking questions when needed, so he should be the one at the forefront. But it was important to let Yang have just as much time to front, too.

“After all, he has just as much control as you do,” she had pointed out with a smile. “From what I’ve seen, it’s not as if your relationship is that one has more control, with the other occasionally popping in. It’s completely equal. And just as you can’t restrain another person and expect them to be happy about it, you can’t keep the other trapped in the back of your mind because you’ll think you’ll do a better job at everything. It’s important you both take your own roles, and agree on it. Fighting will get you nowhere.”

“But Yang is so chaotic and destructive!” Yin had protested, looking upset. As he had spoken, he had leaned forward, causing his glasses to fall down his nose and cause Yang to front. If Yin looked upset, Yang had looked furious, gritting his teeth as he crossed his arms.

“Y-Yeah?” he had cried, unable to keep the wobble out of his voice. “Well, you’re so polite and annoying! What good are you when you’ll never stand up for yourself or overthink every impulse that crosses your mind until it goes away?!”

“Boys,” Candle had warned, and whoever was in front, they were quick to straighten and snap to attention, eyes wide. “You both have your place. Sure, there may be negative qualities alongside the positive, but that can be said for everyone. You mustn’t be so quick to find the other aside. You must find balance.”

After a moment, Yin had let out a long, lofty sigh. “You’re right,” he had admitted. “We already learned that lesson during high school, after all. It’s just hard to not feel like I’m the one doing everything right, while Yang is just getting in the way.”

“All that’s required is for you to talk,” she had said firmly. “What situations do you think it’s best to take the lead on? What situations do you want to take the lead on? You must take these questions into consideration. It’s fine to switch at your own discretion, of course, but I believe having some structure to it will lead to a sharp increase in your success.”

The two had gone quiet, as if they had never thought about that before. From there, they had begun a quiet, hushed discussion, only half of which was spoken aloud. Either they know each other well enough to figure out non-verbal communication without the most vital aspect of it, that being facial cues, or they have some form of mental communication established.

She can’t help but find herself intrigued by the two’s condition. When she asked about it, she got a long, winding, and very resigned explanation from Yin, who seemed to be used to fielding questions about it. After a few minutes, though, his head had ducked, glasses sliding down his nose, and Yang had very succinctly summed it up: “We had a bad childhood, so our brain split into more people to compensate.”

As much as she enjoyed long, rambling explanations and lots of details about things, she couldn’t deny that having that one simple sentence made it click much easier in her mind. “Is a bad childhood a requirement for your condition to form?” she had asked, tilting her head.

“Eh, generally,” Yang had said dismissively, waving a hand in the air. “But the human brain is super unpredictable, y’know? Who knows what can trigger what.”

“I understand,” she had kindly replied, smiling at the two of them. “Thank you for answering my questions. I know you two must be tired of that by now.” Despite their immediate and fervent denial, she knew she was right. She simply had a leg up on others, because she was willing to be understanding. Not many people had that mindset.

Back home, she had heard rumors that the king’s most loyal knight (in some versions of the rumor, his boyfriend) was gradually slipping into insanity. Candle, who found both success and pleasure in soothing the minds of people experiencing great struggle, enquired further, and she learnt that sometimes the man, whose name was Paper, occasionally acted as another man entirely, showing great confusion and disorientation during those times. And when later asked, he claimed he didn’t remember anything, the period simply a gap of time in his memory.

While the issue could be possession, of course, she suspects a necromancer would have likely been brought in by now to test that theory. As uncommon as they are, she’s sure the king has some sort of connection and ability to bring on in with a wave of the hand. So surely it must be something else. And while she can only guess at the full extent of it, having never met either the king or his partner in person, she’s beginning to draw parallels between the two.

It’s not as if she can test that theory. For one, she’s an entire dimension away. She’s an alchemist, and although her magic may be capable of tearing through space and time hypothetically, that wasn’t the sort of magic she was born with. And she’s hardly a fool; those who already possess innate magic and yet make deals for more lose their grasp on sanity far easier than others, and she’s quite content with the power she possesses already. So long as she can use it to help people, how could she ever ask for more?

For another, it feels rather insensitive to theorize on this outright. Although Yin-Yang remain in relentlessly good spirits, their arguments with each other never going further than sharp, barbed words (“You can’t really fight yourself,” Yin had sensibly pointed out. So of course, Yang had been quick to ruin it by adding “Yeah! We learnt that lesson back in high school!”), it’s clear that their condition makes their life far more difficult than most. Without the division of magic and the stigma surrounding all of those capable of casting, she supposes people have to find other ways to put down others viewed as lesser.

Maybe if she ever returns back to her dimension (that would be the ideal, truly, but there’s so many people to help and things to do in this world that she’s content remaining for the near future) she can use all that she’s learnt from Yin-Yang and apply it to others. But for now, all she can truly do is theorize.

Of course, Yin-Yang is not the only person she’s helped. In this world, where she’s never had the chance to properly set down roots, she drifts around, wondering if this sprawling town is all one place or if it’s many towns that grew outward as much as they did upward, encroaching on the edges of one another until there was no longer any proper barrier between them. The only indication she’s gotten is that this place is known as Los Angeles, and it’s considered rather big by the standards of most, which is a relief. She’s been walking for days and thinks she has yet to see the city’s outskirts.

Several times, there have been people who she stumbled upon that she simply could not leave on their own. The idea made her feel too guilty to even consider. One of those people had been a man in a library, taking shuddering breaths as he pulled at his pale hair in obvious distress. On the table next to him was one of those small rectangular devices most people she passes seem to be glued to. His eyes were misty with tears as he struggled to focus on anything other than his own distress.

All Candle had done was step in and advise him to breathe. She isn’t the sort to take credit for most of her actions, viewing credit as the sort of unnecessary things those only seeking glory cling to. All she wants is to help people; she has no desire to be treated as a saint for it. Maybe after so many years of being painted as a devil in woman’s clothes, being likened to any sort of divinity leaves a sour taste in her mouth.

Still, though, her actions seemed to have a greater impact on him beyond simply the obvious. If he had been so moved he had decided to seek her out directly, she’s all too happy to oblige him. Whether he decides to stick around is another story entirely, but she must admit she’s found herself lonely ever since she took to the road. She misses Clover’s bubbliness and the way she was capable of lifting any mood. She doubts this man will serve as a suitable replacement in that respect, but having him here takes her mind off more difficult things.

Looking over her shoulder, she catches the pale blue eyes of Silver Spoon. The moment he sees her looking at her, he straightens, adjusting the ruffled cloth wrapped around his throat self consciously. As much as he tries to hide it with pompous confidence, head raised behind him as he struts forward with immaculately perfect posture, she can sense the uncertainty dripping from him in waves. And yet he follows after her regardless. Impressive indeed.

She’s familiar with the sort of person he is. The smug aura, slicked back hair, ridiculous clothes that contrast the outfits of others in a different way than hers do… She isn’t sure whether this world has moved past the system of monarchy and nobility or not, but if they were to remain, etched into the very soul of the world, she’s confident that Silver Spoon would be nothing more than the most recent incarnate of it.

Candle never went further than the nearby towns that were no more than a day’s trip away. As much as she loved to travel, seeing the world around her, exploring forests and finding ingredients for her alchemy, she knew she had to savor the time she had in her village while she could. With each passing day, the townspeople grew increasingly hostile to her, hushed whispers growing into outright distaste. In the days leading up to her house being set aflame and her fleeing with all she could carry, more people had been coming up to her, spitting cruelty and vitriol.

Her sole friend back home, Clover, was the clueless sort. Capable of magic but never using it, she was definitely much more lucky than Candle herself could hope to be. Maybe she would be better off if she never made use of her innate magic, but how could she reject something that was a part of her?

(Maybe she felt the same pull that people said all magic users felt. That drive for power, for strength, for respect, no matter the cost. Maybe she was just as inherently evil as every being cursed with magic. But no one was born evil, it was solely a product of their environment. She had to cling to that, otherwise she truly would become evil.)

All the rumors she heard outright were passed along to her from Clover with a sort of bemused disagreement. Candle had asked her to never try to refute or argue with anyone about them, just to not make things worse for her. Clover was the sweet, serene ray of sunshine, unflinchingly kind. Even the most cold hearted in their village cared for her. But Candle was the mysterious, dark witch, stealing away children in the night and skinning lambs for dark rituals. Or… something. She struggles to remember the exact nature of the rumors anymore. If being her friend was enough to taint Clover by association, Candle would rather be alone. By the time she saw Clover outright arguing with someone in defense of Candle, just a day before her house was burnt by an angry mob, she knew things had progressed to an intolerable degree.

Either way, although she would prefer to stay in her home or leave it of her own volition, she never grew too attached to it. Her frequent visits to the surrounding forests and scattered towns were a part of that. And in her travels, she met more than one snobby noble, either travelling like her or residing in a town. The latter always had some form of leadership bequeathed to them, despite their selfishness and general unqualification. They were able to lead just because of how they were born. It was a sort of injustice she hoped this world would remedy, but unfortunately it doesn’t seem much better.

Either way, she hopes Silver Spoon is capable of rising above his own biases and preconceptions. It’s obvious in everything from his haughty expression to the way he walks that he views himself as above everything around him. A person with less control over their emotions would be irritated by it, but for Candle’s part, she just sighs. Maybe he can overcome what he was born being told and come to his own conclusions. Maybe he can prove that it's possible to properly help him.

Eventually, the two finish walking to where she had been leading him. Nearby the college campus is a park, vast and sprawling. It’s one of the few places in the city with any amount of greenery, and it has the greatest extent of it. As she led him through the park, they had veered off of the beaten path, walking atop the soft blanket of grass as they cut through the wilderness. Silver Spoon looked discomforted by the branches and taller plants scratching at his ankles, and looked on the verge of complaining.

Before he can open his mouth, though, she discovers the clearing she had been looking for and smiles. There’s a tall willow tree, the leaves spilling over the branches and billowing tranquilly in the breeze, as well as several flowering plants and bushes. There’s a river somewhere in the area, not in view but audible. The sound of rushing water punctuates the air alongside the sound of bird call.

“Sit down,” she orders as she sits on the grass, legs crossed under her as she rests her arms on top of her knees. Immediately, Silver Spoon moves to copy her, looking uncertain yet determined. An interesting combination on most people, to be sure. “In my time here, this is the most tranquil spot I’ve discovered,” she explains, her voice soft. “It’s the best place for me to think clearly, allowing my mind to sharpen and focus for the act of meditation. Are you familiar with meditation’s benefits?”

“It’s not anything I’ve ever done before,” Silver Spoon haughtily replies, raising his chin in the air. Like this location, it’s clear he views the act as beneath him. Candle supposes she’ll have to do what she can to change his mindset. “I’ve never quite had the time for it.”

“I can tell that there are many things that weigh intensely on your mind,” she murmurs, tilting her head, prompting Silver Spoon’s pale complexion to flush a ruddy red. “Many problems, many painful things that you would rather push away. But those things will never go away if you continue to push them away. You must confront them head on and come to a conclusion.”

Silver Spoon grits his teeth. If she said something he disagreed with, he certainly wouldn’t hesitate to rush in and sputter out an offended disagreement. It’s evident from the slant of his shoulders that she had hit the mark with her words. “Why would I want to confront that?” he says stiffly, looking away from her as a sharp glare roots itself onto his features. “I already have to live with it enough as is. Dedicating more of my mind to it feels like… letting it win.” He’s cagey and vague, not adding any details as to what it is that bothers him so much. But Candle can work with that.

“Back home,” she begins, running her hand through a strand of rich, dark purple hair. “I would travel, just a few days away from home. I would seek out people who needed help, either to manage stress or to confront things that wore too heavily upon them or some other sort of mental ailment. I wouldn’t consider myself a physical sort of healer, exactly, but I was proud to heal others mentally.”

Silver Spoon squints warily at her, looking uncertain. “So you were a sort of therapist then, yes?” he says almost warily.

She doesn’t know the meaning of the word, but she knows by now that this dimension is completely different, with different standards and terms to match. If he finds a word to ascribe to her he deems as fitting, who is she to try to argue with it? “You could say that,” she says, relying on his assumptions to fill the gaps she’s unable to. “All this to say, I’ve discovered people with the most minor of problems that tore them up inside. Regardless of the gravity of your own issue, it’s clearly affecting your ability to live life unimpeded. Isn’t it better that you address it sooner rather than later, before it has the chance to do too much damage?”

In response, he just snorts, a haughty, derisive thing that makes clear his views on that matter. “That would certainly be nice,” he concedes, even if his voice has a mocking, lilting edge to it. “So what? Do you intend for me to spill my guts to you, so to speak? Tell you everything that’s ever worn at me for you to solve? As if there’s ever been something less ridiculous.” He lifts up his chin, but there’s a hesitant glint in his pale blue eyes, as if he’s more than acquainted with discussing his problems with others and has gotten far too used to being burnt for it.

Candle frowns as she notes that, but decides she’ll have an easier time addressing that at a later time. First and foremost, she has to gain his trust and prove that she’s capable of helping. “You can do that if you wish, but I thought starting with something else would go better for the both of us,” she explains. Adjusting her posture ever-so-slightly, she smiles invitingly at Silver Spoon. “Mimic my position,” she encourages.

He blinks at her, eying her up and down. She supposes this is the first test of many as to whether he’s capable of placing his trust in her. A moment later, though, he obeys, crossing his legs under him, resting his hands atop his knees, and sitting as straight as he can manage. He’s tall and razor thin, pale skin accentuating his gaunt quality, while she’s just a bit above average height and portly, dark skin rosy and rich. And yet, in this moment, the two have assumed the same pose, both intending to do the same accent. It’s the sort of unison she can’t do anything but appreciate. Regardless of their differences, they still find some way to be the same.

“As I said, meditation has many benefits, although I doubt you’ve done it before,” she begins, tone matter-of-fact. Initially, Silver Spoon bristles, eying her for any signs of malice, but when he finds none, his irritation subsides. “It can do a lot to encourage you to find a resolve or come to a conclusion you hadn’t been aware of before.”

“You expect me to simply stand still for who knows how long with only my breathing for company?” Silver Spoon scoffs, chin raised. “That feels incredibly beneath me.”

“I suppose many things would be beneath you?” she prompts, one brow raised. In response, Silver Spoon flushes, shoulders crawling up to his ears in his embarrassment. That sort of sheepish acknowledgement makes her hope that his haughtiness, the inherent sense of superiority bred into most of his position, won’t get in the way of her attempts to help.

“Fine, fine,” he dismissively scoffs, moodily resting his arm beneath his chin. “Mediation. I suppose it seems like the sort of thing my mother would do. Do you have any suggestions as to how best to do it, or do you want me to just breathe and hope it actually works?”

“My preferred strategy is to picture a candle,” she peacefully explains. “Mediation is all about clearing your mind to focus or reach resolution. Many beginners often struggle with this aspect. So I have them imagine a candle in their minds. Every time a stray thought flits through their mind, grab it and feed it to the flames, and imagine the candle growing bigger, the flame rising and falling in time to your breathing.”

“Won’t that distract me from reaching this supposed peace?” Silver Spoon says dryly.

“Since you’re a beginner, all that’s necessary for you to focus on at the moment is the clearing of your mind,” she says softly. “The other benefits of meditation will come later. If even that feels daunting, just try to follow my breathing.” The jab in her words isn’t subtle at all, and judging from the way Silver Spoon grits her teeth in frustration, he easily catches it.

“Do not worry, my dear,” he boasts, puffing out his chest as he laughs. “My flame shall be the highest of all.”

All she does is raise a brow before she closes her eyes and begins to breathe. It comes easily to her, a peaceful rise and falling of the chest to a silent rhythm that nonetheless hums to life in the forest. Ever since she was young, she had meditated, both to calm herself as well as to think, as strange as that may sound. Still, though, the clearing of her mind helps her realize something she wouldn’t have otherwise thought of.

Across from her, she hears Silver Spoon’s own attempts at breathing. They’re uneven and far too shallow, and he sounds more bothered by trying to match her breaths than trying to properly breathe and go without thought. After a few moments, though, he finds a rhythm of his own.

Candle knows that this is only a beginning as opposed to a proper conclusion. It will not properly fix anything, not yet, and as of now she’s unsure if that’s a power she even fully possesses. She has skill and experience, yes, but in the end, peace and resolution is a power relying solely in Silver Spoon’s hands, no one else’s. She never agrees to help anyone without full faith that they can become someone they weren’t capable of before, but she also doesn’t help if they rely solely on her to fix them. The most important thing, at least, is that they can surpass her guidance and come into themselves on their own.

As for Silver Spoon… It’s difficult to tell. He had put in the effort to seek her out, his intentions relatively pure. All she had done was see someone suffering and step in to help, regardless of who they were or what their situation was, and he had been so moved by it that he had searched for her to thank her at the very least. But he stared at her with wide eyes that were clearly unfamiliar with suffering. The problems he faced were so overwhelming that he wanted a way to be rid of them quickly, even if it meant putting his trust into someone he didn’t know.

Did he rely on her entirely too much? All she could say to that was that it was entirely too early to tell. Their friendship has just begun, after all. But she worries as to the other man’s self sufficiency. If she were to leave and return home before they worked through all of his issues together, would he be quick to regress and spiral back into what he knows? Or would he continue what was started on his own. Ultimately the question becomes how much he needs others, and Candle suspects it’s far more than she would be willing to tolerate normally.

All she can do for the time being is simply wait and see, she supposes. Turning her back on Silver Spoon now would be a different sort of cruel, and she shudders to think of what it would do to his clearly frayed trust. She opts to stay at his side for now and see how things progress, even if the current circumstances do make her wary.

For now, the two breathe in unison, chests rising and falling to a silent rhythm as they feed all negative thoughts to the flames, and Candle can be satisfied with that for now.

— — —

For all that people say about Taco, there’s one thing they can’t refute: no matter what happens around her, she knows she’s capable of moving forward. Even when things grow painful and disquieting, even when it’s a struggle to move, even when her head feels on the verge of splitting in two, she finds the will to move forward regardless. It speaks to the truth of her own convictions as much as it speaks to her strength.

So even as she nurses a painful, betrayed hurt, she never stops moving, easily managing the ordeal of putting one foot in front of the other. The streets of this metropolis are endless and sprawling, with a disquieting amount of people occupying them even in the dead of night. The air tastes foul on her tongue, and she still can’t help but yelp every time a car rushes past her.

Taco likes to think she’s doing a fine job at adjusting, though. Many others would struggle in this position, but she’s the sort to accept what the world is. Accepting does not mean giving up, though, although she has no doubt many will see it like that. As if she hadn’t made herself the most infamous mage in the kingdom in just one night because she was determined to change what was right in front of her, before ultimately failing.

Well, she failed to kill the king. And as things are going, she doubts she’ll get another chance. Her patron will be rather displeased with her in that sense, and she’s seen far too many destroyed constructs left in the wake of his explosive anger to be able to place much trust in him being happy with her. She’s always comforted herself with the fact that she’s still on his good side and isn’t disposable, not like the horrifically intelligent constructs he makes just to destroy the moment they fail him. But if he is truly so angry with him…

It’s daunting. A month ago, she summoned a dragon made from fire, screaming for it to come to her until her throat was hoarse. A month ago, she was declared an enemy of the kingdom. A month ago, those damned mercenaries began to chase after her, and she hasn’t got a moment of peace since. It’s been about a month since she last discussed matters with her patron. Avoiding him is far easier than facing the music.

Not that she intended to end up in this dimension, but it seems like a pretty good place to lay low. Even if she knows full well the buffoons constantly on her tail came here after her, because there isn’t a world in which they hesitated long enough for the portal to close, and even if her making a dimensional as opposed to a spatial portal was an accident she had no clue how she managed, so long as it’s out of the gaze of her patron, it seems like an alright place to linger.

She would have thought the people would be among the preferable things of this dimension. Without magic, there’s very few things for people to turn on others for. When she had mentioned this to Microphone, the woman had just shook her head and chuckled sadly. “You’d be surprised,” she had whispered, voice barely above a mumble.

Ah. There it is. She had been trying to avoid thinking about Microphone. Taco is many things: a liar, a snake hidden in the grass, a conniver, someone who cannot be trusted no matter what she says. But she doesn’t try to hide these things anymore. She hid them when she was younger, and she hid them during her stint as a squire, trying to get close enough to the king to lunge forward and pounce, but now she’s completely open about them. She cannot hide her status as a mage, her blackened fingertips giving her away, so why would she hide all of the other things that make up who she is?

But Microphone had lied. Kind, mousy Microphone, who made a fuss about paltry morals like they had any power in this world, had looked her dead in the eye and lied. And anybody who knows about how deeply she longs to be back at Pickle’s side, to be nothing more than the goofy, excitable squire everyone had known her as is a threat. Even if they couldn’t tell a soul and have them believe it, even if Microphone has no idea who Pickle is, she can’t bear the thought of the woman living another day, carrying all she now knows about Taco with her. If she had any sense, she would have killed the woman the moment she revealed her treachery.

Instead, she had fled the store as fast as she could, acting as if the two were somehow on equal levels.

So she doesn’t need Microphone. She doesn’t need anyone. Just because she’s relatively clueless about this world, her origins certainly not doing her many favors, doesn’t mean she has to rely on someone who will inevitably betray her.

To prove how little she needs anyone else, here she is, still walking down these streets without harm. No one has even approached her in the hours she’s been out here, although the sun rose quite some time ago. She ducks into an alleyway on instinct, liking the feeling of being surrounded by walls on most sides even if it is a dead end. She doesn’t intend on staying here for long. The moment she hears a familiar voice, however, obnoxiously upbeat, she lets out a hiss through grit teeth as she presses herself against a rugged stone wall, the stone digging into her palms.

“So that is the most interesting adventure our group has ever had!” declares that horribly annoying bard from the Bright Light mercenary group. Taco would groan if it didn’t immediately give her location away. His voice sounds relatively far away, drifting down the alleyway she had been trudging down. Still, though, she would be quickly noticed if she were to remain here, trying to make herself as flat as possible against the wall. So she tentatively creeps to duck behind a dumpster as he blithely continues “What do you think, Test Tube?” A pause. “Test Tube?”

“Oh!” says a nasally, vaguely feminine voice. “Sorry, Fan. I can’t help but get lost in thought sometimes. Still, that was quite an interesting story. I really do enjoy hearing about your dimension.” Taco grits her teeth in frustration. So those Bright Lights have found their equivalent of Microphone–a resident of this dimension that has information they wouldn’t. And since Taco left Microphone behind, that’s an advantage they have that she doesn’t. For that group of buffoons, she considers that completely unacceptable.

“C’mon, Test Tube, you’ve been thinking hard all day,” he points out in response, and Taco finds herself ever so slightly moving her head forward to get a look at the alleyway entrance. She gets a sight of the bard elbowing the other woman as he confidently continues “It’s like me having to take a break from my magic! If you keep going like this, I bet you’ll work yourself into exhaustion.”

“But all of this is my fault!” she protests. Taco supposes her name is Test Tube, but names are meaningless to her anyway. She’s tall, certainly taller than the bard, who’s short and stocky, and with her height comes a sort of lithe gracefulness. Her skin is very dark, around the same shade as Microphone’s, and her black hair, each strand tied into meticulous braids with bright green on the edges, is pulled into a ponytail, a few braids left loose to frame her face. Goggles rest atop her head, and her sharp eyes make Taco feel uncomfortably seen. She leaves their field of view nervously. “If I hadn’t suggested using my robot-”

The bard interrupts her, leaning forward. “Really, you don’t have to worry about it,” he insists firmly. “In our state, we wouldn’t have been much help against Taco anyway. Besides, side quests are always helpful, whether they give you some kind of helpful item, a new party member, or just reinforce the bonds you already have.” He shoots her a sly look, and she huffs in amusement. “You and Paintbrush really deserve something for helping us out.”

His words catch her attention, and she straightens. He said his group wouldn’t be able to hold their own against her, which is certainly an advantage for her. As infuriating as those Bright Lights are, they’re powerful. Their cleric can move fast, healing wounds and casting spells that help her team and hinder Taco. Their bard has a vast repertoire of tracking spells alongside range, and his aim is annoyingly good. Not to mention their necromancer, as much of a fool as she may be. She’s confident in commanding her ghost, and her own abilities make the battles between the two of them disconcertingly close.

She’s more than acquainted with this dimension’s complete lack of magic by now. Her body produces magic naturally, and she has the advantage of having a patron alongside that. But she’s unable to proposition her patron to refill her magic stores directly, considering he doesn’t reside in this dimension. She has to wait for her body to replenish her magic on its own, and it moves at a snail’s crawl.

Normally, she would be left truly irate by this fact, but now she knows it can be used to her advantage, thanks to that bard’s abnormally big mouth. Everyone else seems to be suffering from the lack of magic in this dimension as much as she is. Is that infuriating necromancer losing control of that petulant ghost? Will that cleric be unable to do anything if she lunges forward, slits those two’s throats, and leaves them to die? Taco’s magic stores may be plentiful, but they aren’t endless. She’s more than confident in her ability to fight up close, producing a dagger hidden up her sleeve and slicing at the two before they have any time to react. It would be easy.

For some reason, Microphone’s face flashes in her mind, her expression panicked and distraught as she takes in Taco’s actions. She had been upset enough about the attempted murder, as if Taco had meant to kill Paper when she had knocked him out and as if that king’s death wasn’t a necessary action for the betterment of the realm, even if she was sure most people didn’t view it like that. All he did was keep the status quo in place, and yet he was surprisingly beloved for it. It was infuriating.

Microphone has morals, yes. She was obviously against all the crimes ascribed to Taco’s name (even the one that described her magic? Yes, most of her magic is unnatural, but only because it has to be. If things were-), horror flashing in those dark eyes as she began to digest just who she had let into her home. But it’s obvious her morals aren’t worth much of anything, considering she had lied to Taco without remorse. If she knew she had rambled about Pickle in her disoriented, feverish state, she would have left far sooner. The fact that Mic had known and she hadn’t even-

An even better question Taco could ask herself is why she’s bothering herself with what that fool Microphone thinks. She’s left the woman without hesitation, without remorse. She turned on her heel and disappeared into the night, and considering Microphone lacks the tools to find her, that should be that. Taco is back to being on her own now, following only her own rules. And when the only rule she lives by is doing what she can to survive, her options are obvious.

And yet, that damned anguished expression refuses to pry itself from her mind, pouring over her brain and searing itself into each crevice. She can’t help but lurch forward, pulling at her hair crusted over with dried gel that buries itself under her fingernails (she much prefers using magic to slick her hair back, but she brought the hair gel Microphone had purchased for her anyway. Why? Was it out of some sort of sentimentality? She says it’s for the practicality, but she doubts that’s at all true) as her legs kick out from under her, scattering pebbles in front of her.

The surrounding conversation comes to an abrupt halt at the sound, and Taco freezes, eyes going wide as her hands fly to her mouth, legs tightly pressing themselves tightly against her chest. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She’s a complete and utter buffoon! She had gotten so caught up in her own thoughts (and Microphone’s face remains at the forefront of her mind even now, when there are far better things to focus on) that she had just given her location away to the people who have been chasing her doggedly for the past several months. Is it too much to hope that they’ll dismiss it as nothing and leave her be?

“That was probably just a rat,” says the woman, but she doesn’t sound so sure.

“Maybe,” the bard says, squinting. “Or maybe it was…” He doesn’t finish. If she were to poke her head out, she would likely see the way his face was scrunched up in thought, but she doesn’t have a death wish. She remains motionless but doesn’t pray to any god. She doesn’t believe in a single one, at any rate, and the only person she knows with similar power to one is her patron, who she refuses to give the ego boost to by offering him a prayer. She just… hopes.

(God, if she was still home, she would be able to teleport out of here in an instant. If she used that spell now, though, she would become feverish by the time the sun set. As much as she resents Microphone at this moment, the woman had been right about one thing. Her magic, the one thing she’s ever prided herself on, the one thing that allowed her to survive this long, is completely useless, and falling back on it will only make things worse for her.)

“Yes, a homeless person,” deadpans the other woman. “Listen, Fan, my tracker is saying that my robot isn’t anywhere near here. We’re just wasting our time here.”

“Yes, but my instincts are saying that Taco is right there in that alleyway!” he insists in reply. “It would be the perfect thing to build tension! A close encounter with a dastardly villain!”

“Even if she was there, what could we do against her?” she stiffly prompts.

“Well, here’s my theory,” the bard says smugly. “Piercing the veil between dimensions most certainly takes a lot of magical energy, right? And when too much magical energy is drawn from the body, or in this case, the magical stores are depleted too fast with no way to replenish them quickly, that mage quickly becomes sick! If Taco’s there, I bet she’s still riding out the effects of that magical exhaustion-based fever! We take her prisoner, wait for her to recover, and then have her open a portal back home! What do you think, Test Tube? That’s the sort of quick witted plan made by a daring protagonist that just has to work!”

“I think that if you’re confident in it, I’ll trust you,” she replies, smiling wryly as she runs a hand through her dreadlocks. “Lead the way.”

“Alright!” he cheers, and she hears the sound of him jumping up which is quickly followed by the sound of gravel and pebbles shifting beneath his feet as he excitedly makes his way forward. She presses herself as tightly against the wall as possible, resisting the childish urge to ball her eyes closed and act like she can’t be seen if she can’t see others.

Hiding in a horribly dirty and grimy alleyway, helpless fear twisting in her gut as she finds that there are very few options afforded to her, is something that gives her terrible deja vu back to her childhood. Back when she was helpless, the only choice she had being to run as far as her legs could take her, and when that inevitably failed, she would have to hide, most often in filth, resorting to anything she could to make sure that she wouldn’t end tied to a pyre and having to smell the stench of her own burning flesh as it fills the air.

It’s a rather morbid fantasy, but a good one to keep in mind as a sort of worst case scenario. To be born with any sort of magic at all is inherently a gamble as to whether it’ll be something deemed helpful or palatable, like that cleric and that bard, or whether it’ll be something deemed distasteful or demonic, like Taco herself and that necromancer, or so she assumes.

To be honest, she had been surprised to see that necromancer traveling with them to begin with. They were rather rare nowadays; magic was passed down from parents, with a tendency to skip generations and always a chance of mutating. Even if children and other relatives were caught in an angry mob’s path, the genes of a necromancer would never fully be eradicated. Still, that necromancer must have had a terribly rough life. Does she think that being loyal to the king and upholding the status quo will truly be enough to change anything, though?

Their realm was in a sort of dark age, as her patron had explained many times. Of course, he’s always quick to wave off her idle wonder as to whether it’s his fault or not, considering that he might as well be one of the most infamous mages in the realm’s history and certainly did nothing to eliminate the stigma surrounding them. Either way, the view toward all magic users, palatable or not, grew increasingly sour with every passing day. It didn’t help that those without it were incredibly common. It was a numbers game. Someone can have all the power in the world, but they’ll inevitably fall to the hands of an enraged mob. First rule of magic: regardless of your power, your stores will always deplete eventually.

Kinship with other people who experience grave injustices at the hands of society will only ever get one so far. Taco can emphasize with that necromancer as much as she wishes, but that doesn’t change the fact that she’s trying to drag Taco to her execution. She isn’t a fool. In this world, she understands that it’s every man for themselves. So herself is what she prioritizes.

The moment the two walk past where she’s pressed into her corner, she bolts, barely even on her feet by the time she’s fled the alleyway. As she had waited for the two to pass her, she had slipped one of the daggers up her sleeves into her hand, and as she had run by, she had frantically slashed at the person at the back of the group; that woman, presumably from this dimension. It’s not as if she was stabbed. It was just a few scratches. Surely not even Microphone would be capable of complaining about such a thing?

As the woman yelps in pain, the bard whirls around, immediately spotting Taco. He rushes to the woman’s side, asking if she was okay. In other words, he hesitated for just enough time for her to be able to take advantage of it, and gain some valuable distance from the two. By the time the two iron things out and begin to chase after her, she already has a distance of about half a block or so, if she’s gotten a grasp on how things are measured in this dimension.

“Come back here!” the bard squawks in dismay, and the sound of the gentle strum of strings filling the air is the only warning she gets before soundwaves given form, sharp and glowing, fly toward her and cut into her back, and she grits her teeth but refuses to scream. Many scars on her back have been courtesy of that pesky bard, and it infuriates her that her body might as well be a canvas for all the times he was able to prevail over her. She may be capable of healing magic, but she’s never been able to fully understand it, far more used to hurting than healing. It’s an ordeal to figure out, and not when she has the time for while on the run.

Glaring over her shoulder, she raises her hand and aims it around Fan’s chest. Even as adrenaline makes her so dizzy it’s hard to think straight, there’s still a sort of thrill in the casting of magic. The air becoming taut and electric as you form something from nothing, the feeling of your body giving so the world can take, the thrill in bending the world to your will. Casting magic is difficult in this world, just a little more effort required. Still, though, even a child can form fireballs. So when a blazing ball of fire flies through the air and slams into the bard’s chest, causing him to stagger back, she just smirks and blows the smoke from her blackened fingertips. She expected nothing less from herself.

“Fan!” the woman calls, catching the bard in her arms before he crumbles to the ground entirely. Her eyes are wide and panicked as she begins to frantically ask if he’s okay, but Taco doesn’t wait around for the answer.

She has yet to kill a single member of those damned Bright Lights. And it’s not because of her morals, Microphone. Morals aren’t going to get her a meal or respect or a roof under her head, so there’s no need to bother with them. And it isn’t because she has yet to kill anyone, either. She… does what she has to. One, she doubts that even slitting their throats would be the end of things. They’d come back as ghosts and do what they can to inconvenience her, even from beyond the grave.

Two, she would rather deal with these idiots, who she’s unfortunately far more evenly matched with than she would rather be, then another group. They’re bounty hunters, mercenaries willing to do anything for their next meal, but she’s acquainted with many other bounty hunters far more cruel than they are. In that sense, she’s lucky that the king saw something in the buffoons and was willing to fund her in something that would hopefully never be managed.

Unfortunately, her distraction–if the definition of distraction included fireballs, she supposes–hadn’t kept the two knocked down for long. They were quick to get up and get back on her tail, the sound of their footsteps loud and heavy as they chase her. She hears the bard pluck out a melody on his lute, and a moment later, their footsteps grow faster, and she grits her teeth. Damn it. She expects powerups from that infuriating cleric, but she should have known better to let her guard down around the bard. Their skill sets are similar enough that they can rise where the other falters.

“Get back here!” the bard hollers, jabbing a finger toward her. She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t try to form another spell. Even that fireball was enough to strongly chip away at her magic reserves, leaving her dangerously low. There isn’t any risk of sickness in this state, but if she goes further… Without Microphone, she isn’t confident in her chances of surviving on her own. Not like she needs the other woman. It just makes it easier to have her around.

Dodging and weaving through corners is far easier than it was back home. With the thousands (or, even millions, as dizzy as the thought makes her. If that many people existed back home, they would have a hell of a time oppressing all the magic users among them!) of people occupying this sprawling metropolis, with hot black roads, and roaring metal monsters and buildings that tower above, there’s so much hustle and bustle around that getting lost in the crowd is child’s play.

It shouldn’t be her only strategy. It’s rather easy to spot the woman running through the crowds with intensity, so she won’t entirely rely on it. She sprints through alleyways that don’t lead to dead ends and knocks down dumpsters as she does so, scattering trash in her wake. Anything to slow her pursuers down. Anything to gain just the slightest bit of distance.

Still, though, all she’s doing is stalling. As she continues to run, she becomes more and more worn down. She doesn’t have the stamina for these long runs. She relies on her magic, and back home that’s her strength, with all the different types and spells she has access to adding to her unpredictability. But here, when even a simple spell exhausts her, it makes her more weak than anyone.

They’re closing in more and more and they’re running faster and faster and it’s so terrifying she can’t stand it-!

She’s going to be caught she’s going to die she’s going to be brought before the king and have to see Pickle again and she’s going to die with her head on a pike, having been unable to change a thing-!

Suddenly, as she runs forward, a hand shoots forward from some dead end corner and yanks her into it, a calloused hand with cold metal attached to it pressing against her mouth. She flails, eyes going wide as her heart pounds in her chest. “Stop, I’m trying to help you!” hisses a familiar voice, and she goes completely limp as her eyes widen.

Microphone.

When the other woman is satisfied that she’s relaxed, she lets her go. “Stay here,” she hisses. “Hide, if you can.” She lets go of Taco, and she doesn’t hesitate to duck out of view, hiding behind yet another dumpster. She hears the other woman get out her rectangular device–ah, phone, and begin to stare at it as she scrolls through it, expression blank and unconcerned.

All too soon, heavy footfalls grow louder and come closer, and Taco can’t help but ball her eyes tightly closed. She feels like a child hiding from those earnestly wanting her dead, unable to change a thing. After all the misery in her childhood, she vowed she would never allow herself to be so helpless again, and yet here she is regardless, relying on someone else to ensure she’s able to live another day.

It’s horrible. And still, she has no other choice.

“Wh-Where did she go?” sputters the bard, sounding winded as he doubles over.

Before the woman with him can speak up, Microphone says something. “Test Tube?” she says, sounding baffled. Immediately the woman’s head snaps to her, and something akin to fury flashes in her eyes. Taco lets out a hiss, realizing how easily this could be the end. If they’re friends, why wouldn’t Mic pick the other woman over her? It would be nonsensical if she did, truly. She feels like a fool, putting her trust in the wrong person.

(And yet, how could she have known?)

“Microphone,” the woman spits. “What are you doing here?” Suddenly, Taco wonders if she’s misunderstood the situation. That sort of hostility…

“Uh-” the bard nervously begins, but Microphone cuts him off.

“Oh, sorry, am I not allowed to stand on the sidewalk now? Is my standing in place gonna be enough to sabotage some precious project of yours?” she sneers in reply, disdain and frustration dripping from every word.

Test Tube’s face scrunches up in anger as she gnaws her teeth together so firmly Taco’s surprised she isn’t hearing the sound of her teeth being ground down under the force. “You-!” she begins, voice tinged with an explosive, frustrated anger.

“Hang on, w-we don’t need to fight!” the bard nervously sputters, rushing to cut her off as he spreads out his arms imploringly. “I’m Fan, I guess you already know Test Tube? And we’re, uh, looking for someone. Short, dirty blonde hair, scary eyes, weird clothes?”

“Weirder than yours?” Microphone dryly retorts. Test Tube’s hands are balled tightly into fists, and when she slackens them, small crescent moon shapes from her chewed nails are imprinted on their palms.

“Depends on how you view it, I guess!” he says brightly, undeterred by Microphone’s irreverent attitude. “So? What do you think?”

“She’s not going to be any help, Fan, let’s just go,” Test Tube scoffs, reaching for his arm to drag him off.

“Actually,” Microphone begins, and Taco feels herself still as a wave of dread washes over her. “I did see someone run past here. I didn’t get the best look at her, but I can tell you for sure she went…” She sticks her head out of the alleyway and points straight, where she would have ran if not for her being grabbed and spirited away. “That way. She was running pretty fast, though. You’ll probably have a hard time catching up to her.”

In response, the bard just groans in frustration. “Great,” he gripes. “We definitely lost her.”

“That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try to go after her,” Test Tube replies.

“You just want to get away from your friend.”

“We aren’t-” Microphone begins, voice flat and somewhat regretful, before Test Tube rushes in to correct him.

“We aren’t friends, we’re mortal enemies, and I’d be happy if I never saw her again!” she cries, shoulders hiking up her neck as she bristles with righteous fury.

“Yeah.” Microphone doesn’t sound happy about this fact, but Taco supposes anyone would have a hell of a time arguing with a woman with such explosive fury and unyielding stubbornness. “So remind me why you’re still here, if you’d be happy to, uh, never see me again…?” Her attempt to get them to leave isn’t nearly as subtle as when she had lied about Taco’s whereabouts, but she finds herself commending her anyway.

“What an excellent point!” Test Tube hisses in reply, voice high and strained. “Since you obviously don’t want us here, we’ll take our leave! Come on, Fan!” She drags off the bard despite his high pitched protests.

For several long, grating seconds, Microphone doesn’t move, presumably watching the two leave. Taco, who had relaxed, tenses as she hears footsteps heading right toward her, and she can’t decide how she feels when the person standing in front of her is Microphone, crouching down and offering her a hand. “You alright?” she asks.

Of course, Taco has never needed to rely on anyone before, and that sounds like a bad habit she has no interest in starting now. She gets to her feet on her own, dusting herself off with a disgruntled expression. She can feel Microphone’s kind brown eyes remaining trained on her, but she refuses to give the woman the satisfaction of having their eyes meet.

“So?” Microphone says when it becomes obvious Taco is going to remain stubbornly silent. “What do you say?”

The phrase is confusing enough for her to glance up at the woman, brow creased. “What do you mean?” she says slowly.

Her amused energy quickly sputters out as she awkwardly says, voice strained “W-Well, y’know, it’s like when someone- Uh- When they- When someone does something for you, like saving you from a scrawny man and a scary woman who hates me, they say “what do you say” when you don’t thank them right away. So when someone says that, they’re expecting gratitude. A simple thank you would work.” She finds her footing a third of the way through her ramblings. At least she’s somewhat intelligible now.

“You’re expecting gratitude from me?” she retorts, bristling as she bares her teeth at the other woman. “Fine. Thank you for lying to my face. Thank you for making me let my guard down. Thank you for using my feverish actions as leverage in our stupid fight!” 

“N-No, I-” she begins, before quickly deflating, looking glum. “No, you’re right. I shouldn’t have done that. It was just a heat of the moment sort of thing. And I knew if I brought up what happened, you would be quick to leave, y’know? But I was trying to keep you around because of um… Uh…” She gestures toward where the two had left. “I figured you running off wouldn’t go so well.”

“You just want an adventure to make yourself feel better about your own boring life,” she snaps in reply. She doesn’t really mean it. She just wants to hurt Mic in hopes that the woman will finally leave her alone. 

Hurt does flash across Mic’s face, but it doesn’t last, the other woman pinching her nose with no shortage of exasperation just a moment later. “You aren’t chasing me off that easily,” she says firmly. “Can we just… talk? Please? I owe you that much after I saved you from capture, I bet.”

She shudders to think what Mic’s idea of talking is, considering the fact that she’s using the fact she saved Taco as leverage to force a conversation. But ultimately, there isn’t much harm in talking to her. It’s preferable to someone back home, at any rate. At least with this, there’s much less prejudice involved.

“I suppose,” she sighs out after a long moment. “At the very least, can we return to your home? I shudder to think of what will happen if those two buffoons return to find us jabbering away.”

“Test Tube’s pretty smart, you know,” she points out as she begins to walk, meaning that Taco has no choice but to follow after her. With the other woman’s long legs and her own petite stature, it means that she’s always just behind the woman, never beside her. It’s infuriating. “Not exactly the sort of person I’d call a buffoon. …But no, they aren’t coming back. You’re right about going home, though. You smell awful, and have you even slept at all?”

Feeling her cheeks heat up, she sputters out a response. “Do you think I’m so dumb as to sleep on these grimy streets, leaving myself exposed to anyone who would attack me?” she barks. Mic just laughs, the sound clear and bell-like. It’s melodic, too, far more so than the senseless, rhythmless strumming by the bard. She could listen to it forever. Then again, there’s a lot of things she could do forever.

At the moment, though, Taco just swallows what’s left of her pride and trails behind Microphone, nursing a naive hope that things might just end better this time.

Chapter Text

Test Tube and Fan return back to her dorm, dejected and sullen.

Well, she’s dejected and sullen. She doesn’t think Fan has ever felt a negative emotion that goes beyond moody in his life. Certainly not something like sadness. He’s too bright for that, him and Lightbulb both. Is that some sort of requirement for joining their mercenary group or something?

It’s surprising that he’s in such good spirits. Sure, Test Tube had yet to find her runaway robot, but she hadn’t expected that to happen on the first day of searching, so she’s downtrodden but not resigned. Meanwhile, Fan ran into the dangerous criminal he and Lightbulb had been tracking to the point where they ended up in another dimension, suffered blow after blow from her, and ultimately lost her, and yet the smile remains stubbornly affixed to his face.

She wishes she could be on a remotely similar level. But with all that has happened today combined with the frustration of running into the ever unhelpful Microphone means that there might as well be steam coming out of her ears for how angry she is, storming forward and fuming and decidedly not paying attention as Fan chatters about something beside her.

When she reaches her dorm, she slams the door open and flops onto the couch with a huff, punching at a pillow in frustration. Diamond Crusher watches her from his spot perched on the back of the couch, jumping onto the ground with a disgruntled mew. Paintbrush eyes her from the hallway, Lightbulb trailing behind her with wide eyes. When she spots Fan, she brightens and runs toward him, hugging him in a tight grasp the other man is just as quick to return.

“You alright over there?” Paintbrush asks as they perch on the arm of the couch, flopping over it so their head is resting against the bottom. Their brown eyes move up toward her as they smile fondly at her.

“No!” she snaps. She pinches the bridge of her nose in her exasperation, letting out a measured breath as she tries to force her anger into irritation. “...We ran into Taco while we were out there.”

“The dangerous criminal?” Paintbrush clarifies, their brow furrowed in worry. They move to sit up, even if their legs are still draped over the couch’s arm.

“That’s the one!” Fan chirps, hopping toward them. “We ran into her just fine, but catching her… didn’t go nearly as well.” He laughs sheepishly at the admission.

“I’m not exactly worried about that part-” they begin.

“And!” Test Tube hisses, her eyes alight with fury and frustration as she recollects all that happened. “The moment we lost Taco, we ran into my mortal enemy Microphone!”

“Oh no,” Paintbrush groans, easily being able to see where this is going. “Please don’t tell me you were too hard on her, babe…”

“Ha! Hahaha!” Test Tube laughs in response. “Me? Hard on her? Anything I did was deserved, I assure you! And you know that, because you know the full story!” She jabs a finger at Paintbrush as she speaks, and her partner just stares at her, looking unimpressed.

“Uh, what’s wrong with Test Tube?” she hears Lightbulb not-so-subtly whisper to Fan.

“No idea. She’s like a completely different person when angry.” In response, Test Tube just gnaws her teeth together, trying to decide whether she’s frustrated or enraged. Maybe both.

“Either way, she hadn’t seen Taco,” she says dismissively, because she knows if she gets into all the things that had ticked her off about her brief conversation with the other woman, they would be here all day. As it turns out, when it involves Microphone, it’s quick to grate on her nerves. “And she wrapped us up in a conversation that meant that Taco would be long gone even if we tried to start the chase again! So we lost her, she hit Fan with a fireball, and even worse!”

Lightbulb and Fan both gasp in sync, the sound exaggerated and yet dramatic as they lean forward with keen looks in their eyes, as if interested in discovering how things could truly get worse. Paintbrush just squints skeptically at her as they mutter “Even worse than someone getting hit by a fireball?”

“Well, it didn’t burn my skin, just singed my clothes!” Fan says brightly. “Usually Taco’s fireballs are a lot worse. One time she set my hair on fire! Actually, it’s weird, because I was expecting her fireballs to be a lot stronger, even here. Has the lack of magic here affected her in the same way it has us? But I thought she was such a strong mage that she would hardly even notice the difference! I mean, we’ve heard rumors from palace staff that the source of her magic is from the devil hims-mmm!” He’s abruptly cut off by Paintbrush placing a hand over his mouth, looking frustrated.

“Go on,” they call.

“Even worse!” Test Tube says, trying to rally even if the shifting conversation has left her off balance and somewhat disoriented. Lightbulb and Fan both gasp again, even if the latter is muffled. “We couldn’t find any trace of my robot!”

“Yeah, we could tell,” Paintbrush says dryly. “Otherwise it would be here.”

“I think Fan getting a fireball to the face might be a bit worse?” Lightbulb says tentatively, as if she’s trying to avoid making Test Tube mad. She can’t imagine why. She likes to think of herself as approachable regardless of her mood.

“It wasn’t to the face, it was to the chest!” he clarifies, grinning widely.

“Like that makes it better,” Paintbrush scoffs. “Listen, Lightbulb, are you sure splitting up is really a good idea? We had nothing happen to us, while those two were literally attacked by a wanted criminal. Maybe Fan is used to taking fireballs to the face-”

“The chest,” he interjects with a whine.

“-but Test Tube certainly isn’t. If something happens and I’m not there to stop it…” They trail off, breathing heavily.

Oh. They’re worried. Really worried, actually, if the evidence supports her hypothesis. It’s still so strange and yet nice to be worried about. To be loved. When she was younger, still fighting her way through high school, part of her was worried that what she had then would be it. Just her and her machines to keep her company for the rest of her days, but maybe it would be enough if she taught them to love.

But now she has Paintbrush. All because of some fluke, of ending up roomed with them on a whim. They both fell into love. They both felt the same. It felt like a lot of responsibility to be hoisted upon her, if she was telling the truth. But as much as she felt bad seeing Paintbrush’s evident worry, she kind of liked it, too. It was like proof she was loved.

She smiles awkwardly as she steps forward, grabbing Paintbrush’s hand. Their hands are calloused from years of painting in a way that she loves to hold, even if doing more feels so awkward. Even kissing makes her… like she has no clue what she’s doing. Probably because she doesn’t. “It’s fine, babe, really,” she says softly, tightening her grip on their hand. “Fan and Lightbulb will protect me. Protect us. Even if we’re clueless about all of this, at least we have them to show us the way, right?” She can’t help but laugh as she leans forward, pressing their hand to her chest.

“That’s right!” Lightbulb excitedly chirps, bouncing forward as she smiles widely, excitement draped over her as if it’s a coat. “As the leader of the Bright Lights, I won’t let any harm come to either of you! That’s, uh, sort of the opposite of my job.” She rubs at the back of her neck, chuckling sheepishly.

“It makes sense that you’re scared,” Fan adds, leaning against the back of the couch. He’s practically falling into the back cushions and wedging himself between them and the wall in a way that can’t be comfortable, and still, he makes no effort to move. “All of this is a lot, and you didn’t ask to deal with all of this, right?” At this, he sits up, smiling sadly. “You can back out if you aren’t prepared to handle this. Trust me. The last thing we’d want to do is hurt either one of you. We owe you both enough.”

Both her and Paintbrush turn to look at each other. Their brow is still furrowed, worry glinting in their dark brown eyes like a spark threatening to catch on something flammable and bloom into a fire. But they look like they’re all too willing to follow her lead, which is nice. Being trusted is almost as nice as being loved. “Good to know you’re worried about us, but…” she begins, drawing back from Paintbrush as she tucks a loc behind her ear. “This is just as much my fight as yours now. I still have to find my robot. Even if that means dealing with the homicidal witch, I’ll just have to put up with that.”

Lightbulb and Fan both grimace for a moment, even though she doesn’t know why. Lightbulb recovers a moment later, though, running a hand through her curly hair as she offers them a grin. “Alright!” she says brightly. “If you guys want to stay here, we won't stop you. You are temporary Bright Lights members, after all! It would be kinda mean if we kicked you out…”

“But!” Fan effortlessly continues, as if the two purposefully leave beats in the conversation for the other to carry on from. “If you two get hurt, we have the right to bench you, got it?” Lightbulb nods sagely at that. The two do a good job at presenting a united front.

“In the end, this is our quest,” Lightbulb concludes, and she doesn’t exactly look solemn, but it’s a near thing. “The responsibility in fulfilling it lies with us.”

“Got it,” Test Tube says with a nod. “So, uh, what now?”

“Now? I have class in a bit, so I’m gonna head out,” Paintbrush declares, getting to their feet and stretching. Test Tube, for her part, just feels guiltily relieved that her classes today were in the morning, so she can spend the rest of the day searching.

“Oh, I’ll come with you!” Fan says excitedly, hopping to his feet.

Paintbrush trains a severe expression onto him. “No,” they say flatly.

He whines, looking distraught as he trails after them like a lost puppy. “C’mon, Paintbrush! I wanna see what you get up to!” he calls as they gather up all of their stuff.

“You wouldn’t even be allowed in there since you’re not enrolled,” they flatly point out. “It’s not exactly the sort of class that lets anyone attend it, and the professor is an asshole anyway.”

“I promise I won’t cause trouble!” Their voices fade out as the two leave the dorm, but Fan’s whiny objections are audible even if words can’t be made out.

The dorm is silent for all of a second before Lightbulb springs forward, grinning widely. “Well, looks like it’s just the two of us,” she says brightly.

“It’s about to just be you,” she announces as she gets to her feet, eyes narrowed as she rolls her shoulders.

“Huh? Why?” she says, face scrunched up in confusion. “Oh, wait, is this because of your construct?”

“Robot, and yes.”

“Cool! I’ll go with you!” she says excitedly, rolling on her heels as she beams at Test Tube. “You shouldn’t go alone anyway. What if that dastardly Taco attacks you again?”

“She only attacked me because of Fan!” she objects.

“You really have to learn to calm down, Test Tube,” Lightbulb says with a laugh. When she smiles, her eyes scrunch up, and her mouth falls into well-worn smile lines as she offers her a beam brighter than the sun. She feels bad realizing how beautiful she is, but all good scientists know when to recognize the truth.

“No nickname for me?” she prompts, raising a brow as she adjusts the goggles perched atop her head.

“Not anything that works,” she admits, shrugging. “I mean, I can’t go the same route with Painty. Maybe, uh…” She stares at Test Tube, squinting as she scratches her chin. “Tube… Tube-o? Eh, I’ll workshop it.” She rubs at the back of her neck, smiling sheepishly. Test Tube finds herself having to smother a smile, even if the motion makes her feel inordinately guilty. She never thought she would have a relationship like what she has now… ah, ever. Thus, she has no clue if these are normal thoughts to be having or not.

A shameful gap in her knowledge, produced only by assumptions and guesswork. Truly, some of the things she hates the most. She’ll seek to remedy it at once… when she’s away from Lightbulb, anyway. It’s hard to focus around her, considering her primary goal at the moment seems to be getting her out of her own head as opposed to finding the runaway robot or the dangerous criminal. Joy.

“I’ll workshop it… while we’re out searching!” Lightbulb continues, making her declaration with a proud grin.

“You’re still on the two of us going out to search together?” she says flatly, one hand on her hip.

“Yup! And I’ll keep talking about it until you say yes!” she replies, eyes gleaming with determination.

Test Tube sighs. Lightbulb is one of the more stubborn people she’s met, or so she’s gathered. While that initially felt surprising to her, she realizes with a start that she finds that so startling because of how cheerful she is, and that cheer serves as a mask of sorts, almost, able to hide anything beneath it. So her stubbornness is surprising, yes, but only because Test Tube struggles to see beneath her wide smiles. But can she really be blamed for that? Looking at her is like looking at the sun.

“Fine,” she relents with a wry sigh, placing a hand on her hips. “But only because I know you won’t give up until I agree. Honestly, you’re incorrigible.”

“Dunno what that means, but I’m gonna assume that’s a compliment!” the other woman chirps in response, bowing exaggeratedly. Of course, she’s quick to look up a moment later, dragging Test Tube out of the dorm and down to the nearest bus stop, where she studies the map of the bus lines with a thoughtful expression. “Where’s the most action around here?” she prompts, one hand on her chin as her eyes narrow.

“Uh, I guess that would be downtown? Define action in this instance.”

“Y’know, fun things to see and do!” Lightbulb says as she climbs onto the bus’s bench. “Back home, when we were looking for jobs, we’d usually go to taverns. That’s where most of the gossip is, where most of the bards hang out, and where people down on their luck and needing help are.”

Test Tube squints at her. “And you guys were allowed to go in them? I thought that you were my age,” she says.

“Yeah, we are! What does that have to do with anything?”

There’s a lot of answers to that question, starting and ending with the legal drinking age, but with a start she remembers that would have yet to be instated in a medieval setting. She’s better at wrapping her mind around the more objective, solitary things in life as opposed to the more subjective, cultural things, yes, but she still finds herself embarrassed by her mistake. “Never mind. I guess the most interesting things happen downtown, but it’s a really big city.”

“Can we reach this downtown place by bus?” she prompts.

“Yeah. That’s where all of the buses go, anyway.”

“Cool! Then downtown we go!”

They catch the bus a few minutes later, which is late as always. Lightbulb looks so awed to even be in the bus, her head swiveling around the interior eagerly. It’s up to Test Tube to ensure they don’t miss their spot, not that she would have left that responsibility to the other woman to begin with.

Once they reach downtown, they walk for a few blocks only to spot a crowded bar, people pooled outside of it, with the sound of music so loud that thundering bass is audible, making it sound as if the entire building is shaking.

“Wow…” Lightbulb breathes out, even if Test Tube grimaces at the thought of how overstimulating the club is sure to be. “We have to check that out!”

“If you say so,” she mumbles in response.

Of course, the club’s interior is as overstimulating as she predicted, between the flashing lights and loud music, but Lightbulb seems to revel in it, drifting toward the dance floor. “This music is different from what I’m used to, but it’s amazing!” she yells, her voice nearly swallowed up by the music. “Do you think Fan could learn it?” Test Tube can’t help but snort at the idea. Lightbulb eyes the dance floor with eager eyes, and she knows what she’s going to do even before she turns to look at her. “We have to get out there,” she insists, voice breathy.

Lightbulb drags her out to the dance floor and leads the two of them in a partner dance. Test Tube is staggering over her feet, her lack of coordination inevitably coming back to haunt her. But Lightbulb doesn’t seem to mind, even incorporating some of her stumbles into the dance. The two remain on the dance floor, song after song, and even if Lightbulb is obviously having fun, she feels the fact of her own inaction grating on her.

“I’m ready to leave,” she calls in the lull between songs. Lightbulb pouts in disappointment but nods, the two guiding each other through the crowd.

The two make their way out of the bar, Test Tube’s face pinched as she tries to get her bearings. Between the remnants of the loud music and flashing lights buzzing through her mind, there’s a lot of things that leave her dazed. Lightbulb barely seems fazed by all of it, though, walking forward with wide eyes as if she’s eager to find another thrilling experience for herself.

“Lightbulb-” she begins as the woman excitedly drags her along, but her voice is easily swallowed up by the thick crowd. “Lightbulb!” she yells, louder.

The woman glances over her shoulder, smiling sheepishly, before pulling her into an alleyway where the surrounding noise is a lot more muffled and the crowd has receded significantly. “Yeah?” she says brightly.

“This is a waste of time,” she snaps in frustration, arms crossed as she bares her teeth.

“What, relaxing?” she responds, her dark brown eyes wide.

“If that’s what you want to call it!” she retorts, letting out an ugly bark of laughter as she throws her hands in the air. “We both have things we need to be doing, and yet here you are dragging me through festivals without a care in the world! Shouldn’t we be focusing on anything else, for the sake of all of our loose threads?!”

Lightbulb squints at her as she moves to lean against the wall. “I don’t think there’s much harm in running around and getting to know the world around us,” she says with a cheeky smile. “Even if we catch Taco now, she’ll definitely end up having to recuperate before she can open a portal back home. It’s a powerful spell on its own, and with the lack of magic… It’ll take a bit. But waiting will just make it more likely she’ll escape once we have her. So-”

“So what?!” Test Tube interjects, exasperated.

“So, waiting would be the best thing for us!” Lightbulb says with a flourish, spreading out her hands. “Fan and Apple know the same thing too, so they probably aren’t taking this too seriously.” Not taking this seriously? How is that fair?! “Honestly, though, can’t blame ‘em. Your world is amazing! So much to see!” She can’t claim to know a lot about the rules of Lightbulb’s world, which is a different sort of infuriating, but there’s no reason they can’t try to find her runaway robot. “Since it’s happening, why can’t we slow down and just-?”

“I don’t know anything about your world!” she yells the moment she’s unable to let her anger continue to simmer, a rolling wave in her gut quick to explode into a torrent of words. “I can’t understand magic or spells just from your word alone! So fine, you’re the authority on Taco! But I’m the authority on my robot, and I want to look for it! I don’t have the time to relax! Either you can help me, or we can go at it alone! And I’m not the one who’s made an enemy of an insane, fire shooting witch! Your choice!”

As she speaks, she firmly shakes Lightbulb by the shoulders, her grip iron clad in her infuriation. This anger has been something that’s been brewing for a while, ever since Lightbulb and Fan spun tales of a world made of magic, borne from a bemused, disbelieving bafflement. There’s something in the world that Test Tube doesn’t know about, so she wants to discover more about it. That’s easy enough for her. She has various books scattered around her dorm that stand as proof to her eagerness for knowledge.

But something as fleeting and unpredictable and impossible as magic? When all she has are Fan and Lightbulb, two people who certainly aren’t focused on the academic, rule based explanations, she has to consider it as a massive, gaping hole in her knowledge. And she finds that infuriating, considering how big a role magic is serving to play in her life as of late. It’s likely the thing that gave her robot its sudden burst of mobility.

If she could just understand more about it, everything would be fine! But instead of offering her explanations she can manage to wrap her head around, Lightbulb just gets distracted by trinkets and music and anything that manages to catch her eye, and how is that fair? Surely she has the knowledge of living a life surrounded by magic, the knowledge of being a caster of magic, to at least impart something on Test Tube so she can feel as if she isn’t plunging into this without anything to steady her.

For once, she just wants an equal! She’s tired of being the smartest person in the room, she’s tired of always having to be the one to steer the group to success, and she’s really tired of going into all of this so cluelessly. She wants to know! And still, Lightbulb doesn’t have a thing to offer her, save when it’s convenient to fuel her own flights of fancy. It’s so infuriating how could she not explode? She understands Paintbrush’s own torrent of anger easily called forward by even the slightest injustice a little better now.

Slowly, Lightbulb blinks at her before offering a sad smile that makes her eyes crease as she draws back. “I knew this would happen,” she says morosely. “I mean, all of that stress is just eating you up from the inside, y’know? I knew it would have to explode eventually, but I wish it wasn’t at me.” She pouts at Test Tube, who just groans in frustration.

“What are you talking about?!” she hisses.

Leaning forward, she pokes at the center of her creased brow. “See that?” she prompts, a worried frown on her face. “Every time your brow furrows like that, I can tell you’re stressed. It’s been like that ever since your robot ran off, more or less. And I just thought I could go along with you and try to help calm you down a bit.” She offers Test Tube a nervous smile.

“I don’t need to calm down,” she tersely replies. “I need my problems to be solved! And running around like this completely aimlessly doesn’t help things in the slightest, Lightbulb!” She scowls intently at the woman, who shrinks back.

“Maybe,” she allows. “I just thought that it could help you forget them for a sec. Even back home, we aren’t always focused on fulfilling our quests. We take breaks. And no matter how long we stop, our goal is always there waiting for us. I just thought… since it all worked so well for us… It could help you feel less stressed, too?” She smiles up at Test Tube, her smile tentative but losing its nervous edge.

She finds herself struck by the realization that Lightbulb is… actually surprisingly smart, at least when it comes to people. She can’t give a good explanation for magic beyond it being something innate, something you can taste in the air, something you can work with the world around you to create, but she can pick up on Test Tube’s stress enough to devise a way to get her to slow down and relax, if only for a moment.

From one genius to another, she supposes, the least she can do is try to listen. She knows what it’s like to be ignored enough to be confident in the assertion that she doesn’t want to do that to Lightbulb. Even if she doesn’t know how she feels about slowing down for even a moment as she takes her attention off of the issue of her runaway robot, if she deems the issue of relaxing as something that important, then…

“I… suppose we can take a second to slow down,” she relents, running a hand through her ponytail’s dreadlocks in exasperation. Upon seeing Lightbulb’s expression explode with excitement, she rushes to continue. “B-But we can’t stop for too long! Who knows what-?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lightbulb says dismissively, waving a hand in the air before she grabs both of her hands with her calloused ones, spinning her in a circle with a laugh. “C’mon, Tube-o, let’s go!”

“Hey, hang on, I don’t want that to be my nickname!” she protests even as she’s dragged into the crowd, her voice quick to be swallowed up by the amount of people surrounding her.

From there… well, the day passes and bleeds into night, not that Test Tube exactly has the time to be aware of the sensation of time passing. Lightbulb doesn’t ever seem to calm down, and whenever the two move to sit down, she’s quick to spot something else that catches her attention and excitedly runs off toward it. Sometimes she drags Test Tube behind her, but other times the idea of bringing her companion along with her slips her mind, and she has to run after the excitable woman before she loses track of her entirely.

Finally, Lightbulb comes to a stop, turning to Test Tube with a sheepish expression. It’s obvious without saying it that she doesn’t know the way back to their dorm, and Test Tube just sighs fondly as she moves to take the lead. As they take the bus, Lightbulb kicks her legs in the air and offers Test Tube a wide smile. Shouldn’t her cheeks hurt by now>

“So?” Lightbulb prompts, her voice breathy as she slings an arm over her shoulder and presses her cheek against Test Tube, her eyes nearly squinting closed from how widely she’s smiling. “Can we consider this quest achieved? Did I help you relax, just for a sec?”

“Longer than a sec,” she responds, sounding amused. She doesn’t shy away from Lightbulb’s touch, and she doesn’t quite know how to feel about that decision. She’s never really had close friends, so she can’t say if this is just something that they do or if it means more. It can’t mean more, of course, because of Paintbrush, but…

“Yay!” she cheers, disentangling from Test Tube to excitedly jump up and down, her wide grin threatening to split her face in two. “I’m glad! If Fan was here, he’d play a little jingle on his lute, but since it’s just me…” She swoops down into a wide bow for a moment, the stillest Test Tube has ever seen her, before she straightens back up. “Thanks a bunch for entrusting the Bright Light mercenary group with your quest, milady!” she says, sounding like she’s reciting a script as she reaches forward to grab Test Tube’s hand. “Be sure to recommend us to everyone you know! And the payment for your quest will be…” Her face scrunches up as she does the math. “Let’s say five gold pieces! Sound fair?”

“Do you seriously barter for your rates?” Test Tube says wryly. “That doesn’t sound like the best way to get a lot of money.”

“Fan loves to barter. He’s a bard, so he has the charisma needed for it on lock,” she says dismissively as she waves a hand in the air. “Oftentimes, we don’t get gold as much as we get things like tools or food. Helpful! But not ideal.”

“Here, how about this?” Test Tube says with a laugh. “I’ll just say I owe you one, and I’ll pay you back later.”

“No, not another IOU!” Lightbulb whines, burying her head in her hands. “That’s what we got the last time we slew a dragon!”

Her words are so earnest and yet so distraught that Test Tube’s startled into laughing. “How have you all even survived this long?” she cries as she snickers into her hand.

From there, the two trade stories back and forth long into the night. Lightbulb is amazed by the most mundane of things but talks about fantastical adventures like they’re just another Tuesday for her, but Test Tube can chalk that up to cultural differences. After a while, the urge to write down everything she can abates, and she just enjoys this time with her friend.

The issue of the runaway robot never fully leaves her mind. Rather, it just recedes into the back of it, easily recalled to the tip of her tongue by the most minor of things. In that sense, Lightbulb’s grand quest is a failure.

And yet, she succeeded in helping Test Tube lighten up. So like most experiments, she supposes she can declare the results to be mixed and leave it there, enjoying the moment of levity as the sky goes from blue to pink to black.

— — —

Nickel, personally, would love to have an answer to the question as to how things grew so increasingly complicated in his life. Between the sentient robot and suspiciously lucky dimensional traveler, things for him end up being… confusing. He feels dizzy as he thinks on all of it, knowing full well that if he were to describe his circumstances to another, he’d be declared clinically insane and written off.

The only other person who can fully relate to him is Balloon, and obviously, that comes with its own issues. For one thing, he’s Balloon, and he can’t talk to the other man without feeling horribly, irrationally frustrated. Even if he had saved Nickel’s life that one time, it doesn’t automatically redeem him. If Suitcase were here, she’d be frustrated to all hell with him, but she isn’t, so he can act however he wants toward Balloon. It’s his god given right, he’s sure.

For another, Balloon isn’t exempt from the weirdness of the group Nickel’s found himself dragging along. He’s learning magic with far too much investment in the matter, eyes shining whenever he gets the chance to talk about it. He’s a wizard, and the idea makes Nickel wrinkle his nose. What’s the point in getting so into this? Eventually, Clover will return to her own dimension and bring her freaky problems and magic with her, and Balloon will go back to his normal life, which has no room for magic in it.

And yet, he continues to learn magic. The idea clearly excites him, his sky blue eyes going wide and excited whenever he flips through his book and traces the words with his finger. He looks like a kid on Christmas whenever he casts a spell, eagerly watching the way magic crawls up the groves of his tall staff and explodes in light at the tip.

Personally, Nickel finds it creepy. It’s unnatural as hell, and watching spells be cast makes his skin crawl. But the man’s freaky magic also helped to save his life, so he’s stuck tolerating it. Fine, whatever. Annoying, but he can handle it. Just like how he can also handle being stuck around Balloon for prolonged periods of time. He still hates the man, but what choice does he have other than to be fine with it?

Someone he can’t tolerate is Clover. She’s relentlessly bubbly and upbeat, like the sun. If he looks toward her for too long, he knows he’ll definitely end up going blind. She’s warm, physically affectionate, and is unbearable to be stuck around. Combined with Balloon’s theory about her being inherently lucky, a horrible, teeth grating thing that he can’t bear, everything about her seems perfectly poised to grind his gears. The real challenge of this life on the run thing isn’t trying to survive or trying to get along with Balloon, it’s trying to get along with Clover.

The worst part, he thinks, is her obliviousness. He shoots barb after barb her way, not bothering to hide the overwhelming exasperation he feels toward her, and yet she remains completely clueless toward all of it. She just continues to smile brightly at Nickel, with that wide smile and bright look in her eyes that makes him flush furiously and look away.

If Balloon’s theory about her magic being rooted in luck is right, then he just resents her all the more. It makes sense, too, which is the worst part of all of it. Every time something bad or even just annoying ends up happening to him, she manages to avoid it, all the while being completely clueless about her good fortune.

God, how is it fair? What did she do to deserve being so lucky? He knows there’s good to come out of it. If he took her to a casino, he bets they’d win jackpot after jackpot… not that he can do any of that until he’s twenty-one. Maybe he can buy a lottery ticket? That’s legal. Not that winning money is much good when he’s on the run. He’s trying to stay under the radar. And when those constructs either fuck off or Clover returns home, the latter somehow feeling more likely even though she’s from another dimension, he doubts he’ll be able to use her luck to his advantage then either.