Call of the Wolves

by kuku88

"I'm not what you think I am," breathed the spiky, black-haired bad boy, leaning in. "Sure you aren't," she muttered, pushing him away. He raised an eyebrow. "That's what you think," he replied evenly. Rated T, R&R!

77. Chapter 77: Wolves of Mercy

CHAPTER 77: WOLVES OF MERCY

ME: Listen, listen—I know it's been a long time, but please hear me out!

BRICK: How will you explain your absence now, huh?

ME: Well, school really is super busy and stressful—

BRICK: *rolls eyes* Of course.

ME: I'm serious! I had breakdowns last year because of all the stress! And to the guest reviewer who checked on me by asking if I was okay, I just wanted to say I really really appreciate it!

BRICK: *softens* Look, I know it's tough and I'm sorry if I seemed insensitive, but your classes ended in late April!

ME: I know, I know. I just had so much planned for this chapter, including an April Fool's bit where I collaborated with my best friend starrysky7267 to write a certain scene with her characters, and it did take quite awhile to all put together.

BRICK: I guess that makes sense.

ME: Right? And school has just started again so I can't promise an update anytime soon, but hey, at least this chapter is around 32,000 words!

BUTTERCUP: 32,000?

ME: Yeah! It's why it's 105 pages long!

BUTTERCUP: 105 pages long!?

ME: Anyway, hope you guys enjoy! Please leave a review~

Chapter 77: Wolves of Mercy

---

"And now, my darling, what did you think of my little show?" he asked breathlessly, his grin stretching wide as he stretched his arms wider.

The maid looked up at the screen, where she could just make out the sky and the trees as the camera rushed forward and a screech sounded. If the hideous noise bothered her, she did not show it. "It is a piece of high art, sir."

"Hmmm." He leaned back in his chair, satisfied by the response. He blew out a smoke ring from his cigarette and laughed. "Indeed, it is a piece of art—but I am looking for a masterpiece. Something more."

"A masterpiece?"

As if her words were the key, he spun toward her with golden eyes glittering like sharp steel. "I'm so glad you asked, Louisa. I want this little experiment of mine to go even further. And while this start is as good as any, I was hoping for a little more to the show. Art is pain, yes, but sometimes it is something so much more than that."

She remained still, head bowed and eyes closed. As if programmed to do so, she promptly asked, "And what would that 'more' be, sir?"

"Death." When she looked up, he grinned so wide that almost all his fangs were visible, his pupils constricting. "When I am finished, there will be no mercy. I want someone to die."

---

War is death.

If there was one thing that Danes had learned was an absolute truth since his childhood, it was that. He'd lived through one war, protecting Damon. And now he was living through another, seeking to destroy that same man. It was an ironic twist of fate.

War destroys. War hurts. War kills. All multiple ways of saying the same thing. War is death.

The thought repeated itself in his mind as he lifted his hand. His soldiers waited behind him, fangs bared and claws outstretched. They stood in front of the mutated bats, all of whom were hidden in shadow, their blood-red eyes glinting. Danes' own gray eyes were scanning the area, and he tried to make them cold—and make his heart colder.

Across from them stood the enemy's army. They stood with their own claws at the ready, eyes narrowed.

"Attack," he commanded, bringing his hand down.

And the sea of people behind him rushed forward, a tidal wave crashing down on their enemies. As roars sounded around him, Danes closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

War is death.

He thought of his father, standing tall in the midst of battle. The image was distorted by flashes of the same man, later weakened by poison, swaying because of hallucinations of death.

Danes refused to be weak. He opened his eyes and raced forward, aiding one of his men in shaking off an opponent. As he dragged the enemy to the ground, Danes spotted someone in the crowd.

Sampson was staring back at him, eyes wide.

Danes' mind flashed back to the past. His trap. The shed with the bomb. How he led the enemies inside and locked them in. How he detonated the bomb. How death and destruction followed.

And one of those deaths remained unconfirmed, as the body had disappeared shortly after. Sampson's daughter.

He briefly wondered if she ever awakened, but before he could dwell on the subject any more or even think of a plan, Sampson's eyes narrowed and his pupils became pinpricks as he let out a snarl. Then he was rushing toward Danes like a wolf descending on its prey.

When the man's fist met his face, Danes took a step back to stabilize himself.

"I've waited a long time for this," panted Sampson, grabbing his opponent by the head. He brought his knee up until it smashed into Danes' face and he heard the crack and felt the heaviness of blood ooze out.

Grunting, Danes wiped the blood from his nose before swiping at Sampson. As the two continued their fight, one of skill and elegance, they almost looked as if they were dancing.

Danes, however, could see the murderous intent in the other man's eyes.

Death would surely follow.

He was glad the rest of his family wasn't present. They wouldn't have to suffer, and he wouldn't have to see them put their lives at risk. Michael and Christie and their parents had to attend a family funeral, and Danes had briefly wondered if he'd had to go, but it had been deemed unnecessary.

After all, there was still a war to be fought.

He looked up and spotted his opponent charging at him. Danes jumped out of the way, but Sampson whirled around quickly and kicked him in the head. Stumbling backwards, Danes tried to reorient himself as his vision began swimming before him.

The thudding in his head rose, matching the thudding of his heart. He wondered how much of the noise was internal, and how much of it was from the battlefield around them.

Over the thickness that seemed to swathe his ears, he could just barely make out a yell. He tried to move out of the way by dodging here and there, but he still couldn't make out his position. It wasn't long until Sampson finally managed to catch him, throwing Danes to the ground.

He collapsed with a thud, and felt a knife stab into his arm. He let out a hiss of pain, squinting up at the blurry face.

"What you did to my daughter…you will pay for that tonight." He could barely make the words out, but the message was clear.

Sampson drew the blade back and got ready to plunge it down again, but the strike didn't come right away. He was hesitating.

He never was a hardhearted soldier. Doing so in war, even for a split second, was a grievous mistake. One that could cost a life…or save it.

Danes forced himself to concentrate, and he let out a screech so high-pitched that no regular human would have heard it. But for the extra-sensitive ears of Sampson and his soldiers, the noise was deafening.

"Augh!" Sampson slammed his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut, just as more screeches sounded. He managed to lift his head and briefly open one eye, squinting at the dark shadows that swarmed the sky.

The shadows grew until they seemed to blot out the sun, their massive wings stretched open wide. The only light came from the dim, hollow redness deep inside their sockets.

Sampson's eyes widened as he slowly lowered his hands from his ears. "What the hell is that…"

Danes let out another screech, and the giants descended, all shrieking and spinning as they stretched their claws out. Soldiers screamed and scattered, many having to cover their ears at the terrifying commotion.

Sampson dropped to his knees, letting out a cry of pain from the overwhelming noise. As Danes slowly managed to stand up, the man looked up at him through teary eyes. "What have you done?" he gasped.

Danes didn't reply, keeping his gaze cold as he picked the knife up. He inspected it, being able to make out a familiar wolf insignia carved onto its hilt. A gift from Damon. He still remembered the similar dagger Damon had given to Tyrone.

The dagger that had killed Tyrone.

He lifted the blade instinctively, almost as if he was programmed to do so, like an automaton.

Sampson stared back at him but said nothing, waiting for his execution.

Danes positioned himself with the knife to Sampson's neck, but before he could think to do or not do anything, a flurry of giant black wings fell around them. With screeches and blood-red eyes, the mutant bats grabbed Sampson. Acting more akin to vultures than bats, they tore at his skin with their claws, lapping at the blood that filled the air.

Danes could smell the blood. It was a deliciously thick and tangy scent that encased the entire battlefield, but there was more to it as well. The smell of a wolf.

Sampson met Danes' eyes, and his gaze was accusatory. He dug his fingers into the dirt and dragged himself closer to him, leaving a trail of blood behind. "Danes," he whispered.

Even though he heard him over the din of the battle, Danes did not react.

"Do you still remember?" he asked, pulling himself upwards. His voice, so quiet and low, carried over with perfect clarity. "Do you still remember my daughter's name?"

The bats sniffed at his blood trail with delight, with some hopping over to find more. Sampson ignored them.

"Because I still remember the names of you and your family. Maggie. Chris. Christie. Michael. I remember helping deliver the children as babies." He swallowed. "I remember Don and Dahlia. They'd been so overjoyed to become grandparents."

Danes' eyes widened at the unexpected turn of events. Already the memory was flooding back, even as his mind issued warnings: He is trying to weaken your resolve. He is simply striking at a weak spot. Don't let him. Don't let yourself be overcome with these memories—with emotions. Be stone.

"I was treating them before they died…remember? They told me they were happy we managed to create that truce." Sampson grunted in pain. "All because of Damon. I still remember our times with him. Together as family. As friends."

Danes froze. But even water wears down stone. He felt his rigid shoulders slump, already recalling his parents' happy faces with perfect clarity. They had been happy to see peace, and they had been even more overjoyed to witness their family grow.

He recalled his father rocking baby Christie in his arms. He'd smiled and cooed at her, the way Danes had never seen his father do, leading to the young man briefly wondering if he'd ever cooed like that at him and Chris. Don's warmth glowed as he let her grab ahold of his finger and he laughed when she wouldn't let go. A fighter, he'd called her.

In the end, you were always right, kids. That Damon is a good boy, his father had said with a smile. He's done so much for us.

But it hadn't been the end. It had only been the beginning of their unraveling perfection. "Enough," Danes whispered.

"I remember peace."

"Enough!" Danes rushed forward.

Sampson closed his eyes, seemingly accepting his fate as he finally stopped dragging himself any closer and lay still on the grass. But instead of plunging the knife into his heart, Danes began pushing his own mutated bats aside. "The experiment is over," he hissed, before letting out more screeches to communicate with them. "Return to the labs!"

Confused, they scrambled backwards and stared at their commander, chattering furiously.

He roared again in response, and they immediately took to the sky.

Danes collapsed onto his knees before Sampson, plunging the blade down into the grass mere centimetres from the man's throat. "You talk too much," he managed to rasp before the flurrying wings subsided.

He looked up now that the giant shadows were gone and the sky was visible again. He felt surprise stab at his heart. The results were far more gruesome than he could've imagined. Dead bodies piled high. Blood running from their fresh corpses like a river.

He remembered his father's visions when he was briefly incapacitated during the coup. He'd often mentioned a river of blood teeming with dead bodies—and it seemed that this time, it had really happened.

But it was no longer the fault of the enemy. This time, it was Danes'.

As he scanned the casualties, Sampson did so as well. He was visibly much more horrified and disgusted, even turning his head away and dry-heaving at the sight of a dead teenager.

"What have you done?" he said.

"I did what I had to do." Danes turned away again, slowly lowering his head toward his blood-soaked hand. It was trembling just slightly. The smell of iron was overpowering. Despite being a vampire, he wondered if he could get full through scent alone. The aroma of blood filled the air and soaked every body and blade of grass, mingling into one messy, tangy scent.

I remember peace.

He thought back to Damon and his smiling face, so easily filled with terror at the sight of war. More of Sampson's words ran through his head: I still remember our times with him. Together as family. As friends.

Sampson turned back around so that he could look up at Danes, whose blank expression did not express the feelings swirling inside of him.

"Danes…"

His ears were still ringing when they replayed Sampson's first question on a seemingly infinite loop: Do you still remember my daughter's name?

He turned to the other man, now very aware of the blood splattered on Sampson's face and arms, where his flesh had been picked open.

"Her name. It…" He hesitated, wondering for a brief second whether he should go with present tense or past tense. "It's Cassandra." Cassandra of Troy. Gifted with the ability to prophesies the future, but cursed to have no one ever believe her.

Sampson didn't respond right away. He shook his head before choking out, "You can't control these beasts."

So it seemed it was now Danes' turn to look to the future and choose whether or not he wished to believe the prophecies offered to him.

So be it, he thought bitterly, drawing himself up straight. We already accepted the Trojan horse, and it already betrayed us.

Damon won that battle, but I won't let him win any more. Danes looked over the dead bodies and weakened soldiers, feeling his resolve harden. What difference does a few more tragedies make?

He lifted his head.

Sampson's piercing gaze met his, and the rage in his eyes that burned with the intensity of the sun appeared to have been eclipsed. He murmured, almost in pity, "Oh, Danes…why couldn't you have stepped away before you got this far?"

---

The screams of the mutant bats were incoherent and yet almost comprehensible. Ross stood, staring upwards as their giant wings filled every corner of the sky.

The screeching seemed to cry out in hunger, demanding a tribute so that they could be satiated. Feed me, they clamoured, feed me or else.

It was spoken in a demonic fashion, and even as a vampire himself, Ross could barely understand them. It was almost like his people's own language as bats, yet also so garbled as to be unrecognizable.

He glanced around him, noting all the writhing soldiers on the ground with their eyes squeezed shut and their hands pressed to their ears. Their cries of agony echoed the screeching of the bats who swooped down onto them, the darkness eventually consuming their bodies.

Ross grimaced as he heard the rips and tears of flesh, saw the blood splattering into the air, and smelled the tangy sweet scent. His nose twitched, with his stomach insisting that he was hungry.

But as he approached the feasting bats, they looked up to glare at him with their beady red eyes and Ross stopped. The soldiers at their feet were being picked open, eyes rolling to the back of their head as they were slowly torn to shreds.

The disturbing imagery immediately stomped down on his hunger and Ross turned around and threw up on the grass.

I'm so sorry, he whispered to himself. I'm so sorry for what we've done to you. All of you deserved better. All of you had more life ahead of you. It was taken from you too quickly. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

The bats turned away from him and continued their chewing, while Ross stood with his own back turned to them. He closed his eyes and counted to ten, trying to breathe normally.

He wanted fresh air, but the almost oppressively delectable stench of blood filled his nostrils. It was still delectable. Sickeningly so. He could still feel the hunger gnawing at him. Even after all that he'd seen. Ross was disgusted.

He was disgusted with himself.

They were people—people with their own lives. He swayed on the grass, feeling sick. He wanted to vomit again, and he was suddenly aware of how tired his limbs were. They were numb and heavy, hanging loose at his sides as if there were weights tying them down.

I want to go home, he thought, covering his nose. I want—

He froze when he felt something nudging his arm, and then the wet flicker of a tongue lapping at an open wound. Ross' green eyes flashed open and he looked down, petrified.

The thing sniffing and licking at him was a mutant bat, although it was smaller than the others. It seemed like a runt; probably too small to compete with the bigger bats to grab its own meal. And yet, it was still taller and probably stronger than him. It had come for the nearest morsel it could find. The realization scared him. It had come for him.

Heart pounding, Ross pulled away. Didn't Danes make sure they wouldn't come for vampiric blood? his head shouted in a panic. "Shoo, get away!" he cried.

The bat cocked its head at him before continuing to approach.

"Dammit!" Ross squeezed his eyes shut. He wasn't usually so easily scared, but the imagery of this latest battle had left a deep, almost traumatizing impression on him. The pooling of blood reminded him too much of his father's death, where he'd found him on the floor with a wound gushing blood. Ross remembered those wide, lifeless eyes and how helpless they had looked…

Helpless. Like I am helpless.

"You heard him! Get away!" a female's voice suddenly called. It was followed by squeaks and screeches high-pitched enough for the bat to understand.

Ross opened his eyes again and was startled to see Sydney standing in front of him, her arms crossed. Even though her back was to him, he could just imagine the fierce glare on her face.

The bat shrank back, looking scared as its ears drooped. With a few cries and squeaks, it finally scuttled off.

Sydney turned around. "That was a close one, huh? It must've been attracted to your half-human blood. But at least it didn't seem unfriendly."

He turned to her, his heart still skittering. "Th-Thank you," he breathed. It was the only words he could currently think of.

"Oh, n-no problem." She rubbed the back of her head sheepishly. "It really wasn't any big deal. Just a runt, is all. Probably wasn't even going to hurt you."

"I-I know. I was just…" He looked down, trembling as his mind reminded him of the swarm of dead bodies whose flesh had been peeled away. His vision blurred as he swayed again.

"Ross?"

Her voice sounded far away.

"Hey, you okay?" she called. He could barely hear her.

He briefly wondered why. Why did it feel like he was drowning in a vat of blood? Was he dreaming? He vaguely recalled the glassy eyes of his father as he lay on his own blood. Had it been deep enough for Ross to drown in?

He felt like he was falling, but in slow motion. His vision was darkening. How far was he sinking?

Just when he was about to hit the bottom, he felt something strong catch him.

"Come on—stay with me now—"

Who's calling me? It didn't sound like his uncle crying for him the way he'd done after his dad's body had been found.

It sounded like a siren.

"Ross."

The firm gentleness of the voice jolted him awake. The imaginary waves of blood disappeared, although the stench didn't. He turned to face the voice again.

The siren. Sydney.

"What's wrong?" she asked urgently, her brow furrowed.

He shook his head, unable to reply.

Sydney looked up and around. "I guess it's pretty obvious," she murmured. She crouched down so that she was eye-level with Ross. "Come on; let's go."

He looked up in surprise despite still feeling delirious. "But our duty—"

"What's Danes going to do, fire us? It's fine. Come on." She pulled him up and as he stood on wobbly legs, she asked, "Can you walk? Do you need me to carry you?" She blushed then, quickly adding, "N-Not that you have to have me do that…if you don't need to, that is. Or if you don't want to. That's cool too. Totally cool. Cool with me, I mean. Not cool cool. But not uncool." She face-palmed and muttered to herself, "Oh God…"

"I-I'll be okay." He tried to take a step forward but nearly tripped, causing Sydney to catch him in her arms.

"Whoa! Okay, how's about I just help you walk?"

He nodded, and she wrapped an arm around him so that he could lean into her as they slowly made their way away from the battlefield. Ross' mind still felt far away and fuzzy, like he was still drowning. But at least he could slowly hear the crunching sounds growing fainter, along with the smell of blood, and when they went into the forest, he was finally able to breathe open air again.

"Thanks," he said, turning to Sydney after having gulped in the air. "It was getting really bad back there for me."

"It's alright," she responded softly with a small, evidently tired, lopsided smile. It reminded him of her grinning as a little girl in that crooked, mischievous way. But that smile had been filled with energy and confidence, while this one showed signs of exhaustion and discomfort.

It only served to remind him that they were no longer as close as they used to be. That he was the source of her discomfort.

He turned to the direction from which they came. "The fight should be wrapping up by now—"

A screech exploded just then, followed by loud chattering and then many, many screeches as giant wings took to the sky.

"Looks like Danes has called them off," he breathed.

Sydney followed his gaze, nodding. "I guess that's a sign we should be heading back."

Ross sighed, before standing a little straighter. "Alright, let's go."

As they made their way back to the clearing, they saw soldiers who'd survived the massacre running out with wide eyes. Their bodies were covered in scratch marks, some more severe than others.

The image of terror made Ross' stomach roil.

"Don't look," Sydney murmured, gently covering his vision so that he had to turn his head and focus on her face. Her eyes were gentle—much gentler than anyone would expect Sydney's to be. "I'm here."

He managed to relax a little, and they hobbled slowly forward, trying to ignore the shrieks of pain and sadness and anger around them, as well as all the silent dead bodies. Those were even harder to ignore, their silence accusatory and loud.

Before they reached the field, however, a roar came from above them. They both looked up just in time to see an enemy soldier jumping down from a tree. He was badly injured, but his rage seemed to have given him a spurt of energy.

He tackled Ross, knocking him to the ground.

Even as Ross wrestled the man, he could feel the invisible weights on his arms threatening to tire him out. He let out a shout and pushed the man away, but as he tried to return to Sydney, his opponent grabbed him and violently clawed him.

He let out a cry of pain, which seemed to ignite something in Sydney's eyes.

Rushing forward, she kicked the man squarely in the face. Given her inhuman strength, her years of soccer practice among other sports—and most of all her current rage—the man was sent flying.

She bent down to help him up.

Before any words escaped his lips, her eyes widened and she shoved him behind her.

Their opponent had jumped back up and charged at them, this time with a blade.

And it plunged straight into Sydney's shoulder.

She grunted in pain, squeezing one eye shut as she fell to her knee and held her now bleeding arm.

"You vampire scum will pay for what you did today," the man hissed, reaching for the blade.

"Like hell we will!" She pulled herself up and swung her leg high so that it hit him right in the chin, causing him to fall backwards.

"Sydney!" Ross gasped. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she managed to reply, panting. Even as she said this, the colour was clearly draining from her face.

Before either of them could do anything, the man was suddenly rushing determinedly past Sydney and toward Ross.

Ross' eyes widened. It was as if things were happening in slow motion, and he had barely any time to react. The man was already in front of him—he probably couldn't even try to dodge—

"Checkmate," his opponent whispered, a malicious, crazed grin spreading on his face.

"STAY AWAY FROM HIM!" Sydney yelled. She had whirled around, and with super fast reflexes, thrown the blade at the man.

It stabbed through his neck.

With the man being practically on top of Ross now, the boy had a front row seat to witness the brutal killing. As the blood began seeping from the man's neck, he slowly jerked his head down to peer at Ross with wide, veiny eyes. "You will…pay…" he gurgled, his words growing barely coherent as the blood bubbled up and out of his mouth.

Then he fell on top of Ross, causing him to collapse under the weight. As the lifeless eyes of the man rolled back and the head fell, Ross felt horror fill his veins. The body was so close—it was literally on top of him—and all of a sudden, it felt too personal. He could feel the tip of the knife press against his own Adam's apple as he swallowed. Ross was shaking so hard he wondered if it was just fear or if he was crying—because he sure felt like he was.

There was something so much worse about the neck than the rest of the body being stabbed.

Why oh why couldn't she have gotten his heart instead? his mind wailed in desperation, even though he knew deep down that even that wouldn't be too much of a comfort. It was still too close, too personal, too real.

Panting, Sydney was still frozen with her arm outstretched. But then she recovered, blinking rapidly, soon scrambling towards him. "Ross! Ross, are you alright?"

He nodded weakly, still too shaken to move. He was overtly aware of the scent of blood, and how much of it was seeping through his clothes, staining it and his skin red. He turned around and vomited again.

"Oh God," she said breathlessly, grabbing the dead body and shoving it off of him. She turned to him and immediately helped him up. "I'm so sorry—"

"I-I-It's okay," he stammered, trembling against her in her arms. "Th-Thank you for s-s-saving me."

She hugged him, giving him a reassuring squeeze and letting him rest his head against her shoulder. "I'm here," she murmured repeatedly. "I'm here… I'll protect you; I won't let anyone else hurt you, I promise. I'm here…"

Ross only then realized that he really was crying, as his tears and the blood splattered on his body stained Sydney's clothes a darker shade. As she hugged him tight, he stared out at the dead man, tears streaming down his face.

---

Sampson collapsed outside his house after barely mustering enough strength to ring the doorbell. He'd managed to drag himself home, but it had drained the last of his energy. His vision was already beginning to blur when the door opened and a scream sounded.

"DAD! Are you okay!?" Cassandra's voice was crying.

He fell into her arms, sinking into unconsciousness, while she did her best to drag him inside. She quickly shut the door and when a few worried, curious, nosy neighbours stuck out their heads, she grinned sheepishly and explained that she'd seen a stray bat flying around.

As they murmured to themselves with shakes of their head, she hurried back inside.

"Dad! Dad, can you hear me?" she asked urgently.

He wasn't responding, and was bleeding profusely. She felt for his pulse and was relieved to find it, although it only calmed her nerves a little. Cassandra set to work finding medical supplies for her father, making a bit of a mess and cursing the time she'd spent in her coma. Even though she knew Sampson had tried to keep the house the same for her, eighteen months was still a long time and things somehow seemed unfamiliar and out-of-place—especially now, when it was a time of crisis and she was looking for very particular things, with her panic fogging her mind.

She finally managed to accumulate enough medical supplies and quickly set to work, cleaning and dressing the man's wounds. Her hands were shaking and tears kept threatening to fall, but she blinked them back with determination.

I will not let you die. I will not! You didn't let me, and you cared for me for eighteen months. Now it's my turn. Struggling to breathe, she managed to finish up the bandages and collapsed by her father's side.

It was then that she finally let her tears fall. She couldn't stop remembering when she was still just a helpless little girl, watching a vampire stranger break into their house and murder her mother in cold blood when he hadn't even known their family, all for the sake of war.

She remembered her father's rage, his eyes becoming little red dots of hatred, turning him into another stranger who blindly stabbed at the intruder again and again and again…

She shuddered at the memory of blood.

Flashback

That night, Cassandra has sworn she'd seen a monster flirting about in the shadows of her room.

She shivered as she drew the blankets closer to her, trying her best to be brave, the way her daddy said she was. But every little movement and noise made her perk her ears up in terror as her eyes grew larger and larger. Her breaths became terrified rasps, and she swore something drew closer.

Eventually, when her mind began to settle and drift back into sleep, she felt something cold touch her neck. Her eyes flew open and she thought she was met with the red glare of a monster, their lips twisted into a snarl that showed off their fangs.

But when she blinked, the creature was gone.

Terrified, Cassandra began to cry.

"Cass? Baby?" a gentle voice asked, with her father peeking inside her room.

"I saw a monster," she whimpered, eyes wide in the darkness. "He had sharp claws and bright red eyes."

"It must've been just a nightmare," he'd yawned, giving her a hug. "It's okay now. Go back to sleep, okay? I'm right here."

"But Daddy isn't here," she cried.

"Then I'll sleep with you," he replied reassuringly, climbing onto her bed. She nodded quietly, and the two hugged each other. Cassandra fell asleep, and Sampson soon did as well.

The monster's presence pierced into her dreams, as if its claws were reaching for her once again—but this time it reached even further—deep, deep inside her mind.

Gasping, she woke up and stared out into the darkness. Then her heart stopped. The monster was back, and this time he was very, very real.

Sampson stirred when he heard her whimpering, but he didn't even open his eyes to murmur sleepily, "There, there… It's okay, there aren't any monsters here—" But he never finished that sentence because he felt something sharp stab into his side.

"DADDY!" Cassandra screamed.

Sampson's eyes flew open and he was met with a wicked smile of sharp teeth, red eyes staring back at him as the person slowly pulled the knife out of his side.

Sampson stared back, silently enraged, before grabbing the blade, which was halfway out of his skin. The most important thing about fighting against someone with a knife was making sure they had no way of stabbing you again.

"Get out of my house," he snarled.

The door slammed open just then, and Rosemary stood in the doorway, now wide awake. She saw the scene and immediately let out a screech. "What are you doing to my family!?" She tackled the intruder, and they fought throughout the room.

Cassandra watched, horrified. Her heart thudded furiously in her chest, and even though she was worried, she held fast onto the belief that her mother would win.

Her mother had to win.

When Rosemary finally gained the upper hand, knocking the person down and seemingly out, she rushed to comfort her baby and check on her husband.

"Shhh, it's okay now," she soothed. Perhaps she meant them for both Cassandra and Sampson, who closed his eyes as she applied pressure to his wound to try and stop the bleeding.

Cassandra kept her eye on the intruder though, and once he began twitching, she let out another terrified cry. The parents whirled around to see him once again rising from the ground. He flew forward, but Cassandra tried to fight him, and he easily flung her aside.

Letting out an enraged shriek, Rosemary fought him with teeth and claws, a mother bear—or wolf—unleashed. But the man managed to grab ahold of the knife, now on the nightstand beside Sampson. Sampson had been struggling to get up, but the pain was so great he kept getting dragged back down.

"Nobody move," the man hissed, grabbing Cassandra. "Or I slit her throat."

"You wouldn't dare!" Rosemary growled, her eyes glowing with rage.

"Try me," he responded, while Cassandra began to cry.

Rosemary let out a deep breath, staying where she was. Seeing his daughter in danger, Sampson found enough strength within himself to lunge forward and tackle the man. The intruder tried to cut Cassandra's throat, but got her arm instead.

The little girl was screaming and sobbing now, and Rosemary flew forward as well. They finally managed to tackle the girl out of the man's grasp, and Sampson cradled Cassandra and nursed his wound as Rosemary fought the intruder.

"I'm going to fucking kill you filthy wolves!" the man spat. "Especially you, you bitch! I'm going to take away everything you love before I skin you alive." He made an attempt to stab Sampson or Cassandra again, causing the girl to shriek, but Rosemary jumped in at once to protect them.

And this time, the blade got her heart.

Sampson's eyes grew wide and time seemed to freeze. He met Rosemary's gaze, before she collapsed on the floor, hacking as her hair covered her face.

Sneering, the man plunged the blade into her again and again.

"Mommy!" Cassandra cried, sobbing.

Sampson rushed forward and grabbed the man, tackling him onto the ground. In a fit of blind rage, he managed to wrestle the knife from him and stabbed it into the intruder over and over again.

"Sammy, no…"

Rosemary's pained voice returned him to reality, and he rushed back to her side. And with that, father and daughter clustered around the mother as they bawled their eyes out.

But when Sampson tried to save her at that moment, when the rage had passed, she took his hand and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Sammy. This time, there is no next thyme… This is the last thyme…" she gasped, using the old inside joke of a pun between her and Sampson to try and lighten the mood at least a little.

He shook his head. "You shouldn't speak," he blubbered.

She simply smiled. She took their hands and stroked their faces, her eyes filled with love as she said, "I'm sorry this has to be our goodbye. But remember that Mommy loves both of you so, so much—more than anything in the world… My heart is filled with the flowers of love for the both of you, and these flowers will continue to grow, even after I'm gone…" She smiled, coughing up blood. "Just know that I love you. That I'll be here, in every plant and flower. That I'll be watching over you…and goodbye."

Cassandra wasn't the only one wailing in the dark that night, watching as shadows of darkness reached out and pulled the life of Rosemary away. When Rosemary passed away, Sampson comforted Cassandra for the rest of that night, and even when she fell asleep from exhaustion, he continued to distract himself.

He cleaned the bedroom until it was sparkling clean and wiped of any blood, and he pulled all the plants in the house toward this one room. He looked things over and vowed to get even more plants for the house in the future, until their home could become a jungle—one that Rosemary's spirit would be happy to inhabit.

Then he took a look at the body of the intruder, which had grown stone cold. When he succumbed to his hateful curiosity and unmasked the man, he grew even more angry to discover that he didn't even know who it was. It seemed as if the man wouldn't have known them either—just another target of hatred produced from war, and nothing more. No personal issues or understandings—just the hatred and knowledge that war provided.

To this man, Sampson's family were even less than dogs. They weren't even living creatures. To him, as soon as he'd been given them as targets, they'd become nothing more than dead, reduced to little red dots that he needed to exterminate.

Sampson found so much disgust within himself at such a prospect that he focused on Rosemary's body, and he was immediately filled with sorrow and love. He called the police, and the death of Rosemary was classified as manslaughter from home invasion, and the secret war remained a secret war. Sampson didn't face charges in the man's death.

Cassandra became quiet after that, and it took a long time before she opened up again.

End Flashback

Cassandra knew her father still carried a lot of regret from that day, wondering what would've gone differently if he hadn't flown into a blind rage. Even if the chances had been slim, could he have saved his wife?

Cassandra knew that realistically the answer was a no, and she also never blamed her father for it, although she was so withdrawn she knew Sampson worried she did.

He had felt disgusted with himself for stabbing that man so many times; feeling like he was no better than the beast that carved into his wife again and again. But his guilt and regret, and even his anger from that outburst, was exactly what made her father not like that man—not like a monster.

It was what made him human.

As she tried to help her father, she wondered whether the person who did this to him held any regret. Whoever it was, they didn't seem human to her. Perhaps she was biased, but Cassandra desperately didn't want to lose her father too.

If you die, what will I do? Try and get revenge? she wondered. But what can I do? I don't even know who did this to you…

Sampson stirred, groaning, and blinked open one eye. Cassandra let out a squeal, nearly throwing herself at him but resisting the urge in fear of reopening any of his wounds.

"Ouch," he mumbled, rubbing his temples. "Sweetie, please—I have a pounding headache."

"Sorry," she said breathlessly, gently wrapping her arms around him. "It was either that or tackle you in a hug."

He looked down at his bandaged limbs and nodded approvingly, smiling. "You did a good job."

"I learned from the best." She paused then, suddenly serious again. "Dad, who did this to you?"

"I guess you could say it was Danes."

"What!?" She remembered the bomb in the shed and Danes' cold, unfeeling gray gaze… Inhuman. Monstrous. Despite herself, rage filled her heart.

"But I don't think even he understood the power of what he unleashed upon us," Sampson continued. He shifted and groaned again. "His face was horrified after the ordeal. It was the most expressive I've seen him in years—maybe ever."

"What did he unleash, Dad? What on earth was it, to be capable of all this?" she asked.

He paused, seemingly contemplating his choice of words, before sighing. "There's no easy way to say this. How do I even explain it? They were giant, filling the sky…"

"What was giant?" she pressed.

"Bats, Cassandra. Giant, mutant bats."

She froze, staring at Sampson in shock. "He…made mutants?"

He nodded. "It seems that he's been experimenting," he spat in disgust. "Who knows for how long."

I've been getting close to Michael for weeks now and yet I never learned a thing. Could I have prevented this? She suddenly felt guilty, the way she often did when she thought of her budding friendship with Michael, but this time it was for a completely different reason. This time, she was guilty she hadn't pried more.

Sampson sighed and tilted his head back. "To think I once thought him an admirable man." He shook his head just slightly. "I miss those days. The days of peace."

Cassandra couldn't reply, feeling as though a lump had been lodged in her throat. Her father had almost died, and all of this could've been prevented. What have I even been doing? Getting close to Michael and for what?

I learned nothing of use. I could've lost Dad today. And then I would've been truly alone.

"I need to go," she said abruptly, standing up.

Bewildered, he furrowed his brow. "Whatever for?"

"Just to get some more supplies," she mumbled back, already grabbing her jacket and shoes. "I'll be back soon! Get some rest."

As she rushed out the door, she left her father sitting there in confusion.

Cassandra ran out of the house filled with angry determination, and she kept running even when her legs grew sore. When she finally stopped in front of Michael's house, she felt dizzy and out-of-breath, causing her to lean against the fence and watch as guards marched to and fro.

She felt frustration claw at her belly as she tried to figure out how she was supposed to get in. I don't have time for this, she thought, finally deciding to just step outside and wing it.

"Halt! Who goes there?" one guard demanded, immediately spinning around to glare at her.

She thought she even recognized this person from the battlefield. Ducking her head in the hopes of not getting recognized herself, she called out in the most disarming voice she could manage, "I'm sorry for disturbing you! But I'm one of Michael's friends."

"A friend of Master Michael's?" The guard glanced at the other one with him.

The other guard shrugged. "I think I've seen her come to a party or two."

"I guess we should ring for the young master then," the first one mused aloud.

Yes, please do! she thought, annoyed.

One of them stayed with her and the other hurried inside. When he came back out with Michael, Cassandra's patience had already begun to run out.

"Cass?" he said, the surprise audible in his tone.

"There you are!" She spun around, only for her eyes to widen, startled by his appearance. He was dressed in a black suit, and he looked handsome in it. It was almost as if he were going to a funeral.

When she recovered from the surprise, she almost wanted to laugh out loud at the irony. Her father lay perhaps close to death because of Danes, yet it was Danes' nephew who was wearing the mourning clothes.

"You look like you're going to a funeral."

"…Something like that," he murmured back, before pausing and asking incredulously, "What's wrong? Did something happen? Why are you here?"

Cassandra remembered a time when he would've been ecstatic to see her, ignoring his own confusion if he had any. She briefly wondered if she was losing her influence on him due to the last time they were together, but she pulled herself out of such thoughts. "Can we speak somewhere more private and alone?" she asked.

Michael glanced at all the guards attempting to secretly watch them out of curiosity—and failing quite badly at it—and he nodded. "Okay. Come inside. But I have to leave really soon, so you can't stay for long."

Don't tell me what to do. The words crossed her mind before she could even think them over, and she pushed them away. She followed him into the mansion and stood, watching as he closed the doors behind him.

Cassandra met his eyes when he turned around. She continued to stare straight into them as she spoke, enunciating each word with perfect clarity. "We need to talk."

"But what's going on?" he asked. "You've…never exactly come here without an invitation before."

"I'm here because of everything being so wrong!" she cried. When he stared at her in wide-eyed shock, she managed to rein her emotions back a little. "I'm sorry. I'm just…frustrated. I just want you to confirm or deny one thing for me…"

He nodded slowly, almost hesitantly. "What…What is it?"

She glanced back at him. He seemed shy, and she was suddenly aware of how much this might look like a confession. She once more wanted to laugh in frustrated amusement. "It's about these noises I've been hearing recently. They're loud. Dangerous. They hurt."

He was visibly confused now. "Sorry?"

"They come from giant mutant bats, Michael. Those noises."

His eyes widened, and it was all the confirmation she needed.

"So you do know about them!" she cried, her voice sounding more accusing than she'd intended.

He put his hands up. "I-I don't know what you're talking about—"

"You can't deny it!" Cassandra interrupted sharply. "Who is responsible for them? Is it you? Your parents? Your uncle?" She purposefully cycled through a few other "guesses" so he didn't think she already knew the truth.

"I-I can't tell you."

"People are getting hurt because of those things, Michael!"

"No, they're not! They haven't been used for anything besides fighting mangy wolves—" This time he interrupted himself, slapping his hands over his mouth as his eyes widened.

Cassandra felt the words sting her like the pinprick of a hospital needle, with the numbing effects of one too. "To fight what exactly?" she asked through gritted teeth.

"Never mind. It's of no importance," he sighed, slumping against the wall.

"Except it is to me," she insisted, narrowing her eyes at him. "They hurt my father. They ripped him up, tore off pieces of his flesh, leaving him to nearly crawl home. Is he a mangy wolf to you?"

His head jerked back up when she mentioned her father, his eyes wide. "They…what? I-I'm so sorry…"

"Am I a mangy wolf to you?"

"No, no…of course not. I'm sorry, I was referring to something else," he said quickly. "I-I didn't know about these bats, I swear. My…" He hesitated, clearly strained and deliberating whether or not he should explain anything. Finally, he settled for the disappointing words: "I really knew nothing of these creatures."

"You're lying."

This time, he willingly met her eyes. "I'm not," he swore, his gaze shining. "You can interrogate me if you want. But I truly didn't know anything about those bats."

She noticed that he used the past tense "didn't know," so he wasn't lying to her that he didn't know them now, at least. Plus, as she looked into his turquoise eyes, she had a strong feeling he was telling the truth.

Finally, she responded, "Interrogation isn't my style. I believe you." She began walking past him, and as she saw him relax in the corner of her eye, she added, "But tell whoever is responsible to call them off."

"I-I'll see what I can do," he finally promised, before hesitating and murmuring, "But sometimes these things just happen."

Cassandra froze hearing those words, and they flashed through her mind like lightning. Sometimes these things just happen. What would've happened to her if her own father had written off her coma with that exact same attitude? Would he have let her die? Where would she be now, eighteen months later? She whirled around and shot Michael a pointed look. "Then we should do something about it. If you won't, I will."

"Cass, it's not your battle…"

"It is when someone close to me is injured." She didn't tell him that this ran deeper for her as well. "I won't let anyone else get hurt on my watch—and neither should you, if you truly care about them. If you truly care about m—" She stopped herself before she could finish saying the words she couldn't yet bring herself to say out loud, but they lingered in the air, even louder than her rage.

He stared at her, looking pained, and she noticed how much raw emotion those turquoise eyes could hold. Realizing that if she stayed even a moment longer, she may loosen her grip and let herself be swept away in those tumultuous turquoise waves, she spun around and left.

Michael watched her go, a sense of sadness washing over him.

"Michael."

He turned at the sound of his uncle approaching, lifting his head up to meet the man's cold gray eyes.

Danes was covered in wounds, scratched up and bleeding, but there weren't the signs of pain that Cassandra had described of her father. No torn off flesh. And much of the blood on Danes didn't even smell like his. When Michael thought about it, he felt sick.

"Michael, are you alright? You look pale. Have you prepared for the funeral? It'll be quite the long trip to Redstone."

"Yes, Uncle." He bowed his head and kept it lowered, unable to meet his uncle's eyes. "In fact, I-I should go and check on Christie and make sure she's ready."

Danes' gaze trailed after Michael, and he uttered, "Halt."

The boy froze.

"I was told by the guards that someone came demanding your presence. Who was it?"

Michael hesitated, his mind racing. He knew he should tell his uncle what Cassandra had said and who she was, and maybe even bring up what she'd demanded, but he was suddenly scared. Scared for her, and what her knowledge of their secrets could lead to. Would Danes hunt her down?

He swallowed. "It was just a school friend, wanting to return something."

"Hmm." Danes narrowed his eyes but didn't pry. "Very well."

Relieved, Michael rushed back upstairs and slid into his room, quickly shutting the door. There he looked down at his clothes of mourning, his heart pounding as he thought back to Cassandra's description of her father's injuries. And then he remembered his own coma, and Ross' time unconscious, and so many other cases from the war, like Vix being missing…

He'd always been taught to just accept these things as the norm. Sometimes these things just happen, his mind reminded him, but even as he thought that, he remembered Cassandra's eyes. They'd been filled with a quiet rage he'd never seen in her—a type of rage that he wasn't even sure he'd ever seen before.

He and his friends had been fighting for so long, fighting their war. Michael had grown tired; numb, even. They had normalized it. Grown desensitized to war and death and tragedy. But after seeing her, he suddenly wanted to stand firm in his own beliefs, which told him this wasn't right. He'd attempted to stand for them that day the mutated bats had been revealed in the courtyard, where he'd stood for a few moments, defying his family's expectations.

So maybe he hadn't lied to Danes. Maybe Cassandra had returned something to him after all. A sense of determination. A desire to end things. The hope that things could end, and without people getting hurt.

Then we should do something about it, she'd said. I won't let anyone else get hurt on my watch—and neither should you, if you truly care about them. If you truly care about m—

His hands tightened into fists as he stared down at the floor. She hadn't let herself finish, but the implications were still there to say what she had meant.

If you truly care about me.

---

"Do you think he'll wake up soon, Professor?" Bubbles asked fretfully, hovering around her father despite knowing it would be better to leave him to work in peace.

"Hmm." He didn't respond fully right away, sticking his tongue out as he attempted to remove the bullet from Boomer's arm. When he couldn't quite reach it, he sighed and lifted his microscopic goggles, straightening his back. "He looks like he'll make it, at the very least. As for waking up, it might take some time, but he shouldn't be unconscious for long."

"Thank God, because I really don't want another Brick amnesia situation on our hands," Blossom remarked, before pausing. She glanced back at the other two Rowdyruff Boys in the lab, sitting with bandages around their arms and blankets over their shoulders. "Speaking of which, why does this keep happening to you guys?"

"Blossom's right," the Professor agreed. "First it was Darkai coming here today, and now Boomer? And you two boys are scratched up too!"

At the mention of Darkai's name, something resembling emotion flashed in Bandit's otherwise emotionless face.

"Darkai…? What the hell was he doing here?" Butch demanded, sounding angry.

"Umm, he's Bunny's boyfriend, remember?" Blossom responded sharply. "And don't try to change the subject!"

Bandit slumped, the sign of life leaving him as he returned to his listless silence.

"Things just get out of hand sometimes, okay? You know the gang wars! We get ambushed sometimes," muttered Butch, not looking at her.

"But if it was just that, then surely you could handle them," Blossom finally murmured. She frowned. "Could it be…? Oh. Oh dear." She turned back to Butch. "Butch, may I speak to you briefly? In private?"

He looked up in surprise, before nodding hesitantly and following her away.

Bandit remained where he was, staring blankly at the floor. His eyes seemed to have lost any shine, looking more like black holes than a rich purple.

The Professor followed Bubbles' gaze to the purple Ruff and murmured, "You better check on him." When she hesitated, he added, "Don't worry. I'm here for Boomer."

Bubbles conceded and flew over to Bandit. Trying to shake off her concerns for her own counterpart, she finally felt all the growing worry she'd been keeping in check temporarily for Bunny's counterpart flood over her. "Bandit, are you alright?"

He glanced up, before his gaze immediately darted back down. But she'd seen how puffy and red they were, with black bags underneath. He'd been crying.

"Oh, Bandy…"

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, but remained otherwise unresponsive.

Bubbles sat down beside him and gently placed her hand on his, healing him a little—but also trying to be there for him a lot.

Meanwhile, Blossom had stopped behind some shelves, away from the others. She peeked out and nodded decisively. "Okay, this should be far enough."

"Why are we trying to stay out of earshot?" Butch asked flatly.

"I just wanted to talk to you about some private matters, and I didn't want to scare you off. I have a feeling that if I asked in a more public, crowded space, you would have refused to say anything."

Butch's eyes widened. His mind quickly cycled through a few possibilities, none of which he liked. One of them involved Buttercup, and that made him almost more nervous than the possibilities of Blossom asking about the war. Please just let it be a dumb question about Brick, Butch prayed silently.

"I was talking to Brick…"

Oh thank God. He felt his shoulders relax. "What, did you two get into another fight? No surprise there. You two are almost always fighting. Well, don't worry. I'll go beat some sense into that dumbass brother of mine, if it makes you feel any better."

"We do not always fight!" she exclaimed indignantly, before pausing. "Do we?"

"Kind of…?"

"You and Buttercup fight more than we do!"

He blushed. "Well, we aren't a couple, now are we?"

"But you are counterparts!"

They were quiet for a little, and then Blossom mumbled, "So you really think that? That Brick and I are just constantly fighting?"

"I mean, you and he seem to get into a lot of arguments. Sometimes I wonder if you're compatible at all with him."

"We are! We don't!" She shook her head in frustration. "I mean, we don't always argue, and we are compatible!" Then she frowned. "But…does it bother him? That we fight? Not always though! Just sometimes!"

"Well, doesn't it bother you? I think it'd bother anyone."

"That's not what I meant!"

"Ah, okay. I guess the small stuff doesn't bother him." Butch tapped his chin thoughtfully. "But you really did put him through emotional hell, you know."

Blossom looked down, clearly ashamed. "I-I know. But I rectified that! Didn't I?"

"Well…I guess." He glanced at her and noticed how sad she now looked, and jumped to remedy the situation. "If it helps, Brick really does love you."

Blossom's cheeks turned bright pink, matching the colour of her eyes, and she pressed a hand to her face almost shyly. "Oh, well… I love him too," she mumbled, before pausing in realization. "Wait a second! This isn't what I even wanted to talk to you about!" she cried. "Were you trying to change the subject!?"

"Uhh…maaaaaybe?" he admitted with a sheepish grin and shrug.

She shook her head. "You're unbelievable, Butch. I don't know how BC puts up with you."

He looked down then, suddenly serious. "She doesn't."

Blossom paused. "What?"

"N-Nothing."

Her gaze softened. "Did you two get in another fight?"

"Maybe? Sort of? But it doesn't concern you. Don't worry about it."

"Buttercup's my sister, Butch—"

"So of course it concerns you," he sighed. "Is that what you were going to say?"

"—and you're my friend," she finished. "I was going to say that. Then say 'so of course it concerns me.'"

"Oh. Sorry." He blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected Blossom to worry about him at all.

The pink Puff smiled slightly and leaned against the shelf. "Secrets are what I actually wanted to talk to you about, before you so 'rudely' switched the topic." She was clearly joking when she said "rudely," but Butch was still nervous.

"Yeah?"

"I just want to ask you one thing. Does this"—she gestured at where Boomer was—"and your argument with Buttercup, involve your family's little secret about vampires?"

Butch blinked. "Eh?"

"Does this involve the whole secret about vampires?" she repeated.

"Eh?"

"Butch—"

"Eh? EHHHH?" His voice kept rising a few octaves until he was almost shouting in his shock. "YOU KNOW!?"

"Yeah, Brick told me," she explained. "He wanted to stop keeping so many secrets from me."

"That bastard!" Butch rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. "What a lovesick idiot."

"Hey, that's my boyfriend you're insulting," Blossom warned, half-jokingly to try and lighten the atmosphere. "Besides, he deserves to decide whether or not he wants to tell me on his own, and I deserve to know if he wants to tell me."

Butch sighed. "You're right. Sorry. I'm just annoyed because we really aren't supposed to say anything, you know."

"So…" Blossom hesitated. "I was too scared to ask him, but…are you guys vampires too?"

"Eh?" He glanced at her.

"Butch, let's not do this whole 'eh' thing again—"

"No, sorry—I'm just surprised you came to that conclusion."

"Then I am wrong?"

"We—elllllll…not exactly…" He shrugged. "But I shouldn't say. You might have to wait until Brick decides it's okay to tell you that information too. I don't want to overstep any boundaries."

"Oh." Blossom's shoulders slumped in disappointment. "Of course."

Rushing again to remedy this, Butch added, "But yes, the attack today probably had to deal with some vampires."

"And they attacked you?" she asked incredulously. "In broad daylight?"

He hesitated. "They were a little more secretive than just shooting at us in broad daylight, I guess." He sighed. "And now look what's happened. Poor Boomer…"

"Indeed. But I'm sure the Professor and Bubbles have it covered." She frowned. "I'm worried about Bandit too. He seems so…"

"Dead inside?" he finished. "Yeah, I noticed it too. He joined us late and already looked very stressed out and sad."

"Poor guy," murmured Blossom. "I hope he gets to rest easy soon."

"We'll all rest easier when Boomer wakes up again," he agreed.

"Guess that means we should head back," she responded, already stepping back out from behind the shelf.

He nodded and followed, still shaken over the fact that Blossom knew about the vampires. Just how much did you tell her, Brick!? he wanted to yell at his brother. What now? Do we tell her any more? Do the other Puffs deserve to know too? What now, Brick; WHAT NOW!?

Bandit and Bubbles had been sitting in silence until Blossom and Butch returned. The black-haired Rowdyruff Boy even looked shaken on the outside, his jade-green eyes wide with what Bubbles could only describe as terrified shock. Blossom looked much more calm—placid, even.

Bubbles glanced between the two of them, with even Bandit lifting his head a little to study them. "What did you say to him?" she asked her sister.

Blossom shrugged innocently, her long pumpkin-red hair swaying as she spoke. "I just asked him a few questions, is all."

Butch still looked shaken. "She knows," he muttered.

"Knows what?" the blue Puff asked, still confused. She turned to Bandit, whose eyes had widened—an abrupt sign of life after so long of his lifelessness.

"I just know what I was told," Blossom replied.

"Knows what?" demanded Bubbles, a little frustrated that everyone was ignoring her questions. "Just what is going on?"

Blossom frowned, hesitating, but before she could decide to say anything, the Professor let out a cry of delight.

Bubbles jumped up and flew over, asking, "Did he wake up?"

"No, but I got the bullet out at last!" the Professor exclaimed.

"Oh. False alarm then." Her shoulders slumped and she slowly drifted down to the ground.

"Oh, sweetie…" The Professor's face went from happiness to a gentle, reassuring gaze as he turned to Bubbles. "We all want Boomer to wake up, but we have to remember that these things take time. And right now we want to be happy with every little step of progress, no matter how small."

She glanced at the bullet the Professor had managed to pull out. It was set on a tray, glinting silver in the bright fluorescent lights of the lab. It looked so sterile and cold, even though it technically matched the aesthetic of the rest of the Professor's lab. But somehow this bullet seemed almost evil and very dangerous, a clear sign of a targeted attack. It glinted despite being coated in blood.

Then she looked at Boomer, who was still unconscious, but his features seemed softer now, as if he was in less pain. She wasn't sure if she was imagining it, but the image did fill her with some relief.

Her hand glowed blue and she smiled softly. "You're right, Professor. I have to have patience. To be happy with small steps. To be strong. For him."

The Professor lifted an eyebrow but didn't comment on the warm expression on his daughter's face, instead smiling and wiping down his gloved hands. "Indeed," he agreed. "We have to be there for him when he wakes up as his moral and physical support, don't we?"

She nodded firmly. "Hang in there, Boomie. We're here for you. All of us."

Her grip on his hand tightened, and as if in response to this, he shifted his hand and squeezed.

Bubbles' eyes widened, and when she looked at his expression again, he seemed almost peaceful.

We'll be your support. We'll wait as long as it takes. Just know that there are people out here who love and care about you and wait patiently for your return.

We're all here for you, Boomie—I'm here for you.

---

Following Sydney's gentle, slow steps, Ross made his way into Raymond's room. He was trying so, so hard not to vomit again, but his stomach kept churning violently.

Raymond burst out as soon as he saw them making their way over, his brown eyes wide with worry. "Are you two alright?" he cried. "I've been having a lot of soldiers coming in left and right."

"We're mostly okay," Sydney answered, smiling weakly.

Ross shook his head. "Your shoulder," he said shakily.

"Oh. Right. That."

Raymond took notice of Sydney's shoulder wound, letting out an audible gasp. He quickly ushered them inside and sat them down.

Ross took a seat, still trembling violently. Black spots danced in front of his vision, and whenever he looked down at his shirt, he gagged at the sight of blood.

"Sydney, can you pull your shirt collar down for me?"

She nodded, doing as she was asked. Raymond immediately set to work, cleaning the wound. As he wiped away the blood, she grimaced.

He apologized profusely as he worked, but she shook the words off.

"It's fine."

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Raymond's words echoed the ones that kept running through Ross' head. He wished he could see those soldiers again and tell them how sorry he really was.

They never deserved to die. Not like this.

"Ross?"

He blinked, looking up.

Raymond was staring at him in concern. "Are you okay?"

"I-I'm fine. Just shaken." He tried to smile, but his body refused to listen to him. "Sydney's the one who was actually hurt."

"You were hurt too!" she insisted. "Maybe not as physically, but still hurt."

"Sydney's right." Raymond continued his work on her shoulder, but he directed his words to Ross. "It's not always physical pain."

"But what can you do about internal pain?" Ross asked, almost bitterly as he cast his gaze down.

When he looked up again, he noticed their worried looks.

"I'm sorry. That was rude of me," he apologized quickly. "I didn't mean it."

"It's alright," the older man sighed, shaking his head sadly. "You're right. As much as I want to, I-I can't heal everyone. Not completely."

"Ross…"

He didn't meet Sydney's gaze. "It's okay, Raymond. You do your best, and your best is already really, really good."

The man frowned but said nothing more.

When Sydney's wound was fully dressed, she hopped off the examining table and walked towards Ross, lifting her arm to check how the wound felt. "Good as new," she announced.

"Well, not quite. You shouldn't strain yourself or you'll risk reopening the injury," Raymond corrected quickly.

She made a face. "I know. But my soccer practice—"

"Can wait," finished Ross. When she glanced at him, he tried to smile teasingly. "You may be one of the strongest people I know, but you still need your rest, Sydney. If you won't do it for yourself, then do it for me."

"Humph. Fiiiiine," she whined. "I'll try to tone things down, but only because you asked me to."

"I'll be making sure of it," Raymond responded, almost warningly. "We don't want you—"

"Sydney! Oh my God, thank the stars you're okay!" a voice called out. Someone came running down the hallway, and he threw his arms around her as he broke down in tears of relief.

"Sidney!" she gasped, clearly startled.

"Wh-When I couldn't find you on the battlefield, I got so, so scared," he blubbered, now crying. He pulled back to look her over. "You're covered in blood!"

"It's not mine," she said proudly.

Ross coughed from behind her.

"Well, mostly not mine."

Sidney sniffed her shoulder. "Your shoulder! What happened?"

"She got it protecting me," Ross mumbled, feeling guilty.

"But I don't mind!" she added quickly. "I showed that mangy wolf who's boss."

"She's lucky it wasn't much deeper," Raymond commented. "It cut pretty bad, but she'll be alright. And what about you, Sidney? Do you have any wounds you need me to look over?"

He nodded, letting his sister go. "I-I have a few, but they're mostly really small."

"I'll take a look anyway. We wouldn't want them getting infected."

Sidney nodded, turning to follow Raymond inside. He paused at the doorway, glancing back at his twin. "Oh, Mom and Dad are looking for you. They're waiting in the car."

"Okay, I'll be right there," she promised. She watched him go, before turning to Ross.

He tried to smile. "You should head home. They'll be even more worried if you're gone for too long."

"I know. But…" She hesitated, before grabbing his hands. "Will you be okay? On your own?"

He looked down at their intertwined fingers, before lifting his head and forcing himself to nod. "I will."

She frowned. "I don't believe you, you liar." Then she sighed, giving him a hug. "But I'm going to have to, aren't I?"

He couldn't find it within himself to answer.

"I'll see you later," she murmured, giving him a squeeze. "Hang in there."

Then she was walking away, looking back only once at the grand staircase to wave goodbye with a small, lopsided smile—the same smile from childhood. The one he'd fallen in love with.

Ross lifted his arm and waved back, even though he still felt the weights dragging his limbs toward the Earth. And now they were weighing his heart down as well.

He then slowly made his way back into his room, collapsing in his bed. He shifted so that he could stare up at the ceiling, knowing that he should get up and change clothes and take a shower, but he couldn't find the energy to do so.

He lay there for what felt like forever, eventually drifting off to sleep.

He dreamed of screams and rivers of blood, wide glassy eyes and broken limbs, all while silhouettes perched on the dead bodies with large wings outstretched and beady red eyes glowing. The stench of blood was overwhelming.

Ross' eyes soon snapped open and he sat up. He looked around, then spotting his dad's journal on the nightstand.

He hesitated before lifting it and running his hand across the smooth, worn cover. It felt like a brick in his aching arms, and when he pulled it open, his vision was bleary.

But he began to read despite his tiredness.

"'I HAVE THE MOST WONDEROUS NEWS. I AM SO EXCITED I FEEL THE NEED TO WRITE IN ALL CAPITALS, BUT I AM AFRAID IT IS GOING TO GROW QUITE TEDIOUS TO WRITE AND READ, so I'll try and tone it down.

'Sylvie just told me today that she is pregnant! I am absolutely beside myself with joy. When I heard the news, I lifted her up into the air and couldn't help but kiss her so many times I lost breath.

'I was just so excited, and I still am! Can you imagine me as a father? I will absolutely make sure our child has the most amazing life they deserve! I can't wait to hold my baby in my arms for the very first time.

'I want to shout out to the whole world that I am going to be a father, but as of right now, I can only let my friends and family know. Of course Shamus was the first one I told, although I worried a little because I know how he used to feel about Sylvie. There will never be a day where I don't regret taking her from him, but when I told him today, he was so overjoyed at the prospect of becoming an uncle. I don't think we've ever squealed so much—I almost felt like a teenage girl!

'Shamus reassured me he no longer carries those feelings for Sylvie. It's silly, but hearing those words always makes me feel a little relieved. We've come a long way since childhood, but I still can't help but remember how much Damon and Shamus competed to try and win Sylvie over.

'I was so surprised when I learned that she had fallen for me. We'd always been close, and I was often her go-to whenever she felt sad, scared, or unsure, but I thought of those as little moments between an older brother and his little sister. It was only when she nearly got married to Kyle that I began realizing just how deep my sadness would have reached if she ever got married. I think it wouldn't have hurt so much if she were choosing between Shamus and Damon, because I've always wanted all three of them to feel happy, but Kyle was a different story—especially because Sylvie hadn't loved him.

'And when she confessed to me at that restaurant… I'd already been suspecting my feelings for a long time by then, although I kept trying to write them off. I tried so, so hard to convince myself I simply cared for her the same way I used to.

'But the thing about lies is that they often get exposed, and her confession left me overwhelmed with emotion. I'm eternally grateful Damon and Shamus forgave me. I had worked so hard to try and help them grow closer to Sylvie, it was scary realizing just how close I had grown to her.

'I know it was absolutely awful of me to have fallen for her, but it's hard to control our emotions. She'd always told me she fell for me because I treated her so nicely, but also because I didn't treat her too differently from anyone else because of her status or their feelings for her. As for me, I'd already subconsciously resigned myself to a fate of letting her go, but her confession forced me to acknowledge the feelings that I had started building over time. She told me how early she'd fallen for me and how she kept seeking out my company, but I hadn't realized my own feelings until much later, especially just because of Shamus and Damon's feelings always being at the forefront. I wonder if I could have handled it with the same perfect grace and poise of them, if one of them had truly been able to sweep Sylvie off her feet.

'That's all in the past now, but even as I set out to tell Damon the happy news, I was still worried. They both really did love her, yet I think Damon's love ran even deeper. But as soon as I told him the happy news, he was so excited he couldn't stop congratulating me.

'Damon and Shamus are both truly amazing. I could never ask for better friends, or better brothers. :)

'Sylvie and I have also already begun discussing names out of sheer excitement, and I wonder what kind of a person our baby will grow up to be. I want them to be as gentle as Sylvie, as smart as Shamus, as kind as Damon, as strong as Danes, as charming as DJ, and as brave as my father and as warm as my mother.

'Speaking of my parents, I rushed to tell them the good news, and they were both so overjoyed. Father started crying, and Mother hugged me and refused to let me go for even a second. They kept asking questions, like how Sylvie was doing, what names we were thinking of, and whether or not we had chosen a school, etc etc.

'I couldn't help but laugh, and I had to tell them we'd only just found out and weren't thinking so far ahead yet.

'I did tell them about some of the names I was considering, although Mother wasn't as impressed with all of them (she can be quite picky haha). She did like the name Rose for a girl though, and both Sylvie and I agreed that was our favourite.

'As for a boy, we do still need some more time to figure things out, but I guess everything is going to take time to plan and consider. There's just so many things to think of when becoming a new parent; I hardly know where to start!

'I'll leave a list of names we've begun considering on one of the next few pages, and I'll update it as we go. For now though, I need to call Danes and DJ to let them know the happy news as well. I think they're still on a camping trip together, but hopefully they'll be able to pick up!

Signing off for now,

Tyrone.'"

Ross closed the book and rubbed his eyes, trying to blink away the tears that had already begun forming. But he couldn't stop them, causing him to bury his face in his hands.

He still couldn't understand why things went so wrong. His parents' fairytale romance had been so celebrated in the past, but then death came crashing down on them.

Why did Damon choose to kill Dad? And so long after the death of Mom? Ross tried to remember the man he'd once called uncle, but his mind refused to show him. His face was half-covered in shadow, and he kept smiling a sickening smile…

Ross shuddered involuntarily, clutching the notebook to his chest. He could feel his heart pounding rapidly.

"Damon, is Daddy okay?"

"I…I'm sure he'll be okay. He just needs some time. He misses your mommy very, very much."

"I miss her too."

"I know, sweetie. We…We all do."

"He loved her a lot, didn't he?"

"He did."

"Do you think he loves me a lot?"

"Oh, Ross…of course he does. I'm just sorry he can't always show it."

"Why won't he show it?"

"It…It's hard for him. Your mother's death broke him. She was an angel. For all of us. We all thought she was getting better, so it's been difficult for everyone. But especially for him. He's still grieving, and you remind him so much of her… He loved her so, so much… He just wants her back."

"I want her back too. I loved her too. And I want my Daddy back."

"...I know, Ross. I know. I'm so sorry things ended up this way."

Ross felt the faint warmth of arms wrap around him in his memories, and he remembered squeezing Damon as hard as his little arms could, crying fervently.

But that was all in the past.

He sat up stiffly, wiping his eyes and shoving the journal onto the nightstand. Things are different now.

"Ross?"

Jumping, he turned to the door.

"May I come in?"

"S-Sure," he said, quickly rubbing his eyes and face as dry as he could manage.

The familiar face of Damon—no. Ross shook his head—of Raymond peered back at him.

"You okay?" the older man asked, entering slowly. The door clicked shut behind him, and he hovered awkwardly against the wall.

"I-I'm alright. Just tired."

Raymond looked unconvinced. He sighed as he made his way over. "I'm sure you are. D-Do you mind if I sit beside you?"

He shook his head.

Raymond took a seat and faced the boy. "Did something happen today that hurt you?"

"I—" He swallowed, remembering the man's crazed eyes and his blood-stained knife. He remembered the weight on his body, growing even heavier after Sydney had thrown the knife into the man's neck.

"Ross, sweetie… You're shaking so violently…"

"I…" Ross rushed forward and grabbed the man in a hug, beginning to cry all over again, but this time much more hysterically. "I miss my mom and dad! I just want my mom and dad back!" he wailed desperately.

The man's eyes were wide, but he was quick to wrap his arms around Ross, rocking him gently.

"I-I know; it's been hard for you, hasn't it? Oh, I'm so sorry, Ross…"

The boy couldn't stop crying for some time, only calming down when he felt he had no more tears to cry. He lay very still, peeking out from the man's arms, his eyes feeling dry. "Why did you do what you did?"

He could feel the man stiffen, and there was no reply.

When he pulled away to look up, he saw tears forming in those chocolate-brown eyes, but the rest of the face seemed hidden in shadow.

"Why did you kill my dad?"

The man only shook his head.

Ross sighed, looking down at the floor.

"I'm so sorry you've had to go through so much. I'm so sorry," the man murmured, stroking the boy's head. He finally sighed, standing up slowly. He hesitated, but Ross didn't react, so he finally turned and left.

Ross continued to sit quietly for awhile, before eventually looking up at the door. And then he realized the mistake he'd committed during their conversation.

He'd confused Raymond for Damon in his grief.

---

"I wish we didn't have to say goodbye."

Blaster turned to his brother as they waved bye to DJ and Elias. DJ was heading out to find somewhere to stay, while Elias had to return to work.

"Feeling emotional?" teased Blaster.

Braker smiled sheepishly. "What can I say? I like a good party." He watched as DJ left and Elias went back inside the restaurant. "Call me cheesy or sappy, but I had fun."

"So did I," he agreed.

"Wow. Who would've thought? Us, making friends with DJ, of all people," Braker remarked as he flew into the air.

Blaster followed. "Well, no one could've also guessed he was like us either," he responded.

"That's true. I wonder what his mom was really like? Sampson said she was strong-willed and sarcastic, right?"

"Right." He paused. "Do you think we know her sister?"

"Her name was what, Isabella?" Braker frowned. "Hmm. The name may ring a bell."

"Well, if any of us were to know who she was, you would."

"What do you mean?"

Blaster smiled. "You know you're friends with almost everyone."

Braker brightened. "Hey, yeah! I guess I am." He made a face. "Well, except for most vampires."

"Yeah, that makes sense," Blaster laughed. "But then, they're not friends with us either."

"But DJ could be a sign of that changing!"

"Hmm, that is true. I wonder if any of his friends know?"

"I doubt it. DJ's father probably wouldn't want to risk anyone letting it accidentally slip to his son that he's not a full vampire."

"That's true. I guess only the adults knew."

Braker frowned. "The main question right now though is what DJ will do now that he knows."

Blaster sighed with a nod. "I believe that's something we'll just have to wait and see."

"And now for another question."

"Huh?" Blaster looked up at his brother, blinking in his confusion. But when he saw Braker's raised eyebrow, he realized what he was referring to. "Oh. That." He looked down.

"Blaster, I know it's a lot to think about, but do you have an idea now about what you want to do?"

"I…" He trailed off and sighed, shaking his head. "I'll admit that after this, it makes me see things in a new light. Forgiveness is still complicated and messy, but if we can get along so well with someone we used to hate, I guess it's true I should be able to get along with her again. Because…Because I didn't hate her before. And I still don't."

Braker smiled a little.

"B-But I've already told her how I feel! I've admitted this already. And I've…basically forgiven her already."*

"I know." Braker glanced down. "I should probably stop meddling and just leave this matter to the both of you. But I can't help it… I want my family and friends to get along."

"W-We get along fine," Blaster mumbled, still flustered. "Come on. Let's just go home."

"Do we have to?" his brother whined. "We're just going back to a house of misery and quiet if we do. After all that, I want to hang out some more. Have some fun, you know?"

"Oh my God." He rolled his eyes. "Do we really have to?"

"Yes! Come on, let's go to the park or something," Braker said, already dragging his brother away.

Blaster sighed, but let himself be led.

When they eventually landed in the park, Braker whirled around excitedly. "Okay, let's see what we can do here!"

"It's just a bunch of trees, Braker."

"Noooo!" he protested, pointing at some hydrangeas. "Look!"

"Okay. Trees and flowers and plants. What else is here?"

"There's also the lake…and the playground…and the giant rocks…and the hills?"

Blaster sighed exaggeratedly.

"Oh, don't be such a killjoy. We were just having fun, weren't we?" Braker tugged on his sleeve. "Come on. Let's go to the lake."

Blaster again followed, looking around. The park was strangely quiet at this time of day—it was getting late, he mused, but Townsville was usually bustling with people. Although, it would make sense for the park to be a less popular attraction after all the police tape and news about 'gang wars.'

"Hey, isn't this neat?" Braker said eagerly. "It's like we have the park all to ourselves!"

"Is that really such a good thing?"

"Of course!"

They stopped at the lake, and Blaster looked up. He was surprised when he saw that there was someone across from them, wearing black.

His eyes grew wide when he realized who it was.

"Christie," he breathed.

"Huh?" Braker turned to him. "What—?"

Before he could stop to think, Blaster found himself already flying across the lake to her side. "Christie!" he gasped. "I-I didn't expect to see you here."

She'd been staring down blankly at the water, but now she blinked and looked up. "Oh hey, Blaster! I didn't notice you."

He paused. Something didn't seem right. She seemed a little…spacey. "You feeling okay?" he asked softly.

"Yes, I'm quite alright."

Braker landed beside them just then, panting. "Jesus fucking Christ, Blaster! Don't just go off like that!"

"Sorry," Blaster said, but he felt his eyes were glued to Christie's. "And you're sure you're okay?"

"Yes." She smiled slightly. "Just exhausted. I'm…about to head out to a funeral, and I just wanted to sneak out for some fresh air to clear my head."

Blaster's eyes widened again and his mind ran through the possibilities. "Oh God, I'm so sorry," he replied. "W-Was it anyone we know?"

She shook her head. "Oh no, it was a death in another town. Family, but unrelated to the war."

He felt his shoulders relax, but he wondered why it was relief flooding his system. As enemies, we should be glad if one of them is dead. But why…why do I not want that? I don't want to see her be sad. I don't want to see more death. Especially not after our talk with DJ.

His mind whispered something he was still a little afraid to fully confront—we're more similar than we realized—even though he had once tried to say something similar to the girl standing before him.

Christie's gaze was still distant and forlorn. "I was never very close to the person, but I still feel like something is missing. As if…something has been taken from me."

Braker cleared his throat awkwardly, obviously feeling out-of-place—perhaps even feeling like a third wheel, Blaster realized. "War can be very exhausting," he suggested.

"I guess so." She nodded thoughtfully. "Although I wonder if there's more to it? It's like some chunk of myself has been ripped away from me."

Blaster felt his heart sink as he remembered his confession to her and how she'd turned him down (with good intentions, but it hurt nonetheless). "Are you referring to Vix?"

"Hmm?" She was distracted, staring down at the water.

"You mean Vix?" he asked again.

She looked up and blinked blankly. "I'm sorry, who?"

Blaster's eyes grew large as Braker froze.

"O-Our…friend," he managed to say, after some hesitancy from trying to choose a right label for Vix. "Don't you remember him?"

"Oh!" she finally uttered, before tapping her chin thoughtfully as she frowned. "But you know, he was never really one of us. He was kind of a loner and sort of a jerk, and he even ran away recently. Very ungrateful for all that my uncle's done for him. I don't really think about him—or at least, not anymore, I guess."

Braker's mouth dropped open. "Hey, I get it if you're mad at Vix, but he's our friend too! You know how he's suffered."

"But he ran away at the first sign of danger," she responded, now looking confused. "And I get if you're upset because you're his friend, but he and I aren't. He's not even a vampire."

Braker spun towards Blaster. "Blaster, say something! Why is she treating Vix like this?"

"But I'm not wrong, am I? Vix is all of those things."

"Y-Yes, he is," Blaster murmured slowly. His head was starting to spin, and he didn't catch the glare Braker sent him. "But he was a good person… A good friend. And h-he really cared about you."

"Then why did he leave?"

"What is happening?" Braker cried. "Why is it like you only have selective memory of him, and are only remembering the bad things? Do you really hate him that much?"

Blaster still hadn't gotten over his shock. He was staring at Christie, whose turquoise eyes seemed blank. There was something wrong.

Or rather, everything about this was wrong, but even her gaze didn't seem right. It seemed especially wrong.

"Christie, Vix—he—"

A car horn sounded just then, and Christie's attention was pulled away from them. "Oh, that must be my family. Looks like it's time to go for the funeral."

"Wait! We need to talk!" Braker cried, still looking bewildered.

Christie smiled a little, bemused by his panic. But even then, the smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "About Vix? I'd rather not. He's hurt me enough."

She turned to Blaster then, winking. "But if you wanted to talk to me, I wouldn't mind."

He could only keep staring in confusion and shock.

The car honked again, and she blinked. "Oops! Gotta go. But first…" She turned to Blaster, grabbing his wrist and pulling him forward. Before he even knew what was happening, she was kissing him. When her lips touched his, he felt bolts of electricity course through him, almost painful in their power, as if he'd been struck by lightning.

And as soon as it began, it was over.

"Bye guys! Thanks for keeping me company before the funeral." She gave Blaster a hug. "And bye, sweetie!" Then she was off, waving.

Braker stared after her, his mouth still hanging open. "Wh-What the fuck was that?" he finally asked. "And I know she confessed to you, but since when the hell were you two dating!?"

Blaster didn't respond, unable to find the words. He was just as confused. He touched his lips, which were still tingling. Isn't this what I've wanted? For her to call me hers, and for me to call her mine? But…

But even the kiss had felt wrong.

---

Darkai sat there silently like an immovable rock for as long as Bandit had needed, his arms supporting the crying boy. He simply stared ahead, letting Bandit release the emotions he'd tried to keep behind a wall for so, so long.

And when Bandit finally felt ready, Darkai let go. "Are you feeling better?" he asked quietly.

He nodded. "Th-Thank you," he said awkwardly, pushing brown hair out of his eyes. "And I'm sorry. For losing my temper. For"—he paused, swallowing—"For everything."

Darkai stayed quiet. He knew the Rowdyruff Boy was referring to hurting him and Bunny, as well as having feelings for Bunny in the first place.

"I know I've been awful lately…"

"It's alright," he finally said. "But I think you should tell her that sometime."

Bandit looked up, startled. His purple eyes were puffy, still red and wet from his tears.

Darkai tried to offer a small smile. "If not telling her how you feel about her, at least tell her sorry."

"R-Right. I will." Bandit looked down, rubbing his arm. "I promise."

"Good." His shoulders loosened, and he proceeded to stand up. "I've done what I came here for. Thank you, Bandit. I will see you around."

"Yes, see you…" He was still avoiding his gaze.

Darkai almost sighed. He wished they could get along more, but it seemed nearly impossible. And even as someone as stony as he was, he was growing tired of all the fighting.

As he began to take his leave, Bandit called out for him: "Darkai, wait…"

He glanced back. "Yes?"

"I wanted to also thank you. For making me confront what I was trying to avoid. And I hope…someday I can do justice to your efforts by further confronting the things I am trying to hide from. Including her." Bandit stood up shakily and tried to smile as he held out his hand. "And in the meantime, I hope…I hope that despite the war, we can get to know each other better." His smile grew sheepish. "Without the fighting this time."

He stared down at Bandit's hand silently.

"If umm…you'd prefer not to, that's fine too," he continued, beginning to pull it back.

Darkai grabbed it then, shaking it. "No. I would like that too."

He stared back, before smiling. "Oh, thank God. It was already awkward enough. If you'd said no, I'd want to fling myself into a black hole."

"That's always an option, if you'd prefer."

Bandit's eyes widened again. "Did you…Did you just crack a joke!?"

Despite himself, he smiled a little in amusement. "Yes."

"Wow. I guess there is more to you than meets the eye."

"And you as well."

"Alright. Well, despite the rough start, it was nice seeing you, Darkai."

"Yes. It was also nice seeing you. And I am thankful you decided to open yourself up." He transformed into a bat and waved his wing. "Until next time, Bandit Jojo."

"Bye," the purple Rowdyruff Boy called. As he watched Darkai fly off in his bat form, he mused aloud, "Even his bat voice wasn't that squeaky and high-pitched. He really is that tall, dark, and mysterious type."

Bandit turned to go back home, feeling warm despite his pain.

But that all evaporated when he finally checked his phone and saw that it had blown up with messages from Butch in the family group chat, crying out for help.

Meanwhile, Darkai was still flying home.

He paused in the air when he spotted a man cornering another man in the alley. Darkai proceeded to swoop down and transform back into human form in the shadows of the alley, watching the man approach his victim, carrying a knife.

"Come on, shithead. Give me your valuables and I won't stab you."

"Get away from me, you asshole!"

"Enough." Darkai stepped out, holding up a hand. "You heard him."

"Who the fuck are you, kid? Get out before I beat ya up."

Darkai pulled forward and grabbed the man's arms until he had them locked in place behind his back, pulling the knife away and throwing it into a dumpster. Then he nodded at the victim, who proceeded to run.

"Why you little shit!" The man tried to lunge for the dumpster, but when he was held back, he whirled around. Darkai jumped back and had to let go of the man's arms.

The two began to fight, and while Darkai was still able to overpower the man and dodge most of his punches and kicks, he found himself struggling more than usual due to being worn out from his battle with Bandit.

"EUUUUGHHHH, STAY STILL, YOU FUCKING BRAT!" the man roared as he threw his fist forward.

Darkai caught it, proceeding to twist the arm until his opponent was crying out in pain. Then he let go, ready to leave.

That was when he felt himself get dragged down into the pavement and the man's hands wrapped around his neck, which was still sensitive from Bandit choking him.

Gagging, Darkai threw his head forward so that it hurtled into the man, knocking him out. As he stood up, he grabbed his head and called the police. He explained the circumstances and warned them about the knife. He found himself coughing, with his voice being raspy. After that, he tied the man's wrists to a dumpster across from the one with the knife so that he wouldn't escape if he came to before the cops arrived.

Darkai then flew into the air, but he found it much more dizzying this time.

He pushed through until he saw the Utonium house, and he quickly landed at their front door.

He proceeded to knock, and the Professor answered. "Oh my!" the older man gasped. "Darkai, are you okay?"

"Please, fetch Bunny…"

"Yes, of course! Right away."

The Professor disappeared, leaving Darkai on the doorstep.

He felt like he was hovering, suspended in midair. When Bunny finally came flying downstairs with her lavender streak behind her, he suddenly felt grounded again.

"Angel," he whispered.

"What happened to you?" she cried urgently, wrapping her arms around him before guiding him inside.

"Let's settle down somewhere first."

"Oh, of course… Do you think you can make it upstairs to my room?"

He nodded, and they proceeded to slowly make their way up the stairs.

When they finally got to her room, Darkai sat down on her bed. He let out a deep breath, relieved to be sitting, before pulling off his shirt.

Bunny blushed but said nothing, moving closer to get a closer look at his injuries. "I-Is it alright for me to touch you?"

He nodded.

She hesitated before reaching forward and touching him gently in various areas, trying to get a feel for any injuries. None of them were very serious, except for his neck. When she reached there, he actually grimaced.

Bunny's eyes widened. Darkai had never really reacted so strongly to his own injuries before. She took a closer look and let out a gasp. "Wh-Who did this?" she cried. "Your neck is so badly bruised, and there are even scratches!"

"Just a parasite—I dealt with him," he replied, his voice still hoarse.

"D-Does it hurt to breathe?"

He nodded.

"Oh, Darkai…" She hugged him, at the same time applying her healing powers to him. "You don't always have to act the hero, especially when it puts you in danger."

He shook his head. "You…do the same."

"But it's different for us. We have superpowers to handle this sort of thing…"

Darkai hesitated. He usually didn't find it difficult to speak when he wanted to, but here he wasn't sure how much he wanted to tell her he had powers too.

"Please, Darkai…" She looked up, and he saw tears in her eyes. "Don't put yourself needlessly in danger. I-I know you're doing good things, but I don't want to lose you…"

He stared back at her, taken aback by her sadness. He then leaned forward and kissed her gently. "I'm sorry. I promise I won't."

She hugged him. "I'm sorry for being so hard on you lately. I just…wish you trusted me more."

He said nothing, glancing at the window. It was hard to ignore the guilt that reminded him he was still keeping the secret of his vampiracy from her, and even though she had chosen to forgive him for it because of his battle, he had done nothing to win her back.

He remembered Bandit's tears from earlier, when he told Darkai that he didn't deserve Bunny. But do I?

"I want to ask you something," he finally said.

"Yes?"

"How do you…feel about Bandit?"

She froze, and he wondered what it meant. Bunny wasn't as open about her thoughts and emotions as other people Darkai knew, but she also didn't hide those things out of maliciousness. She wasn't as outgoing as Christie, as tied down as Vix, or as cruel as Coal.

She was Bunny—shy, gentle, and loving Bunny.

She visibly hesitated, her face flushed red. "P-Please don't think I'm going to leave you for him or anything l-like that," she finally began, stammering.

"I wouldn't," he promised. "I trust you."

The steadiness and firmness of his voice seemed to put her at ease, and she smiled shyly at him. "I-It's complicated. I-I don't know how he feels. He's always pushing me out, and yet also drawing me back in…"

Darkai remembered Bandit's pain. "I don't believe he means to hurt you."

"No," she sighed, "I suppose he doesn't. But it still hurts every time. And I'm not sure what he means by any of it."

I know why he does it. But it wasn't his place to say, and he was almost glad for it. He reached for her hand and she held on tightly.

"M-My own feelings for him are also complicated. I did have a crush on him before—a-a long time ago!—but I guess now I just want us to get along. To be close again. To be…friends." She still sounded unsure, her mind obviously going through her feelings in an attempt to better understand them.

Feeling her hand slip away because of her wandering thoughts, Darkai gave it a squeeze. When she looked back up, pulled to reality, he kissed her.

Then he pulled away and said, "I'm sorry for before."

She shook her head. "I-I'm sorry too. I put a lot of pressure on you to admit secrets you're not ready to share."

"It was fair of you," he replied. Then he paused. "Bunny… There is something I wish to tell you."

"What is it?" she asked, turning to look at him.

He paused when he saw those beautiful soft, unique lavender eyes. Even for someone as cold as Darkai, Bunny's warmth had thawed some of his icy walls. He'd never been at a loss of words before, but he found himself struggling now.

Do I tell her?

But then he remembered lifeless eyes and twisted bodies, claws outstretched and mouths open in a silent shriek. The colour of blood flooded his vision and he remembered a string of pearls hitting the ground. The stench of iron was unbearable.

"We're sorry," the doctors had said. "But we couldn't save them."

He remembered being ushered into the arms of his friends, their parents surrounding him solemnly, as if they could protect him from his pain.

As if they could protect him from the ghosts of his own parents.

For the first time in forever, Darkai felt tears prick his eyes.

He'd cried that night, but he'd also promised himself it would be the last time he ever let himself. He'd sworn he would work to avenge his parents by dealing with wrongdoers—but of course, that never erased the pain.

He swallowed.

"Darkai; Darkai, are you okay?" Bunny cried, alarmed. "Y-You're crying!"

He shook his head silently before getting a good look at her. And again he was drawn to her gentle purple gaze, but he also saw how her brown hair framed her pink cheeks and how pink and soft her lips were.

"Bunny…I don't want to lose you either," he finally said, hugging her close.

She relaxed in his arms, hugging him back. "I understand," she whispered.

When they finally pulled apart, she looked back at him.

"W-Was there something else?"

He stared back, wondering again if he should say the forbidden words. I always come to you injured because I'm a vampire, and we are currently at war. Even though he opened his mouth, he couldn't bring himself to say it.

He simply shook his head.

She glanced at the window, evidently a little disappointed he'd chosen not to cross the line he'd set for himself, and he was taken aback by the pain that hit his heart seeing her like this.

"There was one other thing," he admitted.

She looked up, surprised.

"I'll try—someday soon—to tell you the things I currently can't bring myself to say." He smiled a little. "But for now, I want you to know this. I love you, Bunny."

Her surprise melted into a beautiful smile. "I love you too," she whispered.

---

When Blaster and Braker arrived home, suddenly exhausted with their good vibes mostly rubbed away, the last thing the yellow Ruff wanted to see was his counterpart inside his home. Again.

"Banana?" he asked, startled.

She turned to him apologetically. "I'm sorry to intrude once more," she said, sounding genuinely sorry. This time there was less sorrow in her voice though, as if she had pulled herself together just for this occasion. "But I needed to come tell you and the rest of your family. Boomer, Butch, and Bandit have been injured."

Blaster's eyes widened. "What?" both he and his brother cried.

Banana rushed on with her message. "Boomer was hurt worst of all. We still don't know what attacked him, and the Professor says we shouldn't question him just yet. He's not awake yet, but once he is, he's probably going to be exhausted. There were even bullets lodged inside him…"

He immediately floated into the air. "We have to go see him!"

"Damn right we do!" Him shouted, appearing in a puff of pink smoke. A bag was draped over his shoulder, looking out-of-place against the demon's red skin. It would have almost been comical, if not for the emergency before them. "Where the hell have you two been!?" he continued in a rampage. "We've been texting and calling you all day, but we didn't have time to send out a search party!"

"Sorry, Him," Braker answered breathlessly. "We just went out in an effort to cheer ourselves up."

Him shook his head but didn't dwell on the matter, simply rounding up all the Rowdyruff Boys (and Banana and Mojo) and ushering them out the door.

When they arrived at the Utonium house, the Professor was already waiting by the door. He immediately opened it and welcomed them in, guiding them down to his lab.

Blaster burst through the door and rushed to Boomer's side. "Is he okay?" he cried.

"He's alright. It seems it'll be awhile before he's awake, but he's in stable condition," the Professor answered for the blue Ruff, approaching slowly. "I've taken care of his wounds."

"And I've helped," Bubbles echoed.

Blaster noticed her then. She was sitting beside Boomer, clasping his hand, and she looked pale and tired, but her own hand still glowed a gentle blue.

"And Bandit and Butch?" Braker asked breathlessly.

"We're okay." Butch floated over from where he'd been sitting with Blossom, smiling sheepishly at his brothers. "We're better off than he is, anyway."

"Jesus Christ! Don't you ever dare scare us like this again!" Brick shouted, flying over and giving his brother an affectionate but exasperated noogie. He turned to Blossom and gave her a kiss in greeting. "Thanks for taking care of these boneheads."

"It's nothing," she replied, holding his hands. "Especially considering all you boys have been through."

Butch pretended to gag, rolling his eyes. He then pulled on Brick's shirt. "Come on, bro. I have to talk to you."

Brick looked confused, Blossom smiled apologetically, and Butch dragged his brother away.

Blaster watched them go, before turning back to the other victim. "Bandit, how are you?"

The purple Ruff had been floating nearby silently. He only shook his head.

"His wounds do seem worse than Butch's, but they don't seem too serious," the Professor added. "They also seem to be a few hours older than Boomer and Butch's injuries."

Bandit flinched, as if the Professor had just revealed some grave secret.

Him narrowed his eyes, but said nothing in front of the crowd.

Then they all heard Butch and Brick's rising voices.

"Are you insane!?"

"I trust her, okay!"

Blaster exchanged a concerned look with Braker, but when he turned to Bandit or Bubbles for answers, he found none. The purple Ruff was staring at the floor dejectedly, and the blue Puff was too absorbed in healing Boomer.

The door banged open just then, and more Powerpuff Girls came floating down.

"We came as soon as we heard! Is he okay?" cried Bliss.

Braker froze, his eyes wide as his face flushed.

Blaster had to nudge him to bring him back to reality.

"What the hell happened!?" Buttercup demanded.

Bunny immediately joined Bubbles in trying to heal Boomer.

Bandit looked as if he wanted to say something to her, but she didn't even glance his way, and he looked back down, now even more depressed.

Blaster frowned. He cleared his throat. "Bunny, could you also attend to Bandit? I realize Boomer's in the more critical condition, but Bandit's injuries are also pretty bad."

She hesitated, while Bandit stared at Blaster in alarm. But then she nodded. "Of course."

Bandit looked mortified, but he allowed Bunny to tend to his wounds.

"Sneaky," Braker whispered to Blaster.

The yellow Ruff found it within himself to smile slightly, but his face quickly fell.

Butch and Brick emerged from the shelves. Butch suddenly looked very tired, and Brick also looked exhausted.

Banana flew over without being asked and set to work on Butch's injuries, while Brick joined his girlfriend.

Blaster went to Bubbles and started trying to heal Boomer.

Braker, meanwhile, hovered nearby anxiously. "Is he okay? Does he need anything? Do you guys need anything? Maybe some water? Do you think that would wake him up?"

The yellow Ruff rolled his eyes. "Go talk to Bliss and Buttercup and let us work."

Braker hesitated but did as he was told, floating over to the two girls also just floating anxiously. He waved at them awkwardly.

Bliss' cheeks turned pink but she waved back.

"How've you been?" Braker asked. "Feeling any better now?"

"Yes," Bliss answered shyly. "What about you?"

"I'm doing okay."

"Oh my God, stooooop," groaned Buttercup. "You two sound like two AI's from the 2000s trying to communicate with each other."

The oranges glanced at each other before giggling.

"Okay, how's about I go more in detail about my day? Not like an AI." Braker grinned. "Actually, you'll never believe this. Blaster and I hung out with DJ…"

Bliss' mouth dropped open. "What? You're right, I don't believe it."

"It's true! And we weren't at each other's throats. It was really chill. We even gave him hot chocolate, and then we went to eat at a restaurant. The one that Elias' family runs."

"Seriously? Braker, that's great news! I'm proud of you two."

Despite himself, Blaster found himself smiling.

"I'm so happy you two were able to look past your differences and be friendly to each other. Forgiving each other and everything."

Blaster froze. There's that word again. Forgiveness.

Braker smiled. "It's what you taught us."

Bliss' face flushed, and Buttercup gagged and floated off into a different corner of the room to sulk.

Blaster then tuned into Bandit and Bunny's conversation out of curiosity, mostly out of concern for his usually calm and collected brother being so forlorn and distant, but theirs didn't go nearly so well. It was much more wooden.

"How do you feel now?"

Bandit hesitated. "Better."

"That's good."

Silence.

"Bunny…"

"Are there any more bruises or scratches I don't know about?" she interjected quickly.

Looking deflated, he pointed to any other injuries he had.

Some more silence passed until he'd worked up enough courage to say, "About earlier—"

"Darkai came by today," she said softly. "We talked. He had some pretty bad injuries, including bruises on his neck."

Bandit turned rigid.

Blaster frowned. Darkai too? Bandit's wounds are older than Butch and Boomer's. Did he and Darkai…?

"He told me he fought somebody preying on another man," Bunny said. "But the bruises were extra bad. Like they'd been reinforced from two separate fights."

Bandit said nothing.

"But Darkai wouldn't say what." She sighed. "We talked about other things though. And we worked out most of our issues. He said he would try to one day tell me more." She paused, finally looking her counterpart in the eye. There was a firmness in her gaze rarely seen with Bunny. "I guess you were right. We did need to talk. Thank you for the advice, Bandit."

"Oh, it's…it's no problem," he said, trying to smile—and yet it looked totally forced and almost broken.

Blaster furrowed his brows, frowning. He knew his brother, and while Bandit was good at hiding his emotions, Blaster could see he was holding back his pain.

He felt the urge to intervene, but he knew it wouldn't be a good idea. Not only would Bandit despise him even trying to help him, it would become obvious that Blaster was eavesdropping. So he kept silent—at least for now.

A loud voice penetrated his thoughts: "I swear, I feel better already! You should be tending to Boomer."

Blaster turned and spotted Butch making wild gestures at Banana, who looked anxious.

She was trying to shush him, glancing every now and then at Blaster, Boomer, and Bubbles.

Blaster stiffened when he and Banana made eye contact. He knew he'd already technically chosen to forgive her, but it would take much longer before the sting fully healed. He also knew the reason she was hesitating to heal Boomer was because of him.

At least she's being considerate of my feelings now. He pushed the cold, sarcastic thought away before it turned too destructive, trying to smile warmly. "Banana, if he wants to play the hero, let him. He'll regret it later. You can come here and help in the meantime."

Banana still looked unsure while Butch nudged her forward. Blaster wondered if he only imagined it, but he could've sworn he saw a faint smirk on his green-eyed brother's face.

"Okay," the yellow Puff finally said quietly, slowly floating over. She seemed shy, nodding slightly at Blaster before she chose to settle beside Bubbles.

The blue Puff seemed oblivious to the tension between the yellows, which was just as well to Blaster. He already had Braker—and now Butch, it seemed—pushing for him to mend his relationship with Banana. He didn't feel like he needed any more people added to that particular club.

He focused entirely on trying to heal Boomer, not looking up to make eye contact with Banana. It just all felt so awkward. He'd at least made the effort to invite her to join him, and that felt like enough for the day. Baby steps, he reminded himself.

Later, Blaster felt his eyelids growing heavy as the glow of his hands began to subside. He felt tired. He wasn't quite sure how much time had passed, but it felt like hours.

The others had been milling about, with people leaving and returning every now and then. The lab was currently empty, save Blaster, Banana, Bubbles, and Boomer.

Banana looked up. "You look exhausted," she commented softly. "Maybe you should rest."

He shook his head tersely. "Can't… Must…heal Boomer…" He glanced at Bubbles.

She'd been at it even longer than him, yet despite the dark circles growing under her eyes, she seemed determined to heal.

"You two need some rest," Banana urged. "I'll stay here and keep working."

Bubbles also shook her head.

Exasperated, Banana stood up. "Listen to me. Please. I'm begging both of you. You won't be of any help to Boomer if you work yourselves unconscious!"

The door thumped open and Mojo entered, looking tired. He'd arrived later, working with the Professor on helping Boomer, Butch, and Bandit medically. "Listen to and obey the yellow Powerpuff Girl that is Banana Utonium. Heed her warning, for if you two, that is, Bubbles and Blaster, really do work or push or force yourselves to the point of no return—to exhaustion—then you will become, turning into, more trouble—burdens—for the rest of us, meaning everyone else, which will deplete and limit your usefulness and help to all of us, including the poor, unconscious boy that is Boomer."

Blaster, exhausted to the point of impatience, rolled his eyes. "Alright, I got it. I'll go." He stood up and wobbled slightly, but Banana was quick to catch him.

There was a beat where he glanced at her hand wrapped around his arm. Blinking, she smiled apologetically and pulled her hand away.

"Thank you," he managed.

"Bubbles," Mojo warned.

The blue Puff paused, the glow of her hand growing faint. She hesitated for a long time before looking at Mojo, then Banana and Blaster. Sensing their concern, she nodded.

"Come with, as in follow, me," the mutated ape commanded.

Blaster and Bubbles did as they were told. The yellow Ruff glanced back once, meeting eyes awkwardly with Banana.

She quickly looked back down at Boomer.

Then the heavy door closed behind them. Blaster leaned against it for support. Now that he was out of the lab, he was suddenly aware of how spent he felt.

Brick rushed over, handing him a glass of water.

He drank it hungrily, only now realizing how parched his mouth was.

"You shouldn't overwork yourselves," Brick fretted. "Or else—"

"We'll become burdens too. I know." He rolled his eyes, setting down the cup and wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "We just got an earful from Mojo."

Brick sighed. "I've put Butch and Bandit to sleep. You and Bubbles should take a nap as well."

"I'm tired, not injured," he protested.

His brother's red eyes flashed in warning. "The sooner you rest, the sooner you'll feel better and the sooner you can go back to healing Boomer."

Blaster opened his mouth to retaliate but Brick clamped a hand over his mouth.

"No arguing with the leader."

Rolling his eyes, Blaster nodded curtly. He stood up and glanced at Bubbles, who was staring at the floor while Blossom talked to her. Looks like she's getting lectured to do the same thing.

Spotting him after Bubbles had nodded a little to indicate agreement, Blossom smiled. "Come with me," she offered. "I'll take you to the guest room."

"No can do, Bloss. The bed's been occupied by both Bandit and Butch," Buttercup called, floating over from the hallway.

"Hmm." Blossom frowned.

"Guess I won't sleep then," Blaster said quickly, already making his way back to the lab. Now that he'd had some water, he felt rejuvenated enough to return to work—

Brick blocked his path, his arms crossed. "No," he said firmly. "You're going to get some sleep."

Blossom nodded her agreement. "Let me think," she added, ticking things off of her fingers. "Bandit and Butch are smushed together in the guest room. Bubbles is obviously going to be in her own room. The Professor is in his own room. Bunny is getting some rest too. Braker and Bliss are in her room. My room will be open… Buttercup…"

"No way," Buttercup interrupted. "Besides, I'm heading up there soon. I don't plan on just sitting around in the living room. Too depressing."

Blossom frowned at her sister, but didn't force it. "That leaves my room or Banana's room."

"Err…" Brick cleared his throat. "It may not be appropriate for him to rest in your room, Bloss."

Blaster shot him a look. "You're the one who wants me to take a nap, Oh Wise Leader," he remarked sarcastically.

Brick returned the look with one of his own. "Blossom needs her rest too. And I'll be joining her shortly."

He rolled his eyes. In truth, he wanted to go to Blossom's room—not out of interest in her or anything—but rather because he so desperately didn't want to sleep in Banana's room.

"Looks like Bansy's room it is, then." Blossom smiled at him apologetically. "Hope you don't mind. I promise our rooms aren't any different. It's not like hers is a mess."

"Oh, no. I'm not worried about that." Despite his agitation, he didn't want to come off as too rude. "Sorry."

"It's alright," she said softly. "Rest well, Blaster."

He nodded, before floating upstairs.

Blossom watched him go. Hopefully that gives him and her a chance to get closer again, she thought to herself as she bit her lip.

"My sneaky strategist," Brick whispered, pulling her close to him.

She sighed, resting her head against his chest. "I try," she replied.

Meanwhile, Blaster was making his way to Banana's room. He pushed the door open awkwardly and stayed where he was as it slowly swung open, as if Banana herself would be there. Of course she wasn't, but it still felt like he should tread carefully.

He floated inside slowly, not wanting to walk on anything.

It was indeed very tidy—any mess was small and seemed much more like organized chaos than anything else. Most of it was sketchbooks, mannequins, designs, fabrics, needles, threads, yarn, and so on.

Blaster swallowed. It's not so different from my room. He gently touched a banana pencil case that she had on her desk. A gag gift he'd given her for Secret Santa when they were younger. She hadn't been very amused back then, but she'd kept it.

It was full. For some reason that surprised him. He hardly ever saw her bring it to school, but it seemed she was still using it. Even after all these years.

He spotted some of the designs laid out on her desk. They were all stunning—as expected from Banana Utonium.

A dress of various shades of blue—like the ocean. One that was red and white, the red being labelled as "embroidered roses." That design he could see half-finished on one of the mannequins.

He spotted an older sketchbook that had been pried open. A note on one of the newer designs read "look at old designs for inspiration."

Indeed, he recognized the older designs featured on the two open pages: her and Bunny's prom dresses from a few years ago.

Blaster tried to remember that night. They'd each gone with their own dates; him with a nice girl from his Art class and her with a nice boy from her Math class. They'd met up at the snack table and started talking.

She'd pointed out which of her sisters she had designed a dress for, which is part of why he remembered Bunny's dress. Bandit had even remarked on how gorgeous she was, even though he was taking her less as a date and more as a friend.

Blaster had then pointed out which of his brothers he'd designed for. They'd then teasingly argued over how much harder it was to design and make dresses than suits.

"With suits, you have little to work with because you must conform to old standards yet still be unique and look good," he'd argued.

"Which is another way of saying you have a lot to work with. But dresses have an infinite number of possibilities."

"Then don't you have even more to work with than I did?" he'd teased.

She'd smiled, which made him smile.

She was right, of course. They both knew that better than anyone. But it was fun to chat, and he recalled her smile being as serene as the moon—making him want to smile as well.

It'd been so easy back then.

Just exchanging ideas. Complimenting each other's outfits. She'd even twirled for him, showing off her dress with pride. It was a beautiful design. He remembered his breath catching in his throat.

She'd looked beautiful.

Blaster felt heat creep up his neck and he drew his hand back. Things had changed so fast so quickly. He groaned, settling into Banana's chair. He didn't want to think about it anymore.

Banana or Christie. Christie or Banana.

Did either of them truly love him?

The heat was rising even higher from his neck now, making him feel uncomfortably hot. Squirming, he finally began pulling off his thick sweater and placing it on the back of the chair.

Doing so caused him to knock some papers to the ground by accident.

He scrambled to pick them up, gathering them all gently in his hands. As he began to reorganize them, he froze.

Some of the designs were his.

The edgy ones I made when I was still feeling salty over Banana and Michael, he realized. The ones Banana had been trying to turn into reality.

The ones she'd shown him the day she kissed him.

They crumpled a little in his tightening grip before he realized what he was doing. He quickly set them back down and smoothed them as best as he could, before shoving them into a sketchbook. He didn't want to look at them. Didn't want to be reminded of that day. Didn't want to remember the feelings that caused him to design them, or the feelings he felt implode within himself when she kissed him.

Blaster dove headfirst into her bed, messing up her neatly tucked blanket. He buried his face in them and let out a loud groan, before moving under the covers.

He stared up at the ceiling, pulling one of her stuffed animals toward himself for comfort. A bumblebee.

"You remind me of a bumblebee," she'd once told him with a smile.

"Why, because I'm chubby and round?"

"Of course not, silly." She'd elbowed him, laughing. "Because you're cute like a bumblebee. So soft and fuzzy. And because you're attracted to beautiful things like flowers, and you make those things into something also beautiful. Honey."

"Oh. I thought you were going to say because I'm always annoyingly buzzing around you and ready to sting someone when they anger me. Or because I'm the yellow Rowdyruff Boy. Who can fly." He'd paused in an exaggerated call for suspense. "Or because I'm…you know. Chubby. And round."

She'd smiled. "Those too," she finally conceded. "But mostly because of the reasons I listed."

"Then you're a silk moth."

She'd raised an eyebrow. "Because I can sew?"

"That, and you're also cute. Like they are. Pure. Serene. Like the moon."

She'd laughed again. "Aren't you a sweet-talker? Maybe your designs aren't honey but the words you speak sure are."

He held the stuffed bee up, studying it and wondering what its name was, and whether Banana had assigned it a gender. He supposed it was better she relate him to a bumblebee than a wolf.

There were sunflowers on her windowsill, he just noticed. She'd always told him sunflowers were his flower. Because he was so warm and sunny.

When he'd asked her about a flower that represented herself, she wasn't so sure. He'd suggested camellias. Refined, regal flowers for a refined, regal person.

She'd protested they were too soft and round and pastel. Not enough edges.

He'd grinned and reassured her that they were beautiful and layered, like the dresses she created. Plus, some of them had sharper petals and were more vibrant in colour.

Camellias were one of his favourite flowers.

So maybe Banana was right. Maybe he was attracted to beautiful things, like a moth to a flame—or a bumblebee to a flower.

And like a bumblebee, stinging those who hurt him seemed to always end up with him hurting himself even more.

He covered his face with his arm, trying not to cry as he bit his lip. He hugged the toy bumblebee close.

He hadn't mentioned it back then, but the flowers also represented two lovers in China. Eternal lovers.

And perhaps the one he'd liked—maybe even loved—had once upon a time been her.

I did like her a lot back then. It hurt to admit it now. But that was probably why her kissing him had hurt so much more. He'd just begun falling for Christie and suddenly Banana had kissed him. It felt like she was toying with him.

It did feel more right than your kiss with Christie earlier today though. He stopped, mentally slapping himself. She wasn't herself today because of the funeral. That's all.

Still, a small part of him dared to whisper, Then why did she dismiss Vix? Didn't she care a lot for him too?

Blaster tried not to dwell on the matter, urging himself to fall asleep. He wasn't sure what awaited him when his mind did fade into unconsciousness, and whether he would dream or not, but he dared to assume it would be better than whatever thoughts he had now.

---

"Watch out!" he cried just as his brother blundered into him, causing both of them to stumble forward, with camellias tumbling from his arms while the basketball bounced from his brother's.

The other boy grunted as he fell to the grass, his oversized green jersey—just newly washed—getting stained as he skidded through the dirt.

"Butch!" he exclaimed in frustration, sitting upwards. "You ruined my flowers!"

"Sorry," Butch replied callously, adding in a mutter under his breath, "Plus, you ruined my shot."

He felt like crying, watching the white and pink petals flutter through the air to the brown earth beneath. The flowers were no longer so perfect and beautiful. Now they were crumpled and stained, just like his new yellow sweater and white jeans.

"What's the matter?" a kind voice called from the doorway of the wooden cabin behind them.

He turned to it, still trying to hold back his tears. "Butch made me drop my flowers!"

"Not on purpose!" the older boy crowed indignantly, pausing in his dribbling.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that," the man with the kind voice said, walking from the cabin to where he was still sitting on the dirt. He squatted beside him, patting him on the shoulder comfortingly. "I'm sure we can still save some of them."

"But they were so perfect before," he murmured with a sniffle. "Now they're all dirty."

"Sometimes life is like that," the man replied, picking a pale pink camellia up. He dusted it off, smiling down at it despite its ripped petals. "But life still thrives, and even when it's frayed, it's still beautiful."

He tucked the camellia behind the boy's ear, his smile turning into a warm grin. "See? Still salvageable."

The boy sniffled, rubbing his teary eyes. "Really?"

"Really," he promised. "Seeing how something survives and learns to thrive despite pain is just as graceful as something pure and untouched by the cruelties of life."

He nodded, not fully sure he understood the man's point, but he was eager to make a jab at Butch: "You bear that? You're a cruelty of life."

The man laughed while Butch scowled, and he helped the boy and the camellias up. "Come on," he said gently. "Let's get you guys inside and all cleaned up."

"You owe me some flowers," he chirped to Butch, hugging the camellias close to him.

Once inside, he set them in a jar of water on the windowsill next to the peonies the man had brought back earlier.

He and Butch both stripped their clothes off and took baths, then getting changed into new clothes to rejoin the rest of their family in the dining room.

Mojo and Him had now arrived, and all the other Rowdyruff Boys were lined up—not perfectly, but good enough for a group of young, rowdy boys.

"You look like a wet dog!" Brick snickered, hitting the bangs hanging over Butch's forehead so that droplets of water fell. Butch's usual spikes had disappeared, and now his hair flopped down on his head.

"Better than you and your stupid squirrel tail," he sneered, pulling on Brick's bushy ponytail.

"Hey!" he protested.

"Boys, boys, stop fighting this instant," Him commanded.

They pulled apart, rolling their eyes.

"Sorry, as in apologies, for all the trouble and disturbance they must cause," Mojo added to the kind man.

He shook his head. "They're perfect. Aren't you, boys?"

"Yes!" they all eagerly agreed.

"Lunch will be ready soon," the man promised. "We're just waiting for a certain someone to arrive."

"I'm here!"

They all turned to see a tall, gangly boy with long, shaggy red hair scrambling down the stairs. He had an eyepatch on over one of his green eyes and was wearing a white no-sleeve and pyjama pants. "Sorry," he added, hobbling into the kitchen. "I overslept."

"It's alright," the man said, walking over to help the newcomer. "Your burns are still healing, after all."

"They sure are taking forever," the redheaded boy muttered.

"Vix," the older man scolded.

He sighed. "I know. Sorry."

The man nodded before going to fetch the food from the kitchen. When he returned, delectable smells of roast beef and hot tomato soup and chicken and broccoli wafted seemingly everywhere.

The boys eagerly thumped their cutlery on the wooden table—despite Mojo and Him telling them not to—chanting, "Food! Food! Food!"

"Here we are," the man announced, setting the dishes down. "Bon appétit, les petits loups."

"Yayyyyyy!"

Everyone dug in eagerly, and soon the room was filled with delighted cries about how good everything tasted. Smiles and laughter followed.

"I'm glad you guys are enjoying my cooking so much," the man remarked, smiling.

"Even the broccoli doesn't taste awful," Butch confirmed, taking a bite of one of the small tree-like greens.

"Be sure to eat lots then. They'll help you grow." Him scooped up some more broccoli and passed them to Butch, who for once didn't even protest at the sight of more vegetables.

The boys ate ravenously, their forks and spoons becoming like shovels as they threw food into their mouths.

"After lunch we can get some more training done," the man suggested. "Since the full moon is tonight, we should be careful not to be seen. It'll be pretty bright in this forest with the moon shining down on us, and we don't want to scare anyone."

Vix looked up, his visible green eye glowing. "Can I come this time?"

The man hesitated. "It'll be dangerous," he began slowly.

"I'll be careful!" he promised. "Please? It's so boring just sitting in my room."

"Oh, let the boy go," Him said. "He could stretch his legs."

The man frowned. "Alright, but I don't want you taking part just yet, okay? It really can be dangerous, and I don't want you getting hurt. It could reopen old wounds or be tough on your burns."

Vix nodded excitedly. "I promise!"

"You'll get to watch us fight and see how tough and cool I am!" Butch crowed, smirking as he flexed an arm.

A piece of roast beef flew through the air and landed in his tomato soup, splashing him a little.

As he turned to glare at whoever was responsible, the culprit began laughing. "You still have noodle arms! You don't look very strong to me!"

"You wanna say that to my face, Braker!?" Butch demanded, already standing up and drawing his fist back with a threatening growl.

"Come at me!" retorted Braker, also jolting upwards.

"Fight! Fight! Fight!" Boomer chanted, his blue eyes wide with excitement.

Bandit pulled on Braker's arms. "Come on. Let's not start this idiocy right now."

"He started it!" cried the green Ruff.

"And you don't have to be the one to finish it," Brick answered. "Now come on. Let's be mature."

As the two boys sat back down in their chairs with a grumble, they settled for baring their fangs at one another like hostile—if not violent—wolves.

Him rolled his yellow-green eyes. "Children," he muttered to himself.

"I'm glad you guys settled that maturely," the man stated.

"Yes," agreed Mojo. "If you really do want to fight or battle later, you may do so later during your training—specifically while sparring."

"Alright, Braker! Let's see who has noodle arms then!"

"You're on, Butch!"

Vix sighed, resting his chin in his hands as he watched the Rowdyruff Boys bicker with and tease one another. "I wish I could spar too," he mumbled sullenly.

Having overheard, the boy with the camellia in his hair turned to Vix. He offered a comforting smile. "I'm sure you'll be allowed to later, when your wounds finally heal."

"I hope so," Vix replied, stretching his arms. He winced and stopped when the strain on his burns hurt too much. "I just hate being stuck in one place for so long. It makes me feel useless, like some imprisoned bird."

"Oh," he said, at first unsure how to respond to such a heavy confession. He and Vix weren't all that close yet, but he wanted to get to know the older boy better. He waited a few moments as the words he wanted to say came to him before continuing, "I'm sure that's not what he means when he asks you to stay and rest. He just doesn't want you to hurt the wings he's just given back to you so soon."

"Yes. And I'm grateful, really." The older boy sighed. "But I want to have fun too."

"You will."

When Vix glanced at him in surprise, he kept going.

"Tonight. I promise."

Vix paused before nodding and smiling. "Okay, I believe you, Bumblebee."

He crinkled his nose. "I've already told you my name is Blaster so many times before!"

Vix laughed. "I know! But I think Bumblebee is a cute name—don't you?"

"I guess," he muttered.

"I didn't mean to offend you." Vix was still smiling despite his apology. "Come on, Blaster—spare me a look?"

He finally turned to face the other boy. A boy who was once human and on the brink of death—brought back to life for a second chance. A bird who'd been granted another set of wings—this time even stronger ones.

A phoenix.

"Okay, I looked. What do you have to say?"

"You look better when you smile." His lips stretched into a teasing grin.

"Vix!" Blaster threw a piece of chicken at him, causing him to laugh again.

"I meant it as a compliment, I swear! 'Cause you're like a sunflower when you smile."

He arched an eyebrow. "I thought you said I was a bumblebee?"

"Both," Vix decided between chuckles. "You're definitely both. And I must say, little bee, you've got quite the sting."

Blaster harrumphed, crossing his arms. "Then you're a fox," he retorted.

"I thought I was a bird!"

"Maybe you're both too."

"That sounds horrifying. A winged fox?"

"Sounds mythical to me. Take it as a compliment." A flaming winged fox? Definitely mythical. Blaster rolled broccoli on his plate, thinking. "So if I'm a sunflower, then maybe you're a plumeria."

"Why's that?"

"They symbolize new beginnings and grace."

"I'm not so sure about grace, but I guess new beginning is accurate," Vix agreed.

Blaster glanced behind him at the selection of flowers present on the windowsills. "Or maybe you're a daffodil. It has a similar meaning, along with 'eternal life' and sometimes 'unrequited love.'"

"That one's a little more depressing," Vix observed. "But maybe it fits well too?"

"We probably shouldn't jinx you with the 'unrequited love' part," Blaster teased. "Hmm. Carnations mostly symbolize love, as do roses… Tulips represent elegance, while chrysanthemums symbolize nobility and various relationships. Camellias can show passion, refinement, longevity, perfection, and even eternal love. Peonies have a lot of meanings: nobility, bashfulness, compassion, and healing."

"Camellias and peonies both have very detailed, sweet meanings," Vix remarked.

Blaster nodded. He pulled out a camellia and pointed at the calyx. "This part, which holds the petals, represents a man. The petals represent a woman. Usually when petals fall, the calyx stays. But with camellias, both fall. That's why they symbolize eternal love."

"That's so poetic," Vix said, glancing at the other flowers. He plucked one too and smiled. "I like the peonies. There's something so perfect and soft about them."

"A noble choice," Blaster replied, grinning. "Pun intended."

Vix grinned back.

Cheering sounded just then, causing them to turn back to lunch.

Mojo Jojo had lifted his glass. "To Damon! Many thanks and much gratitude for our fine friend for inviting and cooking for us!"

"To Damon!" everyone echoed.

"Goodness, there's no need for this," the kind man said, looking embarrassed yet happy. "Thank you. You're all too kind."

They all clinked glasses of juice and laughed, chatting happily.

Vix turned to Blaster. "Which flower do you think Damon is?"

Blaster looked around, feeling curious. He'd matched flowers to his brothers already a long time ago. As for Damon…

He spotted something.

"Maybe that?" he suggested, pointing at the orange-red blossoms. It was the only flower he didn't—couldn't—recognize, yet it stood out so much.

"How come?" Vix asked.

Blaster shook his head. "I'm not sure," he admitted. "It just seems like it…fits."

The world trembled.

He didn't notice one of his camellias beginning to lose its petals. Soon the calyx was falling away too, and every flower began wilting.

And slowly, oh so slowly, the cabin seemed to fill with smoke and embers, sparking from those bright orange-red flowers.

Everyone gasped for air. "Damon, Damon!" they cried. "Save us, save us!"

But Damon wasn't smiling kindly anymore. His chocolate eyes had turned golden—perhaps reflecting the flames that grew all around him—and his face was solemn.

"I'm sorry."

Blaster looked around wildly, desperately hoping for something that would let him out. To his horror, he saw Vix melting away beside him.

"Damon," gasped the redheaded boy. The flames formed wings around him before wrapping him up and seemingly consuming him.

Icarus flown too close to the sun. A dying phoenix.

Blaster bolted up to leave, wanting to scream but trying to conserve his breath.

"You can't go yet. The party's just getting started," Damon drawled, turning to grin at the boy. "Won't you stay?"

In his hands he was holding the flower Blaster hadn't recognized earlier. But the name came easily to him now.

A pure black dahlia.

Then a gunshot sounded and the flower was splattered red, with the walls screaming around them.

---

Blaster jolted awake, his eyes large as he grabbed his chest, gasping for air like his life depended on it. He stayed like that for awhile, shaking, before letting himself collapse back onto the bed.

So it was just a nightmare. He closed his eyes.

Everything had felt so real, and that was because right up until the last few seconds when everything quite literally became hell, every moment of his dream had been a real memory.

Blaster still recalled that day. It'd gone exactly as it had in his dream, and after he and Vix had discussed flowers, they'd been allowed to play around before they had to go off for training during the full moon.

But that flower he'd picked out to represent Damon—the dahlia—hadn't been present in Damon's cabin that day. He wondered if he really would've chosen it if they were there. The flower represented dignity and grace, all things a young Blaster would've believed fit Damon.

But they also symbolized betrayal.

Truly fitting, Blaster thought with a bitter smile.

Actual black dahlias didn't exist in real life, so seeing Damon holding it in his dream had been extra sinister. It had seemed to radiate a dangerousness he couldn't even begin to fathom.

Another gunshot sounded, causing Blaster to jolt violently in his bed.

Except it wasn't his bed, and it wasn't his stuffed bumblebee he was hugging so tightly, and it wasn't a gunshot. It was just a knock on the door.

"Come in," he called, trying to relax, with his voice smaller and wavering more than he would've liked.

"Sorry to interrupt your nap," the newcomer murmured, pushing the door open. She stood awkwardly in the doorway, her gaze anxious yet not daring to look directly at him.

Blaster sat up straighter. "Oh no, I mean…i-it's your room after all—I'll get out of your hair—"

"No, no, don't worry. I'm not here to make you leave." Banana looked over before freezing. "Umm…"

He paused, confused, before looking down. The warmth returned to his face as he realized he was still shirtless. He tried to readjust himself so that the blankets covered more of him, even though he knew it was silly.

Banana recovered enough to walk to her desk and collapse in her chair. "I'm not kicking you out. I just got kicked out of the lab, is all."

"You did?"

"Yeah, Brick came down to check on me and told me I should take a break. It didn't feel right, but he insisted…"

"I know how that feels. I didn't want to take a nap either." He shifted, still hugging the bumblebee. "Umm…sorry to intrude, by the way."

"It's alright." She smiled. "Someone sleeping in my bed is the least of anyone's concerns right now," she added half-jokingly.

He managed to smile too, nodding back. "I guess so."

"Did you rest well?"

"Oh, umm…it was alright, I guess," he lied.

She frowned. "You still have dark circles under your eyes. It doesn't seem like you were able to recharge that much."

"You've got dark circles too."

"To be fair, I was just healing Boomer for an hour nonstop." She smiled weakly. "Bubbles has returned to his side."

Blaster glanced at the door. "Maybe I should go too."

Banana looked unsure. "I think you might need some more rest," she finally said.

"But I—"

"I know. We all want to help, but pushing ourselves is probably the opposite of helpful," she sighed.

He looked down. "So…what now? Do we rest in the same room?"

"Oh no; I know that must be really uncomfortable for you," she said quickly. "I'll just go to Bubbles' room."

"I can go instead," he offered.

Banana smiled. "I'd hate to make you get up and leave and bother Bubbles to ask her permission. I'm her sister; I can get away with stealing her room for a few minutes."

"…Okay," he said quietly.

She got up and walked off, but just as she was about to shut the door, he called out for her.

"Banana?"

She paused. "Yes?"

"C-Can you stay for a little while?" he asked shyly, awkwardly. "I had a nightmare before, and I don't want to go to sleep alone."

She seemed surprised, but she nodded. "Of course." She walked back to the bed, pulling her chair up beside it. "I'll stay right here," she promised. "Until you're asleep."

He nodded before snuggling back under the covers.

A few long seconds passed as he lay there, staring at the wall while knowing she was sitting behind him, staring at him. It felt so awkward he wanted to fall into an abyss of sleep as soon as possible, even if he would have another nightmare as a result.

So in an attempt to diffuse the awkwardness, he pointed at the banana pencil case she had on her desk. "I'm surprised you kept it."

She glanced at it before turning back to him. "Oh, well…it wasn't exactly the most thoughtful gift I've gotten, but at least it's practical."

He grinned. "That sounds like a very roundabout way of saying I got you a good gift after all. Do you take your words back?"

"I never called it a bad gift!"

"Well, you certainly weren't very impressed with it," he laughed. "I remember you glaring daggers at me after opening it, insisting it isn't funny or creative. You even threatened to throw it out."

"Oh, please. You exaggerate." She folded her arms, pouting. "I clearly used it a few times after that."

"True," he admitted. "And it's too bad some people teased you over it." He smiled. "I thought it was adorable."

A warmth crept up her neck but she tried to ignore it. "Of course you do. You gave it to me!"

"Okay, I guess I am a little biased."

"A little?"

"Well, okay. Maybe a lot."

Banana rolled her eyes. "See, this is why I stopped bringing it to school so much."

"But you still used it at home."

"Well, of course. I wasn't really going to throw such a thoughtful gift away."

Blaster smiled at her. "Well, as the original gifter of the item, I appreciate it. Really makes me happy to know it's survived so long."

Her skin warmed again. "Yes, well…it is kind of cute, even if it is quite silly. And it is practical."

"As you've said."

"Yes, yes, I did."

Another dip back into awkward silence.

Blaster held up the bumblebee a little and asked, "I was also wondering if this little guy has a name and a gender?"

"He's a good boy." Banana smiled, looking more relaxed now. "And his name is Flower."

He snorted a little.

"What?"

"Flower?" he repeated teasingly.

"I was 6!" she responded defensively. "And he does have a pink flower on his head, next to his left antenna." She pointed.

"Point taken," Blaster giggled.

"So it isn't the most creative name, and maybe it is a little obvious," she pouted, folding her arms. "But it's cute, isn't it?"

He smiled at her. "Very cute."

Banana paused, feeling her heart skip a beat as her cheeks warmed. His golden eyes glowed like honey, and his smile was so sincere and soft and pure. It was like he was sunshine, radiating warmth.

She immediately wanted to drop-kick herself out the window. Don't, she scolded herself. Not now. You and Blaster are finally getting along. You hurt him so badly before—you shouldn't be feeling this way. What if you hurt him again?

"Bansy? You okay?"

The use of her nickname, one he hadn't used since that day, gave her pause. Her cheeks were starting to burn now, and she was so afraid he'd see and realize what was going on. She desperately didn't want to ruin the progress they were making.

"I'm alright," she lied, forcing herself to smile. "I was just trying to remember if you had any embarrassing stuffed animal names I could tease you about."

"Well, if you can't remember, I'm certainly not telling you," he laughed.

"Oh really?" Banana raised an eyebrow, tapping her chin. "Hmm. Well, I distinctly remember a stuffed lion that has definitely seen better days. And what was his name again?"

"Nooooooo," Blaster said, hiding his face behind the toy bee.

"Oh yes, I believe it was Lionel?"

Blaster let out an exaggerated groan as he threw another one of Banana's stuffed toys at her. This one was a lion as well.

"I named mine Sunny after its golden mane! Is that creative enough for you?" she teased, holding it up.

"Fine, fine, you win in the 'lion naming' category," he pouted.

"Oh, is it a competition now?" Banana leaned forward. "So what would you have named this bee then?"

Blaster paused, thinking. "Buzz…?" he finally mustered.

She couldn't help it—she began giggling. It soon evolved into laughter.

"Hey! So it isn't my best work. But that's because I'm still sleepy!"

"Okay, okay. Then let me know if you can come up with a better name after your nap," she gasped between her laughter.

"I will; you'll see!" He dramatically thumped back down on the bed, hugging the bumblebee close. "You'll soon regret crossing with me."

"Ooh, that rhymed! You didn't feel creative enough to come up with a new name, but you certainly made quite the poem."

He groaned. "Oh, quit mocking me, you."

"I will once you're asleep and no one's here to hear my teasing," she promised.

"That's a very good incentive to go to sleep," he muttered in exaggerated annoyance. He yawned then. "Although…I guess I don't really need one… God, I'm a lot more tired than I realized…"

She smiled, watching him close his eyes. As he lay there, his arms wrapped around her stuffed bee, Banana felt her heart warm. The minutes ticked by, until his breaths slowed and he finally fell into a slumber.

When she was sure he was okay, she got up to go.

"No…"

Startled, she turned to look back at him.

Something in his dreams must have bothered him, because his brow was now furrowed and he shifted in her bed, hugging her bumblebee even closer to him. He looked so small all of a sudden, the walls Blaster carried when he was awake beginning to fall away.

"Damon…" he mumbled, still moving in his sleep. The name felt familiar to Banana.

He began shaking harder, his eyebrows creasing even more as sweat began to gather on his forehead. "Please…don't hurt us…"

"Blaster?"

He began rolling around more, the nightmare seemingly getting more intense.

"Blaster, it's okay. There's no reason to be afraid," she said softly, placing her hand on his shoulder. "I'm here."

He reached out and grabbed her hand, causing her to freeze. "Bansy," he whispered. His lips were so close to her hand she could feel his breath on her skin. He relaxed, but she tensed.

Banana sucked in a sharp, silent breath as she stared down at him. Stop it, she once again told herself. Stop beating so fast.

But her words were lost to her heart.

Why am I feeling this way? she wondered. Am I…falling for him? Is that even fair to him? To me? After everything that's happened, I don't want to mess things up now. I should really stop—before it's too late and I further hurt us both.

She looked at his sleeping form, illuminated by the sunlight from her window, his chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm, with his fingers curled around hers.

But it's so hard to—she felt her own shoulders loosen somewhat as her gaze softened—when he keeps being so cute.

---

Perhaps it was the rain, but colours seemed to be missing from the town on this January day. The town square that was lined with stores now had put away all the Christmas decorations and beyond that, the streets seemed to stretch on with identical houses, an ocean of grey that threatened to drown any onlookers.

Still, if one were to be drowned, it wouldn't be because of the sheer number of houses. At 1,500 people in the summer and a mere few hundreds during the school year, Redstone had always been a town that was overlooked on a map, a name that passed through conversation without being remembered by anyone.

And perhaps that was exactly why this town suffocated the people here, when you have been to the only bookstore, the only café, the only restaurant, the only everything too many times. And in a place like this, there was no room for secrets. The person sitting next to you would know, even before sunrise, that you had been sobbing the night before, guilt and shame tearing through your very core. The whole town would know before you had the time to wipe your tears away, and there would be murmurs, sideway glances.

Redstone was a place too small for you to disappear in the ever-present sameness, and in that way, no one could ever find a safe place to breathe.

In the middle of the town square, people pulled up their cars in front of the pristine white church, a place that seemed to be too… pure, for a funeral to happen. Genevieve sat in the church, unable to go out and greet the visitors. Her knuckles turned white from clutching the pamphlet that had the smiling face of her once-cousin on the cover, all the while thinking that people must not know why this funeral was happening. Why this was all her fault.

Not far away, a Mercedes was driving through the town, gleaming black with tinted windows. And inside it sat a family of four, silence filling the space between them as their thoughts churned.

Maggie and Chris were holding hands as Maggie drove, their grip tight. The solemn, heavy quiet came from the knowledge of the coming funeral, but it was also an uncertain mourning—the kind you felt when you weren't quite as familiar or as close to the person who had just passed, and weren't quite sure if you were mourning enough.

Christie frowned, glancing out the window at the gray world outside. While saddened by another passing, she was mostly worried about her second cousin, Genevieve—she knew it was complicated between the two, but Genevieve had certainly been physically close to the deceased.

"You okay?" her younger brother asked from beside her, his turquoise eyes worried and his brow furrowed. Ever since she'd been kidnapped by Damon, he'd been extra nice to her.

"I'm fine. It's not me that's going to be affected by this. I just…I can't believe that even when we're away from the war, someone still has to die," she commented softly. She sounded tired, pulling back to slump against her seat.

Michael turned from the window to glance at his older sister. He had a feeling she was thinking not just about the losses they've suffered, but also of Vix, who was still missing. His gaze slid to his parents in front of them, who were silent.

He wanted to ask her about what had really happened when she'd gone to try and save Vix, but he didn't dare with his parents so close by. There were many other things to think about as well, considering the death in the family…

And Christie was right—no matter where they went, death seemed to happen.

Michael had never been close to Clara, but it was still sad knowing that someone had passed. "Do you think Genevieve's okay?" he murmured.

Christie paused. "I know she didn't get along with Clara, but they lived together for so long. When I talked to her about it, she…she mentioned how guilty she felt about it."

"I can't really imagine Genevieve…well, openly admitting she's sad, I guess," Michael commented quietly.

The two fell silent, and soon Maggie turned to face her children. "We're here," she announced, her voice still.

Christie turned to the front, looking up at the looming presence of Redstone's church. It really did seem too pure.

In front of the entrance, people gathered and gave condolences to the young girl's family, who was—had been—a shiny star that could also be a dangerous supernova, but of course everyone would choose to forget that part because people always seemed to get immortalized when their lives were lost. Clara Montgomery was no perfect angel, yet that was all people seemed to be able to remember, murmuring how sorry they were because she had had so much potential, an intelligent and sharp girl that always knew what she wanted and how to get it.

All the conversation stopped the instant the black Mercedes pulled up, a violent break in the monotone that Redstone embodied. Glances were traded as people got off the car, one that no one who lived here had seen, not to mention the owners of this oddity. Then of course came the murmurs as people wondered: what relationships existed between them and Clara, why they had never visited if they were family. Could they be related to Clara's father, the man who had decided he wanted nothing to do with a responsibility that could tie him down for the rest of his life?

Of course, these questions would never be answered. But perhaps the speculation had always been the part people enjoyed, not when the truth came out and they were forced to admit they were right or wrong.

The Hawthorne family paused as they stepped out of the car. Maggie lifted her shades and looked out at the gathered crowd, searching for family. She and Chris were both dressed in black suits, with her usual six-inch stilettos clicking against the ground. Her messy, frizzy red hair was pulled back in a ponytail, but the attempt at neatness still resulted in stubborn strands poking out. Chris' ice-blue eyes glimmered, a coldness that hid any signs of sadness.

Christie wore a more traditional black dress, and Michael wore a black suit that he felt out-of-place in—but then again, he felt out-of-place at the actual funeral as well, considering the sudden change in atmosphere. It was like a surge of electricity had jolted through the crowd.

Michael leaned in closer to his sister, whispering, "Is it just me or do they all seem to be staring at us?"

"It is a small town, so maybe they're just wondering who—" Christie trailed off when she saw Genevieve. Almost immediately she was rushing over, her family following close behind. "Gen!" she cried, briefly forgetting about the quiet, murmuring crowd and silent atmosphere.

Genevieve looked up with a start at the mention of her name, but before she could react, she had been enveloped by a pair of arms, a touch of warmth on a winter day like this. Blood was supposed to be thicker than water, yet in Christie's case, the fact that she was more distantly related to her didn't make her a more distant relative at all - on the contrary, she was the older sister figure that Genevieve yearned for but never had.

There had been moments where Genevieve had been sure that somehow, her relationship with Clara had been salvageable. Occasionally, she could almost see them being actual cousins when Clara confided in her and listened, despite the fact that Clara still wished to keep their new and less strained relationship private. But these moments came too late, and at the end of the day, there were things that Genevieve could talk to Christie about and not Clara. Even Michael, who she related to yet had a hard time approaching, was starting to open up. Now all Genevieve could think about was why she hadn't tried harder with Clara, and wondered what it was about her that stopped Clara from trying to become closer as well.

She eased out of the embrace, a sound stuck at her throat. "Thank you for coming. Really. Thank you so much."

"Of course," Christie breathed, pulling back to smile a little. "Are you doing alright?"

"Hey," Michael added, waving a little shyly as he joined the two girls. He glanced between them, noting their physical differences. They certainly didn't look related. Genevieve's red hair contrasted greatly with Christie's blond, but at the same time, it showed Genevieve's relation to them through their mother.

Michael glanced behind him, noticing his parents approaching. Maggie certainly looked like she was related to Genevieve—even her cold, calculating eyes behind her sunglasses seemed as distant as Genevieve could sometimes appear. Still, Maggie certainly didn't seem like she was coming for a funeral…

Until she approached the kids and bent down to place her hands on Genevieve's shoulders. "Honey, are you doing okay? How are you feeling? Did you talk to your aunt at all?" she asked urgently.

"Mom, I was just asking her that," Christie murmured, a little annoyed that they had been interrupted.

After a brief, sniffling pause, Genevieve replied softly, "It's okay. I - I'm still processing this and… I just want to get through this." There were too many things that she could say - she could say that she was about to come apart because this was all her fault, she could say that she wished to not talk to anyone at all. But as always, she never opted for the things she needed to say the most.

Maggie's gaze softened tenfold, and she reached out to pull the young girl into a hug. "Oh, you poor dear," she murmured. "I'm so sorry this happened. If I could ever get my hands on the one responsible…"

Chris placed his hand on his wife's shoulder, and Maggie cut herself off before she bared her teeth too clearly. Instead, she gave Genevieve a squeeze before letting go.

"If you ever need anything, we'll be right here," she promised.

"Thank you," Genevieve murmured. Even though it had been over a week since the night at the hospital, she still didn't know how to speak in her full voice as if part of it died too. And her ability to form full sentences seemed to be gone too - besides the polite "thank you" and "I'm sorry too", what else was there to say? Talking about anything besides Clara's and Peter's deaths seemed like a sin.

Not for the first time, Genevieve wished there was some way to just… not be her anymore. The funeral would end today, and the court date for Gabriel's trial was coming up soon, which would not last long because there was no doubt that he was responsible and deliberation would see pointless. But it was far from over. There were yardsticks like these that could measure how far away they were moving on from the accident, but she would never stop being Clara's cousin.

She would always be the girl who lost her cousin. The girl who used to have a tense relationship with her cousin, and she couldn't change it before their time was up no matter how much she wanted it. The girl who didn't stop her cousin to go to that party that was obviously dangerous.

The two big wooden doors of the church closed as the last few attendees filed in, its sound making Genevieve flinch a little, as if from this moment on everyone would be imprisoned here. She gave the Hawthorne family one last nod - a family she had always been somewhat envious of because they just seemed so… well, familial - before walking to the front of the church to join her own. She and the Hawthorne's were distantly related; the only time she spent with them every year were the two weeks she was invited to their property every summer. Yet she always felt closer to Christie than she did to Clara, and Michael and Maggie and Chris had been nothing but kind to her as well.

At least I haven't lost it all, Genevieve tried to tell herself.

She got off her parents' car almost too eagerly when her mother pulled over in front of the Broken Vinyl. The funeral had been terrible enough, but being at the cemetery for the burial was even worse. She knew that it wasn't really her place to complain - if anything, both Jake and Chris must have had it worse since her parents had decided to ask them to be the pallbearers. Still, she hated imagining that Clara would be there, miles away from Redstone, forever confined and imprisoned.

And now, it was over. She was expected to pull herself together again. So that had to start with restoring normalcy by spending time with her friends doing something not related to preparing for a funeral, even if it felt like disrespecting the dead by having fun.

Della got off the car with an appreciative nod, with Jake stumbling out behind her with an incomprehensible "thanks for the ride, Mrs. Montgomery". Chris and Caleb were already there, waiting for them at the door despite the January chill. Now they waited for Christie and Michael. She never thought in a million years that one day she would be introducing her friends to her cousins simply because they lived so far apart, but here they were. Her parents agreed that it was a wonderful idea - nowadays they let her get away with anything. And wasn't this what she had dreamed of when she was little? To have her parents' undivided attention and not be a second thought? And this time she got more than she bargained for.

The Hawthorne family's car pulled over too, interrupting her thoughts. She hastily put on a smile. "Well, time for meet and greet."

As the car doors opened, Christie and Michael carefully made their way outside. Michael turned and murmured a "thanks" to their mother and father.

"Love you," Christie added.

As they began walking away though, Maggie rolled down Chris' passenger window and peeked outside. "Bye kids! I know it's hard, but try to have at least some fun! And remember to call me after! I love you two so much!"

Michael stifled a groan while Christie promised to do so, ever the obedient daughter.

Chris said nothing, just nodding his head once before the windows were rolled up and Maggie drove away.

"Well, let's say hello," Christie said, after the car was gone from view.

Michael nodded, hesitating. I also want to ask you about Vix, now that we're alone—he spotted Genevieve approaching and proceeded to correct himself—well, mostly alone.

Christie put on a smile and stepped forward to greet her redheaded cousin, reaching out to hold her hands as Genevieve's other friends approached.

"Hello!" Christie started with a slightly bigger smile. "I'm Christie Hawthorne, Genevieve's…well, second cousin, I believe? A cousin, at least."

"Hey. I'm Michael. Christie's brother and another cousin of Gen's." Michael looked the others over, curious on what he might be able to gather from appearance alone.

The first boy to step forward was the tallest out of all, his strides confident as if the two of them were his good friends as well. "I'm Chris. I have lived next to Genevieve since I moved here when I was seven. She's put up with a lot." That earned him smiles in amusement, something that they needed.

The girl next to Genevieve rolled her eyes playfully. "I'm Della. This is my brother Jake," she gestured at the quiet boy with matching black hair, "and that's Caleb. We're all in grade ten and we've known each other forever." Both boys nodded at the Hawthorne siblings. If it weren't for Della's explanation, most people would not believe they were the same age when Chris looked like an athlete from university, and Caleb a pre-teen boy with his oversized clothes and the way he stayed almost half hidden behind his friends.

Michael tried to wave a little at Caleb, who seemed maybe a little shy. It reminded him somewhat of Sidney, and he hoped to put him at ease.

"It's so nice to finally meet everyone," Christie responded graciously. "Gen's told us a little about all of you." She paused, before adding jokingly in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, "Chris always stuck out in my mind if only because he shares a name with our dad and it sort of resembles mine."

Smiles and light laughter followed.

"And now we finally get to see the Broken Vinyl too!" Michael agreed. "Shall we go in?"

As the gang nodded and pushed open the doors, Michael fell into step beside Chris, who seemed the most outgoing. "Any recommendations on what to check out?" he asked, trying to be friendly.

Chris' eyes immediately brightened. "The onion rings here are legendary. You have to try them! And the milkshake too…" He led everyone to sit down at a long table, and Caleb immediately helped push another table nearby against it, making it possible for seven people to sit together. The aroma of coffee and deep fried food filled the room, infiltrating but not invasive. Looking at the familiar decorations, from band posters to the Pac-man machine and vinyls on the red walls, it felt like anything but winter in this small diner.

A small smile appeared on Caleb's face. "Well, as someone who works here, I have to add that our root beer float is great too."

Jake nodded. "Agreed. Caleb's opinion on the food here is 100% trustworthy."

"That does sound good!" Michael grinned at Caleb, happy someone else had joined in their conversation. "I do like sweet things, so I think a root beer float would be a great choice. You also made those onion rings sound so tantalizing."

"And a milkshake does sound good," Christie piped up.

"Do you like working here?" he asked Caleb while someone came by to hand out menus and ask them about their drink choices.

The addressed boy didn't respond right away, but the way he looked around the interior and took it all in made the answer clear. "People here are really nice. And the pay is really good."

"Okay, we know this job is great and all, but you work too much!" Della reproached. "We get so worried that you've overworked yourself.

Christie felt concern blossom inside her for the small boy. "Do be careful," she said softly. "It's probably not my place to say anything, and I know it's hard and you have to work even harder, but I'm sure your friends are worried about you for a good reason. Hopefully so you don't have to worry them too much."

Michael coughed, "Easy for you to say. You always overwork yourself." Ever the willing soldier. The better child. The perfect daughter.

"Oh, you know what I mean," she retorted, though the slight twinkle in her eye betrayed her scolding tone.

Michael smiled a little, glad he could brighten her mood a little. She'd been so off since coming back from Damon's cabin, he'd been really worried about her. Of course Christie would also know all too well the feeling of being worried for someone. Vix was always overworking himself.

"Promise us you'll at least watch over your health?" Christie continued, turning to Caleb.

Surprise was written all over his features, but he couldn't suppress the gratitude that ran through him. "For sure." He turned to face his friends. "And that's for you guys too. Plus, Bella has been getting on my case lately too so I'll take it easy."

"As any older sister should. I recorded that on my phone, by the way - just so you know." Della winked.

At that, Genevieve couldn't help but chuckle. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Come on, I'm the only person besides you who has a brain cell in this group and I need to hold everyone accountable. But enough about us! I heard from Gen that you guys do some serious training stuff. What's that like? What kind of training do you guys do?"

Their drinks arrived, and Christie smiled as she stirred the straw in her milkshake. "Oh, mostly just martial arts, fighting, boxing, and other forms of physical training. Of course our parents do try to make sure we have plenty of extracurriculars like dancing and sports and art to make us 'upright and proper,' but a lot of the training is to make sure we can protect ourselves."

"Christie's great," Michael added. "She's a black belt in most martial arts now, and Uncle always says she fights with the grace of a dancer."

She hit her brother playfully. "And what about you? Always so eager to train with your friends. Currently a brown belt in most martial arts. Uncle always says your fighting skills are quick and fluid, if not a little brash and reckless."

Michael was happy to talk about his friends. "They're great too," he said. "My friend Ross is known for his natural talent, and Darkai is really skilled at all forms of fighting—he's the strong, silent type. DJ is a wild card whose unpredictability works in his favour, and Vix is very quick and willing to take risks."

He briefly glanced at his sister as he said the last sentence to see if she would have any sort of reaction, but her shoulders only stiffened for a brief second before relaxing again—almost unnoticeably.

"That's really cool. Della and Chris are the only jocks in the group but neither of them do martial arts," Jake added. "Although I'm grateful Della doesn't, at least. It's scary enough when she charges at people and tackles them during rugby."

"I don't just charge at them all the time. It's strategic and I only tackle people to stop them from scoring." She pushed a basket of fries towards the guests. "Try these! And also if you guys aren't quick enough, Chris will for sure eat them all before you have a chance to."

"What! I'm not like that. Promise," Chris winked.

"Okay, so that time we came here to celebrate after your track meet you didn't eat half of the pizza?"

"It was a track meet! Of course I was tired." He stuck his tongue out. "Jake may not be an athlete and does not understand our appetite, but he is a super talented filmmaker. Caleb is a self-taught musician. And I'm sure you all know that our school plays would not be watchable if it weren't for Genevieve's acting skills."

Christie giggled at the teasing between friends and smiled as she listened to him describe the group's interests. "You all have such diverse hobbies! It's pretty cool that you're all good friends too." She turned to Genevieve and nudged her playfully. "And of course I'm super super proud of Gen's acting skills. Wish I could make the performances in person though."

Michael nodded. "Mom and Dad often force is to go to different tutors for many different things, but we don't always have the talent for it. For example, I'm total crap at painting—not like my friend DJ."

"Yes, you're certainly not the next Van Gogh or Da Vinci," his sister agreed.

He stuck his tongue out at her. "I could at least be the next Picasso."

"Even Picasso could draw humans realistically!"

"Then I'll be the next Jackson Pollock or some modern art painter," he proclaimed. "How hard can splattering paint or painting circles be?"

"Famous last words," she sighed, before turning back to their new friends. "But I was definitely curious, what do you play?" she asked Caleb warmly. "And do you sing too?"

He laughed, but not out of nervousness. "Oh no, I'm definitely not a singer. But I mostly play my guitar and piano."

The pride in Della's voice was evident as she spoke. "But he never plays at our annual Charity Night! We would have loved to see him actually perform. I mean, occasionally hearing him play at the music classroom is nice, but this whole town should know how hard he's worked on his music."

"Do you guys host the Charity Night here?" Michael asked, looking around curiously.

"It's hosted by our school, and they usually rent out this space from a church that is out of town. It's a pretty big deal to the adults but honestly, we never like it that much," Genevieve explained. "The church does have a nice piano though. The performance really would have sounded great."

"I'm sure it would," Christie said. "It would be really cool seeing you perform."

"What if you started out smaller?" suggested Michael. "Would you ever be willing to perform here for your friends and coworkers?"

"That's actually a really good idea," Jake said. "You know, there's all this space here and teenagers don't come here anymore. Wouldn't it be cool to have some sort of concert nights here? I'm sure Calista's parents would love to have more young customers here."

Caleb considered his words. "I mean…. I never really thought about it, but no one has ever done something similar before. That could actually be a lot of fun."

"It'd definitely be something to consider! Hopefully if you ever do, we can actually make one of your concerts," Christie added eagerly. "It's really awesome you guys have this space for yourselves that you feel so comfortable in. I mostly just stay in the comfort zone of my home."

"For me and my friends, we have a place like this that my friends and I are also regulars of," Michael stated. "It's a small café in a forest. It's a good hang-out place that makes us feel better."

Everyone nodded in understanding, although Christie seemed to have frozen, her eyes going blank.

Michael noticed the change. "My sister really likes their latte art—and it is pretty amazing—although I myself prefer their iced coffee. Right, Christie?" He nudged her, hoping the question would bring her back.

She didn't answer.

He tried to finish his thought before he asked Christie if she was okay so that things didn't end too awkwardly. "This place feels just as homely as that, and it happened to remind me of the café! It's honestly really nice here."

She started trembling, before getting up. "Excuse me," she mumbled. Then she quickly walked off.

Michael jumped up. He noticed everyone's confused looks and tried to smile reassuringly. "Sorry. She must've just remembered something sad that once made her go to that café to feel better, and what with the funeral…" He stopped himself from rambling and giving too much about the war away. "A-Anyway, I'll go make sure she's okay."

He hurried after her before anyone could say anything. "Christie?" he called, feeling awkward in a place he was still new in. He didn't want to draw attention to themselves.

She was pushing the door to the women's washroom open when he caught up to her.

"What's wrong? What did I say?" he asked, grabbing her wrist. He tugged on it pleadingly. "Are you okay?"

"I-I'm fine," she replied shakily, drawing in a breath. She turned to face him. "I just… When you mentioned that café, I couldn't help but remember Damon's cabin. And you know with everything that's happened lately, it's just…a lot to take in."

Michael stared at her, his turquoise eyes suddenly filling with sadness. "Oh, Christie… I'm sorry. It was inconsiderate of me." He pulled her into an awkward hug. I still want to ask you about Vix, but given what you must have experienced at Damon's place, it's probably too much for you right now, since the café is so close to the cabin. "I'm so sorry."

"It's alright. I'm just being silly." She wiped the forming tears away before chuckling lightly. "I don't even know what's gotten into me. It shouldn't matter to me so much. Just something about the memory of that cabin…hurt. More than it probably should've."

"It was Vix, wasn't it?" Michael asked, furrowing his brow. "I really should've been more careful. I know you've been really worried about him, and whatever you saw last time at Damon's cabin must've—"

"What?"

Michael paused. "V-Vix," he stammered. "I just assumed—that it must've been the thought of him that—hurt—so much. Is it not?"

Christie blinked, still confused. "Why would I care about him?"

Now it was his turn to utter, "What?"

"Funny. You've been the second one to inquire me about him today." Christie frowned. "I don't know where this idea of me liking Vix so much is even coming from, but I can promise it's not him."

At this point, Michael felt like he'd been punched in the gut. "But you—and he—"

"Honestly. You're making it sound like we were a thing." She frowned. "Are you feeling okay, Mikey?"

"N-No, I mean yes—I mean, I'm just…startled." More like completely and totally and utterly stumped. He stared at her for two long seconds, studying her face, wondering if she was just denying her worry for Vix in an attempt to appear strong. "You're…really not thinking of him?"

"I'd honestly mostly forgotten about him." She shrugged. "Why?"

Michael swallowed, still trying to process this new development. He suddenly wished he could talk to Raymond—he seemed to have a grasp on the mystery that was Christie and Vix's relationship, but he was also just really good at giving out advice in general. Maybe he'd be able to tell him if Christie was in denial.

Still, it seemed like she was telling the truth. Her turquoise eyes looked empty when she spoke of his name. There was no light blush dusting her cheeks the way it might've if he'd asked her about Vix before she'd gone to Damon's cabin. There wasn't even an indignant tone to her voice the way she'd have when Vix was still staying with them as one of Danes' soldiers.

"N-Never mind," he finally managed to say. "I guess I just misread the situation." That can't be right. Yet it seems like it is? "Come on. Let's go back before we worry the others any more. Genevieve's still the main one grieving today, after all—not us."

Christie nodded in agreement. "I honestly don't know what got into me. I was just suddenly hit with this strong wave of emotions and I don't even have an idea as to why."

Michael said nothing more, just walking stiffly back to their booth with his older sister behind him.

When he got a few concerned looks, he sat down and let Christie handle it. While she explained that the café held a lot of bittersweet memories for them and she'd just been hit with a more bitter one while not fully being sure what had come over her, Michael was still trying to decipher his sister dismissing Vix being any cause of pain for her. She'd been one of the most worried for him, and yet now she seemed like she had totally gotten over him.

What on Earth happened between them?

---

Goodbye. The words came easily enough, although the meaning behind it rang hollow in his mind, and he knew he would not be able to fully grasp the concept of this eternal goodbye for a long, long time to come. He watched tiredly as the love of his life was lowered into the ground, his grip tightening on the umbrella that shielded him from the rain—but not his heart.

"Ty, are you okay?" Damon's soft voice came to him from beside him, and he turned with bleary eyes.

"I-I'm alright." They both knew it was a lie, but he still tried to smile despite that.

Damon's brown eyes were deep, almost black in the depths of their sorrow. "I know how much you loved Sylvie, and I know how much it must hurt for you. I-I don't know if I can ever fully comprehend your pain, but I'll be here for you. Always."

The words helped a little bit, serving as a lifeline in the darkness. "Thank you," he breathed, leaning against Damon and resting his head on his shoulder. He stared at the coffin of his wife before having to turn away, hiding his face as the dirt was shovelled back into the hole. He began trembling, sobbing heavily.

He'd tried to hold this in for so, so long after Sylvie's death—holding it in for his family and friends, hoping he'd cried all the tears he had when she died in his arms. He knew they were worried about him, and he desperately wanted to stay strong and help alleviate their own pain by not seeming as broken as he felt.

"Why is Daddy crying?" a small, young voice asked, wobbly and almost too loud in the dead quiet.

"Shhhh," Shamus murmured, bouncing baby Ross up and down. "He's grieving because Mommy is gone."

"But won't she come back?"

Shamus hesitated, glancing at his older brother. "I…"

Tyrone took a deep breath as he tried to recompose himself for his son, pulling away from Damon. Damon seemed hesitant to let him go but nodded in understanding, giving his best friend's hand a squeeze.

Tyrone picked his son up from his brother's arms and smiled despite how tired and broken he felt inside. That's right. I still need to be here for my son. "Mommy might not come home for a very, very long time," he murmured.

Ross' eyes grew wide, starting to tear up as his lips trembled. "What? Why?" he wailed, his tiny fingers balling into fists.

"She had to go somewhere very far away," Tyrone tried to explain, his voice soft. "Somewhere far above, where we can't reach her right now. But if we keep her memory in our hearts and always love her, then there'll always be a part of her that's with us."

Ross sniffled, tears streaming down his cheeks. "Really?"

"Really," he promised. "And I'll always be here for you, Ross. Always." He kissed the top of his son's head, filled with a fierce stab of affection. "I love you so, so much."

"I love you too, Daddy."

He wanted to cry all over again, but he managed to keep himself from sobbing violently, instead just letting a few tears fall.

Shamus moved in closer, pulling his brother and nephew into a tight embrace. "We'll always miss her, but we have to remember we still have each other."

Tyrone nodded, his heart swelling. When he pulled away, Damon gave him a hug and held Ross, kissing him on the cheeks and making him giggle despite his earlier sadness. DJ and Danes approached together, sharing an umbrella. DJ smiled very sadly as he offered Tyrone a bouquet of calla lilies.

Sylvie's favourite. Tyrone remembered her choosing calla lilies for their wedding since it symbolized unity and marriage. He'd even teased her back then, pointing out that white lilies were usually associated with funerals and death due to their meaning of innocence. She'd laughed musically and he'd smiled, glad he could witness that grin and even be responsible for its appearance.

It had been a joke back then—he hadn't meant to jinx them.

"I-I know we can't say enough, but we all miss her. I hope nothing but the best for you from here on out," DJ offered, while Danes only nodded, his gray eyes dark.

"Thank you guys," he sighed, giving them a tight hug.

When they moved apart, DJ was beginning to cry. "I wish things wouldn't have gone this way."

"We can't change the past," Danes replied firmly, looking as strong and being as realistic as he always was—until he sighed and some of his walls crumbled a little. "But we can still try to make the future bright despite everything."

The future. Tyrone didn't really want to try and think about something so far away just yet, especially since he was still so grounded in the painful present. He wondered if he'd ever truly be able to move on, causing him to smile sadly. "I'll leave the future to you for now, Danes. But I promise I'll join you there when I can."

Danes looked concerned but didn't press further. DJ gave his shoulder a squeeze before the two walked off.

Tyrone watched them go, suddenly feeling very, very exhausted. He'd avoided being with his friends as often as he used to lately, mostly because whenever he was with them, he felt the need to appear stronger than he was. He knew how scared they were for him because he and Sylvie had been so, so in love, but he wanted them to find some relief in their own pain.

"You don't have to pretend to be okay for us." Shamus' voice was soft as he joined his brother, looking very tired as well.

"I'm not—I'm not pretending." He hated that his voice faltered, sounding gravelly and thick with grief despite himself.

Shamus shook his head. "You've always been the glue that holds us together, Ty. And I know how hard you work to make sure all of us are happy. Back when we were children when everyone hated Damon and you were the only one to always stand up for him and keep an eye out for him, or when we were teens and you tried to set either Damon and I up with Sylvie. And as adults, you've always been a rock for us even though we've all gotten so busy and swamped with work.

"And now, even though you are the one who is saddest and in the most pain, you're still doing it. It's one of the things I admire most about you, but please…don't keep doing it when you're hurting so much. Don't hurt yourself any more."

Tyrone felt the heart he was desperately trying to hold up from falling apart begin to crumble. "I'm not as noble as you make me out to be, Sham-Sham. I'll…I'll always be sorry I stole her away from you and him."

"Don't be." Shamus met his eyes, his expression suddenly fierce and filled with fire. "You don't have to keep holding onto that pain, especially not after what happened. You and her both deserved to be happy—and it's clear you two made each other happy. I was always happy that you were happy. And I want you to be happy again. I know it seems impossible right now, but I hope there comes a day when you can smile with even a quarter of the joy you used to."

His eyes widened and he felt his knees buckle.

"Ty, what's wrong?" his brother cried, rushing to catch him.

Tears were streaming down his face all over again, although this time they were a little less sad and a little more grateful. "You've always been the best brother I could ever ask for, Shamus. Better than I was to you."

He shook his head. "You've been a great brother. Don't ever feel otherwise."

From a few feet away, Damon watched with a heart that sat in his chest like lead. He glanced back at Sylvie's grave, remembering her face. How she used to smile at him when they were young and small. The first time he'd ever seen that smile after saving her and her mother from thugs, he'd felt swept off the ground, like he'd been taken so high in the sky with the warm sun beaming at him. And knowing her and how kind she was had made him fall so deeply for her until he was plunged into an ocean of love.

But that ocean was restless and all-consuming, growing stormy with envy as she grew closer and closer to Tyrone. Even when they had gotten married and had Ross, Damon had always felt a splash of jealousy in his ocean heart.

He'd done his best to grow past it though, supporting his two bestest friends in the whole world. And Ross—poor, innocent, baby Ross, now without a mother…

Damon looked down and noticed Ross watching his uncle comfort his father. Damon swallowed, looking at Sylvie's grave again. Goodbye, our sweet Sylvie… I-I love you and Tyrone both so, so much. It's been so complicated lately, but I'll do my best for your two most favourite people in the whole world.

Then he bent down and asked Ross, "Are you okay, little bat?"

"I'm worried about Daddy," the young boy answered, his green eyes troubled.

Damon scooped him up and Ross hugged him tight. He gazed at Tyrone, who now seemed so much smaller than he was, his green eyes teary and his face even paler than usual. He looked almost like a ghost now, so sad and frail and fragile. "I'm worried too," he admitted. "But your dad has us to be there for him. After all, he's always been here for us. He's always been the glue holding us together, the rock grounding us in moments of trouble, and the wall we could lean on when we're in pain. Now we need to be those things for him."

"I'll be Daddy's glue, rock, and wall!" Ross crowed determinedly.

"I know you will," Damon said with a little smile despite his own sadness. He ruffled the boy's hair. "And we'll help you with it. Then maybe we can be half as strong as Tyrone is."

Ross gave him a squeeze, nodding.

Damon felt the waves threatening to spill out of his heart calm down a little as he felt a burst of love, causing him to give Ross a kiss on the top of his head. He gazed out at Tyrone, meeting his best friend's eyes.

Tyrone noticed him and tried to smile.

I know you're hurting, Ty, even as you try to hide it for our sake. But I hope you'll find some kind of peace in the future and be able to smile again for real. I want to help you the way you've always helped me.

I'll always be here for you and Ross. I promise.

---

*(A/N: Reference to chapter 74!)

ME: A lot happened in this chapter, huh?

BUTCH: What's with all the mention of death?

ME: Death pops up a lot all the time! I mean, there's a whole war going on and everything, after all.

BUTCH: Yeah, but Jesus Christ. You sure wrote about it a lot this chapter.

ME: It's an important part of this story, after all. I wonder if I was able to evoke any empathy from the readers today?

BRICK: Do you write just to try and mess with people's emotions? That's twisted.

ME: *defensively* It's what a good writer should try and do! Besides, I don't even know if my readers empathize that much with my characters.

BOOMER: You guys could totally leave a review to let Kuku know if you do!

ME: Heh, sure. If it works, it'll be a nice motivator.

BUBBLES: Bye, everyone! Until next time!

BRICK: Hopefully the wait won't be so long next time.

ME: Hey! You don't even care about this story! *pauses, suspicious* Or do you?

BRICK: *flushes* Enough! Get a move on. You're ending the chapter, aren't you? Hurry up and do it!

ME: Okay, okay. See you next time, everyone!