circquosmatic
Chapters
Chapter 01: Hugo & Aegaeon ⛈️🤕
Chapter 02: Brighid/Mòrag 🧼
Chapter 03: Egil/Lao/Jin 🍩
Chapter 04: Reyn & Jr. 🪱
Chapter 05: Jin/Malos 🕷️
Chapter 06: Nia/Melia 🎭🌓
Chapter 07: Aegaeon & Dromarch 🐩
Chapter 08: Perceval & Perun 🌕🌠
Chapter 09: Elly & Bart 🌌👑
Chapter 10: MOMO & Jr. 🐱
Chapter 11: Juli/Ziggy 👩🏻❤️💋👨🏻
i just make stuff up
"I never thought something like that could happen."
"Beg pardon, Your Majesty?"
About the imperial suite into which Hugo had been installed for his recuperation, Aegaeon moved slowly but surely, preparing fresh bandages and missing not a syllable of the emperor's musing no matter how far away from the lavish (too-large) four-poster he tread.
"All the stories, everything I'd always been told...yes, I'd heard that bad things can happen if you're not fit for resonation, but not..."
"Ah. You didn't think that Brighid, once bonded, could hurt you?"
Such burns, they had never seen. Even if they only scorched the surface of the skin, they had come in tremendous measure and speed. Though it was his duty not to intervene, Aegaeon had indeed stepped in, and doused the flames before any serious harm could come to his liege.
Afterward, Brighid had looked penitent. That was something no one had ever seen, not even Aegaeon - past or present.
"Especially not after bonding with you, Aegaeon. I've only known safety."
"To handle the Jewel of the Empire is no small task - not even for one such as yourself, I'm afraid."
"Aegaeon, you tease." No sooner had Hugo finished that retort than he sucked in a wince at the stringent tug of old dressings.
"Only where levity is required. I would never betray your confidence, nor your esteem."
"Ahh...I see I shall have no trouble at all speaking properly before the Senate in a few weeks' time, with you around."
"A shield is stable, Your Majesty, but water yet flows. If I am not eloquent, then I may consider myself utterly failed before my liege."
"Allow me a storm eddy, Aegaeon. I'm tired, and so is my mind."
"Acknowledged."
Were he not so incapacitated, Hugo would have thrown up his arms.
always with the wives...
"Can you reach my back, Brighid?"
"With ease, Lady Mòrag."
Practically in time and on cue, the touch of Brighid's crystalline-smooth palms came at Mòrag's shoulder blades, lathered loofah in tow. Each bony ridge and wiry muscle, she attended to methodically yet luxuriously. It was a wonder how she...well, how she was the way she was. Always. Forever.
Did Mòrag sigh at the thought? Indeed she did, but it wasn't only out of contentment. "I do wish you'd let me do this for you. At least every now and then."
"Really, Lady Mòrag?" The extra address came tacked on at the expense, the barter, of an invisibly raised eyebrow, indeed hidden behind the Special Inquisitor's bare back.
"Yes. I can promise you I've learned how to properly care for the areas around your ether lines, for one thing."
"Oh, Lady Mòrag..." And now the useless epithet tumbled out of the Jewel's mouth unbidden. "Don't think for a moment that it's an issue of trust, or skill, or anything else. It is my duty - even my honor, my privilege - to be able to serve you. I wouldn't dream of making you do the same."
"You wouldn't be making me, Brighid." Thanks to name after name after name, exchanged in lazy yet militantly feminine rhythm, Brighid could hear the roll of Mòrag's eyes.
"Having you, then."
"You don't always wish to have me?"
"Oh, you're horrible." Even as she said it, she didn't shove away.
"No, Brighid, but remember always..."
One single strong, purposeful fingertip, complete with blandly round-trimmed nail, reached back to hook at, underneath, Brighid's chin. Now that she'd been fetched, she closed her eyes somehow deeper and leaned into the touch - if there had been any contentment present the entire time, it showed itself principally now.
"I'm yours."
Donuts. God (Architect, Meyneth) forbid they get bamboozled by anything so simple, so stupid, so mundane.
These men, with all the suffering they had endured, all the traumas and the cycles of misguidedness and misanthropy, the gods and their pretenders they had faced...to be so misconstrued?
But gotten they had been.
Once he'd returned from the shop, box resting on forearm, Jin announced in a thin, gravelly voice, "They don't sell dozens anymore."
Egil turned to face him, grit his teeth gently together exactly once, and inquired, "Did you get a half-dozen, then?"
"No." Jin set the box down, additionally setting his eyebrows as he more fully took in the dancing sprinkles that adorned its sides.
"And I take it they couldn't fit nine all pretty and symmetrical in a rectangular box like that?"
Lao strode over from the den, popping his hip seemingly purely to make Egil scowl. From one mechanical body to another, and Jin somewhat analogously artificial as their third...well. With all the commonalities they shared, it wouldn't do if they refused to acknowledge the little nuances, too.
"No," Jin said again. "They gave me eight, priced accordingly." At this appendix, Egil nodded, pleased.
To any outside observer, the entire routine would seem ludicrous. It didn't take a highly dedicated experimental researcher to deal with this situation, but even if it did, they had one!
But no, these three were far too entrenched in the throes of their beloved - at times deserved - dramatics for that.
"I dislike the way cut donuts feel in my mouth."
"So we'll tear them."
"Not precise enough," dismissed Jin.
Lao knew the lot'd go stale before they sorted it out this way, but he refused to just lay claim to the odd two and beg out.
So, on they went.
this one's a worm (worms are kinda nice?)
"You've never been fishing? Oh, come on! Listen, nobody'll be able to tell you you're not a real man's man if you can say you've been fishing."
"If you say so, Reyn..."
It wasn't that he didn't want to - by all means, he was excited as all get out to learn, a new skill and everything! - but somehow Jr. could just hear the womp-womp-womp of it all in the back of his head. This setup was practically screaming for a comedy of errors to follow it. And he wasn't exactly sure he was going to be the one laughing...
So Rubedo, prepared to be the butt of the joke, followed dutifully after Reyn down to the dock (much, much less well-constructed than the resort area on Second Miltia, Jr. noted with a frown, because surely Gaignun could think of a dozen-odd ways to improve it if he so much as asked), and thought they'd gotten done walking only to find Reyn throwing up his arms and whipping around to face him.
"The worms! How could I forget the worms?!"
"The...worms?"
Where did worms come into fishing? Didn't you just stick the hook in the water and wait? Sure, maybe you put a little food on the end of the hook, but there had to be more efficient supplies for that than worms!
"Sure, don't worry about it. I got a log up the other end of the beach, gets me plenty whenever I need 'em, rain or shine."
The way Reyn's chest puffed out said he was darned proud of himself for his inmitable ingenuity. The way he limped back, entirely hangdog, with two limp strings of sinew in his hand and a horde of red, festering bites on the back said otherwise.
"Oi. Don't laugh."
"I wasn't gonna."
i was tempted to add a certain cowboy directly for no reason but i won't
"Malos."
"Yeah."
Well, he could at least make it sound like he thought it was a question - on either end, and so then again that meant that it really, more or less, went for the both of them.
Jin didn't sigh, only shifted the lock of his jaw to one side and the set of his gaze somewhere vaguely unfocused in the same direction.
In front of him, of course, was the spider. Despite years of having to eradicate such pests from living spaces outdoor and indoor alike, because no matter how intrepid Lora claimed to be she and Haze always, always, always screamed at the first sight of black-widow scuttling, Jin was not a fan of interfacing with them himselves. He'd dispatched Minoth to the task as often as possible; Minoth had accepted with gusto every time.
Now, Jin was hoping, as much as he ever hoped for anything, nowadays, that Malos would be the obliging sort to just stroll over and crush the menacing miniature arachnid in his fist (or not his fist, however the case seemed to be; Jin wouldn't quibble over a blast of ether, even if it wore a hole in the floor or the table or the wall or the bulkhead or wherever it was the spider had mobilized itself to by the time they got through their communication barrier). By all calculations, he should have no reason to refuse, even if Jin was just as well suited to the task via freezing his target in place and then bringing down the heel of his own clog upon the presented crystalline structure.
Mythra had always proved best at calculations. By the time the Dark Aegis arrived, the spider was gone, so Jin decided to...make the best of the situation. With gusto. Or something.
if i'm repeating myself here it's not my fault (but i'll try not to)
It was funny, and not only in a sad way, how they wore the masks now.
Okay. Maybe it was only sad. But there was a humor to it, nevertheless.
Before the war, there had been at least one masquerade ball that was entirely frivolous, just pleasantries and fraternization between the two opposite ends of the world just for the fun of it. At least one, though Tyrea would say less and Dromarch would say more (and Teelan and Poppi would echo them, and it wasn't only adorable).
Just light steps and mindless sways, very nearly cliché but only just. They shared food and music of all their constituent peoples, and it was...normal. In every sense of the word.
They danced, and danced, and danced, and danced. When they'd gotten tired of dancing, they strolled out to the balcony, whether at some arcane, traditional Kevesi palace or the new, centrally-constructed Agnian stronghold (so that meant there'd been at least two), and they looked up at the moon - always in perfect halves, it was, because that was the point of these affairs. Union, though not unison.
When the guests wore masks, while it was never impossible to tell what kind of person you were looking at (the fashion wasn't quite yet homogenized, and then it never was), it was impossible to tell exactly who you were looking at. They were just a person. So were you.
Both Nia and Melia liked that. Not having to be conscious of the fact that you didn't look half as old as you felt, for one reason or another...it was nice.
It was nice to know someone who understood, and not to have to hate her for it.
Funny.
It was just nice, and then it wasn't. Maybe it never should have been.
oomfie awesome for making me get to them even sooner than i was planning
Dromarch didn't mind that he and Aegaeon got left behind, together, when Nia and Niall went on walks in the imperial gardens. Quite simply, there was nothing to mind. He was Nia's Blade, and Aegaeon was Niall's in all but actuality, despite the little emperor's ever-fervent attempts to mark himself as all and anything but a Driver, a warrior. (Since Aegaeon was intellectually aware of the fact that he had been pushed away following the mutual near-death incident but couldn't actually feel it for his own, what lingered was all inherent devotion. And thus.)
Which brought us to Dromarch's point: no, he didn't mind socializing with another butler-like Blade by happenstance, and then by routine and rote, it was just that...
How could he put this elegantly? Very rarely were there times that Dromarch failed to put anything elegantly.
Aegaeon was just so...odd.
He asked odd questions, he gave odd answers, and he thought nothing of it.
Last week, he had casually (as casually as Aegaeon ever did anything) inquired as to the requirements of upkeep, when it came to the mane of a tiger that was not actually, really, an animal. It didn't matter, of course, because those beast-form Blades with fur were really just like any naturally-occurring animal, technically-synthetic fur or not, which was what made Aegaeon's question so...bizarre.
First had come a little preamble, Master Dromarch this and Master Dromarch that and it's quite something, isn't it, to be the Blade of a Blade, and are you the only one of your kind or are there others back on Gormott (shouldn't he know, the imperious imperial keeper?), and then...the question.
He had asked, and I quote, "Have you ever had a different haircut? Like a poodle?"
Dromarch had immediately pretended to be sound asleep.
what is with these banger picks omg!
"You are truly admirable, Perun. That your element calls you to truth, but you persist even past that towards justice..."
"I am no more admirable than the next, Perceval. Such peace is what all true warriors strive for."
And then they lapsed into silence; it was the natural wont, mood of the grim moon above them. Occasionally a shooting star passed by, and Perun silently renewed her gratitude that Perceval was knowledgeable enough about such things to guide them to not only the right lookout points on Mor Ardain but those on Genbu as well.
Star showers. Meteors, they were sometimes called.
Brilliant things, everlasting and certainly more enduring than any Blade, let alone any human.
Perceval knew this, of course. It was why he regarded imprisonment as a punishment lacking even the brittle mercy of a swiftly delivered death - it mattered not whether the latter, or the former, was marked with pain. Those incarcerated, by any significantly industrial martial government, could not witness these miracles, could not contact anyone yet able to, could not deliver any legitimate penance unto the world.
They were trapped with the memory and the weight of their own deeds. They were dependent upon their jailors to survive them. That was why it wasn't just truth, but justice. That was why they both still had so much to learn.
"Perceval."
He grunted, an answering sound that made no remark on his curiosity. Even as they were together, observing the shower of stardust, he did not truly open himself up to conversation, to communion.
No matter. She would ask him a question he could answer without regard for her; it would render her, to a certain extent, incidental.
"Do you know how many times you have been awakened?"
His lips did not move. Another star fell.
bring out the oomfulator
"I don't understand you, Bart."
"Aw, c'mon, Elly! What's not to understand? I'm a pretty straightforward guy."
Straightforward. Undoubtedly. They were standing on the balcony of the castle - Fatima Castle! - in Bledavik, capital of all the kingdom of Aveh, and Bart - Bartholomew Fatima! - had the audacity to claim that he was a "pretty straightforward guy."
He most certainly was not. He was as hard to understand as the composition of the stars above Solaris, when Doc tried to explain them to her. Here was all this responsibility, a chance to lead the kingdom the way he wanted, because the people wanted him, and he'd rather go gallivanting around the desert in a sand cruiser - except it was really a warship!
She and Fei couldn't just run away from their responsibilities, so why should Bart get to? Why should he get to run away from the legacy quite literally embedded in his eyes?!
"Then why don't you act sensible?"
As sure as anything, he kept that eyepatch on partly because it made it harder to tell what he was thinking, with only one eye visible. He was doing it now! That expression didn't make any sense...
It almost looked sad. Almost...penitent.
"I'm trying, Elly. It's tough. You know that."
"I certainly do."
She ran away from Gebler because they were bad people, because they preyed upon the weak. Not because she couldn't handle the duties she was given.
...well. Not only because of that.
But Bart had a whole crew of supporters! He had Sigurd, and Old Maison, and Margie, and...!
And he had her, too. But maybe he didn't think so.
So Elly took another look at Bart. Caught his eye.
"I'd like to, anyway. I'd like to be of help to you, if I can."
"Not a friend?"
omg i know a little something about cats
"Junior?"
"What is it, MOMO?"
"I was thinking. What would you have named Alby if he was a cat?"
"If he was a cat?" Jr. found his grip instinctively tightening, just the slightest bit, on the fur near Alby's collar. The idea of him changing, transforming, was distinctly upsetting, even though he knew rationally that this dog had no connection to his brother.
"Why not still Alby? I assume you mean he'd still be albino, and everything. That's why he's named Alby, you know."
For a moment, MOMO seemed about to disagree, but then her mouth closed and the corners turned up. "Right. I know."
It was the same basic principle. Junior wasn't one to run away from his problems, so he gave Alby a sensible name.
She was the one who had first thought that Ziggy sounded like a puppy's name, anyway. But why was that? It was just a friendly name. A human-sounding name. MOMO sure sounded a lot more human than Multiple Observative Mimetic Organicus, anyway, even though she always still thought of it as being an acronym. She forgot for what, sometimes. It was just her. MOMO.
"Well, why don't we get a cat?"
"Why don't we?"
By this point, MOMO was able to tell that it wasn't an actual question, or even a rhetorical one; Junior was repeating himself to express his surprise. Still, he was asking for an explanation, in a way.
"I think it would be fun. We could see how different they really are, and see if they liked each other, and..."
Jr. scoffed. "I think you just want a cat, MOMO."
"Well? So?"
"And there's nothin' wrong with that. It's just what I think."
"We'd need to give it a pretty name. Like..."
Like Sakura, probably. But she didn't say so.
three cheers for zero-width joiners
"Alright, Mr. Sauer."
"Ziggy."
Juli looked up from the stack of papers she'd been making to file, her face perked with interest. "What did you just say to me?"
Ziggy, by contrast, looked down and slightly to the right, the nonverbal and visual equivalent of posthumously adding an ellipsis to his questionable not-quite outburst.
Juli waited. Ziggy frowned somehow deeper. The humming and buzzing of both various machines in the lab and the cyborg's equipment arrays began to make itself frightfully apparent.
Well. If he wasn't going to answer.
Back she went to the filing, allowing Ziggy his own timing. She'd never have expected that he'd want it, but if he insisted, she was nothing if not equanimous, and would surely oblige.
"MOMO calls me Ziggy."
Ah, there it was.
Juli looked up again, her light but capable grip on the current manila folder quite purposeful, showing the right angle of her thumb and index finger, the former hidden but the latter visible with prim red polish.
Much as Jan Sauer, or Ziggurat 8, or Ziggy, whichever he actually preferred to be called, was a preeminently efficient and determined officer, whether as a Federation agent or an industrial cyborg, Juli Mizrahi was a woman who couldn't avoid commanding respect if she tried. And she'd be lying if she said she didn't try; she was far too genuinely competent for that.
"So he does have a heart. I thought you were only concerned with your mission."
Ziggy swallowed. Juli wondered if he relished the ability or augured the reflex.
"I am."
"Right." Maybe it was wishful thinking, but she could have sworn there were the beginnings - maybe the endings - of a smile at the corners of his lips. "And if the S.O.C.E. decided that your next mission was to give me a kiss?"
This time, Ziggy didn't swallow. "I would be obligated to fulfill my duty."
"Such a romantic." Juli didn't bother pretending to swoon. "Do you accept assignments from me?"