A Lullaby For Gods Chapter 85

CHAPTER 85: MOVERS AND SHAKERS

???

The last few weeks have been nothing but hellish.

Nevermind that Dualscar doesn’t actually know how long it’s been; there is no night or day in this ship, after all - but it has just been...irritating. The Heir of Doom, when not playing up their cheerful, smiling front that they often show to the children, has not let him have a single day of peace. The afternoon after he’d agreed to their terms, they’d immediately dropped off several books for him to read and study. The next day, he’d been woken up at some ungodly hour and then quizzed on it while he was made to run laps around the sparring room. They’d found some rocks for the sole purpose of throwing it at him while he ran, and if he couldn’t dodge, then that was on him.

The problem was that the fucker never missed.

The routine has continued on until now. By his count, it must be around 340 earth hours now, since they’ve started training him. He needed to catch up, they’d said, because while the kids have been undergoing physical training, magic studies and sparring since they’ve gotten here, he’s been lounging around as an uncooperative ghost. So all hours of his waking life are either spent on the books, running around and dodging things being thrown at him (or things being sent after him) or learning how to actually summon magic.

Which is bullshit, really, because magic isn’t real. This is just some fuckery that comes with this stupid game he and everyone else is involved in. He’s a possible Bard of Hope, the Heir had told him, so he can summon the aspect to some destructive capacity, although his abilities are largely conceptual.

He slumps forward, letting his forehead slam onto the table he’s sitting by, jostling some of the papers he’s reading. He’s starting to sound like the Heir, with all their technical terms and buzzwords. That’s alarming.

Still, as grueling as it is, they have been letting him rest. Eight hours of sleep a day and if he chooses to stay up, that’s on him. The team has been consistent with making sure everyone’s eating well, and the kids are allowed to take a day off every week. He’s still working up to learning things to a more combat-ready level so he takes only half a day off, at least until they deem it time to lessen his workload.

And the whole thing hasn’t been boring either. Far from it, in fact. Loathe as Dualscar is to admit it, fighting the make-spells the Heir sends at him with everything he can think of: physical skills, minor spells, using the environment to his advantage - it’s been fun. He’s missed this sort of thing, just having adventures without a single care in the world, fighting and moving, testing the limits of his own strength and body.

He’s doing well, if he says so himself. Not to the level of Team Chaos just yet, since he’s not godtier and he doesn’t have six thousand years of experience under his belt, but he’s pretty sure he can take on the kids even with their newfound powers.

Blinking slowly, he looks up, raising his head to read through his reading material for today.

DECAYTIER, the journal reads. It’s the Heir of Doom’s personal record of observations. For the past three universes we have visited, we have observed a pattern amongst its players. Despite not fulfilling the requirements of godhood, and thus not having ascended and allowed the abilities Skaia grants its gods, several heroes have managed to come into their powers, often to disastrous, uncontrollable results, as time erodes at the walls of Sburb’s framework and the conditions of ascension. This has been an alarming development.

Our Seer has found that Huginn and Muninn are, in fact, not of Session FG 345-009-142, but from another universe entirely. Their presence here appears to be of the same circumstance as these sudden unascended manifestations of power. The walls and restrictions of their own mortal bodies have decayed and eroded, pulled and misplaced to completely different vessels, across paradox space.

We have a theory that the reason why godhood requires death is that Skaia wants its heroes to fulfill a journey of sacrifice. As Odin hung on the tree for nine days, trading eye and life for knowledge. As Prometheus brought fire and was punished for it. As Achilles and the Styx, in that there could never be perfect invincibility. In place of one there must always be another; gods often ask blood to be shed on their altars, do they not? Do their patronage and their wrath not look the same?

But if this was the only requirement, why not simply grant abilities in the same mortal bodies we came into the game with? Why gift us with a brand new one upon ascension? Here is our theory: that our mortal bodies are not compatible with the framework of the universe. We exist in it, not with it. We were created to exist in the place inside of it, but not to interact with what makes the place itself. If the twelve aspects are the components of the universe, and the gods of every game bring it forth, then those gods must exist on the same wavelength as those components in the first place. These abilities must not spring from us, but exist already like the atoms that make up reality, and we simply rearrange them and use them to our will.

So if mortal bodies are not compatible because they do not exist in the same plane as the aspects, what happens when you redirect that plane to connect with the mortal one? If I were to create two tracks and simply bend a part of one to connect to the other, forcefully or not, it would connect, yes? And so we hypothesize this: with the continuing decay of multiple universes and their parts, the things that keep aspect magic and mortal bodies separate have begun to blend together, allowing non-ascended heroes to access the magic that is rightfully theirs. Decay-godtiers, if you will. Decaytiers.

Dualscar checks the entry against his notes. They’ve explained the situation with his and several of the other kids’ powers to him before; this is pretty much the same thing, but in written form. Maybe this is why that Kankri kid seems to be getting more and more powerful with his sight as the days pass, and why he seems more and more disturbed with whatever he’s learning.

“It’s dangerous to be a decaytier,” the Heir of Doom had told him once. “Especially for certain classes. While the decay of the universe allows you to access your powers, your body still isn’t made to withstand it. Destruction classes are often highly at risk, Creation and Generation classes too. I’ve known a few Healing classes who’ve overused their abilities and gotten magic poisoning.”

“Right,” Dualscar mutters as he stares at the words until they blur. “Destruction class, have to be careful.”

There’s a knock on the already-open library doors. From the flash of atomic blue in the corner of his eye, he already knows who it is, and doesn’t bother looking up.

“Have you eaten yet?” the Heir of Doom asks.

Dualscar frowns and turns to the clock on the wall. It says 11:52. That’s around lunchtime around here, usually.

“No,” he says.

“Ah, head to the kitchen then, grab something,” they say. “You can take the rest of the day off if you’d like. I’m going to be handing you over to the Knight of Heart tomorrow, you can spar with the kids and Sabera.”

He does look up at them at that, raising an eyebrow, already suspicious. “Why?’

The Heir of Doom rolls their eyes. “There you go again not listening. I’m going to Asgard with Aradia and Sollux,” they say. “For a bit. Well, for you guys, it’ll be a bit, but for me, it’ll be for a while. I have to go covert, really blend in as a harmless librarian. I can’t just show up for a day and then quit - we’ll still be popping by here every now and again though.”

Right. Apparently, there were two children in Asgard that could meet doomed fates kickstarted by a single event. They needed to intercept it.

“Okay,” Dualscar says, because he’s a sensible person and if someone says no class today, he’ll take it and go get some sleep. He closes the journal he’s been reading, gathering up the rest of his papers and setting everything into a pile he can easily come back for.

He stands, brushing past the Heir of Doom, intent on getting some food to eat before conking out for a nap for the rest of the day. Empress knows he needs it.

“Cronus?”

“What?” he asks, putting as much irritation into his voice as possible as he turns back to the Heir of Doom.

“Do get along with the children,” they remind, gently. “And be ready when I get back, alright? I’ll spar with you myself when I return. After the mission, I mean.”

He grimaces, despite himself, clutching his side absentmindedly as he remembers the feeling of something just violently ripping through his body even when it had been sloppily aimed.

“Why do you need me to be in top shape, anyway? You already have a child army,” he grumbles.

“They need a leader, Cronus,” the Heir says. “And they’re kids. It’s not fair of us to put that on their shoulders.”

“Isn’t that why your team’s leading everyone?” he asks.

The Heir smiles, just a bit, just for a moment.

Dualscar narrows his eyes. “Heir.”

“Just be ready,” they say. “Remember what we agreed on.”

He turns away, grumbling under his breath. “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Master every spell they teach him, get the fucking manica attached to a powerhouse of an energy source. That’s all he needs to do and all he has to do. Nothing more than that. None of this leader bullshit.

Dualscar angrily shoves his hands into his pockets and marches down to the kitchen.

-

DECEMBER 7, 2013

BUNKER

ONE DAY BEFORE THE NYC ATTACK

Terezi looks down at the board that’s before her, along with the images that the others have printed out of it when it had still been untouched. Everything is still in its right place, meaning none of them have missed anything, and they’re all free to theorize with the evidence at hand. That Angeles kid was also going to go scoop out a person of interest, so they’ll be getting an update on whether they have a suspect or another ally, plus another point of view of the situation.

From what she and Vriska can see, these visions that their friend (who apparently has been apprehended, wrongfully) has been having are of Skaia’s battlefield. It’s of a session, although there’s clearly something very wrong with it, more wrong than any version of Jack Noir can do. The battlefield has been ‘infected’, somehow, however that happens

The game’s players, from the bits and pieces of hints she can find from the conspiracy board, appear to be an alternate version of their friend group. Since the game isn’t active in this universe (yet?), this Cecil kid might be seeing an alternate timeline, if not the future.

Considering the effects are bleeding into the present, however, she’s more willing to wager on the whole ‘alternate timeline’ theory.

“What can ruin a whole session to the point of infection?” she mutters.

“We’ve only played one session,” Vriska points out, from where she’s lounging on the couch behind Terezi. The humans have elected to take a break; the younger ones are currently watching the Angeles kid and the adult strife. “And that ended up being shit.”

“But we’ve witnessed another one play out too,” Terezi says, “The First Guardian being used to prototype a sprite had a drastic effect in the chances of winning that session, but nothing was infected.” She leans back on her hands, staring at the ceiling . “Still, I guess something as big and important - First-Guardian level important - would be able to affect a game.”

“There’s no sign of it being a First Guardian,” Vriska says, “And we’ve seen this universe’s First Guardian, it’s that thing.”

There’s a shuffle as she moves to points a finger to the sleeping black cat a few ways away, contentedly snoring away in a spot of light coming from the window.

“There’s no other way it could teleport with green energy if it’s not a First Guardian, and it’s loyal as fuck to that - “ Vriska snaps her fingers, forgetting the name, but decides to just wave it away, “The kid in orange.”

“Maybe it wasn’t on purpose,” Terezi says, “Maybe the infection was an accident.”

Vriska raises an eyebrow. Terezi doesn’t even need to make a show of turning around, she can smell the skepticism rolling off of her moirail.

“First Guardians don’t infect anything.”

“There’s that too,” Terezi says. “But whatever it is, it has to be big enough to drastically fuck with a session.”

“Outside forces?” Vriska says, “The Condesce isn’t part of the game, but guess what we had to do.”

“...true,” Terezi says. “Maybe there was something like that, that pushed it over the edge, but…”

“We’ll figure it out,” Vriska says, a grin in her voice. “We always do.”

“Yeah,” Terezi says. They do, they’re the scourge sisters. There’s very little that can stand in their way when they put their heads together.

Hopefully, whatever it is they’re dealing with isn’t too fast for them to outwit.

-

DECEMBER 8, 2013

SHIELD CONTAINMENT

DAY OF ATTACK

The hallways are in a frenzy.

Karkat watches all of the humans skittering around, running to and fro, from the corner of his cell. Something’s happening, something that’s got the muffled voice of the intercom announcing something about an emergency, a call to arms for combat-trained personnel to report to their superiors, though with the code-speak, it’s hard to parse just what is going on. All he knows is that they’re short-staffed to deal with something, and now the people working here have to pick up the slack.

He finds that a sick thrill of vindication coils in his stomach at the thought. The petty side of him watches the staff hurriedly moving around and goes Hah! He knows he should be appalled, it might be something horrible, after all, but there’s just something so satisfying about them scrambling around for something.

He turns away, after he sees about the thirtieth or maybe fortieth group of people rush down the hall, just to stop himself from basking in the schadenfreude. The Heir of Blood targets people with tumultuous mental states;if he got petty enough, the bastard might latch another leech onto him again and then he’d have to throw it up, and he doubts S.H.I.E.L.D. will be nice enough to help him like his friends did.

“Karkat.”

He stiffens. He knows that voice. He’s been hearing it in his dreams over and over and it should not be here.

“Karkat, don’t you dare ignore me. Don’t be rude.”

Karkat closes his eyes, refusing to turn, instead bringing his knees to his chest and tucking himself into as tight a ball as possible.

There’s a flash of red behind his eyes, one that actually has him startling because what the fuck, since when could he do that, and then he’s hissing, reeling back as he looks up at his dancestor.

He looks -

“You look like shit,” Karkat says, the first thing he’s said to Kankri since the last time he’s seen him. He looks like he’s been away for months, having a terrible time, when Karkat knows for a fact he’d only just seen him pop up in his sleep nights ago.

Kankri wearily glares down at him, red irises dull and tired.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Karkat asks, turning to one of the cameras in the corner of his room, and then to the glass wall, where another group of people pass by. Nobody pays any mind to Kankri, who’s standing right there, in a bright candy red sweater.

Karkat looks nauseous just looking at it.

“You can’t be here,” he says anyway, standing, “Get the fuck out - “

“Calm down, Karkat, no one can see me,” Kankri says.

Karkat frowns.

“Illusion magic,” Kankri says. “Not mine, someone else’s.”

That clicks something within Karkat’s memories. He’s the only guy who remembers what’s happened, after all, at least before they got here. There’s still a huge blank in his memories for what happened after they were on the platform, waiting for the final battle, and then he’d woken up in a room that wasn’t his, a tray of food on a dresser beside the bed he was on.

“The one who could do fucky magic,” Karkat says, snapping his fingers as he tries to pick out the name. “The - what the fuck did they call him - “

“The Mage of Space.”

“That bastard,” Karkat says. Granted, he’s never seen the Mage of Space (at least if his memories are fully intact and correct), but he knows about his magic.

“Don’t call him that,” Kankri says.

“I’ll call that slimy motherfucker whatever I want.”

“Karkat, his mother’s dead, have some respect.”

Karkat shuts his mouth.

Kankri sighs.

“Look, I don’t want to be here, either,” he says, taking far too long to open his eyes when he blinks, as if he’s contemplating just falling asleep right there. But, he lets out a slow breath, and Karkat sees a familiar fire in his eyes when he opens them again, a determination he only sees in Kankri when he’s going off on a topic he’s particularly passionate about, as stupid as his opinions might be.

And though he’s sure he’s seen Kankri very, very recently, Karkat has a feeling this determination hasn’t graced his eyes in months.

“But I have something to do,” Kankri says, “And I will do it.”

“What are you going to do, annoy me to death?” Karkat asks. “Or are you going to help break us out of here?”

“It’s not time yet,” Kankri says. “Not yet.”

“Yet?”

“This is the only place we can guarantee you to be safe from both the Condesce and the Heir of Blood right now, and even then, you’re all on the edge of a knife,” he says, frowning, but not at Karkat, perhaps at whoever’s told him that. “So we’re going to take advantage of that and give you every advantage you can have in your court when you do get out of here.”

“I have no idea what you’re saying,” Karkat says.

“I know,” Kankri says, and then he lifts one sharp nail to drag it across the side of his hand, right on the side of where his thumb should be. Karkat watches in horror as candy red blood wells up, the smell of iron making him wrinkle his nose.

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“Karkat, what do you remember?” Kankri asks, nonchalant about the fact that he’s just cut himself open. It’s not deep, it’s a very shallow wound, but he’s still bleeding.

“What - “

“Just answer me.”

Karkat swallows, glancing between the blood on his dancestor’s hand, which he’s carefully angling so nothing hits the floor (would it even show?), and Kankri. Another group of people dash by the hallway, a blur of dark uniforms in the corner of Karkat’s eye. He doesn’t turn to them.

“I remember waking up in a room,” he says. “I remember there was food there already. I didn’t touch any of it, just searched around the room for anything that might be dangerous. They - “ He frowns, motioning to his head to indicate something. “There was someone - white hair, grey right eye, grey left eye with a ring of blue in the middle. They had a blue scarf. They talked to me.”

Kankri nods, encouraging him to continue.

“They said they found me in the void, or something; they said they found a lot of people, and that they were going to send them to Earth,” he says. “I thought it was bullshit. They led me out of the room and showed me around the ship, but they never let me meet anyone else, even though they said the others were there.”

“And the rest of their team?”

“Never met them either,” Karkat says. “They talked about their friends, and I could hear them sometimes, but the bastard always steered me away.”

He crosses his arms, staring down at the floor as he thinks. “At one point, they started visiting me with some stupid illusion shit on them, and I couldn’t recognize them at first, but eventually, it like...wore off? Like, they’d say they had a ‘glamour’ on, whatever the fuck they called it, but all I saw was just how they really looked like,” he says. “They stopped doing that after.”

“And after that?”

“They did something else as a ‘test’, said something about how the Sufferer could remember shit from your universe even with the Scratch,” he says, waving a hand. “However they fuck they even knew that. My memory of it’s a little hazyzy, but I remember I was confused for a while. I couldn’t remember where I was or how I got there, and then after a few days I did.”

“They were testing to see if you’re manifesting godtier abilities,” Kankri says, and when Karkat gives him a confused look, says, “You’re a Knight of Blood. Apparently, that means your blood’s innate nature is to protect you, and it means it can break down spells and build up resistance against them until it can fully be immune to it with enough exposure.”

“Like - like what?” Karkat narrows his eyes. “A fucking germ?”

“If you mean the spell, yeah,” Kankri says. “You’re a walking conceptual immune system. A side effect of it is that your aspect learns; phagocytizes, stores it in its memory, builds up an immune response when it’s hit with it again.”

“You know I tune you out when you talk like that.”

“Then don’t listen to me talk.” Kankri suddenly thrusts his still-bleeding hand in Karkat’s face. “Let’s exploit the way your blood learns.”

Karkat leans back, stepping away. “Whoa, what the fuck - “

“I am a Seer of Blood. I learn connections and carry that knowledge for the rest of the team to benefit from,” Kankri says. “I have a Conceptual Primary; for all intents and purposes, I am operating within Skaia’s framework for my classpect.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Karkat asks, glancing between the red of Kankri’s blood and back up to him. “What are you - what - “ It dawns on him, then, as he realizes how close Kankri is placing the wound to his mouth. “I’m not fucking drinking that.”

“Karkat, do you want to break out of here or not?”

He pauses.

Outside, the announcements are still going on, but he’s long tuned them out to background noise. A few people still run here and there, but they all look like they’re just carrying equipment to and fro, acting as support for those who’re being sent on the field. Whatever is happening outside, it might chip away at the security of this place, and Karkat still has a mission to do. He’s got a Seer to save, some bloodleeches to eliminate, and if what Kankri’s told him about his classpect being able to build up an immune response is true, then he thinks he might know just what to do to help the poor fucker.

“Why the fuck do I have to drink your goddamn blood?” He turns back to Kankri.

“I am...a knowledge class,” Kankri says. “And my role is to learn this knowledge and then to pass it around, for support. Different people have different ways of using their classes to their advantage. Seers of Void can expose secrets by showing evidence of what was once hidden. Seers of Heart can help bring forth someone’s true feelings or identity by talking to them or counselling them. Seers of Breath can see the potential for freedom and liberty and help encourage breaking free from one’s shackles. I…”

A small circle of red suddenly glows above Kankri’s bleeding hand, expanding out until it’s the width of his palm, the Blood insignia glowing in the middle.

“I am a Seer of Blood,” he says. “I see connections and I store it where I’ve always stored it, where it’s survived a Scratch, and it’s survived passing on the Sufferer’s anger to you.”

Oh.

Karkat closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He blearily looks up at Kankri.

“You know,” he starts. “You could have just said that from the beginning. And why can’t you just tell me?”

“Why do that when I can show you things and let you knowingly learn just how your blood reacts in one go?” Kankri asks.

“Huh,” Karkat says. “That’s actually smart of you, for once.”

Kankri glares at him. Before he can say anything though, Karkat beats him to it.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, and then holds a hand out, palm up, right under Kankri’s hand. “This is so fucking gross.”

His dancestor rolls his eyes, but tips his hand down, several drops of blood falling into Karkat’s palm.

He stares down at it, disgusted.

“Gog, I’m not gonna catch anything, am I?”

“We’ll get to test how good your actual immune response is, then,” Kankri says.

“Fuck you,” Karkat says, glaring down at the blood again. His blood - his whole bloodline’s blood, really - has always been weird. A fucky little mutation that made it too bright and off the spectrum, having some shitty ability to pass information from one life to another due to connections.

Kankri is waiting for him, expectantly. Karkat screws his face up in a grimace.

Well, here goes fuckall.

He shoves the few drops of blood in his mouth.

-

DECEMBER 8, 2013

SHIELD CONTAINMENT (?)

DAY OF NYC ATTACK

“Feferi.”

Feferi Peixes wakes up to a bright, comfortable room. The bed underneath her is soft, instead of that rock of a mattress in her cell. The pillows cradling her head feel nice, and outside, she thinks she can hear the sounds of songbirds.

She’s dreaming again. She has been dreaming like this for months now, ever since those awful people took her away and locked her up in a cell.

She turns to see a familiar young woman with hair so fair it’s almost white, smiling down at her.

“Witch,” she says.

“Welcome back,” the Witch of Hope says, her constant companion since the beginning of her imprisonment, and the one to always bring her here every night when she slept. Sometimes, it made her want to stay asleep forever, but that would be dangerous, and the Witch tells her she will not stay in her cell forever anyway. She just needs to for now, until everyone is ready, and they could be trusted to take over the reins of this universe and deal with the threats at large.

The Heir of Blood is planning something, the Witch has told her, but the Heir of Doom has not figured out what yet. They can only sense Doom, not know its cause outright, and they needed everyone to be prepared to deal with the fallout.

“What are we doing today?” Feferi asks, sitting up.

“Another lesson,” the Witch of Hope says. “We need to make sure you won’t fall behind - everyone is already beginning to take their places, after all.”