Ain't my universe. Warning for swears and gore.

August 14, 2011- Last edit, swear. Had a horrible out-of-character prologue in Allen's point-of-view up before, but hopefully the horribleness is fixed. Cross seemed like the better point-of-view. Prologue based on chapter 206 of the manga. Hopefully anyone who encounters this will enjoy it somewhat.

This should be a Steampunk alternate universe, worked on sporadically, for my own enjoyment. I do not believe in last minute power-ups, supremely powerful main characters (or villains, for that matter) and miraculous recoveries. You may figuratively smack me if you find I am doing such things. Humans are fragile, and I hope to write realistic injuries, and portray the fact the Order is sending children out to war.

Though I really don't care how many people read this, it would be nice to give me a heads up if you encounter any out-of-character moments, failures of logic, incorrect facts, or just plain bad writing. I won't snap atcha for telling me I'm wrong.

More to come. -R

Cross Marian wakes panicked, from the kind of dreamless sleep born of exhaustion. He doesn't remember where he is, at first, but the comforting weight of Judgment hangs at his leg. The dark room is soft and out of focus, and the veins in his eyes pulsate, warping familiar shapes into towering shadows.

The thunder roars, altogether too similar to cannons for his liking.

Blinking, he nearly smacks himself in the face with a numb hand attempting to locate his glasses. A quilt, in the Lady of the house's signature technicolor, slips off his shoulders. The lamps are cold, the house silent, except for the rattle of the rain on the roof. He'd fallen asleep at her table, leaving what looks like a half-full glass of red wine. No doubt one of many. So that's why he feels so... disjointed? Discombobulated? Disoriented? He's still slightly drunk. Cross rubs at his face. His mask has left a red welt on his cheek and the flesh tingles as blood moves back into it. Timcampy perches silently on the other end of the table, sleepily regarding him without eyes. Cross moves to rise and the inside of his head goes round in circles. He walks to the window and lighting flash casts the shadows of raindrops on his shirt. Still deep night, with a cloud-heavy sky and no hint of dawn on the horizon.

He can't go back to sleep. Adrenaline still tightens his chest and feeds his muscles. He wants a cigarette, but Timcampy ate his tobacco days ago. He wants another drink, but his head is aching. He want to go wandering, find out what kind of nightlife this dinky valley can offer, and flirt with the local beauties.

Thanks to Mana's brat, he hasn't left this house in days. Swollen wounds, screaming convulsions, wet beds. Won't speak, won't eat, won't move. An uphill battle to keep him alive.

The thunder comes again, pressing and pressing and pressing on his eardrums.

The hairs on the back of Cross' neck stand upright. The air is charged. Electricity practically arcs between his fingertips, and his nose is stinging with the smell of metal. The atmosphere is foreboding, and he drops his hand to Judgment. A sound lurks at the very edge of his hearing.

Something reaches inside his skull and squeezes. His limbs are burning, even as his chest cools and heart slows. His mind flinches in on itself, compressing to a point, and his vision sloshes from one temple to another. There isn't enough room for his thoughts against the monstrous presence curling around his brainstem.

Stumbling, barely upright, Cross feels along the hall to Allen's room. Applying a foot to the wood takes care of the chair jammed under the handle and sends the door careening into the wall. The stomach-turning sweetness of metal and old blood hits him full in the face.

Over the all-consuming thunder, Cross can hear the Musician singing inside his head.

the gasping flames within the ashes

"Cross. It's good to finally meet you again after all these years," the voice rasps warmly. It would be musical if it hadn't been ruined from screaming.

Allen's face isn't his anymore. His skin is gray-green, the pigmentation writhing slightly under the surface. His head is bandaged, but there is no doubt in Cross' mind that under the cloth, seven stigmata have cut their way into his flesh. The visible eye pierces through the haze of alcohol and panic and one by one rise up and expand into that beloved face the sound of the song bearing down on his mind. Allen's mouth tilts up into a small smile, but the golden gaze pins him and he is looking into an eternity of overlapping consciousnesses and insanity. Cross tries to force words- a greeting, a plea, an accusation, anything- but he is held mute. Nea laughs, blinks, and the connection is broken.

The rest of the room snaps back into focus, and Cross hold back the retch. Nea is painted in rivulets of blood. The bedclothes are soaked, the psychedelic quilt dyed a blotchy red, the pyjamas pasted to Allen's body. Nea holds a knife loosely in Allen's right hand, and pulls Allen's mouth into a manic grin. The craggy surface of Allen's Innocence is sliced raggedly near his upper arm. A tracery of cracks wind themselves up his shoulder, and droplets slither down the wrinkled red flesh. His left hand is palm-up, limp.

"We were going for fully severed, but he actually has bones under there, you know," Nea shrugs, waving the little knife airily and slinging blood from its point.

"On, Abata, Ura..." Cross breathes, and loses himself in the syllables of sorcery, weaving a stasis around Allen's body. The pressure of the Musician's power keeps it from taking, and the filaments of light hang stretched near to breaking in the air. The rain is swallowed up under the noise of the song in his head. Allen's blood trickles on.

"Don't worry, don't worry, Cross, it'll be fine. I wasn't doing this against his will. I'm not strong enough to do anything against his will, yet. Though that will change, with the Innocence out of the way. I'll be waking up soon, Cross." Nea drops the knife and seizes his arm, adopting a pleading tone.

"He was hurting. Hurting so much our minds were almost the same shape. He could finally hear me. We had a little talk, my nephew and I." The mood is gone, blown away by fury, looking so wrong on a face still lined with baby fat.

"It killed Mana. This Holy parasite," he spits. "Draining his life under the guise of a 'gift' from God. We both wanted it gone. Can't you see? Don't you see, Cross?" Nea's grip tightens to the point of pain.

"I gave him a future."

Nea leans forward, gaze boring into Cross' mind, whispering with all the deranged sincerity he can muster-

"I love him."

The golden eye rolls back in his head. With a twang, the stasis sorcery binds itself to him, and Allen crumples to the bedspread.

Well.

Fuck.