I own nothing. All rights belong to C.S. Lewis and Hiro Mashima.
JUNG
They were burning. Jung could hear the shrieks behind him as Melian got caught by the encroaching flames. He turned, but the hacker—Orion—stopped him. 'No!' the withering water nymph shouted hoarsely. 'You have to escape, Jung! You are the one that can help them!' Jung screamed in protest, but Orion was already dragging him outside, and Jung's head was throbbing and the smoke seared his throat and—how? How had they found the True Narnian headquarters? Orion had pushed him out of the way, only to vanish in an achingly long moment of steam, his liquid smile twitching for a moment before he vanished. And then Jung was screaming, on his knees besides a burning building, wondering how, how, HOW HAD THEY FOUND HIM?
GRAY
When Gray awoke, it was to Jung's screams. The kid sat bolt upright with a shriek that split the still hours of the morning in two. Jung pushed himself away from Gray, tumbling off the bed and landing on the wooden floor with a thud.
"Are you OK?" asked Gray, but Jung paid him no heed. The kid was on his knees in the corner, retching violently.
"Gray?" asked Mirajane's voice.
"What is the meaning of this noise?" came Makarov's booming voice. "Gray, who is this?" But Gray ignored them all and slid to stop beside Jung.
"What's wrong?" he crooned, rubbing Jung's back. "It's OK."
"It's not!" shrieked Jung, pushing Gray away suddenly. Gray jumped back, startled. "It's not OK! They are dead! They are all dead and it's all my fault! The shibbolorach led them there, and they all died and burned…" Jung retched again and Gray looked up at the Master, sick at heart. So that's what had happened. The shibbolorach had been a tracking device since the beginning and Jung hadn't been the only one trapped in the True Narnian headquarters that night.
"It's all my fault, it's all my fault. Gods, I can't do this," muttered Jung, putting his hands over his ears pitifully.
"Makarov, get out. You too, Mirajane," came Porlyusica's harsh voice. The purple-haired mage nodded soberly at Gray. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, but she had already turned away, shepherding the bewildered Mirajane and Makarov out the door.
"Jung," he breathed, turning back to the distraught kid. "Come on, Jung. Look at me."
"Can't. Can't trust anyone, can't know anyone. Everyone I know dies and is burned to death and it's because of me," said Jung unsteadily, putting his head between his knees. "And I can't trust you. I've fucked everything up. Damn it all. I can't… I should have been the one that died!" he hissed, looking up at Gray furiously.
JUNG
Gray was looking at him with that horrid pity in his eyes, so much that Jung was practically drowning in it. He didn't want Gray's pity. He just wanted to be left alone so that no one else had to die on his behalf. That's all he wanted. He couldn't trust anyone and no one could trust him because every single one of the True Narnian team had died, everyone except him. Orion had died saving him, and they had all died because the government had followed the tracking device in his shibbolorach and it was all because of him so he couldn't trusthimdamnit…Jung stood, swaying and stumbled towards the door. He needed to get out. He needed to run again and again until no one died anymore.
"Jung," came Gray's voice, and a body (it was cold he had always liked the cold) was supporting him, holding him back from the door (and the sour stench of sickness filled the room but it didn't smell like the smoke which still festered in his lungs) and suddenly he couldn't stand anymore (Gray, can you hold me? Can you leave? I don't want to kill you).
"You won't kill me," came a voice that was like Gray's (had he said that out loud? But Gray would definitely die and burn and it would be his fault again) and Jung wanted to believe the voice, but it was very difficult to breathe.
"Jung, look at me," commanded the voice sternly and the arms were cradling him, wrapping him in a cold, cold embrace on the floor and Jung wanted so badly to curl up and cling to that cold (his mother was scolding him again and smell of fish and grease and salt filled the air while the gulls shrieked).
"Breathe," whispered the voice, close, so very close, to his ears and Jung tried very hard to listen because he had forgotten why he stopped breathing (and he did not remember a father there was only his mom and the sea the sea which ate his mom after another brother died and the debtors came knocking at the door and the sea had left him alone and carried him away and the smell of tar filled his nostrils and the gulls cried).
And Jung stopped breathing altogether.
GRAY
Jung wasn't breathing. Ye gods, he wasn't breathing. He had his hands over his ears and his eyes were shut tight and he stopped breathing. Gray tightened his arms around the thin figure.
"Damn it, Jung!" he cried, laying the kid back down gently to the floor. Then, in a moment of pure, utter desperation, he bent down and kissed him. He lent his own oxygen to Jung, the air tinged with the cold ice of his own fear. Jung coughed, suddenly gasping, flailing blindly. Gray caught the thin limbs and held them down gently. "Jung," he said, his voice colder than he would've liked, frozen by the unnatural panic that made his own voice tremble. "Jung, come on. Look at me. Open your eyes." Jung opened his eyes and they latched onto Gray. Gray let go of Jung's arms and the kid reached one shaking hand upward, still gasping. Gray grasped the proffered hand firmly. "There you go kid," he encouraged softly, pulling the thin body upward. "There you go." Jung's thin body curled in Gray's arms and they stayed that way for a long time.
MAKAROV
"Would someone care to tell me what's happening?" asked Makarov sternly, leading Porlyusica and Mirajane into his office.
"That boy is Hull," stated Porlyusica flatly. Makarov gaped at her.
"That kid?" he questioned skeptically. "The one puking in the corner? That skinny little kid is Hull?"
"Of course he is," snapped Porlyusica. "Now shut up, because I am only going to tell you this once." Makarov quailed and a faint grin graced Mirajane's features for a moment. Even the master was intimidated by the elderly mage.
"Hull, despite his brilliant writing, is a remarkably unstable person. Fairy Tail is a horrible environment for him, and I highly suggest you kick him out. He is a dangerous person, and his presence will endanger everyone here. I'd suggest Gray leave him too, but apparently that's an unpopular opinion," she sniffed. "Stupid humans." Makarov opened his mouth, but Porlyusica glared at him. "Don't ask questions. I hate questions," she finished, and swept out of the room.
"What…" trailed off Makarov helplessly. "How can I kick that poor boy out?" he finally asked, turning to Mirajane. "His life is in danger and…well, look at him! I can't kick him out, no matter what his political views are!"
"I think," hesitated Mirajane and Makarov looked at her expectantly. "I think Porlyusica may be right."
"What? Why?"
"It's not that I think he's dangerous," responded Mirajane defensively. "But how do you think he would react to us? He's only now fallen silent, even with just Gray there." Makarov listened intently. Mirajane was right. He could hear neither the boy nor Gray. Silence had fallen over the guild once again. "Besides that," continued Mirajane, "staying here just risks his identity being compromised further. Not by any of us," she hastened to add, seeing Makarov's expression, "but by the sheer number of people who would know him."
"What do you mean, 'compromised further'?" asked Makarov.
"He has a shibbolorach in his palm," answered Mirajane, "and Porlyusica pulled a tracking device from it tonight." Makarov sucked in his breath, blowing it out into his mustache. He had seen grown mages quite undone from the effects of that wretched array.
"Does he have magic?" he asked sharply.
"No." Makarov blew into his mustache again, striding up and down the room abruptly. Mirajane left quietly, recognizing his mood, leaving Makarov to his thoughts. What could have possibly happened to this kid? Where could he send Gray and the kid—Hull—so they would be safe?