A Lullaby For Gods Chapter 90

DECEMBER 9, 2013

THE ISLAND

AFTERNOON

“I think I just met your kid.”

I,  Nereus says, pinching the bridge of his nose, Cannot even begin to detail how impossible that is.

"No, listen to me," Eridan says, for the third time since they've returned to the reef. They're both currently on shore, though Anshu is watching them with confused curiosity from the water. "Genetically, humans are mutations of trolls - Kar's mutation was one step above them in the evolutionary rung; he's the missing link between our species and the species that ended up propagating in our session."

Eridan, you are not a geneticist, Nereus says. And that besides, what's that got to do with anything?

"DNA compatibility!" Eridan says, waving his hands about like that would make everything make more sense. "Similar to how some Earth animals can crossbreed, so can our species."

Jegus grist. Nereus turns away, putting his face in his hands. How did we end up here?

"You didn't listen to me and now I have to go in-depth," Eridan says. "I'm just saying - it's very possible that the kid inherited more human traits from the Heir instead of you and that's why they look more human than troll."

Eridan, this universe wasn't created by your session, Nereus says, dropping his hands to give him a weary look. That in itself makes your evolution theory fall apart, and that besides -

Nereus slaps him upside the head. Anshu - or at least their human form - winces instinctively. Their fish form just ducks under the water briefly at the sound of the slap.

Focus, you distracted little brat. Whatever that child is or is not isn’t your priority right now, he says, though he mutters under his breath right after: And if I had a family, I wouldn’t be running around abandoning them, little shit.

Eridan hisses, rubbing at the back of his head from where Nereus had hit him. It doesn’t actually hurt that much, it was more of a gentle tap than anything from how much control the older troll has, but the gesture is enough to sober him up. He’s right - whatever that kid was, it’s not what he should be finding out right now.

What he should be finding out is why, when he’d wished for at least one measly, offhand connection to the Heir of Doom, Anshu’s Manifest had immediately rerouted him to them with no hesitation.

“They still have something to do with the Heir don’t they?” he asks, “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have shown up there from Anshu’s powers.”

That seems to be the obvious conclusion.

“Can we go back, then?” Eridan asks. “If they’ve got something to do with the Heir, it’d be easier to join forces, wouldn’t it?”

If that pink monstrosity that popped up doesn’t immediately decide to bisect you again, sure, Nereus says. Eridan puts a hand to his midriff at the choice of words. All that besides, Anshu needs to practice their Manifest first before we try anything. And you need to return to your body for a moment. You look…

Eridan looks down at his hands. They don’t look any different to him.

“What do I look like?” he asks.

Like you’re fading, Nereus says. Your body’s dying. Very slowly, but it’s dying. You have to return to it every once in a while.

“And Anshu’ll just bring me back right after?”

Give it a day, Nereus says. Anshu and I will work on their magic, you’ll recuperate. After a day, wish to return here again.

“And then we go find our link to the Heir of Doom again,” Eridan says, sitting down. It’ll only be for a day. It’s not that much time wasted.

He frowns.

“About my magic,” he says. “Is there any way to improve it when my body’s comatose? Obviously, I can’t practice while in captivity.”

Nereus pauses for a moment before answering.

Well, he starts, sitting down besides Eridan. We wouldn’t be able to do anything to increase your body’s physical endurance against your magic. If you overuse too much, you’ll get magic poisoning like I used to.

Eridan nods, disappointed.

But, Nereus says.

He looks up.

The composition of a player of Skaia is body and soul, remember? Your soul is made out of your classpect too; it’s not all of it, but it’s a part of it. It’s a part of your identity. And you, right now, are essentially just a soul, Nereus says. You can still learn a few things here and then. Your endurance is just going to be shit though, so pace yourself.

“So it’s not a hopeless case.”

Hah! Nereus cheekily points to himself, proud. Not with me around, it’s not.

“Alright, Mage of Hope, we get it,” Eridan huffs. “So after I get back here, we can -”

The ground underneath them shakes. A few rocks violently skip along the shoreline, splashing into the water with loud plops.

Eridan frowns. Ahead, in the water, Anshu’s human form lifts its head, staring at something behind him.

Their eyes widen in horror.

He turns. Dark smoke is coming out from behind the sea of tall trees behind him.

There is a volcano on this island.

“No way,” he says. “There is no way.”

Nereus stares at the plumes of smoke beginning to darken the sky above them. In a few hours, everything above them will be grey; if the volcano doesn’t erupt, there could still be quakes, or lightning strikes from the charged air.

The reef could be destroyed.

Eridan, Nereus says. You have to go back now.

“The reef,” he says. There’s nothing he can do, though. He can’t relocate them to a new area entirely. Even if he could wish for it, there’s still the fact that they’d have to get used to the new place, and they might not even be suited to the climate entirely. If they somehow adjust to the relocation well, there’s still Anshu left behind.

Anshu. There could be a tsunami if the quakes are strong enough. They could die.

Eridan, Nereus says, almost in warning.

“Nereus, can you do anything?” Eridan asks, watching a streak of black rise to the air. “Before any of this gets worse?”

I am made of Hope energy, but it’s nothing impressive, my boy. Only small party tricks, Nereus says. I can’t stop a natural disaster in this state. And - doesn’t any of this strike you as sudden? As odd?

That...is right. Then again, natural disasters never truly announce themselves to begin with. They just happen.

You have to go back, Nereus says. Before Anshu can’t return you to your body at all.

Because they could get killed in the midst of all this. The currents could get too rough. A stray piece of rock shooting into the water could crush a part of the reef. The stress could be too much for their little angelfish body.

“Shit,” Eridan says, “Shit. Fuck!”

“Eridan.”

He turns. Anshu has swam as close as they can to the shore.

“You have to go home. If I die and you remain, you’ll be stuck here until your body dies,” they say.

“What about you?” he asks, even though he knows he can’t do anything. Where the hell would they even hide? What the hell could he even do? If his body gives up on him in the midst of the disaster, that still leaves Anshu in danger.

“I’ll be fine,” they say.

Eridan, the faster your body recovers, the faster you can come back here, Nereus says. Besides, I can’t stop a natural calamity, but I can definitely offer some degree of protection to a reef.

“Lead with that, asshole,”  he snarls, though the relief is palpable in his voice. If Anshu dies under Nereus’ care, Eridan is going to find a way to kill him.

He runs to the water, the waves crashing against his feet a little harsher than normal with the strengthening earthquake. It feels like everything is intent on throwing him off-balance, even when he’s only wading into the sea, the water only up to his chest.

“Anshu,” he says.

The tiny fish looks up at him in determination, the golden light of their human form giving him the same resolute expression. How are they not afraid? How are they never afraid?

“We’ll be okay,” they say. We. As if they’re consoling him too.

“Good,” he forces himself to say. “Stay alive.”

He gasps, suddenly, feeling the air rush to his lungs as he opens his eyes up to bright, white infirmary lights. There is an oxygen mask over his face.

He’s back at S.H.I.E.L.D.

-

???

Eat, exercise, study, spar, rest. Rinse and repeat for a couple of days, take a day off, and then do it all over again. The team has finally put Dualscar on the same schedule the kids have, so his routine matches theirs now, somehow monotonous and fun at the same time, what with the repetitiveness and the constant testing of how fast he can outthink his way out of a situation.

They’re all sparring with Sabera Leijon again today, an all-against-one fight that somehow still works with how fast the oliveblood is with her hands. Dualscar had banked on his speed and strength being his advantages in the fight, but the oliveblood is crafty, with a reaction time that rivals his own. He’s lost count of how many times she’s pingponged herself off the walls and the ceiling, shoving him to the ground with ease before using him as a launching pad not even a second later and tackling the next person in her way.

“Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I can’t keep up with you youngin’s.” She laughs at her own joke right after, standing over all of them. She’s currently decked out in her armor made from her magic, as she always is in these fights. What was that, again? Something like ‘Eye of the Tiger: Equip? According to the journals he’s been studying, some players could equip their magic as physical clothes or armor; Sabera appears to be fond of doing so with hers. “Don’t look down at your auntie, Pippo.”

“We’re from different timelines, it doesn’t count,” he grits out, pushing himself off the floor. Around him, the others are slowly getting up too.

Porrim Maryam sits up, flexing her hands and trying to summon something into existence. Dualscar’s forgotten exactly what her abilities are (he hadn’t been paying attention) but he knows it’s got something to do with Space.

Nothing happens, though.

Meenah Peixes groans. “Again?”

“So it seems,” Porrim says.

Sabera grins, rocking back on the balls of her feet. She lifts a hand, sheathing in the claws from her gauntlets and snatching something out of thin air - a sphere of dark energy, swirling with trails of silver glitter and stars, and sparking with green coils of lightning appears in her palm. “Ah, this?”

While Dualscar hasn’t paid attention to any of the others’ abilities (the only thing he can really remember is that the Peixes girl can literally steal life and the Vantas child is a Seer, but what he sees, he has no idea), he knows full well what Sabera’s is. Mostly because, though he himself hasn’t been able to cast anything with his abilities, it always feels like he’s being stabbed whenever she activates hers.

Thief of Heart.

She steals someone’s magic.

“You know the drill, kits, you get it back if you steal it back, but you’d have to catch me first,” she says, waving it away from existence. “Now come on, up! We haven’t got all day.”

“On the contrary, we actually do, that’s the point of it,” Aranea Serket says, voice flat and exhausted. Given that her own magic isn’t very combat-based, she’s had to rely on her own physical abilities this whole session.

“Well, you don’t want to collapse before dinner, do you?” Sabera says, crouching down, arms spread wide like she’s going in for a tackle. Her dragonfly wings flare up behind her. “Now come on.”

A blast of black energy shoots at where she’s standing - she’s quick to dodge, already in the air before the Doom magic even manages to touch her. Dualscar grimaces slightly as he steps away, closer to the sparring court’s edge, watching her movements and readying himself. While he understands that the Captor kid shares a classpect with the Heir, it’s still unpleasant to see the spell that had nearly taken out his entire stomach months ago.

“Oh! Tuna-tuna’s still got his magic!” someone says, high above from the mezzanine of the sparring room.

Dualscar turns at the sound of the voice, raising an eyebrow as he sees the Heir of Doom’s snow white hair sticking out against the backdrop of silver metal that makes up the walls of the room. They’re clapping excitedly.

“Good job, kiddo!”

“Mituna’s been the only one who keeps avoiding her,” Meenah grits out, dodging out of the way as Sabera lands at where she’d been two seconds ago. Dualscar snaps his attention back to the fight, moving along with the rest of the group, making sure to keep Sabera in their sights as she launches off the ground again.

Vantas barely rolls out of the way as she suddenly hits the ceiling and shoots off of it with her feet, quickly unsheathing her claws to slash at him. Because he’s crouched though, he’s not able to move as quickly when she kicks off from that area and spins behind him, tapping the back of his neck gently despite her speed. The woman’s got insane control over her own strength.

“Dead,” she calls out, her other hand quickly shoving him to the ground as she digs one foot into the floor and dashes forward at where Aranea is.

Aranea bolts. “Ah - shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”

A wall of blackness suddenly rises from the floor, separating her and the adult troll at her heels. Sabera skids to a stop right before she can crash into it, just a hair’s width away.

She turns to Mituna, who’s situated himself somewhere to Dualscar’s side, just a few feet behind. He’s keeping his distance since Sabera’s magic activates by touch.

Dualscar looks around for any debris he can use as a projectile. He doesn’t need to knock her out, he just needs to either distract her or land a hit that can slow her down. If they catch her, after all, they all get their stolen magic back.

Sabera kicks off from where she’s standing. Mituna twists his right hand downwards, his left reaching out, and then they both grip at something invisible and tug backwards.

The black wall Sabera’s left suddenly condenses into a rope, latching itself onto her foot and yanking her back just as Mituna tugs.

The Heir on the mezzanine whoops. “Go! Tuna-tuna!”

“Oi, your favoritism is showing!” Meenah barks at them.

Dualscar tears a button off of his shirt while Sabera’s being hurled back by the make-spell. He tucks four of his fingers in, resting the button on the side of the pointer finger and tucking his thumb behind it. He aims his fist at Sabera as she pushes herself up. If he could just get one of her eyes, her accuracy in landing should be cut significantly.

He shuts one eye, aiming carefully, and -

The button shoots off his hand, a bullet headed straight for Sabera’s eye. It pings off of her claws harmlessly as she blocks.

Damn it.

“That’s what I’m talking about, kits, make me actually make an effort!” she says, bringing out her stolen Space magic once again, letting it condense into her palms. She puts one hand over the other, sandwiching the ball of magic between her palms.

The insignia for Space suddenly lights up underneath her.

“Hey - hey what the fuck!” Meenah says, looking up to the Heir. “Hey!”

“Oh, yeah, Sabera’s a thief! She uses the shit she steals too!” they call down, absolutely delighted by the turn of events, the little fucker. “Good luck!”

“You didn’t tell us she could do that!”

“Surprises make life exciting!”

Sabera snickers as the insignia expands in size, the diameter of it now encompassing the area all of them are standing on. Green light illuminates the space inside the circle.

“Territory Magic,“ Sabera invokes.

“Get out!” the Maryam girl yells suddenly. “It’s Territory Magic! Get out! None of us can dodge it while inside!”

Shit. Dualscar turns on his heel, sprinting towards the edge of the insignia as fast as he can as he hears the kids doing the same, cursing loudly as they all do so.

Except the damn thing keeps getting bigger.

“Fuck, Maryam!” Peixes yells. “You had to be a Maid of Space, huh!”

Shit. Come on, come on, come on. He has to be able to outrun this stupid thing before Leijon can release the spell. Dualscar grits his teeth.

He looks up. The mezzanine. Surely, Leijon wouldn’t actually hit the Heir of Doom. It’s cheating, technically, but the Heir has always been approving of exploiting every resource available to someone just for victory. He’s just taking a page out of their book.

The edge of the sparring court is closer than the edge of the insignia so Dualscar dashes over to it, sprinting forward in a burst only to land a foot on its wall, and then kicking off upwards, mimicking Sabera. The jump is short, letting him land on the rail that separates the bleachers from the ring, and he runs along it, as fast as he can, heading for the mezzanine.

In the corner of his eye, he notices the Captor kid hasn’t run. He’s standing in the middle of the Space insignia’s magic circle, waiting.

Dualscar kicks off of the railing, towards the bleachers, climbing the seats step by step before jumping off of the last one, angling his head and torso back so he doesn’t crash into the ceiling headfirst. His body instead arches in a backflip, and he throws his hips forwards, body flipping so he’s upright again - he lands on the mezzanine feet first with a loud, metal CLANG!

The Heir laughs behind him. “Now you’re thinking.”

“Shut up,” he says, turning to the sparring court, where some of the kids are now at the very edges of it and have realized that the insignia’s expansion is not stopping.

And the Captor kid still isn’t moving.

“What is he doing?” Dualscar asks.

“He’s an Heir, Cronus,” the little tyrant beside him says, “An Heir of Doom specifically. Powerful attacks are an advantage to us, remember?”

The conversion spell. Dualscar’s eyes widen as Sabera, who seems amused by the little Captor’s recklessness, grins and finally releases the spell.

“Alright, kid, let’s see if you can take it,” she says, raising two fingers upwards. “Solar Storm.”

The room lights up so bright Dualscar thinks it must burn his eyes. As expected, though, he doesn’t feel any magic hurting him, not even a slight heat or the feeling of magical pressure suffocating him underneath its power. Sabera is a warrior of precision, that much he’s learned; she knows exactly how and where to apply her strength and her magic, and wagering on that and on the Heir of Doom’s non-involvement in the sparring appears to have paid off.

Still, there are spots in his vision as he opens his eyes. He tries to blink them away, only to find himself unsuccessful.

The Heir of Doom snickers. “You’re gonna have to go to the infirmary to fix the vision damage, I’m afraid,” they say. “Although - here - “

He feels a tap on his forehead. Immediately, the brightness he’s seeing disappears, and the world around him returns.

On the court, below him, the other children are sprawled out. The few who are on their backs are squinting upwards at nothing, gazes unfocused, like the brightness has blinded them too. None of them look too hurt, though.

And still standing across Sabera, in the middle of the ring, is the Captor child.

Bastard actually did it.

The Heir of Doom clicks their tongue. “Not bad,” they say, “Not bad at all.”

Even Sabera seems to approve, smiling brightly and taking a step back, a ready fighting stance, an invitation for the boy to shoot off whatever spell he’s chosen. Doom energy covers his hand, and he lifts it up, aiming it at Sabera and -

He sways to the side. Sabera freezes, posture suddenly alert.

She dashes forward just as the Doom energy fades from Captor’s hand, and he collapses.

“Huh,” Dualscar says. “Looks like he couldn’t do it, after all.”

On the court, Sabera carefully sets Captor down, laying him on his back and checking for his breath and his pulse, scanning him for any physical wounds. The others still seem to be out for the count, unaware of what’s just happened.

“I guess the effort was good,” Dualscar allows, turning to the Heir, “Looks like your little brat’s - “

There is blood all over their shirt.

Dualscar stares, wide-eyed, as they lift a hand to their mouth, the sickly paleness of their skin making the deep, rich red stand out like blood on porcelain as it slips through their fingers. They cough. A few drops escape their palm and stain their collar.

“...Cronus,” they say, pulling their hand away to stare at their blood - a sickly, ominous rosebloom in the palm of their hand. “Get the Mage of Space.”

He nods, wordlessly, bracing a hand against the rail of the mezzanine, when he sees them sway on their feet as well.

He dives forwards, arms outstretched, to catch them as they collapse. His knees clang against the metal floor harshly, and the sound makes Sabera turn to him, her eyes widening in panic at the sight of the unconscious Heir in his arms.

“Get the Mage!” Dualscar yells, “Now!”

Sabera nods, bolting out of sparring room in a blur of pink light. Below him, there are murmurs of confusion, the children still trying to blink away the brightness in their vision confused as to what the sudden noises have been.

Peeking out of the Heir’s sleeve, Dualscar catches a glimpse of the golden manica they’re always wearing, the very same one they’d promised to hand over to him if he held up his end of their bargain. Master every single spell he’s taught and then it would be his. The manica that some distant, alternate timeline ancestor of his gave them.

He pulls their sleeve back, snatching their arm to glare at the damn thing.

“You,” he grits out, furious, staring at his bloodline’s crest, engraved into the gold. “Do something, you asshole.”

-

DECEMBER 10, 2013

NEW YORK CITY

It is 5:55 in the morning.

Hal’s lying down in the living room, idly staring up at the ceiling. He’s finished his new stasis protocol in one window and is adding a few more things to his defense one in another, while at the same time keeping several tabs of news and social media sites open. A buzz of electricity crackles around the hollows of his chest, like the mini arc reactor that serves as his power source is overloading, somehow.

GET UP

He frowns. It’s not a voice somewhere in the back of his mind, it’s more like a thought that violently barrels its way through everything else. Is there something wrong with his software, did he accidentally mess up his source code with the new stuff he’s writing?

GET UP NOW

He begins to open another window to run a diagnostic when everything suddenly gets shut down, his visual feed blackening as everything he sees is replaced only with the words:

GET UP

GET UP

GET UP

GET UP

GET UP

Hal jerks back as his vision returns, the darkened, empty room flickering back into view. Pink lightning coils and sparks around his hands, eventually ripping away from his body and coalescing into Electric Love.

Who doesn’t even grace him with an explanation. He just runs.

Hal’s feet are moving before he can even think about what he’s doing.

“Electric Love, what - “

SECURE OBJECTIVE

Realization suddenly washes over Hal as he races down the hallways, following after his Stand as fast as he can as the creature runs, pushing the limits of his range as he blitzes towards wherever the fuck he’s headed to.

It’s Electric Love. Electric Love’s the one who’s glitching out.

Hal frowns. Electric Love’s not actually a program, as fond of the analogy they both are. Electric Love is a physical manifestation of his Heart abilities, so if there’s anything wrong with him, something’s wrong with Hal’s powers.

And Electric Love is currently a coil of lightning as he darts up the staircase, before he’s forced to stop halfway through since Hal’s physical body still needs to catch up to his insane, inhuman speed. Once Hal’s closer, he’s off again, only stopping once he’s hit the boundary of the five meter range of Hal’s abilities.

SECURE OBJECTIVE

“What fucking objective?” Hal asks, confusion breaking through the rising alarm in his mind, both at Electric Love’s strangeness and something else. Something -

He needs to get to Angeles’ room.

He doesn’t know how he knows that, he just knows he has to get to Angeles’ room. He’d forced them to go to sleep shortly after they’d talked earlier; they haven’t come down since so they must still be in their bedroom. He’s now on the floor they should be on.

This time he almost keeps pace with Electric Love, since he knows where he’s headed. Fuck if he knows what’s going on, but right now, his head is clear with only one thought in mind. Get to Angeles, secure objective.

He wrenches the doorknob clean off the door from the sheer force he puts into turning the handle. It’s only pure luck that he doesn’t rip the whole thing off the hinges, mostly because he’s slightly distracted by Electric Love dissipating back under his chassis in bursts of electricity.

Angeles is kneeling over the edge of their bed, throwing up blood.

OBJECTIVE IN DANGER

“Hey, hey, hey.” Hal’s by their side in a second, pulling them back as they nearly fall over. Their skin is clammy to the touch, they’re shaking, and when the enhanced perception activates as he touches them, everything is spinning. It’s like everything has taken a filter to everything and bumped the contrast up to as high as it can go.

His vision rights itself after a second. He tries to blink away the sudden nausea. He doens’t even have a stomach.

Angeles’ breathing is unsteady, halting and heaving, like they can’t quite get enough air in. They retch again, blood dripping down their chin, though some of it is coming from their nose.

They can’t breathe.

In the corner of Hal’s visual field, several alerts persist:

OBJECTIVE IN DANGER

OBJECTIVE IN DANGER

OBJECTIVE IN DANGER

“I don’t know what to do!” Hal yells, frustrated. He didn’t put those alerts there. He has no idea what would even put them there to begin with, there is nothing in his source code that makes it possible for them to exist.

Wait. Electric Love. This has to do with Electric Love. This has to do with his Heart Player bullshit.

Angeles lurches forward; Hal adjusts his hold on them so neither of them get thrown onto the bloodied floor, and another heaving of blood pours out of their mouth.

The alerts disappear.

Exhausted, as if a puppet with its strings cut, Angeles falls back, ending up leaning on his side as they take in deep, hungry breaths. The...danger’s passed. It’s another thing Hal knows though he has no idea how he even knows it. He just knows they’re safe for now.

His awareness of the rest of his systems returns, slowly, like a lazy tide. His messages have alerts from JARVIS about Angeles being sick and throwing up. His body temperature is slightly higher than normal due to him running. Due to his system accidentally closing the window he was using to work on his defense protocol, it’s had to make a recovery file for it.

Hal looks down at the puddle of blood on the floor. Now that Angeles has stopped throwing up, he can see that it’s not as big as he’d initially thought. But it’s still blood, and for a while there, Angeles couldn’t breathe. And they’re trembling now, focusing on remembering how to breathe normally, unable to even sit up on their own as they’re still collapsed against him.

“What was that?” he asks.

As if they even have an answer. The only thing Angeles can do is shake their head helplessly, and even then, they can barely move.

He looks around for anything to clean the blood off them. Since he can’t leave them on their own here, he re-summons Electric Love to grab some towels from the bathroom. The Stand wordlessly does so, quick to come back to hand the items over to Hal before disappearing again.

“I...couldn’t…” Angeles weakly whispers out as he wipes the blood off their face. “Couldn’t...breathe.”

“Figured as much,” he says. “Has that happened before?”

They shake their head, then wince.

“Don’t move your head, just tap on my hand. Hang on.”

Careful, he sets the towels aside so he can stand up and move them, letting them lie down. He places one arm near their hand, while he cleans their face with another. Angeles slowly moves a few fingers over the back of his own hand.

“One for yes, two for no,” Hal says. “That was the first time that happened?”

One tap. Yes.

“You don’t have any conditions that could have set that off?”

Two taps, though they frown slightly. Nothing they know of, then.

“Are you in pain now?”

They don’t answer, only grimacing slightly. Hal amends the question.

“Tired?”

One tap.

“Pain in your chest?”

One tap.

“On a scale of one to ten, tap out how much it hurts.”

Seven. Jegus. And they’re not even crying, they just look exhausted. How used to pain is this kid?

He wipes the last of the blood off their face. If it weren’t for the red of it staining their lips, they would look like a corpse right now.

“Pain anywhere else?” he asks, setting the towel on the dresser as he begins to look up first aid manuals. He’s going to need to make a special database for emergency health situations too, in case something like this happens again.

One tap.

“Where?”

Angeles weakly lifts their hand to point to their throat, then to their diaphragm, then to their head.

“Okay, I’m getting you a painkiller. Give me a moment, it’s out of Electric Love’s range, I’ll have to get it myself,” Hal says, rising from the bed. “JARVIS, where do you guys keep the first aid kit?”

Before JARVIS can answer, however, they grip onto his wrist, weakly, to get his attention, then point to the bathroom.

“What?” he asks, but then they fingerspell what they mean for him.

F-I-R-S-T-A-I-D-K-I-T

Right. Even guest rooms probably have first aid kits.

He heads out the room for the kitchen first to get them a glass of water, before returning to their room for the first aid kit. Sure enough, the bathroom does have one, with a bottle of aspirin that should be enough to ease some of their discomfort, though how bothered they are by it, Hal can’t tell. They never scream, they never cry, they never even so much as whimper at any indication of pain. They’re either quiet or they’re just exhausted by it.

They’re almost asleep again by the time he makes it back to their bedside. He pats their cheek lightly to rouse them.

“Hey, at least take these first,” he says. “Or you’ll sleep like shit.”

They snort quietly, blearily opening their eyes to focus on the bottle of aspirin he has in hand. Carefully, and aided by him, they sit up so they can take the medicine.

They make a face as they wash it down with water, even though they empty the glass.

“Tastes awful?” Hal asks.

“Blood,” they croak out, then grimace.

“Grist, you’ve been losing a lot of blood these past few days,” he says as they settle back under the covers. They make another soft, amused noise, but say nothing.

He gets up to clean the mess, taking the bloodied towels and the aspirin bottle back to the bathroom. The heating in the tower also isn’t working, so lukewarm water will have to do for the blood, though since it’s still very fresh, it’ll likely wash off easily with some peroxide. He has to find a mop for the blood on the floor, though, and it takes him a few minutes to hunt down the storage closet on this level so he can get to that, aided by JARVIS giving him instructions after he gives up on trying to find it on his own.

Angeles is sleeping soundly by the time he’s done, peacefully resting as if they hadn’t just nearly drowned in their own blood minutes earlier. Some of their hair is still sticking to their face, a few strands surely uncomfortable as it’s too close to their eyes, but they’re too exhausted to even notice. Their lips are also still stained red by their own blood.

He stares at them, as if that would force any answers out of his malfunctioning classpect, as if that would tell him what’s wrong with him and what’s wrong with them.

But, if it is a part of his classpect, whatever this may be, then he should still be able to control it, right? Just like he can control Electric Love. He doesn’t know everything about his Stand yet, but he’s already got a good grasp of summoning and deactivating him.

It should be the same thing.

Hal sits back down on the bed, pushing the hair away from Angeles’ eyes so he can press his palm to their forehead, feeling for their temperature. The numbers tell him they’re fine, again, but that’s not what he’s looking for. He had system alerts earlier. He should be able to do checks every now and then have them pop up on command.

Just like Electric Love, he reminds himself.

What’s the status of the objective?

OBJECTIVE IN DANGER

PRIORITY: MEDIUM

Something is wrong with them. But not something so urgent it has his own system turning against him just to get him on his feet to make sure they don’t suffocate - at least, at the moment, anyway.

Is that what he’s been sensing the past few days?

He dismisses the alerts; they go away without a fuss this time, letting him be as he takes his hand back.

Angeles sleeps on, none the wiser.

“We have an infirmary, Master Strider,” JARVIS says, the volume of his voice low as it filters in from the speakers. “You can run a check on them in a few hours, though it will be dependent on your medical knowledge.’

“I’ll look it up,” he says. He could always just take them to a clinic when they leave.

Hal watches the minute movement behind their eyelids, the slow but steady rise and fall of their chest, the way their snow white eyelashes brush against their skin. His fingers brush the back of their hand, leaving pink sparks in their wake.

Out loud, he wonders:

“What are you?”