Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

(first fanfic!! kinda nervous, hehe :3 )

It all begins at the start of Zone 2

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Zacharie always saw him wandering through the zones, sometimes as a fleeting shadow crossing an abandoned street, sometimes as a silent figure stepping into his shop with the faint chime of the bell. The Batter, always the Batter. Whether it was to buy meat, tickets, or simply to linger like the strange entity he was, his presence clung to the air long after he left.

What really was the difference between a purifier and a priest? Zacharie didn’t know, and frankly, he didn’t care to. Names, titles, duties, labels were for people who needed rules to anchor them. The Batter was a man defined by something heavier than a word, something that lingered in the silence of his movements, in the way he never laughed at Zacharie’s jokes, never cracked a smile, never even breathed wrong.

And yet, each time he passed by, Zacharie felt… something. A sensation that crawled under his skin like static, not entirely pleasant but not exactly unpleasant either. Unease, perhaps. Or attraction. Or dread. He couldn’t decide which. Was it hatred? Was it love? Some strange cocktail of both? No soul alive or dead could name what twisted inside Zacharie’s chest when the Batter looked at him.

That night, the weight of that question pressed harder than usual. It was late, almost three in the morning, and Zacharie was still awake, his frog mask tilted slightly as he leaned against the counter of his empty store. The shelves groaned with unsold goods, the meat supplies gave off their iron-heavy scent, and the silence had grown so thick that his own heartbeat felt too loud. He had been waiting for a customer, any customer. but the world outside seemed to have collapsed into stillness. Eventually, with a sigh muffled by the mask, he gave up on the idea of more sales.

And then, the bell rang.

The sound was sharp, slicing through the silence with surgical precision. Zacharie’s head lifted at once, and of course, of course, it was him. His “favorite” customer. Who else would appear at such an hour? The Batter filled the doorway, his white uniform nearly glowing under the sickly fluorescent light of the shop.

Zacharie’s voice snapped back into its usual cheerful rhythm, though beneath the mask his lips curved into something sly.

“-Welcome, amigo mio! What is it exactly that you need? A lucky ticket? A fortune ticket? More meat, perhaps?”

He leaned onto the counter, letting his tone hover somewhere between playful and flirty, as though teasing an old friend, or maybe testing an opponent. But the Batter said nothing. As always, silence first. That eternal pause where Zacharie could almost imagine the other man’s thoughts pressing down on the room. The quiet stretched long enough that Zacharie let out a small nervous giggle, his fingers drumming against the wood.

Finally, the Batter raised his hand and pointed toward the shelf behind Zacharie. A bat. Plain, simple, but radiating weight.

“I need a new bat,” he said, voice low and expressionless, though edged faintly with annoyance. “How much for it?”

Zacharie turned, glanced at the shelf, and plucked the bat from its resting place. He set it down between them like a judge laying out a sentence.

“That would be 1,500 credits,” he declared with dramatic emphasis, his grin hidden by the mask but audible in his voice. Expensive, yes, but wasn’t everything in this world expensive in one way or another?

The Batter reached into his pockets, pulling out what he had, dropping the metallic weight of credits onto the counter. Zacharie’s eyes flicked to the pile, then back to him. It wasn’t enough. Not by far.

“Oh?” he chuckled, letting his teeth scrape lightly against each other beneath the mask. “What’s wrong, friend? Haven’t you fought enough to pay for it? Perhaps you’d like a discount?” His tone slid into teasing, a giggle breaking out as though he were mocking a child caught without their allowance.

The Batter’s stare didn’t waver. Irritation radiated from him, subtle but sharp, the kind of presence that could cut skin without a blade. Zacharie could almost feel it press against his chest, and yet he kept laughing, because that’s what he did. Laugh, tease, poke at the cracks of this strange man until maybe something human spilled out.

He reached out as though to push the credits back toward the Batter, but instead, with a sudden shift, he nudged the bat closer to him.

“You know what? Keep it,” he said, voice softening just enough to sound almost sincere. “You can pay me later. It’s just a hundred less than the actual price. Besides, I wouldn’t like to see my favorite customer sad, would I?”

The room filled again with that silly, bubbling laugh of his, echoing oddly in the small shop. But beneath the humor there was a thread of something else, something unspoken that he dared not name.

The Batter, as ever, betrayed no reaction. If he was surprised, it did not show. He picked up the new bat, adjusted his grip, and swung it lightly as though testing its weight. A low hum escaped him an acknowledgment, or perhaps approval.

“Thanks.”

That single word, flat and unadorned, carried more weight than most men’s speeches.

“Always, mon ami,” Zacharie replied, leaning lazily against the counter as though this were the most natural exchange in the world.

For a moment, the shop was swallowed by silence again. The hum of the fluorescent light buzzed in the background, filling the air with static. Zacharie shifted, tapping his fingers again, while the Batter simply stood there, bat in hand, presence overwhelming in its stillness.

And then, without warning, he turned and left. The bell rang once more as the door shut behind him, cutting the silence in half before it fell back into place.

Zacharie exhaled slowly, realizing only then that he had been holding his breath. His fingers curled against the countertop, nails pressing into the wood. He laughed again, quieter this time, the sound trembling faintly.

“Strange man,” he whispered to himself. “Strange, strange man.”

He leaned back, staring at the empty doorway where the Batter had stood. Something twisted in his chest again, that familiar sensation he couldn’t name. Affection? Fear? Desire? Or perhaps nothing at all, just the echo of standing too close to someone who carried the weight of ending worlds on his shoulders.

Still, he felt it. And in the lonely hours of the night, when the shelves groaned and the silence pressed too close, Zacharie found himself waiting for that bell to ring again.

Chapter Text

Another day, another successful sale. Finally, after a long day wandering, waiting for someone to buy my stuff, I had made a small profit. Not that it mattered much. People here always seemed to fear me for some reason; their eyes darted nervously whenever I passed. If I were in their place, I’d probably do the same. Safety comes first, right? Madness is optional. I sat on a green blanket carefully spread on the cracked ground, various objects around me, each with a small shiny tag fluttering lightly in the cool night air.

I was almost asleep, letting the gentle sway of the night lull me, when I felt it: a shift in the atmosphere, subtle but unmistakable. Someone was approaching. I opened my eyes sharply, and there he was. The Batter. Holding his new bat, the weight in his hands as serious as he was, he knelt before me with that soulless gaze I knew so well. I always wondered what exactly lay beneath his cap, but it was a curiosity I had learned not to express. After all, some things are more fun left unsaid.

I smoothed my green blanket with a satisfied pat, settling slightly before speaking in my usual indifferent tone, trying to appear casual.

“Buenos dias, why don’t you…?” I began, only to be interrupted by the gleam of his hand, reaching toward me with the payment owed. The credits clinked together as I took them, sliding them into my bag with an almost exaggerated gesture of joy. I let out a soft chuckle, letting my voice warm with a teasing tone, just enough to lighten the mood between us.

“Well, wasn’t that nice? What would I do without you?” I said playfully, letting a soft laugh escape. The Batter shifted slightly but didn’t respond. Of course. Silence always followed him like a shadow, a heavy companion that seemed to draw attention to every movement. He stood tall and unyielding, and I paused just enough to let the intrigue linger.

“Hey, come here a second,” I said, and something in the tilt of my head, the twitch of my fingers, made him lean toward me. He arched an eyebrow; his simple “Hmm?” was more confirmation than a question. Perfect. That was all I needed. I reached out and lifted one of the objects scattered around me: a delicate jar with a blue flower held between us. I guided his hand gently, letting the vase rest in his grip. He stared at it, brushing the glass edge with his fingers, curious yet restrained.

“What’s this for? I don’t need it,” he said in a monotone voice, though I could feel a faint tremor of hesitation behind it.

“It’s a gift, amigo mio” I said, letting my tone drip with playful sincerity. “It doesn’t cure anything, but when you look at it, maybe you’ll think of me. Isn’t it nice? Or would you prefer another kind of gift?”

I watched him. A slight flicker of attention, his gaze briefly dropping to the ground before letting out a tiny, almost imperceptible sigh. My chest fluttered. I laughed softly, a muted sound behind the mask, trying not to betray the blush creeping up my cheeks.

“This is useless,” he said finally, quietly, almost disdainfully.

“Useless, but important to me. I insist, keep it!” I replied, letting the words linger in my mind, charged with a charm only I could summon. Our eyes met, and for a brief instant, the outside world vanished. The distant voices, the whisper of leaves, the faint hum of streetlights… all disappeared. Just him, just me, just the fragile vase held between us.

I watched him hesitate before carefully placing it in his bag. A small but meaningful victory. I exhaled through the mask; relief and excitement mixed in a strange, dizzying combination. My heart raced, and I reminded myself to breathe.

I was about to continue, to say something more, perhaps tease his expression, when he interrupted me again.

“You’ve done enough for today, Zacharie. Thank you.”

Those words, so ordinary yet monumental in their simplicity, left me strangely speechless. He didn’t stop. He didn’t smile, didn’t joke, didn’t make a scene. He simply turned and left, bat in hand, stepping carefully over the cracked ground, leaving only the soft clink of credits and the echo of his presence.

I stood frozen for a moment, watching the door through which he had disappeared. The night seemed heavier now, or maybe it was just me, weighed down by the absence he left behind. I laughed again, quieter this time, more for myself than anyone else, with a slightly trembling sound. “What a strange man,” I whispered. “So strange…”

But even as I murmured it, I felt the weight of the day’s interactions, the strange warmth that accompanied his acknowledgment. A simple act of paying what he owed had brightened my day. It had illuminated it. And yet, it wasn’t just that. It was more than transactions, more than exchanges. There was something in his silence, something in the way he allowed himself to accept a small gesture, no matter how insignificant it seemed to the world.

I leaned back, adjusting the frog mask with a delicate tug, hiding the faint blush spreading across my face. The street returned to silence, save for the distant murmur of the city and the occasional scurry of a small animal. I looked at my scattered goods, absently brushing each price tag with my fingers. It had been another hectic day, yes, but different somehow. Heavy. Full.

Perhaps it was the way he looked at the vase before dismissing it. Perhaps it was the slight hesitation, the tiny sigh that escaped him. Or perhaps… perhaps it was just him, in all his strange and inscrutable glory. My thoughts spun like the worn wheels of an old clock, ticking too fast, too slow, out of sync with the rest of the world.

I laughed softly again, shaking my head. “Another day, another adventure,” I murmured, though the words felt hollow compared to the feelings that haunted me. I gathered my blankets, carefully stacking the remaining items, their colors muted under the dim streetlight. The night would pass, as always. People would come and go, some buying, others merely watching, others avoiding entirely. But he had left an indelible mark, sharper than any coin or merchandise.

A strange longing overtook me, a warmth I couldn’t define not anger, not joy, not sadness. Just… presence. I allowed myself one last look at the empty street, imagining him still walking, still moving with that impossible gravity, bat under his arm. He was gone, yes, but his echo remained, a vibration in the air I could feel in my bones.

Finally, I gathered my blankets, the day’s earnings safely stowed, and leaned against the wall of the building behind me. I looked at the stars peeking through the cracks in the clouds, letting the cool night wrap around me. And somewhere, deep in my mind, I smiled.

Yes. Today had been another day. Another strange, curious, undeniably… perfect day.

Chapter Text

(Sorry if it's lazy)

The Batter stood in the center of the room, motionless. The purification had ended long ago no more shadows, no more whispers, no more traces of life. Yet he remained, as though the emptiness itself demanded his vigilance. His bat rested in his hands, the grip steady, fingers curled with unwavering firmness. His broad shoulders rose and fell with slow, heavy breaths, but his eyes stayed locked on the cracked floor beneath him, as if waiting for something else to emerge, something still left to erase.

And then, as naturally as if he had been there all along, Zacharie appeared. That was his habit: arriving quietly, without reason, as though the world bent just enough to make space for him wherever the Batter chose to stand.

“Well, monsieur,” Zacharie said, his voice carrying that familiar sing-song lilt as he leaned lazily against a broken wall, “you look even stiffer than usual. What’s wrong? Is the whole world pressing too heavily on your shoulders today?”

The Batter lifted his gaze, eyes empty, expression unchanged. His chest expanded with another deliberate inhale before he answered.

“No. I’m only fulfilling my mission.”

“Ah, of course, of course.” Zacharie clapped his hands softly, a gesture that was equal parts mockery and applause. His laughter bubbled beneath the mask. “But tell me then does your mission also include standing like a statue? Because you’re doing an excellent impression.”

The Batter’s grip tightened on the bat. His knuckles whitened against the dark wood, the sound of leather against calloused skin almost audible in the silence.

“I don’t need rest,” he said firmly, the words clipped. “If I stop now, everything I’ve done would be meaningless.”

“No, no,” Zacharie countered smoothly, stepping closer with exaggerated grace, as if performing on a stage. “It isn’t about need. It’s about pretending. Pretending we’re still human, that we’re still something more than machines winding down. I do it all the time, you know. It’s fun.”

He plopped himself onto a splintered wooden crate, the debris crunching under his weight. From his battered satchel, he pulled out a small silver thermos, shaking it so that the liquid inside sloshed gently.

“Look here,” he said, voice pitched like a salesman’s. “Tea. Bitter, like this place. It won’t heal you, it won’t give you energy, it won’t do anything useful. But it’s warm, and it’s organic. A little comfort in the ruins. Try it.”

The Batter’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his hand didn’t move.

“Useless,” he replied flatly.

“Maybe so.” Zacharie shrugged dramatically. With a theatrical tug, he lifted his mask just enough to reveal the faint curve of his mouth never more, never all of it. He tilted the thermos and took a long sip, the sound of liquid gurgling into his throat punctuating the silence. After a satisfied sigh, he lowered the mask back into place.

“But sometimes,” he continued, his voice softer now, “the useless things are the only reminders that we’re still here. That we’re not just… ghosts wearing skin.”

The Batter didn’t respond. He didn’t walk away either. He remained rooted in place, his imposing form looming over Zacharie while the faint sound of sipping filled the stagnant air. For once, the silence didn’t feel oppressive. It felt shared.

Minutes bled together until Zacharie finally stood, brushing dust from his cloak. He slipped the thermos back into his satchel, the faint clink of metal echoing in the hollow space. The Batter hadn’t moved an inch.

As Zacharie turned to leave, the Purifier spoke at last, his voice quieter than before, almost swallowed by the emptiness.

“I won’t leave either.”

Zacharie froze mid step. Beneath the frog mask, a grin bloomed, wide and satisfied. He let out a laugh, soft and bubbling, a secret laugh only for himself.

“Exactly, my friend. That’s more rest than you’re willing to admit.” He swung his bag over his shoulder with a flourish, speaking again before the silence reclaimed them.

The Batter’s gaze followed him closely. His chest rose and fell once more before a faint sigh escaped his lips. “I want to know what you hide behind that mask.”

The words dropped heavily into the space, heavier than his bat, heavier than the silence itself. For the first time, Zacharie’s playful rhythm faltered. His fingers brushed the mask instinctively, tightening the straps, adjusting as if to reinforce its presence.

“Oh? Curiosity from you, amigo?” he teased, his voice deliberately light but carrying a nervous tremor beneath it.

The Batter stepped closer, his bat angled upward, the smooth tip rising with intent toward Zacharie’s face. In one swift motion, he tried to nudge the mask upward, to peel back the secret he had demanded.

But Zacharie’s hand shot up, catching the bat mid lift. His laugh rang out, too high, too quick.

“Nah, ah, ah. You think you’re clever, hm? You’ll have to try harder than that!” His tone danced between jest and unease, a tightrope act he’d perfected.

Inside, however, his heart rattled against his ribs. Even the smallest exposure the reveal of his mouth a moment ago had already made his skin crawl. To be seen, truly seen, was something he despised. It was why he wore the mask, why he clung to it like armor. It was his bubble, his shield, the line between himself and the consuming emptiness of the world outside.

He pushed the bat gently away, his hands steady despite the rapid pulse that betrayed him beneath the mask.

“Better luck next time, Batter,” he said, his tone shifting back toward playful defiance. “Some mysteries, you see, are worth keeping. Even for you.”

The Batter didn’t protest. He lowered the bat, eyes narrowing, and for a moment, just a moment something flickered in his gaze. Not anger. Not irritation. Something quieter. Something almost like understanding.

Zacharie chuckled again, forcing the sound past the lump in his throat, before turning away. His bag swayed at his side, the thermos clinking softly inside. The silence pressed in once more, heavy and vast, but now it carried a different weight. Not hostile. Not suffocating. Something else entirely.

And though neither of them admitted it aloud, both of them knew: the encounter hadn’t been useless at all.

Chapter Text

Another day began the same as always. Zacharie was in his little shop, humming softly under his breath as he arranged the newest wave of merchandise. Fortune tickets and luck tickets lined up neatly in rows, fresh cuts of meat stacked in their trays, bats gleaming from the shelf like sharpened teeth. There were charms, trinkets, and symbols scattered about as well some real, some entirely useless. That was the beauty of it. Half his job was convincing people that they needed what they didn’t.

He crouched behind the counter, adjusting a box of goods, when the familiar sound of the bell chimed through the room. Sharp, ringing, slicing through the silence like a blade. His head snapped up immediately, his hands still gripping the box, before he set it down and turned toward the door.

And there he was.

The Batter.

Tall, pale, shoulders squared like the weight of the entire world rested upon them. His presence filled the space instantly, suffocating and magnetic. Zacharie’s lips curved upward beneath his frog mask, a thrill of excitement dancing in his chest. His “favorite” customer, visiting him again. But why? What did he want this time?

“Ahh, welcome. Content de te revoir, mon ami. What is it you need? More free objects, or do you finally intend to pay?”

His tone was mocking, playful, words draped in laughter. It echoed lightly in the store, a sound that only seemed to emphasize the Batter’s silence. The man didn’t respond. He simply stood there, fixed in front of the counter like a monolith.

Zacharie leaned forward, elbows resting on the wood, tilting his head as though to tease a reaction from him. But instead, the Batter moved.

In a sudden, startling motion, pale hands shot forward. They seized the mask. The smooth plastic tugged sharply against Zacharie’s face as the Batter tried to wrench it free. For a heartbeat, Zacharie froze. Then instinct took over. His own hands flew up, clamping down on the mask, holding it in place with fierce determination. His heart hammered violently against his ribs.

“Non, non, non!” he barked, laughter rising like a shield though his voice trembled with panic. “You think you can just take it off? Not so fast, amigo!”

The struggle began. The counter rattled under the force of their bodies as Zacharie shoved back, the Batter unyielding, pulling and clawing with unrelenting strength. Words spat between them taunts, refusals, growls slipping between gritted teeth.

“Stop hiding,” the Batter hissed, his voice sharper than usual, low and cutting.

“Ha! Says the one hiding under that ridiculous cap!” Zacharie snapped back, pushing harder, his arms straining.

The room trembled with their clash. Shelves tipped, jars rattled, trinkets spilled across the floor. The sound of falling merchandise filled the air, glass cracking, boxes tumbling. Zacharie, desperate, reached upward with one hand, catching the edge of the Batter’s cap. In a surge of defiance, he yanked it free.

For a moment, time froze.

Beneath the brim, the Batter’s eyes no, not just eyes. Two more stared back, hidden beneath pale lids, catching the harsh fluorescent glow of the shop’s lights. Four eyes, burning, unblinking, unnatural.

The brightness stabbed into them both. Zacharie squinted, blinded by the sudden gleam, while the Batter flinched, dropping slightly as though the exposure itself was painful. The two men locked again, shoving, pushing, breath ragged, bodies colliding against the counter until at last the struggle began to falter.

The Batter stumbled backward, chest heaving, before lowering himself to the ground. He knelt before the counter, the bat laid across his thighs, his head bowed as if the fight had carved something out of him. His pale skin glistened faintly with sweat, and the glow of his strange eyes dimmed under heavy lids.

Zacharie watched, mask still clutched fiercely to his face. For the first time in what felt like forever, his laughter didn’t come. No quip, no jest, no playful tone. Just silence. He stood there, his chest rising and falling rapidly, the shop wrecked around them, the air thick with dust and tension.

Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself as well, until he sat on the floor opposite the Batter. Neither of them spoke. Neither looked directly at the other. The silence between them was deafening, stretching long and heavy.

And then, at last, Zacharie exhaled. A long sigh, the sound raw and tired, nothing like his usual mocking giggles. His fingers trembled against the mask. He hesitated once, twice before, with deliberate care, he lifted it.

Not all the way. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough to peel away the frog’s grin, enough to expose the human beneath. His face, flushed, weary, vulnerable, stared back at the Batter.

“...You know,” Zacharie said finally, his voice low, stripped of its usual theatrics, “you’re not the only one here with problems. You shouldn’t force people to expose themselves just because you can.”

The words echoed faintly in the wrecked store. The Batter didn’t respond not with words. His four eyes watched, unblinking, heavy, unreadable. His silence was not dismissive this time. It was listening.

Zacharie’s mouth pressed into a tight line, his throat dry, but he held the Batter’s gaze for as long as he could bear it. For once, neither mask nor cap shielded them. Both men, stripped of their chosen armor, sat in the ruins of a shop that had become their battlefield, exposed to each other and to the world.

The silence lingered, fragile, powerful, binding them more strongly than words ever could.

Chapter Text

I stood in silence long after the dust had settled in Zacharie’s shop. The shelves were broken, the floor littered with shards of glass and scraps of merchandise. My cap hung loosely in my hands, and I could still feel the ghost of his laughter in the air. That strange, hollow laugh, cut short when he had finally lowered his mask.

I had seen his face. Or, enough of it to know there was a human beneath.

And he had seen mine.

It should not have mattered. Nothing outside of my mission should matter. Yet my grip on the bat tightened as if it were the only anchor left to me. I left without a word that day, but his voice echoed through me long after: You shouldn’t force people to expose themselves just because you can.

I told myself it was nothing. That it was weakness. That he was weakness. But the words burrowed deep, persistent, festering in silence.

The following days bled together, as they always did, marked only by the rhythm of purification. Strike, advance, strike again. The cycle repeated endlessly, mechanical. That was my purpose: cleanse the zones, erase the phantoms, complete the mission.

And yet… something faltered.

My swings grew less precise. My steps, heavier. The spirits should have fallen easily, but my concentration slipped like sand through my fingers. I missed openings I should have seen, staggered where I should have stood firm. My bat still struck true enough to kill, but the weight of hesitation gnawed at me.

I could not banish the image of Zacharie clutching his mask with desperate hands, his voice trembling though he tried to bury it in humor. I could not erase the memory of his face half-hidden, but real. A face that carried fear, anger, humanity.

And worse, I could not erase the knowledge that I had forced it out of him. The Judge noticed before long. He always noticed.

“Batter,” he said one evening, his voice heavy with the slow cadence of concern. “Your movements have dulled. Your strikes lack their usual conviction. Tell me, what troubles you?”

We stood in the courtyard before the entrance to the library. The place loomed above us, its shadow stretching wide and suffocating. Inside, the air was thick with the presence of spirits, restless and unclean. It should have been my sole focus. And yet the Judge’s words pierced directly into the thoughts I had tried so hard to bury.

I said nothing at first. Silence has always been my weapon as much as my bat. But he did not leave. He padded closer, tail flicking, golden eyes unblinking.

“You are not as you were. I can see it in the way you grip that bat, as though strangling it could suffocate your unease.” His whiskers twitched. “Something has unsettled you. Speak of it. I am your guide, am I not?”

I adjusted my cap and looked away. “I am fine.”

“You are not.”

“I do not need to explain myself.”

“Perhaps not. But even a machine must be maintained.”

His words carried a weight I did not wish to acknowledge. I clenched my jaw, forcing the familiar mask of detachment back into place.

“It is nothing. It will not interfere with the mission.”

The Judge’s tail lashed once, his gaze lingering on me. I did not return it. At last, he sighed, a low, weary sound.

“Very well. If you will not speak, then I will not force you. But know this: even silence betrays its secrets. You may think yourself unreadable, Batter, but the cracks are showing.”

I felt his eyes burn into me as he turned away, padding toward the library doors. I followed, wordless. Inside, the stench of the spirits was suffocating. They drifted through the air like shadows peeled from the walls, whispering in tones that scraped against the ear. Normally, their presence sharpened my focus. They were enemies, obstacles, sins to be erased. Striking them down brought clarity, purpose.

But today, their shapes blurred. My bat swung, yes, but with less certainty. I hesitated where I should not have. A whisper slipped into my mind that did not belong to the phantoms.

“Useless, but important to my heart. I insist, keep it!”

Zacharie’s voice. Light, mocking, wrapped in playfulness… yet trembling underneath. The memory of the flower he had pressed into my hand. A gift, meaningless in utility, but offered with something I could not name.

I faltered mid-swing. A spirit’s claws raked across my arm before I corrected, striking it down with a force that split the air. It vanished in a wail, leaving only silence in its wake.

The Judge’s eyes narrowed. “You see? Distraction gnaws at you. What holds your mind hostage so stubbornly?”

I wiped the blood from my sleeve, though there was no real wound, only the ghost of one. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters enough that it weakens you.”

“I will continue.” My tone was flat, final. But even as I said it, I knew he was right. My chest was tight, my grip uneven. I was failing.

That night, as we rested outside the library, I lay with my bat across my chest, staring into the endless void of the sky. The Judge dozed nearby, though I knew he remained watchful.

And I thought of Zacharie again.

The way his mask had slipped. The way his voice had lost its armor for just a moment, revealing the raw edge of something painfully human.

He was… irritating. Distracting. Foolish. He turned every moment into a joke, refused to take anything seriously, hid himself behind a mask and mockery. I should have despised him.

And yet, when I saw him sitting across from me in that ruined shop, mask lowered, voice heavy with something he could not disguise…

For the first time, I had felt something twist inside me.

It was not pity. It was not hatred. It was not anything I could name. Only a hollow ache, a reminder that beneath the roles we play purifier, merchant we are still made of fragile, breakable things.

I despised the thought. I despised that it lingered still. And most of all, I despised that it made me weaker.

The mission was everything. The mission was all. And yet… his face would not leave me.

The Judge stirred, his voice soft in the darkness. “You are awake still. Brooding.”

I did not answer.

He continued, as if speaking more to himself than to me. “I wonder if you truly believe you are as simple as you pretend to be. Cold. Purposeful. Nothing else. But I see hesitation in your eyes. I smell doubt in your silence. Perhaps there is more to you than the mission after all.”

My grip on the bat tightened until my knuckles burned white.

“There is nothing more,” I said, though the words felt thin, hollow.

The Judge said nothing further. Only the soft sound of his breathing filled the night.

But I knew he was right. And I hated it.

I told myself I would forget. That tomorrow, in the library, I would swing true again, erase the spirits without falter, focus on the mission.

But as sleep crept over me, the last image that burned in my mind was not of phantoms, nor of purification. It was of Zacharie. His mask lowered. His laughter stilled. His voice, trembling but sincere.

“You’re not the only one with problems.”

The words dug deep, refusing to fade. And I realized then: no matter how much I tried to deny it, no matter how hard I clung to the mission…

I could not push him out of my mind.

Chapter Text

The following morning came heavy and reluctant, as if even the sun hesitated to rise. The Batter walked with deliberate steps toward Zacharie’s little shop, his bat hanging loosely at his side. Each step felt like wading through tar. The events of yesterday echoed like a drumbeat in his skull the struggle, the crash of shelves, Zacharie’s trembling voice as he had torn his own mask away in defiance.

The image haunted him more than he cared to admit. It gnawed at him like a beast, sharp teeth closing around his ribs. Guilt it was not an emotion the Batter was accustomed to feeling, nor one he welcomed. His mission had no room for such distractions. But the weight of it remained, heavier than the bat in his hands, heavier than the burden of purification itself.

So he came back. Not for merchandise, not for idle conversation, but for something far more foreign to him: an apology.

When the small building came into view, its crooked walls and familiar bell above the door sparked the faintest glimmer of relief. He would say the words. He would set things right. And then he could move forward again.

But as he approached, his eyes caught the sign taped crookedly to the door.

“Je reviens dans une minute!”

(i'll be back in a minute!)

The words stared back at him, cheerful and careless in Zacharie’s slanted handwriting. The Batter stared at it for several seconds, his jaw tightening beneath the brim of his cap.

“…Damn.” The word slipped out like an exhale, rougher than usual. He lowered his head, shoulders tense, and released a breath that trembled at the edges. He had prepared himself for the confrontation, for the sting of Zacharie’s laughter, even for rejection but not for absence.

The shop was closed. Zacharie was gone.

The Batter stepped back, gripping his bat more firmly as his eyes drifted across the quiet village.

The town was still waking. Thin wisps of smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of the Elsens’ small homes. Their pale, blank faces peeked from windows or shuffled along the cobbled streets, carrying bundles of goods or buckets of water. Their voices were soft, indistinct, blending into the morning like the murmur of wind.

The Batter walked among them, towering and out of place. The Elsens parted in silence as he passed, their gazes flickering toward him with something between fear and respect. They whispered to each other, though their words were indistinguishable. He paid them no mind. His focus was elsewhere searching.

Still, the sight of them unsettled him. Their fragile frames and vacant expressions stirred an echo of yesterday’s fight. He could almost hear Zacharie’s voice again strained, sharp when the mask had been nearly torn away. He remembered the way Zacharie’s hands had clutched the plastic, desperate, defensive, as though the mask was not an accessory but a lifeline.

The shelves toppling, the sound of wood cracking. His own grip on Zacharie’s mask, unyielding. The sudden reveal of eyes under his own cap, two more than should exist. Shock, violence, and then silence.

The memory made his chest tighten. He did not like remembering. Yet it refused to leave him alone.

And then, through the fog of his thoughts, he saw him.

At the edge of the village, near the wooden bridge that arched over the sluggish, murky liquid plastic below, stood Zacharie.

The merchant leaned against the railing with an air of careless relaxation, though his hands fiddled idly with something in his pockets. His mask faced downward, toward the water, as if he were studying his own reflection distorted in the ripples. The plastic creaked faintly as he shifted his head, a sound the Batter knew too well by now.

The Batter froze. For a moment, he simply stood there, watching. The thought crossed his mind to turn back, to abandon this foolish notion of apology. But the gnawing in his chest refused to let him.

So he stepped forward. His boots struck the wood of the bridge with dull, heavy thuds. Zacharie did not move at first. Only when the Batter came close enough for his shadow to fall across him did the masked man tilt his head upward.

“Well, well,” Zacharie’s voice rang out, light and playful as always, though softer in the morning quiet. “If it isn’t my favorite customer. To what do I owe this honor? Surely not another brawl in my shop, hmm?”

The Batter stopped beside him, his bat clutched so tightly that the leather of the grip groaned under his fingers. For several seconds, silence stretched taut between them.

“I…” The word felt heavy, reluctant, scraping his throat as it emerged. His eyes remained fixed on the liquid plastic below. “I came to apologize.”

Zacharie blinked behind his mask, then let out a sharp bark of laughter, quick and surprised. “Mon dieu! Did I hear that right? The great Batteur, apologizing? Oh, this is rich. Let me savor the moment.”

The Batter’s jaw tightened. He nearly turned away, but Zacharie’s laughter softened after a few seconds, melting into something gentler.

“What for, exactly?” Zacharie prompted, tilting his head, voice teasing but not cruel.

The Batter hesitated. His grip on the bat slackened just enough for his knuckles to regain their color. He drew in a slow breath.

“For yesterday. For… forcing you. For the fight.”

His words came stiff, halting, as if each was dragged unwillingly from him. His eyes never left the rippling water. “I should not have tried to take your mask. I should not have…” He faltered, the sentence unfinished, but the weight of it hung in the air regardless.

For a long moment, Zacharie said nothing. The silence pressed down again, broken only by the creak of the bridge beneath their combined weight and the distant murmur of the Elsens.

And then, softly, Zacharie chuckled. Not sharp, not mocking just a quiet laugh, tinged with warmth.

“Oh, Batter… you make it sound like you killed my cat. Which, by the way, you better not ever do, comprendido?”

The Batter glanced at him briefly, startled, before looking back down. Zacharie waved a hand dismissively, stepping closer until he could clap the Batter lightly on the back. The gesture was light, playful, almost affectionate.

“It’s fine, amigo mio. Really. I can take a scuffle. You were curious, I was stubborn, shelves were broken, tempers flared. C’est la vie!”

He gave the Batter another pat, this time lingering a little longer. “You don’t need to carry guilt like a sack of bricks. Especially not with me. I forgive you.”

The Batter’s chest tightened at the words. Forgiveness was not something he expected. Not something he deserved. But hearing it, feeling Zacharie’s hand against his back, the relentless gnawing inside him finally eased, just a fraction.

He exhaled slowly, almost a sigh. “…Thank you.”

Zacharie leaned against the railing again, his mask tilted toward the water. “Of course. What are friends for, hmm?”

For a while, they stood together in silence. The morning light reflected off the ripples below, broken and shimmering. The Batter’s grip on his bat loosened completely, his arms lowering until the weapon rested idly against the wood. His body relaxed in a way it hadn’t since… he couldn’t remember.

Zacharie broke the silence with a soft hum. “You know… I wasn’t expecting you to come find me. You’re usually too busy with your sacred mission to waste time on silly little merchants like me.”

The Batter’s voice was low, firm, but not unkind. “It wasn’t a waste.”

Zacharie let out another laugh, this one softer, more thoughtful. “Hmm. Careful, Batter. If you keep talking like that, I might start thinking you actually care.”

The Batter said nothing. But for the briefest moment, he looked at Zacharie not at the mask, but at the man behind it. The one who had met his aggression with laughter, his guilt with forgiveness.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable this time. It was steady, grounding, like the flow of the plastic beneath their feet.

And in that silence, something subtle shifted.

The Elsens moved around them, carrying out their daily routines. The bridge creaked as a faint breeze swept across it. Zacharie adjusted his mask absently, then turned to face the Batter more directly.

“Tell you what,” he said, his tone brightening again. “Next time you feel the urge to break my shop, at least bring me a new shelf first. Deal?”

The Batter almost, almost smiled. “Deal.”

Zacharie gave a dramatic little bow, then straightened, his laugh ringing clear. “Good! Now, come on. If you’re done apologizing, I’ve got wares to sell, and you’ve got a mission to brood about. The world won’t purify itself, after all.”

The Batter watched him start back toward the village, his cloak swaying lightly with each step. For a moment, he remained rooted to the bridge, staring at the rippling water.

And then, slowly, he followed.

The guilt still lingered, yes. But for the first time in days, it no longer devoured him whole.

Zacharie had forgiven him.

And though the Batter would never admit it aloud, that forgiveness mattered more than he ever thought it would.

Chapter Text

The days that followed their reconciliation seemed quieter somehow, as if the world itself had decided to take a step back and allow two unlikely figures the space to breathe. The Batter and Zacharie’s strange companionship settled into something resembling order. After the apology at the bridge, after the laughter and the forgiveness, it was as if some invisible knot between them had been loosened.

The shop was rebuilt slowly, shelves restacked, merchandise reorganized. The Batter helped, though he was not exactly gentle. His large hands placed boxes down with a soldier’s efficiency, while Zacharie fluttered behind him like a restless bird, adjusting, teasing, commenting on his “terrible taste in interior design.” Despite his words, his laughter filled the empty air of the little store, and for the first time in a long while, the Batter did not feel the silence pressing against his ears.

Sometimes the Purifier abandoned his mission for short stretches, lingering at Zacharie’s side without reason. He did not always buy, he did not always speak. Sometimes he simply sat and listened listened to the strange cadence of Zacharie’s voice, muffled but lively behind the frog mask. It should not have mattered. It should not have pulled at him. Yet it did.

The Batter found himself caught in something he could not name. His sacred mission loomed always in the back of his mind, a call that had once consumed him wholly. Purify. Cleanse. Remove the filth. That was what he was made for. And yet Zacharie distracted him. His presence was a sharp edge in the fabric of the Batter’s routine, tugging at his focus, pulling him sideways into unfamiliar territory.

Was it… enjoyment? Affection? No. He refused to label it. Yet the feeling clawed at him, foreign and unrelenting.

When the weight grew too distracting, he went to the Judge. The feline regarded him with knowing, slitted eyes, his whiskers twitching as though he could see more than the Batter’s words revealed. The Batter admitted little, only that his concentration had faltered. That something gnawed at him when he thought of the merchant. The Judge tilted his head, his tail flicking, but asked no prying questions. He only spoke in riddles about burdens of the heart and the complexity of companionship. The Batter left unsettled, his face expressionless, his chest a storm.

That evening, as the clouds gathered, the Purifier returned to the shop. He did not come empty-handed. In one of his gloved palms rested a small object: a rock, gray and unremarkable to most eyes. Yet he had chosen it. On his path through the deserted zones, it had stood out to him its weight, its texture, its stubborn existence amidst decay. Something about it reminded him of Zacharie.

When he placed it on the counter, Zacharie tilted his head, then let out a delighted laugh.

“A rock? Oh là là, you’ve brought me treasure, gracias!” he exclaimed, lifting the stone as if it were a rare jewel. He cradled it against his mask with exaggerated affection. “How thoughtful. I’ll cherish it forever, alongside my vast collection of… junk.”

The Batter said nothing, but his shoulders eased faintly at the reaction. Zacharie’s voice carried no mockery, only warmth.

Their conversation drifted after that, casual and uneven. Zacharie filled the air with jokes, with musings, with observations that seemed to sprout from nowhere. The Batter answered sparsely, but listened with a focus that would have startled anyone who knew him only as the Purifier.

After a while, Zacharie motioned toward the back of the shop. “Come, come. I want to show you something. Don’t worry it’s not another shelf waiting for you to break.”

The Batter hesitated. Yet curiosity, slow and reluctant, tugged at his steps.

Behind the counter, through a narrow door, lay a hidden space. It was not much just a rough shelter cobbled together from scraps of wood and cloth. But it bore Zacharie’s signature chaos: a motorcycle leaned against the wall, its surface cluttered with tools and trinkets; shelves sagged under odd equipment; a patched-up sofa sprawled at the center, covered with mismatched blankets. It was messy, imperfect, but it felt lived-in.

The Batter stood stiff at the threshold, scanning the space. His expression betrayed nothing, but his silence lingered longer than usual.

Zacharie spread his arms dramatically. “Voilà! My little refuge from the horrors of retail. Impressive, non?”

The Batter stepped inside, the bat in his grip shifting slightly. “…It’s functional.”

“Functional?” Zacharie gasped. “Oh, you wound me. Call it charming. Cozy. A palace of comfort built for kings. Or for tired Purifiers who don’t know how to relax.”

The Batter ignored the jab, though his gaze lingered on the sofa. Zacharie caught it instantly.

“Go on, sit. It won’t bite.”

After a pause, the Batter obeyed. He lowered himself carefully, as if unsure whether the fragile-looking structure would hold his weight. The cushions sagged beneath him, the scent of old fabric and dust mingling with faint traces of herbs.

From somewhere in the clutter, Zacharie produced a small kettle and two mismatched mugs. “Tea?” he offered cheerfully, pouring steaming liquid that carried the sharp, earthy scent of herbs.

The Batter accepted the cup silently, holding it with the awkwardness of one unaccustomed to such rituals. He did not drink at first, but the warmth seeped through the ceramic into his gloves, steadying him.

Zacharie perched on the edge of the sofa beside him, mask tilted, and began a cascade of chatter. He spoke of the odd customers he’d once had, of absurdly lucky fortune tickets, of the way Elsens sometimes tripped over their own feet in their haste to scurry away. His voice painted the room in color, laughter bubbling between words.

The Batter sat in stillness, but his chest eased with every note. He did not smile. He did not laugh. Yet something softened, deep inside.

When at last he rose, setting the empty mug aside, Zacharie stopped him with a raised hand.

“Leaving already? Tsk, tsk. Not so fast. Look outside, mon ami.”

The Batter glanced toward the narrow window. Rain lashed against the glass, streaking it with silver lines. Thunder rolled faintly beyond.

Zacharie leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “You can’t go out in that. Even you would drown. Stay here. I insist.”

The Batter hesitated, shoulders tense. To remain was a violation of his rigid schedule, a distraction from his mission. Yet when he opened his mouth, no refusal came.

“…Fine.”

Zacharie clapped his hands in triumph. “Excellent! Slumber party it is. I’ll even let you have the floor.”

------------------------

Hours passed. The rain drummed steadily against the roof, filling the room with its rhythmic lull. Zacharie dozed on the sofa, sprawled in tangled blankets, his mask tilted at an angle. Soft snores filtered through the plastic, muffled but unmistakable.

The Batter lay on the floor at first, rigid and watchful. He told himself he was guarding, keeping alert. But as the minutes stretched, his eyes betrayed him, flickering toward the figure above.

Zacharie, usually so animated, so loud, was quiet now. Vulnerable. His chest rose and fell gently, his arm dangling over the edge of the sofa. In sleep, he seemed smaller somehow, his mask slipping just slightly to reveal the curve of a mouth relaxed in rest.

Something stirred in the Batter’s chest. He did not name it. He only acted.

Slowly, carefully, he rose. His shadow stretched long across the floor as he moved toward the sofa. With deliberate hands, he tugged one of the blankets free and draped it across Zacharie’s shoulders. For a moment, he lingered there, staring.

And then without understanding why he lay down beside him.

The sofa groaned under their combined weight. Zacharie stirred faintly, shifting, but did not wake. The Batter’s arm moved of its own accord, circling around the smaller figure, pulling him close in an embrace that was both unfamiliar and strangely natural.

The warmth of another body seeped into him. The rhythmic rise and fall of Zacharie’s breathing pressed against his chest. The rain outside blurred into background noise, softened, distant.

The Batter closed his eyes. For once, there was no mission. No ghosts. No Judge, no purification, no endless battle. Only this, this quiet moment, fragile and fleeting.

He did not allow himself to think of what it meant. He only let himself exist in it.

And there, in that stolen shelter, the two remained, tangled in silence until the pale light of morning crept across the windowpane.

Chapter Text

The morning that followed was painted in a haze of confusion.

The Batter stirred awake, only to find himself lying alone on the makeshift sofa tucked into the back corner of Zacharie’s shop. For a moment, he thought perhaps the night before had been nothing more than a dream, some strange trick of his exhausted mind. But the faint impression of warmth lingering beside him, the smell of Zacharie’s peculiar perfume of dust and faint herbs, and the blanket thrown carelessly over the cushions told him it had been real. He remembered, vividly, the hesitant movement of his own body curling against Zacharie’s during the rainstorm. He remembered the weight of stillness that had pressed on him until sleep claimed him.

Now, that stillness was gone.

He rose, his tall, pale frame unfolding like a marionette in the early light filtering through the cracks in the shop’s windows. His hand reached automatically for the familiar grip of his bat, resting near the sofa, grounding himself to what was certain. Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunlight, giving the shop an almost ethereal glow. Outside, puddles from the previous night shimmered through the windows, reflecting the uneven light of the morning sun.

Zacharie was already awake, perched atop a stool near the front of the shop, a magazine in one hand and a steaming cup of coffee in the other. His frog mask tilted down toward the pages, a soft hum escaping him as he skimmed through it.

“Buenos días,” Zacharie said, his voice warm and casual, slipping easily into Spanish.

The Batter blinked against the sunlight streaming in, squinting, and responded curtly in French, “Bonjour.” His voice was flat, precise, cold as always, yet something in his chest faltered.

Silence followed, thick and comfortable in the cozy confines of the shop. The shelves were stacked unevenly with tickets of fortune, bundles of meat, and miscellaneous charms. The occasional drip of water from the roof outside punctuated the quiet.

Finally, Zacharie broke the silence, as he so often did. “If you could be an object,” he asked, his tone light and teasing, “what would you be?”

The question hung in the air, absurd and playful, but the Batter stiffened, fingers tightening around his bat. Memories of the night before flickered unbidden in his mind the way he had curled against Zacharie, the warmth he hadn’t wanted to admit he craved. He prayed silently that Zacharie would not speak of it, would not call attention to the moment when his control had faltered.

“It does not matter,” he replied, his voice cool and even. “Objects are tools. I would be a bat. Useful. Efficient.”

Zacharie chuckled behind his mask, tilting his head. “Always practical. Always thinking of mission, function, utility.” He hummed softly, sipping his coffee. “But… last night? Was that functional?”

The words hit him like a blow. His jaw tightened, and though his expression remained impassive, heat surged in his chest offense, shame, and something he refused to name. He wanted, just for a moment, to swing his bat and silence the teasing words. Yet he stayed rooted, breathing shallowly, aware that any movement might betray him.

“I do not wish to discuss that,” he said finally, his voice harder than intended.

“Oh, come now.” Zacharie’s voice was playful, yet under it a trace of care lingered. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten curling up next to me. Like a big, scary cat pretending to be a kitten.”

Something inside the Batter flared, a mix of anger and embarrassment, yet he did not move. Zacharie must have sensed it, because he laughed lightly, letting the tension ease from the room. “All right, all right. I’ll stop.”

The rest of the morning stretched quietly. Zacharie folded the magazine and returned his attention to organizing the shop, humming under his breath as he fussed with small items. The Batter remained nearby, still rigid, still watchful, yet unable to look away from the chaotic energy that Zacharie exuded.

By afternoon, Zacharie had gathered a bundle of items tickets, healing objects, charms and slid them across the counter toward the Batter.

“For you,” Zacharie said.

The Batter frowned, confusion flickering beneath his calm exterior. “Why?” His voice was flat, clipped, though something in it hinted at surprise. “Why give them for nothing? You always demand credits.”

Zacharie shrugged, leaning casually against a shelf. “Because sometimes I can be generous. Because you looked like you needed them. Because I like you, mon ami. Pick whichever answer bothers you least.”

The Batter’s expression remained impassive, though his hands tightened briefly around the items. He could not understand this act of kindness, this simple gesture free of barter or expectation.

“You should not,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Everything has a price.”

“Maybe,” Zacharie said with a mischievous grin behind his mask. “But not everything valuable is meant to be bought.”

The Batter did not respond. He simply gathered the items, clutched them, and turned toward the aisle that led back to the small sofa in the shop’s rear. He paused, glancing briefly at Zacharie, who returned his gaze with a playful tilt of the head.

The sunlight streaming through the windows now highlighted the dust in the air, giving the entire room a golden glow. The Batter’s shadow stretched across the worn floorboards as he moved toward the small sofa. He remained rigid, bat still in hand, while Zacharie resumed his work arranging shelves and stacking goods.

The quiet intimacy of the shop, once just a workplace, now felt oddly safe. It was a haven of their own making chaotic, cluttered, warm with the sound of dripping water and quiet footsteps, brightened by the morning sun. The Batter could almost forget the outside world for a moment.

Hours passed, filled with small movements. Zacharie occasionally looked up, offering jokes, awkward smiles, and soft hums. The Batter stayed close but remained silent, his mind half on the mission, half on the lingering sensation of last night. He could feel, acutely, the strange pull Zacharie had on him the pull he did not understand and could not name.

Finally, as the day began to wane, Zacharie gestured toward the counter. “Well, I think that’s enough organizing for now. Take these with you.” He slid the items across to the Batter again, though the man had already collected them.

The Batter’s gaze fell on him, a question unspoken in the tight line of his mouth. Zacharie caught it, and a soft chuckle escaped him. “Oh, you mean why I gave them freely? Because I could. Because sometimes you do things for people you like… and sometimes you just don’t overthink it.”

The Batter’s expression remained as neutral as ever, though inside his chest something fluttered like wings of a caged bird. He had no words to respond with, so he merely nodded, silently acknowledging the strange generosity.

And then, without another word, he turned toward the shop’s exit, stepping carefully over scattered scraps of paper and small puddles of rainwater tracked in from the door. His bat rested heavily on his shoulder, the items Zacharie had given him cradled tightly.

He paused just at the threshold, glancing back. Zacharie waved lightly, leaning on a shelf, eyes bright behind the mask. For the briefest moment, their gazes met. A silent understanding passed between them messy, awkward, real.

The Batter stepped outside, sunlight now warm on his back, the shop fading behind him. But the memory of it, of Zacharie, of the small golden sanctuary in the corner of the cluttered store, would follow him, quietly, like a second heartbeat.

Chapter Text

The sun was struggling to push past the lingering clouds, leaving the streets slick and glimmering from last night’s rain. I was wandering near the bridge, looking for anything I could pick up to bring back to the shop, a few curious trinkets or even a scrap of something valuable. My eyes scanned the cobblestones, the puddles, the scattered bits of debris, when something… caught my attention.

He was there.

The Batter.

At first, I thought he might have simply stopped to rest, as he sometimes did, standing motionless in the middle of the street like a statue observing the world. But then I noticed it the subtle sway, the stagger, the way he leaned on the railing of the bridge for support. My stomach twisted, that familiar tight knot of worry forming instantly. “Oh no… this isn’t just fatigue,” I muttered under my breath, my steps quickening.

I rushed forward, my heart thundering in my chest. He didn’t notice me at first, too focused on steadying himself, too stubborn to admit he needed help. I reached him in a few hurried steps and gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey! ami, look at me!” I tugged lightly at the edge of his cap, lifting it so I could see his eyes.

He glared at me, that familiar icy gaze softening slightly only because he was too exhausted to keep it rigid. And then… I noticed them. The extra set of eyes beneath his usual ones, peeking through the folds of his lids. My fingers tingled as I held his cap in place. A soft, nervous laugh escaped me. “Well, well… not looking so invincible now, are we? Trying to scare me?”

He tried to push me away, insisting he was fine. “I’m fine. I don’t need help,” he said, in that cold, flat tone that never lets on what he’s feeling.

I ignored the protest, guiding him gently to a nearby bench by the bridge. “Sit. Now,” I said, though my hands trembled slightly. My worry was spilling over, and I couldn’t hide it. He eventually slumped onto the bench, his bat resting loosely against the railing, his pale frame tense.

I knelt in front of him, taking in the extent of his injuries. Cuts along his arms, bruises darkening his skin, and a subtle tremor in his hands. My chest tightened. I grabbed a small first-aid kit from my bag and began carefully cleaning the wounds with antiseptic.

“You fought… what?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light, teasing even, though my hands worked quickly. “Some beast? Some crazy spirit? You’ve gone and overdone it again, haven’t you?”

He didn’t answer. His silence was steel, unyielding as always, but I could see the tension in his body, the way his fingers gripped the bench, the faint twitch of his jaw. I ignored his glare, focusing on the task at hand, making sure each cut was cleaned and wrapped.

“You know,” I said softly, trying to distract him, “you really are impossible. You insist on looking like a statue and then end up looking like you got hit by a truck. Typical. You should see your face right now… if I weren’t scared out of my mind, I’d laugh.”

He blinked, lowering his cap slightly, and I swear I caught the faintest curve of his lips. Not a smile. Not even close. But a flicker. Enough that I leaned a little closer and whispered, “I see you, amigo mio. That little hint… don’t think I missed it. you do have feelings after all.”

His jaw tightened and he dropped the cap back down, hiding his lips again. I shook my head, smiling under my mask. “You’re stubborn. And dramatic. And lucky I care, because if anyone else saw you like this… they’d probably faint from fear. But me? I just patch you up and tease you while you sulk silently.”

The Batter remained silent, though he shifted slightly on the bench, allowing me to work more easily. I noticed the way his body eased, ever so slightly, as I bandaged another cut on his arm.

Pulling out a small flask from my bag, I offered it to him. “Here. coffee. Hot. Not magical, not curing everything… but it’ll warm you up a little.”

He stared at it, hesitating. I waited, softly nudging the flask toward him. “For me,” I added. “Come on, partenaire. Trust me.”

Finally, he took it, his pale fingers wrapping around the flask. I watched him carefully as he sipped, careful not to spill. I smiled softly, leaning back slightly, giving him space while keeping close enough that he couldn’t escape.

The afternoon sun broke through a thin patch of clouds, warming the wet stones around the bridge. I could hear the faint trickle of liquid plastic from the stream below, the soft splash of rain still dripping from the leaves above, the distant hum of the town beyond. In this quiet, our own little bubble, I felt… protective.

“You know,” I murmured, tilting my head, “you can try to act invincible all you want. Cold, efficient… but I see through it. And I don’t care if you fight, if you resist. I’ll patch you up anyway. That’s just how it is, mon ami.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move away either. That small concession, his stillness, the way he let me work near him was progress. I allowed myself a quiet smile.

After finishing the last of the bandages, I spread a blanket from my bag over his shoulders. He pushed at it weakly, trying to insist he didn’t need it, but I ignored him. “You’re staying here until you’re ready to leave. No arguments. You don’t get to wander into danger and then pretend you’re fine.”

His head tilted, almost a challenge, but he said nothing. That silence spoke volumes, and I understood it. I respected it. But I wouldn’t let it stop me from caring.

I pulled a small herbal tea bag from my bag and brewed some with hot water from my flask, offering it to him again. “Drink. For warmth, for comfort. For me,” I teased, trying to coax a tiny reaction, anything that would show he was letting down his guard even slightly.

His fingers brushed mine as he accepted it, a fleeting, electric touch. He sipped quietly, the corner of his lips twitching again ever so slightly. I caught it, smothering a laugh behind my mask, letting the warmth of that moment wash over me.

We sat there for hours, him mostly silent, me talking, joking, narrating ridiculous stories about the little items I had gathered earlier, laughing softly at my own absurdity. He didn’t speak much, but I could feel it the tension easing, the rigidity softening, the faint trust blooming in the space between us.

Finally, I helped him shift to a more comfortable position on the bench. The bridge loomed around us, the water below reflecting the late afternoon sun in shimmering patches. I draped the blanket carefully, ignoring his faint protests.

“You know,” I said softly, leaning back to observe him, “I talk too much, I meddle where I shouldn’t, I’m probably annoying you… but I do it because I care. You’re my favorite mon ami. Scary, stubborn, dramatic… and lucky for you, I’m stubborn too.”

He didn’t move, but he didn’t retreat either. And in that quiet moment, under the golden light and the soft hum of the town, with the bridge stretching out beside us and the gentle trickle of water below, I knew: even the strongest, coldest hero needed care. And I would give it. Always.

Chapter Text

The world had begun to steady itself again. Or at least, it gave the illusion of doing so. The specters still lingered in far-off corners, the Zones still pulsed with their uncanny quiet, but for Batter and Zacharie, things felt… strangely normal.

Batter visited Zacharie’s shop more frequently now, sometimes with the excuse of trading or checking his inventory, but often with no real reason at all. He would appear in the doorway, cap shadowing his eyes, bat resting at his side. Zacharie would glance up from the counter, laugh under his frog mask, and greet him with the usual sarcasm or mock flirtation. Their interactions had settled into a rhythm a dance of silences and words, of coldness and warmth clashing in subtle ways.

And yet, others noticed.

The Judge, that wise and weary feline, had begun to raise his suspicions. He often accompanied Batter during missions, serving as a guide, a reminder of what was at stake. But lately, he found the Purifier distracted, his eyes drifting, his silences heavier. And when Batter would vanish for hours at a time only to be found later near Zacharie’s shop, the Judge’s tail flicked with concern.

It wasn’t just Batter. Zacharie too seemed… altered. His humor remained, sharp and biting, but sometimes his tone lingered too long, too heavy. Sometimes he laughed when he didn’t need to, covering something deeper with the mask of his own voice.

One evening, The Judge padded softly into Zacharie’s shop. The merchant looked up from arranging a row of fortune tickets, the frog mask tilted toward him.

“Ah, Pablo,” Zacharie said in his teasing singsong. “What brings you here, mon chat? Looking for a discount? Or do you wish to buy my heart? I warn you, it’s expensive.”

The Judge’s whiskers twitched. “I have not come to bargain, Zacharie. I have come… to inquire.”

“Inquire?” Zacharie leaned forward on the counter, chin resting on his hand. “How mysterious. Go on, my feline friend. Ask your riddles.”

The Judge’s tail swayed as he fixed him with steady eyes. “You and Batter. You spend a great deal of time together. More than most would expect from a merchant and his client. Is there a reason for this attachment?”

Zacharie chuckled. It was the kind of chuckle that could mean anything mockery, amusement, or a thin shield hiding truth. “Attachment? Oh, Pablo. You make it sound scandalous. Perhaps I simply enjoy the company of a man who looks like he hasn’t smiled since birth.”

“That may be,” the Judge replied evenly, “but your tone betrays more than simple amusement. Do you speak in jest… or in confession?”

Zacharie tilted his head, fingers drumming against the wood of the counter. “Why not both?” he said finally, laughter bubbling up again, though quieter this time. “I do love to keep people guessing. Even myself.”

The Judge studied him a moment longer, but then, with a soft sigh, turned to leave. “I will not press you further. But I caution you, Zacharie: hearts entangled with destiny rarely find peace.”

When the cat was gone, Zacharie leaned back in his chair, the laughter fading beneath the mask. He stared up at the ceiling, murmuring softly to himself. “Peace is boring anyway.”

Night fell.

The shop was nearly closed, the lights dimmed, the shelves neat once again. Zacharie hummed to himself, jingling coins in his hand, preparing to lock up for the next day. The world outside was soaked rain poured in torrents, hammering the cobblestones, pooling in the cracks of the street.

And then knocks.

A heavy, insistent pounding on the door.

Zacharie froze, tilting his head. “Now who would be foolish enough to shop in this weather?” he muttered, striding toward the door. He swung it open, and there he was.

Batter.

Soaked through, dripping rain from his cap, his uniform plastered to his pale skin. Water rolled down his face, trailing over the blank mask of his expression. His bat was clenched in one hand, knuckles white, though his stance betrayed exhaustion more than strength.

“Batter…” Zacharie breathed, startled. “Mon dieu, you look like a drowned corpse.”

Without waiting for permission, he pulled him inside. The sound of rain muffled as the door shut, though droplets still fell in tiny streams from Batter’s clothes onto the shop’s floor.

“Take those off,” Zacharie said firmly, already rummaging behind the counter. “You’ll catch death if you don’t.”

“I am fine,” Batter muttered, voice as flat as ever. But his shiver betrayed him.

Zacharie returned with folded clothes simple spare garments he kept for himself, loose but dry. He thrust them into Batter’s chest. “Here. Change. Back room. Now. Unless you wish me to assist, hm?”

For a fleeting second, Zacharie thought he saw something flicker in Batter’s eyes a warning, or maybe surprise. But the Purifier simply took the clothes and disappeared into the back.

Zacharie leaned against the counter, arms folded, mask tilted slightly upward. His heart beat strangely fast. He wasn’t sure if it was from worry or anticipation.

When Batter returned, the change was startling. The dry clothes hung differently on him, softer, less severe than his uniform. His cap was still pulled low, but without the damp weight of rain, his presence felt… altered. More human.

“Well, well,” Zacharie teased immediately, his voice a little too quick, a little too bright. “Look at you. Tres chic, amigo. Who knew you could look this good? Perhaps you should retire from purifying and become a model instead.”

Batter’s expression hardened. He moved closer, footsteps heavy, shoulders stiff.

“Enough.” His hand shot out, gripping Zacharie’s shirt, pulling him forward across the counter. The bat remained in his other hand, hanging at his side, but the gesture was clear: a warning, a threat.

But Zacharie did not flinch. His mask tilted slightly, eyes hidden, but his voice came out soft and almost amused. “Ah. There it is. The famous temper. Should I be afraid now, mon ami?”

The air between them thickened, heavy with tension. Batter’s breath was shallow, his grip tight. For a moment, Zacharie thought he might truly lash out. But instead… something inside him shifted.

Slowly, deliberately, Zacharie reached up. His fingers found the edges of his mask, and with one swift motion, he lifted it away. His face hidden for so long was revealed, pale in the dim light, lips curved in something between defiance and vulnerability.

Before Batter could react, Zacharie leaned in and pressed his lips firmly against his.

The shock was palpable. Batter’s body tensed instantly, his grip on Zacharie’s shirt tightening. But then… he didn’t push him away.

Zacharie lingered, letting the kiss stretch long, testing the boundaries of the unbreakable wall the Purifier had built. And when he finally pulled back, breath mingling between them, he laughed softly.

“Well,” he whispered, voice unsteady but playful, “that shut you up.”

Batter’s chest rose and fell heavily, his cap still shadowing his eyes. For a moment, silence held them captive. And then, as if pulled by some force neither could resist, he leaned forward again.

This time, it was Batter who kissed him. Rougher, harder, desperate in a way Zacharie had never expected.

The counter pressed against Zacharie’s back as the world outside thundered with rain. Kiss after kiss followed, messy, unpracticed, almost violent in their urgency. But beneath it all was a raw honesty that neither of them could disguise.

Zacharie’s laugh broke between them, trembling as he whispered against his lips, “Mon dieu… you’re terrible at this.”

But he didn’t stop. Neither of them did.

The storm raged outside. The shop stood silent but for the sound of rain and the muffled gasps and breaths of two figures finally colliding, finally breaking past masks and missions.

For the first time, there was no merchandise, no mission, no joking pretense. Only Zacharie and Batter, stripped down to something painfully, terrifyingly real.

And in that moment, neither cared if the world outside burned.

EXTRA!:

Morning light crept through the cracks of the Zone, painting the shopfront in pale gold. The storm had passed, leaving behind puddles that mirrored the sky and streets that smelled of damp stone.

On the roof of the shop, The Judge sat quietly, his tail curled neatly around his paws. His golden eyes observed the world below with their usual calm, though today they lingered longer on the closed door of Zacharie’s store.

He had seen the signs. The way Batter’s steps had carried him here last night, relentless even beneath the rain. The muffled voices, the tension, the silence broken by something… different. He could not hear the words, but he felt the change in the air.

Now, the shop remained sealed, as though guarding a secret.

The Judge tilted his head, whiskers twitching. He was not blind to what had grown between the Purifier and the merchant. Nor was he naïve enough to dismiss it as simple distraction. It was something far more dangerous and far more human.

“Affection,” he murmured softly, voice carrying only to the empty street. “So fragile… yet so unyielding.”

He leapt down gracefully, padding to the puddle-streaked ground. For a moment, he stood before the shop’s door, his reflection rippling in the water at his paws. Then, with a low sigh, he turned away.

The Judge would not interfere. Whatever path Batter and Zacharie had chosen, it was theirs to walk. Whether it led to salvation, ruin, or something in between, the feline would watch… and wait.

His paws carried him toward the horizon, tail flicking once as he whispered to no one in particular:

“May your hearts endure what your destinies cannot.”

And with that, the street fell quiet once more.

Chapter Text

The early morning sunlight spilled lazily through the shutters of Zacharie’s small shop, brushing across the worn wooden floors and the cluttered counters that were usually stacked with trinkets, tickets, and curiosities. The world outside seemed oblivious to the quiet intimacy that lingered within, the remnants of the night that had been longer, warmer, and far more intense than either of them had expected.

The sofa, an old, slightly sagging piece of furniture, still bore the impressions of two bodies entwined, covered with soft blankets that now wrapped them in a cocoon of warmth. Zacharie was already awake, sitting upright, stirring his coffee with gentle precision, and allowing the sunlight to highlight the subtle smile playing beneath his mask. He glanced at the Batter, who remained under the heavy blanket, cap still pulled low over his eyes, his posture tense yet strangely relaxed, a paradox that Zacharie had come to know all too well.

“Ah, mon ami,” Zacharie said softly, playful warmth lacing his voice. “You’ve slept long enough. The world outside waits, but I suppose I should not expect you to leave this sofa voluntarily.”

Batter stirred slightly, a pale hand emerging from the folds of the blankets to adjust the cap that remained stubbornly in place. He said nothing, merely shifted closer to Zacharie, acknowledging the morning in the quietest way he knew: by staying, by being present.

Zacharie chuckled softly, the sound low and melodious. “You are impossible, you know that? Insisting on silence even when there are words to be spoken, thoughts to be shared… yet here you are, my silent companion.” He sipped his coffee, eyes flicking over the taller man’s form with amusement and something deeper, something tender that he rarely let show.

Batter finally moved, sitting upright slowly, the blanket falling in soft folds around him. He kept his gaze low, staring at the edge of the sofa where the faded fabric met the floor. The memory of last night lingered like a weight in his chest the warmth of Zacharie’s body, the softness of the blankets, the intensity of their closeness. He swallowed, jaw tightening, grappling with thoughts that were both foreign and insistent.

It was supposed to be about his mission. Purification. Discipline. Being pure. But last night… last night had been anything but pure. It had been raw, urgent, intimate, and now, even in the light of morning, it haunted him. Questions gnawed at him: Did this make him impure? Was it wrong to feel… this way? To feel warmth, connection, desire, for a man he had no formal claim to, no obligation toward?

Yet even as these thoughts pressed, Zacharie’s presence was a balm. The merchant’s quiet attentiveness, the small smile beneath the mask, the way he held the coffee with careful, deliberate hands, the ease with which he spoke these things anchored the Batter. They reminded him that he did not need to solve every question immediately, that some moments were simply meant to be felt, experienced, remembered.

“You are staring,” Zacharie said softly, breaking the silence with a teasing lilt, though his eyes betrayed warmth and curiosity. “At the floor, at me… perhaps at your own thoughts?”

Batter’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away. He did not deny it, nor did he confirm it. Silence was safer, easier, though the weight of unspoken acknowledgment hung heavy in the air.

Zacharie leaned closer, tilting his head. “I think,” he murmured, “that even if you do not speak, you are telling me everything I need to know.”

The Batter’s hand twitched slightly under the blanket. It was small, subtle, almost imperceptible, but Zacharie noticed. He let a faint smile stretch beneath his mask and reached forward with deliberate care, brushing his fingers lightly against the Batter’s arm. The contact was soft, fleeting, yet it carried all the meaning words could never capture: warmth, presence, reassurance.

For the first time, the Batter allowed himself to truly inhale, to feel the lingering softness of last night without immediately shutting it away. The weight in his chest shifted ever so slightly, the tension in his shoulders loosening in response to Zacharie’s silent, patient attentiveness.

They remained like that for a long while, the shop quiet except for the occasional clink of Zacharie’s coffee cup against the saucer. Zacharie spoke in low, teasing tones, weaving stories and small jokes into the morning air, careful to fill the space with lightness without intruding on the Batter’s fragile calm.

“You know,” Zacharie murmured at one point, tilting his head slightly to glance at the taller man, “this sofa is old, not particularly comfortable… yet somehow, last night, it became the perfect place. For… whatever it is that happens between us.” His voice held a delicate mixture of amusement and vulnerability, a recognition of the tension, the closeness, the intensity that had passed between them.

Batter’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the blanket. He did not speak. Instead, he leaned slightly closer, a silent concession, a small gesture that signaled trust, if not understanding.

Zacharie’s hand found the Batter’s arm again, this time more deliberate, tracing the curve of his sleeve, brushing lightly against the wrist. The touch was innocent enough to anyone else, but in that quiet morning light, it was laden with meaning acknowledgment, care, and the lingering hint of last night’s explorations.

“You are… difficult to read,” Zacharie whispered softly, a teasing lilt in his voice, “but I rather like it. It keeps me… alert.”

Batter’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as if resisting a smile. His eyes flicked toward Zacharie, meeting the merchant’s gaze for a fraction of a second before dropping again. There was a subtle softness in his expression now, an openness that had not been there before the night had passed, an acknowledgment that Zacharie’s presence was both a comfort and a danger to the discipline he clung to.

The morning stretched on, time slowing in the warmth of their shared space. Zacharie offered coffee after coffee, small gestures of care pulling the blanket tighter, adjusting the pillows, teasing lightly about the Batter’s stubbornness in keeping his cap on. Each action was deliberate yet gentle, designed to soothe, to comfort, to maintain the fragile intimacy that had been established.

Batter’s thoughts were a tempest beneath the calm exterior. He considered his mission, the expectations of purity, the endless demands of the zones, the eyes of the Judge and others who counted on him to be precise, cold, and unfeeling. And yet… here, in this quiet morning, he allowed himself to simply be human. Vulnerable. Close to another person in a way that had nothing to do with duty or combat.

He wondered if this made him impure, if it changed him, if it complicated his life in ways he could not yet fathom. But the warmth from Zacharie beside him, the gentle teasing, the care that wrapped around him as surely as the blankets did, reminded him that there was room for these moments. For softness. For tenderness, even for someone like him.

Zacharie noticed the inner struggle and smiled softly beneath the mask. He reached out, brushing a lock of hair away from the Batter’s forehead, a gesture that was intimate yet not imposing. “There,” he murmured, “a little comfort. Even the strongest warriors need it, oui?”

The Batter’s hand twitched again, brushing lightly against Zacharie’s. He did not speak, did not protest. It was enough to know that Zacharie’s presence, his subtle guidance, and the warmth of his body offered a balm for thoughts too complex to articulate.

Hours passed this way, marked by soft murmurs, gentle touches, the quiet comfort of simply being together. Zacharie spoke, sometimes in teasing tones, sometimes softly, sometimes in half-laughs, filling the space with life and presence. The Batter remained patient, attentive in his own quiet way, allowing the intimacy to wash over him while remaining conscious of boundaries and restraint.

And as the sun rose higher, spilling gold across the shelves, the counters, and the sofa, both men understood something without words: the night had changed them, the morning had solidified their connection, and though the world awaited beyond the shop, here and now, they had found a fragile, enduring peace together.

Batter finally rose, carefully adjusting the blankets, cap still in place. Zacharie’s gaze followed him, teasing yet tender. “Ah, mon ami, you move as if the sofa is still holding you hostage.”

Batter said nothing, merely allowed himself a faint, almost imperceptible nod. He was grounded by Zacharie’s presence, comforted by the warmth, and quietly reassured that whatever had passed between them, it was something that could exist delicate, intimate, and undeniable.

They shared their coffee, their laughter, and their quiet moments, the remnants of last night lingering in every glance, every touch, every pause. The Batter’s thoughts were no longer chaotic, no longer plagued solely by the mission or the expectations of purity. Here, with Zacharie, he could simply exist, and for now, that was enough.

And in the warmth of the shop, beneath the soft morning light, two souls tender, complicated, and irrevocably entwined continued to navigate the delicate aftermath of a night that had altered them both, leaving them with shared memories, subtle hints, and an unspoken promise that whatever came next, they would face it together.