Yo. It's been a while, huh? 6 months? 7? 8? 12? I don't know.
No excuses, just hopefully you read on. Wrote this to the song 'Serenade' from the Homestuck Original Soundtrack (I know, I know. Owl read Homestuck omg)
Chapter 53: Secret Serenade
At first, it had been an obsession, he did not deny. He had done anything to find her. In his memory, the edges of her face had become blurred, all except for her golden blonde hair, her piercing gaze, her soft words that could strike like a steel blade.
He had searched for her: girl after girl after girl, and when they were the wrong one . . .
Whether he wanted them to or not, his presence destroyed them.
He had nearly given up. This was the last one, he'd told himself. This was the last.
And it was.
The hollow sound of beeping was faint as Clyde struggled to open his eyes. He felt the starchy sheets on skin, smelled the familiar antiseptic, saw the dim but still sour light. His throat burned. Everything burned. His head pounded. He squinted, trying to find solace in someone's company in the room.
To his dismay, it was completely empty.
What happened . . . did it go well? He felt as if there were the remnants of a dream on the tip of his tongue, just behind his eyes, but when he reached for the memories, they eluded him. He remembered the smell of coffee, and a mustard yellow colour . . .
He had a job, he remembered. What kind of job? A wave of pain shot through his head. His hand flew to his scalp, gripping as he grimaced. His throat burned and he heard the slightest grunt of pain.
His eyes flew open in shock. Was there someone in the room? Someone he had missed? He looked around, the pain dulling.
The room was still empty.
"Huh . . ."
A voice.
His voice.
He covered his hands with his mouth on instinct, as if his ability to speak might fly from his mouth, and he'd lose it all again. He struggled to sit up, feeling bile rise in his throat at the action. His neck, throat, voice, head—everything hurt. Even the beating of his heart was unpleasant against his ribs.
At his bedside was a small plastic cup of water. He gulped it down, hoping to soothe the burn in his throat. It was icy cool against the raw feeling, but did little to dull the pain.
"No use getting worked up about it," he muttered.
The feeling of shock returned as he heard his own voice. It was definitely his own voice, not some mechanical counterpart he had expected, but the sound was so alien to his own ears it caught him off guard.
How long had it been since he had a voice? Clyde leaned back against the wall behind his bed, breathing deeply. His surroundings were cast in the dim gloom of bright light beyond the door, save for a single light to his right, above the machines.
Tentatively, Clyde rubbed at his throat. Padding had been taped against it, preventing him from feeling the skin. He swallowed, pulling slightly at the stitches. He was too euphoric to even mind the pain.
"I can talk," he whispered. He smiled, eyes watering. "God, I'm such a wreck," he laughed. "Crying over the sound of my own voice."
He ran a hand through his hair, laughing. "Man, I need to have some proper life goals."
On the bedside table at his left was his abandoned memo pad. If he had looked closer, he would have seen a list of names with phrases written beneath them.
"What the hell do you mean, it was your goal from the start?"
"If I didn't cheat, if I didn't go to destroy this world, Jason would win."
"So what? It's no loss."
"It's every loss, you must understand. Every loss."
Almost like a throwback to ridiculously naïve past, the group stayed in a Watcher base close to the border. It was low to the ground—so low they wouldn't have seen it unless they were straining their eyes to pick out its sharp, geometric edges amidst the grass. Majority of the rooms were underground, and they had to climb through a hatch to get inside.
Descending into the dark, he forced the shaking in his hands to stop. Pathetic, he chided himself, as if this really matters.
He swallowed hard, making sure not to look anyone in the eye. He couldn't let them know he was even the slightest bit affected.
"All right, guys," Simon said, clapping his hands. They'd descended into a well-lit room with a radar monitor scanning a 1km radius. To his left was a corridor towards the wing where the boys' dorms were, and to his right were the girls'. Behind him was the stairs towards a kitchen and a mess hall, which had a chimney cutting through the grass on the surface. "We'll set up a small watching system. You'll have some partners, and one of you will patrol the surface, and the other will sit at the bottom of the shaft."
Tobias didn't like the steadiness in his gaze and voice.
"Any volunteers?"
An uneasy silence settled on the group. The friendly chatter that had continued until that moment ceased as suddenly as Simon had spoke, as if being up there was the worst thing that could have happened.
It made Tobias irrationally angry.
The worst thing that could happen to them? Bullshit. Did they even know what was out there? Had they grown up in a fucking bubble their whole life? Did they know what it felt like to have their body parts removed slowly, systematically, with every intention of pain? Had they even been in a proper fight?
Tobias's hands shook, but no longer from the ebbing memories. Now, they were trembling with rage.
Simon's sharp gaze didn't miss a movement.
"Why don't you go, Tobias?" he said it kindly, happily, like one of those try-to-be-good leaders of children. Even that made him angry. He could have pummelled the guy right there if that one, tiny voice in the back of his mind hadn't stopped him.
Don't. You can't just start killing a guy because you were mad. You're not Jason.
It was a voice eerily akin to the Tris he had shot.
"Yeah," he said, sounding strained even to himself. It was the first word the others had heard him speak. He nodded curtly, and headed back up the ladder.
Emerging into the wind again was like a rush of unwanted nostalgia. He bit down onto his lip, forcing memories away from where they surfaced. He drowned them in the feeling of the wind on his face, the tall grass brushing his thighs. He let the entrance close behind him and slumped onto the flat platform of the roof, bathing in the feeling of sun-warmed concrete against his back.
Drown out the memories. Memories would make him weaker. He couldn't afford to be that weak.
The yellowing sky. Blinding sun. The bare, empty sky devoid of any cloud cover. The sound of grass sweltering in the heat of the sun. The feeling of a cold, wintery wind from the East. Tiny insects that he knew he wouldn't see, like those supposedly dangerous mosquito things that had yet to bother him.
Those mosquito things . . . he hadn't thought of them in a long time, but did they really exist? As far as he knew, he hadn't experienced anything to do with them before then or since then. Had Nico just been lying, or had Odyssey just been in a particular area? No, surely insects moved around—so, what was the deal?
The only reason could be that Nico had been lying.
The Watchers, Gaos, the Westers . . . they all do the same thing.
His own twist on what Clyde had said to him once, so very long ago. The three forces were brutal and oppressive. Nico knew how to sacrifice. The Westers, well . . . he'd be lying if he said he knew a lot. From what he'd seen San Francisco was a dodgy place at best, and it was probably crawling with organisations. The small patrols he'd seen had appeared pretty upper-class, but he'd never had the chance to go any further.
Gaos, as well . . . what were they doing? What was the Wraith? Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson . . .
Beatrice Prior . . .
Caleb Prior, the son of a fuck . . .
Eidolons . . . Clyde . . .
Nico di Angelo, Thalia Grace, Jason Grace . . . Leo Valdez, Piper McLean, Frank Zhang . . .
The Daemon . . . and him.
Tobias wasn't crazy enough to believe that everything was planned out, that every person was here in right this moment because it was all part of something bigger, some divine will that made all these pieces appear on the chessboard.
No, he wasn't that crazy. There was no God—or gods. There was no reason any of this was happening. There was no reason Tris had been hurt, no reason why Annabeth had changed and up and left, no reason why the Wraith had chosen Jackson.
There was no reason for the people whom he had come with to be absorbed into the world they had stumbled into. If Tobias had a choice, if he could turn back time and lock himself back behind those walls . . .
If he could, he would. He and Tris, being just Tris and Four, the Dauntless citizens, breaking rules and climbing Ferris wheels, jumping off trains . . . life had been so very simple, back then. Why had he wanted to change that?
Why had anyone wanted to change that . . . for this?
He sighed heavily, feeling the hint of the heat against the wind. Did the Blank have seasons? If it did, it was certainly becoming spring, because the ungodly heat he began to feel hadn't been there a few days ago. Extreme climates, he surmised.
It was pretty logical.
He remembered Chicago, the way the crumbling buildings were hardly any good for keeping the warmth in and the cold out. The cold would find a way to you, the exact same way it would in the open.
The cold would always find a way to you.
"TELL ME, HUMAN, WHERE—IS—YOUR—GOD?"
"How are you adapting, Chase?" Gwen asked. The two had bumped into each other as Annabeth hurried from the stables. With her dark hair tied up behind her in a bun, her clothes exchanged for more formal attire—a black blouse and slacks—the woman looked completely different.
"I was doing better before I saw you and that outfit," Annabeth responded dumbly.
Gwen smirked. "Ah, yes. A meeting with the higher-ups. Don't you love them? Well, see you around, stable hand."
Annabeth was left glaring at her back as the taller woman descended into the mix of bodies. Sighing, she continued on her round, collecting hay from the storerooms to the far end of the warehouse before returning. Gwen was right: Annabeth was a stable hand.
But, Annabeth found, for the first time in a long time she didn't mind it. She didn't mind running around, working, using her hands, feeling her back ache. She didn't mind dealing with cheeky horses or bad working hours. In fact, she quite liked it. Previously, no matter how tired she had been before sleep, she would never make it through more than an hour or two before being plagued by nightmares. However, now she found it easy: eat, sleep, work, repeat.
It was almost therapeutic.
Horses nickered as she walked by. Lynne snapped at her because she was Annabeth. Other stable hands laughed her off.
Now, she was left with only one more obstacle: Blackjack.
He was the pride of the Amazons, but she'd never seen a weirder horse. If there was something as chronically angry in horses, it was Blackjack. They had to lock him in a cell far away from the other Pegasi because of his constant kicking and biting.
Pride of the Amazons, huh?
"Yo, Annabeth!" Lynne snapped. She pressed a pitchfork into Annabeth's already full hands. "You've got Blackjack today."
Typical. Bloody typical.
Lynne took the other stuff from her arms. "Have fun."
There was amusement in her eyes as she spoke. Soon she was left alone in the stable, with nothing but the smell of dusty hay and horse. Annabeth took a deep breath and hauled her load towards the end stall. "All right, Blackjack," she called, dumping her stuff. "Cheer up and clear out so I can clean up your stall."
On cue, the huge black stallion lurched out of his cell, trying to snap at her with those huge teeth of his. Annabeth, having grown used to the nature of horses in her time with the Amazons, saw it coming and stepped aside. She sighed, lifting the head collar off the ground.
Blackjack pawed at the stall door, snorting angrily. Annabeth raised her arms in defeat. "I'm sorry, I don't understand horse."
She could almost see the anger in his eyes: why isn't he here?
Annabeth pressed her lips together. "They asked me to do this, but . . . can they really make me? Really?"
Yes, she thought. Yes, they can and they will. Do it.
Knowing there was no escaping it, she sighed. "He's dead," she said. The words sounded alien and numb in her mouth. She forced herself not to listen to what she said. "He's gone. Now get over it. I have a job to do."
She couldn't tell if Blackjack gave her an accusing glare or not. She thought she did. She could feel it from there, the blame. He hated her. She'd let Percy die. What kind of girl could she possibly be? What kind of friend had she been?
What kind of girlfriend?
Annabeth swallowed. Not now. She pushed the thoughts away, wiping everything blank. She would shove them into the dark recesses that she never went near. Never.
Blackjack's energy began to dissipate, and Annabeth slung and buckled the head collar behind his ears. She opened the gate quickly, tethering the horse to the nearest post and pushing his rear out of the kicking direction. Taking the wheelbarrow, she entered the stall and worked quickly. She didn't want to have a horse like Blackjack standing outside too long.
By now she had grown used to cleaning up the stalls, and had it clean with new straw down in a few minutes. She pulled out, checking to make sure Blackjack was not in her path.
She discarded the wheelbarrow and turned back to address the dark Pegasi, now still at his tether. She tugged on the slipknot, and the lead came free. "All right," she said to him, "let's head back in."
Blackjack didn't move.
Annabeth groaned, tugging on the lead. He held his head high, ignoring her pulls. His wings shuffled against his sides, and he pawed at the concrete ground.
Shit, Annabeth thought. He's going to lose it. Lose it outside his stall. Fuck. Fuck, what do I do?
"Blackjack!" Annabeth snapped. He stared down at her with his dark eyes, nostrils flared as he tried to pull away.
He wanted to get away from her. He hated her. What was she to do? What did she have the right to do? His hate was justified. His blame was justified. She had no right to try and control this Pegasus, to try and make him obey her. She had no right.
Her grip slackened on the lead. It was her fault. No matter how many times she realised it, it destroyed her every time. It was her fault. It was all her fault. If she hadn't been so weak back then, no . . . if she hadn't let Percy fight the Wraith off . . . it was all her fault.
Her knees buckled underneath her. She felt the familiar sting behind her eyes, the same tightness in her throat. The lead had fallen from her hand, and she expected to Blackjack to run off any moment.
He didn't.
She wiped at her eyes furiously and looked up. The hulking black Pegasus had grown still and quiet, his nose extended towards her. She couldn't see any anger in his eyes.
"It's my fault," she told him, continuing to wipe her eyes. "It's all my goddamn fault."
He stepped back into the stall slowly, nose still extended towards her. She sniffled, muttering, "I'm so pathetic, huh?"
Blackjack bumped her face with that same muzzle that could have bitten her face off. He sniffed at her like a giant dog. Hesitantly, she raised her hand to scratch at his chin. He smelled of hay and soot, of sweat and loneliness.
He gave a gentle nicker, and began to nibble at her short hair. She smiled, trying to stand. Her legs were shaking beneath her as she pulled herself up. Once straight, she swayed dangerously.
She felt something bulky wedge itself under her arm, and she saw Blackjack offering his neck to support her. Her smile turned into a small grin as she was helped out of the stall.
She gripped hold of the wall and inched herself out, bolting the door closed behind her. Reaching over it into the stall, she took Blackjack's halter and hung it on the hook she'd taken it from.
The two stood and regarded each other for a long moment. Gingerly, Annabeth reached out to touch his snout again. The Pegasus leaned into it, and she reached up to scratch his ears. He snorted happily into her arm.
"I thought this might happen."
The voice shattered the moment that they'd been in, and Blackjack's head shot up, looking in its direction. Gwen stood there, hands on hips with a smugness in her expression that pissed Annabeth off. Blackjack retreated into his stall silently.
"He likes you, doesn't he?" there was no kindness in her words. Annabeth shrugged and turned away, only a lingering gaze towards the horse that had been so compassionate only a few moments before now turned broody and angry again. She collected her wheelbarrow and headed towards Gwen.
"I think he just feels sorry for me," Annabeth laughed, not eager to share her thoughts with the powerful woman. Gwen laughed. "Well, you are pretty pitiful."
"Is that an insult?"
"I'm joking, I'm joking," Gwen was laughing heartily. "Maybe I should put you on the roster to clean his stall every day, since everyone else has to tie up upside down, basically, to get there alive."
"Jesus."
"Hmmm," Gwen murmured. She crossed her arms over her chest. Peering over her shoulder, she squinted, staring at Annabeth's eyes. "Have you been crying?"
"No." The lie was easy.
"Bullshit, you've been crying!"
"Once again; no."
"Aw, poor little Annabeth getting emotional with the pony."
"I haven't been crying, Gwen—and call me Chase."
"You're so cute." Gwen purred, lightly punching her shoulder. "But hey, I'd rather be crying with a horse than some good-for-nothing guy."
Annabeth sighed. "Go back to what you were doing, Gwen."
Gwen snickered. "Well, I can't hog cute girls all day. See you around, my adorably emotional wreck!"
Annabeth sighed, watching Gwen jog off. It was annoying, repetitive, unrewarding . . .
But she felt better than she had in ages. A lot better. The possibility of staying here, pretending that the war wasn't happening . . . maybe she could take it, after all.
"What are you going to do, here?"
"What do you mean?"
"What is your goal?"
"My 'goal'? Why would I have one of those?"
Clyde knew he wasn't allowed to be active for two weeks minimum, but that didn't change his restlessness. He'd walked up and down the complex so many times he could remember where he was if he were blind.
He recognised most of the people, too. Dimly, he wondered what it must be like for them, how their lives had been. He wondered if empathy still mattered.
"Oi, who are you?"
Clyde turned in the direction of the voice. Standing in front of a door was an thin woman with sharp, almond-shaped eyes. Bright amber irises stared him down. Her cheekbones, uncomfortably prominent, only made her more intimidating.
"Do I know you?" her voice was as sharp as her looks. She raised an eyebrow when Clyde didn't respond. "What, I thought you even had a fancy machine voice box, too. Still can't talk with it."
"You do know me, then," Clyde started. Why had this woman thrown him off?
She shook her head, smiling to herself. "That's cute, but no. Never met ya. The guy I knew—what's his name . . . Tobias. That's it. Tobias. I know him."
"Who doesn't?" Clyde muttered. As soon as Eaton's name came up, his interest in conversation died. "Well, see you around."
"Well if that isn't some bad manners," laughed the woman. A slim hand grabbed his arm in a vice grip. No matter how hard he pulled, Clyde knew he'd not break free. He followed the arm back to her face. She grinned savagely. "Join my class."
"I'm on a medical break," Clyde answered. "Not allowed to do anything for two weeks."
She pulled him close, yanking him down so she could whisper in his ear, "I don't have a class right now. Come into this room and talk to me."
The strange woman released his arm and opened the door. Alarm bells were ringing in Clyde's head, but against better judgement, he followed her in. He knew he'd regret this decision.
She bolted the door shut behind them and sat herself on a bench along the edge of the room. "Don't just stand there," she snapped, "find a seat."
"How do you know Tobias?" Clyde didn't wait to find out. He didn't sit. He remained standing in the centre of the room, summoning any of that authority the Order had given him in an attempt to talk to her evenly.
"Huh?" the catlike woman bared her teeth. Even her canines were sharper than normal. "That's not very polite of you. If you were a student, I'd kick your teeth out and have you apologise to 'ma'am'."
"I'm not your student."
She grinned. "No, you're not."
She prowled around him, looking him up and down, analysing him. "You're kind of skimpy for a fighter."
"Says you."
She held up her hands, smiling. "I surrender. Jeez, you moody teenagers. How do I know Tobias?" She opened her mouth to speak, grinning, until that smile slowly faded to nothingness.
"I taught him. He was an idiot."
Clyde almost expected a response from the back of his mind. He didn't get one.
"I beat him up a lot, too. Maybe I went a little overboard. They caught me when I was a little emotional, I have to say. A platoon of my previous students had just been slaughtered by Gaos."
Oh.
"That friend of yours was pathetically human," the woman grinned, sitting herself down on the bench. "He wouldn't last a minute if he lost his weapon. Fighting tooth and claw doesn't suit him."
"Have you seen him recently?" Clyde asked, softly. He swallowed hard. "Before he left on that new mission, I mean. Have you seen him?"
The woman pressed her lips together and looked away. "No. But I've heard the rumours."
Clyde sighed. It seemed like everyone had.
"You've got that magnetic link thing with him, yeah? How'd the guy break him?"
The woman seemed too at ease discussing a topic that had ruined two lives. Clyde stared at her in a mixture of awe and horror. She returned his stare levelly with those amber eyes of hers. The tattooed scar on the side of her face contrasted sharply against the lightness of her other features. She was menacing, even as Clyde, gangly and awkward, stood above her.
Clyde sat himself down on the ground, crossing his legs like a child in primary school. He sighed and began to talk, staring at his toes.
"I don't really know the details . . . all I know is the guy killed Tobias over and over again, and each time Tobias was nearly dead he'd shoot him up with this special serum that healed his body. Up to six times a day. Fuck . . . I don't even know what he's like. He probably got himself fucked up in the head."
"They wanted to send him in for a psychoanalysis when he got back," said the woman. She leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest. "He denied it. Of course, they wouldn't force him to go, but that was Nico's first indication that there was something a little . . . off."
Clyde sighed. "Yeah, and Nico sent him off in a squad with Tris."
"Ah, the girl." The woman's crocodile smile returned. "She's an interesting one."
"What do you mean?" Clyde met her eyes. The woman didn't look at him, instead into the distance, searching for something on the horizon beyond the concrete wall that Clyde knew he'd never see.
"Someone broke her, too, didn't they?" the woman scowled and pouted like she had something sour in her mouth. "So how come she's pretty normal?"
"The women I know are generally incredibly strong."
"Damn, your friends have it tough. How many of them have been tortured and killed, was it? All of them?"
"Shut up." Clyde let himself lie back on the ground. He stared at the industrial ceiling. "I don't think any of them count themselves as my friends, anyway. They are merely strong people I used to know."
"All aboard the train to Clyde's pity party," the woman snapped. "You men. I don't get you. If they're not your friends, make them your friends. More importantly, why are you so hung up about having friends?"
"You're not?"
"Of course I'm not! Do I look like I have friends? Good, because they're all dead—but that is beside the point! I have no friends; I have only good acquaintances. Like yourself, pity boy. You are a good acquaintance. We've spoken for nearly ten minutes and you've not tried to so much as attack me. Such gentle souls, I didn't think you were still around."
"You talk a lot."
"I know. Got a few scars to prove it. I live how I live, I beat up students how I feel like it. I'll die how I die. It's a very simple life."
"Must be nice, not being followed by all manner of omnipresent beings."
"Oh, the Daemon? Yeah, I heard about him." The woman nodded to herself, holding her chin in thought. "Didn't they talk up that chick who was going to kill him, only then they both disappeared? Ha. That's embarrassing. For them."
Clyde shrugged. "I doubt we fully understand the situation. For all we know, Chase could still be alive. Maybe the Daemon is just saving certain humans for a new race or some shit. From what I've seen of Chase, I wouldn't dispute his choice."
"Hmm." Cat woman pressed her lips together as she thought. "I don't know about her. She's a time-traveller. She's been here twice and disappeared. The first time she came, millions of people were gone in an instant. Boom. Done. Just gone."
Clyde sat up. The woman stared him down. "Do you think they're dead?"
Feeling the change in atmosphere, Clyde got to his feet. "It's not like it affects me. It's easier for everyone if they're dead, isn't it?"
"Very true, kid. Very true." The woman stretched her arms out, yawning like a cat. "That's enough chat, I reckon. You can go."
"How'd you get that scar?"
The words were out of Clyde's mouth before he could stop himself. The woman was silent for a moment, before her smile turned sly. She poked the tattooed scar on her face. "This one?"
Clyde nodded fearfully.
The woman gave a quiet chuckle. "I came over from Russia. Well, I guess you'd call it Russia. There used to be a small settlement along the West Coast before it was bombed. I was around . . . twelve, I think? Yeah. I was twelve years old in need of cash to get down here and got involved with some dodgy groups. My father found out and beat me into the ground. Cut my head open with his belt buckle and disowned me."
She shrugged, like it was normal. "All that money I'd made bought me a train ticket most of the way. Then I walked for six weeks and was taken in by some do-gooders in New York. They didn't last long, of course. As if they would. I was patched up and sent off, the following week their place was burnt down. Shame about that."
She didn't sound very apologetic.
Clyde swallowed. What was the point of empathy?
That question never seemed to disappear.
"Well, thanks for telling me. I guess I'll—"
"Wait." It was a command, not a request. "I told you something about me, you tell me something about you."
"But I just—"
"I ain't got that much time, son. What'd the bastard do to you that he didn't do to Tobias?"
Why does she want to know? What's in it for her?
"Cut my voice box out. They were the few nerves that I still had connected. Then he got bored of me and tossed me out." Clyde shrugged in the same nonchalant way she had. She couldn't see if it still had an effect on him. He wouldn't show her.
"Huh," said the woman, "that was remarkably unremarkable."
She stood and headed over towards the door. "As an extra, I got the scar tattooed when I first joined up here," she said. "I got super drunk and decided to have my dad's name written all over it in cursive writing."
"I have no idea what it says," Clyde admitted.
The woman grinned. "You don't need to know."
And with that, she opened the door and was gone in an instant.
"One wrong move—one wrong move, and everything will fall. What then?"
"That is the question: what then? Everything is fallen. There is nothing then."
"Then what is the plan? What is your amazing, fool-proof plan that you always have? What is it? How do you plan to worm your way out of this one? What's that? There isn't one? Is this all a game to you?"
"It's all a matter of muscle."
"That's it? You're just going to muscle out of this?"
"Do you doubt me?"
Tobias had long lost count of how long he had remained out there, staring at the sky as it turned dark. Where there should have been stars was nothing.
Music. He needed something to listen to other than his own thoughts.
But no matter what he tried to hum, the tune disappeared before he could so much as hear it. In Dauntless, there'd always been someone drunk off their face and singing. It was never quiet.
Man, this is dull.
Tobias breathed a long sigh, trying to sink into the concrete beneath him. What was he meant to do?
There was a sudden metallic groan, and the hatch was opened.
"Shift change."
Tobias sat up. "Nothing to report."
He headed over to the hatch, careful not to make eye contact. No one liked to look him in the eye. He was fine with that. He lowered himself onto the ladder and closed the hatch above him, careful to close it properly.
He lowered himself down. By now, the shakes had ceased. Being underground no longer bothered him. If only everything he did were this easy.
Looking around, he realised he was alone within the labyrinth of the underground base. How was he supposed to find his way around? Was there somewhere he needed to be?
He doubted it.
Idly, he walked along the main path, peering through doors as he went past. He heard nothing, nor did he get any inkling that there may be other human life there. Hairs began to rise on the back of his neck. It was suspicious, and he didn't like it. Being left behind was inevitable, but there was one other left.
Were they planning to ambush him? That wouldn't be so bad. Fighting, however, roused no great energy. If he fought, then he would fight. He had no desire to go looking for one, though.
Except for Tris.
Where is she?
The murmuring of voices carried through the corridor he'd turned into. They were trying to be quiet, albeit forgetting how well sound carried in these small, metal walkways and rooms.
" . . . plan for advance. Team status?"
"Eaton isn't enjoying the company of a previous friend."
"It's not just her."
As if he could care what they thought about him. He tuned out after they stopped mentioning Tris's name.
The base was so very quiet with nothing but carrying murmurs and the humming of machines that he felt absent of purpose. What a relief it would be to disappear into uselessness.
Don't be an idiot, he told himself, setting off purposely down the hall, you have a job.
If what he had endured meant anything, it would be that he wouldn't let a single hair on Tris's head become injured, whether she wanted or not. He had the strength to do that now.
As he rounded the corner his ears popped.
Underground, why would they—
And then the bombs hit.
"Strength alone will not win you this battle."
"What purpose is there in winning a single battle when trapped in a war?"
"What purpose is there to war at all, then? Tell me. . . .
. . . You started it, after all."
You proud of me? I'm sort of . . . not. That last bit with Tobias was so shit I'm really sorry, I was just so desperate to move his development on with Tris that I ditched everything else. Yeah, sorry if you had a soft spot for any of the OCs but like, if you desperately want them I guess I can . . . bring them back . . .
Yeah like Percy.
Hope you enjoyed this comeback (or maybe not so much) I'll try and become regular again but remember that as a person I do have a life as a student and also as an athlete which doesn't leave me a lot of time for just about anything.
If you get fed up with an absence you can try the dA page which I go on sometimes, and on that bio is a link to my tumblr (I believe) that you can spam me with you actually post something so I don't forget with all the panicking I do for school and injuries I nurse from sport.
(Damn I sound so mature whilst I read this. Guys I'm still a little immature shit don't be scared. I'm Australian; we never grow up. Ever. Just dumber.)
Until the next chapter,
Owl
