A Lullaby for Gods, deleted scenes

So, chapter thirty-eight was originally going to be longer than it was, but there were scenes that I wrote that I felt like didn't belong / would screw up the timeline of the story / just felt like they could be written better, so I took them out. I don't know if I will include these scenes in future chapters, but for now, I have no plans to. That might change, though. Chapter thirty-eight was also rewritten countless times, so these are some of the original versions.

Also, these are unedited, so excuse the mistakes.

[Chapter Notes: This chapter was originally titled 'Look At Where We Are' before I pushed that idea onto another, more emotional chapter, because it was more fitting]

i. Dirk accidentally joins Hal's friends' chat

[Notes: Not exactly the joining itself, but the events leading to the joining, but I thought this would be better tackled in another chapter, and the consequences of this event had to be better studied before I put it in the fic.]

He has no idea what Damara is talking about when she asks about strange noises, and she gives him an odd stare, but then just shrugs, and apparently that’s the end of both of them giving each other the cold shoulder. Still, Dirk apologizes, and Damara gives him a curt nod in return. They’re back to good terms now, at least.

Dirk’s back with less than one thing to worry about, so he’s calm as he makes himself two mugs of coffee (they’d run out of orange juice – he can probably ask for some as soon as their host or maybe Ben come back; hopefully, they’ll be back tonight) and brings it over to where he’s got his laptop plugged into an outlet. He hopes he can keep the thing when he gets to New York. He has too many sites bookmarked here.

He’s on a site for public chatrooms, and he’s looking for some that are discussing New York, or the Avengers, or the missing mutants, or the Safehouse. There’s a lot whose titles seem to say they are, and Dirk clicks through plenty of them for hours. A lot of them are just random servers that just sport the names because their creators think they’re cool, and Dirk wastes too much of his time trying to read backlogs and waiting for things to get interesting. 

He spends more days like these, in between asking Ben when he and Damara are finally going to move, so which Ben would patiently tell him that they’re waiting for a few people, and then they can be on their way.

He’s not getting impatient, he’s just concerned that while they’re staying in a comfortable house now, it won’t amount to anything.

When he accidentally misclicks himself into a server one day, he’s suddenly more than willing to admit that his patience is wearing thin.

ii. Saffron Netherwell

[ Notes: Saffron Netherwell was originally going to be an important passphrase that would play a part in future chapters but I cut it out because it sounded too tacky.]

The house isn't as big as Dirk expects it to be. It's a humble little villa with a pretty garden out front, and a view of the ocean at the back. Nothing eye-catching, but nothing to scoff at either. It would have been a nice house to grow up in, Dirk thinks. 

Ben has already led them inside, although proper introduction has to wait until their host is done patching up Ben, as his state really does raise a few alarm bells for whoever takes a look at him. Seriously, did he get into a brawl or a really serious accident? He’d probably have to be laid off from work for a while with his injuries.

In the meantime, Dirk is sitting on a very comfortable couch, studying the golden frames of the mirrors in the room, while Damara is walking around, carefully turning objects in her hand in fascination. He just hopes she’s not going to pocket anything and risk angering their only safe (?) way of getting to New York. This is her idea after all.

There’s footsteps, and Dirk straightens, while Damara immediately hurries to his side and copies his posture – sitting up straight with her hands on her lap, polite, meek, proper, pretending – like she hasn’t been snooping around for the past ten minutes.

Their host stands by the doorway in the next second, smiling at them, and Dirk remembers this moment specifically, because in the next few days, he can swear that he’s looking right at them, and he is aware of their facial features, and can recognize them for what it is. He can tell what color their hair is, and how they carry themself as they walk, what their eye color is; but if you ask him to describe them, he wouldn’t be able to tell you anything specific. He wouldn’t be able to tell you anything at all, as if they knowledge is there, but it remains abstract, and he can’t quite grasp it.

“Hello,” their host says. If you ask Dirk about how they sound a week later, he won’t be able to answer you either. “May I ask who you two are?”

“I thought Ben already introduced us,” Damara says, in choppy English. Dirk resists the urge to hide his face from her impolite bluntness.

The human laughs. “A lot of people want to get off the island to get to places. I can’t quite put names to faces that well when no introductions are made.”

“Ah,” Damara says. She doesn’t look like she trusts that explanation.

Neither does Dirk, but hey. When someone talks, something slips. “My name is Dirk Strider,” he says, and motions to Damara, “And this is Damara Megido.”

Their host seems to smile wider, amused. They lean back against the couch. “Pleasure to meet you,” they say, but don’t offer their hand. Aren’t handshakes or at least a few bows customary when meeting people? Or were those just in Dirk’s movies and animes? “My name is Saffron Netherwell.”

“That sounds made-up,” Damara says, and Dirk really, really wants to elbow her, but that might start a brawl.

Luckily, Saffron (and it does sound made-up) doesn’t take offense and just continues with that unnervingly cheery attitude of theirs. “I always get that,” they say, “But made-up or not, I’m here to help. So what do you need help with?”

Dirk expects Damara to immediately answer, but instead she just…stares. No, it’s more like she’s glaring at Saffron, studying them, trying to commit their features to her memory because she’s aware that there’s something very wrong about the air around them. 

After a few minutes, she says, carefully, “How do we get to New York.”

Dirk pays attention to her wording.

“You can go by plane,” Saffron says, waving a hand, “Or by sea, depending on your budget and your phobias and how fast you want to get there.” Cheeky thing. “Personally, I prefer to go by air.”

Damara frowns. Dirk steps in before she can snap, because this human seems to be intent on pushing all their buttons today.

“We just need help on getting to New York,” he says, keeping his tone friendly. “And we don’t exactly have the cash to afford going on a plane or a boat, so.”

“So you need cash,” Saffron says.

“And discretion,” Damara says. “We were told you helped smuggle mutants to places.”

There’s a sudden silence, and Dirk watches as Saffron tilts their head. 

“And why would you ask me that, Ms. Megido?”

Damara scoffs, a scathing remark clearly on the tip of her tongue, but she holds it and gestures to herself. She has her hood pulled back today, exposing her horns, and with the angry look on her face, she looks positively terrifying.

Saffron chuckles, all hostility suddenly melting away, and Dirk has to blink.

“I know, I know. I was kidding,” they say, standing. “New York, huh?”

Even Damara is taking a few minutes to register the change in tone. What had done it? Damara’s anger, or perhaps the human had just been verifying if they really were mutants, what? 

Had they just wanted to have some fun?

“Yeah,” Dirk says, “New York.”

“Any specific place in New York?” they ask, walking over to one of the shelves in the corner of the room to retrieve something. A bottle of some type of alcohol, from the looks of it. Dirk makes a face, and finds himself missing Roxy, but then has to think fast about his answer.

“The Safehouse?”

He says it like a question, but Saffron freezes for a split second, and had it been anyone else, they would have missed it, but Dirk doesn’t.

Their host slowly turns to them. “The Safehouse,” they say.

“Yeah,” Dirk says, “You know about it.”

“Everyone who wants to get to New York and stay in New York in one piece knows about the Safehouse,” Saffron says, “Although I don’t think its creators realize the urban legend and the fame they’ve created for themselves.”

“Do you know the people who established it?” 

Saffron’s lips quirk up in a self-depreciating smirk (how curious) and then they drink the alcohol straight out of the bottle. Probably whiskey, from the face they’re making after.

“How old are you?” Dirk finds himself asking.

“Definitely older than you, so don’t worry about it, Strider,” they say, waving a hand. “So, Safehouse. Any plans after you get there?”

He thinks about it for a moment, but Damara cuts in. “Nothing we’re telling you.”

Saffron shrugs. “Fair enough.” They return the bottle to the shelf, carefully capping it and pushing it back. “You’ll have to wait a few days though. I do have to make arrangements, and I’m busy with my own stuff. We have guestrooms, and I’ll show you which ones you can use soon.”

It’s way better than sleeping in some abandoned house again, Dirk thinks, but they still need to keep their guard up. He turns to Damara, who nods, silently agreeing. 

“Yeah, that’ll be fine,” he says.

“Good,” Saffron says. They smile as they tap their chin thoughtfully. “Although,” they say, “We also have other guests in the house so you’ll have to be a bit…careful.”

There’s the catch. There’s always a catch, and while this one seems a little milder than what Dirk had expected it’s still odd, and the way Saffron is smiling reeks of mischief, and it sets Dirk on edge.

“Come on,” Saffron says, motioning over to where the stairs are, “Let me show you where you’ll be staying for the night.”

As he and Damara get up, he can’t help but feel like he’s being watched. That there’s way more people in the house than he initially thought there would be, and they’re all watching him.

Damara pulls on his sleeve before they can follow Saffron up the stairs.

“Do you think we’re going the right thing?” she asks, switching to her mother tongue.

Dirk looks at her, and then to where their host is retreating. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

iii. Damara meets Heir

[ Notes: There was originally supposed to be a huge section including Damara and Dirk, but that was more suited to being a complete chapter on its own chapter, so I cut it out for its own part later - this part always bugged me, however, because it just felt wrong. Also, if this part had been included, this chapter would have been called The Room Where It Happened.]

“Is something wrong?” their host asks her. They don’t turn, but they do shoot her a brief glance as they continue to stack the measuring cups they’ve used on the shelf above them.

Damara has a second to think about what to do, and she forces herself to make time, to quickly deliberate, because a few hours from now, she could be bound for New York.

She can stay silent, or say something about the food, or ask questions they can quickly deflect, or.

Stay your hand.

She pauses. 

Damara snaps the katana out of her sylladex and stands, rushing at the human and swinging the sword at them – all this in one quick motion. She hears Dirk stand too, surprised and yelling at her to stop, and she prays to every single entity she can hope for that her suspicions are right and this human will do something – 

The human turns suddenly, and in the split second their and Damara’s eyes meet, she sees the steel glare of someone who’s had years of experience in the battlefield. They have a bowl in hand – they’d used that to beat some eggs, Damara remembers, and they’d just cleaned it – and then they duck, making the katana miss beheading them, and then swing the bowl towards Damara’s face.

When she leans back, they maneuver their hand so the bowl faces up and doesn’t fall, and then they twist their body, lifting a leg and slamming it straight into Damara’s side, sending her crashing into the floor, dropping the katana in a loud clatter.

Damara’s head hits the ground and she sees the bowl smash itself on Dirk’s face as it’s thrown, and he staggers back. She’s about to get up when a glass hits her face too, and she has to squeeze her eyes shut to prevent the broken shards from getting in her eyes as her head snaps back from the blow.

There’s several loud crashes, and then she hears something click and a painful pressure on her throat, and when she opens one eye, the human is standing over her, a gun in hand, barrel aimed between her eyes.

The look in their eyes, though, is what gets her. It's blank. It doesn't have the malicious glee she's sure she'd have if she were in their place. Instead, it's of someone who's too used to violence that they function on autopilot.

They don't even look disappointed as they hold her at gunpoint.

“I thought this earth didn't have sylladexes,” Dirk says. Damara chances a glance at him and sees him on the floor as well, face down, hands up, glasses lying near-broken a few feet away, with Ben standing over him, a foot between his shoulderblades. He has a weird weapon that Damara can’t afford the time to study because the foot on her neck presses down and she chokes.

“It’s not a sylladex, just magic,” the human standing over her says, shrugging. 

“Are you going to kill us now?” Damara asks. 

“Depends,” they say, then, “Why’d you attack?”

“What’d you do to Strider?”

They blink and tilt their head, as if curious. “I did nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“I did nothing,” they say again, and to Damara’s rage, they seem to be telling the truth. She can see it in the set of their jaw, and the triumphant look in their eyes. Something nags at her that it’s the wording, it’s their wording, they’re getting around the truth by –

“What do we do with them?” Ben asks, “I think everyone’s busy.”

Damara laughs, harsh. “Ran out of luck, did you?”

The human clicks their tongue. “Not really,” they say, “We just have to wait.”

Her eyes widen, flicking to Ben in a panic, and as she sees him sigh and start to raise a hand, she says, “I know you’re a time player.”

He looks at her, and then the other human. “Yeah, well, you probably won’t remember that for long.”

“What’s the use of erasing her memories?” Dirk asks, suddenly. He tries to push himself up, but Ben shifts his weight on him and he falls back onto the floor with a groan. “Hell, what’s the use of erasing mine?”

“This,” the human by Damara says. “Unwarranted suspicion and someone else fueling that suspicion.”

“That would have been avoided if you’d just explain!” Dirk says, at the same time Damara bites out, “My suspicions weren’t unwarranted, considering what’s happening now.”

“I can’t trust that, can I?” the human says, narrowing their eyes.

Damara frowns in confusion. “What?”

“Are you feeding her lies, you punk bitch?” the human sneers, and Damara suddenly realizes that they’re not talking to her. They’re not even looking at her. They’re looking beyond her, and somewhere in her gut, she feels something squirm, and there’s the faint impression of amused laughter ringing around her head.

“Great,” Ben mutters, “He couldn’t get the actual blood player – the actual weakest link in the chain – so he’s going after other easier gaps.”

“What are you talking about?” Damara asks. She glances at Dirk, but he just tries to shake his head. He has no idea either.

“God damn it,” the human by her says, looking away, glaring at some corner of the room. They look exhausted.

Ben opens his mouth, as if he’s about to call them, but then thinks better of it and says, “Hey, Angel?” 

A flash of confusion passes by Dirk’s face, Damara notes.

“Your call,” Ben says.

‘Angel’ says nothing, jaw stilling, tense. Then they sigh, and with a wave of their hand, the pistol they’re holding disappears. They look down at Damara, and say, “I’m gonna let you up. If you attack me, I will not hesitate to kill you.”

“Likewise,” she says.

They huff and lift their foot off of her, instead extending a hand. She takes it, and they pull her up.

“Explanations?” Damara asks. If they don’t give her any answers, she can book it out of here.

“Explanations,” the human says. On the other side of the room, Ben’s helping Dirk up, and the poor boy goes over to pick up his broken glasses. “Let’s start with the easier ones first.”

“Sure,” Damara says, “I’d like a name.”

The human grins, the grin of someone telling an inside joke. 

“You can call me Heir,” they say, and this time, the name stays. Damara doesn’t forget. “Nice to formally meet you, Megido-san.”